_the_ kings treasuries of literature general editor sir a.t. quiller couch [illustration: the lady of the lake telleth arthur of the sword excalibur] new york--e.p. dutton & company [illustration: first and chief of all the three best most christian and worthy, king arthur] stories from le morte d'arthur and the mabinogion retold by beatrice clay london & toronto--j.m. dent & sons ltd. sole agent for scotland the grant educational co. ltd. glasgow first edition, reprinted, , printed in great britain contents introduction book i.--the coming of arthur i. of arthur's birth; and how he became king ii. the round table iii. of the finding of excalibur iv. of the treachery of queen morgan le fay v. how the scabbard of excalibur was lost vi. merlin vii. balin and balan book ii.--sir launcelot viii. sir launcelot du lac ix. the adventure of the chapel perilous x. sir launcelot and the falcon book iii.--sir tristram xi. of the birth of st. tristram xii. how tristram fought with sir marhaus of ireland xiii. the fair isolt xiv. how king mark sent sir tristram to fetch him a wife xv. how sir tristram and the fair isolt drank of the magic potion xvi. of the end of sir tristram book iv.--king arthur's nephews xvii. sir gawain and the lady xviii. the adventures of sir gareth book v.--sir geraint xix. the adventures of geraint xx. geraint and enid book vi.--the lady of the fountain xxi. the lady of the fountain book vii.--sir peredur xxii. the adventures of sir peredur book viii.--the holy grail xxiii. the coming of sir galahad xxiv. how sir galahad won the red-cross shield xxv. the adventures of sir percivale xxvi. the adventures of sir bors xxvii. the adventures of sir launcelot xxviii. how sir launcelot saw the holy grail xxix. the end of the quest book ix.--the fair maid of astolat xxx. the fair maid of astolat book x.--queen guenevere xxxi. how mordred plotted against sir launcelot xxxii. the trial of the queen xxxiii. how sir gawain defied sir launcelot xxxiv. how king arthur and sir gawain went to france book xi.--the morte d'arthur xxxv. mordred the traitor xxxvi. the battle in the west xxxvii. the passing of arthur xxxviii. the death of sir launcelot and of the queen introduction among the stories of world-wide renown, not the least stirring are those that have gathered about the names of national heroes. the _Æneid_, the _nibelungenlied_, the _chanson de roland_, the _morte d'arthur_,--they are not history, but they have been as national anthems to the races, and their magic is not yet dead. in olden times our forefathers used to say that the world had seen nine great heroes, three heathen, three jewish, and three christian; among the christian heroes was british arthur, and of none is the fame greater. even to the present day, his name lingers in many widely distant places. in the peninsula of gower, a huge slab of rock, propped up on eleven short pillars, is still called arthur's stone; the lofty ridge which looks down upon edinburgh bears the name of arthur's seat; and--strangest, perhaps, of all--in the franciscan church of far-away innsbrück, the finest of the ten statues of ancestors guarding the tomb of the emperor maximilian i. is that of king arthur. there is hardly a country in europe without its tales of the warrior-king; and yet of any real arthur history tells us little, and that little describes, not the knightly conqueror, but the king of a broken people, struggling for very life. more than fifteen centuries ago, this country, now called england, was inhabited by a celtic race known as the britons, a warlike people, divided into numerous tribes constantly at war with each other. but in the first century of the christian era they were conquered by the romans, who added britain to their vast empire and held it against attacks from without and rebellions from within by stationing legions, or troops of soldiers, in strongly fortified places all over the country. now, from their conquerors, the britons learnt many useful arts, to read and to write, to build houses and to make roads; but at the same time, they unlearnt some of their own virtues and, among others, how to think and act for themselves. for the romans never allowed a briton any real part in the government of his own country, and if he wished to become a soldier, he was sent away from britain to serve with a legion stationed in some far-distant part of the empire. thus it came about that when, in the fifth century, the romans withdrew from britain to defend rome itself from invading hordes of savages, the unhappy britons had forgotten how to govern and how to defend themselves, and fell an easy prey to the many enemies waiting to pounce on their defenceless country. picts from scotland invaded the north, and scots from ireland plundered the west; worst of all, the heathen angles and saxons, pouring across the seas from their homes in the elbe country, wasted the land with fire and sword. many of the britons were slain; those who escaped sought refuge in the mountainous parts of the west from cornwall to the firth of clyde. there, forgetting, to some extent, their quarrels, they took the name of the cymry, which means the "brethren," though the english, unable to understand their language, spoke of them contemptuously as the "welsh," or the "strangers." for a long time the struggle went on between the two races, and nowhere mere fiercely than in the south-west, where the invaders set up the kingdom of wessex; but at last there arose among the britons a great chieftain called arthur. the old histories speak of him as "emperor," and he seems to have been obeyed by all the britons; perhaps, therefore, he had succeeded to the position of the roman official known as the comes britanniæ, whose duty it was to hasten to the aid of the local governors in defending any part of britain where danger threatened. at all events, under his leadership, the oppressed people defeated the saxons in a desperate fight at mons badonicus, perhaps the little place in dorsetshire known as badbury, or, it may be, bath itself, which is still called badon by the welsh. after that victory, history has little to say about arthur. the stories tell that he was killed in a great battle in the west; but, nowadays, the wisest historians think it more probable that he met his death in a conflict near the river forth. and so, in history, arthur, the hero of such a mass of romantic story, is little more than a name, and it is hardly possible to explain how he attained to such renown as the hero of marvellous and, sometimes, magical feats, unless on the supposition that he became confused with some legendary hero, half god, half man, whose fame he added to his own. perhaps not the least marvel about him is that he who was the hero of the britons, should have become the national hero of the english race that he spent his life in fighting. yet that is what did happen, though not till long afterwards, when the victorious english, in their turn, bent before their conquering kinsmen, the normans. now in the reign of the third norman king, henry i., there lived a certain welsh priest known as geoffrey of monmouth. geoffrey seems to have been much about the court, and perhaps it was the norman love of stories that first made him think of writing his _history of the british kings_. a wonderful tale he told of all the british kings from the time that brut the trojan settled in the country and called it, after himself, britain! for geoffrey's book was history only in name. what he tells us is that he was given an ancient chronicle found in brittany, and was asked to translate it from welsh into the better known language, latin. it is hardly likely, however, that geoffrey himself expected his statement to be taken quite seriously. even in his own day, not every one believed in him, for a certain yorkshire monk declared that the historian had "lied saucily and shamelessly"; and some years later, gerald the welshman tells of a man who had intercourse with devils, from whose sway, however, he could be freed if a bible were placed upon his breast, whereas he was completely under their control if geoffrey's _history_ were laid upon him, just because the book was so full of lies. it is quite certain that geoffrey did not write history, but he did make a capital story, partly by collecting legends about british heroes, partly by inventing stories of his own; so that though he is not entitled to fame as an historian, he may claim to rank high as a romantic story-teller who set a fashion destined to last for some three centuries. so popular was his book that, not only in england, but, in an even greater degree, on the continent, writers were soon at work, collecting and making more stories about the greatest of his kings, arthur. by some it is thought that the normans took such delight in the knightly deeds of geoffrey's heroes that they spread the story in france when they visited their homes in normandy. moreover, they were in a good position to learn other tales of their favourite knights, for normandy bordered on brittany, the home of the bretons, who, being of the same race as the welsh, honoured the same heroes in their legends. so in return for geoffrey's tales, breton stories, perhaps, found their way into england; at all events, marvellous romances of king arthur and his round table were soon being told in england, in france, in germany and in italy. now, to some it may seem strange that story-tellers should care to weave their stories so constantly about the same personages; strange, too, that they should invent stories about men and women who were believed actually to have existed. but it must be remembered that, in those early days, very few could read and write, and that, before printing was invented, books were so scarce that four or five constituted quite a library. those who knew how to read, and were so fortunate as to have books, read them again and again. for the rest, though kings and great nobles might have poets attached to their courts, the majority depended for their amusement on the professional story-teller. in the long winter evening, no one was more welcome than the wandering minstrel. he might be the knightly troubadour who, accompanied by a jongleur to play his accompaniments, wandered from place to place out of sheer love of his art and of adventure; more often, however, the minstrel made story-telling his trade, and gained his living from the bounty of his audience--be it in castle, market-place, or inn. most commonly, the narratives took the form of long rhyming poems; not because the people in those days were so poetical--indeed, some of these poems would be thought, in present times, very dreary doggerel--but because rhyme is easier to remember than prose. story-tellers had generally much the same stock-in-trade--stories of arthur, charlemagne, sir guy of warwick, sir bevis of southampton, and so on. if a minstrel had skill of his own, he would invent some new episode, and so, perhaps, turn a compliment to his patron by introducing the exploit of an ancestor, at the same time that he made his story last longer. people did not weary of hearing the same tales over and over again, any more than little children get tired of nursery rhymes, or their elders turn away from "punch and judy," though the same little play has been performed for centuries. as for inventing stories about real people, that may well have seemed permissible in an age when historians recorded mere hearsay as actual fact. richard iii., perhaps, had one shoulder higher than the other, but within a few years of his death grave historians had represented him as a hunchbacked deformity. the romances connected with king arthur and his knights went on steadily growing in number until the fifteenth century; of them, some have survived to the present day, but undoubtedly many have been lost. then, in the latter half of the fifteenth century, the most famous of all the arthurian stories was given to the world in sir thomas malory's _morte d'arthur_. by good luck, the great printer who made it one of his first works, has left an account of the circumstances that led to its production. in the reign of edward iv., william caxton set up his printing-press (the first in england) in the precincts of westminster abbey. there he was visited, as he himself relates, by "many noble and divers gentlemen" demanding why he had not printed the "noble history of the saint grail and of the most-renowned christian king ... arthur." to please them, and because he himself loved chivalry, caxton printed sir thomas malory's story, in which all that is best in the many arthurian romances is woven into one grand narrative. since then, in our own days, the story of arthur and his knights has been told in beautiful verse by lord tennyson; but for the originals of some of his poems it would be useless to look in malory. the story of geraint and enid, tennyson derived from a very interesting collection of translations of ancient welsh stories made by lady charlotte guest, and by her called _mabinogion_,[ ] although not all welsh scholars would consider the name quite accurate. [footnote : meaning the apprentices of the bards.] and now it is time to say something about the stories themselves. the arthur of history was engaged in a life-long struggle with an enemy that threatened to rob his people of home, of country, and of freedom; in the stories, the king and his knights, like richard coeur-de-lion, sought adventure for adventure's sake, or, as in the case of sir peredur, took fantastic vows for the love of a lady. the knights of the round table are sheathed from head to foot in plate armour, although the real arthur's warriors probably had only shirts of mail and shields with which to ward off the blows of the enemy. they live in moated castles instead of in halls of wood, and they are more often engaged in tournaments than in struggles with the heathen. in fact, those who wrote the stories represented their heroes as living such lives as they themselves led. just in the same way, dutch painters used to represent the shepherds in the bible story as dutch peasants; just so david garrick, the great actor of the eighteenth century, used to act the part of a roman in his own full-bottomed wig and wide-skirted coat. it must not be forgotten that, in those far-away days when there were few who could even read or write, there was little that, in their ignorance, people were not prepared to believe. stories of marvels and magic that would deceive no one now, were then eagerly accepted as truth. those were the days when philosophers expected to discover the elixir of life; when doctors consulted the stars in treating their patients; when a noble of the royal blood, such as humphrey, duke of gloucester, could fall into disgrace because his wife was accused of trying to compass the king's death by melting a wax image of him before a slow fire. of all the stories, perhaps the most mystical is that of the quest of the holy grail, and it has features peculiar to itself. nuns take the place of fair ladies; there are hermitages instead of castles; and the knights themselves, if they do not die, become monks or hermits. the reason for this change in scene and character is, that this is a romance in which the church was trying to teach men, by means of a tale such as they loved, the lesson of devotion and purity of heart. the story sprang from certain legends which had grown up about the name of joseph of arimathea. it was related that, when our lord was crucified, joseph caught in a dish, or vessel, the blood which flowed from his wounded side. in later years, the pious jew left his home and, taking with him the precious vessel, sailed away on unknown seas until he came to the land of britain. in that country he landed, and at glastonbury he built himself a hermitage, where he treasured the sacred dish which came to be known as the saint grail. after joseph's death, the world grew more wicked, and so the holy grail disappeared from the sight of sinful men, although, from time to time, the vision of it was granted, as in the story, to the pure in heart. in later days, legend said that where joseph's hermitage had stood, there grew up the famous monastery of glastonbury, and it came to have a special importance of its own in the arthurian romance. in the reign of henry ii., by the king's orders, the monks of glastonbury made search for the grave of king arthur, and, in due time, they announced that they had found it, nine feet below the soil, the coffin covered with a stone in which was inlaid a leaden cross bearing this inscription: "hic iacet sepultus inclitus rex arthurius in insula avalonia." some, however, suggested that the monks, less honest than anxious to please the masterful king, had first placed the stone in position and then found it! one more feature of the tales remains to be mentioned: their geography. there is no atlas that will make it plain in all cases; and this is hardly wonderful, for so little was known of this subject that, even in the reign of henry viii., the learned lord berners was quite satisfied that his hero should journey to babylon by way of the nile! some of the places mentioned in the stories are, of course, familiar, and others, less well known, can, with a little care, be traced; but to identify all is not possible. caerleon, where king arthur so often held his court, still bears the same name, though its glory has sorely shrank since the days when it had a bishop of its own. camelot, where stood the marvellous palace built for the king by merlin, is perhaps the village of queen's camel in somersetshire. if it is borne in mind that the french call wales _pays de galles_, it is not difficult to see that north galis may well be north wales. gore is the peninsula of gower; liones probably the land south-west of cornwall, now sunk beneath the sea; and avalonia was the name given to one of the many small islands of the once marshy, low-lying shore of somersetshire, which became afterwards better known as glastonbury. happily, it is neither on their history nor on their geography that the tales depend for their interest. as long as a story of adventure thrills; as long as gentleness, courtesy and consideration for the weak excite respect, so long will be read the tales of the brave times "when every morning brought a noble chance, and every chance brought out a noble knight." stories from le morte d'arthur and the mabinogion book i the coming of arthur chapter i of arthur's birth; and how he became king long years ago, there ruled over britain a king called uther pendragon. a mighty prince was he, and feared by all men; yet, when he sought the love of the fair igraine of cornwall, she would have naught to do with him, so that, from grief and disappointment, uther fell sick, and at last seemed like to die. now in those days, there lived a famous magician named merlin, so powerful that he could change his form at will, or even make himself invisible; nor was there any place so remote but that he could reach it at once, merely by wishing himself there. one day, suddenly he stood at uther's bedside, and said: "sir king, i know thy grief, and am ready to help thee. only promise to give me, at his birth, the son that shall be born to thee, and thou shalt have thy heart's desire." to this the king agreed joyfully, and merlin kept his word: for he gave uther the form of one whom igraine had loved dearly, and so she took him willingly for her husband. when the time had come that a child should be born to the king and queen, merlin appeared before uther to remind him of his promise; and uther swore it should be as he had said. three days later, a prince was born, and, with pomp and ceremony, was christened by the name of arthur; but immediately thereafter, the king commanded that the child should be carried to the postern-gate, there to be given to the old man who would be found waiting without. not long after, uther fell sick, and he knew that his end was come; so, by merlin's advice, he called together his knights and barons, and said to them: "my death draws near. i charge you, therefore, that ye obey my son even as ye have obeyed me; and my curse upon him if he claim not the crown when he is a man grown." then the king turned his face to the wall and died. scarcely was uther laid in his grave before disputes arose. few of the nobles had seen arthur or even heard of him, and not one of them would have been willing to be ruled by a child; rather, each thought himself fitted to be king, and, strengthening his own castle, made war on his neighbours until confusion alone was supreme, and the poor groaned because there was none to help them. now when merlin carried away arthur--for merlin was the old man who had stood at the postern-gate--he had known all that would happen, and had taken the child to keep him safe from the fierce barons until he should be of age to rule wisely and well, and perform all the wonders prophesied of him. he gave the child to the care of the good knight sir ector to bring up with his son kay, but revealed not to him that it was the son of uther pendragon that was given into his charge. at last, when years had passed and arthur was grown a tall youth well skilled in knightly exercises, merlin went to the archbishop of canterbury and advised him that he should call together at christmas-time all the chief men of the realm to the great cathedral in london; "for," said merlin, "there shall be seen a great marvel by which it shall be made clear to all men who is the lawful king of this land." the archbishop did as merlin counselled. under pain of a fearful curse, he bade barons and knights come to london to keep the feast, and to pray heaven to send peace to the realm. the people hastened to obey the archbishop's commands, and, from all sides, barons and knights came riding in to keep the birth-feast of our lord. and when they had prayed, and were coming forth from the cathedral, they saw a strange sight. there, in the open space before the church, stood, on a great stone, an anvil thrust through with a sword; and on the stone were written these words: "whoso can draw forth this sword, is rightful king of britain born." at once there were fierce quarrels, each man clamouring to be the first to try his fortune, none doubting his own success. then the archbishop decreed that each should make the venture in turn, from the greatest baron to the least knight; and each in turn, having put forth his utmost strength, failed to move the sword one inch, and drew back ashamed. so the archbishop dismissed the company, and having appointed guards to watch over the stone, sent messengers through all the land to give word of great jousts to be held in london at easter, when each knight could give proof of his skill and courage, and try whether the adventure of the sword was for him. among those who rode to london at easter was the good sir ector, and with him his son, sir kay, newly made a knight, and the young arthur. when the morning came that the jousts should begin, sir kay and arthur mounted their horses and set out for the lists; but before they reached the field, kay looked and saw that he had left his sword behind. immediately arthur turned back to fetch it for him, only to find the house fast shut, for all were gone to view the tournament. sore vexed was arthur, fearing lest his brother kay should lose his chance of gaining glory, till, of a sudden, he bethought him of the sword in the great anvil before the cathedral. thither he rode with all speed, and the guards having deserted their post to view the tournament, there was none to forbid him the adventure. he leaped from his horse, seized the hilt, and instantly drew forth the sword as easily as from a scabbard; then, mounting his horse and thinking no marvel of what he had done, he rode after his brother and handed him the weapon. when kay looked at it, he saw at once that it was the wondrous sword from the stone. in great joy he sought his father, and showing it to him, said: "then must i be king of britain." but sir ector bade him say how he came by the sword, and when sir kay told how arthur had brought it to him, sir ector bent his knee to the boy, and said: "sir, i perceive that ye are my king, and here i tender you my homage"; and kay did as his father. then the three sought the archbishop, to whom they related all that had happened; and he, much marvelling, called the people together to the great stone, and bade arthur thrust back the sword and draw it forth again in the presence of all, which he did with ease. but an angry murmur arose from the barons, who cried that what a boy could do, a man could do; so, at the archbishop's word, the sword was put back, and each man, whether baron or knight, tried in his turn to draw it forth, and failed. then, for the third time, arthur drew forth the sword. immediately there arose from the people a great shout: "arthur is king! arthur is king! we will have no king but arthur"; and, though the great barons scowled and threatened, they fell on their knees before him while the archbishop placed the crown upon his head, and swore to obey him faithfully as their lord and sovereign. thus arthur was made king; and to all he did justice, righting wrongs and giving to all their dues. nor was he forgetful of those that had been his friends; for kay, whom he loved as a brother, he made seneschal and chief of his household, and to sir ector, his foster-father, he gave broad lands. chapter ii the round table thus arthur was made king, but he had to fight for his own; for eleven great kings drew together and refused to acknowledge him as their lord, and chief amongst the rebels was king lot of orkney who had married arthur's sister, bellicent. by merlin's advice, arthur sent for help overseas, to ban and bors, the two great kings who ruled in gaul. with their aid, he overthrew his foes in a great battle near the river trent; and then he passed with them into their own lands and helped them drive out their enemies. so there was ever great friendship between arthur and the kings ban and bors, and all their kindred; and afterwards some of the most famous knights of the round table were of that kin. then king arthur set himself to restore order throughout his kingdom. to all who would submit and amend their evil ways, he showed kindness; but those who persisted in oppression and wrong he removed, putting in their places others who would deal justly with the people. and because the land had become overrun with forest during the days of misrule, he cut roads through the thickets, that no longer wild beasts and men, fiercer than the beasts, should lurk in their gloom, to the harm of the weak and defenceless. thus it came to pass that soon the peasant ploughed his fields in safety, and where had been wastes, men dwelt again in peace and prosperity. amongst the lesser kings whom arthur helped to rebuild their towns and restore order, was king leodegrance of cameliard. now leodegrance had one fair child, his daughter guenevere; and from the time that first he saw her, arthur gave her all his love. so he sought counsel of merlin, his chief adviser. merlin heard the king sorrowfully, and he said: "sir king, when a man's heart is set, he may not change. yet had it been well if ye had loved another." so the king sent his knights to leodegrance, to ask of him his daughter; and leodegrance consented, rejoicing to wed her to so good and knightly a king. with great pomp, the princess was conducted to canterbury, and there the king met her, and they two were wed by the archbishop in the great cathedral, amid the rejoicings of the people. on that same day did arthur found his order of the round table, the fame of which was to spread throughout christendom and endure through all time. now the round table had been made for king uther pendragon by merlin, who had meant thereby to set forth plainly to all men the roundness of the earth. after uther died, king leodegrance had possessed it; but when arthur was wed, he sent it to him as a gift, and great was the king's joy at receiving it. one hundred and fifty knights might take their places about it, and for them merlin made sieges or seats. one hundred and twenty-eight did arthur knight at that great feast; thereafter, if any sieges were empty, at the high festival of pentecost new knights were ordained to fill them, and by magic was the name of each knight found inscribed, in letters of gold, in his proper siege. one seat only long remained unoccupied, and that was the siege perilous. no knight might occupy it until the coming of sir galahad; for, without danger to his life, none might sit there who was not free from all stain of sin. with pomp and ceremony did each knight take upon him the vows of true knighthood: to obey the king; to show mercy to all who asked it; to defend the weak; and for no worldly gain to fight in a wrongful cause: and all the knights rejoiced together, doing honour to arthur and to his queen. then they rode forth to right the wrong and help the oppressed, and by their aid, the king held his realm in peace, doing justice to all. chapter iii of the finding of excalibur now when arthur was first made king, as young knights will, he courted peril for its own sake, and often would he ride unattended by lonely forest ways, seeking the adventure that chance might send him. all unmindful was he of the ruin to his realm if mischief befell him; and even his trusty counsellors, though they grieved that he should thus imperil him, yet could not but love him the more for his hardihood. so, on a day, he rode through the forest perilous where dwelt the lady annoure, a sorceress of great might, who used her magic powers but for the furtherance of her own desires. and as she looked from a turret window, she descried king arthur come riding down a forest glade, and the sunbeams falling upon him made one glory of his armour and of his yellow hair. then, as annoure gazed upon the king, her heart grew hot within her, and she resolved that, come what might, she would have him for her own, to dwell with her always and fulfil all her behests. and so she bade lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis, and sallying forth accompanied by her maidens, she gave king arthur courteous salutation, and prayed him that he would rest within her castle that day, for that she had a petition to make to him; and arthur, doubting nothing of her good faith, suffered himself to be led within. then was a great feast spread, and annoure caused the king to be seated in a chair of state at her right hand, while squires and pages served him on bended knee. so when they had feasted, the king turned to the lady annoure and said courteously: "lady, somewhat ye said of a request that ye would make. if there be aught in which i may pleasure you, i pray you let me know it, and i will serve you as knightly as i may." "in truth," said the lady, "there is that which i would fain entreat of you, most noble knight; yet suffer, i beseech you, that first i may show you somewhat of my castle and my estate, and then will i crave a boon of your chivalry." then the sorceress led king arthur from room to room of her castle, and ever each displayed greater store of beauty than the last. in some the walls were hung with rich tapestries, in others they gleamed with precious stones; and the king marvelled what might be the petition of one that was mistress of such wealth. lastly, annoure brought the king out upon the battlements, and as he gazed around him, he saw that, since he had entered the castle, there had sprung up about it triple walls of defence that shut out wholly the forest from view. then turned he to annoure, and gravely he said: "lady, greatly i marvel in what a simple knight may pleasure one that is mistress of so wondrous a castle as ye have shown me here; yet if there be aught in which i may render you knightly service, right gladly would i hear it now, for i must forth upon my way to render service to those whose knight i am sworn." "nay, now, king arthur," answered the sorceress mockingly, "ye may not think to deceive me; for well i know you, and that all britain bows to your behest." "the more reason then that i should ride forth to right wrong and succour them that, of their loyalty, render true obedience to their lord." "ye speak as a fool," said the sorceress; "why should one that may command be at the beck and call of every hind and slave within his realm? nay, rest thee here with me, and i will make thee ruler of a richer land than britain, and give thee to satisfy thy every desire." "lady," said the king sternly, "i will hear and judge of your petition at this time, and then will i forth upon my way." "nay," said annoure, "there needs not this harshness. i did but speak for thine advantage. only vow thee to my service, and there is naught that thou canst desire that thou shalt not possess. thou shalt be lord of this fair castle and of the mighty powers that obey me. why waste thy youth in hardship and in the service of such as shall render thee little enough again?" thereupon, without ever a word, the king turned him about and made for the turret stair by which he had ascended, but nowhere could he find it. then said the sorceress, mocking him: "fair sir, how think ye to escape without my good-will? see ye not the walls that guard my stronghold? and think ye that i have not servants enow to do my bidding?" she clapped her hands and forthwith there appeared a company of squires who, at her command, seized the king and bore him away to a strong chamber where they locked him in. and so the king abode that night, the prisoner of that evil sorceress, with little hope that day, when it dawned, should bring him better cheer. yet lost he not courage, but kept watch and vigil the night through lest the powers of evil should assail him unawares. and with the early morning light, annoure came to visit him. more stately she seemed than the night before, more tall and more terrible; and her dress was one blaze of flashing gems, so that scarce could the eye look upon her. as a queen might address a vassal, so greeted she the king, and as condescending to one of low estate, asked how he had fared that night. and the king made answer: "i have kept vigil as behoves a knight who, knowing him to be in the midst of danger, would bear himself meetly in any peril that should offer." and the lady annoure, admiring his knightly courage, desired more earnestly even than before to win him to her will, and she said: "sir arthur, i know well your courage and knightly fame, and greatly do i desire to keep you with me. stay with me and i promise you that ye shall bear sway over a wider realm than any that ever ye heard of, and i, even i, its mistress, will be at your command. and what lose ye if ye accept my offer? little enough, i ween, for never think that ye shall win the world from evil and men to loyalty and truth." then answered the king in anger: "full well i see that thou art in league with evil and that thou but seekest to turn me from my purpose. i defy thee, foul sorceress. do thy worst; though thou slay me, thou shalt never sway me to thy will"; and therewith the king raised his cross-hilted sword before her. then the lady quailed at that sight. her heart was filled with hate, but she said: "go your way, proud king of a petty realm. rule well your race of miserable mortals, since more it pleasures you than to bear sway over the powers of the air. i keep you not against your will." with these words, she passed from the chamber, and the king heard her give command to her squires to set him without her gates, give him his horse, and suffer him to go on his way. and so it came to pass that the king found himself once more at large, and marvelled to have won so lightly to liberty. yet knew he not the depths of treachery in the heart of annoure; for when she found she might not prevail with the king, she bethought her how, by mortal means, she might bring the king to dishonour and death. and so, by her magic art, she caused the king to follow a path that brought him to a fountain, whereby a knight had his tent, and, for love of adventure, held the way against all comers. now this knight was sir pellinore, and at that time he had not his equal for strength and knightly skill, nor had any been found that might stand against him. so, as the king drew nigh, pellinore cried: "stay, knight, for none passes this way except he joust with me." "that is no good custom," said the king; "it were well that ye followed it no more." "it is my custom, and i will follow it still," answered pellinore; "if ye like it not, amend it if ye may." "i will do my endeavour," said arthur, "but, as ye see, i have no spear." "nay, i seek not to have you at advantage," replied pellinore, and bade his squire give arthur a spear. then they dressed their shields, laid their lances in rest, and rushed upon each other. now the king was wearied by his night's vigil, and the strength of pellinore was as the strength of three men; so, at the first encounter, arthur was unhorsed. then said he: "i have lost the honour on horseback, but now will i encounter thee with my sword and on foot." "i, too, will alight," said pellinore; "small honour to me were it if i slew thee on foot, i being horsed the while." so they encountered each other on foot, and so fiercely they fought that they hewed off great pieces of each other's armour and the ground was dyed with their blood. but at the last, arthur's sword broke off short at the hilt, and so he stood all defenceless before his foe. "i have thee now," cried pellinore; "yield thee as recreant or i will slay thee." "that will i never," said the king, "slay me if thou canst." then he sprang on pellinore, caught him by the middle, and flung him to the ground, himself falling with him. and sir pellinore marvelled, for never before had he encountered so bold and resolute a foe; but exerting his great strength, he rolled himself over, and so brought arthur beneath him. then had arthur perished, but at that moment merlin stood beside him, and when sir pellinore would have struck off the king's head, stayed his blow, crying: "pellinore, if thou slayest this knight, thou puttest the whole realm in peril; for this is none other than king arthur himself." then was pellinore filled with dread, and cried: "better make an end of him at once; for if i suffer him to live, what hope have i of his grace, that have dealt with him so sorely?" but before pellinore could strike, merlin caused a deep sleep to come upon him; and raising king arthur from the ground, he staunched his wounds and recovered him of his swoon. but when the king came to himself, he saw his foe lie, still as in death, on the ground beside him; and he was grieved, and said: "merlin, what have ye done to this brave knight? nay, if ye have slain him, i shall grieve my life long; for a good knight he is, bold and a fair fighter, though something wanting in knightly courtesy." "he is in better case than ye are, sir king, who so lightly imperil your person, and thereby your kingdom's welfare; and, as ye say, pellinore is a stout knight, and hereafter shall he serve you well. have no fear. he shall wake again in three hours and have suffered naught by the encounter. but for you, it were well that ye came where ye might be tended for your wounds." "nay," replied the king, smiling, "i may not return to my court thus weaponless; first will i find means to purvey me of a sword." "that is easily done," answered merlin; "follow me, and i will bring you where ye shall get you a sword, the wonder of the world." so, though his wounds pained him sore, the king followed merlin by many a forest path and glade, until they came upon a mere, bosomed deep in the forest; and as he looked thereon, the king beheld an arm, clothed in white samite, shoot above the surface of the lake, and in the hand was a fair sword that gleamed in the level rays of the setting sun. "this is a great marvel," said the king, "what may it mean?" and merlin made answer: "deep is this mere, so deep indeed that no man may fathom it; but in its depths, and built upon the roots of the mountains, is the palace of the lady of the lake. powerful is she with a power that works ever for good, and she shall help thee in thine hour of need. for thee has she wrought yonder sword. go now, and take it." then was arthur aware of a little skiff, half hidden among the bulrushes that fringed the lake; and leaping into the boat, without aid of oar, he was wafted out into the middle of the lake, to the place where, out of the water, rose the arm and sword. and leaning from the skiff, he took the sword from the hand, which forthwith vanished, and immediately thereafter the skiff bore him back to land. arthur drew from its scabbard the mighty sword, wondering the while at the marvel of its workmanship, for the hilt shone with the light of many twinkling gems--diamond and topaz and emerald, and many another whose names none know. and as he looked on the blade, arthur was aware of mystic writings on the one side and the other, and calling to merlin, he bade him interpret them. "sir," said merlin, "on the one side is written 'keep me,' and on the other 'throw me away.'" "then," said the king, "which does it behove me to do?" "keep it," answered merlin; "the time to cast it away is not yet come. this is the good brand excalibur, or cut steel, and well shall it serve you. but what think ye of the scabbard?" "a fair cover for so good a sword," answered arthur. "nay, it is more than that," said merlin, "for, so long as ye keep it, though ye be wounded never so sore, yet ye shall not bleed to death." and when he heard that, the king marvelled the more. then they journeyed back to caerleon, where the knights made great joy of the return of their lord. and presently, thither came sir pellinore, craving pardon of the king, who made but jest of his own misadventure. and afterwards sir pellinore became of the table round, a knight vowed, not only to deeds of hardihood, but also to gentleness and courtesy; and faithfully he served the king, fighting ever to maintain justice and put down wrong, and to defend the weak from the oppressor. chapter iv of the treachery of queen morgan le fay there was a certain queen whose name was morgan le fay, and she was a powerful sorceress. little do men know of her save that, in her youth, she was eager for knowledge and, having learnt all human lore, turned her to magic, becoming so skilled therein that she was feared of all. there was a time when great was her enmity towards king arthur, so that she plotted his ruin not once only nor twice; and that is a strange thing, for it is said that she herself was the kinswoman of the king. and truly, in the end, she repented her of her malice, for she was, of those that came to bear arthur to the delightful islands from the field of his last bitter conflict; but that was long after. now when this enchantress learned how the lady of the lake had given the king a sword and scabbard of strange might, she was filled with ill-will; and all her thought was only how she might wrest the weapon from him and have it for her own, to bestow as she would. even while she pondered thereon, the king himself sent her the scabbard to keep for him; for merlin never ceased to warn the king to have in safe keeping the scabbard that had power to keep him from mortal hurt; and it seemed to arthur that none might better guard it for him, till the hour of need, than morgan le fay, the wise queen that was of his own kindred. yet was not the queen shamed of her treacherous intent by the trust that arthur had in her; but all her mind was set on how she might win to the possession of the sword itself as well as of the scabbard. at the last--so had her desire for the sword wrought upon her--she resolved to compass the destruction of the king that, if she gained the sword, never might she have need to fear his justice for the wrong she had done. and her chance came soon. for, on a day, king arthur resolved to chase the hart in the forests near camelot, wherefore he left behind him his sword excalibur, and took but a hunting spear with him. all day long, he chased a white hart and, when evening fell, he had far outstripped his attendants, save only two, sir accolon of gaul and sir uriens, king of gore, the husband of queen morgan le fay herself. so when the king saw that darkness had come upon them in the forest, he turned to his companions, saying: "sirs, we be far from camelot and must lodge as we may this night. let us go forward until we shall find where we may shelter us a little." so they rode forward, and presently arthur espied a little lake glinting in the beams of the rising moon, and, as they drew nearer, they descried, full in the moonlight, a little ship, all hung with silks even to the water's edge. then said the king to his knights: "yonder is promise of shelter or, it may be, of adventure. let us tether our horses in the thicket and enter into this little ship." and when they had so done, presently they found themselves in a fair cabin all hung with silks and tapestries, and, in its midst, a table spread with the choicest fare. and being weary and hungered with the chase, they ate of the feast prepared and, lying down to rest, were soon sunk in deep slumber. while they slept, the little ship floated away from the land, and it came to pass that a great wonder befell; for when they woke in the morning, king uriens found himself at home in his own land, and sir accolon was in his own chamber at camelot; but the king lay a prisoner, bound and fettered and weaponless, in a noisome dungeon that echoed to the groans of hapless captives. when he was come to himself, king arthur looked about him and saw that his companions were knights in the same hard case as himself; and he inquired of them how they came to be in that plight. "sir," said one of them, "we are in duresse in the castle of a certain recreant knight, sir damas by name, a coward false to chivalry. none love him, and so no champion can he find to maintain his cause in a certain quarrel that he has in hand. for this reason, he lies in wait with a great company of soldiers for any knights that may pass this way, and taking them prisoners, holds them in captivity unless they will undertake to fight to the death in his cause. and this i would not, nor any of my companions here; but unless we be speedily rescued, we are all like to die of hunger in this loathsome dungeon." "what is his quarrel?" asked the king. "that we none of us know," answered the knight. while they yet talked, there entered the prison a damsel. she went up to the king at once, and said: "knight, will ye undertake to fight in the cause of the lord of this castle?" "that i may not say," replied the king, "unless first i may hear what is his quarrel." "that ye shall not know," replied the damsel, "but this i tell you: if ye refuse, ye shall never leave this dungeon alive, but shall perish here miserably." "this is a hard case," said the king, "that i must either die or fight for one i know not, and in a cause that i may not hear. yet on one condition will i undertake your lord's quarrel, and that is that he shall give me all the prisoners bound here in this dungeon." "it shall be as ye say," answered the damsel, "and ye shall also be furnished with horse and armour and sword than which ye never saw better." therewith the damsel bade him follow her, and brought him to a great hall where presently there came to him squires to arm him for the combat; and when their service was rendered, the damsel said to him: "sir knight, even now there has come one who greets you in the name of queen morgan le fay, and bids me tell you that the queen, knowing your need, has sent you your good sword." then the king rejoiced greatly, for it seemed to him that the sword that the damsel gave him was none other than the good sword excalibur. when all was prepared, the damsel led king arthur into a fair field, and there he beheld awaiting him a knight, all sheathed in armour, his vizor down, and bearing a shield on which was no blazonry. so the two knights saluted each other, and, wheeling their horses, rode away from each other some little space. then turning again, they laid lance in rest, and rushing upon each other, encountered with the noise of thunder, and so great was the shock that each knight was borne from the saddle. swiftly they gained their feet, and, drawing their swords, dealt each other great blows; and thus they contended fiercely for some while. but as he fought, a great wonder came upon arthur, for it seemed to him that his sword, that never before had failed him, bit not upon the armour of the other, while every stroke of his enemy drew blood, till the ground on which he fought was slippery beneath his feet; and at the last almost his heart failed within him, knowing that he was betrayed, and that the brand with which he fought was not excalibur. yet would he not show aught of what he suffered, but struggled on, faint as he was and spent; so that they that watched the fight and saw how he was sore wounded, marvelled at his great courage and endurance. but presently, the stranger knight dealt the king a blow which fell upon arthur's sword, and so fierce was the stroke that the blade broke off at the pommel. "knight," said the other, "thou must yield thee recreant to my mercy." "that may i not do with mine honour," answered the king, "for i am sworn to fight in this quarrel to the death." "but weaponless thou must needs be slain." "slay me an ye will, but think not to win glory by slaying a weaponless man." then was the other wroth to find himself still withstood and, in his anger, he dealt arthur a great blow; but this the king shunned, and rushing upon his foe, smote him so fiercely on the head with the pommel of his broken sword that the knight swayed and let slip his own weapon. with a bound, arthur was upon the sword, and no sooner had he it within his grasp than he knew it, of a truth, to be his own sword excalibur. then he scanned more closely his enemy, and saw the scabbard that he wore was none other than the magic scabbard of excalibur; and forthwith, leaping upon the knight, he tore it from him and flung it far afield. "knight," cried king arthur, "ye have made me suffer sore, but now is the case changed and ye stand within my power, helpless and unarmed. and much i misdoubt me but that treacherously ye have dealt with me. nevertheless, yield you recreant and i will spare your life." "that i may not do, for it is against my vow; so slay me if ye will. of a truth, ye are the best knight that ever i encountered." then it seemed to the king that the knight's voice was not unknown to him, and he said: "tell me your name and what country ye are of, for something bids me think that ye are not all unknown to me." "i am accolon of gaul, knight of king arthur's round table." "ah! accolon, accolon," cried the king, "is it even thou that hast fought against me? almost hast thou undone me. what treason tempted thee to come against me, and with mine own weapon too?" when sir accolon knew that it was against king arthur that he had fought, he gave a loud cry and swooned away utterly. then arthur called to two stout yeomen amongst those that had looked on at the fight, and bade them bear sir accolon to a little hermitage hard by, and thither he himself followed with pain, being weak from loss of blood; but into the castle he would not enter, for he trusted not those that held it. the hermit dressed their wounds, and presently, when sir accolon had come to himself again, the king spoke gently to him, bidding him say how he had come to bear arms against him. "sir and my lord," answered sir accolon, "it comes of naught but the treachery of your kinswoman, queen morgan le fay. for on the morrow after we had entered upon the little ship, i awoke in my chamber at camelot, and greatly i marvelled how i had come there. and as i yet wondered, there came to me a messenger from queen morgan le fay, desiring me to go to her without delay. and when i entered her presence, she was as one sore troubled, and she said to me: 'sir accolon, of my secret power, i know that now is our king, arthur, in great danger; for he lies imprisoned in a great and horrible dungeon whence he may not be delivered unless one be found to do battle for him with the lord of the castle. wherefore have i sent for you that ye may take the battle upon you for our lord the king. and for greater surety, i give you here excalibur, arthur's own sword, for, of a truth, we should use all means for the rescuing of our lord.' and i, believing this evil woman, came hither and challenged the lord of this castle to mortal combat; and, indeed, i deemed it was with sir damas that i fought even now. yet all was treachery, and i misdoubt me that sir damas and his people are in league with queen morgan le fay to compass your destruction. but, my lord arthur, pardon me, i beseech you, the injuries that, all unwitting, i have done you." king arthur was filled with wrath against the queen, more for the wrong done to sir accolon than for the treason to himself. in all ways that he might, he sought to comfort and relieve sir accolon, but in vain, for daily the knight grew weaker, and, after many days, he died. then the king, being recovered of his wounds, returned to camelot, and calling together a band of knights, led them against the castle of sir damas. but damas had no heart to attempt to hold out, and surrendered himself and all that he had to the king's mercy. and first king arthur set free those that sir damas had kept in miserable bondage, and sent them away with rich gifts. when he had righted the wrongs of others, then he summoned sir damas before him, and said: "i command thee that thou tell me why thou didst seek my destruction." and cringing low at the king's footstool, damas answered: "i beseech you, deal mercifully with me, for all that i have done, i have done at the bidding of queen morgan le fay." "a coward's plea," said the king; "how camest thou first to have traffic with her?" "sir," replied damas, "much have i suffered, first by the greed of my younger brother and now by the deceit of this evil woman, as ye shall hear. when my father died, i claimed the inheritance as of right, seeing that i was his elder son; but my young brother, sir ontzlake, withstood me, and demanded some part of my father's lands. long since, he sent me a challenge to decide our quarrel in single combat, but it liked me ill, seeing that i am of no great strength. much, therefore, did i desire to find a champion but, by ill fortune, none could i find until queen morgan le fay sent word that, of her good will to me, she had sent me one that would defend my cause; and that same evening, the little ship brought you, my lord, to my castle. and when i saw you, i rejoiced, thinking to have found a champion that would silence my brother for ever; nor knew i you for the king's self. wherefore, i entreat you, spare me, and avenge me on my brother." therewith, sir damas fawned upon the king, but arthur sternly bade him rise and send messengers to bring sir ontzlake before him. presently, there stood before the king a youth, fair and of good stature, who saluted his lord and then remained silent before him. "sir ontzlake," said the king, "i have sent for you to know of your dealings with sir accolon and of your quarrel with your brother." "my lord arthur," answered the youth, "that i was the cause of hurt to yourself, i pray you to pardon me, for all unwitting was i of evil. for ye shall know that i had challenged my brother to single combat; but when word came to me that he was provided of a champion, i might not so much as brook my armour for a sore wound that i had got of an arrow shot at me as i rode through the forest near his castle. and as i grieved for my hard case, there came a messenger from queen morgan le fay bidding me be of good courage, for she had sent unto me one, sir accolon, who would undertake my quarrel. this only she commanded me, that i should ask no question of sir accolon. so sir accolon abode with me that night and, as i supposed, fought in my cause the next day. sure am i that there is some mystery, yet may i not misdoubt my lady queen morgan le fay without cause; wherefore, if blame there be, let me bear the punishment." then was the king well pleased with the young man for his courage and loyalty to others. "fair youth," said he, "ye shall go with me to camelot, and if ye prove you brave and just in all your doings, ye shall be of my round table." but to sir damas he said sternly: "ye are a mean-spirited varlet, unworthy of the degree of knighthood. here i ordain that ye shall yield unto your brother the moiety of the lands that ye had of your father and, in payment for it, yearly ye shall receive of sir ontzlake a palfrey; for that will befit you better to ride than the knightly war-horse. and look ye well to it, on pain of death, that ye lie no more in wait for errant knights, but amend your life and live peaceably with your brother." thereafter, the fear of the king kept sir damas from deeds of violence; yet, to the end, he remained cowardly and churlish, unworthy of the golden spurs of knighthood. but sir ontzlake proved him a valiant knight, fearing god and the king and naught else. chapter v how the scabbard of excalibur was lost now when queen morgan le fay knew that her plot had miscarried and that her treachery was discovered, she feared to abide the return of the king to camelot; and so she went to queen guenevere, and said: "madam, of your courtesy, grant me leave, i pray you, to depart." "nay," said the queen, "that were pity, for i have news of my lord the king, that soon he will return to camelot. will ye not then await his return, that ye may see your kinsman before ye depart?" "alas! madam," said morgan le fay, "that may not be, for i have ill news that requires that immediately i get to my own country." "then shall ye depart when ye will," said the queen. so before the next day had dawned, morgan le fay arose and, taking her horse, departed unattended from camelot. all that day and most of the night she rode fast, and ere noon the next day, she was come to a nunnery where, as she knew, king arthur lay. entering into the house, she made herself known to the nuns, who received her courteously and gave her of their best to eat and to drink. when she was refreshed, she asked if any other had sought shelter with them that day; and they told her that king arthur lay in an inner chamber and slept, for he had rested little for three nights. "ah! my dear lord!" exclaimed the false sorceress; "gladly would i speak with him, but i will not that ye awaken him, and long i may not tarry here; wherefore suffer me at least to look upon him as he sleeps, and then will i continue my journey." and the nuns, suspecting no treachery, showed queen morgan le fay the room where king arthur slept, and let her enter it alone. so morgan le fay had her will and stood beside the sleeping king; but again it seemed as if she must fail of her purpose, and her heart was filled with rage and despair. for she saw that the king grasped in his hand the hilt of the naked brand, that none might take it without awakening him. while she mused, suddenly she espied the scabbard where it hung at the foot of the bed, and her heart rejoiced to know that something she might gain by her bold venture. she snatched up the empty sheath, and wrapping it in a fold of her garment, left the chamber. brief were her farewells to the holy nuns, and in haste she got to horse and rode away. scarcely had she set forth, when the king awoke, and rising from his couch, saw at once that the scabbard of his sword was gone. then summoned he the whole household to his presence and inquired who had entered his chamber. "sir," said the abbess, "there has none been here save only your kinswoman, the queen morgan le fay. she, indeed, desired to look upon you since she might not abide your awakening." then the king groaned aloud, saying, "it is my own kinswoman, the wife of my true knight, sir uriens, that would betray me." he bade sir ontzlake make ready to accompany him, and after courteous salutation to the abbess and her nuns, together they rode forth by the path that morgan le fay had taken. fast they rode in pursuit, and presently they came to a cross where was a poor cowherd keeping watch over his few beasts, and of him they asked whether any had passed that way. "sirs," said the peasant, "even now there rode past the cross a lady most lovely to look upon, and with her forty knights." greatly the king marvelled how queen morgan le fay had come by such a cavalcade, but nothing he doubted that it was she the cowherd had seen. so thanking the poor man, the king, with sir ontzlake, rode on by the path that had been shown them, and presently, emerging from the forest, they were aware of a glittering company of horsemen winding through a wide plain that lay stretched before them. on the instant, they put spurs to their horses and galloped as fast as they might in pursuit. but, as it chanced, queen morgan le fay looked back even as arthur and sir ontzlake came forth from the forest, and seeing them, she knew at once that her theft had been discovered, and that she was pursued. straightway she bade her knights ride on till they should come to a narrow valley where lay many great stones; but as soon as they had left her, she herself rode, with all speed, to a mere hard by. sullen and still it lay, without even a ripple on its surface. no animal ever drank of its waters nor bird sang by it, and it was so deep that none might ever plumb it. and when the queen had come to the brink, she dismounted. from the folds of her dress she drew the scabbard, and waving it above her head, she cried, "whatsoever becometh of me, king arthur shall not have this scabbard." then, whirling it with all her might, she flung it far into the mere. the jewels glinted as the scabbard flashed through the air, then it clove the oily waters of the lake and sank, never again to be seen. when it had vanished, morgan le fay mounted her horse again, and rode fast after her knights, for the king and ontzlake were in hot pursuit, and sore she feared lest they should come up with her before she might reach the shelter of the valley of stones. but she had rejoined her company of knights before the king had reached the narrow mouth of the valley. quickly she bade her men scatter among the boulders, and then, by her magic art, she turned them all, men and horses and herself too, into stones, that none might tell the one from the other. when king arthur and sir ontzlake reached the valley, they looked about for some sign of the presence of the queen or her knights, but naught might they see though they rode through the valley and beyond, and returning, searched with all diligence among the rocks and boulders. never again was queen morgan le fay seen at camelot, nor did she attempt aught afterwards against the welfare of the king. when she had restored her knights to their proper form, she hastened with them back to her own land, and there she abode for the rest of her days until she came with the other queens to carry arthur from the field of the battle in the west. nor would the king seek to take vengeance on a woman, though sorely she had wronged him. his life long, he guarded well the sword excalibur, but the sheath no man ever saw again. chapter vi merlin of merlin and how he served king arthur, something has been already shown. loyal he was ever to uther pendragon and to his son, king arthur, and for the latter especially he wrought great marvels. he brought the king to his rights; he made him his ships; and some say that camelot, with its splendid halls, where arthur would gather his knights around him at the great festivals of the year, at christmas, at easter, and at pentecost, was raised by his magic, without human toil. bleise, the aged magician who dwelt in northumberland and recorded the great deeds of arthur and his knights, had been merlin's master in magic; but it came to pass in time that merlin far excelled him in skill, so that his enemies declared no mortal was his father, and called him devil's son. then, on a certain time, merlin said to arthur: "the time draws near when ye shall miss me, for i shall go down alive into the earth; and it shall be that gladly would ye give your lands to have me again." then arthur was grieved, and said: "since ye know your danger, use your craft to avoid it." but merlin answered: "that may not be." now there had come to arthur's court, a damsel of the lady of the lake--her whose skill in magic, some say, was greater than merlin's own; and the damsel's name was vivien. she set herself to learn the secrets of merlin's art, and was ever with him, tending upon the old man and, with gentleness and tender service, winning her way to his heart; but all was a pretence, for she was weary of him and sought only his ruin, thinking it should be fame for her, by any means whatsoever, to enslave the greatest wizard of his age. and so she persuaded him to pass with her overseas into king ban's land of benwick, and there, one day, he showed her a wondrous rock, formed by magic art. then she begged him to enter into it, the better to declare to her its wonders; but when once he was within, by a charm that she had learnt from merlin's self, she caused the rock to shut down that never again might he come forth. thus was merlin's prophecy fulfilled, that he should go down into the earth alive. much they marvelled in arthur's court what had become of the great magician, till on a time, there rode past the stone a certain knight of the round table and heard merlin lamenting his sad fate. the knight would have striven to raise the mighty stone, but merlin bade him not waste his labour, since none might release him save her who had imprisoned him there. thus merlin passed from the world through the treachery of a damsel, and thus arthur was without aid in the days when his doom came upon him. chapter vii balin and balan among the princes that thought scorn of arthur in the days when first he became king, none was more insolent than ryons of north wales. so, on a time when king arthur held high festival at camelot, ryons sent a herald who, in the presence of the whole court, before brave knights and fair dames, thus addressed the king: "sir arthur, my master bids me say that he has overcome eleven kings with all their hosts, and, in token of their submission, they have given him their beards to fringe him a mantle. there remains yet space for the twelfth; wherefore, with all speed, send him your beard, else will he lay waste your land with fire and sword." "viler message," said king arthur, "was never sent from man to man. get thee gone, lest we forget thine office protects thee." so spoke the king, for he had seen his knights clap hand to sword, and would not that a messenger should suffer hurt in his court. now among the knights present the while was one whom men called balin le savage, who had but late been freed from prison for slaying a knight of arthur's court. none was more wroth than he at the villainy of ryons, and immediately after the departure of the herald, he left the hall and armed him; for he was minded to try if, with good fortune, he might win to arthur's grace by avenging him on the king of north wales. while he was without, there entered the hall a witch lady who, on a certain occasion, had done the king a service, and for this she now desired of him a boon. so arthur bade her name her request, and thus she said: "o king, i require of you the head of the knight balin le savage." "that may i not grant you with my honour," replied the king; "ask what it may become me to give." but the witch lady would have naught else, and departed from the hall, murmuring against the king. then, as it chanced, balin met her at the door, and immediately when he saw her, he rode upon her, sword in hand, and, with one blow, smote off her head. thus he took vengeance for his mother's death, of which she had been the cause, and, well content, rode away. but when it was told king arthur of the deed that balin had done, he was full wroth, nor was his anger lessened though merlin declared the wrong the witch lady had done to balin. "whatsoever cause he had against her, yet should he have done her no violence in my court," said the king, and bade sir lanceour of ireland ride after balin and bring him back again. thus it came to pass that, as sir balin rode on his way, he heard the hoof-beats of a horse fast galloping, and a voice cried loudly to him: "stay, knight; for thou shalt stay, whether thou wilt or not." "fair knight," answered balin fiercely, "dost thou desire to fight with me?" "yea, truly," answered lanceour; "for that cause have i followed thee from camelot." "alas!" cried balin, "then i know thy quarrel. and yet, i dealt but justly by that vile woman, and it grieves me to offend my lord king arthur again." "have done, and make ready to fight," said lanceour insolently; for he was proud and arrogant, though a brave knight. so they rushed together, and, at the first encounter, sir lanceour's spear was shivered against the shield of the other, but balin's spear pierced shield and hauberk and lanceour fell dead to the earth. then sir balin, sore grieved that he had caused the death of a knight of arthur's court, buried lanceour as well as he might, and continued sorrowfully on his journey in search of king ryons. presently, as he rode through a great forest, he espied a knight whom, by his arms, he knew at once for his brother, sir balan. great joy had they in their meeting, for balan had believed balin still to be in prison. so balin told balan all that had befallen him, and how he sought ryons to avenge arthur upon him for his insolent message, and hoped thereby to win his lord's favour again. "i will ride with thee, brother," said balan, "and help thee all i may." so the two went on their way till, presently, they met with an old man--merlin's self, though they knew him not, for he was disguised. "ah, knight," said merlin to balin, "swift to strike and swift to repent, beware, or thou shalt strike the most dolorous blow dealt by man; for thou shalt slay thine own brother." "if i believed thy words true," cried balin hotly, "i would slay myself to make thee a liar." "i know the past and i know the future," said merlin; "i know, too, the errand on which thou ridest, and i will help thee if thou wilt." "ah!" said balin, "that pleases me well." "hide you both in this covert," said merlin; "for presently there shall come riding down this path king ryons with sixty of his knights." with these words he vanished. so balin and balan did as he had bidden them, and when king ryons and his men entered the little path, they fell upon them with such fury that they slew more than forty knights, while the rest fled, and king ryons himself yielded him to them. so sir balan rode with king ryons to camelot that he might deliver him to king arthur; but balin went not with them, for he would see more adventures before he sought king arthur's presence again. after many days' travel and many encounters, it befell that, one evening, balin drew near to a castle; and when he would have sought admittance, there stood by him an old man, and said: "balin, turn thee back, and it shall be better for thee," and so vanished. at that moment there was blown a blast on a horn, such as is sounded when the stag receives its death; and hearing it, balin's heart misgave him, and he cried: "that blast is blown for me, and i am the prize. but not yet am i dead!" at that instant the castle gate was raised and there appeared many knights and ladies welcoming balin into the castle. so he entered, and presently they were all seated at supper. then the lady of the castle said to balin: "sir knight, to-morrow thou must have ado with a knight that keeps an island near-by; else mayest thou not pass that way." "that is an evil custom," answered balin; "but if i must, i must." so that night he rested, but with the dawn he arose, and was arming himself for battle when there came to him a knight and said: "sir, your shield is not good; i pray you, take mine which is larger and stouter." in an evil hour, balin suffered himself to be persuaded, and taking the stranger's shield, left; behind his own on which his arms were blazoned. then, entering a boat, he was conveyed to the island where the unknown knight held the ford. no sooner was he landed, than there came riding to him a knight armed all in red armour, his horse, too, trapped all in red; and without word spoken, they charged upon each other, and each bore the other from the saddle. thus for a while they lay, stunned by the fall. the red knight was the first to rise, for balin, all wearied by his travels and many encounters, was sore shaken by the fall. then they fought together right fiercely, hacking away great pieces of armour, and dealing each other dreadful wounds. but when they paused to take breath, balin, looking up, saw the battlements of the castle filled with knights and ladies watching the struggle, and immediately, shamed that the conflict should have so long endured, he rushed again upon the red knight, aiming at him blows that might have felled a giant. so they fought together a long while; but at the last, the red knight drew back a little. then cried balin: "who art thou? for till now, never have i met my match." then said the red knight: "i am balan, brother to the noble knight, sir balin"; and with the word, he fell to the ground as one dead. "alas!" cried balin, "that i should have lived to see this day!" then, as well as he might, for his strength was almost spent, he crept on hands and knees to his brother's side and opened the vizor of his helmet, and when he saw his brother's face all ghastly, as it was, he cried: "o balan, i have slain thee, as thou hast also slain me! oh! woeful deed i never to be forgotten of men!" then balan, being somewhat recovered, told balin how he had been compelled by those at the castle to keep the ford against all comers, and might never depart; and balin told of the grievous chance by which he had taken another's shield. so these two died, slain by each other's hands. in one tomb they were buried; and merlin, passing that way, inscribed thereon the full story of their deaths. book ii sir launcelot chapter viii sir launcelot du lac now, as time passed, king arthur gathered into his order of the round table knights whose peers shall never be found in any age; and foremost amongst them all was sir launcelot du lac. such was his strength that none against whom he laid lance in rest could keep the saddle, and no shield was proof against his sword dint; but for his courtesy even more than for his courage and strength, sir launcelot was famed far and near. gentle he was and ever the first to rejoice in the renown of another; and in the jousts, he would avoid encounter with the young and untried knight, letting him pass to gain glory if he might. it would take a great book to record all the famous deeds of sir launcelot, and all his adventures. he was of gaul, for his father, king ban, ruled over benwick; and some say that his first name was galahad, and that he was named launcelot du lac by the lady of the lake who reared him when his mother died. early he won renown by delivering his father's people from the grim king claudas who, for more than twenty years, had laid waste the fair land of benwick; then, when there was peace in his own land, he passed into britain, to arthur's court, where the king received him gladly, and made him knight of the round table and took him for his trustiest friend. and so it was that, when guenevere was to be brought to canterbury, to be married to the king, launcelot was chief of the knights sent to wait upon her, and of this came the sorrow of later days. for, from the moment he saw her, sir launcelot loved guenevere, for her sake remaining wifeless all his days, and in all things being her faithful knight. but busy-bodies and mischief-makers spoke evil of sir launcelot and the queen, and from their talk came the undoing of the king and the downfall of his great work. but that was after long years, and after many true knights had lived their lives, honouring the king and queen, and doing great deeds whereby the fame of arthur and his order passed through all the world. chapter ix the adventure of the chapel perilous now on a day, as he rode through the forest, sir launcelot met a damsel weeping bitterly, and seeing him, she cried, "stay, sir knight! by your knighthood i require you to aid me in my distress." immediately sir launcelot checked his horse and asked in what she needed his service. "sir," said the maiden, "my brother lies at the point of death, for this day he fought with the stout knight, sir gilbert, and sorely they wounded each other; and a wise woman, a sorceress, has said that nothing may staunch my brother's wounds unless they be searched with the sword and bound up with a piece of the cloth from the body of the wounded knight who lies in the ruined chapel hard by. and well i know you, my lord sir launcelot, and that, if ye will not help me, none may." "tell me your brother's name," said sir launcelot. "sir meliot de logris," answered the damsel. "a knight of our round table," said sir launcelot; "the more am i bound to your service. only tell me, gentle damsel, where i may find this chapel perilous." so she directed him, and, riding through forest byeways, sir launcelot came presently upon a little ruined chapel, standing in the midst of a churchyard, where the tombs showed broken and neglected under the dark yews. in front of the porch, sir launcelot paused and looked, for thereon hung, upside down, dishonoured, the shield of many a good knight whom sir launcelot had known. as he stood wondering, suddenly there pressed upon him from all sides thirty stout knights, all giants and fully armed, their drawn swords in their hands and their shields advanced. with threatening looks, they spoke to him saying: "sir launcelot, it were well ye turned back before evil befell you." but sir launcelot, though he feared to have to do with thirty such warriors, answered boldly: "i turn not back for high words. make them good by your deeds." then he rode upon them fiercely, whereupon instantly they scattered and disappeared, and, sword in hand, sir launcelot entered the little chapel. all was dark within, save that a little lamp hung from the roof, and by its dim light he could just espy how on a bier before the altar there lay, stark and cold, a knight sheathed in armour. and drawing nearer, sir launcelot saw that the dead man lay on a blood-stained mantle, his naked sword by his side, but that his left hand had been lopped off at the wrist by a mighty sword-cut. then sir launcelot boldly seized the sword and with it cut off a piece of the bloody mantle. immediately the earth shook and the walls of the chapel rocked, and in fear sir launcelot turned to go. but, as he would have left the chapel, there stood before him in the doorway a lady, fair to look upon and beautifully arrayed, who gazed earnestly upon him, and said: "sir knight, put away from you that sword lest it be your death." but sir launcelot answered her: "lady, what i have said, i do; and what i have won, i keep." "it is well," said the lady. "had ye cast away the sword your life days were done. and now i make but one request. kiss me once." "that may i not do," said sir launcelot. then said the lady: "go your way, launcelot; ye have won, and i have lost. know that, had ye kissed me, your dead body had lain even now on the altar bier. for much have i desired to win you; and to entrap you, i ordained this chapel. many a knight have i taken, and once sir gawain himself hardly escaped, but he fought with sir gilbert and lopped off his hand, and so got away. fare ye well; it is plain to see that none but our lady, queen guenevere, may have your services." with that, she vanished from his sight. so sir launcelot mounted his horse and rode away from that evil place till he met sir meliot's sister, who led him to her brother where he lay, pale as the earth, and bleeding fast. and when he saw sir launcelot, he would have risen to greet him; but his strength failed him, and he fell back on his couch. sir launcelot searched his wounds with the sword, and bound them up with the blood-stained cloth, and immediately sir meliot was sound and well, and greatly he rejoiced. then sir meliot and his sister begged sir launcelot to stay and rest, but he departed on his adventures, bidding them farewell until he should meet them again at arthur's court. as for the sorceress of the chapel perilous, it is said she died of grief that all her charms had failed to win for her the good knight sir launcelot. chapter x sir launcelot and the falcon sir launcelot rode on his way, by marsh and valley and hill, till he chanced upon a fair castle, and saw fly from it, over his head, a beautiful falcon, with the lines still hanging from her feet. and as he looked, the falcon flew into a tree where she was held fast by the lines becoming entangled about the boughs. immediately, from the castle there came running a fair lady, who cried: "o launcelot, launcelot! as ye are the noblest of all knights, i pray you help me to recover my falcon. for if my husband discover its loss, he will slay me in his anger." "who is your husband, fair lady?" asked sir launcelot. "sir phelot, a knight of northgalis, and he is of a hasty temper; wherefore, i beseech you, help me." "well, lady," said sir launcelot, "i will serve you if i may; but the tree is hard to climb, for the boughs are few, and, in truth, i am no climber. but i will do my best." so the lady helped sir launcelot to unarm, and he led his horse to the foot of the tree, and springing from its back, he caught at the nearest bough, and drew himself up into the branches. then he climbed till he reached the falcon and, tying her lines to a rotten bough, broke it off, and threw down bird and bough to the lady below. forthwith, sir phelot came from amongst the trees and said: "ah! sir launcelot! now at length i have you as i would; for i have long sought your life." and sir launcelot made answer: "surely ye would not slay me, an unarmed man; for that were dishonour to you. keep my armour if ye will; but hang my sword on a bough where i may reach it, and then do with me as ye can." but sir phelot laughed mockingly and said: "not so, sir launcelot. i know you too well to throw away my advantage; wherefore, shift as ye may." "alas!" said sir launcelot, "that ever knight should be so unknightly. and you, madam, how could ye so betray me?" "she did but as i commanded her," said sir phelot. then launcelot looked about him to see how he might help himself in these straits, and espying above his head a great bare branch, he tote it down. then, ever watching his advantage, he sprang to the ground on the far side of his horse, so that the horse was between him and sir phelot. sir phelot rushed upon him with his sword, but sir launcelot parried it with the bough, with which he dealt his enemy such a blow on the head that sir phelot sank to the ground in a swoon. then sir launcelot seized his sword where it lay beside his armour, and stooping over the fallen knight, unloosed his helm. when the lady saw him do that, she shrieked and cried: "spare his life! spare his life, noble knight, i beseech you!" but sir launcelot answered sternly: "a felon's death for him who does felon's deeds. he has lived too long already," and with one blow, he smote off his head. then he armed himself, and mounting upon his steed, rode away, leaving the lady to weep beside her lord. book iii sir tristram chapter xi of the birth of sir tristram in the days of arthur, there ruled over the kingdom of liones the good knight sir meliodas; and his queen was the fair elizabeth, sister of king mark of cornwall. now there was a lady, an enchantress, who had no good-will towards king meliodas and his queen; so one day, when the king was hunting, she brought it to pass by her charms that meliodas chased a hart till he found himself, far from all his men, alone by an old castle, and there he was taken prisoner by the lady's knights. when king meliodas did not return home, the queen was nigh crazed with grief. attended only by one of the ladies of her court, she ran out into the forest to seek her lord. long and far she wandered, until she could go no further, but sank down at the foot of a great tree, and there, in the midst of the forest, was her little son born. when the queen knew that she must die, she kissed the babe and said: "ah! little son, sad has been thy birth, wherefore thy name shall be tristram; but thou shalt grow to be a brave knight and a strong." then she charged her gentlewoman to take care of the child and to commend her to king meliodas; and after that she died. all too late came many of the barons seeking their queen, and sorrowfully they bore her back to the castle where presently the king arrived, released by the skill of merlin from the evil spells of the enchantress. great indeed was his grief for the death of his queen. he caused her to be buried with all the pomp and reverence due to so good and fair a lady, and long and bitterly he mourned her loss and all the people with him. but at the end of seven years, king meliodas took another wife. then, when the queen had sons of her own, it angered her to think that in the days to come, her stepson tristram, and none other, should rule the fair land of liones. the more she thought of it, the more she hated him till, at the last, she was resolved to do away with him. so she filled a silver goblet with a pleasant drink in which she had mixed poison, and she set it in the room where tristram played with the young princes, his half-brothers. now the day was hot, and presently, being heated with his play, the young prince, the queen's eldest son, drank of the poisoned goblet; and immediately he died. much the queen grieved, but more than ever she hated her stepson tristram, as if, through him, her son had died. presently, again she mixed poison and set it in a goblet; and that time, king meliodas, returning thirsty from the chase, took the cup and would have drunk of it, only the queen cried to him to forbear. then the king recalled to mind how his young son had drunk of a seeming pleasant drink and died on the instant; and seizing the queen by the hand, he cried: "false traitress! tell me at once what is in that cup, or i will slay thee!" then the queen cried him mercy and told him all her sin. but in his wrath the king would have no mercy, but sentenced her to be burnt at the stake, which, in those days, was the doom of traitors. the day having come when the queen should suffer for her fault, she was led out and bound to a stake in the presence of all the court, and the faggots were heaped about her. then the young prince tristram kneeled before the king and asked of him a favour: and the king, loving him much, granted him his request. "then," said tristram, "i require you to release the queen, my stepmother, and to take her again to your favour." greatly the king marvelled, and said: "ye should of right hate her, seeing that she sought your life." but tristram answered: "i forgive her freely." "i give you then her life," said the king; "do ye release her from the stake." so tristram unloosed the chains which bound the queen and led her back to the castle, and from that day the queen loved him well; but as for king meliodas, though he forgave her and suffered her to remain at court, yet never again would he have aught to do with her. chapter xii how tristram fought with sir marhaus of ireland now king meliodas, though he had pardoned the queen, would keep his son tristram no longer at the court, but sent him into france. there tristram learnt all knightly exercises, so that there was none could equal him as harper or hunter; and after seven years, being by then a youth of nineteen, he returned to his own land of liones. it chanced, in those days, that king anguish of ireland sent to cornwall, demanding the tribute paid him in former times by that land. then mark, the cornish king, called together his barons and knights to take counsel; and by their advice, he made answer that he would pay no tribute, and bade king anguish send a stout knight to fight for his right if he still dared claim aught of the land of cornwall. forthwith there came from ireland sir marhaus, brother of the queen of ireland. now sir marhaus was knight of the round table and in his time there were few of greater renown. he anchored his ships under the castle of tintagil, and sent messengers daily to king mark, bidding him pay the tribute or find one to fight in his cause. then was king mark sore perplexed, for not one of his knights dared encounter sir marhaus. criers were sent through all the land, proclaiming that, to any knight that would take the combat upon him, king mark would give such gifts as should enrich him for life. in time, word of all that had happened came to liones, and immediately tristram sought his father, desiring his permission to go to the court of his uncle, king mark, to take the battle upon him. thus it came to pass that, with his father's good leave, tristram presented himself before king mark, asking to be made knight that he might do battle for the liberties of cornwall. then when mark knew that it was his sister's son, he rejoiced greatly, and having made tristram knight, he sent word to sir marhaus that there was found to meet him a champion of better birth than sir marhaus' self. so it was arranged that the combat should take place on a little island hard by, where sir marhaus had anchored his ships. sir tristram, with his horse and arms, was placed on board a ship, and when the island was gained, he leaped on shore, bidding his squire put off again and only return when he was slain or victorious. now, when sir marhaus saw that tristram was but a youth, he cried aloud to him: "be advised, young sir, and go back to your ship. what can ye hope to do against me, a proven knight of arthur's table?" then tristram made answer: "sir and most famous champion, i have been made knight to do battle with you, and i promise myself to win honour thereby, i who have never before encountered a proven knight." "if ye can endure three strokes of my sword, it shall be honour enough," said sir marhaus. then they rushed upon each other, and at the first encounter each unhorsed the other, and sir marhaus' spear pierced sir tristram's side and made a grievous wound. drawing their swords, they lashed at each other, and the blows fell thick as hail till the whole island re-echoed with the din of onslaught. so they fought half a day, and ever it seemed that sir tristram grew fresher and nimbler while sir marhaus became sore wearied. and at the last, sir tristram aimed a great blow at the head of his enemy, and the sword crashed through the helmet and bit into the skull so that a great piece was broken away from the edge of tristram's sword. then sir marhaus flung away sword and shield, and when he might regain his feet, fled shrieking to his ships. "do ye flee?" cried tristram. "i am but newly made knight; but rather than flee, i would be hewn piecemeal." then came gouvernail, sir tristram's squire, and bore his master back to land, where mark and all the cornish lords came to meet him and convey him to the castle of tintagil. far and wide they sent for surgeons to dress sir tristram's wound, but none might help him, and ever he grew weaker. at the last, a wise woman told king mark that in that land alone whence came the poisoned spear could sir tristram find cure. then the king gave orders and a ship was made ready with great stores of rich furnishings, to convey sir tristram to ireland, there to heal him of his wound. chapter xiii the fair isolt thus tristram sailed to ireland, and when he drew nigh the coast, he called for his harp, and sitting up on his couch on the deck, played the merriest tune that was ever heard in that land. and the warders on the castle wall, hearing him, sent and told king anguish how a ship drew near with one who harped as none other might. then king anguish sent knights to convey the stranger into the castle. so when he was brought into the king's presence, tristram declared that he was sir tramtrist of liones, lately made knight, and wounded in his first battle; for which cause he was come to ireland, to seek healing. forthwith the king made him welcome, and placed him in the charge of his daughter, isolt. now isolt was famed for her skill in surgery, and, moreover, she was the fairest lady of that time, save only queen guenevere. so she searched and bandaged sir tristram's wound, and presently it was healed. but still sir tristram abode at king anguish's court, teaching the fair isolt to harp, and taking great pleasure in her company. and ever the princess doubted whether sir tristram were not a renowned knight and ever she liked him better. so the time passed merrily with feastings and in the jousts, and in the lists sir tristram won great honour when he was recovered of his wound. at last it befell upon a day that sir tristram had gone to the bath and left his sword lying on the couch. and the queen, entering, espied it, and taking it up, drew the sword from the sheath and fell to admiring the mighty blade. presently she saw that the edge was notched, and while she pondered how great a blow must have broken the good steel, suddenly she bethought her of the piece which had been found in the head of her brother, sir marhaus. hastening to her chamber, she sought in a casket for the fragment, and returning, placed it by the sword edge, where it fitted as well as on the day it was first broken. then she cried to her daughter: "this, then, is the traitor knight who slew my brother, sir marhaus"; and snatching up the sword, she rushed upon sir tristram where he sat in his bath, and would have killed him, but that his squire restrained her. having failed of her purpose, she sought her husband, king anguish, and told him all her story: how the knight they had harboured was he who had slain sir marhaus. then the king, sore perplexed, went to sir tristram's chamber, where he found him fully armed, ready to get to horse. and tristram told him all the truth, how in fair fight he had slain sir marhaus. "ye did as a knight should," said king anguish; "and much it grieves me that i may not keep you at my court; but i cannot so displease my queen or barons." "sir," said tristram, "i thank you for your courtesy, and will requite it as occasion may offer. moreover, here i pledge my word, as i am good knight and true, to be your daughter's servant, and in all places and at all times to uphold her quarrel. wherefore i pray you that i may take my leave of the princess." then, with the king's permission, sir tristram went to the fair isolt and told her all his story; "and here," said he, "i make my vow ever to be your true knight, and at all times and in all places to uphold your quarrel." "and on my part" answered the fair isolt, "i make promise that never these seven years will i marry any man, save with your leave and as ye shall desire." therewith they exchanged rings, the fair isolt grieving sore the while. then sir tristram strode into the court and cried aloud, before all the barons: "ye knights of ireland, the time is come when i must depart. therefore, if any man have aught against me, let him stand forth now, and i will satisfy him as i may." now there were many present of the kin of sir marhaus, but none dared have ado with sir tristram; so, slowly he rode away, and with his squire took ship again for cornwall. chapter xiv how king mark sent sir tristram to fetch him a wife when sir tristram had come back to cornwall, he abode some time at the court of king mark. now in those days the cornish knights were little esteemed, and none less than mark himself, who was a coward, and never adventured himself in fair and open combat, seeking rather to attack by stealth and have his enemy at an advantage. but the fame of sir tristram increased daily, and all men spoke well of him. so it came to pass that king mark, knowing himself despised, grew fearful and jealous of the love that all men bore his nephew; for he seemed in their praise of him to hear his own reproach. he sought, therefore, how he might rid himself of tristram even while he spoke him fair and made as if he loved him much, and at the last he bethought him how he might gain his end and no man be the wiser. so one day, he said to tristram: "fair nephew, i am resolved to marry, and fain would i have your aid." "in all things, i am yours to command," answered sir tristram. "i pray you, then," said king mark, "bring me to wife the fair isolt of ireland. for since i have heard your praises of her beauty, i may not rest unless i have her for my queen." and this he said thinking that, if ever sir tristram set foot in ireland, he would be slain. but tristram, nothing mistrusting, got together a company of gallant knights, all fairly arrayed as became men sent by their king on such an errand; and with them he embarked on a goodly ship. now it chanced that when he had reached the open sea, a great storm arose and drove him back on to the coast of england, and landing with great difficulty he set up his pavilion hard by the city of camelot. presently, word was brought him by his squire that king anguish with his company lay hard by, and that the king was in sore straits; for he was charged with the murder of a knight of arthur's court, and must meet in combat sir blamor, one of the stoutest knights of the round table. then sir tristram rejoiced, for he saw in this opportunity of serving king anguish the means of earning his good will. so he betook himself to the king's tent, and proffered to take upon him the encounter, for the kindness shown him by king anguish in former days. and the king gratefully accepting of his championship, the next day sir tristram encountered with sir blamor, overthrew him, and so acquitted the irish king of the charge brought against him. then in his joy, king anguish begged sir tristram to voyage with him to his own land, bidding tristram ask what boon he would and he should have it. so rejoicing in his great fortune, sir tristram sailed once again for the irish land. chapter xv how sir tristram and the fair isolt drank of the magic potion then king anguish made haste to return to ireland, taking sir tristram with him. and when he was come there and had told all his adventures, there was great rejoicing over sir tristram, but of none more than of the fair isolt. so when sir tristram had stayed there some while, king anguish reminded him of the boon he should ask and of his own willingness to grant it. "sir king," replied sir tristram, "now will i ask it. grant me your daughter, the fair isolt, that i may take her to cornwall, there to become the wife of my uncle, king mark." then king anguish grieved when he heard sir tristram's request, and said: "far more gladly would i give her to you to wife." "that may not be," replied sir tristram; "my honour forbids." "take her then," said king anguish, "she is yours to wed or to give to your uncle, king mark, as seems good to you." so a ship was made ready and there entered it the fair isolt and sir tristram, and gouvernail, his squire, and dame bragwaine, who was maid to the princess. but before they sailed, the queen gave in charge to gouvernail and dame bragwaine a phial of wine which king mark and isolt should drink together on their wedding-day; "for," said the queen, "such is the magic virtue of this wine, that, having drunk of it, they may never cease from loving one another." now it chanced, one day, that sir tristram sat and harped to the fair isolt; and the weather being hot, he became thirsty. then looking round the cabin he beheld a golden flask, curiously shaped and wrought; and laughing, he said to the fair isolt: "see, madam, how my man and your maid care for themselves; for here is the best wine that ever i tasted. i pray you, now, drink to me." so with mirth and laughter, they pledged each other, and thought that never before had they tasted aught so good. but when they had made an end of drinking, there came upon them the might of the magic charm; and never from that day, for good or for ill, might they cease from their love. and so much woe was wrought; for, mindful of his pledge to his uncle, sir tristram brought isolt in all honour into the land of cornwall where she was wedded with pomp and ceremony to king mark, the craven king, who hated his nephew even more than before, because he had returned in safety and made good his promise as became an honourable knight. and from that day he never ceased seeking the death of sir tristram. chapter xvi of the end of sir tristram then again sir tristram abode at king mark's court, ever rendering the fair isolt loyal and knightly service; for king mark would imperil his life for none, no matter what the need. now among the cornish knights, there was much jealousy of sir tristram de liones, and chief of his enemies was his own cousin, sir andred. with lying words, sir andred sought to stir up king mark against his nephew, speaking evil of the queen and of sir tristram. now mark was afraid openly to accuse sir tristram, so he set sir andred to spy upon him. at last, it befell one day that sir andred saw sir tristram coming, alone and unarmed, from the queen's presence, and with twelve other knights, he fell upon him and bound him. then these felon knights bore sir tristram to a little chapel standing upon a great rock which jutted out into the sea. there they would have slain him, unarmed and bound. but sir tristram, perceiving their intent, put forth suddenly all his strength, burst his bonds, and wresting a sword from sir andred, cut him down; and so he did with six other knights. then while the rest, being but cowards, gave back a little, he shut to and bolted the doors against them, and sprang from the window on to the sea-washed rocks below. there he lay as one dead, until his squire, gouvernail, coming in a little boat, took up his master, dressed his wounds, and carried him to the coast of england. so sir tristram was minded to remain in that country for a time. then, one day, as he rode through the forest near camelot, there came running to him a fair lady who cried: "sir tristram, i claim your aid for the truest knight in all the world, and that is none other than king arthur." "with a good heart," said sir tristram; "but where may i find him?" "follow me," said the lady, who was none other than the lady of the lake herself, and ever mindful of the welfare of king arthur. so he rode after her till he came to a castle, and in front of it he saw two knights who beset at once another knight, and when sir tristram came to the spot, the two had borne king arthur to the ground and were about to cut off his head. then sir tristram called to them to leave their traitor's work and look to themselves; with the word, one he pierced through with his spear and the other he cut down, and setting king arthur again upon his horse, he rode with him until they met with certain of arthur's knights. but when king arthur would know his name, tristram would give none, but said only that he was a poor errant knight; and so they parted. but arthur, when he was come back to camelot, sent for sir launcelot and other of his knights, bidding them seek for such an one as was sir tristram and bring him to the court. so they departed, each his own way, and searched for many days, but in vain. then it chanced, at last, as sir launcelot rode on his way, he espied sir tristram resting beside a tomb; and, as was the custom of knights errant, he called upon him to joust. so the two ran together and each broke his spear. then they sprang to the ground and fought with their swords, and each thought that never had he encountered so stout or so skilled a knight. so fiercely they fought that, perforce, at last they must rest. then said sir launcelot: "fair knight, i pray you tell me your name, for never have i met so good a knight." "in truth," said sir tristram, "i am loth to tell my name." "i marvel at that," said sir launcelot; "for mine i will tell you freely. i am launcelot du lac." then was sir tristram filled at once with joy and with sorrow; with joy that at last he had encountered the noblest knight of the round table, with sorrow that he had done him such hurt, and without more ado he revealed his name. now sir launcelot, who ever delighted in the fame of another, had long desired to meet sir tristram de liones, and rejoicing to have found him, he knelt right courteously and proffered him his sword, as if he would yield to him. but tristram would not have it so, declaring that, rather, he should yield to sir launcelot. so they embraced right heartily, and when sir launcelot questioned him, sir tristram acknowledged that it was he who had come to king arthur's aid. together, then, they rode to camelot, and there sir tristram was received with great honour by king arthur, who made him knight of the round table. presently, to tristram at camelot, there came word that king mark had driven the fair isolt from court, and compelled her to have her dwelling in a hut set apart for lepers. then sir tristram was wroth indeed, and mounting his horse, rode forth that same hour, and rested not till he had found the lepers' hut, whence he bore the queen to the castle known as the joyous garde; and there he held her, in safety and honour, in spite of all that king mark could do. and all men honoured sir tristram, and felt sorrow for the fair isolt; while as for king mark, they scorned him even more than before. but to sir tristram, it was grief to be at enmity with his uncle who had made him knight, and at last he craved king arthur's aid to reconcile him to mark. so then the king, who loved sir tristram, sent messengers to cornwall to mark, bidding him come forthwith to camelot; and when the cornish king was arrived, arthur required him to set aside his enmity to tristram, who had in all things been his loyal nephew and knight. and king mark, his head full of hate, but fearful of offending his lord, king arthur, made fair proffers of friendship, begging sir tristram to return to cornwall with him, and promising to hold him in love and honour. so they were reconciled, and when king mark returned to cornwall, thither sir tristram escorted the fair isolt, and himself abode there, believing his uncle to mean truly and honourably by him. but under a seeming fair exterior, king mark hated sir tristram more than ever, and waited only to have him at an advantage. at length he contrived the opportunity he sought. for he hid him in the queen's chamber at a time when he knew sir tristram would come there unarmed, to harp to the fair isolt the music that she loved. so as sir tristram, all unsuspecting, bent over his harp, mark leaped from his lurking place and dealt him such a blow from behind that, on the instant, he fell dead at the feet of the fair isolt. so perished the good knight, sir tristram de liones nor did the fair isolt long survive him, for refusing all comfort, she pined away, and died within a few days, and was laid in a tomb beside that of her true knight. but the felon king paid the price of his treachery with his life; for sir launcelot himself avenged the death of his friend and the wrongs of the fair isolt. book iv king arthur's nephews chapter xvii sir gawain and the lady among the knights at king arthur's court were his nephews, the sons of his sister, queen bellicent, and of that king lot of orkney, who had joined the league against arthur in the first years of his reign. of each, many tales are told; of sir gawain and sir gareth to their great renown, but of sir mordred to his shame. for sir gawain and sir gareth were knights of great prowess; but sir mordred was a coward and a traitor, envious of other men's fame, and a tale-bearer. now sir gawain was known as the ladies' knight, and this is how he came by the name. it was at arthur's marriage-feast, when gawain had just been made knight, that a strange thing befell. there entered the hall a white hart, chased by a hound, and when it had run round the hall, it fled through the doorway again, still followed by the hound. then, by merlin's advice, the quest of the hart was given to gawain as a new-made knight, to follow it and see what adventures it would bring him. so sir gawain rode away, taking with him three couples of greyhounds for the pursuit. at the last, the hounds caught the hart, and killed it just as it reached the court-yard of a castle. then there came forth from the castle a knight, and he was grieved and wroth to see the hart slain, for it was given him by his lady; so, in his anger, he killed two of the hounds. at that moment sir gawain entered the court-yard, and an angry man was he when he saw his greyhounds slain. "sir knight," said he, "ye would have done better to have taken your vengeance on me rather than on dumb animals which but acted after their kind." "i will be avenged on you also," cried the knight; and the two rushed together, cutting and thrusting that it was wonderful they might so long endure. but at the last the knight grew faint, and crying for mercy, offered to yield to sir gawain. "ye had no mercy on my hounds," said sir gawain. "i will make you all the amends in my power," answered the knight. but sir gawain would not be turned from his purpose, and unlacing the vanquished knight's helmet, was about to cut off his head, when a lady rushed out from the castle and flung herself on the body of the fallen knight. so it chanced that sir gawain's sword descending smote off the lady's head. then was sir gawain grieved and sore ashamed for what he had done, and said to the knight: "i repent for what i have done; and here i give you your life. go only to camelot, to king arthur's court, and tell him ye are sent by the knight who follows the quest of the white hart." "ye have slain my lady," said the other, "and now i care not what befalls me." so he arose and went to king arthur's court. then sir gawain prepared to rest him there for the night; but scarcely had he lain down when there fell upon him four knights, crying: "new-made knight, ye have shamed your knighthood, for a knight without mercy is without honour." then was sir gawain borne to the earth, and would have been slain, but that there came forth from the castle four ladies who besought the knights to spare his life; so they consented and bound him prisoner. the next morning sir gawain was brought again before the knights and their dames; and because he was king arthur's nephew, the ladies desired that he should be set free, only they required that he should ride again to camelot, the murdered lady's head hanging from his neck, and her dead body across his saddle-bow; and that when he arrived at the court he should confess his misdeeds. so sir gawain rode sadly back to camelot, and when he had told his tale, king arthur was sore displeased. and queen guenevere held a court of her ladies to pass sentence on sir gawain for his ungentleness. these then decreed that, his life long, he must never refuse to fight for any lady who desired his services, and that ever he should be gentle and courteous and show mercy to all. from that time forth, sir gawain never failed in aught that dame or damsel asked of him, and so he won and kept the title of the ladies' knight. chapter xviii the adventures of sir gareth gareth was the youngest of the sons of lot and bellicent, and had grown up long after gawain and mordred left their home for king arthur's court; so that when he came before the king, all humbly attired, he was known not even by his own brothers. king arthur was keeping pentecost at kink kenadon on the welsh border and, as his custom was, waited to begin the feast until some adventure should befall. presently there was seen approaching a youth, who, to the wonderment of all that saw, leaned upon the shoulders of two men, his companions; and yet as he passed up the hall, he seemed a goodly youth, tall and broad-shouldered. when he stood before the king, suddenly he drew himself up, and after due greeting, said: "sir king, i would ask of you three boons; one to be granted now and two hereafter when i shall require them." and arthur, looking upon him, was pleased, for his countenance was open and honest. so he made answer; "fair son, ask of me aught that is honourable and i will grant it." then the youth said: "for this present, i ask only that ye will give me meat and drink for a year and a day." "ye might have asked and had a better gift," replied the king; "tell me now your name." "at this time, i may not tell it," said the youth. now king arthur trusted every man until he proved himself unworthy, and in this youth he thought he saw one who should do nobly and win renown; so laughing, he bade him keep his own counsel since so he would, and gave him in charge to sir kay, the seneschal. now sir kay was but harsh to those whom he liked not, and from the first he scorned the young man; "for none," said he, "but a low-born lout would crave meat and drink when he might have asked for a horse and arms." but sir launcelot and sir gawain took the youth's part. neither knew him for gareth of the orkneys, but both believed him to be a youth of good promise who, for his own reasons, would pass in disguise for a season. so gareth lived the year among the kitchen-boys, all the time mocked and scorned by sir kay, who called him fairhands because his hands were white and shapely. but launcelot and gawain showed him all courtesy, and failed not to observe how, in all trials of strength, he excelled his comrades, and that he was ever present to witness the feats of the knights in the tournaments. so the year passed, and again king arthur was keeping the feast of pentecost with his knights, when a damsel entered the hall and asked his aid: "for," said she, "my sister is closely besieged in her castle by a strong knight who lays waste all her lands. and since i know that the knights of your court be the most renowned in the world, i have come to crave help of your mightiest." "what is your sister's name, and who is he that oppresses her?" asked the king. "the red knight, he is called," replied the damsel. "as for my sister i will not say her name, only that she is a high-born lady and owns broad lands." then the king frowned and said: "ye would have aid but will say no name. i may not ask knight of mine to go on such an errand." then forth stepped gareth from among the serving men at the hall end and said: "sir king, i have eaten of your meat in your kitchen this twelvemonth since, and now i crave my other two boons." "ask and have," replied the king. "grant me then the adventure of this damsel, and bid sir launcelot ride after me to knight me at my desire, for of him alone would i be made knight." "it shall be so," answered the king. "what!" cried the damsel, "i ask for a knight and ye give me a kitchen-boy. shame on you, sir king." and in great wrath she fled from the hall, mounted her palfrey and rode away. gareth but waited to array himself in the armour which he had kept ever in readiness for the time when he should need it, and mounting his horse, rode after the damsel. but when sir kay knew what had happened, he was wroth, and got to horse to ride after gareth and bring him back. even as gareth overtook the damsel, so did kay come up with him and cried: "turn back, fairhands! what, sir, do ye not know me?" "yes," answered gareth, "i know you for the most discourteous knight in arthur's court." then sir kay rode upon him with his lance, but gareth turned it aside with his sword and pierced sir kay through the side so that he fell to the ground and lay there without motion. so gareth took sir kay's shield and spear and was about to ride away, when seeing sir launcelot draw near, he called upon him to joust. at the first encounter, sir launcelot unhorsed gareth, but quickly helped him to his feet. then, at gareth's desire, they fought together with swords, and gareth did knightly till, at length, sir launcelot said, laughing: "why should we fight any longer? of a truth ye are a stout knight." "if that is indeed your thought, i pray you make me knight," cried gareth. so sir launcelot knighted gareth, who, bidding him farewell, hastened after the damsel, for she had ridden on again while the two knights talked. when she saw him coming, she cried: "keep off! ye smell of the kitchen!" "damsel," said sir gareth, "i must follow until i have fulfilled the adventure." "till ye accomplish the adventure, turn-spit? your part in it shall soon be ended." "i can only do my best," answered sir gareth. now as they rode through the forest, they met with a knight sore beset by six thieves, and him sir gareth rescued. the knight then bade gareth and the damsel rest at his castle, and entertained them right gladly until the morn, when the two rode forth again. presently, they drew near to a deep river where two knights kept the ford. "how now, kitchen-knave? will ye fight or escape while ye may?" cried the damsel. "i would fight though there were six instead of two," replied sir gareth. therewith he encountered the one knight in mid-stream and struck him such a blow on the head that he fell, stunned, into the water and was drowned. then, gaining the land, gareth cleft in two both helmet and head of the other knight, and turned to the damsel, saying: "lead on; i follow." but the damsel mocked him, saying: "what a mischance is this that a kitchen-boy should slay two noble knights! be not over-proud, turn-spit. it was but luck, if indeed ye did not attack one knight from behind." "say what you will, i follow," said sir gareth. so they rode on again, the damsel in front and sir gareth behind, till they reached a wide meadow where stood many fair pavilions; and one, the largest, was all of blue, and the men who stood about it were clothed in blue, and bore shields and spears of that colour; and of blue, too, were the trappings of the horses. then said the damsel: "yonder is the blue knight, the goodliest that ever ye have looked upon, and five hundred knights own him lord." "i will encounter him," said sir gareth; "for if he be good knight and true as ye say, he will scarce set on me with all his following; and man to man, i fear him not." "fie!" said the damsel, "for a dirty knave, ye brag loud. and even if ye overcome him, his might is as nothing to that of the red knight who besieges my lady sister. so get ye gone while ye may." "damsel," said sir gareth, "ye are but ungentle so to rebuke me; for, knight or knave, i have done you good service, nor will i leave this quest while life is mine." then the damsel was ashamed, and, looking curiously at gareth, she said: "i would gladly know what manner of man ye are. for i heard you call yourself kitchen-knave before arthur's self, but ye have ever answered patiently though i have chidden you shamefully; and courtesy comes only of gentle blood." thereat sir gareth but laughed, and said: "he is no knight whom a maiden can anger by harsh words." so talking, they entered the field, and there came to sir gareth a messenger from the blue knight to ask him if he came in peace or in war. "as your lord pleases," said sir gareth. so when the messenger had brought back this word, the blue knight mounted his horse, took his spear in his hand, and rode upon sir gareth. at their first encounter their lances shivered to pieces, and such was the shock that their horses fell dead. so they rushed on each other with sword and shield, cutting and slashing till the armour was hacked from their bodies; but at last, sir gareth smote the blue knight to the earth. then the blue knight yielded, and at the damsel's entreaty, sir gareth spared his life. so they were reconciled, and at the request of the blue knight, sir gareth and the damsel abode that night in his tents. as they sat at table, the blue knight said: "fair damsel, are ye not called linet?" "yes," answered she, "and i am taking this noble knight to the relief of my sister, the lady liones." "god speed you, sir," said the blue knight, "for he is a stout knight whom ye must meet. long ago might he have taken the lady, but that he hoped that sir launcelot or some other of arthur's most famous knights, coming to her rescue, might fall beneath his lance. if ye overthrow him, then are ye the peer of sir launcelot and sir tristram." "sir knight," answered gareth, "i can but strive to bear me worthily as one whom the great sir launcelot made knight." so in the morning they bade farewell to the blue knight, who vowed to carry to king arthur word of all that gareth had achieved; and they rode on, till, in the evening, they came to a little ruined hermitage where there awaited them a dwarf, sent by the lady liones, with all manner of meats and other store. in the morning, the dwarf set out again to bear word to his lady that her rescuer was come. as he drew near the castle, the red knight stopped him, demanding whence he came. "sir," said the dwarf, "i have been with my lady's sister, who brings with her a knight to the rescue of my lady." "it is lost labour," said the red knight; "even though she brought launcelot or tristram, i hold myself a match for them." "he is none of these," said the dwarf, "but he has overthrown the knights who kept the ford, and the blue knight yielded to him." "let him come," said the red knight; "i shall soon make an end of him, and a shameful death shall he have at my hands, as many a better knight has had." so saying, he let the dwarf go. presently, there came riding towards the castle sir gareth and the damsel linet, and gareth marvelled to see hang from the trees some forty knights in goodly armour, their shields reversed beside them. and when he inquired of the damsel, she told him how these were the bodies of brave knights who, coming to the rescue of the lady liones, had been overthrown and shamefully done to death by the red knight. then was gareth shamed and angry, and he vowed to make an end of these evil practices. so at last they drew near to the castle walls, and saw how the plain around was covered with the red knight's tents, and the noise was that of a great army. hard by was a tall sycamore tree, and from it hung a mighty horn, made of an elephant's tusk. spurring his horse, gareth rode to it, and blew such a blast that those on the castle walls heard it; the knights came forth from their tents to see who blew so bold a blast, and from a window of the castle the lady liones looked forth and waved her hand to her champion. then, as sir gareth made his reverence to the lady, the red knight called roughly to him to leave his courtesy and look to himself; "for," said he, "she is mine, and to have her, i have fought many a battle." "it is but vain labour," said sir gareth, "since she loves you not. know, too, sir knight, that i have vowed to rescue her from you." "so did many another who now hangs on a tree," replied the red knight, "and soon ye shall hang beside them." then both laid their spears in rest, and spurred their horses. at the first encounter, each smote the other full in the shield, and the girths of the saddles bursting, they were borne to the earth, where they lay for awhile as if dead. but presently they rose, and setting their shields before them, rushed upon each other with their swords, cutting and hacking till the armour lay on the ground in fragments. so they fought till noon and then rested; but soon they renewed the battle, and so furiously they fought, that often they fell to the ground together. then, when the bells sounded for evensong, the knights rested again a while, unlacing their helms to breathe the evening air. but looking up to the castle windows, gareth saw the lady liones gazing earnestly upon him; then he caught up his helmet, and calling to the red knight, bade him make ready for the battle; "and this time," said he, "we will make an end of it." "so be it," said the red knight. then the red knight smote gareth on the hand that his sword flew from his grasp, and with another blow he brought him grovelling to the earth. at the sight of this, linet cried aloud, and hearing her, gareth, with a mighty effort, threw off the red knight, leaped to his sword and got it again within his hand. then he pressed the red knight harder than ever, and at the last bore him to the earth, and unlacing his helm, made ready to slay him; but the red knight cried aloud: "mercy; i yield." at first, remembering the evil deaths of the forty good knights, gareth was unwilling to spare him; but the red knight besought him to have mercy, telling him how, against his will, he had been bound by a vow to make war on arthur's knights. so sir gareth relented, and bade him set forth at once for kink kenadon and entreat the king's pardon for his evil past. and this the red knight promised to do. then amidst much rejoicing, sir gareth was borne into the castle. there his wounds were dressed by the lady liones, and there he rested until he recovered his strength. and having won her love, when gareth returned to arthur's court, the lady liones rode with him, and they two were wed with great pomp in the presence of the whole fellowship of the round table; the king rejoicing much that his nephew had done so valiantly. so sir gareth lived happily with dame liones, winning fame and the love of all true knights. as for linet, she came again to arthur's court and wedded sir gareth's younger brother, sir gaheris. book v sir geraint chapter xix the adventures of geraint it befell, one whitsunday, that arthur was holding his court at caerleon, when word was brought to him of a splendid white stag that ranged the forest of dean, and forthwith the king proclaimed a hunt for the morrow. so, with the dawn, there was much trampling of hoofs and baying of hounds as all the knights got to horse; but queen guenevere herself, though she had said she would ride with the hunt, slept late, and when she called her maidens to her, it was broad day. then, with much haste, she arrayed herself, and taking one of her ladies with her, rode to a little rising ground in the forest, near which, as she well knew, the hunt must pass. presently, as she waited, there came riding by the gallant knight, geraint of devon. he was arrayed neither for the chase nor for the fight, but wore a surcoat of white satin and about him a loose scarf of purple, with a golden apple at each corner. and when the queen had answered his salutation, she said: "how is it, prince, that ye be not ridden with the hunters?" "madam," answered he, "with shame i say it; i slept too late." smiling, the queen said: "then are we both in the same case, for i also arose too late. but tarry with me, and soon ye will hear the baying of the hounds; for often i have known them break covert here." then as they waited on the little woodland knoll, there came riding past a knight full armed, a lady with him, and behind them a dwarf, misshapen and evil-looking, and they passed without word or salutation to the queen. then said guenevere to geraint: "prince, know ye yonder knight?" "nay, madam," said he; "his arms i know not, and his face i might not see." thereupon the queen turned to her attendant and said: "ride after them quickly and ask the dwarf his master's name." so the maiden did as she was bidden; but when she inquired of the dwarf, he answered her roughly: "i will not tell thee my master's name." "since thou art so churlish," said she, "i will even ask him himself." "that thou shalt not," he cried, and struck her across the face with his whip. so the maiden, alarmed and angered, rode back to the queen and told her all that had happened. "madam," cried geraint, "the churl has wronged your maiden and insulted your person. i pray you, suffer me to do your errand myself." with the word, he put spurs to his horse and rode after the three. and when he had come up with the dwarf, he asked the knight's name as the maiden had done, and the dwarf answered him as he had answered the queen's lady. "i will speak with thy master himself," said geraint. "thou shalt not, by my faith!" said the dwarf. "thou art not honourable enough to speak with my lord." "i have spoken with men of as good rank as he," answered geraint, and would have turned his horse's head that he might ride after the knight; but the dwarf struck him across the face such a blow that the blood spurted forth over his purple scarf. then, in his wrath, geraint clapped hand to sword, and would have slain the churl, but that he bethought him how powerless was such a misshapen thing. so refraining himself, he rode back to the queen and said: "madam, for the time the knight has escaped me. but, with your leave, i will ride after him, and require of him satisfaction for the wrong done to yourself and to your maiden. it must be that i shall come presently to a town where i may obtain armour. farewell; if i live, ye shall have tidings of me by next even." "farewell," said the queen; "i shall ever hold your good service in remembrance." so geraint rode forth on his quest, and followed the road to the ford of the usk, where he crossed, and then went on his way until he came to a town, at the further end of which rose a mighty castle. and as he entered the town, he saw the knight and the lady, and how, as they rode through the streets, from every window the folk craned their necks to see them pass, until they entered the castle and the gate fell behind them. then was geraint satisfied that they would not pass thence that night, and turned him about to see where he could obtain the use of arms that, the next day, he might call the knight to account. now it seemed that the whole town was in a ferment. in every house, men were busy polishing shields, sharpening swords, and washing armour, and scarce could they find time to answer questions put to them; so at the last, finding nowhere in the town to rest, geraint rode in the direction of a ruined palace, which stood a little apart from the town, and was reached by a marble bridge spanning a deep ravine. seated on the bridge was an old man, hoary-headed, and clothed in the tattered remains of what had once been splendid attire, who gave geraint courteous greeting. "sir," said geraint, "i pray you, know ye where i may find shelter for this night?" "come with me," said the old man, "and ye shall have the best my old halls afford." so saying, he led geraint into a great stone-paved court-yard, surrounded by buildings, once strong fortifications, but then half burned and ruinous. there he bade geraint dismount, and led the way into an upper chamber, where sat an aged dame, and with her a maiden the fairest that ever geraint had looked upon, for all that her attire was but a faded robe and veil. then the old man spoke to the maiden, saying: "enid, take the good knight's charger to a stall and give him corn. then go to the town and buy us provision for a feast to-night." now it pleased not geraint that the maiden should thus do him service; but when he made to accompany her, the old man, her father, stayed him and kept him in converse until presently she was returned from the town and had made all ready for the evening meal. then they sat them down to supper, the old man and his wife with geraint between them; and the fair maid, enid, waited upon them, though it irked the prince to see her do such menial service. so as they ate, they talked, and presently geraint asked of the cause why the palace was all in ruins. "sir knight," said the old man, "i am yniol, and once i was lord of a broad earldom. but my nephew, whose guardian i had been, made war upon me, affirming that i had withheld from him his dues; and being the stronger, he prevailed, and seized my lands and burnt my halls, even as ye see. for the townsfolk hold with him, because that, with his tournaments and feastings, he brings many strangers their way." "what then is all the stir in the town even now?" asked geraint. "to-morrow," said the earl, "they hold the tournament of the sparrow-hawk. in the midst of the meadow are set up two forks, and on the forks a silver rod, and on the rod the form of a sparrow-hawk. two years has it been won by the stout knight edeyrn, and if he win it the morrow, it shall be his for aye, and he himself known as the sparrow-hawk." "tell me," cried geraint, "is that the knight that rode this day with a lady and a dwarf to the castle hard by?" "the same," said yniol; "and a bold knight he is." then geraint told them of the insult offered that morning to queen guenevere and her maiden, and how he had ridden forth to obtain satisfaction. "and now, i pray you," said geraint, "help me to come by some arms, and in to-morrow's lists will i call this sparrow-hawk to account." "arms have i," answered the earl, "old and rusty indeed, yet at your service. but, sir knight, ye may not appear in to-morrow's tournament, for none may contend unless he bring with him a lady in whose honour he jousts." then cried geraint: "lord earl, suffer me to lay lance in rest in honour of the fair maiden, your daughter. and if i fall to-morrow, no harm shall have been done her, and if i win, i will love her my life long, and make her my true wife." now enid, her service ended, had left them to their talk; but the earl, rejoicing that so noble a knight should seek his daughter's love, promised that, with the maiden's consent, all should be as the prince desired. so they retired to rest that night, and the next day at dawn, geraint arose, and, donning the rusty old armour lent him by earl yniol, rode to the lists; and there amongst the humbler sort of onlookers, he found the old earl and his wife and with them their fair daughter. then the heralds blew their trumpets, and edeyrn bade his lady-love take the sparrow-hawk, her due as fairest of the fair. "forbear," cried geraint; "here is one fairer and nobler for whom i claim the prize of the tournament." "do battle for it, then!" cried edeyrn. so the two took their lances and rushed upon one another with a crash like thunder, and each broke his spear. thus they encountered once and again; but at the last geraint bore down upon edeyrn with such force that he carried him from his horse, saddle and all. then he dismounted, and the two rushed upon each other with their swords. long they fought, the sparks flying and their breath coming hard, till, exerting all his strength, geraint dealt the other such a blow as cleft his helmet and bit to the bone. then edeyrn flung away his sword and yielded him. "thou shalt have thy life," said geraint, "upon condition that, forthwith, thou goest to arthur's court, there to deliver thyself to our queen, and make such atonement as shall be adjudged thee, for the insult offered her yester morn." "i will do so," answered edeyrn; and when his wounds had been dressed he got heavily to horse and rode forth to caerleon. then the young earl, yniol's nephew, adjudged the sparrow-hawk to geraint, as victor in the tourney, and prayed him to come to his castle to rest and feast. but geraint, declining courteously, said that it behoved him to go there where he had rested the night before. "where may that have been?" asked the earl; "for though ye come not to my castle, yet would i see that ye fare as befits your valour." "i rested even with yniol, your uncle," answered geraint. the young earl mused awhile, and then he said: "i will seek you, then, in my uncle's halls, and bring with me the means to furnish forth a feast." and so it was. scarcely had prince geraint returned to the ruined hall and bathed and rested him after his labours, when the young earl arrived, and with him forty of his followers bearing all manner of stores and plenishings. and that same hour, the young earl was accorded with yniol, his uncle, restoring to him the lands of which he had deprived him, and pledging his word to build up again the ruined palace. when they had gone to the banquet, then came to them enid, attired in beautiful raiment befitting her rank; and the old earl led her to geraint, saying: "prince, here is the maiden for whom ye fought, and freely i bestow her upon you." so geraint took her hand before them all and said: "she shall ride with me to caerleon, and there will i wed her before arthur's court." then to enid he said: "gentle maiden, bear with me when i pray you to don the faded robe and veil in which first i saw you." and enid, who was ever gentle and meek, did as he desired, and that evening they rode to caerleon. so when they drew near the king's palace, word was brought to guenevere of their approach. then the queen went forth to greet the good knight, and when she had heard all his story, she kissed the maiden, and leading her into her own chamber, arrayed her right royally for her marriage with the prince. and that evening they were wed amidst great rejoicing, in the presence of all the knights and ladies of the court, the king himself giving enid to her husband. many happy days they spent at caerleon, rejoicing in the love and good-will of arthur and his queen. chapter xx geraint and enid geraint and the fair enid abode more than a year at arthur's court; enid winning daily more and more the love of all by her gentleness and goodness, and geraint being ever amongst the foremost in the tournament. but presently there came word of robber raids upon the borders of devon; wherefore the prince craved leave of arthur to return to his own land, there to put down wrong and oppression, and maintain order and justice. and the king bade him go and secure to every man his due. so geraint passed to his own land, enid going with him; and soon he had driven the oppressors from their strongholds and established peace and order, so that the poor man dwelt in his little cot secure in his possessions. but when all was done, and there was none dared defy him, geraint abode at home, neglectful of the tournament and the chase, and all those manly exercises in which he had once excelled, content if he had but the companionship of his wife; so that his nobles murmured because he withdrew himself from their society, and the common people jeered at him for a laggard. now these evil rumours came to enid's ears, and it grieved her that she should be the cause, however unwillingly, of her husband's dishonour; and since she could not bring herself to speak to her lord of what was in her heart, daily she grew more sorrowful, till the prince, aware of her altered demeanour, became uneasy, not knowing its source. so time went by till it chanced, one summer morning, that with the first rays of the sun, enid awoke from her slumbers, and, rising, gazed upon her husband as he lay, and marvelled at his strength. "alas!" said she, "to be the cause that my lord suffers shame! surely i should find courage to tell him all, were i indeed true wife to him!" then, by ill chance, her tears falling upon him awoke him, so that he heard her words, but brokenly, and seeing her weep and hearing her accuse herself, it came into his thought that, for all his love and care for her, she was weary of him, nay, even that perhaps she loved him not at all. in anger and grief he called to his squire and bade him saddle his charger and a palfrey for enid; and to her he said: "put on thy meanest attire, and thou shalt ride with me into the wilderness. it seems that i have yet to win me fame; but before thou seest home again, thou shalt learn if indeed i am fallen so low as thou deemest." and enid, wondering and troubled, answered, "i know naught of thy meaning, my lord." "ask me nothing," said geraint. so sorrowfully and in silence enid arrayed herself, choosing for her apparel the faded robe and veil in which first her lord had seen her. then the squire brought them their horses; but when he would have mounted and ridden after, geraint forbade him. and to enid the prince said: "ride before me and turn not back, no matter what thou seest or hearest. and unless i speak to thee, say not a word to me." so they rode forward along the least frequented road till they came to a vast forest, which they entered. there enid, as she rode in front, saw four armed men lurking by the road, and one said to the other: "see, now is our opportunity to win much spoil at little cost; for we may easily overcome this doleful knight, and take from him his arms and lady." and enid hearing them, was filled with fear and doubt; for she longed to warn her lord of his danger, yet feared to arouse his wrath, seeing he had bidden her keep silence. then said she to herself: "better to anger him, even to the slaying of me, than have the misery of seeing him perish." so she waited till geraint drew near, and said: "lord, there lie in wait for thee four men fully armed, to slay and rob thee." then he answered her in anger: "did i desire thy silence or thy warning? look, then, and whether thou desirest my life or my death, thou shalt see that i dread not these robbers." then, as the foremost of the four rode upon him, geraint drove upon him with his spear with such force that the weapon stood out a cubit behind him; and so he did with the second, and the third, and the fourth. then, dismounting from his horse, he stripped the dead felons of their armour, bound it upon their horses, and tying the bridle reins together, bade enid drive the beasts before her. "and," said he, "i charge thee, at thy peril, speak no word to me." so they went forward; and presently enid saw how three horsemen, well armed and well mounted, rode towards them. and one said to the other: "good fortune, indeed! here are four horses and four suits of armour for us, and but one knight to deal with; a craven too, by the way he hangs his head." then enid thought within herself how her lord was wearied with his former combat, and resolved to warn him even at her own peril. so she waited till he was come up with her, and said: "lord, there be three men riding towards us, and they promise themselves rich booty at small cost." wrathfully spoke geraint: "their words anger me less than thy disobedience"; and immediately rushing upon the mid-most of the three knights, he bore him from his horse; then he turned upon the other two who rode against him at the same moment, and slew them both. as with the former caitiffs, so now geraint stripped the three of their armour, bound it upon the horses, and bade enid drive these forward with the other four. again they rode on their way, and, for all his anger, it smote geraint to the heart to see the gentle lady labouring to drive forward the seven horses. so he bade her stay, for they would go no farther then, but rest that night as best they might in the forest; and scarcely had they dismounted and tethered the horses before geraint, wearied with his encounters, fell asleep; but enid remained watching, lest harm should come to her lord while he slept. with the first ray of light, geraint awoke, and his anger against enid was not passed; so, without more ado, he set her on her palfrey and bade her drive the horses on in front as before, charging her that, whatever befell, that day at least, she should keep silence. soon they passed from the forest into open land, and came upon a river flowing through broad meadows where the mowers toiled. then, as they waited to let the horses drink their fill, there drew near a youth, bearing a basket of bread and meat and a blue pitcher covered over with a bowl. so when the youth saluted them, geraint stayed him, asking whence he came. "my lord," said the lad, "i am come from the town hard by, to bring the mowers their breakfast." "i pray thee, then," said the prince, "give of the food to this lady, for she is faint." "that will i gladly," answered the youth, "and do ye also partake, noble sir"; and he spread the meal for them on the grass while they dismounted. so when they had eaten and were refreshed, the youth gathered up the basket and pitcher, saying he would return to the town for food for the mowers. "do so," said the prince, "and when thou art come there, take for me the best lodging that thou mayst. and for thy fair service, take a horse and armour, whichsoever thou wilt." "my lord, ye reward me far beyond my deserts," cried the youth. "right gladly will i make all ready against your arrival, and acquaint my master, the earl, of your coming." so geraint and enid followed after the youth to the town, and there they found everything prepared for their comfort, even as he had promised; for they were lodged in a goodly chamber well furnished with all that they might require. then said geraint to enid: "abide at one end of the room and i will remain at the other. and call the woman of the house if thou desirest her aid and comfort in aught." "i thank thee, lord," answered enid patiently; but she called for no service, remaining silent and forlorn in the farthest corner of the great chamber. presently there came to the house the earl, the youth's master, and with him twelve goodly knights to wait upon him. and geraint welcomed them right heartily, bidding the host bring forth his best to furnish a feast. so they sat them down at the table, each in his degree according to his rank, and feasted long and merrily; but enid remained the while shrinking into her corner if perchance she might escape all notice. as they sat at the banquet, the earl asked prince geraint what quest he followed. "none but mine own inclination and the adventure it may please heaven to send," said geraint. then the earl, whose eye had oft sought enid as she sat apart, said: "have i your good leave to cross the room and speak to your fair damsel? for she joins us not in the feast." "ye have it freely," answered the prince. so the earl arose, and approaching enid, bowed before her, and spoke to her in low tones, saying: "damsel, sad life is yours, i fear, to journey with yonder man." "to travel the road he takes is pleasant enough to me," answered enid. "but see what slights he puts upon you! to suffer you to journey thus, unattended by page or maiden, argues but little love or reverence for you." "it is as nothing, so that i am with him," said enid. "nay, but," said the earl, "see how much happier a life might be yours. leave this churl, who values you not, and all that i have, land and riches, and my love and service for ever shall be yours." "ye cannot tempt me, with aught that ye can offer, to be false to him to whom i vowed my faith," said she. "ye are a fool!" said the earl in a fierce whisper. "one word to these my knights, and yonder is a dead man. then who shall hinder me that i take you by force? nay, now, be better advised, and i vow you my whole devotion for all time." then was enid filled with dread of the man and his might, and seeking but to gain time, she said: "suffer me to be for this present, my lord, and to-morrow ye shall come and take me as by force. then shall my name not suffer loss." "so be it," said he; "i will not fail you." with that he left her, and taking his leave of geraint, departed with his followers. never a word of what the earl had said did enid tell her husband that night; and on the departure of his guests, the prince, unheedful of her, flung him on the couch, and soon slept, despite his grief and wrath. but enid watched again that night, and, before cock-crow, arose, set all his armour ready in one place, and then, though fearful of his wrath, stepped to his side and touching him gently, said: "awake, my lord, and arm you, and save me and yourself." then she told him of all the earl had said and of the device she had used to save them both. then wrathfully he rose and armed himself, bidding her rouse the host to saddle and bring forth the horses. when all was ready, prince geraint asked the man his reckoning. "ye owe but little," said the host. "take then the seven horses and the suits of armour," said geraint. "why, noble sir," cried the host, "i scarce have spent the value of one." "the richer thou," answered geraint. "now show me the road from the town." so the man guided them from the town, and scarce was he returned when earl durm--for so was the earl named--hammered at the door, with forty followers at his back. "where is the knight who was here erewhile?" "he is gone hence, my lord," answered the host. "fool and villain!" cried the earl, "why didst thou suffer him to escape? which way went he?" and the man, fearful and trembling, directed the earl the road geraint had gone. so it came to pass, as they rode on their way, enid in front, the prince behind, that it seemed to enid she heard the beat of many horse-hoofs. and, as before, she broke geraint's command, caring little for aught that might befall her in comparison of loss to him. "my lord," said she, "seest thou yonder knight pursuing thee and many another with him?" "yea, in good truth, i see him," said geraint, "and i see, too, that never wilt thou obey me." then he turned him about and, laying lance in rest, bore straight down upon earl durm, who foremost rushed upon him; and such was the shock of their encounter, that earl durm was borne from his saddle and lay without motion as one dead. and geraint charged fiercely upon the earl's men, unhorsing some and wounding others; and the rest, having little heart for the fight after their master's overthrow, turned and fled. then geraint signed to enid to ride on as before, and so they journeyed the space of another hour while the summer sun beat upon them with ever increasing force. now the prince had received a grievous hurt in the encounter with earl durm and his men; but such was his spirit that he heeded it not, though the wound bled sore under his armour. presently, as they rode, there came to them the sound of wailing, and by the wayside they saw a lady weeping bitterly over a knight who lay dead on the ground. "lady," said geraint, "what has befallen you?" "noble knight," she replied, "as we rode through the forest, my husband and i, three villains set upon him at once, and slew him." "which way went they?" asked geraint. "straight on by this high-road that ye follow even now," answered she. then geraint bade enid remain with the lady while he rode on to take vengeance on the miscreants. and enid waited fearfully the long while he was gone, and her heart rejoiced when she saw him returning. but soon her joy was turned to sorrow, for his armour was all dented and covered with blood and his face ghastly; and even as he reached her side, he fell from his horse, prone on the ground. then enid strove to loosen his armour, and having found the wound, she staunched it as best she might and bound it with her veil. and taking his head on her lap, she chafed his hands and tried with her own body to shield him from the sun, her tears falling fast the while. so she waited till, perchance, help might come that way; and presently, indeed, she heard the tramp of horses, and a troop came riding by with the earl limours at their head. and when the earl saw the two fallen knights and the weeping women beside them, he stayed his horse, and said: "ladies, what has chanced to you?" then she whose husband had been slain said: "sir, three caitiffs set on my husband at once and slew him. then came this good knight and went in pursuit of them, and as i think, slew them; but when he came back, he fell from his horse, sore wounded as ye see, and, i fear me, by now he is dead." "nay, gentle sir," cried enid; "it cannot be that he is dead. only, i beseech you, suffer two of your men to carry him hence to some place of shelter where he may have help and tendance." "i misdoubt me, it is but labour wasted," said the earl; "nevertheless, for the sake of your fair face, it shall be as ye desire." then he ordered two of his men to carry geraint to his halls and two more to stay behind and bury the dead knight, while he caused the two women to be placed on led horses; and so they rode to his castle. when they were arrived there, the two spearmen who had carried geraint, placed him on a settle in the hall, and enid crouched by his side, striving if by any means she might bring him back to life. and gradually geraint recovered, though still he lay as in a swoon, hearing indeed what passed around him, but dimly, as from a distance. soon there came into the hall many servitors, who brought forth the tables and set thereon all manner of meats, haunches of venison and boars' heads and great pasties, together with huge flagons of wine. then when all was set, there came trooping to the board the whole company of earl limours' retainers; last of all came the earl himself and took his place on the raised dais. suddenly, as he feasted and made merry, he espied enid, who, mistrusting him utterly, would fain have escaped his eye. and when he saw her, he cried: "lady, cease wasting sorrow on a dead man and come hither. thou shalt have a seat by my side; ay, and myself, too, and my earldom to boot." "i thank you, lord," she answered meekly, "but, i pray you, suffer me to be as i am." "thou art a fool," said limours; "little enough he prized thee, i warrant, else had he not put thy beauty to such scorn, dressing it in faded rags! nay, be wise; eat and drink, and thou wilt think the better of me and my fair proffer." "i will not," cried enid; "i will neither eat nor drink, till my lord arise and eat with me." "thou vowest more than thou canst perform. he is dead already. nay, thou shalt drink." with the word, he strode to her and thrust into her hand a goblet brimming with wine, crying, "drink." "nay, lord," she said, "i beseech you, spare me and be pitiful." "gentleness avails nothing with thee," cried the earl in wrath; "thou hast scorned my fair courtesy. thou shalt taste the contrary." so saying, he smote her across the face. then enid, knowing all her helplessness, uttered an exceeding bitter cry, and the sound roused geraint. grasping his sword, with one bound he was upon the earl and, with one blow, shore his neck in two. then those who sat at meat fled shrieking, for they believed that the dead had come to life. but geraint gazed upon enid and his heart smote him, thinking of the sorrow he had brought upon her. "lady and sweet wife," he cried, "for the wrong i have done thee, pardon me. for, hearing thy words not three days since at morn, i doubted thy love and thy loyalty. but now i know thee and trust thee beyond the power of words to shake my faith." "ah! my lord," cried enid, "fly, lest they return and slay thee." "knowest thou where is my charger?" "i will bring thee to it." so they found the war-horse and geraint mounted it, setting enid behind him; thus they went forth in the direction of the nearest town, that they might find rest and succour. then, as they rode, there came forth from a glade of the forest a knight, who, seeing geraint, at once laid lance in rest as if he would ride upon him. and enid, fearing for her husband, shrieked aloud, crying: "noble knight, whosoever ye be, encounter not with a man nigh wounded to the death." immediately the knight raised his lance and looking more attentively upon, them, he exclaimed: "what! is it prince geraint? pardon me, noble knight, that i knew you not at once. i am that edeyrn whom once ye overthrew and spared. at arthur's court, whither ye sent me, i was shown kindness and courtesy little deserved, and now am i knight of arthur's round table. but how came ye in such a case?" then geraint told him of his encounter with the three caitiffs, and how he had afterwards been borne to the castle of earl limours. "to do justice on that same felon is arthur himself here even now," cried edeyrn. "his camp is hard by." then geraint told edeyrn how limours lay dead in his own halls, justly punished for the many wrongs he had done, and how his people were scattered. "come then yourself to greet the king and tell him what has chanced." so he led the way to arthur's camp, where it lay in the forest hard by. then were they welcomed by the king himself and a tent assigned to them, where geraint rested until his wounds were healed. never again, from that time forth, had geraint a doubt of the love and truth of enid; and never from that time had she to mourn that he seemed to set small store by his knightly fame. for after he was cured, they returned to their own land, and there geraint upheld the king's justice, righting wrong and putting down robbery and oppression, so that the people blessed him and his gentle wife. year by year, his fame grew, till his name was known through all lands; and at last, when his time was come, he died a knightly death, as he had lived a knightly life, in the service of his lord, king arthur. book vi the lady of the fountain chapter xxi the lady of the fountain king arthur was holding his court at caerleon-upon-usk, and it was the time of the evening banquet, when there entered the hall the good knight, sir kynon. a brave warrior was he, and of good counsel, but he seemed in weary plight as, after due salutation to all, he took his place at the round table. so it was that all were eager to hear of his adventure, yet none would question him until he had eaten and drunk. but when he was refreshed, the king said to him: "whence come ye, sir kynon? for it would seem that ye have met with hard adventure." "sir king," answered kynon, "it has been with me as never before; for i have encountered with, and been overthrown by, a single knight." all were filled with wonder at his words, for never before had sir kynon been worsted in any meeting, man to man. then said the king: "the stoutest of us must some time meet his match; yet did ye bear you valiantly, i doubt not. tell us now, i pray you, of your adventures." "noble lord," said kynon, "i had determined to journey into other lands; for i would seek new and untried adventures. so i passed into a far land, and it chanced, one day, that i found myself in the fairest valley i had ever seen. through it there flowed a mighty river, which i followed, until i came, as evening fell, to a castle, the largest and strongest i have ever seen. at the castle gate i espied a man of right noble mien, who greeted me courteously, and bade me enter. so as we sat at supper, he inquired of my journey and the quest i followed, and i told him how i sought but adventure, and whether, perchance, i might encounter one stronger than myself. then the lord of the castle smiled and said: 'i can bring you to such an one, if ye would rather that i showed you your disadvantage than your advantage.' and when i questioned him further, he replied: 'sleep here this night, and to-morrow i will show you such an one as ye seek.' so i rested that night, and with the dawn i rose and took my leave of the lord of the castle, who said to me: 'if ye will persevere in your quest, follow the path to the head of the glade, and ascend the wooded steep until ye come to an open space in the forest, with but one great tree in its midst. under the tree is a fountain, and beside it a marble slab to which is chained a silver bowl. take a bowlful of water and dash it upon the slab, and presently there will appear a knight spurring to encounter with you. if ye flee, he will pursue, but if ye overcome him, there exists none in this world whom ye need fear to have ado with.' "forthwith i departed, and following these directions, i came at last to such a space as he described, with the tree and fountain in its midst. so i took the bowl and dashed water from the fountain upon the marble slab, and, on the instant, came a clap of thunder so loud as near deafened me, and a storm of hailstones the biggest that ever man saw. scarce was i recovered from my confusion, when i saw a knight galloping towards me. all in black was he, and he rode a black horse. not a word we spoke, but we dashed against each other, and at the first encounter i was unhorsed. still not a word spoke the black knight, but passing the butt-end of his lance through my horse's reins, rode away, leaving me shamed and on foot. so i made my way back to the castle, and there i was entertained again that night right hospitably, none questioning me as to my adventure. the next morning, when i rose, there awaited me a noble steed, ready saddled and bridled, and i rode away and am returned hither. and now ye know my story and my shame." then were all grieved for the discomfiture of sir kynon, who had ever borne himself boldly and courteously to all; and they strove to console him as best they might. presently there rose from his siege the good knight sir owain of rheged, and said: "my lord, i pray you, give me leave to take upon me this adventure. for i would gladly seek this wondrous fountain and encounter with this same black knight." so the king consented, and on the morrow sir owain armed him, mounted his horse, and rode forth the way sir kynon had directed him. so he journeyed many a day until at last he reached the valley of which sir kynon had told, and presently he came to the strong castle and, at the gate, met the lord thereof, even as sir kynon had done. and the lord of the castle gave him a hearty welcome and made him good cheer, asking nothing of his errand till they were seated about the board. then, when questioned, sir owain declared his quest, that he sought the knight who guarded the fountain. so the lord of the castle, failing to dissuade sir owain from the adventure, directed him how he might find the forest glade wherein was the wondrous fountain. with the dawn, sir owain rose, mounted his horse, and rode forward until he had found the fountain. then he dashed water on the marble slab and instantly there burst over him the fearful hailstorm, and through it there came pricking towards him the black knight on the black steed. in the first onset, they broke their lances and then, drawing sword, they fought blade to blade. sore was the contest, but at the last owain dealt the black knight so fierce a blow that the sword cut through helmet and bone to the very brain. then the black knight knew that he had got his death-wound, and turning his horse's head, fled as fast as he might, sir owain following close behind. so they came, fast galloping, to the gate of a mighty castle, and instantly the portcullis was raised and the black knight dashed through the gateway. but sir owain, following close behind, found himself a prisoner, fast caught between two gates; for as the black knight passed through the inner of the two gates, it was closed before sir owain could follow. for the moment none noticed sir owain, for all were busied about the black knight, who drew not rein till he was come to the castle hall; then as he strove to dismount, he fell from his saddle, dead. all this sir owain saw through the bars of the gate that held him prisoner; and he judged that his time was come, for he doubted not but that the people of the castle would hold his life forfeit for the death of their lord. so as he waited, suddenly there stood at his side a fair damsel, who, laying finger on lip, motioned to him to follow her. much wondering, he obeyed, and climbed after her up a dark winding staircase, that led from the gateway into a tiny chamber high in the tower. there she set food and wine before him, bidding him eat; then when he was refreshed, she asked him his name and whence he came. "truly," answered he, "i am owain of rheged, knight of king arthur's round table, who, in fair fight, have wounded, i doubt not to the death, the black knight that guards the fountain and, as i suppose, the lord of this castle. wherefore, maiden, if ye intend me evil, lead me where i may answer for my deed, boldly, man to man." "nay," answered the damsel eagerly, "in a good hour ye are come. well i know your name, for even here have we heard of your mighty deeds; and by good fortune it may be that ye shall release my lady." "who is your lady?" asked sir owain. "none other than the rightful chatelaine of this castle and countess of broad lands besides; but this year and more has the black knight held her prisoner in her own halls because she would not listen to his suit." "then lead me to your lady forthwith," cried sir owain; "right gladly will i take her quarrel upon me if there be any that will oppose me." so she led him to the countess' bower, and there he made him known to the fair lady and proffered her his services. and she that had long deemed there was no deliverance for her, accepted them right gladly. so taking her by the hand, he led her down to the hall, and there, standing at the door, he proclaimed her the lawful lady of that castle and all its lands, and himself ready to do battle in her cause. but none answered his challenge, for those that had held with the black knight, deprived of their leader, had lost heart, whereas they that for their loyalty to their lady had been held in subjection, gathered fast about sir owain, ready to do battle. so in short space, sir owain drove forth the lawless invaders of the countess' lands, and called together her vassals that they might do homage to her anew. thus he abode in the castle many days, seeking in all that he might to do her service, until through all her lands order was restored, and her right acknowledged. but when all was done, sir owain yet tarried in the lady's castle; for he loved her much, but doubted ever of her favour. so one day, luned, the damsel who had come to his aid on the day that he slew the black knight, said to him: "alas! sir knight, the time must come when ye will leave us. and who will then defend my lady's fountain, which is the key to all her lands? for who holds the fountain, holds the land also." "i will never fail your lady while there is breath in my body," cried sir owain. "then were it well that ye stayed here ever," answered luned. "gladly would i," answered sir owain, "if that i might." "ye might find a way if your wits were as sharp as your sword," she answered, and laughing, left him, but herself sought her lady. long he pondered her words, and he was still deep in thought, when there came to him the countess, and said: "sir knight, i hear that ye must leave us." "nay, my lady," answered sir owain, "i will stay as long as ye require my services." "there must ever be one to guard the fountain, and he who guards the fountain, is lord of these lands," answered the lady softly. then sir owain found words at last, and bending the knee, he said: "lady, if ye love me, i will stay and guard you and your lands; and if ye love me not, i will go into my own country, and yet will i come again whensoever ye have need of me. for never loved i any but you." then the countess bade him stay, and calling her vassals together, she commanded all to do homage to him, and took him for her husband in presence of them all. thus sir owain won the lady of the fountain. book vii sir peredur chapter xxii the adventures of sir peredur at one time there was in the north of britain a great earl named evrawc. a stout knight he was, and few were the tournaments at which he was not to be found in company with six of his sons; the seventh only, who was too young to bear arms, remaining at home with his mother. but at the last, after he had won the prize at many a tourney, earl evrawc was slain, and his six sons with him; and then the countess fled with peredur, her youngest, to a lonely spot in the midst of a forest, far from the dwellings of men; for she was minded to bring him up where he might never hear of jousts and feats of arms, that so at least one son might be left to her. so peredur was reared amongst women and decrepit old men, and even these were strictly commanded never to tell the boy aught of the great world beyond the forest, or what men did therein. none the less, he grew up active and fearless, as nimble and sure-footed as the goats, and patient of much toil. then, one day, when peredur was grown a tall, strong youth, there chanced what had never chanced before; for there came riding through the forest, hard by where peredur dwelt with his mother, a knight in full armour, none other, indeed, than the good knight, sir owain himself. and seeing him, peredur cried out: "mother, what is that, yonder?" "an angel, my son," said his mother. "then will i go and become an angel with him," said peredur; and before any one could stay him, he was gone. when sir owain saw him approaching, he reined in his horse, and after courteous salutation, said: "i pray thee, fair youth, tell me, hast thou seen a knight pass this way?" "i know not what a knight may be," answered peredur. "why, even such an one as i," answered sir owain. "if ye will tell me what i ask you, i will tell you what ye ask me," said peredur; and when owain, laughing, consented, peredur touched the saddle, demanding, "what is this?" "surely, a saddle," replied sir owain; and, in like manner, peredur asked him of all the parts of his armour, and owain answered him patiently and courteously. then when he had ended his questions, peredur said: "ride forward; for yesterday i saw from a distance such an one as ye are, ride through the forest." sir peredur returned to his mother, and exclaimed: "mother, that was no angel, but a noble knight"; and hearing his words, his mother fell into a swoon. but peredur hastened to the spot where were tethered the horses that brought them firewood and food from afar, and from them he chose a bony piebald, which seemed the strongest and in the best condition. then he found a pack and fastened it on the horse's back, in some way to resemble a saddle, and strove with twigs to imitate the trappings he had seen upon sir owain's horse. when his preparations were complete, he returned to the countess, who, by then, was recovered from her swoon; and she saw that all her trouble had been in vain, and that the time was come when she must part with her son. "thou wilt ride forth, my son?" she asked. "yea, with your leave," he answered. "hear, then, my counsel," said she; "go thy way to arthur's court, for there are the noblest and truest knights. and wheresoever thou seest a church, fail not to say thy prayers, and whatsoever woman demands thy aid, refuse her not." so, bidding his mother farewell, peredur mounted his horse, and took in his hand a long, sharp-pointed stake. he journeyed many days till, at last, he had come to caerleon, where arthur held his court, and dismounting at the door, he entered the hall. even as he did so, a stranger knight, who had passed in before him, seized a goblet and, dashing the wine in the face of queen guenevere, held the goblet aloft and cried: "if any dare dispute this goblet with me or venture to avenge the insult done to arthur's queen, let him follow me to the meadow without, where i will await him." and for sheer amazement at this insolence, none moved save peredur, who cried aloud: "i will seek out this man and do vengeance upon him." then a voice exclaimed: "welcome, goodly peredur, thou flower of knighthood"; and all turned in surprise to look upon a little misshapen dwarf, who, a year before, had craved and obtained shelter in arthur's court, and since then had spoken no word. but kay the seneschal, in anger that a mere boy, and one so strangely equipped as peredur, should have taken up the queen's quarrel when proven knights had remained mute, struck the dwarf, crying: "thou art ill-bred to remain mute a year in arthur's court, and then to break silence in praise of such a fellow." then peredur, who saw the blow, cried, as he left the hall: "knight, hereafter ye shall answer to me for that blow." therewith, he mounted his piebald and rode in haste to the meadow. and when the knight espied him, he cried to him: "tell me, youth, saw'st thou any coming after me from the court?" "i am come myself," said peredur. "hold thy peace," answered the knight angrily, "and go back to the court and say that, unless one comes in haste, i will not tarry, but will ride away, holding them all shamed." "by my faith," said peredur, "willingly or unwillingly, thou shalt answer to me for thine insolence; and i will have the goblet of thee, ay, and thy horse and armour to boot." with that, in a rage, the knight struck peredur a violent blow between the neck and the shoulder with the butt-end of his lance. "so!" cried peredur, "not thus did my mother's servants play with me; and thus will i play with thee"; and drove at him with his pointed stake that it entered the eye of the knight, who forthwith fell dead from his horse. then peredur dismounted and began wrenching at the fastenings of the dead man's armour, for he saw in the adventure the means of equipping himself as a knight should ride; but knowing not the trick of the fastenings, his efforts were in vain. while he yet struggled, there rode up sir owain who had followed in hot haste from the court; and when he saw the fallen knight, he was amazed that a mere lad, unarmed and unskilled in knightly exercises, should thus have prevailed. "fair youth," said he, "what would ye?" "i would have this knight's iron coat, but i cannot stir it for all my efforts." "nay, young sir," said sir owain, "leave the dead his arms, and take mine and my horse, which i give you right gladly; and come with me to the king to receive the order of knighthood, for, by my faith, ye have shown yourself worthy of it." "i thank you, noble sir," answered peredur, "and gladly i accept your gift; but i will not go with you now. rather will i seek other adventures and prove me further first; nor will i seek the king's presence until i have encountered with the tall knight that so misused the dwarf, and have called him to account. only, i pray you, take this goblet to queen guenevere, and say to my lord, king arthur, that, in all places and at all times, i am his true vassal, and will render him such service as i may." then, with sir owain's help, peredur put on the armour, and mounting his horse, after due salutation, rode on his way. so, for many days, peredur followed his adventures, and many a knight he met and overthrew. to all he yielded grace, requiring only that they should ride to caerleon, there to give themselves up to the king's pleasure, and say that peredur had sent them. at last he came to a fair castle that rose from the shores of a lake, and there he was welcomed by a venerable old man who pressed him to make some stay. so, as they sat at supper, the old man asked peredur many questions of himself and his adventure, gazing earnestly on him the while; and, at last, he said: "i know thee who thou art. thou art my sister's son. stay now with me, and i will teach thee the arts and courtesy and noble bearing of a gentle knight, and give thee the degree when thou art accomplished in all that becomes an honourable knight." thereto peredur assented gladly, and remained with his uncle until he had come to a perfect knowledge of chivalry; after that, he received the order of knighthood at the old man's hands, and rode forth again to seek adventures. presently he came to the city of caerleon, but though arthur was there with all his court, sir peredur chose to make himself known to none; for he had not yet avenged the dwarf on sir kay. now it chanced, as he walked through the city, he saw at her casement a beautiful maiden whose name was angharad; and at once he knew that he had seen the damsel whom he must love his life long. so he sought to be acquainted with her, but she scorned him, thinking him but some unproved knight, since he consorted not with those of arthur's court; and, at last, finding he might in no wise win her favour at that time, he made a vow that never would he speak to christian man or woman until he had gained her love, and forthwith rode away again. after long journeyings, he came one night to a castle, and, knocking, gained admittance and courteous reception from the lady who owned it. but it seemed to sir peredur that there hung over all a gloom, none caring to talk or make merry, though there was no lack of the consideration due to a guest. then when the evening hour was come, they took their places at the board, peredur being set at the countess' right hand; and two nuns entered and placed before the lady a flagon of wine and six white loaves, and that was all the fare. then the countess gave largely of the food to sir peredur, keeping little for herself and her attendants; but this pleased not the knight, who, heedless of his oath, said: "lady, permit me to fare as do the others," and he took but a small portion of that which she had given him. then the countess, blushing as with shame, said to him: "sir knight, if we make you poor cheer, far otherwise is our desire, but we are in sore straits." "madam," answered peredur courteously, "for your welcome i thank you heartily; and, i pray you, if there is aught in which a knight may serve you, tell me your trouble." then the countess told him how she had been her father's one child, and heir to his broad lands; and how a neighbouring baron had sought her hand; but she, misliking him, had refused his suit, so that his wrath was great. then, when her father died, he had made war upon her, overrunning all her lands till nothing was left to her but the one castle. long since, all the provision stored therein was consumed, and she must have yielded her to the oppressor but for the charity of the nuns of a neighbouring monastery, who had secretly supplied her with food when, for fear, her vassals had forsaken her. but that day the nuns had told her that no longer could they aid her, and there was naught left save to submit to the invader. this was the story that, with many tears, the countess related to peredur. "lady," said he, "with your permission, i will take upon me your quarrel, and to-morrow i will seek to encounter this felon." the countess thanked him heartily and they retired to rest for that night. in the morning betimes, sir peredur arose, donned his armour and, seeking the countess, desired that the portcullis might be raised, for he would sally forth to seek her oppressor. so he rode out from the castle and saw in the morning light a plain covered with the tents of a great host. with him he took a herald to proclaim that he was ready to meet any in fair fight, in the countess' quarrel. forthwith, in answer to his challenge, there rode forward the baron himself, a proud and stately knight mounted on a great black horse. the two rushed together, and, at the first encounter, sir peredur unhorsed his opponent, bearing him over the crupper with such force that he lay stunned, as one dead. then, peredur, drawing his sword, dismounted and stood over the fallen knight, who, when he was recovered a little, asked his mercy. "gladly will i grant it," answered peredur, "but on these conditions. ye shall disband this host, restore to the countess threefold all of which ye have deprived her, and, finally, ye shall submit yourself unto her as her vassal." all this the baron promised to do, and peredur remained with the countess in her castle until she was firmly established in that which was rightfully hers. then he bade her farewell, promising his aid if ever she should need his services, and so rode forth again. and as he rode, at times he was troubled, thinking on the scorn with which the fair angharad had treated him, and reproaching himself bitterly for having broken his vow of silence. so he journeyed many days, and at length, one morn, dismounting by a little woodland stream, he stood lost in thought, heedless of his surroundings. now, as it chanced, arthur and a company of his knights were encamped hard by; for, returning from an expedition, the king had been told of peredur and how he had taken upon him the queen's quarrel, and forthwith had ridden out in search of him. when the king espied sir peredur standing near the brook, he said to the knights about him: "know ye yonder knight?" "i know him not," said sir kay, "but i will soon learn his name." so he rode up to sir peredur and spoke to him, demanding his name. when peredur answered not, though questioned more than once, sir kay in anger, struck him with the butt-end of his spear. on the instant, sir peredur caught him with his lance under the jaw, and, though himself unmounted, hurled kay from the saddle. then when kay returned not, sir owain mounted his horse and rode forth to learn what had happened, and by the brook he found sir kay sore hurt, and peredur ready mounted to encounter any who sought a quarrel. but at once sir owain recognised sir peredur and rejoiced to see him; and when he found sir peredur would speak no word, being himself an honourable knight, he thought no evil, but urged him to ride back with him to arthur's camp. and sir peredur, still speaking never a word, went with sir owain, and all respected his silence save kay, who was long healing of the injuries he had received, and whose angry words none heeded. so they returned to caerleon and soon, through the city, were noised the noble deeds of sir peredur, each new-comer bringing some fresh story of his prowess. then when angharad learnt how true and famous was the knight whom she had lightly esteemed, she was sore ashamed; and seeing him ever foremost in the tournament and courteous to all in deed, though speaking not a word; she thought that never had there been so noble a knight, or one so worthy of a lady's love. thus in the winning of her favour, sir peredur was released from his vow, and his marriage was celebrated with much pomp before the king and queen. long and happily he lived, famed through all britain as one of the most valiant and faithful knights of king arthur's round table. book viii the holy grail chapter xxiii the coming of sir galahad many times had the feast of pentecost come round, and many were the knights that arthur had made since first he founded the order of the round table; yet no knight had appeared who dared claim the seat named by merlin the siege perilous. at last, one vigil of the great feast, a lady came to arthur's court at camelot and asked sir launcelot to ride with her into the forest hard by, for a purpose not then to be revealed. launcelot consenting, they rode together until they came to a nunnery hidden deep in the forest; and there the lady bade launcelot dismount, and led him into a great and stately room. presently there entered twelve nuns and with them a youth, the fairest that launcelot had ever seen. "sir," said the nuns, "we have brought up this child in our midst, and now that he is grown to manhood, we pray you make him knight, for of none worthier could he receive the honour." "is this thy own desire?" asked launcelot of the young squire; and when he said that so it was, launcelot promised to make him knight after the great festival had been celebrated in the church next day. so on the morrow, after they had worshipped, launcelot knighted galahad--for that was the youth's name--and asked him if he would ride at once with him to the king's court; but the young knight excusing himself, sir launcelot rode back alone to camelot, where all rejoiced that he was returned in time to keep the feast with the whole order of the round table. now, according to his custom, king arthur was waiting for some marvel to befall before he and his knights sat down to the banquet. presently a squire entered the hall and said: "sir king, a great wonder has appeared. there floats on the river a mighty stone, as it were a block of red marble, and it is thrust through by a sword, the hilt of which is set thick with precious stones." on hearing this, the king and all his knights went forth to view the stone and found it as the squire had said; moreover, looking closer, they read these words: "none shall draw me hence, but only he by whose side i must hang; and he shall be the best knight in all the world." immediately, all bade launcelot draw forth the sword, but he refused, saying that the sword was not for him. then, at the king's command, sir gawain made the attempt and failed, as did sir percivale after him. so the knights knew the adventure was not for them, and returning to the hall, took their places about the round table. no sooner were they seated than an aged man, clothed all in white, entered the hall, followed by a young knight in red armour, by whose side hung an empty scabbard. the old man approached king arthur and bowing low before him, said: "sir, i bring you a young knight of the house and lineage of joseph of arimathea, and through him shall great glory be won for all the land of britain." greatly did king arthur rejoice to hear this, and welcomed the two right royally. then when the young knight had saluted the king, the old man led him to the siege perilous and drew off its silken cover; and all the knights were amazed, for they saw that where had been engraved the words, "the siege perilous," was written now in shining gold: "this is the siege of the noble prince, sir galahad." straightway the young man seated himself there where none other had ever sat without danger to his life; and all who saw it said, one to another: "surely this is he that shall achieve the holy grail." now the holy grail was the blessed dish from which our lord had eaten the last supper, and it had been brought to the land of britain by joseph of arimathea; but because of men's sinfulness, it had been withdrawn from human sight, only that, from time to time, it appeared to the pure in heart. when all had partaken of the royal banquet, king arthur bade sir galahad come with him to the river's brink; and showing him the floating stone with the sword thrust through it, told him how his knights had failed to draw forth the sword. "sir," said galahad, "it is no marvel that they failed, for the adventure was meant for me, as my empty scabbard shows." so saying, lightly he drew the sword from the heart of the stone, and lightly he slid it into the scabbard at his side. while all yet wondered at this adventure of the sword, there came riding to them a lady on a white palfrey who, saluting king arthur, said: "sir king, nacien the hermit sends thee word that this day shall great honour be shown to thee and all thine house; for the holy grail shall appear in thy hall, and thou and all thy fellowship shall be fed therefrom." and to launcelot she said: "sir knight, thou hast ever been the best knight of all the world; but another has come to whom thou must yield precedence." then launcelot answered humbly: "i know well i was never the best." "ay, of a truth thou wast and art still, of sinful men," said she, and rode away before any could question her further. so, that evening, when all were gathered about the round table, each knight in his own siege, suddenly there was heard a crash of thunder, so mighty that the hall trembled, and there flashed into the hall a sun-beam, brighter far than any that had ever before been seen; and then, draped all in white samite, there glided through the air what none might see, yet what all knew to be the holy grail. and all the air was filled with sweet odours, and on every one was shed a light in which he looked fairer and nobler than ever before. so they sat in an amazed silence, till presently king arthur rose and gave thanks to god for the grace given to him and to his court. then up sprang sir gawain and made his avow to follow for a year and a day the quest of the holy grail, if perchance he might be granted the vision of it. immediately other of the knights followed his example, binding themselves to the quest of the holy grail until, in all, one hundred and fifty had vowed themselves to the adventure. then was king arthur grieved, for he foresaw the ruin of his noble order. and turning to sir gawain, he said: "nephew ye have done ill, for through you i am bereft of the noblest company of knights that ever brought honour to any realm in christendom. well i know that never again shall all of you gather in this hall, and it grieves me to lose men i have loved as my life and through whom i have won peace and righteousness for all my realm." so the king mourned and his knights with him, but their oaths they could not recall. chapter xxiv how sir galahad won the red-cross shield great woe was there in camelot next day when, after worship in the cathedral, the knights who had vowed themselves to the quest of the holy grail got to horse and rode away. a goodly company it was that passed through the streets, the townfolk weeping to see them go; sir launcelot du lac and his kin, sir galahad of whom all expected great deeds, sir bors and sir percivale, and many another scarcely less famed than they. so they rode together that day to the castle of vagon, where they were entertained right hospitably, and the next day they separated, each to ride his own way and see what adventures should befall him. so it came to pass that, after four days' ride, sir galahad reached an abbey. now sir galahad was still clothed in red armour as when he came to the king's court, and by his side hung the wondrous sword; but he was without a shield. they of the abbey received him right heartily, as also did the brave king bagdemagus, knight of the round table, who was resting there. when they had greeted each other, sir galahad asked king bagdemagus what adventure had brought him there. "sir," said bagdemagus, "i was told that in this abbey was preserved a wondrous shield which none but the best knight in the world might bear without grievous harm to himself. and though i know well that there are better knights than i, to-morrow i purpose to make the attempt. but, i pray you, bide at this monastery awhile until you hear from me; and if i fail, do ye take the adventure upon you." "so be it," said sir galahad. the next day, at their request, sir galahad and king bagdemagus were led into the church by a monk and shown where, behind the altar, hung the wondrous shield, whiter than snow save for the blood-red cross in its midst. then the monk warned them of the danger to any who, being unworthy, should dare to bear the shield. but king bagdemagus made answer: "i know well that i am not the best knight in the world, yet will i try if i may bear it." so he hung it about his neck, and, bidding farewell, rode away with his squire. the two had not journeyed far before they saw a knight approach, armed all in white mail and mounted upon a white horse. immediately he laid his spear in rest and, charging king bagdemagus, pierced him through the shoulder and bore him from his horse; and standing over the wounded knight, he said: "knight, thou hast shown great folly, for none shall bear this shield save the peerless knight, sir galahad." then, taking the shield, he gave it to the squire and said: "bear this shield to the good knight galahad and greet him well from me." "what is your name?" asked the squire, "that is not for thee or any other to know." "one thing, i pray you," said the squire; "why may this shield be borne by none but sir galahad without danger?" "because it belongs to him only," answered the stranger knight, and vanished. then the squire took the shield and, setting king bagdemagus on his horse, bore him back to the abbey where he lay long, sick unto death. to galahad the squire gave the shield and told him all that had befallen. so galahad hung the shield about his neck and rode the way that bagdemagus had gone the day before; and presently he met the white knight, whom he greeted courteously, begging that he would make known to him the marvels of the red-cross shield. "that will i gladly," answered the white knight. "ye must know, sir knight, that this shield was made and given by joseph of arimathea to the good king evelake of sarras, that, in the might of the holy symbol, he should overthrow the heathen who threatened his kingdom. but afterwards, king evelake followed joseph to this land of britain where they taught the true faith unto the people who before were heathen. then when joseph lay dying, he bade king evelake set the shield in the monastery where ye lay last night, and foretold that none should wear it without loss until that day when it should be taken by the knight, ninth and last in descent from him, who should come to that place the fifteenth day after receiving the degree of knighthood. even so has it been with you, sir knight." so saying, the unknown knight disappeared and sir galahad rode on his way. chapter xxv the adventures of sir percivale after he had left his fellows, sir percivale rode long through the forest until, one evening, he reached a monastery where he sought shelter for the night. the next morning, he went into the chapel to hear mass and there he espied the body of an old, old man, laid on a richly adorned couch. at first it seemed as if the aged man were dead, but presently, raising himself in his bed, he took off his crown, and, delivering it to the priest, bade him place it on the altar. so when the service was concluded, sir percivale asked who the aged king might be. then he was told that it was none other than king evelake who accompanied joseph of arimathea to britain. and on a certain occasion, the king had approached the holy grail nigher than was reverent and, for his impiety, god had punished him with blindness. thereupon he repented and, entreating god earnestly, had obtained his petition that he should not die until he had seen the spotless knight who should be descended from him in the ninth degree. (this his desire was fulfilled later when sir galahad came thither; after which, he died and was buried by the good knight.) the next day, sir percivale continued his journey and presently met with twenty knights who bore on a bier the body of a dead knight. when they espied sir percivale, they demanded of him who he was and whence he came. so he told them, whereupon they all shouted, "slay him! slay him!" and setting upon him all at once, they killed his horse and would have slain him but that the good knight, sir galahad, passing that way by chance, came to his rescue and put his assailants to flight. then galahad rode away as fast as he might, for he would not be thanked, and sir percivale was left, horseless and alone, in the forest. so sir percivale continued his journey on foot as well as he might; and ever the way became lonelier, until at last he came to the shores of a vast sea. there sir percivale abode many days, without food and desolate, doubting whether he should ever escape thence. at last it chanced that, looking out to sea, sir percivale descried a ship and, as it drew nearer, he saw how it was all hung with satin and velvet. presently, it reached the land and out of it there stepped a lady of marvellous beauty, who asked him how he came there; "for know," said she, "ye are like to die here by hunger or mischance." "he whom i serve will protect me," said sir percivale. "i know well whom ye desire most to see," said the lady. "ye would meet with the red knight who bears the red-cross shield." "ah! lady, i pray you tell me where i may find him," cried sir percivale. "with a good will," said the damsel; "if ye will but promise me your service when i shall ask for it, i will lead you to the knight, for i met him of late in the forest." so sir percivale promised gladly to serve her when she should need him. then the lady asked him how long he had fasted. "for three days," answered sir percivale. immediately she gave orders to her attendants forthwith to pitch a tent and set out a table with all manner of delicacies, and of these she invited sir percivale to partake. "i pray you, fair lady," said sir percivale, "who are ye that show me such kindness?" "truly," said the lady, "i am but a hapless damsel, driven forth from my inheritance by a great lord whom i have chanced to displease. i implore you, sir knight, by your vows of knighthood, to give me your aid." sir percivale promised her all the aid he could give, and then she bade him lie down and sleep, and herself took off his helmet, and unclasped his sword-belt. so sir percivale slept, and when he waked, there was another feast prepared, and he was given the rarest and the strongest wines that ever he had tasted. thus they made merry and, when the lady begged percivale to rest him there awhile, promising him all that ever he could desire if he would vow himself to her service, almost he forgot the quest to which he was vowed, and would have consented, but that his eye fell upon his sword where it lay. now in the sword-hilt there was set a red cross and, seeing it, percivale called to mind his vow, and, thinking on it, he signed him with the cross on his forehead. instantly, the tent was overthrown and vanished in thick smoke; and she who had appeared a lovely woman disappeared from his sight in semblance of a fiend. then was sir percivale sore ashamed that almost he had yielded to the temptings of the evil one, and earnestly, he prayed that his sin might be forgiven him. thus he remained in prayer far into the night, bewailing his weakness; and when the dawn appeared, a ship drew nigh the land. sir percivale entered into it, but could find no one there; so commending himself to god, he determined to remain thereon, and was borne over the seas for many days, he knew not whither. chapter xxvi the adventures of sir bors among the knights vowed to the quest of the holy grail was sir bors, one of the kin of sir launcelot, a brave knight and pious. he rode through the forest many a day, making his lodging most often under a leafy tree, though once on his journey he stayed at a castle, that he might do battle for its lady against a felon knight who would have robbed and oppressed her. so, on a day, as he rode through the forest, sir bors came to the parting of two ways. while he was considering which he should follow, he espied two knights driving before them a horse on which was stretched, bound and naked, none other than sir bors' own brother, sir lionel; and, from time to time, the two false knights beat him with thorns so that his body was all smeared with blood, but, so great was his heart, sir lionel uttered never a word. then, in great wrath, sir bors laid his lance in rest and would have fought the felon knights to rescue his brother, but that, even as he spurred his horse, there came a bitter cry from the other path and, looking round, he saw a lady being dragged by a knight into the darkest part of the forest where none might find and rescue her. when she saw sir bors, she cried to him: "help me! sir knight, help me! i beseech you by your knighthood." then sir bors was much troubled, for he would not desert his brother; but bethinking him that ever a woman must be more helpless than a man, he wheeled his horse, rode upon her captor and beat him to the earth. the damsel thanked him earnestly and told him how the knight was her own cousin, who had that day carried her off by craft from her father's castle. as they talked, there came up twelve knights who had been seeking the lady everywhere; so to their care sir bors delivered her, and rode with haste in the direction whither his brother had been borne. on the way, he met with an old man, dressed as a priest, who asked him what he sought. when sir bors had told him, "ah! bors," said he, "i can give you tidings indeed. your brother is dead"; and parting the bushes, he showed him the body of a dead man, to all seeming sir lionel's self. then sir bors grieved sorely, misdoubting almost whether he should not have rescued his own brother rather than the lady; and at the last, he dug a grave and buried the dead man; after which he rode sorrowfully on his way. when he had ridden many days, he met with a yeoman whom he asked if there were any adventures in those parts. "sir," said the man, "at the castle; hard by, they hold a great tournament." sir bors thanked him and rode along the way pointed out to him; and presently, as he passed a hermitage, whom should he see sitting at its door but his brother, sir lionel, whom he had believed dead. then in great joy, he leaped from his horse, and running to lionel, cried: "fair brother, how came ye hither?" "through no aid of yours," said sir lionel angrily; "for ye left me bound and beaten, to ride to the rescue of a maiden. never was brother so dealt with by brother before. keep you from me as ye may!" when sir bors understood that his brother would slay him, he knelt before him entreating his pardon. sir lionel took no heed, but mounting his horse and taking his lance, cried: "keep you from me, traitor! fight, or die!" and sir bors moved not; for to him it seemed a sin most horrible that brother should fight with brother. then sir lionel, in his rage, rode his horse at him, bore him to the ground and trampled him under the horse's hoofs, till bors lay beaten to the earth in a swoon. even so, sir lionel's anger was not stayed; for, alighting, he drew his sword and would have smitten off his brother's head, but that the holy hermit, hearing the noise of conflict, ran out of the hermitage and threw himself upon sir bors. "gentle knight," he cried, "have mercy upon him and on thyself; for of the sin of slaying thy brother, thou couldst never be quit." "sir priest," said lionel, "if ye leave him not, i shall slay you too." "it were a lesser sin than to slay thy brother," answered the hermit. "so be it," cried lionel, and with one blow, struck off the hermit's head. then he would have worked his evil will upon his brother too, but that, even as he was unlacing sir bors' helm to cut off his head, there rode up the good knight sir colgrevance, a fellow of the round table. when he saw the dead hermit and was aware how lionel sought the life of bors, he was amazed, and springing from his horse, ran to lionel and dragged him back from his brother. "do ye think to hinder me?" said sir lionel. "let come who will, i will have his life." "ye shall have to do with me first," cried colgrevance. therewith, they took their swords, and, setting their shields before them, rushed upon each other. now sir colgrevance was a good knight, but sir lionel was strong and his anger added to his strength. so long they fought that sir bors had time to recover from his swoon, and raising himself with pain on his elbow, saw how the two fought for his life; and as it seemed, sir lionel would prevail, for sir colgrevance grew weak and weary. sir bors tried to get to his feet, but, so weak he was, he could not stand; and sir colgrevance, seeing him stir, called on him to come to his aid, for he was in mortal peril for his sake. but even as he called, sir lionel cut him to the ground and, as one possessed, rushed upon his brother to slay him. sir bors entreated him for mercy, and when he would not, sorrowfully he took his sword, saying: "now, god forgive me, though i defend my life against my brother." immediately there was heard a voice saying, "flee, bors, and touch not thy brother"; and at the same time, a fiery cloud burned between them, so that their shields glowed with the flame, and both knights fell to the earth. but the voice came again, saying, "bors, leave thy brother and take thy way to the sea. there thou shalt meet sir percivale." then sir bors made ready to obey, and, turning to lionel, said: "dear brother, i pray you forgive me for aught in which i have wronged you." "i forgive you," said lionel, for he was too amazed and terrified to keep his anger. so sir bors continued his journey, and at the last, coming to the sea shore, he espied a ship, draped all with white samite, and entering thereon, he saw sir percivale, and much they rejoiced them in each other's company. chapter xxvii the adventures of sir launcelot after sir launcelot had parted from his fellows at the castle of vagon, he rode many days through the forest without adventure, till he chanced upon a knight close by a little hermitage in the wood. immediately, as was the wont of errant knights, they prepared to joust, and launcelot, whom none before had overthrown, was borne down, man and horse, by the stranger knight. thereupon a nun, who dwelt in the hermitage, cried: "god be with thee, best knight in all this world," for she knew the victor for sir galahad. but galahad, not wishing to be known, rode swiftly away; and presently sir launcelot got to horse again and rode slowly on his way, shamed and doubting sorely in his heart whether this quest were meant for him. when night fell, he came to a great stone cross which stood at the parting of the way and close by a little ruined chapel. so sir launcelot, being minded to pass the night there, alighted, fastened his horse to a tree and hung his shield on a bough. then he drew near to the little chapel, and wondered to see how, all ruinous though it was, yet within was an altar hung with silk and a great silver candlestick on it; but when he sought entrance, he could find none and, much troubled in his mind, he returned to his horse where he had left it, and unlacing his helm and ungirding his sword, laid him down to rest. then it seemed to sir launcelot that, as he lay between sleeping and waking, there passed him two white palfreys bearing a litter wherein was a sick knight, who cried: "sweet lord, when shall i be pardoned all my transgressions, and when shall the holy vessel come to me, to cure me of my sickness?" and instantly it seemed that the great candlestick came forth of itself from the chapel, floating through the air before a table of silver on which was the holy grail. thereupon the sick knight raised himself, and on his bended knees he approached so nigh that he kissed the holy vessel; and immediately he cried: "i thank thee, sweet lord, that i am healed of my sickness." and all the while sir launcelot, who saw this wonder, felt himself held that he could not move. then a squire brought the stranger knight his weapons, in much joy that his lord was cured. "who think ye that this knight may be who remains sleeping when the holy vessel is so near?" said the knight. "in truth," said the squire, "he must be one that is held by the bond of some great sin. i will take his helm and his sword, for here have i brought you all your armour save only these two." so the knight armed him from head to foot, and taking sir launcelot's horse, rode away with his squire. on the instant, sir launcelot awoke amazed, not knowing whether he had dreamed or not; but while he wondered, there came a terrible voice, saying: "launcelot, arise and leave this holy place." in shame, sir launcelot turned to obey, only to find horse and sword and shield alike vanished. then, indeed, he knew himself dishonoured. weeping bitterly, he made the best of his way on foot, until he came to a cell where a hermit was saying prayer. sir launcelot knelt too, and, when all was ended, called to the hermit, entreating him for counsel. "with good will," said the hermit. so sir launcelot made himself known and told the hermit all, lamenting how his good fortune was turned to wretchedness and his glory to shame; and truly, the hermit was amazed that sir launcelot should be in such case. "sir," said he, "god has given you manhood and strength beyond all other knights; the more are ye bounden to his service." "i have sinned," said sir launcelot; "for in all these years of my knighthood, i have done everything for the honour and glory of my lady and naught for my maker; and little thank have i given to god for all his benefits to me." then the holy man gave sir launcelot good counsel and made him rest there that night; and the next day he gave him a horse, a sword and a helmet, and bade him go forth and bear himself knightly as the servant of god. chapter xxviii how sir launcelot saw the holy grail for many days after he had left the hermitage, sir launcelot rode through the forest, but there came to him no such adventures as had befallen him on other quests to the increase of his fame. at last, one night-tide, he came to the shores of a great water and there he lay down to sleep; but as he slept, a voice called on him: "launcelot, arise, put on thine armour and go on thy way until thou comest to a ship. into that thou shalt enter." immediately, sir launcelot started from his sleep to obey and, riding along the shore, came presently to a ship beached on the strand; no sooner had he entered it, than the ship was launched--how, he might not know. so the ship sailed before the wind for many a day. no mortal was on it, save only sir launcelot, yet were all his needs supplied. then, at last, the ship ran ashore at the foot of a great castle; and it was midnight. sir launcelot waited not for the dawn, but, his sword gripped in his hand, sprang ashore, and then, right before him, he saw a postern where the gate stood open indeed, but two grisly lions kept the way. and when sir launcelot would have rushed upon the great beasts with his sword, it was struck from his hand, and a voice said: "ah! launcelot, ever is thy trust in thy might rather than thy maker!" sore ashamed, sir launcelot took his sword and thrust it back into the sheath, and going forward, he passed unhurt through the gateway, the lions that kept it falling back from his path. so without more adventure, launcelot entered into the castle; and there he saw how every door stood open, save only one, and that was fast barred, nor, with all his force, might he open it. presently from the chamber within came the sound of a sweet voice in a holy chant, and then in his heart launcelot knew that he was come to the holy grail. so, kneeling humbly, he prayed that to him might be shown some vision of that he sought. forthwith the door flew open and from the chamber blazed a light such as he had never known before; but when he made to enter, a voice cried: "launcelot, forbear," and sorrowfully he withdrew. then where he knelt, far even from the threshold of the wondrous room, he saw a silver table and, on it, covered with red samite, the holy grail. at sight of that which he had sought so long, his joy became so great that, unmindful of the warning, he advanced into the room and drew nigh even to the table itself. then on the instant there burst between him and it a blaze of light, and he fell to the ground. there he lay, nor might he move nor utter any sound; only he was aware of hands busy about him which bore him away from the chamber. for four-and-twenty days, sir launcelot lay as in a trance. at the end of that time, he came to himself, and found those about him that had tended him in his swoon. these, when they had given him fresh raiment, brought him to the aged king--pelles was his name--that owned that castle. the king entertained him right royally, for he knew of the fame of sir launcelot; and long he talked with him of his quest and of the other knights who followed it, for he was of a great age and knew much of men. at the end of four days, he spoke to sir launcelot, bidding him return to arthur's court; "for," said he, "your quest is ended here, and all that ye shall see of the holy grail, ye have seen." so launcelot rode on his way, grieving for the sin that hindered him from the perfect vision of the holy grail, but thanking god for that which he had seen. so in time he came to camelot, and told to arthur all that had befallen him. chapter xxix the end of the quest after he had rescued sir percivale from the twenty knights who beset him, sir galahad rode on his way till night-fall, when he sought shelter at a little hermitage. thither there came in the night a damsel who desired to speak with sir galahad; so he arose and went to her, "galahad," said she, "arm you and mount your horse and follow me, for i am come to guide you in your quest." so they rode together until they had come to the sea-shore, and there the damsel showed galahad a great ship into which he must enter. then she bade him farewell, and he, going on to the ship, found there already the good knights sir bors and sir percivale, who made much joy of the meeting. they abode in that ship until they had come to the castle of king pelles, who welcomed them right gladly. then, as they all sat at supper that night, suddenly the hall was filled with a great light, and the holy vessel appeared in their midst, covered all in white samite. while they all rejoiced, there came a voice saying: "my knights whom i have chosen, ye have seen the holy vessel dimly. continue your journey to the city of sarras and there the perfect vision shall be yours." now in the city of sarras had dwelt long time joseph of arimathea, teaching its people the true faith, before ever he came into the land of britain; but when sir galahad and his fellows came there after long voyage, they found it ruled by a heathen king named estorause, who cast them into a deep dungeon. there they were kept a year, but at the end of that time, the tyrant died. then the great men of the land gathered together to consider who should be their king; and, while they were in council, came a voice bidding them take as their king the youngest of the three knights whom estorause had thrown into prison. so in fear and wonder they hastened to the prison, and releasing the three knights, made galahad king as the voice had bidden them. thus sir galahad became king of the famous city of sarras, in far babylon. he had reigned a year when, one morning early, he and the other two knights, his fellows, went into the chapel, and there they saw, kneeling in prayer, an aged man, robed as a bishop, and round him hovered many angels. the knights fell on their knees in awe and reverence, whereupon he that seemed a bishop turned to them and said: "i am joseph of arimathea, and i am come to show you the perfect vision of the holy grail." on the instant there appeared before them, without veil or cover, the holy vessel, in a radiance of light such as almost blinded them. sir bors and sir percivale, when at length they were recovered from the brightness of that glory, looked up to find that the holy joseph and the wondrous vessel had passed from their sight. then they went to sir galahad where he still knelt as in prayer, and behold, he was dead; for it had been with him even as he had prayed; in the moment when he had seen the vision, his soul had gone back to god. so the two knights buried him in that far city, themselves mourning and all the people with them. and immediately after, sir percivale put off his arms and took the habit of a monk, living a devout and holy life until, a year and two months later, he also died and was buried near sir galahad. then sir bors armed him, and bidding farewell to the city, sailed away until, after many weeks, he came again to the land of britain. there he took horse, and stayed not till he had come to camelot. great was the rejoicing of arthur and all his knights when sir bors was once more among them. when he had told all the adventures which had befallen him and the good knights, his companions, all who heard were filled with amaze. but the king, he caused the wisest clerks in the land to write in great hooks this quest of the holy grail, that the fame of it should endure unto all time. book ix the fair maid of astolat chapter xxx the fair maid of astolat at last, the quest of the holy grail was ended, and by ones and twos the knights came back to camelot, though many who had set out so boldly were never seen again about the round table. great was the joy of king arthur when sir launcelot and sir bors returned, for, so long had they been away, that almost he had feared that they had perished. in their honour there was high festival for many days in london, where arthur then had his court; and the king made proclamation of a great tournament that he would hold at camelot, when he and the king of northgalis would keep the lists against all comers. so, one fair morning of spring, king arthur made ready to ride to camelot and all his knights with him, save launcelot, who excused himself, saying that an old wound hindered him from riding. but when the king, sore vexed, had departed, the queen rebuked sir launcelot, and bade him go and prove his great prowess as of old. "madam," said sir launcelot, "in this, as in all else, i obey you; at your bidding i go, but know that in this tournament i shall adventure me in other wise than ever before." the next day, at dawn, sir launcelot mounted his horse, and, riding forth unattended, journeyed all that day till, as evening fell, he reached the little town of astolat, and there, at the castle, sought lodgement for that night. the old lord of astolat was glad at his coming, judging him at once to be a noble knight, though he knew him not, for it was sir launcelot's will to remain unknown. so they went to supper, sir launcelot and the old lord, his son, sir lavaine, and his daughter elaine, whom they of the place called the fair maid of astolat. as they sat at meat, the baron asked sir launcelot if he rode to the tournament. "yea," answered launcelot; "and right glad should i be if, of your courtesy, ye would lend me a shield without device." "right willingly," said his host; "ye shall have my son, sir tirre's shield. he was but lately made knight and was hurt in his first encounter, so his shield is bare enough. if ye will take with you my young son, sir lavaine, he will be glad to ride in the company of so noble a knight and will do you such service as he may." "i shall be glad indeed of his fellowship," answered sir launcelot courteously. now it seemed to the fair elaine that never had she beheld so noble a knight as this stranger; and seeing that he was as gentle and courteous as he was strong, she said to him: "fair knight, will ye wear my favour at this tournament? for never have i found knight yet to wear my crimson sleeve, and sure am i that none other could ever win it such honour." "maiden," said sir launcelot, "right gladly would i serve you in aught; but it has never been my custom to wear lady's favour." "then shall it serve the better for disguise," answered elaine. sir launcelot pondered her words, and at last he said: "fair maiden, i will do for you what i have done for none, and will wear your favour." so with great glee, she brought it him, a crimson velvet sleeve embroidered with great pearls, and fastened it in his helmet. then sir launcelot begged her to keep for him his own shield until after the tournament, when he would come for it again and tell them his name. the next morn, sir launcelot took his departure with sir lavaine and, by evening, they were come to camelot. forthwith sir lavaine led sir launcelot to the house of a worthy burgher, where he might stay in privacy, undiscovered by those of his acquaintance. then, when at dawn the trumpets blew, they mounted their horses and rode to a little wood hard by the lists, and there they abode some while; for sir launcelot would take no part until he had seen which side was the stronger. so they saw how king arthur sat high on a throne to overlook the combat, while the king of northgalis and all the fellowship of the round table held the lists against their opponents led by king anguish of ireland and the king of scots. then it soon appeared that the two kings with all their company could do but little against the knights of the round table, and were sore pressed to maintain their ground. seeing this, sir launcelot said to sir lavaine: "sir knight, will ye give me your aid if i go to the rescue of the weaker side? for it seems to me they may not much longer hold their own unaided." "sir," answered lavaine, "i will gladly follow you and do what i may." so the two laid their lances in rest and charged into the thickest of the fight and, with one spear, sir launcelot bore four knights from the saddle. lavaine, too, did nobly, for he unhorsed the bold sir bedivere and sir lucan the butler. then with their swords they smote lustily on the left hand and on the right, and those whom they had come to aid rallying to them, they drove the knights of the round table back a space. so the fight raged furiously, launcelot ever being in the thickest of the press and performing such deeds of valour that all marvelled to see him, and would fain know who was the knight of the crimson sleeve. but the knights of arthur's court felt shame of their discomfiture, and, in especial, those of launcelot's kin were wroth that one should appear who seemed mightier even than launcelot's self. so they called to each other and, making a rally, directed all their force against the stranger knight who had so turned the fortunes of the day. with lances in rest, sir lionel, sir bors, and sir ector, bore down together upon sir launcelot, and sir bors' spear pierced sir launcelot and brought him to the earth, leaving the spear head broken off in his side. this sir lavaine saw, and immediately, with all his might, he rode upon the king of scots, unhorsed him and took his horse to sir launcelot. now sir launcelot felt as if he had got his death-wound, but such was his spirit that he was resolved to do some great deed while yet his strength remained. so, with lavaine's aid, he got upon the horse, took a spear and, laying it in rest, bore down, one after the other, sir bors, sir lionel, and sir ector. next he flung him into the thickest of the fight, and before the trumpets sounded the signal to cease, he had unhorsed thirty good knights. then the kings of scotland and ireland came to sir launcelot and said: "sir knight, we thank you for the service done us this day. and now, we pray you, come with us to receive the prize which is rightly yours; for never have we seen such deeds as ye have done this day." "my fair lords," answered sir launcelot, "for aught that i have accomplished, i am like to pay dearly; i beseech you, suffer me to depart." with these words, he rode away full gallop, followed by sir lavaine; and when he had come to a little wood, he called lavaine to him, saying: "gentle knight, i entreat you, draw forth this spear head, for it nigh slayeth me." "oh! my dear lord," said lavaine, "i fear sore to draw it forth lest ye die." "if ye love me, draw it out," answered launcelot. so lavaine did as he was bidden, and, with a deathly groan, sir launcelot fell in a swoon to the ground. when he was a little recovered, he begged lavaine to help him to his horse and lead him to a hermitage hard by where dwelt a hermit who, in bygone days, had been known to launcelot for a good knight and true. so with pain and difficulty they journeyed to the hermitage, lavaine oft fearing that sir launcelot would die. and when the hermit saw sir launcelot, all pale and besmeared with blood, he scarce knew him for the bold sir launcelot du lac; but he bore him within and dressed his wound and bade him be of good cheer, for he should recover. so there sir launcelot abode many weeks and sir lavaine with him; for lavaine would not leave him, such love had he for the good knight he had taken for his lord. now when it was known that the victorious knight had departed from the field sore wounded, sir gawain vowed to go in search of him. so it chanced that, in his wanderings, he came to astolat, and there he had a hearty welcome of the lord of astolat, who asked him for news of the tournament. then sir gawain related how two stranger knights, bearing white shields, had won great glory, and in especial one, who wore in his helm a crimson sleeve, had surpassed all others in knightly prowess. at these words, the fair elaine cried aloud with delight. "maiden," said gawain, "know ye this knight?" "not his name," she replied; "but full sure was i that he was a noble knight when i prayed him to wear my favour." then she showed gawain the shield which she had kept wrapped in rich broideries, and immediately sir gawain knew it for launcelot's. "alas!" cried he, "without doubt it was launcelot himself that we wounded to the death. sir bors will never recover the woe of it." then, on the morrow, sir gawain rode to london to tell the court how the stranger knight and launcelot were one; but the fair maid of astolat rose betimes, and having obtained leave of her father, set out to search for sir launcelot and her brother lavaine. after many journeyings, she came, one day, upon lavaine exercising his horse in a field, and by him she was taken to sir launcelot. then, indeed, her heart was filled with grief when she saw the good knight to whom she had given her crimson sleeve thus laid low; so she abode in the hermitage, waiting upon sir launcelot and doing all within her power to lessen his pain. after many weeks, by the good care of the hermit and the fair elaine, sir launcelot was so far recovered that he might bear the weight of his armour and mount his horse again. then, one morn, they left the hermitage and rode all three, the fair maid, sir launcelot, and sir lavaine, to the castle of astolat, where there was much joy of their coming. after brief sojourn, sir launcelot desired to ride to court, for he knew there would be much sorrow among his kinsmen for his long absence. but when he would take his departure, elaine cried aloud: "ah! my lord, suffer me to go with you, for i may not bear to lose you." "fair child," answered sir launcelot gently, "that may not be. but in the days to come, when ye shall love and wed some good knight, for your sake i will bestow upon him broad lands and great riches; and at all times will i hold me ready to serve you as a true knight may." thus spoke sir launcelot, but the fair elaine answered never a word. so sir launcelot rode to london where the whole court was glad of his coming; but from the day of his departure, the fair maid drooped and pined until, when ten days were passed, she felt that her end was at hand. so she sent for her father and two brothers, to whom she said gently: "dear father and brethren, i must now leave you." bitterly they wept, but she comforted them all she might, and presently desired of her father a boon. "ye shall have what ye will," said the old lord; for he hoped that she might yet recover. then first she required her brother, sir tirre, to write a letter, word for word as she said it; and when it was written, she turned to her father and said: "kind father, i desire that, when i am dead, i may be arrayed in my fairest raiment, and placed on a bier; and let the bier be set within a barge, with one to steer it until i be come to london. then, perchance, sir launcelot will come and look upon me with kindness." so she died, and all was done as she desired; for they set her, looking as fair as a lily, in a barge all hung with black, and an old dumb man went with her as helmsman. slowly the barge floated down the river until it had come to westminster; and as it passed under the palace walls, it chanced that king arthur and queen guenevere looked forth from a window. marvelling much at the strange sight, together they went forth to the quay, followed by many of the knights. then the king espied the letter clasped in the dead maiden's hand, and drew it forth gently and broke the seal. and thus the letter ran: "most noble knight, sir launcelot, i, that men called the fair maid of astolat, am come hither to crave burial at thy hands for the sake of the unrequited love i gave thee. as thou art peerless knight, pray for my soul." then the king bade fetch sir launcelot, and when he was come, he showed him the letter. and sir launcelot, gazing on the dead maiden, was filled with sorrow. "my lord arthur," he said, "for the death of this dear child i shall grieve my life long. gentle she was and loving, and much was i beholden to her; but what she desired i could not give." "yet her request now thou wilt grant, i know," said the king; "for ever thou art kind and courteous to all." "it is my desire," answered sir launcelot. so the maid of astolat was buried in the presence of the king and queen and of the fellowship of the round table, and of many a gentle lady who wept, that time, the fair child's fate. over her grave was raised a tomb of white marble, and on it was sculptured the shield of sir launcelot; for, when he had heard her whole story, it was the king's will that she that in life had guarded the shield of his noblest knight, should keep it also in death. book x queen guenevere chapter xxxi how mordred plotted against sir launcelot before merlin passed from the world of men, imprisoned in the great stone by the evil arts of vivien, he had uttered many marvellous prophecies, and one that boded ill to king arthur; for he foretold that, in the days to come, a son of arthur's sister should stir up bitter war against the king, and at last a great battle should be fought in the west, when many a brave knight should find his doom. now, among the nephews of arthur, was one most dishonourable; his name was mordred. no knightly deed had he ever done, and he hated to hear the good report of others because he himself was a coward and envious. but of all the round table there was none that mordred hated more than sir launcelot du lac, whom all true knights held in most honour; and not the less did mordred hate launcelot that he was the knight whom queen guenevere had in most esteem. so, at last, his jealous rage passing all bounds, he spoke evil of the queen and of launcelot, saying that they were traitors to the king. now sir gawain and sir gareth, mordred's brothers, refused to give ear to these slanders, holding that sir launcelot, in his knightly service of the queen, did honour to king arthur also; but by ill-fortune another brother, sir agravaine, had ill-will to the queen, and professed to believe mordred's evil tales. so the two went to king arthur with their ill stories. now when arthur had heard them, he was wroth; for never would he lightly believe evil of any, and sir launcelot was the knight whom he loved above all others. sternly then he bade them begone and come no more to him with unproven tales against any, and, least of all, against sir launcelot and their lady, the queen. the two departed, but in their hearts was hatred against launcelot and the queen, more bitter than ever for the rebuke they had called down upon themselves; and they resolved, from that time forth, diligently to watch if, perchance, they might find aught to turn to evil account against sir launcelot. not long after, it seemed to them that the occasion had come. for king arthur having ridden forth to hunt far from carlisle, where he then held court, the queen sent for sir launcelot to speak with him in her bower. then agravaine and mordred got together twelve knights, friends of sir gawain, their brother, and persuaded them to come with them for they should do the king a service. so with the twelve knights they watched and waited in a little room until they saw sir launcelot, all unarmed, pass into the queen's chamber; and when the door was closed upon him, they came forth, and sir agravaine and sir mordred thundered on the door, crying so that all the court might hear: "thou traitor, sir launcelot, come forth from the queen's chamber. come forth, for thy treason against the king is known to all!" then sir launcelot and the queen were amazed and filled with shame that such a clamour should be raised where the queen was. while they waited and listened in dismay, sir mordred and sir agravaine took up the cry again, the twelve knights echoing it: "traitor launcelot, come forth and meet thy doom; for thy last hour is come." then sir launcelot, wroth more for the queen than for himself, exclaimed: "this shameful cry will kill me; better death than such dishonour. lady, as i have ever been your true knight, since the day when my lord, king arthur, knighted me, pray for me if now i meet my death." then he went to the door and cried to those without: "fair lords, cease this outcry. i will open the door, and then ye shall do with me as ye will." with the word, he set open the door, but only by so much that one knight could enter at a time. so a certain sir colgrevance of gore, a knight of great stature, pushed into the room and thrust at sir launcelot with all his might; but sir launcelot, with the arm round which he had wrapped his cloak, turned aside the sword and, with his bare hand, dealt colgrevance such a blow on the helmet that he fell grovelling to the earth. then sir launcelot thrust to and barred the door, and stripping the fallen knight of his armour, armed himself in haste with the aid of the queen and her ladies. all this while, sir agravaine and sir mordred continued their outcry; so when he was armed, sir launcelot called to them to cease their vile cries and the next day he would meet any or all of them in arms and knightly disprove their vile slander. now there was not one among those knights who dared meet sir launcelot in the open field, so they were resolved to slay him while they had the advantage over him. when sir launcelot understood their evil purpose, he set wide the door and rushed upon them. at the first blow he slew sir agravaine, and soon eleven other knights lay cold on the earth beside him. only mordred escaped, for he fled with all his might; but, even so, he was sore wounded. then sir launcelot spoke to the queen. "madam," said he, "here may i no longer stay, for many a foe have i made me this night. and when i am gone, i know not what evil may be spoken of you for this night's work. i pray you, then, suffer me to lead you to a place of safety." "ye shall run no more risk for my sake," said the queen; "only go hence in haste before more harm befall you. but as for me, here i abide. i will flee for no traitor's outcry." so sir launcelot, seeing that at that time there was naught he might do for queen guenevere, withdrew with all his kin to a little distance from carlisle, and awaited what should befall. chapter xxxii the trial of the queen when mordred escaped sir launcelot, he got to horse, all wounded as he was, and never drew rein till he had found king arthur, to whom he told all that had happened. then great was the king's grief. despite all that mordred could say, he was slow to doubt sir launcelot, whom he loved, but his mind was filled with forebodings; for many a knight had been slain, and well he knew that their kin would seek vengeance on sir launcelot, and the noble fellowship of the round table be utterly destroyed by their feuds. all too soon, it proved even as the king had feared. many were found to hold with sir mordred; some because they were kin to the knights that had been slain, some from envy of the honour and worship of the noble sir launcelot; and among them even were those who dared to raise their voice against the queen herself, calling for judgment upon her as leagued with a traitor against the king, and as having caused the death of so many good knights. now in those days the law was that if any one were accused of treason by witnesses, or taken in the act, that one should die the death by burning, be it man or woman, knight or churl. so then the murmurs grew to a loud clamour that the law should have its course, and that king arthur should pass sentence on the queen. then was the king's woe doubled; "for," said he, "i sit as king to be a rightful judge and keep all the law; wherefore i may not do battle for my own queen, and now there is none other to help her." so a decree was issued that queen guenevere should be burnt at the stake outside the walls of carlisle. forthwith, king arthur sent for his nephew, sir gawain, and said to him: "fair nephew, i give it in charge to you to see that all is done as has been decreed." but sir gawain answered boldly: "sir king, never will i be present to see my lady the queen die. it is of ill counsel that ye have consented to her death." then the king bade gawain send his two young brothers, sir gareth and sir gaheris, to receive his commands, and these he desired to attend the queen to the place of execution. so gareth made answer for both: "my lord the king, we owe you obedience in all things, but know that it is sore against our wills that we obey you in this; nor will we appear in arms in the place where that noble lady shall die"; then sorrowfully they mounted their horses, and rode to carlisle. when the day appointed had come, the queen was led forth to a place without the walls of carlisle, and there she was bound to the stake to be burnt to death. loud were her ladies' lamentations, and many a lord was found to weep at that grievous sight of a queen brought so low; yet was there none who dared come forward as her champion, lest he should be suspected of treason. as for gareth and gaheris, they could not bear the sight and stood with their faces covered in their mantles. then, just as the torch was to be applied to the faggots, there was a sound as of many horses galloping, and the next instant a band of knights rushed upon the astonished throng, their leader cutting down all who crossed his path until he had reached the queen, whom he lifted to his saddle and bore from the press. then all men knew that it was sir launcelot, come knightly to rescue the queen, and in their hearts they rejoiced. so with little hindrance they rode away, sir launcelot and all his kin with the queen in their midst, till they came to the castle of the joyous garde where they held the queen in safety and all reverence. but of that day came a kingdom's ruin, for among the slain were gawain's brothers, sir gareth and sir gaheris. now sir launcelot loved sir gareth as if he had been his own younger brother, and himself had knighted him; but, in the press, he struck at him and killed him, not seeing that he was unarmed and weaponless; and in like wise, sir gaheris met his death. so when word was brought to king arthur of what had passed, sir gawain asked straightway how his brothers had fared. "both are slain," said the messenger. "alas! my dear brothers!" cried sir gawain; "how came they by their death?" "they were both slain by sir launcelot." "that will i never believe," cried sir gawain; "for my brother, sir gareth, had such love for sir launcelot that there was naught sir launcelot could ask him that he would not do." but the man said again: "he is slain, and by sir launcelot." then, from sheer grief, sir gawain fell swooning to the ground. when he was recovered, he said: "my lord and uncle, is it even as this man says, that sir launcelot has slain my brother sir gareth?" "alas!" said the king, "launcelot rode upon him in the press and slew him, not seeing who he was or that he was unarmed." "then," cried gawain fiercely, "here i make my avow. never, while my life lasts, will i leave sir launcelot in peace until he has rendered me account for the slaying of my brother." from that day forth, sir gawain would not suffer the king to rest until he had gathered all his host and marched against the joyous garde. thus began the war which broke up the fellowship of the round table. chapter xxxiii how sir gawain defied sir launcelot now it came to the ears of the pope in rome that king arthur was besieging sir launcelot in his castle of the joyous garde, and it grieved him that there should be strife between two such goodly knights, the like of whom was not to be found in christendom. so he called to him the bishop of rochester, and bade him carry word to britain, both to arthur and to sir launcelot, that they should be reconciled, the one to the other, and that king arthur should receive again queen guenevere. forthwith sir launcelot desired of king arthur assurance of liberty and reverence for the queen, as also safe conduct for himself and his knights, that he might bring dame guenevere, with due honour, to the king at carlisle; and thereto the king pledged his word. so launcelot set forth with the queen, and behind them rode a hundred knights arrayed in green velvet, the housings of the horses of the same all studded with precious stones; thus they passed through the city of carlisle, openly, in the sight of all, and there were many who rejoiced that the queen was come again and sir launcelot with her, though they of gawain's party scowled upon him. when they were come into the great hall where arthur sat, with sir gawain and other great lords about him, sir launcelot led guenevere to the throne and both knelt before the king; then, rising, sir launcelot lifted the queen to her feet, and thus he spoke to king arthur, boldly and well before the whole court: "my lord, sir arthur, i bring you here your queen, than whom no truer nor nobler lady ever lived; and here stand i, sir launcelot du lac, ready to do battle with any that dare gainsay it"; and with these words sir launcelot turned and looked upon the lords and knights present in their places, but none would challenge him in that cause, not even sir gawain, for he had ever affirmed that dame guenevere was a true and honourable lady. then sir launcelot spoke again: "now, my lord arthur, in my own defence it behoves me to say that never in aught have i been false to you. that i slew certain knights is true; but i hold me guiltless, seeing that they brought death upon themselves. for no sooner had i gone to the queen's bower, as she had commanded me, than they beset the door, with shameful outcry, that all the court might hear, calling me traitor and felon knight." "and rightly they called you," cried sir gawain fiercely. "my lord, sir gawain," answered sir launcelot, "in their quarrel they proved not themselves right, else had not i, alone, encountered fourteen knights and come forth unscathed." then said king arthur: "sir launcelot, i have ever loved you above all other knights, and trusted you to the uttermost; but ill have ye done by me and mine." "my lord," said launcelot, "that i slew sir gareth i shall mourn as long as life lasts. as soon would i have slain my own nephew, sir bors, as have harmed sir gareth wittingly; for i myself made him knight, and loved him as my brother." "liar and traitor," cried sir gawain, "ye slew him, defenceless and unarmed." "it is full plain, sir gawain," said launcelot, "that never again shall i have your love; and yet there has been old kindness between us, and once ye thanked me that i saved your life." "it shall not avail you now," said sir gawain; "traitor ye are, both to the king and to me. know that, while life lasts, never will i rest until i have avenged my brother sir gareth's death upon you." "fair nephew," said the king, "cease your brawling. sir launcelot has come under surety of my word that none shall do him harm. elsewhere, and at another time, fasten a quarrel upon him, if quarrel ye must." "i care not," cried sir gawain fiercely. "the proud traitor trusts so in his own strength that he thinks none dare meet him. but here i defy him and swear that, be it in open combat or by stealth, i shall have his life. and know, mine uncle and king, if i shall not have your aid, i and mine will leave you for ever, and, if need be, fight even against you." "peace," said the king; and to sir launcelot: "we give you fifteen days in which to leave this kingdom." then sir launcelot sighed heavily and said: "full well i see that no sorrow of mine for what is past availeth me." then he went to the queen where she sat, and said: "madam, the time is come when i must leave this fair realm that i have loved. think well of me, i pray you, and send for me if ever there be aught in which a true knight may serve lady." therewith he turned him about and, without greeting to any, passed through the hall, and with his faithful knights rode to the joyous garde, though ever thereafter, in memory of that sad day, he called it the dolorous garde. there he called about him his friends and kinsmen, saying: "fair knights, i must now pass into my own lands." then they all, with one voice, cried that they would go with him. so he thanked them, promising them all fair estates and great honour when they were come to his kingdom; for all france belonged to sir launcelot. yet was he loth to leave the land where he had followed so many glorious adventures, and sore he mourned to part in anger from king arthur. "my mind misgives me," said sir launcelot, "but that trouble shall come of sir mordred, for he is envious and a mischief-maker, and it grieves me that never more i may serve sir arthur and his realm." so sir launcelot sorrowed; but his kinsmen were wroth for the dishonour done him, and making haste to depart, by the fifteenth day they were all embarked to sail overseas to france. chapter xxxiv how king arthur and sir gawain went to france from the day when sir launcelot brought the queen to carlisle, never would gawain suffer the king to be at rest; but always he desired him to call his army together that they might go to attack sir launcelot in his own land. now king arthur was loth to war against sir launcelot; and seeing this, sir gawain upbraided him bitterly. "i see well it is naught to you that my brother, sir gareth, died fulfilling your behest. little ye care if all your knights be slain, if only the traitor launcelot escape. since, then, ye will not do me justice nor avenge your own nephew, i and my fellows will take the traitor when and how we may. he trusts in his own might that none can encounter with him; let see if we may not entrap him." thus urged, king arthur called his army together and bade collect a great fleet; for rather would he fight openly with sir launcelot than that sir gawain should bring such dishonour upon himself as to slay a noble knight treacherously. so with a great host, the king passed overseas to france, leaving sir mordred to rule britain in his stead. when launcelot heard that king arthur and sir gawain were coming against him, he withdrew into the strong castle of benwick; for unwilling indeed was he to fight with the king, or to do an injury to sir gareth's brother. the army passed through the land, laying it waste, and presently encamped about the castle, laying close siege to it; but so thick were the walls, and so watchful the garrison, that in no way could they prevail against it. one day, there came to sir launcelot seven brethren, brave knights of wales, who had joined their fortunes to his, and said: "sir launcelot, bid us sally forth against this host which has invaded and laid waste your lands, and we will scatter it; for we are not wont to cower behind walls." "fair lords," answered launcelot, "it is grief to me to war on good christian knights, and especially on my lord, king arthur. have but patience and i will send to him and see if, even now, there may not be a treaty of peace between us; for better far is peace than war." so sir launcelot sought out a damsel and, mounting her upon a palfrey, bade her ride to king arthur's camp and require of the king to cease warring on his lands, proffering fair terms of peace. when the damsel came to the camp, there met her sir lucan the butler, "fair damsel," said sir lucan, "do ye come from sir launcelot?" "yea, in good truth," said the damsel; "and, i pray you, lead me to king arthur." "now, may ye prosper in your errand," said sir lucan. "our king loves sir launcelot dearly and wishes him well; but sir gawain will not suffer him to be reconciled to him." so when the damsel had come before the king, she told him all her tale, and much she said of sir launcelot's love and good-will to his lord the king, so that the tears stood in arthur's eyes. but sir gawain broke in roughly: "my lord and uncle, shall it be said of us that we came hither with such a host to hie us home again, nothing done, to be the scoff of all men?" "nephew," said the king, "methinks sir launcelot offers fair and generously. it were well if ye would accept his proffer. nevertheless, as the quarrel is yours, so shall the answer be." "then, damsel," said sir gawain, "say unto sir launcelot that the time for peace is past. and tell him that i, sir gawain, swear by the faith i owe to knighthood that never will i forego my revenge." so the damsel returned to sir launcelot and told him all. sir launcelot's heart was filled with grief nigh unto breaking; but his knights were enraged and clamoured that he had endured too much of insult and wrong, and that he should lead them forth to battle. sir launcelot armed him sorrowfully, and presently the gates were set open and he rode forth, he and all his company. but to all his knights he had given commandment that none should seek king arthur; "for never," said he, "will i see the noble king, who made me knight, either killed or shamed." fierce was the battle between those two hosts. on launcelot's side, sir bors and sir lavaine and many another did right well; while on the other side, king arthur bore him as the noble knight he was, and sir gawain raged through the battle, seeking to come at sir launcelot. presently, sir bors encountered with king arthur, and unhorsed him. this sir launcelot saw and, coming to the king's side, he alighted and, raising him from the ground, mounted him upon his own horse. then king arthur, looking upon launcelot, cried: "ah! launcelot, launcelot! that ever there should be war between us two!" and tears stood in the king's eyes. "ah! my lord arthur," cried sir launcelot, "i pray you stay this war." as they spoke thus, sir gawain came upon them, and, miscalling sir launcelot traitor and coward, had almost ridden upon him before launcelot could provide him of another horse. then the two hosts drew back, each on its own side, to see the battle between sir launcelot and sir gawain; for they wheeled their horses, and departing far asunder, rushed again upon each other with the noise of thunder, and each bore the other from his horse. then they put their shields before them and set on each other with their swords; but while ever sir gawain smote fiercely, sir launcelot was content only to ward off blows, because he would not, for sir gareth's sake, do any harm to sir gawain. but the more sir launcelot forbore him, the more furiously sir gawain struck, so that sir launcelot had much ado to defend himself, and at the last smote gawain on the helm so mightily that he bore him to the ground. then sir launcelot stood back from sir gawain. but gawain cried: "why do ye draw back, traitor knight? slay me while ye may, for never will i cease to be your enemy while my life lasts." "sir," said launcelot, "i shall withstand you as i may; but never will i smite a fallen knight." then he spoke to king arthur: "my lord, i pray you, if but for this day, draw off your men. and think upon our former love if ye may; but, be ye friend or foe, god keep you." thereupon sir launcelot drew off with his men into his castle, and king arthur and his company to their tents. as for sir gawain, his squires bore him to his tent where his wounds were dressed. book xi the morte d'arthur chapter xxxv mordred the traitor so sir gawain lay healing of the grim wound which sir launcelot had given him, and there was peace between the two armies, when there came messengers from britain bearing letters for king arthur; and more evil news than they brought might not well be, for they told how sir mordred had usurped his uncle's realm. first, he had caused it to be noised abroad that king arthur was slain in battle with sir launcelot, and, since there be many ever ready to believe any idle rumour and eager for any change, it had been no hard task for sir mordred to call the lords to a parliament and persuade them to make him king. but the queen could not be brought to believe that her lord was dead, so she took refuge in the tower of london from sir mordred's violence, nor was she to be induced to leave her strong refuge for aught that mordred could promise or threaten. this was the news that came to arthur as he lay encamped about sir launcelot's castle of benwick. forthwith he bade his host make ready to move, and when they had reached the coast, they embarked and made sail to reach britain with all possible speed. sir mordred, on his part, had heard of their sailing, and hasted to get together a great army. it was grievous to see how many a stout knight held by mordred, ay, even many whom arthur himself had raised to honour and fortune; for it is the nature of men to be fickle. thus it was that, when arthur drew near to dover, he found mordred with a mighty host, waiting to oppose his landing. then there was a great sea-fight, those of mordred's party going out in boats, great and small, to board king arthur's ships and slay him and his men or ever they should come to land. right valiantly did king arthur bear him, as was his wont, and boldly his followers fought in his cause, so that at last they drove off their enemies and landed at dover in spite of mordred and his array. for that time mordred fled, and king arthur bade those of his party bury the slain and tend the wounded. so as they passed from ship to ship, salving and binding the hurts of the men, they came at last upon sir gawain, where he lay at the bottom of a boat, wounded to the death, for he had received a great blow on the wound that sir launcelot had given him. they bore him to his tent, and his uncle, the king, came to him, sorrowing beyond measure. "methinks," said the king, "my joy on earth is done; for never have i loved any men as i have loved you, my nephew, and sir launcelot. sir launcelot i have lost, and now i see you on your death-bed." "my king," said sir gawain, "my hour is come, and i have got my death at sir launcelot's hand; for i am smitten on the wound he gave me. and rightly am i served, for of my willfulness and stubbornness comes this unhappy war. i pray you, my uncle, raise me in your arms and let me write to sir launcelot before i die." thus, then, sir gawain wrote: "to sir launcelot, the noblest of all knights, i, gawain, send greeting before i die. for i am smitten on the wound ye gave me before your castle of benwick in france, and i bid all men bear witness that i sought my own death and that ye are innocent of it. i pray you, by our friendship of old, come again into britain, and when ye look upon my tomb, pray for gawain of orkney. farewell." so sir gawain died and was buried in the chapel at dover. chapter xxxvi the battle in the west the day after the battle at dover, king arthur and his host pursued sir mordred to barham down where again there was a great battle fought, with much slaughter on both sides; but, in the end, arthur was victorious, and mordred fled to canterbury. now, by this time, many that mordred had cheated by his lying reports, had drawn unto king arthur, to whom at heart they had ever been loyal, knowing him for a true and noble king and hating themselves for having been deceived by such a false usurper as sir mordred. then when he found that he was being deserted, sir mordred withdrew to the far west, for there men knew less of what had happened, and so he might still find some to believe in him and support him; and being without conscience, he even called to his aid the heathen hosts that his uncle, king arthur, had driven from the land, in the good years when launcelot was of the round table. king arthur followed ever after; for in his heart was bitter anger against the false nephew who had wrought woe upon him and all his realm. at the last, when mordred could flee no further, the two hosts were drawn up near the shore of the great western sea; and it was the feast of the holy trinity. that night, as king arthur slept, he thought that sir gawain stood before him, looking just as he did in life, and said to him: "my uncle and my king, god in his great love has suffered me to come unto you, to warn you that in no wise ye fight on the morrow; for if ye do, ye shall be slain, and with you the most part of the people on both sides. make ye, therefore, treaty for a month, and within that time, sir launcelot shall come to you with all his knights, and ye shall overthrow the traitor and all that hold with him." therewith, sir gawain vanished. immediately, the king awoke and called to him the best and wisest of his knights, the two brethren, sir lucan the butler and sir bedivere, and others, to whom he told his dream. then all were agreed that, on any terms whatsoever, a treaty should be made with sir mordred, even as sir gawain had said; and, with the dawn, messengers went to the camp of the enemy, to call sir mordred to a conference. so it was determined that the meeting should take place in the sight of both armies, in an open space between the two camps, and that king arthur and mordred should each be accompanied by fourteen knights. little enough faith had either in the other, so when they set forth to the meeting, they bade their hosts join battle if ever they saw a sword drawn. thus they went to the conference. now as they talked, it befell that an adder, coming out of a bush hard by, stung a knight in the foot; and he, seeing the snake, drew his sword to kill it and thought no harm thereby. but on the instant that the sword flashed, the trumpets blared on both sides and the two hosts rushed to battle. never was there fought a fight of such bitter enmity; for brother fought with brother, and comrade with comrade, and fiercely they cut and thrust, with many a bitter word between; while king arthur himself, his heart hot within him, rode through and through the battle, seeking the traitor mordred. so they fought all day, till at last the evening fell. then arthur, looking around him, saw of his valiant knights but two left, sir lucan and sir bedivere, and these sore wounded; and there, over against him, by a great heap of the dead, stood sir mordred, the cause of all this ruin. thereupon the king, his heart nigh broken with grief for the loss of his true knights, cried with a loud voice: "traitor! now is thy doom upon thee!" and with his spear gripped in both hands, he rushed upon sir mordred and smote him that the weapon stood out a fathom behind. and sir mordred knew that he had his death-wound. with all the might that he had, he thrust him up the spear to the haft and, with his sword, struck king arthur upon the head, that the steel pierced the helmet and bit into the head; then he fell back, stark and dead. sir lucan and sir bedivere went to the king where he lay, swooning from the blow, and bore him to a little chapel on the sea-shore. as they laid him on the ground, sir lucan fell dead beside the king, and arthur, coming to himself, found but sir bedivere alive beside him. chapter xxxvii the passing of arthur so king arthur lay wounded to the death, grieving, not that his end was come, but for the desolation of his kingdom and the loss of his good knights. and looking upon the body of sir lucan, he sighed and said: "alas! true knight, dead for my sake! if i lived, i should ever grieve for thy death, but now mine own end draws nigh." then, turning to sir bedivere, who stood sorrowing beside him, he said: "leave weeping now, for the time is short and much to do. hereafter shalt thou weep if thou wilt. but take now my sword excalibur, hasten to the water side, and fling it into the deep. then, watch what happens and bring me word thereof." "my lord," said sir bedivere, "your command shall be obeyed"; and taking the sword, he departed. but as he went on his way, he looked on the sword, how wondrously it was formed and the hilt all studded with precious stones; and, as he looked, he called to mind the marvel by which it had come into the king's keeping. for on a certain day, as arthur walked on the shore of a great lake, there had appeared above the surface of the water a hand brandishing a sword. on the instant, the king had leaped into a boat, and, rowing into the lake, had got the sword and brought it back to land. then he had seen how, on one side the blade, was written, "keep me," but on the other, "throw me away," and, sore perplexed, he had shown it to merlin, the great wizard, who said: "keep it now. the time for casting away has not yet come." thinking on this, it seemed to bedivere that no good, but harm, must come of obeying the king's word; so hiding the sword under a tree, he hastened back to the little chapel. then said the king: "what saw'st thou?" "sir," answered bedivere, "i saw naught but the waves, heard naught but the wind." "that is untrue," said king arthur; "i charge thee, as thou art true knight, go again and spare not to throw away the sword." sir bedivere departed a second time, and his mind was to obey his lord; but when he took the sword in his hand, he thought: "sin it is and shameful, to throw away so glorious a sword." then, hiding it again, he hastened back to the king, "what saw'st thou?" said sir arthur. "sir, i saw the water lap on the crags." then spoke the king in great wrath: "traitor and unkind! twice hast thou betrayed me! art dazzled by the splendour of the jewels, thou that, till now, hast ever been dear and true to me? go yet again, but if thou fail me this time, i will arise and, with mine own hands, slay thee." then sir bedivere left the king and, that time, he took the sword quickly from the place where he had hidden it and, forbearing even to look upon it, he twisted the belt about it and flung it with all his force into the water. a wondrous sight he saw, for, as the sword touched the water, a hand rose from out the deep, caught it, brandished it thrice, and drew it beneath the surface. sir bedivere hastened back to the king and told him what he had seen. "it is well," said arthur; "now, bear me to the water's edge; and hasten, i pray thee, for i have tarried over-long and my wound has taken cold." so sir bedivere raised the king on his back and bore him tenderly to the lonely shore, where the lapping waves floated many an empty helmet and the fitful moonlight fell on the upturned faces of the dead. scarce had they reached the shore when there hove in sight a barge, and on its deck stood three tall women, robed all in black and wearing crowns on their heads. "place me in the barge," said the king, and softly sir bedivere lifted the king into it. and these three queens wept sore over arthur, and one took his head in her lap and chafed his hands, crying: "alas! my brother, thou hast been over-long in coming and, i fear me, thy wound has taken cold." then the barge began to move slowly from the land. when sir bedivere saw this, he lifted up his voice and cried with a bitter cry: "ah! my lord arthur, thou art taken from me! and i, whither shall i go?" "comfort thyself," said the king, "for in me is no comfort more. i pass to the valley of avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. if thou seest me never again, pray for me." so the barge floated away out of sight, and sir bedivere stood straining his eyes after it till it had vanished utterly. then he turned him about and journeyed through the forest until, at daybreak, he reached a hermitage. entering it, he prayed the holy hermit that he might abide with him, and there he spent the rest of his life in prayer and holy exercise. but of king arthur is no more known. some men, indeed, say that he is not dead, but abides in the happy valley of avilion until such time as his country's need is sorest, when he shall come again and deliver it. others say that, of a truth, he is dead, and that, in the far west, his tomb may be seen, and written on it these words: "here lies arthur, once king and king to be." chapter xxxviii the death of sir launcelot and of the queen when news reached sir launcelot in his own land of the treason of mordred, he gathered his lords and knights together, and rested not till he had come to britain to aid king arthur. he landed at dover, and there the evil tidings were told him, how the king had met his death at the hands of his traitor nephew. then was sir launcelot's heart nigh broken for grief. "alas!" he cried, "that i should live to know my king overthrown by such a felon! what have i done that i should have caused the deaths of the good knights, sir gareth, sir gaheris, and sir gawain, and yet that such a villain should escape my sword!" then he desired to be led to sir gawain's tomb where he remained long in prayer and in great lamentation; after which he called to him his kinsmen and friends, and said to them: "my fair lords, i thank you all most heartily that, of your courtesy, ye came with me to this land. that we be come too late is a misfortune that might not be avoided, though i shall mourn it my life long. and now i will ride forth alone to find my lady the queen in the west, whither men say she has fled. wait for me, i pray you, for fifteen days, and then, if ye hear naught of me, return to your own lands." so sir launcelot rode forth alone, nor would he suffer any to follow him, despite their prayers and entreaties. thus he rode some seven or eight days until, at the last, he came to a nunnery where he saw in the cloister many nuns waiting on a fair lady; none other, indeed, than queen guenevere herself. and she, looking up, saw sir launcelot, and at the sight, grew so pale that her ladies feared for her; but she recovered, and bade them go and bring sir launcelot to her presence. when he was come, she said to him: "sir launcelot, glad am i to see thee once again that i may bid thee farewell; for in this world shall we never meet again." "sweet madam," answered sir launcelot, "i was minded, with your leave, to bear you to my own country, where i doubt not but i should guard you well and safely from your enemies." "nay, launcelot," said the queen, "that may not be; i am resolved never to look upon the world again, but here to pass my life in prayer and in such good works as i may. but thou, do thou get back to thine own land and take a fair wife; and ye both shall ever have my prayers." "madam," replied sir launcelot, "ye know well that shall never be. and since ye are resolved to lead a life of prayer, i, too, will forsake the world if i can find hermit to share his cell with me; for ever your will has been mine." long and earnestly he looked upon her as he might never gaze enough; then, getting to horse, he rode slowly away. nor did they ever meet again in life. for queen guenevere abode in the great nunnery of almesbury where sir launcelot had found her, and presently, for the holiness of her life, was made abbess. but sir launcelot, after he had left her, rode on his way till he came to the cell where sir bedivere dwelt with the holy hermit; and when sir bedivere had told him all that had befallen, of the great battle in the west, and of the passing away of arthur, sir launcelot flung down his arms and implored the holy hermit to let him remain there as the servant of god. so sir launcelot donned the serge gown and abode in the hermitage as the priest of god. presently there came riding that way the good sir bors, launcelot's nephew; for, when sir launcelot returned not to dover, sir bors and many another knight went forth in search of him. there, then, sir bors remained and, within a half-year, there joined themselves to these three many who in former days had been fellows of the round table; and the fame of their piety spread far and wide. so six years passed and then, one night, launcelot had a vision. it seemed to him that one said to him: "launcelot, arise and go in haste to almesbury. there shalt thou find queen guenevere dead, and it shall be for thee to bury her." sir launcelot arose at once and, calling his fellows to him, told them his dream. immediately, with all haste, they set forth towards almesbury and, arriving there the second day, found the queen dead, as had been foretold in the vision. so with the state and ceremony befitting a great queen, they buried her in the abbey of glastonbury, in that same church where, some say, king arthur's tomb is to be found. launcelot it was who performed the funeral rites and chanted the requiem; but when all was done, he pined away, growing weaker daily. so at the end of six weeks, he called to him his fellows, and bidding them all farewell, desired that his dead body should be conveyed to the joyous garde, there to be buried; for that in the church at glastonbury he was not worthy to lie. and that same night he died, and was buried, as he had desired, in his own castle. so passed from the world the bold sir launcelot du lac, bravest, most courteous, and most gentle of knights, whose peer the world has never seen ever shall. after sir launcelot's death, sir bors and the pious knights, his companions, took their way to the holy land, and there they died in battle against the turk. so ends the story of king arthur and his noble fellowship of the round table. online distriubted proofreading team layamon's brut at totnes constantin the fair and all his host came ashore; thither came the bold man--well was he brave!--and with him two thousand knights such as no king possessed. forth they gan march into london, and sent after knights over all the kingdom, and every brave man, that speedily he should come anon. the britons heard that, where they dwelt in the pits; in earth and in stocks they hid them like badgers, in wood and in wilderness, in heath and in fen, so that well nigh no man might find any briton, except they were in castle, or in burgh inclosed fast. when they heard of this word, that constantin was in the land, then came out of the mountains many thousand men; they leapt out of the wood as if it were deer. many hundred thousand marched toward london, by street and by weald all it forth pressed; and the brave women put on them men's clothes, and they forth journeyed toward the army. when the earl constantin saw all this folk come to him, then he was so blithe as he was never before in life. forth they took their way two nights and a day, so that they came full truly to melga and wanis. together they rushed with stern strength, fought fiercely--the fated fell! ere the day were gone, slain was wanis and melgan, and peohtes enow, and scots without number, danes and norwegians, galloways and irish. the while that the day was light lasted ever this slaughter. when it came to the eventime, then called the earl constantin, and bade that guides should ride to the waters, and active men toward the sea, for to guard them. a man should have seen the game, how the women forth marched over woods and over fields, over hills and over dales. wheresoever they found any man escaped, that was with melga the heathen king, the women loud laughed, and tore him all in pieces, and prayed for the soul, that never should good be to it. thus the british women killed many thousands, and thus they freed this kingdom of wanis and of melga. and constantin the brave marched to silchester, and held there his husting of all his british thanes, all the britons came to the meeting, and took constantin the noble, and made him king of britain-- much was then the mirth that was among men. and afterwards they gave him a wife, one wondrous fair, born of the highest, of britain the best of all. by this noble wife constantin had in this land three little sons. the first son had well nigh his father's name; constantin hight the king, constance hight the child. when this child was waxed, that it could ride, then his father caused him to be made a monk, through counsel of wicked men, and the child was a monk in winchester. after him was born another, who was the middle brother, he was named aurelius, his surname hight ambrosius. then was last of all born a child that was well disposed, he was named uther, his virtues were strong; he was the youngest brother, but he lived longer than the others. guencelm the archbishop, who toward god was full good, took charge of the two children, for love of the king. but alas! that their father might live no longer!--for he had good laws the while that he lived; but he was king here but twelve years, and then was the king dead�-hearken now through what chance. he had in his house a peoht, fair knight and most brave; he fared with the king, and with all his thanes by no other wise but as it were his brother. then became he so potent, to all his companions unlike; then thought he to betray constantin the powerful. he came before the king, and fell on his knees, and thus lied the traitor before his lord: "lord king, come forthright, and speak with cadal thy knight, and i will thee tell of strange speeches, such as thou never ere on earth heardest." then arose the king constantin, and went forth out with him. but alas! that constantin's knights knew it not! they proceeded so long forward that they came in an orchard. then said the traitor there: "lord, be we here." the traitor sat down, as if he would hold secret discourse, and he approached to the king, as a man doth in whispering. he grasped a knife very long, and the king therewith he pierced into the heart; and he himself escaped--there the king dead lay, and the traitor fled away. the tidings came to court, how the king had fared; then was mickle sorrow spread to the folk. then were the britons busy in thought, they knew not through anything what they might have for king, for the king's two sons, little they were both. ambrosie could scarcely ride on horse, and uther, his brother, yet still sucked his mother; and constance the eldest was monk in winchester; monk's clothes he had on, as one of his companions. then came to london all this landfolk, to their husting, and to advise them of a king, what wise they might do, and how they might take on, and which one of these children they might have for king. then chose this people aurelie ambrosie, to have for king over them. that heard vortiger, a crafty man and most wary; among the earls he stood, and firmly withstood it, and he thus said--sooth though it were not: "i will advise you counsel with the best; abide a fortnight, and come we eft right here, and i will say to you sooth words, so that with your eyes ye shall see, and your while well bestow; this same time we shall abide, and to our land the while ride, and hold amity and hold peace, freely in land." all the folk did as vortiger deemed; and he himself went as if he would go to his land, and turned right the way that into winchester lay. vortiger had welshland the half-part in his hand; forty knights good he had in his retinue. he proceeded to winchester, where he found constance, and spake with the abbot who governed the monastery where constance was monk, the king's son of britain. he went into the monastery with mild speech; he said that he would speak with constance. the abbot granted it to him, and he led him to the speech-house. thus spake vortiger with the monk then there: "constance, hearken my counsel, for now is thy father dead. there is ambrosie thy brother, and uther the other. now have the elders, the noblest in land, chosen aurelie--his surname is ambrosie--if they may through all things they will make him king; and uther, thy brother, yet sucketh his mother. but i have opposed them, and think to withsay, for i have been steward of all britain's land, and earl i am potent, unlike to my companions, and i have welshland half part in my hand; more i have alone than the others all clean. i am come to thee, for dearest of men thou art to me; if thou wilt swear to me oaths, i will take off thee these clothes, if thou wilt increase my land, and thy counsel place in my hand, and make me thy steward over all britain's land, and through my counsel do all thy deeds, and if thou wilt pledge me in hand, that i shall rule it all, i will through all things make thee britain's king." this monk sate well still, the speech went to him at his will. then answered the monk with much delight: "well worth thee, vortiger, that thou art come here; if evermore cometh the day that i may be king, all my counsel and all my land i will place in thine hand, and all that thou wilt do, my men shall accept it. and oaths i will swear to thee, that i will not deceive thee." thus said the monk; he mourned greatly how else it were, that he were monk; for to him were black clothes wondrously odious. vortiger was crafty and wary--that he made known everywhere--he took a cape of a knight of his, and on the monk he put it, and led him out of the place; he took a swain anon, and the black clothes put on him, and held secret discourse with the swain, as if it were the monk. monks passed upward, monks passed downward; they saw by the way the swain with monk's clothes; the hood hanged down as if he hid his crown; they all weened that it were their brother, who there sate so sorry in the speech-house, in the daylight, among all the knights. they came to their abbot, and greeted him in god's name: "lord, benedicite, we are come before thee, for strange it seemeth to us what vortiger thinketh in our speech-house, where he holdeth discourse, throughout this day no monk may come therein, except constance alone, and the knights all clean. sore we dread, that they him miscounsel." then answered the abbot; "nay, but they counsel him good; they bid him hold his hood (holy order), for now is his father dead." vortiger there abode the while constance away rode. vortiger up arose, from the monastery departed, and all his knight out went forth-right. the monks there ran thither anon, they weened to find constance; when they saw the clothes lie by the walls, then each to other lamented their brother. the abbot leapt on horse, and after vortiger rode, and soon gan overtake the earl vortiger. thus said the abbot to vortiger where he rode: "say me, thou mad knight, why dost thou so great wrong? thou takest from us our brother,--leave him, and take the other. take ambrosie the child, and make of him a king, and anger thou not saint benedict, nor do thou to him any wrong!" vortiger heard this--he was crafty and very wary;--soon he came back, and the abbot he took, and swore by his hand, that he would him hang, unless he him pledged, that he would forthright unhood constance the king's son of this land, and for such need he should be king of this country. the abbot durst no other, there he unhooded his brother, and the child gave the abbot in hand twenty ploughlands, and afterwards they proceeded forth into london. vortiger the high forbade his attendants, that they to no man should tell what they had in design. vortiger lay in london, until the same set day came, that the knights of this land should come to husting. at the day they came, many and numerous; they counselled, they communed, the stern warriors, that they would have ambrosie, and raise for king; for uther was too little--the yet he might suck--and constance was monk, who was eldest of them, and they would not for anything make a monk king. vortiger heard this, who was crafty and most wary, and leapt on foot as if it were a lion. none of the britons there knew what vortiger had done. he had in a chamber constance the dear, well bathed and clothed, and afterwards hid with twelve knights. then thus spake vortiger--he was of craft wary: "listen, lordings, the while that i speak of kings. i was in winchester, where i well sped, i spake with the abbot, who is a holy man and good, and said him the need that is come to this nation by constantin's death--therefore he is uneasy--and of constance the child, that he had holden. and i bade him for love of god, to take off the child's hood, and for such need he should be king in the country. and the abbot took his counsel, and did all that i bade him; and here i have his monks, who are good and chief, who shall witness bear before you all. lo! where here is the same child, make we hereof a king, and here i hold the crown that thereto behoveth, and whoso will this withsay, he shall it buy dear!" vortiger was most strong, the highest man of britain, was there never any so bold that his words durst deprecate. in the same town was the archbishop dead, and there was no bishop that forth on his way did not pass, nor monk nor any abbot, that he on his way did not ride, for they durst not for fear of god do there the wrong, to take the monk child, and make him britain's king. vortiger saw this--of all evil he was well ware, up he gan to stand, the crown he took in hand, and he set it upon constance--that was to him in thought. was there never any man that might there do christendom, that might do blessing upon the king, but vortiger alone did it clean for all! the beginning was unfair, and also was the end, he deserted god's hood (holy order), therefore he had sorrow! thus was constance king of this land, and vortiger was his steward. constance set all his kingdom in vortiger's hand, and he did all in the land, as he himself would. then saw vortiger--of much evil he was ware--that constance the king knew nothing of land (government?), for he had not learnt ever any learning, except what a monk should perform in his monastery. vortiger saw that--the worse was full nigh him!--oft he bethought him what he might do, how he might with leasing please the king. now thou mayest hear, how this traitor gan him fare. the best men of britain were all dead, now were the king's brothers both full little, and guencehn the archbishop therebefore was dead, and this land's king himself of the law knew nothing. vortiger saw this, and he came to the king, with mild speech his lord he gan greet: "hail be thou, constance, britain's lord! i am come thus nigh thee for much need, for to say to thee tidings that are come to land, of very great danger. now thee behoveth might, now weapons behove thee to defend thy country. here are chapmen arrived from other lands, as it is the custom; they have brought to me toll for their goods, and they have told me and plighted troth, that the king of norway will newly fare hither, and the danish king these danes will seek, and the king of russia, sternest of all knights, and the king of gothland with host most strong, and the king of frise--therefore it alarmeth me. the tidings are evil that are come to land; herefore i am most adread, for i know no good counsel, unless we may with might send after knights, that are good and strong, and that are well able in land, and fill thy castles with keen men, and so thou mightest defend thy kingdom against foreigners, and maintain thy worship with high strength. for there is no kingdom, so broad nor so long, that will not soon be taken if there are too few warriors." then answered the king--of land he knew nothing--"vortiger, thou art steward over all britain's land, and thou shalt it rule after thy will. send after knights that are good in fight; and take all in thine hand, my castles and my land, and do all thy will, and i will be still, except the single thing, that i will be called king." then laughed vortiger--he was of evil most ware--was he never so blithe ere in his life! vortiger took leave, and forth he gan pass, and so he proceeded through all britain's land, all the castles and all the land he set in his own hand, and the fealty he took ever where he came. and so he took his messengers, and sent to scotland, and ordered the peohtes, the knights best of all, three hundred to come to him, and he would well do to them. and the knights came to him thereafter well soon; thus spake the traitorous man: "knights, ye are welcome. i have in my hand all this regal land, with me ye shall go, and i will you love, and i will you bring before our king; ye shall have silver and gold, the best horses of this land, clothes, and fair wives; your will i will perform ye shall be to me dear, for the britons are hateful to me, loud and still i will do your will, if ye will in land hold me for lord." then forth-right answered the knights "we will do all thy will," and they gan proceed to constance the king. to the king came vortiger--of evil he was well ware--and said him of-- had done--"and here i have the peohtes, who shall be household knights; and i have most well stored all thy castles, and these foreign knights shall before us fight." the king commended all as vortiger purposed, but alas! that the king knew nothing of his thoughts, nor of his treachery, that he did soon thereafter! these knights were in court highly honoured, full two years with the king they dwelt there, and vortiger the steward was lord of them all. ever he said that the britons were not of use, but he said that the peohtes were good knights. ever were the britons deprived of goods, and the peohtes wielded all that they would. they had drink, they had meat, they had eke much bliss. vortiger granted them all that they would, and was to them as dear as their own life; so that they all spake, where they ate their meat, that vortiger were worthy to govern this realm throughout all things, better than three such kings! vortiger gave these men very much treasure. then befell it on a day, that vortiger lay at his inn; he took his two knights and sent after the peohtes, bade them come here, for they all should eat there. forth-right the knights came to him, to his inn, he tried them with words as they sate at the board, he caused draughts to be brought them of many kinds of drinks, they drank, they revelled, the day there forth passed. when they were so drunk that their shanks weakened, then spake vortiger what he had previously thought: "hearken now to me, knights, i will say to you forth-right of my mickle sorrow that i for you have mourned. the king delivered me this land for to be his steward. ye are to me liefest of all men alive, but i have not wealth to give my knights, for this king possesses all this land, and he is young and also strong, and all i must yield to him that i take of his land, and if i destroy his goods, i shall suffer the law, and mine own wealth i have spent, because i would please you. and now i must depart hence far to some king, serve him with peace, and gain wealth with him; i may not for much shame have here this abode, but forth i must go to foreign lands and if the day shall ever come that i may acquire wealth, and i may so well thrive, that ye come in the land where i am, i will well reward you with much worship. and have now all good day, for to-night i will go away, it is a great doubt whether ye see me evermore"--these knights knew not what the traitor thought vortiger was treacherous, for here he betrayed his lord, and the knights held it for sooth, what the traitor said vortiger ordered his swains to saddle his steeds, and named twelve men to lead with himself, to horse they went as if they would depart from the land. the peohtes saw that--the drunken knights--how vortiger would depart, herefore they had much care, they went to counsel, they went to communing, all they lamented their life exceedingly, because vortiger was so dear to them and thus said the peohtes, the drunken knights: "what may we now in counsel? who shall us now advise? who shall us feed, who shall us clothe, who shall be our lord at court? now vortiger is gone, we all must depart,--we will not for anything have a monk for king! but we will do well, forth-right go we to him, secretly and still, and do all our will, into his chamber, and drink of his beer when we have drunk, loudly revel we, and some shall go to the door, and with swords stand therebefore, and some forth-right take the king and his knights, and smite off the heads of them, and we ourselves have the court, and cause soon our lord vortiger to be overtaken, and afterwards through all things raise him to be king;�-then may we live as to us is befest of all." the knights proceeded to the king forth-right; they all went throughout the hall into the king's chamber, where he sate by the fire there was none that spake a word except gille callæt; thus he spake with the king whom he there thought to betray: "listen to me now, monarch, i will nothing lie to thee we have been in court highly honoured through thy steward, who hath governed all this land, he hath us well fed, he hath us well clothed and in sooth i may say to thee, with him we ate now to day, but sore it us grieveth, we had nought to drink, and now we are in thy chamber give us drink of thy beer" then gave the king answer "that shall be your least care, for ye shall have to drink the while that you think good" men brought them drink, and they gan to revel, thus said gille callæt--at the door he was full active "where be ye, knights? bestir you forth right!" and they seized the king, and smote off his head, and all his knights they slew forth-right and took a messenger, and sent toward london, that he should ride quickly after vortiger, that he should come speedily, and take the kingdom, for that he should know through all things, slain was constance the king. vortiger heard that, who was traitor full secret; thus he ordered the messenger back forth-right anon, and bade them "well to keep all our worship that never one depart out of the place, but all abide me, until that i arrive, and so i will divide this land among us all." forth went the messenger, and vortiger took anon and sent over london, and ordered them quickly and full soon, that they all should come to husting. when the burgh-men were come, who were most bold, then spake vortiger, who was traitor full secret,--much he gan to weep, and sorrowfully to sigh, but it was in his head, and not in his heart. then asked him the burgh-men, who were most bold. "lord vortiger, what is that thou mournest? thou art no woman so sore to weep." then answered vortiger, who was traitor full secret: "i will tell you piteous speeches, of much calamity that is come to the land. i have been in this realm your king's steward, and spoken with him, and loved him as my life. but he would not at the end any counsel approve, he loved the peohtes, the foreign knights, and he would not do good to us, nor anywhere fair receive, but to them he was gracious, ever in their lives i might not of the king have remuneration (or wages), i spent my wealth, the while that it lasted, and afterwards i took leave to go to my land, and when i had my tribute, come again to court. when the peohtes saw that the king had no knights, nor ever any kind of man that would aught for them do, they took their course into the king's chamber i say you through all things, they have slain the king, and think to destroy this kingdom and us all, and will forth-right make them king of a peoht. but i was his steward, avenge i will my lord, and every brave man help me to do that. on i will with my gear, and forth-right i will go." thirty hundred knights marched out of london; they rode and they ran, forth with vortiger, until they approached where the peohtes dwelt. and he took one of his knights, and sent to the peohtes, and said to them that he came, if they would him receive. the peohtes were blithe for their murder (that they had committed), and they took their good gear�-there was neither shield nor spear vortiger weaponed all his knights forth right, and the peohtes there came, and brought the head of the king. when vortiger saw this head, then fell he full nigh to the ground, as if he had grief most of all men, with his countenance he gan he, but his heart was full blithe. then said vortiger, who was traitor full secret: "every brave man lay on them with sword, and avenge well in the land the sorrow of our lord!" none they captured, but all they them slew; and proceeded to the inn, into winchester, and slew their swains, and their chamber-servants, their cooks, and their boys, all they deprived of life-day. thus faired the tidings of constance the king. and the worldly-wise men took charge of the other children; for they had care of vortiger they took ambrosie and uther, and led them over sea, into the less britain, and delivered them fairly to biduz the king. and he them fairly received, for he was their kin and their friend, and with much joy the children he brought up; and so well many years with him they were there. vortiger in this land was raised to be king; all the strong burghs stood in his hand; five-and-twenty years he was king here. he was mad, he was wild, he was cruel, he was bold; of all things he had his will, except the peohtes were never still, but ever they advanced over the north end, and afflicted this kingdom with prodigious harm, and avenged their kin enow, whom vortiger slew here. in the meantime came tidings into this land, that aurelie was knight, who was named ambrosie, and also was uther, good knight and most wary, and would come to this land, and lead an army most strong. this was many times a saying oft repeated; oft came these tidings to vortiger the king; therefore it oft shamed him, and his heart angered, for men said it everywhere:--"now will come ambrosie and uther, and will avenge soon constance, the king of this land; there is no other course, avenge they will their brother, and slay vortiger, and burn him to dust; thus they will set all this land in their own hand!" so spake each day all that passed by the way. vortiger bethought him what he might do, and thought to send messengers into other lands, after foreign knights, who might him defend; and thought to be wary against ambrosie and uther. in the meantime came tidings to vortiger the king, that over sea were come men exceeding strange; in the thames to land they were come; three ships good came with the flood, therein three hundred knights, kings as it were, without (besides) the shipmen who were there within. these were the fairest men that ever here came, but they were heathens--that was the more harm! vortiger sent to them, and asked how they were disposed (their business); if they sought peace, and recked of his friendship? they answered wisely, as well they knew, and said that they would speak with the king, and lovingly him serve, and hold him for lord; and so they gan wend forth to the king. then was vortiger the king in canterbury, where he with his court nobly diverted themselves; there these knights came before the sovereign. as soon as they met him, they greeted him fair, and said that they would serve him in this land, if he would them with right retain. then answered vortiger--of each evil he was ware--"in all my life that i have lived, by day nor by night saw i never ere such knights; for your arrival i am blithe, and with me ye shall remain, and your will i will perform, by my quick life! but first i would of you learn, through your sooth worship, what knights ye be, and whence ye are come, and whether ye will be true, old and eke new?" then answered the one who was the eldest brother: "listen to me now, lord king, and i will make known to you what knights we are, and whence we are come. i hight hengest; hors is my brother; we are of alemaine, a land noblest of all, of the same end that angles is named. in our land are strange tidings; after fifteen years the folk is assembled, all our nation-folk, and cast their lots; upon whom that it falleth, he shall depart from the land. the five shall remain, the sixth shall forth proceed out of the country to a foreign land; be he man ever so loved, he shall forth depart. for there is folk very much, more than they would desire; the women go there with child as the wild deer, every year they bear child there! that is fallen on us, that we should depart; we might not remain, for life nor for death, nor for ever anything, for fear of the sovereign. thus we fared there, and therefore are we now here, to seek under heaven land and good lord. now thou hast heard, lord king, sooth of us through all things." then answered vortiger�-of each evil he was ware�-"i believe thee, knight, that thou sayest to me right sooth. and what are your creeds, that ye in believe, and your dear god, whom ye worship?" then answered hengest, fairest of all knights�-in all this kingdom is not a knight so tall nor so strong:�-"we have good gods, whom we love in our mind, whom we have hope in, and serve them with might. the one hight phebus; the second saturnus; the third hight woden, who is a mighty god; the fourth hight jupiter, of all things he is aware; the fifth hight mercurius, who is the highest over us; the sixth hight appolin, who is a god brave; the seventh hight tervagant, a high god in our land. yet (in addition) we have a lady, who is high and mighty, high she is and holy, therefore courtiers love her--she is named frea--well she them treateth. but among all our dear gods whom we shall serve, woden had the highest law in our elders' days; he was dear to them even as their life, he was their ruler, and did to them worship; the fourth day in the week they gave him for his honour. to the thunder (jupiter) they gave thursday, because that it may help them; to frea, their lady, they gave her friday; to saturnus they gave saturday; to the sun they gave sunday; to the moon they gave monday; to tidea they gave tuesday." thus said hengest, fairest of all knights. then answered vortiger�-of each evil he was ware--"knights, ye are dear to me, but these tidings are loathsome to me; your creeds are wicked, ye believe not on christ, but ye believe on the worse, whom god himself cursed; your gods are of nought, in hell they lie beneath. but nevertheless i will retain you in my power, for northward are the peohtes, knights most brave, who oft into my land lead host most strong, and oft do me much shame, and therefore i have grief. and if ye will me avenge, and procure me their heads, i will give you land, much silver and gold." then answered hengest, fairest of all knights: "if saturnus so will it, and woden, our lord, on whom we believe, it shall all thus be!" hengest took leave, and gan wend to his ships; there was many a strong knight; they drew their ships upon the land. forth went the warriors to vortiger the king; hengest went before, and hors, next of all to him; then the alemainish men, who were noble in deeds; and afterwards they sent to him (vortiger) their brave saxish knights, hengest's kinsmen, of his old race. they came into hall, fairly all; better were clothed and better were fed hengest's swains, than vortiger's thanes! then was vortiger's court held in contempt! the britons were sorry for such a sight. it was no whit long before five knights' sons who had travelled quickly came to the king; they said to the king new tidings: "now forth-right the peohtes are come; through thy land they run, and harry, and burn, and all the north end fell to the ground; hereof thou must advise thee, or we all shall be dead." the king bethought him what he might do, he sent to the inn, after all his men. there came hengest, there came hors, there came many a man full brave; there came the saxish men, hengest's kinsmen, and the alemainish knights, who are good in fight. the king vortiger saw this; blithe was he then there. the peohtes did, as was their custom, on this side of the humber they were come. and the king vortiger of their coming was full aware; together they came (encountered), and many there slew; there was fight most strong, combat most stern! the peohtes were oft accustomed to overcome vortiger, and so they thought then to do, but it befell then in other wise, for it was safety to them (the britons) that hengest was there, and the strong knights who came from saxland, and the brave alemainish, who came thither with hors, for very many peohtes they slew in the fight; fiercely they fought, the fated fell! when the noon was come, then were the peohtes overcome, and quickly away they fled, on each side they forth fled, and all day they fled, many and without number. the king vortiger went back to lodging, and ever were nigh to him hors and hengest. hengest was dear to the king, and to him he gave lindesey, and he gave hors treasures enow, and all their knights he treated exceeding well, and thus a good time it stood in the same wise. the peohtes durst never come into the land, no robbers nor outlaws, that they were not soon slain; and hengest exceeding fairly served the king. then befell it on a time, that the king was very blithe, on a high-day, among his people. hengest bethought him what he might do, for he would hold secret discourse with the king; he went before the king, and gan greet fair. the king up stood, and set him by himself; they drank, they revelled--bliss was among them. then quoth hengest to the king: "lord, hearken tidings, and i will tell thee of secret discourse, if thou wilt well listen to my advice, and not hold in wrath what i well teach." and the king answered as hengest would it. then said hengest, fairest of all knights: "lord, i have many a day advanced thy honour, and been thy faithful man in thy rich court, and in each fight the highest of thy knights. and i have often heard anxious whisperings among thy courtiers; they hate thee exceedingly, unto the bare death, if they it durst show. oft they speak stilly, and discourse with whispers, of two young men, that dwell far hence; the one hight uther, the other ambrosie--the third hight constance who was king in this land, and he here was slain through traitorous usage. the others will now come, and avenge their brother, all consume thy land, and slay thy people, thyself and thy folk drive out of land. and thus say thy men, where they sit together, because the twain brothers are both royally born, of androein's race, these noble britons; and thus thy folk stilly condemn thee. but i will advise thee of thy great need, that thou procure knights that are good in fight; and give to me a castle, or a royal burgh, that i may be in, the while that i live. for i am for thee hated--therefore i ween to be dead, fare wherever i fare, i am never without care, unless i be fast inclosed in a castle. if thou wilt do this for me, i will it receive with love, and quickly i will send after my wife, who is a saxish woman, of wisdom excellent, and after my daughter rowenne, who is most dear to me. when i have my wife, and my kinsmen, and i am in thy land fully settled, the better i will serve thee, if thou grantest me this." then answered vortiger--of each evil he was ware--"take quickly knights, and send after thy wife, and after thy children, the young and the old, and after thy kin, and receive them with joy; when they to thee come, thou shalt have riches to feed them nobly, and worthily to clothe them. but i will not give to thee any castle or burgh, for men would reproach me in my kingdom, for ye hold the heathen law that stood in your elders' days, and we hold christ's law, and will ever in our days." the yet spake hengest, fairest of all knights: "lord, i will perform thy will, here and over all, and do all my deeds after thy counsel. now will i speedily send after my wife, and after my daughter, who is to me very dear, and after brave men, the best of my kin. and thou give me so much land, to stand in mine own hand, as a bull's hide will each way overspread, far from each castle, amidst a field. then nor the poor nor the rich may blame thee, that thou hast given any noble burgh to a heathen man." and the king granted him as hengest yearned. hengest took leave, and forth he gan pass, and after his wife he sent messengers, to his own land, and he himself went over this land, to seek a broad field whereon he might well spread his fair hide. he came to a spot, in a fair field, he had obtained a hide to his need, of a wild bull that was wondrously strong. he had a wise man, who well knew of craft, who took this hide, and laid it on a board, and whet his shears, as if he would shear. of the hide he carved a thong, very small and very long, the thong was not very broad, but as it were a thread of twine; when the thong was all slit, it was wondrously long, about therewith he encompassed a great deal of land. he began to dig a ditch very mickle, there upon a stone wall, that was strong over all, a burgh he areared, mickle and lofty. when the burgh was all ready, then shaped he to it a name, he named it full truly kaer-carrai in british, and english knights they called it thongchester. now and evermore the name standeth there, and for no other adventure had the burgh the name, until that danish men came, and drove out the britons; the third name they set there, and lanecastel (lancaster) it named; and for such events the town had these three names. in the meantime arrived hither hengest's wife with her ships; she had for companions fifteen hundred riders; with her came, to wit, mickle good ships; therein came much of hengest's kin, and rowenne, his daughter, who was to him most dear. it was after a while, that that time came, that the burgh was completed with the best of all. and hengest came to the king, and asked him to a banquet, and said that he had prepared an inn against him (his coming) and bade that he should come thereto, and he should be fairly received. and the king granted him as hengest it would. it came to the time that the king gan forth proceed, with the dearest men of all his folk; forth he gan proceed until he came to the burgh. he beheld the wall up and down over all; all it liked him well, that he on looked. he went into the hall, and all his knights with him; trumps they blew, games men gan to call, boards they ordered to be spread, knights sate thereat, they ate, they drank, joy was in the burgh!�-when the folk had eaten, then was the better befallen to them. hengest went into the inn, where rowenne dwelt; he caused her to be clad with excessive pride; all the clothes that she had on, they were most excellent, they were good with the best, embroidered with gold. she bare in her hand a golden bowl, filled with wine, that was one wondrous good. high-born men led her into the hall before the king, fairest of all things! rouwenne sate on her knee, and called to the king, and thus first she said in english land: "lord king, wassail! for thy coming i am glad." the king this heard, and knew not what she said, the king vortiger asked his knights soon, what were the speech that the maid spake. then answered keredic, a knight most admirable; he was the best interpreter that ere came here: "listen to me now, my lord king, and i will make known to thee what rowenne saith, fairest of all women. it is the custom in saxland, wheresoever any people make merry in drink, that friend sayeth to his friend, with fair comely looks, 'dear friend, wassail!'--the other sayeth, 'drinchail!' the same that holds the cup, he drinketh it up; another full cup men thither bring, and give to his comrade. when the full cup is come, then kiss they thrice. these are the good customs in saxland, and in alemaine they are accounted noble!" vortiger heard this�-of each evil he was ware--and said it in british, for he knew no english: "maiden rouwenne, drink then blithely!" the maid drank up the wine, and let do (put) other wine therein, and gave to the king, and thrice him kissed. and through the same people the custom came to this land of wassail and drinchail�-many a man thereof is glad' rouwenne the fair sate by the king; the king beheld her longingly, she was dear to him in heart, oft he kissed her, oft he embraced her; all his mind and his might inclined towards the maiden. the worse was there full nigh, who in each game is full cruel; the worse who never did good, he troubled the king's mood; he mourned full much, to have the maiden for wife. that was a most loathly thing, that the christian king should love the heathen maid, to the harm of his people! the maiden was dear to the king, even as his own life; he prayed to hengest, his chieftain, that he should give him the maid-child. hengest found in his counsel to do what the king asked him; he gave him rouwenne, the woman most fair. to the king it was pleasing; he made her queen, all after the laws that stood in the heathen days; was there no christendom, where the king took the maid, nor priest, nor any bishop, nor was god's book ever handled, but in the heathen fashion he wedded her, and brought her to his bed' maiden he had her, and ample gift bestowed on her; when he had disgraced himself on her, he gave her london and kent. the king had three sons, who were men exceeding fair; the eldest hight vortimer,--pascent, and catiger. garengan was an earl, who possessed kent long, and his father before him, and he afterwards through his kin (by inheritance), when he best weened to hold his land, then had it the queen, and hengest in his hand; strange it seemed to the knight, what the king thought. the king loved the heathens and harmed the christians, the heathens had all this land to rule under their hand, and the king's three sons oft suffered sorrow and care. their mother was then dead, therefore they had the less counsel--their mother was a woman most good, and led a life very christian, and their stepmother was heathen, hengest's daughter. it was not long but a while, that the king made a feast, exceeding great, the heathens he brought thereto, he weened most well to do; thither came thanes, knights and swains. and all that knew of book (the christians) forsook the feast, for the heathen men were highest in the court, and the christian fold was held for base; the heathens were blithe, for the king loved them greatly. hengest bethought him what he might do; he came to the king, with a hailing (salutation), and drank to the king. then thus spake hengest, fairest of all knights who lived of heathen law in those days: "hearken to me now, lord king, thou art to me dear through all things; thou hast my daughter, who is to me very dear, and i am to thee among folk as if i were thy father. hearken to my instruction, it shall be to thee lief, for i wish chiefly to help counsel thee. thy court hate thee on my account, and i am detested for thee, and thee hate kings, earls and thanes; they fare in thy land with a host exceeding strong. if thou wilt avenge thee with much worship, and do woe to thy enemies, send after my son octa, and after another, ebissa, his wed-brother. these are the noblest men that ever led army; and give them of thy land in the north end. they are of mickle might, and strong in fight; they will defend thy land well with the best; then mightest thou in joy thy life all spend, with hawks and with hounds court-play love; needest thou never have care of foreign people." then answered vortiger--of each evil he was ware--"send thy messengers into saxland, after thy son octa, and after thy friends more. cause him to know well, that he send his writs after all the knights that are good in fight, over all saxland, that they come to my need, and though he bring ten thousand men, all they shall be welcome to me." hengest heard this, fairest of all knights, then was he so blithe as he was never in his life. hengest sent his messengers into saxland, and bade octa come, and his wed-brother ebissa, and all of their kindred that they might gain, and all the knights that they might get. octa sent messengers over three kingdoms, and bade each brave man speedily to come to him, who would obtain land, or silver or gold. they came soon to the army, as hail that falleth, that was to wit, with three hundred ships. forth went with octa thirty thousand and eke more, brave men and keen; and ebissa, his companion, afterwards arrived with numberless folk, and he led to wit an hundred and fifty ships; thereafter arrived five and five, by six, by seven, by ten, and by eleven; and thus the heathen warriors they arrived toward this land, to the court of this king, so that this land was so full of foreign people, that there was no man so wise, nor so quick-witted, that might separate the christians and the heathens, for the heathens were so rife, and ever they speedily came! when the britons saw that sorrow was in the land, therefore they were sorry, and in their heart dreary, and proceeded to the king, the highest of this land, and thus to him said with sorrowful voice: "listen to us, lord king, of our discourse; thou art through us (by our means) bold king in this britain, and thou hast procured to thee harm and much sin; brought heathen folk--yet it may thee harm;--and thou forsakest god's law, for foreign folk, and wilt not worship our lord, for these heathen knights. and we would pray thee, for all god's peace, that thou leave them, and drive from thy land. if thou else (otherwise) mightest not, we will make mickle fight, and drive them from land, or fell them down, or we ourselves will lie slain, and let the heathen folk hold this realm, possess it with joy, if they may it win. and if they all are heathen, and thou alone christian, they will never long have thee for king, except thou in thy days receive the heathen law, and desert the high god, and praise their idols. then shalt thou perish in this world's realm, and thy wretched soul sink to hell; then hast thou dearly bought the love of thy bride!" then answered vortiger--of each evil he was ware:--"i will not leave them, by my quick life! for hengest is hither come, he is my father, and i his son; and i have for mistress his daughter rouwenne, and i have wedded her, and had in my bed, and afterwards i sent after octa, and after more of his companions;--how might i for shame shun them so soon, and drive from land my dear friends?" then answered the britons, with sorrow bound: "we will nevermore obey thy commands, nor come to thy court, nor hold thee for king, but we will hate thee with great strength, and all thine heathen friends with harm greet. be christ now, that is god's son, our help!" forth went the earls, forth went the lords, forth went the bishops, and the book-learned men, forth went the thanes, forth went the swains, all the britons, until they came to london. there was many a noble briton at the husting, and the king's three sons they all were come thither; there was vortimer, pascent, and catiger, and very many others, that came with the brothers; all the folk came thither, that loved the christendom. and all the rich men betook them to counsel, and took the king's eldest son, who was come to the husting, and with mickle song of praise elevated him to be king. then was vortimer christian king there, and vortiger, his father, followed the heathens. all thus it happened, as the counsel was done. and vortimer, the young king, was most keen through all things; he sent hengest and hors his brother, unless speedily they departed from this realm, he would evil do to them, both blind and hang them; and his own father he would destroy, and all the heathens, with great strength. then answered hengest, fairest of all knights: "here we will dwell winter and summer, ride and run with the king vortiger; and all that with vortimer go, they shall have sorrow and care!" vortimer heard that--he was wise and most wary--and caused a host to be assembled over all this land, that all the christian folk should come to his court. vortimer, the young king, in london held his husting; the king ordered each man that loved the christendom, that they all should hate the heathens, and bring the heads of them to vortimer the king, and have twelve pennies for reward, for his good deed. vortimer the young marched out of london, and pascent, his brother, and catiger, the other; to them was come word, that hengest lay at epiford, upon the water that men name darwent. there came together sixty thousand men; on one half was vortimer, pascent, and catiger, and all the folk that loved our lord; on the other half were chiefs with vortiger the king, hengest and his brother, and many thousand others. together they came, and combated with might; there fell to the ground two and thirty hundred of hengest's men; and hors was wounded. catiger came there, and with his spear ran him through, and hors forth-right there wounded catiger. and hengest gan to flee with all his followers, and vortiger the king fled forth as the wind; they flew forth into kent, and vortimer went after them; there upon the seashore hengest suffered pain; there they gan to halt, and fought very long; five thousand there were slain, and deprived of lifeday, of vortiger's men, of the heathen race. hengest bethought him what he might do; he saw there beside a haven very large, many good ships there stood in the sea-flood. they saw on their right hand an island exceeding fair, it is called thanet; thitherward they were brisk; there the saxish men sought the sea, and anon gan pass into the island. and the britons followed after them, with many kind of crafts, and surrounded them on each side; with ships and with boats they gan to smite and shoot. oft was hengest woe, and never worse than then; unless he did other counsel he should there be dead. he took a spear-shaft, that was long and very tough, and put on the end a fair mantle, and called to the britons, and bade them abide; he would speak with them, and yearn the king's grace, and send vortiger with peace to the land, to make this agreement that he might depart without more shame into saxland. the britons went to the land, to vortimer their king, and hengest spake with vortiger, in most secret converse. vortiger went on the land, and bare a wand in his hand. the while that they spake of peace the saxons leapt into their ships, and drew up high their sails to the top, and proceeded with weather in the wild sea, and left in this land their wives and their children, and vortiger the king, who loved them through all things. with much grief of mind vortiger gan away fare; so long they proceeded, that in saxland they were (arrived). then were in britain the britons most bold; they assumed to them mickle mood, and did all that seemed good to them; and vortimer, the young king, was doughty man through all things. and vortiger, his father, proceeded over this britain, but it was no man so poor, that did not revile him, and so he gan to wander full five years. and his son vortimer dwelt here powerful king, and all this nation loved him greatly. he was mild to each man, and taught the folk god's law, the young and the old, how they should hold christendom. he sent letters to rome, to the excellent pope, who was named saint romain�-all christendom he made glad.--he took two bishops, holy men they were both, germain and louis, of auxerre and of troyes; they proceeded out of rome, so that they hither came. then was vortimer so blithe as he was never ere here; he and all his knights went forth-right on their bare feet towards the bishops, and with much mirth mouths there kissed. now mayest thou hear of the king vortimer, how he spake with saint germain,�-for their coming he was glad. "listen to me, lordings, i am king of this people; i hight vortimer, my brother hight catiger; and vortiger hight our father�-miscounsel followeth him! he hath brought into this land heathen people; but we have put them to flight, as our full foes, and felled with weapon many thousands of them, and sent them over sea-stream, so that they never shall come again. and we shall in land worship our lord, comfort god's folk, and friendly it maintain, and be mild to the land-tillers; churches we shall honour, and heathendom hate. each good man shall have his right, if god it will grant, and each thral and each slave be set free. and here i give to you in hand each church-land all free; and i forgive to each widow her lord's testament, and each shall love other as though they were brothers. and thus we shall in our day put down hengest's laws, and him and his heathendom that he hither brought, and deceived my father through his treacherous crafts; through his daughter rowenne he betrayed my father. and my father so evilly began, that he shunned the christendom, and loved the heathen laws too much, which we shall avoid the while that we live." then answered saint germain�-for such words he was glad:�-"i thank my lord, who shaped the daylight, that he such mercy sent to mankind!" these bishops proceeded over this land, and set it all in god's hand, and the christendom they righted, and the folk thereto instructed; and then soon thereafter they departed to rome, and said to the pope, who was named romain, how they had done here, restored the christendom. and thus it stood a time in the same wise. go we yet to vortiger--of all kings be he most wretched!--he loved rowenne, of the heathen race, hengest's daughter, she seemed to him well soft. rowenne bethought her what she might do, how she might avenge her father and her friends' death. oft she sent messengers to vortimer the king; she sent him treasures of many a kind, of silver and of gold, the best of any land; she asked his favour, that she might here dwell with vortiger his father, and follow his counsels. the king for his father's request granted to her her prayer, except that she should do well, and love the christendom; all that the king yearned, all she it granted. but alas! that vortimer was not aware of her thought; alas! that the good king of her thought knew nothing; that he knew not the treachery that the wicked woman thought! it befell on a time she betook her to counsel, that she would go to the king vortimer, and do by his counsel all her need, and at what time she might do well, and receive the christendom. forth she gan ride to vortimer the king; when she him met, fair she greeted him: "hail be thou, lord king, britain's darling! i am come to thee; christendom i will receive, on the same day that thou thyself deemest fit." then was vortimer the king blithe through all things; he weened that it were sooth what the wretch said. trumpets there blew, bliss was in the court; forth men brought the water before the king; they sate then at the board with much bliss. when the king had eaten, then went the thanes-men to meat; in hall they drank; harps there resounded. the treacherous rowenne went to a tun, wherein was placed the king's dearest wine. she took in hand a bowl of red gold, and she gan to pour out on the king's bench. when she saw her time, she filled her vessel with wine, and before all the company she went to the king, and thus the treacherous woman hailed him (drank his health): "lord king, wassail, for thee i am most joyful!" hearken now the great treachery of the wicked woman, how she gan there betray the king vortimer! the king received her fair, to his own destruction. vortimer spake british, and rowenne saxish; to the king it seemed game enow, for her speech he laughed. hearken how she took on, this deceitful woman! in her bosom she bare, beneath her teats, a golden phial filled with poison; and the wicked rowenne drank (or drenched) the bowl, until she had half done, after the king's will. the while that the king laughed, she drew out the phial; the bowl she set to her chin, the poison she poured in the wine, and afterwards she delivered the cup to the king; the king drank all the wine, and the poison therein. the day forth passed, bliss was in the court, for vortimer the good king of the treachery knew nothing, for he saw rowenne hold the bowl, and drink half of the same wine that she had put therein. when it came to the night, then separated the courtiers; and the evil rowenne went to her inn, and all her knights with her forth-right. then ordered she her swains, and eke the thanes all, that they in haste their horse should saddle; and they most still to steal out of the burgh, and proceed all by night to thwongchester forth-right, and there most fast to inclose them in a castle, and lie to vortiger, that his son would besiege him. and vortiger the false king believed the leasing. now understood vortimer, his son, that he had taken poison; might no leechcraft help him any whit. he took many messengers, and sent over his land, and bade all his knights to come to him forth-right. when the folk was arrived, then was the king exceeding ill; then asked the king their peace, and thus he spake with them all: "of all knights are ye best that serve any king; there is of me no other hap, but that speedily i be dead. here i deliver you my land, all my silver and all my gold, and all my treasures--your worship is the greater. and ye forth-right send after knights, and give them silver and gold, and hold ye yourselves your land, and avenge you, if ye can, of saxish men; for when as i be departed, hengest will make care to you. and take ye my body, and lay in a chest, and carry me to the sea strand, where saxish men will come on land; anon as they know me there, away they will go; neither alive nor dead dare they abide me!" among all this discourse the good king died; there was weeping, there was lament, and piteous cries! they took the king's body, and carried to london, and beside belyns-gate buried him fair; and carried him no whit as the king ordered. thus lived vortimer, and thus he ended there. then the britons fell into evil counsel; they took vortiger anon, and delivered him all this kingdom; there was a well rueful thing, now was eft vortiger king! vortiger took his messengers, and sent to saxland, and greeted well hengest, fairest of all knights, and bade him in haste to come to this land, and with him should bring here a hundred riders. "for that know thou through all things, that dead is vortimer the king, and safe thou mayest hither come, for dead is vortimer my son. it is no need for thee to bring with thee much folk, least our britons eft be angry, so that sorrow eft come between you." hengest assembled a host of many kind of land, so that he had to wit seven hundred ships, and each ship he filled with three hundred knights; in the thames at london hengest came to land. the tidings came full soon to vortiger the king, that hengest was in haven with seven hundred ships. oft was vortiger woe, but never worse than then, and the britons were sorry, and sorrowful in heart; they knew not in the worlds-realm counsel that were to them pleasing. hengest was of evil ware--that he well showed there--he took soon his messengers, and sent to the king, and greeted vortiger the king with words most fair, and said that he was come as a father should to his son; with peace and with friendship he would dwell in amity; peace he would love, and wrong he would shun; peace he would have, peace he would hold; and all this nation he would love, and love vortiger the king through all things. but he had brought, in this land, out of saxland, seven hundred ships of heathen folk, "who are the bravest of all men that dwell under the sun, and i will," quoth hengest, "lead them all to the king, at a set day, before all his people. and the king shall arise, and choose of the knights two hundred knights, to lead to his fight, who shall guard the king preciously through all things. and afterwards the others shall depart to their land, with peace and with amity, again to saxland; and i will remain with the best of all men, that is vortiger the king, whom i love through all things." the tidings came to the britons how hengest them promised; then were they fain for his fair words, and set they peace and set amity to such a time that the king on a day would see this folk. hengest heard that, fairest of all knights; then was he so blithe as he was never ere in life, for he thought to deceive the king in his realm. here became hengest wickedest of knights; so is every man that deceiveth one, who benefits him. who would ween, in this worlds-realm, that hengest thought to deceive the king who had his daughter! for there is never any man, that men may not over-reach with treachery. they took an appointed day, that these people should come them together with concord and with peace, in a plain that was pleasant beside ambresbury; the place was aelenge, now hight it stonehenge. there hengest the traitor either by word or by writ made known to the king, that he would come with his forces, in honour of the king, but he would not bring in retinue but three hundred knights, the wisest men of all that he might find. and the king should bring as many on his side bold thanes, and who should be the wisest of all that dwelt in britain, with their good vestments, all without weapons, that no evil should happen to them, through confidence of the weapons. thus they it spake, and eft they it brake, for hengest the traitor thus gan he teach his comrades, that each should take a long saex (knife), and lay by his shank, within his hose, where he it might hide. when they came together, the saxons and britons, then quoth hengest, most deceitful of all knights: "hail be thou, lord king, each is to thee thy subject! if ever any of thy men hath weapon by his side, send it with friendship far from ourselves, and be we in amity, and speak we of concord; how we may with peace our lives live." thus the wicked man spake there to the britons. then answered vortiger--here he was too unwary�-"if here is any knight so wild, that hath weapon by his side, he shall lose the hand through his own brand, unless he soon send it hence." their weapons they sent away, then had they nought in hand;�-knights went upward, knights went downward, each spake with other as if he were his brother. when the britons were mingled with the saxons, then called hengest, of knights most treacherous, "take your saexes, my good warriors, and bravely bestir you, and spare ye none!" noble britons were there, but they knew not of the speech, what the saxish men said them between. they drew out the saexes, all aside; they smote on the right side, they smote on the left side, before and behind they laid them to the ground, all they slew that they came nigh; of the king's men there fell four hundred and five�-woe was the king alive! then hengest grasped him with his grim gripe, and drew him to him by the mantle, so that the strings brake. and the saxons set on him, and would the king kill, and hengest gan him defend, and would not suffer it; but he held him full fast, the while the fight lasted. there was many noble briton bereaved of the life! some they fled quickly over the broad plain, and defended them with stones, for weapons had they none. there was fight exceeding hard, there fell many a good knight! there was a bold churl of salisbury come, he bare on his back a great strong club. then was there a noble earl, named aldolf, knight with the best, he possessed gloucester, he leapt to the churl, as if it were a lion, and took from him the club, that he bare on his back; whomsoever he smote therewith, there forth-right he died; before and behind he laid them to the ground. three and fifty there he slew and afterwards drew towards a steed, he leapt upon the steed, and quickly gan him ride, he rode to gloucester, and the gates locked full fast. and anon forth-right caused his knights to arm, and marched over all the land, and took what they found, they took cattle, they took corn, and all that they found alive, and brought to the burgh with great bliss; the gates they closed fast, and well them guarded. let we it thus stand, and speak we of the king. the saxons leapt towards him, and would kill the king, but hengest called forth-right, "stop, my knights, ye shall him not destroy; for us he hath had much care, and he hath for queen my daughter who is fair. but all his burghs he shall deliver to us, if he will enjoy his life, or else is sorrow given to him." then was vortiger fast bound, gyves exceeding great they put on his feet, he might not ever bite meat, nor speak with any friend, ere he had to them sworn upon relic that was choice, that he would deliver them all this kingdom, in hand, burghs and castles, and all his kingdoms. and all so he did, as it was deemed. and hengest took in his hand all this rich kingdom, and divided among his people much of this land. he gave an earl all kent, as it lay by london, he gave his steward essex, and on his chamberlain he bestowed middlesex. the knights received it, and a while they held it, the while vortiger proceeded over this land, and delivered to hengest his noble burghs. and hengest forth-right placed his knights therein, the while much of the baser people lay in sussex, and in middlesex much of the race, and in essex their noblest folk. the meat they carried off, all that they found, they violated the women, and god's law brake, they did in the land all that they would. the britons saw that, that mischief was in the land, and how the saxish men were come to them. the britons shaped to the land a name for the shame of saxish men, and for the treachery that they had done, and for that cause that they with knives bereaved them of life, then called they all the land east-sex and west-sex, and the third middle-sex. vortiger the king gave them all this land, so that a turf of land did not remain to him in hand. and vortiger himself fled over severn, far into welsh-land, and there he gan tarry, and his retinue with him, that poor was become. and he had in hoard treasure most large, he caused his men to ride wide and far, and caused to be summoned to him men of each kind, whosoever would yearn his fee with friendship. that heard the britons, that heard the scots, they came to him riding, thereafter full soon; on each side thither they gan ride, many a noble man's son, for gold and for treasure. when he had together sixty thousand men, then assembled he the nobles that well could advise: "good men, say me counsel, for to me is great need, where i might in wilderness work a castle, wherein i might live with my men, and hold it against hengest with great strength, until that i might the better win my burghs, and avenge me of my enemies who felled my friends, and have all my kingdom wrested out of my hand, and thus driven me out, my full foes?" then answered a wise man, who well could counsel: "listen now to me, lord king, and i will show to thee a good thing; upon the mount of reir i will advise, that thou work a castle with strong stone wall, for there thou mightest dwell, and live with joy; and yet thou hast in thy hand much silver and gold, to maintain thy people who shall thee help, and so thou mightest in life live best of all." then answered the king: "let it be made known in haste, over my numerous host, that i will go to the mount of reir, and rear there a castle." forth went the king, and the host with him; when they thither came, a dyke they began soon; horns there blew, machines hewed; lime they gan to burn, and over the land to run, and all west welsh-land set in vortiger's hand; all they it took, that they nigh came. when the dyke was dug, and thoroughly deepened, then began they a wall on the dyke over all, and they laid together lime and stone; of machines there was plenty�-five-and-twenty hundred! in the day they laid the wall, in the night it fell over all, in the morrow they reared it, in the night it gan to tumble! full a se'nnight so it them served, each day they raised it, and each night it gan fall! then was the king sorry, and sorrowful through all things, so was all the host terribly afraid; for ever they looked when hengest should come upon them. the king was full sorry, and sent after sages, after world-wise men, who knew wisdom, and bade them cast lots, and try incantations, try the truth with their powerful craft, on what account it were, that the wall that was so strong might not ever stand a night long. these world wise men there went in two parties, some they went to the wood, some to the cross ways; they gan to cast lots with their incantations, full three nights their crafts there they practised, they might never find, through never anything, on what account it were, that the wall that was so strong every night fell down, and the king lost his labour. but there was one sage, he was named joram, he said that he it found--but it seemed leasing--he said that if men found in ever any land, ever any male child, that never had father, and opened his breast, and took of his blood, and mingled with the lime, and laid in the wall, that then might it stand to the world's end. the word came to the king, of the leasing, and he it believed, though it were false. soon he took his messengers, and sent over all the land, so far as they for care (fear) of death durst anyways fare, and in each town hearkened the rumours, where they might find speak of such a child. these knights forth proceeded wide over the land; two of the number went a way that lay right west, that lay forth-right in where now caermarthen is. beside the burgh, in a broad way, all the burgh-lads had a great play. these knights were weary, and in heart exceeding sorry, and sate down by the play, and beheld these lads. after a little time they began striving--as it was ever custom among children's play,�-the one smote the other, and he these blows suffered. then was exceeding wrath dinabuz toward merlin, and thus quoth dinabuz, who had the blow: "merlin, wicked man, why hast thou thus done to me? thou hast done me much shame, therefore thou shalt have grief. i am a king's son, and thou art born of nought; thou oughtest not in any spot to have free man's abode, for so was all the adventure, thy mother was a whore, for she knew not ever the man that begat thee on her, nor haddest thou any father among mankind. and thou in our land makest us to be shamed, thou art among us come, and art son of no man; thou shalt therefore in this day suffer death." the knights heard this, where they were aside; they arose up, and went near, and earnestly asked of this strange tale, that they heard of the lad. then was in caermarthen a reve that hight eli; the knights quickly came to the reve, and thus to him said soon with mouth: "we are here-right vortiger's knights, and have found here a young lad he is named merlin, we know no whit his kin. take him in haste, and send him to the king, as thou wilt live, and thy limbs have, and his mother with him, who bore him to be man. if thou this wilt do, the king will receive them, and if thou carest it not, therefore thou wilt be driven out, and this burgh all consumed, this folk all destroyed." then answered eli, the reve of caermarthen "well i wot, that all this land stands in vortiger's hand, and we are all his men--his honour is the more!--and we shall do this gladly, and perform his will." forth went the reve, and the burghers his associates, and found merlin, and his playfellows with him merlin they took, and his companions laughed, when that merlin was led away, then was dinabuz full glad, he weened that he were led away for to lose his limbs, but all another way set the doom, ere it were all done. now was merlin's mother strangely become in a noble minster a hooded nun. thither went eli, the reve of caermarthen, and took him the good lady, where she lay in the minster, and forth gan him run to the king vortiger, and much folk with him, and led the nun and merlin. the word (tidings) was soon made known to the king vortiger's mouth, that eli was come, and had brought the lady, and that merlin her son was with her there come. then was vortiger blithe in life, and received the lady, with looks most fair and honour promised, and merlin he delivered to twelve good knights, who were faithful to the king, and him should guard. then said the king vortiger, with the nun he spake there: "good lady, say to me--well it shall be to thee--where wert thou born, who begat thee to be child?" then answered the nun, and named her father:--"the third part of all this land stood in my father's hand, of the land he was king, known it was wide, he was named conaan, lord of knights." then answered the king, as if she were of his kin: "lady, say thou it to me--well it shall be to thee--here is merlin thy son, who begat him? who was held for father to him among the folk?" then hung she her head, and bent toward her breast; by the king she sate full softly, and thought a little while, after a while she spake, and said to the king: "king, i will tell thee marvellous stories. my father conaan the king loved me through all things, then became i in stature wondrously fair. when i was fifteen years of age, then dwelt i in bower, in my mansion, my maidens with me, wondrously fair. and when i was in bed in slumber, with my soft sleep, then came before me the fairest thing that ever was born, as if it were a tall knight, arrayed all of gold. this i saw in dream each night in sleep. this thing glided before me, and glistened of gold, oft it me kissed, and oft it me embraced, oft it approached me, and oft it came to me very nigh; when i at length looked to myself--strange this seemed to me�-my meat to me was loathsome, my limbs unusual, strange it seemed to me, what it might be! then perceived i at the end that i was with child, when my time came, this boy i had. i know not in this world what his father were, nor who begat him in this worlds-realm, nor whether it were evil thing, or on god's behalf dight. alas! as i pray for mercy, i know not any more to say to thee of my son, how he is come to the world." the nun bowed her head down, and covered her features. the king bethought him what he might do, and drew to him good councillors to counsel, and they said him counsel with the best, that he should send for magan, who was a marvellous man. �-he was a wise clerk, and knew of many crafts; he would advise well, he could far direct, he knew of the craft that dwelleth in the sky (astronomy), he could tell of each history (or language). magan came to court where the king dwelt, and greeted the king with goodly words: "hail be thou and sound, vortiger the king! i am come to thee, show me thy will." then answered the king, and told the clerk all, how the nun had said, and asked him thereof counsel, from the beginning to the end, all he him told. then said magan: "i know full well hereon. there dwell in the sky many kind of beings, that there shall remain until domesday arrive; some they are good, and some they work evil. therein is a race very numerous, that cometh among men; they are named full truly incubi daemones; they do not much harm, but deceive the folk; many a man in dream oft they delude, and many a fair woman through their craft childeth anon, and many a good man's child they beguile through magic. and thus was merlin begat, and born of his mother, and thus it is all transacted," quoth the clerk magan. then said merlin to the king himself: "king, thy men have taken me, and i am to thee come, and i would learn what is thy will, and for what thing i am brought to the king?" then said the king with quick speech: "merlin, thou art hither come; thou art son of no man! much thou longest after loath speech; learn thou wilt the adventure--now thou shalt hear it. i have begun a work with great strength, that hath my treasure well much taken away; five thousand men work each day thereon. and i have lime and stone, in the world is none better, nor in any land workmen so good. all that they lay in the day--in sooth i may say it--ere day in the morrow all it is down; each stone from the other felled to the ground! now say my wise and my sage men, that if i take thy blood, out of thy breast, and work my will, and put to my lime, then may it stand to the world's end. now thou knowest it all, how it shall be to thee." merlin heard this, and angered in his mood, and said these words, though he were wrath: "god himself, who is lord of men, will it never, that the castle should stand for my heart's blood, nor ever thy stone wall lie still. for all thy sages are exceeding deceitful, they say leasings before thyself--that thou shalt find in this day's space. for joram said this, who is my full foe; the tidings seem to me sport, i was shapen to his bane! let joram thy sage come before thee, and all his companions, forth-right here, who told these leasings to the king, and if i say thee my sooth words of thy wall, and why it down falleth, and with sooth it prove, that their tales are leasing, give me their heads, if i thy work heal." then answered the king with quick voice: "so help me my hand, this covenant i hold thee!" to the king was brought joram the sage, and seven of his companions-- all they were fated to die! merlin angered, and he spake wrathly:-- "say me, joram, traitor--loathsome to me in heart--why falleth this wall to the ground, say me why it happeneth that the wall falleth, what men may find at the dyke's bottom?" joram was still, he could not tell. then said merlin these words: "king, hold to me covenant! cause this dyke to be dug anon seven feet deeper than it is now; they shall find a stone wondrously fair, it is fair and broad, for folk to behold." the dyke was dug seven feet deeper, then they found anon there-right the stone. then said merlin these words: "king, hold to me covenant! say to me, joram, man to me most hateful, and say to this king what kind of thing hath taken station under this stone?" joram was still; he could not tell. then said merlin a wonder: "a water here is under; do away this stone, the water ye shall find anon." they did away the stone before the king anon, the water they found anon. then said merlin: "ask me joram, who is my full foe, after a while, to say thee of the bottom, what dwelleth in the water, winter and summer." the king asked joram, but he knew nought thereof. the yet said merlin these words: "king, hold to me covenant! cause this water to be carried off, and away cast; there dwell at the bottom two strong dragons; the one is on the north side, the other on the south side, the one is milk-white, to each beast unlike, the other as red as blood, boldest of all worms! each midnight they begin to fight, and through their fight thy works fell, the earth began to sink, and thy wall to tumble; and through such wonder thy wall is fallen, that happened in this flood, and not for my blood." this water was all carried off; the king's men were glad, great was the bliss before the monarch, and soon there-after they were sorry; ere the day came to an end, strange tidings they heard. when the water was all carried off, and the pit was empty, then came out these two dragons, and made great din, and fought fiercely down in the dyke. never saw any man any loathlier fight; flames of fire flew from their mouths! the monarch saw this fight, their grim gestures; then was he astonished in this worlds-realm, what this tokening were, that he saw there at the bottom, and how merlin knew it, that no other man knew. first was the white above, and afterwards he was beneath, and the red dragon wounded him to death; and either went to his hole-- no man born saw them afterwards! thus fared this thing that vortiger the king saw. and all that were with him loved merlin greatly; and the king hated joram, and deprived him of his head, and all his seven comrades that with him were there. the king went to his house, and led merlin with him, and said to him with much love: "merlin, thou art welcome, and i will give thee all that thou desirest, of my land, of silver and of gold." he weened through merlin to win all the land, but it happened all otherwise ere the day's end came. the king thus asked his dear friend merlin, "say me now, merlin, man to me dearest, what betoken the dragons that made the din, and the stone, and the water, and the wondrous fight? say me, if thy will is, what betokeneth all this? and afterwards thou must counsel me how i shall guide me, and how i may win my kingdom from hengest, my wife's father, who hath harmed me greatly." then answered merlin to the king that spake with him: "king, thou art unwise, and foolish in counsel, thou askest of the dragons that made the din, and what betokened their fight, and their fierce assaults? they betoken kings that yet are to come, and their fight, and their adventure, and their fated folk! but if thou wert so wise a man, and so prudent in thought, that thou haddest inquired of me of thy many sorrows, thy great care, that is to come to thee, i would say to thee of thy sorrow." then quoth vortiger the king: "dear friend merlin, say me of the things that are to come to me." "blithely," quoth merlin, with bold voice, "i will say to thee; but ever it will thee rue. king, king, be-see thee (see to thyself), sorrow is to thee given of constantine's kin!--his son thou killedest; thou causedest constance to be slain, who was king in this land; thou causedst thy peohtes to betray (or destroy) him basely; therefore thou shalt suffer sorrows most of all! afterwards thou drewest upon thee foreign people, the saxons to this land, therefore thou shalt be destroyed! now are the barons of britain arrived; it is, aurelie and uther--now thou art thereof aware;--they shall come to-morrow, full truly, in this land at totnes, i do thee well to wit, with seven hundred ships; and now they sail speedily in the sea. thou hast much evil done to them, and now thou must the harm receive; thou hast on both sides bane that to thee shall seem; for now thy foes are before thee, and thy enemies behind. but flee, flee thy way, and save thy life--and flee whither that thou fleest, they will pursue after thee! ambrosie aurelie he shall have first this kingdom; but he through draught of poison shall suffer death. and afterwards shall uther pendragon have this kingdom; but thy kin shall kill him with poison; but ere he suffer death, he shall din (contest) make. uther shall have a son, out of cornwall he shall come, that shall be a wild boar, bristled with steel; the boar shall consume the noble burghs; he shall destroy (or devour) all the traitors with authority; he shall kill with death all thy rich kindred; he shall be man most brave, and noble in thought; hence into rome this same shall rule; all his foes he shall fell to the ground. sooth i have said to thee, but it is not to thee the softer;�-but flee with thine host, thy foes come to thee to thy court!" then merlin the wise ceased his words, and the king caused thirteen trumpets to be blown, and marched forth with his army exceeding quickly. there was not forth-right but space of one night, that the brothers came, both together, to the sea-strand full truly, at dartmouth in totnes. the britons heard this, and were full surely blithe; they drew themselves out of the woods, and out of the wilderness, by sixty, and by sixty, and by seven hundred, by thirty, and by thirty, and by many thousands�-when they came together, full good it seemed to them! and the brothers brought to this land a numerous host, and here came before them these bold britons, a numerous folk, who would it all avenge, that ere were over the woods wondrously scattered, through the mickle dread, and through the great misery, and through the mickle harm that hengest wrought them, and who had murdered all their chief men with knives, with axes cut in pieces the good thanes! the britons held husting with great wisdom; they took anon aurelie, the elder brother, in the noble husting, and raised him to be king. then were the britons filled with bliss, blithe in mood who ere were mournful. these tidings came to vortiger the king, that aurelie was chosen and raised to be king. then was vortiger woe, and eft to him was worse! vortiger proceeded far to a castle, named genoure, upon a high mount; cloard hight the mount, and hergin hight the land, near the wye, that is a fair water (stream). vortiger's men took all that they came nigh; they took weapons and meat, on many a wise; to the castle they brought as much as they cared for, so that they had enow, though it little helped them. aurehe and uther were aware of vortiger, where he was upon cloard, inclosed in a castle. they caused trumpets to be blown, their host to be assembled--a numerous folk of many a land--they marched to genoure, where vortiger lay. a king was within, a king was without; knights there fought with fierce encounters; every good man made himself ready. when they saw that they had not the victory, then a wondrous great force went to the wood; they felled the wood down, and drew to the castle, and filled all the dyke that was wondrously deep. and fire they sent in, on every side, and called to vortiger: "now thou shalt warm thee there, for thou slewest constance, who was king of this land, and afterwards constantine his son. now is aurelie come, and uther his brother, who send thee bale!" the wind wafted the fire, so that it burnt wonderfully; the castle gan to burn, the chambers there were consumed; the halls fell to the ground. might no man there against the fire make fight; the fire went over all, and burnt house, and burnt wall; and the king vortiger therein he gan to burn; all it was consumed that therein dwelt! thus ended there, with mickle harm, vortiger! then aurelie had all the land in his hand. there was the strong earl, named aldolf, he was of gloucester, of all knights skilfullest; there in the land aurehe made him his steward. then had aurelie, and uther his brother, felled their foes, and were therefore the blither! hengest heard this, strongest of all knights; then was he afraid exceeding greatly. he marched his host, and fled toward the scots, and aurelie the king went after him in haste. and hengest thought that he would, with all his army, if men pursued him, flee into scotland, so that he might thence with guile escape, if he might not for aurelie remain in the land. aurelie marched forth, and led his host right north, with all his might, full a se'nnight. the britons were bold, and proceeded over the weald. then had aurelie a numerous force; he found ravaged land, the people slain, and all the churches burnt, and the britons consumed. then said aurelie the king, britain's darling: "if i might abide, that i should back ride; and if the lord it will, who shaped the daylight, that i might in safety obtain my right (or country), churches i will arear, and god i will worship. i will give to each man his right, and to every person, the old and the young, i will be gracious, if god will grant to me my land to win!" tidings came to hengest of aurelie the king, that he brought an army of innumerable folk. then spake hengest, most treacherous of all knights: "hearken now, my men--honour to you is given--here cometh aurelie, and uther eke, his brother; they bring very much folk, but all they are fated! for the king is unwise, so are his knights, and a knave is his brother, the one as the other; therefore may britons be much the un-bolder, when the head (leader) is bad, the heap (multitude) is the worse. and well ye may it remember, what i will say; better are fifty of us, than of them five hundred--that they many times have found, since they in land sought the people. for known it is wide, of our bold feats, that we are chosen warriors with the best! we shall against them stand, and drive them from land, and possess this realm after our will." thus bold hengest, fairest of all knights, emboldened his host, where he was in field, but otherwise it was disposed ere came the day a se'nnight. forth came the tidings to aurelie the king, where hengest abode upon a mount. aurelie had for companions thirty thousand riders, bold britons, who made their threat; and eke he had welsh, wondrously many. then caused he his knights to be ever weaponed, day and night, as if they should go to battle; for ever he had care of the heathen folk. and aurelie with his host marched quickly towards him. when hengest heard that aurelie was near, he took his army, and marched against him. when aurelie was aware that hengest would come there, he went into a field, well weaponed under shield; he took forth-right ten thousand knights, that were the best born and chosen of his force, and set them in the field, on foot under shield. ten thousand welsh he sent to the wood; ten thousand scots he sent aside, to meet the heathens by ways and by streets; himself he took his earls and his good warriors, and his faithfullest men, that he had in hand, and made his shield-troop, as it were a wild wood; five thousand there rode, who should all this folk well defend. then called aldolf, earl of gloucester, "if the lord, that ruleth all dooms, grant it to me, that i might abide, that hengest should come riding, who has in this land so long remained, and betrayed my dear friends with his long axes beside ambresbury, with miserable death! but if i might of the earl win to me the country; then might i say my sooth words, that god himself had granted good to me, if i might fell my foes to ground anon, and avenge my dear kindred, whom they have laid adown!" scarcely was this speech said to the end, that they saw hengest approach over the down. with a numerous host they fiercely marched, together soon they came, and terribly they slew, there the stern men together rushed themselves, helms there gan resound, knights there fell, steel went against the bones, mischief there was rife; streams of blood flowed in the ways; the fields were dyed, and the grass changed colour! when hengest saw that his help failed him, then withdrew he from the fight, and fled aside, and his folk after speedily moved. the christians pursued after, and laid on them, and called christ, god's son, to be to them in aid; and the heathen people also called loud, "our god tervagant, why failest thou us now?" when hengest saw the heathens recede, and the christian men come upon them, then fled hengest through and through, until he came to coningsburgh; in the burgh he went, safety to obtain. and the king aurelie went after him anon, and called to his people with loud voice: "run ever forth and forth! hengest is gone northwards!" and they pursued after him until they came to the burgh. when hengest and his son saw all the host come after them, then said hengest, of all knights wrathest, "will i no more flee, but now i will fight, and my son octa, and his wed-brother ebissa! and all my army, stir ye your weapons, and march we against them, and make we strong slaughter! and if we fell them not, then be we dead, laid on the field, and deprived of friends!" hengest marched on the weald, and left all his tents; and made his shield troop all of his heathen men. then came aurelie the king, and many thousands with him, and began there another fight, that was exceeding strong; there was many great stroke dealt in the combat! there were the christians well nigh overcome. then approached there five thousand riders, that aurelie had on horse to fight; they smote on the heathens, so that they down fell; there was fight most strong, combat full stern! in the fight came the earl aldolf of gloucester, and found hengest, wickedest of knights, where he fought fiercely, and felled the christians. aldolf drew his good sword, and upon hengest smote; and hengest cast the shield before him, and else were his life destroyed; and aldolf smote on the shield, so that it was shivered in two. and hengest leapt to him, as if it were a lion, and smote upon aldolf's helm, so that it parted in two. then hewed they with swords�-the strokes were grim�-fire flew from the steel, oft and well frequent! after a time, then leapt aldolf to the ground, and saw by him gorlois, who was a keen man full truly; of cornwall he was earl, he was widely known. then was the baron aldolf much the bolder, and heaved high his sword, and let it down swing, and smote hengest on the hand, so that he let go his good brand; and in haste grasped him, with his grim looks, by the cuirasses hood that was on his head, and with great strength struck him down; and then he him up drew, as if he would crush him, and with arms embraced him, and forth him led. now was hengest taken, through aldolf, the brave man! then called aldolf, the earl of gloucester: "hengest, it is not so merry for thee now as it was whilom by ambresbury, where thou drewest the axes, and slew the britons, with much treachery thou slewest my kindred! now thou shalt pay retribution, and lose thy friends; with cruel death perish in the world!" hengest proceeded still (without speaking); he saw no help; aldolf led him to his sovereign, and greeted the sovereign with loving words: "hail be thou, aurelie, of noble race! here i bring before thee hengest, the heathen, who was thy kindred's bane, who hath sought to us harm; god granted it to me, that i have him grasped! now i give him to thee, for dearest of men art thou to me; and let thy attendants play with this hound, shoot with their arrows, and his race anon destroy!" then answered the king with quick voice: "blessed be thou, aldolf, noblest of all earls! thou art to me dear as my life, thou shalt be chief of people!" there men took hengest, and there men bound hengest; there was then hengest of all knights most wretched! this fight was overcome, and the heathens fled. then saw octa, that his father was full woe; and with ebissa, his wed brother, joined them together, and fled into york, with harm enow, and made ready the walls, and pulled down the halls. some of the heathens went to the wood, where the folk on foot laid them to ground. then was aurelie the king pleased well through all things; he proceeded into coningsburgh, with all his folk, and thanked the lord for such might. three days and three nights the king dwelt there forth-right, to heal the wounds of his dear knights, and rest in the burgh their weary bones. when the third day came, and the folk had made none, then caused the king the trumpets to blow, and summoned his earls, that they should come to husting, to aurelie the king. when they came together, the king asked them soon, what they would counsel him, who were his rich men, by what death hengest should die, and how he might best avenge his dearest friends, who lay buried near ambresbury. then stood up eldadus, and with the king he spake thus;�towards god he was good, he was a holy bishop, aldolf the earl's brother, he had no other:--"lord king, listen now to me, what i will thee tell. i will make the sentence, how he shall be put to death. for he is most hateful of men to us in the world, and hath slain our kindred, and deprived of life-day; and he is a heathen hound�hell he shall seek; there he shall sink for his treachery! lord king, hearken to me, what i thee will tell. a king was in jerusalem, who was named saul; and in heathendom was a king of mickle might, who was named agag�jerusalem he hated�he was king of the amalech�the worse was full nigh to him! ever he hated jerusalem with harm the most; never would he give them peace, but ever he withstood them; he burnt them, he slew them, he did them sorrow enow! it fell on a time that the sun gan to shine; then sate agag the king on his high chair; his fated blood was troubled, and urged him to march. he called his knights anon forth-right: 'quick to your steeds! and forth we shall ride; we shall burn and slay all about jerusalem!' forth went the king, and a great host with him; the land they gan through-run, and the towns to consume. the men saw that who dwelt in jerusalem; and they advanced against them, knights and swains, and fought with the king, and with fight him overcame, and slew all his folk, and agag the king they took; and so they with him came to saul the king. then was saul the king blithe through all things! the king asked counsel at his rich knights anon, which he might the better do to him, either slay or up hang. then leapt up samuel, a prophet of israel;�he was a man exceeding holy, high toward the lord; no man knew in those days man so high in god's law. samuel took agag the king, and led him in the market-place, and caused him most fast to a stake to be bound; and took with his right hand a precious brand; and thus called to him samuel, the good man: 'thou hightest agag the king, now thou art in sorrow! now thou shalt receive the retribution for that thou destroyedest jerusalem, for that thou hast this noble burgh so greatly injured, and many a good man slain, and deprived of life-day! as i hope for mercy, shalt thou do so no more.' samuel heaved up the sword, and strongly down struck, and cut the king all in pieces in jerusalem's market, and threw the pieces wide over the streets. thus samuel took-on (acted), and so oughtest thou do to hengest." aldolf heard this, the earl of gloucester; toward hengest he leapt, as if it were a lion, and grasped him by the head, and after him hauled him, and drew him through and through, and throughout all coningsburgh; and without the burgh he caused him to be bound. aldolf drew his sword, and smote off hengest's head; and the king took him forth-right, because he was so brave a knight, and laid him in earth, after the heathen law, and prayed for the soul, that it never were happy. and now aurelie the king caused a husting to be summoned, and caused trumpets to be blown, and his army to assemble--there was wondrous folk--and marched right to york, and inclosed octa with his men there within. the king caused a dyke to be dug, all about york, that no man might there either go out or in. octa saw that; therefore he was full woe. and his heathen folk, that he had in the burgh, they betook them to counsel, what they might do. and thus spake octa with his companion ebissa: "i have now bethought me, what i will do. i and my knights shall forth-right in our bare-breech go out of the burgh, hang on my neck a chain, and come to the king, praying his mercy. we all shall else be dead, except we follow this counsel." and, they all did so, as octa them advised; put off their clothes the careful knights, and proceeded out of the burgh, miserable thanes, twain and twain, twenty hundred! aurelie beheld this, noblest of kings, strange it seemed to him of the naked knights. together came the host that lay over the land; they saw octa naked come, that was hengest's son. he bare in his hand a long chain; he came to the king, and before his warriors he fell upon the ground, and the king's feet sought; and these words then said hengest's son octa: "mercy, my lord king, through god the mild; for the love of god almighty have mercy of my knights! for all our heathendom is become base, our laws and our people, for loathsome we are to the lord. for us has failed in hand appolin, and tervagant, woden, and mercurius, jupiter, and saturnus, venus, and didon, frea, and mamilon, and all our beliefs are now to us odious, but we will believe on thy dear lord, for all it faileth us now in hand, that we worshipped. we yearn thy favour, now and evermore; if thou wilt me grant peace, and if thou wilt me grant amity, we will draw to thee, and be thy faithful men; love thy people, and hold thy laws, if thou wilt not that, do thy will, whetherso (whatsoever) thou wilt do, or slay us or up hang us." and the king was mild-hearted, and held him still; he beheld on the right hand, he beheld on the left hand, which of his wise men first would speak. they all were still, and kept silence with voice; was there no man so high, that durst a word utter; and ever lay octa at the king's feet so; all his knights lay behind him. then spake aldadus, the good bishop, and said thus: "ever it was, and ever it shall be, and yet it behoveth us, when we yearn mercy, that we should have mercy; worthy is he of mercy, who worthily prayeth for it. and thou thyself, lord king, thou art chief of the people, pardon thou octa, and also his companions, if they will receive christendom with good belief; for yet it may befall, in some country that they may fitly worship the lord. now stands all this kingdom in thine own hand, give them a place, where it shall be agreeable to thee, and take of them hostages, such as thou wilt require; and let them be well held in iron bonds; the hostages be found meat and clothes, be found all that to them shall belief; and then mightest thou well hold this people in thy land, and let them till the land, and live by their tilth. and if it subsequently shall befall, soon thereafter, that they fail in hand to hold troth, and weaken in work, and withstand thee, now i decree to thee the doom, what thou mayest then do. cause men to ride to them exceeding quickly, and cause them all to be destroyed, slain and eke up hung. this i decree to thee; the lord it hear!" then answered the king, with quick voice: "all i will so do as thou hast deemed." thus spake the king then: "arise up, octa; thou shalt quickly do well, receive christendom." there was octa baptised, and his companions also; and all his knights on the spot forth-right. they took their hostages, and gave to the king, three-and-fifty children they delivered to the king. and the king sent them beside scotland; oaths they swore, that they would not deceive him. the king gave them in hand sixty hides of land, thereon they dwelt well many winters. the king was in york, good it seemed to him; he took his messengers, and sent over all his land, and ordered his bishops, his book-learned men, earls and thanes, to come towards him, to aurelie the king, to a great husting. it soon came to pass, that they came together. the king greeted his folk with his fair words, he welcomed earls, he welcomed barons, and the bishops, and the book-learned men.--"i will say to you with sooth words, why i sent after you, and for what thing. here i give to each knight his land and his right, and to every earl and every baron, what he may win, to possess it with joy; and each man i order to love peace, on his life. and i bid you all to work and build the churches that are fallen, to let the bells ring, to sing god's praise, and each with our might to worship our dear lord; each man by his might to hold peace and amity, and cause the land to be tilled, now it is all in my hand." when this doom was all said, they all praised this counsel. the king gave them leave to depart thence; each fared homeward, as to them it best seemed. full seven nights the king lay there still, and then he gan proceed into london, to gladden the burgh-folk, who oft were busy. he caused walls to be strengthened, he caused halls to be built, and all the works to be righted that ere were broken; and gave them all the laws that stood in their elders' days; and he made there reves, to rule the folk. and thence he gan proceed right to winchester; and there he caused to be worked halls and churches;--there it seemed to him most pleasant;--and afterwards he went to ambresbury, to the burial-place of his dear friends, whom hergest with knives had murdered there. he caused men anon to be inquired for, who could hew stone, and eke good wrights, who could work with axe, he thought to work there a work wondrously fair, that ever should last, the while men lived! then was in caerleon a bishop, that hight tremoriun; he was a man exceeding wise in the worlds-realm; with the king he was, over the weald. and thus tremoriun, god's servant, spake there with the king, of a good thing: "listen now to me, aurelie, what i will make known to thee, and i will say to thee the best of all counsel, if thou wilt it approve, eft it will like to thee. we have a prophet, who is merlin named; if any man might him find, upon this weald, and bring him to thee, through any kind of thing, and if thou his will wouldest perform, he would say to thee best of all counsel, how thou mightest this work make strong and stark, that ever might last, the while that men lived." then answered the king--these words were to him agreeable:-- "dear friend tremoriun, all this i will do." the king in haste sent his messengers over all his kingdom, and bade every man to ask after merlin; and if men might him find, to bring him to the king, he would give him land, both silver and gold, and in the worlds-realm perform his will. the messengers gan to ride wide and far; some they went right north, and some they went forth south; some they went right east, and some they went right west, some they went anon, so that they came to alaban, that is a fair well in welsh land. the well he (merlin) much loved, and oft therein bathed him; the knights him found where he sate by the strand. so soon as they him met, they greeted him fair; and thus said the two knights to him forth-right: "hail be thou, merlin, wisest of men! by us he who is a goodly king, named aurelie, noblest of all kings, greets thee, and he beseecheth thee courteously, that thou come to him; and he will give land to thee, both silver and gold, if thou in the realm wilt counsel the king." then answered merlin, what to the knights was full woe: "i reck not of his land, his silver, nor his gold, nor his clothes, nor his horses; myself i have enow." then sate he still a long time. these knights were afraid, that he would flee. when it all brake forth, it was good that he spake: "ye are two knights come right here; yesterday ere noon i knew that ye should come, and if i so would, ye might not have found me. ye bring me greeting from aurelie the king. i knew his qualities ere he came to land, and i knew the other, uther his brother; i knew both ere they were born, though i never saw either with eye. but alas! alas! that it is so ordered, that the monarch may not live long! but now will i go, and be your companion; to the king i will proceed, and perform his will." forth went merlin, and the knights with him, so long that they came to the sovereign. the good tidings came to the king; never ere in his life was the king so blithe, for ever any kind of man that came to him! the king went to his steed, and out gan him ride, and all his knights with him, to welcome merlin. the king him met, and greeted him fair, he embraced him, he kissed him, he made him his familiar. great was the mirth among the people, all for merlin's arrival, who was son of no man. alas! that in the world was no wise man that ever knew here whose son he were, but the lord alone, who surveys (or explores) all clean! the king led to chamber merlin who was dear; and he gan ask him anon with his fair words, that he should cause him to understand of the world's course, and of all the years that were to come, for it were to him greatly in will, that he thereof knew. merlin then answered, and to the king said thus: "o aurelie, the king, thou askest me a strange thing, look that thou no more such thing inquire. for my spirit truly is wrathful, that is in my breast; and if i among men would make boast, with gladness, with game, with goodly words, my spirit would wrath himself, and become still, and deprive me of my sense, and my wise words fore-close, then were i dumb of every sentence. but leave all such things," quoth merlin to the king, "for whensoever need shall come to ever any people, and man will beseech me with mildness, and i may with my will dwell still, then may i say, how it afterwards shall happen. but i will counsel thee of thy nearest need, and say to thee right here what thou hast in heart. a plain is by ambresbury, that is broad, and exceeding pleasant, there was thy kindred deprived of life with knives, there was many bold briton betrayed to the death; and thinkest to greet the place with worship, and with surprising works to honour the dead, that there shall ever stand, to the world's end. but thou hast never any man, that knows aught thereon, who can make a work that never will fail. but i will counsel thee at such need, for i know a work with wonder encompassed, far the work standeth in ireland. it is a most surprising thing, it is named the giant's ring, the work is of stone, such another there is none, so wide as is the worlds-realm is no work its like. the stones are great, and virtue they have; the men who are sick they go to the stones, and they wash the stones, and therewith bathe their bones; after a little while they become all sound! but the stones are mickle, and immensely great; for was never any man born, in every any burgh, who might with strength bring the stones thence." then answered the king: "merlin, thou sayest strange thing, that never any man born may bring them thence, nor with any strength carry from the place, how might i then bring them hence?" then answered merlin to the king who spake with him: "yes, yes, lord king, it was of yore said, that better is art, than evil strength; for with art men may hold what strength may not obtain. but assemble thine army, and go to the land, and lead thou with thee a good host; and i will go with thee�thy worship will be the more! ere thou back come, thy will thou shalt have, and the work thou shalt bring with thee to this land, and so thou shalt carry it to the burial-place, and honour the spot where thy friends lie. and thou thyself shalt therein thy bones rest; when thy life endeth, there shalt thou rest." thus said merlin, and afterwards he sate still, as though he would from the world depart. the king caused him to be brought into a fair chamber, and dwell therein, after his will. aurche the king caused a husting to be summoned from all the lands that stood in his hand; he bade them counsel him at such need. and his noble barons they well advised him, that he should do the counsel that merlin had said to him. but they would not lead the king out of this land, but they chose them for chief uther the good, and fifteen thousand knights, weaponed fair, of bold britons, who thither should go. when this army was all ready, then began they to fare with all the best ships that by the sea stood, and voyaged so long that they came to ireland. and the brave knights took the haven, they went upon the sea-strand, and beheld ireland. then spake merlin, and discoursed with words: "see ye now, brave men, the great hill, the hill so exceeding high, that to the welkin it is full high? that is the marvellous thing, it is named the giant's ring, to each work unlike--it came from africa. pitch your tents over all these fields, here we shall rest for the space of three days; on the fourth day we shall march hence toward the hill, where our will is. but we shall first refresh us, and assemble our warriors, make ready our weapons, for well they behove us (we shall need them)." thus it remained, and there lay the army. then possessed ireland a king that was most strong; he hight gillomaur, he was lord of the people, the tidings came to him that the britons were in the land, he caused forces to be summoned over all ireland's territory, and he gan to threaten greatly, that he would all drive them out. when the word came to him, what the britons would do there, and that they came for that only, to fetch the stones, then the king gillomar made mickle derision and scorn, and said that they were foolish fellows, who over the broad sea were thither arrived, to seek there stones, as if none were in their land; and swore by saint brandan:�-"they shall not carry away one stone, but for love of the stones they shall abide the most of all mischiefs; spill their blood out of their bellies�-and so men shall teach them (they shall be taught) to seek stones! and afterwards i will go into britain, and say to the king aurelie, that my stones i will defend, and unless the king be still, and do my will, i will in his land with fight withstand, make him waste paths, and wildernesses many; widows enow�-there husbands shall die!" thus the unwise king played with words, but it all happened another wise, other than he weened. his army was ready, and forth they gan march, so long that they came whereon the britons lay. together they came, and hardily encountered, and fought fiercely�-the fated fell! but the irish were bare, and the britons in armour, the irish fell, and covered all the fields. and the king gillomar gan him to flee there, and fled forth-right, with twenty of his knights, into a great wood�-of worship bereaved�-his irish folk was felled with steel. thus was the king shamed, and thus he ended his boast, and thus went to the wood, and let his folk fall! the britons beheld the dead over the fields; seven thousand there lay deprived of life. the britons went over the fields to their tents, and worthily looked to (or took care of) their good weapons, and there they gan to rest, as merlin counselled them. on the fourth day then gan they to march, and proceeded to the hill, all well weaponed, where the marvellous work stood, great and most strong! knights went upward, knights went downward, knights went all about, and earnestly beheld it, they saw there on the land the marvellous work stand. there were a thousand knights with weapons well furnished, and all the others to wit guarded well their ships. then spake merlin, and discoursed with the knights: "knights, ye are strong, these stones are great and long, ye must go nigh, and forcibly take hold of them; ye must wreathe them fast with strong sail-ropes, shove and heave with utmost strength trees great and long, that are exceeding strong, and go ye to one stone, all clean, and come again with strength, if ye may it stir." but merlin wist well how it should happen. the knights advanced with mickle strength; they laboured full greatly, but they had not power, so that they ever any stone might stir! merlin beheld uther, who was the king's brother, and merlin the prophet said these words: "uther, draw thee back, and assemble thy knights, and stand ye all about, and diligently behold, and be ye all still, so that no man there stir ere i say to you now anon how we shall commence, 'take ye each a stone.'" uther drew him back, and assembled his knights, so that none there remained near the stones, as far as a man might cast a stone. and merlin went about, and diligently gan behold, thrice he went about, within and without, and moved his tongue as if he sung his beads. thus did merlin there, then called he uther: "uther, come quickly, and all thy knights with thee, and take ye these stones all, ye shall not leave one; for now ye may heave them like feather balls; and so ye shall with counsel carry them to our ships." these stones they carried away, as merlin counselled them, and placed them in their ships, and sailed forth to wit, and so they gan proceed into this land, and brought them on a plain that is wondrously broad, broad it is and most pleasant, near ambresbury, where hengest betrayed the britons with axes. merlin gan rear them, as they ere stood, so never any other man could do the craft, nor ever ere there-before was any man so wise born, that could the work raise, and the stones dispose. the tidings came to the king in the north end, of merlin's proceeding, and of uther, his brother, that they were with safety come to this land, and that the work was all disposed, and set up right. the king was in breast wondrously blithe; and caused a husting to be summoned, so wide as was all his land, that all his merry folk so very joyous should come to ambresbury, all his people, at whitsunday, and the king would be there, and honour the place. thither came aurelie the king, and all his folk with him, on whitsunday he there made a feast, as i will thee tell in this book-story. there were on the weald tents raised, on the broad plain, nine thousand tents. all the whitsunday the king on the plain lay; ordered the place to be hallowed, that hight stonehenge. full three days the king dwelt still; on the third day, his people he highly honoured; he made two bishops, wondrously good, saint dubriz at kaerleon, and saint samson at york; both they became holy, and with god high. on the fourth day people separated, and so a time it stood in the same wise. the yet there was a wicked man, pascent, vortiger's son; was the same pascent gone into welsh land, and there in the same days was become outlaw. but he durst not long dwell there, for aurelie and for uther; but he procured good ships, and went by the sea flood, into germany he proceeded, with five hundred men, and there he won much folk, and made a fleet, and voyaged so long that he came to this land, into the humber, where he harm wrought. but he durst not long remain in the territory. the king marched thitherward, and pascent fled awayward, by sea so long that he came to ireland. soon he found there the king of the land, his heart was very sore, he greeted the king gillomar with god's greeting: "hail be thou, gillomar, chief of men! i am to thee come; i was vortiger's son; my father was britain's king, he loved thee through all things. and if thou wouldest now be my companion, as we shall agree, and my father well avenge, and well avenge thy folk that uther here killed, and thy marvellous work, that he hence drew. and eke i heard say, where i voyaged in the sea, that the king aurelie is become sick, and lieth in winchester, in bed full fast. thou mayest believe me enow, for this is verily sooth." thus pascent and gillomar made their compact there; oaths they swore, many and innumerable, that they would set all this land in their two (joint) hands; the oaths were sworn, but eft they were broken! the king gathered a host wide over his land; to the sea they are gone, gillomar and pascent; into the ships they went, and forth let them glide. forth they proceeded quickly, so that they came to meneve, that was in that time a town exceeding fair, that men now truly call saint david's. there they took haven with great bliss; the ships went on the strand, the knights went on the land. then said pascent�-toward gillomar he went�-"say me, king gillomar, now we are come here; now i set to thee in hand half-part this kingdom; for there is from winchester come to me a knight's son, and saith to me such advice, that aurelie will be dead, the sickness is under his ribs, so that he may not live. here we shall well avenge our kindred, and win his territories, as to us shall be best of all." to the king came the word, into winchester, that pascent and gillomar were come here with an army. the king called uther, who was his dear brother:�-"uther, summon forces over all this land, and march to our enemies, and drive them from land; either thou them disperse, either thou them fell. and i would eke fare, if i were not so sick; but if i may be sound i will come after thee soon." uther did all as the king said to him there. and pascent at saint david's wrought thereby much sorrow; and to the king gillomar much sorrow he did there; britain they through-ran, harried and burnt. and uther in this land assembled his host, and it was long time ere he might march aright. and pascent set in his own hand all west welsh land. it was on a day, his people were blithe, there arrived appas�-the fiends him conveyed! to pascent he quoth thus: "come hither to us. i will thee tell of a joyful tiding. i was at winchester, with thine adversaries, where the king lieth sick, and sorrowful in heart. but what shall be my meed, if i thither ride, and i so gratify thee, that i kill him?" then answered pascent, and toward appas he went: "i promise thee to-day a hundred pounds, for i may, if thou me so gratifiest, that thou kill him." troth they plight this treachery to contrive. appas went to his chamber, and this mischief meditated; he was a heathen man, out of saxland come. monk's clothes he took on, he shaved his crown upon; he took to him two companions, and forth he gan proceed, and went anon right into winchester, as if it were a holy man�-the heathen devil! he went to the burgh-gate, where the king lay in chamber, and greeted the door-keeper with god's greeting; and bade him in haste go into the king, and say to him in sooth, that uther his brother had sent him thither a good leech; the best leech that dwelt in any land, that ever any sick man out of sickness can bring. thus he lied, the odious man, to the monarch, for uther was gone forth with his army, nor ever him saw uther, nor thither him sent! and the king weened that it were sooth, and believed him enow. who would ween that he were traitor!�-for on his bare body he wore a cuirass, thereupon he had a loathly hair-cloth, and then a cowl of a black cloth; he had blackened his body, as if smutted with coal! he kneeled to the king, his speech was full mild: "hail be thou, aurelie, noblest of all kings! hither me sent uther, that is thine own brother; and i all for god's love am here to thee come. for i will heal, and all whole thee make, for christ's love, god's son; i reck not any treasure, nor meed of land, nor of silver nor of gold, but to each sick person i do it for love of my lord." the king heard this, it was to him most agreeable;�-but where is ever any man in this middle-earth, that would this ween, that he were traitor! he took his glass vessel anon, and the king urined therein; a while after that, the glass vessel in hand he took, and viewed it forth-right before the king's knights; and thus said anon appas, the heathen man: "if ye will me believe, ere to-morrow eve this king shall be all whole, healed at his will." then were blithe all that were in chamber. appas went in a chamber, and the mischief meditated, and put thereto poison, that hight scamony, and came out forth-right among the chamber-knights, and to the knights he gan to distribute much canel, and gingiver and liquorice he gave them lovingly. they all took the gift, and he deceived them all. this traitor fell on his knees before the monarch, and thus said to him: "lord, now thou shalt receive this, of this drink a part, and that shall be thy cure." and the king up drank, and there the poison he drank. anon as he had drank, the leech laid him down. thus said appas to the chamber-knights: "wrap now the king well, that he lie in sweating; for i say to you through all things, all whole shall your king be. and i will go to my inn, and speak with my men, and at the midnight i will come again forth-right, with other leechcraft, that shall be to him healing." forth went--while the king lay in slumber--the traitor appas to his inn, and spake with his men; and with stilly counsel stole from the town. at the midnight then sent the chamber-knights six of their men to appas's inn; they weened to find him, and bring him to the king. then was he flown, and the fiends him carried! the men came back where the king dwelt, and made known in the chamber of appas's departure. then might men see sorrow enow be! knights fell down, and yearned their deaths; there was mickle lamentation and heart-groaning, there was many a piteous speech, there was yell of men! they leapt to the bed, and beheld the king; the yet he lay in slumber, and in great sweat. the knights with weeping awakened the king, and they called to him with mild voice: "lord, how is it with thee? how is thy harm? for now is our leech departed without leave, gone out of court, and left us as wretches." the king gave them answer: "i am all over swollen, and there is no other hap, now anon i shall be dead. and i bid forth-right, ye who are my knights, that ye greet uther, who is my own brother, and bid him hold my land in his sway. god himself through all things let him be a good king! and bid him be keen, and always deem right, as a father to the poor folk, to the destitute for comfort; --then may he hold the land in power. and now to-day, when i be dead, take ye all one counsel, and cause me to be brought right to stonehenge, where lie much of my kindred, by the saxons killed. and send for bishops, and book-learned men; my gold and silver distribute for my soul, and lay me at the east end, in stonehenge." there was no other hap�there was the king dead! and all so his men did as the king directed. uther was in wales, and hereof was nothing ware, never through any art hereof nothing wist; nevertheless he had with him the prophet merlin, he proceeded towards the army that was come to the land. uther lay in wales, in a wilderness, and prepared to march, to fight with pascent. then in the eventime, the moon gan to shine, well nigh all as bright as the sunlight. then they saw afar a marvellous star; it was broad, it was large, it was immense! from it came gleams terribly shining, the star is named in latin, comet. came from the star a gleam most fierce; at this gleam's end was a dragon fair, from this dragon's mouth came gleams enow! but twain there were mickle, unlike to the others; the one drew toward france, the other toward ireland. the gleam that toward france drew, it was itself bright enow; to munt-giu was seen the marvellous token! the gleam that stretched right west, it was disposed in seven beams. uther saw this--but he was not hereof wary--sorrow was to him in heart, and strangely he was frightened; so was all the great folk that was in the host. uther called merlin, and bade him come to him, and thus said to him with very soft words: "merlin, merlin, dear friend, prove thyself, and say to us of the token that we have seen; for i wot not in the worlds-realm to what end it shall befall; unless thou us counsel, back we must ride." merlin sate him still, a long time, as if he with dream full greatly laboured. they said who saw it with their own eyes, that oft he turned him, as if it were a worm! at length he gan to awake, then gan he to quake, and these words said merlin the prophet: "walaway! walaway! in this worlds-realm, much is the sorrow that is come to the land! where art thou, uther? set before me here, and i will say to thee of sorrows enow. dead is aurelie, noblest of kings, so is the other, constance, thy brother, whom vortiger betrayed with his treachery. now hath vortiger's kin killed aurelie; now art thou alone of thy noble kindred. but hope not thou for counsel of them that he dead, but think of thyself--prosperity shall be given to thee;--for seldom he faileth, who to himself thinketh. thou shalt become good king, and lord of men. and thou at the midnight weapon thy knights, that we in the morning-light may come forth-right, before meneve�-there thou shalt fight; ere thou thence depart, slaughter thou shalt make; for thou shalt both slay there, pascent and gillomar, and many thousands of the men that are with them hither come. the token of the star, that we saw so far, sooth it is, uther dear, that betokened thy brother's death. before the star was the dragon, to each worm unlike; the token was on thy half, that was thou, uther, thyself! thou shalt have this land, and thy authority be great and strong. such tokens are marvellous that came of the dragon's mouth, two gleams proceeded forth that were wondrously light. the one stretched far south, out over france--that signifies a powerful son, that of thy body shall come, who shall win many kingdoms with conflict, and in the end he shall rule many a nation. the other gleam that stretched west, wondrously light, that shall be a daughter, that to thee shall be exceeding dear. the gleams that gan to spread in seven fair strings, are seven fair sons, who shall come of thy daughter, who shall win to their own hand many a kingdom; they shall be well strong, on water and on land. now thou hast of me heard what will thee help, quickly forth-right march to thy fight." and merlin gan to slumber, as if he would sleep. up arose uther, now he was wise and wary, and ordered his knights forth-right to horse, and ordered them quickly to proceed to meneve; and all their expedition (or forces) to prepare, as if they should fight. in the troop before he had knights well chosen; seven thousand knights, brave men and active. he had in the middle knights well beseen, other seven thousand good thanes. he had behind brave knights eighteen thousand, brave warriors, and of folk on foot so many thousands, that in no speech might any man tell them! forth they marched quickly, until they came to meneve. there saw gillomar where uther came to him, and commanded his knights to weapon them forth-right. and they very speedily grasped their knives, and off with their breeches--strange were their looks--and grasped in their hands their long spears, and hung on their shoulders great battle-axes. then said gillomar the king a thing very strange:--"here cometh uther, aurelie's brother; he will ask my peace, and not fight with me. the foremost are his swains; march we against them; ye need never reek, though ye slay the wretches! for if uther, constantine's son, will here become my man, and give to pascent his father's realm, i will him grant peace, and let him live, and in fair bonds lead him to my land." the king spake thus, the while worse him befell! uther's knights were in the town forth-right, and laid fire in the town, and fought sharply; with swords rushed towards them; and the irish were naked. when the irish men saw, that the britons were in conflict, they fought fiercely, and nevertheless they fell; they called on their king: "where art thou, nithing! why wilt thou not come hither? thou lettest us here be destroyed;--and pascent, thy comrade, saw us fall here;--come ye to us to help, with great strength!" gillomar heard this; therefore his heart was sore; with his irish knights he came to the fight, and pascent forth with him--both they were fated! when uther saw, that gillomar was there come, to him he gan ride, and smote him in the side, so that the spear through pierced, and glided to the heart. hastily he passed by him, and overtook pascent; and said these words uther the good: "pascent, thou shalt abide; here cometh uther riding!" he smote him upon the head, so that he fell down, and the sword put in his mouth�-such meat to him was strange--so that the point of the sword went in the earth. then said uther: "pascent, lie now there; now thou hast britain all won to thy hand! so is now hap to thee; therein thou art dead; dwell ye shall here, thou, and gillomar thy companion, and possess well britain! for now i deliver it to you in hand, so that ye may presently dwell with us here; ye need not ever dread who you shall feed!" thus said uther, and afterwards he there ran, and drove the irish men over waters and over fens, and slew all the host that with pascent came to land. some to the sea fled, and leapt into their ships; with weather and with water there they perished! thus they sped here, pascent and gillomar. now was this fight done; and uther back came, and forth-right marched into winchester. in a broad way he gan meet three knights and their swains, who came toward him. anon as they met him, fair they him greeted: "hail be thou, uther; these territories are thine own. dead is aurelie, noblest of kings; he hath set to thee in hand all his regal land; he bade thee be in prosperity, and think of his soul." then wept uther wondrously much there. uther proceeded forth-right into winchester; then were before him, without the burgh, all the burghers with piteous cries. so soon as they saw him, they said to him: "uther, thy favour, now and evermore! our king we have lost, woe is to us therefore. thou wert his brother�-he had no other, nor he had no son, who might become king. but take thou the crown, it is thy right, and we will help thee, and hold for lord, with weapons and with goods, and with all our might." uther heard this; he was wise and he was aware, that there was no other course, since his brother was dead. he took the crown, that came to him exceeding well, and he worthily became king, and held good laws, and loved his folk. whilst that he was king, and chose his ministers, merlin disappeared; he knew not ever whither he went, nor ever in the worlds-realm what became of him. woe was the king, so was all his people, and all his courtiers were therefore mourning. the king caused men to ride wide and far; he offered gold and treasure to each travelling man, whosoever might find merlin in the land thereto he laid mickle praise, but he heard no whit of him. then bethought uther, what merlin said to him ere, in the expedition into welsh land, where they saw the dragon, to each worm incomparable, and he thought of the tokens that merlin taught him. the king was exceeding sorry, and sorrowful in heart, for he lost never a dearer man, since he was alive, never any other, not even aurelie, his brother. the king caused to be worked two images, two golden dragons, all for merlin's love-- so greatly he desired his coming. when the dragons were ready, the one was his companion, wheresoever he in the land led his army, it was his standard, in every hap, the other he worthily gave into winchester, into the bishop's see, where he stead holdeth. thereto he gave his good spear, wherewith men should bear the dragon, when men should carry relics at processions. the britons saw this, these dragons that were thus made, ever since they called uther, who for a standard bare the dragon, the name they laid on him, that was uther pendragon; pendragon in british, dragon's-head in english. now was uther their good king, but of merlin he had nothing. this word heard octa, where he dwelt northward, and ebissa his wed-brother, and ossa the other, that aurelie sent thither, and set them there in his peace, and gave them in hand sixty hides of land. octa heard full truly all how it was transacted, of aurehe's death, and of uther's kingdom. octa called to him his kin that was nearest, they betook them to counsel, of their old deeds, that they would by their life desert christendom. they held husting, and became heathens, then came there together, of hengest's kindred, five and sixty hundred of heathen men. soon was the word reported and over the land known, that octa, hengest's son, was become heathen, and all these same men to whom aurelie had granted peace. octa sent his messengers into welsh land, after the irish that from uther were fled, and after the alemains (germans), that away were drawn, that were gone to the wood, the while men slew pascent, and hid them well everywhere, the while men slew gillomar, the folk out of the wood drew, and toward scotland proceeded. there came ever more and more, and proceeded toward octa, when they together were all come, then were there thirty thousand, without the women, of hengest's kin. they took their host, and forth gan to fare, and set all in their hand beyond the humber, and the people, where they gan march, there was a marvellous host! and they proceeded right to york, and on each side the heathen people gan ride about the burgh, and the burgh besieged, and took it all in their hand, forth into scotland, all that they saw they accounted their own. but uther's knights who were in the castle, defended the town within, so that they might never get within, in no place heard any one, of few men that did so well! so soon as uther of this thing was aware, he assembled a strong army, over all his kingdom, and he very speedily marched toward york, proceeded forth-right anon, where octa him lay. octa and his forces marched against them; encountered them together with grim strength, hewed hardily, helms resounded; the fields were dyed with the blood of the slain, and the heathen souls hell sought! when the day's end arrived, then was it so evilly done, that the heathen folk had the upper hand, and with great strength routed the britons, and drove them to a mount that was exceeding strong. and uther with his men drew to the mount, and had lost in the fight his dear knights, full seven hundred�-his hap was the worse! the mount hight dunian, that uther was upon, the mount was overgrown with a fair wood. the king was there within with very many men, and octa besieged him with the heathen men night and day�-besieged him all about, woe was to the britons! woe was the king uther, that he was not ere aware, that he had not in land better understood. oft they went to counsel of such need, how they might overcome octa, hengest's son. there was an earl gorlois, bold man full truly�-knight he was good, he was uther's man,�-earl of cornwall, known he was wide�-he was a very wise man, in all things excellent. to him said uther, sorry in heart: "hail be thou, gorlois, lord of men! thou art mine own man, and very well i thee treat; thou art knight good, great is thy wisdom, all my people i put in thy counsel, and all we shall work after thy will." then hung he his brows down, the king uther pendragon, and stood him full still, and bade gorlois say his will. then answered gorlois, who was courteous full truly, "say me, uther pendragon, why bowest thou thy head down? knowest thou not that god alone is better than we all clean? he may to whomsoever he will give worship. promise we him in life that we will not him deceive, and let we counsel us of our misdeeds. each man forth-right take shrift of all his sins, each man shrive other, as if it were his brother, and every good knight take on him much shrift, and god we shall promise to amend our sins. and at the midnight prepare us to fight, these heathen hounds account us all here bound. octa, hengest's son, weeneth that we are all taken, they he in these fields covered in their tents, they are very weary of carrying their weapons, now anon they shall slumber, and afterwards sleep; of us they have no care, that we will march against them. at the midnight we shall forth-right go exceeding still, down from this hill, be no knight so mad, that he ask any word, nor ever any man be so mad, that he blow horn. but we shall step to them as if we would steal, ere they are aware, we shall destroy them, we shall approach to them, and tell them tidings. and let every brave man strongly lay on them, and so we shall drive the foreigners from the land, and with the might of our lord, win our rights." all this host did as gorlois had bid them, each man forth-right put him under shrift promised to do good, and uther pendragon foremost went down, and all his knights, exceeding still, and smote in the wealds, among all the tents, and slew the heathens with great strength, slew over the fields the yellow locks, of folk it was most wretched, they drew along their bowels, with much destruction they fell to the ground. and there was forth-right captured octa, hengest's son, and his wed-brother ebissa, and his comrade ossa. the king caused them to be bound with iron bands, and delivered them to sixty knights, who were good in fight, fast to hold over the weald. and he himself drove him forth, and made much din, and gorlois the fair, forth on the other side, and all their knights ever forth-right slew downright all that they came nigh. some they crept to the wood on their bare knees, and they were on the morrow most miserable of all folk. octa was bound, and led to london, and ebissa, and ossa--was never to them such woe. this fight was all done, and the king forth marched into northumberland with great bliss, and afterwards to scotland, and set it all in his own hand. he established peace, he established quiet, that each man might journey with from land to land, though he bare gold in his hand, of peace he did such things, that no king might ever ere, from that time that the britons here arrived. and then, after a time, he proceeded to london, he was there at easter, with his good folk, blithe was the london's town, for uther pendragon. he sent his messengers over all his kingdom, he bade the earls, he bade the churls, he bade the bishops, and the book learned men, that they should come to london, to uther the king, into london's town, to uther pendragon. rich men soon to london came; they brought wife, they brought child, as uther the king commanded. with much goodness the king heard mass, and gorlois, the earl of cornwall, and many knights with him; much bliss was in the town, with king uther pendragon. when the mass was sung, to the hall they crowded, trumpets they blew, boards they spread, all the folk ate and drank, and bliss was among them. there sate uther the king in his high chair; opposite to him gorlois, fair knight full truly, the earl of cornwall, with his noble wife. when they were all seated, the earls to their meat, the king sent his messengers to ygaerne the fair, gorlois the earl's wife, woman fairest of all. oft he looked on her, and glanced with his eyes, oft he sent his cup-bearers forth to her table, oft he laughed at her, and made glances to her, and she him lovingly beheld--but i know not whether she loved him. the king was not so wise, nor so far prudent, that among his folk he could his thoughts hide. so long the king this practised, that gorlois became him wrath, and angered him greatly with the king, because of his wife. the earl and his knights arose forth-right, and went forth with the woman, knights most wrath. king uther saw this, and herefore was sorry, and took him forth-right twelve wise knights, and sent after gorlois, chieftain of men, and bade him come in haste to the king, and do the king good right, and acknowledge his fault, that he had disgraced the king, and from his board had departed, he, and his knights, with mickle wrong, for the king was cheerful with him, and for he hailed (drank health) to his wife. and if he would not back come, and acknowledge his guilt, the king would follow after him, and do all his might, take from him all his land, and his silver, and his gold. gorlois heard this, lord of men, and he answer gave, wrathest of earls: "nay, so help me the lord, that formed the daylight, will i never back come, nor yearn his peace, nor shall he ever in life disgrace me of my wife! and say ye to uther the king, at tintateol he may find me, if he thither will ride, there will i abide him, and there he shall have hard game, and mickle world's shame." forth proceeded the earl, angry in his mood, he was wrath with the king wondrously much, and threatened uther the king, and all his thanes with him. but he knew not what should come subsequently, soon thereafter. the earl proceeded anon into cornwall; he had there two castles inclosed most fast, the castles were good, and belonged to the race of his ancestors. to tintateol he sent his mistress who was so fair, named ygaerne, best of all women; and he inclosed her fast in the castle. ygaerne was sorry, and sorrowful in heart, that so many men for her should there have destruction. the earl sent messengers over all britain, and bade each brave man, that he should come to him, for gold and for silver, and for other good gifts, that they full soon should come to tintateol, and bade his own knights to come forth-right. when they were together, the good thanes, then had he full fifteen thousand, and they fast inclosed tintateol. upon the sea-strand tintateol standeth, it is with the sea cliffs fast inclosed, so that it may not be won, by no kind of man, but if hunger come therein under. the earl marched thence with seven thousand men, and proceeded to another castle, and inclosed it full fast, and left his wife in tintateol, with ten thousand men. for it needed the knights, day or night, only to guard the castle gate, and he careless asleep; and the earl kept the other, and with him his own brother. uther heard this, who was king most stark, that gorlois, his earl, had gathered his forces, and would hold war, with much wrath. the king summoned his host over all this territory, over all the land that stood in his hand, people of many kind marched them together, and came to london to the sovereign. out of london's town fared uther pendragon, he and his knights proceeded forth-right, so long, that they came into cornwall, and over the water they passed, that tambres hight, right to the castle, where they knew gorlois to be. with much enmity the castle they besieged, oft they assaulted it with fierce strength; together they leapt, people there fell. full seven nights the king with his knights besieged the castle, his men there had sorrow, he might not of the earl anything win, and all the se'nnight lasted the marvellous fight. when uther the king saw that nothing sped to him, oft he bethought him what he might do, for ygaerne was so dear to him, even as his own life, and gorlois was to him in the land of all men most loathsome; and in each way was woe to him in this world's realm, because he might not have anything of his will. then was with the king an old man exceeding well-informed; he was a very rich thane, and skilful in each doom, he was named ulfin, much wisdom was with him. the king drew up his chin, and looked on ulfin, greatly he mourned, his mood was disturbed. then quoth uther pendragon to ulfin the knight: "ulfin, say me some counsel, or i shall be full soon dead, so much it longeth me after the fair ygaerne, that i may not live. this word hold to me secret; for ulfin the dear, thy good counsels, loud and still i will do them." then answered ulfin to the king who spake with him: "now hear i a king say great marvel! thou lovest ygaerne, and holdest it so secret, the woman is to thee dear, and her lord all loath, his land thou consumest, and makest him destitute, and threatenest himself to slay, and his kin to destroy. weenest thou with such harm to obtain ygaerne? she should do then as no woman doth, with dread unmeet hold love sweet. but if thou lovest ygaerne, thou shouldest hold it secret, and send her soon of silver and of gold, and love her with art, and with loving behest. the yet it were a doubt, whether thou mightest possess her, for ygaerne is chaste, a woman most true; so was her mother, and more of the kin. in sooth i thee say, dearest of all kings, that otherwise thou must begin, if thou wilt win her. for yesterday came to me a good hermit, and swore by his chin, that he knew merlin, where he each night resteth under heaven, and oft he spake with him, and stories him told. and if we might with art get merlin, then mightest thou thy will wholly obtain." then was uther pendragon the softer in his mood, and gave answer: "ulfin, thou hast well said counsel, i give thee in hand thirty ploughs of land, so that thou get merlin, and do my will." ulfin went through the folk, and sought all the host, and he after a time found the hermit, and in haste brought him to the king. and the king set to him in hand seven ploughs of land, if he might find and bring merlin to the king. the hermit gan wend in the west end, to a wilderness, to a mickle wood, where he had dwelt well many winters, and merlin very oft sought him there. so soon as the hermit came in, then found he merlin, standing under a tree, and sore gan for him long, he saw the hermit come, as whilom was his custom, he ran towards him, both they rejoiced for this; they embraced, they kissed, and familiarly spake. then said merlin--much wisdom was with him--"say thou, my dear friend, why wouldest thou not say to me, through no kind of thing, that thou wouldest go to the king? but full quickly i it knew anon as i thee missed, that thou wert come to uther the king, and what the king spake with thee, and of his land thee offered, that thou shouldest bring me to uther the king. and ulfin thee sought, and to the king brought, and uther pendragon forth-right anon, set him in hand thirty ploughs of land, and he set thee in hand seven ploughs of land. uther is desirous after ygaerne the fair, wondrously much, after gorlois's wife. but so long as is eternity, that shall never come, that he obtain her, but through my stratagem, for there is no woman truer in this world's realm. and nevertheless he shall possess the fair ygaerne; and he shall beget on her what shall widely rule, he shall beget on her a man exceeding marvellous. so long as is eternity, he shall never die, the while that this world standeth, his glory shall last, and he shall in rome rule the thanes. all shall bow to him that dwelleth in britain, of him shall gleemen goodly sing; of his breast noble poets shall eat; of his blood shall men be drunk; from his eyes shall fly fiery embers; each finger on his hand shall be a sharp steel brand, stone walls shall before him tumble; barons shall give way, and their standards fall! thus he shall well long fare over all the lands, people to conquer, and set his laws. these are the tokens of the son, that shall come of uther pendragon and of ygaerne. this speech is full secret, for yet neither it knoweth, ygaerne nor uther, that of uther pendragon such a son shall arise; for yet he is unbegot, that shall govern all the people. but, lord," quoth merlin, "now it is thy will, that forth i shall go to the host of the king; thy words i will obey, and now i will depart, and proceed i will for thy love to uther pendragon. and thou shalt have the land that he set thee in hand." thus they then spake: the hermit gan to weep; dearly he him kissed; there they gan to separate. merlin went right forth south, the land was well known to him; forth-right he proceeded to the king's host. so soon as uther him saw, so he approached towards him; and thus quoth uther pendragon: "merlin, thou art welcome! here i set thee in hand all the counsel of my land, and that thou must me advise, at my great need." uther told him all that he would, and how ygaerne was to him in the land dearest of women, and gorlois, her lord, most odious of all men.--"and unless i have thy counsel, full soon thou wilt see me dead." then answered merlin: "let ulfin now come in, and give him in hand thirty ploughs of land, and give to the hermit what thou him promisedest, for i will not possess any land, neither silver nor gold, for i am in counsel most skilful of all men, and if i wished for possessions, then should i become worse in craft. but all thy will well shall come to pass, for i know such leech-craft, that shall be to thee lief, so that all thy appearance shall become as the earl's; thy speech, thy deeds among thy people; thy horse and thy weeds (garments), and so shalt thou ride. when ygaerne shall see thee, in mood shall it be well to her; she lieth in tintateol, fast inclosed. there is no knight so well born, of no land chosen, that might with strength unfasten the gates of tintateol, unless they were burst with hunger and with thirst. but that is the sooth that i will say to thee, through all things thou shalt be as if thou wert the earl, and i will be every bit as britael he is, who is a knight most hardy, he is this earl's steward, jurdan is his chamber-knight, he is exceeding well dight, i will make ulfin anon such as jurdan is. then wilt thou be lord, and i be britael, thy steward, and ulfin be jurdan, thy chamber-knight. and we shall go now to-night, and fare thou shalt by counsel, whither soever i lead thee. now to-night shall half a hundred knights with spear and with shield be about thy tents, so that never any man alive come there near, and if ever any man come there, that his head be taken from him. for the knights shall say--thy good men--that thou art let blood, and restest thee in bed." these things were forth-right thus dight. forth went the king, it was nothing known, and forth went with him ulfin and merlin, they proceeded right the way that lay into tintateol, they came to the castle-gate, and called familiarly: "undo this gate-bolt; the earl is come here, gorlois the lord, and britael his steward, and jordan the chamber-knight; we have journeyed all night!" the gateward made it known over all, and knights ran upon the wall, and spake with gorlois, and knew him full surely. the knights were most alert, and weighed up the castle gate, and let him come within--the less was then their care,--they weened certainly to have much bliss. then had they with stratagem merlin there within, and uther the king within their possession, and led there with him his good thane ulfin. these tidings came quickly unto the lady, that her lord was come, and with him his three men. out came ygaerne forth to the earl, and said these words with winsome speech: "welcome, lord, man to me dearest; and welcome, jordan, and britael is also;--be ye in safety parted from the king?" then quoth uther full truly as if it were gorlois: "mickle is the multitude that is with uther pendragon, and i am all by night stolen from the fight, for after thee i was desirous, woman thou art to me dearest. go into the chamber, and cause my bed to be made, and i will rest me for this night's space, and all day to-morrow, to gladden my people." ygaerne went to chamber, and caused a bed to be made for him, the kingly bed was all overspread with a pall. the king viewed it well, and went to his bed; and ygaerne lay down by uther pendragon, now weened ygaerne full truly, that it were gorlois; through never any kind of thing knew she uther the king. the king approached her as man should do to woman, and had him to do with the dearest of women; and he begat on her a marvellous man, keenest of all kings, that ever came among men, and he was on earth named arthur. ygaerne knew not who lay in her arms, for ever she weened full surely, that it were the earl gorlois. there was no greater interval but until it was daylight, there forth-right the knights understood, that the king was departed out of the host. then said the knights, sooth though it were not, that the king was flown, filled with dread, but it all was leasing that they said of the king, they held hereof much converse upon uther pendragon. then said the earls and the highest barons; "now when gorlois shall know it, how it is passed, that our king is departed, and has left his host, he will forth-right weapon his knights, and out he will to fight, and fell us to ground, with his furious thanes make mickle slaughter; then were it better for us, that we were not born. but cause we the trumpets to be blown, and our army to assemble; and cador the brave shall bear the king's standard; heave high the dragon before this people, and march to the castle, with our keen folk. and the earl aldolf shall be our chief, and we shall obey him, as if he were the king; and so we shall with right with gorlois fight, and if he will speak with us, and yearn this king's peace, set amity with soothfast oath, then may we with worship go hence; then our underlings will have no upbraidings, that we for any timidity hence fled." all the nation-folk praised this same counsel. trumpets they blew, and assembled their host; up they heaved the dragon, by each standard unmatched; there was many a bold man, that hung shield on shoulder, many a keen thane, and proceeded to the castle, where gorlois was within, with his keen men. he caused trumpets to be blown, and his host to assemble; they leapt on steed, knights gan to ride. these knights were exceeding active, and went out at the gate; together they came soon, and quickly they attacked, fell the fated men, the ground they sought; there was much blood shed, harm was among the folk; amidst the fight full certainly men slew the earl gorlois. then gan his men to flee, and the others to pursue after, they came to the castle, and within they thrust. soon it came within, both the two hosts; there lasted the fight throughout the daylight; ere the day were all gone, the castle was won; was there no swain so mean, that he was not a well good thane. the tidings came into tintageol in haste, forth into the castle wherein uther was, that the good earl their lord gorlois was slain full truly, and all his soldiers, and his castle taken. the king heard this, where he lay in amorous play, and leapt out of bower, as if it were a lion. then quoth the king uther, of this tiding he was ware: "be still, be still, knights in hall! here i am full truly, your lord gorlois; and jordan, my chamberlain, and britael, my steward. i and these two knights leapt out of the fight, and in hither we are arrived--we were not there slain. but now i will march, and assemble my host; and i and my knights shall all by night proceed into a town, and meet uther pendragon, and unless he speak of reconciliation, i will worthily avenge me! and inclose ye this castle most fast, and bid ygaerne that she mourn not. now go i forth-right, have ye all good night!" merlin went before, and the thane ulfin, and afterwards uther pendragon, out of tintageol's town; ever they proceeded all night, until it was daylight. when he came to the spot where his army lay, merlin had on the king set his own features through all things, then his knights knew their sovereign; there was many a bold briton filled with bliss; then was in britain bliss enow; horns there blew, gleemen gan chant, glad was every knight, all arrayed with pall! three days was the king dwelling there; and on the fourth day he went to tintaieol. he sent to the castle his best thanes, and greeted ygaerne, noblest of women, and sent her token what they spake in bed; and ordered her that she should yield the castle quickly--there was no other counsel, for her lord was dead. yet ygaerne weened that it were sooth, that the dead earl had sought his people, and she all believed, that it were false, that the king uther had ever come down. knights went to counsel, knights went to communing, they resolved that they would not hold the castle any longer, their bridge they let down and delivered it to uther pendragon. then stood all this kingdom eft in uther's own hand. there uther the king took ygaerne for queen; ygaerne was with child by uther the king, all through merlin's craft, before she was wedded. the time came that was chosen, then was arthur born. so soon as he came on earth, elves took him; they enchanted the child with magic most strong, they gave him might to be the best of all knights; they gave him another thing, that he should be a rich king, they gave him the third, that he should live long; they gave to him the prince virtues most good, so that he was most generous of all men alive. this the elves gave him, and thus the child thrived. after arthur, the blessed lady was born, she was named anna, the blessed maiden; and afterwards she took (married) loth, who possessed leoneis (lothian), she was in leoneis lady of the people. long lived uther with mickle bliss here, with good peace, with much quiet, free in his kingdom. when that he was an old man, then came illness on him; the illness laid him down, sick was uther pendragon, so he was here sick seven years. then became the britons much emboldened, they did oft wickedly, all for absence of dread. the yet lay octa, hengest's son, bound in the prison of london, who was taken at york, and his comrade ebissa, and his other ossa. twelve knights guarded them day and night, who were wearily oppressed with watching, in london. octa heard say of the sickness of the king, and spake with the guardsmen, who should keep him: "hearken to me now, knights, what i will make known to you. we lie here in london fast bound, and ye many a long day have watched over us. better were it for us to live in saxland, with much wealth, than thus miserably here lie asleep. and if ye would in all things accomplish this, and do my will, i would give you land, much silver and gold, so that ever ye might richly rule in the land, and live your life as to you shall be liefest of all. for ye shall never have good gifts of uther, your king, for now full soon he will be dead, and his people all desert, then will ye have neither, the one nor the other. but bethink you, brave men, and give to us your compassion, and think what were lief to you, if ye thus lay bound, and might in your land live in joy." very oft octa spake so with these knights. the knights gan to commune, the knights gan to counsel, and to octa they said full still: "we shall do thy will." oaths they swore, that they would not deceive. it was on a night that the wind went right; forth went the knights at the midnight, and led forth octa, and ebissa, and ossa, along the thames they proceeded forth into the sea; forth they passed into saxland. their kindred came towards them with great flocks (forces); they marched over all the land, as to them was liefest, men gave them gifts and land; men gave them silver and gold octa bethought him what he might do; he thought to come hither, and avenge his father's wounds. they procured a host of innumerable folk, to the sea they proceeded with great threats, they came to scotland; soon they pushed on land, and greeted it with fire; the saxons were cruel, the scots they slew; with fire they down laid thirty hundred towns; the scots they slew, many and innumerable. the tidings came to uther the king. uther was exceeding woe, and wonderfully grieved, and sent in to loeneis, to his dear friends, and greeted loth, his son-in-law, and bade him be in health, and ordered him to take in his own hand all his royal land; knights and freemen, and freely hold them, and lead them in a host, as the laws are in the land. and he ordered his dear knights to be obedient to loth, with loving looks, as if he were sovereign. for loth was very good knight, and had held many fight, and he was liberal to every man, he delivered to him the government of all this land. octa held much war, and loth often fought with him, and oft he gained possessions, and oft he them lost. the britons had mickle mood, and immoderate pride, and were void of dread, on account of the king's age; and looked very contemptuously on loth the earl, and did very evilly all his commands, and were all two counsels--their care was the more! this was soon said to the sick king, that his high men loth all despised. now will i tell thee, in this history, how uther the king disposed himself. he said that he would go to his host, and see with his eyes who would there do well. he caused there to be made a good horse-litter, and caused an army to be assembled over all his kingdom; that each man by (on pain of) his life should come to him quickly, by their lives and by their limbs, to avenge the king's shame.--"and if there is any man, who will not come hastily, i will speedily destroy him, either slay either hang." all full soon to the court (or to the army) they came, durst there none remain, nor the fat nor the lean. the king forth-right took all his knights, and marched him anon to the town of verulam; about verolam's town came him uther pendragon; octa was within with all his men. then was verulam a most royal town, saint alban was there slain, and deprived of life-day; the burgh was subsequently destroyed, and much folk there was slain. uther lay without, and octa within. uther's army advanced to the wall, the powerful thanes fiercely assaulted it, they might not of the wall one stone detach, nor with any strength the wall injure. well blithe was then hengest's son octa, when he saw the britons recede from the walls, and go sorrowful again to their tents. then said octa to his comrade ebissa: "here is come to verulam uther, the lame man, and will with us here fight in his litter; he weened with his crutch to thrust us down! but to-morrow when it is day, the people shall arise, and open our castle-gate, and this realm we shall all win; shall we never lie here for one lame man! out we shall ride upon our good steeds, and advance to uther, and fell his folk; for all they are fated (shall die) that hither are ridden; and take the lame man, and lay in our bonds, and hold the wretch until that he dies; and so men shall leach his limbs that are sore, and heal his bones with bitter steel!" thus spake him octa with his comrade ebissa; but all it happened otherwise than they weened. on the morrow when it dawned, they unfastened the doors; up arose octa, ebissa, and ossa, and ordered their knights to prepare them for fight, to undo their broad gates, and unfasten the burgh. octa rode him out, and much folk followed after him; with his bold warriors there he bale found! uther saw him this, that octa approached to them, and thought to fell his host to the ground. then called uther with quick voice there: "where be ye, britons, my bold thanes? now is come that day, that the lord may help us;--that octa shall find, in that he threatened me to bind. think of your ancestors, how good they were in fight; think of the worship that i have to you well given; nor let ye ever this heathen enjoy your homes, or these same raging hounds possess your lands. and i will pray to the lord who formed the daylight, and to all the hallows, that sit high in heaven, that i on this field may be succoured. now march quickly to them,--may the lord aid you, may the all-ruling god protect my thanes!" knights gan to ride, spears gan to glide, and broad spears brake, shivered shields--helms there were severed, men fell! the britons were bold, and busy in fight, and the heathen hounds fell to the ground. there was slain octa, ebissa, and ossa; there seventeen thousand sunk into hell; and many there escaped toward the north end. and all the daylight uther's knights slew and captured all that they came nigh; when it was even, then was it all won. then sung the soldiers with great strength, and said these words in their merry songs: "here is uther pendragon come to verulam's town; and he hath so beaten octa, and ebissa, and ossa, and given them in the land laws most strong, so that men may tell their kin in story, and thereof make songs in saxland!" then was uther blithe, and exceeding glad, and spake with his people, that was dear to him in heart, and these words said uther the old: "saxish men have accounted me for base; my sickness they twitted me with their scornful words, because i was led here in a horse-litter; and said that i was dead, and my folk asleep. and now is much wonder come to this realm, that now this dead king hath killed these quick; and some he hath them driven forth with the weather! now hereafter be done the lord's will!" the saxish men fled exceeding fast, that had aside retreated from the fight; forth they gan proceed into scotland, and took to them for king colgrim the fair. he was hengest's relation, and dearest of men to him; and octa loved him, the while that he lived. the saxish men were greatly discouraged, and proceeded them together into scotland; and they made colgrim the fair for king, and assembled a host, wide over the land, and said that they would with their wicked craft in winchester town kill uther pendragon. alas, that it should so happen! now said the saxish men in their communing together: "take we six knights, wise men and active, and skilful spies, and send we to the court, in almsman's guise, and dwell in the court, with the high king, and every day pass through all the people; and go to the king's dole, as if they were infirm, and among the poor people hearken studiously if man might with craft, by day or by night, in winchester's town come to uther pendragon, and kill the king with murder;"--then were (would be) their will wholly accomplished, then were they careless of constanine's kin. now went forth the knights all by daylight, in almsman's clothes--knights most wicked--to the king's court--there they harm wrought. they went to the dole, as if they were infirm, and hearkened studiously of the king's sickness, how men might put the king to death. then met they with a knight, from the king he came forth-right; he was uther's relation, and dearest of men to him. these deceivers, where they sate along the street, called to the knight with familiar words: "lord, we are wretched men in this world's realm; whilom we were in land accounted for good men, until saxish men set us adown, and bereaved us of all, and our possessions took from us. now we sing beads (prayers) for uther the king; each day in a meal our meat faileth; cometh never in our dish neither flesh nor any fish, nor any kind of drink but a draught of water, but water clean--therefore we are thus lean." the knight heard this; back he went forth-right, and came to the king, where he lay in chamber, and said to the king: "lord, be thou in health! here out sit six men, alike in hue, all they are companions, and clothed with hard hair-cloth. whilom they were in this world's realm goodly thanes, and filled with goods; now have saxish men set them to ground, so that they are in the world accounted for wretches, they have not at board but bread alone, nor for their drink but water draughts. thus they lead their life in thy people, and bid their beads, that god will let thee long live." then quoth uther the king: "let them come in hither, i will them clothe, and i will them feed, for the love of my lord, the while that i live." the treacherous men came into the chamber, the king caused them to be fed, the king caused them to be clothed, and at night each laid them on his bed. and each on his part aspied earnestly how they might kill the king with murder, but they might not through anything kill uther the king, nor through any craft might come to him. then happened it on a time, the rain it gan to pour; then called there a leech, where he lay in the chamber, to a chamber-knight, and ordered him forth-right to run to the well, that was near the hall, and set there a good swam, to keep it from the rain.--"for the king may not enjoy no draught in the world but the cold well stream, that is to him pleasant; that is for his sickness best of all draughts." this speech forth-right heard these six knights--to harm they were prompt--and went out by night forth to the well--there they harm wrought. out they drew soon fair phials, filled with poison, of all liquids bitterest; six phials full they poured in the well; then was the well anon with poison infected. then were full blithe the traitors in their life, and forth they went; they durst not there remain. then came there forth-right two chamber-knights; they bare in their hands two bowls of gold. they came to the well, and filled their bowls; back they gan wend to uther the king, forth into the chamber, where he lay in bed.--"hail be thou, uther! now we are come here, and we have brought thee, what thou ere bade, cold well water; receive it with joy." up arose the sick king, and sate on his bed; of the water he drank, and soon he gan to sweat; his heart gan to weaken, his face began to blacken, his belly gan to swell, the king gan to burst. there was no other hap, but there was uther the king dead; and all they were dead, who drank of the water. when the attendants saw the calamity of the king, and of the king's men, who with poison were destroyed, then went to the well knights that were active, and destroyed the well with painful labour, with earth and with stones made a steep hill. then the people took the dead king--numerous folk--and forth him carried the stiff-minded men into stonehenge, and there buried him, by his dear brother; side by side there they lie both. then came it all together, that was highest in the land, earls and barons, and book-learned men; they came to london, to a mickle husting, and the rich thanes betook them all to counsel, that they would send messengers over sea into britanny, after the best of all youth that was in the worlds-realm in those days, named arthur the strong, the best of all knights; and say that he should come soon to his kingdom; for dead was he uther pendragon, as aurelie was ere, and uther pendragon had no other son, that might after his days hold by law the britons, maintain with worship, and rule this kingdom. for yet were in this land the saxons settled; colgrim the keen, and many thousands of his companions, that oft made to our britons evil injuries. the britons full soon took three bishops, and seven riders, strong in wisdom; forth they gan proceed into britanny, and they full soon came to arthur.--"hail be thou, arthur, noblest of knights! uther thee greeted, when he should depart, and bade that thou shouldest thyself in britain hold right laws, and help thy folk, and defend this kingdom, as good king should do, defeat thy enemies, and drive them from land. and he prayed the mild son of god to be to thee now in aid, that thou mightest do well, and the land receive from god. for dead is uther pendragon, and thou art arthur, his son; and dead is the other, aurelie his brother." thus they gan tell, and arthur sate full still; one while he was wan, and in hue exceeding pale; one while he was red, and was moved in heart. when it all brake forth, it was good that he spake; and thus said he there right, arthur the noble knight: "lord christ, god's son, be to us now in aid, that i may in life hold god's laws!" arthur was fifteen years old, when this tiding was told to him, and all they were well employed, for he was much instructed. arthur forth-right called his knights, and bade every man get ready his weapons, and saddle their horses very speedily, for he would go to this britain. to the sea proceeded the good thanes, at michael's mount, with a mickle host, the sea set them on the strand, at southampton they came ashore. forth he gan ride, arthur the powerful, right to silchester; there it seemed good to him; there was the host of britons boldly assembled. great was the bliss when arthur came to the burgh; then was blast of trumpets, and men most glad; there they raised to be king arthur the young. when arthur was king--hearken now a marvellous thing;--he was liberal to each man alive, knight with the best, wondrously keen! he was to the young for father, to the old for comforter, and with the unwise wonderfully stern, wrong was to him exceeding loathsome, and the right ever dear. each of his cupbearers, and of his chamber-thanes, and his chamber-knights, bare gold in hand, to back and to bed, clad with gold web. he had never any cook, that he was not champion most good; never any knight's swam, that he was not bold thane! the king held all his folk together with great bliss, and with such things he overcame all kings, with fierce strength and with treasure. such were his qualities, that all folk it knew. now was arthur good king, his people loved him, eke it was known wide, of his kingdom. the king held in london a mickle husting; thereto were arrived all his knights, rich men and poor, to honour the king. when that it was all come, a numerous folk, up arose arthur noblest of kings, and caused to be brought before him reliques well choice, and thereto the king gan soon to kneel thrice,--his people knew not what he would pronounce. arthur held up his right hand, an oath he there swore, that never by his life, for no man's lore, should the saxons become blithe in britain, nor be landholders, nor enjoy worship, but he would drive them out, for they were at enmity with him. for they slew uther pendragon, who was son of constance, so they did the other, aurelie, his brother, therefore they were in land loathest of all folk. arthur forth-right took his wise knights, were it lief to them were it loath to them, they all swore the same oath, that they would truly hold with arthur, and avenge the king uther, whom the saxons killed here. arthur sent his writs wide over his land, after all the knights that he might obtain, that they full soon should come to the king, and he would in land lovingly maintain them; reward them with land, with silver and with gold. forth went the king with a numerous host, he led a surprising multitude, and marched right to york. there he lay one night, on the morrow he proceeded forth-right where he knew colgrim to be, and his comrades with him. since octa was slam, and deprived of life-day, who was hengest's son, out of saxland come, colgrim was the noblest man that came out of saxland, after hengest, and hors, his brother, and octa, and ossa, and their companion ebissa. at that day colgrim ruled the saxons by authority, led and counselled, with fierce strength; mickle was the multitude that marched with colgrim! colgrim heard tiding of arthur the king, that he came toward him, and would do to him evil. colgrim bethought him what he might do, and assembled his host over all the north land. there came together all the scottish people, peohtes and saxons joined them together, and men of many kind followed colgrim. forth he gan to march with an immense force, against arthur, noblest of kings, he thought to kill the king in his land, and fell his folk to the ground, and set all this kingdom in his own hand, and fell to the ground arthur the young. forth marched colgrim, and his army with him, and proceeded with his host until he came to a water, the water is named duglas, people it destroyed! there came arthur against him, ready with his fight; on a broad ford the hosts them met, vigorously their brave champions attacked, the fated fell to the ground! there was much blood shed, and woe there was rife, shivered shafts, men there fell! arthur saw that, in mood he was uneasy, arthur bethought him what he might do, and drew him backward on a broad field. when his foes weened that he would fly, then was colgrim glad, and all his host with him, they weened that arthur had with fear retreated there, and passed over the water, as if they were mad. when arthur saw that, that colgrim was so nigh to him, and they were both beside the water, thus said arthur, noblest of kings: "see ye not, my britons, here beside us, our full foes--christ destroy them!--colgrim the strong, out of saxland? his kin in this land killed our ancestors, but now is the day come, that the lord hath appointed, that he shall lose the life, and lose his friends, or else we shall be dead, we may not see him alive! the saxish men shall abide sorrow, and we avenge worthily our friends." up caught arthur his shield, before his breast, and he gan to rush as the howling wolf, when he cometh from the wood, behung with snow, and thinketh to bite such beasts as he liketh. arthur then called to his dear knights: "advance we quickly, brave thanes! all together towards them; we all shall do well, and they forth fly, as the high wood, when the furious wind heaveth it with strength!" flew over the wealds thirty thousand shields, and smote on colgrim's knights, so that the earth shook again. brake the broad spears, shivered shields; the saxish men fell to the ground! colgrim saw that, therefore he was woe--the fairest man of all that came out of saxland. colgrim gan to flee, exceeding quickly; and his horse bare him with great strength over the deep water, and saved him from death. the saxons gan to sink--sorrow was given to them! arthur hastened speedily to the water, and turned his spear's point, and hindered to them the ford; there the saxons were drowned, full seven thousand. some they gan wander, as the wild crane doth in the moorfen, when his flight is impaired, and swift hawks pursue after him, and hounds with mischief meet him in the reeds; then is neither good to him, nor the land nor the flood, the hawks him smite, the hounds him bite, then is the royal fowl at his death-time! colgrim fled him over the fields quickly, until he came to york, riding most marvellously; he went into the burgh, and fast it inclosed; he had within ten thousand men, burghers with the best; that were beside him. arthur pursued after him with thirty thousand knights, and marched right to york with folk very numerous, and besieged colgrim at york, who defended it against him. seven nights therebefore baldolf the fair, colgrim's brother, was gone southward, and lay by the sea-side, and abode childric. childric was in those days a kaiser of powerful authority; the land in alemaine was his own. when baldolf heard, where he lay by the sea, that arthur had inclosed colgrim in york, baldolf had assembled seven thousand men, bold fellows, who by the sea lay; they took them to counsel, that back they would ride, and leave childric, and proceed into york, and fight with arthur, and destroy all his people. baldolf swore in his anger, that he would be arthur's bane, and possess all this realm, with colgrim his brother. baldolf would not wait for the kaiser childric, but thence he marched forth, and drew him forth right north, from day to day, with his bold folk, until he came into a wood, into a wilderness, full seven miles from arthur's host. he had thought by night with seven thousand knights to ride upon arthur, and fell his folk, and himself kill. but all it otherwise happened, other than he weened; for baldolf had in his host a british knight; he was arthur's relative, named maurin. maurin went aside to the wood, through woods and through fields, until he came to arthur's tents; and thus said soon to arthur the king: "hail be thou, arthur, noblest of kings! i am hither come; i am of thy kindred. here is baldolf arrived with warriors most hardy, and thinketh in this night to slay thee and thy knights, to avenge his brother, who is greatly discouraged, but god shall prevent him, through his mickle might, and send now forth cador, the earl of cornwall, and with him bold knights, good and brave, full seven hundred good thanes; and i will counsel them, and i will lead them, how they may baldolf slay as if a wolf." forth went cador and all these knights, so that they came aside where baldolf lay in tents, they advanced to him on each side; they slew, they captured all that they came nigh;--there were killed nine hundred all out told. baldolf was gone aside to save himself, and fled through the wilderness, wondrously fast; and had his dear men with sorrow deserted, and fled him so far north, that he came so forth, where arthur lay on the weald, with his powerful host, all about york--king most surprising! colgrim was within with the saxish men, and baldulf bethought him what he might do; with what kind of stratagem he might come within, into the burgh, to colgrim his brother, who was to him the dearest of all men alive. baldulf caused to be shaved to the bare skin his beard and his chin, and made him as a fool; he caused half his head to be shorn, and took him in hand a long harp. he could harp exceeding well in his childhood; and with his harp he went to the king's host, and gan there to play, and much game to make. oft men him smote with wands most smart; oft men him struck as men do fool; each man that met him, greeted him with derision; so never any man knew of baldulf's appearance, but that it were a fool come to the folk! so long he went upward, so long he went downward, that they were aware, who were there within, that it was baldulf without, colgrim's brother. they cast out a rope, and baldulf grasped it fast, and they drew up baldulf, so that he came within, with such kind of stratagem baldulf came within. then was colgrim blithe, and all his knights with him, and greatly they gan to threaten arthur the king. arthur was beside, and saw this game, and wrathed himself wondrously much; and ordered anon all his brave folk to weapon them; he thought to win the burgh with strength. as arthur was about to assault the wall, then came there riding patrick, the rich man, who was a scottish thane, fair in his land; and thus began to call to the king anon: "hail be thou, arthur the king, noblest of britons! i will tell thee new tiding, of the kaiser childric, the furious and the powerful, the strong and the bold. he is in scotland arrived in a haven, and the homes consumeth, and wieldeth all our land in his own hand. he hath a host brave, all the strength of rome; he saith with his boast, when men pour to him the wine, that thou darest not in any spot his attacks abide, neither in field, nor in wood, nor in ever any place. and if thou him abidest, he will thee bind; destroy thy people, and possess thy land." oft was arthur woe, but never worse than then; and he drew him backward, beside the burgh; called to counsel knights at need, barons and earls, and the holy bishops; and bade that they should him counsel, how he might in the realm with his army his honour maintain, and fight with childric, the strong and the powerful, who hither would come, to help colgrim. then answered the britons, that were there beside: "go we right to london, and let him come after; and if he cometh riding, sorrow he shall abide; he himself and his host shall die!" arthur approved all that his people counselled; forth he gan march until he came to london. colgrim was in york, and there he abode childric. childric gan proceed over the north end, and took in his hand a great deal of land. all scotland he gave to a thane of his, and all northumberland he set in the hand of his brother; galloway and orkney he gave to an earl of his; himself he took the land from humber into london. he thought never more of arthur to have mercy, unless he would become his man, arthur, uther's son. arthur was in london, with all the britons; he summoned his forces over all this land, that every man, that good would grant to him, quickly and full soon to london should come. then was england filled with harm; here was weeping and here was lament, and sorrow immoderate; mickle hunger and strife at every man's gate! arthur sent over sea two good knights, to howel his relation, who was to him dearest of men, who possessed britanny, knight with the best; and bade him full soon, that he hither should come, sail to land, to help the people; for childric had in hand much of this land, and colgrim and baldulf were come to him, and thought to drive arthur the king out of the land; take from him his right, and his kingdom;�-then were his kindred disgraced with shameful injury; their worship lost in this worlds-realm: then were it better for the king, that he were not born! howel heard this, the highest of britanny; and he gan to call his good knights anon, and bade them to horse exceeding speedily, and go into france, to the free knights, and should say to them that they should come, quickly and full soon, to michael's mount, with mickle strength, all who would of silver and of gold, win worship in this worlds-realm. to poitou he sent his good thanes; and some toward flanders, exceeding quickly; and to touraine, two there proceeded, and into gascony, knights eke good, and ordered them to come with strength toward michael's mount; and ere they went to flood (embarked), they should have gifts good, that they might the blither depart from their land, and with howel the fair come to this land, to help arthur, noblest of kings. thirteen days were passed since the messengers came there, then advanced they toward the sea, as the hail doth from the welkin; and two hundred ships were there well prepared, men filled them with folk, and forth they voyaged; the wind and the weather stood after their will; and they came to land at hamtone. up leapt from the ships the furious men; bare to the land helms and burnies; with spears and with shields they covered all the fields. there was many a bold briton that threat had raised, they threatened greatly, by their quick life, that they would greet childric the powerful, the bold kaiser, with much harm there. and if he would not flee away, and toward alemaine proceed, and if he would in the land with fight resist; with his bold people the barks abide; here they should leave what to them were dearest of all, their heads and hands, and their white helms; "and so they shall in this land lose their friends, and fall into hell�the heathen hounds'" arthur was in london, noblest of kings, and heard say sooth relation, that howel the strong was come to land, forth-right to hamtone, with thirty thousand knights, and with innumerable folk, that followed the king; arthur towards him marched, with great bliss; with a mickle host, towards his relation. together they came--bliss was among the folk--and they kissed and embraced, and spake familiarly; and anon forthright assembled their knights. then were there together two good armies, of whom howel should command thirty thousand knights, and arthur had in land forty thousand in hand. forth-right they marched toward the north end, toward lincoln night and day, that childric the kaiser besieged. but he the yet had nought won; for there were within seven thousand men, brave men and active, by day and night. arthur with his forces marched toward the burgh; and arthur fore-ordered his knights, by day and night, that they should proceed as still, as if they would steal; pass over the country, and cease any noise; horns and trumpets, all should be relinquished. arthur took a knight, that was a brave man and active; and sent him to lincoln to his dear men, and he said to them in sooth, with mouth, that arthur would come, noblest of kings, at the midnight, and with him many a good knight.--"and ye within, then be ye ware, that when ye hear the din, that ye the gates unfasten; and sally out of the burgh, and fell your foes; and smite on childric, the strong and the powerful; and we shall tell them british tales!" it was at the midnight, when the moon shone right south, arthur with his host marched to the burgh; the folk was as still as if they would steal; forth they proceeded until they saw lincoln. thus gan he call, arthur the keen man: "where be ye, my knights, my dear-worthy warriors? see ye the tents, where childric lieth on the fields; colgrim and baldulf, with bold strength; the alemainish folk, that us hath harmed, and the saxish folk, that sorrow to us promiseth; that all hath killed the highest of my kin; constance and constantine, and uther, who was my father, and aurelie ambrosie, who was my father's brother, and many thousand men of my noble kindred? go we out to them, and lay to the ground, and worthily avenge our kin and their realm; and all together forth-right now ride every good knight!" then arthur gan to ride, and the army gan to move, as if all the earth would be consumed; and smote in the fields among childric's tents. that was the first man, that there gan to shout�-arthur the noble man, who was uther's son�-keenly and loud, as becometh a king: "now aid us, mary, god's mild mother! and i pray her son, that he be to us in succour!" even with the words they turned their spears; pierced and slew all that they came nigh. and the knights out of the burgh marched against them (the enemy); if they fled to the burgh, there they were destroyed; if they fled to the wood, there they slaughtered them; come wherever they might come, ever they them slew. it is not in any book indited, that ever any fight were in this britain, that mischief was so rife; for folk it was most miserable, that ever came to the land! there was mickle blood-shed, mischief was among the folk; death there was rife; the earth there became dun! childric the kaiser had a castle here, in lincoln's field, where he lay within, that was newly wrought, and exceeding well guarded; and there were with him baldulf and colgrim, and saw that their folk suffered death. and they anon forth-right, on with their burnies, and fled out of the castle, of courage bereft; and fled forth-right anon to the wood of calidon. they had for companions seven hundred riders; and they left forty thousand slain, and deprived of life-day, felled to the ground; alemainish men, with mischief destroyed, and the saxish men, brought to the ground! then saw arthur, noblest of kings, that childric was flown, and into calidon gone, and colgrim and baldulf with him were gone into the high wood, into the high holm. and arthur pursued after with sixty thousand knights of british people; the wood he all surrounded; and on one side they it felled, full seven miles, one tree upon another, truly fast; on the other side he surrounded it with his army, three days and three nights;�-that was to them mickle harm. then saw colgrim, as he lay therein, that there was without meat sharp hunger, and strife; nor they nor their horses help had any. and thus called colgrim to the kaiser: "say me, lord childric, sooth words; for what kind of thing lie we thus herein? why should we not go out, and assemble our host, and begin fight with arthur and with his knights? for better it is for us on land with honour to lie, than that we thus here perish for hunger; it grieveth us sore, to the destruction of the folk. either send we again and again, and yearn arthur's peace, and pray thus his mercy, and hostages deliver him, and make friendship with the free king." childric heard this, where he lay within the dyke, and he answered with sorrowful voice: "if baldulf it will, who is thine own brother, and more of our comrades, who with us are here, that we pray arthur's peace, and make amity with him, after your will i will do it. for arthur is esteemed very noble man in land; dear to all his men, and of royal kindred, all come of kings; he was uther's son. and oft it befalleth, in many kind of land, where the good knights come to stern fight, that they who first gain, afterwards they it lose. and thus to us now is befallen here, and eft to us better will happen, if we may live." soon forth-right answered all the knights: "we all praise this counsel, for thou hast well said!" they took twelve knights, and sent forth-right, where he was in tent, by the wood's end; and the one called anon with quick voice: "lord arthur, thy peace! we would speak with thee; hither the kaiser sent us, who is named childric, and colgrim and baldulf, both together. now and evermore they pray thy mercy; thy men they will become, and thy honour advance, and they will give to thee hostages enow, and hold thee for lord, as to thee shall be liefest of all, if they may depart hence with life into their land; and bring evil tidings. for here we have found sorrows of many kind; at lincoln left our dear relatives; sixty thousand men, that there are slain. and if it were to thee will in heart, that we might pass over sea with sail, we would nevermore eft come here; for here we have lost our dear relatives. so long as is ever, here come we back never!" then laughed arthur, with loud voice:�-"thanked be the lord, that all dooms wieldeth, that childric the strong is tired of my land! my land he hath divided to all his knights; myself he thought to drive out of my country; hold me for base, and have my realm, and my kin all put to death, my folk all destroy. but of him it is happened, as it is of the fox, when he is boldest over the weald, and hath his full play, and fowls enow; for wildness he climbeth, and rocks he seeketh; in the wilderness holes to him worketh. fare whosoever shall fare, he hath never any care; he weeneth to be of power the boldest of all animals. but when come to him the men under the hills, with horns, with hounds, with loud cries; the hunters there hollow, the hounds there give tongue, they drive the fox over dales and over downs, he fleeth to the holm, and seeketh his hole; in the furthest end in the hole he goeth; then is the bold fox of bliss all deprived, and men dig to him on each side; then is there most wretched the proudest of all animals! so was it with childric, the strong and the rich; he thought all my kingdom to set in his own hand, but now i have driven him to the bare death, whether so (whatsoever) i will do, either slay or hang. now will i give him peace, and let him speak with me; i will not him slay, nor hang, but his prayer i will receive. hostages i will have of the highest of his men; their horses and weapons, ere they hence depart; and so they shall as wretches go to their ships; sail over sea to their good land, and there worthily dwell in their realm, and tell tidings of arthur the king, how i them have freed, for my father's soul, and for my freedom solaced the wretches." hereby was arthur the king of honour deprived, was there no man so bold that durst him advise;--that repented him sore, soon thereafter! childric came from covert to arthur the king; and he there became his man, with all his knights. four-and-twenty hostages childric there delivered, all they were chosen, and noble men born; they delivered their horses, and their burnies, spears and shields, and their long swords; all they relinquished that they there had. forth they gan to march until they came to the sea, where their good ships by the sea stood. the wind stood at will, the weather most favourable, and they shoved from the strand ships great and long; the land they all left, and floated with the waves, that no sight of land they might see. the water was still, after their will; they let together their sails glide, board against board, the men there discoursed and said that they would return eft to this land, and avenge worthily their relatives, and waste arthur's land, and kill his folk, and win the castles, and work their pleasure. so they voyaged on the sea even so long, that they came between england and normandy; they veered their luffs, and came toward land, so that they came full surely to dartmouth at totnes; with much bliss they approached to the land. so soon as they came on land, the folk they slew; the churls they drove off, that tilled the earth there; the knights they hung, that defended the land, all the good wives they sticked with knives; all the maidens they killed with murder; and all the learned men (clerics) they laid on embers. all the domestics (or baser sort) they killed with clubs; they felled the castles, the land they ravaged; the churches they consumed--grief was among the folk!--the sucking children they drowned in the water. the cattle that they took, all they slaughtered; to their inns they carried it, and boiled it and roasted; all they it took, that they came nigh. all day they sung of arthur the king, and said that they had won homes, that they should hold in their power; and there they would dwell winter and summer. and if arthur were so keen, that he would come to fight with childric, the strong and the rich, they would of his back make a bridge, and take all the bones of the noble king, and tie them together with golden ties, and lay them in the hall door, where each man should go forth, to the worship of childric, the strong and the rich! this was all their game, for arthur the king's shame; but all it happened in otherwise, soon thereafter; their boast and their game befell to themselves to shame; and so doth well everywhere the man that so acteth. childric the kaiser won all that he looked on with eyes; he took somerset, and he took dorset, and in devonshire the folk all destroyed, and wiltshire with hostility he greeted, he took all the lands unto the sea strand. then at the last, then caused he horns and trumpets to be blown, and his host to be assembled, and forth he would march, and bath all besiege, and eke bristol about berow. this was their threat, ere they to bath came. to bath came the kaiser, and belay the castle there; and the men within bravely began; they mounted upon the stone walls, well weaponed over all, and defended the place against childric the strong. there lay the kaiser, and colgrim his companion, and baldulf his brother, and many another. arthur was by the north, and knew nought hereof; he proceeded over all scotland, and set it in his own hand; orkney and galloway, man and moray, and all the lands that lay thereto. arthur it weened to be certain thing, that childric had departed to his own land, and that he never more would come here. when the tidings came to arthur the king, that childric the kaiser was come to land, and in the south end sorrow there wrought, then said arthur, noblest of kings: "alas! alas! that i spared my foe! that i had not with hunger destroyed him in the wood, or with sword cut him all to pieces! now he yields to me meed for my good deeds. but so held me the lord, who formed the daylight, he shall therefore abide bitterest of all bales--hard games;--his bane i will be! and colgrim and baldulf both i will kill, and all their people shall suffer death. if the ruler of heaven will grant it, i will worthily avenge all his hostile deeds; if the life in my breast may last to me, and the power that formed moon and sun will grant it to me, never shall childric eft deceive me!" now called arthur, noblest of kings:--"where be ye, my knights, brave men and active! to horse, to horse, good warriors; and we shall march toward bath speedily! let high gallows be up raised, and bring here the hostages before our knights, and they shall hang on high trees!" there he caused to be destroyed four-and-twenty children, alemainish men of very noble race. then came tidings to arthur the king, that howel, his relation, was sick lying in clud--therefore he was sorry--and there he left him. forth he gan to push exceeding hastily, until he beside bath approached to a plain; there he alighted, and all his knights; and on with their burnies the stern men, and he in five divisions separated his army. when he had duly set all, and it all beseemed, then he put on his burny, fashioned of steel, that an elvish smith made, with his excellent craft; he was named wygar, the witty wright. his shanks he covered with hose of steel. caliburn, his sword, he hung by his side; it was wrought in avalon, with magic craft. a helm he set on his head, high of steel; thereon was many gemstone, all encompassed with gold; it was uther's, the noble king's; it was named goswhit, each other unlike. he hung on his neck a precious shield; its name was in british called pridwen; therein was engraved with red gold tracings a precious image of god's mother. his spear he took in hand, that was named ron. when he had all his weeds, then leapt he on his steed. then might he behold, who stood beside, the fairest knight, that ever host should lead; never saw any man better knight none, than arthur he was, noblest of race! then called arthur with loud voice: "lo! where here before us the heathen hounds, who slew our ancestors with their wicked crafts; and they are to us in land loathest of all things. now march we to them, and starkly lay on them, and avenge worthily our kindred, and our realm, and avenge the mickle shame by which they have disgraced us, that they over the waves should have come to dartmouth. and all they are forsworn, and all they shall be destroyed; they shall be all put to death, with the lord's assistance! march we now forward, fast together, even all as softly as if we thought no evil; and when we come to them, myself i will commence; foremost of all the fight i will begin. now we shall ride, and over the land glide; and no man on pain of his life make noise, but fare quickly; the lord us aid!" then arthur the rich man gan to ride; he proceeded over the weald, and bath would seek. the tiding came to childric, the strong and the rich, that arthur came with host all ready to fight. childric and his brave men leapt them to horse, and grasped their weapons�-they knew themselves to be hateful! arthur saw this, noblest of kings; he saw a heathen earl advance against him, with seven hundred knights, all ready to fight. the earl himself approached before all his troop, and arthur himself rode before all his host. arthur the bold took ron in hand; he extended (couched) the stark shaft, the stiff-minded king; his horse he let run, so that all the earth dinned. his shield he drew to his breast-- the king was incensed--he smote borel the earl throughout the breast, so that the heart sundered. and the king called anon, "the foremost is dead! now help us the lord, and the heavenly queen, who the lord bore!" then called arthur, noblest of kings: "now to them! now to them! the commencement is well done!" the britons laid on them, as men should do on the wicked; they gave bitter strokes with axes and with swords. there fell of childric's men full two thousand, so that never arthur lost ever one of his men; there were the saxish men of all folk most wretched, and the alemainish men most miserable of all people! arthur with his sword wrought destruction; all that he smote at, it was soon destroyed! the king was all enraged as is the wild boar, when he in the beech-wood meeteth many swine. childric saw this, and gan him to turn, and bent him over the avon, to save himself. and arthur approached to him, as if it were a lion, and drove them to the flood, there many were slain; they sunk to the bottom five-and-twenty hundred, so that all avon's stream was bridged with steel! childric over the water fled, with fifteen hundred knights; he thought forth to push, and sail over the sea. arthur saw colgrim climb to the mount, retreat to the hill that standeth over bath; and baldulf went after him, with seven thousand knights; they thought on the hill to withstand nobly, defend them with weapons, and do injury to arthur. when arthur saw, noblest of kings, where colgrim withstood, and eke battle wrought, then called the king, keenly loud: "my bold thanes, advance to the hills! for yesterday was colgrim of all men keenest, but now it is to him all as to the goat, where he guards the hill; high upon the hill he fighteth with horns, when the wild wolf approacheth toward him. though the wolf be alone, without each herd, and there were in a fold five hundred goats, the wolf to them goeth, and all them biteth. so will i now to-day colgrim all destroy; i am the wolf and he is the goat; the man shall die!" the yet called arthur, noblest of kings: "yesterday was baldulf of all knights boldest, but now he standeth on the hill, and beholdeth the avon, how the steel fishes lie in the stream! armed with sword, their life is destroyed; their scales float like gold-dyed shields; there float their fins, as if it were spears. these are marvellous things come to this land; such beasts on the hill, such fishes in the stream! yesterday was the kaiser keenest of all kings; now is he become a hunter, and horns him follow; he flieth over the broad weald; his hounds bark; he hath beside bath his hunting deserted; from his deer he flieth, and we it shall fell, and his bold threats bring to nought; and so we shall enjoy our rights gained." even with the words that the king said, he drew his shield high before his breast; he grasped his long spear, his horse he gan spur. nigh all so swift as the fowl flieth, five-and-twenty thousand of brave men, mad under arms, followed the king; they proceeded to the hill with great strength, and smote upon colgrim with exceeding smart strokes. and colgrim them there received, and felled the britons to ground; in the foremost attack fell five hundred. arthur saw that, noblest of kings, and wrathed him wondrously much, and thus gan to call arthur, the noble man: "where be ye, britons, my bold men! here stand before us our foes all chosen; my good warriors, lay we them to the ground!" arthur grasped his sword right, and he smote a saxish knight, so that the sword that was so good at the teeth stopt; and he smote another, who was this knight's brother, so that his helm and his head fell to the ground, the third blow he soon gave, and a knight in two clave. then were the britons greatly emboldened, and laid on the saxons laws (blows) most strong with their long spears and with swords most strong; so that the saxons there fell, and made their death-time, by hundreds and hundreds sank to the ground, by thousands and thousands fell there ever on the ground! when colgrim saw where arthur came toward him, colgrim might not for the slaughtered flee on any side; there fought baldulf beside his brother. then called arthur with loud voice: "here i come, colgrim! to the realm we two shall reach; now we shall divide this land, as shall be to thee loathest of all!" even with the words that the king said, his broad sword he up heaved, and hardily down struck, and smote colgrim's helm, so that he clove it in the midst, and clove asunder the burny's hood, so that it (the sword) stopt at the breast. and he smote toward baldulf with his left hand, and struck off the head, forth with the helm. then laughed arthur, the noble king, and thus gan to speak with gameful words: "lie thou there, colgrim; thou wert climbed too high; and baldulf, thy brother, he by thy side; now set i all this kingdom in your own hands; dales and downs, and all my good folk! thou climbed on this hill wondrously high, as if thou wouldst ascend to heaven; but now thou shalt to hell, and there thou mayest know much of thy kindred. and greet thou there hengest, that was fairest of knights, ebissa, and ossa, octa, and more of thy kin, and bid them there dwell winter and summer; and we shall here in land live in bliss, pray for your souls, that happiness never come to them; and here shall your yones lie, beside bath!" arthur, the king, called cador, the keen;--of cornwall he was earl, the knight was most keen:--"hearken to me, cador, thou art mine own kin. now is childric flown, and awayward gone; he thinketh with safety again to come hither. but take of my host five thousand men, and go forth-right, by day and by night, until thou come to the sea, before childric; and all that thou mayest win, possess it with joy; and if thou mayest with evil kill there the kaiser, i will give thee all dorset to meed." all as the noble king these words had said, cador sprang to horse, as spark it doth from fire; full seven thousand followed the earl. cador the keen, and much of his kindred, proceeded over wealds, and over wilderness, over dales and over downs, and over deep waters. cador knew the way that toward his country lay, by the nearest he proceeded full surely right toward totnes, day and night, until he came there forth-right, so that childric never knew any manner of his coming. cador came to the country before childric, and caused to advance before him all the folk of the land, churls full sagacious, with clubs exceeding great, with spears and with great staves, chosen for the purpose, and placed them all clean into the ships' holds, and ordered them there to stoop low, that childric were not aware of them, and when his folk came, and in would climb, to grasp their bats, and bravely on smite; with their staves and with their spears to murder childric's host. the churls did all, as cador them taught. to the ships proceeded the valiant churls; in every ship a hundred and half. and cador the keen withdrew, in toward a wood high, five miles from the place where the ships stood, and hid him a while, wondrously still. and childric soon approached, over the weald, and would flee to the ships, and push from land. so soon as cador saw this, who was the earl keen, that childric was in land, between him and the churls, then called cador, with loud voice: "where be ye, knights, brave men and active? bethink ye what arthur, who is our noble king, at bath besought us, ere we went from the host. lo! where childric wendeth, and will flee from the land, and thinketh to pass to alemaine, where his ancestors are, and will obtain an army, and eft come hither, and will fare in hither; and thinketh to avenge colgrim, and baldulf, his brother, who rest at bath. but he never shall abide the day, he shall not, if we may prevent him!" even with the speech, that the powerful earl spake, and promptly he gan ride, that was stern in mood, the warriors most keen advanced out of the wood-shaw, and after childric pursued, the strong and the rich childric's knights looked behind them; they saw over the weald the standards wind, approach over the fields five thousand shields. then became childric careful in heart, and these words said the powerful kaiser: "this is arthur the king, who will us all kill, flee we now quickly, and into ship go, and voyage forth with the water, reck we never whither!" when childric the kaiser had said these words, then gan he to flee exceeding quickly, and cador the keen came soon after him. childric and his knights came to ship forthright; they weened to shove the strong ships from the land. the churls with their bats were there within, the bats they up heaved, and adown right swung, there was soon slain many a knight with their clubs; with their pitch-forks they felled them to ground, and cador and his knights slew them behind. then saw childric, that it befell to them evilly; that all his mickle folk fell to the ground, now saw he there beside a hill exceeding great, the water floweth there under, that is named teine, the hill is named teinewic, thitherward fled childric, as quickly as he might, with four-and-twenty knights. then cador saw, how it then fared there, that the kaiser fled, and toward the hill retreated, and cador pursued after him, as speedily as he might, and came up to him, and overtook him soon. then said cador, the earl most keen: "abide, abide, childric! i will give thee teinewic!" cador heaved up his sword, and he childric slew. many that there fled, to the water they drew, in teine the water, there they perished; cador killed all that he found alive; and some they crept into the wood, and all he them there destroyed. when cador had overcome them all, and eke all the land taken, he set peace most good, that thereafter long stood, though each man bare in hand rings of gold, durst never any man greet another evilly. arthur was forth marched into scotland; for howel lay in clud, fast inclosed. the scots had besieged him with their wicked crafts, and if arthur were not the earlier come, then were howel taken, and all his folk there slain, and deprived of life day. but arthur came soon, with good strength, and the scots gan to flee far from the land, into moray, with a mickle host. and cador came to scotland, where he arthur found. arthur and cador proceeded into clud, and found howel there, with great bliss in health, of all his sickness whole he was become; great was the bliss that then was in the burgh! the scots were in moray, and there thought to dwell, and with their bold words made their boast, and said that they would rule the realm, and arthur there abide, with bold strength, for arthur durst never for his life come there. when arthur heard, void of fear, what the scots had said with their scornful words, then said arthur, noblest of kings: "where art thou, howel, highest of my kindred, and cador the keen, out of cornwall? let the trumpets blow, and assemble our host, and at the midnight we shall march forth right toward moray, our honour to win. if the lord will it, who shaped the daylight, we shall them tell sorrowful tales, and fell their boast, and themselves kill." at the midnight arthur forth-right arose; horns men gan to blow with loud sound; knights gan arise, and stern words to speak. with a great army he marched into moray; forth gan press thirteen thousand in the foremost flock, men exceeding keen. afterwards came cador, the earl of cornwall, with seventeen thousand good thanes. next came howel, with his champions exceeding well, with one-and-twenty thousand noble champions. then came arthur himself, noblest of kings; with seven-and-twenty thousand followed them afterward; the shields there glistened, and light it gan to dawn. the tidings came to the scots, there where they dwelt, how arthur the king came toward their land, exceeding quickly, with innumerable folk. then were they fearfullest, who ere were boldest, and gan to flee exceeding quickly into the water, where wonders are enow! that is a marvellous lake, set in middle-earth, with fen, and with reed, and with water exceeding broad; with fish, and with fowl, with evil things! the water is immeasurably broad; nikers therein bathe; there is play of elves in the hideous pool. sixty islands are in the long water; in each of the islands is a rock high and strong; there nest eagles, and other great fowls. the eagles have a law by every king's day; whensoever any army cometh to the country, then fly the fowls far into the sky, many hundred thousands, and mickle fight make. then is the folk without doubt, that sorrow is to come to them from people of some kind, that will seek the land. two days or three thus shall this token be, ere foreign men approach to the land. yet there is a marvellous thing to say of the water; there falleth in the lake, on many a side, from dales and from downs, and from deep valleys, sixty streams, all there collected; yet never out of the lake any man findeth that thereout they flow, except a small brook at one end, that from the lake falleth, and wendeth very stilly into the sea. the scots were dispersed with much misery, over all the many mounts that were in the water. and arthur sought ships, and gan to enter them; and slew there without number, many and enow; and many a thousand there was dead, because all bread failed them. arthur the noble was on the east side; howel the good was on the south half; and cador the keen guarded them by the north; and his inferior folk he set all by the west side. then were the scots accounted for sots, where they lay around the cliffs, fast inclosed; there were sixty thousand with sorrow destroyed. then was come into haven the king of ireland; twelve miles from arthur, where he lay with an army, to help the scots, and howel to destroy. arthur heard this, noblest of kings, and took one host of his, and thitherward marched; and found the king gillomar, who was come there to land. and arthur fought with him, and would give him no peace (quarter), and felled the irish men exceedingly to the ground. and gillomar with twelve ships departed from the land, and proceeded to ireland, with harm most strong. and arthur in the land slew all that he found; and afterwards he went to the lake, where he left his relation howel the fair, noblest of britain, except arthur, noblest of kings. arthur found howel, where he was by the haven, by the broad lake, where he had abode. then rejoiced greatly the folk in the host, of arthur's arrival, and of his noble deeds; there was arthur forth-right, two days and two nights. the scots lay over the rocks, many thousands dead, with hunger destroyed, most miserable of all folk! on the third day, it gan to dawn fair; then came toward the host all that were hooded, and three wise bishops, in book well learned; priests and monks, many without number; canons there came, many and good, with all the reliques that were noblest in the land, and yearned arthur's peace, and his compassion. thither came the women, that dwelt in the land; they carried in their arms their miserable children; they wept before arthur wondrously much, and their fair hair threw to the earth; cut off their locks, and there down laid at the king's feet, before all his people; set their nails to their face, so that afterwards it bled. they were naked nigh (nearly) all clean; and sorrowfully they gan to call to arthur the king, and together thus said, where they were in affliction: "king, we are on earth most wretched of all folk; we yearn thy mercy, through the mild god! thou hast in this land our people slain, with hunger and with strife, and with many kind of harms; with weapon, with water, and with many mischiefs our children made fatherless and deprived of comfort. thou art a christian man, and we are also; the saxish men are heathen hounds. they came to this land, and this folk here killed; if we obeyed them, that was because of our harm, for we had no man that might accord us with them. they did us much woe, and thou dost to us also; the heathens us hate, and the christians make us sorrowful;-- whereto and what shall become of us!"-�quoth the women to the king. "give us yet the men alive, who lie over these rocks; and if thou givest grace to this multitude, thy honour will be the greater, now and evermore. lord arthur our king, loosen our bonds! thou has taken (conquered) all this land, and all this folk is overcome; we are under thy foot; in thee is all the remedy." arthur heard this, noblest of kings; this weeping and this lament, and immoderate sorrow; then took he to counsel, and had pity in heart; he found in his counsel to do what they him prayed, he gave them life, he gave them limb, and their land to hold. he caused the trumpets to be blown, and the scots to be summoned; and they came out of the rocks to the ships; on every side approached toward land. they were greatly harmed by the sharp hunger; and oaths they swore, that they would not deceive; and they then gave hostages to the king, and all full soon became the king's men. and then they gan depart; the folk there separated, each man to the end, where he was dwelling, and arthur there set peace, good with the best. then said arthur: "where art thou, howel, my relation, dearest of men to me? seest thou this great lake, where the scots are harmed, seest thou these high trees, and seest thou these eagles fly? in this fen is fish innumerable. seest thou these islands, that stand over this water?" marvellous it seemed to howel, of such a sight, and he wondered greatly by the water-flood, and thus there spake howel, of noble race: "since i was born man of my mother's bosom, saw i in no land things thus wonderful, as i here before me behold with eyes!" the britons wondered wondrously much. then spake arthur, noblest of kings: "howel, mine own relative, dearest to me of men, listen to my words, of a much greater wonder that i will tell to thee in my sooth speech. by this lake's end, where this water floweth, is a certain little lake, to the wonder of men! it is in length four-and-sixty palms; it is in measure in breadth five-and-twenty feet; five feet it is deep, elves it dug! four-cornered it is, and therein is fish of four kinds, and each fish in his end where he findeth his kind, may there none go to other, except all as belongeth to his kind. was never any man born, nor of so wise craft chosen, live he ever so long, that may understand it, what letteth (hindereth) the fish to swim to the others; for there is nought between but water clean!" the yet spake arthur, noblest of kings: "howel, in this land's end, nigh the sea-strand, is a lake exceeding great--the water is evil--and when the sea floweth, as if it would rage, and falleth in the lake exceeding quickly, the lake is never the more increased in water. but when the sea falleth in (ebbs), and the ground becomes fair, and in it is all in its old seat, then swelleth the lake, and the waves darken; out the waves there leap, exceeding great, flow out on the land, and the people soon terrify. if any man cometh there, that knoweth nought thereof, to behold the marvel by the sea strand, if he turneth his face toward the lake, be he nought (never) so low born, full well he shall be saved, the water glideth him beside, and the man there remaineth easy, after his will he dwelleth there full still, so that he is not because of the water anything injured!" then said howel, noble man of brittany: "now i hear tell a wonderful story, and marvellous is the lord that it all made!" then said arthur, noblest of kings. "blow ye my horns with loud noise, and say ye to my knights, that i will march forth-right." trumpets there were blown, horns there resounded; bliss was in the host with the busy king, for each was solaced, and proceeded toward his land. and the king forbade them, by their bare life, that no man in the world should be so mad, nor person so unwise, that he should break his peace; and if any man did it, he should suffer doom. even with the words the army marched, there sung warriors marvellous songs of arthur the king, and of his chieftains, and said in song, to this world's end never more would be such a king as arthur, through all things, king nor caiser, in ever any realm! arthur proceeded to york, with folk very surprising (numerous), and dwelt there six weeks with much joy. the burgh walls were broken and fallen down, that childric all consumed, and the halls all clean. then called the king a distinguished priest, pirai,--he was an exceeding wise man, and learned in book:--"pirai, thou art mine own priest, the easier it shall be for thee." the king took a rood, holy and most good, and gave to pirai in hand, and therewith very much land, and the archbishop's staff he there gave to pirai;--ere was pirai a good priest, now is he archbishop! then bade him arthur, noblest of kings, that he should arear churches, and restore the hymns, and take charge of god's folk, and rule them fair. and he bade all his knights to deem right (just) dooms, and the earth-tillers to take to their craft, and every man to greet other. and what man soever did worse than the king had ordered, he would drive him to a bare burning, and if it were a base man, he should for that hang. the yet spake arthur, noblest of kings, ordered that each man who had lost his land by whatsoever kind of punishment he were bereaved, that he should come again, full quickly and full soon--the rich and the low--and should have eft his own, unless he were so foully conditioned, that he were traitor to his lord, or toward his lord forsworn, whom the king should deem lost (beyond the limit of pardon). there came three brethren, that were royally born, loth, and angel, and urien;�-well are such three men! these three chieftains came to the king, and set on their knees before the caiser:--"hail be thou, arthur, noblest of kings, and thy people with thee; ever may they well be! we are three brethren, born of kings. all our rightful land is gone out of our hand; for the heathen men have made us poor, and wasted us all leoneis, scotland, and moray. and we pray thee, for god's love, that thou be to us in aid, and for thy great honour, that thou be mild to us, and give us our rightful land; and we shall love thee, and hold thee for lord, in each land-wise." arthur heard this, noblest of kings, how these three knights fair besought him; he had compassion in heart, and began speak, and said these words--best of all kings:--"urien, become my man; thou shalt to moray again; thereof thou shalt be called king of the land, and high in my court (or host), with thy forces. and to angel i set in hand scotland altogether; to have it in hand, and be king of the land, from the father to the son; thereof thou shalt my man become. and thou, loth, my dear friend--god be to thee mild!-�thou hast my sister to wife; the better it shall be for thee. i give thee leoneis, that is a land fair; and i will lay (add) thereto lands most good, beside the humber, worth an hundred pounds. for my father uther, the while that he was king here, loved well his daughter, who was his desire esteemed; and she is my sister, and sons she hath twain; they are to me in land dearest of all children." thus spake arthur the king. then was walwain a little child; so was the other, modred his brother. but alas! that modred was born; much harm therefore came! arthur proceeded to london, and with him his people; he held in the land a mickle husting, and established all the laws that stood in his elders' days; all the good laws that era here stood; he set peace, he set protection, and all freedoms. from thence he marched to cornwall, to cador's territory; he found there a maid extremely fair. this maiden's mother was of romanish men, cador's relative; and the maid cador on him bestowed, and he received her fair, and softly her fed. she was of noble race, of romanish men; was in no land any maid so fair, of speech and of deeds, and of manners most good; she was named wenhaver, fairest of women. arthur took her to wife, and loved her wondrously much; this maiden he gan wed, and took her to his bed. arthur was in cornwall all the winter there; and all for wenhaver's love, dearest of women to him. when the winter was gone, and summer came there anon, arthur bethought him what he might do, that his good folk should not lie there inert. he marched to exeter, at the midfeast (st. john baptist?), and held there his husting of his noble folk, and said that he would go into ireland, and win all the kingdom to his own hand; unless the king gillomar the sooner came ere to him, and spake with him with good will, and yearned arthur's peace, he would waste his land, and go to him evilly in hand, with fire and with steel work hostile game, and the land-folk slay, who would stand against him. even with the words that the king said, then answered the folk, fair to the king: "lord king, hold thy word, for we are all ready, to go and to ride over all at thy need." there was many a bold briton that had boar's glances; heaved up their brows, enraged in their thought. they went toward their inns, knights with their men: they got ready burnies, prepared helms, they wiped their dear horses with linen cloths; they sheared, they shod�-the men were bold! some shaped (or shaved) horn; some shaped bone; some prepared steel darts; some made thongs, good and very strong; some bent spears, and made ready shields. arthur caused to be bidden over all his kingdom, that every good knight should come to him forth-right, and every brave man should come forth-right anon; and whoso should remain behind, his limbs he should lose, and whoso should come gladly, he should become rich. seven nights after easter, when men had fasted, then came all the knights to ship forth-right; the wind stood to them in hand (favourably), that drove them to ireland. arthur marched in the land, and the people destroyed; much folk he there slew, and he took cattle enow; and ever he ordered each man church-peace to hold. the tiding came to the king, who was lord of the land, that arthur the king was come there, and much harm there wrought. he assembled all his people, over his kingdom; and his irish folk marched to the fight, against arthur the noble king. arthur and his knights they weaponed them forth-right, and advanced against them, a numerous folk. arthur's men were with arms all covered, the irish men were nearly naked, with spears and with axes, and with sæxes exceeding sharp. arthur's men let fly at them numerous darts, and killed the irish folk; and greatly it felled; they might not this sustain, through any kind of thing, but fled away quickly, very many thousands. and gillomar the king fled, and awayward drew, and arthur pursued after him, and caught the king; he took by the hand the king of the land. arthur the noble sought lodging; in his mood it was the easier to him, that gillomar was so nigh him. now did arthur, noblest of kings, very great friendship before all his folk, he caused the king to be clothed with each pride (richly), and eke by arthur he sate, and eke with himself ate; with arthur he drank wine�that to mm was mickle unthank. nevertheless when he saw that arthur was most glad, then said gillomar to him�in his heart he was sore: "lord arthur, thy peace! give me limb and give me life, and i will become thy man, and deliver thee my three sons, my dear sons, to do all thy will. and yet i will do more, if thou wilt give me grace; i will deliver thee hostages exceeding rich, children some sixty, noble and most mighty. and yet i will more, if thou givest me grace; each year of my land seven thousand pounds, and send them to thy land, and sixty marks of gold. and yet i will more, if thou wilt give me grace; and all the steeds, with all their trappings, the hawks, and the hounds, and my rich treasures i give thee in hand, of all my land. and when thou hast this done, i will take the reliques of saint columkille, who did god's will, and saint brandan's head, that god himself hallowed, and saint bride's right foot, that is holy and most good, and reliques enow, that came out of rome, and swear to thee in sooth, that i will thee not deceive; but i will love thee, and hold thee for lord, hold thee for high king, and myself be thy underling." arthur heard this, noblest of kings, and he gan laugh with loud voice, and he gan answer with gracious words: "be now glad, gillomar; be not thy heart sore; for thou art a wise man�-the better therefore shall it be to thee, for ever one ought worthily a wise man to greet,--for thy wisdom shall it not be the worse for thee, much thou me offerest, the better it shall be to thee. here forth right, before all my knights, i forgive thee the more, all the half-part, of gold and of treasure; but thou shalt become my man, and half the tribute send each year into my land. half the steeds, and half the weeds (garments), half the hawks, and half the hounds, that thou me offerest, i will relinquish to thee, but i will have the children of thy noble men, who are to them dearest of all; i may the better believe thee. and so thou shalt dwell in thy honour in thy kingdom, in thy right territory; and i will give to thee, that the king shall not do wrong to thee, unless he pay for it with his bare back!" thus it said arthur, noblest of kings. then had he all ireland all together in his own hand, and the king became his man, and delivered him his three sons. then spake arthur to his good knights: "go we to iceland, and take we it in our hand." the host there marched, and to iceland came. the king was named Ælcus, high man of the land, he heard the tiding of arthur the king; he did all as a wiseman, and marched against him anon; anon forth-right, with sixteen knights; he bare in his hand a mickle wand (sceptre) of gold. so soon as he saw arthur, he bent him on his knees, and quoth these words to him�-the king was afraid: �-"welcome, sir arthur! welcome, lord' here i deliver thee in hand all together iceland, thou shalt be my high king, and i will be thy underling. i will obey thee, as man shall do his master, and i will become here thy man, and deliver thee my dear son, who is named escol; and thou shalt him honour (or reward), and dub him to knight, as thine own man. his mother i have to wife, the king's choice daughter of russia. and eke each year i will give thee money, seven thousand pounds of silver and gold, and in every counsel be ready at thy need. this i will swear to thee, upon my sword; the relique is in the hilt, the noblest of this land; like as me shall like, will i never be false to thee!" arthur heard this noblest of kings. arthur was winsome where he had his will, and he was exceeding stern with his enemies. arthur heard the mild words of the monarch; he granted him all that he yearned; hostages and oaths, and all his proffers. then heard say sooth words the king of orkney, exceeding keen, who was named gonwais, a heathen warrior, that arthur the king would come to his land; with a mickle fleet sail to his country. gonwais proceeded towards him, with his wise thanes, and set to arthur in hand all orkney's land, and two-and-thirty islands, that thither in heth, and his homage, with much reverence. and he had (made) to him in covenant, before all his people, each year to wit, full sixty ships at his own cost to bring them to london, filled truly with good sea-fish. this covenant he confirmed, and hostages he found, and oaths he swore good, that he would not deceive. and afterwards he took leave, and forth he gan wend:--"lord, have well good day! i will come when i may, for now thou art my lord, dearest of all kings." when arthur had done this, the yet he would more undertake; he took his good writs, and sent to gutlond; and greeted the king doldanim, and bade him soon come to him, and himself become his man, and bring with him his two sons.�-"and if thou wilt not that, do what thou wilt, and i will send thee sixteen thousand noble warriors, to thy mickle harm, who shall waste thy land, and slay thy people, and set the land as to them best seemeth, and thyself bind, and to me bring." the king heard this, the threat of the kaiser, and he speedily took his fair weeds, hounds and hawks, and his good horses, much silver, much gold; his two sons in his hand. and forth he gan wend to arthur the king, and said these words doldanim the good: "hail be thou, arthur, noblest of kings' here i bring twain, my sons both; their mother is of king's race, she is mine own queen; i won her with spoil, out of russia. here i deliver thee my dear sons, and myself i will become thy man. and i will send thee tribute of my land, every year as thin? bestowed, i will send thee into london seven thousand pounds. that i will swear, that i will never be false, but here i will become thy man�-thy honour is the greater--so long as is ever, i will deceive thee never!" arthur took his messengers, and sent to winetland, to rumareth the king, and bade him know in haste, that he had in his hand britain and scotland, gutland and ireland, orcany and iceland. he ordered rumareth to come, and bring him his eldest son; and if he would not do that, he would drive him from land, and if he might him capture, he would slay him or hang, and destroy all his land, his people exterminate. rumareth heard this, the rich king of winet; greatly he was afraid, all as the others were ere; loath to him were the tidings from arthur the king. nevertheless the king rumareth hearkened counsels; he took his eldest son, and twelve good earls, and proceeded to arthur the noble king, and sate at his feet, and gan him fair greet: "hail be thou, arthur, noblest of britons' i hight rumareth, the king of winetland, enow i have heard declared of thy valour; that thou art wide known, keenest of all kings. thou hast won many kingdom all to thine own hand, there is no king in land that may thee withstand, king nor kaiser, in ever any combat; of all that thou beginnest, thou dost thy will. here am i to thee come, and brought thee my eldest son; here i set thee in hand myself and my kingdom, and my dear son, and all my people, my wife and my weeds, and all my possessions, on condition that thou give me protection against thy fierce attacks. and be thou my high king, and i will be thy underling, and send thee to hand five hundred pounds of gold; these gifts i will thee find, every year." arthur granted him all that the king yearned, and afterwards he held communing with his good thanes, and said that he would return again into this land, and see wenhaver, the comely queen of the country. trumpets he caused to be blown, and his army to assemble; and to ship marched the thanes wondrous blithe. the wind still stood them at will; weather as they would; blithe they were all therefore; up they came to grumesby. that heard soon the highest of this land, and to the queen came tiding of arthur the king, that he was come in safety, and his folk in prosperity. then were in britain joys enow! here was fiddling and song, here was harping among, pipes and trumps sang there merrily. poets there sung of arthur the king, and of the great honour, that he had won. folk came in concourse of many kind of land; wide and far the folk was in prosperity. all that arthur saw, all it submitted to him, rich men and poor, as the hail that falleth; was there no briton so wretched, that he was not enriched! here man may tell of arthur the king, how he afterwards dwelt here twelve years, in peace and in amity, in all fairness. no man fought with him, nor made he any strife; might never any man bethink of bliss that were greater in any country than in this; might never man know any so mickle joy, as was with arthur, and with his folk here! i may say how it happened, wondrous though it seem. it was on a yule-day, that arthur lay in london; then were come to him men of all his kingdoms, of britain, of scotland, of ireland, of iceland, and of all the lands that arthur had in hand; and all the highest thanes, with horses and with swains. there were come seven kings' sons, with seven hundred knights; without the folk that obeyed arthur. each had in heart proud thoughts, and esteemed that he were better than his companion. the folk was of many a land; there was mickle envy; for the one accounted himself high, the other much higher. then blew men the trumpets, and spread the tables; water men brought on floor, with golden bowls; next soft clothes, all of white silk. then sate arthur down, and by him wenhaver the queen; next sate the earls, and thereafter the barons; next the knights, all as men them disposed. and the high-born men bare the meat even forth-right then to the knights; then toward the thanes, then toward the swains, then toward the porters, forth at the board. the people became angered, and blows there were rife; at first they threw the loaves, the while that they lasted, and the silver bowls, filled with wine, and afterwards with the fists approached to necks. then leapt there forth a young man, who came out of winetland; he was given to arthur to hold as hostage; he was rumareth's son, the king of winet. thus said the knight there to arthur the king: "lord arthur, go quickly into thy chamber, and thy queen with thee, and thy known relatives, and we shall decide this combat against these foreign warriors." even with the words he leapt to the board where lay the knives before the sovereign; three knives he grasped, and with the one he smote the knight in the neck, that first began the same fight, so that his head on the floor fell to the ground. soon he slew another, this same thane's brother; ere the swords came, seven he felled. there was fight exceeding great; each man smote other; there was much blood shed, mischief was among the folk! then approached the king out of his chamber; with him an hundred nobles, with helms and with burnies; each bare in his right hand a white steel brand. then called arthur, noblest of kings: "sit ye, sit ye quickly, each man on his life! and whoso will not that do, he shall be put to death. take ye me the same man, that this fight first began, and put withy on his neck, and draw him to a moor, and put him in a low fen, there he shall lie. and take ye all his dearest kin, that ye may find, and strike off the heads of them with your broad swords, the women that ye may find of his nearest kindred, carve ye off their noses, and let their beauty go to destruction; and so i will all destroy the race that he of came. and if i evermore subsequently hear, that any of my folk, of high or of low, eft arear strife on account of this same slaughter, there shall ransom him neither gold nor any treasure, fine horse nor war-garment, that he should not be dead, or with horses drawn in pieces�-that is of each traitor the law! bring ye the reliques, and i will swear thereon; and so, knights, shall ye, that were at this fight, earls and barons, that ye will not it break." first swore arthur, noblest of kings; then swore earls, then swore barons; then swore thanes, then swore swains, that they nevermore the strife would arear. men took all the dead, and carried them to burial-place. afterwards men blew the trumpets, with noise exceeding merry; were he lief, were he loath, each there took water and cloth, and then sate down reconciled to the board, all for arthur's dread, noblest of kings. cupbearers there thronged, gleemen there sung; harps gan resound, the people was in joy. thus full seven nights was all the folk treated. afterwards it saith in the tale, that the king went to cornwall; there came to him anon one that was a crafty workman, and met the king, and fair him greeted:�-"hail be thou, arthur, noblest of kings' i am thine own man; through many land i have gone; i know of tree-works (carpentry) wondrous many crafts. i heard say beyond the sea new tidings, that thy knights gan to fight at thy board, on a midwinter's day many there fell; for their mickle mood wrought murderous play, and for their high lineage each would be within. but i will thee work a board exceeding fair, that thereat may sit sixteen hundred and more, all turn about, so that none be without; without and within, man against man. and when thou wilt ride, with thee thou mightest it carry, and set it where thou wilt, after thy will, and then thou needest never fear, to the world's end, that ever any moody knight at thy board may make fight, for there shall the high be even with the low." timber was caused to be brought, and the board to be begun; in four weeks' time the work was completed. at a high day the folk was assembled, and arthur himself approached soon to the board, and ordered all his knights to the board forth-right. when all were seated, knights to their meat, then spake each with other, as if it were his brother; all they sate about; was there none without. every sort of knight was there exceeding well disposed, all they were one by one (seated), the high and the low, might none there boast of other kind of drink other than his comrades, that were at the board. this was the same board that britons boast of, and say many sorts of leasing, respecting arthur the king. so doth every man, that another can love; if he is to him too dear, then will he lie, and say of him more honour than he is worth; no man is he so wicked, that his friend will not act well to him. eft if among folk enmity areareth, in ever any time between two men, men can say leasing of the hateful one, though he were the best man that ever ate at board, the man that to him were loath, he can him last find! it is not all sooth nor all falsehood that minstrels sing; but this is the sooth respecting arthur the king. was never ere such king, so doughty through all things! for the sooth stands in the writings how it is befallen, from beginning to the end, of arthur the king, no more nor less but as his laws (or acts) were. but britons loved him greatly, and oft of him lie, and say many things respecting arthur the king that never was transacted in this worlds-realm! enow may he say, who the sooth will frame, marvellous things respecting arthur the king. then was arthur most high, his folk most fair, so that there was no knight well esteemed, nor of his manners (or deeds) much assured, in wales nor in england, in scotland nor in ireland, in normandy nor in france, in flanders nor in denmark, nor in ever any land, that on this side of muntgiu standeth, that were esteemed good knight, nor his deeds accounted (brave or aught), unless he could discourse of arthur, and of his noble court, his weapons, and his garments, and his horsemen, say and sing of arthur the young, and of his strong knights, and of their great might, and of their wealth, and how well it them became. then were he welcome in this worlds-realm, come whereso he came, and though he were at rome, all that heard of arthur tell, it seemed to them great marvel of the good king! and so it was foreboded, ere he were born; so said him merlin, that was a prophet great, that a king should come of uther pendragon, that gleemen should make a board of this king's breast, and thereto should sit poets most good, and eat their will, ere they thence departed, and wine-draughts out draw from this king's tongue, and drink and revel day and night; this game should last them to the world's end. and yet said him merlin more that was to come, that all that he looked on to his feet to him should bow. the yet said him merlin, a marvel that was greater, that there should be immoderate care (sorrow) at this king's departure. and of this king's end will no briton believe it, except it be the last death, at the great doom, when our lord judgeth all folk. else we cannot deem of arthur's death, for he himself said to his good britons, south in cornwall, where walwain was slain, and himself was wounded wondrously much, that he would fare into avalon, into the island, to argante the fair, for she would with balm heal his wounds,--and when he were all whole, he would soon come to them. this believed the britons, that he will thus come, and look ever when he shall come to his land, as he promised them, ere he hence went. arthur was in the world wise king and powerful, good man and peaceful, his men him loved. knights he had proud, and great in their mood, and they spake to the king of marvellous thing, and thus the assemblage said to the high king: "lord arthur, go we to the realm of france, and win all the land to thine own hand, drive away all the french, and their king slay; all the castles occupy, and set (garrison) them with britons, and rule in the realm with fierce strength" then answered arthur, noblest of kings "your will i will do, but ere (previously) i will go to norway, and i will lead with me loth my brother-in-law, he who is walwain's father, whom i well love. for new tidings are come from norway, that sichelm the king is there dead, his people has left, and he hath ere bequeathed all his kingdom to loth. for the king is of all bereaved, son and eke daughter, and loth is his sister's son�-the better to him shall it befall�-for i will make him new king in norway, and well instruct him to govern well the people. and when i have done thus, i will afterwards come home, and get ready my army, and pass into france, and if the king withstandeth me, and will not yearn my peace, i will fell him with fight to the ground" arthur caused to be blown horns and trumpets, and caused to be summoned to the sea the britons most bold. ships he had good by the sea-flood, fifteen hundred pushed from the land, and flew along the sea, as if they had flight (wings), and bent their course into norway, with bold strength. so soon as they came, they took haven, with mickle strength they stept (disembarked) on the realm arthur sent his messengers wide over the land, and ordered them to come soon, and have loth for king, and if they would not that, he would slay them all. then they took their messengers, the norwegian earls, and sent to the king, and bade him back go�-"and if thou wilt not depart, thou shalt have here sorrow and care; for so long as is ever, that shall never come to pass, that we shall raise a foreign man for king. for if sichelm is departed (dead), here are others choice, whom we may by our will raise to be king. and this is the sooth; there is no other, either move thee awayward, and turn thee right homeward, either to-day a se'nnight, thou shalt have great fight." the norwegian earls betook them to counsel, that a king they would have of their own race, for all sichelm's words they held to be folly.--"and so long as is ever, it shall not ever stand! but we shall take riculf, who is an earl exceeding powerful, and raise him to be king--this is to us pleasing�-and assemble our forces over all this country, and march towards arthur, and defeat him with fight, and loth we shall chase, and drive from land, or else we shall fell him with fight." they took riculf, the earl of norway, and raised him to be king, though it were not to him by right, and they assembled their host over norway's land. and arthur on his part, over the land gan march; the land he through passed, and the burghs he consumed, goods he took enow, and much folk he there slew. and riculf gan him ride against arthur anon; together they came, and fight they began. the britons advanced to them--woe there was rife! swords exceeding long they plucked out of sheath; heads flew on the field, faces paled; man against man set shaft to breast; burnies there brake; the britons were busy, shivered shields, warriors there fell! and so all the daylight lasted this great fight; moved they east, moved they west, there was it the worse to the norwegians; moved they south, moved they north the norwegians there fell. the britons were bold, the norwegians they killed; the norwegian men there fell, five-and-twenty thousand, and riculf the king was there slain, and deprived of life day; little there remained of the folk; whoso had the wretched life, they yearned arthur's peace. arthur looked on loth, who was to him well dear, and thus gan to him to call, arthur the rich man: "loth, wend hither to me, thou art my dear relative. here i give to thee all this kingdom; of me thou shalt it hold, and have me for protector." then was walwain thither come, loth's eldest son; from the pope of rome, who was named supplice, who long had him brought up, and made him knight. full well was it bestowed, that walwain was born to be man, for walwain was full noble-minded, in each virtue he was good; he was liberal, and knight with the best. all arthur's folk was greatly emboldened, for walwain the keen, that was come to the host; and for his father loth, who was chosen to be king. then spake arthur with him, and bade him hold good peace, and bade him love his peaceful people, and those that would not hold peace, to fell them to ground. the yet called arthur, noblest of kings: "where be ye, my britons? march ye now forth-right; prepare ye by the flood my good ships." all did the knights as arthur them ordered. when the ships were ready, arthur gan to the sea fare; with him he took his knights, his norwegian thanes, and his bold britons, and proceeded forth with the waves; and the doughty king came into denmark; he caused his tents to be pitched, wide over the fields; trumpets he caused to be blown, and his coming to be announced. then was in denmark a king of much might; he was named Æscil, the highest over the danes; he saw that arthur won all that was to him in will. Æscil the king bethought him what he might do; loath it was to him to lose his dear people. he saw that with strength he might not stand against arthur, with ever any combat. he sent greeting to arthur the king; hounds and hawks, and horses exceeding good; silver and red gold, with prudent words. and yet he did more, Æscil the great; he sent to the highest of arthur's folk, and prayed them to intercede for him with the noble king; that he might his man become, and deliver his son for hostage, and each year send him tribute of his land, a boat of gold and of treasure, and of rich garments, filled from the top to the bottom, in safety. and afterwards he would swear, that he would not prove false. arthur heard this, noblest of kings, that Æscil, king of the danes, would be his underling, without any fight, he and all his knights. then was gladdened arthur the rich, and thus answered with mild words: "well worth the man, that with wisdom obtaineth to him peace and amity, and friendship to hold! when he seeth that he is bound with strength, and his dear realm ready all to destruction, with art he must slacken his odious bonds." arthur ordered the king to come, and bring his eldest son; and he so did soon, the king of denmark. arthur's will soon he gan to fulfill; together they came, and were reconciled. the yet said arthur, noblest of kings: "fare i will to france, with my mickle host. i will have of norway nine thousand knights; and of denmark i will lead nine thousand of the people; and of orkney eleven hundred; and of moray three thousand men; and of galloway five thousand of the folk; and of ireland eleven thousand, and of britain my knights bold shall march before me, thirty thousand; and of gutland i will lead ten thousand of the people; and of frisland five thousand men; and of little britain howel the bold, and with such folk france i will seek. and as i expect god's mercy, yet i will promise more; that of all the lands, that stand in my hand, i will order each brave man, that can bear his weapons, as he would wish to live, and have his limbs, that he go with me, to fight with frolle, who is king of the french�-slain he shall be!--he was born in rome, of romanish kin." forth proceeded arthur, until he came to flanders, the land he gan conquer, and set it with his men. and next he marched thence, into boulogne, and all boulogne's land took it in his own hand. and afterwards he took the way that in toward france lay. then bade he his command to all his men, that fare wheresoever they should fare, they should take no whit, unless they might it obtain with right; with just purchase, in the king's host. frolle heard that, where he was in france, of arthur's speed (success), and of all his deeds; and how he all won that he looked on, and how it all to him submitted that he saw with eyes, then was the king frolle horribly afraid! at the same time that this was transacted, the land of the french was named gaul; and frolle was from rome come into france, and each year sent tribute of the land, ten hundred pounds of silver and of gold. now heard frolle, who was chief of france, of the great sorrow that arthur did in the land. he sent messengers soon the nearest way toward rome, and bade the romanish folk advise them between, how many thousand knights they thither would send, that he might the easier fight with arthur, and drive from the land arthur the strong. knights gan to ride out of rome-land; five-and-twenty thousand proceeded toward france. frolle heard this, with his mickle host, that the romanish folk rode toward the land. frolle and his host marched against them, so that they came together, keen men and brave, of all the earth an immense force. arthur heard that, noblest of kings, and assembled his army, and advanced against them. but never was there any king, that was alive on earth, that ever ere on land such folk (multitude) commanded; for from all the kingdoms that arthur had in hand, forth he led with him all the keenest men, so that he knew never in the world how many thousands there were. so soon as they came together, arthur and frolle; hardily they greeted all that they met. knights most strong grasped long spears, and rushed them together, with fierce strength. all day there were blows most rife; the folk fell to ground, and wrought destruction; the angry warriors sought the grass-bed; the helms resounded, murmured earls; shields there shivered, warriors gan fall. then called arthur, noblest of kings: "where be ye, my britons, my bold thanes? the day it forth goeth; this folk against us standeth. cause we to glide to them sharp darts enow, and teach them to ride the way toward rome!" even with the words that arthur then said, he sprang forth on steed, as spark doth of fire. fifty thousand were following him; the hardy warriors rushed to the fight, and smote upon frolle, where he was in the flock, and brought him to flight, with his mickle folk; there slew arthur much folk and innumerable. then fled into paris frolle the powerful, and fastened the gates, with grief enow; and these words said, sorrowful in heart: "liefer were it to me, that i were not born!" then were in paris grievous speeches, full surely, sorrowful cries; burghmen gan to tremble; the walls they gan repair, the gates they gan to form; meat they took, all that they came nigh; on each side they carried it to the burgh; thither came they all, that held with frolle. arthur heard that, noblest of kings, that frolle dwelt in paris, with an immense force, and said that he would arthur withstand. to paris marched arthur, of fear void, and belay the walls, and areared his tents; on four sides he belay it (the city), four weeks and a day. the people that were there within were sore afraid, the burgh was within filled with men; and they ate soon the meat that was there gathered. when four weeks were gone, that arthur was there stationed, then was in the burgh sorrow extreme, with the wretched folk that lay there in hunger, there was weeping, there was lament, and distress great. they called to frolle, and bade him make peace; become arthur's man, and his own honour enjoy, and hold the kingdom of arthur the keen; and let not the wretched folk perish all with hunger. then answered frolle�-free he was in heart:�-"nay, so help me god, that all dooms wieldeth, shall i never his man become, nor he my sovereign! myself i will fight; in god is all the right!" the yet spake frolle, free man in heart: "nay, so help me the lord that shaped the daylight, will i nevermore yearn arthur's grace; but fight i will, without any knight's aid, body against body, before my people; hand against hand, with arthur the king! whetherso of us is the weaker, soon he will be the leather; whetherso of us there may live, to his friends he will be the liefer; and whether of us that may of the other obtain the better (superiority), have he all this other's land, and set it in his own hand. this i will yearn, if arthur will it grant; and this i will swear upon my sword. and hostages i will find, three kings' sons, that i will hold firmly this covenant; that i will it not violate, by my quick life! for liefer it is to me to lie dead, before my people, than that i should see them on the ground perish with hunger. for we have with fight destroyed our knights�-men felled fifty thousand; and many a good woman have made miserable widow, many a child fatherless, and bereaved of comfort; and now this folk with hunger have wondrously harmed. it is better therefore betwixt ourselves to deal and to dispose of this kingdom with fight; and have it the better man, and possess it in joy!" frolle took twelve knights, with these words forth-right, and sent them in message to arthur the king, to know if he would hold this covenant, and with his own hand win the kingdom, or lie dead before, to the harm of his people; and if he it won, should have it in his power. arthur heard that, noblest of kings; was he never so blithe ere in his life, for the tiding liked to him from frolle the king; and these words said arthur the good: "well saith frolle, who is king of france; better it is that we two contest this realm, than there should be slain our brave thanes. this covenant i approve, before my people, at an appointed day to do what he me biddeth; that shall be to-morrow, before our men, that fight we shall by ourselves, and fall the worst of us! and whether (which) of us that goeth aback, and this fight will forsake, be he in each land proclaimed for a recreant! then may men sing of one such king, that his brag (or threat) hath made, and his knighthood forsaken!" frolle heard that, who was king of france, that arthur would fight himself, without any knight. strong man was frolle, and stark man in mood; and his boast he had made, before all his people, and he might not for much shame disgrace himself; quit his bold bragging that he had said in the burgh. but said he whatever he said, in sooth he it weened, that arthur would it forsake, and no whit take to (accept) the fight. for if frolle, who was king in france, had it known, that arthur would grant him that he had yearned, he would not have done it for a shipful of gold! nevertheless was frolle to the fight exceeding keen; tall knight and strong man, and moody in heart; and said that he would hold the day, in the island that with water is surrounded�-the island standeth full truly in the burgh of paris.--"there i will with fight obtain my rights, with shield, and with steel, and with knight's weed; now to-morrow is the day; have it he that may it win!" the tiding came to arthur the king, that frolle would with fight win france; was he never so blithe ere in his life! and he gan to laugh, with loud voice; and said these words arthur the keen: "now i know that frolle will with me fight, to-morrow in the day, as he himself determined, in the island that with water is surrounded; for it becometh a king, that his word should stand. let the trumpets blow, and bid my men, that every good man watch to-night for that, and pray our lord, that all dooms wieldeth, that he preserve me from frolle the fierce, and with his right hand protect me from disgrace. and if i may obtain this kingdom to mine own hand, every poor man the easier shall be, and work i will the great god's will! now aid me thereto that all things may well do; the high heavenly king stand me in help; for him i will love (or praise), the while that i live!" there was all the long night songs and candle-light; loudly sung clerks holy psalms of god. when it was day on the morrow, people gan to stir. his weapons he took in hand, arthur the strong; he threw on his back a garment most precious, a cheisil shirt, and a cloth kirtle; a burny exceeding precious, embroidered of steel. he set on his head a good helm; to his side he suspended his word caliburn; his legs he covered with hose of steel, and placed on his feet spurs most good. the king with his weeds leapt on his steed; men reached to him a good shield; it was all clean of elephant's bone (ivory). men gave him in hand a strong shaft; there was at the end a spear most fair; it was made in caermarthen by a smith that hight griffin; uther it possessed, who was ere king here. when that the stern man was weaponed, then gan he to advance; then might he behold, who were there beside, the mighty king ride boldly; since this world was made, was it nowhere told, that ever any man so fair rode upon horse, as arthur he was, son of uther! bold chieftains rode after the king; in the foremost flock forty hundred, noble warriors, clad in steel, bold britons, busy with weapon. after that marched fifty hundred, that walwain led, who was a bold champion. afterwards there gan out follow sixty thousand britons most bold; that was the rearward. there was the king angel; there was loth and urine; there was urine's son, named ywain; there was kay and beduer, and commanded the host there; there was the king howel, noble man of britanny; cador there was eke, who was keen in flock; there was from ireland gillomar the strong; there was gonwais the king, orkney's darling; there was doldanim the keen, out of gothland, and rumaret the strong, out of winet-land; there was aescil the king, denmark's darling. folk there was on foot, so many thousand men, that was never a man in this worlds-realm so wise, that might tell the thousands, in ever any speech, unless he had with right wisdom of the lord, or unless he had with him what merlin he had. arthur forth gan march, with innumerable folk; until he came full surely unto the burgh of paris; on the west side of the water, with his mickle folk. on the east side was frolle, with his great force, ready to the fight, before all his knights. arthur took a good boat, and went therein, with shield and with steed, and with all his weeds (armour); and he shoved the strong ship from the land, and stept upon the island, and led his steed in his hand; his men that brought him there, as the king commanded, let the boat drive forth with the waves. frolle went into ship; the king was uneasy that he ever thought with arthur to fight. he proceeded to the island, with his good weapons; he stept upon the island, and drew his steed after him; the men that brought him there, as the king commanded them, let the boat drive forth with the waves; and the two kings alone there remained. then men might behold, that were there beside, the folk on the land, exceedingly afraid; they climbed upon halls, they climbed upon walls; they climbed upon bowers, they climbed upon towers, to behold the combat of the two kings. arthur's men prayed with much humility to god the good, and the holy his mother, that their lord might have there victory; and the others eke prayed for their king. arthur stept in steel saddlebow, and leapt on his steed; and frolle with his weeds leapt also on his steed; the one at his end, in the island, and the other at his end, in the island; they couched their shafts, the royal knights; they urged their steeds--good knights they were. never was he found in ever any land, any man so wise, that should know it ere that time, whether (which) of the kings should lie overcome; for both they were keen knights, brave men and active, mickle men in might, and in force exceeding strong. they made ready their steeds; and together they gan ride; rushed fiercely, so that fire sprang after them! arthur smote frolle with might excessive strong, upon the high shield, so that it fell to the ground; and the steed that was good leapt out in the flood. arthur out with his sword�mischief was on the point�and struck upon frolle, where he was in the flood, ere their combat were come to the end. but frolle with his hand grasped his long spear, and observed arthur anon, as he came nigh, and smote the bold steed in the breast, so that the spear pierced through, and arthur down drove. then arose the multitudes' clamour, that the earth dinned again, the welkin resounded for shout of the folk. there would the britons over the water pass, if arthur had not started up very quickly, and grasped his good shield, adorned with gold, and against frolle, with hostile glances cast before his breast his good broad shield. and frolle to him rushed with his fierce assault, and up heaved his sword, and struck down right, and smote upon arthur's shield, so that it fell on the field; the helm on his head, and his mail gan to give way, in front of his head; and he received a wound four inches long;�-it seemed not to him sore, for it was no more;�-the blood ran down over all his breast. arthur was enraged greatly in his heart, and his sword caliburne swung with main, and smote frolle upon the helm, so that it parted in two; throughout the burnyshood, so that at his breast it (the sword) stopt. then fell frolle to the ground; upon the grass-bed his ghost he left. then laughed the britons, with loud voice; and people gan to fly exceeding quickly. arthur the powerful went to land, and thus gan to call, noblest of kings: "where art thou, walwain, dearest of men to me? command these rome-men all with peace to depart hence; each man enjoy his home, as god granteth it him; order each man to hold peace, upon pain of limb and upon life; and i will it order to-day a se'nnight; command this folk then to march all together, and come to myself�-the better it shall be for them. they shall perform homage to me with honour, and i will hold them in my sovereignty, and set laws most good among the people. for now shall the romanish laws fall to the ground, that before stood here with frolle, who lieth slain in the island, and deprived of life-day. hereafter full soon shall his kindred of rome hear tidings of arthur the king, for i will speak with them, and break down rome walls, and remind them how king belin led the britons in thither, and won to him all the lands that stand unto rome." arthur proceeded to the gate, before the burgh wise men that took charge of the burgh, came, and let arthur within, with all his men; delivered to him the halls, delivered to him the castles; delivered to him, full surely, all the burgh of paris�there was mickle bliss with the british folk! the day came to burgh, that arthur had set; came all the populace, and his men became. arthur took his folk, and divided them in two; and the half part gave to howel, and bade him march soon, with the mickle host, with the british men to conquer lands. howel did all thus as arthur him bade; he conquered berry, and all the lands thereby; anjou and touraine, alverne and gascony, and all the havens that belonged to the lands. guitard hight the duke, who possessed poitou; he would not submit to howel, but held ever against him; he would ask no peace, but howel fought with him; oft he felled the folk, and oft he made flight. howel wasted all the land, and slew the people. when guitard saw, who was lord in poitou, that all his people went him to loss, with howel he made peace, with all his host, and became arthur's man, the noble king. arthur became gracious to him, and loved him greatly, and bade him enjoy his land, for (because) he bowed to his feet;--then had howel nobly succeeded! arthur had france, and freely it settled; he took then his host, and marched over all the territory; to burgundy he proceeded, and set it in his hand; and afterwards he gan fare into loraine, and all the lands set to himself in hand, all that arthur saw, all it submitted to him; and afterwards he went, full truly, again home to pans. when arthur had france established with good peace, settled and composed, so that prosperity was among the folk, then ordered he the old knights, that he had long retained, that they should come to the king, and receive their reward; for they many years had been his companions. to some he gave land, some silver and gold; to some he gave castles, some he gave clothes; bade them go in joy, and amend their sins; forbade them to bear weapon, because age upon them went, and bade them love god greatly in this life, that he at the end, full surely, might give them his paradise, that they might enjoy bliss with the angels. all the old knights proceeded to their land, and the young remained with their dear king. all the nine years arthur dwelt there; nine years he held france freely in hand, and afterwards no longer the land he governed. but the while that the kingdom stood in arthur's hand, marvellous things came to the folk; many proud man arthur made mild, and many a high man he held at his feet! it was on an easter, that men had fasted, that arthur on easter-day had his noble men together; all the highest persons that belonged to france, and of all the lands that lay thither in; there he gave his knights all their rights; to each one he gave possessions, as he had earned. thus quoth him arthur, noblest of kings: "kay, look thee hitherward; thou art mine highest steward; here i give thee anjou, for thy good deeds, and all the rights that thither in are set. kneel to me, beduer; thou art my highest cup-bearer here; the while that i am alive, love thee i will. here i give thee neustrie, nearest to my realm." then hight neustrie the land that now hight normandy. the same two earls were arthur's dear men, at counsel and at communing, in every place. the yet said him arthur, noblest of kings: "wend thee hither, howeldin; thou art my man and my kin; have thou boulogne, and possess it in prosperity. come near, borel; thou art knight wise and wary; here i deliver thee the mans, with honour, and possess thou it in prosperity, for thy good deeds." thus arthur the king dealt his lordly lands, after their actions; for he thought them to be worthy. then were blithe speeches in arthur's halls; there was harping and song, there were blisses among! when easter was gone, and april went from town, and the grass was rife, and the water was calm, and men gan to say that may was in town, arthur took his fair folk, and proceeded to the sea, and caused his ships to be assembled, well with the best; and sailed to this land, and came up at london; up he came at london, to the bliss of the people. all it was blithe that saw him with eyes; soon they gan to sing of arthur the king, and of the great worship that he had won there kissed father the son, and said to him welcome; daughter the mother, brother the other; sister kissed sister; the softer it was to them in heart. in many hundred places folk stood by the way, asking of things of many kind; and the knights told them of their conquests, and made their boast of mickle booty. might no man say, were he man ever so skilled, of half the blisses that were with the britons! each fared at his need over this kingdom, from burgh to burgh, with great bliss; and thus it a time stood in the same wise�bliss was in britain with the bold king. when easter was gone, and summer come to land, then took arthur his counsel, with his noble men, that he would in kaerleon bear on him his crown, and on whitsunday his folk there assemble. in those days men gan deem, that no burgh so fair was in any land, nor so widely known as kaerleon by usk, unless it were the rich burgh that is named rome. the yet many a man was with the king in land, that pronounced the burgh of kaerleon richer than rome, and that usk were the best of all waters. meadows there were broad, beside the burgh; there was fish, there was fowl, and fairness enow; there was wood and wild deer, wondrous many; there was all the mirth that any man might think of. but never since arthur thither came, the burgh afterwards thrived, nor ever may, between this and dooms-day. some books say certainly that the burgh was bewitched, and that is well seen, sooth that it be. in the burgh were two minsters exceeding noble; one minster was of saint aaron; therein was mickle relique; the other of the martyr saint julian, who is high with the lord; therein were nuns good, many a high born woman. the bishop's stool was at saint aaron; therein was many a good man; canons there were, who known were wide; there was many a good clerk, who well could (were well skilled) in learning. much they used the craft to look in the sky; to look in the stars, nigh and far;--the craft is named astronomy. well often they said of many things to the king; they made known to him what should happen to him in the land. such was the burgh of kaerleon; there was much wealth; there was much bliss with the busy king. the king took his messengers, and sent over his land; bade come earls; bade come barons; bade come kings, and eke chieftains; bade come bishops, bade come knights; bade all the free men that ever were in the land; by their life he bade them be at kaerleon on whitsunday. knights gan to ride exceeding wide, rode toward kaerleon from lands of many kind. at the whitsunday there came the king angel, king of scotland, with his fair folk; many was the fair man that followed the king. of moray king urien, and his fair son ywam; stater, king of south wales, and cadwal, the king of north wales; cador, earl of cornwall, whom the king loved; morvith of gloucester; maurm of winchester; gurguint, earl of hereford, and beof, earl of oxford; cursal the bold, from bath there came riding; urgent of chester; jonathas of dorchester; arnalf of salisbury, and kinmare of canterbury; bahen of silchester; wigen of leicester; argal, earl of warwick, with folk exceeding strange (or numerous); dunwale, son of apnes, and kegem, son of elauth; kineus, that was coit's son, and cradoc, catel's son, Ædlem, cledauk's son; grimarc, kinmark's son; run, margoit, and netan; clofard, kincar, and aican; kenn, neton, and peredur; madoc, trahern, and elidur. these were arthur's noble earls, and the highest thanes brave of all this land, without (besides) the nobles of arthur's board, that no man might ken, nor all the folk name. then were archbishops three in this country; in london, and in york; and in kaerleon, saint dubrich--he was a man exceeding holy, through all things excellent! at london lay the archbishop's stool, that to canterbury was subsequently removed, after that englishmen had won to them this land. to tell the folk of kaerleon, no man might it do! there was gillomar the king, of irish men the darling; malverus, king of iceland; doldanet, king of gutland; kinkalin of frisland; and Æscil, king of denmark. there was loth the keen, who was king by the north; and gonwais, king of orkney, of outlaws the darling. thither came the fierce man, the earl of boulogne, who was named laeyer, and his people with him; of flanders the earl howeldin; of chartres the earl geryn. this man brought with him all the french men; twelve earls most noble, who ruled over france. guitard, earl of poitiers; kay, earl of angers; bedver, earl of normandy � the land then hight neustne;�-of the mans came the earl borel; of britanny the earl howel. howel the earl was free man, and fair were his weeds. and all the french folk were clothed fair, all well weaponed, and horses they had fat. there were besides fifteen bishops. was there no knight nor any swain, nor good man that were thane, from the ports of spain to the towns of alemaine, that thither would not have come, if he were (had been) invited; all for arthur's dread, of noble race. when all this folk was come; each king with his people, there men might behold, who were there beside, many a strange man, who was come to the burgh, and many kind of tidings (novelties) with arthur the king there was many a marvellous cloth (garment); there was many a wrath knight; there were lodgings nobly prepared; there were the inns, built with strength; there were on the fields many thousand tents; there came lard and wheat, and oats without measure; may no man say it in his tale, of the wine and of the ale; there came hay, there came grass; there came all that was good! when all this folk was assembled by the good king, when the whitsunday came, as the lord it sent, then came all the bishops before their king, and the archbishops three, before arthur; and took the crown, that was to him by right, and set upon his head with great bliss; so they gan him lead, all with god's counsel. saint dubrich went before-- he was to christ chosen;--the archbishop of london walked on his right hand, and by his left side the same of york. fifteen bishops went before, of many lands chosen; they were all clothed with garments most rich, that were all embroidered with burning gold. there walked four kings before the kaiser; they bare in their hands four swords of gold. thus hight the one, who was a most doughty man, that was cador the king, arthur's darling; the second of scotland, he bare sword in hand; and the king of north wales and the king of south wales. and thus they gan lead the king to church; the bishops gan sing before the monarch, trumpets there blew; bells there rung; knights gan ride, women forth glide. in certainty it is said, and sooth it is found, that no man ever ere saw here with earthly men half so great pomp, in ever any assembly, as was with arthur, of noble race. into church came arthur the rich man; dubrich the archbishop�-the lord was to him full good; of rome he was legate, and prelate of the people�-he sang the holy mass before the monarch. came with the queen women fair; all wives of the rich men that dwelt in the land, and daughters of the noble men the queen had sought (or selected), all as the queen had ordered, on pain of their paying full penalty. in the church, in the south half, sate arthur the king himself; by the north side wenhaver the queen. there came before her four chosen queens; each bare in the left hand a jewel of red gold, and three snow-white doves sate on their shoulders; who were the four queens, wives of the kings who bare in their hands the four swords of gold before arthur, noblest of kings. there was many a maid-child with the noble queen; there was many a rich garment on the fair folk; there was mickle envy from land of many kind; for each weened to be better than other. many knights anon came to the church; some for gain; some for the king; some to behold the women that were noble. songs there were merry, that lasted very long; i ween if it had lasted seven years, the yet they would more, that were thereat. when the mass was sung, from church they thronged; the king with his folk went to his meat, with his mickle folk�-joy was among the people. the queen on the other side sought her lodging; she had of women wondrous many. when the king was set, with his men to his meat, to the king came the bishop saint dubrich, who was so good, and took from his head his rich crown; on account of the mickle gold the king would not it bear; and placed a less crown on the king's head; and afterwards he gan do to the queen also (likewise). in troy this was the custom in their elders' days, of whom brutus came, who were excellent men; all the men at their meat sate asunder by themselves, that to them seemed well done; and also the women their station had. when the king was set with all his people to his meat, earls and barons, at the king's board, then came stepping the steward, who was named kay, highest knight in land under the king, of all the assemblage of arthur's folk. kay had before him many a noble man chosen; there were a thousand bold knights wondrous well told, that served the king and his chiefs; each knight had a cloth on, and adorned with gold, and all their fingers covered with gold rings. these bare the things sent from the kitchen to the king. on the other side was beduer, the king's high cup-bearer, with him were earls' sons of noble race born, and the noble knights' sons, who were thither come; and seven kings' sons, that with him moved. beduer went foremost, with golden bowl; after him a thousand pressed towards the folk, with drink of all the kinds that men could think of. and the queen at her end, women most fair attended; a thousand walked before her, rich and well choice, to serve the queen, and them that were with her. was he never born, of any man chosen, clerk nor layman, in ever any land, that could tell it in speech of any kind, of half the wealth that was in kaerleon, of silver and of gold, and good weeds; of high born men that dwelt among the folk; of horses, and of hawks, of hounds for deer, and of rich weeds, that were among the people. and of all the folk that dwelt there in land, the folk of this land was accounted the fairest of people, and also the women, comely in hue, and most nobly clothed, and best of all educated. for they all had in declaration, by their quick lives, that they would have their clothes of one hue. some had white, some had red; some had eke good green; and variegated cloth of each kind was to them wondrous odious; and each ill-usage they accounted unworthy. then had english land the best fame of all; and this country-folk eke was dearest to the king. the high born women that dwelt in this land had all declared in their sooth words, that none would take lord (husband) in this land, never any knight, were he nought (never) so well formed, unless he were thrice tried in combat, and his courage made known, and himself approved; then might he boldly ask him a bride. for that usage the knights were brave, the women excellent, and the better behaved; then were in britain blisses enow. when the king had eaten, and all his people, then proceeded out of the burgh the thanes most bold; all the kings, and their chieftains; all the bishops, and all the clerks; all the earls, and all the barons; all the thanes, and all the swains, fairly clad, spread over the fields. some they gan to ride; some they gan to race, some they gan to leap, some they gan to shoot, some they wrestled, and contest made; some they in the field played under shield; some they drove balls wide over the fields. games of many a kind there they gan to play; and whoso might win honour of his game, men lead him with song before the sovereign, and the king for his game gave him gifts good. all the queens, that there were come, and all the ladies, leaned over the walls, to behold the people, and the folk play. this lasted three days, such games and such plays. then on the fourth day, the king gan to speak, and gave his good knights all their rights; he gave silver, he gave gold; he gave horses, he gave land; castles eke and clothes; his men he pleased�-there was many a bold briton before arthur. but now came to the king new tidings! arthur the bold king sate at a board; before him sate kings, and many chieftains; bishops and clerks, and knights most brave. there came into the hall marvellous tales!�-there came twelve thanes bold, clad with pall; noble warriors, noble men with weapon; each had on hand a great ring of gold, and with a band of gold each had his head encircled. ever two and two walked together; each with his hand held his companion; and glided over the floor, before arthur, so long that they came before arthur, the sovereign. they greeted arthur anon with their noble words: "hail be thou, arthur king, darling of britons; and hail be thy people, and all thy lordly folk! we are twelve knights come here forthright, rich and noble; we are from rome. hither we are come from our emperor, who is named luces, who ruleth rome-people. he commanded us to proceed hither, to arthur the king, and bade thee to be greeted with his grim words, and saith that he is astonished, wondrously much, where thou tookest the mood in this middle-earth, that thou darest of rome oppose any doom (will), or heave up thine eyes against our ancestors; and who dared it thee to counsel, that thou art so doughty become, that thou darest threaten the lord of dooms, luces, the emperor, highest of men alive! thou boldest all thy kingdom in thine own hand, and wilt not serve the emperor of the land; of the same land that julius had in hand, who in former days won it with fight; and thou it hast retained in thy power; and with thy bold knights deprivest us of our rights. but say us, arthur, soon, and send word to rome; we shall thine errand bear to luces our emperor, if thou wilt acknowledge that he is king over thee, and if thou wilt his man become, and acknowledge him for lord, and do right to the emperor on account of frolle the king, whom thou slewest with wrong at paris, and now holdest all his land with un-right in thy hand. if thou within these twelve weeks turn to the right, and if thou wilt of rome any doom suffer, then mightest thou live, among thy people. and if thou wilt not do so, thou shalt receive worse, for the emperor will come here, as king shall to his own, king most keen; and take thee with strength, lead thee bound before rome-folk;--then must thou suffer what thou erst despisedest!" at these words the britons leapt from the board; there was arthur's court exceedingly enraged; and swore mickle oath, upon our mighty lord, that they all were (should be) dead, who this errand bare; with horses drawn in pieces, death they should suffer. there leapt towards them the britons exceeding wrath; tore them by the hair, and laid them to the ground. there were (would have been) the romanish men pitifully treated, if arthur had not leapt to them, as if it were a lion; and said these words--wisest of all britons!--"leave ye, leave quickly these knights alive! they shall not in my court suffer any harm; they are hither ridden out of rome, as their lord commanded them, who is named luces. each man must go where his lord biddeth him go; no man ought to sentence a messenger to death, unless he were so evilly behaved, that he were traitor of his lord. but sit ye down still, knights in hall; and i will me counsel of such need, what word they shall bear to luces the emperor." then sate all down, the folk on their benches, and the clamour ceased before the monarch. then stood him up arthur, noblest of kings, and he called to him seven sons of kings, earls and barons, and those that were boldest, and all the wisest men that dwelt in the folk, and went into a house that was fast inclosed, of old stone work--strong men it wrought--therein they gan to commune, his wise councillors, what answer he would give to luces the emperor. when all the nobles were come to bench then was it all still that dwelt in the hall; there was great awe with the mighty king; durst there no man speak, least the king would it punish. then stood there up cador, the earl most rich here, and said these words before the rich king: "i thank my lord, who formed the daylight, to abide (have abode) this day, that is arrived to the folk, and this tiding that is come to our king; so that we need no more lie here inert! for idleness is evil in each land; for idleness maketh man lose his manhood; idleness maketh knight lose his rights; idleness causeth many wicked crafts; idleness destroyeth many thousand men; through idle deeds little men well-speed. for long we have lain still; our honour is the less! but now i thank the lord, who formed the daylight, that the romanish folk are so fierce, and make their threat to come to our burghs, our king to bind, and to rome him bring. but if it is sooth that men say, as people it tell, that the romanish people are so fierce, and are so bold, and so mischievous, that they will now come into our land, we shall prepare for them rueful tales; their fierceness shall turn to themselves to sorrow. for never loved i long peace in my land; for through peace we are bound, and well nigh all in swoon." that heard walwain, who was arthur's relative, and angered him much with cador, who said these words; and thus answered walwain the good: "cador, thou art a powerful man; thy counsels are not good; for good is peace and good is amity, whoso freely therewith holdeth, and god himself it made, through his divinity; for peace maketh a good man work good works, for all men are the better, and the land is the merrier." then heard arthur the dispute of these knights; and thus spake the mighty man with his fierce folk: "sit ye down quickly, my knights all, and each by his life listen my words!" all it was still that dwelt in the hall. then spake the bold king to his noble folk: "my earls, my barons, my bold thanes, my doughty men, my dear friends; through you i have conquered under the sun, so that i am man most powerful, and fierce against my enemies; gold i have and treasure; of men i am ruler. i won it not alone, but we did, all clean. to many a fight i have led you, and ever ye were well skilled, so that many kingdoms stand in my hand. ye are good knights, brave men and active; that i have proved in well many lands" the yet spake him arthur, noblest of kings: "but now ye have heard, my noble thanes, what the romanish men counsel them between, and what words they send us here, into our land, with writ and with words, and with great wrath. now we must bethink how we may with right defend our country and our great honour, against this powerful folk, against this rome-people, and send them answer with our good words; with much wisdom send our writ to rome, and learn at the emperor, for what thing he us hateth; for what thing he greets us with threat and with scorn exceeding sorely it incenseth me, and immoderately it shameth, that he reproaches us our loss that we before have lost. they say that julius caesar won it (britain) with combat in fight. with strength and with fight men do many wrongs; for caesar sought britain with bold strength. the britons might not against him defend their land, but with strength they went in hand, and delivered him all their land; and thereafter soon all became his men. some of our kin they had slain, and some with horses drawn to pieces; some they led bound out of this land; and thus this land won with wrong and with sin, and now asketh by right tribute of this land! all so we may do, if we it do will, through right of belin king, and of brenne, his brother, the duke of burgundy. these were our ancestors, of whom we are come; these belay rome, and the realm all conquered, and before rome the strong their hostages up hung, and afterwards they took all the land, and set it in their own hand, and thou ought we with right to besiege rome. now will i let remain belin and brenne, and speak of the caiser, constantine the strong, he was helen's son, all of britons come (descended), he won rome, and possessed the realm. let (leave) we now of constantine, who won rome all to him, and speak of maximian, who was a man most strong, he was king of britain, he conquered france. maximian the strong he took rome in hand, and alemaine (germany) he won eke, with wondrous great strength, and all from rome into normandy. and all these were my ancestors, my noble progenitors; and possessed all the lands that unto rome lay; and through such authority i ought to obtain rome. they yearn of me in hand tribute of my land; all so will i of rome, if i have counsel. i desire in my thoughts to possess all rome; and he desireth in britain to bind me most fast, and slay my britons, with his evil attacks. but if my lord grant it, who formed day and night, he shall sorely pay for his bold threat, and his rome-people shall therefore perish; and i will be bold, wherein he now ruleth! dwell ye now all still, i will say my will, no man shall do it otherwise, but it shall stand thereon. he desireth all, and i desire all that we both possess; have it now and ever who may it easier win, for now we shall prove to whom god will grant it!" thus spake the bold king, that had britain under his rule, that was arthur the king, britain's darling! his warriors sate, and to his words listened; some they sate still, a great while; some they made much communing between them; some it seemed to them good; some it disturbed their mood. when they had long listened to the king, then spake howel the fair, noble man of britanny, and said these words before the fierce king: "lord king, hearken to me, as i ere did to thee. thou hast said sooth words�may fortune be given to thee!--for it was of old said, what we now shall learn, in the years before what is now here found. sibeli it said; her words were sooth, and set it in book, for example to folk, that three kings should go out of britain, who should conquer rome, and all the realm, and all the lands that thereto lie. the first was belin, who was a british king; the other was constantine, who was king in britain; thou shalt be the third, that rome shalt have. and if thou wilt it begin, thou shalt it win, and i will thereto help, with great strength, i will send over sea, to my good thanes, to my bold britons�-the better we shall proceed,--i will command all, the nobles of britain, by their limbs and by their lives, over all my lands, that they be ready soon with thee to march to rome. my land i will set in pledge for silver, and all the possessions of my land for silver and for gold, and so we shall proceed to rome, and slay luces the emperor, and for to win thy rights, i will lead to thee ten thousand knights." thus spake howel, noblest of britanny. when that howel had said what seemed good to him, then spake angel the king, scotland's darling, and stood upon a bench, and both his brothers, that was, loth and urien, two most noble men. thus said angel the king to arthur the keen: "lord arthur, i say to thee through my sooth words, the same that howel hath spoken, no man shall it avoid, but we shall perform it by our quick lives! and, lord arthur the noble, listen to me a while, call to thee to counsel thy earls rich, and all the highest that are in thy folk, and bid them say to thee with their sooth words, in what they will help thee thy foes to destroy. i will lead to thee knights of my land, three thousand champions brave, all chosen, ten thousand men on foot, to fight most good, and go we to rome, and conquer the realm. full greatly it may shame us, and full greatly it may us anger, that they should send messengers after tribute to our land. but so help us the lord that formed the daylight, they shall pay for it with their bare life! for when we have rome, and all the realm, we shall seize the lands that thereto he, poille (apuha?) and alemaine, lumbardy and britanny, france and normandy--then it hight neustrie--and so we shall tame their immoderate mood (pride)." when the king had said then answered all. "disgraced be that man that will not help thereto, with goods and with weapons, and with all his might!" then was arthur's folk sternly incensed, knights were so enraged, that all they gan to be agitated. when arthur had heard the clamour of his folk, then gan he call--the king was angry--"sit ye down still, knights in hall, and i will you tell what i will do. my writs i will make, that shall be well indited, and send to the emperor minds sorrow and mickle care, and i will full soon fare into rome. i will not thither any tribute bring, but the emperor i will bind, and afterwards i will him hang; and all the land i will destroy, and all the knights put to death, that stand against me in fight!" arthur took his writ in hand, with hostile words, and delivered it to the men, that had brought the errand, and afterwards he caused them to be clothed with each pomp, with the noblest garments that he had in bower, and bade them fare soon to luces of rome, and he would come after them as quickly as he might. these twelve went their way toward their land; were in no land knights so bedecked with silver and with gold, nor through all things so well arrayed as these were by arthur the king. thus arthur them treated, all for their words! these twelve knights proceeded until they came to rome; they greeted their emperor, their sovereign: "hail be thou, luces, thou art highest over us! we were with the fierce man, with arthur the king, we have brought thee writs, words exceeding great arthur is the keenest man that we ever looked on, and he is wondrous powerful, and his thanes are bold, there is every knave as if he were knight, there is every swain as if he were rich thane, there are the knights as if it were kings, meat there is most abundant, and men most bold, and the fairest women that dwell alive; and arthur the bold himself fairest over all! by us he sendeth word to thee, that he will come to this land, no tribute he will bring, but thyself he will bind, and afterwards he will thee hang, and this land all destroy, and take alemaine and lumbardy, burgundy, france, and normandy. and frolle he slew, his foe, so he will to us all do, and possess himself alone the land that we own all clean, hereto he will lead kings, earls, and chieftains. and here we have in hand the writs that he thee sendeth that telleth thee what he will do, when he cometh in hither." when the errand was said, the emperor was a full sorrowful man, and all the rome-folk were stirred with strong wrath. oft they went to counsel, oft they went to communing, ere to them might be determined what they would do. nevertheless at the end a counsel they found, that was through the senator, who held the senate, the emperor they counselled that he should write letters, and send his messengers over many kingdoms, and bid them all come soon to rome, from every land, who loved them aught, and all that willeth with fight obtain land or goods. folk there came soon to the burgh of rome, so mickle as there never ere any man assembled! they said that they would march over muntgiu, and fight with arthur, wheresoever they him found, and arthur slay or hang, and his host all destroy, and possess for the emperor arthur's realm. the first king that there came, he was a man exceeding keen, epistrod, king of greece; ethion, duke of boeotia, came with a great force; irtac, king of turkey; pandras, king of egypt; of crete the king ypolite; of syria the king evander; of phrygia the duke teucer; of babylon, maptisas; of spain the caiser meodras; of media the king boccus; of libia the king sextorius; of bitunia, pollidices; of ituria the king xerxes; ofustesar, king of africa; was there no king his like; with him came many an african; of ethiopia he brought the black-men. the rome-people themselves marched them together, that were at nearest, of rome the noblest; marcus, lucas, and catel, cocta, gaiut, and metel; these were the six, who the senate all ruled. when this folk was assembled, from lands of many kind, then caused the emperor all the host to be numbered. then were there told right, to fight most bold, four hundred thousand knights in the heap (assemblage), with weapons and with horses, as behoveth to knights. never was he born, in every any burgh, that might tell the folk, that there went on foot! before harvest-day forth they gan to march, ever right the way that toward muntgiu lay. let us now leave this host a while, and speak we of arthur, noblest of kings, when that he had besought his good thanes, and each had gone home where he had land. and soon again came the knights in assemblage, with weapons well provided, through all their might, of scotland, of ireland, of gutland, of iceland, of norway, of denmark, of orkney, of man; of these same lands are a hundred thousand brave thanes, all well weaponed in their country's wise. they were not all knights, nor in this wise arrayed, but they were the keenest men that any man knew, with great battle-axes, and with long saexes. of normandy, of anjou, of britain, of poitou, of flanders, of boulogne, of lorraine, of lovaine, came a hundred thousand to the king's host, knights with the best, completely provided with weapons. there came the twelve companions that france should obey; twelve thousand knights they brought forthright; and of this land arthur took in hand fifty thousand knights, keen and brave men in battle. howel of brittany led ten thousand of his land-folk, knights with the best. of footmen; when they forth marched, through no kind of speech could any man them number! arthur then ordered, noblest of kings, the folk to be assembled at a set time, by their bare life, at barbefleote; and there he would gather his good people. this land he delivered to a famous knight; he was walwain's brother, there was no other; he was named modred, wickedest of men; truth he had none to ever any man; he was arthur's relation, of his noble race; but knight he was wondrous good, and he had very much pride; he was arthur's sister's son; to the queen was his resort--that was evilly done�-to his uncle he did treachery. but it was all secret, in host and in hall, for no man it weened, that it should be, but men in sooth weened him, because walwain was his brother, the truest man of all that came to the folk; through walwain was modred by men the more beloved, and arthur the keen full well was pleased with him. he took all his kingdom, and set it to modred in hand, and wenhaver, his queen, worthiest of women, that then in this nation dwelt in land. arthur gave to them all that he possessed, to modred and the queen--that to them was pleasing. that was evilly done, that they were (should have been) born; this land they destroyed with numerous sorrows; and themselves at the end the worse gan disgrace (or destroy), so that they there lost their lives and their souls, and ever afterwards became odious in every land, so that never any man would offer a good prayer for their souls, on account of the treachery that he did to arthur, his uncle. all that arthur possessed he gave to modred, his land and his people, and his dear queen; and afterwards he took his army of folk most fair, and marched full soon toward southampton. there came numerous ships soon sailing over the wide sea, to the king's folk; the king distributed the folk over the long ships; by thousands and by thousands to the ships they thronged; the father wept on the son, sister on the brother; mother on the daughter, when the host departed. the weather stood at will, the wind waxed in hand; anchors they up drew, joy was among the folk. the thanes wondrous blithe wound their way into the wide sea, the ships thereforth pressed, the glee-men there sung; sails there they hoist, ropes there they right; weather they had softest of all, and the sea slept. for the softness (calm) arthur gan to sleep; as the king slept a dream he dreamt; marvellous was the dream, the king it alarmed! when the king him awoke, greatly he was frightened, and began to groan with loud voice. was there none so bold knight under christ, who durst ask the king of his welfare, ere the king himself spake, and discoursed with his barons there, and thus arthur him said, when he awoke from his sleep: "lord governor christ, ruler of dooms, protector of middle-earth, comforter of men through thy merciful will, ruler of angels; let thou my dream turn to good!" then spake angel the king, scotland's darling: "lord, say us thy dream, for prosperity is given to us" "blithely," quoth the king, "to bliss may it turn! where i lay in slumber, and i gan for to sleep, methought that in the welkin came a marvellous beast, eastward in the sky, and loathsome to the sight; with lightning and with storm sternly he advanced; there is in no land any bear so loathly. then came there westward, winding with the clouds, a burning dragon; burghs he swallowed, with his fire he lighted all this land's realm; methought in my sight that the sea gan to burn of light and of fire, that the dragon carried. this dragon and the bear, both together, quickly soon together they came; they smote them together with fierce assaults, flames flew from their eyes as firebrands! oft was the dragon above, and eftsoons beneath; nevertheless at the end high he gan rise, and he flew down right with fierce assault, and the bear he smote, so that he fell to the earth; and he there the bear slew, and limbmeal him tore. when the fight was done, the dragon back went. this dream i dreamt, where i lay and slept." the bishops heard this, and book-learned men; this heard earls, this heard barons; each by his wit said wisdom, and this dream they interpreted, as to them best seemed. there durst no knight to evil expound no whit, lest he should lose his limbs that were dear to him. forth they gan to voyage exceeding quickly; the wind stood to them at will, weather best of all; they had all that to them was need; to land they came at barbefleot. to barbefleot, at constantin, therein came a mickle multitude, from all the lands that arthur had in hand. so soon as they might, out of ship they moved, the king ordered his folk to seek lodging, and the king would rest, until his folk came. he was not there but one night, that a fair knight came to him; he told tiding to arthur the king, he said that there was arrived a monster, westward from spain; a fiend well loathsome; and in britanny was busy to harm. by the seaside the land he wasted wide--now it hight mount saint michel--the land he possesseth every part.--"lord king," quoth the knight, "in sooth i make known to thee right here, he hath taken away thy relative, with great strength, a nobly born woman, howel's daughter choice, who was named helen, noblest of maidens. to the mount he carried her, noblest of maidens; now full a fortnight the fiend hath holden her there right; we know not in life whether he have her not to wife. all the men that he seizeth, he maketh to him for meat, cattle, horses, and the sheep, goats, and the swine eke; all this land he will destroy, unless thou allay our care, the land and this people; in thee is our need." yet said the knight to the monarch: "seest thou, lord, the mount, and the great wood, wherein the fiend dwelleth that destroyeth this people? we have fought with him well many times; by sea and by land this folk he destroyed; our ships he sank, the folk he all drowned, those that fought on the land, those he down laid. we have driven (suffered) that so long, that we let him alone, to act how so he will, after his will, the knights of this land dare not with him any more fight." arthur heard this, noblest of all kings; he called to him the earl kay, who was his steward and his relative; beduer eke to him he called, he who was the king's cup-bearer. he bade them forth-right be all ready at midnight, with all their weapons, to go with the king, so that no man under christ should know of their journey, except arthur the king, and the two knights with him, and their six swains, brave men and active; and the knight that counselled it to the king should lead them. at the midnight, when men were asleep, arthur forth him went, noblest of all kings. before rode their guide, until it was daylight; they alighted from their steeds, and righted their weeds. then saw they not far a great fire smoke, upon a hill, surrounded by the sea-flood; and another hill there was most high; the sea by it flowed full nigh, thereupon they saw a fire that was mickle and most strong. the knights then doubted, to whether of the two they might go, that the giant were not aware of the king's movement. then arthur the bold took him to counsel, that they should go together near the one fire; and if they there him found, kill him to death. forth went the king, so that he came near; nought he there found but a mickle fire there burning. arthur went about, and his knights by his side; nought they found alive upon earth but the great fire, and bones innumerable; by estimation it seemed to them thirty fother. arthur then knew not any good counsel, and began him to speak to beduer, his earl:-- "beduer, go quickly down from this hill, and pass thee over the deep water, with all thy weeds; and with wisdom advance to the fire; and go thou aside, and behold diligently, if thou mayest find ought of the fiend. and if thou mayest him perceive, in wise of any kind, go down still, until thou come to the water, and say me there soon what thou hast seen. and if it so befalleth, that thou come to the fire, and the fiend thee perceive, and proceed toward thee, have my good horn, that all with gold is adorned, and blow it with strength, as man shall for need. and advance thee to the fiend, and begin to fight, and we shall come to thee, as most quickly we may do it. and if thou findest him near the fire and thou all unperceived back mayest go; then forbid i thee, by thy bare life, that thou ever with the monster begin fight." beduer heard what his lord said to him; his weapons he put him on, and forth he went, and ascended up the mount that was immense. he bare in his hand a spear exceeding strong; a shield on his back, ornamented all with gold; a helm on his head, high, of steel; his body was covered with a fair burny; he had by his side a brand all of steel; and forth he gan step, the powerfully strong earl, until he arrived near the fire; and he under a tree gan him tarry. then heard he one weep, wondrously much, weep and whine with piteous cries. then the knight weened that it were the giant, and he became incensed as if it were a wild boar, and soon forgot what his lord said to him. his shield he drew on his breast, his spear he grasped fast, and near gan wend toward the fire; he thought to find the stern fiend, that he might fight, and prove himself. then found he there a woman shaking with her head, a hoary-locked wife, who wept for her wretchedness; she cursed her lot that she was alive; that sate by the fire, with piteous cries, and sat and ever she beheld a grave, and said her words with plaintive voice: "alas! helen; alas! dear maid; alas! that i thee fed, that i thee fostered; alas! that the monster hath thee here thus destroyed; alas! that i was born; my limbs he hath broken in pieces!" then looked the woman about, where the giant should arrive; and looked on the earl beduer, who was come there. then said the woman hoar, where she sate by the fire: "what are thou, fair wight? art thou angel, art thou knight? are thy wings hung with gold? if thou art from heaven, thou mayest in safety go hence, and if thou art earthly knight, harm thou wilt have forth-right. for now anon cometh the monster that all thy limbs will draw in pieces; though thou wert all steel, he would thee destroy, every bit. he went to britanny, to the best of all mansions, to howel's castle, noble man in britanny; the gates he all brake in pieces, and within he gan wend. he took the hall wall, and pulled it to ground; the chamber's door he cast down, so that it burst in five; he found in the chamber the fairest of all maids; helen she was named, of noble race; howel's daughter, noble man of britanny, arthur's relative of most noble lineage. i was her foster-mother, and fair her fostered. there the giant took us forth with himself, fifteen miles, into this wild wood, hither to this same place; thus he us treated to-day a sen'night. so soon as he hither came, so he took the maid; he would have carnal intercourse with the maiden. age had she no more but fifteen years; the maiden might not endure his force; anon so he lay with her, her life she lost soon! and here he her buried, fairest of all maids, helen, mine own foster, howel's daughter! when he had this done, so myself he took; on the ground he me laid, and lay with myself. now hath he all my bones loathsomely broken; my limbs all dismembered; my life to me is odious! now i have thee told, how we are led here. flee now quickly, least he thee find; for if he cometh enraged, with his direful onsets, was he never born that may stand thee before!" even with these words that the woman said, beduer gan to comfort her with fair words: "dear mother, i am a man, and knight am brave; and i will say thee through my sooth words, that no champion was born of ever any lady, that man may not with strength stoop him to ground; and serve thee an old woman--very little are thy powers. but have now very goodday, and i will go my way." down went him beduer to his sovereign, and told him how he had care, and all how he had fared, and what the old woman told him of the maiden, and how the giant each day by the old woman lay. there they them between held their communing, how they might take on, so that the fiend were destroyed. the while arrived the giant, and proceeded to his fire; he bare upon his back a great burthen, that was twelve swine, tied together, with withies exceeding great wreathed altogether. adown he threw the dead swine, and himself sate thereby; his fire he gan mend, and great trees laid thereon; the six swine he drew in pieces, and ever he to the woman smiled, and soon by a while he lay by the woman. but he knew not of the tiding that came to his lemman. he drew out his embers; his flesh he gan to roast; and all the six swine he gan eat ere he arose from his seat, all besmeared in the ashes�-evil were the viands; and afterwards he gan to roar, and vociferated much, and down lay by the fire, and stretched his limbs. let we now the giant be, and go to the king. arthur at the water took his weapons in hand, and the earl beduer, good knight, wise and wary; and the third was kay, the king's steward and his relative. over the water they came, weaponed with the best, and ascended up the hill with all their strength, until they arrived near the fire, where the giant lay and slept, and the woman sate and wept. arthur drew him beside and spake to his companions; forbade them by their limbs and by their bare life, that none were so keen that they should come near, unless they saw that it were need. beduer tarried him there, and kay, his companion. arthur gan step forth, sturdy-mooded warrior, until he came to the floor, where the fiend lay and slept. ever was arthur void of fear; that was manifest therein, wondrous though it seem; for arthur might there have hewed the giant in pieces, slain the monster where he lay and slept; then would not arthur no whit touch him in his sleep, lest he in future days should hear upbraiding. then called arthur anon, noblest of kings: "arise, fiend-monster, to thy destruction! now we shall avenge the death of my relative!" ere the king had this fully said, the giant up started, and grasped his mickle club, and weened with the blow to dash arthur all in pieces; but arthur drew his shield high above his helm; and the giant smote thereon above, so that all it gan to shiver. and arthur struck at him in haste with his sword, and smote off him the chin, with all the hair, and started him behind a tree, that there stood near; and the giant smote after quickly, and hit him not, but he smote the tree, so that his club brake all in pieces. and arthur quickly ran round about the tree; and so arthur and the monster ran round it thrice about. then was the giant exceeding heavy, and arthur was the swifter, and overtook the giant, and up heaved his good brand, and smote from him the thigh; and the giant down fell. and arthur stopt and beheld; then gan the fiend to speak: "lord, lord, give me peace; who is it that fighteth with me? i weened not that any man in this world's realm might me thus lightly defeat in fight, except it were arthur, noblest of all kings; and nevertheless was i never of arthur sore afraid." then said arthur to him, noblest of kings: "i am arthur the king, britain's darling. tell me of thy race, and where is their habitation; and who should be to thee father or mother accounted on earth; and from what land thou art hither arrived; and why thou hast destroyed with murder my relative?" then answered the fiend, where he lay and beheld: "all this i will do, and thy troth receive, on condition that thou let me live, and heal my limbs." arthur him wrathed, wondrously much; and he called beduer, his bold champion: "go near, beduer, and take off from him here the head; and carry it forth with thee, down from this mount." beduer came near, and deprived him of his head; and so they proceeded thence down to their companions. then sate the king down, and gan him rest; and said these words arthur the good: "never fought i any such fight, upon this land, but when i slew the king riun, upon the mount of ravin!" afterwards they forth went, and came to the host; when that they the head saw, wondrous it seemed to them, wherever under heaven were such head begotten! howel of britanny came to the king, and the king said to him all of the maiden. then was howel sorry, and sorrowful therefore in heart; and took all his companions, and fared to the mount where the british maid lay buried in earth. he caused there to be areared soon a church most fair, in saint mary's name, the lord's mother; and afterwards he gave a name to the hill, ere he thence departed, and named it helen's tomb,--now it hight mount saint michel. then was arthur's host numerously collected; from ireland, from scotland, thither were they come. then caused the king the trumpets to be blown in the host, and marched from britain, busy men and keen, throughout normandy, that then hight neustrie. they proceeded throughout france, and the folk marched after them; they went out of france into burgundy. his spies there came, and held his companions; and made known to the king, there in the country, that luces the emperor, and all his romanish host, thitherward they came, out of their land, and so they would march in toward france; and all the land conquer; and afterwards proceed hither, and kill all the britons, quick that they found, and arthur the keen led bound to france. then was enraged the boldest of all kings, and ordered all his tents to be pitched in the fields; and there he would abide until he the sooth knew, where he might the emperor certainly intercept (or hostilely engage). the water hight albe, where the bold king lay. a wise knight there came riding to the king's host, who was all wounded, and his folk greatly felled; the romanish men had bereaved him of all his land. he told to the king new tiding, where the emperor lay, and all his romanish army, and where he might him find, if he him would with him fight, or make peace with the romanish men. "but, lord arthur," quoth the knight, "i will shew to thee here right, that better for thee is it to have friendship, than for to fight; for against thy two they have twelve; so many kings, so many chieftains! he is in no land who may it make known to thee, for all the folk, that followeth the emperor, without (besides) the rome-people, of his own territory, and without the folk that yearn the king's favour." when the tales were all told, and arthur had them understood, then called the king forth-right his dearest knights, and they counselled them between a castle to arear, beside the water that albe was named. on a spot exceeding fair it was built full soon, there helped many a hand, in haste was it done; for if arthur mis-fared, when he came to the fight, or his folk fell, or set to flight, then thought he to remain in the strong castle. then called he earls twain, noble men and wise; high men born, to the king exceeding dear; the one was of chartres, and hight gerin--much wisdom dwelt with him; the other hight beof of oxford--well wide sprang the earl's fame. the yet the king called walwain, who was his dearest relative; for walwain understood romanish; walwain understood british; he was nurtured in rome well many winters. the king took these three knights fair, and to the emperor them sent, and bade him with his army go back to rome, and that he never into france his host should lead. "and if thou thither marchest, and leadest thine host, thou shalt be received to thy destruction! for france is mine own land, and i won it with fight; and if thou wilt not relinquish, that thou wilt not hither come, go we two to the fight, and fall the worst; and let we the poor folk dwell in quiet. for whilom the rome-people conquered all the land, and afterwards they losed the land with fight; and i with fight it won, and with fight will hold." forth the knights went, goodly champions; that was, gerin, and beof the fair, and walwain the bold, cuirassed and helmeted on their noble steeds; and each carried on his shoulder a shield exceeding good; they bare in their hands spears most strong. forth they gan ride, noble men, from the host; much of the folk that with arthur dwelt, with walwain went, and earnestly prayed him, that he should raise some dispute with the rome-folk:--"that we may with fight prove ourselves; for it is many years that (since) their threats came here; and their menace they make, that they will us behead. now is it much folk-shame, if it thus shall allay, unless there be some strife ere we become reconciled; shafts broken in pieces, burnies torn, shields shivered, warriors hewed, and swords bathed in the red blood." forth the earls proceeded through a great wood, and marked a way that over a mount lay, so that they came soon to the folk of rome; worthily weaponed they rode on their horses. there men might behold, the man who were beside, many thousands throng out of the tents, all to behold these three bold knights, and beheld their steeds, and beheld their weeds, and hearkened tidings from arthur the king. and next forthright questioned the knights, and if the king had sent them to the emperor, for to speak with the emperor, and to yearn his peace. but for never any speech these three noble earls would abide, ere they came riding before the tent's door, wherein was the emperor. down they gan alight, and delivered their steeds; and so they weaponed with all advanced into the tent, before the emperor that luces was named. where he sate on his bed their errand they to him made known; each said his say as to him seemed best, and bade him go back to his land, so that he never more with hostility should seek france. the while that these three earls said their errand, the emperor sate as if he were dumb, and answer never any gave to these earls; but he listened eagerly, wicked in his thought. then walwain became angry, as a thane enraged; and said these words walwain the keen: "luces the mighty, thou art emperor of rome! we are arthur's men, noblest of britons. he sendeth to thee his messengers, without greeting; he bids thee march to rome, that is thine own realm, and let him hold france, that he won with fight; and hold thou thy realm, and thy rome-folk. whilom thy ancestors invaded france; with fight they there won immense possessions; so awhile they there lived, and afterwards they it lost. with fight arthur it won, and he it will possess. he is our lord, we are his warriors; he ordered us to say sooth to thyself, if thou wilt not back march, thy bane he will be. and if thou wilt not back turn, but execute thy will, and thou wilt win the kingdom to thine own hand, now to-morrow is the day, have it if thou it may obtain" then answered the emperor, with great wrath: "i will not back march, but france i will win; my ancestors it held, and i will it have. but if he would become my man, and acknowledge me for lord, and truely serve me, and hold me for master, i will make peace with him, and all his men; and let him hold britain, that julius had awhile in his hand, and many other lands, that julius had in hand, that he hath no right to, though he possess the realm, that he shall all lose, unless he make peace." then answered walwain, who was arthur's relative: "belin and brenne, both the brothers, britain they possessed, and france they conquered; and afterwards they marched soon, and won rome, and there they dwelt afterwards well many years. when this was all done, then was brenne emperor, and ruled rome, and all the people. and thus is rome our right, that thou holdest in hand, and if we may live, we will it have, unless thou wilt acknowledge that arthur is king over thee, and each year send him tribute of thy land; and if thou goest to him in amity, thou mayest live the quieter!" then sate by the emperor a knight of his kin, named quencelin; noble man in rome. this knight answered before the emperor, and thus him said--the knight was wicked:--"knights, return you back, and make known to your king, that the britons are bold, but they are accounted worthless; for ever they make boast--their honour is little!" more he thought to say, when walwain drew his sword, and smote him upon the head, so that it fell in two, and he hastily anon ran to his horse; and they up leapt with grim countenance; and these words said walwain the good: "so help me the same lord, that formed the daylight, if ever any of your men is so keen, that after us he pursue, i will him kill, he shall be cut in pieces with my broad sword!" even with the same speech then called the emperor: "hold them! hold! they all shall hang upon high trees, or with horses be drawn in pieces!" even with this saying that the emperor said, the earls gan to ride, and spurred their steeds; they shook in their hands spears exceeding long; bare their broad shields before breast. soon gan to ride the bold earls, and ever the emperor loud gan to call: "seize them! slay them! they have us disgraced!" there men might hear, who were there beside, thousands of the people call: "hither, hither, weapons! go we after them! hither our shields; the men will escape!" soon after them went weaponed warriors; there six, there seven, there eight, there nine. and ever the earls rode quickly, and ever awhile looked behind them; and ever the knights of rome quick after came. and there came near a knight, riding swiftest of all, and ever he called most keenly: "turn again, knights, and defend you with fight! it is to you much shame, that ye will fly." walwain knew the shout of the romanish men; he turned his steed, and to him gan ride; and smote him through with the spear, as if he were spitted, and drew to him the spear--the man died soon--and these words said walwain the keen: "knight, thou rodest too fast; better were it to thee (haddest thou been) at rome!" marcel hight the knight, of noble lineage. when walwain saw that he fell to ground, soon his sword he out drew, and smote from marcel the head; and these words said walwain the good: "marcel, go to hell, and there tell them tales, and dwell there for ever, with quencelin, thy companion; and hold there your communing,--better it were to you in rome; for thus we shall teach you our british speech!" gerin saw how it fared, how that the romanish lay there down; and spurred his horse, and met another, and smote him throughout with his spear, and these words spake: "ride now so, roman, and sink thee to hell, and thus we shall sink you, if god will us help! threat is worth nought, unless there be deeds eke!" beof saw, the brave man, how his comrades had done; and turned his horse wondrously quick, and with all his might advanced to a knight, and smote him above the shield, so that his good burny burst, and throughout the neck the spear drove full soon. and thus the earl gan to call keenly to his companions: "the britons will us destroy, if we hence go, unless we the better begin ere we hence depart!" even with the speech that the earl said, they turned them soon, wondrously prompt; and each drew his sword quickly, and each slew his roman; and afterwards their horses they turned, and held their way. and the romanish men rode ever after them; oft they smote on them, oft they them reproached; oft they said to them: "ye shall pay for the deed!" but they might not through anything any of them down bring, nor any harm there do to them in the conflicts. but ever awhile the earls back turned, and ere they separated, the worse was to the rome-folk. thus they proceeded fifteen miles, until they came to a place under a fair wood, hard by the castle where arthur lay fast. three miles therefrom to the wood thronged nine thousand bold britons, whom arthur thither sent, who best knew the land; they would learn the sooth, of walwain the keen, and of his companions, how they had fared; whether they were alive, or they lay by the way. these knights proceeded through the wood wondrously still, upon a hill, and eagerly beheld. they caused all the horsemen to alight in the wood, and get ready their weapons, and all their weeds (garments), except an hundred men, that there should look out, if they might descry through thing of any kind. then saw they afar, in a great plain, three knights ride with all their main. after the three knights there came thirty; after the thirty they saw three thousand; thereafter came thronging thirty thousand anon, of romanish folk, clad in armour. and ever the earls before them quickly rode, ever the right way that toward the wood lay, where their comrades were well hid. the earls rode to the wood; the romanish men rode after; the britons attacked them on their rested steeds, and smote in front, and felled an hundred anon. then weened the rome-folk that arthur came riding, and were very greatly afraid; and the britons pursued after them, and slew of the folk fifteen hundred. then came them to help sixteen thousand of their own folk, whom arthur had thither sent, bold britons, with burnies clad. then came there riding one that was a rich earl, named petreius, a noble man of rome, with six thousand warriors, to help the romanish forces; and with great strength they leapt to the britons, and few there they captured, but many they slew. the britons fled to the wood; the others pursued after them; and the britons on foot firmly against them stood, and the romanish men fought riding; and the britons advanced to them, and slew their horses, and many there took, and into the wood drew. then was petreius wrath, that his force was there the worse; and he with his host retreated from the wood; and the britons followed them, and slew them behind. when the britons were out of the wood, come out in the field, then withstood the rome-folk with fierce strength. then began the mickle fight!�there fell earls and many a good knight; there fell in that day fifteen thousand of noble men, ere it were even. there might he find, whoso would prove his strength, hand against hand, the strong against the strong, shield against shield, knights there fell! the paths ran with bloody streams; goldcoloured shields lay over the fields; all the day long they held the strong fight. petreius on this side his folk held together; then it soon happened that the britons had the worse. the noble earl of oxford, who was named beof, a noble british man, saw that, that in no wise might it be, that the britons should not fall, unless they had counsel. the earl then called to him noble knights, of the best of all, the britons, and of the keenest of all, that there were alive, and drew him in the field, near the host; and thus him said�in heart to him was uneasiness: "knights, hearken now to me; the lord us help! we are hither come, and have undertaken this fight, without arthur's counsel who is our chief. if to us good befalleth, we shall please him the better, and if to us befalleth evil, he will hate us. but if ye will do my counsel, then shall we ride all merry. we are three hundred knights, helmed thanes, brave men and keen, nobly born; shew ye your courage�-we are of one kith--ride ye when i ride, and follow my counsel. advance ye all to him, to the knight that i do; take ye no steed, nor any knight's weed, but every good knight slay ever downright!" even with the words that the knight of oxford said to his companions beside, then gan he to ride, even all they rode then as swift as hound driveth the hart, and his comrades after, with all their might, throughout the mickle fight, all the troop; they flew on their steeds; the folk they there killed. woe was to them born, that were in the way before them, for all they it trod down, with horses and with steeds; and so they came near, and petreius they captured. beof rode to him, and with arms him clasped, and drew him off his steed, and on earth him stretched; he knew beside him were his bold knights. the britons down smote; petreius they drew along; and the rome-folk fought boldly; and at the last man might not know who smote other; there was much blood shed, mischief was in the conflict! then saw walwain truly, where he was beside; with seven hundred knights he gan thither move, and what he found in his way, all he it destroyed. and riding he took petreius, on his good steed; and led forth petreius, loath though it were to him, until they came to the wood, where he well knew surely to hold the noble man of rome; and eft out in the field proceeded, and began to fight. there men might see sorrow enough! shields break; knights fall; helms dropping; noble men dying; bloody fields; paled faces! the britons rushed towards them; then the rome-folk fled; and the britons them slew, and many they took alive; and when the day ended woe was to the rome-folk, woe! then bound men fast the romanish knights, and led them to the wood, before walwain; twenty hundred knights watched them in the night. when it was day on the morrow, the folk gan to stir; forth they gan march to their sovereign, and brought him such offering, that was lief to him to have. then spake him arthur thus: "welcome, petreius! now is one here that will teach thee british speech. thou boasted before the emperor, that thou wouldest me kill; take all my castles, and my kingdom; and much good should be to thee of that thou desiredest to have. i will give thee, full truly, my castle in paris; and there thou shalt dwell, as to thee will be most loathsome of all; shalt thou nevermore thy life thence lead!" arthur took the knights that there were captured, three hundred riders he took eke anon, who all were comrades, knights most brave, and keen men in fight, and bade them on the morrow manly arise, bind the romanish men with strong chains, and lead petreius to the burgh of pans. four earls he commanded to bring them forth; cador, borel, beduer, and richer; he ordered them to be companions, so that they were secure, and to come again soon to their sovereign. this was all thus spoken, but it was soon known. spies went over the king's host, and heard say sooth words, whither arthur would send the knights that he had in bonds; and the spies forthright proceeded forth by night, until they came soon to the emperor of rome, and told all their tale, how these four earls should march, and lead forth petreius to the burgh of paris; and all they told the way that in to paris lay, and where men might them intercept in a deep valley, and take from them petreius the noble man, and the four earls conquer, and fast them bind. luces heard this, the emperor of rome, and he leapt to weapon as it were a lion; and ordered ten thousand chosen knights to horse and to arms, quickly forwards to march. he called sextonus, of lybia he was king, of turkey duke; he sent after evander, who from babylon was come there; he called to the senators bal, catel, and carnus,--these were all of royal birth, and these were all chosen,�-promptly to ride, and to liberate petreius. anon as it was even forth they marched; twelve knights them led of the people that were exceeding wary, and knew the ways. when the rome-folk rode, resounded burnies; they set on their heads high helms; shields on their backs�-the valiant rome-folk. they marched all night, exceedingly fast, until they came in the way that into paris lay; then were they before, and the britons behind. but alas! that cador the keen knew it not, that the rome-folk had before rode them! they came in a wood, in a spot exceeding fair, in a deep dale, dark on the sides; they swore between them, that there they would engage. there they lay still a little while; and it gan to dawn, and the beasts gan to stir. then came arthur's men advancing by way, right the same way where the other host lay; they rode singing�the men were blithe! nevertheless cador was there, most wise and most wary; he and borel the earl rich, advanced them together, and took between them five hundred knights, and marched before, weaponed champions. richer and beduer came behind them there, and led the knights, whom they had captured, petreius and his companions, who were taken. then came they riding upon the rome-folk; and the rome-folk rushed towards them with fierce strength, and smote on the britons with exceeding bitter blows; brake the britons' ranks--mischief was among the folk--the wood gan resound, warriors there fell! the britons withstood them, and strongly defended themselves. richer heard that, and the earl beduer, how their comrades before them fought. petreius they took, and all their prisoners, and with three hundred swains sent them into the wood. and they themselves advanced toward their comrades, and smote on the rome-folk with fierce strength; there was many a blow given, and many a man there was slain. then perceived evander, who was a heathen king most wary, that their folk gan wax, and the britons gan wane; and his best knights approached them together, and advanced upon the britons, as if they would them bite. the britons then were weakened, and theirs was the worse; they (the romans) slew, they took all that they came nigh. woe was there to the britons without arthur! their remedy was too little there, at their great need. there was borel slam, and deprived of life-day. evander the king him killed with his wicked craft, and three britons eke, high men born. there were slain three hundred of their companions; and many they took alive, and fast them bound;�-then knew they not any good counsel, for they all weened to be dead; nevertheless they fought as bravely as they might. then had out marched from arthur's host the king of poitou, hardy man renowned; guitard he hight; gascony he possessed; he had for companions five hundred riders, three hundred archers, keen men to fight, and seven hundred on foot that were prompt for harm. they were gone in to the land to obtain fodder, both fodder and meat, to carry to their host. the clamour they heard of the rome-folk, their deeds they relinquished, and thitherward gan ride the strong mooded men and swift, of sloth devoid, until they came soon near to the fight. guitard and his knights there right forthright grasped their shields, knights most bold; and all the archers pressed them beside; and the men on foot gan advance; and all together they on smote, with their smart blows. at the first onset the romanish men fell; fifteen hundred to the ground; there was slain evander, who was ere king full stern; catellus of rome forgot there his decrees! then made they there flight, who ere held conflict; the rome-folk turned the backs, and fled. the britons pursued after them, and greeted them with mischief; and so many there they took, and so many there they slew, that the britons' host might not fell any more! and the romanish men, that there might escape, rode full soon to the emperor, and told him tiding of arthur the king,--for they weened in sooth that arthur thither were come; then was the emperor and his host greatly afraid, whom the britons had slain--that to them seemed good. backward they (the britons) then went, with bold booty, and came again to the place where the fight had been, and buried the dead, and the alive they gan forth lead. and they sent after petreius, whom they previously captured, and after his companions, that were previously taken, and sent them all full truly in to the burgh of paris, and filled three castles, and fast them inclosed, after arthur's command, noblest of all kings. all the britons loved arthur; to all of them stood dread of him that dwelt in the land, so did it to the emperor, of arthur he had mickle care; and all the rome-folk of arthur were afraid. then was it in sooth found, what merlin whilom said, that rome should for arthur fall in fire, and the walls of stone quake and fall. this same token should be of luces the emperor, and of the senators, who with him came from rome; and in the same wise, they there gan fall; what merlin in fore-days said, all they it found there, as they did ere, and subsequently well everywhere; ere arthur were born, merlin it all predicted. the emperor heard say sooth words, how his men were taken, and how his folk was eke slain. then were in his army manifold sorrows; some lamented their friends; some threatened their enemies; some got ready their weapons�-mischief was given to them! then saw luces, that evil was befallen to him, for each day he lost of his people, but he the harm felt, his noble men he lost. he became then afraid wondrously much, and betook him to counsel and to some communing, that he would march to aust, with all his host; forth by lengres he would proceed,�-of arthur he had mickle care! arthur had his spies in the army of the emperor, and they soon caused him to know whither he (the emperor) would go. arthur caused soon his host to be assembled, stilly by night his best knights; and forth the king marched with his good folk. on his right hand he let lengres stand, and proceeded forward in the way that luces would pass. when he came in a dale, under a down, there he gan halt, keenest of all kings,�-the dale is in sooth named sosie. arthur there alighted down, and ordered all his people that they in haste should get ready their weapons, and prepare them to fight, as brave knights should; so that when the rome folk there should come riding, that they should attack them, as brave knights should do. all the swains, and the impotent thanes, and of the small (base) folk many thousands, the king set them on a hill, with many standards,--that he did for stratagem; thereof he thought to boast, as it afterwards happened, thereafter full soon. arthur took ten thousand of his noble knights, and sent on the right hand, clad in armour, he caused other ten thousand to march on his left hand; ten thousand before; ten thousand behind, with himself he held sixteen thousand; aside he sent into a fair wood seventeen thousand good knights, well weaponed men, the wood to guard, so that they might fare thither, if to him were need. then was of gloucester an earl with the best, moruith he was named, a man exceeding keen; to him he committed the wood and the host. "and if it befalleth, as the living god will, that they be overcome, and begin to flee; pursue ye after them, with all your might, and all that ye may overtake deprive it of life-day; the fat and the lean, the rich and the poor. for in never any land, nor in any nation are knights all so good as are with myself, knights all so brave, knights all so powerful, knights all so strong, in ever any land! ye are under christ knights keenest of all, and i am mightiest of all kings under god himself. do we well this deed, god us well speed!" the knights then answered, stilly under heaven: "all we shall well do, and all we shall undertake; nuthing be the knight, that sheweth not his might here right!" then sent they on both sides, all the men on foot; then caused he the dragon to be set up, the matchless standard, delivered it to a king who well could it hold. angel, king of scotland, held in hand (commanded) the foremost troop; cador, the earl of cornwall, held the troop behind; beof had one, the earl of oxford; the earl of chester, gerin, the fourth troop held with him. the force upon the down held aescil, king of denmark. lot held the one, who was dear to the king, howel of britanny held another. walwain the keen was by the king. kay commanded one, who was steward of the king; beduer another, who was the king's cup-bearer. the earl of flanders, howeldin, had a troop with him. a mickle troop had gwitard, the king of gascony land. wigein, earl of leicester, and jonathas, earl of dorchester, they commanded the two troops that there were on foot. the earl of chester, cursaleyn, and the earl of bath, who hight urgein, they commanded both the troops that were there beside; these should on two sides advance to the fight, with these two earls, that brave knights were,--arthur had troth the earls were true. when all the troops were set as arthur thought good, then called to him the king of britain all his councillors, that were skilfullest in judgment; and thus said arthur anon to his noble men: "hearken now towards me, my dear friends; ye have twice attacked the romanish men, and twice they are overcome, and slain, and captured, because they all with wrong covet our land. and my heart saith to me, through our high lord, that yet they shall be overcome, both slain and captured. ye have overcome norwegians; ye have overcome danes, scotland and ireland ye have all won to your hand; normandy and france ye have conquered with fight. three and thirty kingdoms i hold in mine own hand, that ye have won for me under the sun! and these are the worst men of all men alive; heathen people! to god they are loathsome; our lord they desert, and to mahoun they draw. and luces, the emperor, of god's self hath no care, who hath for companions heathen hounds, god's enemies; we shall them destroy, and lay them to ground, and ourselves be safe, with the lord's will, that ruleth all deeds!" then answered the earls there: "all we are ready, to live and to lie with our dear king!" when this army was all prepared, then was it daylight; and luces at langres moved, and all his rome-folk; he commanded his men to blow his golden trumpets, get ready his host, for forth he would march from lengres to aust, as his way right lay. and forth gan ride the romanish people, until they came a mile near to arthur. then heard the rome-folk hard tidings; they saw all the dales, and all the downs, and all the hills covered with helms; high standards, warriors them held, sixty thousand waving with the wind; shields glitter, burnies shine; gold-coloured vests, men most stern; steeds leap�-the earth stirred! the emperor saw the king fare, where he was by the wood-shaw; then said he luces, the lord of rome, and spake with his men with loud voice: "what are these outlaws, that have preceded us in this way? take we our weapons, and march we to them; they shall be slain, and some alive flayed, they all shall be dead, with torment destroyed!" even with the words they seized their weapons. when they were arrayed with their good weapons, then spake soon luces, the lord of rome: "quickly advance we to them; we all shall do well!" there were come with him five and twenty kings, heathen folk all, that held of rome, earls and eke dukes, of the eastern world. "lordings," quoth luces then, "mahoun be gracious to you! ye are powerful kings, and obey unto rome. rome is my right, richest of all burghs; and i ought to be highest of all men alive. ye see here on the field those who are our foes; they think to rule highly over our realm; hold us for base, and themselves become rich. but we shall oppose them with bold strength; for our race was highest of all men alive, and won all the lands that they looked on; and julius the strong marched into britain, and won to his hands many kingdoms. now would our underlings be kings over us, but they shall buy it with their bare backs; never again shall they return to britain!" even with the words then moved the army; by thousands and by thousands they thronged together; each king prepared host of his folk. when it was all formed, and the army appointed, then were there right told full fifteen hosts; two kings there were ever comrades; four earls and a duke disposed them together, and the emperor by himself, with ten thousand champions. when the folk gan to stir, the earth gan to din; trumpets there blew; hosts were arrayed; horns there resounded with loud voice, sixty thousand blew together. more there sounded of arthur's companions than sixty thousand men with horns; the welkin gan to din, the earth gan to tremble! together they charged as if heaven would fall! first they let fly, exceedingly quick darts all as thick as the snow down falleth; stones they let afterwards sternly wind through the air. then cracked spears; shivered spears,�-helms rolled, noble men fell; �-burnies brake in pieces, blood outflowed;�-the fields were discoloured, standards fell! wounded knights over all wandered over the weald, and sixty hundred there were trodden to death by horses! knights there perished, blood out ran;�-flowed by paths bloody streams,�-woe was among the folk,�-the harm was without bounds! so all as say the writings that skilful men made, that was the third greatest battle that ever here was fought, so that at the last no warrior knew on whom he should smite, and whom he should spare; for no man knew other there, for the quantity of blood! then removed the fight from the place where they ere fought, and they began widely to rush together; and a new conflict began, narrowly contested;�-there were the rome-people grievously treated! then came there three kings, of heathen land; of ethiopia was the one; the second was an african; the third was of lybia, of heathen land. they came to the host at the east end, and brake the body-of-troops that the britons there held, and anon felled fifteen hundred bold thanes of arthur's folk; then the britons turned the backs soon. but then came there riding two keen earls, that was, beduer and kay, arthur's cup-bearer and his relative; their britons they saw hewed in pieces with swords. there became enraged the earls most bold, and with ten thousand knights pressed to the fight, amid the throng, where they were thickest, and slew the rome-folk very grievously; and went over the fight, after their will. then were they too daring, and ruled them too evilly; alas! alas! that they were not then wary; that they could not guard themselves against their enemies! for they were too keen, and too presumptuous, and fought too rashly, and too far advanced, and spread too widely over the broad conflict. then came the king of media, the mickle and the broad; a heathen chief,�-there he harm wrought; he led for companions twenty thousand riders; he held in his hand a spear exceeding strong. the spear he forth thrust with his strong might, and smote the earl beduer before in the breast, so that the burny soon burst, before and behind, and his breast was opened; the blood came forth lukewarm. there fell beduer anon, dead upon the ground; there was misery and sorrow enow! there kay found beduer lie him dead there, and kay would carry away the body with himself; with twenty hundred knights he approached thereabout, and strongly fought, and felled the rome-folk, and slew there many thousand men of media; the fight was exceeding strong, and they were thereat long. then arrived there a king most hateful, with sixty thousand good men of his land; setor the keen, who came him from lybia. there the strong king gan him fight with kay, and wounded kay sorely in the strong fight, to the bare death�-grievous was the deed! his knights there right carried him from the fight, with mickle strength through the fight they pierced. woe was to arthur the king for the tiding! that saw the rich thane, who was named ridwathlan, beduer's sister's son, of noble britons he was descended, that boccus with his strong spear had slain beduer. woe was to him alive, when his uncle was dead; for he of all men most him loved. he called knights most good of his kindred, and of the dearest of all that he knew alive; five hundred by tale advanced together. then said ridwathlan, noble man of britain: "knights, ye are of my kindred, come ye here to me, and avenge we beduer, mine uncle, who was best of our race, whom boccus hath slain with his strong spear. go we all together, and fell our foes!" even with the words he forth pushed, and all his noble companions with him anon; and boccus the king they knew, where he was in the combat; with his spear and with his shield many a knight he killed. ridwathlan drew out his sword soon, and struck at him, and smote the king on the helm, so that it severed in two, and eke the burny-hood, so that it (the sword) stopt at the teeth; and the heathen king fell to the ground, and his foul soul sank into hell! ridwathlan then said--cruel he was in mood--"boccus, now thou hast bought dear that beduer thou slew; and thy soul shall now be companion of the worse!" even with the words, as if it were the wind, he pressed to the fight; as a whirlwind doth in the field, when it heaveth the dust high from the earth, all so ridwathlan rushed on his enemies. all they it slew that they came nigh, the while that they might wield their noble weapons; in all the fight were no knights better, the while that the life lasted them in their breasts. boccus the king they slew, and a thousand of his knights; then was beduer avenged well with the best! there was a brave earl, of noble race, who was named leir, lord of boulogne; he beheld in the fight an enemy advance, that was an admiral, of babylon he was prince; much folk he felled down to the ground. and the earl that perceived; in heart was to him uneasiness; he drew to his breast a broad shield, and he grasped in his hand a spear that was most strong, and spurred his horse with all his main, and hit the admiral with a smart blow under the breast, that the burny gan to burst, so that the spear pierced through there behind him full a fathom; the wretch fell to the ground! that saw soon the admiral's son, who is named gecron; and grasped his spear anon, and smote leir the earl sore on the left side, throughout the heart,--the earl down fell. walwain perceived that, where he was in the fight; and he wrathed him wondrously much; that saw howel, noble man of brittany, and he thither advanced, with fifteen hundred men; hardy warriors with howel went; and walwain before them man most stern of mood; he had for comrades five and twenty hundred bold britons,--then began they to fight! there were the rome-folk grievously treated; howel them attacked, walwain them met; there was wondrous cry, the welkin resounded; the earth gan to tremble, the stones there shivered! streams of blood ran from the wretched folk, the slaughter was immense, then were the britons weary! kinard, the earl of striguil, left the king howel, and took with him labius, rimarc, and boclovius. these were the keenest men that any king had, these were among men earls mighty strong! they would not, for their mickle mood (pride), follow howel the good, but by themselves they slew all that they came nigh. that saw a powerful man of the rome-people, how kinard the keen killed there their folk, and the knight gan him alight from his dear steed, and took him in his hand a spear made of steel, and bathed it in blood; and he aside went, until he came to the spot where kinard the strong fought. kinard's burny he up raised, and he the earl there slew. then shouted loud all the rome-folk, and turned to the britons, and brake their troops; and felled the standards, the folk down sank; shields there shivered, warriors there fell; there fell to ground fifteen thousand bold britons--mischief there was rife! so lasted long the fight exceeding strong. walwain gan pass over the mickle slaughter, and assembled all his knights, where he found them in the fight. there near came riding howel the mighty; they assembled their fair folk anon, and forth they gan wend, and rode to the rome-folk with strong wrath, and quickly approached them, and brake their french ranks. and walwain forth right, there he found luces the emperor live under shield, and walwain struck at him with the steel sword, and the emperor struck at him, who was man exceeding stern; shield against shield, the pieces there flew; sword against sword clashed well often, fire flew from the steel; the adversaries were enraged! there was fight most strong--all the host was stirred! the emperor weened to destroy walwain, that he might in after days boast for the deed. but the britons thronged towards them, most angrily, and the romanish men liberated their emperor; and they charged together as if heaven would fall! all the daylight they held afterwards the fight, a little while ere the sun went to ground. arthur then called--noblest of all kings: "now go we all to them, my brave knights! and god himself aid us our enemies to fell!" even with the words then blew men the trumpets; fifteen thousand anon thronged together to blow horns and trumps; the earth gan to tremble for the great blast, for the mickle clamour! the rome-folk turned backs to the fight; standards fell,--noble men perished,--those fled who might,--the fated there fell! much man-slaughter was there; might it no man tell, how many hundred men were there hewed in pieces in the mickle throng, in the man-slaughter! the emperor was slain in strange manner, so that no man of ever any country afterwards ever knew it to say, who killed the emperor. but when the fight was all done, and the folk was all in joy, then found men the emperor pierced through with a spear. word came to arthur, where he was in his tent, that the emperor was slam, and deprived of life-day. arthur caused a tent to be pitched, amidst a broad field, and thither caused to be borne luces the emperor, and caused him to be covered with gold coloured clothes, and caused him there to be watched three full days, the while he caused to be made a work exceeding rich, a long chest; and it to be covered all with gold. and he caused to be laid therein luces of rome, who was a most doughty man, the while his days lasted. the yet did arthur more, noblest of all britons, arthur caused to be sought all the powerful men, kings and earls, and the richest barons, who in the fight were slain, and deprived of life-day; he caused them to be buried with great pomp. but he caused three kings to bear luces the emperor, and caused a bier to be made, rich and exceeding lofty; and caused them soon to be sent to rome. and greeted all the rome-people with a great taunt, and said that he sent them the tribute of his land, and eft would also send them more greeting, if they would yearn of arthur's gold; and thereafter full soon ride into rome, and tell them tidings of the king of britain, and rome-walls repair, that were of yore fallen down;--"and so will i rule the fierce rome-folk!" all this boast was idly done, for otherwise it fared, all otherwise it happened: the people he left, through wicked tiding, all through modred his relative, wickedest of all men! in the mickle fight arthur lost of his knights, five and twenty thousand, hewed in pieces on the ground, of britons most bold, bereaved of life. kay was wounded sore, wondrously much; to kinun he was carried, and soon thereafter he was dead. he was buried there beside the castle, among hermits, who was the noble man. kay hight the earl, kinun the castle, arthur gave him the town, and he thereat was entombed, and set there the name after himself; for kay's death he named it kain (caen); now and evermore so it hight there. after beduer was slain, and deprived of life day, arthur caused him to be borne to his castle baeios (bayeux), and there he was buried, in the burgh; without the south gate in earth men him laid. howeldin was floated forth into flanders; and all his best knights there floated forth-right into the earldoms whence they there came. and all the dead in earth men them laid; in terouane they lie all clean. leir, the earl, men carried into boulogne; and arthur then thereafter dwelt in a land in burgundy, that to him seemed best; the land he all ruled, and all the castles appointed; and said that he would himself hold the land. and afterwards he made his threat, that he would in summer march into rome, and acquire all the realm, and himself be emperor where luces ere dwelt. and many of the rome folk would that it so should be, for they were adread to their bare death, so that many away there fled, and their castles abandoned; and many sent messengers to arthur the strong; and many spake with him, and yearned arthur's peace; and some they would against arthur hold, and hold rome against him, and defend the realm. and nevertheless they were afraid for their destruction, so that they knew not under christ any good counsel. then was it there come to pass, what merlin said erewhile, that rome-walls should fall down before arthur; that was fulfilled there by the emperor, who fell there in the fight, with fifty thousand men; there sank to the ground the rich rome-people! then arthur weened in sooth to win all rome, and dwelt in burgundy, noblest of all kings. then came there on a time a brave man riding, and brought tiding to arthur the king, from modred, his sister's son; to arthur he was welcome, for he weened that he brought news most good. arthur lay all the night long, and spake with the young knight; so never would he say to him sooth how it fared. when it was day on the morrow, and people gan to stir, arthur then up arose, and stretched his arms; he arose up, and sate down, as if he were exceeding sick. then asked him a fair knight--"lord, how hast thou fared to-night?" arthur then answered--in mind he was uneasy: "to-night in my sleep, where i lay in chamber, i dreamt a dream--therefore i am full sorry. i dreamt that men raised me upon a hall; the hall i gan bestride, as if i would ride; all the lands that i possessed, all i there overlooked. and walwain sate before me; my sword he bare in hand. then approached modred there, with innumerable folk; he bare in his hand a battle-axe strong; he began to hew exceeding hardily; and the posts all hewed in pieces, that held up the hall. there i saw wenhaver eke, dearest of women to me; all the mickle hall roof with her hand she drew down; the hall gan to tumble, and i tumbled to the ground, so that my right arm brake in pieces,--then said modred, 'have that!' down fell the hall; and walwain gan to fall, and fell on the earth; his arms both brake. and i grasped my dear sword with my left hand, and smote off modred his head, so that it rolled on the field. and the queen i cut all in pieces with my dear sword, and afterwards i set her down in a black pit. and all my good people set to flight, so that i knew not under christ, where they were gone. but myself i gan stand upon a weald, and i there gan to wander wide over the moors, there i saw gripes, and grisly fowls! then approached a golden lion over the down;�-a beast most fair, that our lord made;�-the lion ran towards me, and took me by the middle, and forth gan her move, and to the sea went. and i saw the waves drive in the sea; and the lion in the flood went with myself. when we came in the sea, the waves took her from me; but there approached a fish, and brought me to land;�-then was i all wet, and weary from sorrow, and sick. when i gan to wake, greatly gan i to quake; then gan i to tremble as if i all burnt with fire. and so i have all night of my dream much thought; for i wot with certainty, gone is all my bliss, for ever in my life sorrow i must endure! alas! that i have not here wenhaver, my queen!" then answered the knight: "lord, thou hast wrong; men should never a dream with sorrow interpret. thou art the mightiest man, that reigneth in land, and the wisest of all that dwelleth under heaven. if it were befallen�-as will it not our lord!�-that modred, thy sister's son, had taken thy queen, and set all thy royal land in his own hand, that thou to him committedest, when thou thoughtest to go to rome; and had he done all this with his treachery, the yet thou mightest thee avenge with weapon worthily, and eft thy land hold, and govern thy people, and thine enemies fell, who did evil to thee, and slay them all clean, that there remain not one." arthur then answered, noblest of all kings: "so long as is ever, weened i that never, that ever modred, my relative, who is man dearest to me, would betray me, for all my realm, nor wenhaver, my queen, weaken in thought; would it not begin, for any worldly man!" even with the words forth-right then answered the knight: "i say thee sooth, dear king, for i am thy underling. thus hath modred done; thy queen he hath taken, and thy fair land set in his own hand. he is king, and she is queen; of thy coming is there no expectation, for they ween not ever in sooth, that thou shalt come back from rome. i am thine own man, and saw this treason; and i am come to thyself, to say thee sooth. my head be in pledge, that i have said thee sooth, without leasing, of thy loved queen, and of modred, thy sister's son, how he hath taken britain from thee." then sate it all still in arthur's hall; then was there sorrow with the good king; then were the british men therefore exceedingly dispirited. then after a while voices there stirred; wide men might hear the britons' clamour, and gan to tell in speeches of many kind, how they would destroy modred and the queen, and slay all the people that held with modred. arthur then called, fairest of all britons: "sit ye down still, knights in hall, and i will you tell strange discourse. now to-morrow, when it is day, and the lord it sendeth, forth i will march in toward britain; and modred i will slay, and burn the queen; and all i will destroy, that approved the treachery. and here i will leave the dearest of men to me, howel, my loved relative, noblest of my kin; and half my army i will leave in this land, to maintain all this kingdom, that i have in my hand. and when these things are all done, back i will come to rome, and deliver my fair land to walwain my relation; and afterwards perform my threat, by my bare life; all my enemies shall be destroyed!" then stood him up walwain, who was arthur's relative, and said these words,--the earl was incensed: "almighty god! ruler of dooms, guardian of all middle-earth! why is it befallen, that my brother modred this sin has wrought? but to-day i forsake him here, before this assembly; and i will him destroy with the lord's will; myself i will him hang, highest of all wretches; the queen i will, with god's law, draw all in pieces with horses. for may i never be blithe, the while i am alive, until i have avenged mine uncle with the best!" then answered the britons with bold voice: "all our weapons are ready; now to-morrow we shall march!" on the morrow when it was day, and the lord it sent, arthur forth him moved, with his good folk; half he it left, and half it forth led. forth he marched through the land until he came to whitsand; ships he had soon, many and excellent; but full a fortnight there lay the host, abiding the weather, deprived of wind (becalmed). now was there some wicked knight in arthur's army, anon as he heard it determined of modred's death, he took his swain quickly, and sent to this land; and sent word to wenhaver, how it had happened, and how arthur was on his march, with a great host, and how he would take on, and all how he would do. the queen came to modred, who was to her dearest of men, and told him tiding of arthur the king, how he would take on, and all how he would do. modred took his messengers, and sent to saxland, after childrich, who was king most powerful, and bade him come to britain--thereof he should have possession. modred bade childrich, the strong and the rich, to send messengers wide, on the four sides of saxland, and bid all the knights that they might get, that they should come soon to this kingdom; and he would to childrich give part of his realm, all beyond the humber; because he should him help to fight against his uncle king arthur. childrich proceeded soon into britain. when modred had assembled his host of men, then were there told sixty thousand hardy warriors of heathen folk, when they were come hither, for arthur's harm, and to help modred, wickedest of men! when the army was gathered of each people, then were they there in a heap an hundred thousand, heathens and christians, with modred the king. arthur lay at whitsand; a fortnight seemed to him too long; and modred knew all what arthur there would; each day came messengers to him from the king's army. then befell it on a time, much rain it gan to rain, and the wind it gan to turn, and stood from the east end. and arthur proceeded to ship with all his host, and ordered that his shipmen should bring him to romney, where he thought to come up into this land. when he came to the haven, modred was opposite to him, as the day gan light, they began to fight, all the day long; many a man dead there lay! some they fought on land, some by the strand; some they let fly sharp spears out of the ships. walwain went before, and cleared the way; and slew there soon eleven thanes; he slew childrich's son, who was come there with his father. to rest went the sun; woe was then to the men! there was walwain slain, and deprived of life-day, through a saxish earl--sorry be his soul! then was arthur sorry, and sorrowful therefore in heart; and these words said, mightiest of all britons: "now i have lost my loved swains! i knew by my dream, what sorrow were given to me! slain is angel the king, who was mine own darling, and walwain, my sister's son--woe is me that i was born man! up now from ship, quickly, my brave knights!" even with the words sixty thousand good warriors pressed anon to the fight, and brake modred's ranks, and well nigh himself was taken. modred began to flee, and his folk to follow after; they fled exceedingly, the fields eke trembled; the stones jar with the blood-streams! there would have been all the fight ended, but the night came too soon; if the night had not been, they all would have been slain! the night separated them over slades and over downs; and modred came so far forth, that he was at london. the burghmen heard how it had all fared, and denied him entry, and all his folk. modred thence went toward winchester; and they him received, with all his men. and arthur pursued after, with all his might, until he came to winchester, with a mickle host, and the burgh all besieged; and modred therein abode. when modred saw that arthur was so nigh to him, oft he bethought him what he might do. then on the same night, he ordered all his knights, with all their weapons, to march out of the burgh; and said that he would with fight there make a stand. he promised the burghmen free law evermore, on condition that they should help him at his great need. when it was daylight, then ready was their fight. arthur that perceived--the king was enraged; he caused trumpets to be blown, and men to be assembled to battle; he commanded all his thanes, and his noble knights, together to take the fight, and fell his enemies, and the burgh all to destroy, and hang the burgh-folk. they stept together, and sternly fought. modred then thought what he might do; and he did there as he did elsewhere, treachery with the most! for ever he did wickedly; he betrayed his comrades before winchester, and caused his dearest knights to be called to him anon, and his dearest friends all, of all his folk; and stole away from the fight--the fiend him have!--and let the good folk all there perish. they fought all day; they weened that their lord there lay, and were near them at their great need. then bent he the way that toward hampton lay; and bent toward the haven--wickedest of men--and took all the ships that there good were, and all the steersmen, to the need of the ships; and proceeded into cornwall�-wickedest of kings in those days! and arthur besieged well firmly winchester the burgh; and slew all the people�-there was sorrow enow--the young and the old, all he killed. when the folk was all dead, and the burgh all burnt, then caused he withal all the walls to be broken in pieces. then was it there come to pass, that merlin whilom said: "wretched shalt thou be, winchester! the earth shall thee swallow!" so merlin said, who was a great prophet. the queen lay in york; never was she so sorrowful; that was wenhaver the queen, most miserable of women! she heard say sooth words, how often modred fled, and how arthur him pursued; woe was to her the while, that she was alive! out of york she went by night, and toward kaerleon drew, as quickly as she might; thither she brought by night two of her knights; and men covered her head with a holy veil, and she was there a nun; woman most wretched! then men knew not of the queen, where she were gone, nor many years afterwards man knew it in sooth, whether she were dead, or whether she herself were sunk in the water. modred was in cornwall, and gathered many knights; to ireland he sent his messengers quickly; to saxland he sent his messengers quickly; to scotland he sent his messengers quickly; he ordered them all to come anon, that would have land, or silver, or gold, or possessions, or land; in each wise he warned himself each man;--so doth each prudent man upon whom cometh need. arthur that heard, wrathest of kings, that modred was in cornwall with a mickle army, and there would abide until arthur approached. arthur sent messengers over all his kingdom, and bade all to come that was alive in land, that to fight were good, weapons to bear; and whoso it neglected, that the king commanded, the king would him all consume alive in the land. innumerable folk it came toward the host, riding and on foot, as the rain down falleth! arthur marched to cornwall, with an immense army. modred heard that, and advanced against him with innumerable folk--there were many fated! upon the tambre they came together; the place hight camelford, evermore lasted the same word. and at camelford was assembled sixty thousand men, and more thousands thereto; modred was their chief. then thitherward gan ride arthur the mighty, with innumerable folk--fated though it were! upon the tambre they encountered together; elevated their standards; advanced together; drew their long swords, and smote on the helms; fire out sprang; spears splintered; shields gan shiver; shafts brake in pieces! there fought all together innumerable folk! tambre was in flood with blood to excess; there might no man in the fight know any warrior, nor who did worse, nor who did better, so was the conflict mingled! for each slew downright, were he swain, were he knight. there was modred slain, and deprived of life-day, and all his knights slain in the fight. there were slain all the brave, arthur's warriors, high and low, and all the britons of arthur's board, and all his dependants, of many kingdoms. and arthur himself wounded with a broad slaughter-spear; fifteen dreadful wounds he had; in the least one might thrust two gloves! then was there no more remained in the fight, of two hundred thousand men that there lay hewed in pieces, except arthur the king alone, and two of his knights. arthur was wounded wondrously much. there came to him a lad, who was of his kindred; he was cador's son, the earl of cornwall; constantine the lad hight, he was dear to the king. arthur looked on him, where he lay on the ground, and said these words, with sorrowful heart: "constantine, thou art welcome; thou wert cador's son. i give thee here my kingdom, and defend thou my britons ever in thy life, and maintain them all the laws that have stood in my days, and all the good laws that in uther's days stood. and i will fare to avalun, to the fairest of all maidens, to argante the queen, an elf most fair, and she shall make my wounds all sound; make me all whole with healing draughts. and afterwards i will come again to my kingdom, and dwell with the britons with mickle joy." even with the words there approached from the sea that was a short boat, floating with the waves; and two women therein, wondrously formed; and they took arthur anon, and bare him quickly, and laid him softly down, and forth they gan depart. then was it accomplished that merlin whilom said, that mickle care should be of arthur's departure. the britons believe yet that he is alive, and dwelleth in avalun with the fairest of all elves; and the britons ever yet expect when arthur shall return. was never the man born, of ever any lady chosen, that knoweth of the sooth, to say more of arthur. but whilom was a sage hight merlin; he said with words--his sayings were sooth--that an arthur should yet come to help the english. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). minor punctuation errors have been corrected. a complete list of spelling corrections and notations is located at the end of this text. Édition d'Élite historical tales the romance of reality by charles morris author of "half-hours with the best american authors," "tales from the dramatists," etc. in fifteen volumes volume xiii king arthur j. b. lippincott company philadelphia and london copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. * * * * * [illustration: furness abbey.] contents of volume i. book i. how arthur won the throne. chapter. page. i.--the magic sword ii.--arthur's wars and the mystery of his birth iii.--the lady of the lake iv.--guenever and the round table book ii. the deeds of balin. i.--how balin won and used the enchanted sword ii.--how arthur triumphed over the kings iii.--how balin gave the dolorous stroke iv.--the fate of balin and balan v.--merlin's folly and fate book iii. the treason of morgan le fay. i.--the adventure of the enchanted ship ii.--the combat of arthur and accolan iii.--how morgan cheated the king iv.--the country of strange adventures book iv. lancelot du lake. i.--how trouble came to lionel and hector ii.--the contest of the four queens iii.--how lancelot and turquine fought iv.--the chapel and perilous v.--the adventure of the falcon book v. the adventures of beaumains. i.--the knighting of kay's kitchen boy ii.--the black, the green, and the red knights iii.--the red knight of the red lawns iv.--how beaumains won his bride book vi. tristram of lyonesse and the fair isolde. i.--how tristram was knighted ii.--la bella isolde iii.--the wager of battle iv.--the draught of love v.--the perils of true love vi.--the madness of sir tristram book vii. how tristram came to camelot. i.--tristram and dinadan ii.--on the road to the tournament iii.--at the castle of maidens iv.--the quest of the ten knights v.--the knight with the covered shield list of illustrations. king arthur. vol. i. page furness abbey _frontispiece_. statue of king arthur at innsbruck king arthur's fair love king arthur's tomb merlin and nimue the great forest nimue the love of pelleas and nimue dream of sir lancelot old arches of the abbey wall king arthur's round table, winchester cathedral beaumains, damsel, and dwarf the joyous wedding sir tristram harping to isolde a castle of cornwall tristram and the fair isolde the cliffs above the sea tintagil king arthur's castle tristram thereupon departed to his pavilion admission of sir tristram to the king of the round table * * * * * introductory. geoffrey of monmouth, the famous chronicler of legendary british history, tells us,--in reference to the time when the celtic kings of britain were struggling against the saxon invaders,--that "there appeared a star of wonderful magnitude and brightness, darting its rays, at the end of which was a globe of fire in the form of a dragon, out of whose mouth issued two rays; one of which seemed to stretch itself beyond the extent of gaul, the other towards the irish sea, and ended in two lesser rays." he proceeds to say, that merlin, the magician, being called on to explain this portent, declared that the dragon represented uther, the brother of king ambrose, who was destined himself soon to become king; that the ray extending towards gaul indicated a great son, who should conquer the gallic kingdoms; and that the ray with two lesser rays indicated a daughter, whose son and grandson should successively reign over britain. uther, in consequence, when he came to the throne, had two gold dragons made, one of which he placed in the cathedral of winchester, which it brightly illuminated; the other he kept, and from it gained the name of _pendragon_. the powerful ray represented his great son arthur, destined to become the flower of chivalry, and the favorite hero of mediæval romance. this is history as geoffrey of monmouth understood it, but hardly so in the modern sense, and arthur remains as mystical a figure as achilles, despite the efforts of various writers to bring him within the circle of actual kings. after the romans left britain, two centuries passed of whose history hardly a coherent shred remains. this was the age of arthur, one of the last champions of celtic britain against the inflowing tide of anglo-saxon invasion. that there was an actual arthur there is some, but no very positive, reason to believe. after all the evidence has been offered, we still seem to have but a shadowy hero before us, "a king of shreds and patches," whose history is so pieced out with conjecture that it is next to impossible to separate its facts from its fancies. the arthur of the legends, of the welsh and breton ballads, of the later _chansons de geste_, of malory and tennyson, has quite stepped out of the historic page and become a hero without time or place in any real world, a king of the imagination, the loftiest figure in that great outgrowth of chivalric romance which formed the favorite fictitious literature of europe during three or four of the mediæval centuries. charlemagne, the leading character in the earlier romances of chivalry, was, in the twelfth century, replaced by arthur, a milder and more christian-like hero, whose adventures, with those of his knights of the round table, delighted the tenants of court and castle in that marvel-loving and uncritical age. that the stories told of him are all fiction cannot be declared. many of them may have been founded on fact. but, like the stones of a prehistoric wall, their facts are so densely enveloped by the ivy of fiction that it is impossible to delve them out. the ballads and romances in which the king arthur of mediæval story figures as the hero, would scarcely prove pleasant and profitable reading to us now, however greatly they delighted our ancestors. they are marked by a coarseness and crudity which would be but little to our taste. nor have we anything of modern growth to replace them. milton entertained a purpose of making king arthur the hero of an epic poem, but fortunately yielded it for the nobler task of "paradise lost." spenser gives this hero a minor place in his "fairie queen." dryden projected a king arthur epic, but failed to write it. recently bulwer has given us a cumbersome "king arthur," which nobody reads; and tennyson has handled the subject brilliantly in his "idyls of the king," splendid successes as poems, yet too infiltrated with the spirit of modernism to be acceptable as a reproduction of the arthur of romance. for a true rehabilitation of this hero of the age of chivalry we must go to the "morte darthur" of sir thomas malory, a writer of the fifteenth century, who lived when men still wore armor, and so near to the actual age of chivalry as to be in full sympathy with the spirit of its fiction, and its pervading love of adventure and belief in the magical. malory did a work of high value in editing the confused mass of earlier fiction, lopping off its excrescences and redundancies, reducing its coarseness of speech, and producing from its many stories and episodes a coherent and continuous narrative, in which the adventures of the round table knights are deftly interwoven with the record of the birth, life, and death of the king, round whom as the central figure all these knightly champions revolve. malory seems to have used as the basis of his work perhaps one, perhaps several, old french prose romances, and possibly also material derived from welsh and english ballads. such material in his day was doubtless abundant. geoffrey had drawn much of his legendary history from the ancient welsh ballads. the mass of romantic fiction which he called history became highly popular, first in brittany, and then in france, the trouveres making arthur, lancelot, tristram, percival, and others of the knightly circle the heroes of involved romances, in which a multitude of new incidents were invented. the minnesingers of germany took up the same fruitful theme, producing a "parzivale," a "tristan and isolt," and other heroic romances. from all this mass of material, malory wrought his "morte darthur," as homer wrought his "iliad" from the preceding warlike ballads, and the unknown compiler of the "nibelungenlied" wrought his poem from similar ancient sources. malory was not solely an editor. he was in a large sense a creator. it was coarse and crude material with which he had to deal, but in his hands its rude prose gained a degree of poetic fervor. the legends which he preserves he has in many cases transmuted from base into precious coin. there is repulsive matter in the old romances, which he freely cuts out. to their somewhat wooden heroes he gives life and character, so that in lancelot, gawaine, dinadan, kay, and others we have to deal with distinct personalities, not with the non-individualized hard-hitters of the romances. and to the whole story he gives an epic completeness which it lacked before. in the early days of arthur's reign merlin warns him that fate has already woven its net about him and that the sins of himself and his queen will in the end bring his reign to a violent termination, and break up that grand fellowship of the round table which has made britain and its king illustrious. this epic character of malory's work is pointed out in the article "geoffrey of monmouth" in the "encyclopædia britannica," whose writer says that the arthurian legends "were converted into a magnificent prose poem by sir thomas malory in . malory's _morte darthur_ is as truly _the_ epic of the english mind as the _iliad_ is the epic of the greek mind." yet the "morte darthur," if epic in plan and treatment, is by no means free from the defects of primitive literature. it was written before the age of criticism, and confusion reigns supreme in many of its pages,--a confusion which a very little critical supervision might have removed. as an instance, we find that galahad, two years after his birth, is made a knight, being then fifteen years old. in like manner the "seat perilous" at the round table is magically reserved for galahad, the author evidently forgetting that he had already given it to percivale. king mark's murder of his brother baldwin is revenged by baldwin's grandson, thirty or forty years afterward, though there is nothing to show that the characters had grown a year older in the interval. here a knight finds one antagonist quite sufficient for one man; there he does not hesitate to attack fifty at once; here a slight wound disables him; there a dozen deep wounds are fully healed by a night's rest. many similar instances might be given, but these will suffice. the discrepancies here indicated were perhaps due to the employment of diverse legends, without care to bring them into accordance, but they lay the work open to adverse criticism. this lack of critical accuracy may have been a necessary accompaniment of the credulous frame of mind that could render such a work possible. it needed an artlessness of mental make-up, a full capacity for acceptance of the marvellous, a simple-minded faith in chivalry and its doings, which could scarcely exist in common with the critical temperament. in truth, the flavor of an age of credulity and simplicity of thought everywhere permeates this quaint old work, than which nothing more artless, simple, and unique exists in literature, and nothing with a higher value as a presentation of the taste in fiction of our mediæval predecessors. yet the "morte darthur" is not easy or attractive reading, to other than special students of literature. aside from its confusion of events and arrangement, it tells the story of chivalry with a monotonous lack of inflection that is apt to grow wearisome, and in a largely obsolete style and dialect with whose difficulties readers in general may not care to grapple. its pages present an endless succession of single combats with spear and sword, whose details are repeated with wearisome iteration. knights fight furiously for hours together, till they are carved with deep wounds, and the ground crimsoned with gore. sometimes they are so inconsiderate as to die, sometimes so weak as to seek a leech, but as often they mount and ride away in philosophical disregard of their wounds, and come up fresh for as fierce a fight the next day. as for a background of scenery and architecture, it scarcely exists. deep interest in man and woman seems to have shut out all scenic accessories from the mind of the good old knight. it is always but a step from the castle to the forest, into which the knights-errant plunge, and where most of their adventures take place; and the favorite resting-and jousting-place is by the side of forest springs--or wells, as in the text. we have mention abundant of fair castles, fair valleys, fair meadows, and the like, the adjective "fair" going far to serve all needs of description. but in his human characters, with their loves and hates, jousts and battles, bewitchments and bewilderments, the author takes deep interest, and follows the episodical stories which are woven into the plot with a somewhat too satisfying fulness. in evidence of the dramatic character of many of these episodes we need but refer to the "idyls of the king," whose various romantic and tragic narratives are all derived from this quaint "old master" of fictitious literature. with all its faults of style and method, the "morte darthur" is a very live book. it never stops to moralize or philosophize, but keeps strictly to its business of tale-telling, bringing up before the reader a group of real men and women, not a series of lay-figures on a background of romance, as in his originals. kay with his satirical tongue, dinadan with his love of fun, tristram loving and noble, lancelot bold and chivalrous, gawaine treacherous and implacable, arthur kingly but adventurous, mark cowardly and base-hearted, guenever jealous but queenly, isolde tender and faithful, and a host of other clearly individualized knights and ladies move in rapid succession through the pages of the romance, giving it, with its manners of a remote age, a vital interest that appeals to modern tastes. in attempting to adapt this old masterpiece to the readers of our own day, we have no purpose to seek to paraphrase or improve on malory. to remove the antique flavor would be to destroy the spirit of the work. we shall leave it as we find it, other than to reduce its obsolete phraseology and crudities of style to modern english, abridge the narrative where it is wearisomely extended, omit repetitions and uninteresting incidents, reduce its confusion of arrangement, attempt a more artistic division into books and chapters, and by other arts of editorial revision seek to make it easier reading, while preserving as fully as possible those unique characteristics which have long made it delightful to lovers of old literature. the task here undertaken is no light one, nor is success in it assured. malory has an individuality of his own which gives a peculiar charm to his work, and to retain this in a modernized version is the purpose with which we set out and which we hope to accomplish. the world of to-day is full of fiction, endless transcripts of modern life served up in a great variety of palatable forms. our castle-living forefathers were not so abundantly favored. they had no books,--and could not have read them if they had,--but the wandering minstrel took with them the place of the modern volume, bearing from castle to court, and court to castle, his budget of romances of magic and chivalry, and delighting the hard-hitting knights and barons of that day with stirring ballads and warlike tales to which their souls rose in passionate response. in the "morte darthur" is preserved to us the pith of the best of those old romances, brought into a continuous narrative by one who lived when chivalry yet retained some of its vital hold on the minds of men, and who, being a knight himself, could enter with heartfelt sympathy into the deeds of the knights of an earlier age. certainly many of the readers of modern fiction will find a pleasure in turning aside awhile from the hot-pressed thought of the nineteenth-century novel to this fresh and breezy outcrop from the fiction of an earlier day; with the double purpose of learning on what food the minds of our ancestors were fed, and of gaining a breath of wild perfume from the far-off field of the romance of chivalry. that the story of arthur and his knights can arouse in modern readers the intense interest with which it was received by mediæval auditors is not to be expected. we are too far removed in time and manners from the age of knight-errantry to enter deeply into sympathy with its unfamiliar ways. yet a milder interest may still be awakened in what gave our predecessors such enthusiastic delight, and some at least may turn with pleasure from the most philosophic of modern novels to wander awhile through this primitive domain of thought. to such we offer this work, which we have simply sought to make easy reading, with little further liberty with malory's quaint prose than to put it into a modern dress, and with the hope that no such complete divorce exists between the world of the present and that of the past as to render the exploits of king arthur and his round table knights dull, wearisome, and profitless reading, void of the human interest which they once possessed in such large and satisfying measure. king arthur and the knights of the round table. book i. how arthur won the throne. chapter i. the magic sword. once upon a time, in that far-off and famous era of chivalry and knight-errantry when wandering knights sought adventures far and wide throughout the land, and no damsel in distress failed to enlist a valiant champion in her cause, there reigned over england's broad realm a noble monarch, king arthur by name, the flower of chivalry, and the founder of the world-renowned order of knights of the round table. it is the story of this far-famed monarch, and of the wonderful and valorous deeds of his knights, that we here propose to tell, as preserved in the ancient legends of the land, and set forth at length in the chronicles of the days of chivalry. before the days of arthur the king, there reigned over all england uther pendragon, a monarch of might and renown. he died at length in years and honor, and after his death anarchy long prevailed in the land, for no son of his appeared to claim the throne, and many of the lords who were high in rank and strong in men sought to win it by force of arms, while everywhere lawlessness and wrong-doing made life a burden and wealth a deceit. but by good fortune there still survived the famous magician merlin, the master of all mysteries, who long had been the stay of uther's throne, and in whose hands lay the destiny of the realm. for after years of anarchy, and when men had almost lost hope of right and justice, merlin, foreseeing that the time for a change was at hand, went to the archbishop of canterbury, and bade him summon to london by christmas day all the lords of the realm and the gentlemen of arms, for on that day a miracle would be shown by which would be decided who should be ruler of the kingless realm. the summons was issued, and by christmas-tide many lords and knights, the flower of england's chivalry, had gathered in london, most of them full of ambition and many of them buoyed up by hope. in the greatest church of that city prayers went up night and day, all who had been guilty of wrong-doing seeking to clear their souls of sin; for all believed that only through god's grace could any man come to dominion in the realm, and those who aspired to the throne ardently sought to make their peace with god. on christmas day, after the hour of matins and the first mass, came the miracle which merlin had predicted; for there suddenly appeared before the high altar in the church-yard a great four-square block of stone, of the texture of marble, upon which stood an anvil of steel a foot in height; and through the anvil and deep into the stone was thrust a gleaming sword, upon which, in letters of gold, ran these words, "whoso pulleth this sword out of this stone is of right born king of all england." whether merlin performed this strange thing by magic, or it was a miracle of god's will, the chronicles say not, but all who saw it deeply marvelled, and word of it was brought to the archbishop in the church. "let no man stir," he enjoined. "this is god's doing, and must be dealt with gravely and solemnly. i command that all stay within the church and pray unto god until the high mass be done. till then let no hand touch the sword." and so the service went on until its end; but after it was done the audience hastened to behold the miracle, and some of the higher lords, who were ambitious for the throne, laid eager hold upon the sword and sought with all their strength to draw it. yet all in vain they tugged; the mightiest among them could not stir the deep-thrust blade. "the man is not here," said the archbishop, "who shall draw that sword; but god, in his own good season, will make him known. this, then, is my counsel: let us set ten knights, men of fame and honor, to guard the sword, and let every man that has faith in his good fortune seek to draw it. he who is the destined monarch of england will in time appear." new year's day came, and no man yet had drawn the sword, though many had adventured. for that day the barons had ordered that a stately tournament should be held, in which all knights who desired to break a lance for god and their ladies might take part. this was greeted with high acclaim, and after the services of the day had ended the barons and knights together rode to the lists, while multitudes of the citizens of london crowded thither to witness the knightly sports. among those who rode were sir hector, a noble lord, who held domains in england and wales, and with him his son sir kay, a new-made knight, and his younger son arthur, a youth still too young for knighthood. as they rode together to the lists, kay discovered that he had forgotten his sword, having left it behind at his father's lodging. he begged young arthur to ride back for it. "trust me to bring it," replied arthur, readily, and turning his horse he rode briskly back to his father's lodging in the city. on reaching the house, however, he found it fast locked, all its inmates having gone to the tournament. the young man stood a moment in anger and indecision. "my brother kay shall not be without a sword," he said. "i remember seeing in the church-yard a handsome blade thrust into a stone, and seeming to want an owner. i shall ride thither and get that sword. it will serve kay's turn." he accordingly turned his horse and rode back in all haste. on reaching the church-yard he found no knights there, all those who had been placed on guard having gone to the jousting, exchanging duty for sport. dismounting and tying his horse, he entered the tent which had been erected over the stone. there stood the magic sword, its jewelled hilt and half the shining blade revealed. heedless of the inscription on the polished steel, and ignorant of its lofty promise,--for the miracle had been kept secret by the knights,--young arthur seized the weapon strongly by the hilt and gave the magic sword a vigorous pull. then a wondrous thing happened, which it was a pity there were none to see; for the blade came easily out of stone and steel, as though they were yielding clay, and lay naked in his hand. not knowing the might and meaning of what he had done, and thinking of naught but to keep his word, the young man mounted his horse and rode to the field, where he delivered the sword to his brother sir kay. "i have brought your sword," he said. the young knight started with surprise on beholding the blade, and gazed on it with wonder and trepidation. it was not his, he knew, and he recognized it at sight for the magic blade. but ambition quickly banished the wonder from his heart, and he rode hastily to his father, sir hector, exclaiming,-- "behold! here is the sword of the stone! i that bear it am the destined king of england's realm." sir hector looked at him in doubt, and beheld the blade he bore with deep surprise. "when and how did you obtain it?" he demanded. "back to the church! come with us, arthur. here is a mystery that must be explained." reaching the church, he made kay swear upon the book how he came by that weapon, for greatly he doubted. "i have not said i drew it," kay replied, sullenly. "in truth, it was not achieved by me. arthur brought me the sword." "arthur!" cried the lord. "arthur brought it! how got you it, boy?" "i pulled it from the stone," replied the youth. "kay sent me home for his sword, but the house was empty and locked; and as i did not wish my brother to be without a weapon, i rode hither and pulled this blade out of the stone. was there aught strange in that? it came out easily enough." "were there no knights about it?" "none, sir." "then the truth is plain. god's will has been revealed. you are the destined king of england." "i?" cried arthur, in surprise. "wherefore i?" "god has willed it so," repeated the baron. "but i must first learn for myself if you have truly drawn the sword. can you put it back again?" "i can try," said arthur, and with an easy thrust he sunk the blade deeply into the stone. then sir hector and kay pulled at the hilt with all their strength, but failed to move the weapon. "now you shall try," they said to arthur. thereupon the youth seized the hilt, and with a light effort the magic sword came out naked in his hand. "you are our king!" cried sir hector, kneeling on the earth, and kay beside him. "my dear father and brother," cried arthur in surprise and distress, "why kneel you to me? rise, i pray; it pains me deeply to see you thus." [illustration: statue of king arthur at innsbruck.] "i am not your father nor of your kindred," rejoined the baron. "i must now reveal the secret i long have kept. you were brought to me in infancy, and i and my wife have fostered you as our own. but you are no son of mine. who you truly are i cannot say; that only merlin the magician knows. but well i feel assured you are of nobler blood than i can boast." these words filled arthur with heartfelt pain. he had long revered the worthy knight as his father, and it grieved him deeply to learn that those whom he had so warmly loved were not of kin to him. "sir," said hector, "will you be my good and gracious lord when you are king?" "you, my father, and your good lady, my mother,--to whom else in all the world am i so beholden?" rejoined arthur, warmly. "god forbid that i should fail you in whatever you may desire, if by his will and grace i shall be made king." "this only i ask of you," said the baron: "that you make kay, my son and your foster-brother, the seneschal of all your lands." "by the faith of my body, i promise," said arthur. "no man but he shall have that office while he and i live." these words said, sir hector went to the archbishop and told him, much to his surprise, of the marvel that had been performed. by the advice of the prelate it was kept secret until twelfth day, when the barons came again, and another effort was made to draw the sword. after all had tried and failed, arthur was brought forward, and while many sneered at his youth and asked why a boy had been brought thither, he seized the hilt and lightly drew the blade from the stone. then all stood aghast in wonder, marvelling greatly to see a youth perform the feat which the strongest knights in the kingdom had attempted in vain; but many beheld it with bitter anger and hostile doubt. "who is this boy?" they cried. "what royal blood can he claim? shall we and the realm of england be shamed by being governed by a base-born churl? there is fraud or magic in this." so high ran the tide of adverse feeling that the archbishop finally decided that another trial should be had at candlemas, ten knights meanwhile closely guarding the stone. and when candlemas day arrived there came many more great lords, each eager for the throne; but, as before, of all there none but arthur could draw the magic sword. again was there envy and hostility, and another trial was loudly demanded, the time being fixed for easter. this ended as before, and at the demand of the angry lords a final trial was arranged for the feast of pentecost. the archbishop now, at merlin's suggestion, surrounded arthur with a bodyguard of tried warriors, some of whom had been uther pendragon's best and worthiest knights; for it was feared that some of his enemies might seek to do him harm. they were bidden to keep watch over him day and night till the season of pentecost, for there were lords that would have slain him had they dared. at the feast of pentecost lords and knights gathered again, but in vain they all essayed to draw the magic sword. only to the hand of arthur would it yield, and he pulled it lightly from the stone and steel in the presence of all the lords and commons. then cried the commons in loud acclaim,-- "arthur shall be our king! we will have none to reign over us but him! let there be no more delay. god has willed that he shall be england's king, and he that holdeth out longer against the will of god that man shall we slay." then rich and poor alike kneeled before arthur, hailed him as king, and craved his pardon for their long delay. he forgave them freely, and taking the sword between his hands, laid it upon the altar before the archbishop. this done, he was made a knight by the worthiest warrior there, and thus taken into that noble fellowship of chivalry which he was destined by his valor and virtue to so richly adorn. shortly afterward arthur was crowned king, with great pomp and ceremony, before a noble assemblage of the lords and ladies of the realm, taking solemn oath at the coronation to be true king to lords and commons, and to deal justice to all while he should live. justice, indeed, was greatly and urgently demanded, for many wrongs had been done since the death of king uther, and numerous complaints were laid before the throne. all these evils arthur redressed, forcing those who had wrongfully taken the lands of others to return them, and demanding that all should submit to the laws of the realm. in compliance with his promise, sir kay was made seneschal of england, while other knights were appointed to the remaining high offices of the realm, and all the needs of the kingdom duly provided for. thus the famous reign of king arthur auspiciously began, with god's and man's blessing upon its early days. chapter ii. arthur's wars and the mystery of his birth. after arthur was crowned king he removed into wales, where he gave orders that a great feast should be held on the coming day of pentecost, at the city of carlion. on the day appointed for the feast there appeared before carlion the kings of lothian and orkney, gore, garloth, carados, and scotland, each with a large following of knights. their coming greatly pleased king arthur, who believed that they desired to do honor to his reign, and he sent presents of great value to them and to their knights. these they disdainfully refused, sending back a hostile challenge by the messenger, and saying that they had not come to receive gifts from a beardless boy, of ignoble blood, but to present him gifts with hard swords between neck and shoulder. it was a shame, they said, to see such a boy at the head of so noble a realm, and this wrong should be redressed at their hands. on receiving this defiant message, arthur threw himself, with five hundred good men, into a strong tower near carlion, for he was ill prepared for attack. there he was closely besieged by his foes, but the castle was well victualled, and held out stoutly against its assailants. during the siege merlin appeared suddenly among the kings, and told them privately who arthur really was, assuring them that he was of nobler blood than themselves, and was destined long to remain king of england, and to reduce scotland, ireland, and wales to his sway. some of the hostile monarchs believed the magician's story, but others doubted it, king lot of orkney laughing him to scorn, while some among them called him a prating wizard. but it was agreed that they should hold a conference with arthur, they promising if he came out to them to place no hindrance to his safe return. merlin then sought the king and advised him to accept the conference, telling him that he had nothing to fear. thereupon arthur armed himself, and taking with him the archbishop of canterbury and several noble knights, went out boldly to meet his foes. the conference was an angry and bitter one, the kings speaking strongly, and arthur answering them with stout words of defiance, in which he told them plainly that if he lived he would make them bow to his throne. in the end they parted in wrath, the kings returning to their camp and arthur to the tower. "what do you propose to do?" said merlin to the kings. "if you take a wise man's advice you will withdraw, for i tell you that you shall not prevail here, were you ten times as many." "we are not the men to be advised by a dream-reader," answered king lot. "if you are the wise man you say, you will take yourself away." at this reply merlin magically vanished from among them, and immediately appeared to king arthur in the tower, bidding him boldly to sally forth and attack his enemies, and trust to fortune and valor for success. meanwhile three hundred of the best knights of the kings had deserted their ranks and come to join him, much to his comfort, for he had been greatly outnumbered. "sir," said merlin, "fight not with the sword that you had by miracle, till you see things go to the worst; then draw it out and strike shrewdly for your throne." these words said, arthur sallied from the tower at the head of all his knights, and fell fiercely on the besiegers in their camp. all went down before his bold assault, the hosts of the hostile kings retreating in dismay. great deeds were done that day, sir kay and other knights slaying all before them, while arthur laid on nobly, and did such marvellous feats of arms that all who saw him wondered greatly, for until now he had been an untried youth. while the combat thus went on in arthur's favor in front, king lot and others of the kings made a detour and set fiercely upon his force from the rear, causing momentary dismay in his ranks. but arthur wheeled alertly with his knights, and smote vigorously to right and left, keeping always in the foremost press, till his horse was slain beneath him, and he hurled to the ground. king lot took instant advantage of this, and with a mighty blow prostrated the unhorsed king. but his knights hastily surrounded him, drove back his crowding foes, and set him on horseback again. and now king arthur drew the magic sword, and as he waved it in the air there flashed from it a gleaming lustre that blinded the eyes of his enemies. back they went before him, many of them falling under his mighty blows, while his valiant knights followed hotly in the track of the flaming sword, and the enemy fled in panic fear. then the people of carlion, seeing the enemy in retreat, came out with clubs and staves, and fell upon the defeated host, killing numbers of the dismounted knights; while the hostile kings, with such of their followers as remained alive, fled in all haste from the disastrous field, leaving the victory to arthur and his knights. thus ended in victory the first battle of arthur's famous reign. it was but the prelude to a greater one, the mighty deeds of which the chroniclers tell at great length, but of which we shall give but brief record. it was predicted by merlin, who told the king that he should have to fight far more strongly for his crown, that the defeated kings would get others to join them, and would ere long proceed against him with a mighty force. "i warn you," he said to the king and his council, "that your enemies are very strong, for they have entered into alliance with four other kings and a mighty duke, and unless our king obtain powerful allies he shall be overcome and slain." "what then shall we do?" asked the barons. "i shall tell you," said merlin. "there are two brethren beyond the sea, both kings, and marvellously valiant men. one of these is king ban of benwick, and the other king bors of gaul. these monarchs are at war with a mighty warrior, king claudas. my counsel then is, that our king ask the aid of these monarchs in his wars, and engage in return to help them in their war with their foe." "it is well counselled," said the king and his barons. accordingly two knights with letters were sent across the seas, and after various adventures reached the camp of kings ban and bors. these valiant monarchs gladly responded to arthur's request, and, leaving their castles well guarded, came with ten thousand of their best men to the aid of the youthful king. then were held great feasts, and a noble tournament was given on all-hallowmas day, at which sir kay carried off the honors of the lists and received the prize of valor. but sport had soon to give place to war, for the hostile kings, now eleven in all, with a host of fifty thousand mounted men and ten thousand footmen, were marching upon king arthur's camp, then at the castle of bedegraine, in sherwood forest. two nights before the hosts met in battle, one of the hostile leaders, known as the king with the hundred knights, dreamed a wondrous dream. it seemed to him that there came a mighty wind, which blew down all their castles and towns, and that then there came a great flood and carried all away. all who heard this dream said that it was a token of great battle, but by its portent none were dismayed, for they felt too secure in their strength to heed the warning of a dream. soon the two armies drew together, and encamped at no great distance asunder. then, by advice of merlin, a midnight attack was made by arthur and his allies upon the host of the eleven kings, as they lay sleeping in their tents. but their sentinels were alert, the sound of the coming host reached their wakeful ears, and loud the cry ran through the camp: "to arms! lords and knights, to arms! the enemy is upon us! to arms! to arms!" on like a wave of war came the force of arthur, ban, and bors. the tents were overthrown, and all the valor of the eleven kings was needed to save their army from defeat. so fiercely went the assault that by day-dawn ten thousand of their men lay dead upon the field, while arthur's loss was but small. by merlin's advice, while it was yet dark the forces of ban and bors had been placed in ambush in the forest. then arthur, with his own army of twenty thousand men, set fiercely on the overwhelming force of the foe, and deeds of mighty prowess were done, men falling like leaves, and many knights of tried valor staining the earth with their blood. fiercely went the combat, hand to hand and blade to blade, till the field was strewn with the dead, while none could tell how the battle would end. but when kings ban and bors broke from their ambush, with ten thousand fresh men, the tide of battle turned against the foe. back they went, step by step, many of their men taking to flight, and hundreds falling in death. king bors did marvellous deeds of arms. king ban, whose horse was killed, fought on foot like an enraged lion, standing among dead men and horses, and felling all who came within reach of his sword. as for king arthur, his armor was so covered with crimson stains that no man knew him, and his horse went fetlock deep in blood. when night approached, the hostile force was driven across a little stream, the eleven warrior kings still valiantly facing the victorious foe. then came merlin into the press of struggling knights, mounted on a great black horse, and cried to arthur,-- "wilt thou never have done? of threescore thousand men this day thou hast left alive but fifteen thousand, and it is time to cry, halt! i bid you withdraw, for if you continue the battle fortune will turn against you. as for these kings, you will have no trouble with them for three years to come, for more than forty thousand saracens have landed in their country, and are burning and despoiling all before them." this advice was taken, and the defeated kings were allowed to withdraw the remnant of their forces without further harm, while king arthur richly rewarded his allies and their knights from the treasure found in the hostile camp. thus was king arthur seated firmly on his throne. but who he was he knew not yet, for the mystery that lay over his birth merlin had never revealed. after the battle merlin went to his master bleise, who dwelt in northumberland, and told him the events of the mighty contest. these bleise wrote down, word by word, as he did the after-events of king arthur's reign, and the deeds of his valiant knights. and so was made the chronicle of the great achievements of arms, and the adventures of errant knights, from which this history is drawn. of some things that merlin further did we must here speak. while arthur dwelt in the castle of bedegraine, merlin came to him so disguised that the king knew him not. he was all befurred in black sheepskins, with a great pair of boots and a bow and arrows, and brought wild geese in his hand, as though he had been a huntsman. "sir," he said to the king, "will you give me a gift?" "why should i do so, churl?" asked the king. "you had better give me a gift from what you have in hand than to lose great riches which are now out of your reach; for here, where the battle was fought, is great treasure hidden in the earth." "who told you that, churl?" "merlin told me so." then was the king abashed, for he now knew that it was merlin who spoke, and it troubled him that he had not known his best friend. afterward, on a day when arthur had been hunting in the forest, and while he sat in deep thought over a strange dream he had dreamed and some sinful deeds he had done, there came to him a child of fourteen years, and asked him why he was so pensive. "i may well be so," replied arthur, "for i have much to make me think." "i know that well," said the seeming child, "also who thou art and all thy thoughts. i can tell thee who was thy father and how and when thou wert born." "that is false," rejoined the king. "how should a boy of your years know my father?" "he was uther pendragon, the king," replied the seeming boy, "and you are of royal blood." "how can you know that? i will not believe you without better proof," said arthur. at these words the child departed, but quickly after there came to the king an old man of fourscore years. "why are you so sad?" asked the old man. "for many things," replied arthur. "here but now was a child who told me things which it seems to me he could not know." "he told you the truth," said the old man, "and would have told you more if you had listened. this i am bidden to tell you, that you have done things which have displeased god, and that your sister shall bear a son who will destroy you and all the knights of your land. that is the meaning of your dream in which griffons and serpents burnt and slew all before them, and wounded you to the death." "who are you," said arthur, "that tell me these things?" "i am merlin," replied the old man. "and i was the child who came to you." "you are a marvellous man," replied arthur. "but how can you know that i shall die in battle?" "how i know matters not, but this much more i am bidden to tell you: your death will be a noble one; but i shall die a shameful death, and shall be put in the earth alive for my follies. such is the voice of destiny." while they conversed thus, horses were brought to the king, and he and merlin mounted and rode to carlion. here arthur told sir hector what he had heard, and asked if it were true. "i believe it to be the truth," answered the old baron. "merlin has told me that the child he brought to my castle was the son of king uther pendragon and of queen igraine, his wife." but arthur was not yet convinced, and sent in all haste for queen igraine, who dwelt in a castle not far away, and came quickly with morgan le fay, her daughter, a fair lady, and one who had been taught all the arts of necromancy. the king welcomed her with rich cheer, and made a feast in her honor, without saying why he had asked her to his court. but when the feast was at its height, sir ulfius, the chamberlain, and a knight of worth and honor, rose in the midst, and boldly accused the queen of falsehood and treason. "beware what you say," cried the king. "those are strong words, and this lady is my guest." "i am well advised of what i say," replied ulfius, "and here is my glove to prove it upon any man who shall deny it. i declare that queen igraine is the cause of your great wars and of deep damage to your throne. had she told in the life of king uther of the birth of her son you would have been spared your wars, for most of your barons know not to-day of what blood you were born. therefore i declare her false to god, to you, and to all your realm, and if any man shall say me nay i stand ready to prove it upon his body." "i am a woman, and i may not fight," said queen igraine to this. "but there are men here will take my quarrel. merlin will bear me witness that it was king uther's wish, for reasons of state, that the birth of my child should be concealed, and if you seek a traitor you should accuse uther pendragon and not me. at its birth the child was wrapped in cloth of gold, by order of the king, and taken from me, and from that day to this i have not set eyes upon my son." "then," said ulfius, "merlin is more to blame than you." "i bowed to the will of my husband," replied the queen. "after the death of my lord, the duke of tintagil, king uther married me, and i bore him a son, but i know not what has become of my child." then merlin took the king by the hand and led him to queen igraine. "this is your mother," he said. therewith, sir hector bore witness how the child has been brought by merlin to the postern gate of his castle, wrapped in cloth of gold, and how he had reared him as his own son, knowing not who he was, but full sure he was of high birth. these words removed all doubt from arthur's mind, and with warm affection he took his mother in his arms, and kissed her lovingly, while tears of joy flowed freely from the eyes of mother and son, for never was gladder meeting than that which there took place. for eight days thereafter feasts and sports were held at the castle, and great joy fell upon all men to learn that the son of great uther pendragon had come to the throne. and far and wide the story spread through the land that he who had drawn the magic sword was the rightful heir to england's crown. chapter iii. the lady of the lake. on a day at the end of the feasts given by king arthur in honor of his mother, there came into the court a squire, who bore before him on his horse a knight that had been wounded unto death. he told how a stranger knight in the forest had set up a pavilion by a well, and forced all who passed to joust with him. this stranger had slain his master, and he begged that some champion would revenge the slain knight. then rose griflet, a youthful squire who had done good service in the wars, and begged to be knighted, that he might undertake this adventure. "thou art but young for such a task," said arthur. "i beseech you for the honor of it," pleaded griflet. "i have done you knightly service." thereupon he was knighted and armed, and rode at day-dawn with a high heart into the forest. but by night-fall back he came, with a spear-thrust through his body, and scarce able to sit his horse for weakness. he had met the knight, and barely escaped with his life. this angered the king, and he determined to undertake the adventure himself, and to seek to punish the daring knight who had planted himself, with hostile purpose, so near his court. by his order his best armor and horse were set before day at a point outside the city, and at day-dawn he met there his squire and rode with him secretly into the forest. on the way thither he met three churls, who were chasing merlin and seeking to slay him. the king rode to them and sternly bade them desist, and on seeing a knight before them they fled in craven fear. "o merlin," cried arthur, "for all your craft you would have been slain, had i not come to your aid." "not so. i but played with these churls," said merlin. "i could have saved myself easily enough. you are far more near your end than i, for unless god be your friend you ride to your death." as they conversed they came to the forest fountain, and saw there a rich pavilion, while under a cloth stood a fair horse, richly saddled and bridled, and on a tree was a shield of varied colors and a great spear. in a chair near by sat an armed knight. "how is it, sir knight," asked the king, sternly, "that you abide here and force every knight that passes to joust with you? it is an ill custom, and i bid you cease it." "he who is grieved with my custom may amend it if he will," said the knight. "i shall amend it," said arthur. "i shall defend it," replied the knight. with these words they mounted, placed their spears in rest, and put their horses to their speed. together they came in mid career with such violence and equal fortune that both spears were shivered to splinters, but both knights remained in their saddles. taking new spears, once more they rode, and once again met in mid course with the same fortune as before. then arthur set hand to his sword. "nay," said the knight. "you are the best jouster of all the men i ever met. for the love of the high order of knighthood let us break another spear." "i agree," said arthur. two more spears were brought them, and again they rode together with all the might and speed of their horses. arthur's spear once more shivered into splinters from point to handle. but the knight struck him so fairly in the centre of his shield that horse and man together fell to the earth. then arthur drew his sword eagerly and cried: "sir knight, i have lost the honor of horseback, and will fight you on foot." "i will meet you on horse," replied the knight. angry at this, arthur advanced towards him with ready shield and sword. but the knight, feeling that he was taking a noble adversary at unfair advantage, dismounted, and advanced to meet arthur on foot. then began a mighty battle, in which many great sword-strokes were made, and much blood was lost by both antagonists. after the affray had long continued the two warriors by chance struck so evenly together that their swords met in mid air, and the weapon of the knight smote that of arthur into two pieces. "you are in my power," cried the knight. "yield you as overcome and recreant, or you shall die." "as for death," said arthur, "it will be welcome when it comes, but i had rather die than be so shamed." thus saying, he leaped upon his foeman, took him by the middle with a vigorous grip, and threw him to the earth. then he tore off his helmet. the knight, however, was much the larger and stronger man, and in his turn brought arthur under him, deprived him of his helmet, and lifted his sword to strike off his head. at this perilous moment merlin advanced. "knight, hold thy hand," he cried. "you little know in what peril you put this realm, or who the warrior is beneath your sword." "who is he?" asked the knight. "he is king arthur." then would the knight have slain arthur for fear of his wrath, and raised his sword again to do so, but at that moment merlin threw him into an enchanted sleep. "what have you done, merlin?" cried arthur. "god grant you have not slain this worthy knight by your craft! i would yield a year of my dominion to have him alive again." "do not fear," said merlin. "he is asleep only, and will awake within three hours. and this i shall tell you, there is not a stronger knight in your kingdom than he, and hereafter he will do you good service. his name is king pellinore, and he shall have two noble sons, whose names will be percivale and lamorak of wales. and this brave knight shall, in the time to come, tell you the name of that son of your sister who is fated to be the destruction of all this land." this being said, the king and the magician departed, leaving the knight to his magic slumbers. soon they reached the cell of a hermit who was a noted leech, and who, with healing salves, in three days cured the king's wounds so that he was able to ride again. as they now went forward, through forest and over plain, arthur said,-- "i have no sword. i shall be ill put to it should i meet a champion." "heed not that," said merlin. "that loss will be soon repaired." and so they rode till they came to a lake, a broad and fair sheet of water, that stretched far before their eyes. as the king stood and looked upon it, he saw in its midst, to his deep wonder, an arm clothed in white samite lift itself above the water, and in the hand appeared a glittering sword, that gleamed brightly in the sun's rays. "lo! yonder is the sword i spoke of," said merlin. then another wonder met their eyes, for a woman came walking towards them upon the surface of the lake. "what damsel is that?" asked arthur. "and what means all this wondrous thing?" "that is the lady of the lake," said merlin. "within that lake is a great rock, and therein is a palace as fair as any on the earth, and most richly adorned, wherein this lady dwells. when she comes to you ask her in courtly phrase for the sword, for it is hers to give." soon came the damsel to them and saluted arthur, who courteously returned her salutation. "fair lady," he said, "what sword is it that yonder arm holds so strangely above the water? i would it were mine, for i have lost my weapon." "king arthur," replied the damsel, "the sword you see is mine. but it shall be yours if you will promise me a gift when i shall ask it of you." "by my faith," rejoined arthur, "i will give you whatever gift you may ask, if it be within reason and justice." "then," said the damsel, "go into the barge you see yonder and row yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard. as for the gift, i shall bide my time to ask it." arthur and merlin now alighted and entered the boat they saw near by, rowing it to where the arm in white samite held up the sword. reaching boldly out, arthur grasped the weapon by the handle, and at once the arm and hand disappeared beneath the water, leaving the wondrous blade in his hand, and the scabbard with it. when they reached the land again the lady of the lake was gone, and so they mounted and rode away from that place of magic. then arthur looked upon the sword and much he liked it, for the blade seemed to him of rare promise. "which like you the better, the sword or the scabbard?" asked merlin. "the sword," answered arthur. "there you lack wisdom," said merlin, "for the scabbard is worth ten of the sword. while you wear that scabbard you shall never lose blood, however sorely you be wounded, so take good heed to keep it always with you." so they rode unto carlion, where arthur's knights were glad enough to see him, for his absence had greatly troubled them. and when they heard of his adventures they marvelled that he would risk his person so alone. but all men of worship said that it was merry to be under a chieftain who would take upon himself such adventures as poor knights loved to meet. during the absence of the king a messenger had come to the court from king ryons of north wales, who was also king of ireland, and of many islands, bearing a message of most insulting purport. he said that king ryons had discomfited and overcome eleven kings, each of whom had been forced to do him homage in the following manner: each had sent him his beard, and the king had trimmed his mantle with these kings' beards. but there lacked one place on the mantle, and he therefore sent for king arthur's beard to complete the fringe. if it were not sent him he would enter the land and burn and slay, and never leave till he had head and beard together. "well," said arthur, "you have said your message, and the most villanous one it is that ever living man sent unto a king; you may see, moreover, that my beard as yet is somewhat too young to serve as a trimming to his mantle. this, then, you may tell your king. neither i nor my lords owe him any homage. but if he shall not before many days do me homage on both his bended knees, by the faith of my body he shall lose his head, in requital for the shameful and discourteous message that he has sent me. bear you this answer to your king." and so the messenger departed. chapter iv. guenever and the round table. and now we have to tell the story of how king arthur got his fair wife guenever, and how the round table was brought to england's realm. after the defeat of the eleven kings, arthur had rescued king leodegrance of cameliard from king ryons, and put the latter with all his host to flight. and at the court of leodegrance he saw his charming daughter guenever, whom he ever after loved. so it fell upon a time that arthur said to merlin,-- "my barons give me no peace, but day by day insist that i shall take a wife. but whether i marry or not, i shall take no step without your counsel and advice." "your barons counsel well," said merlin. "a man of your bounty and nobleness should not be without a wife. is there any one woman that you love beyond others?" "yes, by my faith there is," said arthur. "i love guenever, the daughter of king leodegrance, of cameliard, he who has in his house the round table, which you have told me he had of my father king uther. this damsel is the loveliest lady that i know, or could ever hope to find." "of her beauty and fairness no man can question," said merlin. "if your heart were not set, i could find you a damsel of beauty and goodness that would please you as well. but where a man's heart is fixed there will he turn against the counsel of wise and foolish alike." "you speak the truth," said arthur. covertly, however, merlin warned the king that guenever would bring trouble to his court and his heart, and counselled him to weigh well what he thought to do. but arthur's love was warm, and the wise man's counsel, as he had said, fell like water on a stone. thereupon merlin went to cameliard and told king leodegrance of arthur's wish. "this is to me," said leodegrance, "the best tidings that any man living could bring; that a monarch of such prowess and nobleness should ask to wed my daughter. cheerfully will i give her, and i would give lands in dowry with her, but of that he has enough already. yet i can send him a gift that will please him far more than lands or treasure, no less a gift than the table round, which uther pendragon gave me, and around which may be seated a hundred and fifty knights. as for myself, i have but a hundred knights worthy to sit at the table, but these i will send to arthur, who must complete the tale himself." and so, with guenever, and the round table, and the hundred knights, merlin set out for london, where arthur then was, and whither the noble cavalcade rode in royal procession through the land. when king arthur heard of their coming his heart was filled with joy, and he said to those around him,-- "this fair lady is very welcome to me, for i have loved her long. and these knights with the round table please me more than if the greatest riches had been sent, for i value worth and prowess far above wealth and honors." he ordered the marriage and coronation to be prepared for in royal pomp, but with no needless delay. "and, merlin," he said, "i pray you to go and seek me out fifty knights of the highest honor and valor, to complete the tale of my round table knights." merlin went, and in a short time brought twenty-eight knights whom he deemed worthy of that high honor, but no more could he find. then the archbishop of canterbury was brought, and he blessed the seats of the round table with great worship and ceremony, and placed the twenty-eight knights in their chairs. when this was done merlin said,-- [illustration: copyright by frederick hollyer, london, england. king arthur's fair love.] "fair sirs, you must all rise and come to king arthur and do him homage. for henceforth you are his chosen knights, and must so declare. and know you well, that great shall be the future honor and fame of all who worthily occupy these seats." at this request the knights arose, and did homage to the king. and when they had risen from their seats there appeared in each in letters of gold the name of him who had sat therein. but two seats were wanting from the full tale. "what is the reason of this?" asked arthur. "why are there two seats lacking?" "sir," answered merlin, "no man shall occupy those places but the most worshipful of knights. and in the seat perilous, which adjoins them, no man shall sit but one, and if any one unworthy of this honor shall be so hardy as to attempt it, he shall be destroyed. he that shall sit there shall have no fellow." anon came young gawaine, the son of king lot, a squire of handsome mien, who asked of the king a gift. "ask, and i shall grant it," answered the king. "i ask that you make me knight on the day you wed fair guenever." "that shall i do willingly," said arthur, "and with what worship i may, since you are my nephew, my sister's son." [here it is proper to say that arthur had three sisters, the daughters of queen igraine and her first husband, the duke of tintagil. one of these, margawse, had married king lot, and had four sons, all of whom became valiant knights; elaine, the second, had married king neutres of garlot; the third sister, morgan le fay, had been put to school, where she became learned in the art of necromancy; of the fourth the chronicles fail to speak.] hardly had gawaine spoken when there came riding into the court a poor man, who brought with him a fair-faced youth, of eighteen years of age, riding upon a lean mare. "sir, will you grant me a gift?" the old man asked of the king. "i was told that you would at the time of your marriage grant any gift that was asked for in reason." "that is true," said the king. "what would you have?" "jesu save you, most gracious king. i ask nothing more than that you make my son a knight." "it is a great thing you ask," said the king. "who are you, and what claim has your son to this high honor?" "i am but a cowherd, great sir, and am the father of thirteen sons. but this one is unlike all the rest. he will do no labor, and cares for nothing but warlike sports, and seeing knights and battles. and day and night he craves for knighthood." "what is thy name?" the king asked the young man. "sir, my name is tor." the king looked at him closely. he was of handsome face, and was very well made and strong of limb and body. "where is the sword with which this youth shall be made knight?" asked the king. "it is here," said tor. "then draw it from the scabbard, and require me to make you a knight." at these words the youth sprang lightly and gladly from his mare, drew the sword, and kneeled before the king, asking him in earnest tones to make him a knight of the round table. "a knight i will make you," answered the king. "but the round table is not for untried youth." thereupon he smote him upon the neck with the sword, and said,-- "be you a good knight, and i pray god you may be so. if you prove of prowess and worth i promise you shall in good time have a seat at the round table." "now, merlin," said arthur, "tell me whether this tor will be a good knight or not." "he should be so," answered merlin, "for he comes of kingly blood. the cowherd here is no more his father than i, but he is the son of the good knight, king pellinore, whose prowess you have much reason to know." by good hap king pellinore himself came next morning to the court, and was glad to find what honor had been done his son, whom he gladly acknowledged as his. then merlin took pellinore by the hand and led him to the seat next the seat perilous. "this is your place at the round table," he said. "there is none here so worthy as yourself to sit therein." at a later hour of that eventful day, in the city of london, and at the church of saint stephen, king arthur was wedded unto dame guenever, with the highest pomp and ceremony, and before as noble an assemblage of knights and ladies as the land held. afterwards a high feast was made, and as the knights sat, each in his appointed place, at the round table, merlin came to them and bade them sit still. "for you shall see a strange and marvellous happening," he said. hardly had he spoken before there came running a white hart into the hall, closely followed by a white brachet,[ ] while thirty couple of black hounds in full cry came after, and chased the hart round the feasting boards and then round the round table. [footnote : a small scenting dog.] as they ran the brachet caught the hart by the haunch, and bit out a piece, whereupon the wounded animal made a great leap over a table, and through a window, with such force as to overthrow a knight. through the window the hounds followed, in full cry. the fallen knight quickly rose, took up the brachet in his arms, and left the hall. seeking his horse, he rode away, carrying the brachet with him. but hardly had he gone when a lady came riding into the hall on a white palfrey, and crying aloud to king arthur,-- "sir, suffer not yonder knight to do me this wrong. the brachet that he has taken away is mine." she had but ceased speaking when an armed knight rode up on a great horse, and took her away by force, though she bitterly cried and called for aid. "this affair must not be taken lightly," said merlin to the king. "the honor of your court requires that you shall redress all wrongs, and here, at your marriage feast, have great wrongs been done." "what do you advise?" asked the king. "i shall be governed by your counsel." "then," answered merlin, "call sir gawaine, for he must bring again the white hart. also call sir tor, for to him must be assigned the adventure of the knight and the brachet. as for the lady and the knight, king pellinore must bring them, or slay the knight if he will not come." thereupon they were all three called, and they armed and rode forth on the errands assigned them. many and strange were the adventures of these valiant knights, but we have matter of more moment to tell, and so cannot relate their valorous deeds. we can but say that gawaine brought back the head of the hart, and little honor with it, for by an evil accident he killed a lady, and barely escaped with life from her champions. sir tor had better fortune, for he brought the brachet alive, and won much honor from his deeds. king pellinore was also successful in his quest, for he brought back the lady in safety, after having fought with and slain her kidnapper. this lady's name was nimue, and of her we shall have many strange things to tell hereafter. thus ended the three quests which followed the marriage of king arthur and guenever the fair. afterwards the king established his knights, giving lands to those who were poor, and enjoining all against outrage, and in favor of mercy and gentleness. he also bade them to succor all ladies in distress, and never to engage in a wrongful quarrel, or to strive for worldly goods. unto this were sworn all the knights of the round table, old and young. and it was ordained that they should renew their oaths every year at the high feast of pentecost, that their obligations might never be forgotten, and the honor and renown of the glorious fellowship of the round table never decline. in this manner began, that illustrious career of the knights of the round table, which was destined to shed the greatest glory on arthur's reign, and to fill the whole world with its fame. valorous as were the knights who first composed that noble order of chivalry, it was afterwards to include such world-renowned warriors as lancelot du lake, tristram de lyonesse, and others of little less prowess, the story of whose noble exploits and thrilling adventures was destined to be told by bards and sung by minstrels till all time should ring with the tale, and men of honor in far future days be stirred to emulation of these worthy knights of old. book ii. the deeds of balin. chapter i. how balin won and used the enchanted sword. it befell upon a time when king arthur was at london, that tidings came to him that king ryons of north wales was carrying out his threat. he had crossed the borders with an army, and was burning and harrying his lands and slaying his people without mercy. on learning this the king sent word to his lords and knights to assemble with all haste at camelot, where a council would be held and measures of defence and reprisal taken. and it so fell out that while this assembly was in session at camelot, a damsel came into the court who had been sent by the great lady lile of avelion. when she came before king arthur she let fall her mantle, which was richly furred, and revealed a noble sword, with which she was girt. "damsel," said the king in wonder, "why wear you that sword? it beseems you not." "indeed, sir, it is a sore burden to me," replied the damsel, "but i must wear it till a knight of the highest honor and virtue can be found to deliver me of my charge. none other than such a one may draw this sword from its sheath, for so it is ordained. i have been to king ryons's camp, where i was told there were knights of high excellence, and he and all his knights tried it, but in vain. i have therefore come to your court with my burden, and hope that the knight fit to draw it may here be found." "this is surely a great marvel," said arthur. "i shall try to draw the sword myself; not that i claim to be the best knight, but as an example to my barons." then arthur took the sword by the sheath and the girdle, and pulled at it eagerly, but it failed to yield. "you need not pull so hard," said the damsel. "he who shall draw it will need little strength, but much virtue." "now try ye, all my barons," said arthur. "but beware ye be not defiled with shame, treachery, or guile." "that is well advised," said, the damsel, "for none shall draw it but a clean knight without villany, and of gentle birth both by father and mother." then most of the knights of the round table who were there tried their fortunes, but none succeeded in the magic task. "alas!" said the damsel, "i hoped to find in this court the best knights upon earth." "by my faith," said arthur, "the world holds no better knights; but it grieves me to find that none here seem to have the grace or power to draw this sword." it happened that at that time there was a poor knight of northumberland birth in arthur's court, balin by name. he had been held prisoner there more than half a year, for slaying a knight who was cousin to the king, and had just been set free through the good services of some of the barons, who knew that he was not at fault in this deed. when he learned what was being done his heart bade him try his fortune, but he was so poor and so shabbily dressed that he held back in shame. yet when the damsel took her leave of arthur and his barons, and was passing from the court, balin called to her and said,-- "suffer me, i pray you, to try this venture. though i am poorly clad, and but ill considered, i feel in my heart that in honor and grace i stand as high as any of those knights." the damsel looked on him with some disdain, and begged him not to put her to useless trouble, for he seemed not the man to succeed where so many of noble guise had failed. "fair damsel," he replied, "you should well know that worthiness and good qualities do not dwell in attire, but that manhood and virtue lie hidden within man's person, not in his dress; and therefore many a worshipful knight is not known to all people." "you speak wisely," said the damsel. "you shall essay the task, and may fortune befriend you." then balin took the sword by the girdle and sheath, and drew it out with such ease that king and barons alike were filled with wonder, and many of the knights, in spite and jealousy, cried that balin had done this not by might, but by witchcraft. "he is a good knight," cried the damsel, "the best and worthiest among you all, even if fortune has dealt with him shabbily. now, gentle and courteous knight, give me the sword again." "no," said balin, "i have fairly won this sword, and well it pleases me. i shall keep it unless it be taken from me by force." "you are not wise to keep it," said the damsel. "i warn you that if you do so you will slay with the sword your best friend and the man you most love in the world, and that it will be your destruction." "i shall take such adventure as god may ordain me," said balin, "but by the faith of my body i shall keep the sword." "you will quickly repent it," said the damsel. "it is more for your good than for mine that i ask it back. i am sad to find that you will not believe me, and will bring destruction on yourself. the wilful man makes his own destiny." with this the damsel departed, in great sorrow. then balin sent for his horse and his armor, and made ready to depart, though arthur begged him to remain. "i knew not your worth," he said, "or you should not have been so unkindly treated. i was misinformed concerning you." "my heartfelt thanks are yours," said balin. "but asking your good grace, i must needs depart." "then tarry not long, fair knight; you shall always be welcome to my court." so balin donned his armor and made ready to depart. but while he still tarried there came to the court a lady richly attired, and riding on a handsome horse. she saluted king arthur, and presented herself as the lady of the lake, from whom he had received the sword, saying that she had now come to demand the gift which he had promised her whenever she should ask for it. "a gift i promised you, indeed," said arthur, "and you do well to ask it. but first i would know the name of the sword you gave me." "the name of it," said the lady, "is excalibur, which signifies cut-steel." "then well is it named," said the king. "now ask what gift you will. if it is in my power to present you shall have it." "what i ask," said the lady of the lake, "is the head of the knight who has just won the sword, or of the damsel who brought it; or both their heads, if you will. he slew my brother, and she caused my father's death." "truly," said the king, in pain and wonder, "you ask what i cannot in honor grant. ask what you will else and you shall not be denied, but even a king cannot pay his debts with murder." "i shall ask nothing else," said the lady. "little deemed i that king arthur would be recreant to his word." when balin was told of the demand of the lady of the lake, he went straight to her, where she stood before the king, and said, "evil you are in heart and voice, and evil have ever been. vile enchantress, you would have my head, and therefore, shall lose yours." and with a light stroke of his sword he smote off her head before the king, so that it fell bleeding at his feet. "what shame is this?" cried arthur, in hot wrath. "why have you dared treat thus a lady to whom i was beholden, and who came here under my safe-conduct?" "your displeasure grieves me," said balin. "but you know not this lady, or you would not blame me for her death, for she was of all women the vilest that ever breathed. by enchantment and sorcery she has slain many good knights, and i have sought her during three years, to repay her for the falsehood and treachery by which she caused my mother to be burnt." "whatever your grievance, you should not have sought your revenge in my presence. you have done me a foul disgrace, sir knight. leave my court in all haste while you may, and believe me you shall be made to repent this insult to my dignity." then balin took up the head of the lady, and meeting his squire at his inn, they rode together from the town. "now," said the knight, "we must part. take this head and bear it to my friends in northumberland, and tell them that my mortal foe is dead. also tell them that i am out of prison, and by what adventure i got this sword." "you were greatly to blame to displease king arthur," said the squire. "as for that," said balin, "i hope to win his grace again by the death or capture of king ryons, whom i go to meet. the woman sought my death, and has had her just deserts." "where shall i find you again?" asked the squire. "in king arthur's court." and so they parted. meanwhile king arthur and all the court grieved deeply over the death of the lady of the lake, and felt greatly shamed that they had not hindered the sudden and bloody deed. and the king ordered that she should have a rich and stately funeral. at this time there was in arthur's court a knight named lanceor, the son of the king of ireland, a proud and valiant warrior, who was angry at balin for winning the sword, and sought revenge on him. he asked the king to give him leave to ride after balin and revenge the insult to his crown. "go and do your best," said the king. "balin has done me a great despite, and richly deserves punishment." thereupon the knight of ireland armed and rode at all speed after balin, whom he quickly overtook on a mountain side. he called to him in loud tones,-- "stop, sir knight. you shall halt whether you will or not, and the shield you bear shall prove but light defence to you, for i am come to punish you for your crime." hearing this outcry, balin turned fiercely, and demanded,-- "what do you wish, sir knight? are you here to joust with me?" "it is for that i have followed you," said the irish knight. "it might have been better for you to stay at home," answered balin. "many a knight who thinks to chastise his enemy finds ill fortune to fall upon himself. from what court have you been sent?" "from the court of king arthur, to revenge the insult you put upon him in murdering his guest before his face." "then must i fight with you," said balin. "yet i warn you your quarrel is a weak one. the lady that is dead richly deserved her fate, or i should have been as loath as any knight living to kill a woman." "make ready," said lanceor. "fight we must, and one of us shall remain dead upon this field. our combat is to the utterance." then they put their spears in rest, and rode together at the full speed of their horses, meeting with a shock in mid career. lanceor struck balin a blow upon the shield that shivered the spear in his hand. but balin smote him with such force that the spear-point went through shield and hauberk, and pierced his body, so that he fell dead to the earth. as the victorious knight stood looking on the corpse of his slain foe, there came from camelot a damsel, who rode up at full speed upon a fair palfrey. when she saw that lanceor was dead she fell into a passion of sorrow, and cried out in tones of deep lamentation,-- "oh, balin, thou hast slain two bodies and one heart! yes, two hearts in one body, and two souls thou hast murdered with thy fatal spear." then she took the sword from her love, and as she took it fell to the ground in a swoon. when she arose again her sorrow was so great that balin was grieved to the heart, and he sought to take the sword from her hands, but she held it so firmly that he could not wrest it from her without hurting her. suddenly, before he could move to hinder, she set the pommel of the sword to the ground and threw her body upon the naked blade. pierced through the heart, she fell dead upon the body of her slain love. "alas!" said balin, "that this should have happened. i deeply regret the death of this knight for the love of this damsel; for such true love as this i never saw before. yet his death was forced on me, and hers i could not hinder." full of sorrow, he turned his horse, and as he looked towards a great forest near by he saw a knight riding towards him, whom he knew, by his arms, to be his brother balan. when they were met they took off their helmets and kissed each other, and wept for joy and pity. "i little expected to meet you thus," said balan. "a man in the castle of four stones told me that you were freed from prison, and therefore i came hither in hope to find you at the court." then balin told his brother of all that had happened at camelot, and of the displeasure of the king, and that he had determined to win arthur's favor at the risk of his life. "king ryons lies not far away besieging the castle terrabil," he said. "thither will we ride, to prove our worth and prowess upon him." "i shall be your comrade," said balan. "we shall help each other as brethren should, and trust to god for fortune." as they stood conversing there came a dwarf riding in all haste from camelot. when he saw the dead bodies he tore his hair for sorrow. "which of you knights has done this foul deed?" he demanded. "why do you ask?" queried balin. "because i have the right to know." "it was i," said balin. "he pursued me hither, and forced me to fight. one of us had to die. as for the damsel, she died by her own hand, for which no man can be sorrier than i. for her sake i shall owe all women the better love and favor." "you have done yourself great damage," said the dwarf. "the kindred of this knight will follow you through the world till they have revenged on you his death." "that i do not greatly dread," said balin. "but i am sorry to have displeased king arthur for the death of this knight; and sorrier still for the fate of this lovelorn damsel." as they thus talked there chanced to pass a king of cornwall, named king mark, who halted on seeing the dead bodies, and demanded what had been done. when the tale was told him he was grieved that true love should have met so sad a fate, and said, "i shall not leave here till i have built them a tomb, for they have earned a rich interment." then he pitched his tents, and buried them nobly, placing above them a rich and fair tomb which he found in a church near by, and upon this tomb he wrote their epitaph, as follows: "here lieth lanceor, the son of ireland's king, who was slain in fair combat by the hands of balin; and his lady colombe, who for deep love and sorrow slew herself with her true love's sword. may lovers henceforth make this their place of pilgrimage." chapter ii. how arthur triumphed over the kings. while the tomb was being erected over the dead knight and his love, merlin appeared at the scene. "you have done yourself great harm," he said to balin. "why saved you not this lady?" "by the faith of my body, i could not," said balin, "she slew herself so suddenly." "this must i tell you," said merlin. "because of the death of this lady you shall strike a stroke the most dolorous that ever man struck, except the stroke of our lord; for you shall hurt the truest knight and the man of most worship that now lives, and through that stroke three kingdoms shall be in great poverty, misery, and wretchedness for twelve years, and the knight you will hurt shall not be whole of his wound for many years." "if i knew that it were true as you say," answered balin, "i would do such a rash deed as to slay myself to make you a liar. but the future must reveal itself. i trust no man's predictions." thereupon merlin suddenly vanished away, leaving them in deep marvel at his coming and going. soon after balin and his brother took leave of king mark. "first," said the king, "tell me your name." "you see he bears two swords," said balan. "you may call him the knight with the two swords." and so king mark rode towards camelot, and the brothers towards terrabil. as they rode, merlin again met them, but now in disguise. "whither do you ride?" he asked. "why should we tell you that?" said the knights. "you need not, for i know already. and i can tell you this. you will gain no advantage over king ryons without my counsel." "ah! you are merlin," said balin. "then we shall be glad of your counsel." "come then with me. but look that you brace yourself to knightly deeds, for you will have great need to do so." "as for that," said balin, "we will do what we can. no knight can do more." then merlin lodged them in a leafy wood beside the highway, where they rested till it was near midnight. he then awakened them and bade them rise and make ready, for the king they sought was near at hand. he had stolen away from his host with threescore of his best knights to visit a lady. "how shall we know the king?" asked balin. "hereby is a narrow way where you shall meet him," said merlin. they followed him to the place, where they lay in ambush till the rattle of harness showed that the party approached. then, at merlin's suggestion, the two knights rode from their covert and assailed the king at the head of his followers, wounding him sorely and hurling him to the ground. they then, in the darkness, attacked the array of knights with the fury of lions, slaying more than forty of them, and putting the remnant to flight. this done, they returned to king ryons where he lay helpless, and with a threat of death forced him to yield himself to their grace. "valiant knights, slay me not," he asked. "you may profit by my life, but can win nothing by my death." "there you speak truly," said they, and lifting him carefully they placed him on a horse-litter for conveyance to camelot. then merlin vanished and came to king arthur, whom he told that his greatest enemy was vanquished and taken. "by whom?" asked the king. "by two of the most valorous knights in your realm. to-morrow you shall learn who they are." in good time balin and his brother came with the wounded king and delivered him to the porters at the gates, charging them to bear him to king arthur. then they turned again and departed in the dawning of the day. when king ryons was brought to the court, arthur received him graciously. "sir king," he said, "you are heartily welcome. by what adventure came you hither?" "by a hard one," said the captive, "as you well may see." "who won you?" asked arthur. "the knight with the two swords and his brother," said ryons. "and knights of marvellous prowess they are." "i know them not," said arthur, "but none the less am i deeply beholden to them." "i shall tell you," said merlin. "one of these knights was balin, he that won the sword; the other was balan, his brother, and as good a knight. and it is the most sorrowful thing that tongue can say that neither of these brave knights shall live long to win the fame of which they are so worthy." "alas!" said arthur, "if that be so, it is indeed a great pity. i am much beholden to balin, for he has highly redeemed the despite he did me. i have not deserved such good service at his hands." "he shall do more for you, and that soon," said merlin. "i must now depart, for i have duties elsewhere; but before i go let me warn you to prepare your forces for battle at once. to-morrow before noon you will be set upon by a great host, led by nero, king ryons's brother. therefore make all haste for your defence." merlin's departure was for a purpose which he told not to the king. he well knew that king lot of orkney, arthur's bitterest foe, was marching to join nero with a powerful host, and foresaw that if they fell together on king arthur he and all his army would be destroyed. the shrewd magician thereupon repaired to king lot, and held him with idle tales of prophecy till nero and his people were destroyed. for between nero and arthur a vigorous battle was fought, in which many knights won honor and renown, while king arthur with his own hand slew twenty knights and maimed forty. but balin and his brother balan, who came in during the fight, did such mighty deeds of prowess that all who beheld them said they fought like angels from heaven or devils from hell, while arthur beheld their prowess with wonder and delight, and vowed that he owed to them his victory. the combat, which took place at the castle terrabil, ended in the complete defeat of nero, and the destruction of nearly all his host. word of this disaster was brought to king lot, where he lay resting with his army. "alas!" he said, "why did i let myself be beguiled? had i been there no host under heaven could have matched us. that false prattler, with his prophecy, has mocked and befooled me. but what shall now be done? shall we treat with arthur, or is it wise to fight him with half an army?" "his men are weary with fighting and we are fresh," said a knight. "now is the time to set upon him." "so be it, then. and i hope that every knight will bear himself in the fray as well as i, for it is no laggard's task we have now before us." then with waving banners and serried spears they assailed arthur's weary host. but the round table knights, with the aid of the two valiant brothers balin and balan, roused themselves vigorously to the fray, and bore all before them, so that only where king lot himself fought did his host hold its ground. but where he battled in the van all his men seemed borne up by his valor, and not a knight met him but was overthrown or forced back by his prowess. then king pellinore pushed through the press of knights and horses, and struck a mighty stroke at king lot as he fought at the head of his host. the sword failed in its aim, but struck the neck of the king's horse, so that the wounded animal fell to the ground with its rider. then pellinore struck so furious a stroke that his sword cut king lot's helmet in twain, and cleft his head to the brows, hurling him lifeless to the earth. seeing their king thus slain, all the host of orkney turned and fled, and great was the slaughter in the pursuit. that day there fell in all twelve kings, who fought with lot and nero, and all these were buried in the church of saint stevens at camelot. [illustration: copyright by frederick hollyer, london, england. king arthur's tomb.] of the tombs that were made for these kings that of king lot was most richly adorned, and king arthur had a tomb prepared for himself beside it. for this he had made twelve images of brass and copper, which were gilt with gold. these represented the twelve kings, and each of them held a taper of wax, that burned night and day. an image of king arthur was also made, in the form of a statue that stood above the twelve kings with a drawn sword in its hand, while the faces of the twelve images were those of men that had been overcome. all these figures were made by merlin through his subtle craft. "when i am dead," he said to the king, "these tapers shall burn no longer. then the end will be near, and the adventures of the sangreal shall be achieved." much more he told the king of the strange events that would come to pass in the future time; and further he said,-- "look well to the scabbard of excalibur. you shall lose no blood while you wear this scabbard, even though you be covered with wounds." thus admonished, arthur, in loving trust, took the scabbard to morgan le fay, his sister, and gave it into her care to keep for him. much did he peril in doing so, for morgan was false at heart, and proved recreant to her trust, from love for a knight named accolan, whom she cherished in her soul beyond her husband, while she had grown to hate her brother. she made, by enchantment, another scabbard like the one given her in trust, and gave the scabbard of excalibur to her love. by this deed of treachery she hoped in her false soul to bring king arthur to his death. and well-nigh she succeeded therein, as shall be told hereafter. chapter iii. how balin gave the dolorous stroke. a day or two after king arthur had placed the magical scabbard in the hands of his evil-thinking sister, he grew unwell, and had his tent pitched in a meadow near camelot for the benefit of the fresh air and the green verdure. here he sought in vain to sleep, lying long in uneasy wakefulness. as he thus lay he heard a horse approaching, and looking through the door of his tent, beheld a knight, who lamented deeply as he came. "halt! fair sir," cried arthur. "tell me the cause of your sorrow." "you can little aid me," said the knight, and he rode onward without further answer. soon afterward balin rode up, and on seeing king arthur sprang from his horse and saluted him. "by my head, you are welcome," said the king. "a knight has just ridden past here moaning sadly, but has declined to tell me the cause of his sorrow. i desire of your courtesy to bring that knight to me, either by force or good-will, for i wish greatly to know why he so deeply grieves." "that is little to what i should be glad to do for you," said balin. he rode on apace, and ere long found the knight in a neighboring forest in company with a damsel. "sir knight," he said, "you must come with me to king arthur. he demands to see you and learn the cause of your sorrow." "that i shall not do," said the knight. "it will injure me greatly, and do no good to you or him." "then you must make ready to fight," said balin. "i have my order to bring you willingly or by force, and i should be loath to have a fight with you." "will you be my warrant if i go with you?" asked the knight. "for truly you lead me into danger." "yes. and i shall die rather than let you come to harm, if it is in my power to avert it." this said, the knight turned and rode back with balin, accompanied by the damsel. but as they reached king arthur's pavilion a strange thing happened. a spear was thrust through the body of the knight, inflicting a mortal wound. yet the hand and form of him who did this fatal deed remained unseen. "alas!" said the knight, "it is as i feared. under your conduct and guard i have been slain by a traitorous knight called garlon, who through enchantment rides invisible, and does such deeds as this. my day is done. as you are a true knight, i charge you to take my horse, which is better than yours, and ride with this damsel on the quest which for me is at an end. follow as she will lead, and revenge my death when best you may." "that shall i do," said balin. "upon the honor of knighthood i vow to follow your quest, and to revenge you on this false foe, or die as you have done." then, leaving the king, balin rode with the damsel, who bore with her the truncheon of the spear with which the knight had been killed. after they had gone, king arthur had the knight buried richly and honorably, and had written upon the tomb his name, herleus de berbeus, and how he came to his death through the treachery of the invisible knight garlon. meanwhile balin and the damsel rode onward until they found themselves in a forest. here they met a knight engaged in hunting, who asked balin why he showed such grief. "that i do not care to tell," said balin. "you should if i were armed as you are, for your answer is too curt to be courteous." "my story is not worth fighting for," answered balin. "i will tell you if you so greatly desire to know." he thereupon told him the fatal event which had just occurred, and that he mourned the untimely death of the knight who had been so treacherously slain. "this is a sad story," said the knight. "as i am a true cavalier i will go with you on your quest, and leave you not while life lasts." then he went with balin to his inn, armed himself, and rode forth with him. but as they passed by a hermitage near a church-yard the invisible knight garlon came again, and smote balin's companion through the body, as he had done to herleus before. "alas!" cried the knight. "i too am slain by this invisible traitor, who does murder at will under cover of enchantment." "it is not the first despite the wretch has done me," cried balin. "could i see him i would soon repay this outrage. i am bound by the honor of a knight to a double revenge on this unworthy caitiff." he and the hermit thereupon buried the slain knight, perin de mountbeliard, under a rich stone in a noble tomb, inscribing thereon the cause of his death. in the morning the knight and damsel proceeded on their quest, and in good time found themselves before a castle, which rose high and broad by the roadside. here balin alighted, and he and the damsel turned towards the castle, with purpose to enter. but as balin entered in advance the portcullis was suddenly let fall behind him, cutting him off from his companion. immediately a number of men assailed the damsel with drawn swords. when balin saw this treacherous proceeding his soul burned within him. what to do at first he knew not. then he ran hastily into the gate tower, and leaped, all armed, over the wall into the ditch. finding himself unhurt, he drew his sword and rushed furiously upon the armed men who surrounded his companion. "traitors and dogs!" he cried. "if you are eager for fight, i will give you your fill." "we cannot fight you," they answered. "we do nothing but keep the old custom of the castle." "what is that?" asked balin. "it is an ill custom, methinks, that thus displays itself." "our lady is sick, and has lain so for many years. nothing will cure her but a dish full of blood from a maid and a king's daughter. it is, therefore, the custom that no damsel shall pass this way without leaving a silver dish full of blood." "that is for the damsel to say," replied balin. "if she chooses to bleed for the good of your lady she may, but her life shall not be taken while mine lasts." the damsel thereupon yielded a dish full of her blood, but it helped not the lady. she and balin rested in the castle for the night, where they had good cheer. in the morning they proceeded again on their quest. three or four days now passed without adventure. at the end of that time the knight and damsel found lodging in the house of a rich gentleman, the owner of a fair estate. as they sat at supper balin was moved by the grievous complaints of one who sat beside him, and asked his host the cause of this lamentation. "it is this," said the host. "i was lately at a tournament, where i twice overthrew a knight who is brother to king pellam. he threatened to revenge his defeat on my best friend, and has done so by wounding my son. the hurt is a grievous one, and cannot be cured till i have some of that knight's blood; but how to find him i know not, for his name is unknown to me, and he always rides invisible." "aha!" cried balin, "has that treacherous dog been at his murderous work again? i know his name well. it is garlon, and he has lately slain two knightly companions of mine in the same base manner. i should rather meet with that invisible wretch than have all the gold in this kingdom. let me see him once and he or i dies." "i shall tell you what to do, then," said the host. "king pellam of listeneise has announced a great feast, to be given within twenty days, to which no knight can come unless he brings with him his wife or his love. that false knight, your enemy and mine, will be there, and visible to human eyes." "then, as i am a true knight," cried balin, "you shall have of his blood enough to twice heal your son's wound, if i die in the getting it." "we shall set forward to-morrow," said the host, "and i hope it may be as you say." in the morning they rode towards listeneise, which it took them fifteen days to reach, and where the great feast began on the day of their arrival. leaving their horses in the stables, they sought to enter the castle, but balin's companion was refused admittance, as he had no lady with him. balin, however, having the damsel with him, was at once received, and taken to a chamber where he laid aside his armor and put on rich robes which the attendants brought him. they wished him to leave his sword, but to this he objected. "it is the custom of my country," he said, "for a knight always to keep his weapon with him. this custom shall i keep, or depart as i came." hearing this, they objected no longer to his wearing his sword, and he thereupon entered the feasting chambers with his lady companion. here he found himself among many worshipful knights and fair ladies. balin, after looking carefully round him, asked a guest,-- "is there not a knight in this good company named garlon?" "yes. yonder knight is he, the one with the dark face. and let me tell you that there is no more marvellous knight living. he has the power of going invisible, and has destroyed many good knights unseen." "i have heard of this," said balin. "a marvellous gift, indeed. this, then, is garlon? thanks for your information." then balin considered anxiously what had best be done. "if i slay him here my own life will pay the forfeit," he said to himself. "but if i let him escape me now it may be long before i have such an opportunity, and in the meanwhile he may do much harm." as he stood thus reflecting, with his eyes fixed on garlon's face, the latter observed his close and stern regard. in haughty anger he came to him and smote him on the face with the back of his hand. "sir knight," he said, "take that for your impertinent stare. now eat your meat, and do what you came here for. hereafter learn to use your eyes to better purpose." "you dog!" cried balin, "this is not your first insult to me. you bid me do what i came for. it is this." as he spoke he rose furiously from his seat, drew his sword, and with one fierce blow clove garlon's head to the shoulders. "that is my errand here," cried balin to the guests. "now give me the truncheon," he said to the damsel, "with which he slew your knight." she gave it to him, and balin thrust it through garlon's body, exclaiming,-- "with that truncheon you killed a good knight, and with this blow i revenge him." then he called his late host, who had by this gained entrance to the feast, and said,-- "here lies your foe. take with you enough of his blood to heal your son." all this had happened so quickly that none had time to interfere, but the knights now sprang hastily from their seats, and rushed from the hall for their weapons, that they might revenge their slain companion. among them rose king pellam, crying furiously,-- "why have you killed my brother! villain and murderer, you shall die for this!" "here i stand," said balin. "if you wish revenge, seek it yourself. i stand in my defence." "it is well said," cried the king. "stand back, all. for the love i bore my brother i will take his revenge on myself. let no one interfere. this murderer is mine." then king pellam snatched up a mighty weapon and struck fiercely at balin, who threw up his own sword in guard. he was in time to save his head, but the treacherous blade went into pieces beneath the stroke, leaving him unarmed before the furious king. balin, finding himself thus in danger of death, ran into a neighboring chamber in search of a weapon, closely pursued by his enraged adversary. finding none there, he ran on from chamber to chamber, seeking a weapon in vain, with king pellam raging like a maddened lion behind him. at length balin entered a rich and marvellously adorned chamber, within which was a bed covered with cloth of gold of the noblest texture, and in this bed a person lay. near by was a table with a top of solid gold and four curiously-shaped pillars of silver for its legs, while upon it stood a mighty spear, whose handle was strangely wrought, as though it had been made for a mighty king. but of all this marvel and magnificence balin saw only the spear, which he seized at once with a strong grip, and turned with it to face his adversary. king pellam was close at hand, with sword uplifted for a fatal stroke, but as he rushed in blind rage forward balin pierced his body with the spear, hurling him insensible to the floor. little dreamed the fated warrior of all that thrust portended. the spear he used was a magical weapon, and prophecy had long declared that the deadliest evil should come from its use. king pellam had no sooner fallen beneath that fatal thrust than all the castle rocked and tottered as if a mighty earthquake had passed beneath its walls, and the air was filled with direful sounds. then down crushed the massive roof, and with a sound like that of the trumpet-blast of disaster the strong walls rent asunder, and rushed downward in a torrent of ruin. one moment that stately pile lifted its proud battlements in majesty toward the skies; the next it lay prostrate as though it had been stricken by the hand of god to the earth. men say who saw it that when fell that fatal blow--thereafter to be known in history and legend as the "dolorous stroke"--the castle shivered like a forest struck by a strong wind, and then fell with a mighty crash, burying hundreds beneath its walls. among these were balin and king pellam, who lay there for three days without aid or relief, in deep agony and peril of death. chapter iv. the fate of balin and balan. at the end of the three days came merlin, who rescued balin from under the ruined walls. "your horse is dead," he said, "but i have brought you another, and the sword you won in arthur's hall. my counsel is that you ride out of this country with all speed; for little you know the evil you have done." "the damsel i brought hither must go with me," said balin. "she shall never go farther," answered merlin. "the damsel is dead, and with her many a good knight and fair lady. that blow of yours was the fatalest ever struck, as you may see in the ruin of this castle, and as you will see further when you ride abroad through this distracted country." "what have i done?" cried balin. "how could i know that such dread disaster dwelt within that spear? who was he that lay within the bed, and what does this strange thing portend?" "you did but what destiny commanded," said merlin. "it is fate, not you, that is at fault. let me tell you the meaning of this mighty and terrible event, which destiny has thrown into your hands. he who lay in that rich bed was joseph of arimathea, who came years ago into this land, and bore with him part of the blood of our lord jesus christ. and that spear was the same fatal weapon with which longius smote our lord to the heart. king pellam was nigh akin to joseph of arimathea, and great pity is it of his hurt, for that stroke has filled the land with trouble, grief, and mourning. as for king pellam, he shall lie for many years in sore pain from the wound you dealt him, and shall never be whole again until galahad, the high prince, shall heal him when he comes this way in the quest of the sangreal." these words said, balin mounted his horse, and departed in deep grief for the harm he had wrought, saying to merlin as he left, "in this world we shall never meet again, for i feel that destiny has marked me for its victim." but little knew he the full effects of that fatal blow till he rode forth through the land. then as he went through the once fair cities and fertile country he saw the people lying dead on every side, and cities and lands in ruin together. few remained alive of all the inhabitants of that populous realm, and as he passed these cried out to him,-- "oh, balin, terrible is the harm that thou hast done to this innocent land! three countries lie destroyed through the dolorous stroke thou gavest unto king pellam. woe to thee for this dread deed! thou hast escaped alive, yet doubt not but the vengeance of heaven will fall on thee at last!" great was the grief and suffering with which the good knight heard these words, and glad at heart was he when at length he left behind him that land of woe and ruin, to which his innocent hand had wrought such deadly harm. but as he rode onward the feeling came to him that his end was at hand, though this grieved him little, for he felt as one set apart to do heaven's work of destiny. and for eight days thereafter he rode over many leagues of strange country without adventure. at length came a day when he saw before him, by the roadside, a cross, on which in letters of gold was written, "it is not wise for any knight alone to ride towards this castle," then he saw a white-haired old man approach, who said,-- "balin le savage, you pass your bounds to come this way. turn again, if you would leave this place in safety." with these words he vanished, and as he did so there rang on the air a bugle-blast like that blown for the death of a beast of the chase. "that blast is blown for me," said balin. "i am the prize of the invisible powers. i am not yet dead, but they claim me for their own." as he stood lost in deep thought there came trooping from the castle, which he now saw in the distance, a hundred fair ladies and many knights, who welcomed him with great show of gladness, and led him with them to the castle, where he found dancing and minstrelsy, and all manner of sport and pleasure. as he stood observing all this the chief lady of the castle said to him,-- "knight of the two swords, there is a custom of this castle which all who come here must keep. hereby is an island which is held by a knight, and no man can pass this way unless he joust with him." "that is an unhappy custom," said balin. "why should every traveller be forced to fight?" "you shall have to do with but one knight," said the lady. "that troubles me little," said balin. "i and my horse are both weary from our journey, but i am not weary at heart, and, if fight i must, i am ready to do it now. if death comes to me, it will not come unwelcome." "your shield does not seem to be a good one," said a knight. "let me lend you a larger one." balin took the proffered shield and left his own, and rode to the island, where he and his horse were taken over in a great boat. on reaching the island shore he met a damsel, who said in sorrowful accents,-- "o knight balin, why have you left your own shield? alas! you have put yourself in great danger. had you borne your own you would have been known. it is a great pity that a knight of your prowess and hardiness should fight unknown." "i repent that i ever came into this country," said balin. "but now that i am here i shall not turn again, and whatever comes to me, be it life or death, i shall take it as my lot." then he mounted and rode into the island, in whose midst he saw a castle, from which rode a knight wearing red armor, and mounted on a horse which bore trappings of the same color. the warriors looked at each other, but neither knew the other, though the two swords that balin wore should have revealed him, had not he borne a shield of strange device. then, couching their spears, the hostile knights rode together at the full speed of their war-horses, meeting with such mighty force and equal fortune that both horses went down, and both knights were hurled to the earth, where they lay in a swoon. balin was sorely bruised and weary with travel, and the red knight was the first to gain his feet. but as he advanced with drawn sword, balin sprang up and met him with ready shield, returning his blow with such force that he cut through his shield and cleft his helmet. and now began the mightiest battle that island had ever beheld. as they fought, balin looked at the castle and saw that its towers were full of ladies who were watching the deadly contest, and who applauded each blow as though this combat was meant for their sport. the valiant knights fought till their breath failed, and then took rest and fought again, until each was sorely wounded and the spot upon which they stood was deeply stained with blood. they fought on until each of them had seven great wounds, the least of which might have brought death to the mightiest giant of the world. but still the terrible sword-play continued, until their coats of mail were so hewn that they stood unarmed, and the blood poured piteously from their veins. at length the red knight withdrew a little and lay down. then said balin,-- "tell me what knight you are. for never did i meet a man of your prowess before." "i am balan," was the answer, "brother to the good knight balin." "alas!" cried balin, "that ever i should see this day!" and he fell to the earth in a swoon. then balan dragged himself up on his hands and feet, and took off his brother's helmet, but the face was so scarred and blood-stained that he did not know it. but when balin came to himself he cried,-- "oh, balan, my brother, thou hast slain me, and i thee! fate has done deadly work this day." "heaven aid me!" cried balan. "i should have known you by your two swords, but your shield deceived me." "a knight in the castle caused me to leave my own shield," said balin. "if i had life enough left me i would destroy that castle for its evil customs." "and i should aid you," said balan. "they have held me here because i happened to slay a knight that kept this island. and if you had slain me and lived, you would have been held in the same way as their champion." as they thus conversed there came to them the lady of the castle, with four knights and six ladies and as many yeomen. the lady wept as she heard them moan that they as brothers had slain each other, and she promised them that they should be richly entombed on the spot in which the battle had been fought. "now will you send for a priest," asked balan, "that we may receive the sacrament?" "it shall be done," said the lady. and so she sent for a priest and gave them the rites of the church. "when we are buried in one tomb," said balin, "and the inscription is placed over us telling how two brothers here slew each other in ignorance and valor, there will never good knight nor good man see our tomb but they will pray for our souls, and bemoan our fate." at this all the ladies wept for pity. soon after balan died, but balin lived till midnight. the lady thereupon had them both richly buried, and the tomb inscribed as they had asked, though she knew not balin's name. but in the morning came the magician merlin, who wrote balin's name upon the tomb in letters of gold, as follows: "here lieth balin le savage, the knight with the two swords, and he that smote the dolorous stroke." more than this did merlin, through this magic art. in that castle he placed a bed, and ordained that whoever should lie therein would lose his wits. and he took the sword which balin had won from the damsel, and removed its pommel, placing upon it another pommel. then he asked a knight beside him to lift that sword, but he tried to do so in vain. "no man shall have power to handle that sword," said merlin, "but the best knight in the world; and that shall be sir launcelot, or his son sir galahad. and launcelot with this sword shall slay sir gawaine, the man he loves best in the world." all this he wrote in the pommel of the sword. then merlin built to the island a bridge of steel and iron that was but half a foot broad, and ordained that no man should cross that bridge unless he were of virtuous life and free from treachery or evil thoughts and deeds. this done, merlin by magical skill fixed balin's sword in a block of marble as great as a millstone, and set it afloat upon the stream in such a way that the sword always stood upright above the water. and for years this stone swam down the stream, for no man could take it from the water or draw the sword, until in time it came to the city of camelot (which is in english winchester), where the sword was drawn, and many strange things followed thereupon, as shall be hereafter related. soon after this was done, merlin came to king arthur and told him the story of the dolorous stroke which balin had given to king pellam, and of the marvellous battle balin and balan had fought, and how they were buried in one tomb. "alas!" cried arthur, "i never heard a sadder tale. and much is the loss to knighthood and chivalry, for in the world i know not two such knights." thus endeth the tale of balin and balan, two brethren born in northumberland, good knights. chapter v. merlin's folly and fate. and now we have again a tale of disaster to tell, namely, how merlin the wise fell into love's dotage, and through folly brought himself to a living death, so that thenceforth he appeared no more upon the earth, and his wise counsels were lost to arthur and his knights. for the old magician, who had so long kept free from love's folly, became besotted with the damsel named nimue, she whom king pellinore had brought to the court on his quest at arthur's marriage. merlin quite lost his wits and wisdom through his mad passion for this young lady, to whom he would give no rest, but followed her wherever she went. the shrewd damsel, indeed, encouraged her doting lover, for he was ready to teach her all the secrets of his art, so that in time she learned from him so much of his craft that she became skilled in necromancy beyond all enchantresses of her time. the wise magician knew well that his end was at hand, and that the woman whom he loved would prove his ruin, but his doting passion was such that he had no strength of mind to resist. he came thereupon unto king arthur, and told him what he foresaw, and which it was not in his power to prevent; and warned him of many coming events, that he might be prepared for them when merlin was with him no more. [illustration: merlin and nimue.] "i have charged you," he said, "to keep in your own hands the sword excalibur and its scabbard, yet well i know that both sword and scabbard will be stolen from you by a woman whom you foolishly trust, and that your lack of wisdom will bring you near to your death. this also i may say, you will miss me deeply. when i am gone you would give all your lands to have me again. for merlin will find no equal in the land." "that i well know already," said the king. "but, since you foresee so fully what is coming upon you, why not provide for it, and by your craft overcome it?" "no," said merlin, "that may not be. strong i am, but destiny is stronger. there is no magic that can set aside the decrees of fate." soon afterwards the damsel departed from the court, but her doting old lover followed her wherever she went. and as he sought to practise upon her some of his subtle arts, she made him swear, if he would have her respond to his love, never to perform enchantment upon her again. this merlin swore. then he and nimue crossed the sea to the land of benwick, the realm of king ban, who had helped king arthur so nobly in his wars, and here he saw young lancelot, the son of king ban and his wife elaine, who was in the time to come to win world-wide fame. the queen lamented bitterly to merlin the mortal war which king claudas made upon her lord and his lands, and the ruin that she feared. "be not disturbed thereby," said merlin. "your son lancelot shall revenge you upon king claudas, so that all christendom shall ring with the story of his exploits. and this same youth shall become the most famous knight in the world." "o merlin!" said the queen, "shall i live to see my son a man of such prowess?" "yes, my lady and queen, this you shall see, and live many years to enjoy his fame." soon afterwards merlin and his lady-love returned to england and came to cornwall, the magician showing her many wonders of his art as they journeyed. but he pressed her so for her love that she grew sorely weary of his importunate suit, and would have given aught less than her life to be rid of him, for she feared him as one possessed of the arts of the foul fiend. but say or do what she would, her doting lover clung to her all the more devotedly, and wearied her the more with his endless tale of love. then it came to pass that as they wandered through cornwall, and merlin showed her all the wonders of that land, they found themselves by a rocky steep, under which he told her was a wonderful cavern that had been wrought by enchantment in the solid rock, its mouth being closed by a mighty mass of stone. here, with all her art of love, and a subtle show of affection, the faithless damsel so bewitched merlin that for joy he knew not what he did; and at her earnest wish he removed by his craft the stone that sealed the cavern's mouth, and went under it that he might show her all the marvels that lay there concealed. but hardly had he entered when, using the magic arts which she had learned from him, the faithless woman caused the great stone to sink back with a mighty sound into its place, shutting up the enchanter so firmly in that underground cavern that with all his craft he could never escape. for he had taught her his strongest arts of magic, and do what he would he could never move that stone. this faithless act performed, the damsel departed and left merlin a prisoner in the rock. she alone of all the world could set him free, and that she would not do, but kept her secret, and thanked heaven for her deliverance. and so merlin, through his doting folly, passed out of the world of men into a living tomb. long days and months passed before his fate was known, and then chance brought to his cavern prison a valiant knight named bagdemagus, who had left arthur's court in anger because sir tor was given a vacant seat at the round table which he claimed as his due. as he wandered through that part of cornwall in quest of adventures, he came one day past a great rock from which dire lamentations seemed to issue. hearing those woeful sounds, bagdemagus sought to remove the stone that closed the cavern's mouth, but so firmly was it fixed by enchantment that a hundred men could not have stirred it from its place. "strive no longer," came a voice from within. "you labor in vain." "who is it that speaks?" asked the knight. "i am merlin, the enchanter; brought here by my doting folly. i loved not wisely but too well; and here you find me, locked in this cliff by my strongest spells, which in love's witlessness i taught to a woman traitor. go now, worthy sir, and leave me to my fate." "alas! that this should be! tell me who did this thing, and by what dismal chance, that i may tell the king." then merlin related the story of his folly and fate, in the end bidding the knight to leave him, for only death could free him from that prison. hearing this, bagdemagus departed, full of sorrow and wonder, and after many days returned to arthur's court, where he told the story of the magician's fate. great was the marvel of all and the grief of the king on learning this, and much he besought nimue to set merlin free. but neither threats nor entreaties could move her obdurate heart, and at length she left the court in anger and defiance, vowing that she would never set free her old tormentor. book iii. the treason of morgan le fay. chapter i. the adventure of the enchanted ship. on a day not long after the event of balin's death, it befell that arthur and many of his knights went out hunting in a great forest, where, as fortune willed, king arthur, sir accolan of gaul, and king uriens, who had wedded morgan le fay, followed far on the track of a great hart, which led them astray till they were ten miles distant from their late companions. they were all well mounted, but so hot was the chase, and so far did it lead them, that the horses at length fell dead beneath the ardent huntsmen, leaving them on foot in the remote depths of the forest. but the hart was in no better condition, for the hot chase had worn it out, and it dragged wearily on before them, barely able to keep its feet. "what shall we do?" said arthur. "we are far from human habitation, and the night comes fast upon us." "let us go forward on foot," said uriens. "we shall surely soon meet with some place of shelter." [illustration: the great forest.] taking this advice, they advanced in the track of the hart, and soon came up with it where it lay on the bank of a large stream, while a hound had it by the throat, and others were coming up in full bay. then arthur blew the death-note of the chase, and killed the hart. this done, he looked about him, and to his surprise saw approaching on the stream a small vessel, with flowing sails of silk. as it came near it veered towards the shore, and finally touched land on the sands before them. arthur walked to the bank and looked over the sides upon the deck, but to his wonder not a living person was to be seen. "this is a marvellous thing," said the king. "has the vessel been blown here by a wind of magic? let us enter and see what is in the ship." they did so, and found it richly adorned with silken hangings and royally equipped. as they stood on the deck looking about them in surprise, night came upon them, but suddenly the darkness was dispelled by a hundred torches, which flared out around the sides of the ship, brilliantly illuminating it. and immediately, from somewhere in the depths of the ship, appeared twelve fair damsels, who fell upon their knees before king arthur, saluting him by name, and welcoming him to the best cheer that their means could provide. "you are welcome, whoever you be," said arthur, "and have our thanks for your kindly good will." "follow us then, noble sir." arthur and his companions followed their fair guides into a cabin of the ship, where they were glad to see a table richly provided with the most delicate viands, and set with the rarest wines. the king marvelled greatly at this, for never in his life had he fared better at supper than at this royal feast. the meal ended, arthur was led into a richly-appointed chamber, whose regal furniture and appointments he had never seen surpassed. his companions were conducted to chambers no less richly appointed, and quickly the three weary hunters fell asleep, for they were exhausted with their day's labor. perilous was the sleep that came upon them, for they little dreamed that they had been lured into an enchanted ship, and that strange adventures awaited them all, and deadly danger threatened the king. for when the next day dawned, uriens woke to find himself at camelot, in his own chamber, with his wife. much he marvelled at this, for he had fallen asleep the evening before at two days' journey distant. as for accolan, we shall tell later what befell him. arthur woke to find himself in utter darkness, while the air was full of doleful sounds. on feeling round him he soon discovered that he was in a dismal dungeon, and on listening he discovered that the sounds he heard were the woeful complaints of prisoners. "what place is this, and who are ye that bewail so bitterly?" asked arthur. "we are twenty knights that have long been held prisoners here, some for seven years and some for less." "for what cause?" inquired arthur. "how came you here, that you know not the cause?" "i came by foul enchantment," said arthur, and told them his adventure, at which they wondered greatly. "now tell me," he asked, "how came you in this direful state?" "we are victims of an evil-hearted villain," they answered. "the lord of this castle, sir damas by name, is a coward and traitor, who keeps his younger brother, sir ontzlake, a valiant and worthy knight, out of his estate. hostility has long ruled between them, and ontzlake proffers to fight damas for his livelihood, or to meet in arms any knight who may take up his quarrel. damas is too faint-hearted to fight himself, and is so hated that no knight will fight for him. this is why we are here. finding no knight of his own land to take up his quarrel, he has lain in wait for knights-errant, and taken prisoner every one that entered his country. all of us preferred imprisonment to fighting for such a scoundrel, and here we have long lain half dead with hunger while eighteen good knights have perished in this prison; yet not a man of us would fight in so base a quarrel." "this is a woeful story, indeed," said arthur. "i despise treason as much as the best of you, but it seems to me i should rather take the choice of combat than of years in this dungeon. god can be trusted to aid the just cause. moreover, i came not here like you, and have but your words for your story. fight i will, then, rather than perish." as they spoke a damsel came to king arthur, bearing a light. "how fare you?" she asked. "none too well," he replied. "i am bidden to say this to you," she remarked. "if you will fight for my lord, you shall be delivered from this prison. otherwise you shall stay here for life." "it is a hard alternative," said arthur; "i should deem only a madman would hesitate. i should rather fight with the best knight that ever wore armor than spend a week in such a vile place. to this, then, i agree. if your lord will deliver all these prisoners, i will fight his battle." "those are the terms he offers," said the damsel. "then tell him i am ready. but he must provide me with horse and armor, and vow on his knightly honor to keep his word." "all this he will freely do." "it seems to me, damsel, that i have seen you before. have you not been at the court of king arthur?" "not so," said the damsel. "i have never been there, but am the daughter of the lord of this castle, who has always kept me at home." in this, as the chronicles tell us, she spoke falsely, for she was one of the damsels of morgan le fay, and well she knew the king. damas was glad at heart to learn that a knight had at last consented to fight for him, and the more so when he saw arthur and marked his strong limbs and the high spirit in his face. but he and none there save the damsel, knew who his prisoner was. "it were a pity," said all who saw him, "that such a knight should die in prison. it is wise in him to fight, whatever betide." then agreement was made that arthur should do battle to the uttermost for the lord of the castle, who, on his part, agreed to set free the imprisoned knights. to this covenant both parties took oath, whereupon the twenty knights were brought from their dark prison to the castle hall, and given their freedom and the privilege of seeing the battle. but now we must leave the story of arthur and damas, and turn to that of accolan of gaul, the third of the three knights who had gone to sleep in the enchanted ship. this knight was, unknown to arthur, a lover of morgan le fay, being he for whose sake she had counterfeited the magic scabbard of the sword excalibur. she loved him, indeed, as ardently as she had grown to hate her royal brother, and through this love had laid a treacherous plot for arthur's death. when accolan awoke, to his surprise he found himself no longer in the ship, but lying within half a foot of the side of a deep well, in seeming peril of his life, for he might at any moment have fallen into the water. out of this well there came a pipe of silver, from which a crystal stream ran into a high marble basin. when accolan beheld all this he crossed himself and said,-- "god save my lord king arthur, and king uriens, for those damsels in the ship have betrayed us all. they were not women, but devils, and if i escape this misadventure i shall destroy all enchantresses wherever i find them." as he spoke, there came to him a dwarf with a great mouth and a flat nose, who saluted him, and said that he came from morgan le fay. "she sends you her greetings, and bids you be of strong heart, for to-morrow it shall be your task to fight a knight of the greatest prowess. that you may win in the combat she has sent you arthur's sword excalibur, with its magical scabbard. she bids you do the battle to the uttermost without mercy, and promises to make a queen of the damsel whom you shall send to her with the head of the knight you fight with." "i shall do her bidding," said accolan, "and cannot fail to win, now that i have this sword, for which i fervently thank her. when saw you my lady queen?" "i am just from her." "recommend me to her, and tell her i shall do all i have promised, or die for it. these crafts and enchantments that have happened--are they of her making?" "that you may well believe. she has prepared them to bring on this battle." "who, then, is the knight with whom i shall fight? it seems to me he should be a noble one, for such preparation." "that my lady has not told me." as they spoke there came to them a knight and a lady, with six squires, who asked sir accolan why he lay there, and begged him to rise and come with them to a neighboring manor, where he might rest in better ease. as fortune willed it, this manor was the dwelling of sir ontzlake, the brother of the traitor damas. accolan gladly accepted the invitation, but not long had he been in the manor when word came from damas, saying that he had found a knight who was ready to do battle to the death for their claims, and challenging ontzlake to make ready without delay for the field, or to send a knight to take his side in the combat. this challenge troubled ontzlake sorely. not long before he had been sadly hurt in a joust, and was still weak from his wound. accolan, to whom all this was made known, at once came, with the generous impulse of a true knight, to his host, and offered to do battle in his stead. in his heart, too, he felt that this might be the combat of which morgan had warned him, and with the aid of arthur's sword and scabbard he could not fail to win. ontzlake thanked him deeply for his generous offer, and without delay sent word to damas that he would be ready with a champion at the hour appointed, and trust to god's grace for the issue of the combat. when morning came, arthur was arrayed in a suit of chain mail and provided with a strong horse, which he viewed with knightly ardor. "when shall we to the field?" he asked damas. "as soon as you have heard mass." mass was scarcely ended when a squire rode up from ontzlake, to say that his knight was already in the field, and to bid damas bring his champion to the lists, for he was prepared to do battle to the utterance. then arthur mounted his war-horse and rode to the field, attended by all the knights and commons of the country round; twelve good men of the district having been chosen to wait upon the two knights, and see that the battle was conducted fairly and according to the rules of chivalry. as they rode forward a damsel came to arthur, bringing him a sword like unto excalibur, with a scabbard that seemed in every point the same. "morgan le fay sends you your sword, for the great love she bears you," said the messenger, "and hopes it may do you worthy service in the fray." arthur took it and thanked her, never dreaming that he had been treated falsely. but the sword that was sent him was but a brittle and worthless blade, and the scabbard was a base counterfeit of that magic one which he who wore could lose no blood, and which he in brotherly trust had given to the care of his faithless sister. chapter ii. the combat of arthur and accolan. the time for the battle having come, the two knights took their places at the opposite sides of the lists, neither knowing with whom he fought, and both bent on doing battle to the death. then putting spurs to their steeds, they dashed across the field with headlong speed, each striking the other in the middle of the shield with his spear, and with such force that horses and men alike were hurled to the earth. in a moment both the combatants started up in warlike fury and drew their swords. at this juncture there came among the spectators the damsel nimue, she who had put merlin under the stone. she knew, by the art that merlin had taught her, how morgan le fay had plotted that arthur should be slain that day, and she came to save his life if it lay in her power, for she loved the king as deeply as she hated merlin. eagerly to battle went the two knights, hewing at each other like giants with their swords. but arthur's blade bit not like accolan's, which wounded him at nearly every stroke, so that soon his blood was flowing from a dozen wounds, while his opponent remained unhurt. arthur was in deep dismay on beholding this. that some treason had been practised on him he felt sure, for his sword bit not steel as a good blade should, while the sword in accolan's hand seemed to have the trenchant edge of excalibur. "sir knight," said accolan, "keep well your guard if you care for life." "thus will i," answered arthur, and he dealt him a blow on the helm that nearly brought him to the ground. accolan drew back from the staggering stroke, and then with a furious onset rushed on arthur, and dealt him so fierce a blow that the king had much ado to keep his feet. thus stroke by stroke went on the battle, each knight roused to fury, and each fighting with his utmost skill and strength; but accolan lost scarcely a drop of blood, while arthur's life-blood flowed so freely that only his knightly soul and unyielding courage kept him on his feet. he grew so feeble that he felt as if death was upon him, yet, though he staggered like a drunken man, he faced accolan with the unquenched spirit of a noble knight. all who saw the field marvelled that arthur could fight after such a loss of blood. so valiant a knight none there had ever beheld, and many prayed the two brothers to come into accord and stop this deadly fray. but this damas would not do, and though ontzlake trembled for his cause he could not end the combat. at this juncture arthur withdrew a little to rest, but accolan called him fiercely to the fight, saying, "i shall not suffer you to rest; neither of us must rest except in death." with these words he advanced towards the king, who, with the strength of rage, sprang upon him and struck him so mighty a blow on the helm as to make him totter on his feet and nearly fall. but the blow had a serious ending, for arthur's sword broke at the cross, the blade falling into the blood-stained grass, and only the hilt and pommel remaining in his hand. when arthur saw himself thus disarmed he felt sure that his hour of death had come, yet he let not his dread be seen, but held up his shield and lost no ground, facing his mortal foe as boldly as though he was trebly armed. "sir knight," cried accolan, "you are overcome, and can no longer sustain the battle. you are weaponless, and have lost so much blood that i am loath to slay you. therefore yield to me as recreant, and force me not to kill a helpless foe." "that i may not do," said arthur. "i have promised, by the faith of my body, to fight this battle to the uttermost; and i had rather die in honor than live in shame. if i lack weapon, i lack not spirit; and if you slay me weaponless, the shame be on you." "that shame i can bear," said accolan. "what i have sworn i will perform. since you will not yield, you are a dead man." this said, he struck arthur a furious blow, that almost felled him to the earth, bidding him at the same time to crave for mercy if he would live. arthur's only reply was to press upon him with his shield, and deal him such a buffet with the pommel of his sword as to send him staggering three paces back. and now the damsel nimue, stirred by the prowess of the king, and fearful of his death, determined to aid him by all her power of enchantment. therefore, when accolan recovered himself and struck arthur another stroke, she threw a spell upon him and caused the sword to fall from his hand to the earth. at once the king lightly leaped to it and seized it, thrusting accolan fiercely back. as soon as his hand had touched the hilt he knew it for his sword excalibur. "you have been too long from me," he said, "and no small damage you have done me. treason has been at work, and treason shall have its deserts." then, seeing the scabbard hanging by accolan's side, he sprang suddenly forward and wrenched it from him, flinging it across the field as far as he could throw it. [illustration: copyright by frederick hollyer, london, england. nimue.] "now, sir knight," cried arthur, "my turn has come. you have nearly brought my life to an end with this sword, and i warrant that you shall be rewarded for the blood i have lost and the pain i have endured this day." therewith, furious as a wounded lion, arthur rushed upon his foe, hurled him with all his strength to the earth, tore off his helm, and gave him such a blow upon the head that blood burst out from his ears, nose, and mouth. "now shall i slay you," said arthur. "do so if you will," said accolan. "you are the best knight i ever met, and i see now that god is with you. but i promised to do this battle to the uttermost, and never to yield me recreant. therefore kill me if you will, for my voice shall never ask for mercy." then arthur, looking closer, saw something familiar in his face. "tell me who you are," he cried; "of what country and court." "sir knight," said accolan, "i am of the court of king arthur, and my name is accolan of gaul." arthur heard this with deep dismay. for there came into his mind the enchantment of the ship, and his heart sank with fear of the treason of his sister. "tell me this also, sir knight," he asked, "from whom had you this sword?" "woe worth that sword," cried accolan; "i have gotten my death by it." "that may well be," answered arthur, "and i fancy have got no more than you deserve." "yesterday," said the knight, "morgan le fay sent me that sword by a dwarf, that with it i might slay the knight with whom i should fight this day! and she would also pledge me to slay king arthur, her brother, for she hates him above any man in the world." "how know you that to be so?" "i have loved her long, and know her purposes well, nor shall i longer keep them secret. if by craft she could slay arthur, she would quickly dispose of her husband, king uriens. then it was her intent to make me king of this realm, and to reign herself as its queen. but all this now is at an end, for death is upon me." "it would have been great wrong in you to destroy your lord," said arthur. "that i never could have had the heart to do," said accolan. "but i pray you to tell me your name, and from what court you come?" "i am from camelot, and men know me as king arthur. i am he against whom you plotted such deep treason." then accolan cried out in anguish,-- "my fair, sweet lord, have mercy on me, for i knew you not." "you knew me not at this time, accolan, but you have confessed that you plotted treason against me, and laid plans to compass my death. yet i blame you the less that morgan le fay has worked on you with her false arts. i have honored and loved her most of all my kin, and have trusted her as i would my wife, and this is how she repays me. by the faith of my body, if i live i shall be deeply revenged upon her for this." then he called to the keepers of the field, and said,-- "here, fair sirs, are two knights who have fought nearly to the death through ignorance of each other. for had either of us known the other you would have seen no battle to-day, and no stroke given or returned." then accolan called out to those who had gathered around,-- "lords and knights, this noble warrior with whom i have fought is the man of most valor, manhood, and worship on english soil, for he is no less than our liege lord, king arthur. had i but dreamed it was he, i would have killed myself rather than have drawn sword against him." at this surprising news the people fell upon their knees before the king and begged mercy and pardon. "pardon you shall have," said the king, "for you were ignorant of my person. it is my fault if harm came to me in disguise. and here you may all see what adventures and dangers knights-errant are exposed to; for, unknown to each other, i and one of my own knights have fought for hours, to the great damage of us both. we are both sorely hurt, but before seeking rest it is my duty to settle the dispute which gave rise to this combat. i have been your champion, sir damas, and have won your cause. but as the victor i claim the right to give judgment, and as i know you for a villain and coward, i adjudge unto your brother all the manor in dispute, with the provision that he hold it of you, and yearly give you in lieu of rent a palfrey to ride upon, which will become such a base poltroon much better than a war-horse. and i charge you, upon pain of death, to restore to these twenty knights their armor and property, and never again to distress a knight-errant. if complaint of such shall be made to me, by my head, you shall die for it. sir ontzlake, you are said to be a good and valiant knight, and true and worthy in your deeds. i desire you to come to my court as soon as possible, where you shall be one of my knights, and, if your deeds hereafter conform to the good report i have heard of you, you soon shall equal your brother in estate." "i am at your command," said ontzlake, "and thank you humbly for your goodness and bounty. as for this battle, i would have fought it myself, only that lately i was deeply wounded in a combat with a wandering knight." "i would it had been so," said arthur, "for treason was used against me in this combat, and had i fought with you i should not have been so badly hurt. my own sword was stolen and i was given a false and brittle blade, which failed me in my greatest need." "great pity it is that a king so noble and a knight so worthy should have been thus foully dealt with." "i shall reward the traitor in short time, by the grace of god," said arthur. "now tell me how far i am from camelot?" "you are two days' journey distant." "then where can i obtain shelter and rest?" "there is an abbey but three miles distant where you will find skilled leeches and good nursing." then king arthur took his leave of the people, and repaired with accolan to the abbey, where he and the knight were placed under medical care. arthur's wounds, though deep and painful, proved not serious, and he rapidly recovered, but accolan had lost so much blood that he died within four days. then arthur had the corpse sent on a horse-bier, attended by six knights, to camelot, saying to the messengers,-- "bear this body to my sister, morgan le fay, and say to her that i send it as a present. tell her, moreover, that, through her sisterly kindness, i have again my sword excalibur and the scabbard, and shall visit her ere long." chapter iii. how morgan cheated the king. in the meantime morgan le fay was so sure of the success of her murderous plot, to aid which she had used all her power of necromancy, that she felt it safe to complete her scheme. seeing her husband, king uriens, lying asleep upon his couch, she called a maiden, who was in her confidence, and said,-- "bring me my lord's sword. now shall my work be ended." "oh, madam," cried the damsel, "would you slay your lord! if you do so you can never escape." "leave that to me, girl. bring me the sword at once; i am the best judge of what it is fit to do." the damsel departed with a heavy heart, but finding sir uwaine, king uriens' son, asleep in another chamber, she waked him and said,-- "rise at once and go to your mother. she has vowed to kill the king, your father, and has sent me in all haste for his sword." "to kill him!" cried uwaine. "what treachery is this?--but go, bring the sword as she bids. leave it to me to deal with her." the damsel did as she was bidden, and brought the sword to the queen, giving it to her with hands that quaked with fear. morgan seized it with a firm grasp, and went boldly to the bedside, where she stood looking with cruel eyes on the sleeping king. as she lifted the sword for the murderous blow, uwaine, who had silently entered, sprang upon her and seized her hand in a crushing grip. "you fiend, what would you do?" he fiercely cried. "if you were not my mother i would smite off your head with this sword. men say that merlin was born of a devil; but well i believe that i have an earthly fiend for mother. to kill my father thus!--in his slumber!--what foul device is this?" his face and voice were so full of righteous fury that the queen quaked to her heart with fear, and she clasped her hands in terror upon her throat. "oh, uwaine, my dear son, have mercy on me! the foul fiend tempted me to this deed. let me live to repent of this base intent, which i pray you to keep secret. i swear never again to attempt so foul a deed." "can i trust you? truth and murder do not go together." "on my soul, i vow to keep my word!" "live, then; but beware you rouse me not again by such a murderous thought." hardly had the false-hearted queen escaped from the indignation of her son when tidings came to her which filled her with as deep a dread as when uwaine had threatened her with the sword, while the grief it brought her was deeper than her fear. for she learned that accolan had been slain in the battle, and that his dead body had been sent her. soon, indeed, came the funeral train, with the message that arthur had sent. then sorrow and terror together filled her heart till it threatened to break, for she had loved accolan with all her soul, and his fate wounded her almost to death. but she dared not let this grief be seen upon her countenance, lest the secret of her love should be discovered; and she was forced to wear a cheerful aspect above a bleeding heart. and this she knew, besides, that if she should remain in camelot until arthur's return, all the gold in the realm would not buy her life. she went, therefore, unto queen guenever and asked leave to ride into the country. "why not remain to greet your brother on his return? he sends word that he will soon be here." "i should much like to, guenever, but hasty tidings have come which require that i should make no delay." "if that be so," answered guenever, "let me not stay you. you may depart when you will." on the next morning, before daybreak, morgan took horse, and rode all that day and the greater part of the night. on the following day by noon she came to the abbey where arthur lay. here she asked the nuns where he was, and they answered that he was sleeping in his chamber, for he had had but little rest during the three nights past. "then see that none of you waken him," she said. "i will go visit him in his chamber. i am his sister, morgan le fay." saying this, she sprang from her horse and entered the abbey, going straight to arthur's chamber. none dare hinder her, and she suffered no one to accompany her. reaching the chamber she found her brother asleep in bed, with the sword excalibur clasped with a vigorous grip in his right hand. when she saw this her heart sank, for it was to steal that sword she came, and she knew her treacherous purpose was at an end. she could not take the sword from his hand without wakening him, and that might be the warrant for her instant death. but the scabbard lay on a chair by the bedside. this she took and left the chamber, concealing it under her mantle as she went. mounting her horse again, she rode hastily away with her train. not long afterwards arthur woke, and at once missed his scabbard. calling his attendants in a loud voice, he angrily asked who had been there, and who had dared remove the missing scabbard. they told him that it was his sister, morgan le fay, and that she had put it under her mantle and ridden away with it. "then have you watched me falsely," cried arthur, in hasty passion. "what could we do?" they answered. "we dared not disobey your sister's command." "fetch me at once the best horse that can be found," he ordered, "and bid sir ontzlake arm himself in all haste, and come here well mounted to ride with me." by the hour's end these commands had been obeyed, and arthur and ontzlake rode from the abbey in company, well armed and on good horses, though the king was yet feeble from his wounds. after riding some distance they reached a wayside cross, by which stood a cowherd, whom they asked if any lady had lately ridden that way. "yes, your honors," said the cowherd. "not long ago a lady passed here at easy speed, followed by about forty horsemen. they rode into yonder forest." arthur and ontzlake at this news put spurs to their horses and followed fast on the track of the fugitives. an hour of this swift pursuit brought them in sight of morgan's party, and with a heart hot with anger arthur rode on at the utmost pace of his horse. the fugitives, seeing themselves thus hotly chased, spurred on their own steeds, soon leaving the forest and entering a neighboring plain, beside which was a lake. when morgan saw that she was in danger of being overtaken she rode quickly to the lake-side, her heart filled with spiteful hatred of her brother. "whatsoever may happen to me," she cried, "i vow that arthur shall never again wear this scabbard. i here consign it to the lake. from the water it came; to the water it returns." and with a strong hand she flung it far out over the deep waters, into which it sank like a stone, for it was heavy with gold and precious stones. then she rode on, followed by her train, till they entered a valley where there were many great stones, and where they were for the moment out of sight of their pursuers. here morgan le fay brought her deepest powers of enchantment to work, and in a trice she and her horse were changed into marble, while each of her followers became converted into a statue of stone. hardly had this been done when arthur and ontzlake entered the valley, where they beheld with starting eyes the marvellous transformation. for in place of the fugitives they saw only horses and riders of solid stone, and so changed that the king could not tell his sister from her men, nor one knight from another. "a marvel is here, indeed!" cried the king. "the vengeance of god has fallen upon our foes, and morgan le fay is justly punished for her treachery. it grieves me, indeed, that so heavy a fate has befallen her, yet her own deeds have brought on her this mighty punishment." then he sought on all sides for the scabbard, but it could nowhere be found. disappointed in this, he at length turned and rode slowly back with his companion to the abbey whence they had come, their souls filled with wonder and awe. yet no sooner were they well gone than the enchantress brought another charm to work, and at once she and all her people were turned again from stone into flesh and blood. "now we can go where we will; and may joy go with king arthur," she said, with a laugh of triumph to her knights. "did you note him?" "yes," they replied. "and his countenance was so warlike that had we not been stone we could scarce have stood before him." "i believe you," said morgan. "he would have made sad havoc among us but for my spells." they now rode onward, and soon afterwards met a knight who bore before him on his horse another knight, who was unarmed, blindfolded, and bound hand and foot. "what are you about to do with that knight?" asked morgan. "to drown him in yonder fountain," was the reply. "he has caused my wife to prove false to me, and only his death will avenge my honor." "is this the truth?" she asked the bound knight. "it is false," he replied. "he is a villain to whom i have done no wrong. he took me unawares or i should not have been in such a state." "who are you, and of what country?" "my name is manassen. i am of the court of king arthur, and cousin to accolan of gaul." "then for the love i bore your cousin you shall be delivered, and this villain be put in your plight." by her orders manassen was loosed from his bonds and the other knight bound. manassen took from him his armor and horse, and riding with him to the fountain, flung him remorselessly in, where he met the fate which he had devised for his late prisoner. then manassen rode back to morgan, and asked her if she had any word to send king arthur. "tell him," she answered, "that i rescued you not for love of him, but of accolan; and that i fear him not while i can turn myself and my knights into stones. let him know that you saw us riding in good flesh and blood, and laughing him to scorn. tell him, moreover, that i can do stranger things than that if the need should come." bidding manassen to return with this message, she rode with her train into the country of gore, where she was well received, and in the might of whose castles and towns she felt secure from arthur's wrath, for much she feared his vengeance should she fall into his hands. meantime the king rode back to camelot, where he was gladly received by his queen and his knights, to whom he told in full the story of morgan le fay's treason. they were all angry at this, and many knights declared that she should be burned. "stone will not burn," said arthur. "but god has punished her." but as they thus conversed, manassen came to the court and told the king of his adventure, delivering to him morgan's message. "then the witch has tricked me!" cried the king, in a tone of vexation. "i might have known it, had i been wise. a kind sister she is, indeed! but my turn will come. treachery and magic may succeed for a time, but honor must win in the end." yet despite the king's awakened distrust, he nearly fell a victim to his sister's vile enchantments. for on the succeeding morning there came a damsel to the court from morgan le fay, bearing with her the richest mantle that had ever been seen there. it was set so full of precious stones that it might almost have stood alone, and some of them were gems worth a king's ransom. "your sister sends you this mantle," said the bearer. "that she has done things to offend you she knows and is sorry for; and she desires that you shall take this gift from her as a tribute for her evil thoughts. what else can be done to amend her acts she will do, for she bitterly regrets her deeds of wickedness." the mantle pleased the king greatly, though he made but brief reply as he accepted it from the hand of the messenger. at that perilous moment there came to him the damsel nimue, who had so recently helped him in his dire need. "sir, may i speak with you in private?" she asked the king. "what have you to say?" he replied, withdrawing from the throng. "it is this. beware that you do not put on this mantle, and that no knight of yours puts it on, till you know more. the serpent does not so soon lose its venom. there is death in the mantle's folds. at least do this: before you wear it, command that she who brought it shall put it on." "well said," answered the king. "it shall be done as you advise." then he returned to the messenger and said,-- "damsel, i wish to see the mantle you have brought me tried upon yourself." "a king's garment on me, sir! that would not be seemly." "seemly or not, i command it. by my head, you shall wear it before it come on my back, or that of any man here." the damsel drew back, quivering with fear and growing pale as death. but the king commanded those about him to put it on her. then was seen a marvellous and fearful thing. for no sooner had the enchanted robe been clasped around her form than flames burst out from its every thread, and in a minute she fell to the floor dead, while her body was burnt to a coal. the king's anger burst out fiercely at this, and his face flamed with the fire of rage. he turned to king uriens and his son, who stood among the knights. "my sister, your wife, is doing her utmost to destroy me," he said, in burning wrath. "are you and my nephew, your son, joined with her in this work of treachery? yet i suspect not you, king uriens, for accolan confessed to me that she would have slain you as well as me. but as for your son, uwaine, i hold him suspected, and banish him from my court. i can have no traitors about me." when these words had been spoken, gawaine rose in anger, and said,-- "whoever banishes my cousin banishes me. when and where uwaine goes i go also." and with a stride of anger he left the great hall, followed by uwaine. then the two knights armed themselves, and rode together from camelot, gawaine vowing never to return till his cousin had been fully and freely pardoned. chapter iv. the country of strange adventures. the two knights who had so hastily departed from arthur's court were destined to see many and strange adventures before they should return. and as their wanderings and deeds were caused by the treason of morgan le fay, it is meet that they should here be told. they spent their first night in an abbey not far from camelot, and on the next morning rode forward until they came to a forest. passing through this, they at length found themselves in a valley near a tower. here they beheld two knights fully armed and seated on their war-horses, while twelve damsels were seen to pass to and fro beneath a tree. when the wanderers came nearer they saw that on that tree hung a white shield, and that as the damsels passed by this they spat upon it and befouled it with mire. "why do you do this despite to the shield?" they asked, as they came up. "sir knights," answered the damsels, "we have good cause for what we do. he who has hung his shield here is a knight of great prowess, but he is one who hates all ladies, and this is how we repay him for his hatred." "i think little of such a knight," said gawaine. "yet it may be that he has good cause for his hatred. he must love ladies elsewhere, if not here, if he be so good a knight as you say. for it is said that the despiser of ladies is never worthy in arms. what is the name of this knight?" "his name is marhaus. he is the son of the king of ireland." "i know him well," said uwaine. "there is no man of more valor living. i saw him once at a tournament where no knight could stand before him." "if this is his shield," said gawaine, "he will soon be here in person, and it may not prove so easy for these knights to face him on horseback as for them to stand by and see his shield befouled. it is not our quarrel, but we shall stay no longer to see this dishonor." before they had withdrawn far, however, they saw the irish knight riding towards his shield, and halted to note what would follow. at sight of him the damsels shrieked with terror, and ran so wildly towards the turret that some of them fell by the way. but one of the knights advanced his shield and cried loudly,-- "sir marhaus, defend yourself!" then he and marhaus rode fiercely together, the knight breaking his spear without effect, while marhaus smote him in return so hard a blow that he was hurled to the ground with a broken neck. then the other knight rode against marhaus, but with the same ill success, for both horse and man were smitten so furiously that they fell to the earth dead. then the knight of ireland rode to his shield, and when he saw how foully it had been used he cried,-- "this is a foul shame; but i have requited it upon those dastards. for the love of her who gave me this white shield i shall wear it, and hang mine where it was." thereupon he took the white shield, and left in its place the one he had just used. then, seeing the two errant knights, he asked them what they did there. they answered that they were from arthur's court, and had ridden in search of adventures. "then you can have one here," said marhaus. "i shall be glad to joust with you." he rode away from them to the proper range, without waiting for a reply. "let him go," said uwaine. "i fear he is more than our match." "i care not if he is," said gawaine. "however good a knight he be, he shall not challenge us unanswered." "then let me meet him first. i am the weaker, and if he strikes me down you can revenge me." with these words uwaine took his place and rode against the irish knight, but with such ill fortune that he was hurled to the earth with a wounded side. when gawaine saw this he prepared for the joust, and the two knights rode together with great force. but, as luck would have it, gawaine's spear broke, while that of marhaus held firm. in consequence, both gawaine and his horse went to the ground. in an instant the knight was on his feet, sword in hand, and advancing towards his adversary. marhaus drew his sword and moved upon him mounted. "meet me on foot," cried gawaine, "or i will kill your horse." "gramercy, you teach me courtesy," said marhaus, "it is not fair for one knight to be on foot and the other on horse." then he sprang to the ground, set his spear against a tree, and tied his horse. this done, he drew his sword and advanced upon gawaine. the combat that succeeded was long and hotly contested, beginning at nine in the morning and lasting till the day was well advanced. never had that forest known so obstinate and fierce a fight. and from nine of the clock till the hour of noon gawaine grew stronger and stronger, till his might was thrice increased and marhaus had much ado to stand before him. but as the day waned from noon onwards gawaine grew feeble, while the strength of marhaus steadily increased, his form seeming to grow larger with every hour. at length it came that gawaine could scarcely stand before him. "sir knight," said marhaus, "this i will say, that i never met a better man than yourself, and we have had a noble passage at arms. but as we have no quarrel, and i can see you are growing feeble, it were a pity to do you more harm. if you are willing, i agree to end the fight." "that should i have said, gentle knight," answered gawaine. "i am much beholden to your courtesy." thereupon they took off their helmets and kissed each other, and swore to love one another thenceforth as brethren in arms. marhaus prayed that the two knights would lodge with him that night, and they rode together towards his dwelling. "i marvel," said gawaine, as they rode forward, "that so good a knight as you should love no ladies." "i love not such as those minxes of the tower, nor any of their sort," said marhaus. "they are a false-hearted and vile-thinking crew. but to all honorable women i owe the best of my knightly service." they soon reached the dwelling, which was in a little priory, and here marhaus gave them the best cheer at his disposal, the more so when he learned that they were sons of king arthur's sisters. here they remained seven days, until their wounds had fully healed. on the eighth day they took horse again to continue their journey. "we shall not part so lightly," said marhaus. "i shall bring you through the forest, and mayhap ride farther with you." for seven days more they rode onward without adventure. then they found themselves on the borders of a still greater forest, in what was known as the country and forest of arroy and the land of strange adventures. "it is well named," said marhaus. "for it is said that no knight ever rode into this country and failed to find adventures many and marvellous." they rode onward into the forest before them, and in good time found themselves in a deep and stony valley, traversed by a fair stream of water. following this upward, they soon came to a fair fountain, the head of the stream, beside which three damsels were seated. of these, the eldest was not less than threescore years of age. she wore a garland of gold upon her head, and her hair was white beneath it. the second damsel was thirty years of age, and she also wore a circlet of gold. the third was not over fifteen years old, and her garland was of flowers. the knights halted and looked at them in surprise, asking them why they sat by that lonely fountain. "we are here to await knights-errant who come in quest of adventures," they said. "if you three knights are in search of things strange and stirring, each of you must choose one of us. when this is done we shall lead you unto three highways, one of which each of you must take, and his damsel with him. this day twelvemonth you must meet here again, and to all this you must pledge your troth, if god give you your lives to return." "you speak well," said marhaus. "adventures we seek, and no true knight-errant hesitates before the unknown and the dangerous. we shall do as you say, each of us choose one of you, and then, whatsoever fortune wills, let it come." "as for me," said uwaine, "since i am the youngest and weakest of the three, i choose the eldest damsel. i have more need of help than either of you, and her age and knowledge may aid me well." "then i shall take her of middle age," said marhaus. "she fits me best." "i thank you both," said gawaine. "you have left me the youngest and fairest, and the one most to my liking." this said, each damsel took the reins of her knight, and they led them to the parting of the three ways. here the knights took oath to meet at the fountain that day twelvemonth if they were living, kissed each other, and departed, each knight taking his chosen lady on his steed behind him. of the three ways, uwaine took that which lay west, marhaus that which lay south, and gawaine took the way that lay north. of the three we shall first follow gawaine, who rode forward until he came to a fair manor, where dwelt an old knight. "are there any adventures to be found in this country?" he asked him. "i shall show you some marvellous ones to-morrow," said his host. in the morning, gawaine and the old knight rode into the forest of adventures till they came to a wide, open lawn, upon which stood a cross. here they halted and looked about them, and ere long saw approaching a knight of seemly aspect, who made the bitterest lamentations as he advanced. when he saw gawaine he saluted him, and hoped that god would send him honor. "as to that, gramercy," said gawaine. "i pray god, in return, that he send you honor and worship." "that will not come," said the knight. "he sendeth me but sorrow and shame." as he spoke he passed on to the other side of the lawn. here gawaine saw ten knights, standing with shields and spears ready against this one warrior. but he rode against them one by one, thrusting some over their horses' tails, and hurling others to the ground, horse and man, until with one spear he had unhorsed them all. but when they were all ten on foot they went to the dolorous knight, who stood stone still, pulled him from his horse, and tied him beneath the animal, without the least resistance on his part. this done, they led him away, thus shamefully bound. "that is an ugly sight," said gawaine. "why does a knight of such prowess as this suffer himself to be so vilely treated?" "sir," said, the damsel to gawaine, "why helped you not that good knight?" "he seems to want no help," said gawaine. "he could have taken care of himself if he would." "you had no desire to help him," retorted the damsel, "or you would not have stood by and seen so noble a warrior so foully served." as they talked a knight appeared on the other side of the lawn, all armed but the head. and opposite him came a dwarf on horseback similarly armed. he had a great mouth and a short nose, and was as ill favored as one would care to see. "where is the lady who should meet us here?" asked the dwarf. in response thereto a fair lady rode from the wood, mounted on a handsome palfrey. on seeing her the knight and the dwarf began to strive in hot words for her, each saying that she should be his prize. "yonder is a knight at the cross," said the dwarf, at length. "let us leave it to him, and abide by his decision." "i agree to that," said the knight. thereupon they rode to gawaine and told him the purpose of their strife. "do you put the matter into my hands?" he asked. "yes," they both replied. "then this is my decision. let the lady stand between you and make her own choice. the one she chooses, he shall have her." this was done, and at once the lady turned from the knight and went to the dwarf. then the dwarf took her and went singing away, while the knight rode in grief and sorrow into the forest. but the adventures of that day were not ended, for soon afterwards two armed knights rode from the forest, and one of them cried out loudly,-- "sir gawaine, knight of king arthur, i am here to joust with you. so make ready." "since you know me, i shall not fail you," answered gawaine. then the knights drew apart, and rode so furiously together that both were unhorsed. springing up, they drew their swords and continued the battle on foot. meanwhile, the second knight went to the damsel and asked why she stayed with that knight, and begged her to go with him. "that i will do," she replied. "i like not the way gawaine acted just now, when one brave knight was overturned by ten dastards. so let us go while they fight." the combat continued long, and then, as the knights seemed evenly matched, they ceased in amity, the stranger knight inviting gawaine to spend the night at his lodge. as they rode thither he asked his host,-- "who is this valiant champion that overturns ten knights, and then suffers them to bear him off bound hand and foot? i never saw so shameful a thing done." "the thing has happened ten times and more," said sir carados. "the knight is one of noble prowess, named sir pelleas, and he loves a great lady of this country named ettard, who loves him not in return. what you have seen came about in this way. there was of late days a great tournament in this country, at which pelleas struck down every knight who was opposed to him, unhorsing twenty knights within three days. his valor and prowess won him the prize, which was a good sword, and a golden circlet to be given to the fairest lady at the lists. this circlet of gold he gave to the lady ettard, whom he chose for the sovereign of his heart and the lady he loved above all women. but she was so proud and haughty that she returned him scorn for his love, and though he has followed her to her home she will not listen to his suit, or admit him in honor to her presence. he is lodged here near her, but can gain sight of her only in a shameful way. every week she sends knights to fight with him, and when he has overcome them he suffers them to take him prisoner that he may feast his eyes on the face of his loved lady. but she does him great despite, for sometimes she has him brought in tied to his horse's tail, and sometimes bound under the horse, or in any other shameful manner she can think of. for all this he will not leave, but makes himself a martyr to his love." "he is a noble knight, and i greatly pity him," said gawaine. "i shall seek him to-morrow in the forest, and do what i can to help him." in the morning he met sir pelleas, as he had promised, and heard from him the story of his woe. "if i loved her not so truly i should rather die a hundred times than suffer such despite," he said. "but i trust that she will pity and love me at last." "let me aid you, so far as i can," said gawaine. "i promise to do my utmost to gain you the love of your lady." "tell me who, and of what court, you are, my good friend?" asked pelleas. "my name is gawaine; i am nephew to king arthur, and king lot of orkney was my father." "my name is pelleas," answered the lovelorn knight. "i was born in the isles, and am lord of many isles, but never till this unhappy time have i loved a lady. i pray you help me faithfully, for i get nothing from her but vile rebuke. she will not even hold me as prisoner, that i might see her daily, but robs me of my horse and armor, and has me thrust despitefully from her gates. she lives in a strong castle near by, and is lady of all this country. i fear you will not find it easy to obtain entrance." "i shall use art instead of strength," said gawaine. "lend me your horse and armor, and i will ride to her castle and tell her i have slain you. she will let me in at that. once admitted, i shall do my best to win you her love." he plighted his honor to this, and therewith they changed horses and armor. leaving the knight of the doleful visage, gawaine rode to ettard's castle, whom he found in her pavilion outside the gate. on seeing him she hastily fled to the castle, but he called her loudly, declaring that he was not pelleas, and that he had slain the knight and won his horse and armor. "take off your helm," she replied. "let me see your face." gawaine did so, and when she saw that he spoke the truth she bade him alight and led him into the castle, questioning him who he was and how he had slain her tormenting admirer. "i am sorry for his death," she said, "for he was a worthy knight; but of all men i hated him most, and could never rid myself of his importunities. as for you, sir gawaine, since you have done me this service, i shall be your lady, for i cannot but love you." then gawaine was so entranced by the lady ettard's blue eyes and fair face that he shamefully forgot his word of honor, and warmly returned her love. he remained with her and her knights in the castle, so happy in her presence as to ignore all the claims of duty and knightly faith. it was now the month of may, and the air had grown warm and balmy. so it happened one evening that they all left the castle to enjoy themselves on the flowery meads outside. believing pelleas to be dead, ettard lost all dread of unwelcome intrusion, and suggested that they should spend the night in the open air, lulled to sleep by the soft winds and the perfume of flowers. but by fortune it chanced that pelleas, hearing no word from gawaine, that night mounted his horse and rode to the castle. it was a late hour, and he was surprised to see pavilions erected outside the gate, and couches spread in the open air. as he came near he saw knights and ladies asleep on these, while side by side lay ettard and gawaine, locked in deep slumber. anger and pain so filled the knight's heart at this that he drew his sword to slay his faithless friend, but on calmer thought he laid the naked blade athwart the throats of knight and lady and rode away. on reaching his tent, he told his attendants what treachery he had endured, and that he had resolved to take to his bed and lie there till he should die. "and when i am dead i charge you to take my heart and bear it to the lady ettard in a silver dish, and tell her that her falseness has slain the faithfulest of lovers." meanwhile gawaine and ettard awoke, and their dread was great on finding the sword across their throats. "it is pelleas's sword!" she cried. "you have betrayed him and me both, for you lied to me in saying that you had killed him. only that he has proved himself a man of true honor, he would have slain us both. leave me, traitor! never let me see your false face again!" gawaine had no words in answer, but hastily mounted his horse and rode into the forest, feeling at heart that he had proved a traitor both to honor and love. when morning dawned it happened that nimue, the damsel of the lake, who by chance had come into that country, met with a follower of sir pelleas, who was grieving sorely for the ill fortune of his master. she asked him the cause of his grief, and he told her the woeful tale of the lovelorn knight, and how he had taken to his bed, vowing never again to rise. "he shall not die of love, i warrant you that," she said. "bring me to him. i promise you that she who has treated him so vilely shall feel all the pain she has made him endure." she was accordingly brought to the tent of pelleas, and a feeling of pity and love grew in her heart as she looked on his noble and woe-worn face while he lay asleep. therefore she deepened his slumber with a spell of enchantment, and charging that no man should wake him before her return, she rode through the forest to ettard's castle. within two hours she brought the lady ettard to the tent, where pelleas still lay wrapped in deep slumber. "you should do penance for life to murder such a knight as this," she said. "you have treated a true lover with shameful despite, and for love's sake you shall pay the penalty of your misdeeds." then she threw so deep a spell of enchantment on the proud lady that her former scorn turned to the deepest love, and her heart went out to pelleas as if it would break with sorrow and remorse. "alas!" she cried, "i hated him above all men. what has befallen me that i love him now with my whole soul?" "it is god's righteous judgment," said nimue. as they spoke pelleas awoke, and when he looked upon ettard his eyes filled with scorn and hatred. "away, traitress!" he cried. "never again come within my sight. you have taught me to hate you as much as i ever loved." these scornful words wounded ettard to the soul. she turned away weeping bitterly, and left the tent overwhelmed with anguish. "take your horse and leave this country, sir pelleas," said the damsel. "love not again till you can give your heart to a lady who is worthy of it." "i have found such a one now," said the knight, fixing his eyes with warm feeling upon her face. "this lady ettard has treated me despitefully and turned all my love for her to hatred and scorn. but the love i felt for her has gone out to you." "thank me for your delivery," said nimue. "it is too soon to talk of love. but this i may say, that if you love me as you vow, you shall not find me another ettard." soon after pelleas arose and armed, and bidding his men to follow with the pavilions and furniture, rode into the forest with the damsel of the lake, for whom the love in his heart grew each moment warmer. [illustration: the love of pelleas and nimue.] and thus this woeful story ends in true love's joy and retribution; for the false lady ettard died in lovelorn sorrow, but pelleas and nimue lived together in true love during the remainder of their days, she becoming his dear lady and wife. meanwhile marhaus and uwaine pursued their course and had their adventures, but they were not so many and strange as those of gawaine, and therefore we shall not tell them in full. as for uwaine, who rode away with the old damsel, he gained great honor at a tournament near the welsh marches, winning the prize, which was a gerfalcon, and a white steed with trappings of cloth of gold. many other adventures he had, and at last came to the castle of a noble lady, who was called the lady of the rock. her lands had been taken from her by two robber knights, named sir edward and sir hue of the red castle. these uwaine fought together, and with such good fortune that he killed sir edward and forced sir hue to surrender the lady's lands. then he dwelt at the castle of the lady of the rock for six months, till he was healed of the many and deep wounds he had received in his battle with the robber knights. meanwhile, marhaus rode southward with the damsel of thirty summers. many adventures he had, and he won a circlet of gold as the victor in a tournament. at length he stopped at the castle of a noble earl named fergus, whose lands were harried by a giant named taulard. him marhaus proffered to fight, as neither the earl nor any of his men dared meet him. fierce and perilous was the battle that followed, for the giant was of monstrous height and strength, and armed with iron clubs and great battle-axes. but after a terrible contest, marhaus, by a nimble stroke, cut off taulard's right arm. then the giant, bellowing with pain and terror, fled, and rushed into a stream of water beyond his pursuer's reach. but stones were brought to marhaus by fergus's men, and with these he battered the giant so sorely that at length he fell over into the water, where he was quickly drowned. afterwards the victorious champion went to the giant's castle, where he found in close captivity twenty-four ladies and twelve knights. these he delivered from prison. he found also a great store of wealth, enough to make him rich for the remainder of his life. when the year ended the three knights met again at the fountain, two of them with their damsels; but gawaine had lost his, and had come back much shorn of honor. soon after they met by chance a messenger from king arthur, who had long been seeking the banished knights, with orders to bring them back to the court. so the three knights journeyed to camelot, where the king received them graciously, and listened with admiration to the story of their adventures. and there, at the feast of pentecost, came pelleas and nimue, true lovers plighted. then were held high feasts and tournaments, where many noble knights splintered spears and much honor was lost and won. and here marhaus and pelleas bore themselves with such noble and mighty prowess, that all men vowed the glory of the tournament was theirs, and king arthur, glad to reward such deeds of valor, made them knights of the table round. book iv. lancelot of the lake. chapter i. how trouble came to lionel and hector. after the strange deeds and adventures that have just been described, a season of war came again to king arthur and his realm, through which he won great honor and renown. for lucius, the emperor of rome, sent ambassadors to arthur, demanding tribute; and when he proudly refused this demand lucius gathered a great army and invaded the tributary domains of arthur, in gaul. long and fierce was the war that followed, for arthur crossed to gaul with all the power of his realm; fought and killed, single-handed, a huge giant who dwelt on st. michael's mount; defeated the army of rome, and killed the emperor in single combat; and in the end was crowned emperor, in the imperial city of rome. all this story the chronicles give at length, and tell us also that in this war the noble lancelot du lake, son of king ban of gaul, gained his first measure of renown. after the war had ended and the victorious host returned to england, many adventures came to lancelot, some of which we must here tell. great indeed was the valor and might of this worthiest of knights, who in after years proved himself in knightly prowess and chivalric honor the noblest of men. in tournaments and deeds of arms, in sportive war or battle for life or death, he passed all other knights, and was never overcome but by treason or enchantment. after arthur's return from rome sports and feasts were given, and jousts and tournaments held, in which the knights of the round table took part, many who had gained no great fame in the war now proving themselves able and worthy warriors. but above them all lancelot displayed such skill and prowess that he increased in honor and worship beyond any knight of arthur's court. and, as fortune and fate decreed, he loved queen guenever above all other ladies, while she held him in favor above all other knights,--a favor that was destined thereafter to bring deep sorrow and trouble to england's realm. for her sake he did many noble deeds of arms, and he was looked upon as her especial champion by all the court. after the return from rome lancelot rested long at the court, taking part in all its feasts and gayeties. but in time he grew weary of sport and play, and of the idle ways and empty flatteries of courtiers, and felt a strong desire to wander abroad in search of strange adventures. so he bade his nephew, sir lionel, to make ready, saying to him that they two would leave the court and ride as knights-errant through the land, to right wrongs and punish crimes, to rescue the oppressed and overthrow the proud and haughty, and knightly to do and dare wherever they went. so on a day in spring, when the summer was coming with its flowers to adorn the rich green of the grassy meads, and the birds sang gayly in the trees, the two knights armed themselves at all points and rode abroad, passing soon through a deep forest and into a verdant plain beyond. noon now came on, and the weather grew close and sultry, so that lancelot became drowsy. this he told to lionel, who pointed to a large apple-tree by a hedge, and said,-- "yonder is a cool shadow. there we may rest ourselves and our horses till the noontide heat has passed." "you speak to the point," said lancelot. "not for seven years have i been so sleepy as i am now?" they thereupon alighted, and tied their horses to neighboring trees, and lancelot laid himself down beneath the apple-boughs, with his helmet under his head for a pillow. soon he was in deep slumber, though lionel kept awake. as they lay thus three knights came riding by in panic fear, pushing their horses to the utmost speed, while a single knight followed them in furious pursuit. so well-made and strong-limbed a man as this lionel thought he had never seen nor one in all respects so fully armed. as he looked, the pursuing knight overtook one of the fugitives, and with a thrust of his spear flung him prostrate to the ground. then he served the other two in the same manner. this done, he alighted and bound the three knights with their own bridle-reins. [illustration: copyright by frederick hollyer, london, england. dream of sir lancelot.] when lionel saw this, anger filled his soul, and he thought to win honor in a bout of arms with this vigorous champion, so he quietly took his horse, so as not to waken lancelot, and rode towards the victor, loudly bidding him turn and try his fortune in a joust. but the ambitious young knight soon found that he had let youthful pride bring him into trouble, for the strong warrior smote him so hard a blow that horse and man went together to the earth. then the victor alighted and served lionel as he had done the others, binding him and flinging him athwart his own horse. he did the same with the three others, and rode away with his prisoners, until he came to a castle that lay beyond the plain. here he forced them to remove their armor, and beat their naked skin with thorns till they were ready to swoon with the pain. then he had them thrust into a deep prison where were many other knights, whose groans and lamentations filled the air with doleful sounds. through all this lancelot slept on, nor did he waken from his slumber till another misadventure had taken place. for sir hector de maris, the brother of lionel, finding that lancelot had left the court to seek adventures, was angry that he had not been asked to keep him company, and rode hastily after him, hoping to overtake him. after he had ridden long in the forest he met a man dressed like a forester, and asked him if any knightly adventures could be found near by. "sir knight," answered the forester, "i know this country well, and can promise you all, and mayhap more, than you want. within a mile of here is a strong manor; by that manor, on the left hand, is a fair ford for horses to drink at; over that ford there grows a spreading tree; and on that tree hang many shields which good knights once wielded. on the trunk of the tree you will see a basin of brass and copper, and if you seek an adventure you have but to strike that basin thrice with the butt of your spear. if then you do not soon hear tidings of interest, you will have the best fortune of any knight who has passed through this forest for many a long year." "gramercy, for your tidings," said hector, and rode rapidly on. soon he came to the manor and the tree, and saw the shields of which the forester had told him, and to his surprise and grief he noted among them the shield of his brother lionel, and many more that he knew belonged to round table knights. then, with a heart full of thoughts of revenge, he beat upon the basin roundly with his spear, until its clang rung far and wide. this done, he turned his horse and let him drink at the ford. as he stood there he heard a loud voice behind him, bidding him come out of the water and make ready, and looking round he beheld a powerfully-built knight on a strong horse. hector wheeled his horse sharply, and putting his spear in rest rode furiously upon this knight, striking him so fierce a blow that his horse turned twice around. "well done," said the stranger. "that was a knightly blow. but beware, it is my turn now." as he spoke he spurred his horse at full speed upon hector, and struck him so skilfully that the spear-head passed under his right arm and bore him clear of the saddle into the air. then, carrying the knight like a trussed hare on his spear, the victor rode onward into his own open hall, and flung his captive down in the middle of the floor. "you have done more to me than any knight has done for twelve years past," said the victor, whose name was sir turquine. "therefore i will grant you your life and the liberty of the castle, but you must swear to be my prisoner until death." "that will i never promise," said hector. "i will remain captive to no man if i can free myself." "then i shall take care that you do not escape," said turquine. with these words he made hector, on pain of death, remove his armor, and then scourged him with thorns as he had done the others, and flung him into the prison where lay so many of his fellows. when hector saw his brother lionel among these his heart was ready to break with sorrow. "what has happened to lancelot?" he demanded. "you rode with him, and here you are a prisoner. alas! tell me not that any harm has come to him." "where he is and what he does i cannot tell," said lionel. "i left him asleep under an apple-tree and rode alone on this dolorous venture. would that i had wakened him first." "alas!" cried the knights, "we may never be delivered unless lancelot comes to our aid. of all knights living we know none but him who is a fair match for turquine, our robber lord." chapter ii. the contest of the four queens. noon had passed by, but the day was still warm, and lancelot lay yet in deep slumber, dreaming nothing of what had happened while he slept. but now there rode by the apple-tree under which he lay a royal and brilliant cavalcade. for in it were four queens of high estate, who were mounted on white mules, and attired in regal robes, while beside them rode four knights who bore on their spear-points a cloth of green silk, so held as to shield the queens from the heat of the sun. as they rode by lancelot's place of slumber they were startled by the loud neigh of a war-horse, and looking about them they became aware of the sleeping knight beneath the apple-tree. they drew near and looked upon his face, and at once knew him for lancelot du lake. then they began pleasantly to strive as to which of them should have the sleeping knight for her lover. "let me settle this debate," said morgan le fay, who was one of the queens. "i shall by enchantment make his sleep hold for six hours to come, and shall have him borne to my castle. when he is safely within my power i shall remove the enchantment, and then he shall be made to choose which of us he will have for his love. if he refuse us all he shall pay the penalty." she did as she had said. lancelot was laid sleeping upon his shield and borne on horseback between two knights, and so brought to a castle named chariot, where he was laid, still slumbering, in a chamber. at night-fall a fair damsel was sent to him with his supper ready prepared. by that time the enchantment was past, and lancelot woke as the damsel came into his chamber and asked him how he fared. "that i am not ready to say," answered lancelot; "for i know not how i came into this castle unless it were by enchantment." "as to that i cannot speak," she replied. "i can but bid you eat. if you be such a knight as men say, i shall tell you more to-morrow morn." "thanks, fair damsel," said lancelot. "it pleases me to have your good will." little comfort had the good knight of that night's sleep; but early in the morning there came to him the four queens, each dressed in her richest attire, adorned with rare jewels, and as beautiful as art and skill could make them. they bade him good morning and he returned their greeting, looking upon them with eyes of admiration, but not of love. "you are our prisoner, sir knight," said morgan. "we know you well. you are lancelot of the lake, king ban's son. and well we understand that you are named the worthiest knight living, and that men say that no lady in the land but queen guenever can have your love. but this we would have you know, that you must choose one of us four as your heart's queen, for if you refuse you shall never see arthur's queen again. i am morgan le fay, queen of the land of gore, and here is the queen of northgalis, the queen of east-land, and the queen of the out islands. we bid you to forget guenever and choose of us the one you will have for your love. if you choose not it will be worse for you, for i shall hold you in prison until death." "this is a hard chance," said lancelot, "that i must die in prison or profess a love that i do not feel. let me tell you this, though i die twice in your dungeon i will have none of you, for you are false enchantresses and not true dames for honest men to love. as for dame guenever, were i at liberty i would prove it on all the knights whom you command that she is of all ladies the truest to her lord." "is this, then, your answer," said morgan, "that you disdain our love?" "on my life it is!" cried lancelot. "such love as yours is not for honest knights; and my love is not to be had for the bidding." "you may live to change your mind," said morgan. "prison life and prison fare may cure your pride." with these words they departed, leaving lancelot in gloom of mind but steadfastness of heart. at noon, the damsel who had brought him his supper the night before came with his dinner, and asked him again how he fared. "never so ill," said lancelot. "for never before was i held under lock and key, and never was worthy knight so shamefully entreated." "it grieves me deeply to see you in such distress," she said. "if you will be ruled by me, and make me a promise, you shall be set free from this prison, though at the risk of my life." "i will grant your wish if it be in my power," said lancelot. "these queenly sorceresses have destroyed many a good knight, and i would give much to be out of their hands." "they crave your love from what they have heard of your honor and renown," answered the damsel. "they say your name is lancelot du lake, the flower of knights, and your refusal of their love has filled their souls with anger. but for my aid you might die in their hands. the promise i ask is this. on tuesday morning next there is to be a tournament between my father and the king of northgalis. my father was lately overpowered by three of arthur's knights, and if you will be there and help him in this coming fray i will engage to deliver you from your bondage at dawn to-morrow." "tell me your father's name," said lancelot, "and then you shall have my answer." "his name is king bagdemagus." "i know him well," said lancelot. "he is a noble king and a good knight. by the faith of my body, i promise to give him what aid i can." "a hundred thanks, dear sir," she said. "be ready to-morrow early. i shall be here to deliver you, and take you to where you can find your horse and armor. within ten miles of this castle is an abbey of white monks. there i beg you to stay and thither i shall bring my father to you." "as i am a true knight you can trust me," said lancelot. with this the damsel departed. but at early dawn of the next day she came again, as she had promised, and found lancelot ready and eager for flight. then they crept through hall and passage, with heedful tread and bated breath, until she had opened twelve locked doors and reached the castle yard. the sun was just giving its rose tints to the east when she brought him to the place where his horse and armor were kept, and with hasty fingers helped him to arm. then, taking a great spear and mounting his noble steed, lancelot rode forth, saying cheerily,-- "fair damsel, by the grace of god i shall not fail you." and still slumber lay deep upon the castle, and not one of the queens nor a soul of those who dwelt therein was wakened by the sound. but not far had the escaping knight departed from the castle before he entered a thick forest, in whose depths he wandered lost all that day, finding no high road, and no trace of the abbey of white monks. night at length came upon him, and now he found himself in a valley where he saw a pavilion of red sendal. "fortune aids me," said lancelot. "whoever owns that pavilion, it shall give me shelter for the night." he thereupon alighted, tied his horse to a tree near by, and entered the pavilion, in which was a comfortable bed. disarming, he laid himself therein, and very soon was lost in heavy slumber. within an hour afterwards the knight who owned the pavilion came thither, and laid himself upon the bed without noticing that it was already occupied. his entrance wakened lancelot, who, on feeling this intrusion, sprang in quick alarm from the bed and grasped his sword. the other knight, no less alarmed, did the same, and sword in hand they rushed out from the pavilion into the open air, and fell into mortal combat by the side of a little stream that there ran past. the fight was quickly at an end, for after a few passes the knight of the pavilion fell to the earth, wounded nearly unto death. "i yield me, sir knight," he cried. "but i fear i have fought my last." "why came you into my bed?" demanded lancelot. "the pavilion is my own," said the knight. "it is ill fortune that i should die for seeking my own bed." "then i am sorry to have hurt you," said lancelot. "i have lately been beguiled by treason, and was in dread of it. come into the pavilion. it may be that i can stanch your blood." they entered the pavilion, where lancelot, with skilful hands, dressed the knight's wound and stopped the bleeding. as he did so the knight's lady entered the pavilion, and fell into deep lamentation and accusal of lancelot, on seeing how sorely her lord was hurt. "peace, my lady and love," said the knight. "this is a worthy and honorable gentleman. i am in fault for my hurt, and he has saved my life by his skill and care." "will you tell me what knight you are?" asked the lady. "fair lady," he replied, "my name is lancelot du lake." "so your face and voice told me," she replied, "for i have seen you often, and know you better than you deem. and i would ask of your courtesy, for the harm you have done to my lord beleus and the grief you have given me, that you will cause my lord to be made a knight of the round table. this i can say for him, that he is a man of warlike prowess, and the lord of many islands." "let him come to the court at the next high feast," said lancelot; "and come you with him. i shall do what i can for him, and if he prove as good a knight as you say, i doubt not but king arthur will grant your request." while they still talked the night passed and the day dawned. then lancelot armed himself, and asking of them the way to the abbey, rode thither, where he arrived within the space of two hours. as lancelot rode within the abbey yard, the damsel to whom he owed his deliverance from the prison of morgan le fay sprang from a couch and ran to a window, roused by the loud clang of hoofs upon the pavement. seeing who it was, she hurried gladly down, and bade some of the men to take his horse to the stable, and others to lead him to a chamber, whither she sent him a robe to wear when he had laid off his armor. [illustration: old arches of the abbey wall.] then she entered the chamber and bade him heartily welcome, saying that of all knights in the world he was the one she most wished to see. ordering breakfast to be prepared for the hungry knight, she sent in haste for her father, who was within twelve miles of the abbey. before eventide he came, and with him a fair following of knights. as soon as king bagdemagus reached the abbey, he went straight to the room where were lancelot and his daughter in conversation, and took lancelot in his arms, bidding him warmly welcome. in the talk that followed, lancelot told the king of his late adventures, the loss of his nephew lionel, his own betrayal, and his rescue by the maiden, his daughter: "for which," he said, "i owe my best service to her and hers while i live." "then can i trust in your help on tuesday next?" asked the king. "that i have already promised your daughter," said lancelot. "i shall not fail. but she tells me that in your last bout you lost the field through three of king arthur's knights, who aided the king of northgalis, and that it is against these knights you need assistance. what knights were they?" "they were sir mador de la porte, sir mordred, and sir gahalatine. do what we could, neither i nor my knights could make head against them." "i would not have them know me," said lancelot. "my plan, therefore, is this. send me here three of your best knights, and see that they have white shields, with no device, and that i also have such a shield. then shall we four, when the fight is well on, come out of a wood into the midst of the fray, and do what we can to defeat these champions." this plan was carried out as lancelot had devised. on the day fixed for the tournament he, with his three white-shielded companions, placed himself in ambush in a leafy grove near where the lists were raised. around the field were rows of benches where the spectators might sit, and richly-adorned seats for the lords and ladies who were to adjudge the combat and award the prize of skill and valor. then into the lists rode the king of northgalis, with a following of fourscore knights, and attended by the three knights of arthur's court, who stood apart by themselves. into the opposite side of the lists rode king bagdemagus, with as many knights in his train. when all were in place the signal for the onset was given, and the knights put their spears in rest and rode together with a great rush, and with such fatal fortune that twelve of the party of bagdemagus and six of that of northgalis were slain at the first encounter, while the knights of king bagdemagus were driven back in disorder. at this critical juncture lancelot and his companions broke from their concealment and rode into the lists, forcing their horses into the thick of the press. then lancelot did deeds of such marvellous strength and skill that all men deeply wondered who could be the valiant knight of the white shield. for with one spear he smote down five knights, with such force that four of them broke their backs in the fall. then turning on the king of northgalis, he hurled him from his horse and broke his thigh. the three knights of arthur's court, who had not yet joined in the fray, saw this, and rode forward. "a shrewd guest that," said mador. "let me have at him." but his fortune was not equal to his hopes, for lancelot bore down horse and man, so that mador's shoulder was put out of joint by the fall. "now is my turn," said mordred. he rode fiercely on lancelot, who turned nimbly and met him in full career, mordred's spear shivering unto his hand when it struck the firm white shield. but lancelot gave him so shrewd a buffet that the bow of his saddle broke, and he was flung over his horse's tail with such violence that his helmet went more than a foot into the earth. fortune saved him from a broken neck, but he lay long in a swoon. then gahalatine and lancelot rode together with all their force, the spears of both breaking, but both keeping their seats. they now drew their swords, and struck each other many a keen blow. at length lancelot, with a burst of wrath, smote gahalatine so fierce a stroke on the helm that blood burst from his nose, mouth, and ears, and his head drooped on his breast. his horse ran in fright from the fray, while he fell headlong from his saddle to the ground. lancelot now drew back and received from the attendants a stout, strong spear, and with this rode again into the fray. before that spear broke he had unhorsed sixteen knights, some of them being borne from their saddles, while others were hurled horse and man together to the earth. then getting another spear he unhorsed twelve more knights, some of whom never throve afterwards. this ended the tournament, for the knights of northgalis refused to fight any longer against a champion of such mighty prowess, and the prize was awarded to king bagdemagus. lancelot now rode with king bagdemagus from the lists to his castle, where they had great feasting and rejoicing, and where lancelot was proffered rich gifts for the noble service he had rendered. but these he refused to accept. on the following morning lancelot took his leave, saying that he must go in search of lionel, who had vanished from his side during his sleep. but before going he commended all present to god's grace, and said to the king's daughter,-- "if you have need any time of my service i pray you let me know, and i shall not fail you, as i am a true knight." and so lancelot departed, having had strange adventures and won much renown since he had parted from his nephew lionel. chapter iii. how lancelot and turquine fought. not far nor long had lancelot ridden before he found himself in familiar scenes, and in a short time he beheld that same apple-tree under which he had lain asleep. "i shall take care never to sleep again beneath your shade," he said, grimly. "the fruit you bear is not wholesome for errant knights." he rode by it, but had not followed the highway far when he met a damsel riding on a white palfrey, who saluted him. he courteously returned her salute, and said,-- "fair damsel, know you of any adventures that may be had in this land?" "sir knight," she replied, "if you crave adventures you will not need to go far to find one. but it is one it might be safest for you not to undertake." "why should i not?" said lancelot. "i came here seeking adventures, and am not the man to turn back from a shadow." "you seem to be a good knight," she replied, regarding him closely. "if you dare face a powerful fighter, i can bring you where is the best and mightiest in this land. but first i would know what knight you are." "as for my name, you are welcome to it," he replied. "men call me lancelot du lake." "this, then, is the adventure. near by there dwells a knight who has never yet found his match, and who is ever ready for a joust. his name is sir turquine. as i am told, he has overcome and has in prison in his castle sixty-four knights of arthur's court, whom he has met and vanquished in single combat. you shall fight with him if you will. and if you overcome him, then i shall beg for your aid against a false knight who daily distresses me and other damsels. have i your promise?" "there is nothing i would rather do," said lancelot. "bring me now where i may meet this turquine. when i have ended with him i shall be at your service." "come this way," she replied, and led him to the ford and the tree where hung the basin. lancelot waited here until his horse had drunk, and then he beat on the basin with the butt of his spear with such force that its bottom fell out, but no one answered his challenge. he knocked then loudly at the manor gates, but they remained closed. finding no entrance, he rode for half an hour along the manor walls, looking heedfully for sir turquine, whom he fancied must be abroad. at the end of that time he saw a knight who drove a horse before him, and athwart that horse lay an armed knight, bound. as they drew near, lancelot noticed something familiar in the aspect of the bound knight, and when they had come close he recognized him as gaheris, the brother of gawaine, and a knight of the round table. "that prisoner is a fellow of mine," he said to the damsel. "i shall begin, i promise you, by god's help, with rescuing him; and unless his captor sit better than i in the saddle, i shall deliver all his prisoners, among whom, i am sure, are some of my near kindred." by this time turquine was close at hand, and on seeing an armed knight thus confront him he drew up his horse and gripped his spear fiercely. "fair sir," said lancelot, "put down that wounded knight and let him rest a while, while you and i find out who is the better man. i am told you have done much wrong to knights of the round table, and i am here to revenge them. therefore, defend yourself." "if you be of the round table," said turquine, "i defy you and all your fellowship." "that is easy to say," retorted lancelot. "now let me see what you are ready to do." then, they put their spears in the rests, and rode together with the force of two ships meeting in mid-ocean, smiting each other so strongly in the midst of their shields that the backs of both horses broke beneath them. the knights, astonished at this result, leaped hastily to the ground to avoid being overthrown. then, drawing their swords and bearing their shields in front, they came hotly together, striking with such force that shield and armor alike gave way beneath the mighty blows, and blood soon began to flow freely from their wounds. thus for two hours and more the deadly contest continued, the knights striking, parrying, advancing, and retiring with all the skill of perfect swordsmen. at the last they both paused through lack of breath, and stood leaning upon their swords, and facing each other grimly. "hold thy hand a while, fellow," said turquine, "and tell me what i shall ask thee." "say on," rejoined lancelot, briefly. "thou art the strongest and best-breathed man that ever i met with, and art much like the knight that i hate most of all men. if you are not he, then for the esteem i have for you i will release all my prisoners, and we shall be fellows together while we live. but first of all i would know your name." "you speak well," said lancelot. "but since you promise me your friendship, tell me what knight it is you hate so deeply?" "his name," said turquine, "is lancelot du lake. he slew my brother carados at the dolorous tower, and i have vowed that, if i should meet him, one of us shall make an end of the other. through hate of him i have slain a hundred knights, and maimed as many more, while of those i have thrown in prison, many are dead, and threescore and four yet live. if you will tell me your name, and it be not lancelot, all these shall be delivered." "it stands, then," said lancelot, "that if i be one man i may have your peace and friendship, and if i be another man there will be mortal war between us. if you would know my name, it is lancelot du lake, son of king ban of benwick, and knight of the table round. and now do your best, for i defy you." "ah, lancelot!" said turquine, "never was knight so welcome to me. this is the meeting i have long sought, and we shall never part till one of us be dead." then they rushed together like two wild bulls, lashing at each other with shield and sword, and striking such fiery blows that pieces of steel flew from their armor of proof, and blood poured from many new wounds. two hours longer the fight continued, turquine giving lancelot many wounds and receiving stinging blows in return, till at the end he drew back faint with loss of breath and of blood, and bore his shield low through weakness. this lancelot quickly perceived, and leaped fiercely upon him, seizing him by the beaver of his helmet and dragging him down to his knees. then he tore off his helm, and swinging in the air his fatal blade, smote off his head so that it leaped like a live thing upon the ground, while the body fell prostrate in death. "so much for turquine," said lancelot. "he will take prisoner no more round table knights. but by my faith, there are not many such men as he, and he and i might have faced the world. now, damsel, i am ready to go with you where you will, but i have no horse." "take that of this wounded knight; and let him go into the manor and release the prisoners." "that is well advised," said lancelot, who thereupon went to gaheris and begged that he would lend him his horse. "lend it!" cried gaheris. "i will give it, and would give ten if i had them, for i owe my life and my horse both to you. you have slain in my sight the mightiest man and the best knight that i ever saw, except yourself. and, fair sir, i pray you tell me your name?" "my name is lancelot du lake. i owe you rescue for king arthur's sake, and for that of gawaine, your brother and my comrade. within that manor you will find many knights of the round table, whose shields you may see on yonder tree. i pray you greet them all from me, and say i bid them take for their own such stuff as they find there. i must ride on with this damsel to keep my promise, but i hope to be back at the court by the feast of pentecost. bid lionel and hector await me there." this said, he mounted and rode on, while gaheris went into the manor-house. here he found a yeoman porter, who accosted him surlily. gaheris flung the dogged fellow to the floor, and took from him his keys. with these he opened the prison doors and released the captives, who thanked him warmly for their rescue, for they saw that he was wounded, and deemed that he had vanquished turquine. "it was not i," said gaheris, "that slew your tyrant. you have lancelot to thank for that. he greets you all, and asks lionel and hector to wait for him at the court." "that we shall not do," said they. "while we live we shall seek him." "so shall i," said kay, who was among the prisoners, "as i am a true knight." then the released knights sought their armor and horses, and as they did so a forester rode into the court, with four horses laden with fat venison. "here is for us," said kay. "we have not had such a repast as this promises for many a long day. that rogue turquine owes us a dinner at least." then the manor-kitchens were set in a blaze, and the venison was roasted, baked, and sodden, the half-starved knights enjoying such a hearty meal as they had long been without. some of them afterwards stayed in the manor-house for the night, though in more agreeable quarters than they had of late occupied. but lionel, hector, and kay rode in quest of lancelot, resolved to find him if it were possible, and to lose no time in the search. as for the victorious knight, he had many strange adventures, of which we can tell only those of most interest. first of all, he performed the task which the damsel required of him, for he met and killed that false knight against whom she prayed for redress. "you have done this day a double service to mankind," said the damsel, gratefully. "as turquine destroyed knights, so did this villain, whose name was peris de forest savage, destroy and distress ladies and gentlewomen, and he is well repaid for his villany." "do you want any more service of me?" asked lancelot. "not at this time. but may heaven preserve you wherever you go, for you deserve the prayers of all who are in distress. but one thing, it seems to me, you lack: you are a wifeless knight. the world says that you will love no maiden, but that your heart is turned only to queen guenever, who has ordained by enchantment that you shall love none but her. this i hold to be a great pity, and many in the land are sorry to see so noble a knight so enchained." "i cannot stop people from thinking what they will," said lancelot, "but as for marrying, i shall not soon consent to be a stay-at-home knight. and as for guenever's enchantment, it is only that of beauty and womanly graciousness. what time may bring me i know not, but as yet it has not brought me a fancy for wedded life. i thank you for your good wishes, fair damsel, and courteously bid you farewell." with these words lancelot and she parted, she seeking her home, and the knight riding in quest of new adventures. for two days his journey continued, through a country strange to him. on the morning of the third day he found himself beside a wide stream, which was crossed by a long bridge, beyond which rose the battlemented towers of a strong castle. lancelot rode upon the bridge, but before he had reached its middle there started out a foul-faced churl, who smote his horse a hard blow on the nose, and asked him surlily why he dared cross that bridge without license. "why should i not, if i wish?" asked the knight. "who has the right to hinder?" "i have," cried the churl. "you may choose what you will, but you shall not ride here," and he struck at him furiously with a great iron-shod club. at this affront lancelot angrily drew his sword, and with one stroke warded off the blow, and cut the churl's head in twain. "so much for you, fool," he said. but when he reached the end of the bridge he found there a village, whose people cried out to him, "you have done a sorry deed for yourself, for you have slain the chief porter of our castle." lancelot rode on, heedless of their cries, and forcing his great horse through the throng till he came to the castle walls. the gates of these stood open, and he rode in, where he saw a fair green court, and beyond it the stately walls and towers. at the windows were the faces of many people, who cried to him in dismay,-- "fair knight, turn and fly. death awaits you here." "fly! i have not learned how," answered lancelot, as he sprang from his horse and tied him to a ring in the wall. "this court seems a fair place for knightly combat, and it fits better with my mood to fight than fly." hardly had he spoken when from the castle doors came two strong giants, armed all but their heads, and bearing as weapons great iron clubs. they set upon lancelot together, the foremost making a stroke that would have slain him had it reached him. but the knight warded it off with his shield, and agilely returned the blow with his sword, with so vigorous a stroke that he cleft the giant's head in twain. when his fellow saw this, he turned and ran in panic fear, but lancelot furiously pursued him, and struck him so fierce a blow that the sword clove his great body asunder from shoulder to waist. "is it not better to fight than to fly?" cried lancelot to the glad faces which he now saw at the windows, and, leaving the dead giants crimsoning the green verdure, he strode into the castle hall, where there came before him threescore ladies, who fell on their knees and thanked god and him for their deliverance. "blessed be the day thou wert born, sir knight," they said, "for many brave warriors have died in seeking to do what thou hast achieved this day. we are all of us gentlewomen born, and many of us have been prisoners here for seven years, working in silk for these giants that we might earn our food. we pray you to tell us your name, that our friends may know who has delivered us, and remember you in their prayers." "fair ladies," he said, "my name is lancelot du lake." "you may well be he," they replied. "for we know no other knight that could have faced those giants together, and slain them as you have done." "say unto your friends," said lancelot, "that i send them greeting, and that i shall expect good cheer from them if ever i should come into their manors. as for the treasure in this castle, i give it to you in payment for your captivity. for the castle itself, its lord, whom these giants have dispossessed, may claim again his heritage." "the castle," they replied, "is named tintagil. the duke who owned it was the husband of queen igraine, king arthur's mother. but it has long been held by these miscreant giants." "then," said lancelot, "the castle belongs to the king, and shall be returned to him. and now farewell, and god be with you." so saying, he mounted his horse and rode away, followed by the thanks and prayers of the rescued ladies. chapter iv. the chapel perilous. lancelot rode onward day after day, passing through many strange and wild countries, and over many rivers, and finding but sorry cheer and ill lodging as he went. at length fortune brought him to a comfortable wayside mansion, where he was well received, and after a good supper was lodged in a chamber over the gateway. but he had not been long asleep when he was aroused by a furious knocking at the gate. springing from his bed, he looked from the window, and there by the moonlight saw one knight defending himself against three, who were pressing him closely. the knight fought bravely, but was in danger of being overpowered. "those are not fair odds," said lancelot. "i must to the rescue, and the more so as i see that it is my old friend, sir kay, who is being so roughly handled." then he hastily put on his armor, and by aid of a sheet lowered himself from a window to the ground. "turn this way," he cried to the assailants, "and leave that knight. three to one is not knightly odds." at these words they turned upon him, all three striking at him together, and forcing him to defend himself. kay would have come to his aid, but he cried out,-- "i will have none of your help. stand off and leave me alone, or fight them yourself." at this kay stood aside, and lancelot attacked the three miscreants so fiercely that within six strokes he felled them all to the ground. they now begged for mercy, yielding to him as a man of matchless skill. "i will not take your yielding," he replied. "yield to sir kay, here, whom you foully over-matched." "you ask too much of us, fair sir. it is not just that we should yield to him whom we would have vanquished but for you." "think well," returned lancelot. "you shall yield or die. the choice is yours." "that is a choice with but one side. yield we must, if death is the alternative." "then i bid you on whitsunday next, to present yourselves to queen guenever at king arthur's court, and put yourselves in her grace and mercy, saying that sir kay sent you there as prisoners." this they took oath to do, each knight swearing upon his sword; whereupon lancelot suffered them to depart. he now knocked at the gate with the pommel of his sword, till his host came, who started with surprise on seeing him there. "i thought you were safe a-bed," he said. "so i was. but i sprang from the window to help an old fellow of mine." when they came to the light, kay recognized lancelot, and fell on his knees to thank him for saving his life. "what i have done is nothing but what duty and good fellowship demanded," said lancelot. "are you hungry?" "half starved," answered kay. "mayhap our good host can find you food." meat was thereupon brought, of which kay ate heartily, after which he and lancelot sought their beds in the gate chamber. but in the morning lancelot rose while kay was still asleep, and took his guest's armor and shield, leaving his own. then he proceeded to the stable, mounted his horse, and rode away. shortly afterwards kay awoke, and quickly perceived what his comrade had done. "good," he said, with a laugh. "lancelot is after some sport. i fancy that more than one knight will get more than he bargains for if he thinks he has me to deal with. as for me, with lancelot's armor and shield, i shall be left to ride in peace, for few, i fancy, will trouble me." kay thereupon put on lancelot's armor, and, thanking his host, rode away. meanwhile lancelot had ridden on till he found himself in a low country full of meadows and rivers. here he passed a bridge at whose end were three pavilions of silk and sendal, and at the door of each a white shield on the truncheon of a spear, while three squires stood at the pavilion doors. lancelot rode leisurely by, without a word and hardly a look. when he had passed, the knights looked after him, saying to one another, "that is the proud kay. he deems no knight so good as he, though it has often been proved otherwise." "i shall ride after him," said one. "we shall see if his pride does not have a fall. watch me, comrades, if you would see some sport." he sped but poorly, as it proved, for within a short time he was hurled grovelling to the earth. then the two others rode in succession against the disguised knight, and both met with the same sorry fate. "you are not kay, the seneschal," they cried. "he never struck such blows. tell us your name and we will yield." "you shall yield, whether you will or not," he replied. "look that you be at court by whitsunday, and yield yourselves to queen guenever, saying to her that sir kay sent you thither as prisoners." this they swore to do, in dread of worse handling, and lancelot rode on, leaving them to help themselves as best they might. not far had he gone when he entered a forest, and in an open glade of this saw four knights resting under an oak. he knew them at sight to be from arthur's court, two of them being gawaine and uwaine; the other two hector de maris, and sagramour le desirous. they, as the three previous knights had done, mistook lancelot for kay, and sagramour rode after him, vowing that he would try what skill the seneschal had. he quickly found, for horse and man together were hurled to the ground, while lancelot sat unmoved in his saddle. "i would have sworn that kay could not give such a buffet as that," said hector. "let us see what i can do with him." his luck was even worse, for he went to the earth with a spear-hole in his shoulder, his shield and armor being pierced. "by my faith!" said uwaine, "that knight is a bigger and stronger man than kay. he must have slain the seneschal and taken his armor. he has proved himself a hard man to match, but if kay has been slain it is our duty to revenge him." he thereupon rode against lancelot, but with as ill fortune as his fellows, for he was flung so violently to the earth that he lay long out of his senses. "whoever he be," cried gawaine, "he has overturned my comrades, and i must encounter him. defend yourself, sir knight." then the two knights rode fiercely together, each striking the other in the midst of the shield. but gawaine's spear broke, while that of lancelot held good, and struck so strong a blow that the horse was overturned, gawaine barely escaping being crushed beneath him. this done, lancelot rode slowly on, smiling to himself, and saying, "god give joy to the man that made this spear, for a better no knight ever handled." "what say you of this knight, who with one spear has felled us all?" said gawaine. "to my thinking, it is lancelot or the devil. he rides like lancelot." "we shall find out in good time," said the others; "but he has left us sore bodies and sick hearts, and our poor horses are the worse for the trial." lancelot rode on through the forest, thinking quietly to himself of the surprise he had given to his late assailants, and of the sport it would thereafter make in the court. but new and stranger adventures awaited him, for he was now coming into a land of enchantment, where more than mere strength would be needed. what he saw, after he had ridden long and far, was a black brachet, which was coursing as if in the track of a hurt deer; but he quickly perceived that the dog was upon a trail of fresh blood. he followed the brachet, which looked behind as it ran, as if with desire to lead him on. in time he saw before him an old manor, over whose bridge ran the dog. when lancelot had ridden over the bridge, that shook beneath his hoofs as if it was ready to fall, he came into a great hall, where lay a dead knight whose wounds the dog was licking. as he stood there a lady rushed weeping from a chamber, and wrung her hands in grief as she accused him of having slain her lord. "madam, it was not i," said lancelot. "i never saw him till his dog led me here, and i am sorry enough for your misfortune." "i should have known it could not be you," she said. "i was led by my grief to speak wildly. for he that killed my husband is sorely wounded himself, and i can promise him this, that he will never recover. i have wrought him a charm that no leech's skill can overcome." "what was your husband's name?" asked lancelot. "sir gilbert," she replied. "as for him that slew him, i know not his name." "god send you better comfort," said lancelot. "i am sorry for your misfortune." then he rode again into the forest, and in a short space met a damsel who knew him well, for his visor was up and his face shown. "you are well found, my lord lancelot," she said. "i beg you of your knighthood to help my brother, who lies near by sorely wounded, and never stops bleeding. he fought to-day with sir gilbert and slew him in fair battle, and now is dying through foul enchantment. not far from here dwells a lady sorceress, who has wrought this harm, and who told me to-day that my brother's wounds would never heal till i could find a knight who would go into the chapel perilous, and bring thence the sword of the slain knight and a piece of the bloody cloth that he is wrapped in. my brother will die unless his wounds are touched with that sword and that cloth, for nothing else on earth will stop their bleeding." "this is a marvellous tale," said lancelot. "who is your brother?" "his name is meliot de logres." "then he is one of my fellows of the round table, and i will do all i can to help him. what and where the chapel perilous is i know not, but i do not fear its perils." "this highway will bring you to it, and at no great distance," she replied. "i shall here await your return. i know no knight but you who can achieve this task, and truly you will find it no light one, for you have enchantment and sorcery to encounter." little was lancelot downcast by these words, and he rode on to the chapel perilous with no dread in his bold heart. reaching the building indicated, he alighted and tied his horse beside the gate. then he entered the church-yard, and there he saw on the chapel front many shields hung upside down, some of them being well known to him. but his eyes were quickly drawn from these, for suddenly there appeared before him thirty gigantic knights, all clad in jet-black armor, and every man of them a foot higher than common men. all bore swords and shields, and as they stood there they grinned and gnashed at him with baleful faces. dread came into lancelot's heart on seeing this frightful throng of black warriors, with their demon-like countenances. but commending his soul to god, he took his sword in hand and advanced resolutely upon them. then, to his surprise and gladness, when they saw this bold advance they scattered right and left before him, like dead leaves before the wind, and gave him open passage to the chapel, which he entered without further opposition. here was no light but that of a dim lamp, and on a bier in the centre of the aisle there lay a corpse that was covered with a cloth of silk. on coming up, lancelot gazed upon the face and saw that it was that of sir gilbert, whose dead body he had seen but lately in the hall of the manor-house. then he bent over the corpse and cut away a piece of the silk, and as he did so he felt the floor to sink and rock beneath him as if the earth had quaked. this gave him a thrill of dread, and seizing the sword that lay by the side of the corpse he hastened out of the chapel. when he reached the chapel-yard the black knights thronged again in his pathway, and cried to him with voices of thunder,-- "knight, yield us that sword, or you shall die!" "whether i live or die, it will need more than loud words to force me to yield it. you may fight for it if you will. and i warn you, you will need to fight hard." then, as before, they scattered before his bold advance, and left him free passage. lancelot strode resolutely on through the chapel-yard, but in the highway beyond he met a fair damsel, who said to him,-- "sir lancelot, you know not what risk you run. leave that sword, or you will die for it." "i got it not so easy that i should leave it for a threat," he replied. "you are wise," she answered. "i did but test your judgment. if you had yielded the sword you would never have looked on queen guenever again." "then i would have been a fool indeed to leave it." "now, gentle knight, i have but one request to make of you ere you depart. that is, that you kiss me." "nay," said lancelot, "that god forbid. i save my kisses till my love is given." "then are you beyond my power," she cried, with a groan of pain. "had you kissed me your life would have ended; but now i have lost my labor, for it was for you and gawaine that i prepared this chapel with its enchantments. gawaine was once in my power, and at that time he fought with sir gilbert and struck off his left hand. as for you, i have loved you these seven years. but i know that none but guenever will ever have your love, and so, as i could not have you alive, i wished to have you dead. if you had yielded to my wiles i should have embalmed and preserved your body, and kissed it daily in spite of guenever, or any woman living. now farewell, lancelot; i shall never look upon your face again." "i pray to heaven you shall not. and may god preserve me from your vile craft." mounting his horse, lancelot departed. of the lady, we are told by the chronicles that she died within a fortnight of pure sorrow, and that she was a sorceress of high renown. lancelot rode on till he met the sister of the wounded knight, who clapped her hands and wept for joy on seeing him safely returned. then she led him to a castle near by, where sir meliot lay. lancelot knew him at sight, though he was pale as death from loss of blood. on seeing lancelot, he fell on his knees before him, crying, in tones of hope,-- "oh, my lord lancelot, help me, for you alone can!" "i can and will," rejoined the knight, and, as he had been advised, he touched his wounds with the sword and rubbed them with the bloody cloth he had won. no sooner was this done, than meliot sprang to his feet a whole and sound man, while his heart throbbed with joy and gratefulness. and he and his sister entertained their noble guest with the best the castle afforded, doing all in their power to show their gratitude. chapter v. the adventure of the falcon. after his departure from the castle of sir meliot, lancelot rode through many strange regions, over marshes and highlands, through valleys and forests, and at length found himself in front of a handsome castle. this he passed, and as he did so thought he heard two bells ring. then he saw a falcon fly over his head towards a high elm, with long cords hanging from her feet, and as she perched in the elm these became coiled round a bough, so that when she tried to fly again the lines held her and she hung downward by the legs. then there came a lady running from the castle, who cried, as she approached,-- "oh, lancelot, lancelot, as thou art the flower of knights, help me to get my hawk, lest my lord destroy me! the hawk escaped me, and if my husband finds it gone, he is so hasty that i fear he will kill me." "what is his name?" asked lancelot. "his name is phelot. he is a knight of the king of northgalis." "well, fair lady, since you know my name so well, and ask me on my knighthood to help you, i will try to get your hawk. but i am a poor climber, and the tree is high, with few boughs to help me." "i trust you may," she replied, "for my life depends on your success." then lancelot alighted and tied his horse to the tree, and begged the lady to help him remove his armor. when he was fully unarmed he climbed with much difficulty into the tree, and at length succeeded in reaching the hawk. he now tied the lines to a rotten branch and threw it and the bird down to the lady. but as she picked it up with a show of joy, there suddenly came from a grove an armed knight, who rode rapidly up, with his drawn sword in his hand. "now, lancelot du lake," he cried, "i have you as i wanted you. your day has come." and he stood by the trunk of the tree, ready to slay him when he should descend. "what treason is this?" demanded lancelot. "false woman, why have you led me into this?" "she did as i bade her," said phelot. "i hate you, lancelot, and have laid this trap for you. you have fought your last fight, my bold champion, for you come out of that tree but to your death." "that would be a shameful deed," cried lancelot, "for you, an armed knight, to slay a defenceless man through treachery." "help yourself the best you can," said phelot; "you get no grace from me." "you will be shamed all your life by so base an act," cried lancelot. "if you will do no more, at least hang my sword upon a bough where i may get it, and then you may do your best to slay me." "no, no," said phelot. "i know you too well for that. you get no weapon if i can hinder you." lancelot was now in the most desperate strait he was likely ever to endure. he could not stay forever in the tree, and if he should attempt to descend there stood that armed villain awaiting him with ready sword. what to do he knew not, but his eyes glanced warily round, till he saw just above him a big leafless branch, which he broke off close to the body of the tree. thus armed, he climbed down to a lower bough, and looked down to note the position of the knight and his own horse. a quick look told him that there was still a chance for life, and with a nimble leap he sprang to the ground on the other side of his horse from the knight. phelot at once struck at him savagely with his sword, thinking to kill him with the blow; but lancelot parried it with his heavy club, and in return dealt his antagonist so fierce a blow on the head as to hurl him from his horse to the ground. then wrenching the sword from his hand, he struck off his villanous head. "alas!" cried the lady, "you have slain my husband!" "if i should slay you with him it would be but justice," said lancelot, "for you would have killed me through falsehood and treachery, and you have but your deserts." then the lady swooned away as if she would die, but lancelot, seeing that the knight's castle was so nigh, hastened to resume his armor, for he knew not what other treachery might await him. then, leaving the lady still in a swoon, he mounted and rode away, thanking god that he had come so well through that deadly peril. as to lancelot's other adventures at that time, they were of no great moment. the chronicles tell that he saw a knight chasing a lady with intent to kill her, and that he rescued her. afterwards the knight, who was her husband and mad with jealousy, struck off her head in lancelot's presence. then when lancelot would have slain him, he grovelled in the dirt and begged for mercy so piteously, that the knight at length granted him his shameful life, but made him swear that he would bear the dead body on his back to queen guenever, and tell her of his deed. this he accomplished, and was ordered by the queen, as a fitting penance, to bear the body of his wife to the pope of rome and there beg absolution, and never to sleep at night but with the dead body in the bed with him. all this the knight did, and the body was buried in rome by the pope's command. afterwards pedivere, the knight, repented so deeply of his vile deed that he became a hermit, and was known as a man of holy life. two days before the feast of pentecost, lancelot returned to camelot from his long journey and his many adventures. and there was much laughter in the court when the knights whom he had smitten down saw him in kay's armor, and knew who their antagonist had been. "by my faith," said kay, "i never rode in such peace as i have done in lancelot's armor, for i have not found a man willing to fight with me, and have ruled lord of the land." then the various knights whom lancelot had bidden to seek the court came in, one by one, and all were glad to learn that it was by no common man that they had been overcome. among them came sir belleus, whom lancelot had wounded at the pavilion, and who at his request was made a knight of the round table, and sir meliot de logres, whom he had rescued from the enchantment of the chapel perilous. also the adventure of the four queens was told, and how lancelot had been delivered from the power of the sorceresses, and had won the tournament for king bagdemagus. and so at that time lancelot had the greatest name of any knight in the world, and was the most honored, by high and low alike, of all living champions. book v. the adventures of beaumains. chapter i. the knighting of kay's kitchen boy. king arthur had, early in his reign, established the custom that at the feast of pentecost he would never dine until he had seen or heard of some marvellous event. through that custom many strange adventures were brought to his notice. it happened on one day of pentecost that the king held his round table at a castle called kinkenadon, on the borders of wales. on that day, a little before noon, as gawaine looked from a window, he saw three men on horseback and a dwarf on foot approaching the castle. when they came near the men alighted, and, leaving their horses in care of the dwarf, they walked towards the castle-gate. one of these men was very tall, being a foot and a half higher than his companions. on seeing this, gawaine went to the king and said,-- "sire, i deem you can now safely go to your dinner, for i fancy we have an adventure at hand." [illustration: king arthur's round table, winchester cathedral.] the king thereupon went to the table with his knights and the kings who were guests at his court. they were but well seated when there came into the hall two men, richly attired, upon whose shoulders leaned the fairest and handsomest young man that any there had ever seen. in body he was large and tall, with broad shoulders and sturdy limbs, yet he moved as if he could not bear himself erect, but needed support from his comrades' shoulders. when arthur saw this youth he bade those around him to make room, and the stranger with his companions walked up to the high dais without speaking. then he drew himself up straight and stood erect before the king. "king arthur," he said, "may god bless you and your fellowship, and, above all, the fellowship of the round table. i am come hither to beg of you three gifts, promising that they shall not be unreasonable, and that you can honorably grant them without hurt or loss to yourself. the first i shall ask now, and the other two this day twelvemonth." "ask what you will," said arthur. "you shall have your gift, if it be so easy to grant." "this is my first petition, that you furnish me meat and drink sufficient for this year, and until the time has come to ask for my other gifts." "my fair son," said arthur, "i counsel you to ask more than this. if my judgment fail not, you are of good birth and fit for noble deeds." "however that may be, i have asked all that i now desire." "well, well, you shall have meat and drink enough. i have never denied that to friend or foe. but what is your name?" "great sir, that i cannot tell you." "there is a mystery here. a youth of so handsome face and vigorous form as you must be of noble parentage. but if you desire secrecy, i shall not press you." then arthur bade kay to take charge of the youth and see that he had the best fare of the castle, and to find out if he was a lord's son, if possible. "a churl's son, i should say," answered kay, scornfully, "and not worth the cost of his meals. had he been of gentle birth he would have asked for horse and armor; but he demands that which fits his base-born nature. since he has no name, i shall give him one. let him be called beaumains, or fair hands. i shall keep him in the kitchen, where he can have fat broth every day, so that at the years end he will be fat as a swollen hog." then the two men departed and left the youth with kay, who continued to scorn and mock him. gawaine and lancelot were angry at this, and bade kay to cease his mockery, saying that they were sure the youth would prove of merit. "never will he," said kay. "he has asked as his nature bade him." "beware," said lancelot. "this is not the first youth you have given a name in mockery, which turned on yourself at last." "i do not fear that of this fellow. i wager that he has been brought up in some abbey, and came hither because good eating failed him there." kay then bade him get a place and sit down to his meal, and beaumains sought a place at the hall-door among boys and menials. gawaine and lancelot thereupon asked him to come to their chambers, where he should be well fed and lodged; but he refused, saying that he would do only as kay commanded, since the king had so bidden. it thus came about that beaumains ate in the kitchen among the menials, and slept in sorry quarters. and during the whole year he was always meek and mild, and gave no cause for displeasure to man or child. but whenever there was jousting of knights he was always present to see, and seemed in this sport to take great delight. and gawaine and lancelot, who felt sure that the youth but bided his time, gave him clothes and what money he needed. also, wherever there were sports of skill or strength he was sure to be on hand, and in throwing the bar or stone he surpassed all contestants by two yards. "how like you my boy of the kitchen?" kay would say, on seeing these feats. "fat broth is good for the muscles." and so the year passed on till the festival of whitsuntide came again. the court was now at carlion, where royal feasts were held. but the king, as was his custom, refused to eat until he should hear of some strange adventure. while he thus waited a damsel came into the hall and saluted the king, and begged aid and succor of him. "for whom?" asked arthur. "of what do you complain?" "sire," she replied, "i serve a lady of great worth and merit, who is besieged in her castle by a tyrant, and dares not leave her gates for fear of him. i pray you send with me some knight to succor her." "who is your lady, and where does she dwell? and what is the name of the man who besieges her?" "her name i must not now tell. i shall only say that she has wide lands and is a noble lady. as for the tyrant that distresses her, he is called the red knight of the red lawns." "i know him not," said the king. "i know him well," said gawaine. "men say he has seven men's strength. i escaped him once barely with life." "fair damsel," said the king, "there are knights here who would do their utmost to rescue your lady. but if you will not tell me her name nor where she lives, none of them shall go with my consent." "then i must seek further," said the damsel, "for that i am forbidden to tell." at this moment beaumains came to the king, and said,-- "royal sir, i have been twelve months in your kitchen, and have had all you promised me; now i desire to ask for my other two gifts." "ask, if you will. i shall keep to my word." "this, then, is what i request. first, that you send me with the damsel, for this adventure belongs to me." "you shall have it," said the king. "my third request is that you shall bid lancelot du lake make me a knight, for he is the only man in your court from whom i will take that honor. when i am gone let him ride after me, and dub me knight when i require it of him." "i grant your wish," said the king. "all shall be done as you desire." "fie on you all!" cried the damsel. "i came here for a knight, and you offer me a kitchen scullion. is this king arthur's way of rescuing a lady in distress? if so, i want none of it, and will seek my knight elsewhere." she left the court, red with anger, mounted her horse, and rode away. she had hardly gone when a page of the court came to beaumains and told him that his dwarf was without, with a noble horse and a rich suit of armor, and all other necessaries of the best. at this all the court marvelled, for they could not imagine who had sent all this rich gear to a kitchen menial. but when beaumains was armed, there were none in the court who presented a more manly aspect than he. he took courteous leave of the king, and of gawaine and lancelot, praying the latter that he would soon ride after him. this done, he mounted his horse and pursued the damsel. but those who observed him noticed that, while he was well horsed and had trappings of cloth of gold, he bore neither shield nor spear. among those who watched him was kay, who said,-- "yonder goes my kitchen drudge, as fine a knight as the best of us, if a brave show were all that a knight needed. i have a mind to ride after him, to let him know that i am still his superior." "you had better let him alone," said gawaine. "you may find more than you bargain for." but kay armed himself and rode after beaumains, whom he overtook just as he came up with the damsel. "hold there, beaumains," he cried, in mockery. "do you not know me?" "yes," answered the young man. "i know you for an ungentle knight of the court, who has put much despite upon me. it is my turn to repay you for your insults; so, sirrah, defend yourself." kay thereupon put his spear in rest and rode upon beaumains, who awaited him sword in hand. when they came together, beaumains, with a skilful parry, turned aside the spear, and then with a vigorous thrust wounded kay in the side, so that he fell from his horse like a dead man. this done, he dismounted and took kay's shield and spear, and bade his dwarf take his horse. all this was observed by the damsel, and also by lancelot, who had followed closely upon the track of the seneschal. "now, sir lancelot, i am ready to accept your offer to knight me," said beaumains, "but, first, i would prove myself worthy of the honor, and so will joust with you, if you consent." "that i shall certainly not decline," said lancelot, counting upon an easy victory. but when the knight and the youth rode against each other both were hurled from their horses to the earth, and sorely bruised. but beaumains was entangled in his harness, and lancelot helped him from his horse. then beaumains flung aside his shield and proffered to fight lancelot on foot, to which the latter consented. for an hour they fought, beaumains showing such strength that lancelot marvelled at it, and esteemed him more a giant than a knight. he began, indeed, to fear that he might be vanquished in the end, and at length cried out,-- "beaumains, you fight too hard, considering that there is no quarrel between us. i fancy you need no further proof." "that is true enough, my lord," said beaumains. "but it did me good to feel your might. as for my own strength, i hardly know it yet." "it is as much as i want to deal with," said lancelot. "i had to do my best to save my honor." "then you think i may prove myself a worthy knight?" "i warrant you that, if you do as well as you have done to-day." "i pray you, then, to invest me with the order of knighthood." "that shall i willingly do. but you must first tell me your name, and that of your father." "you will keep my secret?" "i promise you that on my faith, until you are ready to reveal it yourself." "then, sir, my name is gareth, and i am gawaine's brother, though he knows it not. i was but a child when he became a knight, but king lot was my father." "i am very glad to hear that," said lancelot. "i knew you were of gentle blood, and came to court for something else than meat and drink." then gareth kneeled before lancelot, who made him a knight, and bade him be a good and worthy one, and to honor his birth by his deeds. lancelot then left him and returned to kay, who lay half dead in the road. he had him borne back to the court, but his wound proved long in healing, and he found himself the scorn of the court for his discourteous treatment of the youth who had been put in his care. chapter ii. the black, the green, and the red knights. when beaumains overtook the damsel, he received from her but a sorry greeting. "how dare you follow me?" she said. "you smell too much of the kitchen for my liking. your clothes are foul with grease and tallow, and i marvel much that king arthur made a knight of such a sorry rogue. as for yonder knight whom you wounded, there is no credit in that, for it was done by treachery and cowardice, not by skill and valor. i know well why kay named you beaumains, for you are but a lubber and turner of spits, and a washer of soiled dishes." "say what you will, damsel," answered beaumains, "you shall not drive me away. king arthur chose me to achieve your adventure, and i shall perform it or die." "fie on you, kitchen knave! you would not dare, for all the broth you ever supped, to look the red knight in the face." "would i not? that is to be seen." as they thus angrily debated, there came to them a man flying at full speed. "help me, sir knight!" he cried. "six thieves have taken my lord and bound him, and i fear they will slay him if he be not rescued." "lead me to him," said beaumains. he followed the man to a neighboring glade, where he saw a knight bound and prostrate, surrounded by six sorry-looking villains. at sight of this the heart of beaumains leaped with anger. with a ringing battle-cry he rushed upon the knaves, and with three vigorous strokes laid three of them dead upon the earth. the others fled, but he followed at full speed, and quickly overtook them. then they turned and assailed him fiercely, but after a short fight he slew them all. he then rode back to the knight, whom his man had unbound. the rescued knight thanked him warmly, and begged him to ride with him to his castle, where he would reward him for his great service. but beaumains answered that he was upon a quest which could not be left, and as for reward he would leave that to god. then he turned and rode back to the damsel, who greeted him with the same contempt as before, bidding him ride farther from her, as she could not bear the smell of the kitchen. "do you fancy that i esteem you any the nobler for having killed a few churls? you shall see a sight yet, sir knave, that will make you turn your back, and that quickly." not much farther had they ridden when they were overtaken by the rescued knight, who begged them, as it was near night, and his castle close at hand, to spend the night there. the damsel agreed to this, and they rode together to the castle, where they were well entertained. but at supper the knight set beaumains before the damsel. "fie, fie! sir knight," she exclaimed. "this is discourteous, to seat a kitchen page before a lady of high birth. this fellow is more used to carve swine than to sit at lords' tables." to this beaumains made no answer, but the knight was ashamed, and withdrew with his guest to a side table, leaving her to the honor of the high table alone. when morning came they thanked the knight for their entertainment, and rode refreshed away. other adventures were ready for beaumains before they had ridden far, for they soon found themselves at the side of a river that had but a single ford, and on the opposite side stood two knights, ready to dispute the passage with any who should attempt it. "what say you to this?" asked the damsel. "will you face yonder knights, or turn back?" "i shall not turn; nor would i, if there were six more of them. you shall see that i can deal with knights as well as knaves." then he rode into the water, in the midst of which he met one of the knights, their spears breaking as they came fiercely together. they then drew their swords and began a fierce fight in the centre of the ford. but at last beaumains dealt his opponent a blow on the helm that stunned him, and hurled him from his horse into the water, where he was quickly drowned. beaumains now spurred forward to the land, where the other knight rushed upon him as he touched shore, breaking his spear, but not shaking the young champion in his seat. then they went at it with sword and shield, and with the same fortune as before, for beaumains quickly cleaved the helmet and brain of his opponent, and left him dead on the ground. he now turned and called proudly to the damsel, bidding her to ride forward, as he had cleared the ford for her passage. "alas!" she cried, "that a kitchen page should have the fortune to kill two valiant knights. you fancy you have done a doughty deed, but i deny it. the first knight was drowned through his horse stumbling, and the other one you struck a foul blow from behind. never brag of this, for i can attest it was not honestly done." "you may say what you will," rejoined beaumains. "whoever seeks to hinder me shall make way or kill me, for nothing less than death shall stop me on my quest to aid your lady." "you can boast loudly before a woman. wait till you meet the knights i take you to, and you will be taught another lesson." "fair damsel, if you will but give me courteous language, i shall ask no more. as for the knights you speak of, let come what will come." "i say this for your own good; for if you continue to follow me you will be slain. what you have done is by misadventure, not by prowess. if you are wise, you will turn back with what little honor you may claim." "say what you choose, damsel, but wherever you go there go i, and it will take more than insulting words to turn me back." so they rode on till evening, she continuing to chide and berate him, and bid him leave her, and he answering meekly, but with no abatement of his resolution. finally a strange sight came to them. for before them they saw a black lawn, in whose midst grew a black hawthorn. on one side of this hung a black banner, and on the other a black shield, while near by stood a black spear of great size, and a massive black horse covered with silk. near by was a knight armed in black armor, who was known as the knight of the black lawn. the damsel, on seeing this knight, bade beaumains flee down the valley, telling him that he might still escape, for the knight's horse was not saddled. "gramercy," said beaumains, "will you always take me for a coward? i fly not from one man, though he be as black as ten ravens." the black knight, seeing them approach, thus addressed the damsel,-- "so, my lady, you are here again! have you brought this knight from king arthur's court to be your champion?" "hardly so, fair sir. this is but a kitchen knave, who was fed in arthur's court through charity, and has followed me as a cur follows his master." "why comes he then in knightly guise? and what do you in such foul company?" "i cannot get rid of him, sir. he rides with me in my despite. i bring him here that you may rid me of the unhappy knave. through mishap and treachery he killed two knights at the river ford, and did other deeds that might have been of worth were they fairly done. yet he is but a sorry poltroon." "i am surprised," said the black knight, "that any man of worth will fight with him." "they knew him not," she answered, "and fancy him of some credit from his riding with me, and from his brave show of armor." "that may be," said the black knight. "yet, knave or not, he looks like a strong fellow. this much i shall do to relieve you of him. i shall put him on foot, and take from him his horse and armor. it would be a shame to do him more harm." beaumains had heard all this, biting his lips in anger. he now scornfully replied,-- "sir knight, you are liberal in disposing of my horse and armor, but beware you do not pay a fair price for them. whether you like it or not, this lawn i shall pass, and you will get no horse or armor of mine till you win them in open fight. let me see if you can do it." "say you so? you shall yield me this lady, or pay dearly for it; for it does not beseem a kitchen page to ride with a lady of high degree." "if you want her, you must win her," said beaumains, "and much comfort may you get from her tongue. as for me, i am a gentleman born, and of higher birth than you; and will prove this on your body if you deny it." then in hot anger they rode apart, and came together with a sound of thunder. the spear of the black knight broke, but beaumains thrust him through the side, the spear breaking in his body, and leaving the truncheon in his flesh. yet, despite his wound, he drew his sword and struck with strength and fury at his antagonist. but the fight lasted not long, for the black knight, faint with loss of blood, fell from his horse in a swoon, and quickly died. then beaumains, seeing that the horse and armor were better than his own, dismounted and put on the dead knight's armor. now, mounting the sable horse, he rode after the damsel. on coming up she greeted him as before. "away, knave, the smell of thy clothes displeases me. and what a pity it is that such as you should by mishap slay so good a knight! but you will be quickly repaid, unless you fly, for there is a knight hereby who is double your match." "i may be beaten or slain, fair damsel," said beaumains; "but you cannot drive me off by foul words, or by talking of knights who will beat or kill me. somehow i ride on and leave your knights on the ground. you would do well to hold your peace, for i shall follow you, whatever may happen, unless i be truly beaten or slain." so they rode on, beaumains in silence, but the damsel still at times reviling, till they saw approaching them a knight who was all in green, both horse and harness. as he came nigh, he asked the damsel,-- "is that my brother, the black knight, who rides with you?" "no," she replied. "your brother is dead. this unhappy kitchen knave has slain him through mishap." "alas!" cried the green knight, "has so noble a warrior as he been slain by a knave! traitor, you shall die for your deed!" "i defy you," said beaumains. "i slew him knightly and not shamefully, and am ready to answer to you with sword and spear." then the knight took a green horn from his saddle-bow, and blew on it three warlike notes. immediately two damsels appeared, who aided him in arming. this done, he mounted his steed, took from their hands a green spear and green shield, and stationed himself opposite beaumains. setting spurs to their horses they rode furiously together, both breaking their spears, but keeping their seats. then they attacked each other, sword in hand, and cut and slashed with knightly vigor. at length, in a sudden wheel, beaumains's horse struck that of the green knight on the side and overturned it, the knight having to leap quickly to escape being overthrown. when beaumains saw this, he also sprang to the earth and met his antagonist on foot. here they fought for a long time, till both had lost much blood. "you should be ashamed to stand so long fighting with a kitchen knave," cried the damsel at last to the green knight. "who made you knight, that you let such a lad match you, as the weed overgrows the corn?" her words of scorn so angered the green knight that he struck a wrathful blow at beaumains, which cut deeply into his shield. beaumains, roused by this and by the damsel's language, struck back with such might on the helm of his foe as to hurl him to his knees. then, seizing him, he flung him to the ground, and towered above him with upraised sword. "i yield me!" cried the knight. "slay me not, i beg of you." "you shall die," answered beaumains, "unless this damsel pray me to spare your life," and he unlaced his helm, as with intent to slay him. "pray you to save his life!" cried the damsel, in scorn. "i shall never so demean myself to a page of the kitchen." "then he shall die." "slay him, if you will. ask me not to beg for his life." "alas!" said the green knight, "you would not let me die when you can save my life with a word? fair sir, spare me, and i will forgive you my brother's death, and become your man, with thirty knights who are at my command." "in the fiend's name!" cried the damsel, "shall such a knave have service of thee and thirty knights?" "all this avails nothing," said beaumains. "you shall have your life only at this damsel's request," and he made a show as if he would slay him. "let him be, knave," said the damsel. "slay him not, or you shall repent it." "damsel," said beaumains, "your request is to me a command and a pleasure. his life shall be spared, since you ask it. sir knight of the green array, i release you at the damsel's request, for i am bound by her wish, and will do all that she commands." then the green knight kneeled down and did homage with his sword. "i am sorry, sir knight, for your mishap, and for your brother's death," said the damsel. "i had great need of your help, for i dread the passage of this forest." "you need not," he replied. "to-night you shall lodge at my castle, and to-morrow i will aid you to pass the forest." so they rode to his manor, which was not far distant. here it happened as it had on the evening before, for the damsel reviled beaumains, and would not listen to his sitting at the same table with her. "why deal you such despite to this noble warrior?" said the green knight. "you are wrong, for he will do you good service, and whatever he declares himself to be, i warrant in the end you will find him to come of right noble blood." "you say far more of him than he deserves," she replied. "i know him too well." "and so do i, for he is the best champion i ever found; and i have fought in my day with many worthy knights." that night, when they went to rest, the green knight set a guard over beaumains's chamber, for he feared some harm to him from the bitter scorn and hatred of the damsel. in the morning he rode with them through the forest, and at parting said,-- "my lord beaumains, i and my knights shall always be at your summons, early or late, or whatever be the service you demand." "that is well said. when i require your service it will be to yield yourself and your knights to king arthur." "if you bid us do so, we shall be ready at all times." "fie on you!" said the damsel. "it shames me to see good knights obedient to a kitchen knave." after they had parted she turned to beaumains, and said, despitefully,-- "why wilt thou follow me, lackey of the kitchen? cast away thy spear and shield and fly while you may, for that is at hand which you will not easily escape. were you lancelot himself, or any knight of renown, you would not lightly venture on a pass just in advance of us, called the pass perilous." "damsel," said beaumains, "he who is afraid let him flee. it would be a shame for me to turn back, after having ridden so far with you." "you soon shall, whether it be to your liking or not," replied the damsel, scornfully. what the damsel meant quickly appeared, for in a little time they came in sight of a tower which was white as snow in hue, and with every appliance for defence. over the gateway hung fifty shields of varied colors, and in front spread a level meadow. on this meadow were scaffolds and pavilions, and many knights were there, for there was to be a tournament on the morrow. the lord of the castle was at a window, and as he looked upon the tournament field he saw approaching a damsel, a dwarf, and a knight armed at all points. "a knight-errant, as i live!" said the lord. "by my faith, i shall joust with him, and get myself in train for the tournament." he hastily armed and rode from the gates. what beaumains saw was a knight all in red, his horse, harness, shield, spear, and armor alike being of this blood-like color. the red knight was, indeed, brother to those whom beaumains had lately fought, and on seeing the black array of the youth, he cried,-- "brother, is it you? what do you in these marshes?" "no, no, it is not he," said the damsel, "but a kitchen knave who has been brought up on alms in arthur's court." "then how got he that armor?" "he has slain your brother, the black knight, and taken his horse and arms. he has also overcome your brother, the green knight. i hope you may revenge your brothers on him, for i see no other way of getting rid of him." "i will try," said the red knight, grimly. "sir knight, take your place for a joust." beaumains, who had not yet spoken, rode to a proper distance, and then the two knights rushed together with such even force that both horses fell to the ground, the riders nimbly leaping from them. then with sword and shield they fought like wild boars for the space of two hours, advancing, retreating, feigning, striking, now here, now there, till both were well weary of the fray. but the damsel, who looked on, now cried loudly to the red knight,-- "alas, noble sir, will you let a kitchen knave thus endure your might, after all the honor you have won from worthy champions?" then the red knight flamed with wrath, and attacked beaumains with such fury that he wounded him so that the blood flowed in a stream to the ground. yet the young knight held his own bravely, giving stroke for stroke, and by a final blow hurled his antagonist to the earth. he had raised his sword to slay him, when the red knight craved mercy, saying,-- "noble, sir, you have me at advantage, but i pray you not to slay me. i yield me with the fifty knights at my command. and i forgive you all you have done to my brothers." "that will not suffice," said beaumains. "you must die, unless the damsel shall pray me to spare your life." and he raised his sword as if for the fatal blow. "let him live, then, beaumains. he is a noble knight, and it is only by a chance blow that you have overcome him." "it is enough that you ask it," said beaumains. "rise, sir knight, and thank this damsel for your life." the red knight did so, and then prayed that they would enter his castle and spend the night there. to this they consented, but as they sat at supper the damsel continued to berate her champion, in such language that their host marvelled at the meekness of the knight. in the morning the red knight came to beaumains with his followers, and proffered to him his homage and fealty at all times. "i thank you," said beaumains, "but all i ask is, that when i demand it you shall go to arthur's court, and yield yourself as his knight." "i and my fellowship will ever be ready at your summons," replied the red knight. then beaumains and the damsel resumed their journey, while she, as if in a fury of spite, berated him more vilely than ever before. "fair lady," he said, with all meekness, "you are discourteous to revile me as you do. what would you have of me? the knights that you have threatened me with are all dead or my vassals. when you see me beaten, then you may bid me go in shame and i will obey, but till then i will not leave you. i were worse than a fool to be driven off by insulting words when i am daily winning honor." "you shall soon meet a knight who will test your boasted strength. so far you have fought with boys. now you have a man who would try arthur's self." "let him come," said beaumains. "the better a man he is, the more honor shall i gain from a joust with him." chapter iii. the red knight of the red lawns. beaumains rode forward with the damsel till it was close upon the hour of noon, when he saw that they were approaching a rich and fair city, well walled, and with many noble buildings. between them and the city extended a new-mown meadow, a mile and a half in width, on which were placed many handsome pavilions. "these pavilions belong to the lord who owns that city," said the damsel. "it is his custom, during fair weather, to joust and tourney in this meadow. he has around him five hundred knights and gentlemen of arms, and they have knightly games of all sorts." "i shall be glad to see that worthy lord," said beaumains. "that you shall, and very soon." she rode on till she came in sight of the lord's pavilion. "look yonder," she said. "that rich pavilion, of the color of india, is his. all about him, men and women, and horse-trappings, shields, and spears, are of the same rare color. his name is sir persant of india, and you will find him the lordliest knight you ever saw." "be he never so stout a knight," answered beaumains, "i shall abide in this field till i see him behind his shield." "that is a fool's talk," she replied. "if you were a wise man, you would fly." "why should i?" rejoined beaumains. "if he be as noble a knight as you say, he will meet me alone; not with all his men. and if there come but one at a time i shall not fail to face them while life lasts." "that is a proud boast for a greasy kitchen lout," she answered. "let him come and do his worst," said beaumains. "i would rather fight him five times over than endure your insults. you are greatly to blame to treat me so vilely." "sir," she replied, with a sudden change of tone, "i marvel greatly who you are, and of what kindred you come. this i will admit, that you have performed as boldly as you have promised. but you and your horse have had great labor, and i fear we have been too long on the road. the place we seek is but seven miles away, and we have passed all points of peril except this. i dread, therefore, that you may receive some hurt from this strong knight that will unfit you for the task before you. for persant, strong as he is, is no match for the knight who besieges my lady, and i would have you save your strength for the work you have undertaken." "be that as it may," said beaumains, "i have come so near the knight that i cannot withdraw without shame. i hope, with god's aid, to become his master within two hours, and then we can reach your lady's castle before the day ends." "much i marvel," cried the damsel, "what manner of man you are. you must be of noble blood, for no woman ever before treated a knight so shamefully as i have you, and you have ever borne it courteously and meekly. such patience could never come but from gentle blood." "a knight who cannot bear a woman's words had better doff his armor," answered beaumains. "do not think that i heeded not your words. but the anger they gave me was the worse for my adversaries, and you only aided to make me prove myself a man of worth and honor. if i had meat in arthur's kitchen, what odds? i could have had enough of it in many a place. i did it but to prove who were worthy to be my friends, and that i will in time make known. whether i be a gentleman born or not, i have done you a gentleman's service, and may do better before we part." "that you have, fair beaumains," she said. "i ask your forgiveness for all i have said or done." "i forgive you with all my heart," he replied. "it pleases me so to be with you that i have found joy even in your evil words. and now that you are pleased to speak courteously to me, it seems to me that i am stout at heart enough to meet any knight living." as to the battle that followed between beaumains and persant, it began and ended much like those that we have related, persant in the end being overcome, and gaining his life at the lady's request. he yielded himself and a hundred knights to be at beaumains's command, and invited the travellers to his pavilion, where they were feasted nobly. in the morning beaumains and the damsel after breakfasting, prepared to continue their journey. "whither do you lead this knight?" asked persant of the damsel. "sir knight," she replied, "he is going to the aid of my sister, who is besieged in the castle dangerous." "ah!" cried persant, "then he will have to do with the knight of the red lawns, a man without mercy, and with the strength of seven men. i fear you take too perilous a task, fair sir. this villain has done great wrong to the lady of the castle, dame lioness. i think, fair damsel, you are her sister, linet?" "that is my name," replied the damsel. "this i may say," rejoined persant: "the knight of the red lawns would have had the castle long ago, but it is his purpose to draw to the rescue lancelot, gawaine, tristram, or lamorak, whom he is eager to match his might against." "my lord persant of india," said linet, "will you not make this gentleman a knight before he meets this dread warrior?" "with all my heart," answered persant. "i thank you for your good will," said beaumains, "but i have been already knighted, and that by the hand of sir lancelot." "you could have had the honor from no more renowned knight," answered persant. "he, tristram, and lamorak now bear the meed of highest renown, and if you fairly match the red knight you may claim to make a fourth in the world's best champions." "i shall ever do my best," answered beaumains. "this i may tell you: i am of noble birth. if you and the damsel will keep my secret i will tell it you." "we shall not breathe it except with your permission," they replied. "then i will acknowledge that my name is gareth of orkney, that king lot was my father, and that i am a nephew of king arthur, and brother to gawaine, gaheris, and agravaine. yet none of these know who i am, for they left my father's castle while i was but a child." while they were thus taking leave, beaumains's dwarf had ridden ahead to the besieged castle, where he saw the lady lioness, and told her of the champion her sister was bringing, and what deeds he had done. "i am glad enough of these tidings," said the lady. "there is a hermitage of mine near by, where i would have you go, and take thither two silver flagons of wine, of two gallons each; also bread, baked venison, and fowls. i give you also a rich cup of gold for the knight's use. then go to my sister, and bid her present my thanks to the knight, and pray him to eat and drink, that he may be strong for the great task he undertakes. tell him i thank him for his courtesy and goodness, and that he whom he is to meet has none of these qualities, but strong and bold as he is, cares for nothing but murder." this message the dwarf brought back, and led the knight and damsel to the hermitage, where they rested and feasted on the rich food provided. they spent the night there, and in the morning heard mass and broke their fast. then they mounted and rode towards the besieged castle. their journey soon brought them to a plain, where they saw many tents and pavilions, and a castle in the distance. and there was a great noise and much smoke, as from a large encampment. as they came nearer the castle beaumains saw before him a number of great trees, and from these hung by the neck armed knights, with their shields and swords, and gilt spurs on their heels. of these there were in all nearly forty. "what means this sorrowful sight?" asked beaumains, with a look of deep concern. "do not be depressed by what you see," said linet. "you must keep in spirit, or it will be the worse for you and us all. these knights came here to the rescue of my sister, and the red knight, when he had overcome them, put them to this shameful death, without mercy or pity. he will serve you in the same way if he should vanquish you." "jesu defend me from such a shameful death and disgrace!" cried beaumains. "if i must die, i hope to be slain in open battle." "it would be better, indeed. but trust not to his courtesy, for thus he treats all." "it is a marvel that so vile a murderer has been left to live so long. i shall do my best to end his career of crime." then they rode to the castle, and found it surrounded with high and strong walls, with double ditches, and lofty towers within. near the walls were lodged many lords of the besieging army, and there was great sound of minstrelsy and merry-making. on the opposite side of the castle was the sea, and here vessels rode the waves and the cries of mariners were heard. near where they stood was a lofty sycamore-tree, and on its trunk hung a mighty horn made from an elephant's tusk. this the knight of the red lawns had hung there, in order that any errant knight, who wished to battle for the castle, might summons him to the fray. "but let me warn you," said linet, "not to blow it till noon. for it is now nearly day, and men say that his strength increases till the noontide hour. to blow it now would double your peril." "do not advise me thus, fair damsel," said beaumains. "i shall meet him at his highest might, and win worshipfully or die knightly in the field. it must be man to man and might to might." therewith he spurred his horse to the sycamore, and, taking the horn in hand, blew with it such a blast that castle and camp rang with the sound. at the mighty blast knights leaped from their tents and pavilions, and those in the castle looked from walls and windows, to see what manner of man was this that blew so lustily. but the red knight of the red lawns armed in all haste, for he had already been told by the dwarf of the approach of this champion. he was all blood-red in hue, armor, shield, and spurs. an earl buckled on his helm, and they then brought him a red steed and a red spear, and he rode into a little vale near the castle, so that all within and without the castle might behold the battle. "look you be light and glad," said linet to the knight, "for yonder is your deadly enemy, and at yonder window is my sister, dame lioness." "where?" asked beaumains. "yonder," she said, pointing. "i see her," said beaumains. "and from here she seems the fairest lady i ever looked upon. i ask no better quarrel than to fight for her, and wish no better fate than to greet her as my lady," and his face grew glad as he looked up to the window. as he did so the lady lioness made a grateful courtesy to him, bending to the earth and holding up her hands. this courtesy was returned by beaumains; but now the knight of the red lawns rode forward. "leave your looking, sir knight," he said. "or look this way, for i warn you that she is my lady, and i have done many battles for her." "you waste your time, then, it seems to me, for she wants none of your love. and to waste love on those who want it not is but folly. if i thought she would not thank me for it, i would think twice before doing battle for her. but she plainly wants not you, and i will tell you this: i love her, and will rescue her or die." "say you so? the knights who hang yonder might give you warning." "you shame yourself and knighthood by such an evil custom," said beaumains, hotly. "how can any lady love such a man as you? that shameful sight gives me more courage than fear, for i am nerved now to revenge those knights as well as to rescue yonder lady." "make ready," cried the red knight; "we have talked enough." then beaumains bade the damsel retire to a safe distance. taking their places, they put their spears in rest, and came together like two thunderbolts, each smiting the other so fiercely that the breast-plates, horse-girths, and cruppers burst, and both fell to the earth with the bridle-reins still in their hands, and they lay awhile stunned by the fall. so long they lay indeed that all who looked on thought that both their necks were broken, and said that the stranger knight must be of mighty prowess, for never had the red knight been so roughly handled before. but ere long the knights regained their breath and sprang to their feet. then, drawing their swords, they ran like fierce lions together, giving each other such buffets on the helms that both reeled backwards, while pieces were hewed out from their armor and shields and fell into the field. thus they fought on till it was past noon, when both stopped for breath, and stood panting and bleeding till many who beheld them wept for pity. when they had rested awhile they again went to battle, now gnashing at each other with their swords like tusked boars, and now running together like furious rams, so that at times both fell to the ground; and at times they were grappled so closely that they changed swords in the wrestle. this went on till evening was near at hand, and so evenly they continued matched that none could know which would win. their armor was so hewn away that the naked flesh showed in places, and these places they did their utmost to defend. the red knight was a wily fighter, and beaumains suffered sorely before he learned his methods and met him in his own way. at length, by mutual assent, they granted each other a short time for rest, and seated themselves upon two hillocks, where each had his page to unlace his helm and give him a breath of the cold air. while beaumains's helm was off he looked at the castle window, and there saw the lady lioness, who looked at him in such wise that his heart grew light with joy, and he bade the red knight to make ready, for the battle must begin again. then they laced their helms and stepped together and fought freshly. but beaumains came near to disaster, for the red knight, by a skilful sword sweep, struck his sword from his hand, and then gave him such a buffet on the helm as hurled him to the earth. the red knight ran forward to his fallen foe, but linet cried loudly,-- "oh, beaumains, where is thy valor gone? alas, my sister sobs and weeps to see you overthrown, till my own heart is heavy for her grief." hearing this, beaumains sprang to his feet before his foe could reach him, and with a leap recovered his sword, which he gripped with a strong hand. and thus he faced again his surprised antagonist. then the young knight, nerved by love and desperation, poured such fierce blows on his enemy that he smote the sword from his hand and brought him to the earth with a fiery blow on the helm. before the red knight could rise, beaumains threw himself upon him, and tore his helm from his head with intent to slay him. but the fallen knight cried loudly,-- "o noble knight, i yield me to thy mercy." "why should you have it, after the shameful death you have given to so many knights?" "i did all this through love," answered the red knight. "i loved a lady whose brother was slain by lancelot or gawaine, as she said. she made me swear on my knighthood to fight till i met one of them, and put to a shameful death all i overcame. and i vowed to fight king arthur's knights above all, till i should meet him that had slain her brother." then there came up many earls, and barons, and noble knights, who fell upon their knees and prayed for mercy to the vanquished, saying,-- "sir, it were fairer to take homage and fealty of him, and let him hold his lands of you, than to slay him. nothing wrong that he has done will be undone by his death, and we will all become your men, and do you homage and fealty." "fair lords," said beaumains, "i am loath to slay this knight, though his deeds have been ill and shameful. but as he acted through a lady's request i blame him the less, and will release him on these conditions: he must go into the castle and yield to the lady lioness, and make amends to her for his trespass on her lands; then if she forgives him i will. afterwards he must go to the court of king arthur and obtain forgiveness from lancelot and gawaine for the ill will he has borne them." "all this i will do," said the red knight, "and give you pledges and sureties therefore." then beaumains granted him his life, and permitted him to rise. afterwards the damsel linet disarmed beaumains and applied healing unguents to his wounds, and performed the same service for the red knight. for ten days thereafter beaumains dwelt with the red knight, who showed him all the honor possible, and who afterwards went into the castle and submitted himself to the lady lioness, according to the terms of his compact. chapter iv. how beaumains won his bride. after the ten days of feasting and pleasure that followed the events we have just related, the red knight of the red lawns set out with his noblest followers to arthur's court, to make submission as he had covenanted. when he had gone, beaumains armed himself, took his horse and spear, and rode to the castle of the lady lioness. but when he came to the gate he found there many armed men, who pulled up the drawbridge and let fall the portcullis. marvelling deeply that he was denied admittance, beaumains looked up at the window, where he saw the lady of the castle, who called out to him,-- "go thy way, sir beaumains. you shall not yet have my love till you have earned for yourself a name of world-wide honor. i bid you, therefore, go strive for fame and glory this twelvemonth, and when you return you shall hear new tidings." "alas, fair lady," said beaumains, "is this all i have deserved of you? i thought i had bought your love at the price of some of the best blood in my body." "fair, courteous knight, be not so hasty," answered lioness. "your labor and your love shall not be lost. a twelvemonth will soon pass away; and trust me that i shall be true to you, and to my death shall love no other than you." with this she turned from the window, and beaumains rode slowly away from the castle in deep sorrow, and heeding not whither he went till deep night came upon him. the next day he rode in the same heedless fashion, and at night couched in a wayside lodge, bidding the dwarf guard his horse and watch all night. but near day dawn came a knight in black armor, who, seeing that beaumains slept soundly, crept slyly behind the dwarf, caught him up under his arm, and rode away with him at full speed. but as he rode, the dwarf called loudly to his master for help, waking the sleeping knight, who sprang to his feet and saw the robber and the dwarf vanishing into the distance. then beaumains armed himself in a fury, and rode straight forward through marshes and dales, so hot upon the chase that he heeded not the road, and was more than once flung by his stumbling horse into the mire. at length he met a country-man, whom he asked for information. [illustration: beaumains, damsel, and dwarf.] "sir knight," he answered, "i have seen the rider with the dwarf. but i advise you to follow him no farther. his name is sir gringamore; he dwells but two miles from here, and he is one of the most valiant knights of the country round." with little dread from this warning, beaumains rode on, with double fury as he came near the robber's castle. soon he thundered through the gates, which stood wide open, and sword in hand cried, in a voice that rang through the castle,-- "thou traitor, sir gringamore, yield me my dwarf again, or by the faith that i owe to the order of knighthood i will make you repent bitterly your false deed." meanwhile, within the castle matters of interest were occurring. for gringamore was brother to the lady lioness, and had stolen the dwarf at her request, that she might learn from him who beaumains really was. the dwarf, under threat of imprisonment for life, thus answered,-- "i fear to tell his name and kindred. yet if i must i will say that he is a king's son, that his mother is sister to king arthur, and that his name is sir gareth of orkney. now, i pray you, let me go to him again, for he will have me in spite of you, and if he be angry, he will work you much rack and ruin." "as for that," said gringamore, "it can wait. let us go to dinner." "he may well be a king's son," said linet to her sister, "for he is the most courteous and long-suffering man i ever met. i tried him with such reviling as never lady uttered before, but he bore it all with meek and gentle answers. yet to armed knights he was like a lion." as they thus talked, the challenge of beaumains rang loud from the castle court. then gringamore called loudly to him from a window,-- "cease your boasting, gareth of orkney, you will not get your dwarf again." "thou coward knight," cried beaumains. "bring him here, and do battle with me. then if you can win him, keep him." "so i will when i am ready. but you will not get him by loud words." "do not anger him, brother," said lioness. "i have all i want from the dwarf, and he may have him again. but do not let him know who i am. let him think me a strange lady." "very well," said gringamore; "if that is your wish, he can have the dwarf." then he went down to the court and said,-- "sir, i beg your pardon, and am ready to amend all the harm i have done you. pray alight, and take such cheer as my poor castle affords." "shall i have my dwarf?" said gareth. "yes. since he told me who you are, and of your noble deeds, i am ready to return him." then gareth dismounted, and the dwarf came and took his horse. "oh, my little fellow," said gareth, "i have had many adventures for your sake." gringamore then led him into the hall and presented him to his wife. and while they stood there conversing dame lioness came forth dressed like a princess, and was presented to the knight. when gareth saw her his feeling for the lady lioness weakened in his heart, and it grew ready to vanish as the day passed, and he conversed much with this strange and lovely lady. there were all manner of games, and sports of dancing and singing, and the more he beheld her the more he loved her, while through his heart ran ever the thought: "would that the lady of the castle dangerous were half so lovely and charming as this beautiful stranger." when supper came, gareth could not eat, and hardly knew where he was, so hot had his love grown. all this was noted by gringamore, who after supper took his sister aside and said,-- "i can well see how matters stand between you and this noble knight. and it seems to me you cannot do better than to bestow your hand upon him." "i should like to try him further," she replied, "though he has done me noble service, and my heart is warmly turned to him." gringamore then went to gareth and said,-- "sir, i welcome you gladly to my house, for i can see that you dearly love my sister, and that she loves you as well. with my will she is yours if you wish her." "if she will accept me," answered gareth, "there will be no happier man on earth." "trust me for that," said gringamore. "i fancied i loved the lady lioness," said gareth, "and promised for her sake to return to this country in a twelvemonth. but since i have seen your sister i fear my love for her is gone." "it was too sudden to be deep," said gringamore. "she will be consoled, doubt not. now let me take you to my sister." then he led gareth to his sister and left them together, where they told each other their love, and gareth kissed her many times, and their hearts were filled with joy. "but how is it with the lady lioness, to whom you vowed your love?" she asked. "promised; not vowed," he answered. "and she was not ready to accept it, but gave me a twelvemonth's probation. moreover, i saw but her face at a window, and that was little to base love upon." "did she look like me?" "somewhat, but not half so lovely." "do you think you could have loved her so well?" "no, indeed; for i will vow by sword and spear that there is no woman in the world so charming as you." "i fear that the lady lioness loves you, and that her heart will be broken." "how could she? she saw so little of me." "i know she loves you; she has told me so. i bid you to forget me and make her happy." "that i can never do. you do not love me, or you could not say this." "you are my heart's desire. but i feel deeply for the lady lioness, whose love i know. if you cannot love her alone, you may love us both together. i grant you this privilege." "i will not accept it," said gareth, looking strangely at her smiling countenance. "i love but you; my heart can hold no more." "you blind fellow," she answered, with a merry laugh, "you looked not at the lady lioness closely, or you would not so easily forget your troth plight. know, sirrah, that i am the lady of the castle dangerous, that my name is lioness, and that i am she whom you have so lightly thrown aside for the love of a strange lady." then gareth looked into her glowing countenance, and saw there that she spoke the truth and that he had been pleasantly beguiled. with a warm impulse of love he caught her in his arms and kissed her rosy lips, exclaiming,-- "i withdraw it all. i love you both; the lady of the castle dangerous a little; but the lady of the castle amorous as my heart's mistress, to dwell there while life remains." then they conversed long and joyfully, and she told him why she had made her brother steal the dwarf, and why she had deceived him, so as to win his love for herself alone. and they plighted their troth, and vowed that their love for each other should never cease. other strange things happened to gareth in that castle, through the spells of the damsel linet, who knew something of sorcery. but these we shall not tell, but return to king arthur's court, in which at the next feast of pentecost a high festival was held at carlion. hither, during the feast, came all those whom gareth had overcome, and yielded themselves, saying that they had been sent thither by a knight named beaumains. but most of all was arthur surprised by the deeds of his kitchen boy when the red knight of the red lawns rode up with six hundred followers, and yielded himself as vassal to beaumains and to the king. arthur then, charging him strictly that he should do no more deeds of murder, gave to sir ironside, which was the knight's name, the greatest honors of his court, and also to the green and the red knights, and to sir persant of inde, who were all present with their followers. but while the court was at feast there came in the queen of orkney, with a great following of knights and ladies, seeking her young son gareth. she was lovingly saluted by her sons gawaine, gaheris, and agravaine, who for fifteen years had not seen her, but she loudly demanded gareth of her brother king arthur. "he was here among you a twelvemonth, and you made a kitchen knave of him, which i hold to be a shame to you all. what have you done to the dear son who was my joy and bliss?" these words filled all hearts with a strange sensation, and most of all that of gawaine, who thought it marvellous that he should have made so much of his brother and not known him. then arthur told his sister of all that had happened, and cheered her heart with a recital of her son's great deeds, and promised to have the whole realm searched till he should be found. "you shall not need," said lancelot. "my advice is that you send a messenger to dame lioness, and request her to come in all haste to court. let her give you counsel where to find him. i doubt not she knows where he is." this counsel seemed judicious to the king, and he sent the messenger as requested, who came in due time to the castle dangerous, and delivered his letters to lioness. she brought these to her brother and gareth, and asked what she should do. "my lady and love," said gareth, "if you go to arthur's court i beg that you will not let them know where i am. but give this advice to the king, that he call a great tournament, to be held at your castle at the feast of the assumption, and announce that whatever knight proves himself best shall wed you and win your lands. be sure that i will be there to do my best in your service." this advice pleased the lady, whose warm faith in the prowess of her lover told her that he would win in the tournament. she therefore set out with a noble escort and rode to king arthur's court, where she was received with the highest honors. the king closely questioned her about sir gareth, desiring particularly to know what had become of him. she answered that where he was she was not at liberty to tell, and said further to the king,-- "sir, there is a way to find him. it is my purpose to call a tournament, which shall be held before my castle at the feast of the assumption. you, my lord arthur, must be there with your knights, and my knights shall be against you. i doubt me not that then you shall hear of sir gareth." "that is well advised," said the king. "it shall be announced," she continued, "that the knight who proves the best shall wed me and be lord of my lands. if he be already wedded, his wife shall have a coronal of gold, set with precious stones to the value of a thousand pounds, and a white jerfalcon." "it is well," said the king. "that will bring sir gareth, if he be alive and able to come. if he would win you, he must do his duty nobly." soon after the lady lioness departed and returned to her castle, where she told all that had passed, and began preparations for the tournament, which was to be held two months from that day. gareth sent for sir persant of inde, and for sir ironside, the red knight of the red lawns, bidding them be ready with all their followers, to fight on his side against king arthur and his knights. and the cry for the tournament was made in england, wales and scotland, ireland, and cornwall, and in all the out islands, and in brittany and other countries. many good knights came from afar, eager to win honor in the lists, the most of whom held with the party of the castle against king arthur and his knights. in due time king arthur and his following appeared at the castle dangerous, there being with him gawaine and the other brothers of gareth, lancelot with his nephews and cousins, and all the most valiant knights of the round table, with various kings who owed him knightly service, as noble a band of warriors as had ever been seen in the land. meanwhile dame lioness had hospitably entertained the knights of her party, providing ample lodging and food, though abundance was left to be had for gold and silver by king arthur and his knights. but gareth begged her and all who knew him in no manner to make known his name, but to deal with him as if he were the least of their company, as he wished to fight in secret and bide his own time to declare himself. "sir," said dame lioness to him, "if such be your desire, i will lend you a ring, whose virtue is such that it will turn that which is green to red, and that which is red to green; and also turn blue to white, and white to blue, and so with all colors. and he who wears it will lose no blood, however desperately he fights. for the great love i bear you i lend you this ring; but as you love me heartily in return, let me have it again when the tournament is done, for this ring increases my beauty more than it is of itself." "my own dear lady," cried gareth, "now indeed you prove your love for me. gladly shall i wear that ring, for i much desire not to be known." then sir gringamore gave gareth a powerful bay courser, and a suit of the best of armor; and with them a noble sword which his father had long before won from a heathen tyrant. and so the lover made ready for the tournament, of which his lady-love was to be the prize. two days before the assumption of our lady, king arthur reached the castle, and for those two days rich feasting was held, while royal minstrelsy and merry-making of all kinds filled every soul with joy. but when came the morning of the assumption all was restless bustle and warlike confusion. at an early hour the heralds were commanded to blow to the field, and soon from every side a throng of knights was to be seen riding gayly to the lists, while a goodly host of spectators made haste to take their seats, all eager to behold that noble passage-at-arms. valorous and worthy were the deeds that followed, for hosts of the best knights in the world had gathered in the lists, and there was wondrous breaking of spears and unhorsing of knights, while many who boasted of their firm seat in the saddle went headlong to the earth. at length there rode into the lists sir gareth and sir ironside from the castle, each of whom smote to the ground the first knights that encountered them, and before long time had passed gareth had with one spear unhorsed seven knights of renown. when king agwisance of ireland saw this new-comer fare so nobly, he marvelled much who he might be, for at one time he seemed green and at another blue, his color appearing to change at every course as he rode to and fro, so that no eye could readily follow him. "i must try this strange turn-color knight myself," said sir agwisance, and he spurred his horse vigorously on gareth. but with a mighty stroke of his spear gareth thrust him from his horse, saddle and all. then king carados of scotland rode against him, and was hurled to the earth, horse and man. king uriens of gore, king bagdemagus, and others who tried their fortune, were served in the same manner. then sir galahalt, the high prince, cried loudly,-- "knight of the many colors, well hast thou jousted; now make ready, that i may joust with thee." gareth heard him, and got a great spear, and quickly the two knights encountered, the prince breaking his spear. but gareth smote him on the left side of the helm so that he reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen had not his men supported him. "truly," said king arthur, "that knight with the many colors is a lusty fighter. lancelot, do you try his mettle, before he beats all our best men." "sir," said lancelot, "i should hold it unjust to meet him fresh after his hard labors. it is not the part of a good knight to rob one of the honor for which he has worked so nobly. it may be that he is best beloved of the lady of all that are here, for i can see that he enforces himself to do great deeds. therefore, for me, he shall have what honor he has won; though it lay in my power to put him from it, i would not." and now, in the lists, the breaking of spears was followed by drawing of swords; and then there began a sore tournament. there did sir lamorak marvellous deeds of arms, and betwixt him and sir ironside there was a strong battle, and one also between palamides and bleoberis. then came in lancelot, who rode against sir turquine and his brother carados, fighting them both together. seeing lancelot thus hard pressed, gareth pushed his horse between him and his opponents, and hurtled them asunder, but no stroke would he smite sir lancelot, but rode briskly on, striking to right and left, so that his path was marked by the knights he overturned. afterward gareth rode out of the press of knights to adjust his helm, which had become loosened. here his dwarf came briskly up with drink, and said to him,-- "let me hold your ring, that you lose it not while you drink." gareth gave it to him, and quaffed deeply of the refreshing draught, for he was burning with thirst. this done, his eagerness to return to the fray was so great that he forgot the ring, which he left in the keeping of the dwarf, while he replaced his helm, mounted his horse, and rode briskly back to the lists. when he reached the field again he was in yellow armor, and there he rashed off helms and pulled down knights till king arthur marvelled more than ever what knight this was, for though his color changed no more, the king saw by his hair that he was the same knight. "go and ride about that yellow knight," said the king to several heralds, "and see if you can learn who he is. i have asked many knights of his party to-day, and none of them know him." so a herald rode as near gareth as he could, and there he saw written about his helm in letters of gold, "this helm is sir gareth's of orkney." then the herald cried out as if he were mad, and many others echoed his words, "the knight in the yellow arms is sir gareth of orkney, king lot's son!" when gareth saw that he was discovered he doubled his strokes in his anger, and smote down sir sagramore, and his brother gawaine. "oh, brother!" cried gawaine, "i did not deem that you would strike me. can you not find food enough for your sword, without coming so near home?" on hearing this, gareth was troubled in soul, and with great force made his way out of the press, meeting his dwarf outside. "faithless boy!" he cried; "you have beguiled me foully to-day by keeping my ring. give it to me again; i am too well known without it." he took the ring, and at once he changed color again, so that all lost sight of him but gawaine, who had kept his eyes fixed upon him. leaving the lists, gareth now rode into the forest, followed at a distance by his brother, who soon lost sight of him in the woodland depths. when gareth saw that he had thus distanced his pursuer, he turned to the dwarf and asked his counsel as to what should now be done. "sir," said the dwarf, "it seems best to me, now that you are free from danger of spying, that you send my lady, dame lioness, her ring. it is too precious a thing to keep from her." "that is well advised," said gareth. "take it to her, and say that i recommend myself to her good grace, and will come when i may; and pray her to be true and faithful to me, as i will be to her." "it shall be done as you command," said the dwarf, and, receiving the ring, he rode on his errand. the lady lioness received him graciously, and listened with beaming eyes to gareth's message. "where is my knight?" she asked. "he bade me say that he would not be long from you," answered the dwarf. then, bearing a tender reply from the lady, the dwarf sought his master again, and found him impatiently waiting, for he was weary and needed repose. as they rode forward through the forest a storm of thunder and lightning came up suddenly, and it rained as if heaven and earth were coming together. on through this conflict of the elements rode the weary knight and the disconsolate dwarf, under the drenching leaves of the forest, until night was near at hand. and still it thundered and lightened as if all the spirits of the air had gone mad. at last, through an opening in the trees, gareth to his delight beheld the towers of a castle, and heard the watchman's call upon its walls. "good luck follows bad, my worthy dwarf," he cried. "here is shelter; let us to it." he rode to the barbican of the castle and called to the porter, praying him in courteous language to let him in from the storm. "go thy way," cried the porter, surlily; "thou gettest no lodging here." "say not so, fair sir. i am a knight of king arthur's, and pray the lord or lady of this castle to give me harbor for love of the king." then the porter went to the duchess, and told her that a knight of king arthur's sought shelter. "i will see him," said the duchess; "for king arthur's sake he shall not go harborless." then she went up into a tower over the gate, with great torch-light, that she might behold the storm-stayed wayfarer. when gareth saw the light, he cried loudly,-- "whether thou be lord or lady, giant or champion, i pray for harbor this night. if it be that i must fight for my lodging, spare me that till morning, when i have rested, for i and my horse are both weary." "sir knight," said the lady, "you speak like a bold knight errant. this you must know, that the lord of this castle loves not king arthur nor any of his court. therefore, it were better for you not to enter here. if you come in it must be under this contract, that wherever you meet my lord, by road, by lane, or by street, you shall yield to him as his prisoner." "madam," asked gareth, "what is your lord's name?" "he is the duke de la rowse," she answered. "well, madam, it shall be as you say. i promise that wherever i meet your lord i shall yield me to his good grace, with the covenant that he will do me no harm. if i understand that he will, then shall i release myself as best i can with sword and spear." "you speak well and wisely," answered the duchess, and she ordered that the drawbridge be lowered. gareth rode into the court-yard, where he alighted and gave his horse to a stableman. then he was led to the hall, where his dwarf removed his armor. "madam," he said, "i shall not leave this hall to-night. when it comes daylight if any one wants to fight me he will find me ready." supper was now prepared, the table being garnished with many goodly dishes, and the duchess and other fair ladies sat by while gareth ate, some of them saying that they never saw a man of nobler carriage or aspect. shortly after he had supped, his bed was made in the hall, and there he rested all night. in the morning he heard mass and took his leave of the duchess and her lady attendants, thanking her warmly for his lodging and the good cheer she had set before him. she now asked him his name. "madam," he replied, "my name is gareth of orkney, though some men call me beaumains." hearing this, she bade him adieu with great courtesy, for she now knew that she had entertained the knight who had rescued dame lioness, and the victor at the tournament. as for gareth, he rode onward mile after mile, till he found himself on a mountain side, where he was confronted by a knight named sir bendelaine, who demanded that he should joust or yield himself prisoner. gareth, angry at this demand, rode against the freebooter and smote him so furiously that his spear pierced his body, so that he died on reaching his castle. quickly a throng of his knights and servants, furious at their lord's death, rode after the victor and assailed him fiercely. when they saw how well he defended himself, they attacked his horse and killed it with spear-thrusts, and then rushed in a body on the dismounted knight. but they found him still more than their match, for one after another of them fell beneath his sword till only four were left. these fled in terror to the castle, and gareth, taking the best of their horses, rode leisurely on his way. many miles farther had he gone when he found himself near a roadside castle, from whose walls there came to his ears dismal lamentations in ladies' voices. while he stood wondering at this there came by a page. "what noise is that within the castle?" asked gareth. "sir knight," answered the page, "within this castle there are thirty ladies, all widows, for their husbands have been slain by the lord of the castle, who is called the brown knight without pity, and there is no more perilous knight now living. therefore," continued the page, "i bid you flee." "you may be afraid of him," said gareth; "but i shall not flee for that." then the page saw the brown knight coming. "lo! yonder he cometh," he said. "let me deal with him," said gareth. when the brown knight saw a champion in the road, with spear in rest, awaiting him, he prepared quickly for the combat, and spurring his strong war-horse, rode furiously upon gareth, breaking his spear in the middle of his shield. but gareth struck him a fatal blow in return, for his spear went through his body, so that he fell to the ground stark dead. then the victor rode into the castle, and prayed the ladies that he might find repose there for the night. "alas!" they cried, "that cannot be." "give him your best cheer," said the page, "for this knight has killed your enemy." hearing this, they joyfully did their utmost to make him comfortable. in the morning, when he was ready to depart, he went to mass, and there saw the thirty ladies kneeling, and some of them grovelling upon the tombs, with the greatest sorrow and lamentation. "fair ladies, you have my pity," he said. "grieve no more, i pray you; your enemy is justly punished for his crimes." so with few words he departed, and rode onward till fortune brought him into another mountain. not far up its slope had he gone when he saw before him a sturdy knight, who bade him stand and joust. "who are you?" asked gareth. "i am the duke de la rowse." "then i lodged lately in your castle, and promised your lady that i should yield unto you." "ah!" said the duke, "are you that proud knight who proffered to fight with any of my followers? make ready, sirrah; i must have a passage-at-arms with you, for i would know which of us is the better man." so they spurred together, and gareth smote the duke from his horse. but in a moment he was on his feet, sword in hand, and bidding his antagonist to alight and continue the battle on foot. nothing loath, gareth obeyed, and for more than an hour they fought, until both were sorely hurt. but in the end gareth got the duke to the earth, and bade him yield if he would save his life. at this the duke lost no time in yielding. "then must you go," said gareth, "unto my lord king arthur at the next feast, and say that i, sir gareth of orkney, sent you." "it shall be done," said the duke. "and i am at your command all the days of my life, with a hundred knights in my train." this said, the duke departed, leaving gareth there alone. but not long had he stood when he saw another armed knight approaching. then gareth took the duke's shield, and mounted, waiting the new-comer, who rode upon him without a word of greeting. and now, for the first time, gareth met his match, for the stranger knight held his seat unharmed, and wounded him in the side with his spear. then they alighted and drew their swords, and for two hours they fought, till the blood flowed freely from them both. as they thus fought there came that way the damsel linet, riding on an ambling mule. when she saw them, she cried,-- "sir gawaine, sir gawaine, leave off fighting with thy brother gareth." when gawaine, for it was indeed he, heard this, he threw down his shield and sword and ran to gareth, whom he took in his arms, and then kneeled down and asked his mercy. "who are you," asked gareth, "that one minute fight me so strongly and yield the next?" "oh, gareth, i am your brother gawaine." then gareth unlaced his helm, and kneeled to him and asked his mercy. both now rose and embraced each other, weeping so that it was long before they could speak. when their voices returned they entered into a brotherly contest, for each insisted that the other had won the battle. as they thus stood in loving converse, the damsel linet came up to them, and stanched their wounds, from which the blood was flowing freely. "what will you do now?" she asked. "it seems to me that my lord arthur should have news of you, for your horses are too bruised to carry you." "it is well said," answered gawaine. "will you, fair damsel, bear word to him?" then she took her mule and rode to where the king abode, he then being at a castle scarcely two miles distant. the tidings she brought him cheered his heart wonderfully, for much had the disappearance of gareth troubled him. turning to his attendants, he ordered that a palfrey should be saddled in all haste. when he was in the saddle he turned to the wondering lords and ladies and told them whither he went, bidding all who wished to greet sir gareth to follow. then was there hasty saddling and bridling of queens' horses and princes' horses, and happiest were they who soonest got ready. but the king rode on till he came where gawaine and gareth sat upon a little hill-side, and here he sprang from his horse and embraced gareth as though he were his own son. quickly behind him came his sister morgause, who fell into a swoon when she saw her dear young son. and the other knights and ladies came up in all haste, and great was the joy that all felt. after congratulations had passed, and the two brothers been removed to a place where their wounds could be attended to, the dame lioness was sent for, and came at the utmost speed, with her brother sir gringamore and forty knights. among all the ladies there she was the fairest and peerless. and when gareth saw her, so loving were the looks and joyous the words between them, that all who beheld it were filled with delight. eight days passed before gareth and his brother recovered from their wounds. then arthur came to him, with guenever, and morgause, and others of high degree, and asked him if he would have the lady lioness for his wife. "my lord, i love her above all ladies living." "now, fair lady, what say you?" asked the king. "most noble king," replied lioness, with blushing face, "my lord gareth is more to me than any king or prince that was ever christened. if i may not have him, none will i ever have. my first love is he, and my last he shall be." "and if i have you not as my wife," broke in gareth, "never shall lady living give joy to my heart." "what, nephew," said the king, "is the wind in that door? then not for my crown would i sever two such loving hearts, but would much prefer to increase than to distress your love." and words to the same effect said gareth's mother. then provision was made for a brilliant and joyous wedding, the king advising that it should take place on the michaelmas following, at kinkenadon by the seaside, where is a plentiful country. and so it was cried in all places through the realm. dame lioness and the damsel linet, with sir gringamore, now rode to their castle, where she gave gareth a jewelled ring and received one from him, while arthur gave her a rich bee of gold. then arthur and his following rode towards kinkenadon. gareth soon followed, and joined arthur on his way. oh, the great cheer that lancelot now made of gareth, and gareth of him; for there was never knight that gareth loved as he did lancelot. but he cared less for his brother gawaine, who was revengeful, and disposed to murder where he hated, a feeling which the young knight abhorred. when michaelmas came near, dame lioness with her brother and sister rode to kinkenadon, where they were lodged at the expense of king arthur, who had prepared for them royally. and upon michaelmas day the bishop of canterbury performed the wedding ceremony between gareth and the lady lioness with all solemnity, and in the presence of a noble and splendid gathering of the greatest lords and highest ladies of england's realm. and here other weddings took place, for king arthur devised that gaheris should wed the damsel linet, and that agravaine should wed dame laurel, a fair lady, niece to the lady lioness. [illustration: the joyous wedding.] when these weddings were done another solemnity took place; for there came into the church the various knights whom gareth had overcome, each with his knightly followers, and with them the thirty ladies whom he had delivered from the brown knight, attended by many gentlewomen. all the knights did homage and fealty to gareth, and the ladies kneeled and prayed heartily that happiness might be his lot throughout his life. afterwards there was high feasting, and all manner of games and revels, with the richest minstrelsy, and jousts that lasted three days. but the king would not suffer sir gareth to joust because of his new bride; for the dame lioness had desired that none who were newly married should joust at that feast. on the first day sir lamorak won the honor of the lists, for he overthrew thirty knights and did marvellous feats of arms. and that day king arthur made sir persant of inde and his two brothers, knights of the round table, and gave them great lands. on the second day sir tristram jousted best, and overthrew forty knights. and on that day the king made sir ironside, the red knight of the red lawns, a knight of the round table, and gave him great lands. on the third day the prize of valor fell to sir lancelot, who overthrew fifty knights and did such marvellous deeds that all men wondered at him. and now king arthur made the duke de la rowse a knight of the round table, and gave him great lands to spend. thus ended the festivities at the marriage of sir gareth of orkney and the lady lioness. but gareth and his lovely bride lived long and happily together afterwards, and much knightly renown he won, and great honor from all men. book vi. tristram of lyonesse and the fair isolde. chapter i. how tristram was knighted. sad was the day when the renowned knight, tristram of lyonesse, was born, for on that day his mother died, and his father lay in prison through the arts of an enchantress. therefore he was called tristram, which signifies one of a sorrowful birth. it happened that when he was seven years of age his father, king meliodas, of the country of lyonesse, married again. his first wife had been elizabeth, sister of king mark of cornwall. he now married the daughter of king howell of brittany, a woman who proved of evil soul. for after the new queen had children of her own she grew to hate the boy who stood between her son and the throne of lyonesse, and so bitter grew her hatred that in the end she laid a foul plot for his murder. she put poison in a silver cup in the chamber where the young princes were used to play together, with the hope that tristram when thirsty would drink from that cup. but fate so willed that the queen's own son drank of the poisoned cup, when thirsty from play, and died of it. this fatal error filled the queen with deep anguish, but it added doubly to her hate, and with murderous intent she again put the poisoned cup into the chamber. but god protected the boy, for this time king meliodas, being thirsty, saw the envenomed cup of wine, and took it up with purpose to drink. before he could do so the queen, who was near by, ran hastily forward, snatched the deadly cup from his hand, and threw its contents on the floor. this hasty act filled the king with suspicion, for the sudden death of his young son had seemed to him like the work of poison. in a burst of passion he caught the guilty woman fiercely by the hand, drew his sword, and swore a mighty oath that he would kill her on the spot, unless she told him what had been in the cup and why it was put there. at this threat the queen, trembling and weeping with fright, acknowledged that it had been her design to kill tristram, in order that her son should inherit the kingdom of lyonesse. "thou false traitress and murderess!" cried the king in redoubled passion. "by my royal soul, you shall have the fate you designed for my son. a worse one you shall have, for you shall be burned at the stake as a poisoner." then he called a council of his barons, who confirmed this sentence on learning the dark crime of the queen, and by the order of the court a fire of execution was prepared, and the murderess bound to the stake, while fagots were heaped about her drooping form. the flames were already kindled, and were crawling like deadly serpents through the dry wood, but before they could reach the condemned queen young tristram kneeled before his father and begged him a boon. "you shall have it, my son. what would you ask?" "grant me the life of the queen. i cannot bear to see her die so terrible a death." "ask not that," said the king. "you should hate her who would have poisoned you. i have condemned her more for your sake than my own." "yet i beseech you to be merciful to her. i have forgiven her, and pray god to do so. you granted me my boon for god's love, and i hold you to your promise." "if you will have it so, i cannot withdraw my word," said the king. "i give her to you. go to the fire and take her, and do with her what you will." this gladdened the boy's heart, which had been full of horror at the dreadful spectacle, and he hastened to release the victim from the flames. but after that meliodas would have nothing to do with her until after years had passed, when tristram reconciled them with each other. and he sent his son from the court, being afraid the pardoned murderess might devise some new scheme for his destruction. the noble-hearted lad was therefore given as tutor a learned gentleman named gouvernail, who took him to france, that he might learn the language and be taught the use of arms. there he remained seven years, learning not only the language, but the art of minstrelsy, till he became so skilful that few could equal him in the use of the harp and other instruments of music. and as he grew older he practised much in hunting and hawking, and in time became famous also for his skill in this noble art. he in after-life devised many terms used in hunting, and bugle calls of the chase, so that from him the book of venery, or of hunting and hawking, came to be called the "book of sir tristram." thus tristram grew in accomplishments and nobleness till he attained the age of nineteen years, when he had become a youth of handsome face and powerful form, being large of size and vigorous of limb. the king, his father, had great joy in his promise of lusty manhood, and so had the queen, whose heart had been won to tristram when he saved her from the flames, and who loved him ever afterwards as much as she had hated him in his childhood. every one loved him, indeed, for he proved himself a noble and gentle-hearted youth, loyal and kind to all he met, and with a heart free from evil thoughts or selfish desires. he had learned the use of arms, and knew well how to wield the shield and sword, though as yet he had not sought knighthood by deeds of battle; but events were preparing that would bring him soon from youth to manhood. for it so happened that king anguish of ireland sent to king mark of cornwall, demanding from him tribute which he said was due, but had not been paid for many years. king mark sent word back that he owed and would pay no tribute; and that if the king of ireland wished to prove his claim, he must send a knight who could overcome king mark's champion. king anguish was very angry at this answer, but accepted the challenge, and sent as his champion sir marhaus, brother to his wife, that valiant knight who had gone with gawaine and uwaine to the country of strange adventures, and had afterwards been made a knight of the round table. marhaus accepted the championship, and hastened to cornwall, where he sent his challenge to king mark; but the latter had taken no steps to provide himself with a worthy champion. marhaus thereupon encamped near the castle of tintagil, whither he daily sent a demand to king mark either to pay the tribute or to find a knight to fight his battle. anxious efforts were now made by the cornish monarch to find a champion, some of the barons advising him to send to king arthur's court for lancelot du lake. but others dissuaded the king from this, saying that neither lancelot nor any knight of the round table would fight against their fellow-knight marhaus. thus the king of cornwall was sore put to it to find a champion fit to hold the field against such a knight as marhaus. word of this soon spread over the country and quickly reached the castle of meliodas, to which young tristram had long before returned. the heart of the ardent youth filled with anger when he learned that not a knight could be found in all cornwall able and willing to do battle with the irish champion. in fervent haste he sought his father, and asked him what was to be done to save cornwall from this disgrace. "i know not," answered the king. "marhaus is one of the best knights of the round table, and there is no knight in this country fit to cope with him." "i wish heartily that i were a knight," cried tristram hotly. "if i were, sir marhaus should never depart to ireland and boast that all cornwall could not furnish a knight ready to break a spear with him. i pray you, dear father, to let me ride to king mark's court, and beg of him to make me a knight and choose me as his champion." "your spirit honors you, my son," said meliodas. "you have it in you to become an able knight, and i give you full leave to do as your courage prompts you." tristram thanked his father warmly for this assent, and, taking horse, rode without delay to the castle of his uncle king mark. when he reached there he found the king depressed in spirit and the whole court deep in gloom, for it seemed as if no champion could be found, and that the tribute must be paid. tristram went at once to his uncle and said with modest ardor,-- "sir, it is a shame and disgrace that cornwall has no champion. i am but an untried youth, yet, if you will give me the order of knighthood, i stand ready to do battle for you with sir marhaus." "who are you, and whence come you?" asked the king. "i come from king meliodas, who wedded your sister, and i am a gentleman born." hope came into the king's eyes when he saw how large and strongly built was his youthful visitor, and marked the spirit of battle in his eyes, but he again demanded his name and place of birth. "my name is tristram and i was born in the country of lyonesse," answered the youth. "you speak with spirit, and look like the making of a good warrior," said the king. "if you agree to do this battle, i will grant you knighthood." "it is that, and that alone, brings me here," answered tristram. then the king knighted him, and at once sent word to sir marhaus that he had a champion ready to do battle with him to the uttermost. "that may well be," answered marhaus, "but i fight not with every springal. tell king mark that i shall fight with none but one of royal blood. his champion must be son either of a king or a queen." this answer king mark gave to tristram, and said, gloomily,-- "i fear this rules out your championship." "not so," said tristram. "i came not here to boast, but if i must tell my lineage, you may let him know that i am of as noble blood as he. my father is king meliodas, and my mother was elizabeth, your own sister. i am the heir of lyonesse." "is it so?" cried the king, clasping the youth's hands gladly. "then i bid you warmly welcome, my fair nephew, and i could ask no better nor nobler champion." he sent word in all haste to marhaus that a better born man than himself should fight with him, the son of king meliodas, and his own nephew. and while he waited an answer he took care to find for his nephew the best horse and the finest suit of armor that gold could procure. by the time he was thus provided word came back from marhaus that he would be glad and blithe to fight with a gentleman of such noble birth. and he requested that the combat should take place in an island near which lay his ships. this being accepted, tristram was sent thither in a vessel, with his horse and armor, but attended only by his tutor gouvernail, whom he now made his squire. on reaching the island tristram saw on the further shore six ships, but he saw no knight. then he bade gouvernail to bring his horse ashore and arm him. this done, he mounted and took his shield, and then said,-- "where is this knight with whom i have to fight? i see him not." "yonder he hovers," answered gouvernail, "under the shadow of the ships. he waits you on horseback, and fully armed." "true enough. i see him now. all is well. do you take the vessel and go back to my uncle mark, and tell him that if i be slain it will not be through cowardice, and pray him, if i die in fair fight, to see that i be interred honorably; but if i should prove recreant then he shall give me no christian burial. and come you not near the island, on your life, till you see me overcome or slain, or till i give you the signal of victory." then gouvernail departed, weeping, for his young master had spoken so resolutely that he dared not disobey. tristram now rode boldly towards sir marhaus, who came forward to meet him. much courteous conversation passed between the two knights, tristram at the end saying,-- "i trust, sir marhaus, to win honor and renown from you, and to deliver cornwall from tribute forever, and to this end i shall do my best in all valor and honor." "fair sir," answered marhaus, "your spirit pleases me; but as for gaining honor from me, you will lose none if you keep back three strokes beyond my reach, for king arthur made me not knight of the round table except for good cause." "that may well be," answered tristram; "but if i show the white feather in my first battle may i never bear arms again." then they put their spears in rest and rode so furiously together that both were hurled to the earth, horse and man alike. but tristram had the ill fortune to receive a severe wound in the side from the spear of his adversary. heedless of this, he drew his sword and met marhaus boldly and bravely. then they began a fierce and desperate fight, striking and foining, rushing together in furious onset, and drawing back in cautious heed, while the ring of sword on armor was like that of hammer on anvil. hours passed in the fight, and the blood flowed freely from the wounds which each had received, yet still they stood boldly up to the combat. but tristram proved a stronger and better-winded man than marhaus, and was still fresh when his enemy was growing weary and faint. at the end he threw all his strength into his right arm, and smote marhaus so mighty a blow on the helm that it cut down through the steel covering and deep into his head, the sword sticking so fast that tristram could hardly pull it out. when he did so the edge of the sword was left in the skull, and the wounded knight fell heavily on his knees. but in a minute he rose and, flinging his sword and shield away, fled hastily to his ships. "why do you withdraw, knight of the round table?" cried tristram. "i am but a young knight, but before i would fly from an adversary i would abide to be cut into a thousand pieces." marhaus answered only with deep groans of pain and distress. "go thy way then, sir knight," said tristram. "i promise you your sword and shield shall be mine, and i will wear your shield in the sight of king arthur and all the round table, to let them see that cornwall is not a land of cowards." while he stood thus, hot with anger, the sails of the ships were spread, and the fleet sailed away, leaving the victor alone on the island. he was deeply wounded and had bled profusely, and when he grew cold from rest could hardly move his limbs. so he seated himself upon a little hillock, while his wounds still bled freely. but gouvernail, who had kept within sight in the vessel, and had seen the end of the combat, now hastened gladly to the island, where he bound up the young knight's wounds, and then brought him to the main land. here king mark and his barons came in procession to meet him, their hearts full of joy and triumph, and the victor was borne in glad procession to the castle of tintagil. when king mark saw his deep and perilous wounds he wept heartily, and cried,-- "god help me, i would not for all my lands that my nephew should die!" but tristram lay in groaning pain for more than a month, ever in danger of death from the spear-wound he had received from sir marhaus. for the spear-head was poisoned, and no leech in the land, with his most healing remedy, could overcome the deadly effect of that venom. the king sent far and wide for skilled doctors, but none could be found whose skill was of any avail. at length there came a learned woman to the court, who told them plainly that the wounded man could never be cured except in the country from which the venom came. he might be helped there, but nowhere else. when king mark heard this he had a good vessel prepared, in which tristram was placed, under charge of gouvernail, and so set sail for ireland, though all were strictly warned not to tell who they were or whence they came. long before this the fleet of marhaus had arrived on the irish coast, and the wounded knight been borne to the king's court, where all was done that could be to save his life, but in vain. he died soon of his deep wound, and when his head was examined by the surgeons they found therein a piece of tristram's sword, which had sunk deep into his skull. this piece the queen, his sister, kept, for she was full of revengeful thoughts, and she hoped by its aid to find the man to whom he owed his death. chapter ii. la belle isolde. when tristram arrived in ireland, chance so provided that he landed near a castle in which the king and queen, with all their court, then were. he had brought his harp with him, and on his arrival sat up in his bed and played a merry lay, which gave joy to all that heard it. word was quickly brought to the king that a harper of wonderful skill had reached his shores, and he at once sent to have him brought to the castle, where he asked him his name and whence he came. "my name," replied the wounded knight, "is tramtrist; i am of the country of lyonesse, and the wound from which i suffer was received in a battle i fought for a lady who had been wronged." "you shall have all the help here we can give you," said king anguish. "i have just met with a sad loss myself, for the best knight in my kingdom has been slain." then he told tristram of the battle with king mark's champion, little dreaming that the knight to whom he spoke knew far more about it than he did himself. "as for your wound," said the king, "my daughter, la belle isolde, is a leech of wonderful skill, and as you seem so worthy a man i shall put you under her care." this said, he departed, and sent his daughter to the knight; but no sooner did tristram behold her than he received a deeper wound from love than he had yet had from sword or spear. for la belle isolde was the most beautiful lady in the world, a maiden of such wondrous charm and grace that no land held her equal. when she examined the young knight's wound she quickly saw that he was suffering from poison, but it was a venom with which she knew well how to deal, and she was not long in healing his deep hurt. in return for this great service, he taught her the art of harping, while the love he felt for her soon left some reflection of its warm presence in her soul. but she already had a lover in the court, a worthy and valiant saracen knight named palamides, who sought her day after day, and made her many gifts, for his love for her was deep. he was well esteemed by the king and queen, and had declared his willingness to be made a christian for the sake of la belle isolde. in consequence there soon arose hot blood between tristram and palamides, for each feared that the other was a favored rival. and now it happened that king anguish announced a tournament to be held in honor of a cousin of his called the lady of the lawns, it being declared that the grand prize of the tournament should be the hand of the lady and the lordship of her lands. the report of this tournament spread through england, wales, and scotland, reaching even to brittany, and france, and many knights came to try their fortune in the lists. [illustration: sir tristram harping to isolde.] when the day drew near the fair isolde told tristram of the tournament, and expressed a warm desire that he would take part in it. "fair lady," he answered, "i am as yet but feeble, and only for your generous care might be dead. i should be glad to obey any wish of yours, but you know that i am not in condition for the lists." "ah, tramtrist," she replied, "i trust that you may be able to take part in this friendly joust. palamides will be there, and i hoped that you would meet him, for i fear that otherwise he will not find his equal." "you do me great honor," he replied. "you forget that i am but a young knight, and that in the only battle i have fought i was wounded nearly unto death. but for the love i have for you i shall attend the tournament, and jeopard my poor person for your sake, if you will only keep my counsel and let no person know that i have entered the lists." "that shall i," she replied, gladly. "horse and armor shall be ready for you, and i but ask you to do your best. i am sure your best must win." "with isolde's eyes upon me i can do no less," answered tristram, with a glad heart. "i am at your command in all things, and for your love would dare tenfold this risk." when the day of the tournament came, palamides appeared in the lists with a black shield, and so many knights fell before him that all the people marvelled at his prowess. throughout the first day's fight he held his own against all comers, bearing off the honors of the lists. as for tristram, he sat among the spectators, and when king anguish asked him why he did not joust, replied that he was still too weak from his wound. on the morning of the next day palamides came early into the field, and began the same career of conquest as on the day before. but in the midst of his good fortune there rode into the lists an unknown knight, who seemed to the spectators like an angel, for his horse and his armor were of the whiteness of snow. no sooner had palamides espied this stranger than he put his spear in rest and rode against him at furious speed. but there came a sudden change in his fortunes, for the white knight struck him with such force as to hurl him from his horse to the ground. then there arose a great noise and uproar among the people, for they had grown to think that no knight could face the saracen, and gawaine and others whom he had overthrown marvelled who this stranger knight could be. but isolde was glad at heart, for the love of palamides was a burden to her, and well she knew the knight of the white arms. as for the palamides, he was so ashamed and disconcerted by his fall that, on mounting his horse again, he sought privately to withdraw from the field. but the white knight rode hastily after him and bade him turn, saying that he should not leave the lists so lightly. at these words palamides turned and struck a fierce sword-blow at the white champion. but the latter put the stroke aside, and returned it with so mighty a buffet on the saracen's head that he fell from his horse to the earth. then tristram--for he was the white knight--bade him yield and consent to do his command, or he would slay him. to this palamides agreed, for he was hurt past defence. "this, then, is my command," said tristram. "first, upon pain of your life, you shall cease your suit of the lady la belle isolde, and come not near her. second, for a year and a day you shall wear no armor or weapons of war. promise me this, or you shall die." "this is a bitter penance," cried palamides. "you shame me before the world. for nothing less than life would i consent." but he took the oath as tristram commanded, and then in anger and despite threw off his armor and cut it into pieces, flinging the fragments away. then he departed, weighed down with sadness and shame. this done, tristram left the lists, where he could find no knight willing to fight with him, and rode to the private postern of the castle whence he had come to the field. here he found the fair isolde awaiting him with a joyous face and a voice of thanks, praising him so highly that the knight was abashed with modest shame, though gladness filled his heart. and when she had told the king and queen that it was tramtrist who had vanquished the saracen, they treated him as if he had been of royal blood, for he had shown such prowess as lancelot himself could not exceed. after this tristram dwelt long in the castle, highly esteemed by the king and queen, and loved by la belle isolde, whose heart he had fully won by his prowess in the tournament. those were days of joy and gladness, too soon, alas to end, for he loved her with all his soul, and saw his heaven in her eyes, while for all his love she gave him the warm devotion of a true heart in return. but fate at length brought this dream of happiness to an end. for on a day when tristram was in the bath, attended by his squire gouvernail, chance brought the queen and isolde into the chamber of the knight. on the bed lay his sword, and this the queen picked up and held it out for isolde's admiration, as the blade which had done such noble work in the tournament. but as she held it so she saw that there was a gap in the edge, a piece being broken out about a foot from the point. at sight of this she let the weapon fall, while her heart gave a great bound of pain and anger. "liar and traitor, have i found you at last!" she cried, in an outbreak of rage. "it is this false villain that slew my brother marhaus!" with these words she ran in haste from the chamber, leaving isolde trembling with dread for her lover, for though she knew not the cause of the queen's rage, she knew well how cruel she could be in her passion. quickly the queen returned, bringing with her the fragment of steel that had been found in marhaus's skull, and, snatching up the sword, she fitted this into the broken place. it fitted so closely that the blade seemed whole. then with a cry of passionate rage the furious woman ran to where tristram was in the bath, and would have run him through had not gouvernail caught her in his arms and wrested the sword from her hand. failing in this deadly intent, she tore herself from the squire's grasp and flew to the king, throwing herself on her knees before him and crying,-- "oh, my lord and husband! you have here in your house that murderous wretch who killed my brother, the noble sir marhaus!" "ha! can that be?" said the king. "where is he?" "it is tramtrist," she replied. "it is that villanous knight whom our daughter healed, and who has shamefully abused our hospitality." and she told him by what strange chance she had made this discovery. "alas!" said the king, "what you tell me grieves me to the heart. i never saw a nobler knight than he, and i would give my crown not to have learned this. i charge you to leave him to me. i will deal with him as honor and justice demand." then the king sought tristram in his chamber, and found him there fully armed and ready to mount his horse. "so, tramtrist, you are ready for the field," he said. "i tell you this, that it will not avail you to match your strength against my power. but i honor you for your nobility and prowess, and it would shame me to slay my guest in my court; therefore, i will let you depart in safety, on condition that you tell me your name and that of your father, and if it was truly you that slew my brother, sir marhaus." "truly it was so," said tristram. "but what i did was done in honor and justice, as you well know. he came as a champion and defied all the knights of cornwall to battle, and i fought him for the honor of cornwall. it was my first battle, for i was made a knight that very day. and no man living can say that i struck him foully." "i doubt me not that you acted in all knightly honor," answered the king. "but you cannot stay in my country against the ill-will of my barons, my wife, and her kindred." "as for who i am," continued the knight, "my father is king meliodas of lyonesse, and my uncle king mark of cornwall. my name is tristram; but when i was sent to your country to be cured of my wound i called myself tramtrist, for i feared your anger. i thank you deeply for the kind welcome you have given me, and the goodness my lady, your daughter, has shown me. it may happen that you will win more by my life than by my death, for in england i may yet do you some knightly service. this i promise you, as i am a true knight, that in all places i shall hold myself the servant and knight of my lady, your daughter, and shall never fail to do in her honor and service all that a knight may. also i beseech you that i may take leave of your barons and knights, and pray you to grant me leave to bid adieu to your daughter." "i cannot well refuse you this," said the king. with this permission, tristram sought la belle isolde, and sadly bade her farewell, telling her who he was, why he had changed his name, and for what purpose he had come to ireland. "had it not been for your care and skill i should now have been dead," he said. "gentle sir," she sadly replied, "i am woeful indeed that you should go, for i never saw man to whom i felt such good-will as to you." and she wept bitterly as she held out her hand in adieu. but tristram took her in his arms and kissed away her tears. "i love you, isolde, as my soul," he said. "if this despite of fate shall stand between you and me, this i promise, to be your knight while life is left to me." "and this i promise," answered isolde, "that if i am married within these seven years it shall only be by your assent! if they stand between me and my love, at least they shall not force me to wed against your will." then she gave tristram a ring and received one from him in return, and he departed from her with a pain as if the parting wrenched their hearts asunder, while she beheld him go with such tears and lamentation that it seemed as if her faithful heart would break. tristram next sought the great hall of the court, where were assembled the barons of king anguish, and took his leave of them all, saying,-- "fair lords, fortune wills that i must leave you. if there be any man here whom i have offended or aggrieved let him make complaint now, and i shall amend the wrong so far as it is in my power. if there be any who may incline to say a wrongful thing of me behind my back, let him speak now, and i will make it good with him, body against body." but no man spoke in reply. there were knights there of the blood of sir marhaus and the queen, but none that cared to have to do in the field against sir tristram. so bidding them all adieu, he departed, and took ship for tintagil, in cornwall. chapter iii. the wager of battle. when tidings came to king mark that tristram had returned to cornwall, cured of his wounds, the king and all his barons were glad, and on the arrival of the knight he was treated with the greatest honor. no long time passed before he rode to the castle of his father, king meliodas, who received him with fatherly love and pride, while the queen greeted him with the warmest joy. and that their knightly son should have wherewithal to make a fair show in the world, they parted with much of their lands and wealth to him, endowing him with broad estates and lordly castles. [illustration: a castle of cornwall.] afterwards, at his father's desire, who wished his son to gain all honor, tristram returned to the court of cornwall, where he was gladly welcomed. and here, though his love for la belle isolde lay deep in his heart, it was dimmed by later feelings, for there were many fair ladies at the court, and the young knight was at that age when the heart is soft and tender. in the end it happened that a jealousy and unfriendliness arose between king mark and him. this grew with time, and in the end the king, who was base and treacherous of soul, waylaid tristram, aided by two knights of his counsel, and sought to slay him. but so valiantly did he defend himself that he hurled the three to the earth, wounding the king so deeply that he was long in recovering. the king now grew to hate his young guest bitterly, and laid plans to destroy him. finally, it occurred to him to send tristram to ireland for la belle isolde, whose beauty and goodness the young knight had praised so warmly that king mark had it in his heart to wed her. but his main purpose in sending tristram to ireland was to compass his destruction, for he knew how he was hated there. tristram was not blind to the danger into which this mission might bring him, and suspected the purpose of the king, but his love of adventure was so great that for it he was ready to dare any risk. as for isolde, absence and affection for other ladies had dimmed his passion for her, so that for the time his love was forgotten, and he came to look upon it as a youthful episode not knowing how deeply it still lay under all these later feelings. he, therefore, accepted the mission, and made ready to go in royal state. he selected for his companions a number of the ablest knights of the court, and saw that they were richly arrayed and appointed, with the hope that such a noble train might win him favor at the irish court. with this array he departed, and set sail for the coast of ireland. but when they had reached the mid-channel a tempest arose that blew the fleet back towards the coast of england, and, as chance had it, they came ashore near camelot. here they were forced to land, for their ships were no longer seaworthy. tristram, therefore, set up his pavilion upon the coast of camelot, and hung his shield before it. that same day two knights of arthur's court, sir morganor and sir hector de maris, chanced to ride that way, and, seeing the shield, they touched it with their spears, bidding the knight of the pavilion to come out and joust, if he had an inclination to do so. "i hold myself ready alike for sport or battle," answered tristram. "if you tarry a little while, you will find me ready to meet you." this said, he armed himself, and mounting his horse rode against his two challengers with such fortune that he first smote sir hector to the earth, and then sir morganor, felling them both with one spear. rising painfully to their feet, the disconcerted knights asked tristram who he was and of what country. "my noble sirs, i am a knight of cornwall," he answered. "you have been in the habit of scorning the warriors of my country, but you see we have some good blood there." "a cornish knight!" cried hector. "that i should be overcome by a knight from that land! i am not fit to wear armor more." and in despite he put off his armor and left the place on foot, too full of shame to ride. as it turned out, fortune had worked more favorably for tristram than he supposed. for king anguish was then on his way to camelot, whither he had been summoned by king arthur as his vassal, for a purpose which he was not told. it happened that when he reached camelot neither king arthur nor lancelot was there to give judgment on the charge against him, but the kings of carados and of scotland were left as judges. and when king anguish demanded why he had been summoned, blamor de ganis, a knight of the round table, accused him of treason, declaring that he had treacherously slain a cousin of his at his court in ireland. this accusation threw king anguish into great trouble, for he did not dream that he had been brought for such a purpose, and knew well that there was but one answer to make to such a charge. for the custom in those days was that any man who was accused of murder or treason should decide the case by the wager of battle, fighting his accuser to the death, or finding a knight who would take up his quarrel. and murders of all kinds in those days were called treason. king anguish was thrown into a sorrowful frame of mind, for he knew that blamor de ganis was a knight of prowess beyond his own strength, nor had he a suitable champion in his train. he therefore withheld his answer, and the judges gave him three days for his decision. all this was told to tristram by his squire gouvernail, who had heard it from people of the country. "truly," said tristram, "no man in england could bring me better tidings, for the king of ireland will be glad of my aid, since no knight of this country not of arthur's court will dare fight with blamor. as i wish to win the good will of king anguish, i will take on myself his battle. so, gouvernail, go to the king for me, and tell him there is a champion ready to assume his cause." gouvernail thereupon went to camelot, and greeted king anguish, who returned his greeting and asked his errand. "there is a knight near at hand who desires to speak with you," was the reply. "he bade me say that he was ready to do you knightly service." "what knight may he be?" asked the king. "sir, it is tristram of lyonesse. for the grace you showed him in your country he is ready to repay you here, and to take the field as your champion." "god be praised for this welcome news!" cried the king. "come, good fellow, show me the way to sir tristram. blamor will find he has no boy to handle." he mounted a hackney, and with few followers rode under gouvernail's guidance till they came to tristram's pavilion. the knight, when he saw his visitor, ran to him and would have held his stirrup, but this the king would not permit. he leaped lightly from his horse and took tristram warmly in his arms. "my gracious lord," said tristram, "i have not forgot the goodness which you formerly showed me, and which at that time i promised to requite by knightly service if it should ever be in my power." "i have great need of you, indeed, gentle sir," answered the king. "never before was i in such deep necessity of knightly aid." "how so, my noble lord?" asked tristram. "i shall tell you. i am held answerable for the death of a knight who was akin to lancelot, and for which i must fight his relative, blamor de ganis, or find a knight in my stead. and well you know the knights of king ban's blood are hard men to overcome in battle." "that may be," said tristram, "yet i dread not to meet them. for the honor which you showed me in ireland, and for the sake of your gracious daughter la belle isolde, i will take the battle on two conditions: first, that you swear that you are in the right, and had no hand in the knight's death; second, that if i win in this fight you grant me the reward i may ask, if you deem it reasonable." "truly, i am innocent, and you shall have whatever you ask," said the king. "then i accept the combat," said tristram. "you may return to camelot and make answer that your champion is ready, for i shall die in your quarrel rather than be recreant. blamor is said to be a hardy knight, but i would meet him were he the best warrior that now bears shield and spear." king anguish then departed and told the judges that he had his champion ready, and was prepared for the wager of battle at any time that pleased them. in consequence, blamor and tristram were sent for to hear the charge. but when the knights of the court learned that the champion was he who had vanquished marhaus and palamides, there was much debate and shaking of the head, and many who had felt sure of the issue now grew full of doubt, the more so when they learned the story of hector de maris and his companion. but the combatants took their charge in all due dignity, and then withdrew to make ready for the battle. blamor was attended by his brother sir bleoberis, who said to him, feelingly,-- "remember, dear brother, of what kin we are, being cousins to lancelot du lake, and that there has never been a man of our blood but would rather die than be shamed in battle." "have no doubt of me," answered blamor. "i know well this knight's record; but if he should strike me down through his great might, he shall slay me before i will yield as recreant." "you will find him the strongest knight you have ever had to do with. i know that well, for i had once a bout with him at king mark's court. so god speed you!" "in god and my cause i trust," answered blamor. then he took his horse and rode to one end of the lists, and tristram to the other, where, putting their spears in rest, they spurred their gallant steeds and rushed together with the speed of lightning. the result was that blamor and his horse together were hurled to the earth, while tristram kept his seat. then blamor drew his sword and threw his shield before him, bidding tristram to alight. "though a horse has failed me," he said, "i trust that the earth will stand me in good stead." without hesitation tristram consented, springing to the ground, sword in hand, and the combatants broke at once into fierce battle, fighting like madmen, till all who saw them marvelled at their courage and strength. never had knights been seen to fight more fiercely, for blamor was so furious and incessant in his attacks, and tristram so active in his defence, that it was a wonder they had breath to stand. but at last tristram smote his antagonist such a blow on the helm that he fell upon his side, while his victor stood looking grimly down upon him. when blamor could gain breath to speak, he said,-- "sir tristram de lyonesse, i require thee, as thou art a true knight, to slay me, for i would not live in shame, though i might be lord of the earth. you must slay me, indeed, if you would win the field, for i shall never speak the hateful word of surrender." when tristram heard this knightly defiance he knew not what to do. the thought of slaying one of lancelot's blood hurt him sorely, but his duty as a champion required him to force his antagonist to yield, or else to slay him. in deep distress of mind he went to the kingly judges and kneeled before them, beseeching them for the sake of king arthur and lancelot, and for their own credit, to take this matter out of his hands. "it were a pity and shame that the noble knight who lies yonder should be slain," he said, "yet he refuses to yield. as for the king i fight for, i shall require him, as i am his true knight and champion, to have mercy on the vanquished." "that yield i freely," said king anguish. "and i heartily pray the judges to deal with him mercifully." then the judges called bleoberis to them and asked his advice. "my lords," he replied, "my brother is beaten, i acknowledge, yet, though sir tristram has vanquished his body, he has not conquered his heart, and i thank god he is not shamed by his defeat. and rather than he should be shamed i require you to bid tristram to slay him." "that shall not be," replied the judges. "both his adversaries, the king and his champion, have pity on him, and you should have no less." "i leave his fate to you," said bleoberis. "do what seems to you well." then, after further consultation, the judges gave their verdict that the vanquished knight should live, and by their advice tristram and bleoberis took him up and brought him to king anguish, who forgave and made friends with him. then blamor and tristram kissed each other and the two brothers took oath that neither of them would ever fight with their noble antagonist, who took the same oath. and from the day of that battle there was peace and love between tristram and all the kindred of lancelot forever. the happy close of this contest made great rejoicing in arthur's court, king anguish and his champion being treated with all the honor that could be laid upon them, and for many days thereafter feasting and merry-making prevailed. in the end the king and his champion sailed for ireland with great state and ceremony, while many noble knights attended to bid them farewell. when they reached ireland, king anguish spread far and wide the story of what tristram had done for him, and he was everywhere greeted with honor and delight. even the queen forgot her anger, and did all that lay in her power to give her lord's champion a glad welcome to the court. as for la belle isolde, she met tristram with the greatest joy and gladness. absence had dimmed the love in both their hearts, and it no longer burned as of yore, yet only time and opportunity were needed to make it as warm as ever. chapter iv. the draught of love. at length there came a day, after tristram had dwelt long at king anguish's court, that the king asked him why he had not demanded his boon, since the royal word had been passed that whatever he asked should be his without fail. "i asked you not," said tristram, "since it is a boon that will give me no pleasure, but so much pain that with every day that passes i grow less inclined to ask it." "then why ask it at all?" "that i must, for i have passed my word of honor, and the word of a knight is his best possession. what i am forced to demand, then, is that you will give me the hand of la belle isolde,--not for myself, and that is what makes my heart so sore, but for my uncle, king mark, who desires to wed her, and for whom i have promised to demand her." "alas!" cried the king, "that you should ask me so despiteful a boon. i had rather than all king mark's dominions that you should wed her yourself." "i never saw woman whom i would rather wed," he replied. "but if i should do so i would be the shame of the world forever, as a false knight, recreant to his promise. therefore, i must stand by my word, and hold you to your boon, that you will give me la belle isolde to go with me to cornwall, there to be wedded to king mark, my uncle." "as for that, i cannot deny you. she shall go with you, but as to what may happen thereafter, i leave that for you to decide. if you choose to wed her yourself, that will give me the greatest joy. but if you determine to give her to king mark, the right rests with you. i have passed my word, though i wish now that i had not." then isolde was told of what had passed, and bade to make ready to go with tristram, a lady named bragwaine going with her as chief gentlewoman, while many others were selected as her attendants. when the preparations were fully made, the queen, isolde's mother, gave to dame bragwaine and gouvernail a golden flask containing a drink, and charged them that on the day of isolde's wedding they should give king mark that drink, bidding him to quaff it to the health of la belle isolde, and her to quaff his health in return. "it is a love draught," continued the queen, "and if they shall drink it i undertake to say that each shall love the other for all the days of their life." not many days passed before tristram took to the sea, with the fair maiden who had been committed to his charge, and they sailed away on a mission that had for them both far more of sadness than of joy, for their love grew as the miles passed. one day, as they sat together in the cabin, it happened that they became thirsty, and by chance they saw on a shelf near them a little golden flask, filled with what by the color seemed to be a noble wine. tristram took it down and said, with a laugh,-- "madam isolde, here is the best drink that ever you drank, a precious draught which dame bragwaine, your maiden, and gouvernail, my servant, are keeping for themselves. let us drink from their private store." then with laughter and merriment they drank freely from the flask, and both thought that they had never tasted draught so sweet and delicious in their lives before. but when the magic wine got into their blood, they looked upon each other with new eyes, for their hearts were suddenly filled with such passionate love as they had not dreamed that heart could feel. tristram thought that never had mortal eyes gazed upon a maiden of such heavenly charms, and isolde that there was never man born so grand and graceful as the knight of her love. then all at once she fell into bitter weeping as the thought of her destiny came upon her, and tristram took her in his arms and kissed her sweet lips again and again, speaking words of love that brought some comfort to her love-sick heart. and thus it was between them day by day to the end of their voyage, for a love had grown between them of such fervent depth that it could never leave them while blood flowed in their veins. such magic power had the draught which the queen had prepared for king mark, and which the unthinking lovers drank in fate's strange error. it was the bitter-sweet of love; for it was destined to bring them the deepest joy and sorrow in the years to come. many days passed before the lovers reached cornwall, and strange adventures met them by the way, of which we have but little space to speak. for chance brought them to land near a castle named pleure, or the weeping castle. it was the custom of the lord of that castle, when any knight passed by with a lady, to take them prisoners. then, when the knight's lady was compared with the lady of the castle, whichever was the least lovely of the two was put to death, and the knight was made to fight with the lord of the castle for the other, and was put to death if vanquished. through this cruel custom many a noble knight and fair lady had been slain, for the castle lord was of great prowess and his lady of striking beauty. it chanced that tristram and isolde demanded shelter at this castle, and that they were made prisoners under its cruel custom. at this outrage tristram grew bitterly indignant, and demanded passionately what it meant, as honor demanded that those who sought harbor should be received hospitably as guests, and not despitefully as prisoners. in answer he was told the custom of the castle, and that he must fight for his lady and his liberty. "it is a foul and shameful custom," he replied. "i do not fear that your lord's lady will surpass mine in beauty, nor that i cannot hold my own in the field, but i like to have a voice in my own doings. tell him, however, if he is so hot for battle, that i shall be ready for the test to-morrow morning, and may heaven be on the side of truth and justice." when morning came the test of beauty was made, and the loveliness of isolde shone so far beyond that of the castle lady that breunor, the lord, was forced to admit it. and now tristram grew stern and pitiless, for he said that this lady had consented to the death of many innocent rivals, and richly deserved death as a punishment for the ruthless deeds done in her behalf, and to gratify her cruel vanity. thereupon her head was struck off without mercy. full of anger at this, breunor attacked tristram with all his strength and fury, and a long and fiery combat took place, yet in the end he fell dead beneath the sword of the knight of cornwall. but, as it happened, the castle lord had a valiant son, named sir galahad the high prince, a knight who in after years was to do deeds of great emprise. word was brought to him of the death of his father and mother, and he rode in all haste to the castle, having with him that renowned warrior known as the king with the hundred knights. reaching the castle, galahad fiercely challenged tristram to battle, and a mighty combat ensued. but at the last galahad was forced to give way before the deadly strokes of his antagonist, whose strength seemed to grow with his labor. when the king with the hundred knights saw this, he rushed upon tristram with many of his followers, attacking him in such force as no single knight could hope to endure. "this is no knightly deed," cried tristram to galahad. "i deemed you a noble knight, but it is a shameful act to let all your men set on me at once." "however that be," said galahad, "you have done me a great wrong, and must yield or die." "then i must yield, since you treat me so unfairly. i accepted your challenge, not that of all your followers. to yield thus puts me to no dishonor." and he took his sword by the point and put the pommel in the hand of his opponent. but despite this action the king and his knights came on, and made a second attack on the unarmed warrior. "let him be," cried sir galahad. "i have given him his life, and no man shall harm him." "shame is it in you to say so!" cried the king. "has he not slain your father and mother?" "for that i cannot blame him greatly. my father held him in prison, and forced him to fight to the death. the custom was a wicked and cruel one, and could have but one end. long ago, it drove me from my father's castle, for i could not favor it by any presence." "it was a sinful custom, truly," said the king. "so i deem it, and it would be a pity that this brave knight should die in such a cause, for i know no one save lancelot du lake who is his equal. now, fair knight, will you tell me your name?" "my name is tristram of lyonesse, and i am on my way to the court of king mark of cornwall, taking to him la belle isolde, the daughter of king anguish of ireland, whom he desires to wed." "then you are welcome to these marches, and all that i demand of you is that you promise to go to lancelot du lake, and become his fellow. i shall promise that no such custom shall ever be used in this castle again." "you will do well," said tristram. "i would have you know that when i began to fight with you i fancied you were lancelot. and i promise, as soon as i may, to seek him, for of all the knights in the world i most desire his fellowship." [illustration: tristram and the fair isolde.] soon afterwards tristram and his fair companion resumed their journey, and in due time reached cornwall. but as they came near tintagil their hearts were ready to break, for that magic draught was still in their veins, and they loved each other with a love that was past all telling. thoughts came into tristram's heart to marry the maiden in despite of custom and his plighted word, and gladly would she have consented thereto. but strong as was his love, his honor was stronger, and isolde, deeply as she grieved, could not ask him to break his word. and thus for many long miles they journeyed onward side by side in silence, their eyes alone speaking, but they telling a story of love and grief to which they dared not give words, lest their hearts' desire should burst all boundaries of faith and honor, and men's condemnation come to them both. so they came with drooping hearts to the court of king mark, where the king and his barons received them with state and ceremony. quickly thereafter the wedding took place, for the king looked with eyes of warm approval upon the beautiful maiden, and prepared richly and nobly for the ceremony, at which many noble knights and lords were present, but from which tristram withdrew in the deepest anguish, as he could not endure the sight. and so his knightly word was kept, though to keep it almost broke his heart. chapter v. the perils of true love. the marriage of king mark with la belle isolde was celebrated with rich feasts and royal tournaments, and for many days pleasure ruled supreme at tintagil castle, whither noble guests came and went. among those who came was palamides the saracen, drawn thither by his love of isolde, which his overthrow by tristram had not banished from his heart. strange events soon followed. two ladies of isolde's train, who envied and hated dame bragwaine, laid a plot for her destruction. she was sent into the forest to obtain herbs, and there was met by men sent by her enemies, who bound her hand and foot to a tree, where she remained for three days. by good fortune, at the end of that time, she was found by palamides, who saved her from death, and took her to a nunnery that she might recover from her pain and exhaustion. the disappearance of dame bragwaine troubled the queen greatly, for she loved her most of all women, and as the days went by and she returned not, the grief of isolde grew deep. she wandered into the forest, which had been searched in vain for the lost lady, and, plunged in sad thought, seated herself by a woodland spring, where she moaned bitterly for her favorite. as she sat there palamides appeared, and, after listening awhile to her sad complaining, said,-- "queen isolde, i know well the cause of your grief, and if you will grant the boon i shall ask, i promise to bring you dame bragwaine, safe and sound." the queen was so glad to hear this, that without thought she agreed to grant his wish, thinking more of the lost lady than of what he might demand. "i trust to your promise," said palamides. "remain here half an hour and you shall see her." "i shall remain," said the queen. palamides then rode away, and within the time mentioned returned with the maiden, whom isolde clasped to her heart with happy tears. "now, madam, i have kept my word," said palamides; "you must keep yours." "i promised you hastily," answered the queen; "and i warn you now that i will grant you nothing evil; so beware of your asking." "my boon will keep till i meet you before the king," said palamides. "what it is i shall not tell you now." then the queen rode home with her maiden, and palamides followed close after, entering the court while isolde was telling the king of what had happened. "sir king," said the knight, "your lady has told you of the boon she proffered me. the honor of knighthood requires that you shall make her word good." "why made you this promise, my lady?" asked the king. "i did so for grief at the loss of dame bragwaine, and for joy to recover her." "then what you have hastily proffered you must truly perform. the word of king and queen is not to be lightly spoken or lightly broken." "what i demand is this," said palamides, "that you deliver to me your queen, to lead her where i wish and govern her as i will." at this bold request the king frowned deeply, and anger leaped to his lips. but his word had been passed, and the thought came to him that he could trust to tristram quickly to rescue the queen, and punish this bold adventurer. "take her if you will," he cried. "but i tell you this, you will not keep her long, and that you are asking a dangerous gift." "as for that, i shall dare the risk." then he took isolde by the hand, and led her from the court, and from the presence of the king and his barons, not one of whom moved, though the queen looked round with suppliant eyes. leading her to his war-horse, he set her behind him on the saddle, and rode proudly away. no sooner had they gone than the king sent for tristram, but by despite he was nowhere to be found, for he was in the forest hunting, as was always his custom when not engaged in feats of arms. "what shall be done?" cried the king. "can no one find tristram? my honor will be shamed if the saracen be not met and overcome." "i shall follow him, and seek to rescue the queen," said a knight named lambegus, one of tristram's followers. "i thank you, sir lambegus. if i live, i will remember the service." so lambegus got to horse and followed palamides hotly, but to his own sorrow, as it proved, for he was no match for the saracen, who soon laid him upon the earth wounded nearly to death. but while the battle went on, isolde, who had been set upon the earth pending the combat, ran into the forest, and continued to fly till she came to a deep spring, where in her grief she sought to drown herself. but good fortune brought thither a knight named sir adtherp, who had a castle near by. seeing the despair of the queen, he led her to his castle, and then, learning her story, took upon himself her battle, and rode forth to meet the saracen. but he, too, fared badly, for palamides wounded him severely, and made him tell what he had done with the queen, and where his castle might be found. palamides, leaving him bleeding on the ground, rode in all haste to the castle. but as he approached, isolde saw him from a window, and gave orders that the gate should be shut and the drawbridge raised. when palamides came up and saw that the castle was closed against him, and entrance denied, he took the saddle and bridle from his horse and put him to pasture, while he seated himself before the gate like a man who cared not what became of him. meanwhile, tristram had returned from the hunt, and when he learned what had happened, he was half beside himself with anger. "lambegus is no match for the saracen," he said. "would i had been here in his stead. the unchristianed villain shall answer for this outrage if he can be found." then he armed himself in all haste, and rode into the forest. not far had he gone when he found lambegus, sorely wounded, and had him borne to a place of shelter. somewhat farther on he found adtherp, also hurt and bleeding, and from him he learned what had taken place. "where is my lady now?" he asked. "safe in my castle," said the knight. "and there she can hold herself secure against the saracen." "then i owe you much," said tristram. "trust me to see that some of your men be sent to your aid." he continued his journey till he came to the castle, and here he saw palamides sitting by the gate fast asleep, with his horse grazing beside him. "the misbegotten rogue takes life easy," said tristram. "go rouse him, gouvernail. bid him make ready to answer for his outrage." but he was in such deep slumber that gouvernail called to him in vain. he returned and told tristram that the knight was either asleep or mad. "go again and tell him that i, his mortal foe, am here." gouvernail now prodded him with the butt of his spear, and cried,-- "arise, sir palamides, and make ready, for yonder is sir tristram, and he sends you word that he is your mortal foe." then palamides rose without a word of answer, and saddled and bridled his horse, upon which he sprang, putting his spear in rest. but he remained not long in his saddle, for when they met in mid career, tristram smote him so hard a blow as to thrust him over his horse's tail to the ground. then they drew their swords and fought with all their strength, for the lady whom they both loved looked upon them from the walls, and well-nigh swooned for grief and distress on seeing how sorely each was hurt. "alas!" she cried, "one of them i love, and the other loves me. it would be a great pity to see sir palamides slain, much as he has troubled me, and slain he will be if this fight goes on." then, moved by her tender heart, she went down and besought tristram to fight no more. "what mean you?" he asked. "would you have me shamed?" "i desire not your dishonor; but for my sake i would have you spare this unhappy knight, whose love for me has made him mad." "as you wish," he replied. "the fight shall end, since you desire it." "as for you, sir palamides," she said, "i command that you shall go out of this country while i am in it." "if it must be, it must," he answered, in bitter anguish; "but it is sorely against my will, for not to see you is not to live." "take your way to the court of king arthur," she said, "and there recommend me to queen guenever. tell her that isolde says that in all the land there are but four lovers, and that these are lancelot du lake and queen guenever, and tristram de lyonesse and queen isolde." this message filled palamides with the greatest heaviness of heart, and mounting his steed he rode away moaning bitterly. but isolde was full of gladness in being well rid of her troublesome lover, and tristram in having rescued her from his rival. so he brought her back to king mark, and there was great joy over her home-coming, while the king and all the court showered honors on the successful champion. sir lambegus was brought back to the court and put under the care of skilful leeches, and for a long time joy and good-will reigned. but tristram had in king mark's court a bitter foe, who sought to work him injury, though he was his near cousin. this traitor, sir andred by name, knew well of the love between tristram and isolde, and that they had secret meetings and tender conversations, so he lay in wait to spy upon them and slander them before the court. a day came at length when andred observed tristram in secret parley with isolde at a window, and he hastened to the king and poisoned his mind with a false report of what he had seen. king mark, on hearing this, burst into a fury of passion, and seizing a sword, ran to where tristram stood. here he violently berated him as a traitor, and struck at him a furious blow. but tristram took the sword-point under his arm, and ran in on the king, wresting the weapon from his hand. "where are my knights and men?" cried the enraged king. "i charge you to kill this traitor!" but of those present not a man would move. when tristram saw this, he shook the sword threateningly against the king, and took a step forward as if he would have slain him. at this movement king mark fled, while tristram followed, and struck him so strong a blow with the flat of the sword on his neck that he was flung prostrate on his nose. then tristram hastened to his room and armed himself, after which he took his horse and his squire and rode into the forest. here the valorous champion killed some of the knights whom the king had sent against him and put to flight thirty more, so that king mark in fear and fury called a council of his lords, and asked what was to be done with his rebellious subject. "our counsel is," said the barons, "that you send for sir tristram and make friends with him, for you well know that if you push him hard many of your men will join him. he is peerless and matchless among christian knights except sir lancelot, and if you drive him to seek king arthur's court he will find such friends there that he may defy your power. therefore we counsel you to beg him to return to the court, under assurance of safety." "you may send for him, then," said the king, though his heart burned with secret fury. the barons now sent for tristram under a safe-conduct, and he returned to the court, where he was welcomed by the king, and all that had passed seemed to be forgotten. shortly after this the king and queen went hunting, accompanied by tristram and many knights and gentlemen of the court. entering the forest, they set up their pavilions and tents beside a river, where they hunted and jousted daily, for king mark had with him thirty knights who stood ready to meet all comers. fortune brought thither two knights-errant, one being lamorak de galis, who of all knights was counted next to lancelot and tristram. the other was sir driant, both being knights of the round table. driant jousted first with the cornish knights, and, after unhorsing some of them, got a stunning fall. then lamorak offered to meet them, and of the thirty knights not one kept his seat before him, while some were sorely hurt. "what knight is this who fights so well?" asked the king. "sir," said tristram, "it is lamorak de galis, one of the best knights who ever put spear in rest." "then, sir tristram, you must meet him. it were a shame to us all to let him go away victor." "it were a greater shame to overthrow a noble knight when he and his horse are worn out with over-labor." "he shall not leave here and boast of how he vanquished king mark's knights. i charge you, as you love me and my lady la belle isolde, to take your arms and joust with this lamorak." "you charge me to do what is against knighthood, for it is no honor for a fresh man and horse to master spent and weary ones. since you command it i must do it, but it is sorely against my will." then he armed himself and took his horse, and in the joust easily overthrew lamorak and his weary steed. the knight lightly sprang from the falling charger and drew his sword, boldly challenging tristram to meet him on foot. but this tristram would by no means do, though lamorak hotly renewed the challenge. "you are great of heart, sir lamorak," said tristram, "but no knight nor horse was ever made that could forever endure. therefore i will not meet you, and i am sorry for having jousted with you." "you have done me an evil turn," said lamorak, angrily, "for which i shall repay you when an opportunity comes." lamorak soon got his revenge. for as he rode with sir driant towards camelot he met by the way a boy who had been sent by morgan le fay to king arthur. for the false enchantress still held to her hatred against her noble brother, and by all means sought his harm. so by magic art she had made a drinking-horn of such strange virtue that if any lady drank of it who had been false to her husband all the wine would be spilled, but if she had been true to him, she might drink in peace and safety. this horn she sent to arthur's court, hoping that guenever might drink thereof and be dishonored, for her love for lancelot was known to all but the king. lamorak, learning from the boy his errand, bade him bear the horn to king mark's court, and tell the king that it was sent to prove the falseness of his lady, who loved sir tristram more than she did her wedded lord. soon afterwards, therefore, the boy appeared at tintagil castle, and presented king mark the magic horn, telling him of its virtues, and all that sir lamorak had bidden him say. "by my royal faith we shall try it, then!" said the king. "not only my queen, but all the ladies of the court, shall drink of it, and we shall learn who among them has other lovers than their liege lords." much to their unwillingness, queen isolde and a hundred ladies of the court were made to drink from the magic horn, and of them all only four drank without spilling the wine. "now, by my knightly honor, all these false dames shall be burnt!" cried the king. "my court shall be purged of this vile stain." "that shall they not," cried the barons. "we shall never consent that the queen and all these ladies shall be destroyed for a horn wrought by sorcery, and sent here to make mischief by as foul a sorceress and witch as the earth holds. she has always been an enemy to all true lovers and sought to do them harm, and if we meet with morgan le fay she will get but scant courtesy at our hands. we would much rather believe the horn false than all our ladies untrue." but tristram's anger was turned towards lamorak for this affront, for he knew well what had been his purpose. and he vowed in his heart that he would yet repay him for this treacherous act. his affection for queen isolde kept as warm as though the love-draught still flowed in his veins, and he sought her at every opportunity, for the two greatest joys that life held for him were to tell her of his love and hear from her lips that her love for him had never dimmed. but his treacherous cousin andred watched his every movement, and kept the king advised that tristram continued his secret interviews with the queen. so an ambush of twelve knights was set, and one day, when tristram had just paid a stolen visit to the queen, and sat in loving converse by her side, these ambushed knights broke suddenly upon him, took him prisoner, and bound him hand and foot. then, by order of the king, he was borne to a chapel that stood on a rocky height above the sea, where andred and some others of the barons who were his enemies came together to pass judgment upon him. tristram in all his life had never stood in such peril, for his hands were bound fast to two knights, and forty others surrounded him, every one a foe. care had been taken to get rid of his friends among the barons by sending them away from the court on various pretexts. like a lion surrounded by jackals he chafed in his bonds, while his great heart swelled as if it would break. no escape seemed possible, but with a reproachful voice he said,-- "fair lords, i have in my time done something for cornwall, and taken upon myself great peril for your benefit. who among you all was ready to meet sir marhaus, or to cope with palamides? is this shameful death my reward for my services to your country? you know well that i never met a knight but that i was his match or his better." "boast not, false traitor," cried andred. "for all thy vaunting, thou shalt die this day." "o andred, andred, that you my kinsman should treat me thus!" said tristram sorrowfully. "you can be bold when i am bound, but if there were none here but you and me, you would crouch like a cur at my feet." "would i so?" cried andred, angrily. "you shall see what i would do." and as he spoke he drew his sword, and advanced upon his cousin with intent to slay him on the spot. but tristram, when he saw him coming with murderous looks, suddenly drew inwards with all his strength the two knights to whom he was bound, and with a mighty wrench broke the strong cords asunder. then with the leap of a tiger he sprang upon his treacherous cousin, wrested the sword from his hand, and smote him a blow that hurled him insensible to the earth. this done, he rushed with the fury of a madman on his enemies, striking mighty blows to right and left, till in a few minutes ten of them lay dead and wounded on the earth. but seeing that they were pressing on him in too great force, he retreated into the chapel, in whose door-way he stood, sword in hand, holding it against all their assaults. soon, however, the cry went forth that the prisoner had escaped, and had felled andred and killed many of the barons, and others of his foes hastened up, till more than a hundred beleaguered him in the chapel. tristram now looked despairingly on his unarmed form, and saw that many of his assailants wore armor of proof. death was sure unless he could find some means of escape. he knew that the chapel stood on the brow of the cliff, and here seemed his only hope of safety, though it was a perilous one. quickly retreating, he shut and barred the door, and then with hand and sword wrenched and tore the iron bars from a window over the cliff, out of which he desperately leaped. the descent was a deep one, but he fortunately reached the sea below without striking any of the rocks in his descent. here he drew himself into a crevice at the foot of the cliff. those above rushed to the rocky edge and looked down into the boiling waters far below, but they saw nothing of the daring knight, and after a long and vain effort to see him, went away to report to the king that his enemy was drowned. but while king mark and tristram's enemies were congratulating one another upon this, there came to the top of the cliff, gouvernail, lambegus, and others of tristram's men, who, looking down, saw him creeping up from the water to a safer place of shelter among the rocks. hailing him, they bade him to be of good heart, and, letting down a rope which they quickly procured, they managed to draw him up to the summit, where they congratulated him warmly on his escape. without delay, however, he left that spot, for fear of his foes returning, and sought a place of shelter in the forest. [illustration: the cliffs above the sea.] here he abode for some time, but the news of his escape got abroad, to the discomfiture of his foes. and on a day when he had fallen asleep, a man to whom he had done some injury crept up and shot him in the shoulder with an arrow. tristram sprang up and killed the man, but the wound pained him day by day. and on news of it being brought to la belle isolde she sent him word by dame bragwaine that the arrow had been poisoned, and with a venom that no leech in england could cure. "my lady, la belle isolde, bids you haste into brittany to king howell," said dame bragwaine, "for she knows no one who can help you but his daughter, isolde la blanche mains." hearing this, the wounded knight sent a sad farewell to his lady love, and took ship with gouvernail his squire, and sailed to brittany, where he was warmly welcomed by king howell. and when isolde of the white hands heard of the errand of the knight, she applied to his wound healing herbs of such virtue that in a little while he was whole again. afterwards tristram dwelt long in brittany, and helped king howell much in his wars. chapter vi. the madness of sir tristram. of the visit of sir tristram to brittany, and the healing of his wound, with the great deeds he did there, and how he overthrew the giant knight nabon le noire, we shall not further speak. letters at length came to him from la belle isolde, in which she spoke pitifully of tales that had been brought her, saying that he had been false to her, and had married isolde the white handed, daughter of king howell of brittany. on receiving these letters, tristram set out in all haste for cornwall, bringing with him kehydius, king howell's son. on his way there he had many adventures, and rescued king arthur from an enchantress, who had brought him near to death in the forest perilous. when at length he came to cornwall he sought the castle of dinas the seneschal, his warmest friend, and sent him to tell queen isolde that he had secretly returned. at this longed-for news the queen swooned from pure joy. when she recovered and was able to speak, she said, in pitiful accents,-- "gentle seneschal, i pray you bring him where i may speak with him, or my heart will break." "trust me for that," answered dinas. then he and dame bragwaine brought tristram and kehydius privately to the court, and to a chamber which isolde had assigned for them. but to tell the joy of the meeting between tristram and la belle isolde we shall not endeavor, for no tongue could tell it, nor heart think it, nor pen write it. yet misfortune still pursued these true lovers, and this time it came from friends instead of foes, for the presence of kehydius in the castle led to the most doleful and melancholy misfortune which the world ever knew. for, as the chronicles make mention, no sooner had kehydius seen la belle isolde, than he became so enamoured of her that his heart might never more be free. and at last, as we are told, he died from pure love of this beautiful queen, but with that we are not here concerned. but privately he wrote her letters which were full of moving tales of his love, and composed love poems to her which no minstrel of those days might surpass. all these he managed to put into the queen's hands privately, and at length, when she saw how deeply he was enamoured, she was moved by such pity for his hopeless love that, out of the pure kindness of her heart, she unwisely wrote him a letter, seeking to comfort him in his distress. sad was it that pity should bring such sorrow and pain to two loving hearts as came from that fatal letter. for on a day when king mark sat playing chess at a chamber window, it chanced that la belle isolde and kehydius were in the chamber above, where they awaited the coming of tristram from the turret-room in which he was secretly accommodated. but as ill luck would have it, there fell into tristram's hands the last letter which kehydius had written to the queen, and her answer, which was so worded that it seemed as if she returned his love. these the young lover had carelessly left in tristram's chamber, where he found them and thoughtlessly began reading them. but not far had he read when his heart sank deep in woe, and then leaped high in anger. he hurried in all haste to the chamber where isolde and kehydius were, the letters in his hand. "isolde," he cried, pitifully, "what mean these letters,--this which kehydius has written you, and this, your answer, with its vile tale of love? alas! is this my repayment for the love i have lavished on you, that you thus treacherously desert me for the viper that i have brought hither?--as for you, kehydius, you have foully repaid my trust in you and all my services. but bear you well in mind that i shall be amply revenged for your falsehood and treason." then he drew his sword with such a fierce and threatening countenance that isolde swooned out of pure fear; and kehydius, when he saw him advancing with murder in his face, saw but one chance for life, and leaped out of a bay window immediately over that where king mark sat playing at chess. when the king saw the body of a man hurtling down over his head, so close that he almost touched him as he sat at the window, he sprang up in alarm and cried,-- "what the foul fiend is this? who are you, fellow? and where in the wide world have you come from?" kehydius, who had fallen on his feet, answered the king with ready wit. "my lord, the king," he said, "blame me not, for i fell in my sleep. i was seated in the window above you, and slumbered there, and you see what has come of it." "the next time you are sleepy, good fellow, hunt a safer couch," laughed the king, and turned again to his chess. but tristram was sure that his presence in the castle would now be known to the king, and hastened to arm himself with such armor as he could find, in dread of an assault in force. but as no one came against him, he sent gouvernail for his horse and spear, and rode in knightly guise openly from the gates of tintagil. at the gate it chanced that he met with gingalin, the son of gawaine, who had just arrived; and the young knight, being full of ardor, and having a fancy to tilt with a cornish warrior, put his spear in rest and rode against tristram, breaking his spear on him. tristram had yet no spear, but he drew his sword and put all his grief and anger into the blow he gave the bold young knight. so hard he struck that gingalin was flung from his saddle, and the sword, slipping down, cut through the horse's neck, leaving the knight with a headless charger. then tristram rode on until he disappeared in the forest. all this was seen by king mark, who sent a squire to the hurt knight and asked him who he was. when he knew it was sir gingalin, he welcomed him, and proffered him another horse, asking what knight it was he had encountered. "that i know not," said gingalin, "but he has a mighty wrist, whoever he is. and he sighed and moaned as if some great disaster had happened him. i shall beware of weeping knights hereafter, if they all strike like this." as tristram rode on he met sir fergus, one of his own knights, but by this time his grief and pain of heart had grown so bitter that he fell from his horse in a swoon, and lay thus for three days and nights. when at length he came to himself, he sent fergus, who had remained with him, to the court, to bring him what tidings he might learn. as fergus rode forward he met a damsel whom palamides had sent to inquire about sir tristram. fergus told her how he had met him, and that he was almost out of his mind. "where shall i find him?" asked the damsel. "in such a place," explained fergus, and rode on to the court, where he learned that queen isolde was sick in bed, moaning pitifully, though no one knew the source of her pain. the damsel meanwhile sought tristram, whom she found in such grief as she had never before seen, and the more she tried to console him the more he moaned and bewailed. at the last he took his horse and rode deeply into the forest, as if he would be away from all human company. the damsel now sought him diligently, but it was three days before she could find him, in a miserable woodland hut. here she brought him meat and drink, but he would eat nothing, and seemed as if he wished to starve himself. a few days afterwards he fled from her again, and on this occasion it chanced that he rode by the castle before which he and palamides had fought for la belle isolde. here the damsel found him again, moaning dismally, and quite beside himself with grief. in despair what to do, she went to the lady of the castle and told her of the misfortune of the knight. "it grieves me to learn this," said the lady. "where is he?" "here, near by your castle." "i am glad he is so near. he shall have meat and drink of the best, and a harp which i have of his, and on which he taught me to play. for in harping he has no peer in the world." so they took him meat and drink, but had much ado to get him to eat. and during the night his madness so increased that he drove his horse from him, and unlaced his armor and threw it wildly away. for days afterwards he roamed like a wild man about the wilderness; now in a mad frenzy breaking boughs from the trees, and even tearing young trees up by the roots, and now for hours playing on the harp which the lady had given him, while tears flowed in rivulets from his eyes. sometimes, again, when the lady knew not where he was, she would sit down in the wood and play upon the harp, which he had left hanging on a bough. then tristram would come like a tamed fawn and listen to her, hiding in the bushes; and in the end would come out and take the harp from her hand and play on it himself, in mournful strains that brought the tears to her eyes. thus for a quarter of a year the demented lover roamed the forest near the castle. but at length he wandered deeper into the wilderness, and the lady knew not whither he had gone. finally, his clothes torn into tatters by the thorns, and he fallen away till he was lean as a hound, he fell into the fellowship of herdsmen and shepherds, who gave him daily a share of their food, and made him do servile tasks. and when he did any deed not to their liking they would beat him with rods. in the end, as they looked upon him as witless, they clipped his hair and beard, and made him look like a fool. to such a vile extremity had love, jealousy, and despair brought the brave knight tristram de lyonesse, that from being the fellow of lords and nobles he became the butt of churls and cowherds. about this time it happened that dagonet, the fool and merry-maker of king arthur, rode into cornwall with two squires, and chance brought them to a well in the forest which was much haunted by the demented knight. the weather was hot, and they alighted and stooped to drink at the well, while their horses ran loose. as they bent over the well in their thirst, tristram suddenly appeared, and, moved by a mad freak, he seized dagonet and soused him headforemost in the well, and the two squires after him. the dripping victims crawled miserably from the water, amid the mocking laughter of the shepherds, while tristram ran after the stray horses. these being brought, he forced the fool and the squires to mount, soaked as they were, and ride away. but after tristram had departed, dagonet and the squires returned, and accusing the shepherds of having set that madman on to assail them, they rode upon the keepers of beasts and beat them shrewdly. tristram, as it chanced, was not so far off but that he saw this ill-treatment of those who had fed him, and he ran back, pulled dagonet from the saddle, and gave him a stunning fall to the earth. then he wrested the sword from his hand and with it smote off the head of one of the squires, while the other fled in terror. tristram followed him, brandishing the sword wildly, and leaping like a madman as he rushed into the forest. when dagonet had recovered from his swoon, he rode to king mark's court, and there told what had happened to him in the wildwood. "let all beware," he said, "how they come near that forest well. for it is haunted by a naked madman, and that fool soused me, king arthur's fool, and had nearly slain me." "that must be sir matto le breune," said king mark, "who lost his wit because sir gaheris robbed him of his lady." meanwhile, kehydius had been ordered out of cornwall by queen isolde, who blamed him for all that had happened, and with a dolorous heart he obeyed. by chance he met palamides, to whom the damsel had reported the sad condition of the insane knight, and for days they sought him together, but in vain. but at tintagil a foul scheme was laid by andred, tristram's cousin and foe, to gain possession of his estates. this villain got a lady to declare that she had nursed tristram in a fatal illness, that he had died in her care, and had been buried by her near a forest well; and she further said that before his death he had left a request that king mark would make andred king of lyonesse, of which country tristram now was lord. on hearing these tidings, king mark made a great show of grief, weeping and lamenting as if he had lost his best friend in the world. but when the news came to la belle isolde, so deep a weight of woe fell upon her that she nearly went out of her mind. so deeply did she grieve, indeed, that she vowed to destroy herself, declaring bitterly that she would not live if tristram was dead. so she secretly got a sword and went with it into her garden, where she forced the hilt into a crevice in a plum-tree so that the naked point stood out breast high. then she kneeled down and prayed piteously: "sweet lord jesus, have pity on me, for i may not live after the death of sir tristram. my first love he was, and he shall be my last." all this had been seen by king mark, who had followed her privily, and as she rose and was about to cast herself on the sword he came behind and caught her in his arms. then he tore the sword from the tree, and bore her away, struggling and moaning, to a strong tower, where he set guards upon her, bidding them to watch her closely. after that she lay long sick, and came nigh to the point of death. meanwhile, tristram ran wildly through the forest, with dagonet's sword in his hand, till he came to a hermitage, where he lay down and slept. while he slumbered, the hermit, who knew of his madness, stole the sword from him and laid meat beside him. here he remained ten days, and afterwards departed and returned to the herdsmen. and now another adventure happened. there was in that country a giant named tauleas, brother to that taulard whom sir marhaus had killed. for fear of tristram he had for seven years kept close in his castle, daring not to go at large and commit depredations as of old. but now, hearing the rumor that tristram was dead, he resumed his old evil courses. and one day he came to where the herdsmen were engaged, and seated himself to rest among them. by chance there passed along the road near by a cornish knight named sir dinant, with whom rode a lady. when the giant saw them coming, he left the herdsmen and hid himself under a tree near a well, deeming that the knight would stop there to drink. this he did, but no sooner had he sought the well than the giant slipped from his covert and leaped upon the horse. then he rode upon sir dinant, took him by the collar, and pulled him before him upon the horse, reaching for his dagger to strike off his head. at this moment the herdsmen called to tristram, who had just come from the forest depths: "help the knight." "help him yourselves," said tristram. "we dare not," they replied. then tristram ran up and seized the sword of the knight, which had fallen to the ground, and with one broad sweep struck off the head of tauleas clean from the shoulders. this done he dropped the sword as if he had done but a trifle and went back to the herdsmen. shortly after this, sir dinant appeared at tintagil, bearing with him the giant's head, and there told what had happened to him and how he had been rescued. "where had you this adventure?" asked the king. "at the herdsmen's fountain in the forest," said dinant. "there where so many knights-errant meet. they say this madman haunts that spot." "he cannot be matto le breune, as i fancied," said the king. "it was a man of no small might who made that stroke. i shall seek this wild man myself." on the next day king mark, with a following of knights and hunters, rode into the forest, where they continued their course till they came to the well. lying beside it they saw a gaunt, naked man, with a sword beside him. who he was they knew not, for madness and exposure had so changed tristram's face that no one knew it. by the king's command he was picked up slumbering and covered with mantles, and thus borne in a litter to tintagil. here they bathed and washed him, and gave him warm food and gentle care, till his madness passed away and his wits came back to him. but no one knew him, so much had he changed, while all deemed tristram dead, and had no thought of him. word of what had happened came to isolde where she lay sick, and with a sudden whim she rose from her bed and bade bragwaine come with her, as she had a fancy to see the forest madman. asking where he was, she was told that he was in the garden, resting in an arbor, in a light slumber. hither they sought him and looked down upon him, knowing him not. but as they stood there tristram woke, and when he saw the queen he turned away his head, while tears ran from his eyes. it happened that the queen had with her a little brachet, which tristram had given her when she first came to cornwall, and which always remembered and loved its old master. when this little creature came near the sick man, she leaped upon him and licked his cheeks and hands, and whined about him, showing great joy and excitement. "the dog is wiser than us all," cried dame bragwaine. "she knows her master. they spoke falsely who said he was dead. it is sir tristram." but isolde fell to the ground in a swoon, and lay there long insensible. when at length she recovered, she said,-- "my dear lord and knight, i thank god deeply that you still live, for the story of your death had nearly caused mine. your life is in dread danger, for when king mark knows you he will either banish or destroy you. therefore i beg you to fly from this court and seek that of king arthur where you are beloved. this you may trust, that at all times, early and late, my love for you will keep fresh in my heart." "i pray you leave me, isolde," answered the knight. "it is not well that you should be seen here. fear not that i will forget what you have said." then the queen departed, but do what she would the brachet would not follow her, but kept with the sick knight. soon afterwards king mark visited him, and to his surprise the brachet sat upon the prostrate man and bayed at the king. "what does this mean?" he asked. "i can tell you," answered a knight. "that dog was sir tristram's before it was the queen's. the brachet is wiser than us all. it knows its master." "that i cannot believe," said the king. "tell me your name, my good man." "my name is tristram of lyonesse," answered the knight. "i am in your power. do with me what you will." the king looked at him long and strangely, with anger in his eyes. "truly," he said, "you had better have died while you were about it. it would have saved me the need of dealing with you as you deserve." then he returned to the castle, and called his barons hastily to council, sternly demanding that the penalty of death should be adjudged against the knight. happily for tristram, the barons would not consent to this, and proposed instead that the accused knight should be banished. so in the end the sentence was passed that tristram should be banished for ten years from the country of cornwall, not to return under pain of death. to this the knight assented, taking an oath before the king and his barons that he would abide by the decision of the court. many barons accompanied him to the ship in which he was to set sail. and as he was going, there arrived at tintagil a knight of king arthur's court named dinadan, who had been sent to seek sir tristram and request him to come to camelot. on being shown the banished knight, he went to him and told his errand. "you come in good season," said tristram, "for to camelot am i now bound." "then i would go with you in fellowship." "you are right welcome, sir dinadan." then tristram turned to the others and said,-- [illustration: tintagil, king arthur's castle, from the valley.] "greet king mark from me, and all my enemies as well, and tell them that i shall come again in my own good time. i am well rewarded for all i have done for him, but revenge has a long life, as he may yet learn." then he took ship and put to sea, a banished man. and with him went dinadan to cheer him in his woe, for, of all the knights of the round table, dinadan was the merriest soul. book vii. how tristram came to camelot. chapter i. tristram and dinadan. and now it behooves us to follow the banished knight in his adventures, for they were many and various, and arduous were the labors with which he won his right to a seat at the round table. we have told the tale of his love and madness, and now must relate the marvellous exploits of his banishment. hardly, indeed, had tristram and dinadan landed in arthur's realms when they met two knights of his court, hector de maris and bors de ganis. this encounter took place upon a bridge, where hector and dinadan jousted, and dinadan and his horse were overthrown. but bors refused to fight with tristram, through the contempt he felt for cornish knights. yet the honor of cornwall was soon retrieved, for sir bleoberis and sir driant now came up, and bleoberis proffered to joust with tristram, who quickly smote him to the earth. this done, tristram and dinadan departed, leaving their opponents in surprise that such valor and might could come out of cornwall. but not far had the two knights-errant gone when they entered a forest, where they met a damsel, who was in search of some noble knights to rescue sir lancelot. morgan le fay, who hated him bitterly since his escape from her castle, had laid an ambush of thirty knights at a point which lancelot was approaching, thinking to attack him unawares and so slay him. the damsel, who had learned of this plot, had already met the four knights whom tristram and dinadan had encountered, and obtained their promise to come to the rescue. she now told her story of crime and treachery to the two wanderers, with the same request. "fair damsel," said tristram, "you could set me no more welcome task. guide me to the place where those dastards lie in ambush for lancelot." "what would you do?" cried dinadan. "we cannot match thirty knights. two or three are enough for any one knight, if they be men. i hope you don't fancy that i will take fifteen to my share!" "come, come, good comrade," said tristram. "do not show the white feather." "i would rather wear the white feather than the fool's cap," said dinadan. "lend me your shield if you will; for i had sooner carry a cornish shield, which all men say only cowards bear, than try any such foolhardy adventure." "nay; i will keep my shield for the sake of her who gave it to me," answered tristram. "but this i warn you, if you will not abide with me i shall slay you before we part, for a coward has no right to cumber the earth. i ask no more of you than to fight one knight. if your heart is too faint for that, then stand by and see me meet the whole crew." "very well," said dinadan, "you can trust me to look on bravely, and mayhap to do something to save my head from hard knocks; but i would give my helmet if i had not met you. folks say you are cured of your mad fit, but i vow if i have much faith in your sound sense." tristram smiled grimly at dinadan's scolding, and kept on after the damsel. not far had they gone before they met the thirty knights. these had already passed the four knights of arthur's court, without a combat, and they now rode in the same way past tristram and dinadan, with no show of hostility. but tristram was of different mettle. turning towards them he cried with a voice of thunder,--"lo! sir villains. i have heard of your plot to murder lancelot. turn and defend yourselves. here is a knight ready to fight you all for the love of lancelot du lake!" then, spurring his good war-steed, he rode upon them with the fury of a lion, slaying two with his spear. he then drew his mighty blade, and attacked them with such fierce spirit and giant strength that ten more soon fell dead beneath his furious blows. nor did dinadan stand and look on, as he had grumblingly threatened, but rode in and aided tristram nobly, more than one of the villains falling before his blows. when, at length, the murderous crew took to flight, there were but ten of them alive. sir bors and his companions had seen this battle at a distance, but it was all over before they could reach the scene of fray. high was their praise of the valor and prowess of the victor, who, they said, had done such a deed as they had deemed only lancelot could perform. they invited him with knightly warmth and courtesy to go with them to their lodging. "many thanks, fair sirs," said tristram, "but i cannot go with you." "then tell us your name, that we may remember it as that of one of the best of knights, and give you the honor which is your due." "nor that either," answered tristram. "in good time you shall know my name, but not now." leaving them with the dead knights, tristram and dinadan rode forward, and in time found themselves near a party of shepherds and herdsmen, whom they asked if any lodging was to be had near by. "that there is," said the herdsmen, "and good lodging, in a castle close at hand. but it is not to be had for the asking. the custom of that castle is that no knight shall lodge there except he fight with two knights of the castle. but as you are two, you can fight your battle man for man, if you seek lodging there." "that is rough pay for a night's rest," said dinadan. "lodge where you will, i will not rest in that castle. i have done enough to-day to spoil my appetite for fighting." "come, come," said tristram, "and you a knight of the round table! you cannot refuse to win your lodging in knightly fashion." "win it you must if you want it," said the herdsmen; "for if you have the worse of the battle no lodging will you gain in these quarters, except it be in the wild wood." "be it so, if it must," said dinadan. "in flat english, i will not go to the castle." "are you a man?" demanded tristram, scornfully. "come, dinadan, i know you are no coward. on your knighthood, come." growling in his throat, dinadan followed his comrade, sorely against his will, and together they rode into the castle court. here they found, as they had been told, two armed knights ready to meet them. to make a long story short, tristram and dinadan smote them both down, and afterwards entered the castle, where the best of good cheer was served them. but when they had disarmed, and were having a merry time at the well-filled table, word was brought them that two other knights, palamides and gaheris, had entered the gates, and demanded a joust according to the castle custom. "the foul fiend take them!" cried dinadan. "fight i will not; i am here for rest." "we are now the lords of the castle, and must defend its custom," said tristram. "make ready, therefore, for fight you must." "why, in the devil's name, came i here in your company?" cried dinadan. "you will wear all the flesh off my bones." but there was nothing to do but arm themselves and meet the two knights in the court-yard. of these gaheris encountered tristram, and got a fall for his pains; but palamides hurled dinadan from his horse. so far, then, it was fall for fall, and the contest could be decided only by a fight on foot. but dinadan was bruised from his fall and refused to fight. tristram unlaced his helmet to give him air, and prayed him for his aid. "fight them yourself, if you will; two such knights are but a morsel to you," said dinadan. "as for me, i am sore wounded from our little skirmish with the thirty knights, and have no valor left in me. sir tristram, you are a madman yet, and i curse the time that ever i saw you. in all the world there are no two such mad freaks as lancelot and you. once i fell into fellowship with lancelot as i have now with you, and what followed? why, he set me a task that kept me a quarter of a year in bed. defend me from such head-splitters, and save me from your fellowship." "then if you will not fight i must face them both," said tristram. "come forth, both of you, i am ready for you." at this challenge palamides and gaheris advanced and struck at the two knights. but after a stroke or two at gaheris, dinadan withdrew from the fray. "this is not fair, two to one," said palamides. "stand aside, gaheris, with that knight who declines to fight, and let us two finish the combat." then he and tristram fought long and fiercely, tristram in the end driving him back three paces. at this gaheris and dinadan pushed between them and bade them cease fighting, as both had done enough for honor. "so be it," said tristram, "and these brave knights are welcome to lodge with us in the castle if they will." "with you, not with us," said dinadan, dryly. "when i lodge in that devil's den may i sell my sword for a herring. we will be called up every hour of the night to fight for our bedding. and as for you, good friend, when i ride with you again, it will be when you have grown older and wiser, or i younger and more foolish." with these words he mounted his horse and rode in an ill-humor out of the castle gates. "come, good sirs, we must after him," said tristram, with a laugh. "he is a prime good fellow, if he has taken himself off in a pet; it is likely i gave him an overdose of fighting." so, asking a man of the castle to guide them to a lodging, they rode after dinadan, whom they soon overtook, though he gave them no hearty welcome. two miles farther brought them to a priory, where they spent the night in comfort. early the next day tristram mounted and rode away, leaving dinadan at the priory, for he was too much bruised to mount his horse. there remained at the priory with him a knight named pellinore, who sought earnestly to learn tristram's name, and at last said angrily to dinadan,-- "since you will not tell me his name, i will ride after him and make him tell it himself, or leave him on the ground to repent." "beware, my good sir," said dinadan, "or the repentance will be yours instead of his. no wise man is he who thrusts his own hand in the fire." "good faith, i fear him not," said pellinore, haughtily, and rode on his way. but he paid dearly for his hardiness, for a half-hour afterwards he lay on the earth with a spear wound in his shoulder, while tristram rode unscathed on his way. on the day following tristram met with pursuivants, who were spreading far and wide the news of a great tournament that was to be held between king carados and the king of north wales, at the castle of maidens. they were seeking for good knights to take part in that tournament, and in particular king carados had bidden them to seek lancelot, and the king of northgalis to seek tristram de lyonesse. "lancelot is not far away," said tristram. "as for me, i will be there, and do my best to win honor in the fray." and so he rode away, and soon after met with sir kay and sir sagramore, with whom he refused to joust, as he wished to keep himself fresh for the tournament. but as kay twitted him with being a cowardly knight of cornwall, he turned on him and smote him from his horse. then, to complete the tale, he served sagramore with the same sauce, and serenely rode on his way, leaving them to heal their bruises with repentance. chapter ii. on the road to the tournament. tristram now rode far alone through a country strange to him, and void of knightly adventures. at length, however, chance brought to him a damsel, who told him disconsolately that she sought a champion to cope with a villanous knight, who was playing the tyrant over a wide district, and who defied all errant knights. "if you would win great honor come with me," she said. "to win honor is the breath of my life," said tristram. "lead on, fair maiden." then he rode with her a matter of six miles, when good fortune brought them in contact with sir gawaine, who recognized the damsel as one of morgan le fay's. on seeing her with an unknown knight he at once surmised that there was some mischief afoot. "fair sir," said gawaine, "whither ride you with that damsel?" "whither she may lead me," said tristram. "that is all i know of the matter." "then, by my good blade, you shall ride no farther with her, for she has a breeder of ill for mistress, and means you a mischief." he drew his sword as he spoke, and said in stern accents to the damsel,-- "tell me wherefore and whither you lead this knight, or you shall die on the spot. i know you, minx, and the false-hearted witch who sends you." "mercy, sir gawaine!" she cried, trembling in mortal fear. "harm me not, and i will tell you all i know." "say on, then. i crave not your worthless life, but will have it if you tell me not the truth." "good and valiant sir," she answered, "queen morgan le fay, my lady, has sent me and thirty ladies more, in search of sir lancelot or sir tristram. whoever of us shall first meet either of these knights is to lead him to her castle, with a tale of worshipful deeds to be done and wrongs to be righted. but thirty knights lie in wait in a tower ready to sally forth and destroy them." "foul shame is this," cried gawaine, "that such treachery should ever be devised by a queen's daughter and the sister of the worshipful king arthur. sir knight, will you stand with me, and unmask the malice of these thirty ambushed rogues?" "that shall i willingly," said tristram. "trust me to do my share to punish these dogs. not long since i and a fellow met with thirty of that lady's knights, who were in ambush for lancelot, and we gave them something else to think of. if there be another thirty on the same vile quest, i am for them." then they rode together towards the queen's castle, gawaine with a shrewd fancy that he knew his cornish companion, for he had heard the story of how two knights had beaten thirty. when they reached the castle, gawaine called in a loud voice,-- "queen morgan le fay, send out the knights whom you hold in ambush against lancelot and tristram. i know your treason, and will tell of it wherever i ride. i, sir gawaine, and my fellow here, dare your thirty knights to come out and meet us like men." "you bluster bravely, friend gawaine," answered the knights. "but we well know that your pride and valor come from the knight who is there with you. some of us have tried conclusions with that head-splitter who wears the arms of cornwall, and have had enough of him. you alone would not keep us long in the castle, but we have no fancy to measure swords with him. so ride your way; you will get no glory here." in vain did gawaine berate them as dastards and villains; say what he would, not a soul of them would set foot beyond the walls, and in time the two knights rode away in a rage, cursing all cowards in their beards. for several days they rode together without adventure. then they beheld a shameful sight, that roused their souls to anger. for they saw a villanous knight, known in those parts as breuse sans pité, who chased a lady with intent to kill her, having slain her lover before. many dastardly deeds of this kind had he done, yet so far had escaped all retribution for his crimes. "let me ride alone against him," said gawaine. "i know his tricks. he will stand to face one man, but if he sees us both, he will fly, and he always rides so swift a horse that none can overtake him." then he rode at full speed between the lady and her pursuer, and cried loudly,-- "false knight and murderer, leave that lady and try your tricks on me." sir breuse, seeing but one, put his spear in rest and rode furiously against gawaine, whom he struck so strong a blow that he flung him prostrate to the ground. then, with deadly intent, he forced his horse to trample over him twenty times backward and forward, thinking to destroy him. but when tristram saw this villany he broke from his covert and rushed in fury upon the murderous wretch. but breuse sans pité had met with tristram before, and knew him by his arms. therefore he turned his horse and fled at full speed, hotly pursued by the furious knight. long he chased him, full of thirst for revenge, but the well-horsed villain rode at such a pace that he left him in the distance. at length tristram, despairing of overtaking him, and seeing an inviting forest spring, drew up his horse and rode thither for rest and refreshment. dismounting and tying his horse to a tree, he washed his face and hands and took a deep and grateful draught of the cool water. then laying himself to rest by the spring side, he fell sound asleep. while he lay there good fortune brought to that forest spring a lady who had sought him far and wide. this was dame bragwaine, the lady companion of la belle isolde, who bore him letters from the queen. she failed to recognize the sleeping knight, but at first sight knew his noble charger, passe brewel, which tristram had ridden for years. so she seated herself gladly by the knight, and waited patiently till he awoke. then she saluted him, and he her, for he failed not to recognize his old acquaintance. "what of my dear lady, la belle isolde?" he asked, eagerly. "she is well, and has sent me to seek you. far and wide have i sought for you through the land, and glad enough am i to hand you the letters i bear." "not so glad as i am to receive them," said tristram, joyfully, taking them from her hand and opening them with eager haste, while his soul overflowed with joy as he read isolde's words of love and constancy, though with them was mingled many a piteous complaint. "come with me, dame bragwaine," he said. "i am riding to the tournament to be held at the castle of maidens. there will i answer these letters, and to have you there, to tell the tale of my doings to my lady isolde, will give me double strength and valor." to this dame bragwaine willingly agreed, and mounting they rode till they came to the castle of a hospitable old knight, near where the tournament was to be held. here they were given shelter and entertainment. as they sat at supper with sir pellounes, their ancient host, he told them much of the great tournament that was at hand, among other things that lancelot would be there, with thirty-two knights of his kindred, each of whom would bear a shield with the arms of cornwall. in the midst of their conversation a messenger entered, who told pellounes that his son, persides de bloise, had come home, whereupon the old knight held up his hands and thanked god, telling tristram that he had not seen his son for two years. "i know him," said tristram, "and a good and worthy knight he is." on the next morning, when tristram came into the castle hall clad in his house attire, he met with persides, similarly unarmed, and they saluted each other courteously. "my father tells me that you are of cornwall," said persides. "i jousted there once before king mark, and fortune helped me to overthrow ten knights. but tristram de lyonesse overthrew me and took my lady from me. this i have not forgotten, and i will repay him for it yet." "you hate sir tristram, then? do you think that will trouble him much, and that he is not able to withstand your malice?" "he is a better knight than i, that i admit. but for all that i owe him no good will." as thus they stood talking at a bay window of the castle, they saw many knights ride by on their way to the tournament. among these tristram marked a strongly-built warrior mounted on a great black horse, and bearing a black shield. "what knight is that?" he asked. "he looks like a strong and able one." "he is one of the best in the world," said persides. "i know him well." "is it sir lancelot?" "no, no. it is palamides, an unchristened saracen, but a noble man." "palamides! i should know him too, but his arms deceived me." as they continued to look they saw many of the country people salute the black knight. some time afterwards a squire came to pellounes, the lord of the castle, and told him that a fierce combat had taken place in the road some distance in advance, and that a knight with a black shield had smitten down thirteen others. he was still there, ready for any who might wish to meet him, and holding a tournament of his own in the highway. "on my faith, that is palamides!" said tristram. "the worthy fellow must be brimful of fight. fair brother, let us cast on our cloaks and see the play." "not i," said persides. "let us not go like courtiers there, but like men ready to withstand their enemies." "as you will. to fight or to look on is all one to me." then they armed and rode to the spot where so many knights had tried their fortune before the tournament. when palamides saw them approach, he said to his squire,-- "go to yonder knight with a green shield and in it a lion of gold. tell him that i request a passage-at-arms with him, and that my name is palamides." persides, who wore the shield thus described, did not hesitate to accept the challenge, and rode against palamides, but quickly found himself felled to the earth by his powerful antagonist. then tristram made ready to avenge his comrade, but before he could put his spear in rest palamides rode upon him like a thunderbolt, taking him at advantage, and hurling him over his horse's tail. at this tristram sprang up in furious anger and sore shame, and leaped into his saddle. then he sent gouvernail to palamides, accusing him of treachery, and demanding a joust on equal terms. "not so," answered palamides. "i know that knight better than he fancies, and will not meet him now. but if he wants satisfaction he may have it to-morrow at the castle of maidens, where i will be ready to meet him in the lists." as tristram stood fretting and fuming in wrathful spite, dinadan, who had seen the affair, came up, and seeing the anger of the cornish knight, restrained his inclination to jest. "here it is proved," he said, "that a man can never be so strong but he may meet his equal. never was man so wise but that his brain might fail him, and a passing good rider is he that never had a fall." "let be," cried tristram, angrily. "you are readier with your tongue than with your sword, friend dinadan. i will revenge myself, and you shall see it." as they stood thus talking there came by them a likely knight, who rode soberly and heavily, bearing a black shield. "what knight is that?" asked tristram. "it is sir briant of north wales," answered persides. "i know him well." just behind him came a knight who bore a shield with the arms of cornwall, and as he rode up he sent a squire to sir briant, whom he required to joust with him. "let it be so, if he will have it so," said briant. "bid him make ready." then they rode together, and the welsh knight got a severe fall. "what cornish knight is this?" asked tristram. "none, as i fancy," said dinadan. "i warrant he is of king ban's blood, which counts the noblest knights of the world." then two other knights came up and challenged him with the cornish shield, and in a trice he smote them both down with one spear. "by my faith," said tristram, "he is a good knight, whoever he be, and i never saw one yet that rode so well." then the king of northgalis rode to palamides, and prayed him for his sake to joust with that knight who had just overturned two welsh knights. "i beg you ask me not," said palamides. "i have had my full share of jousting already, and wish to keep fresh for the tournament to-morrow." "one ride only, for the honor of north wales," beseeched the king. "well, if you will have it so; but i have seen many a man have a fall at his own request." then he sent a squire to the victor knight, and challenged him to a joust. "fair fellow," said the knight, "tell me your lord's name." "it is sir palamides." "he is well met, then. i have seen no knight in seven years with whom i would rather tilt." then the two knights took spears from their squires, and rode apart. "now," said dinadan, "you will see palamides come off the victor." "i doubt it," answered tristram. "i wager the knight with the cornish shield will give him a fall." "that i do not believe," said dinadan. as they spoke, the two knights put spears in rest, and spurred their horses, riding hotly together. palamides broke a spear on his antagonist, without moving him in his saddle; but on his side he received such a blow that it broke through his shield and hauberk, and would have slain him outright had he not fallen. "how now?" cried tristram. "am i not right? i knew by the way those knights ride which would fall." the unknown knight now rode away and sought a well in the forest edge, for he was hot and thirsty with the fray. this was seen by the king of northgalis, who sent twelve knights after him to do him a mischief, so that he would not be able to appear at the tournament and win the victory. they came upon him so suddenly that he had scarcely time to put on his helm and spring to his horse's back before they assailed him in mass. "ye villains!" he cried, "twelve to one! and taking a man unawares! you want a lesson, and by my faith you shall have it." then spurring his horse he rode on them so fiercely that he smote one knight through the body, breaking his spear in doing so. now he drew his sword and smote stoutly to right and left, killing three others and wounding more. "dogs and dastards! know you me not?" he cried in a voice of thunder. "my name is lancelot du lake. here's for you, cowards and traitors!" but the name he had shouted was enough. those who were still able, fled, followed by the angry knight. by hard riding they escaped his wrath, and he, hot and furious, turned aside to a lodging where he designed to spend the night. in consequence of his hard labor in this encounter lancelot fought not on the first day of the tournament, but sat beside king arthur, who had come hither from camelot to witness the passage-at-arms. chapter iii. at the castle of maidens. when came the dawn of the first day of the tournament, many ladies and gentlemen of the court took their seats on a high gallery, shaded by a rich canopy of parti-colored silk, while in the centre of the gallery sat king arthur and queen guenever, and, by the side of the king, lancelot du lake. many other noble lords and ladies of the surrounding country occupied the adjoining seats, while round the circle that closed in the lists sat hosts of citizens and country people, all eager for the warlike sports. knights in glittering armor stood in warlike groups outside the entrance gates, where rose many pavilions of red and white silk, each with its fluttering pennon, and great war-horses that impatiently champed the bit, while the bright steel heads of the lances shone like star-points in the sun. within the lists the heralds and pursuivants busied themselves, while cheery calls, and bugle-blasts, and the lively chat of the assembled multitude filled the air with joyous sound. tristram de lyonesse still dwelt with the old knight sir pellounes, in company with sir persides, whom he yet kept in ignorance of his name. and as it was his purpose to fight that day unknown, he ordered gouvernail, his squire, to procure him a black-faced shield, without emblem or device of any kind. so accoutred, he and persides mounted in the early morn and rode together to the lists, where the parties of king carados and the king of northgalis were already being formed. tristram and his companion joined the side of carados, the scottish king, and hardly had they ridden to their place when king arthur gave the signal for the onset, the bugles loudly sounded, and the two long lines of knights rode together with a crash as of two thunder-clouds meeting in mid-air. many knights and horses went to the earth in that mad onset, and many others who had broken their spears drew their swords and so kept up the fray. the part of the line where tristram and persides was drove back the king of northgalis and his men, with many noble knights who fought on the side of the welsh king. but through the rush and roar of the onset there pushed forward bleoberis de ganis and gaheris, who hurled persides to the earth, where he was almost slain, for as he lay there helpless more than forty horsemen rode over him in the fray. seeing this, and what valiant deeds the two knights did, tristram marvelled who they were. but perceiving the danger in which his comrade persides lay, he rushed to the rescue with such force that gaheris was hurled headlong from his horse. then bleoberis in a rage put his spear in rest and rode furiously against tristram, but he was met in mid-career, and flung from his saddle by the resistless spear of the cornish knight. the king with the hundred knights now rode angrily forward, pressed back the struggling line, and horsed gaheris and bleoberis. then began a fierce struggle, in which bleoberis and tristram did many deeds of knightly skill and valor. as the violent combat continued, dinadan, who was on the other side, rode against tristram, not knowing him, and got such a buffet that he swooned in his saddle. he recovered in a minute, however, and, riding to his late companion, said in a low voice,-- "sir knight, is this the way you serve an old comrade, masking under a black shield? i know you now better than you deem. i will not reveal your disguise, but by my troth i vow i will never try buffets with you again, and, if i keep my wits, sword of yours shall never come near my headpiece." as dinadan withdrew to repair damages, bleoberis rode against tristram, who gave him such a furious sword-blow on the helm that he bowed his head to the saddle. then tristram caught him by the helm, jerked him from his horse, and flung him down under the feet of the steed. this ended the fray, for at that moment arthur bade the heralds to blow to lodging, and the knights who still held saddle sheathed their swords. tristram thereupon departed to his pavilion and dinadan with him. but arthur, and many of those with him, wondered who was the knight with the black shield, who had with sword and spear done such wondrous deeds. many opinions were given, and some suspected him of being tristram, but held their peace. to him the judges awarded the prize of the day's combat, though they named him only the knight of the black shield, not knowing by what other name to call him. when the second day of the tournament dawned, and the knights prepared for the combat, palamides, who had fought under northgalis, now joined king arthur's party, that led by carados, and sent to tristram to know his name. "as to that," answered tristram, "tell sir palamides that he shall not know till i have broken two spears with him. but you may tell him that i am the same knight that he smote down unfairly the day before the tournament, and that i owe him as shrewd a turn. so whichever side he takes i will take the opposite." "sir," said the messenger, "he will be on king arthur's side, in company with the noblest knights." "then i will fight for northgalis, though yesterday i held with carados." [illustration: tristram thereupon departed to his pavilion.] when king arthur blew to field and the fray began, king carados opened the day by a joust with the king with the hundred knights, who gave him a sore fall. around him there grew up a fierce combat, till a troop of arthur's knights pushed briskly in and bore back the opposite party, rescuing carados from under the horses' feet. while the fight went on thus in one part of the field, tristram, in jet-black armor, pressed resistlessly forward in another part, and dealt so roughly and grimly with arthur's knights that not a man of them could withstand him. at length he fell among the fellowship of king ban, all of whom bore cornish shields, and here he smote right and left with such fury and might that cries of admiration for his gallant bearing went up from lords and ladies, citizens and churls. but he would have had the worse through force of numbers had not the king with the hundred knights come to his rescue, and borne him away from the press of his assailants, who were crowding upon him in irresistible strength. hardly had tristram escaped from this peril than he saw another group of about forty knights, with kay the seneschal at their head. on them he rode like a fury, smote kay from his horse, and fared among them all like a greyhound among conies. at this juncture lancelot, who had hitherto taken little part, met a knight retiring from the lists with a sore wound in the head. "who hurt you so badly?" he asked. "that knight with the black shield, who is making havoc wherever he goes," was the answer. "i may curse the time i ever faced him, for he is more devil than mortal man." lancelot at these words drew his sword and advanced to meet tristram, and as he rode forward saw the cornish champion hurtling through a press of foes, bringing down one with nearly every stroke of his sword. "a fellow of marvellous prowess he, whoever he be," said lancelot. "if i set upon this knight after all his heavy labor, i will shame myself more than him." and he put up his sword. then the king with the hundred knights, with his following, and a hundred more of the welsh party, set upon the twenty of lancelot's kin, and a fearful fray began, for the twenty held together like wild boars, none failing the others, and faced the odds against them without yielding a step. when tristram, who had for the moment withdrawn, beheld their noble bearing, he marvelled at their valor, for he saw by their steadfastness that they would die together rather than leave the field. "valiant and noble must be he who has such knights for his kin," he said, meaning lancelot; "and likely to be a worthy man is he who leads such knights as these." then he rode to the king with the hundred knights and said,-- "sir, leave off fighting with these twenty knights. you can win no honor from them, you being so many and they so few. i can see by their bearing that they will die rather than leave the field, and that will bring you no glory. if this one sided fray goes on i will join them and give them what help i can." "you shall not do so," said the king. "you speak in knightly courtesy, and i will withdraw my men at your request. i know how courage favors courage, and like draws to like." then the king called off his knights, and withdrew from the combat with lancelot's kindred. meanwhile lancelot was watching for an opportunity to meet tristram and hail him as a fellow in heart and hand, but before he could do so tristram, dinadan, and gouvernail suddenly left the lists and rode into the forest, no man perceiving whither they had gone. then arthur blew to lodging, and gave the prize of the day to the king of northgalis, as the true champion of the tournament was on his side and had vanished. lancelot rode hither and thither, vainly seeking him, while a cry that might have been heard two miles off went up: "the knight with the black shield has won the day!" "alas, where has that knight gone!" said arthur. "it is a shame that those in the field have let him thus vanish. with gentleness and courtesy they might have brought him to me at the castle of maidens, where i should have been glad to show him the highest honor." then he went to the knights of his party and comforted them for their discomfiture. "be not dismayed, my fair fellows," he said, "though you have lost the field, and many of you are the worst in body and mind. be of good cheer, for to-morrow we fight again. how the day will go i cannot say, but i will be in the lists with you, and lend you what aid is in my arm." during that day's fight dame bragwaine had sat near queen guenever, observing tristram's valorous deeds. but when the queen asked her why she had come thither, she would not tell the real reason, but said only,-- "madam, i came for no other cause than that my lady, la belle isolde, sent me to inquire after your welfare." after the fray was done she took leave of the queen and rode into the forest in search of sir tristram. as she went onward she heard a great cry, and sent her squire to learn what it might mean. he quickly came to a forest fountain, and here he found a knight bound to a tree, crying out like a madman, while his horse and harness stood by. when he saw the squire, he started so furiously that he broke his bonds, and then ran after him, sword in hand, as if to slay him. the squire at this spurred his horse and rode swiftly back to dame bragwaine, whom he told of his adventure. soon afterwards she found tristram, who had set up his pavilion in the forest, and told him of the incident. "then, on my head, there is mischief here afloat," said tristram; "some good knight has gone distracted." taking his horse and sword he rode to the place, and there he found the knight complaining woefully. "what misfortune has befallen me?" he lamented; "i, woeful palamides, who am defiled with falsehood and treason through sir bors and sir hector! alas, why live i so long?" then he took his sword in his hands, and with many strange signs and movements flung it into the fountain. this done, he wailed bitterly and wrung his hands, but at the end he ran to his middle in the water and sought again for his sword. tristram, seeing this, ran upon him and clasped him in his arms, fearing he would kill himself. "who are you that holds me so tightly?" said palamides. "i am a man of this forest, and mean you no harm, but would save you from injury." "alas!" said the knight, "i shall never win honor where sir tristram is. where he is not, only lancelot or lamorak can win from me the prize. more than once he has put me to the worse." "what would you do if you had him?" "i would fight him and ease my heart. and yet, sooth to say, he is a gentle and noble knight." "will you go with me to my lodging?" "no; i will go to the king with the hundred knights. he rescued me from bors and hector, or they had slain me treacherously." but by kind words tristram got him to his pavilion, where he did what he could to cheer him. but palamides could not sleep for anguish of soul, and rose before dawn and secretly left the tent, making his way to the pavilions of gaheris and sagramour le desirous, who had been his companions in the tournament. not far had the next day's sun risen in the eastern sky, when king arthur bade the heralds blow the call to the lists, and with warlike haste the knights came crowding in to the last day of the well-fought tournament. fiercely began the fray, king carados and his ally, the king of ireland, being smitten from their horses early in the day. then came in palamides full of fury, and made sad work among his foes, being known to all by his indented shield. but this day king arthur, as he had promised, rode in shining armor into the field, and fought so valorously that the king of northgalis and his party had much the worse of the combat. while the fight thus went on in all its fury, tristram rode in, still bearing his black shield. encountering palamides, he gave him such a thrust that he was driven over his horse's croup. then king arthur cried,-- "knight with the black shield, make ready for me!" but the king met with the same fate from tristram's spear that palamides had done, and was hurled to the earth. seeing this, a rush of the knights of his party drove back the foe, and arthur and palamides were helped to their saddles again. and now the king, his heart burning with warlike fury, rushed fiercely on tristram, and struck him so furious a blow that he was hurled from his horse. as he lay there palamides spurred upon him in a violent rage, and sought to override him as he was rising to his feet. but tristram saw his purpose and sprang aside. as palamides rode past he wrathfully caught him by the arm and pulled him from his horse. "sword to sword let it be!" cried tristram. palamides, nothing loth, drew his weapon, and so fierce a combat began in the midst of the arena that lords and ladies alike stood in their seats in eagerness to behold it. but at the last tristram struck palamides three mighty strokes on the helm, crying with each stroke, "take this for sir tristram's sake!" so fierce were the blows that palamides was felled to the earth. then the king with the hundred knights dashed forward and brought tristram his horse. palamides was horsed at the same time, and with burning ire he rushed upon tristram, spear in rest, before he could make ready to meet him. but tristram lightly avoided the spear, and, enraged at his repeated treachery, he caught him with both hands by the neck as his horse bore him past, tore him clean from the saddle, and carried him thus ten spears' length across the field before he let him fall. at that moment king arthur spurred upon the cornish champion, sword in hand, and tristram fixed his spear to meet him, but with a sword-blow arthur cut the spear in two, and then dealt him three or four vigorous strokes before he could draw. but at the last tristram drew his sword and assailed the king with equal energy. this battle continued not long, for the press of battling knights forced the combatants asunder. then tristram rode hither and thither, striking and parrying, so that that day he smote down in all eleven of the good knights of king ban's blood, while all in seats and gallery shouted in loud acclaim for the mighty warrior with the black shield. this cry met the ears of lancelot, who was engaged in another part of the field. then he got a spear and came towards the cry. seeing tristram standing without an antagonist, he cried out,-- "knight with the black shield, well and worthily have you done; now make ready to joust with me." when tristram heard this he put his spear in rest, and both with lowered heads rode together with lightning speed. tristram's spear broke into fragments on lancelot's shield; but lancelot, by ill-fortune, smote him in the side, wounding him deeply. he kept his saddle, however, and, drawing his sword, rushed upon lancelot and gave him three such strokes that fire flew from his helm, and he was forced to lower his head towards his saddle-bow. this done, tristram left the field, for he felt as if he would die. but dinadan espied him and followed him into the forest. after tristram left the lists, lancelot fought like a man beside himself, many a noble knight going down before his spear and sword. king arthur, seeing against what odds he fought, came quickly to his aid, with the knights of his own kindred, and in the end they won the day against the king of northgalis and his followers. so the prize was adjudged to lancelot. but neither for king, queen, nor knights would he accept it, and when the cry was raised by the heralds,-- "sir lancelot, sir lancelot has won the field this day!" he bade them change, and cry instead,-- "the knight with the black shield has won the day." but the estates and the commonalty cried out together,-- "sir lancelot has won the field, whoever say nay!" this filled lancelot with shame and anger, and he rode with a lowering brow to king arthur, to whom he cried,-- "the knight with the black shield is the hero of the lists. for three days he held against all, till he got that unlucky wound. the prize, i say, is his." "sir tristram it is," said the king. "i heard him shout his name three times when he gave those mighty strokes to palamides. never better nor nobler knight took spear or sword in hand. he was hurt indeed; but when two noble warriors encounter one must have the worst." "had i known him i would not have hurt him for all my father's lands," said lancelot. "only lately he risked his life for me, when he fought with thirty knights, with no help but dinadan. this is poor requital for his noble service." then they sought tristram in the forest, but in vain. they found the place where his pavilion had been pitched, but it was gone and all trace of its owner vanished. thereupon they returned to the castle of maidens, where for three days was held high feast and frolic, and where all who came were warmly welcomed by king arthur and queen guenever. chapter iv. the quest of the ten knights. when tristram was well within the forest shades, he alighted and unlaced his armor and sought to stanch his wound. but so pale did he become that dinadan thought he was like to die. "never dread thee, dinadan," said tristram, cheerily, "for i am heart whole, and of this wound i shall soon be healed, by god's mercy." as they sat conversing dinadan saw at a distance sir palamides, who was riding straight upon them, with seeming evil intent. dinadan hastily bid tristram to withdraw, and offered himself to meet the saracen and take the chance of life and death with him. "i thank you, sir dinadan, for your good will," said tristram, "but you shall see that i am able to handle him." he thereupon hastily armed himself, and, mounting his horse, rode to meet palamides. then a challenge to joust passed between them, and they rode together. but tristram kept his seat and palamides got a grievous fall, and lay on the earth like one dead. leaving him there with a comrade, tristram and dinadan rode on, and obtained lodging for that night at the castle of an old knight, who had five sons at the tournament. as for palamides, when he recovered from his swoon, he well-nigh lost his wits through sheer vexation. he rode headlong forward, wild with rage, and meeting a deep stream sought to make his horse leap it. but the horse fell in and was drowned, and the knight himself reached shore only by the barest chance. now, mad with chagrin, he flung off his armor, and sat roaring and crying like a man distracted. as he sat there, a damsel passed by, who on seeing his distressful state sought to comfort him, but in vain. then she rode on till she came to the old knight's castle, where tristram was, and told how she had met a mad knight in the forest. "what shield did he bear?" asked tristram. "it was indented with black and white," answered the damsel. "that was palamides. the poor fellow has lost his wits through his bad luck. i beg that you bring him to your castle, sir darras." this the old knight did, for the frenzy of the saracen had now passed, and he readily accompanied him. on reaching the castle he looked curiously at tristram, whom he felt sure he had seen before, but could not place him in his mind. but his anger against his fortunate rival continued, and he boasted proudly to dinadan of what he would do when he met that fellow tristram. "it seems to me," answered dinadan, "that you met him not long since, and got little good of him. why did you not hold him when you had him in your hands? you were too easy with the fellow not to pummel him when you had so fine an opportunity." this scornful reply silenced the boastful saracen, who fell into an angry moodiness. meanwhile king arthur was sore at heart at the disappearance of tristram, and spoke in reproach to lancelot as being the cause of his loss. "my liege arthur," answered lancelot, "you do me ill justice in this. when men are hot in battle they may well hurt their friends as well as their foes. as for tristram, there is no man living whom i would rather help. if you desire, i will make one of ten knights who will go in search of him, and not rest two nights in the same place for a year until we find him." this offer pleased the king, who quickly chose nine other knights for the quest, and made them all swear upon the scriptures to do as lancelot had proposed. with dawn of the next day these ten knights armed themselves, and rode from the castle of maidens, continuing in company until they came to a roadside cross, from which ran out four highways. here they separated into four parties, each of which followed one of the highways. and far and wide they rode through field and forest for many days in quest of the brave knight of cornwall. of them all, sir lucan, the butler, came nearest to good fortune, for chance brought him to the castle of the old knight, sir darras. here he asked harbor, sending in his name by the porter. "he shall not rest here unless he first joust with me," cried sir daname, the old knight's nephew. "bid him make ready, for he must earn his lodging." but better had daname held his peace, for lucan smote him over his horse's croup, and followed him hotly when he fled into the castle. "this is a shame to our host," said dinadan. "let me try conclusions with our doughty butler. it will not do to let him take our castle by storm." he thereupon rode against lucan, and fared still worse, for he got for his pains a spear thrust through the thigh. then tristram, in anger, armed and followed lucan, who had ridden on, in search of a more peaceful place of shelter. within a mile he overtook him and bade him turn and joust. nothing loth, lucan did so, and in his turn got a sore fall, though he little dreamed that he had been overthrown by the knight of his quest. at this juncture another of the ten knights, sir uwaine, came up, and seeing sir lucan's misfortune, rode furiously against the victor. his luck was no better, for he was hurled to the ground with a sorely wounded side. having thus revenged his comrades, tristram returned to the castle. meanwhile a damsel from the castle of maidens had come thither, and told sir darras a woeful story. of his five sons, three had been slain at the tournament, and the other two were dangerously wounded, all this having been done by the knight of the black shield. deep grief filled the old knight's heart at this sad tale. but his sorrow turned to rage when the damsel was shown tristram's shield and recognized it as that of the champion of the tournament. "so," cried the old knight in a hot passion. "i am harboring here my sons' murderer, and troubling myself to give him noble cheer. by my father's grave, i will revenge my boys' death on him and his companions." then in grief and rage he ordered his knights and servants to seize tristram, dinadan, and palamides, and put them in a strong dungeon he had in the keep of his castle. this was done before the three knights could defend themselves, and for many days they lay in this dismal cell, until tristram grew so sick from his wound and confinement that he came near to dying. while they lay thus in durance vile some knights of darras's kindred came to the castle, and on hearing the story wished to kill the captives, but this the old knight would not permit, though he determined to hold them close prisoners. so deep in time grew tristram's sickness that his mind nearly failed him, and he was ready to slay himself for pain and grief. palamides gave him what aid he could, though all the time he spoke of his hatred to tristram, the cornishman, and of the revenge he yet hoped to have. to this tristram made no reply, but smiled quietly. meanwhile the ten knights continued their fruitless search, some here, some there, while one of them, gaheris, nephew to king arthur, made his way to king mark's court, where he was well received. as they sat at table together the king asked his guest what tidings he brought from arthur's realm of logris. "sir," he answered, "king arthur still reigns nobly, and he lately presided at a grand tournament where fought many of the noblest knights of the kingdom. but best of them all was a valiant knight who bore a black shield, and who kept the lordship of the lists for three days." "then by my crown it must have been lancelot, or palamides the pagan." "not so. these knights were against him of the black shield." "was it sir tristram?" asked the king. "in sooth you have it now." the king held down his head at this, but la belle isolde, who was at the feast, heard it with great secret joy, and her love for tristram grew warmer in her soul. but king mark nourished treason in his heart, and sought within his brain some device to do dishonor to tristram and to arthur's knights. soon afterward uwaine came to his court and challenged any knight of cornwall to meet him in the lists. two of these, andred, and dinas the seneschal, accepted the challenge, but both were overthrown. then king mark in a fury cried out against his knights, and gaheris, as his guest, proffered to meet the champion. but when uwaine saw his shield, he knew him for his own cousin, and refused to joust with him, reproving him for breaking his oath of fellowship as a knight of the round table. this reproof cut gaheris deeply, and returning to king mark he took his leave of him and his court, saying,-- "sir king, this i must say, that you did a foul shame to yourself and your kingdom when you banished sir tristram. had he stayed here you would not have wanted a champion." all this added to the king's rage, and arming himself he waylaid uwaine at a secret place as he was passing unawares, and ran him through the body. but before he could kill him as he designed, kay the seneschal came that way and flew to the aid of the wounded knight, while king mark rode in dastardly haste away. kay sought to learn from uwaine who had hurt him, but this he was not able to tell. he then bore him to a neighboring abbey of the black cross, where he left him in the care of the monks. not far had he ridden from there when he met king mark, who accosted him courteously, and bade him, if he sought an adventure, to ride into the forest of morris, where he would find one to try his prowess. "i will prove what it is worth," said kay, and bade adieu to the king. a mile or two further on he met gaheris, who, learning his errand, warned him against doing anything at the suggestion of king mark, who meant but treachery and harm. "come with me, then," said kay. "adventures are not so abundant, and we two should be able to match the wiles of this dastard king." "i shall not fail you," said gaheris. into the forest they then rode till they came to the edge of a little lake, known as the perilous lake, and here they waited under the woodland shadows. it was now night, but the moon rode high in the skies, and flung its silvery rays wide over the forest glade. as they stood thus, there rode into the moonlit opening a knight all in black armor and on a great black horse, who tilted against sir kay. the seneschal's horse was smaller than that of the stranger, and was overthrown by the shock, falling upon its rider, whom it bruised severely. during this encounter gaheris had remained hidden under the woodland shadows. he now cried sternly,-- "knight, sit thou fast in thy saddle, for i will revenge my fellow;" and rode against the black knight with such fury that he was flung from his horse. then he turned to a companion of the black knight, who now appeared, and hurled him to the earth so violently that he came near to breaking his neck in the fall. leaping from his horse and helping kay to his feet, gaheris sternly bade his antagonists to tell their names or they should die. "beware what you do," said the second knight. "this is king mark of cornwall, and i am his cousin andred." "you are traitors both," cried gaheris, in a fury, "and have laid this ambush for us. it were a pity to let such craven rascals live." "spare my life," prayed the king, "and i will make full amends." "you a king; and dealing in treachery!" cried gaheris. "you have lived long enough." with this he struck fiercely at king mark with his sword, while the dastard king cowered under his shield. kay attacked andred at the same time. king mark now flung himself on his knees before gaheris and swore on the cross of his sword never while he lived to do aught against errant knights. and he also swore to be a friend unto sir tristram if he should come into cornwall. with this they let them go, though kay was eager to slay andred, for his deeds of treachery against his cousin tristram. the two knights now rode out of the kingdom of cornwall, and soon after met lancelot, who asked them what tidings they brought from king mark's country, and if they had learned aught of tristram. they answered that they had not, and told him of their adventure, at which lancelot smiled. "you will find it hard to take out of the flesh that which is bred in the bone," he said. then lancelot, kay, and gaheris rode together to seek tristram in the country of surluse, not dreaming that he lay in prison not many miles from the castle of maidens. leaving them to pursue their useless journey, we must return to the three prisoners. tristram still continued sick almost unto death, while palamides, while giving him daily care, continued to rail loudly against him and to boast of how he would yet deal with him. of this idle boasting dinadan in time had more than he could bear, and broke out angrily on the saracen. "i doubt if you would do him harm if he were here before you," he said; "for if a wolf and a sheep were together in prison the wolf would leave the sheep in peace. as for sir tristram, against whom you rail like a scold, here he lies before you. now do your worst upon him, sir saracen, while he is too sick to defend himself." surprise and shame overcame palamides at this announcement, and he dropped his head in confusion. "i have heard somewhat too much of your ill will against me;" said tristram, "but shall let it pass at present, for we are in more danger here from the lord of this place than from each other." as they spoke, a damsel brought them their noontide meal, and said as she gave it them,-- "be of good cheer, sir knights, for you are in no peril of your lives. so much i heard my lord, sir darras, say this morning." "so far your news is good," cried dinadan. "good for two of us at least, for this good knight promises to die without waiting for the executioner." the damsel looked upon tristram, and observing the thinness of his face and hands, went and told sir darras of what she had heard and seen. "that must not be," cried the knight. "god defend that i should suffer those who came to me for succor to die in my prison. bring them hither." then tristram was brought to the castle hall on his couch, with the other two knights beside him. "sir knight," said the castle lord, "i am sorry for your sickness, and would not have so noble a knight as you die in prison, though i owe to you the death of three of my sons." "as for that," said tristram, "it was in fair fight, and if they were my next of kin i could not have done otherwise. if i had slain them by treachery, i would have deserved death at your hands." "you acted knightly, and for that reason i could not put you to death," said sir darras. "you and your fellows shall go at full liberty, with your horses and armor, on this covenant, that you will be a good friend to my two sons who are still living, and that you tell me your name." "my name is tristram de lyonesse. i was born in cornwall, and am nephew to king mark. and i promise you by the faith of my body that while i live i shall be a friend to you and your sons, for what you have done to us was but by force of nature." "if you be the good knight sir tristram, i am sorry to have held you in durance, and thank you for your proffer of service. but you must stay with me still till you are well and strong." to this tristram agreed, and staid many more days with the old knight, growing well rapidly under the healing influence of hope and liberty. chapter v. the knight with the covered shield. when tristram's strength had all come back again he took his leave of sir darras, and rode away with palamides and dinadan. soon they came to a cross-way, and here tristram said,-- "good sirs, let us here take each his own road, and many fair adventures may come to us all." to this they agreed, and tristram rode on along the main highway, chance bringing him that night to a castle in which was queen morgan le fay. here he was given lodging and good cheer, but when he was ready to depart the next day the queen said to him,-- "sir knight, it is one thing to enter this castle and another to leave it. you will not depart so easily as you came. know that you are a prisoner." "god forfend," said tristram. "i am just released from prison, and have had enough of that regimen." "you shall stay here, nevertheless, till i learn who you are and whence you came, but i promise you no hard quarters." she set him, therefore, by her side at table, and made so much of him that a knight who loved her clutched his sword-hilt in jealous rage, half disposed to rush upon tristram and run him through unawares. "tell me your name," said the queen, at the end of the repast, "and you shall depart when you will." "thanks for your promise, fair lady. my name is tristram de lyonesse." "then i am sorry i made so hasty a promise. but i will hold to my word if you will engage to bear a shield which i shall give you to the castle of the hard rock, where king arthur has announced that a tournament is to be held. i have heard of your deeds of arms at the castle of maidens, and hope you will do as much for me at this new tournament." "let me see the shield that you wish me to bear," asked tristram. so the shield was brought. it was golden on its face, and on it was painted a king and queen, with a knight standing above them with a foot on the head of each. "this is a fair shield," said tristram; "but what signifies the device?" "it signifies king arthur and queen guenever," said morgan, "and a knight that holds them both in bondage." "and who is the knight?" "that you shall not know at present." so tristram took the shield, not dreaming that it was intended as a rebuke to sir lancelot, and promised to bear it at the tournament. but as he rode away he was followed by sir hemison, the knight who loved morgan le fay, and whose jealous anger had been roused. overtaking tristram before he had gone far, he rushed upon him at the speed of his horse, crying, in a voice of thunder,-- "sir knight, defend yourself!" this tristram did with good effect, for his assailant's spear broke upon his body, while he thrust him through and hurled him to the earth with a mortal wound. "fool, you have brought it on yourself," said tristram. "it is not my fault if you got what you designed for me." then he rode on, and left the wounded knight to the care of his squire, who removed his helmet, and asked if his life was in any danger. "there is little life in me," said the knight, "and that is ebbing fast. therefore help me to my saddle, and mount behind me and hold me on so that i shall not fall, and so bring me to queen morgan le fay. for deep draughts of death draw to my heart, and i would fain speak to her before i die." the squire did as commanded, and brought his bleeding master to the castle, but he died as he entered the hall, falling lifeless at the feet of the lady of his love. much she wept and great lamentation she made for his untimely fate, and buried him in a stately tomb, on which was written, "here lieth sir hemison, slain by the hands of tristram de lyonesse." on the next day tristram arrived at the castle of roche-dure, where he saw the lists prepared for the tournament, with gay pennons flying, while full five hundred tents were pitched in a fair meadow by the gates. over the seats of honor were silken canopies, that shaded noble lords and beautiful ladies clad in gay apparel. within the lists the kings of scotland and ireland held out strongly against king arthur's knights, and dread was the noise and turmoil within. tristram at once joined in the fray, and smote down many knights; king arthur marvelling the while at the device on his shield, while guenever grew heavy at heart, for well she guessed its meaning. ever king arthur's eye was on that shield, and much he wondered who the knight could be, for he had heard that tristram was in brittany, and he knew that lancelot was in quest of him, while he knew no other knight of equal prowess. as the combat went on, arthur's knights drove back their antagonists, who began to withdraw from the field. on seeing this the king determined that the knight with the strange shield should not escape, so he armed and called sir uwaine, entering the lists with him and riding up to confront the unknown knight. "sir stranger," said the king, "before we fight, i require you to tell me where you got that shield." "i had it from morgan le fay, sister to king arthur," answered tristram. "then, if you are worthy to bear it, you are able to tell me its meaning." "that i cannot," answered the knight. "it was given me by queen morgan, not through any asking of mine. she told me not what it signified, nor do i know, but i promised to bear it worthily." "in truth," said arthur, "no knight should bear arms he cannot understand. but at least you will tell me your name." "to what intent?" asked tristram. "simply that i wish to know." "that is small reason. i decline to tell you." "if not, we must do battle together." "what!" cried tristram; "you will fight me on so small a cause? my name is my own, to be given or withheld as i will. it is not honorable for a fresh knight to challenge me to battle, after all i have done this day. but if you think you have me at advantage, you may find that i am able to hold my own." then they put their spears in rest and furiously dashed together across the lists. but king arthur's spear shivered to splinters on tristram's shield, while he himself got such a blow from the cornish knight that horse and man fell headlong to the earth, the king with a dangerous wound in the side. when uwaine saw this he reined back his horse in haste, and crying loudly, "knight, defend thyself!" he rode furiously on tristram. but man fared no better than master. uwaine was borne out of his saddle to the earth, while tristram sat unmoved. then tristram wheeled his horse and said,-- "fair sirs, i had no need to joust with you, for i have done enough to-day; but you forced me to it." "we have had what we deserved," answered arthur. "yet i would fain know your name, and would further learn if that device on your shield is intended as an insult to king arthur." "that you must ask morgan le fay: she alone knows. but report says she does not love her royal brother over much. yet she told me not what it means, and i have borne it at her command. as for my name, it shall be known when i will." so tristram departed, and rode far over hill and dale, everywhere seeking for lancelot, with whom he in his heart wished to make fellowship. as he went on he came by a forest, on the edge of which stood a tall tower, and in front of it a fair level meadow. and here he saw one knight fighting against ten, and bearing himself so well that it seemed marvellous that a single man could hold his own so bravely against such odds. he had slain half their horses, and unhorsed the remaining knights, so that their chargers ran free in the field. the ten had then assailed him on foot, and he was bearing up bravely against them. "cease that battle!" cried tristram, loudly, as he came up. "ten to one are cowards' odds." and as he came nearer he saw by his shield that the one knight was sir palamides. "you would be wise not to meddle," said the leader of the ten, who was the villanous knight called breuse san pité. "go your way while your skin is whole. as for this knight, he is our prey." "say you so!" cried tristram. "there may be two words to that." as he spoke he sprang from his horse, lest they should kill it, and attacked them on foot with such fury that with every stroke a knight fell before him. this was more than they had bargained for, and breuse fled hastily to the tower, followed by all that were able, while tristram hotly pursued. but they quickly closed and barred the door, shutting him out. when he saw this he returned to palamides, whom he found sitting under a tree, sorely wounded. "thanks for your timely aid," said the saracen. "you have saved my life." "what is your name?" asked tristram. "it is sir palamides." "then have i saved my greatest enemy; and i here challenge you to battle." "what is your name?" asked palamides. "i am tristram of lyonesse." "my enemy indeed! yet i owe you thanks for your rescue, nor am i in condition for jousting. but i desire nothing better than to meet you in battle. if you are as eager for it, fix day and place, and i will be there." "well said," answered tristram. "let it be in the meadow by the river at camelot, there where merlin set the tombstone." "agreed. i shall not fail you." "how came you in battle with these ten dastards?" "the chance of journeying brought me into this forest, where i saw a dead knight with a lady weeping beside him. i asked her who slew her lord, and she told me it was the most villanous knight in the world, named breuse sans pité. i then took her on my horse and promised to see that her lord was properly interred. but as i passed by this tower its rascally owner suddenly rode from the gate and struck me unawares so hard that i fell from my horse. before i could recover he killed the lady. it was thus the battle began, at which you arrived in good time." "it is not safe for you to stay here," said tristram. "that fellow is out of our reach for the present, but you are not in condition to meet him again." so they mounted and rode into the forest, where they soon came to a sparkling fountain, whose clear water bubbled freshly from the ground. here they alighted and refreshed themselves. as they did so tristram's horse neighed loudly and was answered by another horse near by. they mounted and rode towards the sound, and quickly came in sight of a great war-horse tied to a tree. under an adjoining tree lay a knight asleep, in full armor, save that his helmet was placed under his head for a pillow. "a stout-looking fellow that," said tristram. "what shall we do?" "awake him," said palamides. tristram did so, stirring him with the butt of his spear. but they had better have let him sleep, for he sprang angrily to his feet, put on his helmet in haste, and mounting his war-horse seized his spear. without a word he spurred upon tristram and struck him such a blow as to fling him from his saddle to the earth. then he galloped back and came hurling upon palamides, whom he served in the same rude fashion. leaving them laying there, he turned his horse and rode leisurely away. when the two overthrown knights gained their feet again, they looked at one another with faces of shame and anger. "well, what now?" asked tristram. "that is the worst waking i ever did in my life. by my troth, i did not fancy there was a knight in arthur's realm that could have served you and me such a trick. whatever you do, i am going after this woodland champion to have a fairer trial." "so would i were i well," said palamides. "but i am so hurt that i must seek rest with a friend of mine near by." "i can trust you to meet me at the place appointed?" "i have cause to have more doubt of you than you of me; for if you follow this strong knight you may not escape with whole bones from the adventure. i wish you success." "and i wish you health." with these words they parted, each riding his own way. but news came to tristram as he rode on that would have turned many a knight from that adventure. for the first day he found a dead knight and a lady weeping over him, who said that her lord had jousted with a strong champion, who had run him through. on the third day he met the good knights gawaine and bleoberis, both wounded, who said they had been so served by a knight with a covered shield. "he treated me and palamides the same way," said tristram, "and i am on his track to repay him." "by my faith, you had best turn back," said gawaine. "by my head, i will not," said tristram, and he rode on in pursuit. the next day he met kay the seneschal and dinadan in a meadow. "what tidings have you?" he asked. "not good," they answered. "tell me what they are. i ride in search of a knight." "what cognizance does he bear?" "he carries a shield covered by a cloth." "then you are not far from him," said kay. "we lodged last night in a widow's house, and that knight sought the same lodging. and when he knew we were of arthur's court he spoke villanous things of the king, and worse of queen guenever. the next day we waged battle with him for this insult. but at the first encounter he flung me from my horse with a sore hurt. and when dinadan here saw me down he showed more prudence than valor, for he fled to save his skin." after some further words tristram rode on; but days passed and he found not the knight with the covered shield, though he heard more tales of his irresistible prowess. then, finding that his armor was bruised and broken with long use, he sent gouvernail, his squire, to a city near by to bring him fresh apparel, and rested at a priory till he came. on gouvernail's return he donned his new armor, and turned his horse's head towards camelot, seeking the point where he had engaged to do battle with palamides. this was at the tomb of lanceor, son of the king of ireland, who had been slain by balin, and whose lady columbe had slain herself, as we have already told. his tomb had been set up near the river by merlin, and it had become a place of pilgrimage for true lovers and faithful wedded pairs. tristram did not get there without more battling, for the roads around camelot then swarmed with errant knights, eager to show their strength. yet he was none the worse for these encounters when he rode up to the tomb where he hoped to find palamides in waiting. but instead of the saracen he saw a knight approaching in white armor, who bore a shield covered with a dark cloth. "sir knight, you are welcome; none more so," cried tristram. "i have sought you far and near, and have an ugly fall to repay you for; and also owe you a lesson for your revilement of king arthur and his fair queen." "shorter words and longer deeds would serve better," said the stranger knight. "make ready, my good fellow, if one fall is not enough to satisfy you." then they rode apart to a fair distance, and putting spurs to their horses hurtled together with headlong speed. so fiercely met they, indeed, that horses and knights together went toppling to the earth, both those brave warriors kissing the dust. with all haste they regained their feet, put their shields before them, and struck at each other with bright swords like men of might. the battle that followed was such a one as that ground had never seen, for those two knights seemed rather giants than men. for four hours they kept up the combat, neither speaking a word, till at the end their armor was hewn off in many places, and blood had flowed from their wounds till the grass was turned from green to crimson. the squires looked on in wonder, and boasted of the might of their lords, though their hearts grew heavy when they saw the bright swords so reddened with blood. at last the unknown knight rested on his weapon, and said,-- "sir stranger, you are the best fighter i ever saw in armor. i would know you better, and beg to learn your name." "i care not to tell it," said tristram. "why not? i never make my name a secret." "then pray tell it, for i would give much to know the name of the stoutest knight i ever drew sword upon." "fair sir, my name is lancelot du lake." "alas, can this be so? have i fought thus against the man i love best in the world?" "then who are you?" "my name is tristram de lyonesse." "oh, what strange chance is this! take my sword, sir tristram, for you have earned it well." and he knelt and yielded tristram his sword. tristram in turn knelt and yielded up his. and thus with exchange of words they gave each other the degree of brotherhood. then they sat together on the stone, and took off their helms to cool their heated faces, and kissed each other with brotherly ardor. when they had rested and conversed long in the most loving amity, and their squires had salved and bandaged their wounds, they mounted and rode towards camelot. near the gates of the city they met gawaine and gaheris, who were setting out in search of tristram, having promised king arthur never to return till they could bring the valiant knight of cornwall with them. "return, then, for your quest is done," said lancelot. "i have found sir tristram, and here he is in person." "then, by my life, you are heartily welcome!" cried gawaine. "you have eased me from great labor, and there are ten others seeking you. why came you hither of yourself?" "i had a challenge with sir palamides to do battle with him at lanceor's tomb this day, and i know not why he has failed me. by lucky chance my lord lancelot and i met there, and well have we tried each other's strength." thus conversing they came to the court, where king arthur, when he learned the name of lancelot's companion, was filled with joy. taking tristram warmly by both hands, he welcomed him to camelot. "there is no other man in the world whom i would so gladly have here," he said. "much have you been sought for since you left the tournament, but in vain. i would fain learn your adventures." these tristram told, and the king was amazed when he learned that it was he who had overthrown him at the castle of hard rock. then he told of his pursuit of the knight with the covered shield, and of the deeds he had done. "by our faith," cried gawaine, bleoberis, and kay, "we can testify to that, for he left us all on the ground." "aha! who could this strong fellow have been?" asked arthur. "did any of you know him?" they all declared that he was a stranger to them, though tristram kept silent. "if you know not, i do; it was lancelot or none," cried the king. "in faith, i fancy so," said tristram, "for i found him to-day, and we had a four hours' fight together, before each found out the other." "so," they all cried, "it is he who has beguiled us with his covered shield!" "you say truly," answered lancelot, with a smile. "and i called myself an enemy of king arthur so that none should suspect me. i was in search of sport." "that is an old trick of yours," said arthur. "one must go in disguise in these days, or go untried," laughed lancelot. then queen guenever, and many ladies of the court, learning that tristram was there, came and bade him welcome, ladies and knights together crying, "welcome, sir tristram! welcome to camelot!" "welcome, indeed," said arthur, "to one of the best and gentlest knights of the world, and the man of highest esteem. for of all modes of hunting, you bear the prize, and of all bugle hunting calls you are the origin, and all the terms of hunting and hawking began with you; on all instruments of music no man surpasses you: therefore, you are trebly welcome to this court. and here i pray you to grant me a boon." "i am at your command," said tristram. "it is that you abide in my court, and be one of my knights." "that i am loath to do, for i have work laid out elsewhere." "yet you have passed your word. you shall not say me nay." "then be it as you will," said tristram. [illustration: admission of sir tristram to the king of the round table.] these words spoken, arthur took tristram by the hand and led him to the round table, going with him round its circle, and looking into every seat that lacked a knight. when at length he came to that in which sir marhaus had formerly sat, he saw there engraved in letters of gold, "this is the seat of the noble knight sir tristram." then arthur made tristram a knight of the round table with noble ceremony and great pomp, and with feasts that lasted many days. glad were all there to have a knight of such prowess and high esteem in their company, and many friends tristram made among his new brothers-in-arms. but chief of all these was lancelot, and for days together lancelot and tristram kept genial company, while their brotherhood gave joy to all, and most of all to king arthur, who felt that the glory of his reign was now at its height, and that two such knights as these would spread the renown of the round table throughout the world. end of vol. i. * * * * * transcriber's note: fifteen spelling errors have been corrected as follows: pg. "tintagel" to "tintagil" ( ) (the duke of tintagil) pg. "churchyard" to "church-yard" ( ) (near a church-yard) pg. "way-side" to "wayside" ( ) (they reached a wayside) pg. "eat" to "ate" (of which kay ate heartily) pg. "vassels" to "vassals" ( ) (dead or my vassals) pg. "swept" to "wept" (wept for pity.) pg. "therefor" to "therefore" ( ) (and sureties therefore.") pg. "badgemagus" to "bagdemagus" ( ) (king bagdemagus) pg. "togther" to "together" (together in furious) pg. "threatingly" to "threateningly" (shook the sword threateningly) pg. "say" to "saw" (when he saw him coming) pg. "beleagured" to "beleaguered" (a hundred beleaguered him) pg. "is" to "if" (seemed as if she returned his love) pg. "taulurd" to "taulard" ( ) (brother to that taulard) pg. "wellnigh" to "well-nigh" ( ) (he well-nigh lost his wits) the following list of similar words appear in the original text and have been retained. "percival" (p ) and "percivale" (elsewhere) "lady colombe" (p ) and "lady columbe" (p ) "gerfalcon" (p ) and "jerfalcon" (p ) "sagramore" and "sagramour" "villain" ( ) and "villanous" ( ) and villany ( ) none note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) stories of king arthur and his knights retold from malory's "morte darthur" by u. waldo cutler [frontispiece: king arthur] _the goodliest fellowship of famous knights_ _whereof this world holds record._ tennyson george g. harrap & co. ltd. london ---- bombay ---- sydney first published january by george g. harrap & company - parker street, kingsway, london, w.c., reprinted: december ; july ; may ; january ; september ; july ; july ; october ; october ; march ; february ; august ; may ; october ; june ; october ; october ; june ; january ; april ; september ; october ; january ; january ; april contents introduction chapter i. of the birth of king arthur ii. uther's son, rightwise king of all england iii. how arthur gat his sword excalibur iv. balin and balan v. the noble order of the round table vi. the ladies' knight vii. wise merlin's foolishness viii. a stag-hunt and what came of it ix. the treachery of morgan le fay x. sir launcelot of the lake xi. a night-time adventure of sir launcelot xii. how sir launcelot came into the chapel perilous xiii. the knight, the lady, and the falcon xiv. how a kitchen-page came to honour xv. how sir gareth fought for the lady of castle perilous xvi. how sir gareth returned to the court of king arthur xvii. how young tristram saved the life of the queen of lyonesse xviii. sir tristram's first battle xix. sir tristram and the fair isoud xx. how sir tristram demanded the fair isoud for king mark, and how sir tristram and isoud drank the love potion xxi. how sir tristram departed from tintagil, and was long in the forest xxii. how king mark was sorry for the good renown of sir tristram xxiii. how sir percivale of galis sought and found sir launcelot xxiv. of the coming of sir galahad xxv. how the quest of the holy grail was begun xxvi. how galahad gat him a shield xxvii. sir galahad at the castle of maidens xxviii. sir launcelot's repentance xxix. sir percivale's temptation xxx. the victory of sir bors over himself xxxi. how sir launcelot found the holy grail xxxii. the end of the quest xxxiii. sir launcelot and the fair maid of astolat xxxiv. of the great tournament on candlemas day xxxv. queen guenever's may-day ride and what came of it xxxvi. of the plot against sir launcelot xxxvii. how sir launcelot departed from the king and from joyous gard xxxviii. how king arthur and sir gawaine invaded sir launcelot's realm xxxix. of sir mordred's treason xl. of arthur's last great battle in the west xli. of the passing of king arthur xlii. of the end of this book illustrations king arthur . . . . . . . . . . . . (w. b. margetson) _frontispiece_ the dedication . . . . . . . . . . . (j. pettie, r.a.) merlin and nimue . . . . . . . . . . (burne-jones) sir tristram and the fair isoud . . (d. g. rosetti) sir galahad . . . . . . . . . . . . (g. f. watts) sir launcelot at the cross . . . . . (stella langdale) elaine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (j. m. strudwick) the passing of arthur . . . . . . . (stella langdale) "we have from the kind creator a variety of mental powers, to which we must not neglect giving their proper culture in our earliest years, and which cannot be cultivated either by logic or metaphysics, latin or greek. we have an imagination, before which, since it should not seize upon the very first conceptions that chance to present themselves, we ought to place the fittest and most beautiful images, and thus accustom and practise the mind to recognise and love the beautiful everywhere." quoted from wieland by goethe in his autobiography introduction among the best liked stories of five or six hundred years ago were those which told of chivalrous deeds--of joust and tourney and knightly adventure. to be sure, these stories were not set forth in printed books, for there were no printed books as early as the times of the first three king edwards, and few people could have read them if there had been any. but children and grown people alike were eager to hear these old-time tales read or recited by the minstrels, and the interest in them has continued in some measure through all the changing years and tastes. we now, in the times of the seventh king edward, still find them far more worth our while than many modern stories. for us they have a special interest, because of home setting and christian basis, and they may well share in our attention with the legends of greece and rome. in these early romances of chivalry, arthur and his knights of the round table are by far the most popular heroes, and the finding of the holy grail is the highest achievement of knightly valour. the material for the arthur stories came from many countries and from many different periods of history. much of it is wholly fanciful, but the writers connected all the incidents directly or indirectly with the old briton king of the fifth century, who was the model of knighthood, "without fear and without reproach." perhaps there was a real king arthur, who led the britons against the saxon invaders of their land, who was killed by his traitor nephew, and who was buried at glastonbury,--the valley of avilion of the legends; perhaps there was a slight historical nucleus around which all the romantic material was crystallising through the centuries, but the arthur of romance came largely from the imagination of the early writers. and yet, though our "own ideal knight" may never have trod the soil of britain or roman or saxon england, his chivalrous character and the knightly deeds of his followers are real to us, if we read them rightly, for "the poet's ideal was the truest truth." though the sacred vessel--the holy grail--of the christ's last supper with his disciples has not been borne about the earth in material form, to be seen only by those of stainless life and character, it is eternally true that the "pure in heart" are "blessed," "for they shall see god." this is what the quest of the holy grail means, and there is still many a true sir galahad, who can say, as he did, "my strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure," and who attains the highest glory of knighthood, as before his clear vision "down dark tides the glory glides, and starlike mingles with the stars." we call these beautiful stories of long ago stories of chivalry, for, in the middle ages, chivalry influenced all that people did and said and thought. it began in the times of charlemagne, a hundred years before our own king alfred, and only very gradually it made its way through all the social order. charlemagne was really a very great man, and because he was so, he left western europe a far better place to live in than he found it. into the social life of his time he brought something like order and justice and peace, and so he greatly helped the christian church to do its work of teaching the rough and warlike franks and saxons and normans the gentle ways of thrift and helpfulness. charlemagne's "heerban," or call to arms, required that certain of his men should attend him on horseback, and this mounted service was the beginning of what is known as chivalry. the lesser nobles of each feudal chief served their overlords on horseback, _à cheval_, in times of war; they were called _knights_, which originally meant servants,--german _knechte_; and the system of knighthood, its rules, customs, and duties, was called chivalry,--french _chevalerie_. chivalry belongs chiefly to the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries,--to about the time between king richard of the lion heart and prince hal. there is no trace of ideas peculiar to it in the writings of the old anglo-saxons or in the _nibelungen lied_ of germany. geoffrey of monmouth, who died, it is said, in the year , is about the earliest writer who mentions customs that belong especially to chivalry. the crusades, of geoffrey's century and of the one following, gave much opportunity for its growth and practice; but in the fifteenth century chivalrous fashions and fancies began to seem absurd, and later, perhaps partly through the ridicule of that old-time book "don quixote," chivalry was finally laughed quite out of existence. the order of knighthood was given only after years of training and discipline. from his seventh year to his fourteenth the nobleman's son was a _page_ at the court or in the castle of his patron, learning the principles of religion, obedience, and gallantry. at fourteen, as a _squire_, the boy began a severer course of training, in order to become skilled in horsemanship, and to gain strength and courage, as well as the refinements and graces necessary in the company of knights and ladies. finally, at twenty-one, his training was complete, and with elaborate and solemn formality the _squire_ was made a _knight_. then, after a strict oath to be loyal, courteous, and brave, the armour was buckled on, and the proud young chevalier rode out into the world, strong for good or ill in limb, strong in impenetrable armour, strong in a social custom that lifted him above the common people about him. when rightly exercised chivalry was a great blessing to the people of its time. it offered high ideals of pure-minded, warm-hearted, courtly, courageous christian manhood. it did much to arouse thought, to quicken sympathy, to purify morals, to make men truly brave and loyal. of course this ideal of character was not in the days of chivalry--ideals are not often now--very fully realised. the mediaeval, like the modern, abused his power of muscle, of sword, of rank. his liberty as a knight-errant sometimes descended into the licence of a highwayman; his pride in the opportunity for helpfulness grew to be the braggadocio of a bully; his freedom of personal choice became the insolence of lawlessness; his pretended purity and justice proved wanton selfishness. because of these abuses that crept into the system, it is well for the world that gunpowder at last came, to break through the knight's coat of mail, to teach the nobility respect for common men, roughly to end this age of so much superficial politeness and savage bravery, and to bring in a more democratic social order. the books of any age are for us a record of how the people of that age thought, how they lived, and what kind of men and women they tried to be. the old romances of chivalry give us clear pictures of the knights and ladies of the middle ages, and we shall lose the delight and the profit they may give us, if we think only of the defects of chivalry, and close our eyes to the really worthy motives of those far-off times, and so miss seeing what chivalry was able to do, while it lasted, to make men and women better and happier. before reading the arthur stories themselves it is well to know something about the way they have been built up, as one writer after another has taken the material left by predecessors, and has worked into it fresh conceptions of things brave and true. first there was the old latin chronicle of nennius, the earliest trace of arthurian fact or fancy, with a single paragraph given to arthur and his twelve great battles. this chronicle itself may have been based on yet earlier welsh stories, which had been passed on, perhaps for centuries, by oral tradition from father to son, and gradually woven together into some legendary history of oldest england in the local language of brittany, across the english channel. this original book is referred to by later writers, but was long ago lost. geoffrey of monmouth says it was the source of his material for his "historia britonum." geoffrey's history, in latin prose, written some time about the middle of the twelfth century, remains as the earliest definite record of the legends connected with king arthur. only a little later geoffrey's latin history was translated by wace and others into norman french, and here the arthur material first appeared in verse form. then, still later in the twelfth century, walter map worked the same stories over into french prose, and at the same time put so much of his own knowledge and imagination with them, that we may almost say that he was the maker of the arthur romances. soon after the year twelve hundred,--a half century after geoffrey of monmouth first set our english ancestors to thinking about the legendary old hero of the times of the anglo-saxon conquest--layamon, parish priest of ernly, in worcestershire, gave to the english language (as distinct from the earlier anglo-saxon) his poem "brut." this was a translation and enlargement of wace's old french poem having arthur as hero. so these stories of king arthur, of welsh or celtic origin, came through the latin, and then through french verse and prose, into our own speech, and so began their career down the centuries of our more modern history. after giving ideas to generation after generation of romance writers of many countries and in many languages, these same romantic stories were, in the fifteenth century, skilfully brought together into one connected prose narrative,--one of the choicest of the older english classics, "le morte darthur," by sir thomas malory. those were troublous times when sir thomas, perhaps after having himself fought and suffered in the wars of the roses then in progress, found some quiet spot in warwickshire in which to put together in lasting form the fine old stories that already in his day were classics. malory finished his book in , and its permanence for all time was assured fifteen years later, when caxton, after the "symple connynge" that god had sent him (to use the quaint forms of expression then common), "under the favour and correctyon of al noble lordes and gentylmen emprysed to emprynte a book of the noble hystoryes of the sayd kynge arthur and of certeyn of his knyghtes after a copye unto him delyuerd whyche copye syr thomas malorye dyd take oute of certeyn bookes of frensche and reduced it in to englysche." this hard-headed business man,--this fifteenth-century publisher,--was rather doubtful about the briton king of a thousand years before his day, and to those urging upon him the venture of printing malory's book he answered: "dyuers men holde oppynyon that there was no suche arthur and that alle suche bookes as been maad of hym ben fayned and fables by cause that somme cronycles make of him no mencyon ne remember him noo thynge ne of his knyghtes." but the arguments of those in favour of the undertaking prevailed, greatly to the advantage of the four centuries that have followed, during which "le morte darthur" has been a constant source of poetic inspiration. generation after generation of readers and of writers have drawn life from its chapters, and the new delight in tennyson's "idylls of the king," almost of our own time, shows that the fountain has not yet been drained dry. malory's "morte darthur" is a long book, and its really great interest is partly hidden from us by forms of expression that belong only to the time when it was first written. besides this, the ideas of what was right and proper in conduct and speech--moral standards--were far lower in malory's day than they are now. the purpose of this new little volume is to bring the old tales freshly to the attention of young people of the present time. it keeps, as far as may be, the exact language and the spirit of the original, chooses such stories as best represent the whole, and modifies these only in order to remove what could possibly hide the thought, or be so crude in taste and morals as to seem unworthy of the really high-minded author of five hundred years ago. it aims also so to condense the book that, in this age of hurry, readers may not be repelled from the tales merely because of their length. chivalry of just king arthur's kind was given up long ago, but that for which it stood--human fellowship in noble purpose--is far older than the institution of knighthood or than even the traditions of the energetic, brave, true, helpful king arthur himself. it links us with all the past and all the future. the knights of the twentieth century do not set out in chain-armour to right the wrongs of the oppressed by force of arms, but the best influences of chivalry have been preserved for the quickening of a broader and a nobler world than was ever in the dreams of knight-errant of old. modern heroes of the genuine type owe more than they know to those of arthur's court who swore: "to reverence the king, as if he were their conscience, and their conscience as their king, to break the heathen and uphold the christ, to ride abroad redressing human wrongs, to speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, to honour his own word as if his god's, to lead sweet lives in purest chastity, to love one maiden only, cleave to her, and worship her by years of noble deeds, until they won her." "antiquity produced heroes, but not gentlemen," someone has said. in the days of charlemagne and alfred began the training which, continued in the days of chaucer and sir thomas malory and many, many more, has given to this our age that highest type of manhood, the christian gentleman. u. w. c. stories of king arthur chapter i of the birth of king arthur it befell in the days of uther pendragon, when he was king of all england, that there was a mighty duke in cornwall that held war against him a long time. and the duke was named the duke of tintagil. ten miles away from his castle, called terrabil, there was, in the castle tintagil, igraine of cornwall, that king uther liked and loved well, for she was a good and fair lady, and passing wise. he made her great cheer out of measure, and desired to have her love in return; but she would not assent unto him, and for pure anger and for great love of fair igraine king uther fell sick. at that time there lived a powerful magician named merlin, who could appear in any place he chose, could change his looks as he liked, and at will could do wonderful things to help or to harm knights and ladies. so to king uther came sir ulfius, a noble knight, and said, "i will seek merlin, and he shall do you remedy so that your heart shall be pleased." so ulfius departed, and by adventure met merlin in beggar's array, and made him promise to be not long behind in riding to uther's pavilion. soon merlin stood by the king's side and said: "i know all your heart, and promise ye shall have your desire, if ye will be sworn to fulfil my wish." this the king solemnly agreed to do, and then merlin said: "after ye shall win igraine as wife, a child shall be born to you that is to be given unto me to be brought up as i will; this shall be for your honour and the child's avail." that night king uther met in battle the duke of tintagil, who had protected igraine in her castle, and overcame him. then igraine welcomed uther as her true lover, for merlin had given him the appearance of one dear to her, and, the barons being all well accorded, the two were married on a morning with great mirth and joy. when the time came that igraine should bear a son, merlin came again unto the king to claim his promise, and he said: "i know a lord of yours in this land, a passing true man and a faithful, named sir ector, and he shall have the nourishing of your child. let the young prince be delivered to me at yonder privy postern, when i come for him." so the babe, arthur pendragon, bound in a cloth of gold, was taken by two knights and two ladies to the postern gate of the castle and delivered unto merlin, disguised as a poor man, and by him was carried forth to sir ector, whose wife nourished him as her own child. then within two years king uther fell sick of a great malady. wherefore all the barons made great sorrow, and asked merlin what counsel were best, for few of them had ever seen or heard of the young child, arthur. on the morn all by merlin's counsel came before the king, and merlin said: "sir, shall your son arthur be king, after your days, of this realm with all the appurtenance?" then uther pendragon turned him and said in hearing of them all, "i give him god's blessing and mine, and bid him righteously and honourably to claim the crown upon forfeiture of my blessing." therewith he died, and he was buried as befitted a king, and the queen, fair igraine, and all the barons made great sorrow. chapter ii uther's son, rightwise king of all england then stood the kingdom in great jeopardy a long while, for every lord strengthened himself, and many a one thought to be king rather than be ruled by a child that they had never known. all this confusion merlin had foreseen, and he had taken the young prince away, to keep him safe from the jealous barons until he should be old enough to rule wisely for himself. even sir ector did not know that the boy growing up with his own son kay was the king's child, and heir to the realm. when now young arthur had grown into a tall youth, well trained in all the exercises of honourable knighthood, merlin went to the archbishop of canterbury and counselled him to send to all the lords of the realm and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should come to london at christmas time, since god of his great mercy would at that time show by miracle who should be rightwise king of the realm. the archbishop did as merlin advised, and all the great knights made them clean of their life so that their prayer might be the more acceptable unto god, and when christmas came they went unto london, each one thinking that perchance his wish to be made king should be granted. so in the greatest church of the city (whether it was st paul's or not the old chronicle maketh no mention) all were at their prayers long ere day. when matins were done and they came out of the church, there was seen in the churchyard a great square stone, in the midst of which was an anvil of steel, a foot high, with a fair sword naked at the point sticking through it. written in gold about the sword were letters that read thus: "whoso pulleth out this sword from this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of all england." [illustration: the dedication.] all the people marvelled at the stone and the inscription, and some assayed--such as would be king--to draw out the sword. but none might stir it, and the archbishop said: "he is not here that shall achieve this sword, but doubt not god will make him known. this now is my counsel, that we cause to be chosen ten knights, men of good fame, to guard this sword until the rightful possessor shall appear." so it was ordained, and it was proclaimed that every man should assay that would, to win the sword. and upon new year's day the barons held jousts and a tournament for all knights that would engage. all this was ordained for to keep the lords and the commons together, for the archbishop trusted that god would soon make him known that should win the sword. so upon new year's day the barons rode to the field, some to joust and some to tourney; and it happened that sir ector rode also, and with him sir kay, his son, that had just been made knight, and young arthur that was his foster-brother. as they rode to the joust-ward sir kay suddenly missed his sword, which he had left at his father's lodging, and he begged young arthur to ride and fetch it. "i will gladly," said arthur, and he hastened off home. but the lady and all the household were out to see the jousting, and he found nobody at home to deliver him the sword. then was arthur troubled, and said to himself, "i will ride to the churchyard and take the sword that sticketh in the stone, for my brother sir kay shall not be without a sword this day." so when he came to the great stone arthur alighted, and tied his horse to the stile. he then went straight to the tent of the guards, but found no knights there, for they were at the jousting. so he took the sword by the handles, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the anvil; then he mounted his horse and rode his way till he came to his brother sir kay, and delivered him the sword. as soon as sir kay saw the sword, he knew well it was that one of the stone, and so he rode away to his father, sir ector, and said: "sir, lo here is the sword of the stone; wherefore i must be king of this land." when sir ector beheld the sword, all three returned to the church and entered it. anon sir ector made sir kay to swear upon a book how he came by that sword. and sir kay answered that arthur had brought it to him. "and how gat ye the sword?" said he to arthur; and when sir ector heard how it had been pulled from the anvil, he said to arthur: "now i understand ye must be king of this land." "wherefore i?" said arthur, "and for what cause?" "sir," said ector, "for god will have it so; for there should never man have drawn out this sword but he that shall be rightwise king. now let me see whether ye can put the sword there as it was, and pull it out again." "that is no mastery," said arthur, and so he put it into the stone. therewith sir ector assayed to pull out the sword, and failed. then sir kay pulled at it with all his might, but it would not yield. "now shall ye assay again," said sir ector to arthur. "i will well," said arthur, and pulled it out easily a second time. now was sir ector sure that arthur was of higher blood than had been thought, and that the rightful king had been made known. and he told his foster-son all, how he was not his father, but had taken him to nourish at merlin's request. arthur was grieved indeed when he understood that sir ector was not his father, and that the good lady that had fostered and kept him as her own son was not his true mother, and he said to sir ector, "if ever it be god's will that i be king, as ye say, ye shall desire of me what i may do, and i shall not fail you." therewithal they went unto the archbishop and told him how the sword was achieved, and by whom. and all the barons came thither, that whoever would might assay to take the sword. but there before them all none might take it out but arthur. now many lords became wroth, and said it was great shame unto them all and to the realm to be governed by a boy. they contended so at that time that the matter was put off till candlemas, when all the barons should meet there again. a pavilion was set over the stone and the sword, and the ten knights were ordained to watch there day and night, five being always on guard. so at candlemas many more great lords came thither to win the sword, but none might prevail except arthur. the barons were sore aggrieved at this, and again put it off in delay till the high feast of easter. and as arthur sped afore, so did he at easter; yet there were some of the great lords that had indignation that arthur should be their king, and put it off in a delay till the feast of pentecost. at the feast of pentecost all manner of men assayed to pull at the sword, yet none might prevail but arthur; and he pulled it out afore all the lords and commons that were there. wherefore all the commons cried at once, "we will have arthur unto our king; we will put him no more in delay, for we all see that it is god's will that he shall be our king, and who that holdeth against it we will slay as traitor." and they kneeled down all at once, both rich and poor, and begged mercy of arthur, because they had delayed so long. and arthur forgave them, and took the sword between both his hands, and offered it upon the altar where the archbishop was, and so was he made knight of the best man that was there. and anon was the coronation made, and there arthur swore unto his lords and the commons to be a true king, to stand for justice all the days of his life. then he made all the lords that were subject to the crown to come in, and to do service as they ought to do. and many great wrongs that had been done since the death of king uther were righted, and to lords, knights, ladies, and gentlemen were given back the lands of which they had been unjustly deprived. when the king had thus established justice in all the countries about london, he made sir kay seneschal of england, and other officers he appointed also that should aid in keeping back his enemies and holding his realm in peace and orderliness. chapter iii how arthur gat his sword excalibur on a day there came into the court of the young king a squire on horseback, bringing a knight, his master, mortally wounded, and seeking justice against the murderer. then came up griflet, that was but a squire, a young man of the age of king arthur, and asked to be given the order of knighthood, that he might ride out against the knight that had done the evil deed, who dwelt by a well in the forest. arthur was loath to bring this passing brave youth into peril by giving him so high an adventure; but at the desire of griflet the king at the last gave him the order of knighthood, and he rode away till he came to the fountain. there he saw the pavilion of the knight, and his horse all saddled and bridled, and his shield of divers colours, and a great spear hanging on a tree hard by. griflet struck the shield with the butt of his spear, so that it fell clattering down to the ground. with that the knight came out of the pavilion and said, "fair knight, why smote ye down my shield?" "for i will joust with you," said griflet. "it is better ye do not," said the knight, "for ye are but a young and late-made knight, and your might is nothing to mine." but griflet would have it so, and the two ran together with such force that griflet's spear was all shattered, and horse and rider fell down sore wounded. when the knight saw the youth lying on the ground, he was heavy of heart; and he unlaced his helm to give him air, and finally setting him on his horse, sent him with cheering words back to the court. here great dole was made for him because of his wounds, and arthur was passing wroth for the hurt of sir griflet. the next morning ere day the king ordered his best horse, and in full armour rode out alone to encounter the knight of the fountain. it was a strong battle they had. arthur's spear was all shattered, and his horse fell to the ground. then they fought with swords with many great strokes and much blood-shed on both sides. finally by a mighty blow from his enemy,--a passing big man of might,--arthur's sword was smitten in two pieces, and he was called upon to yield himself as overcome and recreant, or die. "as for death," said king arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh; but to yield me unto thee as recreant, i had rather die than to be so shamed." therewithal came merlin, and made known who arthur was. then by enchantment he caused the knight to fall into a deep sleep, and bore arthur away to a hermit to be cured of his wounds. when, after three days of rest and healing, he was riding with merlin through the forest, king arthur said, "i have no sword." "no matter," said merlin; "there is one near by that i can perhaps get for you." so they rode on till it chanced that they passed a fair and broad lake. in the midst of the water arthur became aware of an arm clothed in white samite[ ] holding aloft a beautiful sword. "lo! there is the sword of which i spake," said merlin, "and yonder is the lady of the lake ready to help you to it, if ye speak fair to her." anon came the damsel unto arthur and saluted him, and he her again. "damsel," said arthur, "what sword is it that the arm holdeth above the water yonder? i would it were mine, for i have no sword." "sir arthur king," said the damsel, "that sword is mine, and if ye will give me a gift when i ask it you, go ye into yonder barge and row yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you." so sir arthur and merlin alighted and tied their horses to a tree, and then they went into the magic boat. soon they were beside the sword that the hand held up. arthur took it by the handle, the arm and the hand went down beneath the water, and the two travellers rowed back to the land and went forth. as they rode along arthur looked on the sword, which had the name excalibur, that is as much as to say cut-steel, and he liked it passing well, for the handle was all set with precious stones. "which like you better," said merlin, "the sword or the scabbard?" "the sword," replied arthur. "ye are unwise," said merlin; "the scabbard is worth ten of the sword, for while ye have the scabbard upon you, ye shall lose no blood; therefore keep well the scabbard always with you." in this way arthur came by excalibur, and many an adventure he was to have with it, and was to suffer great danger when by evil interference it was, as we shall see, for a time stolen from him. with it in hand the hardest fight went well in the end, for the scabbard kept him from weakness, and a mysterious power lay in the strong, true blade that none could withstand, until the time came for king arthur to give back the sword to the lady of the lake and to die of the wounds of a traitor. so king arthur and merlin rode on, and when they came back safe to carlion and the court the knights were passing glad. some wondered that the king would risk himself abroad so alone, but all men of valour said it was merry to be under such a chief that would put his person in adventure as other poor knights did. [ ] samite: silk stuff chapter iv balin and balan on a day there came a messenger to king arthur saying that king ryons of north wales, a strong man in body, and passing proud, had discomfited and overcome eleven kings, and each of these to do him homage had cut his beard clean off as trimming for king ryons' royal mantle. one place of the mantle still lacked trimming; wherefore he sent for arthur's beard, and if he did not receive it he would enter england to burn and slay, and never would he leave till he had arthur, head and all. "well," said arthur to the messenger, "thou hast said thy message, the most insolent ever sent unto a king. thou seest my beard is full young yet to make a trimming of it. tell thou thy king i owe him no homage, but ere long he shall do me homage on both his knees." so the messenger departed. among those who, at arthur's call, gathered at camelot to withstand king ryons' invasion of the land was a knight that had been arthur's prisoner half a year and more for some wrong done to one of the court. the name of this knight was balin, a strong, courageous man, but poor and so poorly clothed that he was thought to be of no honour. but worthiness and good deeds are not all only in arrayment. manhood and honour is hid within man's person, and many an honourable knight is not known unto all people through his clothing. this balin felt deeply the insult of king ryons, and anon armed himself to ride forth to meet with him and mayhap to destroy him, in the hope that then king arthur would again be his good and gracious lord. the meanwhile that this knight was making ready to depart on this adventure, there came to arthur's court the lady of the lake, and she now asked of him the gift that he promised her when she gave him his sword excalibur. "ask what ye will," said the king, "and ye shall have it, if it lie in my power to give." thereupon she demanded balin's head, and would take none other thing. "truly," said king arthur, "i may not grant this with my honour," and balin was allowed to make ready for the adventure with king ryons. but ere he had left the court he saw the lady of the lake. he went straight to her, and with his sword lightly smote off her head before king arthur, for he knew her as the untruest lady living, one that by enchantment and sorcery had been the destroyer of many good knights. "alas! for shame," said arthur. "why have ye done so? ye have shamed me and all my court, for this was a lady that i was beholden to, and hither she came under my safe conduct. i shall never forgive you that trespass. what cause soever ye had, ye should have spared her in my presence; therefore withdraw you out of my court in all haste that ye may." so balin,--called balin the wild for his savage and reckless nature,--departed with his squire, and king arthur and all the court made great mourning, and had shame at the death of the lady of the lake. then the king buried her richly. in sorrow over the evil he had wrought and the disfavour of his king, balin turned his horse towards a great forest, and there by the armour he was ware of his brother balan. and when they were met, they put off their helms and kissed together, and wept for joy. anon the knight balin told his brother of the death of the lady of the lake, and said: "truly i am right heavy of heart that my lord arthur is displeased with me, for he is the most honourable knight that reigneth on earth, and his love i will get or else i will put my life in adventure with king ryons, that lieth now at the castle terrabil. thither will we ride together in all haste, to prove our honour and prowess upon him." "i will gladly do that," said balan; "we will help each other as brothers ought to do." so they took their way to find king ryons, and as they rode along together they encountered him in a straight way with threescore knights. anon balin and balan smote him down from his horse, and slew on the right hand and the left hand more than forty of his men. the remnant fled, and king ryons yielded him unto their grace as prisoner. so they laid him on a horse-litter, for he was fiercely wounded, and brought him to camelot. there they delivered him to the porters and charged them with him; and then they two returned to further adventure. and balin rode towards the castle of king pellam to revenge the wrongs of knights and ladies on a treacherous knight named garlon. he had a fifteen days' journey thither, and the day he came unto the castle there began a great feast. balin was well received, and led to a chamber, where he laid off his armour. they also brought him robes to his pleasure, and would have had him leave his sword behind him. "nay," said balin, "that do i not, for it is the custom of my country for a knight always to have his weapon with him, and that custom will i keep, or else i will depart as i came." then they gave him leave to wear his sword, and so he went unto the hall and was set among the knights of honour. soon he saw the false knight garlon, and thought to himself: "if i slay him here i shall not escape, and if i leave him now, peradventure i shall never meet with him again at such a good time, and much harm will he do if he live." then this garlon espied that balin watched him, and he came and smote balin on the face, and said: "knight, why watchest thou me so? eat thy meat, and do that thou camest for." then balin said, "i will do that i came for," and rose up fiercely and clove his head to the shoulders. anon all the knights arose from the table to set on balin, and king pellam himself caught in his hand a grim weapon and smote eagerly at balin, but balin put his sword betwixt his head and the stroke. with that his sword was broken in sunder, and he, now weaponless, ran into the chamber to seek some weapon, and so, from chamber to chamber, but no weapon could he find, and alway king pellam came after him. at last balin entered into a chamber that was marvellously well furnished and richly, wherein was a bed arrayed with cloth of gold, the richest that might be thought, and thereby a table of clean gold, and upon the table a marvellous spear, strangely wrought. and when balin saw that spear he took it in his hand, and turned to king pellam and smote him passing hard with it so that he fell down in a swoon. therewith the castle roof and walls brake and fell to the earth, and balin also, so that he might not stir foot nor hand, for through that dolorous stroke the most part of the castle that was fallen down lay upon him and pellam. after three days merlin came thither, and he took up balin and gat him a good horse, for his was dead, and bade him ride out of the country. merlin also told him that his stroke had turned to great dole, trouble, and grief, for the marvellous spear was the same with which longius, the roman soldier, smote our lord jesus christ to the heart at the crucifixion. then departed balin from merlin, never to meet him again, and rode forth through the fair countries and cities about pellam castle, and found people dead, slain on every side. and all that were left alive cried: "o balin, thou hast caused great damage in these countries, for by the dolorous stroke thou gavest unto king pellam three countries are destroyed, and doubt not but the vengeance will fall on thee at the last." when balin was out of those countries he was passing glad, and after many days he came by a cross, whereon were letters of gold written that said, "it is not for any knight alone to ride towards this castle." then saw he an old hoary gentleman coming towards him that said, "balin the wild, thou passest thy bounds to come this way; therefore turn again and it will avail thee." the old gentleman vanished away, and then balin heard a horn blow, as if for the death of a beast in the chase. "that blast," said he, "is blown for me, for i am the prize, yet am i not dead." anon he saw a hundred ladies and many knights, that welcomed him with fair semblance, and made him passing good cheer seemingly, and led him into the castle, where there were dancing and minstrelsy, and all manner of joy. then the chief lady of the castle said, "knight, you must have ado with a knight close by that keepeth an island, for there may no man pass this way but he must joust, ere he go farther." "that is an unhappy custom," said balin, "that a knight may not pass this way unless he joust, but since that is my duty, thereto am i ready. travelling men are oft weary, and their horses also; but though my horse be weary my heart is not weary." "sir," said the knight then to balin, "me thinketh your shield is not good; i will lend you a better." so balin took the shield that was unknown, and left his own, and rode unto the island. he put himself and his horse in a great boat, and when he came on the other side he met with a damsel, and she said, "o knight balin, why hast thou left thine own shield? alas! thou hast put thyself in great danger, for by thine own shield thou shouldst have been known. it is a great pity, for of thy prowess and hardiness thou hast no equal living." "me repenteth," said balin, "that ever i came within this country, but i may not turn now again for shame, and what adventure shall fall to me, be it life or death, i will take the adventure that shall come to me." then he looked on his armour, and understood he was well armed, for which he was thankful, and so he mounted upon his horse. then before him he saw come riding out of a castle a knight in red armour, and his horse was all trapped in the same colour. when this knight in red beheld balin, he thought he was like his brother; but because he knew not his shield, he deemed it was not he. and so they couched their spears and came marvellously fast together, and they smote each other in the shields; but their spears were so heavy and their course so swift that horse and man were borne down, and both knights lay in a swoon. balin was bruised sore with the fall of his horse, for he was weary with travel, and balan (for the knight in red was none other) was the first that rose to his feet. he drew his sword and went towards balin, who arose and went against him. but balan smote balin first, striking through his shield and cleaving his helm. then balin smote him in return with that unhappy sword that had already wrought so great harm, and the blow well nigh felled his brother balan. so they fought there together till their breaths failed. then balin looked up to the castle, and saw the towers stand full of ladies; so they went to battle again and wounded each other dolefully. then they breathed ofttimes, and yet again went unto battle, until all the place there was blood-red from the great wounds that either had smitten other, and their hauberks became unriveted so that naked they were on every side. at last balan, the younger brother, withdrew a little and laid himself down. then said balin the wild, "what knight art thou? for ere now i found never a knight that matched me." "my name is," said he, "balan, brother to the good knight balin." "alas!" said balin, "that ever i should see this day." thereupon he fell backward in a swoon. then balan crept on all fours to his brother and put oft his helm, but he might not know him, his visage was so disguised by blood and wounds. but when balin awoke, he said, "o balan, my brother, thou hast slain me and i thee, wherefore all the wide world shall speak of us both." "alas!" said balan; "that ever i saw this day, that through mishap i might not know thee! because thou hadst another shield i deemed thou wert another knight." "alas!" said balin, "all this was caused by an unhappy knight in the castle, that made me leave mine own shield, to the destruction of us both." then anon balan died, and at midnight after, balin; so both were buried together, and the lady of the castle had balan's name written on the tomb and how he was there slain by his brother's hand, but she knew not balin's name. in the morn came merlin and wrote balin's inscription also in letters of gold: "here lieth balin the wild, that smote the dolorous stroke." soon after this was done merlin came to king arthur and told him of the dolorous stroke that balin gave king pellam, and how balin and balan fought together the most marvellous battle that ever was heard of, and how they buried both in one tomb. "alas!" said king arthur; "this is the greatest pity that ever i heard tell of two knights, for in the world i know not such two knights." thus endeth the tale of balin and balan, two brethren born in northumberland, good knights both. chapter v the noble order of the round table arthur was indeed king, but enemies long held out against his just authority. when he went into wales to be crowned at the city of carlion, he let cry a great feast to be holden at pentecost. unto this feast came the six kings of that region with many of their knights, and arthur thought it was to do him honour. but when he made joy of their coming and sent them great presents, the kings would none receive, and said they had no joy to receive gifts of a beardless boy that was come of low birth. they sent him word that they were come to give him gifts with hard swords betwixt the neck and the shoulders, for it was great shame to all of them to see such a boy have rule of so noble a realm as this land was. this answer was told king arthur, who now betook himself to a strong tower and five hundred good men with him. here the six kings laid siege to him, but he was well victualled; and soon merlin came and bade him fear not, but speak boldly to his enemies, "for," said he, "ye shall overcome them all, whether they will or nill." so the king armed himself and all his knights and came out to do battle with his enemies. then three hundred good men of the best that were with the kings went straight over unto king arthur, which comforted him greatly. so he set upon the hosts of the six kings, and he and his men did marvellous deeds of arms. therewith he put them back, and then the commons of carlion arose with clubs and staves and slew many of the enemy, and so they fled away. since the enemy were still passing strong, merlin counselled king arthur to send letters well devised beyond the sea to the two brethren, marvellous good men of their hands, named one king ban of benwick and the other king bors of gaul, and to say to them that, if they would come and help king arthur in his wars, he in turn would be sworn unto them to help them in their wars against king claudas, a mighty man that strove with them for a castle. so there were made letters in the pleasantest wise, according to king arthur's desire, and ulfius and brastias, the messengers, rode forth well horsed and well armed, and so passed the sea and came to the city of benwick. here they had good cheer as long as they tarried, and received the answer that king ban and king bors would come unto king arthur in all the haste they might. now those six kings in wales had by their means gotten unto them five other kings, and all swore together that for weal or woe they would not leave each other till they had destroyed arthur. so their whole host drew towards arthur, now strengthened by ban and bors with their followers that had crossed from gaul to his aid. then followed a great battle, and they did on both sides great deeds of arms until at the last merlin counselled arthur to fight no longer, since the eleven kings had more on hand than they were ware of, and would soon depart home; for a messenger would come and tell them that lawless people as well as saracens, forty thousand in number, had entered their lands and were burning and slaying without mercy. so the great battle was ended, and the eleven kings went to their own country. now king arthur, king ban, and king bors came with their following into the country of cameliard, and there aided king leodegrance against an enemy of that land. king leodegrance thanked them for their goodness, and made them great cheer ere king ban and king bors departed back towards benwick. in cameliard arthur had the first sight of guenever, the king's daughter, and ever afterwards he loved her. so when peace was once more in his land, king arthur asked counsel of merlin about seeking her as his wife, for to him she was the most valiant and fairest lady living or to be found. "sir," said merlin, "as for her beauty, she is one of the fairest alive, but if ye loved her not so well as ye do, i could choose better for you. yet when a man's heart is set, he will be loath to change." so merlin was sent forth to king leodegrance, and he told him of king arthur's desire. king leodegrance was glad that so worthy a king of prowess and of nobleness would wed his daughter, and promised him as wedding gift,--not lands, for he had enough and needed none,--but what would please him much more, the table round, which uther pendragon had given to the king of cameliard,--a table made by merlin at which an hundred and fifty knights might be seated. so guenever, attended by merlin and an hundred good knights (all king leodegrance could spare, so many had been slain in his wars) with the round table rode with great pomp by water and by land to london. there king arthur made great joy of their coming, for he had long loved guenever. also the gift pleased him more than right great riches. and the marriage and the coronation were ordained with all speed in the most honourable wise that could be devised. merlin was sent to espy out in all the land fifty knights of most prowess and honour, who should make up the full number for the round table. only twenty-eight could he find worthy enough, and these merlin fetched to arthur's court. and merlin made sieges (seats), an hundred and fifty in all, for the knights, and he placed in every knight's siege his name in letters of gold. on that same day king arthur founded the great order of the round table, the fame of which was to last for all time. an hundred and twenty-eight were then sworn as knights of the table round, and every year at the high feast of pentecost others were to be added as they showed themselves worthy. only one siege was long empty, the siege perilous, for no man should sit therein but one, and if any one of unworthy life were so hardy as to sit therein, he should be destroyed. with great ceremony each one took the vows of true knighthood, solemnly promising to do no wicked deed, to be loyal to the king, to give mercy to those asking it, always to be courteous and helpful to ladies, and to fight in no wrongful quarrel for wordly gain, upon pain of death or forfeiture of knighthood and king arthur's favour. unto this were all the knights of the round table sworn, both old and young. to dishonour knighthood was the greatest disgrace; to prove themselves worthy of knightly honour by strong, brave, courteous, loyal bearing under great difficulties was the highest end of living. so king arthur stablished all his knights, and to them that were not rich he gave lands; and they rode abroad to right the wrongs of men, and to give help to the oppressed. with their aid he secured order and justice throughout his realm, and then the weakest man might do his work in peace, and prosper. chapter vi the ladies' knight the king was wedded unto dame guenever at camelot with great solemnity. just as all were sitting at the high feast that followed the marriage, there came running into the hall a white hart, followed by a whole pack of hounds with a great cry, and the hart went about the table round. at a fierce bite from one of the dogs the hart made a great leap, and overthrew a knight that sat at the table, and so passed forth out of the hall again, with all the dogs after him. when they were gone the king was glad, for they made such a noise, but merlin said, "ye may not leave this adventure so lightly. let call sir gawaine, for he must bring again the white hart." "i will," said the king, "that all be done by your advice." so sir gawaine was called, and he took his charge and armed himself for the adventure. sir gawaine was one of king arthur's nephews, and had just been made a knight, for he had asked of the king the gift of knighthood on the same day that he should wed fair guenever. so sir gawaine rode quickly forth, and gaheris his brother rode with him, instead of a squire, to do him service. as they followed the hart by the cry of the hounds, they came to a great river. the hart swam over, and they followed after, and so at length they chased him into a castle, where in the chief courtyard the dogs slew the hart before sir gawaine and young gaheris came up. right so there came a knight out of a room, with a sword drawn in his hand, and he slew two of the greyhounds even in the sight of sir gawaine, and the remnant he chased with his sword out of the castle. when he came back he said, "o my white hart, me repenteth that thou art dead, for my sovereign lady gave thee to me, and poorly have i kept thee. thy death shall be dear bought, if i live." anon he came fiercely towards sir gawaine, and they struck mightily together. they clove their shields and broke their helms and hauberks so that the blood ran down to their feet. at the last sir gawaine smote the knight so hard that he fell to the earth; and then he cried for mercy and yielded himself, and besought sir gawaine as he was a knight and gentleman to save his life. "thou shalt die," said sir gawaine, "for slaying of my hounds." "i will make amends," said the knight, "unto my power." sir gawaine would no mercy have, but unlaced his helm to strike off his head, when at that instant came his lady out of a chamber. she fell upon her husband just as the blow descended, and so sir gawaine smote off her head by misadventure, and the knight was saved. "alas!" said gaheris, "that is foul and shamefully done; that shame shall never depart from you. ye should give mercy unto them that ask mercy, for a knight without mercy is without honour." sir gawaine was so astonished at the death of the fair lady that he knew not what he did, and he said unto the knight, "arise, i will give thee mercy; and go thou unto king arthur, and tell him how thou art overcome by the knight that went in the quest of the white hart." "i care not for mercy now," said the knight, "for thou hast slain my lady that i loved best of all earthly things it matters not whether i live or die." then sir gawaine went into the castle and made ready to rest there all night. "what will ye do?" said gaheris; "will ye unarm you in this country? ye may believe ye have many enemies here." he had no sooner said that word than there came four knights well armed, and anon they made sir gawaine and gaheris yield themselves as prisoners, in spite of the brave battle wherein sir gawaine was sore wounded in the arm. early on the morrow there came to sir gawaine in the prison one of the ladies of the castle, and said, "sir knight, what cheer?" "not good," said he. "it is your own fault," said the lady, "for ye have done a passing foul deed in the slaying of the lady, which will be great disgrace unto you. be ye not of king arthur's kin?" "yes, truly," said sir gawaine. "my name is gawaine, and my mother is king arthur's sister." "ah, then are ye nephew unto king arthur," said the lady, "and i shall so speak for you that ye shall have conduct to king arthur, for love of him." then anon they delivered sir gawaine under this promise, that he should bear the dead lady to the court, the severed head hanging about his neck. right so he rode forth unto camelot, and merlin made him tell of his adventure, and how he slew the lady, and how he would give no mercy unto the knight, whereby the lady was slain. then the king and the queen were greatly displeased with sir gawaine, and by ordinance of the queen there was set a quest of ladies on sir gawaine, and they ordered him for ever while he lived to be with all ladies, and to fight for their quarrels; and that ever he should be courteous, and never refuse mercy to him that asketh mercy. thus was gawaine sworn upon the four evangelists that he should never be against lady nor gentlewoman, except if he fought for a lady and his adversary fought for another. thus endeth the adventure of sir gawaine, that he did at the marriage of king arthur. chapter vii wise merlin's foolishness arthur was now established as king over all the land. the great council hall at camelot, that is winchester, had been built, some say by merlin's skill; and the most loyal and the bravest knights of the world had been gathered at arthur's court to do honour to him and his fair queen guenever. merlin was arthur's wisest helper and most powerful friend, as he had before been the helper and friend of his father uther, for whom he had made the round table, signifying the roundness of the world. we have seen how he hid the young arthur away from the jealousy of the wild barons, and how, by his power over men and his knowledge of what would be, he had saved the king's life and guided his wise rule. the old magician bleise, that dwelt in northumberland, was merlin's master, and he it was that wrote down all the battles of arthur with his enemies word by word as merlin told him, and all the battles that were done in arthur's days, until merlin was lost, as we shall see, through his own foolishness. on a time merlin told king arthur that he should not endure long, but for all his crafts he should be put in the earth alive. also he told many things that should befall, and how the king would miss him, so that rather than all his lands he would wish to have him again. "ah," said king arthur, "since ye know of this, provide against it, and put away by your crafts that misadventure." "nay," said merlin, "it cannot be done." for merlin, now grown an old man in his dotage, had fallen under the spell of a damsel of the court named nimue. with her he soon departed from the king, and evermore went with her wheresoever she went. ofttimes he wished to break away from her, but he was so held that he could not be out of her presence. ever she made him good cheer, till she had learned from him all she desired of his secret craft, and had made him swear that he would never do any enchantment upon her. [illustration: merlin and nimue] they went together over the sea unto the land of benwick, where ban was king, that had helped arthur against his enemies. here merlin saw young launcelot, king ban's son, and he told the queen that this same child should grow to be a man of great honour, so that all christendom should speak of his prowess. so the queen was comforted of her great sorrow that she made for the mortal war that king claudas waged on her lord and on her lands. then afterwards nimue and merlin departed into cornwall, and by the way he showed her many wonders, and wearied her with his desire for her love. she would fain have been delivered of him, for she was afraid of him, almost believing him a devil's son, and yet she could not put him away by any means. and so on a time it happened that merlin showed to her a wonderful cavern in the cliff, closed by an enchanted stone. by her subtle working she soon made merlin remove the stone and go into the cavern to let her know of the marvels there. then she so wrought through the magic he had taught her that the stone was placed back again, so that he never came out for all the craft that he could do. and then she departed and left him there. on a day a certain knight rode to see adventures, and happened to come to the rock where nimue had put merlin, and there he heard him make great lamentation. the knight would gladly have helped him, and tried to move the great stone; but it was so heavy that a hundred men might not lift it up. when merlin knew that the knight sought his deliverance, he bade him leave his labour, for all was in vain. he could never be helped but by her that put him there. so merlin's prophecy of his own end was fulfilled, and he passed from the world of men. arthur truly missed his old friend and marvelled what had become of him. afterwards, when the last great battle came, he would have given everything to have merlin with him again, but it could not be. chapter viii a stag-hunt and what came of it it befell that arthur and many of his knights rode on hunting into a deep forest, and king arthur, king uriens of gore that was the husband of arthur's sister morgan le fay, and sir accolon of gaul followed a great hart so fast that within a while they were ten miles from their fellowship. at the last they chased so sore that they slew their horses underneath them. then were they all three on foot, and ever they saw the hart afore them passing weary and hard bestead[ ]. "let us go on foot," said king uriens, "till we meet with some lodging." then were they ware of the hart that lay on a great water bank, and a dog biting on his throat, and more other hounds came after. king arthur now blew the prize[ ] and dight[ ] the hart. but the three knights were in sore straits, so far from home, and without horses, and they began to look about the world. then arthur saw afore him in a great lake a little ship, all apparelled with silk down to the water, coming right unto them, and it landed on the sands. they went on board, all three, to see what was in the ship. soon it was dark night, and there suddenly were about them an hundred torches set upon all the sides of the ship boards, and it gave great light. therewithal there came out twelve fair damsels, and they set forth for the knights a supper of all meats that they could think. then they showed them richly beseen[ ] chambers for the night, where the three huntsmen slept marvellously. but when they awoke next morning, everything had been changed through the sorcery of morgan le fay, that was secretly plotting against her brother, to destroy him. king uriens awoke in his own bed in camelot, and arthur found himself in a dark prison, with many woeful knights complaining about him, and they soon told him for what cause they were there. the lord of the castle where they were prisoners was the falsest knight alive, a treacherous, cowardly man, named sir damas. he had a younger brother, sir ontzlake, a good knight of prowess, well beloved of all people, from whom he was keeping back unjustly a full fair manor. great war had been betwixt these brothers. ontzlake was a far better fighter than the cowardly damas, and yet he could not bring the elder to give over the younger brother's inheritance. he offered to fight for it, and wished sir damas to find a knight to fight in his stead, if he himself dared not engage. but sir damas was so hated that there was never one would fight for him, though he had by force taken all the knights of that whole region and brought them to his prison for to make them willing to take up his cause. many had died there, and the twenty that were yet alive were lean and spent with hunger, but no one of them would stand against sir ontzlake. anon there came a damsel unto arthur and asked him, "what cheer?" "i cannot say," said he. "sir," said she, "if ye will fight for my lord, ye shall be delivered out of prison, and else ye escape never with life." "now," said arthur, "that is hard, yet had i liefer to fight with a knight than to die in prison," and so it was agreed that he should do the battle on this covenant, that he should be delivered and all the prisoners. with that all the twenty knights were brought out of the dark prison into the hall, and set free, but they all abode to see the battle. now turn we unto accolon of gaul, that was with king arthur and king uriens on the stag-hunt and that fell asleep on the magic ship. when he awoke he found himself beside a deep well, within half a foot of its edge, in great peril of death. "heaven save my lord king arthur and king uriens," said he, "for these damsels in the ship have betrayed us. they were devils and no women, and if i may escape this misadventure, i shall destroy all false damsels that use enchantments, wherever i may find them." right then there came a dwarf with a great mouth and a flat nose, and saluted sir accolon and said he came from queen morgan le fay. "she greeteth you well," said he, "and biddeth you be of strong heart, for ye shall fight to-morn with a knight at the hour of prime, and therefore she hath sent you here excalibur, arthur's sword, and the scabbard, and she biddeth you as ye love her, that ye do the battle to the uttermost without any mercy, like as ye promised her when ye spake together in private." sir accolon believed he fully understood the message, and he said he should keep his promise now that he had the sword. just then a knight, who was no other than sir ontzlake himself, with a lady and six squires, came up on horseback, saluted sir accolon, and begged him to come and rest himself at his manor. so accolon mounted upon a spare horse and rode to the manor, where he had passing good cheer. meantime sir damas sent to his brother, sir ontzlake, and bade him make ready to fight the next day with a good knight who had agreed to do battle for the disputed heritage; and it happened through morgan le fay's trickery that accolon was lodged with sir ontzlake at the very time when this message came. now sir ontzlake was sore troubled at the message, for he had been wounded in both thighs by a spear a short time before, and was suffering much. still, wounded as he was, he would have taken the battle in hand, had not sir accolon offered to fight in his stead, because morgan le fay had sent excalibur and the sheath for the battle with the knight on the morrow. then sir ontzlake was passing glad, and sent word unto his brother, sir damas, that he had a knight who would be ready in the field by to-morrow at the hour of prime. so it was arranged that sir arthur and sir accolon, unknown to one another, were to fight over the quarrel of the two brothers. preparations were made accordingly, and all the knights and commons of the country were there to see the encounter. just as arthur was ready upon horseback, there came a damsel from morgan le fay bringing unto him a sword like unto excalibur, and the scabbard, and said: "morgan le fay sendeth you here your sword for great love." he thanked her, not knowing that the sword and scabbard were counterfeit, and brittle and false. they went eagerly to the battle, and gave many great strokes. sir accolon had all advantage on his side, for he had the real excalibur, morgan le fay having so ordained that king arthur should have been slain that day. king arthur's sword never bit like sir accolon's, and almost every stroke sir accolon gave wounded sore, so that it was a marvel that arthur stood. almost from the first it seemed to him that the sword in accolon's hand must be excalibur, but he was so full of knighthood that knightly he endured the pain of the many wounds, and held out as well as he might until his sword brake at the cross and fell in the grass among the blood. now he expected to die, but he held up his shield, and lost no ground, nor bated any cheer. all men that beheld him said they never saw knight fight so well as arthur did, considering the blood that he bled, and they were sorry for him. but accolon was so bold because of excalibur that he grew passing hardy, and called upon arthur to yield himself as recreant. "nay," said sir arthur, "i may not so, for i have promised to do the battle to the uttermost by the faith of my body while my life lasteth, and therefore i had rather die with honour than live with shame; and if it were possible for me to die an hundred times, i had rather die so oft than yield myself to thee; for, though i lack weapon i shall lack no honour, and if thou slay me weaponless that shall be thy shame." but accolon cared not for shame, and would not spare. he gave arthur such a stroke that he fell nigh to the earth; yet he pressed upon accolon with his shield, and with the pommel of his sword in his hand gave such a blow that accolon fell back a little. now it chanced that one of the damsels of the court, she that had put merlin under the stone, had come into the field for love of king arthur, for she knew how morgan le fay had determined that arthur should be slain; therefore she came to save his life. she saw how full of prowess arthur was, and grieved that so good a knight should be slain through false treason. so when accolon gave another blow, the sword excalibur fell out of his hand to the earth. arthur lightly leaped to it and got it in his hand, and forthwith knew that it was his own excalibur. then he saw the scabbard hanging by accolon's side, and anon pulling it from him, he threw it off as far as he might throw it. therewith sir arthur rushed upon accolon with all his might and pulled him to the earth. he then snatched off his helmet for the final blow, and the fierce battle was at an end. "slay me ye may well," said accolon, "if it please you, for ye are the best knight that ever i found, and i see well that god is with you." but now sir arthur thought he must have seen this knight, and asked, "of what country art thou, and of what court?" and when sir accolon told him his name, then he remembered him of his sister, morgan le fay, and of the enchantment of the ship. he made accolon tell how he came by the sword, and then arthur knew all the plot of his sister and of accolon to have the king slain and herself made queen. for the first time arthur now let accolon know against whom he had been fighting. the fallen knight cried aloud for mercy, when he learned that he had nearly slain the king, and said to all the knights and men that were then there gathered together, "o lords, this noble knight that i have fought withal, which i sorely repent of, is the best man of prowess, of manhood, and of honour in the world, for it is king arthur himself, the liege lord of us all, and with mishap and with misadventure have i done this battle with the king and lord in whose power i am." then all the people fell down on their knees, and called upon king arthur for mercy, which he forthwith granted. the king was sorely hurt and accolon's wounds were even worse. arthur made haste to settle the quarrel of the brothers sir damas and sir ontzlake by giving the latter his rights and charging sir damas upon pain of death never to distress knights-errant that ride on their adventures, and then was carried off to a near-by abbey, and sir accolon with him, to have their wounds searched. within four days sir accolon died from loss of blood during the fight, but king arthur was well recovered. when accolon was dead the king let send him on a horse-bier with six knights unto camelot and said, "bear him to my sister morgan le fay, and say that i send him to her as a present, and tell her that i have my sword excalibur again and the scabbard." so they departed with the body. [ ] hard bestead: in a bad plight. [ ] prize: death note. [ ] dight: dressed. [ ] beseen: of good appearance. chapter ix the treachery of morgan le fay the meanwhile morgan le fay thought that king arthur was slain, and that she might now be queen of the land, with sir accolon as king. then came tidings unto her that accolon was dead and king arthur had his sword again. when queen morgan wist all this she was so sorrowful that near her heart brake, but because she would not it were known, outward she kept her countenance, and made no semblance of sorrow. but well she wist, if she remained till her brother arthur came thither, there should no gold go for her life. then she went unto queen guenever, and asked her leave to ride into the country. "ye may abide," said queen guenever, "till your brother the king come home." "i may not," said morgan le fay, "for i have such hasty tidings that i may not tarry." "well," said guenever, "ye may depart when ye will." so early on the morn, ere it was day, she took her horse and rode all that day and most part of the night, and on the morn by noon she came to the abbey of nuns where lay king arthur. knowing he was there, she asked where he was at that time; and they answered how he had laid him in his bed to sleep, for he had had but little rest these three nights. then she alighted off her horse, and thought for to steal away excalibur his sword. so she went straight unto his chamber, and no man durst disobey her commandment. there she found arthur asleep in his bed, and excalibur in his right hand naked. when she saw that, she was passing heavy that she might not come by the sword without awaking him, and that she wist well would be her death. then she took the scabbard, and went her way on horseback. when the king a woke and missed his scabbard, he was wroth, and he asked who had been there. they said his sister queen morgan had been there, and had put the scabbard under her mantle, and was gone. "alas," said arthur, "falsely have ye watched me." "sir," said they all, "we durst not disobey your sister's commandment." "ah," said the king, "let fetch the best horse that may be found, and bid sir ontzlake arm him in all haste, and take another good horse and ride with me." so anon the king and ontzlake were well armed, and rode after this lady; and so they came by a cross, and asked a cowherd if there came any lady late riding that way. "sir," said the poor man, "right late came a lady riding with forty horses, and to yonder forest she rode." then they spurred their horses and followed fast. within a while arthur had a sight of morgan le fay, and he chased as fast as he might. when she espied him following her, she rode a greater pace through the forest till she came to a plain. she saw she might not escape, wherefore she rode unto a lake thereby, and said, "whatsoever becometh of me, my brother shall not have this scabbard." and then she let throw the scabbard in the deepest of the water, where it sank anon, for it was heavy of gold and precious stones. thereupon queen morgan rode into a valley where many great stones were, and when she saw that she must be overtaken, she shaped herself, horse and man, by enchantment, unto great marble stones. anon came sir arthur and sir ontzlake, but they might not know the lady from her men, nor one knight from another. "ah," said the king, "here may ye see the vengeance of god, and now i am sorry that this misadventure is befallen." and then he looked for the scabbard, but it could not be found, so he returned to the abbey where he came from. when arthur was gone, queen morgan turned all into the likeness as she and they were before, and said, "sirs, now may we go where we will." so she departed into the country of gore, and there was she richly received, and made her castles and towns passing strong, for always she feared much king arthur. when the king had well rested him at the abbey, he rode unto camelot, and found his queen and his barons right glad of his coming. and when they heard of his strange adventures as is afore rehearsed, they all had marvel of the falsehood of morgan le fay, and many knights wished her burned because of her wicked enchantments. "well," said the king, "i shall so be avenged on her, if i live, that all christendom shall speak of it." on the morn there came a damsel from morgan to the king, and she brought with her the richest mantle that ever was seen in that court, for it was set as full of precious stones as one might stand by another, and there were the richest stones that ever the king saw. and the damsel said, "your sister sendeth you this mantle, and desireth that ye should take this gift of her, and in what thing she hath offended you, she will amend it at your own pleasure." when the king beheld this mantle it pleased him much, but he said little. with that came one of the damsels of the lake unto the king and said, "sir, i must speak with you in private." "say on," said the king, "what ye will." "sir," said the damsel, "put not on you this mantle till ye have seen more, and in no wise let it come on you or any knight of yours, till ye command the bringer thereof to put it upon her." "well," said king arthur, "it shall be done as ye counsel me." and then he said unto the damsel that came from his sister, "damsel, this mantle that ye have brought me i will see upon you." "sir," said she, "it will not beseem me to wear a king's garment." "by my head," said arthur, "ye shall wear it ere it come on my back, or any man's that here is." and so the king made it to be put upon her, and forthwithal she fell down dead, and nevermore spake word after, but burned to coals. then was the king wonderfully wroth, more than he was beforehand, and said unto king uriens, "my sister, your wife, is alway about to betray me, and well i wot either ye or your son sir uwaine is of counsel with her to have me destroyed; but as for you," said the king to king uriens, "i deem not greatly that ye be of her counsel, for she plotted with accolon to destroy you as well as me. therefore i hold you excused; but as for your son, sir uwaine, i hold him suspected, and therefore i charge you put him out of my court." so sir uwaine was discharged. and when sir gawaine wist that, he made himself ready to go with his cousin. so they two departed, and rode into a great forest, and came to an abbey of monks, where they were well lodged. but when the king wist that sir gawaine was departed from the court, there was made great sorrow among all the estates. "now," said gaheris, gawaine's brother, "we have lost two good knights for the sake of one." chapter x sir launcelot of the lake when king arthur, after long wars, rested and held a royal feast with his allies and noble knights of the round table, there came into his hall, he sitting on his throne royal, twelve ambassadors from rome, and said to him: "the high and mighty emperor lucius sendeth to the king of britain greeting, commanding thee to acknowledge him for thy lord and to send the tribute due from this realm unto the empire according to the statutes and decrees made by the noble and worthy julius caesar, conqueror of this realm and first emperor of rome. and if thou refuse his demand and commandment, know thou for certain that he shall make strong war against thee, thy realms and lands, and shall chastise thee and thy subjects, so that it shall be warning perpetual unto all kings and princes not to deny their tribute unto the noble empire which dominateth the universal world." some of the young knights hearing this message would have run on the ambassadors to slay them, saying that it was a rebuke unto all the knights there present to suffer them to say so to the king. but king arthur commanded that none should do them any harm, and anon let call all his lords and knights of the round table to council upon the matter. and all agreed to make sharp war on the romans, and to aid after their power. so the messengers were allowed to depart, and they took ship at sandwich and passed forth by flanders, almaine, the mountains and all italy until they came unto rome. there they said to lucius, "certainly he is a lord to be feared, for his estate is the royalest that ever we saw, and in his person he is the most manly man that liveth, and is likely to conquer all the world, for unto his courage it is too little; wherefore we advise you to keep well your marches and straits[ ] in the mountains." then lucius made ready a great host and marched into gaul, and arthur met him there with his army. the old chronicles tell of the great battles that were fought and the brave deeds of knights and lords, how arthur himself with excalibur cleft the head of lucius, and at length passed over the mountains into lombardy and tuscany, and so came into rome. on a day appointed, as the romance telleth, he was crowned emperor by the pope's hand with all the royalty that could be made. after he had established all his lands from rome unto france, and had given lands and realms unto his servants and knights, to each after his desert in such wise that none complained, rich nor poor, all his lords and all the great men of estate assembled before him and said: "blessed be god, your war is finished and your conquest achieved, insomuch that we know none so great nor mighty that dare make war against you; wherefore we beseech you to return homeward and give us licence to go home to our wives, from whom we have been long, and to rest us, for your journey is finished with honour." so they all came over sea, and landed at sandwich, where queen guenever came and met the king. and he was nobly received of all the commons in every city and borough, and great gifts were presented to him at his home-coming, to welcome him. of all the knights that, when arthur came into england, had increased in honour, sir launcelot of the lake in especial excelled in deeds of arms both for life and death. his parents, king ban of benwick and his fair queen, elaine, had first named him galahad, and, as has already been said, merlin, before he disappeared under the stone, had foretold that within twenty years he should be known over the whole world as a great and worthy knight. it is no marvel, therefore, that launcelot is the first knight that the french book maketh mention of after king arthur came from rome. he passed with arthur into england, where he was received gladly and was made a knight of the round table. queen guenever had him in great favour above all other knights, and in return he was loyal to her above all other ladies and damsels all his life, and for love of her he did many deeds of arms, and saved her from the fire through his noble chivalry. therefore jealous people spoke evil of sir launcelot and the queen, because they were of less prowess and honour than he, and thereby great mischief arose in arthur's court. from this came arthur's overthrow in the end, and the downfall of his noble realm. but for long years launcelot was the glory of knighthood, and he vied with king arthur himself in deeds of prowess and of chivalrous courtesy in the tournament and on adventure. [ ] strait: narrow pass. chapter xi a night-time adventure of sir launcelot in fulfilment of his oath as a knight of the round table sir launcelot rode into many strange and wild countries and through many waters and valleys. he slew sir turquine, who watched to destroy knights, and he clove the head of another false traitor who attended to destroy and distress ladies, damsels, and gentlewomen. other wrongs besides these he righted, and bravely withstood many a struggle. now on a day it chanced that he passed a deep forest, where, as often before, he found strait lodging. but he was brave and strong, and feared no hardship provided he did nothing contrary to his honour as a worthy knight. as he was riding over a long bridge there started upon him suddenly a passing foul churl, who struck his horse upon the nose and asked sir launcelot why he rode over that bridge without licence. "why should i not ride this way?" said sir launcelot; "it is the way i choose to ride." "thou shall not choose," said the churl, and began to beat him with his great club shod with iron. sir launcelot drew his sword, and made short work of this rough porter. then he rode right on to the end of the bridge, through the fair village, where all the people in vain gave him warning, and on straight into the green courtyard of the castle, which was tintagil, in cornwall. anon there came upon him two great giants, with horrible clubs in their hands. with shield and sword he soon laid on the earth one of these giants. the other ran away for fear of the horrible strokes, and sir launcelot entered the hall. here he set free three-score gentlewomen, who for seven years had been prisoners of the two giants, working all manner of silk works for their food. "show me such cheer as ye have," said sir launcelot, "and what treasure there is in this castle i give you for a reward for your grievance." then soon he mounted his horse again, and rode away upon further adventure. one night he came to the courtyard of an old gentleman, who lodged him with a good will, and there he had good cheer for himself and his horse. when time was his host brought him into a fair garret over the gate to his bed. there sir launcelot unarmed him, set his armour beside him, and went to bed, and anon fell asleep. soon afterward there came one on horseback, and knocked at the gate in great haste. when sir launcelot heard this, he arose up and looked out at the window, and saw by the moonlight three knights come after that one man; all three lashed on him at once with swords, and that one knight turned on them knightly again and defended himself. "truly," said sir launcelot, "yonder one knight shall i help, for it were shame for me to see three knights on one, and if he be slain i am partner in his death." therewith he took his armour and let himself down from the window by a sheet to the four knights. "turn you knights unto me," cried sir launcelot aloud, "and leave your fighting with that knight." and then they all three left sir kay, for it was he who was so hard bestead, and turned unto sir launcelot. and there began great battle, for they alighted, all three, and struck many great strokes at sir launcelot, and assailed him on every side. sir kay would have helped him, but sir launcelot suffered him not, and anon within six strokes he had struck all three to the earth. sir launcelot made them yield themselves to sir kay and promise to go next whitsunday to the court as prisoners of queen guenever. so they were suffered to depart, and sir launcelot knocked at the gate with the pommel of his sword. the host came, and they entered, sir kay and he. "sir," said the host, "i thought you were in your bed." "so i was," said sir launcelot, "but i arose and leaped out at my window to help an old fellow of mine." when they came nigh the light, sir kay knew well that it was sir launcelot, and therewith he kneeled down and thanked him for all his kindness that he had holpen him from death. "sir," said sir launcelot, "i have done nothing but that i ought to do, and ye are welcome, and here shall ye repose you and take your rest." so when sir kay was unarmed he asked for meat; there was meat fetched him, and he ate strongly. then they went to their beds, and sir launcelot and sir kay were lodged together in one bed. on the morn sir launcelot arose early, and left sir kay sleeping. he put on sir kay's armour and took his shield, and so went to the stable. he here got sir kay's horse, took leave of his host, and so departed. then soon afterward sir kay arose. he missed sir launcelot, and then he espied that his armour and his horse had been taken. "now by my faith," said he, "i know well that he will grieve some of the court of king arthur, for my armour and horse will beguile all knights; they will believe it is i, and will be bold to him. and because i have his armour and shield i am sure i shall ride in peace." then soon afterward sir kay thanked his host and departed. so sir launcelot rode into a deep forest, and there in a dell he saw four knights standing under an oak, and they were of arthur's court. anon as they espied sir launcelot they thought by his arms it was sir kay. "now by my faith," said sir sagramour, one of the four knights, "i will prove sir kay's might"; so he got his spear in his hand, and came toward sir launcelot. therewith sir launcelot was ware, and knew him well; and he smote sir sagramour so sore that horse and man fell both to the earth. "lo, my fellows," said sir ector, another of the four, "yonder ye may see what a buffet he hath; that knight is much bigger than ever was sir kay. now shall ye see what i may do to him." so sir ector got his spear in his hand and galloped toward sir launcelot, and sir launcelot smote him through shield and shoulder so that horse and man went to the earth, and ever his spear held. "by my faith," said sir uwaine, "yonder is a strong knight, and i am sure he hath slain sir kay; and i see by his great strength it will be hard to match him." therewithal sir uwaine gat his spear in his hand and rode toward sir launcelot. sir launcelot knew him well, and so he met him on the plain, and gave him such a buffet that he was stunned, and long he wist not where he was. "now see i well," said sir gawaine, the last of the four knights, "i must encounter with that knight." then he dressed his shield and gat a good spear in his hand, and then they let run their horses with all their mights, and either knight smote other in midst of the shield. but sir gawaine's spear brake, and sir launcelot charged so sore upon him that his horse reversed up-so-down. much sorrow had sir gawaine to get clear of his horse, and so sir launcelot passed on a pace, and smiled, and said, "god give him joy that made this spear, for there came never a better in my hand." then the four knights went each one to other and comforted each other. "what say ye to this deed?" said sir gawaine. "he is a man of great might, for that one spear hath felled us four. i dare lay my head it is sir launcelot; i know it by his riding." chapter xii how sir launcelot came into the chapel perilous on a day as sir launcelot rode a great while in a deep forest, he was ware of an old manor beyond a bridge. and he passed over the bridge, that was old and feeble, and came into a great hall, where he saw lie a dead knight, that was a seemly man. and therewithal came out a lady weeping and wringing her hands, and she said: "oh, knight, too much sorrow hast thou brought me." "why say ye so?" said sir launcelot; "i did never this knight any harm; therefore, fair lady, be not displeased with me, for i am full sore aggrieved at your grievance." "truly sir," she said, "i know it is not ye that have slain my husband, for he that did that deed is sore wounded, and he is never likely to recover; that i assure you." "what was your husband's name?" asked sir launcelot. "sir," said she, "his name was sir gilbert, one of the best knights of the world, and he that hath slain him, i know not his name." "god send you better comfort," said sir launcelot, and so he departed and went into the forest again, and there he met with a damsel who knew him well, and said aloud, "well are ye come, my lord; and now i require thee on thy knighthood help my brother that is sore wounded, and never ceaseth bleeding, for this day fought he with sir gilbert and slew him in plain battle. my brother was sore wounded, and a sorceress that dwelleth in a castle hard by told me this day that my brother's wounds should never be whole till i could find a knight that would go into the chapel perilous where he should find a sword and a bloody cloth that the wounded knight was wrapped in. a piece of that cloth and the sword should heal my brother's wounds, if his wounds were searched with the sword and the cloth." "this is a marvellous thing," said sir launcelot, "but what is your brother's name?" "sir," said she, "his name is sir meliot." "that me repenteth," said sir launcelot, "for he is a fellow of the table round, and to help him i will do all in my power." "then, sir," said she, "follow this highway, and it will bring you into the chapel perilous, and here i shall wait till god send you again; except you i know no knight living that may achieve that adventure." so launcelot departed, and when he came unto the chapel perilous, he alighted and tied his horse to the little gate of the churchyard. and soon he saw on the front of the chapel many fair rich shields turned up-so-down, and many of these shields he had seen borne by knights that he had known aforetime. then he saw standing there by him thirty great knights, taller by a yard than any man that ever he had seen, all clad in black armour, ready with their shields, and their swords drawn. they all grinned and gnashed at sir launcelot, and when he saw their countenances, he put his shield afore him, and took his sword in his hand ready unto battle. he started to go right past the giants, and then they scattered on every side and gave him the way. therewith he waxed all bold and entered into the chapel, where he saw no light but a dim lamp burning, and soon became aware of a corpse covered with a cloth of silk. sir launcelot stooped down and cut off a piece of that cloth, whereupon the earth under him seemed to quake a little, and at this he feared. then he saw a fair sword lying by the dead knight. this he gat into his hand and hied out of the chapel. as soon as ever he was in the chapel yard all the giants spake to him with a grimly voice, and said: "knight, sir launcelot, lay that sword from thee, or else thou shalt die." "whether i live or die," said sir launcelot, "no loud words will get it again; therefore fight for it if ye will." then he immediately passed right through their midst, and beyond the chapel yard there met him a fair damsel, who said, "sir launcelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou wilt die for it." "i leave it not," said sir launcelot, "for any entreaties." "it is well," said she. "if thou didst leave that sword thou shouldst never see queen guenever again. now, gentle knight, i request one thing of thee. kiss me but once." "nay," said sir launcelot, "god forbid that i should do that." "it is well, sir," said she; "if thou hadst kissed me thy life days had been done. but now, alas, i have lost all my labour, for i ordained this chapel to win thee. once i had sir gawaine well nigh within my power, but he fought with that knight that lieth there dead in yonder chapel, sir gilbert, and smote off his left hand and so escaped. sir launcelot, i have loved thee these seven years, but now i know no woman may have thy love but queen guenever." "ye say well," said sir launcelot. "god preserve me from your subtile crafts." thereupon he took his horse and so departed from her, and soon met the damsel, sir meliot's sister. anon she led him to the castle where sir meliot lay, pale as the earth from bleeding. sir launcelot leaped unto him and touched his wounds with sir gilbert's sword, and then wiped his wounds with a part of the cloth that sir gilbert was wrapped in, and anon he was as whole a man as ever he had been in all his life. and then there was great joy between them. they made sir launcelot all the cheer that they might, and on the morn he took his leave of sir meliot and his sister, and rode away. chapter xiii the knight, the lady, and the falcon and sir launcelot by fortune came to a fair castle, and as he passed by he was ware of a falcon that came flying over his head toward a high elm. as the bird flew into the tree to take her perch, the long lines about her feet caught on a bough, and when she would take flight again she hung fast by the legs. sir launcelot saw how the fair falcon hung there, and he was sorry for her. meanwhile came a lady out of the castle and cried aloud, "o launcelot, launcelot, as thou art the flower of all knights, help me to get my hawk. i was holding my hawk and she slipped from me, and if my lord my husband knows that she is lost he will slay me." "what is your lord's name?" said sir launcelot. "sir," said the lady, "his name is sir phelot, a knight of northgalis." "well, fair lady," said launcelot, "since ye know my name, and request me as a courteous knight to help you, i will do what i may to get your hawk. and yet truly i am an ill climber, and the tree is passing high, with few boughs to cling to." thereupon sir launcelot alighted, and tied his horse to the elm. then the lady helped him to unarm, and with might and force he climbed up to the falcon. he tied the lines to a great rotten branch, brake it off, and threw it and the hawk down. anon the lady gat the hawk in her hand, and thereupon came sir phelot suddenly out of the grove, all armed and with his naked sword in his hand. he called up to sir launcelot and said, "o knight, now have i found thee as i would"; and he stood at the foot of the tree to slay him. "ah lady," said sir launcelot, "why have ye betrayed me?" "she hath done," said sir phelot, "but as i commanded her; there is no help for it; thine hour is come, and thou must die." "it were shame unto thee," said sir launcelot, "for thee, an armed knight, to slay an unarmed man by treason." "thou gettest no other grace," said sir phelot; "therefore help thyself if thou canst." "alas," said sir launcelot, "that ever knight should die weaponless." then he looked above and below him, and saw a big leafless bough. this he brake off; then he climbed down with it in his hand, and, observing how his horse stood, he suddenly leaped down to the ground on the farther side of the horse from the knight. then sir phelot lashed at him eagerly, thinking to slay him. but sir launcelot put away the stroke with the branch, and then with it gave sir phelot such a blow on one side of the head that he fell down in a swoon to the ground. then sir launcelot took his sword out of his hand and struck his head from his body. "alas," cried the lady, "why hast thou slain my husband?" "i am not the cause," said sir launcelot, "for with falsehood ye would have slain me by treason, and now it is fallen on you both." thereupon sir launcelot gat all his armour as well as he might, and put it on for fear of further attack, since the knight's castle was so near. as soon as he might he took his horse, and, thanking god that he had escaped that adventure, he went on his adventures over many wild ways, through marsh and valley and forest. at pentecost he returned home, and the king and all the court were passing glad of his coming. and ever now and now came all the knights back, those that had encountered with sir launcelot, those that he had set free from prison, and all those that knew of his great deeds of arms. and they all bare record of sir launcelot's prowess, so at that time he had the greatest name of any knight of the world, and most he was honoured of high and low. chapter xiv how a kitchen-page came to honour arthur was holding the high feast of pentecost at a city and castle called in those days kink-kenadon, upon the sands nigh wales, and he sat at meat with all the knights of the round table. then came into the hall two men well beseen and richly, and upon their shoulders there leaned the goodliest young man and the fairest that ever any of the knights had seen. he was higher than the other two by a foot and a half, broad in the shoulders, well visaged, and the fairest and largest handed that ever man saw; but he acted as though he might not walk nor support himself unless he leaned upon their shoulders. they went with him right unto the high dais without saying of any words. then this much young man pulled himself away, and easily stretched up straight, saying: "king arthur, god you bless and all your fair fellowship of the round table. for this cause i am come hither, to pray you to give me three gifts. they shall not be so unreasonable but that ye may honourably grant them me, and to you no great hurt nor loss. the first i will ask now, and the other two gifts i will ask this day twelvemonth wheresoever ye hold your high feast." "now ask," said arthur, "and ye shall have your asking." "now, sir, this is my petition for this feast, that you will give me meat and drink sufficiently for this twelve-month, and at that day i will ask mine other two gifts." "this is but a simple asking," said the king; "ye shall have meat and drink enough; i never refuse that to any, neither my friend nor my foe. but what is your name i would know?" "i cannot tell you," said he. the king marvelled at this answer, but took him to sir kay, the steward, and charged him that he should give the youth of all manner of meats and drinks of the best, and also that he should have all manner of finding as though he were a lord's son. "that need not be," said sir kay, "to do such cost upon him; for i dare undertake he is a villain born, and never will make a man, for had he come of gentlemen he would have asked of you horse and armour; but such as he is, so he asketh. and since he hath no name, i shall give him the name beaumains, that is fair-hands, and into the kitchen i shall bring him, and there he shall have rich broth every day, so that he shall be as fat by the twelvemonth's end as a pork hog." so the two men departed, and left him to sir kay, who scorned him and mocked him. thereat was sir gawaine wroth, and especially sir launcelot bade sir kay leave off his mocking, "for," said he, "i dare wager he shall prove a man of great honour." "it may not be by any reason," said sir kay, "for as he is, so hath he asked." so sir kay ordered that a place be made for him, and fair-hands went to the hall door, and sat down among boys and lads, and there he ate sadly. after meat sir launcelot bade him come to his chamber, where he should have meat and drink enough, and so did sir gawaine; but he refused them all; he would do none other but as sir kay commanded him. as touching sir gawaine, he had reason to proffer him lodging, meat, and drink, for he was nearer kin to him than he knew. but what sir launcelot did was of his great gentleness and courtesy. thus fair-hands was put into the kitchen, and lay nightly as the boys of the kitchen did. and so he endured all that twelvemonth, and never displeased man nor child, but always he was meek and mild. but ever when there was any jousting of knights, that would he see if he could. and where were any masteries done, thereat would he be, and there might none cast bar nor stone to him by two yards. then would sir kay say, "how like you my boy of the kitchen?" so it passed on till the least of whitsuntide, which at that time the king held at carlion in the most royal wise that might be, as he did every year. as he again sat at meat, there came a damsel into the hall and saluted the king, and prayed him for succour. "for whom?" said the king; "what is the adventure?" "sir," she said, "i have a lady of great honour and renown, and she is besieged by a tyrant so that she may not out of her castle. and because your knights are called the noblest of the world, i come to you to pray you for succour." "what is the name of your lady? and where dwelleth she? and who is he, and what is his name, that hath besieged her?" "sir king," she said, "as for my lady's name, that shall not ye know from me at this time, but i let you know she is a lady of great honour and of great lands. and as for the tyrant that besiegeth and destroyeth her lands, he is called the red knight of the red lawns." "i know him not," said the king. "sir," said sir gawaine, "i know him well, for he is one of the most dangerous knights of the world. men say that he hath seven men's strength, and from him i escaped once full hard with my life." "fair damsel," said the king, "there be knights here would do their best to rescue your lady, but because ye will not tell her name, nor where she dwelleth, therefore none of my knights that be here now shall go with you by my will." "then must i speak further," said the damsel. with these words fair-hands came before the king, while the damsel was there, and thus he said: "sir king, god reward you, i have been these twelve months in your kitchen, and have had my full sustenance, and now i will ask my two gifts that be behind." "ask upon my peril," said the king. "sir, these shall be my two gifts. first, that ye will grant me this adventure of the damsel, and second, that ye shall bid launcelot of the lake to make me knight, for of him i will be made knight, and else of none. i pray you let him ride after me, and make me knight when i request him." "all this shall be done," said the king. "fie on thee," said the damsel, "shall i have none but one that is your kitchen-page?" then was she wroth, and took her horse and departed. thereupon there came one to fair-hands, and told him that his horse and armour was come for him, with all things that he needed in the richest manner. thereat all the court had much marvel from whence came all that gear. when he was armed and came into the hall to take leave of king arthur and sir gawaine and sir launcelot, there were but few so goodly knights as he was. he prayed sir launcelot that he would hie after him, and so departed and rode after the damsel. many people followed after fair-hands to behold how well he was horsed and trapped in cloth of gold, but he had neither shield nor spear. then sir kay said all openly in the hall, "i will ride after my boy of the kitchen, to see whether he will know me for his better." sir launcelot and sir gawaine counselled him to abide at home; nevertheless he made ready and took his horse and his spear and rode off. just as fair-hands overtook the damsel, sir kay came up, and said, "fair-hands, what sir, know ye not me?" then he turned his horse, and knew it was sir kay, that had done him all the despite, as we have heard afore. "yea," said fair-hands, "i know you for an ungentle knight of the court and therefore beware of me." therewith sir kay put his spear in its rest, and ran straight upon him, and fair-hands came on just as fast with his sword in his hand. and so he put away his spear with his sword, and with a foin[ ] thrust him through the side, so that sir kay fell down as if he were dead. then fair-hands alighted down and took sir kay's shield and his spear, had his dwarf mount upon sir kay's horse, and started upon his own horse and rode his way. all this sir launcelot saw, and so did the damsel. by this time sir launcelot had come up, and fair-hands offered to joust with him. so they rushed together like boars, and for upwards of an hour they had a hard fight, wherein sir launcelot had so much ado with fair-hands that he feared himself to be shamed. at length he said, "fair-hands, fight not so sore; your quarrel and mine is not so great but we may leave off." "that is truth," said fair-hands, "but it doth me good to feel your might, and yet, my lord, i showed not my uttermost." "well," said sir launcelot, "i promise you i had as much to do as i might to save myself from you unashamed; therefore ye need have no fear of any earthly knight." "hope ye then," said fair-hands, "that i may anywhere stand as a proved knight?" "yea," said launcelot, "do as ye have done, and i shall be your warrant." "then i pray you give me the order of knighthood," said fair-hands. "then must ye tell me your name," said launcelot, "and of what kin ye be born." "sir, if ye will not make me known, i will," said fair-hands. "that i promise you by the faith of my body, until it be openly known," said sir launcelot. "then, sir," he said, "my name is gareth; i am own brother unto sir gawaine." "ah! sir," said launcelot, "i am more glad of you than i was, for ever me thought ye should be of great blood, and that ye came not to the court either for meat or for drink." then sir launcelot gave him the order of knighthood, and sir gareth went his way. sir launcelot now came to sir kay and had him carried home upon his shield. he was with difficulty healed of his wounds, and all men scorned him. in especial sir gawaine and sir launcelot said it was not for sir kay to rebuke the young man, for full little he knew of what birth he was and for what cause he came to this court. [ ] foin: reach forth. chapter xv how sir gareth fought for the lady of castle perilous after the damsel rode fair-hands, now well provided with shield and spear, and known to sir launcelot, at least, as sir gareth and nephew to king arthur. when he had overtaken the damsel, anon she said: "what dost thou here? thou smellest all of the kitchen; thy clothes be foul with the grease and tallow that thou gainedst in king arthur's kitchen; therefore turn again, foul kitchen-page. i know thee well, for sir kay named thee fair-hands. what art thou but a lubber and a turner of spits, and a ladle washer?" "damsel," said fair-hands, "say to me what ye will, i will not go from you, for i have undertaken, in king arthur's presence, to achieve your adventure, and so shall i finish it, or i shall die therefore." thus as they rode along in the wood, there came a man flying all that ever he might. "whither wilt thou?" said fair-hands. "o lord," he said, "help me, for yonder in a dell are six thieves that have taken my lord and bound him, and i am afeard lest they will slay him." so fair-hands rode with the man until they came to where the knight lay bound, and the thieves hard by. fair-hands struck one unto the death, and then another, and at the third stroke he slew the third thief; and then the other three fled. he rode after them and overtook them, and then those three thieves turned again and assailed fair-hands hard, but at the last he slew them also, and returned and unbound the knight. the knight thanked him, and prayed him to ride with him to his castle there a little beside, and he should honourably reward him for his good deeds. "sir," said fair-hands, "i will no reward have except as god reward me. and also i must follow this damsel." when he came nigh her, she bade him ride from her, "for," said she, "thou smellest all of the kitchen; thinkest thou that i have joy of thee? all this deed thou hast done is but mishapped thee, but thou shalt see a sight that shall make thee turn again, and that lightly." then the same knight who was rescued from the thieves rode after that damsel, and prayed her to lodge with him that night. and because it was near night the damsel rode with him to the castle, and there they had great cheer. at supper the knight set sir fair-hands afore the damsel. "fie, fie," said she, "sir knight, ye are uncourteous to set a kitchen-page afore me; him beseemeth better to stick a swine than to sit afore a damsel of high parentage." then the knight was ashamed at her words, and took fair-hands up and set him at a sideboard, and seated himself afore him. so all that night they had good cheer and merry rest. on the morn the damsel and fair-hands thanked the knight and took their leave, and rode on their way until they came to a great forest. therein was a great river with but one passage, and there were ready two knights on the farther side, to prevent their crossing. fair-hands would not have turned back had there been six more, and he rushed into the water. one of the two encountered with him in the midst of the stream, and both spears were broken. then they drew their swords and smote eagerly at one another. at the last sir fair-hands smote the other upon the helm so that he fell down stunned in the water, and there was he drowned. then sir fair-hands spurred his horse upon the land, where the other fell upon him, and they fought long together. at the last sir fair-hands clove his helm and his head, and so rode unto the damsel and bade her ride forth on her way. "alas," she said, "that ever a kitchen-page should have that fortune to destroy two such doughty knights. thou thinkest thou hast done doughtily, but that is not so, for the first knight's horse stumbled, and so he was drowned in the water; it was never by thy force or by thy might. and as for the second knight, by mishap thou camest behind him and slewest him." "damsel," said fair-hands, "ye may say what ye will, but whomsoever i have ado with i trust to god to serve him ere he depart, and therefore i reck not what ye say, provided i may win your lady." "fie, fie, foul kitchen-knave, thou shalt see knights that shall abate thy boast. i see all that ever thou doest is but by misadventure, and not by prowess of thy hands." "fair damsel," said he, "give me goodly language, and then my care is past. ye may say what ye will; what knights soever i shall meet, i fear them not, and wheresoever ye go i will follow you." so they rode on till even-song time, and ever she chid him and would not cease. and then they came to a black lawn, and there was a black hawthorn, and thereon hung a black banner, and on the other side there hung a black shield, and by it stood a black spear great and long, and a great black horse covered with silk, and a black stone fast by, whereon sat a knight all armed in black harness, and his name was the knight of the black lawns. the damsel, when she saw this knight, bade fair-hands flee down the valley. "grammercy," said he, "always ye would have me a coward." with that the black knight, when she came nigh him, spake and said, "damsel, have ye brought this knight of king arthur to be your champion?" "nay, fair knight," said she, "this is but a kitchen-knave, that was fed in king arthur's kitchen for alms. i cannot be rid of him, for with me he rideth against my will. would that ye should put him from me, or else slay him, if ye may, for he is a troublesome knave, and evilly he hath done this day." "thus much shall i grant you," said the black knight: "i shall put him down upon one foot, and his horse and his harness he shall leave with me, for it were shame to me to do him any more harm." when sir fair-hands heard him say thus, he said, "sir knight, thou art full generous with my horse and my harness; i let thee know it cost thee naught, and whether thou like it or not, this lawn will i pass, and neither horse nor harness gettest thou of me, except as thou win them with thy hands. i am no kitchen-page, as the damsel saith i am; i am a gentleman born, and of more high lineage than thou, and that will i prove on thy body." then in great wrath they drew back with their horses, and rushed together as it had been the thunder. the black knight's spear brake, and fair-hands thrust him through both his sides, whereupon his own spear brake also. nevertheless the black knight drew his sword and smote many eager strokes of great might, and hurt fair-hands full sore. but at the last he fell down off his horse in a swoon, and there he died. when fair-hands saw that the black knight had been so well horsed and armed, he alighted down and armed himself in the dead man's armour, took his horse, and rode after the damsel. when she saw him come nigh, she said, "away, kitchen-knave, out of the wind, for the smell of thy foul clothes offendeth me. alas that ever such a knave as thou art should by mishap slay so good a knight as thou hast done. all this is my ill luck, but hard by is one that shall requite thee, and therefore again i counsel thee, flee." "it may be my lot," said fair-hands, "to be beaten or slain, but i warn you, fair damsel, i will not flee away or leave your company for all that ye can say, for ever ye say that they will kill me or beat me, yet it happeneth that i escape and they lie on the ground. therefore it were as good for you to stop thus all day rebuking me, for away will i not till i see the uttermost of this journey, or else i will be slain or truly beaten; therefore ride on your way, for follow you i will, whatsoever happen." as they rode along together they saw a knight come driving by them all in green, both his horse and his harness; and when he came nigh the damsel he asked her, "is that my brother the black knight that ye have brought with you?" "nay, nay," said she, "this unlucky kitchen-knave hath slain your brother through mischance." "alas," said the green knight, "that is great pity that so noble a knight as he was should so unfortunately be slain, and by a knave's hand, as ye say that he is. ah! traitor, thou shalt die for slaying my brother; he was a full noble knight." "i defy thee," said fair-hands, "for i make known to thee i slew him knightly and not shamefully." therewithal the green knight rode unto a horn that was green that hung on a green thorn, and there he blew three deadly notes, whereupon came two damsels and armed him lightly. then he took a great horse and a green shield and a green spear, and the two knights ran together with all their mights. they brake their spears unto their hands, and then drew their swords. now they gave many sad strokes, and either of them wounded other full ill. at the last fair-hands' horse struck the green knight's horse upon the side, and it fell to the earth. then the green knight left his horse lightly, and prepared to fight on foot. that saw fair-hands, and therewithal he alighted, and they rushed together like two mighty champions a long while, and sore they bled both. with that came the damsel and said, "my lord, the green knight, why for shame stand ye so long fighting with the kitchen-knave? alas, it is shame that ever ye were made knight, to see such a lad match such a knight, as if the weed overgrew the corn." therewith the green knight was ashamed, and gave a great stroke of might, and clave fair-hands' shield through. when the young knight saw his shield cloven asunder he was a little ashamed of that stroke and of her language, and then he gave the other such a buffet upon the helm that he fell on his knees, and fair-hands quickly pulled him upon the ground grovelling. then the green knight cried for mercy, and yielded himself unto sir fair-hands, and prayed him to slay him not. "all is in vain," said fair-hands, "for thou shalt die unless this damsel that came with me pray me to save thy life." therewithal he unlaced his helm as if to slay him. "let be," said the damsel, "thou foul kitchen-knave, slay him not, for if thou do, thou shalt repent it." "damsel," said fair-hands, "your charge is to me a pleasure, and at your commandment his life shall be saved, and else not. sir knight with the green arms, i release thee quit at this damsel's request, for i will not make her wroth; i will fulfil all that she chargeth me." and then the green knight kneeled down and did him homage with his sword, promising for ever to become his man together with thirty knights that held of him. then said the damsel, "me repenteth, green knight, of your damage and of the death of your brother the black knight; of your help i had great need, for i fear me sore to pass this forest." "nay, fear ye not," said the green knight, "for ye shall lodge with me this night, and to-morn i shall help you through this forest." so they took their horses and rode to his manor, which was fast there beside. and ever the damsel rebuked fair-hands, and would not suffer him to sit at her table. but the green knight took him and set him at a side table, and did him honour, for he saw that he was come of noble blood and had proved himself a full noble knight. all that night he commanded thirty men privily to watch fair-hands for to keep him from all treason. and on the morn they arose, and after breaking their fast they took their horses and rode on their way. as the green knight conveyed them through the forest he said, "my lord fair-hands, i and these thirty knights shall be always at your summons, both early and late at your call wherever ye will send us." "it is well," said fair-hands; "when i call upon you ye must go unto king arthur with all your knights." so the green knight took his leave, and the damsel said unto fair-hands, "why followest thou me, thou kitchen-boy; cast away thy shield and thy spear and flee, for thou shalt not pass a pass here, that is called the pass perilous." "damsel," said fair-hands, "who is afraid let him flee, for it were shame to turn again since i have ridden so long with you." "well," said she, "ye shall soon, whether ye will or not." in like manner on the next day sir fair-hands overcame a third brother, the red knight, and in like manner the damsel would have fair-hands spare his life. albeit she spake unto him many contemptuous words, whereof the red knight had great marvel, and all that night made three-score men to watch fair-hands that he should have no shame or villainy. the red knight yielded himself to fair-hands with fifty knights, and they all proffered him homage and fealty at all times to do him service. "i thank you," said fair-hands; "this ye shall grant me when i call upon you, to come afore my lord king arthur and yield yourselves unto him to be his knights." "sir," said the red knight, "i will be ready and my fellowship at your summons." so again upon the morn sir fair-hands and the damsel departed, and ever she rode chiding him in the foulest manner. "damsel," said fair-hands, "ye are uncourteous so to rebuke me as ye do, for me seemeth i have done you good service, and ever ye threaten me i shall be beaten with knights that we meet; but ever for all your boasts they lie in the dust or in the mire, and therefore i pray you rebuke me no more. when ye see me beaten or yielded as recreant, then may ye bid me go from you shamefully, but first i let you wit i will not depart from you, for i were worse than a fool if i should depart from you all the while that i win honour." "well," said she, "right soon there shall come a knight that shall pay thee all thy wages, for he is the most man of honour of the world, except king arthur." "the more he is of honour," said fair-hands, "the more shall be my honour to have ado with him. have no doubt, damsel, by the grace of god i shall so deal with this knight that within two hours after noon i shall overcome him, and then shall we come to the siege of your lady's castle seven miles hence by daylight." "marvel have i," said the damsel, "what manner of man ye be, for it may never be otherwise but that ye be come of noble blood, for so foul and shamefully did never woman rule a knight as i have done you, and ever courteously ye have suffered me, and that came never but of gentle blood." "damsel," said fair-hands, "a knight may little do that may not suffer a damsel, for whatsoever ye said unto me i took no heed to your words, for the more ye said the more ye angered me, and my wrath i wreaked upon them that i had ado withal. and therefore all the missaying that ye missaid me furthered me in my battle, and caused me to think to show and prove myself at the end what i was. for peradventure, though i had meat in king arthur's kitchen, yet i might have had meat enough in other places. all that i did to prove and to assay my friends, and whether i be a gentleman born or not, i let you wit, fair damsel, i have done you gentleman's service, and peradventure better service yet will i do ere i depart from you." "alas," she said, "good fair-hands, forgive me all that i have missaid or done against thee." "with all my heart," said he, "i forgive it you, and damsel, since it liketh you to say thus fair to me, wit ye well it gladdeth mine heart greatly, and now me seemeth there is no knight living but i am able enough for him." with this sir persant of inde, the fourth of the brethren that stood in fair-hands' way to the siege, espied them as they came upon the fair meadow where his pavilion was. sir persant was the most lordly knight that ever thou lookedst on. his pavilion and all manner of thing that there is about, men and women, and horses' trappings, shields and spears were all of dark blue colour. anon he and fair-hands prepared themselves and rode against one another that both their spears were shattered to pieces, and their horses fell dead to the earth. then they fought two hours and more on foot, until their armour was all hewn to pieces, and in many places they were wounded. at the last, though loath to do it, fair-hands smote sir persant above upon the helm so that he fell grovelling to the earth, and the fierce battle was at an end. like his three brethren before, sir persant yielded himself and asked for mercy, and at the damsel's request fair-hands gladly granted his life, and received homage and fealty from him and a hundred knights, to be always at his commandment. on the morn as the damsel and sir fair-hands departed from sir persant's pavilion, "fair damsel," said persant, "whitherward are ye away leading this knight?" "sir," she said, "this knight is going to the siege that besiegeth my sister in the castle perilous." "ah, ah," said persant, "that is the knight of the red lawns, the most perilous knight that i know now living, a man that is without mercy, and men say that he hath seven men's strength. god save you, sir, from that knight, for he doth great wrong to that lady, which is great pity, for she is one of the fairest ladies of the world, and me seemeth that this damsel is her sister. is not your name linet?" "yea, sir," said she, "and my lady my sister's name is dame liones. now, my lord sir persant of inde, i request you that ye make this gentleman knight or ever he fight with the red knight." "i will with all my heart," said sir persant, "if it please him to take the order of knighthood of so simple a man as i am." but fair-hands thanked him for his good will, and told him he was better sped, as the noble sir launcelot had already made him knight. then, after persant and the damsel had promised to keep it close, he told them his real name was gareth of orkney, king arthur's nephew, and that sir gawaine and sir agravaine and sir gaheris were all his brethren, he being the youngest of them all. "and yet," said he, "wot not king arthur nor sir gawaine what i am." the book saith that the lady that was besieged had word of her sister's coming and a knight with her, and how he had passed all the perilous passages, had won all the four brethren, and had slain the black knight, and how he overthrew sir kay, and did great battle with sir launcelot, and was made knight by him. she was glad of these tidings, and sent them wine and dainty foods and bade sir fair-hands be of good heart and good courage. the next day fair-hands and linet took their horses again and rode through a fair forest and came to a spot where they saw across the plain many pavilions and a fair castle and much smoke. and when they came near the siege sir fair-hands espied upon great trees, as he rode, how there hung goodly armed knights by the necks, nigh forty of them, their shields about their necks with their swords. these were knights that had come to the siege to rescue dame liones, and had been overcome and put to this shameful death by the red knight of the red lawns. then they rode to the dykes, and saw how strong were the defences, and many great lords nigh the walls, and the sea upon the one side of the walls, where were many ships and mariners' noise, with "hale" and "ho." fast by there was a sycamore tree, whereupon hung a horn, the greatest that ever they saw, of an elephant's bone. this the knight of the red lawns had hung up there that any errant knight might blow it, if he wished the knight of the red lawns to come to him to do battle. the damsel linet besought fair-hands not to blow the horn till high noon, for the red knight's might grew greater all through the morn, till, as men said, he had seven men's strength. "ah, fie for shame, fair damsel," said fair-hands, "say ye never so more to me, for, were he as good a knight as ever was, i shall never fail him in his most might, for either i will win honour honourably, or die knightly in the field." therewith he spurred his horse straight to the sycamore tree, and blew the horn so eagerly that all the siege and all the castle rang thereof. and then there leaped out knights out of their tents, and they within the castle looked over the walls and out at windows. then the red knight of the red lawns armed himself hastily, and two barons set his spurs upon his heels, and all was blood red,--his armour, spear, and shield. and an earl buckled his helm upon his head, and then they brought him a red steed, and so he rode into a little vale under the castle, that all that were in the castle and at the siege might behold the battle. sir fair-hands looked up at a window of the castle, and there he saw the lady liones, the fairest lady, it seemed to him, that ever he looked upon. she made courtesy down to him, and ever he looked up to the window with glad countenance, and loved her from that time and vowed to rescue her or else to die. "leave, sir knight, thy looking," said the red knight, "and behold me, i counsel thee, and make thee ready." then they both put their spears in their rests, and came together with all the might that they had. either smote other in the midst of the shield with such force that the breastplates, horse-girths, and cruppers brake, and both fell to the earth stunned, and lay so long that all they that were in the castle and in the siege thought their necks had been broken. but at length they put their shields afore them, drew their swords, and ran together like two fierce lions. either gave other such buffets upon the helm that they reeled backward; then they recovered both, and hewed off great pieces of their harness and their shields. thus they fought till it was past noon, and never would stint, till at last they lacked wind both, and stood panting and blowing a while. then they went to battle again, and thus they endured till even-song time, and none that beheld them might know whether was like to win. then by assent of them both they granted either other to rest; and so they sat down on two molehills, and unlaced their helms to take the cool wind. then sir fair-hands looked up at the window, and there he saw the fair lady, dame liones. she made him such countenance that his heart waxed light and jolly; and therewith he bade the red knight of the red lawns make ready to do battle to the uttermost. so they laced up their helms and fought freshly. by a cross stroke the red knight of the red lawns smote sir fair-hands' sword from him, and then gave him another buffet on the helm so that he fell grovelling to the earth, and the red knight fell upon him to hold him down. then linet cried to him aloud and said that the lady beheld and wept. when sir fair-hands heard her say so he started up with great might, gat upon his feet, and leaped to his sword. he gripped it in his hand, doubled his pace unto the red knight, and there they fought a new battle together. now sir fair-hands doubled his strokes and smote so thick that soon he had the better of the red knight of the red lawns, and unlaced his helm to slay him, whereupon he yielded himself to fair-hands' mercy. sir fair-hands bethought him upon the knights that he had made to be hanged shamefully, and said, "i may not with my honour save thy life." then came there many earls and barons and noble knights, and prayed fair-hands to save his life and take him as prisoner. then he released him upon this covenant that he go within to the castle and yield himself there to the lady, and if she would forgive him he might have his life with making amends to the lady of all the trespass he had done against her and her lands. the red knight of the red lawns promised to do as sir fair-hands commanded and so with all those earls and barons he made his homage and fealty to him. within a while he went unto the castle, where he made peace with the lady liones, and departed unto the court of king arthur. there he told openly how he was overcome and by whom, and also he told all the battles of fair-hands from the beginning unto the ending. "mercy," said king arthur and sir gawaine, "we marvel much of what blood he is come, for he is a noble knight." but sir launcelot had no marvel, for he knew whence he came, yet because of his promise he would not discover fair-hands until he permitted it or else it were known openly by some other. dame liones soon learned through her brother sir gringamore that the knight who had wrought her deliverance was a king's son, sir gareth of orkney, and nephew of king arthur himself. and she made him passing good cheer, and he her again, and they had goodly language and lovely countenance together. and she promised the noble knight sir gareth certainly to love him and none other the days of her life. then there was not a gladder man than he, for ever since he saw her at the window of castle perilous he had so burned in love for her that he was nigh past himself in his reason. chapter xvi how sir gareth returned to the court of king arthur now leave we sir gareth there with sir gringamore and his sisters, liones and linet, and turn we unto king arthur that held the next feast of pentecost at carlion. and there came the green knight with his fifty knights, and they yielded themselves all unto king arthur. and so there came the red knight, his brother, and yielded himself and three-score knights with him. also there came the blue knight, brother to them, and his hundred knights, and yielded themselves. these three brethren told king arthur how they were overcome by a knight that a damsel had with her, and called him fair-hands. also they told how the fourth brother, the black knight, was slain in an encounter with sir fair-hands, and of the adventure with the two brethren that kept the passage of the water; and ever more king arthur marvelled who the knight might be that was in his kitchen a twelvemonth and that sir kay in scorn named fair-hands. right as the king stood so talking with these three brethren there came sir launcelot of the lake and told him that there was come a goodly lord with six hundred knights. the king went out, and there came to him and saluted him in a goodly manner the red knight of the red lawns, and he said, "i am sent to you by a knight that is called fair-hands, for he won me in plain battle, hand for hand. no knight has ever had the better of me before. i and my knights yield ourselves to your will, as he commanded, to do you such service as may be in our power." king arthur received him courteously, as he had before received the three brethren, and he promised to do them honour for the love of sir fair-hands. then the king and they went to meat, and were served in the best manner. and as they sat at the table, there came in the queen of orkney, with ladies and knights a great number. and her sons, sir gawaine, sir agravaine, and gaheris arose and went to her, and saluted her upon their knees and asked her blessing, for in fifteen years they had not seen her. then she spake on high to her brother, king arthur, "where have ye done my young son, sir gareth? he was here amongst you a twelvemonth, and ye made a kitchen-knave of him, which is shame to you all." "oh dear mother," said sir gawaine, "i knew him not." "nor i," said the king; "but thanked be god, he is proved an honourable knight as any of his years now living, and i shall never be glad till i may find him. sister, me seemeth ye might have done me to know of his coming, and then, had i not done well to him, ye might have blamed me. for when he came to this court, he came leaning upon two men's shoulders, as though he might not walk. and then he asked of me three gifts,--one the same day, that was that i would give him meat for that twelvemonth. the other two gifts he asked that day a twelvemonth, and those were that he might have the adventure of the damsel linet, and that sir launcelot should make him knight when he desired him. i granted him all his desire, and many in this court marvelled that he desired his sustenance for a twelvemonth, and thereby deemed many of us that he was not come of a noble house." "sir," said the queen of orkney unto king arthur, her brother, "i sent him unto you right well armed and horsed, and gold and silver plenty to spend." "it may be," said the king, "but thereof saw we none, save that same day as he departed from us, knights told me that there came a dwarf hither suddenly, and brought him armour and a good horse, full well and richly beseen, and thereat we had all marvel from whence that riches came. then we deemed all that he was come of men of honour." "brother," said the queen, "all that ye say i believe, for ever since he was grown he was marvellously witted, and ever he was faithful and true to his promise. but i marvel that sir kay did mock him and scorn him, and give him the name fair-hands. yet sir kay named him more justly than he knew, for i dare say, if he be alive, he is as fair-handed a man and as well disposed as any living." "sister," said arthur, "by the grace of god he shall be found if he be within these seven realms. meanwhile let us be merry, for he is proved to be a man of honour, and that is my joy." so then goodly letters were made and a messenger sent forth to the lady liones, praying her to give best counsel where sir gareth might be found. she answered that she could not then tell where he was; but she let proclaim a great tournament at her castle, and was sure that sir gareth would be heard of there. so king arthur and all his knights of valour and prowess came together at the lady liones' castle by the isle of avilion, and great deeds of arms were done there, but most of all sir gareth gained honour, though no one knew that it was he until a herald rode near him and saw his name written about his helm. wit ye well the king made great joy when he found sir gareth again, and ever he wept as he had been a child. with that came his mother, the queen of orkney, and when she saw sir gareth really face to face she suddenly fell down in a swoon. then sir gareth comforted his mother in such a wise that she recovered, and made good cheer. and the lady liones came, among all the ladies there named the fairest and peerless. and there the king asked his nephew sir gareth whether he would have that lady to his wife. "my lord," said he, "wit ye well that i love her above all ladies." "now, fair lady," said king arthur, "what say ye?" "most noble king," said dame liones, "wit ye well that my lord gareth is to me more dear to have and to hold as my husband than any king or prince that is christened, and if ye will suffer him to have his will and free choice, i dare say he will have me." "that is truth," said sir gareth, "and if i have not you and hold not you as my wife i wed no lady." "what, nephew," said the king, "is the wind in that door! wit ye well i would not for the stint of my crown be causer to withdraw your hearts. ye shall have my love and my lordship in the uttermost wise that may lie in my power." then was there made a provision for the day of marriage, and by the king's advice it should be at michaelmas following at kink-kenadon by the seaside. and when the day came the bishop of canterbury made the wedding betwixt sir gareth and the lady liones with great solemnity. and at the same time gaheris was wedded to linet. when this solemnisation was done there came in the green knight, the red knight, and all the others that had yielded themselves to sir gareth, and did homage and fealty to hold their lands of him for ever, and desired to serve him at the feast. and the kings and queens, princes, earls, and barons, and many bold knights went unto meat, and well may ye wit that there was all manner of meat plenteously, all manner of revels, and games, with all manner of minstrelsy that was used in those days. so they held the court forty days with great solemnity. and this sir gareth was a noble knight, and a well ruled, and fair languaged. chapter xvii how young tristram saved the life of the queen of lyonesse there was a king called meliodas, as likely a knight as any living, and he was lord of the country of lyonesse. at that time king arthur reigned supreme over england, wales, scotland, and many other realms, howbeit there were many lords of countries that held their lands under king arthur. so also was the king of france subject to him, and the king of brittany, and all the lordships as far as rome. the wife of this king meliodas was a full good and fair lady, called elizabeth, the sister of king mark of cornwall. well she loved her lord, and he her again, and there was much joy betwixt them. there was a lady in that country who bore ill will towards this king and queen, and therefore upon a day, as he rode on hunting, for he was a great chaser, she by an enchantment made him chase a hart by himself alone till he came to an old castle, where anon she had him taken prisoner. when queen elizabeth missed her lord she was nigh out of her wit, and she took a gentlewoman with her and ran into the forest to seek him. when she was far in the forest and might go no farther, she sank down exhausted. for the default of help she took cold there, and she soon knew that she must die. so she begged her gentlewoman to commend her to king meliodas, and to say that she was full sorry to depart out of this world from him, and that their little child, that was to have such sorrow even in his infancy, should be christened tristram. therewith this queen gave up the ghost and died. the gentlewoman laid her under the shadow of a great tree, and right so there came the barons, following after the queen. when they saw that she was dead they had her carried home, and much dole[ ] was made for her. the morn after his queen died king meliodas was delivered out of prison, and the sorrow he made for her, when he was come home, no tongue might tell. he had her richly interred, and afterwards, as she had commanded afore her death, had his child christened tristram, the sorrowful born child. for seven years he remained without a wife, and all that time young tristram was nourished well. then, when he wedded king howell's daughter of brittany and had other children, the stepmother was wroth that tristram should be heir to the country of lyonesse rather than her own son. wherefore this jealous queen resolved to become rid of her stepson, and she put poison into a silver cup in the chamber where tristram and her children were together, intending that when tristram was thirsty he should drink it. but it happened that the queen's own son espied the cup with poison, and, because the child was thirsty and supposed it was good drink, he took of it freely. therewithal he died suddenly, and when the queen wist of the death of her son, wit ye well that she was heavy of heart. but yet the king understood nothing of her treason. notwithstanding all this the queen would not leave her jealousy, and soon had more poison put in a cup. by fortune king meliodas, her husband, found the cup where was the poison, and being much thirsty he took to drink thereout. anon the queen espied him and ran unto him and pulled the cup from him suddenly. the king marvelled why she did so, and remembered how her son was suddenly slain with poison. then he took her by the hand, and said: "thou false traitress, thou shalt tell me what manner of drink this is." therewith he pulled out his sword, and swore a great oath that he should slay her if she told him not the truth. then she told him all, and by the assent of the barons she was condemned to be burned as a traitress, according to the law. a great fire was made, and just as she was at the fire to take her execution young tristram kneeled afore king meliodas and besought of him a boon. "i grant it," said the king, whereupon the youth demanded the life of the queen, his stepmother. "that is unrightfully asked," said king melodias, "for she would have slain thee, if she had had her will, and for thy sake most is my cause that she should die." but tristram besought his father to forgive her, as he himself did, and required him to hold his promise. then said the king, "since ye will have it so, i give her to you; go ye to the fire and take her, and do with her what ye will." so sir tristram went to the fire, and by the commandment of the king delivered her from death. but thereafter king meliodas would never have aught to do with her, though by the good means of young tristram he at length forgave her. ever after in her life she never hated her stepson more, but loved him and had great joy of him, because he saved her from the fire. but the king would not suffer him to abide longer at his court. [ ] dole: sorrow; mourning. chapter xviii sir tristram's first battle king melodias sought out a gentleman that was well learned, and taught, and with him, named gouvernail, he sent young tristram away from lyonesse court into france, to learn the language and customs and deeds of arms. there he learned to be a harper passing all others of his time, and he also applied himself well to the gentlemanly art of hawking and hunting, for he that gentle is will draw unto him gentle qualities and follow the customs of noble gentlemen. the old chronicle saith he adopted good methods for the chase, and the terms he used we have yet in hawking and hunting. therefore the book of forest sports is called the book of sir tristram. when he well could speak the language and had learned all that he might in that country, he came home again, and remained in cornwall until he was big and strong, of the age of nineteen years, and his father, king meliodas, had great joy of him. then it befell that king anguish of ireland sent to king mark of cornwall for the tribute long paid him, but now seven years behind. king mark and his barons gave unto the messenger of ireland the answer that they would no tribute pay, and bade him tell his king that if he wished tribute he should send a trusty knight of his land to fight for it against another that cornwall should find to defend its right. with this the messenger departed into ireland. when king anguish understood the answer, he was wonderfully wroth, and called unto him sir marhaus, the good and proved knight, brother unto the queen of ireland, and a knight of the round table, and said to him: "fair brother, i pray you go into cornwall for my sake, and do battle for the tribute that of right we ought to have." sir marhaus was not loath to do battle for his king and his land, and in all haste he was fitted with all things that to him needed, and so he departed out of ireland and arrived in cornwall even fast by the castle of tintagil. when king mark understood that the good and noble knight sir marhaus was come to fight for ireland, he made great sorrow, for he knew no knight that durst have ado with him. sir marhaus remained on his ship, and every day he sent word unto king mark that he should pay the tribute or else find a champion to fight for it with him. then they of cornwall let make cries in every place, that what knight would fight to save the tribute should be rewarded so that he should fare the better the term of his life. but no one came to do the battle, and some counselled king mark to send to the court of king arthur to seek sir launcelot of the lake, that at that time was named for the marvellousest knight of all the world. others said it were labour in vain to do so, because sir marhaus was one of the knights of the round table, and any one of them would be loath to have ado with other. so the king and all his barons at the last agreed that it was no boot to seek any knight of the round table. meanwhile came the language and the noise unto young tristram how sir marhaus abode battle fast by tintagil, and how king mark could find no manner of knight to fight for him. then sir tristram was wroth and sore ashamed that there durst no knight in cornwall have ado with sir marhaus, and he went unto his father, king meliodas, and said: "alas, that i am not made knight; if i were, i would engage with him. i pray you give me leave to ride to king mark to be made knight by him." "i will well," said the father, "that ye be ruled as your courage will rule you." so tristram went unto his uncle, who quickly gave him the order of knighthood, and anon sent a messenger unto sir marhaus with letters that said he had found a young knight ready to take the battle to the uttermost. then in all haste king mark had sir tristram horsed and armed in the best manner that might be had or gotten for gold or silver, and he was put into a vessel, both his horse and he, and all that to him belonged both for his body and for his horse, to be taken to an island nigh sir marhaus' ships, where it was agreed that they should fight. and when king mark and his barons beheld young sir tristram depart to fight for the right of cornwall, there was neither man nor woman of honour but wept to see so young a knight jeopard himself for their right. when sir tristram was arrived at the island, he commanded his servant gouvernail to bring his horse to the land and to dress his horse rightly, and then, when he was in the saddle well apparelled and his shield dressed upon his shoulder, he commanded gouvernail to go to his vessel again and return to king mark. "and upon thy life," said he, "come thou not nigh this island till thou see me overcome or slain, or else that i win yonder knight." so either departed from other. when sir marhaus perceived this young knight seeking to encounter with himself, one of the most renowned knights of the world, he said, "fair sir, since thou hopest to win honour of me, i let thee wit honour mayest thou none lose by me if thou mayest stand me three strokes, for i let thee wit for my noble deeds, proved and seen, king arthur made me knight of the table round." then they put spears in rest and ran together so fiercely that they smote either other down, horse and all. anon they pulled out their swords and lashed together as men that were wild and courageous. thus they fought more than half a day, and either was wounded passing sore, so that the blood ran down freshly from them upon the ground. by then sir tristram waxed more fresh than sir marhaus, and better winded, and bigger, and with a mighty stroke he smote sir marhaus upon the helm such a buffet, that it went through his helm and through the coif of steel and through the brain-pan, and the sword stuck so fast in the helm and in his brain-pan that sir tristram pulled thrice at his sword or ever he might pull it out from his head; and there marhaus fell down on his knees, the edge of tristram's sword left in his brain-pan. suddenly sir marhaus rose grovelling, and threw his sword and his shield from him, and so ran to his ships and fled his way, sore groaning. anon he and his fellowship departed into ireland, and, as soon as he came to the king his brother, he had his wounds searched, and in his head was found a piece of sir tristram's sword. no surgeons might cure this wound, and so he died of sir tristram's sword. that piece of the sword the queen his sister kept ever with her, for she thought to be revenged, if she might. now turn we again unto sir tristram, that was sore wounded by a spear-thrust of sir marhaus so that he might scarcely stir. he sat down softly upon a little hill, and bled fast. then anon came gouvernail, his man, with his vessel, and sir tristram was quickly taken back into the castle of tintagil. he was cared for in the best manner possible, but he lay there a month and more, and ever he was like to die of the stroke from sir marhaus' spear, for, as the french book saith, the spear's head was envenomed. then was king mark passing heavy, and he sent after all manner of surgeons, but there was none that would promise him life. at last there came a right wise lady, and she said plainly that he should never be whole unless he went into the same country that the venom came from, and in that country he should be holpen, or else never. when king mark understood that, he let provide for sir tristram a fair vessel, well victualled, and therein was put sir tristram and gouvernail, with him. sir tristram took his harp with him, and so they put to sea to sail into ireland. chapter xix sir tristram and the fair isoud by good fortune sir tristram with gouvernail arrived in ireland fast by a castle where king anguish and the queen were. as he came to land he sat and harped in his bed a merry lay, such as none in ireland ever heard afore that time. and when the king and queen were told of this stranger that was such a harper, anon they sent for him and let search his wounds, and then asked him his name. then he answered, "i am of the country of lyonesse; my name is tramtrist, and i was thus wounded in a battle, as i fought for a lady's right." "truly," said king anguish, "ye shall have all the help in this land that ye may. but i let you wit in cornwall i had a great loss as ever king had, for there i lost the best knight of the world. his name was marhaus, a full noble knight of the table round." then he told sir tristram wherefore sir marhaus was slain. sir tristram made semblant as if he were sorry, and yet better knew he how it was than the king. the king for great favour had tramtrist put in his daughter's keeping, because she was a noble surgeon. when she searched his wound she found that therein was poison, and so she healed him within a while. therefore tramtrist cast great devotion to the fair isoud, for she was at that time the fairest maid of the world. he taught her to harp, and she soon began to have a great fancy unto him. then soon he showed himself to be so brave and true a knight in the jousts that she had great suspicion that he was some man of honour proved, and she loved him more than heretofore. thus was sir tramtrist long there well cherished by the king and the queen and especially by isoud the fair. upon a day as sir tramtrist was absent, the queen and isoud roamed up and down in the chamber, and beheld his sword there as it lay upon his bed. and then by mishap the queen drew out the sword and regarded it a long while. both thought it a passing fair sword, but within a foot and a half of the point there was a great piece thereof broken out of the edge. when the queen espied that gap in the sword, she remembered her of a piece of a sword that was found in the brain-pan of sir marhaus, her brother. "alas," then said she unto her daughter, the fair isoud, "this is the traitor knight that slew thine uncle." when isoud heard her say so she was sore abashed, for much she loved sir tramtrist, and full well she knew the cruelness of her mother. anon the queen went unto her own chamber and sought her coffer, and there she took out the piece of the sword that was pulled out of sir marhaus' head. then she ran with that piece of iron to the sword that lay upon the bed, and when she put that piece unto the sword, it was as meet as it could be when new broken. the queen now gripped that sword in her hand fiercely, and with all her might ran straight to where she knew tramtrist was, and there she would have thrust him through, had not a knight pulled the sword from her. then when she was letted of her evil will, she ran to king anguish and told him on her knees what traitor he had in his house. the king was right heavy thereof, but charged the queen to leave him to deal with the knight. he went straight into the chamber unto sir tramtrist, that he found by now all ready armed to mount upon his horse. king anguish saw that it was of no avail to fight, and that it was no honour to slay sir tramtrist while a guest within his court; so he gave him leave to depart from ireland in safety, if he would tell who he was, and whether he slew sir marhaus. "sir," said tristram, "now i shall tell you all the truth: my father's name is meliodas, king of lyonesse, and my mother is called elizabeth, that was sister unto king mark of cornwall. i was christened tristram, but, because i would not be known in this country, i turned my name, and had myself called tramtrist. for the tribute of cornwall i fought for mine uncle's sake, and for the right of cornwall that ye had possessed many years. and wit ye well i did the battle for the love of mine uncle, king mark, for the love of the country of cornwall, and to increase mine honour." "truly," said the king, "i may not say but ye did as a knight should; howbeit i may not maintain you in this country with my honour." "sir," said tristram, "i thank you for your good lordship that i have had with you here, and the great goodness my lady your daughter hath shown me. it may so happen that ye shall win more by my life than by my death, for in the parts of england it may be i may do you service at some season so that ye shall be glad that ever ye showed me your good lordship. i beseech your good grace that i may take my leave of your daughter and of all the barons and knights." this request the king granted, and sir tristram went unto the fair isoud and took leave of her. and he told her all,--what he was, how he had changed his name because he would not be known, and how a lady told him that he should never be whole till he came into this country where the poison was made. she was full woe of his departing, and wept heartily. "madam," said tristram, "i promise you faithfully that i shall be all the days of my life your knight." "grammercy," said the fair isoud, "and i promise you against that i shall not be married this seven years but by your assent." then sir tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and therewith he departed from her, leaving her making great dole and lamentation. and he straight went unto the court among all the barons, and there he took his leave of most and least, and so departed and took the sea, and with good wind he arrived up at tintagil in cornwall. chapter xx how sir tristram demanded the fair isoud for king mark, and how sir tristram and isoud drank the love potion when there came tidings that sir tristram was arrived and whole of his wounds, king mark was passing glad, and so were all the barons. and sir tristram lived at the court of king mark in great joy long time, until at the last there befell a jealousy and an unkindness between them. then king mark cast always in his heart how he might destroy sir tristram. the beauty and goodness of the fair isoud were so praised by sir tristram that king mark said he would wed her, and prayed sir tristram to take his way into ireland for him, as his messenger, to bring her to cornwall. all this was done to the intent to slay sir tristram. notwithstanding, sir tristram would not refuse the message for any danger or peril, and made ready to go in the goodliest wise that might be devised. he took with him the goodliest knights that he might find in the court, arrayed them after the guise that was then used, and so departed over sea with all his fellowship. anon as he was in the broad sea a tempest took them and drove them back into the coast of england. they came to land fast by camelot, and there sir tristram set up his pavilion. now it fell that king anguish of ireland was accused of slaying by treason a cousin of sir launcelot of the lake, and just at this time he was come to the court at the summoning of king arthur upon pain of forfeiture of his lands; yet ere he arrived at camelot he wist not wherefore he was sent after. when he heard the accusation he understood full well there was no remedy but to answer it knightly, for the custom was in those days, that if any man were accused of any treason or murder, he should fight body for body or else find another knight to fight for him. now king anguish grew passing heavy when he heard his accusing, for the knights of king ban's blood, as sir launcelot was, were as hard men to win in battle as any then living. the meanwhile sir tristram was told how king anguish was come thither in great distress, and he sent gouvernail to bring him to his pavilion. when sir tristram saw the king coming he ran unto him and would have holden his stirrup, but king anguish leaped lightly from his horse, and either embraced other heartily. sir tristram remembered his promise, made when departing from ireland, to do service to king anguish if ever it lay in his power, and never had there been so great need of knight's help as now. so when king anguish told sir tristram all, sir tristram took the battle for the sake of the good lordship showed him in ireland, and for the sake of the fair isoud, upon the condition that king anguish grant two things. one was that he should swear that he was in the right and had never consented to the death of the knight. the second request was to be granted after the battle, if god should speed him therein. king anguish quickly granted sir tristram whatsoever he asked, and anon departed unto king arthur's judges, and told them he had found a champion ready to do the battle for him. so sir tristram fought for king anguish and overcame his adversary, a most noble knight. then king anguish and sir tristram joyfully took their leave, and sailed into ireland with great nobleness. when they were in ireland the king let make it known throughout all the land, how and in what manner sir tristram had done for him. then the queen and all that were there made the most of him that they might. but the joy that the fair isoud made of sir tristram no tongue might tell, for of men earthly she loved him most. then upon a day king anguish would know from sir tristram why he asked not his boon, for whatsoever had been promised he should have without fail. "sir," said tristram, "now is it time, and this is what i desire: that ye will give me the fair isoud, your daughter, not for myself, but for mine uncle, king mark, that shall have her to wife, for so have i promised him." "alas," said the king, "i had rather than all the land that i have ye would wed her yourself." "sir," said sir tristram, "if i did, then were i ashamed for ever in this world, and false of my promise. therefore i pray you hold your promise that ye gave me, for this is my desire, that ye will give me the fair isoud to go with me into cornwall, to be wedded to king mark, mine uncle." [illustration: sir tristram and the fair isoud] "as for that," said king anguish, "ye shall have her with you, to do with her what it please you; that is to say, if ye list to wed her yourself, that is to me lievest[ ]; and if ye will give her unto king mark, that is in your choice." so, to make a short conclusion, the fair isoud was made ready to go with sir tristram, and dame bragwaine went with her for her chief gentlewoman, with many others. the queen, isoud's mother, gave to dame bragwaine and unto gouvernail a drink, and charged them that what day king mark should wed, that same day they should give him that drink, "and then," said the queen, "i undertake either shall love other the days of their life." so this drink was given unto dame bragwaine and unto gouvernail, and then anon sir tristram took the sea with the fair isoud. when they were in the cabin, it happened that they were thirsty, and they saw a little flask of gold stand by them, that seemed by the colour and the taste to be noble wine. then sir tristram took the flask in his hand, and said: "madam isoud, here is the best drink that ever ye drank, that dame bragwaine your maid and gouvernail my servant have kept for themselves." then they laughed and made good cheer, and either drank to other, thinking never drink was so sweet or so good. but after they had drunk that magic wine, they loved either other so truly that never their love departed either for weal or for woe. so they sailed on till by fortune they came into cornwall. there all the barons met them, and anon king mark and the fair isoud were richly wedded with great splendour. but ever, as the french book saith, sir tristram and the fair isoud loved each other truly, and his life long he was her loyal and honourable knight. [ ] lievest: dearest. chapter xxi how sir tristram departed from tintagil, and was long in the forest there were great jousts and tourneying at that time in cornwall, and sir tristram was most praised of all the knights. but some were jealous because of his prowess, and especially sir andred, that was cousin unto sir tristram, ever lay in a watch to wait betwixt him and the fair isoud, for to take them and slander them. so upon a day sir tristram talked with isoud in a window, and that espied sir andred, and told it to the king. then king mark took a sword in his hand and came to sir tristram, and called him false traitor, and would have stricken him. but sir tristram ran under his sword, and took it out of his hand. and then the king cried, "where are my knights and my men? i charge you slay this traitor." but there was not one would move for his words. when sir tristram saw there was not one would be against him, he shook the sword to the king, and made as though he would strike him. and then king mark fled, for he was a coward, and sir tristram followed him, and smote upon him five or six strokes with the flat of his sword on the neck so that he made him fall upon the nose. sir tristram then went his way and armed himself, and took his horse and his man, and so he rode into the forest. king mark called his council unto him and asked advice of his barons what was best to do with sir tristram. their counsel was to send for him, that they might be friends, for in a quarrel, if sir tristram were hard bestead, many men would hold with him against the king; and if so peerless a knight should depart from king mark's court and go to king arthur's he would get himself such friends there that cornwall would be in ill repute. so the barons sent for sir tristram under a safe conduct, and he was welcomed back by king mark. but his enemies ever plotted against him, and on a day sir andred and some of the barons set upon him secretly, seized him, and took him, bound hand and foot, unto a chapel which stood upon the sea rocks. when sir tristram saw that andred meant to kill him there, he said: "fair lords, remember what i have done for the country cornwall, and in what jeopardy i have been for the weal of you all, and see not me die thus to the shame of all knighthood." but andred held to his purpose, and when sir tristram saw him draw his sword to kill him, he looked upon both his hands that were fast bound unto two knights, and suddenly he pulled them both to him and so freed his hands. then he leaped unto his cousin andred and wrested his sword out of his hands. then he smote sir andred to the earth, and fought with the others till he had killed ten knights. so sir tristram gat the chapel and kept it by force. then the uproar became great, and the people gathered unto sir andred, more than a hundred, whereupon sir tristram shut fast the chapel door, and brake the bars of a window, and so he leaped out and fell upon the crags by the sea. here sir andred and his fellows might not get to him at that time, and so they departed. when sir tristram's men heard that he was escaped they were passing glad, and on the rocks they found him, and with towels they pulled him up. then sir tristram dreaded sore lest he were discovered unto the king, wherefore he sent gouvernail for his horse and his spear, and so he rode his way into the forest. as he rode he was in great sorrow at departing in this wise; and there, as he made great dole, by fortune a damsel met him, and she and her lady brought him meat and drink. also they brought him a harp, for they knew him, and wist that for goodly harping he bore the prize in the world. so they tried to give him comfort, but he ate little of the food, and at the last, came wholly out his mind for sorrow. he would go about in the wilderness breaking down the trees and boughs; and otherwhile, when he found the harp that the lady sent him, then would he harp and play thereupon and weep together. sometimes when sir tristram was in the wood, then would the lady sit down and play upon the harp; then would he come to that harp and hearken thereto, and sometimes he would harp himself. thus it went on a quarter of a year, when at the last sir tristram ran his way, and the lady wist not what had become of him. he waxed lean and poor of flesh, and fell into the fellowship of herdmen and shepherds, and daily they would give him of their meat and drink. and when he did any evil deed they would beat him with rods, and so they clipped him with shears and made him like a fool. and upon a day sir dagonet, king arthur's fool, came into cornwall, with two squires with him, and as they rode through the forest they came by a fair well where sir tristram was wont to be. the weather was hot, and they alighted to drink of that well, and in the meanwhile their horses brake loose. just then sir tristram came unto them, and first he soused sir dagonet in that well, and then his squires, and thereat laughed the shepherds. forthwithal he ran after their horses, and brought them again one by one, and right so, wet as they were, he made sir dagonet and his squires mount and ride their ways. thus sir tristram endured there a half-year, and would never come in town or village. then sir andred, that was cousin unto sir tristram, let a tale be brought unto king mark's court that sir tristram was dead, and that ere he died he besought king mark to make sir andred king of the country of lyonesse, of the which sir tristram was lord. when queen isoud heard of these tidings she made such sorrow that she was nigh out of her mind, and she lay long sick, at the point of death. meanwhile a knight came unto king mark and told him of a mad man in the forest at the fair fountain. so he commanded his knights to take sir tristram with fairness, and bring him to his castle, yet he knew not that the mad man was sir tristram. they did softly and fair, and cast mantles upon sir tristram, and so led him unto tintagil. there they bathed him, and gave him hot suppings, till they had brought him well to his remembrance. but all this while there was no creature that knew sir tristram, nor what man he was. now it fell upon a day that the queen, the fair isoud, heard of this man that ran wild in the forest and how the king had brought him home to the court, and with dame bragwaine she went to see him in the garden, where he was reposing in the sun. when she looked upon sir tristram she knew not that it was he, yet it seemed to her she had seen him before. but as soon as sir tristram saw her he knew her well enough, and he turned away his visage and wept. the queen had always with her a little dog that sir tristram gave her the first time that ever she came into cornwall, and never would that dog depart from her unless sir tristram was nigh there with isoud. anon as this little dog caught a scent of sir tristram, she leaped upon him, licked his cheeks, whined and smelled at his feet and over his whole body. then the fair isoud saw that it was her lord, sir tristram, and thereupon she fell down in a swoon, and so lay a great while. when she might speak, she blessed god that sir tristram was still alive, yet she knew that her lord king mark would discover him by the little dog that would never leave him. chapter xxii how king mark was sorry for the good renown of sir tristram the queen departed from sir tristram but the little dog would not from him. therewithal came king mark, and the dog set upon him and bayed at all the barons. thereupon sir andred saw by the dog that it was sir tristram, and king mark repented that he had brought the mad man in from the forest. then he let call his barons to judge sir tristram to death. they would not assent thereto, but by the advice of them all he was banished out of the country for ten years. so sir tristram was made to depart out of the country of cornwall, and there were many barons brought him into his ship. when he was ready to set sail he said: "greet well king mark and all mine enemies, and say i will come again when i may. and well am i rewarded for the fighting with sir marhaus, and delivering all this country from servage, and well am i rewarded for the fetching of the fair isoud out of ireland, and the danger i was in first and last." so sir tristram departed over sea, and arrived in wales. as he rode there through the forest perilous, a lady in great distress met him, that said: "o my lord, come with me, and that in all the haste ye may, for ye shall see the most honourable knight of the world hard bestead, and he is none other than the noble king arthur himself." "god defend," said sir tristram, "that ever he should be in such distress. i am ready to help him if i may." so they rode at a great pace, till they saw a knight, that was king arthur, on foot fighting with two knights, and anon the one knight was smitten down, and they unlaced his helm to slay him. therewithal came sir tristram with all his might, and smote the two traitors so that they fell dead. then he horsed king arthur, and as they rode forth together, the king thanked heartily sir tristram and desired to wit his name. he would not tell him, but said that he was a poor knight adventurous. so he bare king arthur fellowship, till he met with some of his knights. then departed sir tristram, and rode straight toward camelot. then was he ware of a seemly knight riding against him with a covered shield. they dressed their shields and spears, and came together with all the mights of their horses. they met so fiercely that both horses and knights fell to the earth. as fast as they were able they then gat free from their horses, and put their shields before them; and they strake together with bright swords, like men of might, and either wounded other wonderly sore, so that the blood ran out upon the grass. thus they two fought the space of four hours. never one would speak to other one word, and of their harness they hewed off many pieces. then at the last spake the one with the covered shield; "knight, thou fightest wonderly well as ever i saw knight; therefore if it please you tell me your name." "sir," said sir tristram, "that is me loath to tell any man my name." "truly," said the other, "if i was requested, i was never loath to tell my name. i am sir launcelot of the lake." "alas," said sir tristram, "what have i done, for ye are the man in the world that i love best." "fair knight," said sir launcelot, "tell me now your name." "truly," said he, "my name is sir tristram of lyonesse." "oh," said sir launcelot, "what adventure is befallen me!" therewith sir launcelot kneeled adown, and yielded him up his sword. and therewithal sir tristram kneeled adown, and yielded him up his sword. so either gave other the victory. thereupon they both forthwithal went to a stone, and sat down upon it, and took off their helms to cool themselves. then after a while they took their helms and rode together to camelot. there soon they met king arthur, and when he wist that it was sir tristram, he ran unto him and took him by the hand and said, "sir tristram, ye be as welcome as any knight that ever came to this court." then they went to the table round, where queen guenever came, and many ladies with her, and all the ladies said at one voice, "welcome, sir tristram." "welcome," said the damsels; "welcome," said the knights; "welcome," said arthur, "for one of the best knights and the gentlest of the world, and the man of most honour. for of all manner of hunting ye bear the prize; and of all the terms of hunting and hawking ye are the beginner; of all instruments of music ye are the best. therefore, gentle knight, ye are welcome to this court. now i pray you, grant me a boon." "it shall be at your commandment," said tristram. "well," said arthur, "i will desire of you that ye will abide in my court." "sir," said sir tristram, "thereto is me loath, for i have ado in many countries." "not so," said arthur; "ye have promised it me, and ye may not say nay." so tristram agreed to remain with king arthur, who then went unto the sieges about the round table, and looked in every siege that lacked a knight. then the king saw in the siege of marhaus letters that said, "this is the siege of the noble knight sir tristram." and then arthur made sir tristram knight of the table round with great splendour and great feast, as might be thought. for that sir marhaus, a worthy knight, was slain afore by the hands of sir tristram was well known at that time in the court of arthur; and that for evil deeds that he did unto the country of cornwall sir tristram and he fought; and that they fought so long tracing and traversing till they fell bleeding to the earth, for they were so sore wounded that they might not stand; and that sir tristram by fortune recovered, and sir marhaus died through the stroke on the head. king mark had had great despite of the renown of sir tristram, and therefore had chased him out of cornwall. when now he heard of the great prowess that sir tristram did in england he was sore grieved, and sent men to espy what deeds he did. the queen isoud also on her part sent privily spies to know what deeds he had done, for great love was between them twain. when the messengers came home, and told that sir tristram passed all other knights at arthur's court unless it were sir launcelot, king mark was right heavy of the tidings, and as glad was the fair isoud. then in great despite king mark took with him two good knights and two squires, disguised himself, and took his way into england, to the intent to slay sir tristram. so king mark came into england, where he soon became known as the most horrible coward that ever bestrode horse; and there was much laughing and jesting at the knight of cornwall, and much he was despised. sir dagonet, king arthur's fool, at one time chased him through thick and thin over the forests; and when on a day sir launcelot overtook him and bade him turn and fight, he made no defence, but tumbled down out off the saddle to the earth as a sack, and there he lay still, and cried sir launcelot mercy. so king mark was soon brought as recreant before king arthur, who already knew wherefore he was come into his country, and that he had not done the service and homage he owed as king arthur's under-lord. but king mark promised to make large amends for the wrongs he had done, for he was a fair speaker, and false thereunder. so on a day king arthur prayed of him one gift, and king mark promised to give him whatsoever he desired, if it were in his power. then king arthur asked him to be good lord unto sir tristram, and to take him back into cornwall, and to cherish him for arthur's sake. king mark promised this, and swore upon a book afore arthur and all his knights. therewith king arthur forgave him all the evil will that ever he owed him, and king mark and sir tristram took either other by the hands hard knit together. but for all this king mark thought falsely, as it proved afterward. then soon afterward king mark took his leave to ride into cornwall, and sir tristram rode with him; wherefore the most part of the round table were passing heavy, and some were wroth, knowing that king mark was the most coward and the villainest knight living. after a while letters came out of cornwall that spake ill of sir tristram and showed plainly that king mark took sir tristram for his mortal enemy. sir launcelot in especial made great sorrow for anger, wherefore dinadan, a gentle, wise, and courteous knight, said to him: "king mark is so villainous that by fair speech shall never man get of him. but ye shall see what i shall do. i will make a lay for him, and when it is made i shall make a harper sing it afore him." so anon dinadan went and made the lay, hoping thereby to humble the crafty king; and he taught it an harper named eliot, and when he knew it, he taught it to many harpers. and so, by the will of sir launcelot and of arthur, the harpers went straight into wales and into cornwall, to sing the lay that sir dinadan made of king mark, which was the worst lay that ever harper sang with harp or with any other instrument. at a great feast that king mark made came in eliot the harper, and because he was a curious harper, men heard him sing the lay that dinadan had made, the which spake the most villainy of king mark's treason that ever man heard. when the harper had sung his song to the end, king mark was wonderly wroth, for he deemed that the lay that was sung afore him was made by sir tristram's counsel, wherefore he thought to slay him and all his well willers in that country. so king mark grew ever more jealous of sir tristram because of his prowess as knight and his great love and loyal devotion to the queen, the fair isoud; and by treason king mark let take him and put him in prison, contrary to his promise that he made unto king arthur. when queen isoud understood that sir tristram was in prison, she made as great sorrow as ever made lady or gentlewoman. then sir tristram sent a letter unto her, and prayed her to be his good lady; and if it pleased her to make a vessel ready for her and him, he would go with her unto the realm of logris, that is this land. when the fair isoud understood sir tristram's letter and his intent, she sent him another, and bade him be of good comfort, for she would make the vessel ready, and all things to purpose. then she had king mark taken and put in prison, until the time that she and sir tristram were departed unto the realm of logris. and then sir tristram was delivered out of prison, and anon in all haste they took their vessel, and came by water into england. when sir launcelot understood that sir tristram was there, he was full glad. he espied whither he went, and after him he rode, and then either made of other great joy. and so sir launcelot brought sir tristram and the fair isoud unto joyous gard, that was sir launcelot's own castle that he had won with his own hands. and he charged all his people to honour them and love them as they would do himself. near three years sir tristram kept the fair isoud with him in joyous gard, and then by means of treaties he brought her again unto king fox, which was the name sir launcelot gave unto mark because of his wiles and treason. but ever the malice of king fox followed his brave nephew, and in the end he slew him as he sat harping afore his lady, the fair isoud, with a trenchant glaive, thrust in behind to the heart. for his death was much bewailing of every knight that ever was in arthur's days, for he was traitorously slain. and the fair isoud died, swooning upon the cross of sir tristram, whereof was great pity. and all that were with king mark that were consenting to the death of sir tristram were slain, as sir andred and many others. chapter xxiii how sir percivale of galis sought and found sir launcelot while king arthur and his knights were still sorrowful over sir tristram's return to cornwall, greatly fearing mischief to the good knight by some manner of falsehood or treason of king mark, there came to the court a knight bringing a young squire with him. it was sir aglovale, king pellinore's son, and the squire was his brother, percivale, that he wished king arthur to make knight. the boy was the youngest of five sons, and for love of the father and the brothers, good knights all, the king made him a knight the next day in camelot; yet the king and all the knights thought it would be long ere he proved a man of prowess, and sir kay and sir mordred made sport of his rude manner. at the dinner, when every knight was set after his honour, the king commanded sir percivale to be placed among mean knights. but there was a maiden in the queen's court that was come of high blood, yet she was dumb, and never spake a word. right so she came straight into the hall, went unto sir percivale, took him by the hand, and said aloud, that the king and all the knights might hear it, "arise, sir percivale, the noble knight and god's knight, and go with me." so he did, and she brought him to the right side of the siege perilous, and said, "fair knight, take here thy siege, for that siege appertaineth to thee, and to none other." right so she departed, and soon afterward she died. then the king and all the court made great joy of sir percivale. then sir percivale rode forth upon adventures, and came unto cornwall to seek sir tristram. and he delivered him from a prison where king mark had placed him, and then rode straight unto king mark and told him he had done himself great shame to treat so falsely sir tristram, the knight of most renown in all the world. then sir percivale departed, but anon king mark bethought him of more treason, notwithstanding his promise never by any manner of means to hurt sir tristram, and he let take him and put him again in prison. how he then escaped with isoud into england we have already read in the tale of sir tristram. now it chanced that sir launcelot of the lake had sore offended the queen guenever, and she rebuked him harshly, called him false traitor knight, and sent him from her court. therewith he took such an hearty sorrow at her words that he went clean out of his mind, and leaped out at a bay window into a garden, and there with thorns he was all scratched up in his visage. so he ran forth he wist not whither, and for a long while none of his kin wist what was become of him. soon queen guenever was right sorry that she had been so angry with her faithful knight, and on her knees besought sir bors and many others to seek sir launcelot throughout all england, wales, and scotland. so these noble knights by one assent rode forth by twos and threes; and ever they assigned where they should meet. sir aglovale and sir percivale rode together unto their mother that was a queen in those days. and when she saw her two sons, for joy she wept tenderly and said, "ah my dear sons, when your father was slain he left me five sons, of the which now be three slain; my heart shall never be glad more." then she kneeled down tofore aglovale and percivale, and besought them to abide at home with her. "ah, sweet mother," said sir percivale, "we may not, for we be come of king's blood on both sides, and therefore, mother, it is our kind to follow arms and noble deeds." then there was but weeping and sobbing when they should depart, and after they were gone, she sent a squire after them with spending enough. when the squire had overtaken them, they would not suffer him to ride with them, but sent him home again to comfort their mother, praying her meekly for her blessing. so this squire was benighted as he rode homeward, and by misfortune happened to come into the castle of a baron whose brother (a false knight and betrayer of ladies and of good knights) sir aglovale had slain. when this baron knew from the squire that he served a good knight called sir aglovale, he commanded his men to have him away without mercy. on the morn came sir aglovale and sir percivale riding by a churchyard where men and women were busy in burying this same dead squire. when the brothers heard from a good man of the company how the baron had shamefully slain the squire that night, they alighted both, left their horses with their men, and went on foot to the castle. all so soon as they were within the castle gate sir aglovale bade the porter "go thou unto thy lord and tell him that i am sir aglovale, for whom the squire was slain this night." anon the lord of the castle, whose name was goodewin, came armed into the court, and he and sir aglovale lashed together as eagerly as it had been two lions. sir percivale fought with all the remnant that would fight, and within a while had slain all that would withstand him, for he dealt so his strokes that there durst no man abide him. within a while sir aglovale had sir goodewin also at the earth, and so the two brethren departed and took their horses. then they let carry the dead squire unto a priory, and there they interred him. when this was done they rode their way into many countries, ever inquiring after sir launcelot, but never they could hear of him. at last, at a castle that was called cardican, sir percivale parted from sir aglovale, and with his squire rode alone. in the afternoon he came upon a bridge of stone, where he found a knight that was bound with a chain fast about unto a pillar of stone. this was sir persides, a knight of the table round, who by adventure came this way and lodged in the castle at the bridge foot. there by an evil custom of the castle men set upon him suddenly or ever he might come to his weapon, and bound him, and chained him at the bridge. there he knew he should die unless some man of honour brake his bands. "be ye of good cheer," said sir percivale, "and because ye are a knight of the round table as well as i, i trust to god to make you free." therewith sir percivale drew out his sword, and struck at the chain with such a might that he cut a-two the chain, and through sir persides' hauberk, and hurt him a little. "truly," said sir persides, "that was a mighty stroke if ever i felt one, for had it not been for the chain, ye had slain me." therewithal sir persides saw a knight coming out of the castle, flying all that ever he might. "beware, sir," said he; "yonder cometh a man that will have ado with you." "let him come," said sir percivale. so he met with that knight in the midst of the bridge, and gave him such a buffet that he smote him quite from his horse and over a part of the bridge so that, had there not been a little vessel under the bridge, that knight had been drowned. then sir percivale took the knight's horse, and made sir persides to mount upon him. so they rode to the castle, and made the lady deliver sir persides' servants. had he not had a great matter in hand, he would have remained to do away with the evil customs there. but sir percivale might not long abide, for he rode to seek sir launcelot. sir persides brought him unto his own castle, and there made him great cheer for that night. then on the morn, when sir percivale had heard mass and broken his fast, he said to sir persides: "ride unto king arthur, and tell the king how that ye met with me, and tell my brother sir aglovale how i rescued you, and bid him seek not after me, for i am in the quest to seek sir launcelot of the lake, and will not see him or the court till sir launcelot is found. also tell sir kay and sir mordred that i trust to god to be of as good worthiness as either of them, and that i will never see that court till men speak more honour of me than ever men did of any of them both." so sir persides departed from sir percivale, and rode unto king arthur, and told there of sir percivale. and king arthur said he must needs prove a good knight, for his father and his brethren were noble knights. now turn we to sir launcelot, and speak we of his care and woe and what pain he endured from cold, hunger, and thirst. as he wandered like a mad man here and there, he by fortune came to the castle of king pelles. there he was healed of his madness, and when he was recovered he was sore ashamed that he had thus been clean out of his wit. and king pelles gave him his castle of bliant, that stood in an island enclosed with a fair water, deep and large. sir launcelot called it the joyous isle, and here he dwelt a long while. because he was driven from king arthur's court he desired not to be known, and he named himself "the knight that hath trespassed." now it fell at that time that sir launcelot heard of a jousting hard by his castle, and he sent word thither that there was one knight in the joyous isle, by name "the knight that hath trespassed," that will joust against any knights that will come to him. when this cry was made, unto joyous isle drew many knights, and wit you well there was not seen at arthur's court one knight that did so much deeds of arms as were done in that gay castle. and in the meanwhile came also sir percivale nigh to joyous isle, and would have gone to that castle, but might not for the broad water. then he saw on the other side a lady, and he called unto her and asked who was in that castle. "fair knight," she said, "here within this castle is the fairest knight and the mightiest man that is, i dare say, living, and he calleth himself 'the knight that hath trespassed.' he came into this country like a mad man, with dogs and boys chasing him, and by miracle he was brought into his wit again. if ye list to come into the castle, ye must ride unto the farther side of the isle, and there ye shall find a vessel that will bear you and your horse." then sir percivale came unto the vessel, and passed the water. when he came to the castle gate, he bade the porter, "go thou to the good knight within the castle, and tell him here is come an errant knight to joust with him." sir percivale now rode within the castle, and anon sir launcelot had warning, he was soon ready. and there sir percivale and sir launcelot encountered with such a might that both the horses and the knights fell to the earth. then they left their horses, swung out noble swords, and hewed away pieces of their shields, and dashed together like two boars, and either wounded other passing sore. at the last sir percivale spake, when they had fought there more than two hours: "fair knight," saith he, "i pray thee tell me thy name, for i met never with such a knight." "sir," said sir launcelot, "my name is 'the knight that hath trespassed.' now tell me your name, i pray you, gentle knight." "truly," said sir percivale, "my name is sir percivale of galis; king pellinore was my father and sir aglovale is my brother." "alas," said sir launcelot, "what have i done to fight with you that art a knight of the table round, that sometime was your fellow." therewithal sir launcelot kneeled down upon his knees, and threw away his shield and his sword from him. when sir percivale saw him do so, he marvelled what he meant. then he begged him upon the high order of knighthood to tell his true name, and sir launcelot told him all. "alas," said sir percivale, "what have i done! i was sent by the queen for to seek you, and so i have sought you nigh these two years. i pray you forgive me mine offence that i have here done." "it is soon forgiven," said sir launcelot. then sir percivale told him how king arthur and all his knights, and in especial queen guenever, made great dole and sorrow that ever he departed from them, and that never knight was better welcome back to the court than he would be. so sir launcelot agreed to do after sir percivale's counsel, and ride with him to the king. so then they took their horses and departed from the joyous isle, and within five days' journey they came to camelot, that is called in english winchester. and when sir launcelot was come among them, the king and all the knights made great joy of him. then sir percivale of galis began and told the whole adventures, and all the tales of sir launcelot. and the queen made great cheer, and there were great feasts made, and many great lords and ladies, when they heard that sir launcelot was come to the court again, made great joy. chapter xxiv of the coming of sir galahad at the vigil of pentecost, when all the fellowship of the round table were come unto camelot, and the tables were set ready to the meat, right so entered into the hall a full fair gentlewoman before the king, and on behalf of king pelles requested that sir launcelot should go with her hereby into a forest. sir launcelot bade his squire saddle his horse and bring his arms, and right so he departed with the gentlewoman, and rode until that he came into a great valley, where they saw an abbey of nuns. there was a squire ready, and opened the gates; and so they entered and descended off their horses, and there came a fair fellowship about sir launcelot and welcomed him, and were passing glad of his coming. in the meanwhile there came twelve nuns which brought with them galahad, the which was passing fair and well made, so that in the world men might scarcely find his match. "sir," said the ladies, "we bring you here this child, the which we have nourished, and we pray you to make him a knight; for of a worthier man's hand may he not receive the order of knighthood." sir launcelot beheld that young squire, and saw him seemly and demure as a dove, with all manner of good features, and he thought of his age never to have seen so fair a man of form. then said sir launcelot, "cometh this desire of himself?" he and all they said, "yea." "then shall he," said sir launcelot, "receive the high order of knighthood to-morrow." that night sir launcelot had passing good cheer, and on the morn at the hour of prime, at galahad's desire, he made him knight, and said, "god make you a good man, for beauty faileth you not as any that liveth." then sir launcelot departed from them, and came again unto camelot by the hour of nine on whitsunday morning. by that time the king and the queen and all the fellowship were gone to the minster to hear the service. when they were come from service all were passing glad of sir launcelot's return. and as they entered the hall each of the barons sought his name, written with gold letters, in the sieges of the round table. thus they went along from seat to seat, until that they came to the siege perilous, where they found letters newly written of gold, that said: "four hundred winters and fifty-four accomplished after the passion of our lord jesu christ ought this siege to be filled." all thought this a marvellous thing, and an adventurous. and then sir launcelot accounted the term of the writing from the birth of our lord unto that day, and said: "it seemeth me this siege ought to be filled this same day, for this is the feast of pentecost after the four hundred and four and fifty years; and if it would please all parties, i would none of these letters were seen this day, till he be come that ought to achieve this adventure." then they provided a cloth of silk for to cover these letters in the siege perilous, and the king bade haste unto dinner. it was an old custom of arthur's court that on this day they should not sit at their meat until they had seen some adventure. as they stood waiting therefor, in came a squire bringing the marvellous tidings that beneath at the river there was a great stone, as it were of red marble, floating above the water, wherein a sword stuck. so the king and all the knights went unto the river to see this marvel, and they found it even as the squire had said. there in the stone was the fair rich sword, and in the pommel thereof were precious stones and subtile letters wrought with gold. then the barons read the letters, which said in this wise: "never shall man take me hence but only he by whose side i ought to hang, and he shall be the best knight of the world." when the king had seen these letters, he said unto sir launcelot, "fair sir, this sword ought to be yours, for i am sure ye be the best knight of the world." then sir launcelot answered full soberly, conscious of a great sin: "certes, sir, it is not my sword; also, sir, wit ye well i have no hardiness to set my hand thereto, for it belongs not by my side." "now, fair nephew," said the king unto sir gawaine, "assay ye to take the sword for my love." therewith sir gawaine took the sword by the handles, though unwillingly and only at the king's commandment, but he might not stir it. then the king said unto sir percivale that he should assay. so he set his hand on the sword and drew it strongly, but he might not move it. then were there more that durst be so hardy as to set their hands thereto, but all failed. "now may ye go to your dinner," said sir kay unto king arthur, "for a marvellous adventure have ye seen." so the king and all went in, and every knight knew his own place and set himself therein, and all sieges were filled save only the siege perilous. anon there befell a marvellous adventure, for all the doors and the windows of the place shut of themselves, yet then the hall was not greatly darkened, and therewith they were amazed, both one and other. while they sat there in suspense as to what should happen, came in a good old man, and an ancient, clothed all in white, and there was no knight knew from whence he came. with him he brought a young knight in red arms, without sword or shield, save a scabbard hanging by his side. then the old man said unto arthur, "sir, i bring here a young knight the which is of king's lineage and of the kindred of joseph of arimathea, whereby the marvels of this court and of strange realms shall be fully accomplished." the king was right glad of the good man's words, and bade him and the young knight welcome. then the old man made the young man unarm; and he was in a coat of red silk, and bore a mantle upon his shoulder that was furred with ermine. anon the old knight led him unto the siege perilous, where beside sat sir percivale and sir launcelot. the good man lifted up the cloth, and found there letters that said thus: "this is the siege of galahad, the high prince." he set him down surely in that siege, saying, "wit ye well that place is yours," and then, departed and went his way. all the knights of the table round marvelled greatly that sir galahad durst sit there in that siege perilous, and was so tender of age; for never before had anyone sat therein but he was mischieved. and they foresaw that sir galahad would come to great honour, and outdo them all in knightly courtesy. then the king bade him welcome to the court, and taking him by the hand, went down from the palace to show galahad the adventures of the stone. "sir" said the king unto him, "here is a great marvel as ever i saw, and right good knights have assayed and failed." "sir," said galahad, "that is no marvel, for this adventure is not theirs but mine, and for the surety of this sword i brought none with me; for here by my side hangeth the scabbard." anon he laid his hand on the sword, and lightly drew it out of the stone and put it in the sheath, saying, "now it goeth better than it did aforehand." chapter xxv how the quest of the holy grail was begun the dish from which our lord jesu christ ate the paschal lamb at his last supper with his disciples men call the holy grail. therein also joseph of arimathea caught the last drops of sacred blood, and after the passion of our lord that gentle knight, the which took down the body off the holy cross, at that time departed from jerusalem with a great party of his kindred, bearing the holy grail with them. it befell that they came first to a city that was called sarras, and at the last they crossed to britain, and through them all the heathen people of this land were turned to the christian faith. ever as years went by the holy grail became more precious, and the possession of it ever more a sacred trust. but after a long while it was lost from the world through men's sinfulness, and only those of pure heart and life might from time to time see it. merlin, before he was put under the stone, had foreseen that by them which should be fellows of the round table the truth of the holy grail would be well known, and in the good days of king arthur the longing grew to be worthy of the vision of this sign of the lord's presence among men. moreover a holy hermit had said that, when the siege perilous was filled, the achieving of the holy grail should be near. after galahad drew the sword out of the stone the king and all estates went thoughtful home unto camelot, and so to even-song in the great minster. after that they went to supper, and every knight sat in his own place at the round table. then anon they heard cracking and crying of thunder that should, as it seemed to them, shake the place all to pieces. in the midst of this blast entered a sunbeam more clear by seven times than ever they saw day, and all they were alighted of the grace of the holy ghost. then began every knight to behold other, and either saw other by their seeming fairer than ever they looked afore. there was no knight might speak one word, and so they looked every man on his fellows, as if they were dumb. then there entered into the hall the holy grail, covered with white samite, but there was none might see it, or who bare it. and there was all the hall filled full with good odours, and every knight was nourished in his soul. when the holy grail had been borne through the hall, then it departed suddenly, so that they wist not what became of it. then had they all breath to speak, and the king yielded thankings unto god for his good grace that he had sent them. "now," said sir gawaine, "we have been richly blessed this day, but one thing beguiled us,--we might not see the holy grail, it was so preciously covered. wherefore i will make here avow, that to-morn, without longer abiding, i shall labour in the quest of the holy grail a twelvemonth and a day, or more if need be, and shall not return unto the court till i have seen it more openly than it hath been seen here; and if i may not speed, i shall return again at the end of the time as he that may not be against the will of our lord jesu christ." when they of the table round heard sir gawaine say so, the most part of them arose, and made such avows as sir gawaine had made. anon as king arthur heard this he was greatly grieved, for he wist well that they might not gainsay their avows, and he should be bereft of the fairest fellowship and the truest knighthood that ever were seen together in any realm of the world. for, when they departed from hence, they should never all meet again in this world, and many of his true fellowship of noble knights should die in the quest. when the queen also and all the court wist these tidings, they had such sorrow and heaviness that there might no tongue tell it. many of the ladies would have gone with the knights that they loved, had not an old man in religious clothing said on high that none in this quest should lead wife with him. moreover he warned the knights plainly that he that was not clean of his sins should not see the mysteries of our lord jesu christ. then they went to rest themselves, and in honour of the highness of galahad he was led into king arthur's chamber, and there rested in his own bed. as soon as it was day the king arose, for he had no rest all that night for sorrow. then the king and the queen went unto the minster, and all the knights, armed fully save their shields and their helms, followed them to hear the service. then after the service was done, the king would wit how many had taken the quest of the holy grail, and found by tale there were an hundred and fifty, all knights of the round table. then they put on their helms, and so mounted upon their horses, and rode through the streets of camelot. and there was weeping of rich and poor, and the king turned away, and might not speak for weeping. within a while they came to a city and a castle called vagon. the lord of that castle was a good old man and set open the gates, and made them all the good cheer that he might. on the morrow they were all accorded that they should ride every each from other. then they departed with weeping and mourning cheer, and every knight took the way that him best liked. chapter xxvi how galahad gat him a shield now sir galahad was yet without shield, and so he rode four days without any adventure. after even-song of the fourth day he came to a white abbey, and there he was received with great reverence, and led to a chamber wherein he was ware of two knights of the round table, the one king bagdemagus and the other sir uwaine. they went unto him and made of him great solace; and they told him that within this place was a shield that no man might bear about his neck without great harm to himself, unless he were the worthiest knight of the world. [illustration: sir galahad] "ah, sir," said king bagdemagus to galahad, "i shall to-morrow assay this strange adventure, and if i may not achieve it ye shall take it upon you, for i am sure ye shall not fail." "sir," said galahad, "i agree right well thereto, for i have no shield." so on the morn they arose and heard mass. then king bagdemagus asked where the adventurous shield was. anon a monk led him behind an altar, where the shield hung as white as any snow, but in the midst was a red cross. the monk counselled him to be well advised before taking it, and king bagdemagus answered: "well, i wot well that i am not the best knight of the world, but yet shall i assay to bear it." and so, bidding sir galahad to abide there still, till it was known how he sped, king bagdemagus bore the red cross shield out of the monastery, took with him a squire, the which should bring tidings unto sir galahad how he sped, and rode away. two miles off they came into a fair valley afore a hermitage, and there they saw a goodly knight in white armour, horse and all. he came as fast as his horse might run, with his spear in the rest, and king bagdemagus dressed his spear against him, and brake it upon the white knight. the other struck him so hard that he brake the mails, and thrust him through the right shoulder, for the shield covered him not at that time, and so he bare him from his horse. therewith the white knight alighted and took the white shield from king bagdemagus, saying, "knight, thou hast done thyself great folly, for this shield ought not to be borne but by him that shall have no peer that liveth." then he came to the squire, and said, "bear this shield unto the good knight sir galahad, that thou left in the abbey, and greet him well from me." the squire first went unto bagdemagus, and asked him whether he were sore wounded or not. "yea, forsooth," said he, "i shall escape hard from death." then the squire fetched his horse, and brought him with great pain unto an abbey. then was he taken down safely, and unarmed, and laid in a bed. there his wounds were looked to, and, as the book telleth, he lay there long, and escaped hard with life. "sir," said the squire, when he came to galahad, "that knight that wounded bagdemagus sendeth you greeting, and bade that ye should bear this shield, wherethrough great adventures should befall." "now blessed be god," said sir galahad. then he asked his arms, mounted upon his horse, and, commending himself unto god, hung the white shield about his neck. so he departed, and within a while came by the hermitage, where the white knight awaited him. every each saluted other courteously, and the knight told sir galahad the marvels of the shield. "sir," said he, "at that same hour that joseph of arimathea came to sarras, there was a king in that city called evelake, that had great war against the saracens, and there joseph made this shield for him in the name of him that died upon the cross. then through his good belief he had the better of his enemies; for when king evelake was in the battle, there was a cloth set afore the shield, and when he was in the greatest peril he let put away the cloth, and then his enemies saw a figure of a man on the cross, wherethrough they all were discomfited. "soon afterwards joseph departed from sarras, and king evelake would go with him whether he would or nould, and they came unto this land of britain. not long after this, when joseph lay on his death-bed, king evelake begged of him some token that would lead him to think on the old knight for love of whom he had left his own country. so joseph took this shield, and thereupon he made a cross with his own blood; that should be evelake's token. then he said that no man should bear this shield until the time that galahad come, the last of joseph's lineage, that should do many marvellous deeds while bearing it about his neck. to-day is the time they then set when ye shall have king evelake's shield." so spake the white knight, and then vanished away; and sir galahad rode with the squire back to the abbey. chapter xxvii sir galahad at the castle of maidens the men of the abbey made great joy of sir galahad, and he rested there that night. upon the morn he gave the order of knighthood to the squire who had brought him the red-cross shield, and asked him his name, and of what kindred he was come. "sir," said he, "men call me melias of lile, and i am the son of the king of denmark." "now, fair sir," said galahad, "since ye are of noble birth, see that knighthood be well placed in you, for ye ought to be a mirror unto all chivalry." "sir," said melias, "ye say truly. but, sir, since ye have made me a knight, ye must of right grant me my first desire that is reasonable." "ye say truly," said galahad. then melias said, "suffer me to ride with you in this quest of the holy grail till some adventure part us." "i grant you, sir," said galahad. then men brought sir melias his armour and his spear and his horse; and so sir galahad and he rode forth all that week ere they found any adventure. and then upon a monday, in the morning, as they had departed from an abbey, they came to a fork in the road, where stood written these words: "now ye knights errant, who go to seek knights adventurous, see here two ways; the right-hand road ye are warned against, for knight shall never ride out of that place again unless he be a good man and a worthy knight; and if ye go to the left hand ye shall not there easily win prowess, for ye shall in this road be soon attacked." "sir," said melias to galahad, "if ye are pleased to suffer me to take the way on the left hand, tell me, for there i shall well prove my strength." "it were better," said galahad, "ye rode not that way, for i believe i should better escape in that way than ye." "nay, my lord," said melias, "i pray you, let me have that adventure." "take it, in god's name," said galahad. so melias rode far through an old forest, and after two days or more came into a fair meadow. here in a fair lodge of boughs he espied a chair wherein was a subtilely-wrought crown of gold, and near by was a cloth spread upon the ground with many delicious meats upon it. sir melias had no desire for the food, but the crown of gold pleased him much, so he stooped down and took it and rode his way with it. and anon he saw a knight come riding after him, who called upon him to set down the crown that was not his, and to defend himself. the new-made knight was glad of this adventure, and the two let their horses run as fast as they might, so that the other knight smote sir melias through his hauberk and through the left side, and he fell to the earth nigh dead. then the knight took the crown and went his way, and sir melias lay still, and had no power to stir. in the meanwhile by good fortune there came sir galahad and found him there in peril of death. then he said, "ah, melias, who hath wounded you? it would have been better to ride the other way." and when sir melias heard him speak, "sir," he said, "for god's love let me not die in this forest, but bear me unto the abbey near at hand." "it shall be done," said galahad, "but where is he that hath wounded you?" with that sir galahad heard some one cry, "knight, keep thee from me!" "ah, sir," said melias, "beware, for that is he that hath slain me." sir galahad answered, "sir knight, come at your peril." so they came together as fast as their horses might run; and galahad smote the other so that his spear went through the knight's shoulder and smote him down off his horse, and in the falling galahad's spear brake. with that came out another knight from the leaves, and brake a spear upon galahad before he might turn about. then galahad drew out his sword and smote this one so that he fled away, and sir galahad pursued fast after him. but soon he turned again unto sir melias, and there he alighted and placed him softly on his horse before him, and sir galahad climbed up behind, and held him in his arms, and so brought him to the abbey and into his chamber. here he placed the wounded knight in the care of an old monk, that promised to heal him of his wounds. "now i will depart," said galahad, "for i have much on hand; many good knights be full busy about it, and this knight and i were in the same quest of the holy grail." "sir," said the good monk, "for his sins he was thus wounded; and i marvel," said he to melias, "how ye durst take upon you so rich a thing as the high order of knighthood without clean confession, and that was the cause ye were bitterly wounded. for the way on the right hand betokeneth the high way of our lord jesu christ, and the way of a true good liver. and the other way betokeneth the way of sinners and of misbelievers. your pride and presumption in taking the quest of the blessed holy grail made you to be overthrown, for it may not be achieved but by virtuous living. pride is head of all deadly sins, and that caused you to depart from sir galahad. and when ye took the crown of gold your sin was covetousness and theft. but this galahad, the holy knight, the which fought with the two knights that signify the two deadly sins which were wholly in you, was able to overthrow them, for he is pure in his heart." "my lord galahad," said sir melias, "as soon as i may ride i shall seek you." "god send you health," said galahad, and so he took his horse and departed, and rode many journeys forward and backward, as adventure would lead him. then sir galahad came unto a mountain. there he found an old chapel, where all was desolate, and he knelt before the altar and besought of god wholesome counsel. as he prayed, he heard a voice that said, "go thou now, thou adventurous knight, to the castle of maidens, and there do thou away the wicked customs." when sir galahad heard this, he thanked god and took his horse, and he had ridden but half a mile when he saw in a valley afore him a strong castle with deep ditches, and there ran beside it a fair river, that was called severn. then he met with a man of great age. either saluted other, and galahad asked him the castle's name. "fair sir," said he, "it is the castle of maidens." "that is a cursed castle," said galahad, "and all who have intercourse therein are cursed, for all pity is lacking there, and all cruelty and mischief are therein." "therefore i counsel you, sir knight," said the other, "that ye turn back." "sir," said sir galahad, "ye may be sure i shall not turn back." then sir galahad looked on his armour to see that nothing was lacking, and he put his shield afore him, and anon there met him seven fair maidens, which said unto him, "sir knight, ye ride here in great folly, for ye have the water to pass over." "why should i not pass the water?" said galahad. so he rode away from them, and met with a squire, who said. "knight, those knights in the castle defy you, and forbid you to go farther till they know what ye would." "fair sir," said galahad, "i come to destroy the wicked customs of this castle." "sir," said the squire, "if ye will abide by that, ye shall have enough to do." the squire entered into the castle, and anon there came out seven knights, all brethren. and when they saw galahad they cried, "knight, defend thyself, for we assure thee nothing but death." then galahad put forth his spear, and smote the foremost to the earth. and therewith all the others smote him on his shield great strokes so that their spears brake. then sir galahad drew out his sword, and set upon them so hard that it was marvel to see it, and so, through great force, he made them to forsake the field. galahad chased them till they entered into the castle, and then passed through the castle and out at another gate. now there met sir galahad an old man, who said, "sir, have here the keys of this castle." then sir galahad opened the gates, and saw so many people in the passages that he might not number them, and all said, "sir, ye be welcome, for long have we awaited here our deliverance." then came to him a gentlewoman, and said, "these knights are fled, but they will come again this night, and here begin again their evil practices." "what will ye that i shall do?" said galahad. "sir," said the gentlewoman, "that ye send after all the knights hither that hold their lands of this castle, and make them to swear to use the customs that were used heretofore of old time." "i will well," said galahad. she brought him a horn of ivory, richly bound with gold, and said, "sir, blow this horn, which will be heard two miles about this castle." when sir galahad had blown the horn he set himself down upon a bed. then a priest came and told him of the evil practices of the castle, and why it was called the castle of maidens. "it chanced in this wise," said he: "more than seven years agone the seven brethren came, and lodged with the lord of this castle and of all the country round about. when they espied the duke's daughter, a full fair woman, they plotted falsely betwixt themselves and slew the duke and his eldest son. then they took the maiden and the treasure of the castle, and by great force they held all the knights of this castle against their will under their power in great slavery, and robbed and pillaged the poor common people of all that they had. then it happened on a day the duke's daughter said, 'ye have done unto me great wrong to slay my own father and my brother, and thus to hold our lands. but ye shall not hold this castle many years, for by one knight ye shall be overcome.' thus she had prophesied seven years agone. "'well,' said the seven knights, 'if that be so, there shall never lady nor knight pass by this castle but they shall abide here, whether they will or not, or die for it, till that knight be come by whom we shall lose this castle.' therefore it is called the maidens' castle, for many maidens have here been destroyed." by the time the priest had finished, the knights of the country were come at the call from the ivory horn. then sir galahad made them do homage and fealty to the duke's daughter, and set the people in great ease of heart. and the next morning one came to galahad and told him how gawaine, gareth, and uwaine had slain the seven brethren. "i am glad to hear it," said sir galahad, and he took his armour, mounted his horse, and commended the people of the castle of maidens unto god, and so rode away. chapter xxviii sir launcelot's repentance when sir galahad was departed from the castle of maidens, he rode till he came to a waste forest, and there he met with sir launcelot and sir percivale, but they knew him not, for he was new disguised. right so, sir launcelot dressed his spear, and brake it upon sir galahad; and sir galahad smote him so again, that he smote down horse and man. then he drew his sword, and dressed him unto sir percivale, and smote him so on the helm that, had not the sword swerved, sir percivale had been slain, and with the stroke he fell out of his saddle. this joust was done tofore the hermitage where a recluse dwelt, and, when she saw sir galahad ride, she said, "god be with thee, best knight of the world. ah, verily, if yonder two knights had known thee as well as i do, they would not have encountered with thee." when sir galahad heard her say so, he was sore adread to be known. therefore he smote his horse with his spurs, and rode at a great pace away from them. then perceived they both that he was galahad, and up they gat on their horses, and rode fast after him, but in a while he was out of their sight. then they turned again with heavy cheer, and sir percivale said, "let us ask some tidings at yonder recluse." "do as ye list," said sir launcelot. so sir percivale turned back, but sir launcelot rode on across and endlong in a wild forest, and held no path, but as wild adventure led him. at last he came to a stone cross, which pointed two ways, and by the cross was a stone that was of marble; but it was so dark that he might not wit what it was. sir launcelot looked about him, and saw an old chapel. there he expected to find people, so he tied his horse, and took off his shield and hung it upon a tree. then he went to the chapel door, and found it waste and broken. within he saw a fair altar full richly arrayed with cloth of clean silk, and there stood a fair clean candlestick of silver which bare six great candles. when sir launcelot saw this light, he had great will to enter into the chapel, but he could find no place where he might enter. then was he passing heavy and dismayed. he returned to his horse, took off his saddle and bridle, and let him pasture. then he unlaced his helm, and ungirded his sword, and laid himself down to sleep upon his shield tofore the cross. [illustration: sir launcelot at the cross] so he fell on sleep, and half waking and half sleeping he saw in a vision two fair white palfreys come toward him, bearing in a litter a sick knight. when he was nigh the cross he abode still, and sir launcelot heard him say, "oh, sweet lord, when shall this sorrow leave me? and when shall the holy vessel come by me, wherethrough i shall be blessed? for i have endured thus long for little trespass." a full great while lamented the knight thus, and always sir launcelot heard it. then he saw the candlestick with the six tapers come before the cross, yet he saw nobody that brought it. also there came a table of silver, and the sacred vessel of the holy grail upon it. therewith the sick knight sat up, and, holding up both hands, he prayed that he might be whole of his malady. then on his hands and knees he went so nigh that he touched the holy vessel, and kissed it, and anon he was whole. then he said, "lord god, i thank thee, for i am healed of this sickness." when the holy vessel had been there a great while, it went unto the chapel, with the candlestick and the light, so that launcelot wist not what became of it, for he was overtaken with a feeling of his sin, so that he had no power to arise and follow the holy vessel. then the sick knight raised himself up, and kissed the cross. anon his squire brought him his arms, and asked his lord how he did. "verily," said he, "i thank god, right well; through the holy vessel i am healed. but i have great marvel of this sleeping knight, that had no power to awake when the holy grail was brought hither." "i dare right well say," said the squire, "that he dwelleth in some deadly sin, whereof he has never repented." "by my faith," said the knight, "whatsoever he be, he is unhappy, for, as i deem, he is of the fellowship of the round table, the which is entered into the quest of the holy grail." "sir," said the squire, "here i have brought you all your arms, save your helm and your sword. by my assent now may ye take this knight's helm and his sword." so he did, and when he was clean armed, he took sir launcelot's horse, for he was better than his own, and so they departed from the cross. anon sir launcelot awoke, and bethought him what he had seen there, and whether it were a dream or not. right so heard he a voice that said: "sir launcelot, more hard than is stone, more bitter than is wood, and more naked and barer than is the fig tree, go thou from hence, and withdraw thee from this holy place." when sir launcelot heard this he was passing heavy, and wist not what to do. so he arose, sore weeping, and cursed the time when he was born, for he thought never to have honour more. then he went to the cross, and found his helm, his sword, and his horse taken away. then he called himself a very wretch, and the most unhappy of all knights. and he said: "my sin and my wickedness have brought me unto great dishonour. when i sought worldly adventures from worldly desires, i ever achieved them, and had the better in every place, and never was i discomfited in any quarrel, were it right or wrong. but now when i take upon me the adventures of holy things, i see and understand that mine old sin hindereth and shameth me, so that i had no power to stir or to speak when the holy grail appeared afore me." thus he sorrowed till it was day, and he heard the birds sing. then somewhat he was comforted, but, when he missed his horse and his harness, he wist well god was displeased with him. he departed from the cross on foot into a forest, and came to a hermitage, and a hermit therein. there launcelot kneeled down and cried on the lord for mercy, and begged the hermit for charity to hear his confession. "with a good will," said the good man; "art thou of king arthur's court, and of the fellowship of the round table?" "yea, forsooth," was the answer, "and my name is sir launcelot of the lake, that hath been right well said of; but now my good fortune is changed, for i am the worst wretch of the world." the hermit beheld him, and had marvel how he was humbled. "sir," said he, "thou oughtest to thank god more than any knight living, for he hath caused thee to have more worldly honour than any other knight that now liveth. for thy presumption in taking upon thee, while in deadly sin, to be in his presence through the sacred vessel, that was the cause that thou mightest not see it with worldly eyes, for he will not appear where such sinners be, unless to their great hurt and shame. there is no knight living now that ought to give god so great thanks as thou; for he hath given thee beauty, seemliness, and great strength, above all other knights. therefore thou art the more beholden unto god than any other man to love him and fear him; for thy strength and manhood will little avail thee if god be against thee." then sir launcelot wept with heavy cheer, for he knew the hermit said sooth. "sir," said the good man, "hide none old sin from me." "truly," said sir launcelot, "that were me full loath to disclose, for one thing that i have done i never disclosed these fourteen years, and for that may i now blame my shamelessness and my misadventure." then he told there that good man all his life, and how he had loved a queen unmeasurably, and out of measure long. "and," said he, "all my great deeds of arms that i have done, i did the most part for that queen's sake. for her sake would i battle, were it right or wrong; and never did i battle wholly for god's sake, but for to win honour and to make myself better beloved, and little or naught i thanked god for it. i pray you counsel me." "i will counsel thee," said the hermit, "if thou wilt assure me that thou wilt never come into that queen's companionship when thou canst prevent it." this sir launcelot solemnly promised, whereupon the good man said, "look that thy heart and mouth accord, and i assure thee that thou shalt have more honour than ever thou hadst. for it seemeth well god loveth thee, and in all the world men shall not find one knight to whom he hath given so much grace as he hath given thee; he hath given thee beauty with seemliness; he hath given thee wit, discretion to know good from evil; he hath given thee prowess and hardiness; and he hath given thee to work so largely that thou hast had at all times the better wheresoever thou camest. and now our lord will suffer thee no longer, but that thou shalt know him, whether thou wilt or nilt. "why the voice called thee bitterer than wood was because, where overmuch sin dwelleth, there may be but little sweetness; wherefore thou art likened to an old rotten tree. why thou art harder than stone is because thou wilt not leave thy sin for any goodness that god hath sent thee; therefore thou art more than any stone, and never wouldest thou be made soft, neither by water nor by fire,--that is, the heat of the holy ghost may not enter in thee. "now shall i show thee why thou art more naked and barer than the fig tree. it befell that our lord on palm sunday preached in jerusalem, and there he found in the people that all hardness was harboured in them, and there he found in all the town not one that would harbour him. and then he went without the town, and found in the midst of the way a fig tree, the which was right fair and well garnished of leaves, but fruit had it none. then our lord cursed the tree that bare no fruit; that likeneth the fig tree unto jerusalem, that had leaves and no fruit. so thou, sir launcelot, when the holy grail was brought afore thee, he found in thee no fruit, nor good thought, nor good will, and thou wert befouled with sin." "verily," said sir launcelot, "all that ye have said is true, and from henceforward i undertake by the grace of god never to be so wicked as i have been, but to follow knighthood and to do feats of arms." then the good man enjoined sir launcelot to such penance as he might do, and to sue knighthood, and so blessed him, and prayed him to abide there all that day. "i will well," said sir launcelot, "for i have neither helm, nor horse, nor sword." "as for that," said the good man, "i shall help you ere to-morn to a horse and all that belongeth unto you." and so sir launcelot repented him greatly. chapter xxix sir percivale's temptation when sir percivale departed from the recluse to seek sir galahad, he rode till the hour of noon, when he met in a valley about twenty men of arms. as they saw him they asked him whence he was, and he answered, "of the court of king arthur." then they cried all at once, "slay him." then sir percivale smote the first to the earth, and his horse upon him. thereupon seven of the knights smote upon his shield all at once, and the remnant slew his horse, so that he fell to the earth. so had they slain him or taken him, had not the good knight sir galahad, with the red arms, come there by adventure into those parts. and when he saw all those knights upon one knight, he cried, "save me that knight's life." then he dressed him towards the twenty men of arms as fast as his horse might drive, with his spear in the rest, and smote the foremost horse and man to the earth. and when his spear was broken he set his hand to his sword, and smote on the right hand and on the left hand, that it was marvel to see. at every stroke he smote one down, or put him to rebuke, so that they would fight no more, but fled to a thick forest, and sir galahad followed them. when sir percivale saw him chase them so, he made great sorrow that his horse was away, for he wist well it was sir galahad. then he cried aloud, "ah, fair knight, abide and suffer me to do thankings unto thee, for much have ye done for me!" but ever sir galahad rode so fast, that at the last he passed out of his sight, and sir percivale went after him on foot as fast as he might. soon he met a yeoman riding upon a hackney, who led in his hand a great black steed, blacker than any bear. "ah, fair friend," said sir percivale, "as ever i may do for you and be your true knight in the first place ye will require me, i beg ye will lend me that black steed, that i may overtake a knight, the which rideth afore me." "sir knight," said the yeoman, "i pray you hold me excused of that, for that i may not do; for wit ye well, the horse belongs to a man that, if i lent it you or any other man, would slay me." "alas," said sir percivale, "i had never so great sorrow as i have for losing of yonder knight." "sir," said the yeoman, "i am right heavy for you, for a good horse would beseem you well, but i dare not deliver you this horse unless ye take it from me." "that will i not do," said sir percivale. so they departed, and sir percivale sat him down under a tree, and made sorrow out of measure. anon the yeoman came pricking after as fast as ever he might, and asked sir percivale, "saw ye, sir, any knight riding on my black steed? it hath been taken from me by force, wherefore my lord will slay me in what place he findeth me." "well," said sir percivale, "what wouldest thou that i did? thou seest well that i am on foot, but had i a good horse i should bring him soon again." "sir," said the yeoman, "take my hackney and do the best ye can, and i shall follow you on foot, to wit how that ye shall speed." then sir percivale mounted upon that hackney, and rode as fast as he might. at the last he saw the knight on the black steed, and cried out to him to turn again. and he turned, and set his spear against sir percivale; and he smote the hackney in the midst of the breast, that he fell down dead to the earth. there sir percivale had a great fall, and the other rode his way. sir percivale was very wroth, and cried, "abide, wicked knight, coward and false-hearted knight, turn again and fight with me on foot." he answered not, but passed on his way. when sir percivale saw he would not turn, he cast away his helm and sword, and thought himself unhappy above all other knights. in this sorrow he abode all that day till it was night. then he was faint, and laid him down and slept till it was midnight. then he awaked, and saw afore him a woman which said unto him right fiercely, "sir percivale, abide here, and i shall go fetch you a horse, which shall bear you whither you will." so she came soon again, and brought a horse with her that was inky black. when sir percivale beheld that horse, he marvelled that it was so great and so well apparelled. courageously he leaped upon him, and took no heed of himself. as soon as ever he was mounted he thrust in the spurs, and so rode away by the forest, and the moon shone clear. within an hour, and less, the black steed bare him four day's journey thence, till he came to a rough water the which roared, and his horse would have borne him into it. and when sir percivale came nigh the brim, and saw the water so boisterous, he feared to overpass it. then he made a sign of the cross in his forehead, whereupon the horse shook off sir percivale, and he fell into the water, crying and roaring, making great sorrow; and it seemed unto him that the water burned. then sir percivale perceived the steed was a fiend, the which would have brought him unto his perdition. then he commended himself unto god, and prayed our lord to keep him from all such temptations. so he prayed all that night till it was day. then he saw that he was in a wild mountain the which was closed with the sea nigh all about, so that he might see no land about him which might relieve him. then was sir percivale ware in the sea, and saw a ship come sailing towards him; and he went unto the ship, and found it covered within and without with white samite. at the board stood an old man clothed in a surplice in likeness of a priest. "sir," said sir percivale, "ye be welcome." "god keep you," said the good man, "of whence be ye?" "sir," said sir percivale, "i am of king arthur's court, and a knight of the table round, the which am in the quest of the holy grail. here i am in great duress, and never likely to escape out of this wilderness." "doubt not," said the good man, "if ye be so true a knight as the order of chivalry requireth, and of heart as ye ought to be, ye need not fear that any enemy shall slay you." "what are ye?" said sir percivale. "sir," said the old man, "i am of a strange country, and hither i come to comfort you, and to warn you of your great battle that shall befall you." "with whom," said sir percivale, "shall i fight?" "with the most champion of the world," said the old man, "but, if ye quit you well, ye shall lose no limb, even though vanquished and seemingly shamed to the world's end." then the good man leaped over the board, and the ship and all went away, sir percivale wist not whither. he abode there till midday, when he saw a ship come rowing in the sea as if all the winds of the world had driven it. it drove under the rock on which he sat; and when he hied thither he found the ship covered with silk blacker than any bier, and therein was a gentlewoman of great beauty, and she was clothed richly that none might be better. when she saw sir percivale, she said, "who brought you in this wilderness where ye be never like to pass hence? for ye shall die here for hunger and mischief." "damsel," said sir percivale, "i serve the best man of the world, and in his service he will not suffer me to die, for who that knocketh shall enter, and who that asketh shall have, and from the man that seeketh him, he hideth him not." "and i came out of the waste forest where i found the red knight with the white shield," said the damsel. "ah, damsel," said he, "with that knight would i meet passing fain." "sir," said she, "if ye will ensure me, by the faith that ye owe unto knighthood, that ye will do my will what time i summon you, i shall bring you unto that knight." "yea," said he, "i shall promise you to fulfil your desire. but what are ye that proffereth me thus great kindness?" "i am," said she, "a gentlewoman that am disherited, which was sometime the richest woman of the world." "damsel," said sir percivale, "who hath disherited you? for i have great pity of you." "sir," said she, "i dwell with the greatest man of the world, and he made me so fair and so clear that there was none like me, and of that great beauty i had a little pride, more than i ought to have had. also i said a word that pleased him not, and then he would not suffer me to be any longer in his company. he drove me from mine heritage, and so disowned me, and he had never pity for me, and would none of my council nor of my court. since, sir knight, it hath befallen me so, i and mine have taken from him many of his men, and have made them to become my men, for they ask never anything of me, but i give it them, that and much more. therefore i and my servants war against him night and day. i know now no good knight and no good man but i get on my side, if i may. and since i know that ye are a good knight i beseech you to help me; and since ye are a fellow of the round table, ye ought not to fail any gentlewoman which is disherited, if she beseech you of help." then sir percivale promised her all the help that he might. she thanked him, and since the weather was at that time hot, she bade a gentlewoman bring a pavilion. so she did, and pitched it there upon the gravel. he slept a great while there in the heat of the day; and when he awoke, there was set before him upon a table all manner of meats that he could think of. also he drank there the strongest wine that ever he drank, him thought, and therewith he was a little heated more than he ought to be. with that he beheld the gentlewoman, and him thought that she was the fairest creature that ever he saw. when she saw him well refreshed, then she said, "sir percivale, wit ye well, i shall not fulfil your will, but if ye swear from henceforth to be my true servant, and do nothing but that i shall command you. will ye ensure me this as ye be a true knight?" sir percivale was on the point of promising her all, when by adventure and grace he saw his sword lie upon the ground, all naked, in whose pommel was a red cross. then he bethought him of his knighthood and the warning spoken toforehand by the good man, and he made the sign of the cross in his forehead. thereupon the pavilion turned up-so-down, and changed unto a smoke and a black cloud. sir percivale was adread at this, and cried aloud, "fair sweet father, jesu christ, let me not be shamed, that was nigh lost, had not thy good grace been!" then he looked upon the ship, and saw the damsel enter therein, which said, "sir percivale, ye have betrayed me." so she went with the wind roaring and yelling, that it seemed that all the water burned after her. then sir percivale made great sorrow, and drew his sword unto him saying, "since my flesh will be my master, i shall punish it." therewith he stabbed himself through the thigh so that the blood started, and he said, "o good lord, take this in recompensation of that i have done against thee, my lord." then he clothed him and armed him, and called himself a wretch, saying, "how nigh was i lost, and to have lost that i should never have gotten again, my honour as a pure man and worthy knight, for that may never be recovered after it is once lost." as he thus made his moan, he saw the same ship come from the orient that the good man was in the day before, and the noble knight was ashamed with himself, and therewith he fell in a swoon. when he awoke he went unto this good man weakly, and saluted him. then he asked sir percivale, "how hast thou done since i departed?" "sir," said he, "here was a gentlewoman that led me into deadly sin," and there he told him all his temptation. "knew ye not the maid?" said the good man. "sir," said he, "nay; but well i wot the fiend sent her hither to shame me." "oh, good knight," said he, "that gentlewoman was the master fiend of hell, the champion that thou foughtest withal, the which would have overcome thee, had it not been for the grace of god. now, beware, sir percivale, and take this for an ensample." then the good man vanished away, and sir percivale took his arms, and entered into the ship and so departed from thence. chapter xxx the victory of sir bors over himself when sir bors was departed from vagon, he met with a religious man riding on an ass, and sir bors saluted him. anon the good man knew him to be one of the knights errant that was in the quest of the holy grail. "what are ye?" said the good man. "sir," said he, "i am a knight that fain would be counselled in the quest of the holy grail, for he shall have much earthly honour that may bring it to an end." "verily," said the good man, "that is sooth, for he shall be the best knight of the world, and the fairest of all the fellowship. but wit ye well, there shall none attain it but by cleanness of heart and of life." so rode they together till they came to a hermitage, and there he prayed bors to dwell all that night with him. so he alighted and put away his armour, and prayed him that he might be confessed. so they went into the chapel, and there he was clean confessed; and they ate bread and drank water together. "now," said the good man, "i pray thee that thou eat none other, till that thou sit at the table where the holy grail shall be." "sir," said he, "i agree thereto; but how wit ye that i shall sit there?" "yes," said the good man, "that know i, but there shall be few of your fellowship with you." "all is welcome," said sir bors, "that god sendeth me." also the good man in sign of chastisement put on him a scarlet coat, instead of his shirt, and found him in so vigorous a life, and so stable, that he marvelled, and felt that he was never corrupt in fleshly lusts. then sir bors put on his armour, and took his leave, and so departed. after he had ridden a day or two on his road, he met about the hour of noon at the parting of two ways two knights, that led lionel, his brother, bound upon a strong hackney and his hands bound tofore his breast. each of the two held in his hands thorns, wherewith they went beating him so sore that the blood trailed down more than in a hundred places of his body. but he said never a word, as he which was great of heart; he suffered all that ever they did to him as though he had felt none anguish. anon sir bors dressed him to rescue him that was his brother. just then he chanced to look upon his other side, and saw a knight which brought a fair gentlewoman, and would have dragged her into the thickest part of the forest out of the way of them that sought to rescue her. anon she espied where sir bors came riding. she deemed him a knight of the round table, wherefore she hoped to have some comfort; and she conjured him by the faith that he owed unto him in whose service he had entered, and the fidelity he owed unto the high order of knighthood, and for the noble king arthur's sake, to help her in her sore distress. when sir bors heard her cry, he had so much sorrow he knew not what to do. "for," said he, "if i let my brother be in adventure he must be slain, and that would i not for all the earth. and if i help not the maid in her peril, i am shamed for ever." then he lifted up his eyes, and said weeping, "fair lord jesu christ, whose liege man i am, keep lionel my brother, that these knights slay him not; and for mary's sake, i shall succour this maid." then dressed he him unto the knight the which had the gentlewoman, and cried, "sir knight, let your hand off that maiden, or ye be but a dead man." the knight set down the maiden, and drew out his sword, but bors smote him so hard that he beat him down to the earth. then came twelve knights seeking the gentlewoman, and anon she told them all how bors had delivered her. they made great joy, and besought him to come to her father, a noble lord; but bors had a great adventure in hand, and might not delay. so he commended them unto god, and departed. then sir bors rode after lionel his brother by the trace of their horses. he sought a great while; and at the last he overtook a man clothed in religious clothing, that told him lionel was dead, and showed him a slain body, lying in a thicket, that well seemed to him the body of lionel. then he made such a sorrow that he fell to the earth all in a swoon, and lay a great while there. when he came to himself he said, "fair brother, since the company of you and me is parted, shall i never have joy in my heart; and now he which i have taken as to my master, he be my help." when he had said thus, he took the body lightly in his arms and put it upon the bow of his saddle, and so rode to an old feeble chapel fast by, and put him into a tomb of marble. then went sir bors from thence, and rode all that day, and then turned to a hermitage, at the entry of a forest. there he found lionel his brother, which sat all armed at the chapel door. for he was yet on life, and a fiend had deceived bors with the body left in the chapel, for to put him in error so that he might not find the blessed adventure of the holy grail. when sir bors saw his brother alive he had great joy of him, that it was marvel to tell of his joy. and then he alighted off his horse, and said, "fair sweet brother, when came ye thither?" anon as sir lionel saw him he said, "ah, bors, ye may make no boast. for all you i might have been slain. when ye saw two knights leading me away, beating me, ye left me for to succour a gentlewoman, and suffered me to remain in peril of death. never before did any brother to another so great an untruth. and for that misdeed now i ensure you but death, for well have ye deserved it. therefore guard yourself from henceforward, and that shall ye find needful as soon as i am armed." when sir bors understood his brother's wrath, he kneeled down to the earth and cried him mercy, holding up both his hands, and prayed him to forgive him his evil will; but lionel would show no pity, and made his avow to god that he should have only death. right so he went in and put on his harness; then he mounted upon his horse and came tofore him, and said, "bors, keep thee from me, for i shall do to thee as i would to a felon or a traitor, for ye be the untruest knight that ever came out of so worthy a house as was that of our father, king bors of ganis." when sir bors saw that he must fight with his brother or else die, he wist not what to do. then his heart counselled him not to fight, inasmuch as lionel was born before him, wherefore he ought to bear him reverence. again kneeled he down afore lionel's horse's feet, and said, "fair sweet brother, have mercy upon me and slay me not, and have in remembrance the great love which ought to be between us twain." what sir bors said lionel recked not, for the fiend had brought him in such a will that he was determined to slay him. then when lionel saw he would none other, and that he would not rise to give him battle, he rushed over him, so that his horse's feet smote bors to the earth, and hurt him so sore that he swooned of distress. when lionel saw this, he alighted from his horse to smite off his head. so he took him by the helm, and would have rent it from his head, had not the hermit come running unto him, which was a good man and of great age. well had he heard all the words that were between them, and so fell down upon sir bors. then he said to lionel, "ah, gentle knight, have mercy upon me and on thy brother, for if thou slay him thou shalt commit a deadly sin, and that were sorrowful; for he is one of the worthiest knights of the world, and of the best conditions." "so god me help," said lionel, "sir priest, unless ye flee from him i shall slay you, and he shall never the sooner be quit." "verily," said the good man, "i had rather ye slay me than him, for my death shall not be great harm, not half so much as his." "well," said lionel, "i am agreed"; and he set his hand to his sword, and smote the hermit so hard that his head went backward. for all that, he restrained him not of his evil will, but took his brother by the helm, and unlaced it to strike off his head. and he would have slain him without fail, but so it happened that colgrevance, a fellow of the round table, came at that time thither, as our lord's will was. first he saw the good man slain, then he beheld how lionel would slay his brother, whom he knew and loved right well. anon he sprang down and took lionel by the shoulders, and drew him strongly back from bors, and said, "lionel, will ye slay your brother, one of the worthiest knights of the world? that should no good man suffer." "why," said sir lionel, "will ye hinder me? if ye interfere in this, i shall slay you, and him after." then lionel ran upon bors, and would have smitten him through the head, but sir colgrevance ran betwixt them, and said, "if ye be so hardy as to do so more, we two shall meddle together." then lionel defied him, and gave a great stroke through the helm. now colgrevance drew his sword, for he was a passing good knight, and defended himself right manfully. so long endured the battle that sir bors awoke from his swoon, and rose up all anguishly, and beheld sir colgrevance, the good knight, fight with his brother for his quarrel. then was he full sorry and heavy, and would have risen to part them. but he had not so much might as to stand on foot, and must abide so long till colgrevance had the worse, for sir lionel was of great chivalry and right hardy. only death awaited colgrevance, when he beheld sir bors assaying to rise, and he cried, "ah, bors, come ye and cast me out of peril of death, wherein i have put me to succour you, which were right now nigh to death." when bors heard that, he did so much as to rise and put on his helm, making a marvellous sorrow at the sight of the dead hermit hard by. with that lionel smote colgrevance so sore that he bare him to the earth. when he had slain colgrevance, he ran upon his brother as a fiendly man, and gave him such a stroke that he made him stoop; and he, full of humility, prayed him for god's love to leave this battle. but lionel would not, and then bors drew his sword, all weeping, and said, "fair brother, god knoweth mine intent. ah, brother, ye have done full evil this day to slay such a holy priest, the which never trespassed. also ye have slain a gentle knight, one of our fellows. and well wot ye that i am not afraid of you greatly, but i dread the wrath of god. this is an unkindly war; therefore may god show miracle upon us both. now god have mercy upon me, though i defend my life against my brother." with that bors lifted up his hands, and would have smitten lionel, but even then he heard a voice that said, "flee, bors, and touch him not." right so came a cloud betwixt them in likeness of a fire, so that both their shields burned. then were they sore afraid, and fell both to the earth, and lay there a great while in a swoon. when they came to themselves, bors saw that his brother had no harm, wherefore he gave thanks, for he feared god had taken vengeance upon him. with that he heard a voice say, "bors, go hence and bear thy brother no longer fellowship, but take thy way anon right to the sea, for sir percivale abideth thee there." so sir bors departed from lionel, and rode the next way to the sea. on the strand he found a ship covered all with white samite. he alighted from his horse and entered into the ship, and anon it departed into the sea, and went so fast that him seemed the ship went flying. then he saw in the midst of the ship a knight lie, all armed save his helm, and he knew that it was sir percivale. and either made great joy of other, that it was marvel to hear. then sir bors told sir percivale how he came into the ship, and by whose admonishment, and either told other of his temptations, as ye have heard toforehand. so went they downward in the sea, one while backward, another while forward, and each comforted other, and oft were they in their prayers. then said sir percivale, "we lack nothing but galahad, the good knight." chapter xxxi how sir launcelot found the holy grail when the hermit had kept sir launcelot three days, he gat him a horse, a helm, and a sword. so he departed, and took the adventure that god would send him. on a night, as he slept, there came a vision unto him, and a voice said, "launcelot, arise up, and take thine armour, and enter into the first ship that thou shalt find." when he heard these words, he started up and saw great clearness about him. then he lifted up his hand in worship, and so took his arms, and made him ready. by adventure he came by a strand, and found a ship, the which was without sail or oar. and as soon as he was within the ship, he felt the most sweetness that ever he felt, and he was filled with a peace such as he had never known before. in this joy he laid himself down on the ship's board, and slept till day. so sir launcelot was a month and more on the ship, and if ye would ask how he lived, as god fed the people of israel with manna in the desert, so was he fed. on a night he went to play him by the waterside, for he was somewhat weary of the ship. and then he listened, and heard a horse come, and one riding upon him. when he came nigh he seemed a knight, and soon he saw that it was galahad. and there was great joy between them, for there is no tongue can tell the joy that they made either of other; and there was many a friendly word spoken between them, the which need not here be rehearsed. and there each told other of the adventures and marvels that were befallen to them in many journeys since they were departed from the court. so dwelled launcelot and galahad within that ship half a year, and served god daily and nightly with all their power. and often they arrived in isles far from folk, where there repaired none but wild beasts. there they found many strange adventures and perilous, which they brought to an end. but because the adventures were with wild beasts, and not in the quest of the holy grail, therefore the tale maketh here no mention thereof, for it would be too long to tell of all those adventures that befell them. thereafter it befell that they arrived in the edge of a forest tofore a cross, and then saw they a knight, armed all in white and richly horsed, leading in his right hand a white horse. he came to the ship and saluted the two knights on the high lord's behalf, and said, "galahad, sir, ye have been long enough with launcelot. come out of the ship, and start upon this horse, and go where the adventures shall lead thee in the quest of the holy grail." so galahad took sorrowful leave of sir launcelot, for they knew that one should never see the other before the dreadful day of doom. galahad took his horse and entered into the forest, and the wind arose and drove launcelot more than a month throughout the sea, where he slept little, but prayed to god that he might see some tidings of the holy grail. and it befell on a night, at midnight, he arrived afore a castle, on the back side, which was rich and fair. there was a postern opened towards the sea, and was open without any keeping, save two lions kept the entry; and the moon shone clear. anon sir launcelot heard a voice that said, "launcelot, go out of this ship, and enter into the castle, where thou shalt see a great part of thy desire." then he ran for his arms, and so he went to the gate, and saw the lions. he set his hand to his sword, and drew it, whereupon there came a dwarf suddenly, and smote him on the arm so sore that the sword fell out of his hand. then heard he a voice say, "oh, man of evil faith and poor belief, wherefore trowest thou more on thy harness than in thy maker? he in whose service thou art set might more avail thee than thine armour." then said launcelot, "fair father jesu christ, i thank thee of thy great mercy, that thou reprovest me of my misdeed. now see i well that ye hold me for your servant." then took he again his sword, and put it up in his sheath, and came to the lions, and they made semblant[ ] to do him harm. notwithstanding he passed by them without hurt, and entered into the castle to the chief fortress, and there were all at rest. launcelot entered in so armed, for he found no gate nor door but it was open. at last he found a chamber whereof the door was shut, and he set his hand thereto to open it, but he might not, though he enforced himself much to undo the door. then he listened, and heard a voice which sang so sweetly that it seemed none earthly thing. launcelot kneeled down tofore the chamber, for well wist he that there was the holy grail within that chamber. then said he: "fair sweet father jesu christ, if ever i did thing that pleased thee, for thy pity have me not in despite for my sins done aforetime, and show me something of that i seek!" with that he saw the chamber door open, and there came out a great clearness, so that the house was as bright as if all the torches of the world had been there. so came he to the chamber door, and would have entered, but anon a voice said to him, "flee, launcelot, and enter not, for thou oughtest not to do it; and if thou enter thou shalt repent it." he withdrew himself back right heavy, and then looked he up in the midst of the chamber, and saw a table of silver, and the holy vessel covered with red samite, and many angels about it. right so came he to the door at a great pace, entered into the chamber, and drew towards the table of silver. when he came nigh he felt a breath that seemed intermingled with fire, which smote him so sore in the visage that he thought it burned his visage. therewith he fell to the earth, and had no power to arise. then felt he many hands about him, which took him up and bare him out of the chamber door, and left him there seeming dead to all people. upon the morrow, when it was fair day, they within were arisen, and found launcelot lying afore the chamber door, and all they marvelled how he came in. they looked upon him, and felt his pulse, to wit whether there were any life in him. and so they found life in him, but he might neither stand nor stir any limb that he had. they took him up, and bare him into a chamber, and laid him in a rich bed, far from all folk, and so he lay still as a dead man four and twenty days, in punishment, he afterwards thought, for the twenty-four years that he had been a sinner. at the twenty-fifth day it befell that he opened his eyes, and the folk asked how it stood with him. he answered that he was whole of body, and then he would know where he was. they told him he was in the castle of carboneck, and that the quest of the holy grail had been achieved by him, and that he should never see the sacred vessel more nearly than he had seen it. soon sir launcelot took his leave of all the fellowship that were there at the castle, and thanked them for the great labour. so he took his armour and departed, and said that he would go back to the realm of logris. [ ] made semblant: threatened. chapter xxxii the end of the quest now, saith the story, sir galahad rode into a vast forest, wherein he rode many journeys, and he found many adventures, the which he brought to an end, whereof the story maketh here no mention. and on a day it befell him that he was benighted in a hermitage. the good man there was glad when he saw a knight-errant, and made him what cheer he might. then when they were at rest, there came a gentlewoman knocking at the door, and called galahad. so the hermit came to the door to wit what she would, and she said to him that she would speak with the knight that was lodged there. the good man awoke galahad, and bade him arise and speak with a gentlewoman that seemed to have great need of him. then galahad went to her, and asked her what she would. "galahad," said she, "i will that ye arm you, and mount upon your horse and follow me, for i shall show you within these three days the highest adventure that ever any knight saw." anon galahad armed him, and took his horse, and bade the gentlewoman go, and he would follow as she liked. so she rode as fast as her palfrey might bear her, till they came to the seaside, and there they found the ship wherein were bors and percivale, the which cried on the ship's board, "sir galahad, ye be welcome; we have awaited you long." so, leaving his horse behind, galahad entered into the ship, where the two knights received him with great joy. and the wind arose, and drove them through the sea marvellously. now saith the story that they rode a great while till they came to the castle of carboneck, where sir launcelot had been tofore. they entered within the castle, and then there was great joy, for they wist well that they had fulfilled the quest of the holy grail. as they were alone in the hall, it seemed to them that there came a man, in likeness of a bishop, with four angels from heaven, and held mass about a table of silver, whereupon the holy grail was. and in a vision they saw in the bread of the sacrament a figure in likeness of a child, and the visage was as bright as any fire. then said the bishop to them, "servants of jesu christ, ye shall be fed afore this table with sweet food, that never knights tasted." when he had said, he vanished away; and they sat them at the table in great reverence, and made their prayers. then looked they, and saw a man that had all the signs of the passion of jesu christ, and he said: "my knights and my servants and my true children, which be come out of deadly life into spiritual life, i will now no longer hide me from you, but ye shall see now a part of my secrets and of my hid things; now hold and receive the high meat which ye have so much desired." then took he himself the holy vessel, and came to galahad, who knelt down and there he received the sacrament, and after him so received all his fellows; and they thought it so sweet that it was marvellous to tell. then said he to galahad, "son, knowest thou what i hold betwixt my hands?" "nay," said he, "unless ye will tell me." "this is," said he, "the holy dish wherein i ate the lamb at the last supper. and now hast thou seen that thou most desiredst to see, but yet hast thou not seen it so openly as thou shalt see it in the city of sarras, in the spiritual place. therefore thou must go hence, and bear with thee this holy vessel, for this night it shall depart from the realm of logris, that it shall never be seen more here. and knowest thou wherefore? because they of this land be turned to evil living; therefore i shall disinherit them of the honour which i have done them. therefore go ye three unto the sea, where ye shall find your ship ready." right so departed galahad, percivale and bors with him. they rode three days, and then they came to a rivage[ ], where they found the ship whereof the tale speaketh tofore. when they came to the board, they found in the midst the table of silver, which they had left in the castle of carboneck, and the holy grail, which was covered with red samite. then were they glad to have such things in their fellowship. they had remained some time in the ship, when they awoke of a morning to see the city of sarras afore them. here they landed, and took out of the ship the table of silver, percivale and bors going tofore and galahad behind. right so they went to the city, and at the gate of the city they saw an old bent man. then galahad called him, and bade him help to bear this heavy thing. "truly," said the old man, "it is ten years since i might go without crutches." "care thou not," said galahad; "arise up and show thy good will." so he assayed, and found himself as whole as ever he was. then ran he to the table, and took one part opposite galahad. anon arose there great noise in the city, that a cripple was made whole by knights marvellous that entered into the city. when the king of the city, which was called estorause, saw the fellowship, he asked them from whence they were, and what thing it was that they had brought upon the table of silver. and they told him the truth of the holy grail, and the power which god had set there. now king estorause was a tyrant, and was come of a line of pagans. he took the three knights and put them in a deep hole. but as soon as they were there our lord sent them the holy grail, through whose grace they were always satisfied while that they were in prison. at the year's end it befell that this king lay sick, and felt that he should die. then he sent for the three knights. they came afore him, and he cried them mercy of that he had done to them, and they forgave it him goodly, and he died anon. when the king was dead, all the city was dismayed, and wist not who might be their king. right so as they were in counsel, there came a voice among them, and bade them choose the youngest knight of them there to be their king, for he should well maintain them and all theirs. so they made galahad king by all the assent of the whole city. when he was come to behold the land, he let make about the table of silver a chest of gold and of precious stones that covered the holy vessel; and every day early the three fellows would come afore it and make their prayers. now at the year's end the three knights arose early and came to the palace, and saw before them the holy vessel, and a man kneeling, in likeness of a bishop, that had about him a great fellowship of angels. and he called galahad and said to him, "come forth, thou servant of jesu christ, and thou shalt see that thou hast much desired to see." then galahad began to tremble right hard, when the deadly flesh began to behold the spiritual things. then he held up his hands towards heaven, and said, "lord, i thank thee, for now i see what hath been my desire many a day. now, blessed lord, would i not longer live, if it might please thee, lord." therewith the good man took the sacrament and proffered it to galahad, and he received it right gladly and meekly. "now, wotest thou what i am?" said the good man; "i am joseph of arimathea, which our lord hath sent here to thee to bear thee fellowship. and wotest thou wherefore he hath sent me more than any other? for thou hast resembled me in two things, in that thou hast seen the marvels of the holy grail, and in that thou hast been a clean and virtuous knight, as i have been and am." when these words had been spoken, galahad went to percivale and to bors and kissed them and commended them to god, and said, "salute me to my lord sir launcelot, and bid him remember of this unstable world." therewith he kneeled down tofore the table and made his prayers, and then suddenly his soul departed to jesu christ, and a great multitude of angels bare his soul up to heaven, and the two fellows might well behold it. also they saw come from heaven a hand, but they saw not the body; and it came right to the vessel, and took it, and bare it up to heaven. since then was there never man so hard as to say that he had seen the holy grail. when percivale and bors saw galahad had died, they made as much sorrow as ever did two men; and if they had not been good men, they might lightly have fallen in despair. and the people of the country and of the city were right heavy. and then he was buried. and as soon as he was buried, sir percivale betook himself to a hermitage out of the city, where for a year and two months he lived a full holy life, and then passed out of this world. when bors saw that he was alone in so far countries, he departed from sarras and came to the sea. there he entered into a ship, and so it befell that in good adventure he came into the realm of logris. and he rode to camelot, where king arthur was, and then was there great joy made of him in the court, for they believed all that he was dead, forasmuch as he had been so long out of the country. when they had eaten, the king made great clerks to come afore him, that they should chronicle of the high adventures of the good knights. when bors had told of the adventures of the holy grail, such as had befallen him and his two fellows, that was percivale and galahad, then launcelot told the adventures of the holy grail that he had seen. all this was made in great books, and put in chests at salisbury. [ ] rivage: bank; shore. chapter xxxiii sir launcelot and the fair maid of astolat after the quest of the holy grail was fulfilled, and all knights that were left alive were come again unto the table round, then was there great joy in the court, and in especial king arthur and queen guenever made great joy of the remnant that were come home. passing glad were the king and the queen of sir launcelot and of sir bors, for they had been long away in the quest of the holy grail. then, as the book saith, sir launcelot began to resort unto queen guenever again, and forgat the promise that he made in the quest. for, had he not been in his privy thoughts and in his mind so set inwardly to the queen, as he was in seeming outward to god, there had no knight passed him in the quest of the holy grail. but ever his thoughts were privily on the queen, more than toforehand, so that many in the court spake of it, and in especial sir agravaine, sir gawaine's brother, for he was ever open mouthed. thus it passed forth till on a day the king let cry great jousts and a tournament that should be at camelot, that is winchester, and thither came many knights. so king arthur made him ready to depart to these jousts, and would have had the queen with him, but she would not go, pretending to be sick. this grieved the king, for such a fellowship of knights had not been seen together since the whitsuntide when galahad departed from the court. and many deemed the queen would not be there because of sir launcelot of the lake, who would not ride with the king, for he said he was not whole of a wound. so when the king was departed, the queen called sir launcelot unto her, and told him he was greatly to blame, thus to hold himself behind his lord, and counselled him to take his way towards the tournament at winchester. so upon the morn he took his leave of the queen, and departed. he rode all that day, and at eventide he came to astolat, that is gilford, and was lodged at the place of an old baron, named sir bernard of astolat. the old knight welcomed him in the best manner, but he knew not that he was sir launcelot. "fair sir," said sir launcelot to his host, "i would pray you to lend me a shield that is not openly known, for mine be well known, and i would go to the tournament in disguise." "sir," said his host, "ye shall have your desire, for me seemeth ye be one of the likeliest knights of the world, and i shall show you friendship. sir, wit ye well i have two sons which were but late made knights. the eldest is called sir tirre, and he was hurt that same day that he was made knight, so that he may not ride. his shield ye shall have, for that is not known, i dare say, except in this place. and my youngest son is named sir lavaine, and if it please you, he shall ride with you unto the jousts, for he is of his age strong and brave. much my heart leads me to believe that ye should be a noble knight; therefore i pray you tell me your name." "as for that," said sir launcelot, "ye must hold me excused at his time, but if god give me grace to speed well at the jousts, i shall come again and tell you. but i pray you in any wise let me have your son sir lavaine with me, and his brother's shield." "this shall be done," said sir bernard. this old baron had a daughter, elaine le blank, that was called at that time the fair maid of astolat. ever she beheld sir launcelot admiringly, and, as the book saith, she cast such a love unto him that she could never withdraw her love, so she besought him to wear at the jousts a token of hers. "fair damsel," said sir launcelot, "if i grant you that, ye may say i do more for your love than ever i did for lady or damsel." [illustration: elaine] then he remembered that he would go to the jousts disguised; and because he had never afore that time borne any manner of token of any damsel, he bethought him that he would bear one of her, so that none of his blood thereby might know him. and then he said, "fair maiden, i will grant you to wear a token of yours upon my helmet; therefore, show me what it is." "sir," she said, "it is a red sleeve of mine, of scarlet, well embroidered with great pearls." so she brought it him, and sir launcelot received it, saying that he had never done so much for any damsel. then he left his shield in the fair maiden's keeping, and prayed her to care for it until that he came again. so that night he had merry rest and great cheer, for ever the damsel elaine was about sir launcelot, all the while she might be suffered. on the morn sir launcelot and sir lavaine took their leave of sir bernard, the old baron, and of his daughter, the fair maiden of astolat, and then they rode so long till they came to camelot. there was great press of kings, dukes, earls, and barons, and many noble knights; but there sir launcelot was lodged privily, by the means of sir lavaine, with a rich burgess, so that no man in that town was ware what they were. at the time appointed the jousts began, and sir launcelot made him ready in his best manner, and put the red sleeve upon his head, and fastened it fast. then he with sir lavaine came in at the thickest of the press, and did marvellous deeds of arms, so that all wondered what knight he might be. sir gawaine said it might be sir launcelot by his riding and his buffets, but ever it seemed it should not be he, for he bore the red sleeve upon his head, and he never wist sir launcelot bear token of lady or gentleman at any jousts. at the last by misfortune sir bors unhorsed sir launcelot, and smote him through the shield into the side; and the spear brake, and the head was left still in his side. but sir lavaine by great force took the horse from the king of scots and brought it to his lord, sir launcelot, and in spite of them all he made him to mount upon that horse. then launcelot gat a spear in his hand, and then he smote sir bors horse and man to the earth. in the same wise served he other knights, and, as the book saith, he might have slain them, but his heart might not serve him thereto, and he left them there. then afterwards he hurled in the thickest press of them all, and did there the marvellousest deeds of arms that ever man saw or heard speak of; and ever sir lavaine, the good knight, was with him. and there sir launcelot with his sword smote and pulled down, as the french book maketh mention, more than thirty knights, and the most part were of the table round. and sir lavaine also did full well that day. at the last the king blew unto lodging, and the prize was given by heralds unto the knight with the white shield, that bare the red sleeve. but sir launcelot was sore hurt, and cared not for honour; and groaning piteously, he rode at a great gallop away-ward from all the knights, until he came under a wood's side. when he saw that he was from the field nigh a mile, so that he was sure he might not be seen, he besought sir lavaine as he loved him to draw the truncheon out of his side. this sir lavaine dreaded sore to do, lest sir launcelot should be in peril of death from loss of blood, if the truncheon were drawn out. yet he did as his lord would have him do, and sir launcelot gave a great shriek, and so swooned pale and deadly. thereupon sir lavaine took him to a hermitage fast by within two miles, where dwelt a gentle hermit, that sometime was a full noble knight and a great lord of possessions. for great goodness he had taken himself to wilful poverty, and forsaken many lands. he was a full noble surgeon, and anon he stanched sir launcelot's blood, and made him to drink good wine, so that he was well refreshed, and came to himself. meanwhile king arthur let seek the knight that bare the red sleeve, that he might have his laud and honour, and the prize, as was right. but he could not be found, and the king and all the knights feared he was sore hurt in the battle. then sir gawaine took a squire with him and drove all about camelot within six or seven miles, but could hear no word of him. then within two days king arthur and all the fellowship returned unto london again, and so, as they rode by the way, it happened that sir gawaine was lodged at astolat with sir bernard. there by the means of the shield left in elaine's care he learned that the knight who won such honour at the tournament was none other than sir launcelot himself, and the fair maid of astolat learned on how valiant a knight she had fixed her love. when elaine heard also that sir launcelot was grievously wounded and that the knights knew not where he lay, she said to sir bernard, her father: "now i request you give me leave to ride and to seek him, or else i wot well i shall go out of my mind, for i shall never stop till that i find him and my brother, sir lavaine." "do as it liketh you," said her father, "for i am right sore grieved of the hurt of that noble knight." right so the maid made herself ready, and sir gawaine rode on to london, where he openly disclosed to all the court that it was sir launcelot that bore the red sleeve, and that jousted best. and when sir bors heard that, wit ye well he was a heavy man, and so were all his kinsmen, for it was he who had given sir launcelot, that was his own cousin, the grievous wound in the tournament. but when queen guenever wist that sir launcelot bare the red sleeve of the fair maid of astolat, she was nigh out of her mind for wrath, and called him false traitor, because he had worn the token of any lady but herself. as fair elaine came to winchester, she sought there all about, and by fortune sir lavaine had ridden out to refresh himself and to exercise his horse. anon as elaine saw him she knew him, and then she cried aloud unto him. when he heard her, anon he came hither, and then she asked her brother how sir launcelot did. "who told you, sister," said he, "that my lord's name is sir launcelot?" then she told him how sir gawaine knew him by his shield, and so they rode together till they came to the hermitage. anon she alighted, and sir lavaine brought her in to sir launcelot. so this maiden, elaine, never went from sir launcelot, but watched him day and night, and did such attendance to him that the french book saith there was never woman did kindlier for man than she. after a long while he was healed of his wounds, and so upon a morn they took their horses, and elaine le blank with them, and departed from the hermit. and when they came to astolat, there they were well lodged, and had great cheer of sir bernard the old baron, and of sir tirre his son. when sir launcelot should depart from astolat for to return to king arthur's court, fair elaine seemed like to die for love of him and for sorrow at his going. but sir launcelot loved only queen guenever, and thought never to be wedded man, and could only grieve at her great sorrow; and for her good will and great kindness he promised that, whensoever she should set her heart upon some good knight that would wed her, he would give her a thousand pounds yearly, and always while he lived be her own true knight. then sir launcelot took his leave, and with sir lavaine he came unto winchester. and when arthur wist that sir launcelot was come whole and sound, he made great joy of him, and so did all the knights of the round table except sir agravaine and sir mordred. now speak we of the fair maiden of astolat, that made such sorrow day and night that she never slept, ate, or drank, and ever she made her lament for sir launcelot. when she had thus endured a ten days, and weakened so that she must needs pass out of this world, she prepared for death, but ever she mourned for sir launcelot. then her priest bade her leave such thoughts; but she said, "why should i leave such thoughts? am i not an earthly woman? and all the while the breath is in my body i may lament, for i do none offence, though i love an earthly man, and i take god to my record i never loved any but sir launcelot of the lake, and as i am a pure maiden i never shall. and since it is the sufferance of god that i shall die for the love of so noble a knight, i beseech the high father of heaven to have mercy upon my soul; and sweet lord jesu, i take thee to record, i was never great offender against thy laws, but that i loved this noble knight sir launcelot out of measure, and of myself, good lord, i might not withstand the fervent love wherefore i have my death." then she called her father sir bernard and her brother sir tirre, and heartily she prayed her father that her brother might write a letter like as she did endite it, and so her father granted her. and when the letter was written word by word as she devised, then she prayed her father that after her death she might be put in a barge in all her richest clothes, the letter fast in her right hand, and that the barge, covered over and over with black samite, might be steered by one boatman only down the thames to westminster. so she died, and all was done as she desired. now by fortune king arthur and queen guenever were speaking together at a window of the palace, and as they looked they espied this black barge, and had marvel what it meant. and the king sent three knights thither to bring him ready word what was there. then these three knights came to the barge, and found therein the fairest corpse lying in a rich bed, and a poor man sitting at the barge's end, and no word would he speak. then the king took the queen by the hand and went thither, and there they saw the fair woman in all the rich clothing lying as though she smiled. and the queen espied the letter in her right hand, and a clerk read it in the presence of many knights. this was the intent of the letter: "most noble knight sir launcelot, now hath death made us two at debate for your love. i was your lover, that men called the fair maiden of astolat; therefore unto all ladies i make my moan; yet pray for my soul, and bury me at the least, and offer my mass-penny. this is my last request. and a clean maiden i died, i take god to witness. pray for my soul, sir launcelot, as thou art peerless." when the letter was read, the king, the queen, and all the knights wept for pity at the doleful lament. then was sir launcelot sent for, and when he heard the letter word by word, he said: "my lord arthur, wit ye well i am right heavy of the death of this fair damsel, but god knoweth i was never cause of her death by my willing. i will not say but that she was both fair and good, and much i was beholden unto her, but she loved me out of measure." then said the king unto sir launcelot, "it will be your honour that ye oversee that she be interred honourably." "sir," said sir launcelot, "that shall be done as i can best devise." so upon the morn she was interred richly, and sir launcelot offered her mass-penny, and all the knights of the table round that were there at that time offered with sir launcelot. and the queen sent for sir launcelot, and prayed him of mercy, because she had been wroth with him causeless, and he willingly forgave her. so it passed on all that winter with all manner of hunting and hawking, and jousts and tourneys were many betwixt the great lords; and ever in all places sir lavaine gat great honour, so that he was nobly renowned among many knights of the table round. chapter xxxiv of the great tournament on candlemas day at christmas time many knights were together at the court, and every day there was a joust made. sir lavaine jousted there all that christmas passing well, and was praised best, for there were but few that did so well. wherefore all knights thought that sir lavaine should be made knight of the round table at the next feast of pentecost. but sir launcelot would joust only when a great tournament was held. so after christmas king arthur had many knights called unto him, and there they agreed together to make a party and a great tournament near westminster on candlemas day. of this many knights were glad, and made themselves ready to be at these jousts in the freshest manner. the queen guenever sent for sir launcelot, and said: "at these jousts that shall be ye shall bear upon your helmet the sleeve of gold that ye shall have of me, and i pray you, for my sake exert yourself there so that men may speak of your honour." "madam," said sir launcelot, "it shall be done." and when sir launcelot saw his time, he told sir bors that he would depart, and have no others with him than sir lavaine, unto the good hermit that dwelt in the forest of windsor,--his name was sir brastias,--and there he intended to take all the repose he might, because he wished to be fresh on the day of the jousts. so sir launcelot with sir lavaine departed so quietly that no creature except the noble men of his own kin knew what had become of him. and when he had come to the hermitage, you may be sure he had good cheer. daily he would go to a spring hard by the hermitage, and there he would lie down and watch the spring bubble, and sometimes he slept there. at that time a lady dwelt in the forest, who was a great huntress. every day she used to hunt, and no men ever went with her, but always women. they were all shooters, and could well kill a deer both under cover and in the open. they always carried bows and arrows, horns and wood-knives, and many good dogs they had. now it happened that this lady, the huntress, was one day chasing a deer, keeping the direction by the noise of the hounds. the deer, hard pressed, came down to the spring where sir launcelot was sleeping, and there sank down exhausted, and lay there a great while. at length the dogs came fast after, and beat about, for they had lost the very perfect track of the deer. just then there came that lady, the huntress, who knew by the sounds of the dogs that the deer must be at the spring. so she came swiftly and found the deer. she put a broad arrow in her bow, and shot at it, but aimed too high, and so by misfortune the arrow smote sir launcelot deep in the thick of the thigh. when sir launcelot felt himself so hurt, he jumped up madly, and saw the lady that had smitten him. and when he saw it was a woman, he said thus; "lady or damsel, whatever thou be, in an evil time ye bare a bow; the devil made you a shooter." "now mercy, fair sir," said the lady; "i am a gentlewoman that am wont to hunt here in this forest, and truly i saw you not; there was the deer by the spring, and i believed i was doing well to shoot, but my hand swerved." "alas," said sir launcelot, "ye have done mischief to me." and so the lady departed, and sir launcelot, as well as he might, pulled out the arrow, but the head remained still in his thigh; and so he went feebly to the hermitage, ever bleeding as he went. and when sir lavaine and the hermit spied that sir launcelot was hurt, wit ye well they were passing sorry; but neither sir lavaine nor the hermit knew how he was hurt, or by whom. then with great pain the hermit gat the arrow's head out of sir launcelot's thigh, but much of his blood was shed, and the wound was passing sore. "ah, mercy," said sir launcelot, "i call myself the most unhappy man that liveth; for ever when i would most gladly have honour there befalleth me some unhappy thing. now, so heaven help me, i shall be in the field upon candlemas day at the jousts, whatsoever come of it." so all that might heal sir launcelot was gotten, and, when the day came, he and sir lavaine had themselves and their horses arrayed, and so departed and came nigh to the field. many proved good knights with their retainers were there ready to joust, and king arthur himself came into the field with two hundred knights, the most part noble knights of the table round. and there were old knights set in scaffolds, for to judge with the queen who did best. then they blew to the field, and the knights met in the battle, furiously smiting down one and another in the rush of the tournament. king arthur himself ran into the lists with a hundred followers, smiting to the earth four knights, one after the other, and even when his spear was broken he did passing well. and so knight after knight came in,--sir gawaine, and sir gaheris, and sir agravaine, and sir mordred, and many others; all pressed their opponents hard, some being discomfited and others gaining great honour by their mighty prowess. all this doing sir launcelot saw, and then he came into the field with sir lavaine, as if it had been thunder. he encountered with sir gawaine, and by force smote him and his horse to the earth, and then one knight after another all with one spear. and sir lavaine encountered with sir palamides, and either met other so hard and so fiercely that both their horses fell to the earth. but they were horsed again, and then sir launcelot met with sir palamides, and there sir palamides had a fall. and so sir launcelot, as fast as he could get spears, smote down thirty knights, and the most part of them were knights of the table round. and then king arthur was wroth when he saw sir launcelot do such deeds, and with nine chosen knights made ready to set upon sir launcelot and sir lavaine. all this espied sir gareth, and he said to sir bors, "i will ride unto my lord sir launcelot for to help him, fall of it what may, for he is the same man that made me knight." "ye shall not so," said sir bors, "by my counsel, unless ye be disguised." "ye shall see me disguised," said sir gareth. so he rode to a welsh knight who lay to repose himself, for he was sore hurt afore by sir gawaine, and sir gareth prayed him of his knighthood to lend him his green shield for his. "i will well," said the welsh knight. so sir gareth came driving to sir launcelot with all his might, and bore him fellowship for old love he had shown him. and so the king and his nine knights encountered with sir launcelot and sir lavaine and sir gareth. and sir gareth did such deeds of arms that all men wondered what knight he was with the green shield; for he smote down that day and pulled down more than thirty knights. also sir launcelot knew not sir gareth, and marvelled, when he beheld him do such deeds, what knight he might be. so this tournament and this joust lasted long, till it was near evening, for the knights of the round table ever came to the relief of king arthur, who was wroth out of measure that he and his knights could not prevail that day over sir launcelot and the knights who were with him. so when they had long dealt one another great strokes and neither might prevail, king arthur said to sir gawaine, "tell me now, nephew, what is your best counsel?" "sir," said sir gawaine, "ye shall have my counsel. have sounded the call unto lodging, for, trust me, truly it will be of no avail to strive with sir launcelot of the lake and my brother, sir gareth,--for he it is with the green shield,--helped as they are by that good young knight, sir lavaine, unless we should fall ten or twelve upon one knight, and that would be no honour, but shame." "ye say truth," said the king, "and it were shame to us, so many as we are, to set upon them any more." so then they blew unto lodging, and king arthur rode after sir launcelot and prayed him and other of the knights to supper. so they went unto arthur's lodging all together, and there was a great feast and great revel, and the prize was given unto sir launcelot. then sir launcelot told the king and the queen how the lady huntress shot him in the forest of windsor in the thigh with a broad arrow. also arthur blamed sir gareth, because he left his fellowship and held with sir launcelot. "my lord," said sir gareth, "he made me a knight, and when i saw him so hard bestead, me thought it was my honour to help him, for i saw him do so much, and i was ashamed to see so many noble knights against him alone." "truly," said king arthur unto sir gareth, "ye say well, and honourably have ye done, and all the days of my life be sure i shall love you and trust you the more for the great honour ye have done to yourself. for ever it is an honourable knight's duty to help another honourable knight when he seeth him in a great danger, for ever an honourable man will be loath to see an honourable man put to shame. he that is of no honour, and fareth with cowardice, will never show gentleness nor any manner of goodness where he seeth a man in any danger, for never will a coward show any mercy, and always a good man will do to another man as he would be done to himself." so then there were great feasts unto kings and dukes; and revel, game, and play, and all manner of nobleness was used; and he that was courteous, true, and faithful to his friend was at that time cherished. chapter xxxv queen guenever's may-day ride and what came of it thus it passed on from candlemas until after easter, and soon the month of may was come, when every manly heart begins to blossom and to bring forth fruit. for as herbs and trees flourish in may, likewise every lusty heart springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds, for more than any other month may giveth unto all men renewed courage, and calleth again to their mind old gentleness and old service, and many kind deeds that were forgotten by negligence. therefore, as the month of may flowereth and flourisheth in many gardens, so let every man of honour bring forth fruit in his heart, first unto god, and next unto the joy of them to whom he has promised his faith. so it befell in the month of may that queen guenever called unto her ten knights of the table round, and she bade them ride with her a-maying on the morrow into the woods and fields near westminster. and "i bid you," said she, "that ye all be well horsed, and that ye all be clothed in green, either silk or woollen, and i shall bring with me ten ladies, and every knight shall have a lady behind him, and every knight shall have a squire and two yeomen." so they made themselves ready in the freshest manner, and in the morning rode with the queen a-maying in woods and meadows as it pleased them in great joy and delight. the queen purposed to be again with king arthur at the furthest by ten of the clock. now there was a knight called meliagrance, who had at that time a castle, the gift of king arthur, within seven miles of westminster. he had long lain in wait to steal away the queen, but had feared to do the base deed when sir launcelot was in her company. it was her custom at that time never to ride without a great fellowship of men of arms about her, for the most part young men eager for honour, and called the queen's knights. but this knight, sir meliagrance, had espied the queen well and her purpose on this may morning, and had seen how sir launcelot was not with her, and how she had for this once no men of arms with her but the ten noble knights all arrayed in green for maying. then he provided him twenty men of arms and a hundred archers, to destroy the queen's knights, for he thought that time was the best season to take the queen prisoner. so while the queen and all her knights were gathering herbs and mosses and flowers in the best manner and freshest, just then there came out of a wood sir meliagrance with eight-score men, well armed, and bade the queen and her knights to stand. "traitor knight," said queen guenever, "what intendest thou to do? wilt thou shame thyself? bethink thee how thou art a king's son, and knight of the table round, and thou art about to dishonour the noble king that made thee knight; thou shamest all knighthood and thyself; but me, i let thee wit, thou shalt never shame, for i had rather cut my throat in twain than that thou shouldst dishonour me." "as for all this language," said sir meliagrance, "be it as it may, never before could i get you at such advantage as i do now, and therefore i will take you as i find you." all the ten noble knights sought to dissuade him from dishonouring himself and from forcing them to jeopard their lives, unarmed as they were, in defending the queen. but sir meliagrance would not yield, and the ten knights of the table round drew their swords and stood manly against the spears and swords of the others. but sir meliagrance had them at great advantage, and anon six of them were smitten to the earth with grimly wounds. the other four fought long, but at last they also were sore wounded. when the queen saw that her knights needs must be slain at the last, she for pity and sorrow agreed to go with sir meliagrance to his castle upon this covenant, that he suffer not her knights to be more hurt, and that they be led wheresoever she was taken. "for," said she, "i will rather slay myself than go with thee, unless these my noble knights may be in my presence." meliagrance consented, and by the queen's commandment they left battle. the wounded knights were placed on horseback, some sitting, some across the horses' backs in a pitiful manner, and all rode in haste to the castle. then sir meliagrance charged the queen and all her knights that no one should depart from her, for full sore he dreaded sir launcelot, lest he should have any knowledging. but the queen privily called unto her a page who could ride swiftly, gave him her ring, and told him to bear it, when he saw a chance to slip away quietly, unto sir launcelot of the lake, and pray him to rescue her. "and spare thou not thy horse," said she, "neither for water nor for land." so the page espied his time, and lightly he touched his horse with the spurs, and departed as fast as he might. sir meliagrance saw him so flee, and understood that it was to warn sir launcelot. then they that were best horsed chased him and shot at him, but he escaped them all, and anon found sir launcelot. and when he had told his message, and delivered him the queen's ring, "alas," said sir launcelot, "now am i shamed forever, unless that i may rescue that noble lady from dishonour." then he eagerly called for his armour, and ever the page told him how the ten knights had fought marvellously, till at last the queen made appointment to go with sir meliagrance for to save their lives. "alas," said sir launcelot, "that most noble lady, that she should be so destroyed! i would give all france to have been there well armed." so when sir launcelot was armed and upon his horse, he sent the queen's page to tell sir lavaine how suddenly he had departed, and for what cause, and to pray him to come anon to the castle where sir meliagrance abideth. sir launcelot, it is said, took to the water at westminster bridge and made his horse swim over the thames to lambeth; and then he rode as fast as he might, until within a while he came to the place where the ten knights had fought with sir meliagrance. he then followed the path until he came to a straight way through the wood. here he was stopped by thirty archers that sir meliagrance had sent out to slay sir launcelot's horse, but in no wise to have ado with him bodily, "for," he had said, "he is overhard to overcome." these archers bade sir launcelot to turn again and follow no longer that track, and when sir launcelot gave right naught for them, then they shot his horse, and smote him with many arrows. sir launcelot now set out on foot, but there were so many ditches and hedges betwixt the archers and him that he could not meddle with any one of them. he went on a while, but was much cumbered by his armour, his shield, and his spear. wit ye well he was sore annoyed at his slow progress, but was loath to leave anything that belonged unto him, for he dreaded sore the treason of sir meliagrance. just then by chance there came by a cart, that was sent thither to fetch wood. "tell me, carter," said sir launcelot, "what shall i give thee to take me in thy cart unto a castle within two miles of here?" "thou shalt not set foot in my cart," said the man, "for i am sent to fetch wood for my lord sir meliagrance." then sir launcelot jumped upon him and gave the man such a blow that he fell to the earth stark dead. then the other carter, his fellow, was afraid of going the same way, and cried out, "fair lord, save my life and i will bring you where ye will." sir launcelot leaped into the cart, and the carter drove at a great gallop, sir launcelot's horse following after with more than forty arrows in him. more than an hour and a half later, queen guenever was in a bay window of the castle with her ladies, and espied an armed knight approaching, standing in a cart. "see, madam," said a lady to her, "there rideth in a cart a goodly armed knight; i suppose he rideth to hanging." then the queen espied by his shield that sir launcelot of the lake himself was there. "alas," said the queen; "now i see that well is it with him who hath a trusty friend. ah, most noble knight, i see well thou are hard bestead, when thou ridest in a cart." by this time sir launcelot had come to the gates of that castle, and there he descended from the cart, and cried so that all the castle rang: "where art thou, false traitor sir meliagrance, and knight of the table round? now come forth here, thou traitor knight, thou and thy fellowship with thee, for here i am, sir launcelot of the lake, that shall fight with thee." with these words he burst the gate wide open upon the porter, and smote him under his ear with his gauntlet so that he staggered back like a dead man. when sir meliagrance heard that sir launcelot was there, he ran unto queen guenever and fell upon his knees, putting himself wholly at her mercy, and begging her to control the wrath of sir launcelot. "better is peace than ever war," said the queen, "and the less noise the more is my honour." so she and her ladies went down to sir launcelot, thanked him for all his trouble in her behalf, told him of meliagrance's repentance, and bade him come in peaceably with her. "madam," said sir launcelot, "if ye are accorded with him, i am not inclined to be against peace, howbeit sir meliagrance hath done full shamefully to me, and cowardly. ah, madam, had i known ye would be so soon accorded with him, i would not have made such haste unto you." "what," said the queen, "do ye repent of your good deeds? wit ye well i never made peace with him for labour or love that i had unto him, but to suppress all shameful noise." "madam," said sir launcelot, "ye understand full well i was never glad of shameful slander nor noise; and there is neither king, queen, nor knight alive except my lord king arthur and you, madam, that should hinder me from making sir meliagrance's heart full cold or ever i departed from hence." then the queen and sir launcelot went in together, and she commanded him to be unarmed. then he asked where the ten knights were that were wounded sore. so she led sir launcelot to them, and they made great joy of his coming, and he made great dole of their hurts, and bewailed them greatly. and then sir launcelot told them how he had been obliged to put himself into a cart. thus they complained each to other, and full gladly would they have been revenged, but they restrained themselves because of the queen. so sir launcelot was called for many a day thereafter the chevalier of the cart, and he did many deeds, and great adventures he had. and so we leave this tale of the knight of the cart, and turn to others. chapter xxxvi of the plot against sir launcelot in this same month of may when every lusty heart flourisheth and bourgeoneth, there befell in king arthur's realm a great anger and ill fortune that stinted not till the flower of chivalry of all the world was destroyed. and all was due to two evil knights, the which were named sir agravaine and sir mordred, that were nephews unto king arthur and brethren unto sir gawaine. for this sir agravaine and sir mordred had ever a privy hate unto the queen, dame guenever, and to sir launcelot, and daily and nightly they ever watched upon him. so it mishapped that sir agravaine on a day said openly, so that many knights might hear, that the friendship between sir launcelot and the queen was a disgrace to knighthood and a shame to so noble a king as arthur. but sir gawaine would not hear any of these tales nor be of agravaine's counsel; moreover he charged his brother to move no such matters afore him, for he wist well what mischief would come, should war arise betwixt sir launcelot and the king, and he remembered how ofttimes sir launcelot had proved his goodness and loyalty by knightly deeds. also sir gaheris and sir gareth, two other brethren, would know nothing of agravaine's base accusation. but sir mordred, the fifth of the brethren, sons of the queen of orkney, the which had mocked the good percivale when first he came to the court, and who had ever been jealous and ready to think evil of another, joined with sir agravaine. therewithal they three, sir gawaine, sir gaheris, and sir gareth departed, making great dole over the mischief that threatened the destruction of the realm and the dispersion of the noble fellowship of the round table. so sir agravaine and sir mordred came before king arthur, and told him they might no longer suffer sir launcelot's deeds, for he was a traitor to his kingly person. but the king would believe nothing unless he might have proofs of it, for, as the french book saith, he was full loath to hear ill of a knight who had done so much for him and for the queen so many times that, as was fully known, he loved him passingly well. then these two brethren made a plot for taking sir launcelot when in the queen's presence, and bringing him dead or quick to king arthur. so on the morn sir agravaine and sir mordred gat to them twelve knights and hid themselves in a chamber in the castle of carlisle, where queen guenever was; thus they plotted to take sir launcelot by force, if she should have speech with him. sir launcelot was no coward, and cared not what liars said about him, since he wist his own good will and loyalty. so when the queen sent for him to speak with her, he went as true knight to the castle, and fell into the trap that was set for him. in the battle that followed he was hard bestead, but slew sir agravaine at the first buffet, and within a little while he laid the twelve chosen knights cold to the earth. also he wounded sir mordred, who, when he escaped from the noble sir launcelot, anon gat his horse and rode unto king arthur, sore wounded and all bleeding. then he told the king how it was, and how they were all slain save himself only. so the king believed sir mordred's evil accusation true, and he said: "alas, me sore repenteth that ever sir launcelot should be against me. now am i sure the noble fellowship of the round table is broken for ever, for with him will many a noble knight hold. and now it is fallen so that i may not keep my honour unless the queen suffer the death." so then there was made great ordinance that the queen must be judged to the death, for the law was such in those days that whatsoever they were, of what estate or degree, if they were found guilty of treason, there should be none other remedy but death. right so it was ordained for queen guenever, and she was commanded to the fire, there to be burned. king arthur prayed sir gawaine to make himself ready in his best armour, with his brethren sir gaheris and sir gareth, to bring the queen to the fire, there to have her judgment, and receive the death. but sir gawaine ever believed dame guenever guiltless of the treason charged against her, and he would never have it said that he had any part in her shameful end. sir gaheris and sir gareth also were loath to be there present, but they were young, and full unable to say him nay. "if we be there by your straight commandment," said they, "ye shall plainly hold us excused though we go in peaceable wise, and bear none harness of war upon us." so the queen was led forth without carlisle, and she prepared herself for death. there was weeping and wailing and wringing of hands of many lords and ladies, and few in comparison there present would bear any armour for to keep order. anon as the fire was to be lighted, there was spurring and plucking up of horses, and right so sir launcelot and his followers came hither, and whoever stood against them was slain. and so in this rushing and hurling, as sir launcelot pressed here and there, it mishapped him to slay gaheris and gareth, the noble knights, for they were unarmed and unaware. in truth sir launcelot saw them not, and so were they found dead among the thickest of the press. then when sir launcelot had thus done, and had slain or put to flight all that would withstand him, he rode straight unto dame guenever, and made her to be set behind him on his horse, and prayed her to be of good cheer. wit ye well the queen was glad that she was escaped from the death, and then she thanked god and sir launcelot. and so he rode his way with the queen, as the french book saith, unto joyous gard, his own castle, where sir tristram had taken the fair isoud after her flight from cornwall. there sir launcelot kept guenever as a noble knight should do, and many great lords and some kings sent him many good knights, and many noble knights drew unto sir launcelot. when it was known openly that king arthur and sir launcelot were at debate, many were full heavy of heart, and the king himself swooned for pure sorrow, as it was told him how and in what wise the queen was taken away from the fire, and as he heard of the death of his noble knights, in especial that of sir gaheris and sir gareth. and when he awoke of his swoon, he said: "alas that ever i bare crown upon my head, for now have i lost the fairest fellowship of noble knights that ever christian king held together. alas that ever this war began. the death of these two brethren will cause the greatest mortal war that ever was, for i am sure, wist sir gawaine that sir gareth were slain, i should never have rest of him till i had destroyed sir launcelot's kin and himself, or else he had destroyed me. ah, agravaine, agravaine, jesu forgive it thy soul, for the evil will thou and thy brother sir mordred haddest unto sir launcelot hath caused all this sorrow." chapter xxxvii how sir launcelot departed from the king and from joyous gard there came one unto sir gawaine, and told him how the queen was led away by sir launcelot, and nigh a twenty-four knights slain. "full well wist i," said then sir gawaine, "that sir launcelot would rescue her, or else he would die in that field. to say the truth, had he not rescued the queen he would not have been a man of honour, inasmuch as she was to have been burned for his sake. he hath done but knightly, and as i would have done myself, had i stood in like case. but where are my brethren? i marvel i hear not of them." then the man told him that sir gareth and sir gaheris were slain, both by the hand of launcelot. "that may i not believe," said sir gawaine, "that he slew my brother sir gareth, for i dare say gareth loved him better than me and all his brethren, and the king also. sir launcelot made him knight, and had he desired my brother sir gareth with him, he would have been with him against the king and us all. therefore i may never believe that sir launcelot slew my brother." when at the last he knew in truth that sir gareth and sir gaheris had died by sir launcelot's hand, all his joy was gone. he fell down in a swoon, and long he lay there as he had been dead. when he arose of his swoon he ran to the king crying, and weeping, and said: "o king arthur, my lord and mine uncle, wit ye well, from this day i shall never fail sir launcelot, until the one of us have slain the other. therefore dress you to the war, for wit ye well i will be revenged upon him." unto king arthur now drew many knights, dukes, and earls, so that he had a great host. then they made them ready to lay siege about sir launcelot, where he lay within joyous gard. thereof heard sir launcelot, and he gathered together his followers, for with him held many good knights, some for his own sake, and some for the queen's sake. thus they were on both sides well furnished and provided with all manner of things that belonged to the war. but sir launcelot was full loath to do battle against the king, and so he withdrew into his strong castle with all manner of victual and as many noble men as might suffice, and for a long time would in no wise ride out, neither would he allow any of his good knights to issue out, though king arthur with sir gawaine came and laid a siege all about joyous gard, both at the town and at the castle. then it befell upon a day in harvest time, sir launcelot looked over the walls, and spake on high unto king arthur and sir gawaine: "my lords both, wit ye well all is in vain that ye make at this siege; here win ye no honour, for if i list to come out with my good knights, i should full soon make an end of this war. but god defend me, that ever i should encounter with the most noble king that made me knight." "fie upon thy fair language," said the king; "come forth, if thou darest. wit thou well, i am thy mortal foe, and ever shall be to my death day, for thou hast slain my good knights and full noble men of my blood, and like a traitor hast taken my queen from me by force." "my most noble lord and king," answered sir launcelot, "ye may say what ye will, for ye wot well with yourself i will not strive. i wot well that i have slain your good knights, and that me sore repenteth; but i was forced to do battle with them in saving of my life, or else i must have suffered them to slay me. and as for my lady, queen guenever, except your highness and my lord sir gawaine, there is no knight under heaven that dare make it good upon me, that ever i was traitor unto your person, and i will prove it upon any knight alive, except you and sir gawaine, that my lady queen guenever is as true and loyal unto you as any living unto her lord. howbeit, it hath pleased her good grace to have me in charity, and to cherish me more than any other knight, and unto my power i in return have deserved her love; for ofttimes, my lord, it fortuned me to do battle for her, and ye thanked me when i saved her life. now me thinketh ye reward me full ill for my good service, and me seemeth i had lost a great part of my honour in my knighthood, had i suffered my lady your queen to be burned, inasmuch as she was to be burned for my sake. for, since i have done battle for your queen in other quarrels than in mine own, me seemeth now i had more right to do battle for her in right quarrel. therefore, my good and gracious lord, take your queen unto your good grace, for she is both fair, true, and good." "fie on thy proud words," said sir gawaine; "as for my lady the queen, i will never say of her shame, but thou false and recreant knight, what cause hadst thou to slay my good brother sir gareth, that loved thee more than all my kin? alas, thou madest him knight with thine own hands; why slewest thou him that loved thee so well?" "for to excuse myself," said sir launcelot, "it helpeth me not, but by the faith i owe to the high order of knighthood, i should with as good will have slain my nephew sir bors of ganis. alas, that ever i was so unhappy that i had not seen sir gareth and sir gaheris." but sir gawaine was mischievously set, and it helped not sir launcelot to seek accordment. king arthur must needs unto battle because of his nephew's great anger, and on the morn he was ready in the field with three great hosts. then sir launcelot's fellowship came out at three gates in a full good array, in order and rule as noble knights. and always sir launcelot charged all his knights in any wise to save king arthur and sir gawaine. then began a great battle, and much people was slain. ever sir launcelot did what he might to save the people on king arthur's side, and ever king arthur was nigh about sir launcelot to slay him. sir launcelot suffered him, and would not strike again; but at the last sir bors encountered with king arthur, and with a spear smote him down. he alighted and drew his sword to slay him, and then he said to sir launcelot, "shall i make an end of this war?" "not so hardy," said sir launcelot, "upon pain of thy head, touch him no further, for i will never see that most noble king, that made me knight, either slain or shamed." therewithal sir launcelot alighted oft his horse and took up the king, and horsed him again, and said thus: "my lord arthur, for god's love stint this strife, for ye get here no honour, if i will to do mine uttermost; always i forbear you, but neither you nor any of yours forbeareth me. my lord, remember what i have done in many places, and now i am evil rewarded." when king arthur was again on horseback, he looked upon sir launcelot, and then the tears burst out of his eyes, thinking on the great courtesy that was in sir launcelot, more than in any other man. therewith the king might no longer behold him, and he rode his way, saying, "alas that ever this war began." and then both sides withdrew to repose themselves, to bury the dead, and to lay soft salves on the wounded. thus they passed the night, but on the morn they made ready again to do battle. at the end of this day also sir launcelot and his party stood better, but for pity he withheld his knights, and suffered king arthur's party to withdraw one side, and sir launcelot again returned into his castle. so the war went on day after day. it was noised through all christendom, and at the last it was noised afore the pope. he, considering the great goodness of king arthur and of sir launcelot, that were called the noblest knights of the world, called unto him a noble clerk, that at that time was there present,--the french book saith it was the bishop of rochester,--and gave him bulls unto king arthur of england, charging him upon pain of interdicting of all england, that he take his queen, dame guenever, unto him again, and accord with sir launcelot. so when this bishop was come to carlisle he showed the king the bulls, and by their means peace was made between king arthur and sir launcelot. with great pomp and ceremony sir launcelot rode with the queen from joyous gard to carlisle, and they knelt before king arthur, that was full gladly accorded with them both. but sir gawaine would never be at peace with the knight that had slain his brethren. "the king may take his queen again, if he will," said sir gawaine to sir launcelot, "and may be accorded with thee, but thou and i are past pardon. thou shalt go from carlisle safe, as thou camest, but in this land thou shalt not abide past fifteen days, such summons i give thee;--so the king and i were consented and accorded ere thou camest hither, and else, wit thou well, thou shouldest not have come here except without thy head. if it were not for the pope's commandment, i should do battle with mine own body against thy body, and prove it upon thee that thou hast been both false unto mine uncle and to me, and that shall i prove upon thy body when thou art departed from hence, wheresoever i find thee." then sir launcelot sighed, and therewith the tears fell on his cheeks, and he said: "alas, most noble christian realm, that i have loved above all others, in thee have i gotten a great part of my honour, and now i shall depart in this wise. truly me repenteth that ever i came in this realm that i should be thus shamefully banished, undeserved, and causeless. but fortune is so variant, and the wheel so movable, there is no constant abiding. wit ye well, sir gawaine, i may live upon my lands as well as any knight that here is. and if ye, most redoubted king, will come upon my lands with sir gawaine, to war upon me, i must endure you as well as i may. but as to you, sir gawaine, if that ye come there, i pray you charge me not with treason or felony, for if ye do, i must answer you." then sir launcelot said unto guenever, in hearing of the king and them all, "madam, now i must depart from you and this noble fellowship for ever; and since it is so, i beseech you to pray for me, and say me well; and if ye be hard bestead by any false tongues lightly, my lady, let send me word, and if any knight's hands may deliver you by battle, i shall deliver you." therewithal sir launcelot kissed the queen, and then he said all openly: "now let see what he be in this place, that dare say the queen is not true unto my lord arthur; let see who will speak, if he dare." then he brought her to the king, and so took his leave and departed. and there was neither king, duke nor earl, baron nor knight, lady nor gentlewoman, but all they wept as people out of their mind, except sir gawaine; and when the noble sir launcelot took his horse, to ride out of carlisle, there was sobbing and weeping for pure dole of his departing. so he took his way unto joyous gard, that ever after he called dolorous gard, and thus left the court for ever. chapter xxxviii how king arthur and sir gawaine invaded sir launcelot's realm when sir launcelot came again to joyous gard from carlisle, he called his fellowship unto him, and asked them what they would do. then they answered all wholly together with one voice, they would as he would do. "my fair fellows," said he: "i must depart out of this most noble realm. and now i am to depart, it grieveth me sore, for i shall depart with no honour. a banished man departed never out of any realm with honour; and that is my heaviness, for ever i fear that after my days they will chronicle upon me that i was banished out of this land." then spake many noble knights: "sir, we will never fail. since it liked us to take a part with you in your distress and heaviness in this realm, wit ye well it shall like us as well to go in other countries with you, and there to take such part as ye do." "my fair lords," said sir launcelot, "i well understand you, and, as i can, thank you. and ye shall understand, such livelihood and lands as i am born unto i shall freely share among you, and i myself will have as little as any of you, for if i have sufficient for my personal needs, i will ask none other rich array; and i trust to god to maintain you on my lands as well as ever were maintained any knights." then spake all the knights at once: "he have shame that will leave you. we all understand in this realm will be now no quiet, but ever strife and debate, now the fellowship of the round table is broken; for by the noble fellowship of the round table was king arthur upborne, and by their nobleness the king and all his realm was in quiet and in rest. and a great part," they said all, "was because of your nobleness." so, to make short tale, they packed up, and paid all that would ask them, and wholly an hundred knights departed with sir launcelot at once, and made avows they would never leave him for weal nor for woe. they shipped at cardiff, and sailed unto benwick. but to say the sooth, sir launcelot and his nephews were lords of all france, and of all the lands that belong unto france through sir launcelot's noble prowess. when he had established all these countries, he shortly called a parliament, and appointed officers for his realm. thus sir launcelot rewarded his noble knights and many more, that me seemeth it were too long to rehearse. now leave we sir launcelot in his lands, and his noble knights with him, and return we again unto king arthur and to sir gawaine, that made a great host ready, to the number of three-score thousand. all things were made ready for their shipping to pass over the sea, and so they shipped at cardiff. and there king arthur made sir mordred chief ruler of all england, and also he put queen guenever under his governance. so king arthur passed over the sea, and landed upon sir launcelot's lands, and there burned and wasted, through the vengeance of sir gawaine, all that they might overrun. when this word came to sir launcelot, that king arthur and sir gawaine were landed upon his lands, and made a full destruction and waste, then said sir lionel, that was ware and wise: "my lord, sir launcelot, i will give you this counsel: let us keep our strong walled towns until they have hunger and cold, and blow upon their nails, and then let us freshly set upon them, and shred them down as sheep in a field, that aliens may take ensample for ever how they set foot upon our lands." then said sir galihud unto sir launcelot, "sir, here be knights come of king's blood that will not long droop; therefore give us leave, like as we be knights, to meet them in the field, and we shall slay them, that they shall curse the time that ever they came into this country." then spake all at once seven brethren of north wales,--and they were seven noble knights, a man might seek in seven lands ere he might find such seven knights: "sir launcelot, let us ride out with sir galihud, for we be never wont to cower in castle, or in noble towns." but then spake sir launcelot, that was master and governor of them all: "my fair lords, wit ye well i am full loath to ride out with my knights, for shedding of christian blood; and yet my lands i understand to be full bare to sustain any host a while, for the mighty wars that whilom made king claudas upon this country, upon my father king ban and on mine uncle king bors. howbeit we will at this time keep our strong walls, and i shall send a messenger unto my lord arthur, a treaty for to take, for better is peace than always war." so he sent forth a damsel, and a dwarf with her, requiring king arthur to leave his warring upon his lands. when she came to the pavilion of king arthur there met her a gentle knight, sir lucan the butler, and when he knew that she was a messenger from sir launcelot to the king he said: "i pray god, damsel, ye may speed well. my lord arthur would love launcelot, but sir gawaine will not suffer him." so lucan led the damsel unto the king, and when she had told her tale, all the lords were full glad to advise him to be accorded with sir launcelot, save only sir gawaine, who would not turn again, now that they were past thus far upon the journey. "wit ye well, sir gawaine," said arthur, "i will do as ye will advise me; and yet me seemeth his fair proffers were not good to be refused." then sir gawaine sent the damsel away with the answer that it was now too late for peace. and so the war went on. sir launcelot was never so loath to do battle, but he must needs defend himself; and when king arthur's host besieged benwick round about, and fast began to set up ladders, then sir launcelot beat them from the walls mightily. then upon a day it befell that sir gawaine came before the gates fully armed on a noble horse, with a great spear in his hand, and cried with a loud voice: "where art thou now, thou false traitor, launcelot? why hidest thou thyself within holes and walls like a coward? look out now, thou false traitor knight, and here i shall revenge upon thy body the death of my three brethren." all this language heard sir launcelot, and he wist well that he must defend himself, or else be recreant. so he armed himself at all points, and mounted upon his horse, and gat a great spear in his hand, and rode out at the gate. and both the hosts were assembled, of them without and of them within, and stood in array full manly. and both parties were charged to hold them still, to see and behold the battle of these two noble knights. then they laid their spears in their rests, and came together as thunder. sir gawaine brake his spear upon sir launcelot in an hundred pieces unto his hand, and sir launcelot smote him with a greater might, so that sir gawaine's horse's feet raised, and the horse and he fell to the earth. then they dressed their shields and fought with swords on foot, giving many sad strokes, so that all men on both parties had thereof passing great wonder. but sir launcelot withheld his courage and his wind, and kept himself wonderly covert of his might. under his shield he traced and traversed here and there, to break sir gawaine's strokes and his courage, and sir gawaine enforced himself with all his might to destroy sir launcelot. at the first ever sir gawaine's power increased, and right so his wind and his evil will. for a time sir launcelot had great pain to defend himself, but when three hours were passed, and sir launcelot felt that sir gawaine was come to his full strength, then sir launcelot said, "i feel that ye have done your mighty deeds; now wit you well i must do my deeds." so he doubled his strokes, and soon smote such a buffet upon sir gawaine's helm that he sank down upon his side in a swoon. anon as he did awake, he waved at sir launcelot as he lay, and said, "traitor knight, wit thou well i am not yet slain; come thou near me, and perform this battle unto the uttermost." "i will no more do than i have done," said sir launcelot. "when i see you on foot i will do battle upon you all the while i see you stand on your feet; but to smite a wounded man, that may not stand, god defend me from such a shame." then he turned and went his way towards the city, and sir gawaine, evermore calling him traitor knight, said, "wit thou well, sir launcelot, when i am whole, i shall do battle with thee again; for i shall never leave thee till one of us be slain." thus this siege endured. sir gawaine lay sick near a month, and when he was well recovered, and ready within three days to do battle again with sir launcelot, right so came tidings unto arthur from england, that made him and all his host to remove. chapter xxxix of sir mordred's treason as sir mordred was ruler of all england he did make letters as though they came from beyond the sea, and the letters specified that king arthur was slain in battle with sir launcelot. wherefore sir mordred made a parliament, and called the lords together, and there he made them to choose him king. so was he crowned at canterbury, and held a feast there fifteen days. afterwards he drew unto winchester, and there he took the queen, guenever, and said plainly that he would wed her which was his uncle's wife. so he made ready for the feast, and a day was prefixed when they should be wedded. wherefore queen guenever was passing heavy, but she durst not discover her heart, and spake fair, and agreed to sir mordred's will. then she desired of him for to go to london, to buy all manner of things that longed unto the wedding, and because of her fair speech sir mordred trusted her well enough, and gave her leave to go. when she came to london, she took the tower of london, and suddenly, in all haste possible, she stuffed it with all manner of victual, and well garnished it with men, and so kept it. then when sir mordred wist and understood how he was beguiled, he was passing wroth out of measure. and, a short tale for to make, he went and laid a mighty siege about the tower of london, and made many great assaults thereat, and threw many great engines unto them, and shot great guns. but all might not prevail sir mordred, because queen guenever, for fair speech nor for foul, would never trust to come in his hands again. then came the bishop of canterbury, the which was a noble clerk and an holy man, and thus he said to sir mordred: "sir, what will ye do? will ye first displease god, and then shame yourself and all knighthood? leave this matter, or else i shall curse you with book and bell and candle." "do thou thy worst," said sir mordred; "wit thou well i shall defy thee." "sir," said the bishop, "and wit ye well i shall not fear me to do that i ought to do. also, when ye noise that my lord arthur is slain, that is not so, and therefore ye will make a foul work in this land." "peace, thou false priest," said sir mordred, "for, if thou chafe me any more, i shall make strike off thy head." so the bishop departed, and did the curse in the haughtiest wise that might be done. then sir mordred sought the bishop of canterbury for to slay him, and he fled, and, taking part of his goods with him, went nigh unto glastonbury, and there lived in poverty and in holy prayers as priest-hermit in a chapel, for well he understood that mischievous war was at hand. then came word to sir mordred that king arthur had raised the siege from sir launcelot, and was coming homeward with a great host, to be avenged upon sir mordred. wherefore sir mordred made write writs to all the barony of this land, and much people drew to him, for then was the common voice among them, that with arthur was none other life but war and strife, and with sir mordred was great joy and bliss. thus was sir arthur depraved and evil said of, and many there were that king arthur had made up of naught, and had given lands to, who might not then say of him a good word. lo all ye englishmen, see ye not what a mischief here was, for arthur was the most king and knight of the world, and most loved the fellowship of noble knights, and by him they were all upholden. now might not these englishmen hold us content with him. lo, thus was the old custom and usage of this land, and men say, that we of this land have not yet lost nor forgotten that custom and usage. alas, this is a great fault of all englishmen, for there may no thing please us. and so fared the people at that time; they were better pleased with sir mordred than they were with king arthur, and much people drew unto sir mordred, and said they would abide with him for better and for worse. so sir mordred drew with a great host to dover, for there he heard say that sir arthur would arrive, and so he thought to beat his own uncle from his lands. and the most part of all england held with sir mordred, the people were so new-fangle. as sir mordred was at dover with his host, there came king arthur with a great navy of ships, galleys, and carracks. and there was sir mordred ready awaiting upon his landage, to keep his own uncle from landing in the country that he was king over. then there was launching of great boats and small, full of noble men of arms, and there was much slaughter of gentle knights, and many a bold baron was laid full low on both sides. but king arthur was so courageous that there might no manner of knights prevent him from landing, and his knights fiercely followed him. so they landed in spite of sir mordred and all his power, and they put him aback, so that he fled and all his people. when this battle was done, king arthur let bury his dead, and then was the noble knight sir gawaine found in a great boat lying more than half dead. when sir arthur wist that sir gawaine was laid so low, he went unto him and made sorrow out of measure, for this sister's son was the man in the world that he most loved. sir gawaine felt that he must die, for he was smitten upon the old wound that sir launcelot had given him afore the city of benwick. he now knew that he was the cause of this unhappy war, for had sir launcelot remained with the king, it would never have been, and now king arthur would sore miss his brave knights of the round table. then he prayed his uncle that he might have paper, pen, and ink, and when they were brought, he with his own hand wrote thus, as the french book maketh mention: "unto sir launcelot, flower of all noble knights that ever i heard of, or saw by my days, i, sir gawaine, king lot's son of orkney, sister's son unto the noble king arthur, send thee greeting, and let thee have knowledge, that this tenth day of may, through the same wound that thou gavest me i am come to my death. and i will that all the world wit that i, sir gawaine, knight of the table round, sought my death; it came not through thy deserving, but it was mine own seeking. wherefore i beseech thee, sir launcelot, to return again unto this realm, and see my tomb, and pray some prayer, more or less, for my soul. for all the love that ever was betwixt us, make no tarrying, but come over the sea in all haste, that thou mayest with thy noble knights rescue that noble king that made thee knight, that is my lord arthur, for he is full straitly bestead with a false traitor, my half-brother, sir mordred. we all landed upon him and his host at dover, and there put him to flight, and there it misfortuned me to be stricken in the same wound the which i had of thy hand, sir launcelot. of a nobler man might i not be slain. this letter was written but two hours and an half afore my death, with mine own hand, and so subscribed with part of my heart's blood." then sir gawaine wept, and king arthur wept, and then they swooned both. when they awaked both, the king made sir gawaine to receive the sacrament, and then sir gawaine prayed the king to send for sir launcelot, and to cherish him above all other knights. and so at the hour of noon, sir gawaine yielded up the spirit, and the king let inter him in a chapel within dover castle. then was it told king arthur that sir mordred had pitched a new field upon barham down. upon the morn the king rode thither to him, and there was a great battle betwixt them, and much people were slain on both parties. but at the last sir arthur's party stood best, and sir mordred and his party fled to canterbury. upon this much people drew unto king arthur, and he went with his host down by the seaside, westward towards salisbury, and there was a day assigned between him and sir mordred when they should meet in battle upon a down beside salisbury, not far from the sea. in the night before the battle king arthur dreamed a wonderful dream, and it seemed to him verily that there came sir gawaine unto him, and said; "god giveth me leave to come hither for to warn you that, if ye fight to-morn with sir mordred, as ye both have assigned, doubt ye not ye must be slain, and the most part of your people on both parties. for the great grace and goodness that almighty jesu hath unto you, and for pity of you and many other good men that there shall be slain, god hath sent me to you, of his special grace, to give you warning, that in no wise ye do battle to-morn, but that ye take a treaty for a month; and proffer ye largely, so as to-morn to be put in delay, for within a month shall come sir launcelot, with all his noble knights, and rescue you honourably, and slay sir mordred and all that ever will hold with him." then sir gawaine vanished, and anon the king commanded sir lucan and his brother, sir bedivere, with two bishops with them, and charged them to take a treaty for a month with sir mordred in any wise they might. so then they departed, and came to sir mordred, where he had a grim host of an hundred thousand men. there they entreated sir mordred long time, and at the last he was agreed to have cornwall and kent by king arthur's days, and after the days of king arthur all england. chapter xl of arthur's last great battle in the west sir lucan and sir bedivere were agreed with sir mordred that king arthur and he should meet betwixt both their hosts, for to conclude the treaty they had made, and every each of them should bring fourteen persons. and they came with this word unto king arthur. then said he, "i am glad that this is done." so arthur made ready to go into the field, and when he would depart, he warned all his hosts that if they saw any sword drawn, they should come on fiercely, and slay that traitor sir mordred, for he in no wise trusted him. in like manner sir mordred warned his host: "if ye see any sword drawn, look that ye come on fiercely, and so slay all that ever before you stand, for in no wise will i trust for this treaty. i know well mine uncle will be avenged upon me." so they met as their appointment was, and they were agreed and accorded thoroughly; and wine was fetched, and they drank. right so came an adder out of a little heath bush, and it stung a knight on the foot. when the knight felt himself stung, he looked down and saw the adder; then he drew his sword to slay the adder, and thought of none other harm. but when the hosts on both parties saw the sword drawn, then they blew trumpets, and horns, and shouted grimly. and so both hosts dressed them together. king arthur took his horse, and said, "alas this unhappy day," and so rode to his party; and sir mordred did likewise. and never was there seen a dolefuller battle in any christian land, for there was but rushing and riding, foining, and striking, and many a grim word was there spoken either to other, and there was given many a deadly stroke. thus they fought all the long day, and never stinted, till the noble knights were laid to the cold ground. and ever they fought still, till it was near night, and by that time were there an hundred thousand laid dead upon the down. then the king looked about him, and was ware, that of all his host and of all his good knights were left no more alive but two knights, that was sir lucan the butler, and his brother sir bedivere, and even they were full sore wounded. "jesu, mercy," said the king, "where are all my noble knights become? alas that ever i should see this doleful day. now i am come to mine end. but would to god that i wist where is that traitor sir mordred, that hath caused all this mischief." then was king arthur ware where sir mordred leaned upon his sword among a great heap of dead men. "now give me my spear," said arthur unto sir lucan, "for yonder i have espied the traitor that all this woe hath wrought." "sir, let him be," said sir lucan. "if ye pass this evil day, ye shall be right well revenged upon him. my lord remember ye of your night's dream, and what the spirit of sir gawaine told you last night. god of his great goodness hath preserved you hitherto. therefore, for god's sake, my lord, leave off with this. for blessed be god, ye have won the field, for here we be three alive, and with sir mordred is none. if ye leave off now, this wicked day of destiny is past." "tide me death, betide me life," saith the king, "now i see him yonder alone, he shall never escape mine hands, for at a better avail shall i never have him." then he gat his spear in both his hands, and ran towards sir mordred, crying, "traitor, now is thy death day come." when sir mordred heard sir arthur, he ran unto him with his sword drawn in his hand, and then king arthur smote him under the shield with a foin of his spear throughout the body. when sir mordred felt that he had his death's wound, he thrust himself, with the might that he had, up to the bur of king arthur's spear. and right so he smote his uncle arthur with his sword holden in both his hands, on the side of the head so that the sword pierced the helmet and the brain-pan, and therewithal sir mordred fell stark dead to the earth. and the noble arthur fell in a swoon to the earth, and there he swooned ofttimes. and sir lucan and sir bedivere ofttimes heaved him up, and so weakly they led him betwixt them both to a little chapel not far from the seaside. chapter xli of the passing of king arthur when the king was laid in the chapel he thought himself well eased. then heard they people cry in the field, and sir lucan went out to wit what the noise betokened. as he went he saw and heard in the moonlight how the plunderers and robbers were come into the battlefield to pillage and rob many a full noble knight of rings and jewels; and who that were not dead all out, there they slew them for their harness and their riches. when sir lucan understood this work, he came to the king as soon as he might, and told him all what he had heard and seen. "therefore by my advice," said sir lucan, "it is best that we bring you to some town." "i would it were so," said the king, "but i may not stand, my head works so. ah, sir launcelot, this day have i sore missed thee. alas, that ever i was against thee, for now have i my death, whereof sir gawaine me warned in my dream." then sir lucan and sir bedivere took up the king, and in the lifting the king swooned, and sir lucan, that was grievously wounded in many places, also fell in a swoon with the lift, and therewith the noble knight died. when king arthur came to himself again, he beheld sir lucan dead and sir bedivere weeping for his brother, and he said: "this is unto me a full heavy sight to see this noble duke so die for my sake, for he would have holpen me that had more need of help than i. yet, sir bedivere, weeping and mourning will not avail me; for wit thou well, if i might live myself, the death of sir lucan would grieve me evermore. but my time hieth fast. therefore, sir bedivere, take thou excalibur, my good sword, and go with it to yonder waterside, and when thou comest there, i charge thee throw my sword in that water, and come again, and tell me what thou there seest." "my lord," said bedivere, "your commandment shall be done, and i will lightly bring you word again." so sir bedivere departed, and by the way he beheld that noble sword, whose pommel and haft were all of precious stones, and then he said to himself, "if i throw this rich sword in the water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and loss." then sir bedivere hid excalibur under a tree, and as soon as he might he came again unto the king, and said he had been at the water, and had thrown the sword into the water. "what sawest thou there?" said the king. "sir," he said, "i saw nothing but waves and winds." "that is untruly said of thee," said the king; "therefore go thou lightly again, and do my command as thou art to me lief and dear; spare not, but throw it." then sir bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand; and then him thought it sin and shame to throw away that noble sword. and so again he hid the sword, and returned, and told the king that he had been at the water, and done his commandment. "what sawest thou there?" said the king. "sir," he said, "i saw nothing but the waters lap and the waves toss." "ah, traitor, untrue," said king arthur, "now hast thou betrayed me twice. who would have thought that thou that hast been to me so lief and dear, and that art named a noble knight, wouldest betray me for the riches of the sword. but now go again lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for i have taken cold. and unless thou do now as i bid thee, if ever i may see thee, i shall slay thee with mine own hands, for thou wouldest for my rich sword see me dead." then sir bedivere departed, and went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the waterside. there he bound the girdle about the hilts, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might. and there came an arm and an hand above the water, and met it, and caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished, and then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water. so sir bedivere came again to the king, and told him what he saw. "alas," said the king, "help me thence, for i fear me i have tarried over long." then sir bedivere took the king upon his back, and so went with him to that waterside. and when they were at the waterside, even fast by the bank hove a little barge, with many fair ladies in it, and among them all was a queen, and all they had black hoods, and all they wept and shrieked when they saw king arthur. [illustration: the passing of arthur] "now put me into the barge," said the king; and so he did softly. and there received him three queens with great mourning, and so they set him down, and in one of their laps king arthur laid his head, and then that queen said, "ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so long from me? alas, this wound on your head hath caught over much cold." and so then they rowed from the land, and sir bedivere beheld all these ladies go from him. then he cried, "ah, my lord arthur, what shall become of me now ye go from me, and leave me here alone among mine enemies!" "comfort thyself," said the king, "and do as well as thou mayest, for in me is no trust for to trust in. for i will into the vale of avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. and if thou hear never more of me, pray for my soul." ever the queens and the ladies wept and shrieked, that it was pity to hear. and as soon as sir bedivere had lost the sight of the barge he wept and wailed, and so took the forest, and he went all that night; and in the morning he was ware betwixt two ancient cliffs of a chapel and an hermitage, and he was glad. when he came into the chapel he saw a hermit praying by a tomb new graven. the hermit was the bishop of canterbury that sir mordred had banished, and sir bedivere asked him what man was there interred. "fair son," said the hermit, "i wot not verily, but this night, at midnight, here came a number of ladies, and brought hither a dead corpse, and prayed me to bury him; and here they offered an hundred tapers, and gave me an hundred besants." then sir bedivere knew that king arthur lay buried in that chapel, and he prayed the hermit that he might abide with him still there. so there abode sir bedivere with the hermit, that was tofore bishop of canterbury, and there sir bedivere put on poor clothes, and served the hermit full lowly in fasting and in prayers. thus of arthur i find never more written in books that be authorised, nor more of the certainty of his death heard i tell, but that he was thus led away in a ship wherein were three queens. the hermit that some time was bishop of canterbury bare witness that ladies brought a knight to his burial in the chapel, but the hermit knew not in certain that it was verily the body of king arthur;--for this tale sir bedivere, knight of the round table, made to be written. some men still say in many parts of england that king arthur is not dead, but tarried by the will of our lord jesu in another place. and men say that he shall come again, and shall win the holy cross. i will not say it shall be so, but rather i will say, here in this world he changed his life. but many men say that there is written upon his tomb these words: "_hic jacet arthurus rex quondam rex que futurus_": "_here lies arthur, king that was and king that shall be._" chapter xlii of the end of this book when queen guenever understood that king arthur was slain, and all the noble knights, sir mordred and all the remnant, then she stole away, and five ladies with her, and so she went to almesbury, and there she let make herself a nun, and lived in fasting, prayers, and alms-deeds, that all manner of people marvelled how virtuously she was changed. and there she was abbess and ruler, as reason would. when sir launcelot of the lake heard in his country that sir mordred was crowned king, and made war against his uncle, then he made all haste with ships and galleys to go unto england. so he passed over the sea till he came to dover. there the people told him how that king arthur was slain, and sir mordred, and an hundred thousand died on a day, and how sir mordred gave king arthur there the first battle at his landing, and how there was good sir gawaine slain. and then certain people of the town brought him unto the castle of dover, and showed him the tomb. and he made a dole for sir gawaine, and all the priests and clerks that might be gotten in the country were there and sang mass of requiem. two nights sir launcelot lay on sir gawaine's tomb in prayers and in weeping, and then on the third day he called his kings, dukes, earls, barons, and knights, and said thus: "my fair lords, i thank you all of your coming into this country with me; but we come too late, and that shall repent me while i live, but against death may no man rebel. since it is so, i will myself ride and seek my lady queen guenever, for, as i hear say, she hath great pain and much disease. therefore ye all abide me here fifteen days, and then, if i come not again, take your ships and your fellowship, and depart into your country." so sir launcelot rode forth alone on his journey into the west country. there he sought seven or eight days, and at the last came to the nunnery where was queen guenever. once only he had speech with her, and then took his horse and rode away to forsake the world, as she had done. he rode all that day and all that night in a forest, and at the last he was ware of an hermitage and a chapel betwixt two cliffs. thither he rode, and there found sir bedivere with the bishop of canterbury, for he was come to their hermitage. and then he besought the bishop that he might remain there as a brother. the bishop would gladly have it so, and there he put hermit's clothes upon sir launcelot, and there sir launcelot served god day and night with prayers and fasting. the great host abode in dover fifteen days, as sir launcelot had bidden them. then, since sir launcelot did not return, sir bors of ganis made them take ship and return home again to benwick. but sir bors himself and others of sir launcelot's kin took on them to ride all england across and endlong, to seek sir launcelot. so sir bors by fortune rode so long till he came to the same chapel where sir launcelot and sir bedivere were, and he prayed the bishop that he also might remain and be of their fellowship. so there was an habit put upon him, and there he lived in prayers and fasting. and within half a year there were come seven other knights, and when they saw sir launcelot, they had no list to depart, but took such an habit as he had. thus they remained in true devotion six years, and sir launcelot took the habit of priesthood. and there were none of those other knights but read in books, and holp in the worship and did bodily all manner of service. and so their horses went where they would, for they took no regard of worldly riches. thus upon a night there came a vision to sir launcelot, and charged him to haste unto almesbury, for queen guenever was dead, and he should fetch the corpse and bury her by her husband, the noble king arthur. then sir launcelot rose up ere day, took seven fellows with him, and on foot they went from glastonbury to almesbury, the which is little more than thirty miles. they came thither within two days, for they were weak and feeble to go, and found that queen guenever had died but half an hour before. the ladies said she had told them all, ere she passed, that sir launcelot had been a priest near a twelvemonth, and that he came thither as fast as he might, to take her corpse to glastonbury for burial. so sir launcelot and his seven fellows went back on foot beside the corpse of queen guenever from almesbury unto glastonbury, and they buried her with solemn devotion in the chapel at the hermitage. when she was put in the earth sir launcelot swooned, for he remembered the noblesse and kindness that was both with the king and with herself, and how by his fault and his pride they were both laid full low. then sir launcelot sickened more and more, and within six weeks afterwards sir bors and his fellows found him dead in his bed. the bishop did his mass of requiem, and he and all the nine knights went with the corpse till they came to joyous gard, his own castle, and there they buried him in the choir of the chapel, as he had wished, with great devotion. thereafter the knights went all with the bishop of canterbury back to his hermitage. then sir constantine of cornwall was chosen king of england, a full noble knight that honourably ruled this realm. and this king constantine sent for the bishop of canterbury, for he heard say where he was, and so was he restored unto his bishopric, and left that hermitage. sir bedivere was there ever still hermit to his life's end, but the french book maketh mention that sir bors and three of the knights that were with him at the hermitage went into the holy land, and there did many battles upon the miscreant turks, and there they died upon a good friday, for god's sake. here is the end of the book of king arthur and his noble knights of the round table, that when they were whole together were ever an hundred and forty. and here is the end of the death of arthur. i pray you all gentlemen and gentlewomen that read this book of arthur and his knights from the beginning to the ending, pray for me while i am alive that god send me good deliverance, and when i am dead, i pray you all pray for my soul; for this book was ended the ninth year of the reign of king edward the fourth by sir thomas maleore, knight, as jesu help him for his great might, as he is the servant of jesu both day and night. _thus endeth thys noble and joyous book entytled le morte darthur. notwithstanding, it treateth of the byrth, lyf and actes of the sayd kynge arthur, of his noble knyghtes of the round table, theyr mervayllous enquestes and adventures, the achyevying of the holy grail, and in the end the dolourous deth and departyng out of thys world of them al. whiche book was reduced in to englysshe by syr thomas malory knyght as afore is sayd, and by me enprynted and fynyshed in the abbey westminster the last day of july, the yere of our lord mcccclxxxv._ _caxton me fieri fecit._ the defence of guenevere and other poems by william morris reprinted from the kelmscott press edition as revised by the author longmans, green, and co. paternoster row, london new york, bombay, and calcutta all rights reserved _first edition, bell & daldy, reprinted, , for ellis & white, and subsequently for reeves & turner kelmscott press edition (revised by the author), transferred to longmans, green, & co., new edition corrected by kelmscott press edition, may reprinted january _ contents page _the defence of guenevere_ _king arthur's tomb_ _sir galahad, a christmas mystery_ _the chapel in lyoness_ _sir peter harpdon's end_ _rapunzel_ _concerning geffray teste noire_ _a good knight in prison_ _old love_ _the gilliflower of gold_ _shameful death_ _the eve of crecy_ _the judgment of god_ _the little tower_ _the sailing of the sword_ _spell-bound_ _the wind_ _the blue closet_ _the tune of seven towers_ _golden wings_ _the haystack in the floods_ _two red roses across the moon_ _welland river_ _riding together_ _father john's war-song_ _sir giles' war-song_ _near avalon_ _praise of my lady_ _summer dawn_ _in prison_ the defence of guenevere but, knowing now that they would have her speak, she threw her wet hair backward from her brow, her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek, as though she had had there a shameful blow, and feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame all through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so, she must a little touch it; like one lame she walked away from gauwaine, with her head still lifted up; and on her cheek of flame the tears dried quick; she stopped at last and said: o knights and lords, it seems but little skill to talk of well-known things past now and dead. god wot i ought to say, i have done ill, and pray you all forgiveness heartily! because you must be right, such great lords; still listen, suppose your time were come to die, and you were quite alone and very weak; yea, laid a dying while very mightily the wind was ruffling up the narrow streak of river through your broad lands running well: suppose a hush should come, then some one speak: 'one of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell, now choose one cloth for ever; which they be, i will not tell you, you must somehow tell of your own strength and mightiness; here, see!' yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes, at foot of your familiar bed to see a great god's angel standing, with such dyes, not known on earth, on his great wings, and hands, held out two ways, light from the inner skies showing him well, and making his commands seem to be god's commands, moreover, too, holding within his hands the cloths on wands; and one of these strange choosing cloths was blue, wavy and long, and one cut short and red; no man could tell the better of the two. after a shivering half-hour you said: 'god help! heaven's colour, the blue;' and he said, 'hell.' perhaps you then would roll upon your bed, and cry to all good men that loved you well, 'ah christ! if only i had known, known, known;' launcelot went away, then i could tell, like wisest man how all things would be, moan, and roll and hurt myself, and long to die, and yet fear much to die for what was sown. nevertheless you, o sir gauwaine, lie, whatever may have happened through these years, god knows i speak truth, saying that you lie. her voice was low at first, being full of tears, but as it cleared, it grew full loud and shrill, growing a windy shriek in all men's ears, a ringing in their startled brains, until she said that gauwaine lied, then her voice sunk, and her great eyes began again to fill, though still she stood right up, and never shrunk, but spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair! whatever tears her full lips may have drunk, she stood, and seemed to think, and wrung her hair, spoke out at last with no more trace of shame, with passionate twisting of her body there: it chanced upon a day that launcelot came to dwell at arthur's court: at christmas-time this happened; when the heralds sung his name, son of king ban of benwick, seemed to chime along with all the bells that rang that day, o'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme. christmas and whitened winter passed away, and over me the april sunshine came, made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea and in the summer i grew white with flame, and bowed my head down: autumn, and the sick sure knowledge things would never be the same, however often spring might be most thick of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and i grew careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick, to my unhappy pulse, that beat right through my eager body; while i laughed out loud, and let my lips curl up at false or true, seemed cold and shallow without any cloud. behold my judges, then the cloths were brought; while i was dizzied thus, old thoughts would crowd, belonging to the time ere i was bought by arthur's great name and his little love; must i give up for ever then, i thought, that which i deemed would ever round me move glorifying all things; for a little word, scarce ever meant at all, must i now prove stone-cold for ever? pray you, does the lord will that all folks should be quite happy and good? i love god now a little, if this cord were broken, once for all what striving could make me love anything in earth or heaven? so day by day it grew, as if one should slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, down to a cool sea on a summer day; yet still in slipping there was some small leaven of stretched hands catching small stones by the way, until one surely reached the sea at last, and felt strange new joy as the worn head lay back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea all past sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast, in the lone sea, far off from any ships! do i not know now of a day in spring? no minute of that wild day ever slips from out my memory; i hear thrushes sing, and wheresoever i may be, straightway thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting: i was half mad with beauty on that day, and went without my ladies all alone, in a quiet garden walled round every way; i was right joyful of that wall of stone, that shut the flowers and trees up with the sky, and trebled all the beauty: to the bone, yea right through to my heart, grown very shy with weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad; exceedingly glad, and i knew verily, a little thing just then had made me mad; i dared not think, as i was wont to do, sometimes, upon my beauty; if i had held out my long hand up against the blue, and, looking on the tenderly darken'd fingers, thought that by rights one ought to see quite through, there, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers, round by the edges; what should i have done, if this had joined with yellow spotted singers, and startling green drawn upward by the sun? but shouting, loosed out, see now! all my hair, and trancedly stood watching the west wind run with faintest half-heard breathing sound; why there i lose my head e'en now in doing this; but shortly listen: in that garden fair came launcelot walking; this is true, the kiss wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day, i scarce dare talk of the remember'd bliss, when both our mouths went wandering in one way, and aching sorely, met among the leaves; our hands being left behind strained far away. never within a yard of my bright sleeves had launcelot come before: and now, so nigh! after that day why is it guenevere grieves? nevertheless you, o sir gauwaine, lie, whatever happened on through all those years, god knows i speak truth, saying that you lie. being such a lady could i weep these tears if this were true? a great queen such as i having sinn'd this way, straight her conscience sears; and afterwards she liveth hatefully, slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps: gauwaine be friends now, speak me lovingly. do i not see how god's dear pity creeps all through your frame, and trembles in your mouth? remember in what grave your mother sleeps, buried in some place far down in the south, men are forgetting as i speak to you; by her head sever'd in that awful drouth of pity that drew agravaine's fell blow, i pray your pity! let me not scream out for ever after, when the shrill winds blow through half your castle-locks! let me not shout for ever after in the winter night when you ride out alone! in battle-rout let not my rusting tears make your sword light! ah! god of mercy, how he turns away! so, ever must i dress me to the fight, so: let god's justice work! gauwaine, i say, see me hew down your proofs: yea all men know even as you said how mellyagraunce one day, one bitter day in _la fausse garde_, for so all good knights held it after, saw: yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage; though you, gauwaine, held his word without a flaw, this mellyagraunce saw blood upon my bed: whose blood then pray you? is there any law to make a queen say why some spots of red lie on her coverlet? or will you say: your hands are white, lady, as when you wed, where did you bleed? and must i stammer out, nay, i blush indeed, fair lord, only to rend my sleeve up to my shoulder, where there lay a knife-point last night: so must i defend the honour of the lady guenevere? not so, fair lords, even if the world should end this very day, and you were judges here instead of god. did you see mellyagraunce when launcelot stood by him? what white fear curdled his blood, and how his teeth did dance, his side sink in? as my knight cried and said: slayer of unarm'd men, here is a chance! setter of traps, i pray you guard your head, by god i am so glad to fight with you, stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead for driving weight; hurrah now! draw and do, for all my wounds are moving in my breast, and i am getting mad with waiting so. he struck his hands together o'er the beast, who fell down flat, and grovell'd at his feet, and groan'd at being slain so young: at least, my knight said, rise you, sir, who are so fleet at catching ladies, half-arm'd will i fight, my left side all uncovered! then i weet, up sprang sir mellyagraunce with great delight upon his knave's face; not until just then did i quite hate him, as i saw my knight along the lists look to my stake and pen with such a joyous smile, it made me sigh from agony beneath my waist-chain, when the fight began, and to me they drew nigh; ever sir launcelot kept him on the right, and traversed warily, and ever high and fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my knight sudden threw up his sword to his left hand, caught it, and swung it; that was all the fight, except a spout of blood on the hot land; for it was hottest summer; and i know i wonder'd how the fire, while i should stand, and burn, against the heat, would quiver so, yards above my head; thus these matters went; which things were only warnings of the woe that fell on me. yet mellyagraunce was shent, for mellyagraunce had fought against the lord; therefore, my lords, take heed lest you be blent with all this wickedness; say no rash word against me, being so beautiful; my eyes, wept all away to grey, may bring some sword to drown you in your blood; see my breast rise, like waves of purple sea, as here i stand; and how my arms are moved in wonderful wise, yea also at my full heart's strong command, see through my long throat how the words go up in ripples to my mouth; how in my hand the shadow lies like wine within a cup of marvellously colour'd gold; yea now this little wind is rising, look you up, and wonder how the light is falling so within my moving tresses: will you dare, when you have looked a little on my brow, to say this thing is vile? or will you care for any plausible lies of cunning woof, when you can see my face with no lie there for ever? am i not a gracious proof: but in your chamber launcelot was found: is there a good knight then would stand aloof, when a queen says with gentle queenly sound: o true as steel come now and talk with me, i love to see your step upon the ground unwavering, also well i love to see that gracious smile light up your face, and hear your wonderful words, that all mean verily the thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear to me in everything, come here to-night, or else the hours will pass most dull and drear; if you come not, i fear this time i might get thinking over much of times gone by, when i was young, and green hope was in sight: for no man cares now to know why i sigh; and no man comes to sing me pleasant songs, nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie so thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs to see you, launcelot; that we may be like children once again, free from all wrongs just for one night. did he not come to me? what thing could keep true launcelot away if i said, come? there was one less than three in my quiet room that night, and we were gay; till sudden i rose up, weak, pale, and sick, because a bawling broke our dream up, yea i looked at launcelot's face and could not speak, for he looked helpless too, for a little while; then i remember how i tried to shriek, and could not, but fell down; from tile to tile the stones they threw up rattled o'er my head and made me dizzier; till within a while my maids were all about me, and my head on launcelot's breast was being soothed away from its white chattering, until launcelot said: by god! i will not tell you more to-day, judge any way you will: what matters it? you know quite well the story of that fray, how launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit that caught up gauwaine: all, all, verily, but just that which would save me; these things flit. nevertheless you, o sir gauwaine, lie, whatever may have happen'd these long years, god knows i speak truth, saying that you lie! all i have said is truth, by christ's dear tears. she would not speak another word, but stood turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who hears his brother's trumpet sounding through the wood of his foes' lances. she lean'd eagerly, and gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could at last hear something really; joyfully her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed of the roan charger drew all men to see, the knight who came was launcelot at good need. king arthur's tomb king arthur's tomb hot august noon: already on that day since sunrise through the wiltshire downs, most sad of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of way; ay and by night, till whether good or bad he was, he knew not, though he knew perchance that he was launcelot, the bravest knight of all who since the world was, have borne lance, or swung their swords in wrong cause or in right. nay, he knew nothing now, except that where the glastonbury gilded towers shine, a lady dwelt, whose name was guenevere; this he knew also; that some fingers twine, not only in a man's hair, even his heart, (making him good or bad i mean,) but in his life, skies, earth, men's looks and deeds, all that has part, not being ourselves, in that half-sleep, half-strife, (strange sleep, strange strife,) that men call living; so was launcelot most glad when the moon rose, because it brought new memories of her. "lo, between the trees a large moon, the wind lows not loud, but as a cow begins to low, wishing for strength to make the herdsman hear: the ripe corn gathereth dew; yea, long ago, in the old garden life, my guenevere loved to sit still among the flowers, till night had quite come on, hair loosen'd, for she said, smiling like heaven, that its fairness might draw up the wind sooner to cool her head. now while i ride how quick the moon gets small, as it did then: i tell myself a tale that will not last beyond the whitewashed wall, thoughts of some joust must help me through the vale, keep this till after: how sir gareth ran a good course that day under my queen's eyes, and how she sway'd laughing at dinadan. no. back again, the other thoughts will rise, and yet i think so fast 'twill end right soon: verily then i think, that guenevere, made sad by dew and wind, and tree-barred moon, did love me more than ever, was more dear to me than ever, she would let me lie and kiss her feet, or, if i sat behind, would drop her hand and arm most tenderly, and touch my mouth. and she would let me wind her hair around my neck, so that it fell upon my red robe, strange in the twilight with many unnamed colours, till the bell of her mouth on my cheek sent a delight through all my ways of being; like the stroke wherewith god threw all men upon the face when he took enoch, and when enoch woke with a changed body in the happy place. once, i remember, as i sat beside, she turn'd a little, and laid back her head, and slept upon my breast; i almost died in those night-watches with my love and dread. there lily-like she bow'd her head and slept, and i breathed low, and did not dare to move, but sat and quiver'd inwardly, thoughts crept, and frighten'd me with pulses of my love. the stars shone out above the doubtful green of her bodice, in the green sky overhead; pale in the green sky were the stars i ween, because the moon shone like a star she shed when she dwelt up in heaven a while ago, and ruled all things but god: the night went on, the wind grew cold, and the white moon grew low, one hand had fallen down, and now lay on my cold stiff palm; there were no colours then for near an hour, and i fell asleep in spite of all my striving, even when i held her whose name-letters make me leap. i did not sleep long, feeling that in sleep i did some loved one wrong, so that the sun had only just arisen from the deep still land of colours, when before me one stood whom i knew, but scarcely dared to touch, she seemed to have changed so in the night; moreover she held scarlet lilies, such as maiden margaret bears upon the light of the great church walls, natheless did i walk through the fresh wet woods, and the wheat that morn, touching her hair and hand and mouth, and talk of love we held, nigh hid among the corn. back to the palace, ere the sun grew high, we went, and in a cool green room all day i gazed upon the arras giddily, where the wind set the silken kings a-sway. i could not hold her hand, or see her face; for which may god forgive me! but i think, howsoever, that she was not in that place. these memories launcelot was quick to drink; and when these fell, some paces past the wall, there rose yet others, but they wearied more, and tasted not so sweet; they did not fall so soon, but vaguely wrenched his strained heart sore in shadowy slipping from his grasp: these gone, a longing followed; if he might but touch that guenevere at once! still night, the lone grey horse's head before him vex'd him much, in steady nodding over the grey road: still night, and night, and night, and emptied heart of any stories; what a dismal load time grew at last, yea, when the night did part, and let the sun flame over all, still there the horse's grey ears turn'd this way and that, and still he watch'd them twitching in the glare of the morning sun, behind them still he sat, quite wearied out with all the wretched night, until about the dustiest of the day, on the last down's brow he drew his rein in sight of the glastonbury roofs that choke the way. and he was now quite giddy as before, when she slept by him, tired out, and her hair was mingled with the rushes on the floor, and he, being tired too, was scarce aware of her presence; yet as he sat and gazed, a shiver ran throughout him, and his breath came slower, he seem'd suddenly amazed, as though he had not heard of arthur's death. this for a moment only, presently he rode on giddy still, until he reach'd a place of apple-trees, by the thorn-tree wherefrom st. joseph in the days past preached. dazed there he laid his head upon a tomb, not knowing it was arthur's, at which sight one of her maidens told her, 'he is come,' and she went forth to meet him; yet a blight had settled on her, all her robes were black, with a long white veil only; she went slow, as one walks to be slain, her eyes did lack half her old glory, yea, alas! the glow had left her face and hands; this was because as she lay last night on her purple bed, wishing for morning, grudging every pause of the palace clocks, until that launcelot's head should lie on her breast, with all her golden hair each side: when suddenly the thing grew drear, in morning twilight, when the grey downs bare grew into lumps of sin to guenevere. at first she said no word, but lay quite still, only her mouth was open, and her eyes gazed wretchedly about from hill to hill; as though she asked, not with so much surprise as tired disgust, what made them stand up there so cold and grey. after, a spasm took her face, and all her frame, she caught her hair, all her hair, in both hands, terribly she shook, and rose till she was sitting in the bed, set her teeth hard, and shut her eyes and seem'd as though she would have torn it from her head, natheless she dropp'd it, lay down, as she deem'd it matter'd not whatever she might do: o lord christ! pity on her ghastly face! those dismal hours while the cloudless blue drew the sun higher: he did give her grace; because at last she rose up from her bed, and put her raiment on, and knelt before the blessed rood, and with her dry lips said, muttering the words against the marble floor: 'unless you pardon, what shall i do, lord, but go to hell? and there see day by day foul deed on deed, hear foulest word on word, for ever and ever, such as on the way to camelot i heard once from a churl, that curled me up upon my jennet's neck with bitter shame; how then, lord, should i curl for ages and for ages? dost thou reck that i am beautiful, lord, even as you and your dear mother? why did i forget you were so beautiful, and good, and true, that you loved me so, guenevere? o yet if even i go to hell, i cannot choose but love you, christ, yea, though i cannot keep from loving launcelot; o christ! must i lose my own heart's love? see, though i cannot weep, yet am i very sorry for my sin; moreover, christ, i cannot bear that hell, i am most fain to love you, and to win a place in heaven some time: i cannot tell: speak to me, christ! i kiss, kiss, kiss your feet; ah! now i weep!' the maid said, 'by the tomb he waiteth for you, lady,' coming fleet, not knowing what woe filled up all the room. so guenevere rose and went to meet him there, he did not hear her coming, as he lay on arthur's head, till some of her long hair brush'd on the new-cut stone: 'well done! to pray for arthur, my dear lord, the greatest king that ever lived.' 'guenevere! guenevere! do you not know me, are you gone mad? fling your arms and hair about me, lest i fear you are not guenevere, but some other thing.' 'pray you forgive me, fair lord launcelot! i am not mad, but i am sick; they cling, god's curses, unto such as i am; not ever again shall we twine arms and lips.' 'yea, she is mad: thy heavy law, o lord, is very tight about her now, and grips her poor heart, so that no right word can reach her mouth; so, lord, forgive her now, that she not knowing what she does, being mad, kills me in this way; guenevere, bend low and kiss me once! for god's love kiss me! sad though your face is, you look much kinder now; yea once, once for the last time kiss me, lest i die.' 'christ! my hot lips are very near his brow, help me to save his soul! yea, verily, across my husband's head, fair launcelot! fair serpent mark'd with v upon the head! this thing we did while yet he was alive, why not, o twisting knight, now he is dead? yea, shake! shake now and shiver! if you can remember anything for agony, pray you remember how when the wind ran one cool spring evening through fair aspen-tree, and elm and oak about the palace there, the king came back from battle, and i stood to meet him, with my ladies, on the stair, my face made beautiful with my young blood.' 'will she lie now, lord god?' 'remember too, wrung heart, how first before the knights there came a royal bier, hung round with green and blue, about it shone great tapers with sick flame. and thereupon lucius, the emperor, lay royal-robed, but stone-cold now and dead, not able to hold sword or sceptre more, but not quite grim; because his cloven head bore no marks now of launcelot's bitter sword, being by embalmers deftly solder'd up; so still it seem'd the face of a great lord, being mended as a craftsman mends a cup. also the heralds sung rejoicingly to their long trumpets; fallen under shield, here lieth lucius, king of italy, slain by lord launcelot in open field. thereat the people shouted: launcelot! and through the spears i saw you drawing nigh, you and lord arthur: nay, i saw you not, but rather arthur, god would not let die, i hoped, these many years; he should grow great, and in his great arms still encircle me, kissing my face, half blinded with the heat of king's love for the queen i used to be. launcelot, launcelot, why did he take your hand, when he had kissed me in his kingly way? saying: this is the knight whom all the land calls arthur's banner, sword, and shield to-day; cherish him, love. why did your long lips cleave in such strange way unto my fingers then? so eagerly glad to kiss, so loath to leave when you rose up? why among helmed men could i always tell you by your long strong arms, and sway like an angel's in your saddle there? why sicken'd i so often with alarms over the tilt-yard? why were you more fair than aspens in the autumn at their best? why did you fill all lands with your great fame, so that breuse even, as he rode, fear'd lest at turning of the way your shield should flame? was it nought then, my agony and strife? when as day passed by day, year after year, i found i could not live a righteous life! didst ever think queens held their truth for dear? o, but your lips say: yea, but she was cold sometimes, always uncertain as the spring; when i was sad she would be overbold, longing for kisses. when war-bells did ring, the back-toll'd bells of noisy camelot. 'now, lord god, listen! listen, guenevere, though i am weak just now, i think there's not a man who dares to say: you hated her, and left her moaning while you fought your fill in the daisied meadows! lo you her thin hand, that on the carven stone can not keep still, because she loves me against god's command, has often been quite wet with tear on tear, tears launcelot keeps somewhere, surely not in his own heart, perhaps in heaven, where he will not be these ages.' 'launcelot! loud lips, wrung heart! i say when the bells rang, the noisy back-toll'd bells of camelot, there were two spots on earth, the thrushes sang in the lonely gardens where my love was not, where i was almost weeping; i dared not weep quite in those days, lest one maid should say, in tittering whispers: where is launcelot to wipe with some kerchief those tears away? another answer sharply with brows knit, and warning hand up, scarcely lower though: you speak too loud, see you, she heareth it, this tigress fair has claws, as i well know, as launcelot knows too, the poor knight! well-a-day! why met he not with iseult from the west, or better still, iseult of brittany? perchance indeed quite ladyless were best. alas, my maids, you loved not overmuch queen guenevere, uncertain as sunshine in march; forgive me! for my sin being such, about my whole life, all my deeds did twine, made me quite wicked; as i found out then, i think; in the lonely palace where each morn we went, my maids and i, to say prayers when they sang mass in the chapel on the lawn. and every morn i scarce could pray at all, for launcelot's red-golden hair would play, instead of sunlight, on the painted wall, mingled with dreams of what the priest did say; grim curses out of peter and of paul; judging of strange sins in leviticus; another sort of writing on the wall, scored deep across the painted heads of us. christ sitting with the woman at the well, and mary magdalen repenting there, her dimmed eyes scorch'd and red at sight of hell so hardly 'scaped, no gold light on her hair. and if the priest said anything that seemed to touch upon the sin they said we did, (this in their teeth) they looked as if they deem'd that i was spying what thoughts might be hid under green-cover'd bosoms, heaving quick beneath quick thoughts; while they grew red with shame, and gazed down at their feet: while i felt sick, and almost shriek'd if one should call my name. the thrushes sang in the lone garden there: but where you were the birds were scared i trow: clanging of arms about pavilions fair, mixed with the knights' laughs; there, as i well know, rode launcelot, the king of all the band, and scowling gauwaine, like the night in day, and handsome gareth, with his great white hand curl'd round the helm-crest, ere he join'd the fray; and merry dinadan with sharp dark face, all true knights loved to see; and in the fight great tristram, and though helmed you could trace in all his bearing the frank noble knight; and by him palomydes, helmet off, he fought, his face brush'd by his hair, red heavy swinging hair; he fear'd a scoff so overmuch, though what true knight would dare to mock that face, fretted with useless care, and bitter useless striving after love? o palomydes, with much honour bear beast glatysaunt upon your shield, above your helm that hides the swinging of your hair, and think of iseult, as your sword drives through much mail and plate: o god, let me be there a little time, as i was long ago! because stout gareth lets his spear fall low, gauwaine and launcelot, and dinadan are helm'd and waiting; let the trumpets go! bend over, ladies, to see all you can! clench teeth, dames, yea, clasp hands, for gareth's spear throws kay from out his saddle, like a stone from a castle-window when the foe draws near: iseult! sir dinadan rolleth overthrown. iseult! again: the pieces of each spear fly fathoms up, and both the great steeds reel; tristram for iseult! iseult! and guenevere! the ladies' names bite verily like steel. they bite: bite me, lord god! i shall go mad, or else die kissing him, he is so pale, he thinks me mad already, o bad! bad! let me lie down a little while and wail.' 'no longer so, rise up, i pray you, love, and slay me really, then we shall be heal'd, perchance, in the aftertime by god above.' 'banner of arthur, with black-bended shield sinister-wise across the fair gold ground! here let me tell you what a knight you are, o sword and shield of arthur! you are found a crooked sword, i think, that leaves a scar on the bearer's arm, so be he thinks it straight, twisted malay's crease beautiful blue-grey, poison'd with sweet fruit; as he found too late, my husband arthur, on some bitter day! o sickle cutting hemlock the day long! that the husbandman across his shoulder hangs, and, going homeward about evensong, dies the next morning, struck through by the fangs! banner, and sword, and shield, you dare not die, lest you meet arthur in the other world, and, knowing who you are, he pass you by, taking short turns that he may watch you curl'd, body and face and limbs in agony, lest he weep presently and go away, saying: i loved him once, with a sad sigh, now i have slain him, lord, let me go too, i pray. [launcelot _falls_. alas! alas! i know not what to do, if i run fast it is perchance that i may fall and stun myself, much better so, never, never again! not even when i die.' launcelot, _on awaking_. 'i stretch'd my hands towards her and fell down, how long i lay in swoon i cannot tell: my head and hands were bleeding from the stone, when i rose up, also i heard a bell.' sir galahad, a christmas mystery sir galahad, a christmas mystery it is the longest night in all the year, near on the day when the lord christ was born; six hours ago i came and sat down here, and ponder'd sadly, wearied and forlorn. the winter wind that pass'd the chapel door, sang out a moody tune, that went right well with mine own thoughts: i look'd down on the floor, between my feet, until i heard a bell sound a long way off through the forest deep, and toll on steadily; a drowsiness came on me, so that i fell half asleep, as i sat there not moving: less and less i saw the melted snow that hung in beads upon my steel-shoes; less and less i saw between the tiles the bunches of small weeds: heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground, i thought: o galahad! the days go by, stop and cast up now that which you have found, so sorely you have wrought and painfully. night after night your horse treads down alone the sere damp fern, night after night you sit holding the bridle like a man of stone, dismal, unfriended: what thing comes of it? and what if palomydes also ride, and over many a mountain and bare heath follow the questing beast with none beside? is he not able still to hold his breath with thoughts of iseult? doth he not grow pale with weary striving, to seem best of all to her, 'as she is best,' he saith? to fail is nothing to him, he can never fall. for unto such a man love-sorrow is so dear a thing unto his constant heart, that even if he never win one kiss, or touch from iseult, it will never part. and he will never know her to be worse than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is: good knight, and faithful, you have 'scaped the curse in wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss. yea, what if father launcelot ride out, can he not think of guenevere's arms, round warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout till all the place grows joyful with the sound? and when he lists can often see her face, and think, 'next month i kiss you, or next week, and still you think of me': therefore the place grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek. but me, who ride alone, some carle shall find dead in my arms in the half-melted snow, when all unkindly with the shifting wind, the thaw comes on at candlemas: i know indeed that they will say: 'this galahad if he had lived had been a right good knight; ah! poor chaste body!' but they will be glad, not most alone, but all, when in their sight that very evening in their scarlet sleeves the gay-dress'd minstrels sing; no maid will talk of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves, grown big upon the bushes of the walk, east of the palace-pleasaunce, make it hard to see the minster therefrom: well-a-day! before the trees by autumn were well bared, i saw a damozel with gentle play, within that very walk say last farewell to her dear knight, just riding out to find (why should i choke to say it?) the sangreal, and their last kisses sunk into my mind, yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast, rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand, that it might well be kiss'd, she held and press'd against his lips; long time they stood there, fann'd by gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind, till mador de la porte a-going by, and my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined, and parted like a dream. in this way i, with sleepy face bent to the chapel floor, kept musing half asleep, till suddenly a sharp bell rang from close beside the door, and i leapt up when something pass'd me by, shrill ringing going with it, still half blind i stagger'd after, a great sense of awe at every step kept gathering on my mind, thereat i have no marvel, for i saw one sitting on the altar as a throne, whose face no man could say he did not know, and though the bell still rang, he sat alone, with raiment half blood-red, half white as snow. right so i fell upon the floor and knelt, not as one kneels in church when mass is said, but in a heap, quite nerveless, for i felt the first time what a thing was perfect dread. but mightily the gentle voice came down: 'rise up, and look and listen, galahad, good knight of god, for you will see no frown upon my face; i come to make you glad. for that you say that you are all alone, i will be with you always, and fear not you are uncared for, though no maiden moan above your empty tomb; for launcelot, he in good time shall be my servant too, meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight, and who has loved him alway, yea, and who still trusts him alway, though in all men's sight, he is just what you know, o galahad, this love is happy even as you say, but would you for a little time be glad, to make me sorry long, day after day? her warm arms round his neck half throttle me, the hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead, yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally will launcelot at one time hang his head; yea, old and shrivell'd he shall win my love. poor palomydes fretting out his soul! not always is he able, son, to move his love, and do it honour: needs must roll the proudest destrier sometimes in the dust, and then 'tis weary work; he strives beside seem better than he is, so that his trust is always on what chances may betide; and so he wears away, my servant, too, when all these things are gone, and wretchedly he sits and longs to moan for iseult, who is no care now to palomydes: see, o good son galahad, upon this day, now even, all these things are on your side, but these you fight not for; look up, i say, and see how i can love you, for no pride closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down. see now you have me always; following that holy vision, galahad, go on, until at last you come to me to sing in heaven always, and to walk around the garden where i am.' he ceased, my face and wretched body fell upon the ground; and when i look'd again, the holy place was empty; but right so the bell again came to the chapel-door, there entered two angels first, in white, without a stain, and scarlet wings, then, after them, a bed four ladies bore, and set it down beneath the very altar-step, and while for fear i scarcely dared to move or draw my breath, those holy ladies gently came a-near, and quite unarm'd me, saying: 'galahad, rest here awhile and sleep, and take no thought of any other thing than being glad; hither the sangreal will be shortly brought, yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here.' right so they went away, and i, being weary, slept long and dream'd of heaven: the bell comes near, i doubt it grows to morning. miserere! _enter two angels in white, with scarlet wings; also, four ladies in gowns of red and green; also an angel, bearing in his hands a surcoat of white, with a red cross._ an angel. o servant of the high god, galahad! rise and be arm'd: the sangreal is gone forth through the great forest, and you must be had unto the sea that lieth on the north: there shall you find the wondrous ship wherein the spindles of king solomon are laid, and the sword that no man draweth without sin, but if he be most pure: and there is stay'd, hard by, sir launcelot, whom you will meet in some short space upon that ship: first, though, will come here presently that lady sweet, sister of percival, whom you well know, and with her bors and percival: stand now, these ladies will to arm you. first lady, _putting on the hauberk_. galahad, that i may stand so close beneath your brow, i, margaret of antioch, am glad. second lady, _girding him with the sword_. that i may stand and touch you with my hand, o galahad, i, cecily, am glad. third lady, _buckling on the spurs_. that i may kneel while up above you stand, and gaze at me, o holy galahad, i, lucy, am most glad. fourth lady, _putting on the basnet_. o gentle knight, that you bow down to us in reverence, we are most glad, i, katherine, with delight must needs fall trembling. angel, _putting on the crossed surcoat_. galahad, we go hence, for here, amid the straying of the snow, come percival's sister, bors, and percival. [_the four ladies carry out the bed, and all go but_ galahad. galahad. how still and quiet everything seems now: they come, too, for i hear the horsehoofs fall. _enter_ sir bors, sir percival, _and_ his sister. fair friends and gentle lady, god you save! a many marvels have been here to-night; tell me what news of launcelot you have, and has god's body ever been in sight? sir bors. why, as for seeing that same holy thing, as we were riding slowly side by side, an hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing, and through the bare twigs saw a great light glide, with many-colour'd raiment, but far off; and so pass'd quickly: from the court nought good; poor merry dinadan, that with jape and scoff kept us all merry, in a little wood was found all hack'd and dead: sir lionel and gauwaine have come back from the great quest, just merely shamed; and lauvaine, who loved well your father launcelot, at the king's behest went out to seek him, but was almost slain, perhaps is dead now; everywhere the knights come foil'd from the great quest, in vain; in vain they struggle for the vision fair. the chapel in lyoness the chapel in lyoness sir ozana le cure hardy. sir galahad. sir bors de ganys. sir ozana. all day long and every day, from christmas-eve to whit-sunday, within that chapel-aisle i lay, and no man came a-near. naked to the waist was i, and deep within my breast did lie, though no man any blood could spy, the truncheon of a spear. no meat did ever pass my lips those days. alas! the sunlight slips from off the gilded parclose, dips, and night comes on apace. my arms lay back behind my head; over my raised-up knees was spread a samite cloth of white and red; a rose lay on my face. many a time i tried to shout; but as in dream of battle-rout, my frozen speech would not well out; i could not even weep. with inward sigh i see the sun fade off the pillars one by one, my heart faints when the day is done, because i cannot sleep. sometimes strange thoughts pass through my head; not like a tomb is this my bed, yet oft i think that i am dead; that round my tomb is writ, 'ozana of the hardy heart, knight of the table round, pray for his soul, lords, of your part; a true knight he was found.' ah! me, i cannot fathom it. [_he sleeps._ sir galahad. all day long and every day, till his madness pass'd away, i watch'd ozana as he lay within the gilded screen. all my singing moved him not; as i sung my heart grew hot, with the thought of launcelot far away, i ween. so i went a little space from out the chapel, bathed my face in the stream that runs apace by the churchyard wall. there i pluck'd a faint wild rose, hard by where the linden grows, sighing over silver rows of the lilies tall. i laid the flower across his mouth; the sparkling drops seem'd good for drouth; he smiled, turn'd round towards the south. held up a golden tress. the light smote on it from the west; he drew the covering from his breast, against his heart that hair he prest; death him soon will bless. sir bors. i enter'd by the western door; i saw a knight's helm lying there: i raised my eyes from off the floor, and caught the gleaming of his hair. i stept full softly up to him; i laid my chin upon his head; i felt him smile; my eyes did swim, i was so glad he was not dead. i heard ozana murmur low, 'there comes no sleep nor any love.' but galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow: he shiver'd; i saw his pale lips move. sir ozana. there comes no sleep nor any love; ah me! i shiver with delight. i am so weak i cannot move; god move me to thee, dear, to-night! christ help! i have but little wit: my life went wrong; i see it writ, 'ozana of the hardy heart, knight of the table round, pray for his soul, lords, on your part; a good knight he was found.' now i begin to fathom it. [_he dies._ sir bors. galahad sits dreamily; what strange things may his eyes see, great blue eyes fix'd full on me? on his soul, lord, have mercy. sir galahad. ozana, shall i pray for thee? her cheek is laid to thine; no long time hence, also i see thy wasted fingers twine within the tresses of her hair that shineth gloriously, thinly outspread in the clear air against the jasper sea. sir peter harpdon's end sir peter harpdon's end _in an english castle in poictou._ sir peter harpdon, _a gascon knight in the english service, and_ john curzon, _his lieutenant_. john curzon. of those three prisoners, that before you came we took down at st. john's hard by the mill, two are good masons; we have tools enough, and you have skill to set them working. sir peter. so: what are their names? john curzon. why, jacques aquadent, and peter plombiere, but, sir peter. what colour'd hair has peter now? has jacques got bow legs? john curzon. why, sir, you jest: what matters jacques' hair, or peter's legs to us? sir peter. o! john, john, john! throw all your mason's tools down the deep well, hang peter up and jacques; they're no good, we shall not build, man. john curzon (_going_). shall i call the guard to hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools, we'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well. [_muttering as he goes._ what have i done that he should jape at me? and why not build? the walls are weak enough, and we've two masons and a heap of tools. [_goes, still muttering._ sir peter. to think a man should have a lump like that for his lieutenant! i must call him back, or else, as surely as st. george is dead, he'll hang our friends the masons: here, john! john! john curzon. at your good service, sir. sir peter. come now, and talk this weighty matter out; there, we've no stone to mend our walls with, neither brick nor stone. john curzon. there is a quarry, sir, some ten miles off. sir peter. we are not strong enough to send ten men ten miles to fetch us stone enough to build. in three hours' time they would be taken or slain, the cursed frenchmen ride abroad so thick. john curzon. but we can send some villaynes to get stone. sir peter. alas! john, that we cannot bring them back, they would go off to clisson or sanxere, and tell them we were weak in walls and men, then down go we; for, look you, times are changed, and now no longer does the country shake at sound of english names; our captains fade from off our muster-rolls. at lusac bridge i daresay you may even yet see the hole that chandos beat in dying; far in spain pembroke is prisoner; phelton prisoner here; manny lies buried in the charterhouse; oliver clisson turn'd these years agone; the captal died in prison; and, over all, edward the prince lies underneath the ground, edward the king is dead, at westminster the carvers smooth the curls of his long beard. everything goes to rack--eh! and we too. now, curzon, listen; if they come, these french, whom have i got to lean on here, but you? a man can die but once, will you die then, your brave sword in your hand, thoughts in your heart of all the deeds we have done here in france-- and yet may do? so god will have your soul, whoever has your body. john curzon. why, sir, i will fight till the last moment, until then will do whate'er you tell me. now i see we must e'en leave the walls; well, well, perhaps they're stronger than i think for; pity, though! for some few tons of stone, if guesclin comes. sir peter. farewell, john, pray you watch the gascons well, i doubt them. john curzon. truly, sir, i will watch well. [_goes._ sir peter. farewell, good lump! and yet, when all is said, 'tis a good lump. why then, if guesclin comes; some dozen stones from his petrariae, and, under shelter of his crossbows, just an hour's steady work with pickaxes, then a great noise--some dozen swords and glaives a-playing on my basnet all at once, and little more cross purposes on earth for me. now this is hard: a month ago, and a few minutes' talk had set things right 'twixt me and alice; if she had a doubt, as, may heaven bless her! i scarce think she had, 'twas but their hammer, hammer in her ears, of how sir peter fail'd at lusac bridge: and how he was grown moody of late days; and how sir lambert, think now! his dear friend, his sweet, dear cousin, could not but confess that peter's talk tended towards the french, which he, for instance lambert, was glad of, being, lambert, you see, on the french side. well, if i could but have seen her on that day, then, when they sent me off! i like to think, although it hurts me, makes my head twist, what, if i had seen her, what i should have said, what she, my darling, would have said and done. as thus perchance. to find her sitting there, in the window-seat, not looking well at all, crying perhaps, and i say quietly: alice! she looks up, chokes a sob, looks grave, changes from pale to red, but, ere she speaks, straightway i kneel down there on both my knees, and say: o lady, have i sinn'd, your knight? that still you ever let me walk alone in the rose garden, that you sing no songs when i am by, that ever in the dance you quietly walk away when i come near? now that i have you, will you go, think you? ere she could answer i would speak again, still kneeling there. what! they have frighted you, by hanging burs, and clumsily carven puppets, round my good name; but afterwards, my love, i will say what this means; this moment, see! do i kneel here, and can you doubt me? yea: for she would put her hands upon my face: yea, that is best, yea feel, love, am i changed? and she would say: good knight, come, kiss my lips! and afterwards as i sat there would say: please a poor silly girl by telling me what all those things they talk of really were, for it is true you did not help chandos, and true, poor love! you could not come to me when i was in such peril. i should say: i am like balen, all things turn to blame. i did not come to you? at bergerath the constable had held us close shut up, if from the barriers i had made three steps, i should have been but slain; at lusac, too, we struggled in a marish half the day, and came too late at last: you know, my love, how heavy men and horses are all arm'd. all that sir lambert said was pure, unmix'd, quite groundless lies; as you can think, sweet love. she, holding tight my hand as we sat there, started a little at sir lambert's name, but otherwise she listen'd scarce at all to what i said. then with moist, weeping eyes, and quivering lips, that scarcely let her speak, she said: i love you. other words were few, the remnant of that hour; her hand smooth'd down my foolish head; she kiss'd me all about my face, and through the tangles of my beard her little fingers crept! o god, my alice, not this good way: my lord but sent and said that lambert's sayings were taken at their worth, therefore that day i was to start, and keep this hold against the french; and i am here: [_looks out of the window._ a sprawling lonely garde with rotten walls, and no one to bring aid if guesclin comes, or any other. there's a pennon now! at last. but not the constable's: whose arms, i wonder, does it bear? three golden rings on a red ground; my cousin's by the rood! well, i should like to kill him, certainly, but to be kill'd by him: [_a trumpet sounds._ that's for a herald; i doubt this does not mean assaulting yet. _enter_ john curzon. what says the herald of our cousin, sir? john curzon. so please you, sir, concerning your estate, he has good will to talk with you. sir peter. outside, i'll talk with him, close by the gate st. ives. is he unarm'd? john curzon. yea, sir, in a long gown. sir peter. then bid them bring me hither my furr'd gown with the long sleeves, and under it i'll wear, by lambert's leave, a secret coat of mail; and will you lend me, john, your little axe? i mean the one with paul wrought on the blade? and i will carry it inside my sleeve, good to be ready always; you, john, go and bid them set up many suits of arms, bows, archgays, lances, in the base-court, and yourself, from the south postern setting out, with twenty men, be ready to break through their unguarded rear when i cry out, st. george! john curzon. how, sir! will you attack him unawares, and slay him unarm'd? sir peter. trust me, john, i know the reason why he comes here with sleeved gown, fit to hide axes up. so, let us go. [_they go._ _outside the castle by the great gate;_ sir lambert _and_ sir peter _seated; guards attending each, the rest of_ sir lambert's _men drawn up about a furlong off._ sir peter. and if i choose to take the losing side still, does it hurt you? sir lambert. o! no hurt to me; i see you sneering, why take trouble then, seeing you love me not? look you, our house (which, taken altogether, i love much) had better be upon the right side now, if, once for all, it wishes to bear rule as such a house should: cousin, you're too wise to feed your hope up fat, that this fair france will ever draw two ways again; this side the french, wrong-headed, all a-jar with envious longings; and the other side the order'd english, orderly led on by those two edwards through all wrong and right, and muddling right and wrong to a thick broth with that long stick, their strength. this is all changed, the true french win, on either side you have cool-headed men, good at a tilting match, and good at setting battles in array, and good at squeezing taxes at due time; therefore by nature we french being here upon our own big land: [_sir peter laughs aloud._ well, peter! well! what makes you laugh? sir peter. hearing you sweat to prove all this i know so well; but you have read the siege of troy? sir lambert. o! yea, i know it well. sir peter. there! they were wrong, as wrong as men could be for, as i think, they found it such delight to see fair helen going through their town; yea, any little common thing she did (as stooping to pick a flower) seem'd so strange, so new in its great beauty, that they said: here we will keep her living in this town, till all burns up together. and so, fought, in a mad whirl of knowing they were wrong; yea, they fought well, and ever, like a man that hangs legs off the ground by both his hands, over some great height, did they struggle sore, quite sure to slip at last; wherefore, take note how almost all men, reading that sad siege, hold for the trojans; as i did at least, thought hector the best knight a long way: now why should i not do this thing that i think; for even when i come to count the gains, i have them my side: men will talk, you know (we talk of hector, dead so long agone,) when i am dead, of how this peter clung to what he thought the right; of how he died, perchance, at last, doing some desperate deed few men would care do now, and this is gain to me, as ease and money is to you. moreover, too, i like the straining game of striving well to hold up things that fall; so one becomes great. see you! in good times all men live well together, and you, too, live dull and happy: happy? not so quick, suppose sharp thoughts begin to burn you up? why then, but just to fight as i do now, a halter round my neck, would be great bliss. o! i am well off. [_aside._ talk, and talk, and talk, i know this man has come to murder me, and yet i talk still. sir lambert. if your side were right, you might be, though you lost; but if i said, 'you are a traitor, being, as you are, born frenchman.' what are edwards unto you, or richards? sir peter. nay, hold there, my lambert, hold! for fear your zeal should bring you to some harm, don't call me traitor. sir lambert. furthermore, my knight, men call you slippery on your losing side, when at bordeaux i was ambassador, i heard them say so, and could scarce say: nay. [_he takes hold of something in his sleeve, and rises._ sir peter, _rising_. they lied: and you lie, not for the first time. what have you got there, fumbling up your sleeve, a stolen purse? sir lambert. nay, liar in your teeth! dead liar too; st. denis and st. lambert! [_strikes at_ sir peter _with a dagger_. sir peter, _striking him flatlings with his axe_. how thief! thief! thief! so there, fair thief, so there, st. george guienne! glaives for the castellan! you french, you are but dead, unless you lay your spears upon the earth. st. george guienne! well done, john curzon, how he has them now. _in the castle._ john curzon. what shall we do with all these prisoners, sir? sir peter. why, put them all to ransom, those that can pay anything, but not too light though, john, seeing we have them on the hip: for those that have no money, that being certified, why, turn them out of doors before they spy; but bring sir lambert guarded unto me. john curzon. i will, fair sir. [_he goes._ sir peter. i do not wish to kill him, although i think i ought; he shall go mark'd, by all the saints, though! _enter_ lambert _guarded_. now, sir lambert, now! what sort of death do you expect to get, being taken this way? sir lambert. cousin! cousin! think! i am your own blood; may god pardon me! i am not fit to die; if you knew all, all i have done since i was young and good. o! you would give me yet another chance, as god would, that i might wash all clear out, by serving you and him. let me go now! and i will pay you down more golden crowns of ransom than the king would! sir peter. well, stand back, and do not touch me! no, you shall not die, nor yet pay ransom. you, john curzon, cause some carpenters to build a scaffold, high, outside the gate; when it is built, sound out to all good folks, 'come, see a traitor punish'd!' take me my knight, and set him up thereon, and let the hangman shave his head quite clean, and cut his ears off close up to the head; and cause the minstrels all the while to play soft music, and good singing; for this day is my high day of triumph; is it not, sir lambert? sir lambert. ah! on your own blood, own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare, with hands and fame thus sullied, to go back and take the lady alice? sir peter. say her name again, and you are dead, slain here by me. why should i talk with you? i'm master here, and do not want your schooling; is it not my mercy that you are not dangling dead there in the gateway with a broken neck? sir lambert. such mercy! why not kill me then outright? to die is nothing; but to live that all may point their fingers! yea, i'd rather die. john curzon. why, will it make you any uglier man to lose your ears? they're much too big for you, you ugly judas! sir peter. hold, john! [_to_ lambert. that's your choice, to die, mind! then you shall die: lambert mine, i thank you now for choosing this so well, it saves me much perplexity and doubt; perchance an ill deed too, for half i count this sparing traitors is an ill deed. well, lambert, die bravely, and we're almost friends. sir lambert, _grovelling_. o god! this is a fiend and not a man; will some one save me from him? help, help, help! i will not die. sir peter. why, what is this i see? a man who is a knight, and bandied words so well just now with me, is lying down, gone mad for fear like this! so, so, you thought you knew the worst, and might say what you pleased. i should have guess'd this from a man like you. eh! righteous job would give up skin for skin, yea, all a man can have for simple life, and we talk fine, yea, even a hound like this, who needs must know that when he dies, deep hell will hold him fast for ever, so fine we talk, 'would rather die,' all that. now sir, get up! and choose again: shall it be head sans ears, or trunk sans head? john curzon, pull him up! what, life then? go and build the scaffold, john. lambert, i hope that never on this earth we meet again; that you'll turn out a monk, and mend the life i give you, so farewell, i'm sorry you're a rascal. john, despatch. _in the french camp before the castle._ sir peter _prisoner_, guesclin, clisson, sir lambert. sir peter. so now is come the ending of my life; if i could clear this sickening lump away that sticks in my dry throat, and say a word, guesclin might listen. guesclin. tell me, fair sir knight, if you have been clean liver before god, and then you need not fear much; as for me, i cannot say i hate you, yet my oath, and cousin lambert's ears here clench the thing. sir peter. i knew you could not hate me, therefore i am bold to pray for life; 'twill harm your cause to hang knights of good name, harms here in france i have small doubt, at any rate hereafter men will remember you another way than i should care to be remember'd, ah! although hot lead runs through me for my blood, all this falls cold as though i said, sweet lords, give back my falcon! see how young i am, do you care altogether more for france, say rather one french faction, than for all the state of christendom? a gallant knight, as (yea, by god!) i have been, is more worth than many castles; will you bring this death, for a mere act of justice, on my head? think how it ends all, death! all other things can somehow be retrieved, yea, send me forth naked and maimed, rather than slay me here; then somehow will i get me other clothes, and somehow will i get me some poor horse, and, somehow clad in poor old rusty arms, will ride and smite among the serried glaives, fear not death so; for i can tilt right well, let me not say i could; i know all tricks, that sway the sharp sword cunningly; ah you, you, my lord clisson, in the other days have seen me learning these, yea, call to mind, how in the trodden corn by chartres town, when you were nearly swooning from the back of your black horse, those three blades slid at once from off my sword's edge; pray for me, my lord! clisson. nay, this is pitiful, to see him die. my lord the constable, i pray you note that you are losing some few thousand crowns by slaying this man; also think: his lands along the garonne river lie for leagues, and are right rich, a many mills he has, three abbeys of grey monks do hold of him: though wishing well for clement, as we do, i know the next heir, his old uncle, well, who does not care two deniers for the knight as things go now, but slay him, and then see, how he will bristle up like any perch, with curves of spears. what! do not doubt, my lord, you'll get the money, this man saved my life, and i will buy him for two thousand crowns; well, five then: eh! what! no again? well then, ten thousand crowns? guesclin. my sweet lord, much i grieve i cannot please you, yea, good sooth, i grieve this knight must die, as verily he must; for i have sworn it, so men take him out, use him not roughly. sir lambert, _coming forward_. music, do you know, music will suit you well, i think, because you look so mild, like laurence being grill'd; or perhaps music soft and slow, because this is high day of triumph unto me, is it not, peter? you are frighten'd, though, eh! you are pale, because this hurts you much, whose life was pleasant to you, not like mine, you ruin'd wretch! men mock me in the streets, only in whispers loud, because i am friend of the constable; will this please you, unhappy peter? once a-going home, without my servants, and a little drunk, at midnight through the lone dim lamp-lit streets. a whore came up and spat into my eyes, rather to blind me than to make me see, but she was very drunk, and tottering back, even in the middle of her laughter fell and cut her head against the pointed stones, while i lean'd on my staff, and look'd at her, and cried, being drunk. girls would not spit at you. you are so handsome, i think verily most ladies would be glad to kiss your eyes, and yet you will be hung like a cur dog five minutes hence, and grow black in the face, and curl your toes up. therefore i am glad. guess why i stand and talk this nonsense now, with guesclin getting ready to play chess, and clisson doing something with his sword, i can't see what, talking to guesclin though, i don't know what about, perhaps of you. but, cousin peter, while i stroke your beard, let me say this, i'd like to tell you now that your life hung upon a game of chess, that if, say, my squire robert here should beat, why you should live, but hang if i beat him; then guess, clever peter, what i should do then: well, give it up? why, peter, i should let my squire robert beat me, then you would think that you were safe, you know; eh? not at all, but i should keep you three days in some hold, giving you salt to eat, which would be kind, considering the tax there is on salt; and afterwards should let you go, perhaps? no i should not, but i should hang you, sir, with a red rope in lieu of mere grey rope. but i forgot, you have not told me yet if you can guess why i talk nonsense thus, instead of drinking wine while you are hang'd? you are not quick at guessing, give it up. this is the reason; here i hold your hand, and watch you growing paler, see you writhe and this, my peter, is a joy so dear, i cannot by all striving tell you how i love it, nor i think, good man, would you quite understand my great delight therein; you, when you had me underneath you once, spat as it were, and said, 'go take him out,' that they might do that thing to me whereat, e'en now this long time off i could well shriek, and then you tried forget i ever lived, and sunk your hating into other things; while i: st. denis! though, i think you'll faint, your lips are grey so; yes, you will, unless you let it out and weep like a hurt child; hurrah! you do now. do not go just yet, for i am alice, am right like her now, will you not kiss me on the lips, my love? clisson. you filthy beast, stand back and let him go, or by god's eyes i'll choke you! [_kneeling to_ sir peter. fair sir knight i kneel upon my knees and pray to you that you would pardon me for this your death; god knows how much i wish you still alive, also how heartily i strove to save your life at this time; yea, he knows quite well, (i swear it, so forgive me!) how i would, if it were possible, give up my life upon this grass for yours; fair knight, although, he knowing all things knows this thing too, well, yet when you see his face some short time hence, tell him i tried to save you. sir peter. o! my lord, i cannot say this is as good as life, but yet it makes me feel far happier now, and if at all, after a thousand years, i see god's face, i will speak loud and bold, and tell him you were kind, and like himself; sir, may god bless you! did you note how i fell weeping just now? pray you, do not think that lambert's taunts did this, i hardly heard the base things that he said, being deep in thought of all things that have happen'd since i was a little child; and so at last i thought of my true lady: truly, sir, it seem'd no longer gone than yesterday, that this was the sole reason god let me be born twenty-five years ago, that i might love her, my sweet lady, and be loved by her; this seem'd so yesterday, to-day death comes, and is so bitter strong, i cannot see why i was born. but as a last request, i pray you, o kind clisson, send some man, some good man, mind you, to say how i died, and take my last love to her: fare-you-well, and may god keep you; i must go now, lest i grow too sick with thinking on these things; likewise my feet are wearied of the earth, from whence i shall be lifted upright soon. [_as he goes._ ah me! shamed too, i wept at fear of death; and yet not so, i only wept because there was no beautiful lady to kiss me before i died, and sweetly wish good speed from her dear lips. o for some lady, though i saw her ne'er before; alice, my love, i do not ask for; clisson was right kind, if he had been a woman, i should die without this sickness: but i am all wrong, so wrong, and hopelessly afraid to die. there, i will go. my god! how sick i am, if only she could come and kiss me now. _the hotel de la barde, bordeaux._ _the_ lady alice de la barde _looking out of a window into the street_. no news yet! surely, still he holds his own: that garde stands well; i mind me passing it some months ago; god grant the walls are strong! i heard some knights say something yestereve, i tried hard to forget: words far apart struck on my heart something like this; one said: what eh! a gascon with an english name, harpdon? then nought, but afterwards: poictou. as one who answers to a question ask'd, then carelessly regretful came: no, no. whereto in answer loud and eagerly, one said: impossible? christ, what foul play! and went off angrily; and while thenceforth i hurried gaspingly afraid, i heard: guesclin; five thousand men-at-arms; clisson. my heart misgives me it is all in vain i send these succours; and in good time there their trumpet sounds: ah! here they are; good knights, god up in heaven keep you. if they come and find him prisoner, for i can't believe guesclin will slay him, even though they storm. the last horse turns the corner. god in heaven! what have i got to thinking of at last! that thief i will not name is with guesclin, who loves him for his lands. my love! my love! o, if i lose you after all the past, what shall i do? i cannot bear the noise and light street out there, with this thought alive, like any curling snake within my brain; let me just hide my head within these soft deep cushions, there to try and think it out. [_lying in the window-seat._ i cannot hear much noise now, and i think that i shall go to sleep: it all sounds dim and faint, and i shall soon forget most things; yea, almost that i am alive and here; it goes slow, comes slow, like a big mill-wheel on some broad stream, with long green weeds a-sway, and soft and slow it rises and it falls, still going onward. lying so, one kiss, and i should be in avalon asleep, among the poppies, and the yellow flowers; and they should brush my cheek, my hair being spread far out among the stems; soft mice and small eating and creeping all about my feet, red shod and tired; and the flies should come creeping o'er my broad eyelids unafraid; and there should be a noise of water going, clear blue fresh water breaking on the slates, likewise the flies should creep: god's eyes! god help! a trumpet? i will run fast, leap adown the slippery sea-stairs, where the crabs fight. ah! i was half dreaming, but the trumpet's true; he stops here at our house. the clisson arms? ah, now for news. but i must hold my heart, and be quite gentle till he is gone out; and afterwards: but he is still alive, he must be still alive. _enter a_ squire _of_ clisson's. good day, fair sir, i give you welcome, knowing whence you come. squire. my lady alice de la barde, i come from oliver clisson, knight and mighty lord, bringing you tidings: i make bold to hope you will not count me villain, even if they wring your heart, nor hold me still in hate; for i am but a mouthpiece after all, a mouthpiece, too, of one who wishes well to you and your's. alice. can you talk faster, sir, get over all this quicker? fix your eyes on mine, i pray you, and whate'er you see, still go on talking fast, unless i fall, or bid you stop. squire. i pray your pardon then, and, looking in your eyes, fair lady, say i am unhappy that your knight is dead. take heart, and listen! let me tell you all. we were five thousand goodly men-at-arms, and scant five hundred had he in that hold: his rotten sand-stone walls were wet with rain, and fell in lumps wherever a stone hit; yet for three days about the barrier there the deadly glaives were gather'd, laid across, and push'd and pull'd; the fourth our engines came; but still amid the crash of falling walls, and roar of lombards, rattle of hard bolts, the steady bow-strings flash'd, and still stream'd out st. george's banner, and the seven swords, and still they cried: st. george guienne! until their walls were flat as jericho's of old, and our rush came, and cut them from the keep. alice. stop, sir, and tell me if you slew him then, and where he died, if you can really mean that peter harpdon, the good knight, is dead? squire. fair lady, in the base-court: alice. what base-court? what do you talk of? nay, go on, go on; 'twas only something gone within my head: do you not know, one turns one's head round quick, and something cracks there with sore pain? go on, and still look at my eyes. squire. almost alone, there in the base-court fought he with his sword, using his left hand much, more than the wont of most knights now-a-days; our men gave back, for wheresoever he hit a downright blow, some one fell bleeding, for no plate could hold against the sway of body and great arm; till he grew tired, and some man (no! not i, i swear not i, fair lady, as i live!) thrust at him with a glaive between the knees, and threw him; down he fell, sword undermost; many fell on him, crying out their cries, tore his sword from him, tore his helm off, and: alice. yea, slew him: i am much too young to live, fair god, so let me die! you have done well, done all your message gently, pray you go, our knights will make you cheer; moreover, take this bag of franks for your expenses. [_the squire kneels._ but you do not go; still looking at my face, you kneel! what, squire, do you mock me then? you need not tell me who has set you on, but tell me only, 'tis a made-up tale. you are some lover may-be or his friend; sir, if you loved me once, or your friend loved, think, is it not enough that i kneel down and kiss your feet? your jest will be right good if you give in now; carry it too far, and 'twill be cruel: not yet? but you weep almost, as though you loved me; love me then, and go to heaven by telling all your sport, and i will kiss you then with all my heart, upon the mouth: o! what can i do then to move you? squire. lady fair, forgive me still! you know i am so sorry, but my tale is not yet finish'd: so they bound his hands, and brought him tall and pale to guesclin's tent, who, seeing him, leant his head upon his hand, and ponder'd somewhile, afterwards, looking up: fair dame, what shall i say? alice. yea, i know now, good squire, you may go now with my thanks. squire. yet, lady, for your own sake i say this, yea, for my own sake, too, and clisson's sake. when guesclin told him he must be hanged soon, within a while he lifted up his head and spoke for his own life; not crouching, though, as abjectly afraid to die, nor yet sullenly brave as many a thief will die, nor yet as one that plays at japes with god: few words he spoke; not so much what he said moved us, i think, as, saying it, there played strange tenderness from that big soldier there about his pleading; eagerness to live because folk loved him, and he loved them back, and many gallant plans unfinish'd now for ever. clisson's heart, which may god bless! was moved to pray for him, but all in vain; wherefore i bring this message: that he waits, still loving you, within the little church whose windows, with the one eye of the light over the altar, every night behold the great dim broken walls he strove to keep! there my lord clisson did his burial well. now, lady, i will go: god give you rest! alice. thank clisson from me, squire, and farewell! and now to keep myself from going mad. christ! i have been a many times to church, and, ever since my mother taught me prayers, have used them daily, but to-day i wish to pray another way; come face to face, o christ, that i may clasp your knees and pray i know not what; at any rate come now from one of many places where you are, either in heaven amid thick angel wings, or sitting on the altar strange with gems, or high up in the duskness of the apse; let us go, you and i, a long way off, to the little damp, dark, poitevin church. while you sit on the coffin in the dark, will i lie down, my face on the bare stone between your feet, and chatter anything i have heard long ago. what matters it so i may keep you there, your solemn face and long hair even-flowing on each side, until you love me well enough to speak, and give me comfort? yea, till o'er your chin, and cloven red beard the great tears roll down in pity for my misery, and i die, kissed over by you. eh guesclin! if i were like countess mountfort now, that kiss'd the knight, across the salt sea come to fight for her: ah! just to go about with many knights, wherever you went, and somehow on one day, in a thick wood to catch you off your guard, let you find, you and your some fifty friends, nothing but arrows wheresoe'er you turn'd, yea, and red crosses, great spears over them; and so, between a lane of my true men, to walk up pale and stern and tall, and with my arms on my surcoat, and his therewith, and then to make you kneel, o knight guesclin; and then: alas! alas! when all is said, what could i do but let you go again, being pitiful woman? i get no revenge, whatever happens; and i get no comfort: i am but weak, and cannot move my feet, but as men bid me. strange i do not die. suppose this has not happen'd after all? i will lean out again and watch for news. i wonder how long i can still feel thus, as though i watch'd for news, feel as i did just half-an-hour ago, before this news. how all the street is humming, some men sing, and some men talk; some look up at the house, then lay their heads together and look grave: their laughter pains me sorely in the heart; their thoughtful talking makes my head turn round: yea, some men sing, what is it then they sing? eh? launcelot, and love and fate and death: they ought to sing of him who was as wight as launcelot or wade, and yet avail'd just nothing, but to fail and fail and fail, and so at last to die and leave me here, alone and wretched; yea, perhaps they will, when many years are past, make songs of us: god help me, though, truly i never thought that i should make a story in this way, a story that his eyes can never see. [_one sings from outside._] _therefore be it believed whatsoever he grieved, when his horse was relieved, this launcelot,_ _beat down on his knee, right valiant was he god's body to see, though he saw it not._ _right valiant to move, but for his sad love the high god above stinted his praise._ _yet so he was glad that his son, lord galahad, that high joyaunce had all his life-days._ _sing we therefore then launcelot's praise again, for he wan crownés ten, if he wan not twelve._ _to his death from his birth he was mickle of worth, lay him in the cold earth, a long grave ye may delve._ _omnes homines benedicite! this last fitte ye may see, all men pray for me who made this history cunning and fairly._ rapunzel rapunzel the prince, _being in the wood near the tower, in the evening_. i could not even think what made me weep that day, when out of the council-hall the courtiers pass'd away,-- the witch. rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your hair! rapunzel. is it not true that every day she climbeth up the same strange way, her scarlet cloak spread broad and gay, over my golden hair? the prince. and left me there alone, to think on what they said: 'thou art a king's own son, 'tis fit that thou should'st wed.' the witch. rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your hair! rapunzel. when i undo the knotted mass, fathoms below the shadows pass over my hair along the grass. o my golden hair! the prince. i put my armour on, thinking on what they said: 'thou art a king's own son, 'tis fit that thou should'st wed.' the witch. rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your hair! rapunzel. see on the marble parapet, i lean my brow, strive to forget that fathoms below my hair grows wet with the dew, my golden hair. the prince. i rode throughout the town, men did not bow the head, though i was the king's own son: he rides to dream, they said. the witch. rapunzel, rapunzel, wind up your hair! rapunzel. see on the marble parapet, the faint red stains with tears are wet; the long years pass, no help comes yet to free my golden hair. the prince. for leagues and leagues i rode, till hot my armour grew, till underneath the leaves i felt the evening dew. the witch. rapunzel, rapunzel, weep through your hair! rapunzel. and yet: but i am growing old, for want of love my heart is cold; years pass, the while i loose and fold the fathoms of my hair. the prince, _in the morning_. i have heard tales of men, who in the night saw paths of stars let down to earth from heaven, who followed them until they reach'd the light wherein they dwell, whose sins are all forgiven; but who went backward when they saw the gate of diamond, nor dared to enter in; all their life long they were content to wait, purging them patiently of every sin. i must have had a dream of some such thing, and now am just awaking from that dream; for even in grey dawn those strange words ring through heart and brain, and still i see that gleam. for in my dream at sunset-time i lay beneath these beeches, mail and helmet off, right full of joy that i had come away from court; for i was patient of the scoff that met me always there from day to day, from any knave or coward of them all: i was content to live that wretched way; for truly till i left the council-hall, and rode forth arm'd beneath the burning sun, my gleams of happiness were faint and few, but then i saw my real life had begun, and that i should be strong quite well i knew. for i was riding out to look for love, therefore the birds within the thickets sung, even in hot noontide; as i pass'd, above the elms o'ersway'd with longing towards me hung. now some few fathoms from the place where i lay in the beech-wood, was a tower fair, the marble corners faint against the sky; and dreamily i wonder'd what lived there: because it seem'd a dwelling for a queen, no belfry for the swinging of great bells. no bolt or stone had ever crush'd the green shafts, amber and rose walls, no soot that tells of the norse torches burning up the roofs, on the flower-carven marble could i see; but rather on all sides i saw the proofs of a great loneliness that sicken'd me; making me feel a doubt that was not fear, whether my whole life long had been a dream, and i should wake up soon in some place, where the piled-up arms of the fighting angels gleam; not born as yet, but going to be born, no naked baby as i was at first, but an armed knight, whom fire, hate and scorn could turn from nothing: my heart almost burst beneath the beeches, as i lay a-dreaming, i tried so hard to read this riddle through, to catch some golden cord that i saw gleaming like gossamer against the autumn blue. but while i ponder'd these things, from the wood there came a black-hair'd woman, tall and bold, who strode straight up to where the tower stood, and cried out shrilly words, whereon behold-- the witch, _from the tower_. rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your hair! the prince. ah christ! it was no dream then, but there stood (she comes again) a maiden passing fair, against the roof, with face turn'd to the wood, bearing within her arms waves of her yellow hair. i read my riddle when i saw her stand, poor love! her face quite pale against her hair, praying to all the leagues of empty land to save her from the woe she suffer'd there. to think! they trod upon her golden hair in the witches' sabbaths; it was a delight for these foul things, while she, with thin feet bare, stood on the roof upon the winter night, to plait her dear hair into many plaits, and then, while god's eye look'd upon the thing, in the very likenesses of devil's bats, upon the ends of her long hair to swing. and now she stood above the parapet, and, spreading out her arms, let her hair flow, beneath that veil her smooth white forehead set upon the marble, more i do not know; because before my eyes a film of gold floated, as now it floats. o unknown love, would that i could thy yellow stair behold, if still thou standest the lead roof above! the witch, _as she passes_. is there any who will dare to climb up the yellow stair, glorious rapunzel's golden hair? the prince. if it would please god make you sing again, i think that i might very sweetly die, my soul somehow reach heaven in joyous pain, my heavy body on the beech-nuts lie. now i remember what a most strange year, most strange and awful, in the beechen wood i have pass'd now; i still have a faint fear it is a kind of dream not understood. i have seen no one in this wood except the witch and her; have heard no human tones, but when the witches' revelry has crept between the very jointing of my bones. ah! i know now; i could not go away, but needs must stop to hear her sing that song she always sings at dawning of the day. i am not happy here, for i am strong, and every morning do i whet my sword, yet rapunzel still weeps within the tower, and still god ties me down to the green sward, because i cannot see the gold stair floating lower. rapunzel _sings from the tower_. my mother taught me prayers to say when i had need; i have so many cares, that i can take no heed of many words in them; but i remember this: _christ, bring me to thy bliss. mary, maid withouten wem, keep me!_ i am lone, i wis, yet besides i have made this by myself: _give me a kiss, dear god dwelling up in heaven!_ also: _send me a true knight, lord christ, with a steel sword, bright, broad, and trenchant; yea, and seven spans from hilt to point, o lord! and let the handle of his sword be gold on silver, lord in heaven! such a sword as i see gleam sometimes, when they let me dream._ yea, besides, i have made this: _lord, give mary a dear kiss, and let gold michael, who looked down, when i was there, on rouen town from the spire, bring me that kiss on a lily! lord do this!_ these prayers on the dreadful nights, when the witches plait my hair, and the fearfullest of sights on the earth and in the air, will not let me close my eyes, i murmur often, mix'd with sighs, that my weak heart will not hold at some things that i behold. nay, not sighs, but quiet groans, that swell out the little bones of my bosom; till a trance god sends in middle of that dance, and i behold the countenance of michael, and can feel no more the bitter east wind biting sore my naked feet; can see no more the crayfish on the leaden floor, that mock with feeler and grim claw. yea, often in that happy trance, beside the blessed countenance of golden michael, on the spire glowing all crimson in the fire of sunset, i behold a face, which sometime, if god give me grace, may kiss me in this very place. _evening in the tower._ rapunzel. it grows half way between the dark and light; love, we have been six hours here alone: i fear that she will come before the night, and if she finds us thus we are undone. the prince. nay, draw a little nearer, that your breath may touch my lips, let my cheek feel your arm; now tell me, did you ever see a death, or ever see a man take mortal harm? rapunzel. once came two knights and fought with swords below, and while they fought i scarce could look at all, my head swam so; after, a moaning low drew my eyes down; i saw against the wall one knight lean dead, bleeding from head and breast, yet seem'd it like a line of poppies red in the golden twilight, as he took his rest, in the dusky time he scarcely seemed dead. but the other, on his face, six paces off, lay moaning, and the old familiar name he mutter'd through the grass, seem'd like a scoff of some lost soul remembering his past fame. his helm all dinted lay beside him there, the visor-bars were twisted towards the face, the crest, which was a lady very fair, wrought wonderfully, was shifted from its place. the shower'd mail-rings on the speedwell lay, perhaps my eyes were dazzled with the light that blazed in the west, yet surely on that day some crimson thing had changed the grass from bright pure green i love so. but the knight who died lay there for days after the other went; until one day i heard a voice that cried: fair knight, i see sir robert we were sent to carry dead or living to the king. so the knights came and bore him straight away on their lance truncheons, such a batter'd thing, his mother had not known him on that day, but for his helm-crest, a gold lady fair wrought wonderfully. the prince. ah, they were brothers then, and often rode together, doubtless where the swords were thickest, and were loyal men, until they fell in these same evil dreams. rapunzel. yea, love; but shall we not depart from hence? the white moon groweth golden fast, and gleams between the aspens stems; i fear, and yet a sense of fluttering victory comes over me, that will not let me fear aright; my heart, feel how it beats, love, strives to get to thee; i breathe so fast that my lips needs must part; your breath swims round my mouth, but let us go. the prince. i, sebald, also, pluck from off the staff the crimson banner; let it lie below, above it in the wind let grasses laugh. now let us go, love, down the winding stair, with fingers intertwined: ay, feel my sword! i wrought it long ago, with golden hair flowing about the hilts, because a word, sung by a minstrel old, had set me dreaming of a sweet bow'd down face with yellow hair; betwixt green leaves i used to see it gleaming, a half smile on the lips, though lines of care had sunk the cheeks, and made the great eyes hollow; what other work in all the world had i, but through all turns of fate that face to follow? but wars and business kept me there to die. o child, i should have slain my brother, too, my brother, love, lain moaning in the grass, had i not ridden out to look for you, when i had watch'd the gilded courtiers pass from the golden hall. but it is strange your name is not the same the minstrel sung of yore; you call'd it rapunzel, 'tis not the name. see, love, the stems shine through the open door. _morning in the woods._ rapunzel. o love! me and my unknown name you have well won; the witch's name was rapunzel: eh! not so sweet? no! but is this real grass, love, that i tread upon? what call they these blue flowers that lean across my feet? the prince. dip down your dear face in the dewy grass, o love! and ever let the sweet slim harebells, tenderly hung, kiss both your parted lips; and i will hang above, and try to sing that song the dreamy harper sung. _he sings._ 'twixt the sunlight and the shade float up memories of my maid: god, remember guendolen! gold or gems she did not wear, but her yellow rippled hair, like a veil, hid guendolen! 'twixt the sunlight and the shade, my rough hands so strangely made, folded golden guendolen. hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard, framed her face, while on the sward tears fell down from guendolen. guendolen now speaks no word, hands fold round about the sword: now no more of guendolen. only 'twixt the light and shade floating memories of my maid make me pray for guendolen. guendolen. i kiss thee, new-found name! but i will never go: your hands need never grip the hammer'd sword again, but all my golden hair shall ever round you flow, between the light and shade from golden guendolen. _afterwards, in the palace._ king sebald. i took my armour off, put on king's robes of gold; over the kirtle green the gold fell fold on fold. the witch, _out of hell_. _guendolen! guendolen! one lock of hair!_ guendolen. i am so glad, for every day he kisses me much the same way as in the tower: under the sway of all my golden hair. king sebald. we rode throughout the town, a gold crown on my head; through all the gold-hung streets, praise god! the people said. the witch. _gwendolen! guendolen! lend me your hair!_ guendolen. verily, i seem like one who, when day is almost done, through a thick wood meets the sun that blazes in her hair. king sebald. yea, at the palace gates, praise god! the great knights said, for sebald the high king, and the lady's golden head. the witch. _woe is me! guendolen sweeps back her hair._ guendolen. nothing wretched now, no screams; i was unhappy once in dreams, and even now a harsh voice seems to hang about my hair. the witch. woe! that any man could dare to climb up the yellow stair, glorious guendolen's golden hair. concerning geffray teste noire concerning geffray teste noire and if you meet the canon of chimay, as going to ortaise you well may do, greet him from john of castel neuf, and say all that i tell you, for all this is true. this geffray teste noire was a gascon thief, who, under shadow of the english name, pilled all such towns and countries as were lief to king charles and st. denis; thought it blame if anything escaped him; so my lord, the duke of berry, sent sir john bonne lance, and other knights, good players with the sword, to check this thief, and give the land a chance. therefore we set our bastides round the tower that geffray held, the strong thief! like a king, high perch'd upon the rock of ventadour, hopelessly strong by christ! it was mid spring, when first i joined the little army there with ten good spears; auvergne is hot, each day we sweated armed before the barrier; good feats of arms were done there often. eh? your brother was slain there? i mind me now, a right good man-at-arms, god pardon him! i think 'twas geffray smote him on the brow with some spiked axe, and while he totter'd, dim about the eyes, the spear of alleyne roux slipped through his camaille and his throat; well, well! alleyne is paid now; your name alleyne too? mary! how strange! but this tale i would tell: for spite of all our bastides, damned blackhead would ride abroad whene'er he chose to ride, we could not stop him; many a burgher bled dear gold all round his girdle; far and wide the villaynes dwelt in utter misery 'twixt us and thief sir geffray; hauled this way by sir bonne lance at one time; he gone by, down comes this teste noire on another day. and therefore they dig up the stone, grind corn, hew wood, draw water, yea, they lived, in short, as i said just now, utterly forlorn, till this our knave and blackhead was out-fought. so bonne lance fretted, thinking of some trap day after day, till on a time he said: john of newcastle, if we have good hap, we catch our thief in two days. how? i said. why, sir, to-day he rideth out again, hoping to take well certain sumpter mules from carcassonne, going with little train, because, forsooth, he thinketh us mere fools; but if we set an ambush in some wood, he is but dead: so, sir, take thirty spears to verville forest, if it seem you good. then felt i like the horse in job, who hears the dancing trumpet sound, and we went forth; and my red lion on the spear-head flapped, as faster than the cool wind we rode north, towards the wood of verville; thus it happed. we rode a soft pace on that day, while spies got news about sir geffray: the red wine under the road-side bush was clear; the flies, the dragon-flies i mind me most, did shine in brighter arms than ever i put on; so: geffray, said our spies, would pass that way next day at sundown: then he must be won; and so we enter'd verville wood next day, in the afternoon; through it the highway runs, 'twixt copses of green hazel, very thick, and underneath, with glimmering of suns, the primroses are happy; the dews lick the soft green moss: 'put cloths about your arms, lest they should glitter; surely they will go in a long thin line, watchful for alarms, with all their carriages of booty; so, lay down my pennon in the grass: lord god. what have we lying here? will they be cold, i wonder, being so bare, above the sod, instead of under? this was a knight too, fold lying on fold of ancient rusted mail; no plate at all, gold rowels to the spurs, and see the quiet gleam of turquoise pale along the ceinture; but the long time blurs even the tinder of his coat to nought, except these scraps of leather; see how white the skull is, loose within the coif! he fought a good fight, maybe, ere he was slain quite. no armour on the legs too; strange in faith! a little skeleton for a knight, though: ah! this one is bigger, truly without scathe his enemies escaped not! ribs driven out far; that must have reach'd the heart, i doubt: how now, what say you, aldovrand, a woman? why?' under the coif a gold wreath on the brow, yea, see the hair not gone to powder, lie, golden, no doubt, once: yea, and very small, this for a knight; but for a dame, my lord, these loose-hung bones seem shapely still, and tall. didst ever see a woman's bones, my lord? often, god help me! i remember when i was a simple boy, fifteen years old, the jacquerie froze up the blood of men with their fell deeds, not fit now to be told. god help again! we enter'd beauvais town, slaying them fast, whereto i help'd, mere boy as i was then; we gentles cut them down, these burners and defilers, with great joy. reason for that, too, in the great church there these fiends had lit a fire, that soon went out, the church at beauvais being so great and fair: my father, who was by me, gave a shout between a beast's howl and a woman's scream, then, panting, chuckled to me: 'john, look! look! count the dames' skeletons!' from some bad dream like a man just awaked, my father shook; and i, being faint with smelling the burnt bones, and very hot with fighting down the street, and sick of such a life, fell down, with groans my head went weakly nodding to my feet. --an arrow had gone through her tender throat, and her right wrist was broken; then i saw the reason why she had on that war-coat, their story came out clear without a flaw; for when he knew that they were being waylaid, he threw it over her, yea, hood and all; whereby he was much hack'd, while they were stay'd by those their murderers; many an one did fall beneath his arm, no doubt, so that he clear'd their circle, bore his death-wound out of it; but as they rode, some archer least afear'd drew a strong bow, and thereby she was hit. still as he rode he knew not she was dead, thought her but fainted from her broken wrist, he bound with his great leathern belt: she bled? who knows! he bled too, neither was there miss'd the beating of her heart, his heart beat well for both of them, till here, within this wood, he died scarce sorry; easy this to tell; after these years the flowers forget their blood. how could it be? never before that day, however much a soldier i might be, could i look on a skeleton and say i care not for it, shudder not: now see, over those bones i sat and pored for hours, and thought, and dream'd, and still i scarce could see the small white bones that lay upon the flowers, but evermore i saw the lady; she with her dear gentle walking leading in, by a chain of silver twined about her wrists, her loving knight, mounted and arm'd to win great honour for her, fighting in the lists. o most pale face, that brings such joy and sorrow into men's hearts (yea, too, so piercing sharp that joy is, that it marcheth nigh to sorrow for ever, like an overwinded harp). your face must hurt me always: pray you now, doth it not hurt you too? seemeth some pain to hold you always, pain to hold your brow so smooth, unwrinkled ever; yea again, your long eyes where the lids seem like to drop, would you not, lady, were they shut fast, feel far merrier? there so high they will not stop, they are most sly to glide forth and to steal into my heart; i kiss their soft lids there, and in green gardens scarce can stop my lips from wandering on your face, but that your hair falls down and tangles me, back my face slips. or say your mouth, i saw you drink red wine once at a feast; how slowly it sank in, as though you fear'd that some wild fate might twine within that cup, and slay you for a sin. and when you talk your lips do arch and move in such wise that a language new i know besides their sound; they quiver, too, with love when you are standing silent; know this, too, i saw you kissing once, like a curved sword that bites with all its edge, did your lips lie, curled gently, slowly, long time could afford for caught-up breathings: like a dying sigh they gather'd up their lines and went away, and still kept twitching with a sort of smile, as likely to be weeping presently; your hands too, how i watch'd them all the while! cry out st. peter now, quoth aldovrand; i cried, st. peter! broke out from the wood with all my spears; we met them hand to hand, and shortly slew them; natheless, by the rood, we caught not blackhead then, or any day; months after that he died at last in bed, from a wound pick'd up at a barrier-fray; that same year's end a steel bolt in the head, and much bad living killed teste noire at last; john froissart knoweth he is dead by now, no doubt, but knoweth not this tale just past; perchance then you can tell him what i show. in my new castle, down beside the eure, there is a little chapel of squared stone, painted inside and out; in green nook pure there did i lay them, every wearied bone; and over it they lay, with stone-white hands clasped fast together, hair made bright with gold; this jaques picard, known through many lands, wrought cunningly; he's dead now: i am old. a good knight in prison sir guy, _being in the court of a pagan castle_. this castle where i dwell, it stands a long way off from christian lands, a long way off my lady's hands, a long way off the aspen trees, and murmur of the lime-tree bees. but down the valley of the rose my lady often hawking goes, heavy of cheer; oft turns behind, leaning towards the western wind, because it bringeth to her mind sad whisperings of happy times, the face of him who sings these rhymes. king guilbert rides beside her there, bends low and calls her very fair, and strives, by pulling down his hair, to hide from my dear lady's ken the grisly gash i gave him, when i cut him down at camelot; however he strives, he hides it not, that tourney will not be forgot, besides, it is king guilbert's lot, whatever he says she answers not. now tell me, you that are in love, from the king's son to the wood-dove, which is the better, he or i? for this king means that i should die in this lone pagan castle, where the flowers droop in the bad air on the september evening. look, now i take mine ease and sing, counting as but a little thing the foolish spite of a bad king. for these vile things that hem me in, these pagan beasts who live in sin, the sickly flowers pale and wan, the grim blue-bearded castellan, the stanchions half worn-out with rust, whereto their banner vile they trust: why, all these things i hold them just as dragons in a missal book, wherein, whenever we may look, we see no horror, yea delight we have, the colours are so bright; likewise we note the specks of white, and the great plates of burnish'd gold. just so this pagan castle old, and everything i can see there, sick-pining in the marshland air, i note: i will go over now, like one who paints with knitted brow, the flowers and all things one by one, from the snail on the wall to the setting sun. four great walls, and a little one that leads down to the barbican, which walls with many spears they man, when news comes to the castellan of launcelot being in the land. and as i sit here, close at hand four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand; the castellan with a long wand cuts down their leaves as he goes by, ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye, and fingers twisted in his beard. nay, was it a knight's shout i heard? i have a hope makes me afeard: it cannot be, but if some dream just for a minute made me deem i saw among the flowers there my lady's face with long red hair, pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come, as i was wont to see her some fading september afternoon, and kiss me, saying nothing, soon to leave me by myself again; could i get this by longing? vain! the castellan is gone: i see on one broad yellow flower a bee drunk with much honey. christ! again, some distant knight's voice brings me pain, i thought i had forgot to feel, i never heard the blissful steel these ten years past; year after year, through all my hopeless sojourn here, no christian pennon has been near. laus deo! the dragging wind draws on over the marshes, battle won, knights' shouts, and axes hammering; yea, quicker now the dint and ring of flying hoofs; ah, castellan, when they come back count man for man, say whom you miss. the pagans, _from the battlements_. mahound to aid! why flee ye so like men dismay'd? the pagans, _from without_. nay, haste! for here is launcelot, who follows quick upon us, hot and shouting with his men-at-arms. sir guy. also the pagans raise alarms, and ring the bells for fear; at last my prison walls will be well past. sir launcelot, _from outside_. ho! in the name of the trinity, let down the drawbridge quick to me, and open doors, that i may see guy the good knight! the pagans, _from the battlements_. nay, launcelot, with mere big words ye win us not. sir launcelot. bid miles bring up la perriere, and archers clear the vile walls there. bring back the notches to the ear, shoot well together! god to aid! these miscreants will be well paid. hurrah! all goes together; miles is good to win my lady's smiles for his good shooting: launcelot! on knights apace! this game is hot! sir guy _sayeth afterwards_. i said, i go to meet her now, and saying so, i felt a blow from some clench'd hand across my brow, and fell down on the sunflowers just as a hammering smote my ears; after which this i felt in sooth, my bare hands throttling without ruth the hairy-throated castellan; then a grim fight with those that ran to slay me, while i shouted: god for the lady mary! deep i trod that evening in my own red blood; nevertheless so stiff i stood, that when the knights burst the old wood of the castle-doors, i was not dead. i kiss the lady mary's head, her lips, and her hair golden red, because to-day we have been wed. old love you must be very old, sir giles, i said; he said: yea, very old! whereat the mournfullest of smiles creased his dry skin with many a fold. they hammer'd out my basnet point into a round salade, he said, the basnet being quite out of joint, natheless the salade rasps my head. he gazed at the great fire awhile: and you are getting old, sir john; (he said this with that cunning smile that was most sad) we both wear on; knights come to court and look at me, with eyebrows up; except my lord, and my dear lady, none i see that know the ways of my old sword. (my lady! at that word no pang stopp'd all my blood). but tell me, john, is it quite true that pagans hang so thick about the east, that on the eastern sea no venice flag can fly unpaid for? true, i said, and in such way the miscreants drag christ's cross upon the ground, i dread that constantine must fall this year. within my heart, these things are small; this is not small, that things outwear i thought were made for ever, yea, all, all things go soon or late, i said. i saw the duke in court next day; just as before, his grand great head above his gold robes dreaming lay, only his face was paler; there i saw his duchess sit by him; and she, she was changed more; her hair before my eyes that used to swim, and make me dizzy with great bliss once, when i used to watch her sit, her hair is bright still, yet it is as though some dust were thrown on it. her eyes are shallower, as though some grey glass were behind; her brow and cheeks the straining bones show through, are not so good for kissing now. her lips are drier now she is a great duke's wife these many years, they will not shudder with a kiss as once they did, being moist with tears. also her hands have lost that way of clinging that they used to have; they look'd quite easy, as they lay upon the silken cushions brave with broidery of the apples green my lord duke bears upon his shield. her face, alas! that i have seen look fresher than an april field, this is all gone now; gone also her tender walking; when she walks she is most queenly i well know, and she is fair still. as the stalks of faded summer-lilies are, so is she grown now unto me this spring-time, when the flowers star the meadows, birds sing wonderfully. i warrant once she used to cling about his neck, and kiss'd him so, and then his coming step would ring joy-bells for her; some time ago. ah! sometimes like an idle dream that hinders true life overmuch, sometimes like a lost heaven, these seem. this love is not so hard to smutch. the gilliflower of gold a golden gilliflower to-day i wore upon my helm alway, and won the prize of this tourney. _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ however well sir giles might sit, his sun was weak to wither it, lord miles's blood was dew on it: _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ although my spear in splinters flew, from john's steel-coat, my eye was true; i wheel'd about, and cried for you, _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ yea, do not doubt my heart was good, though my sword flew like rotten wood, to shout, although i scarcely stood, _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ my hand was steady too, to take my axe from round my neck, and break john's steel-coat up for my love's sake. _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ when i stood in my tent again, arming afresh, i felt a pain take hold of me, i was so fain, _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ to hear: _honneur aux fils des preux!_ right in my ears again, and shew the gilliflower blossom'd new. _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ the sieur guillaume against me came, his tabard bore three points of flame from a red heart: with little blame, _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ our tough spears crackled up like straw; he was the first to turn and draw his sword, that had nor speck nor flaw; _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ but i felt weaker than a maid, and my brain, dizzied and afraid, within my helm a fierce tune play'd, _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ until i thought of your dear head, bow'd to the gilliflower bed, the yellow flowers stain'd with red; _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ crash! how the swords met: _giroflée!_ the fierce tune in my helm would play, _la belle! la belle! jaune giroflée! hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ once more the great swords met again: "_la belle! la belle!_" but who fell then? le sieur guillaume, who struck down ten; _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ and as with mazed and unarm'd face, toward my own crown and the queen's place, they led me at a gentle pace. _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ i almost saw your quiet head bow'd o'er the gilliflower bed, the yellow flowers stain'd with red. _hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée._ shameful death there were four of us about that bed; the mass-priest knelt at the side, i and his mother stood at the head, over his feet lay the bride; we were quite sure that he was dead, though his eyes were open wide. he did not die in the night, he did not die in the day, but in the morning twilight his spirit pass'd away, when neither sun nor moon was bright, and the trees were merely grey. he was not slain with the sword, knight's axe, or the knightly spear, yet spoke he never a word after he came in here; i cut away the cord from the neck of my brother dear. he did not strike one blow, for the recreants came behind, in a place where the hornbeams grow, a path right hard to find, for the hornbeam boughs swing so, that the twilight makes it blind. they lighted a great torch then, when his arms were pinion'd fast, sir john the knight of the fen, sir guy of the dolorous blast, with knights threescore and ten, hung brave lord hugh at last. i am threescore and ten, and my hair is all turn'd grey, but i met sir john of the fen long ago on a summer day, and am glad to think of the moment when i took his life away. i am threescore and ten, and my strength is mostly pass'd, but long ago i and my men, when the sky was overcast, and the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen, slew guy of the dolorous blast. and now, knights all of you, i pray you pray for sir hugh, a good knight and a true, and for alice, his wife, pray too. the eve of crecy gold on her head, and gold on her feet, and gold where the hems of her kirtle meet, and a golden girdle round my sweet; _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ margaret's maids are fair to see, freshly dress'd and pleasantly; margaret's hair falls down to her knee; _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ if i were rich i would kiss her feet; i would kiss the place where the gold hems meet, and the golden girdle round my sweet: _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ ah me! i have never touch'd her hand; when the arriere-ban goes through the land, six basnets under my pennon stand; _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ and many an one grins under his hood: sir lambert du bois, with all his men good, has neither food nor firewood; _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ if i were rich i would kiss her feet, and the golden girdle of my sweet, and thereabouts where the gold hems meet; _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ yet even now it is good to think, while my few poor varlets grumble and drink in my desolate hall, where the fires sink, _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ of margaret sitting glorious there, in glory of gold and glory of hair, and glory of glorious face most fair; _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ likewise to-night i make good cheer, because this battle draweth near: for what have i to lose or fear? _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ for, look you, my horse is good to prance a right fair measure in this war-dance, before the eyes of philip of france; _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ and sometime it may hap, perdie, while my new towers stand up three and three, and my hall gets painted fair to see, _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ that folks may say: times change, by the rood, for lambert, banneret of the wood, has heaps of food and firewood; _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite;_ and wonderful eyes, too, under the hood of a damsel of right noble blood. st. ives, for lambert of the wood! _ah! qu'elle est belle la marguerite._ the judgment of god swerve to the left, son roger, he said, when you catch his eyes through the helmet-slit, swerve to the left, then out at his head, and the lord god give you joy of it! the blue owls on my father's hood were a little dimm'd as i turn'd away; this giving up of blood for blood will finish here somehow to-day. so, when i walk'd out from the tent, their howling almost blinded me; yet for all that i was not bent by any shame. hard by, the sea made a noise like the aspens where we did that wrong, but now the place is very pleasant, and the air blows cool on any passer's face. and all the wrong is gather'd now into the circle of these lists: yea, howl out, butchers! tell me how his hands were cut off at the wrists; and how lord roger bore his face a league above his spear-point, high above the owls, to that strong place among the waters; yea, yea, cry: what a brave champion we have got! sir oliver, the flower of all the hainault knights! the day being hot, he sat beneath a broad white pall, white linen over all his steel; what a good knight he look'd! his sword laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel its steadfast edge clear as his word. and he look'd solemn; how his love smiled whitely on him, sick with fear! how all the ladies up above twisted their pretty hands! so near the fighting was: ellayne! ellayne! they cannot love like you can, who would burn your hands off, if that pain could win a kiss; am i not true to you for ever? therefore i do not fear death or anything; if i should limp home wounded, why, while i lay sick you would but sing, and soothe me into quiet sleep. if they spat on the recreant knight, threw stones at him, and cursed him deep, why then: what then? your hand would light so gently on his drawn-up face, and you would kiss him, and in soft cool scented clothes would lap him, pace the quiet room and weep oft, oft would turn and smile, and brush his cheek with your sweet chin and mouth; and in the order'd garden you would seek the biggest roses: any sin. and these say: no more now my knight, or god's knight any longer: you, being than they so much more white, so much more pure and good and true, will cling to me for ever; there, is not that wrong turn'd right at last through all these years, and i wash'd clean? say, yea, ellayne; the time is past, since on that christmas-day last year up to your feet the fire crept, and the smoke through the brown leaves sere blinded your dear eyes that you wept; was it not i that caught you then, and kiss'd you on the saddle-bow? did not the blue owl mark the men whose spears stood like the corn a-row? this oliver is a right good knight, and must needs beat me, as i fear, unless i catch him in the fight, my father's crafty way: john, here! bring up the men from the south gate, to help me if i fall or win, for even if i beat, their hate will grow to more than this mere grin. the little tower up and away through the drifting rain! let us ride to the little tower again, up and away from the council board! do on the hauberk, gird on the sword. the king is blind with gnashing his teeth, change gilded scabbard to leather sheath: though our arms are wet with the slanting rain, this is joy to ride to my love again: i laugh in his face when he bids me yield; who knows one field from the other field, for the grey rain driveth all astray? which way through the floods, good carle, i pray the left side yet! the left side yet! till your hand strikes on the bridge parapet. yea so: the causeway holdeth good under the water? hard as wood, right away to the uplands; speed, good knight! seven hours yet before the light. shake the wet off on the upland road; my tabard has grown a heavy load. what matter? up and down hill after hill; dead grey night for five hours still. the hill-road droppeth lower again, lower, down to the poplar plain. no furlong farther for us to-night, the little tower draweth in sight; they are ringing the bells, and the torches glare, therefore the roofs of wet slate stare. there she stands, and her yellow hair slantingly drifts the same way that the rain goes by. who will be faithful to us to-day, with little but hard glaive-strokes for pay? the grim king fumes at the council-board: three more days, and then the sword; three more days, and my sword through his head; and above his white brows, pale and dead, a paper crown on the top of the spire; and for her the stake and the witches' fire. therefore though it be long ere day, take axe and pick and spade, i pray. break the dams down all over the plain: god send us three more days such rain! block all the upland roads with trees; the little tower with no great ease is won, i warrant; bid them bring much sheep and oxen, everything the spits are wont to turn with; wine and wheaten bread, that we may dine in plenty each day of the siege. good friends, ye know me no hard liege; my lady is right fair, see ye! pray god to keep you frank and free. love isabeau, keep goodly cheer; the little tower will stand well here many a year when we are dead, and over it our green and red, barred with the lady's golden head, from mere old age when we are dead. the sailing of the sword across the empty garden-beds, _when the sword went out to sea,_ i scarcely saw my sisters' heads bowed each beside a tree. i could not see the castle leads, _when the sword went out to sea,_ alicia wore a scarlet gown, _when the sword went out to sea,_ but ursula's was russet brown: for the mist we could not see the scarlet roofs of the good town, _when the sword went out to sea._ green holly in alicia's hand, _when the sword went out to sea;_ with sere oak-leaves did ursula stand; o! yet alas for me! i did but bear a peel'd white wand, _when the sword went out to sea._ o, russet brown and scarlet bright, _when the sword went out to sea,_ my sisters wore; i wore but white: red, brown, and white, are three; three damozels; each had a knight, _when the sword went out to sea._ sir robert shouted loud, and said: _when the sword went out to sea,_ alicia, while i see thy head, what shall i bring for thee? o, my sweet lord, a ruby red: _the sword went out to sea._ sir miles said, while the sails hung down, _when the sword went out to sea,_ o, ursula! while i see the town, what shall i bring for thee? dear knight, bring back a falcon brown: _the sword went out to sea._ but my roland, no word he said _when the sword went out to sea,_ but only turn'd away his head; a quick shriek came from me: come back, dear lord, to your white maid. _the sword went out to sea._ the hot sun bit the garden-beds _when the sword came back from sea;_ beneath an apple-tree our heads stretched out toward the sea; grey gleam'd the thirsty castle-leads, _when the sword came back from sea._ lord robert brought a ruby red, _when the sword came back from sea;_ he kissed alicia on the head: i am come back to thee; 'tis time, sweet love, that we were wed, _now the sword is back from sea!_ sir miles he bore a falcon brown, _when the sword came back from sea;_ his arms went round tall ursula's gown: what joy, o love, but thee? let us be wed in the good town, _now the sword is back from sea!_ my heart grew sick, no more afraid, _when the sword came back from sea;_ upon the deck a tall white maid sat on lord roland's knee; his chin was press'd upon her head, _when the sword came back from sea!_ spell-bound how weary is it none can tell, how dismally the days go by! i hear the tinkling of the bell, i see the cross against the sky. the year wears round to autumn-tide, yet comes no reaper to the corn; the golden land is like a bride when first she knows herself forlorn; she sits and weeps with all her hair laid downward over tender hands; for stainèd silk she hath no care, no care for broken ivory wands; the silver cups beside her stand; the golden stars on the blue roof yet glitter, though against her hand his cold sword presses for a proof he is not dead, but gone away. how many hours did she wait for me, i wonder? till the day had faded wholly, and the gate clanged to behind returning knights? i wonder did she raise her head and go away, fleeing the lights; and lay the samite on her bed, the wedding samite strewn with pearls: then sit with hands laid on her knees, shuddering at half-heard sound of girls that chatter outside in the breeze? i wonder did her poor heart throb at distant tramp of coming knight? how often did the choking sob raise up her head and lips? the light, did it come on her unawares, and drag her sternly down before people who loved her not? in prayers did she say one name and no more? and once, all songs they ever sung, all tales they ever told to me, this only burden through them rung: _o golden love that waitest me!_ _the days pass on, pass on apace, sometimes i have a little rest in fairest dreams, when on thy face my lips lie, or thy hands are prest_ _about my forehead, and thy lips draw near and nearer to mine own; but when the vision from me slips, in colourless dawn i lie and moan,_ _and wander forth with fever'd blood, that makes me start at little things, the blackbird screaming from the wood, the sudden whirr of pheasants' wings._ _o dearest, scarcely seen by me!_ but when that wild time had gone by, and in these arms i folded thee, who ever thought those days could die? yet now i wait, and you wait too, for what perchance may never come; you think i have forgotten you, that i grew tired and went home. but what if some day as i stood against the wall with strainèd hands, and turn'd my face toward the wood, away from all the golden lands; and saw you come with tired feet, and pale face thin and wan with care, and stainèd raiment no more neat, the white dust lying on your hair: then i should say, i could not come; this land was my wide prison, dear; i could not choose but go; at home there is a wizard whom i fear: he bound me round with silken chains i could not break; he set me here above the golden-waving plains, where never reaper cometh near. and you have brought me my good sword, wherewith in happy days of old i won you well from knight and lord; my heart upswells and i grow bold. but i shall die unless you stand, half lying now, you are so weak, within my arms, unless your hand pass to and fro across my cheek. the wind ah! no, no, it is nothing, surely nothing at all, only the wild-going wind round by the garden-wall, for the dawn just now is breaking, the wind beginning to fall. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ so i will sit, and think and think of the days gone by, never moving my chair for fear the dogs should cry, making no noise at all while the flambeau burns awry. for my chair is heavy and carved, and with sweeping green behind it is hung, and the dragons thereon grin out in the gusts of the wind; on its folds an orange lies, with a deep gash cut in the rind. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ if i move my chair it will scream, and the orange will roll out afar, and the faint yellow juice ooze out like blood from a wizard's jar; and the dogs will howl for those who went last month to the war. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ so i will sit and think of love that is over and past, o, so long ago! yes, i will be quiet at last: whether i like it or not, a grim half-slumber is cast over my worn old brains, that touches the roots of my heart, and above my half-shut eyes, the blue roof 'gins to part, and show the blue spring sky, till i am ready to start from out of the green-hung chair; but something keeps me still, and i fall in a dream that i walk'd with her on the side of a hill, dotted, for was it not spring? with tufts of the daffodil. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ and margaret as she walk'd held a painted book in her hand; her finger kept the place; i caught her, we both did stand face to face, on the top of the highest hill in the land. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ i held to her long bare arms, but she shudder'd away from me, while the flush went out of her face as her head fell back on a tree, and a spasm caught her mouth, fearful for me to see; and still i held to her arms till her shoulder touched my mail, weeping she totter'd forward, so glad that i should prevail, and her hair went over my robe, like a gold flag over a sail. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ i kiss'd her hard by the ear, and she kiss'd me on the brow, and then lay down on the grass, where the mark on the moss is now, and spread her arms out wide while i went down below. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ and then i walk'd for a space to and fro on the side of the hill, till i gather'd and held in my arms great sheaves of the daffodil, and when i came again my margaret lay there still. i piled them high and high above her heaving breast, how they were caught and held in her loose ungirded vest! but one beneath her arm died, happy so to be prest! _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ again i turn'd my back and went away for an hour; she said no word when i came again, so, flower by flower, i counted the daffodils over, and cast them languidly lower. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ my dry hands shook and shook as the green gown show'd again, clear'd from the yellow flowers, and i grew hollow with pain, and on to us both there fell from the sun-shower drops of rain. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ alas! alas! there was blood on the very quiet breast, blood lay in the many folds of the loose ungirded vest, blood lay upon her arm where the flower had been prest. i shriek'd and leapt from my chair, and the orange roll'd out afar, the faint yellow juice oozed out like blood from a wizard's jar; and then in march'd the ghosts of those that had gone to the war. i knew them by the arms that i was used to paint upon their long thin shields; but the colours were all grown faint, and faint upon their banner was olaf, king and saint. _wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind? wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind, yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find._ the blue closet the damozels. lady alice, lady louise, between the wash of the tumbling seas we are ready to sing, if so ye please; so lay your long hands on the keys; sing, _laudate pueri_. _and ever the great bell overhead boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead, though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead._ lady louise. sister, let the measure swell not too loud; for you sing not well if you drown the faint boom of the bell; he is weary, so am i. _and ever the chevron overhead flapped on the banner of the dead; (was he asleep, or was he dead?)_ lady alice. alice the queen, and louise the queen, two damozels wearing purple and green, four lone ladies dwelling here from day to day and year to year; and there is none to let us go; to break the locks of the doors below, or shovel away the heaped-up snow; and when we die no man will know that we are dead; but they give us leave, once every year on christmas-eve, to sing in the closet blue one song; and we should be so long, so long, if we dared, in singing; for dream on dream, they float on in a happy stream; float from the gold strings, float from the keys, float from the open'd lips of louise; but, alas! the sea-salt oozes through the chinks of the tiles of the closet blue; _and ever the great bell overhead booms in the wind a knell for the dead, the wind plays on it a knell for the dead._ _they sing all together._ how long ago was it, how long ago, he came to this tower with hands full of snow? kneel down, o love louise, kneel down! he said, and sprinkled the dusty snow over my head. he watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair, ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare. i cannot weep for thee, poor love louise, for my tears are all hidden deep under the seas; in a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears, but my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years; yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry, i am so feeble now, would i might die. _and in truth the great bell overhead left off his pealing for the dead, perchance, because the wind was dead._ will he come back again, or is he dead? o! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head? or did they strangle him as he lay there, with the long scarlet scarf i used to wear? only i pray thee, lord, let him come here! both his soul and his body to me are most dear. dear lord, that loves me, i wait to receive either body or spirit this wild christmas-eve. _through the floor shot up a lily red, with a patch of earth from the land of the dead, for he was strong in the land of the dead._ what matter that his cheeks were pale, his kind kiss'd lips all grey? o, love louise, have you waited long? o, my lord arthur, yea. what if his hair that brush'd her cheek was stiff with frozen rime? his eyes were grown quite blue again, as in the happy time. o, love louise, this is the key of the happy golden land! o, sisters, cross the bridge with me, my eyes are full of sand. what matter that i cannot see, if ye take me by the hand? _and ever the great bell overhead, and the tumbling seas mourned for the dead; for their song ceased, and they were dead._ the tune of seven towers no one goes there now: for what is left to fetch away from the desolate battlements all arow, and the lead roof heavy and grey? _therefore, said fair yoland of the flowers, this is the tune of seven towers._ no one walks there now; except in the white moonlight the white ghosts walk in a row; if one could see it, an awful sight, _listen! said fair yoland of the flowers, this is the tune of seven towers._ but none can see them now, though they sit by the side of the moat, feet half in the water, there in a row, long hair in the wind afloat. _therefore, said fair yoland of the flowers, this is the tune of seven towers._ if any will go to it now, he must go to it all alone, its gates will not open to any row of glittering spears: will _you_ go alone? _listen! said fair yoland of the flowers, this is the tune of seven towers._ by my love go there now, to fetch me my coif away, my coif and my kirtle, with pearls arow, oliver, go to-day! _therefore, said fair yoland of the flowers, this is the tune of seven towers._ i am unhappy now, i cannot tell you why; if you go, the priests and i in a row will pray that you may not die. _listen! said fair yoland of the flowers, this is the tune of seven towers._ if you will go for me now, i will kiss your mouth at last; [_she sayeth inwardly._] (_the graves stand grey in a row._) oliver, hold me fast! _therefore, said fair yoland of the flowers, this is the tune of seven towers._ golden wings midways of a wallèd garden, in the happy poplar land, did an ancient castle stand, with an old knight for a warden. many scarlet bricks there were in its walls, and old grey stone; over which red apples shone at the right time of the year. on the bricks the green moss grew. yellow lichen on the stone, over which red apples shone; little war that castle knew. deep green water fill'd the moat, each side had a red-brick lip, green and mossy with the drip of dew and rain; there was a boat of carven wood, with hangings green about the stern; it was great bliss for lovers to sit there and kiss in the hot summer noons, not seen. across the moat the fresh west wind in very little ripples went; the way the heavy aspens bent towards it, was a thing to mind. the painted drawbridge over it went up and down with gilded chains, 'twas pleasant in the summer rains within the bridge-house there to sit. there were five swans that ne'er did eat the water-weeds, for ladies came each day, and young knights did the same, and gave them cakes and bread for meat. they had a house of painted wood, a red roof gold-spiked over it, wherein upon their eggs to sit week after week; no drop of blood, drawn from men's bodies by sword-blows, came ever there, or any tear; most certainly from year to year 'twas pleasant as a provence rose. the banners seem'd quite full of ease, that over the turret-roofs hung down; the battlements could get no frown from the flower-moulded cornices. who walked in that garden there? miles and giles and isabeau, tall jehane du castel beau, alice of the golden hair, big sir gervaise, the good knight, fair ellayne le violet, mary, constance fille de fay, many dames with footfall light. whosoever wander'd there, whether it be dame or knight, half of scarlet, half of white their raiment was; of roses fair each wore a garland on the head, at ladies' gard the way was so: fair jehane du castel beau wore her wreath till it was dead. little joy she had of it, of the raiment white and red, or the garland on her head, she had none with whom to sit in the carven boat at noon; none the more did jehane weep, she would only stand and keep saying: he will be here soon! many times in the long day miles and giles and gervaise passed, holding each some white hand fast, every time they heard her say: summer cometh to an end, undern cometh after noon; golden wings will be here soon, what if i some token send? wherefore that night within the hall, with open mouth and open eyes, like some one listening with surprise, she sat before the sight of all. stoop'd down a little she sat there, with neck stretch'd out and chin thrown up, one hand around a golden cup; and strangely with her fingers fair she beat some tune upon the gold; the minstrels in the gallery sung: arthur, who will never die, in avallon he groweth old. and when the song was ended, she rose and caught up her gown and ran; none stopp'd her eager face and wan of all that pleasant company. right so within her own chamber upon her bed she sat; and drew her breath in quick gasps; till she knew that no man follow'd after her. she took the garland from her head, loosed all her hair, and let it lie upon the coverlet; thereby she laid the gown of white and red; and she took off her scarlet shoon, and bared her feet; still more and more her sweet face redden'd; evermore she murmur'd: he will be here soon; truly he cannot fail to know my tender body waits him here; and if he knows, i have no fear for poor jehane du castel beau. she took a sword within her hand, whose hilts were silver, and she sung somehow like this, wild words that rung a long way over the moonlit land: gold wings across the sea! grey light from tree to tree, gold hair beside my knee, i pray thee come to me, gold wings! the water slips, the red-bill'd moorhen dips. sweet kisses on red lips; alas! the red rust grips, and the blood-red dagger rips, yet, o knight, come to me! are not my blue eyes sweet? the west wind from the wheat blows cold across my feet; is it not time to meet gold wings across the sea? white swans on the green moat, small feathers left afloat by the blue-painted boat; swift running of the stoat, sweet gurgling note by note of sweet music. o gold wings, listen how gold hair sings, and the ladies castle rings, gold wings across the sea. i sit on a purple bed, outside, the wall is red, thereby the apple hangs, and the wasp, caught by the fangs, dies in the autumn night, and the bat flits till light, and the love-crazèd knight kisses the long wet grass: the weary days pass, gold wings across the sea. gold wings across the sea! moonlight from tree to tree, sweet hair laid on my knee, o, sweet knight, come to me. gold wings, the short night slips, the white swan's long neck drips, i pray thee kiss my lips, gold wings across the sea! no answer through the moonlit night; no answer in the cold grey dawn; no answer when the shaven lawn grew green, and all the roses bright. her tired feet look'd cold and thin, her lips were twitch'd, and wretched tears, some, as she lay, roll'd past her ears, some fell from off her quivering chin. her long throat, stretched to its full length, rose up and fell right brokenly; as though the unhappy heart was nigh striving to break with all its strength. and when she slipp'd from off the bed, her cramp'd feet would not hold her; she sank down and crept on hand and knee, on the window-sill she laid her head. there, with crooked arm upon the sill, she look'd out, muttering dismally: there is no sail upon the sea, no pennon on the empty hill. i cannot stay here all alone, or meet their happy faces here, and wretchedly i have no fear; a little while, and i am gone. therewith she rose upon her feet, and totter'd; cold and misery still made the deep sobs come, till she at last stretch'd out her fingers sweet, and caught the great sword in her hand; and, stealing down the silent stair, barefooted in the morning air. and only in her smock, did stand upright upon the green lawn grass; and hope grew in her as she said: i have thrown off the white and red, and pray god it may come to pass i meet him; if ten years go by before i meet him; if, indeed, meanwhile both soul and body bleed, yet there is end of misery, and i have hope. he could not come, but i can go to him and show these new things i have got to know, and make him speak, who has been dumb. o jehane! the red morning sun changed her white feet to glowing gold, upon her smock, on crease and fold, changed that to gold which had been dun. o miles, and giles, and isabeau, fair ellayne le violet, mary, constance fille de fay! where is jehane du castel beau? o big gervaise ride apace! down to the hard yellow sand, where the water meets the land. this is jehane by her face. why has she a broken sword? mary! she is slain outright; verily a piteous sight; take her up without a word! giles and miles and gervaise there, ladies' gard must meet the war; whatsoever knights these are, man the walls withouten fear! axes to the apple-trees, axes to the aspens tall! barriers without the wall may be lightly made of these. o poor shivering isabeau; poor ellayne le violet, bent with fear! we miss to-day brave jehane du castel beau. o poor mary, weeping so! wretched constance fille de fay! verily we miss to-day fair jehane du castel beau. the apples now grow green and sour upon the mouldering castle-wall, before they ripen there they fall: there are no banners on the tower, the draggled swans most eagerly eat the green weeds trailing in the moat; inside the rotting leaky boat you see a slain man's stiffen'd feet. the haystack in the floods had she come all the way for this, to part at last without a kiss? yea, had she borne the dirt and rain that her own eyes might see him slain beside the haystack in the floods? along the dripping leafless woods, the stirrup touching either shoe, she rode astride as troopers do; with kirtle kilted to her knee, to which the mud splash'd wretchedly; and the wet dripp'd from every tree upon her head and heavy hair, and on her eyelids broad and fair; the tears and rain ran down her face. by fits and starts they rode apace, and very often was his place far off from her; he had to ride ahead, to see what might betide when the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when there rose a murmuring from his men, had to turn back with promises. ah me! she had but little ease; and often for pure doubt and dread she sobb'd, made giddy in the head by the swift riding; while, for cold, her slender fingers scarce could hold the wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too, she felt the foot within her shoe against the stirrup: all for this, to part at last without a kiss beside the haystack in the floods. for when they near'd that old soak'd hay, they saw across the only way that judas, godmar, and the three red running lions dismally grinn'd from his pennon, under which in one straight line along the ditch, they counted thirty heads. so then, while robert turn'd round to his men, she saw at once the wretched end, and, stooping down, tried hard to rend her coif the wrong way from her head, and hid her eyes; while robert said: nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one, at poictiers where we made them run so fast: why, sweet my love, good cheer, the gascon frontier is so near, nought after this. but: o! she said, my god! my god! i have to tread the long way back without you; then the court at paris; those six men; the gratings of the chatelet; the swift seine on some rainy day like this, and people standing by, and laughing, while my weak hands try to recollect how strong men swim. all this, or else a life with him, for which i should be damned at last, would god that this next hour were past! he answer'd not, but cried his cry, st. george for marny! cheerily; and laid his hand upon her rein. alas! no man of all his train gave back that cheery cry again; and, while for rage his thumb beat fast upon his sword-hilt, some one cast about his neck a kerchief long, and bound him. then they went along to godmar; who said: now, jehane, your lover's life is on the wane so fast, that, if this very hour you yield not as my paramour, he will not see the rain leave off: nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff sir robert, or i slay you now. she laid her hand upon her brow, then gazed upon the palm, as though she thought her forehead bled, and: no! she said, and turn'd her head away, as there were nothing else to say, and everything were settled: red grew godmar's face from chin to head: jehane, on yonder hill there stands my castle, guarding well my lands; what hinders me from taking you, and doing that i list to do to your fair wilful body, while your knight lies dead? a wicked smile wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, a long way out she thrust her chin: you know that i should strangle you while you were sleeping; or bite through your throat, by god's help: ah! she said, lord jesus, pity your poor maid! for in such wise they hem me in, i cannot choose but sin and sin, whatever happens: yet i think they could not make me eat or drink, and so should i just reach my rest. nay, if you do not my behest, o jehane! though i love you well, said godmar, would i fail to tell all that i know? foul lies, she said. eh? lies, my jehane? by god's head, at paris folks would deem them true! do you know, jehane, they cry for you: jehane the brown! jehane the brown! give us jehane to burn or drown! eh! gag me robert! sweet my friend, this were indeed a piteous end for those long fingers, and long feet, and long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet; an end that few men would forget that saw it. so, an hour yet: consider, jehane, which to take of life or death! so, scarce awake, dismounting, did she leave that place, and totter some yards: with her face turn'd upward to the sky she lay, her head on a wet heap of hay, and fell asleep: and while she slept, and did not dream, the minutes crept round to the twelve again; but she, being waked at last, sigh'd quietly, and strangely childlike came, and said: i will not. straightway godmar's head, as though it hung on strong wires, turn'd most sharply round, and his face burn'd. for robert, both his eyes were dry, he could not weep, but gloomily he seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too, his lips were firm; he tried once more to touch her lips; she reached out, sore and vain desire so tortured them, the poor grey lips, and now the hem of his sleeve brush'd them. with a start up godmar rose, thrust them apart; from robert's throat he loosed the bands of silk and mail; with empty hands held out, she stood and gazed, and saw, the long bright blade without a flaw glide out from godmar's sheath, his hand in robert's hair; she saw him bend back robert's head; she saw him send the thin steel down; the blow told well, right backward the knight robert fell, and moaned as dogs do, being half dead, unwitting, as i deem: so then godmar turn'd grinning to his men, who ran, some five or six, and beat his head to pieces at their feet. then godmar turn'd again and said: so, jehane, the first fitte is read! take note, my lady, that your way lies backward to the chatelet! she shook her head and gazed awhile at her cold hands with a rueful smile, as though this thing had made her mad. this was the parting that they had beside the haystack in the floods. two red roses across the moon there was a lady lived in a hall, large of her eyes, and slim and tall; and ever she sung from noon to noon, _two red roses across the moon._ there was a knight came riding by in early spring, when the roads were dry; and he heard that lady sing at the noon, _two red roses across the moon._ yet none the more he stopp'd at all, but he rode a-gallop past the hall; and left that lady singing at noon, _two red roses across the moon._ because, forsooth, the battle was set, and the scarlet and blue had got to be met, he rode on the spur till the next warm noon: _two red roses across the moon._ but the battle was scatter'd from hill to hill, from the windmill to the watermill; and he said to himself, as it near'd the noon, _two red roses across the moon._ you scarce could see for the scarlet and blue, a golden helm or a golden shoe: so he cried, as the fight grew thick at the noon, _two red roses across the moon!_ verily then the gold bore through the huddled spears of the scarlet and blue; and they cried, as they cut them down at the noon, _two red roses across the moon!_ i trow he stopp'd when he rode again by the hall, though draggled sore with the rain; and his lips were pinch'd to kiss at the noon _two red roses across the moon._ under the may she stoop'd to the crown, all was gold, there was nothing of brown; and the horns blew up in the hall at noon, _two red roses across the moon._ welland river fair ellayne she walk'd by welland river, across the lily lee: o, gentle sir robert, ye are not kind to stay so long at sea. over the marshland none can see your scarlet pennon fair; o, leave the easterlings alone, because of my golden hair. the day when over stamford bridge that dear pennon i see go up toward the goodly street, 'twill be a fair day for me. o, let the bonny pennon bide at stamford, the good town, and let the easterlings go free, and their ships go up and down. for every day that passes by i wax both pale and green, from gold to gold of my girdle there is an inch between. i sew'd it up with scarlet silk last night upon my knee, and my heart grew sad and sore to think thy face i'd never see. i sew'd it up with scarlet silk, as i lay upon my bed: sorrow! the man i'll never see that had my maidenhead. but as ellayne sat on her window-seat and comb'd her yellow hair, she saw come over stamford bridge the scarlet pennon fair. as ellayne lay and sicken'd sore, the gold shoes on her feet, she saw sir robert and his men ride up the stamford street. he had a coat of fine red gold, and a bascinet of steel; take note his goodly collayne sword smote the spur upon his heel. and by his side, on a grey jennet, there rode a fair lady, for every ruby ellayne wore, i count she carried three. say, was not ellayne's gold hair fine, that fell to her middle free? but that lady's hair down in the street, fell lower than her knee. fair ellayne's face, from sorrow and grief, was waxen pale and green: that lady's face was goodly red, she had but little tene. but as he pass'd by her window he grew a little wroth: o, why does yon pale face look at me from out the golden cloth? it is some burd, the fair dame said, that aye rode him beside, has come to see your bonny face this merry summer-tide. but ellayne let a lily-flower light on his cap of steel: o, i have gotten two hounds, fair knight, the one has served me well; but the other, just an hour agone, has come from over sea, and all his fell is sleek and fine, but little he knows of me. now, which shall i let go, fair knight, and which shall bide with me? o, lady, have no doubt to keep the one that best loveth thee. o, robert, see how sick i am! ye do not so by me. lie still, fair love, have ye gotten harm while i was on the sea? of one gift, robert, that ye gave, i sicken to the death, i pray you nurse-tend me, my knight, whiles that i have my breath. six fathoms from the stamford bridge he left that dame to stand, and whiles she wept, and whiles she cursed that she ever had taken land. he has kiss'd sweet ellayne on the mouth, and fair she fell asleep, and long and long days after that sir robert's house she did keep. riding together for many, many days together the wind blew steady from the east; for many days hot grew the weather, about the time of our lady's feast. for many days we rode together, yet met we neither friend nor foe; hotter and clearer grew the weather, steadily did the east wind blow. we saw the trees in the hot, bright weather, clear-cut, with shadows very black, as freely we rode on together with helms unlaced and bridles slack. and often as we rode together, we, looking down the green-bank'd stream, saw flowers in the sunny weather, and saw the bubble-making bream. and in the night lay down together, and hung above our heads the rood, or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather, the while the moon did watch the wood. our spears stood bright and thick together, straight out the banners stream'd behind, as we gallop'd on in the sunny weather, with faces turn'd towards the wind. down sank our threescore spears together, as thick we saw the pagans ride; his eager face in the clear fresh weather, shone out that last time by my side. up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together, it rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears, down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather, the elm-tree flowers fell like tears. there, as we roll'd and writhed together, i threw my arms above my head, for close by my side, in the lovely weather, i saw him reel and fall back dead. i and the slayer met together, he waited the death-stroke there in his place, with thoughts of death, in the lovely weather, gapingly mazed at my madden'd face. madly i fought as we fought together; in vain: the little christian band the pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather, the river drowns low-lying land. they bound my blood-stain'd hands together, they bound his corpse to nod by my side: then on we rode, in the bright march weather, with clash of cymbals did we ride. we ride no more, no more together; my prison-bars are thick and strong, i take no heed of any weather, the sweet saints grant i live not long. father john's war-song the reapers. so many reapers, father john, so many reapers and no little son, to meet you when the day is done, with little stiff legs to waddle and run? pray you beg, borrow, or steal one son. hurrah for the corn-sheaves of father john! father john. o maiden mary, be wary, be wary! and go not down to the river, lest the kingfisher, your evil wisher, lure you down to the river, lest your white feet grow muddy, your red hair too ruddy with the river-mud so red; but when you are wed go down to the river. o maiden mary, be very wary, and dwell among the corn! see, this dame alice, maiden mary, her hair is thin and white, but she is a housewife good and wary, and a great steel key hangs bright from her gown, as red as the flowers in corn; she is good and old like the autumn corn. maiden mary. this is knight roland, father john, stark in his arms from a field half-won; ask him if he has seen your son: roland, lay your sword on the corn, the piled-up sheaves of the golden corn. knight roland. why does she kiss me, father john? she is my true love truly won! under my helm is room for one, but the molten lead-streams trickle and run from my roof-tree, burning under the sun; no corn to burn, we had eaten the corn, there was no waste of the golden corn. father john. ho, you reapers, away from the corn, to march with the banner of father john! the reapers. we will win a house for roland his son, and for maiden mary with hair like corn, as red as the reddest of golden corn. omnes. father john, you have got a son, seven feet high when his helm is on pennon of roland, banner of john, star of mary, march well on. sir giles' war-song _ho! is there any will ride with me, sir giles, le bon des barrières?_ the clink of arms is good to hear, the flap of pennons fair to see; _ho! is there any will ride with me, sir giles, le bon des barrières?_ the leopards and lilies are fair to see; st. george guienne! right good to hear: _ho! is there any will ride with me, sir giles, le bon des barrières?_ i stood by the barrier, my coat being blazon'd fair to see; _ho! is there any will ride with me, sir giles, le bon des barrières?_ clisson put out his head to see, and lifted his basnet up to hear; i pull'd him through the bars to me, _sir giles; le bon des barrières._ near avalon a ship with shields before the sun, six maidens round the mast, a red-gold crown on every one, a green gown on the last. the fluttering green banners there are wrought with ladies' heads most fair, and a portraiture of guenevere the middle of each sail doth bear. a ship which sails before the wind, and round the helm six knights, their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind, they pass by many sights. the tatter'd scarlet banners there, right soon will leave the spear-heads bare. those six knights sorrowfully bear, in all their heaumes some yellow hair. praise of my lady my lady seems of ivory forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be hollow'd a little mournfully. _beata mea domina!_ her forehead, overshadow'd much by bows of hair, has a wave such as god was good to make for me. _beata mea domina!_ not greatly long my lady's hair, nor yet with yellow colour fair, but thick and crispèd wonderfully: _beata mea domina!_ heavy to make the pale face sad, and dark, but dead as though it had been forged by god most wonderfully _beata mea domina!_ of some strange metal, thread by thread, to stand out from my lady's head, not moving much to tangle me. _beata mea domina!_ beneath her brows the lids fall slow. the lashes a clear shadow throw where i would wish my lips to be. _beata mea domina!_ her great eyes, standing far apart, draw up some memory from her heart, and gaze out very mournfully; _beata mea domina!_ so beautiful and kind they are, but most times looking out afar, waiting for something, not for me. _beata mea domina!_ i wonder if the lashes long are those that do her bright eyes wrong, for always half tears seem to be _beata mea domina!_ lurking below the underlid, darkening the place where they lie hid: if they should rise and flow for me! _beata mea domina!_ her full lips being made to kiss, curl'd up and pensive each one is; this makes me faint to stand and see. _beata mea domina!_ her lips are not contented now, because the hours pass so slow towards a sweet time: (pray for me), _beata mea domina!_ nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell? but this at least i know full well, her lips are parted longingly, _beata mea domina!_ so passionate and swift to move, to pluck at any flying love, that i grow faint to stand and see. _beata mea domina_! yea! there beneath them is her chin, so fine and round, it were a sin to feel no weaker when i see _beata mea domina_! god's dealings; for with so much care and troublous, faint lines wrought in there, he finishes her face for me. _beata mea domina_! of her long neck what shall i say? what things about her body's sway, like a knight's pennon or slim tree _beata mea domina_! set gently waving in the wind; or her long hands that i may find on some day sweet to move o'er me? _beata mea domina!_ god pity me though, if i miss'd the telling, how along her wrist the veins creep, dying languidly _beata mea domina!_ inside her tender palm and thin. now give me pardon, dear, wherein my voice is weak and vexes thee. _beata mea domina!_ all men that see her any time, i charge you straightly in this rhyme, what, and wherever you may be, _beata mea domina!_ to kneel before her; as for me, i choke and grow quite faint to see my lady moving graciously. _beata mea domina!_ summer dawn pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips; think but one thought of me up in the stars. the summer night waneth, the morning light slips, faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars, that are patiently waiting there for the dawn: patient and colourless, though heaven's gold waits to float through them along with the sun. far out in the meadows, above the young corn, the heavy elms wait, and restless and cold the uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; they pray the long gloom through for daylight new born, round the lone house in the midst of the corn. speak but one word to me over the corn, over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn. in prison wearily, drearily, half the day long, flap the great banners high over the stone; strangely and eerily sounds the wind's song, bending the banner-poles. while, all alone, watching the loophole's spark, lie i, with life all dark, feet tether'd, hands fetter'd fast to the stone, the grim walls, square letter'd with prison'd men's groan. still strain the banner-poles through the wind's song, westward the banner rolls over my wrong. the end printed by ballantyne, hanson & co. edinburgh & london transcriber's note minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note, whilst archaic spellings have been retained. many single- and double-quotation marks were omitted in the original publication. logical corrections, made from this text alone, would only compound any discrepancies and therefore such punctuation remains as printed. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) king arthur's knights: the tales re-told for boys & girls by henry gilbert. with illustrations in color by walter crane thomas nelson and sons new york, edinburgh, london toronto, and paris in tholdè dayès of the king arthour, of which that britons speken great honour, all was this land fulfilled of faery. _the canterbury tales._ printed in the united states of america preface this book is an attempt to tell some of the stories of king arthur and his knights in a way which will be interesting to every boy and girl who loves adventures. although tales of these old british heroes have been published before in a form intended for young people, it is believed that they have never been related quite in the same spirit nor from the same point of view; and it is hoped that the book will fill a place hitherto vacant in the hearts of all boys and girls. no doubt many of you, my young readers, have at some time or another taken down the _morte d'arthur_ from your father's bookshelves and read a few pages of it here and there. but i doubt if any of you have ever gone very far in the volume. you found generally, i think, that it was written in a puzzling, old-fashioned language, that though it spoke of many interesting things, and seemed that it ought to be well worth reading, yet somehow it was tedious and dry. in the tales as i have retold them for you, i hope you will not find any of these faults. besides writing them in simple language, i have chosen only those episodes which i know would appeal to you. i have added or altered here and there, for in places it struck me that there was just wanting a word or two to make you feel the magic that was everywhere abroad in those days. it seemed to me that some mysterious adventure might easily be waiting in the ruined and deserted roman town on the desolate moor, or even just round the mossy trunk of the next oak in the forest-drive, through which the knight was riding; or that any fair lady or questing dog which he might meet could turn out to be a wizard seeking to work woe upon him. nevertheless, i was always sure that in those bright days when the world was young, whatever evil power might get the mastery for a little while, the knight's courage, humility, and faith would win through every peril at the end. in this book, besides reading of wonderful adventures and brave fighting, you will learn just what sort of man a perfect knight was required to be in the chivalrous times when men wore armour and rode on errantry. the duties of a 'good and faithful knight' were quite simple, but they were often very hard to perform. they were--to protect the distressed, to speak the truth, to keep his word to all, to be courteous and gentle to women, to defend right against might, and to do or say nothing that should sully the fair name of christian knighthood. although, therefore, these stories of king arthur and his men treat of knights and their ladies, of magical trolls and wonder-working wizards, and it might seem for that reason that they can have little or nothing in common with life of the present day, it will be seen that the spirit in which they are told conveys something which every boy can learn. indeed, the great and simple lesson of chivalry which the tales of king arthur teach is, in a few words, to merit 'the fine old name of gentleman.' the history of king arthur and his knights is contained in two books, one being the _morte d'arthur_, written by sir thomas malory, the other being the _mabinogion_, a collection of old welsh stories, first translated by lady charlotte guest in . i have selected thirteen tales from the number which these two books contain; but there are many more, equally as interesting, which remain. little is known about sir thomas malory, who lived in the fifteenth century. we only learn that he was a welshman, a man of heroic mind who, as an old writer relates, 'from his youth, greatly shone in the gifts of mind and body.' though much busied with cares of state, his favourite recreation was said to be the reading of history, and in this pursuit 'he made selections from various authors concerning the valour and the victories of the most renowned king arthur of the britons.' we know, further, that these selections or tales were translated mostly from poems about arthur written by old french poets in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and that sir thomas malory finished his translation in the ninth year of king edward the fourth ( ). this, of course, was before printing was introduced into england, but no doubt many written copies were made of the book, so as to enable the stories to be read to the lords and ladies and other rich people who would desire to hear about the flower of kings and chivalry, the great king arthur. when, in , caxton set up his printing press at westminster, the _morte d'arthur_ was one of the books which then saw the light of day. the _mabinogion_, which contains other tales about king arthur, is a collection of old welsh romances. though our earliest collection of them is to be found in a manuscript written in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, some of them are probably as old as the time when welshmen clothed themselves in the skins of the beaver and the bear, and used stone for their tools and weapons. it may be that, when you get older, you will go back to the two books i have mentioned, and you will find them so fascinating that you will be impatient of any other book which pretends to tell you the same tales. but until that time arrives, i hope you will find the stories as i have told them quite interesting and exciting. henry gilbert. _june_ . contents chap. page i. how arthur was made king and won his kingdom ii. sir balin and the stroke dolorous iii. how lancelot was made a knight. the four witch queens, and the adventures at the chapel perilous iv. the knight of the kitchen v. how sir tristram kept his word vi. the deeds of sir geraint vii. how sir perceval was taught chivalry, and ended the evil wrought by sir balin's dolorous stroke viii. how sir owen won the earldom of the fountain ix. of sir lancelot and the fair maid of astolat x. how the three good knights achieved the holy graal xi. of the plots of sir mordred; and how sir lancelot saved the queen xii. of sir gawaine's hatred, and the war with sir lancelot xiii. of the rebellion of mordred and the death of king arthur king arthur's knights i how arthur was made king and won his kingdom in the hall of his roman palace at london, king uther, pendragon of the island of britain, lay dying. he had been long sick with a wasting disease, and forced to lie in his bed, gnawing his beard with wrath at his weakness, while the pagan saxons ravened up and down the fair broad lands, leaving in their tracks the smoking ruin of broken towns and desolated villages, where mothers lay dead beside their children on the hearths, fair churches stood pillaged and desecrated, and priests and nuns wandered in the wilds. at length, when the pagans, bold and insolent, had ventured near london, the king had been able to bear his shame and anguish no longer. he had put himself, in a litter, at the head of his army, and meeting the fierce, brave pagans at verulam (now called st. albans) he had, in a battle day-long and stubborn, forced them at length to fly with heavy slaughter. that was three days ago, and since then he had lain in his bed as still as if he were dead; and beside him sat the wise wizard merlin, white with great age, and in his eyes the calmness of deep learning. it was the third night when the king suddenly awoke from his stupor and clutched the hand of merlin. 'i have dreamed!' he said in a low shaken voice. 'i have seen two dragons fighting--one white, the other red. first the white dragon got the mastery, and clawed with iron talons the red one's crest, and drove him hither and thither into holes and crannies of the rocks. and then the red one took heart, and with a fury that was marvellous to see, he drove and tore the white dragon full terribly, and anon the white one crawled away sore wounded. and the red dragon walked up and down in the place of his triumph, and grew proud, and fought smaller red dragons and conquered. thus for a long time he stayed, and was secure and boastful. then i saw the white dragon return with a rage that was very terrible, and the red dragon fought with him; but his pride had softened him, so he drew off. then other red dragons came upon him in his wounds and beat him sore, which seeing, the white dragon dashed upon them all--and i awoke. merlin, tell me what this may mean, for my mind is sore distraught with the vision.' then merlin looked at the trembling king, wasted with disease, and in his wise heart was great pity. 'it means, lord,' he said in slow grave tones, 'that thy people shall conquer--that a red dragon shall rise from thy kin, who shall drive out the loathsome pagan and shall conquer far and wide, and his fame shall go into all lands and for all time.' 'i thank thee, merlin, for thy comfort,' sighed the wearied king. 'i have feared me these last years that the pagan will at the last drive my people into the western sea, and that the name of christ shall die out of this fair land, and the foul pagan possess it. but thy words give me great heart.' 'nay, sir,' said merlin, 'take comfort. great power will come to this people in a near time, and they shall conquer all their enemies.' anon the king slept, and lay thus for three further days, neither speaking nor moving. many great lords and barons came craving to speak with merlin, asking if the king were not better. but, looking into their crafty eyes, and seeing there the pride and ambitions of their hearts, merlin knew that they wished the king were already dead; for all thought that king uther had no son to take the kingdom after him, and each great baron, strong in men, plotted to win the overlordship when the king should be gone. 'if he dieth and sayeth not which he shall name to succeed him,' some asked, 'say, merlin, what's to be done?' 'i shall tell you,' said merlin. 'come ye all into this chamber to-morrow's morn, and, if god so wills, i will make the king speak.' next morn, therefore, came all the great barons and lords into the high hall of the palace, and many were the proud and haughty glances passing among them. there was king lot of orkney, small and slim, with his dark narrow face and crafty eyes under pent eyebrows; king uriens of reged, tall and well-seeming, with grim eyes war-wise, fresh from the long harrying of the fleeing pagans; king mark of tintagel, burly of form, crafty and mean of look; king nentres of garlot, ruddy of face, blusterous of manner, who tried to hide cunning under a guise of honesty; and many others, as duke cambenet of loidis, king brandegoris of stranggore, king morkant of strathclyde, king clariance of northumberland, king kador of cornwall, and king idres of silura. now, when all these were assembled about the bed of uther, merlin went to the side of the sleeping king, and looked long and earnestly upon his closed eyes. anon he passed his hands above the face of the king, and uther instantly awoke, and looked about him as if startled. 'lord,' said merlin, 'god's hand is drawing you to him, and these your lords desire you to name your successor ere you pass from life. is it not your desire that your son arthur shall take the kingdom after you, with your blessing?' those who craned towards the bed started and looked darkly at merlin and then at each other; for none had heard of the son whom the wizard named arthur. then in the deep silence the dying king raised his hand in the sign of blessing, and in a hollow whisper said: 'such is my desire. with god's blessing i wish my son arthur to take this kingdom after me, and all that love me must follow him.' his eyes closed, a shiver passed down the tall frame as it lay beneath the clothes, and with a sigh the soul of uther sped. in a few days the king was buried in all solemnity with the dead of his kindred in the roman temple that had been made a church, where now stands st. paul's. thereafter men waited and wondered, for the land was without a king, and none knew who was rightfully heir to the throne. as the days went by, men gathered in groups in the market-place of london, whispering the rumours that mysteriously began to fly from mouth to mouth,--how king lot of orkney and lothian was gathering his knights and men-at-arms; and king uriens and duke cambenet of loidis had got together a great host, although the remnant of the pagans had fled the country. the faces of the citizens went gloomy as they thought of the griefs of civil war, of the terrors of the sack of cities, the ruin of homes, the death of dear ones, and the loss of riches. nevertheless, some were already wagering which of the great lords would conquer the others, and take to himself the crown of britain and the title of pendragon. as it neared the feast of christmas, men heard that the archbishop of london, who was then chief ruler of the church, had sent his letters to each and all the great nobles, bidding them come to a great council to be holden at the church of st. paul at christmas. when men heard that this was done by the advice of merlin, faces lightened and looked more joyful. 'now shall things go right,' said they, 'for the old, old merlin hath the deepest wisdom of all the earth.' on christmas eve the city throbbed with the clank of arms and the tramp of the great retinues of princes, kings and powerful lords who had come at the archbishop's summons, and by day and night the narrow ways were crowded with armed men. long ere the dawn of christmas day, the lords and the common people betook themselves along the wide road which led across to the church, which then stood in a wide space amid fields, and all knelt therein to mass. while it was yet dark a great strange cry rang out in the churchyard. some ran forth, and there by the wall behind the high altar they saw a vast stone, four-square, that had not been there before, and in the middle thereof was stuck a great wedge of steel, and sticking therefrom by the point was a rich sword. on the blade were written words in latin, which a clerk read forth, which said, 'whoso pulleth this sword out of this stone and wedge of steel is rightwise born king of all britain.' the clerk ran into the church and told the archbishop, and men were all amazed and would have gone instantly to see this marvel, but the archbishop bade them stay. 'finish your prayers to god,' he said, 'for no man may touch this strange thing till high mass be done.' when mass was finished, all poured forth from the church and thronged about the stone, and marvelled at the words on the sword. first king lot, with a light laugh, took hold of the handle and essayed to pull out the point of the sword, but he could not, and his face went hot and angry. then king nentres of garlot took his place with a jest, but though he heaved at the sword with all his burly strength, till it seemed like to snap, he could not move it, and so let go at last with an angry oath. all the others essayed in like manner, but by none was it moved a jot, and all stood about discomfited, looking with black looks at one another and the stone. 'he that is rightwise born ruler of britain is not here,' said the archbishop at length, 'but doubt not he shall come in god's good time. meanwhile, let a tent be raised over the stone, and do ye lords appoint ten of your number to watch over it, and we will essay the sword again after new year's day.' so that the kings and lords should be kept together, the archbishop appointed a great tournament to be held on new year's day on the waste land north of the city, which men now call smithfield. now when the day was come, a certain lord, sir ector de morven, who had great lands about the isle of thorney, rode towards the jousts with his son, sir kay, and young arthur, who was sir kay's foster-brother. when they had got nearly to the place, suddenly sir kay bethought him that he had left his sword at home. 'do you ride back, young arthur,' he said, 'and fetch me my sword, for if i do not have it i may not fight.' willingly arthur turned his horse and rode back swiftly. but when he had arrived at the house, he found it shut up and none was within, for all had gone to the jousts. then was he a little wroth, and rode back wondering how he should obtain a sword for his foster-brother. suddenly, as he saw the tower of st. paul's church through the trees, he bethought him of the sword in the stone, about which many men had spoken in his hearing. 'i will ride thither,' said he, 'and see if i may get that sword for my brother, for he shall not be without a sword this day.' when he came to the churchyard, he tied his horse to the stile, and went through the grave-mounds to the tent wherein was the sword. he found the place unwatched, and the flashing sword was sticking by the point in the stone. lightly he grasped the handle of the sword with one hand, and it came forth straightway! then, glad that his brother should not be without a sword, he swiftly gat upon his horse and rode on, and delivered the sword to sir kay, and thought no more of aught but the splendid knights and richly garbed lords that were at the jousts. but sir kay looked at the sword, and the writing, and knew it was the sword of the stone, and marvelled how young arthur had possessed himself thereof; and being of a covetous and sour mind he thought how he might make advantage for himself. he went to his father, sir ector, and said: 'lo, father, this is the sword of the stone, and surely am i rightful king.' sir ector knew the sword and marvelled, but his look was stern as he gazed into the crafty eyes of his son. 'come ye with me,' he said, and all three rode to the church, and alit from their horses and went in. sir ector strode up the aisle to the altar, and turning to his son, said sternly: 'now, swear on god's book and the holy relics how thou didst get this sword.' sir kay's heart went weak, and he stammered out the truth. 'how gat you this sword?' asked sir ector of arthur. 'sir, i will tell you,' said arthur, and so told him all as it had happened. sir ector marvelled what this should mean; for arthur had been given to him to nourish and rear as a week-old child by merlin, but the wizard had only told him that the babe was a son of a dead lady, whose lord had been slain by the pagans. then sir ector went to the stone and bade arthur put back the sword into the wedge of steel, which the young man did easily. thereupon sir ector strove with all his strength to draw the sword forth again, but though he pulled till he sweated, he could not stir the sword. 'now you essay it,' he said to his son. but naught that sir kay could do availed. 'now do you try,' he bade arthur. arthur lightly grasped the handle with one hand, and the sword came out without hindrance. therewith sir ector sank to his knees, and sir kay also. and they bared their heads. 'alas,' said arthur, 'my own dear father and brother, why kneel ye so to me?' 'nay, nay, my lord arthur, it is not so,' said sir ector, 'for i was never your father. i wot well ye are of higher blood than i weened. for merlin delivered you to me while yet ye were a babe.' the tears came into arthur's eyes when he knew that sir ector was not his father, for the young man had loved him as if he were of his own blood. 'sir,' said ector unto arthur, 'will ye be my good and kind lord when ye are king?' 'ah, if this be true as ye say,' cried arthur, 'ye shall desire of me whatsoever ye may, and i shall give it you. for both you and my good lady and dear mother your wife have kept and loved me as your own.' 'sir,' said sir ector, 'i crave a boon of you, that while you live, your foster-brother, sir kay, shall be high seneschal of all your lands.' 'that shall be done, and never man shall have that office but him, while he and i live,' replied arthur. then hastily sir ector rode to the archbishop, and told him how and by whom the sword had been achieved from the stone. thereupon the archbishop let call a great meeting on twelfth day of all the kings and barons. so on the day appointed, all men gathered in the churchyard of st. paul's, and the tent was removed from about the stone. from day dawn to the evening the kings and princes and lords strove each in his turn to draw the sword from the stone. but none of them availed to move it. while they stood about, dark of look, gnawing their lips with rage and disappointment, the archbishop turned privily to sir ector and bade him bring arthur. the young man came, quietly clad in a tunic of brown samite, of medium height, with curly hair above a fair face of noble, though mild mien. as he came among the richly clad nobles, they looked haughtily at him, and wondered who he was and why he came, for as yet none had been told that the sword had been drawn by him. the archbishop, tall, white-haired and reverend, called arthur to him and said in grave tones: 'my son, i have heard a strange tale of thee, and whether it be true or false, god shall decide. now, therefore, do ye take hold upon this sword and essay to draw it from the stone.' the proud barons, some with looks amazed and others with sneering laughter, pressed about the young man as he stepped towards the stone. arthur took the handle of the sword with his right hand, and the sword seemed to fall into his grasp. thereat arose great cries of rage, and angry looks flashed forth, and many a hand went to dagger haft. 'ho, archbishop!' cried king lot, fiercely striding towards the tall ecclesiastic, 'what wizard's brat are you foisting upon us here to draw the sword by magic?' ''tis a trick!' cried nentres of garlot, his bluff manner falling from him, and all the savage anger gleaming from his eyes. 'a trick that shall not blind men such as we!' 'who is this beggar's boy that is put forth to shame us kings and nobles?' said king mark, and his hand sought his dagger as he disappeared among the crowd and wormed his way towards where stood young arthur. but sir ector and sir kay, seeing the threatening looks of all, had quickly ranged themselves beside young arthur, and with them went sir bedevere, sir baudwin and sir ulfius, three noble lords who had loved king uther well. 'peace, lords!' said the old archbishop, calmly meeting the raging looks about him. 'ye know what words are about the sword, and this youth hath drawn the sword. i know naught of tricks or wizardry, but i think high heaven hath chosen this way of showing who shall be lord of this land, and i think this young man is rightful king of us all.' ''tis some base-born churl's son that the wizard merlin would foist upon us!' cried the barons. 'we will have none of him!' 'a shame and dishonour it is, so to try to overrule us, kings and lords of high lineage, with an unknown youth,' cried others. 'we will have the sword put back and set a watch over it,' cried king uriens, 'and we will meet here again at candlemas, and essay the sword. and at that time, my lord archbishop, thou shalt do the proper rites to exorcise all evil powers, and then we will try the sword once more.' so was it agreed by all, and ten knights watched day and night about the stone and the sword. but it befell at candlemas as it had befallen at twelfth day, that for all their strength and might, none of the kings or barons could draw forth the sword; but into the hand of the unknown arthur the weapon seemed to fall. whereat they were all sore aggrieved and rageful, and resolved that they would have yet another trial at easter. it befell at the feast of easter as it had befallen before, and this time the kings and lords for angry spite would have fallen upon arthur and slain him, but the archbishop threatened them with the most dreadful ban of holy church. they forbore, therefore, and went aside, and declared that it was their will to essay the sword again at the high feast of pentecost. by merlin's advice the young arthur went never about, unless the five friends of uther were with him, that is to say, sir ector and his son sir kay, sir bedevere, sir baudwin and sir ulfius. and though at divers times men were found skulking or hiding in the horse-stall, the dark wood by the hall, or the bend in the lane, in places where arthur might pass, no harm came to him by reason of the loving watch of those noble knights. again at the feast of pentecost men gathered in the churchyard of st. paul's, and the press of people was such that no man had ever seen the like. once more the kings and princes and great barons, to the number of forty-nine, came forward, and each in turn pulled and drew at the sword in the stone until the sweat stood on their brows. nevertheless, though the sword point was but the width of a palm in the stone, not the mightiest of them could move it by the breadth of a hair. king mark of tintagel was the last of them who had to stand back at length, baffled and raging inwardly. many were the evil looks that would have slain arthur as he stood among his friends. then a cry came from among the common people, and so strong was it that the nobles looked as if they hated to hear it. 'let arthur draw the sword!' was the call from a thousand throats. the venerable archbishop came and took arthur by the hand, and led him towards the sword. again the young man held the rich pommel with his single hand, and that which none of the forty-nine great men could do, he did as easily as if he but plucked a flower. a fierce cry leaped from among the thousands of the common people. 'arthur shall be our king!' they cried. 'arthur is our king! we will no longer deny him!' many of the princes and barons cried out with the commons that this was their will also; but eleven of the most powerful and ambitious showed by their arrogant and angry gestures that they refused to own arthur as their lord. for a long time the uproar raged, the cries of the common folk becoming fiercer and more menacing against the counter cries of the eleven kings and their adherents. at length from among the people there came the governor of london, who, in his rich robes of office, leaped upon the stone where but lately the sword had been. 'my lords, i speak the will of the commons,' he cried, and at his voice all were silent. 'we have taken counsel together, and we will have arthur for our king. we will put him no more in delay, for we all see that it is god's will that he shall be our king, and who that holdeth against him, we will slay.' with that he got down from the stone, kneeled before arthur, put the keys of the city in his hands, and rendered homage unto him. the great multitude kneeled likewise, bowing their bare heads, and cried him mercy because they had denied him so long. because they feared the great multitude, the eleven kings kneeled with them, but in their hearts was rage and rebellion. then arthur took the sword between his hands and, going into the church, he laid it on the high altar, and the archbishop blessed him. then, since arthur was as yet unknighted, king kador of cornwall, who was brother of king uther, made him a knight. standing up in the sight of all the people, lords and commons, arthur laid his left hand upon the holy relics; then, lifting up his right hand, he swore that he would be a true king, to stand forth as their ruler in justice and mercy, to keep them from oppression, to redress their wrongs, and to establish right throughout the length and breadth of his dominions. men went forth from the church in great joy, for now they had a king they loved, and they felt that the land was safe from civil strife and the griefs of war. when arthur in his palace at london had received the homage of all the lords and princes from the lands south of humber, he appointed his officers. sir kay he made seneschal or steward, and sir baudwin was made constable, and sir ulfius he named chamberlain of his court. by the counsel of merlin he made sir bedevere warden of the northern marches, for the lands of the eleven kings lay mostly in the country north of trent, and though those princes had yielded lip service to arthur, merlin knew that in their hearts they nurtured the seeds of conspiracy. king arthur made a progress through all his territories, staying at the halls of those who did service for the lands they held of him, and he commanded all those who had suffered evil or wrong to come to him, and many came. the king's wrath when he heard a tale of women and orphans wronged or robbed or evilly treated by proud or powerful lords and knights, was terrible to see. many were the pale captives he released from their deep dungeons, many were the tears he wiped away, and hard and heavy was his punishment of evil lords who thought their power would for ever shield them from penalty for their cruelties and oppression. when this was done, he caused a proclamation to be uttered, that he would hold his coronation at the city of caerleon-upon-usk, at the feast of hallow-mass then following; and he commanded all his loyal subjects to attend. when the time came, all the countryside on the marches of wales was filled with the trains of noblemen and their knights and servants gathering towards the city. as arthur looked from the window of the palace which the romans had builded, and which looked far and wide over the crowded roads, word was brought to him that six of the kings who had resented his kingship had come to the city. at this arthur was glad, for he was full gentle and kindly, and would liefer be friendly with a man than his enemy. thinking that these kings and knights had come for love of him, and to do him worship at his feast, king arthur sent them many and rich presents. but his messengers returned, saying that the kings and knights had received them with insults, and had refused to take the gifts of a beardless boy who had come, they said, of low blood. whereat the king's eyes flashed grimly, but at that time he said no word. in the joustings and knightly games that were part of the festival of the coronation, the six kings ever ranged themselves against king arthur and his knights, and did him all the despite they could achieve. at that time they deemed themselves not strong enough to hurt the king, and therefore did no open act of revolt. now it happened, when the feasting was over and many of the kings and lords had departed home again, that arthur stood in the door of his hall that looked into the street, and with his three best nobles, sir kay, sir bedevere and sir baudwin, he watched the rich cavalcades of his lords pass out of the town. suddenly, as he stood there, a little page-boy, fair of face but for the pitiful sorrow and gauntness upon it, dashed from the throng of a lord's retinue which was passing and threw himself along the ground, his hands clutching the feet of the king. 'o king arthur, save me!' the lad cried, spent of breath, 'or this evil lord will slay me as he hath slain my mother and my brothers.' from the throng a tall black knight, leaping from his horse, strode towards the boy, and would have torn his hands from their hold upon the king's feet. 'back, sir knight!' said the king. 'i will hear more of this. who are you?' the knight laughed insolently. 'i? oh, i am one that the last king knew well to his sorrow. i am turquine, brother to sir caradoc of the dolorous tower.' 'what is this boy to you?' 'he is owen, the caitiff son of a brave father, who gave him to my care to train in knightly ways. but 'tis a puling fool, more fitting for the bowers of ladies.' 'nay, king, he lies!' said the lad who kneeled before the king. 'i am his nephew. his hand slew my dear father treacherously, and he hath starved my mother to her death. for our lands are rich while his are poor, and my father warned me of him ere he died. this man hath kept me prisoner, used me evilly, starving me and wealing me with cruel blows daily. i think he hath my death in his heart.' 'i can speak of this thing,' said a knight, who came forth from the throng. 'i am sir miles of bandon. i know this lad speaks truth, for his father was mine own dear cousin. this sir turquine is a felon knight.' the brow of the king went dark. he looked from the cruel insolent face of the black knight to the wan beseeching face of the lad. 'hark ye!' said arthur to turquine, and his voice was terrible, for all that it was very quiet, 'ye shall answer to me and my justice for any evil you have done this young boy or his people. when i send for thee, come at once, or it will be worse for thee. the boy stays with me. now begone!' the big knight looked with hatred and surprise in his eyes, and for a while said naught. then, with an insolent laugh, he turned and vaulted on his horse. 'i may come when thou dost not expect me, sir king!' he said, mocking, and shot an evil look at the young page. thenceforward the young page owen stayed in the court, doing his services deftly and quietly, with an eye ever on the king to do his bidding. one night, when a storm raged and the town lay dark and quiet, king arthur sat in his hall. sir kay and sir bedevere told tales, or the king's bard sang songs to amuse him, while about them moved young owen, noiseless of step, quick of eye, and as restless as an unquiet spirit. anon the lad would pass through the arras, creep to the great outer door, and look at the porter in his room beside it. then he would stand at the wicket and listen to the rare footsteps pass down the road, and when the rising wind keened and shrilled through the crannies, he would glance about him with quick looks as if in fear of an enemy. once he went to falk, the king's porter, and said: ''tis a stormy night, sir falk. i doubt few are about the streets of caerleon on such a night.' 'few indeed,' said falk. 'yet methought but now i heard the rattle of a bridle in the distance, as if a steed stood in armour.' 'i heard naught,' said falk. ''twould be but the grinding of a chain beside a horseblock.' young owen went away, and sat where the king and his knights listened to the marvellous tales of the wise gildas, who told of most terrible witches and warlocks in the wizard woods of brittany. again the lad approached the door and listened; then going to the porter he said: 'this drenching storm will tear the last poor leaves from the forest trees, i ween, sir falk.' 'of a truth,' said the porter, ''tis overlate for leaves. they be stuck in the mire of the rides long ere this.' 'they could not be blown so far in this gushing storm,' said the page, 'and therefore i have deceived myself. but i thought i heard the rustle of leaves on the stones before the door but now.' 'it could not be,' said the porter; 'it was doubtless the gouts of water from the roof of the hall thou didst hear.' owen went away, but in a little while returned, and softly opened the wicket panel in the door a little way, and looked forth into the roaring darkness of rain and wind. 'think you, sir falk,' he said, going to the porter, 'that the witches from the woods of denn do send their baleful fires on such a night as this to lead poor houseless wretches into the marsh below the wall?' the porter laughed. 'thou'rt over-full of fancies to-night, young sir,' he said. 'have no fear of witches. we're all safe and sound here till the blessed daylight comes, and none need stir out till then.' 'methought i saw a flash in the dark but now,' said owen, 'as if 'twas the gleam of a sword or a wandering marsh fire.' 'not a doubt 'twas but a lightning flash,' returned the porter. 'now go ye, for i hear the king moving towards bed. sleep soundly, lad; no need to fear this night.' in a little while the palace was sunk in darkness, and in silence save for the smothered cries of sleepers in their dreams. outside, the rain still sobbed at the eaves, and the wind beat at the narrow casements. time passed, and for all his weariness young owen could not sleep. his spirit had been heavy all the day, and vague and dreadful fears had haunted him. something told him that the life of the beloved king, who had taken him from the foul and cruel power of sir turquine, was threatened. he rose in the dark from his pallet of straw in the hall where lay the other pages, and stole softly out. he would make his way to the king's door, and, wrapped in his cloak, would lie before it. he felt his way softly along the corridor in the deep darkness. suddenly he stopped. something alive was near him in the dark. even as he turned, a hand seized him by the throat, and a hateful voice which he knew growled in his ear: 'lead us to the king's room, or this shall sink in thy heart!' he knew at once that all his fears of the day and the night had been true. he had indeed heard the stealthy footsteps before the door of the hall, and had seen the dull gleam of a sword in the hand of one of those who lay in wait to murder the king. 'speak!' said the voice again. 'is the king's room backward or forward?' 'i will not tell thee!' he gasped, and heard a low mocking laugh. ''tis thee, my caitiff boy!' sneered sir turquine, for he it was. 'then this for thee!' with the words he thrust his dagger into the body of the struggling boy, who swooned and dropped to the floor. in a few moments owen stirred, for his struggles had caused his enemy's dagger to swerve, and though weak from loss of blood, the young page knew that he must act at once to save his hero from the murderous knives. he heard the stealthy footsteps of the murderers going backwards to the hall, and, filled with joy, he pressed forward. his head was dizzy, he felt as if every moment he must sink in a swoon; but at length he reached the door, turned the handle and fell in. 'the king!' he cried. 'save the king! turquine has broken in and seeks his life.' at his shrill cry there was the rush of men and torches along the corridors and into the room. sir bedevere was at the head of them, and in a moment he, with twenty half-dressed knights behind him, was scattering through the palace seeking the murderers, while the king ordered his leech or doctor to attend instantly to owen's wound. this was soon found not to be severe, and the lad was laid at the foot of the king's bed, glad and proud to hear the king's words of praise. then sir bedevere entered, saying that the murderers had fled as soon as they found they were discovered. 'but, my lord king,' he said, 'this is no murderous attempt by one insolent lord. it means, my king, that thou wilt have to fight for thy kingdom. it is civil war!' 'what mean you, sir bedevere?' 'sir turquine is but one of them, my king,' replied bedevere. 'he is but the tool of the six kings who have put such great despite upon you. for with them also in this midnight murder-raid i saw king nentres of garlot and duke cambenet.' suddenly, as he spoke, the tall grey form of merlin took shape before them, for so great and marvellous was the power of this wizard, that he could come and go unseen, except when he willed that men should see him. 'sir,' said merlin, 'ye owe your life to this brave lad here, and he shall be a passing good man when he shall have attained his full strength, and he doth deserve your high and gracious favour.' 'that shall he have,' said the king, and smiled at young owen, and the smile made the lad forget all the burning of his wound for very pride and gladness. 'and now,' said merlin, 'if ye will gather your men i will lead you to the hold of those murderous kings by a secret way, and ye should give them such a sudden blow as will discomfit them.' in a little while all was ready, and then, silently, with muffled arms, the men of arthur were marching forth down the narrow dark lanes of the town to where the place was ruinous with old houses left forsaken by their roman masters when they had gone from britain fifty years before. merlin led them to a great squat tower which stood beside the wall, wherein a single light gleamed at a high window. causing some to surround this place, merlin led others to a broken door, and there they entered in. then was there a sudden uproar and fierce fighting in the rooms and up the narrow stairs. in the darkness king lot, with a hundred knights, burst out through a rear door, and thought to escape; but king arthur with his knights waylaid them, and slew on the right and on the left, doing such deeds that all took pride in his bravery and might of arms. fiercely did king lot press forward, and to his aid came sir caradoc, who set upon king arthur in the rear. arthur drew from his side the sword he had so marvellously taken from the stone, and in the darkness it flashed as if it were thirty torches, and it dazzled his enemies' eyes, so that they gave way. by this time the common people of caerleon had heard the great outcry and the clang of swords on armour. learning of the jeopardy of their beloved king from midnight murderers, they ran to the tower, and with clubs and staves and bills they slew many of the men of the evil kings, putting the rest to flight. but the six kings were still unharmed, and with the remnant of their knights fled and departed in the darkness. a few days later king arthur journeyed back to london, and on an evening when, in the twilight, he stood upon the roof of the palace overlooking the broad thames, he was aware of a shadow beside him where no shadow had been before. before he could cross himself against the evil powers of wizardry and glamour, the steel-blue eyes of merlin looked out from the cloud, and the magician's voice spoke to him as if from a great distance. 'i stand beneath the shaggy brows of the hill of tanyshane,' said the voice, 'and i look down into the courtyard of the castle of king lot. there i see the gathering of men, the flash of torches on their hauberks, the glitter of helms, and the blue gleams of swords. i have passed through these northern lands, from the windswept ways of alclwyd to the quaking marshes of the humber. eleven castles have i seen, and each is filled with the clang of beating iron, the glow of smiths' fires and the hissing of new-tempered steel. call thy council, and abide my return, for now you must fight for your kingdom, o king, and for your very life.' the voice ceased, and the shadow and the vivid eyes it half concealed died away with it. into the council-chamber three days later, while men waited for they knew not what, merlin entered. 'what news do you bring, merlin?' they cried. 'of civil war!' he said. 'i warn you all that the six kings ye gave a check to at caerleon have taken to themselves four others and a mighty duke. they will to thrust arthur, whom they call base-born, out of his life. mark you, they are passing strong and as good fighting men as any alive--pity it is that great uriens is with them, the wisest and noblest fighter of them all!--and unless arthur have more men of arms and chivalry with him than he can get within this realm, he will be overcome!' 'oh, but we be big enough!' cried some. 'that ye are not!' said merlin. 'which of ye have single-handed beaten back the pagan hordes from your lands? which of ye can match king lot for subtlety and craft, or the great uriens of reged for wisdom in war?' 'what is to do, then? tell us your counsel,' said they all. 'this is my advice,' replied the wizard. 'ye must send an embassy to king ban of brittany and king bors of gaul, promising to aid them when king claudas, their common enemy, shall fight them again, if they will come and aid our king in this his fight for life and kingdom.' in a few weeks this was done. king ban of brittany and his brother, king bors, crossed into britain with five thousand good knights, sworn to aid arthur in this great conflict. with king ban came his son, young lancelot, who was later to make more fame and more dole than any knight of arthur's court. on a day in early spring, the hosts of arthur and his two allies were encamped in sherwood forest, and the fore-riders or scouts, which merlin had sent out, came hastening in to say that the host of the eleven kings was but a few miles to the north of trent water. by secret ways, throughout that night, merlin led the army of arthur until they came near where the enemy lay. then did he order an ambush to be made by some part of their men, with king ban and king bors, by hiding in a hollow filled with trees. in the morning, when either host saw the other, the northern host was well comforted, for they thought king arthur's force was but small. with the pealing of trumpets and the shouts of the knights, king arthur ordered his men to advance, and in their midst was the great silken banner with the fierce red dragon ramping in its folds. this had been blessed by the archbishop of london at a solemn service held before the host left london. all day the battle raged. knight hurled and hurtled against knight, bowmen shot their short welsh arrows, and men-at-arms thrust and maimed and slashed with the great billhooks and spears. king arthur, with his bodyguard of four--sir kay, sir baudwin, sir ulfius, and sir bedevere--did feats of arms that it was marvel to see. often the eleven kings did essay to give deadly strokes upon the king, but the press of fighting kept some of them from him, and others withdrew sore wounded from the attack upon him and his faithful four. once the five held strong medley against six of the rebel kings, and these were king lot, king nentres, king brandegoris, king idres, king uriens, and king agwisance; and so fiercely did they attack them that three drew off sore wounded, whilst king lot, king uriens and king nentres were unhorsed, and all but slain by the men-at-arms. at length it appeared to arthur that his host was yielding before the weight of numbers of the enemy, and then he bethought him of a strategy. he took counsel of his nobles, and they approved; he sent a trusty messenger to the kings ban and bors, who still lay in ambush; and then, commanding his trumpets to sound, he ordered a retreat. as had been agreed on, the knights on arthur's side made their retreat in a confusion that seemed full of fear; and the enemy, joyfully shouting their cries of triumph, pursued them headlong. king lot's host, led onward thus unthinking, were sure of victory. but their cries of triumph were short and quickly turned to woe; for when they had passed the place of ambush, they heard cries of terror in their rear, and turning, they found a great host pouring forth from the hollow combe, thick as angry bees from a hive. then, indeed, taken in the rear and in the front, there was little hope of victory, and king lot's men fought for dear life. seeing king bors, where he hewed terribly in the press of battle, king lot, who knew him well, cried out: 'ah, mary, now defend us from death and from horrible maims, for i see well we be in fear of quick death! yonder is king bors, one of the most worshipful and best knights in the world; and there is his twin brother, king ban, as terrible as he. how came they and their host into britain, and we not know it, alas?' 'by the arts of that wizard merlin, i doubt not,' said king uriens. 'and i doubt not we shall all be sped. look you, lot,' he went on, 'whoever that arthur may be, i'll swear by my head he is not of low-born breeding, but a very man and a marvellous fighter.' 'if you lose heart now, why, go and swear fealty to him!' sneered king lot. 'keep your sneers,' said uriens sternly. 'i'll pay the price of rebellion to my last breath, as i have vowed.' by now the great mass of king lot's host was either slain or run away, and the evening drew on; but the eleven kings, wounded, spent, and full of anguish at defeat, drew together with a few hundred of their knights, and vowed to die fighting. when they looked to see where they stood, they found that arthur had penned them upon a little bluff of land that ended steeply over a deep river, and that no way was open for them to escape from the death of swords, unless they chose to leap on the rocks below the cliff. 'see!' said uriens, with a laugh, 'while we fought like wild boars, and thought of nothing but the killing, this base-born king kept his wits and moved us like pawns on a chessboard, we all unwitting. first, he drew us into ambush, and now he thrusts us into a chasm. we war-wise fighters, grown grey in battle, checkmated by a boy!' nevertheless, though wearied, full of dread and shame, and looking death in the eyes, the little band of men withdrew backwards, waiting until arthur should command his lines of glittering knights to dash upon the remnant of the rebel kings. 'the proud evil men!' said arthur in anger, looking upon them. 'though they know death is upon them, they will not crave mercy of me, a base-born king, as they name me!' 'ah, sir king,' said king ban, 'blame them not, for they do as brave men ought to do, and they are the best fighting men and the knights of most prowess that ever i saw. and if they were belonging unto you, there would be no king under heaven to compare with you for power and fame and majesty.' 'i cannot love them,' said arthur sadly, 'for they would destroy me.' 'now, this is my counsel,' said king lot to his ten fellows, as he looked over the field strewn with the dead: 'that we stand together in a circle and swear to die together--we and our few knights. we have aimed at a kingdom and a crown, and we have failed. but we will die like kings and warriors. when they press upon us at the last, let no one of us break away. if any see another dress him to flee or to yield, let him slay him. how say ye?' 'it is good!' said they all. then, for all their aching wounds, they mended their broken harness hurriedly, and righted their shields, took new spears from the hands of their squires, and set them upright on their thighs, and thus, with the low red light of the westering sun behind them, they stood still and grim, like a clump of tall leafless trees. arthur gave the order to advance, and his knights leaped forward over the heap of the slain. but just then sir kay came to the king, bringing a knight from the north who had just been captured, bearing messages to the eleven kings, and arthur asked him who he was and why he came. 'sir king,' said the man, 'i am sir eliot of the march tower, and i have ill tidings for my master, king uriens, and his friends, but it seems my news is no worse than their fate. if my great lord is to die, i would lief die with him. therefore, lord, despatch me now, or let me go stand beside my lord in the last rally.' 'what is thy news?' asked king arthur. 'it is that the pagans, the savage saxons, have landed in three places beyond humber, and all the lands of my lord and his ten fellows shall suffer fire and sword again.' 'but if i slay your master and his fellow-rebels, whose lands are those the pagans overrun?' 'yours, lord, of a truth, if you can dash the pagans from them.' 'if i and my host have swept these rebel kings from before me, think you i cannot sweep the saxons from the land?' 'i trow you could, sir king, for on my way hither i have heard of the marvellous deeds this day of yourself and your knights. but, lord, i see the press of knights about my dear lord. ah, that i might strike a blow for him before i die!' 'thou shalt strike a-many yet,' said arthur, and sir eliot marvelled. arthur commanded his trumpets to blow the retreat, and the knights, wondering and half unbelieving, withdrew them from about the eleven kings. then, surrounded by his chief lords, arthur rode to the group of wearied kings, who, with dented and broken harness, from which the blood oozed in many places, still kept their seats with undaunted mien. at king arthur's command sir eliot told his news to king uriens. 'now this i have to say to ye,' said arthur, lifting his vizor and showing a stern countenance. 'ye are in my hands, to slay or spare as i choose. but ye have fought like brave men, and i would that, for your prowess, ye were my friends rather than mine enemies. now this i have to offer ye. swear here and now to be my lieges, as ye were to king uther before me, and i will aid thee to thrust the pagans from your land, and thenceforth we will aid and cherish each other as true subjects and true lords should do. but if ye refuse, then your folly be on your own heads, for then i take your lives and your lands both.' with that king uriens threw down his sword and put up his vizor, and turning to the others, said: 'fellow-rebels, we should be mad to refuse gifts so kingly and kindly offered. we have tried a throw with this young king, and we have been worsted. better now to own ourselves lesser men than this wise lad here, and try to live in peace with him henceforth.' the other kings agreed, but king lot, mean and revengeful, and the kings nentres and brandegoris, suspicious that, as had been too often with themselves, fair words had covered foul intent, held back a little, until the others swore to leave them to the penalty of their folly. whereupon they all knelt down upon the stricken field, and each put his hands between the hands of king arthur, and swore upon the honour of their knighthood to be his true and faithful men while they lived. as they rose from rendering their homage, merlin came riding on a great black horse. 'ye have done wisely well, my king,' he said. 'for by this kingly deed you shall rivet the hearts of the good men among these former rebels closer to your own than with rivets of steel. thus well and wisely have ye won your kingdom and the fealty of these brave men.' 'now,' he went on to the eleven kings, 'ye doubted whether arthur was of noble birth, and rightful king. know ye that he is the son of the noble king uther, who by my counsel hid him away on his birth. ye will remember how gorlois, duke of cornwall, hated uther for taking igraine for wife, whom gorlois had captured and sworn to wed for her beauty and her wealth. and how all the turbulent lords did cling to gorlois, and how for years king uther had much ado to keep those rebels from dismembering the kingdom. gorlois had vowed to slay by poison or treachery any son of uther's, and so i took young arthur into safe keeping. none knew of him until king uther named him as his rightful heir upon his deathbed in the presence of you all. so, therefore, ye do well to give your homage to this your king, for arthur is the son right worshipful of the great pendragon, and the lovely lady, igraine of lyonesse.' all that stood by marvelled, and most of the eleven kings were glad that they had a king so noble in birth and doing as arthur, the son of uther pendragon. ii sir balin and the stroke dolorous it happened that on a day king arthur, wandering from his court, had fought and vanquished a valiant knight, but he himself had been sore wounded. merlin, coming to his aid, had taken him to a hermit's cave, and there with many marvellous salves had searched his wounds, so that in three days the king was whole again. riding forth together, merlin led the king deeper and deeper into a wild and desolate country where he had never been before, and where there were no pathways. arthur looked to and fro over the waste, but saw no sign of man or beast, and no bird flitted or piped. great gaunt stones stood upright on the hillsides, solitary or in long lines as if they marched, or else they leaned together as if conspiring; while great heaps or cairns of stone rose here and there from the lichen-covered and rocky soil, in which the grass grew weakly in small crevices. the mists now rose and drifted before them as they rode, the light was low and sallow, and the wind began to whisper shrilly among the great stones, and in the crannies of the cairns. the king crossed himself, and looked at the white, old, and wrinkled face of merlin; but the wizard seemed sunk in thought. then arthur bethought him that, in case some fiend-shape or wizard-knight should assail him in that desolate waste, he could not defend himself, inasmuch as his sword--the sword he had drawn from the stone--had snapped when he fought the knight, and he had no other weapon with him. 'merlin,' he said, 'this is a place of ancient death and terror, and if aught should assail us of evil, i have no sword.' 'for that reason i bring thee here,' replied merlin, and would not utter another word. then, through the mists, which writhed and twisted as if they were fell shapes that would tear down the passing riders, arthur became aware that their way was leading downwards, and soon the smell of water rose up to him. he heard the beat and suck of waves upon a shore, and in a little while the mists cleared as if at a word, and there before him arthur saw a lonely lake or sea, hedged round with salt-rimed reeds and sedges, and stretching out its waters, dull and leaden-hued, to so great a distance that his eye could see no end. 'what is this place?' he asked of merlin. 'it is the lake of the endless waters,' said the wizard. 'why bring ye me to this desolate lake in the wilderness?' 'you shall visit it once more--ere you die!' replied merlin. 'but look you there in the midmost of the lake.' looking to where the wizard pointed, arthur saw a great hand, clothed in white samite, stretched above the lapsing waves, and in its grasp was a long two-handed sword in a rich scabbard. with that they saw a barge riding over the water, and it came without oars or any sail, and in the prow sat a woman, tall and comely, with a face lovely but sad. a frontlet of gold and pearls was bound about her rich red hair, and her robes, of green samite, fell about her as if they were reeds of the shore. 'what lady is that?' said the king. 'it is the lady of the lake,' said merlin, 'and she comes to you. now, therefore, speak fair to her, and ask that she will give you that sword.' then the barge rasped among the reeds where arthur sat on his horse, and the lady said: 'greeting to you, o king!' 'greeting, fair damsel!' replied arthur. 'what sword is that which the arm holdeth above the water? i would it were mine, for i have none.' 'sir king,' said the lady, 'that sword is mine; but if ye will give me a gift when i ask it of you, and will swear an oath to give me back the sword when ye shall be dying, then shall ye have it.' 'by my faith, i will give ye the gift when ye shall desire, and when i am dying i will truly give back the sword.' 'then do you step into this barge and row yourself unto the hand and take from it the sword. and know ye that the name of that sword is excalibur, and while you keep the scabbard by your side, ye shall lose no blood, be ye never so sore wounded.' so king arthur and merlin alighted, tied their horses to two stunted trees, and went into the barge. the king turned to look to where the tall green lady had stood but a moment before, and marvelled to see that she had vanished. when they came to the sword which the hand held, king arthur saw that the water where the hand rose forth was all troubled, and he could see naught. he took the sword by the handle, and the great fingers of the hand opened and then sank. so they came afterwards to the land, and rode on their way to camelot, and reached it after many days. when king arthur entered his hall, and had been welcomed by his knights, the seneschal brought forth a messenger, who had come from king rience of north wales, and the man with insolent looks uttered this message: 'my lord, king rience, hath but now discomfited and overwhelmed seven kings, and each hath done him homage, and given him for a sign of their subjection their beard clean cut from their chins. and my lord hath caused a rich mantle to be hemmed with these kings' beards, and there yet lacketh one place. wherefore my lord hath sent me to demand that ye give him homage and send him thy beard also. or else he will enter thy lands, and burn and slay and lay waste, and will not cease until he hath thy head as well as thy beard.' 'now this is the most shameful message that any man sent to a king!' said arthur, 'and thy king shall rue his villainous words.' then he laughed a little grimly. 'thou seest, fellow, that my beard is full young yet to make a hem. so take this message back to thy master. if he will have it, he must wait until i grow older; but yet he shall not wait long before he sees me, and then shall he lose his head, by the faith of my body, unless he do homage to me.' so the messenger departed, and king arthur set about the ordering of his army to invade the land of rience. later, on a day when the king sat in council with his barons and knights, there came a damsel into the hall, richly beseen and of a fair countenance. she knelt at the feet of the king, and said humbly: 'o king, i crave a boon of ye, and by your promise ye shall grant it me.' 'who are ye, damsel?' asked the king. 'my lord, my lady mother hath sent me, and she is the lady of the lake.' 'i remember me,' said arthur, 'and thou shalt have thy boon.' whereat the damsel rose and let her mantle fall, that was richly furred, and then they saw that she was girded about the waist with a great sword. marvelling, the king asked, 'damsel, for what cause are ye girded with that sword?' 'my lord,' said the damsel, in distress and sadness, 'this sword that i am girded withal, doth me great sorrow and remembrance. for it was the sword of him i loved most tenderly in all the world, and he hath been slain by falsest treachery by a foul knight, sir garlon, and nevermore shall i be joyful. but i would that my dear love be avenged by his own good sword, which my lady mother hath endowed with great enchantment. and the knight of thine that shall draw this sword shall be he who shall avenge my dead love. but he must be a clean knight, a good man of his hands and of his deeds, and without guile or treachery. if i may find such a knight, he shall deliver me of this sword, out of the scabbard, and with it do vengeance for me.' 'this is a great marvel,' said king arthur, 'and while i presume not to be such a knight as thou sayest, yet for ensample to my knights will i essay to draw the sword.' therewith the king took the scabbard and drew at the sword with all his strength, but in no wise could he make it come forth. 'sir,' said the damsel, 'ye need not draw half so hard, for lightly shall it come into the hands of him who shall draw it.' then the king bade all his knights to attempt this feat, and all tried their best, but it was of no avail. 'alas!' said the damsel in great sadness. 'and shall my dear love go unavenged, because there is no knight here who shall achieve this sword?' she turned away through the crowd of knights who stood abashed about her, and went towards the door. it happened that there was a poor knight in the court of king arthur, who had been a prisoner for a year and a day, by reason of his having slain a kinsman of the king's. his name was sir balin the hardy, and he was a good man of his hands, though needy. he had been but lately released from durance, and was standing privily in the hall and saw the adventure of the damsel with the sword. whereat his heart rose, both to do the deed for the sorrowing maid and because of her beauty and sadness. yet, being poor and meanly arrayed, he pushed not forward in the press. but as the damsel went towards the door, she passed him, and he said: 'damsel, i pray you of your courtesy to suffer me as well to essay as these knights, for though i be poorly clothed, my heart seemeth fully assured that i may draw the sword, and thy sorrow moveth me.' the damsel lifted her large sad eyes to him, and she saw he was goodly of form and noble of look, and her heart was stirred. 'though ye be poor, worthiness and manhood are not in a man's rich raiment, and therefore,' she said with a sorrowful smile, 'do you essay the sword also, good knight, and god speed you.' balin took the sword by the scabbard, and drew it out easily, and when he looked upon the sword it pleased him well. then had the king and barons great marvel, but some of the knights had great spite against balin. 'truly,' said the damsel, 'this is a passing good knight, and the best man of ye all, and many marvels shall he achieve. but now, gentle and courteous knight,' she said, 'give me the sword again.' 'nay, this sword will i keep,' said balin. 'ye are not wise,' said the maiden sorrowfully. 'my lady mother sent the sword to find which was the knight the most worthy to rid the world of an evil knight that doeth his foul treacheries and murders by wizardry, but if ye keep the sword it shall work great bane on you and on one you love most in this world.' 'i shall take the adventure god shall ordain for me,' said balin, 'be it good or ill.' the damsel looked sadly into his eyes and wept. 'i am passing heavy for your sake,' she said. 'i repent that i have brought this to you, for i see you lying wounded unto death, and i shall not be near to comfort you.' with that the damsel departed in great sorrow. anon balin sent for his horse and armour, and took his leave of king arthur, who was almost wroth that he should depart upon a quest that promised but misfortune. he would have him stay with him in his court, but balin would not, and so departed. for many days, by lonely ways and through forest drives, sir balin fared, seeking for the felon knight sir garlon, but nowhere could he get word of him. at length one night, as he made his way to a hermitage by the edge of a thick wood, he saw the arms of his younger brother, sir balan, hung upon a thorn before the holy man's door. just then sir balan came out and saw him, and when he looked on balin's shield, which had two crossed swords, he recognised his brother's device, and ran to him, and they met and kissed each other, and that night they were happy together, for it had been long since that they had parted; and each told the other his adventures. 'it seemeth, then, that this king arthur is a right worshipful lord,' said balan, when his brother had told him the adventure of the damsel and the sword, 'but i doubt me he will not withstand king rience and his host. already that king hath come into this land and is harrying and burning.' 'that were great pity,' said balin, 'and i would that i could do some deed to stay the power of rience, who is evil-minded and of an arrogant nature. i would put my life in any danger to win the love of the great arthur, and to punish king rience for his shameful message.' 'let us go then to-morrow,' said balan, 'and try our prowess. king rience lieth at the siege of the castle terabil, within ten leagues of this place.' 'i will well,' said balin, 'and if we slay king rience, his people will go astray and king arthur shall easily make them yield.' next morning early they rode away through the gay woods, drenched with dew, which sparkled where the sunlight lit upon it. long and lonely was the way, until towards the evening they met with a poor old man on foot, ragged, lame, and dirty, and bearing a great burden. it was in a narrow ride of the forest, and there was but room for one person to pass, and though the brothers were making great speed, since they doubted they had lost their way, they would not ride down the poor man, as many knights would do. but balin, with a cheery call, said: 'old man, give me thy pack, and do thou climb up and sit behind me. for it is late and lonely that such poor old bones as thine should be abroad.' the old man, either from fear of the two great knights in their black armour, or from suspicion, mumbled out a few words and refused the offer, while yet he would not budge from the narrow path. 'well, then, tell us thy name, old man,' said balin, laughing at his obstinacy. 'at this time i will not tell you,' croaked the old fellow, stumbling under his pack. 'i doubt that great pack hath many rich things that never owned thee master,' said balan with a laugh. 'it is full evil seen,' said balin, 'that thou art a true honest man, when thou wilt not tell thy name.' 'be that as it may,' snarled the old man, 'but i know your name, my lordlings, and why you ride this way.' 'by the faith of my body, but ye are some wizard if ye know that,' said balan mockingly. 'and who may we be?' asked balin. 'and whither do we ride?' 'ye are brothers, my lords balin and balan,' answered the old man. 'and ye ride to pull king rience's beard. but that ye shall not do, unless ye take my counsel.' 'ah!' cried balin, 'i know thee, merlin! we would fain be ruled by thy counsel, old magician.' so it came about, with merlin's aid, that balin and balan came upon king rience that night with but a small band of his knights, and with a sudden attack out of the dark wood the two brothers seized the king and slew many of his men that tried to save him. and when they had ridden some way towards camelot with the king, wounded and bound, between them, merlin vanished from beside them. then they rode to camelot at the dawning, and delivered rience to the porter at the gate, to be led to king arthur when he should sit in hall, and the two knights rode away. so, by the capture of king rience, his host was put to naught, and the king paid his homage to king arthur, and swore on the sacred relics of the abbey of camelot to be his true man while he should live. at that time balin could not meet with the felon knight, sir garlon, who wrought evil by wizardry, and he and his brother went their different ways seeking adventure. sir balin returned to king arthur and became one of his most valiant knights. it happened on a day that king arthur journeyed with his knights from camelot to london, and he lay in his pavilion in the heat of the day. as he rested he heard the noise of a horse, and looking out of the flap of his tent, he saw a strange knight passing, making great complaint and sorrowing, and with him was a damsel. 'abide, fair sir,' said arthur, 'and tell me wherefore you are troubled.' 'ye may little amend it,' answered the knight, and passed on. later came sir balin and saluted the king, who told him of the strange knight sorrowing as he rode, and the king bade him follow and bring back the knight to him, 'for,' said he, 'the sorrows of that knight were so piercing that i would fain know his grief.' sir balin took horse and lance and rode many miles through the forest, and by evening he came upon the knight and the lady. 'sir knight,' said balin, 'ye must come with me unto my lord, king arthur, for to tell him the cause of your sorrow.' 'that will i not,' answered the knight, 'for it would do me none avail.' 'sir, make ready,' replied balin, 'for ye must needs go with me, or else i will fight with you and take you by force.' 'no heart have i to fight, for all joy of life is dead with me,' said the knight, 'but i am on a fierce quest, and ye must be my warrant if i go with you that i be not kept from my quest.' 'i will gladly warrant you,' said balin, and together with the lady they turned back. 'i fear not to tell you my sorrow,' said the knight as they rode. 'i but lately returned from fighting the pagans in the north, and when i came to my father's hall, men told me that the lady that i loved most tenderly had been robbed away by a villain knight. and as i sorrowed and went forth to seek the knight to slay him, lo, there i saw my lady, who had escaped unscathed from his evil hold. and much joy we made of each other, for we loved each other tenderly. but even as we kissed, there came an arrow through the air and pierced my dear lady to the heart, so that she fell dead in my arms. and there was none to see who shot the arrow, but men said it was the felon knight who had taken my lady, and he had killed her by black magic. so now with this damsel, my dear sister, who was her friend, do i go through the world seeking the invisible knight. and when i find him, with god's help i will surely slay him.' the good knight balin was much moved by the sad story. 'ah!' said he, 'it is the same fell knight whose death i seek by this good sword. and we will fare together, you and i, and take his evil life when god leads us to him.' even as sir balin spoke, out of a dark glade by their side came a lance hurtling, as if held in rest by an invisible rider, and while they turned their heads at the sound of its hissing through the air, it pierced the side of the sorrowing knight and stood deep in the wound. 'alas!' cried the knight, falling from his horse, 'i am slain by the traitorous and wizard knight. his punishment is not for me, sir knight, but i charge you, seek him out and slay him for my sake, and for the sake of my dead lady.' 'that will i do,' said balin, sorrowing, 'and thereof i make a vow to you and this damsel by my knighthood.' when balin had told all to his lord, king arthur, the king made the knight to be buried in a rich tomb, and on it engraved his sad story, together with his name, sir herlew, and that of his lady love, gwenellen. balin and the damsel rode forward the next day and for many days, and ever the lady bore the truncheon of the spear with her by which sir herlew had been slain. then on a day they lodged at the house of a rich knight named sir gwydion, an old grey gentleman, of a sad aspect. when night came, sir balin lay sleeping in the hall beside the fire, and suddenly he awoke at the sound of one sorrowing quietly near him. he rose up and went to the pallet and saw it was his host, and he asked him why he mourned in the dark. 'i will tell you,' said the old sad knight, 'and the telling will comfort me. i was but late at a jousting, and there i jousted with a knight that is brother to good king pellam. and a full evil kinsman is this knight of so good a king. i smote the evil man from his horse twice, and he was full of rage that i, an old man, should overcome him. therefore by treachery he assailed my son, a young and untried knight, and slew him. and i cannot avenge my dear son, for the evil man goeth invisible. but i pray that i may meet him in a little while.' 'is not his name garlon?' asked balin. 'ye say right,' said sir gwydion. 'ah, i know him,' replied balin, 'and i had rather meet with him than have all the gold of this realm.' 'that shall we both do,' said his host. 'for king pellam, his brother, king of the land of holy hallows, hath made a cry in all this country, of a great feast that shall be in twenty days, and that evil knight, your enemy and mine, shall we see there.' on the morrow they rode all three towards the town of king pellam, and when they came within the country of holy hallows, sir balin saw how fair and happy was the land and its joyful people. their meadows were rich with grass, the cattle were thriving and sleek, the trees were loaded with fruit and the cornfields full with rich ripe corn. 'why doth it seem,' asked balin, 'that this country is the fairest and happiest that ever i saw?' 'it is for this,' said sir gwydion, 'that in the castle of holy hallows, whither we wend, king pellam hath some holy relics of a passing marvellous power, and while he keepeth these his land is rich and happy, and plagues cannot enter it nor murrain, nor can pestilence waste the people.' when they reached the castle they found a great throng of lords and ladies, and because sir gwydion had no lady with him he could not sit at the feast. but balin was well received and brought to a chamber, and they unarmed him. the squires brought him a festal robe to his pleasure, but he would not suffer them to take his sword. 'nay,' said he, 'it is my vow that never shall i and my sword be parted, and that vow will i keep or depart as i came.' so they suffered him to wear it under his robe, and he was set in the hall with his lady beside him. anon, when the meal was ended and the mead horns were set, sir balin asked his neighbour whether there was a knight at that court named garlon. 'yonder he goeth,' said the knight; 'he with that dark face and piercing eye. he is the most marvellous knight that is now living, and though king pellam loveth him dearly, because he is his brother, yet he suffers bitterly the evil magic of sir garlon. for that knight rideth invisible, and slays so that none may know how they get their death.' sir balin's heart rose at these words, and he trembled with his great anger. 'ah, well,' said the good knight. 'and that is he?' he considered long within himself what he should do. 'if i slay him here in this crowded hall,' he said, 'i shall surely not escape, and if i leave him now, peradventure i shall never meet with him again, and much evil will he do if he be let to live.' he could not remove his eyes from sir garlon where he walked between the tables, proudly talking and laughing with those he knew, and making soft speeches to ladies, though many showed fear of him, and crossed their fingers while he spoke to them, to fend off the evil of his eyes. very soon sir garlon noticed the fixed, stern look of sir balin, and came across to him and flicked his gauntlet across his face. 'this shall make thee remember me when next thou seest me, knight,' he said. 'but thou hadst better do what thou camest for, and fill thyself with mead.' 'thou sayest sooth,' said balin, and clutched the sword under his robe. 'too long hast thou done evil and despite, and now will i do that for which i came.' rising, he drew his sword fiercely and swiftly, and cleaved the head of garlon to the shoulders. 'give me the truncheon wherewith he slew thy brother!' said balin to the damsel beside him. from beneath her robe the lady brought forth the broken truncheon, and striding to the slain man, sir balin thrust it fiercely into his body. 'now,' cried he aloud, 'with this lance thou didst treacherously slay a good knight, and for that and all thy other cruel murders have i slain thee.' with that arose a great outcry, and men ran from the tables towards sir balin to slay him, and the foremost of them was king pellam, who rushed towards him, crying: 'thou hast slain my brother when he bore no sword, and thou shalt surely die.' 'well,' said balin, 'come and do it thyself.' 'i shall do it,' said pellam, 'and no man shall touch thee but me, for the love of my brother.' pellam snatched an axe from the hands of one standing by, and smote eagerly at balin; but balin put his sword between his head and the stroke, and the sword was struck from his hand. then, weaponless, balin dashed through the circle of guests towards a door, looking for a weapon while he ran, but none could he find. king pellam followed closely behind him, and so they ran from chamber to chamber, and up the narrow stair within the wall, until at the last balin found that he was near the top of the tower, and thought that now he must surely be slain, for no weapon had he found. suddenly he came upon a door, and bursting it open he found himself in a large room marvellously bright and richly dight, and with a bed arrayed with cloth of gold, and one old and white and reverend lying therein. and by the side of the bed was a table of virgin gold on pillars of pure silver, and on it stood a spear, strangely wrought. balin seized the spear, and turned upon king pellam, who stood still in the doorway with terror in his eyes. but, marking naught of this, balin thrust at him with the spear, and struck it in his side, and king pellam with a great cry fell to the ground. with that stroke the walls of the castle drove together and fell in ruins to the ground, and a great cry of lamentation beat to and fro from far and near, and balin lay under the stones as one dead. after three days merlin came and drew out balin from the ruins, and nourished and healed him. he also recovered his sword and got him a good horse, for his own was slain. then he bade him ride out of that country without delay. 'and never more shall you have ease,' said merlin. 'for by the stroke of that spear with intent to slay king pellam thou hast done such a dolorous deed that not for many years shall its evil cease to work.' 'what have i done?' said balin. 'thou wouldst have slain a man with the very spear that longius the roman thrust into the side of our lord jesus when he suffered on the rood; and by that thou hast defiled it, and caused such ill that never shall its tale be ended until a stainless knight shall come, one of those who shall achieve the holy graal.' 'it repents me,' said balin heavily, 'but the adventure was forced upon me.' as he rode through the land, he saw how it seemed that a dire pestilence had swept over it; for where he had seen the golden corn waving in miles of smiling fields, he saw it now blackened along the ground; the trees were stripped of their leaves and fruit, the cattle lay dead in the meads, and the fish rotted in the streams, while in the villages lay the people dead or dying in shattered or roofless cottages. as he passed, those that were alive cursed him, and called down upon him the wrath of heaven. 'see, see,' they cried, 'thou murderous knight, how the evil stroke thou gavest to king pellam by that hallowed spear hath destroyed this happy land! go! thou foul knight, and may the vengeance strike thee soon!' balin went on, heavy of mind, for he knew not why he had been caused to do this evil. for many days he passed through the saddened land, and he felt that in a little while death would meet him. then suddenly one day he came upon a castle in a wood, and he heard a horn blow, as it had been at the death of a beast. 'here,' said balin, 'shall i meet my death-wound, for that blast was blown for me.' as he came on the green before the castle, many ladies and knights met him and welcomed him with fair semblance, and gave him good cheer. 'now,' said the lady of the castle, when he had eaten, 'ye must do a joust for me with a knight hereby who hath won from me a fair island in a stream, and he hath overcome every knight that hath essayed to win it back for me.' 'well, as you claim it for your good cheer,' said balin, 'i will e'en joust, though both i and my horse are spent with travelling, and my heart is heavy. nevertheless, show me the place.' 'but, sir,' said a knight, 'thou shouldst change thy shield for a bigger. for the strange knight is a strong one and a hardy.' balin cared not, and so took the shield with a device upon it that was not his own. then he and his horse were led to a great barge, and so they were poled across the wide stream to an island. when balin had landed and mounted his horse, he rode a little way towards a stout tower, and from it a knight issued, his armour all in red, and the trappings of his horse of the same colour. they couched their lances and came marvellously fast together, and smote each other in the midmost of their shields; and the shock of their spears was so great that it bore down both horses and men, and for a little while the knights were dazed. the stranger rose up first, for balin was much bruised and wearied; and the red knight drew his sword and came towards balin, who thereupon got upon his feet, and they fought most fiercely together. so they fought till their breaths failed. many were the bouts they fought, and they rested oftentimes, and then to battle again, so that in a little while the grass of the sward where they struggled was red with the blood of their wounds. but the more wearied they were the fiercer they fought to vanquish each the other, so that their hauberks were in tatters, their helms were broken, and their shields were rived and cracked. at the last the red knight could not lift his shield for weakness, and then he went back a little and fell down. balin also sank to the ground, faint with his wounds, and as he lay he cried out: 'what knight art thou? for ere now i never found a knight that matched me.' the other answered him faintly: 'my name is balan, brother to the good knight balin!' 'alas!' said balin, 'that ever i should see the day!' and therewith he fell back in a swoon. then balan crawled on all fours, feet and hands, and put off the helm of his brother, and might hardly know him by his face, so hewn and stained it was. balan wept and kissed his face, and with that balin awoke. 'o balan, my brother, thou hast slain me and i thee!' 'alas!' said balan, 'but i knew thee not, my brother. hadst thou had thine own shield, i would have known thy device of the two swords.' 'ah, 'twas part of the evil hap that hath followed me,' cried balin. 'i know not why.' then they both swooned, and the lady of the castle came and would have had them taken to a chamber. but balan awoke and said: 'let be! let be! no leech can mend us. and i would not live more, for i have slain my dear brother and he me!' balin woke up therewith, and put his hand forth, and his brother clasped it in his, very eagerly. 'little brother,' said balin, 'i cannot come to thee--kiss me!' when they had kissed, they swooned again, and in a little while balin died, but balan did not pass until midnight. 'alas! alas!' cried the lady, weeping for very pity, 'that ever this should be. two brothers that have played together about their mother's knees to slay each other unwittingly!' on the morrow came merlin, and made them be buried richly in the green place where they had fought, and on their tomb he caused to be written in letters of gold, deep and thick, these words: 'here lie sir balin and his brother sir balan, who, unwittingly, did most pitifully slay each other: and this sir balin was, moreover, he that smote the dolorous stroke. whereof the end is not yet.' iii how lancelot was made a knight. the four witch queens, and the adventures at the chapel perilous when king arthur was arrived at the age of twenty-five, his knights and barons counselled that he should take a queen, and his choice fell upon gwenevere, the daughter of king leodegrance, of the land of cameliard. this damsel was the most beautiful and the most gracious in all the realm of britain. when the marriage was arranged between her father and merlin, king leodegrance said that, for her dowry, instead of broad lands, of which king arthur had many, he would give to arthur the table round, which uther pendragon had in friendship given to him many years before. for, as king arthur was already famous for his prowess and nobleness and his love of knightly men and brave deeds, leodegrance knew that this would be a gift beloved of arthur. with the table were to go the knights who were its company. it seated one hundred and fifty when it was complete, but many had been slain, and now they numbered but a hundred. when king arthur heard from merlin of the coming of gwenevere, with the hundred knights bearing the round table with them, he was very glad, 'for,' said he, 'their noble company pleaseth me more than great riches.' he charged merlin to go and espy through all the land of britain for another fifty knights, so that the tale of the noble company of the round table should be complete. now, it chanced that while arthur sat in the hall of his palace at london, waiting for gwenevere to come to him, and for merlin to return from his quest, king ban, who had aided him in his fierce battle against the eleven kings, sent his young son lancelot to arthur's court, to learn knightly deeds and noble prowess. none knew who he was but arthur, who kept the matter secret. many had smiled at the huge limbs of lancelot, until his great strength had caused them to respect him; and being but a young man he had not yet got all the courtly bearing and noble manners for which in later time he was famous throughout all christendom. so that many knights and ladies smiled sourly upon him, but others saw that he would shortly prove a fine man of his hands, full courteous and gentle, and of a noble nature and great presence. at the court was also young gawaine, son of king lot, and nephew of the king. both lancelot and gawaine were as yet not knighted, but together they tilted at each other in the lists beyond the walls, and spent their days in sword-play and all knightly exercises. lancelot was the stronger and the better fighter; and though gawaine never overcame him, yet did they twain love each other passing well. now gawaine went to the king one day, and asked of him a gift, and king arthur said he would grant it. 'sir,' said gawaine, while lancelot stood a little way off, fondling the hounds that licked at his hand, 'i ask that ye will make me knight the same day that ye shall wed fair gwenevere.' 'i will do it with a good will,' said the king. 'and lancelot,' he said, calling to the young man, 'have ye no boon to ask of me?' 'not at this time, sir,' replied lancelot, 'but in a little while i may.' into the hall next day, as the king sat at dinner, came an old woman, bent and feeble, but with reverend white hair and gentle face, and she kneeled at the king's feet. 'what is it, dame?' said arthur. 'what is't you crave?' 'justice, lord king,' she said in a weak voice, while the tears gushed from her eyes. 'or else i die beside the gate where you do give the justice that all men praise.' 'who hath done evil to you?' said the king. 'sir caradoc of the dolorous tower in the marsh,' replied the old woman. 'i and my son, lord, did build a little hut of wattle on a little plot which we banked from the marsh, near the great wall of the rich baron, deeming it safe to rest within the shadow of the strong lord, and though his hard rule was hateful to those whom he oppressed, we were so humble that we thought he would not notice us. and meagrely we reared our living from the ground, and sold our poor herbs to sir caradoc his steward, or to the people in the villages in the marsh about us. but soon the lord caradoc desired the land on which our little hut was standing, to make his lands the broader. he tore our poor home down, and scattered all, and thrust us out to wander in the marshes; and when my poor son pleaded with the lord, he had him whipped, and he was brought and cast half dead at my feet as i waited outside the hall. now if thou givest us not justice, we shall surely die.' 'doth any know sir caradoc?' asked the king of his knights. 'yea, sir,' said one, 'and he is a great man of his hands, fierce and bold, of strong family, and his brother is sir turquine of camber, who tried to slay thee at caerleon, and was with the eleven kings in battle. sir caradoc liveth in a strong tower beyond the marshes to the south of the river, and he slayeth all that desire to pass them, unless they pay him all he demands.' 'what!' said the king with fierce anger, 'within a few miles of this my justice-seat doth such tyranny rule unchecked, and ye tell me naught of it? are ye then more fearful of this marsh robber than of me your king?' the knights hung their heads abashed, and were silent. then lancelot came and stood before the king. 'let me, sir king, go and summon this tyrant to your presence,' he said, 'so that this poor dame may have justice, and that ye may punish him for his oppression.' 'i fear me, lancelot, thou art over young for so fierce a knight,' said arthur. 'i shall but bear thy words, sir,' said lancelot, and he will not harm thy messenger.' 'take two stout men-at-arms with you, then,' said arthur, 'and say to this sir caradoc that if he come not back with thee to answer unto me, i will come and take his life and burn his evil tower to the ground.' many of the younger men that had despite against lancelot for his greater prowess at the sword and the lance thought that now, indeed, they would be ridded of him, for they deemed sir caradoc would slay him. two days later came young lancelot back with his two men-at-arms, and with them, bound upon a great horse, was a full fierce and raging knight, red of face, large of body, his clothes all tossed and torn, and his mouth full of dire threatenings against lancelot. men made way for them marvelling, and together lancelot and his captive rode up the hall to the king. 'here, lord, is sir caradoc of the dolorous tower in the marsh,' said lancelot. 'he would not come when i gave him your message, so i bided my time until he was sunk in wine, and was sleeping alone, and i have brought him secretly from his hold. now, lord king, i think sir caradoc would joust with me, if you will give me knighthood.' 'joust with thee, thou smooth-faced boy!' cried sir caradoc, straining at his bonds. 'i will spit thee on my lance if i may get at thee, and when thou art slain i will fight with this little king of thine--and his death shall wipe out this insult thou hast put upon me!' at his rage and fierce bearing men marvelled and many were afeared, seeing that sir caradoc was great in lands and kinsmen, and big of his body. 'thou art full young, lancelot,' said arthur, 'to joust with so strong a knight. let an older man have ado with him.' 'sir king,' cried lancelot eagerly, 'i claim the first battle with this strong tyrant. he is my captive, and i claim it.' 'have it as ye will,' said arthur, 'and god speed you. but i misdoubt me much 'twill end in your sorrow.' 'ay, and thine too, thou gentle lady's knight!' sneered sir caradoc. 'peace, man, peace,' said the king sternly. 'i think god will fight in this battle, for i have inquired far, and the tale of thy evil deeds is over-full.' therewith king arthur made young lancelot knight, and men eagerly rushed away to the tilting-ground to see the battle between the virgin knight, sir lancelot, and the old robber knight, sir caradoc. and when sir caradoc was released and armed, he laughed and shook his lance, so sure was he of revenge right speedily. then they hurtled together most fiercely, and young sir lancelot was thrust from his horse by sir caradoc. quickly he rose from the ground, and dressed his shield and drew his sword, and cried, 'alight, sir caradoc, for i will fight thee on foot.' but sir caradoc, being traitorous, rode at sir lancelot with his spear, as if he would pin him to the earth, and the young knight had much ado to avoid him. all the knights cried out upon sir caradoc for a foul knight, and for shame he threw down his lance and alighted, and rushed at sir lancelot full fiercely, in order to slay him instantly. but that was not easily to be done, for however wise sir caradoc was in sword-play, he was mad with wrath, and therefore thought of naught but to slay his enemy instantly. he raged like a wild boar, and gave sir lancelot many evil strokes, yet never did he beat down the young knight's guard. soon men perceived that sir caradoc's great fierceness was causing him to make blind strokes, and then sir lancelot seemed the more wary. suddenly they saw the young knight leap forward, and beat so heavily upon the other's helm that it cracked. sir caradoc strove to guard himself, but sir lancelot was so wroth, and so mighty of his blows, that he could not. at last sir lancelot beat him to his knees, and then thrust him grovelling to the ground. sir lancelot bade him yield, but he would not, and still sought to thrust at the other. then the young knight struck at him between the neck and the head and slew him. both the knights and the common people shouted with joy, and acclaimed sir lancelot as a noble and mighty knight. but the young man was full modest, and withdrew from the press. king arthur gave unto him the dolorous tower and the lands which had belonged to sir caradoc, and lancelot caused the old dame and her son to be given a fair piece of land and a hut, and many other wrongs and evil customs that had been done by sir caradoc, sir lancelot caused to be righted. the kinsmen of sir caradoc went apart and conspired to have sir lancelot slain, but for a long time they could not come at him. then, when the queen came unto king arthur, there was great feasting and joustings and merry games, and sir lancelot, for his knightly prowess in the lists, and for his gentle courtesy and noble manners to all, both poor and rich, high and low, was sought by many, and for some time rested himself in knightly games and play. then, on a day in june, when a sudden wind from a lattice blew upon his face as he laughed and jested with ladies and knights in silks and rich garments, he bethought him of the fair green woods and the wide lands through which lonely roads were winding. and departing from the hall forthwith, he bade his horse and arms be brought to him, and rode into a deep forest, and thought to prove himself in strange adventures. thus faring, he rode for two days and met with naught. on the third day the weather was hot about noon, and sir lancelot had great list to sleep. he espied a great apple-tree full of white blossoms, and a fair shadow was beneath it, and he alighted and tied his horse unto a thorn, and laid his helmet under his head and slept. while he thus lay, there rode by him on white mules four ladies of great estate, with four knights about them, who bore a canopy of green silk on four spears, so that the high sun should not touch the faces of the ladies. then, as they rode by, they heard a war-horse grimly neigh, and looking aside, they were aware of sir lancelot all armed, and asleep under the apple-tree. the ladies came nigh him, and of them there was queen morgan le fay, who was wife of king lot, and an evil witch; the queen of northgales, a haughty lady; the lady of the out-isles; and the lady of the marshes. and when the lady of the marshes saw the knight she cried: 'now this is as good hap as ever could be, for this is he that slew my brother, sir caradoc of the dolorous tower; and for revenge of that, i would have this knight taken to my tower and torture him before i slay him.' 'that is well said,' said morgan le fay, 'for he bids fair to be one of the most strong knights of arthur, whom i hate. this man, sir lancelot du lake, is the favourite of all the ladies at that court, who hate me. so will i lay an enchantment on him, so that he shall sleep.' then the evil queen laid her hands over the face of sir lancelot, and said strange words that none could understand, and then he was laid across the crupper of one of the knights' horses, and he did not wake. when in the twilight sir lancelot awoke, he found himself on a straw pallet in a strange room, and he leaped up and went to a narrow arrow-slit in the wall and looked out. before him for a great distance was a black watery land, with the sun sinking far away on the very edge, and the pools of the marsh were as if they were of blood. then he beat at the door and called, but none responded, and for wrath he could have dashed the door down, but it was too stout, and he had no weapon; for his arms had been taken from him. when it was dark, suddenly it seemed to sir lancelot that the room smelled foul, as if he had been carried into the midst of the quaking marsh, and was sunk deep in the slime and weeds of a pool. then, through the arrow-slit, he saw many strange lights come, dim and blue like the wild lights that dance and flit over the lonely marshes by night; but that which made him marvel was that these lights were two together, as if they were the eyes of evil things. and they came up to him with a breath that was cold and dank, and they seemed to peer into his face, but he could see naught of their bodies. the hair upon his head rose, and his skin went cold. they pressed all about him, and to defend himself he struck at the eyes, but his blows beat only the air. then suddenly sir lancelot felt sharp pains, as if small keen knives had been thrust into his flesh at many places. the stabs increased in number and in pain, and sir lancelot beat about himself and ran to and fro in the narrow chamber to escape the evil eyes and the stabs, but it was in vain, and thus all night in much misery he suffered. when for sheer weariness he lay down and tried to close his eyes, the evil things would not let him, but ever they tore at him and stabbed him. he was in anguish of mind more than he could bear, and for all his thought he could not think of any way to fight against the evil powers which followed and tortured him wherever he ran. but at dawn they fled, and then the door of the room opened, and a damsel appeared, and in her hands was a manchet of sour bread, and a beaker of water from the ditch of the moat. the damsel was evilly clad in rags, and seemed like a scullion-maid. 'these,' she said, 'my mistresses bid me say shall be your food until you die.' 'damsel,' said lancelot, 'tell me who hath brought me here and used me so evilly.' 'it is queen morgan le fay,' said the damsel, 'and the three witch queens, the queen of northgales, the queen of the out-isles, and the lady of the marshes.' 'i doubt not, then, that they would slay me?' said lancelot. 'but why hate they me?' 'it is for this,' went on the damsel, 'that you did slay sir caradoc, the brother of the lady of the marshes.' 'alas, then,' said sir lancelot, 'there is no pity for me, and none of my dear friends shall learn of my shameful death.' 'and so that you should suffer much ere you are slain,' went on the damsel, 'they sent in the night the coranians, the marsh fiends, to torture you. thus will they do until you die, unless, sir knight, you are a knight with a stout heart, and a good fighter, and will do me justice. if you will be ruled by me, and will give me a promise, i will aid you.' 'damsel, that will i grant you,' said lancelot, 'for this would be an evil death for a knight. and full of terror hath been this night, from the foul things which have beset me.' 'i may not stay further now,' said the maid, 'lest they think i tarry over-long. but by evening i will come again.' the day passed and twilight came, and sir lancelot was adread for fear of the night. but anon the damsel came secretly to him and said: 'now must you promise me this, that you will release my father, whom sir turquine, sir caradoc's brother, hath kept in his foul dungeons since i was but a little child. and all his lands did sir turquine rob from him, and me he gave as a kitchen slut to morgan le fay, and evilly have i been treated who am a good knight's daughter. now, will ye promise to free my father?' 'that will i, my poor damsel,' said lancelot, 'and i will, god aiding me, slay this sir turquine as i slew sir caradoc his brother.' so at the dead of night the damsel opened his door, and with the keys that she had stolen, she opened twelve other locks that stood between them and the postern door. then she brought him to his armour, which she had hidden in a bush, and she led forth his horse, and he mounted with much joy, and took the maid with him, and she showed him the way to a convent of white nuns, and there they had good cheer. then, on the morrow, she led him to a thick forest with many hills therein, and anon they came to a fair ford, and over the ford there grew a tree, and on it there hung many good shields, each with the device of some knight thereon, and sir lancelot was astounded to see the shields of many of king arthur's knights hung there. and on a bole of the tree there was a bason of copper. 'now,' said the damsel, 'i have brought you here where is sir turquine, the mightiest knight that ever was found, as men say, and was never overmatched by any. and in his dungeons are many poor knights, and my dear father, sir darrel. now strike the bason with the butt of your spear.' sir lancelot beat such strokes that the bason burst asunder, and then he was aware of a great knight riding on a black horse. 'this is he,' said the damsel, 'and now god aid you!' 'what needst thou, sir knight?' cried the other. 'to try my strength on thee,' cried lancelot, 'for thou hast done great despite and shame unto many good knights of the round table.' 'art thou of that caitiff crew of ladies' knights?' sneered sir turquine. 'then i defy thee.' 'thou hast said enough,' replied lancelot. they put their spears in their rests, and came like the wind against each other, and either smote other in the middle of their shields, so that both their horses' girths broke. then, lightly avoiding their beasts, they came at each other with great fierceness, and so fared for two hours, feinting and striking, and so heavy were their blows that each bled from many wounds as they stood. at last, for sheer breathlessness, each leaned upon his sword. 'now, fellow,' said sir turquine haughtily, 'answer me these questions i shall put to thee.' 'say on,' said sir lancelot. 'thou art,' went on sir turquine, 'the biggest man that ever i met with, and like one knight that i hate above all others, and i would liefer be thy friend than thy foe. now, therefore, i will give up to thee my captive knights if thou wilt tell me thy name, and if thou art not the knight i hate most.' 'willingly,' said sir lancelot. 'but what knight hatest thou above all other? and why?' 'it is sir lancelot du lake,' cried the knight, 'for he slew my brother sir caradoc of the dolorous tower in the marsh, who was one of the best knights living. and ever i have sought this lancelot, and slain and maimed many good knights and imprisoned others in the quest. to slay that fellow i have made a vow, and him i would meet above all others.' 'ha!' laughed sir lancelot, 'and i am the first thou hast met whose love thou wouldst liefer have than my hatred? well, i will have thee to wit that i am he ye seek, sir lancelot du lake, and thy brother was an evil knight and an oppressor.' 'what sayest thou?' cried sir turquine. 'thou art he i seek? then, lancelot, thou art unto me most welcome as ever was any knight, for we shall never part till the one of us be dead.' then they ran at each other like two wild boars, lashing and dashing with their swords and shields, so that sometimes in their fury they slipped together on the grass, which was wetted with blood, and fell striking at each other. but at last sir turquine waxed faint and tried to avoid sir lancelot's blows, and his shield sank low, for his arm was very weary. seeing this, sir lancelot leaped upon him fiercely, and got him by the banner of his helmet, and thrust him on his knees, and slew him at a stroke. when he had rested a while, he went to the castle of sir turquine and released all his prisoners, and was rejoiced to see the damsel find her father alive. he caused the old knight to have his lands again, and bade the others that they should betake themselves to the court of king arthur to be cheered and comforted, while their possessions, which sir turquine had robbed of them, should be given back to them. then fared sir lancelot further afield, glad exceedingly that he had escaped the foul plots of the four witch queens, and also that he had vanquished the evil sir turquine. then he rode a great while in a deep and dark forest, and as he followed the winding ways, suddenly he saw a black hound before him, with its nose to the ground as if seeking a scent. he followed the beast, and ever she looked behind her. soon she left the forest, and picked her way through a great marsh, and sir lancelot followed, until in the wide distance he saw a little hill with trees upon it, and in the midst a ruined manor. the hound went towards the ruin and sir lancelot followed. the wall was broken down in many places, and the path all overgrown and weedy, and as he came to the courtyard before the house, he saw the fishponds choked with weeds and the horseblock green with moss, and in the great doorway grew charnel and hellebore, and the spiked hemlock waved and spilt its seed in the wind. the windows hung by their hinges, and the green moss crept down the wide wet cracks in the walls. but the dog ran over the drawbridge into the house, and sir lancelot gat from his horse and tethered it to the post beside the horseblock, and so went across the bridge, which was full sodden and worm-eaten, and bent beneath his weight. coming into a great hall, foul with many rotting leaves, he saw a table in the midst thereof, and on it was a knight that was a seemly man, and he lay as if he were dead, and the black hound licked his wound. and by his side there was a lovely lady, who started up, weeping and wringing her hands, and she said: 'o knight, too much evil have you brought to me!' 'why say ye so?' said sir lancelot; 'i never did harm to this knight, for hither did this hound lead me, and therefore, fair lady, be not displeased with me, for grief is upon me for your sorrow and your sadness.' 'truly, sir,' said the lady, and she laid her face in her hands and sobbed full sorely, so that sir lancelot was much stirred thereat, 'i trow, as ye say it, that you are not the knight that hath near slain my love and my husband. and never may he be healed of his deadly wound except some good knight aid me. but he must be so bold and valiant a man, that never, i think, may i find such a one in the little time i have before my dear lord shall die!' 'now on the honour of my knighthood,' replied sir lancelot, 'i do not presume that i am such a one as you desire; but if i may aid you and ease your sorrow, that would i do most willingly. what is it i should do?' 'oh, sir knight!' cried the lady, and her lovely eyes looked full thankfully at sir lancelot, 'if ye would, it were the greatest deed you have ever done, however bold a knight ye may be. for this my lord is sore wounded by a knight whom he met in the forest this day, and by one thing only may he be made whole. for there is a lady, a sorceress, that dwelleth in a castle here beside, and she hath told me that my husband's wounds may never be whole till i may find a knight that would go at midnight into the chapel perilous beside the mere, and that therein he should find before the high altar a sword, and the shroud in which the dead wizard-knight is lapped, and with that sword my husband's wounds should be searched, and a piece of the shroud should bind them.' 'this is a marvellous thing,' said sir lancelot, 'and i will essay it. but what is your husband's name?' 'sir,' she said, 'his name is sir meliot de logres.' 'that me repenteth,' said sir lancelot, 'for he is a fellow of the round table, and for him will i do all in my power.' going to the table, he looked upon the ashen face of the wounded man, and it was sir meliot, even as the lady said. 'now, sir,' said the lady, when sir lancelot had mounted his horse, 'do ye follow that hard way across the marsh, and it will lead ye by midnight to the chapel perilous, and may ye speed well.' right so, sir lancelot departed, and the sun was near its setting. for some hours sir lancelot fared across the marsh, until it was deep night, save for the stars; then he came upon a broad road, grass-grown and banked high, where the night wind piped in the long grass. this he knew was a road which the great roman necromancers had wrought, and he thought he had missed his way, for there was no other path. as he stood marvelling, the figure of a man, tall and gaunt and but half clad, came down the broad road towards him, and cried in a hollow voice: 'for the love of charity, sir knight, give to a poor man who is outcast.' sir lancelot pitied the sunken eyes of the poor man, and gave him alms. 'god give thee comfort, poor soul,' said the knight, 'and get thee a roof, for the night wind blows chill.' 'god bless thee, sir knight,' said the man, in awful tones, 'for courtesy and pity such as thine are rare. whither goest thou this night?' 'i seek the chapel perilous,' said sir lancelot. at which the shape threw back its head and cried out as if with great sorrow. 'god fend thee, sir knight,' he said, 'and bring thee safe alive. what thou gettest there, keep thou in thy hands until the dawn, or thy soul shall suffer death.' then he vanished, and sir lancelot knew it had been a phantom. then as he crossed himself, he looked up, and through some thin and withered trees a little way off upon a slope he saw the shimmer of light, as if a chapel was lit up. he went towards it, and he saw a high wall that was broken down in many places, and an old grey chapel beyond, and the windows were shimmering with a ghostly light. as he came through the trees he saw they were all dead, with neither leaf nor twig upon them, their roots were crooked out of the ground as if they would throw his horse, and their limbs were stretched as if they strained to clutch him. coming to the gate in the wall, his horse trembled and plunged, and would go no further; whereat sir lancelot alighted, and tied it to a thorn-tree, and went through the gate. by the ghostly light that came from the windows of the ruined chapel he saw that under the eaves were hung fair shields, with rich devices, and all were turned upside down. many of them were those of knights he had known or heard of, long since dead or lost. when he had made a few steps on the grass-grown pathway towards the door, of a sudden he saw, coming from the church, thirty tall knights, each a foot higher than he, each in black armour, and each with sword uplifted, as they rushed towards him. their feet and their armour made no sound as they pressed forwards, and a thin blue flame licked about each naked sword. they came upon him, but sir lancelot, with a prayer to god, dressed his shield and sword and stood firm, though his flesh quaked and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. they mowed and gnashed at him, and heaved their swords about him; then suddenly their vizors went up and he looked into their faces. and at that he was sore adread, for he knew they were dead men. but he would not be overcome, and said in a loud voice: 'in the name of god, avaunt ye!' he made a step forward, and they scattered before him, but followed closely behind. then he went into the chapel, where he saw no light but a dim lamp burning upon the altar. it was an old, old chapel, with dust upon its floor like a thick carpet, the walls and windows were holed and broken, and the timber of the seats was rotten. he went up to the high altar, and saw before it a trestle, and upon it was a dead man, all covered with a cloth of silk. sir lancelot stooped down, and with his sword cut a piece of that cloth away. with that his blood seemed turned to water, and his feet seemed eager to run towards the door, for with a mighty roar the earth shook beneath him, and the walls of the chapel rocked. but he looked for the sword which he must take, and saw it under the trestle, and picked it up and went out of the chapel. the ghosts of the knights pressed about him as he walked, and strove to tear the sword from his grasp. but he would not suffer them to take it, and when he reached the gate they could no further go, and so left him. at the gate there came running up to him a fair damsel, crying to him: 'o brave knight, give me the sword and the cloth, that i may take them at once to my mistress, the lady of sir meliot, for he is at the point of death, and she is waiting in sorrow and tears beside him.' but sir lancelot remembered the words of the phantom beggar, and made reply: 'fair damsel, i shall take them myself to the lady of sir meliot, for these things i may not give to any until the dawning.' the damsel would have torn the sword and the cloth full hastily from his hands, but he was aware of her intent, and hindered her, and bade her in the name of god to withdraw. whereat, with a great shriek, she vanished. 'now,' said sir lancelot, 'may god, who has brought me through these evil adventures, shield me from any further subtle crafts of these foul things.' straightway he mounted his horse, and took his way towards the marsh, so that he should give the sword and the cloth into the hands of the lady of sir meliot, for the healing of her lord. but at the dawn merlin met him. 'sir lancelot,' said the old white wizard, 'ye have no need to go to the ruined manor, except ye would have the proof of what i tell you.' 'and what is that?' asked sir lancelot. 'that all that hath befallen thee hath been done by evil magic,' replied merlin. 'the black dog that led thee to the manor was a fiend, the fair lady that entreated ye was an evil witch, and she and the damsel at the chapel were the same, and all was caused by the witch queens who had you in their tower; and the likeness of the wounded knight to sir meliot was formed by wizardry. they that craved your death did hope that ye would fail at the terrors of the chapel perilous, and that your soul would be lost as have the souls of those evil or weak knights whose ghosts assailed ye. but by your courage and great heart ye won through all.' 'this is a great marvel,' said sir lancelot, 'and i thank god that he hath shielded me of his mercy.' when sir lancelot was returned to camelot, and merlin had told king arthur of the knight's adventures, the king made him one of the knights of the round table. 'ye do well,' said merlin privily unto the king, 'for he shall prove the most man of worship that is in the world, and all your court and all your round table shall be by him made more famous than by any knight now living. yet shall he not be one of those three that shall achieve the holy graal.' iv the knight of the kitchen it was the feast of pentecost, and king arthur was holding his court of the round table at the city of kin-kenadon, hard by the sea in wales. in the high hall the tables were set for dinner, and the floor was freshly strewn with rushes, flowers and fennel, so that the place smelled as sweet as a field. the cook and his scullions came to and fro through the door of the kitchen with anxious faces, for they feared lest the meats should be overdone, but as yet king arthur would not sit to dinner. for it was his custom never to go to meat on that day until he had heard or seen some great marvel or adventure. sir gawaine stood looking from a window in the bower where the king sat with the queen, and suddenly he turned with a laugh, and said: 'sir, go to your meat, for here, i think, cometh a strange adventure.' and even as the king took his seat on the high dais in the hall, and his knights sat at the round table, through the great door of the hall came two men, well beseen and richly dressed, and, leaning on their shoulders, was a tall, fair, young man, as goodly to strength and breadth as ever was seen, with hands large and fair. but he was either lazy or ill-conditioned, for he leaned upon his fellows as if he were unable to stand upright. and the three of them marched through the hall, speaking no word, and they came to the foot of the dais, while men sat silent and marvelling. then the young man raised himself upright, and it was seen that he was a foot and a half taller than those beside him. 'god bless you, o king!' said the young man, 'and all your fair fellowship, and in especial the fellowship of the round table. i come to crave of your kindness three gifts, and they are such as ye may worshipfully and honourably grant unto me. and the first i will ask now, and the others will i ask at the same day twelvemonths, wheresoever ye hold your feast of pentecost.' 'ask,' said the king, 'and ye shall be granted your petition.' 'the first is this,' said he, 'that ye give me meat and drink and lodging here for a year.' 'willingly,' said the king, 'but what is your name and whence come you? ye have the bearing of good lineage.' 'that is as may be,' was the reply, 'but i may tell you naught, if it please you, lord.' then king arthur called sir kay, his steward, and bade him tend the young man for a year as if he were a lord's son. 'there is no need that he should have such care,' sneered sir kay, who was a man of a sour mind. 'i dare swear that he is but a villein born. if he were of good blood he would have craved a horse and harness. and since he hath no name i will dub him beaumains, or fair hands, for see how soft are his hands! and he shall live in the kitchen, and become as fat as any pig!' but sir lancelot and sir gawaine reproached sir kay for his mocking of the young man, 'for,' said sir lancelot, 'i dare lay my head he hath the making of a man of great worship.' 'that cannot be,' said sir kay; 'he has asked as his nature prompted him. he will make naught but fat, for he desires only meat and drink. on my life i would swear he is only some lazy fellow from an abbey, where food hath failed, and so he has come hither for sustenance.' so kay sat down to his meat laughing, and beaumains went to the door of the hall, where the varlets and boys ate the leavings from the table; but he fared badly there, for they jeered at him as sir kay had done. afterwards sir lancelot, of his great gentleness and courtesy, bade him come to his chamber, to be better fed and clothed; and sir gawaine, because of a liking he felt in his heart for the young man, proffered him good meat and drink and a soft bed. but then, and at all other times, beaumains refused, and would do nothing but what sir kay commanded. thus he lived in the kitchen, eating broken scraps, and lying at night where the scullions lay, except that he was given the chilliest spot furthest from the fire. but he did what he was bidden to do with a cheerful air and was ever willing to work. and if there was any jousting of knights or any other sights of prowess, these would he see with the greatest delight. in any sports or trials of strength or skill among the serving-men, he was ever foremost, and none could overcome him in wrestling or at quarterstaff, nor could any throw the bar or cast the stone so far as he could, no, not by two yards. whenever sir kay met him about the hall or the kitchen he would laugh mockingly, and to those about him he would say, 'well, how like you my huge boy of the kitchen?' but to such sneers, and to all the scorns and insults of the varlets of the kitchen, beaumains would answer naught, and was ever quiet and mild whatever he endured. and to all was he ever gentle, both man and child, and he never put forth his great strength in anger. thus a year passed, until again it was the feast of pentecost, and at that time the king held it at his chief city in wales, caerleon-upon-usk. and again the feast was royally prepared in the great hall of the court, but the king would not give the signal to sit to meat until he should have heard or seen some strange adventure. but about noon a squire came to where the king waited, and said, 'lord, i am bidden to say ye may go to your meat, for there cometh a damsel with some strange adventure.' quickly the king sat on the high seat, and the cooks brought in the smoking collops of meat and the dishes of savoury stews. and as they began to eat, there came a maiden of a plain sharp visage, who made her way to the step of the dais, and there kneeling, cried: 'succour and help i crave of you, o king!' 'for whom?' said the king, 'and for what reason?' 'sir,' said the maiden, 'my lady sister is of great beauty and renown, and is besieged in her castle by a tyrant-knight, who will not let her go forth from her castle; and because it is said that here in your court are the noblest knights in all the world, i come to you praying for aid.' 'what is your lady sister's name?' asked the king, 'and where doth she dwell, and tell me who is he that doth besiege her?' 'sir king,' said the lady, 'i may not tell you my sister's name, but she is of great beauty and of wide lands. and the tyrant-knight who besieges her is the red knight of reedlands.' 'i know him not,' replied the king. 'sir,' cried sir gawaine from his seat, 'i know him well. he is one of the perilous knights of the world, for he hath the strength of seven men, and from him i once escaped barely with my life.' 'fair lady,' said the king, 'i would help you willingly, but as ye will not tell me your lady's name, none of my knights here shall go with you with my consent.' the damsel looked about the hall with a quick angry glance, and the knights that sat there liked not her sour looks. then from the crowd of scullions and kitchen lads that hung about the serving-tables at the side of the hall came beaumains, his dress smirched, but his handsome face lit up and his eyes burning with eagerness. 'sir king!' he cried, holding up his hand, 'a boon i crave!' as he came to the step of the dais the damsel shrank from him as if he had been something foul. 'say on,' replied the king to the young man. 'god thank you, my king,' went on beaumains. 'i have been these twelve months in your kitchen, and have had my full living, as ye did graciously order, and now i ask for the two further gifts ye promised.' 'ye have but to ask,' replied the king. 'sir, they are these,' said beaumains. 'first, that you will grant me this adventure of the damsel.' 'i grant it you,' said king arthur. 'then, sir, this is the other,--that ye shall bid sir lancelot du lake to follow me, and to make me a knight when i shall desire him.' 'all this shall be done if sir lancelot think it well,' said the king. but the lady was exceedingly wroth, and her eyes flashed with scorn as she turned to the king: 'shame on thee!' she cried; 'will you give me a kitchen scullion to aid me?' with that she hastened from the hall, mounted her horse and rode away. even as she went forth, a dwarf in the dress of a page entered the hall leading a great horse richly caparisoned, and on the saddle was piled a splendid suit of armour. and the dwarf went up to beaumains and began to arm him, while men asked each other whence came all this fine gear. when he was dressed in armour, all the knights marvelled to see how goodly a man he looked. then beaumains took leave of king arthur and of sir gawaine, and asked sir lancelot to follow him. many people went to the door of the hall to see beaumains mount his horse and ride after the damsel, and the way he sat his steed, with its trappings of gold and purple, excited their admiration. but all wondered to see that beaumains had neither shield nor spear, and some laughed and said, 'the ignorant churl! doth he think the mere sight of him on horseback will affright his enemies, that he carries neither shield nor lance.' sir kay sneered with them, and suddenly getting up from his seat he cried: 'by my faith! i will go after my kitchen boy and see whether he will still know me for his better!' 'ye had better bide at home,' said sir lancelot, and sir gawaine agreed. but sir kay laughed them aside, and having swiftly put on his armour, he took his spear and shield and rode after beaumains. he caught up with the youth just as the latter reached the side of the damsel, and sir kay cried out, with a scornful laugh: 'what! beaumains, do ye not know me?' 'ay,' replied beaumains, 'i know ye for the most ungentle knight in all king arthur's court, and therefore keep you off from me.' 'ah, churl!' cried sir kay, 'thou needst a lesson from me. a beggar, though he be on horseback, is still a beggar.' with that he put his lance in rest and dashed towards beaumains, expecting an easy victory. but the young man, putting the lance aside with his sword just as it was about to strike him, rushed upon sir kay, and with a deft thrust struck him through a joint of his armour, so that sir kay fell backwards off his horse to the ground. swiftly leaping down, beaumains took possession of his opponent's spear and shield, and commanded his dwarf to mount upon sir kay's horse. then, after remounting, beaumains rejoined the damsel, who had seen all that had taken place, but said nothing. at that moment they saw sir lancelot coming towards him. he had seen sir kay's discomfiture, and wondered at the mastery which beaumains had shown. 'fair sir,' cried beaumains, turning and drawing rein as sir lancelot approached, 'i would joust with you, if ye will.' 'have at you, then!' replied sir lancelot with a laugh, and with spears in rest they set their horses at a great gallop. they came together so fiercely that they were both thrust backwards from their saddles and fell to the earth, half stunned and greatly bruised. sir lancelot recovered first and ran to help beaumains to his feet, and then, with their shields before them, they continued the combat with swords. for an hour they strove fiercely, thrusting, striking and parrying like two great boars in a forest clearing. sir lancelot was astonished to feel how great was the young man's strength, how swift were his thrusts, and how powerful were his blows. he recognised that beaumains was a dangerous fighter, and that he himself would have much to do to overcome him. 'beaumains,' he cried at length, 'fight not so hard, lad. our quarrel, if we have aught, is surely not so great that we cannot leave off.' 'that is truth!' said beaumains, laughing, as he dropped the point of his weapon. 'but, sir lancelot, it doth me good to feel your wondrous skill and the strength of your arm. yet, my lord, i have not shown the uttermost of mine.' 'by my faith, i believe ye,' cried sir lancelot, 'for i should have much ado to keep myself from shameful defeat if you should really push me to the utmost. therefore i say that you need not fear any earthly knight.' 'i thank you for your good words,' replied beaumains. 'and do you think i may hope at any time to become a proved knight?' 'fight as you have fought with me, and i have no doubt of you.' 'then, i pray you, my lord,' said beaumains, 'give me the order of knighthood.' 'ere i do that, you must tell me your name and of what kin you were born,' replied sir lancelot. 'if you will promise to tell no one, i will reveal it.' sir lancelot gave his promise, and beaumains, going closer, whispered some words into sir lancelot's ear. 'ah, sir,' said sir lancelot, taking the young man's hand in his, 'i am glad i was not deceived. i knew you must come of great kin, and that you had not come to king arthur for meat or drink. kneel now, and i will make you knight.' so beaumains knelt before sir lancelot, who lightly touched him on the shoulder with his sword, naming him knight. thereupon they parted with many kind words, and beaumains made haste to overtake the damsel, who had long since disappeared. as for sir kay, he was lifted upon sir lancelot's shield and taken back to the court, and there slowly he recovered of his wound. men laughed him to scorn for the beating he had received from his own 'kitchen boy.' 'lo,' said some, 'the proud knight went forth to cuff his own scullion, and the scullion beat him sore and took his weapons for spoil.' when beaumains reached the side of the damsel, she pulled up her horse and turned upon him with flashing eyes and angry looks. 'what doest thou here?' she cried. 'away from me--thou smellest of the kitchen, knave! pah! thy clothes are foul with grease and tallow! dost thou think to ride with me?' 'lady,' said beaumains, and he spoke full gently, 'my clothes may be smirched, but my arm, i trust, is as strong to defend you as any that is wrapped in silk.' 'out upon thee, saucy churl!' she cried. 'thinkest thou i should allow for that knight whom you thrust from his horse but now? nay, not a whit do i, for thou didst strike him foully and like a coward! i know thee well, for sir kay named you. beaumains you are, dainty of hands and of eating, like a spoilt page. get thee gone, thou turner of spits and washer of greasy dishes!' but for all that she raved, beaumains would not reply in angry words, though his heart burned within him. 'damsel,' said he courteously, 'ye may say what ye will to me, but i will not go from you whatever you say. i have given my promise to king arthur that i will achieve this adventure for you, and that will i do or die in the trial of it.' the girl laughed mockingly. '_you_ will finish my adventure--_you_ will come to our aid!' she cried in scorn. 'fie on thee, thou upstart kitchen page! but if you will not go from me, then come, fool, and i shall see thee quickly shamed. thou art proud with the too good living thou hadst in arthur's kitchen, but one i know whose face thou wilt not dare to look into, my knight of the kitchen!' so saying, she pushed on her horse, and thus in silence they went on together. in a little while they came to a dark wood, and suddenly as they rode, a man with white scared face started from behind a bush and ran to the side of beaumains. 'go not that way, sir knight,' he said, 'for there be six knaves who have taken my lord and bound him, and now they will surely take you and your lady unless you go back. i barely escaped with my life, and hid when i heard you, thinking you were of their thievish company.' 'take me to them!' cried beaumains, and the poor squire, holding the knight's stirrup-leather, ran with him. and surely, in a little while, three knaves rushed forth before them in the green drive and bade beaumains stand. but grimly he dashed at them, before ever they could recover. two he cut down with his good sword as they stood, and the third, trying to escape, was run between the shoulders. then turning, beaumains saw in a glade near the drive where three other knaves stood beside a knight bound to a tree. they dashed towards beaumains with spiked clubs uplifted. but the squire rushed at one, tripped him up and despatched him; and the others suddenly decided to turn and flee. their resolution came too late, however, for beaumains cut them down as they ran. the knight was quickly released by his squire, and came up to his rescuer, and thanked him heartily for his speedy help. 'come with me,' he said, 'you and your lady, to my castle, which is but a little way hence, and i will fittingly requite thee for the saving of my life.' 'nay,' said beaumains, 'i will have no reward. all i do henceforth is but my duty, and i will take naught in payment. moreover, i must follow this lady.' the knight went to the lady, and begged that she would accept his hospitality, for the twilight was deepening and they were yet far from a town. the damsel consented, but, on reaching the castle of the knight, she would not permit beaumains to sit at the same table with her. 'take the knave hence!' she cried haughtily. 'he is but a scullion from king arthur's kitchen, and is not fit to sit with a lady of rank. he is more suited, sir knight, to dine with your turnspits.' 'lady, i do not understand your words,' said the knight, 'for this gentleman hath proved himself a man of knightly courage and courtesy this day.' 'as for that,' said the lady, 'i count it naught. he took the rascals unawares, and they had no heart. they were but sorrier knaves than he is.' 'well,' said the knight, 'since you mislike him so, he shall sit with me, and you shall sit alone.' so it was done, and while the lady sat eating her meal in chilly silence at one table, beaumains and the knight, his host, laughed and talked merrily over their dinner at another. next morning, early, beaumains and the lady were up and away while yet the dew shone on the leaves. soon they passed through a great forest and approached a wide river. in a little while they rode down to where a roughly paved way ran into the water, and, looking to the other bank, beaumains was aware of two knights on horseback, stationed as if to hinder his passing the ford. 'now, sir kitchen knight,' laughed the lady mockingly, 'what sayest thou? art thou a match for these two knights, or wilt thou not turn back?' 'i would not turn if they were six,' replied beaumains quietly. with that he rushed, with spear at rest, into the ford, and one of the waiting knights came swiftly against him. they met in the midst with so great a shock that their spears were splintered. they then closed fiercely with their swords, and hurtled about in the foaming, dashing water, beating at each other. suddenly beaumains struck the other so hard a stroke on his helm that he was stunned, and fell from his horse into the stream, which whirled him away into the deeps, and there drowned him. then beaumains rode swiftly towards the other knight, who with his lance dashed against him. but beaumains parried the spear stroke, and with one great heave of his sword, clove the other's helm in twain, so that the knight fell like a stone. 'alas!' cried the lady, as she came across the ford, 'that ever kitchen knave should have the mishap to slay two such noble knights! doubtless thou thinkest thou hast done mightily, sir knight of the turnspit, but i saw well how it all happened. the first knight's horse stumbled on the stones of the ford, and the other thou didst stab from behind. 'twas a shameful deed!' 'damsel,' said beaumains, quiet in words though hot of mind at her words, 'ye may say what ye will. i only know that i fight fairly, as god gives me strength. i reck not what ye say, so i win your lady sister from her oppressor.' 'thou knave of impudence!' cried the lady. 'thee to speak of winning my lady sister, high of rank and rich in wide lands as she is! but thou shalt soon see knights that shall abate thy pride.' 'whatever knights they be, i care not, so that i win good words from you at last,' said beaumains. 'those thou shalt never have, thou churl,' replied the lady scornfully. 'for all that thou hast done has been by chance and misadventure, and not by the prowess of thy hands. but if thou wilt follow me, why, then, come, and i shall the more quickly be rid of thee, for of a surety thou wilt soon be slain.' beaumains answered naught, and so they went on their way. [illustration: beaumains wins the fight at the ford] thus they fared until evensong, and then they came to a waste land, where their way led through a narrow darkling valley. and at the head thereof they entered upon a wide land, black and drear to the very skies, and beside the way was a black hawthorn, and thereon hung a black banner and a black shield, and by it, stuck upright, was a long black spear, and beside it was a great black horse covered with silk, and a black stone fast by it. and upon the stone sat a knight in black armour, at sight of whom the damsel cried: 'now, my kitchen knight, 'tis not too late. fly back through the valley, or this knight will surely slay thee.' 'nay, i will not,' said beaumains, 'for i fear him not.' the black knight came to the damsel and asked if she had brought this knight from king arthur's court to be her champion. 'fie!' she said angrily, 'he is no knight. he is but a knave that was fed for alms in the king's kitchen, and would follow me in spite of all i say. and i would that you would rid me of him. to-day he slew two noble knights at the passage of the water, and all by evil chance.' 'a strong knave, in truth,' answered the knight, 'and a saucy one. then this will i do. he shall leave me his horse and armour, for since he is but a knave, my knightly hands may not harm him.' 'you speak lightly of my horse and armour,' said beaumains, 'but i will have you know that you get naught from me, and moreover i will pass these lands with this lady in spite of you.' 'thou knave!' cried the knight angrily, 'yield me this lady and thyself without ado!' 'let me see what thou canst do to take us,' replied beaumains, and laughed gaily. at this the knight in a rage leaped upon his horse and they thundered together. the black knight's spear broke, but beaumains' lance pierced him through the side and broke off short. nevertheless, though badly wounded, the black knight drew his sword and fought manfully, striking beaumains many mighty blows and bruising him sorely. but suddenly his lifted sword fell from his hand, and turning in his saddle, he dropped to the ground in a swoon, and shortly died. and beaumains, seeing that the black armour was better than his own, armed himself in it with the aid of his dwarf squire, and rode after the damsel. but ever as before she railed at him, telling him he had conquered the black knight by a cowardly blow; but beaumains would answer her nothing in anger. anon they came to the edge of a vast and dark forest, and from its shadows came a knight in green armour, who cried to the damsel: 'lady, is that my brother the black knight whom ye bring riding behind ye?' 'nay, sir knight, it is not your brother,' she replied. 'it is but a kitchen knave who by treachery hath slain your noble brother, the knight of the black lands.' 'thou traitor!' cried the green knight. 'now shalt thou surely die, for my brother, sir percard, was a most noble knight and a valiant. and to think that he fell by the dirty hand of a knave is great shame.' 'i am no knave!' said beaumains, 'but of lineage as high as thine, maybe. and i slew your brother in knightly fashion.' but the green knight stayed not to answer, and they hurtled together, and clashed midway as if it were thunder. and beaumains' stroke was so mighty that both the green knight and his horse fell to the ground. swiftly the green knight rose to his feet, and then, beaumains having alighted, they rushed together with their swords, and stood a long time hacking, thrusting and parrying. and each hurt the other sorely. 'oh, my lord, the green knight,' cried the damsel, 'why do ye stand so long fighting with that kitchen knave? a shame it is to see a proved knight matched by a dirty scullion! slay him for me and be done!' shamed by her words the green knight gave a fierce stroke and clove beaumains' shield in twain. then beaumains, smarting with this blow, and in anger at the words of the lady, suddenly gave the green knight so great a stroke that he fell upon his knees, and then was thrust grovelling upon the earth. swiftly beaumains cut the fastenings of his helm, and, tearing it off, lifted his sword to strike off the other's head. but the green knight prayed of his mercy and pleaded hard for his life. 'thou shalt plead in vain,' said beaumains, 'unless this lady shall beg thy life of me.' 'shame on thee, thou kitchen knave!' cried the lady, biting her lip with anger. 'thinkest thou i shall crave aught of thee, and be so beholden to thee?' 'then he shall die!' cried beaumains. 'o lady, suffer me not to die!' cried the prostrate knight, 'when a fair word from you will save my life. and you, sir knight, give me my life, and i will yield myself and thirty knights to be your men and do your commands while they live.' 'now that is a grievous shame!' cried the lady, 'what, sir green knight, art such a coward as to crave thy life of a scullion knave, and promise him thirty knights' service!' 'you and your thirty knights shall avail you naught,' said beaumains grimly, 'and since this lady will not beg thy life of me, why, now i shall slay thee.' with that he raised the sword, but the lady cried out: 'put down, thou rascally knave, and slay him not, or thou shalt repent it!' 'lady,' said beaumains, and bowed full gently, 'your command is to me a pleasure, and at your desire i give him his life.' then the green knight did homage to beaumains and gave up his sword. afterwards he took them to his castle near by, where they passed the night. next morning the green knight, whose name was sir pertolope, accompanied them some distance on their way, and at parting he told beaumains that he and his thirty knights would do service when and where he might desire. thereupon beaumains told him that he must go and yield himself and his knights to king arthur, and this sir pertolope promised faithfully to do. and again, when they had gone some way and had reached a little town, a knight challenged beaumains, who, having fought with the stranger and overpowered him, threatened to slay him unless the lady begged for his life. this she did, after she had said many bitter and evil things, and beaumains commanded the knight to go, with threescore knights which were in his service, and yield himself up to king arthur. then beaumains and the lady went on again, and the lady was full of rage in that she had been compelled a second time to plead with him for the life of a knight. 'thou shalt get thy full wages to-day, sir kitchen knight,' said she, 'for in a little while there will meet us the most valiant knight in the world, after king arthur. methinks thou wouldst do the better part to flee, for the evil luck which thou hast had with the three knights you have overcome will not avail thee upon this one.' 'madam,' said beaumains, 'ye know that ye are uncourteous so to reproach me. i have done you great service these three days, but ever ye call me coward and kitchen knave. yet those who have come against me, whom you said would beat me, are now either slain or have yielded homage to me.' 'the greater shame,' said the lady, 'that so lowborn a churl as thou art should have knights yield to thee who should have slain thee.' beaumains answered nothing more, but his heart was very heavy at the thought that, do what he might, he could not win this lady to speak fairly of him. towards noon, as they rode, they saw the white towers of a fair city, and before its gates was a field newly mown, with many tents therein of divers rich colours. 'lo, there is the town of the man that shall cut thy comb, thou proud varlet!' said the lady. 'a brave and proved knight is he, by name sir persaunt of mynnid. and he hath a following of five hundred knights and men-at-arms.' 'a goodly lord, indeed,' replied beaumains, 'and one i fain would see.' the lady laughed mockingly. 'thou shalt see him too soon to please thee, i doubt not,' she replied, 'for he is the lordliest knight that ever whipped a knave.' 'that may well be,' said beaumains, 'and the more desire i have to see him.' 'thou fool!' cried the lady angrily. 'thou hadst better turn and flee while there is time.' 'not a step will i,' replied he with a laugh. 'for, look you, if he be so lordly a knight as you say, he will not set his five hundred knights on me at once. but if he will send but one against me at a time, i will do my best till my strength goes from me. no man, be he knave or knight, can do more.' at his quiet brave words the lady's heart smote her. she repented of her evil tongue, when she thought how valiant and true this unknown man had been on her behalf. 'sir,' she said in a gentler voice, 'ye make me marvel. thou hast spoken boldly, and, by my faith, thou hast done boldly, and that makes me wonder of what kin thou art. but as ye are so brave, and have done, you and your horse, great travail these three days, i misdoubt that ye will get hurt if ye go further. therefore i bid you turn, or ever it be too late.' 'nay, i will not,' said beaumains. 'it would be a great shame that now, when we are but a few miles from your lady sister's oppressor, i should turn back.' 'but, sir, i counsel ye to do so,' said the lady. 'for the strength of sir persaunt, even if ye conquer him, is but little compared with the great strength of the red knight who doth oppress my sister. and i am sure you have little hope of overcoming him.' 'nevertheless, lady, i will essay to conquer him,' said beaumains, 'for it is but my duty and my desire to rescue your lady sister as i have resolved.' 'i marvel what manner of man ye be,' said the lady. 'it must be that ye come of noble blood, for no woman could have spoken or treated you more evilly than i have done. yet ever you have courteously suffered all i said.' 'lady, it is but a man's duty to suffer a woman's wayward words,' said beaumains, 'and they have not been without service to me. for the more ye angered me the more strength of wrath i put into my blows, and so was enabled to overcome your enemies. and as to what i am and whence i came, i could have had meat in other places than in king arthur's kitchen, but all that i have done was to try my friends. and whether i be knave or gentleman, i have done you gentleman's service.' 'that is truth, sir beaumains,' said the lady, all soft and penitent now, 'and i beg of you forgiveness for all my evil words.' 'i forgive ye with all my heart,' said sir beaumains, 'and i tell you, lady, that now that you speak kindly to me, it gladdens me greatly, and i feel that there is no knight living whom i could not strike down for the sake of yourself and your lady sister.' by this time sir persaunt had seen them, and had sent a squire to ask beaumains whether he came in peace or war. 'if he will not let us pass,' replied beaumains, 'it shall be war.' at that they saw sir persaunt array himself in his armour and mount his horse, and now he came rushing across the field at utmost speed, his lance in rest. beaumains also made his horse leap forward swiftly, and the two knights met with so great a force that both their lances splintered in many pieces, and their horses fell dead upon the field. but the two knights instantly disentangled themselves, and fought on foot with shield and sword. so furiously did they hurl themselves at each other that often they fell to the ground. for two hours the duel raged, till their hauberks were tattered and their shields were hacked, while both were sorely bruised and wounded. at length beaumains thrust sir persaunt in the side, and the latter's attack became less eager. finally beaumains hit the other so great a stroke that he fell headlong, and instantly beaumains leaped astride of him and unlashed his helm, as if about to slay him. then sir persaunt yielded him and pleaded for his life, and the lady, who had stood watching the combat, ran forward, placed her hand on sir beaumains' sword arm, and cried: 'of your mercy, sir beaumains, yield him his life for my sake.' 'i do it willingly,' cried he, helping the knight to rise, 'for he hath nobly fought and so deserves not to die.' 'gramercy,' said sir persaunt, 'and now i know thou art the strong knight who slew my brothers the black knight of the thorn and the green knight of the wood. and now i will be your man, and five hundred knights of mine shall do your service as and when you will.' and that night they supped bounteously in sir persaunt's castle, and the lady besought beaumains to sit by her at the same table, and all three made merry company. in the morning, after they had heard mass and broken their fast, beaumains and the lady set out again, and sir persaunt went with them to the drawbridge. 'fair lady,' said he, 'where dost thou lead this valiant knight?' 'sir,' said the lady, 'he is going to raise the siege which hath been set by the tyrant knight of the reed lands.' 'ah, then he goes to castle dangerous, and on the most perilous adventure that any man could take. for they say the red knight hath the strength of seven men. and he doth oppress one of the fairest and sweetest ladies in the world. i think you are her sister, dame linet?' 'that is my name,' replied the lady, 'and my sister is dame lyones.' 'this red knight is the most dangerous knight in the world,' said sir persaunt to beaumains, 'and hath besieged that fair lady these two years. many times he might have forced her for terror to have married him, but he keeps the siege in hopes that sir lancelot or even king arthur would come to rescue the lady. for he hateth all true knights, but those two with most bitterness.' so they parted from sir persaunt and rode onwards, and the lady spoke now full friendly to beaumains. in a little while, when they had passed through a fair forest, they came upon a plain, and in the distance was a high castle with many tents about it, and men passing to and fro between them. and as they rode under some withered trees by the edge of the forest, they saw, hanging by their necks from the bare boughs, many goodly knights in armour, with their shields and swords hung before them. at this shameful sight beaumains checked his horse and asked: 'what means this?' 'fair sir,' said linet, 'abate not your cheer at this dreadful sight, for ye have need now of all your courage, or else are we all shamed and destroyed. these dead knights are those who have come against the red knight trying to rescue my sister from his power. but the tyrant knight hath overcome them, and slain them thus shamefully by hanging.' 'now heaven aid me,' said beaumains, 'for this is a most shameful and unknightly custom, and well doth that evil knight deserve death.' 'nevertheless he is a knight of great prowess and force, though of evil custom,' replied the lady, 'and no one hath ever borne him down in battle.' with that they came to a sycamore-tree which stood alone in the plain, and on it was hung a great horn of elephant bone, with gold work curiously wrought. 'fair sir, ye must blow that horn if ye wish to do battle with the red knight. but, sir,' went on the lady quickly, and caught at beaumains' arm that already had lifted the horn, 'be ye not overbold. it is now the hour of prime, and it is said that the red knight's force increaseth to the strength of seven men until it is noon. wait, therefore, until noon shall be past, and his strength shall diminish.' 'nay, nay,' said beaumains, 'speak not thus to me. i will assail him however mighty he be, and either i will beat him or die with honour in the field.' therewith he lifted the horn and blew so great a blast that instantly knights came in a great press from the tents, and people looked out from the walls and windows of the castle. then beaumains saw a tall man come running from a tent, arming himself as he came. two barons set his spurs upon his heels and an earl buckled his helm upon his head. he was all in red armour, from the plume which waved upon his crest to the cloth which was upon his horse. and his shield was all of red, with but a black heart in the centre thereof. then he waited for beaumains in a little hollow before the castle, so that all that were therein might see the combat. 'now, fair sir,' said linet, 'it behoves you to have great courage and heart, for yonder is your deadliest enemy, and at yonder window is my lady sister, dame lyones.' beaumains looked to where linet was pointing, and saw at a window the loveliest lady he had ever seen. and as he looked she smiled and bowed to him, and he felt his heart burn with love for her. 'truly,' he said, 'she is the fairest lady i have ever looked upon, and she shall be my lady.' 'cease thy looking at that lady,' called the red knight in a harsh and angry voice. 'she is my lady, and soon shall she see thy foolish body swinging from the tree for the ravens to pluck, as others hang there afore thee.' ''tis for that shameful sight and for the love of this lady that hates you and your evil custom, that i am resolved to slay you, if god so wills,' was the stern reply of beaumains. 'a boastful rogue thou art,' cried the red knight, and laughed scornfully. 'what is thy name, and whence come ye, sir black knight? for surely from your talk you must be one of those prating and soft fools of the round table?' 'i will not tell thee my name,' said beaumains. 'and as yet i am not of the worshipful company of king arthur's round table. but when i have slain thee and rid the world of so shameful a knight, then shall i crave the king to receive me into that high fellowship of noble and courteous knights.' 'make thee ready!' shouted the red knight in a furious voice. 'i will talk no more with thee.' with that they withdrew a little from each other, and then, spurring their horses, and with lances in rest, they hurled themselves towards each other. with so great a crash did they come together that both their spears were broken into a hundred pieces, and their breastplates, girths and cruppers burst, and the two knights fell to the ground half stunned with the shock. but in a little while they avoided their struggling horses, and leaping towards each other with their swords, they cut and hacked each the other so fiercely that great pieces of their shields and armour flew off. thus they fought till it was past noon, and would not stop, till at last they both lacked wind, and thus they stood swaying, staggering, panting, yet feinting and striking with what strength they had. the red knight was a cunning fighter, and beaumains learned much from him, though it was at the cost of many a gaping wound. when it was evensong they rested by mutual accord, and seated on two molehills near the fighting place, they had their helms taken off by their pages and their worse wounds bound up. then beaumains lifted up his eyes to the lady at the window, and saw how her looks were tender with pity for him. so heartened was he at the sight that he started up swiftly, and bade the red knight make him ready to do battle once more to the uttermost. then they rushed fiercely at each other, and the fight raged more hotly than ever. at length, by cunning, the red knight suddenly struck beaumains' sword from his hand, and before he could recover it, the red knight had with a great buffet thrown him to the ground, and had fallen upon him to keep him down. then cried the lady linet piteously: 'o sir beaumains! sir beaumains! where is your great heart? my lady sister beholds you, and she sobs and weeps, for surely she feels the evil red knight hath her almost in his power!' at that, so great a rage possessed beaumains, that with one great effort he thrust the red knight from him, and, leaping up, he seized his sword again, and so fiercely did he beat upon his enemy that the red knight sank to his knees, and then was thrust grovelling to the ground. beaumains leaped astride him, and cut the fastenings of his helm. then the red knight shrieked for mercy. 'thou recreant and coward!' said beaumains. 'did not any of those knights that thou hast hung cry to thee for mercy? what pity and what mercy didst thou give them? and thou deservest none from me, nor from any man!' with that he slew him at a stroke, and the people in the castle cried out with joy. their leader being dead, his following of earls, barons and knights came and did homage to beaumains, and he commanded that instantly they should betake themselves to the court of king arthur and yield them into his hands. then for ten days the lady linet made beaumains rest him in the red knight's tent, while she tended his many sore wounds. but ever beaumains desired to go into the castle to see the lady he loved, but his hurts forbade him. on the eleventh day he would no longer be denied, but having armed himself, all except his helm, which his page carried, he rode up to the castle gate. but as he came thither he saw many armed men, who pulled up the drawbridge before him, so that he should not enter. therewith he saw a knight at a window, who called to him. 'fair sir, i am sir gringamor, brother to the lady lyones,' said the knight. 'i will that ye enter not yet. we know that you have proved yourself a bold and brave fighter, but we know not who you are. therefore, unless you tell me your name and kindred, i may not suffer my sister to see you.' 'i know naught of thee, sir knight,' cried beaumains sternly. 'my business is with the lady, from whom i think i deserve a little kindness, for i have bought her deliverance and her love with some of the best blood in my body. must i go away then, thinking she cares more for a name and noble lineage than for brave deeds and devotion? tell me, sir gringamor, is this the will of the lady lyones?' 'ye have but to tell us thy name and of thy lineage, brave man,' said sir gringamor. 'nay, that i will not!' said beaumains, for his heart was hot with shame and anger. 'if i were but a churl, i should reckon myself a nobler man than the recreant knight from whom i have rescued you and your sister. but since he was a knight, it seems ye would reckon him as of greater honour than the brave churl that slew him for his evil deeds.' 'nay, nay, it is not so!' came a sweet voice crying in tears, and sir beaumains saw the tender face of the lady lyones at the window where sir gringamor had been. 'my brave knight, think not ill of me, for this is none of my will, for i am mocked and my pleasure denied in my own castle by this my over-careful brother. i love thee, sir knight, whatsoever thou art, for i feel that thou art gentle and brave, and as good a man as any lady might love. and i beg you go not far from me, for i will have my will erelong, and i tell you now that i trust you, and i shall be true to you, and unto my death i shall love you and no other. and whenever i may come to you i will, in spite of this my brother.' saying these words, the lady sobbed as if her heart would break, and hiding her face in her hands she was led away by her women. with that beaumains' heart smote him, and he was resolved to reveal his name and lineage for the sake of the dear lady who loved him. but even as he thought this, he was aware of a party of knights coming towards him from the plain, and soon he recognised that they were of the company of king arthur's round table. and the foremost knight, who bore his helm in his hand, rode forward to him, crying: 'o gareth, gareth, my brother, how hast thou deceived us all!' then did sir beaumains clasp the other's hand right warmly, for this was his own brother, sir gaheris, sent from king arthur to bring him home. when sir gringamor knew of the coming of these knights, quickly he bade the drawbridge to be lowered, and in a little while the knights were being welcomed in the hall. 'sir gringamor,' said sir gaheris, 'i find that i come at a lucky chance for the happiness of my brother. already the fame of his brave deeds has reached king arthur, for the knights he hath overcome have put themselves in the mercy of the king.' 'sir knight of the round table,' said sir gringamor, 'tell me who is this brave knight that will not say his name?' 'he is sir gareth, my brother, the youngest son of the king of orkney,' replied sir gaheris, 'and fit for the highest lady in the land. he hath played this trick upon us all, to test us. we did not know him, for he hath grown up to manhood while we have been long away from home. but ever he hath had an adventurous and witty mind.' 'sir, i thank you,' said sir gringamor, and taking sir gareth by the hand he led him into the bower where sat the lady lyones, who sprang to meet sir gareth. to her sir gringamor told all that he had heard, and then left sir gareth to tell her more of himself. and in a little while, at the court of king arthur, they were married with great feastings and joustings and with all things to make merry. and linet was wedded at the same time to sir gaheris. for though the lady linet was sharp of tongue, she was of great and good heart, and well beloved of all who knew her well. v how sir tristram kept his word in the days when king arthur had established his kingdom, he was called emperor of britain and its three islands. nevertheless, there were kings who were rulers in their own lands, but they held their sovereignty of arthur and had done homage to him and sworn fealty. in wales there were two kings, in the north were eleven kings, and these he had conquered in a great battle by sherwood forest; in cornwall were two kings, and in ireland three kings, but all gave service to the great king arthur. that part of cornwall which was called the lands of tintagel formed the kingdom of a prince named mark, and he owed certain yearly tribute or truage to king anguish of south ireland. it befell one day that king anguish sent a messenger, who came to king mark as he sat in hall, and said: 'sir king, my master bids me say that the truage which you owe unto him is unpaid for seven years past, and if it be not paid he will demand of you double the sum.' now king mark was a man of a mean and covetous mind, and he loved not to give money. therefore, to put off the payment for a little while, he made answer thus: 'tell your master that we will pay him no truage; and if your lord says he will have it, let him send a trusty knight of his land that will fight for his right, and we will find another to do battle with him.' when king anguish heard the message he was wondrous wroth, and called into him the brother of his queen, sir marhaus, a good knight of prowess nobly proved, and, besides, a knight of the round table. the king craved of him to go and do battle for the truage due from mark of cornwall. 'sir,' said sir marhaus, 'i will gladly go and do battle for you on this saucy king or his knight. i ween ye shall have your truage to the last groat, for i fear not the best knight of the round table, unless it be sir lancelot, and i doubt not king mark hath no knight of such worth and prowess as i.' so in all haste sir marhaus set forth in a ship, and in a little while cast anchor fast by the shore where, on two high cliffs, the castle of tintagel frowned upon the sea. when king mark understood that so noble a knight as sir marhaus had come to do battle for the truage, he was full of sorrow, and wept as he looked upon the bags of gold in his treasure-chest. he knew of no knight of his court that durst face sir marhaus, and he feared much that he would have to part with his gold. daily sir marhaus sent a message up to the castle gate, demanding payment of the truage, or that a knight should come forth to do battle against him. then king mark let make a proclamation through all the lands, that if a knight would fight to save the truage of cornwall he should fare the better as long as he lived. but the days and weeks went by and no knight came forward. then sir marhaus sent at the last a message which said, that if within a day and a night a champion for king mark came not forward, he should depart. all that day king mark was sore and ill of mind and haggard of face, and could never stay still, but was for ever faring with his barons to where he could look down upon the ship of sir marhaus, and see the knight waiting in his armour. late in the afternoon, as the king stood thus, gnawing his nails for rage, and so hot and wrathful that none of his barons dare speak to him, there came two horsemen riding swiftly into the courtyard of the castle, and at the sound of their horses' feet king mark turned eagerly. a young squire was the foremost rider, and he was a youth full handsome and tall, with brown curly hair and blue eyes. he was dressed in a surcoat of red satin and a mantle of crimson, trimmed with gold; and on his head was a cap of rich purple, and his feet and legs were clad in fine leather, with gold bosses on his shoes. alighting easily, he doffed his hat and came towards the king: 'sir,' said he, 'if ye will give me the order of knighthood, i shall do battle to the uttermost with sir marhaus of ireland.' king mark looked the young man up and down, and saw that though he was young of age, yet he was passing well made of body, with broad shoulders and of big limbs. the heart of king mark became light. 'fair son,' he said, and his barons marvelled at his soft words, 'what are ye and whence come ye?' 'sir,' said the youth, 'i come from king talloch, prince of lyones, and i am a gentleman's son.' 'and your name and birthplace--what are they?' 'my name is tristram, sir, and i was born in lyones.' 'young sir,' said the king, 'i like your manner, and i think ye should be a good man of your hands. therefore will i make you knight if ye will fight with sir marhaus.' 'that is why i have come,' said tristram. eagerly the king bade a baron give him his sword, and commanded tristram to kneel, and then and there he tapped his shoulder with the flat of the sword and bade him rise, 'sir tristram of lyones.' the king commanded his scrivener to come to him, and on the low wall overlooking the sea the man of inkhorn and goosequill laid his parchment, and wrote a letter to sir marhaus at the king's dictation, saying that a knight would battle with him in the morning. a messenger was sent therewith without delay, and the king went into supper, snapping his fingers and joking with his barons in great glee. but in the midst of supper a parchment was brought to the king and his face fell, and he commanded the new-made knight to come from his seat and stand before him. 'hark ye,' he said, his face dark, 'this prideful sir marhaus, waiting so long, hath made his terms the harder. i fear, good fellow, your knighthood hath been earned of me too easily, even if ye are not in league with this pesky irish knight,' he went on, his narrow eyes gleaming with suspicion. 'he sayeth now that he will not fight with any knight unless he be of blood royal on his mother's side or father's. say, are ye some starveling knight's brat, or what are ye?' sir tristram's face went hard and his eyes flashed. 'no starveling's brat am i, king,' he said, 'unless ye are that thyself.' 'what mean you? have a care of your saucy tongue.' 'i fear thee not,' laughed sir tristram, 'but this i would have you know. i am thy nephew, son of thy sister elizabeth, who died in the forest, and of king talloch of lyones.' at these words the king rose from his seat and embraced sir tristram, crying: 'now, in the name of heaven, thou art right heartily welcome unto me, dear nephew.' that evening he made great cheer of sir tristram, and had his bed made next to his own in his own royal chamber. on the morrow the king had sir tristram horsed and armed in the best manner. then he sent a trumpeter down to the seashore, and let sir marhaus know that a better born man than he was himself would fight with him, and that his name was sir tristram of lyones, son of the king of lyones and his queen elizabeth, king mark's sister. sir marhaus was right blithe that he should have to do with such a gentleman. then it was ordained that the two knights should battle on a little island near the ship of sir marhaus, and so young sir tristram and his squire were rowed thereunto, and when he departed, king mark and his barons and all the common people were rejoiced to see the young knight's noble and high bearing, and wished him godspeed. when sir tristram landed he saw sir marhaus waiting armed in the shadow of his ship. sir tristram's squire brought his master's horse to land, and clad his master in his armour as was right, and then the young knight mounted upon his horse and rode towards sir marhaus. while he was as yet six spear-lengths from him the knight of the round table cried unto him: 'young knight, sir tristram, what doest thou here? i grieve me of thy courage, for ye are untried, while i have been well essayed in jousts and tournaments with some of the best men of their hands as are now living. i counsel thee to go back.' 'fair and well-proved knight,' said sir tristram, 'i am for thy sake made knight, and i have promised to fight thee, and i will do so, as much for mine uncle's sake as for what worship i may win from doing battle with ye, who are one of the best renowned knights of the world.' 'then i would have ye know, fair sir,' said sir marhaus, 'that no worship shalt thou lose if thou canst only stand against three strokes of mine, for, by reason of my noble deeds, seen and proved, king arthur made me knight of the round table.' sir tristram answered him naught, and then they dressed their spears and spurred their horses, and ran so fiercely each against the other that both were smitten to the ground, both horses and men. but sir marhaus had struck a great wound in the side of sir tristram, yet so eager was the young knight that he knew not of it. they leaped up and avoided their horses, and drew out their swords, and with shield on arm they lashed at each other like fierce wild boars. yet for all sir marhaus' strong and bitter strokes he could not beat down the young knight's guard, and in despite he began to aim at his vizor and his neck. at this sir tristram was wroth, and struck him more furiously. thus for two hours the battle waged, and both were sore wounded. but sir tristram was the fresher and better winded and bigger of limb and reach; and suddenly he heaved his sword up high, and closing upon sir marhaus he smote him with so mighty a buffet upon his helm that the blade shore through the steel even into the brain-pan. so fierce had been the stroke that the sword stuck fast in the bone and the helmet, and sir tristram pulled thrice at his sword before it would loosen. sir marhaus sank to his knees with a deathly groan; then he threw away his sword and shield, and rising, staggered away towards his ship. sir tristram swooned and fell; and his squire came running to him, just as the men of sir marhaus' ship came and drew their master on board. then they swiftly set their sail and flew over the sea. great was the mourning of the barons and the people of cornwall when it was known how deep and wide was the wound which tristram had received from the lance of sir marhaus. many famous leeches came and searched the wound and strove to close it, but none availed. when two months had passed, came an old, old woman, a witch wise in leechcraft beyond all others, who was called the mother of the mists, and who lived in the great shuddering moor, where only trolls dwelled, and no man ever dared to go. she also came and searched his wound at the king's desire. when she had made her search, with many mumblings and strange words, she turned and looked keenly at the king. her eyes gleamed like beads, her skin was wrinkled and dark, and she laughed a little soft laugh. 'lord king,' she said, 'this fine man's wound is poisoned, and naught can heal it this side the great water. but if he goeth whither the spear came from which poisoned it, he shall get whole of that wound.' ''tis well,' said the king, 'he shall be sent to ireland.' 'ay, ay, ay,' said the old woman, and laughed in sir tristram's face. 'thou shalt be healed, fair chief, but the hand that shall heal thee shall give thee a deeper wound--a wound that shall never be healed this side o' thy grave.' forthwith king mark let a fair ship be purveyed and well stored with necessary victuals, and sir tristram was carried thereto and laid on his couch on the deck, and governale, his faithful squire, went with him. in the sunshine and the brisk wind sir tristram felt joyful, and the merry waves slapped the sides of the ship full prettily as it cleaved through the blue seas towards the west. in the evening they saw the white cliffs and the brown rocks of ireland, and sir tristram took his harp and played thereon, for he had learned to harp most featly in france, where he had lived seven years, to learn all manner of courtly and noble pastimes. soon the shipmen cast anchor in a wide sheltered cove beneath a castle which stood on a high rock beside a fair town. sir tristram asked the master of the ship the name of that town. 'cro-na-shee, if it please you, my lord,' said the master. 'it pleases me well,' said tristram; 'it should mean that there dwell therein brave and noble knights, and damsels like unto fairies.' out of the merriness of his heart he thrummed his harp with so blithe and strange a tune that in a little while the very folk upon the shore came listening, and some began to dance, while others looked sad. for though the tune was very merry, there was sadness also peeping from it. it happened that king anguish and his court were in that castle by the sea, and a handmaiden of the queen came to where they sat and told them of the knight that sat in his ship and harped so strange a lay that it made one glad and sorry at the same time. then king anguish sent a knight and begged the harper to take cheer with him, and sir tristram was brought in a litter, and all the damsels were sad at his sickness, and the knights sorrowed that a knight so noble-looking should be so wounded. king anguish asked him who he was and how he came by his wound. and sir tristram, having learned that this was the king of ireland, whose champion he had worsted in the battle, and thinking that his own name would be known, replied: 'i am of the country of lyones, and my name is sir tramor, and my wound was got in battle, as i fought for a lady's right.' 'i pity thee, sir knight,' said the king, who was a right noble king and lovable, 'and by heaven's aid, ye shall have all the help in this country that ye may need.' the king told him of the battle which sir marhaus had had on his behalf with a knight named sir tristram, and how sir marhaus had come home wounded unto death, and was dead this two months. on which sir tristram feigned to be sorry, but said not much thereon. then did the king order his daughter to come before him. she was called la belle isoude, for that she was the most lovely damsel in all ireland and the out-isles, and withal gentle and kind; and her father bade her tend and minister to this stranger knight, who had come to ireland to heal him of his wound. in a few weeks, so soft was she of her hands and so learned in leechcraft, she had cleaned tristram's wound of all poison and he was hale and strong again. as some reward he taught her to harp, and gave her many good and costly presents. these she took, but valued them not so much as his kind words and smiles. more and more she loved to hear his voice, and when he was gone out hawking or looking at jousts she was sad and thoughtful, sitting with her fair hands in her lap and her eyes looking far away, and when she heard his step or his voice in the hall, then would her sad eyes light up, and a merry tune would hum upon her lips, and she would gaily talk with her handmaidens, who, whispering and glancing and nodding to each other as they sat about her at their spinning frames, knew of her love for sir tristram before she was aware of it herself. sir tristram cared not overmuch to be with ladies, but was more joyful to be in hall, talking of hunting, jousting and hawking. all men regarded him highly for his great knowledge of these things, but as yet, for fear of hurting his wound which was but freshly healed, la belle isoude forbade him gently to take violent exercise. sir tristram was impatient to be in the saddle again, with lance in rest and his great charger leaping beneath him. now, to the court of king anguish there had lately come a knight named sir palomides, famed for his knightly deeds, though still a pagan, and he was well favoured both of king anguish and his queen. sir palomides came and made great court to la belle isoude, and proffered her many gifts, for he loved her passing well. indeed, for her sake he declared he would be christened and become a christian knight; but la belle isoude had no care for him, and avoided him as well as she might. on a certain day king anguish made a great cry that a joust and tournament would be held, wherein only unmarried knights should join, and the prize would be a fair lady called the lady of the laundes, near cousin to the king. the heralds further said that he who should win her should marry her three days after, and have all her lands with her. this cry was made in all ireland and wales, and in logres and alban, which are now called england and scotland. it befell the same day that la belle isoude came to sir tristram, and she seemed distressed of mind and as if she had wept secretly. 'sir tramor,' she said, 'this tournament shall exalt sir palomides beyond all other knights, unless a better do come forward and overcome him.' 'fair lady,' said sir tristram, 'sir palomides may well win the prize against any knight, except it be sir lancelot. but if ye think i am fit to joust i will e'en essay it. yet he is a proved knight, and i but a young one and but lately ill; and my first battle that i fought, it mishapped me to be sore wounded. yet i will essay it, for i love not this sir palomides.' 'ah, but i know thou wilt do well in the battle, and thou shalt have all my prayers for thy safety and success,' said la belle isoude. on the first day of the jousts sir palomides came with a black shield, and he was a knight big of his body and on a great horse. he overthrew many knights and put them to the worst, among them being many of the knights of the round table, as sir gawaine and his brother sir gaheris, sir agravaine, sir kay, sir sagramore le desirous, sir owen, who had been the little page-boy who had saved king arthur's life in his hall at caerleon, and three other knights. all these he struck down, and the others were adread of him. the people had great marvel, and acclaimed him with much worship as the victor of the first day. the next day he came and smote down king morgant, the pagan king of scotland, as also the duke of cambenet. then, as he rode up and down the lists proudly flourishing his lance, dressing his shield and waiting for the other knights to offer themselves to him, he was aware of a knight all in white armour, with vizor closed, riding quickly through the gate as if he came from the seashore. the stranger knight came with swiftness, lifting his lance in token of challenge. whereat sir palomides rode to the other end of the lists, dressed his lance, and together they put their horses in motion. like two bulls the knights thundered against each other in the centre of the lists. the white knight's lance hit the shield of sir palomides full in the centre, and with the shock the pagan knight was lifted from his saddle, carried beyond his horse, and fell with a great thud to the ground, while his horse careered onward riderless. sir gawaine and his fellows marvelled who this stranger knight might be. then sir palomides, rising from the ground, caught his horse, and full of shame, would have slunk from the field. but the white knight rode after him and bade him turn, 'for,' said the stranger, 'he would better prove him with the sword.' then, alighting, they lashed at each other with their swords. now sir palomides was a powerful man, and his strokes were passing heavy, but sir tristram, for the stranger knight was he, felt so full of strength and joy after his long leisure, that he played with sir palomides, and men wondered at the might of his blows, and his swiftness was a marvel to see. in a while, with a great buffet on the head of the pagan knight, sir tristram felled him to the earth. 'now yield thee,' said the white knight sternly, 'and do my command, or i will slay thee of a surety.' sir palomides was sore adread, and promised. 'swear me this,' said the stranger, 'that upon pain of thy life thou leave my lady la belle isoude, and come not unto her ever again, and for a year and a day thou shalt bear no armour. promise me this, or here shalt thou die!' 'i swear it,' said sir palomides, 'but i am for ever shamed.' in his rage sir palomides cut off his armour and threw it from him and fled away on his horse. then the white knight also went away, and none knew who he was. the king sent after him, to tell him he was the winner of the lady, whom he should wed, but the messengers could not find him. men marvelled much at this, that the victor knight should not come to claim the rich lady for his wife with the wide lands that went with her. when sir tristram returned to the private postern where la belle isoude had led him forth secretly, he found her standing breathless, and she was pale and red by turns, and could not speak at first. 'thou--thou hast not failed?' she said, and clasped her hands. 'nay,' said sir tristram, laughing. 'he will never trouble you again. and, by our lady, i wished there had been six of him, for i never felt more full of fight and strength than i do this day.' 'but--but have ye not claimed the prize?' said la belle isoude, and hid her face that was so deathly white. 'nay, nor will i,' said sir tristram, 'for i crave not to be married. i would be free and go forth into strange lands to seek adventures.' he went from her, with the tune of a hunting song upon his lips, and saw not how la belle isoude trembled against the wall and was near to swoon. for la belle isoude herself was the lady of the laundes who should be given to the victor, though this was known to none but herself and the king and queen. the king and queen and all the court marvelled who should be the stranger knight, and why he had departed, and some suspected sir tristram, but none knew of this except la belle isoude and governale his squire, and none dared charge him therewith. la belle isoude kept her counsel, and strove to seem lighthearted. it fell upon a day that sir tristram was disporting himself with other knights at a game of ball upon the green before the castle, and had left his sword hung upon the post beside his seat in hall. the queen, with la belle isoude, passed through the hall to go to see the men at their sport, and on her way she espied sir tristram's sword, and the strange device of a serpent which was upon the handle. she said it was a marvellous piece of work, and never had she seen the like of it. then, by ill hap, she drew the sword from the scabbard, and they both admired it a long time, looking at its keenness and brightness and the words of mystery engraved on it. suddenly the queen gave a little cry as of terror, and she pointed to where, within a foot and a half of the point, there was a piece broken out of the edge. then, very hastily, the queen ran with the sword into her bower, and from her treasure-chest she drew a casket, and from the casket she drew a tiny piece of doeskin, and from that she took a fragment of steel. while her daughter marvelled what it all might mean, the queen took the piece of steel and placed it in the broken part of sir tristram's sword, and it fitted so that the break could hardly be seen. 'alas!' said the queen, 'this is the piece of sword that the leech took from the brain of my brother, sir marhaus, and this sir tramor is the traitorous knight that slew him!' the heart of la belle isoude stood still for fear of the ill that would befall sir tristram, for she knew her mother's rage. the queen caught up the sword fiercely in her hand and rushed from the room. midway through the hall there met her sir tristram himself with his squire governale, and the queen sped to him and would have run him through, but for governale, who snatched the sword from her, though she wounded him in her wrath. finding her rage thus put to naught, she ran to king anguish, and threw herself on her knees before him, crying out: 'oh, my lord and husband, here have ye in your house that traitor knight that slew my brother and your champion, that noble knight, sir marhaus. it is sir tramor, as he falsely calleth himself, but the piece of steel that was taken from my brother's brain fits a notch in his sword.' 'alas,' cried king anguish, 'then am i right heavy, for he is as full noble a knight as ever i knew; and i charge ye, have not to do with him, but let me deal in this matter.' the king went to sir tristram and found him fully armed, as if ready to fight for his life, for he knew that now the truth had been discovered. 'nay, sir tramor,' said the king gravely, 'it will not avail thee to fight me. but this will i do for the love and honour i bear thee. inasmuch as ye are within my court it would be no worship for me to have thee taken and slain, and therefore will i let thee freely depart if thou wilt tell me this: who is thy father and what is thy name? and didst thou truly and rightly slay sir marhaus?' 'tristram is my name,' replied the young knight, 'and i am son of king talloch of lyones. for the truage of cornwall i fought for the sake of my uncle king mark, and the battle with sir marhaus was the first i had, for i was made knight for that alone. sir marhaus went from me alive into his ship, though he left his sword and shield behind him.' 'i may not say that ye have done aught but what a good knight should do,' replied the king, 'but i may not maintain you in this country unless i would displease my wife and her kin.' 'sir,' said sir tristram, 'i thank you for your goodness and for the kind cheer which i have had here of yourself and your queen and la belle isoude. i will depart straightway when i have bidden your daughter farewell, for i owe my life to her gentle hands; and i promise this, that i will be your daughter's servant and knight in right or wrong, to shield her and fight for her, and do all that a knight may do in her behalf, as long as i live.' then took he his leave of la belle isoude, and he told her all how he had come to that land. he thanked her heartily for all her gentleness to him and for her healing of his wound. at first she stood silent, changing red and white of face, and with downcast eyes, her fingers straining about each other. when he swore that he would be her knight, to fight for her whenever she should send for him, and bade her good-bye, she took the hand which he held forth, but would not look at him. tristram wondered why her fair hand was so cold. 'good-bye and god be with ye always,' la belle isoude replied in a faint voice, and then turned and went from him. tristram thought she was angered with him for the slaying of her uncle. so in a little while he rode forth with governale down to the seashore and looked back not once. there he entered by a ship, and with good wind he arrived at tintagel in cornwall, and king mark and all his barons were glad that tristram was whole again. then sir tristram went to his father king talloch, and there was made great cheer for him, and wide lands were given him. nevertheless, he could not rest long in one place, but went into logres and alban and wales, seeking adventures, and his fame for prowess was almost as great as the fame of sir lancelot. whereever he went he took his harp, and in hall and bower his favourite songs were those that praised the beauty of la belle isoude, her gentle ways and her soft white hands. after a year and a day he returned to the court of king mark and lived there, and all the knights and ladies admired him, and the praise of his courtesy was in the mouths of all, noble and simple, high and low. then king mark his uncle began to hate him for the love that all bore him, and since he had never married and had no son to whom his kingdom should go after his death, he saw that sir tristram would have it, for he was his next kin, and then, with lyones and tintagel, the fame and power of tristram would increase abundantly. so the king began to cast about in his mind for a way whereby he might do some hurt to sir tristram, or even destroy him. he called the young knight to him one day and said: 'dear nephew, i have been thinking a long while of taking unto myself a wife, and i hear much of the beauty and goodness of the king's daughter of ireland, whom men call la belle isoude. now i would that you go to the king and bear my message to him.' sir tristram was troubled in mind at these words. since he had left la belle isoude he had had no ease of spirit, for now he knew that he loved her. though she had been angered with him for his slaying her uncle, and he knew that the queen and other kinsfolk of sir marhaus would surely slay him if they could, yet had he hoped in a while to have gone to king anguish and found some way to win isoude for his wife. 'ye are feared to go, then?' sneered king mark, noting the silence of sir tristram. 'then i will e'en send some other knight that is bolder.' at that sir tristram flushed hotly and said: 'i fear not to go there or anywhere, and i will bear thy message, sir.' 'it is well,' said the king. 'i will send thee with a fine ship, and a rich company of knights, and i will get my scrivener to write my message.' now king mark said all this by reason of his craft and treachery. he had heard how sir tristram had been full of the praises of la belle isoude, while yet, as he had learned, sir tristram had not promised himself in love to her. by his crafty speech king mark had hoped to make sir tristram promise to go to ireland to obtain her, not for himself, but for king mark. so, therefore, if the king married la belle isoude, this would cause some grief and hurt to sir tristram. but king mark cared not overmuch whether he wedded la belle isoude or not. he believed that sir tristram would of a surety be slain by the kin of sir marhaus in ireland, and, if so, king mark's plot would succeed to the full. sir tristram, sad and troubled, went apart, and rode into a forest, for now he knew that he had done himself an ill turn. the lady he loved and whom he wanted to wife for himself he had now promised to woo for another. as he rode moodily through the forest drive, a knight came swiftly riding on a great horse, its flanks flecked with the foam of its speed. 'fair knight,' said the stranger, 'will ye of your courtesy tell me where i may quickly come at a knight called sir tristram of lyones?' 'i am he,' said tristram. 'what would ye?' 'i thank heaven that hath led me to you, sir knight,' said the other. 'here is a message from my master, king anguish of ireland, who is in dire peril of honour and life, and craves aid of you for the love that hath been atween you.' sir tristram, much marvelling, took the parchment and read: 'these to you, sir tristram of lyones, most noble knight, from his lover and friend king anguish of ireland, in sore trouble and straits at camelot. know ye, sir tristram, that i have been summoned to king arthur's court on pain of forfeiture of his lordship's royal grace, to answer a charge whereof i knew naught till i came here. which is that by treason and felony i caused to be slain at my court in ireland a cousin of sir bleobaris de ganis and sir blamor de ganis, and of this evil deed these knights do most falsely accuse me. and there is none other remedy than for me to answer them in knightly fashion, my armed body against theirs. but inasmuch as i am old, and my wasted arm could naught avail me, and in that they are of such renown and prowess that none of my knights may hope to overcome them, i pray ye, sir tristram, of your ancient love for me, to come to my aid and fight for me as my champion in this most cruel charge. but if ye will not, and if ye choose to remember rather that i thrust you from my court, and would not protect you against those that meant you ill, then forgive my request, and leave me to my fate and my dishonour.' the heart of sir tristram lifted within him for love of the good old king, and turning, he said: 'for what day is the trial by combat which your master speaketh of?' 'for midday on the day before next sabbath,' said the knight. 'go ye at once to your master,' said sir tristram, 'and say to him that i will not fail him, but will make all speed.' 'sir, i thank you from my heart,' said the knight, and bowed. then wheeling his horse he dashed swiftly away. at camelot, on the day and hour appointed, the lists were set, and knights and nobles and the common people waited to see the trial by battle which should prove the innocence or guilt of king anguish. king arthur was not at camelot, nor was sir lancelot, for both were at joyous gard, the castle of sir lancelot, which king arthur had given to him by the sea in the northern marches. in their places, king kador of cornwall and king uriens of reged were judges at the trial. ere noon was marked by the gnomon of the dial set up before the judges, sir tristram and his squire governale rode up the lists, and were met by king anguish and his knights. when sir tristram saw the king of ireland he got swiftly from his horse and ran towards him, and would have held his stirrup; but the king leapt lightly from his horse, and with bright looks each embraced and kissed the other. 'my good lord,' cried tristram, 'gramercy of your goodness which ye showed me in your marches, and of your nobleness in calling me unto your aid, for it is great honour to me that ye ask this, and i will do all for you to the utmost of my strength.' 'ah, worshipful knight,' said the king, 'ye are courteous and noble beyond all others to come to my aid when i am in such dire need.' 'who is he that is appointed to fight with you or your champion?' asked sir tristram. 'he is of sir lancelot's blood,' replied the king, 'and i wot that he will be hard to overcome, for all those of king ban's kin are passing good fighters beyond all others. it is sir blamor de ganis, a great warrior.' 'sir,' said sir tristram, 'for the great goodness that ye showed to me in ireland and for your daughter's sake, la belle isoude, i will take the battle in hand for you. but ye must first swear that ye never caused or consented to the death of the knight of which you are charged, and if i avail in your battle i will crave a boon of you which you shall grant me.' 'i swear to heaven,' replied the king, 'that i did neither cause nor consent to the death of the knight; and as to the boon that ye shall ask, i grant it you already.' then king anguish departed to the judges and cried unto them the name of his champion, and all the knights of the round table that were there, and the common people, were all agog to see sir tristram. the fame of his fight with sir marhaus, and his renown as a harpist and a lover of hunting, were well known unto all; but never yet had he come to the court of king arthur. sir blamor and sir tristram went to each end of the lists and dressed their harness and their shields. sir bleobaris, that was brother to sir blamor, went to him and said: 'brother, now remember of what kin ye be, and what manner of man is our lord, sir lancelot, and see that ye suffer not shame. for never would sir lancelot bear it, and he would sooner suffer death.' 'have no doubt of me,' said sir blamor, 'i shall never shame sir lancelot nor any of our high blood; nevertheless, this sir tristram is a passing good fighter, and if by ill hap he strike me down, then he shall slay me and so end my shame.' 'god speed you well,' said sir bleobaris, 'but he may not be so great a warrior as fame saith. for fame grows false as she goes further.' when the knights were ready, the herald of the court of arthur stood with his trumpet and recited the cause of the quarrel and the names of the knights about to do battle. then, lifting his tabard, he bade both knights make ready; and when his tabard fell to the ground, the knights lowered their lances in the rests, set spurs to their horses, and thundered down the lists. with a clang and a crash they met midway, and then men marvelled as they saw how suddenly sir blamor's horse reared in mid-career, turned right round, and upsetting its rider over its back, fell to the ground. sir blamor, however, was unhurt, and quickly rising to his feet he drew out his sword, crying to sir tristram, as that knight turned his horse and came towards him: 'alight thee, sir tristram, for though this mare's son of mine hath failed me, i trust my good sword shall not fail me.' with that sir tristram alighted and dressed him to battle, and there they lashed at each other with mighty strokes on both sides, cutting and hacking, feinting and guarding, so that as time went on and still they fought fiercely, the kings and knights marvelled that they were so great-winded and strong. soon men saw that sir blamor was headstrong, and mad with rage, while sir tristram beat not so many false blows, but each was sure, though slower. yet sir blamor would not rest, but like a wild man would ever dash against his enemy. where they fought the trampled sand was stained with red from their wounds. suddenly men saw sir blamor make a heavy stroke which sir tristram avoided, and ere the other could recover, sir tristram's sword descended on his helm with so great a stroke that sir blamor fell upon his side. sir tristram leaped upon him and placed the point of his sword between the bars of sir blamor's vizor, bidding him yield. when sir blamor got his breath he panted forth: 'nay, nay, sir tristram, i will not say the word, but i require thee, sir tristram de lyones, as thou art a noble knight and the mightiest that ever i found, that thou wilt slay me out of hand, for now i would not live to be made lord of these lands of britain. liefer i would die than live a life of shame, and therefore slay me! slay me!' sir tristram started back, remembering of what noble blood was this brave knight. knowing that he must either make sir blamor say the loth words 'i yield,' or else slay him, he went to where the judges sat, and kneeled before them and told them what sir blamor had said. 'fair lords,' sir tristram ended, 'it were shame and pity that this noble knight should be slain, for ye well hear that he will not say the words of shame, and if king anguish, whose true knight and champion i am, will suffer me, i will neither shame nor slay so stout-hearted a knight.' 'by heaven,' said king anguish, 'i will be ruled for your sake, sir tristram, as ye are the most knight of prowess that ever i saw in my long life. therefore i pray these kings and judges that they take the matter into their own hands.' the judges called sir bleobaris to them and required his counsel. 'my lords,' he said, 'though that my brother be beaten of body by this valiant knight, he hath not beaten his heart, and so i thank god he hath not been shamed in this fight. and rather than he be shamed,' said sir bleobaris, white and stern, 'i require that you command sir tristram to slay him out of hand!' 'that shall not be,' said the judges, 'for neither king anguish nor sir tristram desire to shame your valiant brother.' 'we do not,' said both the king and sir tristram. therewith, by the advice of the judges, sir tristram and sir bleobaris took up sir blamor; and the two brothers made peace with king anguish and kissed each other and swore friendship with him for ever. then sir blamor and sir tristram kissed, and the two brothers, their hands clasping those of sir tristram, swore that there should for ever be peace and love between them; and this did sir tristram swear also. inasmuch as, of his nobleness and generosity, sir tristram would not take sir blamor's life because he refused to yield him, sir lancelot and all his kinsmen loved sir tristram, and were ever his friends and spoke well and knightly of him. then king anguish and sir tristram took their leave and sailed into ireland with great joy; and when they had arrived there, the king let make a great cry throughout his dominions, of the manner in which sir tristram had fought for him, and how for that deed he accounted him the noblest knight among his friends, and that all should treat him with friendship and no deceit. when, also, the queen and the kin of sir marhaus heard how sir tristram had borne himself in the trial by combat, they agreed that now they should not seek to slay him, since his great help in this matter had wiped out his ill-doing in the slaying of sir marhaus. so the queen and the knights of the court and the common people made much of sir tristram wheresoever he went; but the joy that la belle isoude had in her heart no tongue may tell. when sir tristram was led to her and they met after so long an absence from each other, men saw the lovely face light up with so sweet and high a look that they marvelled at her beauty. yet they saw how straitly sir tristram held himself, and made not much of his meeting with her and did not seek her company. then on a day king anguish asked sir tristram what was the boon he craved. 'but whatever it be,' said the king, 'it is yours without fail.' sir tristram's face went hard and white, and after a little while he said: 'it is this, my lord. i bear a request from my uncle, king mark, and it is that you give him your daughter la belle isoude for his wife, and ye let me take her unto him, for so i have promised him.' 'alas,' said the king, and looked full heavily into the eyes of sir tristram, 'i had liefer than all the land that i have that ye should wed her yourself.' sir tristram turned away, and made this reply: 'i have given my promise, and i were ashamed for ever in the world if i did aught else. i require you to hold to your promise, and to let your daughter depart with me to be wedded to my uncle, king mark.' 'as i have promised, so will i do,' said the king. 'but i let you know 'tis with a heavy heart.' nor would the king say more, knowing that he might make bad worse. but the surprise and grief of la belle isoude, when she knew that sir tristram was to take her to be wife not unto himself but to a stranger, what tongue may tell and what words may say? nightly, on the days when she was being prepared to depart, she wept full sorely in the arms of her mother or of bragwine her faithful gentlewoman; but in hall or abroad she was ever calm and cold, though pale. the queen, her mother, feared much of this marriage, and so sent a swift message to a great witch who dwelled in a dark wet valley in the midst of the purple hills, and for much gold a potent philtre was prepared. then, on the day when, with much weeping and many sad farewells, la belle isoude with her gentlewomen and many noble ladies and knights were to go into the ship, the queen called bragwine aside, and giving her a little golden flasket, said to her: 'take this with thee, bragwine, for i misdoubt this marriage overmuch, and i charge thee do this. on the day that king mark shall wed my daughter, do thou mix this drink in their wine in equal parts, and then i undertake that each shall love the other alone all the days of their lives.' anon sir tristram and la belle isoude took ship and got to sea. during the voyage sir tristram kept himself much with the other knights and rarely sat with isoude; for in his heart was much grief, and he hated the fair wind that drove the ship more quickly to the time when he must give up la belle isoude to his uncle. he knew now that he loved none other woman in the world but her, and never would so long as he should live. bragwine the maid, seeing the pensive looks of her mistress, and knowing the wretchedness of her heart, determined to give her mistress what she most desired. by the aid of governale, the squire of sir tristram, they poured the philtre into the wine of isoude and sir tristram as they were about to sit at dinner. they thought that the philtre being so potent, it would cause sir tristram to do as king anguish wished that he would do, and take la belle isoude into his own home at lyones and wed her himself. sir tristram and la belle isoude sat at dinner and drank the wine. in a little while sir tristram looked at the wine that was in his silver cup and smelled at it. 'sure this is the best wine that ever i drank,' said he, and smiled at her. 'it is truly a most sweet and noble drink,' said isoude, and her heart was glad to see him smile, who hitherto had kept his face so stern. sir tristram called his squire. 'governale,' said he, 'what wine is this thou hast given us this day? let us have another flask of the same.' governale was ever ill at a deception, and began to stammer. 'my lord,' he said, 'i fear me there is none other.' 'ah,' said his master, 'and where got you that?' 'the gentlewoman of my lady isoude,' said he, 'brought it and bade me mix it in your lordship's wine.' 'what?' cried sir tristram, rising angrily. 'what means this? what trickery is this?' 'oh, my lord, forgive me,' cried governale. 'but we saw the sorrow of both your hearts, and we gave you the philtre that was meant for my lady and king mark, and--and--my lord, you will break my lady's heart and your own if ye suffer this.' but sir tristram would hear no further, and fiercely sent his squire from his presence. 'ah, my lord,' said la belle isoude, 'have those two poor souls done more evil than we are doing by hiding our hearts from each other? i would have you know that no ease shall you have all the days of your life, for i know that you love me, and as to that, there is no living man in all this world that i love as i love you. if ye think it unmaidenly in me to say that--then my own wretched heart forgives me.' the gentle sorrow in her voice caused sir tristram's heart to swell with rage because he had promised to take her to wed king mark. 'lady,' he said, and his face was full pitiful and pale, 'heaven knows that ye say right, and that nevermore shall i have ease after this. but no more should i have ease, but rather more shame and remorse, if i should do what my heart bids me do. i gave my promise to mine uncle, madman that i was, and i must perform it, and suffer. but i could slay myself to think that you will suffer also.' she saw the rage and sorrow in his eyes, and her heart was full of pity. 'do thyself no harm, o noble knight and friend,' said isoude, 'for thou art right, and i wrong. but i would have you promise to be my knight and champion in things both ill and good, while you shall have life.' 'lady,' he replied, 'i will be all the days of my life your knight, in weal and in woe, to come to your aid and battle for your dear name, when you shall send for me.' sir tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and quickly they parted, lest they should repent them of their duty. that evening they got to shore, and landed at the foot of tintagel, and sir tristram led up la belle isoude and gave her into the hands of king mark, whose looks, for all that he tried to appear satisfied, were sour as he dwelt on the noble figure of sir tristram. men noticed how pale and stern the young knight seemed, and that he said few words. in a little while, after the wedding of his uncle to la belle isoude, sir tristram said farewell to all the court, 'for,' said he, 'he would go fight the pagans who were ravening in the north,' and so departed, with governale his squire. afterwards, seeing the pale queen seated in hall beside king mark, and remembering the heaviness of sir tristram, some guessed how full of woe was their parting, but for love and sorrow of sir tristram they said naught of what they thought. vi the deeds of sir geraint king arthur was spending whitsuntide at caerleon-upon-usk, and one day he hunted the stag in the forests that lay thereby. as he had given permission for his queen to go and see the hunting, she set out with one handmaiden, and rode in the misty dawning down to the river, and across the ford. they climbed up the other bank, following the track of the men and horses which had formed the king's hunting party, until they stood on the edge of the dark forest, where the young leaves were fresh and sweetly green. the sun burst forth, and sucked up the mists along the meadow flats beside the river below them, and the water flashed and the birds sang. 'here will we stay,' said the queen, who felt happy with the sunlight upon her, and the smell of the forest blowing out from the trees, 'and though we shall not see the killing, we shall hear the horns when they sound, and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose and begin to cry so eagerly.' suddenly they heard a rushing sound and the thud of hoofs behind them, and, turning, they saw a young man upon a hunter foal of mighty size. the rider was a fair-haired handsome youth, of princely mien, yet withal kindly of look and smile. a riding-robe and surcoat of satin were upon him, low-cut shoes of soft leather were on his feet, and in his girdle was a golden-hilted sword. a fillet of gold bound his curly hair, and a collar of gold, with a blue enamel swastika pendant, hung about his neck. he checked his horse as he neared the queen, and it came towards her with step stately, swift and proud, and the rider bowed full low to gwenevere. 'heaven prosper thee, sir geraint,' she said. 'and its welcome be unto thee.' 'heaven accord you long life and happiness, o queen,' replied geraint. 'why didst thou not go with my lord to hunt?' asked the queen. 'because i knew not when he went,' said geraint. 'but men told me in hall that you had gone out alone, and i came to crave permission to accompany and guard you.' 'gramercy,' said the queen. 'thy protection is very agreeable to me.' as they stood talking, they heard the clatter of steel armour, and looking between the trees, they beheld a proud knight upon a war-horse of great size, wearing a heavy chain-mail jesseraunt, with coif and vizored helm, and his horse was also clothed in harness of chain mail. following him was a lady upon a beautiful white horse, which went with stately and proud steps along the forest way. the lady was clothed in a great robe of gold brocade, and her headcloth, of fine cambric, was turned so that her face was hidden. behind them rode a little dark man, hairy and fierce of face, dressed as a page; and he sat on a great horse, strong and spirited, yet the dwarf held it well in hand. hung to his saddle-bow was the knight's shield, but the device was hidden by a cloth, and two lances were fixed to the girdle of the dwarf. in his right fist the page carried a whip, long and heavy and knotted. 'sir geraint,' said gwenevere, 'knowest thou the name of that tall knight?' 'i know him not, lady,' said geraint, 'and his helm conceals his face, and his shield is also hidden. but i will go and ask the page, that you may learn his name.' and sir geraint rode up to the dwarfish page. 'who is yonder knight?' said sir geraint. 'i will not tell thee,' replied the dwarf, and scowled. 'then i will ask him himself,' said sir geraint. 'that thou wilt not, by my head,' said the dwarf angrily, 'for thou art not of honour enough to speak to my lord.' geraint turned his horse's head to go towards the knight, whereupon the dwarf spurred forward and overtook him and lashed towards him with the long and knotted whip. the lash struck the mouth of sir geraint, and blood flowed, and dropped upon the silken scarf that he wore. instantly sir geraint turned, with sword half drawn, and the dwarf cowed and pulled back. but sir geraint thought it would be no vengeance to carve the dwarf's head from his shoulders, and to be attacked unarmed by the mail-clad knight. he thrust his sword back with a clang into its scabbard, and rode towards the queen. 'thou hast acted wisely and nobly, sir geraint,' said the queen, 'and i sorrow for the insult the craven knave hath placed upon thee.' 'lady, i fear he was but copying his master,' said geraint, whose eyes flashed with anger. 'but if your ladyship will permit me, i will follow this knight, and at last he will come to some town where i may get arms either as a loan or from a friend, and then will i avenge the insult which this stranger knight hath given to you, my queen and lady.' 'go,' said gwenevere, 'but i beg of thee, do not encounter with the knight until thou hast good arms, for he is a man almost as big as sir lancelot du lake. and i shall be anxious concerning thee until thou dost return, or send tidings.' 'if i be alive,' said sir geraint, 'you shall hear tidings of me by to-morrow at evensong.' thus he departed. all that day sir geraint followed the knight and the lady and the page, keeping them in sight, though at a distance. through the forest they went first, and thereafter the road ran along a ridge of high ground, with the great downs and combes falling and heaving below their feet, the sun flashing back from lakes and streams, the bees humming at the flowers in the grass, and the larks rising with thrilling song in the warm sweet air of the spring. sir geraint loved it all, but he kept his eyes ever on the knight, who flashed as he moved far before him. at length he saw the towers of a high castle, and beneath it the red roofs of a little town nestling at the foot of the grey walls. they rode into the town, and as the haughty knight passed through it the people in the booths and cabins and those beside the way saluted him. he did not acknowledge any of their greetings, but looked before him proudly, as he had done when he rode through the solitary paths of the wilderness. sir geraint looked about him as he rode behind, to see if there was any armourer or knightly person whom he knew, but there was none. when he saw the knight and the lady and the dwarf enter the castle, and was sure that they would sojourn there, he rode about the little town, and found it full of knights and squires, with armourers and others cleaning arms, sharpening swords and repairing harness. but no one did he know of whom to beg a suit of armour and a lance. then he took his way to a little stream beneath the wall of the town, and on the other side he saw a manor-house, old and ruinous, standing amidst tall weeds. and thinking he might get lodging there for that night, he forded the river and went towards the manor. he saw that the hall-door yawned open, and that a marble bridge led up to it, over a wide ditch full of stagnant water and thick with green weeds and rushes. on the bridge sat an old and reverend man in clothes that once had been rich, but now were thin and tattered. and geraint thought it was not possible that so poor a place could help him in what he desired. he looked steadfastly at the old man. 'young sir,' said the latter, 'why art thou so thoughtful?' 'i was thinking, fair sir,' said geraint, 'whether thou couldst give me lodging here for this night.' 'of a surety,' said the old man, rising. 'it is poor we are, but such as can be given shall be of our best.' he led sir geraint into the hall, which was bleak and desolate, and the hearthstone in the centre was thick with last year's leaves, as if it had been long since fire had flickered upon it. on the wall there hung rusty weapons and helms, and through the cracks there crept the ivy from the outer wall. the horse was tethered in the hall by the old man. then he led sir geraint to a door upon the dais, and ushered him into the bower, and there he saw an old decrepit woman, sweet of look though thin and peaked. she rose from the cushion on which she sat, greeting him kindly, and he saw that the satin garments upon her were also old and tattered. yet sir geraint thought she must have been a lovely woman in her happy youth. beside her was a maiden, upon whom was a vest and robe poor and thin, and the veil of her headcloth was old though clean. yet truly, thought geraint, he had never seen a lovelier maiden, nor one with more sweetness and grace in her smile or gentleness in her voice. and the heart of him stirred with pity to see her so pale and wan, as if she fared but poorly. 'welcome, fair sir,' said the old dame. 'this is my daughter enid, who will gladly prepare food for you.' when food had been prepared they sat down, and geraint was placed between the white-haired man and his wife, and the maiden served them. afterwards, as they drank weak mead from cups of earthenware, they spoke together; and geraint asked whose was the manor in which they sat. 'mine,' said the old man, 'for i built it. and the castle up there and the town were also mine.' 'alas!' said geraint, 'how is it you and yours have lost them?' 'for my sins and my greed,' said the old man sadly, 'and bitterly have i repented me of my wrong. i am earl inewl, but i have lost the lands that made my earldom. for i have a nephew, whom his father, on his deathbed, gave into my keeping, with all his lands. and i added his possessions to my own, and when the boy was a man he demanded them of me, and i would not give them up. so he made war upon me, and took everything from me except this ruined hall and one poor farm.' 'since you are sorry for the greed that hath ruined you,' replied geraint, 'i will do what i may to regain your possessions, if god gives me life. but first i would ask, why went that knight and the lady and the dwarf just now into the town, and why is there so much furbishing of arms there?' 'the preparations are for the jousting that is to be held to-morrow's morn in the level meadow beside the ford,' responded the old earl. 'and the prize is to be a falcon of pure gold. the knight thou sawest has won the falcon two years running, and if he wins it this time he will have it for his own, and will win the title of the knight of the golden falcon. and to gain it from him all those knights in the town will essay. and with each will go the lady that he loveth best, and if a man takes not his lady with him he may not enter the lists.' 'sir,' said sir geraint, 'i would willingly have to do with that knight, for he hath, by the hands of his dwarf page, most evilly insulted the queen of my dear lord, king arthur; but i have no armour.' 'as for that,' said the old man, 'i have arms here that will fit thee; but if thou hast no maiden with thee, thou canst not do battle.' 'if, sir,' replied sir geraint, 'you and this maiden, your daughter, will permit me to challenge for her, i will engage, if i escape alive from the tournament, to be the maiden's knight while i shall live.' 'what say you, daughter?' said the old earl. 'indeed, sir,' replied the maiden, gently flushing, 'i am in your hands. and if this fair knight will have it so, he may challenge for me.' this said enid to hide her true thoughts; for indeed she felt that she had never before seen as noble a youth as geraint, or one for whom her thoughts were so kind. 'then so shall it be,' said earl inewl. on the morrow, ere it was dawn, they arose and arrayed themselves; and at break of day they were in the meadow. before the seat of the young earl, who was inewl's nephew, there was set up a post, and on it was the figure of a gyr-falcon, of pure gold, and marvellously wrought, with wings outspread and talons astretch, as if it were about to strike its prey. then the knight whom geraint had followed entered the field with his lady, and when he had made proclamation, he bade her go and fetch the falcon from its place, 'for,' said he, 'thou art the fairest of women, and, if any deny it, by force will i defend the fame of thy beauty and thy gentleness and nobleness.' 'touch not the falcon!' cried geraint, 'for here is a maiden who is fairer, and more noble, and more gentle, and who has a better claim to it than any.' the stranger knight looked keenly at geraint, and in a haughty voice cried: 'i know not who thou art; but if thou art worthy to bear arms against me, come forward.' geraint mounted his horse, and when he rode to the end of the meadow laughter rippled and rang from the people watching him. for he bore an old and rusty suit of armour that was of an ancient pattern, and the joints of which gaped here and there. and none knew who he was, for his shield was bare. but when, thundering together, the two knights had each broken several lances upon the shield of the other, the people eyed sir geraint with some regard. when it seemed that the proud knight was the better jouster, the earl and his people shouted, and inewl and enid had sad looks. 'pity it is,' said enid, 'that our young knight hath but that old gaping armour. for when they clash together, i feel the cruel point of the proud knight's spear as if it were in my heart.' 'fear not, my dear,' said the old dame, her mother. 'i feel that him you have learned to love so soon is worthy a good maiden's love, and i think that his good knighthood will overcome the other's pride.' then the old knight went to geraint. 'o young chief!' he said, 'since all other lances break in thy strong young hand, take you this. it was the lance i had on the day when i received knighthood. it was made by the wizard smith who lives in the hill of ithel, and it hath never failed me.' then sir geraint took the lance and thanked the old earl, and looked back to where stood enid. and his heart leaped to see how proud and calm she stood, though her lips trembled as she smiled at him. with that the strength seemed to course like a mountain stream through all his body; and from the uttermost end of the meadow he pricked his horse and rushed towards the proud knight. his blow was so mighty, and the good lance so strong, that the shield of the proud knight was cleft in twain, and he was thrust far beyond his horse and fell crashing to the ground. then geraint leaped from his horse and drew his sword, and the other rising to his feet, they dashed together with the fury of wild bulls; and so battled long and sore until the sweat and blood obscured their sight. once, when the proud knight had struck sir geraint a mighty blow, the young knight saw, as he fought, how the maid enid stood with clasped hands and a pale face of terror, as if she feared for his life. with the sight of the maiden's dread and the memory of the insult done by the proud knight to queen gwenevere, sir geraint waxed both fiercer and stronger; and gathering all his might in one blow, he beat with his sword upon the crown of the knight's helm, and so fierce was it that the headpiece broke and the sword-blade cut to the bone. straightway the knight fell down upon his knees and craved mercy. 'why should i give mercy to one so full of pride and arrogance?' said sir geraint. 'thou, through thy servant, hast shamefully insulted the queen of my lord, king arthur.' 'fair knight,' cried the other, 'i confess it, and i give up my overbearing henceforth, and i crave for mercy. and if ye give me my life, i will be your man and do your behest.' 'i will give thee mercy on one condition,' said geraint, 'which is that thou and thy lady and thy dwarf page go instantly and yield yourselves into the hands of the queen, and claim atonement for your insult. and whatsoever my lady the queen determines, that shall ye suffer. tell me who art thou?' 'i am sir edern of the needlands,' replied the other. 'and who art thou, sir knight,' he asked, 'for never have i met so valiant and good a knight of his hands as thou art.' 'i am geraint of cornwall,' said the young knight. 'it giveth comfort to me to know that i am overcome by so noble a knight,' said the other. then he got upon his horse, all wounded as he was, and with his lady and the page beside him took his way sadly to arthur's court. then the young earl rose and came to sir geraint, and asked him to stay with him at his castle, for he loved all knights of great prowess and would have them to talk to him. 'nay, i will not,' said sir geraint coldly; 'i will go where i was last night.' 'have your will, sir knight,' replied the young earl courteously. 'but i will ask earl inewl to permit me to furnish his manor as it should be furnished for your honour and ease.' sir geraint went back to the manor, conversing with earl inewl and his wife, and with the maiden enid. when they reached the house, they found it full of the servants of the earl, who were sweeping the hall and laying straw therein, with tables and benches as were suitable, and soon a great fire leaped and crackled on the stone in the centre. then when sir geraint's wound had been washed and salved and bound, and he had placed upon himself his walking attire, the chamberlain of the young earl came to him and asked him to go into the hall to eat. sir geraint asked where was earl inewl and his wife and daughter. 'they are in the bower putting on robes which my lord the earl hath sent, more befitting their station and your honour,' said the earl's chamberlain. sir geraint liked it not that the maiden should be dressed in robes given by the man who had stripped her father of all his wealth, and he said coldly: 'i would that the damsel do not array herself, except in the vest and veil she hath worn till now. and those she should wear,' he said, 'until she come to the court of arthur, where the queen shall clothe her in garments fitting for her.' it was so done, and the maiden sat in her poor robes while the other knights and ladies in the young earl's company glittered and shone in satin and jewels. but she cared not for this, because sir geraint had bidden her. when meat was done and mead was served, they all began to talk, and the young earl invited sir geraint to visit him next day. 'it may not be,' said sir geraint; 'i will go to the court of my lord arthur with this maiden, for i will not rest while earl inewl and his dame and daughter go in poverty and rags and trouble. and it is for this i will see my lord, so that something may be done to give them maintenance befitting their station.' then, because the young earl admired sir geraint for his knightly strength, his nobility of manner and his prowess, there was sorrow in his heart for the old earl inewl. 'ah, sir geraint,' he said, 'i am sorry if your heart is sore because of my kinsman's poor condition; and if you will give me your friendship, i will abide by your counsel and do what you think i should do of right.' 'i thank thee, fair sir,' said geraint, 'and i will ask ye to restore unto the earl inewl all the possessions that were rightly his, and what he should have received up to this day.' 'that i will gladly do for your sake,' said the young earl. thus it was agreed; and such of the men in the hall who held lands which rightly belonged to earl inewl came and knelt before him and did homage to him. and next morning the lands and homesteads and all other his possessions were returned to earl inewl, to the last seed-pearl. thereafter sir geraint prepared to return to the court of king arthur, and the earl inewl came to him with the maiden enid, whose gentle face went pale and red by turns. putting her hand in the hand of sir geraint, the old man said: 'fair sir, your pursuit of that knight, sir edern, and your revenge for his insult, i shall bless until the last day of my life. for you have done more goodness and justice than i can ever repay you. but if this my daughter, for whom ye fought yesterday, is pleasing unto you, then take her for your wife, with the blessing of myself and my countess.' sir geraint clasped the hand of the young maiden, and said: 'my lord, i thank thee, and if my lord king arthur shall give this maiden unto me for wife, then will i love her and cherish her all the days of my life, if she in her heart would choose me for her husband.' 'my lord,' said the maiden, raising her frank eyes and flushing face to him, 'i have never known a knight to whom i gave so great goodwill as i find in my heart for thee. and if thy lord arthur shall give me unto thee, i will plight thee my love and loving service till i die.' thereupon they proceeded on their way to the court of king arthur, and what had seemed a long journey to geraint when he had followed sir edern, now seemed too short, for he and the maid enid passed it in much pleasant converse. towards evening they arrived at caerleon-upon-usk, and queen gwenevere received sir geraint with great welcome, calling him 'her glorious knight and champion,' and telling him that sir edern had yielded himself into her hands to do such atonement as seemed fitting, when he should have recovered from his wounds. at the beauty of the maid enid all the court marvelled; and the queen hastened to clothe her in robes of satin, rich and rare, with gold upon her hair and about her throat. and when she was so dressed, all were glad that one of so sweet a dignity and rare a beauty had come among them. king arthur gave her to sir geraint with many rich gifts, and enid and geraint were married in the abbey church, and the court gave itself up to feasting and sport, and acclaimed her one of the three most lovely ladies in all the isle of britain. when a year had passed in great happiness, ambassadors came from king erbin of cornwall, with a request to king arthur that he should let sir geraint go home to his father. 'for,' said the messengers, 'king erbin waxes old and feeble, and the more he ageth the more insolent and daring are the barons and lords on his marches, trying to wrest parts of his lands to add to their own. therefore,' said they, 'the king begs you to let his son sir geraint return home, so that, knowing the fame of the strength of his arm and his prowess, the turbulent lords would desist, and if they would not, sir geraint would hurl them from his boundaries.' king arthur, though very reluctant to let so great an ornament of his court depart, let him go, and geraint and enid went with a great party of the best knights of the round table, and rode to the severn shore, and there took ship to the shores of cornwall. when they reached there, all the people came from their villages welcoming sir geraint and his lovely bride, for the fame of his prowess, and the way in which he had won his wife, had spread over all the land. and king erbin welcomed his son and was glad of his coming, and the next day all the chief subjects, the lords and barons holding land or offices, and the chief tenants of common degree, came into the hall, and, kneeling before sir geraint, did honour to him and swore fealty. then, with a great company of his chief warriors, sir geraint visited all the bounds of his territory. experienced guides went with him, and old men learned in the marks of the boundaries, and priests, and they renewed the mere-marks that were broken down, and replaced those which had been wrongfully moved. thereafter men lived peacefully in the land, and on all the borders, for under the shadow of the strong young chief no border lords dared to invade the land, and no fierce baron used oppression. then, as had been his wont at the court of arthur, sir geraint went to all tournaments that were held within easy reach of his kingdom. thus he became acquainted with every mighty knight of his hands throughout the lands of cornwall, wales and logres; and so great in strength and prowess did he become that men hailed him as one of the three great heroes of the isle of britain; the other two being sir lancelot du lake and sir tristram of lyones. and though there were other great and valiant warriors, as sir lamorake, sir bors, sir gawaine and his brother, sir gareth, and sir palomides, yet all these had been overcome by one or other of the three heroes. for as yet sir perceval was in the forest with his widowed mother, and knew no arms but a stone or a stick; and sir galahad was not yet born. and these two were knights stainless of pride or any evil desire, and by that force alone did strike down every arm, however mighty, that relied on knightly prowess alone. when his fame had spread over all the kingdoms south of trent, so that no knight that knew him or saw the device of the golden falcon on his shield would have to do with him, sir geraint began to seek ease and pleasure, for there was no one who would joust with him. he began to stay at home and never went beyond his wife's bower-chamber, but sat and delighted in playing chess, or hearing the bards of the court sing songs of glamour and wizardry, or tell him tales of ancient warriors and lovers, long since dead. the whole court marvelled at his slothfulness as time passed and he changed not. he gave up the friendship of his nobles, and went not hunting or hawking; and found no pleasure but in the company of his wife, whom he dearly loved. men began to scoff and jeer at his name over their cups in hall, or as they rode with hawk on fist to the hunting, or as they tilted in the lists. and the lawless lords upon the marches of the land began to stir and to dare, and when none came to punish them, their plunderings and oppressions grew. soon these things came to the ears of the old king erbin, and great heaviness was upon him. and he called the lady enid to him one day, and with stern sorrow in his eyes spoke thus: 'fair woman, is it thou that hast turned my son's spirit into water? is it thy love that hath made his name a byword among those who should love him because he is not as he once was--a man no one could meet in arms and overcome? is it thou that hath sunk him in slothfulness, so that the wolfish lords and tyrant barons upon his marchlands begin to creep out of their castleholds, and tear and maim his people and wrest from them and him broad lands and fertile fields?' 'nay, lord, nay,' said enid, and he knew from the tears in her brave eyes that she spoke the truth. 'it is not i, by my confession unto heaven! i know not what hath come to my dear lord. but there is nothing more hateful to me than his unknightly sloth! and i know not what i may do. for it is not harder, lord, to know what men say of my dear husband, than to have to tell him, and see the shame in the eyes of him i love.' and enid went away weeping sorely. the next morning, when enid awoke from sleep, she sat up and looked at geraint sleeping. the sun was shining through the windows, and lay upon her husband. and she gazed upon his marvellous beauty, and the great muscles of his arms and breast, and tears filled her eyes as she leaned over him. 'alas,' she said half aloud, 'am i the cause that this strength, this noble and manly beauty have all lost the fame they once enjoyed? am i the cause that he hath sunk in sloth, and men scoff at his name and his strength?' and the words were heard by geraint, and he felt the scalding tears fall upon his breast, and he lay appearing to be asleep, yet he was awake. a great rage burned in him, so that for some moments he knew not what to do or say. then he opened his eyes as if he had heard and felt nothing, and in his eyes was a hard gleam. he rose and swiftly dressed, and called his squire. 'go,' he said to the man, 'prepare my destrier, and get old armour and a shield with no device thereon, old and rusty. and say naught to none.' 'and do thou,' he said to his wife, 'rise and apparel thyself, and cause thy horse to be prepared, and do thou wear the oldest riding-robe thou hast. and thou wilt come with me.' so enid arose and clothed herself in her meanest garments. then geraint went to his father and said, 'sir, i am going upon a quest into the land of logres, and i do not know when i may return. do thou therefore keep our kingdom till i return.' 'i will do so, my son,' said erbin, 'but thou art not strong enough to go through the land of logres alone. wilt thou not have a company with thee?' 'but one person shall go with me,' said geraint, 'and that is a woman. farewell.' then he put on the old and rusty suit of armour, and took the shield with no device, and a sword and a lance, and then mounting his horse he took his way out of the town. and enid went before him on her palfrey, marvelling what all this might mean. geraint called unto her and said sternly: 'go thou and ride a long way before me. and whatever ye see or hear concerning me, say naught, and turn not back. and unless i speak to thee, speak not thou to me.' all day they rode thus, and deeper and deeper they sank into a desolate land, where huge rocks jutted from the starved soil, and there was no sound or sight of living thing, except it was the wolf looking from his lair beneath a stone, or the breaking of a branch, as the brown bear on a distant hillslope tore at a tree to get a honeycomb, and blinked down at them, marvelling, maybe, to see a knight and a lady in his desolate domain. when, late in the afternoon, their long shadows marched before them down a broad green road which they had struck upon, enid's heart suddenly lifted to see the white walls and roofs of what looked like a rich town; for she knew not what was in her lord's mind, and feared lest his strange anger should push him to go on through the night, and so become a prey to robbers or wild animals. but she marvelled that there was no sight or sound of people; no carters or travellers going to or coming from the city, and no smoke rose above the housetops. when they came nearer, she saw the wall of the gate was broken down, and that along the broad road beyond the wall the grass waved high across the street, and the little wooden booths and cabins beside the road were rotting and decayed. anon they rode into a broad market-place or forum, where white buildings rose above them, the windows gaping, grass growing on the roofs or in the crannies of the walls, and the doorways choked with bushes. and out of the broad hallway of the basilica she saw the grey form of a wolf walk and slink away in the shadows. with a sinking heart she knew that this was one of the fair cities which the romans had built, and when they had left britain this town had been deserted and left desolate, to become a place where the wolf and the bear made their lairs, where the beaver built his dam in the stream beneath the wall of the palace, and where robbers and wild men lay hid, or the small people of the hills came and made their magic and weaved their spells, with the aid of the spirits haunting the desolate hearths of the romans. and as enid checked her horse and waited for geraint to come up, that she might ask him whether it was his pleasure to pass the night there, she saw, down the wide street before her, the forms of men, creeping and gathering in the gloom. then, fearing lest they should fall upon her husband before he was aware of them, she turned her horse and rode towards him and said: 'lord, dost thou see the wild men which gather in the shadows there in the street before us, as if they would attack thee?' geraint lifted up his angry eyes to hers: 'thou wert bid to keep silent,' he said, 'whatsoever thou hast seen or heard. why dost thou warn one whom thou dost despise?' even as he spoke, from the broken houses through which they had crept to assail the single knight, dashed ten robbers, naked of feet, evil of look, clothed in skins. one leaped at the knight with a knife in his hand, to be cut down, halfway in his spring, by sir geraint's fierce sword-stroke. then, while enid stood apart, terror in her heart, prayer on her lips, she saw him as if he were in the midst of a pack of tearing wolves, and in the silent street with its twilight was the sudden clash of steel, the howls and cries of wounded men. then she was aware that six lay quiet on the road, and the remaining four broke suddenly away towards the shelter of the houses. but two of these sir geraint pursued, and cut down before they could reach cover. he rejoined her in silence and sought for a place of lodging; and in a small villa they found a room with but one door. here they supped from the scrip of food and the bottle of wine which enid had brought, and there they slept that night. on the morrow they pursued their way, and followed the green road out of the ruined city until they reached the forest. and in the heat and brightness of the high noon the green and coolness of the forestways were sweet, and the sound of tiny streams hidden beneath the leaves was refreshing. then they came upon a plain where was a village surrounded by a bank of earth, on which was a palisade. and there was a wailing and weeping coming from between the little mud-cabins therein; and as they approached they saw in the middle green four knights in armour and a crowd of poor frightened folk about them. as they passed the gate of the village a poor man ran from the group, and threw himself before sir geraint. 'o sir knight,' he cried full piteously, 'if thou art a good knight and a brave, do thou see justice done here. for these four lords would cut my father's throat if he say not where his money is hid.' 'are they his proper lords?' asked geraint. 'nay, sir knight,' said the man. 'our land is geraint's, and these lords say that he sleeps all day, and so they will be our masters. and they do ever oppress us with fine and tax and torture.' therewith sir geraint rode through the gate of the village and approached the group. he saw where the four knights stood cruelly torturing a poor old man whom they had tied to a post, and the sweat stood upon the peasant's white face, and the fear of death was in his eyes. 'lords! lords,' he cried in a spent voice, 'i have no money, for you did take all i had when you told us our lord geraint was become a court fool.' 'thou miser!' jeered one of the knights, 'that was two months agone, and thou hast something more by now. will this loose thy secret, carrion?' at the cruel torture the man shrieked aloud, and by reason of the pain his head sank and he slid down the post in a swoon. and a young woman rushed forth, threw her arm about the hanging body, and with flashing eyes turned and defied the knights. next moment it would have gone ill with her, but the voice of sir geraint rang out. 'ho, there, sir knights,' he cried, 'or sir wolves--i know not which ye are--have ye naught to do but to squeeze poor peasants of mean savings?' the knights turned in rage, and laughed and sneered when they saw but one solitary knight in old and rusty armour. 'ah, sir scarecrow!' cried one, leaping on his horse, 'i will spit thee for thy insolence.' 'knock him down and truss him up with this starveling peasant,' cried another. all now had mounted, and the first prepared to run at sir geraint, who backed his horse through the gateway into the open plain. anon the first knight came, hurling himself angrily upon him. but deftly sir geraint struck the other's lance aside with his sword, and as the rider rushed past him, he rose in his stirrups, his blade flashed, and then sank in the neck of the felon knight, who swayed in his saddle and then crashed to the ground. then the second horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his companion. but sir geraint couched his lance, and caught the other on the edge of his shield, and the spear passed through his body. and by good hap also he slew the other two, one with his lance, the other with his sword on foot. enid, full of fear while the fight was raging, felt gladness and sorrow when she saw how nobly her husband had smitten these torturers with justice, and she said that of a truth she had been wrong, and that there was no sloth in his heart, no weakness in the strong arm of her lord. then sir geraint took off the armour from each of the four knights and piled them on their horses, and tied them together, and bade her drive them before her. 'and do thou go forward some way,' said he sternly, 'and say not one word to me unless i speak first unto thee.' as he mounted his horse, the man that had been tortured came forward with his people and knelt before him, and kissed the mail-clad shoe in his stirrup, and in rude few words they thanked him tearfully, asking for his name, so that they could speak of him in their prayers. 'i am called sir slothful,' said sir geraint, 'and i deserve not your worship. but, hark ye, if other evil lords come upon these marches and seek to oppress thee, tell them that though sir geraint sleeps now, he will soon awake and they shall not stand before his vengeance.' and so he rode on, leaving the poor folks marvelling but happy. then in a little while they came upon a highroad, and the lady went on first, and for all his anger, geraint was sorry to see how much trouble enid had in driving the four horses before her, yet how patient she was. soon they beheld a wide valley below them, the fairest and richest in homesteads and farms that they had yet seen. a river ran through the middle of it, and the road on which they passed ran down to a bridge over the river, beyond which was a castle and a walled town. sir geraint took the road towards the bridge, and soon a knight came cantering towards them. 'fair sir,' said sir geraint, 'canst thou tell me who is the owner of this fair valley and that walled city?' 'of a truth,' said the other, 'these are the lands of king griffith, whom men call the little king. he holds them of king erbin, whose son, that was so famous, men say has become a worthless court dandy.' 'i thank thee for thy words, fair sir,' said geraint, and would pass on. 'i would counsel thee not to attempt to cross the bridge,' said the knight, 'unless thou dost intend to fight the little king. for armed strangers he will not suffer to pass, and i doubt me if thy arms are of much use to thee.' and the knight smiled at the rusty arms and shield of sir geraint. 'nevertheless,' said sir geraint, 'though my arms are old, i will go this way.' 'if thou dost so,' said the knight, 'thou wilt meet with shame and defeat. for the little king is a man of giant strength.' but sir geraint passed down towards the bridge and crossed it, and went along the road beyond towards the town. presently sir geraint heard the sound of hoofs behind him, and looking round he saw a knight following him upon a great black horse, tall and stately and stepping proudly. the knight was the smallest that sir geraint had ever seen. when the stranger had come up to him, he said: 'tell me, fair sir, is it by presumption or by ignorance that thou comest armed along this road?' 'i knew not that in any of the lands of king erbin, a peaceful man, though he be armed, could not go without hindrance,' replied sir geraint. 'that was so,' replied the knight, 'when king erbin's son sir geraint was a man of prowess, not a soft fool. then his name alone kept his borders clean of robber lords and bandit knights; but now that he is less than naught, i myself must keep my land clean of thieves in rusty armour that would frighten and oppress poor folk.' 'nevertheless,' said sir geraint, 'i will travel by this road, and ye hinder me at your peril.' 'have at thee, then,' said the little knight, and together they spurred towards each other. sir geraint marvelled to feel how powerful were the lance-strokes of the little man, while, as for himself, so high was the little knight's horse and so small was the rider, that he was hardly able to get a good blow at him. but they jousted until at the third bout the little king's lance broke short, and then they dismounted, and lashed at each other with their swords. at first sir geraint thought it was nigh unseemly that one so strong and tall as himself should have to do with so small a knight; but if he thought that he had advantage in his longer reach and greater strength he quickly saw his error. for the little king was a man of marvellous strength and agility, and for all sir geraint's knowledge and strength, the other's strokes were so boldly fierce, so quick and powerful, that it was not long ere sir geraint found he had need of great wariness. soon their helmets were cracked and their shields dented and carved and their hauberks in rags, and hardly could they see between the bars of their vizors for the sweat and blood in their eyes. then at last sir geraint, enraged that one so small should give him so much trouble to conquer, gathered all his strength in one blow, so that the little king was beaten to his knees, and the sword flew from his hand ten yards away. 'i yield me!' cried king griffith, 'and never have i fought with so valiant and strong a knight. have mercy and spare me, and i will be thy man.' 'be it so!' said sir geraint, 'but thou hast already sworn to be my man.' and he lifted up his vizor and showed his face, whereat the little king did off his own helm quickly and came and kneeled humbly before him. 'sir geraint,' he said, 'forgive me my words concerning thee, but men told me that ye had forgotten that you had once been so glorious a man, and were softening to a fool.' 'nay,' said sir geraint, 'they were the fools that said so. and now i will depart, for i see these marches are in safe keeping in your hands, fair king.' but the little king wished geraint to come to his castle to be rested and healed of his wounds, and geraint and enid went and abode there a few days. but ever sir geraint was cold and stern to his wife, for he was still angry at her disbelief in him. sir geraint would not stay longer, though his wounds were but half healed, and on the third day he commanded enid to mount her horse and to go before him with the four other horses. while the sun climbed up the sky they rode through the wilderness, by tangled woods, deep valleys and quaking marshes, until they reached a deep dark forest. suddenly as they rode they heard a great wailing of distress, and bidding enid stay, geraint dashed through the trees towards the crying, and came out upon a great bare upland, and beside the wood were a knight, dead in his armour, and two horses, one with a woman's saddle upon it. and looking further geraint saw three small dark shaggy trolls making swift way up the hill towards a great green mound, and in the arms of one of them was a damsel, who shrieked as she was borne away. fiercely sir geraint spurred his horse up the slope, bidding the trolls to stop, but they only ran with an exceeding great swiftness. but he pursued them, and when they were within a few steps of a small door in the hillside, the one dropped the maiden, and the three of them turned at bay. and the damsel ran shrieking away down the hill. the trolls had dark thin faces, with curly black hair and fierce black eyes, and their rage was horrible to see. they were lightly clothed in skins, and in their arms they held, one a bar of iron, another a great club, and the third a long sharp stick. sir geraint commended his soul to heaven, for he knew he was to battle with evil dwarfs who lived in the hollow hills, and whose strength was greater than any man's, and whose powers of wizardry were stronger than merlin's. he dashed with his lance at the one with the iron bar, but the hill-troll slipped away, and brought the great bar with a heavy blow upon his lance, so that it snapped in twain. then one leaped like a wild cat upon the arm that held the rein, but happily sir geraint had drawn his sword, and with one stroke slew him. then the two others leaped towards him, but the blows of the bar and club he caught upon his shield and slew the troll with the club. ere sir geraint could draw his sword back from this blow, he felt his horse fall under him, for the dwarf with the iron bar had with one blow broken the beast's back. quickly avoiding the horse, sir geraint dashed at the dwarf, who ran towards the hole in the hill, but ere he could reach it sir geraint gave him a blow on the crown of his head, so fierce and hard, that the skull was split to the shoulders. so then sir geraint turned and walked slowly down the hill, for he was dazed, and his old wounds had broken afresh. but he came to where enid stood comforting the damsel mourning over the dead knight, and when he was there, straightway he fell down lifeless. enid shrieked with the anguish of the thought that he was dead, and came and knelt beside him and undid his helm and kissed him many times. and the sound of her wailing reached an earl named madoc, who was passing with a company along the road from a plundering expedition, and he came and took up geraint and the dead knight, and laid them in the hollow of their shields, and with the damsels took them to his castle a mile along the road. now the earl was a tyrant and a robber, and had done much evil on the borderlands of geraint, in burning, plundering and slaying, since he had heard that geraint was become soft and foolish. and he had recognised sir geraint while he lay in the swoon, and rejoiced that now he was like to die. as he rode along he thought that if he could prevail upon the lady enid to wed him, he might get much land with her, as the widow of the dead sir geraint, future king of cornwall. and he determined to make her marry him. when, therefore, he and his host had reached his castle, he ordered the dead knight to be buried, but sir geraint he commanded to be laid in his shield on a litter-couch in front of the high table in the hall. so that sir geraint should die, he commanded that no leech should be sent for. while his knights and men-at-arms sat down to dine, earl madoc came to enid and begged her to make good cheer. but, thinking to gain more from secrecy, he did not tell her that he knew who she was, nor did he show her that he knew who was her lord. 'take off thy travelling clothes, fair lady,' he said, 'and weep not for this dead knight.' 'i will not,' she said, and hung over geraint, chafing his hands and looking earnestly into his pallid face. 'ah, lady,' the earl said, 'be not so sorrowful. for he is now dead, and therefore ye need no longer mourn. but as ye are beautiful, i would wed thee, and thou shalt have this earldom and myself and much wealth and all these men to serve thee.' 'i tell you i will rather die with my dead lord, if indeed he be dead,' cried enid, 'than live in wealth with you or any one.' 'come, then,' said the earl, 'and at least take food with me.' 'nay, i will not,' said enid, 'and never more will i eat or be joyful in life.' 'but, by heaven, thou shalt,' said madoc, furious at her resistance to his will. and he drew her from beside the litter, and forced her to come to the table where his knights sat eating, and commanded her to eat. 'i will not eat,' she cried, straining from his hold towards where geraint lay, 'unless my dear lord shall eat also.' 'but he is dead already, thou mad woman,' cried the earl. 'drink this goblet of wine,' he commanded, 'and thou wilt change thy mind.' 'i will not drink again until my dear lord drink also,' said enid, and strove to free herself from the grasp of the earl. 'now, by heaven!' said madoc wrathfully, 'i have tried gentle means with thee. let this teach thee that i am not to be baulked of my will.' with that he gave her a violent blow on the ear, and tried to drag her away out of the hall. and enid shrieked and wept and cried for help, but none of the knights that sat there dared to oppose their lord. but suddenly men started up from their seats in terror to see the corpse of geraint rise from the hollow of the shield. enid's cries had roused him from his swoon, and his hand as he raised himself felt the hilt of the sword beside him. he leaped from the litter, and, drawing his sword, he ran towards the earl, who by now had almost dragged enid to the door. raising the sword, geraint struck him with so fierce a blow that he cleft his head in twain. then, for terror at seeing what they thought was a dead man rise up to slay them, the knights ran from the hall and left geraint and enid alone. enid threw her arms about geraint, her face bright with happiness. 'my dear lord, i thank god thou art not dead, as this man said thou wert. and i pray thy forgiveness for doubting that thou hadst forgotten thy manhood, for of a truth none is so brave, so good as thou art.' geraint kissed his wife, smiling wanly the while. 'sorry i am, my dear wife,' he said, 'that i was swooning when thou hadst need of me. and as for any doubts thou hadst of me, why, let us both forget them from this time forth. and now we must away, ere this lord's men recover their fright and pursue us.' enid led him instantly to the stalls where she had seen the horses had been led, and geraint took the spear and the horse of the knight whom the trolls had slain, and, when he had mounted, he took up enid from the ground and placed her before him. thus they rode out of the castle, and away as rapidly as they could. and now that they were reconciled, much joyful and loving talk was between them. but night was coming on, and geraint was weak from his wounds and loss of blood, and enid was full of trouble for the pain her husband suffered. she prayed fervently that soon they might reach a town where she could obtain help for him. suddenly she heard far away in the distance the tramp of horses, and enid could have wept for sorrow. but she kept her face calm, though her lips trembled, geraint also heard the beat of the hoofs, and turning in his saddle he looked up, and saw on the skyline of the narrow road the glint of spears between them and the sky. 'dear wife,' he said, with a faint brave smile, 'i hear some one following us. i will put thee in hiding behind this thicket, and should they slay me, do thou make thy way homeward to my father erbin, and bid him avenge my death.' 'o my dear geraint!' said enid, sobbing, for all her bravery, as she thought that he would surely be slain, and that, after all their trouble, they were not to be allowed to enjoy the happiness of their reconciliation. 'i would liefer die with thee, my dear, dear lord. let them kill us both, if it is to be.' 'nay, dear wife,' said geraint, 'i would not have thee slain. revenge my death if they slay me.' so, with many lingering kisses, he set her down upon the road, and saw her hide in the thickets. by now the gloom of evening had settled upon them, and the sound of trampling horses had rapidly approached. and painfully, by reason of his stiff wounds, geraint dressed his armour as best he could, and laid spear in rest, and drew his shield before him, and so waited in the dark road. he heard a single knight riding before the others, and soon saw his figure issue from the gloom with couched lance. and sir geraint made him ready also, resolved to sell his life dearly at the last. but as they began to spur their horses, there came the voice of enid from the hedgerow beside them. and she cried out piteously in the dark: 'o chieftain, whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead man?' the stranger stopped his horse, and called out: 'o heaven, is it my lord, sir geraint?' 'yes, in truth,' said enid, 'and who art thou?' 'i am the little king!' said the other, and rode swiftly towards sir geraint. then he leaped from his horse and came to the stirrup of his chief. 'my lord,' he said, 'i learned that thou wert in trouble, and came to see if i could aid thee.' and enid ran forward with joy at hearing this, and welcomed the little king, and told him in what a hard pass was sir geraint. 'my lord and my lady,' said griffith, 'i thank heaven sincerely for the favour that i come to you in your need. i learned of thy fight with the trolls and of thy slaying of earl madoc, and that thou wert wounded. therefore i rode on to find thee.' 'i thank thee heartily,' said sir geraint, 'and my dear wife also thanks thee. for of a truth i am spent, and must needs get me rest and a leech for my wounds.' 'then come at once with me,' said the little king, and after he had helped enid to her place before geraint, he leaped on his own horse. 'now thou shalt go to the hall of a son-in-law of my sister which is near here,' said king griffith, 'and thou shalt have the best medical advice in the kingdom.' at the hall of the baron, whose name was tewder, and a most knightly and gentle lord, sir geraint and the lady enid were received with great welcome and hospitality. physicians were sent for, and they attended geraint day by day until he was quite well again. the fame of his adventures began to spread along the borders of his kingdom, and at length reached his own court. and the robber lords and brigands of the marches, hearing of his deeds, ceased their evil-doing and made haste to hide from his wrath. also his father erbin and the host at his court repented of their hard thoughts and sneers concerning him, and praised the strength of his arm, the gentleness of his courtesy, and his justice and mercy. when sir geraint and the lady enid returned home, all the people gathered to welcome them. and thenceforth he reigned prosperously, and his warlike fame and splendour lasted with renown and honour and love, both to him and to the lady enid, from that time forth. vii how sir perceval was taught chivalry, and ended the evil wrought by sir balin's dolorous stroke it befell upon a time when king arthur was pendragon, or overlord of the island of britain, that earl evroc held an earldom of large dominion in the north under king uriens. and the earl had seven sons, the last being but a child still at play about his mother's chair as she sat with her maidens in the bower. lord evroc was a valiant and a mighty warrior, ever battling against the hated pagans, when their bands of blue-eyed fierce fighters landed on his coasts. and when peace was on the land, he went about on errantry, jousting in tournaments and fighting champions. his six elder sons did likewise, and all were famed for their knightly prowess. but the mother sat at home, sad of mood. for she hated war, and would rather have had her lord and her six tall sons about her in the home. and in her heart she resolved that she would plead with evroc to let her have her little son perceval to be a clerk or a learned bard, so that he should stay at home with her and run no risk of death. the sorrow she was ever dreading smote her at length. for a messenger came one day, saying that earl evroc her lord had been slain at bamborough, in a mighty melée between some of the best and most valiant knights of logres and alban, and two tall sons with him. as the years passed, and her little son began to run, three black days came within a little of each other, for on these days messengers came with the sad news of the death of her other boys. one of them had been done to death by an evil troll on the lonely wastes by the roman wall, two others were slain by the shores of humber, repelling a horde of fair-haired saxon raiders, and the other was killed at a ford, where he had kept at bay six bandit knights that would have pursued and slain his wounded lord. then, in her grief, the widow dame resolved that she would fly with her little son, and make a home for him in some wilderness, where never sounds or sights of war or death would come, where knights would be unknown, and no one would speak to him of arms and battles. and thus did she do, and she left the hall where she had lived, and removed to the deserts and wastes of the wilderness, and took with her only her women, and a few boys and spiritless men, too old or feeble to fight, or to think of fighting. thus she reared the only son left to her, teaching him all manner of nobleness in thought and action and in learning, but never suffering him to see a weapon, nor to hear a tale of war or knightly prowess. he grew up loving all noble things, gentle of speech and bearing, but quick to anger at evil or mean actions, merciful of weak things, and full of pity and tenderness. yet was he also very strong of body, fleet of foot, quick of eye and hand. daily he went to divert himself in the great dark forest that climbed the high mountains beside his home, or he roamed the wide rolling moors. and he practised much with the throwing of stones and sticks, so that with a stick he could hit a small mark at a great distance, and with a sharp stone he could cut down a sapling at one blow. one day he saw a flock of his mother's goats in the forest, and near them stood two hinds. the boy wondered greatly to see the two deer which had no horns, while the goats had two each; and he thought they had long run wild, and had lost their horns in that way. he thought he would please his mother if he caught them, so that they should not escape again. and by his great activity and swiftness he ran the two deer down till they were spent, and then he took them and shut them up in the goat-house in the forest. going home, he told his mother and her servants what he had done, and they went to see, and marvelled that he could catch such fleet creatures as the wild red deer. once he overheard his mother say that she yearned for fresh venison, but that the hunter who was attached to her house was lying wounded by a wild boar. always perceval had wondered what the little dark man did whom they called the hunter, who was always so secret, so that perceval could never see where he went or when he returned from the forest. so he went to the hut where tod the hunter lay sick, and charged him by the love and worship he bore to the countess, that he should tell him how he could obtain fresh venison. and the dwarf told him. then perceval took a few sticks of stout wood, with points hardened by fire, and went into the forest as tod had told him, and seeing a deer he hurled a stick at it and slew it. and then he brought it home. the countess was greatly wroth that tod had taught him how to slay, and she said that never more should the dwarf serve her. and tod wept, but when he was well again the countess would not suffer him to stay, but said he should leave the hall and never come there again. she commanded perceval never to slay any more living things, and the lad promised. but hard was it to keep his word, when he was in the forest and saw the wild things passing through the brakes. once, as he strayed deep in the wood, he came upon a wide glade or laund, with two green hillocks in the middle thereof. and feeding upon the grass was a great buck, and it had a silver ring round its neck. perceval wondered at this beast being thus adorned, and went up to it to stroke it. but the buck was fierce, and would have gored him with its horns, but perceval seized them, and after a great struggle he threw the animal, and held it down, and in his wrath he would have slain it with a sharp stick. with that a swarm of little angry trolls poured from the hollow hillocks with great cries, and seizing perceval would have hurt him. but suddenly tod ran among them, and commanded them to release him. and in the end tod, who came himself of the troll folk, made the little people pass the words of peace and friendship with perceval, and ever after that the boy went with the trolls, and sported with them in wrestling, running and other games; and he learned many things of great wisdom from them concerning the secrets of the earth and air and the wind, and the spirits that haunt waste places and standing stones, and how to put to naught the power of witches and wizards. tod ever bade them treat the young lord with reverence. 'for this is he who shall do great deeds,' he said. 'he shall be a stainless knight, who shall gain from evil the greatest strength, and, if god wills, he shall beat down the evil powers in this land.' but the lad knew not what he meant, though he was very content to have the trolls for his friends. one day perceval was in the forest far up the mountain, and he looked over the blue distance far below across the moor, and saw a man riding on a wide road which he had never noticed before. and the man rode very fast, and as he went the sun seemed to flash from him as if he was clothed in glass. perceval wondered what he was, and resolved to go across the moor to the road he had seen. when he reached the road he found it was very broad, and banked on either side, and went straight as the flight of a wild duck right across the moor, and never swerved by the hills or pools, but went over everything in its way. and as he stood marvelling what mighty men had builded it, he heard a strange rattling sound behind him, and, turning, he saw three men on horseback, and the sun shone from them as he had seen it shine from the first horseman. the foremost checked his horse beside perceval, and said: 'tell me, good soul, sawest thou a knight pass this way either this day or yesterday?' 'i know not what a knight is,' answered perceval. 'such a one as i,' said the horseman, smiling good-naturedly, for it was sir owen, one of king arthur's knights. 'if ye will tell me what i ask, i will tell you,' said perceval. [illustration: young perceval questions sir owen] 'i will answer gladly,' said sir owen, smiling, yet wondering at the fearless and noble air of this youth in so wild a waste. 'what is this?' asked perceval, and pulled the skirt of the hauberk. 'it is a dress made of rings of steel,' answered sir owen, 'which i put on to turn the swords of those i fight.' 'and what is it to fight?' 'what strange youth art thou?' asked sir owen. 'to fight is to do battle with spears or swords, so that you would slay the man that would slay you.' 'ah, as i would have slain the buck that would have gored me,' said perceval, nodding his head. many other questions the youth asked eagerly, as to the arms they bore and the accoutrements and their uses. and at length he said: 'sirs, i thank you for your courtesy. go forward swiftly, for i saw such a one as ye go by here but two hours ago, and he flashed in the sun as he rode swiftly. and now i will be as one of you.' perceval went swiftly back to his mother's house and found her among her women. 'mother,' he said, 'i have seen a great and wonderful sight on the great road across the moor.' 'ah, my dear son, what was that?' she asked. 'they were three honourable knights,' he said. 'and, mother, i will be a knight also.' with a great shriek his mother swooned away, and the women turned him from the room and said he had slain his mother. much grieved was perceval that he had hurt his mother, and so, taking his store of pointed sticks, he went off into the forest, and strayed there a long time, torn between his love for his mother, and the strange restlessness which the sight of the three warriors had caused in him. as he wandered, troubled, his quick ear caught the clang of metal, though he knew not what it was. and swiftly he ran towards the sound a long way, until he came into a clearing, and found two knights on horseback doing mighty battle. one bore a red shield and the other a green one. he looked eagerly at this strange sight, and the blood sang in his veins. and then he saw that the green knight was of slighter frame than the other, and was weakening before the strokes of the red knight. full of anger at the sight, perceval launched one of his hard-wood javelins at the red knight. with such force did it go, and so true was the aim, that it pierced the coif of the knight, and entered between the neck and the head, and the red knight swayed and then clattered to the ground, dead. the green knight came and thanked perceval for thus saving his life. 'are knights then so easy to slay?' asked the lad. 'methought that none might pierce through the hauberk of a knight, and i sorrow that i have slain him, not thinking what i did.' 'he was a full evil knight,' said the other, 'and deserved death richly for his many villainies and oppressions of weak orphans and friendless widows.' the knight took the body of the dead knight to be buried in a chapel, and told perceval he could have the horse. but the lad would not have it, though he longed greatly to possess it, and the green knight took it with him. then perceval went home, sad, yet wild with wonder at what he had done. he found his mother well again, but very sorrowful. and for fear of giving her pain, he did not tell her of the knight he had slain. she called him to her, and said: 'dear son of mine, it seems i may not keep thy fate from thee. the blood of thy warlike generations before thee may not be quenched, whatever fond and foolish plans i made to keep thee from knowledge of battle and weapons. dear son, dost thou desire to ride forth into the world?' 'yes, mother, of a truth,' said perceval. 'i shall not be happy more until i go.' 'go forward, then,' she said weeping, 'and god be with thee, my dear son. and as i have no man who is strong of his hands, thou must go alone, yet will i give thee gold for thy proper garnishing and lodging. but make all the haste ye may to the court of king arthur at caerleon-upon-usk, for there are the best and the boldest and the most worshipful of knights. and the king will give thee knighthood. and wherever thou seest a church, go kneel and repeat thy prayers therein; and if thou hearest an outcry, go quickly and defend the weak, the poor and the unprotected. and be ever tender towards women, my son, and remember that thy mother loves thee and prays for thy stay in health and life. and come thou to see me within a little while.' and he thanked her, saying he would do naught that should shame her, but would remember all the nobleness of her teaching; also, that he would return to see her within a little while. perceval went to the stable and took a bony, piebald horse, which seemed the strongest, and he pressed a pallet of straw into the semblance of a saddle, and with pieces of leather and wood he imitated the trappings he had seen on the horses of the knights. then, after taking leave of his mother, he rode forth, sad at first for leaving her in sorrow and tears, but afterwards glad that now he was going into the world to become a knight. and for armour he had a rough jerkin, old and moth-eaten, and for arms he had a handful of sharp-pointed sticks of hard wood. he journeyed southwards two days and two nights along the great straight road, which went through the deep dark forests, over desert places and over the high mountains. and all that time he ate nothing but wild berries, for he had not thought to bring food with him. while he was yet but a little way from the court of king arthur, a stranger knight, tall and big, in black armour, had ridden into the hall where sat gwenevere the queen, with a few of the younger knights and her women. the page of the chamber was serving the queen with wine in a golden goblet richly wrought, which lancelot had taken from a knight whom he had lately slain. the stranger knight had alighted before the chair of gwenevere, and all had seen that full of rage and pride was his look. and he caught sight of the goblet in the hand of gwenevere, and he snatched it from her, spilling the wine over her dress and dashing it even into her face. 'now am i well lighted here,' he said, 'for this is the very goblet which thy robber knight sir lancelot reaved from my brother, sir wilder. and if any of you knights here desire to wrest this goblet from me, or to avenge the insult i have done your queen, let him come to the meadow beside the ford, and i will slay him, ay, if it be that traitor sir lancelot himself.' all the young knights hung their heads as he mounted his horse and insolently rode out of the hall; for it seemed to them that no one would have done so daring an outrage unless, like sir garlon whom balin slew, he fought with evil magic, so that the strength and prowess of the mightiest knight would be put to naught. then perceval entered the hall, and at sight of him upon his rough piebald horse, with its uncouth trappings, and the old and mouldy jerkin upon the youth, the knights and others broke forth in excessive laughter, as much at the sight as to cover their discomfiture and fear of the knight who had just gone. but perceval took no note of their laughter, but rode up the hall to where sir kay the seneschal stood, wrathful at the outrage on the queen which he had not dared to avenge instantly. and perceval looked about and saw a knight more richly dressed than the others, and, turning to kay, he said: 'tell me, tall man, is that king arthur yonder?' 'what wouldst thou with arthur, knave?' asked kay angrily. 'my mother told me to seek king arthur,' responded perceval,' and he will give me the honour of knighthood.' 'by my faith, thou farmer's churl,' said kay, 'thou art richly equipped indeed with horse and arms to have that honour.' thereupon the others shouted with laughter, and commenced to throw sticks at perceval, or the bones left by the dogs upon the floor. then a dwarf pressed forward between the laughing crowd and saluted perceval. and the lad rejoiced to recognise him. it was tod, who had been his friend among the trolls of the mountains, and with tod was his wife. they had come to the court of arthur, and had craved harbourage there, and the king of his kindness had granted it them. but by reason of the prophecy which the trolls knew of concerning the great renown which perceval was to gain, they had been dumb of speech since they had last seen the young man. and now at sight of him their tongues were loosed, and they ran and kissed his feet, and cried together: 'the welcome of heaven be unto thee, goodly perceval, son of earl evroc! chief of warriors art thou, and stainless flower of knighthood!' 'truly,' said kay wrathfully, 'thou art an ill-conditioned pair, to remain a year mute at king arthur's court, and now before the face of goodly knights to acclaim this churl with the mouldy coat, chief of warriors and flower of knighthood!' in his rage he beat tod the dwarf such a blow, that the poor troll fell senseless to the ground; and the troll-wife he kicked, so that she was dashed among the dogs, who bit her. 'tall man,' said perceval, and men marvelled to see the high look on his face and the cold scorn in his eyes, 'i will have vengeance on thee for the insult and ill-treatment thou hast done these two poor dwarfs. but tell me now which of these knights is arthur?' 'away with thee,' shouted kay, enraged. 'if thou wouldst see arthur, go to the knight with the goblet who waits for thee at the ford, and take the goblet from him, and slay him. then when thou comest back clad in his armour, we will speak further with thee.' 'i will do so, angry man,' said perceval, and amid the shouts of laughter and the sneers of the crowd he turned his horse's head and rode out of the hall. going to the meadow beside the ford, he saw a knight riding up and down, proud of his strength and valour. 'tell me, fellow,' said the knight, who bore on his shield the device of a black tower on a red field, 'didst thou see any one coming after me from the court yonder?' 'the tall man that was there,' said perceval, 'bade me to come to thee, and i am to overthrow thee and to take from thee the goblet, and as for thy horse and thy arms i am to have them myself.' 'silence, prating fool!' shouted the knight, 'go back to the court and tell arthur to come himself, or to send a champion to fight me, or i will not wait, and great will be his shame.' 'by my faith,' said perceval, 'whether thou art willing or unwilling, it is i that will have thy horse and arms and the goblet.' and he prepared to throw his javelin-sticks. in a proud rage the knight ran at him with uplifted lance, and struck him a violent blow with the shaft between the neck and the shoulder. 'haha! lad,' said perceval, and laughed, 'that was as shrewd a blow as any the trolls gave me when they taught me their staff play; but now i will play with thee in my own way.' thereupon he threw one of the pointed sticks at the knight, with such force and with such sureness of aim that it went in between the bars of his vizor and pierced the eye, and entered into the brain of the knight. whereupon he fell from his horse lifeless. and it befell that a little while after perceval had left the court, sir owen came in, and was told of the shameful wrong put upon the queen by the unknown knight, and how sir kay had sent a mad boy after the knight to slay him. 'now, by my troth,' said owen to kay, 'thou wert a fool to send that foolish lad after the strong knight. for either he will be overthrown, and the knight will think he is truly the champion sent on behalf of the queen, whom the knight so evilly treated, and so an eternal disgrace will light on arthur and all of us; or, if he is slain, the disgrace will be the same, and the mad young man's life will be thrown away.' thereupon sir owen made all haste, and rode swiftly to the meadow, armed; but when he reached the place, he found a youth in a mouldy old jerkin pulling a knight in rich armour up and down the grass. 'by'r lady's name!' cried sir owen, 'what do you there, tall youth?' 'this iron coat,' said perceval, stopping as he spoke, 'will never come off him.' owen alighted marvelling, and went to the knight and found that he was dead, and saw the manner of his death, and marvelled the more. he unloosed the knight's armour and gave it to perceval. 'here, good soul,' he said, 'are horse and armour for thee. and well hast thou merited them, since thou unarmed hast slain so powerful a knight as this.' he helped perceval put on his armour, and when he was fully dressed owen marvelled to see how nobly he bore himself. 'now come you with me,' he said, 'and we will go to king arthur, and you shall have the honour of knighthood from the good king himself.' 'nay, that will i not,' said perceval, and mounted the dead knight's horse. 'but take thou this goblet to the queen, and tell the king that wherever i be, i will be his man, to slay all oppressors, to succour the weak and the wronged, and to aid him in whatever knightly enterprise he may desire my aid. but i will not enter his court until i have encountered the tall man there who sent me hither, to revenge upon him the wrong he did to my friends, tod the dwarf and his wife.' and with this perceval said farewell and rode off. sir owen went back to the court, and told arthur and the queen all these things. men marvelled who the strange young man could be, and many sought tod and his wife to question them, but nowhere could they be found. greater still was their marvelling when, as the weeks passed, knights came and yielded themselves to king arthur, saying that perceval had overcome them in knightly combat, and had given them their lives on condition that they went to king arthur's court and yielded themselves up to him and his mercy. the king and all his court reproved kay for his churlish manner, and for his having driven so splendid a youth from the court. and perceval rode ever forward. he came one day towards the gloaming to a lonely wood in the fenlands, where the wind shivered like the breath of ghosts among the leaves, and there was not a track or trace of man or beast, and no birds piped. and soon, as the wind shrilled, and the rain began to beat down like thin grey spears, he saw a vast castle rise before him, and when he made his way towards the gate, he found the way so overgrown with weeds that hardly could he push his horse between them. and on the very threshold the grass grew thick and high, as if the door had not been opened for a hundred winters. he battered on the door with the butt of his lance; and long he waited, while the cold rain drove and the wind snarled. after a little while a voice came from above the gateway, and glancing up he saw a damsel looking through an opening in the battlements. 'choose thou, chieftain,' said she, 'whether i shall open unto thee without announcing thee, or whether i shall tell her that rules here that thou wishest to enter.' 'say that i am here,' said perceval. 'and if she will not house me for the night, then will i go forward.' soon the maiden came back and opened the door for him, and his horse she led into the stable, where she fed it; and perceval she brought into the hall. when he came into the light and looked at the girl, he thought he had never seen another of so fair an aspect. she had an old garment of satin upon her, which had once been rich, but was now frayed and tattered; and fairer was her skin than the bloom of the rose, and her hair and eyebrows were like the sloe for blackness, and on her cheeks was the redness of poppies. her eyes were like deep pools in a dark wood. and he thought that, though she was very beautiful, there was great arrogance in her look and cruelty in her lips. when perceval went towards the dais of the hall he saw a tall and stately lady in the high seat, old of years and reverend of aspect, though sorrowful. several handmaids sat beside her, sad of face and tattered of dress. all welcomed him right kindly. then they sat at meat, and gave the young man the best cheer that they had. when it was time to go to rest, the lady said: 'it were well for you, chieftain, that you sleep not in this castle.' 'wherefore,' said perceval, 'seeing that the storm beats wildly without and there is room here for many?' 'for this reason,' said the lady, 'that i would not that so handsome and kindly a youth as you seem should suffer the doom which must light upon this my castle at dawn.' 'tell me,' said perceval, 'what is this castle, and what is the doom you speak of?' 'this castle is named the castle of weeds,' replied the lady, 'and the lands about it for many miles belonged to my husband, the earl mador. and he was a bold and very valiant man; and he slew maelond, the eldest son of domna, the great witch of glaive, and ever thereafter things were not well with him. for she and her eight evil sisters laid a curse upon him. and that in spite of this, that he slew maelond in fair fight, for all that he was a false and powerful wizard. and domna came to my husband, when he was worn with a strange sickness, and as he lay on his deathbed. and she said she should revenge herself upon his daughter and mine, this maiden here, when she shall be full twice nine years of age. and she will be of that age ere dawn to-morrow morn, and at the hour will the fierce domna and her fearful sisters come, and with tortures slay all that are herein, and take my dear daughter angharad, and use her cruelly.' the maiden who had opened to perceval was that daughter, and she laughed harshly as her mother spoke. 'fear not for me, mother,' she cried. 'they will deck me in rich robes, and i shall not pine for fair raiment, as i have pined these ten years with thee.' the lady looked sadly upon her as she heard her words. 'i fear not, my daughter, that they will take thy life,' she said, 'but i dread this--that they will destroy thy soul!' and angharad laughed and said: 'what matter, so it be that i live richly while i live!' 'nay, nay,' said perceval, and in his voice was a great scorn, 'it is evil to speak thus, and it belies your beauty, fair maiden. rather a life of poverty than one of shamefulness and dishonour. thus is it with all good knights and noble dames, and thus was it with our dear lord.' then turning to the lady, he said: 'lady, i think these evil witches will not hurt thee. for the little help that i may give to thee, i will stay this night with thee.' after he had prayed at the altar in the ruined chapel of the castle, they led him to a bed in the hall, where he slept. and just before the break of day there came a dreadful outcry, with groans and shrieks and terrible screams and moanings, as if all the evil that could be done was being done upon poor wretches out in the dark. perceval leapt from his couch, and with naught upon him but his vest and doublet, he went with his sword in hand to the gate, and there he saw two poor serving-men struggling with a hag dressed all in armour. behind her came eight others. and their eyes, from between the bars of their helms, shone with a horrible red fire, and from each point of their armour sparks flashed, and the swords in their grisly hands gleamed with a blue flame, so fierce and so terrible that it scorched the eyes to look upon them. but perceval dashed upon the foremost witch, and with his sword beat her with so great a stroke that she fell to the ground, and the helm on her head was flattened to the likeness of a dish. when she fell, the light of her eyes and her sword went out, and the armour all seemed to wither away, and she was nothing but an old ugly woman in rags. and she cried out: 'thy mercy, good perceval, son of evroc, and the mercy of heaven!' 'how knowest thou, hag,' said he, 'that i am perceval?' 'by the destiny spun by the powers of the underworld,' she said, 'and the foreknowledge that i should suffer harm from thee. and i knew not that thou wert here, or i and my sisters would have avoided thee. but it is fated,' she went on, 'that thou come with us to learn all that may be learned of the use of arms. for there are none in britain to compare with us for the knowledge of warfare.' then perceval remembered what he had heard the trolls--the people of the underworld--say, though he had not understood their meaning. 'the stainless knight,' they said, 'shall gain from evil greater strength, and with it he may confound all evil.' 'if it be thus fated,' he said, 'i will go with thee. but first thou shalt swear that no evil shall happen to the lady of this castle nor to her daughter, nor to any that belong to them.' 'it shall be so,' said the witch, 'if, when the time comes, thou art strong enough to overcome my power. but if thou failest, angharad is mine to do with as i will.' then perceval took leave of the lady of the castle of weeds, and of angharad. and the lady thanked him with tears for saving their lives, but the girl was cold and scornful and said no word of thanks. then perceval went with the witches to their castle of glaive. he stayed with them for a year and a day, learning such knowledge of arms, and gaining such strength, that it was marvel to see the feats which he performed. and while he lived with them they strove to bend him to their wills, for they saw how great a knight he would become in prowess and in knightly deeds. they tempted him every hour and every day, telling him what earthly power, what riches and what great dominions would be his, if he would but swear fealty to the chief witch, domna, and fight for her against king arthur and his proud knights. perceval prayed daily for strength to withstand the poison of their tongues, and evermore he held himself humble and gentle, and thought much of his widowed mother in her lonely home in the northern wastes, and of the promise he had made her. sometimes he thought of angharad, how beautiful she was, and how sad it was that she had so cold a heart, and was so cruel in her words. anon the witch domna came to him, and said that he had now learned all that she could teach him, and he must go and prove himself against greater powers than he had ever yet known. if he prevailed not in that battle, the ladies of the castle of weeds would become the prey of the witches, and greater power of evil would they have in the world than ever before. then she gave him a horse and a full suit of black armour. so perceval took the horse, and armed himself and rode forth. and anon he came to a hermit's cell beside a ruined chapel, and he alighted and went into the chapel, and stripped himself, and laid all his armour, his lance, and his sword, before the high altar. prayerfully he gave his arms to the service of god, and devoted them one by one to do only knightly and pure deeds, to rescue the oppressed and the weak, to put down the proud, and to cherish the humble. and as he ended praying, the armour stirred of itself, and though it had been black before, now did the darkness fade from it, and it all became a pure white. while he marvelled, a faint light glowed over hauberk, helm, shield, sword and lance, and there was an exceeding sweet savour wafted through the place. and ghostily, as in a silver mist, he saw above the altar the likeness of a spear, and beside it a dish or salver. and at the wondrous sight his breath stayed on his lips. then slowly the vision faded from his sight. he arrayed himself in his armour that was now of a dazzling white, and he rode forth and thought to go towards camelot, where was the court of king arthur. but he felt that some power drew him aside through the desolate ways of a hoar forest, where all the trees were ancient and big, and all bearded with long moss. in a little while he saw a vast castle reared upon a rock in the midst of the forest. he rode up to it, and marvelled that it was all so quiet. then he beat upon the door with the butt of his lance, and the door opened, and he entered into the wide dark hall. on the pallets under the wall he saw men lying as if dead. and in the high seat at the head of the hall sat a king, old and white, but richly clothed, and he seemed dead like all the rest. all were clad in garments of an ancient kind, as if they had lived and died a thousand years agone, yet had not rotted into dust. on the floor, about the wide heap of ashes where the fire had burned, the hounds still lay as if asleep, and on the posts the hawks sat stiff upon their perches. much did perceval marvel at this strange sight, but most of all he marvelled to see where a shaft of light from a narrow window gleamed across the hall full upon a shield hung on the fire-pillar beside the high seat in which the king sat like one dead. perceval caused his horse to pick its way through the hall, and he approached the shield. and he saw that it was of shining white, but whiter than the whiteness of his own, and in the centre thereof was a heart. as he sat looking thereat, he marvelled to see that the heart seemed to stir as if it were alive, and began to throb and move as if it beat. then the whiteness of the shield began to dazzle like to a light that mortal eyes could not bear. he lifted his hand and took the shield by its strap from the peg on which it hung, and as he did so, a great sigh arose from within the hall, as if at one time many sleepers awoke. and looking round, he saw how all the men that had seemed dead were now on their knees, with bent heads and folded hands as if in prayer. the king in the high seat stirred and sat upright, and looked at perceval with a most sweet smile. 'the blessing of god is upon thee, young white knight,' said he, 'and now is my watch and ward all ended, and with these my faithful companions may i go.' 'tell me, sir,' said perceval, 'what means this?' 'i am marius,' said the king, 'and i was that roman soldier who took pity of the gentle saviour dying in his agony upon the rood. and i helped to take him from the cross. for my pity did god, whom till then i had not known, deal with me in marvellous wise. and this shield was mine, and a holy hermit in a desert of syria did bless it, and prophesy concerning it and me. i came to this land of britain when it was full of evil men, warring fiercely together, and all in heathen darkness. i preached the word of christ, i and my fellows that came with me, until the heathens rose up and would slay me. and by that time i was wearied and very old, and wished to die. yet i sorrowed, wondering whether god would do naught to rescue these people from this slavery to the old evil law. then a man of god came to me at night, a man of marvel, and he caused this castle to be builded in this ancient wood, and he put my shield upon the post, and bade me and my dear friends sleep. 'for,' said he, 'thou hast earned thy sleep, and others shall carry on thy work and reveal the mercy of god and his christ to these poor heathens, and they shall turn to god wholly. and no evil shall be able to break in upon thy repose. but when, in the distant future, men's hearts are turning to evil again, one that is of the three white knights shall come and take this shield, to ward him in the great battle against evil, and then thou and all that are with thee shall have the restfulness of death thou hast merited. go then, thou good knight,' went on king marius, 'fight the good fight against that thing of evil whom the good man spoke of, and may my shield encompass thee and ever guard thee.' perceval took the shield and left his own. turning, he rode back between lines of silent forms bent in prayer. he went forth into the forest some little way, and heard from the castle the singing of a joyful hymn. and, looking back, he saw that the castle had vanished. but still above him and about him was the sound of singing, of a sweetness indescribable, as if they sang who had gained all that they desired. then perceval rode forward till it was night; but never could he get sight of castle or knight's hold or hermit's cell where he could be houselled for the night. so he abode in the forest that night, and when he had prayed he slept beside his good horse until it was day. just before the dawn he awoke to the sound of a great rushing wind all about him. yet marvel it was to see that the trees in that hoar wood did not wave their branches, but all were still. then he was aware of a sweet savour which surrounded him, and anon a gentle voice spoke out of the darkness. 'fair white knight,' said the voice, 'it is ordained of thee that thou goest to the lands of the king pellam in the north, where an evil power seeks to turn men from the new law which christ brought, and to make them cleave to the old law with its cruelty and evil tortures. and there at the castle of the circlet thou shalt fight a battle for the saviour of the world. and whether thou shalt win through all, none know as yet. but in thy purity, thy humility, is thy strength. fare thee well!' much moved at these words, perceval knelt and prayed, and then, as the dawn filtered through the trees, he mounted his horse and began his long journey to the north. on the seventh day he crossed a plain, and saw far in the north where the smoke as of fires rose into the clouds, and here and there he saw the fierce red gleam of flames. and he passed through a ford, and then he entered a land all black and desolate, with the bodies of the dead beside the way, unburied, and the houses all broken or burned. in other places the grass and weeds grew over the hearths of desolated homes, and wild beasts made their lairs where homely folk seemed lately to have lived their simple happy lives. no man or child could be seen anywhere to ask what all this might mean. but one day, as he walked his horse beside a brook, over the long grass, he came upon a poor half-starved peasant who had not strength to run. and the man knelt before him, and bared his breast, and said, 'strike, sir knight, and end my misery!' but perceval raised him in his arms and kissed him, and gave him bread and wine from his scrip, and when the poor man was revived, perceval asked him what his words meant. 'ah, sir white knight!' said the man, whose tears fell as he spoke, 'surely thou art an angel of heaven, not of the pit, such as have ravened and slaughtered throughout this fair land since good king pellam was struck by the dolorous stroke that balin made. for of that stroke came all our misery. the sacred relics of the crucifixion fled our land, our king sickened of a malady that naught could heal, our crops rotted, and our cattle died. yet did some among us strive to live and do as brave men should in all adversity. but into the land came an evil and a pagan knight, the knight of the dragon, and he willed that all should scorn and despise the good christ, and should turn to the old gods of the standing stones and the oaken groves. and those that would not he slew, and their folk he trampled underfoot, and their herds and fields he destroyed and desolated. and i, fair lord, have lost my dear wife and my wee bairns, and i wonder why i fled and kept my life, remembering all i have lost.' 'take heart,' said perceval, 'and remember that it is god his mercy that chastiseth, and that while thou hast life thou hast hope. it is a man's duty, a man's nobility, to bear sorrows bravely, and still to work, to do all and to achieve. i think god will not long let this evil knight oppress and slay. in his good time he will cut him down.' 'fair sir,' said the peasant, 'i thank thee for thy cheer, and i will take heart and trust in god's good time.' and perceval rode forward through the blackened land and found the forests burning and the fields wasted. anon he came to the edge of a plain, and saw a great castle in the distance. and there came to him a damsel, weeping, and when he craved of her to tell him why she mourned, she stayed, and looked at him as if astounded. then she cried with a great cry of joy. 'oh, tell me, fair sir, who art thou? thou hast the white armour which it was foretold the spotless knight should wear, and on thy shield is the heart as of him that bled to save the world.' 'i know not what you say,' replied perceval, 'but my name is perceval, son of evroc, and i seek the wicked knight that doeth all this evil.' 'then thou art the white knight,' said the damsel, 'and now i pray that god aid thee, for my lady and all this poor land have need of thee. come thou to my mistress, the lady of the chaplet.' therewith she led him to the castle, and the lady thereof came out to him. she was of a sad countenance, but of a great beauty, though poorly clothed. 'fair sir,' she said, 'my maiden hath told me who thou art, and i sorrow that one so noble as thou seemest shall essay to overcome the fiend knight of the dragon. yet if thou shouldst prevail, all men in this tortured land will bless thee, and i not the least. for daily doth the evil knight slay my poor knights, and cometh and casteth their blackened and burned bodies before my hall. and many of my poor folk hath he slain or enslaved, and others hath he caused to follow his evil worship, and many of my rich and fair lands hath he wrested from me.' 'therefore, fair lady,' said perceval, 'i would seek him without delay, for to essay the force of my body upon him, by the grace of god.' 'and shouldst thou conquer,' said the lady, 'with the fiend's death the hallowed relics which king pellam guarded shall return to bless this land. now, therefore, go ye towards the burnt land beyond the brook, for that is where is the lair of the fiend that doth oppress us.' perceval went forward across the plain to a brook, and having forded the water he came to a wide hollow where the ground was all baked and burned, and the trees were charred and black. here and there lay pieces of armour, red and rusted, as if they had been in a fierce fire; and in one place was the body of a knight freshly slain, and he was charred and black. then, as perceval looked about him, he saw the dark hole of a cave in a bank beside the hollow, and suddenly therefrom issued a burst of horrible fire and smoke, and with a cry as of a fiend a black knight suddenly appeared before him on a great horse, whose eyes flashed as with fire and whose nostrils jetted hot vapours. 'ha! thou christian!' cried the knight in a horrible voice, 'what dost thou here? wouldst thou have thy pretty white armour charred and blackened and thyself killed by my dragon's power?' then perceval saw how the boss of the black knight's shield was the head of a dragon, its forked tongue writhing, its teeth gnashing, and its eyes so red and fiendish that no mortal, unless by god's aid, could look on it and live. from its mouth came a blinding flash as of lightning and beat at perceval, but he held up his shield of the throbbing heart, and with angry shrieks the black knight perceived that the lightning could not touch the shield. then from his side the evil knight tore his sword, and it flamed red as if it was heated in a fierce furnace, and thrusting forward he came and beat at perceval. but the white knight warded off the blows with his shield, which the flaming sword had no power to harm. then did the black knight marvel greatly, for never had a knight, however skilled, withstood him, for either the lightning of the dragon shield had burnt him, or the stroke of his flaming sword had slain him swiftly. and by this he knew that this knight was perceval. 'thou knowest not who it is thou fightest,' said the black knight, with a scornful laugh. 'thou must put forth more than the skill thou didst learn of the witches of glaive if thou wouldst overcome me. for know ye, that i am a fosterling of domna the witch, and she taught me more than ever she taught you. now prepare ye to die.' then perceval knew that this indeed was the fight which domna had foretold, and that if he failed in this, ruin and sorrow would be the lot of many. and perceval began to thrust and strike full valorously and skilfully, but naught seemed to avail him. thus for a long time they went about, thrusting and striking. always the strength of the black knight seemed as unwearied as that of a demon, while perceval felt his arm weaken, as much from the great strokes he gave, as from the burning fires that darted at him from the dragon shield. then perceval cried in prayer for aid, and asked that if christ would have this land saved for his glory, strength should be given him to slay this fiendish oppressor. forthwith strength seemed to nerve his arm mightily, and lifting his sword he struck at the shield of the knight, and so vehement was the blow that he cut down the shield even to the head of the dragon. feeling the wound, the dragon gave forth a great flame, and perceval wondered to see that now his own sword burned as if on fire. then, while the black knight marvelled at this stroke, perceval struck at him more fiercely and beat in the other's helm, so that the fiend knight bent and swayed in his saddle. but recovering, he became so wroth that, with his fiery sword, he heaved a mighty blow at perceval, and cut through his hauberk even to the shoulder, which was burned to the bone. ere the other could withdraw himself, perceval thrust his sword to the hilt into the loathsome throat of the dragon. thereupon the dragon gave so terrible a cry that the earth seemed to shake with the horror of it. and in its wrath and pain the dragon's head turned upon the black knight its master, and vomited forth fire so fiercely, that it scorched and burned him utterly, so that he fell from his horse dead. perceval, dizzy and weak from the battle, alighted from his horse, and went towards the knight, that he might slay the dragon. but suddenly he swooned and fell and his consciousness went from him. when perceval came to his senses again, he found himself upon a pallet, and the rough walls of a room were about him, while above him was the window, as it seemed, of an abbey or convent. and he was so weak he could not lift his hand. some one came to him, and he recognised tod the troll. 'ah, good tod,' said he faintly. 'where am i?' 'now god be praised,' said tod, and smiled joyfully. 'for the nuns feared ye might not win through the poison of your wound which the dragon knight did give you. 'twas i who had followed you, lord, since that you did leave the hold of the witches, and when you swooned i brought you here, to the convent of the white nuns. and now that i know ye live, i go to your lady mother to tell her the good news, for she is weary to know tidings of you.' 'go, good tod,' said perceval, 'and say i will come for her blessing when i may mount my horse again.' when tod had left him, there came a nun to him, and he knew her for angharad, who had been so proud and scornful when he left her at the castle of weeds. and he asked her how she had fared, and why she was a nun. 'to repent me of my evil mind,' she said. 'for when you left us i did not in my heart thank ye that you had saved my mother and me from death and worse. and the witches came to me and tempted me with riches and power, even as they were tempting you while you were with them. i heard how you withstood them, and i scorned you and hated you and said you would yield some day. and then you left the witches, having learned all their strong powers, yet having withstood them, and i marvelled much. i heard men say you were one of three stainless knights of the world that should achieve the holy graal, because of your great humility and purity, and that great honour and glory would be yours, because you put not your trust in your own strength. then i repented, and would not listen to the evil women. but they followed me, whispering and tempting, and then for terror i sought a holy hermit, and he brought me here, and now am i at peace, and my proud heart is humble.' 'by my faith, sister,' said perceval, 'i am rejoiced to hear thee. for i thought when i saw thee that thou hadst a proud and a hard heart. but as thou wert a beauteous and lovely maiden i thought much of thee; and had it not been foreordained otherwise, i would have loved thee above all women and wedded thee.' the sister's pale face flushed. 'nay, but thou hadst a greater glory in store for thee,' she said. 'for thou shalt find the holy graal and restore it to this kingdom, and with it weak men shall forsake their leanings to the old law of hate, and cleave only to christ and his new law of love.' 'it is as god may will it,' said perceval. in a little while he strengthened and rose from his pallet, and fared forth towards the north where his widowed mother sat in her lonely hall, waiting for him whose fame was sweet in every man's mouth. as he passed through the land, he saw how it had already begun to smile again. men went to their work unafraid, the corn was brightening on the hills, the cattle lowed, women sang at their work, and children played. and all blessed him as he rode. thus was ended at last the sorrow in the land of king pellam which was brought in by the dolorous stroke which sir balin had given a generation before. viii how sir owen won the earldom of the fountain now the young page owen, who had saved king arthur from midnight murder at the hand of the evil sir turquine, whom lancelot slew, had tarried at the court of the king, and in prowess and knightly achievements was among the most famous of the knights of the round table. and always was he wishful to go on strange adventures, however far might be the country, or dangerous the ways thereto, or cruel and crafty the foes. one day king arthur was at caerleon-upon-usk, and sat conversing with a few of his knights in the presence-chamber. with him was sir owen and sir kay, and there was also sir conan and sir bedevere. the queen sat near them, while her handmaidens stood by the window at needlework. in a little while arthur said he would sleep until the horn sounded for dinner. for he had come from london late the night before, and had not had his full rest. 'but,' said he, 'do you, my knights, continue your talk, and tell each other tales as before, and if you are hungry, kay will give you collops of meat and horns of mead.' so the king slept on his broad seat of green rushes, over which was spread a splendid covering of flame-coloured satin. and cushions of red satin were under his head. kay ordered a page to bring meat and bread and mead, and when the four had eaten, sir conan was called upon to tell how he became possessed of a dark bay palfrey, as to which all envied him for its beauty, but concerning which he always put off telling the tale of how he had obtained it. 'you must know,' began sir conan, 'that i was the only son of my parents, and the confines of my father's barony in lothian were too small for my aspiring and my daring. i thought there was no adventure in the world too great for my doing, and when i had fought all the knights who would meet me in my own country, and had slain all the trolls that wrought evil there, i equipped myself in my best armour and set forth to seek greater adventures in deserts and wild regions. and i fared south for many weeks, over desolate mountains and wild and terrible fastnesses of rock and moor, where only the robber seemed to live, and the wild, magic people of the green mounds, and where there was no sound but the song of the lark, the plunge of the beaver and otter in the river, the growl of the brown bear from the rock, and the howl of the wolf at night. 'and i fared through all these terrors unscathed, and one day i came to a high ridge, and saw stretching below me the fairest valley i had ever seen. the grass was green and smooth, the trees were soft and of an equal growth; and a river ran gently through the dale, with a path beside it. 'i followed the path all day until the evening, but met no one, until, as the afternoon was waning, i came suddenly upon a large and massive castle, which shone in the westering sun. and i approached the green before the gateway, and saw two youths with curling auburn hair, clad richly in garments of yellow satin, with frontlets of gold upon their forehead. and they had daggers with jewelled hilts, and these they were shooting at a mark. 'and on a bench a little way from them was a handsome man in the prime of life, of a proud look, clad in a rich mantle. 'i went forward and saluted him, and he returned my greeting with great courtesy. and, rising, he led me into the hall, which, however, was but poorly furnished. and i wondered that the knight and the youths should be so richly clothed, while the hall was scanty. 'six maidens came forward, and while three took my horse, the others unarmed me, and gave me water wherein to wash, and a dining-robe to put on. and the six maidens were fairer than any i had ever seen. then we sat down when the meat was ready, and though the food was good, it was simple, and the vessels and flagons upon the table were of silver, but very old and dented, as if they had been long in use. 'and no word was spoken until the meal was ended, and then the knight asked me my name and whither i was going. 'i told him my name, and he told me his. and he was, he said, sir dewin of castle cower. and i told him that i was faring south seeking any great adventure, so that i might gain glory and renown. "for," i said, "i wish to find a knight who is stronger and more dexterous in arms than i." 'at that he looked upon me and smiled. '"if i did not fear to distress you too much," he said, "i would show you what you seek!" '"tell me," i said, "for i am eager to obtain this adventure." '"sleep here to-night," said sir dewin, "and in the morning rise early, and take the road to the wood behind the castle. follow the path till you come to a fountain in a glade. there you will see a large cup, with a chain. strike the cup with your lance, and you will have the adventure ye desire." 'and sir dewin smiled again as if he thought the adventure was one which he deemed was beyond me, and i was angered and soon retired to my pallet. but i could not sleep, for i was eager to rise and meet this adventure, and to come back and mock sir dewin for his laughter. 'before dawn i arose and equipped myself, and mounted my horse, and took my way to the wood, as sir dewin had told me. and the road was long and difficult; but at length i came to the glade and found the fountain. on a stone pillar beside it a chain was fastened, and at the end of the chain was a large cup. 'with my lance i struck the cup, and instantly there was a great peal of thunder, so that i trembled for fear. and instantly there came a great storm of rain and of hail. the hailstones were so large and so hard that neither man nor beast could live through that storm, for they would have slain them, so fiercely did they beat. and the way that i escaped was this. i placed the beak of my shield over the head and neck of my horse, while i held the upper part over my own head. thus did we withstand the storm, though the flanks of my horse were sore wounded. 'then the sky cleared, the sun came out, and a flock of birds began to sing on a tree beside the fountain. and surely no one has heard such entrancing music before or since. so charmed was i with listening, that i noticed not at first a low rumbling which seemed to come nearer and nearer. 'and suddenly i heard a voice approaching me, and i looked round just as a big knight in sky-blue armour rode swiftly up the valley. '"o knight," cried he, "what ill have i done to thee, that thou usest me so evilly? knowest thou not that the storm which thou hast sent by evil magic hath slain my best flocks on the hills, and beaten to death all my men that were without shelter?" 'he came at me furiously. i put my lance in rest and spurred towards him, and we came together with so great an onset that i was carried far beyond the crupper of my horse. 'then the knight, taking no further notice of me, passed the shaft of his lance through the bridle of my horse, and so rode swiftly away. and it moved me to anger to think he despised me so much as not even to despoil me of my sword. 'very depressed of spirit was i as i took my way back to the castle of sir dewin. and as i passed through the wood i came to a glade, in the midst of which was a green mound. and as i passed it i heard laughter, which seemed to come from the earth. and i heard a voice sneering and mocking me. and i guessed it was the voice of a troll or moundman whom i could not see, who lived in the hillock, and i wonder i did not go mad with the shame of his derision. 'and i had not the spirit to go to try to break into the mound, lest he should work magic and more disaster upon me. so i left that glade, with the sound of his hoarse laughter ringing in my ears. 'i reached the castle of sir dewin, and well entertained was i, and rested for the remainder of that day. and full of courtesy was sir dewin and his household, for none of them referred to my encounter, and to the fact that i had come back without a horse. and when i rose next day, there was a dark bay palfrey, ready saddled, waiting in the courtyard for me. that horse i still possess, though the sight of him ever brings back the memory of my defeat. 'verily it seems strange to me that neither before nor since have i ever heard of any person besides myself who knew of this adventure, and that the subject of it should exist within the bounds of the lands of king arthur, without any other person lighting upon it.' 'it would be well, indeed,' said sir owen, 'to go to try to discover that valley and that fountain.' 'well, indeed,' said sir kay sourly, for he had ever been jealous of sir owen, even when he had been but a page, 'if thy mouth were not more ready to say more than thou ever carest to do.' 'thou art worthy of punishment, sir kay,' said gwenevere sharply, 'in that thou speakest thus of a man so tried in prowess and brave deeds as owen.' 'fair lady,' said sir owen, laughing, 'we take no heed of kay's raw words. he ever growls like a surly dog.' at that the king awoke, and asked whether it was not time for meat. and the horn was sounded, and men came in from the tilting-ground and the play-field, and washed, and the king and all his household sat down to dinner. on the morrow, before dawn, sir owen rose privily, and put on his armour and took his horse, and rode out of the town, and for many days rode over mountains, until he saw the sea like a sheet of burnished lead lying on his left hand. then he turned his horse's head away, and rode far through wild and distant places, into the heart of the land. and at length he arrived at the valley which conan had described to him, whereat he rejoiced greatly. he descended to the path beside the river, and journeyed along it till he came to the castle of sir dewin, as conan had described. and the two youths were on the green before the gate wrestling together, and the tall knight of proud mien was standing by. to owen it seemed that he was fiercer and prouder-looking than conan had described. nevertheless, he returned the salute of sir owen courteously and led him into the castle. sir owen was entertained as well as conan had been, though the hall seemed poorer, the food coarser, and the maidens seemed careworn, and not so fair as his friend had described. after the meal sir dewin asked sir owen who he was and whither he wended, and sir owen replied: 'i have heard of the knight of the fountain, and i would fight him and overcome him, if i may.' whereat sir dewin looked at him with keen fierce eyes, and observed narrowly the build of sir owen's body. 'knowest thou aught of the prize if thou slayest the knight of the fountain?' asked sir dewin. 'naught know i of that,' answered sir owen; 'but i would seek the adventure, and whatever it will bring.' at this the knight was silent, and seemed to brood for some moments, with dark and frowning brows. then he laughed and said: 'take thou the path thou seest through the wood behind the castle. follow that till thou comest to a glade wherein is a great mound. there ye will see a stone slab. knock on that three times, and the troll-man that dwells therein will tell thee thy further way.' sir owen marked how evil was the smile with which sir dewin said these words; but sir owen thanked him, and then he was shown to his pallet and all retired to rest. when he arose in the morning sir owen found his horse already prepared, and, having put on his armour, he rode forth along the way which the knight had indicated to him. and he came at last to the glade wherein he saw the great mound, with grass growing all over it, as if it were a little hill. in the side he saw a stone slab as if it were a door, and he struck upon it with the butt of his lance. three times he struck, and at the third blow he heard a voice, rough and loud, from somewhere above his head. 'get thee gone,' cried the voice, 'darken not the door of my house, or 'twill be worse for thee.' sir owen could not see who was speaking, for no one was visible. 'i would ask thee the way to the fountain,' he replied. 'tell me, and i will not trouble thee further, thou surly troll.' 'the fountain?' cried the voice. 'i will save thee thy journey, thou overbearing knight, as i have saved it for others as proud and as would-be valiant, whom my master hath sent to me!' with that sir owen received so hard and fierce a blow upon his headpiece that he was hard put to it to keep his wits and his seat; and looking round he saw the troll, a fierce dark little man, on the very top of the mound, wielding a long thick bar of iron, as thick as a weaver's beam. sir owen thrust at the troll with his lance; but the moundman seized it below the point of steel, and so strong was he, that though sir owen drew him down from the top of the hillock, he could not loose it from the little man's hold. meanwhile, the troll was beating at sir owen with the staff of iron, which, for all its weight and size, he wielded as if it was no more than a stout cudgel. and hard bestead was sir owen to shield himself from the smashing blows which rained upon him. at the seventh blow his shield was cracked across and his shield arm was numbed. suddenly he dashed his horse forward, and the little man, still holding the lance, was thrown backward upon the grassy slope of his own mound. swiftly sir owen leaped from his horse and drew his sword, and while the troll was rising he dashed at him and wounded him. but next moment the troll was up, his dark narrow face terrible with rage, for the blood ran down the deer-skin tunic which half covered him. and then the blows of his iron rod came thicker and faster, while he moved so swiftly round about the knight that sir owen, though he thrust quickly and fiercely, could not strike him again. sir owen was becoming dizzy and weak, and felt that not for long now could he bear up his dented and broken shield against the blows that must at length smash his arm. suddenly the quick movements of the little troll ceased, and he staggered. then he dropped the iron bar and swayed like a drunken man towards the knight. he fell on his knees before sir owen, put his head upon the ground, and clutched the knight's steel-clad foot as if to put it upon his neck. but he could do no more, and so lay panting and spent with exhaustion. and sir owen could not find it in himself to pierce him through with his sword, for the troll's subjection made pity come into his heart. 'ah, sir troll!' said the knight, panting also, and very fain to rest. 'a brave troll thou art, seeing thou hast used no magic, but hath fought me like a very man.' 'chieftain,' gasped the troll, 'my heart is like to break, for thou hast tried me sore. never yet hath a knight that sought the fountain withstood my rod as valiantly as thou hast, and thou hast put my strength all to naught.' 'but i know not why thou didst try to slay me,' said sir owen, 'seeing that i did but ask thee to show me my way to the fountain.' 'i am the slave of him that overcometh me,' answered the troll, 'and i must do his bidding. sir dewin did conquer me by evil wizardry, and he sent thee to me with the three knocks on my door, whereby i knew he commanded me to slay thee.' 'well, and what wilt thou do now, valiant troll?' 'i must hide me from the wrath of sir dewin,' said the troll, 'until my sore wound is healed. then will i be thy slave, sir knight, and help thee in whatever adventure thou mayst wish!' 'get thee gone, then, good troll,' said sir owen, with a smile. 'but first tell me my way to the fountain.' whereupon the troll showed him the way and gave him certain directions, and then said: 'chieftain, thou wilt conquer in all thy fighting, and great honour and reward shall be thine. but beware thee of leaving the side of her that shall love thee, for more than a night and a day, or long woe shall find thee. and do thou take this, for it may find thee friends.' and the troll, whose name was decet, held towards him a blue stone upon a silver string. the stone burned with the dazzling blue of the lightning flash, when the light caught it. sir owen thanked him, put the string about his neck, and stood watching the troll as he limped, faint and wounded, into the mound that was his home. then, picking up his lance, sir owen mounted his horse, and rode forward through the wood, thinking of this strange adventure. when he reached the fountain where a silver cup hung by a silver chain, he filled the cup with water, as the troll had bidden him, and threw it over a pillar of stone that was set beside the fountain. and instantly there came a clap of thunder as if the earth would dash asunder, and after the thunder came the shower, and so fierce and heavy were the hailstones that they would surely have slain horse and rider, but that sir owen, as the troll had bidden him, had put his horse's forefeet in the fountain, and kept his own hand therein, whereby the hailstones became thin rain before they touched him. then the sky became bright, and the flock of birds descended on the tree and began to sing. but sir owen heeded them not, but mounted his horse, dressed his shield and lance, and prepared for the combat. there came a mourning cry through the wood, and a sky-blue knight on a high-stepping destrier dashed through the trees towards sir owen, and came against him, lance in rest. whereupon sir owen put spurs to his horse, and furiously rode against the knight. at the first onset each broke his lance; whereat they drew their swords and lashed at each other most fiercely. sir owen feinted, and then, quickly recovering, he smote the other so hard and stern a blow that the blade bit through headpiece, skin and bone, until it wounded the brain itself. then, with a great cry, the blue knight wheeled his horse and fled, with sir owen in pursuit. but the other knight's horse was fleeter, and sir owen could not overtake him, though he kept within a few yards. in a little while a great castle, resplendent with new stone, shone before them. the wounded knight thundered across the drawbridge, with owen close behind him; but when the blue knight gained the street beyond, the portcullis was let fall with a rush. sir owen fell from his horse, and looking round he found that the horse had been cut in twain by the gate. so that sir owen found himself, with the forepart of the dead horse, in a prison between the two gates, while the hinder part of the horse was outside. and sir owen saw that his death must be very near, for already he saw one of the soldiers who were guarding the gate run after the knight to the castle, as if for orders to slay him. looking through the inner gate, he saw a narrow street facing him, with booths and little houses on each side; and coming towards him he beheld a maiden, small but beautiful, with black curling hair and a circlet of gold upon her forehead; and she was of high rank, for she wore a dress of yellow satin, and on her feet were shoes of speckled leather. she stopped when but a few steps from the gate where the soldiers stood watching sir owen; and he saw that her eyes were bent fixedly upon the blue stone which lay on the knight's breast. and he saw that, in the darkness of his prison, it shone with a fierce blue flame. he looked up and saw the maiden's eyes bent on his, and he seemed to hear the voice of the maiden speaking to him, as clearly as if she stood beside him. in these words she spoke: 'take that stone which is on thy breast, and hold it tightly in the palm of one hand. and as thou concealest it, so will it conceal thee. thus wilt thou be able to pass unseen between the bars of the portcullis. and i will wait for thee on the horseblock yonder, and thou wilt be able to see me, though i cannot see thee. therefore, come and place thy hand on my shoulder, and i shall know that thou art come. and then thou must accompany me to the place where i shall hide thee.' he saw the maiden turn away and go up the street, and sir owen did as the voice had bidden him. and looking down he saw nothing of himself, although he could see the soldiers looking in, and he saw the surprise and then the horror on their faces, as they realised that they had seen him spirited away before their eyes. sir owen passed between them and rejoined the maiden, as she had bidden him. he went with her, still invisible, and she led him to a small house, and in it was a large and beautiful chamber, all painted with gorgeous colours, and well furnished. and there she gave him food, and he rested securely until late in the afternoon. then, as he looked out of the window upon the wall of the castle, which towered dark and high above him, he heard a clamour and sounds of a mourning coming from it. he asked the maiden the cause of it. 'they are administering extreme unction to the lord cadoc, who owns the castle, for he hath been wounded.' 'and who art thou, that thou shouldst save me who am a stranger?' he asked of the maiden. 'my name is elined,' said the maiden, 'and since thou bearest the blue stone of the little folk, i must aid thee all i can.' at that time she would tell him no more, but shortly left him to his rest, saying she would come to attend upon him again at the dawning. in the silence and darkness of the night sir owen awoke by reason of a woful outcry and lamenting; and then he knew that earl cadoc, the knight of the fountain, was dead from the wound he had given him. soon after dawn he arose and clothed himself; and looking out of the window he saw the streets filled with a great host of people in black, and the weeping and the mourning were pitiful to hear. knights, with their armour craped, rode in great companies before; then came the men-at-arms with weapons reversed; then the ladies of the household, and after these the priests came, and in their midst was the bier. and over it was a veil of white linen, and wax tapers burning beside and around it, and of the gentlemen who supported the bier on their shoulders none was lower in rank than a powerful baron, owning broad lands and great companies of retainers. last of all there came a lady walking behind the bier. and though her face was stained with the many tears she had shed, and was pale with sorrow, sir owen thought he had never seen so beautiful a lady, or one so gentle and kind of mien. deeply he sorrowed because he had caused the death of her lord, inasmuch as it had given her such grief. her hair, yellow and long and curled, hung dishevelled about her shoulders, and her dress of rich yellow satin was torn, and across it was a wide sash of black velvet. and it was a marvel that she could see how to walk, for the tears filled her eyes. sir owen could not take his gaze from her, and love and pity for her filled his mind. when the procession had passed out of the town the maiden elined came into the room, and sir owen asked her eagerly who was the lady he had seen. 'heaven is my witness,' replied elined, 'but she is the fairest and the sweetest and the most noble of women. she is my beloved mistress, and her name is carol, and she is countess of the fountain, the widow of him thou didst slay yesterday.' 'i sorrow for that,' said owen, 'for i have seen her grief. but, verily, she is the woman that i love best. and if my hand hath wounded her grievously, my arm would more willingly protect her.' 'indeed, thou art brave and bold, sir knight,' said the maiden, 'and much may you win, if you are as faithful in your service and devotion to her as you have been in the service of your king, the great arthur.' and when it had passed midday, elined said to sir owen: 'you must keep this chamber while i go and woo for thee. stir not out into the city lest ill befall thee.' elined went to the castle and found all was in confusion, with mourning and lamentation. her mistress she found sitting listlessly looking from the window with pale sorrow on her face; and to elined's greeting she would respond not. 'it astounds me,' said elined at length, 'to find you giving yourself up to unavailing sorrow in this way.' 'it astounds me also,' said the countess reproachfully, 'that in my time of trouble and affliction, you, whom i have enriched and favoured beyond all my handmaidens, should desert me. if i did not love thee, i should order thee to be executed.' 'it was for thy advantage that i was absent,' said elined. 'i reproached not thy grief when thy lord lay dying, but now you have yourself to think of. yet you seem more willing to live with the dead than to take heed what may happen to yourself in a few hours. i would have thee remember that a live dog is better than a dead lion.' 'hence from my sight, unfeeling girl!' cried the countess in anger. 'there is no one in the world to compare with my dead lord in beauty, in strength, and in prowess. get thee gone!' without a word elined turned and went from the room. but she had not gone far before she heard the countess coughing behind her, and on looking back her mistress beckoned to her. 'you are indeed hardhearted, elined,' said she, 'to think to leave me in my grief, and in my need of good counsel. i will overlook thy cruelty if, as you say, you have been absent for my advantage. what mean you by that?' 'this is my meaning,' said elined. 'thou knowest that without a man of knightly prowess and bravery, thou canst not hope to guard the fountain and keep these wide dominions in the power of thyself. thou art the prey and booty of any bold bandit lord that chooses to make war upon thee, and to capture and wed thee. and dost thou forget the wiles and treachery of thy old lover whom thou hast flouted, sir dewin of castle cower? hath he not sworn to take thee and thy kingdom, sooner or later, by fair means or by foul? therefore it behoves thee at once to find a noble and generous knight, courtly and worshipful, who will guard thee and love thee, and hold down the turbulent lords, thy vassals and thy neighbours.' 'hard will such a task be,' sighed the countess, 'for the earl cadoc was a man among men.' 'yet i will wager to find thee such another, even excelling him in knightly prowess, in beauty of person, and for love and devotion to thee more than his equal,' replied elined, who remembered that the dead earl had not been over tender to his gentle countess on many occasions. 'and where couldst thou find this paragon?' said the countess, flushing a little at the reminder of her late lord's neglect. 'at the court of king arthur,' replied elined; 'for there are to be found the peerless knights of the world, men of their knightly words, and devoted to love and war. 'if it be that i must think of wedding again so soon,' sighed the countess, 'go then to king arthur, and find me such a knight. but let him be gentle as well as brave, with fine and courtly manners--a man, indeed, whom i can really love.' elined went and kissed the flushing cheek of her mistress. 'trust me for that,' she said gently. 'i would do that as much for myself as for thee, my dear carol. for did it not often go to my heart to see thee pine for gentle speech and affection, and sorrow at the harsh words thou didst suffer? i will set forth at once to caerleon, and him that i bring shall be worthy of thee. and all others that may come and woo thee, do thou keep at arm's length until i return.' elined departed from the castle, but she did not go beyond the town. it was in her mind to lie hidden for as long a time as it would take her to go to caerleon and return therefrom. meanwhile, going about disguised, she would be able to see what the many lords were doing who would essay to woo the countess, seeing that, lovely and rich as she was, she would be a splendid prize. and things happened as she had foreseen. every day there came into the town one cavalcade or more, with some baron or earl in flashing armour at the head of his vassals, come to try his fortune and to win the lovely countess of the fountain, and to possess her wide dominions. daily the countess was compelled to receive fresh comers in audience, and while with deft excuses she kept each at arm's length, they crowded her audience-chamber, proud and insolent, humble or crafty, eyeing each other with high looks, each prepared to slay his rival if the need arose. at last there came an earl who, as he came up the street at the head of a large company of knights, seemed to shine like the sun. for his armour was all of gold, and jewels were about his neck, and on his girdle and his wrists. every toss of his destrier's head dazzled the eyes with the fountain of flashing lights given off by the jewels which adorned the cloth of gold about its head. this knight called himself the earl of drood, but elined was in the crowd of gaping townspeople that saw him enter, and she knew him for the old insolent lover of her mistress, whom the countess had ever despised, sir dewin of castle cower. sir dewin disguised himself so that the countess did not know him. she received him in audience, and though she was startled by the magnificence of his dress, and a little moved by the gentleness of his manner, she felt that she feared and distrusted him. the next day he craved to see her again, and then said: 'fair and noble lady, so deeply doth thy beauty move me, that i am eager to put to the test swiftly the question whether i or some other happier knight among these noble gentlemen shall obtain thy hand. therefore i crave permission of thee to proclaim a joust between all these knights that sue for thee, and the winner among them all shall be he that thou shalt wed.' 'sir,' said the countess with great dignity, 'it is not for thee to order here, but for me. i wish nothing to be done for the space of nine days, and then will i make my choice.' at which sir dewin, though full of rage, must needs seem content. and the countess hoped that, in the space she had named, elined would have returned with the knight of her choice, and she herself could choose him for her lord, if she thought he was the man whom she could most trust and love. but sir dewin wrought upon many of the suitors who were of his mind, and they resolved that, will she, nill she, the countess must needs abide by a contest between all her wooers to be holden on the tenth day. and on the tenth day all the knights, barons, and earls met together in full armour in a broad green jousting-place beneath the windows of the countess, and having made the rules of contest, and committed them to the seneschal of the countess, they prepared to prove which among them all was the knight of most prowess. then there was fierce hurtling to and fro of knight against knight, and lances splintered, horses reared, knights fell wounded or dead, and were dragged away. and for long, among the ninety-nine knights that there jousted, none of the crowds who looked on could see which were they who were gaining the day. from her window the countess watched with a sorrowing and dreading heart; for elined had not yet returned, and therefore the countess must be the prize of one of these suitors who had pestered her, and none of whom she cared for. then, when the dust of the jousting had a little cleared, and the knights had withdrawn to the sides of the lists, to breathe and rest awhile, it was seen that twelve remained of the ninety-nine. the countess, looking from her window, knew them all from the devices on their shields, and none of them were men she favoured. some she knew were evil men, yet, as knights, were powerful in jousting. and she dreaded which of them should be the victor, to be her lord and master. then the knights hurtled together again, and as one after the other was unhorsed by stronger opponents and went from the field, she went pale with fear and anxiety. at last there were but two, and these were sir dewin, whom she knew as the earl of drood, and the other was a knight in blue armour, with a shield on which was painted a hillock or mound. and she knew him to be a man named sir daunt, or the knight of the mount, a man of fierce temper, quarrelsome and cruel. the countess could have swooned with terror, for she knew that now she was doomed to an unhappy life, whichever of these knights prevailed. for though the earl of drood was soft and gentle in speech and manner, she feared that this but covered a wicked heart. she could hardly bear to look as she heard these two, the last of all the ninety-nine, crash together in the midst of the jousting-ground. and she heard the cries of the onlookers. 'the blue knight's the better man! how he heaves with his sword! ah, the golden knight is down!' and looking from her window the countess saw the earl was lying wounded, and the knight of the mount stood over him. then the earl surrendered and was carried off the field. the great shouts that saluted the victor made the countess turn faint and sick with dread, so that she fell back among her handmaidens in a swoon. but, quickly recovering, she stood up, resolved to meet her fate with proud dignity. in a few moments the door opened and the arras was pushed aside, and the groom of the chambers announced with a shout: 'the knight of the mound, victorious in the joust, craves leave to greet our lady the countess.' the lady bowed assent, trembling in every limb. then the groom stepped aside, and into the chamber came a comely gentleman, clad in purple tunic, rich with chains and jewelled belt. but it was not the knight whom the countess had expected, but a stranger, with a courtly and gentle manner and a winning smile. then from behind him came elined, full of smiles, with a look of triumph in her eyes. 'my lady,' she said, bowing low, 'this is the knight, sir owen of wales, from the court of king arthur, whom i have brought to protect you and wed you. he hath just proved himself the doughtiest among a hundred.' the terror of the countess was changed instantly into joy, and she put forth her hand, and sir owen bent and kissed it, and she led him to the window seat, and commanded elined to sit with them. and they spoke full joyously together, for the countess was much taken with the noble and gentle bearing of sir owen, and admired him because he had proved himself the best man of all her wooers. in a few days she sent for the bishops and priests, and her nuptials with sir owen were celebrated with such feasting that all the country was full of merriment and joy. and the men of the earldom came and did homage to owen, and he became the earl of the fountain. in a little while thereafter sir owen told his lady that it was he who had chased the soul from the body of her former lord. but the countess was not vexed by the knowledge, for sir owen loved her greatly, and with all tenderness and honour, and never had the countess been so happy with earl cadoc as she was with owen. thereafter earl owen defended the fountain with lance and sword against all who ventured to challenge him in his earldom. and the knights who were thus conquered he held to ransom, and the money he thus obtained he divided equally among his barons and knights. never had they had so generous a lord, nor one of such prowess and knightly worth. and all his subjects loved earl owen passing well. thus for three years in all happiness and quiet did owen and the countess dwell. sir dewin of castle cower had not power to hurt them, nor did any other evil light upon them. but at the end of this space, towards the close of a summer's day, sir owen, by the magic whereby it was made known to him, knew that there was a knight who challenged him at the fountain. so, putting on his sky-blue armour, he went forth and found the knight. they rushed together, and the strange knight was overthrown. but others who were with him took him away, and sir owen waited. but none other challenge was made, and in the twilight he retired, resolved to attend next day in case any others desired to challenge him. in the morning the same knight came forth from the company of knights which was among the trees about the fountain. and so fiercely did sir owen assail him that the head of his lance broke the helmet of the stranger and pierced the flesh to the bone. again his companions carried him off. then other knights came forth and had to do with sir owen, but all were overthrown. at length came one having over himself and his horse a rich satin robe of honour, and sir owen knew that he must be a man of great dignity, big of body and of knightly prowess. they fought together that evening and half through the next day, but neither could obtain the mastery. and about noon they took still stronger lances and fought most stubbornly. at length they came so furiously together that the girths of their horses were broken and both were borne to the ground. they rose up speedily and drew their swords and resumed the combat; and all those that witnessed it felt that they had never seen such a battle of heroes before. and suddenly with a blow fiercely strong and swiftly keen, sir owen cut the fastenings of the strange knight's helm, so that the headpiece came off. with a cry sir owen dropped his weapon, for he knew that this was sir gawaine, his cousin. 'my lord gawaine,' he said, 'the robe of honour that covered thee prevented my knowing it was thee with whom i fought. take my sword and my arms, for i yield me to thee.' 'nay, sir owen,' said gawaine, 'take thou mine, for i am at thy mercy.' then came forward king arthur, and sir owen knew him and kneeled before him and kissed his hand, and then embraced him. and there was much joy between all the knights and owen, for all had feared that he had been slain, and the king in despair had come upon this adventure to learn tidings of him. then they all proceeded to the castle of the countess, and a great banquet was prepared, with joustings and hawking parties and games. they stayed three months in great happiness and diversion. at last, when king arthur prepared to depart, he went to the countess and besought her to permit owen to go with him for the space of three months, that he might renew his friendships at the court at caerleon. and though it made the countess sorrowful to lose the man she loved best in all the world, she consented, and owen promised to return even before the time appointed. so king arthur returned to caerleon with sir owen, and there was much feasting and diversion to welcome him. and his kindred and friends tried to make owen forget the countess and his earldom, but they could not. for she was the lady he loved best in the world, and he would liefer be with her, to guard and cherish her, than in any other place on the surface of the earth. one night, as the court sat after dinner over the mead cups, a juggler came into the hall and performed many tricks, and there was much laughter and gaiety at his merry quips and jests. and he craved that he might search the hands of each lord and lady present, so that he could tell them if they would be happy in love. he began with sir kay, and so along the board, uttering merry thoughts on all, but speaking with serious and solemn looks, until he came to sir owen. and he looked long and earnestly at the marks in that knight's palm, and then said, in a croaking voice: 'a night and a day, a night and a day! thou'lt grieve for thy love for ever and aye.' none knew what this might mean, and they marvelled to see how pale went the face of sir owen. for he had suddenly remembered the words of decet the troll-man, who had said, 'beware thee of leaving the side of her that shall love thee for more than a night and a day, or long woe shall find thee.' instantly sir owen rose from the board and went out. going to his own abode he made preparations, and at dawn he arose and mounted his horse, and set forth swiftly to go to the dominions of the countess. great was his fear that some evil had befallen her in consequence of his leaving her unprotected from the evil powers of sir dewin. he rode hard and fast northwards through the wild and desolate mountains, until he saw the sea like burnished lead lying on his left hand. then he turned his horse's head away and rode far into the deep heart of the land. but though he knew the way passing well, he could not find the road now, and wandered up and down the lonely moorlands and the dark forest rides, baffled and wearied, heartsick and full of dread. thus he wandered, for ever seeking the way, and trying this one and that, until all his apparel was worn out, and his body was wasted away and his hair was grown long. and at length, from misery and hopelessness, he grew so weak that he thought that he must die. then he descended slowly from the mountains, and thought to find a hermit, to whom he might tell all his misery before he died. but he could not find any harbourage, and so he crawled to a brook in a park, and sat there wondering why this evil fate had been visited upon him, and grieving that now his beloved countess must be in wretchedness and sorrow by reason of his forgetting, and that never more could he hope to see her and tell her how grieved he had been to cause her such pain. then in a little while he swooned under the heat of the sun, from hunger and weakness, and lay half in and half out of the brook. it befell that a widowed lady, to whom the brook and the land belonged, came walking in the fields with her maids. and one of them saw the figure of sir owen and, half fearful, she went up to him and found him faintly breathing. the widow lady had him taken into the farmstead of one of her tenants, and there he was tended carefully until he came again to his senses. and with the good care, meat, drink, and medicaments, he soon began to thrive again. he asked the man of the house who it was that had brought him there. 'it was our lady of the moors,' said the man sadly. 'and though she is herself in sore straits and narrowly bestead by a cruel and oppressive earl, who would rob her of these last few acres, yet she hath ever a tender heart for those in greater distress than herself.' 'it grieves me,' said sir owen, 'that the lady is oppressed by that felon earl. he should be hindered, and that sternly.' 'ay,' said the man, 'he would cease his wrongful dealing if she would wed him, but she cannot abide the evil face of him.' ever and anon the lady of the moors sent one of her maidens to learn how the stranger was progressing, and the maiden came one day when sir owen was quite recovered, and she was greatly astounded to see how comely a man he was, and how straight and tall and knightly was his mien. as they sat talking, there came the jingle and clatter of arms, and, looking forth, sir owen saw a large company of knights and men-at-arms pass down the road. and he inquired of the maiden who these were. 'that is the earl arfog and his company,' she said sadly. 'and he goeth, as is his wont, to visit my mistress, and to insult her, and to treat her unmannerly, and to threaten that he will drive her from the one remaining roof-tree she possesses. and so will he and his knights sit eating and drinking till night, and great will be my lady's sorrow that she hath no one to protect her.' they talked of other things for a while, and then said sir owen: 'hath thy mistress a suit of armour, and a destrier in her possession?' 'she hath indeed, the best in the world,' said the maiden, 'for they belonged to her late husband, the lord of the moors.' 'wilt thou go and get them for me for a loan?' he asked. 'i will,' said the maiden, and wondered what he would do with them. before the day was passed there came a beautiful black steed, upon which was a beechen saddle, and a suit of armour, both for man and horse. and owen armed himself, and when it was dark he went forth and stationed himself under a great oak, where none could see him. when the earl, elated with insolence and wine, came back that way, shouting and rolling in his saddle, owen marked him as he rode. he dashed out at him, and so fiercely swift was he, and so heavy were his blows, that he had beaten to the earth those who were beside the earl, and the earl he had dragged from the saddle and laid him across his crupper, before the earl's companions were aware of what was done. as the countess sat in hall, sadly thinking how soon the craven earl would thrust her out of her home, there came the beat of hoofs, the great door of the manor swung open, and a tall knight in black armour strode in, thrusting another knight before him. 'i am the stranger whom ye rescued from death, my lady,' said sir owen, bowing, 'and this is thy rascally enemy, the earl arfog. look you, churl in armour,' said owen, shaking the other till every piece of steel upon him rattled, 'if you do not instantly crave pardon humbly of this lady, and restore unto her everything you have robbed of her, i swear to you, by the name of the great arthur, i will shear your head from your shoulders.' in great terror the earl, who, since he oppressed women, was an abject coward, sank upon his knees and promised to restore all he had ever taken from the lady, as a ransom for his life; and for his freedom he would give her many rich farms and manors, and hostages as surety. two more days sir owen stayed at the manor to see that these things were duly performed, and then he took his departure. 'i would that you could stay with us,' said the lady, who was sweet and gentle, with kindly eyes and a soft voice. 'lady, i may not,' said sir owen. 'i seek my dear wife and her dominions, and have been seeking them these many months. but i fear me some evil necromancy hath been reared against me, so that i may not find her again, and she must be in much sorrow and misery in my absence. and if i never see my lady in life again, yet must i seek for her until i die.' 'what is the name of your lady and of her dominions?' asked the lady. 'she is the lady carol, countess of the fountain,' answered owen. 'do you know aught of her, and in which direction her lands lie?' the lady caused inquiries to be made, and her foresters said that the lady's lands of the fountain lay fifteen leagues beyond the mountains, and that his way lay through the wisht wood, the dead valley, and the hill of the tower of stone, and only a knight of great valour could hope to win through these places, which were the haunt of warlocks, wizards, and trolls, and full of magic, both black and white. joyously sir owen mounted his horse, glad to learn that now he might hope to find his countess again, and the lady of the moors wished him godspeed, and looked after him long and earnestly till he disappeared into a forest. he journeyed three days through the wisht wood, and many were the dreadful things he saw and heard there, and great eyes, green and black and yellow, peered at him from the bushes as he sat over his fire at night. but he clasped the blue stone which the troll decet had given him, and naught could hurt him. on the fourth day he descended into the dead valley. and here he was like to die, for the air was so thick, and filled with the poison of witches who haunted there at night, that if he had not ridden fiercely and fast through its deathly vapours, he could not have reached the slopes of the hill of the tower of stone, where the air was pure and blew out of the clean sky. long and toilsome and exceedingly steep was the way up the side of the mountain, and many times sir owen thought he would have to sink down for sheer weariness. and it was dark night before he reached level ground, and he could not see where he was or what place he was in. but having said his prayers, fed his horse, and eaten from the scrip which the lady of the moors had made up for him, he lay down beside a thick bush and slept soundly. many were the terrible sounds that came from far below, where fierce witches and warlocks battled and tore each other in the dead valley; but sir owen was so overcome that he awoke not. and just as the morning broke, a great serpent issued from a rock near where he lay and crept towards him to slay him. sir owen still lay asleep, and the huge creature reared his head to strike. but at that moment a great brown bear, that had sat near sir owen through the night, leaped forward with a fierce growl, and gripped the serpent by the head. and the serpent hissed and writhed. with the noise of the struggle sir owen awoke, and marvelled to see the two animals closed in deadly combat. he drew his sword and slew the serpent, and having wiped his weapon, he went to his horse and led it forward. but the bear followed him and played about him, as if it was a greyhound that he had reared. and sir owen stopped and said: 'this is a marvel, sir bear, that you would follow me gambolling, because i slew the serpent. are ye so grateful, then, or is it that ye have been captive unto men, and are fain to see one in this desolate waste?' the bear gambolled as if pleased to hear him speak, and went on a little way and looked back as if to see that the knight was following. and when sir owen would go another way, the bear stamped his foot, so that at length, with a laugh, sir owen said he would follow the way he wished. wild was that place and rocky, full of great boulders and with deep pits obscured by bushes. full irksome was it to pass through, for besides the slipperiness of the way, the sun shone pitilessly down, and its heat was returned by the hard rocks. and there was no water. if the bear had not led him, sir owen would have missed his footing many times, and been hurled down one of the many chasms that yawned everywhere. at length sir owen became faint with hunger, and he dismounted and tethered his horse to a leafless thorn. then he went and lay in the shadow of an enormous rock that reared up like a huge tower. and the bear looked at him for a little while and then disappeared. sir owen wondered sadly whether he should ever win through the perils that encompassed him, and see again the lady whom he loved best in all the world. and weak with famine, he doubted whether he should not leave his bones to bleach beside the great rock. then he looked, and saw the bear coming towards him, and it carried a roebuck, freshly slain, which it brought and laid at sir owen's feet. the knight sprang up with a glad cry, and struck fire with his flint, and the bear brought dried sticks, and soon a fire was blazing, and juicy collops were spluttering on skewers before the fire. when sir owen had finished eating, the bear seemed to wish him to follow him, and the bear led him to a brook in a little green patch, and there the knight quenched his thirst. by now it was twilight again, and sir owen made up the fire and prepared himself to slumber; and the bear lay down beside him and blinked at the fire like a great dog. the knight saw the sun far in the west dip beneath a cloud, and a cold wind blew across the waste. and then he heard a sigh from somewhere behind him, and then another and again a third. and the sound seemed to come from within the towering stone. he cried out, 'if thou art a mortal, speak to me! but if thou art some evil thing of this waste, avaunt thee!' a voice, soft and sad, replied, 'a mortal i am indeed, but soon shall i be dead, and as cold as the stone in which i am imprisoned, unless one man help me.' the stone was so thick that the voices of both were muffled, so that neither recognised the other. sir owen asked who it was who spoke to him. 'i am elined, handmaiden to the lady of the fountain,' was the reply. 'alas! alas!' cried sir owen. 'then if thou art in so sore a pass, thou who wouldst guard my lady till thy death, surely my dear lady is in a worse pass? i am owen, who won her in the jousts, and by evil fortune left her for more than a night and a day, and never have i been able to find my way back to my beloved lady. tell me, damsel, what evil hath befallen her, and how i may avenge it instantly?' 'glad i am, sir owen,' cried the maiden joyfully, 'to hear thou art still in life, and that thou wert not faithless, as the evil sir dewin said thou wert. 'twas his evil magic that changed the landscape as thou didst ride, and so hid the way from thee. naught evil hath my lady suffered yet, nor never will now if thou canst save me this night. but he hath changed my brother, decet of the mound, into some monstrous shape, and me he hath chained within this stone. yet for seventy-seven days my magic kept him from doing further ill to my lady and me; and that space ends this midnight. therefore am i glad that the good fate hath led thee here. now go thee and hide, until sir dewin and his two evil sons come. and when they would make a fire whereon to burn me, do thou cut them down and burn them, for so shall all their evil power be stayed.' much as sir owen wished to ask how his countess had fared through the time of his absence, he stole away, after he had stamped out his fire. towards midnight there came a great roaring wind, and a shower of hailstones, and thunder and lightning, and he saw three great black shapes descend from the sky. and he knew that these were the evil wizard knights, sir dewin and his two sons. they alighted upon the hill near the tower of stone, and took the shapes of men. instantly they began to gather wood and to make a huge heap. and sir dewin made witchfire, and began to light the pile. then sir owen crept up in the dark, and the bear went with him. and as the wizard bent to light the fire, sir owen raised his sword and chopped off the wizard's head, so that it hopped into the fire. the bear had gone behind the two sons and now clawed them together, and though they struggled fiercely to get loose, the bear hugged them so tightly that they could not move. and sir owen slew them both with his sword. then together they heaped the three evil warlocks on the fire and saw them burn. and when the last of them was consumed in the fierce heat of the fire, sir owen felt a hand seize his, and, turning, he marvelled to see decet the moundman smiling into his face. 'good luck hath been thy guide, sir knight,' said the troll, 'and thou hath released me from the evil dumb shape into which this wizard did change me. but all the happiness that hath been thine and shall be thine again, thou owest to thy constancy and thy devotion to the lady thou lovest best.' 'glad am i, good troll, to see thee again,' said sir owen, 'and glad shall i be to see my dear lady again. now let us release her faithful handmaiden, thy sister.' with the master words which move the living rock, the troll caused the stone to open, and elined stepped forth, exceeding glad to see sir owen and her brother again, and to feel the free air upon her cheeks. when it was morning they went on their way with great gladness. and when they reached the city of the fountain, the countess could not speak for joy, and all her sadness fled, and in an hour her happiness was greater than her misery had been for all the months of her sorrow. the bells throughout the city were set ringing, and there was public rejoicing through the length and breadth of the land, for all were glad exceedingly that their dear lady was happy, and that their lord was come to his own again. never again did sir owen leave his lady while she lived. elined was advanced to the place of chief lady of the household, while decet was made head huntsman, because he loved the forest, and knew the ways of every bird and beast that lived therein. ix of sir lancelot and the fair maid of astolat it befell on a time that king arthur made proclamation of a great joust and tournament which should be holden at camelot fifteen days after the feast of the assumption. the noise of it went forth throughout all the king's dominions, and knights and barons, and earls and kings, made haste to get them ready to go thither. sir lancelot had but lately been sore wounded, and told the king that he could not hope to be at the joust, for fear that his wound might break forth afresh. the king was much aggrieved thereat, and would fain have made proclamation to put off the joust, but that many knights were already set forth from distant places, and great would be the disappointment. therefore, on the day that the king was to journey from london to camelot, he set forth with a heavy heart. for though he knew there would be many a brave onfall and stout bickering, yet, as sir lancelot had become the most valiant knight in all the island of britain, the king had greatly desired that the knight should show how he excelled all the doughty warriors that would come from all parts. when all the knights had gone from the king's palace in london, sir lancelot pined in the great hall. the chatter of the ladies and the tricks of the pages became irksome to him, and he began to think how gay must be the company of the knights of the round table, as they rode through the leafy country ways towards camelot, with the great arthur at their head. 'i will see the king's leech,' he said to himself, 'and bid him give me some medicament that shall strengthen my wound. for i cannot abide that i stay here like some toothless old hound, while his fellows are gone to the hunting.' so sir lancelot betook him to the lodging of morgan todd, the king's physician, but found that he too had gone with the king. when sir lancelot was turning away, sore aggrieved and angry, the man that had opened the door to him cried: 'be not vexed, sir lancelot, for i wot well you would rather go with the king than nurse that wound of thine. come down, then, and let me advise thee.' sir lancelot, thinking this would be the chief disciple or pupil of morgan todd, dismounted, and followed the man that had spoken, who was old and thin and gnarled, with beady black eyes. when he had examined sir lancelot's wound, the old man smiled strangely, and said: 'if ye take but common care of thy wound, 'twill not break out again, but your heart was ever bigger than thy wit, sir knight. thou wilt do more than any other knight, and in thy strength ye may well maim yourself.' 'then i may go to camelot, to the jousting?' asked sir lancelot. 'ay, ye may go,' said the leech. 'but hearken. stay not on thy way at astolat. if ye do so, ye shall leave so great a wound there on one that will not harm thee, that the ill shall cause thee woe out of all measure.' 'keep thy counsel, good leech,' said sir lancelot with a laugh. 'i hurt none that desire not my hurt. and, for the rest, i will take the adventure that god will send me.' sir lancelot set out forthwith, thinking naught of what the leech had said. by eventide he came to astolat, and, looking about for a lodging, he suddenly remembered the words of the leech. 'i will beg a lodging outside the town,' he said, gravely smiling. 'so i do not stay in the town, i may escape the ill which the old croaker spoke of.' he saw the manor-house of a baron beside the way, and begged a lodging there for the night, which was freely and most courteously granted unto him. the baron was an old man, of reverend aspect, named sir bernard, and he welcomed sir lancelot warmly, though he knew him not. at meat they were all very merry, and with sir bernard were his two sons, handsome youths, but lately made knights. there was also a young damsel, named elaine the fair, the daughter of sir bernard; but sir lancelot, though he saw how sweet and gentle she was, noted her not overmuch. neither she nor sir lavaine, the younger son, could bear to take their eyes from the face of sir lancelot; for there was so magnificent yet gentle an air about the great knight, that they deemed he must be some very brave and noble warrior. sir lancelot told them it was in his mind to go to the jousts at camelot. laughingly he turned to sir bernard, and said: 'fair sir, i would pray you to lend me a shield that may not be greatly known, for mine has been too much seen by warriors.' 'sir,' replied the old baron, 'i will gladly give you your desire, for i am sure you are one of the likeliest knights of the world. this, my eldest son, sir tirre, whom you see hath yet the pallor of sickness, was hurt on the day on which the great sir tristram of lyones gave him knighthood, and as he cannot now ride, ye shall have his shield.' 'sir, i thank you,' replied sir lancelot, 'for showing me such friendship.' 'and i would crave a service of you,' went on sir bernard. 'my younger son here, sir lavaine, is eager to go out with some knight of proved valour and prowess; and as my heart goeth unto you, and believeth ye to be a knight of great nobility, i beseech you that you let him ride with you to-morrow.' 'i shall be pleased, indeed, to have the young knight to ride with me,' replied sir lancelot. 'would it please you, sir,' asked sir bernard, 'to tell us your name?' 'not at this time, sir,' replied sir lancelot, 'but if god give me grace at the jousts, and i win honour there, i will of a surety return and tell you.' sir lancelot, with his nobleness and courtesy, and his tales of fair ladies and brave knights, so won upon them all, that it was late ere they each departed to their beds. the maiden elaine thought that she had never seen or heard of a knight so full of gentleness, yet withal so martial of mien, as this stranger who would not tell his name. in the morning sir lancelot made himself ready to depart, and the maid elaine lingered long about her brother, and would never say that she had really buckled the last strap of his armour. then, when at length she could keep them no longer, she came up to sir lancelot, with a face all pale and red by turns, yet striving to laugh away her fear. 'sir,' she said, 'i wish you noble deeds at the jousts and much fame. sir, i have never had a knight wear favour of mine. therefore, lord, will you wear a token of mine in your helm for good fortune?' lancelot looked down into the lovely face and smiled: 'fair damsel,' he said gently, 'if i granted you that, i should do more for you than ever i have done for any dame or damsel living.' at that she thought he refused, and the tears sprang like jewels into her blue eyes, and she turned away. sir lancelot was grieved to think his refusal hurt one that seemed so sweet and gentle. then he remembered that he desired to go to the jousts disguised, and he bethought him that if he wore a lady's token in his helm, no one would recognise him, for all knew that never would he consent to wear such things in joust or tournament, as was the custom of many knights. 'stay, fair damsel,' he said kindly, 'i will grant you to wear a token of yours upon my helm. therefore, bring it me.' instantly the face of elaine shone with joy and pride as she looked up quickly at the great steel-clad figure on the horse beside her. then, quickly running, she brought what she had in her mind he should wear. 'see,' she said, giving it into his hand, 'it is a sleeve of mine, of scarlet samite, embroidered with great pearls.' 'i will wear it at the jousts, fair maiden,' said he, 'for the sake of the kindness you and yours have shown me. and will you keep the shield which is mine own against the time when i shall return? for i will take thy brother's.' 'i will keep it in my own room,' said elaine, 'and will see that it doth not tarnish.' then sir lancelot and young sir lavaine rode forth, each bearing a white shield, as if both were young knights who had not yet done some deed, in memory whereof they could blazon a device upon their shields. so they rode to camelot, where they found the narrow streets of the little town packed with the press of knights, dukes, earls and barons come to take part in the jousts. sir lancelot got them lodgings with a rich burgess, and so privily and closely did they keep the house that none knew that they were there. on the day of the jousts the trumpets began to blow in the field where they should be held. king arthur sat on a great scaffold which was raised at one end, to judge who did best in the jousting. so great was the press of folk, both noble and common, earls and chiefs, that many did marvel to think that the realm of britain held so many people. the knights held themselves in two parties and went to either end of the lists. some called themselves the band of arthur, and would fight all comers; and among them was sir palomides, sir conn of ireland, sir sagramore, sir kay the seneschal, sir griflet, sir mordred, sir gallernon, and sir saffre, all knights of the round table. on the other side were the king of northgales, the king of swordlands, sir galahalt the proud, and other knights of the north. these were the smaller party, yet were they very valiant knights. sir lancelot made him ready with the others, and fashioned the red sleeve upon his helm. but it was in his mind to see which party fared the worse before he would choose his part; for ever sir lancelot liked a task which was not easy. so he rode forth with sir lavaine into a little wood upon a knoll, whence they could look into the lists and see the knights hurtle and crash together. soon they saw the knights of king arthur's band come against the northern knights, and many of the latter were smitten down. then he saw how the king of the northgales and the king of swordlands with a few knights made a bold and brave stand against the many knights of king arthur's round table. 'see,' said sir lancelot to sir lavaine, 'how that company of knights hold out against that great press! they are like brave boars in the midst of the hounds.' 'ye say truth,' said sir lavaine; 'they are indeed brave souls.' 'now,' said sir lancelot, 'if you will help me a little, you may see that great company go back more quickly than they came forward.' 'sir, spare not,' said the young knight, 'and i will do what i may.' sir lancelot spurred forward into the lists, and so fierce was his onslaught and so hard was his blow that with one spear he overthrew sir sagramore, sir kay, sir griflet and sir saffre, and with another spear he smote down five others. thereupon the northern knights were much comforted, and greeted the strange knight full courteously, though they wondered that he had but a white shield. then the band of arthur's knights took counsel and gathered together sir bors, sir ector de maris, sir lionel, sir blamore and five others. these were all mighty knights and all were great fighters and close kin to sir lancelot. they resolved to rebuke the two stranger knights with white shields whom they knew not; and chiefly him with the lady's sleeve upon his helm did they seek to bring to the dust. again the knights hurtled mightily together, and sir bors, sir ector, and sir lionel drove at sir lancelot, and so great was their force that they smote sir lancelot's horse to the ground. by ill hap, the spear of sir bors pierced through his cousin's shield into his side, and the head of the lance broke off and remained in the wound. then sir lavaine, seeing his friend prone, did mightily assault sir mordred, who was on the other side, and hurled him to the ground; and, bringing sir mordred's horse to sir lancelot, he helped him to mount. sir lancelot was exceeding wroth, and took a great strong spear, and smote sir bors, both horse and knight, to the ground; and likewise he served sir ector and sir lionel, and four other knights. the others retreated, for they feared his great strength. 'i marvel who is that knight that hath the red sleeve in his helm?' said king arthur to sir gawaine, who sat with him. 'sir,' said the other, 'he will be known ere he depart.' when the king caused the trumpet to sound the end of the day's jousting, the heralds cried that the prize was to go to the knight with the red sleeve. but when the northern knights came to sir lancelot and would have him go to the king and take the prize, he said: 'fair lords, let me depart, i pray you. for i have bought my victory with my life; and now i would rather have quiet than all the wealth of the world.' forthwith he galloped away with sir lavaine until they came to a great forest; and then sir lancelot groaned and said he could no further go, and forthwith he fell from his horse in a great swoon. sir lavaine went to find water in the wood, and had to go far ere he found it. but presently he saw a clearing, and there was a little hermitage and a stream running by. sir lavaine called the hermit, who was a man full reverend and noble of aspect, and told him how his friend lay in a deathly swoon. in a little while they had brought sir lancelot to the hermitage, where the hermit took out the head of the spear and bound up the wound and gave to the knight a strong cordial. anon he was refreshed and came to his senses again. at the lodging of the king in camelot, men spoke of the jousts, and wondered who might be the knight who had won the prize and who had been injured, as the northern knights had reported. though king arthur had it in his mind that it had been sir lancelot, he hoped it was not, for it grieved him much to think that sir lancelot was so badly wounded. next day the court journeyed towards london, and rested for the night at astolat; and the town being full, it chanced that sir gawaine went to the manor of sir bernard, which lay just outside the city. when he had dined, the old knight sir bernard began to speak to him, and to ask who had done the best at the jousts at camelot. ever since he had arrived, sir gawaine had seen how the fair girl, the daughter of the knight, who had attended upon him, was pale and thoughtful; and now she looked white and red by turns as he began to speak. 'there were two knights,' said sir gawaine, 'who each bore a white shield, and one had a red sleeve upon his helmet.' sir gawaine saw how the damsel clasped her hands together, and her face lit up with a great light and her eyes were bright and proud. 'and i swear that never saw i so valiant and stout a knight as he,' said sir gawaine. 'for i dare swear that he beat down twenty knights of the round table, and his fellow also did well.' 'now, blessed be god,' said the fair maid of astolat, with a great cry of joy, 'that the good knight sped so well; for he is the one man in the world whom i have ever loved, and truly he shall be the last man that ever after i shall love.' 'then do ye know his name?' asked sir gawaine. 'nay, i know it not,' said elaine, 'nor whence he came. but i know that i love him and none other.' then they told sir gawaine how they had first had knowledge of the strange knight; and the damsel said that he had left her his shield in place of the white one he had taken, so that none should know him. sir gawaine begged that she would fetch it from her chamber. elaine brought it and drew it from the case of leather in which she had wrapped it, and said, 'see, there is no spot of rust upon it, for i have cleaned it with my own hands every day.' 'alas,' said sir gawaine, when he saw the device upon the shield, 'now is my heart full heavier than it hath ever been.' 'why, oh why?' cried elaine, and stood pale and breathless. 'is the knight that owneth that shield your love?' asked gawaine. 'yes, truly,' said the maiden, 'i love him'; and then sadly she said, 'but would that he should tell me that i was also his love.' 'how ever that be,' said sir gawaine, 'you should know that you love the noblest knight in all the world, the most honourable and one of the most worth.' 'so thought me ever,' said the maid of astolat, proudly smiling; 'for never have i seen a knight that i could love but that one.' 'and never hath he borne token or sign of any lady or gentlewoman before he bore thine,' said sir gawaine. at these words the maid elaine could have swooned for very joy, for she deemed that sir lancelot had borne her token for love of her. therefore, she was cast more deeply in love with him than ever. 'but i dread me,' went on sir gawaine, 'for i fear we may never see him in this life again.' 'alas! alas!' cried elaine, throwing herself at the feet of the knight, and clutching his arm tightly, while she gazed with terror into his face. 'how may this be? oh, say not--say not that he is--is----' she could not say the word, but sir gawaine made answer. 'i say not so, but wit ye well that he is grievously wounded.' 'alas!' cried elaine, 'what is his hurt? where is he? oh, i will go to him instantly.' she rose, wildly ringing her slender hands. 'truly,' said sir gawaine, who, though a great warrior, was a slow talker, and had no thought of the sorrow of the poor maid, 'the man that hurt him was one that would least have hurt him had he known. and when he shall know it, that will be the most sorrow that he hath ever had.' 'ah, but say,' cried elaine, 'where doth my lord lie wounded?' 'truly,' replied gawaine, 'no man knoweth where he may lie. for he went off at a great gallop, and though i and others of king arthur's knights did seek him within six or seven miles of camelot, we could not come upon him.' 'now, dear father,' said the maid elaine, and the tears welled from her eyes, 'i require you give me leave to ride and seek him that i love, or else i know well that i shall go out of my mind, for i may never rest until i learn of him and find him and my brother sir lavaine.' so the maid elaine made her ready, weeping sorely, and her father bade two men-at-arms go with her to guard and guide her on her quest. when she came to camelot, for two days was her seeking in vain, and hardly could she eat or sleep for her trouble. it happened that on the third day, as she crossed a plain, she saw a knight with two horses, riding as if he exercised them; and by his gestures she recognised him at length, and it was her brother. she spurred her horse eagerly, and rode towards sir lavaine, crying with a loud voice: 'lavaine, lavaine, tell me how is my lord, sir lancelot?' her brother came forward, rejoicing to see her, but he asked how she had learned that the stranger knight was sir lancelot, and she told him. 'my lord hath never told me who he was,' said lavaine, 'but the holy hermit who hath harboured him knew him and told me. and for days my lord has been wandering and distraught in his fever. but now he is better.' 'it pleaseth me greatly to hear that,' said elaine. when sir lavaine took her into the room where lay sir lancelot so sick and pale in his bed, she could not speak, but suddenly fell in a swoon. and when she came to her senses again she sighed and said: 'my lord, sir lancelot, alas, why are ye in so sad a plight?' therewith she almost swooned again. but sir lancelot prayed sir lavaine to take her up and bring her to him. and she came to herself again, and sir lancelot kissed her, and said: 'fair maid, why fare ye thus? it hurts me to see your sorrow, for this hurt of mine is of little account to cause you to grieve in this wise. if ye come to minister to me, why, ye are truly welcome, and ye shall quickly heal me, by the grace of god, and make me whole again.' 'i would gladly serve you till you are well again,' said the maid. 'i thank you, fair elaine,' replied the knight, 'but i marvel how ye knew my name?' 'it was by sir gawaine, fair lord,' said the damsel, 'for he lodged at my father's house and saw your shield.' sir lancelot's heart was heavy at these words, for he foreboded sorrow from this adventure. afterwards the maid elaine never went from sir lancelot, but watched him day and night, and gave such comfort to him that never woman did more kindly nurse a wounded man than she. sir lancelot was full courteous and kindly in his turn, never giving more trouble than he could avoid; both were of good cheer and merry together, for sir lancelot deemed not as yet that the maid loved him deeply, and the maid was glad to be with him and to do him all the service that she could. then in a little while came sir bors, the knight who had wounded sir lancelot, who was also his cousin, and sir bors lamented sorely that his had been the arm that had given his kinsman so sore a wound. but sir lancelot prayed him not to grieve, and said: 'i have that which i deserved, for in my pride i was nigh slain, for had i given thee, my cousin, warning of my being there, i had not been hurt. therefore, let us leave off speaking thereof, and let us find some remedy so that i may soon be whole.' 'fair cousin,' said sir bors, as he leaned on the bed, speaking in a low voice, 'there is one nigh thee, or i am much in error, that will not know whether to be glad or sorry when thou shalt be hale enough to ride away.' 'what dost thou mean?' asked sir lancelot. 'is this she that is so busy about thee--is she the lady that men call the lily maid of astolat?' 'she it is,' replied sir lancelot, 'and kindlier nurse hath never man found.' 'it is easy to see she loveth her task,' said sir bors, and he was full of pity and kindness for the fair meek maid, 'seeing that she loveth thee.' 'nay, man, nay, that cannot be,' said sir lancelot, half angry, half denying. 'she hath come to me because i was sick, and because i wore her token in my helm, that's all.' 'wise art thou in all knightly prowess, sir lancelot,' said sir bors, 'and full courteous and kindly art thou to all ladies and damsels. but i fear thou knowest not the heart of this fair maid. for it hath been easy for me to see by her looks this way how she is jealous of my talking to thee, and i know from her diligence about thee that she loveth thee with all her heart.' 'if that be so, then, by heaven, i sorrow it is so,' said sir lancelot heavily. 'and i must send her from me forthwith.' 'why shouldst thou do that, fair cousin?' said sir bors. 'she is a passing fair damsel and well taught, and i would that thou couldst love her in return. but as to that, i may not nor dare not counsel thee. for i know that love blows where it listeth and will be forced by none.' 'it repenteth me sorely,' said sir lancelot, and he was heavy in spirit thereafter, and was eager to get whole again and to go away. in four or five days he made a plot with sir bors, that he should rise and clothe himself in his armour and get upon his horse, and in this way show to the hermit and to the maid elaine that indeed and in truth he was strong enough to ride forth. therefore they made excuses and sent both the hermit and the maid away into the forest to gather herbs. sir lancelot rose from his bed, and sir bors helped him to put on his armour and to mount his horse. and so eager was the knight to feel that he was hale again that he put his lance in rest and spurred his horse, and so furiously did he ride across the mead, as if he rode at a knight, that of a sudden his wound broke out again, and he swooned and fell from his horse to the ground. sir bors and sir lavaine made great sorrow and dole as they raised him and carried him back to the hermitage. it befell that elaine, who had not gone far, heard their cries and came running swiftly, and seeing sir lancelot borne between them pale as with death, she cried and wept and kneeled beside him, and put her arms about his neck and kissed him many times, and called to him to wake him. 'o traitors that ye are,' she cried to her brother and to sir bors, 'why have ye let him go from his bed? oh, if ye have slain him i will denounce you for his murderers.' therewith came the holy hermit and was right wroth, and they put sir lancelot to bed again, and the hermit stanched the wound and gave the knight a cordial, so that he awoke out of his swoon. 'why have you put your life in jeopardy thus?' asked the hermit. 'for that i weary of being here,' said sir lancelot, 'and i would ride forth again.' 'ah, sir lancelot,' said the hermit, 'your heart and your courage will never be done till your last day. but now ye must do as i command, and stay till i say ye are hale again.' soon after this sir bors departed, and the hermit promised that if he came back in a month, sir lancelot would be ready to depart with him. thus sir lancelot stayed in the hermitage, and ever did the fair maid elaine labour with diligence day and night to heal and comfort him, and to keep the time from wearying him. and never was child meeker to her parent, nor wife kinder to her husband, nor mother sweeter and more tender to her child, than elaine was to sir lancelot. the knight sorrowed that this was so; and he ever bore himself courteous, but not familiar in speech, for it grieved him that he had no love in his heart for her, however deep might be her love for him. when the month was over, sir bors returned and found sir lancelot walking about the forest, hale and strong again and eager to be riding. in a day they all made them ready to depart from the hermit, and to go to king arthur's court, which was then in london. the lily maid went with them, sad that all her loving care was now ending, but glad to see the noble air with which sir lancelot bestrode his horse, and thankful that sometimes, as they rode upon their way, he turned to her smiling gravely, and spoke of the bright sunlight, the birds and trees they saw, and the company and travellers they passed. then they came to astolat, and sir bernard gave them all great welcome, and they were well feasted and well lodged. on the morrow, when they should depart, the maid elaine was pale and very quiet, until sir lancelot came into the hall to say farewell. then the maid, bringing her father and her two brothers with her, went up to sir lancelot and said: 'my lord, now i see that ye will depart. but oh, do thou have mercy upon me, for i must say that which damsels and gentlewomen are not used to say.' sir lancelot with grave sad face looked at her and knew what she would say, and in very heaviness of spirit replied: 'lady, it grieves me that i have unwittingly put such grief upon you.' 'o fair and gracious knight, suffer me not to die for love of you,' cried elaine, and looked most piteously and wanly upon him. 'oh, i would have none but you to be my husband.' 'fair damsel,' replied sir lancelot, 'heavy is my grief to refuse you, but i have not turned my mind to marriage.' 'alas,' said elaine, and smiled sadly, 'then there is no more to be said.' 'fair maid, i would that you will seek some knight more worthy of you,' said sir lancelot. 'when i am gone, do you set your heart upon some friend or kinsman; and for all the kindness ye have shown me, i will settle upon you a thousand pounds yearly.' 'oh, of all this,' said the lily maid, 'i will have none; for if ye will not love me, wit ye well, sir lancelot, my happy days are done.' 'say it not, fair maid,' said the knight, 'for many years and much love should be yours.' but with a cry elaine fell to the ground in a swoon, and her gentlewomen bore her into her chamber and sorrowed over her. in great heaviness sir lancelot would depart, and went to his horse to mount it; and sir lavaine went with him. 'what would you do?' asked sir lancelot of him. 'what should i do,' said sir lavaine, 'but follow you, unless you drive me from you?' 'i cannot do that, so come with me,' said sir lancelot. then came sir bernard unto the knight and said, lifting his grey head and wrinkled and reverend face to sir lancelot as he bestrode his horse: 'sir, i think my daughter elaine will die for your sake. for ever was she quiet, but strong in mood and of a very fond heart.' 'it must not be,' said sir lancelot, 'but do thou cheer her, and when i am gone she will forget me. never did i do or say aught but what a good knight should, and never made as if i cared for her. but i am right sorry for her distress, for she is a full fair maid, good and gentle, and sweet of voice and mood.' 'father,' said sir lavaine, 'my sister elaine doeth as i do. for since i first saw my lord lancelot, i could never depart from him, nor never will if i may follow him.' night and day did the fair maid elaine sorrow in silence, so that she never slept, ate or drank. at the end of ten days her ghostly father bade her leave such grief and change her thoughts. 'nay,' she said, 'i may not, and i would not if i could. and i do no sin to love the most peerless knight in all the world, the most gentle and courteous of men, and the greatest in all nobility. therefore, as i know i may not live, do thou shrive me, good father, for i must needs pass out of this world.' then she confessed her sins and was shriven. and anon she called her father and her brother, sir tirre, and begged that they would do as she desired as to her burial, and they promised. in a little while she died, and a letter was put into her cold hand, and she was placed in a fair bed, with all the richest clothes she had about her. then they carried her on the bed in a chariot, slowly, with many prayers and with much weeping, to the thames, and there they put her and the bed in a barge. over all the bed and the barge, except her fair face, was placed a cloak of black samite, and an old and faithful servant of the house stepped into the barge to guide it. they let it go from them with great grief, and the aged man steered it down the river towards london, where was the court of arthur. it happened that, as the king and his queen were looking from a window of the palace which looked upon the thames, they saw the black barge, and marvelled what it might mean. the king made the barge to be held fast, and took the queen's hand, and with many knights went down to the water's edge, and there they saw a fair gentlewoman lying on a rich bed, and she lay as if she slept. the king took the letter gently from the fair hand which held it, and went into his court, and ordered all his knights to assemble, and then opened the letter and read what was written. the words were these: 'most noble knight, my lord sir lancelot du lake, now hath death come to me, seeing that you would not give me your love. yet do thou do this little thing i ask, now that i am dead, for i ask thee to pray for my soul and to bury me, and think of me sometimes. pray for my soul and think of me, as thou art a knight peerless and most gentle.' sir lancelot heard it word by word and went pale as ashes, so that men marvelled to see his sorrow. when it was finished, he said: 'my lord, king arthur, wit ye well that i am right heavy for the death of this fair damsel. god knoweth that i was never causer of her death by my will, as her brother sir lavaine here will avouch for me. she was both fair and good, and exceeding kind to me when i was wounded; but she loved me out of all measure, and of that i was sore heavy.' 'ye might have loved her,' said the queen, weeping for sorrow at the hapless fate of one so fair and fond. 'madam,' said sir lancelot, 'i could not be constrained to love her, but i sorrow for her death exceedingly.' 'truth it is,' said the king, 'that love is free and never will be forced, for all the prayers that may be said to it. but thou wilt of thy worship bury this fair maid, sir lancelot?' 'that will i do,' said the knight, 'and in all richness and solemnity.' thus was it done, and all the knights of the round table sorrowfully followed the body of the fair elaine to the grave. on her tomb in letters of gold both thick and deep were set the words: 'here lieth the body of elaine, the lily maid of astolat, who died of a passing great love' x how the three good knights achieved the holy graal now the time drew nigh which had been foretold by merlin, before he had been snared by a greater wizardry than his, and buried alive beneath the great stone in the forest of broceliande. he had prophesied that, with the coming of king arthur, the island of britain should grow in strength and fame, and her knights should be more valiant and more pure in word and deed than the knights of any other land. but that, in a little while, they would become proud, and finding that none could withstand them, they would use their strength evilly. to the court of king arthur, as he sat in london, came tidings of how his barons warred with each other in remoter parts of his dominions, seizing the strong castles of each other, putting one another to death, and forsaking the ways of the holy church of christ and turning to the idolatry of the old british pagans, some of whom still lurked and performed their evil rites in the desolate and secret places of the forests and the hills. the heart of the king was heavy as he sat thinking, and he wondered why this evil was entering into the hearts of his knights and barons. he resolved to take good counsel, and therefore commanded his clerk to come to him and bade him write down all his thoughts. then he gave the letter to a trusty knight, named sir brewis, and bade him take it to the archbishop of britain, where he sat, an old and feeble man, in his great cathedral of st. asaph, far on the verge of the western sea. he was the king's kinsman, and already known for his great sanctity as st. david. in a month the knight brought back the answer, which was in these words: 'the time draws nigh for the trial and testing of britain. three good knights shall come to you, and you must pray that their spirit shall spread like fire in the hearts of all your knights. you shall have all my prayers, dear kinsman, and i bid you say to all your knights, "watch and pray."' a few days later, when the king sat in hall before the great fire, for it was passing cold and the wintry wind snarled at the windows, the great door was flung open, and into the hall came three men bearing a wounded knight in armour upon his shield. when they had set him down, the knights that were with the king knew him for sir kay the seneschal, and sir kay looked sourly about him, and bade those that carried him take him to his pallet and fetch a leech, and not stand gaping like fools. 'how now,' said sir gawaine, 'who hath tumbled thee, sir kay?' 'a fool whose head i will rase from his shoulders when i am hale again,' snapped sir kay, as he was borne away to his bed. then into the hall came a troll, and after the troll came a knight dressed all in white armour, who, going towards the king, knelt at his feet. 'sir,' the knight said, 'i would that ye make me a knight.' 'of what lineage have ye come?' asked the king. 'i am the only son left to my mother,' replied the knight, 'and she is the widow of earl evroc of the wolds.' 'ah,' said the king, and frowned, 'was he one of those turbulent lords of the north that now slay and war as if they were kin to the pagans, and threaten to bring ruin into my kingdom?' 'nay, lord,' said the young knight, 'my father hath been dead these twenty years.' 'then what is your name? what have ye done to deserve knighthood?' asked the king, who was angry at the hurt his old friend and foster-brother kay had received. 'sir, i am perceval who slew the dragon knight, and i am not yet made a knight.' all those that stood there cried out in joy, and king arthur raised the young knight from his knees and kissed him on both cheeks. 'fair young warrior, i knew ye not,' said the king, 'and i repent me my churlish speech. we all have heard your great deeds, and much have i longed to see ye, and many reproaches gave i to sir kay, whose churlish manner thrust you from my hall.' 'sir,' said perceval, when he had clasped the hands of the knights, all of whom were eager to know him, 'i vowed that i would not come to you until that i had avenged the blow which sir kay had given to my good friend tod, who is my squire, and good fortune brought sir kay to me, or perhaps it was the will of heaven. for as i came riding hitherwards this morning, i saw in the snow where a hawk had torn a thrush, and the blood lay on the whiteness of the ground. i stopped and gazed upon it, for i thought of the white life of christ who gave his blood to save us all. then i wondered whether the blood that he had shed upon the cruel cross would ever be so pitiful a thing in men's minds that this dear britain of ours would be rid of the evil which seems to be creeping into it, and in place thereof would turn as white as the sheets of snow that now lay over all the fields and ways. as i thought thus, i sank deeper and deeper in my thoughts. suddenly i felt one strike me on the arm with the flat of his sword. i turned and saw a knight, who asked me why i gaped like a mooncalf at the torn bird. i told him it was my pleasure so to do. he asked if it was my pleasure to have to do with him, but i said i would liefer pursue my thoughts again. nevertheless, he would not let me in quiet, and i drew my sword and beat him in my anger to the ground. when my squire unlaced his helm he knew him for sir kay, and told some passing men to bear him unto the court. 'so have i punished him both for the insult to my friend and squire and to myself.' men marvelled at the quiet speech and gentle looks and manners of one whose fame for great deeds was in all men's mouths; and sir gawaine said: 'of a truth, young chieftain, it had served sir kay rightly if ye had slain him, and he should thank thee for sparing him.' the other knights agreed that sir kay had done most unknightly in thus picking a quarrel with one who had not offended, and he had merited defeat. thereupon king arthur knighted perceval, and they made him great cheer and welcome; and the king knew in his heart that this was one of the three good knights whom st. david had spoken of, and he wondered who were the other two. it chanced that seven nights before, the good sir bors had fared forth from the court of arthur to seek knightly adventures. and his spirit was joyful as he rode, for he felt that some great adventure was to come to him, howbeit he knew not why he felt this was to be. northward he fared through the land, and the snow had not yet fallen, but so mild was the season that men's thoughts had stirred towards spring. for many days he journeyed and the ways were more lonely, the country more desolate, the rocky hills more bare. he wondered why it was that the land seemed so forsaken, as if the folk had long since left the fields to become solitary wastes. at length it befell that one evening he could find no place wherein to shelter for the night; there was no hermit's cell nor castle nor knight's hold through all the way by which he had come that day. towards twilight he came upon a wide moor, and the cold moon peered at him over the distant mountains. far in the midst of the waste he saw a great pile, as of a castle, and pricked his horse towards it. it was indeed a castle, but its walls were broken and mossy, as if long years had passed since it housed fire and gay company. he rode over the drawbridge into the great courtyard, and the echo of his horse's hoofbeats was the only sound that greeted him. he sought the upper chambers, and found in one a rough bed of fern leaves, and, having supped from the scrip he carried with him, he composed himself to sleep, glad that at least a roof and thick walls shielded him from the freezing cold which now swept over the land. forthwith he slept; but at midnight he awoke and found it was deeply dark, and looking to the arrow slit in the wall he sought some friendly star. as he looked, a great red light burst through, and with that there came, thrusting fiercely, a great spear like a long flame, which darted at him, and then stayed just before him. the point of it burned blue and dazzling. as he lay marvelling, the spear went back a space; then he grasped his sword that lay beside him, but before he could defend himself the flaming spear dashed forward again and smote him in the shoulder. then the spear went back and the chamber was deep dark again, and for very pain sir bors lay and groaned. nor could he sleep more that night. when it was dawn he arose, thinking to ride forth, but when he went down into the courtyard to saddle his horse in the stable, he marvelled to see that where there had been an open ruined gateway the night before, was now a great black oaken door, spiked and bolted. for a long time he essayed by every means to get himself out of that castle, but he could not find a way. yet never did he hear or see aught that showed that any one lived there. many times he went throughout the place, but never found aught but ruin and emptiness, and the dust and darkness of long neglect everywhere. when three days had gone, sir bors was faint with the pain of his wound and the hunger with which he suffered. then, as he sat beside his horse in its stall, he suddenly heard the clank of armour, and going forth into the courtyard saw a knight all armed, with his shield on his shoulder and his sword naked in his hand. without a word the stranger darted at him, and hardly did sir bors have time to dress his shield; and then they lashed mightily at each other, and thrust and hewed sorely. thus for half the day they fought, and so fiercely that soon sir bors had many wounds, so that blood oozed from the joints of his armour. but the other knight seemed to be unharmed, and never seemed to breathe heavily. then sir bors became extremely wroth, and beat so fiercely upon the other that he pressed him always backward until the stranger was nigh to the door of a chamber which opened into the courtyard; and suddenly he dashed backwards into the chamber and shut the door. nor would he come forth, for all that sir bors called him coward and recreant. nor would he answer one word, nor had he said one word since sir bors had seen him. after some time sir bors resolved to go back and rest himself beside his horse, for his great wounds burned him sorely; but as he turned, suddenly, without a sound, the stranger knight dashed forth, and struck a felon blow at the good knight's neck. but sir bors was aware of him in time and defended himself full well. so fiercely did sir bors lay on, that soon the other was beaten to his knees, and then the good knight rushed at him to hurl him headlong and to slay him. suddenly the other knight seemed to fall together as if dead; but the armour sounded hollow as it fell, and sir bors marvelled. swiftly he hacked the fastenings of the helm and tore it from the neck armour. then a great fear seized and shook him. the armour was empty! he knew then that he had fought with a demon. he crossed himself and prayed, and weak with deadly fear and his wounds, he went into the stall and sat beside his horse, and marvelled how he could win with life from the fell power that seemed to hold him prisoner. suddenly, from a dark cavernous hole in the dungeons, came a great boar, with curving tusks keen as sword-blades, and rushed at sir bors full fiercely. hardily did the knight defend himself from the strength and the fierce rushes of the great beast. the boar with its long tusks tore the shield from the grasp of sir bors, and slashed his shield arm sorely, and then sir bors was wroth, and with a very fierce blow he smote off the boar's head. immediately thereupon, with the pain of his many wounds and the weakness of his famine, sir bors fainted, and lay upon the frozen snow as one dead. for long he stayed thus ere he revived, and then he rose and dragged himself into the stall where lay his horse, half dead with hunger, before an empty manger. all that night sir bors lay in a sad pass, for he thought that now he would never see dawn again in life. he prayed and commended his soul to god, and confessed his sins and prepared himself for death as behoved a good knight; and thereafter he slept sweetly. at the dawn he awoke, exceeding hungry, and looking forth into the court he had it in his mind to carve meat from the dead boar. but he was astounded beyond measure to find that it was not there. in its place was a great trencher of steaming hot collops of meat, and toasted bread, with hot milk in great plenty. sir bors ran towards the food, and so ravenous was his hunger that he would have devoured it instantly. but he bethought him before he had placed any of it to his lips, and dropping it he crossed himself and ran back into the stall and tried not to look forth. he knew that the food was placed there by some fell fiend or demon to tempt him, and if he ate of that unholy food, his soul would be for ever lost. anon sweet voices sounded in the courtyard as if to attract him forth, and the smell of the hot food was wafted strongly into the stable. the fiends themselves could not enter, for there was a horse-shoe hung in the proper way upon the lintel of the door, and, moreover, sir bors had stuck his sword-point in the ground, and the holy sign of the cross prevented the evil things from crossing the threshold. all that day did sir bors lie half dying, while the fiends tempted him, but the knight was too strong and manful of soul to yield, and would liefer die than become the slave of the powers of the netherworld. then in the twilight he commended his soul to god, for he felt near to death. when he had finished his prayer, he heard great and horrible cries in the court as of rage and disappointment. then came an old man at the door of the stable, white of hair and very reverend; and he came and put his hand upon sir bors' head and spoke mildly and said: 'good and faithful knight, sorely tried have ye been, and now you shall have no more adventures here. full worshipfully have ye done and better shall ye do hereafter. and now your wounds shall be healed and ye shall have good cheer until to-morrow.' therewith there was all manner of sweetness and savour in the place, and sir bors saw as in a mist a shining vessel borne by a wondrous maiden. he knew that this was the holy graal; and he bowed his head, and forthwith he was whole of his wounds. on the morrow he departed after a night's sweet sleep, and rode to arthur's court and told of his adventures. the king and queen and all the fellowship of the round table were passing glad to see sir bors whole and well, and they made much of him, for they felt that he would do things of great renown. then at the feast of pentecost went all the court to the minster to hear their service; and when they returned to the palace the king ordered that dinner should be prepared in the hall of the round table, for this was one of the days when he was wont to assemble all his knights at a great feast of knighthood. while they waited for the horn to sound, warning them that the meal was ready, one came running to the king, saying that a thing of marvel had happened. and arthur went to the hall of the round table with his knights, and there in the seats about the great circular board they found letters of gold written, which said, 'here should sit sir bedevere,' or 'here should sit sir gawaine,' and thus was the name of a knight written in every seat. in the siege, or seat, perilous, where twice or thrice a reckless knight had dared to sit, but only to be struck dead by a sudden flashing blow of mystery, there were written the words, 'in the four hundredth and fourth and fiftieth year after the passion of our lord, shall he that shall fill this seat come among ye.' all the knights marvelled and looked each at the other. 'it seemeth me,' said lancelot, 'that this is the very day on which this seat shall be filled by him for whom it is appointed, for this is the four hundred and fifty-fourth winter since christ died on the rood.' it was seen that on each side of the siege perilous was written, on the right one, the name of sir perceval, and on the left one, the name of sir bors. then the horn was sounded to dinner, and each knight took the seat appointed for him, and young knights served them. all the sieges round the table were filled except the siege perilous. men ate and drank soberly, for they felt that an adventure strange and marvellous should happen that day, and so indeed it befell. for when they had eaten, and the priest was saying in a great silence the grace after meat, suddenly a shrill wind sounded without, and all the doors and windows shut fast. men looked at each other in the twilight thus caused, and many a face was white with fear. then the door opened and an old and reverend man entered, white of beard and head, and clothed also in white; and sir bors knew him for the same who had come to him at the castle of fiends. by the right hand the ancient man brought a young knight, clad in red armour, with a sword at his side, but with no shield. 'peace be with you, fair lords,' said the old man. then turning to the king he said: 'sir, i bring here a young knight, the which is of king's lineage, whereby the marvels of this court shall be accomplished, and the trial of this thy kingdom shall be brought to a happy end, if that may be. and the name of him is galahad.' 'sir,' said the king, 'ye be right welcome and the young knight with you.' the old man made the young knight unarm him, and he was in a coat of red sendal, and bare a mantle that was furred with ermine. then was the young man led by the reverend man to the siege perilous, and sat him thereon, and men marvelled to see that the death-stroke did not flash like lightning and slay him. [illustration: sir galahad is brought to the court of king arthur] 'sir,' said the old man to him, 'wit ye well that that is your seat. for you are he that shall surely achieve the holy graal, and such of these your fellows as are pure in heart and humble shall achieve it with you.' 'sir,' said the king, 'if it may be that ye know, will ye tell us what my knights must do to achieve the holy vessel, and thus bring peace into my kingdom in place of war? for many of those that are kings and barons under me are warring with each other, and threaten to rend this island of britain, and some are forsaking christ and are turning to the evil faith and cruel worship of the pagan gods of britain. and it goeth to my heart to know this, and i have much dread.' 'sir king,' said the old white man, 'none may tell you what shall be the end of this quest of the holy graal, but i can tell you and these your knights what they must do to save this land from the ruin which doth threaten it. ye know that the holy vessel was that wherein christ ate the lamb on the thursday before he was hung upon the cross. and joseph of arimathea did bring it here to britain, and here hath it been for more than four hundred and fifty winters. and while ye and your kingdom did love christ and did do his word, the sangreal stayed within your borders. but now ye war with each other, and are evil livers and full of pride and mastery, and if ye do not repent and stay your dishonour, then shall the holy vessel pass from britain, and ruin and death and civil war shall stalk through the land and leave it desolate.' having spoken thus, the old man went from the hall, and none stayed him; for too many there were who knew that they had been the evil livers at whom his words had pointed. then uprose sir gawaine, who was a faithful knight and true man to his king, though a proud one and a hasty. he was filled with sorrow for the ruin that threatened his fair land. 'now i do here avow,' he said, 'that to-morrow, without fail, i shall set forth, and i shall labour with all the strength of my body and my soul to go in quest of the holy graal, so that if i be fit to see it and to bring it hither, this dear land may be saved from woe.' so hot were his words that many of the better knights rose also, and raising their right hands did make a like avowal; and those that cared not for the quest felt that they must seem to do as the others did, and so made avowal also, though in their hearts they thought more of pride and earthly power. 'gawaine, gawaine,' cried the king, and the great tears stood in his eyes, 'i know ye do right to avow this and to cause these others to avow also; but a great dread is upon me, for i have great doubt that this my fellowship shall never meet again.' 'fear not,' said lancelot, 'for bethink ye, my lord, in no better adventure can we find death than in this quest, and of death we are all sure.' on the morrow the knights armed themselves, and bade farewell to king arthur and his queen, and there was much weeping and great sorrow. and as the knights rode through the streets of camelot the crowds stood and wept, both rich and poor. all were full of dread to see so many brave knights depart that never more would return. having passed through the gates of the town, every knight took the way that he liked best. now sir galahad was without a shield, and he rode four days without adventure. at evensong on the fourth day he came to an abbey of white monks, and there was given great cheer. he found two other knights of the round table at that abbey, the one king bagdemagus and the other sir ulfin; and the three had supper together, and made great cheer one of the other, and spoke of the adventures each would desire to have. 'there is within this abbey, as men tell me, a shield,' said king bagdemagus, 'which no man may bear about his neck, but he is injured or slain within three days. yet to-morrow i will adventure to win it.' in the morning, therefore, after they had heard mass, king bagdemagus asked the abbot to show him where was the shield. then was he led to the high altar in the church, and behind it was hung a shield which glowed with shining whiteness, and in the middle thereof was a red cross which seemed to quiver as if it were living. 'sir,' said the abbot, 'this shield ought not to hang about any knight's neck unless he be one of the three best knights of the world, and i counsel you to beware.' 'no matter,' said king bagdemagus, 'i will essay it, for though i am not sir lancelot, yet i am a good knight enough.' this he said in his pride, and took the shield and put the strap about his neck, and bade good-bye to the other twain, and so went forth with his squire. they had not ridden but two miles or more, when at the opening to a wood sir bagdemagus saw a knight in white armour on a horse, riding up and down as if to do battle with any that should venture to go into the forest drive. when the white knight saw him he called out: 'who art thou? thou bearest the shield of a knight peerless, but not the armour.' 'who am i?' replied king bagdemagus scornfully. 'i am he that shall give a good account of myself with thee.' with that he levelled his lance and ran furiously upon the knight. but the other stood still, and when the spear-head was nigh his shield, he lightly turned it aside, and as sir bagdemagus swept by, the knight, with a quick fierce stroke of his sword, smote him so hard that the blade bit through the mail even to the shoulder-bone; whereby sir bagdemagus fell to the ground in a swoon. the white knight called the squire to him and said: 'bear ye this shield to the young knight, sir galahad, who is at the white abbey. greet him from me, and say that it is for him to wear this shield, and none other. and tell him that i shall meet him erelong, if god wills, and that we shall fare together to that which is appointed for us.' the squire did as he was bidden, and told sir galahad of the white knight's words. sir galahad asked him what was the device upon the shield of the white knight, and he answered, 'a red heart.' then said the young knight, 'it shall be even as he saith.' sir galahad mounted his horse and rode alone, ever northward, for he knew that the holy graal was hidden in a castle somewhere in the north among the warring barons. many days he rode without adventure, until on a day he came to an old and venerable wood, dark and thick and close, where the moss hung like thick beards from the hoary branches. there, in a laund or glade in the midmost part of the forest, he found an old and white dame, kneeling before a green cross beside the path, weeping piteously as she prayed and beat her breast. 'what ails ye, lady?' asked sir galahad. 'ah, good knight,' said the old dame, and as she rose it was well seen she was of gentle birth, i weep for that i have lived to see the day when sons of mine shall slay each the other. i have three sons, and all are of the worshipful company of the round table. but two are wasteful livers, and have taken from me all that whereby i lived; and ever hath my youngest boy, sir hewlin, withstood their evil ways. wherefore they hated him. and yesterday did sir nulloth and sir dew, my elder sons, return, and did quarrel with my dear lad hewlin. and now i fear they go about to slay him. oh, if that they kill him, who is the prop and comfort of my old age, i shall surely die.' 'sad it is, lady,' said sir galahad, and mournful was his mind, 'to think that in this dear land of britain there should be knights that are given to such thoughts of evil as to slay their own kin. lead me to them, i pray ye.' he set the dame upon his saddle before him, and she led the way through the forest. when they had gone but a mile she started, and stopped the horse, and then they heard the sound of clashing steel. sadly did that poor lady shriek and cry: 'ah! they slay him now! my dear son! my dear boy!' swiftly sir galahad made his horse to leap forward, and in a little while they came upon a great meadow, where two knights on foot were together fighting another single knight with swords. forthwith sir galahad cried with a loud and a stern voice, 'hold, put up your swords, ye evil brothers, that would slay each other!' all turned at the cry. then, seeing his mother, the young knight sir hewlin threw down his sword. and leaping from sir galahad's horse the reverend lady tottered to her youngest son and threw herself upon his breast, and he clasped his mother in his arms. but the two evil brothers laughed scornfully at sir galahad. 'who art thou, thou knight in red?' they cried. 'thinkest thou to frighten us with thy big words?' quickly they mounted their horses and ran upon sir galahad together. but the lance of one he received upon his shield, and the weapon snapped in twain; and that of the other he thrust aside and, as the knight thundered by, he brought down his sword, with so fierce and wrathful a stroke, that the head of the knight flew from his shoulders. seeing this, the other, who was sir nulloth, made haste to throw himself from his horse, and came and kneeled before sir galahad, praying mercy. 'i know who ye are,' he said. 'you are sir galahad, the stainless knight, who shall prevail in all thy deeds, and whom no weapon may wound until ye have fulfilled your high destiny. and i will do faithfully any behest ye may lay upon me.' 'i will then,' said sir galahad sternly, 'that thou makest peace with thy mother and thy brother here instantly; that thou seekest naught of them till thy dying day, which shall not be far from thee; and that thou goest this day and place thyself in the service of sir bedevere, or sir uriens upon the coasts, and help to thrust forth the hateful pagan from the land.' the knight swore to do all this, and after he had made his peace with his kindred, he set forth to do sir galahad's bidding. and it was as the stainless knight had foretold, for in seven days sir nulloth had found death, bravely fighting the pagan pirates. sir galahad went forward, sore of heart to think that such evil was in the land and in men's minds, that any could be found to wish the death of a brother and to care naught for the sorrow of an old mother. thus for many months sir galahad rode about the land, seeking out the knights who, with their bands of soldiers, fought to wrest from each other land and castles. and ever he strove to make peace between them, and to show them how, while they fought with each other, christian against christian, the pagan hordes were let unhindered into the land, ravening, burning, and slaying. some of the battling knights did forsake their evil ways, and went to sir bedevere and sir uriens, with whom they strove to push back the fierce pagans into their long black ships. but many others, so lost to honour and knightliness were they, performed not their promises, and continued to fight each with the other. so fierce, indeed, was the fighting through all that land, that the peasants forsook the fields and hid themselves; and the pagans from the northern wilderness came over the walls and wandered, killing and burning and robbing. and thus in many parts the crops were not sown or reaped, the wheat stood unharvested and wild, and the grass and weeds grew tall on the very hearths of the poor peasants and husbandmen. the heart of sir galahad grew sick, seeing the evil which was come into the land, and he feared that soon the holy graal would be taken from the island of britain, and that then ruin would stalk throughout the length and breadth of the realm. once, at the dawning, sir galahad looked from the door of a little hermitage where he had passed the night, and was aware of a great company of men coming over the moor. they were all horsed, and were going towards the sea, which was on the right hand, where steep and fearful cliffs fell sheer to the thundering surf beneath. and in their midst he saw they held captive a full noble knight, who seemed wounded, and whose armour was all broken and cracked, as if he had fought valiantly before he had been overcome. him they were going to hurl headlong down the cliffs. sir galahad began to arm himself full hastily to meet them. but as he dressed his armour he was aware of a knight coming swiftly from a little wood that lay towards the sea-edge. then was the heart of sir galahad exceeding joyful when he saw that the knight was all in white armour, and that on his shield was the device of a heart; for he knew that this was sir perceval. sir perceval spurred towards the band of knights, and in a loud voice called on them to release their captive. 'who art thou?' they cried. 'i am a knight of the pendragon of these islands, king arthur,' answered perceval, 'and thy captive is my friend, sir bors of brittany.' 'ha! ha!' the others laughed, and spurred furiously towards him. 'slay him!' they shouted. 'we own no arthur here. we are our own lords.' with spears in rest, seven of the knights thundered against sir perceval. but by this time sir galahad was upon his horse, and, making no outcry, he spurred upon the others. three knights he dashed to the ground with one lance-thrust; but then the spear broke. therewith he drew his sword, and smote in the thick of them so furiously on the left and on the right that they could not abide him, but fled from about sir bors, who, wresting a sword from one of them, rode after the seven that were fighting sir perceval. so valiantly and hardily did the three knights lay about them that in a little while their enemies had fled, leaving more than half their number slain. then did the three knights make great cheer and welcome of each other, and told each their adventures, and promised that now they were together they would never more part till death should summon them. so, together, they fared thereafter many months, doing noble deeds, and seeking earnestly to bring men's hearts to turn to friendship and union, so that, united, the lords of the northern lands should turn upon the pagans and destroy them utterly. it befell that, on a morn, they came to a castle on a great cliff that was in the marches of scotland; and they heard a horn sound in that castle and much shouting. on the walls thereof were men of a savage aspect, peering and looking down at them. and those men had fair hair, with steel helms which had great horns or wings upon them. on their tall bodies were leather jerkins, with gold chains and many ornaments. then sir galahad and his friends were aware that on the topmost pinnacle of the castle was a banner, floating and flapping in the morning wind. black was that banner, and in the midmost part thereof was a golden raven, with beaks open as if it croaked, and its wings were wide thrown, as if it flew over a field of slain men. they knew that this was a horde of pagans who had wrested this castle from its rightful lord, and that full fierce would be the battle. then from a hole or cave beneath a tree near by came a maiden, richly dressed, but sad and pitiable of face and thin of form, as if from long pining. 'fair lords,' said she, 'for god his love turn again if ye may, or else here ye will come unto your death.' 'nay,' said sir galahad, 'we will not turn again, for he shall help us in whose service we be entered in. who are ye, fair damsel, in such painful guise?' 'fair lords, i am issyllt,' said the maiden, and the tears filled her eyes. 'my father is earl hernox, the lord of this castle. and whether he be dead by torture at the hands of his hateful enemies and these fiends, or whether he be still alive against a time when they have more leisure to torture him, i know not. but three nights ago came certain knights with a horde of these evil pagans, and stormed this castle, and for all my dear father's valiant deeds, and the prowess of my three dear brothers, they overcame our people, and my three brothers i saw slain before my eyes. when they rushed upon my father, my nurse dragged me away, and we fled hither. but i cannot go away, not knowing whether my father is dead. and if he be dead i care not whether the pagan fiends catch and slay me.' 'fair maiden,' said sir galahad, 'be of good heart, for your father may yet be delivered unto you.' 'ha, fair lord, i know not how that may be,' said the maiden. then, glancing at the castle, she saw the portcullis yawn, and some ten knights rush forth, with pagans besides on foot. whereat she clasped her hands in terror. 'now god be with ye, fair lords,' she cried. 'you have my prayers, and may heaven grant ye victory. but dread is on me for your deaths, brave knights.' full wrathful were the three good knights to hear the girl's sad tale, and hard was their rage to hear that christian knights had leagued themselves with the heathen saxons so as to get their aid in a private quarrel with the earl hernox. therefore, very joyously did galahad and perceval leap forward, lances in rest, against the traitorous knights that rushed towards them from the castle. marvellous indeed was it to see the deeds of those three stainless knights that day; for when their lances were broken, they drew their swords, and their wrath, their fierceness and their valour, none could withstand. while sir bors smote with deadly blows the pagans that swarmed about him, sir galahad and sir perceval dealt death among the traitorous knights, so that not one was left alive. and seeing this, the fair-haired fierce pagans lost heart. turning, they wished to flee into the castle and pull down the portcullis. but swiftly on their heels dashed the three brave knights, and the pagans, never stopping, heard the hoofs of their horses thunder over the drawbridge close behind them. the horde of saxons took flight into the hall, and there they stood and got breath. but the knights, leaping from their horses, rushed in on foot, and back to back they met the onslaught of the yelling heathens. very fierce was the anger in the hearts of the three knights, so that they stayed not their hands even when the pirates gave way and fled from the dreadful place of slaughter. but the knights pursued them wheresoever they tried to hide, and hither and thither about the castle they ran, and in and out the chambers, up and down the stairs, until for very weariness they had perforce to cease. then when they beheld the great multitude of pagans they had slain, they were sobered and sad, thinking themselves great sinners. 'certes,' said sir bors, 'i ween that god willed that we should slay so many, for they must have done great evil.' 'they are indeed foul pagans,' said sir galahad, 'and have done great wrong and cruelty in their time to women and little children through this fair land of britain. but i doubt we have been mad this little while to slay so many mothers' sons as these.' then from out a secret chamber came a priest, white with great age, and with a countenance that shone marvellously bright; and when he saw how many were slain in that hall, he was abashed. sir galahad put off his helm, and the two knights with him, and all three kneeled down and confessed the madness of their sin which had slain even those that craved for quarter. 'ye have done more than ye wist, brave knights,' said the priest, when he had absolved them; 'for the evil knights that led these pagan thieves had plotted to gain this castle because of the great and holy treasures that are hidden here. and by a prophecy i know that ye are the three good knights, peerless among all, who should achieve this deed. therefore, when ye have ordered these slain to be removed, and when the hall shall be garnished and your harness shall be cleaned of the signs of battle, ye shall see that which hath been ordained for ye.' when all had been done as they had commanded, and the place well cleansed and fresh rushes laid along the floor, the three knights sat on a bench, and the earl hernox and the maid issyllt with them, and there was much cheer and rejoicing between them all. then the old priest called the earl and his daughter from the room, and left the three knights together. suddenly, as they sat talking, the doors were shut and the windows were darkened, and a great wind arose with a sad sound, wailing and piping. then the darkness suddenly went away, and they saw a great light shining in the midmost part of the hall, so bright and strong that hardly could their eyes suffer it. soon through the light they could see a table of silver, whereon was a wide dish also of silver, marvellously and delicately wrought. then the doors opened and they saw angels entering; and two bare candles of wax, and the third held a towel, and in the hand of the fourth was a spear which bled marvellously from the point thereof. going to the table the angels set the candles and the towel upon it, and the spear was placed beside the shining vessel. of a sudden the knights were aware that there sat one beside the table who was marvellously old and white; and he was dressed in the habit of a bishop, and his face was very winning, and a great brightness flowed from it. on the breast of his robe were words in the latin tongue, which said, 'lo, i am joseph, the first bishop of christendom, who did take our lord's body down from the cruel rood.' the three marvelled greatly, for that bishop had been dead more than four hundred years. seeing their looks of perplexity, the bishop smiled sweetly upon them, and said: 'marvel not, o knights, for though i am now a spirit, i know thy weakness, and have come to aid thee.' then the bishop took up the shining vessel from the table, and came to galahad; and the knight kneeled down and took of the food that was within the holy dish. and after that the other two received it. of marvellous savour was the food, and like none that they had ever eaten or thought of at any time before. then the bishop said to galahad: 'son, knowest thou what is this vessel i hold in my hands?' 'nay, holy man, i know not,' replied galahad. 'it is the holy vessel which men call the sangreal, out of which our lord ate the lamb at the feast before he was betrayed to that death upon the rood whereby he redeemed the world, if men would but choose his gentle law.' 'it is what we have most desired to see, holy father,' said sir galahad. 'and it is what, alas, no others in this realm shall ever see,' said the bishop; and his countenance, which before had been sweet and gentle, now saddened and was dark. 'for this night it shall depart from this land of logris, so that it shall never more be seen here. 'alas,' cried galahad and perceval, 'that is great sorrow to hear. o holy bishop and spirit, say not that it means that this land shall be rent in ruin and given up to heathendom again?' 'it must be so,' said the bishop sadly. 'christ is not served in gentleness, nor is his law worshipped in this land, where men slay their brothers, rob their kindred, and make treaties with the pagans. and its knights are turned to evil livers, desiring mastery and proud power. therefore hath christ sent me to disinherit this land of this holy thing with which he hath honoured it since that time when i brought it here four hundred and fifty-five winters ago.' hearing these words of doom, sir galahad and sir perceval wept full piteously for the fate of their country. when they had mourned greatly, they asked if there was no hope of turning the land from its evil ways. 'there is none,' said the bishop sorrowfully. 'have ye three not tried manfully these last two years since ye have sought that which ye now see? and all thy labours, thy battling, thy griefs, have they availed aught? no, it is the will of god that in due time this land and this people shall be put into the melting-pot. and when the season appointed shall come, sorrow and death, rebellion and treachery shall stalk through the land, and naught shall stand of its present kingdoms; the pagans shall blot out the holy memory of god and christ, and shall turn the fanes of prayer into the lairs of wolves, and owls shall rest where hymns of praise have been sung. and no wars of goodly knights may hinder these things of dreadful doom. but i have this message for ye two, galahad and perceval; that inasmuch as ye have seen this which you craved to see, and have lived purely and unspotted from pride or evil, thy souls shall go with me when i shall depart. but you, my son,' he said, looking at sir bors, 'still find in your heart the love of kin, and a longing for battle, and so you shall remain, to fight for christ while yet you are alive.' suddenly a fierce light came where they sat, so that sir bors kneeled as one blinded for a time. when it had passed, he looked and saw where sir galahad and sir perceval still kneeled, with their hands lifted as if in prayer. but there was naught to see of the holy vessel or the spear, nor was joseph there. then, going to the two knights, he found that they were dead. sir bors knew then that their souls had gone with joseph and the holy vessel, and had been borne to the heaven for which their pure and humble hearts had yearned while yet they lived. then sir bors made great sorrow for his two fellows, and knew that never more would he be as joyful or as careless as he had been. with right heavy mood he craved of earl hernox to have a grave dug deep in the living rock whereon the castle was builded. this the earl gladly did, and very solemnly the two good knights were buried, and long did sir bors mourn over the grave. in a little while thereafter sir bors armed himself, and departed, and after many adventures, rode southwards till he came to camelot. and there he told the king and such knights as there were, how the two stainless knights had achieved the holy graal, and how their souls had been taken up with the sacred vessel. all the court mourned for the two knights, and the king commanded a history to be written of what sir bors had told. it was so done, and the book richly adorned with many coloured letters, was kept in the great treasure-chest in the castle of sarum. ever after sir bors was a silent man, for he could not forget the holy and terrible sight he had seen. of the doom which was coming in due time upon the dear and fair land of britain, as was prophesied by st. joseph, he told no man, but kept the words fast locked in his heart. xi of the plots of sir mordred; and how sir lancelot saved the queen after the quest of the sangreal was completed, and all the knights that were left alive had returned to the court of king arthur, there was great joy among the people, and the king and queen gwenevere were passing glad of the remnant that had come home again. especially did the queen make much of sir lancelot and of sir bors his cousin, for they were the two most noble and courteous knights of the round table, and none thought of them but as men peerless and beyond compare. sir mordred, who was the king's nephew, was jealous of the two knights, and went about privily among such knights as were his familiars, and spoke sneering words concerning sir lancelot and the queen and sir bors. once sir mordred said such words in the hearing of his brother sir gawaine; but that knight so heavily and wrathfully took him to task, that sir mordred knew that sir gawaine envied not the two knights, and could never be brought to think other than friendly thoughts of them. therefore sir mordred hated the two knights more than ever. of a slight frame was mordred, but tall, with dark hair, sallow face, and deep-set grey eyes beside a thin long nose. few loved him, for he was never cheery nor very friendly, and ever seemed to sneer with his thin lips and his cold wolfish eyes. in a little while strange dark rumours began to go about the court, and it was whispered that so proud had sir lancelot become of his fame and prowess, that he harboured evil thoughts against the king, and that he aimed to make a kingdom for himself out of the countries that lay about his own lands of joyous gard in the northern marches. then fresh rumours went about, and these were the most evil of all. it was said that he sought to slay the king, and wished to make gwenevere his own queen, and with her he would rule over all britain. first, men laughed and passed the rumours with a shrug and a gesture of scorn; but when they were repeated again and again, some began half to believe them. many said that there must be some truth therein, for sir lancelot was ever wending his way to the north country, and fought there many battles and overcame many knights. but others said this was because many ladies and damsels, who had lost lands and homes and been evilly oppressed by the warring barons in those parts, had heard of his great fame for knightly deeds and noble manners, and came beseeching him to be their champion against those who had robbed them. others said that it was but natural that when he was at the court he should speak much to the queen, for he had from the first vowed himself to be her knight, and many deeds of daring and prowess had he done for her. yet others there were who believed that what rumour said might be true; and others, who were good and noble knights, sorrowed to think that such evil thoughts should be spread about by some treacherous tongues. when men came to ask who had set these evil tongues to wag, it was always found that a certain mean knight, named sir pinel, had first spoken wrong of lancelot and sir bors and the queen. and men noticed that it was not long before the queen began to look coldly at sir pinel, and then they knew that his rumours had reached her ears. 'what profit doth sir pinel think to gain from those false tales of her?' said sir brastias one day, as he and sir gareth came from the hawking together. 'for none ever reckoned him as a knight of any merit, and all good men will now think less of him.' 'i fear me,' said sir gareth, 'that there is more beneath it all than we wot of. sir pinel is a bosom friend of sir mordred's. often have i seen their heads together in places apart. and though he is my brother, sir mordred is one i cannot love.' 'what fear you, gareth?' asked sir brastias. 'i fear naught that he may do,' said gareth, 'but i think he hates sir lancelot and he hates gawaine also, the chief of our party, because he hath roundly told mordred that he is a traitor, and that he will not be drawn from his firm friendship with sir lancelot and his kinsmen. i think sir mordred would do much to cause some ill to gawaine or sir lancelot, so long as his own evil body was not hurt.' 'sad it is,' said brastias full gloomily, 'to think a man of such great kin should harbour hatred and murder against the chief of his kin. and that such should be, methinks, betokens that evil is about to fall upon our famous brotherhood of the round table, and on this dear land of britain.' now it befell that the poor queen had heard, through her maidens, of the rumours concerning herself and sir lancelot, and, taking counsel of no one, she bethought how she could prove to the remnant of the round table that she was free of any plots against the king or the fair kingdom of britain. she resolved that she would invite the knights to a privy dinner, and when they had eaten she would throw herself upon their knightly pity and honour, telling them how the evil rumours wronged and hurt her bitterly. and she doubted not that thus their manly sympathy and worship of her, their queen, would, by her words, cast out the evil effects of the slanderous tales. therefore, at that dinner, she had sir gawaine and his brethren, that is to say, sir gareth, sir agravaine, sir gaheris and sir mordred. also there were the kin of sir lancelot, to wit, sir bors, sir blamore, sir bleobaris, sir ector de maris, and sir lionel. but sir lancelot had gone into the scottish marches, to do battle with a notable robber and oppressor there. there were other knights, making in all the number of twenty-four. and these were all the remnant of the one hundred and fifty that had gone forth in the quest of the sangreal. among the guests were sir pinel and his cousin, sir mador. now sir gawaine had a custom of eating apples which he used daily at dinner and at supper. he loved all manner of fruit, and in especial a certain brown or russet apple, which was called afal coch. every one knew of this fondness of sir gawaine's, and whoever dined or feasted him took care to provide such apples for his pleasure. the queen had known this, and among the fruit for the table she had ordered such apples to be placed. now sir mordred, as sir gareth had suspected, hated sir gawaine with a deep hatred, and therefore he had, by crafty dealing, taken all the russet apples from the dish except one, and into this he had thrust a deadly poison. he guessed that, as every one knew of sir gawaine's fondness for that sort of fruit, no one would take it, but would leave it for sir gawaine, who would eat it and die thereof. when the feast was near an end, and men laughed and jested together, the dish of fruit was handed round, and sir pinel, the mean knight, noticed that there was but one of the apples which sir gawaine loved; and to spite that knight, whom he hated, he took that apple, ere the dish went to sir gawaine. sir mordred saw him take it, yet would not cry out to warn his fellow-traitor, for this would have revealed himself. he saw sir pinel's teeth sink into the brown apple, and sir pinel's sneering look as he glanced across at sir gawaine, who was searching vainly in the dish for his favourite fruit. then sir mordred saw sir pinel's face go red, and then deadly white. and as the poison gripped him, sir pinel rose shrieking from the table, crying out that some enemy had poisoned him. then he sank writhing to the ground, shrieking and moaning, clutching at the ground and at the legs of the chairs. suddenly, with a great groan, he lay still and was dead. every knight leaped from the table, ashamed, full of rage and fear, nigh out of their wits, but dumb. they looked at each other and then at the dead sir pinel, and all their eyes kept from the face of the queen, where she sat on the high seat, with two of her ladies beside her. the reason they could not speak was that they knew the queen had heard of the evil tales which sir pinel had spread about her, and that she must have hated him bitterly. and she had made this feast, and had invited him thereto, and now he was dead at the board, by means of deadly poison placed in the food which she had set before him. then for very shame some began to leave the chamber; and others could not bear to look upon the queen, who sat with a face that went now pale, now red. she had seen what happened, and who it was had been slain, and she had read the suspicion in men's gestures. then the voice of sir mador rang out, and checked men from going from the room, and drew all eyes to where he stood, a tall and burly man, red and angry of face, and fierce of eyes. 'look!' he cried, and held between his fingers and high above his head the apple which sir pinel had bitten, 'this is the thing whereof my kinsman, sir pinel, hath lost his life. the matter shall not end here, for i have lost a noble knight of my blood, and i will be revenged to the uttermost.' then, turning, he savagely looked at the queen, and with fierce rolling eyes he roared out: 'thou art the murderess! thou--the queen! hear me, knights and chieftains. i charge the queen with the murder of my kinsman, sir pinel, and justice upon her will i have.' every one in the hall stood still as if they were of stone. none could gainsay him, none could utter a word on behalf of the queen, for all had suspicion that she had slain sir pinel for his slanders of her. then suddenly the queen rose, white and trembling. 'my lords and knights, i did not cause it!' she cried in a broken voice. 'i am innocent! i know not how it came!' and therewith she fell down in a swoon. sir mordred's pale face smiled with a bitter sneer. he knew not then whether what had happened would help his evil plots or no; but he resolved to say naught, and so went out with all the other silent knights, whilst the ladies of the queen took her up lamenting, and bore her to her chamber. with the noise and the sorrow that was in the court, king arthur came and craved to know what was the matter; but none of the silent knights would speak until he met sir gawaine, who replied, and said: 'sir, the queen did invite us to a privy feast with her. and one of the knights did eat of the fruit on the table, and he is dead by poison. therefore, i dread lest the queen will be shamed for this.' king arthur was passing heavy at the hearing of these words, and went unto the queen to comfort her. on the next day, when the king sat in hall with his two court judges, as was his wont daily, to hear any causes or charges which might be brought before him, all men stood with gloomy faces, and there was no laughing and jesting talk, as was usual at this time. sir mador came forward and charged the queen of murder, and required that justice should be done upon her. the king heard him with a sad face and in silence. then he said: 'fair lords and noble knights, heavy is my grief for this, and rather would i give my life for my queen at this moment than that my tongue should frame so evil a charge against my dear wife and your noble queen. but i am here to see that law is done, as justly to the highest as to the lowest. i doubt not that god will soon clear her of this seeming evil.' 'i know not how that may be,' said sir mador angrily, 'for the evil deed is clear to any man's eyes.' 'i deem this deed was never done by my queen, nor by her desire,' said the king sternly, 'but by some traitor that would do her evil and wishes to see her die. but as i am her judge, i may not be her champion and fight against you for her fair fame. i doubt not, however, that some good knight will take this charge upon himself, and put his body in jeopardy for my queen. for if this be not done, dost thou know what is the penalty?' 'she must be burnt,' said mador sullenly. 'but she hath done the deed and will merit the doom.' 'cease, hasty man,' said king arthur sternly; 'it goeth to my heart to hear ye pronounce the doom thou wouldst visit upon that fair lady. fear not, sir mador, she shall find some good knight to do combat for her. therefore do thou name thy day of battle.' 'but hark ye, lord,' said sir mador, 'there is none of the four-and-twenty knights that were bidden to this dinner that hath not suspicion of the queen for this deed. therefore, no knight can take this charge upon him in her behalf. what say ye, my lords?' he turned to the silent, moody men about the dais. the knights looked troubled, and were dumb for some moments; but at the last sir gawaine said: 'we cannot excuse the queen, for she gave the feast. and either the poison came by her will or by her servants.' but most of the knights were silent, and sir bors and his kindred were very sorrowful. king arthur was heavy at the words of sir gawaine. 'now, king,' cried sir mador triumphantly, 'i require ye, as ye be a righteous king, give me a day that i may have justice.' 'that will i do,' said the king, 'as i must do, that am a just king. i give you this day fifteen days, that ye be ready armed on horseback in the meadow beside the wall at london; and if it so fall out that there be a knight to encounter with you, then god speed the right; and if there be no knight to take arms for my queen, then must she suffer by fire.' so sorrowful were the king's words that many knights had much ado to keep from weeping. 'and meanwhile,' said sir mador, 'i do require that ye keep the queen in close ward and prison, lest any try a rescue, and thus defeat the justice that is my due.' though it went to the king's heart to have to order this, he gave the queen into the keeping of sir kay, who kept her in her chamber, guarded by three knights, to the great grief of her women and all the court. then the queen sent for sir bors, and when he was come she threw herself on her knees full piteously before him, and wept sorely, and begged that he would save her from this dreadful death. 'for by my confession unto heaven,' she cried, 'i know naught of this wicked deed how it was brought about. and will ye not take this combat upon ye for my sake? for i am sure if your kinsman, sir lancelot, was here, he would not suffer this evil suspicion to lie against me. for he hath ever been my most faithful knight, but now am i without friend in this great pass.' 'madam,' replied sir bors, 'what can i do? for if i take this charge upon me for your sake, men will say i was your aider in this crime that they charge upon you. and i see not how i may fight for you except by endangering my own life without saving yours. but i tell ye, madam, what i will do. i will hasten with all speed to the north, trusting in god to get news of sir lancelot, so that i may tell him and bring him here within the time appointed.' 'ah, good sir bors,' cried the queen, and clasped his hands. 'do ye do that, for i know that sir lancelot will never believe me guilty of so great a crime. and i will pray hourly that ye find him and bring him to me in time, so that my poor body be not unjustly given to the dreadful flames.' forthwith sir bors armed himself, and with two squires set forth instantly; and sent his men in different ways, so that among the three they should not fail to hear where, in the northern marches, a knight so famous as sir lancelot might be found. no rest did the good sir bors give to himself, but swiftly did he ride hither and thither questioning all knights whom he met, and inquiring of every hermitage and abbey and at every harbourage. finally, when eleven days had passed of the fifteen, he found sir lancelot lying wounded at a broken abbey, from which, in a fierce fight, he had but two days before thrust out a band of pagans, who would have murdered the nuns and robbed the church of its holy relics. full wroth was sir lancelot when, having lovingly greeted each other, sir bors told him all that had passed with the queen. 'the foul traitors!' he cried, and, getting fiercely from the pallet on which he lay, he strode up and down the chamber clenching his hands and gnashing his teeth. 'do any dare to suspect her--do any think in cold blood to see that peerless lady bound to the stake, the flames devouring her noble person? that men should think such things, and move not a hand in noble wrath, shows how evil are the days in which we live!' then he rushed from the room, wounded as he was; and, full of a cold wrath, he ordered his arms to be brought and his horse to be saddled. and to the gentle persuasions of the nuns he said he must be gone, 'for he must stay a wrong that, if suffered, would sink the kingdom in unquenchable shame and ruin.' then with sir bors he rode southwards, full fiercely, and never resting to eat, but taking food as he rode. at night he would not doff his armour, but slept beside his horse; and seldom spoke, but was consumed as by a great fire of anger. and on the fourteenth day they rode into london. 'go beg the queen to see me,' he said to sir bors. sir bors went, and sir lancelot strode unto an hostelry to wash from himself the stains of travel, and to don a fitting robe in which to appear before the queen. now it had befallen, while sir bors had been absent from the court seeking for sir lancelot, that sir mordred and sir agravaine had made a plot with each other against him and against sir lancelot. and they caused it to be noised in all the court that sir bors had gone to seek sir lancelot, and that sir bors was privy to the plots which sir lancelot and the queen had made to wrest the kingdom from king arthur and to reign together in his stead. they said that sir bors had gone to warn sir lancelot that the time was ripe to strike. wherefore many knights were greatly displeased to hear this news, but some would not believe it, and said that sir bors had gone to tell sir lancelot of the jeopardy in which the queen's life was placed, and to ask him to do battle for her. 'but,' said some, 'if he do not find sir lancelot, it is his intention to do combat for the queen himself, and that is great wrong in sir bors, for he was with us at the feast, and none but she could have caused that poison.' daily the party which inclined to sir mordred and sir agravaine gained power, and some were for going to tell the king of the evil designs which sir lancelot and sir bors and the queen had against his person and the kingdom. but sir mordred said, 'no, the time is not yet ripe. wait a while.' the guard that was set about the queen's chamber was doubled, and all were knights that were well-willers to the plots of sir mordred and sir agravaine. when, therefore, sir bors came and asked to see the queen, they let him go to her; but sir agravaine hid himself and listened to all that passed between sir bors and the queen. then he went and told the others that sir lancelot was waiting to speak to the queen, and he counselled that they should let him come, and then when he came forth again, as he would be unarmed, they could fall upon him and capture him, and take him before the king and charge him with his treason and his plots. and with the consent of sir mordred this was so agreed; and he advised that most of them should hide from before the door, so that sir lancelot should not think the guard was strong. 'for,' said sir mordred, 'if he sees there is no great watch kept, he may strive to free the queen, and when we take him it will be blacker against him.' when, therefore, sir bors came forth from his audience with the queen, he found but one knight at the door, and that was sir petipace of winchelsea, a young man. sir bors wondered why the guard of ten or twelve that had been there before was now gone, and he was uneasy in his mind. going to sir lancelot, he told him that the queen would see him at once; 'but,' added sir bors, 'ye shall not go this night by my counsel, nor should you go before there are more of our kinsmen near us to aid us in case of need.' 'why?' said sir lancelot. 'sir,' said sir bors, 'i misdoubt me of sir agravaine and sir mordred. there was a great watch before the door of the queen's room when i entered; but when i came hence there was but one. and i mistrust them that stood there. for all were of sir mordred's evil company, and peradventure they lay some snare for you, and i dread me sore of treachery.' 'have ye no doubt,' said sir lancelot, 'for i shall go and come again and make no tarrying.' 'sir,' replied his cousin, 'that me sore repenteth. but if you will, i will go and seek some of our kinsmen to meet us near by. and do you not go until i have found them.' 'nay, i will not stay,' said sir lancelot, 'and i marvel me much why ye say this, for they dare do naught against me.' 'god speed you well,' said sir bors, 'if that is your will, and send you safe and sound again.' sir lancelot departed, taking his sword underneath his arm, while sir bors went forth to find some of their kin. he learned, however, that many of them had gone forth with the king to punish a bandit lord in the forest of the weald, and would not return before the morrow, when the combat should be held for the queen. sir lancelot came to the door of the queen's prison, and found sir petipace there, and demanded to be let in to see the queen. 'we thought you were in the north, sir lancelot,' said the young knight, with a laugh, 'and surely it will pleasure our lady queen to see you.' he unlocked the door of the queen's antechamber, and told her waiting-woman that sir lancelot would see the queen, and in a few moments sir lancelot was let in. the sorrowing queen told him all that had happened, and how, and he was wroth to think that any one should suspect her of so great a crime. he promised that on the day appointed he would fight for her with all his strength, as a true knight should, and god would defend the right. suddenly, as they spoke together, there came loud voices crying outside the chamber door: 'traitor knight, sir lancelot du lake, now art thou taken in thy treachery!' sir lancelot knew that the voices were those of sir agravaine, who had ever been envious of him, and of sir mordred, whom no one loved. he went quickly to the door and barred it with the beam, and bade the terrified queen not to be alarmed. he asked her whether there was any armour in the room, which he could put on to defend himself. 'i have none,' she said, weeping sorely, 'wherefore i dread me sore that evil will come to you, my true and valiant knight, for i hear by their noise there be many strong knights, wherefore ye are like to be slain soon, and then shall i surely burn.' 'alas!' said sir lancelot, 'in all my life was i never in such a pass, to be slain for lack of my armour.' 'traitor knight,' cried those that were hammering at the door with the handles of their swords, 'come out at once and skulk there no more, for know ye well thou art so beset that thou shalt not escape.' sir lancelot went to the queen and, kneeling to her, took her hand and kissed it, saying: 'madam, i beseech you to pray for my soul if i be slain. i have been your true knight with all my power up to this time, and now i will not fail you if i may; but if i be slain, i am assured that my kinsman sir bors and all the others of my kin will not suffer you to go to the fire.' then sir lancelot, leaving the weeping queen, wrapped his mantle round his left arm as if it were a shield, and prepared to sell his life dearly. by this time the knights outside had got a bench from the hall, and using it as a battering-ram, were dashing it against the door to beat it in. 'leave your noise, fair lords,' rang out the voice of lancelot, 'and i will open the door to ye, and then ye may do to me what ye will.' 'do it then,' they cried, 'and we will give you your life until we take thee to king arthur, to be judged for your treason.' sir lancelot unbarred the door and held it open a little way, so that one knight only might enter at a time. one entered, a big slow man, named sir colgreve, and swiftly sir lancelot slammed the door and fastened it, to keep the others out. sir colgreve turned and struck at sir lancelot; but the latter put the stroke lightly aside with his sword, and gave so swift and keen a blow upon the other's helm that sir colgreve fell down dead. then, while the others hammered and yelled outside the door, sir lancelot swiftly took off the armour of the dead knight, and with the help of the queen and her waiting-women was armed in it. again the knights outside had begun to dash at the door to beat it down. sir lancelot, when he was armed, strode to it and cried out: 'let be your noise, and go away, for ye shall not prison me this night. and i promise ye, by my knighthood, that i will appear to-morrow before the king, and then such of ye as dare may accuse me of treason, and i will then prove that i am a true man and no traitor.' 'fie on thee, false traitor,' cried sir agravaine and sir mordred, 'but we will have thee this night and slay thee.' 'then, sirs,' replied sir lancelot, 'if ye will not take my counsel, look well to yourselves.' with that sir lancelot threw the door open suddenly, and while the others struggled and tripped over the bench between them he had run two of them through. then in that narrow antechamber there was as fierce a fight as ever brave knight might wish to see. sir mordred from behind urged on the others with evil words, telling them to slay sir lancelot; while he launched at that knight all manner of foul names. fiercely did sir lancelot fight, for he was full of rage; and as in the narrow place in which he stood, no more than two could come at him at once, he could not be overwhelmed by their numbers. there were ten of them, and so full of force were his blows and so skilful his thrusts, that in a little while seven lay slain, two were badly wounded, and the last, who was sir mordred, barely escaped with his life, and bore a deep wound with him. sir lancelot, sorely wounded, returned to the queen, and said: 'madam, i know not what is this treason with which they charge me; but i doubt not it will go ill with me, for i have killed many of the kin of the king and of sir gawaine this night. and i misdoubt me that the king himself will be my foe also. nevertheless, i will save you, if it is in my power, from the danger that threatens you.' 'go ye, sir lancelot,' the queen besought him, 'ere the men-at-arms come, which are so many ye may never hope to escape them. i dread me sorely that much ill will come of this, and of the evil plots which our enemies weave about us.' then, kneeling, sir lancelot kissed the queen's hand, and went from the prison; and the people who had assembled outside at the noise of the fighting wondered to see only one knight issue forth, his armour dented and broken, and dabbled here and there with the blood of his wounds. sir lancelot took his way to the lodging of sir bors, who showed his great gladness to see him again. and when he had been unarmed and his wounds stanched and bound, sir lancelot told him what had befallen him. 'and now i beseech you,' said sir lancelot, 'be of good heart, in whatever great need we stand, for now i fear war must come of it all. but what is the treason they would charge me with i know not; yet i dread it meaneth much evil plotting against me and the peace of this fair kingdom.' 'sir,' said sir bors, 'your enemies and those that envy your great fame have spread many evil reports about you. they say that you plot to slay the king and to take queen gwenevere to wife, to reign over this kingdom with you.' with that sir lancelot was so astounded that for some moments he could not speak. then he said: 'by my confession unto heaven, this is as foul a plot against me as ever fiend could fashion. and it showeth how far they will go to pull me down and dishonour me. and doth the king know of these evil rumours?' 'i know not,' replied sir bors, 'but i doubt not that sir mordred will not rest his horse till he hath found the king and poisoned his mind against thee.' 'had i known of this,' said sir lancelot, 'i would have brought the queen away with me and put her in a safe place, for now i know that her enemies and mine will not rest until she and i be slain.' but sir bors counselled him not to attempt a rescue then, for day was breaking, the town was awake, and the court would be full of the armed retainers of the slain knights. then, while sir lancelot rested himself, sir bors went out to the lodgings of such of his kinsmen as might not be gone with the king, and he found that now all had returned to london with the king, that sir mordred had met them on their way, and had told king arthur of the fight, and had, moreover, charged sir lancelot and the queen with conspiring together to gain the crown. sad indeed was sir bors to hear this; but, going about the town, he got together the kinsmen of sir lancelot and such of his friends as would cast in their lot with him in so weighty and terrible a thing as civil war. by seven of the clock he had got together good and valiant knights to the number of fourscore, all horsed and armed. then he told them to betake themselves to a privy place in a wood beyond the city walls to the north, and there in a little while came sir lancelot with sir bors, and held counsel with them. he told them all that had befallen him in the fight with the twelve knights, and they in their turn related how sir mordred had met them and had told his evil tales against the queen and lancelot, and how for long the king was too wroth and too sad to listen. but afterwards, when sir mordred told how sir pinel, who had spoken of these things, had been poisoned at the feast given by the queen, king arthur had wept, and then was very stern and quiet and said no word more. 'now, my lords,' said sir lancelot, when they had done speaking, 'ye know well how evil are these plots, how baseless are these foul rumours against me. but now they have been launched against me, and i have slain men on account of them, i fear we shall be hard put to it to get peace again. those men were set on to betray me; and i doubt not mine enemies will have the queen burnt, to revenge themselves upon her and upon me. therefore, fair lords, what counsel do ye give?' 'sir,' said sir bors, when they had spoken together a little, 'we think there is but one thing to be done first: that ye knightly rescue the queen, if your enemies force the king to put her to the stake. for if she be burnt, then it would be to your shame, seeing that you vowed yourself her true knight when she came, a young fair bride, to our king, twenty years agone. and in whatsoever way ye would rescue her, ye may count upon us to our last breath.' with a great shout all the other knights raised their right hands in the air and cried: 'yea! yea!' then, by the advice of sir lancelot, they kept hidden in the little wood, while one went into the city to learn what was being done, and in what manner the queen was to be treated. meanwhile, in the hall of the palace of king arthur, men sat or stood with anxious looks, glancing in silence at the king, as he walked up and down apart, with a stern look on his face. then sir mador strode forward and said: 'lord, i do require you to perform your promise to me, to wit, that the queen be brought to the stake, unless one be found to do combat on her behalf.' 'what i have promised i will fulfil,' said the king; and men sorrowed to see how heavy of anguish were his looks, and full of sorrow his words. 'lord king,' said sir mordred, 'we have shamefully suffered much wrong at the hands of sir lancelot. i appeal to thee that he be seized, so that the kin of those whom he slew this last night may have vengeance upon him.' then came sir gawaine forward quickly, and his face was dark with anger and his words hot. 'lord,' he cried, 'listen not to such tales, for i doubt not it was only by evil plots that sir lancelot was forced to slay those whom he slew. for i trust not sir mordred.' 'so god us help,' said sir gareth and sir gaheris, 'we too will not be known to be of the same mind as our brother sir mordred.' 'then will i do as i deem it best, to gain what i deem right,' replied sir mordred. 'i believe that thou wilt do it in thine own hidden ways,' said sir gawaine, and looked fiercely at his brother, 'for in all unhappiness and evil thou art to be found, if men but seek in the darkest place and look for the most secret foe.' 'i appeal to you, lord,' said sir mordred to the king, 'to proclaim sir lancelot a false traitor to you and to your realm.' 'and i,' said sir gawaine, 'will bid ye remember, lord king, that if ye will make war between us and sir lancelot, there will be many kings and great lords hold with him. and i would ask you, how many times hath sir lancelot done noble deeds on our behalf and proved himself the best knight of us all? did he not rescue twenty of us from the dungeons of sir turquine? hath he not avenged shame upon the king and the queen, and the fame of the round table many a time? methinketh, my uncle, that such kind deeds should be well remembered.' 'think ye,' said the king, 'that i am not loath to begin so evil and terrible a thing as civil war? man, it rendeth my heart to think it. and i tell thee, sir mordred, i will not begin it, except i have proofs of what ye charge upon sir lancelot. and as he is the best knight of ye all, and the most valiant, i will not judge him before i hear him. if i know him well, he will come hither and challenge the knight to combat that doth bring these charges against him, and in that will i trust, for god shall surely defend the right. therefore, let a messenger be sent to sir lancelot requiring him, by his knighthood, to appear before me here, and make answer to the charges thou hast against him.' this was not as sir mordred desired; for he did not doubt that if sir lancelot came he would have little trouble to persuade the king that he was innocent. when the messenger was gone, therefore, sir mordred sent a servant after him, who slew him in a wood and hid his body under a bush. meanwhile, sir mordred counselled sir mador to repeat his demand that the king should cause the queen to be led to the stake, since no knight had come forward and offered to fight for her. for a time the king put him off, hoping that as soon as sir lancelot received his commands he would come instantly. very anxiously did the king look to the door, hoping to see the tall form of his best knight come towering through the hall. instead thereof came the crafty servant of sir mordred, throwing himself at the feet of the king. 'gracious lord,' cried he, panting as if from swift running, 'i have even now come from the place where sir lancelot and his friends are hiding. i am one of their servants, but i hate their treason against ye, and therefore i am come to tell you of this greatest treason of all. they have slain your messenger, my lord, him that came requiring sir lancelot to appear before thee. sir lancelot ran upon him when he gave his message and slew him, saying, "thus do i answer the saucy words of him who shall not much longer be king."' the king looked at the face of the messenger long and sadly. the pain which the king suffered would have softened any ordinary heart; but the murderer was a hard and callous wretch, and his brazen eyes outlooked the king. 'then is sir lancelot changed indeed,' said the king, and walked away with bowed head and moist eyes. sir mador pushed forward again, repeating his demand. 'have it as ye will,' said the king heavily, and went quickly into his private chamber. 'alas!' said sir gawaine and sir gareth, 'now is the whole realm falling to ruin, and the noble fellowship of the round table shall be scattered in civil war.' soon a page came to sir gawaine, telling him that the king would speak to him. 'gawaine,' said the king, when the knight went to him, 'i have been too easy with this knight, sir lancelot. he hath slain eleven knights of the round table and my messenger. the pride and ambition of that man shall have a check. his great fame for valiant deeds hath made him mad, until it would seem that nothing but this realm will content him. now, therefore, as justice demands, and sir mador requires, do ye lead the queen to the fire. she shall have the law as is right. afterwards we will seize sir lancelot; and know ye, he shall have a hard and shameful death.' 'heaven forbid,' said sir gawaine, 'that ever i should see either of these things. for i will believe not these reports of sir lancelot.' 'how now?' said the king, 'truly ye have little cause to love him. this night last past he slew sir agravaine, your brother, and several of your kindred with him; and also, sir gawaine, remember how he slew but lately two sons of yours in battle against the oppressing lords of the borders.' 'my lord,' said sir gawaine, 'i know these things, and for their deaths i have grieved, but i warned them all, and as they sought their deaths wilfully i will not avenge them, nor think worse of sir lancelot.' 'nevertheless,' said the king, 'i pray you will make ready with your brothers, sir gaheris and sir gareth, to take the queen to the fire, there to have her judgment and receive her death.' 'nay, most noble lord,' replied the knight sadly, 'that will i never do. i will never stand by to see so noble a queen meet so shameful a death.' 'then,' said the king sadly, 'suffer your brothers, sir gareth and sir gaheris, to be there.' 'they are younger than i,' replied sir gawaine, 'and they may not say you nay.' the king commanded the two brothers of sir gawaine to come to him, and told them what he desired of them. 'sir,' said sir gareth, 'it is in your power to command us to lead the queen to her shameful end; but wit you well it is sore against our will. we will go as ye bid, but it shall be in peaceable guise, for we tell you straightway, we will not oppose a rescue, should any so desire.' 'alas!' said sir gawaine, and wept, 'that ever i should live to see this woful day.' then the two knights went to the queen and sorrowfully bade her prepare for her death. very pale was the queen, but very quiet, for now that this was come which she had dreaded night and day, she would bear herself proudly like a queen, innocent as she knew she was of any crime. her ladies dressed her in her meanest garments; a priest, her confessor, was brought to her, and she was shriven of her sins. then arose a weeping and a wailing and a wringing of hands among the lords and ladies. between the knights and the men-at-arms she was led through the streets to the lists beyond the wall. lamentation, cries of horror, and the shrieks and sighs of women arose from the multitude which lined each side of the narrow streets. many were the prayers that rose from white lips, praying god to send a miracle to rescue so sweet a lady from so dreadful a doom. the city apprentices, with stout sticks in their hands, stood in bands, and in their stout young hearts was a great rage. it was in their minds to dash upon the guard of armoured knights, to attempt a rescue, but they knew how vain their sticks would be against the keen blades of swords. so stricken with horror were all those that looked on that they noticed not how, when the queen and her guard issued from the gates of the palace, a man in the coarse dress of a peasant, who was standing in the crowd, strode swiftly away down a narrow lane. there he vaulted, with an unpeasant-like deftness, upon a good steed that stood in the charge of a young lad; and striking spurs in the horse's flanks, he dashed away madly along the streets and through the northern gate into the fields. amidst the sorrowing people, with women crying and men muttering and looking darkly at the knights about her, the queen was led to the tilting-ground beyond the northern wall, and in the midst thereof was a stake. to this she was fastened with a rope, and faggots of wood were piled about her feet up to her knees. near her stood the priest of her household, trying to cheer her with comforting words; but the queen, pale and without tears, seemed to be dazed and as if she did not hear him. a hundred knights ranged themselves behind the queen, some on horseback, but the most on foot. many of them had followed the example of sir gaheris and sir gareth and stood without arms; but sir mador was on his horse, fully armed, and prepared for combat. others of his kindred rode beside him. then sir gaheris called upon the herald to proclaim what the king had commanded. 'in the name of the king,' cried the herald, 'the queen hath been found guilty of the death of a knight by treason and poison, and his kinsmen have demanded due judgment upon her. but if any knight shall take upon himself to do battle for her, let him appear instantly. if none do appear, then shall she suffer the death by burning as the law doth appoint.' the herald ceased; the people in the seats, craning this way and that, looked eagerly up and down the lists to see if any knight came. they saw sir mador, in the forefront of the troop of mounted knights, glance about him; but no armed man moved forward to do battle for the innocence of the queen. then he looked to where she stood, pale and still, and men saw him smile faintly, as if his cruel heart already rejoiced to think that she would surely burn. a great stillness was on the multitude of people. the eyes of all the citizens of london were bent upon that long wide space of sand within the lists; many, blurred by tears, could not bear to look at the white figure in the midst of the faggots. men and women held their breath. they saw sir mador look towards sir gaheris, as if to ask him why he delayed giving the signal for the executioner to go forward to do his duty. sir gaheris stood looking down the lists towards the great entrance. his brother, sir gareth, was beside him, and in the hearts of both were prayers which asked that something might happen to prevent them doing this dreadful deed upon their fair queen. 'i do call upon you, sir gaheris, to fulfil the law!' sir mador's harsh voice rang out in the silence, startling all. with the sound, sir gaheris threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. he turned to the executioner, who stood beside a cauldron of fire, and pointed to the queen. horror held the great multitude in silence, and all eyes watched the man put his torch in the fire, and then carry it blazing towards the faggots. suddenly men heard a strange throbbing sound, as if from a distance; then quickly it changed into the fierce beat of horses' hoofs; and before many could realise what it meant, through the great gate at the end of the lists dashed knights in armour, on horses whose foam-flecked trappings showed at what a speed they had come. at the head of them rode a great knight; and as men caught the device upon his shield a great roar of gladness burst from the throats of the people, while women sobbed for joy. 'sir lancelot! sir lancelot to the rescue!' was the cry. as the knights entered, sir mador's quick commands sounded, and the knights about him ran forward and surrounded the queen. they had barely reached the place when, with a great crashing sound, the party of sir lancelot was upon them. many of sir mador's people were at once thrown headlong to the ground by the force of the shock; but the others fought fiercely. this way and that the battle swayed; sir mador trying to thrust the others from the fire, and sir lancelot's kinsmen striving to reach the queen. all was in confusion; the knights on foot were mingled with those on horseback, and many were cut down who did not bear arms. full of a mad wrath was sir lancelot, as he raged among the knights that stood about the faggots; nor could any withstand him. so blind was he in his fury that he knew not whom he slew, except that they were men who stood between him and the queen. so, by great mischance, at this rushing and hurtling, he slew two knights and knew not that they were unarmed, and that they were of those he loved most. one was sir gareth, whom he had himself knighted, and the other was sir gaheris. in very truth sir lancelot knew them not; and afterwards they were found dead where the corpses lay thickest. short but very fierce was that battle, for none could long withstand the fury of sir lancelot and his kinsmen. many were slain on both sides; sir mador had his head sheared from his shoulders by a stroke of sir lancelot's sword, and the remnant of his party fled. then sir lancelot rode to the queen, cut her bonds, and lifted her upon his horse full tenderly. her eyes streamed with tears as she returned thanks to god for her deliverance, and hardly could she tell her gratitude to sir lancelot. thus, with the continued praises of the people in his ears, sir lancelot fared forth amidst his kinsmen, and taking the road northwards he rode with the queen to his own castle of joyous gard. 'for,' said he, 'i will keep the queen in safety until i know that the king is assured of our innocence of any treason against him. but i doubt our enemies have poisoned his mind, for never else would he have suffered her to go to the stake.' but therein was sir lancelot in great error, as in much grief and remorse he came later to see; for if instantly he had taken the queen to the king, and had dared his enemies to prove his treason and the queen's, they would have been instantly discountenanced, and king arthur would have known and loved him as he had ever done, for a true knight and a peerless one. nevertheless, sir lancelot would ever have had the hatred of sir gawaine, which was caused by his slaying, though unwittingly, the two good knights, sir gaheris and sir gareth; whereof came great bale and sorrow. xii of sir gawaine's hatred, and the war with sir lancelot king arthur, in the hall of his palace in london, walked quickly up and down, thinking in great grief of the death of his queen. a group of pages stood quietly in the shadow by the door, and two or three knights gazed silently at the moody king. suddenly there came the sound of running footsteps; a man dashed into the hall, and threw himself at the feet of the king. it was a squire of sir mordred's, and he craved leave to speak. 'say on,' said the king. 'my lord,' said the man, 'sir lancelot hath rescued the queen from the fire and hath slain some thirty of your knights, and he and his kin have taken the queen among them away to some hiding-place.' king arthur stood for a little while dumb for pure sorrow; then, turning away, he wrung his hands and cried with a voice whose sadness pierced every heart: 'alas, that ever i bare a crown, for now is the fairest fellowship of knights that ever the world held, scattered and broken.' 'further, my lord,' went on the man, as others came into the hall, 'sir lancelot hath slain the brethren of sir gawaine, and they are sir gaheris and sir gareth.' the king looked from the man to the knights that now surrounded him, as if that which he heard was past all belief. 'is this truth?' he asked them, and all were moved at the sorrow on his face and in his voice. 'yea, lord,' said they. 'then, fair fellows,' he said, very heavily, 'i charge you that no man tell sir gawaine of the death of his two brothers; for i am sure that when he heareth that his loved younger brother, sir gareth, is slain, he will nigh go out of his mind for sorrow and anger.' the king strode up and down the chamber, wringing his hands in the grief he could not utter. 'why, oh why, did he slay them?' he cried out at length. 'he himself knighted sir gareth when he went to fight the oppressor of the lady lyones, and sir gareth loved him above all others.' 'that is truth,' said some of the knights, and could not keep from tears to see the king's grief, 'but they were slain in the hurtling together of the knights, as sir lancelot dashed in the thick of the press. he wist not whom he smote, so blind was his rage to get to the queen at the stake.' 'alas! alas!' said the king. 'the death of them will cause the greatest woful war that ever was in this fair realm. i see ruin before us all--rent and ruined shall we be, and all peace for ever at an end.' though the king had forbidden any of his knights to tell sir gawaine of the death of his two brothers, sir mordred called his squire aside, and bade him go and let sir gawaine know all that had happened. 'do you see to it,' he told the man, 'that thou dost inflame his mind against sir lancelot.' the knave went to sir gawaine, and found him walking on the terrace of the palace overlooking the broad quiet thames, where the small trading ships sailed up and down the river on their ways to and from gaul and the ports of the kentish coast. 'sir,' said the squire, doffing his cap and bowing, 'great and woful deeds have been toward this day. the queen hath been rescued by sir lancelot and his kin, and some thirty knights were slain in the melée about the stake.' 'heaven defend my brethren,' said sir gawaine, 'for they went unarmed. but as for sir lancelot, i guessed he would try a rescue, and i had deemed him no man of knightly worship if he had not. but, tell me, how are my brethren. where be they?' 'alas, sir,' said the man, 'they be slain.' the grim face of sir gawaine went pale, and with an iron hand he seized the shoulder of the squire and shook him in his rage. 'have a care, thou limb of mordred's, if thou speakest lies,' he said. 'i would not have them dead for all this realm and its riches. where is my young brother, sir gareth?' 'sir, i tell ye truth,' said the man, 'for i know how heavy would be your anger if i lied in this. sir gareth and sir gaheris are slain, and all good knights are mourning them, and in especial the king our master.' sir gawaine took a step backwards and his face went pale and then it darkened with rage. 'tell me who slew them?' he thundered. 'sir,' replied the man, 'sir lancelot slew them both.' 'false knave!' cried sir gawaine, 'i knew thou didst lie.' he struck the man a great buffet on the head, so that he fell half dazed to the ground. 'ha! ha! thou lying talebearer!' laughed sir gawaine, half relieved of his fears, yet still half doubtful. 'to tell me that sir lancelot slew them! why, man, knowest thou of whom thou pratest? sir lancelot to slay my dear young brother gareth! why, man, gareth loved sir lancelot as he loved me--not more than he loved me, but near as much; and sir lancelot was ever proud of him. 'twas he that knighted my young brother gareth, brave and hearty, noble of mind and goodly of look! he would have stood with lancelot against the king himself, so greatly he loved him. and thou--thou foul-mouth!--thou tellest me that lancelot hath slain him! begone from my sight, thou split-tongue!' 'nevertheless, sir gawaine,' said the man, rising, 'sir lancelot slew them both in his rage. as he would--saving your presence--have slain you had you stood between him and the queen at the stake.' at these words, stubbornly spoken in spite of the furious looks of sir gawaine, the knight realised that the man was speaking the truth. his look was fixed on the face of the knave, and rage and grief filled his eyes as he grasped the fact that his beloved brother was really slain. then the blood surged into his face, and he dashed away. men started to see the wild figure of sir gawaine rushing through the passages, his eyes bloodshot, his face white. at length he dashed into the presence of the king. arthur stood sorrowing amidst his knights, but sir gawaine rushed through them and faced the king. 'ha! king arthur!' he cried, half breathless, but in a great wild voice, 'my good brother, sir gareth, is slain, and also sir gaheris! i cannot bear the thought of them slain. it cannot be true! i cannot believe it!' 'nay, nor can any think upon it,' said the king, 'and keep from weeping.' 'ay, ay,' said sir gawaine in a terrible voice, 'there shall be weeping, i trow, and that erelong. sir, i will go see my dead brothers. i would kiss them ere they be laid in earth.' 'nay, that may not be,' said the king gently. 'i knew how great would be thy sorrow, and that sight of them would drive thee mad. and i have caused them to be interred instantly.' 'tell me,' said gawaine, and men marvelled to see the wild look in his eyes and to hear the fierce voice, 'is it truth that sir lancelot slew them both?' 'it is thus told me,' said the king, 'that in his fury sir lancelot knew not whom he smote.' 'but, man,' thundered sir gawaine, 'they bare no arms against him! their hearts were with him, and young gareth loved him as if--as if lancelot was his own brother.' 'i know it, i know it,' replied king arthur. 'but men say they were mingled in the thick press of the fight, and lancelot knew not friend from foe, but struck down all that stood between him and the queen.' for a space sir gawaine was silent, and men looked upon him with awe and compassion. his mane of hair, grizzled and wild, was thrown back upon his shoulders, and his eyes flamed with a glowing light as of fire. suddenly he stepped up to the king, and lifting his right hand said, in a voice that trembled with rage: 'my lord, my king, and mine uncle, wit you well that now i make oath by my knighthood, that from this day i will seek sir lancelot and never rest till he be slain or he slay me. therefore, my lord king, and you, my fellow knights and lords, i require you all to prepare yourselves for war; for, know you, though i ravage this land and all the lands of christendom, i will not rest me nor slake my revenge until i come up to lancelot and drive my sword into his evil heart.' with that sir gawaine strode from the room, and for a space all men were silent, so fierce and full of hatred had been his words. 'i see well,' said the king, 'that the death of these twain knights will cause the deadliest war that hath ever raged, and never shall we have rest until gawaine do slay lancelot or is slain by him. o lancelot! lancelot! my peerless knight, that ever thou shouldst be the cause of the ruin of this my fair kingdom!' none that heard the king could keep from tears; and many felt that in this quarrel the king's heart was not set, except for the sake of sir gawaine, his nephew, and all his kin. then there were made great preparations in london and all the lands south of trent, with sharpening of swords and spears, making of harness and beating of smiths' hammers on anvils. men's minds were in sore distress, and the faces of the citizens were long and white with dismay. daily the quarrel caused other quarrels. many a group of knights came to high words, some taking the side of lancelot and the queen, and others that of the king and sir gawaine. often they came to blows, and one or other of their number would be left writhing and groaning on the ground. families broke up in bad blood by reason of it, for the sons would avow their intent to go and enlist with lancelot, while the fathers, in high anger at such disloyalty to arthur, would send their tall sons away, bidding them never to look upon their faces again. women sorrowed and wept, for whichever side they took, it meant that one or other of their dear ones was opposed to them, and would go to battle, fighting against those of their own kin and of their own hearths. towards midsummer the host was ready, and took the road to the north. the quarrel had been noised abroad throughout britain, and many kings, dukes and barons came to the help of arthur, so that his army was a great multitude. yet many others had gone to lancelot, where he lay in his castle of joyous gard, not far from carlisle. thither, in the month of july, when the husbandmen were looking to their ripening fields and thinking of harvest, king arthur and sir gawaine drew with their army and laid a siege against the castle of joyous gard, and against the walled town which it protected. but for all their engines of war, catapults which threw great stones, and ramming irons which battered the walls, they could not make a way into the place, and so lay about it until harvest time. one day, as queen gwenevere stood at a window of the castle, she looked down at the tents of the besieging host, and her gaze lingered on the purple tent of king arthur, with the banner of the red dragon on the pole above it. as she looked, she saw her husband issue from the tent and begin to walk up and down alone in a place apart. very moody did he seem, as he strode to and fro with bent head. sometimes he looked towards joyous gard, and then his face had a sad expression upon it which went to the queen's heart. she went to sir lancelot, and said: 'sir lancelot, i would that this dreadful war were done, and that thou wert again friends and in peace with my dear lord. something tells me that he sorrows to be at enmity with thee. thou wert his most famous knight and brought most worship to the fellowship of the round table. wilt thou not try to speak to my lord? tell him how evil were the false reports of the conspiracy against him, and that we are innocent of any treason against him and this dear land.' 'lady,' said sir lancelot, 'on my knighthood i will try to accord with my lord. if our enemies have not quite poisoned his thoughts of us, he may listen and believe.' thereupon sir lancelot caused his trumpeter to sound from the walls, and ask that king arthur would hold a parley with him. this was done, and sir pentred, a knight of king arthur's, took the message to the king. in a little while king arthur, with sir gawaine and a company of his counsellors and knights, came beneath the walls, and the trumpeters blew a truce, and the bowmen ceased from letting fly their arrows and the men-at-arms from throwing spears. then sir lancelot came down to a narrow window in the gate-tower, and cried out to the king: 'most noble king, i think that neither of us may get honour from this war. cannot we make an end of it?' 'ay,' cried sir gawaine, his face red with anger, and shaking his mailed fist at lancelot, 'come thou forth, thou traitor, and we will make an end of thee.' 'come forth,' said the king, 'and i will meet thee on the field. thou hast slain thirty of my good knights, taken my queen from me, and plunged this realm in ruin.' 'nay, lord, it was not i that caused this war,' said sir lancelot. 'i had been but a base knight to have suffered the noble lady my queen to be burned at the stake. and it passes me, my lord king, how thou couldst ever think to suffer her to be burned.' 'she was charged with poisoning a knight who slandered her,' said the king. 'i must see justice done on high and low, and though it grieved me to condemn her, i could do naught else. moreover, if sir pinel spoke true, both you and she were conspiring to slay me and to rule this kingdom in my stead.' 'a foul lie, a black calumny!' cried sir lancelot fiercely. 'and i would answer for it with the strength which god might give me on any six of your knights that may say i am so black a traitor. i tell you, my lord king, and i swear it on my knighthood, and may death strike me now if i lie, that neither i nor the queen have ever had evil thoughts against your person, nor had designs upon your crown.' at so solemn an oath men stood still and waited, for few doubted in those days that if a man who took so great an oath was speaking falsely, fire from heaven would instantly descend and consume him. the moments passed and nothing happened, and men breathed again. sir lancelot looked at the face of king arthur, and saw by the light upon it that the king believed him; and sir lancelot rejoiced in his heart. he saw the king turn to sir gawaine with a questioning air, as if he would ask what more his nephew wanted. but next moment, with a harsh laugh, sir gawaine spoke. 'hark ye, sir lancelot, thou mayest swear to heaven as to some things, and there are those that may be moved by thy round oaths. but this i charge upon thee, thou false, proud knight, that thou didst slay two unarmed men--men that loved thee and worshipped thee! forsooth, thou boastful braggart and mouthing hero, thou wilt not dare to deny it!' sad was the face and voice of sir lancelot as he made reply. 'i cannot hope to find excuse from you,' he said, 'for i cannot and never will forgive myself. i would as lief have slain my nephew, sir bors, as slay young sir gareth whom i loved, and gaheris his brother. sorrow is on me for that! i was mad in my rage and did not see them. only i knew that many knights stood between me and the queen, and i slew all that seemed to bar my passage.' 'thou liest, false, recreant knight!' cried sir gawaine, whose grief by now had made him mad with the lust for revenge; 'thou slewest them in thy pride, to despite me and the king, because we had permitted the queen to go to the stake. thou coward and traitor! therefore, wit thee well, sir lancelot, i will not quit this quest until i feel my sword thrusting into thy evil heart.' 'sorrow is on me,' said sir lancelot, 'to know that thou dost so hatefully pursue me. if thou didst not, i think my lord the king would give me his good grace again, and receive back his queen and believe us innocent.' 'i believe it well, false, recreant knight!' cried sir gawaine, full of rage to know that the king verily wished to have peace; 'but know ye that while i live, my good uncle will make war upon thee, and at last we will have thee in spite of thy castle walls and thy skill in battle. and then i will have thy head.' 'i trust ye for that,' said sir lancelot, 'for i see that thy hatred hath crazed thee. so, if ye may get me, i shall expect no mercy.' then, seeing how useless it was to keep up the parley any longer, sir lancelot withdrew. next day spies brought in word to sir lancelot that, at a council of his chief men, the king had said he would take back his queen and make peace with sir lancelot; but that sir gawaine had fiercely told him that if he did not keep up the war until sir lancelot was taken or slain, he and all the kin of lot would break away from the realm and their allegiance. indeed, it was rumoured that sir gawaine would have made the king prisoner had he not yielded; and so powerful was sir gawaine and the lords that followed him, that none could have been strong enough to withstand them. sir gawaine, yearning, by reason of his hatred, to get sir lancelot out of his castle to fight with him, now sent knights to cry out shame upon him under his walls. thus they marched up and down, calling out insulting names and charging him with dishonourable deeds. until at length the very men-at-arms that kept watch upon sir lancelot's walls reddened for shame, and hurled down spears and stones at the foul mouths. sir bors, sir ector de maris and sir lionel, they also heard the words, and going to the other knights of sir lancelot, took counsel with them, and decided that this could no longer be suffered. together they went to sir lancelot and said to him: 'wit ye well, my lord, that we feel great scorn of the evil words which sir gawaine spoke unto you when that ye parleyed with him, and also of these shameful names which men call upon ye for all the citizens to hear. wherefore, we charge you and beseech you, if ye will to keep our service, hold us no longer behind these walls, but let us out, in the name of heaven and your fair name, and have at these rascals.' 'fair friends,' replied sir lancelot, 'i am full loth to fight against my dear lord, king arthur.' 'but if ye will not,' said sir lionel, his brother, 'all men will say ye fear to stir from these walls, and hearing the shameful words they cry, will say that there must be truth in them if ye seek not to silence them.' they spoke long with sir lancelot, and at length he was persuaded; and he sent a message to the king telling him that he would come out and do battle; but that, for the love he bore the king, he prayed he would not expose his person in the fight. but sir gawaine returned answer that this was the king's quarrel, and that the king would fight against a traitor knight with all his power. on the morrow, at nine in the morning, king arthur drew forth his host, and sir lancelot brought forth his array. when they stood facing each other, sir lancelot addressed his men and charged all his knights to save king arthur from death or wounds, and for the sake of their old friendship with sir gawaine, to avoid battle with him also. then, with a great hurtling and crashing, the knights ran together, and much people were there slain. the knights of sir lancelot did great damage among the king's people, for they were fierce knights, and burned to revenge themselves for the evil names they had heard. sir gawaine raged like a lion through the field, seeking sir lancelot, and many knights did he slay or overthrow. once, indeed, king arthur, dashing through the fight, came upon sir lancelot. 'now, sir lancelot,' he cried, 'defend thee, for thou art the causer of this civil war.' at these words he struck at sir lancelot with his sword; but sir lancelot took no means to defend himself, and put down his own sword and shield, as if he could not put up arms against his king. at this the king was abashed and put down his sword, and looked sorrowfully upon sir lancelot. then the surging tide of battle poured between them and separated them, until it happened that sir bors saw king arthur at a little distance. with a spear the knight rushed at the king, and so fierce was his stroke and hardy his blow that the king was stricken to the ground. whereupon sir bors leapt from his horse and drew his sword and ran towards the king. but some one called upon him, and looking up he saw sir lancelot riding swiftly towards him. sir bors held the king down upon the ground by the nose-piece of his helm, and in his other hand he held his naked sword. looking up to sir lancelot, he cried in a fierce voice: 'cousin, shall i make an end of this war? 'twere easy done.' he meant that, if the king were slain, sir gawaine would lose half his forces, and could not hope to keep up the war against sir lancelot singlehanded. 'nay, nay,' said sir lancelot, 'on peril of thy head touch not the king. let him rise, man. i will not see that most noble king, who made me knight and once loved me, either slain or shamed.' sir lancelot, leaping from his horse, went and raised the king, and held the stirrup of his horse while the king mounted again. 'my lord arthur,' said lancelot, looking up at the king, 'i would in the name of heaven that ye cause this war to cease, for none of us shall get honour by it. and though i forbear to strike you and i try to avoid my former brothers and friends of the round table, they do continually seek to slay me and will not avoid me.' king arthur looked upon lancelot, and thought how nobly courteous was he more than any other knight. the tears burst from the king's eyes and he could not speak, and sorrowfully he rode away and would fight no more, but commanded the trumpets to cease battle. whereupon sir lancelot also drew off his forces, and the dead were buried and the wounded were tended. next morning the battle was joined again. very fiercely fought the king's party, for sir gawaine had commanded that no quarter should be given, and that whoever slew a knight of sir lancelot's should have his helm filled with gold. sir gawaine himself raged like a lion about the field, his spear in rest. he sought for sir lancelot; but that knight always avoided him, and great was gawaine's rage and scorn. at length sir bors saw sir gawaine from afar, and spurred across the field towards him. 'ha! sir bors,' cried the other mockingly, 'if ye will find that cowardly cousin of thine, and bring him here to face me, i will love thee.' ''twere well i should not take thy words seriously,' mocked sir bors in his turn. 'for if i were to bring him to thee, thou wouldst sure repent it. never yet hath he failed to give thee thy fall, for all thy pride and fierceness.' this was truth. often in the jousting of earlier days, when sir lancelot had come in disguise and had been compelled to fight sir gawaine, the latter had had the worst. but sir lancelot, loving his old brother-in-arms as he did, had in later years avoided the assault with sir gawaine; yet the greater prowess and skill of sir lancelot were doubted by none. sir gawaine raged greatly at the words of sir bors, for he knew they were true, though he had wished they were not. 'thy vaunting of thy recreant kinsman's might will not avail thee,' he cried furiously. 'defend thyself!' 'i came to have to do with thee,' replied sir bors fiercely. 'yesterday thou didst slay my cousin lionel. to-day, if god wills it, thou thyself shall have a fall.' then they set spurs to their horses and met together so furiously that the lance of either bore a great hole in the other's armour, and both were borne backwards off their horses, sorely wounded. their friends came and took them up and tended them, but for many days neither of the knights could move from their beds. when the knights of sir lancelot saw that sir bors was grievously wounded, they were wroth with their leader. going to him, they charged him with injuring his own cause. 'you will not exert yourself to slay these braggart foes of yours,' they said to him. 'what does it profit us that you avoid slaying knights because, though they are now your bitter foes, they were once brothers of the round table? do they avoid ye, and seek not to slay you and us your kindred and friends? sir lionel is dead, and he is your brother; and sir galk, sir griffith, sir saffre and sir conan--all good and mighty knights--are wounded sorely. ye were ever courteous and kindly, sir lancelot,' they ended, 'but have a care lest now your courtesy ruin not your cause and us.' seeing by these words that he was like to chill the hearts of his friends if he continued to avoid slaying his enemies, sir lancelot sorrowfully promised that henceforth he would not stay his hand. after that he avoided none that came against him, though for very sorrow he could have wept when some knight, with whom in happier times he had drunk wine and jested at the board in camelot, rushed at him with shrewd strokes to slay him. as the fight went on, the lust of battle grew in sir lancelot's heart, and manfully he fought, and with all his strength and skill he lay about him. by the time of evensong his party stood very well, and the king's side seemed dispirited and as if they would avoid the fierce rushes with which sir lancelot's knights attacked them. staying his horse, sir lancelot looked over the field, and sorrowed to see how many dead there were--dead of whom many may have been slain by their own kindred. he saw how the horses of his knights were splashed with the blood that lay in pools here and there, and grief was heavy upon him. sir palom, a very valiant knight, came up to him. 'see, lord,' he cried, 'how our foes flinch from the fierce hurtling of our knights. they are dispirited by the wounding of sir gawaine. sir kay is also wounded, and sir torre is slain. now, if ye will take my advice, this day should cease this war once for all. do ye gather all your forces, lord, and i think with one great dash together ye should scatter their wavering knights, and this field would be won.' 'alas!' said sir lancelot, 'i would not have it so. it cuts me to my heart to war as i do against my lord arthur, and to trample him and his people in the mire of defeat--nay, i should suffer remorse till my last day.' 'my lord,' said sir palom, 'i think ye are unwise. ye spare them thus to come again against ye. they will give ye no thanks, and if they could get you and yours at so great a disadvantage, wit you well they would not spare you.' but sir lancelot would not be moved, and in pity he ordered the trumpeters to sound the retreat. king arthur did likewise, and each party retired in the twilight from the field, where the wounded lay groaning till death or succour came; and the dead lay still and pale, until the kindly earth was thrown over them. some weeks passed in which the armies did not meet; for the host of king arthur was not now so proud as they had been, seeing that they had lost many good knights; and sir lancelot would not of his own will sally out from his castle to fall upon the king. but ever sir gawaine tried to inflame the mind of king arthur and his kinsmen against sir lancelot, and he advised them to join battle with their enemy. moreover, from the lands of his kingdom of lothian, of which sir gawaine was now king in the place of his dead father, king lot, a great body of young knights and men-at-arms came; and the king's party began to recover their courage. many began daily to ride to the walls of joyous gard, and by insult and evil names endeavoured to tempt forth the men of sir lancelot. soon the young knights clamoured to king arthur and sir gawaine to permit them to attack the walls, and reluctantly the king consented to call his council for next day to devise some means of breaking down the castle. headstrong was the counsel given by the young knights at that meeting, and greatly did king arthur sorrow to feel that, for love of his nephew, sir gawaine, he would be compelled to yield to their wild demands for further battle. suddenly the door of the hall where sate the council was opened, and the porter of the gate appeared and approached the king. 'my lord,' he said, 'the holy bishop of london and king geraint of devon crave audience of you.' some of the fierce young knights scowled at the names and uttered cries of disgust. the king's face brightened, and before any could advise him against his will, he said: 'bid them enter instantly.' 'the meddling priest and the petty king that knoweth not his mind!' sneered sir gawaine, looking fiercely about the room. 'i pray thee, uncle,' he said to the king, 'listen not to their womanish persuasions, if thou lovest me.' king arthur did not answer, but looked towards the door impatiently. through this there came first three priests and three armed men, and behind them stepped an old and reverend man, the hair beside his tonsure white as driven snow, and falling over his white robe edged with red, that showed his rank as bishop. then, towering above him, a noble knightly figure, came geraint of devon, grown nobler still since those noble days when he had proved himself to be a strong leader indeed, while men had thought him soft and foolish. all rose to their feet in reverence to the bishop, and fondly did king arthur welcome geraint, for this wise knight had from the first opposed sir gawaine in this war, and had refused to fight against sir lancelot and the queen, though he abated not his service to the king. dark was the look which gawaine darted at geraint, but quiet yet fearless was geraint's answering gaze. 'what ye have to say,' said gawaine angrily, 'say it quickly and begone. if ye are still of two minds, there seems no need to speak, and there is no need to bring a bishop to your aid.' 'gawaine,' said king geraint, and his voice was quiet, yet with a ring of menace in it, 'i think grief hath made you a little mad. let the bishop speak, i pray ye. he hath a message for the king.' 'my lord,' said the bishop, 'i come from his holiness the pope.' at these words sir gawaine started forward, his hand upon his sword, as if he would willingly in his madness slay the holy priest. 'and,' went on the bishop, his grave voice and his quiet look not bating for all the wrathful fire in sir gawaine's eyes, 'i bear with me the bull of his holiness--see, here it is--by which his highness doth charge king arthur of britain, as he is a christian king, to take back queen gwenevere unto his love and worship, and to make peace with sir lancelot.' the murmurs of the wild young knights rose in a sudden storm, while sir gawaine glared with looks of hatred at king geraint and the bishop. 'and if ye do not this command,' rang out the voice of the bishop (and there was sorrow in its tone, and silence sank on all), 'if ye do not, then will his holiness excommunicate this land. none of ye here have seen so terrible a thing as a land laid under the interdict of the holy church, and rarely doth she find her children so stubbornly evil as to merit it. but the father of the church, seeing how this land is torn and rent by this bitter war between brothers, and fearful lest, while ye tear at each others' lives, the fierce and evil pagan will gain upon ye and beat the lives from both of ye, and possess this fair island and drive christ and his religion from it utterly--seeing all this, his holiness would pronounce the doom if ye are too stiffnecked to obey him. then will ye see this land lie as if a curse were upon it. your churches will be shut, and the relics of the holy saints will be laid in ashes, the priests will not give prayers nor the church its holy offices; and the dead shall lie uncoffined, for no prayers may be said over them. say, then, king arthur of britain, what shall be the answer to the command of his holiness which here i lay before thee.' with these words the bishop held a parchment rolled out between his hands before the eyes of the king. men craned forward and saw the black writing on the white skin, and the great seals, or bulls, hanging from it whereon those who could read saw the device of the pope of rome. 'say, is this thy doing?' cried sir gawaine fiercely, looking at king geraint. 'didst thou send this meddling priest to rome to get this?' 'that did i,' replied geraint. 'then now i make this vow,' thundered sir gawaine, 'that though thou hast balked me of my vengeance now, i will mark thee, thou king of two minds, and be thou sure that erelong i will avenge me of this treachery, and that upon thy body and in thy blood.' 'i mark thy words, sir gawaine,' said geraint, whose eyes flashed fiercely, though his voice was calm, 'and i say again thou art mad. i will tell thee and the king, our lord and master, why i did advise the holy bishop to go to rome and get the pope's command. first, as ye all know, i did think this war a wicked one beyond all measure, and ever have i raised my voice against it. and what i foresaw has come to pass. as the good priest saith, while ye tore at each other's throats here in the furthest marches of the north, the sly, fierce pagan, learning how all the land was rent and weakened by this evil war, has crept up in his longships, he has landed at many solitary places on the coast, and has spread far and wide throughout the land, burning and slaughtering. the long files of his captives, our kinsmen, go day by day, even as ye fight here, brother with brother, down to the black ships, and ye do naught to save them or avenge them. already have i, in my office as count of the saxon shore, battered them back to their ships at lemanis, llongporth and rutupiæ; but here in the north, for all that the old lion, uriens of reged, worn with war and full of age, hath taken the field against them, here, behind your backs as ye battle, kin with kin, a great and a stubborn pagan, whom men call hyring the land-waster, hath entered the land and still prevails. crafty he is and strong, for he hath made treaties with some of our weaker kin, and their women he hath taken in marriage for his leaders, and thus in our very midst there is treachery, hand-in-hand with the brutal invaders. yet still you, gawaine, are so mad, so lost to all care for your nation's weal, that you would see your people ruined and your land possessed by the savage boars of saxons, while ye slake your vengeance for a private wrong. if still you so would do, i call you traitor, and, by the grace of god, i will make good my words upon your body, when we have thrust the pagan from the land and peace is within our borders once again.' while the thunder of his noble anger still rolled through the wide hall, king arthur arose, and men marked the resolution in his eyes. 'i will that there be no more war,' he said, and he looked sternly at gawaine. 'geraint hath spoken the truth, and the truth shall prevail. i repent me that i have so long forgotten the needs of my kingdom. do thou now, good bishop, go to sir lancelot, tell him that i will make peace with him and that i will receive back my queen. and do thou, good geraint, fare south again. i thank thee from my heart for what thou hast done. would to heaven that all my knights were as clean-souled and as single-minded in devotion unto me as thou art. do thou go and fulfil thy great office. watch thou the coasts as hitherto thou hast watched them; and soon i will follow to aid thee, should the foul and savage pagans strive again to break into my realm.' but, after all, sir gawaine had his way in part. the bishop took the king's assurance, sealed with his great seal, whereby he promised sir lancelot that he should come and go safe from murder or sudden onset, and desiring him to bring the queen to the king at his hall at carlisle. but in that parchment was no word of reconciliation with sir lancelot. sir gawaine fiercely told the king that the day on which he, the king, should clasp the hand of lancelot in friendship, he, sir gawaine, with all his vassals and his men, would leave the kingdom. so deep and burning was the hatred which gawaine bore sir lancelot that he even threatened that, if his will was not granted, he would join the pagans and fight against the king. so shamed and saddened was the king at these words that, to put an end to his nephew's rage, he consented to do as he desired. therefore, though the bishop strove to persuade the king to make his peace with sir lancelot, sir gawaine's will was done, and the bishop went sadly to joyous gard. he showed his writings to sir lancelot and the queen, and both were sorrowful in that no word of reconciliation was said. 'i will do my lord's desire,' said the knight, 'but i see that sir gawaine's hatred of me is in no way abated. nevertheless, do thou ride, my lord bishop, to the king. commend me unto his good grace, and say to him that in five days i will myself bring my lady, queen gwenevere, unto him as he doth desire.' on the day appointed, as the king sat in hall at carlisle, surrounded by his knights and their ladies, with sir gawaine standing on the high seat beside him, there came the beat of many hoofs, and into the town rode sir lancelot with the queen, knights and squires accompanying them. they reined up at the wide door of the hall, and sir lancelot alighted, and having helped the queen to dismount, he took her hand, and led her through the ranks of knights and ladies to where sat king arthur. sir lancelot kneeled upon the edge of the dais, and the queen with him; and to see so noble a knight and so beautiful a lady, sad of countenance as they were, forced many a tear to the eyes of the knights and dames who looked on. then, rising, and taking up the queen, sir lancelot spoke: 'my most redoubted lord,' he said, 'you shall understand that by the pope's commandment and yours i have brought unto you my lady your queen, as right requireth; and if there be any knight here, of any degree, who shall say that she or i have ever thought to plot treason against your person or your crown, or the peace of this realm, then do i say here and now that i, lancelot du lake, will make it good upon his body, that he lies. and, my gracious lord, if this is all that there is between you, my king, and myself, there need be naught of ill thought between us, but only peace and goodwill. but i wist well that one that hates me will not suffer ye to do what is in your good and kingly heart.' sternly did sir lancelot look at sir gawaine, while the tears gushed from king arthur's eyes, and from the eyes of many that heard sir lancelot's sad words. fierce and dark was the look which sir gawaine returned to sir lancelot. 'the king may do as he will,' he said harshly and in a loud voice, 'but wit thou well, sir lancelot, thou and i shall never be at peace till one of us be slain; for thou didst slay my twain brothers, though they bore no harness against thee nor any ill will. yet traitorously thou didst slay them!' 'alas, my lord,' said sir lancelot, and the tears bedewed his face, 'i cannot ask you for your forgiveness for that deed, unwitting though it was done and in my madness. would to heaven they had worn harness! wit you well that ever will i bewail the death of my dear friend, sir gareth. 'twas i that made him knight, and ever did i delight to see him, to hear his manly laugh ring out, and to see the light in his brave eyes that never suffered a mean or evil action. i wot he loved me above all other knights, and there was none of my kinsmen that i loved so much as i loved him. ever will the sorrow of the death of thy brethren lie upon my soul; and to make some small amends i will, if my lord will suffer it and it will please you, sir gawaine, i will walk in my shirt and barefoot from lemanis even unto this town, and at every ten miles i will found a holy house, and endow it with monks to pray for the souls of sir gareth and sir gaheris. surely, sir gawaine, that will do more good unto their souls than that my most noble lord and you should war on me.' every cheek was wet and the tears of the king fell from his eyes, yet made he no effort to restrain or hide them. 'out upon such monkish deeds!' cried sir gawaine, and his scornful eyes surveyed the weeping knights and dames. 'know thee, once for all, that never shalt thou wipe away the treacherous murder of my brothers but by thy blood. ye are safe now for a season, for the pope hath given you safety, but in this land--whatever comes of it i care not--thou shalt not abide above fifteen days, or else i shall have thy head. so make ye no more ado; but deliver the queen from thee, and get thee quickly out of this court and out of this realm.' 'well,' said sir lancelot, and laughed grimly, 'if i had known i should have so short an answer to my proffers of peace, i had thought twice ere i had come hither. but now, madam,' he said, turning to the weeping queen beside him, 'i must say farewell to ye, for now do i depart from this noble fellowship and this dear realm for ever. pray for me, and send me word if any lying tongues speak evil of you, and if any knight's hand may deliver you by battle, believe me mine shall so deliver you.' with these words sir lancelot bent and kissed the queen's hand, and so turned away and departed. there was neither king, baron, knight nor squire of all that great company who did not weep, nor think that sir gawaine had been of most evil mind to refuse the noble proffers of sir lancelot. heavy was king arthur ever thereafter, and never might man see his face brighten nor hear his laugh; and the better of his knights sorrowed with him, and knew what was in his heart. 'in this realm will be no more quiet,' said sir owen of the fountain to his fellows as they stood upon the walls of carlisle and saw the band of sir lancelot riding southwards, the sunlight flashing from their helms and armour. 'the pagans have gathered strength daily while we have fought with each other, and that which would have given us the strength and the union which would hurl them from our coasts is shattered and broken. by the noble fellowship of the round table was king arthur and his realm borne up, and by their nobleness the king and all his realm was in quietness and in peace. and a great part,' he ended, 'was because of the noble nature of sir lancelot, whom sir gawaine's mad rage hath driven from the kingdom. nor is all the evil ended yet.' xiii of the rebellion of mordred and the death of king arthur when sir lancelot and all his men had left the realm of britain and had betaken themselves to brittany, where sir lancelot had a kingdom of his own, the saxons began to increase in britain, both in strength and numbers. almost daily a long black ship, crammed with pagans, was sighted from some part of the coast; and the british, praying that the fierce pirates would not visit their homes, would watch the terrible warship till it passed; or else, caught unawares, would have to flee inland in a breathless panic when the dragon-headed prow loomed through the sea-mist, and the barbarous warriors swarmed over the sides and ran knee-deep in the water, their eyes gleaming with the joy of killing and their hands eager for the looting. then king arthur made ready a great host, and for two years he fought in the northern parts against the bands of the pirates. swift were the blows he struck, for the great wide roman roads were still open, not grass-grown and deserted, and with his mounted knights and men he could ride quickly from place to place, striking fiercely and scattering the foul pagans. ten was the number of these battles which he fought in the north, six against the saxon pirates and four against the wild cats of caledonia, whom men call picts and scots, and who had ventured south in greater numbers as soon as they heard how the king warred with his lords and the rich land was open to plunder. two others he fought in the south, one against an insolent band of pirates who dared even to attack his palace-city of caerleon-upon-usk. but so heavy and deadly a blow did he strike at them then, that from that battle barely a dozen pagans were left to flee like fire to their ships. not without loss of many of his brave warriors did arthur win these battles, for the pagans were good men of their hands and not easily were they beaten. saddest of all was the loss of the noble geraint, who, thrusting back the pirates once again from the harbour of llongporth, got his death there with many of his valiant men. when the fame of king arthur's prowess and the might of his knights had gone abroad among the pagans, they were afraid and would not venture in great numbers to invade the land again, and there was peace and rest in britain for a space. then sir gawaine, remembering his hatred of sir lancelot, persuaded the king to make him ready another host, with which to invade the land of brittany where sir lancelot ruled his kingdom. for a long time the king would not listen to his advice, and the queen, with all her power, strove against sir gawaine. but that knight and his large following of knights and men-at-arms had been of great service in the recent wars against the pagans, and the king could not wholly refuse to listen to sir gawaine's demands. also sir mordred added his words to those of his brother, and said that men who came from brittany said that sir lancelot was getting him ready a large army, and training many men, although he was at peace with his neighbours in gaul. but the rumour went, as sir mordred reported, that sir lancelot was only waiting his time, and when king arthur should be more than usually pressed by his pagan foes, sir lancelot and his great host would sail swiftly across the sea and seize the kingdom of britain, when arthur, exhausted by war, would be unable to withstand the fresh warriors of sir lancelot, and would lose both his queen and his crown. for a time the king would not suffer these evil rumours to be mentioned in his presence, but many of his counsellors thought there was much truth in them. at length, so persistent was sir mordred and those whom he craftily persuaded to believe him, that for sheer weariness the king consented to take an army across to brittany, and to demand that sir lancelot should own that the king was his overlord, and that he should do homage to king arthur for his kingdom. the host was prepared, therefore, and at a meeting of his council king arthur made his nephew, sir mordred, regent of britain, to rule in the king's place while he should be abroad; and queen gwenevere he placed under the governance of sir mordred, as well as the officers of the court. when they had passed the sea and landed in the coasts of sir lancelot's country, sir gawaine ordered his knights to go through the nearer parts, burning the houses of the people and wasting their lands. this he did in order to enrage sir lancelot against the king, so that he would not listen quietly to any demand which the king might make of him. word was brought to sir lancelot of the landing of king arthur and the plundering and wasting of the land, but for some days he would do naught; for he was loath to take up arms against the king he loved, who had made him a knight. at length sir bors came to him, and with that knight were others, as sir lunel of the brake, sir magus of pol, and sir alan of the stones with his six mighty brothers. 'my lord, sir lancelot,' said sir bors, 'it is great shame that we suffer them to ride over our lands, burning the homes of our folk and destroying the crops in the fields.' sir alan also, who with his brothers were seven as noble knights as a man might seek in seven lands ere he might find a brotherhood as valiant and withal as courteous, spoke to the like purport, saying: 'sir lancelot, for the love of our land, let us ride out and meet these invaders in the field, for we have never been wont to cower in castles nor in towns.' then spoke sir lancelot, who was lord of them all. 'my fair lords,' he said, 'ye wit well that i am loath to raise my hand against my own dear lord and to shed the blood of christian men. yet i understand how it chafes you to stand by and see your fair land ruined by those that hate me. therefore i will send a messenger to my lord arthur, desiring him to make treaty with me. then when we have his reply, we will consider the matter further.' a damsel was therefore sent to the camp of king arthur, and she bore a message from sir lancelot. she was brought to sir lucan, who was the king's butler, and she told him whence she had come and why. 'alas!' said sir lucan, 'i fear ye have made your journey in vain, fair damsel. my lord, king arthur, would quickly accord with sir lancelot, whom he loves, but sir gawaine will not suffer him.' just then sir gawaine happened to pass by, and saw the maiden, and knew that she was not one of their party. he turned towards her, and his fierce eyes looked at her, grimly sour. 'whence come ye?' he said harshly. 'i come hither to speak with king arthur,' said the maiden, 'for i bear a message from my lord, sir lancelot.' with an angry gesture sir gawaine seized her bridle and led her palfrey swiftly to the edge of the camp. 'depart!' he cried harshly, 'and tell your master that it is idle for him to send to mine uncle. tell him from me, sir gawaine, that by the vow of my knighthood, i will never leave this land till i or he be slain. now go!' when this message was told to sir lancelot, the tears stood in his eyes and he went apart, and for that day the knights his comrades held their counsel. but they resolved that next day they would prevail upon sir lancelot to issue forth and give battle. but in the morning, when they looked from the walls of the castle, they saw that sir gawaine had crept up in the dawn, and now was the place besieged. thereupon there was fierce fighting, for sir gawaine caused ladders to be reared, and his knights strove to climb over the wall, but were mightily beaten back by sir lancelot's party. then the attackers drew off for a space, and sir gawaine, well armed, came before the chief gate, upon a stout steed. he shook his lance at the men over the gate, and cried: 'where art thou, false traitor, sir lancelot? why dost thou hide thyself within holes and walls like a coward? look out now, thou timid soul, for when i may get at thee i will revenge upon thy evil body the death of my brothers twain.' these shameful words were heard by sir lancelot, and all his knights and kin that stood about him, and they said: 'sir lancelot, now ye must be done with thy courtesy and go forth and beat back those evil words upon his foul mouth.' 'it is even so,' said sir lancelot; 'but sorry i am and heavy of spirit thus to fight with him, who hath been my dear brother-in-arms so long, and whose brothers i did unwittingly slay. and much evil shall come of this.' then he commanded his strongest horse to be saddled, and bade his armour to be dressed upon him, and when he was fully armed he stood at the top of the gate and cried upon the king. 'my lord arthur,' he said, 'you that made me knight, wit you well that i am right heavy that ever ye do pursue me thus; but now that sir gawaine hath used villainous words about me, i must needs defend myself.' sir gawaine, seated upon his horse below, laughed grimly, and cried upon the other. 'o lancelot, lancelot,' he said, 'what a man of words thou art! if thou darest to battle with me, cease thy babbling, man, and come off, and let us ease our hearts with strong blows.' then sir lancelot issued forth with many of his knights, and a covenant was made between the hosts that there should be no fighting until sir gawaine and sir lancelot had fought together, and one was either dead or yielden. thereupon the two knights departed some way and then came together with all the might of their horses, and each smote the other in the midst of the shield. so strong were the knights and stout and big the spears, that their horses could not stand the shock, and so fell to the ground. then the knights quickly avoided their horses and dressed their shields, and fought fiercely together with their swords. so valiantly did each give and receive blows, and so heavy and grim was their fighting, that all the knights and lords that stood thereabout marvelled thereat and were fain to say, in as many good words, that never had they seen such sword-play. in a little while, so shrewd and skilful were they, both were wounded and the blood oozed from the joints of their armour, and it was great marvel to see that they could still stand, dashing their shields upon each other, and each beating upon the other with great slashes of their swords. and which was the stronger of the twain none might say. now sir gawaine had a magic power, which had been endowed upon him at his birth by a great witch who was a friend of his mother, the sorceress, queen morgan le fay, wife of king lot. no one knew of this secret power except king arthur, and often had it availed sir gawaine, so that in dire perils of onfall, sudden ambush, or long battle, it had given him the victory, when all about him had been slain or wounded or taken captive. the magic was that, from the hour of nine until high noon, the strength of his body increased until it was three times his natural strength, which itself was full great, though in that, for deep wind and breath and might of arm, sir lancelot was the stronger. now while they fought together, sir lancelot felt that sir gawaine seemed not to weaken as time went on, and he marvelled greatly. then he felt that indeed sir gawaine's strength was greater than it had been at the beginning, and a fear came into his heart that sir gawaine was possessed of a demon. but sir lancelot was stout of heart as well as old in warcraft, and knew that if he could tire sir gawaine he might, by one blow, get the better of him when he saw a good chance. therefore sir lancelot began to husband his strength, and instead of spending it in feinting and attacking, he bore his shield ever before him, covering himself from the fierce blows of his enemy. thus he kept up his own strength; but hard put to it was he when, towards midday, sir gawaine seemed to have the might of a very giant, and the shield arm of sir lancelot was numbed by reason of the crashing blows which sir gawaine's sword rained upon it. great travail indeed had sir lancelot to stand up and not to yield; and while men marvelled how he could endure, none knew all he suffered. then, as the bell of the convent in the town boomed forth the hour of noon, sir gawaine heaved up his sword for a final blow; but his sword descended just as the last stroke of twelve had died away, and sir lancelot marvelled to feel that what should have been so grievous a blow that, belike, he could not have stood before it, fell upon his shield with no more than the strength of the blow given by an ordinary man. when sir lancelot felt the might of sir gawaine so suddenly give way, he drew himself up to his full height and said: 'sir gawaine, i know not by what evil power ye have fought, but now i feel that ye have done. now, my lord, sir gawaine, i must do my part, for none may know the great and grievous strokes i have endured this day with great pain.' with that sir lancelot redoubled his blows, and the sword of sir gawaine gave before the might of sir lancelot, and his shield was rent. then sir lancelot gave so great a buffet on the helm of the other that sir gawaine staggered, and with yet another blow sir lancelot hurled him headlong to the ground. men held their breath, for now, after so fierce and stubborn a struggle, they felt sure that sir lancelot, hot and enraged against his enemy, would rip off the other's helm and strike his head off instantly. but, instead, sir lancelot stood for a moment looking at his prostrate enemy. then men gasped to see him thrust his sword into its scabbard with a clang, turn on his heel and begin to walk away. they saw the prone knight raise his head and look as if in surprise at the retreating figure of sir lancelot. 'why dost thou depart?' cried sir gawaine, rage in his mocking voice. 'turn again, false knight, and slay me! if ye leave me thus, thou shalt gain nothing from it, for when i am whole i will slay thee when i may.' men marvelled to hear a fallen foe use such shameful and hateful words, but they marvelled much more when sir lancelot, turning, cried: 'i shall endure you, sir, if god give me grace; but wit you well. sir gawaine, i will never smite you to death.' many that before had hated sir lancelot were moved by these noble words, and by the sight of his mercy; and they deemed that there was hardly another man in all christendom that would have shown such nobility, save sir galahad and sir perceval, and they were dead. so sir lancelot went into the city, and sir gawaine was borne into king arthur's tent and his wounds were cleaned and salved. thus he lay for three weeks, hard of mood and bitter in his hatred, and longing eagerly to get well, so he might try again to slay sir lancelot. meanwhile he prayed the king to attack sir lancelot's walls, to try to draw him forth, or to take the city by treachery. but the king would do naught. he was sick for sorrow because of the war that was between him and sir lancelot, and by reason of the wounds of his nephew sir gawaine. 'alas,' was ever his reply, 'neither you nor i, my nephew, will win worship at these walls. for we make war for no reason, with as noble a knight as ever drew breath, and one more merciful and courteous than any that ever graced the court of any christian king.' 'nevertheless,' replied sir gawaine, raging at the king's love for sir lancelot, 'neither his mercy nor courtesy would avail against my good sword, once i could sink it in his treacherous heart.' as soon as sir gawaine might walk and ride, he armed him at all points and mounted a great courser, and with a long wide spear in his hand he went spurring to the great gate of the town. 'where art thou, lancelot?' he cried in a fierce voice. 'come thou forth, traitor knight and recreant! i am here to revenge me on thy evil body for thy treacherous slaughter of my twain brothers.' all this language sir lancelot heard, and leaning from the tower he thus spake: 'sir gawaine, it sorrows me that ye will not cease your foul speaking. i know your might, and all that ye may do, and well ye wot ye may do me great hurt or death.' 'come down, then,' cried sir gawaine, 'for what my heart craves is to slay thee. thou didst get the better of me the other day, and i come this day to get my revenge. and wit thee well i will lay thee as low as thou didst lay me.' 'i will not keep ye waiting long,' said sir lancelot, 'for as ye charge me of treachery ye shall have your hands full of me erelong, however the battle between us may end.' then happened it even as before. the knights encountered first with spears, but sir gawaine's broke into a hundred pieces on the shield of sir lancelot. then, dismounting, the knights fought on foot with swords. sir gawaine put forth all his strength, hoping, with the magic power which he possessed, to dash sir lancelot to his knees. but sir lancelot was more wary than before, and under cover of his shield he husbanded his strength until the hour of noon, when, as before, he felt that sir gawaine's might had strangely ebbed away. when that had come to pass, sir lancelot said: 'now once more have i proved that ye fight not with a man's fair strength, sir gawaine, but with some evil power. and full grievously was i put to it to withstand many of thy sad blows. now ye have done your great deeds, and i will do mine.' then with one stroke, of so marvellous a force that men marvelled, sir lancelot beat down sir gawaine's guard, and struck him a full heavy blow on the side of the helm, beating it in so that the old wound burst again. sir gawaine fell to the ground, and for some moments lay still as if he were dead or in a swoon; but he was only dazed, and soon recovering, he raved and foamed as he lay there, cursing sir lancelot for a traitorous coward and a base knight, and even, in his madness, thrusting towards him with his sword. 'wit thou well, base knight,' he cried, 'that i am not slain yet. come thou near and lie here with me, and we will fight this battle until we die.' 'i will do no more than i have done, my lord,' said sir lancelot, 'and when thou art able to stand i will meet thee again. but to smite a wounded man that may not stand, i will not.' then sir lancelot withdrew to the town, while sir gawaine still raved and abused him, and men marvelled both at the exceeding madness of the hatred of sir gawaine and the great restraint and nobleness of lancelot. many said that had sir gawaine said half as many shameful things to one of them, they would have instantly rased his evil head from his shoulders. for a month sir gawaine lay sick, but was always eager to be up and able again. and at length the leech said that in three days he should ride, whereat sir gawaine was joyful. 'again,' said he to king arthur, who sat beside him, 'again shall i have to do with that base fellow, and ill attend me if i do not end the matter this time.' 'ye had ended it long ago, or been ended,' said the king, 'except for the nobleness of sir lancelot that forbore to slay you.' 'ay, we all know your love of the pestilent fool, uncle,' said sir gawaine, 'but we will stay here until we have made an end of him and his kingdom, if it take us all our lives.' even as he spoke there came the clear call of a trumpet outside in the camp, and sir bedevere came to the door of the king's tent, his grim old face pale, his grizzled hair unkempt, and every sign of haste and travel upon his dress. the king started up. 'sir bedevere, ye bring evil tidings from britain,' he cried. 'can it be that more ruin and wrong is to come than that i suffer now? what is your news?' 'o my king, it is that mordred your nephew hath rebelled,' said sir bedevere, 'and has gathered much people about him, and hath sent many letters to all the lords and knights your vassals, promising them wealth and lands if they make him king. and gwenevere your queen he hath imprisoned, saying that he will wed her when ye are slain.' 'mordred! mordred!' cried the king, 'him that i thought was a quiet, strong man--turned so base a traitor!' 'ay, he was ever the traitor, though brother of mine,' cried sir gawaine in a voice of rage. 'a man that speaks in whispers, haunts dark corners, and ever sneers with his lips.' 'hardly with my life have i escaped to tell you this,' went on sir bedevere, 'for he placed men to watch me after i had scorned his evil offers to myself. but now, my lord, quickly ye must betake yourself and all your army from this fruitless and wrongful war against sir lancelot, and hasten to beat down the poisonous viper whom ye have nourished in your bosom.' ere the day was done the army of king arthur had raised the siege of sir lancelot's town and were quickly marching to the sea, there to take their boats across to britain to punish the usurper and traitor, sir mordred. a fair wind carried them across the sea, but long ere they reached the shallows of the beach at dover they saw the sunlight flashing from thousands of headpieces of knights and men-at-arms, set to oppose the landing of their rightful lord. the king was fiercely angry, and he commanded the masters of the ships to launch their small boats, and into these the knights swarmed and were rowed towards the shore. but the rebels of mordred also launched boats and great pinnaces filled with knights, and when the boats of the opposite parties met, then there was fierce fighting and much slaughter of many good knights and barons and other brave men. then king arthur and his chief knights drew forth their horses from the holds of the ships, and leaped with them into the sea, and fiercely did they throw themselves upon sir mordred and his knights, and there was grievous fighting on horseback in the shallow water, which soon was dyed with the blood of the slain. so stubborn were the king and his fighting men that the army of mordred was forced to retreat towards the land, and then, when the king and gawaine had trimmed their own ranks, order was given for one concerted rush against the enemy. the other side showed little fight now, and made no stand, but fled inland. when the battle was over, king arthur let bury his people that were dead, so far as they could be discovered in the waves; and the wounded he caused to be carried into the town of dover to be cared for. a squire came to the king as he stood giving orders as to these things. 'my lord king,' said the squire, 'sir gawaine lies sore wounded in a boat, and we know not whether he be alive or dead.' 'alas!' cried the king, and the knights about him were full of pity at the sudden grief that came into his voice and his looks, 'is this true? then is all my joy of life at an end.' the squire led him to the boat in which sir gawaine lay, who stirred as the king approached, and feebly smiled. 'my uncle,' said sir gawaine, 'wit you well that now is my death-day come, for i know i shall not last this bout. for i am smitten upon the wound which sir lancelot gave me, and i feel that now i shall die.' 'alas, my sister's son,' cried the king, taking sir gawaine in his arms and kissing him, while the tears flowed down his cheeks, 'this is the wofullest day of all my life. for if ye depart, gawaine, how solitary am i! gawaine! gawaine! in sir lancelot and in thee had i most my love and my joy, and now shall i lose ye both, and all my earthly joy is gone from me.' 'alas,' said sir gawaine, 'sorrow's on me now that i have caused you such grief, mine uncle. i see now that i have been mad with rage against that noble knight, sir lancelot, who slew my dear brothers unwittingly. and now i repent me sorely. i would that i could live to repair the evil that i have done to you and to sir lancelot. but my time is come. i shall not live till evening.' they wept together, and the knights that stood about them also wept for pure grief, to think how much sorrow and ruin was caused by the mad rage of sir gawaine, which had pushed the good king on to make war against his will. 'i am the causer of this rebellion by my traitor brother,' said sir gawaine, 'and my name shall be cursed for it. had i not wilfully driven thee, thou wouldst have accorded with sir lancelot, and he and his brave kinsmen would have held your cankered enemies in subjection, or else cut them utterly away. lift me up, my lord, and let me have a scribe, for i will send a letter to sir lancelot ere i die.' then sir gawaine was set up by the king, and a priest was brought, who wrote at the dying man's dictation. and the purport of the letter was in this wise: 'unto sir lancelot, flower of all noble knights that ever i heard of or saw, and once my dear friend, now do i, sir gawaine, king lot's son of orkney and the lothians, and sister's son to king arthur, send thee greeting and let thee know by these writings that i am this day done to death, having been wounded at the landing against rebellious traitors, and struck upon the wound which thou didst give me twice, before thy city. whereby i have got my death. but i will have thee to wit that i sought my death of thee, and got that wound deservedly of thee, who could have slain me twice, but for thy high nobility and great courtesy. i, gawaine, beseech of thee forgiveness for my madness, and crave that thou wilt remember the dear friendly days we have had together in times long past, and for all the love that was between us. come thou over the sea, and with thy knights do thou press to the help of arthur, our noble lord, who is beset by a traitorous villain, my brother mordred, who hath dared to rebel against his rightful lord, and hath crowned himself king. do thou hasten, good sir lancelot, when thou shalt receive this letter, and follow the king. but ere thou goest from this seashore do thou come to my tomb, and pray some prayer more or less for my sinful soul, that in its madness did evilly entreat thee.' then was sir gawaine shriven, and in a little while he swooned, while all stood uncovered round about him. when the rays of the afternoon sun cast long shadows of the knights and fighting men who were hurrying up and down the shore making ready to depart, sir gawaine awoke from his swoon and looked up. for a moment he did not recognise king arthur; then he smiled at him very sweetly and said in a low voice: 'kiss me--and forgive me!' the king knelt down and kissed the pallid face of sir gawaine, and for very sorrow he felt that the heart in his breast was nigh to bursting. so in a little while, with the beat of the surf and the cry of the seagulls upon his ears, the light of the sun in his eyes, and the free air of heaven all about him, sir gawaine died. and his death was as he had ever craved it to be, under the open sky, after battle, where he had given good strokes and received them. now the letter which sir gawaine had written was given unto a young squire of sir gawaine's, by name tewder, and he was commanded to depart forthwith back to brittany, and deliver it into the hands of sir lancelot. but, among the knights that had stood about the dying sir gawaine, was a traitor, who was in the service of sir mordred the rebel, and he knew that if sir lancelot should receive that letter, and come to britain with all his brave kin and their host, sir mordred would have much ado to conquer king arthur. therefore the traitor knight, whose name was sir fergus, did accost tewder the squire, and with fair seeming told him that he also was bidden to go back to brittany, to bring back certain jewels which the king in his hasty departure had left in his lodging at the town of dol. tewder, unsuspecting of all evil, went aboard a boat with sir fergus, and together they bargained with the master to take them across when the tide should rise again at dark. together they crossed the sea that night and took the road towards sir lancelot's town; and in a dark wood sir fergus set upon the squire, who fought bravely, but was slain at last, and the letter of sir gawaine was taken by the traitor. then, returning to the seashore, the wretch went aboard another boat, and chaffered with the merchant to take him across the sea to the town of llongporth, whence he thought to get quickly to mordred, to receive from him the reward of his treachery and murder. but at night, as they sailed over the dark sea, a fifty-oared longship, filled with saxon pirates, crept upon them; the pagans poured over the sides, slew men almost in their sleep, and flung their bodies overboard. and though fergus fought well, his head was almost struck from his body by a great sheering axe-blow. when the pirates had taken all the goods they desired from the merchant vessel, they stove a hole in its side, and it sank to the bottom of the sea. so that no man ever again saw the letter which was meant for sir lancelot. for some weeks sir lancelot lay quiet, knowing naught of the death of sir gawaine or of the letter desiring him to go to the help of king arthur. many rumours came to him, through the ship-folk, of the wicked rebellion of sir mordred, and though sir lancelot longed to go across to britain and fight for king arthur, his kinsmen would not consent, but said it would be unseemly, unless the king craved his aid, and sued for pardon for making war against sir lancelot in his own country. thus the precious weeks went by, and much ill fortune happened in britain, that had ended otherwise if sir lancelot had been by the king. three days after the battle upon the shore, the king's host came up with the host of sir mordred on barham down. many folks had joined the rebels' side, because they hated the king for making war upon sir lancelot, and the king was sorely hurt in his mind to see a banner borne by one part of the usurper's army, on which was the device of sir lancelot's. this the crafty sir mordred had commanded to be done, knowing that it would damp the spirits of king arthur and his men. 'verily,' said king arthur, 'my evil deeds have sprung up as armed men against me. i fought unjustly with sir lancelot, and here are some that loved him arrayed against me for that wicked war.' 'if ye would send for sir lancelot,' said sir owen of the fountain, who stood by him, 'ye would learn, i verily believe, that sir lancelot loves and worships you as of old, and hath no mind to fight on the side of this sly fox, mordred. send for sir lancelot, lord.' 'nay, i will not--i may not,' said the king. 'if he cometh by the words which sir gawaine wrote to him, i shall know that he loves me and forgives me; but if he cometh not, i shall know he hates me, and i shall merit his ill-favour. he owes naught to me since i used him so evilly, and therefore i may not ask his aid.' all day the battle raged upon the great green down, and many were the fierce fights which took place upon the top thereof, where, behind great earthworks freshly timbered, the main host of sir mordred stood, the banner of the great red dragon in their midst. but at the last, so fast and fierce did the blows of king arthur's men fall, and so stubbornly did they press on, that sir mordred's host gave way. pouring forth by the upper gate, they ran pell-mell northwards, and the knights and fighting men of arthur kept up with them for many miles, and there was a running fight and much wounding and slaying all through the fresh green countryside, where the hedges were laden with may-blossoms, and in the sky the larks were trilling. and that day many a wounded man crawled groaning into the thickets to die, many a chalky cart-rut ran red with blood, and many a white face, with wide-open, sightless eyes, stared up at the blue sky, where the fleecy clouds sailed in the gentle wind. for three weeks after this battle both sides rested, and like great wrestlers gathered all their strength for one great struggle. knights and riders were sent by both sides into all parts, with letters to lords and knights, charging them to take their sides in the war. many people from about london came to the banner of mordred, and the parts now called kent, sussex and surrey, essex and suffolk held wholly with him; but those in the west, as wales, devon, cornwall and the middle parts, thronged to the banner of the king. few came from the north, for there the pagan pirates stalked with fire and sword through and through the land, and the british lords and chiefs that were alive had little power to stay them now. king uriens was dead, slain by the dagger of a traitor, and so were two other great chieftains; so that men south of trent sorrowfully shook their heads and said that now the north was no longer the land of the british folk, but was given over to the savage heathen hordes. then, to meet the many that flocked together in his favour, king arthur drew him with his host westward beyond sarum. there on the wide downs beside the great standing-stones of the old princes, which men now call stonehenge, a great multitude of chiefs and knights and yeomen came to his banner. but sir mordred avoided a battle, and, instead, kept aloof with his army, and began to burn and harry the country which was on the side of arthur. he took calleva and cunetio, and put the people to the sword, and took much gear from those wealthy cities; then he stole through the great forest by night and came to palladun, which was a rich town builded upon the top of a great hill. he thought to take this unawares, but it was well watched and well armed, and he strove to break into it and was kept about it for some days. that delay was used well by king arthur, for he made great haste to pass through the wild country, filled with wide marshes and thick woods as it was, which separated him from his enemy. then mordred, hearing through the spies of the king's approach, got his host away and thought to pass into the lands of devon, which were those of king dewer, son of the dead geraint, and held firmly for arthur. but in the wild waste-land beside the endless waters, king arthur caught up with him, and barred his further way. and the king remembered that this was that same land, full of gaunt standing-stones and haunted by trolls and witches, where merlin had once led him, and where he had gained the sword excalibur. it was late in the day when the two armies faced each other, and both prepared to pass the night upon the field. bitter was the wind that evening, and the skies were dun and leaden of hue, as if spring had been overcome by winter; and to shelter the king a tent had been put up in a little dark wood of stunted firs, called the wood of drood. just in the deep dark before the dawn, when the blood in men's veins was coldest, and the life in their hearts was weakest, a dreadful cry wailed out through the dark wood, and there came the sound as of leathery wings flapping heavily to and fro above where the king lay sleeping. men started up about their ashen fires, their faces blanching at the terror that cried in the dark, and they heard the wailing twice repeated, while none dared try to see the thing that wailed. then, while their blood chilled and their breath stayed, they heard the heavy flapping pass over their heads and die away towards the camp of mordred; and there in the distance did the three cries sound again. men's hearts sickened as they turned and crept the nearer to each other, but few dared to utter the words upon their lips. two knights slept in the tent with king, sir kay and sir owen; and they lay in the dark, trembling at the cries of terrible import. when they passed, the knights would not move, fearing to be the first to speak. 'my lords,' came the quiet voice of king arthur out of the dark, 'that was the voice of the hag of warning. men say it hath foretold the deaths of many of my house, but i know not. yet will i take the issue as god shall give it me, trusting in his mercy and the blood of his son jesus, and him crucified.' 'amen,' said the two knights, and said no more. when, in a little while, the sun rose, flashing his warm rays into the fearful eyes that greeted him, men's terror quickly vanished; and when fires were lit and oaten cakes were browning on the irons, or collops sputtered on their skewers, tongues were loosened and faces began to smile. but few spoke of the cries which they had heard, for all loved their king, and hoped that somehow they had dreamed an evil dream, or had but heard the cries of some foul night-bird. breakfast being ended, the captains and knights began to trim their men in army array, and talk was eager of the coming battle. then were seen, coming from sir mordred's camp, two bishops; and these were taken at their desire to arthur, where he stood surrounded by his knights and chieftains. 'lord,' said one of the bishops, he that was head of the great choir or monastery of amesbury, 'cannot we make accord between you and your nephew? sad it is to see so many great and valiant warriors ranged against each other. many are sisters' sons, and all are of one speech, one kindred. if this unnatural war doth continue, how much sorrow there will be, how many noble hearts be stilled in death or broken in grief for him that shall never return! how many puissant bodies, now quick and passionate and handsome, will be meat for snarling wolves and carrion for foul birds!' 'what says my rebellious nephew?' asked the king sternly. 'my lord,' said the other bishop, a man of soft and silky speech, and he was chief of the choir of clovesho, 'he asks but little, and if ye are willing to make treaty, he also is willing. grant him but the earldom of kent and the andred, with a seat at london, during your days, and do thou appoint him king after your days. for now that sir gawaine, sir gaheris and sir gareth are slain, he is the only sister's son you have. if ye grant these things he will be your liege, faithful in all things, and a strong arm against your enemies.' then some of king arthur's knights would have him agree to these terms, but others would not, and said the king should make no treaty with a traitor, but that mordred should come and throw himself upon the mercy of his king and uncle. at the last, after much counsel had been taken, king arthur agreed to meet mordred, with fourteen of his chief men, in the space betwixt their hosts, and the king should also take fourteen knights with him. so the bishops went back with this message, and king arthur called the chieftains of his host about him. 'i go to see this traitor, my nephew,' he said to them, 'whether he means falsely or truly with this talk of a treaty. but look ye, i in no wise trust him. hold ye your men warily, and if ye see any sword drawn among us where we stand, do thou sound the horns of attack and come on fiercely, and slay that rebel and all that hold with him.' in like wise did mordred warn his men, 'for,' said he, knowing how greatly he had sinned against his generous and noble uncle, 'i know well that king arthur and his knights would be avenged on me if they could.' the party from each army went forward over the stony hillside, until they met midway between the armies, and men watched them keenly. king arthur spoke chidingly to his nephew mordred, who, sour and dark of face, looked craftily at the faces of his uncle and his knights. and the chiefs with mordred, men for the most part of violent and ambitious natures, looked haughtily at king arthur's party. nevertheless, there was no bad blood shown, and the talk was continued, and mordred repeated the demands which the bishops had made. 'but i care not to give to thee kent and london,' said the king. 'i tell thee frankly, mordred, i would not trust thee there. i fear me thou wouldst try some crafty plot with the saxon pagans if i gave them thee, as that rebel caros did, who for a time made himself emperor of the romans here in this land.' 'ha' done, then, my father,' said gorfalk, the son of mordred, an insolent young man. 'let us cease this. i doubt not we be big enough to get all the kingdom if we fight.' the king looked sternly at the young man, and there was silence among them all as men waited for arthur's reply. then it happened that a young chieftain, standing near the king, felt something bite his foot where the low leathern shoe left it naked. he looked down and saw that he was treading on a viper, which had struck him and was about to strike again. with a cry the knight stepped aside, drew his sword, and cut the reptile in two. as the blade flashed, silvery bright in the sunlight, a great hoarse cry rose like thunder from the two masses of men watching them on either side; trumpets blared and horns squealed, and shouts of command rose sharp and keen. instantly the men standing with arthur and mordred looked about them, saw where the young chieftain stood with drawn sword, and knew that now nothing could avert the battle. 'the gods will have it so!' sneered mordred. already the earth trembled and shook with the beat of ten thousand feet of the armies rushing together. a knight of mordred's, drawing his sword, thrust it into the breast of one of arthur's chieftains, with the cry: 'this for thy land, sir digon, that marches with mine!' instantly others fell to fighting hand-to-hand, striking on targe and helm; but sir owen, sir kay and sir bedevere surrounded the king, and all hurried back to the army approaching them. so likewise did sir mordred. then came the crash of battle, as line on line, with flashing swords held high, the ranks of war closed. blades rose again, stained red, fierce strangled cries came from men in the death-grips, helms were cracked, shields riven, dirks sank home, and men who once had drunk and jested with laughing looks over the same mead-board, now met fierce eye to eye, and never parted until one or both fell in the swaths of the death-harvest. all day the stubborn battle raged, and ever the king sought out the rebel mordred, but never reached him. many valiant deeds he did, wielding his sword excalibur; and by his side were owen and kay, lucan and bedevere. so spent were they at the last that hardly could they lift their swords, and so sick of the slaying were they that gladly would they have ceased. but ever some vicious band of mordred's knights would come upon them, and then they quitted them like men, and ceased not till their enemies had fled or were slain. suddenly the king came to himself, and, standing still, looked upon the field. in the morning it had been but a bare hillside of hungry, stunted grass, through which the stones showed grey and sallow, like ancient bones. now, in the low light of the sinking orb, it was red--red, with the pallid faces of the dead stained a lighter red in the rays of the sun. here and there bands still fought together, cries of fury rose, and the groans of the dying mingled with them. 'alas!' cried the king, and looked behind him, 'where are all my noble knights?' there were but two with him now, lucan and his brother bedevere. 'where is owen, and kay?' he asked. 'alas, lord,' said bedevere, 'sir owen got his death-wound by the thorn where we fought those five knights but now, and sir kay suddenly fell as he walked. and when i knelt to speak to him, i found him dead.' 'alas,' said the king, 'that ever i should see this doleful day, for now is my end come. but would to heaven that i wist where is that traitor mordred, that hath caused all this sorrow and ruin.' then, as he spoke, he looked towards the east, and saw where, by a tall standing-stone, a man leaned as if spent with a wound. and he was aware that this was mordred. 'now give me my spear,' said the king to sir lucan, 'for yonder is the traitor, and he shall not escape me.' 'lord,' said sir lucan in a weak voice, 'let him bide, for he hath none with him, while we three are still alive.' 'now, betide me death, betide me life,' said the king, 'now that i see him yonder i will slay the serpent, lest he live to work more havoc on this my poor kingdom.' 'god speed you well,' said sir bedevere, and gave the king his spear. then the king ran towards sir mordred, crying: 'traitor, prepare, now is thy death-day come!' when sir mordred heard king arthur he raised his head, then came towards the king with his sword in his hand. and there, in the shadow of the great stone, king arthur smote sir mordred under the shield, with so keen a stroke of his spear that it went through the body and out beyond. sir mordred, feeling that death was upon him, thrust himself along the spear almost to the butt thereof, nigh where king arthur held it, and grasping his sword in both his hands, he struck his uncle on the side of the head, with so keen and fierce a blow that the sword pierced the helm and the skull. with that stroke sir mordred fell stark dead to the earth, and the king sank in a swoon upon his body. then sir bedevere and sir lucan, who were both sore wounded and weakly, came up, and between them, with many rests upon the way, took the king to a little combe beside the waters, and there they took off his helm and bathed his wound and bound it. after which the king felt easier. 'we may do naught else with thee here, lord,' said sir lucan, 'and it were best that we got thee to some town.' 'it would be better so,' said the king, 'but i fear me i have my death-wound.' when they had rested sir lucan tried to rise, so as to take up the king. 'i may not rise,' he cried, his hands upon his head, 'my brain works so.' nevertheless, the knight staggered to his feet and lifted up the feet of the king. but the effort was too much for him, and with a deathly groan he fell to the ground, and when he had twitched and struggled a little he lay dead. 'alas,' said the king, 'this is to me a full heavy sight, to see this noble knight so die for my sake. he would not complain, so set was he to help me, and now his heart has broken.' then sir bedevere went to his brother and kissed him, and closed his eyes. 'now,' said the king, 'come hither to me, bedevere, for my time goeth fast and i remember me of a promise. therefore,' he bade sir bedevere, 'do thou take excalibur, my good sword, and go with it beyond the combe side there where a low thorn grows, and when thou comest there, i charge thee, throw my sword in that water, and come again and tell me what thou seest.' so sir bedevere departed with the sword, and on the way he looked at the sword, and saw how noble was the blade and how shining, and how the pommel and haft were full of precious stones. 'if i throw this sword into the water,' said sir bedevere to himself, 'how great a sin 'twould be to waste so noble a weapon.' therefore he hid it in the branches of the thorn and returned to the king. 'what sawest thou?' asked the king when bedevere returned. 'sir,' he said, 'i saw the wind beat on the waves.' 'ye have not done as i bid thee,' said the king. 'now, therefore, do thou go again and do as i bid thee; and as thou art dear to me, spare it not, but throw it in.' then sir bedevere went back and took the sword in his hand; but again he could not bring himself to throw away that noble sword, so again he hid the sword and went back to the king. 'what sawest thou this time?' said the king. 'lord,' said bedevere, 'i saw the waters ebb and flow and the sedges trembling.' 'ah, traitor untrue!' said the king, deep sorrow in his voice, 'who would have weened that thou who hast been so true and dear to me, and who hast been named a noble knight, would betray me for the jewels on a sword? now go ye again, i charge thee, and as thou shalt answer for thy sins at the last day, throw ye the sword far into the waters.' then in heavy mood sir bedevere went the third time, and took the sword from its hiding-place, and looking away from the weapon lest its beauty should soften him, he bound the girdle about the hilt, and then he threw the sword with all his might far out over the water. as he looked, inwardly lamenting, he saw the jewels flash in the low light as the sword passed through the air. then suddenly, when it neared the water, he marvelled to see a great arm and hand come up through the waves. the hand caught the weapon by the haft, shook it and brandished it thrice, and then vanished with the sword under the waves. with some fear in his heart sir bedevere went back to the king and told him all that he had seen. 'it is well,' said the king. 'now have i performed my promise. help me hence to some village, for i am cold and would die beneath a roof, if i may.' then sir bedevere took the king upon his back, thinking that he would find some road in a little while which should lead them to a hamlet. and as he went along, he passed by the waterside, near the low thorn whence he had thrown the sword into the water. there, in the sedges, he marvelled to see a barge draped all in black cloth, and in it sat many fair ladies, all with black hoods on. when they saw sir bedevere with the king upon his back, they shrieked and wept. and one that looked a queen, so fair and stately, yet so sad was she, held out her arms towards the king, and cried unto him in a voice wondrous sweet, 'come to me, brother!' 'put me into the barge,' said the king to bedevere, 'for there i shall have rest.' softly did sir bedevere lay him in the barge, and the fair ladies wept over the king with much mourning, and one laid his head in her lap and caressed it with soft hands. then, without sails or oars, the barge went from the shore, and fear and sorrow shook the soul of sir bedevere to see them go from him. 'alas, my lord arthur,' he cried, 'what shall become of me if ye are leaving me lonely?' 'comfort thyself,' said the king in a faint voice, 'and do as well as thou mayest, for in me ye may no longer trust. for i will go into the vale of avalon to heal me of my grievous wound, and if thou hear never more of me, pray for my soul.' sir bedevere stood watching till the barge went from his sight in the mists of evening, and then he wept a little, and so fared forward through the night, weeping as he thought how all the glory that was arthur's was now past, and how he himself was very old and very lonely. when morning broke he was aware of a little chapel and a hermitage between two hoar woods upon a knoll beside the marshes, and entering therein he got cheer of the holy hermit and rested. * * * * * now, when king arthur had gone westwards to collect his host, sir owen, marvelling that sir lancelot had sent no word in reply to the letter of sir gawaine, had charged a trusty squire of his to go across to brittany, to tell sir lancelot of all that had passed and how king arthur longed for his aid and his love. nigh mad with grief was sir lancelot when he had learned all, and so deep was his sorrow and so wild was his regret, that hardly could he wait till the ships were ready to take him and his knights and army across to britain. when they arrived at dover, sir lancelot sought out the tomb of sir gawaine, and there with much weeping he prayed long and earnestly for the repose of the soul of that dead warrior, his once dear friend. all the other knights prayed likewise for the soul of gawaine, and sir lancelot gave one hundred pounds for masses to be said, and the others gave according to their means. then word was brought him of the daylong dreadful battle in the west, and how king arthur was gone, mortally wounded, none knew whither, and how all the knights of the round table were dead. silent was sir lancelot at this news, but men saw how his stern face paled; and for a time he walked apart and would suffer none to speak to him. then he came to his knights, and all could see how his looks had changed. grief was deeply lined upon his face, and he had the air of an aged and weary man. 'my fair lords,' he said, 'i thank you all for your coming with me, but we came too late. but now i go alone to find the body of my dear lord, and if i may, i will see my lady, queen gwenevere. and do ye all go back into your country, for now we have no place in this.' thus sir lancelot fared forth, and would suffer none to go with him. first he went to amesbury, and in the convent there he saw queen gwenevere. few but very sad were the words they spake. sir lancelot offered to give her a home in brittany, away from the trouble and the ruin of the land, but she would not. 'my lord is dead,' she said, weeping, 'and this dear kingdom may not long stand, but while i live i will stay on its dear soil.' then sir lancelot fared far west through the wastelands, and came to the battlefield; and there he wept sorely to see the long lines of dead. many were the dead knights of the round table whom he found unburied, and these with his own hands he laid in the grave, and he procured a priest to say prayers over them. further he went beside the shores of the endless waters, until one day he found a black barge, and stepping therein he was taken without sail or oars far over the wide sea, until the twilight. then, raising his sorrowing eyes, he was aware of a fair green island with a valley between two sweet hills, and there was a chapel, and all about it were trees all laden with blossoms. a little bell began to ring just as the barge lightly touched the shore, and stepping therefrom, sir lancelot went into the chapel, and heard mass. afterwards a bishop came unto him where he kneeled, and a hermit, and the latter seized his hand; and when he looked up sir lancelot knew it for sir bedevere. neither could speak for the great tears that rolled down their grim faces, but sir bedevere drew him forth and led him to where a great white marble slab was lying, freshly cut, in the midmost part of the chapel. thereon sir lancelot saw the words, cut deep and wide, in black letters: hic jacet arthurus rex quondam rex que futurus then did sir lancelot's heart almost burst with sorrow; and when he had finished praying and weeping, he kneeled unto the bishop and prayed him to shrive him and assoil him. afterwards he besought him that he might live with him, and the holy man granted his request, and there ever after did sir lancelot, putting off all the fame and glory which he had gotten in the world, pass all his days and nights, serving god with prayers and fastings and much abstinence. when, within a year, queen gwenevere died in her cell at amesbury, sir lancelot, having been advised in a dream of her death, braved the bands of lawless men that now ravaged the fair land of britain, and brought her body to the isle of glastonbury. he laid it solemnly beside the body of her dear lord arthur, and thereafter he endured greater penance. 'for,' said he, 'by my stiffnecked pride did all this evil come. if i had gone straightway to my dear lord, and cast myself upon his love and justice, my lady the queen would not have been led to the stake, and i should not unwittingly have slain young gareth. i am the causer of all the ruin and the sorrow that hath come upon this land, and never while i live may i forgive me.' thus evermore he prayed and mourned, day and night, but sometimes he slumbered a broken sleep. he ate but little, and neither the bishop nor sir bedevere could make him take comfort. and if you would know the time and place where lancelot was happiest, it was when he was lying on the tomb of king arthur and queen gwenevere. at last, on a sweet morn in june, they found him lying there, stark dead, but with a gentle smile upon his wasted face. and when they had made the mass of requiem, they laid him in the tomb at the feet of the king and the queen, and on the slab that covered him they caused these words to be graven: here lieth sir lancelot du lake who was chief of all christian knights; the most courteous man and the truest friend, the meekest doer of great deeds, and the gentlest to all ladies and weak creatures. r. i. p. proofreading team sir gawayne and the green knight: an alliterative romance-poem, (ab. a.d.) by the author of "early english alliterative poems." re-edited from cotton. ms. nero, a.x., in the british museum, by richard morris, editor of hampole's "pricke of conscience," "early english alliterative poems," etc.; member of the council of the philological society. second edition, revised, . london mdccclxiv. john childs and son, printers. * * * * * preface to the first edition. in re-editing the present romance-poem i have been saved all labour of transcription by using the very accurate text contained in sir f. madden's "syr gawayne." i have not only read his copy with the manuscript, but also the proof-sheets as they came to hand, hoping by this means to give the reader a text free from any errors of transcription. the present edition differs from that of the earlier one in having the contractions of the manuscript expanded and side-notes added to the text to enable the reader to follow with some degree of ease the author's pleasant narrative of sir gawayne's adventures. the glossary is taken from sir f. madden's "syr gawayne,"[ ] to which, for the better interpretation of the text, i have made several additions, and have, moreover, glossed nearly all the words previously left unexplained. for a description of the manuscript, and particulars relating to the authorship and dialect of the present work, the reader is referred to the preface to early english alliterative poems. r.m. london, december , . [footnote : sir f. madden has most generously placed at the disposal of the early english text society any of his works which it may determine to re-edit.] * * * * * introduction. no knight of the round table has been so highly honoured by the old romance-writers as sir gawayne, the son of loth, and nephew to the renowned arthur. they delighted to describe him as gawayne the good, a man matchless on mould, the most gracious that under god lived, the hardiest of hand, the most fortunate in arms, and the most polite in hall, whose knowledge, knighthood, kindly works, doings, doughtiness, and deeds of arms were known in all lands. when arthur beheld the dead body of his kinsman lying on the ground bathed in blood, he is said to have exclaimed, "o righteous god, this blood were worthy to be preserved and enshrined in gold!" our author, too, loves to speak of his hero in similar terms of praise, calling him the knight faultless in his five wits, void of every offence, and adorned with every earthly virtue. he represents him as one whose trust was in the five wounds, and in whom the five virtues which distinguished the true knight were more firmly established than in any other on earth. the author of the present story, who, as we know from his religious poems, had an utter horror of moral impurity, could have chosen no better subject for a romance in which amusement and moral instruction were to be combined. in the following tale he shows how the true knight, though tempted sorely not once alone, but twice, nay thrice, breaks not his vow of chastity, but turns aside the tempter's shafts with the shield of purity and arm of faith, and so passes scatheless through the perilous defile of trial and opportunity seeming safe. but while our author has borrowed many of the details of his story from the "roman de perceval" by chrestien de troyes, he has made the narrative more attractive by the introduction of several original and highly interesting passages which throw light on the manners and amusements of our ancestors. the following elaborate descriptions are well deserving of especial notice:-- i. the mode of completely arming a knight (ll. - ). ii. the hunting and breaking the deer (ll. - ). iii. the hunting and unlacing the wild boar (ll. - ). iv. a fox hunt (ll. - ). the following is an outline of the story of gawayne's adventures, more or less in the words of the writer himself:-- arthur, the greatest of britain's kings, holds the christmas festival at camelot, surrounded by the celebrated knights of the round table, noble lords, the most renowned under heaven, and ladies the loveliest that ever had life (ll. - ). this noble company celebrate the new year by a religious service, by the bestowal of gifts, and the most joyous mirth. lords and ladies take their seats at the table--queen guenever, the grey-eyed, gaily dressed, sits at the daïs, the high table, or table of state, where too sat gawayne and ywain together with other worthies of the round table (ll. - , - ). arthur, in mood as joyful as a child, his blood young and his brain wild, declares that he will not eat nor sit long at the table until some adventurous thing, some uncouth tale, some great marvel, or some encounter of arms has occurred to mark the return of the new year (ll. - ). the first course was announced with cracking of trumpets, with the noise of nakers and noble pipes. "each two had dishes twelve, good beer and bright wine both." scarcely was the first course served when another noise than that of music was heard. there rushes in at the hall-door a knight of gigantic stature--the greatest on earth--in measure high. he was clothed entirely in green, and rode upon a green foal (ll. - ). fair wavy hair fell about the shoulders of the green knight, and a great beard like a bush hung upon his breast (ll. - ). the knight carried no helmet, shield, or spear, but in one hand a holly bough, and in the other an axe "huge and unmeet," the edge of which was as keen as a sharp razor (ll. - ). thus arrayed, the green knight enters the hall without saluting any one. the first word that he uttered was, "where is the govenour of this gang? gladly would i see him and with himself speak reason." to the knights he cast his eye, looking for the most renowned. much did the noble assembly marvel to see a man and a horse of such a hue, green as the grass. even greener they seemed than green enamel on bright gold. many marvels had they seen, but none such as this. they were afraid to answer, but sat stone-still in a dead silence, as if overpowered by sleep; "not all from fear, but some for courtesy" (ll. - ). then arthur before the high daïs salutes the green knight, bids him welcome, and entreats him to stay awhile at his court. the knight says that his errand is not to abide in any dwelling, but to seek the most valiant of the heroes of the round table that he may put his courage to the proof, and thus satisfy himself as to the fame of arthur's court. "i come," he says, "in peace, as ye may see by this branch that i bear here. had i come with hostile intentions, i should not have left my hauberk, helmet, shield, sharp spear, and other weapons behind me. but because i desire no war, 'my weeds are softer.' if thou be so bold as all men say, thou wilt grant me the request i am about to make." "sir courteous knight," replies arthur, "if thou cravest battle only, here failest thou not to fight." "nay," says the green knight, "i seek no fighting. here about on this bench are only beardless children. were i arrayed in arms on a high steed no man here would be a match for me (ll. - ). but it is now christmas time, and this is the new year, and i see around me many brave ones;--if any be so bold in his blood that dare strike a stroke for another, i shall give him this rich axe to do with it whatever he pleases. i shall abide the first blow just as i sit, and will stand him a stroke, stiff on this floor, provided that i deal him another in return. and yet give i him respite, a twelvemonth and a day; now haste and let see tite (soon) dare any here-in ought say.'" if he astounded them at first, much more so did he after this speech, and fear held them all silent. the knight, righting himself in his saddle, rolls fiercely his red eyes about, bends his bristly green brows, and strokes his beard awaiting a reply. but finding none that would carp with him, he exclaims, "what! is this arthur's house, the fame of which has spread through so many realms? forsooth, the renown of the round table is overturned by the word of one man's speech, for all tremble for dread without a blow being struck!" (ll. - ). with this he laughed so loud that arthur blushed for very shame, and waxed as wroth as the wind. "i know no man," he says, "that is aghast at thy great words. give me now thy axe and i will grant thee thy request!" arthur seizes the axe, grasps the handle, and sternly brandishes it about, while the green knight, with a stern cheer and a dry countenance, stroking his beard and drawing down his coat, awaits the blow (ll. - ). sir gawayne, the nephew of the king, beseeches his uncle to let him undertake the encounter; and, at the earnest entreaty of his nobles, arthur consents "to give gawayne the game" (ll. - ). sir gawayne then takes possession of the axe, but, before the blow is dealt, the green knight asks the name of his opponent. "in good faith," answers the good knight, "gawayne i am called, that bids thee to this buffet, whatever may befall after, and at this time twelvemonth will take from thee another, with whatever weapon thou wilt, and with no wight else alive." "by gog," quoth the green knight, "it pleases me well that i shall receive at thy fist that which i have sought here--moreover thou hast truly rehearsed the terms of the covenant,--but thou shalt first pledge me thy word that thou wilt seek me thyself, wheresoever on earth thou believest i may be found, and fetch thee such wages as thou dealest me to-day before this company of doughty ones." "where should i seek thee?" replies gawayne, "where is thy place? i know not thee, thy court, or thy name. i wot not where thou dwellest, but teach me thereto, tell me how thou art called, and i shall endeavour to find thee,--and that i swear thee for truth and by my sure troth." "that is enough in new year," says the groom in green, "if i tell thee when i have received the tap. when thou hast smitten me, then smartly i will teach thee of my house, my home, and my own name, so that thou mayest follow my track and fulfil the covenant between us. if i spend no speech, then speedest thou the better, for then mayest thou remain in thy own land and seek no further; but cease thy talking[ ] (ll. - ). take now thy grim tool to thee and let us see how thou knockest." "gladly, sir, for sooth," quoth gawayne, and his axe he brandishes. [footnote : this, i think, is the true explanation of slokes.] the green knight adjusts himself on the ground, bends slightly his head, lays his long lovely locks over his crown, and lays bare his neck for the blow. gawayne then gripped the axe, and, raising it on high, let it fall quickly upon the knight's neck and severed the head from the body. the fair head fell from the neck to the earth, and many turned it aside with their feet as it rolled forth. the blood burst from the body, yet the knight never faltered nor fell; but boldly he started forth on stiff shanks and fiercely rushed forward, seized his head, and lifted it up quickly. then he runs to his horse, the bridle he catches, steps into his stirrups and strides aloft. his head by the hair he holds in his hands, and sits as firmly in his saddle as if no mishap had ailed him, though headless he was (ll. - ). he turned his ugly trunk about--that ugly body that bled,--and holding the head in his hand, he directed the face toward the "dearest on the dais." the head lifted up its eyelids and looked abroad, and thus much spoke with its mouth as ye may now hear: "loke, gawayne, thou be prompt to go as thou hast promised, and seek till thou find me according to thy promise made in the hearing of these knights. get thee to the green chapel, i charge thee, to fetch such a dint as thou hast dealt, to be returned on new year's morn. as the knight of the green chapel i am known to many, wherefore if thou seekest thou canst not fail to find me. therefore come, or recreant be called." with a fierce start the reins he turns, rushes out of the hall-door, his head in his hand, so that the fire of the flint flew from the hoofs of his foal. to what kingdom he belonged knew none there, nor knew they from whence he had come. what then? "the king and gawayne there at that green (one) they laugh and grin." though arthur wondered much at the marvel, he let no one see that he was at all troubled about it, but full loudly thus spake to his comely queen with courteous speech: "dear dame, to-day be never dismayed, well happens such craft at christmas time. i may now proceed to meat, for i cannot deny that i have witnessed a wondrous adventure this day" (ll. - ). he looked upon sir gawayne and said, "now, sir, hang up thine axe, for enough has it hewn." so the weapon was hung up on high that all might look upon it, and "by true title thereof tell the wonder." then all the knights hastened to their seats at the table, so did the king and our good knight, and they were there served with all dainties, "with all manner of meat and minstrelsy." though words were wanting when they first to seat went, now are their hands full of stern work, and the marvel affords them good subject for conversation. but a year passes full quickly and never returns,--the beginning is seldom like the end; wherefore this christmas passed away and the year after, and each season in turn followed after another (ll. - ). thus winter winds round again, and then gawayne thinks of his wearisome journey (ll. - ). on all-hallows day arthur entertains right nobly the lords and ladies of his court in honour of his nephew, for whom all courteous knights and lovely ladies were in great grief. nevertheless they spoke only of mirth, and, though joyless themselves, made many a joke to cheer the good sir gawayne (ll. - ). early on the morrow sir gawayne, with great ceremony, is arrayed in his armour (ll. - ), and thus completely equipped for his adventure he first hears mass, and afterwards takes leave of arthur, the knights of the round table, and the lords and ladies of the court, who kiss him and commend him to christ. he bids them all good day, as he thought, for evermore (ll. - ); "very much was the warm water that poured from eyes that day." now rides our knight through the realms of england with no companion but his foal, and no one to hold converse with save god alone. from camelot, in somersetshire, he proceeds through gloucestershire and the adjoining counties into montgomeryshire, and thence through north wales to holyhead, adjoining the isle of anglesea (ll. - ), from which he passes into the very narrow peninsula of wirral, in cheshire, where dwelt but few that loved god or man. gawayne enquires after the green knight of the green chapel, but all the inhabitants declare that they have never seen "any man of such hues of green." the knight thence pursues his journey by strange paths, over hill and moor, encountering on his way not only serpents, wolves, bulls, bears, and boars, but wood satyrs and giants. but worse than all those, however, was the sharp winter, "when the cold clear water shed from the clouds, and froze ere it might fall to the earth. nearly slain with the sleet he slept in his armour, more nights than enough, in naked rocks" (ll. - ). thus in peril and plight the knight travels on until christmas-eve, and to mary he makes his moan that she may direct him to some abode. on the morn he arrives at an immense forest, wondrously wild, surrounded by high hills on every side, where he found hoary oaks full huge, a hundred together. the hazel and the hawthorn intermingled were all overgrown with moss, and upon their boughs sat many sad birds that piteously piped for pain of the cold. gawayne besought the lord and mary to guide him to some habitation where he might hear mass (ll. - ). scarcely had he crossed himself thrice, when he perceived a dwelling in the wood set upon a hill. it was the loveliest castle he had ever beheld. it was pitched on a prairie, with a park all about it, enclosing many a tree for more than two miles. it shone as the sun through the bright oaks (ll. - ). gawayne urges on his steed gringolet, and finds himself at the "chief gate." he called aloud, and soon there appeared a "porter" on the wall, who demanded his errand. "good sir," quoth gawayne, "wouldst thou go to the high lord of this house, and crave a lodging for me?" "yea, by peter!" replied the porter, "well i know that thou art welcome to dwell here as long as thou likest." the drawbridge is soon let down, and the gates opened wide to receive the knight. many noble ones hasten to bid him welcome (ll. - ). they take away his helmet, sword, and shield, and many a proud one presses forward to do him honour. they bring him into the hall, where a fire was brightly burning upon the hearth. then the lord of the land[ ] comes from his chamber and welcomes sir gawayne, telling him that he is to consider the place as his own. our knight is next conducted to a bright bower, where was noble bedding--curtains of pure silk, with golden hems, and tarsic tapestries upon the walls and the floors (ll. - ). here the knight doffed his armour and put on rich robes, which so well became him, that all declared that a more comely knight christ had never made (ll. - ). [footnote : gawayne is now in the castle of the green knight, who, divested of his elvish or supernatural character, appears to our knight merely as a bold one with a beaver-hued beard.] a table is soon raised, and gawayne, having washed, proceeds to meat. many dishes are set before him--"sews" of various kinds, fish of all kinds, some baked in bread, others broiled on the embers, some boiled, and others seasoned with spices. the knight expresses himself well pleased, and calls it a most noble and princely feast. after dinner, in reply to numerous questions, he tells his host that he is gawayne, one of the knights of the round table. when this was made known great was the joy in the hall. each one said softly to his companion, "now we shall see courteous behaviour and learn the terms of noble discourse, since we have amongst us 'that fine father of nurture.' truly god has highly favoured us in sending us such a noble guest as sir gawayne" (ll. - ). at the end of the christmas festival gawayne desires to take his departure from the castle, but his host persuades him to stay, promising to direct him to the green chapel (about two miles from the castle), that he may be there by the appointed time (ll. - ). a covenant is made between them, the terms of which were that the lord of the castle should go out early to the chase, that gawayne meanwhile should lie in his loft at his ease, then rise at his usual hour, and afterwards sit at table with his hostess, and that at the end of the day they should make an exchange of whatever they might obtain in the interim. "whatever i win in the wood," says the lord, "shall be yours, and what thou gettest shall be mine" (ll. - ). full early before daybreak the folk uprise, saddle their horses, and truss their mails. the noble lord of the land, arrayed for riding, eats hastily a sop, and having heard mass, proceeds with a hundred hunters to hunt the wild deer (ll. - ). all this time gawayne lies in his gay bed. his nap is disturbed by a little noise at the door, which is softly opened. he heaves up his head out of the clothes, and, peeping through the curtains, beholds a most lovely lady (the wife of his host). she came towards the bed, and the knight laid himself down quickly, pretending to be asleep. the lady stole to the bed, cast up the curtains, crept within, sat her softly on the bed-side, and waited some time till the knight should awake. after lurking awhile under the clothes considering what it all meant, gawayne unlocked his eyelids, and put on a look of surprise, at the same time making the sign of the cross, as if afraid of some hidden danger (ll. - ). "good morrow, sir," said that fair lady, "ye are a careless sleeper to let one enter thus. i shall bind you in your bed, of that be ye sure." "good morrow," quoth gawayne, "i shall act according to your will with great pleasure, but permit me to rise that i may the more comfortably converse with you." "nay, beau sir," said that sweet one, "ye shall not rise from your bed, for since i have caught my knight i shall hold talk with him. i ween well that ye are sir gawayne that all the world worships, whose honour and courtesy are so greatly praised. now ye are here, and we are alone (my lord and his men being afar off, other men, too, are in bed, so are my maidens), and the door is safely closed, i shall use my time well while it lasts. ye are welcome to my person to do with it as ye please, and i will be your servant" (ll. - ). gawayne behaves most discreetly, for the remembrance of his forthcoming adventure at the green chapel prevents him from thinking of love (ll. - ). at last the lady takes leave of the knight by catching him in her arms and kissing him (ll. - ). the day passes away merrily, and at dusk the lord of the castle returns from the chase. he presents the venison to gawayne according to the previous covenant between them. our knight gives his host a kiss as the only piece of good fortune that had fallen to him during the day. "it is good," says the other, "and would be much better if ye would tell me where ye won such bliss" (ll. - ). "that was not in our covenant," replies gawayne, "so try me no more." after much laughing on both sides they proceed to supper, and afterwards, while the choice wine is being carried round, gawayne and his host renew their agreement. late at night they take leave of each other and hasten to their beds. "by the time that the cock had crowed and cackled thrice" the lord was up, and after "meat and mass" were over the hunters make for the woods, where they give chase to a wild boar who had grown old and mischievous (ll. - ). while the sportsmen are hunting this "wild swine" our lovely knight lies in his bed. he is not forgotten by the lady, who pays him an early visit, seeking to make further trial of his virtues. she sits softly by his side and tells him that he has forgotten what she taught him the day before (ll. - ). "i taught you of kissing," says she; "that becomes every courteous knight." gawayne says that he must not take that which is forbidden him. the lady replies that he is strong enough to enforce his own wishes. our knight answers that every gift not given with a good will is worthless. his fair visitor then enquires how it is that he who is so skilled in the true sport of love and so renowned a knight, has never talked to her of love (ll. - ). "you ought," she says, "to show and teach a young thing like me some tokens of true-love's crafts; i come hither and sit here alone to learn of you some game; do teach me of your wit while my lord is from home." gawayne replies that he cannot undertake the task of expounding true-love and tales of arms to one who has far more wisdom than he possesses. thus did our knight avoid all appearance of evil, though sorely pressed to do what was wrong (ll. - ). the lady, having bestowed two kisses upon sir gawayne, takes her leave of him (ll. - ). at the end of the day the lord of the castle returns home with the shields and head of the wild boar. he shows them to his guest, who declares that "such a brawn of a beast, nor such sides of a swine," he never before has seen. gawayne takes possession of the spoil according to covenant, and in return he bestows two kisses upon his host, who declares that his guest has indeed been rich with "such chaffer" (ll. - ). after much persuasion, gawayne consents to stop at the castle another day (ll. - ). early on the morrow the lord and his men hasten to the woods, and come upon the track of a fox, the hunting of which affords them plenty of employment and sport (ll. - ). meanwhile our good knight sleeps soundly within his comely curtains. he is again visited by the lady of the castle. so gaily was she attired, and so "faultless of her features," that great joy warmed the heart of sir gawayne. with soft and pleasant smiles "they smite into mirth," and are soon engaged in conversation. had not mary thought of her knight, he would have been in great peril (ll. - ). so sorely does the fair one press him with her love, that he fears lest he should become a traitor to his host. the lady enquires whether he has a mistress to whom he has plighted his troth. the knight swears by st john that he neither has nor desires one. this answer causes the dame to sigh for sorrow, and telling him that she must depart, she asks for some gift, if it were only a glove, by which she might "think on the knight and lessen her grief" (ll. - ). gawayne assures her that he has nothing worthy of her acceptance; that he is on an "uncouth errand," and therefore has "no men with no mails containing precious things," for which he is truly sorry. quoth that lovesome (one)-- "though i had nought of yours, yet should ye have of mine. thus saying, she offers him a rich ring of red gold "with a shining stone standing aloft," that shone like the beams of the bright sun. the knight refused the gift, as he had nothing to give in return. "since ye refuse my ring," says the lady, "because it seems too rich, and ye would not be beholden to me, i shall give you my girdle that is less valuable" (ll. - ). but gawayne replies that he will not accept gold or reward of any kind, though "ever in hot and in cold" he will be her true servant. "do ye refuse it," asks the lady, "because it seems simple and of little value? whoso knew the virtues that are knit therein would estimate it more highly. for he who is girded with this green lace cannot be wounded or slain by any man under heaven." the knight thinks awhile, and it strikes him that this would be a "jewel for the jeopardy" that he had to undergo at the green chapel. so he not only accepts the lace, but promises to keep the possession of it a secret (ll. - ). by that time the lady had kissed him thrice, and she then takes "her leave and leaves him there." gawayne rises, dresses himself in noble array, and conceals the "love lace" where he might find it again. he then hies to mass, shrives him of his misdeeds, and obtains absolution. on his return to the hall he solaces the ladies with comely carols and all kinds of joy (ll. - ). the dark night came, and then the lord of the castle, having slain the fox, returns to his "dear home," where he finds a fire brightly turning and his guest amusing the ladies (ll. - ). gawayne, in fulfilment of his agreement, kisses his host thrice.[ ] "by christ," quoth the other knight, "ye have caught much bliss. i have hunted all this day and nought have i got but the skin of this foul fox (the devil have the goods!), and that is full poor for to pay for such precious things" (ll. - ). after the usual evening's entertainment, gawayne retires to rest. the next morning, being new year's day, is cold and stormy. snow falls, and the dales are full of drift. our knight in his bed locks his eyelids, but full little he sleeps. by each cock that crows he knows the hour, and before day-break he calls for his chamberlain, who quickly brings him his armour (ll. - ). while gawayne clothed himself in his rich weeds he forgot not the "lace, the lady's gift," but with it doubly girded his loins. he wore it not for its rich ornaments, "but to save himself when it behoved him to suffer," and as a safeguard against sword or knife (ll. - ). having thanked his host and all the renowned assembly for the great kindness he had experienced at their hands, "he steps into stirrups and strides aloft" (ll. - ). the drawbridge is let down, and the broad gates unbarred and borne open upon both sides, and the knight, after commending the castle to christ, passes thereout and goes on his way accompanied by his guide, that should teach him to turn to that place where he should receive the much-dreaded blow. they climb over cliffs, where each hill had a hat and a mist-cloak, until the next morn, when they find themselves on a full high hill covered with snow. the servant bids his master remain awhile, saying, "i have brought you hither at this time, and now ye are not far from that noted place that ye have so often enquired after. the place that ye press to is esteemed full perilous, and there dwells a man in that waste the worst upon earth, for he is stiff and stern and loves to strike, and greater is he than any man upon middle-earth, and his body is bigger than the best four in arthur's house. he keeps the green chapel; there passes none by that place, however proud in arms, that he does not 'ding him to death with dint of his hand.' he is a man immoderate and 'no mercy uses,' for be it churl or chaplain that by the chapel rides, monk or mass-priest, or any man else, it is as pleasant to him to kill them as to go alive himself. wherefore i tell thee truly, 'come ye there, ye be killed, though ye had twenty lives to spend. he has dwelt there long of yore, and on field much sorrow has wrought. against his sore dints ye may not defend you' (ll. - ). therefore, good sir gawayne, let the man alone, and for god's sake go by some other path, and then i shall hie me home again. i swear to you by [footnote : he only in part keeps to his covenant, as he holds back the love-lace.] god and all his saints that i will never say that ever ye attempted to flee from any man." gawayne thanks his guide for his well-meant kindness, but declares that to the green chapel he will go, though the owner thereof be "a stern knave," for god can devise means to save his servants. "mary!" quoth the other, "since it pleases thee to lose thy life i will not hinder thee. have thy helmet on thy head, thy spear in thy hand, and ride down this path by yon rock-side, till thou be brought to the bottom of the valley. then look a little on the plain, on thy left hand, and thou shalt see in that slade the chapel itself, and the burly knight that guards it (ll. - ). now, farewell gawayne the noble! for all the gold upon ground i would not go with thee nor bear thee fellowship through this wood 'on foot farther.'" thus having spoken, he gallops away and leaves the knight alone. gawayne now pursues his journey, rides through the dale, and looks about. he sees no signs of a resting-place, but only high and steep banks, and the very shadows of the high woods seemed wild and distorted. no chapel, however, could he discover. after a while he sees a round hill by the side of a stream; thither he goes, alights, and fastens his horse to the branch of a tree. he walks about the hill, debating with himself what it might be. it had a hole in the one end and on each side, and everywhere overgrown with grass, but whether it was only an old cave or a crevice of an old crag he could not tell (ll. - ). "now, indeed," quoth gawayne, "a desert is here; this oratory is ugly with herbs overgrown. it is a fitting place for the man in green to 'deal here his devotions after the devil's manner.' now i feel it is the fiend (the devil) in my five wits that has covenanted with me that he may destroy me. this is a chapel of misfortune--evil betide it! it is the most cursed kirk that ever i came in." with his helmet on his head, and spear in his hand, he roams up to the rock, and then he hears from that high hill beyond the brook a wondrous wild noise. lo! it clattered in the cliff as if one upon a grindstone were grinding a scythe. it whirred like the water at a mill, and rushed and re-echoed, terrible to hear. "though my life i forgo," says gawayne, "no noise shall cause me to fear." then he cried aloud, "who dwells in this place, discourse with me to hold? for now is good gawayne going right here if any brave wight will hie him hither, either now or never" (ll. - ). "abide," quoth one on the bank above, over his head, "and thou shalt have all in haste that i promised thee once." soon there comes out of a hole in the crag, with a fell weapon a danish axe quite new, the "man in the green," clothed as at first as his legs, locks and beard. but now he is on foot and walks on the earth. when he reaches the stream, he hops over and boldly strides about. he meets sir gawayne, who tells him that he is quite ready to fulfil his part of the compact. "gawayne," quoth that 'green gome' (man), "may god preserve thee! truly thou art welcome to my place, 'and thou hast timed thy travel' as a true man should. thou knowest the covenants made between us, at this time twelve-month, that on new year's day i should return thee thy blow. we are now in this valley by ourselves, and can do as we please (ll. - ). have, therefore, thy helmet off thy head, and 'have here thy pay.' let us have no more talk than when thou didst strike off my head with a single blow." "nay, by god!" quoth gawayne, "i shall not begrudge thee thy will for any harm that may happen, but will stand still while thou strikest." then he stoops a little and shows his bare neck, unmoved by any fear. the green knight takes up his "grim tool," and with all his force raises it aloft, as if he meant utterly to destroy him. as the axe came gliding down gawayne "shrank a little with the shoulders from the sharp iron." the other withheld his weapon, and then reproved the prince with many proud words. "thou art not gawayne that is so good esteemed, that never feared for no host by hill nor by vale, for now thou fleest for fear before thou feelest harm (ll. - ). such cowardice of that knight did i never hear. i never flinched nor fled when thou didst aim at me in king arthur's house. my head flew to my feet and yet i never fled, wherefore i deserve to be called the better man." quoth gawayne, "i shunted once, but will do so no more, though my head fall on the stones. but hasten and bring me to the point; deal me my destiny, and do it out of hand, for i shall stand thee a stroke and start no more until thine axe has hit me--have here my troth." "have at thee, then," said the other, and heaves the axe aloft, and looks as savagely as if he were mad. he aims at the other mightily, but withholds his hand ere it might hurt. gawayne readily abides the blow without flinching with any member, and stood still as a stone or a tree fixed in rocky ground with a hundred roots. then merrily the other did speak, "since now thou hast thy heart whole it behoves me to strike, so take care of thy neck." gawayne answers with great wroth, "thrash on, thou fierce man, thou threatenest too long; i believe thy own heart fails thee." "forsooth," quoth the other, "since thou speakest so boldly, i will no longer delay" (ll. - ). then, contracting "both lips and brow," he made ready to strike, and let fall his axe on the bare neck of sir gawayne. "though he hammered" fiercely, he only "severed the hide," causing the blood to flow. when gawayne saw his blood on the snow, he quickly seized his helmet and placed it on his head. then he drew out his bright sword, and thus angrily spoke: "cease, man, of thy blow, bid me no more. i have received a stroke in this place without opposition, but if thou givest me any more readily shall i requite thee, of that be thou sure. our covenant stipulates one stroke, and therefore now cease." the green knight, resting on his axe, looks on sir gawayne, as bold and fearless he there stood, and then with a loud voice thus addresses the knight: "bold knight, be not so wroth, no man here has wronged thee (ll. - ); i promised thee a stroke, and thou hast it, so hold thee well pleased. i could have dealt much worse with thee, and caused thee much sorrow. two blows i aimed at thee, for twice thou kissedst my fair wife; but i struck thee not, because thou restoredst them to me according to agreement. at the third time thou failedst, and therefore i have given thee that tap. that woven girdle, given thee by my own wife, belongs to me. i know well thy kisses, thy conduct also, and the wooing of my wife, for i wrought it myself. i sent her to try thee, and truly methinks thou art the most faultless man that ever on foot went. still, sir, thou wert wanting in good faith; but as it proceeded from no immorality, thou being only desirous of saving thy life, the less i blame thee." gawayne stood confounded, the blood rushed into his face, and he shrank within himself for very shame. "cursed," he cried, "be cowardice and covetousness both; in you are villany and vice, that virtue destroy." then he takes off the girdle and throws it to the knight in green, cursing his cowardice and covetousness. the green knight, laughing, thus spoke: "thou hast confessed so clean, and acknowledged thy faults, that i hold thee as pure as thou hadst never forfeited since thou wast first born. i give thee, sir, the gold-hemmed girdle as a token of thy adventure at the green chapel. come now to my castle, and we shall enjoy together the festivities of the new year" (ll. - ). "nay, forsooth," quoth the knight, "but for your kindness may god requite you. commend me to that courteous one your comely wife, who with her crafts has beguiled me. but it is no uncommon thing for a man to come to sorrow through women's wiles; for so was adam beguiled with one, and solomon with many. samson was destroyed by delilah, and david suffered much through bathsheba. 'it were indeed great bliss for a man to love them well and believe them not.' since the greatest upon earth were so beguiled, methinks i should be excused. but god reward you for your girdle, which i will ever wear in remembrance of my fault, and when pride shall exalt me, a look to this love-lace shall lessen it (ll. - ). but since ye are the lord of yonder land, from whom i have received so much honour, tell me truly your right name, and i shall ask no more questions." quoth the other, "i am called bernlak de hautdesert, through might of morgain la fay, who dwells in my house. much has she learnt of merlin, who knows all your knights at home. she brought me to your hall for to essay the prowess of the round table. she wrought this wonder to bereave you of your wits, hoping to have grieved guenever and affrighted her to death by means of the man that spoke with his head in his hand before the high table. she is even thine aunt, arthur's half sister; wherefore come to thine aunt, for all my household love thee." gawayne refuses to accompany the green knight, and so, with many embraces and kind wishes, they separate--the one to his castle, the other to arthur's court. after passing through many wild ways, our knight recovers from the wound in his neck, and at last comes safe and sound to the court of king arthur. great then was the joy of all; the king and queen kiss their brave knight, and make many enquiries about his journey. he tells them of his adventures, hiding nothing--"the chance of the chapel, the cheer of the knight, the love of the lady, and lastly of the lace." groaning for grief and shame he shows them the cut in his neck, which he had received for his unfaithfulness (ll. - ). the king and his courtiers comfort the knight--they laugh loudly at his adventures, and unanimously agree that those lords and ladies that belonged to the round table, and each knight of the brotherhood should ever after wear a bright green belt for gawayne's sake. and he upon whom it was conferred honoured it evermore after. thus in arthur's time this adventure befell, whereof the "brutus books" bear witness (ll. - ). i need not say that the brutus books we possess do not contain the legend here set forth, though it is not much more improbable than some of the statements contained in them. if the reader desires to know the relation in which this and the like stories stand to the original arthur legends, he will find it discussed in sir f. madden's preface to his edition of "syr gawayne," which also contains a sketch of the very different views taken of sir gawayne by the different romance writers. into this and other literary questions i do not enter here, as i have nothing to add to sir f. madden's statements; but in the text of the poem i have differed from him in some few readings, which will be found noticed in the notes and glossary. as the manuscript is fast fading, i am glad that the existence of the early english text society has enabled us to secure a wider diffusion of its contents before the original shall be no longer legible. we want nothing but an increased supply of members to enable us to give to a large circle of readers many an equally interesting record of early english minds. * * * * * note: the old english "yogh" characters have been translated both upper and lower-case yoghs to digit 's. there are unicode allocations for these (in html &# ; and &# ;) but at present no font which implements these. substiting the digit seemed a workable compromise which anybody can read. the linked html "old english 'yogh' file" uses &# ; and &# ; representations, and is included for users with specialist fonts. * * * * * syr gawayn and the grene kny t. [fytte the first.] i. [a] siþen þe sege & þe assaut wat sesed at troye, [fol. a.] Þe bor brittened & brent to bronde & aske , Þe tulk þat þe trammes of tresoun þer wro t, wat tried for his tricherie, þe trewest on erthe; hit wat ennias þe athel, & his highe kynde, Þat siþen depreced prouinces, & patrounes bicome welne e of al þe wele in þe west iles, [b] fro riche romulus to rome ricchis hym swyþe, with gret bobbaunce þat bur e he biges vpon fyrst, & neuenes hit his aune nome, as hit now hat; ticius to tuskan [turnes,] & teldes bigynnes; langaberde in lumbardie lyftes vp homes; [c] & fer ouer þe french flod felix brutus on mony bonkkes ful brode bretayn he sette , wyth wynne; [d] where werre, & wrake, & wonder, bi syþe hat wont þer-inne, [e] & oft boþe blysse & blunder ful skete hat skyfted synne. [sidenote a: after the siege of troy] [sidenote b: romulus built rome,] [sidenote c: and felix brutus founded britain,] [sidenote d: a land of war and wonder,] [sidenote e: and oft of bliss and blunder.] ii. ande quen þis bretayn wat bigged bi þis burn rych, [a] bolde bredden þer-inne, baret þat lofden, in mony turned tyme tene þat wro ten; mo ferlyes on þis folde han fallen here oft [b] Þen in any oþer þat i wot, syn þat ilk tyme. [c] bot of alle þat here bult of bretaygne kynges ay wat arthur þe hendest; as i haf herde telle; for-þi an aunter in erde i attle to schawe, [fol. b.] Þat a selly in si t summe men hit holden, & an outtrage awenture of arthure wondere ; [d] if e wyl lysten þis laye bot on littel quile, i schal telle hit, as-tit, as i in toun herde, with tonge; as hit is stad & stoken, in stori stif & stronge, with lel letteres loken, in londe so hat ben longe. [sidenote a: bold men increased in the land,] [sidenote b: and many marvels happened.] [sidenote c: of all britain's kings arthur was the noblest.] [sidenote d: listen a while and ye shall hear the story of an "outrageous adventure."] iii. [a] Þis kyng lay at camylot vpon kryst-masse, with mony luflych lorde, lede of þe best, [b] rekenly of þe rounde table alle þo rich breþer, with rych reuel ory t, & rechles merþes; Þer tournayed tulkes bi-tyme ful mony, iusted ful iolilé þise gentyle kni tes, syþen kayred to þe court, caroles to make. [c] for þer þe fest wat ilyche ful fiften dayes, with alle þe mete & þe mirþe þat men couþe a-vyse; such glaumande gle glorious to here, dere dyn vp-on day, daunsyng on ny tes, [d] al wat hap vpon he e in halle & chambre , with lorde & ladies, as leuest him þo t; with all þe wele of þe worlde þay woned þer samen, [e] Þe most kyd kny te vnder kryste seluen, & þe louelokkest ladies þat euer lif haden, & he þe comlokest kyng þat þe court haldes; for al wat þis fayre folk in her first age, on sille; [f] Þe hapnest vnder heuen, kyng hy est mon of wylle, hit were[ ] now gret nye to neuen so hardy a here on hille. [sidenote a: arthur held at camelot his christmas feast,] [sidenote b: with all the knights of the round table,] [sidenote c: full fifteen days.] [sidenote d: all was joy in hall and chamber,] [sidenote e: among brave knights and lovely ladies,] [sidenote f: the happiest under heaven.] [footnote : ms. werere.] iv. [a] wyle nw er wat so ep þat hit wat nwe cummen, Þat day doubble on þe dece wat þe douth serued, fro þe kyng wat cummen with kny tes in to þe halle, Þe chauntre of þe chapel cheued to an ende; loude crye wat þer kest of clerke & oþer, nowel nayted o-newe, neuened ful ofte; [fol. ] & syþen riche forth runnen to reche honde-selle, [b] e ed eres iftes on hi , elde hem bi hond, debated busyly aboute þo giftes; ladies la ed ful loude, þo þay lost haden, & he þat wan wat not wrothe, þat may e wel trawe. [c] alle þis mirþe þay maden to þe mete tyme; when þay had waschen, worþyly þay wenten to sete, Þe best burne ay abof, as hit best semed; [d] whene guenore ful gay, grayþed in þe myddes. dressed on þe dere des, dubbed al aboute, smal sendal bisides, a selure hir ouer of tryed tolouse, of tars tapites in-noghe, Þat were enbrawded & beten wyth þe best gemmes, Þat my t be preued of prys wyth penyes to bye, in daye; [e] Þe comlokest to discrye, Þer glent with y en gray, a semloker þat euer he sy e, soth mo t no mon say. [sidenote a: they celebrate the new year with great joy.] [sidenote b: gifts are demanded and bestowed.] [sidenote c: lords and ladies take their seats at the table.] [sidenote d: queen guenever appears gaily dressed.] [sidenote e: a lady fairer of form might no one say he had ever before seen.] v. [a] bot arthure wolde not ete til al were serued, he wat so ioly of his ioyfnes, & sum-quat child gered, his lif liked hym ly t, he louied þe lasse [b] auþer to lenge lye, or to longe sitte, so bi-sied him his onge blod & his brayn wylde; & also anoþer maner meued him eke, Þat he þur nobelay had nomen, ho wolde neuer ete vpon such a dere day, er hym deuised were [c] of sum auenturus þyng an vncouþe tale, of sum mayn meruayle, þat he my t trawe, of[ ] alderes, of armes, of oþer auenturus, oþer sum segg hym bi-so t of sum siker kny t, to ioyne wyth hym in iustyng in iopardé to lay, lede lif for lyf, leue vchon oþer, as fortune wolde fulsun hom þe fayrer to haue. Þis wat [þe] kynges countenaunce where he in court were, at vch farand fest among his fre meny, in halle; [fol. b.] [d] Þer-fore of face so fere. he sti tle stif in stalle, ful ep in þat nw ere, much mirthe he mas with alle. [sidenote a: arthur would not eat,] [sidenote b: nor would he long sit] [sidenote c: until he had witnessed a "wondrous adventure" of some kind.] [sidenote d: he of face so bold makes much mirth with all.] [footnote : of of, in ms.] vi. [a] thus þer stondes in stale þe stif kyng his-seluen, talkkande bifore þe hy e table of trifles ful hende [b] there gode gawan wat grayþed, gwenore bisyde [c] & agrauayn a la dure mayn on þat oþer syde sittes boþe þe kynges sister sunes, & ful siker kni tes; [d] bischop bawdewyn abof bi-gine þe table, [e] & ywan, vryn son, ette wit hym-seluen; Þise were di t on þe des, & derworþly serued, & siþen mony siker segge at þe sidborde . [f] Þen þe first cors come with crakkyng of trumpes, wyth mony baner ful bry t, þat þer-bi henged, nwe nakryn noyse with þe noble pipes, wylde werbles & wy t wakned lote, Þat mony hert ful hi e hef at her towches; [g] dayntes dryuen þer-wyth of ful dere metes, foysoun of þe fresche, & on so fele disches, Þat pine to fynde þe place þe peple bi-forne for to sette þe syluener,[ ] þat sere sewes halden, on clothe; iche lede as he loued hym-selue Þer laght with-outen loþe, [h] ay two had disches twelue, [i] good ber, & bry t wyn boþe. [sidenote a: the king talks with his knights.] [sidenote b: gawayne,] [sidenote c: agravayn,] [sidenote d: bishop bawdewyn,] [sidenote e: and ywain sit on the dais.] [sidenote f: the first course is served with cracking of trumpets.] [sidenote g: it consisted of all dainties in season.] [sidenote h: each two had dishes twelve,] [sidenote i: good beer and bright wine both.] [footnote : svlueren (?) (dishes).] vii. [a] now wyl i of hor seruise say yow no more, for veh wy e may wel wit no wont þat þer were; [b] an oþer noyse ful newe ne ed biliue, Þat þe lude my t haf leue lif-lode to cach. for vneþe wat þe noyce not a whyle sesed, & þe fyrst cource in þe court kyndely serued, [c] Þer hales in at þe halle dor an aghlich mayster, on þe most on þe molde on mesure hyghe; fro þe swyre to þe swange so sware & so þik, [d] & his lyndes & his lymes so longe & so grete, half etayn in erde i hope þat he were. [fol. .] [e] bot mon most i algate mynn hym to bene, & þat þe myriest in his muckel þat my t ride; [f] for of bak & of brest al were his bodi sturne, [g] bot his wombe & his wast were worthily smale, & alle his fetures fol ande, in forme þat he hade, ful clene; for wonder of his hwe men hade, set in his semblaunt sene; he ferde as freke were fade, & ouer-al enker grene. [sidenote a: there was no want of anything.] [sidenote b: scarcely had the first course commenced,] [sidenote c: when there rushes in at the hall-door a knight;] [sidenote d: the tallest on earth] [sidenote e: he must have been.] [sidenote f: his back and breast were great,] [sidenote g: but his belly and waist were small.] viii. [a] ande al grayþed in grene þis gome & his wedes, a strayt cote ful stre t, þat stek on his sides, a mere mantile abof, mensked with-inne, with pelure pured apert þe pane ful clene, with blyþe blaunner ful bry t, & his hod boþe, Þat wat la t fro his lokke , & layde on his schulderes heme wel haled, hose of þat same grene, [b] Þat spenet on his sparlyr, & clene spures vnder, of bry t golde, vpon silk bordes, barred ful ryche & scholes vnder schankes, þere þe schalk rides; & alle his vesture uerayly wat clene verdure, boþe þe barres of his belt & oþer blyþe stones, Þat were richely rayled in his aray clene, [c] aboutte hym-self & his sadel, vpon silk werke , Þat were to tor for to telle of tryfles þe halue, Þat were enbrauded abof, wyth bryddes & fly es, with gay gaudi of grene, þe golde ay in myddes; Þe pendauntes of his payttrure, þe proude cropure his molaynes, & alle þe metail anamayld was þenne Þe steropes þat he stod on, stayned of þe same, & his arsoun al after, & his aþel sturtes, Þat euer glemered[ ] & glent al of grene stones. [d] Þe fole þat he ferkkes on, fyn of þat ilke, sertayn; a grene hors gret & þikke, [e] a stede ful stif to strayne, in brawden brydel quik, to þe gome he wat ful gayn. [fol. b.] [sidenote a: he was clothed entirely in green.] [sidenote b: his spurs were of bright gold.] [sidenote c: his saddle was embroidered with birds and flies.] [sidenote d: the foal that he rode upon was green;] [sidenote e: it was a steed full stiff to guide.] [footnote : glemed (?).] ix. [a] wel gay wat þis gome gered in grene, & þe here of his hed of his hors swete; fayre fannand fax vmbe-foldes his schulderes; [b] a much berd as[ ] a busk ouer his brest henges, Þat wyth his hi lich here, þat of his hed reches, wat euesed al vmbe-torne, a-bof his elbowes, Þat half his armes þer vnder were halched in þe wyse of a kynge capados, þat closes his swyre. [c] Þe mane of þat mayn hors much to hit lyke, wel cresped & cemmed wyth knottes ful mony, folden in wyth fildore aboute þe fayre grene, ay a herle of þe here, an oþer of golde; [d] Þe tayl & his toppyng twynnen of a sute, & bounden boþe wyth a bande of a bry t grene, dubbed wyth ful dere stone , as þe dok lasted, syþen þrawen wyth a þwong a þwarle knot alofte, Þer mony belle ful bry t of brende golde rungen. [e] such a fole vpon folde, ne freke þat hym rydes, wat neuer sene in þat sale wyth sy t er þat tyme, with y e; he loked as layt so ly t, so sayd al þat hym sy e, [f] hit semed as no mon my t, vnder his dyntte dry e. [sidenote a: gaily was the knight attired.] [sidenote b: his great beard, like a bush, hung on his breast.] [sidenote c: the horse's mane was decked with golden threads.] [sidenote d: its tail was bound with a green band.] [sidenote e: such a foal nor a knight were never before seen.] [sidenote f: it seemed that no man might endure his dints.] [footnote : as as, in ms.] x. [a] wheþer hade he no helme ne hawb[e]rgh nauþer, ne no pysan, ne no plate þat pented to armes, ne no schafte, ne no schelde, to schwne ne to smyte, [b] bot in his on honde he hade a holyn bobbe, Þat is grattest in grene, when greue ar bare, [c] & an ax in his oþer, a hoge & vn-mete, a spetos sparþe to expoun in spelle quo-so my t; Þe hede of an eln erde þe large lenkþe hade, Þe grayn al of grene stele & of golde hewen, [d] Þe bit burnyst bry t, with a brod egge, as wel schapen to schere as scharp rasores; Þe stele of a stif staf þe sturne hit bi-grypte, Þat wat wounden wyth yrn to þe wande ende, [fol. .] [e] & al bigrauen with grene, in gracios[ ] werkes; a lace lapped aboute, þat louked at þe hede, & so after þe halme halched ful ofte, wyth tryed tassele þerto tacched in-noghe, [f] on botoun of þe bry t grene brayden ful ryche. Þis haþel helde hym in, & þe halle entres, driuande to þe he e dece, dut he no woþe, [g] haylsed he neuer one, bot he e he ouer loked. Þe fyrst word þat he warp, "wher is," he sayd, [h] "Þe gouernour of þis gyng? gladly i wolde se þat segg in sy t, & with hym self speke raysoun." to kny te he kest his y e, & reled hym vp & doun, [i] he stemmed & con studie, quo walt þer most renoun. [sidenote a: the knight carried neither spear nor shield,] [sidenote b: in one hand was a holly bough,] [sidenote c: in the other an axe,] [sidenote d: the edge of which was as keen as a sharp razor,] [sidenote e: and the handle was encased in iron, curiously "graven with green, in gracious works."] [sidenote f: thus arrayed the green knight enters the hall,] [sidenote g: without saluting any one.] [sidenote h: he asks for the "governor" of the company,] [sidenote i: and looks for the most renowned.] [footnote : looks like gracons in ms.] xi. [a] ther wat lokyng on lenþe, þe lude to be-holde, for vch mon had meruayle quat hit mene my t, Þat a haþel & a horse my t such a hwe lach, [b] as growe grene as þe gres & grener hit semed, Þen grene aumayl on golde lowande bry ter; al studied þat þer stod, & stalked hym nerre, [c] wyth al þe wonder of þe worlde, what he worch schulde. for fele sellye had þay sen, bot such neuer are, for-þi for fantoum & fayry e þe folk þere hit demed; [d] Þer-fore to answare wat ar e mony aþel freke, & al stouned at his steuen, & stonstil seten, [e] in a swoghe sylence þur þe sale riche as al were slypped vpon slepe so slaked hor lote in hy e; i deme hit not al for doute, [f] bot sum for cortaysye, bot let hym þat al schulde loute, cast vnto þat wy e. [sidenote a: much they marvel to see a man and a horse] [sidenote b: as green as grass.] [sidenote c: never before had they seen such a sight as this.] [sidenote d: they were afraid to answer,] [sidenote e: and were as silent as if sleep had taken possession of them;] [sidenote f: some from fear and others from courtesy.] xii. [a] Þenn arþour bifore þe hi dece þat auenture byholde , & rekenly hym reuerenced, for rad was he neuer, & sayde, "wy e, welcum iwys to þis place, [b] Þe hede of þis ostel arthour i hat, [fol. b.] li t luflych adoun, & lenge, i þe praye, & quat so þy wylle is, we schal wyt after." [c] "nay, as help me," quod þe haþel, "he þat on hy e syttes, to wone any quyle in þis won, hit wat not myn ernde; bot for þe los of þe lede is lyft vp so hy e, & þy bur & þy burnes best ar holden, stifest vnder stel-gere on stedes to ryde, [d] Þe wy test & þe worþyest of þe worldes kynde, preue for to play wyth in oþer pure layke ; & here is kydde cortaysye, as i haf herd carp, & þat hat wayned me hider, i-wyis, at þis tyme. e may be seker bi þis braunch þat i bere here, [e] Þat i passe as in pes, & no ply t seche; for had i founded in fere, in fe tyng wyse, [f] i haue a hauberghe at home & a helme boþe, a schelde, & a scharp spere, schinande bry t, ande oþer weppenes to welde, i wene wel als, bot for i wolde no were, my wede ar softer. bot if þou be so bold as alle burne tellen, Þou wyl grant me godly þe gomen þat i ask, bi ry t." [g] arthour con onsware, & sayd, "sir cortays kny t, if þou craue batayl bare, here fayle þou not to fy t." [sidenote a: arthur salutes the green knight.] [sidenote b: bids him welcome, and invites him to stay awhile.] [sidenote c: the knight says that he will not tarry.] [sidenote d: he seeks the most valiant that he may prove him.] [sidenote e: he comes in peace.] [sidenote f: at home, however, he has both shield and spear.] [sidenote g: arthur assures him that he shall not fail to find an opponent worthy of him.] xiii. [a] "nay, frayst i no fy t, in fayth i þe telle, [b] hit arn aboute on þis bench bot berdle chylder; if i were hasped in armes on a he e stede, [c] here is no mon me to mach, for my te so[ ] wayke. for-þy i craue in þis court a crystmas gomen, [d] for hit is ol & nwe er, & here ar ep mony; if any so hardy in þis hous holde hym-seluen, [e] be so bolde in his blod, brayn in hys hede, Þat dar stifly strike a strok for an oþer, i schal gif hym of my gyft þys giserne ryche, [f] Þis ax, þat is heué in-nogh, to hondele as hym lykes, & i schal bide þe fyrst bur, as bare as i sitte. [fol. .] if any freke be so felle to fonde þat i telle, lepe ly tly me to, & lach þis weppen, i quit clayme hit for euer, kepe hit as his auen, [g] & i schal stonde hym a strok, stif on þis flet, elle þou wyl di t me þe dom to dele hym an oþer, barlay; & et gif hym respite, [h] a twelmonyth & a day;-- now hy e, & let se tite dar any her-inne o t say." [sidenote a: "i seek no fight," says the knight.] [sidenote b: "'here are only beardless children.'] [sidenote c: here is no man to match me.] [sidenote d: here are brave ones many,] [sidenote e: if any be bold enough to 'strike a stroke for another,'] [sidenote f: this axe shall be his;] [sidenote g: but i shall give him a 'stroke' in return] [sidenote h: within a twelvemonth and a day."] [footnote : ms. fo.] xiv. [a] if he hem stowned vpon fyrst, stiller were þanne alle þe hered-men in halle, þe hy & þe lo e; [b] Þe renk on his rounce hym ruched in his sadel, & runisch-ly his rede y en he reled aboute, [c] bende his bresed bro e , bly-cande grene, [d] wayued his berde for to wayte quo-so wolde ryse. when non wolde kepe hym with carp he co ed ful hy e, ande rimed hym ful richley, & ry t hym to speke: [e] "what, is þis arþures hous," quod þe haþel þenne, "Þat al þe rous rennes of, þur ryalmes so mony? where is now your sourquydrye & your conquestes, your gry[n]del-layk, & your greme, & your grete wordes? [f] now is þe reuel & þe renoun of þe rounde table ouer-walt wyth a worde of on wy es speche; for al dares for drede, with-oute dynt schewed!" wyth þis he la es so loude, þat þe lorde greued; [g] Þe blod schot for scham in-to his schyre face & lere; [h] he wex as wroth as wynde, so did alle þat þer were Þe kyng as kene bi kynde, Þen stod þat stif mon nere. [sidenote a: fear kept all silent.] [sidenote b: the knight rolled his red eyes about,] [sidenote c: and bent his bristly green brows.] [sidenote d: waving his beard awhile, he exclaimed:] [sidenote e: "what! is this arthur's court?] [sidenote f: forsooth the renown of the round table is overturned 'with a word of one man's speech.'"] [sidenote g: arthur blushes for shame.] [sidenote h: he waxes as wroth as the wind.] xv. [a] ande sayde, "haþel, by heuen þyn askyng is nys, & as þou foly hat frayst, fynde þe be-houes; i know no gome þat is gast of þy grete wordes. gif me now þy geserne, vpon gode halue, & i schal bayþen þy bone, þat þou boden habbes." ly tly lepe he hym to, & la t at his honde; [fol. b.] Þen feersly þat oþer freke vpon fote ly tis. [b] now hat arthure his axe, & þe halme grype , & sturnely sture hit aboute, þat stryke wyth hit þo t. Þe stif mon hym bifore stod vpon hy t, herre þen ani in þe hous by þe hede & more; [c] wyth sturne schere[ ] þer he stod, he stroked his berde, & wyth a countenaunce dry e he dro doun his cote, no more mate ne dismayd for hys mayn dinte , Þen any burne vpon bench hade bro t hym to drynk of wyne, [d] gawan, þat sate bi þe quene, to þe kyng he can enclyne, "i be-seche now with sa e sene, Þis melly mot be myne." [sidenote a: he assures the knight that no one is afraid of his great words.] [sidenote b: arthur seizes his axe.] [sidenote c: the knight, stroking his beard, awaits the blow, and with a "dry countenance" draws down his coat.] [sidenote d: sir gawayne beseeches the king to let him undertake the blow.] [footnote : chere (?).] xvi. "wolde e, worþilych lorde," quod gawan to þe kyng, [a] "bid me bo e fro þis benche, & stonde by yow þere, Þat i wyth-oute vylanye my t voyde þis table, & þat my legge lady lyked not ille, i wolde com to your counseyl, bifore your cort ryche. [b] for me þink hit not semly, as hit is soþ knawen, Þer such an askyng is heuened so hy e in your sale, Þa e our-self be talenttyf to take hit to your-seluen, [c] whil mony so bolde yow aboute vpon bench sytten, Þat vnder heuen, i hope, non ha er er of wylle, ne better bodyes on bent, þer baret is rered; [d] i am þe wakkest, i wot, and of wyt feblest, & lest lur of my lyf, quo laytes þe soþe, bot for as much as e ar myn em, i am only to prayse, no bounté bot your blod i in my bodé knowe; & syþen þis note is so nys, þat no t hit yow falles, & i haue frayned hit at yow fyrst, folde hit to me, & if i carp not comlyly, let alle þis cort rych, bout blame." [e] ryche to-geder con roun, & syþen þay redden alle same, to ryd þe kyng wyth croun, & gif gawan þe game. [sidenote a: he asks permission to leave the table; he says,] [sidenote b: it is not meet that arthur should be active in the matter,] [sidenote c: while so many bold ones sit upon bench.] [sidenote d: although the weakest, he is quite ready to meet the green knight.] [sidenote e: the nobles entreat arthur to "give gawayne the game."] xvii. Þen comaunded þe kyng þe kny t for to ryse; [fol. .] & he ful radly vp ros, & ruchched hym fayre, [a] kneled doun bifore þe kyng, & cache þat weppen; & he luflyly hit hym laft, & lyfte vp his honde, & gef hym godde blessyng, & gladly hym biddes [b] Þat his hert & his honde schulde hardi be boþe. "kepe þe cosyn," quod þe kyng, "þat þou on kyrf sette, & if þou rede hym ry t, redly i trowe, Þat þou schal byden þe bur þat he schal bede after. gawan got to þe gome, with giserne in honde, & he baldly hym byde , he bayst neuer þe helder [c] Þen carppe to sir gawan þe kny t in þe grene, "refourme we oure for-wardes, er we fyrre passe. fyrst i eþe þe, haþel, how þat þou hattes, Þat þou me telle truly, as i tryst may?" [d] "in god fayth," quod þe goode kny t, "gawan i hatte, Þat bede þe þis buffet, quat-so bi-falle after, & at þis tyme twelmonyth take at þe anoþer, wyth what weppen so[ ] þou wylt, & wyth no wy elle , on lyue." Þat oþer on-sware agayn, "sir gawan, so mot i þryue, [e] as i am ferly fayn. Þis dint þat þou schal dryue." [sidenote a: the king gives his nephew his weapon,] [sidenote b: and tells him to keep heart and hand steady.] [sidenote c: the green knight enquires the name of his opponent.] [sidenote d: sir gawayne tells him his name, and declares that he is willing to give and receive a blow.] [sidenote e: the other thereof is glad.] [footnote : ms. fo.] xviii. [a] "bigog," quod þe grene kny t, "sir gawan, melykes, Þat i schal fange at þy fust þat i haf frayst here; & þou hat redily rehersed, bi resoun ful trwe, clanly al þe couenaunt þat i þe kynge asked, saf þat þou schal siker me, segge, bi þi trawþe, Þat þou schal seche me þi-self, where-so þou hopes i may be funde vpon folde, & foch þe such wages [b] as þou deles me to day, bifore þis douþe ryche." [c] "where schulde i wale þe," quod gauan, "where is þy place? i wot neuer where þou wonyes, bi hym þat me wro t, ne i know not þe, kny t, þy cort, ne þi name. [d] bot teche me truly þer-to, & telle me howe þou hattes, & i schal ware alle my wyt to wynne me þeder, & þat i swere þe for soþe, & by my seker traweþ." [fol. b.] "Þat is in-nogh in nwe er, hit nedes no more," quod þe gome in þe grene to gawan þe hende, [e] " if i þe telle trwly, quen i þe tape haue, & þou me smoþely hat smyten, smartly i þe teche of my hous, & my home, & myn owen nome, Þen may þou frayst my fare, & forwarde holde, [f] & if i spende no speche, þenne spede þou þe better, for þou may leng in þy londe, & layt no fyrre, bot slokes; [g] ta now þy grymme tole to þe, & let se how þou cnoke ." "gladly sir, for soþe," quod gawan; his ax he strokes. [sidenote a: "it pleases me well, sir gawayne," says the green knight, "that i shall receive a blow from thy fist; but thou must swear that thou wilt seek me,] [sidenote b: to receive the blow in return."] [sidenote c: "where shall i seek thee?" says sir gawayne;] [sidenote d: "tell me thy name and abode and i will find thee."] [sidenote e: "when thou hast smitten me," says the knight, "then tell i thee of my home and name;] [sidenote f: if i speak not at all, so much the better for thee.] [sidenote g: take now thy grim tool, and let us see how thou knockest."] xix. [a] the grene kny t vpon grounde grayþely hym dresses, a littel lut with þe hede, þe lere he discouere , [b] his longe louelych lokke he layd ouer his croun. let þe naked nec to þe note schewe. gauan gripped to his ax, & gederes hit on hy t, Þe kay fot on þe folde he be-fore sette, [c] let hit doun ly tly ly t on þe naked, Þat þe scharp of þe schalk schyndered þe bones, [d] & schrank þur þe schyire grece, & scade hit in twynne, Þat þe bit of þe broun stel bot on þe grounde. [e] Þe fayre hede fro þe halce hit [felle] to þe erþe, [f] Þat fele hit foyned wyth her fete, þere hit forth roled; Þe blod brayd fro þe body, þat blykked on þe grene; [g] & nawþer faltered ne fel þe freke neuer þe helder, bot styþly he start forth vpon styf schonkes, [h] & ru[n]yschly he ra t out, þere as renkke stoden, la t to his lufly hed, & lyft hit vp sone; & syþen bo e to his blonk, þe brydel he cachche , [i] steppe in to stel bawe & stryde alofte, [j] & his hede by þe here in his honde halde ; & as sadly þe segge hym in his sadel sette, as non vnhap had hym ayled, þa hedle he[ ] we[re], in stedde; [k] he brayde his bluk[ ] aboute, Þat vgly bodi þat bledde, [fol. .] moni on of hym had doute, bi þat his resoun were redde. [sidenote a: the green knight] [sidenote b: puts his long lovely locks aside and lays bare his neck.] [sidenote c: sir gawayne lets fall his axe] [sidenote d: and severs the head from the body.] [sidenote e: the head falls to the earth.] [sidenote f: many kick it aside with their feet.] [sidenote g: the knight never falters;] [sidenote h: he rushes forth, seizes his head,] [sidenote i: steps into the saddle,] [sidenote j: holding the while the head in his hand by the hair,] [sidenote k: and turns his horse about.] [footnote : ms. ho.] [footnote : blunk (?).] xx. for þe hede in his honde he halde vp euen, [a] to-ward þe derrest on þe dece he dresse þe face, & hit lyfte vp þe y e-lydde , & loked ful brode, [b] & meled þus much with his muthe, as e may now here. "loke, gawan, þou be grayþe to go as þou hette , & layte as lelly til þou me, lude, fynde, [c] as þou hat hette in þis halle, herande þise kny tes; [d] to þe grene chapel þou chose, i charge þe to fotte, such a dunt as þou hat dalt disserued þou habbe , [e] to be ederly olden on nw eres morn; Þe kny t of þe grene chapel men knowen me mony; [f] for-þi me forto fynde if þou frayste , fayle þou neuer, [g] Þer-fore com, oþer recreaunt be calde þe be-houeus." with a runisch rout þe rayne he torne , [h] halled out at þe hal-dor, his hed in his hande, Þat þe fyr of þe flynt fla e fro fole houes. to quat kyth he be-com, knwe non þere, neuermore þen þay wyste fram queþen. he wat wonnen; what þenne? Þe kyng & gawen þare, [i] at þat grene þay la e & grenne, et breued wat hit ful bare, a meruayl among þo menne. [sidenote a: the head lifts up its eyelids,] [sidenote b: and addresses sir gawayne; "look thou, be ready to go as thou hast promised,] [sidenote c: and seek till thou findest me.] [sidenote d: get thee to the green chapel,] [sidenote e: there to receive a blow on new year's morn.] [sidenote f: fail thou never;] [sidenote g: come, or recreant be called."] [sidenote h: the green knight then rushes out of the hall, his head in his hand.] [sidenote i: at that green one arthur and gawayne "laugh and grin."] xxi. [a] Þa arþer þe hende kyng at hert hade wonder, he let no semblaunt be sene, bot sayde ful hy e to þe comlych quene, wyth cortays speche, [b] "dere dame, to day demay yow neuer; wel by-commes such craft vpon cristmasse, laykyng of enterlude , to la e & to syng. among þise, kynde caroles of kny te & ladye ; [c] neuer-þe-lece to my mete i may me wel dres, for i haf sen a selly, i may not for-sake." he glent vpon sir gawen, & gaynly he sayde, [d] "now sir, heng vp þyn ax, þat hat in-nogh hewen." & hit wat don abof þe dece, on doser to henge, [fol. b.] Þer alle men for meruayl my t on hit loke, & bi trwe tytel þer-of to telle þe wonder. [e] Þenne þay bo ed to a borde þise burnes to-geder, Þe kyng & þe gode kny t, & kene men hem serued of alle dayntye double, as derrest my t falle, wyth alle maner of mete & mynstralcie boþe; wyth wele walt þay þat day, til worþed an ende, in londe. [f] now þenk wel, sir gawan, for woþe þat þou ne wonde, Þis auenture forto frayn, Þat þou hat tan on honde. [sidenote a: arthur addresses the queen:] [sidenote b: "dear dame, be not dismayed; such marvels well become the christmas festival;] [sidenote c: i may now go to meat.] [sidenote d: sir gawayne, hang up thine axe.] [sidenote e: the king and his knights sit feasting at the board till day is ended.] [sidenote f: now beware, sir gawayne, lest thou fail to seek the adventure that thou hast taken in hand.] [fytte the second.] i. [a] this hanselle hat arthur of auenturus on fyrst, in onge er, for he erned elpyng to here, tha hym worde were wane, when þay to sete wenten; now ar þay stoken of sturne werk staf-ful her hond. gawan wat glad to be-gynne þose gomne in halle, bot þa þe ende be heuy, haf e no wonder; for þa men ben mery in mynde, quen þay han mayn drynk, [b] a ere ernes ful erne, & elde neuer lyke, Þe forme to þe fynisment folde ful selden. for-þi þis ol ouer- ede, & þe ere after, & vche sesoun serlepes sued after oþer; [c] after crysten-masse com þe crabbed lentoun, Þat frayste flesch wyth þe fysche & fode more symple bot þenne þe weder of þe worlde wyth wynter hit þrepe , [d] colde clenge adoun, cloude vp-lyften, schyre schede þe rayn in schowre ful warme, falle vpon fayre flat, flowre þere schewen, [e] boþe grounde & þe greue grene ar her wede , [f] brydde busken to bylde, & bremlych syngen, [g] for solace of þe softe somer þat sues þer after, bi bonk; [h] & blossume bolne to blowe, bi rawe rych & ronk, [i] Þen note noble in-no e, ar herde in wod so wlonk. [fol. ] [sidenote a: this marvel serves to keep up a brisk conversation in court.] [sidenote b: the year passes full quickly and never returns.] [sidenote c: after christmas comes the "crabbed lenten."] [sidenote d: spring sets in and warm showers descend;] [sidenote e: the groves become green,] [sidenote f: birds build and sing,] [sidenote g: for joy of the summer that follows;] [sidenote h: blossoms begin to bloom,] [sidenote i: and noble notes are heard in the woods] ii. [a] after þe sesoun of somer wyth þe soft wynde , quen eferus syfle hym-self on sede & erbe , [b] wela-wynne is þe wort þat woxes þer-oute. when þe donkande dewe drope of þe leue , to bide a blysful blusch of þe bry t sunne. [c] bot þen hy es heruest, & hardenes hym sone. warne hym for þe wynter to wax ful rype; [d] he dryues wyth dro t þe dust for to ryse. fro þe face of þe folde to fly e ful hy e; wroþe wynde of þe welkyn wrastele with þe sunne, [e] Þe leue lancen fro þe lynde, & ly ten on þe grounde, [f] & al grayes þe gres, þat grene wat ere; Þenne al rype & rote þat ros vpon fyrst, & þus irne þe ere in isterdaye mony, [g] & wynter wynde a ayn, as þe worlde aske no sage. til me el-mas mone, wat cumen wyth wynter wage; [h] Þen þenkke gawan ful sone, of his anious uyage. [sidenote a: then the soft winds of summer,] [sidenote b: beautiful are the flowers wet with dew-drops.] [sidenote c: but harvest approaches soon,] [sidenote d: and drives the dust about.] [sidenote e: the leaves drop off the trees,] [sidenote f: the grass becomes gray, and all ripens and rots.] [sidenote g: winter winds round again,] [sidenote h: and then sir gawayne thinks of his dread journey.] iii. [a] et quyl al-hal-day with arþer he lenges, & he made a fare on þat fest, for þe freke sake, with much reuel & ryche of þe rounde table; kny te ful cortays & comlych ladies, al for luf of þat lede in longynge þay were, bot neuer-þe-lece ne þe later þay neuened bot merþe, mony ioyle for þat ientyle iape þer maden. [b] for aftter mete, with mournyng he mele to his eme, & speke of his passage, & pertly he sayde, [c] "now, lege lorde of my lyf, leue i yow ask; e knowe þe cost of þis cace, kepe i no more to telle yow tene þer-of neuer bot trifel; [d] bot i am boun to þe bur barely to morne, to sech þe gome of þe grene, as god wyl me wysse." Þenne þe best of þe bur bo ed to-geder, aywan, & errik, & oþer ful mony, sir doddinaual de sauage, þe duk of clarence, [fol. b.] launcelot, & lyonel, & lucan þe gode, sir boos, & sir byduer, big men boþe, [e] & mony oþer menskful, with mador de la port. alle þis compayny of court com þe kyng nerre, for to counseyl þe kny t, with care at her hert; [f] Þere wat much derue[ ] doel driuen in þe sale, Þat so worthe as wawan schulde wende on þat ernde, to dry e a delful dynt, & dele no more wyth bronde. Þe kny t mad ay god chere, & sayde, "quat schuld i wonde, [g] of destines derf & dere, what may mon do bot fonde?" [sidenote a: on all-hallows day arthur makes a feast for his nephew's sake.] [sidenote b: after meat, sir gawayne thus speaks to his uncle:] [sidenote c: "now, liege lord, i ask leave of you,] [sidenote d: for i am bound on the morn to seek the green knight."] [sidenote e: many nobles, the best of the court, counsel and comfort him.] [sidenote f: much sorrow prevails in the hall.] [sidenote g: gawayne declares that he has nothing to fear.] [footnote : derne (?).] iv. [a] he dowelle þer al þat day, and dresse on þe morn, aske erly hys arme , & alle were þay bro t [b] fyrst a tule tapit, ty t ouer þe flet, & miche wat þe gyld gere þat glent þer alofte; [c] Þe stif mon steppe þeron, & þe stel hondole , [d] dubbed in a dublet of a dere tars, & syþen a crafty capados, closed aloft, Þat wyth a bry t blaunner was bounden with-inne; [e] Þenne set þay þe sabatoun vpon þe segge fote , his lege lapped in stel with luflych greue , with polayne piched þer-to, policed ful clene, aboute his kne knaged wyth knote of golde; [f] queme quyssewes þen, þat coyntlych closed his thik þrawen þy e with þwonges to-tachched; [g] & syþen þe brawden bryne of bry t stel rynge , vmbe-weued þat wy , vpon wlonk stuffe; [h] & wel bornyst brace vpon his boþe armes, with gode cowters & gay, & gloue of plate, & alle þe godlych gere þat hym gayn schulde Þat tyde; [i] wyth ryche cote armure, [j] his gold spore spend with pryde, [k] gurde wyth a bront ful sure, with silk sayn vmbe his syde. [sidenote a: on the morn he asks for his arms.] [sidenote b: a carpet is spread on the floor,] [sidenote c: and he steps thereon.] [sidenote d: he is dubbed in a doublet of tarsic silk, and a well-made hood.] [sidenote e: they set steel slices on his feet, and lap his legs in steel greaves.] [sidenote f: fair cuisses enclose his thighs,] [sidenote g: and afterwards they put on the steel habergeon,] [sidenote h: well-burnished braces, elbow pieces, and gloves of plate.] [sidenote i: over all this is placed the coat armour.] [sidenote j: his spurs are then fixed,] [sidenote k: and his sword is attached to his side by a silken girdle.] v. [a] when he wat hasped in armes, his harnays wat ryche, [fol. a.] Þe lest lachet ou[þ]er loupe lemed of golde; so harnayst as he wat he herkne his masse, offred & honoured at þe he e auter; [b] syþen he come to þe kyng & to his cort fere , lache lufly his leue at lorde & ladye ; & þay hym kyst & conueyed, bikende hym to kryst. [c] bi þat wat gryngolet grayth, & gurde with a sadel, Þat glemed ful gayly with mony golde frenges, ay quere naylet ful nwe for þat note ryched; Þe brydel barred aboute, with bry t golde bounden; [d] Þe apparayl of þe payttrure, & of þe proude skyrte , Þe cropore, & þe couertor, acorded wyth þe arsoune ; & al wat rayled on red ryche golde nayle , Þat al glytered & glent as glem of þe sunne. [e] Þenne hentes he þe holme, & hastily hit kysses, Þat wat stapled stifly, & stoffed wyth-inne: hit wat hy e on his hede, hasped bihynde, [f] wyth a ly tli vrysoun ouer þe auentayle, [g] enbrawden & bounden wyth þe best gemme , on brode sylkyn borde, & brydde on seme , as papiaye paynted pernyng bitwene, tortors & trulofe entayled so þyk, as mony burde þer aboute had ben seuen wynter in toune; [h] Þe cercle wat more o prys, Þat vmbe-clypped hys croun, of diamaunte a deuys, Þat boþe were bry t & broun. [sidenote a: thus arrayed the knight hears mass,] [sidenote b: and afterwards takes leave of arthur and his court.] [sidenote c: by that time his horse gringolet was ready,] [sidenote d: the harness of which glittered like the "gleam of the sun."] [sidenote e: then sir gawayne sets his helmet upon his head,] [sidenote f: fastened behind with a "urisoun,"] [sidenote g: richly embroidered with gems.] [sidenote h: the circle around the helmet was decked with diamonds.] vi. [a] then þay schewed hym þe schelde, þat was of schyr goule , wyth þe pentangel de-paynt of pure golde hwe ; he brayde hit by þe baude-ryk, aboute þe hals kestes, Þat bisemed þe segge semlyly fayre. [b] & quy þe pentangel apende to þat prynce noble, i am in tent yow to telle, þof tary hyt me schulde; hit is a syngne þat salamon set sum-quyle, in bytoknyng of trawþe, bi tytle þat hit habbe , for hit is a figure þat halde fyue poynte , [fol. b] & vche lyne vmbe-lappe & louke in oþer, [c] & ay quere hit is endele ,[ ] & englych hit callen ouer-al, as i here, þe endeles knot. for-þy hit acorde to þis kny t, & to his cler arme , for ay faythful in fyue & sere fyue syþe , [d] gawan wat for gode knawen, & as golde pured, voyded of vche vylany, wyth vertue [ ] ennourned in mote; for-þy þe pen-tangel nwe he ber in schelde & cote, [e] as tulk of tale most trwe, & gentylest kny t of lote. [sidenote a: then they show him his shield with the "pentangle" of pure gold.] [sidenote b: the "pentangle" was devised by solomon as a token of truth.] [sidenote c: it is called the endless knot] [sidenote d: it well becomes the good sir gawayne,] [sidenote e: a knight the truest of speech and the fairest of form.] [footnote : ms emdele .] [footnote : ms verertue ] vii. [a] fyrst he wat funden fautle in his fyue wytte , & efte fayled neuer þe freke in his fyue fyngres, [b] & alle his afyaunce vpon folde wat in þe fyue wounde Þat cryst ka t on þe croys, as þe crede telle ; & quere-so-euer þys mon in melly wat stad, his þro þo t wat in þat, þur alle oþer þynge , Þat alle his forsnes he fong at þe fyue ioye , Þat þe hende heuen quene had of hir chylde; at þis cause þe kny t comlyche hade [c] in þe more half of his schelde hir ymage depaynted, Þat quen he blusched þerto, his belde neuer payred. Þe fyrst[ ] fyue þat i finde þat þe frek vsed, wat fraunchyse, & fela schyp for-be[ ] al þyng; [d] his clannes & his cortaysye croked were neuer, & pite, þat passe alle poynte , þyse pure fyue were harder happed on þat haþel þen on any oþer. now alle þese fyue syþe , forsoþe, were fetled on þis kny t, & vchone halched in oþer, þat non ende hade, & fyched vpon fyue poynte , þat fayld neuer, ne samned neuer in no syde, ne sundred nouþ[er], with-outen ende at any noke [a]i quere fynde, where-euer þe gomen bygan, or glod to an ende. [e] Þer-fore on his schene schelde schapen wat þe knot, Þus alle wyth red golde vpon rede gowle , Þat is þe pure pentaungel wyth þe peple called, [fol. ] with lore. now grayþed is gawan gay, [f] & la t his launce ry t þore, & gef hem alle goud day, he wende for euer more. [sidenote a: he was found faultless in his five wits.] [sidenote b: his trust was in the five wounds.] [sidenote c: the image of the virgin was depicted upon his shield.] [sidenote d: in cleanness and courtesy he was never found wanting,] [sidenote e: therefore was the endless knot fastened on his shield.] [sidenote f: sir gawayne seizes his lance and bids all "good day."] [footnote : ms fyft.] [footnote : for-bi (?).] viii. [a] he sperred þe sted with þe spure , & sprong on his way, so stif þat þe ston fyr stroke out þer-after; [b] al þat se þat semly syked in hert, & sayde soþly al same segges til oþer, carande for þat comly, "bi kryst, hit is scaþe, Þat þou, leude, schal be lost, þat art of lyf noble! [c] to fynde hys fere vpon folde, in fayth is not eþe; warloker to haf wro t had more wyt bene, & haf dy t onder dere a duk to haue worþed; [d] a lowande leder of lede in londe hym wel seme , & so had better haf ben þen britned to no t, [e] hadet wyth an aluisch mon, for angarde pryde. who knew euer any kyng such counsel to take, as kny te in caueloun on cryst-masse gomne !" [f] wel much wat þe warme water þat waltered of y en, when þat semly syre so t fro þo wone þat[ ] daye; he made non abode, bot wy tly went hys way, [g] mony wylsum way he rode, Þe bok as i herde say. [sidenote a: he spurs his horse and goes on his way.] [sidenote b: all that saw that seemly one mourned in their hearts.] [sidenote c: they declared that his equal was not to be found upon earth.] [sidenote d: it would have been better for him to have been a leader of men,] [sidenote e: than to die by the hands of "an elvish man."] [sidenote f: much was the warm water that poured from eyes that day.] [sidenote g: meanwhile many a weary way goes sir gawayne.] [footnote : ms. þad.] ix. [a] now ride þis renk þur þe ryalme of logres, sir gauan on gode halue, þa hym no gomen þo t; oft, leudle alone, he lenge on ny te , Þer he fonde no t hym byfore þe fare þat he lyked; [b] hade he no fere bot his fole, bi frythe & doune , ne no gome bot god, bi gate wyth to karp, [c] til þat he ne ed ful noghe[ ] in to þe norþe wale ; alle þe iles of anglesay on lyft half he halde , & fare ouer þe forde by þe for-londe , [d] ouer at þe holy-hede, til he hade eft bonk in þe wyldrenesse of wyrale; wonde þer bot lyte [e] Þat auþer god oþer gome wyth goud hert louied. [fol. b] & ay he frayned, as he ferde, at freke þat he met, [f] if þay hade herde any karp of a kny t grene, in any grounde þer-aboute, of þe grene chapel;[ ] & al nykked hym wyth nay, þat neuer in her lyue [g] Þay se e neuer no segge þat wat of suche hwe of grene. Þe kny t tok gates straunge, in mony a bonk vnbene, [h] his cher ful oft con chaunge, Þat chapel er he my t sene. [sidenote a: now rides the knight through the realms of england.] [sidenote b: he has no companion but his horse.] [sidenote c: no men does he see till he approaches north wales.] [sidenote d: from holyhead he passes into wirral.] [sidenote e: there he finds but few that loved god or man.] [sidenote f: he enquires after the green knight of the green chapel,] [sidenote g: but can gain no tidings of him.] [sidenote h: his cheer oft changed before he found the chapel.] [footnote : nyghe (?).] [footnote : ms. clapel.] x. [a] mony klyf he ouer-clambe in contraye straunge, fer floten fro his frende fremedly he ryde ; [b] at vche warþe oþer water þer þe wy e passed, he fonde a foo hym byfore, bot ferly hit were, & þat so foule & so felle, þat fe t hym by-hode; [c] so mony meruayl hi mount þer þe mon fynde , hit were to tore for to telle of þe tenþe dole. [d] sumwhyle wyth worme he werre , & with wolues als, sumwhyle wyth wodwos, þat woned in þe knarre , [e] boþe wyth bulle & bere , & bore oþer-quyle, & etayne , þat hym a-nelede, of þe he e felle; [f] nade he ben du ty & dry e, & dry tyn had serued, douteles he hade ben ded, & dreped ful ofte. [g] for werre wrathed hym not so much, þat wynter was wors, when þe colde cler water fro þe cloude schadden, & fres er hit falle my t to þe fale erþe; ner slayn wyth þe slete he sleped in his yrnes, mo ny te þen in-noghe in naked rokke , Þer as claterande fro þe crest þe colde borne renne , & henged he e ouer his hede in hard ÿsse-ikkles. [h] Þus in peryl, & payne, & plytes ful harde, bi contray carye þis kny t, tyl kryst-masse euen, al one; Þe kny t wel þat tyde, [i] to mary made his mone. Þat ho hym red to ryde, & wysse hym to sum wone. [fol. .] [sidenote a: many a cliff he climbed over;] [sidenote b: many a ford and stream he crossed, and everywhere he found a foe.] [sidenote c: it were too tedious to tell the tenth part of his adventures] [sidenote d: with serpents, wolves, and wild men;] [sidenote e: with bulls, bears, and boars.] [sidenote f: had he not been both brave and good, doubtless he had been dead.] [sidenote g: the sharp winter was far worse than any war that ever troubled him.] [sidenote h: thus in peril he travels till christmas-eve.] [sidenote i: to the virgin mary he prays to guide him to some abode.] xi. [a] bi a mounte on þe morne meryly he rydes, into a forest ful dep, þat ferly wat wylde, hi e hille on vche a halue, & holt wode vnder, [b] of hore oke fill hoge a hundreth to-geder; Þe hasel & þe ha -þorne were harled al samen, with ro e raged mosse rayled ay-where, [c] with mony brydde vnblyþe vpon bare twyges, Þat pitosly þer piped for pyne of þe colde. Þe gome vpon gryngolet glyde hem vnder, [d] Þur mony misy & myre, mon al hym one, carande for his costes, lest he ne keuer schulde, to se þe seruy[ ] of þat syre, þat on þat self ny t of a burde wat borne, oure baret to quelle; [e] & þerfore sykyng he sayde, "i be-seche þe, lorde, & mary, þat is myldest moder so dere. of sum herber, þer he ly i my t here masse. ande þy matyne to-morne, mekely i ask, & þer-to prestly i pray my pater & aue, & crede." he rode in his prayere, & cryed for his mysdede, [f] he sayned hym in syþes sere, & sayde "cros kryst me spede!" [sidenote a: on the morn sir gawayne finds himself in a deep forest,] [sidenote b: where were old oaks many a hundred.] [sidenote c: many sad birds upon bare twigs piped piteously for the cold.] [sidenote d: through many a mire he goes, that he may celebrate the birth of christ.] [sidenote e: he beseeches the virgin mary to direct him to some lodging where he may hear mass.] [sidenote f: blessing himself, he says, "cross of christ, speed me!"] [footnote : seruyce (?).] xii. [a] nade he sayned hym-self, segge, bot þrye, er he wat war in þe wod of a won in a mote. [b] abof a launde, on a lawe, loken vnder bo e , of mony borelych bole, aboute bi þe diches; [c] a castel þe comlokest þat euer kny t a te, pyched on a prayere, a park al aboute, with a pyked palays, pyned ful þik, Þat vmbe-te e mony tre mo þen two myle. Þat holde on þat on syde þe haþel auysed, [d] as hit schemered & schon þur þe schyre oke ; Þenne hat he hendly of his helme, & he ly he þonke iesus & say[nt] gilyan, þat gentyle ar boþe, Þat cortaysly hade hym kydde, & his cry herkened. [fol. b.] "now bone hostel," coþe þe burne, "i be-seche yow ette!" Þenne gedere he to gryngolet with þe gilt hele , [e] & he ful chauncely hat chosen to þe chef gate, Þat bro t bremly þe burne to þe bryge ende, in haste; [f] Þe bryge wat breme vp-brayde, Þe ate wer stoken faste, Þe walle were wel arayed, hit dut no wynde blaste. [sidenote a: scarcely had he blessed himself thrice] [sidenote b: when he saw a dwelling in the wood, set on a hill,] [sidenote c: the comeliest castle that knight ever owned.] [sidenote d: it shone as the sun through the bright oaks.] [sidenote e: sir gawayne goes to the chief gate,] [sidenote f: and finds the draw-bridge raised, and the gates shut fast.] xiii. [a] Þe burne bode on bonk, þat on blonk houed, of þe depe double dich þat drof to þe place, Þe walle wod in þe water wonderly depe, [b] ande eft a ful huge he t hit haled vpon lofte, of harde hewen ston vp to þe table , [c] enbaned vnder þe abataylment, in þe best lawe; & syþen garyte ful gaye gered bi-twene, wyth mony luflych loupe, þat louked ful clene; a better barbican þat burne blusched vpon neuer; & innermore he be-helde þat halle ful hy e, [d] towre telded bytwene trochet ful þik, fayre fylyole þat fy ed, & ferlyly long, [e] with coruon coprounes, craftyly sle e; chalk whyt chymnees þer ches he in-no e, vpon bastel roue , þat blenked ful quyte; so mony pynakle payntet wat poudred ay quere, among þe castel carnele , clambred so þik, Þat pared out of papure purely hit semed. [f] Þe fre freke on þe fole hit fayr in-n[o]ghe þo t, if he my t keuer to com þe cloyster wyth-inne, to herber in þat hostel, whyl halyday lested auinant; [g] he calde, & sone þer com a porter pure plesaunt, on þe wal his ernd he nome, & haylsed þe kny t erraunt. [sidenote a: the knight abides on the bank,] [sidenote b: and observes the "huge height,"] [sidenote c: with its battlements and watch towers.] [sidenote d: bright and long were its round towers,] [sidenote e: with their well-made capitals.] [sidenote f: he thinks it fair enough if he might only come within the cloister.] [sidenote g: he calls, and soon there comes a porter to know the knight's errand.] xiv. [a] "gode sir," quod gawan, "wolde þou go myn ernde, to þe he lorde of þis hous, herber to craue?" " e, peter," quod þe porter, "& purely i trowe,[ ] [fol. .] [b] Þat e be, wy e, welcum to won quyle yow lyke ." Þen ede þat wy e a ayn awyþe, & folke frely hym wyth, to fonge þe kny t; [c] Þay let doun þe grete dra t, & derely out eden, & kneled doun on her knes vpon þe colde erþe, to welcum þis ilk wy , as worþy hom þo t; [d] Þay olden hym þe brode ate, arked vp wyde, & he hem raysed rekenly, & rod ouer þe brygge; sere segge hym sesed by sadel, quel[ ] he ly t, [e] & syþen stabeled his stede stif men in-no e. [f] kny te & swyere comen doun þenne, for to bryng þis burne[ ] wyth blys in-to halle; [g] quen he hef vp his helme, þer hi ed in-noghe for to hent hit at his honde, þe hende to seruen, his bronde & his blasoun boþe þay token. Þen haylsed he ful hendly þo haþele vch one, & mony proud mon þer presed, þat prynce to honour; alle hasped in his he wede to halle þay hym wonnen, Þer fayre fyre vpon flet fersly brenned. [h] Þenne þe lorde of þe lede loute fro his chambre, for to mete wyth menske þe mon on þe flor; he sayde, " e ar welcum to welde as yow lyke , Þat here is, al is yowre awen, to haue at yowre wylle & welde." "graunt mercy," quod gawayn, "Þer kryst hit yow for- elde," [i] as freke þat semed fayn, ayþer oþer in arme con felde. [sidenote a: "good sir," says gawayne, "ask the high lord of this house to grant me a lodging."] [sidenote b: "you are welcome to dwell here as long as you like," replied the porter.] [sidenote c: the draw-bridge is let down,] [sidenote d: and the gate is opened wide to receive him.] [sidenote e: his horse is well stabled.] [sidenote f: knights and squires bring gawayne into the hall.] [sidenote g: many a one hastens to take his helmet and sword.] [sidenote h: the lord of the country bids him welcome,] [sidenote i: and they embrace each other.] [footnote : trowoe, ms.] [footnote : quyle (?) or quen (?).] [footnote : buurne, ms.] xv. [a] gawayn gly t on þe gome þat godly hym gret, [b] & þu t hit a bolde burne þat þe bur a te, a hoge haþel for þe none , & of hyghe elde;[ ] [c] brode bry t wat his berde, & al beuer hwed, sturne stif on þe stryþþe on stal-worth schonke , [d] felle face as þe fyre, & fre of hys speche; & wel hym semed for soþe, as þe segge þu t, to lede a lortschyp in lee of leude ful gode. [e] Þe lorde hym charred to a chambre, & chefly cumaunde [ ] [fol.] to delyuer hym a leude, hym lo ly to serue; [ b.] & þere were boun at his bode burne in-no e, [f] Þat bro t hym to a bry t boure, þer beddyng wat noble, of cortynes of clene sylk, wyth cler golde hemme , [g] & couertore ful curious, with comlych pane , of bry t blaunnier a-boue enbrawded bisyde , rudele rennande on rope , red golde rynge , [h] tapyte ty t to þe wo e, of tuly & tars, & vnder fete, on þe flet, of fol ande sute. [i] Þer he wat dispoyled, wyth speche of myerþe, Þe burn of his bruny, & of his bry t wede ; [j] ryche robes ful rad renkke hem[ ] bro ten, for to charge, & to chaunge, & chose of þe best. sone as he on hent, & happed þer-inne, Þat sete on hym[ ] semly, wyth saylande skyrte , [k] Þe ver by his uisage verayly hit semed wel ne to vche haþel alle on hwes, lowande & lufly, alle his lymme vnder, [l] Þat a comloker kny t neuer kryst made, hem þo t; wheþen in worlde he were, hit semed as he my t be prynce with-outen pere, in felde þer felle men fy t. [sidenote a: gawayne looks on his host;] [sidenote b: a big bold one he seemed.] [sidenote c: beaver-hued was his broad beard,] [sidenote d: and his face as "fell as the fire."] [sidenote e: the lord leads gawayne to a chamber, and assigns him a page to wait upon him.] [sidenote f: in this bright bower was noble bedding;] [sidenote g: the curtains were of pure silk with golden hems;] [sidenote h: tarsic tapestries covered the walls and the floor.] [sidenote i: here the knight doffed his armour,] [sidenote j: and put on rich robes,] [sidenote k: which well became him.] [sidenote l: a more comely knight christ never made.] [footnote : eldee, ms.] [footnote : clesly, ms.] [footnote : hym (?).] [footnote : ms. hyn.] xvi. [a] a cheyer by-fore þe chemné, þer charcole brenned, wat grayþed for sir gawan, grayþely with cloþe , whyssynes vpon queldepoyntes, þa[t] koynt wer boþe; [b] & þenne a mere mantyle wat on þat mon cast, of a broun bleeaunt, enbrauded ful ryche, & fayre furred wyth-inne with felle of þe best, alle of ermyn in erde, his hode of þe same; & he sete in þat settel semlych ryche, & achaufed hym chefly,[ ] & þenne his cher mended. [c] sone wat telded vp a tapit, on treste ful fayre, [d] clad wyth a clene cloþe, þat cler quyt schewed, sanap, & salure, & syluer-in spone ; Þe wy e wesche at his wylle, & went to his mete [fol. .] segge hym serued semly in-no e, [e] wyth sere sewes & sete,[ ] sesounde of þe best, double felde, as hit falle , & fele kyn fische ; [f] summe baken in bred, summe brad on þe glede , [g] summe soþen, summe in sewe, sauered with spyces, & ay sawes[ ] so sle e , þat þe segge lyked. Þe freke calde hit a fest ful frely & ofte, [h] ful hendely, quen alle þe haþeles re-hayted hym at one as hende; "Þis penaunce now e take, & eft hit schal amende;" [i] Þat mon much merþe con make. for wyn in his hed þat wende. [sidenote a: a chair is placed for sir gawayne before the fireplace.] [sidenote b: a mantle of fine linen, richly embroidered, is thrown over him.] [sidenote c: a table is soon raised,] [sidenote d: and the knight, having washed, proceeded to meat.] [sidenote e: he is served with numerous dishes;] [sidenote f: with fish baked and broiled,] [sidenote g: or boiled and seasoned with spices.] [sidenote h: he calls it a full noble feast,] [sidenote i: and much mirth he makes, for the wine is in his head.] [footnote : ms. cefly.] [footnote : swete (?).] [footnote : sewes (?).] xvii. [a] Þenne wat spyed & spured vpon spare wyse. bi preue poynte of þat prynce, put to hym-seluen, Þat he be-knew cortaysly of þe court þat he were, [b] Þat aþel arthure þe hende halde hym one, Þat is þe ryche ryal kyng of þe rounde table; & hit wat wawen hym-self þat in þat won sytte , comen to þat krystmasse, as case hym þen lymped. [c] when þe lorde hade lerned þat he þe leude hade, loude la ed he þerat, so lef hit hym þo t, [d] & alle þe men in þat mote maden much joye, to apere in his presense prestly þat tyme, Þat alle prys, & prowes, & pured þewes apendes to hys persoun, & praysed is euer, by-fore alle men vpon molde, his mensk is þe most. [e] vch segge ful softly sayde to his fere, [f] "now schal we semlych se sle te of þewe , & þe teccheles termes of talkyng noble, wich spede is in speche, vnspurd may we lerne, [g] syn we haf fonged þat fyne fader of nurture; god hat geuen vus his grace godly for soþe, Þat such a gest as gawan graunte vus to haue, when burne blyþe of his burþe schal sitte & synge. in menyng of manere mere, Þis burne now schal vus bryng, [fol. b.] [h] i hope þat may hym here, schal lerne of luf-talkyng." [sidenote a: sir gawayne, in answer to questions put to him,] [sidenote b: tells the prince that he is of arthur's court.] [sidenote c: when this was made known,] [sidenote d: great was the joy in the hall.] [sidenote e: each one said softly to his mate,] [sidenote f: "now we shall see courteous manners and hear noble speech,] [sidenote g: for we have amongst us the 'father of nurture.'] [sidenote h: he that may him hear shall learn of love-talking."] xviii. [a] bi þat þe diner wat done, & þe dere vp, hit wat ne at þe niy t ne ed þe tyme; chaplayne [ ] to þe chapeles chosen þe gate, rungen ful rychely, ry t as þay schulden, [b] to þe hersum euensong of þe hy e tyde. Þe lorde loutes þerto, & þe lady als, in-to a comly closet coyntly ho entre ; gawan glyde ful gay, & gos þeder sone; Þe lorde laches hym by þe lappe, & lede hym to sytte, & couþly hym knowe , & calle hym his nome, & sayde he wat þe welcomest wy e of þe worlde; [c] & he hym þonkked þroly, & ayþer halched oþer. & seten soberly samen þe seruise-quyle; Þenne lyst þe lady to loke on þe kny t. [d] Þenne com ho of hir closet, with mony cler burde , ho wat þe fayrest in felle, of flesche & of lyre, & of compas, & colour, & costes of alle oþer, [e] & wener þen wenore, as þe wy e þo t. he ches þur þe chaunsel, to cheryche þat hende; [f] an oþer lady hir lad bi þe lyft honde, Þat wat alder þen ho, an auncian hit semed, & he ly honowred with haþele aboute. [g] bot yn-lyke on to loke þo ladyes were, [h] for if þe onge wat ep, ol e wat þat oþer; riche red on þat on rayled ay quere, [i] rugh ronkled cheke þat oþer on rolled; kerchofes of þat on wyth mony cler perle [j] hir brest & hir bry t þrote bare displayed, schon schyrer þen snawe, þat scheder[ ] on hille ; Þat oþer wyth a gorger wat gered ouer þe swyre, chymbled ouer hir blake chyn with mylk-quyte vayles, [k] hir frount folden in sylk, enfoubled ay quere, toret & treieted with tryfle aboute, [l] Þat no t wat bare of þat burde bot þe blake bro es. [fol. .] Þe tweyne y en, & þe nase, þe naked lyppe , & þose were soure to se, & sellyly blered; a mensk lady on molde mon may hir calle, for gode; [m] hir body wat schort & þik. [n] hir buttoke bay & brode, more lykker-wys on to lyk, wat þat scho hade on lode. [sidenote a: after dinner the company go to the chapel,] [sidenote b: to hear the evensong of the great season.] [sidenote c: the lord of the castle and sir gawayne sit together during service.] [sidenote d: his wife, accompanied by her maids, leaves her seat.] [sidenote e: she appeared even fairer than guenever.] [sidenote f: an older lady (an ancient one she seemed) led her by the hand.] [sidenote g: very unlike were these two.] [sidenote h: if the young one was fair the other was yellow,] [sidenote i: and had rough and wrinkled cheeks.] [sidenote j: the younger had breast and throat "bare displayed."] [sidenote k: the ancient one exposed only her "black brows," her two eyes,] [sidenote l: nose, and naked lips, all sour and bleared.] [sidenote m: her body was short and thick;] [sidenote n: her buttocks broad and round.] [footnote : ms. [claplayne .]] [footnote : schedes (?).] xix. [a] when gawayn gly t on þat gay, þat graciously loked, wyth leue la t of þe lorde he went hem a aynes; [b] Þe alder he haylses, heldande ful lowe, Þe loueloker he lappe a lyttel in arme , [c] he kysses hir comlyly, & kny tly he mele ; Þay kallen hym of a quoyntaunce, & he hit quyk aske [d] to be her seruaunt sothly, if hem-self lyked. Þay tan hym bytwene hem, wyth talkyng hym leden [e] to chambre, to chemné, & chefly þay asken [f] spyce , þat vn-sparely men speded hom to bryng, & þe wynne-lych wyne þer-with vche tyme. Þe lorde luflych aloft lepe ful ofte, mynned merthe to be made vpon mony syþe . [g] hent he ly of his hode, & on a spere henged, & wayned hom to wynne þe worchip þer-of, [h] Þat most myrþe my t mene[ ] þat crystenmas whyle; "& i schal fonde, bi my fayth, to fylter wyth þe best, er me wont þe wede , with help of my frende ." Þus wyth la ande lote þe lorde hit tayt[ ] make , [i] for to glade sir gawayn with gomne in halle þat ny t; til þat hit wat tyme, Þe kyng comaundet ly t, [j] sir gawen his leue con nyme, & to his bed hym di t. [sidenote a: with permission of the lord,] [sidenote b: sir gawayne salutes the elder,] [sidenote c: but the younger he kisses,] [sidenote d: and begs to be her servant.] [sidenote e: to chamber all go,] [sidenote f: where spices and wine are served.] [sidenote g: the lord takes off his hood and places it on a spear.] [sidenote h: he who makes most mirth is to win it.] [sidenote i: night approaches, and then] [sidenote j: sir gawayne takes his leave and retires to rest.] [footnote : meue (?).] [footnote : layt (?).] xx. [a] on þe morne, as vch mon myne þat tyme, [b] [Þ]at dry tyn for oure destyné to de e wat borne, wele waxe in vche a won in worlde, for his sake; [c] so did hit þere on þat day, þur dayntes mony; boþe at mes & at mele, messes ful quaynt [fol. b.] derf men vpon dece drest of þe best. [d] Þe olde auncian wyf he est ho sytte ; Þe lorde lufly her by lent, as i trowe; [e] gawan & þe gay burde to-geder þay seten, euen in-mydde , as þe messe metely come; & syþen þur al þe sale, as hem best semed, [f] bi vche grome at his degre grayþely wat serued. Þer wat mete, þer wat myrþe, þer wat much ioye, Þat for to telle þerof hit me tene were, & to poynte hit et i pyned me parauenture; [g] bot et i wot þat wawen & þe wale burde such comfort of her compaynye ca ten to-geder, Þur her dere dalyaunce of her derne worde , wyth clene cortays carp, closed fro fylþe; & hor play wat passande vche prynce gomen, in vayres; [h] trumpe & nakerys, much pypyng þer repayres, vche mon tented hys, & þay two tented þayres. [sidenote a: on christmas morn,] [sidenote b: joy reigns in every dwelling in the world.] [sidenote c: so did it in the castle where our knight abode.] [sidenote d: the lord and "the old ancient wife" sit together.] [sidenote e: gawayne sits by the wife of his host.] [sidenote f: it were too tedious to tell of the meat, the mirth, and the joy that abounded everywhere.] [sidenote g: gawayne and his beautiful companion derive much comfort from each other's conversation.] [sidenote h: trumpets and nakers give forth their sounds.] xxi. [a] much dut wat þer dryuen þat day & þat oþer, & þe þryd as þro þronge in þerafter; [b] Þe ioye of sayn ione day wat gentyle to here, & wat þe last of þe layk, leude þer þo ten. Þer wer gestes to go vpon þe gray morne, for-þy wonderly þay woke, & þe wyn dronken, daunsed ful dre ly wyth dere carole ; [c] at þe last, when hit wat late, þay lachen her leue, vchon to wende on his way, þat wat wy e stronge. gawan gef hym god-day, þe god mon hym lachche , ledes hym to his awen chambre, þ[e] chymné bysyde, [d] & þere he dra e hym on-dry e, & derely hym þonkke , of þe wynne worschip &[ ] he hym wayned hade, as to honour his hous on þat hy e tyde, & enbelyse his bur with his bele chere. "i-wysse sir, quyl i leue, me worþe þe better, Þat gawayn hat ben my gest, at godde awen fest." [fol. .] "grant merci[ ] sir," quod gawayn, "in god fayth hit is yowre , al þe honour is your awen, þe he e kyng yow elde; & i am wy e at your wylle, to worch youre hest, as i am halden þer-to, in hy e & in lo e, bi ri t." [e] Þe lorde fast can hym payne, to holde lenger þe kny t, to hym answre gawayn, bi non way þat he my t. [sidenote a: great was the joy for three days.] [sidenote b: st. john's-day was the last of the christmas festival.] [sidenote c: on the morrow many of the guests took their departure from the castle.] [sidenote d: sir gawayne is thanked by his host for the honour and pleasure of his visit.] [sidenote e: he endeavours to keep the knight at his court.] [footnote : þat (?).] [footnote : nerci, in ms.] xxii. [a] then frayned þe freke ful fayre at him-seluen, quat derne[ ] dede had hym dryuen, at þat dere tyme, so kenly fro þe kynge kourt to kayre al his one, er þe halidaye holly were halet out of toun? [b] "for soþe sir," quod þe segge, " e sayn bot þe trawþe a he e ernde & a hasty me hade fro þo wone , for i am sumned my selfe to sech to a place, i wot[ ] in worlde wheder warde to wende, hit to fynde; i nolde, bot if i hit negh my t on nw eres morne, for alle þe londe in-wyth logres, so me oure lorde help! for-þy, sir, þis enquest i require yow here, [c] Þat e me telle with trawþe, if euer e tale herde of þe grene chapel, quere hit on grounde stonde , & of þe kny t þat hit kepes, of colour of grene? Þer wat stabled bi statut a steuen vus by-twene, [d] to mete þat mon at þat mere, if i my t last; & of þat ilk nw ere hot neked now wonte , & i wolde loke on þat lede, if god me let wolde, gladloker, bi godde sun, þen any god welde! for-þi, i-wysse, bi owre wylle, wende me bi-houes, [e] naf i now to busy bot bare þre daye , & me als fayn to falle feye as fayly of myyn ernde." [f] Þenne la ande quod þe lorde, "now leng þe by-houes, for i schal teche yow to þa[t] terme bi þe tyme ende, Þe grene chapayle vpon grounde, greue yow no more; bot e schal be in yowre bed, burne, at þyn ese, quyle forth dayej, & ferk on pe fyrst of pe ere, & cum to þat merk at mydmorn, to make quat yow like [fol. b] in spenne; dowelle whyle new eres daye, & rys, & rayke þenne, [g] mon schal yow sette in waye, hit is not two myle henne." [sidenote a: he desires to know what had driven sir gawayne from arthur's court before the end of the christmas holidays.] [sidenote b: the knight replies that "a high errand and a hasty one" had forced him to leave the court.] [sidenote c: he asks his host whether he has ever heard of the green chapel,] [sidenote d: for he has to be there on new year's-day.] [sidenote e: he wonld as lief die as fail in his errand.] [sidenote f: the prince tells sir gawayne that he will teach him the way.] [sidenote g: the green chapel is not more than two miles from the castle.] [footnote : derue (?).] [footnote : not (?).] xxiii. [a] Þenne wat gawan ful glad, & gomenly he la ed,-- "now i þonk yow þryuandely þur alle oþer þynge, [b] now acheued is my chaunce, i schal at your wylle dowelle, & elle do quat e demen." Þenne sesed hym þe syre, & set hym bysyde, [c] let þe ladie be fette, to lyke hem þe better; Þer wat seme solace by hem-self stille; Þe lorde let for luf lote so myry, as wy þat wolde of his wyte, ne wyst quat he my t. Þenne he carped to þe kny t, criande loude, [d] " e han demed to do þe dede þat i bidde; wyl e halde þis hes here at þys one ?" " e sir, for-soþe," sayd þe segge trwe, "whyl i byde in yowre bor e, be bayn to ow[r]e hest." "for e haf trauayled," quod þe tulk, "towen fro ferre, & syþen waked me wyth, e arn not wel waryst, [e] nauþer of sostnaunce ne of slepe, soþly i knowe; e schal lenge in your lofte, & ly e in your ese, [f] to morn quyle þe messe-quyle, & to mete wende, when e wyl, wyth my wyf, þat wyth yow schal sitte, & comfort yow with compayny, til i to cort torne, e lende; & i schal erly ryse, on huntyng wyl i wende." [g] gauayn grante alle þyse, hym heldande, as þe hende. [sidenote a: then was gawayne glad,] [sidenote b: and consents to tarry awhile at the castle.] [sidenote c: the ladies are brought in to solace him.] [sidenote d: the lord of the castle asks the knight to grant him one request;] [sidenote e: that he will stay in his chamber during mass time,] [sidenote f: and then go to meat with his hostess.] [sidenote g: gawayne accedes to his request.] xxiv. [a] " et firre," quod þe freke, "a forwarde we make; quat-so-euer i wynne in þe wod, hit worþe to youre , [b] & quat chek so e acheue, chaunge me þer-forne; swete, swap we so, sware with trawþe, queþer, leude, so lymp lere oþer better." "bi god," quod gawayn þe gode, "i grant þer-tylle, & þat yow lyst forto layke, lef hit me þynkes. [fol. .] [c] "who bringe vus þis beuerage, þis bargayn is maked:" so sayde þe lorde of þat lede; þay la ed vchone, Þay dronken, & daylyeden, & dalten vnty tel,[ ] Þise lorde & ladye , quyle þat hem lyked; & syþen with frenkysch fare & fele fayre lote Þay stoden, & stemed, & stylly speken, kysten ful comlyly, & ka ten her leue. [d] with mony leude ful ly t, & lemande torches, vche burne to his bed wat bro t at þe laste, ful softe; to bed et er þay ede, recorded couenaunte ofte; Þe olde lorde of þat leude,[ ] cowþe wel halde layk a-lofte. [sidenote a: "whatsoever," says the host, "i win in the wood shall be yours,] [sidenote b: and what check you achieve shall be mine."] [sidenote c: a bargain is made between them.] [sidenote d: night approaches and each "to his bed was brought at the last."] [footnote : vntyl ny te (?).] [footnote : lede (?).] [fytte the third.] i. [a] ful erly bifore þe day þe folk vp-rysen, gestes þat go wolde, hor grome þay calden, [b] & þay busken vp bilyue, blonkke to sadel, tyffen he[r] takles, trussen her males, richen hem þe rychest, to ryde alle arayde, lepen vp ly tly, lachen her brydeles, [c] vche wy e on his way, þer hym wel lyked. [d] Þe leue lorde of þe londe wat not þe last, a-rayed for þe rydyng, with renkke ful mony; [e] ete a sop hastyly, when he hade herde masse, with bugle to bent felde he buske by-lyue; [f] by þat þat any day-ly t lemed vpon erþe, he with his haþeles on hy e horsses weren. [g] Þenne þise cacheres þat couþe, cowpled hor hounde , vnclosed þe kenel dore, & calde hem þer-oute, [h] blwe bygly in bugle þre bare mote; braches bayed þerfore, & breme noyse maked, [i] & þay chastysed, & charred, on chasyng þat went; a hundreth of hunteres, as i haf herde telle, of þe best; [j] to trystors vewters od, couples huntes of kest, Þer ros for blaste gode, [fol. b.] [k] gret rurd in þat forest. [sidenote a: before day-break folks uprise,] [sidenote b: saddle their horses, and truss their mails.] [sidenote c: each goes where it pleases him best.] [sidenote d: the noble lord of the land arrays himself for riding.] [sidenote e: he eats a sop hastily and goes to mass.] [sidenote f: before day-light he and his men are on their horses.] [sidenote g: then the hounds are called out and coupled.] [sidenote h: three short notes are blown by the bugles.] [sidenote i: a hundred hunters join in the chase.] [sidenote j: to the stations the "fewters" go,] [sidenote k: and the dogs are cast off.] ii. [a] at þe fyrst quethe of þe quest quaked þe wylde; der drof in þe dale, doted for drede, hi ed to þe hy e, bot heterly þay were [b] restayed with þe stablye, þat stoutly ascryed; [c] Þay let þe hertte haf þe gate, with þe hy e hedes, Þe breme bukke also, with hor brode paume ; for þe fre lorde hade de-fende in fermysoun tyme, Þat þer schulde no mon mene[ ] to þe male dere. [d] Þe hinde were halden in, with hay & war, Þe does dryuen with gret dyn to þe depe slade ; Þer my t mon se, as þay slypte, slentyng of arwes, [e] at vche [þat] wende vnder wande wapped a flone, Þat bigly bote on þe broun, with ful brode hede , [f] what! þay brayen, & bleden, bi bonkke þay de en. & ay rachches in a res radly hem fol es, huntere wyth hy e horne hasted hem after, [g] wyth such a crakkande kry, as klyffes haden brusten; what wylde so at-waped wy es þat schotten, wat al to-raced & rent, at þe resayt. bi þay were tened at þe hy e, & taysed to þe wattre , Þe lede were so lerned at þe lo e trysteres, & þe gre-hounde so grete, þat geten hem bylyue, & hem to fylched, as fast as freke my t loke, þer ry t. [h] Þe lorde for blys abloy ful oft con launce & ly t, [i] & drof þat day wyth ioy thus to þe derk ny t. [sidenote a: roused by the clamour the deer rush to the heights,] [sidenote b: but are soon driven back.] [sidenote c: the harts and bucks are allowed to pass,] [sidenote d: but the hinds and does are driven back to the shades.] [sidenote e: as they fly they are shot by the bowmen.] [sidenote f: the hounds and the hunters, with a loud cry, follow in pursuit.] [sidenote g: those that escaped the arrows are killed by the hounds.] [sidenote h: the lord waxes joyful in the chase,] [sidenote i: which lasted till the approach of night.] [footnote : meue (?).] iii. [a] Þus layke þis lorde by lynde wode eue , & g. þe god mon, in gay bed lyge , [b] lurkke quyl þe day-ly t lemed on þe wowes, vnder couertour ful clere, cortyned aboute; & as in slomeryng he slode, sle ly he herde [c] a littel dyn at his dor, & derfly vpon; & he heue vp his hed out of þe cloþes, a corner of þe cortyn he ca t vp a lyttel, [fol. .] & wayte warly þider-warde, quat hit be my t. [d] hit wat þe ladi, loflyest to be-holde, Þat dro þe dor after hir ful dernly[ ] & stylle, [e] & bo ed to-warde þe bed; & þe burne schamed. & layde hym doun lystyly, & let as he slepte. [f] & ho stepped stilly. & stel to his bedde, [g] kest vp þe cortyn, & creped with-inne, & set hir ful softly on þe bed-syde, & lenged þere selly longe, to loke quen he wakened. Þe lede lay lurked a ful longe quyle, [h] compast in his concience to quat þat cace my t mene oþer amount, to meruayle hym þo t; bot et he sayde in hym-self, "more semly hit were to aspye wyth my spelle [in] space quat ho wolde." [i] þen he wakenede, & wroth, & to hir warde torned, [j] & vn-louked his y e-lydde , & let as hym wondered, & sayned hym, as bi his sa e þe sauer to worthe, with hande; wyth chynne & cheke ful swete, boþe quit & red in-blande, ful lufly con ho lete, wyth lyppe smal la ande. [sidenote a: all this time gawayne lies a-bed.] [sidenote b: under "coverture full clear".] [sidenote c: he hears a noise at his door.] [sidenote d: a lady, the loveliest to behold, enters softly.] [sidenote e: she approaches the bed.] [sidenote f: gawayne pretends to be asleep.] [sidenote g: the lady casts up the curtain and sits on the bedside.] [sidenote h: gawayne has much wonder thereat.] [sidenote i: he rouses himself up,] [sidenote j: unlocks his eyes, and looks as if he were astonished.] [footnote : deruly (?).] iv. [a] "god moroun, sir gawayn," sayde þat fayr lady, " e ar a sleper vn-sly e, þat mon may slyde hider; now ar e tan astyt, bot true vus may schape, [b] i schal bynde yow in your bedde, þat be e trayst:" al la ande þe lady lanced þo bourde . [c] "goud moroun g[aye],"[ ] quod gawayn þe blyþe, "me schal worþe at your wille, & þat me wel lyke , for i elde me ederly, & e e after grace, & þat is þe best, be my dome, for me by-houe nede;" & þus he bourded a- ayn with mony a blyþe la ter. [d] "bot wolde e, lady louely, þen leue me grante, & de-prece your prysoun, & pray hym to ryse, i wolde bo e of þis bed, & busk me better, i schulde keuer þe more comfort to karp yow wyth." [e] "nay, for soþe, beau sir," sayd þat swete, [fol. b] " e schal not rise of your bedde, i rych yow better, [f] i schal happe yow here þat oþer half als, & syþen karp wyth my kny t þat i ka t haue; [g] for i wene wel, iwysse, sir wawen e are, Þat alle þe worlde worchipe , quere-so e ride; your honour, your hendelayk is hendely praysed [h] with lorde , wyth ladyes, with alle þat lyf bere. & now e ar here, iwysse, & we bot oure one; [i] "my lorde & his lede ar on lenþe faren, [j] oþer burne in her bedde, & my burde als, [k] Þe dor drawen, & dit with a derf haspe; [l] & syþen i haue in þis hous hym þat al lyke , i schal ware my whyle wel, quyl hit laste , with tale; [m] e ar welcum to my cors, yowre awen won to wale, me be-houe of fyne force, [n] your seruaunt be & schale." [sidenote a: "good morrow", says the lady, "ye are a careless sleeper to let one enter thus.] [sidenote b: i shall bind you in your bed, of that be ye sure."] [sidenote c: "good morrow," says the knight, "i am well pleased to be at your service;] [sidenote d: but permit me to rise and dress myself."] [sidenote e: "nay, beau sir," said that sweet one,] [sidenote f: "i shall hold talk with you here.] [sidenote g: i know well that you are gawayne that all the woild worships.] [sidenote h: we are by ourselves;] [sidenote i: my lord and his men are far off.] [sidenote j: other men are in their beds, so are my maidens.] [sidenote k: the door is safely closed.] [sidenote l: since i have him in house that every one likes, i shall use my time well while it lasts.] [sidenote m: ye are welcome to my body.] [sidenote n: i shall be your servant."] [footnote : this word is illegible in the ms.] v. "in god fayth," quod gawayn, "gayn hit me þynkke , [a] Þa i be not now he þat e of speken; to reche to such reuerence as e reherce here i am wy e vn-worþy, i wot wel my-seluen; bi god, i were glad, & yow god þo t, [b] at sa e oþer at seruyce þat i sette my t to þe plesaunce of your prys, hit were a pure ioye." "in god fayth, sir gawayn," quod þe gay lady, "Þe prys & þe prowes þat plese al oþer, if i hit lakked, oþer set at ly t, hit were littel daynté; [c] bot hit ar ladyes in-no e, þat leuer wer nowþe haf þe hende in hor holde, as i þe habbe here, to daly witt derely your daynté worde , keuer hem comfort, & colen her care , [d] Þen much of þe garysourn oþer golde þat[ ] þay hauen; bot i louue[ ] þat ilk lorde þat þe lyfte halde , i haf hit holly in my honde þat al desyres, þur e grace." scho made hym so gret chere, Þat wat so fayr of face, [fol. .] [e] Þe kny t with speches skere, a[n]swared to vche a cace. [sidenote a: "i am unworthy," says sir gawayne, "to reach to such reverence as ye rehearse.] [sidenote b: i shall be glad, however, to please you by word, or service."] [sidenote c: "there are ladies," says his visitor, "who would prefer thy company] [sidenote d: to much of the gold that they possess."] [sidenote e: the knight answers the lady's questions.] [footnote : ms. þat þat.] [footnote : louie or loune (?).] vi. [a] "madame," quod þe myry mon, "mary yow elde, for i haf founden, in god fayth, yowre fraunchis nobele, & oþer ful much of oþer folk fongen hor dede ; bot þe daynté þat þay delen for my disert nysen, hit is þe worchyp of your-self, þat no t hot wel conne ." [b] "bi mary," quod þe menskful, "me þynk hit anoþer; for were i worth al þe wone of wymmen alyue, & al þe wele of þe worlde were in my honde, [c] & i schulde chepen & chose, to cheue me a lorde, for þe costes þat i haf knowen vpun þe kny t here, of bewté, & debonerté, & blyþe semblaunt, [d] & þat i haf er herkkened, & halde hit here trwee, Þer schulde no freke vpon folde bifore yow be chosen." "i-wysse, worþy," quod þe wy e, " e haf waled wel better, [e] bot i am proude of þe prys þat e put on me, & soberly your seruaunt my souerayn i holde yow, & yowre kny t i be-com, & kryst yow for- elde." Þus þay meled of much-quat, til myd-morn paste, & ay þe lady let lyk, a[ ] hym loued mych; [f] Þe freke ferde with defence, & feted ful fayre. Þa i were burde bry test, þe burde in mynde hade, Þe lasse luf in his lode, for lur þat he so t, boute hone; Þe dunte þat schulde[ ] hym deue, & nede hit most be done; [g] Þe lady þenn spek of leue. he granted hir ful sone. [sidenote a: gawayne tells her that he prefers her conversation before that of all others.] [sidenote b: the lady declares by mary,] [sidenote c: that were she about to choose her a lord,] [sidenote d: she would select gawayne before any man on earth.] [sidenote e: gawayne tells her that he will become her own knight and faithful servant.] [sidenote f: the remembrance of his adventure prevents him from thinking of love.] [sidenote g: the lady takes leave of sir gawayne.] [footnote : and (?)] [footnote : sclulde, in ms.] vii. [a] Þenne ho gef hym god-day, & wyth a glent la ed. & as ho stod, ho stonyed hym wyth ful stor worde : [b] "now he þat spede vche spech, þis disport elde yow! bot þat e be gawan, hit got in mynde." "quer-fore?" quod þe freke, & freschly he aske , ferde lest he hade fayled in fourme of his castes; bot þe burde hym blessed, & bi þis skyl sayde, "so god as gawayn gaynly is halden, [fol. b.] & cortaysye is closed so clene in hym-seluen, [c] couth not ly tly haf lenged so long wyth a lady, bot he had craued a cosse, bi his courtaysye, bi sum towch of summe tryfle, at sum tale ende." [d] Þen quod wowen, "i-wysse, worþe as yow lyke , i schal kysse at your comaundement, as a kny t falle , & fire[ ] lest he displese yow, so[ ] plede hit no more." [e] ho comes nerre with þat, & cache hym in arme , loute luflych adoun, & þe leude kysse ; Þay comly bykennen to kryst ayþer oþer; ho dos hir forth at þe dore, with-outen dyn more. & he ryches hym to ryse, & rapes hym sone, [f] clepes to his chamberlayn, choses his wede, bo e forth, quen he wat boun, blyþely to masse, & þenne he meued to his mete, þat menskly hym keped, [g] & made myry al day til þe mone rysed, with game; with[ ] neuer freke fayrer fonge, [h] bitwene two so dyngne dame, Þe alder & þe onge, much solace set þay same. [sidenote a: with a laughing glance, she says,] [sidenote b: "i am doubtful whether ye be gawayne.] [sidenote c: were it he, surely, ere this, he would have craved a kiss."] [sidenote d: "i shall kiss," says the knight, "at your commandment."] [sidenote e: with that the lady catches him in her arms and kisses him.] [sidenote f: gawayne then rises and goes to mass.] [sidenote g: he makes mirth all day till the moon rises,] [sidenote h: between the "two dames," the older and the younger.] [footnote : fere (?).] [footnote : fo, in ms.] [footnote : was (?) nas (?).] viii. [a] and ay þe lorde of þe londe is lent on his gamne , to hunt in holte & heþe, at hynde barayne, such a sowme he þer slowe bi þat þe sunne heldet, of dos & of oþer dere, to deme were wonder. Þenne fersly þay flokked in folk at þe laste, [b] & quykly of þe quelled dere a querré þay maked; Þe best bo ed þerto, with burne in-noghe, [c] gedered þe grattest of gres þat þer were, & didden hem derely vndo, as þe dede aske ; [d] serched hem at þe asay, summe þat þer were, two fyngeres þay fonde of þe fowlest of alle; [e] syþen þay slyt þe slot, sesed þe erber, [f] schaued wyth a scharp knyf, & þe schyre knitten; syþen rytte þay þe foure lymmes, & rent of þe hyde, [g] Þen brek þay þe bale, þe bale out token, [h] lystily forlancyng, & bere of þe knot; [fol. .] Þay gryped to þe gargulun, & grayþely departed [i] Þe wesaunt fro þe wynt-hole, & walt out þe gutte ; Þen scher þay out þe schuldere with her scharp knyue , [j] haled hem by a lyttel hole, to haue hole sydes; siþen britned þay þe brest, & brayden hit in twynne, & eft at þe gargulun bigyne on þenne, [k] ryue hit vp radly, ry t to þe by t, voyde out þe a-vanters, & verayly þerafter alle þe ryme by þe rybbe radly þay lance; so ryde þay of by resoun bi þe rygge bone , euenden to þe haunche, þat henged alle samen, & heuen hit vp al hole, & hwen hit of þere, & þat þayneme for þe noumbles, bi nome as i trowe, bi kynde; [l] bi þe by t al of þe þy es, Þe lappe þay lance bi-hynde, [m] to hewe hit in two þay hy es, bi þe bak-bon to vnbynde. [sidenote a: meanwhile the lord of the land and his men hunt in woods and heaths.] [sidenote b: quickly of the killed a "quarry" they make.] [sidenote c: then they set about breaking the deer.] [sidenote d: they take away the assay or fat,] [sidenote e: then they slit the slot and remove the erber.] [sidenote f: they afterwards rip the four limbs and rend off the hide.] [sidenote g: they next open the belly] [sidenote h: and take out the bowels.] [sidenote i: they then separate the weasand from the windhole and throw out the guts.] [sidenote j: the shoulders are cut out, and the breast divided into halves.] [sidenote k: the numbles are next removed.] [sidenote l: by the fork of the thighs,] [sidenote m: the flaps are hewn in two by the backbone.] ix. [a] boþe þe hede & þe hals þay hwen of þenne, & syþen sunder þay þe syde swyft fro þe chyne, & þe corbeles fee þay kest in a greue;[ ] Þenn þurled þay ayþer þik side þur , bi þe rybbe, & henged þenne a[y]þer bi ho es of þe fourche , vche freke for his fee, as falle forto haue. vpon a felle of þe fayre best, fede þay þayr houndes, [b] wyth þe lyuer & þe ly te , þe leþer of þe paunche , & bred baþed in blod, blende þer amonge ; baldely þay blw prys, bayed þayr rachche , [c] syþen fonge þay her flesche folden to home, strakande ful stoutly mony stif mote . bi þat þe dayly t wat done, þe douthe wat al wonen in-to þe comly castel, þer þe kny t bide ful stille; wyth blys & bry t fyr bette, Þe lord is comen þer-tylle, [d] when gawayn wyth hym mette, Þer wat bot wele at wylle. [sidenote a: after this the head and neck are cut off, and the sides severed from the chine.] [sidenote b: with the liver, lights and paunches, they feed the hounds.] [sidenote c: then they make for home.] [sidenote d: gawayne goes out to meet his host.] [footnote : grene (?).] x. [a] thenne comaunded þe lorde in þat sale to samen alle þe meny,[fol.] boþe þe ladyes on loghe to ly t with her burdes, [ b.] [b] bi-fore alle þe folk on þe flette, freke he bedde verayly his venysoun to fech hym byforne; [c] & al godly in gomen gaway[n] he called, teche hym to þe tayles of ful tayt bestes, schewe hym þe schyree grece schorne vpon rybbes. [d] "how paye yow þis play? haf i prys wonnen? haue i þryuandely þonk þur my craft serued?" " e i-wysse," quod þat oþer wy e, "here is wayth fayrest [e] Þat i se þis seuen ere in sesoun of wynter." "& al i gif yow, gawayn," quod þe gome þenne, "for by a-corde of couenaunt e craue hit as your awen." "Þis is soth," quod þe segge, "i say yow þatilke, &[ ] i haf worthyly þis wone wyth-inne, [f] i-wysse with as god wylle hit worþe to oure ." he hasppe his fayre hals his arme wyth-inne, & kysses hym as comlyly as he[ ] couþe awyse: "tas yow þere my cheuicaunce, i cheued no more, i wowche hit saf fynly, þa feler hit were." "hit is god," quod þe god mon, "grant mercy þerfore, [g] hit may be such, hit is þe better, &[ ] e me breue wolde where e wan þis ilk wele, biwytte of hor[ ] seluen?" [h] "Þat wat not forward," quod he, "frayst me no more, for e haftan þat yow tyde , trawe e non oþer e mowe." Þay la ed, & made hem blyþe, [i] wyth lote þat were to lowe, to soper þay ede asswyþe, wyth dayntes nwe in-nowe. [sidenote a: the lord commands all his household to assemble,] [sidenote b: and the venison to be brought before him.] [sidenote c: he calls gawayne,] [sidenote d: and asks him whether he does not deserve much praise for his success in the chase.] [sidenote e: on the knight expressing himself satisfied, he is told to take the whole according to a former agreement between them.] [sidenote f: gawayne gives the knight a comely kiss in return.] [sidenote g: his host desires to know where he has gotten such weal.] [sidenote h: as this does not enter into the covenant, he gets no answer to his question.] [sidenote i: they then proceed to supper, where were dainties new and enough.] [footnote : and = an.] [footnote : ho, in ms.] [footnote : your (?).] xi. [a] and syþen by þe chymné in chamber þay seten. [b] wy e þe walle wyn we ed to hem oft, & efte in her bourdyng þay bayþen in þe morn, to fylle þe same forwarde þat þay by-fore maden, [c] Þat chaunce so bytyde hor cheuysaunce to chaunge, what nwe so þay nome, at na t quen þay metten Þay acorded of þe couenaunte byfore þe court alle; Þe beuerage wat bro t forth in bourde at þat tyme; [fol. .] [d] Þenne þay louelych le ten leue at þe last, vche burne to his bedde busked bylyue. [e] bi þat þe coke hade crowe [ ] & cakled bot þryse, Þe lorde wat lopen of his bedde, [&] þe leude vch one, so þat þe mete & þe masse wat metely delyuered; Þe douthe dressed to þe wod, er any day sprenged, to chace; [f] he with hunte & horne , Þur playne þay passe in space, vn-coupled among þo þorne , rache þat ran on race. [sidenote a: by the hearth they sit.] [sidenote b: wine is carried round.] [sidenote c: again sir gawayne and his host renew their agreement.] [sidenote d: then they take leave of each other and hasten to bed.] [sidenote e: scarce had the cock cackled thrice when the lord was up.] [sidenote f: with his hunters and horns they pursue the chase.] [footnote : crowed (?).] xii. [a] sone þay calle of a quest in aker syde, Þe hunt re-hayted þe hounde , þat hit fyrst mynged, [b] wylde worde hym warp wyth a wrast noyce; Þe hownde þat hit herde, hastid þider swyþe, & fellen as fast to þe fuyt, fourty at ones; Þenne such a glauerande glam of gedered rachche ros, þat þe rochere rungen aboute; huntere hem hardened with horne & wyth muthe. [c] Þen al in a semblé sweyed to-geder, bitwene a flosche in þat fryth, & a foo cragge; in a knot, bi a clyffe, at þe kerre syde, Þer as þe rogh rocher vn-rydely wat fallen, [Þay] ferden to þe fyndyng, & freke hem after; [d] Þay vmbe-kesten þe knarre & þe knot boþe. wy e , whyl þay wysten wel wyt inne hem hit were, Þe best þat þer breued wat wyth þe blod hounde . [e] Þenne þay beten on þe buske , & bede hym vp ryse, & he vnsoundyly out so t segge ouer-þwert, [f] on þe sellokest swyn swenged out þere, long sythen for[ ] þe sounder þat wi t for-olde, for he wat b[este &] bor alþer grattest, [and eue]re quen he gronyed, þenne greued mony, [g] for [þre a]t þe fyrst þrast he þry t to þe erþe, & [sped hym] forth good sped, boute spyt more, [ande þay] halowed hyghe ful hy e & hay! hay! cryed haden horne to mouþe heterly rechated; [fol. b.] [h] mony wat þe myry mouthe of men & of hounde , Þat buskke after þis bor, with bost & wyth noyse, to quelle; ful oft he byde þe baye, & mayme þe mute inn-melle, [i] he hurte of þe hounde , & þay ful omerly aule & elle. [sidenote a: the hunters cheer on the hounds,] [sidenote b: which fall to the scent forty at once.] [sidenote c: all come together by the side of a cliff.] [sidenote d: they look about on all sides,] [sidenote e: and beat on the bushes.] [sidenote f: out there rushes a fierce wild boar,] [sidenote g: at the first thrust he fells three to the ground.] [sidenote h: full quickly the hunters pursue him.] [sidenote i: however, he attacks the hounds, causing them to yowl and yell.] [footnote : fro (?).] xiii. [a] schalke to schote at hym schowen to þenne, haled to hym of her arewe , hitten hym oft; bot þe poynte payred at þe pyth þat py t in his schelde , & þe barbe of his browe bite non wolde, [b] Þa þe schauen schaft schyndered in pece , Þe hede hypped a ayn, were-so-euer hit hitte; [c] bot quon þe dynte hym dered of her dry e stroke , Þen, brayn-wod for bate, on burne he rase , [d] hurte hem ful heterly þer he forth hy e , & mony ar ed þerat, & on-lyte dro en. bot þe lorde on a ly t horce launces hym after, [e] as burne bolde vpon bent his bugle he blowe , he rechated, & r[ode][ ] þur rone ful þyk, suande þis wy[ld]e swyn til þe sunne schafted. [f] Þis day wyth þis ilk dede þay dryuen on þis wyse, whyle oure luflych lede lys in his bedde, [g] gawayn grayþely at home, in gere ful ryche of hewe; Þe lady no t for ate, com to hym to salue, ful erly ho wat hym ate, his mode forto remwe. [sidenote a: the bowmen send their arrows after this wild swine,] [sidenote b: but they glide off shivered in pieces.] [sidenote c: enraged with the blows,] [sidenote d: he attacks the hunters.] [sidenote e: the lord of the land blows his bugle,] [sidenote f: and pursues the boar.] [sidenote g: all this time gawayne lies a-bed.] [footnote : the ms. is here almost illegible.] xiv. [a] ho commes to þe cortyn, & at þe kny t totes, sir wawen her welcumed worþy on fyrst, & ho hym elde a ayn, ful erne of hir worde , [b] sette hir sof[t]ly by his syde, & swyþely ho la e , & wyth a luflych loke ho layde[ ] hym þyse worde : "sir, if e be wawen, wonder me þynkke , wy e þat is so wel wrast alway to god, & conne not of compaynye þe coste vnder-take, & if mon kennes yow hom to knowe, e kest hom of your mynde;[fol.] [c] Þou hat for- eten ederly þat isterday i ta tte [ ] alder-truest token of talk þat i cowþe." "what is þat?" quod þe wyghe, "i-wysse i wot neuer, if hit be sothe þat e breue, þe blame is myn awen." [d] " et i kende yow of kyssyng," quod þe clere þenne, "quere-so countenaunce is couþe, quikly to clayme, Þat bicumes vche a kny t, þat cortaysy vses." "do way," quod þat derf mon, "my dere, þat speche, [e] for þat durst i not do, lest i denayed were, if i were werned, i were wrang i-wysse, if i profered." "ma fay," quod þe mere wyf, " e may not be werned, [f] e ar stif in-noghe to constrayne wyth strenkþe, if yow lyke , if any were so vilanous þat yow denaye[ ] wolde." " e, be god," quod gawayn, "good is your speche, bot þrete is vn-þryuande in þede þer i lende, [g] & vche gift þat is geuen not with goud wylle; i am at your comaundement, to kysse quen yow lyke , e may lach quen yow lyst, & leue quen yow þynkke , in space." [h] Þe lady loute a-doun, & comlyly kysses his face, much speche þay þer expoun, of druryes greme & grace. [sidenote a: the lady of the castle again visits sir gawayne.] [sidenote b: softly she sits by his side,] [sidenote c: and tells the knight that he has forgotten what she taught him the day before.] [sidenote d: "i taught you of kissing," she says, "that becomes every knight."] [sidenote e: gawayne says that he must not take that which is forbidden.] [sidenote f: he is told that he is strong enough to enforce it.] [sidenote g: the knight replies that every gift is worthless that is not given willingly.] [sidenote h: the lady stoops down and kisses him.] [footnote : sayde (?).] [footnote : de vaye, in ms.] xv. [a] "i woled[ ] wyt at yow, wy e," þat worþy þer sayde, "& yow wrathed not þer-wyth, what were þe skylle, Þat so ong & so epe, as e [ar] at þis tyme, so cortayse, so kny tyly, as e ar knowen oute, [b] & of alle cheualry to chose, þe chef þyng a-losed, is[ ] þe lel layk of luf, þe lettrure of armes; f[or] to telle of þis tenelyng of þis trwe kny te , hit is þe tytelet, token, & tyxt of her werkke , how le[des] for her lele luf hor lyue han auntered, endured for her drury dulful stounde , & after wenged with her walour & voyded her care, [c] & bro t blysse in-to boure, with bountees hor awen. & e ar kny t com-lokest kyd of your elde, your worde & your worchip walke ay quere, [fol. b.] & i haf seten by your-self here sere twyes, [d] et herde i neuer of your hed helde no worde Þat euer longed to luf, lasse ne more; [e] & e, þat ar so cortays & coynt of your hetes, oghe to a onke þynk ern to schewe, & teche sum tokene of trweluf craftes. why ar e lewed, þat alle þe los welde , oþer elles e demen me to dille, your dalyaunce to herken? for schame! i com hider sengel, & sitte, to lerne at yow sum game, [f] dos, teche me of your wytte, whil my lorde is fro hame." [sidenote a: "i would learn," she says, "why you, who are so young and active,] [sidenote b: so skilled in the true sport of love,] [sidenote c: and so renowned a knight,] [sidenote d: have never talked to me of love.] [sidenote e: you ought to show a young thing like me some token of 'true-love's crafts.'] [sidenote f: so teach me of your 'wit' while my lord is from home."] [footnote : wolde (?).] [footnote : in (?).] xvi. [a] "in goud fayþe," quod gawayn, "god yow for elde, gret is þe gode gle, & gomen to me huge, Þat so worþy as e wolde wynne hidere, & pyne yow with so pouer a mon, as play wyth your kny t, with any skynne countenaunce, hit keuere me ese; [b] bot to take þe toruayle[ ] to my-self, to trwluf expoun, & towche þe teme of tyxt, & tale of arme , to yow þat, i wot wel, welde more sly t of þat art, bi þe half, or a hundreth of seche as i am, oþer euer schal, in erde þer i leue, hit were a fole fele-folde, my fre, by my trawþe. [c] i wolde yowre wylnyng worche at my my t, as i am hy ly bihalden, & euer-more wylle [d] be seruaunt to your-seluen, so saue me dry tyn!" Þus hym frayned þat fre, & fondet hym ofte, forto haf wonnen hym to wo e, what-so scho þo t elle , [e] bot he de fended hym so fayr, þat no faut semed, ne non euel on nawþer halue, nawþer þay wysten, bot blysse; Þay la ed & layked longe, at þe last scho con hym kysse, [f] hir leue fayre con scho fonge, & went hir waye iwysse. [sidenote a: "it is a great pleasure to me," says sir gawayne, "to hear you talk,] [sidenote b: but i cannot undertake the task to expound true-love and tales of arms.] [sidenote c: i will, however, act according to your will,] [sidenote d: and ever be your servant."] [sidenote e: thus gawayne defends himself.] [sidenote f: the lady having kissed the knight, takes leave of him.] [footnote : tornayle (?).] xvii. [a] then ruþes hym þe renk, & ryses to þe masse, & siþen hor diner wat dy t & derely serued. [fol. .] [b] Þe lede with þe ladye layked alle day, bot þe lorde ouer þe londe launced ful ofte, swe his vncely swyn, þat swynge bi þe bonkke , [c] & bote þe best of his brache þe bakke in sunder; Þer he bode in his bay, tel[ ] bawe-men hit breken, & made[ ] hym, maw-gref his bed, forto mwe vtter; [d] so felle flone per flete, when þe folk gedered; bot et þe styffest to start bi stounde he made, til at þe last he wat so mat, he my t no more renne, [e] bot in þe hast þat he my t, he to a hole wynne , of a rasse, bi a rokk, þer renne þe boerne, he gete þe bonk at his bak, bigyne to scrape, [f] Þe froþe femed[ ] at his mouth vnfayre bi þe wyke , whette his whyte tusche ; with hym þen irked alle þe burne so bolde, þat hym by stoden, [g] to nye hym on-ferum, bot ne e hym non durst for woþe; he hade hurt so mony byforne, Þat al þu t[ ] þenne ful loþe, [h] be more wyth his tusche torne, Þat breme wat [&] brayn-wod bothe. [sidenote a: gawayne rises, hears mass, and then dines.] [sidenote b: meanwhile the lord pursues the wild boar,] [sidenote c: that bit the backs of his hounds asunder,] [sidenote d: and caused the stiffest of the hunters to start.] [sidenote e: the boar runs into a hole in a rock by the side of a brook.] [sidenote f: the froth foams at his mouth.] [sidenote g: none durst approach him,] [sidenote h: so many had he torn with his tusks.] [footnote : til (?).] [footnote : madee, in ms.] [footnote : fomed (?).] [footnote : þo t (?).] xviii. [a] til þe kny t com hym-self, kachande his blonk, sy hym byde at þe bay, his burne bysyde, [b] he ly tes luflych[ ] adoun, leue his corsour, brayde out a bry t bront, & bigly forth stryde , founde fast þur þe forth, þer þe felle byde , [c] Þe wylde wat war of þe wy e with weppen in honde, hef hy ly þe here, so hetterly he fnast, Þat fele ferde for þe freke ,[ ] lest felle hym þe worre; [d] Þe swyn sette hym out on þe segge euen, Þat þe burne & þe bor were boþe vpon hepe , in þe wy t-est of þe water, þe worre hade þat oþer; [e] for þe mon merkke hym wel, as þay mette fyrst, set sadly þe scharp in þe slot euen, [f] hit hym vp to þe hult, þat þe hert schyndered, & he arrande hym elde, & edoun[ ] þe water, ful tyt; a hundreth hounde hym hent, [fol. b.] [g] Þat bremely con hym bite, burne him bro t to bent, & dogge to dethe endite. [sidenote a: the knight, seeing the boar at bay,] [sidenote b: alights from his horse,] [sidenote c: and seeks to attack him with his sword.] [sidenote d: the "swine sets out" upon the man,] [sidenote e: who, aiming well,] [sidenote f: wounds him in the pit of the stomach.] [sidenote g: the boar is soon bitten to death by a hundred hounds.] [footnote : ms. luslych.] [footnote : freke (?).] [footnote : ede doun (?).] xix. [a] there wat blawyng of prys in mony breme home, he e halowing on hi e, with haþele þat my t; [b] brachetes bayed þat best, as bidden þe maystere , of þat chargeaunt chace þat were chef huntes. [c] Þenne a wy e þat wat wys vpon wod crafte , to vnlace þis bor lufly bigynne ; [d] fyrst he hewes of his hed, & on hi e sette , & syþen rende him al roghe bi þe rygge after, [e] brayde out þe boweles, brenne hom on glede, with bred blent þer-with his braches rewarde ; syþen he britne out þe brawen in bry t brode [s]chelde , [f] & hat out þe hastlette , as hi tly biseme ; [g] & et hem halche al hole þe halue to-geder, & syþen on a stif stange stoutly hem henges. now with þis ilk swyn þay swengen to home; [h] Þe bores hed wat borne bifore þe burnes seluen, Þat him for-ferde in þe forþe, þur forse of his honde, so stronge; til he se sir gawayne, in halle hym þo t ful longe, [i] he calde, & he com gayn, his fee þer for to fonge. [sidenote a: then was there blowing of horns] [sidenote b: and baying of hounds.] [sidenote c: one wise in woodcraft begins to unlace the boar.] [sidenote d: first he hews off the head, then rends him by the back.] [sidenote e: he next removes the bowels, broils them on the ashes, and therewith rewards his hounds.] [sidenote f: then the hastlets are removed.] [sidenote g: the two halves are next bound together and hung upon a pole.] [sidenote h: the boar's head is borne before the knight, who hastens home.] [sidenote i: gawayne is called to receive the spoil.] xx. [a] Þe lorde ful lowde with lote, & la ed myry, when he se e sir g: with solace he speke ; Þe goude ladye were geten, & gedered þe meyny, [b] he schewe hem þe schelde , & schapes hem þe tale, of þe largesse, & þe lenþe, þe liþerne alse, of þe were of þe wylde swyn, in wod þer he fled. Þat oþer kny t ful comly comended his dede , & praysed hit as gret prys, þat he proued hade; [c] for suche a brawne of a best, þe bolde burne sayde, ne such sydes of a swyn, segh he neuer are. Þenne hondeled þay þe hoge hed, þe hende mon hit praysed, & let lodly þerat þe lorde forte here: [fol. .] [d] "now gawayn," quod þe god mon, "þis gomen is your awen, bi fyn for-warde & faste, faythely e knowe." "hit is sothe," quod þe segge, "& as siker trwe; alle my get i schal yow gif agayn, bi my trawþe." [e] he [hent] þe haþel aboute þe halse, & hendely hym kysses, & efter-sones of þe same he serued hym þere. "now ar we euen," quod þe haþel, "in þis euen-tide, of alle þe couenauntes þat we knyt, syþen i com hider, bi lawe;" [f] Þe lorde sayde, "bi saynt gile, e ar þe best þat i knowe, e ben ryche in a whyle, such chaffer & e drowe." [sidenote a: the lord of the land is well pleased when he sees sir gawayne,] [sidenote b: he shows him the shields of the wild boar, and tells him of its length and breadth.] [sidenote c: such a "brawn of a beast," sir gawayne says, he never has seen.] [sidenote d: gawayne takes possession of it according to covenant,] [sidenote e: and in return kisses his host,] [sidenote f: who declares his guest to be the best he knows.] xxi. [a] Þenne þay teldet table [on] trestes alofte, [b] kesten cloþe vpon, clere ly t þenne [c] wakned bi wo e , waxen torches segge sette, & serued in sale al aboute; [d] much glam & gle glent vp þer-inne, aboute þe fyre vpon flet, & on fele wyse, [e] at þe soper & after, mony aþel songe , as coundutes of kryst-masse, & carole newe, with alle þe manerly merþe þat mon may of telle. [f] & euer oure luflych kny t þe lady bi-syde; such semblaunt to þat segge semly ho made, [g] wyth stille stollen countenaunce, þat stalworth to plese, Þat al for-wondered wat þe wy e, & wroth with hym-seluen, bot he nolde not for his nurture nurne hir a- ayne , bot dalt with hir al in daynte, how-se-euer þe dede turned to wrast; [h] quen þay hade played in halle, as longe as hor wylle hom last, [i] to chambre he[ ] con hym calle, & to þe chem-ne þay past. [sidenote a: tables are raised aloft,] [sidenote b: cloths cast upon them,] [sidenote c: and torches are lighted.] [sidenote d: with much mirth and glee,] [sidenote e: supper is served in the hall,] [sidenote f: and ever our lovely knight by the lady sits,] [sidenote g: who does all she can to please her companion.] [sidenote h: when they had long played in the hall,] [sidenote i: they proceeded "to chamber."] [footnote : ho (?).] xxii. [a] ande þer þay dronken, & dalten, & demed eft nwe, to norne on þe same note, on nwe ere euen; [b] bot þe kny t craued leue, to kayre on þe morn, for hit wat ne at þe terme, þat he to[ ] schulde. Þe lorde hym letted of þat, to lenge hym resteyed, [fol. b.] [c] & sayde, "as i am trwe segge, i siker my trawþe, [d] Þou schal cheue to þe grene chapel, þy charres to make, leude, on nw ere ly t, longe bifore pryme: for-þy þow lye in þy loft, & lach þyn ese, & i schal hunt in þis holt, & halde þe towche , chaunge wyth þe cheuisaunce, bi þat i charre hider; for i haf fraysted þe twys, & faythful i fynde þe, now þrid tyme þrowe best þenk on þe morne, make we mery quyl we may, & mynne vpon ioye, for þe lur may mon lach, when so mon lyke ." Þis wat grayþely graunted, & gawayn is lenged, [e] bliþe bro t wat hym drynk, & þay to bedde eden, with li t; [f] sir g: lis & slepes, ful stille & softe al ni t; [g] Þe lorde þat his crafte kepes, ful erly he wat di t. [sidenote a: there they drank and discoursed.] [sidenote b: gawayne begs leave to depart on the morrow.] [sidenote c: his host swears to him,] [sidenote d: that he shall come to the green chapel on new year's morn long before prime.] [sidenote e: our knight consents to remain for another night.] [sidenote f: full still and softly he sleeps all night.] [sidenote g: early in the morning the lord is up.] [footnote : te (?).] xxiii. [a] after messe a morsel[ ] he & his men token, miry wat þe mornyng, his mounture he askes; [b] alle þe haþeles þat on horse schulde helden hym after, were boun busked on hor blonkke , bi-fore[ ] þe halle ate ; [c] ferly fayre wat þe folde, for þe forst clenged, in rede rudede vpon rak rises þe sunne, [d] & ful clere coste [ ] þe clowdes of þe welkyn. hunteres vnhardeled bi a holt syde, rocheres roungen bi rys, for rurde of her hornes; [e] summe fel in þe fute, þer þe fox bade, trayle ofte a trayteres[ ], bi traunt of her wyles; a kenet kryes þerof, þe hunt on hym calles, his fela es fallen hym to, þat fnasted ful þike, [f] runnen forth in a rabel, in his ry t fare; & he fyske hem by-fore, þay founden hym sone, [g] & quen þay seghe hym with sy t, þay sued hym fast, wre ande h[ym] ful [w]eterly with a wroth noyse; [h] & he trantes & tornayee þur mony tene greue; hamloune , & herkene , bi hegge ful ofte; [i] at þe last bi a littel dich he lepe ouer a spenné, [fol. .] stele out ful stilly bi a strothe rande, [j] went haf wylt of þe wode, with wyle fro þe houndes, Þenne wat he went, er he wyst, to[ ] a wale tryster, [k] Þer þre þro at a þrich þrat hym at ones, al graye; [l] he blenched a ayn bilyue, & stifly start onstray, with alle þe wo on lyue, [m] to þe wod he went away. [sidenote a: after mass, a morsel he take with his men.] [sidenote b: then were all on their horses before the hall-gates.] [sidenote c: it was a clear frosty morning.] [sidenote d: the hunters, dispersed by a wood's side,] [sidenote e: come upon the track of a fox,] [sidenote f: which is followed up by the hounds.] [sidenote g: they soon get sight of the game,] [sidenote h: and pursue him through many a rough grove.] [sidenote i: the fox at last leaps over a spinny,] [sidenote j: and by a rugged path seeks to get clear from the hounds.] [sidenote k: he comes upon one of the hunting stations, where he is attacked by the dogs.] [sidenote l: however, he slips them,] [sidenote m: and makes again for the wood.] [footnote : ms. nnorsel.] [footnote : bi-forere, in ms.] [footnote : caste (?).] [footnote : trayveres (?).] [footnote : to to, in ms.] xxiv. [a] thenne wat hit lif vpon list to lyþen þe hounde , when alle þe mute hade hym met, menged to-geder, suche a sor e at þat sy t þay sette on his hede, as alle þe clamberande clyffes hade clatered on hepes; [b] here he wat halawed, when haþele hym metten, loude he wat ayned, with arande speche; [c] Þer he wat þreted, & ofte þef called, & ay þe titleres at his tayl, þat tary he ne my t; ofte he wat runnen at, when he out rayked, [d] & ofte reled in a ayn, so reniarde wat wylé. [e] & e he lad hem bi lag, mon, þe lorde & his meyny; on þis maner bi þe mountes, quyle myd, ouer, vnder, [f] whyle þe hende kny t at home holsumly slepe , with-inne þe comly cortynes, on þe colde morne. bot þe lady for luf let not to slepe, ne þe purpose to payre, þat py t in hir hert, bot ros hir vp radly, rayked hir þeder, [g] in a mery mantyle, mete to þe erþe, Þat wat furred ful fyne with felle , wel pured, no hwe goud on hir hede, bot þe ha er stones trased aboute hir tressour, be twenty in clusteres; [h] hir þryuen face & hir þrote þrowen al naked, hir brest bare bifore, & bihinde eke. [i] ho come with-inne þe chambre dore, & closes hit hir after, [j] wayne [ ] vp a wyndow, & on þe wy e calle , & radly þus re-hayted hym, with hir riche worde , with[ ] chere; [k] "a! mon, how may þou slepe, [l] Þis morning is so clere?" [fol. b.] he wat in drowping depe, bot þenne he con hir here. [sidenote a: then was it fine sport to listen to the hounds,] [sidenote b: and the hallooing of the hunters.] [sidenote c: there the fox was threatened and called a thief.] [sidenote d: but reynard was wily,] [sidenote e: and led them astray over mounts.] [sidenote f: meanwhile the knight at home soundly sleeps within his comely curtains.] [sidenote g: the lady of the castle, clothed in a rich mantle,] [sidenote h: her throat and bosom all bare,] [sidenote i: comes to gawayne's chamber,] [sidenote j: opens a window, and says,] [sidenote k: "ah! man, how canst thou sleep,] [sidenote l: this morning is so clear?"] [footnote : wayue (?).] [footnote : bi, à sec. manu.] xxv. [a] in dre droupyng of dreme draueled þat noble, as mon þat wat in mornyng of mony þro þo tes, how þat destiné schulde þat day [dy t] his wyrde, at þe grene chapel, when he þe gome metes, & bi-houes his buffet abide, with-oute debate more; [b] bot quen þat comly he keuered his wyttes, swenges out of þe sweuenes, & sware with hast. Þe lady luflych com la ande swete, [c] felle ouer his fayre face, & fetly him kyssed; he welcume hir worþily, with a wale chere; he se hir so glorious, & gayly atyred, so fautles of hir fetures, & of so fyne hewes, [d] wi t wallande ioye warmed his hert; with smoþe smylyng & smolt þay smeten in-to merþe, Þat al wat blis & bonchef, þat breke hem bi-twene, & wynne, Þay lanced wordes gode, much wele þen wat þer-inne, [e] gret perile bi-twene hem stod, nif mare of hir kny t mynne. [sidenote a: the knight was then dreaming of his forthcoming adventure at the green chapel.] [sidenote b: he awakes and speaks to his fair visitor,] [sidenote c: who sweetly kisses him.] [sidenote d: great joy warms the heart of sir gawayne,] [sidenote e: and "great peril between them stood."] xxvi. [a] for þat prynce of pris de-presed hym so þikke. nurned hym so ne e þe þred, þat nede hym bi-houed, oþer lach þer hir luf, oþer lodly re-fuse; he cared for his cortaysye, lest craþayn he were, [b] & more for his meschef, if he schulde make synne, & be traytor to þat tolke, þat þat telde a t. "god schylde," quod þe schalk, "þat schal not be-falle!" with luf-la yng a lyt, he layd hym by-syde alle þe speche of specialté þat sprange of her mouthe. quod þat burde to þe burne, "blame e disserue, if e luf not þat lyf þat e lye nexte, bifore alle þe wy e in þe worlde, wounded in hert, [c] bot if e haf a lemman, a leuer, þat yow lyke better, & folden fayth to þat fre, festned so harde, Þat yow lausen ne lyst, & þat i leue nouþe; [fol. .] and þat e telle me þat, now trwly i pray yow, for alle þe lufe vpon lyue, layne not þe soþe, for gile." [d] Þe kny t sayde, "be sayn ion," & smeþely con he smyle, "in fayth i welde ri t non, ne non wil welde þe quile." [sidenote a: the knight is sorely pressed.] [sidenote b: he fears lest he should become a traitor to his host.] [sidenote c: the lady inquire whether he has a mistress that he loves better than her.] [sidenote d: sir gawayne swears by st. john that he neither has nor desires one.] xxvii. "Þat is a worde," quod þat wy t, "þat worst is of alle, bot i am swared for soþe, þat sore me þinkke ; [a] kysse me now coraly, & i schal cach heþen, i may bot mourne vpon molde, as may þat much louyes." sykande ho swe e doun, & semly hym kyssed, & siþen ho seueres hym fro, & says as ho stondes, "now, dere, at þis de-partyng, do me þis ese, [b] gif me sumquat of þy gifte, þi gloue if[ ] hit were, [c] Þat i may mynne on þe mon, my mournyng to lassen." "now iwysse," quod þat wy e, "i wolde i hade here Þe leuest þing for þy luf, þat i in londe welde, [d] for e haf deserued, forsoþe, sellyly ofte more rewarde bi resoun, þen i reche my t, bot to dele yow for drurye, þat dawed bot neked; hit is not your honour to haf at þis tyme a gloue for a garysoun, of gawayne gifte , & i am here [on] an erande in erde vncouþe, [e] & haue no men wyth no male , with menskful þinge ; Þat mislyke me, ladé, for luf at þis tyme,[ ] iche tolke mon do as he is tan, tas to non ille, ne pine." [f] "nay, hende of hy e honours," quod þat lufsum vnder lyne, [g] "Þa i hade o t[ ] of youre , et schulde e haue of myne." [sidenote a: she then kisses him, sighing for sorrow.] [sidenote b: she desires some gift,] [sidenote c: by which to remember him.] [sidenote d: gawayne tells her that she is worthy of a better gift than he can bestow.] [sidenote e: he has no men with mails containing precious things.] [sidenote f: then says that lovesome,] [sidenote g: "though i had nought of yours, yet should ye have of mine."] [footnote : of, in ms.] [footnote : tyne, in ms.] [footnote : no t (?).] xxviii. [a] ho ra t hym a riche rynk[ ] of red golde werke , wyth a starande ston, stondande alofte, Þat bere blusschande beme as þe bry t sunne; wyt e wel, hit wat worth wele ful hoge. [b] bot þe renk hit renayed, & redyly he sayde, "i wil no gifte for gode, my gay, at þis tyme; [fol. b.] [c] i haf none yow to norne, ne no t wyl i take." ho bede hit hym ful bysily, & he hir bode wernes, & swere swyftel[y] his sothe, þat he hit sese nolde; [d] & ho sore þat he forsoke, & sayde þer-after, "if e renay my rynk, to ryche for hit seme , e wolde not so hy ly halden be to me, i schal gif yow my girdel, þat gaynes yow lasse." ho la t a lace ly tly, þat[ ] leke vmbe hir syde , [e] knit vpon hir kyrtel, vnder þe clere mantyle, gered hit wat with grene sylke, & with golde schaped, no t bot arounde brayden, beten with fyngre ; & þat ho bede to þe burne, & blyþely bi-so t [f] Þa hit vn-worþi were, þat he hit take wolde. & he nay þat he nolde neghe in no wyse, [g] nauþer golde ne garysoun, er god hym grace sende, to acheue to þe chaunce þat he hade chosen þere. "& þerfore, i pray yow, displese yow no t, & lette be your bisinesse, for i bayþe hit yow neuer to graunte; i am derely to yow biholde, bi-cause of your sembelaunt, [h] & euer in hot & colde to be your trwe seruaunt. [sidenote a: she offers him a gold ring,] [sidenote b: but he refuses to accept it,] [sidenote c: as he has none to give in return.] [sidenote d: very sorrowful was that fair one on account of his refusal.] [sidenote e: she takes off her "girdle,"] [sidenote f: and beseeches him to take it.] [sidenote g: gawayne again refuses to accept anything,] [sidenote h: but promises, "ever in hot and in cold, to be her true servant."] [footnote : ryng (?).] [footnote : þat þat, in ms.] xxix. [a] "now forsake e þis silke." sayde þe burde þenne, "for hit is symple in hit-self. & so hit wel seme ? lo! so hit is littel, & lasse hit is worþy; [b] bot who-so knew þe costes þat knit ar þer-inne, he wolde hit prayse at more prys, parauenture; [c] for quat gome so is gorde with þis grene lace, while he hit hade hemely halched aboute, Þer is no haþel vnder heuen to-hewe hym þat my t; [d] for he my t not he slayn, for sly t vpon erþe." Þen kest þe kny t, & hit come to his hert, [e] hit were a iuel for þe iopardé, þat hym iugged were, when he acheued to þe chapel, his chek forto fech; [f] my [ ] he haf slypped to þe vn-slayn, þe sle t were noble. Þenne ho þulged with hir þrepe, & þoled hir to speke, [fol. .] & ho bere on hym þe belt, & bede hit hym swyþe, [g] & he granted, & [ho] hym gafe with a goud wylle, & biso t hym, for hir sake, disceuer hit neuer, bot to lelly layne for[ ] hir lorde; þe leude hym acorde . Þat neuer wy e schulde hit wyt, iwysse, bot þay twayne, for no te; he þonkked hir oft ful swyþe, ful þro with hert & þo t. [h] bi þat on þrynne syþe, he hat kyst þe kny t so to t. [sidenote a: "do you refuse it," says the lady, because it is simple?] [sidenote b: whoso knew the virtues that it possesses, would highly prize it.] [sidenote c: for he who is girded with this green lace,] [sidenote d: cannot be wounded or slain."] [sidenote e: the knight thinks of his adventure at the green chapel.] [sidenote f: the lady presses him to accept the lace.] [sidenote g: he consents not only to take the girdle, but to keep the possession of it a secret.] [sidenote h: by that time the lady has kissed him thrice.] [footnote : my t (?).] [footnote : fro (?).] xxx. [a] thenne lachche ho hir leue, & leue hym þere, for more myrþe of þat mon mo t ho not gete; [b] when ho[ ] wat gon, sir g. gere hym sone, rises, & riches hym in araye noble, [c] lays vp þe luf-lace, þe lady hym ra t, hid hit ful holdely, þer he hit eft fonde; syþen cheuely to þe chapel choses he þe waye, [d] preuely aproched to a prest, & prayed hym þere Þat he wolde lyfte[ ] his lyf, & lern hym better, how his sawle schulde be saued, when he schuld seye heþen. [e] Þere he schrof hym schyrly, & schewed his mysdede , of þe more & þe mynne, & merci beseche , [f] & of absolucioun he on þe segge calles; & he asoyled hym surely, & sette hym so clene, [g] as dome -day schulde haf ben di t on þe morn. & syþen he mace hym as mery among þe fre ladyes, [h] with comlych caroles, & alle kynnes ioye, as neuer he did bot þat daye, to þe derk ny t, with blys; vche mon hade daynte þare, [i] of hym, & sayde iwysse, [j] Þus myry he wat neuer are, syn he com hider, er þis. [sidenote a: then she takes her leave.] [sidenote b: gawayne then dresses himself,] [sidenote c: and conceals the love-lace about his person.] [sidenote d: he then hies to mass,] [sidenote e: and shrives him of his misdeeds.] [sidenote f: and prays for absolution.] [sidenote g: he returns to the hall, and makes himself so merry among the ladies,] [sidenote h: with comely carols,] [sidenote i: that they said,] [sidenote j: "thus merry was he never before since hither he came."] [footnote : he, in ms.] [footnote : lyste (?).] xxxi. [a] now hym lenge in þat lee, þer luf hym bi-tyde; et is þe lorde on þe launde, ledande his gomnes, [b] he hat forfaren þis fox, þat he fol ed longe; as he sprent ouer a spenné, to spye þe schrewe, Þer as he herd þe howndes, þat hasted hym swyþe, [fol. b.] [c] renaud com richchande þur a ro e greue, & alle þe rabel in a res, ry t at his hele . [d] Þe wy e wat war of þe wylde, & warly abides, & brayde out þe bry t bronde, & at þe best caste ; & he schunt for þe scharp, & schulde haf arered, [e] a rach rapes hym to, ry t er he my t, & ry t bifore þe hors fete þay fel on hym alle, & woried me þis wyly wyth a wroth noyse. [f] Þe lorde ly te bilyue, & cache by[ ] sone, rased hym ful radly out of þe rach mouþes, halde he e ouer his hede, halowe faste, & þer bayen hym mony bray[ ] hounde ; [g] huntes hy ed hem þeder, with horne ful mony, ay re-chatande ary t til þay þe renk se en; bi þat wat comen his compeyny noble, alle þat euer ber bugle blowed at ones, [h] & alle þise oþer halowed, þat hade no hornes, hit wat þe myriest mute þat euer men herde, Þe rich rurd þat þer wat raysed for renaude saule, with lote; [i] hor hounde þay þer rewarde, her[ ] hede þay fawne & frote, [j] & syþen þay tan reynarde, & tyrnen of his cote. [sidenote a: gawayne's host is still in the field.] [sidenote b: he has destroyed the fox.] [sidenote c: he spied reynard coming through a "rough grove,"] [sidenote d: and tried to hit him with his sword.] [sidenote e: the fox "shunts," and is seized by one of the dogs.] [sidenote f: the lord takes him out of the hound's mouth.] [sidenote g: hunters hasten thither with horns full many.] [sidenote h: it was the merriest meet that ever was heard.] [sidenote i: the hounds are rewarded,] [sidenote j: and then they take reynard and "turn off his coat."] [footnote : hym (?).] [footnote : braþ (?).] [footnote : her her, in ms.] xxxii. [a] & þenne þay helden to home, for hit wat nie ny t, strakande ful stoutly in hor store horne ; [b] Þe lorde is ly t at þe laste at hys lef home, fynde fire vpon flet, þe freke þer by-side, sir gawayn þe gode, þat glad wat with alle, [c] among þe ladies for luf he ladde much ioye, he were a bleaunt of blwe, þat bradde to þe erþe, his surkot semed hym wel, þat softe wat forred, & his hode of þat ilke henged on his schulder, [d] blande al of blaunner were boþe al aboute. he mete me þis god mon in mydde þe flore, & al with gomen he hym gret, & goudly he sayde, "i schal fylle vpon fyrst oure forwarde nouþe, Þat we spedly han spoken, þer spared wat no drynk;" [fol. .] [e] Þen acoles he [þe] kny t, & kysses hym þryes, [f] as sauerly & sadly as he hem sette couþe. [g] "bi kryst," quod þat oþer kny t, " e cach much sele, in cheuisaunce of þis chaffer, if e hade goud chepe ." " e of þe chepe no charg," quod chefly þat oþer, "as is pertly payed þe chepe þat i a te." "mary," quod þat oþer mon, "myn is bi-hynde, [h] for i haf hunted al þis day, & no t haf i geten, [i] bot þis foule fox felle, þe fende haf þe gode , [j] & þat is ful pore, for to pay for suche prys þinges, as e haf þry t me here, þro suche þre cosses, so gode." "i-no ," quod sir gawayn, "i þonk yow, bi þe rode;" [k] & how þe fox wat slayn, he tolde hym, as þay stode. [sidenote a: the hunters then hasten home.] [sidenote b: the lord at last alights at his dear home,] [sidenote c: where he finds gawayne amusing the ladies.] [sidenote d: the knight comes forward and welcomes his host,] [sidenote e: and according to covenant kisses him thrice.] [sidenote f: (see l. .)] [sidenote g: "by christ," says the other, "ye have had much bliss!"] [sidenote h: i have hunted all day and have gotten nothing,] [sidenote i: but the skin of this foul fox,] [sidenote j: a poor reward for three such kisses."] [sidenote k: he then tells him how the fox was slain.] xxxiii. [a] with merþe & mynstralsye, wyth mete at hor wylle, Þay maden as mery as any men mo ten, with la yng of ladies, with lote of bordes; gawayn & þe gode mon so glad were þay boþe, bot if þe douthe had doted, oþer dronken ben oþer, boþe þe mon & þe meyny maden mony iape , [b] til þe sesoun wat se en, þat þay seuer moste; burne to hor bedde be-houed at þe laste. [c] Þenne lo ly his leue at þe lorde fyrst fochche þis fre mon, & fayre he hym þonkke ; [d] "of such a sellyly[ ] soiorne, as i haf hade here, your honour, at þis hy e fest, þe hy e kyng yow elde! i ef yow me for on of youre , if yowre-self lyke , for i mot nedes, as e wot, meue to morne; [e] & e me take sum tolke, to teche, as e hy t, Þe gate to þe grene chapel, as god wyl me suffer to dele, on nw ere day, þe dome of my wyrdes." "in god fayþe," quod þe god mon. "wyth a goud wylle; al þat euer i yow hy t, halde schal i rede." [f] Þer asyngnes he a seruaunt, to sett hym in þe waye, & coundue hym by þe downe , þat he no drechch had, [fol. b.] for to f[e]rk þur þe fryth, & fare at þe gaynest, bi greue. Þe lorde gawayn con þonk, such worchip he wolde hym weue; [g] Þen at þo ladye wlonk. Þe kny t hat tan his leue. [sidenote a: with much mirth and minstrelsy they made merry,] [sidenote b: until the time came for them to part.] [sidenote c: gawayne takes leave of his host.] [sidenote d: and thanks him for his happy "sojourn."] [sidenote e: he asks for a man to teach him the way to the green chapel.] [sidenote f: a servant is assigned to him,] [sidenote g: and then he takes leave of the ladies,] [footnote : selly (?).] xxxiv. [a] with care & wyth kyssyng he carppe hem tille, & fele þryuande þonkke he þrat hom to haue, & þay elden hym a ay[n] eply þat ilk; [b] Þay bikende hym to kryst, with ful colde sykynge . [c] syþen fro þe meyny he menskly de-partes; vche mon þat he mette, he made hem a þonke, for his seruyse, & his solace, & his sere pyne, Þat þay wyth busynes had ben, aboute hym to serue; & vche segge as sore, to seuer with hym þere, as þay hade wonde worþyly with þat wlonk euer. [d] Þen with ledes & ly t he wat ladde to his chambre, & blybely bro t to his bedde, to be at his rest; if he ne slepe soundyly, say ne dar i, [e] for he hade muche on þe morn to mynne, if he wolde, in þo t; [f] let hym ly e þere stille, he hat [ ] nere þat he so t, [g] & e wyl a whyle be stylle, i schal telle yow how þay wro t. [sidenote a: kissing them sorrowfully.] [sidenote b: they commend him to christ.] [sidenote c: he then departs, thanking each one he meets "for his service and solace."] [sidenote d: he retires to rest but sleeps but little,] [sidenote e: for much has he to think of on the morrow.] [sidenote f: let him there lie still.] [sidenote g: be still awhile, and i shall tell how they wrought.] [footnote : wat (?).] [fytte the fourth.] i. [a] now ne e þe nw ere, & þe ny t passe , Þe day dryue to þe derk, as dry tyn bidde ; [b] bot wylde wedere of þe worlde wakned þeroute, clowdes kesten kenly þe colde to þe erþe, wyth ny e[ ] in-noghe of þe norþe, þe naked to tene; [c] Þe snawe snitered ful snart, þat snayped þe wylde; Þe werbelande wynde wapped fro þe hy e, [d] & drof vche dale ful of dryftes ful grete. Þe leude lystened ful wel, þat le in his bedde, [e] Þa he lowke his lidde , ful lyttel he slepes; bi vch kok þat crue, he knwe wel þe steuen. de-liuerly he dressed vp, er þe day sprenged, [fol. .] for þere wat ly t of a lau[m]pe, þat lemed in his chambre; [f] he called to his chamberlayn, þat cofly hym swared, & bede hym bryng hym his bruny, & his blonk sadel; Þat oþer ferke hym vp, & feche hym his wede , & grayþe me sir gawayn vpon a grett wyse. fyrst he clad hym in his cloþe , þe colde for to were; & syþen his oþer harnays, þat holdely wat keped, boþe his paunce, & his plate , piked ful clene, [g] Þe rynge [ ] rokked of þe roust, of his riche bruny; & al wat fresch as vpon fyrst, & he wat fayn þenne to þonk; he hade vpon vche pece, wypped ful wel & wlonk; [h] Þe gayest in to grece, Þe burne bede bryng his blonk. [sidenote a: new year's day approaches.] [sidenote b: the weather is stormy.] [sidenote c: snow falls.] [sidenote d: the dales are full of drift.] [sidenote e: gawayne in his bed hears each cock that crows.] [sidenote f: he calls for his chamberlain, and bids him bring him his armour.] [sidenote g: men knock off the rust from his rich habergeon.] [sidenote h: the knight then calls for his steed.] [footnote : nywe (?).] [footnote : rynke (?).] ii. [a] whyle þe wlonkest wedes he warp on hym-seluen; his cote, wyth be conysaunce of þe clere werke , ennurned vpon veluet vertuuus[ ] stone , aboute beten, & bounden, enbrauded seme , & fayre furred with-inne wyth fayre pelures. [b] et laft he not þe lace, þe ladie gifte, Þat for-gat not gawayn, for gode of hym-seluen; bi he hade belted þe bronde vpon his bal e haunche , [c] Þenn dressed he his drurye double hym aboute; swyþe sweþled vmbe his swange swetely, þat kny t, Þe gordel of þe grene silke, þat gay wel bisemed, vpon þat ryol red cloþe, þat ryche wat to schewe. [d] bot wered not þis ilk wy e for wele þis gordel, for pryde of þe pendaunte , þa polyst þay were, & þa þe glyterande golde glent vpon ende , [e] bot forto sauen hym-self, when suffer hym by-houed, to byde bale with-oute dabate, of bronde hym to were, oþer knyffe; bi þat þe bolde mon boun, wynne þeroute bilyue, [f] alle þe meyny of renoun, he þonkke ofte ful ryue. [sidenote a: while he clothed himself in his rich weeds,] [sidenote b: he forgot not the "lace," the lady's gift,] [sidenote c: but with it doubly girded his loins.] [sidenote d: he wore it not for its rich ornaments,] [sidenote e: "but to save himself when it behoved him to suffer."] [sidenote f: all the renowned assembly he thanks full oft.] [footnote : vertuous (?).] iii. [a] thenne wat gryngolet grayþe, þat gret wat & huge, [fol. b.] & hade ben soiourned sauerly, & in a siker wyse, [b] hym lyst prik for poynt, þat proude hors þenne; Þe wy e wynne hym to, & wyte on his lyre, & sayde soberly hym-self, & by his soth swere , "here is a meyny in þis mote, þat on menske þenkke , [c] Þe mon hem maynteines, ioy mot þay haue; Þe leue lady, on lyue luf hir bityde; if þay for charyté cherysen a gest, & halden honour in her honde, þe haþel hem elde, Þat halde þe heuen vpon hy e, & also yow alle! & if i my t lyf vpon londe lede any quyle, i schuld rech yow sum rewarde redyly, if i my t." [d] Þenn steppe he in-to stirop, & stryde alofte; his schalk schewed hym his schelde, on schulder he hit la t, gorde to gryngolet, with his gilt hele , [e] & he starte on þe ston, stod he no lenger, to praunce; his haþel on hors wat þenne, Þat bere his spere & launce. [f] "Þis kastel to kryst i kenne, he gef hit ay god chaunce!" [sidenote a: then was gringolet arrayed,] [sidenote b: full ready to prick on.] [sidenote c: gawayne returns thanks for the honour and kindness shown to him by all.] [sidenote d: he then steps into his saddle,] [sidenote e: and "starts on the stone" without more delay.] [sidenote f: "this castle to christ i commend; may he give it ever good chance!"] iv. [a] the brygge wat brayde doun, & þe brode ate vnbarred, & born open, vpon boþe halue; [b] Þe burne blessed hym bilyue, & þe brede passed; prayses þe porter, bifore þe prynce kneled, gef hym god & goud day, þat gawayn he saue; [c] & went on his way, with his wy e one, Þat schulde teche hym to tourne to þat tene place, Þer þe ruful race he schulde re-sayue. Þay bo en bi bonkke , þer bo e ar bare, [d] Þay clomben bi clyffe , þer clenge þe colde; Þe heuen wat vp halt, bot vgly þer vnder, mist muged on þe mor, malt on þe mounte , [e] vch hille hade a hatte, a myst-hakel huge; broke byled, & breke, bi bonkke aboute, schyre schaterande on schore , þer þay doun schowued. welawylle wat þe way, þer þay bi wod schulden, [fol. .] [f] til hit wat sone sesoun, þat þe sunne ryses, þat tyde; [g] Þay were on a hille ful hy e, Þe quyte snaw lay bisyde; [h] Þe burne þat rod hym by bede his mayster abide. [sidenote a: the gates are soon opened.] [sidenote b: the knight passes thereout,] [sidenote c: and goes on his way accompanied by his guide.] [sidenote d: they climb by cliffs,] [sidenote e: where each "hill had a hat and a mist-cloak,"] [sidenote f: until daylight.] [sidenote g: they were then on a "hill full high."] [sidenote h: the servant bade his master abide, saying,] v. [a] "for i haf wonnen yow hider, wy e, at þis tyme, & now nar e not fer fro þat note place, [b] Þat e han spied & spuryed so specially after; bot i schal say yow for soþe, syþen i yow knowe, & e ar a lede vpon lyue, þat i wel louy, wolde e worch bi my wytte, e worþed þe better. [c] Þe place þat e prece to, ful perelous is halden; [d] Þer wone a wy e in þat waste, þe worst vpon erþe; for he is stiffe, & sturne, & to strike louies, & more he is þen any mon vpon myddelerde, [e] & his body bigger þen þe best fowre. Þat ar in arþure hous, hestor[ ] oþer oþer. he cheue þat chaunce at þe chapel grene; [f] Þer passes non bi þat place, so proude in his armes, Þat he ne dynne hym to deþe, with dynt of his honde; for he is a mon methles, & mercy non vses, [g] for be hit chorle, oþer chaplayn, þat bi þe chapel rydes, monk, oþer masse-prest, oþer any mon elles, hym þynk as queme hym to quelle, as quyk go hym seluen. for-þy i say þe as soþe as e in sadel sitte, com e þere, e be kylled, [i] may þe kny t rede, trawe e me þat trwely, þa e had twenty lyues to spende; [h] he hat wonyd here ful ore, on bent much baret bende, [i] a ayn his dynte sore, e may not yow defende." [sidenote a: "i have brought you hither,] [sidenote b: ye are not now far from the noted place.] [sidenote c: full perilous is it esteemed.] [sidenote d: the lord of that 'waste' is stiff and stern.] [sidenote e: his body is bigger 'than the best four in arthur's house.'] [sidenote f: none passes by the green chapel, 'that he does not ding to death with dint of his hand.'] [sidenote g: for be it churl or chaplain, monk, mass-priest, 'or any man else,' he kills them all.] [sidenote h: he has lived there full long.] [sidenote i: against his dints sore ye may not defend you.] [footnote : hector (?).] vi. [a] "for-þy, goude sir gawayn, let þe gome one, & got a-way sum oþer gate; vpon godde halue; [b] cayre bi sum oþer kyth, þer kryst mot yow spede; & i schal hy me hom a ayn, & hete yow fyrre, [c] Þat i schal swere bi god, & alle his gode hal e , [fol. b.] as help me god & þe halydam, & oþe in-noghe, Þat i schal lelly yow layne, & lance neuer tale, Þat euer e fondet to fle, for freke þat i wyst." "grant merci;" quod gawayn, & gruchyng he sayde, "wel worth þe wy e, þat wolde my gode, & þat lelly me layne, i leue wel þou wolde ! [d] bot helde þou hit neuer so holde, & i here passed, founded for ferde for to fle, in fourme þat þou telle , i were a kny t kowarde, i my t not[ ] be excused. [e] bot i wy to þe chape , for chaunce þat may falle, & talk wyth þat ilk tulk þe tale þat me lyste, worþe hit wele, oþer wo, as þe wyrde lyke hit hafe; [f] Þa e he be a sturn knape, to sti tel, &[ ] stad with staue, [g] ful wel con dry tyn schape, his seruaunte forto saue." [sidenote a: wherefore, good sir gawayne, let this man alone.] [sidenote b: go by some other region,] [sidenote c: i swear by god and all his saints, that i will never say that ever ye attempted to flee from any man."] [sidenote d: gawayne replies that to shun this danger would mark him as a "coward knight."] [sidenote e: to the chapel, therefore, he will go,] [sidenote f: though the owner thereof were a stern knave.] [sidenote g: "full well can god devise his servants for to save."] [footnote : mot, in ms.] [footnote : & &, in ms.] vii. [a] "mary!" quod þat oþer mon, "now þou so much spelle , Þat þou wylt þyn awen nye nyme to þy-seluen, & þe lyst lese þy lyf, þe lette i ne kepe; [b] haf here þi helme on þy hede, þi spere in þi honde, & ryde me doun þis ilk rake, bi on rokke syde, [c] til þou be bro t to þe boþem of þe brem valay; [d] Þenne loke a littel on þe launde, on þi lyfte honde, [e] & þou schal se in þat slade þe self chapel, & þe borelych burne on bent, þat hit kepe . now fare wel on gode half, gawayn þe noble, for alle þe golde vpon grounde i nolde go with þe, ne bere þe fela schip þur þis fryth on fote fyrre." [f] bi þat þe wy e in þe wod wende his brydel, hit þe hors with þe hele , as harde as he my t, lepe hym ouer þe launde, & leue þe kny t þere, al one. [g] "bi godde self," quod gawayn, "i wyl nauþer grete ne grone, [h] to godde wylle i am ful bayn, & to hym i haf me tone." [sidenote a: "mary!" quoth the other, "since it pleases thee to lose thy life,] [sidenote b: take thy helmet on thy head, and thy spear in thy hand, and ride down this path by yon rock-side,] [sidenote c: till thou come to the bottom of the valley;] [sidenote d: look a little to the left,] [sidenote e: and thou shalt see the chapel itself and the man that guards it."] [sidenote f: having thus spoken the guide takes leave of the knight.] [sidenote g: "by god's self," says sir gawayne, "i will neither weep nor groan.] [sidenote h: to god's will i am full ready."] viii. [a] thenne gyrde he to gryngolet, & gedere þe rake, [fol. .] schowue in bi a schore, at a scha e syde, [b] ride þur þe ro e bonk, ry t to þe dale; & þenne he wayted hym aboute, & wylde hit hym þo t, [c] & se e no syngne of resette, bisyde nowhere, bot hy e bonkke & brent, vpon boþe halue, & ru e knokled knarre , with knorned stone ; Þe skwe of þe scowtes skayued[ ] hym þo t. Þenne he houed, & wyth-hylde his hors at þat tyde, & ofte chaunged his cher, þe chapel to seche; [d] he se non suche in no syde, & selly hym þo t, sone a lyttel on a launde, a lawe as hit we[re]; [e] a bal ber , bi a bonke, þe brymme by-syde, bi a for of a flode, þat ferked þare; Þe borne blubred þer-inne, as hit boyled hade. [f] Þe kny t kache his caple, & com to þe lawe, [g] li te doun luflyly, & at a lynde tache Þe rayne, & his riche, with a ro e braunche; [h] Þen[n]e he bo e to þe ber e, aboute hit he walke, d[e]batande with hym-self, quat hit be my t. hit hade a hole on þe ende, & on ayþer syde, & ouer-growen with gresse in glodes ay where, & al wat hol in-with, nobot an olde caue, [i] or a creuisse of an olde cragge, he couþe hit no t deme with spelle, "we,[ ] lorde," quod þe gentyle kny t, "wheþer þis be þe grene chapelle; [j] he my t aboute myd-ny t, [Þ]e dele his matynnes telle!" [sidenote a: then he pursues his journey,] [sidenote b: rides through the dale, and looks about.] [sidenote c: he sees no sign of a resting-place, but only high and steep banks.] [sidenote d: no chapel could he discern.] [sidenote e: at last he sees a hill by the side of a stream;] [sidenote f: thither he goes,] [sidenote g: alights and fastens his horse to a branch of a tree.] [sidenote h: he walks around the hill, debating with himself what it might be,] [sidenote i: and at last finds an old cave in the crag.] [sidenote j: he prays that about midnight he may tell his matins.] [footnote : skayned (?).] [footnote : wel (?).] ix. [a] "now i-wysse," quod wowayn, "wysty is here; Þis oritore is vgly, with erbe ouer-growen; [b] wel biseme þe wy e wruxled in grene dele here his deuocioun, on þe deuele wyse; now i fele hit is þe fende, in my fyue wytte , Þat hat stoken me þis steuen, to strye me here; [c] Þis is a chapel of meschaunce, þat chekke hit by-tyde, hit is þe corsedest kyrk, þat euer i com inne!" with he e helme on his hede, his launce in his honde, [fol. b.] [d] he rome vp to þe rokke of þo ro wone ; Þene herde he of þat hy e hil, in a harde roche, [e] bi onde þe broke, in a bonk, a wonder breme noyse, [f] quat! hit clatered in þe clyff, as hit cleue schulde, as one vpon a gryndelston hade grounden a syþe; [g] what! hit wharred, & whette, as water at a mulne, what! hit rusched, & ronge, rawþe to here. Þenne "bi godde," quod gawayn, "þat gere as[ ] i trowe, is ryched at þe reuerence, me renk to mete, bi rote; let god worche we loo, [h] hit helppe me not a mote, my lif þa i for-goo, drede dot me no lote." [sidenote a: "truly," says sir gawayne, "a desert is here,] [sidenote b: a fitting place for the man in green to 'deal here his devotions in devil fashion.'] [sidenote c: it is most cursed kirk that ever i entered."] [sidenote d: roaming about he hears a loud noise,] [sidenote e: from beyond the brook.] [sidenote f: it clattered like the grinding of a scythe on a grindstone.] [sidenote g: it whirred like a mill-stream.] [sidenote h: "though my life i forgo," says the knight, "no noise shall terrify me."] [footnote : at, in ms.] x. [a] thenne þe kny t con calle ful hy e, [b] "who sti tle in þis sted, me steuen to holde? [c] for now is gode gawayn goande ry t here, if any wy e o t wyl wynne hider fast, oþer now, oþer neuer, his nede to spede." [d] "abyde," quod on on þe bonke, abouen ouer his hede, "& þou schal haf al in hast, þat i þe hy t ones." et he rusched on þat rurde, rapely a þrowe, & wyth quettyng a-wharf, er he wolde ly t; [e] & syþen he keuere bi a cragge, & come of a hole, whyrlande out of a wro, wyth a felle weppen, [f] a dene ax nwe dy t, þe dynt with [t]o elde with a borelych bytte, bende by þe halme, fyled in a fylor, fowre fote large, hit wat no lasse, bi þat lace þat lemed ful bry t. [g] & þe gome in þe erene gered as fyrst, boþe þe lyre & þe legge , lokke , & berde, saue þat fayre on his fote he founde on þe erþe, sette þe stele to þe stone, & stalked bysyde. [h] when he wan to þe watter, þer he wade nolde, he hypped ouer on hys ax, & orpedly stryde , bremly broþe on a bent, þat brode wat a-boute, on snawe. [i] sir gawayn þe kny t con mete. [fol. .] he ne lutte hym no þyng lowe, [j] Þat oþer sayde, "now, sir swete, of steuen mon may þe trowe." [sidenote a: then cried he aloud,] [sidenote b: "who dwells here discourse with me to hold?"] [sidenote c: now is the good gawayne going aright] [sidenote d: he hears a voice commanding him to abide where he is.] [sidenote e: soon there comes out of a hole, with a fell weapon,] [sidenote f: a danish axe, quite new,] [sidenote g: the "knight in green," clothed as before.] [sidenote h: when he reaches the stream, he hops over and strides about.] [sidenote i: he meets sir gawayne without obeisance.] [sidenote j: the other tells him that he is now ready for conversation] xi. [a] "gawayn," quod þat grene gome, "god þe mot loke! i-wysse þou art welcom,[ ] wy e, to my place, [b] & þou hat tymed þi trauayl as true[ ] mon schulde; [c] & þou knowe þe couenaunte kest vus by-twene, at þis tyme twelmonyth þou toke þat þe falled, [d] & i schulde at þis nwe ere eply þe quyte. [e] & we ar in þis valay, verayly oure one, here ar no renkes vs to rydde, rele as vus like ; [f] haf þy[ ] helme of þy hede, & haf here þy pay; busk no more debate þen i þe bede þenne, "when þou wypped of my hede at a wap one." [g] "nay, bi god," quod gawayn, "þat me gost lante, i schal gruch þe no grwe, for grem þat falle ; botsty tel þe vpon on strok, & i schal stonde stylle, & warp þe no wernyng, to worch as þe lyke , no whare." [h] he lened with þe nek, & lutte, & schewed þat schyre al bare, & lette as he no t dutte, [i] for drede he wolde not dare. [sidenote a: "god preserve thee!" says the green knight,] [sidenote b: "as a true knight 'thou hast timed thy travel'] [sidenote c: thou knowest the covenant between us,] [sidenote d: that on new year's day i should return thy blow] [sidenote e: here we are alone,] [sidenote f: have off thy helmet and take thy pay at once."] [sidenote g: "by god," quoth sir gawayne, "i shall not begrudge thee thy will."] [sidenote h: then he shows his bare neck,] [sidenote i: and appears undaunted.] [footnote : welcon, in ms.] [footnote : truee in ms.] [footnote : ms. þy þy.] xii. [a] then þe gome in þe grene grayþed hym swyþe, gedere yp hys grymme tole, gawayn to smyte; [b] with alle þe bur in his body he ber hit on lofte, munt as ma tyly, as marre hym he wolde; hade hit dryuen adoun, as dre as he atled, Þer hade ben ded of his dynt, þat do ty wat euer. bot gawayn on þat giserne glyfte hym bysyde, [c] as hit com glydande adoun, on glode hym to schende, [d] & schranke a lytel with þe schulderes, for þe scharp yrne. Þat oþer schalk wyth a schunt þe schene wythhalde , [e] & þenne repreued he þe prynce with mony prowde worde : [f] "Þou art not gawayn," quod þe gome, "þat is so goud halden, Þat neuer ar ed for no here, by hylle ne be vale, [g] & now þou fles for ferde, er þou fele harme ; [fol. b.] such cowardise of þat kny t cowþe i neuer here. [h] nawþer fyked i, ne fla e, freke, quen þou myntest, ne kest no kauelacion, in kynge hous arthor, [i] my hede fla to my fote, & et fla i neuer; & þou, er any harme hent, ar e in hert, [j] wherfore þe better burne me burde be called þer-fore." [k] quod g:, "i schunt one , & so wyl i no more, bot pa my hede falle on þe stone , i con not hit restore. [sidenote a: then the man in green seizes his grim tool.] [sidenote b: with all his force he raises it aloft.] [sidenote c: as it came gliding down,] [sidenote d: sir gawayne shrank a little with his shoulders.] [sidenote e: the other reproved him, saying,] [sidenote f: "thou art not gawayne that is so good esteemed,] [sidenote g: for thou fleest for fear before thou feelest harm.] [sidenote h: i never flinched when thou struckest.] [sidenote i: my head flew to my foot, yet i never fled,] [sidenote j: wherefore i ought to be called the better man."] [sidenote k: "i shunted once," says gawayne, "but will no more.] xiii. [a] bot busk, burne, bi þi fayth, & bryng me to þe poynt, dele to me my destiné, & do hit out of honde, for i schal stonde þe a strok, & start no more, til þyn ax haue me hitte, haf here my trawþe." [b] "haf at þe þenne," quod þat oþer, & heue hit alofte, & wayte as wroþely, as he wode were; [c] he mynte at hym ma tyly, bot not þe mon ryue ,[ ] with-helde heterly h[i]s honde, er hit hurt my t. [d] gawayn grayþely hit byde , & glent with no membre, bot stode stylle as þe ston, oþer a stubbe auþer, Þat raþeled is in roche grounde, with rote a hundreth. Þen muryly efte con he mele, þe mon in þe grene, [e] "so now þou hat þi hert holle, hitte me bihou[e]s; halde þe now þe hy e hode, þat arþur þe ra t, & kepe þy kanel at þis kest, if hit keuer may." g: ful gryndelly with greme þenne sayde, [f] "wy þresch on, þou þro mon, þou þrete to longe, i hope þat þi hert ar e wyth þyn awen seluen." "for soþe," quod þat oþer freke, "so felly þou speke , i wyl no lenger on lyte lette þin ernde, ri t nowe." [g] Þenne tas he[ ] hym stryþe to stryke, & frounses boþe lyppe & browe, no meruayle þa hym myslyke, Þat hoped of no rescowe. [sidenote a: bring me to the point; deal me my destiny at once."] [sidenote b: "have at thee, then," says the other.] [sidenote c: with that he aims at him a blow.] [sidenote d: gawayne never flinches, but stands as still as a stone.] [sidenote e: "now," says the green knight, "i must hit thee, since thy heart is whole."] [sidenote f: "thrash on," says the other.] [sidenote g: then the green knight makes ready to strike.] [footnote : ? ryne = touches.] [footnote : he he, in ms.] xiv. [a] he lyftes ly tly his lome, & let hit doun fayre, [b] with þe barbe of þe bitte bi þe bare nek [fol. .] Þa he homered heterly, hurt hym no more, bot snyrt hym on þat on syde, þat seuered þe hyde; [c] Þe scharp schrank to þe flesche þur þe schyre grece, Þat þe schene blod over his schulderes schot to þe erþe. [d] & quen þe burne se þe blode blenk on þe snawe, he sprit forth spenne fote more þen a spere lenþe, hent heterly his helme, & on his hed cast, schot with his schuldere his fayre schelde vnder, [e] brayde out a bry t sworde, & bremely he speke ; neuer syn þat he wat burne borne of his moder, wat he neuer in þis worlde, wy e half so blyþe:-- [f] "blynne, burne, of þy bur, bede me no mo; i haf a stroke in þis sted with-oute stryf hent, [g] & if þow reche me any mo, i redyly schal quyte, & elde ederly a ayn, & þer to e tryst, & foo; [h] bot on stroke here me falle , Þe couenaunt schop ry t so, [sikered][ ] in arþure halle , & þer-fore, hende, now hoo!" [sidenote a: he let fall his loom on the bare] [sidenote b: neck of sir gawayne.] [sidenote c: the sharp weapon pierced the flesh so that the blood flowed.] [sidenote d: when the knight saw the blood on the snow,] [sidenote e: he unsheathed his sword, and thus spake:] [sidenote f: "cease, man, of thy blow.] [sidenote g: if thou givest me any more, readily shall i requite thee.] [sidenote h: our agreement stipulates only one stroke."] [footnote : illegible.] xv. [a] the haþel heldet hym fro, & on his ax rested, sette þe schaft vpon schore, & to be scharp lened, [b] & loked to þe leude, þat on þe launde ede, how þat do ty dredles deruely þer stonde , armed ful a le ; in hert hit hym lyke . þenn he mele muryly, wyth a much steuen, [c] & wyth a r[a]ykande rurde he to þe renk sayde, "bolde burne, on þis bent be not so gryndel; no mon here vn-manerly þe mys-boden habbe, ne kyd, bot as couenaunde, at kynge kort schaped; [d] i hy t þe a strok, & þou hit hat , halde þe wel payed, i relece þe of þe remnaunt, of ry tes alle oþer; if[ ] i deliuer had bene, a boffet, paraunter, [e] i couþe wroþeloker haf waret, [&] to þe haf wro t anger.[ ] fyrst i mansed þe muryly, with a mynt one, [f] & roue þe wyth no rof, sore with ry t i þe profered, for þe forwarde that we fest in þe fyrst ny t, [fol. b.] & þou trystyly þe trawþe & trwly me halde , al þe gayne þow me gef, as god mon shulde; [g] Þat oþer munt for þe morne, mon, i þe profered, Þou kyssedes my clere wyf, þe cosse me ra te , for boþe two here i þe bede bot two bare myntes, boute scaþe; [h] trwe mon trwe restore, Þenne þar mon drede no waþe; [i] at þe þrid þou fayled þore, & þer-for þat tappe ta þe. [sidenote a: the green knight rested on his axe,] [sidenote b: looked on sir gawayne, who appeared bold and fearless,] [sidenote c: and addressed him as follows: "bold knight, be not so wroth,] [sidenote d: i promised thee a stroke and thou hast it, be satisfied.] [sidenote e: i could have dealt worse with thee.] [sidenote f: i menaced thee with one blow for the covenant between us on the first night.] [sidenote g: another i aimed at thee because thou kissedst my wife.] [sidenote h: a true man should restore truly, and then he need fear no harm.] [sidenote i: thou failedst at the third time, and therefore take thee that tap. (see l. .)] [footnote : uf, in ms.] [footnote : this word is doubtful.] xvi. [a] for hit is my wede þat þou were , þat ilke wouen girdel, myn owen wyf hit þe weued, i wot wel forsoþe; [b] now know i wel þy cosses, & þy costes als, & þe wowyng of my wyf, i wro t hit myseluen; [c] i sende hir to asay þe, & sothly me þynkke , on þe fautlest freke, þat euer on fote ede; as perle bi þe quite pese is of prys more, so is gawayn, in god fayth, bi oþer gay kny te . [d] bot here you lakked a lyttel, sir, & lewte yow wonted, bot þat wat for no wylyde werke, ne wowyng nauþer, [e] bot for e lufed your lyf, þe lasse i yow blame." Þat oþer stif mon in study stod a gret whyle; so agreued for greme he gryed with-inne, [f] alle þe blode of his brest blende in his face, Þat al he schrank for schome, þat þe schalk talked. Þe forme worde vpon folde, þat þe freke meled,-- [g] "corsed worth cowarddyse & couetyse boþe! in yow is vylany & vyse, þat vertue disstrye ." [h] Þenne he ka t to þe knot, & þe kest lawse , brayde broþely þe belt to þe burne seluen: "lo! þer þe falssyng, foule mot hit falle! [i] for care of þy knokke cowardyse me ta t to a-corde me with couetyse, my kynde to for-sake, Þat is larges & lewte, þat longe to kny te . [j] now am i fawty, & falce, & ferde haf ben euer; of trecherye & vn-trawþe boþe bityde sor e & care! [k] i bi-knowe yow, kny t, here stylle, [fol. .] al fawty is my fare, lete me ouer-take your wylle, & efle i schal be ware." [sidenote a: for my weed (woven by my wife) thou wearest.] [sidenote b: i know thy kisses and my wife's wooing.] [sidenote c: i sent her to try thee, and faultless i found thee.] [sidenote d: but yet thou sinnedst a little,] [sidenote e: for love of thy life."] [sidenote f: gawayne stands confounded.] [sidenote g: "cursed," he says, "be cowardice and covetousness both!"] [sidenote h: then he takes off the girdle and throws it to the knight.] [sidenote i: he curses his cowardice,] [sidenote j: and confesses himself to have been guilty of untruth.] [sidenote k: ] xvii. [a] thenne lo e þat oþer leude, & luflyly sayde, "i halde hit hardily[ ] hole, þe harme þat i hade; [b] Þou art confessed so clene, be-knowen of þy mysses, & hat þe penaunce apert, of þe poynt of myn egge, [c] i halde þe polysed of þat ply t, & pured as clene, as þou hade neuer forfeted, syþen þou wat fyrst borne. [d] & i gif þe, sir, þe gurdel þat is golde hemmed; for hit is grene as my goune, sir g:, e maye Þenk vpon þis ilke þrepe, þer þou forth þrynge among prynces of prys, & þis a pure token [e] of þe chaunce of þe grene chapel, at cheualrous kny te ; [f] & e schal in þis nwe er a ayn to my wone , & we schyn reuel þe remnaunt of þis ryche fest, ful bene." Þer laþed hym fast þe lorde, & sayde, "with my wyf, i wene, we schal yow wel acorde, Þat wat your enmy kene." [sidenote a: then the other, laughing, thus spoke:] [sidenote b: "thou art confessed so clean,] [sidenote c: that i hold thee as pure as if thou hadst never been guilty.] [sidenote d: i give thee, sir, the gold-hemmed girdle,] [sidenote e: as a token of thy adventure at the green chapel.] [sidenote f: come again to my abode, and abide there for the remainder of the festival."] [footnote : hardilyly, in ms.] xviii. [a] "nay, for soþe," quod þe segge, & sesed hys helme, & hat hit of hendely, & þe haþel þonkke , [b] "i haf soiorned sadly, sele yow bytyde, & he elde hit yow are, þat arkke al menskes! [c] & comaunde me to þat cortays, your comlych fere, boþe þat on & þat oþer, myn honoured ladye . Þat þus hor kny t wyth hor kest han koyntly bigyled. [d] bot hit is no ferly, þa a fole madde, & þur wyles of wymmen be wonen to sor e; [e] for so wat adam in erde with one bygyled, & salamon with fele sere, & samson eft sone , dalyda dalt hym hys wyrde, & dauyth þer-after wat blended with barsabe, þat much bale þoled. now þese were wrathed wyth her wyles, hit were a wynne huge, [f] to luf hom wel, & leue hem not, a leude þat couþe, for þes wer forne[ ] þe freest þat fol ed alle þe sele, [fol.] ex-ellently of alle þyse oþer, vnder heuen-ryche, [ b.] þat mused; & alle þay were bi-wyled, with[ ] wymmen þat þay vsed, [g] Þa i be now bigyled, me þink me burde be excused." [sidenote a: "nay, forsooth," says gawayne,] [sidenote b: "i have sojourned sadly, but bliss betide thee!] [sidenote c: commend me to your comely wife and that other lady who have beguiled me.] [sidenote d: but it is no marvel for a man to be brought to grief through a woman's wiles.] [sidenote e: adam, solomon, samson, and david were beguiled by women.] [sidenote f: how could a man love them and believe them not?] [sidenote g: though i be now beguiled, methinks i should be excused.] [footnote : forme (?)] [footnote : with wyth, in ms.] xix. [a] "bot your gordel," quod g: "god yow for- elde! Þat wyl i welde wyth good wylle, not for þe wynne golde, ne þe saynt, ne þe sylk, ne þe syde pendaundes, for wele, ne for worchyp, ne for þe wlonk werkke , [b] bot in syngne of my surfet i schal se hit ofte; when i ride in renoun, remorde to myseluen Þe faut & þe fayntyse of þe flesche crabbed, how tender hit is to entyse teches of fylþe; [c] & þus, quen pryde schal me pryk, for prowes of armes, [d] Þe loke to þis luf lace schal leþe my hert. bot on i wolde yow pray, displeses yow neuer; syn e be lorde of þe onde[r] londe, þer i haf lent inne, wyth yow wyth worschyp,--þe wy e hit yow elde Þat vp-halde þe heuen, & on hy sitte ,-- [e] how norne e yowre ry t nome, & þenne no more?" "Þat schal i telle þe trwly," quod þat oþer þenne, [f] "bernlak de hautdesert i hat in þis londe, Þur my t of morgne la faye, þat in my hous lenges, &[ ] koyntyse of clergye, bi craftes wel lerned, Þe maystres of merlyn, mony ho[ ] taken; for ho hat dalt drwry ful dere sum tyme, with þat conable klerk, þat knowes alle your kny te at hame; morgne þe goddes, Þer-fore hit is hir name; [g] welde non so hy e hawtesse, Þat ho ne con make ful tame. [sidenote a: but god reward you for your girdle.] [sidenote b: i will wear it in remembrance of my fault.] [sidenote c: and when pride shall prick me,] [sidenote d: a look to this lace shall abate it.] [sidenote e: but tell me your right name and i shall have done."] [sidenote f: the green knight replies, "i am called bernlak de hautdesert, through might of morgain la fey, the pupil of merlin.] [sidenote g: she can tame even the haughtiest.] [footnote : in (?).] [footnote : ho hat (?).] xx. [a] ho wayned me vpon þis wyse to your wynne halle, for to assay þe surquidre, if hit soth were, Þat rennes of þe grete renoun of þe rounde table; ho wayned me þis wonder, your wytte to reue, [b] for to haf greued gaynour, & gart hir to dy e. [fol. .] with gopnyng[ ] of þat ilke gomen, þat gostlych speked, with his hede in his honde, bifore þe hy e table. Þat is ho þat is at home, þe auncian lady; [c] ho is euen þyn aunt, arþure half suster, Þe duches do ter of tyntagelle, þat dere vter after [d] hade arþur vpon, þat aþel is nowþe. Þerfore i eþe þe, haþel, to com to þy naunt, make myry in my hous, my meny þe louies, & i wol þe as wel, wy e, bi my faythe, as any gome vnder god, for þy grete trauþe." [e] & he nikked hym naye, he nolde bi no wayes; Þay acolen & kyssen, [bikennen] ayþer oþer to þe prynce of paradise, & parten ry t þere, on coolde; [f] gawayn on blonk ful bene, to þe kynge bur buske bolde, & þe kny t in þe enker grene, whider-warde so euer he wolde. [sidenote a: it was she who caused me to test the renown of the round table,] [sidenote b: hoping to grieve guenever and cause her death through fear.] [sidenote c: she is even thine aunt.] [sidenote d: therefore come to her and make merry in my house."] [sidenote e: gawayne refuses to return with the green knight.] [sidenote f: on horse full fair he bends to arthur's hall.] [footnote : glopnyng (?).] xxi. [a] wylde waye in þe worlde wowen now ryde , on gryngolet, þat þe grace hade geten of his lyue; [b] ofte he herbered in house, & ofte al þeroute, & mony a-venture in vale, & venquyst ofte, Þat i ne ty t, at þis tyme, in tale to remene. [c] Þe hurt wat hole, þat he hade hent in his nek, [d] & þe blykkande belt he bere þeraboute, a belef as a bauderyk, bounden bi his syde, loken vnder his lyfte arme, þe lace, with a knot, [e] in tokenyng he wat tane in tech of a faute; [f] & þus he commes to þe court, kny t al in sounde. [g] Þer wakned wele in þat wone, when wyst þe grete, Þat gode g: wat commen, gayn hit hym þo t; [h] Þe kyng kysse þe kny t, & þe whene alce, & syþen mony syker kny t, þat so t hym to haylce, [i] of his fare þat hym frayned, & ferlyly he telles; biknowo alle þe costes of care þat he hade,-- Þe chaunce of þe chapel, þe chere of þe kny t, [j] Þe luf of þe ladi, þe lace at þe last. [fol. b.] Þe nirt in þe nek he naked hem schewed, [k] Þat he la t for his vnleute at þe leudes hondes, for blame; he tened quen he schulde telle, [l] he groned for gref & grame; Þe blod in his face con melle, when he hit schulde schewe, for schame. [sidenote a: wild ways now gawayne rides.] [sidenote b: oft he harboured in house and oft thereout.] [sidenote c: the wound in his neck became whole.] [sidenote d: he still carried about him the belt,] [sidenote e: in token of his fault.] [sidenote f: thus he comes to the court of king arthur.] [sidenote g: great then was the joy of all.] [sidenote h: the king and his knights ask him concerning his journey.] [sidenote i: gawayne tells them of his adventures,] [sidenote j: the love of the lady, and lastly of the lace.] [sidenote k: he showed them the cut in his neck.] [sidenote l: he groaned for grief and shame, and the blood rushed into his face.] xxii. [a] "lo! lorde," quod þe leude, & þe lace hondeled, "Þis is þe bende of þis blame i bere [in] my nek, Þis is þe laþe & þe losse, þat i la t haue, [b] of couardise & couetyse, þat i haf ca t þare, Þis is þe token of vn-trawþe, þat i am tan inne, [c] & i mot nede hit were, wyle i may last; for non may hyden his harme, bot vnhap ne may hit, for þer hit one is tachched, twynne wil hit neuer." [d] Þe kyng comforte þe kny t, & alle þe court als, la en loude þer-at, & luflyly acorden, Þat lordes & ladis, þat longed to þe table, [e] vche burne of þe broþer-hede a bauderyk schulde haue, a bende, a belef hym aboute, of a bry t grene, [f] & þat, for sake of þat segge, in swete to were. for þat wat acorded þe renoun of þe rounde table, [g] & he honoured þat hit hade, euer-more after, as hit is breued in þe best boke of romaunce. [h] Þus in arthurus day þis aunter bitidde, Þe brutus bokees þer-of beres wyttenesse; syþen brutus, þe bolde burne, bo ed hider fyrst, after þe segge & þe asaute wat sesed at troye, i-wysse; mony auntere here bi-forne, haf fallen suche er þis: [i] now þat bere þe croun of þorne, he bryng vus to his blysse! amen. [sidenote a: "lo!" says he, handling the lace, "this is the band of blame,] [sidenote b: a token of my cowardice and covetousness,] [sidenote c: i must needs wear it as long as i live."] [sidenote d: the king comforts the knight, and all the court too.] [sidenote e: each knight of the brotherhood agrees to wear a bright green belt,] [sidenote f: for gawayne's sake,] [sidenote g: who ever more honoured it.] [sidenote h: thus in arthur's day this adventure befell.] [sidenote i: he that bore the crown of thorns bring us to his bliss!] * * * * * notes. line ricchis turns, goes, the king ... ricchis his reynys and the renke metys: girden to gedur with þere grete speires.--t.b. l. . Þis kyng lay at camylot vpon kryst-masse. camalot, in malory's "morte arthure," is said to be the same as winchester. ritson supposes it to be caer-went, in monmouthshire, and afterwards confounded with caer-wynt, or winchester. but popular tradition here seems the best guide, which assigned the site of camalot to the ruins of a castle on a hill, near the church of south cadbury, in somersetshire (sir f. madden). nowel nayted o-newe, neuened ful ofte. christmas celebrated anew, mentioned full often. sir f. madden leaves the word nayted unexplained in his glossary to "syr gawayne." syluener = sylueren, i.e. silver dishes. lyndes = lendes, loins. in his muckel, in his greatness. wat euesed al umbe-torne--? was trimmed, all cut evenly around; umbe-torne may be an error for vmbe-corue = cut round. in gracios werkes. sir f. madden reads gracons for gracios, and suggests greek as the meaning of it. - as al were slypped vpon slepe so slaked hor lote in hy e. as all were fallen asleep so ceased their words in haste (suddenly). sir f. madden reads slaked horlote , instead of slaked hor lote , which, according to his glossary, signifies drunken vagabonds. he evidently takes horlote to be another (and a very uncommon) form of harlote = harlots. but harlot, or vagabond, would be a very inappropriate term to apply to the noble knights of the round table. moreover, slaked never, i think, means drunken. the general sense of the verb slake is to let loose, lessen, cease. cf. lines - , where sloke, another form of slake, occurs with a similar meaning: -- layt no fyrre; bot slokes. -- seek no further, but stop (cease). sir f. madden suggests blows as the explanation of slokes. it is, however, a verb in the imperative mood. brayn. mätzner suggests brayn-wod. barlay = par loi. this word is exceedingly common in the t. book (see l. ). i bid you now, barlay, with besines at all Þat ye set you most soverainly my suster to gete.--t.b. l. . siker. sir f. madden reads swer. bluk. sir f. madden suggests blunk (horse). i am inclined to keep to the reading of the ms., and explain bluk as = bulk = trunk. cf. the use of the word blok in "early english alliterative poems," p. , l. . derue doel, etc. = great grief. sir f. madden reads derne, i.e. secret, instead of derue (= derf). cf. line . knaged, fastened. the braunches were borly, sum of bright gold, with leuys full luffly, light of the same; with burions aboue bright to beholde; and fruit on yt fourmyt of fairest of shap, of mony kynd that was knyt, knagged aboue.--t.b. l. . & ay quere hit is endele , etc. 	and everywhere it is endless, etc. sir f. madden reads emdele , i.e. with equal sides. for-be = for-bi = surpassing, beyond. for hadet read halet = haled = exiled (?). see line . auinant = auenaunt, pleasantly. sir f. madden reads amnant. of. should we not read on (?). Þat oþer wyth a gorger wat gered ouer þe swyre. the gorger or wimple is stated first to have appeared in edward the first's reign, and an example is found on the monument of aveline, countess of lancaster, who died in . from the poem, however, it would seem that the gorger was confined to elderly ladies (sir f. madden). more lykker-wys on to lyk, wat þat scho had on lode. 	a more pleasant one to like, was that (one) she had under her control. tayt = lively, and hence pleasant, agreeable. in vayres, in purity. dut = dunt (?) = dint (?), referring to sword-sports. sayn[t] ione day. this is the th of december, and the last of the feast. sometimes the christmas festivities were prolonged to new year's day (sir f. madden). derne dede = secret deed. i would prefer to read derue dede = great deed. cf. lines , . i wot in worlde, etc. = i not (i know not) in worlde, etc. i nolde, bot if i hit negh my t on nw eres morne, for alle þe londe in-wyth logres, etc. i would not [delay to set out], unless i might approach it on new year's morn, for all the lands within england, etc. in spenne = in space = in the interval = meanwhile. see line . slentyng of arwes. sir f. madden reads sleutyng. "of drawyn swordis sclentyng to and fra, the brycht mettale, and othir armouris seir, quharon the sonnys blenkis betis cleir, glitteris and schane, and vnder bemys brycht, castis ane new twynklyng or a lemand lycht." (g. douglas' Æneid, vol. i, p. .) let lyk = appeared pleased. Þa i were burde bry test, þe burde in mynde hade, etc. the sense requires us to read: Þa ho were burde bry test, þe burne in mynde hade, etc. i.e., though she were lady fairest, the knight in mind had, etc. long sythen [seuered] for þe sounder þat wi t for-olde long since separated from the sounder or herd that fierce (one) for-aged (grew very old). "now to speke of the boore, the fyrste year he is a pygge of the sounder callyd, as haue i blys; the secounde yere an hogge, and soo shall he be, and an hoggestere, whan he is of yeres thre; and when he is foure yere, a boor shall he be, from the sounder of the swyne thenne departyth he; a synguler is he soo, for alone he woll go." (book of st. alban's, ed. , sig. d., i.) totes = looks, toots. sho went up wightly by a walle syde. to the toppe of a toure and tot ouer the water.--t.b. l. . a verb [? lalede = cried] seems wanting after lorde. fnasted, breathed. these balfull bestes were, as the boke tellus, full flaumond of fyre with fnastyng of logh.--t.b. l. . a strothe rande = a rugged path. cf. the phrases tene greue, l. ; ro e greue, l. . thenne wat hit lif vpon list, etc. should we not read: thenne wat hit list vpon lif, etc. i.e., then was there joy in life, etc. bi lag = be-lagh(?) = below (?). lyf = lef(?), beloved (one). ho hat kyst þe kny t so to t. she has kissed the knight so courteous. sir f. madden explains to t, promptly. to t seems to be the same as the northumbrian taght in the following extract from the "morte arthure": "there come in at the fyrste course, before the kyng seluene, bare hevedys that ware bryghte, burnyste with sylver, alle with taghte mene and towne in togers fulle ryche."--(p. .) the word towne (well-behaved) still exists in wan-ton, the original meaning of which was ill-mannered, ill-bred. bray hounde = braþ hounde , i.e. fierce hounds. he hat nere þat he so t = he wat nere þat he so t = he was near to that which he sought. gedere þe rake = takes the path or way. Þe skwe of þe scowtes skayued hym þo t. the shadows of the hills appeared wild (desolate) to him. sir f. madden reads skayned, of which he gives no explanation. skayued = skayfed, seems to be the n. prov. english scafe, wild. scotch schaivie, wild, mad. o.n. skeifr. sw. skef, awry, distorted. ronge = clattered. drede dot me no lote = no noise shall cause me to dread (fear). & þer-for þat tappe ta þe. and therefore take thee that tap. ta þe = take thee. sir f. madden reads taþe = taketh. see l. , where to þe rhymes with sothe. we have no imperatives in th in this poem. we schyn reuel, etc. sir f. madden reads wasch yn reuel. but schyn = shall. see glossary to "alliterative poems." on-coolde = on-colde = coldly = sorrowfully. in-sounde = soundly, well. cf. in-blande = together; in-lyche, alike; inmydde , amidst. cliges: a romance by chretien de troyes trans. l. j. gardiner. this translation was published with no copyright notice in . "t. camp" <campt miralink.com> cliges: a romance now translated by l. j. gardiner, m.a. from the old french of chretien de troyes cooper square publishers, inc. new york published by cooper square publishers, inc. fourth avenue, new york, n. y. library of congress catalog card no. - printed in the united states of america by noble offset printers, inc., new york, n. y. introduction it is six hundred and fifty years since chretien de troyes wrote his cliges. and yet he is wonderfully near us, whereas he is separated by a great gulf from the rude trouveres of the chansons de gestes and from the anglo-saxon chronicle, which was still dragging out its weary length in his early days. chretien is as refined, as civilised, as composite as we are ourselves; his ladies are as full of whims, impulses, sudden reserves, self-debate as m. paul bourget's heroines; while the problems of conscience and of emotion which confront them are as complex as those presented on the modern stage. indeed, there is no break between the breton romance and the psychological-analytical novel of our own day. whence comes this amazing modernity and complexity? from many sources:--provencal love-lore, oriental subtlety, and celtic mysticism--all blended by that marvellous dexterity, style, malice, and measure which are so utterly french that english has no adequate words for them. we said "celtic mysticism," but there is something else about chretien which is also celtic, though very far from being "mystic". we talk a great deal nowadays about celtic melancholy, celtic dreaminess, celtic "other-worldliness"; and we forget the qualities that made caesar's gauls, st. paul's galatians, so different from the grave and steadfast romans--that loud gaulois that has made the parisian the typical frenchman. a different being, this modern athenian, from the mystic irish peasant we see in the poetic modern irish drama!--and yet both are celts. not much "other-worldliness" about chretien. he is as positive as any man can be. his is not of the world of saint louis, of the crusaders, of the cathedral-builders. in cliges there is no religious atmosphere at all. we hear scarcely anything of mass, of bishops, of convents. when he mentions tierce or prime, it is merely to tell us the hour at which something happened--and this something is never a religious service. there is nothing behind the glamour of arms and love, except for the cas de conscience presented by the lovers. nothing but names and framework are celtic; the spirit, with its refinements and its hair-splitting, is provencal. but what a brilliant whole! what art! what measure! our thoughts turn to the gifted women of the age--as subtle, as interesting, and as unscrupulous as the women of the renaissance--to eleanor of aquitaine, a reigning princess, a troubadour, a crusader, the wife of two kings, the mother of two kings, to the last, intriguing and pulling the strings of political power--"an ate, stirring him [king john] to blood and strife." the twelfth century was an age in which women had full scope--in which the empress maud herself took the field against her foe, in which stephen's queen seized a fortress, in which a wife could move her husband to war or to peace, in which a marie of champagne (eleanor's daughter) could set the tone of great poets and choose their subjects. if, then, this woman-worship, this complexity of love, this self-debating, first comes into literature with chretien de troyes, and is still with us, no more interesting work exists than his earliest masterpiece, cliges. the delicate and reticent soredamors; the courteous and lovable, guinevere; the proud and passionate fenice, who will not sacrifice her fair fame and chastity; the sorceress thessala, ancestress of juliet's nurse--these form a gallery of portraits unprecedented in literature. the translator takes this opportunity of thanking mr. b. j. hayes, m.a., of st. john's college, cambridge, for occasional help, and also for kindly reading the proofs. cliges the clerk who wrote the tale of erec and enid, and translated the commandments of ovid and the art of love, and composed the bite of the shoulder, and sang of king mark and of the blonde iseult, and of the metamorphosis of the hoopoe and of the swallow and of the nightingale, is now beginning a new tale of a youth who was in greece of the lineage of king arthur. but before i tell you anything of him, you shall hear his father's life--whence he was and of what lineage. so valiant was he and of such proud spirit, that to win worth and praise he went from greece to england, which was then called britain. we find this story that i desire to tell and to relate to you, recorded in one of the books of the library of my lord saint peter at beauvais. thence was taken the tale from which chretien framed this romance. the book, which truthfully bears witness to the story, is very ancient; for this reason it is all the more to be believed. from the books which we possess, we know the deeds of the ancients and of the world which aforetime was. this our books have taught us: that greece had the first renown in chivalry and in learning. then came chivalry to rome, and the heyday of learning, which now is come into france. god grant that she be maintained there; and that her home there please her so much that never may depart from france the honour which has there taken up its abode. god had lent that glory to others; but no man talks any longer either more or less about greeks and romans; talk of them has ceased, and the bright glow is extinct. chretien begins his tale--as the story relates to us--which tells of an emperor mighty in wealth and honour, who ruled greece and constantinople. there was a very noble empress by whom the emperor had two children. but the first was of such an age before the other was born, that if he had willed he might have become a knight and held all the empire. the first was named alexander; the younger was called alis. the father too had for name alexander; and the mother had for name tantalis. i will straight-away leave speaking of the empress tantalis, of the emperor, and of alis. i will speak to you of alexander, who was so great-hearted and proud that he did not stoop to become a knight in his own realm. he had heard mention made of king arthur, who was reigning at that time; and of the barons which he ever maintained in his retinue wherefore his court was feared and famed throughout the world. howe'er the end may fall out for him, and whate'er may come of it for the lad, there is nought that will hold him from his yearning to go to britain; but it is meet that he take leave of his father before he goes to britain or to cornwall. alexander the fair, the valiant, goes to speak to the emperor in order to ask permission and to take his leave. now will he tell him what is his vow, and what he would fain do and take in hand. "fair sire, that i may be schooled in honour and win worth and renown, a boon," quoth he, "i venture to crave of you--a boon that i would have you give me; never defer it now for me if you are destined to grant it." the emperor had no thought of being vexed for that, either much or little; he is bound to desire and to covet honour for his son above aught else. he would deem himself to be acting well--would deem? ay, and he would be so acting--if he increased his son's honour. "fair son," quoth he, "i grant you your good pleasure, and tell me what you would have me give you." now the lad has done his work well; and right glad was he of it when is granted him the boon that he so longed to have. "sire," quoth he, "would you know what you have promised me? i wish to have in great store of your gold and of your silver and comrades from your retinue such as i shall will to choose; for i wish to go forth from your empire, and i shall go to offer my service to the king who reigns over britain, that he may dub me knight. never, indeed, on any day as long as i live shall i wear visor on my face or helm on my head, i warrant you, till king arthur gird on my sword if he deign to do it; for i will receive arms of no other." the emperor without more ado replies: "fair son, in god's name, say not so. this land and mighty are diverse and contrary. and that man is a slave. constantinople is wholly yours. you must not hold me a niggard when i would fain give you so fair a boon. soon will i have you crowned; and a knight shall you be to-morrow. all greece shall be in your hand; and you shall receive from your barons--as indeed you ought to receive--their oaths and homage. he who refuses this is no wise man." the lad hears the promise--namely, that his father will dub him knight on the morrow after mass--but says that he will prove himself coward or hero in another land than his own. "if you will grant my boon in that matter in which i have asked you; then give me fur both grey and of divers colour and good steeds and silken attire; for before i am knight i will fain serve king arthur. not yet have i so great valour that i can bear arms. none by entreaty or by fair words could persuade me not to go into the foreign land to see the king and his barons, whose renown for courtesy and for prowess is so great. many high men through their idleness lose great praise that they might have if they wandered o'er the world. repose and praise agree all together, as it seems to me; for a man of might who is ever resting in no wise becomes famous. prowess is a burden to a cowardly man; and cowardice is a burden to the brave; thus the twain to his possessions who is ever heaping them up and increasing them. fair sire, as long as i am allowed to win renown, if i can avail so much, i will give my pains and diligence to it." at this, without doubt, the emperor feels joy and anxiety--joy has he; for that he perceives that his son aims at valiant deeds; and anxiety on the other hand, for that he is leaving him. but because of the promise that he has made him it behoves him to grant his boon whatever anxiety he feel about it; for an emperor must not lie. "fair son," quoth he, "i ought not to fail to do your pleasure, since i see that you aspire to honour. you may take from my treasury two barques full of gold and silver; but take care that you be very generous and courteous and well-bred." now is the youth right glad; for his father promises him so much that he puts his treasure at his free disposal and exhorts and commands him to give and to spend liberally; and also he tells him the reason wherefore: "fair son," quoth he, "believe me in this; that open-handedness is the lady and queen who illumines all virtues; and it is not a whit difficult to prove this. in what place could one find a man, however mighty and magnificent he be, that is not blamed if he be a niggard; or any man, however ill-reputed he be, whom liberality does not render praised? liberality of itself makes a man of honour--which neither high rank, nor courtesy, nor knowledge, nor noble birth, nor wealth, nor strength, nor chivalry, nor courage, nor lordship, nor beauty, nor any other thing, can do. but just as the rose is fairer than any other flower when she buddeth fresh and new; so where liberality comes she holds herself above all virtues, and she multiplies five hundredfold the virtues that she finds in an honourable man who proves his worth. there is so much to say about liberality that i could not tell the half of it." well has the lad succeeded in whatsoever he has requested and asked; for his father has found for him all that his desire conceived. exceeding sorrowful was the empress when she heard of the road which her son must needs follow; but whoever has grief and anxiety thereof, or whoever deems his conduct but folly, or blames and dissuades him, the youth as quickly as he could bade his ships be got ready; for he had no wish to stay longer in his own country. the ships were loaded that night by his command with wine with meat and with biscuits. the ships are loaded in the harbour and on the morrow with great joyance came alexander to the sandy shore; and with him his comrades who were fain of the journey. the emperor convoys him and the empress who was sad at heart. in the harbour they find the mariners in the ships beside the cliff. the sea was peaceful and smooth the wind gentle and the air serene. alexander first of all, when he had parted from his father and on taking leave of the empress whose heart was sad within her, enters from the boat into the ship and his comrades with him. four, three, and two, they simultaneously strive to enter without delay. full soon was the sail spread and the anchor of the barque weighed. those on land, who were sore at heart for the lads whom they see departing, follow them with their eyes' ken as far as they can; and so that they may watch them the better and the further, they go off and climb together a high peak by the shore. thence they watch their sorrow as far as they can see them. they gaze at their own sorrow in sooth; for great is their sorrow for the lads: may god lead them to port without disaster and without peril! they were at sea all april and part of may. without great peril and without alarm they made land above southampton. one day 'twixt nones and vespers they cast anchor and have made the port. the youths, who had never previously learned to suffer discomfort or pain, had stayed on the sea which was not wholesome for them so long that all are pale and all the strongest and most healthy are weakened and nerveless. and, nevertheless, they show great joy; for that they have escaped from the sea and come hither where they would be. and because they were suffering greatly, they lie that night above southampton and show great joy and let ask and inquire whether the king is in england. they are told that he is at winchester; and that they can be there full soon if they will depart with morning provided that they keep to the right way. this news pleases them well; and on the morrow, when the day is born, the lads wake up with morning and equip and prepare themselves. and when they were equipped they have turned from above southampton and have kept to the right way till they have reached winchester where the king was tarrying. before prime the greeks had come to court. they dismount at the foot of the steps, the squires and the horses stayed in the court below; and the youths ascend to the presence of the best king that ever was or ever may be in the world. and when the king sees them come, they please and delight him much; but ere they had come before him, they throw off the cloaks from their necks that they might not be taken for clowns. thus all having thrown off their cloaks have come before the king. and the barons one and all keep silence; for the youths please them mightily for that they see them fair and comely. never do they dream that they are all sons of counts or of a king; yet truly so they were, and they were in the flower of their youth, comely and well set up in body; and the robes that they wore were of one cloth and one cut, of one appearance and one colour. twelve were they without their lord of whom i will tell you this much without more ado; that none was better than he; but without arrogance and yet unabashed he stood with his mantle off before the king, and was very fair and well shaped. he has kneeled down before him, and all the others from courtesy, kneel beside their lord. alexander, whose tongue was sharpened to speak well and wisely, greets the king. "king," quoth he, "if renown lie not concerning you since god made the first man, no king with faith in god was born so powerful as you. king, the report that is in men's mouths has brought me to your court to serve and honour you, and if my service is pleasing i will stay till i be a new-made knight at your hand, not at that of another. for never shall i be dubbed knight if i be not so by you. if my service so please you that you will to make me a knight, keep me, gracious king, and my comrades who are here." straightway the king replies: "friend," quoth he, "i reject not a whit either you or your company; but ye are all right welcome; for ye have the air, i well think it, of being sons of men of high rank. whence are ye?" "we are from greece." "from greece?" "truly are we." "who is thy father?" "faith, sire, the emperor." "and what is thy name, fair friend?" "alexander was the name given me when i received salt and chrism and christianity and baptism." "alexander, fair dear friend, i keep you right willingly; and much does it please and joy me, for you have done me exceeding great honour in that you are come to my court. it is my good pleasure that you be honoured here as a noble warrior, wise and gentle. too long have you been on your knees: rise, i bid you, and henceforth be free of my court and of me; for you have arrived at a good haven." forthwith the greeks rise. blithe are they for that the king has thus courteously kept them. alexander is welcome; for there is no lack of aught that he wishes nor is there any baron in the court so high that he does not speak him fair and welcome him. for he is not foolish nor boastful nor doth he vaunt his noble birth. he makes himself known to sir gawain and to the others one by one. he makes himself much loved by each; even sir gawain loves him so much that he hails him as friend and comrade. the greeks had taken in the town at the house of a citizen the best lodging that they could find. alexander had brought great possessions from constantinople: he will desire above aught else to follow diligently the emperor's advice and counsel--namely, that he should have his heart wide-awake to give and to spend liberally. he gives great diligence and pains thereto. he lives well at his lodging and gives and spends liberally as it beseems his wealth, and as his heart counsels him. the whole court marvels whence his store is taken; for he gives to all horses of great price which he had brought from his land. so much trouble has alexander given himself, and so much has he prevailed by his fair service, that the king loves and esteems him dearly as well the barons and the queen. at that point of time king arthur desired to pass over into brittany. he bids all his barons assemble in order to seek counsel, and ask them to whom till he return he can entrust england, who may keep and maintain it in peace. by the council it was with one consent entrusted, as i think, to count engres of windsor; for till then they deemed no baron more loyal in all the king's land. when this man had the land in his power, king arthur and the queen and her ladies set out on the morrow. in brittany folk hear tell that the king and his barons are coming: the bretons rejoice greatly thereat. into the ship in which the king crossed entered neither youth nor maiden save alexander alone; and the queen of a truth brought thither soredamors, a lady who scorned love. never had she heard tell of a man whom she could deign to love however much beauty prowess dominion or high rank he had. and yet the damsel was so winsome and fair that she might well have known love if it had pleased her to turn her mind to it; but never had she willed to bend her mind thereto. now will love make her sorrowful; and love thinks to avenge himself right well for the great pride and resistance which she has always shown to him. right well has love aimed; for he has stricken her in the heart with his arrow. oft she grows pale; oft the beads of sweat break out, and in spite of herself she must love. scarce can she refrain from looking towards alexander; but she must needs guard herself against my lord gawain her brother. dearly does she buy and pay for her great pride and her disdain. love has heated for her a bath which mightily inflames and enkindles her. now is he kind to her, now cruel; now she wants him, and now she rejects him. she accuses her eyes of treachery and says: "eyes, you have betrayed me. through you has my heart which was wont to be faithful conceived hatred for me. now does what i see bring grief. grief? nay, in truth, but rather pleasure. and if i see aught that grieves me, still have i not my eyes under my own sway? my strength must indeed have failed me; and i must esteem myself but lightly if i cannot control my eyes and make them look elsewhere. by so doing i shall be able to guard myself right well from love, who wishes to be my master. what the eye sees not the heart does not lament. if i do not see him there will be no pain. he does not entreat or seek me: if he had loved me he would have sought me. and since he neither loves nor esteems me, shall i love him if he loves me not? if his beauty draws my eyes, and my eyes obey the spell, shall i for that say i love him? nay, for that would be a lie. by drawing my eyes he has done me no wrong of which i can complain; and i can bring no charge at all against him. one cannot love with the eyes. and what wrong, then, have my eyes done to me if they gaze on what i will to look at? what fault and wrong do they commit? ought i to blame them? nay. whom, then? myself, who have them in my keeping? my eye looks on nought unless it pleases and delights my heart. my heart could not wish for aught that would make me sorrowful. it is my heart's will that makes me sorrow. sorrow? faith, then, am i mad? since through my heart i desire that which makes me mad. i ought, indeed, if i can to rid myself of a will whence grief may come to me. if i can? fool, what have i said? then were i weak indeed if i had no power over myself. does love think to put me in the way which is wont to mislead other folk? thus may he lead others; but i am not his at all. never shall i be so; never was i so; never shall i desire his further acquaintance." thus she disputes with herself, one hour loves and another hates. she is in such doubt that she does not know which side to take. she thinks she is defending herself against love; but she is in no need of defence. god! why does she not know that the thoughts of alexander, on his side, are directed towards her? love deals out to them impartially such a portion as is meet for each. he gives to them many a reason and ground that the one should love and desire the other. this love would have been loyal and right if the one had known what was the will of the other; but he does not know what she desires, nor she, for what he is lamenting. the queen watches them and sees the one and the other often lose colour and grow pale and sigh and shudder; but she knows not why they do it unless it be on account of the sea on which they are sailing. perhaps, indeed, she would have perceived it if the sea had not misled her; but it is the sea which baffles and deceives her so that amid the sea-sickness she sees not the heart-sickness. for they are at sea, and heart-sickness is the cause of their plight, and heart-bitterness is the cause of the malady that grips them; but of these three the queen can only blame the sea; for heart-sickness and heart-bitterness lay the blame on the sea-sickness; and because of the third the two who are guilty get off scot-free. he who is guiltless of fault or wrong often pays dear for the sin of another. thus the queen violently accuses the sea and blames it; but wrongly is the blame laid on the sea, for the sea has done therein no wrong. much sorrow has soredamors borne ere the ship has come to port. the king's coming is noised abroad; for the bretons had great joy thereof and served him right willingly as their lawful lord. i seek not to speak more at length of king arthur at this time: rather shall ye hear me tell how love torments the two lovers against whom he has taken the field. alexander loves and desires her who is sighing for his love; but he knows not, and will not know aught of this until he shall have suffered many an ill and many a grief. for love of her he serves the queen and the ladies of her chamber; but he does not dare to speak to or address her who is most in his mind. if she had dared to maintain against him the right which she thinks is hers in the matter, willingly would he have told him of it; but she neither dares nor ought to do so. and the fact that the one sees the other, and that they dare not speak or act, turns to great adversity for them; and love grows thereby and burns. but it is the custom of all lovers that they willingly feed their eyes on looks if they can do no better, and think that because the source whence their love buds and grows delights them therefore it must help their case, whereas it injures them: just as the man who approaches and comes close to the fire burns himself more than the man who draws back from it. their love grows and increases continually; but the one feels shame before the other; and each conceals and hides this love so that neither flame nor smoke is seen from the gleed beneath the ashes. but the heat is none the less for that; rather the heat lasts longer below the gleed than above it. both the lovers are in very great anguish; for in order that their complaint may not be known or perceived, each must deceive all men by false pretence; but in the night great is the plaint which each makes in solitude. first will i tell you of alexander: how he complains and laments. love brings before his mind the lady for whose sake he feels such sorrow; for she has robbed him of his heart, and will not let him rest in his bed; so much it delights him to recall the beauty and the mien of her as to whom he dare not hope that ever joy of her may fall to his lot. "i may hold myself a fool," quoth he. "a fool? truly am i a fool, since i do not dare to say what i think; for quickly would it turn to my bane. i have set my thought on folly. then is it not better for me to meditate in silence than to get myself dubbed a fool? never shall my desire be known. and shall i hide the cause of my grief, and not dare to seek help or succour for my sorrows? he who is conscious of weakness is a fool if he does not seek that by which he may have health if he can find it anywhere; but many a one thinks to gain his own advantage and to win what he desires, who pursues that whereof he sorrows later. and why should he go to seek advice when he does not expect to find health? that were a vain toil! i feel my own ill so heavy a burden that never shall i find healing for it by medicine or by potion or by herb or by root. there is not a remedy for every ill: mine is so rooted that it cannot be cured. cannot? methinks i have lied. as soon as i first felt this evil, if i had dared to reveal and to tell it, i could have spoken to a leech, who could have helped me in the whole matter; but it is very grievous for me to speak out. perhaps they would not deign to listen and would refuse to accept a fee. no wonder is it then if i am dismayed, for i have a great ill; and yet i do not know what ill it is which sways me nor do i know whence comes this pain. i do not know? yes, indeed, i think i know; love makes me feel this evil. how? does love, then, know how to do evil? is he not kind and debonair? i thought that there would have been nought in love which was not good; but i have found him very malicious. he who has not put him to the test knows not with what games love meddles. he is a fool who goes to meet him; for always he wishes to burden his subjects. faith! his game is not at all a good one. it is ill playing with him; for his sport will cause me sorrow. what shall i do, then? shall i draw back i think that this would be the act of a wise man; but i cannot tell how to set about it. if love chastises and threatens in order to teach me his lesson, ought i to disdain my master? he who despises his master is a fool. needs must i store up in my mind love's lesson for soon can great good come of it. but he buffets me greatly: that sets me in alarm! true, neither blow nor wound is visible and yet dost thou complain? then art thou not wrong? nay, indeed, for he has wounded me so sore that he has winged his arrow even to my heart; and not yet has he drawn it out again. how then has he struck his dart into thy body when no wound appears without? this shalt thou tell me; i would fain know it. in what member has he struck thee? through the eye. through the eye? and yet he has not put out thine eye? he has done me no hurt in the eye; but he wounds me sorely at the heart. now speak reason to me: how has the dart passed through thine eye in such wise that the eye is not wounded or bruised by it? if the dart enter through the midst of the eye, why does my heart suffer pain in my body? why does not my eye also feel the pain, since it receives the first blow? that can i well explain. the eye has no care to understand aught nor can it do anything in the matter in any way; but the eye is the mirror to the heart, and through this mirror passes the fire by which the heart is kindled; yet so that it neither wounds nor braises it. then is not the heart placed in the body like the lighted candle which is put inside the lantern? if you take the candle out, never will any light issue thence; but as long as the candle lasts the lantern is not dark; and the flame which shines through neither harms nor injures it. likewise is it with regard to a window: never will it be so strong and so whole but that the ray of the sun may pass through it without hurting it in any way; and the glass will never be so clear that one will see any better for its brightness if another brightness does not strike upon it. know that it is the same with the eyes as with the glass and the lantern; for the light penetrates into the eyes, the heart's mirror; and the heart sees the object outside whatever it be, and sees many various objects, some green, others dark of hue, one crimson, the other blue; and it blames the one and praises the other, holds the one cheap and the other precious; but many an object shows him a fair face in the mirror when he looks at it, which will betray him if he be not on his guard. my mirror has much deceived me; for in it my heart has seen a ray by which i am struck, which has taken shelter in me; and because of this my heart has failed me. i am ill-treated by my friend who deserts me for my enemy. well can i accuse my mirror of treachery; for it has sinned exceedingly against me. i thought i had three friends: my heart and my two eyes together; but methinks they hate me. where shall i find any more a friend, since these three are enemies who belong to me yet kill me? my servants presume overmuch who do all their own will and have no care of mine. now, know i well of a truth from the action of those who have injured me: that a good master's love decays through keeping bad servants. he who associates with a bad servant cannot fail to lament it sooner or later, whatever come of it. "now will i speak to you again of the arrow which is given in trust to me and tell you how it is made and cut; but i fear much that i may fail in the matter; for the carved work of it is so magnificent that twill be no marvel if i fail. and yet i will apply all my diligence to say what i think of it. the notch and the feathers together are so close that if a man looks well at them there is but one dividing line like a narrow parting in the hair; but this line is so polished and straight, that without question there is nought in the notch which can be improved. the feathers are of such a hue as if they were gold or gilded; but gilding can add nothing; for the feathers, this know i well, were brighter still than gold. the feathers are the blonde tresses that i saw the other day at sea. this is the arrow that makes me love. god! what a priceless boon! if a man could have such a treasure, why should he desire any other wealth all his life? for my part, i could swear that i should desire nothing more; for merely the feathers and the notch would i not give away in exchange for antioch. and since i prize these two things so much, who could duly appraise the value of the rest which is so fair and lovable, and so dear and so precious, that i am desirous and eager to behold myself mirrored again in the brow that god has made so bright that nor mirror nor emerald nor topaz would make any show beside it. but of all this, he who gazes at the brightness of the eyes has not a word to say; for to all those who behold them they seem two glowing candles. and who has so glib a tongue that he could describe the fashion of the well-shaped nose, and of the bright countenance where the rose overlays the lily so that it eclipses something of the lily in order the better to illuminate the face, and of the smiling little mouth which god made such on purpose that no one should see it and not think that it is laughing? and what of the teeth in her mouth? one is so close to the other that it seems that they all touch, and so that they might the better achieve this, nature bestowed special pains, so that whoever should see them when the mouth opens would never dream that they were not of ivory or silver. so much there is to say and to recount in the describing of each thing--both of the chin and of the ears--that it would be no great marvel if i were to leave out something. of the throat, i tell you, that in comparison with it, crystal is but dim. and the neck beneath her tresses is four times whiter than ivory. as much as is disclosed from the hem of the vest behind, to the clasp of the opening in front, saw i of the bare bosom uncovered, whiter, than is the new-fallen snow. my pain would indeed have been alleviated if i could have seen the whole of the arrow. right willingly if i had known would i have said what the tip of the arrow is like: i did not see it; and it is not my own fault if i cannot tell the fashion of a thing that i have not seen. love showed me then nought of it except the notch and the feathers; for the arrow was put in the quiver; the quiver is the tunic and the vest wherewith the maid was clad. faith! this is the wound that kills me; this is the dart; this is the ray with which i am so cruelly inflamed. it is ignoble of me to be angry. never for provocation or for war shall any pledge that i must seek of love be broken. now let love dispose of me as he ought to do with what is his; for i wish it, and this is my pleasure. never do i seek that this malady should leave me; rather do i wish it to hold me thus for ever; and that from none may health come to me if health come not from that source whence the disease has come." great is the plaint of alexander; but that which the damsel utters is not a whit less. all night she is in so great pain that she neither sleeps nor rests. love has set in array within her a battle that rages and mightily agitates her heart; and which causes such anguish and torture that she weeps all night and complains and tosses and starts up, so that her heart all but stops beating. and when she has so grieved and sobbed and moaned and started and sighed, then she has looked in her heart to see who and of what worth was he for whose sake love was torturing her. and when she has recalled each wandering thought, then she stretches herself and turns over; and turning, she turns to folly all the thinking she has done. then she starts on another argument and says: "fool! what does it matter to me if this youth is debonair and wise and courteous and valiant! all this is honour and advantage to him. and what care i for his beauty? let his beauty depart with him--and so it will, for all i can do; never would i wish to take away aught of it. take away? nay, truly, that do i not assuredly. if he had the wisdom of solomon, and if nature had put so much beauty in him that she could not have put more in a human body, and if god had put in my hand the power to destroy all, i would not seek to anger him; but willingly if i could would i make him more wise and more beautiful. faith! then, i do not hate him at all. and am i then on that account his lady? no, indeed, no more than i am another's. and wherefore do i think more of him if he does not please me more than another? i know not: i am all bewildered, for never did i think so much about any man living in the world. and if i had my wish i should see him always; never would i seek to take my eyes off him so much the sight of him delights me. is this love? methinks it is. never should i have called on him so often if i had not loved him more than another. yes, i love him: let that be granted. and shall i not have my desire? yes, provided that i find favour in his eyes. this desire is wrong; but love has taken such hold of me that i am foolish and dazed and to defend myself avails me nought herein; thus i must suffer love's attack. i have indeed guarded myself thus wisely and for long against love; never once before did i wish to do aught for him, but now i am too gracious to him. and what thanks does he owe me, since he cannot have service or kindness of me by fair means? it is by force that love has tamed my pride; and i must needs be subject to his will. now i wish to love; now i am under his tuition; now will love teach me. and what? how i ought to serve him. of that am i right well apprised. i am full wise in his service, for no one could find fault with me in this matter. no need is there henceforth for me to learn more. love would have me, and i would fain be wise without pride, gracious and courteous towards all, but the true love of one only. shall i love them all for the sake of one? a fair mien should i show to each; but love does not bid me to be a true love to every man. love teaches nought but good. it is not for nothing that i have this name, and that i am called soredamors. i ought to love, and i ought to be loved, and i wish to prove it by my name, if i can find fitting arguments. it is not without meaning that the first part of my name is the colour of gold; for the most beautiful are the blondest. therefore i hold my name the fairer because it begins with the colour with which accords the finest gold. and the end recalls love; for he who calls me by my right name ever calls love to my mind. and the one half gilds the other with bright and yellow gilding; for soredamors means the same thing as 'gilded with love'. much, then, has love honoured me, since he has gilded me with himself. gilding of gold is not so fine as that which illumines me. and i shall set my care on this, that i may be of his gilding; nevermore will i complain of him. now i love and shall always love. whom? truly, a fine question! him whom love bids me love; for no other shall ever have my love. what does it matter as he will never know it unless i tell him myself? what shall i do if i do not pray him for his love? for he who desires a thing ought indeed to request and pray for it. how? shall i then pray him? nay, indeed. why not? it never happened that a woman did aught so witless as to beg a man for love unless she were more than common mad. i should be convicted of folly if i said with my mouth aught that might turn to my reproach. if he should know it from my mouth, i deem that he would hold me the cheaper for it, and would often reproach me with having been the first to pray for love. never be love so abased that i should go and entreat this man, since he would be bound to hold me the cheaper for it. ah god! how will he ever know it, since i shall not tell him? as yet i have scarce suffered aught for which i need so distress myself. i shall wait till he perceives it, if he is ever destined to perceive it. he will know it well of a truth, i think, if ever he had aught to do with love or heard tell of it by word of mouth. heard tell! now have i said foolish words. love's lore is not so easy that a man becomes wise by speaking of it unless good experience be there too. of myself i know this well; for never could i learn aught of it by fair speaking or by word of mouth; and yet i have been much at love's school, and have often been flattered; but always have i kept aloof from him, and now he makes me pay dear for it; for now i know more of it than an ox does of ploughing. but of this i despair--that he never loved, perhaps, and if he does not love, and has not loved; then have i been sowing in the sea where no seed can take root; and there is nothing for it but to wait for him and to suffer till i see whether i can bring him into the right way by hints and covert words. i will so act that he will be certain of having my love if he dares to seek it. thus the end of the whole matter is that i love him and am his. if he does not love me, i shall love him all the same." thus both he and she complain, and the one hides the case from the other; they have sorrow in the night and worse by day. in such pain they have, it seems to me, been a long while in brittany until it came to the end of summer. right at the beginning of october came messengers from the parts about dover from london and from canterbury to bring the king tidings that have troubled his heart. the messengers have told him this--that he may well tarry too long in brittany; for he to whom he had entrusted his land, and had consigned so great a host of his subjects and of his friends, will now set himself in battle array against the king; and he has marched into london in order to hold the city against the hour that arthur should have returned. when the king heard the news he calls all his barons; for he was indignant and full of displeasure. that he may the better stir them up to confound the traitor, he says that all the blame for his toil and for his war is theirs; for through their persuasion he gave his land and put it into the hand of the traitor who is worse than ganelon. there is not one who does not quite allow that the king has right and reason; for they all counselled him to do so; but the traitor will be ruined for it. and let him know well of a truth that in no castle or city will he be able so to protect his body that they do not drag him out of it by force. thus they all assure the king and solemnly affirm and swear that they will give up the traitor or no longer hold their lands. and the king has it proclaimed through all brittany that none who can bear arms in the host remain in the country without coming after him quickly. all brittany is moved: never was such a host seen as king arthur assembled. when the ships moved out it seemed that everybody in the world was on the sea; for not even the waves were seen, so covered were they with ships. this fact is certain, that it seems from the stir that all brittany is taking ship. now have the ships made the passage; and the folk who have thronged together go into quarters along the shore. it came into alexander's heart to go and beg the king to make him a knight; for if ever he is to win renown he will win it in this war. he takes his comrades with him, as his will urges him on to do what he has purposed. they have gone to the king's tent: the king was sitting before his tent. when he sees the greeks coming he has called them before him. "sirs," quoth he, "hide not from me what need brought you here." alexander spoke for all and has told him his desire: "i am come," quoth he, "to pray you as i am bound to pray, my lord, for my companions and for myself, that you make us knights." the king replies: "right gladly; and not a moment's delay shall there be, since you have made me this request." then the king bids there be borne harness for twelve knights: done is what the king commands. each asks for his own harness; and each has his own in his possession, fair arms and a good steed: each one has taken his harness. all the twelve were of like value, arms and apparel and horse; but the harness for alexander's body was worth as much--if any one had cared to value or to sell it--as the arms of all the other twelve together. straightway by the sea they disrobed and washed and bathed; for they neither wished nor deigned that any other bath should be heated for them. they made the sea their bath and tub. the queen, who does not hate alexander--rather does she love and praise and prize him much--hears of the matter. she wills to do him a great service; it is far greater than she thinks. she searches and empties all her chests till she has drawn forth a shirt of white silk very well wrought very delicate and very fine. there was no thread in the seams that was not of gold, or at the least of silver. soredamors from time to time had set her hands to the sewing, and had in places sewn in beside the gold a hair from her head, both on the two sleeves and on the collar to see and to put to the test whether she could ever find a man who could distinguish the one from the other, however carefully he looked at it; for the hair was as shining and as golden as the gold or even more so. the queen takes the shirt and has given it to alexander. ah god! how great joy would alexander have had if he had known what the queen is sending him. very great joy would she too have had, who had sewn her hair there if she had known that her love was to have and wear it. much comfort would she have had thereof; for she would not have loved all the rest of her hair so much as that which alexander had. but neither he nor she knew it: great pity is it that they do not know. to the harbour where the youths are washing came the messenger of the queen; he finds the youths on the beach and has given the shirt to him, who is much delighted with it and who held it all the dearer for that it came from the queen. but if he had known the whole case he would have loved it still more; for he would not have taken all the world in exchange, but rather he would have treated it as a relic, i think, and would have worshipped it day and night. alexander delays no longer to apparel himself straightway. when he was clad and equipped he has returned to the tent of the king; and all his comrades together with him. the queen, as i think, had come to sit in the tent because she wished to see the new knights arrive. well might one esteem them fair; but fairest of all was alexander with the agile body. they are now knights; for the present i say no more about them. henceforth shall i speak of the king and of the host which came to london. the greater part of the folk held to his side; but there is a great multitude of them against him. count engres musters his troops, all that he can win over to him by promise or by gift. when he had got his men together he has secretly fled by night; for he was hated by several and feared to be betrayed; but before he fled he took from london as much as he could of victuals of gold and of silver, and distributed it all to his folk. the tidings is told to the king--that the traitor is fled, and all his army with him, and that he had taken so much of victuals and goods from the city that the burgesses are impoverished and destitute and at a loss. and the king has replied just this: that never will he take ransom of the traitor, but will hang him if he can find or take him. now all the host bestirs itself so much that they reached windsor. at that day, however it be now, if any one wished to defend the castle, it would not have been easy to take; for the traitor enclosed it as soon as he planned the treason with treble walls and moats, and had strengthened the walls behind with sharpened stakes, so that they should not be thrown down by any siege-engine. he had spent great sums in strengthening it all june and july and august, in making walls, and bastions, and moats, and drawbridges, trenches, and breast-works, and barriers, and many a portcullis of iron, and a great tower of stones, hewn foursquare. never had he shut the gate there for fear of attack. the castle stands on a high hill and below it runs thames. the host is encamped on the river bank; on that day they had time for nought save encamping and pitching their tents. the host has encamped on thames: all the meadow is covered with tents, green and vermilion. the sun strikes on the colours and the river reflects their sheen for more than a full league. the defenders of the castle had come to take their pleasure along the strand with their lances only in their hands, their shields locked close in front of them, for they bore no arms but these. to their foes without they made it appear that they feared them not at all inasmuch as they had come unarmed. alexander, on the other side, perceived the knights who go before them, playing a knightly game on horseback. hot is his desire to meet with them; and he calls his comrades one after the other by their names: first cornix, whom he greatly loved, then the stout licorides, then nabunal of mycenae, and acoriondes of athens, and ferolin of salonica, and calcedor from towards africa, parmenides and francagel, torin the strong, and pinabel, nerius, and neriolis. "lords," quoth he, "a longing has seized me to go and make with lance and with shield acquaintance with those who come to tourney before us. i see full well that they take us for laggards and esteem us lightly--so it seems to me--since they have come here all unarmed to tourney before our faces. we have been newly dubbed knights; we have not yet shown our mettle to knights or at quintain. too long have we kept our new lances virgin. why were our shields made? not yet have they been pierced or broken. such a gift avails us nought save for tour or for assault. let us pass the ford, and let us attack them." all say: "we will not fail you." each one says: "so may god save me, as i am not the man to fail you here." now they gird on their swords, saddle and girth their steeds, mount and take their shields. when they had hung the shields from their necks, and taken the lances blazoned in quarterings; they all at once rush on to the ford; and the enemy lower their lances and ride quickly to strike them. but alexander and his comrades knew well how to pay them back; and they neither spare them nor shirk nor yield a foot before them; rather each strikes his own foe so doughtily that there is no knight so good but he must void his saddle-bow. the greeks did not take them for boys for cowards or for men bewildered. they have not wasted their first blows; for they have unhorsed thirteen. the noise of their blows and strokes has reached as far as to the army. in a short time the melee would have been desperate, if the enemy had dared to stand before them. the king's men run through the host to take their weapons, and dash into the water noisily, and the enemy turn to flight; for they see that it is not good to stay there. and the greeks follow them, striking with lances and swords. many heads there were cut open; but of the greeks there was not a single one wounded. they have proved themselves well that day. but alexander won the greatest distinction; for he leads away four knights bound to his person and taken prisoners. and the dead lie on the strand; for many there lay headless, and many wounded and maimed. alexander from courtesy gives and presents the first fruits of his knighthood to the queen. he does not wish that the king should have possession of the captives; for he would have had them all hanged. the queen has had them taken and has had them guarded in prison as accused of treason. men speak of the greeks throughout the army; all say that alexander is right courteous and debonair as regards the knights whom he had taken inasmuch as he had not given them up to the king, who would have had them burned or hanged. but the king is in earnest in the matter. forthwith he bids the queen that she come and speak to him and keep not her traitors; for it will behove her to give them up or he will take them against her will. then the queen has come to the king; they have had converse together about the traitors as it behoved them; and all the greeks had been left in the queen's tent with the ladies. much do the twelve say to them, but alexander does not say a word. soredamors observed it; she had sat down near him. he has rested his cheek on his hand, and it seems that he is deep in thought. thus have they sat full long till soredamors saw on his arm and at his neck the hair with which she had made the seam. she has drawn a little nearer him, for now she has opportunity of speaking with him; but she considers beforehand how she can be the one to speak, and what the first word shall be; whether she will call him by his name; and she takes counsel of it with herself. "what shall i say first?" thinks she. "shall i address him by his name, or as 'friend'. friend? not i. how then? call him by his name? god! the word friend is so fair and so sweet to say. what if i dared to call him friend? dared? what forbids it me? the fact that i think i should be telling a lie. a lie? i know not what it will be; but if i lie it will be a weight on my mind. for that reason it must be allowed that i should not desire to lie in the matter. god! he would not lie now a whit if he called me his sweet friend. and should i lie in so calling him? both of us ought indeed to speak truth; but if i lie the wrong will be his. and why is his name so hard to me that i wish to add a name of courtesy? it seems to me there are too many letters in it, and i should become tongue-tied in the middle. but if i called him friend, i should very quickly say this name. but just because i fear to stumble in the other name, i would have given of my heart's-blood if only his name might have been 'my sweet friend'." she delays so long in thus thinking that the queen returns from the king, who had sent for her. alexander sees her coming, and goes to meet her, and asks her what the king commands to be done with his prisoners, and what will be their fate. "friend," says she, "he requires me to yield them up to his discretion and to let him do his justice on them. he is very wroth that i have not yet given them up to him and i must send them; for i see no other way out." thus they have passed this day; and on the morrow the good and loyal knights have assembled together before the royal tent to pronounce justice and judgment as to with what penalty and with what torture the four traitors should die. some doom that they be flayed, others that they be hanged or burnt, and the king himself deems that traitors should be drawn. then he bids them be brought: they are brought; he has them bound, and tells them that they shall not be quartered till they are in view of the castle, so that those within shall see them. when the parley is done, the king addresses alexander and calls him his dear friend. "friend," quoth he, "i saw you yesterday make a fair attack and a fair defence. i will give you the due guerdon: i increase your following by welsh knights and by footmen of this land. when i shall have finished my war, in addition to what i have given you, i will have you crowned king of the best realm in wales. market-towns and strong castles, cities and halls, will i give you, meanwhile, till the land shall be given to you which your father holds and of which you must become emperor." alexander heartily thanks the king for this grant; and his comrades thank him likewise. all the barons of the court say that the honour which the king designs for him is well vested in alexander. when alexander sees his men his comrades and his footmen, such as the king willed to give him, then they begin to sound horns and trumpets throughout the host. good and bad all, i would have you know, without exception take their arms, those of wales and of brittany of scotland and of cornwall; for from all sides without fail strong reinforcements had come in for the host. thames had shrunk; for there had been no rain all the summer; rather there had been such a drought that the fish in it were dead and the ships leaky in the harbour; and one could pass by the ford there where the water was widest of a hair and has delight and joyaunce thereof; but the host has crossed thames; some beset the valley and others mount the height. the defenders of the castle perceive it, and see coming the wondrous host which is preparing outside to overthrow and take the castle; and they prepare to defend it. but before any attack is made the king has the traitors dragged by four horses round the castle, through the valleys, and over mounds and hillocks. count engres is sore grieved when he sees those whom he held dear dragged round his castle; and the others were much dismayed; but for all the dismay that they feel thereat they have no desire to surrender. needs must they defend themselves; for the king displays openly to all his displeasure and his wrath; and full well they see that if he held them he would make them die shamefully. when the four had been drawn and their limbs lay o'er the field, then the attack begins; but all their toil is vain; for howsoever they may hurl and throw their missiles, they can avail nought. and yet they try hard; they throw and hurl a thick cloud of bolts and javelins and darts. the catapults and slings make a great din on all sides; arrows and round stone fly likewise in confusion as thick as rain mingled with hail. thus they toil all day: these defend, and those attack until night separates them, one from the other, nor need they trouble to flee, nor do they see. and the king on his part has it cried through the host and made known what gift that man will have of him by whom the castle shall have been taken: a goblet of very great price, worth fifteen golden marks, the richest in his treasure, will he give him. the goblet will be very fair and rich; and he whose judgement goes not astray ought to hold it dearer for the workmanship than for the material. the goblet is very precious in workmanship, and if i were to disclose the whole truth, the jewels on the outside were worth more than the workmanship or the gold. if he by whom the castle will be taken is but a foot soldier, he shall have the cup. and if it is taken by a knight, never shall he seek any reward besides the cup; but he will have it if it can be found in the world. when this matter was proclaimed alexander, who went each evening to see the queen, had not forgotten his custom. on this evening he had again gone thither; they were seated side by side, both alexander and the queen. before them soredamors was sitting alone nearest to them; and she looked at him as gladly as though she would not have preferred to be in paradise. the queen held alexander by his right hand, and looked at the golden thread which had become greatly tarnished; and the hair was becoming yet fairer whereas the gold thread was growing pale; and she remembered by chance that soredamors had done the stitching and she laughed thereat. alexander observed it and asks her, if it may be told, to tell him what makes her laugh. the queen delays to tell him, and looks towards soredamors, and has called her before her. she has come very gladly and kneels before her. alexander was much joyed when he saw her approach so near that he could have touched her; but he has not so much courage as to dare even to look at her; but all his senses have so left him that he has almost become dumb. and she, on the other hand, is so bewildered that she has no use of her eyes, but fixes her gaze on the ground, and dares not direct it elsewhere. the queen greatly marvels; she sees her now pale, now flushed, and notes well in her heart the bearing and appearance of each and of the two together. she sees clearly and truly, it seems to her, judging by the changes of colour, that these are signs of love; but she does not wish to cause them anguish: she feigns to know nothing of what she sees. she did just what it behoved her to do; for she gave no look or hint save that she said to the maiden: "damsel, look yonder and tell--hide it not from us--where the shirt that this knight has donned was sewn, and whether you had a hand in it, and put in it somewhat of yours?" the maiden is ashamed to say it; nevertheless, she tells it to him gladly; for she wishes that he should hear the truth; and he has such joy of hearing it when she tells and describes to him the making of the shirt, that with great difficulty he restrains himself when he sees the hair from worshipping and doing reverence to it. his comrades and the queen, who were there with him, cause him great distress and annoyance; for on account of them he refrains from raising it to his eyes and to his lips where he would fain have pressed it if he had not thought that they would see him. he is blithe that he has so much of his lady-love; but he does not think or expect to have ever any other boon of her. his desire makes him fear; nevertheless, when he is alone he kisses it more than a hundred thousand times when he has left the queen. now it seems to him that he was born in a lucky hour. very great joy does he have of it all night, but he takes good care that no one sees him. when he has lain down in his bed, he delights and consoles him self fruitlessly with that in which there is no delight; all night he embraces the shirt, and when he beholds the hair he thinks he is lord of all the world. truly love makes a wise man a fool: since he has joy, he will change his pastime before the bright dawn and the sunlight. the traitors are holding counsel as to what they will be able to do and what will become of them. long time they will be able to defend the castle; that is a certainty if they apply themselves to the defence; but they know that the king is of so fierce a courage that in all his life he will never turn away until he has taken it; then they must needs die. and if they surrender the castle they expect no grace for that. thus the one lot or the other; it has fallen out ill for them; for they have no reinforcement, and they see death on all sides. but the end of their deliberation is that to-morrow, before day appears, they resolve to issue forth secretly from the castle, and to fall on the host unarmed, and the knights asleep, since they will still be lying in their beds. before these have awakened, apparelled and equipped, themselves, they will have made such slaughter that ever hereafter shall be related the battle of that night. to this plan all the traitors cling from desperation, for they have no confidence as to their lives. lack of hope as to the outcome emboldens them to the battle, for they see no issue for themselves except through death or prison. such an issue is no wholesome one, nor need they trouble to flee, nor do they see where they could find refuge if they should have fled; for the sea and their enemies are around them, and they in the midst. no longer do they tarry at their council: now they apparel and arm themselves, and issue forth towards the north-west by an ancient postern towards that side whence they thought that those of the host would least expect to see them come. in serried ranks they sallied forth: of their men they made five battalions; and there were no less than two thousand foot-soldiers well equipped for battle and a thousand knights in each. this night neither star nor moon had shown its rays in the sky; but before they had reached the tents the moon began to rise, and, i believe that just to vex them, it rose earlier than it was wont; and god who wished to injure them lit up the dark night, for he had no care of their army; rather he hated them for their sin with which they were tainted for traitors and treason which god hates more than any other crime; so the moon began to shine because it was doomed to injure them. the moon was veritably hostile to them; for it shone on their glittering shields; and the helmets likewise greatly embarrass them, for they reflect the light of the moon for the sentries who were set to guard the host see them; and they cry throughout all the host: "up, knights! up, rise quickly! take your arms, arm yourselves! behold the traitors upon us!" through all the host they spring to arms; they rouse themselves and don with haste their harness, as men must do in case of stress. never did a single one of them stir forth till they were fully equipped; and all mounted on their steeds. while they are arming, the enemy, on the other hand, who greatly desire the battle, are bestirring themselves, so that they may take them unawares and likewise find them unarmed; and they send forth their men whom they had divided into five bands. some kept beside the wood; others came along the river; the third placed themselves in the plain; and the fourth were in a valley; and the fifth battalion spurs along the moat that surrounded a rock, for they thought to swoop down impetuously among the tents. but they have not found a road that they could follow, or a way that was not barred; for the king's men block their way as they very proudly defy them and reproach them with treason. they engage with the iron heads of their lances, so that they splinter and break them; they come to close quarters with swords; and champion strikes champion to the ground and makes him bite the dust; each side strikes down its foes, and as fiercely as lions devouring whatsoever they can seize rush on their prey; so fiercely do they rush on their foe--aye, and more fiercely. on both sides, of a truth, there was very great loss of life at that first attack; but reinforcements come for the traitors, who defend themselves very fiercely, and sell their lives dear when they can keep them no longer. on four sides they see their battalions coming to succour them; and the king's men gallop upon them as fast as they can spur. they rush to deal them such blows on the shields, that together with the wounded they have overthrown more than five hundred of them. the greeks spare them not at all. alexander is not idle, for he exerts himself to act bravely. in the thickest of the fray he rushes so impetuously to smite a traitor, that neither shield nor hauberk availed one whit to save that traitor from being thrown to the ground. when alexander has made a truce with him forsooth, he pays his attentions to another--attentions in which he does not waste or lose his pains. he serves him in such valiant sort that he rends his soul from his body; and the house remains without a tenant. after these two alexander picks a quarrel with a third: he strikes a right noble court knight through both flanks in such wise that the blood gushes out of the wound on the opposite side; and the soul takes leave of the body, for the foe man has breathed it forth. many a one he kills; many a one he maims; for like the forked lightning he attacks all those that he seeks out. him whom he strikes with lance or sword, neither corselet nor shield protects. his comrades also are very lavish in spilling blood and brains; well do they know how to deal their blows. and the king's men cut down so many that they break and scatter them like common folk distraught. so many dead lie o'er the fields and so long has the scour lasted, that the battle-array was broken up a long while before it was day; and the line of dead down along the river extended five leagues. count engres leaves his standard in the battle and steals away; and he has taken seven of his companions together with him. he has returned towards his castle by so hidden a way that he thinks that no one sees; but alexander marks him; for he sees them flee from the host, and thinks to steal away and meet them, so that no one will know where he has gone. but before he was in the valley he saw as many as thirty knights coming after him along a path, six of whom were greeks, and the other four-and-twenty welsh; for they thought that they would follow him at a distance until it should come to the pinch. when alexander perceived them he stopped to wait, and marks which way those who are returning to the castle take until he sees them enter. then he begins to meditate on a very hazardous venture and on a very wondrous stratagem. and when he had finished all his thinking, he turns towards his comrades, and thus has related and said to them: "lords," quoth he, "without gainsaying me, if ye wish to have my love, whether it be prompted by folly or wisdom, grant me my wish." and they have granted it; for never will they refuse him anything that he may choose to do. "let us change our insignia," quoth he; "let us take shields and lances from the traitors that we have slain. thus we shall go towards the castle, and the traitors within will think that we are of their party, and whatever the requital may be the doors will be opened to us. know ye in what wise we shall requite them? we shall take them all or dead or living if god grant it us; and if any of you repent you know that as long as i live, i shall never love him with a good heart." all grant him his will: they go and seize the shields from the dead; and they arrive with this equipment. and the folk of the castle had mounted to the battlements of the tower, for they recognised the shields full well and think that they belong to their own men; for they were unsuspicious of the ambush which lurks beneath the shields. the porter opens the door to them and has received them within. he is so beguiled and deceived that he does not address them at all; and not one of them breathes a word, but they pass on mute and silent, feigning such grief that they drag their lances behind them and bend beneath their shields, so that it seems that they are sorrowing greatly; and they go in whatever direction they wish until they have passed the three walls. up yonder they find so many foot-soldiers and knights with the count, i cannot tell you the number of them; but they were all unarmed except the eight alone, who had returned from the army; and these even were preparing to take off their armour. but they might well prove over-hasty; for those who have come upon them up yonder no longer hid themselves, but put their steeds to the gallop. all press on their stirrups and fall upon them and attack them, so that they strike dead thirty-and-one before they have given the challenge. the traitors are much dismayed thereat and cry, "betrayed! betrayed!" but alexander and his friends are not confused; for as soon as they find them all unarmed they test their swords well there. even three of those whom they found armed have they so served that they have only left five. count engres has rushed forward, and before the eyes of all goes to strike calcedor on his golden shield, so that he throws him to the ground dead. alexander is much grieved when he sees his comrade slain; he well-nigh goes mad with the fury that comes upon him. his reason is dimmed with anger, but his strength and courage are doubled, and he goes to strike the count with such a mighty force that his lance breaks; for willingly, if he could, would he avenge the death of his friend. but the count was of great strength, a good and bold knight to boot, such that there would not have been a better in the world if he had not been disloyal and a traitor. the count, on his side, prepares to give him such a blow that he bends his lance, so that it altogether splinters and breaks; but the shield does not break and the one knight does not shake the other from his seat any more than he would have shaken a rock, for both were very strong. but the fact that the count was in the wrong mightily vexes and weakens him. the one grows furious against the other, and both have drawn their swords, since they had broken their lances. and there would have been no escape if these two champions had wished further to prolong the fight; one or the other would have had to die forthwith at the end. but the count does not dare to stand his ground, for he sees his men slain around him, who, being unarmed, were taken unawares. and the king's men pursue them fiercely, and hack and hew, and cleave, and brain them, and call the count a traitor. when he hears himself accused of treason, he flees for refuge towards his keep; and his men flee with him. and their enemies who fiercely rush after take them captive; they let not a single one escape of all those that they catch. they kill and slay so many that i do not think that more than seven reached a place of safety. when the traitors entered the keep, they are stayed at the entrance; for their pursuers had followed them so close that their men would have got in if the entrance had been open. the traitors defend themselves well; for they expect succour from them who were arming in the town below. but by the advice of nabunal, a greek who was very wise, the way was held against the reinforcements, so that they could not come in time, for they had tarried over-long from lukewarmness and indolence. up there into that fortress there was only one single entry; if the greeks stop up that entrance, they will have no need to fear the coming of any force from which ill may befall them. nabunal bids and exhorts that twenty of them go to defend the outer gateway; for easily there might they press in that way to attack and overwhelm them--foemen who would do them harm if they had strength and power to do so. "let a score of men go to defend the gateway, and let the other ten assail the keep from without, so that the count may not shut himself up inside." this is what nabunal advises: the ten remain in the melee before the entrance of the keep; the score go to the gate. they have delayed almost too long; for they see coming a company, flushed and heated with desire of fighting, in which there were many crossbow-men and foot-soldiers of divers equipment, bearing diverse arms. some carried light missiles, and others, danish axes, turkish lances and swords, arrows and darts and javelins. very heavy would have been the reckoning that the greeks would have had to pay, peradventure, if this company had come upon them, but they did not come in time. by the wisdom and by the prudence of nabunal, they forestalled them and kept them without. when the reinforcements see that they are shut out, then they remain idle, for they see well that by attacking they will be able to accomplish nought in the matter. then there rises a mourning and a cry of women and of little children, of old men and of youths, so great that if it had thundered from the sky those within the castle would not have heard aught of it. the greeks greatly rejoice thereat; for now they all know of a surety that never by any chance will the count escape being taken. they bid four of them mount in haste to the battlements of the wall to see that those without do not from any quarter, by any stratagem or trick, press into the castle to attack them. the sixteen have returned to the ten who are fighting. now was it bright daylight, and now the ten had forced their way into the keep, and the count, armed with an axe, had taken his stand beside a pillar where he defends himself right fiercely. he cleaves asunder all who come within his reach. and his followers range themselves near him; in their last day's work they take such good vengeance that they spare not their strength at all. alexander's knights lament that there were no more than thirteen of them left though even now there were twenty-and-six. alexander well-neigh raves with fury when he sees such havoc among his men who are thus killed and wounded, but he is not slow to revenge. he has found at hand, by his side, a long and heavy beam, and goes to strike therewith a traitor; and neither the foeman's shield nor hauberk availed him a whit against being borne to the ground. after him, he attacks the count; in order to strike well he raises the beam; and he deals him such a blow with his square-hewn beam that the axe falls from his hands; and he was so stunned and so weak, that if he had not leaned against the wall his feet would not have supported him. with this blow the battle ceases. alexander leaps towards the count and seizes him in such wise that he cannot move. no need is there to tell more of the others, for easily were they vanquished when they saw their lord taken. they capture them all with the count and lead them away in dire shame even as they had deserved. of all this, king arthur's host who were without, knew not a word; but in the morning when the battle was ended they had found their shields among the bodies; and the greeks were raising a very loud lamentation for their lord but wrongly. on account of his shield which they recognise they one and all make great mourning, and swoon over his shield, and say that they have lived too long. cornix and nerius swoon; and when they come to themselves they blame their lives for being yet whole in them. and so do torins and acoriondes; the tears ran in streams from their eyes right on to their breasts. life and joy are but vexation to them. and above all parmenides has dishevelled and torn his hair. these five make so great a mourning for their lord that greater there cannot be. but they disquiet themselves in vain; instead of him, they are bearing away another; and yet they think that they are bearing away their lord. the other shields too cause them much sorrow by reason whereof they think that the bodies are those of their comrades; and they swoon and lament over them. but the shields lie one and all; for of their men there was but one slain who was named, neriolis. him truly would they have borne away had they known the truth. but they are in as great distress about the others as about him; and they have borne and taken them all. about all but one they are mistaken; but even like a man who dreams, who believes a lie instead of truth, the shields made them believe that this lie was true. they are deceived by the shields. they have set out with the bodies of the slain, and have come to their tents where there were many folk lamenting; but one and all of the others joined in the lament the greeks were making. there was a great rally to their mourning. now soredamors, who hears the wailing and the lament for her friend, thinks and believes that she was born in an evil hour. for anguish and grief she loses memory and colour; and this it is that grieves and wounds her much, but she dare not openly show her grief; she has hidden her mourning in her heart. and yet, if any one had marked it, he would have seen by her countenance and by her outer semblance, that she suffered great pain and sorrow of body; but each one had enough to do to utter his own grief and recked nought of another's. each was lamenting his own sorrow; for they find their kinsmen and their friends in evil case; for the river-bank was covered with them. each lamented his own loss which is heavy and bitter. there the son weeps for the father, and here the father for the son; this man is swooning over his cousin, and this other, over his nephew; thus in each place they lament, fathers and brothers and kinsmen. but conspicuous above all is the lament that the greeks were making although they might, with justice, expect great joy; for the greatest mourning of all the host will soon turn to joy. the greeks are raising great lamentation without; and those who are within are at great pains how to let them hear that whereof they will have much joy. they disarm and bind their prisoners who beg and pray them to take now their heads; but the king's men do not will or deign to do this. rather, they say that they will keep them until they deliver them to the king, who then will give them their due, so that their merits will be requited. when they had disarmed them all they have made them mount the battlements in order to show them to their folk below. much does this kindness displease them; since they saw their lord taken and bound they were not a whit glad. alexander, from the wall above, swears by god and the saints of the world that never will he let a single one of them live, but will kill them all; and none shall stay his hand if they do not all go to yield themselves up to the king before he can take them. "go," quoth he, "i bid you to my lord without fail, and place yourselves at his mercy. none of you save the count here has deserved death. never shall ye lose limb or life if ye place yourselves at his mercy. if ye do not redeem yourselves from death merely by crying 'mercy', very little confidence can ye have in your lives or in your bodies. issue forth, all disarmed, to meet my lord, the king, and tell him from me, that alexander sends you. ye will not lose your pains; for the king, my lord, will remit for you all his wrath and indignation, so gentle and debonair is he. and if ye will do otherwise, ye will have to die; for never will pity for you seize him." all of them together believe this counsel; they do not stop till they reach the king's tent; and they have all fallen at his feet. now is it known throughout the host what they have told and related. the king mounts, and all have mounted with him; and they come spurring to the castle, for no longer do they delay. alexander issues forth from the castle towards the king to whom his sight was well pleasing; and he has yielded up to him the count. and the king has no longer delayed to do justice on him immediately; but he greatly praises and extols alexander; and all the rest greet him with ceremony and praise and extol him loudly. there is none who does not manifest joy. the mourning that they were formerly making yields to joy; but no joy can be compared with that of the greeks. the king bids them give him the cup which was very magnificent and worth fifteen marks; and he tells and assures him that there is nought however dear, save the crown and the queen, that he will not yield to him if he will to ask it. alexander dares not utter his desire in this matter, yet knows well that the king would not disappoint him if he asked for his lady-love; but he greatly fears that he might displease her, who would have had great joy thereat; for rather does he wish grief for himself without her than to have her without her will. therefore he begs and requests a respite; for he does not wish to make his request till he know her pleasure in the matter; but he has sought neither respite nor delay in possessing himself of the golden cup. he takes the cup and generously entreats my lord gawain until he accepts this cup from him; but with exceeding great reluctance has that knight accepted it. when soredamors has heard the true news about alexander much did it please and delight her. when she knew that he is alive she has such joy thereof, that it seems to her never can she have grief for an hour; but too long it seems to her does he tarry to come as he is wont. soon she will have what she desires; for the two vie with each other in their yearning for the same thing. alexander greatly longed to be able to feast his eyes on her if only with one sweet look. already for a long time would he fain have come to the queen's tent if he had not been kept elsewhere. delay displeased him much, so soon as ever he could he came to the queen in her tent. the queen has met him; for she knew much of his thought without his ever having spoken; but well had she perceived it. as he enters the tent she salutes him and takes pains to greet him with due ceremony; well she knows what occasion brings him. because she wishes to serve him to his liking she puts soredamors by his side; and they three were alone conversing far from the others. the queen is the first to begin; for she had no doubt at all that they loved each other, he her, and she him. well she thinks to know it for a certainty and is convinced that soredamors could not have a better lover. she was seated between them and begins a discourse which came aptly and in season. "alexander," quoth the queen, "love is worse than hatred, for it grieves and bewilders its devotee. lovers know not what they do when the one hides his feelings from the other. in love there is much grievous toil: he who does not make a bold beginning in the laying of the foundation can scarce put on the coping-stone. the saying goes that there is nothing so difficult to cross as the threshold. i wish to instruct you about love; for well i know that love is using you badly. for this reason have i taken you to task; and take care that you conceal nought of it from me, for clearly have i seen from the countenances of each, that of two hearts you have made one. never seek to hide it from me. you act very foolishly in that the twain of you tell not your thoughts; for you are killing each other by this concealment; you will be love's murderers. now, i counsel you that you seek not to satisfy your love by rape or by lust. unite yourselves in honourable marriage. thus as it seems to me your love will last long. i venture to assure you of this, that if you have a mind for it i will bring about the marriage." when the queen had disburdened her heart alexander on his side disclosed his. "lady," quoth he, "i deny nought whereof you charge me; rather do i quite admit all that you say. never do i seek to be free from love, so as not always to devote myself to it. this that you of your pity have told me greatly pleases and delights me. since you know my will, i know not why i should any longer conceal it from you. very long ago if i had dared i would have confessed it; for the concealment has pained me much. but perhaps this maiden would in no wise will that i should be hers, and she mine. if she grants me nought of herself, yet still i give myself to her." at these words she trembled; and she does not refuse this gift. she betrays the wish of her heart both in words and looks; for trembling she gives herself to him, and says that never will she make any reservation of will or heart or person; but will be wholly at the queen's command and will do all her pleasure. the queen embraces them both and gives the one to the other. laughing, she says: "i yield to thee, alexander, the body of thy love. well i know that thou art not alarmed thereat. let who will look askance thereat; i give you the one to the other. hold, thou, what is thine, and thou, alexander, what is thine." she has what is hers, and he, what is his; he, all of her, and she, all of him. the betrothal took place that very day at windsor, without a doubt with the consent and permission of my lord gawain and the king. none could tell, i ween, of the magnificence and feasting, of the joy and pleasure so great that at the wedding there would not have been more. but inasmuch as it would displease most people, i will not waste or spend one word thereon, for i wish to apply myself to the telling of something better. on one day at windsor had alexander so much honour and joy as pleased him. three joys and three honours he had: one was for the castle that he took; the second, for that which king arthur promised that he would give him when the war was ended--the best realm in wales--that day arthur made him king in his halls. the greatest joy was the third because his lady-love was queen of the chessboard whereof he was king. before five months were passed soredamors was great with human seed and grain; and she bore it till her time. such was the seed in its germ that the fruit came according to its kind. a fairer child there could not be, before or after. they called the child cliges. born was cliges, in memory of whom this story was put into french. ye shall hear me tell fully and relate of him and of his knightly service, when he shall have come to such an age, that he will be destined to grow in fame. but meanwhile it happened in greece that the emperor who ruled constantinople came to his end. he was dead; he needs must die, for he could not pass the term appointed. but before his death he assembled all the high barons of his land in order to send and fetch alexander, his son, who was in britain where right willingly he tarried. the messengers depart from greece; o'er the sea they take their voyage; and there a tempest overtakes them which sorely distresses their ship and their folk. they were all drowned in the sea save one treacherous fellow, a renegade, who loved alis, the younger son, more than alexander, the elder. when he had escaped from the sea he has returned to greece; and related that they had all been drowned in a storm on the sea when they were returning from britain; and were bringing away their lord; not one of them had escaped save he, only, from the storm and the peril. his lying tale was believed. unopposed and unchallenged they take alis and crown him: they give to him the empire of greece. but it was not long ere alexander knew for a certainty that alis was emperor. forthwith he has taken leave of king arthur; for by no means will he resign his land to his brother without a fight. the king in no wise deters him from the plan; rather he bids him lead away with him so great a multitude of welsh scots and cornishmen, that his brother will not dare to stand his ground when he shall see the host assembled. alexander might have led away a great force had he willed. but he has no care to destroy his people if his brother will answer him in such wise as to perform his promise. he led away forty knights and soredamors and his son. these two would he not leave behind; for they were meet to be greatly loved. they sailed from shoreham where they took leave of the whole court; they had fair winds; the ship ran much more swiftly than a fleeing stag. before the month had passed, i ween, they came to anchor before athens, a city very magnificent and strong. the emperor, in sooth, was staying in the city; and there was a great gathering there of the high barons of the land. as soon as they were arrived alexander sends a trusted servant into the city to know if he could have a fitting welcome there or if they will deny that he is their rightful lord. the bearer of this message was a courteous and prudent knight whom men called acorionde, a man of wealth and eloquence; and he was much esteemed in the land, for he was a native of athens. from of old his forbears had always had very high lordship in the city. when he had heard told that the emperor was in the city he goes to contend with him for the crown on behalf of alexander, his brother; and he cannot pardon him for that he has kept it unjustly. straight into the palace has he come; and finds many a one who greets him fair; but he gives no answer nor does he say a word to any man who greets him; rather he waits until he may hear what will and what mind they have toward their true lord. he does not stop till he reaches the emperor; he greets him not, nor bows to him, nor calls him emperor. "alis," quoth he, "i bear thee a message from alexander who is out yonder in this harbour. hear what word thy brother sends to thee: he asks of thee what is his and seeks nought that is contrary to justice. constantinople which thou holdest ought to be his; and will be his. neither reasonable nor right would it be that there should be discord 'twixt you twain. take my counsel, and come to terms with him, and give him the crown in peace; for it is right meet that thou yield it to him." alis replies: "fair sweet friend, thou hast taken on thyself a foolish errand in that thou hast brought this message. no comfort hast thou brought to me, for i know well that my brother is dead. it would be a great consolation to me if he were alive and i knew it. never will i believe it till i see him. he is dead a while ago; and that is a grief to me. not a word that thou sayest do i believe. and if he is alive wherefore comes he not? never need he fear that i will not give him land in plenty. he is mad if he keeps aloof from me; and if he serve me he will never be the worse for it. never will there be any man that will hold the crown and the empire against me." acorionde hears that the emperor's reply is not favourable; but by no fear is he withheld from speaking his mind. "alis," quoth he, "may god confound me if the matter is left thus. on thy brother's behalf i defy thee, and on his behalf, as is meet, i exhort all those that i see here to leave thee and come over to his side. it is meet that they cleave to him; him ought they to make their lord. he who is loyal, let now his loyalty appear." with this word he leaves the court; and the emperor, on his side, summons those in whom he most trusts. from them he seeks counsel as to his brother who thus challenges him, and seeks to know if he can fully trust them not to give support or aid to him in this attack. thus he hopes to prove each one; but he finds not even one to cleave to him with regard to the war; rather do they bid him remember the war that eteocles waged against polynices, who was his own brother, in which the one killed the other with his own hands. "a like thing may chance with regard to you if you are bent on pursuing war; and the land will be ruined by reason thereof." therefore they counsel him to seek such a peace as may be reasonable and honourable; and that the one make no unreasonable demands on the other. now alis hears that if he does not make a fair covenant with his brother, all the barons will desert him; and he said they will never desire an arrangement which he cannot equitably make; but he establishes in the covenant that whate'er the outcome of the matter the crown remain to him. in order to make firm and lasting peace alis sends one of his masters-at-arms and bids alexander come to him and rule all the land; but that he do alis so much honour as to allow him to keep the name of emperor and let him have the crown; thus, if he will, can this covenant be made 'twixt the twain of them. when this thing was related and told to alexander, his folk have mounted with him and have come to athens. with joy were they received; but it does not please alexander that his brother should have the lordship of the empire and of the crown if he give him not his promise that never will he wed woman; but that after him, cliges shall be emperor of constantinople. thus are the brothers reconciled. alexander makes him swear; and alis grants and warrants him that never as long as he shall live will he take wife. they are reconciled and remain friends. the barons manifest great joy; they take alis for emperor; but before alexander come affairs great and small. whatever he commands and says is done; and little is done except through him. alis has no longer anything but the name--for he is called emperor--but alexander is served and loved; and he who does not serve him through love, must needs do so through fear. by means of love and fear he rules all the land according to his will. but he whose name is death spares no man, weak or strong, but slays and kills them all. alexander was destined to die; for a sickness for which there was no remedy took him in its grip; but before death came upon him he sent for his son and said: "fair son, cliges, never canst thou know how much prowess and valour thou shalt have if thou go not first to prove thyself at king arthur's court on both the britons and the french. if fate lead thee thither, so bear and demean thyself that thou remain unknown till thou hast proved thyself on the flower of the knighthood at the court. i counsel thee that thou believe me in this matter; and that if opportunity comes thou fear not to put thy fortune to the test with thy uncle, my lord gawain. prithee forget not this." after this exhortation he lived not long. soredamors had such grief thereat that she could not live after him. for sheer grief she died when he died. alis and cliges both mourned for them as they were bound; but in time they ceased to mourn. for all mourning must come to an end; all things needs must cease. ill is it to prolong mourning, for no good can come of it. the mourning has ceased; and for a long time after the emperor has refrained from taking wife, for he would fain strive after loyalty. but there is no court in all the world that is pure from evil counsel. nobles often leave the right way through the evil counsels to which they give credence, so that they do not keep loyalty. often do his men come to the emperor, and they give him counsel, and exhort him to take a wife. so much do they exhort and urge him, and each day do they so much beset him, that through their great importunity, they have turned him from his loyalty, and he promises to do their will. but he says that she who is to be lady of constantinople must needs be very graceful and fair and wise, rich and of high degree. then his counsellors say to him that they will make ready and will hie them into the german land to sue for the daughter of the emperor. they counsel him to take her; for the emperor of germany is very mighty and very powerful and his daughter is so fair that never in christendom was there a damsel of such beauty. the emperor grants them all their suit; and they set out on the way like folk well equipped. they have ridden in their days' journeys until they found the emperor at ratisbon, and asked him to give his elder daughter for their lord's behalf. the emperor was full blithe at this embassy and gladly has he promised them his daughter; for he in no wise abases himself by so doing and abates not one jot of his dignity. but he says that he had promised to give her to the duke of saxony; and that the greeks could not take her away unless the emperor came and brought a mighty force, so that the duke could not do him hurt or injury on the way back to greece. when the messengers had heard the emperor's reply they take their leave and set out once more for home. they have returned to their lord and have told him the reply. and the emperor has taken chosen men, knights proven in arms, the best that he has found, and he takes with him his nephew, for whose sake he had vowed that he would never take wife as long as he lived. but in no wise will he keep this vow if he can win to reach cologne. on a day appointed he departs from greece and shapes his course towards germany; for he will not fail for blame nor for reproach to take a wife. but his honour will wane thereby. he does not stop till he reaches cologne where the emperor had established his court for a festival held for all germany. when the company of the greeks had come to cologne there were so many greeks and so many germans from the north, that more than sixty thousand had to find quarters outside the town. great was the gathering of folk, and very great was the joy that the two emperors showed, for they were right glad to meet face to face. in the palace which was very long was the assembly of the barons; and now the emperor sent for his beautiful daughter. the maiden did not tarry. straightway she came into the palace; and she was fair, and so well shaped, just as god himself had made her; for it pleased him greatly to show such workmanship as to make people marvel. never did god who fashioned her give to man a word that could express so much beauty, that there was not in her still more beauty. fenice was the maiden named, and not without reason; for just as the bird phoenix is fairest above all others and there cannot be more than one phoenix at a time, so fenice, i deem, had no peer for beauty. it was a wonder and a marvel, for never again could nature attain to framing her like. inasmuch as i should say less than the truth, i will not in words describe arms nor body nor head nor hands; for if i had a thousand years to live and each day had doubled my wisdom i should still waste all my time, and yet never express the truth of it. i know well that if i meddled with it i should exhaust all my wisdom upon it and should squander all my pains; for it would be wasted pains. the maiden has hastened and has come into the palace with head uncovered and face bare; and the sheen of her beauty sheds greater light in the palace than four carbuncles would have done. now cliges had doffed his cloak in presence of his uncle, the emperor. the day was somewhat cloudy but so beauteous were the twain, both the maid and he, that there shot forth from their beauty a ray with which the palace glowed again, just as the sun shines bright and ruddy in the morning. to describe the beauty of cliges i will limn you a portrait, the traits of which shall be very briefly told. he was in the flower of his youth, for he was about fifteen years old. he was fairer and more comely than narcissus' who saw his own reflection in the fountain beneath the elm, and loved it so much when he saw it that he died--so folk say--because he could not have it. much beauty had he, and little wit, but cliges had greater store of both, just as fine gold surpasses copper, and yet more than i can say. his hair seemed like fine gold and his face a fresh-blown rose. his nose was well shaped, and his mouth beautiful, and he was of great stature as nature best knew how to frame him; for in him alone she put all at once what she is wont to dole out to each in portions. in framing him nature was so lavish that she put everything into him all at once and gave him whatsoever she could. such was cliges who had in him wisdom and beauty, generosity and strength. he had the timber together with the bark, and knew more of fencing and of archery, of birds and of hounds, than tristram, king mark's nephew; not one grace was lacking to cliges. cliges in all his beauty was standing before his uncle; and those who did not know him were in a fever to see him; and also those who do not know the maiden are eagerly straining to see her; all look at her with wonder; but cliges, in love, directs his eyes to her secretly, and withdraws them so prudently that neither in the going or the coming of the gaze can one consider him a fool for his action. right lovingly he regards her; but he does not pay heed to the fact that the maiden pays him back in kind. in true love not in flattery he gives his eyes into her keeping, and receives hers. right good seems this exchange to her; and it would have seemed to her far better if she had known somewhat of his worth. but she knows no more than that she sees him fair; and if she were ever destined to love aught because of the beauty that she might see in it, it is not meet that she should set her heart elsewhere. she has set her eyes and her heart there; and he in his turn has promised her his. promised? nay, but given for good and all. given? nay, in faith, i lie; he has not, for no one can give his heart. needs must i say it in a different fashion. i will not speak as they speak who join two hearts in one body; for it is not true, and has not even the semblance of truth to say that one body can have two hearts at once. and even if they could come together such a thing could not be believed. but, and it please you to hearken to me, i shall be able well to render you the reason why two hearts blend in one without coming together. in so far as only they blend in one, the will of each passes from one to the other, and the twain have the same desire, and because they have the same desire, there are folk who are wont to say that each of them possesses both the hearts. but one heart is not in two places. well may their desire be the same, and yet each, always, his own heart, just as many different men can sing in harmony one song or verse; and i prove to you by this parable that one body cannot have two hearts because one knows the other's will, or because the second knows what the first loves and what he hates. a body cannot have more than one heart any more than the voices which sing in harmony, so that they seem to be but a single voice, can be the voice of one person alone. but it profits me not to dwell on this; for another task demands my care. henceforth i must speak of the maiden and of cliges; and ye shall hear of the duke of saxony who has sent to cologne a nephew of his, a mere stripling, who discloses to the emperor what his uncle, the duke, bids him deliver--that the emperor expect not from him truce or peace if he send not to him his daughter; and let not that man feel confident on the way who thinks to take her thence with him; for he will not find the way void of foes; rather will it be right well defended against him if she is not given up to the duke. well did the stripling deliver his message, all without pride and without presumption; but he finds none, nor knight nor emperor, to reply to him. when he saw that they were all silent and that they did it from contempt, he is for quitting the court defiantly. but youth and audacity made him challenge cliges to joust against him ere he departed. they mount to horse in order to tilt; on both sides they count three hundred so were equal in number. the whole palace is empty and deserted; for there remains there neither man nor woman, nor knight nor damsel, who does not go and mount on the palace roof, on to the battlements, and to the windows, to see and behold those who were to tilt. even the princess has mounted thither, she whom love had conquered and won to his will. she is seated at a window where she greatly delights to sit because from thence she can see him whom she has hidden in her heart, nor hath she desire to take him away from that hiding-place; for never will she love any save him. but she knows not what is his name nor who he is or of what race nor does it become her to ask; and yet she longs to hear aught whereat her heart may rejoice. through the window she looks out on the shields where the gold shines, and on those who carry them slung round their necks, and who take delight in the jousting; but her thought and her glance she has wholly set in one direction, for she gives no thought to aught else. she is eager to gaze on cliges and follows him with her eyes wherever he goes. and he, on his part, tilts strenuously for her before the eyes of all, only that she may hear that he is valiant and very skilful; for in any case it would be meet that she should esteem him for his prowess. he turns himself toward the nephew of the duke who rode apace, breaking many lances and discomfiting the greeks; but cliges, who is mightily vexed thereat, presses with all his weight on his stirrups, and rides to strike him so rapidly that the saxon, in spite of himself, has voided his saddle-bows. there was a great stir as he rose again. the stripling rises and mounts, and thinks to avenge thoroughly his shame; but many a man thinks to avenge his shame if he is permitted, who increases it. the youth rushes towards cliges; and cliges lowers his lance to meet him; and attacks him with such violence that he bears him once more to the ground. now has the youth redoubled his shame, and all his folk are dismayed thereat; for well they see that never will they leave the fray with honour; for none of them is there so valiant, that if cliges comes attacking him he can remain in his saddle-bow to meet him. right glad thereof are they of germany and they of greece when they see that their side are sending the saxons about their business; for the saxons depart as though discomfited, while the others pursue them with contumely until they catch them up at a stream. many of the foe do they plunge and immerse therein. cliges, in the deepest part of the ford, has thrown the duke's nephew, and so many others with him, that to their shame and their vexation, they flee, mournful and sad. but cliges returns with joy, bearing off the prize for valour on both sides; and he came straight to a door which was close to the place where fenice was standing who exacts the toll of a sweet look as he enters the door, a toll which he pays her, for their eyes have met. thus has one conquered the other. but there is no german whether of the north or of the south so much as able to speak who does not say: "god! who is this in whom so great beauty blooms? god! whence has the power come to him so early that he has won so great distinction?" thus asks this man and that, "who is this youth, who is he?" till throughout the city they soon know the truth of it, both his name and his father's, and the promise which the emperor had made and granted to him. it is already so much told and noised abroad that even the maiden hears tell of it, who had great joy in her heart thereat because now she can never say that love has scorned her, nor can she complain of aught; for he makes her love the fairest, the most courteous, and the most valiant man that one could ever find anywhere; but she must needs have as her husband one who cannot please her; and she is full of anguish and distress thereat; for she does not know with whom to take counsel concerning him whom she desires save only with her own thoughts as she lies awake. and thought and wakefulness so deal with her that they blanch her and altogether change her complexion, so that one can see quite clearly by her loss of colour that she has not what she desires; for she plays less than her wont, and laughs less, and disports herself less; but she hides it well and denies it stoutly if any ask what ails her. her nurse, who had brought her up from infancy, was named thessala, and was versed in the black art. she was called thessala because she was born in thessaly where sorceries are made, taught, and practised; for the women who are of that country make charms and enchantments. thessala sees that she whom love has in his power is wan and pale, and she has addressed her secretly. "god!" quoth she, "are you enchanted, my sweet lady dear, that you have so wan a countenance? much do i wonder what ails you. tell me, if you know, in what part this sickness possesses you most; for if any one can cure you of it you can rely on me, for well can i give you back your health. well know i how to cure a man of dropsy, and i know how to cure of gout, of quinsy, and of asthma; i know so much about the water and so much about the pulse that evil would be the hour in which you would take another leech. and i know, if i dared say it, of enchantments and of charms, well proven and true, more than ever medea knew. never spake i a word of it to you; and yet i have brought you up till now; but never reproach yourself at all for it, for never would i have said aught to you if i had not seen for a surety that such a malady has attacked you, that you have need of my aid. lady, tell me your malady, and you will act wisely in doing so before it gets further hold of you. the emperor has set me in charge of you that i may take care of you; and i have given such diligence that i have kept you in sound health. now shall i have lost my pains if i heal you not of this ill. beware that you hide it not from me, be it illness or aught else." the maiden dares not openly disclose her whole desire because she is greatly afeard that thessala may blame and dissuade her. and yet because she hears her greatly vaunt and extol herself, and say that she is learned in enchantment, in charms and potions, she will tell her what is her case, why her face is pale and wan; but beforehand she will make her promise that she will hide it for ever and will never dissuade her. "nurse," quoth she, "of a truth i thought that i felt no ill; but i shall speedily think that i am sick. the mere fact of my thinking of it causes me much ill and eke alarms me. but how does one know unless he put it to the test what may be good and what ill? my ill differs from all other ills; for--and i be willing to tell you the truth of it--much it joys me, and much it grieves me, and i delight in my discomfort; and if there can be a disease which gives pleasure, my sorrow is my desire, and my grief is my health. i know not then whereof i should complain; for i know nought whence evil may come to me if it come not from my desire. possibly my desire is a malady; but i take so much pleasure in that desire that it causes me a pleasant grief; and i have so much joy in my sorrow that my malady is a pleasant one. thessala, nurse! tell me now, is not this sorrow which seems sweet to me, and yet which tortures me, a deceitful one? i know not how i may recognise whether it be an infirmity or no. nurse! tell me now the name, and the manner, and the nature, of it. but be well assured that i have no care to recover in any wise, for i cherish the anguish of it exceedingly." thessala, who was right wise as regards love and all his ways, knows and understands by her speech that that which distracts her proceeds from love--because she calls and names it sweet--it is certain that she loves; for all other ills are bitter save that alone which comes from loving; but love transmutes its own bitterness into pleasure, and sweetness often turns to its opposite. but thessala, who well knew the matter, replies to her: "fear nought, i will tell you well both the nature and the name of your disease. you have told me, methinks, that the pain which you feel seems to you to be joy and health: of such a nature is love-sickness; for there is in it joy and sweetness. therefore i prove to you that you love; for i find pleasure in no sickness save only in love-sickness. all other ills as a rule are always grievous and horrible; but love is pleasant and tranquil. you love; i am fully certain of it. i regard it not as base in you; but i will hold it baseness if through childishness or folly you conceal your heart from me." "nurse, truly you are talking to no purpose; for first i mean to be certain and sure that never by any chance will you speak thereof to any living creature." "lady, certainly the winds will speak of it sooner than i unless you give me permission; and of this i will make you sure--that i will help you with regard to this matter, so that you may know of a surety, that by me you will have your joy." "nurse, in that case you would have cured me; but the emperor is giving me in marriage whereat i am grievously afflicted and sad because he who pleases me is nephew of him whom i am to wed. and if this man have his joy of me, then have i lost mine; and there is no more joy to be looked for. rather would i be torn limb from limb than that the love of iseult and of tristram should be renewed in the case of us twain; for of them are such mad actions told that i am ashamed to recount them. i could not reconcile myself to the life that iseult led. love in her became exceeding base; for her body belonged to two masters and her heart entirely to one. thus she spent her whole life; for she never refused the two. reason was there none in this love; but mine is ever constant; and at no cost will a partition ever be made of my body or of my heart. never of a truth shall my body be debased; never shall there be two partners of it. let him who owns the heart have the body also; he excludes all others from it. but this i cannot know--how he to whom my heart yields itself can have my body since my father is giving me to another; and i dare not gainsay him. and when he shall be lord of my body if he do aught with it that i do not wish, it is not meet that it welcome another. moreover, this man cannot wed wife without breaking faith; but if he wrong not his nephew, cliges will have the empire after his death. but if you can contrive by your arts, that this man to whom i am given and pledged might never have part or lot in me, you would have done me good service according to my will. nurse, prithee strive that this man break not his faith; for he gave his pledge to the father of cliges, promising just as alexander had made him swear, that never would he take wedded wife. his pledge is about to be broken, for straightway he intends to wed me. but i cherish cliges so dearly that i would rather be buried than that he should lose through me a farthing of the inheritance which ought to be his. may never child be born of me by whom he may be disinherited! nurse, now bestir yourself in the matter that i may be yours for ever." then her nurse tells her and assures her that she will weave such spells and potions and enchantments that she would be ill-advised to have concern or fear for this emperor; so soon as he shall have drunk of the potion that she will give him to drink, and they will both lie together; but however close she will be to him, she can be as secure as if there were a wall between the two of them. "but let not this and this only vex you if he has his pleasure of you in dreams; for, when he shall be sound asleep, he will have joy of you in dreaming; and will quite surely think that he has his joy of you waking, nor will he imagine that it is a dream, or vision, or falsehood. he will delight in you so that he will think he is awake while he is sleeping." the maiden loves and approves and esteems this boon and this service. her nurse, who promises her this, and vows to keep faith with her, puts her in good hope; for by this means she will think to come to her joy however long she have to wait. for never will cliges be so ill-disposed to her--if he knows that she loves him; and for his sake lives so as to guard her maidenhead in order to shield for him his inheritance--as not to have some pity on her if he prove himself of a noble stock, and if he is such as he ought to be. the maiden believes her nurse, and trusts and confides in her greatly. the one vows and swears to the other that this plan will be kept so secret that never will it be known in the future. thus the parley is ended; and when it came to the morning the emperor of germany sends for his daughter. she comes at his command--but why should i spin out my story? the two emperors together have so arranged matters that the marriage takes place and joy begins in the palace. but i will not delay to speak of each thing severally. i will turn my tale of thessala, who does not cease to make and mix potions. thessala crushes her potion; she puts therein spices in plenty for sweetening and blending. well does she pound and mix it, and strains it till the whole is clear, and there is nought acid nor bitter there; for the spices which are in it make it sweet and of pleasant odour. when the potion was prepared, then had the day run its course, and the tables were placed for supper, and the tablecloths laid; but she delays the supper. it is thessala's task to spy out by what device, by what messenger, she will send her potion. they were all seated at the banquet; they had had more than six courses and cliges was serving his uncle. thessala, who sees him serve, reflects that he is wasting his service; for he is serving to his own disinheritance, and this is a great sorrow and anxiety to her. then like the courteous dame that she is, she bethinks herself that she will make him to whom it will be joy and profit serve the potion. thessala sends for cliges, and he went straightway to her, and has inquired, and asked of her why she had sent for him. "friend," quoth she, "at this banquet i wish to pay the emperor the flattering meed of a potion that he will greatly esteem. i will not that he drink to-night, either at supper or at bedtime, of any other drink. i think that it will give him much pleasure; for never did he taste of aught so good nor did any beverage ever cost so much; and take good care--i warn you of this--that no other drink of it because there is too little of it for that. and, moreover, i give you this advice, that he never know whence it came; but let him think it came by accident, that you found it among the presents, and that because you tested it, and perceived by the scent of its bouquet the fragrance of good spices, and because you saw that it sparkled, you poured the wine into his cup. if by chance he inquire of it, that will doubtless be the end of the matter. but have no evil suspicion anent aught that i have said; for the beverage is pure and wholesome, and full of good spices, and it may be, as i think, that at some future time it will make you blithe." when he hears that good will come of it he takes the potion and goes away; for he knows not that there is aught wrong. in a cup of crystal he has set it before the emperor. the emperor has taken the cup, for he has great trust in his nephew. he drinks a mighty draught of the potion; and now he feels the virtue of it; for it penetrates from the head to the heart, and from the heart it returns to his head, and it permeates him again and again. it saturates his whole body without hurting him. and by the time the tables were removed, the emperor had drunk so much of the beverage which had pleased him, that never will he get free of it. each night while asleep he will be intoxicated; and yet it will excite him so much that though asleep, he will dream that he is awake. now is the emperor mocked. many bishops and abbots there were at the benediction and consecration of the bed. when it was bedtime the emperor, as it behoved him, lay with his wife that night. "as it behoved him"--therein have i lied, for he never embraced or touched her though they lay together in one bed. at first the maiden trembles; for greatly does she fear and feel alarm lest the potion take no effect. but it has so bewitched him that never will he have his will of her or of another save when asleep. but then he will have such ecstasy as one can have in dreaming; and yet he will hold the dream for true. in one word i have told you all: never had he other delight of her than in dreams. thus must he needs fare evermore if he can lead his bride away; but before he can hold her in safety a great disaster, i ween, may befall him. for when he will return home, the duke, to whom she was first given, will be no laggard. the duke has gathered a great force, and has occupied all the marches, and his spies are at the court, and inform him each day of all he wants to know, and tell him all the measures he must take, and how long they will tarry, and when they will return, through what places, and by what passes. the emperor did not long tarry after the wedding. blithely he departs from cologne; and the emperor of germany escorts him with a very great company because he greatly fears and dreads the might of the duke of saxony. the two emperors proceed and stop not till they reach ratisbon; and on one evening they were lodged by the danube in the meadow. the greeks were in their tents in the meadows beside the black forest. the saxons who were observing them were encamped opposite them. the duke's nephew was left all alone on a hill to keep a look-out, and see whether, peradventure, he might gain any advantage over those yonder or wreak any mischief upon them. from his post of vantage he saw cliges riding with three other striplings who were taking their pleasure, carrying lances and shields in order to tilt and to disport themselves. now is the duke's nephew bent on attacking and injuring them if ever he can. with five comrades he sets out; and the six have posted themselves secretly beside the wood in a valley, so that the greeks never saw them till they issued from the valley, and till the duke's nephew rushes upon cliges and strikes him, so that he wounds him a little in the region of the spine. cliges stoops and bows his head, so that the lance glances off him; nevertheless, it wounds him a little. when cliges perceives that he is wounded he has rushed upon the stripling, and strikes him straightway with such violence that he thrusts his lance right through his heart and fells him dead. then the saxons, who fear him mightily, all take to flight and scatter through the heart of the forest while cliges, who knows not of the ambush, commits a reckless and foolish act; for he separates himself from his comrades, and pursues in that direction in which the duke's force was. and now all the host were preparing to make an attack on the greeks. cliges, all alone, without aid, pursues them; and the youths all dismayed because of their lord whom they have lost, come running into the duke's presence; and, weeping, recount to him the evil hap of his nephew. the duke thinks it no light matter; by god and all his saints, he swears that never in all his life will he have joy or good luck as long as he shall know that the slayer of his nephew is alive. he says that he who will bring him cliges' head shall verily be deemed his friend, and will give him great comfort. then a knight has boasted that the head of cliges will be offered to the duke by him; let the duke but rely on him. cliges pursues the youths till he swooped down on the saxons, and is seen by the knight who has engaged to carry off his head. straightway, that knight departs and stays no longer. but cliges has retreated in order to elude his enemies; and he returned at full gallop thither where he had left his comrades. but he has found none of them there; for they had returned to the tents to relate their adventure. and the emperor summoned greeks and germans alike to horse. through all the host the barons speedily arm themselves and mount. but the saxon knight, all armed, his visor laced, has continued to pursue cliges at a gallop. cliges, who never wished to have aught in common with a recreant or coward, sees him come alone. first of all the knight has assailed him with words: he stoutly calls him baseborn fellow, for he could not conceal the mind he had of him. "fellow," quoth he, "here wilt thou leave the forfeit for my lord, whom thou hast slain. if i bear not off thy head with me, then esteem me not worth a bad byzantine coin. i will to make the duke a present of it, for i will not accept any other forfeit in its stead. so much will i render to him for his nephew; and he will have had a good exchange for him." cliges hears that the saxon is abusing him as a madman and low-bred fellow. "man," quoth he, "now defend yourself; for i defy you to take my head, and you shall not have it without my leave." forthwith the one seeks the other. the saxon has missed his stroke; and cliges thrusts so hard that he made man and steed fall all in a heap. the steed falls backwards on his rider with such violence that it completely breaks one of his legs. cliges dismounts on the green grass and disarms him. when he had disarmed him, then he dons the arms himself, and has cut off his head with the victim's own sword. when he had cut off his head, he has fixed it on to the point of his lance; and says that he will present it to the duke to whom his enemy had vowed to present cliges' own head if he could meet him in the fight. no sooner had cliges placed the helmet on his head, taken the shield, (not his own, but the shield of him who had fought with him), and no sooner had he mounted on the foeman's horse, leaving his own rider-less in order to dismay the greeks, than he saw more than a hundred banners and battalions, great and fully equipped, of greeks and germans mingled. now will begin a very fierce and cruel melee between the saxons and the greeks. as soon as cliges sees them come, he goes straight towards the saxons; and the greeks exert themselves to pursue him; for on account of his arms they do not know him; and his uncle, who sees the head that he is bringing, is marvellously discomforted thereat. no wonder is it if he fears for his nephew. the whole host musters in his wake; and cliges lets them pursue him in order to begin the melee till the saxons perceive him coming; but the arms with which he is clad and furnished mislead them all. he has mocked at them and scorned them; for the duke and all the others as he advanced with hoisted lance, say: "our knight is coming! on the point of the lance that he holds he is bringing the head of cliges; and the greeks follow after him. now to horse to succour him!" then they all give the rein to their horses; and cliges spurs towards the saxons, covering himself behind his shield and doubling himself up, his lance upright, the head on its point. not one whit less courage than a lion had he, though he was no stronger than another. on both sides they believe that he is dead--saxons, and greeks and germans--and the one side are blithe thereat; and the other side, grieved; but soon will the truth be known. for now has cliges no longer held his peace: shouting, he gallops towards a saxon, and strikes him with his ashen lance with the head on it, full in the breast, so that he has lost his stirrups; and he calls out, "barons, strike! i am cliges whom you seek. on now, bold freeborn knights! let there be no coward, for ours is the first shock. let no craven taste of such a dainty dish." the emperor greatly rejoiced when he heard his nephew, cliges, who thus addresses and exhorts them; right glad and comforted is he thereof. and the duke is utterly dumfounded, for now he knows well that he is betrayed unless his force is the greater; he bids his men close their ranks and keep together. and the greeks, in close array, have not gone far from them, for now they are spurring and pricking. on both sides they couch their lances and meet and receive each other as it behoved them to do in such a fight. at the first encounter, they pierce shields and shatter lances, cut girths, break stirrups; the steeds stand bereft of those who fall upon the field. but no matter what the others do, cliges and the duke meet; they hold their lances couched; and each strikes the other on his shield with so great valour that the lances, which were strong and well wrought, break into splinters. cliges was a skilful horseman: he remained upright in his saddle, never stumbling nor wavering. the duke has lost his saddle, and in spite of himself has voided the saddle-bows. cliges thinks to take him and lead him away captive, and mightily toils and strains; but the strength he needed was not his. for the saxons were all around, and they rescue their duke by force. nevertheless, cliges leaves the field without injury; with a prize; for he leads away the duke's steed which was whiter than wool and which, for the use of a man of valour, was worth all the possessions of octavian of rome: the steed was an arab one. great joy manifest greeks and germans when they see cliges mounted on it; for they had seen the worth and the perfection of the arab; but they did not suspect an ambush nor will they ever perceive it till they receive great loss therefrom. a spy has come to the duke with news at which he has waxed full joyous. "duke," quoth the spy, "no man has been left in all the tents of the greeks who can defend himself. now can thy men take the daughter of the emperor, if thou wilt trust my words, while thou seest the greeks desperately bent on the fight and on the battle. give me a hundred of thy knights and i will give them thy lady-love. by an old and lonely path, i will lead them so prudently that they shall not be seen or met by saxon or german till they will be able to take the maiden in her tent, and lead her away so unhindered that never will she be denied them." the duke is blithe at this thing. he has sent a hundred and more wise knights with the spy; and the spy has led them in such wise that they take the maiden as a prize, nor have they spent great force thereon, for easily were they able to lead her away. when they had taken her some distance from the tents, they sent her away attended by twelve of them, nor did the rest accompany the twelve far. twelve of them lead away the maiden; the others have told the duke the news of their success. nought else was there that the duke had desired, and straightway he makes a truce with the greeks till the morrow. they have given and accepted a truce. the duke's men have returned; and the greeks without any delay return, each one to his tent. but cliges remained alone on a hill so that no one noticed him till he saw the twelve coming, and the damsel whom they were taking away at full speed and at a gallop. cliges, who longs to gain renown, forthwith dashes in their direction, for he thinks to himself, and his heart tells him that it is not for nothing they are fleeing. the very moment that he saw them, he dashes after them; and they see him; but they think and believe a foolish thing. "the duke is following us," each one says, "let us wait for him a little; for he has left the host unattended and is coming after us very swiftly." there is not a single one who does not believe this. they all desire to go to meet him; but each desires to go alone. cliges must needs descend into a great valley between two mountains. never would he have recognised their insignia if they had not come to meet him, or if they had not awaited him. six of them advanced to meet him; but soon will they have had an ill meeting with him. the others stay with the maiden and lead her on, gently, at a walking pace. and the six go at full speed, spurring incessantly through the valley. he who had the swiftest horse outstripped all the rest, crying aloud: "duke of saxony! god preserve thee! duke! we have regained thy lady. now shall the greeks never carry her off; for she will now be given and handed over to thee." when cliges has heard these words that the other cries out, no smile had he in his heart; rather is it a marvel that frenzy does not seize him. never was any wild beast: leopardess, or tigress, or lioness, who sees her young taken, so embittered, and furious, and lusting, for the fight as was cliges who cares not to live if he fail his lady. rather would he die than not have her. very great wrath has he for this calamity and exceeding great courage does it give him. he spurs and pricks the arab; and goes to deal the blazoned shield of the saxon such a blow that--i lie not--he made him feel the lance at his heart. this has given cliges confidence. more than a full acre's measure has he spurred and pricked the arab before the second has drawn near, for they came, one by one. the one has no fear for the other; for he fights with each singly and meets them one by one, nor has the one aid of the other. he makes an attack on the second, who thought to tell the supposed duke news of cliges' discomfiture, and to rejoice thereat as the first had done. but cliges recks little of words or of listening to his discourse. he proceeds to thrust his lance in his body so that when he draws it out again the blood gushes out; and he bereaves his foe of life and speech. after the two, he joins issue with a third who thinks to find him overjoyed and to gladden him with news of his own discomfiture. he came spurring against him; but before he has the chance to say a word, cliges has thrust his lance a fathom deep into his body. to the fourth he gives such a blow on the neck, that he leaves him in a swoon on the field. after the fourth, he gallops against the fifth, and then after the fifth, against the sixth. of these, none stood his ground against him; rather does cliges leave them all silent and dumb. still less has he feared and more boldly sought the rest of them. after this has he no concern about these six. when he was free from care as regards these, he goes to make a present of shame and of misfortune to the rest who are escorting the maiden. he has overtaken them, and attacks them like a wolf, who famished and fasting rushes on his prey. now seems it to him that he was born in a good hour, since he can display his chivalry and courage before her who is all his life. now is he dead if he free her not; and she, on the other hand, is likewise dead; for she is greatly discomforted for him, but does not know that he is so near her. cliges, with feutred lance, has made a charge which pleased her; and he strikes one saxon and then another so that with one single charge he has made them both bite the dust, and splinters his ashen lance. the foemen fall in such anguish that they have no power to rise again to hurt or molest him, for they were sore wounded in their bodies. the other four, in great wrath, go all together to strike cliges; but he neither stumbles nor trembles nor have they unhorsed him. swiftly he snatches from the scabbard his sword of sharpened steel; and that she who awaits his love may be right grateful to him, he encounters with lightning swiftness a saxon, and strikes him with his sharp sword, so that he has severed from his trunk, his head and half his neck: no tenderer pity had he for him. fenice, who watches and beholds, knows not that it is cliges. fain would she that it were he; but because there is danger she says to herself that she would not wish it. for two reasons is she his good friend; for she fears his death and desires his honour. and cliges receives at the sword's point the three who offer him fierce combat; they pierce and cleave his shield, but they cannot get him into their power or cleave the links of his shirt of mail. and nought that cliges can reach stands firm before his blow; for he cleaves and breaks asunder all; he wheels round more quickly than the top which is urged on and driven by the whip. prowess and love entwine him and make him bold and keen in fight. he has dealt so grievously with the saxons that he has killed or conquered them all, wounded some, and killed others; but he let one of them escape because they were a match, one for the other, and so that, by him, the duke might know his loss and mourn. but before this man left him, he prevailed upon cliges to tell him his name; and went for his part to tell it to the duke, who had great wrath thereat. now the duke hears of his misfortune, and had great grief and great care thereat. and cliges leads away fenice, who thrills and tortures him with the pangs of love; but if now he does not hear her confession, long time will love be adverse to him; and also to her if she, on her side, is silent and say not her will; for now in the hearing, one of the other, can they reveal their inmost hearts. but so much do they fear refusal that they dare not betray their hearts. he fears that she might reject him; she, on her part, would have betrayed herself if she had not feared rejection. and, nevertheless, the one betrays his thoughts to the other with the eyes if they could only have known it. they speak by glances with their eyes; but they are so craven with their tongues that in no wise dare they speak of the love which masters them. if she dare not begin it, it is no marvel; for a maiden ought to be a simple and shy creature. but why does he wait; and why does he delay, who is thoroughly bold in her behalf, and has shown dread of none but her? god! whence comes this fear to him that he fears a single maiden, weak and timid, simple and shy? at this, methinks, i see dogs fleeing before the hare, and the fish hunting the beaver, the lamb the wolf, the dove the eagle. so would it be if the villein were to flee before his hoe by which he gains his livelihood, and with which he toils. so would it be if the falcon were to flee from the duck, and the gerfalcon from the heron, and the great pike from the minnow, and if the stag were to chase the lion; so do things go topsy-turvy. but a desire comes upon me to give some reason why it happens to true lovers, that wit and courage fail them to express what they have in their thoughts when they have leisure and opportunity and time. you who are being instructed in love, who faithfully uphold the customs and rites of his court, and who never broke his law whatever might have befallen you for your obedience, tell me if one can see anything which affords love's delight but that lovers shiver and grow pale thereat. never shall there be a man opposed to me that i do not convince of this; for he who does not grow pale and shiver thereat, who does not lose wit and memory like a thief, pursues and seeks that which is not fittingly his. a servant who does not fear his lord, ought not to stay in his retinue or serve him. he who does not esteem his lord, does not fear him; and he who does not esteem him, does not hold him dear; but rather seeks to cheat him and to pilfer somewhat of his property. for fear ought a servant to tremble when his lord calls him or sends for him. and he who commends himself to love makes love his master and his lord; and it is meet that he have him in reverence; and greatly fear and honour him if he wishes to stand well with his court. love without fear and without dread is fire without flame and without heat; daylight without sun; honeycomb without honey; summer without flowers; winter without frost; sky without moon; a book without letters. thus do i wish to refute such an opponent; for where fear is lacking there is no love worth mentioning. it behoves him who wishes to love to fear also; for if he does not he cannot love; but let him fear her only whom he loves; and in her behoof let him be thoroughly bold. therefore, cliges commits no fault or wrong if he fears his lady-love. but for this fear he would not have failed forthwith to have spoken to her of love and sought her love, however the matter had happed if she had not been his uncle's wife. for this cause his wound rankles in him; and it pains and grieves him the more because he dare not say what he yearns to say. thus they return towards their company; and if they talk of anything, there was in their talk nothing about which they cared. each sat on a white horse; and they rode quickly towards the army where there was great lamentation. throughout the host they are beside themselves with grief; but they hit upon an untrue saying when they say that cliges is dead--thereat is the mourning very great and loud. and they fear for fenice; they deem not that they will ever have her again; and both for her and for him the whole host is in very great sorrow. but these two will not delay much longer; and the whole state of matters will take a different appearance; for already they have returned to the host and have turned the sorrow into joy. joy returns and sorrow flies. they all come to meet them so that the whole host assembles. the two emperors together, when they heard the news about cliges and about the maiden, go to meet them with very great joy; but each one longs to hear how cliges had found and rescued the lady. cliges tells them the tale; and those who hear it marvel greatly thereat; and much do they praise his prowess and valour. but on the other side the duke, who swears and protests, is furious; and declares that if cliges dares there shall be a single combat between the two of them; and that he will order matters in such wise, that if cliges wins the combat, the emperor shall go away in safety, and take the maiden unhindered; but that if he kills or conquers cliges, who has done him many an injury, let there for this be neither truce nor peace till after each has done his utmost. this the duke essays; and through an interpreter of his, who knew greek and german, gives the two emperors to know that thus he wishes to have the battle. the messenger delivers his message in one and the other language so well that all understood. the whole host resounds and is in an uproar about it; and men say, that never may it please god, that cliges fight the battle; and both the emperors are in a very great alarm thereat; but cliges falls at their feet and prays them let it not grieve them; but that, if ever he has done aught that has pleased them, he may have this battle as a guerdon and as a reward. and if it is denied him never will he for a single day be a blessing and an honour to his uncle. the emperor, who held his nephew as dear as duty bade him, with his hand raises him up from his knees and says: "fair nephew, greatly does it grieve me that i know you to be so wedded to fighting; for after joy i expect sorrow therefrom. you have made me glad; i cannot deny it; but much it grieves me to grant this boon and send you to the battle; for that i see you yet too young. and i know you to be of such proud courage that in no wise dare i deny anything that it please you to ask; for know well that it would be done but to please you; but if my prayer availed aught, never would you take on you this burden." "sire, you are pleading in vain," quoth cliges, "for may god confound me if i would accept the whole world on condition that i did not fight this battle. i know not why i should seek from you a long respite or a long delay." the emperor weeps with pity, and cliges, on his side, weeps with joy when he grants him the battle. there had he wept many a joyful tear, nor had he secured delay, nor limit of time, before it was the hour of prime; by his own messenger was the battle announced to the duke, just as he had demanded it. the duke, who thinks and believes and imagines that cliges will not be able to defend himself against him, but that he will soon have slain or conquered him, quickly has himself armed. cliges, who is longing for the battle, thinks that he need have no care as to how to defend himself against the duke. he asks the emperor for arms, and prays him to dub him knight; and, of his grace, the emperor gives him arms and cliges takes them; for his heart is enamoured of the battle and much does he desire and long for it. he hastens full swiftly to arm himself; when he was armed from head to foot, the emperor, who was full of anxiety, goes to gird the sword on his side. cliges mounts on the white arab, fully armed; from his neck he hangs by the straps a shield made of elephant's bone, such that it will neither break nor split nor had it blazon or device; the armour was all white, and the steed and the harness were all whiter than any snow. cliges and the duke are armed, and the one has announced to the other that they will meet half-way, and that, on both sides, their men shall all be without swords and without lances, bound by oaths and their word of honour that never, as long as the combat shall last, will there be any so bold as to dare to move for any reason, any more than he would dare to pluck out his own eye. bound by this covenant they have met, and the delay has seemed very long to each champion; for each thinks to have the glory and the joy of victory. but before there was a blow struck, the maiden, who is much concerned for cliges, has herself escorted thither; but on this is she quite resolved: that if he dies, she will die. never will any hope of consolation avail to deter her from dying with him; for without him life has no charm for her. when all had come into the field, high and low, young and hoary, and the guards bad been set there, then have both champions taken their lances; and they meet in no half-hearted way, so that each breaks his lance, and both are unhorsed and fail to keep their saddles. but quickly have they risen to their feet, for they were not at all wounded, and again they encounter without delay. they play a merry tune with their swords on the resounding helms, so that their retinue are amazed; and it seems to those who watch them that the helmets are on fire and ablaze. and when the swords rebound, glowing sparks jet forth as from red-hot iron which the smith hammers on the anvil when he draws it from the furnace. very lavish are both the warriors in dealing blows in great store; and each has a good will to pay back quickly what he borrows; neither the one nor the other ceases from paying back capital and interest immediately, all without count and without stint. but the duke comes on in great anger, and right wroth and furious is he because he has not quelled and slain cliges at the first encounter. he deals him a great blow, marvellous and strong, such that at his feet cliges has fallen on one knee. at the blow whereby cliges fell was the emperor much amazed; he was no whit less bewildered than if he had been behind the shield himself. then fenice, so much was she amazed, can no longer restrain herself, whatever might come of it, from crying: "god! aid!" as loud as ever she could. but she had called out but one word when, forthwith, her voice failed, and she fell swooning, and with arms outstretched so that her face was a little wounded. two noble barons raised her, and have held her on her feet till she has returned to her senses. but never did any who saw her, whatever appearance she presented, know why she swooned. never did any man blame her for it; rather they have all praised her; for there is not a single one who does not believe that she would have done the same for his sake if he had been in cliges' place; but in all this there is no truth. cliges, when fenice cried, heard and marked her right well. the sound restored to him strength and courage, and be springs swiftly to his feet, and advanced furiously to meet the duke, and thrusts at him, and presses him so that the duke was amazed thereat; for he finds him more greedy for combat, more strong and agile than he had found him before, it seems to him, when they first encountered. and because he fears his onset he says to him: "knight, so may god save me, i see thee right courageous and valiant. but if it had not been for my nephew, whom i shall never forget, willingly would i have made peace with thee, and would have released thee from the quarrel; for never would i have meddled any more in the matter." "duke," says cliges, "what may be your pleasure? is it not meet that he who cannot make good his claim yield it, one of two evils; when one has to choose, one ought to choose the lesser. when your nephew picked a quarrel with me, he acted unwisely. i will serve you in the same way--be assured of it--if i ever can, if i do not receive submission from you." the duke, to whom it seems that cliges was growing in strength every moment, thinks that it is much better for him to stop short half-way before he is altogether wearied out. nevertheless, he does not confess to him the truth quite openly, but he says: "knight, i see thee debonair and agile and of great courage. but exceeding young art thou: for this reason i reflect, and i know of a surety, that if i conquer and kill thee, never should i win praise or esteem thereby, nor should i ever see any man of valour in whose hearing i should dare to confess that i had fought with thee, for i should do honour to thee and shame to myself. but if those knowst what honour means, a great honour will it be to thee for ever that thou hast stood thy ground against me, even for two encounters only. now a wish and desire has come to me, to release thee from the quarrel and not to fight with thee any longer." "duke," quoth cliges, "you talk idly. you shall say it aloud in the hearing of all, and never shall it be told or related that you have done me a kindness, or that you have had mercy on me. in the hearing of one and all of these who are here, you will have to declare it if you wish to make peace with me." the duke declares it in the hearing of all. thus have they made peace and agreement; but whatever the issue of the matter, cliges had the honour and the renown of it; and the greeks had very great joy thereof. but the saxons could not make light of the matter; for well had they all seen their lord exhausted and worsted; nor is there any question but that, if he had been able to do better for himself, this peace would never have been made; rather would he have rent the soul out of cliges' body if he had been able to do it. the duke returns to saxony, grieved and downcast and ashamed; for of his men--there are not two who do not hold him a conquered man, a craven, and a coward. the saxons, with all their shame, have returned to saxony. and the greeks delay no longer; they return towards constantinople with great joy and with great gladness; for well by his prowess has cliges assured to them the way. now the emperor of germany no further follows or attends them. after taking leave of the greek folk and of his daughter and of cliges and of the emperor, he has remained in germany; and the emperor of the greeks goes away right glad and right joyful. cliges, the valiant, the well-bred, thinks of his father's command. if his uncle the emperor will grant him leave, he will go to request and pray him to let him go to britain to speak to his uncle the king; for he craves to know and see him. he sets out for the presence of the emperor, and begs him if it please him to let him go to britain to see his uncle and his friends. very gently has he made this request; but his uncle refuses it to him when he has heard and listened to the whole of his request and his story. "fair nephew," quoth he, "it pleases me not that you should wish to leave me. never will i give you this leave or this permission without great grief; for right pleasant and convenient is it that you should be my partner and co-ruler with me of all my empire." now there is nothing which pleases cliges, since his uncle denies him what he asks and requests; and he says: "fair sire, it becomes me not, nor am i brave or wise enough to be given this partnership with you or with another so as to rule an empire; very young am i and know but little. for this reason is gold applied to the touchstone because one wishes to know if it is real gold. so wish i--that is the end and sum of it--to assay and prove myself where i think to find the touchstone. in britain if i am valiant i shall be able to put myself to the touch with the whetstone; and with the true and genuine assay by which i shall test my prowess. in britain are those valiant men of whom honour and prowess boast. and he who wishes to gain honour, ought to join himself to their company; for there the honour resides and is won which appertains to the man of valour. therefore, i ask you this leave; and know of a surety that if you do not send me thither and do not grant me the boon, then i shall go without your leave." "fair nephew, rather do i give it you freely when i see you thus minded; for i would not have the heart to detain you by force or by prayer. now may god give you heart and will to return soon since neither prayer nor prohibition nor force could prevail in the matter. i would have you take with you a talent of gold and of silver, and horses to delight you will i give you, all at your choice." no sooner had he said his word than cliges has bowed to him. all whatsoever the emperor has devised and promised was at once set before him. cliges took as much wealth and as many comrades as pleased and behoved him; but for his own private use he takes away four different steeds: one white, one sorrel, one dun, one black. but i was about to pass over one thing that must not be omitted. cliges goes to take leave of fenice, his lady-love, and to ask her leave to depart; for he would fain commend her to god. he comes before her and kneels down, weeping, so that he moistens with his tears all his tunic and his ermine, and he bends his eyes to the ground; for he dares not look straight in front of him, just as if he has committed some wrong and crime towards her, and now shows by his mien that he has shame for it. and fenice, who beholds him timidly and shyly, knows not what matter brings him; and she has said to him in some distress: "friend, fair sir, rise; sit by my side; weep no more and tell me your pleasure." "lady! what shall i say? what conceal? i seek your permission to depart." "depart? why?" "lady! i must go away to britain." "tell me, then, on what quest, before i give you permission." "lady, my father, when he died and departed this life, prayed me on no account to fail to go to britain as soon as i should be a knight. for nothing in the world would i neglect his command. it will behove me not to play the laggard as i go thither. it is a very long journey from here to greece; and if i were to go thither the journey from constantinople to britain would be very long for me. but it is meet that i take leave of you as being the lady whose i am wholly." many hidden and secret sighs and sobs had he made on setting out; but no one had eyes so wide open or such good hearing as to be able to perceive for a certainty from hearing or sight, that there was love between the twain. cliges, grievous though it be to him, departs as soon as it is allowed him. he goes away lost in thought; lost in thought remains the emperor and many another; but fenice is the most pensive of all: she discovers neither bottom nor bound to the thought with which she is filled, so greatly does it overflow and multiply in her. full of thought she has come to greece: there was she held in great honour as lady and empress; but her heart and spirit are with cliges wherever he turns, nor ever seeks she that her heart may return to her unless he bring it back to her, he who is dying of the malady with which he has slain her. and if he recovers, she will recover; never will he pay dear for it unless she too pay dear. her malady appears in her complexion; for much has she changed and pale has she grown. the fresh, clear, pure hue that nature had bestowed has wholly deserted her face. often she weeps, often sighs: little recks she of her empire and of the wealth she has. she has always in her memory the hour that cliges departed, the farewell that he took of her, how he changed countenance, how he blanched, his tears and his mien, for he came to weep before her, humble, lowly, and on his knees, as if he must needs worship her. all this is pleasant and sweet for her to recall and to retrace. then to provide herself with a luscious morsel, she takes on her tongue in lieu of spice a sweet word; and for all greece she would not wish that he who said that word should, in the sense in which she took it, have intended deceit; for she lives on no other dainty nor does aught else please her. this word alone sustains and feeds her and soothes for her all her suffering. she seeks not to feed herself or quench her thirst with any other meat or drink; for when it came to the parting, cliges said that he was "wholly hers". this word is so sweet and good to her, that from the tongue it goes to her heart; and she stores it in her heart as well as in her mouth, that she may be the surer of it. she dares not hide this treasure behind any other lock; and she would never be able to store it elsewhere so well as in her heart. in no wise will she ever take it thence so much she fears thieves and robbers; but it is without reason that this fear comes to her; and without reason that she fears birds of prey, for this possession is immovable; rather is it like a building which cannot be destroyed by flood or by fire, and which will never move from its place. but this she knows not, and hence she gives herself agony and pain to seek out and learn something on which she can lay hold; for in divers fashions does she explain it. she holds debate within herself; and makes such replies as these: "with what intention did cliges say to me 'i am wholly yours' if love did not cause him to say it? with what power of mine can i sway him, that he should esteem me so highly as to make me his lady? is he not fairer than i, of much nobler birth than i? i see nought but his love that can bestow on me this gift. from my own case, for i cannot evade the scrutiny, i will prove, that if he had not loved me he would never have called himself wholly mine; for just as i could not be wholly his, nor could in honour say so if love had not drawn me to him, so cliges, on his side, could not in any wise have said that he was wholly mine if love has him not in his bonds. for if he loves me not, he fears me not. love, which gives me wholly to him, perhaps, gives him wholly to me; but this thought quite dismays me, that the phrase is one in common use and i may easily be deceived; for many a man there is who in flattery says, even to strangers: 'i am quite at your service, i, and whatsoever i have.' and such men are more mocking than jays. so i know not what to think; for it might well be that thus he spake to flatter me. but i saw him change colour and weep right piteously. to my mind his tears, his shamefaced and cast-down countenance, did not come from deceit; no deceit or trickery was there. the eyes from which i saw the tears fall did not lie to me. signs enow could i see there of love if i know aught of the matter. yea! i grant that evil was the hour in which i thought it. evil was the hour that i learnt it, and stored it in my heart; for a very great misfortune has happed to me from it. a misfortune? truly, by my faith! i am dead, since i see not him who has flattered and cajoled me so much that he has robbed me of my heart. through his deceit and smooth words, my heart is quitting its lodging and will not stay with me, so much it hates my dwelling and my manor. faith! then, he who has my heart in his keeping has dealt ill with me. he who robs me and takes away what is mine, loves me not; i know it well. i know it? why then did he weep? why? it was not for nothing, for he had reason enow. i ought to apply nought of it to myself because a man's sorrow is very great at parting from those whom he loves and knows. i marvel not that he had grief and sorrow, and that he wept when he left his acquaintances. but he who gave him this counsel to go and stay in britain could have found no better means of wounding me to the heart. one who loses his heart is wounded to the heart. he who deserves sorrow ought to have it; but i never deserved it. alas! unhappy that i am! why, then, has cliges slain me without any fault of mine? but in vain do i reproach him; for i have no grounds for this reproach. cliges would never, never, have forsaken me--i know this well--if his heart had been in like case with mine. in like case i think it is not. and if my heart has joined itself to his heart, never will it leave it, never will his go whither without mine; for mine follows him in secret so close is the comradeship that they have formed. but to tell the truth the two hearts are very different and contrary. how are they different and contrary? his is lord, and mine is slave; and the slave, even against his own will, must do what is for his lord's good and leave out of sight all else. but what matters it to me? he cares nought for my heart or for my service. this division grieves me much; for thus the one heart is lord of the two. why cannot mine, all alone, avail as much as his with him? thus the two would have been of equal strength. my heart is a prisoner; for it cannot move unless his moves. and if his wanders or tarries, mine ever prepares to follow and go after him. god! why are not our bodies so near that i could in some way have fetched my heart back? have fetched it back? poor fool! if i were to take it from where it is lodged so comfortably, i might kill it by so doing. let it stay there. never do i seek to remove it; rather do i will that it stay with its lord until pity for it come to him; for rather there than here will he be bound to have mercy on his servant because the two hearts are in a strange land. if my heart knows how to serve up flattery as one is bound to serve it up at court, it will be rich before it returns. he who wishes to be on good terms with his lord and to sit beside him on his right, as is now the use and custom, must feign to pluck the feather from his lord's head, even when there is no feather there. but here we see an evil trait: when he flatters him to his face, and yet his lord has in his heart either baseness or villainy, never will he be so courteous as to tell him the truth; rather he makes him think and believe that no one could be a match for him in prowess or in knowledge; and the lord thinks that the courtier is telling the truth. he who believes another anent some quality which he does not possess knows himself ill; for even if he is faithless and stubborn, base and as cowardly as a hare, niggardly and foolish and malformed, worthless in deeds and in words, yet many a man who mocks at him behind his back, extols and praises him to his face; thus then the courtier praises him in his hearing when he speaks of him to another; and yet he pretends that the lord does not hear what they are speaking about together, whereas if he really thought that the lord did not hear, he would never say aught whereat his master would rejoice. and if his lord wishes to lie, he is quite ready with his assent; and whatever his lord says, he asserts to be true; never will he who associates with courts and lords be tongue-tied; his tongue must serve them with falsehood. my heart must needs do likewise if it wishes to have grace of its lord; let it be a flatterer and cajoler. but cliges is such a brave knight, so handsome, so noble, and so loyal, that never will my heart be lying or false, however much it may praise him; for in him is nothing that can be mended. therefore, i will that my heart serve him; for the peasant says in his proverb: 'he who commends himself to a good man is base if he does not become better in his service'." thus love works on fenice. but this torment is delight to her, for she cannot be wearied by it. and cliges has crossed the sea and has come to wallingford. there he has demeaned himself in lordly fashion in a fine lodging at a great cost, but he thinks ever of fenice; never does he forget her for an hour. in the place where he sojourns and tarries, his retinue, as he had commanded, have inquired and questioned persistently till they heard told and related that the barons of king arthur and the king, himself, in person, had set on foot a tournament in the plains before oxford which is near wallingford. in such wise was the joust arranged that it was to last four days. but cliges will be able to take time to arm his body if he lacks anything meanwhile; for there were more than fifteen whole days to the tournament. he speedily sends three of his squires to london, and bids them buy three different sets of armour: one black, another red, the third green; and as they return he bids that each set of arms be covered with new canvas, so that if anyone meets them on the way he may not know what will be the hue of the arms which they will bring. the squires now set out, to london, and find ready all such equipment as they seek. soon had they finished, soon did they return; they have come back as soon as they could. they show to cliges the arms that they had brought; and he praises them much. with these that the emperor gave him on the danube when he dubbed him knight, he has them stored away and hidden. if anyone now were to ask me why he had them stored away, i would not answer him; for in due time it will be told and related to you, when all the high barons of the land who will come there to gain fame will be mounted on their steeds. on the day that was devised and appointed, the barons of renown assemble. king arthur, together with the lords whom he had chosen from out the good knights, lay before oxford. towards wallingford went the greater part of his chivalry. think not that i tell you in order to spin out my tale: such and such kings were there, such and such counts, and such and such others. when the barons were to meet, a knight of great prowess of king arthur's peers rode out all alone between the two ranks to begin the tourney, as was the custom at that time. but none dares ride forward to come and joust against him. there is none who does not stay where he is; and yet there are some who ask: "why do these knights wait? why does none ride forth from the ranks? surely someone will straightway begin." and on the other side they say: "see ye not what a champion our adversaries have sent us from their side? let him who has not yet known it know that, of the four bravest known, this is a pillar equal to the rest." "who is he, then?" "see ye him not? it is sagremors the lawless." "is it he?" "truly, without doubt." cliges, who hears and hearkens to this, sat on morel, and had armour blacker than a ripe mulberry: his whole armour was black. he separates himself from the others in the rank and spurs morel who comes out of the row; not one is there who sees him but says to his neighbour: "this man rides well with feutred lance; here have we a very skilful knight; he bears his arms in the right fashion; well does the shield at his neck become him. but one cannot but hold him mad as regards the joust he has undertaken of his own accord against one of the bravest known in all this land. but who is he? of what land is he a native? who knows him?" "not i!" "nor i!" "but no snow has fallen on him! rather is his armour blacker than monk's or priest's cape." thus they engage in gossip; and the two champions let their horses go; for no longer do they delay because right eager and aflame are they for the encounter and the shock. cliges strikes so that he presses sagremors' shield to his arm, and his arm to his body. sagremors falls at full length; cliges acts irreproachably, and makes him declare himself prisoner: sagremors gives his parole. now the fight begins, and they charge in rivalry. cliges has rushed to the combat, and goes seeking joust and encounter. he encounters no knight whom he does not take or lay low. on both sides he wins the highest distinction; for where he rides to joust, he brings the whole tourney to a standstill. yet he who gallops up to joust with him is not without great prowess; but he wins more renown for standing his ground against cliges than for taking prisoner another knight; and if cliges leads him away captive, yet he enjoys great distinction for merely daring to withstand him in the joust. cliges has the praise and distinction of the whole tournament. and even secretly he has returned to his lodging so that none of them might accost him about one thing or another. and in case any one should have search made for the lodging marked by the black arms, he locks them up in a room so that they may neither be found nor seen; and he has the green arms openly displayed at the door, fronting the road so that the passers by shall see them. and if any asks for him and seeks him, he will not know where his lodging will be, since he will see no sign of the black shield that he seeks. thus cliges is in the town and hides himself by such a device. and those who were his prisoners went from end to end of the town asking for the black knight; but none could tell them where he was. and even king arthur sends up and down to seek him; but all say: "we did not see him after we left the tourney and know not what became of him." more than twenty youths whom the king has sent seek him; but cliges has so utterly blotted out his tracks that they find no sign of him. king arthur crosses himself when it was recounted and told him, that neither great nor small is found who can point out his dwelling any more than if he were at qesarea, or at toledo, or in candia. "faith!" quoth he, "i know not what to say in the matter, but i marvel greatly thereat. it was perhaps a ghost that has moved among us. many a knight has he overthrown today; and he bears away the parole of the noblest men who will not this year see home or land or country; and each of whom will have broken his oath." thus the king spake his pleasure though he might very well have kept silence in the matter. much have all the barons spoken that night of the black knight, for they spoke of nought else. on the morrow they returned to arms, all without summons and without entreaty. lancelot of the lake has dashed forth to make the first joust; for no coward is he; with upright lance he awaits the joust. lo! cliges, greener than meadow grass, galloping on a dun, long-maned steed. where cliges pricks on the tawny steed, there is none, whether decked with youth's luxuriant locks or bald, who does not behold him with wonder; and they say on both sides: "this man is in all respects much nobler and more skilful than he of yesterday with the black arms, just as the pine is fairer than the beech, and the laurel than the elder. but not yet have we learned who he of yesterday was; but we will learn this very day who this one is. if anyone know it, let him tell us." each said: "i know him not, never did i see him before to my thinking. but he is fairer than the knight of yesterday and fairer than lancelot of the lake. if he were arrayed in a sack and lancelot in silver and gold, yet this man would still be fairer." thus all side with cliges; and the two prick their steeds as fast as they can spur and encounter one another. cliges proceeds to deal such a blow on the golden shield with the painted lion, that he hurls its bearer from the saddle and fell on him in order to receive his submission. lancelot could not defend himself and has given his parole. then the noise and the din and the crash of lances has begun. those who were on cliges' side have all their trust in him; for he whom he strikes after due challenge given will never be so strong but that he must needs fall from his horse to the ground. cliges, this day, wrought so bravely, and threw down and captured so many, that he has pleased those on his side twice as much, and has had twice as much praise from them as he had the day before. when evening has come he has repaired to his lodging as quickly as he could; and speedily bids the red shield and the other armour be brought forth. he orders that the arms which he bore that day be stowed away; the landlord has carefully done it. long have the knights whom he had captured sought him that night again; but no news do they hear of him. the greater part of those who speak of him at the inns laud and praise him. next day the knights return to arms, alert and strong. from the array before oxford rides out a knight of great renown; percival the welshman, was he called. as soon as cliges saw him ride forth and heard the truth as to his name--for he heard him called percival--he greatly longs to encounter him. forthwith has he ridden forth from the rank on a sorrel, spanish steed; and his armour was red. then they, one and all, regard him with great wonder, more than they ever did before and say that never before did they see so comely a knight. and the two prick forward at once; for there was no delay. and the one and the other spurs on so that they give and take mighty blows on their shields. the lances, which were short and thick, bend and curve. in the sight of all who were looking on, cliges has struck percival, so that he smites him down from his horse, and makes him give parole without much fighting, and without great ado. when percival had submitted, then they have begun the tourney; and they all encounter together. cliges encounters no knight but he fells him to the ground. on this day one could not see him a single hour absent from the fight. each for himself strikes a blow at cliges as though at a tower: not merely two or three strike, for then that was not the use or custom. cliges has made an anvil of his shield; for all play the smith and hammer upon it and cleave and quarter it; but none strikes upon it but cliges pays him back, and throws him from his stirrups and saddle; and no one, except a man who wished to lie, could have said on his departure that the knight with the red shield had not won that whole day. and the best and most courteous would fain have his acquaintances, but that cannot be so soon; for he has gone away, secretly, when he saw that the sun had set; and he has had his red shield and all his other armour taken away; and he has the white arms brought in which he had been newly knighted; and the arms and the steed were placed in front of the door. but now they begin to perceive (for the greater part who speak of it say so, and perceive it to be so), that they have all been discomfited, and put to flight by a single man, who each day changes his outward show, both horse and armour, and seems another than himself; they have now for the first time perceived it. and my lord gawain has said that never before did he see such a jouster; and because he would fain have his acquaintance and know his name, he says that he will be first tomorrow at the encounter of the knights. but he makes no boast; rather he says that he thinks and believes that cliges will have the best of it and will win the renown when they strike with lances; but with the sword, perhaps, cliges will not be his master; for never could gawain find his master. now will he prove himself tomorrow on the strange knight, who every day dons different armour and changes horse and harness. soon he will be a bird of many moltings if thus daily he makes a practice of taking off his old feathers and putting on new ones. and thus gawain too doffed his armour, and put on other, and the morrow he sees cliges return, whiter than lily-flower, his shield held by the straps behind it, on his trusty, white, arab steed, as he had devised the night before. gawain, the valiant, the renowned, has not gone to sleep on the field; but pricks, and spurs, and advances, and puts forth all his utmost efforts to joust well if he finds any with whom to joust. soon both will be on the field for cliges had no wish to delay; for he had heard the murmur of those who say: "it is gawain who is no weakling, afoot or on horseback. it is he with whom none dares to measure himself." cliges, who hears the words, charges into the middle of the field towards him; both advance and encounter with a spring more swift than that of a stag who hears the baying of dogs barking after him. the lances strike on the shields; and so mighty is the crash of the blows, that to their very ends they shatter into splinters, and split, and go to pieces; and the saddle-bows behind, break; moreover, the saddle-girth and breast harness burst. they both alike fall to the ground and have drawn their naked swords. the folk have pressed round to behold the battle. king arthur came in front of all to separate and reconcile them; but they had broken and hewn in pieces the white hauberks, and had cleft through and cut up the shields, and had fractured the helmets before there was any talk of peace. the king had gazed at them as long a time as it pleased him; and so did many of the others who said that they esteemed the white knight no whit less in arms than my lord gawain; and up till now they could not say which was the better, which the worse, nor which would overcome the other if they were allowed to fight till the battle was fought out. but it does not please or suit the king that they do more than they have done. he advances to part them and says to them: "withdraw! if another blow be struck, it will be to your harm. but make peace. be friends. fair nephew gawain, i entreat you; for it does not become a valiant man to continue a battle or fight where he has no quarrel or hatred. but if this knight would come to my court to pass his time with us, it would be no grievance or hurt to him. pray him to do so, nephew." "willingly, sire." cliges seeks not to excuse himself from this; willingly he consents to go thither when the tourney shall end; for now he has carried out to the uttermost his father's command. and the king says that he cares not for a tournament which lasts long; well may they straightway leave it. the knights have dispersed, for the king wishes and commands it. cliges sends for all his armour, for it behoves him to follow the king. with all speed he may have, he comes to the court; but he was attired well beforehand and garbed after the french fashion. as soon as he came to court each hastens to meet him, for neither one nor the other remains behind; rather they manifest the greatest possible joy and festivity. and all those whom he had taken in the jousting acclaim him lord; but it is his wish to disclaim it to all of them; and he says, that if they think and believe that it was he who took them, they are all absolved of their pledge. there is not a single one who did not say: "it was you, well we know it. we prize highly your acquaintance, and much ought we to love you, and esteem you, and acclaim you, lord, for none of us is a match for you. just as the sun puts out the little stars, so that their light is not visible in the clouds where the rays of the sun shine forth, so our deeds pale and wane before yours; and yet our deeds were wont to be greatly renowned throughout the world." cliges knows not what reply to make to them; for it seems to him that one and all of them praise him more than they ought. though it is very pleasant to him yet he is ashamed of it. the blood rises into his face, so that they see him all ashamed. they escort him through the hall, and have led him before the king; but they all cease to address to him the language of praise and flattery. now was it the set hour for eating, and those whose business it was, hastened to set the tables. they have set the tables in the palace: some have taken napkins, and others hold basins and give water to those who come. all have washed; all are seated. the king has taken cliges by the hand and set him before him; for fain will he know this very day who he is, if at all he may. no need is there to speak of the food, for the dishes were as plentiful as though one could have purchased an ox for a farthing. when all had had their meat and drink, then has the king no longer kept silence. "friend," quoth he, "i would know if it is from pride that you forbore and disdained to come to my court as soon as you entered this land, and why you thus withdraw yourself from folk and change your arms. now impart to me your name, and say of what race you are born." cliges replies: "never shall it be concealed." he has told and related to the king whatsoever he demands from him; and when the king has learned his name then he embraces him; then he rejoices over him; there is none who does not greet him in clue form. and my lord gawain knew him, who, above all, embraces and greets him. all greet him and fall on his neck; and all those who speak of him say that he is right fair and valiant. the king loves him and honours him more than any of all his nephews. cliges stays with the king until the beginning of summer; by that time he has been over all britain and over france and over normandy, and has wrought many a knightly deed, so that he has well proved himself. but the love with which he is wounded grows neither lighter nor easier. the wish of his heart keeps him ever constant to one thought: he remembers fenice who far from him is torturing her heart. a longing seizes him to return home; for too long has he abstained from seeing the lady more yearned for than any lady, that ever heard of man has yearned for. and he will not abstain longer from her. he prepares for the journey to greece; he has taken leave and returns. much, i ween, did it grieve my lord gawain and the king when they can no longer keep him. but he longs to reach her whom he loves and desires; and he hastens o'er sea and land; and the way seems very long to him, so eagerly does he yearn to see her who takes away and purloins his heart from him. but she yields him a fair return; and well does she pay and compensate him for the toll she has extorted from him; for she in her turn gives her own heart in payment to him, whom she loves no less. but he is not a whit certain about it; never had he pledge or promise in the matter; and he grieves cruelly. and she also laments; for her love of him is tormenting and killing her; and nothing can give pleasure or joy in her eyes since that hour when she ceased to see him. she does not even know if he is alive, whereof great sorrow strikes her to the heart. but cliges gets nearer each day, and in his journey he has had good luck; for he has had a fair wind and calm weather, and has anchored with joy and delight before constantinople. the news reached the city; it was welcome to the emperor and a hundred times more welcome to the empress. if anyone doubt this it will be to his own sorrow. cliges and his company have repaired to greece, straight to the port of constantinople. all the most powerful and noble come to the port to meet him. and when the emperor who had advanced in front of all meets him, and the empress who walks by his side, the emperor, before all, runs to fall on his neck and to greet him. and when fenice greets him, the one changes colour because of the other; and the marvel is how when they come close to each other they keep from embracing and kissing each other with such kisses as please love. but folly would it have been and madness. the folk run up in all directions and delight to see him. they all lead him through the midst of the town, some on foot and some on horseback, as far as the imperial palace. of the joy that there was made will never word here be told, nor of the honour, nor of the homage; but each has striven to do whatever he thinks and believes will please cliges and be welcome to him. and his uncle yields to him all that he has save the crown. he is right willing that cliges take at his pleasure whatsoever he shall wish to obtain from him, be it land or treasure; but cliges makes no account of silver or of gold, since he dare not disclose his thought to her for whom he loses his rest; and yet he has leisure and opportunity for telling her if only he were not afraid of being refused; for every day he can see her and sit alone by her side without anyone gainsaying or forbidding; for nobody imagines or thinks evil of it. a space of time after he had returned, one day he came unattended into the room of her who was not forsooth his enemy, and be well assured that the door was not shut against the meeting. he was close by her side and all the rest had gone away, so that no one was sitting near them who could hear their words. fenice first of all questioned him about britain. she asks him concerning the disposition and courtesy of my lord gawain, and at last she ventures to speak of what she dreaded. she asked him if he loved dame or maiden in that land. to this cliges was not unwilling or slow to reply. quickly was he able to explain all to her, as soon as she challenged him on the point. "lady," quoth he, "i was in love while yonder; but i loved none who was of yonder land. in britain my body was without a heart like bark without timber. when i left germany, i knew not what became of my heart, save that it went away hither after you. here was my heart and there my body. i was not absent from greece, for my heart had gone thither, and to reclaim it have i come back here; but it neither comes nor returns to me, and i cannot bring it back to me, and yet i seek it not and cannot do so. and how have you fared since you have come into this land? what joy have you had here? do the people, does the land please you? i ought to ask you nothing further save this--whether the land please you." "formerly it pleased me not; but now there dawns for me a joy and a pleasure that i would not lose, be assured, for pavia or for placentia; for i cannot dissever my heart from it, nor shall i ever use force to do so. in me is there nought save the bark, for without my heart i live and have my being. never was i in britain, and yet my heart has made i know not what contract in britain without me." "lady, when was your heart there? tell me when it went, at what time and at what season, if it is a matter that you can reasonably tell me or another. was it there when i was there?" "yes, but you knew it not. it was there as long as you were there and departed with you." "god! and i neither knew nor saw it there. god! why did i know it not? if i had known it, certainly, lady, i would have borne it good company." "much would you have comforted me and well would it have become you to do so, for i would have been very gracious to your heart, if it had pleased it to come there where it might have known me to be." "of a surety, lady, it came to you." "to me? then it came not into exile, for mine also went to you." "lady, then are both our hearts here with us as you say; for mine is wholly yours." "friend, and you on your side have mine, and so we are well matched. and know well that, so may god guard me, never had your uncle share in me, for neither did it please me nor was it permitted to him. never yet did he know me as adam knew his wife. wrongly am i called dame; but i know well that he who calls me dame knows not that i am a maid. even your uncle knows it not, for he has drunk of the sleeping draught and thinks he is awake when he sleeps, and he deems that he has his joy of me, just as he fain would have it, and just as though i were lying between his arms; but well have i shut him out. yours is my heart, yours is my body, nor indeed will any one by my example learn to act vilely; for when my heart set itself on you, it gave and promised you my body, so that nobody else shall have a share in it. love for you so wounded me that never did i think to recover any more than the sea can dry up. if i love you and you love me, never shall you be called tristram, and never shall i be iseult, for then the love would not be honourable. but i make you a vow that never shall you have other solace of me than you now have, if you cannot bethink yourself how i may be stolen from your uncle and from his bed, so that he may never find me again, or be able to blame either you or me or have anything he may lay hold of herein. to-night must you bend your attention to the matter and to-morrow you will be able to tell me the best device that you will have thought of, and i also will ponder on the matter. to-morrow, when i shall have risen, come early to speak to me, and each will say his thought, and we will carry out that which we shall consider best." when cliges heard her wish, he has granted her all, and says that it shall be right well done. he leaves her blithe, and blithe he goes away, and each lies awake in bed all night and they think with great delight over what seems best to them. the morrow they come again together, as soon as they were risen, and they took counsel in private, as there was need for them to do. first cliges says and recounts what he had thought of in the night. "lady," quoth he, "i think and believe that we could not do better than go away to britain: thither have i devised to take you away. now take heed that the matter fall not through on your side. for never was helen received at troy with such great joy, when paris had brought her thither, that there will not be yet greater joy felt throughout the whole land of the king, my uncle, anent you and me. and if this please you not well, tell me your thought; for i am ready, whatever come of it, to cleave to your thought." she replies: "and i shall speak it. never will i go with you thus, for then, when we had gone away, we should be spoken of throughout the world as the blonde iseult and tristram are spoken of; but here and there all women and men would blame our happiness. no one would believe or could be expected to believe the actual truth of the matter. who would believe then as regards your uncle that i have gone off and escaped from him still a maid, but a maid to no purpose? folk would hold me a light-of-love and a wanton, and you a madman. but it is meet to keep and observe the command of st. paul, for st. paul teaches him who does not wish to remain continent to act so wisely that he may never incur outcry nor blame nor reproach. it is well to stop an evil mouth, and this i think i can fully accomplish, if it be not too grievous for you; for if i act as my thought suggests to me, i will pretend to be dead. i will shortly feign sickness, and do you on your side lavish your pains to provide for my tomb. set your attention and care on this, that both tomb and bier be made in such fashion that i die not there nor suffocate, and let no one perceive you that night when you will be ready to take me away. and you will find me a refuge, such that never any save you may see me; and let no one provide me with anything of which i have need or requirement, save you to whom i grant and give myself. never in all my life do i seek to be served by any other man. you will be my lord and my servant, good will be to me whatsoever you will do to me, nor shall i ever be lady of the empire, if you be not lord of it. a poor, dark, and sordid place will be to me more splendid than all these halls, when you shall be together with me. if i have you and see you, i shall be lady of all the wealth in the world, and the whole world will be mine. and if the thing is done wisely, never will it be interpreted ill, and none will ever be able to point the finger of scorn at me, for through the whole empire folk will believe that i have rotted in the grave. and thessala, my nurse, who has brought me up and in whom i have great trust, will aid me in good faith, for she is very wise and i have great confidence in her." and cliges, when he heard his love, replies: "lady, if so it can be, and if you think that your nurse is likely to counsel you rightly in the matter, all you have to do is to make preparations and to carry them out speedily; but if we act not wisely, we are lost beyond recovery. in this town there is a craftsman who carves and works in wood wondrous well; there is no land where he is not famed for the works of art that he has made and carved and shaped. john is his name, and he is my serf. no handicraft is there, however peculiar it be, in which anyone could rival him, if john set his mind to it with a will. for compared with him they are all novices like a child at nurse. it is by imitating his works that the inhabitants of antioch and of rome have learned to do whatever they can accomplish, and no more loyal man is known. but now will i put him to the test, and if i can find loyalty in him, i will free him and all his heirs, and i will not fail to tell him our plan, if he swears and vows to me that he will aid me loyally therein and will never betray me in this matter." she replies: "now be it so." by her leave cliges came forth from the chamber and departed. and she sends for thessala, her nurse, whom she had brought from the land where she was born. and thessila came forthwith, for she neither lingers nor delays: but she knows not why her mistress sends for her. fenice asks her in private conference what she counsels and what seems good to her. she neither hides nor conceals from thessala even the smallest part of her thought. "nurse," says she, "i know well that never a thing that i tell you will afterwards become known through you, for i have proved you right well and have found you very wise. you have done so much for me that i love you. of all my evils i complain to you, nor do i take counsel elsewhere. you know well why i lie awake and what i think and what i wish. my eyes can see nothing to please me, save one thing, but i shall have from it neither enjoyment nor comfort, if i do not pay very dearly for it beforehand. and yet i have found my mate; for if i desire him, he, on his side, desires me too; if i grieve, he, on his side, grieves with my sorrow and my anguish. now i must confess to you a thought and a parley, in which we two in solitude have resolved and agreed." then she has told and related to her that she intends to feign herself ill, and says that she will complain so much that finally she will appear dead, and cliges will steal her away in the night, and they will be always henceforth together. in no other way, it seems to her, could she continue firm in her resolve. but if she were assured that thessala would help her in it, the thing could be done according to her wish; "but too long do joy and good fortune for me delay and tarry." forthwith her nurse assures her that she will lend all her aid to the enterprise, let her now have neither fear nor dread in regard to aught; and she says she will take so much pains about the matter, as soon as she shall undertake it, that never will there be any man who sees her who will not believe quite surely that her soul is severed from the body, when thessala shall have given her a drink that will make her cold and wan and pale and stiff, without speech and without breath; and yet she will be quite alive and sound, and will feel neither good nor ill, nor will she suffer any harm during a day and a whole night in the tomb and in the bier. when fenice had heard it, thus has she spoken and replied: "nurse, i put myself in your care, i give you free leave to do what you will with me. i am at your disposal; think for me, and bid the folk here that there be none who does not go away. i am ill and they disturb me." the nurse tells them courteously: "my lords, my lady is unwell and wishes you all to go away, for you speak too much and make too much noise, and noise is bad for her. she will have neither rest nor case as long as you are in this room. never heretofore that i remember had she illness of which i heard her complain so much, so very great and grievous is her sickness. depart, and it vex you not." they speedily go, one and all, as soon as thessala had commanded it. and cliges has quickly sent for john to his lodging, and has said to him privily: "john, knowest thou what i will say? thou art my serf, i am thy lord, and i can give thee or sell thee and take thy body and thy goods as a thing that is my own. but if i could trust thee concerning an affair of mine that i am thinking of, thou wouldst for evermore be free, and likewise the heirs which shall be born of thee." john, who much desires freedom, forthwith replies: "sir," says he, "there is no thing that i would not do wholly at your will, provided that thereby i might see myself free and my wife and children free. tell me your will; never will there be anything so grievous that it will be toil or punishment to me, nor will it be any burden to me. and were it not so, yet it will behove me to do it even against my will, and set aside all my own business." "true, john, but it is such a thing that my mouth dare not speak it, unless thou warrant me and swear to me, and unless thou altogether assure me that thou wilt faithfully aid me and will never betray me." "willingly, sir," quoth john, "never be doubtful of that. for this i swear you and warrant you that as long as i shall be a living man i will never say aught that i think will grieve or vex you." "ah, john! not even on pain of death is there a man to whom i should dare to say that concerning which i wish to seek counsel of thee; rather would i let my eyes be plucked out. rather would i that thou shouldst kill me than that thou shouldst say it to any other man. but i find thee so loyal and prudent, that i will tell thee what is in my heart. thou wilt accomplish my pleasure well, as i think, as regards both thy aid and thy silence." "truly, sir! so aid me god!" forthwith cliges relates to him and tells him the enterprise quite openly. and when he has disclosed to him the truth, as ye know it who have heard me tell it, then john says that he promises him to make the tomb well and put therein his best endeavour, and says that he will take him to see a house of his own building, and he will show him this that he has made, which never any man, woman, or child yet saw, if it pleases him to go with him there where he is working and painting and carving all by himself without any other folk. he will show him the fairest and most beautiful place that he ever saw. cliges replies: "let us then go." below the town in a sequestered spot had john built a tower, and he had toiled with great wisdom. thither has he led cliges with him, and leads him over the rooms, which were adorned with images fair and finely painted. he shows him the rooms and the fireplaces, and leads him up and down. cliges sees the house to be lonely, for no one stays or dwells there. he passes from one room to another till he thinks to have seen all, and the tower has pleased him well, and he said that it was very beautiful. the lady will be safe there all the days that she will live; for no man will ever know her to be there. "no, truly, lord, she will never be known to be here. but think you to have seen all my tower and all my pleasaunce? still are there lurking-places such as no man would be able to find. and if it is allowed you to try your skill in searching as well as you can, never will you be able to ransack so thoroughly as to find more rooms here, however subtle and wise you are, if i do not show and point them out to you. know that here baths are not lacking, nor anything that i remember and think of as suitable for a lady. she will be well at her ease here. this tower has a wider base underground, as you shall see, and never will you be able to find anywhere door or entrance. with such craft and such art is the door made of hard stone that never will you find the join thereof." "now hear i marvel," quoth cliges; "go forward; i shall follow, for i long to see all this." then has john started off, and leads cliges by the hand to a smooth and polished door, which is all painted and coloured. at the wall has john stopped, and he held cliges by the right hand. "lord," quoth he, "no man is there who could have seen door or window in this wall, and think you that one could pass it in any wise without doing it injury and harm?" cliges answers that he does not think he could, nor ever will think it, unless he sees it with his own eyes. then says john that his lord shall see it, for he will open for him the door of the wall. john, who himself had wrought the work, unlocks and opens to him the door of the wall, so that he neither hurts it nor injures it, and the one passes before the other, and they descend by a spiral staircase to a vaulted room where john wrought at his craft, when it was his pleasure to construct aught. "lord," quoth he, "here where we are was never one of all the men whom god created save us two; and the place has all that makes for comfort, as you will see in a trice. i advise that your retreat be here, and that your lady-love be hidden in it. such a lodging is meet for such a guest, for there are rooms and baths and in the baths hot water, which comes through a pipe below the earth. that man who would seek a convenient spot to place and hide his lady would have to go far before he found one so delightful. you will deem it a very fitting refuge when you have been all over it." then has john shown him all, fair chambers and painted vaults, and he has shown him much of his workmanship, which pleased him mightily. when they had seen the whole tower, then said cliges: "john, my friend, i free you and your heirs one and all, and i am wholly yours. i desire that my lady be here all alone, and that no one ever know it save me and you and her, and not another soul." john replies: "i thank you. now we have been here long enough, now we have no more to do, so let us start on the return journey." "you have said well," cliges replies, "let us depart." then they turn and have issued forth from the tower. on their return they hear in the town how one tells another in confidence: "you know not the grave news about my lady the empress. may the holy spirit give health to the wise and noble lady, for she lies in very great sickness." when cliges hears the report, he went to the court at full speed; but neither joy nor pleasure was there; for all were sad and dejected on account of the empress, who feigns herself ill; feigns--for the evil whereof she complains gives her no pain or hurt; she has said to all that as long as the malady whereby her heart and head feel pain holds her so strongly, she will have no man save the emperor or his nephew enter her chamber; for she will not deny herself to them; though if the emperor, her lord, come not, little will it irk her. she must needs risk great suffering and great peril for cliges' sake, but it weighs on her heart that he comes not; she desires to see naught save him. cliges will soon be in her presence and stay there till he shall have related to her what he has seen and found. he comes before her and has told her; but he remained there a short time only, for fenice, in order that people may think that what pleases her annoys her, has said aloud: "away! away! you tire me greatly, you weary me much; for i am so oppressed with sickness that never shall i be raised from it and restored to health." cliges, whom this greatly pleases, goes away, making a doleful countenance--for never before did you see it so doleful. outwardly he appears full sad; but his heart is blithe within, for it looks to have its joy. the empress, without having any illness, complains and feigns herself ill; and the emperor, who believes her, ceases not to make lamentation, and sends to seek leeches for her; but she will not let that one see her, nor does she let herself be touched. this grieves the emperor, for she says that never will she have leech except one, who will know how to give her health quickly, when it shall be his will. he will make her die or live; into his keeping she puts herself for health and for life. they think that she is speaking of god, but a very different meaning has she, for she means none other than cliges. he is her god, who can give her health and who can make her die. thus the empress provides that no leech attend her, and she will not eat or drink, in order the better to deceive the emperor, until she is both pale and wan all over. and her nurse stays near her, who with very wondrous craft sought secretly through all the town, so that no one knew it, until she found a woman sick of a mortal sickness without cure. in order the better to carry out the deception, she went often to visit her and promised her that she would cure her of her ill, and each day she would bring a glass to see her water, till she saw that medicine would no longer be able to aid her and that she would die that very day. she has brought this water and has kept it straitly until the emperor rose. now she goes before him and says to him: "if you will, sire, send for all your leeches, for my lady, who is suffering from a sore sickness, has passed water and wishes that the leeches see it, but that they come not in her presence." the leeches came into the hall; they see the water very bad and pale, and each says what seems to him the truth, till they all agree together that never will she recover, and will not even see the hour of none, and if she lives so long, then at the latest god will take her soul to himself. this have they murmured secretly. then the emperor has bidden and conjured them that they tell the truth of the matter. they reply that they have no hope at all of her recovery, and that she cannot pass the hour of none, for before that hour she will have given up the ghost. when the emperor has heard the word, scarcely can he refrain from swooning to the ground, and likewise many a one of the others who heard it. never did any folk make such mourning as then prevailed through all the palace. i spare you the account of the mourning, and you shall hear what thessala is about, who mixes and brews the draught. she has mixed and stirred it, for long beforehand she had provided herself with all that she knew was needed for the draught. a little before the hour of none she gives her the draught to drink. as soon as she had drunk it, her sight grew dim, and her face was as pale and white as if she had lost her blood, nor would she have moved hand or foot even if one had flayed her alive; she neither stirs nor says a word, and yet she hearkens to and hears the mourning which the emperor makes, and the wailing with which the hall is full. and o'er all the city the folk wail who weep and say: "god! what a sorrow and a calamity has accursed death dealt us! greedy death! covetous death! death is worse than any she-wolf, for death cannot be sated. never couldst thou give a worse wound to the world. death, what hast thou done? may god confound thee who hast extinguished all beauty. thou hast slain the choicest creature and the fairest picture--if she had but remained alive!--that god ever laboured to fashion. too patient is god, since he suffers thee to have the power to ruin his handiwork. now should god be wroth with thee and cast thee forth from thy dominion, for thou hast committed too wanton and great arrogance and great insult." thus all the people storm, they wring their hands and beat their palms, and the clerks read there their psalms, who pray for the good lady that god may show mercy to her soul. amid the tears and the wails, as the writings tell us, have come three aged physicians from salerno, where they had been a long time. they have stopped on account of the great mourning, and ask and inquire the reason of the wails and tears, why folk are thus demented and distressed. and they tell them and reply: "god! lords, know ye not? at this ought the whole world, each place in turn, to become frenzied together with us, if it knew the great mourning and grief and hurt and the great loss which this day has opened to our ken. god! whence then are you come, since you know not what has happened but now in the city? we will tell you the truth, for we wish to join you with us in the mourning wherewith we mourn. know you nought of ravenous death, who desires all and covets all and in all places lies in wait for the best, and how great an act of folly he hath to-day committed, as he is wont? god had lit the world with a brilliance, with a light. but death cannot choose but do what he is wont to do. ever with his might he blots out the best that he can find. now doth he will to prove his power, and has taken in one body more worth than he has left in the world. if he had taken the whole world, he could not have done one whit worse, provided that he left alive and sound that prey whom he now leads away. beauty, courtesy, and knowledge, and whatsoever appertaining to goodness a lady can have, has death, who has destroyed all good in the person of my lady the empress, snatched from us and cheated us of. thus hath death slain us." "ah, god!" say the leeches, "thou hatest this city, we know it well, for that we came not here a little space ago. if we had come yesterday, death might have esteemed himself highly, if he had taken aught from us by force." "lords, my lady would not for aught have allowed that you should have seen her or troubled yourself about her. there were enough and to spare of good leeches, but never did my lady please that one or other of them should see her who could meddle with her illness." "no?" "by my faith, that did she truly not." then they remembered solomon, and that his wife hated him so much that she betrayed him under a pretence of death. perhaps this lady has done the same thing; but if they could by any means succeed in touching her, there is no man born for whose sake they would have lied or would refrain from speaking the whole truth about it, if they can see deceit there. towards the court they go forthwith, where one would not have heard god thundering, such noise and wailing there was. the master of them, who knew the most, has approached the bier. none says to him: "you touch it at your peril." nor does any one pull him back from it. and he puts his hand on her breast and on her side and feels beyond a doubt that she has her life whole in her body; well he knows it and well he perceives it. he sees before him the emperor, who is frenzied and ready to kill himself with grief. he cries aloud and says to him: "emperor, comfort thyself. i know and see for a certainty that this lady is not dead. leave thy mourning and console thyself. if i give her not back to thee alive, either slay me or hang me." now all the wailing throughout the palace is calmed and hushed, and the emperor tells the leech that now it is permitted him to give orders and to speak his will quite freely. if he brings back the empress to life, he will be lord and commander over him; but he will be hanged as a robber, if he has lied to him in aught. and he says to him: "i accept the condition; never have mercy on me, if i do not make the lady here speak to you. without hesitation or delay have the palace cleared for me. let not one or another stay here. i must see privately the evil from which the lady suffers. these two leeches alone, who are of my company, shall stay here with me, and let all the others go without." this thing cliges, john, and thessala would have gainsaid: but all those who were there would have interpreted it to their harm, if they had attempted to prevent it. therefore they keep silence and give the counsel that they hear the others give, and have gone forth from the palace. and the three leeches have by force ripped up the lady's winding-sheet, for there was neither knife nor scissors: then they say: "lady, have no fear, be not dismayed, but speak in all safety. we know for a surety that you are quite sound and well. now be wise and amenable, and despair of nought; for if you seek advice from us, we will assure you all three of us, that we will help you with all our power, where it be concerning good or concerning evil. we will be right loyal towards you, both in keeping your secret and in aiding you. do not compel us to reason long with you. from the moment that we place our power and services at your disposal, you ought not to refuse us compliance." thus they think to befool and to cheat her, but it avails nought; for she cares and recks nought of their service, so that when the physicians see that they will avail nothing with regard to her by cajolery or by entreaty, then they take her off the bier and strike her and beat her; but their fury is to no purpose, since for all this they draw not a word from her. then they threaten and frighten her and say that, if she does not speak, she will that very day find out the folly of her action; for they will inflict on her such dire treatment that never before was its like inflicted on any body of caitiff woman. "well we know that you are alive and do not deign to speak to us. well we know that you are feigning and would have deceived the emperor. have no fear of us at all. but if any man has angered you, disclose your folly, before we have further wounded you, for you are acting very basely; and we will aid you, alike in wisdom or in folly." it cannot be, it avails them nought. then once more they deal her blows on the back with their straps, and the stripes that run downwards become visible, and so much do they beat her tender flesh that they make the blood gush out from it. when they have beaten her with straps till they have lacerated her flesh, and till the blood which issues through her wounds runs down from them, and when for all that they can do nothing nor extort sigh or word promise her; they are meddling to no purpose. and from her, and she never moves nor stirs, then they tell her that they must seek fire and lead, and that they will melt it and will pour it into her palms rather than fail to make her speak. they seek and search for fire and lead; they kindle the fire; they melt the lead. thus the base villains maltreat and torture the lady, for they have poured into her palms the lead, all boiling and hot just as they have taken it from the fire. nor yet is it enough for them that the lead has passed through and through the palms, but the reprobate villains say that, if she speak not soon, straightway they will roast her till she is all grilled. she is silent and forbids them not to beat or ill-treat her flesh. and even now they were about to put her to the fire to roast and grill, when more than a thousand of the ladies, who were in front of the palace, come to the door and see through a tiny chink the torture and the unhappy fate that they were preparing for the lady, for they were making her suffer martyrdom from the coal and from the flame. to break in the door and shatter it they bring hatchets and hammers. great was the din and the attack to break and smash the door. if now they can lay hold on the leeches, without delay all their desert shall be rendered them. the ladies enter the palace all together with one bound, and thessala is among the press, whose one anxiety is to get to her lady. she finds her all naked at the fire, much injured and much mishandled. she has laid her back on the bier and covered her beneath the pall. and the ladies proceed to tender and pay to the three leeches their deserts; they would not send for or await emperor or seneschal. they have hurled them down through the windows full into the court, so that they have broken the necks and ribs and arms and legs of all three; better never wrought any ladies. now the three leeches have received from the ladies right sorry payment for their deeds; but cliges is much dismayed and has great grief, when he hears tell of the great agony and the torture that his lady has suffered for him. almost does he lose his reason; for he fears greatly and indeed with justice--that she may be killed or maimed by the torture caused her by the three leeches, who have died in consequence; and he is despairing and disconsolate. and thessala comes bringing a very precious salve with which she has anointed full gently the lady's body and wounds. the ladies have enshrouded her again in a white syrian pall, wherein they had shrouded her before, but they leave her face uncovered. never that night do they abate their wailing or cease or make an end thereof. through all the town they wail like folk demented-high and low, and poor and rich-and it seems that each sets his will on outdoing all the others in making lamentation, and on never abandoning it of his own will. all night is the mourning very great. on the morrow john came to court, and the emperor sends for him and bids him, requests and commands him: "john! if ever thou madest a good work, now set all thy wisdom and thy invention to making a tomb, such that one cannot find one so fair and well decorated." and john, who had already done it, says that he has prepared a very fair and well-carved one; but never, when he began to make it, had he intention that any body should be laid there save a holy one. "now, let the empress be enclosed within in lieu of relics; for she is, i ween, a very holy thing." "well said," quoth the emperor, "in the minster of my lord saint peter shall she be buried, there outside where one buries other bodies; for before she died, she begged and prayed me with all her heart that i would have her laid there. now go and busy yourself about it, and set your tomb, as is right and meet, in the fairest place in the cemetery." john replies: "gladly, sire." forthwith john departs, prepares well the tomb, and did thereat what a master of his craft would do. because the stone was hard, and even more on account of the cold, he has placed therein a feather bed; and moreover, that it may smell sweet to her, he has strewn thereon both flowers and foliage. but he did it even more for this, that none should spy the mattress that he had placed in the grave. now had the whole office been said in chapels and in parish churches, and they were continually tolling as it is meet to toll for the dead. they bid the body be brought, and it will be placed in the tomb, whereat john has worked to such effect that he has made it very magnificent and splendid. in all constantinople has been left neither great nor small who does not follow the corpse weeping, and they curse and revile death; knights and squires swoon, and the dames and the maidens beat their breasts and have railed against death. "death!" quoth each, "why took'st thou not a ransom for my lady? forsooth, but a small booty hast thou gained, and for us the loss is great." and cliges, of a truth, mourns so much that he wounds and maltreats himself more than all the others do, and it is a marvel that he does not kill himself; but still he postpones suicide till the hour and the time come for him to disinter her and hold her in his arms, and know whether she is alive or not. about the grave are the lords, who lay the body there; but they do not meddle with john in the setting up of the tomb, and indeed they could see nought of it, but have all fallen swooning to the earth, and john has had good leisure to do all he listed. he so set up the tomb that there was no other creature in it; well does he seal and join and close it. then might that man well have boasted himself who, without harm or injury, would have been able to take away or disjoin aught that john had put there. fenice is in the tomb, until it came to dark night; but thirty knights guard her, and there are ten tapers burning, and they made a great light. the knights were sated and weary with mourning, and have eaten and drunk in the night till they all lay asleep together. at night cliges steals forth from the court and from all the folk. there was not knight or servant who ever knew what had become of him. he did not rest till he came to john, who gives him all the counsel that he can. he puts on him a suit of armour, which he will never need. both all armed go forth to the cemetery at post haste; but the cemetery was enclosed all around by a high wall; and the knights, who were sleeping, and had closed the door within that none might enter, thought they were safe. cliges sees not how he may pass, for he cannot enter by the door, and yet by hook or by crook he must enter, for love exhorts and admonishes him. he grips the wall and mounts up, for right strong and agile was he. within was an orchard and there were trees in plenty. near the wall one had been planted so that it touched the wall. now has cliges what he wished for; he let himself down by this tree. the first thing that he did was to go and open the door to john. they see the knights sleeping and they have extinguished all the tapers, so that no light remains there. and now john uncovers the grave and opens the tomb, so that he injures it not at all. cliges leaps into the grave and has carried forth his lady, who is very weak and lifeless, and he falls on her neck and kisses and embraces her. he knows not whether to rejoice or mourn; for she moves not nor stirs. and john has closed again the tomb with all the speed he may, so that it does not in any wise appear that it had been touched. they have approached the tower as quickly as ever they could. when they had put her within the tower in the rooms that were underground, then they took off the grave-clothes, and cliges, who knew nothing of the draught that she had within her body, which makes her dumb and prevents her stirring, thinks in consequence that she is dead, and he loses hope and comfort thereat, and sighs deeply and weeps. but soon the hour will have come that the draught will lose its force. and fenice, who hears him lament, tries and strains that she may be able to comfort him either by word or by look. her heart nearly breaks because of the mourning she hears him make. "ha! death," quoth he, "how base thou art, in that thou sparest and passest by worthless and outcast creatures! such thou dost allow to last and live. death! art thou mad or drunk that thou has killed my love without killing me? this that i see is a marvel: my love is dead and i am alive. ah, sweet love! why does your lover live and see you dead? now might one rightly say that you are dead for my sake, and that i have killed and slain you. loved lady! then am i the death who has killed you; is not that unjust? for i have taken away my life in you and yet have kept yours in me. for were not your health and your life mine, sweet friend? and were not mine yours? for i loved nought but you: we twain were one being. now have i done what i ought, for i keep your soul in my body, and mine is gone forth of yours; and yet the one was bound to bear the other company, wherever it was, and nothing ought to have parted them." at this she heaves a sigh and says in a weak, low voice: "friend! friend! i am not wholly dead, but well-nigh so. but i hope nought about my life. i thought to have a jest and to feign: but now must i needs complain, for death loves not my jest. a marvel 'twill be if i escape alive, for much have the leeches wounded me, broken and lacerated my flesh; and nevertheless, if it could be that my nurse were here with me, she would make me quite whole, if care could avail aught herein." "friend! then let it not distress you," quoth cliges, "for this very night i will bring her here for you.....friend! rather will john go." john goes thither and has sought till he found her, and he imparts to her how greatly he desires her to come; never let any excuse detain her; for fenice and cliges summon her to a tower where they await her; for fenice is sore mishandled, and she must come provided with salves and electuaries, and let her know that the lady will live no longer if she succour her not speedily. thessala forthwith runs and takes ointment and plaster and an electuary that she had made, and has joined company with john. then they issue from the town secretly and go till they come straight to the tower. when fenice sees her nurse, she thinks she is quite cured, so much she loves her and believes in her and trusts her. and cliges embraces and greets her and says: "welcome, nurse! for i love and esteem you greatly. nurse, in god's name what think you of this damsel's illness? what is your opinion? will she recover?" "ay, sir! fear not that i cannot cure her right well. a fortnight will not have passed before i make her whole, so that never at any time was she more whole and gay." thessala sets her mind on curing the lady, and john goes to provide the tower with whatsoever store is meet. cliges comes and goes to the tower boldly, in view of all, for he has left there a goshawk moulting, and says that he comes to see it, and none can guess that he goes there for any other reason save only on account of the hawk. much does he tarry there both night and day. he makes john guard the tower, that no one may enter there against his will. fenice has no hurt whereof she need grieve, for well has thessala cured her. if now cliges had been duke of almeria or of morocco or of tudela, he would not have prized such honour a berry in comparison of the joy he has. certes, love abased himself no whit when he put them together; for it seems to both when one embraces and kisses the other that the whole world is made better for their joy and their pleasure. ask me no more about it; i will but say that there is nought that one wills that the other does not welcome. so is their will at one as if they twain were but one. all this year and some space of the next, two months and more, i ween, has fenice been in the tower, until the spring of the year. when flowers and foliage bud forth, and the little birds are making merry--for they delight in their bird-language--it happened that fenice heard one morning the nightingale sing. cliges was holding her gently with one arm about her waist and the other about her neck, and she him in like manner, and she has said to him: "fair, dear friend, much joy would an orchard afford me, where i could take my pleasure. i have seen neither moon nor sun shine for more than fifteen whole months. if it might be, full gladly would i sally forth into the daylight, for i am pent up in this tower. if near by there were an orchard where i could go to disport myself, great good would this do me often." then cliges promises that he will seek counsel of john as soon as he shall see him. and now it has happened that lo! john has come thither, for he was often wont to come. cliges has spoken with him of fenice's desire. "all is prepared and already at hand," quoth john, "whatsoever she orders. this tower is well provided with all that she wishes and asks for." then is fenice right blithe and bids john lead her thither, and john makes no demur. then goes john to open a door, such that i have neither skill nor power to tell or describe the fashion of it. none save john could have had the skill to make it, nor could any one ever have told that there was door or window there, as long as the door was not opened, so hidden and concealed was it. when fenice saw the door open and the sun which she had not seen for a long time shine in, she has all her blood awhirl with joy and says that now she seeks nothing more, inasmuch as she can come forth out of the hiding-place, and seeks no refuge elsewhere. by the door she has entered the orchard, and this greatly pleases and delights her. in the midst of the orchard there was a grafted tree loaded with flowers and very leafy, and it formed a canopy above. the branches were so trained that they hung towards the ground and bent almost to the earth, all save the top from which they sprang, for that rose straight upwards. fenice desires no other place. and below the grafted tree the meadow is very delectable and very fair, nor ever will the sun be so high even at noon, when it is hottest, that ever a ray can pass that way, so skilled was john to arrange things and to guide and train the branches. there fenice goes to disport herself, and all day she makes her couch there; there they are in joy and delight. and the orchard is enclosed around with a high wall which joins the tower, so that no creature could enter it, unless he had climbed to the top of the tower. now is fenice in great delight: there is nought to displease her, nor lacks she aught that she could wish, when 'neath the flowers and leaves it lists her embrace her lover. at the time when folk go hunting with the sparrow-hawk and with the hound, which seeks the lark and the stonechat and tracks the quail and the partridge, it happened that a knight of thrace, a young and sprightly noble, esteemed for his prowess, had one day gone a-hawking quite close beside this tower; bertrand was the knight's name. his sparrow-hawk had soared high, for it had missed the lark that was its aim. now will bertrand consider himself ill served by fate, if he lose his sparrow-hawk. he saw it descend and settle below the tower in an orchard, and it pleased him much to see this, for now he reckons that he will not lose it. forthwith he goes to scale the wall, and wins to get over it. under the grafted tree he saw fenice and cliges sleeping together side by side. "god!" quoth he, "what has befallen me? what kind of miracle is it that i see? is it not cliges? yea, faith. is not that the empress by his side? nay, but she resembles her, for no other being ever was so like. such a nose, such a mouth, such a brow she has as the empress, my lady, had. never did nature better succeed in making two beings of the same countenance. in this lady see i nought that i should not have seen in my lady. if she had been alive, truly i should have said that it was she." at that moment a pear drops and falls just beside fenice's ear. she starts, awakes, sees bertrand and cries aloud: "friend, friend, we are lost! here is bertrand! if he escapes you, we have fallen into an evil trap. he will tell folk that he has seen us." then has bertrand perceived that it is the empress beyond all doubt. need is there for him to depart, for cliges had brought his sword with him into the orchard, and had laid it beside the couch. he springs up and has taken his sword, and bertrand flees swiftly. with all the speed he might he grips the wall, and now he was all but over it, when cliges has come after, raises now his sword, and strikes him, so that beneath the knee he has cut off his leg as clean as a stalk of fennel. nevertheless, bertrand has escaped ill-handled and crippled, and on the other side he is received by his men, who are beside themselves with grief and wrath, when they see him thus maimed; they have asked and inquired who it is that had done it to him. "question me not about it," quoth he, "but raise me on my horse. never will this story be recounted till it is told before the emperor. he who has done this to me ought not forsooth to be without fear--nor is he, for he is nigh to deadly peril." then they have put him on his palfrey, and, mourning, they lead him away in great dismay through the midst of the town. after them go more than twenty thousand, who follow him to the court. and all the people flock there, the one after the other, and the devil take the hindmost. now has bertrand made his plea and complaint to the emperor in the hearing of all, but they consider him an idle babbler because he says that he has seen the empress stark naked. all the town is stirred thereat; some, when they hear this news, esteem it mere folly, others advise and counsel the emperor to go to the tower. great is the uproar and the tumult of the folk who set out after him. but they find nothing in the tower, for fenice and cliges are on their way, and have taken thessala with them, who comforts and assures them, and says that, even if perchance they see folk coming after them who come to take them, they need have no fear for aught, for never to do them harm or injury would they come within the distance that one could shoot with a strong crossbow stretched by windlass. now the emperor is in the tower and he has john sought out and fetched: he bids that he be tied and bound, and says that he will have him hanged or burned and the ashes scattered to the wind. for the shame that the emperor has suffered, john shall pay the penalty (but it will be a bootless penalty!) because he has secreted in his tower the nephew and the wife of the emperor. "i'faith you speak the truth," quoth john; "i will not lie in the matter; i will stick to the truth throughout, and if i have done wrong in any point, right meet is it that i be taken. but on this score i could well excuse myself, that a serf ought to refuse nought that his rightful lord commands him. and it is known full surely that i am his and the tower is his." "nay, john, rather is it thine." "mine, sire? truly, as his serf i am not even my own, nor have i anything that is mine, save in so far as he grants it to me. and if you would say that my lord has done you wrong, i am ready to defend him from the charge without his bidding me so to do. but the knowledge that i must die makes me bold to speak out freely my will and my mind as i have fashioned and moulded it. now, be that as it may be, for if i die for my lord, i shall not die in dishonour. surely without a doubt is known the oath and promise that you pledged to your brother, that after you, cliges, who is going away into exile, should be emperor. and if it please god, he will yet be emperor. and you are to be blamed for this, for you ought not to have taken wife, but all the same you took one and wronged cliges, and he has wronged you in nought. and if i am done to death by you and die for him unjustly, if he lives, he will avenge my death. now do your utmost, for if i die, you will die too." beads of wrath break out on the emperor's brow when he has heard the words and the insult that john has uttered against him. "john," quoth he, "thou shalt have respite until what time thy lord be found, for base has he proved himself towards me, who held him right dear, nor thought to defraud him. but thou shalt be kept fast in prison. if thou knowest what has become of him, tell me straightway, i bid thee." "tell you? and how should i commit so great a treason? of a surety, i would not betray to you my lord, not though you were to rend my life out of my body, if i knew it. and besides this, so may god be my guard, i cannot say any more than you in what direction they have gone. but you are jealous without a cause. too little do i fear your wrath not to tell you truly in the hearing of all how you are deceived, and yet i shall never be believed in this matter. by a potion that you drank, you were tricked and deceived the night that you celebrated your wedding. never at any time, save when you slept and it happened to you in your dreams, did any joy come to you of her; but the night made you dream, and the dream pleased you as much as if it had happened in your waking hours that she held you in her arms; and no other boon came to you from her. her heart clave so straitly to cliges that for his sake she pretended to be dead; and he trusted me so much that he told me and placed her in my house, of which he is lord by right. you ought not to lay the blame on me for it; i should have merited to be burnt or hanged, if i had betrayed my lord and refused to do his will." when the emperor heard tell of the potion which it delighted him to drink, and by which thessala deceived him, then first he perceived that he had never had joy of his wife--well he knew it--unless it had happened to him in a dream, and that such joy was illusory. he says that, if he take not vengeance for the shame and the disgrace brought on him by the traitor who has carried off from him his wife, never again will he have joy in his life. "now, quick!" quoth he, "to pavia, and from there to germany, let neither castle, town, nor city be left where he be not sought. he who shall bring them both prisoners will be more cherished by me than any other man. now, set well to work and search both up and down and near and far!" then they start with great zeal, and they have spent all the day in searching; but cliges had such friends among them that, if they found the lovers, they rather would lead them to a place of refuge than bring them back. throughout a whole fortnight with no small pains they have pursued them, but thessala, who is guiding them, leads them so safely by art and by enchantment that they have no fear or alarm for all the forces of the emperor. in no town or city do they lie, and yet they have whatsoever they wish and desire, as good as or better than they are wont to have, for thessala seeks and procures and brings for them whatsoever they wish, and no one follows or pursues them, for all have abandoned the quest. but cliges does not delay; he goes to his uncle, king arthur. he sought him till he found him, and has made to him a complaint and an outcry against his uncle the emperor, who, in order to disinherit him, had taken wife dishonourably, when he should not have done so, seeing that he had pledged his word to cliges' father that never in his life would he have a wife. and the king says that with a navy will he sail to constantinople, and fill a thousand ships with knights and three thousand with infantry, such that nor city nor borough nor town nor castle, however strong or high it be, will be able to endure their onset. and cliges has not forgotten to thank the king then and there for the aid which he is granting him. the king sends to seek and to summon all the high barons of his land, and has ships and boats, cutters and barques sought out and equipped. with shields, with lances, with targes, and with knightly armour he has a hundred ships filled and laden. the king makes so great a preparation to wage war that never had even cesar or alexander the like. he has caused to be summoned and mustered all england and all flanders, normandy, france, and brittany, and all tribes, even as far as the spanish passes. now were they about to put to sea when messengers came from greece, who stayed the expedition and kept back the king and his men. with the messengers who came was john, who was well worthy to be believed, for he was witness and messenger of nought that was not true and that he did not know for certain. the messengers were high men of greece, who were seeking cliges. they sought and asked for him until they found him at the court of the king, and they have said to him: "god save you, sire. on the part of all the inhabitants of your empire, greece is yielded and constantinople given to you, because of the right that you have to it. your uncle--as yet you know it not--is dead of the grief that he had because he could not find you. he had such grief that he lost his senses: never afterwards did he either eat or drink, and he died a madman. fair sire, return now hence, for all your barons send for you. greatly do they desire and ask for you, for they will to make you emperor." many there were who were blithe at this message, but on the other hand there were man who would gladly have left their homes, and who would have been mightily pleased if the host had set out for greece. but the expedition has fallen through altogether, for the king sends away his men, and the host disperses and returns home. but cliges hastens and prepares himself, for his will is to return into greece, no care has he to tarry longer. he has prepared himself, and has taken leave of the king and all his friends: he takes fenice with him, and they depart and do not rest till they are in greece, where men receive him with great joy, as they ought to do their lord, and give him his lady-love to wife; they crown them both together. he has made his lady-love his wife, but he calls her lady-love and dame, nor does she for that cease to be cherished as his lady-love, and she cherishes him every whit as much as one ought to cherish one's lover. and each day their love grew; never did he mistrust her nor chide her for aught. she was never kept in seclusion, as those who came after her later have been kept (for henceforth there was no emperor who was not afraid lest his wife might deceive him, when he heard tell how fenice deceived alis, first by the potion that he drank and then by the other treason). for which reason the empress, whoever she be, be she of never so splendid and high degree, is guarded in constantinople; for the emperor trusts her not as long as he remembers fenice. here ends the work of chretien. the end originally written in old french, sometime in the early half of the th century a.d., as a continuation of chretien detroyes' unfinished work "perceval, or the knight of the grail". author unknown. translation by sebastian evans, . the high history of the holy graal selected bibliography: original text-- potvin, ch. (ed.): "perceval le gallois ou le conte du graal", vol. i (soc. bibl. belges., mons., ). recommended reading-- anonymous (trans. p.m. matarasso): "the quest for the holy graal" (penguin classics, london, ). detroyes, chretien (trans. william w. kibler & carleton w. carroll): "arthurian romances" (penguin classics, london, ). contains the unfinished work "perceval". eschenbach, wolfram von (trans. a.t. hatto): "parzival" (penguin classics, london, ). malory, sir thomas (ed. janet cowen): "le morte d'arthur", vol. i & ii (penguin classics, london, ). ***************************************************************** introduction this book is translated from the first volume of "perceval le gallois ou le conte du graal"; edited by m. ch. potvin for 'la societe des bibliophiles belges' in , ( ) from the ms. numbered , in the library of the dukes of burgundy at brussels. this ms. i find thus described in m. f. j. marchal's catalogue of that priceless collection: '"le roman de saint graal", beginning "ores lestoires", in the french language; date, first third of the sixteenth century; with ornamental capitals.' ( ) written three centuries later than the original romance, and full as it is of faults of the scribe, this manuscript is by far the most complete known copy of the "book of the graal" in existence, being defective only in branch xxi. titles and , the substance of which is fortunately preserved elsewhere. large fragments, however, amounting in all to nearly one-seventh of the whole, of a copy in handwriting of the thirteenth century, are preserved in six consecutive leaves and one detached leaf bound up with a number of other works in a ms. numbered in the city library at berne. the volume is in folio on vellum closely written in three columns to the page, and the seven leaves follow the last poem contained in it, entitled "duremart le gallois". the manuscript is well known, having been lent to m. de sainte palaye for use in the monuments of french history issued by the benedictines of the congregation of st maur. selections from the poems it contains are given in sinner's "extraits de poesie du xiii. siecle", ( ) and it is described, unfortunately without any reference to these particular leaves, by the same learned librarian in the "catalogus codicum mss. bibl. bernensis", j.r. sinner. ( ) m. potvin has carefully collated for his edition all that is preserved of the romance in this manuscript, comprising all the beginning of the work as far as branch iii. title , about the middle, and from branch xix. title , near the beginning, to branch xxx. title , in the middle. making allowance for variations of spelling and sundry minor differences of reading, by no means always in favour of the earlier scribe, the berne fragments are identical with the corresponding portions of the brussels manuscript, and it is therefore safe to assume that the latter is on the whole an accurate transcript of the entire original romance. the only note of time in the book itself is contained in the declaration at the end. from this it appears that it was written by order of the seingnor of cambrein for messire jehan the seingnor of neele. m. potvin, without giving any reason for so doing, assumes that this lord of cambrein is none other than the bishop of cambrai. if this assumption be correct, the person referred to was probably either john of berhune, who held the see from till july , , or his successor godfrey of fontaines (conde), who held it till . to me, however, it seems more likely that the personage intended was in reality the 'seingnor' of cambrin, the chef-lieu of a canton of the same name, on a small hill overlooking the peat-marshes of bethune, albeit i can find no other record of any such landed proprietor's existence. be this as it may, the messire jehan, seingnor of neele, can hardly be other than the john de nesle who was present at the battle of bouvines in , and who in sold the lordship of bruges to joan of flanders. ( ) these dates therefore may be regarded as defining that of the original romance within fairly narrow limits. this conclusion is confirmed by other evidence. an early welsh translation of the story was published with an english version and a glossary by the rev. robert williams in the first volume of his "selections from the hengwrt mss". ( ) the first volume of this work is entitled "y seint greal, being the adventures of king arthur's knights of the round table, in the quest of the holy grail, and on other occasions. originally written about the year ". the volume, following the manuscript now in the library of w.w.e. wynne, esq., at peniarth, is divided into two parts. the first, fol. - of the manuscript, represents the thirteenth to the seventeenth book of sir thomas malory's "morte d'arthur". of the second, which represents the romance here translated, mr williams writes: "the second portion of the welsh greal, folios - , contains the adventures of gwalchmei peredur and lancelot, and of the knights of the round table; but these are not found in the "morte d'arthur". the peniarth ms. is beautifully written on vellum, and in perfect preservation, and its date is that of henry vi., the early part of the fifteenth century. the orthography and style of writing agrees literally with that of the "mabinogion of the llyvr coch hergest", which is of that date. this, of course, is a transcript of an earlier copy; but there is no certainty when it was first translated into welsh, though aneurin owen in his "catalogue of the hengwrt mss." assigns it to the sixth year of henry i. it is mentioned by davydd ab gwilym, who died in ." whatever may be the date of the welsh version, the translator had no great mastery of french, and is often at fault as to the meaning both of words and sentences, and when in a difficulty is only too apt to cut the knot by omitting the passage bodily. the book itself, moreover, is not entire. on page , all between branch ix. title and branch xi. title , twenty-two chapters in all, is missing. again, on page , titles - in branch xxi. are left out, while the whole of the last branch, containing titles, is crumpled up into one little chapter, from which it would seem that the welshman had read the french, but thought it waste of pains to translate it. in all, not to speak of other defects, there are fifty-six whole chapters in the present book, of which there is not a word in the welsh. in one matter, however, mr williams' english translation has stood me in good stead. in branch xxi., as i have said, the french manuscript makes default of two titles, but almost the whole of their substance is supplied by the welsh version. by an unlucky accident, before the hiatus in the french is fully filled up, the welsh version itself becomes defective, though the gap thus left open can hardly extend beyond a very few words. without this supplement, incomplete as it is, it would have been impossible to give the full drift of one of the romancer's best stories, which is equally unintelligible in both the french and welsh texts in their present state. as the welsh version gives a number of names both of persons and places widely differing from those in the french, it may be useful here to note the principal changes made. perceval in the welsh is called peredur, which is said to mean "steel suit". the welshman, however, adds that the name in french is "peneffresvo galief", which, unless it be a misreading or miswriting for perceval le galois, is to me wholly unintelligible. perceval's father, alain li gros, is in the welsh earl evrawg, and his sister dindrane, danbrann. king arthur is emperor arthur, his queen guenievre, gwenhwyvar, and their son lohot, lohawt or llacheu. messire gawain is gwalchmei; chaus, son of ywain li aoutres, gawns, son of owein vrych; messire kay or kex is kei the long; ahuret the bastard, anores; ygerne, wife of uther pendragon, eigyr; queen jandree, landyr; and king fisherman for the most part king peleur. of places, cardoil is caerlleon on usk, pannenoisance, penvoisins; tintagel, tindagoyl; and avalon, avallach. by a double stroke of ill-luck, the complete and wholly independent romance here translated has thus been printed by its two former editors as if it were only a part of some other story. m. potvin describes it as the "first part, the romance in prose," of his "perceval le gallois", and mr williams accepts it as the "second portion" of his "y seint greal". this unhappy collocation has led not a few of m. potvin's readers to neglect his first part, under the impression that the story is retold in the other volumes containing the romance in verse; while not a few of mr williams' readers have neglected his second portion under the impression that there could be nothing of any special importance in an adjunct referred to by the editor in so perfunctory a manner. in very truth, however, the story of the holy graal here told is not only the most coherent and poetic of all the many versions of the legend, but is also the first and most authentic. this seems to be proved beyond doubt by a passage in the history of fulke fitz-warine, originally written apparently between the years and . the passage occurs at the end of the history, and is printed in verse of which i give a literal prose translation: "merlin saith that in britain the great a wolf shall come from the white launde. twelve sharp teeth shall he have, six below and six above. he shall have so fierce a look that he shall chase the leopard forth of the white launde, so much force shall he have and great virtue. we now know that merlin said this for fulke the son of waryn, for each of you ought to understand of a surety how in the time of the king arthur that was called the white launde which is now named the white town. for in this country was the chapel of s. austin that was fair, where kahuz, the son of ywein, dreamed that he carried off the candlestick and that he met a man who hurt him with a knife and wounded him in the side. and he, on sleep, cried out so loud that king arthur hath heard him and awakened from sleep. and when kahuz was awake, he put his hand to his side. there hath he found the knife that had smitten him through. so telleth us the graal, the book of the holy vessel. there the king arthur recovered his bounty and his valour when he had lost all his chivalry and his virtue. from this country issued forth the wolf as saith merlin the wise, and the twelve sharp teeth have we known by his shield. he bore a shield indented as the heralds have devised. in the shield are twelve teeth of gules and argent. by the leopard may be known and well understood king john, for he bore in his shield the leopards of beaten gold." ( ) the story of kahuz or chaus here indicated by the historian is told at length in the opening chapters of the present work and, so far as is known, nowhere else. the inference is therefore unavoidable that we have here "the graal, the book of the holy vessel" to which the biographer of fulke refers. the use, moreover, of the definite article shows that the writer held this book to be conclusive authority on the subject. by the time he retold the story of fulke, a whole library of romances about perceval and the holy graal had been written, with some of which it is hard to believe that any historian of the time was unacquainted. he nevertheless distinguishes this particular story as "the graal", a way of speaking he would scarce have adopted had he known of any other "graals" of equal or nearly equal authority. several years later, about , the trouveur sarrazin also cites "the graal" ("li graaus") in the same manner, in superfluous verification of the then-accepted truism that king arthur was at one time lord of great britain. this appeal to "the graal" as the authority for a general belief shows that it was at that time recognised as a well-spring of authentic knowledge; while the fact that the trouveur was not confounding "the graal" with the later version of the story is further shown by his going on presently to speak of "the romance that chrestien telleth so fairly of perceval the adventures of the graal." ( ) perhaps, however, the most striking testimony to the fact that this work is none other than the original "book of the graal" is to be found in the "chronicle of helinand", well known at the time the romance was written not only as a historian but as a troubadour at one time in high favour at the court of philip augustus, and in later years as one of the most ardent preachers of the albigensian crusade. the passage, a part of which has been often quoted, is inserted in the chronicle under the year , and runs in english thus: "at this time a certain marvellous vision was revealed by an angel to a certain hermit in britain concerning s. joseph, the decurion who deposed from the cross the body of our lord, as well as concerning the paten or dish in the which our lord supped with his disciples, whereof the history was written out by the said hermit and is called "of the graal" (de gradali). now, a platter, broad and somewhat deep, is called in french "gradalis" or "gradale", wherein costly meats with their sauce are wont to be set before rich folk by degrees ("gradatim") one morsel after another in divers orders, and in the vulgar speech it is called "graalz", for that it is grateful and acceptable to him that eateth therein, as well for that which containeth the victual, for that haply it is of silver or other precious material, as for the contents thereof, to wit, the manifold courses of costly meats. i have not been able to find this history written in latin, but it is in the possession of certain noblemen written in french only, nor, as they say, can it easily be found complete. this, however, i have not hitherto been able to obtain from any person so as to read it with attention. as soon as i can do so, i will translate into latin such passages as are more useful and more likely to be true." ( ) a comparison of this passage with the introduction to the present work ( ) leaves no doubt that helinand here refers to this "book of the graal", which cannot therefore be of a later date than that at which he made this entry in his "chronicle". at the same time, the difficulty he experienced in obtaining even the loan of the volume shows that the work had at that time been only lately written, as in the course of a few years, copies of a book so widely popular must have been comparatively common. the date, therefore, at which helinand's "chronicle" was written determines approximately that of the "book of the graal". in its present state, the "chronicle" comes to an end with a notice of the capture of constantinople by the french in , and it has been hastily assumed that helinand's labours as a chronicler must have closed in that year. as a matter of fact they had not then even begun. at that time helinand was still a courtly troubadour, and had not yet entered on the monastic career during which his "chronicle" was compiled. he was certainly living as late as , and preached a sermon, which assuredly shows no signs of mental decrepitude, in that year at a synod in toulouse. ( ) fortunately a passage in the "speculum historiale" of vincent of beauvais, himself a younger contemporary and probably a personal acquaintance of helinand, throws considerable light on the real date of helinand's "chronicle". after recounting certain matters connected with the early years of the thirteenth century, the last date mentioned being , vincent proceeds:-- "in those times, in the diocese of beauvais, was helinand monk of froid-mont, a man religious and distinguished for his eloquence, who also composed those verses on death in our vulgar tongue which are publicly read, so elegantly and so usefully that the subject is laid open clearer than the light. he also diligently digested into a certain huge volume a chronicle from the beginning of the world down to his own time. but in truth this work was dissipated and dispersed in such sort that it is nowhere to be found entire. for it is reported that the said helinand lent certain sheets of the said work to one of his familiars, to wit, guarin, lord bishop of senlis of good memory, and thus, whether through forgetfulness or negligence or some other cause, lost them altogether. from this work, however, as far as i have been able to find it, i have inserted many passages in this work of mine own also." it will thus be seen that about , helinand became a monk at froid-mont, and it is exceedingly improbable that any portion of his "chronicle" was written before that date. on the other hand, his 'familiar' guarin only became bishop of senlis in , and died in , ( ) so that it is certain helinand wrote the last part of his "chronicle" not later than the last-mentioned year. the limits of time, therefore, between which the "chronicle" was written are clearly circumscribed; and if it is impossible to define the exact year in which this particular entry was made, it is not, i fancy, beyond the legitimate bounds of critical conjecture. on the first page of the romance, helinand read that an angel had appeared to a certain hermit in britain and revealed to him the history of the holy graal. in transferring the record of this event to his "chronicle", he was compelled by the exigencies of his system, which required the insertion of every event recorded under some particular year, to assign a date to the occurrence. a vague "five hundred years ago" would be likely to suggest itself as an appropriate time at which the occurrence might be supposed to have taken place; and if he were writing in , the revelation to the hermit would thus naturally be relegated to the year , the year under which the entry actually appears. this, of course, is pure guesswork, but the fact remains that the "chronicle" was written in or about , and the "book of the graal" not long before it. the name of the author is nowhere recorded. he may possibly be referred to in the "elucidation" prefixed to the rhymed version of "percival le gallois" under the name of "master blihis", but this vague and tantalising pseudonym affords no hint of his real identity. ( ) whoever he may have been; i hope that i am not misled by a translator's natural partiality for the author he translates in assigning him a foremost rank among the masters of medieval prose romance. with these testimonies to its age and genuineness, i commend the "book of the graal" to all who love to read of king arthur and his knights of the table round. they will find here printed in english for the first time what i take to be in all good faith the original story of sir perceval and the holy graal, whole and incorrupt as it left the hands of its first author. --sebastian evans, coombe lea, bickley, kent endnotes: ( ) vols. vo. mons, - . ( ) marchal "cat.", vols. brussels, . vol i.p. . ( ) lausanne, . ( ) vols. vo. berne, , etc. vol. ii., introduc. viii. and p. et seq. ( ) rigord. "chron." , p. . wm. le breton, "phil." xi. . see also birch-hirschfeld, "die gralsage", p. . ( ) vols. vo. london, richards, - . ( ) "l'histoire de foulkes fitz-warin". ed. f. michel, paris, ; p. . ed. t. wright (warton club), london, ; p. . ed. j. stevenson ("roll, pub. chron." of r. coggeshall), london, ; p. . the ms. containing the history (ms. reg. . c. xii.) was first privately printed for the late sir t. duffus hardy from a transcript by a. berbrugger. ( ) "le roman de ham", in the appendix to f. michel's "histoire des ducs de normandie". soc. de l'hist. de france, , pp. , . ( ) helinandi op. ed. migne. "patrol." vol. ccxii. col. . the former part of the passage is quoted with due acknowledgment by vincent of beauvais, "spec. hist." b. xxiii. c. . vincent, however, spells the french word "grail", and, by turning helinand's "nec" into "nune", makes him say that the french work can now easily be found complete. vincent finished his "speculum historialz in " b. xxi. c. . ( ) vol. i. p. , etc. ( ) sermon xxvi., printed in minge, u.s. col. . it has been doubted whether this sermon, preached in the church of s. jacques, was addressed to the council held at toulouse in , or to the one held in , but a perusal of the sermon itself decides the question. it is wholly irrelevant to the topics discussed at the former gathering, while it is one continued commentary on the business transacted at the latter. see also dom brial, "hist. litt. de la france", xviii. . ( ) "de mas latrie. tres. de chron.", col. . ( ) cf. potvin, "p. le g." ii. and , with vol. i. p. and vol. ii. p. of the present work (see also the proceedings of the "hon. soc. of cymmrodorion", - . ed.) the high history of the holy graal branch i. incipit. hear ye the history of the most holy vessel that is called graal, wherein the precious blood of the saviour was received on the day that he was put on rood and crucified in order that he might redeem his people from the pains of hell. josephus set it in remembrance by annunciation of the voice of an angel, for that the truth might be known by his writing of good knights, and good worshipful men how they were willing to suffer pain and to travail for the setting forward of the law of jesus christ, that he willed to make new by his death and by his crucifixion. title i. the high book of the graal beginneth in the name of the father and of the son and of the holy ghost. these three persons are one substance, which is god, and of god moveth the high story of the graal. and all they that hear it ought to understand it, and to forget all the wickednesses that they have in their hearts. for right profitable shall it be to all them that shall hear it of the heart. for the sake of the worshipful men and good knights of whose deeds shall remembrance be made, doth josephus recount this holy history, for the sake of the lineage of the good knight that was after the crucifixion of our lord. good knight was he without fail, for he was chaste and virgin of his body and hardy of heart and puissant, and so were his conditions without wickedness. not boastful was he of speech, and it seemed not by his cheer that he had so great courage; natheless, of one little word that he delayed to speak came to pass so sore mischances in greater britain, that all the islands and all the lands fell thereby into much sorrow, albeit thereafter he put them back into gladness by the authority of his good knighthood. good knight was he of right, for he was of the lineage of joseph of abarimacie. and this joseph was his mother's uncle, that had been a soldier of pilate's seven years, nor asked he of him none other guerdon of his service but only to take down the body of our saviour from hanging on the cross. the boon him seemed full great when it was granted him, and full little to pilate seemed the guerdon; for right well had joseph served him, and had he asked to have gold or land thereof, willingly would he have given it to him. and for this did pilate make him a gift of the saviour's body, for he supposed that joseph should have dragged the same shamefully through the city of jerusalem when it had been taken down from the cross, and should have left it without the city in some mean place. but the good soldier had no mind thereto, but rather honoured the body the most he might, rather laid it along in the holy sepulchre and kept safe the lance whereof he was smitten in the side and the most holy vessel wherein they that believed on him received with awe the blood that ran down from his wounds when he was set upon the rood. of this lineage was the good knight for whose sake is this high history treated. yglais was his mother's name: king fisherman was his uncle, and the king of the lower folk that was named pelles, and the king that was named of the castle mortal, in whom was there as much bad as there was good in the other twain, and much good was there in them; and these three were his uncles on the side of his mother yglais, that was a right good lady and a loyal; and the good knight had one sister, that hight dindrane. he that was head of the lineage on his father's side was named nichodemus. gais li gros of the hermit's cross was father of alain li gros. this alain had eleven brethren, right good knights, like as he was himself. and none of them all lived in his knighthood but twelve years, and they all died in arms for their great hardiment in setting forward of the law that was made new. there were twelve brethren. alain li gros was the eldest; gorgalians was next; bruns brandnils was the third; bertholez li chauz the fourth; brandalus of wales was the fifth; elinant of escavalon was the sixth; calobrutus was the seventh; meralis of the palace meadow was the eighth; fortunes of the red launde was ninth; melaarmaus of abanie was the tenth; galians of the white tower the eleventh; alibans of the waste city was the twelfth. all these died in arms in the service of the holy prophet that had renewed the law by his death, and smote his enemies to the uttermost of their power. of these two manner of folk, whose names and records you have heard, josephus the good clerk telleth us was come the good knight of whom you shall well hear the name and the manner presently. ii. the authority of the scripture telleth us that after the crucifixion of our lord, no earthly king set forward the law of jesus christ so much as did king arthur of britain, both by himself and by the good knights that made repair to his court. good king arthur after the crucifixion of our lord, was such as i tell you, and was a puissant king, and one that well believed in god, and many were the good adventures that befel at his court. and he had in his court the table round that was garnished of the best knights in the world. king arthur after the death of his father led the highest life and most gracious that ever king led, in such sort that all the princes and all the barons took ensample of him in well-doing. for ten years was king arthur in such estate as i have told you, nor never was earthly king so praised as he, until that a slothful will came upon him and he began to lose the pleasure in doing largesse that he wont to have, nor was he minded to hold court neither at christmas-tide nor at easter nor at pentecost. the knights of the table round when they saw his well-doing wax slack departed thence and began to hold aloof from his court, insomuch as that of three hundred and three-score knights and six that he wont to have of his household, there were now not more than a five-and-twenty at most, nor did no adventure befal any more at his court. all the other princes had slackened of their well-doing for that they saw king arthur maintain so feebly. queen guenievre was so sorrowful thereof that she knew not what counsel to take with herself, nor how she might so deal as to amend matters so god amended them not. from this time beginneth the history. iii. it was one ascension day that the king was at cardoil. he was risen from meat and went through the hall from one end to the other, and looked and saw the queen that was seated at a window. the king went to sit beside her, and looked at her in the face and saw that the tears were falling from her eyes. "lady," saith the king, "what aileth you, and wherefore do you weep?" "sir," saith she, "and i weep, good right have i; and you yourself have little right to make joy." "certes, lady, i do not." "sir," saith she, "you are right. i have seen on this high day, or on other days that were not less high than this, when you have had such throng of knights at your court that right uneath might any number them. now every day are so few therein that much shame have i thereof, nor no more do no adventures befal therein. wherefore great fear have i lest god hath put you into forgetfulness." "certes, lady," saith the king, "no will have i to do largesse nor aught that turneth to honour. rather is my desire changed into feebleness of heart. and by this know i well that i lose my knights and the love of my friends." "sir," saith the queen, "and were you to go to the chapel of s. augustine, that is in the white forest, that may not be found save by adventure only, methinketh that on your back-repair you would again have your desire of well-doing, for never yet did none discounselled ask counsel of god but he would give it for love of him so he asked it of a good heart." "lady," saith the king, "and willingly will i go, forasmuch as that you say have i heard well witnessed in many places where i have been." "sir," saith she, "the place is right perilous and the chapel right adventurous. but the most worshipful hermit that is in the kingdom of wales hath his dwelling beside the chapel, nor liveth he now any longer for nought save only the glory of god." "lady," saith the king, "it will behove me go thither all armed and without knights." "sir," saith she, "you may well take with you one knight and a squire." "lady," saith the king, "that durst not i, for the place is perilous, and the more folk one should take thither, the fewer adventures there should he find." "sir," saith she, "one squire shall you take by my good will nor shall nought betide you thereof save good only, please god!" "lady," saith the king, "at your pleasure be it, but much dread i that nought shall come of it save evil only." thereupon the king riseth up from beside the queen, and looketh before him and seeth a youth tall and strong and comely and young, that was hight chaus, and he was the son of ywain li aoutres. "lady," saith he to the queen, "this one will i take with me and you think well." "sir," saith she, "it pleaseth me well, for i have heard much witness to his valour." the king calleth the squire, and he cometh and kneeleth down before him. the king maketh him rise and saith unto him, "chaus," saith he, "you shall lie within to-night, in this hall, and take heed that my horse be saddled at break of day and mine arms ready. for i would be moving at the time i tell you, and yourself with me without more company." "sir," saith the squire, "at your pleasure." and the evening drew on, and the king and queen go to bed. when they had eaten in hall, the knights went to their hostels. the squire remained in the hall, but he would not do off his clothes nor his shoon, for the night seemed him to be too short, and for that he would fain be ready in the morning at the king's commandment. the squire was lying down in such sort as i have told you, and in the first sleep that he slept, seemed him the king had gone without him. the squire was sore scared thereat, and came to his hackney and set the saddle and bridle upon him, and did on his spurs and girt on his sword, as it seemed him in his sleep, and issued forth of the castle a great pace after the king. and when he had ridden a long space he entered into a great forest and looked in the way before him and saw the slot of the king's horse and followed the track a long space, until that he came to a launde of the forest whereat he thought that the king had alighted. the squire thought that the hoof-marks on the way had come to an end and so thought that the king had alighted there or hard by there. he looketh to the right hand and seeth a chapel in the midst of the launde, and he seeth about it a great graveyard wherein were many coffins, as it seemed him. he thought in his heart that he would go towards the chapel, for he supposed that the king would have entered to pray there. he went thitherward and alighted. when the squire was alighted, he tied up his hackney and entered into the chapel. none did he see there in one part nor another, save a knight that lay dead in the midst of the chapel upon a bier, and he was covered of a rich cloth of silk, and had around him waxen tapers burning that were fixed in four candlesticks of gold. this squire marvelled much how this body was left there so lonely, insomuch that none were about him save only the images, and yet more marvelled he of the king that he found him not, for he knew not in what part to seek him. he taketh out one of the tall tapers, and layeth hand on the golden candlestick, and setteth it betwixt his hose and his thigh and issueth forth of the chapel, and remounteth on his hackney and goeth his way back and passeth beyond the grave-yard and issueth forth of the launde and entereth into the forest and thinketh that he will not cease until he hath found the king. iv. so, as he entereth into a grassy lane in the wood, he seeth come before him a man black and foul-favoured, and he was somewhat taller afoot than was himself a-horseback. and he held a great sharp knife in his hand with two edges as it seemed him. the squire cometh over against him a great pace and saith unto him, "you, that come there, have you met king arthur in this forest?" "in no wise," saith the messenger, "but you have i met, whereof am i right glad at heart, for you have departed from the chapel as a thief and a traitor. for you are carrying off thence the candlestick of gold that was in honour of the knight that lieth in the chapel dead. wherefore i will that you yield it up to me and so will i carry it back, otherwise, and you do not this, you do i defy!" "by my faith," saith the squire, "never will i yield it you! rather will i carry it off and make a present thereof to king arthur." "by my faith," saith the other, "right dearly shall you pay for it, and you yield it not up forthwith." howbeit, the squire smiteth with his spurs and thinketh to pass him by, but the other hasteth him, and smiteth the squire in the left side with the knife and thrusteth it into his body up to the haft. the squire, that lay in the hall at cardoil, and had dreamed this, awoke and cried in a loud voice: "holy mary! the priest! help! help, for i am a dead man!" the king and the queen heard the cry, and the chamberlain leapt up and said to the king: "sir, you may well be moving, for it is day!" the king made him be clad and shod. and the squire crieth with such strength as he hath: "fetch me the priest, for i die!" the king goeth thither as fast as he may, and the queen and the chamberlain carry great torches and candles. the king asketh him what aileth him, and he telleth him all in such wise as he had dreamed it. "ha," saith the king, "is it then a dream?" "yea, sir," saith he, "but a right foul dream it is for me, for right foully hath it come true!" he lifted his left arm. "sir," saith he, "look you there! lo, here is the knife that was run into my side up to the haft!" after that, he setteth his hand to his hose where the candlestick was. he draweth it forth and showeth it to the king. "sir," saith he, "for this candlestick that i present to you, am i wounded to the death!" the king taketh the candlestick, and looketh thereat in wonderment for none so rich had he never seen tofore. the king showeth it to the queen. "sir," saith the squire, "draw not forth the knife of my body until that i be shriven." the king sent for one of his own chaplains that made the squire confess and do his houselling right well. the king himself draweth forth the knife of the body, and the soul departed forthwith. the king made do his service right richly and his shrouding and burial. ywain li aoutres that was father to the squire was right sorrowful of the death of his son. king arthur, with the good will of ywain his father, gave the candlestick to s. paul in london, for the church was newly founded, and the king wished that this marvellous adventure should everywhere be known, and that prayer should be made in the church for the soul of the squire that was slain on account of the candlestick. v. king arthur armed himself in the morning, as i told you and began to tell, to go to the chapel of s. augustine. said the queen to him. "whom will you take with you?" "lady," saith he, "no company will i have thither, save god only, for well may you understand by this adventure that hath befallen, that god will not allow i should have none with me." "sir," saith she, "god be guard of your body, and grant you return safely so as that you may have the will to do well, whereby shall your praise be lifted up that is now sore cast down." "lady," saith he, "may god remember it." his destrier was brought to the mounting-stage, and the king mounted thereon all armed. messire ywain li aoutres lent him his shield and spear. when the king had hung the shield at his neck and held the spear in his hand, sword-girt, on the tall destrier armed, well seemed he in the make of his body and in his bearing to be a knight of great pith and hardiment. he planteth himself so stiffly in the stirrups that he maketh the saddlebows creak again and the destrier stagger under him that was right stout and swift, and he smiteth him of his spurs, and the horse maketh answer with a great leap. the queen was at the windows of the hall, and as many as five-and-twenty knights were all come to the mounting-stage. when the king departed, "lords," saith the queen, "how seemeth you of the king? seemeth he not a goodly man?" "yea, certes, lady, and sore loss is it to the world that he followeth not out his good beginning, for no king nor prince is known better learned of all courtesy nor of all largesse than he, so he would do like as he was wont." with that the knights hold their peace, and king arthur goeth away a great pace. and he entereth into a great forest adventurous, and rideth the day long until he cometh about evensong into the thick of the forest. and he espied a little house beside a little chapel, and it well seemed him to be a hermitage. king arthur rode thitherward and alighteth before this little house, and entereth thereinto and draweth his horse after him, that had much pains to enter in at the door, and laid his spear down on the ground and leant his shield against the wall, and hath ungirded his sword and unlaced his ventail. he looked before him and saw barley and provender, and so led his horse thither and smote off his bridle, and afterwards hath shut the door of the little house and locked it. and it seemed him that there was a strife in the chapel. the ones were weeping so tenderly and sweetly as it were angels, and the other spake so harshly as it were fiends. the king heard such voices in the chapel and marvelled much what it might be. he findeth a door in the little house that openeth on a little cloister whereby one goeth to the chapel. the king is gone thither and entereth into the little minster, and looketh everywhere but seeth nought there, save the images and the crucifixes. and he supposeth not that the strife of these voices cometh of them. the voices ceased as soon as he was within. he marvelleth how it came that this house and hermitage were solitary, and what had become of the hermit that dwelt therein. he drew nigh the altar of the chapel and beheld in front thereof a coffin all discovered, and he saw the hermit lying therein all clad in his vestments, and seeth the long beard down to his girdle, and his hands crossed upon his breast. there was a cross above him, whereof the image came as far as his mouth, and he had life in him yet, but he was nigh his end, being at the point of death. the king was before the coffin a long space, and looked right fainly on the hermit, for well it seemed him that he had been of a good life. the night was fully come, but within was a brightness of light as if a score of candles were lighted. he had a mind to abide there until that the good man should have passed away. he would fain have sate him down before the coffin, when a voice warned him right horribly to begone thence, for that it was desired to make a judgment within there, that might not be made so long as he were there. the king departed, that would willingly have remained there, and so returned back into the little house, and sate him down on a seat whereon the hermit wont to sir. and he heareth the strife and the noise begin again within the chapel, and the ones he heareth speaking high and the others low, and he knoweth well by the voices, that the ones are angels and the others devils. and he heareth that the devils are distraining on the hermit's soul, and that judgment will presently be given in their favour, whereof make they great joy. king arthur is grieved in his heart when he heareth that the angels' voices are stilled. the king is so heavy, that no desire hath he neither to eat nor to drink. and while he sitteth thus, stooping his head toward the ground, full of vexation and discontent, he heareth in the chapel the voice of a lady that spake so sweet and clear, that no man in this earthly world, were his grief and heaviness never so sore, but and he had heard the sweet voice of her pleading would again have been in joy. she saith to the devils: "begone from hence, for no right have ye over the soul of this good man, whatsoever he may have done aforetime, for in my son's service and mine own is he taken, and his penance hath he done in this hermitage of the sins that he hath done." "true, lady," say the devils, "but longer had he served us than he hath served you and your son. for forty years or more hath he been a murderer and robber in this forest, whereas in this hermitage but five years hath he been. and now you wish to thieve him from us." "i do not. no wish have i to take him from you by theft, for had he been taken in your service in suchwise as he hath been taken in mine, yours would he have been, all quit." the devils go their way all discomfit and aggrieved; and the sweet mother of our lord god taketh the soul of the hermit, that was departed of his body, and so commendeth it to the angels and archangels that they make present thereof to her dear son in paradise. and the angels take it and begin to sing for joy "te deum laudamus". and the holy lady leadeth them and goeth her way along with them. josephus maketh remembrance of this history and telleth us that this worthy man was named calixtus. vi. king arthur was in the little house beside the chapel, and had heard the voice of the sweet mother of god and the angels. great joy had he, and was right glad of the good man's soul that was borne thence into paradise. the king had slept right little the night and was all armed. he saw the day break clear and fair, and goeth his way toward the chapel to cry god mercy, thinking to find the coffin discovered there where the hermit lay; but so did he not! rather, was it covered of the richest tomb-stone that any might ever see, and had on the top a red cross, and seemed it that the chapel was all incensed. when the king had made his orison therein, he cometh back again and setteth on his bridle and saddle and mounteth, and taketh his shield and spear and departeth from the little house and entereth into the forest and rideth a great pace, until he cometh at right hour of tierce to one of the fairest laundes that ever a man might see. and he seeth at the entrance a spear set bar-wise, and looketh to the right or ever he should enter therein, and seeth a damsel sitting under a great leafy tree, and she held the reins of her mule in her hand. the damsel was of great beauty and full seemly clad. the king turneth thitherward and so saluteth her and saith: "damsel," saith he, "god give you joy and good adventure." "sir," saith she, "so may he do to you!" "damsel," saith the king, "is there no hold in this launde?" "sir," saith the damsel, "no hold is there save a most holy chapel and a hermit that is beside s. augustine's chapel." "is this then s. augustine's chapel?" saith the king. "yea, sir, i tell it you for true, but the launde and the forest about is so perilous that no knight returneth thence but he be dead or wounded; but the place of the chapel is of so great worthiness that none goeth thither, be he never so discounselled, but he cometh back counselled, so he may thence return on live. and lord god be guard of your body, for never yet saw i none aforetime that seemed more like to be good knight, and sore pity would it be and you were not, and never more shall i depart me hence and i shall have seen your end." "damsel," saith the king, "please god, you shall see me repair back thence." "certes," saith the damsel, "thereof should i be! right fain, for then should i ask you tidings at leisure of him that i am seeking." the king goeth to the bar whereby one entereth into the launde, and looketh to the right into a combe of the forest and seeth the chapel of s. augustine and the right fair hermitage. thitherward goeth he and alighteth, and it seemeth him that the hermit is apparelled to sing the mass. he reineth up his horse to the bough of a tree by the side of the chapel and thinketh to enter thereinto, but, had it been to conquer all the kingdoms of the world, thereinto might he not enter, albeit there was none made him denial thereof, for the door was open and none saw he that might forbid him. sore ashamed is the king thereof. howbeit, he beholdeth an image of our lord that was there within and crieth him of mercy right sweetly, and looketh toward the altar. and he looketh at the holy hermit that was robed to sing mass and said his "confiteor", and seeth at his right hand the fairest child that ever he had seen, and he was clad in an alb and had a golden crown on his head loaded with precious stones that gave out a full great brightness of light. on the left hand side, was a lady so fair that all the beauties of the world might not compare them with her beauty. when the holy hermit had said his "confiteor" and went to the altar, the lady also took her son and went to sit on the right hand side towards the altar upon a right rich chair and set her son upon her knees and began to kiss him full sweetly and saith: "sir," saith she, "you are my father and my son and my lord, and guardian of me and of all the world." king arthur heareth the words and seeth the beauty of the lady and of the child, and marvelleth much of this that she should call him her father and her son. he looketh at a window behind the altar and seeth a flame come through at the very instant that mass was begun, clearer than any ray of sun nor moon nor star, and evermore it threw forth a brightness of light such that and all the lights in the world had been together it would not have been the like. and it is come down upon the altar. king arthur seeth it who marvelleth him much thereof. but sore it irketh him of this that he may not enter therewithin, and he heareth, there where the holy hermit was singing the mass, right fair responses, and they seem him to be the responses of angels. and when the holy gospel was read, king arthur looked toward the altar and saw that the lady took her child and offered him into the hands of the holy hermit, but of this king arthur made much marvel, that the holy hermit washed not his hands when he had received the offering. right sore did king arthur marvel him thereof, but little right would he have had to marvel had he known the reason. and when the child was offered him, he set him upon the altar and thereafter began his sacrament. and king arthur set him on his knees before the chapel and began to pray to god and to beat his breast. and he looked toward the altar after the preface, and it seemed him that the holy hermit held between his hands a man bleeding from his side and in his palms and in his feet, and crowned with thorns, and he seeth him in his own figure. and when he had looked on him so long and knoweth not what is become of him, the king hath pity of him in his heart of this that he had seen, and the tears of his heart come into his eyes. and he looketh toward the altar and thinketh to see the figure of the man, and seeth that it is changed into the shape of the child that he had seen tofore. vii. when the mass was sung, the voice of a holy angel said "ite, missa est". the son took the mother by the hand, and they evanished forth of the chapel with the greatest company and the fairest that might ever be seen. the flame that was come down through the window went away with this company. when the hermit had done his service and was divested of the arms of god, he went to king arthur that was still without the chapel. "sir," saith he to the king, "now may you well enter herein and well might you have been joyous in your heart had you deserved so much as that you might have come in at the beginning of the mass." king arthur entered into the chapel without any hindrance. "sir," saith the hermit to the king, "i know you well, as did i also king uther pendragon your father. on account of your sins and your deserts might you not enter here while mass was being sung. nor will you to-morrow, save you shall first have made amends of that you have misdone towards god and towards the saint that is worshipped herewithin. for you are the richest king of the world and the most adventurous, wherefore ought all the world to take ensample of you in well-doing and in largesse and in honour; whereas you are now an ensample of evil-doing to all rich worshipful men that be now in the world. wherefore shall right sore mishap betide you and you set nor back your doing to the point whereat you began. for your court was the sovran of all courts and the most adventurous, whereas now is it least of worth. well may he be sorry that goeth from honour to shame, but never may he have reproach that shall do him ill, that cometh from shame to honour, for the honour wherein he is found rescueth him to god, but blame may never rescue the man that hath renounced honour for shame, for the shame and wickedness wherein he is found declare him guilty." viii. "sir," saith king arthur, "to amend me have i come hither, and to be better counselled than i have been. well do i see that the place is most holy, and i beseech you that you pray god that he counsel me and i will do my endeavour herein to amend me." "god grant you may amend your life," saith the holy hermit, "in such sort that you may help to do away the evil law and to exalt the law that is made new by the crucifixion of the holy prophet. but a great sorrow is befallen in the land of late through a young knight that was harboured in the hostel of the rich king fisherman, for that the most holy graal appeared to him and the lance whereof the point runneth of blood, yet never asked he to whom was served thereof nor whence it came, and for that he asked it not are all the lands commoved to war, nor no knight meeteth other in the forest but he runneth upon him and slayeth him and he may, and you yourself shall well perceive thereof or ever you shall depart of this launde." "sir," saith king arthur, "god defend me from the anguish of an evil death and from wickedness, for hither have i come for none other thing but to amend my life, and this will i do, so god bring me back in safety." "truly," saith the hermit, "he that hath been bad for three years out of forty, he hath not been wholly good." "sir," saith the king, "you speak truth." the hermit departeth and so commendeth him to god. the king cometh to his horse and mounteth the speediest that ever he may, and setteth his shield on his neck, and taketh his spear in his hand and turneth him back a great pace. howbeit, he had not gone a bowshot's length when he saw a knight coming disorderly against him, and he sate upon a great black horse and he had a shield of the same and a spear. and the spear was somewhat thick near the point and burned with a great flame, foul and hideous, and the flame came down as far as over the knight's fist. he setteth his spear in rest and thinketh to smite the king, but the king swerveth aside and the other passeth beyond. "sir knight, wherefor hate you me?" "of right ought i not to love you," saith the knight. "wherefore?" saith the king. "for this, that you have had my brother's candlestick that was foully stolen from him!" "know you then who i am?" saith the king. "yea," saith the knight; "you are the king arthur that aforetime were good and now are evil. wherefore i defy you as my mortal enemy." he draweth him back so that his onset may be the weightier. the king seeth that he may not depart without a stour. he setteth his spear in rest when he seeth the other come towards him with his own spear all burning. the king smiteth his horse with his spurs as hard as he may, and meeteth the knight with his spear and the knight him. and they melled together so stoutly that the spears bent without breaking, and both twain are shifted in their saddles and lose their stirrups. they hurtle so strongly either against other of their bodies and their horses that their eyes sparkle as of stars in their heads and the blood rayeth out of king arthur by mouth and nose. either draweth away from other and they take their breath. the king looketh at the black knight's spear that burneth, and marvelleth him right sore that it is not snapped in flinders of the great buffet he had received thereof, and him thinketh rather that it is a devil and a fiend. the black knight is not minded to let king arthur go so soon, but rather cometh toward him a great career. the king seeth him come toward him and so covereth him of his shield for fear of the flame. the king receiveth him on the point of his spear and smiteth him with so sore a shock that he maketh him bend backward over his horse croup. the other, that was of great might, leapeth back into the saddle-bows and smiteth the king upon the boss of his shield so that the burning point pierceth the shield and the sleeve of his habergeon and runneth the sharp iron into his arm. the king feeleth the wound and the heat, whereof is he filled with great wrath, and the knight draweth back his spear to him, and hath great joy at heart when he feeleth the king wounded. the king was rejoiced not a whit, and looked at the spear that was quenched thereof and burned no longer. "sir," saith the knight, "i cry you mercy. never would my spear have been quenched of its burning, save it were bathed in your blood." "now may never god help me," saith king arthur, "whenever i shall have mercy on you, and i may achieve!" he pricketh towards him a great run, and smiteth him in the broad of the breast and thrusted his spear half an ell into his body, and beareth him to the ground, both him and his horse all in a heap, and draweth his spear back to him and looketh at the knight that lay as dead and leaveth him in the launde, and draweth him towards the issue incontinent. and so as the king went, he heard a great clashing of knights coming right amidst the forest, so as it seemed there were a good score or more of them, and he seeth them enter the launde from the forest, armed and well horsed. and they come with great ado toward the knight that lay dead in the midst of the launde. king arthur was about to issue forth, when the damsel that he had left under the tree cometh forward to meet him. "sir," saith she, "for god's sake, return back and fetch me the head of the knight that lieth there dead." the king looketh back, and seeth the great peril and the multitude of knights that are there all armed. "ha, damsel," saith he, "you are minded to slay me." "certes, sir, that i am not, but sore need will there be that i should have it, nor never did knight refuse to do the thing i asked nor deny me any boon i demanded of him. now god grant you be not the most churlish." "ha, damsel, i am right sore wounded in the arm whereon i hold my shield." "sir," saith she, "i know it well, nor never may you be heal thereof save you bring me the head of the knight." "damsel," he saith, "i will essay it whatsoever may befal me thereof." ix. king arthur looketh amidst the launde and seeth that they that have come thither have cut the knight to pieces limb by limb, and that each is carrying off a foot or a thigh or an arm or a hand and are dispersing them through the forest. and he seeth that the last knight beareth on the point of his spear the head. the king goeth after him a great gallop and crieth out to him: "ha, sir knight, abide and speak to me!" "what is your pleasure?" saith the knight. "fair sir," saith the king, "i beseech you of all loves that you deign to give me the head of this knight that you are carrying on the point of your lance." "i will give it you," saith the knight, "on condition." "what condition?" saith the king. "that you tell me who slew the knight whose head i carry that you ask of me." "may i not otherwise have it?" saith the king. "in no wise," saith he. "then will i tell you," saith the king. "know of a very truth that king arthur slew him." "and where is he?" saith the knight. "seek him until you shall have found him," saith king arthur, "for i have told you the truth thereof. give me the head." "willingly," saith the knight. he lowereth his spear and the king taketh the head. the knight had a horn at his neck. he setteth it to his mouth and soundeth a blast right loud. the knights that were set within the forest hear the horn and return back a great gallop, and king arthur goeth his way toward the oak-tree at the issue of the launde where the damsel is awaiting him. and the knights come presently to him that had given the head to the king and ask him wherefore he hath sounded the horn. "for this," saith he, "that this knight that is going away yonder hath told me that king arthur slew the black knight, and i was minded you should know it that we may follow him." "we will not follow him," say the knights, "for it is king arthur himself that is carrying off the head, and no power have we to do evil to him nor other sith that he hath passed the bar. but you shall aby it that let him go when he was so nigh you!" they rush in upon him and slay him and cut him up, and each one carrieth off his piece the same as they had done with the other. king arthur is issued forth of the bar, and cometh to the maiden that is waiting for him and presenteth her the head. "sir," saith the damsel, "gramercy." "damsel," saith he, "with a good will!" "sir," saith the damsel, "you may well alight, for nought have you to fear on this side the bar." with that, the king alighteth. "sir," saith she, "do off your habergeon heedfully and i will bind up the wound in your arm, for of none may you be made whole save of me only." the king doeth off his habergeon, and the damsel taketh of the blood of the knight's head that still ran all warm, and therewith washeth king arthur his wound, and thereafter maketh him do on his habergeon again. "sir," saith she, "never would you have been whole save by the blood of this black knight. and for this carried they off the body piecemeal and the head, for that they well knew you were wounded; and of the head shall i have right sore need, for thereby shall a castle be yielded up to me that was reft from me by treason, so i may find the knight that i go seek, through whom it ought to be yielded up to me." "damsel," saith the king, "and who is the knight?" "sir," saith she, "he was the son of alain li gros of the valleys of camelot, and is named perlesvax." "wherefore perlesvax?" saith the king. "sir," saith she, "when he was born, his father was asked how he should be named in right baptism, and he said that he would he should have the name perlesvax, for the lord of the moors had reft him of the greater part of the valleys of camelot, and therefore he would that his son should by this name be reminded thereof, and god should so multiply him as that he should be knight. the lad was right comely and right gentle and began to go by the forests and launch his javelins, welsh-fashion, at hart and hind. his father and his mother loved him much, and one day they were come forth of their hold, whereunto the forest was close anigh, to enjoy them. now, there was between the hold and the forest, an exceeding small chapel that stood upon four columns of marble; and it was roofed of timber and had a little altar within, and before the altar a right fair coffin, and thereupon was the figure of a man graven. sir," saith the damsel to the king, "the lad asked his father and mother what man lay within the coffin. the father answered: 'fair son,' saith he, 'certes, i know not to tell you, for the tomb hath been here or ever that my father's father was born, and never have i heard tell of none that might know who it is therein, save only that the letters that are on the coffin say that when the best knight in the world shall come hither the coffin will open and the joinings all fall asunder, and then will it be seen who it is that lieth therein.'" x. "damsel," saith the king, "have many knights passed thereby sithence that the coffin was set there?" "yea, sir, so many that neither i nor none other may tell the number. yet natheless hath not the coffin removed itself for none. when the lad heareth his father and mother talking thus, he asketh what a knight may be? 'fair son,' saith his mother, 'of right ought you well to know by your lineage.' she telleth the lad that he had eleven uncles on his father's side that had all been slain in arms, and not one of them lived knight but twelve years. sir," saith she to the king, "the lad made answer that this was nor that he had asked, but how knights were made? and the father answered that they were such as had more valour than any other in the world. after that he said, 'fair son, they are clad in habergeons of iron to protect their bodies, and helms laced upon their heads, and shields and spears and swords girded wherewithal to defend their bodies.'" xi. "sir," saith the damsel to the king, "when that the father had thus spoken to the lad, they returned together to the castle. when the morrow morning came, the lad arose and heard the birds sing and bethought him that he would go for disport into the forest for the day sith that it was fair. so he mounted on one of his father's horses of the chase and carried his javelins welshman-fashion and went into the forest and found a stag and followed him a good four leagues welsh, until that he came into a launde and found two knights all armed that were there doing battle, and the one had a red shield and the other a white. he left of tracking the stag to look on at the melly and saw that the red knight was conquering the white. he launched one of his javelins at the red knight so hard that he pierced his habergeon and made it pass through the heart. the knight fell dead. "sir," saith the damsel, "the knight of the white shield made great joy thereof, and the lad asked him, 'were knights so easy to slay? methought,' saith the lad, 'that none might never pierce nor damage a knight's armour, otherwise would i not have run him through with my javelin,' saith the lad. sir, the lad brought the destrier home to his father and mother, and right grieved were they when they heard the tidings of the knight he had slain. and right were they, for thereof did sore trouble come to them thereafter. sir, the squire departed from the house of his father and mother and came to the court of king arthur. right gladly did the king make him knight when he knew his will, and afterward he departed from the land and went to seek adventure in every kingdom. now is he the best knight that is in the world. so go i to seek him, and full great joy shall i have at heart and i may find him. sir, and you should meet him by any adventure in any of these forests, he beareth a red shield with a white hart. and so tell him that his father is dead, and that his mother will lose all her land so he come not to succour her; and that the brother of the knight of the red shield that he slew in the forest with his javelin warreth upon her with the lord of the moors." "damsel," saith the king, "and god grant me to meet him, right fain shall i be thereof, and right well will i set forth your message." "sir," saith she, "now that i have told you him that i seek, it is your turn to tell me your name." "damsel," saith the king, "willingly. they that know me call me arthur." "arthur? have you indeed such name?" "yea, damsel," saith he. "so help me god," saith she, "now am i sorrier for you than tofore, for you have the name of the worst king in the world, and i would that he were here in such sort as you are now. but never again will he move from cardoil, do what he may, such dread hath the queen lest any should take him from her, according as i have heard witness, for never saw i neither the one nor the other. i was moved to go to his court, but i have met full a score knights one after other, of whom i asked concerning him, and one told me the same tale as another, for each told me that the court of king arthur is the vilest in the world, and that all the knights of the table round have renounced it for the badness thereof." "damsel," saith the king, "hereof may he well be sorry, but at the beginning i have heard say he did right well." "and who careth," saith the damsel, "for his good beginning when the end is bad? and much it misliketh me that so seemly knight and so worshipful man as are you should have the name of so evil a king." "damsel," saith the king, "a man is not good by his name, but by his heart." "you say true," saith the damsel, "but for the king's name have i despite of yours. and whitherward are you going?" "i shall go to cardoil, where i shall find king arthur when i shall come thither." "go to, then, and bestir!" saith she. "one bad man with another! no better hope have i of you, sith that you go thither!" "damsel, you may say your pleasure, for thither i go! god be with you!" "and may never god guide you," saith she, "and you go the court of king arthur!" xii. with that the king mounted again and departed, and left the damsel under the tree and entered into the deep forest and rode with much ado as fast as he might to come to cardoil. and he had ridden a good ten leagues welsh when he heard a voice in the thick of the forest that began to cry aloud: "king arthur of great britain, right glad at heart mayst thou be of this that god hath sent me hither unto thee. and so he biddeth thee that thou hold court at the earliest thou mayst, for the world, that is now made worse of thee and of thy slackness in well-doing, shall thereof be greatly amended!" with that the voice is silent, and the king was right joyous in his heart of that he had heard. the story speaketh no more here of other adventure that befel king arthur in his returning nor on his arriving. anyway, he hath ridden so long that he is come back to cardoil. the queen and the knights made great feast of him and great joy. the king was alighted on the mounting-stage and went up into the hall and made him be disarmed. and he showed the queen the wound that he had on his arm, that had been right great and painful, but it was healing full fairly. the king goeth into the chamber and the queen with him, and doeth the king be apparelled in a robe of cloth of silk all furred of ermine, with coat, surcoat and mantle. "sir," saith the queen, "sore pain and travail have you had." "lady, in such wise behoveth worshipful man to suffer in order that he may have honour, for hardly shall none without travail come to honour." he recounteth to the queen all the adventures that have befallen him sithence that he was departed, and in what manner he was wounded in the arm, and of the damsel that had so blamed him of his name. "sir," saith the queen, "now may you well know how meet it is that a man high and rich and puissant should have great shame of himself when he becometh evil." "lady," saith the king, "so much did the damsel do me well to wot, but greatly did a voice recomfort me that i heard in the forest, for it told me that god bade me hold court presently, and that i shall see there the fairest adventure befal that ever i may see." "sir," saith she, "right joyous ought you to be that your saviour hath had you in remembrance. now, therefore, fulfil his commandment." "certes, lady, so will i do. for never had none better desire of well-doing than have i as at this time, nor of honour nor of largesse." "sir," saith she, "god be praised thereof." branch ii. now beginneth here the second branch of the holy graal the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i king arthur was at cardoil with the queen and right few knights. by god's pleasure, the wish and the will had come back to him to win honour and to do largesse as most he might. he made seal his letters and sent them throughout all his lands and all the islands, and gave notice to the barons and knights that he would hold court at pannenoisance, that is situate the sea of wales, at the feast of s. john after whitsuntide. and he was minded to put it off until that day, for that suntide was already too nigh, and they that should be thereat might not all come by the earlier day. the tidings went through all lands, so that knights come in great plenty thereunto, for well-doing had so waxed feeble in all the kingdoms, that every one had avoided king arthur as one that should do nought more for ever. wherefore all began now to marvel whence his new desire had come. the knights of the table round that were scattered through the lands and the forests, by god's will learnt the tidings and right great joy had they thereof, and came back to the court with great ado. but neither messire gawain nor lancelot came thither on that day. but all the other came that were then on live. s. john's day came, and the knights were come from all parts, marvelling much that the king had not held the court at whitsuntide, but they knew not the occasion thereof. the day was fair and clear and the air fresh, and the hall was wide and high and garnished of good knights in great plenty. the cloths were spread on the tables whereof were great plenty in the hall. the king and the queen had washen and went to sit at the head of one table and the other knights sate them down, whereof were full five score and five as the story telleth. kay the seneschal and messire ywain the son of king urien served that day at the tables at meat, and five-and-twenty knights beside. and lucan the butler served the golden cup before the king. the sun shone through the windows everywhere amidst the hall that was strown of flowers and rushes and sweet herbs and gave out a smell like as had it been sprinkled of balm. and straightway after the first meat had been served, and while they were yet awaiting the second, behold you three damsels where they enter into the hall! she that came first sate upon a mule white as driven snow and had a golden bridle and a saddle with a bow of ivory banded with precious stones and a saddle-cloth of a red samite dropped of gold. the damsel that was seated on the mule was right seemly of body but scarce so fair of face, and she was robed in a rich cloth of silk and gold and had a right rich hat that covered all her head. and it was all loaded of costly stones that flamed like fire. and great need had she that her head were covered, for she was all bald without hair, and carried on her neck her right arm slung in a stole of cloth of gold. and her arm lay on a pillow, the richest that ever might be seen, and it was all charged of little golden bells, and in this hand held she the head of a king sealed in silver and crowned with gold. the other damsel that came behind rode after the fashion of a squire, and carried a pack trussed behind her with a brachet thereupon, and at her neck she bore a shield banded argent and azure with a red cross, and the boss was of gold all set with precious stones. the third damsel came afoot with her kirtle tucked up like a running footman; and she had in her hand a whip wherewith she drove the two steeds. each of these twain was fairer than the first, but the one afoot surpassed both the others in beauty. the first cometh before the king, there where he sitteth at meat with the queen. "sir," saith she, "the saviour of the world grant you honour and joy and good adventure and my lady the queen and all them of this hall for love of you! hold it not churlishness and i alight not, for there where knights be may i not alight, nor ought i until such time as the graal be achieved." "damsel," saith the king, "gladly would i have it so." "sir," saith she, "that know i well, and may it not mislike you to hear the errand whereon i am come." "it shall not mislike me," saith the king, "say your pleasure!" "sir," saith she, "the shield that this damsel beareth belonged to joseph, the good soldier knight that took down our lord of hanging on the rood. i make you a present thereof in such wise as i shall tell you, to wit, that you keep the shield for a knight that shall come hither for the same, and you shall make hang it on this column in the midst of your hall, and guard it in such wise as that none may take it and hang at his neck save he only. and of this shield shall he achieve the graal, and another shield shall he leave here in the hall, red, with a white hart; and the brachet that the damsel carrieth shall here remain, and little joy will the brachet make until the knight shall come." "damsel," saith the king, "the shield and the brachet will we keep full safely, and right heartily we thank you that you have deigned to bring them hither." "sir," saith the damsel, "i have not yet told you all that i have in charge to deliver. the best king that liveth on earth and the most loyal and the most righteous, sendeth you greeting; of whom is sore sorrow for that he hath fallen into a grievous languishment." "damsel," saith the king, "sore pity is it and it be so as you say; and i pray you tell me who is the king?" "sir," saith she, "it is rich king fisherman, of whom is great grief." "damsel," saith the king, "you say true; and god grant him his heart's desire!" "sir," saith she, "know you wherefore he hath fallen into languishment?" "nay, i know not at all, but gladly would i learn." "and i will tell you," saith she. "this languishment is come upon him through one that harboured in his hostel, to whom the most holy graal appeared. and, for that he would not ask unto whom one served thereof, were all the lands commoved to war thereby, nor never thereafter might knight meet other but he should fight with him in arms without none other occasion. you yourself may well perceive the same, for your well-doing hath greatly slackened, whereof have you had much blame, and all the other barons that by you have taken ensample, for you are the mirror of the world alike in well-doing and in evil-doing. sir, i myself have good right to plain me of the knight, and i will show you wherefore." she lifteth the rich hat from her head and showeth the king and queen and the knights in the hall her head all bald without hair. "sir," saith she, "my head was right seemly garnished of hair plaited in rich tresses of gold at such time as the knight came to the hostel of the rich king fisherman, but i became bald for that he made not the demand, nor never again shall i have my hair until such time as a knight shall go thither that shall ask the question better than did he, or the knight that shall achieve the graal. sir, even yet have you not seen the sore mischief that hath befallen thereof. there is without this hall a car that three white harts have drawn hither, and lightly may you send to see how rich it is. i tell you that the traces are of silk and the axletrees of gold, and the timber of the car is ebony. the car is covered above with a black samite, and below is a cross of gold the whole length, and under the coverlid of the car are the heads of an hundred and fifty knights whereof some be sealed in gold, other some in silver and the third in lead. king fisherman sendeth you word that this loss i hath befallen of him that demanded not unto whom one serveth of the graal. sir, the damsel that beareth the shield holdeth in her hand the head of a queen that is sealed in lead and crowned with copper, and i tell you that by the queen whose head you here behold was the king betrayed whose head i bear, and the three manner of knights whose heads are within the car. sir, send without to see the costliness and fashion of the car." the king sent kay the seneschal to see. he looked straitly thereat within and without and thereafter returned to the king. "sir," saith he, "never beheld i car so rich, and there be three harts withal that draw the car, the tallest and fattest one might ever see. but and you will be guided by me, you will take the foremost, for he is scarce so far, and so might you bid make right good collops thereof." "avoid there, kay!" saith the king. "foul churlishness have you spoken! i would not such a deed were done for another such kingdom as is this of logres!" "sir," saith the damsel, "he that hath been wont to do churlishness doth right grudgingly withdraw himself therefrom. messire kay may say whatsoever him pleaseth, but well know i that you will pay no heed to his talk. sir," saith the damsel, "command that the shield be hung on this column and that the brachet be put in the queen's chamber with the maidens. we will go on our way, for here have we been long enough." messire ywain laid hold on the shield and took it off the damsel's neck by leave of the king, and hung it on the column in the midst of the hall, and one of the queen's maidens taketh the brachet and carrieth him to the queen's chamber. and the damsel taketh her leave and turneth again, and the king commendeth her to god. when the king eaten in hall, the queen with the king and the knights go to lean at the windows to look at the three damsels and the three white harts that draw the car, and the more part said that the damsel afoot that went after the two that were mounted should have the most misease. the bald damsel went before, and set not her hat on her head until such time as behoved her enter into the forest; and the knights that were at the windows might see them no longer. then set she her hat again upon her head. the king, the queen, and the knights when they might see them no more, came down from the windows, and certain of them said that never until this time had they seen bald-headed damsel save this one only. ii. hereupon the story is silent of king arthur, and turneth again to speak of the three damsels and the car that was drawn by the three white harts. they are entered into the forest and ride on right busily. when they had left the castle some seven leagues welsh behind them, they saw a knight coming toward them on the way they had to go. the knight sat on a tall horse, lean and bony. his habergeon was all rusty and his shield pierced in more than a dozen places, and the colour thereon was so fretted away that none might make out the cognizance thereof. and a right thick spear bore he in his hand. when he came anigh the damsel, he saluted her right nobly. "fair welcome, damsel, to you and your company." "sir," saith she, "god grant you joy and good adventure!" "damsel," saith the knight, "whence come you?" "sir, from a court high-plenary that king arthur holdeth at pannenoisance. go you thither, sir knight," saith the damsel, "to see the king and the queen and the knights that are there?" "nay, not so!" saith he. "many a time have i seen them, but right glad am i of king arthur that he hath again taken up his well-doing, for many a time hath he been accustomed thereof." "whitherward have you now emprised your way?" saith the damsel. "to the land of king fisherman, and god allow me." "sir," saith she, "tell me your name and bide awhile beside me." the knight draweth bridle and the damsels and the car come to a stay. "damsel," saith he, "well behoveth me tell you my name. messire gawain am i called, king arthur's nephew." "what? are you messire gawain? my heart well told me as much." "yea, damsel," saith he, "gawain am i." "god be praised thereof, for so good knight as are you may well go see the rich king fisherman. now am i fain to pray you of the valour that is in you and the courtesy, that you return with me and convoy me beyond a certain castle that is in this forest whereof is some small peril." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "willingly, at your pleasure." he returneth with the damsel through the midst of the forest that was tall and leafy and little haunted of folk. the damsel relateth to him the adventure of the heads that she carried and that were in the car, like as she did at the court of king arthur, and of the shield and the brachet she had left there, but much it misliked messire gawain of the damsel that was afoot behind them. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "wherefore doth not this damsel that goeth afoot mount upon the car?" "sir," saith she, "this shall she not, for behoveth her go not otherwise than afoot. but and you be so good knight as men say, betimes will she have done her penance." "how so?" saith gawain. "i will tell you," saith she. "and it shall so be that god bring you to the hostel of rich king fisherman, and the most holy graal appear before you and you demand unto whom is served thereof, then will she have done her penance, and i, that am bald, shall receive again my hair. and so you also make not demand thereof, then will it behove us suffer sore annoy until such time as the good knight shall come and shall have achieved the graal. for on account of him that first was there and made not the demand, are all the lands in sorrow and warfare, and the good king fisherman is yet in languishment." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "god grant me courage and will herein that i may come to do this thing according to your wish, whereof may i win worship both of god and of the world." iii. messire gawain and the damsels go on their way a great pace through the high forest, green and leafy, where the birds are singing, and enter into the most hideous forest and most horrible that any might ever see, and seemed it that no greenery never there had been, so bare and dry were all the branches and all the trees black and burnt as it had been by fire, and the ground all parched and black atop with no green, and full of great cracks. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "right loathly is this forest and right hideous. goeth it on far like this?" "sir." saith she, "for nine leagues welsh goeth it on the same, but we shall pass not through the whole thereof." messire gawain looketh from time to time on the damsel that cometh arbor, and sore it irketh him that he may not amend her estate. they ride on until that they come to a great valley and messire gawain looketh along the bottom and seeth appear a black castle that was enclosed within a girdle of wall, foul and evilseeming. the nigher he draweth to the castle the more hideous it seemeth him, and he seeth great halls appear that were right foully mis-shapen, and the forest about it he seeth to be like as he had found it behind. he seeth a water come down from the head of a mountain, foul and horrible and black, that went amidst the castle roaring so loud that it seemed to be thunder. messire gawain seeth the entrance of the gateway foul and horrible like as it had been hell, and within the castle heard he great outcries and lamentations, and the most part heard he saying: "ha, god! what hath become of the good knight, and when will he come?" "damsel," saith messire gawain, "what is this castle here that is so foul and hideous, wherein is such dolour suffered and such weary longing for the coming of the good knight?" "sir, this is the castle of the black hermit. wherefore am i fain to pray you that you meddle not herein for nought that they within may do to me, for otherwise it may well be that your death is at hand, for against them will you have no might nor power." they come anigh the castle as it were a couple of bow-shots, and behold, through the gateway come knights armed on black horses and their arms all black and their shields and spears, and there were a hundred and fifty and two, right parlous to behold. and they come a great gallop toward the damsel, and toward the car, and take the hundred and fifty-two heads, each one his own, and set them upon their spears and so enter into the castle again with great joy. messire gawain seeth the insolence that the knights have wrought, and right great shame hath he of himself that he hath not moved withal. "messire gawain," saith the damsel, "now may you know how little would your force have availed you herein." "damsel, an evil castle is this where folk are robbed on such wise." "sir, never may this mischief be amended, nor this outrage be done away, nor the evil-doer therein be stricken down, nor they that cry and lament within the prison there be set free until such time as the good knight shall come for whom are they yearning as you have heard but now." "damsel, right glad may the knight be that by his valour and his hardiment shall destroy so many evil folk!" "sir, therefore is he the best knight in the world, and he is yet young enough of age, but right sorrowful am i at heart that i know not true tidings of him; for better will have i to see him than any man on live." "damsel, so also have i," saith messire gawain, "for then by your leave would i turn me again." "not so, sir, but and you shall come beyond the castle, then will i teach you the way whereby you ought to go." iv. with that they go toward the castle all together. just as they were about to pass beyond the castle wall, behold you where a knight cometh forth of a privy postern of the castle, and he was sitting upon a tall horse, his spear in his fist, and at his neck had he a red shield whereon was figured a golden eagle. "sir knight," saith he to messire gawain, "i pray you bide." "what is your pleasure?" "you must needs joust with me," saith he "and conquer this shield, or otherwise i shall conquer you. and full precious is the shield, insomuch as that great pains ought you to take to have it and conquer it, for it belonged to the best knight of his faith that was ever, and the most puissant and the wisest." "who, then, was he?" saith messire gawain. "judas machabee was he, and he it was that first wrought how by one bird to take another." "you say true," saith messire gawain; "a good knight was he." "therefore right joyful may you be," saith he, "and you may conquer the same, for your own is the poorest and most battered that ever saw i borne by knight. for hardly may a man know the colour thereof." "thereby may you well see," saith the damsel to the knight, "that his own shield hath not been idle, nor hath the horse whereon he sitteth been stabled so well as yours." "damsel," saith the knight, "no need is here of long pleading. needs must he joust with me, for him do i defy." saith messire gawain, "i hear well that you say." he draweth him back and taketh his career and the knight likewise, and they come together as fast as their horses may carry them, spear in rest. the knight smiteth messire gawain on the shield whereof he had no great defence, and passeth beyond, and in the by-pass the knight to-brake his spear; and messire gawain smiteth him with his spear in the midst of his breast and beareth him to the ground over the croup of his horse, all pinned upon his spear, whereof he had a good full hand's breadth in his breast. he draweth his spear back to him, and when the knight felt himself unpinned, he leaped to his feet and came straight to his horse and would fain set his foot in the stirrup when the damsel of the car crieth out: "messire gawain, hinder the knight! for and he were mounted again, too sore travail would it be to conquer him!" when the knight heard name messire gawain, he draweth him back: "how?" saith he; "is this then the good gawain, king arthur's nephew?" "yea," saith the damsel, "he it is without fail!" "sir," saith the knight to messire gawain, "are you he?" "yea," saith he, "gawain i am!" "sir, so please you," saith he, "i hold me conquered, and right sorry am i that i knew you not or ever i had ado with you." he taketh the shield from his neck and holdeth it to him. "sir," saith he, "take the shield that belonged to the best knight that was in his time of his faith, for none know i of whom it shall be better employed than of you. and of this shield were vanquished all they that be in prison in this castle." messire gawain taketh the shield that was right fair and rich. "sir," saith the knight, "now give me yours, for you will not bear two shields." "you say true," saith messire gawain. he taketh the guige from his neck and would have given him the shield, when the damsel afoot: "hold, sir knight, you that are named messire gawain! what would you do? and he bear your shield into the castle there, they of the castle will hold you recreant and conquered, and will come forth thence and carry you into the castle by force, and there will you be cast into his grievous prison; for no shield is borne thereinto save of a vanquished knight only." "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "no good you wish me, according to that this damsel saith." "sir," saith the knight, "i cry you mercy, and a second time i hold me conquered, and right glad should i have been might i have borne your shield within yonder, and right great worship should i have had thereof, for never yet hath entered there the shield of knight so good. and now ought i to be right well pleased of your coming, sith that you have set me free of the sorest trouble that ever knight had." "what is the trouble?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith he, "i will tell you. heretofore many a time hath there been a passing by of knights both of hardy and of coward, and it was my business to contend and joust with them and do battle, and i made them present of the shield as did i you. the more part found i hardy and well able to defend themselves, that wounded me in many places, but never was knight so felled me to the ground nor dealt me so sore a buffet as have you. and sith that you are carrying away the shield and i am conquered, never here-after shall knight that passeth before this castle have no dread of me nor of no knight that is herein." "by my head," saith messire gawain, "now am i gladder of my conquest than i was before." "sir," saith the knight, "by your leave will i go my way, for, and i may hide not my shame in the castle, needs must i show it openly abroad." "god grant you do well!" saith messire gawain. "messire gawain," saith the damsel of the car, "give me your shield that the knight would fain have carried off." "willingly, damsel," saith he. the damsel that went afoot taketh the shield and setteth it in the car. howbeit, the knight that was conquered mounted again upon his horse, and entered again into the castle, and when he was come thereinto, arose a noise and great outcry so loud that all the forest and all the valley began to resound thereof. "messire gawain," saith the damsel of the car, "the knight is shamed and there cast in prison another time. now haste, messire gawain! for now may you go!" with that they all set forward again upon their way together, and leave the castle an english league behind. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "when it shall please you, i shall have your leave to go." "sir," saith she, "god be guard of your body, and right great thanks of your convoy." "lady," saith he, "my service is always ready at your command." "sir," saith the damsel, "gramercy, and your own way see you there by yonder great cross at the entrance of yonder forest. and beyond that, will you find the fairest forest and most delightsome when you shall have passed through this that sore is wearisome." messire gawain turneth him to go, and the damsel afoot crieth out to him: "sir, not so heedful are you as i supposed." messire gawain turneth his horse's head as he that was startled: "wherefore say you so, damsel?" saith he. "for this," saith she, "that you have never asked of my damsel wherefore she carrieth her arm slung at her neck in this golden stole, nor what may be the rich pillow whereon the arm lieth. and no greater heed will you take at the court of the rich king fisherman." "sweet, my friend," saith the damsel of the car, "blame not messire gawain only, but king arthur before him and all the knights that were in the court. for not one of them all that were there was so heedful as to ask me. go your ways, messire gawain, for in vain would you now demand it, for i will tell you not, nor shall you never know it save only by the most coward knight in the world, that is mine own knight and goeth to seek me and knoweth not where to find me." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "i durst not press you further." with that the damsel departeth, and messire gawain setteth him forward again on the way that she had taught him. branch iii. incipit. here beginneth another branch of the graal in the name of the father, and in the name of the son, and in the name of the holy ghost. title i here is the story silent of the three damsels and the car and saith that messire gawain hath passed throughout the evil forest and is entered into the forest passing fair, the broad, the high, the plenteous of venison. and he rideth a great pace, but sore abashed is he of that the damsel had said to him, and misdoubteth him but he shall have blame thereof in many places. he rode hard the day long till that it was evensong and the sun was about to set. and he looketh before him and seeth the house of a hermit and the chapel in the thick of the forest; and a spring flowed forth in front of the chapel right clear and fresh, and above it was a tree full broad and tall that threw a shadow over the spring. a damsel sate under the tree and held a mule by the reins and at the saddle-bow had she the head of a knight hanging. and messire gawain cometh thitherward and alighteth. "damsel," saith he, "god give you good adventure!" "sir," saith she, "and you always." when she was risen up over against him, "damsel," saith he, "for whom are you a-waiting here?" "sir," saith she, "i am waiting for the hermit of this holy chapel, that is gone into the forest, and i would fain ask him tidings of a knight." "think you he will tell you them and he knoweth any?" "yea, sir, i think so, according to that i have been told." therewithal behold you the hermit that was coming, and saluteth the damsel and messire gawain and openeth the door of the house and setteth the two steeds within and striketh off the bridles and giveth them green-meat first and barley after, and fain would he have taken off the saddles when messire gawain leapeth before: "sir," saith he, "do not so! this business is not for you!" "hermit though i be," saith he, "yet well know i how to deal withal, for at the court of king uther pendragon have i been squire and knight two-score years, and a score or mort have i been in this hermitage." and messire gawain looketh at him in wonderment. "sir," saith he, "meseemeth you are not of more than forty years." "that know i well of a truth," saith the hermit, and messire gawain taketh off the saddles and bethinketh him more of the damsel's mule than of his own horse. and the hermit taketh messire gawain by the hand and the damsel and leadeth them into the chapel. and the place was right fair. "sir," saith the hermit to messire gawain, "you will disarm you not," saith he, "for this forest is passing adventurous, and no worshipful man behoveth be disgarnished." he goeth for his spear and for his shield and setteth them within the chapel. he setteth before them such meat as he hath, and when they have eaten giveth them to drink of the spring. "sir," saith the damsel, "of a knight that i go seek am i come to ask you tidings." "who is the knight?" saith the hermit. "sir, he is the chaste knight of most holy lineage. he hath a heart of gold, the look of a lion, the navel of a virgin maid, a heart of steel, the body of an elephant, and without wickedness are all his conditions." "damsel," saith the hermit, "nought will i tell you concerning him, for i know not of a certainty where he is, save this, that he hath lain in this chapel twice, not once only, within this twelvemonth." "sir," saith she, "will you tell me no more of him, nor none other witting?" "in no wise," saith the hermit. "and you, messire gawain?" saith she. "damsel," saith he, "as fainly would i see him as you, but none find i that may tell me tidings of him." "and the damsel of the car, sir, have you seen her?" "yea, lady," saith he, "it is but just now sithence that i left her." "carried she still her arm slung at her neck?" "yea," saith messire gawain, "in such wise she carried it." "of a long while," saith the damsel, "hath she borne it thus." "sir," saith the hermit, "how are you named?" "sir," saith he, "gawain am i called, king arthur's nephew." "thereof i love you the better," saith the hermit. "sir," saith the damsel, "you are of kindred to the worst king that is." "of what king speak you?" saith messire gawain. "i speak," saith she, "of king arthur, through whom is all the world made worser, for he began doing well and now hath become evil. for hatred of him hate i a knight that found me nigh s. augustine's chapel, and yet was he the comeliest knight that saw i ever. he slew a knight within the bar right hardily. i asked him for the head of the knight and he went back for the same and set himself in sore peril. he brought it me, and i made him great joy, but when he told me his name was arthur i had no fainness of the bounty he had done me, for that he had the name of that evil king." ii. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "you may say your pleasure. i tell you that king arthur hath held the richest court that he hath held ever, and these evil conditions whereof you blame him is he minded to put away for evermore, and more will he do of good and more of largesse than was ever known aforetime so long as he shall live; nor know i none other knight that beareth his name." "you are right," saith the damsel, "to come to his rescue, for that he is your uncle, but your rescue will scarce avail him and he deliver not himself." "sir," saith the hermit to messire gawain, "the damsel will say her pleasure. may god defend king arthur, for his father made me knight. now am i priest, and in this hermitage ever sithence that i came hither have i served king fisherman by the will of our lord and his commandment, and all they that serve him do well partake of his reward, for the place of his most holy service is a refuge so sweet that unto him that hath been there a year, it seemeth to have been but a month for the holiness of the place and of himself, and for the sweetness of his castle wherein have i oftentimes done service in the chapel where the holy graal appeareth. therefore is it that i and all that serve him are so youthful of seeming." "sir," saith messire gawain, "by what way may a man go to his castle?" "sir," saith the hermit, "none may teach you the way, save the will of god lead you therein. and would you fain go thither?" "sir," saith messire gawain, "it is the most wish that i have." "sir," saith the hermit, "now god give you grace and courage to ask the question that the others to whom the graal hath appeared would ask not, whereof have many mischances sithence befallen much people." iii. with that, they left of talking, and the hermit led messire gawain into his house to rest, and the damsel abode still in the chapel. on the morrow when dawn appeared, messire gawain that had lain all armed, arose and found his saddle ready and the damsel, and the bridles set on, and cometh to the chapel and findeth the hermit that was apparelled to sing mass, and seeth the damsel kneeling before an image of our lady, and she prayed god and the sweet lady that they would counsel her that whereof she had need, and wept right tenderly so that the tears ran down her face. and when she had prayed of a long space she ariseth, and messire gawain biddeth her god give her good day, and she returneth his salute. "damsel," saith he, "meseemeth you are not over joyous." "sir," saith she, "i have right, for now am i nigh unto my desolation, sith that i may not find the good knight. now must i needs go to the castle of the black hermit, and bear thither the head that hangeth at my saddle-bow, for otherwise shall i not be able to pass through the forest but my body should there be cast in prison or shamed, and this shall be the quittance for my passing. then will i seek the damsel of the car and so shall i go in safer through the forest." with that the hermit had begun the mass and messire gawain and the damsel heard it. when mass was sung, messire gawain took leave of the hermit and the damsel also. and messire gawain goeth one way and the damsel the other, and either biddeth other to god. iv. hereupon the story is now silent of the damsel, and saith that messire gawain goeth through the high forest and rideth a great pace, and prayeth god right sweetly that he will set him in such way as that thereby he may go to the land of the rich king fisherman. and he rideth until the hour of noon, and cometh into the fulness of the forest and seeth under a tree a squire alighted of a horse of the chase. messire gawain saluteth him, and the squire saith: "sir, right welcome may you be!" "fair sweet friend," saith messire gawain, "whither go you?" "sir, i go to seek the lord of this forest." "whose is the forest?" saith messire gawain. "sir, it belongeth to the best knight in the world." "can you tell me tidings of him?" "he ought to bear a shield banded azure and argent with a red cross thereon and a boss of gold. i say that he is good knight, but little call have i to praise him, for he slew my father in this forest with a javelin. the good knight was squire what time he slew him, and fain would i avenge my father upon him and i may find him, for he reft me of the best knight that was in the realm of logres when he slew my father. well did he bereave me of him what time he slew him with his javelin without defiance, nor shall i never be at ease nor at rest until i shall have avenged him." "fair sweet friend," saith messire gawain, "sith that he is knight so good take heed you increase not your wrong of your own act, and i would fain that you had found him, so as that no evil had befallen him thereof." v. "so would not i," saith the squire, "for never shall i see him in this place but i shall run upon him as my mortal enemy!" "fair sweet friend," saith messire gawain, "you may say your pleasure, but tell me is there no hold in this forest wherein i may harbour me the night?" "sir," saith the squire, "no hold know i within twenty league of your way in any quarter. wherefore no leisure have you to tarry, for it is high noon already." so messire gawain saluteth the squire and goeth a great pace as he that knoweth neither highway nor byway save only as adventure may lead him. and the forest pleaseth him well for that it is so fair and that he seeth the deer pass by before him in great herds. he rode on until it drew toward evensong at a corner of the forest. the evening was fair and calm and the sun was about to set. and a score league welsh had he ridden sithence that he parted from the squire, and sore he misdoubted him that he should find no hold. he found the fairest meadow-land in the world, and looked before him when he had ridden a couple of bow-shot lengths and saw a castle appear nigh the forest on a mountain. and it was enclosed of high walls with battlements, and within were fair halls whereof the windows showed in the outer walls, and in the midst was an ancient tower that was compassed round of great waters and broad meadow-lands. thitherward messire gawain draweth him and looketh toward the gateway of the castle and seeth a squire issue forth a great pace upon a hackney, and he came the way that messire gawain was coming. and when the squire seeth him, and hath drawn somewhat anigh, he saluteth him right nobly. vi. "sir, right welcome may you be!" "good adventure may you have!" saith messire gawain. "fair sweet friend, what is this castle here, sir?" "sir, it is the castle of the widow lady." "what is the name thereof;" "camelot; and it belonged to alain li gros, that was a right loyal knight and worshipful man. he is dead this long time, and my lady hath remained without succour and without counsel. wherefore is the castle warred upon of them that would fain reave her thereof by force. the lord of the moors and another knight are they that war upon her and would fain reave her of this castle as they have reft her of seven other already. greatly desireth she the return of her son, for no counsel hath she save only of her one daughter and of five old knights that help her to guard the castle. sir," saith he, "the door is made fast and the bridge drawn up, for they guard the castle closely, but, so please you, you will tell me your name and i will go before and make the bridge be lowered and the gate unfastened, and will say that you will lodge within to-night." "gramercy," saith messire gawain, "right well shall my name be known or ever i depart from the castle." the squire goeth his way a great pace, and messire gawain tided softly at a walk for he had yet a long way to go. and he found a chapel that stood between the forest and the castle, and it was builded upon four columns of marble and within was a right fair sepulchre. the chapel had no fence of any kind about it so that he seeth the coffin within full clearly, and messire gawain bideth awhile to look thereon. and the squire entered into the castle and hath made the bridge be lowered and the door opened. he alighteth and is come into the hall when was the widow lady and her daughter. saith the lady to the squire: "wherefore have you returned from doing my message? lady, for the comeliest knight that i have seen ever, and fain would he harbour within to-night, and he is garnished of all arms and rideth without company." "and what name hath he?" saith the lady. "lady, he told me you should know it well or ever he depart from this castle." therewithal the lady gan weep for joy and her daughter also, and, lifting her hands towards heaven, "fair lord god!" saith the widow lady, "and this be indeed my son, never before have i had joy that might be likened to this! now shall i not be disherited of mine honour, neither shall i lose my castle whereof they would fain reave me by wrong, for that no lord nor champion have i!" vii. thereupon the widow lady ariseth up and her daughter likewise, and they go over the bridge of the castle and see messire gawain that was yet looking on the coffin within the chapel. "now haste!" saith the lady; "at the tomb shall we be well able to see whether it be he!" they go to the chapel right speedily, and messire gawain seeth them coming and alighteth. "lady," saith he, "welcome may you be, you and your company." the lady answereth never a word until that they are come to the tomb. when she findeth it not open she falleth down in a swoon. and messire gawain is sore afraid when he seeth it. the lady cometh back out of her swoon and breaketh out into great lamentation. "sir," saith the damsel to messire gawain, "welcome may you be! but now sithence my mother supposed that you had been her son and made great joy thereof, and now seeth she plainly that you are not he, whereof is she sore sorrowful, for so soon as he shall return, this coffin behoveth open, nor until that hour shall none know who it is that lieth therein." the lady riseth up and taketh messire gawain by the hand. "sir," saith she, "what is your name?" "lady," saith he, "i am called gawain, king arthur's nephew." "sir," saith she, "you shall be he that is welcome both for the sake of my son and for your own sake." the lady biddeth a squire lead his horse into the castle and carry his shield and spear. then they enter into the castle and lead messire gawain into the hall, and make disarm him. after that, they fetch him water to wash his hands and his face, for he was distained of the rust of his habergeon. the lady maketh apparel him in a rich robe of silk and gold, and furred of ermine. the widow lady cometh forth of her chamber and maketh messire gawain sit beside her. "sir," saith she, "can you tell me any tidings of my son that i have not seen of this long time past, and of whom at this present am i sore in need?" viii. "lady," saith he, "no tidings of him know i to tell you, and right heavy am i thereof, for he is the knight of the world that fainest i would see and he be your son as i am told. what name hath he?" "sir," saith she, "his name in right baptism is perceval, and a right comely squire was he when he departed hence. now as at this time is it said that he is the comeliest knight on live and the most hardy and the cleanest of all wickedness. and sore need have i of his hardiment, for what time that he departed hence he left me in the midst of a great warfare on behalf of the knight of the red shield that he slew. within the se'nnight thereafter he went away, nor never once have i seen him sithence, albeit a full seven year hath passed already. and now the brother of the knight that he slew and the lord of the moors are warring upon me and are fain to reave me of my castle and god counsel me not. for my brothers are too far away from me, and king pelles of the lower folk hath renounced his land for god's sake and entered into a hermitage. but the king of castle mortal hath in him as much of wickedness and felony as these twain have in them of good, and enough thereof have they. but neither succour nor help may they give me, for the king of castle mortal challengeth my lord king fisherman both of the most holy graal and of the lance whereof the point bleedeth every day, albeit god forbid he should ever have them." ix. "lady," saith messire gawain, "there was at the hostel of king fisherman a knight before whom the holy graal appeared three times, yet never once would he ask whereof it served nor whom it honoured." "sir," saith the widow lady's daughter, "you say true, and the best knight is he of the world. this say i for love of my brother, and i love all knights for the love of him, but by the foolish wit of the knight hath mine uncle king fisherman fallen into languishment." "sir," saith the lady, "behoveth all good knights go see the rich king fisherman. will you not therefore go?" "lady," saith messire gawain, "yea, that will i, so speedily as i may, for not elsewhither have i emprised my way." "sir," saith she, "then are you going to see my son, wherefore tell my son, and you see him, of mine evil plight and my misease, and king fisherman my brother. but take heed, messire gawain, that you be better mindful than was the knight." "lady," saith messire gawain, "i shall do as god shall teach me." in the meanwhile as they were speaking thus together, behold you therewithal the widow lady's five knights that were come in from the forest and make bring harts and hinds and wild swine. so they alighted and made great joy of messire gawain when they knew who he was. x. when the meat was ready they sate to eat, and full plenteously were they provided and right well were they served. thereupon, behold, cometh the squire that had opened the door for messire gawain, and kneeleth before the widow lady. "and what tidings?" saith she. "lady, there is to be a right great assembly of tourney in the valleys that aforetime were ours. already have they spread the welsh booths, and thither are come these two that are warring upon you and great store other knights. and they have ordained that he which shall do best at the assembly shall undertake the garrison of this castle in such sort as that he shall hold it for his own alone against all other." the widow lady beginneth to weep: "sir," saith she to messire gawain, "now may you understand that the castle is not mine own, sith that these knights say it is theirs as you hear." "certes, lady," saith he, "herein do they great dishonour and a sin." xi. when the table was removed the damsel fell at messire gawain's feet, weeping. he raiseth her forthwith and saith to her, "damsel, herein do you ill." "for god's sake, sir, take pity on my lady mother and me!" "certes, damsel, great pity have i of you." "sir, now shall it be seen in this strait whether you be good knight, for good is the knighthood that doeth well for god's sake." the widow lady and her daughter go into the chamber, and messire gawain's bed was made in the midst of the hall. so he went and lay down as did also the five knights. all the night was messire gawain in much thought. the morrow, when he was risen, he went to hear mass in a chapel that was within and ate thereafter three sops in wine and then armed him, and at the same time asked the five knights that were there in the hall whether they would go see the assembly. "yea, sir," say they, "and you be going thither." "in faith, thither verily will i go!" saith messire gawain. the knights are armed forthwith, and their horses brought and messire gawain's, and he goeth to take leave of the widow lady and her daughter. but great joy make they of this that they have heard say that he will go with their knights to the assembly. xii. messire gawain and the five knights mounted and issued forth of the castle and rode a great gallop before a forest. messire gawain looketh before him about the foreclose of the forest, and seeth the fairest purlieus that he had seen ever, and so broad they be that he may not see nor know the fourth part thereof. they are garnished of tall forests on one hand and on the other, and there are high rocks in the midst with wild deer among. "sir," say the knights, "lo, these be the valleys of camelot whereof my lady and her daughter have been bereft, and bereft also hath she been of the richest castles that be in wales to the number of seven." "a wrong is it and a sin!" saith messire gawain. so far have they ridden that they see the ensigns and the shields there where the assembly is to be held, and they see already mounted the more part of the knights all armed and running their horses down the meadow-land. and they see the tents stretched on the one hand and on another. and messire gawain bideth, and the five knights under a tree, and see the knights assembling on one hand and on another. one of the five knights that were with him gave him witting of the lord of the moors and the brother of the knight of the red shield that had to name chaos the red. so soon as the tournament was assembled, messire gawain and the knights come to the assembly, and messire gawain goeth to a welsh knight and beareth him to the ground, both him and his horse, all in a heap. and the five come after at a great gallop and each overthroweth his own, and greatly pride they themselves of messire gawain. chaos the red seeth messire gawain but knoweth him not. he goeth toward him a full career, and messire gawain receiveth him on the point of his spear and hurtleth against him so sore that he all to-brast his collarbone and maketh the spear fly from his fist. and messire gawain searcheth the fellowships of one part and the other, and findeth not nor encountereth no knight before him in his way but he putteth him off his horse or woundeth him, either by himself or by one of the five knights, that make right great joy of that they see him do. they show him the lord of the moors that was coming with a full great fellowship of folk. he goeth thitherward a great gallop. they mell together either upon other of their spears that they bent and all to-brast in flinders, and hurtle together so stoutly both of their horses and their bodies that the lord of the moors loseth his stirrups and hath the hinder saddlebow to-frushed, and falleth down to the ground over his horse croup in such sort that the peak of his helm dinteth a full palm's breadth into the turf. and messire gawain taketh the horse that was right rich and good, maugre all of his fellowship, and giveth it to one of the five knights that maketh it be led to camelot of a squire. messire gawain searcheth the ranks on the one hand and on the other, and doeth such feats of arms as never no knight might do the same again. the five knights also showed great hardiment, and did more of arms that day than ever had they done tofore, for not one of them but had overthrown at least a single knight and won his horse. the lord of the moors was mounted again on another rich horse and had great shame for that messire gawain had overthrown him. he espieth messire gawain and goeth toward him a great gallop and thinketh to avenge his shame. they come together either on other with a great shock, and messire gawain smiteth him with the truncheon of his spear that he had still left, in the midst of his breast, so that it was all to-splintered. the lord of the moors likewise again to-brast his spear upon him. messire gawain draweth his sword and flingeth the truncheon to the ground. the lord of the moors doth likewise and commandeth his folk not to mell betwixt them twain, for never yet had he found no knight that he had not conquered. they deal them great buffets on the helms, either upon other, in such sort that the sparks fly thereout and their swords are blunted. the buffets of messire gawain are heavier than the other's, for he dealeth them so mighty and horrible that the blood rayeth out from the lord of the moors by the mouth and the nose so that his habergeon is all bloody thereof and he may no more endure. thereupon he yieldeth him prisoner to messire gawain, that is right glad thereof and his five knights likewise. the lord of the moors goeth to his tent to alight, and messire gawain with him and alighteth. and messire gawain taketh the horse and saith to one of the knights, "keep this for me." and all the knights are repaired to their tents, and with one accord say they all that the knight of the red shield with the eagle of gold thereon hath done better than we, and they ask the lord of the moors whether he accordeth with them, and he saith "aye." "sir," saith he to messire gawain, "you, then, are the warden of this castle of camelot." "gramercy, lord!" saith messire gawain. he calleth the five knights and saith unto them: "lords, my will is that you be there on my behalf and that you shall safeguard the same by consent of the knights that are here present." "sir, right gladly do we agree thereto." "sir," saith messire gawain to the lord of the moors, "i give you moreover as my prisoner to the widow lady that harboured me last night." "sir," saith he, "this have you no right to do. assembly of tourney is not war. hence have you no right to imprison my body in castle, for well am i able to pay my ransom here. but tell me, what is your name?" "i am called gawain." "ha, messire gawain, many a time have i heard tell of you albeit never tofore have i seen you. but sith that the castle of camelot is in your keeping, i promise you loyally that before a year and a day neither the castle nor none of the lady's land need fear nought from me nor from any other so far forth as i may hinder him, and hereto do i pledge me in the presence of all these knights that are here. and, so you would have of me gold or silver, thereof will i give you at your will." "sir," saith messire gawain, "gramercy! i consent freely to as much as you have said." messire gawain taketh leave and turneth him again toward the castle of camelot, and sendeth by a squire the horse of the lord of the moors to the daughter of the widow lady, that made great joy thereof. and the five knights drive before them the horses they have taken booty. whereof great also was the joy. no need to wonder whether messire gawain were well harboured that night at the castle. he recounted to the lady how the castle was in the keeping of these knights. when it came to morning-tide, messire gawain took leave and departed from the castle, but not before he had heard mass, for such was his custom. the widow lady and her daughter commend him to god, and the castle remaineth in better keeping than he had found it. branch iv. incipit. here beginneth another branch of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. and the story is silent here of the mother of the good knight, and saith that messire gawain goeth so as god and adventure lead him toward the land of the rich king fisherman. and he entereth into a great forest, all armed, his shield at his neck and his spear in his hand. and he prayeth our lord that he counsel him of this holy errand he hath emprised so as that he may honourably achieve it. he rode until that he came at evensong to a hold that was in the midst of the forest. and it was compassed about of a great water, and had about it great clumps of trees so as that scarce with much pains might he espy the hall, that was right large. the river that compassed it about was water royal, for it lost not its right name nor its body as far as the sea. and messire gawain bethought him that it was the hold of a worshipful man, and draweth him thitherward to lodge. and as he drew anigh the bridge of the hold, he looketh and seeth a dwarf sitting on a high bench. he leapeth up: "messire gawain," saith he, "welcome may you be!" "fair, sweet friend," saith messire gawain, "god give you good adventure! you know me, then?" saith he. "well do i know you," saith the dwarf, "for i saw you at the tournament. at a better moment could you not have come hither, for my lord is not here. but you will find my lady, the fairest and most gentle and most courteous in the realm of logres, and as yet is she not of twenty years." "fair friend," saith messire gawain, "what name hath the lord of the hold?" "sir, he is called of little gomeret. i will go tell my lady that messire gawain is come, the good knight, and bid her make great joy." howbeit, messire gawain marvelleth much that the dwarf should make him such cheer, for many knaveries hath he found in many places within the bodies of many dwarfs. the dwarf is come into the chamber where the lady was. "now, haste, lady!" saith he, "make great joy, for messire gawain is come to harbour with you." "certes," saith she, "of this am i right glad and right sorry; glad, for that the good knight will lie here to-night, sorry, for that he is the knight that my lord most hateth in the world. wherefore he warneth me against him for love of him, for oftentimes hath he told me that never did messire gawain keep faith with dame nor damsel but he would have his will of them." "lady," saith the dwarf, "it is not true albeit it is so said." ii. thereupon messire gawain entereth into the courtyard and alighteth, and the lady cometh to meet him and saith to him: "may you be come to joy and good adventure." "lady," saith he, "may you also have honour and good adventure." the lady taketh him by the hand and leadeth him into the hall and maketh him be seated on a cushion of straw. and a squire leadeth his horse to stable. and the dwarf summoneth two other squires and doeth messire gawain be disarmed, and helpeth them right busily, and maketh fetch water to wash his hands and his face. "sir," saith the dwarf, "your fists are still all swollen of the buffets you gave and received at the tournament." messire gawain answered him nought. and the dwarf entereth into the chamber and bringeth a scarlet robe furred of ermine and maketh it be done on messire gawain. and meat was made ready and the table set, and the lady sate to eat. many a time looked he upon the lady by reason of her great beauty, and, had he been minded to trust to his heart and his eyes, he would have all to-changed his purpose; but so straitly was his heart bound up, and so quenched the desires thereof, that nought would he allow himself to think upon that might turn to wickedness, for the sake of the high pilgrimage he had emprised. rather 'gan he withdraw his eyes from looking at the lady, that was held to be of passing great beauty. after meat messire gawain's bed was made, and he apparelled himself to lie down. the lady bade him god give him good adventure, and he made answer the like. when the lady was in her chamber, the dwarf said to messire gawain: "sir, i will lie before you, so as to keep you company until you be asleep." "gramercy," saith he, "and god allow me at some time to reward you of the service." the dwarf laid himself down on a mattress before messire gawain, and when he saw that he slept, he ariseth as quickly as he may, and cometh to a boat that was on the river that ran behind the hall, and entereth thereinto and roweth up-stream of the river. and he cometh to a fishery, where was a right fair hall on a little eyot enclosed by a marshy arm of the river. the jealous knight was come thither for disport, and lay in the midst of the hall upon a couch. the dwarf cometh forth of his boat thereinto, and lighteth a great candle in his fist and cometh before the couch. "what ho, there!" saith the dwarf, "are you sleeping?" and the other waketh up sore startled, and asketh what is the matter and wherefore is he come? "in god's name," saith he, "you sleep not so much at your ease as doth messire gawain!" "how know you that?" saith he. "well know i," saith the dwarf, "for i left him but now in your hall, and methinketh he and your lady are abed together arm to arm." "how?" saith he, "i forbade her she should ever harbour messire gawain." "in faith," said the dwarf, "she hath made him greater cheer than ever saw i her make to none other! but haste you and come, for great fear have i lest he carry her away!" "by my head!" saith the knight; "i will go not, howsoever it be! but she shall pay for it, even though she go!" "then of wrong will it be!" saith the dwarf, "as methinketh!" iii. messire gawain lay in the hall that was ware of nought of this. he seeth that day hath broken fair and clear, and ariseth up. the lady cometh to the door of the hall and seeth not the dwarf, whereby well she understandeth his treachery. she saith to messire gawain, "sir, for god's sake have pity upon me, for the dwarf hath betrayed me! and you withdraw yourself forth of our forest and help not to rescue me from the smart that my lord will make me suffer, great sin will you have thereof. for well know you, that of right ought i not to be held guilty toward my lord nor toward any other, for aught that you have done toward me or i toward you." "you say true," saith messire gawain. thereupon is he armed, and taketh leave of the lady and issueth forth of the fair hold and setteth him in an ambush in the forest nigh thereby. straightway behold the jealous knight where he cometh, he and his dwarf. he entereth into the hall. the lady cometh to meet him. "sir," saith she, "welcome may you be!" "and you," saith he, "shame and evil adventure may you have, as the most disloyal dame on live, for that this night have you harboured in my hostel and in my bed him that most have i warned you against!" "sir," saith she, "in your hostel did i harbour him, but never hath your bed been shamed by me, nor never shall be!" "you lie!" saith he, "like a false woman!" he armeth himself all incontinent and maketh his horse be armed, then maketh the lady go down and despoil her to her shirt, that crieth him mercy right sweetly and weepeth. he mounteth his horse and taketh his shield and his spear, and maketh the lady be taken of the dwarf by her tresses and maketh her be led before him into the forest. and he bideth above a pool where was a spring, and maketh her enter into the water that flowed forth full cold, and gathereth saplings in the forest for rods and beginneth to smite and beat her across upon her back and her breast in such sort that the stream from the spring was all bloody therewithal. and she began to cry out right loud, until at last messire gawain heareth her and draweth forth of the ambush wherein he was, and cometh thitherward a great gallop. "by my faith," saith the dwarf, "look you here where messire gawain cometh!" "by my faith," saith the knight, "now know i well that nought is there here but treachery, and that the matter is well proven!" by this time, messire gawain is come, and saith: "avoid, sir knight! wherefore slay you the best lady and most loyal that ever have i seen? never tofore have i found lady that hath done me so much honour, and this ought you to be well pleased to know, for neither in her bearing, nor in her speech, nor in herself found i nought save all goodness only. wherefore i pray you of franchise and of love that you forbear your wrath and that you set her forth of the water. and so will i swear on all the sacred hallows in this chapel that never did i beseech her of evil nor wantonness nor never had i no desire thereof." the knight was full of great wrath when he saw that messire gawain had not gone his way thence, and an anguish of jealousy burneth him heart and body and overburdeneth him of folly and outrage, and messire gawain that is still before him moveth him to yet further transgression. natheless, for the fear that he hath of him he speaketh to him: "messire gawain," saith he, "i will set her forth thence on one condition, that you joust at me and i at you, and, so you conquer me, quit shall she be of misdoing and of blame, but and if i shall conquer you, she shall be held guilty herein. such shall be the judgment in this matter." "i ask no better," saith messire gawain. iv. thereupon, the knight biddeth the dwarf make set the lady forth of the pool of the spring and make her sit in a launde whereas they were to joust. the knight draweth him back the better to take his career, and messire gawain cometh as fast as his horse may carry him toward marin the jealous. and when marin seeth him coming, he avoideth his buffet and lowereth his spear and cometh to his wife that was right sore distraught, and wept as she that suffered blameless, and smote her through, out the body and slew her, and then turneth him again so fast as his horse might carry him toward his hold. messire gawain seeth the damsel dead and the dwarf that fleeth full speed after his lord. he overtaketh him and trampleth him under his horses feet so that he bursteth his belly in the midst. then goeth he toward the hold, for he thinketh to enter therein. but he found the bridge shut up and the gate barred. and marin crieth out upon him. "this shame and misadventure hath befallen me along of you, but you shall pay for it yet and i may live." messire gawain hath no mind to argue with him, but rather draweth him back and cometh again to where the lady lay dead, and setteth her on the neck of his horse all bleeding, and then beareth her to a chapel that was without the entrance of the hold. then he alighted and laid her within the chapel as fairly as most he might, as he that was sore grieved and wrathful thereof. after that, he shut the door of the chapel again as he that was afeared of the body for the wild beasts, and bethought him that one should come thither to set her in her shroud and bury her after that he was departed. v. thereupon messire gawain departeth, sore an-angered, for it seemed him that never had no thing tofore befallen him that weighed so heavy on his heart. and he rideth thoughtful and down-cast through the forest, and seeth a knight coming along the way he came. and in strange fashion came he. he bestrode his horse backwards in right outlandish guise, face to tail, and he had his horse's reins right across his breast and the base of his shield bore he topmost and the chief bottommost, and his spear upside down and his habergeon and chausses of iron trussed about his neck. he seeth messire gawain coming beside the forest, that hath great wonderment of him when he seeth him. natheless, when they draw nigh, he turneth him not to look at messire gawain, but crieth to him aloud: "gentle knight, you that come there, for god's sake do me no hurt, for i am the knight coward." "by god," saith messire gawain, "you look not like a man to whom any ought to do hurt!" and, but for the heaviness of his heart and the sore wrath that he had, he would have laughed at his bearing with a right good will. "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "nought have you to be afeard of from me!" with that he draweth anigh and looketh on him in the face and the knight coward on him. "sir," saith he, "welcome may you be!" "and you likewise!" saith messire gawain. "and whose man are you, sir knight?" "the damsel's man of the car." "thereof i love you the better," saith messire gawain. "god be praised thereof," saith the knight coward, "for now shall i have no fear of you." "nay, truly," saith messire gawain, "thereof be well assured!" the knight coward seeth messire gawain's shield and knoweth it. "ha, sir," saith he, "now know i well who you are. now will i alight and ride the right way and set my arms to rights. for you are messire gawain, nor hath none the right to claim this shield but only you." the knight alighteth and setteth his armour to rights, and prayeth messire gawain abide until he be armed. so he abideth right willingly, and helpeth him withal. thereupon behold you a knight where he cometh a great gallop athwart the forest like a tempest, and he had a shield party black and white. "abide, messire gawain!" saith he, "for on behalf of marin the jealous do i defy you, that hath slain his wife on your account." "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "thereof am i right heavy of heart, for death had she not deserved." "that availeth nor," saith the party knight, "for i hold you to answer for the death. so i conquer you, the wrong is yours; but, and you conquer me, my lord holdeth his blame and shame for known and will hold you to forfeit and you allow me to escape hence on live." "to this will i not agree," saith messire gawain, "for god well knoweth that no blame have i herein." "ha, messire gawain," saith the knight coward, "fight him not as having affiance in me, for of me will you have neither succour nor help!" "heretofore," saith messire gawain, "have i achieved adventures without you, and this also, and god help me, will i yet achieve." they come together a full career and break their lances on their shields, and messire gawain hurtleth against the horse and passeth beyond and overthroweth him and his horse together. then draweth he his sword and runneth upon him. and the knight crieth out: "hold, messire gawain! are you minded to slay me? i yield me conquered, for no mind have i to die for another's folly, and so i cry you mercy hereof." messire gawain thinketh that he will do him no further harm, for that of right behoveth him do his lord's bidding. messire gawain holdeth his hands, and he doth him homage on behalf of his lord for his hold and all of his land and becometh his man. vi. thereupon the knight departeth and messire gawain remaineth there. "sir," saith the knight coward to messire gawain, "i have no mind to be so hardy as are you; for, so god help me, had he defied me in such-wise as he defied you, should have fled away forthwith, or elsewise i should hay fallen at his feet and cried him of mercy." "you wish for nought but peace," saith messire gawain. "by s. james," saith the coward, "therein are you quite right, for of war cometh nought but evil; nor never have i had no hurt nor wound saw some branch of a tree or the like gave it me, and i see your face all seamed and scarred in many places. so god help me, of such hardiesse make i but small account, and every day i pray god that he defend me. and so to god i commend you, for i am going after my damsel of the car." "not thus shall you go," saith messire gawain, "save you tell me first wherefore your damsel of the car beareth her arm slung to her neck in such-wise." "sir, this may i well tell you. with this hand serve she of the most holy-graal the knight that was in the hostel of king fisherman that would not ask whereof the graal served; for that she held therein the precious vessel whereinto the glorious blood fell drop by drop from the point of the lance, so that none other thing is she minded to hold therein until such time as she shall come back to the holy place where it is. sir," saith the knight coward, "now, so please you, may i well go hence, and see, here is my spear that i give you, for nought is there that i have to do therewithal." messire gawain taketh it, for his own was broken short, and departeth from the knight and commendeth him to god. and he goeth his way a great pace, and messire gawain also goeth amidst the forest, and full weary is he and forspent with travail. and he rode until the sun was due to set. and he meeteth a knight that was coming athwart the forest and came toward messire gawain a great gallop like as he were smitten through the body, and crieth over all the forest: "what is your name, sir knight?" "my name is gawain." "ha, messire gawain," saith the other, "in your service am i wounded thus!" "how in my service?" saith messire gawain. "sir, i was minded to bury the damsel that you bare into the chapel, and marin the jealous ran upon me and wounded me in many places in such manner as you see. and i had already dug a grave with my sword to bury the body when he seized it from me and abandoned it to the wild beasts. now go i hence yonder to the chapel of a hermit that is in this forest to confess me, for well know i that i have not long to live for that the wound lieth me so nigh my heart. but i shall die the more easily now that i have found you and shown you the hurt that hath been done me for your sake." "certes," saith messire gawain, "this grieveth me." vii. therewithal the knights depart asunder, and messire gawain rode on until he found in the forest a castle right fair and rich, and met an ancient knight that was issued forth of the castle for disport, and held a bird on his fist. he saluteth messire gawain and he him again, and he asked him what castle is this that he seeth show so fair? and he telleth him it is the castle of the proud maiden that never deigned ask a knight his name. "and we, that are her men, durst not do it on her behalf. but right well will you be lodged in the castle, for right courteous is she otherwise and the fairest that ever any may know. nor never hath she had any lord, nor deigned to love no knight save she heard tell that he was the best knight in the world. and i will go to her with you of courtesy." "gramercy, sir," saith messire gawain. they enter into the castle both twain together, and alight at the mounting-stage before the hall. the knight taketh messire gawain by the hand and leadeth him up, and maketh disarm him, and bringeth him a surcoat of scarlet purfled of vair and maketh him do it on. then leadeth he the lady of the castle to messire gawain, and he riseth up to meet her. "lady," saith he "welcome may you be!" "and you, sir, be welcome!" saith she, "will you see my chapel?" "damsel," saith he, "at your pleasure." and she leadeth him and taketh messire gawain by the hand, and he looketh at the chapel and it well seemeth him that never before had he come into none so fair nor so rich, and he seeth four tombs within, the fairest that he had seen ever. and on the right hand side of the chapel were three narrow openings in the wall that were wrought all about with gold and precious stones, and beyond the three openings he seeth great circlets of lighted candles that were before three coffers of hallows that were there, and the smell thereof was sweeter than balm. "sir knight," saith the damsel, "see you these tombs?" "yea, damsel," saith messire gawain. "these three are made for the three best knights in the world and the fourth for me. the one hath for name messire gawain and the second lancelot of the lake. each of them do i love for love's sake, by my faith! and the third hath for name perceval. him love i better than the other two. and within these three openings are the hallows set for love of them. and behold what i would do to them and their three heads were therein; and so i might not do it to the three together, yet would i do it to two, or even to one only." she setteth her hand toward the openings and draweth forth a pin that was fastened into the wall, and a cutting blade of steel droppeth down, of steel sharper than any razor, and closeth up the three openings. "even thus will i cut off their heads when they shall set them into those three openings thinking to adore the hallows that are beyond. afterward will i make take the bodies and set them in the three coffins, and do them be honoured and enshrouded right richly, for joy of them in their life may i never have. and when the end of my life shall be come as god will, even so will i make set me in the fourth coffin, and so shall i have company of the three good knights." messire gawain heard the word, whereof he marvelled right sore, and would right fain that the night were overpassed. they issue forth of the chapel. the damsel maketh messire gawain be greatly honoured that night, and there was great company of knights within that served him and helped guard the castle. they show messire gawain much worship, but they knew not that it was he, nor did none ask him, for such was the custom of the castle. but well she knew that he oftentimes passed to and fro amidst the forest, and four of the knights that watched the forest and the passers-by had she commanded that and if any of these three knights should pass they should bring him to her without gainsay, and she would increase the land of each for so doing. viii. messire gawain was in the castle that night until the morrow, and went to hear mass in the chapel or ever he removed thence. afterward, when he had heard mass and was armed, he took leave of the damsel and issued forth of the castle as he that had no desire to abide there longer. and he entereth into the forest and rideth a long league welsh and findeth two knights sitting by a narrow path in the forest. and when they see him coming they leap up on their horses all armed and come against messire gawain, shields on sides and spears in fists. "bide, sir knight!" say they, "and tell us your name without leasing!" "lords," saith he, "right willingly! never hath my name been withholden when it hath been asked for. i am called gawain, king arthur's nephew." "nay, then, sir, welcome may you be! one other demand have we to make of you. will you come with us to the lady in the world who most desireth you, and will make much joy of you at castle orguelleux where she is?" "lord," saith messire gawain, "no leisure have i at this time, for i have emprised my way else-whither." "sir," say they, "needs must you come thither without fail, for in such wise hath she commanded us that we shall take you thither by force an you come not of your own good-will." "i have told you plainly that thither will i not go," saith messire gawain. with that, they leap forward and take him by the bridle, thinking to lead him away by force. and messire gawain hath shame thereof, and draweth his sword and smiteth one of them in such wrath that he cutteth off his arm. and the other letteth the bridle go and turneth him full speed; and his fellow with him that was maimed. and away go they toward castle orguelleux and the proud maiden of the castle and show her the mischief that hath befallen them. "who hath mis-handled you thus?" saith she. "certes, lady, messire gawain." "where found you him?" "lady," say they, "in the forest, where he came toward us a full gallop, and was minded to pass by the narrows of the way, when we bade him abide and come to you. but come he would not. we offered him force, and he smote my fellow's arm off." she biddeth a horn be sounded incontinent, and the knights of the castle arm, and she commandeth them follow messire gawain, and saith that she will increase the land and the charge of him that shall bring him to her. they were a good fifteen knights armed. just as they were about to issue out of the castle, behold you forthwith two keepers of the forest where they come, both twain of them smitten through the body. the damsel and the knights ask who hath done this to them, and they say it was messire gawain that did it, for that they would have brought him to the castle. "is he far away?" saith the damsel. "yea," say they, "four great leagues welsh." "wherefore the greater folly would it be to follow him," saith one of the sixteen knights, "for nought should we increase thereby save only our own shame and hurt, and my lady hath lost him through her own default, for well know we that he it was that lay within, for that he beareth a shield sinople with a golden eagle." "yea," saith the wounded knight, "without fail." "is this then he?" saith the damsel. "i know him well now that i have lost him by my pride and by my outrage; nor never more will knight lie in my hostel sith that he will be estranged for that i ask not his name. but it is too late! herein have i failed of this one for ever and ever save god bring him back to me, and through this one shall i lose the other two!" ix. herewithal cometh to a stay the pursuit of messire gawain, that goeth his way and prayeth god that he send him true counsel of that he hath emprised, and that he allow him to come into some place where he may hear true witting of the hostel of king fisherman. and while he was thus thinking, he heareth a brachet questing, and he cometh toward him a great pace. when he is come anigh messire gawain he setteth his nose to the ground and findeth a track of blood through a grassy way in the forest, and when messire gawain was minded to leave the way where the track of blood was, the brachet came over against him and quested. messire gawain is minded not to abandon the track, wherefore he followeth the brachet a great pace until he cometh to a marish in the midst of the forest, and seeth there in the marish a house, ancient and decayed. he passeth with the brachet over the bridge, that was right feeble, and there was a great water under it, and cometh to the hall, that was wasted and old. and the brachet leaveth of his questing. messire gawain seeth in the midst of house a knight that was stricken right through the breast unto the heart and there lay dead. a damsel was issuing forth of the chamber and bare the winding-sheet wherein to enshroud him. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "good adventure may you have!" the damsel that was weeping right tenderly, saith to him: "sir, i will answer you not." she cometh toward the dead knight, thinking that his wounds should have begun to bleed afresh, but they did not. "sir," saith she to messire gawain, "welcome may you be!" "damsel," saith he. "god grant you greater joy than you have!" and the damsel saith to the brachet: "it was not this one i sent you back to fetch, but him that slew this knight." "know you then, damsel, who hath slain him?" saith messire gawain. "yea," saith she, "well! lancelot of the lake slew him in this forest, on whom god grant me vengeance, and on all them of king arthur's court, for sore mischief and great hurt have they wrought us! but, please god, right well shall this knight yet be avenged, for a right fair son hath he whose sister am i, and so hath he many good friends withal." "damsel, to god i commend you!" saith messire gawain. with that, he issueth forth of the waste manor and betaketh him back to the way he had abandoned, and prayeth god grant he may find lancelot of the lake. branch v. incipit. here beginneth again another branch of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. messire gawain goeth his way and evening draweth on; and on his right hand was there a narrow pathway that seemed him to be haunted of folk. thitherward goeth he, for that he seeth the sun waxeth low, and findeth in the thick of the forest a great chapel, and without was a right fair manor. before the chapel was an orchard enclosed of a wooden fence that was scarce so high as a tall man. a hermit that seemed him a right worshipful man was leaning against the fence, and looked into the orchard and made great cheer from time to time. he seeth messire gawain, and cometh to meet him, and messire gawain alighteth. "sir," saith the hermit, "welcome may you be." "god grant you the joy of paradise," saith messire gawain. the hermit maketh his horse be stabled of a squire, and then taketh him by the hand and maketh him sit beside him to look on the orchard. "sir," saith the hermit, "now may you see that whereof i was making cheer." messire gawain looketh therewithin and seeth two damsels and a squire and a child that were guarding a lion. "sir," saith the hermit, "here see my joy, which is this child. saw you ever so fair a child his age?" "never," saith messire gawain. they go into the orchard to sit, for the evening was fair and calm. he maketh disarm him, and thereupon the damsel bringeth him a surcoat of right rich silk furred of ermine. and messire gawain looketh at the child that rode upon the lion right fainly. "sir," saith the hermit, "none durst guard him or be master over him save this child only, and yet the lad is not more than six years of age. sir, he is of right noble lineage, albeit he is the son of the most cruel man and most felon that is. marin the jealous is his father, that slew his wife on account of messire gawain. never sithence that his mother was dead would not the lad be with his father, for well knoweth he that he slew her of wrong. and i am his uncle, so i make him be tended here of these damsels and these two squires, but no one thing is there that he so much desireth to see as messire gawain. for after his father's death ought he of right to be messire gawain's man. sir, if any tidings you know of him, tell us them." "by my faith, sir," saith he, "tidings true can i give you. lo, there is his shield and his spear, and himself shall you have this night for guest." "fair sir, are you he?" saith the hermit. "so men call me," saith messire gawain, "and the lady saw i slain in the forest, whereof was i sore an-angered." ii. "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "see here your desire. come to him and make him cheer." the lad alighteth of the lion and smiteth him with a whip and leadeth him to the den and maketh the door so that he may not issue forth, and cometh to messire gawain, and messire gawain receiveth him between his arms. "sir," saith the child, "welcome may you be!" "god give you growth of honour!" saith messire gawain. he kisseth him and maketh cheer with him right sweetly. "sir," saith the hermit, "he will be of right your man, wherefore ought you to counsel him and help him, for through you came his mother by her death, and right sore need will he have of your succour." the child kneeleth before him and holdeth up his joined hands. "look, sir," saith the hermit, "is he not right pitiful? he offereth you his homage." and messire gawain setteth his hands within his own: "certes," saith messire gawain, "both your honour and your homage receive i gladly, and my succour and my counsel shall you have so often as you shall have need thereof. but fain would i know your name?" "sir, i am called meliot of logres." "sir," saith the hermit, "he saith true, for his mother was daughter of a rich earl of the kingdom of logres." iii. messire gawain was well harboured the night and lay in a right fair house and right rich. in the morning, when messire gawain had heard mass, the hermit asked him, "whitherward go you?" and he said, "toward the land of king fisherman, and god allow me." "messire gawain," saith the hermit, "now god grant you speed your business better than did the other knight that was there before you, through whom are all the lands fallen into sorrow, and the good king fisherman languisheth thereof." "sir," saith messire gawain, "god grant me herein to do his pleasure." thereupon he taketh his leave and goeth his way, and the hermit commendeth him to god. and messire gawain rideth on his journeys until he hath left far behind the forest of the hermitage, and findeth the fairest land in the world and the fairest meadowlands that ever had he seen, and it lasted a good couple of great leagues welsh. and he seeth a high forest before him, and meeteth a squire that came from that quarter, and seeth that he is sore downcast and right simple. "fair friend," saith messire gawain, "whence come you?" "sir," saith he, "i come from yonder forest down below." "whose man are you?" saith messire gawain. "i belong to the worshipful man that owneth the forest." "you seem not over joyful," saith messire gawain. "sir, i have right to be otherwise," saith the squire, "for he that loseth his good lord ought not to be joyful." "and who is your lord?" "the best in the world." "is he dead?" saith messire gawain. "nay, of a truth, for that would be right sore grief to the world, but in joy hath he not been this long time past." "and what name hath he?" "they call him parlui there where he is." "and where then, is he, may i know?" "in no wise, sir, of me; but so much may i well tell you that he is in this forest, but i ought not to learn you of the place more at large, nor ought i to do any one thing that may be against my master's will." messire gawain seeth that the squire is of passing comeliness and seeth him forthwith bow his head toward the ground and the tears fall from his eyes. thereupon he asketh what aileth him. "sir," saith he, "never may i have joy until such time as i be entered into a hermitage to save my soul. for the greatest sin that any man may do have i wrought; for i have slain my mother that was a queen, for this only that she told me i should not be king after my father's death, for that she would make me monk or clerk, and that my other brother, who is younger-born than i, should have the kingdom. when my father knew that i had slain my mother, he withdrew himself into this forest, and made a hermitage and renounced his kingdom. i have no will to hold the land for the great disloyalty that i have wrought, and therefore am i resolved that it is meeter i should set my body in banishment than my father." "and what is your name?" saith messire gawain. "sir, my name is joseus, and i am of the lineage of joseph of abarimacie. king pelles is my father, that is in this forest, and king fisherman mine uncle, and the king of castle mortal, and the widow lady of camelot my aunt, and the good knight par-lui-fet is of this lineage as near akin as i." iv. with that, the squire departeth and taketh leave of messire gawain, and he commendeth him to god and hath great pity of him, and entereth into the forest and goeth great pace, and findeth the stream of a spring that ran with a great rushing, and nigh thereunto was a way that was much haunted. he abandoneth his high-way, and goeth all along the stream from the spring that lasteth a long league plenary, until that he espieth a right fair house and right fair chapel well enclosed within a hedge of wood. he looketh from without the entrance under a little tree and seeth there sitting one of the seemliest men that he had ever seen of his age. and he was clad as a hermit, his head white and no hair on his face, and he held his hand to his chin, and made a squire hold a destrier right fair and strong and tail, and a shield with a sun thereon; and he was looking at a habergeon and chausses of iron that he had made bring before him. and when he seeth messire gawain he dresseth him over against him and saith: "fair sir," saith he, "ride gently and make no noise, for no need have we of worse than that we have." and messire gawain draweth rein, and the worshipful man saith to him: "sir, for god's sake take it not of discourtesy; for right fainly would i have besought you to harbour had i not good cause to excuse me, but a knight lieth within yonder sick, that is held for the best knight in the world. wherefore fain would i he should have no knight come within this close, for and if he should rise, as sick as he is, none might prevent him nor hold him back, but presently he should arm him and mount on his horse and joust at you or any other; and so he were here, well might we be the worse thereof. and therefore do i keep him so close and quiet within yonder, for that i would not have him see you nor none other, for and he were so soon to die, sore loss would it be to the world." "sir," saith messire gawain, "what name hath he?" "sir," saith he, "he hath made him of himself, and therefore do i call him par-lui-fer, of dearness and love." "sir," saith messire gawain, "may it not be in any wise that i may see him?" "sir," saith the hermit, "i have told you plainly that nowise may it not be. no strange man shall not see him within yonder until such time as he be whole and of good cheer." "sir," saith messire gawain, "will you in nowise do nought for me whatsoever i may say?" "certes, sir, no one thing is there in the world that i would tell him, save he spake first to me." hereof is messire gawain right sorrowful that he may not speak to the knight. "sir," saith he to the hermit, "of what age is the knight, and of what lineage?" "of the lineage of joseph of abarimacie the good soldier." v. thereupon behold you a damsel that cometh to the door of the chapel and calleth very low to the hermit, and the hermit riseth up and taketh leave of messire gawain, and shutteth the door of the chapel; and the squire leadeth away the destrier and beareth the arms within door and shutteth the postern door of the house. and messire abideth without and knoweth not of a truth whether it be the son of the widow lady, for many good men there be of one lineage. he departeth all abashed and entereth again into the forest. the history telleth not all the journeys that he made. rather, i tell you in brief words that he wandered so far by lands and kingdoms that he found a right fair land and a rich, and a castle seated in the midst thereof. thitherward goeth he and draweth nigh the castle and seeth it compassed about of high walls, and he seeth the entrance of the castle far without. he looketh and seeth a lion chained that lay in the midst of the entrance to the gate, and the chain was fixed in the wall. and on either side of the gate he seeth two serjeants of beaten copper that were fixed to the wall, and by engine shot forth quarrels from their cross-bows with great force and great wrath. messire gawain durst not come anigh the gate for that he seeth the lion and these folk. he looketh above on the top of the wall and seeth a sort of folk that seemed him to be of holy life, and saw there priests clad in albs and knights bald and ancient that were clad in ancient seeming garments. and in each crenel of the wall was a cross and a chapel. above the wall, hard by an issue from a great hall that was in the castle, was another chapel, and above the chapel was a tall cross, and on either side of this cross another that was somewhat lower, and on the top of each cross was a golden eagle. the priests and the knights were upon the walls and knelt toward this chapel, and looked up to heaven and made great joy, and well it seemed him that they beheld god in heaven with his mother. messire gawain looketh at them from afar, for he durst not come anigh the castle for these that shoot their arrows so strongly that none armour might defend him. way seeth he none to right nor left save he go back again. he knoweth not what to do. he looketh before him and seeth a priest issue forth of the gateway. "fair sir," saith messire gawain, "welcome may you be!" "good adventure to you also," saith the good man, "what is your pleasure?" "sir," saith messire gawain, "so please you, i would fain ask you to tell me what castle is this?" "it is," saith he, "the entrance to the land of the rich king fisherman, and within yonder are they beginning the service of the most holy graal." "allow me then," saith messire gawain, "that i may pass on further, for toward the land of king fisherman have i emprised my way." "sir," saith the priest, "i tell you of a truth that you may not enter the castle nor come nigher unto the holy graal, save you bring the sword wherewith s. john was beheaded." "what?" saith messire gawain, "shall i be evilly entreated and i bring it not?" "so much may you well believe me herein," saith the priest, "and i tell you moreover that he who hath it is the fellest misbelieving king that lives. but so you bring the sword, this entrance will be free to you, and great joy will be made of you in all places wherein king fisherman hath power." "then must i needs go back again," saith messire gawain, "whereof i have right to be sore sorrowful." "so ought you not to be," saith the priest, "for, so you bring the sword and conquer it for us, then will it be well known that you are worthy to behold the holy graal. but take heed you remember him who would not ask whereof it served." thereupon messire gawain departeth so sorrowful and full of thought that he remembereth not to ask in what land he may find the sword nor the name of the king that hath it. but he will know tidings thereof when god pleaseth. vi. the history telleth us and witnesseth that he rode so far that he came to the side of a little hill, and the day was right fair and clear. he looketh in front of him before a chapel and seeth a tall burgess sitting on a great destrier that was right rich and fair. the burgess espieth messire gawain and cometh over against him, and saluteth him right courteously and messire gawain him. "sir," saith messire gawain, "god give you joy." "sir," saith the goodman, "right sorrowful am i of this that you have a horse so lean and spare of flesh. better would it become so worshipful man as you seem to be that he were better horsed." "sir," saith messire gawain, "i may not now amend it, whereof am i sorry; another shall i have when it shall please god." "fair sir," saith the burgess, "whither are you bound to go?" "i go seek the sword wherewith the head of s. john baptist was cut off." "ha, sir," saith the burgess, "you are running too sore a peril. a king hath it that believeth not in god, and is sore fell and cruel. he is named gurgalain, and many knights have passed hereby that went thither for the sword, but never thence have they returned. but, and you are willing to pledge me your word that so god grant you to conquer the sword, you will return hither and show it me on your return, i will give you this destrier, which is right rich, for your own." "will you?" saith messire gawain, "then are you right courteous, for you know me not." "certes, sir," saith he, "so worshipful man seem you to be, that you will hold well to this that you have covenanted with me." "and to this do i pledge you my word," saith messire gawain, "that, so god allow me to conquer it, i will show it to you on my return." vii. thereupon the burgess alighteth and mounteth upon messire gawain's horse, and messire gawain upon his, and taketh leave of the burgess and goeth his way and entereth into a right great forest beyond the city, and rideth until sundown and findeth neither castle nor city. and he findeth a meadow in the midst of the forest, right broad, and it ran on beyond, like as there were the stream of a spring in the midst. he looketh toward the foot of the meadow close by the forest, and seeth a right large tent, whereof the cords were of silk and the pegs of ivory fixed in the ground, and the tops of the poles of gold and upon each was a golden eagle. the tent was white round about, and the hanging above was of the richest silk, the same as red samite. thitherward goeth messire gawain and alighteth before the door of the tent, and smiteth off the bridle of his horse, and letteth him feed on the grass, and leaneth his spear and his shield without the tent, and looketh narrowly within and seeth a right rich couch of silk and gold, and below was a cloth unfolded as it were a feather-bed, and above a coverlid of ermine and vair without any gold, and at the head of the couch two pillows so rich that fairer none ever saw, and such sweet smell gave they forth that it seemed the tent was sprinkled of balm. and round about the couch were rich silken cloths spread on the ground. and at the head of the couch on the one side and the other were two seats of ivory, and upon them were two cushions stuffed with straw, right rich, and at the foot of the couch, above the bed, two candlesticks of gold wherein were two tall waxen tapers. a table was set in the midst of the tent, that was all of ivory banded of gold, with rich precious stones, and upon the table was the napkin spread and the basin of silver and the knife with an ivory handle and the rich set of golden vessels. messire gawain seeth the rich couch and setteth him down thereon all armed in the midst, and marvelleth him wherefore the tent is so richly apparelled and yet more that therein he seeth not a soul. howbeit, he was minded to disarm him. viii. thereupon, behold you, saluteth a dwarf that entereth the tent and saluteth messire gawain. then he kneeleth before him and would fain disarm him. then messire gawain remembereth him of the dwarf through whom the lady was slain. "fair sweet friend, withdraw yourself further from me, for as at this time i have no mind to disarm." "sir," saith the dwarf, "without misgiving may you do so, for until to-morrow have you no occasion to be on your guard, and never were you more richly lodged than to-night you shall be, nor more honourably." with that messire gawain began to disarm him, and the dwarf helpeth him. and when he was disarmed, he setteth his arms nigh the couch and his spear and sword and shield lying within the tent, and the dwarf taketh a basin of silver and a white napkin, and maketh messire gawain wash his hands and his face. afterward, he unfasteneth a right fair coffer, and draweth forth a robe of cloth of gold furred of ermine and maketh messire gawain be clad therewithal. "sir," saith the dwarf, "be not troubled as touching your destrier, for you will have him again when you rise in the morning. i will lead him close hereby to be better at ease, and then will i return to you." and messire gawain giveth him leave. thereupon, behold you, two squires that bear in the wine and set the meats upon the table and make messire gawain sit to eat, and they have great torches lighted on a tall cresset of gold and depart swiftly. whilst messire gawain was eating, behold you, thereupon, two damsels that come into the tent and salute him right courteously. and he maketh answer, the fairest he may. "sir," say the damsels, "god grant you force and power tomorrow to destroy the evil custom of this tent." "is there then any evil custom herein, damsel?" saith he. "yea, sir, a right foul custom, whereof much it grieveth me, but well meseemeth that you are the knight to amend it by the help of god." ix. therewith he riseth from the table, and one of the squires was apparelled to take away the cloths. and the two damsels take him by the hand and lead him without the tent, and they set them down in the midst of the meadow. "sir," saith the elder damsel, "what is your name?" "damsel," saith he, "gawain is my name." "thereof do we love you the better, for well we know that the evil custom of the tent shall be done away on condition that you choose to-night the one of us two that most shall please you." "damsel, gramercy," saith he. thereupon he riseth up, for he was weary, and draweth him toward the couch, and the damsels help him and wait upon his going to bed. and when he was lien down, they seated themselves before him and lighted the taper and leant over the couch and prospered him much service. messire gawain answered them naught save "gramercy," for he was minded to sleep and take his rest. "by god," saith the one to the other, "and this were messire gawain, king arthur's nephew, he would speak to us after another sort, and more of disport should we find in him than in this one. but this is a counterfeit gawain, and the honour we have done him hath been ill bestowed. who careth? to-morrow shall he pay his reckoning." x. thereupon, lo you, the dwarf where he cometh. "fair friend," say they, "keep good watch over this knight that he flee not away, for he goeth a-cadging from, hostel to hostel and maketh him be called messire gawain, but messire gawain meseemeth is he not. for, and it were he, and we had been minded to watch with him two nights, he would have wished it to be three or four." "damsel," saith the dwarf, "he may not flee away save he go afoot, for his horse is in my keeping." and messire gawain heareth well enough that which the damsels say, but he answereth them never a word. thereupon they depart, and say: god give him an ill night, for an evil knight and a vanquished and recreant, and command the dwarf that he move not on any occasion. messire gawain slept right little the night, and so soon as he saw the day, arose and found his arms ready and his horse that had been led all ready saddled before the tent. he armed himself as swiftly as he might, and the dwarf helpeth him and saith to him: "sir, you have not done service to our damsels as they would fain you should, wherefore they make sore complaint of you." "that grieveth me," saith messire gawain, "if that i have deserved it." "it is great pity," saith the dwarf, "when knight so comely as be you is so churlish as they say." "they may say their pleasure," saith he, "for it is their right. i know not to whom to render thanks for the good lodging that i have had save to god, and if i shall see the lord of the tent or the lady i shall con them much thanks thereof." xi. thereupon, lo you, where two knights come in front of the tent on their horses, all armed, and see messire gawain that was mounted and had his shield on his neck and his spear in his fist, as he that thinketh to go without doing aught further. and the knights come before him: "sir," say they, "pay for your lodging! last night did we put ourselves to misease on your account and left you the tent and all that is therein at your pleasure, and now you are fain to go in this fashion." "what pleaseth it you that i should do?" saith messire gawain. "it is meet i should requite you of my victual and the honour of the tent." thereupon, lo you, where the two damsels come that were of right great beauty. "sir knight," say they, "now shall we see whether you be king arthur's nephew!" "by my faith," saith the dwarf, "methinketh this is not he that shall do away the evil custom whereby we lose the coming hither of knights! albeit if he may do it, i will forego mine ill will toward him." messire gawain thus heard himself mocked by day as well as by night and had great shame thereof. he seeth that he may not depart without a fight. one of the knights drew to backward and was alighted; the other was upon his horse all armed, his shield on his neck and grasping his spear in his fist. and he cometh toward messire gawain full career and messire gawain toward him, and smiteth him so wrathfully that he pierceth his shield and pinneth his shield to his arm and his arm to his rib and thrusteth his spear into his body, and hurtleth against him so sore that he beareth him to the ground, him and his horse together at the first blow. "by my head! look at messire gawain the counterfeit! better doth he to-day than he did last night!" he draweth back his spear, and pulleth forth his sword and runneth upon him, when the knight crieth him mercy and saith that he holdeth himself vanquished. messire gawain bethinketh him what he shall do and whether the damsels are looking at him. "sir knight," saith the elder, "need you not fear the other knight until such time as this one be slain, nor will the evil custom be done away so long as this one is on live. for he is the lord of the other and because of the shameful custom hath no knight come hither this right long space." "hearken now," saith the knight, "the great disloyalty of her! nought in the world is there she loved so well in seeming as did she me, and now hath she adjudged me my death!" "again i tell you plainly," saith she, "that never will it be done away unless he slay you." thereupon messire gawain lifteth the skirt of his habergeon and thrusteth his sword into his body. thereupon, lo you, the other knight, right angry and sorrowful and full of wrath for his fellow that he seeth dead, and cometh in great rage to messire gawain and messire gawain to him, and so stoutly they mell together that they pierce the shields and pierce the habergeons and break the flesh of the ribs with the points of their spears, and the bodies of the knights and their horses hurtle together so stiffly that saddle-bows are to-frushed and stirrups loosened and girths to-brast and fewtres splintered and spears snapped short, and the knights drop to the ground with such a shock that the blood rayeth forth at mouth and nose. in the fall that the knight made, messire gawain brake his collar-bone in the hurtle. thereupon the dwarf crieth out: "damsel, your counterfeit gawain doth it well!" "our gawain shall he be," say they, "so none take him from us!" messire gawain draweth from over the knight and cometh toward his horse, and right fain would he have let the knight live had it not been for the damsels. for the knight crieth him mercy and messire gawain had right great pity of him. howbeit the damsels cry to him; "and you slay him not, the evil custom will not be overthrown." "sir," saith the younger damsel, "and you would slay him, smite him in the sole of his foot with your sword, otherwise will he not die yet." "damsel," saith the knight, "your love of me is turned to shame! never more ought knight to set affiance nor love on damsel. but god keep the other that they be not such as you!" messire gawain marvelleth at this that the damsel saith to him, and draweth him back, and hath great pity of the knight, and cometh to the other side whither the horses were gone, and taketh the saddle of the knight that was dead and setteth it on his own horse and draweth him away. and the wounded knight was remounted, for the dwarf had helped him, and fleeth toward the forest a great gallop. and the damsels cry out, "messire gawain, your pity will be our death this day! for the knight without pity is gone for succour, and if he escape, we shall be dead and you also!" xii. thereupon messire gawain leapeth on his horse and taketh a spear that was leaning against the tent and followeth the knight in such sort that he smiteth him to the ground. afterward he saith to him: "no further may you go!" "that grieveth me," saith the knight, "for before night should i have been avenged of you and of the damsels." and messire gawain draweth his sword and thrusteth it into the sole of his foot a full palm's breadth, and the knight stretcheth himself forth and dieth. and messire gawain returneth back, and the damsels make great joy of him and tell him that never otherwise could the evil custom have been done away. for, and he had gone his way, all would have been to begin over again, for he is of such kind seeing that he was of the kindred of achilles, and that all his ancestors might never otherwise die. and messire gawain alighteth, and the damsels would have searched the wound in his side, and he telleth them that he taketh no heed thereof. "sir," say they, "again do we proffer you our service, for well we know that you are a good knight. take for your lady-love which of us you will." "gramercy, damsel," saith messire gawain, "your love do i refuse not and to god do i commend you." "how?" say the damsels, "will you go your way thus? certes, meeter were it to-day for you to sojourn in this tent and be at ease." "it may not be," saith he, "for leisure have i none to abide here." "let him go!" saith the younger, "for the falsest knight is he of the world." "by my head," saith the elder, "it grieveth me that he goeth, for stay would have pleased me well." therewithal messire gawain departeth and is remounted on his horse. then he entereth into the forest. branch vi. incipit. another branch that josephus telleth us recounteth and witnesseth of the holy graal, and here beginneth for us in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. messire gawain rode until he came to a forest, and seeth a land right fair and rich in a great enclosure of wall, and round the land and country-side within, the wall stretched right far away. thitherward he cometh and seeth but one entrance thereinto, and he seeth the fairest land that ever he beheld and the best garnished and the fairest orchards. the country was not more than four leagues welsh in length, and in the midst thereof was a tower on a high rock. and on the top was a crane that kept watch over it and cried when any strange man came into the country. messire gawain rode amidst the land and the crane cried out so loud that the king of wales heard it, that was lord of the land. thereupon, behold you, two knights that come after messire gawain and say to him: "hold, sir knight, and come speak with the king of this country, for no strange knight passeth through his land but he seeth him." "lords," saith messire gawain, "i knew not of the custom. willingly will i go." they led him thither to the hall where the king was, and messire gawain alighteth and setteth his shield and his spear leaning against a mounting stage and goeth up into the hall. the king maketh great joy of him and asketh him whither he would go? "sir," saith messire gawain, "into a country where i was never." "well i know," saith the king, "where it is, for that you are passing through my land. you are going to the country of king gurgalain to conquer the sword wherewith s. john was beheaded." ii. "sir," saith messire gawain, "you say true. god grant me that i may have it!" "that may not be so hastily," saith the king, "for you shall not go forth of my land before a year." "ha, sir," saith messire gawain, "for god's sake, mercy!" "none other mercy is here," saith the king. straightway he maketh messire gawain be disarmed and afterward maketh bring a robe wherewith to apparel him, and showeth him much honour. but ill is he at ease, wherefore he saith to him: "sir, wherefore are you fain to hold me here within so long?" "for this, that i know well you will have the sword and will not return by me." "sir," saith messire gawain, "i pledge you my word that, so god give me to conquer it, i will return by you." "and i will allow you to depart from me at your will. for nought is there that i so much desire to see." he lay the night therewithin, and on the morrow departed thence and issued forth of the land right glad and joyful. and he goeth toward the land of king gurgalain. and he entereth into a noisome forest at the lower part and findeth at the right hour of noon a fountain that was enclosed of marble, and it was overshadowed of the forest like as it were with leaves down below, and it had rich pillars of marble all round about with fillets of gold and set with precious stones. against the master-pillar hung a vessel of gold by a silver chain, and in the midst of the fountain was an image so deftly wrought as if it had been alive. when messire appeared at the fountain, the image set itself in the water and was hidden therewith. messire gawain goeth down, and would fain have taken hold on the vessel of gold when a voice crieth out to him: "you are not the good knight unto whom is served thereof and who thereby is made whole." messire gawain draweth him back and seeth a clerk come to the fountain that was young of age and clad in white garments, and he had a stole on his arm and held a little square vessel of gold, and cometh to the little vessel that was hanging on the marble pillar and looketh therein, and then rinseth out the other little golden vessel that he held, and then setteth the one that he held in the place of the other. therewithal, behold, three damsels that come of right great beauty, and they had white garments and their heads were covered with white cloths, and they carried, one, bread in a little golden vessel, and the other wine in a little ivory vessel, and the third flesh in one of silver. and they come to the vessel of gold that hung against the pillar and set therein that which they have brought, and afterward they make the sign of the cross over the pillar and come back again. but on their going back, it seemed to messire gawain that only one was there. messire gawain much marvelled him of this miracle. he goeth after the clerk that carried the other vessel of gold, and saith unto him: "fair sir, speak to me." "what is your pleasure?" saith the clerk. "whither carry you this golden vessel and that which is therein?" "to the hermits," saith he, "that are in this forest, and to the good knight that lieth sick in the house of his uncle king hermit." "is it far from hence?" saith messire gawain. "yea, sir," saith the clerk, "to yourself. but i shall be there sooner than will you." "by god," saith messire gawain, "i would fain i were there now, so that i might see him and speak to him." "that believe i well," saith the clerk, "but now is the place not here." messire gawain taketh leave and goeth his way and rideth until he findeth a hermitage and seeth the hermit therewithout. he was old and bald and of good life. "sir," saith he to messire gawain, "whither go you?" "to the land of king gurgalain, sir; is this the way?" "yea," saith the hermit, "but many knights have passed hereby that hither have never returned." "is it far?" saith he. "he and his land are hard by, but far away is the castle wherein is the sword." messire gawain lay the night therewithin. on the morrow when he had heard mass, he departed and rode until he cometh to the land of king gurgalain, and heareth the folk of the land making dole right sore. and he meeteth a knight that cometh a great pace to a castle. iv. "sir," saith messire gawain, "wherefore make the folk of this castle such dole, and they of all this land and all this country? for i hear them weep and beat their palms together on every side." "sir," saith he, "i will tell you. king gurgalain had one only son of whom he hath been bereft by a giant that hath done him many mischiefs and wasted much of his land. now hath the king let everywhere be cried that to him that shall bring back his son and slay the giant he will give the fairest sword of the world, the which sword he hath, and of all his treasure so much as he may be fain to take. as at this time, he findeth no knight so hardy that he durst go; and much more blameth he his own law than the law of the christians, and he saith that if any christian should come into his land, he would receive him." right joyous is messire gawain of these tidings, and departeth from the castle and rideth on until he cometh to the castle of king gurgalain. the tidings come to the king that there is a christian come into his castle. the king maketh great joy thereof, and maketh him come before him and asketh him of his name and of what land he is. "sir," saith he, "my name is gawain and i am of the land of king arthur." "you are," saith he, "of the land of the good knight. but of mine own land may i find none that durst give counsel in a matter i have on hand. but if you be of such valour that you be willing to undertake to counsel me herein, right well will i reward you. a giant hath carried off my son whom i loved greatly, and so you be willing to set your body in jeopardy for my son, i will give you the richest sword that was ever forged, whereby the head of s. john was cut off. every day at right noon is it bloody, for that at that hour the good man had his head cut off." the king made fetch him the sword, and in the first place showeth him the scabbard that was loaded of precious stones and the mountings were of silk with buttons of gold, and the hilt in likewise, and the pommel of a most holy sacred stone that enax, a high emperor of rome, made be set thereon. then the king draweth it forth of the scabbard, and the sword came forth thereof all bloody, for it was the hour of noon. and he made hold it before messire gawain until the hour was past, and thereafter the sword becometh as clear as an emerald and as green. and messire looketh at it and coveteth it much more than ever he did before, and he seeth that it is as long as another sword, albeit, when it is sheathed in the scabbard, neither scabbard nor sword seemeth of two spans length. v. "sir knight," saith the king, "this sword will i give you, and another thing will i do whereof you shall have joy." "sir," saith messire gawain, "and i will do your need, if god please and his sweet mother." thereupon he teacheth him the way whereby the giant went, and the place where he had his repair, and messire gawain goeth his way thitherward and commendeth himself to god. the country folk pray for him according to their belief that he may back repair with life and health, for that he goeth in great peril. he hath ridden until that he cometh to a great high mountain that lay round about a land that the giant had all laid waste, and the enclosure of the mountain went round about for a good three leagues welsh, and therewithin was the giant, so great and cruel and horrible that he feared no man in the world, and for a long time had he not been sought out by any knight, for none durst won in that quarter. and the pass of the mountain whereby he went to his hold was so strait that no horse might get through; wherefore behoveth messire gawain leave his horse and his shield and spear and to pass beyond the mountain by sheer force, for the way was like a cut between sharp rocks. he is come to level ground and looketh before him and seeth a hold that the giant had on the top of a rock, and espieth the giant and the lad where they were sitting on the level ground under a tree. messire gawain was armed and had his sword girt on, and goeth his way thitherward. and the giant seeth him coming and leapeth up and taketh in hand a great axe that was at his side, and cometh toward messire gawain all girded for the fight and thinketh to smite him a two-handed stroke right amidst the head. but messire gawain swerveth aside and bestirreth him with his sword and dealeth him a blow such that he cut off his arm, axe and all. and the giant returneth backward when he feeleth himself wounded, and taketh the king's son by the neck with his other hand and grippeth him so straitly that he strangleth and slayeth him. then he cometh back to messire gawain and falleth upon him and grippeth him sore strait by the flanks, and lifteth him three foot high off the ground and thinketh to carry him to his hold that was within the rock. and as he goeth thither he falleth, messire gawain and all, and he lieth undermost. howbeit, he thinketh to rise, but cannot, for messire gawain sendeth him his sword right through his heart and beyond. afterward, he cut off the head and cometh there where the king's child lay dead, whereof is he right sorrowful. and he beareth him on his neck, and taketh the giant's head in his hand and returneth there where he had left his horse and shield and spear, and mounteth and cometh back and bringeth the king's son before the king and the head of the giant hanging. vi. the king and all they of the castle come to meet him with right great joy, but when they see the young man dead, their great joy is turned into right great dole thereby. and messire gawain alighteth before the castle and presenteth to the king his son and the head of the giant. "certes," said he, "might i have presented him to you on live, much more joyful should i have been thereof." "this believe i well," saith the king, "howbeit, of so much as you have done am i well pleased, and your guerdon shall you have." and he looketh at his son and lamenteth him right sweetly, and all they of the castle after him. thereafter he maketh light a great show of torches in the midst of the city, and causeth a great fire to be made, and his son be set thereon in a brazen vessel all full of water, and maketh him be cooked and sodden over this fire, and maketh the giant's head be hanged at the gate. vii. when his son was well cooked, he maketh him be cut up as small as he may, and biddeth send for all the high men of his land and giveth thereof to each so long as there was any left. after that he maketh bring the sword and giveth it to messire gawain, and messire gawain thanketh him much thereof. "more yet will i do for you," saith the king. he biddeth send for all the men of his land to come to his hall and castle. "sir," saith he, "i am fain to baptize me." "god be praised thereof," saith messire gawain. the king biddeth send for a hermit of the forest, and maketh himself be baptized, and he had the name of archis in right baptism; and of all them that were not willing to believe in god, he commanded messire gawain that he should cut off their heads. viii. in such wise was this king baptized that was the lord of albanie, by the miracle of god and the knighthood of messire gawain, that departeth from the castle with right great joy and rideth until he has come into the land of the king of wales and bethought him he would go fulfil his pledge. he alighted before the hall, and the king made right great cheer when he saw him come. and messire gawain hath told him: "i come to redeem my pledge. behold, here is the sword." and the king taketh it in his hand and looketh thereon right fainly, and afterward maketh great joy thereof and setteth it in his treasury and saith: "now have i done my desire." "sir," saith messire gawain, "then have you betrayed me." "by my head," saith the king, "that have i not, for i am of the lineage of him that beheaded s. john, wherefore have i better right to it than you." "sir," say the knights to the king, "right loyal and courteous knight is messire gawain, wherefore yield him that which he hath conquered, for sore blame will you have of evil-treating him." "i will yield it," saith the king "on such condition that the first damsel that maketh request of him, what thing soever she may require and whatsoever it be shall not be denied of him." and messire gawain agreeth thereto, and of this agreement thereafter did he suffer much shame and anguish and was blamed of many knights. and the king yielded him the sword. he lay the night therewithin, and on the morrow so soon as he might, he departed and rode until he came without the city where the burgess gave him the horse in exchange for his own. and he remembered him of his covenant, and abideth a long space and leaneth him on the hilt of his sword until the burgess cometh. therewithal made they great joy the one of the other, and messire showeth him the sword, and the burgess taketh it and smiteth his horse with his spurs and goeth a great gallop toward the city. and messire gawain goeth after a great pace and crieth out that he doth great treachery. "come not after me into the city," saith the burgess, "for the folk have a commune." howbeit, he followeth after into the city for that he might not overtake him before, and therein he meeteth a great procession of priests and clerks that bore crosses and censers. and messire gawain alighteth on account of the procession, and seeth the burgess that hath gone into the church and the procession after. "lords," saith messire gawain, "make yield me the sword whereof this burgess that hath entered your church hath plundered me." "sir," say the priests, "well know we that it is the sword wherewith s. john was beheaded, wherefore the burgess hath brought it to us to set with our hallows in yonder, and saith that it was given him." "ha, lords!" saith messire gawain, "not so! i have but shown it to him to fulfil my pledge. and he hath carried it off by treachery." afterward he telleth them as it had befallen him, and the priests make the burgess give it up, and with great joy messire gawain departeth and remounteth his horse and issueth forth of the city. he hath scarce gone far before he meeteth a knight that came all armed, as fast as his horse could carry him, spear in rest. "sir," saith he to messire gawain, "i have come to help you. we were told that you had been evil-entreated in the city, and i am of the castle that succoureth all strange knights that pass hereby whensoever they have need thereof." "sir," saith messire gawain, "blessed be the castle! i plain me not of the trespass for that right hath been done me. and how is the castle named?" "sir, they call it the castle of the ball. will you return back thither with me, since you are delivered, and lodge there the night with messire, that is a right worshipful man, and of good conditions?" therewith they go together to the castle, that was right fair and well-seeming. they enter in, and when they were within, the lord, that sate on a mounting-stage of marble, had two right fair daughters, and he made them play before him with a ball of gold, and looked at them right fainly. he seeth messire gawain alight and cometh to meet him and maketh him great cheer. afterward, he biddeth his two daughters lead him into the hall. ix. when he was disarmed, the one brought him a right rich robe, and after meat the two maidens sit beside him and make him right great cheer. thereupon behold you, a dwarf that issueth forth of a chamber, and he holdeth a scourge. and he cometh to the damsels and smiteth them over their faces and their heads. "rise up," saith he, "ye fools, ill-taught! ye make cheer unto him whom you ought to hate! for this is messire gawain, king arthur's nephew, by whom was your uncle slain!" thereupon they rise, all ashamed, and go into the chamber, and messire gawain remaineth there sore abashed. but their father comforteth him and saith: "sir, be not troubled for aught that he saith, for the dwarf is our master: he chastiseth and teacheth my daughters, and he is wroth for that you have slain his brother, whom you slew the day that marin slew his wife on your account, whereof we are right sorrowful in this castle." "so also am i," saith messire gawain, "but no blame of her death have i nor she, as god knoweth of very truth." x. messire gawain lay the night at the castle, and departed on the morrow, and rode on his journeys until he cometh to the castle at the entrance to the land of the rich king fisherman, where he seeth that the lion is not at the entrance nor were the serjeants of copper shooting. and he seeth in great procession the priests and them of the castle coming to meet him, and he alighteth, and a squire was apparelled ready, that took his armour and his horse, and he showeth the sword to them that were come to meet him. it was the hour of noon. he draweth the sword, and seeth it all bloody, and they bow down and worship it, and sing 'te deum laudamus'. with such joy was messire gawain received at the castle, and he set the sword back in his scabbard, and kept it right anigh him, and made it not known in all the places where he lodged that it was such. the priests and knights of the castle make right great joy, and pray him right instantly that so god should lead him to the castle of king fisherman, and the graal should appear before him, he would not be so forgetful as the other knights. and he made answer that he would do that which god should teach him. xi. "messire gawain," saith the master of the priests, that was right ancient: "great need have you to take rest, for meseemeth you have had much travail." "sir, many things have i seen whereof i am sore abashed, nor know i what castle this may be." "sir," saith the priest, "this castle is the castle of inquest, for nought you shall ask whereof it shall not tell you the meaning, by the witness of joseph, the good clerk and good hermit through whom we have it, and he knoweth it by annunciation of the holy ghost." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "i am much abashed of the three damsels that were at the court of king arthur. two of them carried, the one the head of a king and the other of a queen, and they had in a car an hundred and fifty heads of knights whereof some were sealed in gold, other in silver, and the rest in lead." "true," saith the priest, "for as by the queen was the king betrayed and killed, and the knights whereof the heads were in the car, so saith she truth as joseph witnesseth to us, for he saith of remembrance that by envy was adam betrayed, and all the people that were after him and the people that are yet to come shall have dole thereof for ever more. and for that adam was the first man is he called king, for he was our earthly father, and his wife queen. and the heads of the knights sealed in gold signify the new law, and the heads sealed in silver the old, and the heads sealed in lead the false law of the sarrazins. of these three manner of folk is the world stablished." "sir," saith messire gawain, "i marvel of the castle of the black hermit, there where the heads were all taken from her, and the damsel told me that the good knight should cast them all forth when he should come. and the other folk that are therewithin are longing for him." "well know you," saith the priest, "that on account of the apple that eve gave adam to eat, all went to hell alike, the good as well as the evil, and to cast his people forth from hell did god become man, and cast these souls forth from hell of his bounty and of his puissance. and to this doth joseph make us allusion by the castle or the black hermit which signifieth hell, and the good knight that shall thence cast forth them that are within. and i tell you that the black hermit is lucifer, that is lord of hell in like manner as he fain would have been lord of paradise." "sir," saith the priest, "by this significance is he fain to draw the good hermits on behalt of the new law wherein the most part are not well learned, wherefore he would fain make allusion by ensample." "by god," saith messire gawain, "i marvel much of the damsel that was all bald, and said that never should she have her hair again until such time as the good knight should have achieved the holy graal." "sir," saith the good man, "each day full bald behoveth her to be, ever since bald she became when the good king fell into languishment on account of the knight whom he harboured that made not the demand. the bald damsel signifieth joseu josephus, that was bald before the crucifixion of our lord, nor never had his hair again until such time as he had redeemed his people by his blood and by his death. the car that she leadeth after her signifieth the wheel of fortune, for like as the car goeth on the wheels, doth she lay the burden of the world on the two damsels that follow her; and this you may see well, for the fairest followeth afoot and the other was on a sorry hackney, and they were poorly clad, whereas the third had costlier attire. the shield whereon was the red cross, that she left at the court of king arthur, signifieth the most holy shield of the rood that never none durst lift save god alone." messire gawain heareth these significances and much pleaseth him thereof, and thinketh him that none durst set his hand to nor lift the shield that hung in the king's hall, as he had heard tell in many places; wherefore day by day were they waiting for the good knight that should come for the shield. xii. "sir," saith messire gawain, "by this that you tell me you do me to wit that whereof i was abashed, but i have been right sorrowful of a lady that a knight slew on my account albeit no blame had she therein, nor had i." "sir," saith the priest, "right great significance was there in her death, for josephus witnesseth us that the old law was destroyed by the stroke of a sword without recover, and to destroy the old law did our lord suffer himself to be smitten in the side of a spear. by this stroke was the old law destroyed, and by his crucifixion. the lady signifieth the old law. would you ask more of me?" saith the priest. "sir," saith messire gawain, "i met a knight in the forest that rode behind before and carried his arms upside down. and he said that he was the knight coward, and his habergeon carried he on his neck, and so soon as he saw me he set his arms to rights and rode like any other knight." "the law was turned to the worse," saith the priest, "before our lord's crucifixion, and so soon as he was crucified, was again restored to right." "even yet have i not asked you of all," saith messire gawain, "for a knight came and jousted with me party of black and white, and challenged me of the death of the lady on behalf of her husband, and told me and i should vanquish him that he and his men would be my men. i did vanquish him and he did me homage." "it is right," saith the priest, "on account of the old law that was destroyed were all they that remained therein made subject, and shall be for ever more. wish you to enquire of aught further?" saith the priest. "i marvel me right sore," saith messire gawain, "of a child that rode a lion in a hermitage, and none durst come nigh the lion save the child only, and he was not of more than six years, and the lion was right fell. the child was the son of the lady that was slain on my account." "right well have you spoken," saith the priest, "in reminding me thereof. the child signifieth the saviour of the world that was born under the old law and was circumcised, and the lion whereon he rode signifieth the world and the people that are therein, and beasts and birds that none may govern save by virtue of him alone." "god!" saith messire gawain, "how great joy have i at heart of that you tell me! sir, i found a fountain in a forest, the fairest that was ever seen, and an image had it within that hid itself when it saw me, and a clerk brought a golden vessel and took another golden vessel that hung at the column that was there, and set his own in place thereof. afterward, came three damsels and filled the vessel with that they had brought thither, and straightway meseemed that but one was there." "sir," saith the priest, "i will tell you no more thereof than you have heard, and therewithal ought you to hold yourself well apaid, for behoveth not discover the secrets of the saviour, and them also to whom they are committed behoveth keep them covertly." xiii. "sir," saith messire gawain, "i would fain ask you of a king. when i had brought him his son back dead, he made him be cooked and thereafter made him be eaten of all the folk of his land." "sir," saith the priest, "already had he leant his heart upon jesus christ, and would fain make sacrifice of his flesh and blood to our lord, and for this did he make all those of his land eat thereof, and would fain that their thoughts should be even such as his own. and therefore was all evil belief uprooted from his land, so that none remained therein." "blessed be the hour," saith messire gawain, "that i came herewithin!" "mine be it!" saith the priest. messire gawain lay therewithin the night, and right well lodged was he. the morrow, when he had heard mass, he departed and went forth of the castle when he had taken leave. and he findeth the fairest land of the world and the fairest meadow-grounds that were ever seen, and the fairest rivers and forests garnished of wild deer and hermitages. and he rideth until he cometh one day as evening was about to draw on, to the house of a hermit, and the house was so low that his horse might not enter therein. and his chapel was scarce taller, and the good man had never issued therefrom of forty years past. the hermit putteth his head out of the window when he seeth messire gawain and saith, "sir, welcome may you be," saith he. "sir, god give you joy, will you give me lodging to-night?" saith messire gawain. "sir, herewithin none harboureth save the lord god alone, for earthly man hath never entered herewithin but me this forty year, but see, here in front is the castle wherein the good knights are lodged." "what is the castle?" "sir, the good king fisherman's, that is surrounded with great waters and plenteous in all things good, so the lord were in joy. but behoveth them harbour none there save good knights only." "god grant," saith messire gawain, "that i may come therein." xiv. when he knoweth that he is nigh the castle, he alighteth and confesseth him to the hermit, and avoweth all his sins and repenteth him thereof right truly. "sir," saith the hermit, "now forget not, so god be willing to allow you, to ask that which the other knight forgat, and be not afeard for ought you may see at the entrance of the castle, but ride on without misgiving and adore the holy chapel you will see appear in the castle, there where the flame of the holy spirit descendeth each day for the most holy graal and the point of the lance that is served there." "sir," saith messire gawain, "god teach me to do his will!" he taketh leave, and goeth his way and rideth until the valley appeareth wherein the castle is seated garnished of all things good, and he seeth appear the most holy chapel. he alighteth, and then setteth him on his knees and boweth him down and adoreth right sweetly. thereafter he remounteth and rideth until he findeth a sepulchre right rich, and it had a cover over, and it lay very nigh the castle, and it seemed to be within a little burial-ground that was enclosed all round about, nor were any other tombs therein. a voice crieth to him as he passeth the burial-ground: "touch not the sepulchre, for you are not the good knight through whom shall it be known who lieth therein." messire gawain passeth beyond when he had heard the voice and draweth nigh the entrance of the castle, and seeth that three bridges are there, right great and right horrible to pass. and three great waters run below, and him seemeth that the first bridge is a bowshot in length and in breadth not more than a foot. strait seemeth the bridge and the water deep and swift and wide. he knoweth not what he may do, for it seemeth him that none may pass it, neither afoot nor on horse. xv. thereupon, lo you, a knight that issueth forth of the castle and cometh as far as the head of the bridge, that was called the bridge of the eel, and shouteth aloud: "sir knight, pass quickly before it shall be already night, for they of the castle are awaiting us." "ha," saith messire gawain, "fair sir, but teach me how i may pass hereby." "certes, sir knight, no passage know i to this entrance other than this, and if you desire to come to the castle, pass on without misgiving." messire gawain hath shame for that he hath stayed so long, and forthinketh him of this that the hermit told him, that of no mortal thing need he be troubled at the entrance of the castle, and therewithal that he is truly confessed of his sins, wherefore behoveth him be the less adread of death. he crosseth and blesseth himself and commendeth himself to god as he that thinketh to die, and so smiteth his horse with his spurs and findeth the bridge wide and large as soon as he goeth forward, for by this passing were proven most of the knights that were fain to enter therein. much marvelled he that he found the bridge so wide that had seemed him so narrow. and when he had passed beyond, the bridge, that was a drawbridge, lifted itself by engine behind him, for the water below ran too swiftly for other bridge to be made. the knight draweth himself back beyond the great bridge and messire gawain cometh nigh to pass it, and this seemed him as long as the other. and he seeth the water below, that was not less swift nor less deep, and, so far as he could judge, the bridge was of ice, feeble and thin, and of a great height above the water, and he looked at it with much marvelling, yet natheless not for that would he any the more hold back from passing on toward the entrance. he goeth forward and commendeth himself to god, and cometh in the midst thereof and seeth that the bridge was the fairest and richest and strongest he had ever beheld, and the abutments thereof were all full of images. when he was beyond the bridge, it lifted itself up behind him as the other had done, and he looketh before him and seeth not the knight, and is come to the third bridge and nought was he adread for anything he might see. and it was not less rich than the other, and had columns of marble all round about, and upon each a knop so rich that it seemed to be of gold. after that, he beholdeth the gate over against him, and seeth our lord there figured even as he was set upon the rood, and his mother of the one side and s. john of the other, whereof the images were all of gold, with rich precious stones that flashed like fire. and on the right hand he seeth an angel, passing fair, that pointed with his finger to the chapel where was the holy graal, and on his breast had he a precious stone, and letters written above his head that told how the lord of the castle was the like pure and clean of all evil-seeming as was this stone. xvi. thereafter at the entrance of the gate he seeth a lion right great and horrible, and he was upright upon his feet. so soon as he seeth messire gawain, he croucheth to the ground, and messire gawain passeth the entrance without gainsay and cometh to the castle, and alighteth afoot, and setteth his shield and his spear against the wall of the hall, and mounteth up a flight of marble steps and cometh into a hall right fair and rich, and here and there in divers places was it painted with golden images. in the midst thereof he findeth a couch right fair and rich and high, and at the foot of this couch was a chess-board right fair and rich, with an orle of gold all full of precious stones, and the pieces were of gold and silver and were not upon the board. meanwhile, as messire gawain was looking at the beauty of the chess-board and the hall, behold you two knights that issue forth of a chamber and come to him. "sir," say the knights, "welcome may you be." "god give you joy and good adventure," saith messire gawain. they make him sit upon the couch and after that make him be disarmed. they bring him, in two basins of gold, water to wash his face and hands. after that, come two damsels that bring him a rich robe of silk and cloth of gold. then they make him do on the same. then say the two damsels to him, "take in good part whatsoever may be done to you therewithin, for this is the hostel of good knights and loyal." "damsels," saith messire gawain, "so will i do. gramercy of your service." he seeth well that albeit the night were dark, within was so great brightness of light without candles that it was marvel. and it seemed him the sun shone there. wherefore marvelled he right sore whence so great light should come. xvii. when messire gawain was clad in the rich robe, right comely was he to behold, and well seemed he to be a knight of great valour. "sir," say the knights, "may it please you come see the lord of this castle?" "right gladly will i see him," saith he, "for i would fain present him with a rich sword." they lead him into the chamber where lay king fisherman, and it seemed as it were all strown and sprinkled of balm, and it was all strown with green herbs and reeds. and king fisherman lay on a bed hung on cords whereof the stavs were of ivory; and therein was a mattress of straw whereon he lay, and above a coverlid of sables whereof the cloth was right rich. and he had a cap of sables on his head covered with a red samite of silk, and a golden cross, and under his head was a pillow all smelling sweet of balm, and at the four corners of the pillow were four stones that gave out a right great brightness of light; and over against him was a pillar of copper whereon sate an eagle that held a cross of gold wherein was a piece of the true cross whereon god was set, as long as was the cross itself; the which the good man adored. and in four tall candle sticks of gold were four tall wax tapers set as often as was need. messire gawain cometh before the king and saluteth him. and the king maketh him right great cheer, and biddeth him be welcome. "sir," saith messire gawain, "i present you with the sword whereof john was beheaded." "gramercy." saith the king: "certes, i knew well that you would bring it, for neither you nor other might have come in hither without the sword, and if you had not been of great valour you would not have conquered it." he taketh the sword and setteth it to his mouth and so kisseth it right sweetly and maketh right great joy thereof. and a damsel cometh to sit at the head of the bed, to whom he giveth the sword in keeping. two others sit at his feet that look at him right sweetly. "what is your name?" saith the king. "sir, my name is gawain." "ha, messire gawain," saith he, "this brightness of light that shineth there within cometh to us of god for love of you. for every time that a knight cometh hither to harbour within this castle it appeareth as brightly as you see it now. and greater cheer would i make you than i do were i able to help myself, but i am fallen into languishment from the hour that the knight of whom you have heard tell harboured herewithin. on account of one single word he delayed to speak, did this languishment come upon me. wherefore i pray you for god's sake that you remember to speak it, for right glad should you be and you may restore me my health. and see here is the daughter of my sister that hath been plundered of her land and disinherited in such wise that never can she have it again save through her brother only whom she goeth to seek; and we have been told that he is the best knight of the world, but we can learn no true tidings of him." "sir," saith the damsel to her uncle the king, "thank messire gawain of the honour he did to my lady-mother when he came to her hostel. he stablished our land again in peace, and conquered the keeping of the castle for a year, and set my lady-mother's five knights there with us to keep it. the year hath now passed, wherefore will the war be now renewed against us and god succour us not, and i find not my brother whom we have lost so long." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "i helped you so far as i might, and so would i again and i were there. and fainer am i to see your brother than all the knights of the world. but no true tidings may i hear of him, save so much, that i was at a hermitage where was a king hermit and he bade me make no noise for that the best knight of the world lay sick therewithin, and he told me that name was par-lui-fet. i saw his horse being led by a squire before the chapel, and his arms and shield whereon was a sun figured." "sir," saith the damsel, "my brother's name is not par-lui-fet, but perlesvax in right baptism, and it is said of them that have seen him that never comelier knight was known." "certes," saith the king, "never saw i comelier than he that came in hither nor better like to be good knight, and i know of a truth that such he is, for otherwise never might he have entered hereinto. but good reward of harbouring him had i not, for i may help neither myself nor other. for god's sake, messire gawain, hold me in remembrance this night, for great affiance have i in your valour." "certes, sir, please god, nought will i do within yonder, whereof i may be blamed of right." xviii. thereupon messire gawain was led into the hall and findeth twelve ancient knights, all bald, albeit they seemed not to be so old as they were, for each was of a hundred year of age or more and yet none of them seemed as though he were forty. they have set messire gawain to eat at a right rich table of ivory and seat themselves all round about him. "sir," saith the master of the knights, "remember you of that the good king hath prayed of you and told you this night as you have heard." "sir," saith messire gawain, "god remember it!" with that bring they larded meats of venison and wild-boar's flesh and other in great plenty, and on the table was rich array of vessels of silver and great cups of gold with their covers, and the rich candlesticks where the great candles were burning, albeit their brightness was hidden of the great light that appeared within. xix. thereon, lo you, two damsels that issue forth of a chapel, whereof the one holdeth in her hands the most holy graal, and the other the lance whereof the point bleedeth thereinto. and the one goeth beside the other in the midst of the hall where the knights and messire gawain sat at meat, and so sweet a smell and so holy came to them therefrom that they forgat to eat. messire gawain looketh at the graal, and it seemed him that a chalice was therein, albeit none there was as at this time, and he seeth the point of the lance whence the red blood ran thereinto, and it seemeth him he seeth two angels that bear two candlesticks of gold filled with candles. and the damsels pass before messire gawain, and go into another chapel. and messire gawain is thoughtful, and so great a joy cometh to him that nought remembereth he in his thinking save of god only. the knights are all daunted and sorrowful in their hearts, and look at messire gawain. thereupon behold you the damsels that issue forth of the chamber and come again before messire gawain, and him seemeth that he seeth three there where before he had seen but two, and seemeth him that in the midst of the graal he seeth the figure of a child. the master of the knights beckoneth to messire gawain. messire gawain looketh before him and seeth three drops of blood fall upon the table. he was all abashed to look at them and spake no word. xx. therewith the damsels pass forth and the knights are all adread and look one at the other. howbeit messire gawain may not withdraw his eyes from the three drops of blood, and when he would fain kiss them they vanish away, whereof he is right sorrowful, for he may not set his hand nor aught that of him is to touch thereof. therewithal behold you the two damsels that come again before the table and seemeth to messire gawain that there are three, and he looketh up and it seemeth him to be the graal all in flesh, grid he seeth above, as him thinketh, a king crowned, nailed upon a rood, and the spear was still fast in his side. messire gawain seeth it and hath great pity thereof, and of nought doth he remember him save of the pain that this king suffereth. and the master of the knights summoneth him again by word of mouth, and telleth him that if he delayeth longer, never more will he recover it. messire gawain is silent, as he that heareth not the knight speak, and looketh upward. but the damsels go back into the chapel and carry back the most holy graal and the lance, and the knights make the tablecloths be taken away and rise from meat and go into another hall and leave messire gawain all alone. and he looketh all around and seeth the doors all shut and made fast, and looketh to the foot of the hall and seeth two candlesticks with many candles burning round about the chessboard, and he seeth that the pieces are set, whereof the one sort are silver and the other gold. messire gawain sitteth at the game, and they of gold played against him and mated him twice. at the third time, when he thought to revenge himself and saw that he had the worse, he swept the pieces off the board. and the damsel issued forth of a chamber and made a squire take the chess-board and the pieces and so carry them away. and messire gawain, that was way-worn of his wanderings to come thither where he now hath come, slept upon the couch until the morrow when it was day, and he heard a horn sound right shrill. xxi. thereupon he armeth him and would fain go to take leave of king fisherman, but he findeth the doors bolted so that he may not get forth. and right fair service seeth he done in a chapel, and right sorrowful is he for that he may not hear the mass. a damsel cometh into the hall and saith to him: "sir, now may you hear the service and the joy that is made on account of the sword you presented to the good king, and right glad at heart ought you to have been if you had been within the chapel. but you lost entering therein on account of a right little word. for the place of the chapel is so hallowed of the holy relics that are therein that man nor priest may never enter therein from the saturday at noon until the monday after mass." and he heard the sweetest voices and the fairest services that were ever done in chapel. messire gawain answereth her not a word so is he abashed. howbeit the damsel saith to him: "sir, god be guardian of your body, for methinketh that it was not of your own default that you would not speak the word whereof this castle would have been in joy." with that the damsel departeth and messire gawain heareth the horn sound a second time and a voice warning him aloud: "he that is from without, let him go hence! for the bridges are lowered and the gate open, and the lion is in his den. and thereafter behoveth the bridge be lifted again on account of the king of the castle mortal, that warreth against this castle, and therefore of this thing shall he die." xxii. thereupon messire gawain issueth forth of the hall and findeth his horse all made ready at the mounting-stage, together with his arms. he goeth forth and findeth the bridges broad and long, and goeth his way a great pace beside a great river that runneth in the midst of the valley. and he seeth in a great forest a mighty rain and tempest, and so strong a thunderstorm ariseth in the forest that it seemeth like all the trees should be uprooted. so great is the rain and the tempest that it compelleth him set his shield over his horse's head lest he be drowned of the abundance of rain. in this mis-ease rideth he down beside the river that runneth in the forest until he seeth in a launde across the river a knight and a damsel right gaily appointed riding at pleasure, and the knight carrieth a bird on his fist, and the damsel hath a garland of flowers on her head. two brachets follow the knight. the sun shineth right fair on the meadow and the air is right clear and fresh. messire gawain marvelleth much of this, that it raineth so heavily on his way, whereas, in the meadow where the knight and the damsel are riding, the sun shineth clear and the weather is bright and calm. and he seeth them ride joyously. he can ask them naught for they are too far away. messire gawain looketh about and seeth on the other side the river a squire nearer to him than is the knight. "fair friend" saith messire gawain, "how is this that it raineth upon me on this side the river, but on the other raineth it not at all?" "sir," saith the squire, "this have you deserved, for such is the custom of the forest." "will this tempest that is over me last for ever?" saith messire gawain. "at the first bridge you come to will it be stayed upon you," saith the squire. xxiii. therewith the squire departeth, and the tempest rageth incontinent until he is come to the bridge; and he rideth beyond and cometh to the meadow, and the storm is stayed so that he setteth his shield to rights again upon his neck. and he seeth before him a castle where was a great company of folk that were making great cheer. he rideth until he cometh to the castle and seeth right great throng of folk, knights and dames and damsels. messire gawain alighteth, but findeth in the castle none that is willing to take his reins, so busied are they making merry. messire gawain presenteth himself on the one side and the other, but all of them avoid him, and he seeth that he maketh but an ill stay therewithin for himself, wherefore he departeth from the castle and meeteth a knight at the gate. "sir," saith he, "what castle is this?" "and see you not," saith the knight, "that it is a castle of joy?" "by my faith" saith messire gawain, "they of the castle be not over-courteous, for all this time hath none come to take my reins." "not for this lose they their courtesy," saith the knight, "for this is no more than you have deserved. they take you to be as slothful of deed as you are of word, and they saw that you were come through the forest perilous whereby pass all the discomfited, as well appeareth by your arms and your horse." therewith the knight departeth, and messire gawain hath ridden a great space sorrowful and sore abashed, until he cometh to a land parched and poor and barren of all comfort, and therein findeth he a poor castle, whereinto he cometh and seeth it much wasted, but that within was there a hall that seemed haunted of folk. and messire gawain cometh thitherward and alighteth, and a knight cometh down the steps of the hall right poorly clad. "sir," saith the knight to messire gawain, "welcome may you be!" after that, he taketh him by the hand and leadeth him upward to the hall, that was all waste. therewithal issue two damsels from a chamber, right poorly clad, that were of passing great beauty, and make great cheer to messire gawain. so, when he was fain to disarm, behold you thereupon a knight that entereth into the hall, and he was smitten with the broken end of a lance through his body. he seeth messire gawain, whom he knoweth. "now haste!" saith he, "and disarm you not! right joyful am i that i have found you! i come from this forest wherein have i left lancelot fighting with four knights, whereof one is dead, and they think that it is you, and they are of kindred to the knight that you slew at the tent where you destroyed the evil custom. i was fain to help lancelot, when one of the knights smote me as you may see." messire gawain goeth down from the hall and mounteth all armed upon his horse. xxiv. "sir," saith the knight of the hall, "i would go help you to my power, but i may not issue forth of the castle until such time as it be replenished of the folk that are wont to come therein and until my land be again given up to me through the valour of the good knight." messire gawain departeth from the castle as fast as horse may carry him, and entereth the forest and followeth the track of the blood along the way the knight had come, and rideth so far in the forest as that he heareth the noise of swords, and seeth in the midst of the launde lancelot and the three knights, and the fourth dead on the ground. but one of the knights had drawn him aback, for he might abide the combat no longer, for the knight that brought the tidings to messire gawain had sore wounded him. the two knights beset lancelot full sore, and right weary was he of the buffets that he had given and received. messire gawain cometh to one of the knights and smiteth him right through the body and maketh him and his horse roll over all of a heap. xxv. when lancelot perceiveth messire gawain, much joy maketh he thereof. in the meanwhile as the one held the other, the fourth knight fled full speed through the midst of the forest, and he that the knight had wounded fell dead. they take their horses, and messire gawain telleth lancelot he hath the most poverty-stricken host that ever he hath seen, and the fairest damsels known, but that right poorly are they clad. "shall we therefore take them of our booty?" "i agree," saith lancelot, "but sore grieveth me of the knight that hath thus escaped us." "take no heed," saith messire gawain, "we shall do well enough herein." thereupon they return back toward the poor knight's hostel and alight before the hall, and the poor knight cometh to meet them, and the two damsels, and they deliver to them the three horses of the three knights that were dead. the knight hath great joy thereof, and telleth them that now is he a rich man and that betimes will his sisters be better clad than are they now, as well as himself. xxvi. thereupon come they into the hall. the knight maketh one of his own squires stable the horses and the two damsels help disarm lancelot and messire gawain. "lords," saith the knight, "so god help me, nought have i to lend you wherewith to clothe you, for robe have i none save mine own jerkin." lancelot hath great pity thereof and messire gawain, and the two damsels take off their kirtles that were made like surcoats of cloth that covered their poor shirts, and their jackets that, were all to-torn and ragged and worn, and present them to the knights to clothe them. they were fain not to refuse, lest the damsels should think they held them not in honour, and did on the two kirtles right poor as they were. the damsels had great joy thereof that so good knights should deign wear garments so poor. "lords," saith the poor knight, "the knight that brought the tidings hither, and was stricken through of a lance-shaft, is dead and lieth on a bier in a chapel within the castle, and he confessed himself right well to a hermit and bade salute you both, and was right fain you should see him after that he were dead, and he prayed me instantly that i would ask you to be to-morrow at his burial, for better knights than be ye might not be thereat, so he told me." "certes," saith lancelot, "a good knight was he, and much mischief is it of his death; and sore grieveth me that i know not his name nor of what country he was." "sir," saith messire gawain, "he said that you should yet know it well." the two good knights lay the night at the castle, and the poor knight lodged them as well as he might. when it cometh to morning, they go to the chapel to hear mass and to be at the burial of the body. after that they take leave of the poor knight and the two damsels and depart from the castle all armed. "messire gawain," saith lancelot, "they know not at court what hath become of you, and they hold you for dead as they suppose." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "thitherward will i go, for i have had sore travail, and there will i abide until some will shall come to me to go seek adventure." he recounteth to lancelot how the graal hath appeared to him at the court of king fisherman: "and even as it was there before me, i forgat to ask how it served and of what?" "ha, sir," saith lancelot, "have you then been there?" "yea," saith he, "and thereof am i right sorry and glad: glad for the great holiness i have seen, sorry for that i asked not that whereof king fisherman prayed me right sweetly." "sir," saith lancelot, "right sorely ill have you wrought, nor is there not whereof i have so great desire as i have to go to his castle." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "much shamed was i there, but this doth somewhat recomfort me, that the best knight was there before me that gat blame thereof in like manner as i." lancelot departeth from messire gawain, and they take leave either of other. they issue forth of a forest, and each taketh his own way without saying a word. branch vii. title i. here the story is silent of messire gawain and beginneth to speak of lancelot, that entereth into a forest and rideth with right great ado and meeteth a knight in the midst of the forest that was coming full speed and was armed of all arms. "sir," saith lancelot, "whence come you?" "sir," saith lancelot, "i come from the neighbourhood of king arthur's court." "ha, sir, can you tell me tidings of a knight that beareth a green shield such as i bear? if so, he is my brother." "what name hath he?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith he, "his name is gladoens, and he is a good knight and a hardy, and he hath a white horse right strong and swift." "be there other knights in your country that bear such arms as your shield and his besides you and he?" "certes, sir, none." "and wherefore do you ask?" saith lancelot. "for this, that a certain man hath reft him of one of his castles for that he was not there. howbeit, i know well that he will have it again through his good knighthood." "is he so good knight?" saith lancelot. "certes, sir, yea! he is the best of the isles of the moors." "sir, of your mercy, lower your coif." he quickly thereon lowereth his coif, and lancelot looketh at him in the face. "certes, sir knight," saith he, "you very much resemble him." "ha, sir," saith the knight, "know you then any tidings of him?" "certes, sir," saith he, "yea! and true tidings may i well say, for he rode at my side five leagues welsh, nor never saw i one man so like another as are you to him." "good right hath he to resemble me," saith the knight, "for we are twins, but he was born first and hath more sense and knighthood than i; nor in all the isles of the moors is there damsel that hath so much worth and beauty as she of whom he is loved of right true love, and more she desireth to see him than aught else that liveth, for she hath not seen him of more than a year, wherefore hath she gone seek her prize, my brother, by all the forests of the world. sir," saith the knight, "let me go seek my brother, and tell me where i may find him." "certes," saith lancelot, "i will tell you though it grieve me sore." "wherefore?" saith the knight, "hath he done you any mis-deed?" "in no wise," saith lancelot, "rather hath he done so much for me that i love you thereof and offer you my service." "sir," saith the knight, "i am going my way, but for god's sake tell me where i shall find my brother." "sir," saith lancelot, "i will tell you. this morning did i bid his body farewell and help to bury him." "ha, sir," saith the knight, "do you tell me true?" "certes," saith lancelot, "true it is that i tell you." "is he slain then, my brother?" saith the knight. "yea, and of succouring me," saith lancelot. "ha, sir," saith the knight, "for god's sake tell me nought that is not right." "by god, sir," saith he, "sore grieved am i to tell it you, for never loved i knight so much in so brief a time as i loved him. he helped to save me from death, and therefore will i do for you according to that he did for me." "sir," saith the knight, "if he be dead, a great grief is it to myself, for i have lost my comfort and my life and my land without recovery." "sir," saith lancelot, "he helped me to save my life, and yours will i help to save henceforth for ever and so be that i shall know of your jeopardy." the knight heareth that his brother is dead and well believeth lancelot, and beginneth to make dole thereof the greatest that was ever heard. and lancelot saith to him, "sir knight, let be this dole, for none recovery is there; but my body do i offer you and my knighthood in any place you please, where i may save your honour." "sir," saith the knight, "with good will receive i your help and your love, sith that you deign to offer me the same, and now have i sorer need of them than ever. sir," saith the knight, "sith that my brother is dead, i will return back and bear with my wrong, though well would he have amended it had he been on live." "by my head," saith lancelot, "i will go with you, that so may i reward you of that he hath done for me. he delivered his body to the death for me, and in like manner freely would i fain set mine own in jeopardy for love of you and of him." ii. "sir," saith the knight, "right good will do i owe you of this that you say to me, so your deeds be but the same herein." "yea, so help me god," saith lancelot, "the same shall they be, if god lend me the power." with that, they go on their way together, and the knight comforteth him much of that which lancelot hath said to him, but of the death of his brother was he right sorrowful. and they ride until they come to the land of the moors; then espy they a castle upon a rock, and below was a broad meadow-land. "sir," saith the knight of the green shield to lancelot, "this castle was my brother's and is now mine, and much it misliketh me that it hath fallen to me on this wise. and the knight that reft it of my brother is of so great hardihood that he feareth no knight on live, and you will presently see him issue forth of this castle so soon as he shall perceive you." lancelot and the knight ride until they draw nigh the castle. and the knight looketh in the way before him, and seeth a squire coming on a hackney, that was carrying before him a wild boar dead. the knight of the green shield asketh him whose man he is, and the squire maketh answer: "i am man of the lord of the rock gladoens, that cometh there behind, and my lord cometh all armed, he and others, for the brother of gladoens hath defied him on behalf of his brother, but right little recketh my lord of his defiance." iii. lancelot heareth how he that is coming is the enemy of him to whom had he been alive, his love most was due. the knight of the green shield pointed him out so soon as he saw him. "sir," saith he to lancelot, "behold him by whom i am disherited, and yet worse would he do to me and he knew that my brother were dead." lancelot, without saving more, so soon as he had espied the knight of the rock, smiteth his horse with his spurs and cometh toward him. the lord of the rock, that was proud and hardy, seeth lancelot coming and smiteth with his spurs the horse whereon he sitteth. they come with so swift an onset either upon other that they break their spears upon their shields, and hurtle together so sore that the knight of the rock gladoens falleth over the croup of his horse. lancelot draweth his sword and cometh above him, and he crieth him mercy and asketh him wherefore he wisheth to slay him? lancelot saith for the sake of gladoens from whom he hath reft his land and his castle. "and what is that to you?" saith the knight. "behoveth his brother challenge me thereof." "as much it behoveth me as his brother," saith lancelot. "wherefore you?" "for this," saith lancelot, "that as much as he did for me will i do to you." he cutteth off his head and giveth it incontinent to the knight of the green shield. "now tell me," saith lancelot, "sith that he is dead, is he purged of that whereof you appeached him?" "sir," saith the knight, "i hold him rightly quit thereof, for, sith that he is dead, all claim on behalf of his kindred is abated by his death." "and i pledge you my faith loyally," saith lancelot, "as i am a knight, that never shall you be in peril nor in jeopardy of aught wherein i may help you, so i be in place and free, but my help shall you have for evermore, for that your brother staked his life to help me." iv. lancelot and the knight lay the night at the rock gladoens, and the knight of the green shield had his land at his pleasure, and all were obedient to him. and the upright and loyal were right glad, albeit when they heard the tidings of gladoens' death they were right sorrowful thereof. lancelot departed from the castle on the morrow, and the knight remained therein, sorrowful for his brother that he had lost, and glad for the land that he had gotten again. lancelot goeth back right amidst the forest and rideth the day long, and meeteth a knight that was coming, groaning sore. and he was stooping over the fore saddle-bow for the pain that he had. he meeteth lancelot and saith to him: "sir, for god's sake, turn back, for you will find there the most cruel pass in the world there where i have been wounded through the body. wherefore i beseech you not go thither." "what pass is it then?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith he, "it is the pass of the castle of beards, and it hath the name of this, that every knight that passeth thereby must either leave his beard there or challenge the same, and in such sort have i challenged my beard that meseemeth i shall die thereof." "by my head," saith lancelot, "i hold not this of cowardize, sith that you were hardy to set your life in jeopardy to challenge your beard, but now would you argue me of cowardize when you would have me turn back. rather would i be smitten through the body with honour, so and i had not my death thereof, than lose with shame a single hair of my beard." "sir," saith the knight, "may god preserve you, for the castle is far more cruel than you think, and god guide the knight that may destroy the evil custom of the castle, for right shameful is the custom to strange knights that pass thereby." v. lancelot departeth from the knight and cometh toward the castle. just as he had passed over a great bridge, he looketh about and seeth two knights come all armed to the entrance of the castle, and they made hold their horses before them, and their shields and spears are before them leaning against the wall. lancelot looketh at the gateway of the castle and seeth the great door all covered with beards fastened thereon, and heads of knights in great plenty hung thereby. so, as he was about to enter the gate, two knights issue therefrom over against him. "sir," saith the one, "abide and pay your toll!" "do knights, then, pay toll here?" saith lancelot. "yea!" say the knights, "all they that have beards, and they that have none are quit. sir, now pay us yours, for a right great beard it is, and thereof have we sore need." "for what?" saith lancelot. "i will tell you," saith the knight. "there be hermits in this forest that make hair-shirts thereof." "by my head," saith lancelot, "never shall they have hair-shirt of mine, so i may help it." "that shall they," say the knights, "of yours as of the other, or dearly shall you pay therefor!" vi. right wroth waxeth sir lancelot, and cometh to the knight, and smiteth him with his spear amidst the breast with such a thrust that it passeth half an ell beyond, and overthroweth him and his horse together. the other knight seeth his fellow wounded to the death, and cometh towards him with a great sweep and breaketh his spear upon his shield. howbeit, lancelot beareth him to the ground right over his horse-croup and maketh him fall so heavily that he breaketh one of his legs. the tidings are come to the lady of the castle that a knight hath come to the pass that hath slain one of her knights and wounded the other. the lady is come thither, and bringeth two of her damsels with her. she seeth lancelot that is fain to slay the knight that lieth wounded on the ground. "sir," saith the lady to lancelot, "withdraw yourself back and slay him not, but alight and speak to me in safety." "lady," saith one of the maidens, "i know him well. this is lancelot of the lake, the most courteous knight that is in the court of king arthur." he alighteth and cometh before the lady. "lady," saith he, "what is your pleasure?" "i desire," saith she, "that you come to my hostel to harbour, and that you make me amends of the shame you have done me." vii. "lady," saith lancelot, "shame have i never done you nor shall do, but the knights took in hand too shameful a business when they were minded to take the beards of stranger knights by force." "sir," saith she, "i will forego mine ill-will on condition that you harbour herewithin to-night." "lady," saith lancelot, "i desire not your ill-will, wherefore will i gladly do your pleasure." he setteth him within the castle and maketh his horse be led in after him, and the lady hath the dead knight brought into the chapel and buried. the other she biddeth be disarmed and clothed and commandeth that his wounds be searched. then maketh she lancelot be disarmed and clad right richly in a good robe, and telleth him that she knoweth well who he is. "lady," saith lancelot, "it is well for me." thereupon they sit to eat, and the first course is brought in by knights in chains that had their noses cut off; the second by knights in chains that had their eyes put out; wherefore they were led in by squires. the third course was brought in by knights that had but one hand and were in chains. after that, came other knights that had each but one foot and brought in the fourth course. at the fifth course came knights right fair and tall, and each brought a naked sword in his hand and presented their heads to the lady. viii. lancelot beheld the martyrdom of these knights, and sore misliking had he of the services of such folk. they are risen from meat and the lady goeth to her chamber and sitteth on a couch. "lancelot," saith the lady, "you have seen the justice and the lordship of my castle. all these knights have been conquered at the passing of my door." "lady," saith lancelot, "foul mischance hath befallen them." "the like mischance would have befallen you had you not been knight so good. and greatly have i desired to see you this long time past. and i will make you lord of this castle and myself." "lady," saith he, "the lordship of this castle hold i of yourself without mesne, and to you have i neither wish nor right to refuse it. rather am i willing to be at your service." "then," saith she, "you will abide with me in this castle, for more do i love you than any other knight that liveth." "lady," saith lancelot, "gramercy, but in no castle may i abide more than one night until i have been thither whither behoveth me to go." "whither are you bound?" saith she. "lady," saith he, "to the castle of souls." "well know i the castle," saith she. "the king hath the name fisherman, and lieth in languishment on account of two knights that have been at his castle and made not good demand. would you fain go thither?" saith the lady. "yea," saith lancelot. "then pledge me your faith that you will return by me to speak to me, so the graal shall appear to you and you ask whereof it serveth." "yea, truly," saith lancelot, "were you beyond sea!" "sir," saith one of the damsels, "so much may you well promise, for the graal appeareth not to no knight so wanton as be ye. for you love the queen guenievre, the wife of your lord, king arthur, nor so long as this love lieth at your heart may you never behold the graal." ix. lancelot heard the damsel and blushed of despite. "ha, lancelot," saith the lady, "love you other than me?" "lady," saith he, "the damsel may say her pleasure." lancelot lay the night at the castle, and right wroth was he of the damsel that calleth the love of him and the queen disloyal. and the morrow when he had heard mass, he took leave of the lady of the castle, and she besought him over and over to keep his covenant, and he said that so would he do without fail. therewithal he issueth forth of the castle and entereth into a tall and ancient forest, and rideth the day long until he cometh to the outskirt of the forest, and seeth a tall cross at the entrance of a burying-ground enclosed all round about with a hedge of thorns. and the way lay through the burying ground. lancelot entered therein and the night was come. he seeth the graveyard full of tombs and sepulchres. he looketh behind and seeth a chapel wherein were candles burning. thitherward goeth he, and passeth beyond without saying aught more by the side of a dwarf that was digging a grave in the ground. "lancelot," saith the dwarf, "you are right not to salute me, for you are the man of all the world that most i hate; and god grant me vengeance of your body. so will he what time you are stricken down here within!" lancelot heard the dwarf, but deigned not to answer him of nought. he is come to the chapel, and alighteth and maketh fast the bridle of his horse to a tree, and leaneth his shield and spear without. after that he entereth into the chapel, and findeth a damsel laying out a knight in his winding-sheen. as soon as lancelot was entered therewithin the wounds of the knight were swollen up and began to bleed afresh. "ha, sir knight, now see i plainly that you slew him that i am wrapping in his windingsheet!" x. thereupon, behold you, two knights that are carrying other two knights dead. they alight and then set them in the chapel. and the dwarf crieth out to them: "now shall it be seen how you avenge your friends of the enemy that fell upon you!" the knight that had fled from the forest when messire gawain came thither where the three lay dead, was come therewithin and knew lancelot, whereupon saith he: "our mortal enemy are you, for by you were these three knights slain." "well had they deserved it," saith lancelot, "and in this chapel am i in no peril of you, wherefore as at this time will i depart not hence, for i know not the ways of the forest." he was in the chapel until the day broke, when he issued forth thereof, and sore it weighed upon him that his horse was still fasting. he taketh his arms and is mounted. the dwarf crieth out aloud: "what aileth you?" saith he to the two knights, "will you let your mortal enemy go thus?" with that the two knights mount their horses and go to the two issues of the grave-yard, thinking that lancelot is fain to flee therefrom; but no desire hath he thereof, wherefore he cometh to the knight that was guarding the entrance whereby he had to issue out, and smiteth him so stiffly that he thrusteth the point of his spear right through his body. the other knight that was guarding the other entrance, that had fled out of the forest before, had no mind to avenge his fellow, and fled incontinent so fast as he might. and lancelot taketh the horse of the knight he had slain and driveth him before him, for he thinketh that some knight may haply have need thereof. he rideth on until he cometh to a hermitage in the forest where he alighteth and hath his horses stabled, and the hermit giveth them of the best he hath. and lancelot heard mass, and afterward are a little and fell on sleep. thereafter, behold you, a knight that cometh to the hermit and seeth lancelot that was about to mount. "sir," saith he, "whither go you?" "sir knight," saith lancelot, "thither shall i go where god may please; but you, whitherward are you bound to go?" "sir, i go to see one of my brethren and my two sisters, for i have been told that he hath fallen on such mishap as that he is called the poor knight, whereof am i sore sorrowful." "certes," saith lancelot, "poor he is, the more the pity! howbeit, will you do him a message from me?" "sir," saith the knight, "right willingly!" "will you present him with this horse on my behalf, and tell him how lancelot that harboured with him hath sent it?" "sir," saith the knight, "right great thanks, and blessed may you be, for he that doth a kindness to a worshipful man loseth it not." "salute the two damsels for me," saith lancelot. "sir, right willingly!" the knight delivereth the horse to his squire, and taketh leave of lancelot. xi. thereupon, lancelot departeth from the hermitage and rideth on until he cometh forth of the forest, and findeth a waste land, a country broad and long wherein wonned neither beast nor bird, for the land was so poor and parched that no victual was to be found therein. lancelot looketh before him and seeth a city appear far away. thither rideth he full speed and seeth that the city is so great that it seemeth him to encompass a whole country. he seeth the walls that are falling all around, and the gates ruined with age. he entereth within and findeth the city all void of folk, and seeth the great palaces fallen down and waste, and the great grave-yards full of sepulchres, and the tall churches all lying waste, and the markets and exchanges all empty. he rideth amidst the streets, and findeth a great palace that seemeth him to be better and more ancient than all the others. he bideth awhile before it and heareth within how knights and ladies are making great dole. and they say to a knight: "ha, god, sore grief and pity is this of you, that you must needs die in such manner, and that your death may not be respited! sore hatred ought we to bear toward him that hath adjudged you such a death." the knights and ladies swoon over him as he departeth. lancelot hath heard all this and much marvelleth he thereof, but nought thereof may he see. xii. thereupon, lo you, the knight that cometh down into the midst of the hall, clad in a short red jerkin; and he was girt with a rich girdle of gold, and had a rich clasp at his neck wherein were many rich stones, and on his head had he a great cap of gold, and he held great axe. the knight was of great comeliness and young of age. lancelot seeth him coming, and looketh upon him right fainly when he seeth him appear. and the knight saith to him, "sir, alight!" "certes," saith lancelot, "willingly." he alighteth and maketh his horse fast to a ring of silver that was on the mounting-stage, and putteth his shield from his neck and his spear from his hand. "sir," saith he to the knight, "what is your pleasure?" "sir, needs must you cut me off my head with this axe, for of this weapon hath my death been adjudged, but and you will not, i will cut off your own therewith." "hold, sir," saith lancelot, "what is this you tell me?" "sir," saith the knight, "you must needs do even as i say, sith that you are come into this city." "sir," saith lancelot, "right foolish were he that in such a jeopardy should not do the best for himself, but blamed shall i be thereof and i shall slay you when you have done me no wrong." "certes," saith the knight, "in no otherwise may you go hence." "fair sir," saith lancelot, "so gentle are you and so well nurtured, how cometh it that you take your death so graciously? you know well that i shall kill you before you shall kill me, sith that so it is." "this know i well for true," saith the knight, "but you will promise me before i die, that you will return into this city within a year from this, and that you will set your head in the same jeopardy without challenge, as i have set mine." "by my head," saith lancelot, "needeth no argument that i shall choose respite of death to dying here on the spot. but i marvel me of this that you are so fairly apparelled to receive your death." xiii. "sir," saith the knight, "he that would go before the saviour of the world ought of right to apparel him as fairly as he may. i am by confession purged of all wickedness and of all the misdeeds that ever i have committed, and do repent me truly thereof, wherefore at this moment am i fain to die." therewithal he holdeth forth the axe, and lancelot taketh it and seeth that it is right keen and well whetted. "sir," saith the knight, "hold up your hand toward the minster that you see yonder." "sir," saith lancelot, "willingly." "thus, then, will you swear to me upon the holy relics that are within this minster, that on this day year at the hour that you shall have slain me, or before, you yourself will come back here and place your head in the very same peril as i shall have placed mine, without default?" "thus," saith lancelot, "do i swear and give you thereto my pledge." with that, the knight kneeleth and stretcheth his neck as much as he may, and lancelot taketh the axe in his hands, and then saith to him, "sir knight, for god's sake, have mercy on yourself!" "let cut off my head!" saith the knight, "for otherwise may i not have mercy upon you!" "in god's name," saith lancelot, "fain would i deny you!" with that, he swingeth the axe and cutteth off the head with such a sweep that he maketh it fly seven foot high from the body. the knight fell to the ground when his head was cut off, and lancelot flung down the axe, and thinketh that he will make but an ill stay there for himself. he cometh to his horse, and taketh his arms and mounteth and looketh behind him, but seeth neither the body of the knight nor the head, neither knoweth he what hath become of them all, save only that he heard much dole and a great cry far off in the city of knights and ladies, saying that he shall be avenged, please god, at the term set, or before. lancelot hath heard and understood all that the knights say and the ladies, and issueth forth of the city. branch viii. of the most holy graal here beginneth another branch in such wise as the authority witnesseth and joseph that made recoverance thereof, in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. this high history and profitable witnesseth us that the son of the widow lady sojourned still with his uncle king pelles in the hermitage, and through distress of the evil that he had had since he came forth of the house of king fisherman, was he confessed to his uncle and told him of what lineage he was, and that his name was perceval. but the good hermit the good king had given him the name of parluifet, for that he was made of himself. king hermit was one day gone into the forest, and the good knight parluifet felt himself sounder of health and lustier than he wont to be. he heard the birds sing in the forest, and his heart began to swell of knighthood, and he minded him of the adventures he wont to find in the forest and of the damsels and knights that he wont to meet, and never was he so fain of arms as was he at that time, for that he had been sojourning so long within doors. he felt courage in his heart and lustiness in his limbs and fainness in his thought. right soon armeth he himself and setteth the saddle on his horse and mounteth forthwith. he prayeth god give him adventure that he may meet good knight, setteth himself forth of his uncle's hermitage and entereth into the forest that was broad and shady. he rideth until he cometh into a launde that was right spacious, and seeth a leafy tree that was at the head of the launde. he alighteth in the shadow, and thinketh to himself that two knights might joust on this bit of ground fair and well, for the place was right broad. and, even as he was thinking on this wise, he heard a horse neigh full loud in the forest three times, and right glad was he thereof and said: "ha, god, of your sweetness grant that there be a knight with that horse, so may i prove whether there be any force or valour or knighthood in me. for i know not now what strength i may have, nor even whether my heart be sound and my limbs whole. for on a knight that hath neither hardihood nor valour in himself, may not another knight that hath more force in him reasonably prove his mettle, for many a time have i heard say that one is better than other. and for this pray i to the saviour and this be a knight that cometh there, that he may have strength and hardihood and mettle to defend his body against mine own, for great desire have i to run upon him. grant now that he slay me not, nor i him!" ii. therewithal, he looketh before him, and seeth the knight issue from the forest and enter into the launde. the knight was armed and had at his neck a white shield with a cross of gold. he carried his lance low, and sate upon a great destrier and rode at a swift pace. as soon as perceval seeth him, he steadieth him in his stirrups and setteth spear in rest and smiteth his horse with his spurs, right joyous, and goeth toward the knight a great gallop. then he crieth: "sir knight, cover you of your shield to guard you as i do of mine to defend my body, for you do i defy on this side slaying, and our lord god grant that i find you so good knight as shall try what hardihood of heart i may have, for i am not such as i have been aforetime, and better may one learn of a good knight than of a bad." with that he smiteth the knight upon his shield with such a sweep that he maketh him lose one of his stirrups and pierceth his shield above the boss, and passeth beyond full speed. and the knight marvelleth much, and maketh demand, saying, "fair sir, what misdeed have i done you?" perceval is silent, and hath no great joy of this that he hath not overthrown the knight, but not so easy was he to overthrow, for he was one of the knights of the world that could most of defence of arms. he goeth toward perceval as fast as his horse may carry him and perceval toward him. they mell together upon their shields right stiffly, so that they pierce and batter them with the points of their spears. and perceval thrusteth his spear into the flesh two finger-breadths, and the knight doth not amiss, for he passeth his spear right through his arm so that the shafts of the lances were splintered. they hurtle together either against other at the passing so mightily, that the flinders of iron from the mail of their habergeons stick into their foreheads and faces, and the blood leapeth forth by mouth and nose so that their habergeons were all bloody. they drew their swords with a right great sweep. the knight of the white shield holdeth perceval's rein and saith: "gladly would i know who you are and wherefore you hate me, for you have wounded me right sore, and sturdy knight have i found you and of great strength." perceval saith not a word to him and runneth again upon him sword drawn, and the knight upon him, and right great buffets either giveth other on the helm, so that their eyes all sparkle of stars and the forest resoundeth of the clashing of their swords. right tough was the battle and right horrible, for good knights were both twain. but the blood that ran down from their wounds at last slackened their sinews, albeit the passing great wrath that the one had against the other, and the passing great heat of their will, had so enchafed them they scarce remembered the wounds that they had, and still dealt each other great buffets without sparing. iii. king hermit cometh from labouring in the forest and findeth not his nephew in the hermitage, whereof is he right sorrowful, and he mounteth on a white mule that he had therewithin. she was starred in the midst of her forehead with a red cross. josephus the good clerk witnesseth us that this same mule had belonged to joseph of abarimacie at the time he was pilate's soldier, and that he bequeathed her to king pelles. king hermit departeth from the hermitage and prayeth god grant him to find his nephew. he goeth through the forest and rideth until he draweth nigh the launde where the two knights were. he heareth the strokes of the swords, and cometh towards them full speed and setteth him between the twain to forbid them. "ha, sir," saith he to the knight of the white shield, "right great ill do you to combat against this knight that hath lain sick this long time in this forest, and fight sorely have you wounded him." "sir," saith the-knight, "as much hath he done by me, and never would i have run upon him now had he not challenged me, and he is not minded to tell me who he is nor whence ariseth his hatred of me." "fair sir," saith the hermit, "and you, who are you?" "sir," saith the knight, "i will tell you. i am the son of king ban of benoic." "ha, fair nephew," saith king hermit to perceval, "see here your cousin, for king ban of benoic was your father's cousin-german. make him right great cheer!" he maketh them take off their helmets and lower their ventails, and then kiss one another, afterward he leadeth them to his hermitage. they alight together. he calleth his own squire that waited upon him, and made them be disarmed right tenderly. there was a damsel within that was cousin-german to king pelles and had tended perceval within in his sickness. she washeth their wounds right sweetly and cleanseth them of the blood. and they see that lancelot is sorer wounded than perceval. "damsel," saith the hermit, "how seemeth you?" "sir," saith she, "needs must this knight sojourn here, for his wound is in a right perilous place." "hath he danger of death?" "sir," saith she, "in no wise of this wound, but behoveth him take good heed thereto." "god be praised!" saith he, "and of my nephew how seemeth you?" "sir, the wound that he hath will be soon healed. he will have none ill thereof." iv. the damsel, that was right cunning of leech-craft, tended the wounds of the knights, and made them whole as best she might, and king hermit himself gave counsel therein. but and perceval had borne his shield that was there within, of sinople with a white hart, lancelot would have known him well, nor would there have been any quarrel between them, for he had heard tell of this shield at the court of king arthur. the authority of this story recordeth that the two knights are in hermitage, and that perceval is well-nigh whole; but lancelot hath sore pain of his wound and is still far from his healing. branch ix. title i. now the story is silent about the two knights for a little time, and speaketh of the squire that messire gawain meeteth in the midst of the forest, that told him he went seek the son of the widow lady that had slain his father. and the squire saith that he will go to avenge him, wherefore cometh he to the court of king arthur, for that he had heard tell how all good knights repaired thither. and he seeth the shield hang on the column in the midst of the hall that the damsel of the car had brought thither. the squire knoweth it well, and kneeleth before the king and saluteth him, and the king returneth his salute and asketh who he is. "sir," saith he, "i am the son of the knight of the red shield of the forest of shadows, that was slain of the knight that ought to bear the shield that hangeth on this column, wherefore would i right gladly hear tidings of him." "as gladly would i," saith the king, "so that no evil came to him thereof, for he is the knight of the world that i most desire." "sir," saith the squire, "well behoveth me to hate him for that he slew my father. he that ought to bear this shield was squire when he slew him, wherefore am i the more sorrowful for that i thought to be avenged upon him squire. but this i may not do, wherefore i pray you for god's sake that you will make me knight, for the like favour are you accustomed to grant unto others." "what is your name, fair friend?" saith the king. "sir," saith he, "i am called clamados of the shadows." messire gawain that had repaired to court, was in the hall, and said to the king: "if this squire be enemy of the good knight that ought to bear this shield, behoveth you not set forward his mortal enemy but rather set him back, for he is the best knight of the world and the most chaste that liveth in the world and of the most holy lineage, and therefore have you sojourned right long time in this castle to await his coming. i say not this for the hindering of the squire's advancement, but that you may do nought whereof the good knight may have cause of complaint against you." "messire gawain," saith queen guenievre, "well know i that you love my lord's honour, but sore blame will he have if he make not this one knight, for so much hath he never refused to do for any; nor yet will the good knight have any misliking thereof, for greater shame should he have, and greater despite of the hatred of a squire than of a knight; for never yet was good knight that was not prudent and well-advised and slow to take offence. wherefore i tell you that he will assuredly listen to reason, and i commend my lord the rather that he make him knight, for much blame would he have of gainsaying him." "lady," saith messire gawain, "so you are content, i am happy." the king made him knight right richly, and when he was clad in the robes, they of the court declare and witness that never this long time past had they seen at the court knight of greater comeliness. he sojourned therein long time, and was much honoured of the king and all the barons. he was every day on the watch for the good knight that should come for the shield, but the hour and the place were not as yet. ii. when he saw that he did not come, he took leave of the king and the queen and all them of the court, and departed, thinking him that he would go prove his knighthood in some place until he should have heard tidings of his mortal enemy. he rideth amidst the great forests bearing a red shield like as did his father, and he was all armed as for defending of his body. and a long space of time he rideth, until one day he cometh to the head of a forest, and he espied his way that ran between two mountains and saw that he had to pass along the midst of the valley that lay at a great depth. he looketh before him and seeth a tree far away from him, and underneath were three damsels alighted, and one prayed god right heartily aloud that he would send them betimes a knight that durst convoy them through this strait pass. iii. clamodos heareth the damsel and cometh thitherward. when they espied him, great joy have they thereof and rise up to meet him. "sir," say they, "welcome may you be!" "damsels," saith he, "good adventure may you have! and whom await you here?" saith he. "we await," saith the mistress of the damsels, "some knight that shall clear this pass, for no knight durst pass hereby." "what is the pass; then, damsel?" saith he. "it is the one of a lion, and a lion, moreover, so fell and horrible that never was none seen more cruel. and there is a knight with the lion between the two mountains that is right good knight and hardy and comely. howbeit none durst pass without great company of folk. but the knight that hath repair with the lion is seldom there, for so he were there we need fear no danger, for much courtesy is there in him and valour." and the knight looketh and seeth in the shadow of the forest three fair stags harnessed to a car. "ha," saith he, "you are the damsel of the car, wherefore may you well tell me tidings of the knight of whom i am in quest." "who is he?" saith the damsel. "it is he that should bear a shield banded argent and azure with a red cross." "of him am i likewise in quest," saith the damsel; "please god, we shall hear tidings of him betimes." "damsel" saith the knight, "that would i. and for that you are in quest of him as am i likewise, i will convoy you beyond this pass." the damsel maketh her car go on before, and the damsels go before the knight; and so enter they into the field of the lion, and right fair land found they therewithin. clamados looketh and seeth the hall within an enclosure and seeth the lion that lay at the entrance of the gateway. as soon as he espieth clamados and the damsels, he cometh toward them full speed, mouth open and ears pricked up. "sir," saith the damsel, "and you defend not your horse on foot, he is dead at the first onset." iv. clamados is alighted to his feet, by her counsel, and holdeth his spear in his fist, and the lion rampeth toward him all in a fury. clamados receiveth him on the point of his spear, and smiteth him therewith so stoutly that it passeth a fathom beyond his neck. he draweth back his spear without breaking it, and thinketh to smite him again. but the lion cheateth him, and arising himself on his two hinder feet, setteth his fore feet on his shoulders, then huggeth him toward him like as one man doth another. but the grip was sore grievous, for he rendeth his habergeon in twain and so teareth away as much flesh as he can claw hold on. v. when clamados felt himself wounded, he redoubled his hardihood, and grippeth the lion so straitly to him that he wringeth a huge roar out of him, and then flingeth him to the ground beneath him. then he draweth his sword and thrusteth it to the heart right through the breast. the lion roareth so loud that all the mountains resound thereof. clamados cutteth off his head and goeth to hang it at the door of the hall. then he cometh back to his horse and mounteth the best he may. and the damsel saith to him, "sir, you are sore wounded." "damsel," said he, "please god, i shall take no hurt thereof." thereupon, behold you a squire that issueth forth of the hall and cometh after him full speed. "hold, sir knight," saith he; "foul wrong have you wrought, for you have slain the lion of the most courteous knight that may be known, and the fairest and most valiant of this kingdom, and in his despite have you hung the head at his door! right passing great outrage have you done hereby!" "fair sweet friend," saith clamados, "it may well be that the lord is right courteous, but the lion was rascal and would have slain me and them that were passing by. and your lord loved him so much he should have chained him up, for better liketh me that i slew him than that he should slay me." "sir," saith the squire, "there is no road this way, for it is a forbidden land whereof certain would fain reave my lord, and it was against the coming of his enemies that the lion was allowed forth unchained." "and what name hath your lord, fair friend?" saith clamados. "sir, he is called meliot of logres, and he is gone in quest of messire gawain, of whom he holdeth the land, for right dear is he to him." "messire gawain," saith clamados, "left i at the court of king arthur, but behoveth him depart thence or ever i return thither." "by my head," saith the squire, "faith would i you might meet them both twain, if only my lord knew that you had slain him his lion." "fair friend," saith clamados, "and he be as courteous as you say, no misliking will he have of me thereof, for i slew him in defending mine own body, and god forbid i should meet any that would do me evil therefor." vi. thereupon the knight and the damsels depart and pass the narrow strait in the lion's field, and ride on until they draw nigh a right rich castle seated in a meadowland surrounded of great waters and high forests, and the castle was always void of folk. and they were fain to turn thitherward, but they met a squire that told them that in the castle was not a soul, albeit and they would ride forward they would find great plenty of folk. so far forward have they ridden that they are come to the head of a forest and see great foison of tents stretched right in the midst of a launde, and they were compassed round of a great white sheet that seemed from afar to be a long white wall with crenels, and it was a good league welsh in length. they came to the entrance of the tents and heard great joy within, and when they had entered they saw dames and damsels, whereof was great plenty, and of right passing great beauty were they. clamados alighteth, that was right sore wounded. the damsel of the car was received with right great joy. two of the damsels come to clamados, of whom make they right great joy. afterward they lead him to a tent and made disarm him. then they washed his wounds right sweetly and tenderly. then they brought him a right rich robe and made him be apparelled therein, and led him before the ladies of the tents, that made right great joy of him. vii. "lady," saith the damsel of the car, "this knight hath saved my life, for he hath slain the lion on account of which many folk durst not come to you, wherefore make great joy of him." "greater joy may i not make, than i do, nor the damsels that are herein, for we await the coming of the good knight that is healed, from day to day. and now is there nought in the world i more desire to see." "lady," saith clamados, "who is this good knight?" "the son of the widow lady of the valleys of camelot," saith she. "tell me, lady, do you say that he will come hither presently?" "so methinketh," saith she. "lady, i also shall have great joy thereof, and god grant he come betimes!" "sir knight," saith she, "what is your name?" "lady" saith he, "i am called clamados, and i am son of the lord of the forest of shadows." she throweth her arms on his neck and kisseth and embraceth him right sweetly, and saith: "marvel not that i make you joy thereof, for you are the son of my sister-in-law, nor have i any friend nor blood-kindred so nigh as are you, and fain would i you should be lord of all my land and of me, as is right and reason." the damsels of the tents make right great joy of him when they know the tidings that he is so nigh of kin to the lady of the tents. and he sojourned therewithin until that he was whole and heal, awaiting the coming of the knight of whom he had heard the tidings. and the damsels marvel them much that he cometh not, for the damsel that had tended him was therewithin and telleth them that he was healed of his arm, but that lancelot is not yet whole, wherefore he is still within the hermitage. viii. this high history witnesseth us and recordeth that joseph, who maketh remembrance thereof, was the first priest that sacrificed the body of our lord, and forsomuch ought one to believe the words that come of him. you have heard tell how perceval was of the lineage of joseph of abarimacie, whom god so greatly loved for that he took down his body hanging on the cross, which he would not should lie in the prison there where pilate had set it. for the highness of the lineage whereof the good knight was descended ought one willingly to hear brought to mind and recorded the words that are of him. the story telleth us that he was departed of the hermitage all sound and whole, albeit he hath left lancelot, for that his wound was not yet healed, but he hath promised him that he will come back to him so soon as he may. he rideth amidst a forest, all armed, and cometh toward evensong to the issue of the forest and seeth a castle before him right fair and well seated, and goeth thitherward for lodging, for the sun was set. he entereth into the castle and alighteth. the lord cometh to meet him that was a tall knight and a red, and had a felon look, and his face scarred in many places; and knight was there none therewithin save only himself and his household. ix. when he seeth perceval alighted, he runneth to bar the door, and perceval cometh over against him. for all greeting, the knight saluteth him thus: "now shall you have," saith he, "such guerdon as you have deserved. never again shall you depart hence, for my mortal enemy are you, and right hardy are you thus to throw yourself upon me, for you slew my brother the lord of the shadows, and chaos the red am i that war upon your mother, and this castle have i reft of her. in like manner will i wring the life out of you or ever you depart hence!" "already," saith perceval, "have i thrown myself on this your hostel to lodge with you, wherefore to blame would you be to do me evil. but lodge me this night as behoveth one knight do for another, and on the morrow at departing let each do the best he may." "by my head!" saith chaos the red, "mortal enemy of mine will i never harbour here save i harbour him dead." he runneth to the hall above, and armeth himself as swiftly as he may, and taketh his sword all naked in his hand and cometh back to the place where perceval was, right full of anguish of heart for this that he said, that he would war upon his mother and had reft her of this castle. he flung his spear to the ground, and goeth toward him on foot and dealeth him a huge buffet above the helmet upon the coif of his habergeon, such that he cleaveth the mail and cutteth off two fingers'-breadth of the flesh in such sort that he made him reel three times round. x. when chaos the red felt himself wounded, he was sore grieved thereof, and cometh toward perceval and striketh him a great buffet above in the midst of his helmet, so that he made the sparks fly and his neck stoop and his eyes sparkle of stars. and the blow slippeth down on to the shield, so that it is cleft right down to the boss. perceval felt his neck stiff and heavy, and feeleth that the knight is sturdy and of great might. he cometh back towards him, and thinketh to strike him above in the midst of his head, but chaos swerved aside from him; howbeit perceval reached him and caught his right arm and cutteth it sheer from his side, sword and all, and sendeth it flying to the ground, and chaos runneth upon him, thinking to grapple him with his left arm, but his force was waning; nathless right gladly would he have avenged himself and he might. howbeit, perceval setteth on him again that loved him not in his heart, and smiteth him again above on the head, and dealeth him such a buffet as maketh his brains be all to-scattered abroad. his household and servants were at the windows of the hall. when they see that their lord is nigh to the death, they cry to perceval: "sir, you have slain the hardiest knight in the kingdom of logres, and him that was most redoubted of his enemies; but we can do no otherwise; we know well that this castle is your mother's and ought to be yours. we challenge it not; wherefore may you do your will of whatsoever there is in the castle; but allow us to go to our lord that there lieth dead, and take away the body and set it in some seemly place for the sake of his good knighthood, and for that it behoveth us so to do." "readily do i grant it you," saith perceval. they bear the body to a chapel, then they disarm him and wind him in his shroud. after that they lead perceval into the hall and disarm him and say to him: "sir, you may be well assured that there be none but us twain herewithin and two damsels, and the doors are barred, and behold, here are the keys which we deliver up to you." "and i command you," saith perceval, "that you go straightway to my mother, and tell her that she shall see me betimes and i may get done, and so salute her and tell her i am sound and whole. and what is the name of this castle?" "sir, it hath for name the key of wales, for it is the gateway of the land." xi. perceval lay the night in the castle he had reconquered for his mother, and the morrow, when he was armed, he departed. these promised that they would keep the castle loyally and would deliver it up to his mother at her will. he rode until he came to the tents where the damsels were, and drew rein and listened. but there was not so great joy as when the damsel that rode like a knight and led the car came thither with clamados. great dole heard he that was made, and beating of palms. wherefore he bethought him what folk they might be. natheless he was not minded to draw back without entering. he alighted in the midst of the tents and set down his shield and his spear, and seeth the damsels wringing their hands and tearing their hair, and much marvelleth he wherefore it may be. a damsel cometh forward that had set forth from the castle where he had slain the knight: "sir, to your shame and ill adventure may you have come hither!" perceval looketh at her and marvelleth much of that she saith, and she crieth out: "lady, behold here him that hath slain the best knight of your lineage! and you, clamados, that are within there, he hath slain your father and your uncle! now shall it be seen what you will do!" the damsel of the car cometh thitherward and knoweth perceval by the shield that he bare of sinople with a white hart. "sir," saith she, "welcome may you be! let who will make dole, i will make joy of your coming!" xii. therewith the damsel leadeth him into a tent and maketh him sit on a right rich couch; afterward she maketh him be disarmed of her two damsels and clad in a right rich robe. then she leadeth him to the queen of the tents that was still making great dole. "lady," saith the damsel of the car, "stint your sorrow, for behold, here is the good knight on whose account were the tents here pitched, and on whose account no less have you been making this great joy right up to this very day!" "ha," saith she, "is this then the son of the widow lady?" "yea, certes," saith the damsel. "ha," saith the lady, "he hath slain me the best knight of all my kin, and the one that protected me from mine enemies." "lady," saith the damsel, "this one will be better able to protect and defend us, for the best knight is he of the world and the comeliest." the queen taketh him by the hand and maketh him sit beside her. "sir," saith she, "howsoever the adventure may have befallen, my heart biddeth me make joy of your coming." "lady," saith he, "gramercy! chaos would fain have slain me within his castle, and i defended myself to my power." the queen looketh at him amidst his face, and is taken with a love of him so passing strong and fervent that she goeth nigh to fall upon him. "sir," saith she, "and you will grant me your love, i will pardon you of all the death of chaos the red." "lady," saith he, "your love am i right fain to deserve, and mine you have." "sir," saith she, "how may i perceive that you love me?" "lady," saith he, "i will tell you. there is no knight in the world that shall desire to do you a wrong, but i will help you against him to my power." "such love," saith she, "is the common love that knight ought to bear to lady. would you do as much for another?" "lady," saith he, "it well may be, but more readily shall a man give help in one place than in another." the queen would fain that perceval should pledge himself to her further than he did, and the more she looketh at him the better he pleaseth her, and the more is she taken with him and the more desirous of his love. but perceval never once thought of loving her or another in such wise. he was glad to look upon her, for that she was of passing great beauty, but never spake he nought to her whereby she might perceive that he loved her of inward love. but in no wise might she refrain her heart, nor withdraw her eyes, nor lose her desire. the damsels looked upon her with wonder that so soon had she forgotten her mourning. xiii. thereupon, behold you clamados, that had been told that this was the knight that, as yet only squire, had slain his father and put chaos his uncle to death. he cometh into the tent and seeth him sitting beside the queen, that looked at him right sweetly. "lady," saith he, "great shame do you to yourself, in that you have seated at your side your own mortal enemy and mine. never again henceforth ought any to have affiance in your love nor in your help." "clamados," saith the queen, "the knight hath thrown himself upon me suddenly. wherefore ought i do him no evil, rather behoveth me lodge him and keep his body in safety. nought, moreover, hath he done whereof he might be adjudged of murder nor of treason." "lady," saith clamados, "he slew my father in the lonely forest without defiance, and treacherously cast a javelin at him and smote him through the body, wherefore shall i never be at ease until i have avenged him. therefore do i appeal and pray you to do me my right, not as being of your kindred, but as stranger. for right willing am i that kinship shall avail me nought herein." perceval looketh at the knight and seeth that he is of right goodly complexion of body and right comely of face. "fair sir," saith he, "as of treason i would that you hold me quit, for never toward your father nor toward other have had i never a mind to do treason, and god defend me from such shame, and grant me strength to clear myself of any blame thereof." clamados cometh forward to proffer his gage. "by my head," saith the queen, "not this day shall gage be received herein. but to-morrow will come day, and counsel therewith, and then shall fight be done to each." clamados is moved of right great wrath, but the queen of the tents showeth perceval the most honour she may, whereof is clamados right heavy, and saith that never ought any to put his trust in woman. but wrongly he blameth her therein, for she did it of the passing great love she hath for perceval, inasmuch as well she knoweth that he is the best knight of the world and the comeliest. but it only irketh her the more that she may not find in him any sign of special liking toward herself neither in deed nor word, whereof is she beyond measure sorrowful. the knights and damsels lay the night in the tents until the morrow, and went to hear mass in a chapel that was in the midst of the tents. xiv. when mass was sung, straightway behold you, a knight that cometh all armed, bearing a white shield at his neck. he alighteth in the midst of the tents and cometh before the queen all armed, and saith: "lady, i plain me of a knight that is there within that hath slain my lion, and if you do me not right herein, i will harass you as much or more than i will him, and will harm you in every wise i may. wherefore i pray and require you, for the love of messire gawain, whose man i am, that you do me right herein." "what is the knight's name?" saith the queen. "lady," saith he, "he is called clamados of the shadows, and methinketh i see him yonder, for i knew him when he was squire." "and what is your name?" saith the queen. "lady, i am called melior of logres." "clamados," saith the queen, "hear you what this knight saith?" "yea, lady," saith he; "but again i require that you do me right of the knight that slew my father and my uncle." "lady," saith melior, "i would fain go. i know not toward whom the knight proffereth his gage, but him do i appeal of felony for my lion that he hath slain." he taketh in his hand the skirt of his habergeon: "lady, behold here the gage i offer you." xv. "clamados," saith the queen, "hear you then not that which this knight saith?" "lady," saith he, "i hear him well. truth it is that i slew his lion, but not until after he had fallen upon me, and made the wounds whereof i have been healed herewithin. but well you know that the knight who came hither last night hath done me greater wrong than have i done this other. wherefore would i pray you that i may take vengeance of him first." "you hear," saith she, "how this knight that hath come hither all armed is fain to go back forthwith. quit you, therefore, of him first, and then will we take thought of the other." "lady, gramercy!" saith meliot, "and messire gawain will take it in right good part, for this knight hath slain my lion that defended me from all my enemies. nor is it true that the entrance to your tent was deserted on account of my lion; and in despite of me hath he hung the head at my gate." "as of the lion," saith the queen, "you have no quarrel against him and he slew him in defending his body, but as of the despite he did you as you say, when in nought had you done him any wrong, it shall not be that right shalt be denied you in my court, and if you desire to deliver battle, no blame shall you have thereof." xvi. clamados maketh arm him and mounteth on his horse, and he seemeth right hardy of his arms and valorous. he cometh right in the midst of the tent, where the ground was fair and level, and found meilot of logres all armed upon his horse, and a right comely knight was he and a deliver. and the ladies and damsels were round about the tilting-ground. "sir," saith the queen to perceval, "i will that you keep the field for these knights." "lady," saith he, "at your pleasure." meliot moveth toward clamados right swiftly and clamados toward him, and they melled together on their shields in such sort that they pierced them and cleft the mail of their habergeons asunder with the points of their spears, and the twain are both wounded so that the blood rayeth forth of their bodies. the knights draw asunder to take their career, for their spears were broken short, and they come back the one toward the other with a great rush, and smite each other on the breast with their spears so stiffly that there is none but should have been pierced within the flesh, for the habergeons might protect them not. they hurtle against each other so strongly that knights and horses fall together to the ground all in a heap. the queen and the damsels have great pity of the two knights, for they see that they are both so passing sore wounded. the two knights rise to their feet and hold their swords naked and run the one on the other right wrathfully, with such force as they had left. "sir," saith the queen to perceval, "go part these two knights asunder that one slay not the other, for they are sore wounded." perceval goeth to part them and cometh to meliot of logres. "sir," saith he, "withdraw yourself back; you have done enough." clamados felt that he was sore wounded in two places, and that the wound he had in his breast was right great. he draweth himself back. the queen is come thither. "fair nephew," saith she, "are you badly wounded?" "yea, lady," saith clamados. "certes," saith the queen, "this grieveth me, but never yet saw i knight and he were desirous of fighting, but came at some time by mischance. a man may not always stand on all his rights." she made him be carried on his shield into a tent, and made search his wounds, and saw that of one had he no need to fear, but that the other was right sore perilous. xvii. "lady," saith clamados, "once more do i pray and require you that you allow not the knight that slew my father to issue forth from hence, save he deliver good hostage that he will come back when i shall be healed." "so will i do, sith that it is your pleasure." the queen cometh to the other knight that was wounded, for that he declareth himself messire gawain's man, and maketh search his wounds, and they say that he hath not been hurt so sore as is clamados. she commandeth them to tend him and wait upon him right well-willingly, "sir," saith she to perceval, "behoveth you abide here until such time as my nephew be heal, for you know well that whereof he plaineth against you, nor would i that you should depart hence without clearing you of the blame." "lady, no wish have i to depart without your leave, but rather shall i be ready to clear myself of blame whensoever and wheresoever time and place may be. but herewithin may i make not so long sojourn. natheless to this will i pledge my word, that i will return thither within a term of fifteen days from the time he shall be whole." "sir," saith the damsel of the car, "i will remain here in hostage for you." "but do you pray him," saith the queen, "that he remain herewithin with us." xviii. "lady," saith perceval, "i may not, for i left lancelot wounded right sore in my uncle's hermitage." "sir," saith the queen, "i would fain that remaining here might have pleased you as well as it would me." "lady," saith he, "none ought it to displease to be with you, but every man behoveth keep his word as well as he may, and none ought to lie to so good a knight as he." "you promise me, then," saith the queen, "that you will return hither the soonest you may, or at the least, within the term appointed after you shall have learnt that clamados is healed, to defend you of the treason that he layeth upon you?" "lady," saith he, "and if he die shall i be quit?" "yea, truly, sir, and so be that you have no will to come for love of me. for right well should i love your coming." "lady," saith he, "never shall be the day my services shall fail you, so i be in place, and you in need thereof." he taketh leave and departeth, armed. the damsel of the car commendeth him to god, and perceval departeth full speed and rideth so far on his journeys that he cometh to his uncle's hermitage and entereth in, thinking to find lancelot. but his uncle telleth him that he hath departed all sound and all heal of his wound, as of all other malady, as him thinketh. branch x. incipit. another branch of the graal again beginneth in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. and the story is here silent of perceval, and saith that lancelot goeth his way and rideth by a forest until he findeth a castle amidst his way at the head of a launde, and seeth at the gateway of the castle an old knight and two damsels sitting on a bridge. thitherward goeth he, and the knight and damsels rise up to meet him, and lancelot alighteth. "sir," saith the vavasour, "welcome may you be." the damsels make great joy of him and lead him into the castle. "sir," saith the vavasour, "sore need had we of your coming." he maketh him go up into the hall above and be disarmed of his arms. "sir," saith the vavasour, "now may you see great pity of these two damsels that are my daughters. a certain man would reave them of this castle for that no aid nor succour have they save of me alone. and little enough can i do, for i am old and feeble, and my kin also are of no avail, insomuch that hitherto have i been able to find no knight that durst defend me from the knight that is fain to reave this castle from me. and you seem to be of so great valiance that you will defend me well herein to-morrow, for the truce cometh to an end to-night." "how?" saith lancelot, "i have but scarce come in hither to lodge, and you desire me so soon already to engage myself in battle?" "sir," saith the vavasour, "herein may it well be proven whether there be within you as much valour as there seemeth from without to be. for, and you make good the claim of these two damsels that are my daughters to the fiefs that are of right their own, you will win thereby the love of god as well as praise of the world." they fall at his feet weeping, and pray him of mercy that they may not be disherited. and he raiseth them forthwith, as one that hath great pity thereof. "damsels," saith he, "i will aid you to my power. but i would fain that the term be not long." "sir," say they, "to-morrow is the day, and to-morrow, so we have no knight to meet him that challengeth this castle, we shall have lost it. and our father is an old knight, and hath no longer lustihood nor force whereby he might defend it for us, and all of our lineage are fallen and decayed. this hatred hath fallen on us on account of messire gawain, whom we harboured." lancelot lay there the night within the castle and was right well lodged and worshipfully entreated. and on the morrow he armed himself when he had heard mass, and leant at the windows of the hall and seeth the gate shut and barred, and heareth a horn sound without the gate three times right loud. "sir," saith the vavasour, "the knight is come, and thinketh that within here is no defence." "by my head," saith lancelot, "but there is, please god!" the knight bloweth another blast of his horn. "hearken, sir," saith the vavasour, "it is nigh noon, and he thinketh him that none will issue hence to meet him." ii. lancelot cometh down below and findeth his horse saddled and is mounted as soon. the damsels are at his stirrup, and pray him for god's sake remember to defend the honour that is theirs of the castle, for, save only he so doth, they must flee like beggars into other lands. thereupon the knight soundeth his horn again. lancelot, when he heareth the blast, hath no mind to abide longer, and forthwith issueth out of the castle all armed, lance in hand and shield at his neck. he seeth the knight at the head of the bridge, all armed under a tree. thitherward cometh lancelot full speed. the knight seeth him coming, and crieth to him. "sir knight," saith he, "what demand you? come you hither to do me evil?" "yea," saith lancelot, "for that evil are you fain to do to this castle; wherefore on behalf of the vavasour and his daughters do i defy you." he moveth against the knight and smiteth him on the shield with his spear and the knight him. but lancelot pierceth his shield for him with his sword, and smiteth him so stiffly that he pinneth his arm to his side, and hurtleth against him so passing stoutly that he thrusteth him to the ground, him and his horse, and runneth over him, sword drawn. "ha," saith the knight to lancelot, "withdraw a little from over me, and slay me not, and tell me your name, of your mercy." "what have you to do with my name?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith he, "gladly would i know it, for a right good knight seem you to be, and so have i well proven in the first encounter." "sir" saith he, "i am called lancelot of the lake. and what is your name?" "sir." saith he, "i am called marin of the castle of gomeret. so am i--father of meliot of logres. i pray you, by that you most love in the world, that you slay me not." "so will i do," saith lancelot, "and you renounce not your feud against this castle." "by my faith," saith the knight, "thus do i renounce it, and i pledge myself that thenceforth for ever shall it have no disturbance of me." "your pledge," saith lancelot, "will i not accept save you come in thither." "sir," saith the knight, "you have sore wounded me in such sort that i cannot mount but with right great pain." lancelot helpeth him until he was mounted again on his horse, and leadeth him into the castle with him, and maketh him present his sword to the vavasour and his daughters, and yield up his shield and his arms, and afterward swear upon hallows that never again will he make war upon them. lancelot thereupon receiveth his pledge to forego all claim to the castle and marin turneth him back to gomeret. the vavasour and his daughters abide in great joy. iii. the story saith that lancelot went his way by strange lands and by forests to seek adventure, and rode until he found a plain land lying without a city that seemed to be of right great lordship. as he was riding by the plain land, he looketh toward the forest and seeth the plain fair and wide and the land right level. he rideth all the plain, and looketh toward the city and seeth great plenty of folk issuing forth thereof. and with them was there much noise of bag-pipes and flutes and viols and many instruments of music, and they came along the way wherein was lancelot riding. when the foremost came up to him, they halted and redoubled their joy. "sir," say they, "welcome may you be!" "lords," saith lancelot, "whom come ye to meet with such joy?" "sir," say they, "they that come behind there will tell you clearly that whereof we are in need." iv. thereupon behold you the provosts and the lords of the city, and they come over against lancelot. "sir," say they, "all this joy is made along of you, and all these instruments of music are moved to joy and sound of gladness for your coming." "but wherefore for me," saith lancelot. "that shall you know well betimes," say they. "this city began to burn and to melt in one of the houses from the very same hour that our king was dead, nor might the fire be quenched, nor never will be quenched until such time as we have a king that shall be lord of the city and of the honour thereunto belonging, and on new year's day behoveth him to be crowned in the midst of the fire, and then shall the fire be quenched, for otherwise may it never be put out nor extinguished. wherefore have we come to meet you to give you the royalty, for we have been told that you are a good knight." "lords," saith lancelot, "of such a kingdom have i no need, and god defend me from it." "sir," they say, "you may not be defended thereof, for you come into this land at hazard, and great grief would it be that so good land as you see this is were burnt and melted away by the default of one single man, and the lordship is right great, and this will be right great worship to yourself, that on new year's day you should be crowned in the fire and thus save this city and this great people, and thereof shall you have great praise." v. much marvelleth lancelot of this that they say. they come round about him on all sides and lead him into the city. the ladies and damsels are mounted to the windows of the great houses and make great joy, and say the one to another, "look at the new king here that they are leading in. now will he quench the fire on new year's day." "lord!" say the most part, "what great pity is it of so comely a knight that he shall end on such-wise!" "be still!" say the others. "rather should there be great joy that so fair city as is this should be saved by his death, for prayer will be made throughout all the kingdom for his soul for ever!" therewith they lead him to the palace with right great joy and say that they will crown him. lancelot found the palace all strown with rushes and hung about with curtains of rich cloths of silk, and the lords of the city all apparelled to do him homage. but he refuseth right stoutly, and saith that their king nor their lord will he never be in no such sort. thereupon behold you a dwarf that entereth into the city, leading one of the fairest dames that be in any kingdom, and asketh whereof this joy and this murmuring may be. they tell him they are fain to make the knight king, but that he is not minded to allow them, and they tell him the whole manner of the fire. vi. the dwarf and the damsel are alighted, then they mount up to the palace. the dwarf calleth the provosts of the city and the greater lords. "lords," saith he, "sith that this knight is not willing to be king, i will be so willingly, and i will govern the city at your pleasure and do whatsoever you have devised to do." "in faith, sith that the knight refuseth this honour and you desire to have it, willingly will we grant it you, and he may go his way and his road, for herein do we declare him wholly quit." therewithal they set the crown on the dwarf's head, and lancelot maketh great joy thereof. he taketh his leave, and they command him to god, and so remounteth he on his horse and goeth his way through the midst of the city all armed. the dames and damsels say that he would not be king for that he had no mind to die so soon. when he came forth of the city right well pleased was he. he entereth a great forest and rideth on till daylight began to fall, and seeth before him a hermitage newly stablished, for the house and the chapel were all builded new. he cometh thitherward and alighteth to lodge. the hermit, that was young without beard or other hair on his face, issued from his chapel. "sir," saith he to lancelot, "you are he that is welcome." "and you, sir, good adventure to you," saith lancelot. "never have i seen hermit so young as you." "sir, of this only do i repent me, that i came not hither ere now." vii. therewith he maketh his horse be stabled, and leadeth him into his hermitage, and so maketh disarm him and setteth him at ease as much as he may. "sir," saith the hermit, "can you tell me any tidings of a knight that hath lain sick of a long time in the house of a hermit?" "sir," saith lancelot, "it is no long time agone sithence i saw him in the house of the good king hermit, that hath tended me and healed me right sweetly of the wounds that the knight gave me." "and is the knight healed, then?" saith the hermit. "yea, sir," saith lancelot, "whereof is right great joy. and wherefore do you ask me?" "well ought i to ask it," saith the hermit, "for my father is king pelles, and his mother is my father's own sister." "ha, sir, then is the king hermit your father?" "yea, sir, certes." "thereof do i love you the better," saith lancelot, "for never found i any man that hath done me so much of love as hath he. and what, sir, is your name?" "sir," saith he, "my name is joseus, and yours, what?" "sir," saith he, "i am called lancelot of the lake." "sir," saith the hermit, "right close are we akin, i and you." "by my head," saith lancelot, "hereof am i right glad at heart." lancelot looketh and seeth in the hermit's house shield and spear, javelins and habergeon. "sir," saith lancelot, "what do you with these arms?" "sir," saith he, "this forest is right lonely, and this hermitage is far from any folk, and none are there here-within save me and my squire. so, when robbers come hither, we defend ourselves therewith." "but hermits, methought, never assaulted nor wounded nor slew." "sir," saith the hermit, "god forbid i should wound any man or slay!" "and how, then, do you defend yourselves?" saith lancelot. "sir, i will tell you thereof. when robbers come to us, we arm ourselves accordingly. if i may catch hold of any in my hands, he cannot escape me. our squire is so well-grown and hardy that he slayeth him forthwith or handleth him in such sort that he may never help himself after." "by my head," saith lancelot, "were you not hermit, you would be valiant throughout." "by my head," saith the squire. "you say true, for methinketh there is none so strong nor so hardy as he in all the kingdom of logres." the lodged lancelot the night the best he could. viii. when as they were in their first sleep, come four robber-knights of the forest that knew how a knight was lodged therewithin, and had coveted his horse and his arms. the hermit that was in his chapel saw them first, and awoke his squire and made him bring his arms all secretly; then he made his squire arm. "sir," saith the squire, "shall i waken the knight?" "in nowise," saith the hermit, "until such time as we shall know wherefore." he maketh open the door of the chapel and taketh a great coil of rope, and they issue forth, he and his squire, and they perceived the robbers in the stable where lancelot's horse was. the hermit crieth out: the squire cometh forward and thereupon beareth one to the ground with his spear. the hermit seizeth him and bindeth him to a tree so strait that he may not move. the other three think to defend them and to rescue their fellow. lancelot leapeth up all startled when he heareth the noise and armeth himself as quickly as he may, albeit not so quickly but that or ever he come, the hermit hath taken the other three and bound them with the fourth. but of them were some that were wounded right sore. "sir," saith the hermit to lancelot, "it grieveth me that you have been awakened." "rather," saith lancelot, "have you done me great wrong for that you ought to have awakened me sooner." "sir," saith the hermit, "we have assaults such as this often enough." the four robbers cry mercy of lancelot that he will pray the hermit to have pity upon them. and lancelot saith god help not him that shall have pity on thieves! as soon as it was daylight, lancelot and the squire led them into the forest, their hands all tied behind their backs, and have hanged them in a waste place far away from the hermitage. lancelot cometh back again and taketh leave of joseus the young hermit, and saith it is great loss to the world that he is not knight. "sir," saith the squire, "to me is it great joy, for many a man should suffer thereby." lancelot is mounted, and joseus commendeth him to god, praying him much that he salute his father and cousin on his behalf, and messire gawain likewise that he met in the forest what time he came all weeping to the hermitage. ix. lancelot hath set him forth again upon his way, and rideth by the high forests and findeth holds and hermitages enough, but the story maketh not remembrance of all the hostels wherein he harboured him. so far hath he ridden that he is come forth of the forest and findeth a right fair meadow-land all loaded with flowers, and a river ran in the midst there of that was right fair and broad, and there was forest upon the one side and the other, and the meadow lands were wide and far betwixt the river and the forest. lancelot looketh on the river before him and seeth a man rowing a great boat, and seeth within the boat two knights, white and bald, and a damsel, as it seemed him, that held in her lap the head of a knight that lay upon a mattress of straw and was covered with a coverlid of marten's fur, and another damsel sate at his feet. there was a knight within in the midst of the boat that was fishing with an angle, the rod whereof seemeth of gold, and right great fish he took. a little cock-boat followed the boat, wherein he set the fish he took. lancelot cometh anigh the bank the swiftest he may, and so saluteth the knights and damsels, and they return his salute right sweetly. "lords," saith lancelot, "is there no castle nigh at hand nor no harbour?" "yea, sir," say they, "beyond that mountain, right fair and rich, and this river runneth thither all round about it." "lords, whose castle is it?" "sir," say they, "it is king fisherman's, and the good knights lodge there when he is in this country; but such knights have been harboured there as that the lord of the land hath had good right to plain him thereof." the knights go rowing along the river, and lancelot rideth until he cometh to the foot of the mountain and findeth a hermitage beside a spring, and bethinketh him, since it behoveth him to go to so high a hostel and so rich, where the holy graal appeareth, he will confess him to the good man. he alighteth and confesseth to the good man, and rehearseth all his sins, and saith that of all thereof doth he repent him save only one, and the hermit asketh him what it is whereof he is unwilling to repent. "sir," saith lancelot, "it seemeth to me the fairest sin and the sweetest that ever i committed." "fair sir," saith the hermit, "sin is sweet to do, but right bitter be the wages thereof; neither is there any sin that is fair nor seemly, albeit there be some sins more dreadfuller than other." "sir," saith lancelot, "this sin will i reveal to you of my lips, but of my heart may i never repent me thereof. i love my lady, which is the queen, more than aught else that liveth, and albeit one of the best kings on live hath her to wife. the affection seemeth me so good and so high that i cannot let go thereof, for, so rooted is it in my heart that thence may it nevermore depart, and the best knighthood that is in me cometh to me only of her affection." "alas!" saith the hermit, "sinner of mortal sin, what is this that you have spoken? never may no knighthood come of such wantonness that shall not cost you right dear! a traitor are you toward our earthly lord, and a murderer toward our saviour. of the seven deadly sins, you are labouring under the one whereof the delights are the falsest of any, wherefore dearly shall you aby thereof, save you repent you forthwith." "sir," saith lancelot, "never the more do i desire to cast it from me." "as much," saith the hermit, "is that as to say that you ought long since to have cast it from you and renounced it. for so long as you maintain it, so long are you an enemy of the saviour!" "ha, sir," saith lancelot, "she hath in her such beauty and worth and wisdom and courtesy and nobleness that never ought she to be forgotten of any that hath loved her!" x. "the more of beauty and worth she hath in her," saith the hermit, "so much the more blame hath she of that she doeth, and you likewise. for of that which is of little worth is the loss not so great as of that which is much worth. and this is a queen, blessed and anointed, that was thus, therefore, in her beginning vowed to god; yet now is she given over to the devil of her love for you, and you of your love for her. fair, sweet my friend," saith the hermit, "let go this folly, which is so cruel, that you have taken in hand, and be repentant of these sins! so every day will i pray to the saviour for you, that so truly as he pardoned his death to him that smote him with a lance in his side, so may he pardon you of this sin that you have maintained, and that so you be repentant and truly confessed thereof, i may take the penance due thereunto upon myself!" "sir," saith lancelot, "i thank you much, but i am not minded to renounce it, nor have i no wish to speak aught wherewith my heart accordeth not. i am willing enough to do penance as great as is enjoined of this sin, but my lady the queen will i serve so long as it may be her pleasure, and i may have her good will. so dearly do i love her that i wish not even that any will should come to me to renounce her love, and god is so sweet and so full of right merciful mildness, as good men bear witness, that he will have pity upon us, for never no treason have i done toward her, nor she toward me." "ha, fair sweet friend," saith the hermit, "nought may you avail you of whatsoever i may say, wherefore god grant her such will and you also, that you may be able to do the will of our saviour. but so much am i fain to tell you, that and if you shall lie in the hostel of king fisherman, yet never may you behold the graal for the mortal sin that lieth at your heart." "may our lord god," saith lancelot, "counsel me therein at his pleasure and at his will!" "so may he do!" saith the hermit, "for of a truth you may know thereof am i right fain." xi. lancelot taketh leave of the hermit, and is mounted forthwith and departeth from the hermitage. and evening draweth on, and he seeth that it is time to lodge him. and he espieth before him the castle of the rich king fisherman. he seeth the bridges, broad and long, but they seem not to him the same as they had seemed to messire gawain. he beholdeth the rich entrance of the gateway there where our lord god was figured as he was set upon the rood, and seeth two lions that guard the entrance of the gate. lancelot thinketh that sith messire gawain had passed through amidst the lions, he would do likewise. he goeth toward the gateway, and the lions that were unchained prick up their ears and look at him. howbeit lancelot goeth his way between them without heeding them, and neither of them was fain to do him any hurt. he alighteth before the master-palace, and mounteth upward all armed. two other knights come to meet him and receive him with right great joy, then they make him be seated on a couch in the midst of the hall and be disarmed of two servants. two damsels bring him a right rich robe and make him be apparelled therewithal. lancelot beholdeth the richness of the hall and seeth nought figured there save images of saints, men or women, and he seeth the hall hung about with cloths of silk in many places. the knights lead him before king fisherman in a chamber where he lay right richly. he findeth the king, that lieth on a bed so rich and so fair apparelled as never was seen a better, and one damsel was at his head and another at his feet. lancelot saluteth him right nobly, and the king answereth him full fairly as one that is a right worshipful man. and such a brightness of light was there in the chamber as that it seemed the sun were beaming on all sides, and albeit the night was dark, no candles, so far as lancelot might espy, were lighted therewithin. "sir," saith king fisherman, "can you tell me tidings of my sister's son, that was son of alain li gros of the valleys of camelot, whom they call perceval?" "sir," saith lancelot, "i saw him not long time sithence in the house of king hermit, his uncle." "sir," saith the king, "they tell me he is a right good knight?" "sir," saith lancelot, "he is the best knight of the world. i myself have felt the goodness of his knighthood and his valour, for right sorely did he wound me or ever i knew him or he me." "and what is your name?" saith the king. "sir, i am called lancelot of the lake, king ban's son of benoic." "ha," saith the king, "you are nigh of our lineage, you ought to be good knight of right, and so are you as i have heard witness, lancelot," saith the king. "behold there the chapel where the most holy graal taketh his rest, that appeared to two knights that have been herewithin. i know not what was the name of the first, but never saw i any so gentle and quiet, nor had better likelihood to be good knight. it was through him that i have fallen into languishment. the second was messire gawain." "sir," saith lancelot, "the first was perceval your nephew." "ha!" saith king fisherman, "take heed that you speak true!" "sir," saith lancelot, "i ought to know him well!" "ha, god!" saith the king, "wherefore then did i know him not? through him have i fallen into this languishment, and had i only known then that it was he, should i now be all whole of my limbs and of my body, and right instantly do i pray you, when you shall see him, that he come to see me or ever i die, and that he be fain to succour and help his mother, whose men have been slain, and whose land hath been reaved in such sort that never may she have it again save by him alone. and his sister hath gone in quest of him throughout all kingdoms." "sir," saith lancelot, "this will i tell him gladly, if ever i may find him in any place, but it is great adventure of finding him, for oft-times will he change his cognizance in divers fashion and conceal his name in many places." xii. king fisherman is right joyous of the tidings he hath heard of his nephew, wherefore he maketh lancelot be honoured greatly. the knights seat them in the hall at a table of ivory at meat, and the king remaineth in his chamber. when they had washen, the table was dight of rich sets of vessels of gold and silver, and they were served of rich meats of venison of hart and wild boar. but the story witnesseth that the graal appeared not at this feast. it held not aloof for that lancelot was not one of the three knights of the world of the most renown and mightiest valour, but for his great sin as touching the queen, whom he loved without repenting him thereof, for of nought did he think so much as of her, nor never might he remove his heart therefrom. when they had eaten they rose from the tables. two damsels waited on lancelot at his going to bed, and he lay on a right rich couch, nor were they willing to depart until such time as he was asleep. he rose on the morrow as soon as he saw the day, and went to hear mass. then he took leave of king fisherman and the knights and damsels, and issued forth of the castle between the two lions, and prayeth god that he allow him to see the queen again betimes, for this is his most desire. he rideth until he hath left the castle far behind and entereth the forest, and is in right great desire to see perceval, but the tidings of him were right far away. he looketh before him in the forest and seeth come right amidst the launde a knight, and a damsel clad in the richest robe of gold and silk that ever he had seen tofore. xiii. the damsel came weeping by the side of the knight and prayed him oftentimes that he would have mercy upon her. the knight is still and holdeth his peace, and saith never a word. "ha, sir," saith the damsel to lancelot, "be pleased to beseech this knight on my behalf." "in what manner?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith she, "i will tell you. he hath shown me semblance of love for more than a year, and had me in covenant that he would take me to wife, and i apparelled myself in the richest garments that i had to come to him. but my father is of greater power and riches than is he, and therefore was not willing to allow the marriage. wherefore come i with him in this manner, for i love him better than ever another knight beside. now will he do nought of that he had me in covenant to do, for he loveth another, better, methinketh, than me. and this hath he done, as i surmise, to do shame to my friends and to me." lancelot seeth the damsel of right great beauty and weeping tenderly, whereof hath he passing great pity. "hold, sir!" saith lancelot to the knight, "this shall you not do! you shall not do such shame to so fair a damsel as that you shall fail to keep covenant with her. for not a knight is there in the kingdom of logres nor in that of wales but ought to be right well pleased to have so fair a damsel to wife, and i pray and require that you do to the damsel that whereof you held her in covenant. this will be a right worshipful deed, and i pray and beseech that you do it, and thereof shall i be much beholden unto you." "sir," saith the knight, "i have no will thereunto, nor for no man will i do it, for ill would it beseem me." "by my head, then," saith lancelot, "the basest knight are you that ever have i seen, nor ought dame nor damsel ever hereafter put trust in you, sith that you are minded to put such disgrace upon this lady." "sir," saith the knight, "a worthier lover have i than this, and one that i more value; wherefore as touching this damsel will i do nought more than i have said." "and whither, then, mean you to take her?" saith lancelot. "i mean to take her to a hold of mine own that is in this forest, and to give her in charge to a dwarf of mine that looketh after my house, and i will marry her to some knight or some other man." "now never god help me," saith lancelot, "but this is foul churlishness you tell me, and, so you do not her will, it shall betide you ill of me myself, and, had you been armed as i am, you should have felt my first onset already." "ha," saith the damsel to lancelot, "be not so ready to do him any hurt, for nought love i so well as i love his body, whatsoever he do unto me. but for god's sake pray him that he do me the honour he hath promised me." "willingly," saith lancelot. "sir knight, will you do this whereof you had the damsel in covenant?" "sir," saith the knight, "i have told you plainly that i will not." "by my head," saith lancelot, "you shall do it, or otherwise sentence of death hath passed upon you, and this not so much for the sake of the damsel only, but for the churlishness that hath taken possession of you, that it be not a reproach to other knights. for promise that knight maketh to dame or damsel behoveth him to keep. and you, as you tell me, are knight, and no knight ought to do churlishly to his knowledge, and this churlishness is so far greater than another, that for no prayer that the damsel may make will i suffer that it shall be done, but that if you do not that whereof you held her in covenant, i shall slay you, for that i will not have this churlishness made a reproach unto other knights." he draweth his sword and would have come toward him, when the knight cometh over against him and saith to him: "slay me not. tell me rather what you would have me do?" "i would," saith he, "that you take the damsel to wife without denial." "sir," saith he, "it pleaseth me better to take her than to die. sir, i will do your will." "i thank you much therefor," saith lancelot. "damsel, is this your pleasure also?" "yea, sir, but, so please you, take not your departure from us until such time as he shall have done that which you tell him." "i will, well that so it be," saith lancelot, "for love of you." they ride together right through the forest, until they came to a chapel at a hermitage, and the hermit wedded them and made much joy thereof. when it cometh to after-mass, lancelot would fain depart, but the damsel prayeth him right sweetly that he should come right to her father's house to witness that the knight had wedded her. xiv. "sir," saith she, "my father's hold is not far away." "lady," saith lancelot, "willingly will i go sith that you beseech me thereof." they ride so long right amidst the forest, that presently they come to the castle of the vavasour, that was sitting on the bridge of his castle, right sorrowful and troubled because of his daughter. lancelot is gone on before and alighteth. the vavasour riseth up to meet him, and lancelot recounteth unto him how his daughter hath been wedded, and that he hath been at the wedding. thereof the vavasour maketh right great joy. therewithal, behold you, the knight and the vavasour's daughter that are straightway alighted, and the vavasour thanketh lancelot much of the honour he hath done his daughter. therewith he departeth from the castle and rideth amidst the forest the day long, and meeteth a damsel and a dwarf that came a great gallop. "sir," saith the damsel to lancelot, "from whence come you?" "damsel," saith he, "i come from the vavasour's castle that is in this forest." "did you meet," saith she, "a knight and a damsel on your way?" "yea," saith lancelot, "he hath wedded her." "say you true?" saith she. "i tell you true," saith lancelot, "but had i not been there, he would not have wedded her." "shame and ill adventure may you have thereof, for you have reft me of the thing in the world that most i loved. and know you well of a truth that joy of him shall she never have, and if the knight had been armed as are you, never would he have done your will, but his own. and this is not the first harm you have done me; you and messire gawain between you have slain my uncle and my two cousins-german in the forest, whom behoved me bury in the chapel where you were, there where my dwarf that you see here was making the graves in the burial-ground." "damsel," saith lancelot, "true it is that i was there, but i departed from the grave-yard, honour safe." "true," saith the dwarf, "for the knights that were there were craven, and failed." "fair friend," saith lancelot, "rather would i they should be coward toward me than hardy." "lancelot," saith the damsel, "much outrage have you done, for you slew the knight of the waste house, there whither the brachet led messire gawain, but had he there been known, he would not have departed so soon, for he was scarce better loved than you, and god grant you may find a knight that may abate the outrages that are in your heart and in his; for great rejoicing would there be thereof, for many a good knight have you slain, and i myself will bring about trouble for you, so quickly as i may." xv. thereupon the dwarf smiteth the mule with his whip, and she departeth. lancelot would answer none of her reviling, wherefore he departed forthwith, and rideth so long on his journeys that he is come back to the house of the good king hermit, that maketh right great joy of him. and he telleth him that he hath been unto the house of king fisherman, his brother that lieth in languishment, and telleth him also how he hath been honoured in his hostel, and of the salutations that he sent him. king hermit is right joyous thereof, and asketh him of his nephew, and he telleth him he hath seen him not since he departed thence. king hermit asketh him whether he hath seen the graal, and he telleth him he hath seen it not at all. "i know well," saith the king, "wherefore this was so. and you had had the like desire to see the graal that you have to see the queen, the graal would you have seen." "sir," saith lancelot, "the queen do i desire to see for the sake of her good intent, her wisdom, courtesy and worth, and so ought every knight to do. for in herself hath she all honourable conditions that a lady may have." "god grant you good issue therein," saith king hermit, "and that you do nought whereof he may visit you with his wrath at the day of judgment." lancelot lay the night in the hermitage, and on the morrow departed thence and took leave when he had heard mass, and cometh back as straight as he may to pannenoisance on the sea of wales, where were the king and queen with great plenty of knights and barons. branch xi. title i. this high history witnesseth whereof this account cometh, and saith that perceval is in the kingdom of logres, and came great pace toward the land of the queen of the tents to release the damsel of the car, that he had left in hostage on account of clamados, that had put upon him the treason whereof behoved him to defend himself. but, or ever he entered into the land of the queen of the tents, he met the damsel of the car that was coming thence. she made right great joy of him, and told him that clamados was dead of the wound that meliot of logres had dealt him, and that meliot of logres was heal. "sir," saith she, "the tents and the awnings are taken down, and the queen hath withdrawn herself to the castle with her maidens, and by my coming back from thence may you well know that you are altogether quit. wherefore i tell you that your sister goeth in quest of you, and that never had your mother so sore need of help as now she hath, nor never again shall your sister have joy at heart until such time as she shall have found you. she goeth seeking for you by all the kingdoms and strange countries in sore mis-ease, nor may she find any to tell her tidings of you." therewith perceval departeth from the damsel, without saying more, and rideth until he cometh into the kingdom of wales to a castle that is seated above the sea upon a high rock, and it was called the castle of tallages. he seeth a knight issue from the castle and asketh whose hold it is, and he telleth him that it belonged to the queen of the maidens. he entereth into the first baby of the castle, and alighteth at the mounting-stage and setteth down his shield and his spear, and looketh toward the steps whereby one goeth up to the higher hall, and seeth upon them row upon row of knights and damsels. he cometh thitherward, but never a knight nor dame was there that gave him greeting of any kind. so he saluted them at large. he went his way right amidst them toward the door of the great hall, which he findeth shut, and rattled the ring so loud that it made the whole hall resound thereof. a knight cometh to open it and he entereth in. "sir knight, welcome may you be!" "good adventure may you have!" saith perceval. he lowereth his ventail and taketh off his helm. the knight leadeth him to the queen's chamber, and she riseth to meet him, and maketh great joy of him, and maketh him sit beside her all armed. ii. with that, cometh a damsel and kneeleth before the queen and saith: "lady, behold here the knight that was first at the graal. i saw him in the court of the queen of the tents, there where he was appeached of treason and murder." "now haste," saith the queen to the knight, "let sound the ivory horn upon the castle." the knights and damsels that were sitting on the steps leapt up, and make right great joy, and the other knights likewise. they say that now they know well that they have done their penance. thereupon they enter into the hall, and the lady issueth from her chamber and taketh perceval by the hand and goeth to meet them. "behold here," saith she, "the knight through whom you have had the pain and travail, and by whom you are now released therefrom!" "ha!" say the knights and dames, "welcome may he be!" "by my head," saith the queen, "so is he, for he is the knight of the world that i had most desire to see." she maketh disarm him, and bring the rich robe of cloth of silk to apparel him. "sir," saith the queen, "four knights and three damsels have been under the steps at the entrance of the hall ever since such time as you were at the hostel of king fisherman, there where you forgot to ask whereof the graal might serve, nor never since have they had none other house nor hold wherein to eat nor to drink nor to lie, nor never since have they had no heart to make joy, nor would not now and you had not come hither. wherefore ought you not to marvel that they make joy of your coming. howbeit, on the other hand, sore need have we in this castle of your coming, for a knight warreth upon me that is brother of king fisherman, and his name is the king of castle mortal." "lady," saith he, "he is my uncle, albeit i knew it not of a long time, nor of the good king fisherman either, and the good king hermit is my uncle also. but i tell you of a very truth, the king of castle mortal is the most fell and cruel that liveth, wherefore ought none to love him for the felony that is in him, for he hath begun to war upon king fisherman my uncle, and challengeth him his castle, and would fain have the lance and the graal." "sir," saith the queen, "in like sort challengeth he my castle of me for that i am in aid of king fisherman, and every week cometh he to an island that is in this sea, and oft-times cometh plundering before this castle and hath slain many of my knights and damsels, whereof god grant us vengeance upon him." she taketh perceval by the hand and leadeth him to the windows of the hall that were nighest the sea. "sir," saith she, "now may you see the island, there, whereunto your uncle cometh in a galley, and in this island sojourneth he until he hath seen where to aim his blow and laid his plans. and here below, see, are my gallies that defend us thereof." iii. perceval, as the history telleth, was much honoured at the castle of the queen of the maidens, that was right passing fair. the queen loved him of a passing great love, but well she knew that she should never have her desire, nor any dame nor damsel that might set her intent thereon, for chaste was he and in chastity was fain to die. so long was he at the castle as that he heard tell his uncle was arrived at the island whither he wont to come. perceval maketh arm him forthwith and entereth into a galley below the hall, and maketh him be rowed toward his uncle, that much marvelleth when he seeth him coming, for never aforetime durst no knight issue out alone from this castle to meet him, nor to come there where he was, body to body. but had he known that it was perceval, he would not have marvelled. thereupon the galley taketh the ground and perceval is issued forth. the queen and the knights and her maidens are come to the windows of the castle to behold the bearing of the nephew and the uncle. the queen would have sent over some of her knights with him, but perceval would not. the king of castle mortal was tall and strong and hardy. he seeth his nephew come all armed, but knoweth him not. but perceval knew him well, and kept his sword drawn and his shield on his arm, and sought out his uncle with right passing wrathfulness, and dealeth him a heavy buffet above upon his helm that he maketh him stoop withal. howbeit, the king spareth him not, but smiteth him so passing stoutly that he had his helm all dinted in thereby. but perceval attacketh him again, thinking to strike him above on the head, but the king swerveth aside and the blow falleth on the shield and cleaveth it right down as far as the boss. the king of castle mortal draweth him backward and hath great shame within himself for that perceval should thus fettle him, for he searcheth him with his sword in every part, and dealeth him great buffets in such sort that, and his habergeon had not been so strong and tough, he would have wounded him in many places. iv. the king himself giveth him blows so heavy that the queen and all they that were at the windows marvelled how perceval might abide such buffets. the king took witting of the shield that perceval bare, and looketh on it of a long space. "knight," saith he, "who gave you this shield, and on behalf of whom do you bear such an one?" "i bear it on behalf of my father," saith he. "did your father, then, bear a red shield with a white hart?" "yea," saith perceval, "many a day." "was your father, then, king alain of the valleys of camelot?" "my father was he without fail. no blame ought i to have of him, for a good knight was he and a loyal." "are you the son of yglais my sister, that was his wife?" "yea!" saith perceval. "then are you my nephew," saith the king of castle mortal, "for she was my sister." "that misliketh me," saith perceval, "for thereof have i neither worship nor honour, for the most disloyal are you of all my kindred, and i knew well when i came hither that it was you, and, for the great disloyalty that is in you, you war upon the best king that liveth and the most worshipful man, and upon the lady of this castle for that she aideth him in all that she may. but, please god, henceforward she shall have no need to guard her to the best of her power against so evil a man as are you, nor shall her castle never be obedient to you, nor the sacred hallows that the good king hath in his keeping. for god loveth not you so much as he doth him, and so long as you war upon him, you do i defy and hold you as mine enemy." the king wotteth well that his nephew holdeth him not over dear, and that he is eager to do him a hurt, and that he holdeth his sword in his fist and that he is well roofed-in of his helmet, and that he is raging like a lion. he misdoubteth him sore of his strength and his great hardiment. he hath well proven and essayed that he is the best knight of the world. he durst no longer abide his blows, but rather he turneth him full speed toward his galley, and leapeth thereinto forthwith. he pusheth out from the shore incontinent, and perceval followeth him right to the beach, full heavy that he hath gotten him away. then he crieth after him: "evil king, tell me not that i am of your kindred! never yet did knight of my mother's lineage flee from other knight, save you alone! now have i conquered this island, and never on no day hereafter be you so over-hardy as be seen therein again!" the king goeth his way as he that hath no mind to return, and perceval cometh back again in his galley to the queen's castle, and all they of the palace come forth to meet him with great joy. the queen asketh him how it is with him and whether he is wounded? "lady," saith he, "not at all, thank god." she maketh disarm him, and honoureth him at her pleasure, and commandeth that all be obedient to him, and do his commandment so long as he shall please to be there. now feel they safer in the castle for that the king hath so meanly departed thence, and it well seemeth them that never will he dare come back for dread of his nephew more than of any other, whereof make they much joy in common. branch xii. title i. now is the story silent about perceval, and saith that king arthur is at pannenoisance in wales with great plenty of knights. lancelot and messire gawain are repaired thither, whereof all the folk make great joy. the king asketh of messire gawain and lancelot whether they have seen lohot his son in none of these islands nor in none of these forests, and they answer him that they have seen him nowhere. "i marvel much," saith the king, "what hath become of him, for no tidings have i heard of him beyond these, that kay the seneschal slew logrin the giant, whose head he brought me, whereof i made great joy, and right willingly did i make kay's lands the broader thereof, and well ought i to do him such favour, for he avenged me of him that did my land more hurt than any other, wherefore i love him greatly." but, and the king had only known how kay had wrought against him, he would not have so highly honoured his chivalry and his hardiment. the king sate one day at meat and queen guenievre at his side. thereupon behold you, a damsel that alighteth before the palace, then mounteth the steps of the hall and is come before the king and the queen. "sir, i salute you as the sorest dismayed and most discounselled damsel that ever you have seen! wherefore am i come to demand a boon of you for the nobleness and valour of your heart." "damsel," saith the king, "god counsel you of his will and pleasure, and i myself am full fain to partake therein." the damsel looketh at the shield that hangeth in the midst of the hall. "sir," saith she, "i beseech you that you deign grant me the aid of the knight that shall bear this shield from hence. for sorer need have i thereof than ever another of them that are discounselled." "damsel," saith the king, "full well shall i be pleased, so the knight be also fain to do as you say." "sir," saith she, "and he be so good knight as he is reported, never will he refuse your prayer, nor would he mine, if only i were here at such time as he shall come. for, had i been able to find my brother that i have been seeking this long time, then well should i have been succoured long agone! but i have sought him in many lands, nor never could i learn where he is. therefore to my sorrow, behoveth me to ride all lonely by the strange islands and put my body in jeopardy of death, whereof ought these knights to have great pity." ii. "damsel," saith the king, "for this reason do i refuse you nought of that you wish, and right willingly will i put myself to trouble herein." "sir," saith she, "much thanks to god thereof!" he maketh her be set at meat, and much honour be done her. when the cloths were drawn, the queen leadeth her into her chamber with the maidens, and maketh much joy of her. the brachet that was brought thither with the shield was lying on a couch of straw. he would not know the queen nor her damsels nor the knights that were in the court, but so soon as ever he heard the damsel he cometh to her and maketh greater joy of her than ever was brachet seen to make before. the queen and her damsels marvelled much thereof, as did the damsel herself to whom the brachet made such joy, for never since that he was brought into the hall had they seen him rejoice of any. the queen asked her whether she knew him. "certes, lady, no, for never, so far as i know, have i seen him before." the brachet will not leave her, but will be always on her lap, nor can she move anywhither but he followeth her. the damsel is long time in the court in this manner, albeit as she that had sore need of succour she remained in the chapel every day after that the queen was come forth, and wept right tenderly before the image of the saviour, and prayed right sweetly that his mother would counsel her, for that she had been left in sore peril of losing her castle. the queen asked her one day who her brother was. "lady," saith she, "one of the best knights of the world, whereof have i heard witness. but he departed from my father's and mother's hostel a right young squire. my father is since dead, and my lady mother is left without help and without counsel, wherefore hath a certain man reaved her of her land and her castles and slain her men. the very castle wherein she hath her hold would he have seized long agone had it not been for messire gawain that made it be safe-guarded against her enemies for a year. the term is now ended and my lady mother is in dread lest she shall lose her castle, for none other hold hath she. wherefore is it that she hath sent me to seek for my brother, for she hath been told that he is a good knight, and for that i may not find him am i come to this court to beseech of king arthur succour of the knight that shall bear away the shield, for i have heard tell that he is the best knight of the world; and, for the bounty that is in him will he therefore have pity on me." "damsel," saith the queen, "would that you had found him, for great joy would it be unto me that your mother were succoured, and god grant that he that ought to bear the shield come quickly, and grant him courage that he be fain to succour your mother." "so shall he be, please god, for never was good knight that was without pity." iii. the queen hath much pity of the damsel, for she was of right great beauty, and well might it be seen by her cheer and her semblant that no joy had she. she had told the queen her name and the name of her father and mother, and the queen told her that many a time had she heard tell of alain li gros, and that he was said to be a worshipful man and good knight. the king lay one night beside the queen, and was awoke from his first sleep so that he might not go to sleep again. he rose and did on a great grey cape and issueth forth of the chamber and cometh to the windows of the hall that opened toward the sea, calm and untroubled, so that much pleasure had he of looking thereat and leaning at the windows. when he had been there of a long space, he looked out to sea and saw coming afar off as it were the shining of a candle in the midst of the sea. much he marvelled what it might be. he looked at it until he espied what seemed him to be a ship wherein was the light, and he was minded not to move until such time as he should know whether a ship it were or something other. the longer he looketh at it, the better perceiveth he that it is a ship, and that it was coming with great rushing toward the castle as fast as it might. the king espieth it nigh at hand, but none seeth he within nor without save one old man, ancient and bald, of right passing seemliness that held the rudder of the ship. the ship was covered of a right rich cloth in the midst and the sail was lowered, for the sea was calm and quiet. the ship was arrived under the palace and was quite still. when the ship had taken ground, the king looketh thereat with much marvelling, and knoweth not who is there within, for not a soul heareth he speak. him thinketh that he will go see what is within the ship, and he issueth forth of the hall, and cometh thither where the ship was arrived, but he might not come anigh for the flowing of the sea. "sir," saith he that held the rudder, "allow me a little!" he launcheth forth of the ship a little boat, and the king entereth thereinto, and so cometh into the great ship, and findeth a knight that lay all armed upon a table of ivory, and had set his shield at his head. at the head of his bed had he two tall twisted links of wax in two candlesticks of gold, and the like at his feet, and his hands were crossed upon his breast. the king draweth nigh toward him and so looketh at him, and seemed him that never had he seen so comely a knight. iv. "sir," saith the master of the ship, "for god's sake draw you back and let the knight rest, for thereof hath he sore need." "sir," saith the king, "who is the knight?" "sir, this would he well tell you were he willing, but of me may you know it not." "will he depart forthwith from hence?" saith the king. "sir," saith the master, "not before he hath been in this hall, but he hath had sore travail and therefore he taketh rest." when the king heard say that he would come into his palace, thereof had he great joy. he cometh to the queen's chamber and telleth her how the ship is arrived. the queen riseth and two of her damsels with her, and apparelleth her of a kirtle of cloth of silk, furred of ermine, and cometh into the midst of the hall. thereupon behold you, the knight that cometh all armed and the master of the ship before him bearing the twisted link of wax in the candlestick of gold in front of him, and the knight held his sword all naked. "sir," saith the queen, "well may you be welcome!" "lady," saith he, "god grant you joy and good adventure." "sir," saith she, "please god we have nought to fear of you?" "lady," saith he, "no fear ought you to have!" the king seeth that he beareth the red shield with the white hart whereof he had heard tell. the brachet that was in the hall heareth the knight. he cometh racing toward him and leapeth about his legs and maketh great joy of him. and the knight playeth with him, then taketh the shield that hung at the column, and hangeth the other there, and cometh back thereafter toward the door of the hall. "lady," saith the king, "pray the knight that he go not so hastily." "sir," saith the knight, "no leisure have i to abide, but at some time shall you see me again." the knights also say as much, and the king and queen are right heavy of his departure, but they durst not press him beyond his will. he is entered into the ship, and the brachet with him. the master draweth the boat within, and so they depart and leave the castle behind. king arthur abideth at pannenoisance, and is right sorrowful of the knight, that he hath gone his way so soon. the knights arose throughout the castle when the day waxed light, and learnt the tidings of the knight that had borne the shield thence, and were right grieved for that they had not seen him. the damsel that had asked the boon cometh to the king. "sir," saith she, "did you speak of my business to the knight?" "damsel," saith the king, "never a whit! to my sorrow, for he hath departed sooner than i would!" "sir," saith she, "you have done a wrong and a sin, but, please god, so good a king as are you shall not fail of his covenants to damsel so forlorn as am i." the king was right sorrowful for that he had remembered not the damsel. she departeth from the court, and taketh leave of the king and queen, and saith that she herself will go seek the knight, and that, so she may find him, she will hold the king quit of his covenant. messire gawain and lancelot are returned to the court, and have heard the tidings of the knight that hath carried away the shield, and are right grieved that they have not seen him, and messire gawain more than enough, for that he had lien in his mother's house. lancelot seeth the shield that he had left on the column, and knoweth it well, and saith, "now know i well that perceval hath been here, for this shield was he wont to bear, and the like also his father bore." "ha," saith messire gawain, "what ill-chance have i that i may not see the good knight!" "messire gawain," saith lancelot, "so nigh did i see him that methought he would have killed me, for never before did i essay onset so stout nor so cruel of force of arms, and i myself wounded him, and when he knew me he made right great joy of me. and i was with him at the house of king hermit a long space until that i was healed." "lancelot," saith messire gawain, "i would that he had wounded me, so i were not too sore harmed thereof, so that i might have been with him so long time as were you." "lords," saith the king, "behoveth you go on quest of him or i will go, for i am bound to beseech his aid on behalf of a damsel that asked me thereof, but she told me that, so she might find him first, i should be quit of her request." "sir," saith the queen, "you will do a right great service and you may counsel her herein, for sore discounselled is she. she hath told me that she was daughter of alain li gros of the valleys of camelot, and that her mother's name is yglais, and her own dindrane." "ha, lady," saith messire gawain, "she is sister to the knight that hath borne away the shield, for i lay at her mother's house wherein i was right well lodged." "by my head," saith the queen, "it may well be, for so soon as she came in hither, the brachet that would have acquaintance with none, made her great joy, and when the knight came to seek the shield, the brachet, that had remained in the hall, played gladly with him and went." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "i will go in quest of the knight, for right great desire have i to see him." "and i," saith lancelot, "never so glad have i been to see him aforetime as i should be now." "howsoever it be," saith the king, "i pray you so speed my business that the damsel shall not be able to plain her of me." v. "sir," saith lancelot, "we will tell him and we may find him, that his sister is gone in quest of him, and that she hath been at your court." the two knights depart from the court to enter on the quest of the good knight, and leave the castle far behind them and ride in the midst of a high forest until they find a cross in the midst of a launde, there where all the roads of the forest join together. "lancelot," saith messire gawain, "choose which road soever you will, and so let each go by himself, so that we may the sooner hear tidings of the good knight, and let us meet together again at this cross at the end of a year and let either tell other how he hath sped, for please god in one place or another we shall hear tidings of him." lancelot taketh the way to the right, and messire gawain to the left. therewithal they depart and commend them one another to god. branch xiii. title i. here the story is silent of lancelot, and saith that messire gawain goeth a great pace riding, and prayeth god that he will so counsel him that he may find the knight. he rideth until the day cometh to decline, and he lay in the house of a hermit in the forest, that lodged him well. "sir," saith the hermit to messire gawain, "whom do you go seek?" "sir," saith he, "i am in quest of a knight that i would see right gladly." "sir," saith the hermit, "in this neighbourhood will you find no knight." "wherefore not?" saith messire gawain, "be there no knights in this country?" "there was wont to be plenty," saith the hermit, "but now no longer are there any, save one all alone in a castle and one all alone on the sea that have chased away and slain all the others." "and who is the one of the sea?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith the hermit, "i know not who he is, save only that the sea is hard by here, where the ship runneth oftentimes wherein the knight is, and he repaireth to an island that is under the castle of the queen of the maidens, from whence he chased an uncle of his that warred upon the castle, and the other knights that he had chased thence and slain were helping his uncle, so that now the castle is made sure. and the knights that might flee from this forest and this kingdom durst not repair thither for the knight, for they dread his hardiment and his great might, sith that they know well they might not long endure against him." "sir," saith messire gawain, "is it so long a space sithence that he hath haunted the sea?" "sir," saith the hermit, "it is scarce more than a twelvemonth." "and how nigh is this to the sea?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith the hermit, "it is not more than two leagues welsh. when i have gone forth to my toil, many a time have i seen the ship run close by me, and the knight, all armed, within, and meseemed he was of right great comeliness, and had as passing proud a look as any lion. but i can well tell you never was knight so dreaded in this kingdom as is he. the queen of the maidens would have lost her castle ere now but for him. nor never sithence that he hath chased his uncle from the island, hath he entered the queen's castle even once, but from that time forth hath rather rowed about the sea and searched all the islands and stricken down all the proud in such sort that he is dreaded and warily avoided throughout all the kingdoms. the queen of the maidens is right sorrowful for that he cometh not to her castle, for so dear she holdeth him of very love, that and he should come and she might keep him so that he should never issue forth again, she would sooner lock him up with her there safe within." "know you." saith messire gawain, "what shield the knight beareth?" "sir," saith the hermit, "i know not now to blazon it, for nought know i of arms. three score years and more have i been in this hermitage, yet never saw i this kingdom before so dismayed as is it now." messire gawain lay the night therewithin, and departed when he had heard mass. he draweth him as nigh the sea as he may, and rideth along beside the shore and many a time draweth rein to look forth if he might see the knight's ship. but nowhere might he espy it. he hath ridden until he cometh to the castle of the queen of the maidens. when she knew that it was messire gawain, she made thereof great joy, and pointed him out the island whither perceval had repaired, and from whence he had driven his uncle. "sir," saith she to messire gawain, "i plain me much of him, for never hath he been fain to enter herewithin, save the one time that he did battle with his uncle, but ever sithence hath he made repair to this island and rowed about this sea." "lady," saith messire gawain, "and whereabout may he be now?" "sir, god help me," saith she, "i know not, for i have not seen him now of a long space, and no earthly man may know his intent nor his desire, nor whitherward he may turn." messire gawain is right sorrowful for that he knoweth not where to seek him albeit he hath so late tidings of him. he lay at the castle and was greatly honoured, and on the morrow he heard mass and took leave of the queen, and rideth all armed beside the seashore, for that the hermit had told him, and the queen herself, that he goeth oftener by sea than by land. he entereth into a forest that was nigh the sea, and seeth a knight coming a great gallop as if one were chasing him to slay him. "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "whither away so fast?" "sir, i am fleeing from the knight that hath slain all the others." "and who is the knight?" saith messire gawain. "i know not who he is," saith the knight, "but and you go forward you are sure to find him." "meseemeth," saith messire gawain, "that i have seen you aforetime." "sir," saith he, "so have you! i am the knight coward that you met in the forest there where you conquered the knight of the shield party black and white, and i am man of the damsel of the car. wherefore i pray you for god's sake that you do me no hurt, for the knight that i found down yonder hath a look so fierce that i thought i was dead when i saw it." "need you fear nought of me," saith messire gawain, "for i love your damsel well." "sir," saith the knight, "i would that all the other knights would say as much in respect of me, for no fear have i save for myself alone." ii. messire gawain departeth from the knight, and goeth his way amidst the forest that overshadowed the land as far as the seashore, and looketh forth from the top of a sand-hill, and seeth a knight armed on a tall destrier, and he had a shield of gold with a green cross. "ha, god," saith messire gawain, "grant that this knight may be able to tell me tidings of him i seek!" thitherward goeth he a great gallop, and saluteth him worshipfully and he him again. "sir," saith messire gawain, "can you tell me tidings of a knight that beareth a shield banded of argent and azure with a red cross?" "yea, sir," saith the knight, "that can i well. at the assembly of the knights may you find him within forty days." "sir," saith messire gawain, "where will the assembly be?" "in the red launde, where will be many a good knight. there shall you find him without fail." thereof hath messire gawain right great joy, and so departeth from the knight and the knight from him, and goeth back toward the sea a great gallop. but messire gawain saw not the ship whereinto he entered, for that it was anchored underneath the cliff. the knight entered thereinto and put out to sea as he had wont to do. howbeit messire gawain goeth his way toward the red launde where the assembly was to be, and desireth much the day that it shall be. he rideth until he cometh one eventide nigh to a castle that was of right fair seeming. he met a damsel that was following after a dead knight that two other knights bare upon a horse-bier, and she rode a great pace right amidst the forest. and messire gawain cometh to meet her and saluteth her, and she returned the salute as fairly as she might. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "who lieth in this bier?" "sir, a knight that a certain man hath slain by great outrage." "and whither shall you ride this day?" "sir, i would fain be in the red launde, and thither will i take this knight, that was a right worshipful man for his age." "and wherefore will you take him there?" saith messire gawain. "for that he that shall do best at the assembly of knights shall avenge this knight's death." iii. the damsel goeth her way thereupon. and messire gawain goeth to the castle that he had seen, and found none within save only one solitary knight, old and feeble, and a squire that waited upon him. howbeit, messire gawain alighteth at the castle. the vavasour lodged him well and willingly, and made his door be well shut fast and messire gawain be disarmed, and that night he showed him honour as well as he might. and when it came to the morrow and messire gawain was minded to depart thence, the vavasour saith to him, "sir you may not depart thus, for this door hath not been opened this long while save only yesterday, when i made it be opened before you, to the intent that you should meet on my behalf a certain knight that is fain to slay me, for that the king of castle mortal hath had his hold herewithin, he that warreth on the queen of the maidens. wherefore i pray you that you help me to defend it against the knight." "what shield beareth he?" saith messire gawain. "he beareth a golden shield with a green cross." "and what sort of knight is he?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith the vavasour, "a good knight and a hardy and a sure." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "and you can tell me tidings of another knight whereof i am in quest, i will protect you against this one to the best i may, and if he will do nought for my prayer, i will safeguard you of my force." "what knight, then, do you seek?" saith the vavasour. "sir, a knight that is called perceval, and he hath carried away from the court of king arthur a shield banded argent and azure with a red cross on a band of gold. he will be at the assembly in the red launde. these tidings had i of the knight you dread so much." iv. thereupon, whilst messire gawain was thus speaking to the vavasour, behold you the knight of the golden shield, that draweth rein in the midst of a launde that was betwixt the castle and the forest. the vavasour seeth him from the windows of the hall, and pointeth him out to messire gawain. messire gawain goeth and mounteth on his destrier, his shield at his neck and his spear in his fist, all armed, and issueth forth of the door when it had been unfastened, and cometh toward the knight, that awaited him on his horse. he seeth messire gawain coming, but moveth not, and messire gawain marvelleth much that the knight cometh not toward him, for him thinketh well that the vavasour had told him true. but he had not, for never had the knight come thither to do the vavasour any hurt, but on account of the knights that passed by that way that went to seek adventure, for right glad was he to see them albeit he was not minded to make himself known unto any. messire gawain looketh before him and behind him and seeth that the door was made fast and the bridge drawn up so soon as he was departed thence, whereof he marvelled much and saith to the knight, "sir, is your intent nought but good only?" "by my head," saith he, "nought at all, and readily will i tell it you." thereupon, behold you a damsel that cometh a great pace, and held a whip wherewith she hurrieth her mule onward, and she draweth rein there where the two knights were. "ha, god!" saith she, "shall i ever find one to wreak me vengeance of the traitor vavasour that dwelleth in this castle?" "is he then traitor?" saith messire gawain. "yea, sir, the most traitor you saw ever! he lodged my brother the day before yesterday, and bore him on hand at night that a certain knight was warring upon him for that the way whereby the knights pass is here in front of this place, and lied to him so much as that my brother held him in covenant that he would assault a certain knight that he should point out to him, for love of him. this knight came passing hereby, that had no thought to do hurt neither to the vavasour nor to my brother. the knight was right strong and hardy, and was born at the castle of escavalon. my brother issued forth of the castle filled with fool-hardiness for the leasing of the vavasour, and ran upon the knight without a word. the knight could do no less than avenge himself. they hurtled together so sore that their horses fell under them and their spears passed either through other's heart. thus were both twain killed on this very piece of ground." v. "the vavasour took the arms and the horses and put them in safe keeping in his castle, and the bodies of the knights he left to the wild beasts, that would have devoured them had i not chanced to come thither with two knights that helped me bury them by yonder cross at the entrance of the forest." "by my head," saith messire gawain, "in like manner would he have wrought me mischief had i been minded to trust him; for he bore me in hand that this knight was warring upon him, and besought me that i should safeguard him against him. but our lord god so helped me that i intermeddled not therein, for lightly might i have wrought folly." "by the name of god," saith the other, "meseemeth it clear that the vavasour would fain that knights should kill each other." "sir," saith the damsel, "you say true; it is of his covetise of harness and horses that he entreateth the knights on this-wise." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "whither go you?" "sir," saith she, "after a knight that i have made be carried in a litter for the dead." "i saw him," saith he, "pass by here last night, full late last night." the knight taketh leave of messire gawain, and messire gawain saith that he holdeth himself a churl in that he hath not asked him of his name. but the knight said, "fair sir, i pray you of love that you ask not my name until such time as i shall ask you of yours." vi. messire gawain would ask nought further of the knight, and the knight entered into the lonely forest and messire gawain goeth on his way. he meeteth neither knight nor damsel to whom he telleth not whom he goeth to seek, and they all say that he will be in the red launde. he lodged the night with a hermit. at night, the hermit asked messire gawain whence he came? "sir, from the land of the queen of the maidens." "have you seen perceval, the good knight that took the shield in king arthur's court and left another there?" "no, certes," saith messire gawain, "whereof am i right sorrowful. but a knight with a shield of gold and a green cross thereon told me that he would be at the red launde." "sir," saith the hermit, "you say true, for it was he himself to whom you spake. tonight is the third night since he lay within yonder, and see here the bracket he brought from king arthur's court, which he hath commanded me to convey to his uncle, king hermit." "alas!" saith messire gawain, "what ill chance is mine if this be true!" "sir," saith the hermit, "i ought not to lie, neither to you nor other. by the brachet may you well know that this is true." "sir," saith messire gawain, "of custom beareth he no such shield." "i know well," saith the hermit, "what shield he ought to bear, and what shield he will bear hereafter. but this doth he that he may not be known, and this shield took he in the hermitage of joseus, the son of king hermit, there where lancelot was lodged, where he hanged the four thieves that would have broken into the hermitage by night. and within there hath remained the shield he brought from king arthur's court, with joseus the son of my sister, and they are as brother and sister between the twain, and you may know of very truth that albeit joseus be hermit, no knight is there in great britain of his heart and hardiment." vii. "certes," saith messire gawain, "it was sore mischance for me that i should see him yesterday before the castle where the knights pass by, and speak to him and ask him his name, but he besought me that i should not ask him his name until such time as he should ask me mine; and with that he departed from me and entered into the forest, and i came hitherward. now am i so sorrowful that i know not what i may do for the best, for king arthur sendeth me in quest of him, and lancelot hath also gone to seek him in another part of the kingdom of logres. but now hath too great mischance befallen me of this quest, for twice have i seen him and found him and spoken to him, and now have i lost him again." "sir," saith the hermit, "he is so close and wary a knight, that he is fain never to waste a word, neither will he make false semblant to any nor speak word that he would not should be heard, nor do shame of his body to his knowledge, nor carnal sin, for virgin and chaste is he and doth never outrage to any." "i know well," saith messire gawain, "that all the valours and all the cleannesses that ought to be in a knight are in him, and therefore am i the more sorrowful that i am not of them that he knoweth, for a man is worth the more that hath acquaintance with a good knight." viii. messire gawain lay the night in the hermit's house, right sorrowful, and in the morning departed when he had heard mass. josephus the good clerk witnesseth us in this high history that this hermit had to name josuias, and was a knight of great worship and valour, but he renounced all for the love of god, and was fain to set his body in banishment for him. and all these adventures that you hear in this high record came to pass, josephus telleth us, for the setting forward the law of the saviour. all of them could he not record, but only these whereof he best remembered him, and whereof he knew for certain all the adventures by virtue of the holy spirit. this high record saith that messire gawain hath wandered so far that he is come into the red launde whereas the assembly of knights should be held. he looketh and seeth the tents pitched and the knights coming from all quarters. the most part were already armed within and before their tents. messire gawain looketh everywhere, thinking to see the knight he seeketh, but seemeth him he seeth him not, for no such shield seeth he as he beareth. all abashed is he thereof, for he hath seen all the tents and looked at all the arms. but the knight is not easy to recognise, for he hath changed his arms, and nigh enough is he to messire gawain, albeit you may well understand that he knoweth it not. and the tournament assembleth from all parts, and the divers fellowships come the one against other, and the melly of either upon other as they come together waxeth sore and marvellous. and messire gawain searcheth the ranks to find the knight, albeit when he meeteth knight in his way he cannot choose but do whatsoever a knight may do of arms, and yet more would he have done but for his fainness to seek out the knight. the damsel is at the head of the tournament, for that she would fain know the one that shall have the mastery and the prize therein. the knight that messire gawain seeketh is not at the head of the fellowships, but in the thickest of the press, and such feats of arms doth he that more may no knight do, and smiteth down the knights about him, that flee from him even as the deer-hound fleeth from the lion. "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "sith that they have lied to me about the knight, i will seek him no more this day, but forget my discontent as best i may until evening." he seeth the knight, but knoweth him not, for he had a white shield and cognisances of the same. and messire gawain cometh to him as fast as his horse may carry him, and the knight toward messire gawain. so passing stoutly they come together that they pierce their shields below the boss. their spears were so tough that they break not, and they draw them forth and come together again so strongly that the spears wherewith they smote each other amidst the breast were bended so that they unriveted the holdfasts of their shields, and they lost their stirrups, and the reins fly from their fists, and they stagger against the back saddlebows, and the horses stumbled so as that they all but fell. they straighten them in saddle and stirrup, and catch hold upon their reins, and then come together again, burning with wrath and fury like lions, and either smiteth on other with their spears that may endure no longer, for the shafts are all to-frushed as far as the fists in such sort that they that look on marvel them much how it came to pass that the points had not pierced their bodies. but god would not that the good knights should slay each other, rather would he that the one should know the true worth of the other. the habergeons safeguarded not their bodies, but the might of god in whom they believed, for in them had they all the valour that knight should have; and never did messire gawain depart from hostel wherein he had lien, but he first heard mass before he went if so he might, nor never found he dame nor damsel discounselled whereof he had not pity, nor did he ever churlishness to other knight, nor said nor thought it, and he came, as you have heard, of the most holy lineage of josephus and the good king fisherman. ix. the good knights were in the midst of the assembly, and right wrathful was the one against the other, and they held their swords naked and their shields on their arms and dealt each other huge buffets right in the midst of the helms. the most part of the knights come to them and tell them that the assembly waiteth for them to come thereunto. they have much pains to part them asunder, and then the melly beginneth again on all sides, and the evening cometh on that parteth them at last. and on this wise the assembly lasted for two days. the damsel that brought the knight on a bier in a coffin, dead, prayed the assembly of all the knights to declare which one of all the knights had done the best, for the knight that she made be carried might not be buried until such time as he were avenged. and they say that the knight of the white shield and the other with the shield sinople and the golden eagle had done better than all the other, but, for that the knight of the white shield had joined in the melly before the other, they therefore would give him the prize; but they judged that for the time that messire gawain had joined therein he had not done worse than the other knight. the damsel seeketh the knight of the white shield among the knights and throughout all the tents, but cannot find him, for already hath he departed. she cometh to messire gawain and saith: "sir, sith that i find not the knight of the white shield, you are he that behoveth avenge the knight that lieth dead in the litter." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "do me not this shame, for it hath been declared that the other knight hath better done herein than i." x. "damsel, well you know that no honour should i have thereof, were i to emprise to do that whereof you beseech me, for you have said that behoveth none to avenge him, save only that hath borne him best at this assembly, and that is he of the white shield, and, so god help me, this have i well felt and proven." xi. the damsel well understandeth that messire gawain speaketh reason. "ha, sir," saith she, "he hath already departed hence and gone into the forest, and the most divers-seeming knight is he and the best that liveth, and great pains shall i have or ever i find him again." "the best?" saith messire gawain; "how know you that?" "i know it well," saith she, "for that in the house of king fisherman did the graal appear unto him for the goodness of his knighthood and the goodness of his heart and for the chastity of his body. but he forgat to ask that one should serve thereof, whence hath sore harm befallen the land. he came to the court of king arthur, where he took a shield that none ought to bear save he alone. up to this time have i well known his coming and going, but nought shall i know thereof hereafter for that he hath changed the cognisance of his shield and arms. and now am i entered into sore pain and travail to seek him, for i shall not have found him of a long space, and i came not to this assembly save for him alone." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "you have told me tidings such as no gladness have i thereof, for i also am seeking him, but i know not how i may ever recognise him, for he willeth not to tell me his name, and too often changeth he his shield, and well i know that so i shall ever come in place where he hath changed his cognisance, and he shall come against me and i against him, i shall only know him by the buffets that he knoweth how to deal, for never in arms have i made acquaintance with so cruel a knight. but again would i suffer sorer blows than i have suffered yet, so only i might be where he is." "sir," saith the damsel, "what is your name?" "damsel," saith he, "i am called gawain." with that he commendeth the damsel to god, and goeth his way in one direction and the damsel in another, and saith to herself that perceval is the most marvellous knight of the world, that so often he discogniseth himself. for when one seeth him one may recognise him not. messire gawain rideth amidst the forest, and prayeth the saviour lead him into such place as that he may find perceval openly, in such sort that he may have his acquaintance and his love that so greatly he desireth. branch xiv. title i. herewithal the story is silent of messire gawain, and saith that lancelot seeketh perceval in like manner as did messire gawain, and rideth until that he cometh to the hermitage where he hanged the thieves. joseus made right great joy of him. he asked him whether he knew any tidings of the son of the widow lady. "i have seen him sithence that he came from king arthur's court but once only, and whither he is gone i know not." "sir," saith lancelot, "i would see him right fain. king arthur sendeth for him by me." "sir," saith the hermit, "i know not when i may see him again, for when once he departeth hence he is not easy to find." lancelot entereth the chapel with the hermit, and seeth the shield that perceval brought from king arthur's court beside the altar. "sir," saith lancelot, "i see his shield yonder. hide him not from me." "i will not do so," saith the hermit. "this shield, truly, is his, but he took with him another from hence, of gold with a green cross." "and know you no tidings of messire gawain?" "i have not seen messire gawain sithence tofore i entered into this hermitage. but you have fallen into sore hatred on account of the four robbers that were knights whom you hanged. for their kinsmen are searching for you in this forest and in other, and are thieves like as were the others, and they have their hold in this forest, wherein they bestow their robberies and plunder. wherefore i pray you greatly be on your guard against them." "so will i," saith lancelot, "please god." he lay the night in the hermitage, and departeth on the morrow after that he hath heard mass and prayeth god grant he may find perceval or messire gawain. he goeth his way amidst the strange forests until that he cometh to a strong castle that was builded right seemly. he looketh before him and seeth a knight that was issued thereout, and was riding a great pace on a strong destrier, and carded a bird on his fist toward the forest. ii. when he saw lancelot coming he drew up. "sir," saith he, "be welcome." "good adventure to you," saith lancelot. "what castle is this?" "sir, it is the castle of the golden circlet. and i go to meet the knights and dames that come to the castle, for this day is the day ordained for the adoration of the golden circlet." "what is the golden circlet?" saith lancelot. "sir, it is the crown of thorns," saith the knight, "that the saviour of the world had on his head when he was set upon the rood. wherefore the queen of this castle hath set it in gold and precious stones in such sort that the knights and dames of this kingdom come to behold it once in the year. but it is said that the knight that was first at the graal shall conquer it, and therefore is no strange knight allowed to enter. but, so please you, i will lead you to mine own hold that is in this forest." "right great thanks," saith lancelot, "but as yet it is not time to take lodging." he taketh leave of the knight, and so departeth and looketh at the castle, and saith that in right great worship should the knight be held that by the valour of his chivalry shall conquer so noble a hallow as is the golden circlet when it is kept safe in a place so strong. he goeth his way right amidst the forest, and looketh forth before him and seeth coming the damsel that hath the knight carried in the litter for the dead. "damsel," saith lancelot, "be welcome." "sir, god give you good adventure! sir," saith the damsel, "greatly ought i to hate the knight that slew this knight, for that he hath forced me thus to lead him in this wise by fell and forest. so also ought i to mislike me much of the knight that it standeth upon to avenge him, whom i may not find." "damsel," saith lancelot, "who slew this knight?" "sir," saith she, "the lord of the burning dragon." "and who ought of right to avenge him?" "sir," saith she, "the knight that was in the red launde at the assembly, that jousted with messire gawain, and had the prize of the tournament." "did he better than messire gawain?" saith lancelot. "sir, so did they adjudge him; for that he was a longer time in the assembly." "a good knight was he, then," saith lancelot, "sith that he did better than messire gawain!" "by my head," saith the damsel, "you say true, for he is the best knight of the world." "and what shield beareth he?" saith lancelot. "sir," saith the damsel, "at the assembly he bore white arms, but before that, he had arms of another semblance, and one shield that he had was green, and one gold with a green cross." "damsel," saith he, "did messire gawain know him?" "sir, not at all, whereof is he right sorrowful." "is he, then," saith he, "perceval, the son of the widow lady?" "by my head, you say true!" "ha, god!" saith lancelot, "the more am i mazed how messire gawain knew him not. damsel," saith he, "and know you whitherward they are gone?" "sir," saith she, "i know not whither, nor have i any tidings, neither or the one nor the other." he departeth from the damsel and rideth until the sun was set. he found the rocks darkling and the forest right deep and perilous of seeming. he rode on, troubled in thought, and weary and full of vexation. many a time looketh he to right and to left, and he may see any place where he may lodge. a dwarf espied him, but lancelot saw him not. the dwarf goeth right along a by-way that is in the forest, and goeth to a little hold of robber-knights that lay out of the way, where was a damsel that kept watch over the hold. the robbers had another hold where was the damsel where the passing knights are deceived and entrapped. the dwarf cometh forthright to the damsel, and saith: "now shall we see what you will do, for see, here cometh the knight that hanged your uncle grid your three cousins german." "now shall i have the best of him," saith she, "as for mine own share in this matter, but take heed that you be garnished ready to boot." "by my head," saith the dwarf, "that will i, for, please god, he shall not escape us again, save he be dead." the damsel was of passing great beauty and was clad right seemingly, but right treacherous was she of heart, nor no marvel was it thereof, for she came of the lineage of robbers and was nurtured on theft and robbery, and she herself had helped to murder many a knight. she is come upon the way, so that lancelot hath to pass her, without her kerchief. she meeteth lancelot and saluteth him and maketh him right great joy, of semblant. "sir," saith she, "follow this path that goeth into the forest, and you will find a hold that my forefathers stablished for harbouring of such knights as might be passing through the forest. the night is dark already, and if you pass on further no hold will you find nearer than a score leagues welsh." "damsel," saith lancelot, "gramercy heartily of this that it pleaseth you to say, for right gladly will i harbour me here, for it is more than time to take lodging, and with you more willingly than another." iii. on this wise they go their way talking, as far as the hold. there was none therewithin save only the dwarf, for the five robber knights were in their hold at the lower end of the forest. the dwarf took lancelot's horse, and stabled him, then went up into the hall above, and gave himself up wholly to serving him. "sir," saith the damsel, "allow yourself to be disarmed, and have full assurance of safety." "damsel," saith he, "small trouble is it for me to wear mine arms, and lightly may i abide it." "sir," saith she, "please god, you shall nor lie armed within yonder. never yet did knight so that harboured therein." but the more the damsel presseth him to disarm, the more it misliketh him, for the place seemeth him right dark and foul-seeming, wherefore will he not disarm nor disgarnish himself. "sir," saith she, "meseemeth you are suspicious of something, but no call have you to misdoubt of aught here within, for the place is quite safe. i know not whether you have enemies?" "damsel," saith lancelot, "never yet knew i knight that was loved of everybody, yet sometimes might none tell the reason thereof." iv. lancelot, so saith the story, would not disarm him, wherefore he made the table be set, and sate thereat beside the damsel at meat. he made his shield and his helmet and spear be brought into the hall. he leant back upon a rich couch that was therewithin, with his sword by his side, all armed. he was weary and the bed was soft, so he went to sleep. howbeit, the dwarf mounteth on his horse that he had left still saddled, and goeth his way to the other hold where the robbers were, all five, that were lancelot's mortal enemies. the damsel remained all alone with him that she hated of a right deadly hate. she thought to herself that gladly would she slay him, and that, so she might compass it, she would be thereof held in greater worship of all the world, for well she knew that he was a good knight, and that one so good she had never slain. she filched away the sword that was at his side, then drew it from the scabbard, then looketh to see where she may lightliest smite him to slay him. she seeth that his head is so covered of armour that nought appeareth thereof save only the face, and she bethinketh her that one stroke nor two on the helmet would scarce hurt him greatly, but that and she might lift the skirt of his habergeon without awakening him she might well slay him, for so might she thrust the sword right through his heart. meanwhile, as she was searching thus, lancelot, that was sleeping and took no heed thereof, saw, so it seemed him, a little cur-dog come therewithin, and brought with him sundry great mongrel ban-dogs that ran upon him on all sides, and the little cur bit at him likewise among the others. the ban-dogs held him so fast that he might not get away from them. he seeth that a greyhound bitch had hold of his sword, and she had hands like a woman, and was fain to slay him. and it seemed him that he snatched the sword from her and slew the greyhound bitch and the biggest and most masterful of the ban-dogs and the little cur. he was scared of the dream and started up and awoke, and felt the scabbard of his sword by his side, that the damsel had left there all empty, the which he perceived not, and soon thereafter he fell on sleep again. the dwarf that had stolen his horse cometh to the robber knights, and crieth to them, "up, sirs, and haste you to come and avenge you of your mortal enemy that sent the best of your kindred out of the world with such shame! see, here is his horse that i bring you for a token!" he alighteth of the horse, and giveth him up to them. right joyous are the robbers of the tidings he telleth them. the dwarf bringeth them all armed to the hold. v. lancelot was awake, all scared of the dream he had dreamed. he seeth them enter within all armed, and the damsel crieth to them: "now will it appear," saith she, "what you will do!" lancelot hath leapt up, thinking to take his sword, but findeth the scabbard all empty. the damsel that held the sword was the first of all to run upon him, and the five knights and the dwarf set upon him from every side. he perceived that it was his own sword the damsel held, the one he prized above all other. he taketh his lance that was at his bed's head and cometh toward the master of the knights at a great sweep, and smiteth him so fiercely that he thrusteth him right through the body so that the lance passeth a fathom beyond, and beareth him to the ground dead. his spear broke as he drew it back. he runneth to the damsel that held the sword, and wresteth it forth of her hands and holdeth it fast with his arm right against his flank and grippeth it to him right strait; albeit she would fain snatch it again from him by force, whereat lancelot much marvelled. he swingeth it above him, and the four knights come back upon him. he thinketh to smite one with the sword, when the damsel leapeth in between them, thinking to hold lancelot fast, and thereby the blow that should have fallen on one of the knights caught the damsel right through the head and slew her, whereof he was right sorrowful, howsoever she might have wrought against him. vi. when the four knights saw the damsel dead, right grieved were they thereof. and the dwarf crieth out to them: "lords, now shall it be seen how you will avenge the sore mischief done you. so help me god, great shame may you have and you cannot conquer a single knight." they run upon him again on all sides, but maugre all their heads he goeth thither where he thinketh to find his horse; but him findeth he not. thereby well knoweth he that the dwarf hath made away with him, wherefore he redoubled his hardiment and his wrath waxed more and more. and the knights were not to be lightly apaid when they saw their lord dead and the damsel that was their cousin. sore buffets they dealt him of their swords the while he defended himself as best he might. he caught the dwarf that was edging them on to do him hurt, and clave him as far as the shoulders, and wounded two of the knights right badly, and he himself was hurt in two places; but he might not depart from the house, nor was his horse there within, nor was there but a single entrance into the hall. the knights set themselves without the door and guard the issue, and lancelot was within with them that were dead. he sate himself down at the top of the hall to rest him, for he was sore spent with the blows he had given and received. when he had rested himself awhile, he riseth to his feet and seeth that they have sate them down in the entrance to the hall. he mounteth up to the windows and flingeth them down them that were dead within through the windows. just then the day appeared, fair and clear, and the birds began to sing amidst the forest, whereof the hall was overshadowed. he maketh fast the door of the hall and barreth it and shutteth the knights without; and they say one to the other and swear it, that they will not depart thence until they have taken him or famished him to death. little had lancelot recked of their threats and he might have had his horse at will, but he was not so sure of his stroke afoot as a-horseback, as no knight never is. him thinketh he may well abide the siege as long as god shall please, for the hall was well garnished of meat in right great joints. he is there within all alone, and the four knights without that keep watch that he goeth not, but neither wish nor will hath he to go forth afoot; but, and he had had his horse, the great hardiment that he hath in him would have made that he should go forth honourably, howsoever they without might have taken it and what grievance soever they might have had thereof. branch xv. title i. here the story is silent of lancelot, and talketh of messire gawain that goeth to seek perceval, and is right heavy for that twice hath he found him when he knew him not. he cometh back again to the cross whereas he told lancelot he would await him so he should come thither before him. he went and came to and fro by the forest more than eight days to wait for him, but could hear no tidings. he would not return to king arthur's court, for had he gone thither in such case, he would have had blame thereof. he goeth back upon the quest and saith that he will never stint therein until he shall have found both lancelot and perceval. he cometh to the hermitage of joseus, and alighted of his horse and found the young hermit joseus, that received him well and made full great joy of him. he harboured the night therewithin. messire gawain asked him tidings of perceval, and the hermit telleth him he hath not seen him since before the assembly of the red launde. "and can you tell me where i may find him?" saith messire gawain. "not i," saith the hermit, "i cannot tell you whereabout he is." while they were talking on this wise, straightway behold you a knight coming that hath arms of azure, and alighteth at the hermitage to lodge there. the hermit receiveth him right gladly. messire gawain asketh him if he saw a knight with white arms ride amidst the forest. "by my faith," saith the knight, "i have seen him this day and spoken with him, and he asked me and i could tell him tidings of a knight that beareth a shield of sinople with a golden eagle, and i told him, no. afterward, i enquired wherefore he asked it, and he made answer that he had jousted at him in the red launde, nor never before had he found so sturdy assault of any knight, wherefore he was right sorrowful for that he was not acquainted with him, for the sake of his good knighthood." "by my faith," saith gawain, "the knight is more sorrowful than he, for nought is there in the world he would gladlier see than him." the knight espieth messire gawain's shield and saith, "ha, sir, methinketh you are he." "certes," saith messire gawain, "you say true. i am he against whom he jousted, and right glad am i that so good a knight smote upon my shield, and right sorrowful for that i knew him not; but tell me where i may find him?" ii. "sir," saith joseus the hermit, "he will not have gone forth from this forest, for this is the place wherein he wonneth most willingly, and the shield that he brought from king arthur's court is in this chapel." so he showeth the shield to messire gawain that maketh great joy thereof. "ha, sir," saith the knight of the white arms, "is your name messire gawain?" "fair sir," saith he, "gawain am i called." "sir," saith the knight, "i have not ceased to seek you for a long while past. meliot of logres, that is your man, the son of the lady that was slain on your account, sendeth you word that nabigant of the rock hath slain his father on your account; wherefore he challengeth the land that hath fallen to him; and hereof he prayeth you that you will come to succour him as behoveth lord to do to his liege man." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "behoveth me not fail him therein, wherefore tell him i will succour him so soon as i may; but tell him i have emprised a business that i cannot leave but with loss of honour until such time as it be achieved." they lay the night at the hermitage until after mass was sung on the morrow. iii. the knight departed and messire gawain remained. so when he was apparelled to mount, he looketh before him at the issue of the forest toward the hermitage, and seeth coming a knight on a tall horse, full speed and all armed, and he bore a shield like the one he saw perceval bearing the first time. "sir," saith he, "know you this knight that cometh there!" "truly, sir, well do i know him. this is perceval whom you seek, whom you so much desire to see!" "god be praised thereof!" saith messire gawain, "inasmuch as he cometh hither." he goeth afoot to meet him, and perceval alighteth so soon as he seeth him. "sir," saith messire gawain, "right welcome may you be!" "good joy may you have," saith perceval. "sir," saith the hermit, "make great joy of him! this is messire gawain, king arthur's nephew." "thereof do i love him the better!" saith he. "honour and joy ought all they to do him that know him!" he throweth his arms on his neck, and so maketh him great joy. "sir," saith he, "can you tell me tidings of a knight that was in the red launde at the assembly of knights?" "what shield beareth he?" saith messire gawain. "a red shield with a golden eagle," saith perceval. "and more by token, never made i acquaintance with any so sturdy in battle as are he and lancelot." "fair sir, it pleaseth you to say so," saith messire gawain. "in the red launde was i at the assembly, and such arms bore i as these you blazon, and i jousted against a knight in white arms, of whom i know this, that all of knighthood that may be lodged in the body of a man is in him." "sir," saith perceval to messire gawain, "you know not how to blame any man." so they hold one another by the hands, and go into the hermitage. "sir," saith messire gawain, "when you were in the court of king arthur for the shield that is within yonder, your sister was also there, and prayed and besought the help of the knight that should bear away the shield, as being the most discounselled damsel in the world. the king granted it her, and you bore away the shield. she asked your aid of the king as she that deemed not you were her brother, and said that if the king failed of his covenant, he would do great sin, whereof would he have much blame. the king was fain to do all he might to seek you, to make good that he had said, and sent us forth in quest of you, so that the quest lieth between me and lancelot. he himself would have come had we been unwilling to go. sir, i have found you three times without knowing you, albeit great desire had i to see you. this is the fourth time and i know you now, whereof i make myself right joyous; and much am i beholden to you of the fair lodging your mother gave me at camelot; but right sore pity have i of her, for a right worshipful woman is she, and a widow lady and ancient, and fallen into much war without aid nor comfort, through the evil folk that harass her and reave her of her castles. she prayed me, weeping the while right sweetly, that and if i should find you that are her son, i should tell you of her plight, that your father is dead, and that she hath no succour nor aid to look for save from you alone, and if you succour her not shortly, she will lose her own one castle that she holdeth, and must needs become a beggar, for of the fifteen castles she wont to have in your father's time, she hath now only that of camelot, nor of all her knights hath she but five to guard the castle. wherefore i pray you on her behalf and for your own honour, that you will grant her herein of your counsel and your valour and your might, for of no chivalry that you may do may you rise to greater worship. and so sore need hath she herein as you hear me tell, nor would i that she should lose aught by default of message, for thereof should i have sin and she harm, and you yourself also, that have the power to amend it and ought of right so to do!" "well have you delivered yourself herein," saith perceval, "and betimes will i succour her and our lord god will." "you will do honour to yourself," saith messire gawain. "thereof will you have praise with god and worship with the world." "well know i," saith perceval, "that in me ought she to have aid and counsel as of right, and that so i do not accordingly, i ought to have reproach and be blamed as recreant before the world." iv. "in god's name," saith the hermit, "you speak according to the scripture, for he that honoureth not his father and mother neither believeth in god nor loveth him." "all this know i well," saith perceval, "and well pleased am i to be reminded thereof, and well know i also mine intent herein, albeit i tell it to none. but if any can tell me tidings of lancelot, right willingly shall i hear them, and take it kindly of the teller thereof." "sir," saith joseus, "it is but just now since he lay here within, and asked me tidings of messire gawain, and i told him such as i knew. another time before that, he lay here when the robbers assailed us that he hanged in the forest, and so hated is he thereof of their kinsfolk that and they may meet him, so they have the might, he is like to pay for it right dear, and in this forest won they rather than in any other. i told him as much, but he made light thereof in semblant, even as he will in deed also if their force be not too great." "by my head," saith perceval, "i will not depart forth of this forest until i know tidings of him, if messire gawain will pledge himself thereto." and messire saith he desireth nothing better, sith that he hath found perceval, for he may not be at ease until such time as he shall know tidings of lancelot, for he hath great misgiving sith that he hath enemies in the forest. v. perceval and messire gawain sojourned that day in the forest in the hermitage, and the morrow perceval took his shield that he brought from king arthur's court, and left that which he brought with him, and messire gawain along with him that made himself right joyous of his company. they ride amidst the forest both twain, all armed, and at the right hour of noon they meet a knight that was coming a great gallop as though he were all scared. perceval asketh him whence he cometh, that he seemeth so a-dread. "sir, i come from the forest of the robbers that won in this forest wherethrough you have to pass. they have chased me a full league welsh to slay me, but they would not follow me further for a knight that they have beset in one of their holds, that hath done them right sore mischief, for he hath hanged four of their knights and slain one, as well as the fairest damsel that was in the kingdom. but right well had she deserved the death for that she harboured knights with fair semblant and showed them much honour, and afterward brought about their death and destruction, between herself and a dwarf that she hath, that slew the knights." "and know you who is the knight?" saith perceval. "sir," saith the knight, "not i, for no leisure had i to ask him, for sorer need had i to flee than to stay. but i tell you that on account of the meat that failed him in the hold wherein they beset him, he issued forth raging like a lion, nor would he have suffered himself be shut up so long but for two wounds that he had upon his body; for he cared not to issue forth of the house until such time as they were healed, and also for that he had no horse. and so soon as he felt himself whole, he ventured himself against the four knights, that were so a-dread of him that they durst not come a-nigh. and moreover he deigneth not to go a-foot, wherefore if they now come a-nigh, it may not be but he shall have one at least out of their four horses, but they hold them heedfully aloof." "sir," saith perceval, "gramercy of these tidings." they were fain to depart from the knight, but said he: "ha, lords, allow me so much as to see the destruction of this evil folk that have wrought such mischief in this forest! sir" saith he to messire gawain, "i am cousin to the poor knight of the waste forest that hath the two poor damsels to sister, there where you and lancelot jousted between you, and when the knight that brought you tidings thereof died in the night." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "these tidings know i well, for you say true, and your company hold i right dear for the love of the poor knight, for never yet saw i more courteous knight, nor more courteous damsels, nor better nurtured, and our lord god grant them as much good as i would they should have." messire gawain made the knight go before, for well knew he the robbers' hold, but loath enough had he been to go thither, had the knights not followed him behind. lancelot was issued forth of the hold sword in hand, all armed, angry as a lion. the four knights were upon their horses all armed, but no mind had they come a-nigh him, for sore dreaded they the huge buffets he dealt, and his hardiment. one of them came forward before the others, and it seemed him shame that they might not vanquish one single knight. he goeth to smite lancelot a great stroke of his sword above in the midst of his head, nor did lancelot's sword fail of its stroke, for before he could draw back, lancelot dealt him such a blow as smote oft all of his leg at the thigh, so that he made him leave the saddlebows empty. lancelot leapt up on the destrier, and now seemed him he was safer than before. the three robber-knights that yet remained whole ran upon him on all sides and began to press him of their swords in right sore wrath. thereupon behold you, the knight cometh to the way that goeth to the hold and saith to messire gawain and perceval, "now may you hear the dashing of swords and the melly." therewithal the two good knights smite horse with spur and come thither where the three robber-knights were assailing lancelot. each of the twain smiteth his own so wrathfully that they thrust their spears right through their bodies and bear them to the ground dead. howbeit the third knight was fain to flee, but the knight that had come to show messire gawain the way took heart and hardiment from the confidence of the good knights, and smote him as he fled so sore that he pierced him with his spear to the heart and toppled him to the ground dead. and the one whose leg lancelot had lopped off was so trampled underfoot of the knights that he had no life in him. vi. when lancelot knew perceval and messire gawain he made great joy of them and they of him. "lancelot," saith messire gawain, "this knight that led us hither to save your life is cousin to the poor knight of the waste castle, the brother of the two poor damsels that lodged us so well. we will send him these horses, one for the knight that shall be the messenger, and the two to the lord of the waste castle, and this hold that we have taken shall be for the two damsels, and so shall we make them safe all the days of their life. this, methinketh, will be well." "certes," saith perceval, "you speak of great courtesy." "sir," saith lancelot, "messire gawain hath said, and right willingly will i grant him all his wish." "lords," saith the knight, "they have in this forest a hold wherein the knights did bestow their plunder, for the sake whereof they murdered the passers by. if the goods remain there they will be lost, for therein is so great store as might be of much worth to many folk that are poverty-stricken for want thereof." they go to the hold and find right great treasure in a cave underground, and rich sets of vessels and rich ornaments of cloth and armours for horses, that they had thrown the one over another into a pit that was right broad. "certes," saith he, "right well hath it been done to this evil folk that is destroyed!" "sir," saith lancelot, "in like manner would they have dealt with me and killed me if they might; whereof no sorrow have i save of the damsel that i slew, that was one of the fairest dames of the world. but i slew her not knowingly, for i meant rather to strike the knight, but she leapt between us, like the hardiest dame that saw i ever." "sirs," saith the knight, "perceval and lancelot, by the counsel of messire gawain, granted the treasure to the two damsels, sisters to the poor knight of the waste castle, whereupon let them send for joseus the hermit and bid him guard the treasure until they shall come hither." and joseus said that he would do so, and is right glad that the robbers of the forest are made away withal, that had so often made assault upon him. he guarded the treasure and the hold right safely in the forest; but the dread and the renown of the good knights that had freed the forest went far and wide. the knight that led the three destriers was right joyfully received at the waste castle; and when he told the message wherewith he was charged by messire gawain, the poor knight and two damsels made great joy thereof. perceval taketh leave of messire gawain and lancelot, and saith that never will he rest again until he shall have found his sister and his widow mother. they durst not gainsay him, for they know well that he is right, and he prayeth them right sweetly that they salute the king and queen and all the good knights of the court, for, please god, he will go see them at an early day. but first he was fain to fulfil the promise king arthur made to his sister, for he would not that the king should be blamed in any place as concerning him, nor by his default; and he himself would have the greater blame therein and he succoured her not, for the matter touched him nearer than it did king arthur. vii. with that the good knight departeth, and they commend him to god, and he them in like sort. messire gawain and lancelot go their way back toward the court of king arthur, and perceval goeth amidst strange forests until he cometh to a forest far away, wherein, so it seemed him, he had never been before. and he passed through a land that seemed him to have been laid waste, for it was all void of folk. wild beast only seeth he there, that ran through the open country. he entered into a forest in this waste country, and found a hermitage in the combe of a mountain. he alighted without and heard that the hermit was singing the service of the dead, and had begun the mass with a requiem betwixt him and his clerk. he looketh and seeth a pall spread upon the ground before the altar as though it were over a corpse. he would not enter the chapel armed, wherefore he hearkened to the mass from without right reverently, and showed great devotion as he that loved god much and was a-dread. when the mass was sung, and the hermit was disarmed of the armour of our lord, he cometh to perceval and saluteth him and perceval him again. "sir," saith perceval, "for whom have you done such service? meseemed that the corpse lay therewithin for whom the service was ordained." "you say truth," saith the hermit. "i have done it for lohot, king arthur's son, that lieth buried under this pall." "who, then, hath slain him?" saith perceval. "that will i tell you plainly," saith the hermit. viii. "this wasted land about this forest wherethrough you have come is the beginning of the kingdom of logres. there wont to be therein a giant so big and horrible and cruel that none durst won within half a league round about, and he destroyed the land and wasted it in such sort as you see. lohot was departed from the land and the court of king arthur his father in quest of adventure, and by the will of god arrived at this forest, and fought against logrin, right cruel as he was, and logrin against him. as it pleased god, lohot vanquished him; but lohot had a marvellous custom: when he had slain a man, he slept upon him. a knight of king arthur's court, that is called kay the seneschal, was come peradventure into this forest of logres. he heard the giant roar when lohot dealt him the mortal blow. thither came he as fist as he might, and found the king's son sleeping upon logrin. he drew his sword and therewith cut off lohot's head, and took the head and the body and set them in a coffin of stone. after that he hacked his shield to pieces with his sword, that he should not be recognised; then came he to the giant that lay dead, and so cut oft his head, that was right huge and hideous, and hung it at his fore saddle-bow. then went he to the court of king arthur and presented it to him. the king made great joy thereof and all they of the court, and the king made broad his lands right freely for that he believed kay had spoken true. i went," saith the hermit, "on the morrow to the piece of land where the giant lay dead, as a damsel came within here to tell me with right great joy. i found the corpse of the giant so big that i durst not come a-nigh it. the damsel led me to the coffin where the king's son was lying. she asked the head of me as her guerdon, and i granted it to her willingly. she set it forthwith in a coffer laden with precious stones that was all garnished within of balsams. after that, she helped me carry the body into this chapel and enshroud and bury it. ix. "afterwards the damsel departed, nor have i never heard talk of her since, nor do i make remembrance hereof for that i would king arthur should know it, nor for aught that i say thereof that he should do evil to the knight; for right sore sin should i have thereof, but deadly treason and disloyalty hath he wrought." "sir," saith perceval, "this is sore pity of the king's son, that he is dead in such manner, for i have heard witness that he ever waxed more and more in great chivalry, and, so the king knew thereof, kay the seneschal, that is not well-loved of all folk, would lose the court for ever more, or his life, so he might be taken, and this would be only right and just." perceval lay the night in the hermitage, and departed on the morrow when he had heard mass. he rideth through the forest as he that right gladly would hear tidings of his mother, nor never before hath he been so desirous thereof as is he now. he heard, at right hour of noon, a damsel under a tree that made greater dole than ever heard he damsel make before. she held her mule by the reins and was alighted a-foot and set herself on her knees toward the east. she stretched her hands up toward heaven and prayed right sweetly the saviour of the world and his sweet mother that they would send her succour betimes, for that the most discounselled damsel of the world was she, and never was alms given to damsel to counsel her so well bestowed as it would be upon her, for that needs must she go to the most perilous place that is in the world, and that, save she might bring some one with her, never would that she had to do be done. x. perceval drew himself up when he heard the damsel bemoaning thus. he was in the shadow of the forest so that she saw him not. the damsel cried out all weeping, "ha, king arthur, great sin did you in forgetting to speak of my business to the knight that bare away the shield from your court, by whom would my mother have been succoured, that now must lose her castle presently save god grant counsel herein; and so unhappy am i, that i have gone through all the lands of great britain, yet may i hear no tidings of my brother, albeit they say that he is the best knight of the world. but what availeth us his knighthood, when we have neither aid nor succour thereof? so much the greater shame ought he to have of himself, if he love his mother, as she, that is the most gentle lady that liveth and the most loyal, hath hope that, and he knew, he would come thither. either he is dead or he is in lands so far away that none may hear tidings of him. ha, sweet lady, mother of our saviour, aid us when we may have no aid of any other! for if my lady mother loseth her castle, needs must we be forlorn wanderers in strange lands, for so have her brothers been long time; he that had the most power and valour lieth in languishment, the good king fisherman that the king of castle mortal warreth on, albeit he also is my uncle, my mother's brother, and would fain reave my uncle, that is his brother, of his castle by his felony. of a man so evil my lady mother looketh for neither aid nor succour. and the good king pelles hath renounced his kingdom for the love of his saviour, and hath entered into a hermitage. he likewise is brother of my mother, and behoveth him make war upon none, for the most worshipful hermit is he of the world. and all they on my father's side have died in arms. eleven were there of them, and my father was the twelfth. had they remained on live, well able would they have been to succour us, but the knight that was first at the graal hath undone us, for through him our uncle fell in languishment, in whom should have been our surest succour." xi. at this word perceval rode forward, and the damsel heareth him. she riseth up, and looketh backward and seeth the knight come, the shield at his neck banded argent and azure, with a red cross. she clasped her two hands toward heaven, and saith, "ha, sweet lady that didst bear the saviour of the world, you have not forgotten me, nor never may be discounselled he nor she that calleth upon you with the heart. here see i the knight come of whom we shall have aid and succour, and our lord god grant him will to do his pleasure, and lend him courage and strength to protect us!" she goeth to meet him, and holdeth his stirrup and would have kissed his foot, but he avoideth it and crieth to her: "ill do you herein, damsel!" and therewith she melteth in tears of weeping and prayeth him right sweetly. "sir," saith she, "of such pity as god had of his most sweet mother on that day he took his death, when he beheld her at the foot of the cross, have pity and mercy of my lady mother and of me. for, and your aid fail us, we know not to whom to fly for rescue, for i have been told that you are the best knight of the world. and for obtaining of your help went i to king arthur's court. wherefore succour us for pity's sake and god's and for nought beside, for, so please you, it is your duty so to do, albeit, had you been my brother that is also such a knight as you, whom i cannot find, i might have called upon you of a greater right. sir," saith she, "do you remember you of the brachet you had at the court waiting for you until such time as you should come for the shield, and that went away with you, how he would never make joy nor know any save me alone? by this know i well that if you knew the soreness of our need you would succour us. but king arthur, that should have prayed you thereof, forgat it." "damsel," saith he, "so much hath he done that he hath not failed of his covenant with you, for he sent for me by the two best knights of his court, and, so i may speed, so much will i do herein as that god and he shall be well pleased thereof." xii. the damsel had right great joy of the knight that he should grant her his aid, but she knew not he was her brother, or otherwise she would have doubled her joy. perceval knoweth well that she is his sister, but he would not yet discover himself and manifest his pity outwardly. he helpeth the damsel to mount again and they rode on together. "sir," saith the damsel, "needs must i go to-night by myself to the grave-yard perilous." "wherefore go you thither?" saith perceval. "sir," saith she, "i have made vow thereof, and moreover a holy hermit hath told me that the knight that warreth upon us may not be overcome of no knight, save i bring him not some of the cloth wherewith the altar in the chapel of the grave-yard perilous is covered. the cloth is of the most holiest, for our lord god was covered therewith in the holy sepulchre, on the third day when he came back from death to life. nor none may enter the holy grave-yard that bringeth another with him, wherefore behoveth me go by myself, and may god save my life this night, for the place is sore perilous, and so ought i greatly to hate him that hath procured me this dolour and travail. sir," saith she, "you will go your way toward the castle of camelot: there is the widow lady my mother, that awaiteth the return and the succour of the good knight, and may you remember to succour and aid us when you shall see how sore is our need of succour. xiii. "damsel," saith perceval, "so god allow me i will aid you to the utmost of my power." "sir," saith she, "see, this is my way, that is but little frequented, for i tell you that no knight durst tread therein without great peril and great dread. and our lord god have your body in keeping, for mine own this night shall be in sore jeopardy and hazard." perceval departeth from the damsel, his sister, and hath right great pity for that she goeth in so perilous place all alone. natheless would he nor forbid her, for he knew well that she might not go thither with him nor with other, sith that such was the custom of the grave-yard that twain might not pass the entrance, wherefore needs must one remain without. perceval was not willing that his sister should break her vow, for never none of his lineage did at any time disloyalty nor base deed knowingly, nor failed of nought that they had in covenant, save only the king of castle mortal, from whom he had as much evil as he had good of the others. xiv. the damsel goeth her way all alone and all forlorn toward the grave-yard and the deep of the forest, all dark and shadowy. she hath ridden until the sun was set and the night draweth nigh. she looketh before her and seeth a cross, high and wide and thick. and on this cross was the figure of our lord graven, whereof is she greatly comforted. she draweth nigh the cross, and so kisseth and adoreth it, and prayeth the saviour of the world that was nailed on holy rood that he would bring her forth of the burial-ground with honour. the cross was at the entrance of the grave-yard, that was right spacious, for, from such time as the land was first peopled of folk, and that knights began to seek adventure by the forest, not a knight had died in the forest, that was full great of breadth and length, but his body was borne thither, nor might never knight there be buried that had not received baptism and had repented him not of his sins at his death. xv. thereinto entered the damsel all alone, and found great multitude of tombs and coffins. nor none need wonder whether she had shuddering and fear, for such place must needs be dreadful to a lonely damsel, there where lay so many knights that had been slain in arms. josephus the good clerk witnesseth us that within the grave-yard might no evil spirit meddle, for that saint andrew the apostle had blessed it with his hand. but never might no hermit remain within for the evil things that appeared each night all round about, that took the shapes of the knights that were dead in the forest, wherof the bodies lay not in the blessed burial-ground. xvi. the damsel beholdeth their sepulchres all round about the graveyard whereinto she was come. she seeth them surrounded of knights, all black, and spears had they withal, and came one against another, and made such uproar and alarm as it seemed all the forest resounded thereof. the most part held swords all red as of fire, and ran either upon other, and gashed one another's hands and feet and nose and face. and great was the clashing they made, but they could not come a-nigh the grave-yard. the damsel seeth them, and hath such affright thereof that she nigh fell to the ground in a swoon. the mule whereon she sate draweth wide his nostrils and goeth in much fear. the damsel signeth her of the cross and commendeth her to the saviour and to his sweet mother. she looketh before her to the head of the grave-yard, and seeth the chapel, small and ancient. she smiteth her mule with her whip, and cometh thitherward and alighteth. she entered therewithin and found a great brightness of light. within was an image of our lady, to whom she prayeth right sweetly that she will preserve her senses and her life and enable her to depart in safety from this perilous place. she seeth above the altar the most holy cloth for the which she was come thither, that was right ancient, and a smell came thereof so sweet and glorious that no sweetness of the world might equal it. the damsel cometh toward the altar thinking to take the cloth, but it goeth up into the air as if the wind had lifted it, and was so high that she might not reach it above an ancient crucifix that was there within. "ha, god!" saith the damsel, "it is for my sin and my disloyalty that this most holy cloth thus draweth itself away from me!" xvii. "fair father god, never did i evil to none, nor never did i shame nor sinned deadly in myself, nor never wrought against your will, so far as in me lay, but rather do i serve you and love and fear you and your sweet mother; and all the tribulation i receive, accept i in patience for your love, for well i know that such is your pleasure, nor have i no will to set myself against nought that pleaseth you. xviii. "when it shall please you, you will release me and my mother of the grief and tribulation wherein we are. for well you know that they have reaved her of her castles by wrong, and of her land, for that she is a widow lady without help. lord, you who have all the world at your mercy and do your commandment in all things, grant me betimes to hear tidings of my brother and he be on live, for sore need have we of him. and so lend force to the knight and power against all our enemies, that for your love and for pity is fain to succour and aid my mother that is sore discounselled. lord, well might it beseem you to remember of your pity and the sweetness that is in you, and of compassion that she hath been unrighteously disherited, and that no succour nor aid nor counsel hath she, save of you alone. you are her affiance and her succour, and therefore ought you to remember that the good knight joseph of abarimacie, that took down your body when it hung upon the rood, was her own uncle. better loved he to take down your body than all the gold and all the fee that pilate might give him. lord, good right of very truth had he so to do, for he took you in his arms beside the rood, and laid your body in the holy sepulchre, wherein were you covered of the sovran cloth for the which have i come in hither. lord, grant it be your pleasure that i may have it, for love of the knight by whom it was set in this chapel; sith that i am of his lineage it ought well to manifest itself in this sore need, so it come according to your pleasure." forthwith the cloth came down above the altar, and she straightway found taken away therefrom as much as it pleased our lord she should have. josephus telleth us of a truth, that never did none enter into the chapel that might touch the cloth save only this one damsel. she set her face to it and her mouth or ever the cloth removed. xix. thereafter, she took the piece that god would and set it near herself full worshipfully, but still the stout went on of the evil spirits round about the church-yard, and they dealt one another blows so sore that all the forest resounded thereof, and it seemed that it was all set on fire of the flame that issued from them. great fear would the damsel have had of them, had she not comforted herself in god and in his dear, sweet mother, and the most holy cloth that was within there. a voice appeared upon the stroke of midnight from above the chapel, and speaketh to the souls whereof the bodies lie within the grave-yard: "how sore loss hath befallen you of late, and all other whose bodies lie in other hallowed church-yards by the forests of this kingdom! for the good king fisherman is dead that made every day our service be done in the most holy chapel there where the most holy graal every day appeared, and where the mother of god abode from the saturday until the monday that the service was finished. and now hath the king of castle mortal seized the castle in such sort that never sithence hath the holy graal appeared, and all the other hallows are hidden, so that none knoweth what hath become of the priests that served in the chapel, nor the twelve ancient knights, nor the damsels that were therein. and you, damsel, that are within, have no affiance in the aid of strange knight in this need, for succoured may you never be save of your brother only!" xx. with that the voice is still, and a wailing and a lamentation goeth up from the bodies that lay in the church-yard, so dolorous that no man is there in the world but should have pity thereof, and all the evil spirits that were without departed groaning and making so mighty uproar at their going away that it seemed the earth trembled. the damsel heard the tidings of her uncle that was dead, and fell on the ground in a swoon, and when she raised herself, took on to lament and cried: "ha, god! now have we lost the most comfort and the best friend that we had, and hereof am i again discomforted that i may not be succoured in this my next need by the good knight of whom i thought to have succour and aid, and that was so fain to render it. now shall i know not what to ask of him, for he would grant it right willingly, and may god be as pleased with him thereof as if he had done it." the damsel was in sore misdoubting and dismay, for she knew not who the knight was, and great misgiving had she of her uncle's death and right sore sorrow. she was in the chapel until it was day, and then commended herself to god and departed and mounted on her mule and issued forth of the church-yard full speed, all alone. xxi. the story saith that the damsel went her way toward her mother's castle as straight as she might, but sore dismayed was she of the voice that had told her she might not be succoured save of her brother alone. she hath ridden so far of her journeys that she is come to the valley of camelot, and seeth her mother's castle that was surrounded of great rivers, and seeth perceval, that was alighted under the shadow of a tree at the top of the forest in order that he might behold his mother's castle, whence he went forth squire what time he slew the knight of the red shield. when he had looked well at the castle and the country round about, much pleasure had he thereof, and mounted again forthwith. thereupon, behold you, the damsel cometh. "sir," saith she, "in sore travail and jeopardy have i been sithence that last i saw you, and tidings have i heard as bad as may be, and right grievous for my mother and myself. for king fisherman mine uncle is dead, and another of my uncles, the king of castle mortal, hath seized his castle, albeit my lady mother ought rather to have it, or i, or my brother." "is it true," saith perceval, "that he is dead?" "yea, certes, sir, i know it of a truth." "so help me god!" saith he, "this misliketh me right sore. i thought not that he would die so soon, for i have not been to see him of a long time." xxii. "sir," saith she, "i am much discomforted as concerning you, for i have likewise been told that no force nor aid of any knight may avail to succour nor aid me from this day forward save my brother's help alone. wherefore, and it be so, we have lost all, for my lady mother hath respite to be in her castle only until the fifteenth day from to-day, and i know not where to seek my brother, and the day is so nigh as you hear. now behoveth us do the best we may and abandon this castle betimes, nor know i any refuge that we now may have save only king pelles in the hermitage. i would fain that my lady mother were there, for he would not fail us." perceval is silent, and hath great pity in his heart of this that the damsel saith. she followeth him weeping, and pointeth out to him the valleys of camelot and the castles that were shut in by combes and mountains, and the broad meadow-lands and the forest that girded them about. "sir," saith she, "all this hath the lord of the moors reaved of my lady mother, and nought coveteth he so much as to have this castle, and have it he will, betimes." xxiii. when they had ridden until that they drew nigh the castle, the lady was at the windows of the hall and knew her daughter. "ha, god!" saith the lady, "i see there my daughter coming, and a knight with her. fair father god, grant of your pleasure that it be my son, for and it be not he, i have lost my castle and mine heirs are disherited." perceval cometh nigh the castle in company with his sister, and knoweth again the chapel that stood upon four columns of marble between the forest and the castle, there where his father told him how much ought he to love good knights, and that none earthly thing might be of greater worth, and how none might know yet who lay in the coffin until such time as the best knight of the world should come thither, but that then should it be known. perceval would fain have passed by the chapel, but the damsel saith to him: "sir, no knight passeth hereby save he go first to see the coffin within the chapel." he alighteth and setteth the damsel to the ground, and layeth down his spear and shield and cometh toward the tomb, that was right fair and rich. he set his hand above it. so soon as he came nigh, the sepulchre openeth on one side, so that one saw him that was within the coffin. the damsel falleth at his feet for joy. the lady had a custom such that every time a knight stopped at the coffin she made the five ancient knights that she had with her in the castle accompany her, wherein they would never fail her, and bring her as far as the chapel. so soon as she saw the coffin open and the joy her daughter made, she knew that it was her son, and ran to him and embraced him and kissed him and began to make the greatest joy that ever lady made. xxiv. "now know i well," saith she, "that our lord god hath not forgotten me. sith that i have my son again, the tribulations and the wrongs that have been done me grieve me not any more. sir," saith she to her son, "now is it well known and proven that you are the best knight of the world! for otherwise never would the coffin have opened, nor would any have known who he is that you now see openly." she maketh her chaplain take certain letters that were sealed with gold in the coffin. he looketh thereat and readeth, and then saith that these letters witness of him that lieth in the coffin that he was one of them that helped to un-nail our lord from the cross. they looked beside him and found the pincers all bloody wherewith the nails were drawn, but they might not take them away, nor the body, nor the coffin, according as josephus telleth us, for as soon as perceval was forth of the chapel, the coffin closed again and joined together even as it was before. the widow lady led her son with right great joy into her castle, and recounted to him all the shame that had been done her, and also how messire gawain had made safe the castle for a year by his good knighthood. xxv. "fair son," saith she, "now is the term drawn nigh when i should have lost my castle and you had not come. but now know i well that it shall be safe-guarded of you. he that coveteth this castle is one of the most outrageous knights on live. and he hath reaved me of my land and the valleys of camelot without reasonable occasion. but, please god, you shall well repair the harm he hath done you, for nought claim i any longer of the land since you are come. but so avenge your shame as to increase your honour, for none ought to allow his right to be minished of an evil man, and the mischiefs that have been done me for that i had no aid, let them not wax cold in you, for a shame done to one valiant and strong ought not to wax cold in him, but rankle and prick in him, so ought he to have his enemies in remembrance without making semblant, but so much as he shall show in his cheer and making semblant and his menaces, so much ought he to make good in deed when he shall come in place. for one cannot do too much hurt to an enemy, save only one is willing to let him be for god's sake. but truth it is that the scripture saith, that one ought not to do evil to one's enemies, but pray god that he amend them. i would fain that our enemies were such that they might amend toward us, and that they would do as much good to us without harming themselves as they have done evil, on condition that mine anger and yours were foregone against them. mine own anger i freely forbear against them so far forth as concerneth myself, for no need have i to wish evil to none, and solomon telleth how the sinner that curseth other sinner curseth himself likewise. xxvi. "fair son, this castle is yours, and this land round about whereof i have been reft ought to be yours of right, for it falleth to you on behalf of your father and me. wherefore send to the lord of the moors that hath reft it from me, that he render it to you. i make no further claim, for i pass it on to you; for nought have i now to do with any land save only so much as will be enough wherein to bury my body when i die, nor shall i now live much longer since king fisherman my brother is dead, whereof right sorrowful am i at heart, and still more sorrowful should i be were it not for your coming. and, son, i tell you plainly that you have great blame of his death, for you are the knight through whom he fell first into languishment, for now at last i know well that and if you had afterwards gone back and so made the demand that you made not at the first, he would have come back to health. but our lord god willed it so to be, wherefore well beseemeth us to yield to his will and pleasure." xxvii. perceval hath heard his mother, but right little hath he answered her, albeit greatly is he pleased with whatsoever she hath said. his face is to-flushed of hardiment, and courage hath taken hold on him. his mother looketh at him right fainly, and hath him disarmed and apparelled in a right rich robe. so comely a knight was he that in all the world might not be found one of better seeming nor better shapen of body. the lord of the moors, that made full certain of having his mother's castle, knew of perceval's coming. he was not at all dismayed in semblant, nor would he stint to ride by fell nor forest, and every day he weened in his pride that the castle should be his own at the hour and the term he had set thereof. one of the five knights of the widow lady was one day gone into the lonely forest after hart and hind, and had taken thereof at his will. he was returning back to the castle and the huntsmen with him, when the lord of the moors met him and told him he had done great hardiment in shooting with the bow in the forest, and the knight made answer that the forest was not his of right, but the lady's of camelot and her son's that had repaired thither. xxviii. the lord of the moors waxed wroth. he held a sword in his hand and thrust him therewith through the body and slew him. the knight was borne dead to the castle of camelot before the widow lady and her son. "fair son," saith the widow lady, "more presents of such-like kind the lord of the moors sendeth me than i would. never may he be satisfied of harming my land and shedding the blood of the bodies of my knights. now may you well know how many a hurt he hath done me sithence that your father hath been dead and you were no longer at the castle, sith that this hath he done me even now that you are here. you have the name of perceval on this account, that tofore you were born, he had begun to reave your father of the valleys of camelot, for your father was an old knight and all his brethren were dead, and therefore he gave you this name in baptism, for that he would remind you of the mischief done to him and to you, and that you might help to retrieve it and you should have the power." the dame maketh shroud the knight, for whom she is full sorrowful, and on the morrow hath mass sung and burieth him. perceval made arm two of the old knights with him, then issued forth of the castle and entered the great dark forest. he rode until he came before a castle, and met five knights that issued forth all armed. he asked whose men they were. they answer, the lord's of the moors, and that he goeth seek the son of the widow lady that is in the forest. "if we may deliver him up to our lord, good guerdon shal we have thereof." "by my faith," saith perceval, "you have not far to seek. i am here!" xxix. perceval smiteth his horse of his spurs and cometh to the first in such sort that he passeth his spear right through his body and beareth him to the ground dead. the other two knights each smote his man so that they wounded them in the body right sore. the other two would fain have fled, but perceval preventeth them, and they gave themselves up prisoners for fear of death. he bringeth all four to the castle of camelot and presenteth them to his lady mother. "lady," saith he, "see here the quittance for your knight that was slain, and the fifth also remaineth lying on the piece of ground shent in like manner as was your own." "fair son," saith she, "i should have better loved peace after another sort, and so it might be." "lady," saith he, "thus is it now. one ought to make war against the warrior, and be at peace with the peaceable." the knights are put in prison. the tidings are come to the lord of the moors that the son of the widow lady hath slain one of his knights and carried off four to prison. thereof hath he right great wrath at heart, and sweareth and standeth to it that never will he be at rest until he shall have either taken or slain him, and that, so there were any knight in his land that would deliver him up, he would give him one of the best castles in his country. the more part are keen to take perceval. eight came for that intent before him all armed in the forest of camelot, and hunted and drove wild deer in the purlieus of the forest so that they of the castle saw them. xxx. perceval was in his mother's chapel, where he heard mass; and when the mass was sung, his sister said: "fair brother, see here the most holy cloth that i brought from the chapel of the grave-yard perilous. kiss it and touch it with your face, for a holy hermit told me that never should our land be conquered back until such time as you should have hereof." perceval kisseth it, then toucheth his eyes and face therewith. afterward he goeth to arm him, and the four knights with him; then he issueth forth of the chamber and mounteth on his horse, then goeth out of the gateway like a lion unchained. he sitteth on a tall horse all covered. he cometh nigh the eight knights that were all armed, man and horse, and asketh them what folk they be and what they seek, and they say that they are enemies of the widow lady and her son. "then you do i defy!" saith perceval. he cometh to them a great run, and the four knights with him, and each one overthroweth his own man so roughly that either he is wounded in his body or maimed of arm or leg. the rest held the melly to the utmost they might endure. perceval made take them and bring to the castle, and the other five that they had overthrown. the lord of the moors was come to shoot with a bow, and he heard the noise of the knights, and cometh thitherward a great gallop all armed. "sir," saith one of the old knights to perceval, "look! here is the lord of the moors coming, that hath reft your mother of her land and slain her men. of him will it be good to take vengeance. see, how boldly he cometh." perceval looketh on him as he that loveth him not, and cometh toward him as hard as his horse may carry him, and smiteth him right through the breast so strongly that he beareth to the ground him and his horse together all in a heap. he alighteth to the ground and draweth his sword. "how?" saith the lord of the moors, "would you then slay me and put me in worse plight than i am?" "by my head," saith perceval, "no, nor so swiftly, but i will slay you enough, betimes!" "so it seemeth you," saith the lord of the moors, "but it shall not be yet!" he leapeth up on his feet and runneth on perceval, sword drawn, as one that fain would harm him if he might. but perceval defendeth himself as good knight should, and giveth such a buffet at the outset as smiteth off his arm together with his sword. the knights that came after fled back all discomfited when they saw their lord wounded. and perceval made lift him on a horse and carry him to the castle and presenteth him to his mother. "lady," saith he, "see here the lord of the moors! well might you expect him eftsoons, sith that you were to have yielded him up your castle the day after to-morrow!" xxxi. "lady," saith the lord of the moors, "your son hath wounded me and taken my knights and myself likewise. i will yield you up your castle albeit i hold it mine as of right, on condition you cry me quit." "and who shall repay her," saith perceval, "for the shame that you have done her, for her knights that you have slain, whereof never had you pity? now, so help me god, if she have mercy or pity upon you, never hereafter will i trouble to come to her aid how sore soever may be her need. such pity and none other as you have had for her and my sister will i have for you. our lord god commanded in both the old law and the new, that justice should be done upon man-slayers and traitors, and justice will i do upon you that his commandment be not transgressed." he hath a great vat made ready in the midst of the court, and maketh the eleven knights be brought. h e maketh their heads be stricken off into the vat and bleed therein as much blood as might come from them, and then made the heads and the bodies be drawn forth so that nought was there but blood in the vat. after that, he made disarm the lord of the moors and be brought before the vat wherein was great abundance of blood. he made bind his feet and his hands right strait, and after that saith: "never might you be satisfied of the blood of the knights of my lady mother, now will i satisfy you of the blood of your own knights!" he maketh hang him by the feet in the vat, so that his head were in the blood as far as the shoulders, and so maketh him be held there until that he was drowned and quenched. after that, he made carry his body and the bodies of the other knights and their heads, and made them be cast into an ancient charnel that was beside an old chapel in the forest, and the vat together with the blood made he be cast into the river, so that the water thereof was all bloody. the tidings came to the castles that the son of the widow lady had slain the lord of the moors and the best of his knights. thereof were they in sore misgiving, and the most part said that the like also would he do to them save they held themselves at his commandment. they brought him the keys of all the castles that had been reft of his mother, and all the knights that had before renounced their allegiance returned thereunto and pledged themselves to be at his will for dread of death. all the land was assured in safety, nor was there nought to trouble the lady's joy save only that king fisherman her brother was dead, whereof she was right sorrowful and sore afflicted. xxxii. one day the widow lady sate at meat, and there was great plenty of knights in the hall. perceval sate him beside his sister. thereupon, behold you the damsel of the car that came with the other two damsels before the widow lady and her son, and saluted them right nobly. "damsel," saith perceval, "good adventure may you have!" "sir," saith she, "you have speeded right well of your business here, now go speed it elsewhere, for thereof is the need right sore. king hermit, that is your mother's brother, sendeth you word that, and you come not with haste into the land that was king fisherman's your uncle, the new law that god hath stablished will be sore brought low. for the king of castle mortal, that hath seized the land and castle, hath made be cried throughout all the country how all they that would fain maintain the old law and abandon the new shall have protection of him and counsel and aid, and they that will not shall be destroyed and outlawed." "ha, fair son," saith the widow lady, "now have you heard the great disloyalty of the evil man that is my brother, whereof am i right sorrowful, for that he is of my kindred." "lady," saith perceval, "your brother nor my uncle is he no longer, sith that he denieth god! rather is he our mortal enemy that we ought of right to hate more than any stranger!" xxxiii. "fair son," saith the widow lady, "i pray and beseech you that the law of the saviour be not set aside in forgetfulness and neglect there where you may exalt it, for better lord in no wise may you serve, nor one that better knoweth how to bestow fair guerdon. fair son, none may be good knight that serveth him not and loveth him. take heed that you be swift in his service nor delay not for no intent, but be ever at his commandment alike at eventide as in the morning, so shall you not bely your lineage. and the lord god grant you good intent therein and good will to go on even as you have begun." the widow lady, that much loved her son, riseth up from the tables, and all the other knights, and seemeth it that she is lady of her land in such sort as that never was she better. but full often doth she give thanks to the saviour of the world with her whole heart, and prayeth him of his pleasure grant her son length of life for the amendment both of soul and body. perceval was with his mother of a long space, and with his sister, and was much feared and honoured of all the knights of the land, alike for his great wisdom and great pains-taking, as well as for the valour of his knighthood. branch xvi. title i. this high history saith that messire gawain and lancelot were repaired to the court of king arthur from the quest they had achieved. the king made great joy thereof and the queen. king arthur sate one day at meat by the side of the queen, and they had been served of the first meats. thereupon come two knights all armed, and each bore a dead knight before him, and the knights were still armed as they had been when their bodies were alive. "sir," say the knights, "this shame and this mischief is yours. in like manner will you lose all your knights betimes and god love you not well enough to give counsel herein forthwith of his mercy." "lords," saith the king, "how came these knights to be in so evil case?" "sir," say they, "it is of good right you ought to know. the knight of the fiery dragon is entered into the head of your land, and is destroying knights and castles and whatsoever he may lay hands on, in such sort that none durst contend against him, for he is taller by a foot than any knight ever you had, and of grisly cheer, and so is his sword three times bigger than the sword of ever another knight, and his spear is well as heavy as a man may carry. two knights might lightly cover them of his shield, and it hath on the outer side the head of a dragon that casteth forth fire and flame whensoever he will, so eager and biting that none may long endure his encounter." ii. "none other, how strong soever he be, may stand against him, and, even as you see, hath he burnt and evil-entreated all other knights that have withstood him." "from what land hath come such manner of man?" "sir," say the knights, "he is come from the giant's castle, and he warreth upon you for the love of logrin the giant, whose head messire kay brought you into your court, nor never, saith he, will he have joy until such time as he shall have avenged him on your body or upon the knight that you love best." "our lord god," saith the king, "will defend us from so evil a man." he is risen from the table, all scared, and maketh carry the two dead knights to be buried, and the others turn back again when they have told their message. the king calleth messire gawain and lancelot and asketh them what he shall do of this knight that is entered into his land? "by my head, i know not what to say, save you give counsel herein." "sir," saith lancelot, "we will go against him, so please you, i and messire gawain between us." "by my head," saith the king, "i would not let you go for a kingdom, for such man as is this is no knight but a devil and a fiend that hath issued from the borders of hell. i say not but that it were great worship and prize to slay and conquer him, but he that should go against him should set his own life in right sore jeopardy and run great hazard of being in as bad plight as these two knights i have seen." the king was in such dismay that he knew not neither what to say nor to do, and so was all the court likewise in such sort as no knight neither one nor another was minded to go to battle with him, and so remained the court in great dismay. branch xvii. incipit. here beginneth one of the master branches of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. perceval had been with his mother as long as it pleased him. he hath departed with her good will and the good will of his sister, and telleth them he will return into the land as speedily as he may. he entereth into the great lonely forest, and rideth so far on his journeys that he cometh one day at the right hour of noon into a passing fair launde, and seeth a forest. he looketh amidst the launde and seeth a red cross. he looketh to the head of the launde and seeth a right comely knight sitting in the shadow of the forest, and he was clad in white garments and held a vessel of gold in his hand. at the other end of the launde he seeth a damsel likewise sitting, young and gentle and of passing great beauty, and she was clad in a white samite dropped of gold. josephus telleth us by the divine scripture that out of the forest issued a beast, white as driven snow, and it was bigger than a fox and less than a hare. the beast came into the launde all scared, for she had twelve hounds in her belly, that quested within like as it were hounds in a wood, and she fled adown the launde for fear of the hounds, the questing whereof she had within her. perceval rested on the shaft of his spear to look at the marvel of this beast, whereof he had right great pity, so gentle was she of semblance, and of so passing beauty, and by her eyes it might seem that they were two emeralds. she runneth to the knight, all affrighted, and when she hath been there awhile and the hounds rend her again, she runneth to the damsel, but neither there may she stay long time, for the hounds that are within her cease not of their questing, whereof is she sore adread. ii. she durst not venture herself in the forest. she seeth perceval and so cometh toward him for protection. she maketh as though she would lie down on his horse's neck, and he holdeth forth his hands to receive her there so as that she might not hurt herself, and evermore the hounds quested. howbeit the knight crieth out to him, "sir knight, let the beast go and hold her not, for this belongeth neither to you nor to other, but let her dree her weird." the beast seeth that no protection hath she. she goeth to the cross, and forthwith might the hounds no longer be in her, but issued forth all as it were live hounds, but nought had they of her gentleness nor her beauty. she humbled herself much among them and crouched on the ground and made semblant as though she would have cried them mercy, and gat herself as nigh the cross as she might. the hounds had compassed her round about and ran in upon her upon all sides and tore her all to pieces with their teeth, but no power had they to devour her flesh, nor to remove it away from the cross. iii. when the hounds had all to-mangled the beast, they fled away into the wood as had they been raging mad. the knight and the damsel came there where the beast lay in pieces at the cross, and so taketh each his part and setteth the same on their golden vessels, and took the blood that lay upon the earth in like manner as the flesh, and kiss the place, and adore the cross, and then betake them into the forest. perceval alighteth and setteth him on his knees before the cross and so hisseth and adoreth it, and the place where the beast was slain, in like manner as he had seen the knight and damsel do; and there came to him a smell so sweet of the cross and of the place, such as no sweetness may be compared therewith. he looketh and seeth coming from the forest two priests all afoot; and the first shouteth to him: "sir knight, withdraw yourself away from the cross, for no right have you to come nigh it.": perceval draweth him back, and the priest kneeleth before the cross and adoreth it and boweth down and kisseth it more than a score times, and manifesteth the most joy in the world. and the other priest cometh after, and bringeth a great rod, and setteth the first priest aside by force, and beateth the cross with the rod in every part, and weepeth right passing sore. iv. perceval beholdeth him with right great wonderment, and saith unto him, "sir, herein seem you to be no priest! wherefore do you so great shame?" "sir," saith the priest, "it nought concerneth you of whatsoever we may do, nor nought shall you know thereof for us!" had he not been a priest, perceval would have been right wroth with him, but he had no will to do him any hurt. therewithal he departeth and mounteth his horse and entereth the forest again, all armed, but scarce had he ridden away in such sort or ever he met the knight coward, that cried out to him as far as he could see him, "sir, for god's sake, take heed to yourself!" "what manner man are you?" saith perceval. "sir," saith he, "my name is the knight coward, and i am man of the damsel of the car. wherefore i pray you for god's sake and for your own valour that you touch me not." perceval looketh on him and seeth him tall and comely and well-shapen and adroit and all armed upon his horse, so he saith to him, "sith that you are so coward, wherefore are you armed thus?" "sir," saith he, "against the evil intent of any knight of whom i am adread, for such an one might haply meet me as would slay me forthwith." v. "are you so coward as you say?" saith perceval. "yea," saith he, "and much more." "by my head," saith he, "i will make you hardy. come now along with me, for sore pity is it that cowardize should harbour in so comely a knight. i am fain that your name be changed speedily, for such name beseemeth no knight." "ha, sir, for god's sake, mercy! now know i well that you desire to slay me! no will have i to change neither my courage nor my name!" "by my head," saith perceval, "then will you die therefor, betimes!" he maketh him go before him, will he or nill he; and the knight goeth accordingly with right sore grudging. they had scarce ridden away, when he heard in the forest off the way, two damsels that bewailed them right sore, and prayed our lord god send them succour betimes. vi. perceval cometh towards them, he and the knight he driveth before him perforce, and seeth a tall knight all armed that leadeth the damsels all dishevelled, and smiteth them from time to time with a great rod, so that the blood ran down their faces. "ha, sir knight," saith perceval, "what ask you of these two damsels that you entreat so churlishly?" "sir," saith he, "they have disherited me of mine own hold in this forest that messire gawain gave them." "sir," say they to perceval, "this knight is a robber, and none other but he now wonneth in this forest, for the other robber-knights were slain by messire gawain and lancelot and another knight that came with them, and, for the sore suffering and poverty that messire gawain and lancelot saw in us aforetime, and in the house of my brother in whose castle they lay, were they fain to give us this hold and the treasure they conquered from the robber-knights, and for this doth he now lead us away to slay and destroy us, and as much would he do for you and all other knights, so only he had the power." "sir knight," saith perceval, "let be these damsels, for well i know that they say true, for that i was there when the hold was given them." "then you helped to slay my kindred," saith the knight, "and therefore you do i defy!" "ha," saith the knight coward to perceval, "take no heed of that he saith, and wax not wroth, but go your way!" "certes," saith perceval, "this will i not do: rather will i help to challenge the honour of the damsels." vii. "ha, sir," saith the knight coward, "never shall it be challenged of me!" perceval draweth him back. "sir," saith he, "see here my champion that i set in my place." the robber knight moveth toward him, and smiteth him so sore on the shield that he breaketh his spear, but he might not unseat the coward knight, that sate still upright as aforehand in the saddle-bows. he looketh at the other knight that hath drawn his sword. the knight coward looketh on the one side and the other, and would fain have fled and he durst. but perceval crieth to him: "knight, do your endeavour to save my honour and your own life and the honour of these two damsels!" and the robber-knight dealeth him a great buffet of his sword so as that it went nigh to stun him altogether. howbeit the coward knight moveth not. perceval looketh at him in wonderment and thinketh him that he hath set too craven a knight in his place, and now at last knoweth well that he spake truth. the robber-knight smiteth him all over his body and giveth him so many buffets that the knight seeth his own blood. "by my head," saith he, "you have wounded me, but you shall pay therefor, for i supposed not that you were minded to slay me!" he draweth his sword, that was sharp and strong, and smiteth his horse right sore hard of his spurs, and catcheth the knight with his sword right in the midst of his breast with a sweep so strong that he beareth him to the ground beside his horse. he alighteth over him, unlaceth his ventail and smiteth down his coif, then striketh off his head and presenteth it to perceval. "sir," saith he, "here give i you of my first joust." "by my head," said perceval, "right dearly love i this present! now take heed that you never again fall back into the cowardize wherein you have been. for it is too sore shame to a knight!" "sir," saith he, "i will not, but never should i have believed that one could become hardy so speedily, or otherwise long ago would i have become so, and so should i have had worship and honour thereof, for many a knight hath held me in contempt herein, that elsewise would have honoured me." perceval answereth that right and reason it is that worshipful men should be more honoured than the other. "i commend these two damsels to your protection, and lead them to their hold in safety, and be at their pleasure and their will, and so say everywhere that you have for name the knight hardy, for more of courtesy hath this name than the other." "sir," saith he, "you say true, and you have i to thank for the name." the damsels give great thanks to perceval, and take leave of him, and so go their way with right good will toward the knight that goeth with them on account of the knight he had slain, so that thereof called they him the knight hardy. viii. perceval departeth from the place where the knight lieth dead, and rideth until that he draweth nigh to cardoil where king arthur was, and findeth the country round in sore terror and dismay. much he marvelleth wherefore it may be, and demandeth of some of the meaner sort wherefore they are in so sore affright. "doth the king, then, live no longer?" "sir," say the most part, "yea, he is there within in this castle, but never was he so destroyed nor so scared as he is at this present. for a knight warreth upon him against whom no knight in the world may endure." perceval rideth on until he cometh before the master hall, and is alighted on the mounting-stage. lancelot and messire gawain come to meet him and make much joy of him, as do the king and queen and all they of the court; and they made disarm him and do upon him a right rich robe. they that had never seen him before looked upon him right fainly for the worship and valour of his knighthood. the court also was rejoiced because of him, for sore troubled had it been. so as the king sate one day at meat, there came four knights into the hall, and each one of them bore before him a dead knight. and their feet and arms had been stricken off, but their bodies were still all armed, and the habergeons thereon were all black as though they had been blasted of lightning. they laid the knights in the midst of the hall. "sir," say they to the king, "once more is made manifest this shame that is done you that is not yet amended. the knight of the dragon destroyeth you your land and slayeth your men and cometh as nigh us as he may, and saith that in your court shall never be found knight so hardy as that he durst abide him or assault him." right sore shame hath the king of these tidings, and messire gawain and lancelot likewise. right sorrowful are they of heart for that the king would not allow them to go thither. the four knights turn back again and leave the dead knights in the hall, but the king maketh them be buried with the others. ix. a great murmuring ariseth amongst the knights in the hall, and the most part say plainly that they never heard tell of none that slew knights in such cruel sort, nor so many as did he; and that neither messire gawain nor lancelot ought to be blamed for that they went not thither, for no knight in the world might conquer such a man and our lord god did not, for he casteth forth fire and flame from his shield whensoever him listeth. and while this murmur was going on between the knights all round about the hall, behold you therewithal the damsel that made bear the knight in the horse-bier and cometh before the king. "sir," saith she, "i pray and beseech you that you do me right in your court. see, here is messire gawain that was at the assembly in the red launde where were many knights, and among them was the son of the widow lady, that i see sitting beside you. he and messire gawain were they that won the most prize of the assembly. this knight had white arms, and they of the assembly said that he had better done than messire gawain, for that he had been first in the assembly. it had been granted me, before the assembly began, that he that should do best thereat, should avenge the knight. sir, i have sought for him until i have now found him at your court. wherefore i pray and beseech you that you bid him do so much herein as that he be not blamed, for messire gawain well knoweth that i have spoken true. but the knight departed so soon from the assembly, that i knew not what had become of him, and messire gawain was right heavy for that he had departed, for he was in quest of him, but knew him not." x. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "truth it is that he it was that did best at the assembly in the red launde, and moreover, please god, well will he fulfil his covenant towards you." "messire gawain," saith perceval, "meseemeth you did best above all other." "by my faith," saith messire gawain, "you speak of your courtesy, but howsoever i or other may have done, you had the prize therein by the judgment of the knights. of so much may i well call upon the damsel to bear witness." "sir," saith she, "gramercy! he ought not to deny me that i require of him. for the knight that i have so long followed about and borne on a bier was son of his uncle elinant of escavalon." xi. "damsel," saith perceval, "take heed that you speak truth. i know well that elinant of escavalon was mine uncle on my father's side, but of his son know i nought." "sir," saith she, "of his deeds well deserved he to be known, for by his great valour and hardiment came he by his death, and he had to name alein of escavalon. the damsel of the circlet of gold loved him of passing great love with all her might. the comeliest knight that was ever seen of his age was he, and had he lived longer would have been one of the best knights known, and of the great love she had in him made she his body be embalmed when the knight of the dragon had slain him, he that is so cruel and maketh desolate all the lands and all the islands. the damsel of the circlet of gold hath he defied in such sort that already hath he slain great part of her knights, and she is held fast in her castle, so that she durst not issue forth, insomuch that all the knights that are there say, and the lady of the castle also, that he that shall avenge this knight shall have the circlet of gold, that never before was she willing to part withal, and the fairest guerdon will that be that any knight may have." xii. "sir," saith she, "well behoveth you therefore, to do your best endeavour to avenge your uncle's son, and to win the circlet of gold, for, and you slay the knight, you will have saved the land of king arthur that he threateneth to make desolate, and all the lands that march with his own, for no king hateth he so much as king arthur on account of the head of the giant whereof he made such joy at his court." "damsel," saith perceval, "where is the knight of the dragon?" "sir," saith she, "he is in the isles of the elephants that wont to be the fairest land and the richest in the world. now hath he made it all desolate, they say, in such sort that none durst inhabit there, and the island wherein he abideth is over against the castle of the damsel of the golden circlet, so that every day she seeth him carry knights off bodily from the forest that he slayeth and smiteth limb from limb, whereof hath she right sore grief at heart." xiii. perceval heareth this that the damsel telleth him, and marvelleth much thereat, and taketh thought within himself, sith that the adventure is thus thrown upon him, that great blame will he have thereof and he achieveth it not. he taketh leave of the king and queen, and so goeth his way and departeth from the court. messire gawain departeth and lancelot with him, and say they will bear him company to the piece of ground, and they may go thither. perceval holdeth their fellowship right dear. the king and queen have great pity of perceval, and say all that never until now no knight went into jeopardy so sore, and that sore loss to the world will it be if there he should die. they send to all the hermits and worshipful men in the forest of cardoil and bid them pray for perceval that god defend him from this enemy with whom he goeth forth to do battle. lancelot and messire gawain go with him by the strange forests and by the islands, and found the forests all void and desolate and wasted in place after place. the damsel followeth them together with the dead knight. and so far have they wandered that they come into the plain country before the forest. so they looked before them and saw a castle that was seated in the plain without the forest, and they saw that it was set in a right fair meadow-land, and was surrounded of great running waters and girdled of high walls, and had within great halls with windows. they draw nigh the castle and see that it turneth all about faster than the wind may run, and it had at the top the archers of crossbows of copper that draw their shafts so strong that no armour in the world might avail against the stroke thereof. together with them were men of copper that turned and sounded their horns so passing loud that the ground all seemed to quake. and under the gateway were lions and bears chained, that roared with so passing great might and fury that all the ground and the valley resounded thereof. the knights draw rein and look at this marvel. "lords," saith the damsel, "now may you see the castle of great endeavour. messire gawain and lancelot, draw you back, and come not nigher the archers, for otherwise ye be but dead men. and you, sir," saith she to perceval, "and you would enter into this castle, lend me your spear and shield, and so will i bear them before for warranty, and you come after me and make such countenance as good knight should, and so shall you pass through into the castle. but your fellows may well draw back, for now is not the hour for them to pass. none may pass thither save only he that goeth to vanquish the knight and win the golden circlet and the graal, and do away the false law with its horns of copper." xiv. perceval is right sorrowful when he heareth the damsel say that messire gawain and lancelot may not pass in thither with him albeit they be the best knights in the world. he taketh leave of them full sorrowfully, and they also depart sore grudgingly; but they pray him right sweetly, so lord god allow him escape alive from the place whither he goeth, that he will meet them again at some time and place, and at ease, in such sort as that they may see him without discognisance. they wait awhile to watch the good knight, that hath yielded his shield and spear to the damsel. she hath set his shield on the bier in front, then pointeth out to them of the castle all openly the shield that belonged to the good soldier; after that she maketh sign that it belongeth to the knight that is there waiting behind her. perceval was without shield in the saddle-bows, and holdeth his sword drawn and planteth him stiffly in the stirrups after such sort as maketh them creak again and his horse's chine swerve awry. after that, he looketh at lancelot and messire gawain. "lords," saith he, "to the saviour of the world commend i you." and they answer, "may he that endured pain of his body on the holy true cross protect him in his body and his soul and his life." with that he smiteth with his spurs and goeth his way to the castle as fast as his horse may carry him,--toward the turning castle. he smiteth with his sword at the gate so passing strongly that he cut a good three fingers into a shaft of marble. the lions and the beast that were chained to guard the gate slink away into their dens, and the castle stoppeth at once. the archers cease to shoot. there were three bridges before the castle that uplifted themselves so soon as he was beyond. xv. lancelot and messire gawain departed thence when they had beholden the marvel, but they were fain to go toward the castle when they saw it stop turning. but a knight cried out to them from the battlements, "lords, and you come forward, the archers will shoot and the castle will turn, and the bridges be lowered again, wherefore you would be deceived herein." they draw back, and hear made within the greatest joy that ever was heard, and they hear how the most part therewithin say that now is he come of whom they shall be saved in twofold wise, saved as of life, and saved as of soul, so god grant him to vanquish the knight that beareth the spirit of the devil. lancelot and messire gawain turn them back thoughtful and all heavy for that they may not pass into the castle, for none other passage might they see than this. so they ride on, until that they draw nigh the waste city where lancelot slew the knight. "ha," saith he to messire gawain, "now is the time at hand that behoveth me to die in this waste city, and god grant not counsel herein." he told messire gawain all the truth of that which had befallen him therein. so, even as he would have taken leave of him, behold you, the poor knight of the waste castle! xvi. "sir," saith he to lancelot, "i have taken respite of you in the city within there, of the knight that you slew, until forty days after that the graal shall be achieved, nor have i issued forth of the castle wherein you harboured you until now, nor should i now have come forth had i not seen you come for fulfilling of your pledge, nor never shall i come forth again until such time as you shall return hither on the day i have named to you. and so, gramercy to you and messire gawain for the horses you sent me, that were a right great help to us, and for the treasure and the hold you have given to my sisters that were sore poverty-stricken. but i may not do otherwise than abide in my present poverty until such time as you shall be returned, on the day whereunto i have taken respite for you, sore against the will of your enemies, for the benefits you have done me. wherefore i pray yon forget me not, for the saving of your loyalty." "by my head," saith lancelot, "that will i not, and gramercy for having put off the day for love of me." they depart from the knight and come back again toward cardoil where king arthur was. branch xviii. title i. here the story is silent of lancelot and messire gawain, and saith that perceval is in the turning castle, whereof joseus recounteth the truth, to wit, that virgil founded it in the air by his wisdom in such fashion, when the philosophers went on the quest of the earthly paradise, and it was prophesied that the castle should not cease turning until such time as the knight should come thither that should have a head of gold, the look of a lion, a heart of steel, the navel of a virgin maiden, conditions without wickedness, the valour of a man and faith and belief of god; and that this knight should bear the shield of the good soldier that took down the saviour of the world from hanging on the rood. it was prophesied, moreover, that all they of the castle and all other castles whereof this one was the guardian should hold the old law until such time as the good knight should come, by whom their souls should be saved and their death respited. for, so soon as he should be come, they should run to be baptized, and should firmly believe the new law. wherefore was the joy great in the castle for that their death should now be respited, and that they should be released of all terror of the knight that was their foe, whom they dreaded even to the death, and of the sin of the false law whereof they had heretofore been attaint. ii. right glad is perceval when he seeth the people of the castle turn them to the holy faith of the saviour, and the damsel saith to him, "sir, right well have you speeded thus far on your way; nought is there now to be done save to finish that which remaineth. for never may they that are within issue forth so long as the knight of the dragon is on live. here may you not tarry, for the longer you tarry, the more lands will be desolate and the more folk will he slay. perceval taketh leave of them of the castle, that make much joy of him, but sore misgiving have they of him on account of the knight with whom he goeth to do battle, and they say that if he shall conquer him, never yet befell knight so fair adventure. they have heard mass before that he departeth, and made rich offerings for him in honour of the saviour and his sweet mother. the damsel goeth before, for that she knew the place where the evil knight had his repair. they ride until they come into the island of elephants. the knight was alighted under an olive tree, and had but now since slain four knights that were of the castle of the queen of the golden circlet. she was at the windows of her castle and saw her knights dead, whereof made she great dole. "ha, god," saith she, "shall i never see none that may avenge me of this evildoer that slayeth my men and destroyeth my land on this wise?" she looketh up and seeth perceval come and the damsel. "sir knight, and you have not force and help and valour in you more than is in four knights, come not nigh this devil! howbeit, and you feel that you may so do battle as to overcome and vanquish him, i will give you the golden circlet that is within, and will hold with the new law that hath been of late established. for i see well by your shield that you are a christian, and, so you may conquer him, then ought i at last to be assured that your law availeth more than doth ours, and that god was born of the virgin." iii. right joyous is perceval of this that he heareth her say. he crosseth and blesseth him, and commendeth him to god and his sweet mother; and is pricked of wrath and hardiment like a lion. he seeth the knight of the dragon mounted, and looketh at him in wonderment, for that he was so big that never had he seen any man so big of his body. he seeth the shield at his neck, that was right black and huge and hideous. he seeth the dragon's head in the midst thereof, that casteth out fire and flame in great plenty, so foul and hideous and horrible that all the field stank thereof. the damsel draweth her toward the castle and leaveth the knight on the horsesaith. iv. "sir," saith she to perceval, "on this level plot was slain your uncle's son whom here i leave, for i have brought him far enough. now avenge him as best you may, i render and give him over to you, for so much have i done herein as that none have right to blame me." with that she departeth. the knight of the dragon removeth and seeth perceval coming all alone, wherefore hath he great scorn of him and deigneth not to take his spear, but rather cometh at him with his drawn sword, that was right long and red as a burning brand. perceval seeth him coming and goeth against him, spear in rest, as hard as his horse may carry him, thinking to smite him through the breast. but the knight setteth his shield between, and the flame that issued from the dragon burnt the shaft thereof even to his hand. and the knight smiteth him on the top of his helmet, but perceval covereth him of his shield, whereof had he great affiance that the sword of the foeman knight might not harm it. josephus witnesseth us that joseph of abarimacie had made be sealed in the boss of the shield some of the blood of our lord and a piece of his garment. v. when the knight seeth that he hath not hurt perceval's shield, great marvel hath he thereof, for never aforetime had he smitten knight but he had dealt him his death-blow. he turneth the head of the dragon towards perceval's shield, but the flame that issued from the dragon's head turned back again as it had been blown of the wind, so that it might not come nigh him. the knight is right wroth thereof, and passeth beyond and cometh to the bier of the dead knight and turneth his shield with the dragon's head against him. he scorcheth and burneth all to ashes the bodies of the knight and the horses. saith he to perceval, "are you quit as for this knight's burial?" "certes," saith perceval, "you say true, and much misliketh me thereof, but please god i shall amend it." vi. the damsel that had brought the knight was at the windows of the palace beside the queen. she crieth out. "perceval, fair sir," saith the damsel, "now is the shame the greater and the harm the greater, and you amend them not." right sorrowful is perceval of his cousin that is all burnt to a cinder, and he seeth the knight that beareth the devil with him, but knoweth not how he may do vengeance upon him. he cometh to him sword-drawn, and dealeth him a great blow on the shield in such sort that he cleaveth it right to the midst thereof where the dragon's head was, and the flame leapeth forth so burning hot on his sword that it waxed red-hot like as was the knight's sword. and the damsel crieth to him: "now is your sword of the like power as his; now shall it be seen what you will do! i have been told of a truth that the knight may not be vanquished save by one only and at one blow, but how this is i may not tell, whereof irketh me." perceval looketh and seeth that his sword is all in a flame of fire, whereof much he marvelleth. he smiteth the knight so passing sore that he maketh his head stoop down over the fore saddle-bow. the knight righteth him again, sore wrath that he may not put him to the worse. he smiteth him with his sword a blow so heavy that he cleaveth the habergeon and his right shoulder so that he cutteth and burneth the flesh to the bone. as he draweth back his blow, perceval catcheth him and striketh him with such passing strength that he smiteth off his hand, sword and all. the knight gave a great roar, and the queen was right joyous thereof. the knight natheless made no semblant that he was yet conquered, but turneth back toward perceval at a right great gallop and launched his flame against his shield, but it availeth him nought, for he might not harm it. perceval seeth the dragon's head, that was broad and long and horrible, and aimeth with his sword and thrusteth it up to the hilt into his gullet as straight as ever he may, and the head of the dragon hurleth forth a cry so huge that forest and fell resound thereof as far as two leagues welsh. vii. the dragon's head turneth it toward his lord in great wrath, and scorcheth him and burneth him to dust, and thereafter departed up into the sky like lightning. the queen cometh to perceval, and all the knights, and see that he is sore hurt in his right shoulder. and the damsel telleth him that never will he be healed thereof save he setteth thereon of the dust of the knight that is dead. and they lead him up to the castle with right great joy. then they make him be disarmed, and have his wound washed and tended and some of the knight's dust that was dead set thereon that it might have healing. she maketh send to all the knights of her land: "lords," saith she, "see here the knight that hath saved my land for me and protected your lives. you know well how it hath been prophesied that the knight with head of gold should come, and through him should you be saved. and now, behold, hath he come hither. the prophecy may not be belied. i will that you do his commandment." and they said that so would they do right willingly. she bringeth him there where the circlet of gold is, and she herself setteth it on his head. after that, she bringeth his sword and delivereth it unto him, wherewith he had slain the giant devil, both the knight that bare the devil, and the devil that the knight bare in his shield. viii. "sir," saith she, "may all they that will not go to be baptized, nor accept your new law, be slain of this your sword, and hereof i make you the gift." she herself made her be held up and baptized first, and all the other after. josephus maketh record that in right baptism she had for name elysa, and a good life she led and right holy, and she died a virgin. her body still lieth in the kingdom of ireland, where she is highly honoured. perceval was within the castle until that he was heal. the tidings spread throughout the lands that the knight of the golden circlet had slain the knight of the dragon, and great everywhere was the joy thereof. it was known at the court of king arthur, but much marvelled they that it was said the knight of the golden circlet had slain him, for they knew not who was the knight of the golden circlet. ix. when perceval was whole, he departed from the castle of the queen of the golden circlet, all of whose land was at his commandment. the queen told him that she would keep the golden circlet until he should will otherwise, and in such sort he left it there, for he would not carry it with him, sith that he knew not whitherward he might turn. the history telleth us that he rode on until one day he came to the castle of copper. within the castle were a number of folk that worshipped the bull of copper and believed not in any other god. the bull of copper was in the midst of the castle upon four columns of copper, and bellowed so loud at all hours of the day that it was heard for a league all round about, and there was an evil spirit within that gave answers concerning whatsoever any should ask of it. x. at the entrance to the gateway of the castle were two men made of copper by art of nicromancy, and they held two great mallets of iron, and they busied themselves striking the one after the other, and so strongly they struck that nought mortal is there in the world that might pass through amongst their blows but should be all to-crushed thereby. and on the other side was the castle so fast enclosed about that nought might enter thereinto. xi. perceval beholdeth the fortress of the castle, and the entrance that was so perilous, whereof he marvelleth much. he passeth a bridge that was within the entry, and cometh nigh them that guard the gate. a voice began to cry aloud above the gate that he might go forward safely, and that he need have no care for the men of copper that guarded the gate nor be affrighted of their blows, for no power had they to harm such a knight as was he. he comforteth himself much of that the voice saith to him. he cometh anigh the serjeants of copper, and they cease to strike at once, and hold their iron mallets quite still. and he entereth into the castle, where he findeth within great plenty of folk that all were misbelievers and of feeble belief. he seeth the bull of copper in the midst of the castle right big and horrible, that was surrounded on all sides by folk that all did worship thereunto together round about. xii. the bull bellowed so passing loud that right uneath was it to hear aught else within the castle besides. perceval was therewithin, but none was there that spake unto him, for, so intent were they upon adoring the bull that, and any had been minded to slay them what time they were yet worshipping the same, they would have allowed him so to do, and would have thought that they were saved thereby; and save this had they none other believe in the world. it was not of custom within there to be armed, for the entrance of the fortress was so strong that none might enter but by their will and commandment, save it were the pleasure of our lord god. and the devil that had deceived them, and in whom they believed, gave them such great abundance therewithin of everything they could desire, that nought in the world was there whereof they lacked. when he perceived that they held no discourse with him, he draweth himself on one side by a great hall, and so called them around him. the more part came thither, but some of them came not. the voice warneth him that he make them all pass through the entrance of the gateway there where the men with the iron mallets are, for there may he well prove which of them are willing to believe in god and which not. the good knight draweth his sword and surroundeth them all and maketh them all go in common before him, would they or nould they. and they that would not go willingly and kindly might be sure that they should receive their death. he made them pass through the entrance there where the serjeants of copper were striking great blows with their iron mallets. of one thousand five hundred that there were, scarce but thirteen were not all slain and brained of the iron mallets. but the thirteen had firmly bound their belief in our lord, wherefore the serjeants took no heed of them. xiii. the evil spirit that was in the bull of copper issued forth thereof as it had been lightning from heaven, and the bull of copper melted all in a heap so as that nought remained in that place thereof. then the thirteen that remained sent for a hermit of the forest and so made themselves be held up and baptized. after that, they took the bodies of the misbelievers and made cast them into a water that is called the river of hell. this water runneth into the sea, so say many that have seen it, and there where it spendeth itself in the sea is it most foul and most horrible, so that scarce may ship pass that is not wrecked. xiv. josephus maketh record that the hermit that baptized the thirteen had the name of denis, and that the castle was named the castle of the trial. they lived within there until the new law was assured and believed in throughout all the kingdoms, and a right good life led they and a holy. nor never might none enter with them thereinto but was slain and crushed save he firmly believed in god. when the thirteen that were baptized in the castle issued forth thereof they scattered themselves on every side among strange forests, and made hermitages and buildings, and put their bodies to penance for the false law they had maintained and to win the love of the saviour of the world. xv. perceval, as you may hear, was soldier of our lord, and well did god show him how he loved his knighthood, for the good knight had much pain and sore travail and pleased him greatly. he was come one day to the house of king hermit that much desired to see him, and made much joy of him when he saw him, and rejoiced greatly of his courage. perceval relateth to him all the greater adventures that have befallen him at many times and in many places sithence that he departed from him, and king hermit much marvelleth him of many. "uncle," saith perceval, "i marvel me much of an adventure that befell me at the outlet of a forest; for i saw a little white beast that i found in the launde of the forest, and twelve hounds had she in her belly, that bayed aloud and quested within her. at last they issued forth of her and slew her beside the cross that was at the outlet of the forest, but they might not eat of her flesh. a knight and a damsel, whereof one was at one end of the launde and the other at the other, came thither and took the flesh and the blood, and set them in two vessels of gold. and the hounds that were born of her fled away into the forest." "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "i know well that god loveth you sith that such things appear to you, for his valour and yours and for the chastity that is in your body. the beast, that was kindly and gentle and sweet, signifieth our lord jesus christ, and the twelve dogs that yelped within her signify the people of the old law that god created and made in his own likeness, and after that he had made and created them he desired to prove how much they loved him. he sent them forty years into the wilderness, where their garments never wasted, and sent them manna from heaven that served them whatsoever they would to eat and to drink, and they were without evil and without trouble and without sickness, and such joy and pleasance had they as they would. and they held one day their council, and the master of them said that and god should wax wroth with them and withhold this manna, they would have nought to eat, and that it might not last always albeit that god sent it in so passing great plenty. wherefore they purposed to set aside great part thereof in store, so that if the lord god should wax wroth they might take of that which was stored and so save themselves for a long space. they agreed among themselves and did thereafter as they had purposed and determined amongst them. xvi. "god, that seeth and knoweth all things, knew well their thought. he withdrew from them the manna from heaven that had come to them in such abundance, and which they had bestowed in caverns underground, thinking to find there the manna they had set aside, but it was changed by the will of god into efts and adders and worms and vermin, and when they saw that they had done evil, they scattered themselves over strange lands. fair, sweet nephew," saith the hermit, "these twelve hounds that bayed in the beast are the jews that god had fed, and that were born in the law that he established, nor never would they believe on him, nor love him, but rather crucified him and tore his body after the shamefullest sort they might, but in no wise might they destroy his flesh. the knight and damsel that set the pieces of flesh in vessels of gold signify the divinity of the father, which would not that his flesh should be minished. the hounds fled to the forest and became savage what time they had torn the beast to pieces, so in like manner are the jews that were and ever shall be savage, subject to them of the new law henceforth for ever." xvii. "fair uncle," saith perceval, "good right and reason is it that they should have shame and tribulation and evil reward sith that they slew and crucified him that had created and made them and deigned to be born as a man in their law. but two priests came after, whereof the one kissed the cross and worshipped it right heartily and made great joy thereof, and the other did violence thereunto and bear it with a great rod, and wept right sore and made the greatest dole in the world. with this last was i right sore wrath, and willingly would i have run upon him had he not been a priest." "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "he that beat it believed in god equally as well as he that adored, for that the holy flesh of the saviour of the world was set thereon, that abhorred not the pains of death. one smiled and made great joy for that he redeemed his souls from the pains of hell that would otherwise have been therein for evermore; and for this made he yet greater joy, that he knew he was god and man everlastingly in his nature, for he that hath not this in remembrance shall never believe aright. fair nephew, the other priest bear the cross and wept for the passing great anguish and torment and dolour that our lord god suffered thereon, for so sore was the anguish as might have melted the rock, nor no tongue of man may tell the sorrow he felt upon the cross. and therefore did he bear it and revile it for that he was crucified thereon, even as i might hate a spear or sword wherewith you had been slain. for nought else did he thus, and ever, so often as he remembereth the pain that god suffered thereon, cometh he to the cross in such manner as you saw. both twain are hermits and dwell in the forest, and he is named jonas that kissed and adored the cross, and he that beat and reviled it is named alexis." xviii. willingly heareth perceval this that his uncle telleth and recordeth him. he relateth how he did battle with the devil-knight that bare in his shield the head of a dragon that cast forth fire and flame, and how the dragon burnt up his lord at the last. "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "right glad am i of these tidings that you tell me, for i have been borne on hand that the knight of the golden circlet had slain him." "sir," saith perceval, "it may well be, but never at any time saw i knight so big and horrible." "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "none might overcome him save the good knight only, for all true worshipful men behoveth do battle with the devil, nor never may he be worshipful man that fighteth not against him. and even as the devil withal that was figured on his shield slew and burnt up his master, even so doth one devil torment and molest other in the world to come; and greater evil might not the knight of the devil do you than burn the body of your uncle's son that he had killed, as i have heard tell. power had he over his body, but, please god, not over his soul to burn it." "fair uncle," saith perceval, "i went thither by a turning castle, where were archers of copper that shot bolts, and bears and lions chained at the entrance of the gateway. so soon as i drew nigh and smote thereon with my sword the castle stopped still." "fair nephew," said king hermit, "nought had the devil outwardly besides this castle. it was the entrance to his fortress, nor would they within ever have been converted save you had been there." "sir," saith he, "right sorrowful am i of messire gawain and lancelot, for well i loved their fellowship, and great aid would they have been in my need." "fair nephew, had they been chaste as are you, well might they have entered on account of their good knighthood. for were they not wanton, the two best knights in the world are they. xix. "fair nephew, in the time of your knighthood have you much advanced the law of the saviour, for you have destroyed the falsest believe in the world, and this was of them that believed on the bull of copper and the devil that was therein. if this folk had remained, and had failed of you, never would it have been destroyed until the end of the world. wherefore marvel not that you have travail in serving god, but endure it willingly, for never had worshipful man honour without pains. but now behoveth you achieve another matter. all they of the land of king fisherman your uncle have abandoned the new law, and returned to that which god hath forbidden. but the most part do so rather perforce and for fear of the king that hath seized the land, who is my brother and your uncle, than on account of aught else. wherefore behoveth you set counsel therein, for this thing may not be achieved by any earthly man save by you only. for the castle and land should be yours of right, and sore mischief is it when one that cometh of lineage so high and so holy is traitor to god, and disloyal to the world. xx. "fair nephew," saith the good man, "the castle hath been much strengthened, for there are now nine bridges newly made, and at each bridge are there three knights tall and strong and hardy, whereof hath he much defence, and your uncle is there within that keepeth the castle. but never sithence, none of the knights of king fisherman nor of his priests have there appeared, nor knoweth any what hath befallen them. the chapel wherein the most holy graal appeared is all emptied of its sacred hallows; the hermits that are by the forest are fain of your coming, for never see they there a knight pass by that believeth in god. and so you shall have achieved this enterprise, it is a thing whereof shall god be well pleased." xxi. "fair uncle," saith perceval, "thither will i go, sith that you commend it to me, for no reason is it that he should have the castle that hath entered thereinto. of better right ought my mother to have it, that was the next-born to king fisherman, of whose death am i right sorrowful." "fair nephew, you are right! for on your account fell he into languishment, and, had you then gone again, so say many, then would he have been whole, but how this might have been i know not of a certainty. but methinketh our lord god willed his languishment and death, for had it been his will, you would have made the demand, but he willed otherwise, wherefore ought we to give thanks and praise him whatsoever he doth, for he hath foreseen of every man that which shall come to him. i have within here a white mule that is very old. fair nephew, you will take her with you. she will follow you right willingly, and a banner shall you bear, for the power of god and his virtue shall avail more than your own. seven-and-twenty knights guard the nine bridges, all chosen and of approved great valour, and none ought now to believe that a single knight may vanquish so many, save the miracle of our lord and his virtue shall open a way for him. so i pray and beseech you that you have god always in remembrance and his sweet mother, and, so at any time you be put to the worse of your knighthood, mount upon the mule and take the banner, and your enemies shall forthwith lose their force, for nought confoundeth any enemy so swiftly as doth the virtue and puissance of god. it is a thing well known that you are the best knight of the world, but set not affiance in your strength nor in your knighthood as against so many knights, for against them may you not endure." xxii. perceval hearkeneth unto his uncle's discourse and his chastening, and layeth fast hold on all that he saith, wherewith is he pleased full well, for great affiance hath he in his words. "fair nephew," saith the hermit, "two lions are there at the entry of the gateway, whereof the one is red and the other white. put your trust in the white, for he is on god's side, and look at him whensoever your force shall fail you, and he will look at you likewise in such sort as that straightway you shall know his intent, by the will and pleasure of our saviour. wherefore do according as you shall see that he would, for no intent will he have save good only, and to help you; nor may you not otherwise succeed in winning past the nine bridges that are warded of the twenty-seven knights. and god grant you may win past in such wise that you may save your body and set forward withal the law of our lord that your uncle hath hindered all that he might." xxiii. perceval departeth from the hermitage, and carrieth away the banner, according to his uncle's counsel, and the white mule followeth after. he goeth his way toward the land that was the land of king fisherman, and findeth a hermit that was issued forth of his hermitage and was going at a great pace through the forest. he abideth so soon as he beholdeth the cross on perceval's shield. "sir," saith he, "i well perceive that you are a christian, of whom not a single one have i seen this long time past. for the king of castle mortal is driving us forth of this forest, for he hath renounced god and his sweet mother, so that we durst not remain in his defence." "by my faith," saith perceval, "but you shall! for god shall lead you forward, and i after. are there more hermits in this forest?" saith perceval. "yea, sir, there be twelve here that are waiting for me at a cross yonder before us, and we are minded to go to the kingdom of logres and put our bodies to penance for god's sake, and to abandon our cells and chapels in this forest for dread of this felon king that hath seized the land, for he willeth that none who believeth in god should here abide." xxiv. perceval is come with the hermit to the cross where the good men had assembled them together, and findeth joseus, the young man that was king pelles' son, of whom he maketh right great joy, and he maketh the hermits turn back again with him, saying that he will defend them and make them safe, by god's help, in the kingdom, and prayeth them right sweetly that they make prayer for him to our lord that he grant him to win back that which of right is his own. he is come forth of the forest and the hermits with him. he draweth nigh to the castle of king fisherman, and strong was the defence at the entrance thereof. some of the knights well knew that perceval would conquer him, for long since had it been prophesied that he who bare such shield should win the graal of him that sold god for money. xxv. the knights saw perceval coming and the company of hermits with him right seemly to behold, and much marvel had they thereof. about a couple of bowshots above the bridge was a chapel fashioned like the one at camelot, wherein was a sepulchre, and none knew who lay therein. perceval abideth thereby and his company. he leaneth his shield and spear against the chapel, and maketh fast his horse and mule by the reins. he beholdeth the sepulchre, that was right fair, and forthwith the sepulchre openeth and the joinings fall apart and the stone lifteth up in such wise that a man might see the knight that lay within, of whom came forth a smell of so sweet savour that it seemed to the good men that were looking on that it had been all embalmed. they found a letter which testified that this knight was named josephus. so soon as the hermits beheld the sepulchre open, they said to perceval: "sir, now at last know we well that you are the good knight, the chaste, the holy." the knights that warded the bridge heard the tidings that the sepulchre had opened at the coming of the knight, whereof were they in the greater dismay, and well understood that it was he that was first at the graal. the tidings came to the king that held the castle, and he bade his knights not be dismayed for dread of a single knight, for that he would have no force nor power against them, nor might it never befall but that one only of his own knights should be enough to conquer him. xxvi. perceval was armed upon his horse. the hermits make the sign of the cross over him, and bless him and commend him to god. and he holdeth his spear in rest and cometh toward the three knights that guard the first bridge. they all set upon him at once and break their spears upon his shield. one of them he smiteth with such force that he maketh him topple over into the river that runneth under the bridge, both him and his horse. of him was he quit, for the river was wide and deep and swift. the others held out against him a much longer bout with sharp sword-play, but he vanquished them and smote them to pieces, and flung their bodies into the water. they of the second bridge came forward, that were right good knights, and many a tough bout had he of them and many a felon onslaught. joseus that was his uncle's son was there, and said to the other hermits that right fainly would he go help him, but that he deemed it might be sin, and they bade him take no heed of that, for that great work of mercy would it be to destroy the enemies of our lord. he doeth off his grey cape and fettleth him in his frock, and taketh one of them that were doing battle with perceval and trusseth him on his neck and so flingeth him into the river all armed, and perceval slayeth the other twain and hurleth them into the river in like manner as the other. xxvii. by the time he had won the two bridges he was full spent and weary, wherefore he bethinketh him of the lion, the manner whereof his uncle had told him. then looketh he toward the entrance of the gateway and seeth the white lion, that stood upright on his two hinder feet, for that he was fain to see him. perceval looketh him full between the two eyes, and understandeth that the lion is minded by the will of god to do him to wit that the knights of the third bridge are so hardy and of such strength that they may not be overcome of a single knight and our lord god of his holy bounty open not the way, but that he must fain take the mule and carry the banner if he would conquer them. perceval understandeth the white lion's intent, and giveth god thanks thereof and draweth him back, and joseus the young man likewise. as soon as they look back, they see that the first bridge is already lifted up behind them. xxviii. perceval cometh to where the white mule was, and she was starred on the forehead with a red cross. he mounteth thereupon, and taketh the banner and holdeth his sword drawn. so soon as the white lion seeth him coming, he unchaineth himself and runneth incontinent to the bridge that was lifted, right amidst the knights, and lowereth it forthwith. the king of castle mortal was on the battlements of the greater fortress of the castle, and crieth to the knights that warded the bridge, "lords," saith he, "you are the most chosen knights of my land and the hardiest, but no hardiment is it to lift the bridges on account of a single knight whom you durst not abide body to body, whereof meseemeth it great cowardize and not hardiment. but the lion is hardier than you all, that of his hardiment hath lowered the bridge. wherefore now know i well that had i set him to ward the first bridge, he would have warded it better than these that have allowed themselves to be slain." xxix. thereupon, behold you perceval come upon his white mule, sword drawn all naked in his fist, and cometh toward them of the third bridge, whereof he smiteth the first so sore that he overthroweth him into the water. joseus the hermit cometh forward and would fain have seized the other twain, but they cry mercy of perceval, and say that they will be at his will in all things, and so will believe on god and his sweet mother and abandon their evil lord. and they of the fourth bridge say likewise. on such condition he alloweth them to live by the counsel of joseus, and they cast away their arms and yield up the bridges at his will. perceval thinketh within himself that god's virtue hath right great power, but that knight who hath force and power ought well to approve his prowess for god's sake. for of all that he shall do or suffer for him, shall god be well pleased. for, were all the world against our lord god, and he should grant to any single one that should be his champion all his power and might, he would conquer them all in one hour of the day. but he willeth that a man should travail for him, even as he himself suffered travail for his people. xxx. perceval cometh again back and alighteth of the white mule and delivereth the banner to joseus, and then mounteth again on his destrier and cometh back to them of the fifth bridge, and these defend themselves right stoutly, for that hardy knights are they, and do battle against perceval full sturdily. joseus the hermit cometh thither and assaulteth them with passing great lustihood, that had the lord god not saved him they would have overthrown and slain him. howbeit, he holdeth the banner and grappleth them when he may lay hold, and grippeth them so straight that they may not help themselves. perceval slayeth them and crusheth them and maketh them topple over into the water that ran swiftly beneath the bridge. when they of the sixth bridge saw that these were conquered, they cried mercy of perceval and yielded themselves to him and delivered up their swords to him, and they of the seventh bridge likewise. when the red lion saw that the seventh bridge was won, and that the knights of the two bridges had yielded themselves up to perceval, he leapt up with such fury that he burst his chain as had he been wood mad. he came to one of the knights and bit him and slew him, whereof the white lion was full wroth, and runneth upon the other lion and teareth him to pieces with his claws and teeth. xxxi. straightway thereafter he raiseth himself up on his two hinder feet and looketh at perceval, and perceval at him. perceval understandeth well the lion's intent, to wit, that they of the last bridge are worse to conquer than the others, and that they may not be conquered at all save by the will of god and by him that is the lion. and the lion warned him that he go not against them with the banner, holy though it were, nor receive them into mercy what surety soever they might make, for that they are traitors, but that he must fain mount upon the white mule, for that she is a beast on god's side, and that joseus should bring the banner and all the hermits go before, that are worshipful men and of good life, so as to dismay the traitor king, and so shall the end and the conquest of the castle be brought nigh. of all this the lion made signs to perceval, for speak he could not. great affiance hath perceval in the lion's warning. he alighteth of his destrier and remounteth on the mule, and joseus holdeth the banner. the company of twelve hermits was there, right seemly and holy. they draw nigh the castle. the knights on the last bridge see perceval coming towards them and joseus the hermit holding the banner, by whom they had seen their other fellows wrestled withal and put to the worse. xxxii. the virtue of our lord and the dignity of the banner and the goodness of the white mule and the holiness of the good hermits that made their orisons to our lord so struck the knights that they lost all power over themselves, but treason might not go forth of their hearts, wherefore right heavy were they of their kinsmen that they had seen slain before them. they bethought them that and if by mercy they might escape thence, they would never end until they had slain perceval. they come to meet him and so cry him mercy passing sweetly in semblance, and say that they will do his will for ever and ever, so only he will let them depart safe and sound. perceval looketh at the lion to know what he shall do; he seeth that the lion thinketh them traitors and disloyal, and that so they were destroyed and dead the king that was in the castle would have lost his force; and that, so perceval will run upon them, the lion will help him slay them. perceval telleth the knights that never will he have mercy upon them, and forthwith runneth upon them, sword drawn, and sorely it misliked him that they defended not themselves, insomuch that he all but left to slay them for that no defence found he in them. but the lion is so far from holding them in the like disdain, that he runneth upon them and biteth and slayeth them, and then casteth forth their limbs and bodies into the water. perceval alloweth that this is well and seemly, and pleaseth him much of that he seeth the lion do, nor never before had he seen any beast that he might love and prize so highly as this one. xxxiii. the king of castle mortal was on the battlements of the wall, and seeth how his knights are dead, and how the lion helpeth to slay the last. he setteth himself on the highest place of the walls, then lifteth the skirt of his habergeon and holdeth his sword all naked, that was right keen and well-tempered, and so smiteth himself right through the body, and falleth all adown the walls into the water, that was swift and deep, in such sort that perceval saw him, and all the good hermits likewise, that marvelled much of a king that should slay himself in such manner; but they say according to the judgment of the scripture, that by right of evil man should the end be evil. on such wise was the end of this king of whom i tell you. josephus relateth us how none ought to marvel that of three brothers, even though they be sons of the same father and mother, one brother should be evil; and the real marvel, saith he, is when one evil corrupteth not the two that are good, for that wickedness is so hard and keen and beguiling, and goodness so kindly and simple and humble. cain and abel were brothers-german, yet cain slew his brother abel, the one flesh betrayed the other. but great sorrow is it, saith josephus, when the flesh that ought to be one becometh twain, and the one flesh goeth about by wickedness to deceive and destroy the other. josephus recordeth us by this evil king that was so traitorous and false and yet was of the lineage of the good soldier joseph of abarimacie. this joseph, as the scripture witnesseth, was his uncle, and this evil king was brother-german of king fisherman, and brother of the good king pelles that had abandoned his land, in order that he might serve god, and brother of the widow lady that was perceval's mother, the most loyal that was ever in great britain. all these lineages were in the service of our lord from the beginning of their lives unto the end, save only this evil king that perished so evilly as you have heard. xxxiv. you have heard how the king that had seized the castle that had been king fisherman's slew himself in such wise, and how his knights were discomfited. perceval entered into the castle and the worshipful hermits together with him. it seemed them when they were come within into the master hall, that they heard chant in an inner chapel 'gloria in excelsis deo', and right sweet praising of our lord. they found the hails right rich and seemly and fairly adorned within. they found the chapel open where the sacred hallows were wont to be. the holy hermits entered therein and made their orisons, and prayed the saviour of the world that he would swiftly restore to them the most holy graal and the sacred hallows that wont to be therewithin whereby they might be comforted. xxxv. the good men were there within with perceval, that much loved their company. josephus witnesseth us that the ancient knights that were of the household of king fisherman, and the priests and damsels, departed so soon as the king that slew himself had seized the castle, for that they would not be at his court, and the lord god preserved them from him and made them go into such a place as that they should be in safety. the saviour of the world well knew that the good knight had won the castle by his valour that should have been his own of right, and sent back thither all them that had served king fisherman. perceval made right great joy of them when he saw them, and they of him. they seemed well to be a folk that had come from some place where god and his commandments were honoured, and so indeed had they. xxxvi. the high history witnesseth us that when the conquest of the castle was over, the saviour of the world was right joyous and well pleased thereof. the graal presented itself again in the chapel, and the lance whereof the point bleedeth, and the sword wherewith st john was beheaded that messire gawain won, and the other holy relics whereof was right great plenty. for our lord god loved the place much. the hermits went back to their hermitages in the forest and served our lord as they had been wont. joseus remained with perceval at the castle as long as it pleased him, but the good knight searched out the land there where the new law had been abandoned and its maintenance neglected. he reft the lives of them that would not maintain it and believe. the country was supported by him and made safe, and the law of our lord exalted by his strength and valour. the priests and knights that repaired to the castle loved perceval much, for, so far from his goodness minishing in ought, they saw from day to day how his valour and his faith in god increased and multiplied. and he showed them the sepulchre of his uncle king fisherman in the chapel before the altar. the coffin was rich and the tabernacle costly and loaded of precious stones. and the priests and knights bear witness that as soon as the body was placed in the coffin and they were departed thence, they found on their return that it was covered by the tabernacle all dight as richly as it is now to be seen, nor might they know who had set it there save only the commandment of our lord. and they say that every night was there a great brightness of light as of candles there, and they knew not whence it should come save of god. perceval had won the castle by the command of god. the graal was restored in the holy chapel, and the other hallows as you have heard. the evil believe was done away from the kingdom, and all were assured again in the new law by the valour of the good knight. branch xix. title i. now is the story silent of perceval and cometh back to king arthur, the very matter thereof, like as testifieth the history, that in no place is corrupted and the latin lie not. king arthur was at cardoil on one day of whitsuntide that was right fair and clear, and many knights were in the hall. the king sate at meat and all the knights about him. the king looketh at the windows of the hall to right and left, and seeth that two sunbeams are shining within that fill the whole hall with light. thereof he marvelleth much and sendeth without the hall to see what it might be. the messenger cometh back again and saith thereof that two suns appear to be shining, the one in the east and the other in the west. he marvelleth much thereat, and prayeth our lord that he may be permitted to know wherefore two suns should appear in such wise. a voice appeared at one of the windows that said to him: "king, marvel not hereof that two suns should appear in the sky, for our lord god hath well the power, and know well that this is for joy of the conquest that the good knight hath made that took away the shield from herewithin. he hath won the land that belonged to good king fisherman from the evil king of castle mortal, that did away thence the good believe, and therefore was it that the graal was hidden. now god so willeth that you go thither, and that you choose out the best knights of your court, for better pilgrimage may you never make, and what time you shall return hither, your faith shall be doubled and the people of great britain shall be better disposed and better taught to maintain the service of the saviour." ii. thereupon the voice departed and well pleased was the king of that it had said. he sitteth at meat beside the queen. straightway behold you, a damsel that cometh of such beauty as never was greater, and clad right richly, and she beareth a coffer richer than ever you saw, for it was all of fine gold and set with precious stones that sparkled like fire. the coffer is not large. the damsel holdeth it between her hands. when she was alighted she cometh before the king and saluteth him the fairest she may and the queen likewise. the king returneth her salute. "sir," saith she, "i am come to your court for that it is the sovran of all other, and so bring i you here this rich vessel that you see as a gift; and it hath within the head of a knight, but none may open the coffer save he alone that slew the knight. wherefore i pray and beseech you, as you are the best king that liveth, that you first set your hand thereon, and in like manner afterwards make proof of your knights, and so the crime and the blood-wite thereof be brought home to you or to any knight that may be within yonder. i pray you that the knight who shall be able to open the coffer wherein the head of the knight lieth, and who therefore is he that slew him, shall have grace of forty days after that you shall be returned from the graal." "damsel," saith the king, "how shall it be known who the knight was?" "sir," saith she, "right eath, for the letters are sealed within that tell his name and the name of him that slew him." the king granteth the damsel her will in such wise as she had asked of him. he hath received the coffer, then maketh her be set at meat and right richly honoured. iii. when the king had eaten, the damsel cometh before him. "sir," saith she, "make your knights be summoned and ready for that which you have granted me, and you yourself first of all." "damsel," saith the king, "right willingly." he setteth his hand to the coffer, thinking to open it, but it was not right that it should open for him. as he set his hand thereon the coffer sweated through just as had it been sprinkled all over and was wet with water. the king marvelled greatly, and so made messire gawain set his hand to it and lancelot and all those of the court, but he that might open it was not among them. messire kay the seneschal had served at meat. he heard say that the king and all the others had essayed and proved the coffer but might not open it. he is come thither, all uncalled for. "now, then, kay," saith the king, "i had forgotten you." "by my head," saith kay, "you ought not to forget me, for as good knight am i and of as much worth as they that you have called before me, and you ought not to have delayed to send for me. you have summoned all the others, and me not a whit, and yet am i as well able, or ought to be, to open the coffer as are they; for against as many knights have i defended me as they, and as many have i slain in defending my body as have they." "kay," saith the king, "shall you be so merry and you may open the coffer, and if you have slain the knight whose head lieth therein? by my head, i that am king would fain that the coffer should not open for me, for never was no knight so poor as that he should have neither kinsman nor friend, for he is not loved of all the world that is hated by one man." "by my head," saith kay, "i would that all the heads of all the knights i have slain, save one only, were in the midst of this hall, and that there were letters sealed with them to say that they were slain by me. then would you believe what you are not willing to believe for the envious ones that think they are better worth than i, and yet have not served you so well." iv. "kay," saith the king, "come forward, there is no need of this." messire kay the seneschal cometh to the dais before the king, whereon was the coffer, and taketh it right boldly and setteth one of his hands below it and the other above. the coffer opened as soon as he clapped hand thereon, and the head within could be seen all openly. a passing delicate-savoured smell and right sweet issued therefrom, so that not a knight in the hall but smelt it. "sir," saith kay to the king, "now may you know that some prowess and some hardiment have i done in your service, nor might none of your knights that you prize so highly open the coffer this day, nor would you have known this day who is therein for them! but now you know it by me, and therefore of so much ought you to be well pleased with me!" v. "sir," saith the damsel that had brought the coffer, "let the letters be read that are within, so shall you know who the knight was and of what lineage, and what was the occasion of his death." the king sitteth beside the queen, and biddeth call one of his own chaplains. then maketh he all the knights in the hall be seated and keep silence, and commandeth the chaplain that he should spell out the letters of gold all openly according as he should find them written. the chaplain looketh at them, and when he had scanned them down, began to sigh. "sir," saith he to the king and queen, "hearken unto me, and all the other, your knights. vi. "these letters say that the knight whose head lieth in this vessel was named lohot and he was son of king arthur and queen guenievre. he had slain on a day that is past, logrin the giant, by his hardiment. messire kay the seneschal was passing by there, and so found lohot sleeping upon logrin, for such was his custom that he went to sleep upon the man after that he had slain him. messire kay smote off lohot's head, and so left the head and the body on the piece of ground. he took the head of the giant and so bore it to the court of king arthur. he gave the king and queen and all the barons of the court to understand that he had slain him, but this did he not; rather, that he did was to slay lohot, according to the writing and the witness of these letters." when the queen heareth these letters and this witting of her son that came thus by his death, she falleth in a swoon on the coffer. after that she taketh the head between her two hands, and knew well that it was he by a scar that he had on his face when he was a child. the king himself maketh dole thereof so sore that none may comfort him, for before these tidings he had thought that his son was still on live and that he was the best knight in the world, and when the news came to his court that the knight of the golden circlet had slain the knight of the dragon, he supposed that it had been lohot his son, for that none had named perceval nor gawain nor lancelot. and all they of the court are right sorrowful for the death of lohot, and messire kay hath departed, and if the damsel had nor respited the day until the fortieth after the king's return, vengeance would have been taken of kay or ever he might have turned him thence. for never did no man see greater dole made in the king's court than they of the table round made for the youth. king arthur and the queen were so stricken of sorrow that none durst call upon them to make cheer. the damsel that brought thither the coffer was well avenged of the shame that messire kay the seneschal had done her on a day that was past, for this thing would not have been known so soon save it had been by her. vii. when the mourning for the king's son was abated, lancelot and many others said unto him, "sir, you know well that god willeth you should go to the castle that was king fisherman's on pilgrimage to the most holy graal, for it is not right to delay a thing that one hath in covenant with god." "lords," saith the king, "right willingly will i go, and thereto am i right well disposed." the king apparelleth himself for the pilgrimage, and saith that messire gawain and lancelot shall go with him, without more knights, and taketh a squire to wait upon his body, and the queen herself would he have taken thither but for the mourning she made for her son, whereof none might give her any comfort. but or ever the king departed he made the head be brought into the isle of avalon, to a chapel of our lady that was there, where was a worshipful holy hermit that was well loved of our lord. the king departed from cardoil and took leave of the queen and all the knights. lancelot and messire gawain go along with him and a squire that carrieth their arms. kay the seneschal was departed from the court for dread of the king and his knights. he durst not abide in the greater britain, and so betook himself into the lesser. briant of the isles was of great power in those times, a knight of great strength and hardiment, for all great britain had had many disputes between him and king arthur. his land was full strong of castles and forests and right fruitful, and many good knights had he in his land. when he knew that kay the seneschal had departed in such sort from the court, and that he had crossed the sea, he sent for him and held him of his household, and said that he would hold him harmless against the king and against all men. when he knew that the king had departed he began to war upon the land and to slay his men and to challenge his castles. branch xx. title i. the story saith that king arthur goeth his way and lancelot and messire gawain with him, and they had ridden so far one day that night came on in a forest and they might find no hold. messire gawain marvelled him much that they had ridden the day long without finding neither hold nor hermitage. night was come and the sky was dark and the forest full of gloom. they knew not whitherward to turn to pass the night. "lords," saith the king, "where may we be able to alight to-night?" "sir, we know not, for this forest is fight wearisome." they make the squire climb up a tall tree and tell him to look as far as he may to try whether he may espy any hold or house where they may lodge. the squire looketh on all sides, and then telleth them he seeth a fire a long way off as if it were in a waste house, but that he seeth nought there save the fire and the house. "take good heed," saith lancelot, "in which quarter it is, so that you may know well how to lead us thither." he saith that right eath may he lead them. ii. with that he cometh down and mounteth again on his hackney, and they go forward a great pace and ride until they espy the fire and the hold. they pass on over a bridge of wattles, and find the courtyard all deserted and the house from within great and high and hideous. but there was a great fire within whereof the heat might be felt from afar. they alight of their horses, and the squire draweth them on one side amidst the hall, and the knights set them beside the fire all armed. the squire seeth a chamber in the house and entereth thereinto to see if he may find any meat for the horses, but he cometh forth again the swiftest he may and crieth right sweetly on the mother of the saviour. they ask him what aileth him, and he saith that he hath found the most treacherous chamber ever he found yet, for he felt there, what with heads and what with hands, more than two hundred men dead, and saith that never yet felt he so sore afeared. lancelot went into the chamber to see whether he spake true, and felt the men that lay dead, and groped among them from head to head and felt that there was a great heap of them there, and came back and sate at the fire all laughing. the king asketh whether the squire had told truth. lancelot answereth him yea, and that never yet had he found so many dead men together. "methinketh," saith messire gawain, "sith that they are dead we have nought to fear of them, but god protect us from the living." iii. while they were talking thus, behold you a damsel that cometh into the dwelling on foot and all alone, and she cometh lamenting right grievously. "ha, god!" saith she, "how long a penance is this for me, and when will it come to an end?" she seeth the knights sitting in the midst of the house. "fair lord god," saith she, "is he there within through whom i am to escape from this great dolour?" the knights hearken to her with great wonderment. they look and see her enter within the door, and her kirtle was all torn with thorns and briars in the forest. her feet were all bleeding for that she was unshod. she had a face of exceeding great beauty. she carried the half of a dead man, and cast it into the chamber with the others. she knew lancelot again so soon as she saw him. "ha, god!" saith she, "i am quit of my penance! sir," saith she, "welcome may you be, you and your company!" lancelot looketh at her in wonderment. "damsel," saith he, "are you a thing on god's behalf?" "certes, sir," saith she, "yea! nor be you adread of nought! i am the damsel of the castle of beards, that was wont to deal with knights so passing foully as you have seen. you did away the toll that was levied on the knights that passed by, and you lay in the castle that demanded it of them that passed through the demesne thereof. but you had me in covenant that so the holy graal should appear unto you, you would come back to me, for otherwise never should i have been willing to let you go. you returned not, for that you saw not the graal. for the shame that i did to knights was this penance laid upon me in this forest and this manor, to last until such time as you should come. for the cruelty i did them was sore grievous, for never was knight brought to me but i made his nose be cut off or his eyes thrust out, and some were there as you saw that had their feet or their hands stricken off. now have i paid full dear thereof since, for needs must i carry into this chamber all the knights that are slain in this forest, and within this manor must i cast them according to the custom thereof, alone, without company; and this knight that i carried in but now hath lain so long in the forest that wild beasts have eaten half of his body. now am i quit of this foul penance, thanks to god and to you, save only that i must go back when it shall be daylight in like manner as i came here." "damsel," saith lancelot, "right glad am i that we should have come to lodge the night here within, for love of you, for i never saw i damsel that might do so cruel penance." "sir," saith she, "you know not yet what it is, but you will know it ere long this night, both you and your fellows, and the lord god shield you from death and from mischief! every night cometh a rout of knights that are black and foul and hideous, albeit none knoweth whence they come, and they do battle right sore the one against other, and the stour endureth of a right long while; but one knight that came within yonder by chance, the first night i came hither, in like manner as you have come, made a circle round me with his sword, and i sate within it as soon as i saw them coming, and so had i no dread of them, for i had in remembrance the saviour of the world and his passing sweet mother. and you will do the same, and you believe me herein, for these are knights fiends." lancelot draweth his sword and maketh a great circle round the house-place, and they were within. v. thereupon, behold you the knights that come through the forest with such a rushing as it seemed they would rend it all up by the roots. afterward, they enter into the manor and snatch great blazing firebrands and fling them one at another. they enter into the house battling together, and are keen to fall upon the knights, but they may not. they hurl the firebrands at them from afar, but they are holding their shields and their swords naked. lancelot maketh semblant as though he would leap towards them, and sore great cowardize it seemeth him nor to go against them. "sir," saith the damsel, "take heed that you go not forth of the circle, for you will be in sore jeopardy of death, for well you see what evil folk be these." lancelot was nor minded to hold himself back, but that he would go toward them sword drawn, and they run upon him on all sides, but he defendeth him stoutly and smiteth the burning firebrands so that he maketh red-hot charcoal fly, and thrusteth his sword amidst their faces. king arthur and messire gawain leap up to help lancelot and smite upon these evil folk and cut them limb from limb, and they bellow like fiends so that the whole forest resoundeth thereof. and when they fell to the ground, they may no longer endure, but become fiends and ashes, and their bodies and their horses become devils all black in the shape of ravens that come forth of their bodies. they marvel right sore what this may be, and say that such hostel is right grievous. vi. when they had put them all to the worse, they sate them down again and rested; but scarce were they seated or ever another rout of yet blacker folk came about them, and they bare spears burning and flaming, and many of them carried dead knights that they had slain in the forest, and dropped them in the midst of the house, and then bid the damsel carry and set them with the others. howbeit, she answereth that she is quit of their commandment and service, nor no longer is forced to do nought for them sith that she hath done her penance. they thrust forward their spears toward the king and the two knights, as though they were come to avenge their companions; but they all three leapt up together and attacked them right stoutly. but this rout was greater and of knights more hideous. they began to press the king and his knights hard, and they might not put them to the worse as they did the others. and while they were thus in the thickest of the conflict, they heard the stroke of a bell sounding, and forthwith the knight fiends departed and hurried away a great pace. "lords," saith the damsel, "had this sound not been heard, scarce might you have endured, for yet another huge rout of this folk was coming in such sort as that none might have withstood them, and this sound have i heard every night, whereby my life hath been saved." vii. josephus telleth us that as at this time was there no bell neither in greater britain nor in lesser; but folk were called together by a horn, and in many places there were sheets of steel, and in other places clappers of wood. king arthur marvelled him much of this sound, so clear and sweet was it, and it well seemed him that it came on god's behalf, and right fain was he to see a bell and so he might. they were the night until the morrow in the house, as i tell you. the damsel took leave of them and so departed. as they came forth of the hold, they met three hermits that told them they were going to search for the bodies that were in this manor so that they might bury them in a waste chapel that was hard by, for such knights had lain there as that henceforward the haunting of the evil folk would be stayed in such sort as that they would have no more power to do hurt to any, wherefore they would set therewithin a worshipful hermit that should build up the place in holiness for the service of god. the king was right joyful thereof, and told them that it had been too perilous. they parted from the hermits and entered into a forest, nor was there never a day so long as king arthur was on pilgrimage, so saith the history, but he heard the sound of one single bell every hour, whereof he was right glad. he bade messire gawain and lancelot that they should everywhere conceal his name, and that they should call him not lord but comrade. they yielded him his will, and prayed to our lord that he would guide and lead them to such a castle and such a hostel as that they might be lodged honourably therein. they rode on until evening drew nigh, and they found a right fair hold in the forest, whereinto they entered and alighted. the damsel of the hold came to meet them and made them right great cheer, then made them be disarmed, afterward bringeth them right rich robes to wear. she looketh at lancelot and knoweth him again. viii. "sir," saith she, "you had once, on a day that is past, right great pity of me, and saved me my honour, whereof am i in great unhappiness. but better love i to suffer misease in honour, than to have plenty and abundance in shame or reproach, for shame endureth, but sorrow is soon overpassed." thereupon behold you the knight of the hold, whither he cometh from shooting in the forest and maketh carry in full great plenty venison of deer and wild boar. he alighted to greet the knights, and began to laugh when he saw lancelot. "by my head," saith he, "i know you well for you disappointed me of the thing i best loved in the world, and made me marry this damsel that never yet had joy of me, nor never shall have." "faith, sir," saith lancelot, "you will do your pleasure therein, for she is yours. truth it is that i made you marry her, for you were fain to do her a disgrace and a shame in such sort that her kinsfolk would have had shame of her." "by my head," saith the knight, "the damsel that i loved before loveth you no better hereof, nay, rather, fain would she procure your vexation and your hurt and your shame if she may, and great power hath she in this forest." "sir," saith lancelot, "i have sithence spoken to her and she to me, and so hath she told me her will and her wish." thereupon the knight bade the knights take water, and the lady taketh the basins and presenteth water to the knights. "avoid, damsel," saith the king, "take it away! never, please god, shall it befall that we should accept such service from you." "by my head," saith the knight, "but so must you needs do, for other than she shall not serve you to-night in this matter, or otherwise shall you not eat with me this night there within." ix. lancelot understandeth that the knight is not overburdened of courtesy, and he seeth the table garnished of good meat, and bethinketh him he will not do well to lose such ease, for misease enough had they the night before. he maketh the king take water of the lady, and the same service did she for all of them. the knight biddeth them be seated. the king would have made the lady sit beside him at the table, but the knight said that there she should not sit. she goeth to sit among the squires as she was wont to do. the knights are sorry enough thereof, but they durst not gainsay the will of her lord. when they had eaten, the knight said to lancelot, "now may you see what she hath gained of me by your making me take her perforce, nor never, so help me god, so long as i live shall she be honoured otherwise by me, for so have i promised her that i love far more." "sir," saith lancelot, "to my thinking you do ill herein and a sin, and meseemeth you should have great blame thereof of them that know it, and may your churlishness be your own, for nought thereof take i to myself." x. lancelot telleth the king and messire gawain that were he not lodged in his hostel, and had him outside of the hold, he would willingly have set the blood of his body on it but he would have handled him in such sort as that the lady should be maintained in greater honour, either by force or by prayer, in like manner as he did when he made him marry her. they were right well lodged the night and lay in the hold until the morrow, when they departed thence, and rode right busily on their journeys until they came into a very different land, scarce inhabited of any folk, and found a little castle in a combe. they came thitherward and saw that the enclosure of the castle was fallen down into an abysm, so that none might approach it on that side, but it had a right fair gateway and a door tall and wide whereby one entered. they beheld a chapel that was right fair and rich, and below was a great ancient hall. they saw a priest appear in the midst of the castle, bald and old, that had come forth of the chapel. they are come thither and alighted, and asked the priest what the castle was, and he told them that it was the great tintagel. "and how is this ground all caved in about the castle?" "sir," saith the priest, "i will tell you. sir," saith he, "king uther pendragon, that was father of king arthur, held a great court and summoned all his barons. the king of this castle that then was here was named gorlois. he went to the court and took his wife with him, that was named ygerne, and she was the fairest dame in any kingdom. king uther sought acquaintance of her for her great beauty, and regarded her and honoured her more than all the others of his court. king gorlois departed thence and made the queen come back to this castle for the dread that he had of king uther pendragon. king uther was very wroth with him, and commanded him to send back the queen his wife. king godois said that he would not. thereupon king uther pendragon defied him, and then laid siege about this castle where the queen was. king gorlois was gone to seek for succour. king uther pendragon had merlin with him of whom you have heard tell, that was so crafty. he made him be changed into the semblance of king gorlois, so that he entered there within by merlin's art and lay that night with the queen, and so begat king arthur in a great hall that was next to the enclosure there where this abysm is. and for this sin hath the ground sunken in on this wise." he cometh with them toward the chapel that was right fair, and had a right rich sepulchre therein. "lords, in this sepulchre was placed the body of merlin, but never mought it be set inside the chapel, wherefore perforce it remained outside. and know of a very truth that the body lieth not within the sepulchre, for, so soon as it was set therein, it was taken out and snatched away, either on god's behalf or the enemy's, but which we know not." xi. "sir," saith king arthur, "and what became of king gorlois?" "sir." saith he, "the king slew him on the morrow of the night he lay with his wife, and so forthwith espoused queen ygerne, and in such manner as i tell you was king arthur conceived in sin that is now the best king in the world." king arthur hath heard this as concerning his birth that he knew not, and is a little shamed thereof and confounded on account of messire gawain and lancelot. he himself marvelleth much thereof, and much it misliketh him that the priest hath said so much. they lay the night in the hold, and so departed thence on the morrow when they had heard mass. lancelot and messire gawain, that thought they knew the forest, found the land so changed and different that they knew not whither they were become, and such an one as should come into the land that had been king fisherman's, and he should come again another time within forty days, should not find the castle within a year. xii. josephus telleth us that the semblances of the islands changed themselves by reason of the divers adventures that by the pleasure of god befell therein, and that the quest of adventures would not have pleased the knights so well and they had not found them so different. for, when they had entered into a forest or an island where they had found any adventure, and they came there another time, they found holds and castles and adventures of another kind, so that their toils and travails might not weary them, and also for that god would that the land should be conformed to the new law. and they were the knights that had more toil and travail in seeking adventures than all the knights of the world before them, and in holding to that whereof they had made covenant; nor of no court of no king in the world went forth so many good knights as went forth from the court of king arthur, and but that god loved them so much, never might they have endured such toil and travail as they did from day to day; for without fait, good knights were they, and good knights not only to deal hard buffets, but rather in that they were loyal and true, and had faith in the saviour of the world and his sweet mother, and therefore dreaded shame and loved honour. king arthur goeth on his way and messire gawain and lancelot with him, and they pass through many strange countries, and so enter into a great forest. lancelot called to remembrance the knight that he had slain in the waste city whither behoved him to go, and knew well that the day whereon he should come was drawing nigh. he told king arthur as much, and then said, that and he should go not, he would belie his covenant. they rode until they came to a cross where the ways forked. "sir," saith lancelot, "behoveth me go to acquit me of my pledge, and i go in great adventure and peril of death, nor know i whether i may live at all thereafter, for i slew the knight, albeit i was right sorry thereof, but or ever i slew him, i had to swear that i would go set my head in the like jeopardy as he had set his. now the day draweth nigh that i must go thither, for i am unwilling to fail of my covenant, whereof i should be blamed, and, so god grant me to escape therefrom, i will follow you speedily." the king embraceth him and kisseth him at parting and messire gawain also, and they pray god preserve his body and his life, and that they may see him again ere it be long. lancelot would willingly have sent salute to the queen had he durst, for she lay nearer his heart than aught beside, but he would not that the king nor messire gawain should misdeem of the love they might carry to their kinswoman. the love is so rooted in his heart that he may not leave it, into what peril soever he may go; rather, he prayeth god every day as sweetly as he may, that he save the queen, and that he may deliver his body from this jeopardy. he hath ridden until that he cometh at the hour of noon into the waste city, and findeth the city empty as it was the first time he was there. xiii. in the city wherein lancelot had arrived were many waste houses and rich palaces fallen down. he had scarce entered within the city when he heard a great cry and lamentation of dames and damsels, but he knew not on which side it was, and they say: "ha, god, how hath the knight betrayed us that slew the knight, inasmuch as he returneth not! this day is the day come that he ought to redeem his pledge! never again ought any to put trust in knight, for that he cometh not! the others that came hither before him have failed us, and so will he also for dread of death; for he smote off the head of the comeliest knight that was in this kingdom and the best, wherefore ought he also to have his own smitten off, but good heed taketh he to save it if he may!" thus spake the damsels. lancelot much marvelled where they might be, for nought could he espy of them, albeit he cometh before the palace, there where he slew the knight. he alighteth, then maketh fast his horse's reins to a ring that was fixed in the mounting-stage of marble. scarce hath he done so, when a knight alighteth, tall and comely and strong and deliver, and he was clad in a short close-fitted jerkin of silk, and held the axe in his hand wherewith lancelot had smitten off the head of the other knight, and he came sharpening it on a whetstone to cut the better. lancelot asketh him, "what will you do with this axe?" "by my head," saith the knight, "that shall you know in such sort as my brother knew when you cut off his head, so i may speed of my business." "how?" saith lancelot, "will you slay me then?" "that shall you know," saith he, "or ever you depart hence. have you not loyally promised hereof that you would set your head in the same jeopardy as the knight set his, whom you slew without defence? and no otherwise may you depart therefrom. wherefore now come forward without delay and kneel down and stretch your neck even as my brother did, and so will i smite off your head, and, if you do nor this of your own good will, you shall soon find one that shall make you do it perforce, were you twenty knights as good as you are one. but well i know that you have not come hither for this, but only to fulfil your pledge, and that you will raise no contention herein." lancelot thinketh to die, and is minded to abide by that he hath in covenant without fail, wherefore he lieth down on the ground as it were on a cross, and crieth mercy of god. he mindeth him of the queen, and crieth god of mercy and saith, "ha, lady" saith he, "never shall i see you more! but, might i have seen you yet once again before i die, exceeding great comfort had it been to me, and my soul would have departed from me more at ease. but this, that never shall i see you more, as now it seemeth me, troubleth me more than the death whereby behoveth me to die, for die one must when one hath lived long enough. but faithfully do i promise you that my love shall fail you not yet, and never shall it be but that my soul shall love you in the other world like as my body hath loved you in this, if thus the soul may love!" with that the tears fell from his eyes, nor, never sithence that he was knight, saith the story, had he wept for nought that had befallen him nor for heaviness of heart, but this time and one other. he taketh three blades of grass and so eateth thereof in token of the holy communion, then signeth him of the cross and blesseth him, riseth up, setteth himself on his knees and stretcheth forth his neck. the knight lifteth up the axe. lancelot heareth the blow coming, boweth his head and the axe misseth him. he saith to him, "sir knight, so did not my brother that you slew; rather, he held his head and neck quite still, and so behoveth you to do!" two damsels appeared at the palace-windows of passing great beauty, and they knew lancelot well. so, as the knight was aiming a second blow, one of the damsels crieth to him, "and you would have my love for evermore, throw down the axe and cry the knight quit! otherwise have you lost me for ever!" the knight forthwith flingeth down the axe and falleth at lancelot's feet and crieth mercy of him as of the most loyal knight in the world. "but you? have mercy on me, you! and slay me not!" saith lancelot, "for it is of you that i ought to pray mercy!" "sir," saith the knight, "of a surety will i not do this! rather will i help you to my power to save your life against all men, for all you have slain my brother." the damsels come down from the palace and are come to lancelot. xiv. "sir," say they to lancelot, "greatly ought we to love you, yea, better than all knights in the world beside. for we are the two damsels, sisters, that you saw so poor at the waste castle where you lay in our brother's house. you and messire gawain and another knight gave us the treasure and the hold of the robber-knights that you slew; for this city which is waste and the waste castle of my brother would never again be peopled of folk, nor should we never have had the land again, save a knight had come hither as loyal as are you. full a score knights have arrived here by chance in the same manner as you came, and not one of them but hath slain a brother or a kinsman and cut off his head as you did to the knight, and each one promised to return at the day appointed; but all failed of their covenant, for not one of them durst come to the day; and so you had failed us in like manner as the others, we should have lost this city without recovery and the castles that are its appanages." xv. so the knight and the damsels lead lancelot into the palace and then make him be disarmed. they hear presently how the greatest joy in the world is being made in many parts of the forest, that was nigh the city. "sir," say the damsels, "now may you hear the joy that is made of your coming. these are the burgesses and dwellers in the city that already know the tidings." lancelot leaneth at the windows of the hall, and seeth the city peopled of the fairest folk in the world, and great thronging in the broad streets and the great palace, and clerks and priests coming in long procession praising god and blessing him for that they may now return to their church, and giving benison to the knight through whom they are free to repair thither. lancelot was much honoured throughout the city. the two damsels are at great pains to wait upon him, and right great worship had he of all them that were therewithin and them that came thither, both clerks and priests. branch xxi. title i. therewithal the history is silent of lancelot, and speaketh word of the king and messire gawain, that are in sore misgiving as concerning him, for right gladly would they have heard tidings of him. they met a knight that was coming all armed, and messire gawain asketh him whence he came, and he said that he came from the land of the queen of the golden circlet, to whom a sore loss hath befallen; for the son of the widow lady had won the circlet of gold for that he had slain the knight of the dragon, and she was to keep it safe for him and deliver it up to him at his will. "but now hath nabigant of the rock reft her thereof, and a right outrageous knight is he and puissant; wherefore hath he commanded a damsel that she bring it to an assembly of knights that is to be held in the meadow of the tent of the two damsels, there where messire gawain did away the evil custom. the damsel that will bring the golden circlet will give it to the knight that shall do best at the assembly. nabigant is keenly set upon having it, and maketh the more sure for that once aforetime he hath had it by force of arms. and i am going to the knights that know not these tidings, in order that when they shall hear them, they shall go to the assembly." therewithal the knight departeth. the king and messire gawain have ridden so far that they come to the tent where messire gawain destroyed the evil custom by slaying the two knights. he found the tent garnished within and without in like manner as it was when he was there, and messire gawain made the king be seated on a quilted mattress of straw, right costly, and thereafter be disarmed of a squire, and he himself disarmed him, and they washed their hands and faces for the rust wherewith both of them were besmuttered. and messire gawain found the chests unlocked that were at the head of the couch, and made the king be apparelled of white rich stuffs that he found, and a robe of cloth of silk and gold, and he clad himself in the like manner, neither was the chest not a whit disfurnished thereby, for the tent was all garnished of rich adornments. when they were thus dight, a man might have sought far or ever he should find so comely knights. ii. thereupon, behold you the two damsels of the tent coming. "damsels," saith messire gawain, "welcome may you be." "sir," say they, "good adventure may you have both twain. it seemeth us that you take right boldly that which is ours, yet never for neither of us would you do a thing whereof you were beseeched." "messire gawain" saith the elder, "no knight is there in this kingdom but would be right joyous and he supposed that i loved him, and i prayed you of your love on a day that is past, for the valour of your knighthood, yet never did you grant it me. how durst you have affiance in me of aught, and take the things that are mine own so boldly, when i may not have affiance in you?" "damsel, for your courtesy and the good custom of the land; for you told me when the evil customs were overthrown, that all the honours and all the courtesies that are due to knights should ever be ready within for all them that should come hither for harbour." "messire gawain, you say true, but of right might one let the courtesy tarry and pay back churlishness by churlishness." iii. "the assembly of knights will begin to-morrow in this launde that is so fair. there will be knights in plenty, and the prize will be the circlet of gold. now shall we see who will do best. the assembly will last three whole days, and of one thing at least you may well make boast between you and your comrade, that you have the fairest hostel and the most pleasant and the most quiet of any knights at the assembly." the younger damsel looketh at king arthur. "and you," saith she, "what will you do? will you be as strange toward us as messire gawain is friendly with others?" iv. "damsel," saith the king, "messire gawain will do his pleasure and i mine. strange shall i not be in respect of you, nor toward other damsels; rather shall they be honoured on my part so long as i live, and i myself will be at your commandment." "sir," saith she, "gramercy greatly. i pray you, therefore, that you be my knight at the tournament." "damsel, this ought i not to refuse you, and right glad at heart shall i be and i may do aught that shall please you; for all knights ought to be at pains for the sake of dame or damsel." "sir," saith she, "what is your name?" v. "damsel," saith he, "my name is arthur, and i am of tincardoil." "have you nought to do with king arthur?" "damsel, already have i been many times at his court, and, if he loved me not nor i him, i should not be in messire gawain's company. in truth, he is the king in the world that i love best." the damsel looketh at king arthur, but wotteth not a whir that it is he, and full well is she pleased with the seeming and countenance of him. as for the king, lightly might he have trusted that he should have her as his lady-love so long as he remained with her; but there is much to say betwixt his semblant and his thought, for he showeth good semblant toward the damsel, that hath over much affiance therein, but his thought is on queen guenievre in what place soever he may be. for nought loveth he so well as her. vi. the damsels made stable the horses and purvey for the bodies of the knights right richly at night, and they lay in two right rich beds in the midst of the hall, and their arms were all set ready before. the damsels would not depart until such time as they were asleep. the harness of the knights that came to the assembly came on the morrow from all parts. they set up their booths and stretched their tents all round about the launde of the forest. king arthur and messire gawain were risen in the morning and saw the knights come from all parts. the elder damsel cometh to messire gawain and saith unto him, "sir," saith she, "i will that you bear to-day red arms that i will lend you, for the love of me, and take heed that they be well employed, and i desire that you should not be known by your arms; rather let it be said that you are the red knight, and you shall allow it accordingly." "damsel, gramercy greatly!" saith messire gawain, "i will do my endeavour in arms the best i may for love of you." the younger damsel cometh to king arthur; "sir," saith she, "my sister hath made her gift and i will make mine. i have a suit of arms of gold, the richest that knight may wear, that i will lend you, for methinketh they will be better employed on you than on ever another knight; so i pray you that you remember me at the assembly in like manner as i shall ofttimes remember you." vii. "damsel," saith the king, "gramercy! no knight is there that should see you but ought to have you in remembrance in his heart for your courtesy and your worth." the knights were come about the tents. the king and messire gawain were armed and had made caparison their horses right richly. the damsel that should give the golden circlet was come. nabigant of the rock had brought great fellowships of knights together with him, and ordinance was made for the assembly. viii. the younger damsel saith to king arthur: "well may you know that no knight that is here this day hath better arms than are yours, wherefore take heed that you show you to be good knight for love of me." "damsel," saith king arthur, "god grant that i be so." so they laid hold on their reins and mounted their horses, that made great leaping and went away a great gallop. saith the younger damsel to her sister: "what think you of my knight, doth he not please you?" "yea," saith the elder, "but sore misliketh me of messire gawain for that he is not minded to do as i would have him. but he shall yet aby it dear." king arthur and messire gawain strike into the midst of the assembly like as it were two lions unchained, and at their first coming they smite down two knights to the ground under the feet of their horses. messire gawain taketh the two horses and sendeth them by a squire to the damsels of the tent, that made much joy thereof. after that were they not minded to take more booty as of horses or arms, but searched the fellowships on one side and the other; nor was there no knight that came against them but they pierced his shield or bore him to the ground, insomuch as none was there that might endure their buffets. nabigant espieth messire gawain and cometh toward him, and messire gawain toward him again, and they hurtle together either on other so strongly that messire gawain beareth nabigant to the ground, him and his horse together all in a heap. and king arthur was not idle, for no knight durst come against him but he overthrew him, so as that all withdrew them back and avoided his buffets. and many knights did well that day at the assembly, but none might be the match of either of them twain in deeds of arms, for, save it were lancelot or perceval, were no knights on live that had in them so much hardiment and valour. after that it was evensong the knights drew them back to their tents, and they say all that the knight of the golden arms and the knight of the red arms had done better than they all at the assembly. king arthur and messire gawain come back to the tent of the damsels, that make disarm them and do upon them the rich robes and make great joy of them. thereupon, behold you, a dwarf that cometh: "damsels, make great joy! for all they of the assembly say with one accord that your knights have done best this day." king arthur and messire gawain sate to eat, and right well were they served of every kind of meats and of great cups of wine and sops in wine. king arthur made the younger damsel sit beside him, and messire gawain the elder in like manner, and when they had eaten they went to lie down and fell on sleep, for right sore weary were they and forespent of the many buffets they had given and received, and they slept until the morrow. ix. when the day appeared they rose up. thereupon, behold you the younger damsel where she cometh and saluteth king arthur. "and you, damsel!" saith king arthur, "god give you joy and good adventure!" "sir," saith she, "i will that you bear to-day these white arms that you see here, and that you do no worse to-day than yesterday you did, sith that better you may not do." "messire gawain," saith the elder damsel, "remember you of the king there where his land was compassed about of a wall of stone, and you harboured one night in his castle, what time you went to seek for the sword wherewith john baptist was beheaded, when he was fain to take away the sword from you, whereof you had so sore misliking? natheless, he yielded you up the sword upon covenant that you should do that which a damsel should first ask you to do thereafter, and you promised him loyally that so would you do?" "certes, damsel," saith messire gawain, "well do i remember the same." "now, therefore," saith the damsel, "would i fain prove whether you be indeed so loyal as men say, and whether you will hold your covenant that you made. wherefore i pray and beseech you that this day you shall be he that doth worst of all the knights at the assembly, and that you bear none other arms save your own only, so as that you shall be known again of all them that are there present. and, so you will not do this, then will you have failed of your covenant, and myself will go tell the king that you have broken the promise that you made to him right loyally." "damsel," saith messire gawain, "never yet brake i covenant with none, so it were such as i might fulfil or another on my behalf." king arthur made arm him of the white arms that the younger damsel had given him, and messire gawain of his own, but sore it irked him of this that the damsel hath laid upon him to do, sith that needs must he lose worship and he hold to his covenant, albeit not for nought that is in the world will he fail of the promise he hath made. so they come into the assembly. x. king arthur smiteth with his spurs like a good knight and overthroweth two knights in his onset, and messire gawain rideth a bandon betwixt two fellowships to be the better known. the most part say, "see! there is messire gawain, the good knight that is king arthur's nephew." nabigant of the rock cometh toward him as fast as his horse may carry him, lance in rest. messire gawain seeth him coming toward him right furiously. he casteth his shield down on the ground and betaketh him to flight as swiftly as he may. they that beheld him, some two score or more, marvel thereof, and say, "did ever one see the like overpassing cowardize!" nabigant saith that he never yet followed a knight that was vanquished, nor never will follow one of such conditions, for no great prize would it be to take him and win his horse. other knights come to joust with him, but messire gawain fleeth and avoideth them the best he may, and maketh semblance that none is there he durst abide. he draweth toward king arthur for safety. the king hath great shame of this that he seeth him do, and right sore pains hath he of defending messire gawain, for he holdeth as close to him as the pie doth to the bramble when the falcon would take her. in such shame and dishonour was messire gawain as long as the assembly lasted, and the knights said that he had gotten him off with much less than he deserved, for that never had they seen so craven knight at assembly or tournament as was he, nor never henceforth would they have dread of him as they had heretofore. from this day forward may many lightly avenge themselves upon him of their kinsfolk and friends that he hath slain by the forest. the assembly brake up in the evening, whereof the king and messire gawain were right well pleased. the knights disarm them at their hostels and the king and messire gawain at the damsels' tent. xi. with that, behold you the dwarf that cometh. "by my head, damsels, your knights go from bad to worse! of him in the white arms one may even let pass, but messire gawain is the most coward ever saw i yet, and so he were to run upon me to-morrow and i were armed like as is he, i should think me right well able to defend me against him. 'tis the devil took him to a place where is such plenty of knights, for the more folk that are there the better may one judge of his ill conditions. and you, sir," saith he to the king, "wherefore do you keep him company? you would have done best to-day had he not been there. he skulked as close by you, to be out of the buffets, as a hare doth to the wood for the hounds. no business hath good knight to hold company with a coward. i say not this for that i would make him out worse that he is, for i remember the two knights he slew before this tent." the damsel heareth the dwarf talking and smileth thereat, for she understandeth that blame enough hath messire gawain had at the assembly. the knights said at their hostels that they knew not to whom to give the circlet of gold, sith that the knight of the golden armour and he of the red armour were not there; for they did the best the first day of the assembly, and much they marvelled that they should not come when it was continued on the morrow. "gawain," saith the king, "sore blame have you had this day, and i myself have been all shamed for your sake. never thought i that so good a knight as you might ever have known how to counterfeit a bad knight as you did. you have done much for the love of the damsel, and right well had she avenged herself of you and you had done her great annoy. howbeit, and to-morrow your cowardize be such as it hath been to-day, never will the day be when you shall not have blame thereof." xii. "by my faith." saith messire gawain, "behoveth me do the damsel's pleasure sith that we have fallen by ill-chance into her power." they went to bed at night and took their rest as soon as they had eaten, and on the morrow the damsel came to messire gawain. "i will," saith she, "that you be clad in the same arms as was your comrade on the first day, right rich, that i will lend you, and i will, moreover, that you be knight so good as that never on any day were you better. but i command you, by the faith you pledged me the other day, to obey this caution, that you make yourself known to none, and so any man in the world shall ask your name, you shall say that you are the knight of the golden arms." "damsel," saith gawain, "gramercy, i will do your pleasure." the younger damsel cometh back to the king: "sir," saith she, "i will that you wear new arms: you shall bear them red, the same as messire gawain bore the first day, and i pray you be such as you were the first day, or better." xiii. "damsel, i will do my best to amend myself and my doings, and right well pleased am i of that it pleaseth you to say." their horses were caparisoned and the knights mounted, all armed. they come together to the tournament with such an onset as that they pass through the thickest of the press and overthrew knights and horses as many as they encountered. king arthur espieth nabigant that came right gaily caparisoned, and smiteth him so passing strong a buffet in the midst of his breast that he beareth him down from his horse, in such sort that he breaketh his collar-bone, and presenteth the destrier, by his squire, to the younger damsel, that maketh great joy thereof. and messire gawain searcheth the fellowships on all sides, and so well did he search that scarce was one might endure his blows. king arthur is not idle, but pierceth shields and beateth in helms, the while all look on in wonderment at him and messire gawain. the story saith that the king would have done still better, but that he put not forth his full strength in deeds of arms, for that messire gawain had done so ill the day before, and now he would fain that he should have the prize. xiv. the damsel that held the golden circlet was in the midst of the assembly of knights, and had set it in a right rich casket of ivory with precious stones, right worshipfully. when the damsel saw that the assembly was at an end, she made all the knights stay, and prayed them they should speak judgment true, concealing nought, who had best deserved of arms, and ought therefore of right to have the golden circle. they said all, that of right judgment the knight of the golden arms and he of the red arms ought to have the prize above all the others, but that of these two, he of the golden arms ought to have the prize, for so well did he the first day as that no knight might do better, and on the last day likewise, and that if he of the red arms had put forth his full strength on the last day, he would have done full as well or better. the circlet of gold was brought to messire gawain, but it was not known that it was he; and messire gawain would fain that it had been given to my lord king arthur. the knights departed from the assembly. the king and messire gawain came back to the tent and brought the golden circlet, whereof the damsels made great joy. thereupon, behold you! the dwarf that cometh back. "damsels, better is it to lodge knights such as these than messire gawain the coward, the craven that had so much shame at the assembly! you yourselves would have been sore blamed had you lodged him. this knight hath won the golden circlet by force of arms, and messire gawain nought but shame and reproach." the damsel laugheth at this that the dwarf saith, and biddeth him on his eyes and head, begone! xv. the king and messire gawain were disarmed. "sir," saith the damsel, "what will you do with the golden circlet?" "damsel," saith messire gawain, "i will bear it to him that first won it in sore peril of death, and delivered it to the queen that ought to have kept it safe, of whom it hath been reft by force." the king and messire gawain lay the night in the tent. the younger damsel cometh to the king. "sir, many feats of arms have you done at the assembly, as i have been told, for love of me, and i am ready to reward you." "damsel, right great thanks. your reward and your service love i much, and your honour yet more, wherefore i would that you should have all the honour that any damsel may have, for in damsel without honour ought none to put his affiance. our lord god grant you to preserve yours." "damsel," saith she to the other that sitteth before messire gawain, "this knight and messire gawain have taken counsel together. there is neither solace nor comfort in them. let us leave them to go to sleep, and ill rest may they have, and lord god defend us ever hereafter from such guests." "by my head," saith the eider damsel, "were it not for the golden circlet that he is bound of right to deliver again to the queen that had it in charge, who is my lady, they should not depart from this land in such sort as they will. but, and messire gawain still be nice as concerneth damsels, at least i now know well that he is loyal in anotherwise, so as that he will not fail of his word." xvi. with that the damsels departed, as did likewise the king and messire gawain as soon as they saw the day. nabigant, that was wounded at the tournament, was borne away on a litter. meliot of logres was in quest of messire gawain. he met the knights and the harness that came from the assembly, and asked of many if they could tell him tidings of king arthur's nephew, messire gawain, and the most part answer, "yea, and right bad tidings enough." then they ask him wherefore he demandeth. "lords," saith he, "his liege man am i, and he ought of right to defend my land against all men, that nabigant hath taken from me without right nor reason, whom they are carrying from thence in a litter, wherefore i am fain to beseech messire gawain that he help me to recover my land." "in faith, sir knight," say they, "we know not of what avail he may be to others that may not help himself. messire gawain was at the assembly, but we tell you for true, it was he that did worst thereat." "alas," saith meliot of logres, "then have i lost my land, and he hath become even such an one as you tell me." "you would readily believe us," say they, "had you seen him at the assembly!" meliot turneth him back, right sorrowful. xvii. king arthur and messire gawain depart from the tent, and come a great pace as though they fain would escape thence to come nigher the land where they would be, and great desire had they of the coming of lancelot. they rode until that they came one night to the waste manor whither the brachet led messire gawain when he found the dead knight that lancelot had slain. they lodged there the night, and found there knights and damsels of whom they were known. the lady of the waste manor sent for succour to her knights, saying that she held there king arthur that slew other knights, and that his nephew messire gawain was also there within, but dearly would she have loved that lancelot had been with them that slew her brother. knights in plenty came to her to do hurt to king arthur and messire gawain, but she had at least so much courtesy in her that she would not suffer any of them to do them ill within her hold, albeit she kept seven of their number, full of great hardiment, to guard the entrance of the bridge, so that king arthur and messire gawain might not depart thence save only amidst the points of their spears. xviii. this high history witnesseth us that lancelot was departed from the waste city wherein he was much honoured, and rode until that he came to a forest where he met meliot of logres, that was sore dismayed of the tidings he had heard of messire gawain. lancelot asketh him whence he cometh, and he saith from seeking messire gawain, of whom he had tidings whereof he was right sorrowful. "how," saith lancelot, "is he then otherwise than well?" "yea," saith he, "as i have heard tell: for he wont to be good knight and hath now become evil. he was at the assembly of knights whereof i met the harness and the fellowships, and they told me that never yet was such cowardize in any knight, but that a knight who was with him did right well. but howsoever he may have borne himself, right fain am i to find him, for, maugre what any may say, i may scarce believe that he is so bad after all." "sir," saith lancelot, "i will seek him for you, and you can come along with me and it seemeth you good." meliot of logres betaketh him back with lancelot. they ride until they happen by chance upon the waste manor where the king and messire gawain were lodged; and they were armed, and were minded to go forth from thence. but the seven knights guarded the issue, all armed. the king and messire gawain saw that no good would it do them to remain there within, wherefore they passed over the bridge and came perforce to the place where the seven knights were watching for them. thereupon, they went toward them all armed and struck among them, and the knights received them on the points of their lances. xix. thereupon, behold you! lancelot and the knight with him, whom they had not been looking for. lancelot espied the king and messire gawain; then the knights cried out and struck among them as a hawk striketh amongst larks, and made them scatter on one side and the other. lancelot hath caught one at his coming, and smiteth him with his spear through the body, and meliot of logres slayeth another. king arthur knew lancelot, and right glad was he to see him safe and sound, as was messire gawain likewise. lancelot and meliot of logres made clear the passage for them. the knights departed, for longer durst they not abide. the damsel of the castle held a squire by the hand, that was right passing comely. she knew lancelot, and when she saw him she called him. xx. "lancelot, you slew this squire's brother, and, please god, either he or another shall take vengeance thereof." lancelot holdeth his peace when he heareth the dame speak, and departeth from the waste hold. meliot of logres knew messire gawain and messire gawain him again, and great joy made they the one of the other. "sir," saith meliot, "i am come to lay plaint before you of nabigant of the rock that challengeth me of the land whereof i am your man, and saith that he will defend it against none but you only. sir, the day is full nigh, and if you come not to the day, i shall have lost my quarrel, and you held me thereof in covenant what time i became your man." "right fainly will i go," saith messire gawain. he goeth his way thither accordingly by leave of the king and lancelot, and saith that he will return to them the speediest he may. xxi. king arthur and lancelot go their way as fast as they may toward the land that was king fisherman's. messire gawain rideth until he cometh to the land of nabigant of the rock. meliot doeth nabigant to wit that messire gawain was come, and that he was ready to uphold his right by him that was his champion. nabigant was whole of the wound he gat at the assembly, and held messire gawain of full small account for the cowardize that he saw him do, and bid his knights not meddle betwixt them two, for, and messire gawain had been four knights he thought to vanquish them all. he issueth forth of his castle all armed, and is come there where messire gawain awaited him. messire gawain seeth him coming, and so draweth on one side, and nabigant, that was stark outrageous, setteth his spear in rest and cometh toward messire gawain without another word, and smiteth him on the shield so that he maketh his spear fly all in pieces. and messire gawain catcheth him right in the midst of his breast, and pierceth him with his spear through the thick of his heart, and he falleth to the ground dead; and the knights run upon messire gawain; but he lightly delivereth himself of them, and meliot of logres likewise. messire gawain entereth the castle by force, doing battle against all the knights, and holdeth them in such a pass as that he maketh them do homage to meliot of logres, and deliver up to him the keys of the castle. he maketh them come to an assembly from the whole of the land they had reft away from him, and thereafter departeth and followeth after king arthur. in the forest, he overtaketh a damsel that was going on her way a great pace. xxii. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "lord god guide you, whither away so fast?" "sir," saith she, "i am going to the greatest assembly of knights you saw ever." "what assembly?" saith messire gawain. "sir," saith she, "at the palace meadow, but the knight i am seeking is he that won the circlet of gold at the meadow of the tent. fair sir, can you give me any tidings of him?" saith she. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "what would you do herein?" "certes, sir, i would right fain find him. my lady, that kept the circlet of gold for the son of the widow lady, that won it aforetime, hath sent me to seek him." "for what intent, damsel?" saith messire gawain. "sir, my lady sendeth for him and beseecheth him by me, for the sake of the saviour of the world, that if he had ever pity of dame or damsel, he will take vengeance on nabigant that hath slain her men and destroyed her land, for she hath been told how he that won back the golden circlet ought of right to take vengeance upon him." xxiii. "damsel," saith messire gawain, "be not any longer troubled hereof, for i tell you that the knight that won the golden circlet by prize of arms hath killed nabigant already." "sir," saith she, "how know you this?" "i know the knight well," saith he, "and i saw him slay him, and behold, here is the circlet of gold that i have as a token hereof, for that he beareth it to him that hath won the graal, to the intent that your lady may be quit of her charge." messire gawain showeth her the golden circlet in the casket of ivory, that he kept very nigh himself. right joyful was the damsel that the matter had thus fallen out, and goeth her way back again to tell her lady of her joy. messire gawain goeth on his way toward the assembly, for well knoweth he that, and king arthur and lancelot have heard the tidings, there will they be. he goeth thitherward as fast as he may, and as straight, and scarce hath he ridden away or ever he met a squire that seemed right weary, and his hackney sore worn of the way. messire gawain asked him whence he came, and the squire said to him. "from the land of king arthur, where is great war toward, for that none knoweth not what hath become of him. many folk go about saying that he is dead, for never sithence that he departed from cardoil, and messire gawain and lancelot with him, have no tidings been heard of him; and he left the queen at cardoil to take his place, and also on account of her son's death, and the most part say that he is dead. briant of the isles and my lord kay with him are burning his land, and carrying off plunder before all the castles. of all the knights of the table round are there now no more than five and thirty, and of these are ten sore wounded, and they are in cardoil, and there protect the land the best they may." xxiv. when messire gawain heareth these tidings, they touch his heart right sore, so that he goeth the straightest he may toward the assembly, and the squire with him that was sore fordone. messire gawain found king arthur and lancelot, and the knights were come from all the kingdom to the piece of ground. for a knight was come thither that had brought a white destrier and borne thither a right rich crown of gold, and it was known throughout all the lands that marched with this, that the knight that should do best at the assembly should have the destrier and the crown, for the queen that ware it was dead, and it would behove him to guard and defend the land whereof she had been lady. on account of these tidings had come thither great plenty of folk and of folk. king arthur and messire gawain and lancelot set them of one side. the story saith that at this assembly king arthur bare the red shield that the damsel gave him; messire gawain had his own, such as he was wont to bear, and lancelot a green shield that he bare for the love of the knight that was slain for helping him in the forest. they struck into the assembly like lions unchained, and cast down three knights at their first onset. they searched the fellowships on every side, smote down knights and overthrew horses. xxv. king arthur overtook no knight but he clave his shield to the boss: all swerved aside and avoided his buffets. and messire gawain and lancelot are not idle on the other hand, but each held well his place. but the more part had wonderment looking at the king, for he holdeth him at bay like a lion when the staghounds would attack him. the assembly lasted throughout on such wise, and when it came to an end, the knights said and adjudged that the knight of the red shield had surpassed all other in doing well. the knight that had brought the crown came to the king, but knew him not a whit: "sir," saith he, "you have by your good deeds of arms won this crown of gold and this destrier, whereof ought you to make great joy, so only you have so much valour in you as that you may defend the land of the best earthly queen that is dead, and whether the king be alive or dead none knoweth, wherefore great worship will it be to yourself and you may have prowess to maintain the land, for right broad is it and right rich and of high sovranty." xxvi. saith king arthur, "whose was the land, and what was the name of the queen whose crown i see?" "sir, the king's name was arthur, and the best king in the world was he; but in his kingdom the more part say that he is dead. and this crown was the crown of queen guenievre that is dead and buried, whereof is sore sorrow. the knights that may not leave cardoil lest briant of the isles should seize the city, they sent me to the kingdom of logres and charged me with the crown and destrier for that i have knowledge of the isles and foreign lands; wherefore they prayed me i should go among the assemblies of knights, that so i might hear tidings of my lord king arthur and my lord gawain and lancelot, and, so i might find them, that i should tell them how the land hath fallen into this grievous sorrow." king arthur heareth tidings whereof he is full sorrowful. he draweth on one side, and the knights make the most grievous dole in the world. lancelot knoweth not what he may do, and saith between his teeth that now hath his joy come to an end and his knighthood is of no avail, for that he hath lost the high queen, the valiant, that heart and comfort gave him and encouragement to do well. the tears ran down from his comely eyes right amidst his face and through the ventail, and, had he durst make other dole, yet greater would it have been. of the mourning the king made is there nought to speak, for this sorrow resembleth none other. he holdeth the crown of gold, and looketh full oft at the destrier for love of her, for he had given it her; and messire gawain may not stint of making dole. xxvii. "certes", saith he, "now may i well say that the best queen in the world and of most understanding is dead, nor never hereafter shall be none of equal worth." "sir," saith lancelot to the king, "so it please you, and messire gawain be willing, i will go back toward cardoil, and help to defend your land to the best i may, for sore is it discounselled, until such time as you shall be come from the graal." "certes," saith messire gawain to the king, "lancelot hath spoken well, so you grant him your consent." "that do i with right good will," saith the kind, "and i pray him right heartily that he go thither and be guardian of my land and the governance thereof, until such a time as god shall have brought me back." lancelot taketh leave of the king and goeth his way back, all sorrowing and full of discontent. branch xxii. incipit. of lancelot the story is here silent, and so beginneth another branch of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. you may well understand that king arthur is no whit joyful. he maketh the white destrier go after him, and hath the crown of gold full near himself. they ride until they come to the castle that belonged to king fisherman, and they found it as rich and fair as you have heard told many a time. perceval, that was there within, made right great joy of their coming, as did all the priests and ancient knights. perceval leadeth king arthur, when he was disarmed, into the chapel where the graal was, and messire gawain maketh present to perceval of the golden circlet, and telleth him that the queen sendeth it to him, and relateth also how nabigant had seized it, and moreover, how nabigant was dead. the king offereth the crown that had been queen guenievre's. when perceval knew that she was dead, he was right sorrowful thereof in his heart, and wept and lamented her right sweetly. he showeth them the tomb of king fisherman, and telleth them that none had set the tabernacle there above the coffin, but only the commandment of our lord, and he showeth them a rich pall that is upon the coffin, and telleth them that every day they see a new one there not less rich than is this one. king arthur looketh at the sepulchre and saith that never tofore hath he seen none so costly. a smell issueth therefrom full delicate and sweet of savour. the king sojourneth in the castle and is highly honoured, and beholdeth the richesse and the lordship and the great abundance that is everywhere in the castle, insomuch that therein is nought wanting that is needful for the bodies of noble folk. perceval had made set the bodies of the dead knights in a charnel beside an old chapel in the forest, and the body of his uncle that had slain himself so evilly. behind the castle was a river, as the history testifieth, whereby all good things came to the castle, and this river was right fair and plenteous. josephus witnesseth us that it came from the earthly paradise and compassed the castle around and ran on through the forest as far as the house of a worshipful hermit, and there lost the course and had peace in the earth. all along the valley thereof was great plenty of everything continually, and nought was ever lacking in the rich castle that perceval had won. the castle, so saith the history, had three names. ii. one of the names was eden, the second, castle of joy, and the third, castle of souls. now josephus saith that none never passed away therein but his soul went to paradise. king arthur was one day at the castle windows with messire gawain. the king seeth coming before him beyond the bridge a great procession of folk one before another; and he that came before was all clad in white, and bare a full great cross, and each of the others a little one, and the more part came singing with sweet voices and bear candles burning, and there was one behind that carried a bell with the clapper and all at his neck. "ha, god," saith king arthur, "what folk be these?" "sir," saith perceval, "i know them all save the last. they be hermits of this forest, that come to chant within yonder before the holy graal, three days in the week." iii. when the hermits came nigh the castle, the king went to meet them, and the knights adore the crosses and bow their heads before the good men. as soon as they were come into the holy chapel, they took the bell from the last and smote thereon at the altar, and then set it on the ground, and then began they the service, most holy and most glorious. the history witnesseth us that in the land of king arthur at this time was there not a single chalice. the graal appeared at the sacring of the mass, in five several manners that none ought not to tell, for the secret things of the sacrament ought none to tell openly but he unto whom god hath given it. king arthur beheld all the changes, the last whereof was the change into a chalice. and the hermit that chanted the mass found a brief under the corporal and declared the letters, to wit, that our lord god would that in such vessel should his body be sacrificed, and that it should be set upon record. the history saith not that there were no chalices elsewhere, but that in all great britain and in the whole kingdom was none. king arthur was right glad of this that he had seen, and had in remembrance the name and the fashion of the most holy chalice. then he asked the hermit that bare the bell, whence this thing came? "sir," saith he to messire gawain, "i am the king for whom you slew the giant, whereby you had the sword wherewith st john was beheaded, that i see on this altar. i made baptize me before you and all those of my kingdom, and turn to the new law, and thereafter i went to a hermitage by the sea, far from folk, where i have been of a long space. i rose one night at matins and looked under my hermitage and saw that a ship had taken haven there. i went thither when the sea was retreated, and found within the ship three priests and their clerks, that told me their names and how they were called in baptism. all three were named gregory, and they came from the land of promise, and told me that solomon had cast three bells, one for the saviour of the world, and one for his sweet mother, and one for the honour of his saints, wherefore they had brought this hither by his commandment into this kingdom for that we had none here. they told me that and i should bear it into this castle, they would take all my sins upon themselves, by our lord's pleasure, in such sort as that i should be quit thereof. and i in like manner have brought it hither by the commandment of god, who willeth that this should be the pattern of all those that shall be fashioned in the realm of this island where never aforetime have been none." "by my faith," saith messire gawain to the hermit, "i know you right well for a worshipful man, for you held your covenant truly with me." king arthur was right glad of this thing, as were all they that were within. it seemed him that the noise thereof was like the noise that he had heard sound ever since he had moved from cardoil. the hermits went their way each to his hermitage when they had done the service. iv. one day, as the king sate at meat in the hall with perceval and messire gawain and the ancient knights, behold you therewithal one of the three damsels of the car that cometh, and she was smitten all through her right arm. "sir," saith she to perceval, "have mercy on your mother and your sister and on us. aristor of moraine, that is cousin to the lord of the moors that you slew, warreth upon your mother, and hath carried off your sister by force into the castle of a vavasour of his, and saith that he will take her to wife and will have all her land that your mother ought to hold of right, maugre your head. but never had knight custom so cruel as he, for when he shall have espoused the damsel, whomsoever she may be, yet will he never love her so well but that he shall cut off her head with his own hand, and so thereafter go seek for another to slay in like manner. natheless in one matter hath he good custom, that never will he do shame to none until such time as he hath espoused her. sir, i was with my lady your sister when he maimed me in this manner. wherefore your mother sendeth you word and prayeth you that you succour her, for you held her in covenant that so you would do and she should have need thereof and you should know it; for and you consent to her injury and loss, the shame will be your own." perceval heard these tidings, and sore sorrowful was he thereof. "by my head," saith the king to perceval, "i and my nephew, so please you, will go to help you." "sir," saith he, "gramercy, but go and achieve your own affair also, for sore need have you thereof; wherefore i pray and beseech you that you be guardian of the castle of camelot, if that my lady mother shall come thither, for thereof make i you lord and champion, and albeit the castle be far away from you, yet garnish it and guard it, for it is builded in a place right fair." v. lords, think not that it is this camelot whereof these tellers of tales do tell their tales, there, where king arthur so often held his court. this camelot that was the widow lady's stood upon the uttermost headland of the wildest isle of wales by the sea to the west. nought was there save the hold and the forest and the waters that were round about it. the other camelot, of king arthur's, was situate at the entrance of the kingdom of logres, and was peopled of folk and was seated at the head of the king's land, for that he had in his governance all the lands that on that side marched with his own. branch xxiii. title i. of perceval the story is here silent, and saith that king arthur and messire gawain have taken leave of perceval and all them of the castle. the king leaveth him the good destrier that he won, with the golden crown. they have ridden, he and messire gawain together, until they are come to a waste ancient castle that stood in a forest. the castle would have been right fair and rich had any folk wonned therein, but none there were save one old priest and his clerk that lived within by their own toil. the king and messire gawain lodged there the night, and on the morrow went into a right rich chapel that was therein to hear mass, and it was painted all around of right rich colours of gold and azure and other colours. the images were right fair that were there painted, and the figures of them for whom the images were made. the king and messire gawain looked at them gladly. when the mass was said, the priest cometh to them and saith: "lords," saith he, "these imagings are right fair, and he that had them made is full loyal, and dearly loved the lady and her son for whom he had them made. sir," saith the priest, "it is a true history." "of whom is the history, fair sir?" saith king arthur. "of a worshipful vavasour that owned this hold, and of messire gawain, king arthur's nephew, and his mother. sir," saith the priest, "messire gawain was born there within and held up and baptized, as you may see here imaged, and he was named gawain for the sake of the lord of this castle that had that name. his mother, that had him by king lot, would not that it should be known. she set him in a right fair coffer, and prayed the good man of this castle that he would carry him away and leave him where he might perish, but and if he would not do so, she would make another do it. this gawain, that was loyal and would not that the child should be put to death, made seal letters at the pillow-bere of his cradle that he was of lineage royal on the one side and the other, and set therein gold and silver so as that the child might be nurtured in great plenty, and spread above the child a right rich coverlid. he carried him away to a far distant country, and so came one early morning to a little homestead where dwelt a right worshipful man. he delivered the child to him and his wife, and bade them they should keep him and nurture him well, and told them that it might be much good should come to them thereof. the vavasour turned him back, and they took charge of the child and nurtured him until that he were grown, and then took him to rome to the holy father, and showed him the sealed letters. the holy father saw them and understood that he was the son of a king. he had pity upon him, and gave him to understand that he was of his kindred. after that, he was elected to be emperor of rome. but he would not be emperor lest he should be reproached of his birth that had before been concealed from him. he departed thence, and lived afterwards within yonder. now is it said that he is one of the best knights in the world, insomuch that none durst take possession of this castle for dread of him, nor of this great forest that lieth round about it. for, when the vavasour that dwelt here was dead, he left to messire gawain, his foster-son, this castle, and made me guardian thereof until such time as messire gawain should return." ii. the king looketh at messire gawain, and seeth him stoop his head toward the ground for shame. "fair nephew, be not ashamed, for as well might you reproach me of the same. of your birth hath there been great joy, and dearly ought one to love the place and honour it, where so good a knight as are you was born." when the priest understood that it was messire gawain, he made great cheer to him, and was all ashamed of that he had recorded as concerning his birth. but he saith to him: "sir, small blame ought you to have herein, for you were confirmed in the law that god hath established and in loyalty of marriage of king lot and your mother. this thing king arthur well knoweth, and our lord god be praised for that, you have come hither!" branch xxiv. title i. here the story is silent of the kingdom, and of king arthur and messire gawain that remain in the castle to maintain and guard it until they shall have garnished it of folk. here speaketh it word of the knight's son of the waste manor, there whither the brachet led messire gawain where he found the knight that lancelot had slain. he had one son whose name was meliant, and he had not forgotten his father's death; rather, thereof did wrath rankle in his heart. he heard tell that briant of the isles had great force and great puissance, and that he warred upon king arthur's land, insomuch as that he had already slain many of his knights. thitherward goeth he, and is come to where briant was in a castle of his own. he telleth him how lancelot had slain his father in such sort, and prayeth him right courteously that he would make him knight, for that right fain would he avenge his father, and therefore would he help him in the war the best he might. briant made much joy thereof, and made him knight in right costly sort, and he was the comeliest knight and the most valiant of his age in briant's court, and greatly did he desire to meet with lancelot. they marvelled much in the land and kingdom what had become of him. the more part thought that he was dead, albeit dead he was not, but rather sound and hale and whole, had it not been for the death of queen guenievre, whereof the sorrow so lay at his heart that he might not forget it. he rode one day amidst a forest, and overtook a knight and a damsel that made great joy together, singing and making disport. "by god," saith the damsel, "if this knight that cometh here will remain, he shall have right good lodging. it is already nigh eventide, and never will he find hostel so good to-day." "damsel." saith lancelot, "of good hostel have i sore need, for i am more than enough weary." "so be all they," saith she, "that come from the land of the rich king fisherman, for none may suffer the pain and travail and he be not good knight." ii. "ah, damsel," saith lancelot, "which is the way to the castle whereof you speak?" "sir," saith the knight, "you will go by this cross that you see before you, and we will go by that other way, to a certain hold. haply we shall find you at the castle or ever you depart thence." lancelot goeth his way and leaveth them. "by my head," saith the damsel to the knight, "this that goeth there is lancelot. he knoweth me not, albeit i know him well, and i hear that he is sore troubled of his sorrow and mis-ease. natheless, please god, i will have vengeance of him or ever he departeth from the castle whither he goeth to harbour. he made marry perforce a knight that loved me better than aught beside, and to a damsel that he loved not a whit. and so much might he still better perceive when he saw that she ate not at his table, but was seated along with the squires, and that none did aught for her at the castle. but the knight will not abandon her for his own honour, and for that i should be blamed thereof." the evening draweth on and lancelot goeth toward the castle, that was right uneath to find and in an unfrequented part. he espieth it at the head of the forest, and seeth that it is large and strong, with strong barbicans embattelled, and at the entrance of the gateway were fifteen heads of knights hanging. he found without a knight that came from the forest, and asked him what castle it was, and he made answer that it was called the castle of the griffon. "and why are these heads hanging at this door?" "sir," saith he, "the daughter of the lord of the castle is the fairest in the world and that is known in any kingdom, and needs must she be offered to wife to all knights that harbour within. he that can draw a sword that is fixed in a column in the midst of the hall, and fetch it forth, he shall have her of right without forfeit." iii. "all these have made assay whose heads you see hanging at the door, but never might none of them remove the sword, and on this occasion were they beheaded. now is it said that none may draw it forth, unless he that draweth be better knight than another, and needs must he be one of them that have been at the graal. but, and you be minded to believe me, fair sir," saith the knight, "you will go elsewhither, for ill lodging is it in a place where one must needs set body and life in adventure of death, and none ought to be blamed for escaping from his own harm. sir, the castle is right fell, for it hath underground, at the issue of a cavern that is there, a lion and a griffon that have devoured more than half a hundred knights." "sir," saith lancelot, "it is evening, nor know i how i may go farther this day, for i know not whither i go sith that i know not the places nor the ways of the forest." "sir," saith the knight, "i speak only for your own good, and god grant you depart hence, honour safe." lancelot findeth the door of the castle all open, and entereth in all armed, and alighteth before the master-hall. the king was leaning at the windows, and biddeth stall his horse. iv. lancelot is entered into the hall, and findeth knights and damsels at the tables and playing at the chess, but none did he find to salute him nor make him cheer of his coming save the lord only, for such was the custom of the castle. the lord bade him be disarmed. "sir," saith he, "right well may you allow me wear my arms, for they be the fairest garniture and the richest i have." "sir," saith the lord of the castle, "no knight eateth armed within yonder, but he that cometh armed in hither disarmeth himself by my leave. he may take his arms again without gainsay, so neither i nor other desire to do him a hurt." with that two squires disarm him. the lord of the castle maketh bring a right rich robe wherein to apparel him. the tables were set and the meats served. the damsel issued forth of her chamber and was accompanied of two knights as far as the hall. she looketh at lancelot, and seeth that he is a right comely knight, and much liketh her of his bearing and countenance, and she thinketh to herself that sore pity would it be so comely knight should have his head smitten off. v. lancelot saluted the damsel and made great cheer, and when they had eaten in hall, forthwith behold you, the damsel where she cometh that lancelot overtook in the forest with the knight. "sir," saith she to the lord of the castle, "you have harboured this night your deadly enemy that slew your brother at the waste manor." "by my faith," saith the lord of the manor, "i think not so, for him would i not have harboured, nor will i not believe it for true until such time as i have proved it. sir," saith he to lancelot, "make the demand that the others make!" "what is it?" saith lancelot. "see there my daughter! ask her of me, and if you be such as you ought to be, i will give her to you." "sir," saith lancelot, "no knight is there in the world so good but ought to plume him upon having her to wife, so always she were willing, and, so i thought that you would be willing to give her to me, i would willingly ask you." lancelot spake otherwise than as he thought, for the departing of the queen and the sorrow thereof lay so at his heart that never again might he lean upon any love in the world, neither of dame nor damsel. he asked his daughter of the knight of the castle, and came before him to save the custom so that he might not have blame thereof. and he showed him the sword that is in the column, all inlaid with gold. "go," saith he, "and fulfil the custom, as other knights have done." "what is it?" saith lancelot. "they might not draw forth the sword from this column, and so failed of my daughter and of their lives." "lord god," saith lancelot, "defend me from this custom!" and he cometh toward the column as fast as he may, and seizeth the sword with both hands. so soon as he touched it, the sword draweth it forth with such a wrench that the column quaked thereof. the damsel was right joyful thereat, albeit she misdoubted the fellness and cruelty of her father, for never yet had she seen knight that pleased her so much to love as he. "sir," saith the other damsel, "i tell you plainly, this is lancelot, the outrageous, that slew your brother. natheless, is it no lie that he is one of the best knights of the world, albeit by the stoutness of his knighthood and his valour many an outrage hath he done, and more shall he yet do and he escape you, and, so you will believe me, you will never allow him to depart thus; sith that and you kill him or slay him you will save the life of many a knight." the daughter of the lord of the castle is sore displeased of the damsel for this that she saith, and looketh at lancelot from time to time and sigheth, but more durst she not do. much marvelleth she, sith that lancelot hath drawn the sword forth of the column, that he asketh her not of her father as his own liege woman, but he was thinking of another thing, and never was he so sorrowful of any lady as he was for the queen. but whatsoever thought or desire he may have therein, he telleth the lord of the castle that he holdeth him to his covenant made at such time as the sword was still fixed in the column. "i have a right not to hold thereto," saith the lord of the castle, "nor shall i break not my vow and i fail you herein; for no man is bound to give his daughter to his mortal enemy. sith that you have slain my brother, you are my mortal enemy, and were i to give her to you, she ought not to wish it, and were she to grant you her love she would be a fool and a madwoman." right sorrowful is the damsel or this that she heareth her father say. she would fain that lancelot and she were in the forest, right in the depth thereof. but lancelot had no mind to be as she was thinking. the lord of the castle made guard the gateway of the castle well, in such sort that lancelot might issue therefrom on no side. afterward he bade his knights privily that they take heed on their lives that they be all ready on the morrow and all garnished of their arms, for that it was his purpose to smite off lancelot's head and hang it above all the others. vi. the daughter of the lord knew these tidings and was right sorrowful thereof, for she thinketh never more to have joy at heart and he shall be slain in such manner. she sendeth him greeting by her own privy messenger, as she that loveth him better than aught else living in the world, and so biddeth and prayeth him be garnished of his arms, and ready to protect his life, for that her father is fain to smite off his head. "sir," saith the messenger, "your force would avail you nought as against my lord, for to-morrow there will be a dozen knights all armed at the issue of the gate whereby you entered to-night, and he saith that he purposeth to cut off your head there where he cut the heads off the other knights. without the gate there will likewise be another dozen knights all armed. no knight is there in the world so good as that he might issue forth of this castle through the midst of these four and twenty knights, but my lady sendeth you word that there is a cavern under this castle that goeth therefrom underground as far as the forest, so that a knight may well pass thereby all armed, but there is therein a lion, the fiercest and most horrible in the world, and two serpents that are called griffons, that have the face of a man and the beaks of birds and eyes of an owl and teeth of a dog and ears of an ass and feet of a lion and tail of a serpent, and they have couched them therewithin, but never saw no man beasts so fell and felonous. wherefore the damsel biddeth you go by that way, by everything that you have ever loved, and that you fail her not, for she would fain speak with you at the issue of the cavern in an orchard that is nigh a right broad river not far from this castle, and will make your destrier be brought after you underground." "by my head," saith lancelot, "and she had not conjured me in such sort, and were it not for love of herself, i would have rather set myself in hazard with the knights than with the wild beasts, for far father would i have delivered myself from them, and so i might, than go forth in such-wise." "she sendeth you word," saith the messenger, "that so you do not thus, no further trouble will she take concerning you. she doth it of dread lest she lose your love; and here behold a brachet that she sendeth you by me that you will carry with you into the cavern. so soon as you shalt see the serpent griffons that have couched them therein, you shall show them this and cast her down before them. the griffons love her as much as one beast may love another, and shall have such joy and such desire to play with the brachet that they will leave you alone, and have such good will toward you that they will not look at you after to do you any hurt. but no man is there in the world, no matter how well soever he were armed, nor how puissant soever he were in himself, might never pass them otherwise, but he should be devoured of them. but no safeguard may you have as against the lion but of god only and your own hardiment." "tell my damsel," saith lancelot, "that all her commandment will i do, but this cowardize resembleth none other, that i shall go fight with beasts and leave to do battle with knights." this was then repeated to the damsel, that marvelled her much thereat, and said that he was the hardiest knight in the world. vii. lancelot armed him toward daybreak, and had his sword girt, his shield at his neck, and his spear in his hand. so he entered into the cavern, all shamefast, and the brachet followeth after, that he deigned not to carry, and so cometh he to the place where the griffons were. so soon as they heard him coming they dress them on their feet, and then writhe along as serpents, then cast forth such fire, and so bright a flame amidst the rock, as that all the cavern is lighted up thereof, and they see by the brightness of light of their jaws the brachet coming. so soon as they have espied her, they carry her in their claws and make her the greatest cheer in the world. lancelot passeth beyond without gainsay, and espieth, toward the issue of the cavern, the lion that was come from the forest all famished. he cometh thither right hardily, sword drawn. the lion cometh toward him, jaws yawning, and claws bared, thinking to fix them in his habergeon, but lancelot preventeth him and smiteth him so stoutly that he cutteth off thigh and leg together. when the lion feeleth himself thus maimed, he seizeth him by the teeth and the claws of his fore feet and rendeth away half the skirt of his habergeon. thereupon lancelot waxeth wroth. he casteth his shield to the ground and approacheth the lion closer. he seeth that he openeth his jaws wide to avenge himself, and thrusteth his sword the straightest he may into his gullet, and the lion giveth out a roar and falleth dead. the damsel, that had come into the cavern, heareth that the lion is dead. viii. lancelot issued forth and so cometh into the orchard beside the forest, and wiped his sword on the freshness of the green grass. thereupon behold you the damsel that cometh. "sir," saith she to lancelot, "are you wounded in any place?" "damsel, nowhere, thank god!" another damsel leadeth a horse into the orchard. the damsel of the castle looketh at lancelot. "sir," saith the damsel, "meseemeth that you are not over joyous." "damsel," saith he, "if i be not, i have good right, for i have lost the thing in the world that most i loved." "and you have won me," saith she, "so you remain not here, that am the fairest damsel in this kingdom, and i have saved you your life for this, that you grant me your love, for mine own would i fain give unto you." "gramercy, damsel," saith lancelot, "your love and your good will fain would i have; but neither you nor none other damsel ought not to have affiance in me, and i might so soon set carelessly aside the love to whom my heart owed its obedience, for the worthiness and the courtesy that were lodged in her. nor never hereafter, so long as i live, shall i love none other in like manner; wherefore all others commend i to god, and to yourself, as for leave-taking to one at whose service i fain would be; i say that if you shall have need of me, and so i be in place and free, i will do all i may to protect your honour." ix. "ha, god!" saith the damsel, "how am i betrayed, sith that i am parted from the best knight in the world! lancelot, you have done that which never yet no knight might do! now am i grieved that you should escape on such wise, and that your life hath been saved in this manner by me. better should i love you mine own dead, than another's living. now would i fain that you had had your head smitten off, and that it were hanging with the others! so would i solace myself by beholding it!" lancelot took no account of that he heard, for the grief that lay at his heart of the queen. he mounteth on his horse and issueth forth of the orchard by a postern gate, and entereth into the forest, and commendeth him to god. the lord of the castle of the griffons marvelleth much that lancelot delayeth so long. he thinketh that he durst not come down, and saith to his knights, "let us go up and cut off his head, sith that he durst not come down." he maketh search for him all through the hall and the chambers, but findeth him not. "he hath gone," saith he, "through the cavern, so have the griffons devoured him." so he sendeth the twain most hardy of his knights to see. but the brachet had returned after the damsel, whereof the griffons were wroth, and they forthwith seized on the two knights that entered into their cavern and slew them and devoured. x. when the lord of the castle knew it, he went into the chamber where his daughter was, and found her weeping, and thinketh that it is for the two knights that are dead. news is brought him that the lion is dead at the issue of the cavern, and thereby well knoweth he that lancelot is gone. he biddeth his knights follow after him, but none was there so hardy as that he durst follow. the damsel was right fain they should go after him, if only they might bring him back to the castle, for so mortally was she taken of his love that she thought of none other thing. but lancelot had her not in remembrance, but only another, and rode on sadly right amidst the forest, and looked from time to time at the rent the lion had made in his habergeon. he rideth until he is come toward evening to a great valley where was forest on the one side and the other, and the valley stretched onward half a score great leagues welsh. he looketh to the right, and on the top of the mountain beside the valley he seeth a chapel newly builded that was right fair and rich, and it was covered of lead, and had at the back two quoins that seemed to be of gold. by the side of this chapel were three houses dight right richly, each standing by itself facing the chapel. there was a right fair grave-yard round about the chapel, that was enclosed at the compass of the forest, and a spring came down, full clear, from the heights of the forest before the chapel and ran into the valley with a great rushing; and each of the houses had its own orchard, and the orchard an enclosure. lancelot heareth vespers being chanted in the chapel, and seeth the path that turned thitherward, but the mountain is so rugged that he could not go along it on horseback. so he alighteth and leadeth his horse after him by the reins until he cometh nigh the chapel. xi. there were three hermits therewithin that had sung their vespers, and came over against lancelot. they bowed their heads to him and he saluted them, and then asked of them what place was this? and they told him that the place there was avalon. they make stable his horse. he left his arms without the chapel and entereth therein, and saith that never hath he seen none so fair nor so rich. there were within three other places, right fair and seemly dight of rich cloths of silk and rich corners and fringes of gold. he seeth the images and the crucifixes all newly fashioned, and the chapel illumined of rich colours; and moreover in the midst thereof were two coffins, one against the other, and at the four corners four tall wax tapers burning, that were right rich, in four right rich candlesticks. the coffins were covered with two pails, and there were clerks that chanted psalms in turn on the one side and the other. "sir," saith lancelot to one of the hermits, "for whom were these coffins made?" "for king arthur and queen guenievre." "king arthur is not yet dead," saith lancelot. "no, in truth, please god! but the body of the queen lieth in the coffin before us and in the other is the head of her son, until such time as the king shall be ended, unto whom god grant long life! but the queen bade at her death that his body should be set beside her own when he shall end. hereof have we the letters and her seal in this chapel, and this place made she be builded new on this wise or ever she died." xi. when lancelot heareth that it is the queen that lieth in the coffin, he is so straitened in his heart and in his speech that never a word may he say. but no semblant of grief durst he make other than such as might not be perceived, and right great comfort to him was it that there was an image of our lady at the head of the coffin. he knelt down the nighest he might to the coffin, as it had been to worship the image, and set his race and his mouth to the stone of the coffin, and sorroweth for her right sweetly. "ha, lady," saith he, "but that i dread the blame of the people, never again would i seek to depart from this place, but here would i save my soul and pray for yours; so would it be much recomforting to me that i should be so nigh, and should see the sepulchre wherein your body lieth that had so great sweetness and bounty. god grant me of your pleasure, that at my death i may still be a-nigh, and that i may die in such manner and in such place as that i may be shrouded and buried in this holy chapel where this body lieth." the night cometh on. a clerk cometh to the hermits and saith, "never yet did no knight cry mercy of god so sweetly, nor of his sweet mother, as did this knight that is in the chapel." and the hermits make answer that knights for the most part do well believe in god. they come to the chapel for him and bid him come thence, for that meat is ready and he should come to eat, and after that go to sleep and rest, for it is full time so to do. he telleth them that as for his eating this day it is stark nought, for a desire and a will hath taken him to keep vigil in the chapel before one of the images of our lady. no wish had he once to depart thence before the day, and he would fain that the night should last far longer than it did. the good men durst not force him against his will; they say, rather, that the worshipful man is of good life who will keep watch in such manner throughout the night without drink or meat, for all that he seemeth to be right weary. xiii. lancelot was in the chapel until the morrow before the tomb. the hermits apparelled them to do the service that they chanted each day, mass for the soul of the queen and her son. lancelot heareth them with right good will. when the masses were sung, he taketh leave of the hermits and looketh at the coffin right tenderly. he commendeth the body that lieth therein to god and his sweet mother; then findeth he without the chapel his horse accoutred ready, and mounteth forthwith, and departeth, and looketh at the place and the chapel so long as he may see them. he hath ridden so far that he is come nigh cardoil, and findeth the land wasted and desolate, and the towns burnt, whereof is he sore grieved. he meeteth a knight that came from that part, and he was wounded full sore. lancelot asketh him whence he cometh, and he saith, "sir, from towards cardoil. kay the seneschal, with two other knights, is leading away messire ywain li aoutres toward the castle of the hard rock. i thought to help to rescue him, but they have wounded me in such sort as you see." "are they ever so far away?" saith lancelot. "sir, they will pass just now at the head of this forest; and so you are fain to go thither, i will return with you right willingly and help you to the best i may." lancelot smiteth his horse with the spurs forthwith, and the knight after him, and espieth kay the seneschal, that was bringing messire ywain along at a great pace, and had set him upon a trotting hackney, for so he thought that none would know him. lancelot overtaketh him and crieth, "by my head, kay the seneschal, shame had you enough of that you did to king arthur when you slew his son, and as much more ought you now to have of thus warring upon him again!" he smiteth his horse of his spurs, lance in rest, and kay the seneschal turneth toward him, and they mell together with their spears on their shields, and pierce them in such sort that an ells-length of each shaft passeth through beyond. xiv. the lances were strong so as that they brast not. they draw them back to themselves so stoutly and come together so fiercely that their horses stagger and they lose the stirrups. lancelot catcheth kay the seneschal at the passing beyond, in the midst of the breast, and thrusteth his spear into him so far that the point remained in the flesh, and kay to-brast his own; and sore grieved was he when he felt himself wounded. the knight that was wounded overthrew one of the two knights. kay is on the ground, and lancelot taketh his horse and setteth messire ywain li aoutres thereupon, that was right sore wounded so as that he scarce might bear it. kay the seneschal maketh his knight remount, and holdeth his sword grasped in his fist as though he had been stark wood. lancelot seeth the two knights sore badly wounded, and thinketh that and he stay longer they may remain on the field. he maketh them go before him, and kay the seneschal followeth them behind, himself the third knight, that is right wroth of the wound he feeleth and the blood that he seeth. lancelot bringeth off his knights like as the wild-boar goeth among the dogs, and kay dealeth him great buffets of his sword when he may catch him, and lancelot him again, and so they depart, fencing in such sort. xv. when kay the seneschal seeth that he may not harm him, he turneth him back, full of great wrath, and his heart pricketh to avenge him thereof and he may get at him, for he is the knight of the court that most he hateth. he is come back to the castle of the hard rock. briant of the isles asketh him who hath wounded him in such sort, and he telleth him that he was bringing thither ywain li aoutres when lancelot rescued him. "and the king," saith briant, "is he repaired thither?" "i have heard no tidings of him at all," saith kay, "for no leisure had i to ask of any." briant and his knights take much thought as concerning lancelot's coming, for they are well persuaded that lancelot hath come for that the king is dead and messire gawain, whereof they make right great joy. kay the seneschal maketh him be disarmed and his wound searched. they tell him he need not fear it shall be his death, but that he is right sore wounded. xvi. lancelot is entered into the castle of cardoil, and his wounded knights withal, and findeth the folk in sore dismay. great dole make they in many places and much lamentation for king arthur, and say that now nevermore may they look for succeur to none, and he be dead and messire gawain. but they give lancelot joy of that he hath rescued messire ywain li aoutres, and were so somewhat comforted and made great cheer. the tidings thereof came to the knights that were in the castle, and they all come forward to meet him save they that were wounded, and so led him up to the castle, and messire ywain with him and the other knight that was wounded. all the knights of the castle were right glad, and ask him tidings of king arthur, and whether he were dead or no. and lancelot telleth them that he was departed from him at the palace meadow, where he won the white destrier and the crown of gold there where the tidings were brought to him that queen guinievre was dead. xvii. "then you tell us of a truth that the king is on live, and messire gawain?" "both, you may be certain!" saith lancelot. thereupon were they gladder than before. they told him of their own mischance, how briant of the isles had put them to the worse, and how kay the seneschal was with him to do them hurt. for he it is that taketh most pains to do them evil. "by my head," saith lancelot, "kay the seneschal ought of right to take heed and with-hold him from doing you ill, but he departed from the field with the point of my spear in him when i rescued messire ywain." xviii. the knights are much comforted of the coming of lancelot, but he is much grieved that he findeth so many of them wounded. meliant of the waste manor is at the castle of the hard rock, and good fellow is it betwixt him and kay the seneschal. he is right glad of the tidings he hath heard, that lancelot is come, and saith that he is the knight of the world that most he hateth, and that he will avenge him of his father and he may meet him. there come before the castle of cardoil one day threescore knights armed, and they seize upon their booty betwixt the castle and the forest. lancelot issueth forth all armed, and seven of the best of the castle with him. he cometh upon them after that they have led away their plunder. he overtaketh one knight and smiteth him with his spear right through the body, and the other knights make an onset upon the others and many to-brake their spears, and much clashing was there of steel on armour; and there fell at the assembly on one side and the other full a score knights, whereof some were wounded right sore. meliant of the waste manor espied lancelot, and right great joy made he of seeing him, and smiteth him so stout a buffet on the shield that he to-breaketh his spear. xix. lancelot smiteth him amidst the breast so grimly that he maketh him bend backwards over the saddle behind, and so beareth him to the ground, legs uppermost, over his horse's croup, and trampleth him under his horse's feet. lancelot was minded to alight to the ground to take him, but briant of the isles cometh and maketh him mount again perforce. the numbers grew on the one side and the other of knights that came from cardoil and from the hard rock. right great was the frushing of lances and the clashing of swords and the overthrow of horses and knights. briant of the isles and lancelot come against each other so stoutly that they pierce their shields and cleave their habergeons, and they thrust with their spears so that the flesh is broken under the ribs and the shafts are all-to-splintered. they hurtle against each other so grimly at the by-passing that their eyes sparkle as it were of stars in their heads, and the horses stagger under them. they hold their swords drawn, and so return the one toward the other like lions. such buffets deal they upon their helms that they beat them in and make the fire leap out by the force of the smiting of iron by steel. and meliant cometh all armed toward lancelot to aid briant of the isles, but lucan the butler cometh to meet him, and smiteth him with his spear so stoutly that he thrusteth it right through his shield and twisteth his arm gainst his side. he breaketh his spear at the by-passing, and meliant also breaketh his, but he was wounded passing sore. xx. thereupon he seizeth him by the bridle and thinketh to lead him away, but the knights and the force of briant rescue him. the clashing of arms lasted great space betwixt briant of the isles and lancelot, and each was mightily wrath for that each was wounded. either seized other many times by the bridle, and each was right fain to lead the other to his own hold, but the force of knights on the one side and the other disparted them asunder. thus the stour lasted until evening, until that the night sundered them. but briant had nought to boast of at departing, for lancelot and his men carried off four of his by force right sore wounded, besides them that remained dead on the field. briant of the isles and meliant betook them back all sorrowful for their knights that are taken and dead. lancelot cometh back to cardoil, and they of the castle make him right great joy of the knights that they bring taken, and say that the coming of the good knight lancelot should be great comfort to them until such time as king arthur should repair back and messire gawain. the wounded knights that were in the castle turned to healing of their wounds, whereof was lancelot right glad. they were as many as five and thirty within the castle. of all the king's knights were there no more save lancelot and the wounded knight that he brought along with him. branch xxv. title i. here the story is silent of lancelot and the knights that are at cardoil, and saith that king arthur and messire gawain are in the castle where the priest told messire gawain how he was born. but they cannot depart thence at their will, for ahuret the bastard that was brother of nabigant of the rock, that messire gawain slew on account of meliot of logres, knoweth well that they are therewithin, and hath assembled his knights and holdeth them within so strait that they may not depart without sore damage. for he hath on the outer side a full great plenty of knights, and the king and messire gawain have with them but only five of the forest and the country that are upon their side, and they hold them so strait within that they may not issue out from thence; yea, the brother of nabigant sweareth that they shall not depart thence until such time as he shall have taken messire gawain, and taken vengeance on his fellow of his brother whom he slew. the king saith to messire gawain that he hath much shame of this that they are so long shut up therewithin, and that he better loveth to die with honour than to live with shame within the castle. so they issued forth, spears in rest, and ahuret and his knights, whereof was there great plenty, made much joy thereat. ii. the king and messire gawain strike among them, and each overthroweth his man; but ahuret hath great shame of this that he seeth his knights put to the worse by so few folk. he setteth his spear in rest and smiteth one of king arthur's knights through the body and beareth him down dead. then returneth he to messire gawain, and buffeteth him so strongly that he pierceth his shield, but he maketh drop his own spear and loseth his stirrups, and messire gawain waxeth wroth and smiteth him so grimly and with such force that he maketh him bend back over the hinder bow of his saddle. but ahuret was strong and of great might, and leapeth back between the bows and cometh toward king arthur that he saw before him, but he knew him not. he left messire gawain, and the king smiteth him with such a sweep that he cutteth off his arm, spear and all. there was great force of knights, so that they ran upon them on all sides; and never would they have departed thence sound and whole, but that thereupon meliot of logres cometh thither with fifteen knights, for that he had heard tidings of messire gawain, how he was besieged in a castle there, where he and king arthur between them were in such plight that they had lost their five knights, so that they were not but only two that defended themselves as best they might, as they that had no thought but to remain there, for the odds of two knights against thirty was too great. iii. thereupon, behold you, meliot of logres with fifteen knights, and they come thither where the king and messire gawain are in such jeopardy, and they strike so stoutly among them that they rescue king arthur and messire gawain from them that had taken them by the bridle, and so slay full as many as ten of them, and put the others to flight, and lead away their lord sore maimed. and messire gawain giveth meliot much thanks of the bounty he hath done, whereby he hath saved them their lives; and he giveth him the castle, and is fain that he hold it of him, for in no place might he have better employment, and that well hath he deserved it of his service in such need. meliot thanketh him much, and prayeth messire gawain instantly that and he shall have need of succour he will come to aid him, in like manner as he would do by him everywhere. and messire gawain telleth him that as of this needeth him not to make prayer, for that he is one of the knights of the world that most he ought of right to love. the king and messire gawain take leave of meliot, and so depart, and meliot garnisheth the castle that was right fair and rich and well-seated. branch xxvi. title i. of meliot the story is here silent, and saith that king arthur and messire gawain have ridden so far that they are come into the isle of avalon, there where the queen lieth. they lodge the night with the hermits, that made them right great cheer. but you may well say that the king is no whit joyful when he seeth the coffin where the queen lieth and that wherein the head of his son lieth. thereof is his dole renewed, and he saith that this holy place of this holy chapel ought he of right to love better than all other places on earth. they depart on the morrow when they have heard mass. the king goeth the quickest he may toward cardoil, and findeth the land wasted and desolate in many places, whereof is he right sorrowful, and understandeth that kay the seneschal warreth upon him with the others. he marvelleth much how he durst do it. he is come to cardoil. when they of the castle know it they come to meet him with right great cheer. the tidings went throughout all the land, and they of the country were right joyous thereof, for the more part believed that he was dead. they of the castle of the hard rock knew it, but little rejoiced they thereat. but kay the seneschal was whole of his wound and bethought him that great folly would he do to remain longer there to war upon the king, for well knew he that and the king held him and did that which he had proclaimed, his end were come. he departeth from the castle, where he had sojourned of a long while, and crossed again stealthily over-sea, and came into little britain, and made fast a castle for fear of the king, that is called chinon, and was there long time, without the king warring upon him, for enough adventures had he in other parts. ii. to cardoil was the king repaired and messire gawain. you may well understand that the land was much rejoiced thereof, and that all the knights were greatly comforted, and knights came back to the court from all parts. they that had been wounded were whole again. briant of the isles stinted not of his pride nor of his outrage, but rather stirred up the war the most he might, he and meliant still more, and said that never would he cease therefrom until death, nor never would he have rest until such time as he should have vengeance of lancelot. the king was one day at cardoil at meat, and there was in the hall great throng of knights, and messire gawain sate beside the king. lancelot sate at the table, and messire ywain the son of king urien, and sagramors li desirous, and ywain li aoutres, and many more other knights round about the table, but there were not so many as there wont to be. messire lucan the butler served before the king of the golden cup. the king looked round about the table and remembered him of the queen. he was bent upon thinking rather than on eating, and saw that his court was much wasted and worsened of her death. and what time the king was musing in such sort, behold you a knight come into the hall all armed before the king; and he leaneth on the staff of his spear. "sir," saith the knight, "listen, so please you, to me, and all these others, listen! madeglant of oriande sendeth me here to you, and commandeth that you yield up the table round to him, for sith that the queen is dead, you have no right thereof, for he is her next of kin and he that hath the best right to have and to hold it; and, so you do not this, you he defieth as the man that disinheriteth him, for he is your enemy in two manner of ways, for the table round that you hold by wrong, and for the new law that you hold. but he sendeth you word by me, that so you will renounce your belief and take queen jandree his sister, that he will cry you quit as of the table round and will be of your aid everywhere. but and if you do not this, have never affiance in him. and so sendeth he word to you by me!" iii. therewith the knight departeth, and the king remaineth all heavy in thought, and when they had eaten, he rose from the tables and all the knights. he speaketh to messire gawain and lancelot, and taketh counsel with all the others. "sir," saith messire gawain, "you will defend yourself the best you may, and we will help you to smite your enemies. great britain is all at your will. you have not as yet lost any castle. nought hath been broken down nor burnt but open ground and cottages and houses, whereof is no great harm done to yourself, and the shame thereof may lightly be amended. king madeglant is of great hardiment as of words, but in arms will he not vanquish you so soon. if that he warreth upon you toward the west, send thither one of the best knights of your court that may maintain the war and defend the land against him." iv. the king sojourned at cardoil of a long space. he believed in god and his sweet mother right well. he brought thither from the castle where the graal was the pattern whereby chalices should be made, and commanded make them throughout all the land so as that the saviour of the world should be served more worshipfully. he commanded also that bells be cast throughout his land after the fashion of the one he had brought, and that each church should have one according to the means thereof. this much pleased the people of his kingdom, for thereby was the land somewhat amended. the tidings came to him one day that briant and meliant were riding through his land with great routs of folk, and were minded to assiege pannenoisance; and the king issued forth of cardoil with great throng of knights all armed, and rode until he espied briant and his people, and briant him again. they ranged their battles on both sides, and came together with such might and so great a shock as that it seemed the earth shook; and they melled together at the assembly with their spears so passing grimly as that the frushing thereof might be heard right far away. some fourteen fell in the assembly that rose up again never more. meliant of the waste manor searcheth for lancelot in the midst of the stour until he findeth him, and runneth upon him right sturdily and pierceth his shield with his spear. lancelot smiteth him such a sweep amidst the breast, that he thrusteth his spear right through his shoulder, and pinneth him so strongly that the shaft is all to-brast, and the end thereof remaineth in his body. and meliant, all stricken through as he is, runneth upon him and passeth his spear right through the shield and through the arm, in such sort that he pinneth it to his side. he passeth beyond and breaketh his spear, and afterward returneth to lancelot, sword in fist, and dealeth him a buffet on the helm so grimly that he all to-battered it in. lancelot waxeth right wroth thereof, and he grieveth the more for that he feeleth him wounded. he cometh toward meliant, sword drawn, and holding him well under cover of his shield and cover of his helm, and smiteth meliant so fiercely that he cleaveth his shoulder down to the rib in such sort that the end of the spear wherewith he had pierced him fell out therefrom. meliant felt himself wounded to the death, and draweth him back all sorrowful, and other knights run upon lancelot and deliver assault. messire ywain and sagramors li desirous and messire gawain were on the other side in great jeopardy, for the people of briant of the isles came from all parts, and waxed more and more, and on all sides the greater number of knights had the upper hand therein. king arthur and briant of the isles were in the midst of the battle, and dealt each other right great buffets. briant's people come thither and take king arthur by the bridle, and the king defendeth himself as a good knight, and maketh a ring about him amongst them that attack him, the same as doth a wild boar amongst the dogs. messire ywain is come thither and lucan the butler, and break through the press by force. thereupon, behold you sagramors li desirous, that cometh as fast as his horse may gallop under him, and smiteth briant of the isles right before his people with such a rush that he beareth him to the ground in a heap, both him and his horse. briant to-brast his thigh bone in the fall that he made. sagramors holdeth sword drawn and would fain have thrust it into his body, when the king crieth to him that he slay him not. v. briant's people were not able to succour their lord. nay, rather, they drew back on all sides, for the stout had lasted of a long space. so they tended the dead and the wounded, of whom were enough on one side and the other. king arthur made carry briant of the isles to cardoil, and bring along the other knights that his own knights had taken. right joyous were the folks at cardoil when the king came back. they bore meliant of the waste manor on his shield to the hard rock, but he scarce lived after. the king made briant of the isles be healed, and held him in prison of a long while, until briant gave him surety of all his lands and became his man. the king made him seneschal of all his lands, and briant served him right well. vi. lancelot was whole of his wound, and all the knights of theirs. king arthur was safely stablished, and redoubted and dreaded of all lands and of his own land like as he wont to be. briant hath forgotten all that is past, and is obedient to the king's commands and more privy is he of his counsel than ever another of the knights, insomuch that he put the others somewhat back, whereof had they much misliking. the felony of kay the seneschal lay very nigh the king's heart, and he said that and any would take vengeance upon him for the same, greatly would he love him thereof, for so disloyally hath he wrought against him that he durst not let the matter be slurred over; and a sore misfortune is it for the world when a man of so poor estate hath slain so high a man as his son for no misdeed, and that strangers ought by as good right as they that knew him or himself take vengeance upon him thereof, so that others might be adread of doing such disloyalty. vii. briant was feared and redoubted throughout all great britain. king arthur had told them that they were all to be at his commandment. and one day while the king was at cardoil, behold you a damsel that cometh into the hail and saith unto him: "sir, queen jandree hath sent me over to you, and biddeth you do that whereof her brother sent you word by his knight. she is minded to be lady and queen of your land, and that you take her to wife, for of high lineage is she and of great power, wherefore she biddeth you by me that you renounce the new law and that you believe in the god in whom she believeth, and, so you do not this, you may not have affiance in your land, for king madeglant hath as now made ready his host to enter into the chief of your land, and hath sworn his oath that he will not end until he shall have passed all the borders of the isles that march upon your land, and shall come upon great britain with all his strength, and so seize the table round that ought to be his own of right. and my lady herself would come hither but for one thing, to wit, that she hath in her such disdain of them that believe in the new law, that she deigneth not behold none of them, for, so soon as she was stablished queen, made she her eyes be covered for that she would not look upon none that were of that believe. but the gods wherein she believeth did so much for her, for that she loveth and worshippeth them, that she may discover her eyes and her face, and yet see not at all, whereof is she right glad, for that the eyes in her head are beautiful and gentle. but great affiance hath she in her brother, that is mighty and puissant, for he hath her in covenant that he will destroy all them that believe in the new law, in all places where he may get at them, and, when he shall have destroyed them in great britain and the other islands, so that my lady might not see none therein, so well is she with the gods wherein she believeth, that she will have her sight again all whole nor until that hour is she fain to see nought." viii. "damsel," saith the king, "i have heard well that which you tell me of this that you have in charge to say; but tell your lady on my behalf, that the law which the saviour of the world hath established by his death and by his crucifixion never will i renounce, for the love that i have in him. but tell her that she believe in god and in his sweet mother, and that she believe in the new law, for by the false believe wherein she abideth is she blinded in such sort, nor never will she see clear until she believe in god. tell her moreover, i send her word that never more shall there be queen in my land save she be of like worth as was queen guenievre." "then i tell you plainly," saith she, "that you will have betimes such tidings as that good for you they will not be." the damsel departeth from cardoil, and cometh back to where the queen was, and telleth her the message king arthur sendeth her. "true," saith she, "i love him better than all in the world, and yet refuseth he my will and my commandment. now may he no longer endure!" she sendeth to her brother king madeglant, and telleth him that she herself doth defy him and he take not vengeance on king arthur and bring him not into prison. branch xxvii. title i. this history saith that the land of this king was full far away from the land of king arthur, and that needs must he pass two seas or ever he should approach the first head of king arthur's land. he arrived in albanie with great force of men with a great navy. when they of the land knew it, they garnished them against him and defended their lands the best they might; then they sent word to king arthur that king madeglant was come in such manner into the land, with great plenty of folk, and that he should come presently to succour them or send them a knight so good as that he might protect them, and that in case he doth not so, the land will be lost. when king arthur understood these tidings, it was not well with him. he asked his knights whom he might send thither. and they say, let him send lancelot thither, for that he is a worthy knight and a kingly, and much understandeth of war, and hath in him as much loyalty as hath ever another that they know. the king maketh him come before him. ii. "lancelot," saith the king, "such affiance have i in you and in your knighthood, that it is my will to send you to the furthest corner of my land, to protect it, with the approval of my knights, wherefore i pray and require you that you do your power herein as many a time have you done already in my service. and i will give you in command forty knights." "sir," saith lancelot, "against your will am i not minded to be, but in your court are there other knights full as good, or better than i, whom you might well send thither. but i would not that you should hold this of cowardize in me, and right willingly will i do your pleasure, for none ought i to serve more willingly than you." the king giveth him much thanks of this that he saith. lancelot departeth from the court, and taketh forty knights with him, and so cometh into the land of albanie where king madeglant hath arrived. when they of the land knew that lancelot was come, great joy had they thereof in their hearts, for ofttimes had they heard tell of him and of his good knighthood. they were all at his commandment, and received him as their champion and protector. iii. king madeglant one day issued forth of his ships to do battle against lancelot and them of the land. lancelot received him right stoutly, and slew many of his folk, and the more part fled and would fain have drawn them to their ships, but lancelot and his people went after and cut a part of them to pieces. king madeglant, with as many of his men as he might, betaketh himself to his own ship privily, and maketh put to sea the soonest he may. they that might not come to the ships remained on dry land, and were so cut up and slain. madeglant went his way discomfited. of ten ships full of men that he had brought he took back with him but two. the land was in peace and assured in safety. lancelot remained there of a long space. they of the country loved him much and gave themselves great joy of his valour and his great bounty, insomuch that most of them say ofttimes that they would fain have such a knight as was he for king, by the goodwill of king arthur, for that the land is too far away; but and if he would set there a knight or other man that might protect the land, they would take it in right good part, and he should hold the land of him, for they might not safeguard it at their will without a champion, for that land without a lord may but little avail. they of the land loved lancelot well, as i tell you. king arthur was at cardoil, and so were his knights together with him. he thought to be assured in his kingdom and to live peaceably; but what time he sate at meat one day in cardoil, behold you thereupon a knight that cometh before the table round without saluting him. "sir," saith he, "where is lancelot?" "sir," saith the king to the knight, "he is not in this country." "by my head," saith the knight, "that misliketh me. wheresoever he be, he is your knight and of your household; wherefore king claudas sendeth you word that he is his mortal enemy, and you also, if so be that for love of him you receive him from this day forward, for he hath slain his sister's son, meliant of the waste manor, and he slew the father of meliant likewise, but the father belongeth not to king claudas. iv. meliant was the son of his sister-german, wherefore much grieveth he of his death." "sir knight," saith the king, "i know not how the covenant may be between them as of this that you tell me, but well know i that king claudas holdeth many a castle that king claudas ought not of right to have, whereof he disherited his father, but meet is it that each should conquer his own right. but so much i tell you plainly, that never will i fail mine own knight and he be such as durst defend himself of murder, but and if he hath no will to do this, then well may i allow that right be done upon him. but, sith that he will not love his own death, neither i nor other ought greatly to love him and he refuse to redress his wrong. when lancelot shall know these tidings, i know well that such is his valour and his loyalty that he will readily answer in reason, and will do all that he ought to do to clear himself of such a charge." "sir," saith the knight, "you have heard well that i have told you. once more, i tell you plainly, king claudas sendeth you word that so you harbour his enemy henceforward and in such manner as you have done heretofore, he will be less than pleased with you." v. with that the knight departeth, and the king remaineth at cardoil. he sendeth for briant of the isles, his seneschal, and a great part of his knights, and demandeth counsel of them what he may do. messire ywain saith that he killed meliant in the king's service, as one that warred upon his land, albeit the king had done him no wrong, and had so made common cause with the king's enemies without demanding right in his court. nor never had meliant appealed lancelot of murder nor of treason, nor required him of the death of his father. rather, lancelot slew him in open war, as one that warred upon his lord by wrong. "sir," saith messire ywain to the king, "howsoever lancelot might have wrought in respect of meliant, your land ought not to be called to account, for you were not in the kingdom, nor knew not that either had done other any wrong, and therefore say i that king claudas will do great wrong and he bring plaint or levy war against you on this account." "messire ywain," saith briant of the isles, "matter of common knowledge is it that lancelot slew the lord of the waste manor and meliant his son after the contention that was betwixt king arthur and me. but, after that he had slain the father, he ought of right to have taken good heed that he did no wrong to the son, but rather ought he to have sought peace and accord." vi. "briant," saith messire gawain, "lancelot is nor here; and, moreover, he is now on the king's business. well know you that meliant came to you and that you made him knight, and that thereafter he warred upon the king's land without reasonable occasion. the king was far away from the land as he that made pilgrimage to the graal. he was told tidings that his land was being put to the worse, and he sent lancelot to protect it. he accordingly maintained the war as best he might until such time as the king was returned. meliant knew well that the king was come back, and that never had he done wrong to none in his court that wished to demand right therein. he neither came thither nor sent, either to do right or to demand right, whether he did so for despite or whether it was for that he knew not how to do it. in the meanwhile he warred upon the king, that had never done him a wrong nor refused to do him a right. lancelot slew him in the king's war and upon his land in defence thereof. there was peace of the war, as was agreed on between you and the king, but and if any should therefore hold lancelot to blame of the death of meliant, meseemeth that therein is he wrong. for the others are not held to answer for them that they slew; but and if you wish to say that lancelot hath not slain him with reason, howsoever he may have wrought aforetime in respect of his father, i am ready to maintain his right by my body on behalf of his." vii. "messire gawain," saith briant of the isles, "you will not as at this time find none that will take up your gage on account of this affair, nor ought any to make enemies of his friends, nor ought you to counsel me so to do. king madeglant warreth upon him and king claudas maketh war upon him also. they will deliver attacks enough. but i should well allow, for the sake of saving his land and keeping his friends, that the king should suffer lancelot to remain at a distance from his court for one year, until tidings should have come to king claudas that he had been bidden leave thereof, so as that king arthur might have his good will and his love." sagramors li desirous leapeth forward. "briant of the isles," saith sagramors, "ill befall him that shall give such counsel to a lord or his knight, and the knight have well served his lord, albeit he may have slain in his wars a knight without murder and without treason, that he should give him his leave! right ill will lancelot hitherto have bestowed his services, and the king on this account give him his leave! after that, let king claudas come! let him lay waste and slay, and right great worship shall king arthur have thereof! i say not this for that lancelot hath need be afeared of king claudas body to body, nor of the best knight in his land, but many things befall whereof one taketh no heed; and so king arthur give leave to lancelot from his court, it will be counted unto him for cowardize, and neither i nor you nor other knight ought never more to have affiance in him." "lord," saith briant of the isles, "better would it avail the king to give lancelot leave for one year, than it would to fight for him ten years and have his land wasted and put to the worse." viii. thereupon, behold you! orguelleux of the launde come, that had not been at the court of a long time, and it had been told him whereof these words were. "briant," saith orguelleux of the launde, "evil fare the knight that would fain grieve and harm with their lord them that have served him well! sith that lancelot is not here, say nought of him that ought not to be said. the court of king arthur hath been as much renowned and made honoured by lancelot as by ever another knight that is in it, and, but for him, never would his court have been so redoubted as it is. for no knight is there so cruel to his foes nor so redoubted throughout all great britain as is lancelot, and, for that king arthur loveth you, make him not that he hate his knights, for such four or such six be there in his castle as may depart therefrom without returning, the loss whereof should scarce be made good by us. lancelot hath well served the king aforetime, and the king well knoweth how much he is worth; and if so be that king claudas purposeth to war on king arthur for lancelot's sake, according as i have heard, without any reason, and king arthur be not more craven than he wont to be, he may well abide his warfare and his strife so treason harm him not. for so many good knights hath king arthur yet, that none knoweth such knights nor such king in the world beside." branch xxviii. title i. this story saith that briant would have been wroth with a will against orguelleux of the launde, had it not been for the king, and orguelleux against him, for orguelleux heeded no danger when anger and ill-will carried him away. therewithal the talk came to an end. when the king learnt the tidings that madeglant was discomfited and that the land of albanie was in peace, he sent word to lancelot to return back. they of the land were very sorrowful when he departed, for great affiance had they in his chivalry. so he came back thither where king arthur was. all they of the land made a great joy, for well loved was he of many, nor were there none that hated him save of envy alone. they told him the tidings of king claudas, and also in what manner briant had spoken. lancelot took no notice outwardly, as he that well knew how to redress all his grievances. he was at the court of a long while, for that king claudas was about to send over thither some one of his knights. briant of the isles would fain that the king should have given him his leave, for more he hated him than ever another knight in the court, sith he it was that many a time had harmed him more than any other. by briant's counsel, king claudas sent his knight to king arthur's court, wherein did he not wisely, for that he thereby renewed a matter whereof afterward came right great mischief, as this title witnesseth. ii. madeglant of oriande heard say that lancelot was repaired back, and that the land of albanie was all void save for the folk of the country. he maketh ready his navy at once and cometh back to the land in great force. he burneth the land and layeth it waste on every side, and doth far worse therein than he did aforetime. they of the land sent over to king arthur and told him of their evil plight, warning him that, and he send them not succour betimes, they will leave the land and yield up the castles, for that they might not hold them longer. he took counsel, the king with his knights, whom he might send thither, and they said that lancelot had already been there and that now another knight should be sent thither. the king sent thither briant of the isles, and lent him forty knights. briant, that loved not the king in his heart, came into the land, but only made pretence of helping him to defend it. one day fell out a battle betwixt madeglant and briant and all their men. briant was discomfited, and had many of his knights killed. madeglant and his people spread themselves over the land and laid the towns in ruins and destroyed the castles, that were disgarnished, and put to death all them that would not believe in their gods, and cut off their heads. iii. all they of the land and country longed with sorrow for lancelot, and said that had he remained there, the land would not have been thus destroyed, nor might they never have protection of no knight but of him alone. briant of the isles returned back, as he that would the war against king arthur should increase on every side, for, what good soever the king may do him, he loveth him not, nor never will so long as he is on live. but no semblant thereof durst he show, for, sith that the best of his knights had been slain in the battle, so had he no power on his side, as against lancelot and the good knights of his fellowship, whereof he would fain that there had been not one. iv. king arthur was at cardoil on one day of whitsuntide. many were the knights that were come to this court whereof i tell you. the king was seated at meat, and the day was fair and clear, and the air clean and fresh. sagramors li desirous and lucan the butler served before the king. and what time they had served of the first meats, therewithal behold you, a quarrel, like as it had been shot from a cross-bow, and striketh in the column of the hall before the king so passing strong that there was not a knight in the hall but heard it when it struck therein. they all looked thereat in great wonderment. the quarrel was like as it were of gold, and it had about it a many costly precious stones. the king saith that quarrel so costly cometh not from a poor place. lancelot and messire gawain say that never have they seen one so rich. it struck so deep in the column that the iron point thereof might not be seen, and a good part of the shaft was also hidden. thereupon, behold you, a damsel of surpassing great beauty that cometh, sitting on a right costly mule, full well caparisoned. she had a gilded bridle and gilded saddle, and was clad in a right rich cloth of silk. a squire followed after her that drove her mule from behind. she came before king arthur as straight as she might, and saluted him right worshipfully, and he made answer the best he might. "sir," saith she, "i am come to speak and demand a boon, nor will i never alight until such time as you shall have granted it to me. for such is my custom, and for this am i come to your court, whereof i have heard such tidings and such witness in many places where i have been, that i know you will not deny me herein." v. "damsel, tell me what boon you would have of me?" "sir," saith she, "i would fain pray and beseech you that you bid the knight that may draw forth this quarrel from this column go thither where there is sore need of him." "damsel," saith the king, "tell me the need." "sir," saith she, "i will tell it you plainly when i shall see the knight that shall have drawn it forth." "damsel," saith the king, "alight! never, please god, shall you go forth of my court denied of that you ask." lucan the butler taketh her between his arms and setteth her to the ground, and her mule is led away to be stabled. when the damsel had washen, she was set in a seat beside messire ywain, that showed her much honour and served her with a good will. he looked at her from time to time, for she was fair and gentle and of good countenance. when they had eaten at the tables, the damsel prayeth the king that he will hasten them to do her business. "sir," saith she, "many a good knight is there within yonder, and right glad may he be that shall draw it forth, for i tell you a right good knight is he, sith that none may achieve this business save he alone." "fair nephew," saith the king, "now set your hand to this quarrel and give it back to the damsel." "ha, sir," saith he, "do me not shame! by the faith that i owe you, i will not set my hand forward herein this day, nor ought you to be wroth hereof. behold, here have you lancelot with you, and so many other good knights, that little worship should i have herein were i to set myself forward before them." "messire ywain," saith the king, "set your hand hereto! it may be that you think too humbly of yourself herein." "sir," saith messire ywain, "nought is there in the world that i would not do for you, but as for this matter i pray you hold me excused." "sagramors, and you, orguelleux of the launde, what will you do?" saith the king. "sir," say they, "when lancelot hath made assay, we will do your pleasure, but before him, so please you, we will not go." vi. "damsel," saith the king, "pray lancelot that he be fain to set his hand, and then the rest shall go after him if needs be." "lancelot," saith the damsel, "by the thing that most you love, make not mine errand bootless, but set your hand to the quarrel and then will the others do that they ought of right to do. for no leisure have i to tarry here long time." "damsel," saith lancelot, "ill do you, and a sin, to conjure me for nought, for so many good knights be here within, that i should be held for a fool and a braggart and i put myself forward before all other." "by my head," saith the king, "not so! rather will you be held as a knight courteous and wise and good, as now you ought to be, and great worship will it be to yourself and you may draw forth the quarrel, and great courtesy will it be to aid the damsel. wherefore i require you, of the faith you owe me, that you set your hand thereto, sith that the damsel prayeth you so to do, before the others." vii. lancelot hath no mind to disobey the king's commandment; and he remembered that the damsel had conjured him by the thing that most he loved; nor was there nought in the world that he loved so much as the queen, albeit she were dead, nor never thought he of none other thing save her alone. then standeth he straight upright, doth off his robe, and cometh straight to the quarrel that is fixed in the column. he setteth his hand thereunto and draweth it forth with a right passing strong wrench, so sturdily that he maketh the column tremble. then he giveth it to the damsel. "sir," saith she to king arthur, "now is it my devoir to tell you plainly of my errand; nor might none of the knights here within have drawn forth the quarrel save only he; and you held me in covenant how he that should draw it forth should do that which i shall require of him, and that he might do it, nor will i pray nor require of him nought that is not reason. needs must he go to the chapel perilous the swiftest he may, and there will he find a knight that lieth shrouded in the midst of the chapel. he will take of the cloth wherein he is shrouded and a sword that lieth at his side in the coffin, and will take them to the castle perilous; and when he shall there have been, he shall return to the castle where he slew the lion in the cavern wherein are the two griffons, and the head of one of them shall he take and bring to me at castle perilous, for a knight there lieth sick that may not otherwise be healed." viii. "damsel." saith lancelot, "i see that you reckon but little of my life, so only that your wish be accomplished." "sir," saith she, "i know as well as you what the enterprise is, nor do i no whit desire your death, for, and were you dead, never would the knight be whole for whose sake you undertake it. and you will see the fairest damsel that is in any kingdom, and the one that most desireth to see you. and, so you tarry not, through her shall you lightly get done that you have to do. see now that you delay it not, but do that is needful swiftly sith that it hath been laid upon you, for the longer you tarry, the greater will be the hazard of mischance befalling you." the damsel departeth from the court and taketh her leave and goeth her way back as fast as she may, and saith to herself: "lancelot, albeit you have these pains and this travail for me, yet would i not your death herein, but of right ought i to rejoice in your tribulation, for into two of the most perilous places in the world are you going. greatly ought i to hate you, for you reft me of my friend and gave him to another, and while i live may i never forget it." the damsel goeth her way, and lancelot departeth from the court and taketh leave of the king and of all the others. he issueth forth of cardoil, all armed, and entereth into the forest that is deep, and so goeth forth a great pace, and prayeth god guide him into safety. branch xxix. title i. therewithal the story is silent of lancelot, and saith that briant of the isles is repaired to cardoil. of the forty knights that he took with him, but fifteen doth he bring back again. thereof is king arthur right sorrowful, and saith that he hath the fewer friends. they of the land of albanie have sent to king arthur and told him that and he would not lose the land for evermore he must send them lancelot, for never saw they knight that better knew how to avenge him on his enemies and to do them hurt than was he. the king asketh briant of the isles how it is that his knights are dead in such sort? "sir," saith briant, "madeglant hath great force of people, and what force of men soever may run upon them, they make a castle of their navy in such sort that none may endure against them, and never did no folk know so much of war as do they. the land lieth far away from you, and more will it cost you to hold it than it is worth; and, if you will believe my counsel, you will trouble yourself no more about it, and they of the country would be well counselled and they did the same." "briant," saith the king, "this would be great blame to myself. no worshipful man ought to be idle in guarding and holding that which is his own. the worshipful man ought not to hold of things so much for their value as for their honour, and if i should leave the land disgarnished of my aid and my counsel, they will take mine, and will say that i have not heart to protect my land; and even now is it great shame to myself that they have settled themselves there and would fain draw away them of the land to their evil law. and i would fain that lancelot had achieved that he hath undertaken, and i would have sent him there, for none would protect the land better than he, and, were he now there along with forty knights and with them of the country, madeglant would make but short stay there." "sir," saith briant, "they of the country reckon nought of you nor any other but lancelot only, and they say that and you send him there they will make him king." "it may well be that they say so," saith the king, "but never would lancelot do aught that should be against my will." "sir," saith briant, "sith that you are not minded to believe me, i will say no more in this matter, but in the end his knighthood will harm you rather than help you and you take no better heed thereof than up to this time you have done." branch xxx. title i. of briant of the isles the story is here silent, whom king the believeth too much in many things, and saith that lancelot goeth his way right through the forest, full heavy in thought. he had not ridden far when he met a knight that was right sore wounded. he asked him whence he came and who had wounded him in such manner. "sir," saith he, "i come from the chapel perilous, where i was not able to defend me against an evil folk that appeared there; and they have wounded me in such sort as you see, and but for a damsel that came thereinto from the forest i should not have escaped on live. but she aided me on such condition that and i should see a knight they call lancelot, or perceval, or messire gawain, i should tell which of them soever i should first meet withal that he should go to her without delay, for much she marvelleth her that none of them cometh into the chapel, for none ought to enter there but good knights only. but much do i marvel, sir, how the damsel durst enter there, for it is the most marvellous place that is, and the damsel is of right great beauty; natheless she cometh thither oftentimes alone into the chapel. a knight lieth in the chapel that hath been slain of late, that was a fell and cruel knight and a hardy." "what was his name?" saith lancelot. "he was named ahuret the bastard," saith the knight; "and he had but one arm and one hand, and the other was smitten off at a castle that messire gawain gave meliot of logres when he succoured him against this knight that lieth in the coffin. and meliot of logres hath slain the knight that had assieged the castle, but the knight wounded him sore, so that he may not be whole save he have the sword wherewith he wounded him, that lieth in the coffin at his side, and some of the cloth wherein he is enshrouded; and, so god grant me to meet one of the knights, gladly will i convey unto him the damsel's message." "sir knight," saith lancelot, "one of them have you found. my name is lancelot, and for that i see you are wounded and in evil plight, i tell it you thus freely." "sir," saith the knight, "now may god protect your body, for you go in great peril of death. but the damsel much desireth to see you, i know not for what, and well may she aid you if she will." ii. "sir knight, god hath brought us forth of many a peril, and so will he also from this and it be his pleasure and his will." with that, lancelot departeth from the knight, and hath ridden so far that he is come at evensong to the chapel perilous, that standeth in a great valley of the forest, and hath a little churchyard about it that is well enclosed on all sides, and hath an ancient cross without the entrance. the chapel and the graveyard are overshadowed of the forest, that is right tall. lancelot entereth therein all armed. he signeth him of the cross and blesseth him and commendeth him to god. he seeth in the grave-yard coffins in many places, and it seemeth him that he seeth folk round about that talk together, the one with another. but he might not hear that they said. he might not see them openly, but very tall they seemed him to be. he is come toward the chapel and alighteth of his horse, and seeth a shed outside the chapel, wherein was provender for horses. he goeth thither to set his own there, then leaneth his shield against his spear at the entrance of the chapel, and entereth in, where it was very dark, for no light was there save only of a single lamp that shone full darkly. he seeth the coffin that was in the midst of the chapel wherein the knight lay. iii. when he had made his orison before an image of our lady, he cometh to the coffin and openeth it as fast as he may, and seeth the knight, tall and foul of favour, that therein lay dead. the cloth wherein he was enshrouded was displayed all bloody. he taketh the sword that lay at his side and lifteth the windingsheet to rend it at the seam, then taketh the knight by the head to lift him upward, and findeth him so heavy and so ungain that scarce may he remove him. he cutteth off the half of the cloth wherein he is enshrouded, and the coffin beginneth to make a crashing so passing loud that it seemed the chapel were falling. when he hath the piece of the cloth and the sword he closeth the coffin again, and forthwith cometh to the door of the chapel and seeth mount, in the midst of the grave-yard as it seemed him, great knights and horrible, and they are appareled as it were to combat, and him thinketh that they are watching for him and espy him. iv. thereupon, behold you, a damsel running, her kirtle girt high about her, right through the grave-yard a great pace. "take heed you move not until such time as it is known who the knight is!" she is come to the chapel. "sir knight, lay down the sword and this that you have taken of the windingsheet of the dead knight!" "damsel," saith lancelot, "what hurt doth it you of this that i have?" "this," saith she, "that you have taken it without my leave; for i have him in charge, both him and the chapel. and i would fain," saith she, "know what is your name?" "damsel," saith he, "what would you gain of knowing my name?" "i know not," saith she, "whether i shall have either loss or gain thereof, but high time already is it that i should ask you it to my sorrow, for many a time have i been deceived therein." "damsel," saith he, "i am called lancelot of the lake." "you ought of right," saith she, "to have the sword and the cloth; but come you with me to my castle, for oftentimes have i desired that you and perceval and messire gawain should see the three tombs that i have made for your three selves." v. "damsel," saith he, "no wish have i to see my sepulchre so early betimes." "by my head," saith she, "and you come not thither, you may not issue from hence without tribulation; and they that you see there are earthly fiends that guard this grave-yard and are at my commandment." "never, damsel, please god," saith lancelot, "may your devils have power to harm a christian." "ha, lancelot," saith she, "i beseech and pray you that you come with me into my castle, and i will save your life as at this time from this folk that are just now ready to fall upon you; and, so you are not willing to do this, yield me back the sword that you have taken from the coffin, and go your way at once." "damsel," saith lancelot, "into your castle may i not go, nor desire i to go, wherefore pray me no more thereof, for other business have i to do; nor will i yield you back the sword, whatsoever may befall me, for a certain knight may not otherwise be healed, and great pity it were that he should die." "ha, lancelot," saith she, "how hard and cruel do i find you towards me! and as good cause have i to be sorry that you have the sword as have you to be glad. for, and you had not had it upon you, never should you have carried it off from hence at your will; rather should i have had all my pleasure of you, and i would have made you be borne into my castle, from whence never should you nave moved again for nought you might do; and thus should i have been quit of the wardenship of this chapel and of coming thereinto in such manner as now oftentimes i needs must come. vi. "but now am i taken in a trap, for, so long as you have the sword, not one of them that are there yonder can do you evil nor hinder you of going." of this was lancelot not sorry. he taketh leave of the damsel, that departeth grudgingly, garnisheth him again of his arms, then mounteth again on his horse and goeth his way right through the grave-yard. he beholdeth this evil folk, that were so foul and huge and hideous, it seemed as if they would devour everything. they made way for lancelot, and had no power to hurt him. he is issued forth of the grave-yard and goeth his way through the forest until daylight appeared about him, fair and clear. he found the hermit there where he had heard mass, then ate a little, then departed and rode the day long until setting of the sun, but could find no hold on the one side nor the other wherein he might lodge, and so was benighted in the forest. vii. lancelot knew not which way to turn, for he had not often been in the forest, and knew not how the land lay nor the paths therein. he rode until he found a little causeway, and there was a path at the side that led to an orchard that was at a corner of the forest, where there was a postern gate whereby one entered, and it was not made fast for the night. and the orchard was well enclosed with walls. lancelot entered in and made fast the entrance, then took off his horse's bridle and let him feed on the grass. he might not espy the castle that was hard by for the abundance of trees and the darkness of the night, and so knew not whither he was arrived. he laid his shield for a pillow and his arms at his side and fell on sleep. but, had he known where it was he had come, little sleep would he have had, for he was close to the cavern where he slew the lion and where the griffons were, that had come in from the forest all gorged of victual, and were fallen on sleep, and it was for them that the postern gate had been left unbolted. a damsel went down from a chamber by a trapdoor with a brachet on her arm for fear of the griffons, and as she went toward the postern-gate to lock it, she espied lancelot, that lay asleep in the midst of the orchard. she ran back to her lady the speediest she might, and said unto her: "up, lady!" saith she, "lancelot is sleeping in the orchard!" she leapt up incontinent and came to the orchard there where lancelot was sleeping, then sate her down beside him and began to look at him, sighing the while, and draweth as near him as she may. "fair lord god," saith she, "what shall i do? and i wake him first he will have no care to kiss me, and if i kiss him sleeping he will awake forthwith; and better hap is it for me to take the most i may even in such-wise than to fail of all, and, moreover, if so be i shall have kissed him, i may hope that he will not hate me thereof, sith that i may then boast that i have had at least so much of that which is his own." she set her mouth close to him and so kissed him the best and fairest she might, three times, and lancelot awakened forthwith. he leapt up and made the cross upon him, then looked at the damsel, and said: "ha, god! where, then, am i?" "fair sweet friend," saith she, "you are nigh her that hath all set her heart upon you and will remove it never." "i cry you mercy, damsel," saith lancelot, "and i tell you, for nought that may befall, one that loveth me, please god, never will i hate! but that which one hath loved long time ought not so soon to fall away from the remembrance of a love that is rooted in the heart, when she hath been proven good and loyal, nor ought one so soon to depart therefrom." viii. "sir," saith she, "this castle is at your commandment, and you will remain therein, and well may you know my thought towards you. would that your thought were the same towards me." "damsel," saith he, "i seek the healing of a knight that may not be healed save i bring him the head of one of your serpents." "certes, sir, so hath it been said. but i bade the damsel say so only for that i was fain you should come back hither to me." "damsel," saith he, "i have come back hither, and so may i turn back again sith that of the serpent's head is there no need." "ha, lancelot," saith she, "how good a knight are you, and how ill default do you make in another way! no knight, methinketh, is there in the world that would have refused me save only you. this cometh of your folly, and your outrage, and your baseness of heart! the griffons have not done my will in that they have not slain you or strangled you as you slept, and, so i thought that they would have power to slay you, i would make them come to slay you now. but the devil hath put so much knighthood into you that scarce any man may have protection against you. better ought i to love you dead than alive. by my head, i would fain that your head were hanged with the others that hang at the entrance of the gateway, and, had i thought you would have failed me in such wise i would have brought my father hither to where you were sleeping, and right gladly would he have slain you." ix. "none that knoweth the covenant between me and you ought to hold you for a good knight; for you have cozened me of my right according to the tenor and custom of the castle if that through perversity or slothfulness you durst not take me when you have won me." "damsel," saith lancelot, "you may say your will. you have done so much for me sithence that i came hither that i ought not to be afeard of you, for traitor is the man or woman that kisseth another to procure his hurt." "lancelot, i took but that i might have, for well i see that none more thereof may i have never again." he goeth to put the bridle on his destrier, and then taketh leave of the damsel, that parteth from him right sorrowfully; but lancelot would no longer tarry, for great throng of knights was there in the castle, and he was not minded to put him in jeopardy for nought. he issueth forth of the orchard, and the damsel looketh after him as long as she may see him. after that, cometh she to her chamber, sad and vexed at heart, nor knoweth she how she may bear herself, for the thing in the world that most she loveth is far away, and no joy may she have thereof. x. lancelot rideth right amidst the forest until it is day, and cometh at the right hour of noon to the castle perilous, where meliot of logres lay. he entered into the castle. the damsel that was at king arthur's court cometh to meet him. "lancelot," saith she, "welcome may you be!" "damsel," saith he, "good adventure may you have!" he was alighted at the mountingstage of the hall. she maketh him mount up the steps and afterward be disarmed. "damsel," saith he, "behold, here is some of the winding-sheet wherein the knight was shrouded, and here is his sword; but you befooled me as concerning the serpent's head." "by my head," saith the damsel, "that did i for the sake of the damsel of the castle of griffons that hateth you not a whit, for so prayed she me to do. now hath she seen you, and so will she be more at ease, and will have no cause to ask me thereof." xi. the damsel leadeth lancelot to where meliot of logres lay. lancelot sitteth him down before him and asketh how it is with him? "meliot," saith the damsel, "this is lancelot, that bringeth you your healing." "ha, sir, welcome may you be!" "god grant you health speedily," said lancelot. "ha, for god's sake," saith meliot, "what doth messire gawain? is he hearty?" "i left him quite hearty when i parted from him," saith lancelot, "and so he knew that you had been wounded in such sort, full sorry would he be thereof and king arthur likewise." "sir," saith he, "the knight that assieged them maimed me in this fashion, but was himself maimed in such sort that he is dead thereof. but the wounds that he dealt me are so cruel and so raging, that they may not be healed save his sword toucheth them and if be not bound with some of the winding-sheet wherein he was shrouded, that he had displayed about him, all bloody." "by my faith," saith the damsel, "behold them here!" "ha, sir," saith he, "gramercy of this great goodness! in every way appeareth it that you are good knight, for, but for the goodness of your knighthood, the coffin wherein the knight lieth had never opened so lightly, nor would you never have had the sword nor the cloth, nor never till now hath knight entered therein but either he were slain there, or departed thence wounded right grievously." they uncover his wounds, and lancelot unbindeth them, and the damsel toucheth him of the sword and the winding-sheet, and they are assuaged for him. and he saith that now at last he knoweth well he need not fear to die thereof. lancelot is right joyful thereof in his heart, for that he seeth he will be whole betimes; and sore pity had it been of his death, for a good knight was he, and wise and loyal. xi. "lancelot," saith the lady, "long time have i hated you on account of the knight that i loved, whom you reft away from me and married to another and not to me, and ofttimes have i put myself to pains to grieve you of some ill deed for that you did to me, for never was i so sorrowful for aught that befell me. he loved me of right great love, and i him again, and never shall that love fail. but now is it far further away from me than it was before, and for this bounty that you have done, never hereafter need you fear aught of my grievance." "damsel," saith lancelot, "gramercy heartily." he was lodged in the castle the night richly and worshipfully, and departed thence on the morrow when he had taken leave of the damsel and meliot, and goeth back a great pace toward the court of king arthur, that was sore dismayed, for madeglant was conquering his islands and great part of his land. the more part of the lands that he conquered had renounced the new law for fear of death and held the false believe. and messire gawain and many other knights were departed from king arthur's court for that the king trusted more in briant of the isles than he did in them. xiii. for many times had king arthur sent knights against madeglant since lancelot was departed from the court, to the intent that they should put to rebuke the enemies of his land, but never saw he one come back from thence nought discomfited. the king of oriande made much boast that he would fulfil for his sister all that she had bidden him, for he thought that king arthur would yield himself up betimes unto him and yield all his land likewise. the king greatly desired the return of lancelot, and said ofttimes that and he had been against his enemies as nigh as the others he had sent they would not have durst so to fly against him. in the midst of the dismay wherein was king arthur, lancelot returned to the court, whereof was the king right joyous. lancelot knew that messire gawain and messire ywain were not there, and that they held them aloof from the court more willingly than they allowed on account of briant of the isles, that king arthur believed in more than ever a one of the others. he was minded to depart in like sort, but the king would not let him, but said to him rather, "lancelot, i pray and beseech you, as him that i love much, that you set your pains and your counsel on defending my land, for great affiance have i in you." "sir," saith lancelot, "my aid and my force shall fail you never; take heed that yours fail not me." "of right ought i not to fail you," saith the king, "nor will i never, for i should fail myself thereby." xiv. the history saith that he gave lancelot forty knights in charge, and that he is come into an island where king madeglant was. or ever he knew of his coming, lancelot had cut off his retreat, for he cut his cables and beat his anchors to pieces and broke up his ships. after that, he struck among the people of madeglant, and slew as many of them as he would, he and his knights. the king thought to withdraw him back, both him and his fellowship, into safety as he wont, but he found himself right ill bested. lancelot drove him toward the sea, whither he fled, but only to find himself no less discomfit there, and slew him in the midst of his folk, and all his other knights were slain and cast into the sea. this island was freed of him by lancelot, and from thence he went to the other islands that madeglant had conquered and set again under the false law, and there did away the false law from them that had been set thereunder by fear of death, and stablished the land in such sort as it had been tofore. he roved so long from one island to another that presently he came to albanie where he had succoured them at first. xv. when they of the land saw him come, they well knew that the king of oriande was dead and the islands made free, whereof made they great joy. the land was some deal emptied of the most puissant and the strongest, for they were dead along with their lord. lancelot had brought with him some of the best knights and most puissant. he was come with a great navy into the land and began to destroy it. they of the land were misbelievers, for they believed in false idols and in false images. they saw that they might not defend the land, sith that their lord was dead. the more part let themselves be slain for that they would not renounce the evil law, and they that were minded to turn to god were saved. the kingdom was right rich and right great that lancelot conquered and attorned to the law of our lord in such wise. he made break all the false images of copper and fatten wherein they had believed tofore, and whereof false answers came to them of the voices of devils. thereafter he caused be made crucifixes and images in the likeness of our lord, and in the likeness of his sweet mother, the better to confirm them of the kingdoms in the law. xvi. the strongest and most valiant of the land assembled one day and said that it was high time a land so rich should no longer be without a king. they all agreed and came to lancelot and told him how they would fain that he should be king of the realm he had conquered, for in no land might he be better employed, and they would help him conquer other realms enow. lancelot thanked them much, but told them that of this land nor of none other would he be king save by the good will of king arthur only; for that all the conquest he had made was his, and by his commandment had he come thither, and had given him his own knights in charge that had helped him to reconquer the lands. xvii. king claudas had heard tell how lancelot had slain the king of oriande and that none of the islands might scarce be defended against him. he had no liking of him, neither of his good knighthood nor of his conquest, for well remembered he of the land that he had conquered from king ban of benoic that was lancelot's father, and therefore was he sorry of the good knighthood whereof lancelot was everywhere held of worth and renown, for that he was tenant of his father's land. king claudas sent a privy message to briant and bore him on hand that, and he might do so much as that king arthur should forbid lancelot his court, and that it were ill with him with the king, he would have much liking thereof and would help him betimes to take vengeance on his enemies, for, so lancelot were forth of his court, and messire gawain, the rest would scarce abide long time, and thus should they have all their will of king arthur's land. briant sent word back to king claudas that messire gawain and messire ywain began to hold them aloof from the court, and that as for most part of the other he need not trouble him a whit, for he might so deal as that in short time lancelot should be well trounced, would they or nould they. xviii. tidings are come to king arthur's court that the king of oriande is dead and his people destroyed, and that lancelot hath conquered his kingdom and slain the king, and reconquered all the lands wherein he had set the false law and the false believe by his force and by dread of him. and the more part say in the court that they of the realm of oriande nor those of the other islands will not let lancelot repair to court, and are doing their endeavour to make him king; and nought is there in the world, and he command them, they will not do, and that never was no folk so obedient to any as are they of all these lands to him. briant of the isles cometh one day privily to king arthur, and saith: "sir," saith he, "much ought i to love you, for that you have made me seneschal of your land; whereby meseemeth you have great affiance in me, and my bounden duty is it to turn aside that which is evil from you and to set forward your good everywhere, and, did i not so, no whit loyal should i be towards you. xix. "tidings are come to me of late that they of the kingdom of oriande and albanie and of the other islands that are your appanages have all leagued together, and have sworn and given surety that they will aid one another against you, and they are going presently to make lancelot their king, and will come down upon your land as speedily as they may wheresoever he may dare lead them, and they have sworn their oath that they will conquer your kingdom just as you now hold it, and, so you be not garnished against them betimes, you may have thereof sore trouble to your own body as well as the loss whereof i tell you." "by my head," saith the king, "i believe not that lancelot durst think this, nor that he would have the heart to do me evil." "by my head," saith briant, "long time have i had misgivings both of this and of him, but one ought not to tell one's lord all that one knows, for that one cannot be sure either that it be not leasing or that folk wish to meddle in his affairs out of envy. but nought is there in the world that i will conceal from you henceforward for the love that you bear me and for that you have affiance in me, and so may you well have, for i have abandoned my land for you that marched with your own, whereby you may sorely straiten your enemies, for well you know that in your court is there no knight of greater puissance than am i." xx. "by my head," saith the king, "i am fain to love you and hold you dear, nor shall you never be removed from my love nor from my service for nought that may be said of any, so manifestly have i seen your goodness and your loyalty. i will bid lancelot by my letters and under my seal that he come to speak with me, for sore need have i thereof, and when he shall be here we will take account of this that you have told me, for this will i not, that he nor none other that may be my knight shall dare rise in arms against me, for such power ought lord of right to have over his knight, and to be feared and dreaded of him, for elsewise is he feeble, and lordship without power availeth nought." xxi. the king sent his letters by his messenger to lancelot. the messenger sought him until he found him in the kingdom of oriande, and delivered him the letters and the seal of the king. so soon as he knew that which the letters say, he took leave of them of the land, that were right sorrowful. he departed thence and came back to cardoil, bringing with him all the knights that he had in charge, and told the king that he had reconquered for him all the islands, and that the king of oriande was dead and that his land was attorned to the law of our lord. the king bade briant of the isles that he should make forty knights come armed under their cloaks ready to take lancelot prisoner as soon as he should command them. the tidings come to lancelot, there where he was in his hostel, that the king had made knights come all armed to the palace. lancelot bethought him that some need had arisen and that he would arm himself likewise, so he made him be armed and came to the hall where the king was. "sir," saith briant, "lancelot thinketh him of something, for he hath armed himself at his hostel, and is come hither in such manner and at such time without your leave, and he may do something more yet. you ought well to ask him wherefore he wisheth to do you evil, and in what manner you have deserved it." he biddeth him be called before him. "lancelot," saith the king, "wherefore are you armed?" "sir, i was told that knights had come in hither armed, and i was feared lest some mishap had befallen you, for i would not that any evil should betide you." "you come hither for another thing," saith the king, "according to that i have been given to wit, and, had the hall been void of folk, you hoped to have slain me." the king commandeth him be taken forthwith without gainsay of any. the knights that were armed did off their cloaks and leapt toward him on all sides, for they durst not disobey the king's commandment, and the more part were men of briant of the isles. xxii. lancelot seeth them coming towards him with their keen swords and saith, "by my head, an evil guerdon do you return me of the services i have done for you." the knights come to him all together swords drawn, and run upon him all at once. he goeth defending himself, as far as the wall of the hall, whereof he maketh a castle to his back, but before he cometh thither he hath slain or wounded seven. he began to defend himself right stoutly on all sides, but they gave him great buffets of their swords, and no fair play is it of thirty or forty blows to one. nor ought none believe that one single knight might deliver himself from so many men, seeing that they were eager to take him and do him a hurt. lancelot defended him the best he might, but the numbers were against him, and, anyway, or ever he let himself be taken he sold himself right dear, for of the forty knights he harmed at least a score, and of them was none that was not sore wounded and the most part killed; and he caught briant of the isles, that was helping to take him, so sore that he made his sword drink the blood of his body, in such sort that the wound was right wide. the knights laid hold on lancelot on all sides, and the king commanded that none should harm him, but that they should bring him to his dungeon in the prison. lancelot marvelled him much wherefore the king should do this, nor might he understand wherefore this hatred was come so lately. he is put in the prison so as the king hath commanded. all they of the court are sorry thereof, save briant and his knights, but well may he yet aby it dear, so god bring lancelot out or prison. some say, "now is the king's court lost, sith that messire gawain and the other knights have thus forsaken it, and lancelot is put in prison for doing well, ill trust may the others have therein." they pray god yet grant briant of the isles an evil guerdon, for well know they that all this is of his procurement. and of an evil guerdon shall he not fail so god protect lancelot and bring him forth of prison. branch xxxi. title i. thereupon the story is silent of lancelot, and cometh back to perceval that had not heard these tidings, and if he had known them, right sorrowful would he have been thereof. he is departed from his uncle's castle that he hath reconquered, and was sore grieved of the tidings that the damsel that was wounded brought him of his sister that aristor had carried away by force to the house of a vavasour. he was about to take her to wife and cut off her head on the day of the new year, for such was his custom with all them that he took. perceval rideth one day, all heavy in thought, and taketh his way as fast as he may toward the hermitage of his uncle king hermit. he is come thither on an eventide, and seeth three hermits issued forth of the hermitage. he alighteth and goeth to meet them so soon as he seeth them. "sir," say the hermits, "enter not in, for they are laying out a body there." "who is it?" saith perceval. "sir," say the hermits, "it is the good king pelles that aristor slew suddenly after mass on account of one of his nephews, perceval, whom he loveth not, and a damsel is laying out the body there within." when perceval heard the news or his uncle that is dead, thereof was he right grieved at heart, and on the morrow was he at his uncle's burial. when mass was sung, perceval would have departed, as he that had great desire to take vengeance on him that had done him such shame. ii. thereupon behold you the damsel that is his. "sir," saith she, "full long time have i been seeking you. behold here the head of a knight that i carry hanging at the bow of my saddle, in this rich casket of ivory that you may see, and by none ought he to be avenged but by you alone. discharge me thereof, fair sir, of your courtesy, for i have carried it too long a time, and this king arthur knoweth well and messire gawain, for each hath seen me at court along with the head, but they could give me no tidings of you, and my castle may i not have again until such time as he be avenged." "who, then, was the knight, damsel?" saith perceval. "sir, he was son of your uncle bruns brandalis, and were he on live, would have been one of the best knights in the world." "and who slew him, damsel?" saith perceval. "sir, the knight of the deep forest that leadeth the lion, foully in treason there where he thought him safe. for had he been armed in like manner as was the other, he would not have slain him." "damsel," said perceval, "this grieveth me that he hath slain him, and it grieveth me likewise of mine uncle king hermit, whom i would avenge more willingly than all the men in the world, for he was slain on my account." iii. "most disloyal was this knight, and foully was he fain to avenge him when he slew a holy man, a hermit that never wished him ill on account of me and of none other. right glad shall i be and i may find the knight, and so, methinketh, will he be of me, for me he hateth as much as i do him, as i have been told, and lord god grant, howsoever he may take it, that i may find him betimes." "sir," saith the damsel, "so outrageous a knight is he that no knight is there in the world so good but he thinketh himself of more worth than he, and sith that he hateth you with a will, and he knew that you were here, you and another, or you the third, he would come now at once, were he in place and free." "damsel," saith perceval, "god give him mischief of his coming, come whensoever he may!" "sir," saith she, "the deep forest there, where the red knight leadeth the lion, is towards the castle of aristor, and, or ever you come by adventure into the forest, you may well hear some tidings of him!" branch xxxii. incipit. here beginneth the last branch of the graal in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost. title i. the story saith that perceval went his way through the forest. he saw pass before him two squires, and each carried a wild deer trussed behind him that had been taken by hounds. perceval cometh to them a great pace and maketh them abide. "lords," saith he, "whither will you carry this venison?" "sir," say the squires, "to the castle of ariste, whereof aristor is lord." "is there great throng of knights at the castle?" saith perceval. "sir," say the squires, "not a single one is there, but within four days will be a thousand there, for messire is about to marry, whereof is great preparation toward. he is going to take the daughter of the widow lady, whom he carried off by force before her castle of camelot, and hath set her in the house of one of his vavasours until such time as he shall espouse her. but we are right sorrowful, for she is of most noble lineage and of great beauty and of the most worth in the world. so is it great dole that he shall have her, for he will cut her head off on the day of the new year, sith that such is his custom." "and one might carry her off," saith perceval, "would he not do well therein?" "yea, sir!" say the squires, "our lord god would be well pleased thereof, for such cruelty is the greatest that ever any knight may have. moreover, he is much blamed of a good hermit that he hath slain, and every day desireth he to meet the brother of the damsel he is about to take, that is one of the best knights in the world. and he saith that he would slay him more gladly than ever another knight on live." "and where is your lord?" saith perceval, "can you give me witting?" "yea, sir," say the squires, "we parted from him but now in this forest, where he held melly with a knight that seemeth us to be right worshipful and valiant, and saith that he hath for name the knight hardy. and for that he told aristor that he was a knight of perceval's and of his fellowship, he ran upon him, and then commanded us to come on, and said that he should vanquish him incontinent. we could still hear just now the blows of the swords yonder where we were in the forest, and aristor is of so cruel conditions that no knight may pass through this forest, but he is minded to slay him." ii. when perceval heard these tidings, he departed from the squires, and so soon as they were out of sight he goeth as great pace thither as they had come thence. he had ridden half a league welsh when he heard the buffets they were dealing one another on the helm with their swords, and right well pleased was he for that the knight hardy held so long time melly with aristor in whom is there so much cruelty and felony. but perceval knew not to what mischief the knight hardy had been wounded through the body of a spear, so that the blood rayed out on all sides; and aristor had not remained whole, for he was wounded in two places. so soon as perceval espied them, he smiteth his horse of his spurs, lance in rest, and smiteth aristor right through the breast with such force that he maketh him lose his stirrups and lie down backwards over the hinder bow of the saddle. after that saith he: "i am come to my sister's wedding, of right ought it not to be made without me." iii. aristor, that was full hardy, set himself again betwixt the bows of the saddle in great wrath when he seeth perceval, and cometh towards him like as if he were wood mad, sword in hand, and dealeth him such a buffet on the helm as that it is all dinted in thereby. the knight hardy draweth back when he seeth perceval, for he is wounded to the death through the body. he had held the stout so long time that he could abide no more. but or ever he departed, he had wounded aristor in two places right grievously. perceval felt the blow that was heavy, and that his helmet was dinted in. he cometh back to aristor and smiteth him so passing strongly that he thrusteth the spear right through his body and overthroweth him and his horse all of a heap. then he alighteth over him and taketh off the coif of his habergeon and unlaceth his ventail. "what have you in mind to do?" said aristor. "i will cut off your head," said perceval, "and present it to my sister whom you have failed." "do not so!" saith aristor, "but let me live, and i will forgo my hatred." "your hatred might i well abide henceforward, meseemeth," saith perceval, "but one may not abide you any longer, for well have you deserved this, and god willeth not to bear with you." he smiteth off his head incontinent and hangeth it at his saddle-bow, and cometh to the knight hardy, and asketh him how it is with him. "sir," saith he, "i am very nigh my death, but i comfort me much of this that i see you tofore i die." perceval is remounted on his horse, then taketh his spear and leaveth the body of the knight in the midst of the launde, and so departeth forthwith and leadeth the knight hardy to a hermitage that was hard by there, and lifteth him down of his horse as speedily as he may. after that, he disarmed him and made him confess to the hermit, and when he was shriven of his sins and repentant, and his soul had departed, he made him be enshrouded of the damsel that followed him, and bestowed his arms and his horse on the hermit for his soul, and the horse of aristor likewise. iv. when mass had been sung for the knight that was dead, and the body buried, perceval departed. "sir," saith the damsel that followed him, "even now have you much to do. of this cruel knight and felonous you have avenged this country. now, god grant you find betimes the red knight that slew your uncle's son. i doubt not but that you will conquer him, but great misgiving have i of the lion, for it is the cruellest beast that saw i ever, and he so loveth his lord and his horse as never no beast loved another so much, and he helpeth his lord right hardily to defend him." v. perceval goeth toward the great deep forest without tarrying, and the damsel after. but, or ever he came thither, he met a knight that was wounded right sore, both he and his horse. "ha, sir," saith he to perceval, "enter not into this forest, whence i have scarce escaped with much pains. for therein is a knight that had much trouble of rescuing me from his lion; and no less am i in dread to pass on forward, for there is a knight that is called aristor, that without occasion runneth upon the knights that pass through the forest." "of him," saith the damsel, "need you have no fear, for you may see his head hanging at the knight's saddle-bow." vi. "certes," saith the knight, "never yet was i so glad of any tidings i have heard, and well know i that he that slew him is not lacking of great hardiment." the knight departeth from perceval, but the lion had wounded his horse so passing sore in the quarters that scarce could he go. "sir knight," saith perceval, "go to the hermit in the deep forest, and say i bade him give you the destrier i left with him, for well i see that you have sore need thereof, and you may repay him in some other manner, for rather would he have something else than the horse." the knight goeth him much thanks of this that he saith. he cometh to the hermit the best he may, and telleth him according as he had been charged, and the hermit biddeth him take which destrier he will for the love of the knight that had slain the evil-doer, that did so many evil deeds in this forest. "and i will lend you them both twain if you will." "sir," saith the knight, "i ask but for one of them." he taketh aristor's horse, that seemed him the better, and straightway mounteth thereon, and abandoneth his own, that might go no further. he taketh leave of the hermit, and telleth him he will right well repay him, but better had it befallen him and he had not taken the horse, for thereof was he slain without reason thereafter. a knight that was of the household of aristor overtook him at the corner of the forest, and knew his lord's horse and had heard tell that aristor was dead, wherefore he went into the forest to bury him. he smote the knight through the body with his spear and so slew him, then took the horse and went away forthwith. but, had perceval known thereof, he would have been little glad, for that he asked the knight to go for the horse, but he did it only for the best, and for that he rode in great misease. vii. perceval goeth toward the deep forest, that is full broad and long and evil seeming, and when he was entered in he had scarce ridden a space when he espied the lion that lay in the midst of a launde under a tree and was waiting for his master, that was gone afar into the forest, and the lion well knew that just there was the way whereby knights had to pass, and therefore had abided there. the damsel draweth her back for fear, and perceval goeth toward the lion that had espied him already, and came toward him, eyes on fire and jaws yawning wide. perceval aimeth his spear and thinketh to smite him in his open mouth, but the lion swerved aside and he caught him in the fore-leg and so dealt him a great wound, but the lion seizeth the horse with his claws on the croup, and rendeth the skin and the flesh above the tail. the horse, that feeleth himself wounded, catcheth him with his two hinder feet or ever he could get away, so passing strongly that he breaketh the master-teeth in his jaw. the lion gave out a roar so loud that all the forest resounded thereof. the red knight heareth his lion roar, and so cometh thither a great gallop, but, or ever he was come thither, perceval had slain the lion. when the knight saw his lion dead, right sorry was he thereof. "by my head," saith he to perceval, "when you slew my lion you did it as a traitor!" "and you," saith perceval, "adjudged your own death when you slew my uncle's son, whose head this damsel beareth." perceval cometh against him without more words, and the knight in like manner with a great rushing, and breaketh his spear upon his shield. perceval smiteth him with such force that he thrusteth his spear right through his body and beareth him to the ground dead beside his horse. perceval alighteth of his own when he hath slain the knight, and then mounteth him on the red knight's horse for that his own might carry him no longer. viii. "sir," saith the damsel, "my castle is in the midst of this forest, that the red knight reft away from me long ago. i pray you now come with me thither that i may be assured thereof in such sort as that i may have it again wholly." "damsel," saith perceval, "this have i no right to deny you." they ride amidst the forest so long as that they come to the castle where the damsel ought to be. it stood in the fairest place of all the forest, and was enclosed of high walls battlemented, and within were fair-windowed halls. the tidings were come to the castle that their lord was dead. perceval and the damsel entered in. he made the damsel be assured of them that were therein, and made them yield up her castle that they well knew was hers of right inheritance. the damsel made the head be buried that she had carried so long, and bade that every day should mass be done within for the soul of him. when perceval had sojourned therein as long as pleased him, he departed thence. the damsel thanked him much of the bounty he had done her as concerning the castle that she had again by him, for never again should it be reconquered of another, as well she knew. ix. josephus telleth us in the scripture he recordeth for us, whereof this history was drawn out of latin into romance, that none need be in doubt that these adventures befell at that time in great britain and in all the other kingdoms, and plenty enow more befell than i record, but these were the most certain. the history saith that perceval is come into a hold, there where his sister was in the house of a vavasour that was a right worshipful man. each day the damsel made great dole of the knight that was to take her, for the day was already drawing somewhat nigh, and she knew not that he was dead. full often lamented she the widow lady her mother, that in like sort made great dole for her daughter. the vavasour comforted the damsel right sweetly and longed for her brother perceval, but little thought he that he was so near him. and perceval is come to the hold all armed, and alighteth at the mounting-stage before the hall. the vavasour cometh to meet him, and marvelleth much who he is, for the more part believed that he was one of aristor's knights. "sir," saith the vavasour, "welcome may you be!" "good adventure may you have, sir!" saith perceval. he holdeth aristor's head in his hand by the hair, whereof the vavasour marvelled much that he should carry a knight's head in such-wise. perceval cometh to the master-chamber of the hall, where his sister was, that bewailed her right sore. x. "damsel," saith he to his sister, "weep not, for your wedding hath failed. you may know it well by this token!" he throweth the head of aristor before her on the ground, then saith unto her: "behold here the head of him that was to take you!" the damsel heareth perceval her brother that was armed, and thereby she knoweth him again. she leapeth up and maketh him the greatest joy that ever damsel made to knight. she knoweth not what to do. so joyful is she, that all have pity on her that see her of her weeping for the joy that she maketh of her brother. the story saith that they sojourned therewithin and that the vavasour showed them much honour. the damsel made cast the knight's head into a river that ran round about the hold. the vavasour was right glad of his death for the great felony that he had in him, and for that needs must the damsel die in less than a year and she had espoused him. xi. when perceval had been therein as long as it pleased him, he thanked the vavasour much of the honour he had done him and his sister, and departed, he and his sister along with him on the mule whereon she had been brought thither. perceval rode so long on his journeys that he is come to camelot and findeth his mother in great dole for her daughter that should be queen, for she thought surely that never should she see her more. full sorrowful was she moreover of her brother, the king hermit that had been killed in such-wise. perceval cometh to the chamber where his mother was lying and might not stint of making dole. he taketh his sister by the hand and cometh before her. so soon as she knoweth him she beginneth to weep for joy, and kisseth them one after the other. "fair son," saith she, "blessed be the hour that you were born for by you all my great joy cometh back to me! now well may i depart, for i have lived long enow." "lady," saith he, "your life ought to be an offence to none, for to none hath it ever done ill, but, please god, you shall not end in this place, but rather you shall end in the castle that was your cousin's german, king fisherman, there where is the most holy graal and the sacred hallows are." "fair son," saith she, "you say well, and there would i fain be." "lady," saith he, "god will provide counsel and means whereby you shall be there; and my sister, and she be minded to marry, will we set in good place, where she may live worshipfully." "certes, fair brother," saith she, "none shall i never marry, save god alone." "fair son," saith the widow lady, "the damsel of the car goeth to seek you, and i shall end not until such time as she hath round you." "lady," saith he, "in some place will she have tidings of me and i of her." "fair son," saith the lady, "the damsel is here within that the felonous knight wounded through the arm, that carried of your sister, but she is healed." "lady," saith he, "i am well avenged." he telleth her all the adventures until the time when he reconquered the castle that was his uncle's. he sojourned long time with his mother in the castle, and saw that the land was all assured and peaceable. he departed thence and took his leave, for he had not yet achieved all that he had to do. his mother remained long time, and his sister, at camelot, and led a good life and a holy. the lady made make a chapel right rich about the sepulchre that lay between the forest and camelot, and had it adorned of rich vestments, and stablished a chaplain that should sing mass there every day. sithence then hath the place been so builded up as that there is an abbey there and folk of religion, and many bear witness that there it is still, right fair. perceval was departed from camelot and entered into the great forest, and so rode of a long while until he had left his mother's castle far behind, and came toward evening to the hold of a knight that was at the head of the forest. he harboured him therein, and the knight showed him much honour and made him be unarmed, and brought him a robe to do on. perceval seeth that the knight is a right simple man, and that he sigheth from time to time. xii. "sir," saith he, "meseemeth you are not over joyous." "certes, sir," saith the knight, "i have no right to be, for a certain man slew mine own brother towards the deep forest not long since, and no right have i to be glad, for a worshipful man was he and a loyal." "fair sir," saith perceval, "know you who slew him?" "fair sir, it was one of aristor's knights, for that he was sitting upon a horse that had been aristor's, and whereon another knight had slain him, and a hermit had lent him to my brother for that the red knight's lion had maimed his own." perceval was little glad of these tidings, for that he had sent him that had been slain on account of the horse. "sir," saith perceval, "your brother had not deserved his death, methinketh, for it was not he that slew the knight." "no, sir, i know it all of a truth, but another, that slew the red knight of the deep forest." perceval was silent thereupon. he lay the night at the hostel and was harboured right well, and on the morrow departed when he had taken leave. he wandered until he came to a hermitage there where he heard mass. after the service, the hermit came unto him and said: "sir," saith he, "in this forest are knights all armed that are keeping watch for the knight that slew aristor and the red knight and his lion as well. wherefore they meet no knight in this forest but they are minded to slay him for the knight that slew these twain." "sir," saith perceval, "god keep me from meeting such folk as would do me evil." xiii. with that he departed from the hermitage and took leave of the hermit, and rideth until that he is come into the forest and espieth the knight that sitteth on aristor's horse for that he hath slain the other knight. a second knight was with him. they abide when they see perceval. "by my head," saith one of them, "this same shield bare he that slew aristor, as it was told us, and, like enough, it may be he." they come toward him, full career. perceval seeth them coming, and forgetteth not his spurs, but rather cometh against them the speediest he may. the two knights smote him upon the shield and brake their spears. perceval overtaketh him that sitteth on aristor's horse and thrusteth an ell's length of his spear through his body and so overthroweth him dead. xiv. after that, he cometh to the other knight, that fain would have fled, and smiteth off the shoulder close to his side, and he fell dead by the side of the other. he taketh both twain of their destriers, and knotteth the reins together and driveth them before him as far as the house of the hermit, that had issued forth of his hermitage. he delivered unto him the horse of aristor and the other of the knight that he had sent thither. "sir," saith perceval, "well i know that and you shall see any knight that hath need of it and shall ask you, you will lend him one of these horses, for great courtesy is it to aid a worshipful man when one seeth him in misfortune." "sir," saith the hermit, "but now since, were here three knights. so soon as they knew that the two were dead whose horses you had delivered unto me, they departed, fleeing the speediest they might. i praised them much of their going, and told them they did well not to die on such occasion, for that the souls of knights that die under arms are nigher to hell than to paradise." xv. perceval, that never was without sore toil and travail so long as he lived, departed from the hermitage and went with great diligence right through the midst of the forest, and met a knight that came a great gallop over against him. he knew perceval by the shield that he bare. "sir," saith he, "i come from the castle of the black hermit, there where you will find the damsel of the car as soon as you arrive, wherefore she sendeth you word by me that you speed your way and go to her to ask for the chess-board that was taken away from before messire gawain, or otherwise never again will you enter into the castle you have won. sir," saith he, "haste, moreover, on account of a thing most pitiful that i heard in this forest. i heard how a knight was leading a damsel against her will, beating her with a great scourge. i passed by the launde on the one side and he on the other, so that i espied him through the underwood that was between us; but it seemed me that the damsel was bemoaning her for the son of the widow lady that had given her back her castle, and the knight said that for love of him he would put her into the serpent's pit. an old knight and a priest went after the knight to pray him have mercy on the damsel, but so cruel is he, that so far from doing so, he rather waxed sore wroth for that they prayed it of him, and made cheer and semblant as though he would have slain them." the knight departed from perceval and taketh leave and perceval goeth along the way that the knight had come, thinking that he would go after the damsel for he supposeth certainly that it is she to whom he gave back her castle, and would fain know what knight it is that entreateth her in such fashion. he hath ridden until he is come into the deepest of the forest and the thickest. he bideth awhile and listeneth and heareth the voice of the damsel, that was in a great valley where the serpent's pit was, wherein the knight was minded to set her. she cried right loud for mercy, and wept, and the knight gave her great strokes of the scourge to make her be still. perceval had no will to tarry longer, but rather cometh thither as fast as he may. xvi. so soon as the damsel seeth perceval, she knoweth him again. she claspeth her two hands together and saith, "ha, sir, for god's sake have mercy! already have you given me back the castle whereof this knight would reave me." the horse whereon perceval sat, the knight knew him. "sir," saith he, "this horse was the horse of messire the red knight of the deep forest! now at last know i that it was you that slew him!" "it may well be," saith perceval, "and if that i slew him, good right had i to do so, for he had cut off the head of a son of mine uncle, the which head this damsel carried of a long time." "by my head," saith the knight, "sith that you slew him, you are my mortal enemy!" so he draweth off in the midst of the launde and perceval likewise, and then they come together as fast as their horses may carry them, and either giveth other great buffets in the midst of their breast with their spears the most they may. perceval smiteth the knight so passing hard that he overthroweth him to the ground right over the croup of his horse, and in the fall that he made, he to-brake him the master-bone of his leg so that he might not move. and perceval alighteth to the ground and cometh where the knight lay. and he crieth him mercy that he slay him not. and perceval telleth him he need not fear death, nor that he is minded to slay him in such plight as he is, but that like as he was fain to make the damsel do he will make him do. he maketh alight the other old knight and the priest, then maketh the knight be carried to the pit of the serpent and the worms, whereof was great store. the pit was dark and deep. when that the knight was therein he might not live long for the worms that were there. the damsel thanked perceval much of this goodness and of the other that he had done her. she departeth and returneth again to her castle, and was assured therein on all sides, nor never thereafter had she dread of no knight, for the cruel justice that perceval had done on this one. xvii. the son of the widow lady of his good knighthood knoweth not how to live without travail. he well knoweth that when he hath been at the black hermit's castle, he will in some measure have achieved his task. but many another thing behoveth him to do tofore, and little toil he thinketh it, whereof shall god be well pleased. he hath ridden so far one day and another, that he came into a land where he met knights stout and strong there where god was neither believed in nor loved, but where rather they adored false images and false lord-gods and devils that made themselves manifest. he met a knight at the entrance of a forest. "ha, sir!" saith he to perceval, "return you back! no need is there for you to go further, for the folk of this island are not well-believers in god. i may not pass through the land but by truce only. the queen of this land was sister of the king of oriande, that lancelot killed in the battle and all his folk, and seized his land, wherein all the folk were misbelievers. now throughout all the land they believe in the saviour of the world. thereof is she passing sorrowful, and hateth all them that believe in the new law, insomuch as that she would not look upon any that believed, and prayed to her gods that never might she see none until such time as the new law should be overthrown; and god, that hath power to do this, blinded her forthwith. now she supposeth that the false gods wherein she believeth have done this, and saith that when the new law shall fall, she will have her sight again by the renewal of these gods, and by their virtue, nor, until this hour, hath she no desire to see. and i tell you this," saith the knight, "because i would not that you should go thither as yet, for that i misdoubt of your being troubled thereby." "sir, gramercy," saith perceval, "but no knighthood is there so fair as that which is undertaken to set forward the law of god, and for him ought one to make better endeavour than for all other. in like manner as he put his body in pain and travail for us, so ought each to put his own for him." he departeth from the knight, and was right joyous of this that he heard him say that lancelot had won a kingdom wherein he had done away the false law. but and he knew the tidings that the king had put him in prison, he would not have been glad at all, for lancelot was of his lineage and was therefore good knight, and for this he loved him right well. xviii. perceval rideth until nightfall, and findeth a great castle fortified with a great drawbridge, and there were tall ancient towers within. he espied at the door a squire that had the weight of a chain on his neck, and at the other end the chain was fixed to a great bulk of iron. the chain was as long as the length of the bridge. then cometh he over against perceval when he seeth him coming. "sir," saith he, "meseemeth you believe in god?" "fair friend, so do i, the best i may." "sir, for god's sake, enter not this castle!" "wherefore, fair friend?" saith perceval. "sir," saith he, "i will tell you. i am christian, even as are you, and i am thrall within there and guard this gate, as you see. but it is the most cruel castle that i know, and it is called the raving castle. there be three knights within there, full young and comely, but so soon as they see a knight of the new law, forthwith are they out of their senses, and all raving mad, so that nought may endure between them. moreover, there is within one of the fairest damsels that saw i ever. she guardeth the knights so soon as they begin to rave, and so much they dread her that they durst not disobey her commandment in aught that she willeth, for many folk would they evilly entreat were it not for her. and for that i am their thrall they put up with me, and i have no fear of them, but many is the christian knight that hath come in hither that never hath issued hence." "fair sweet friend," saith perceval, "i will enter in thither and i may, for i should not know this day how to go elsewhither, and true it is that greater power hath god than the devil." he entereth into the castle and alighteth in the midst of the courtyard. xix. the damsel was at the windows of the hall, that was of passing great beauty. she cometh down as soon as she may, and seeth perceval come in and the cross on his shield, and knoweth well thereby that he is christian. "ha, sir, for god's sake," saith she, "come not up above, for there be three of the comeliest knights that ever were seen that are playing at tables and at dice in a chamber, and they are brothers-german. they will all go out of their senses so soon as they shall see you!" xx. "damsel," saith perceval, "please god, so shall they not, and such a miracle is good to see, for it is only right that all they who will not believe in god should be raving mad when they see the things that come of him." perceval goeth up into the hall, all armed, for all that the damsel saith. she followeth him as fast as she may. the three knights espied perceval all armed and the cross on his shield, and forthwith leapt up and were beside themselves. they rolled their eyes and tore themselves and roared like devils. there were axes and swords in the hall that they go to lay hold on, and they are fain to leap upon perceval, but no power have they to do so, for such was the will of god. when they saw that they might not come a-nigh him, they ran either on other and so slew themselves between them, nor would they stint their fighting together for the damsel. perceval beheld the miracle of these folks that were thus killed, and the damsel that made right great dole thereof. "ha, damsel," saith he, "weep not, but repent you of this false belief, for they that are unwilling to believe in god shall die like mad folks and devils!" perceval made the squires that were there within bear the bodies out of the hall, and made them be cast into a running water, and straightway slew all the other, for that they were not minded to believe. the castle was all emptied of the misbelieving folk save only the damsel and those that waited upon her, and the christian thrall that guarded the gate. perceval set him forth of the chain, then led him up into the hall and made him disarm him. he found sundry right rich robes. the damsel, that was of right great beauty, looked at him and saw that he was a full comely knight, and well pleased she was with him. she honoured him in right great sort, but she might not forget the three knights that were her brothers, and made sore dole for them. xxi. "damsel," saith perceval, "nought availeth it to make this dole, but take comfort on some other manner." perceval looked at the hall from one end to the other and saw that it was right rich, and the damsel, in whom was full great beauty, stinted of making dole to look at perceval. she seeth that he is comely knight and gentle and tall and well furnished of good conditions, wherefore he pleaseth her much, and forthwith beginneth she to love him, and saith to herself that, so he would leave his god for the god in whom she believed, right glad would she be thereof, and would make him lord of her castle, for it seemed her that better might she not bestow it, and sith that her brothers are dead, there may be no bringing of them back, and therefore better would it be to forget her dole. but little knew she perceval's thought, for had she known that which he thinketh, she would have imagined not this; for, and had she been christian he might not have been drawn to love her in such sort as she thinketh, sith that josephus telleth us that never did he lose his virginity for woman, but rather died virgin and chaste and clean of his body. in this mind was she still, nor never might she refrain her heart from him. thinketh she rather that, and he knew she was minded to love him, right joyous would he be thereof, for that she is of so passing beauty. perceval asketh the damsel what she hath in her thought? "sir," saith she, "nought think i but only good and you will." "damsel," saith perceval, "never, please god, shall there be hindrance of me but that you renounce this evil law and believe in the good." "sir," saith she, "do you renounce yours for love of me, and i will do your commandment and your will." xxii. "damsel," saith perceval, "nought availeth to tell me this. were you man like as you are woman, your end would have come with the others. but, please god, your tribulation shall tend itself to good." "sir," saith she, "so you are willing to promise me that you will love me like as knight ought to love damsel, i am well inclined to believe in your god." "damsel, i promise you as i am a christian that so you are willing to receive baptism, i will love you as he that firmly believeth in god ought to love damsel." "sir," saith she, "i ask no more of you." she biddeth send for a holy man, a hermit that was in the forest appurtenant, and right gladly came he when he heard the tidings. they held her up and baptized her, both her and her damsels with her. perceval held her at the font. josephus witnesseth us in this history that she had for name celestre. and great joy made she of her baptism, and her affections turned she unto good. the hermit remained there with her, and taught her to understand the firm believe, and did the service of our lord. the damsel was of right good life and right holy, and ended thereafter in many good works. xxiii. perceval departed from the castle, and gave thanks to our lord and praise, that he hath allowed him to conquer a castle so cruel and to attorn it to the law. he went his way a great pace, all armed, until he came into a country wherein was great grief being made, and the more part said that he was come that should destroy their law, for that already had he won their strongest castle. he is come towards an ancient castle that was at the head of a forest. he looketh and seeth at the entrance of the gateway a full great throng of folk. he seeth a squire come forth thence, and asketh him unto whom belongeth the castle. "sir," saith he, "it is queen jandree's, that hath made her be brought before her gate with the folk you see yonder, for she hath heard tell how the knights of the raving castle are dead, and another knight that hath conquered the castle hath made the damsel be baptized, wherefore much she marvelleth how this may be. she is in much dread of losing her land, for her brother madeglant of oriande is dead, so that she may no longer look to none for succour, and she hath been told how the knight that conquered the raving castle is the best knight of the world, and that none may endure against him. for this doubtance and fear of him she is minded to go to one of her own castles that is somewhat stronger." perceval departeth from the squire and rideth until they that were at the entrance of the gateway espied him. they saw the red cross that he bare on his shield, and said to the queen, "lady, a christian knight is coming into this castle." "take heed," saith she, "that it be not he that is about to overthrow our law!" perceval cometh thither and alighteth, and cometh before the queen all armed. the queen asketh what he seeketh. xxiv. "lady," saith he, "nought seek i save good only to yourself so you hinder it not." "you come," saith she, "from the raving castle, there where three brothers are slain, whereof is great loss." "lady," saith he, "at that castle was i, and now fain would i that your own were at the will of jesus christ, in like manner as is that." "by my head," saith she, "and your lord hath so great power as is said, so will it be." "lady, his virtue and his puissance are far greater than they say." "that would i fain know," saith she, "presently, and i am fain to pray you that you depart not from me until that it hath been proven." perceval granteth it gladly. she returned into her castle and perceval with her. when he was alighted he went up into the hall. they that were within marvelled them much that she should thus give consent, for never, sithence that she had been blind, might she allow no knight of the new law to be so nigh her, and made slay all them that came into her power, nor might she never see clear so long as she had one of them before her. now is her disposition altered in such sort as that she would fain she might see clear him that hath come in, for she hath been told that he is the comeliest knight of the world and well seemeth to be as good as they witness of him. xxv. perceval remained there gladly for that he saw the lady's cruelty was somewhat slackened, and it seemed him that it would be great joy and she were willing to turn to god, and they that are within there, for well he knoweth that so she should hold to the new law, all they of the land would be of the same mind. when perceval had lain the night at the castle, the lady on the morrow sent for all the more powerful of her land, and came forth of her chamber into the hall where perceval was, seeing as clear as ever she had seen aforetime. "lords," saith she, "hearken ye all, for now will i tell you the truth like as it hath befallen me. i was lying in my bed last night, and well know ye that i saw not a whit, and made my orisons to our gods that they would restore me my sight. it seemed me they made answer that they had no power so to do, but that i should make be slain the knight that was arrived here, and that and i did not, sore wroth would they be with me. and when i had heard their voices say that nought might they avail me as for that i had prayed of them, i remembered me of the lord in whom they that hold the new law believe. and i prayed him right sweetly that, and so it were that he had such virtue and such puissance as many said, he would make me see clear, so as that i might believe in him. at that hour i fell on sleep, and meseemed that i saw one of the fairest ladies in the world, and she was delivered of a child therewithin, and he had about him a great brightness of light like it were the sun shone at right noonday." xxvi. "when the child was born, so passing fair was he and so passing gentle and of so sweet semblant that the looks of him pleased me well; and meseemed that at his deliverance there was a company of folk the fairest that were seen ever, and they were like as it had been birds and made full great joy. and methought that an ancient man that was with her, told me that my lady had lost no whit of her maidenhood for the child. well pleased was i the while this thing lasted me. it seemed me that i saw it like as i do you. thereafter, methought i saw a man bound to a stake, in whom was great sweetness and humility, and an evil folk beat him with scourges and rods right cruelly, so that the blood ran down thereof. they would have no mercy on him. of this might i not hold myself but that i wept for pity of him. therewithal i awoke and marvelled much whence it should come and what it might be. but in anyway it pleased me much that i had seen it. it seemed me after this, that i saw the same man that had been bound to the stake set upon a cross, and nailed thereon right grievously and smitten in the side with a spear, whereof had i such great pity that needs must i weep of the sore pain that i saw him suffer. i saw the lady at the feet of the cross, and knew her again that i had seen delivered of the child, but none might set in writing the great dole that she made. on the other side of the cross was a man that seemed not joyful, but he recomforted the lady the fairest he might. and another folk were there that collected his blood in a most holy vessel that one of them held for it." xxvii. "afterward, methought i saw him taken down of hanging on the cross, and set in a sepulchre of stone. thereof had i great pity for, so long as meseemed i saw him thus never might i withhold me from weeping. and so soon as the pity came into my heart, and the tears into my eyes, i had my sight even as you see. in such a lord as this ought one to believe, for he suffered death when he might lightly have avoided it had he so willed, but he did it to save his people. in this lord i will that ye all believe, and so renounce our false gods, for they be devils and therefore may not aid us nor avail us. and he that will not believe, him will i make be slain or die a shameful death." the lady made her be held up and baptized, and all them that would not do the same she made be destroyed and banished. this history telleth us that her name was salubre. she was good lady and well believed in god, and so holy life led she thereafter that in a hermitage she died. perceval departed from the castle right joyous in his heart of the lady and her people that believed in the new law. branch xxxiii. title i. afterward, this title telleth us that meliot of logres was departed from castle perilous sound and whole, by virtue of the sword that lancelot had brought him, and of the cloth that he took in the chapel perilous. but sore sorrowful was he of the tidings he had heard that messire gawain was in prison and he knew not where, but he had been borne on hand that two knights that were kinsmen of them of the raving castle that had slain one another, had shut him in prison on account of perceval that had won the castle. now, saith meliot of logres, never shall he have ease again until he knoweth where messire gawain is. he rideth amidst a forest, and prayeth god grant him betimes to hear witting of messire gawain. the forest was strange and gloomy. he rode until nightfall but might not find neither hold nor hermitage. he looketh right amidst the forest before him and seeth a damsel sitting that bemoaneth herself full sore. the moon was dark and the place right foul of seeming and the forest gloomy of shadow. "ha, damsel, and what do you here at this hour?" "sir," saith she, "i may not amend it, the more is my sorrow. for the place is more perilous than you think. look," saith she, "up above, and you will see the occasion wherefore i am here." meliot looketh and seeth two knights all armed hanging up above the damsel's head. thereof much marvelleth he. "ha, damsel," saith he, "who slew these knights so foully?" "sir," saith she, "the knight of the galley that singeth in the sea." "and wherefore hath he hanged them in such wise?" "for this," saith she, "that they believed in god and his sweet mother. and so behoveth me to watch them here for forty days, that none take them down of hanging, for and they were taken hence he would lose his castle, he saith, and would cut off my head." "by my head," saith meliot, "such watch is foul shame to damsel, and no longer shall you remain here." "ha, sir," saith the damsel, "then shall i be a dead woman, for he is of so great cruelty that none scarce might protect me against him." ii. "damsel," saith meliot, "foul shame would it be and i left here these knights in such wise for the reproach of other knights." meliot made them graves with his sword, and so buried them the best he might. "sir," saith the damsel, "and you take not thought to protect me, the knight will slay me. to-morrow, when he findeth not the knights, he will search all the forest to look for me." meliot and the damsel together go their way through the forest until they come to a chapel where was wont to be a hermit that the knight of the galley had destroyed. he helpeth down the damsel of his horse, and afterward they entered into the chapel, where was a great brightness of light, and a damsel was there that kept watch over a dead knight. meliot marvelleth him much. "damsel," said meliot, "when was this knight killed?" "sir, yesterday the knight of the galley slew him on the seashore, wherefore behoveth me thus keep watch, and in the morning will he come hither or ever he go to the castle where messire gawain hath to-morrow to fight with a lion, all unarmed, and my lady, that is mistress both of me and of this damsel you have brought hither, will likewise be brought to-morrow to the place where the lion is to slay messire gawain, and she in like sort will be afterward delivered to the lion and she renounce not the new law wherein the knight that came from raving castle, whereof she is lady, hath made her believe; and we ourselves shall be in like manner devoured along with her. but this damsel would still have taken respite of my death and she had still kept guard over the knights that were so foully hanged above her. natheless, sith that you have taken them down from where they were hanging, you have done a right good deed, whatsoever betide, for the lord of the red tower will give his castle to the knight for this." meliot is right joyous of the tidings that he hath heard of messire gawain that he is still on live, for well knoweth he, sith that the knight of the galley will come by the chapel there, that he will come thither or ever messire gawain doth battle with the lion. "sir," saith the damsel of the chapel, "for god's sake, take this damsel to a place of safety, for the knight will be so wood mad of wrath and despite so soon as he cometh hither, that he will be fain to smite off her head forthwith, and of yourself also have i great fear." iii. "damsel," saith meliot, "the knight is but a man like as am i." "yea, sir, but stronger is he and more cruel than seem you to be." meliot was in the chapel the night until the morrow, and heard the knight coming like a tempest, and he brought with him the lady of the castle and reviled her from time to time, and meliot seeth him come, and a dwarf that followeth after him a great pace. he crieth out to him: "sir, behold there the disloyal knight through whom you have lost your castle. now haste! avenge yourself of him! after that will we go to the death of messire gawain?" meliot, so soon as he espieth him, mounteth and maketh his arms ready. "is it you," saith the knight of the galley, "that hath trespassed on my demesne and taken down my knights?" "by my head, yours were they not! rather were they the knights of god, and foul outrage have you done herein when you slew them so shamefully." he goeth toward the knight without more words, and smiteth him so passing strong amidst the breast that he pierceth the habergeon and thrusteth all the iron of his spear into his body and afterward draweth it back to him with a great wrench. and the knight smiteth him so hard on his shield that he maketh an ell's length pass beyond, for right wroth was he that he was wounded. the dwarf crieth to him, "away, then! the knight endureth against you that have slain so many of them!" the knight of the galley waxeth wood wrath. he taketh his career, and cometh as fast as his horse may carry him, and smiteth meliot so strongly that he breaketh his spear in such sort that he maketh both him and his horse stagger. but meliot catcheth him better, for he thrusteth the spear right through his body and hurleth against him at the by-passing with such stoutness and force that he maketh him fall dead to the ground from his horse. the dwarf thought to escape, but meliot smote off his head, whereof the damsels gave him great thanks, for many a mischief had he wrought them. iv. meliot buried the knight that he found in the chapel dead, then told the damsels that he might abide no longer, but would go succour messire gawain and he might. the damsels were horsed to their will, for one had the horse of the knight that was slain and the other the horse of the dwarf. the other damsel was come upon a mule, and they said that they would go back, for the country was made all safe by the death of the knight. they thanked meliot much, for they say truly that he hath rescued them from death. meliot departeth from the damsels and goeth right amidst the forest as he that would most fain hear tidings of messire gawain. when he had ridden of a long space, he met a knight that was coming all armed at great pace. "sir knight," saith he to meliot, "can you tell me tidings of the knight of the galley?" "what have you to do therein?" saith meliot. "sir, the lord of the red tower hath made bring messire gawain into a launde of this forest, and there, all unarmed, must he do battle with a lion. so my lord is waiting for the knight of the galley, that is to bring two damsels thither that the lion will devour when he shall have slain messire gawain." "will the battle be presently?" saith meliot. "yea, sir," saith the knight, "soon enough betimes, for messire gawain hath already been led thither and there bound to a stake until such time as the lion shall be come. then will he be unbound, but even then two knights all armed will keep watch on him. but tell me tidings of the knight of the galley, and you have seen him?" "go forward," saith he, "and you will hear tidings of him." meliot departeth thereupon, a great gallop, and cometh nigh the launde whereunto messire gawain had been brought. he espied the two knights that kept guard over him, and if that messire gawain were in fear, little marvel was it, for he thought that his end had come. meliot espied him bound to an iron staple with cords about the body on all sides so that he might not move. meliot hath great pity thereof in his heart, and saith to himself that he will die there sooner than messire gawain shall die. he clappeth spurs to his horse when he cometh nigh the knights, and overtaketh one of them with such a rush that he thrusteth his spear right through his body, and beareth him down dead. the other was fain to go to the castle for succour when he saw his fellow dead. meliot slew him forthwith. he cometh to messire gawain, and so unbindeth him and cutteth the cords wherewith he is bound. "sir," saith he, "i am meliot of logres, your knight." v. when messire gawain felt himself unbound, no need to ask whether he had joy thereof. the tidings were come to the red court that queen jandree was christened and baptized, and that the knight was come that had such force and puissance in him that none might endure against him for the god in whom he believed, and they knew likewise that the knight of the galley was dead, and messire gawain unbound and the knights that guarded him slain. they say that there may they not abide, so they depart from the castle and say that they will cross the sea to protect their bodies, for that there they may have no safety. vi. when meliot had delivered messire gawain he made him be armed with the arms, such as they were, of one of the knights he had slain. messire gawain mounted on a horse such as pleased him, and right great joy had he at heart. they marvel much how it is that they of the castle have not come after them, but they know not their thought nor how they are scared. "meliot," saith messire gawain, "you have delivered me from death this time and one other, nor never had i acquaintance with any knight that hath done so much for me in so short a time as have you." they departed the speediest they might and rode nigh enow to the castle, but they heard none moving within nor any noise, nor saw they none issue forth, and much marvelled they that none should come after them. they rode until they came to the head of the forest and caught sight of the sea that was nigh enough before them, and saw that there was a great clashing of arms at the brink of the sea. a single knight was doing battle with all them that would fain have entered into a ship, and held stour so stiffly against them that he toppled the more part into the sea. they went thither as fast as they might, and when they drew nigh to the ship they knew that it was perceval by his arms and his shield. or ever they reached it, the ship was put off into the midst of the sea, wherein he was launched of his own great hardiment, and they went on fighting against him within the ship. "meliot," saith messire gawain, "see you, there is perceval the good knight, and now may we say of a truth that he is in sore peril of death; for that ship, save god bethink him thereof, shall arrive in such manner and in such a place as that never more shall we have no witting of him, and, so he perish for ever, no knight on live may have power to set forward the law of our lord." vii. messire gawain seeth the ship going further away, and perceval that defendeth himself therein against them that set upon him. right heavy is he that he came not sooner, or ever the ship had put off from the land. he turneth back, he and meliot together, and right sorrowful was messire gawain of perceval, for they knew not in what land he might arrive, and, might he have followed, right gladly would he have gone after him to aid him. they have ridden until they meet a knight. messire gawain asketh him whence he cometh, and he saith from king arthur's court. "what tidings can you tell us thereof?" saith messire gawain. "sir, bad enough!" saith he. "king arthur hath neglected all his knights for briant of the isles, and hath put one of his best knights in prison." "what is his name?" saith messire gawain. "sir, he is called lancelot of the lake. he had reconquered all the islands that had been reft of king arthur, and slain king madeglant, and conquered the land of oriande that he turned to the belief of the saviour of the world, and, so soon as he had conquered his enemies, king arthur sent for him forthwith and straightway put him in his prison by the counsel of briant of the isles. but king arthur will have a surfeit of friends betimes; for king claudas hath assembled his folk in great plenty to reconquer the kingdom of oriande and come back upon king arthur by the counsel of briant of the isles that betrayeth the king, for he hath made him his seneschal and commander of all his land." "sir knight," saith messire gawain, "needs must the king miscarry that setteth aside the counsel of his good knights for the leasings of a traitor." thereupon the knight departed from messire gawain. right heavy is he of this that he hath said, that the king hath put lancelot in prison. never tofore did he aught whereby he wrought so much to blame. branch xxxiv. title i. hereupon the story is silent of messire gawain and meliot and speaketh of king claudas that hath assembled a great folk by the counsel of briant of the isles to come into the land of king arthur, for he knoweth that it is disgarnished of the good knights that wont there to be, and he knoweth all the secret plottings of the court and what power king arthur hath withal. he draweth toward his land the nighest he may, and hath won back the kingdom of oriande all at his will. but they of albanie still hold against him and challenge the land the best they may. tidings thereof come to the court of king arthur, and they of the country sent him word that so he send them not succour betimes they will yield up the land to king claudas, and oftentimes they long after lancelot, and say that so they had a defender like him, the islands would be all at peace. the king sent briant of the isles thither many times, that ever incontinent returned thence discomfit, but never sent he thither him that should have power to protect the land against king claudas. king arthur was sore troubled, for no witting had he of messire gawain nor messire ywain nor of others whereby his court had use of right to be feared and dreaded and of high renown throughout all other kingdoms. the king was one day in the hall at cardoil, right heavy; and he was at one of the windows, and remembered him of the queen and of his good knights that he wont to see oftener at court, whereof the more part were dead, and of the adventures that wont to befall therein whereof they saw none no longer. lucan the butler seeth him right heavy and draweth nigh unto him quietly. ii. "sir," saith he, "meseemeth you are without joy." "lucan," said the king, "joy hath been somewhat far from me sithence that the queen hath been dead, and gawain and the other knights have held aloof from my court so that they deign come hither no longer. moreover, king claudas warreth upon me and conquereth my lands so that no power have i to rescue me for default of my knights." "sir," saith lucan, "herein is there nought whereof you have right to accuse any save yourself alone. for you have done evil unto him that hath served you, and good unto them that are traitors to you. you have one of the best knights in the world and the most loyal in your prison, wherefore all the other hold them aloof from your court. lancelot had served you well by his good will and by his good knighthood, nor never had he done you any disservice whereof you might in justice have done him such shame; nor never will your enemies withhold them from you nor have dread of you save only through him and other your good knights. and know of a truth that lancelot and messire gawain are the best of your court." "lucan," saith king arthur, "so thought i ever again to have affiance in him, i would make him be set forth of my prison, for well i know that i have wrought discourteously toward him; and lancelot is of a great heart, wherefore would he not slacken of his despite for that which hath been done unto him until such time as he should be avenged thereof, for no king is there in the world, how puissant soever he be, against whom he durst not well maintain his right." iii. "sir," saith lucan, "lancelot well knoweth that and you had taken no counsel but your own, he would not have been thus entreated, and i dare well say that never so long as he liveth will he misdo in aught towards you, for he hath in him much valour and loyalty, as many a time have you had good cause to know. wherefore, and you would fain have aid and succour and hold your realm again, behoveth you set him forth of the prison, or otherwise never will you succeed herein, and, if you do not so, you will lose your land by treason." the king held by the counsel of lucan the butler. he made bring lancelot before him into the midst of the hall, that was somewhat made ean of his being in prison, but he bore him as he wont, nor might none look at him to whom he seemed not to be good knight. "lancelot," saith the king, "how is it with you?" "sir," saith he, "it hath been ill with me long time, but, please god, it shall be better hereafter." "lancelot," saith the king, "i repent me of this that i have done to you, and i have bethought me much of the good services i have found in you, wherefore i will do you amends thereof at your will, in such sort as that the love between us shall be whole as it was tofore." iv. "sir," saith lancelot, "your amends love i much, and your love more than of any other; but never, please god, will i misdo you for aught that you may have done to me, for it is well known that i have not been in prison for no treason i have done, nor for no folly, but only for that it was your will. never will it be reproached me as of shame, and, sith that you have done me nought whereof i may have blame nor reproach, my devoir it is to withhold me from hating you; for you are my lord, and if that you do me ill, without flattery of myself the ill you do me is your own; but, please god, whatsoever you have done me, never shall my aid fail you, rather, everywhere will i set my body in adventure for your love, in like sort as i have done many a time." v. in the court of king arthur was right great joy of the most part when they heard that lancelot was set forth of prison, but not a whit rejoiced were briant and his folk. the king commanded that lancelot should be well cared for and made whole again, and that all should be at his commandment. the court was all overjoyed thereof, and they said: now at last might the king make war in good assurance. lancelot was foremost in the king's court and more redoubted than was ever another of the knights. briant of the isles came one day before the king. "sir," saith he, "behold, here is lancelot that wounded me in your service, wherefore i will that he know i am his enemy." "briant," saith lancelot, "and if that you deserved it tofore, well may you be sorry thereof, and sith that you wish to be mine enemy, your friend will i not be. for well may i deem of your love according as i have found it in you." "sir," saith briant to the king, "you are my lord, and i am one you are bound to protect. you know well that so rich am i in lands and so puissant in friends that i may well despise mine enemy, nor will i not remain at your court so long as lancelot is therein. say not that i depart thence with any shame as toward myself. rather thus go i hence as one that will gladly avenge me, so i have place and freedom, and i see plainly and know that you and your court love him far better than you love me, wherefore behoveth me take thought thereof." "briant," saith the king, "remain as yet, and i will make amends for you to lancelot, and i myself will make amends for him to you." vi. "sir," saith briant, "by the faith that i owe to you, none amends will i have of him nor other until such time as i have drawn as much blood of his body as did he of mine, and i will well that he know it." with that briant departeth from the court all wrathful, but if that lancelot had not feared to anger the king, briant would not have ridden a league english or ever he had followed and forced him to fight. briant goeth toward the castle of the hard rock, and saith that better would it have been for the king that lancelot were still in prison, for that such a plea will he move against him and he may bring it to bear, as that he shall lose thereof the best parcel of his land. he is gone into the land of king claudas, and saith that now at last hath he need of his aid, for lancelot is issued forth of the king's prison and is better loved at court than all other, so that the king believeth in no counsel save his only. king claudas sweareth unto him and maketh pledge that never will he fail him, and briant to him again. branch xxxv. title i. herewithal is the story silent of briant and talketh of perceval, that the ship beareth away right swiftly; but so long hath he held battle therein that every one hath he slain of them that were in the ship save only the pilot that steereth her, for him hath he in covenant that he will believe in god and renounce his evil law. perceval is far from land so that he seeth nought but sea only, and the ship speedeth onward, and god guideth him, as one that believeth in him and loveth him and serveth him of a good heart. the ship ran on by night and by day as it pleased god, until that they saw a castle and an island of the sea. he asked his pilot if he knew what castle it was. "certes," saith he, "not i, for so far have we run that i know not neither the sea nor the stars." they come nigh the castle, and saw four that sounded bells at the four corners of the town, right sweetly, and they that sounded them were clad in white garments. they are come thither. ii. so soon as the ship had taken haven under the castle, the sea withdraweth itself back, so that the ship is left on dry land. none were therein save perceval, his horse, and the pilot. they issued forth of the ship and went by the side of the sea toward the castle, and therein were the fairest halls and the fairest mansions that any might see ever. he looketh underneath a tree that was tall and broad and seeth the fairest fountain and the clearest that any may devise, and it was all surrounded of rich pillars, and the gravel thereof seemed to be gold and precious stones. above this fountain were two men sitting, their beards and hair whiter than driven snow, albeit they seemed young of visage. so soon as they saw perceval they dressed them to meet him, and bowed down and worshipped the shield that he bare at his neck, and kissed the cross and then the boss wherein were the hallows. "sir," say they, "marvel not of this that we do, for well knew we the knight that bare this shield tofore you. many a time we saw him or ever god were crucified." perceval marvelleth much of this that they say, for they talk of a time that is long agone. iii. "lords, know ye then how he was named?" say they, "joseph of abarimacie, but no cross was there on the shield before the death of jesus christ. but he had it set thereon after the crucifixion of jesus christ for the sake of the saviour that he loved so well." perceval took off the shield from his neck, and one of the worshipful men setteth upon it as it were a posy of herbs that was blooming with the fairest flowers in the world. perceval looketh beyond the fountain and seeth in a right fair place a round vessel like as it were ivory, and it was so large that there was a knight within, all armed. he looketh thereinto and seeth the knight, and speaketh unto him many times, but never the more willeth the knight to answer him. perceval looketh at him in wonderment, and cometh back to the good men and asketh them who is this knight, and they tell him that he may know not as yet. they lead him to a great hall and bear his shield before him, whereof they make right great joy, and show thereunto great worship. he seeth the hall right rich, for hall so rich and so fair had he seen never. it was hung about with right rich cloths of silk, and in the midst of the hall was imaged the saviour of the world so as he is in his majesty, with the apostles about him, and within were great galleries that were full of folk and seemed to be of great holiness, and so were they, for had they not been good men they might not there have remained. iv. "sir," say the two masters to perceval, "this house that you see here so rich, is the hall royal." "by my faith," saith perceval, "so ought it well to be, for never saw i none so much of worth." he looketh all around, and seeth the richest tables of gold and ivory that he saw ever. one of the masters clappeth his hands thrice, and three and thirty men come into the hall all in a company. they were clad in white garments, and not one of them but had a red cross in the midst of his breast, and they seemed to be all of an age. as soon as they enter into the hall they do worship to god our lord and set out their cups. then went they to wash at a great laver of gold, and then went to sit at the tables. the masters made perceval sit at the most master-table with themselves. they were served thereat right gloriously, and perceval looked about him more gladlier than he ate. v. and while he was thus looking, he seeth a chain of gold come down above him loaded with precious stones, and in the midst thereof was a crown of gold. the chain descended a great length and held on to nought save to the will of our lord only. as soon as the masters saw it descending they opened a great wide pit that was in the midst of the hall, so that one could see the hole all openly. as soon as the entrance of this pit was discovered, there issued thence the greatest cry and most dolorous that any heard ever, and when the worshipful men hear it, they stretched out their hands towards our lord and all began to weep. perceval heareth this dolour, and marvelleth much what it may be. he seeth that the chain of gold descendeth thither and is there stayed until they have well-nigh eaten, and then draweth itself again into the air and so goeth again aloft. but perceval knoweth not what became thereof, and the master covereth the pit again, that was right grisly to see, and pitiful to hear were the voices that issued therefrom. vi. the good men rose from the tables when they had eaten, and gave thanks right sweetly to our lord; and then returned thither whence they had come. "sir," saith the master to perceval, "the chain of gold that you have seen is right precious and the crown of gold likewise. but never may you issue forth from hence save you promise to return so soon as you shall see the ship and the sail crossed of a red cross; otherwise may you not depart hence." "tell me," saith he, "of the chain of gold and the crown, what it may be?" "we will tell you not," saith one of the masters, "save you promise that which i tell you." "certes, sir," saith perceval, "i promise you faithfully, that so soon as i shall have done that i have to do for my lady my mother and one other, that i will return hither, so i be on live and i see your ship so marked as you say." "yea, be you faithful to the end herein, and you shall have the crown of gold upon your head so soon as you return, and so shall you be seated in the throne, and shall be king of an island that is near to this, right plenteous of all things good, for nought is there in the world that is there lacking that is needful for man's body. king hermit was the king thereof that thus hath garnished it, and for that he approved himself so well in this kingdom, and that they who are in the island consented thereto, is he chosen to be king of a greater realm. now they desire that another worshipful man be sent them for king, that shall do for them as much good as did he, but take you good heed, sith that you will be king therein, that the island be well garnished; for, and you garnish it not well, you will be put into the poverty-stricken island, the crying whereof you have but now since heard, and the crown thereof will again be reft from you. for they that have been kings of the plenteous island and have not well approved them, are among the folk that you saw in the poverty-stricken island, lacking in all things good. and so i tell you that king hermit, whom you will succeed, hath sent thither a great part of his folk. there are the heads sealed in silver, and the heads sealed in lead, and the bodies whereunto these heads belonged; i tell you that you must make come thither the head both of the king and of the queen. but of the other i tell you that they are in the poverty-stricken island. but we know not whether they shall ever issue forth thence." vii. "sir," saith perceval, "tell me of the knight that is all armed in the ivory vessel, who he is, and what is the name of this castle?" "you may not know," saith the master, "until your return. but tell me tidings of the most holy graal, that you reconquered, is it still in the holy chapel that was king fisherman's?" "yea, sir," saith perceval, "and the sword wherewith s. john was beheaded, and other hallows in great plenty." "i saw the graal," saith the master, "or ever joseph, that was uncle to king fisherman, collected therein the blood or jesus christ. know that well am i acquainted with all your lineage, and of what folk you were born. for your good knighthood and for your good cleanness and for your good valour came you in hither, for such was our lord's will, and take heed that you be ready when place shall be, and time shall come, and you shall see the ship apparelled." "sir," saith perceval, "most willingly shall i return, nor never would i have sought to depart but for my lady my mother, and for my sister, for never have i seen no place that so much hath pleased me." he was right well harboured the night within, and in the morning, or ever he departed, heard a holy mass in a holy chapel the fairest that he had seen ever. the master cometh to him after the mass and bringeth him a shield as white as snow. afterwards, he saith, "you will leave me your shield within for token of your coming and will bear this." "sir," saith perceval, "i will do your pleasure." he hath taken leave, and so departeth from the rich mansion, and findeth the ship all apparelled, and heareth sound the bells at his forth-going the same as at his coming. he entereth into the ship and the sail is set. he leaveth the land far behind, and the pilot steereth the ship and our lord god guideth and leadeth him. the ship runneth a great speed, for far enough had she to run, but god made her speed as he would, for he knew the passing great goodness and worth of the knight that was within. viii. god hath guided and led the ship by day and by night until that she arrived at an island where was a castle right ancient, but it seemed not to be over-rich, rather it showed as had it been of great lordship in days of yore. they cast anchor, and perceval is come toward the castle and entereth in all armed. he seeth the castle large, and the dwelling chambers fallen down and the house-place roofless, and he seeth a lady sitting before the steps of an old hall. she rose up as soon as she saw him, but she was right poorly clad. it seemed well by her body and her cheer and her bearing that she was a gentlewoman, and he seeth that two damsels come with her that are young of age and are as poorly clad as is the lady. "sir," saith she to perceval, "welcome may you be. no knight have i seen enter this castle of a long time." "lady," saith perceval, "god grant you joy and honour!" "sir," saith she, "need have we thereof, for none scarce have i had this long while past." she leadeth him into a great ancient hall that was right poorly garnished. "sir," saith she, "here will you harbour you the night, and you would take in good part that we may do and you knew the plight of this castle." she maketh him be unarmed of a servant that was there within, and the damsels come before him and serve him right sweetly. the lady bringeth him a mantle to do on. "sir," saith she, "within are no better garments wherewith to show you honour than this." perceval looketh on the damsels and hath great pity of them, for so well shapen were they of limb and body as that nature might not have better fashioned them, and all the beauty that may be in woman's body was in them, and all the sweetness and simpleness. ix. "lady," saith perceval, "is this castle, then, not yours?" "sir," saith she, "so much is all that remaineth unto me of all my land, and you see there my daughters of whom is it right sore pity, for nought have they but what you see, albeit gentlewomen are they and of high lineage, but their kinsfolk are too far away, and a knight that is right cruel hath reft us of our land sithence that my lord was dead, and holdeth a son of mine in his prison, whereof i am right sorrowful, for he is one of the comeliest knights in the world. he had not been knight more than four years when he took him, and now may i aid neither myself nor other, but i have heard tell that there is a knight in the land of wales that was the son of alain li gros of the valleys of camelot, and he is the best knight in the world, and this alain was brother of calobrutus, whose wife was i, and of whom i had my son and these two daughters. this know i well, that and the good knight that is so near akin to them were by any adventure to come into this island, i should have my son again, and my daughters that are disherited would have their lands again freely, and so should i be brought out of sore pain and poverty. i am of another lineage that is full far away, for king ban of benoic that is dead was mine uncle, but he hath a son that is a right good knight as i have been told, so that and one of these two should come nigh me in any of these islands right joyous should i be thereof." x. perceval heareth that the two damsels are his uncle's daughters, and hath great pity thereof. "lady," saith he, "how is he named that is in prison?" "sir," saith she, "galobruns, and he that holdeth him in prison is named gohaz of the castle of the whale." "is his castle near this, lady?" saith he. "sir, there is but an arm of the sea to cross, and in all these islands of the sea is there none that hath any puissance but he only, and so assured is he that no dread hath he of any. for none that is in this land durst offend against him. sir, one thing hath he bid me do, whereof i am sore grieved, that and i send him not one of my daughters, he hath sworn his oath that he will reave me of my castle." "lady," saith perceval, "an oath is not always kept. to the two damsels, please god, shall he do no shame, and right heavy am i of that he hath done already, for they were daughters of mine uncle. alain li gros was my father and galobrutus my uncle, and many another good man that now is dead." xi. when the damsels heard this, they kneeled down before him, and began to weep for joy and kiss his hands, and pray him for god's sake have mercy on them and on their brother. and he saith that he will not depart from their land until he hath done all he may. he remaineth the night in the castle and his mariner likewise. the lady made great joy of perceval, and did him all the honour she might. when the morrow came they showed him the land of the king that had reft them of their land, but the lady could not tell him where her son was in prison. he departeth and cometh back to his ship when he hath taken leave of the lady and the damsels, and right glad was he to know that the damsels were so nigh to him of kin. so he prayeth god grant him that he may be able to give them back their land and bring them out of the poverty wherein they are. he roweth until that he is come under a rock, wherein was a cave at top round and narrow and secure like as it were a little house. perceval looketh on that side, and seeth a man sitting within. he maketh the ship draw nigh the rock, then looketh and seeth the cutting of a way that went upwards through the rock. he is come forth of the ship and goeth up the little path until he cometh into the little house. he findeth within one of the comeliest knights in the world. he had a ring at his feet and a collar on his neck with a chain whereof the other end was fixed by a staple into a great ledge of the rock. he rose up over against perceval as soon as he saw him. "sir knight," saith perceval, "you are well made fast." "sir, that irketh me," saith the knight, "better should i like myself elsewhere than here." "you would be right," saith perceval, "for you are in right evil plight in the midst of this sea. have you aught within to eat or to drink?" "sir," saith he, "the daughter of the sick knight that dwelleth in the island hard by, sendeth me every day in a boat as much meat as i may eat, for she hath great pity of me. the king that hath imprisoned me here hath reft her castles like as he hath those of my lady my mother." "may none remove you hence?" "sir, in no wise, save he that set me here, for he keepeth with him the key of the lock, and he told me when he departed hence that never more should i issue forth." "by my head," saith perceval, "but you shall! and you were the son of galobrutus, you were the son of mine uncle," saith perceval, "and i of yours, so that it would be a reproach to me for evermore and i left you in this prison." xii. when galobruns heareth that he is his uncle's son, great joy hath he thereof. he would have fallen at his feet, but perceval would not, and said to him, "now be well assured, for i will seek your deliverance." he cometh down from the rock, and so entereth the ship and roweth of a long space. he looketh before him and seeth a right rich island and a right plenteous, and on the other side he seeth in a little islet a knight that is mounted up in a tall tree that was right broad with many boughs. there was a damsel with him, that had climbed up also for dread of a serpent, great and evil-favoured that had issued from a hole in a mountain. the damsel seeth perceval's ship coming, and crieth out to him. "ha, sir," saith she, "come to help this king that is up above, and me that am a damsel!" "whereof are you afeard, damsel?" saith perceval. "of a great serpent, sir," saith she, "that hath made us climb up, whereof ought i not to be sorry, for this king hath carried me off from my father's house, and would have done me shame of my body and this serpent had not run upon him." "and what is the king's name, damsel?" saith perceval. "sir, he is called gohaz of the castle of the whale. this great land is his own that is so plenteous, and other lands enow that he hath reft of my father and of other." the king had great shame of this that the damsel told him, and made answer never a word. perceval understandeth that it was he that held his cousin in prison, and is issued from the ship forthwith, sword drawn. the serpent seeth him, and cometh toward him, jaws yawning, and casteth forth fire and flame in great plenty. perceval thrusteth his sword right through the gullet. "now may you come down," saith he to the king. "sir," saith he, "the key of a chain wherewith a certain knight is bound hath fallen, and the serpent seized it." perceval rendeth open the throat and findeth the key forthwith, all red-hot with the fire of the serpent. the king cometh down, that hath no dread of aught, but cometh, rather, as he ought, to thank perceval of the goodness he had done him, and perceval seizeth him between his arms and beareth him away to the ship. xiii. "sir knight," saith gohaz, "take heed what you do, for i am king of this land." "therefore," saith perceval, "i do it. for, had it been another i should do it not." "ha, sir," saith the damsel, "leave me not here to get forth as i may, but help me until that i shall be in the house of my father, the sick knight, that is sore grieved on my account." perceval understandeth that it is the damsel of whom galobruns spake such praise. he goeth to bring her down from the tree, then bringeth her into the ship, and so goeth back toward the rock where his cousin was. "sir knight," saith gohaz, "where will you put me?" "i will put you," saith he, "as an enemy, there, where you have put the son of mine uncle in prison; so shall i avenge me of you, and he also at his will." when the king heard this, he was glad thereof not a whit, and the damsel was loath not a whit, whom he had thus disherited. they row until they come to the rock. perceval issueth forth of the ship, and bringeth gohaz up maugre his head. galobruns seeth him coming and maketh great joy thereof, and perceval saith to him: "behold here your mortal enemy! now do your will of him!" he taketh the key and so looseth him of the irons wherein he was imprisoned. xiv. "galobruns," saith perceval, "now may you do your pleasure of your enemy?" "sir," saith he, "right gladly!" he maketh fast the irons on his feet that he had upon his own, and afterward setteth the collar on his neck. "now let him be here," saith he, "in such sort and in such prison as he put me; for well i know that he will be succoured of none." after that, he flingeth the key into the sea as far as he might, and so seemed it to galobruns that he well avenged himself in such wise, and better than if he had killed him. perceval alloweth him everything therein at his will. they enter into the ship and leave gohaz all sorrowing on the rock, that never thereafter ate nor drank. and perceval bringeth his cousin and the damsel, and they row until that they come into their land, and perceval maketh send for all the folk of king gohaz and maketh all the more powerful do sure homage to galobruns and his sisters in such sort that the land was all at their will. he sojourned there so long as it pleased him, and then departed and took leave of the damsel and galobruns, that thanked him much for the lands that he had again through him. xv. perceval hath rowed until that he is come nigh a castle that was burning fiercely with a great flame, and seeth a hermitage upon the sea hard by. he seeth the hermit at the door of the chapel, and asketh him what the castle is that hath caught fire thus. "sir," saith the hermit, "i will tell you. joseus, the son of king pelles, slew his mother there. never sithence hath the castle stinted of burning, and i tell you that of this castle and one other will be kindled the fire that shall burn up the world and put it to an end." perceval marvelleth much, and knew well that it was the castle of king hermit his uncle. he departeth thence in great haste, and passeth three kingdoms and saileth by the wastes and deserts on one side and the other of the sea, for the ship ran somewhat a-nigh the land. he looketh and seeth on an island twelve hermits sitting on the seashore. the sea was calm and untroubled, and he made cast the anchor so as to keep the ship steady. then he saluteth the hermits, and they all bow down to him in answer. he asketh them where have they their repair, and they tell him that they have not far away twelve chapels and twelve houses that surround a grave-yard wherein lie twelve dead knights that we keep watch over. they were all brothers-german, and right worshipful men, and none thereof lived more than twelve years knight save one only, and none of them was there but won much land and broad kingdoms from the misbelievers, and they all died in arms; and the name of the eldest was alain li gros, and he came into this country from the valleys of camelot to avenge his brother alibans of the waste city that the giant king had slain, and he took vengeance on him thereof, but he died thereafter of a wound that the giant had given him. "sir," saith one of the hermits, "i was at his death, but nought was there he so longed after as a son of his, and he said that his name was perceval. he was the last of the brothers that died." xvi. when perceval heard this he had pity thereof, and issued forth of the ship and came to land, and his mariner with him. he prayed the hermits that they would lead him to the graveyard where the knights lay, and gladly did they so. perceval is come thither and seeth the coffins right rich and fair, and the chapels full fairly dight, and every coffin lay over against the altar in each chapel. "lords, which coffin is that of the lord of camelot?" "this, the highest," say the hermits, "and the most rich, for that he was eldest of all the brethren." perceval kneeleth down before it, then embraceth the coffin and prayeth right sweetly for the soul of his father, and in like manner he went to all the other coffins. he harboured the night with the hermits, and told them that alain li gros was his father and all the other his uncles. right joyous were the hermits for that he was come thither, and the morrow, or ever he departed, he heard mass in the chapel of his father and in the others where he might. he entered into the ship and sped full swift, and so far hath the ship run that he draweth nigh the islands of great britain. he arriveth at the head of a forest under the red tower whereof he had slain the lord, there where meliot delivered messire gawain. he is issued forth of the ship and leadeth forth his horse and is armed, and commendeth the pilot to god. he mounteth on his destrier, all armed, and goeth amidst the land that was well-nigh void of people, for he himself had slain the greater part thereof, albeit he knew it not. he rideth so long, right amidst the country, that he cometh toward evensong to a hold that was in a great forest, and he bethought him that he would go into the hermitage, and he cometh straight into the hold, and seeth a knight lying in the entrance of the gate on a straw mattress, and a damsel sate at the bed's head, of passing great beauty, and held his head on her lap. xvii. the knight reviled her from time to time, and said that he would make cut of her head and he had not that he desired to have, for that he was sick. perceval looked at the lady that held him and served him full sweetly, and deemed her to be a good lady and a loyal. the sick knight called to perceval. "sir," saith he, "are you come in hither to harbour?" "sir," saith perceval, "so please you, i will harbour here." "then blame me not," saith the knight, "of that you shall see me do unto my wife." "sir," saith perceval, "sith that she is yours, you have a right to do your pleasure, but in all things ought one to be heedful on one's way." the knight made him be carried back into the dwelling, for that he had been in the air as long as pleased him, and commanded his wife that she do much honour to the knight that is come to lodge within. "but take heed," saith he, "that you be not seen at the table, but eat, as you are wont, at the squire's table, for, until such time as i have the golden cup i desire, i will not forego my despite against you." xviii. perceval unarmed him. the lady had brought him a surcoat of scarlet for him to do on, and he asked her wherefore her lord reviled her and rebuked her in such sort, and she told him all the story how lancelot had married her to him, and how her lord ever sithence had dishonoured her. "sir," saith she, "now hath he fallen into misease, sithence then, and he hath a brother as sick as he is, and therefore hath gohaz of the castle of the whale reft him of his land, whereof is he right sorry, and my lord hath never been heal since that he heard thereof. and well you know that such folk wax wroth of a little, and are overjoyed when they have a little thing that pleaseth them, for they live always in desire of somewhat. my lord hath heard tell of a cup of gold that a damsel beareth, that is right rich and of greater worth than aught he hath seen this long time, and a knight goeth with the damsel that beareth the cup, and saith that none may have it save he be the best knight in the world. my lord hath told me many times, sithence he heard tidings thereof, that never shall the despite he hath toward me be forgone, until that he shall have the cup. but he is so angry withal with his brother that hath lost his land, that i aby it right dear, for i do all his will and yet may i have no fair treatment of him. howbeit, for no ill that he may do, nor no churlishness that he may say, will i be against him in nought that he hath set his mind on. for i would have him, and i had him, blessed be lancelot through whom it was so. as much as i loved him in health, so much love i him in his sickness, and more yet, for i desire to deserve that god shall bring him to a better mind." xix. "lady," saith perceval, "great praise ought you to have of this that you say; but you may well tell him of a truth that the sick king his brother hath all his land freely and his daughter, for i was at the reconquering thereof, and know the knight well that gave it back unto him. but of the golden cup can i give you no witting." "sir," saith she, "the damsel is to bear it to an assembly of knights that is to be held hard by this, under the white tower. there hath she to give it to the best knight, and him that shall do best at the assembly, and the knight that followeth the damsel is bound to carry it whither he that shall win it may command, and if he would fain it should be given to another rather than to himself." "lady," saith perceval, "well meseemeth that he who shall win the cup by prize of arms will be right courteous and he send it to you, and god grant that he that hath it may do you such bounty as you desire." "sir," saith she, "methinketh well, so lancelot were there, either he or messire gawain, that, and they won it, so they remembered them of me, and knew how needful it were to me, they would promise me the cup." "lady," saith perceval, "by one of these twain ought you well to have it, for greater prize now long since have they won." she goeth to her lord and saith to him: "sir," saith she, "now may you be more joyous than is your wont, for that your brother hath his land again all quit. for the knight that is within was at the reconquering." the sick knight heard her and had great joy thereof. "go!" saith he to his wife, "and do great honour to the knight, but take heed you sit not otherwise than you are wont." "sir," saith she, "i will not." xx. the damsel maketh perceval sit at meat. when he had washen, he thought that the lady should have come to sit beside him, but she would not disobey her lord's commandment. when perceval was set at the table and he had been served of the first meats, thereupon the lady went to sit with the squires. perceval was much shamed that she should sit below, but he was not minded to speak, for she had told him somewhat of her lord's manner. howbeit, he lay the night in the hold, and, on the morrow when he had taken leave, he departed, and bethought him in his courage that the knight would do good chivalry and great aims that should do this sick knight his desire as concerning the cup, in such sort as that his wife should be freed of the annoy that she is in, for that all knights that knew thereof ought to have pity of her. perceval goeth his way as he that hath great desire to accomplish that he hath to do, and to see the token of his going again to the castle where the chain of gold appeared to him, for never yet saw he dwelling that pleased him so much. he hath ridden so far that he is come into the joyless forest of the black hermit, that is so loathly and horrible that no leaves nor greenery are there by winter nor by summer, nor was song of bird never heard therein, but all the land is gruesome and burnt, and wide are the cracks therein. he hath scarce gone thereinto or ever he hath overtaken the damsel of the car, that made full great joy of him. "sir," saith she, "bald was i the first time i saw you; now may you see that i have my hair." "certes, yea!" saith perceval, "and, as methinketh, hair passing beautiful." "sir," saith she, "i was wont to carry my arm at my neck in a scarf of gold and silk, for that i thought the service i did you in the hostel of king fisherman your uncle had been ill bestowed; but now well i see that it was not; wherefore now carry i the one arm in the same manner as the other; and the damsel that wont to go a-foot now goeth a-horseback; and blessed be you that have so approved you in goodness by the good manner of your heart, and by your likeness to the first of your lineage, whom you resemble in all good conditions. sir," saith she, "i durst not come nigh the castle, for there be archers there that shoot so sore that none may endure their strokes, and hereof will they stint not, they say, until such time as you be come thither. but well know i wherefore they will cease then, for they will come to shut you up within to slay and to destroy. natheless all they that are within will have no power, nor will they do you evil, save only the lord of the castle; but he will do battle against you right gladly." xxi. perceval goeth toward the castle of the black hermit, and the damsel of the car after. the archers draw and shoot stoutly. perceval goeth forward a great gallop, but they know him not on account of the white shield. they think rather that it is one of the other knights, and they lodge many arrows in his shield. he came nigh a drawbridge over a moat right broad and foul and horrible, and the bridge was lowered so soon as he came, and all the archers left of shooting. then knew they well that it was perceval who came. the door was opened to receive him, for they of the gate and they of the castle within thought to have power to slay him. but so soon as they saw him, they lost their will thereof and were all amared and without strength, and said that they would set this business on their lord that was strong enough and puissant enough to slay one man. perceval entered all armed into a great hall, and found it filled all around with a great throng of folk that was right foul to look on. he that was called the black hermit was full tall and seemed to be of noble lordship, and he was in the midst of the hall, all armed. "sir," say his men, "and you have not defence of yourself, never no counsel nor aid may you have of us!" xxii. "we are yours to guard, to protect, and oftentimes have we defended you; now defend us in this sore need." the black hermit sate upon a tall black horse, and was right richly armed. so soon as perceval espieth him, he cometh with such a rush against him that he maketh all the hall resound, and the black hermit cometh in like sort. they mell together with such force that the black hermit breaketh his spear upon perceval, but perceval smiteth him so passing stoutly on the left side upon the shield, that he beareth him to the ground beside his horse, so that in the fall he made he to-frushed two of the great ribs in the overturn. and when they that were therein saw him fall, they opened the trap-door of a great pit that was in the midst of the hall. so soon as they had opened it, the foulest stench that any smelt ever issued thereout. they take their lord and cast him into this abysm and this filth. after that, they come to perceval, and so yield the castle and put them at his mercy in everything. thereupon, behold you, the damsel of the car that cometh. they deliver up to her the heads sealed in gold, both the head of the king and of the queen, and she departeth forthwith, for well knoweth she that perceval will achieve that he hath to do without her. she departeth from the castle and goeth the speediest she may toward the valleys of camelot. and all they of the castle that had been the black hermit's are obedient to perceval to do his will, and they have him in covenant that never more shall knights be harassed there in such sort as they had been theretofore, but rather that they should receive gladly any knights that should pass that way, like as in other places. perceval departed from the castle rejoicing for that he had drawn them to the believe of our lord, and every day was his service done therein in holy wise, like as it is done in other places. xxiii. hereof ought the good knight to be loved that by the goodness of his heart and the loyalty of his knighthood hath achieved all the emprises he undertook, without reproach and without blame. perceval hath ridden until he hath overtaken the damsel that carried the rich cup of gold and the knight that was along with her. perceval saluteth him, and the knight maketh answer, may he be blessed of god and of his sweet mother. "fair sir," saith perceval, "is this damsel of your company?" saith the knight, "rather am i of hers. but we are going to an assembly of knights that is to be under the white tower to the intent to prove which knight is most worth, and to him that shall have the prize of the assembly shall be delivered this golden cup." "by my head," saith perceval, "that will be fair to see!" he departeth from the knight and the damsel, and goeth his way a great pace amidst the meadows under the white tower, whither the knights were coming from all parts, and many of them were already armed to issue forth. so soon as it was known that the damsel with the cup was come thither, the fellowships assembled on all sides, and great was the clashing of arms. perceval hurleth into the assembly in such sort that many a knight he smiteth down and overthroweth at his coming, and he giveth so many blows and so many receiveth that all they that behold marvel much how he may abide. the assembly lasted until evensong, and when it came to an end the damsel came to the knights and prayed and required that they would declare to her by right judgment of arms which had done the best. the more part said that he of the white shield had surpassed them all in arms, and all agreed thereto. the damsel was right glad, for well she knew that they spake truth. she cometh to perceval; "sir," saith she, "i present you this cup of gold for your good chivalry, and therefore is it meet and right you should know whence the cup cometh. the elder damsel of the tent where the evil custom was wont to be, sent it to messire gawain, and messire gawain made much joy thereof. and it came to pass on such wise that brundans, the son of the sister of briant of the isles, slew meliot of logres, the most courteous knight and the most valiant that was in the realm of logres, and thereof was messire gawain so sorrowful that he knew not how to contain himself. for meliot had twice rescued him from death, and king arthur once. he was liegeman of messire gawain. wherefore he prayeth and beseecheth you on his behalf that you receive not the cup save you undertake to avenge him. for he was loved of all the court, albeit he had haunted it but little. brundans slew him in treason when meliot was unawares of him." "damsel," saith perceval, "were there no cup at all, yet natheless should i be fain to do the will of messire gawain, for never might i love the man that had deserved his hatred." he taketh the cup in his hand. "damsel," saith he, "i thank you much hereof, and god grant i may reward you for the same." "sir," saith she, "brundans is a right proud knight, and beareth a shield party of vert and argent. he is minded never to change his cognisance, for that his father bore the same." perceval called the knight that was of the damsel's company. "i beseech you," saith he, "of guerdon and of service, that you bear this cup for me to the hold of the sick knight, and tell his wife that the knight of the white shield that was harboured there within hath sent it her by you." "sir," saith the knight, "this will i do gladly to fulfil your will." he taketh the cup to furnish out the conditions of the message, and so departeth forthwith. xxiv. perceval lay the night in the castle of the white tower, and departed thence on the morrow as he that would fain do somewhat whereof he might deserve well of messire gawain. many a time had he heard tell of meliot of logres and of his chivalry and of his great valour. he was entered into a forest, and had heard mass of a hermit, from whom he had departed. he came to the castle perilous that was hard by there where meliot lay sick, lay wounded, when lancelot brought him the sword and the cloth wherewith he touched his wounds. he entered into the castle and alighted. the damsel of the castle, that made great dole, came to meet perceval. "damsel," saith he, "wherefore are you so sorrowful?" "sir," saith she, "for a knight that i tended and healed herewithin, whom brundans hath killed in treason, and god thereof grant us vengeance yet, for so courteous knight saw i never." while she was speaking in this manner, forthwith behold you a damsel that cometh. "ha, sir," saith she to perceval, "mount you again and come to aid us, for none other knight find i in this land nor in this forest but only you all alone!" "what need have you of my aid?" saith perceval. "a knight is carrying off my lady by force, that was going to the court of king arthur." "who is your lady?" saith perceval. "sir, she is the younger damsel of the tent where messire gawain overthrew the evil customs. for god's sake, hasten you, for he revileth her sore for her love of the king and of messire gawain." perceval remounteth forthwith and issueth forth of the castle on the spur. the damsel bringeth him on as fast as the knight can go. they had not ridden far before they came a-nigh, and perceval heard the damsel crying aloud for mercy, and the knight said that mercy upon her he would not have, and so smote her on the head and neck with the fiat of his sword. xxv. perceval espied the knight and saw that the cognisance of his shield was such as that which had been set forth to him. "sir," saith he, "too churlishly are you entreating this damsel! what wrong hath she done you?" "what is it to you of me and of her?" "i say it" saith perceval, "for that no knight ought to do churlishly to damsel." "he will not stint for you yet!" saith brundans. he raiseth his sword and dealeth the damsel a buffet with the fiat so passing heavy that it maketh her stoop withal so that the blood rayeth out at mouth and nose. "by my head," saith perceval, "on this buffet i defy thee, for the death of meliot and for the shame you have done this damsel." "neither you nor none other may brag that you have heart to attack me, but you shall aby it right dear!" "that shall you see presently," saith perceval and so draweth back the better to let drive at him, and moveth towards him as fast as his horse may run, and smiteth him so passing sore that he pierceth his shield and bursteth his habergeon and then thrusteth his spear into his body with such force that he overthroweth him all in a heap, him and his horse, in such sort that he breaketh both legs in the fall. then he alighteth over him, lowereth his coif, unlaceth the ventail, and smiteth off his head. "damsel," saith he, "take it, i present it to you. and, sith that you are going to king arthur's court, i pray and beseech you that you carry it thither and so salute him first for me, and tell messire gawain and lancelot that this is the last present i look ever to make them, for i think never to see them more. howbeit, wheresoever i may be, i shall be their well-wisher, nor may i never withdraw me of my love, and i would fain i might make them the same present of the heads of all their enemies, but that i may do nought against god's will." the damsel giveth him thanks for that he hath delivered her from the hands of the knight, and saith that she shall praise him much thereof to the king and messire gawain. she goeth her way and carrieth off the head, and perceval biddeth her to god. he returned back to castle perilous, and the damsel made great joy thereof when she understood that he had slain brundans. perceval lay there that night, and departed on the morrow after that he had heard mass. when he came forth of the castle he met the knight by whom he had sent the cup to the sick knight's wife. perceval asketh how it is with him. "sir," saith he, "i have carried out your message right well, for never was a thing received with such good will. the sick knight hath forgone his grudge against his wife. she eateth at his table, and the household do her commandment." "this liketh me right well," saith perceval, "and i thank you of doing this errand." "sir," saith the knight, "no thing is there i would not do for you, for that you made my brother knight hardy there where you first saw him knight coward." "sir," saith perceval, "good knight was your brother and a right good end he made, but a little it forthinketh me that he might have still been living had he abided in his cowardize." "sir," saith he, "better is he dead, sith that he died with honour, than that he should live with shame. yet glad was i not of his death, for a hardy knight he was, and yet more would have been, had he lived longer." xxvi. perceval departeth from the knight and commendeth him to god. he hath wandered so far one day and another that he is returned to his own most holy castle, and findeth therein his mother and his sister that the damsel of the car had brought thither. the widow lady had made bear thither the body that lay in the coffin before the castle of camelot in the rich chapel that she had builded there. his sister brought the cerecloth that she took in the waste chapel, and presented there where the graal was. perceval made bring the coffin of the other knight that was at the entrance of his castle within the chapel likewise, and place it beside the coffin of his uncle, nor never thereafter might it be removed. josephus telleth us that perceval was in this castle long time, nor never once moved therefrom in quest of no adventure; rather was his courage so attorned to the saviour of the world and his sweet mother, that he and his sister and the damsel that was therein led a holy life and a religious. therein abode they even as it pleased god, until that his mother passed away and his sister and all they that were therein save he alone. the hermits that were nigh the castle buried them and sang their masses, and came every day and took counsel of him for the holiness they saw him do and the good life that he led there. so one day whilst he was in the holy chapel where the hallows were, forthwith, behold you, a voice that cometh down therein: "perceval," saith the voice, "not long shall you abide herein; wherefore it is god's will that you dispart the hallows amongst the hermits of the forest, there where these bodies shall be served and worshipped, and the most holy graal shall appear herein no more, but within a brief space shall you know well the place where it shall be." when the voice departed, all the coffins that were therein crashed so passing loud that it seemed the master-hall had fallen. he crosseth and blesseth him and commendeth him to god. on a day the hermits came to him. he disparted the holy relics among them, and they builded above them holy churches and houses of religion that are seen in the lands and in the islands. joseus the son of king hermit, remained therein with perceval, for he well knew that he would be departing thence betimes. xxvii. perceval heard one day a bell sound loud and high without the manor toward the sea. he came to the windows of the hall and saw the ship come with the white sail and the red cross thereon, and within were the fairest folk that ever he might behold, and they were all robed in such manner as though they should sing mass. when the ship was anchored under the hall they went to pray in the most holy chapel. they brought the richest vessels of gold and silver that any might ever see, like as it were coffins, and set therein one of the three bodies of knights that had been brought into the chapel, and the body of king fisherman, and of the mother of perceval. but no savour in the world smelleth so sweet. perceval took leave of joseus and commended him to the saviour of the world, and took leave of the household, from whom he departed in like manner. the worshipful men that were in the ship signed them of the cross and blessed them likewise. the ship wherein perceval was drew far away, and a voice that issued from the manor as she departed commended them to god and to his sweet mother. josephus recordeth us that perceval departed in such wise, nor never thereafter did no earthly man know what became of him, nor doth the history speak of him more. but the history telleth us that joseus abode in the castle that had been king fisherman's, and shut himself up therein so that none might enter, and lived upon that the lord god might send him. he dwelt there long time after that perceval had departed, and ended therein. after his end, the dwelling began to fall. natheless never was the chapel wasted nor decayed, but was as whole thereafter as tofore and is so still. the place was far from folk, and the place seemed withal to be somewhat different. when it was fallen into decay, many folk of the lands and islands that were nighest thereunto marvel them what may be in this manor. they dare a many that they should go see what was therein, and sundry folk went thither from all the lands, but none durst never enter there again save two welsh knights that had heard tell of it. full comely knights they were, young and joyous hearted. so either pledged him to other that they would go thither by way of gay adventure; but therein remained they of a long space after, and when again they came forth they led the life of hermits, and clad them in hair shirts, and went by the forest and so ate nought save roots only, and led a right hard life; yet ever they made as though they were glad, and if that any should ask whereof they rejoiced in such wise, "go," said they to them that asked, "thither where we have been, and you shall know the wherefore." in such sort made they answer to the folk. these two knights died in this holy life, nor were none other tidings never brought thence by them. they of that land called them saints. xxviii. here endeth the story of the most holy graal. josephus, by whom it is placed on record, giveth the benison of our lord to all that hear and honour it. the latin from whence this history was drawn into romance was taken in the isle of avalon, in a holy house of religion that standeth at the head of the moors adventurous, there where king arthur and queen guenievre lie, according to the witness of the good men religious that are therein, that have the whole history thereof, true from the beginning even to the end. after this same history beginneth the story how briant of the isles renounced king arthur on account of lancelot whom he loved not, and how he assured king claudas that reft king ban of benoic of his land. this story telleth how he conquered him and by what means, and how galobrus of the red launde came to king arthur's court to help lancelot, for that he was of his lineage. this story is right long and right adventurous and weighty, but the book will now forthwith be silent thereof until another time. the author's conclusion for the lord of neele made the lord of cambrein this book be written, that never tofore was treated in romance but one single time besides this; and the book that was made tofore this is so ancient that only with great pains may one make out the letter. and let messire johan de neele well understand that he ought to hold this story dear, nor ought he tell nought thereof to ill-understanding folk, for a good thing that is squandered upon bad folk is never remembered by them for good. explicit the romance of perceval the nephew of king fisherman. the lady of the lake by sir walter scott, bart. edited with notes by william j. rolfe, formerly head master of the high school, cambridge, mass. boston preface when i first saw mr. osgood's beautiful illustrated edition of the lady of the lake, i asked him to let me use some of the cuts in a cheaper annotated edition for school and household use; and the present volume is the result. the text of the poem has given me unexpected trouble. when i edited some of gray's poems several years ago, i found that they had not been correctly printed for more than half a century; but in the case of scott i supposed that the text of black's so-called "author's edition" could be depended upon as accurate. almost at the start, however, i detected sundry obvious misprints in one of the many forms in which this edition is issued, and an examination of others showed that they were as bad in their way. the "shilling" issue was no worse than the costly illustrated one of , which had its own assortment of slips of the type. no two editions that i could obtain agreed exactly in their readings. i tried in vain to find a copy of the editio princeps ( ) in cambridge and boston, but succeeded in getting one through a london bookseller. this i compared, line by line, with the edinburgh edition of (from the harvard library), with lockhart's first edition, the "globe" edition, and about a dozen others english and american. i found many misprints and corruptions in all except the edition of , and a few even in that. for instance in i. scott wrote "found in each cliff a narrow bower," and it is so printed in the first edition; but in every other that i have seen "cliff" appears in place of clift,, to the manifest injury of the passage. in ii. , every edition that i have seen since that of has "i meant not all my heart might say," which is worse than nonsense, the correct reading being "my heat." in vi. , the scottish "boune" (though it occurs twice in other parts of the poem) has been changed to "bound" in all editions since ; and, eight lines below, the old word "barded" has become "barbed." scores of similar corruptions are recorded in my notes, and need not be cited here. i have restored the reading of the first edition, except in cases where i have no doubt that the later reading is the poet's own correction or alteration. there are obvious misprints in the first edition which scott himself overlooked (see on ii. , ,, vi. , etc.), and it is sometimes difficult to decide whether a later reading--a change of a plural to a singular, or like trivial variation--is a misprint or the author's correction of an earlier misprint. i have done the best i could, with the means at my command, to settle these questions, and am at least certain that the text as i give it is nearer right than in any edition since as all the variae lectiones are recorded in the notes, the reader who does not approve of the one i adopt can substitute that which he prefers. i have retained all scott's notes (a few of them have been somewhat abridged) and all those added by lockhart. [ ] my own i have made as concise as possible. there are, of course, many of them which many of my readers will not need, but i think there are none that may not be of service, or at least of interest, to some of them; and i hope that no one will turn to them for help without finding it. scott is much given to the use of elizabethan words and constructions, and i have quoted many "parallelisms" from shakespeare and his contemporaries. i believe i have referred to my edition of shakespeare in only a single instance (on iii. ), but teachers and others who have that edition will find many additional illustrations in the notes on the passages cited. while correcting the errors of former editors, i may have overlooked some of my own. i am already indebted to the careful proofreaders of the university press for the detection of occasional slips in quotations or references; and i shall be very grateful to my readers for a memorandum of any others that they may discover. cambridge, june , .. argument. the scene of the following poem is laid chiefly in the vicinity of loch katrine, in the western highlands of perthshire. the time of action includes six days, and the transactions of each day occupy a canto. the lady of the lake. canto first. the chase. harp of the north! that mouldering long hast hung on the witch-elm that shades saint fillan's spring and down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, till envious ivy did around thee cling, muffling with verdant ringlet every string,-- o minstrel harp, still must thine accents sleep? mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring, still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep? not thus, in ancient days of caledon, [ ] was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, when lay of hopeless love, or glory won, aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. at each according pause was heard aloud thine ardent symphony sublime and high! fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed; for still the burden of thy minstrelsy was knighthood's dauntless deed, and beauty's matchless eye. o, wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand that ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray; o, wake once more! though scarce my skill command some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, and all unworthy of thy nobler strain, yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, the wizard note has not been touched in vain. then silent be no more! enchantress, wake again! i. the stag at eve had drunk his fill, where danced the moon on monan's rill, and deep his midnight lair had made in lone glenartney's hazel shade; but when the sun his beacon red had kindled on benvoirlich's head, the deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay resounded up the rocky way, and faint, from farther distance borne, were heard the clanging hoof and horn. ii. as chief, who hears his warder call, 'to arms! the foemen storm the wall,' the antlered monarch of the waste sprung from his heathery couch in haste. but ere his fleet career he took, the dew-drops from his flanks he shook; like crested leader proud and high tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; a moment gazed adown the dale, a moment snuffed the tainted gale, a moment listened to the cry, that thickened as the chase drew nigh; then, as the headmost foes appeared, with one brave bound the copse he cleared, and, stretching forward free and far, sought the wild heaths of uam-var. iii. yelled on the view the opening pack; rock, glen, and cavern paid them back; to many a mingled sound at once the awakened mountain gave response. a hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, clattered a hundred steeds along, their peal the merry horns rung out, a hundred voices joined the shout; with hark and whoop and wild halloo, no rest benvoirlich's echoes knew. far from the tumult fled the roe, close in her covert cowered the doe, the falcon, from her cairn on high, cast on the rout a wondering eye, till far beyond her piercing ken the hurricane had swept the glen. faint, and more faint, its failing din returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, and silence settled, wide and still, on the lone wood and mighty hill. iv. less loud the sounds of sylvan war disturbed the heights of uam-var, and roused the cavern where, 't is told, a giant made his den of old; for ere that steep ascent was won, high in his pathway hung the sun, and many a gallant, stayed perforce, was fain to breathe his faltering horse, and of the trackers of the deer scarce half the lessening pack was near; so shrewdly on the mountain-side had the bold burst their mettle tried. v. the noble stag was pausing now upon the mountain's southern brow, where broad extended, far beneath, the varied realms of fair menteith. with anxious eye he wandered o'er mountain and meadow, moss and moor, and pondered refuge from his toil, by far lochard or aberfoyle. but nearer was the copsewood gray that waved and wept on loch achray, and mingled with the pine-trees blue on the bold cliffs of benvenue. fresh vigor with the hope returned, with flying foot the heath he spurned, held westward with unwearied race, and left behind the panting chase. vi. 't were long to tell what steeds gave o'er, as swept the hunt through cambusmore; what reins were tightened in despair, when rose benledi's ridge in air; who flagged upon bochastle's heath, who shunned to stem the flooded teith,-- for twice that day, from shore to shore, the gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. few were the stragglers, following far, that reached the lake of vennachar; and when the brigg of turk was won, the headmost horseman rode alone. vii. alone, but with unbated zeal, that horseman plied the scourge and steel; for jaded now, and spent with toil, embossed with foam, and dark with soil, while every gasp with sobs he drew, the laboring stag strained full in view. two dogs of black saint hubert's breed, unmatched for courage, breath, and speed, fast on his flying traces came, and all but won that desperate game; for, scarce a spear's length from his haunch, vindictive toiled the bloodhounds stanch; nor nearer might the dogs attain, nor farther might the quarry strain thus up the margin of the lake, between the precipice and brake, o'er stock and rock their race they take. viii. the hunter marked that mountain high, the lone lake's western boundary, and deemed the stag must turn to bay, where that huge rampart barred the way; already glorying in the prize, measured his antlers with his eyes; for the death-wound and death-halloo mustered his breath, his whinyard drew:-- but thundering as he came prepared, with ready arm and weapon bared, the wily quarry shunned the shock, and turned him from the opposing rock; then, dashing down a darksome glen, soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, in the deep trosachs' wildest nook his solitary refuge took. there, while close couched the thicket shed cold dews and wild flowers on his head, he heard the baffled dogs in vain rave through the hollow pass amain, chiding the rocks that yelled again. ix. close on the hounds the hunter came, to cheer them on the vanished game; but, stumbling in the rugged dell, the gallant horse exhausted fell. the impatient rider strove in vain to rouse him with the spur and rein, for the good steed, his labors o'er, stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; then, touched with pity and remorse, he sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. 'i little thought, when first thy rein i slacked upon the banks of seine, that highland eagle e'er should feed on thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, that costs thy life, my gallant gray!' x. then through the dell his horn resounds, from vain pursuit to call the hounds. back limped, with slow and crippled pace, the sulky leaders of the chase; close to their master's side they pressed, with drooping tail and humbled crest; but still the dingle's hollow throat prolonged the swelling bugle-note. the owlets started from their dream, the eagles answered with their scream, round and around the sounds were cast, till echo seemed an answering blast; and on the hunter tried his way, to join some comrades of the day, yet often paused, so strange the road, so wondrous were the scenes it showed. xi. the western waves of ebbing day rolled o'er the glen their level way; each purple peak, each flinty spire, was bathed in floods of living fire. but not a setting beam could glow within the dark ravines below, where twined the path in shadow hid, round many a rocky pyramid, shooting abruptly from the dell its thunder-splintered pinnacle; round many an insulated mass, the native bulwarks of the pass, huge as the tower which builders vain presumptuous piled on shinar's plain. the rocky summits, split and rent, formed turret, dome, or battlement. or seemed fantastically set with cupola or minaret, wild crests as pagod ever decked, or mosque of eastern architect. nor were these earth-born castles bare, nor lacked they many a banner fair; for, from their shivered brows displayed, far o'er the unfathomable glade, all twinkling with the dewdrop sheen, the briar-rose fell in streamers green, kind creeping shrubs of thousand dyes waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. xii. boon nature scattered, free and wild, each plant or flower, the mountain's child. here eglantine embalmed the air, hawthorn and hazel mingled there; the primrose pale and violet flower found in each cliff a narrow bower; foxglove and nightshade, side by side, emblems of punishment and pride, grouped their dark hues with every stain the weather-beaten crags retain. with boughs that quaked at every breath, gray birch and aspen wept beneath; aloft, the ash and warrior oak cast anchor in the rifted rock; and, higher yet, the pine-tree hung his shattered trunk, and frequent flung, where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, his boughs athwart the narrowed sky. highest of all, where white peaks glanced, where glistening streamers waved and danced, the wanderer's eye could barely view the summer heaven's delicious blue; so wondrous wild, the whole might seem the scenery of a fairy dream. xiii. onward, amid the copse 'gan peep a narrow inlet, still and deep, affording scarce such breadth of brim as served the wild duck's brood to swim. lost for a space, through thickets veering, but broader when again appearing, tall rocks and tufted knolls their face could on the dark-blue mirror trace; and farther as the hunter strayed, still broader sweep its channels made. the shaggy mounds no longer stood, emerging from entangled wood, but, wave-encircled, seemed to float, like castle girdled with its moat; yet broader floods extending still divide them from their parent hill, till each, retiring, claims to be an islet in an inland sea. xiv. and now, to issue from the glen, no pathway meets the wanderer's ken, unless he climb with footing nice a far-projecting precipice. the broom's tough roots his ladder made, the hazel saplings lent their aid; and thus an airy point he won, where, gleaming with the setting sun, one burnished sheet of living gold, loch katrine lay beneath him rolled, in all her length far winding lay, with promontory, creek, and bay, and islands that, empurpled bright, floated amid the livelier light, and mountains that like giants stand to sentinel enchanted land. high on the south, huge benvenue down to the lake in masses threw crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, the fragments of an earlier world; a wildering forest feathered o'er his ruined sides and summit hoar, while on the north, through middle air, ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. xv. from the steep promontory gazed the stranger, raptured and amazed, and, 'what a scene were here,' he cried, 'for princely pomp or churchman's pride! on this bold brow, a lordly tower; in that soft vale, a lady's bower; on yonder meadow far away, the turrets of a cloister gray; how blithely might the bugle-horn chide on the lake the lingering morn! how sweet at eve the lover's lute chime when the groves were still and mute! and when the midnight moon should lave her forehead in the silver wave, how solemn on the ear would come the holy matins' distant hum, while the deep peal's commanding tone should wake, in yonder islet lone, a sainted hermit from his cell, to drop a bead with every knell! and bugle, lute, and bell, and all, should each bewildered stranger call to friendly feast and lighted hall. xvi. 'blithe were it then to wander here! but now--beshrew yon nimble deer-- like that same hermit's, thin and spare, the copse must give my evening fare; some mossy bank my couch must be, some rustling oak my canopy. yet pass we that; the war and chase give little choice of resting-place;-- a summer night in greenwood spent were but to-morrow's merriment: but hosts may in these wilds abound, such as are better missed than found; to meet with highland plunderers here were worse than loss of steed or deer.-- i am alone;--my bugle-strain may call some straggler of the train; or, fall the worst that may betide, ere now this falchion has been tried.' xvii. but scarce again his horn he wound, when lo! forth starting at the sound, from underneath an aged oak that slanted from the islet rock, a damsel guider of its way, a little skiff shot to the bay, that round the promontory steep led its deep line in graceful sweep, eddying, in almost viewless wave, the weeping willow twig to rave, and kiss, with whispering sound and slow, the beach of pebbles bright as snow. the boat had touched this silver strand just as the hunter left his stand, and stood concealed amid the brake, to view this lady of the lake. the maiden paused, as if again she thought to catch the distant strain. with head upraised, and look intent, and eye and ear attentive bent, and locks flung back, and lips apart, like monument of grecian art, in listening mood, she seemed to stand, the guardian naiad of the strand. xviii. and ne'er did grecian chisel trace a nymph, a naiad, or a grace, of finer form or lovelier face! what though the sun, with ardent frown, had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,-- the sportive toil, which, short and light had dyed her glowing hue so bright, served too in hastier swell to show short glimpses of a breast of snow: what though no rule of courtly grace to measured mood had trained her pace,-- a foot more light, a step more true, ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; e'en the slight harebell raised its head, elastic from her airy tread: what though upon her speech there hung the accents of the mountain tongue,--- those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, the listener held his breath to hear! xix. a chieftain's daughter seemed the maid; her satin snood, her silken plaid, her golden brooch, such birth betrayed. and seldom was a snood amid such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, whose glossy black to shame might bring the plumage of the raven's wing; and seldom o'er a breast so fair mantled a plaid with modest care, and never brooch the folds combined above a heart more good and kind. her kindness and her worth to spy, you need but gaze on ellen's eye; not katrine in her mirror blue gives back the shaggy banks more true, than every free-born glance confessed the guileless movements of her breast; whether joy danced in her dark eye, or woe or pity claimed a sigh, or filial love was glowing there, or meek devotion poured a prayer, or tale of injury called forth the indignant spirit of the north. one only passion unrevealed with maiden pride the maid concealed, yet not less purely felt the flame;-- o, need i tell that passion's name? xx. impatient of the silent horn, now on the gale her voice was borne:-- 'father!' she cried; the rocks around loved to prolong the gentle sound. awhile she paused, no answer came;-- 'malcolm, was thine the blast?' the name less resolutely uttered fell, the echoes could not catch the swell. 'a stranger i,' the huntsman said, advancing from the hazel shade. the maid, alarmed, with hasty oar pushed her light shallop from the shore, and when a space was gained between, closer she drew her bosom's screen;-- so forth the startled swan would swing, so turn to prune his ruffled wing. then safe, though fluttered and amazed, she paused, and on the stranger gazed. not his the form, nor his the eye, that youthful maidens wont to fly. xxi. on his bold visage middle age had slightly pressed its signet sage, yet had not quenched the open truth and fiery vehemence of youth; forward and frolic glee was there, the will to do, the soul to dare, the sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, of hasty love or headlong ire. his limbs were cast in manly could for hardy sports or contest bold; and though in peaceful garb arrayed, and weaponless except his blade, his stately mien as well implied a high-born heart, a martial pride, as if a baron's crest he wore, and sheathed in armor bode the shore. slighting the petty need he showed, he told of his benighted road; his ready speech flowed fair and free, in phrase of gentlest courtesy, yet seemed that tone and gesture bland less used to sue than to command. xxii. awhile the maid the stranger eyed, and, reassured, at length replied, that highland halls were open still to wildered wanderers of the hill. 'nor think you unexpected come to yon lone isle, our desert home; before the heath had lost the dew, this morn, a couch was pulled for you; on yonder mountain's purple head have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, and our broad nets have swept the mere, to furnish forth your evening cheer.'-- 'now, by the rood, my lovely maid, your courtesy has erred,' he said; 'no right have i to claim, misplaced, the welcome of expected guest. a wanderer, here by fortune toss, my way, my friends, my courser lost, i ne'er before, believe me, fair, have ever drawn your mountain air, till on this lake's romantic strand i found a fey in fairy land!'-- xxiii. 'i well believe,' the maid replied, as her light skiff approached the side,-- 'i well believe, that ne'er before your foot has trod loch katrine's shore but yet, as far as yesternight, old allan-bane foretold your plight,-- a gray-haired sire, whose eye intent was on the visioned future bent. he saw your steed, a dappled gray, lie dead beneath the birchen way; painted exact your form and mien, your hunting-suit of lincoln green, that tasselled horn so gayly gilt, that falchion's crooked blade and hilt, that cap with heron plumage trim, and yon two hounds so dark and grim. he bade that all should ready be to grace a guest of fair degree; but light i held his prophecy, and deemed it was my father's horn whose echoes o'er the lake were borne.' xxiv. the stranger smiled:--'since to your home a destined errant-knight i come, announced by prophet sooth and old, doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold, i 'll lightly front each high emprise for one kind glance of those bright eyes. permit me first the task to guide your fairy frigate o'er the tide.' the maid, with smile suppressed and sly, the toil unwonted saw him try; for seldom, sure, if e'er before, his noble hand had grasped an oar: yet with main strength his strokes he drew, and o'er the lake the shallop flew; with heads erect and whimpering cry, the hounds behind their passage ply. nor frequent does the bright oar break the darkening mirror of the lake, until the rocky isle they reach, and moor their shallop on the beach. xxv. the stranger viewed the shore around; 't was all so close with copsewood bound, nor track nor pathway might declare that human foot frequented there, until the mountain maiden showed a clambering unsuspected road, that winded through the tangled screen, and opened on a narrow green, where weeping birch and willow round with their long fibres swept the ground. here, for retreat in dangerous hour, some chief had framed a rustic bower. xxvi. it was a lodge of ample size, but strange of structure and device; of such materials as around the workman's hand had readiest found. lopped of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared, and by the hatchet rudely squared, to give the walls their destined height, the sturdy oak and ash unite; while moss and clay and leaves combined to fence each crevice from the wind. the lighter pine-trees overhead their slender length for rafters spread, and withered heath and rushes dry supplied a russet canopy. due westward, fronting to the green, a rural portico was seen, aloft on native pillars borne, of mountain fir with bark unshorn where ellen's hand had taught to twine the ivy and idaean vine, the clematis, the favored flower which boasts the name of virgin-bower, and every hardy plant could bear loch katrine's keen and searching air. an instant in this porch she stayed, and gayly to the stranger said: 'on heaven and on thy lady call, and enter the enchanted hall!' xxvii. 'my hope, my heaven, my trust must be, my gentle guide, in following thee!'-- he crossed the threshold,--and a clang of angry steel that instant rang. to his bold brow his spirit rushed, but soon for vain alarm he blushed when on the floor he saw displayed, cause of the din, a naked blade dropped from the sheath, that careless flung upon a stag's huge antlers swung; for all around, the walls to grace, hung trophies of the fight or chase: a target there, a bugle here, a battle-axe, a hunting-spear, and broadswords, bows, and arrows store, with the tusked trophies of the boar. here grins the wolf as when he died, and there the wild-cat's brindled hide the frontlet of the elk adorns, or mantles o'er the bison's horns; pennons and flags defaced and stained, that blackening streaks of blood retained, and deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, with otter's fur and seal's unite, in rude and uncouth tapestry all, to garnish forth the sylvan hall. xxviii. the wondering stranger round him gazed, and next the fallen weapon raised:-- few were the arms whose sinewy strength sufficed to stretch it forth at length. and as the brand he poised and swayed, 'i never knew but one,' he said, 'whose stalwart arm might brook to wield a blade like this in battle-field.' she sighed, then smiled and took the word: 'you see the guardian champion's sword; as light it trembles in his hand as in my grasp a hazel wand: my sire's tall form might grace the part of ferragus or ascabart, but in the absent giant's hold are women now, and menials old.' xxix. the mistress of the mansion came, mature of age, a graceful dame, whose easy step and stately port had well become a princely court, to whom, though more than kindred knew, young ellen gave a mother's due. meet welcome to her guest she made, and every courteous rite was paid that hospitality could claim, though all unasked his birth and name. such then the reverence to a guest, that fellest foe might join the feast, and from his deadliest foeman's door unquestioned turn the banquet o'er at length his rank the stranger names, 'the knight of snowdoun, james fitz-james; lord of a barren heritage, which his brave sires, from age to age, by their good swords had held with toil; his sire had fallen in such turmoil, and he, god wot, was forced to stand oft for his right with blade in hand. this morning with lord moray's train he chased a stalwart stag in vain, outstripped his comrades, missed the deer, lost his good steed, and wandered here.' xxx. fain would the knight in turn require the name and state of ellen's sire. well showed the elder lady's mien that courts and cities she had seen; ellen, though more her looks displayed the simple grace of sylvan maid, in speech and gesture, form and face, showed she was come of gentle race. 't were strange in ruder rank to find such looks, such manners, and such mind. each hint the knight of snowdoun gave, dame margaret heard with silence grave; or ellen, innocently gay, turned all inquiry light away:-- 'weird women we! by dale and down we dwell, afar from tower and town. we stem the flood, we ride the blast, on wandering knights our spells we cast; while viewless minstrels touch the string, 'tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing.' she sung, and still a harp unseen filled up the symphony between. xxxi. song. soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; dream of battled fields no more, days of danger, nights of waking. in our isle's enchanted hall, hands unseen thy couch are strewing, fairy strains of music fall, every sense in slumber dewing. soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, dream of fighting fields no more; sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, morn of toil, nor night of waking. 'no rude sound shall reach thine ear, armor's clang or war-steed champing trump nor pibroch summon here mustering clan or squadron tramping. yet the lark's shrill fife may come at the daybreak from the fallow, and the bittern sound his drum booming from the sedgy shallow. ruder sounds shall none be near, guards nor warders challenge here, here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, shouting clans or squadrons stamping.' xxxii. she paused,--then, blushing, led the lay, to grace the stranger of the day. her mellow notes awhile prolong the cadence of the flowing song, till to her lips in measured frame the minstrel verse spontaneous came. song continued. 'huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; while our slumbrous spells assail ye, dream not, with the rising sun, bugles here shall sound reveille. sleep! the deer is in his den; sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; sleep! nor dream in yonder glen how thy gallant steed lay dying. huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; think not of the rising sun, for at dawning to assail ye here no bugles sound reveille.' xxxiii. the hall was cleared,--the stranger's bed, was there of mountain heather spread, where oft a hundred guests had lain, and dreamed their forest sports again. but vainly did the heath-flower shed its moorland fragrance round his head; not ellen's spell had lulled to rest the fever of his troubled breast. in broken dreams the image rose of varied perils, pains, and woes: his steed now flounders in the brake, now sinks his barge upon the lake; now leader of a broken host, his standard falls, his honor's lost. then,--from my couch may heavenly might chase that worst phantom of the night!-- again returned the scenes of youth, of confident, undoubting truth; again his soul he interchanged with friends whose hearts were long estranged. they come, in dim procession led, the cold, the faithless, and the dead; as warm each hand, each brow as gay, as if they parted yesterday. and doubt distracts him at the view,-- o were his senses false or true? dreamed he of death or broken vow, or is it all a vision now? xxxiv. at length, with ellen in a grove he seemed to walk and speak of love; she listened with a blush and sigh, his suit was warm, his hopes were high. he sought her yielded hand to clasp, and a cold gauntlet met his grasp: the phantom's sex was changed and gone, upon its head a helmet shone; slowly enlarged to giant size, with darkened cheek and threatening eyes, the grisly visage, stern and hoar, to ellen still a likeness bore.-- he woke, and, panting with affright, recalled the vision of the night. the hearth's decaying brands were red and deep and dusky lustre shed, half showing, half concealing, all the uncouth trophies of the hall. mid those the stranger fixed his eye where that huge falchion hung on high, and thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng, rushed, chasing countless thoughts along, until, the giddy whirl to cure, he rose and sought the moonshine pure. xxxv. the wild rose, eglantine, and broom wasted around their rich perfume; the birch-trees wept in fragrant balm; the aspens slept beneath the calm; the silver light, with quivering glance, played on the water's still expanse,-- wild were the heart whose passion's sway could rage beneath the sober ray! he felt its calm, that warrior guest, while thus he communed with his breast:-- 'why is it, at each turn i trace some memory of that exiled race? can i not mountain maiden spy, but she must bear the douglas eye? can i not view a highland brand, but it must match the douglas hand? can i not frame a fevered dream, but still the douglas is the theme? i'll dream no more,--by manly mind not even in sleep is will resigned. my midnight orisons said o'er, i'll turn to rest, and dream no more.' his midnight orisons he told, a prayer with every bead of gold, consigned to heaven his cares and woes, and sunk in undisturbed repose, until the heath-cock shrilly crew, and morning dawned on benvenue. canto second. the island. i. at morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing, 't is morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay, all nature's children feel the matin spring of life reviving, with reviving day; and while yon little bark glides down the bay, wafting the stranger on his way again, morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray, and sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain, mixed with the sounding harp, o white-haired allan-bane! ii. song. 'not faster yonder rowers' might flings from their oars the spray, not faster yonder rippling bright, that tracks the shallop's course in light, melts in the lake away, than men from memory erase the benefits of former days; then, stranger, go! good speed the while, nor think again of the lonely isle. 'high place to thee in royal court, high place in battled line, good hawk and hound for sylvan sport! where beauty sees the brave resort, the honored meed be thine! true be thy sword, thy friend sincere, thy lady constant, kind, and dear, and lost in love's and friendship's smile be memory of the lonely isle! iii. song continued. 'but if beneath yon southern sky a plaided stranger roam, whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, and sunken cheek and heavy eye, pine for his highland home; then, warrior, then be thine to show the care that soothes a wanderer's woe; remember then thy hap erewhile, a stranger in the lonely isle. 'or if on life's uncertain main mishap shall mar thy sail; if faithful, wise, and brave in vain, woe, want, and exile thou sustain beneath the fickle gale; waste not a sigh on fortune changed, on thankless courts, or friends estranged, but come where kindred worth shall smile, to greet thee in the lonely isle.' iv. as died the sounds upon the tide, the shallop reached the mainland side, and ere his onward way he took, the stranger cast a lingering look, where easily his eye might reach the harper on the islet beach, reclined against a blighted tree, as wasted, gray, and worn as he. to minstrel meditation given, his reverend brow was raised to heaven, as from the rising sun to claim a sparkle of inspiring flame. his hand, reclined upon the wire, seemed watching the awakening fire; so still he sat as those who wait till judgment speak the doom of fate; so still, as if no breeze might dare to lift one lock of hoary hair; so still, as life itself were fled in the last sound his harp had sped. v. upon a rock with lichens wild, beside him ellen sat and smiled.-- smiled she to see the stately drake lead forth his fleet upon the lake, while her vexed spaniel from the beach bayed at the prize beyond his reach? yet tell me, then, the maid who knows, why deepened on her cheek the rose?-- forgive, forgive, fidelity! perchance the maiden smiled to see yon parting lingerer wave adieu, and stop and turn to wave anew; and, lovely ladies, ere your ire condemn the heroine of my lyre, show me the fair would scorn to spy and prize such conquest of her eve! vi. while yet he loitered on the spot, it seemed as ellen marked him not; but when he turned him to the glade, one courteous parting sign she made; and after, oft the knight would say, that not when prize of festal day was dealt him by the brightest fair who e'er wore jewel in her hair, so highly did his bosom swell as at that simple mute farewell. now with a trusty mountain-guide, and his dark stag-hounds by his side, he parts,--the maid, unconscious still, watched him wind slowly round the hill; but when his stately form was hid, the guardian in her bosom chid,-- 'thy malcolm! vain and selfish maid!' 't was thus upbraiding conscience said,-- 'not so had malcolm idly hung on the smooth phrase of southern tongue; not so had malcolm strained his eye another step than thine to spy.'-- 'wake, allan-bane,' aloud she cried to the old minstrel by her side,-- 'arouse thee from thy moody dream! i 'll give thy harp heroic theme, and warm thee with a noble name; pour forth the glory of the graeme!' scarce from her lip the word had rushed, when deep the conscious maiden blushed; for of his clan, in hall and bower, young malcolm graeme was held the flower. vii. the minstrel waked his harp,--three times arose the well-known martial chimes, and thrice their high heroic pride in melancholy murmurs died. 'vainly thou bidst, o noble maid,' clasping his withered hands, he said, 'vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, though all unwont to bid in vain. alas! than mine a mightier hand has tuned my harp, my strings has spanned! i touch the chords of joy, but low and mournful answer notes of woe; and the proud march which victors tread sinks in the wailing for the dead. o, well for me, if mine alone that dirge's deep prophetic tone! if, as my tuneful fathers said, this harp, which erst saint modan swayed, can thus its master's fate foretell, then welcome be the minstrel's knell.' viii. 'but ah! dear lady, thus it sighed, the eve thy sainted mother died; and such the sounds which, while i strove to wake a lay of war or love, came marring all the festal mirth, appalling me who gave them birth, and, disobedient to my call, wailed loud through bothwell's bannered hall. ere douglases, to ruin driven, were exiled from their native heaven.-- o! if yet worse mishap and woe my master's house must undergo, or aught but weal to ellen fair brood in these accents of despair, no future bard, sad harp! shall fling triumph or rapture from thy string; one short, one final strain shall flow, fraught with unutterable woe, then shivered shall thy fragments lie, thy master cast him down and die!' ix. soothing she answered him: 'assuage, mine honored friend, the fears of age; all melodies to thee are known that harp has rung or pipe has blown, in lowland vale or highland glen, from tweed to spey--what marvel, then, at times unbidden notes should rise, confusedly bound in memory's ties, entangling, as they rush along, the war-march with the funeral song?-- small ground is now for boding fear; obscure, but safe, we rest us here. my sire, in native virtue great, resigning lordship, lands, and state, not then to fortune more resigned than yonder oak might give the wind; the graceful foliage storms may reeve, 'fine noble stem they cannot grieve. for me'--she stooped, and, looking round, plucked a blue harebell from the ground,-- 'for me, whose memory scarce conveys an image of more splendid days, this little flower that loves the lea may well my simple emblem be; it drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose that in the king's own garden grows; and when i place it in my hair, allan, a bard is bound to swear he ne'er saw coronet so fair.' then playfully the chaplet wild she wreathed in her dark locks, and smiled. x. her smile, her speech, with winning sway wiled the old harper's mood away. with such a look as hermits throw, when angels stoop to soothe their woe he gazed, till fond regret and pride thrilled to a tear, then thus replied: 'loveliest and best! thou little know'st the rank, the honors, thou hast lost! o. might i live to see thee grace, in scotland's court, thy birthright place, to see my favorite's step advance the lightest in the courtly dance, the cause of every gallant's sigh, and leading star of every eye, and theme of every minstrel's art, the lady of the bleeding heart!' xi. 'fair dreams are these,' the maiden cried,-- light was her accent, yet she sighed,-- 'yet is this mossy rock to me worth splendid chair and canopy; nor would my footstep spring more gay in courtly dance than blithe strathspey, nor half so pleased mine ear incline to royal minstrel's lay as thine. and then for suitors proud and high, to bend before my conquering eye,-- thou, flattering bard! thyself wilt say, that grim sir roderick owns its sway. the saxon scourge, clan-alpine's pride, the terror of loch lomond's side, would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay a lennox foray--for a day.'-- xii.. the ancient bard her glee repressed: 'ill hast thou chosen theme for jest! for who, through all this western wild, named black sir roderick e'er, and smiled? in holy-rood a knight he slew; i saw, when back the dirk he drew, courtiers give place before the stride of the undaunted homicide; and since, though outlawed, hath his hand full sternly kept his mountain land. who else dared give--ah! woe the day, that i such hated truth should say!-- the douglas, like a stricken deer, disowned by every noble peer, even the rude refuge we have here? alas, this wild marauding chief alone might hazard our relief, and now thy maiden charms expand, looks for his guerdon in thy hand; full soon may dispensation sought, to back his suit, from rome be brought. then, though an exile on the hill, thy father, as the douglas, still be held in reverence and fear; and though to roderick thou'rt so dear that thou mightst guide with silken thread. slave of thy will, this chieftain dread, yet, o loved maid, thy mirth refrain! thy hand is on a lion's mane.'-- xiii. minstrel,' the maid replied, and high her father's soul glanced from her eye, 'my debts to roderick's house i know: all that a mother could bestow to lady margaret's care i owe, since first an orphan in the wild she sorrowed o'er her sister's child; to her brave chieftain son, from ire of scotland's king who shrouds my sire, a deeper, holier debt is owed; and, could i pay it with my blood, allan! sir roderick should command my blood, my life,--but not my hand. rather will ellen douglas dwell a votaress in maronnan's cell; rather through realms beyond the sea, seeking the world's cold charity where ne'er was spoke a scottish word, and ne'er the name of douglas heard an outcast pilgrim will she rove, than wed the man she cannot love. xiv. 'thou shak'st, good friend, thy tresses gray,-- that pleading look, what can it say but what i own?--i grant him brave, but wild as bracklinn's thundering wave; and generous,--save vindictive mood or jealous transport chafe his blood: i grant him true to friendly band, as his claymore is to his hand; but o! that very blade of steel more mercy for a foe would feel: i grant him liberal, to fling among his clan the wealth they bring, when back by lake and glen they wind, and in the lowland leave behind, where once some pleasant hamlet stood, a mass of ashes slaked with blood. the hand that for my father fought i honor, as his daughter ought; but can i clasp it reeking red from peasants slaughtered in their shed? no! wildly while his virtues gleam, they make his passions darker seem, and flash along his spirit high, like lightning o'er the midnight sky. while yet a child,--and children know, instinctive taught, the friend and foe,-- i shuddered at his brow of gloom, his shadowy plaid and sable plume; a maiden grown, i ill could bear his haughty mien and lordly air: but, if thou join'st a suitor's claim, in serious mood, to roderick's name. i thrill with anguish! or, if e'er a douglas knew the word, with fear. to change such odious theme were best,-- what think'st thou of our stranger guest? '-- xv. 'what think i of him?--woe the while that brought such wanderer to our isle! thy father's battle-brand, of yore for tine-man forged by fairy lore, what time he leagued, no longer foes his border spears with hotspur's bows, did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow the footstep of a secret foe. if courtly spy hath harbored here, what may we for the douglas fear? what for this island, deemed of old clan-alpine's last and surest hold? if neither spy nor foe, i pray what yet may jealous roderick say?-- nay, wave not thy disdainful head! bethink thee of the discord dread that kindled when at beltane game thou least the dance with malcolm graeme; still, though thy sire the peace renewed smoulders in roderick's breast the feud: beware!--but hark! what sounds are these? my dull ears catch no faltering breeze no weeping birch nor aspens wake, nor breath is dimpling in the lake; still is the canna's hoary beard, yet, by my minstrel faith, i heard-- and hark again! some pipe of war sends the hold pibroch from afar.' xvi. far up the lengthened lake were spied four darkening specks upon the tide, that, slow enlarging on the view, four manned and massed barges grew, and, bearing downwards from glengyle, steered full upon the lonely isle; the point of brianchoil they passed, and, to the windward as they cast, against the sun they gave to shine the bold sir roderick's bannered pine. nearer and nearer as they bear, spears, pikes, and axes flash in air. now might you see the tartars brave, and plaids and plumage dance and wave: now see the bonnets sink and rise, as his tough oar the rower plies; see, flashing at each sturdy stroke, the wave ascending into smoke; see the proud pipers on the bow, and mark the gaudy streamers flow from their loud chanters down, and sweep the furrowed bosom of the deep, as, rushing through the lake amain, they plied the ancient highland strain. xvii. ever, as on they bore, more loud and louder rung the pibroch proud. at first the sounds, by distance tame, mellowed along the waters came, and, lingering long by cape and bay, wailed every harsher note away, then bursting bolder on the ear, the clan's shrill gathering they could hear, those thrilling sounds that call the might of old clan-alpine to the fight. thick beat the rapid notes, as when the mustering hundreds shake the glen, and hurrying at the signal dread, 'fine battered earth returns their tread. then prelude light, of livelier tone, expressed their merry marching on, ere peal of closing battle rose, with mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows; and mimic din of stroke and ward, as broadsword upon target jarred; and groaning pause, ere yet again, condensed, the battle yelled amain: the rapid charge, the rallying shout, retreat borne headlong into rout, and bursts of triumph, to declare clan-alpine's congest--all were there. nor ended thus the strain, but slow sunk in a moan prolonged and low, and changed the conquering clarion swell for wild lament o'er those that fell. xviii. the war-pipes ceased, but lake and hill were busy with their echoes still; and, when they slept, a vocal strain bade their hoarse chorus wake again, while loud a hundred clansmen raise their voices in their chieftain's praise. each boatman, bending to his oar, with measured sweep the burden bore, in such wild cadence as the breeze makes through december's leafless trees. the chorus first could allan know, 'roderick vich alpine, ho! fro!' and near, and nearer as they rowed, distinct the martial ditty flowed. xix. boat song hail to the chief who in triumph advances! honored and blessed be the ever-green pine! long may the tree, in his banner that glances, flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! heaven send it happy dew, earth lend it sap anew, gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow, while every highland glen sends our shout back again, 'roderigh vich alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!' ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, blooming at beltane, in winter to fade; when the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, the more shall clan-alpine exult in her shade. moored in the rifted rock, proof to the tempest's shock, firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; menteith and breadalbane, then, echo his praise again, 'roderigh vich alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!' xx. proudly our pibroch has thrilled in glen fruin, and bannochar's groans to our slogan replied; glen luss and ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, and the best of loch lomond lie dead on her side. widow and saxon maid long shall lament our raid, think of clan-alpine with fear and with woe; lennox and leven-glen shake when they hear again, 'roderigh vich alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!' row, vassals, row, for the pride of the highlands! stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine! o that the rosebud that graces yon islands were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! o that some seedling gem, worthy such noble stem, honored and blessed in their shadow might grow! loud should clan-alpine then ring from her deepmost glen, roderigh vich alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!' xxi. with all her joyful female band had lady margaret sought the strand. loose on the breeze their tresses flew, and high their snowy arms they threw, as echoing back with shrill acclaim, and chorus wild, the chieftain's name; while, prompt to please, with mother's art the darling passion of his heart, the dame called ellen to the strand, to greet her kinsman ere he land: 'come, loiterer, come! a douglas thou, and shun to wreathe a victor's brow?' reluctantly and slow, the maid the unwelcome summoning obeyed, and when a distant bugle rung, in the mid-path aside she sprung:-- 'list, allan-bane! from mainland cast i hear my father's signal blast. be ours,' she cried, 'the skiff to guide, and waft him from the mountain-side.' then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright, she darted to her shallop light, and, eagerly while roderick scanned, for her dear form, his mother's band, the islet far behind her lay, and she had landed in the bay. xxii. some feelings are to mortals given with less of earth in them than heaven; and if there be a human tear from passion's dross refined and clear, a tear so limpid and so meek it would not stain an angel's cheek, 'tis that which pious fathers shed upon a duteous daughter's head! and as the douglas to his breast his darling ellen closely pressed, such holy drops her tresses steeped, though 't was an hero's eye that weeped. nor while on ellen's faltering tongue her filial welcomes crowded hung, marked she that fear--affection's proof-- still held a graceful youth aloof; no! not till douglas named his name, although the youth was malcolm graeme. xxiii. allan, with wistful look the while, marked roderick landing on the isle; his master piteously he eyed, then gazed upon the chieftain's pride, then dashed with hasty hand away from his dimmed eye the gathering spray; and douglas, as his hand he laid on malcolm's shoulder, kindly said: 'canst thou, young friend, no meaning spy in my poor follower's glistening eye? i 'll tell thee:--he recalls the day when in my praise he led the lay o'er the arched gate of bothwell proud, while many a minstrel answered loud, when percy's norman pennon, won in bloody field, before me shone, and twice ten knights, the least a name as mighty as yon chief may claim, gracing my pomp, behind me came. yet trust me, malcolm, not so proud was i of all that marshalled crowd, though the waned crescent owned my might, and in my train trooped lord and knight, though blantyre hymned her holiest lays, and bothwell's bards flung back my praise, as when this old man's silent tear, and this poor maid's affection dear, a welcome give more kind and true than aught my better fortunes knew. forgive, my friend, a father's boast,-- o, it out-beggars all i lost!' xxiv. delightful praise!--like summer rose, that brighter in the dew-drop glows, the bashful maiden's cheek appeared, for douglas spoke, and malcolm heard. the flush of shame-faced joy to hide, the hounds, the hawk, her cares divide; the loved caresses of the maid the dogs with crouch and whimper paid; and, at her whistle, on her hand the falcon took his favorite stand, closed his dark wing, relaxed his eye, nor, though unhooded, sought to fly. and, trust, while in such guise she stood, like fabled goddess of the wood, that if a father's partial thought o'erweighed her worth and beauty aught, well might the lover's judgment fail to balance with a juster scale; for with each secret glance he stole, the fond enthusiast sent his soul. xxv. of stature fair, and slender frame, but firmly knit, was malcolm graeme. the belted plaid and tartan hose did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose; his flaxen hair, of sunny hue, curled closely round his bonnet blue. trained to the chase, his eagle eye the ptarmigan in snow could spy; each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, he knew, through lennox and menteith; vain was the bound of dark-brown doe when malcolm bent his sounding bow, and scarce that doe, though winged with fear, outstripped in speed the mountaineer: right up ben lomond could he press, and not a sob his toil confess. his form accorded with a mind lively and ardent, frank and kind; a blither heart, till ellen came did never love nor sorrow tame; it danced as lightsome in his breast as played the feather on his crest. yet friends, who nearest knew the youth his scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth and bards, who saw his features bold when kindled by the tales of old said, were that youth to manhood grown, not long should roderick dhu's renown be foremost voiced by mountain fame, but quail to that of malcolm graeme. xxvi. now back they wend their watery way, and, 'o my sire!' did ellen say, 'why urge thy chase so far astray? and why so late returned? and why '-- the rest was in her speaking eye. 'my child, the chase i follow far, 'tis mimicry of noble war; and with that gallant pastime reft were all of douglas i have left. i met young malcolm as i strayed far eastward, in glenfinlas' shade nor strayed i safe, for all around hunters and horsemen scoured the ground. this youth, though still a royal ward, risked life and land to be my guard, and through the passes of the wood guided my steps, not unpursued; and roderick shall his welcome make, despite old spleen, for douglas' sake. then must he seek strath-endrick glen nor peril aught for me again.' xxvii. sir roderick, who to meet them came, reddened at sight of malcolm graeme, yet, not in action, word, or eye, failed aught in hospitality. in talk and sport they whiled away the morning of that summer day; but at high noon a courier light held secret parley with the knight, whose moody aspect soon declared that evil were the news he heard. deep thought seemed toiling in his head; yet was the evening banquet made ere he assembled round the flame his mother, douglas, and the graeme, and ellen too; then cast around his eyes, then fixed them on the ground, as studying phrase that might avail best to convey unpleasant tale. long with his dagger's hilt he played, then raised his haughty brow, and said:-- xxviii. 'short be my speech;--nor time affords, nor my plain temper, glozing words. kinsman and father,--if such name douglas vouchsafe to roderick's claim; mine honored mother;--ellen,--why, my cousin, turn away thine eye?-- and graeme, in whom i hope to know full soon a noble friend or foe, when age shall give thee thy command, and leading in thy native land,-- list all!--the king's vindictive pride boasts to have tamed the border-side, where chiefs, with hound and trawl; who came to share their monarch's sylvan game, themselves in bloody toils were snared, and when the banquet they prepared, and wide their loyal portals flung, o'er their own gateway struggling hung. loud cries their blood from meggat's mead, from yarrow braes and banks of tweed, where the lone streams of ettrick glide, and from the silver teviot's side; the dales, where martial clans did ride, are now one sheep-walk, waste and wide. this tyrant of the scottish throne, so faithless and so ruthless known, now hither comes; his end the same, the same pretext of sylvan game. what grace for highland chiefs, judge ye by fate of border chivalry. yet more; amid glenfinlas' green, douglas, thy stately form was seen. this by espial sure i know: your counsel in the streight i show.' xxix. ellen and margaret fearfully sought comfort in each other's eye, then turned their ghastly look, each one, this to her sire, that to her son. the hasty color went and came in the bold cheek of malcohm graeme, but from his glance it well appeared 't was but for ellen that he feared; while, sorrowful, but undismayed, the douglas thus his counsel said: 'brave roderick, though the tempest roar, it may but thunder and pass o'er; nor will i here remain an hour, to draw the lightning on thy bower; for well thou know'st, at this gray head the royal bolt were fiercest sped. for thee, who, at thy king's command, canst aid him with a gallant band, submission, homage, humbled pride, shall turn the monarch's wrath aside. poor remnants of the bleeding heart, ellen and i will seek apart the refuge of some forest cell, there, like the hunted quarry, dwell, till on the mountain and the moor the stern pursuit be passed and o'er,'-- xxx. 'no, by mine honor,' roderick said, 'so help me heaven, and my good blade! no, never! blasted be yon pine, my father's ancient crest and mine, if from its shade in danger part the lineage of the bleeding heart! hear my blunt speech: grant me this maid to wife, thy counsel to mine aid; to douglas, leagued with roderick dhu, will friends and allies flock enow; like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief, will bind to us each western chief when the loud pipes my bridal tell, the links of forth shall hear the knell, the guards shall start in stirling's porch; and when i light the nuptial torch, a thousand villages in flames shall scare the slumbers of king james!-- nay, ellen, blench not thus away, and, mother, cease these signs, i pray; i meant not all my heat might say.-- small need of inroad or of fight, when the sage douglas may unite each mountain clan in friendly band, to guard the passes of their land, till the foiled king from pathless glen shall bootless turn him home again.' xxxi. there are who have, at midnight hour, in slumber scaled a dizzy tower, and, on the verge that beetled o'er the ocean tide's incessant roar, dreamed calmly out their dangerous dream, till wakened by the morning beam; when, dazzled by the eastern glow, such startler cast his glance below, and saw unmeasured depth around, and heard unintermitted sound, and thought the battled fence so frail, it waved like cobweb in the gale; amid his senses' giddy wheel, did he not desperate impulse feel, headlong to plunge himself below, and meet the worst his fears foreshow?-- thus ellen, dizzy and astound, as sudden ruin yawned around, by crossing terrors wildly tossed, still for the douglas fearing most, could scarce the desperate thought withstand, to buy his safety with her hand. xxxii. such purpose dread could malcolm spy in ellen's quivering lip and eye, and eager rose to speak,--but ere his tongue could hurry forth his fear, had douglas marked the hectic strife, where death seemed combating with life; for to her cheek, in feverish flood, one instant rushed the throbbing blood, then ebbing back, with sudden sway, left its domain as wan as clay. 'roderick, enough! enough!' he cried, 'my daughter cannot be thy bride; not that the blush to wooer dear, nor paleness that of maiden fear. it may not be,--forgive her, chief, nor hazard aught for our relief. against his sovereign, douglas ne'er will level a rebellious spear. 't was i that taught his youthful hand to rein a steed and wield a brand; i see him yet, the princely boy! not ellen more my pride and joy; i love him still, despite my wrongs by hasty wrath and slanderous tongues. o. seek the grace you well may find, without a cause to mine combined!' xxxiii. twice through the hall the chieftain strode; the waving of his tartars broad, and darkened brow, where wounded pride with ire and disappointment vied seemed, by the torch's gloomy light, like the ill demon of the night, stooping his pinions' shadowy sway upon the righted pilgrim's way: but, unrequited love! thy dart plunged deepest its envenomed smart, and roderick, with thine anguish stung, at length the hand of douglas wrung, while eyes that mocked at tears before with bitter drops were running o'er. the death-pangs of long-cherished hope scarce in that ample breast had scope but, struggling with his spirit proud, convulsive heaved its checkered shroud, while every sob--so mute were all was heard distinctly through the ball. the son's despair, the mother's look, iii might the gentle ellen brook; she rose, and to her side there came, to aid her parting steps, the graeme. xxxiv. then roderick from the douglas broke-- as flashes flame through sable smoke, kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low, to one broad blaze of ruddy glow, so the deep anguish of despair burst, in fierce jealousy, to air. with stalwart grasp his hand he laid on malcolm's breast and belted plaid: 'back, beardless boy!' he sternly said, 'back, minion! holdst thou thus at naught the lesson i so lately taught? this roof, the douglas, and that maid, thank thou for punishment delayed.' eager as greyhound on his game, fiercely with roderick grappled graeme. 'perish my name, if aught afford its chieftain safety save his sword!' thus as they strove their desperate hand griped to the dagger or the brand, and death had been--but douglas rose, and thrust between the struggling foes his giant strength:--' chieftains, forego! i hold the first who strikes my foe.-- madmen, forbear your frantic jar! what! is the douglas fallen so far, his daughter's hand is deemed the spoil of such dishonorable broil?' sullen and slowly they unclasp, as struck with shame, their desperate grasp, and each upon his rival glared, with foot advanced and blade half bared. xxxv. ere yet the brands aloft were flung, margaret on roderick's mantle hung, and malcolm heard his ellen's scream, as faltered through terrific dream. then roderick plunged in sheath his sword, and veiled his wrath in scornful word:' rest safe till morning; pity 't were such cheek should feel the midnight air! then mayst thou to james stuart tell, roderick will keep the lake and fell, nor lackey with his freeborn clan the pageant pomp of earthly man. more would he of clan-alpine know, thou canst our strength and passes show.-- malise, what ho!'--his henchman came: 'give our safe-conduct to the graeme.' young malcolm answered, calm and bold:' fear nothing for thy favorite hold; the spot an angel deigned to grace is blessed, though robbers haunt the place. thy churlish courtesy for those reserve, who fear to be thy foes. as safe to me the mountain way at midnight as in blaze of day, though with his boldest at his back even roderick dhu beset the track.-- brave douglas,--lovely ellen,--nay, naught here of parting will i say. earth does not hold a lonesome glen so secret but we meet again.-- chieftain! we too shall find an hour,'-- he said, and left the sylvan bower. xxxvi. old allan followed to the strand-- such was the douglas's command-- and anxious told, how, on the morn, the stern sir roderick deep had sworn, the fiery cross should circle o'er dale, glen, and valley, down and moor much were the peril to the graeme from those who to the signal came; far up the lake 't were safest land, himself would row him to the strand. he gave his counsel to the wind, while malcolm did, unheeding, bind, round dirk and pouch and broadsword rolled, his ample plaid in tightened fold, and stripped his limbs to such array as best might suit the watery way,-- xxxvii. then spoke abrupt: 'farewell to thee, pattern of old fidelity!' the minstrel's hand he kindly pressed,-- 'o, could i point a place of rest! my sovereign holds in ward my land, my uncle leads my vassal band; to tame his foes, his friends to aid, poor malcolm has but heart and blade. yet, if there be one faithful graeme who loves the chieftain of his name, not long shall honored douglas dwell like hunted stag in mountain cell; nor, ere yon pride-swollen robber dare,-- i may not give the rest to air! tell roderick dhu i owed him naught, not tile poor service of a boat, to waft me to yon mountain-side.' then plunged he in the flashing tide. bold o'er the flood his head he bore, and stoutly steered him from the shore; and allan strained his anxious eye, far mid the lake his form to spy, darkening across each puny wave, to which the moon her silver gave. fast as the cormorant could skim. the swimmer plied each active limb; then landing in the moonlight dell, loud shouted of his weal to tell. the minstrel heard the far halloo, and joyful from the shore withdrew. canto third. the gathering. i. time rolls his ceaseless course. the race of yore, who danced our infancy upon their knee, and told our marvelling boyhood legends store of their strange ventures happed by land or sea, how are they blotted from the things that be! how few, all weak and withered of their force, wait on the verge of dark eternity, like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, to sweep them from out sight! time rolls his ceaseless course. yet live there still who can remember well, how, when a mountain chief his bugle blew, both field and forest, dingle, cliff; and dell, and solitary heath, the signal knew; and fast the faithful clan around him drew. what time the warning note was keenly wound, what time aloft their kindred banner flew, while clamorous war-pipes yelled the gathering sound, and while the fiery cross glanced like a meteor, round. ii. the summer dawn's reflected hue to purple changed loch katrine blue; mildly and soft the western breeze just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees, and the pleased lake, like maiden coy, trembled but dimpled not for joy the mountain-shadows on her breast were neither broken nor at rest; in bright uncertainty they lie, like future joys to fancy's eye. the water-lily to the light her chalice reared of silver bright; the doe awoke, and to the lawn, begemmed with dew-drops, led her fawn; the gray mist left the mountain-side, the torrent showed its glistening pride; invisible in flecked sky the lark sent clown her revelry: the blackbird and the speckled thrush good-morrow gave from brake and bush; in answer cooed the cushat dove her notes of peace and rest and love. iii. no thought of peace, no thought of rest, assuaged the storm in roderick's breast. with sheathed broadsword in his hand, abrupt he paced the islet strand, and eyed the rising sun, and laid his hand on his impatient blade. beneath a rock, his vassals' care was prompt the ritual to prepare, with deep and deathful meaning fraught; for such antiquity had taught was preface meet, ere yet abroad the cross of fire should take its road. the shrinking band stood oft aghast at the impatient glance he cast;-- such glance the mountain eagle threw, as, from the cliffs of benvenue, she spread her dark sails on the wind, and, high in middle heaven reclined, with her broad shadow on the lake, silenced the warblers of the brake. iv. a heap of withered boughs was piled, of juniper and rowan wild, mingled with shivers from the oak, rent by the lightning's recent stroke. brian the hermit by it stood, barefooted, in his frock and hood. his grizzled beard and matted hair obscured a visage of despair; his naked arms and legs, seamed o'er, the scars of frantic penance bore. that monk, of savage form and face the impending danger of his race had drawn from deepest solitude far in benharrow's bosom rude. not his the mien of christian priest, but druid's, from the grave released whose hardened heart and eye might brook on human sacrifice to look; and much, 't was said, of heathen lore mixed in the charms he muttered o'er. the hallowed creed gave only worse and deadlier emphasis of curse. no peasant sought that hermit's prayer his cave the pilgrim shunned with care, the eager huntsman knew his bound and in mid chase called off his hound;' or if, in lonely glen or strath, the desert-dweller met his path he prayed, and signed the cross between, while terror took devotion's mien. v. of brian's birth strange tales were told. his mother watched a midnight fold, built deep within a dreary glen, where scattered lay the bones of men in some forgotten battle slain, and bleached by drifting wind and rain. it might have tamed a warrior's heart to view such mockery of his art! the knot-grass fettered there the hand which once could burst an iron band; beneath the broad and ample bone, that bucklered heart to fear unknown, a feeble and a timorous guest, the fieldfare framed her lowly nest; there the slow blindworm left his slime on the fleet limbs that mocked at time; and there, too, lay the leader's skull still wreathed with chaplet, flushed and full, for heath-bell with her purple bloom supplied the bonnet and the plume. all night, in this sad glen the maid sat shrouded in her mantle's shade: she said no shepherd sought her side, no hunter's hand her snood untied. yet ne'er again to braid her hair the virgin snood did alive wear; gone was her maiden glee and sport, her maiden girdle all too short, nor sought she, from that fatal night, or holy church or blessed rite but locked her secret in her breast, and died in travail, unconfessed. vi. alone, among his young compeers, was brian from his infant years; a moody and heart-broken boy, estranged from sympathy and joy bearing each taunt which careless tongue on his mysterious lineage flung. whole nights he spent by moonlight pale to wood and stream his teal, to wail, till, frantic, he as truth received what of his birth the crowd believed, and sought, in mist and meteor fire, to meet and know his phantom sire! in vain, to soothe his wayward fate, the cloister oped her pitying gate; in vain the learning of the age unclasped the sable-lettered page; even in its treasures he could find food for the fever of his mind. eager he read whatever tells of magic, cabala, and spells, and every dark pursuit allied to curious and presumptuous pride; till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung, and heart with mystic horrors wrung, desperate he sought benharrow's den, and hid him from the haunts of men. vii. the desert gave him visions wild, such as might suit the spectre's child. where with black cliffs the torrents toil, he watched the wheeling eddies boil, jill from their foam his dazzled eyes beheld the river demon rise: the mountain mist took form and limb of noontide hag or goblin grim; the midnight wind came wild and dread, swelled with the voices of the dead; far on the future battle-heath his eye beheld the ranks of death: thus the lone seer, from mankind hurled, shaped forth a disembodied world. one lingering sympathy of mind still bound him to the mortal kind; the only parent he could claim of ancient alpine's lineage came. late had he heard, in prophet's dream, the fatal ben-shie's boding scream; sounds, too, had come in midnight blast of charging steeds, careering fast along benharrow's shingly side, where mortal horseman ne'er might ride; the thunderbolt had split the pine,-- all augured ill to alpine's line. he girt his loins, and came to show the signals of impending woe, and now stood prompt to bless or ban, as bade the chieftain of his clan. viii. 't was all prepared;--and from the rock a goat, the patriarch of the flock, before the kindling pile was laid, and pierced by roderick's ready blade. patient the sickening victim eyed the life-blood ebb in crimson tide down his clogged beard and shaggy limb, till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. the grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, a slender crosslet framed with care, a cubit's length in measure due; the shaft and limbs were rods of yew, whose parents in inch-cailliach wave their shadows o'er clan-alpine's grave, and, answering lomond's breezes deep, soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. the cross thus formed he held on high, with wasted hand and haggard eye, and strange and mingled feelings woke, while his anathema he spoke:-- ix. 'woe to the clansman who shall view this symbol of sepulchral yew, forgetful that its branches grew where weep the heavens their holiest dew on alpine's dwelling low! deserter of his chieftain's trust, he ne'er shall mingle with their dust, but, from his sires and kindred thrust, each clansman's execration just shall doom him wrath and woe.' he paused;--the word the vassals took, with forward step and fiery look, on high their naked brands they shook, their clattering targets wildly strook; and first in murmur low, then like the billow in his course, that far to seaward finds his source, and flings to shore his mustered force, burst with loud roar their answer hoarse, 'woe to the traitor, woe!' ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew, the joyous wolf from covert drew, the exulting eagle screamed afar,-- they knew the voice of alpine's war. x. the shout was hushed on lake and fell, the monk resumed his muttered spell: dismal and low its accents came, the while he scathed the cross with flame; and the few words that reached the air, although the holiest name was there, had more of blasphemy than prayer. but when he shook above the crowd its kindled points, he spoke aloud:-- 'woe to the wretch who fails to rear at this dread sign the ready spear! for, as the flames this symbol sear, his home, the refuge of his fear, a kindred fate shall know; far o'er its roof the volumed flame clan-alpine's vengeance shall proclaim, while maids and matrons on his name shall call down wretchedness and shame, and infamy and woe.' then rose the cry of females, shrill as goshawk's whistle on the hill, denouncing misery and ill, mingled with childhood's babbling trill of curses stammered slow; answering with imprecation dread, 'sunk be his home in embers red! and cursed be the meanest shed that o'er shall hide the houseless head we doom to want and woe!' a sharp and shrieking echo gave, coir-uriskin, thy goblin cave! and the gray pass where birches wave on beala-nam-bo. xi. then deeper paused the priest anew, and hard his laboring breath he drew, while, with set teeth and clenched hand, and eyes that glowed like fiery brand, he meditated curse more dread, and deadlier, on the clansman's head who, summoned to his chieftain's aid, the signal saw and disobeyed. the crosslet's points of sparkling wood he quenched among the bubbling blood. and, as again the sign he reared, hollow and hoarse his voice was heard: 'when flits this cross from man to man, vich-alpine's summons to his clan, burst be the ear that fails to heed! palsied the foot that shuns to speed! may ravens tear the careless eyes, wolves make the coward heart their prize! as sinks that blood-stream in the earth, so may his heart's-blood drench his hearth! as dies in hissing gore the spark, quench thou his light, destruction dark! and be the grace to him denied, bought by this sign to all beside! he ceased; no echo gave again the murmur of the deep amen. xii. then roderick with impatient look from brian's hand the symbol took: 'speed, malise, speed' he said, and gave the crosslet to his henchman brave. 'the muster-place be lanrick mead-- instant the time---speed, malise, speed!' like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, a barge across loch katrine flew: high stood the henchman on the prow; so rapidly the barge-mall row, the bubbles, where they launched the boat, were all unbroken and afloat, dancing in foam and ripple still, when it had neared the mainland hill; and from the silver beach's side still was the prow three fathom wide, when lightly bounded to the land the messenger of blood and brand. xiii. speed, malise, speed! the dun deer's hide on fleeter foot was never tied. speed, malise, speed! such cause of haste thine active sinews never braced. bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, burst down like torrent from its crest; with short and springing footstep pass the trembling bog and false morass; across the brook like roebuck bound, and thread the brake like questing hound; the crag is high, the scaur is deep, yet shrink not from the desperate leap: parched are thy burning lips and brow, yet by the fountain pause not now; herald of battle, fate, and fear, stretch onward in thy fleet career! the wounded hind thou track'st not now, pursuest not maid through greenwood bough, nor priest thou now thy flying pace with rivals in the mountain race; but danger, death, and warrior deed are in thy course--speed, malise, speed! xiv. fast as the fatal symbol flies, in arms the huts and hamlets rise; from winding glen, from upland brown, they poured each hardy tenant down. nor slacked the messenger his pace; he showed the sign, he named the place, and, pressing forward like the wind, left clamor and surprise behind. the fisherman forsook the strand, the swarthy smith took dirk and brand; with changed cheer, the mower blithe left in the half-cut swath his scythe; the herds without a keeper strayed, the plough was in mid-furrow staved, the falconer tossed his hawk away, the hunter left the stag at hay; prompt at the signal of alarms, each son of alpine rushed to arms; so swept the tumult and affray along the margin of achray. alas, thou lovely lake! that e'er thy banks should echo sounds of fear! the rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep so stilly on thy bosom deep, the lark's blithe carol from the cloud seems for the scene too gayly loud. xv. speed, malise, speed! the lake is past, duncraggan's huts appear at last, and peep, like moss-grown rocks, half seen half hidden in the copse so green; there mayst thou rest, thy labor done, their lord shall speed the signal on.-- as stoops the hawk upon his prey, the henchman shot him down the way. what woful accents load the gale? the funeral yell, the female wail! a gallant hunter's sport is o'er, a valiant warrior fights no more. who, in the battle or the chase, at roderick's side shall fill his place!-- within the hall, where torch's ray supplies the excluded beams of day, lies duncan on his lowly bier, and o'er him streams his widow's tear. his stripling son stands mournful by, his youngest weeps, but knows not why; the village maids and matrons round the dismal coronach resound. xvi. coronach. he is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest, like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest. the font, reappearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow, but to us comes no cheering, to duncan no morrow! the hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary, but the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory. the autumn winds rushing waft the leaves that are searest, but our flower was in flushing, when blighting was nearest. fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber, red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber! like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and forever! xvii. see stumah, who, the bier beside his master's corpse with wonder eyed, poor stumah! whom his least halloo could send like lightning o'er the dew, bristles his crest, and points his ears, as if some stranger step he hears. 't is not a mourner's muffled tread, who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, but headlong haste or deadly fear urge the precipitate career. all stand aghast:--unheeding all, the henchman bursts into the hall; before the dead man's bier he stood, held forth the cross besmeared with blood; 'the muster-place is lanrick mead; speed forth the signal! clansmen, speed!' xviii, angus, the heir of duncan's line, sprung forth and seized the fatal sign. in haste the stripling to his side his father's dirk and broadsword tied; but when he saw his mother's eye watch him in speechless agony, back to her opened arms he flew pressed on her lips a fond adieu,-- 'alas' she sobbed,--'and yet be gone, and speed thee forth, like duncan's son!' one look he cast upon the bier, dashed from his eye the gathering tear, breathed deep to clear his laboring breast, and tossed aloft his bonnet crest, then, like the high-bred colt when, freed, first he essays his fire and speed, he vanished, and o'er moor and moss sped forward with the fiery cross. suspended was the widow's tear while yet his footsteps she could hear; and when she marked the henchman's eye wet with unwonted sympathy, 'kinsman,' she said, 'his race is run that should have sped thine errand on. the oak teas fallen?--the sapling bough is all duncraggan's shelter now yet trust i well, his duty done, the orphan's god will guard my son.-- and you, in many a danger true at duncan's hest your blades that drew, to arms, and guard that orphan's head! let babes and women wail the dead.' then weapon-clang and martial call resounded through the funeral hall, while from the walls the attendant band snatched sword and targe with hurried hand; and short and flitting energy glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, as if the sounds to warrior dear might rouse her duncan from his bier. but faded soon that borrowed force; grief claimed his right, and tears their course. xix. benledi saw the cross of fire, it glanced like lightning up strath-ire. o'er dale and hill the summons flew, nor rest nor pause young angus knew; the tear that gathered in his eye he deft the mountain-breeze to dry; until, where teith's young waters roll betwixt him and a wooded knoll that graced the sable strath with green, the chapel of saint bride was seen. swoln was the stream, remote the bridge, but angus paused not on the edge; though the clerk waves danced dizzily, though reeled his sympathetic eye, he dashed amid the torrent's roar: his right hand high the crosslet bore, his left the pole-axe grasped, to guide and stay his footing in the tide. he stumbled twice,--the foam splashed high, with hoarser swell the stream raced by; and had he fallen,--forever there, farewell duncraggan's orphan heir! but still, as if in parting life, firmer he grasped the cross of strife, until the opposing bank he gained, and up the chapel pathway strained. a blithesome rout that morning-tide had sought the chapel of saint bride. her troth tombea's mary gave to norman, heir of armandave, and, issuing from the gothic arch, the bridal now resumed their march. in rude but glad procession came bonneted sire and coif-clad dame; and plaided youth, with jest and jeer which snooded maiden would not hear: and children, that, unwitting why, lent the gay shout their shrilly cry; and minstrels, that in measures vied before the young and bonny bride, whose downcast eye and cheek disclose the tear and blush of morning rose. with virgin step and bashful hand she held the kerchief's snowy band. the gallant bridegroom by her side beheld his prize with victor's pride. and the glad mother in her ear was closely whispering word of cheer. xxi. who meets them at the churchyard gate? the messenger of fear and fate! haste in his hurried accent lies, and grief is swimming in his eyes. all dripping from the recent flood, panting and travel-soiled he stood, the fatal sign of fire and sword held forth, and spoke the appointed word: 'the muster-place is lanrick mead; speed forth the signal! norman, speed!' and must he change so soon the hand just linked to his by holy band, for the fell cross of blood and brand? and must the day so blithe that rose, and promised rapture in the close, before its setting hour, divide the bridegroom from the plighted bride? o fatal doom'--it must! it must! clan-alpine's cause, her chieftain's trust, her summons dread, brook no delay; stretch to the race,--away! away! xxii. yet slow he laid his plaid aside, and lingering eyed his lovely bride, until he saw the starting tear speak woe he might not stop to cheer: then, trusting not a second look, in haste he sped hind up the brook, nor backward glanced till on the heath where lubnaig's lake supplies the teith,-- what in the racer's bosom stirred? the sickening pang of hope deferred, and memory with a torturing train of all his morning visions vain. mingled with love's impatience, came the manly thirst for martial fame; the stormy joy of mountaineers ere yet they rush upon the spears; and zeal for clan and chieftain burning, and hope, from well-fought field returning, with war's red honors on his crest, to clasp his mary to his breast. stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae, like fire from flint he glanced away, while high resolve and feeling strong burst into voluntary song. xxiii. song. the heath this night must be my bed, the bracken curtain for my head, my lullaby the warder's tread, far, far, from love and thee, mary; to-morrow eve, more stilly laid, my couch may be my bloody plaid, my vesper song thy wail, sweet maid! it will not waken me, mary! i may not, dare not, fancy now the grief that clouds thy lovely brow, i dare not think upon thy vow, and all it promised me, mary. no fond regret must norman know; when bursts clan-alpine on the foe, his heart must be like bended bow, his foot like arrow free, mary. a time will come with feeling fraught, for, if i fall in battle fought, thy hapless lover's dying thought shall be a thought on thee, mary. and if returned from conquered foes, how blithely will the evening close, how sweet the linnet sing repose, to my young bride and me, mary! xxiv. not faster o'er thy heathery braes balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze, rushing in conflagration strong thy deep ravines and dells along, wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow, and reddening the dark lakes below; nor faster speeds it, nor so far, as o'er thy heaths the voice of war. the signal roused to martial coil the sullen margin of loch voil, waked still loch doine, and to the source alarmed, balvaig, thy swampy course; thence southward turned its rapid road adown strath-gartney's valley broad till rose in arms each man might claim a portion in clan-alpine's name, from the gray sire, whose trembling hand could hardly buckle on his brand, to the raw boy, whose shaft and bow were yet scarce terror to the crow. each valley, each sequestered glen, mustered its little horde of men that met as torrents from the height in highland dales their streams unite still gathering, as they pour along, a voice more loud, a tide more strong, till at the rendezvous they stood by hundreds prompt for blows and blood, each trained to arms since life began, owning no tie but to his clan, no oath but by his chieftain's hand, no law but roderick dhu's command. xxv. that summer morn had roderick dhu surveyed the skirts of benvenue, and sent his scouts o'er hill and heath, to view the frontiers of menteith. all backward came with news of truce; still lay each martial graeme and bruce, in rednock courts no horsemen wait, no banner waved on cardross gate, on duchray's towers no beacon shone, nor scared the herons from loch con; all seemed at peace.--now wot ye wily the chieftain with such anxious eye, ere to the muster he repair, this western frontier scanned with care?-- in benvenue's most darksome cleft, a fair though cruel pledge was left; for douglas, to his promise true, that morning from the isle withdrew, and in a deep sequestered dell had sought a low and lonely cell. by many a bard in celtic tongue has coir-nan-uriskin been sung a softer name the saxons gave, and called the grot the goblin cave. xxvi. it was a wild and strange retreat, as e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. the dell, upon the mountain's crest, yawned like a gash on warrior's breast; its trench had stayed full many a rock, hurled by primeval earthquake shock from benvenue's gray summit wild, and here, in random ruin piled, they frowned incumbent o'er the spot and formed the rugged sylvan "rot. the oak and birch with mingled shade at noontide there a twilight made, unless when short and sudden shone some straggling beam on cliff or stone, with such a glimpse as prophet's eye gains on thy depth, futurity. no murmur waked the solemn still, save tinkling of a fountain rill; but when the wind chafed with the lake, a sullen sound would upward break, with dashing hollow voice, that spoke the incessant war of wave and rock. suspended cliffs with hideous sway seemed nodding o'er the cavern gray. from such a den the wolf had sprung, in such the wild-cat leaves her young; yet douglas and his daughter fair sought for a space their safety there. gray superstition's whisper dread debarred the spot to vulgar tread; for there, she said, did fays resort, and satyrs hold their sylvan court, by moonlight tread their mystic maze, and blast the rash beholder's gaze. xxvii. now eve, with western shadows long, floated on katrine bright and strong, when roderick with a chosen few repassed the heights of benvenue. above the goblin cave they go, through the wild pass of beal-nam-bo; the prompt retainers speed before, to launch the shallop from the shore, for 'cross loch katrine lies his way to view the passes of achray, and place his clansmen in array. yet lags the chief in musing mind, unwonted sight, his men behind. a single page, to bear his sword, alone attended on his lord; the rest their way through thickets break, and soon await him by the lake. it was a fair and gallant sight to view them from the neighboring height, by the low-levelled sunbeam's light! for strength and stature, from the clan each warrior was a chosen man, as even afar might well be seen, by their proud step and martial mien. their feathers dance, their tartars float, their targets gleam, as by the boat a wild and warlike group they stand, that well became such mountain-strand. xxvi their chief with step reluctant still was lingering on the craggy hill, hard by where turned apart the road to douglas's obscure abode. it was but with that dawning morn that roderick dhu had proudly sworn to drown his love in war's wild roar, nor think of ellen douglas more; but he who stems a stream with sand, and fetters flame with flaxen band, has yet a harder task to prove,-- by firm resolve to conquer love! eve finds the chief, like restless ghost, still hovering near his treasure lost; for though his haughty heart deny a parting meeting to his eye still fondly strains his anxious ear the accents of her voice to hear, and inly did he curse the breeze that waked to sound the rustling trees. but hark! what mingles in the strain? it is the harp of allan-bane, that wakes its measure slow and high, attuned to sacred minstrelsy. what melting voice attends the strings? 'tis ellen, or an angel, sings. xxix. hymn to the virgin. ave. maria! maiden mild! listen to a maiden's prayer! thou canst hear though from the wild, thou canst save amid despair. safe may we sleep beneath thy care, though banished, outcast, and reviled-- maiden! hear a maiden's prayer; mother, hear a suppliant child! ave maria! ave maria! undefiled! the flinty couch we now must share shall seem with down of eider piled, if thy protection hover there. the murky cavern's heavy air shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled; then, maiden! hear a maiden's prayer, mother, list a suppliant child! ave maria! ave. maria! stainless styled! foul demons of the earth and air, from this their wonted haunt exiled, shall flee before thy presence fair. we bow us to our lot of care, beneath thy guidance reconciled: hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, and for a father hear a child! ave maria! xxx. died on the harp the closing hymn,-- unmoved in attitude and limb, as listening still, clan-alpine's lord stood leaning on his heavy sword, until the page with humble sign twice pointed to the sun's decline. then while his plaid he round him cast, 'it is the last time--'tis the last,' he muttered thrice,--'the last time e'er that angel-voice shall roderick hear'' it was a goading thought,--his stride hied hastier down the mountain-side; sullen he flung him in the boat an instant 'cross the lake it shot. they landed in that silvery bay, and eastward held their hasty way till, with the latest beams of light, the band arrived on lanrick height' where mustered in the vale below clan-alpine's men in martial show. xxxi. a various scene the clansmen made: some sat, some stood, some slowly strayed: but most, with mantles folded round, were couched to rest upon the ground, scarce to be known by curious eye from the deep heather where they lie, so well was matched the tartan screen with heath-bell dark and brackens green; unless where, here and there, a blade or lance's point a glimmer made, like glow-worm twinkling through the shade. but when, advancing through the gloom, they saw the chieftain's eagle plume, their shout of welcome, shrill and wide, shook the steep mountain's steady side. thrice it arose, and lake and fell three times returned the martial yell; it died upon bochastle's plain, and silence claimed her evening reign. canto fourth. the prophecy. i. the rose is fairest when 't is budding new, and hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; the rose is sweetest washed with morning dew and love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. o wilding rose, whom fancy thus endears, i bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, emblem of hope and love through future years!' thus spoke young norman, heir of armandave, what time the sun arose on vennachar's broad wave. ii. such fond conceit, half said, half sung, love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue. all while he stripped the wild-rose spray, his axe and bow beside him lay, for on a pass 'twixt lake and wood a wakeful sentinel he stood. hark!--on the rock a footstep rung, and instant to his arms he sprung. 'stand, or thou diest!--what, malise?--soon art thou returned from braes of doune. by thy keen step and glance i know, thou bring'st us tidings of the foe.'-- for while the fiery cross tried on, on distant scout had malise gone.-- 'where sleeps the chief?' the henchman said. 'apart, in yonder misty glade; to his lone couch i'll be your guide.'-- then called a slumberer by his side, and stirred him with his slackened bow,-- 'up, up, glentarkin! rouse thee, ho! we seek the chieftain; on the track keep eagle watch till i come back.' iii. together up the pass they sped: 'what of the foeman?' norman said.-- 'varying reports from near and far; this certain,--that a band of war has for two days been ready boune, at prompt command to march from doune; king james the while, with princely powers, holds revelry in stirling towers. soon will this dark and gathering cloud speak on our glens in thunder loud. inured to bide such bitter bout, the warrior's plaid may bear it out; but, norman, how wilt thou provide a shelter for thy bonny bride?''-- 'what! know ye not that roderick's care to the lone isle hath caused repair each maid and matron of the clan, and every child and aged man unfit for arms; and given his charge, nor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge, upon these lakes shall float at large, but all beside the islet moor, that such dear pledge may rest secure?'-- iv. ''t is well advised,--the chieftain's plan bespeaks the father of his clan. but wherefore sleeps sir roderick dhu apart from all his followers true?' 'it is because last evening-tide brian an augury hath tried, of that dread kind which must not be unless in dread extremity, the taghairm called; by which, afar, our sires foresaw the events of war. duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew,'-- malise. 'ah! well the gallant brute i knew! the choicest of the prey we had when swept our merrymen gallangad. his hide was snow, his horns were dark, his red eye glowed like fiery spark; so fierce, so tameless, and so fleet, sore did he cumber our retreat, and kept our stoutest kerns in awe, even at the pass of beal 'maha. but steep and flinty was the road, and sharp the hurrying pikeman's goad, and when we came to dennan's row a child might scathless stroke his brow.' v. norman. 'that bull was slain; his reeking hide they stretched the cataract beside, whose waters their wild tumult toss adown the black and craggy boss of that huge cliff whose ample verge tradition calls the hero's targe. couched on a shelf beneath its brink, close where the thundering torrents sink, rocking beneath their headlong sway, and drizzled by the ceaseless spray, midst groan of rock and roar of stream, the wizard waits prophetic dream. nor distant rests the chief;--but hush! see, gliding slow through mist and bush, the hermit gains yon rock, and stands to gaze upon our slumbering bands. seems he not, malise, dike a ghost, that hovers o'er a slaughtered host? or raven on the blasted oak, that, watching while the deer is broke, his morsel claims with sullen croak?' malise. 'peace! peace! to other than to me thy words were evil augury; but still i hold sir roderick's blade clan-alpine's omen and her aid, not aught that, gleaned from heaven or hell, yon fiend-begotten monk can tell. the chieftain joins him, see--and now together they descend the brow.' vi. and, as they came, with alpine's lord the hermit monk held solemn word:--. 'roderick! it is a fearful strife, for man endowed with mortal life whose shroud of sentient clay can still feel feverish pang and fainting chill, whose eye can stare in stony trance whose hair can rouse like warrior's lance, 'tis hard for such to view, unfurled, the curtain of the future world. yet, witness every quaking limb, my sunken pulse, mine eyeballs dim, my soul with harrowing anguish torn, this for my chieftain have i borne!-- the shapes that sought my fearful couch a human tongue may ne'er avouch; no mortal man--save he, who, bred between the living and the dead, is gifted beyond nature's law had e'er survived to say he saw. at length the fateful answer came in characters of living flame! not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, but borne and branded on my soul:-- which spills the foremost foeman's life, that party conquers in the strife.' vii. 'thanks, brian, for thy zeal and care! good is thine augury, and fair. clan-alpine ne'er in battle stood but first our broadswords tasted blood. a surer victim still i know, self-offered to the auspicious blow: a spy has sought my land this morn,-- no eve shall witness his return! my followers guard each pass's mouth, to east, to westward, and to south; red murdoch, bribed to be his guide, has charge to lead his steps aside, till in deep path or dingle brown he light on those shall bring him clown. but see, who comes his news to show! malise! what tidings of the foe?' viii. 'at doune, o'er many a spear and glaive two barons proud their banners wave. i saw the moray's silver star, and marked the sable pale of mar.' 'by alpine's soul, high tidings those! i love to hear of worthy foes. when move they on?' 'to-morrow's noon will see them here for battle boune.' 'then shall it see a meeting stern! but, for the place,--say, couldst thou learn nought of the friendly clans of earn? strengthened by them, we well might bide the battle on benledi's side. thou couldst not?--well! clan-alpine's men shall man the trosachs' shaggy glen; within loch katrine's gorge we'll fight, all in our maids' and matrons' sight, each for his hearth and household fire, father for child, and son for sire lover for maid beloved!--but why is it the breeze affects mine eye? or dost thou come, ill-omened tear! a messenger of doubt or fear? no! sooner may the saxon lance unfix benledi from his stance, than doubt or terror can pierce through the unyielding heart of roderick dhu! 'tis stubborn as his trusty targe. each to his post!--all know their charge.' the pibroch sounds, the bands advance, the broadswords gleam, the banners dance' obedient to the chieftain's glance.-- i turn me from the martial roar and seek coir-uriskin once more. ix. where is the douglas?--he is gone; and ellen sits on the gray stone fast by the cave, and makes her moan, while vainly allan's words of cheer are poured on her unheeding ear. 'he will return--dear lady, trust!-- with joy return;--he will--he must. well was it time to seek afar some refuge from impending war, when e'en clan-alpine's rugged swarm are cowed by the approaching storm. i saw their boats with many a light, floating the livelong yesternight, shifting like flashes darted forth by the red streamers of the north; i marked at morn how close they ride, thick moored by the lone islet's side, like wild ducks couching in the fen when stoops the hawk upon the glen. since this rude race dare not abide the peril on the mainland side, shall not thy noble father's care some safe retreat for thee prepare?' x. ellen. 'no, allan, no' pretext so kind my wakeful terrors could not blind. when in such tender tone, yet grave, douglas a parting blessing gave, the tear that glistened in his eye drowned not his purpose fixed and high. my soul, though feminine and weak, can image his; e'en as the lake, itself disturbed by slightest stroke. reflects the invulnerable rock. he hears report of battle rife, he deems himself the cause of strife. i saw him redden when the theme turned, allan, on thine idle dream of malcolm graeme in fetters bound, which i, thou saidst, about him wound. think'st thou he bowed thine omen aught? o no' 't was apprehensive thought for the kind youth,--for roderick too-- let me be just--that friend so true; in danger both, and in our cause! minstrel, the douglas dare not pause. why else that solemn warning given, 'if not on earth, we meet in heaven!' why else, to cambus-kenneth's fane, if eve return him not again, am i to hie and make me known? alas! he goes to scotland's throne, buys his friends' safety with his own; he goes to do--what i had done, had douglas' daughter been his son!' xi. 'nay, lovely ellen!--dearest, nay! if aught should his return delay, he only named yon holy fane as fitting place to meet again. be sure he's safe; and for the graeme,-- heaven's blessing on his gallant name!-- my visioned sight may yet prove true, nor bode of ill to him or you. when did my gifted dream beguile? think of the stranger at the isle, and think upon the harpings slow that presaged this approaching woe! sooth was my prophecy of fear; believe it when it augurs cheer. would we had left this dismal spot! ill luck still haunts a fairy spot! of such a wondrous tale i know-- dear lady, change that look of woe, my harp was wont thy grief to cheer.' ellen. 'well, be it as thou wilt; i hear, but cannot stop the bursting tear.' the minstrel tried his simple art, rut distant far was ellen's heart. xii. ballad. alice brand. merry it is in the good greenwood, when the mavis and merle are singing, when the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, and the hunter's horn is ringing. 'o alice brand, my native land is lost for love of you; and we must hold by wood and word, as outlaws wont to do. 'o alice, 't was all for thy locks so bright, and 't was all for thine eyes so blue, that on the night of our luckless flight thy brother bold i slew. 'now must i teach to hew the beech the hand that held the glaive, for leaves to spread our lowly bed, and stakes to fence our cave. 'and for vest of pall, thy fingers small, that wont on harp to stray, a cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer, to keep the cold away.' 'o richard! if my brother died, 't was but a fatal chance; for darkling was the battle tried, and fortune sped the lance. 'if pall and vair no more i wear, nor thou the crimson sheen as warm, we'll say, is the russet gray, as gay the forest-green. 'and, richard, if our lot be hard, and lost thy native land, still alice has her own richard, and he his alice brand.' xiii. ballad continued. 'tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood; so blithe lady alice is singing; on the beech's pride, and oak's brown side, lord richard's axe is ringing. up spoke the moody elfin king, who woned within the hill,-- like wind in the porch of a ruined church, his voice was ghostly shrill. 'why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, our moonlight circle's screen? or who comes here to chase the deer, beloved of our elfin queen? or who may dare on wold to wear the fairies' fatal green? 'up, urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, for thou wert christened man; for cross or sign thou wilt not fly, for muttered word or ban. 'lay on him the curse of the withered heart, the curse of the sleepless eye; till he wish and pray that his life would part, nor yet find leave to die.' xiv. ballad continued. 'tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood, though the birds have stilled their singing; the evening blaze cloth alice raise, and richard is fagots bringing. up urgan starts, that hideous dwarf, before lord richard stands, and, as he crossed and blessed himself, 'i fear not sign,' quoth the grisly elf, 'that is made with bloody hands.' but out then spoke she, alice brand, that woman void of fear,-- 'and if there 's blood upon his hand, 'tis but the blood of deer.' 'now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! it cleaves unto his hand, the stain of thine own kindly blood, the blood of ethert brand.' then forward stepped she, alice brand, and made the holy sign,-- 'and if there's blood on richard's hand, a spotless hand is mine. 'and i conjure thee, demon elf, by him whom demons fear, to show us whence thou art thyself, and what thine errand here?' xv. ballad continued. "tis merry, 'tis merry, in fairy-land, when fairy birds are singing, when the court cloth ride by their monarch's side, with bit and bridle ringing: 'and gayly shines the fairy-land-- but all is glistening show, like the idle gleam that december's beam can dart on ice and snow. 'and fading, like that varied gleam, is our inconstant shape, who now like knight and lady seem, and now like dwarf and ape. 'it was between the night and day, when the fairy king has power, that i sunk down in a sinful fray, and 'twixt life and death was snatched away to the joyless elfin bower. 'but wist i of a woman bold, who thrice my brow durst sign, i might regain my mortal mould, as fair a form as thine.' she crossed him once--she crossed him twice-- that lady was so brave; the fouler grew his goblin hue, the darker grew the cave. she crossed him thrice, that lady bold; he rose beneath her hand the fairest knight on scottish mould, her brother, ethert brand! merry it is in good greenwood, when the mavis and merle are singing, but merrier were they in dunfermline gray, when all the bells were ringing. xvi. just as the minstrel sounds were stayed, a stranger climbed the steepy glade; his martial step, his stately mien, his hunting-suit of lincoln green, his eagle glance, remembrance claims-- 'tis snowdoun's knight, 'tis james fitz-james. ellen beheld as in a dream, then, starting, scarce suppressed a scream: 'o stranger! in such hour of fear what evil hap has brought thee here?' 'an evil hap how can it be that bids me look again on thee? by promise bound, my former guide met me betimes this morning-tide, and marshalled over bank and bourne the happy path of my return.' 'the happy path!--what! said he naught of war, of battle to be fought, of guarded pass?' 'no, by my faith! nor saw i aught could augur scathe.' 'o haste thee, allan, to the kern: yonder his tartars i discern; learn thou his purpose, and conjure that he will guide the stranger sure!-- what prompted thee, unhappy man? the meanest serf in roderick's clan had not been bribed, by love or fear, unknown to him to guide thee here.' xvii. 'sweet ellen, dear my life must be, since it is worthy care from thee; yet life i hold but idle breath when love or honor's weighed with death. then let me profit by my chance, and speak my purpose bold at once. i come to bear thee from a wild where ne'er before such blossom smiled, by this soft hand to lead thee far from frantic scenes of feud and war. near bochastle my horses wait; they bear us soon to stirling gate. i'll place thee in a lovely bower, i'll guard thee like a tender flower--' 'o hush, sir knight! 't were female art, to say i do not read thy heart; too much, before, my selfish ear was idly soothed my praise to hear. that fatal bait hath lured thee back, in deathful hour, o'er dangerous track; and how, o how, can i atone the wreck my vanity brought on!-- one way remains--i'll tell him all-- yes! struggling bosom, forth it shall! thou, whose light folly bears the blame, buy thine own pardon with thy shame! but first--my father is a man outlawed and exiled, under ban; the price of blood is on his head, with me 't were infamy to wed. still wouldst thou speak?--then hear the truth! fitz-james, there is a noble youth-- if yet he is!--exposed for me and mine to dread extremity-- thou hast the secret of my bears; forgive, be generous, and depart!' xviii. fitz-james knew every wily train a lady's fickle heart to gain, but here he knew and felt them vain. there shot no glance from ellen's eye, to give her steadfast speech the lie; in maiden confidence she stood, though mantled in her cheek the blood and told her love with such a sigh of deep and hopeless agony, as death had sealed her malcolm's doom and she sat sorrowing on his tomb. hope vanished from fitz-james's eye, but not with hope fled sympathy. he proffered to attend her side, as brother would a sister guide. 'o little know'st thou roderick's heart! safer for both we go apart. o haste thee, and from allan learn if thou mayst trust yon wily kern.' with hand upon his forehead laid, the conflict of his mind to shade, a parting step or two he made; then, as some thought had crossed his brain he paused, and turned, and came again. xix. 'hear, lady, yet a parting word!-- it chanced in fight that my poor sword preserved the life of scotland's lord. this ring the grateful monarch gave, and bade, when i had boon to crave, to bring it back, and boldly claim the recompense that i would name. ellen, i am no courtly lord, but one who lives by lance and sword, whose castle is his helm and shield, his lordship the embattled field. what from a prince can i demand, who neither reck of state nor land? ellen, thy hand--the ring is thine; each guard and usher knows the sign. seek thou the king without delay; this signet shall secure thy way: and claim thy suit, whate'er it be, as ransom of his pledge to me.' he placed the golden circlet on, paused--kissed her hand--and then was gone. the aged minstrel stood aghast, so hastily fitz-james shot past. he joined his guide, and wending down the ridges of the mountain brown, across the stream they took their way that joins loch katrine to achray. xx all in the trosachs' glen was still, noontide was sleeping on the hill: sudden his guide whooped loud and high-- 'murdoch! was that a signal cry?'-- he stammered forth, 'i shout to scare yon raven from his dainty fare.' he looked--he knew the raven's prey, his own brave steed: 'ah! gallant gray! for thee--for me, perchance--'t were well we ne'er had seen the trosachs' dell.-- murdoch, move first---but silently; whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die!' jealous and sullen on they fared, each silent, each upon his guard. xxi. now wound the path its dizzy ledge around a precipice's edge, when lo! a wasted female form, blighted by wrath of sun and storm, in tattered weeds and wild array, stood on a cliff beside the way, and glancing round her restless eye, upon the wood, the rock, the sky, seemed naught to mark, yet all to spy. her brow was wreathed with gaudy broom; with gesture wild she waved a plume of feathers, which the eagles fling to crag and cliff from dusky wing; such spoils her desperate step had sought, where scarce was footing for the goat. the tartan plaid she first descried, and shrieked till all the rocks replied; as loud she laughed when near they drew, for then the lowland garb she knew; and then her hands she wildly wrung, and then she wept, and then she sung-- she sung!--the voice, in better time, perchance to harp or lute might chime; and now, though strained and roughened, still rung wildly sweet to dale and hill. xxii. song. they bid me sleep, they bid me pray, they say my brain is warped and wrung-- i cannot sleep on highland brae, i cannot pray in highland tongue. but were i now where allan glides, or heard my native devan's tides, so sweetly would i rest, and pray that heaven would close my wintry day! 'twas thus my hair they bade me braid, they made me to the church repair; it was my bridal morn they said, and my true love would meet me there. but woe betide the cruel guile that drowned in blood the morning smile! and woe betide the fairy dream! i only waked to sob and scream. xxiii. 'who is this maid? what means her lay? she hovers o'er the hollow way, and flutters wide her mantle gray, as the lone heron spreads his wing, by twilight, o'er a haunted spring.' ''tis blanche of devan,' murdoch said, 'a crazed and captive lowland maid, ta'en on the morn she was a bride, when roderick forayed devan-side. the gay bridegroom resistance made, and felt our chief's unconquered blade. i marvel she is now at large, but oft she 'scapes from maudlin's charge.-- hence, brain-sick fool!'--he raised his bow:-- 'now, if thou strik'st her but one blow, i'll pitch thee from the cliff as far as ever peasant pitched a bar!' 'thanks, champion, thanks' the maniac cried, and pressed her to fitz-james's side. 'see the gray pennons i prepare, to seek my true love through the air! i will not lend that savage groom, to break his fall, one downy plume! no!--deep amid disjointed stones, the wolves shall batten on his bones, and then shall his detested plaid, by bush and brier in mid-air stayed, wave forth a banner fail and free, meet signal for their revelry.' xxiv 'hush thee, poor maiden, and be still!' 'o! thou look'st kindly, and i will. mine eye has dried and wasted been, but still it loves the lincoln green; and, though mine ear is all unstrung, still, still it loves the lowland tongue. 'for o my sweet william was forester true, he stole poor blanche's heart away! his coat it was all of the greenwood hue, and so blithely he trilled the lowland lay! 'it was not that i meant to tell... but thou art wise and guessest well.' then, in a low and broken tone, and hurried note, the song went on. still on the clansman fearfully she fixed her apprehensive eye, then turned it on the knight, and then her look glanced wildly o'er the glen. xxv. 'the toils are pitched, and the stakes are set,-- ever sing merrily, merrily; the bows they bend, and the knives they whet, hunters live so cheerily. it was a stag, a stag of ten, bearing its branches sturdily; he came stately down the glen,-- ever sing hardily, hardily. 'it was there he met with a wounded doe, she was bleeding deathfully; she warned him of the toils below, o. so faithfully, faithfully! 'he had an eye, and he could heed,-- ever sing warily, warily; he had a foot, and he could speed,-- hunters watch so narrowly.' xxvi. fitz-james's mind was passion-tossed, when ellen's hints and fears were lost; but murdoch's shout suspicion wrought, and blanche's song conviction brought. not like a stag that spies the snare, but lion of the hunt aware, he waved at once his blade on high, 'disclose thy treachery, or die!' forth at hell speed the clansman flew, but in his race his bow he drew. the shaft just grazed fitz-james's crest, and thrilled in blanche's faded breast.-- murdoch of alpine! prove thy speed, for ne'er had alpine's son such need; with heart of fire, and foot of wind, the fierce avenger is behind! fate judges of the rapid strife-- the forfeit death--the prize is life; thy kindred ambush lies before, close couched upon the heathery moor; them couldst thou reach!--it may not be thine ambushed kin thou ne'er shalt see, the fiery saxon gains on thee!-- resistless speeds the deadly thrust, as lightning strikes the pine to dust; with foot and hand fitz-james must strain ere he can win his blade again. bent o'er the fallen with falcon eye, he grimly smiled to see him die, then slower wended back his way, where the poor maiden bleeding lay. xxvii. she sat beneath the birchen tree, her elbow resting on her knee; she had withdrawn the fatal shaft, and gazed on it, and feebly laughed; her wreath of broom and feathers gray, daggled with blood, beside her lay. the knight to stanch the life-stream tried,-- 'stranger, it is in vain!' she cried. 'this hour of death has given me more of reason's power than years before; for, as these ebbing veins decay, my frenzied visions fade away. a helpless injured wretch i die, and something tells me in thine eye that thou wert mine avenger born. seest thou this tress?--o. still i 've worn this little tress of yellow hair, through danger, frenzy, and despair! it once was bright and clear as thine, but blood and tears have dimmed its shine. i will not tell thee when 't was shred, nor from what guiltless victim's head,-- my brain would turn!--but it shall wave like plumage on thy helmet brave, till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, and thou wilt bring it me again. i waver still.--o god! more bright let reason beam her parting light!-- o. by thy knighthood's honored sign, and for thy life preserved by mine, when thou shalt see a darksome man, who boasts him chief of alpine's clan, with tartars broad and shadowy plume, and hand of blood, and brow of gloom be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, and wreak poor blanche of devan's wrong!-- they watch for thee by pass and fell... avoid the path... o god!... farewell.' xxviii. a kindly heart had brave fitz-james; fast poured his eyes at pity's claims; and now, with mingled grief and ire, he saw the murdered maid expire. 'god, in my need, be my relief, as i wreak this on yonder chief!' a lock from blanche's tresses fair he blended with her bridegroom's hair; the mingled braid in blood he dyed, and placed it on his bonnet-side: 'by him whose word is truth, i swear, no other favour will i wear, till this sad token i imbrue in the best blood of roderick dhu!-- but hark! what means yon faint halloo? the chase is up,--but they shall know, the stag at bay 's a dangerous foe.' barred from the known but guarded way, through copse and cliffs fitz-james must stray, and oft must change his desperate track, by stream and precipice turned back. heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length, from lack of food and loss of strength he couched him in a thicket hoar and thought his toils and perils o'er:-- 'of all my rash adventures past, this frantic feat must prove the last! who e'er so mad but might have guessed that all this highland hornet's nest would muster up in swarms so soon as e'er they heard of bands at doune?-- like bloodhounds now they search me out,-- hark, to the whistle and the shout!-- if farther through the wilds i go, i only fall upon the foe: i'll couch me here till evening gray, then darkling try my dangerous way.' xxix. the shades of eve come slowly down, the woods are wrapt in deeper brown, the owl awakens from her dell, the fox is heard upon the fell; enough remains of glimmering light to guide the wanderer's steps aright, yet not enough from far to show his figure to the watchful foe. with cautious step and ear awake, he climbs the crag and threads the brake; and not the summer solstice there tempered the midnight mountain air, but every breeze that swept the wold benumbed his drenched limbs with cold. in dread, in danger, and alone, famished and chilled, through ways unknown, tangled and steep, he journeyed on; till, as a rock's huge point he turned, a watch-fire close before him burned. xxx. beside its embers red and clear basked in his plaid a mountaineer; and up he sprung with sword in hand,-- 'thy name and purpose! saxon, stand!' 'a stranger.' 'what dost thou require?' 'rest and a guide, and food and fire my life's beset, my path is lost, the gale has chilled my limbs with frost.' 'art thou a friend to roderick?' 'no.' 'thou dar'st not call thyself a foe?' 'i dare! to him and all the band he brings to aid his murderous hand.' 'bold words!--but, though the beast of game the privilege of chase may claim, though space and law the stag we lend ere hound we slip or bow we bend who ever recked, where, how, or when, the prowling fox was trapped or slain? thus treacherous scouts,--yet sure they lie who say thou cam'st a secret spy!'-- 'they do, by heaven!--come roderick dhu and of his clan the boldest two and let me but till morning rest, i write the falsehood on their crest.' if by the blaze i mark aright thou bear'st the belt and spur of knight.' 'then by these tokens mayst thou know each proud oppressor's mortal foe.' 'enough, enough; sit down and share a soldier's couch, a soldier's fare.' xxxi.. he gave him of his highland cheer, the hardened flesh of mountain deer; dry fuel on the fire he laid, and bade the saxon share his plaid. he tended him like welcome guest, then thus his further speech addressed:-- 'stranger, i am to roderick dhu a clansman born, a kinsman true; each word against his honour spoke demands of me avenging stroke; yet more,--upon thy fate, 'tis said, a mighty augury is laid. it rests with me to wind my horn,-- thou art with numbers overborne; it rests with me, here, brand to brand, worn as thou art, to bid thee stand: but, not for clan, nor kindred's cause, will i depart from honour's laws; to assail a wearied man were shame, and stranger is a holy name; guidance and rest, and food and fire, in vain he never must require. then rest thee here till dawn of day; myself will guide thee on the way, o'er stock and stone, through watch and ward, till past clan-alpine's outmost guard, as far as coilantogle's ford; from thence thy warrant is thy sword.' 'i take thy courtesy, by heaven, as freely as 'tis nobly given!' well, rest thee; for the bittern's cry sings us the lake's wild lullaby.' with that he shook the gathered heath, and spread his plaid upon the wreath; and the brave foemen, side by side, lay peaceful down like brothers tried, and slept until the dawning beam purpled the mountain and the stream. canto fifth. the combat. i. fair as the earliest beam of eastern light, when first, by the bewildered pilgrim spied, it smiles upon the dreary brow of night and silvers o'er the torrent's foaming tide and lights the fearful path on mountain-side,-- fair as that beam, although the fairest far, giving to horror grace, to danger pride, shine martial faith, and courtesy's bright star through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of war. ii. that early beam, so fair and sheen, was twinkling through the hazel screen when, rousing at its glimmer red, the warriors left their lowly bed, looked out upon the dappled sky, muttered their soldier matins try, and then awaked their fire, to steal, as short and rude, their soldier meal. that o'er, the gael around him threw his graceful plaid of varied hue, and, true to promise, led the way, by thicket green and mountain gray. a wildering path!--they winded now along the precipice's brow, commanding the rich scenes beneath, the windings of the forth and teith, and all the vales between that lie. till stirling's turrets melt in sky; then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance gained not the length of horseman's lance. 'twas oft so steep, the foot was as fain assistance from the hand to gain; so tangled oft that, bursting through, each hawthorn shed her showers of dew,-- that diamond dew, so pure and clear, it rivals all but beauty's tear! iii. at length they came where, stern and steep, the hill sinks down upon the deep. here vennachar in silver flows, there, ridge on ridge, benledi rose; ever the hollow path twined on, beneath steep hank and threatening stone; a hundred men might hold the post with hardihood against a host. the rugged mountain's scanty cloak was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak with shingles bare, and cliffs between and patches bright of bracken green, and heather black, that waved so high, it held the copse in rivalry. but where the lake slept deep and still dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill; and oft both path and hill were torn where wintry torrent down had borne and heaped upon the cumbered land its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand. so toilsome was the road to trace the guide, abating of his pace, led slowly through the pass's jaws and asked fitz-james by what strange cause he sought these wilds, traversed by few without a pass from roderick dhu. iv. 'brave gael, my pass, in danger tried hangs in my belt and by my side yet, sooth to tell,' the saxon said, 'i dreamt not now to claim its aid. when here, but three days since, i came bewildered in pursuit of game, all seemed as peaceful and as still as the mist slumbering on yon hill; thy dangerous chief was then afar, nor soon expected back from war. thus said, at least, my mountain-guide, though deep perchance the villain lied.' 'yet why a second venture try?' 'a warrior thou, and ask me why!-- moves our free course by such fixed cause as gives the poor mechanic laws? enough, i sought to drive away the lazy hours of peaceful day; slight cause will then suffice to guide a knight's free footsteps far and wide,-- a falcon flown, a greyhound strayed, the merry glance of mountain maid; or, if a path be dangerous known, the danger's self is lure alone.' v. 'thy secret keep, i urge thee not;-- yet, ere again ye sought this spot, say, heard ye naught of lowland war, against clan-alpine, raised by mar?' 'no, by my word;--of bands prepared to guard king james's sports i heard; nor doubt i aught, but, when they hear this muster of the mountaineer, their pennons will abroad be flung, which else in doune had peaceful hung.' 'free be they flung! for we were loath their silken folds should feast the moth. free be they flung!--as free shall wave clan-alpine's pine in banner brave. but, stranger, peaceful since you came, bewildered in the mountain-game, whence the bold boast by which you show vich-alpine's vowed and mortal foe?' 'warrior, but yester-morn i knew naught of thy chieftain, roderick dhu, save as an outlawed desperate man, the chief of a rebellious clan, who, in the regent's court and sight, with ruffian dagger stabbed a knight; yet this alone might from his part sever each true and loyal heart.' vi. wrathful at such arraignment foul, dark lowered the clansman's sable scowl. a space he paused, then sternly said, 'and heardst thou why he drew his blade? heardst thou that shameful word and blow brought roderick's vengeance on his foe? what recked the chieftain if he stood on highland heath or holy-rood? he rights such wrong where it is given, if it were in the court of heaven.' 'still was it outrage;--yet, 'tis true, not then claimed sovereignty his due; while albany with feeble hand held borrowed truncheon of command, the young king, mewed in stirling tower, was stranger to respect and power. but then, thy chieftain's robber life!-- winning mean prey by causeless strife, wrenching from ruined lowland swain his herds and harvest reared in vain,-- methinks a soul like thine should scorn the spoils from such foul foray borne.' vii. the gael beheld him grim the while, and answered with disdainful smile: 'saxon, from yonder mountain high, i marked thee send delighted eye far to the south and east, where lay, extended in succession gay, deep waving fields and pastures green, with gentle slopes and groves between:-- these fertile plains, that softened vale, were once the birthright of the gael; the stranger came with iron hand, and from our fathers reft the land. where dwell we now? see, rudely swell crag over crag, and fell o'er fell. ask we this savage hill we tread for fattened steer or household bread, ask we for flocks these shingles dry, and well the mountain might reply,-- "to you, as to your sires of yore, belong the target and claymore! i give you shelter in my breast, your own good blades must win the rest." pent in this fortress of the north, think'st thou we will not sally forth, to spoil the spoiler as we may, and from the robber rend the prey? ay, by my soul!--while on yon plain the saxon rears one shock of grain, while of ten thousand herds there strays but one along yon river's maze,-- the gael, of plain and river heir, shall with strong hand redeem his share. where live the mountain chiefs who hold that plundering lowland field and fold is aught but retribution true? seek other cause 'gainst roderick dhu.' viii. answered fitz-james: 'and, if i sought, think'st thou no other could be brought? what deem ye of my path waylaid? my life given o'er to ambuscade?' 'as of a meed to rashness due: hadst thou sent warning fair and true,-- i seek my hound or falcon strayed, i seek, good faith, a highland maid,-- free hadst thou been to come and go; but secret path marks secret foe. nor yet for this, even as a spy, hadst thou, unheard, been doomed to die, save to fulfil an augury.' 'well, let it pass; nor will i now fresh cause of enmity avow to chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. enough, i am by promise tied to match me with this man of pride: twice have i sought clan-alpine's glen in peace; but when i come again, i come with banner, brand, and bow, as leader seeks his mortal foe. for love-lore swain in lady's bower ne'er panted for the appointed hour as i, until before me stand this rebel chieftain and his band!' ix. 'have then thy wish!'--he whistled shrill and he was answered from the hill; wild as the scream of the curlew, from crag to crag the signal flew. instant, through copse and heath, arose bonnets and spears and bended bows on right, on left, above, below, sprung up at once the lurking foe; from shingles gray their lances start, the bracken bush sends forth the dart, the rushes and the willow-wand are bristling into axe and brand, and every tuft of broom gives life 'to plaided warrior armed for strife. that whistle garrisoned the glen at once with full five hundred men, as if the yawning hill to heaven a subterranean host had given. watching their leader's beck and will, all silent there they stood and still. like the loose crags whose threatening mass lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, as if an infant's touch could urge their headlong passage down the verge, with step and weapon forward flung, upon the mountain-side they hung. the mountaineer cast glance of pride along benledi's living side, then fixed his eye and sable brow full on fitz-james: 'how say'st thou now? these are clan-alpine's warriors true; and, saxon,--i am roderick dhu!' x. fitz-james was brave:--though to his heart the life-blood thrilled with sudden start, he manned himself with dauntless air, returned the chief his haughty stare, his back against a rock he bore, and firmly placed his foot before:-- 'come one, come all! this rock shall fly from its firm base as soon as i.' sir roderick marked,--and in his eyes respect was mingled with surprise, and the stern joy which warriors feel in foeman worthy of their steel. short space he stood--then waved his hand: down sunk the disappearing band; each warrior vanished where he stood, in broom or bracken, heath or wood; sunk brand and spear and bended bow, in osiers pale and copses low; it seemed as if their mother earth had swallowed up her warlike birth. the wind's last breath had tossed in air pennon and plaid and plumage fair,-- the next but swept a lone hill-side where heath and fern were waving wide: the sun's last glance was glinted back from spear and glaive, from targe and jack,-- the next, all unreflected, shone on bracken green and cold gray stone. xi. fitz-james looked round,--yet scarce believed the witness that his sight received; such apparition well might seem delusion of a dreadful dream. sir roderick in suspense he eyed, and to his look the chief replied: 'fear naught--nay, that i need not say but--doubt not aught from mine array. thou art my guest;--i pledged my word as far as coilantogle ford: nor would i call a clansman's brand for aid against one valiant hand, though on our strife lay every vale rent by the saxon from the gael. so move we on;--i only meant to show the reed on which you leant, deeming this path you might pursue without a pass from roderick dhu.' they moved;--i said fitz-james was brave as ever knight that belted glaive, yet dare not say that now his blood kept on its wont and tempered flood, as, following roderick's stride, he drew that seeming lonesome pathway through, which yet by fearful proof was rife with lances, that, to take his life, waited but signal from a guide, so late dishonored and defied. ever, by stealth, his eye sought round the vanished guardians of the ground, and stir'd from copse and heather deep fancy saw spear and broadsword peep, and in the plover's shrilly strain the signal whistle heard again. nor breathed he free till far behind the pass was left; for then they wind along a wide and level green, where neither tree nor tuft was seen, nor rush nor bush of broom was near, to hide a bonnet or a spear. xii. the chief in silence strode before, and reached that torrent's sounding shore, which, daughter of three mighty lakes, from vennachar in silver breaks, sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines on bochastle the mouldering lines, where rome, the empress of the world, of yore her eagle wings unfurled. and here his course the chieftain stayed, threw down his target and his plaid, and to the lowland warrior said: 'bold saxon! to his promise just, vich-alpine has discharged his trust. this murderous chief, this ruthless man, this head of a rebellious clan, hath led thee safe, through watch and ward, far past clan-alpine's outmost guard. now, man to man, and steel to steel, a chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. see, here all vantageless i stand, armed like thyself with single brand; for this is coilantogle ford, and thou must keep thee with thy sword.' xiii. the saxon paused: 'i ne'er delayed, when foeman bade me draw my blade; nay more, brave chief, i vowed thy death; yet sure thy fair and generous faith, and my deep debt for life preserved, a better meed have well deserved: can naught but blood our feud atone? are there no means?'--' no, stranger, none! and hear,--to fire thy flagging zeal,-- the saxon cause rests on thy steel; for thus spoke fate by prophet bred between the living and the dead:" who spills the foremost foeman's life, his party conquers in the strife."' 'then, by my word,' the saxon said, "the riddle is already read. seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,-- there lies red murdoch, stark and stiff. thus fate hath solved her prophecy; then yield to fate, and not to me. to james at stirling let us go, when, if thou wilt be still his foe, or if the king shall not agree to grant thee grace and favor free, i plight mine honor, oath, and word that, to thy native strengths restored, with each advantage shalt thou stand that aids thee now to guard thy land.' xiv. dark lightning flashed from roderick's eye: 'soars thy presumption, then, so high, because a wretched kern ye slew, homage to name to roderick dhu? he yields not, he, to man nor fate! thou add'st but fuel to my hate;-- my clansman's blood demands revenge. not yet prepared?--by heaven, i change my thought, and hold thy valor light as that of some vain carpet knight, who ill deserved my courteous care, and whose best boast is but to wear a braid of his fair lady's hair.' 'i thank thee, roderick, for the word! it nerves my heart, it steels my sword; for i have sworn this braid to stain in the best blood that warms thy vein. now, truce, farewell! and, rush, begone!-- yet think not that by thee alone, proud chief! can courtesy be shown; though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, start at my whistle clansmen stern, of this small horn one feeble blast would fearful odds against thee cast. but fear not--doubt not--which thou wilt-- we try this quarrel hilt to hilt.' then each at once his falchion drew, each on the ground his scabbard threw each looked to sun and stream and plain as what they ne'er might see again; then foot and point and eye opposed, in dubious strife they darkly closed. xv. ill fared it then with roderick dhu, that on the field his targe he threw, whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide had death so often dashed aside; for, trained abroad his arms to wield fitz-james's blade was sword and shield. he practised every pass and ward, to thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; while less expert, though stronger far, the gael maintained unequal war. three times in closing strife they stood and thrice the saxon blade drank blood; no stinted draught, no scanty tide, the gushing flood the tartars dyed. fierce roderick felt the fatal drain, and showered his blows like wintry rain; and, as firm rock or castle-roof against the winter shower is proof, the foe, invulnerable still, foiled his wild rage by steady skill; till, at advantage ta'en, his brand forced roderick's weapon from his hand, and backward borne upon the lea, brought the proud chieftain to his knee. xvi. now yield thee, or by him who made the world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!; 'thy threats, thy mercy, i defy! let recreant yield, who fears to die.' like adder darting from his coil, like wolf that dashes through the toil, like mountain-cat who guards her young, full at fitz-james's throat he sprung; received, but recked not of a wound, and locked his arms his foeman round. now, gallant saxon, hold thine own! no maiden's hand is round thee thrown! that desperate grasp thy frame might feel through bars of brass and triple steel! they tug, they strain! down, down they go, the gael above, fitz-james below. the chieftain's gripe his throat compressed, his knee was planted on his breast; his clotted locks he backward threw, across his brow his hand he drew, from blood and mist to clear his sight, then gleamed aloft his dagger bright! but hate and fury ill supplied the stream of life's exhausted tide, and all too late the advantage came, to turn the odds of deadly game; for, while the dagger gleamed on high, reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. down came the blow! but in the heath the erring blade found bloodless sheath. the struggling foe may now unclasp the fainting chief's relaxing grasp; unwounded from the dreadful close, but breathless all, fitz-james arose. xvii. he faltered thanks to heaven for life, redeemed, unhoped, from desperate strife; next on his foe his look he cast, whose every gasp appeared his last in roderick's gore he dipped the braid,-- 'poor blanche! thy wrongs are dearly paid; yet with thy foe must die, or live, the praise that faith and valor give.' with that he blew a bugle note, undid the collar from his throat, unbonneted, and by the wave sat down his brow and hands to rave. then faint afar are heard the feet of rushing steeds in gallop fleet; the sounds increase, and now are seen four mounted squires in lincoln green; two who bear lance, and two who lead by loosened rein a saddled steed; each onward held his headlong course, and by fitz-james reined up his horse,-- with wonder viewed the bloody spot,-- 'exclaim not, gallants' question not.-- you, herbert and luffness, alight and bind the wounds of yonder knight; let the gray palfrey bear his weight, we destined for a fairer freight, and bring him on to stirling straight; i will before at better speed, to seek fresh horse and fitting weed. the sun rides high;--i must be boune to see the archer-game at noon; but lightly bayard clears the lea.-- de vaux and herries, follow me. xviii. 'stand, bayard, stand!'--the steed obeyed, with arching neck and bended head, and glancing eye and quivering ear, as if he loved his lord to hear. no foot fitz-james in stirrup stayed, no grasp upon the saddle laid, but wreathed his left hand in the mane, and lightly bounded from the plain, turned on the horse his armed heel, and stirred his courage with the steel. bounded the fiery steed in air, the rider sat erect and fair, then like a bolt from steel crossbow forth launched, along the plain they go. they dashed that rapid torrent through, and up carhonie's hill they flew; still at the gallop pricked the knight, his merrymen followed as they might. along thy banks, swift teith! they ride, and in the race they mock thy tide; torry and lendrick now are past, and deanstown lies behind them cast; they rise, the bannered towers of doune, they sink in distant woodland soon; blair-drummond sees the hoofs strike fire, they sweep like breeze through ochtertyre; they mark just glance and disappear the lofty brow of ancient kier; they bathe their coursers' sweltering sides dark forth! amid thy sluggish tides, and on the opposing shore take ground with plash, with scramble, and with bound. right-hand they leave thy cliffs, craig-forth! and soon the bulwark of the north, gray stirling, with her towers and town, upon their fleet career looked clown. xix. as up the flinty path they strained, sudden his steed the leader reined; a signal to his squire he flung, who instant to his stirrup sprung:-- 'seest thou, de vaux, yon woodsman gray, who townward holds the rocky way, of stature tall and poor array? mark'st thou the firm, yet active stride, with which he scales the mountain-side? know'st thou from whence he comes, or whom?' 'no, by my word;--a burly groom he seems, who in the field or chase a baron's train would nobly grace--' 'out, out, de vaux! can fear supply, and jealousy, no sharper eye? afar, ere to the hill he drew, that stately form and step i knew; like form in scotland is not seen, treads not such step on scottish green. 'tis james of douglas, by saint serle! the uncle of the banished earl. away, away, to court, to show the near approach of dreaded foe: the king must stand upon his guard; douglas and he must meet prepared.' then right-hand wheeled their steeds, and straight they won the castle's postern gate. xx. the douglas, who had bent his way from cambus-kenneth's abbey gray, now, as he climbed the rocky shelf, held sad communion with himself:-- 'yes! all is true my fears could frame; a prisoner lies the noble graeme, and fiery roderick soon will feel the vengeance of the royal steel. i, only i, can ward their fate,-- god grant the ransom come not late! the abbess hath her promise given, my child shall be the bride of heaven;-- be pardoned one repining tear! for he who gave her knows how dear, how excellent!--but that is by, and now my business is--to die.-- ye towers! within whose circuit dread a douglas by his sovereign bled; and thou, o sad and fatal mound! that oft hast heard the death-axe sound. as on the noblest of the land fell the stern headsmen's bloody hand,-- the dungeon, block, and nameless tomb prepare--for douglas seeks his doom! but hark! what blithe and jolly peal makes the franciscan steeple reel? and see! upon the crowded street, in motley groups what masquers meet! banner and pageant, pipe and drum, and merry morrice-dancers come. i guess, by all this quaint array, the burghers hold their sports to-day. james will be there; he loves such show, where the good yeoman bends his bow, and the tough wrestler foils his foe, as well as where, in proud career, the high-born filter shivers spear. i'll follow to the castle-park, and play my prize;--king james shall mark if age has tamed these sinews stark, whose force so oft in happier days his boyish wonder loved to praise.' xxi. the castle gates were open flung, the quivering drawbridge rocked and rung, and echoed loud the flinty street beneath the coursers' clattering feet, as slowly down the steep descent fair scotland's king and nobles went, while all along the crowded way was jubilee and loud huzza. and ever james was bending low to his white jennet's saddle-bow, doffing his cap to city dame, who smiled and blushed for pride and shame. and well the simperer might be vain,-- he chose the fairest of the train. gravely he greets each city sire, commends each pageant's quaint attire, gives to the dancers thanks aloud, and smiles and nods upon the crowd, who rend the heavens with their acclaims,-- 'long live the commons' king, king james!' behind the king thronged peer and knight, and noble dame and damsel bright, whose fiery steeds ill brooked the stay of the steep street and crowded way. but in the train you might discern dark lowering brow and visage stern; there nobles mourned their pride restrained, and the mean burgher's joys disdained; and chiefs, who, hostage for their clan, were each from home a banished man, there thought upon their own gray tower, their waving woods, their feudal power, and deemed themselves a shameful part of pageant which they cursed in heart. xxii. now, in the castle-park, drew out their checkered bands the joyous rout. there morricers, with bell at heel and blade in hand, their mazes wheel; but chief, beside the butts, there stand bold robin hood and all his band,-- friar tuck with quarterstaff and cowl, old scathelocke with his surly scowl, maid marian, fair as ivory bone, scarlet, and mutch, and little john; their bugles challenge all that will, in archery to prove their skill. the douglas bent a bow of might,-- his first shaft centred in the white, and when in turn he shot again, his second split the first in twain. from the king's hand must douglas take a silver dart, the archers' stake; fondly he watched, with watery eye, some answering glance of sympathy,-- no kind emotion made reply! indifferent as to archer wight, the monarch gave the arrow bright. xxiii. now, clear the ring! for, hand to hand, the manly wrestlers take their stand. two o'er the rest superior rose, and proud demanded mightier foes,-- nor called in vain, for douglas came.-- for life is hugh of larbert lame; scarce better john of alloa's fare, whom senseless home his comrades bare. prize of the wrestling match, the king to douglas gave a golden ring, while coldly glanced his eye of blue, as frozen drop of wintry dew. douglas would speak, but in his breast his struggling soul his words suppressed; indignant then he turned him where their arms the brawny yeomen bare, to hurl the massive bar in air. when each his utmost strength had shown, the douglas rent an earth-fast stone from its deep bed, then heaved it high, and sent the fragment through the sky a rood beyond the farthest mark; and still in stirling's royal park, the gray-haired sires, who know the past, to strangers point the douglas cast, and moralize on the decay of scottish strength in modern day. xxiv. the vale with loud applauses rang, the ladies' rock sent back the clang. the king, with look unmoved, bestowed a purse well filled with pieces broad. indignant smiled the douglas proud, and threw the gold among the crowd, who now with anxious wonder scan, and sharper glance, the dark gray man; till whispers rose among the throng, that heart so free, and hand so strong, must to the douglas blood belong. the old men marked and shook the head, to see his hair with silver spread, and winked aside, and told each son of feats upon the english done, ere douglas of the stalwart hand was exiled from his native land. the women praised his stately form, though wrecked by many a winter's storm; the youth with awe and wonder saw his strength surpassing nature's law. thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd till murmurs rose to clamours loud. but not a glance from that proud ring of peers who circled round the king with douglas held communion kind, or called the banished man to mind; no, not from those who at the chase once held his side the honoured place, begirt his board, and in the field found safety underneath his shield; for he whom royal eyes disown, when was his form to courtiers known! xxv. the monarch saw the gambols flag and bade let loose a gallant stag, whose pride, the holiday to crown, two favorite greyhounds should pull down, that venison free and bourdeaux wine might serve the archery to dine. but lufra,--whom from douglas' side nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide, the fleetest hound in all the north,-- brave lufra saw, and darted forth. she left the royal hounds midway, and dashing on the antlered prey, sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank, and deep the flowing life-blood drank. the king's stout huntsman saw the sport by strange intruder broken short, came up, and with his leash unbound in anger struck the noble hound. the douglas had endured, that morn, the king's cold look, the nobles' scorn, and last, and worst to spirit proud, had borne the pity of the crowd; but lufra had been fondly bred, to share his board, to watch his bed, and oft would ellen lufra's neck in maiden glee with garlands deck; they were such playmates that with name of lufra ellen's image came. his stifled wrath is brimming high, in darkened brow and flashing eye; as waves before the bark divide, the crowd gave way before his stride; needs but a buffet and no more, the groom lies senseless in his gore. such blow no other hand could deal, though gauntleted in glove of steel. xxvi. then clamored loud the royal train, and brandished swords and staves amain, but stern the baron's warning: 'back! back, on your lives, ye menial pack! beware the douglas.--yes! behold, king james! the douglas, doomed of old, and vainly sought for near and far, a victim to atone the war, a willing victim, now attends, nor craves thy grace but for his friends.--' 'thus is my clemency repaid? presumptuous lord!' the monarch said: 'of thy misproud ambitious clan, thou, james of bothwell, wert the man, the only man, in whom a foe my woman-mercy would not know; but shall a monarch's presence brook injurious blow and haughty look?-- what ho! the captain of our guard! give the offender fitting ward.-- break off the sports!'--for tumult rose, and yeomen 'gan to bend their bows, 'break off the sports!' he said and frowned, 'and bid our horsemen clear the ground.' xxvii. then uproar wild and misarray marred the fair form of festal day. the horsemen pricked among the crowd, repelled by threats and insult loud; to earth are borne the old and weak, the timorous fly, the women shriek; with flint, with shaft, with staff, with bar, the hardier urge tumultuous war. at once round douglas darkly sweep the royal spears in circle deep, and slowly scale the pathway steep, while on the rear in thunder pour the rabble with disordered roar with grief the noble douglas saw the commons rise against the law, and to the leading soldier said: 'sir john of hyndford, 'twas my blade that knighthood on thy shoulder laid; for that good deed permit me then a word with these misguided men.-- xxviii, 'hear, gentle friends, ere yet for me ye break the bands of fealty. my life, my honour, and my cause, i tender free to scotland's laws. are these so weak as must require 'fine aid of your misguided ire? or if i suffer causeless wrong, is then my selfish rage so strong, my sense of public weal so low, that, for mean vengeance on a foe, those cords of love i should unbind which knit my country and my kind? o no! believe, in yonder tower it will not soothe my captive hour, to know those spears our foes should dread for me in kindred gore are red: 'to know, in fruitless brawl begun, for me that mother wails her son, for me that widow's mate expires, for me that orphans weep their sires, that patriots mourn insulted laws, and curse the douglas for the cause. o let your patience ward such ill, and keep your right to love me still!' xxix. the crowd's wild fury sunk again in tears, as tempests melt in rain. with lifted hands and eyes, they prayed for blessings on his generous head who for his country felt alone, and prized her blood beyond his own. old men upon the verge of life blessed him who stayed the civil strife; and mothers held their babes on high, the self-devoted chief to spy, triumphant over wrongs and ire, to whom the prattlers owed a sire. even the rough soldier's heart was moved; as if behind some bier beloved, with trailing arms and drooping head, the douglas up the hill he led, and at the castle's battled verge, with sighs resigned his honoured charge. xxx. the offended monarch rode apart, with bitter thought and swelling heart, and would not now vouchsafe again through stirling streets to lead his train. 'o lennox, who would wish to rule this changeling crowd, this common fool? hear'st thou,' he said, 'the loud acclaim with which they shout the douglas name? with like acclaim the vulgar throat strained for king james their morning note; with like acclaim they hailed the day when first i broke the douglas sway; and like acclaim would douglas greet if he could hurl me from my seat. who o'er the herd would wish to reign, fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain? vain as the leaf upon the stream, and fickle as a changeful dream; fantastic as a woman's mood, and fierce as frenzy's fevered blood. thou many-headed monster-thing, o who would wish to be thy king?-- xxxi.. 'but soft! what messenger of speed spurs hitherward his panting steed? i guess his cognizance afar-- what from our cousin, john of mar?' 'he prays, my liege, your sports keep bound within the safe and guarded ground; for some foul purpose yet unknown,-- most sure for evil to the throne,-- the outlawed chieftain, roderick dhu, has summoned his rebellious crew; 'tis said, in james of bothwell's aid these loose banditti stand arrayed. the earl of mar this morn from doune to break their muster marched, and soon your grace will hear of battle fought; but earnestly the earl besought, till for such danger he provide, with scanty train you will not ride.' xxxii. 'thou warn'st me i have done amiss,-- i should have earlier looked to this; i lost it in this bustling day.-- retrace with speed thy former way; spare not for spoiling of thy steed, the best of mine shall be thy meed. say to our faithful lord of mar, we do forbid the intended war; roderick this morn in single fight was made our prisoner by a knight, and douglas hath himself and cause submitted to our kingdom's laws. the tidings of their leaders lost will soon dissolve the mountain host, nor would we that the vulgar feel, for their chief's crimes, avenging steel. bear mar our message, braco, fly!' he turned his steed,--'my liege, i hie, yet ere i cross this lily lawn i fear the broadswords will be drawn.' the turf the flying courser spurned, and to his towers the king returned. xxxiii. ill with king james's mood that day suited gay feast and minstrel lay; soon were dismissed the courtly throng, and soon cut short the festal song. nor less upon the saddened town the evening sunk in sorrow down. the burghers spoke of civil jar, of rumoured feuds and mountain war, of moray, mar, and roderick dhu, all up in arms;--the douglas too, they mourned him pent within the hold, 'where stout earl william was of old.'-- and there his word the speaker stayed, and finger on his lip he laid, or pointed to his dagger blade. but jaded horsemen from the west at evening to the castle pressed, and busy talkers said they bore tidings of fight on katrine's shore; at noon the deadly fray begun, and lasted till the set of sun. thus giddy rumor shook the town, till closed the night her pennons brown. canto sixth. the guard-room. i. the sun, awakening, through the smoky air of the dark city casts a sullen glance, rousing each caitiff to his task of care, of sinful man the sad inheritance; summoning revellers from the lagging dance, scaring the prowling robber to his den; gilding on battled tower the warder's lance, and warning student pale to leave his pen, and yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men. what various scenes, and o, what scenes of woe, are witnessed by that red and struggling beam! the fevered patient, from his pallet low, through crowded hospital beholds it stream; the ruined maiden trembles at its gleam, the debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail, 'the love-lore wretch starts from tormenting dream: the wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale, trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail. ii. at dawn the towers of stirling rang with soldier-step and weapon-clang, while drums with rolling note foretell relief to weary sentinel. through narrow loop and casement barred, the sunbeams sought the court of guard, and, struggling with the smoky air, deadened the torches' yellow glare. in comfortless alliance shone the lights through arch of blackened stone, and showed wild shapes in garb of war, faces deformed with beard and scar, all haggard from the midnight watch, and fevered with the stern debauch; for the oak table's massive board, flooded with wine, with fragments stored, and beakers drained, and cups o'erthrown, showed in what sport the night had flown. some, weary, snored on floor and bench; some labored still their thirst to quench; some, chilled with watching, spread their hands o'er the huge chimney's dying brands, while round them, or beside them flung, at every step their harness rung. iii. these drew not for their fields the sword, like tenants of a feudal lord, nor owned the patriarchal claim of chieftain in their leader's name; adventurers they, from far who roved, to live by battle which they loved. there the italian's clouded face, the swarthy spaniard's there you trace; the mountain-loving switzer there more freely breathed in mountain-air; the fleming there despised the soil that paid so ill the labourer's toil; their rolls showed french and german name; and merry england's exiles came, to share, with ill-concealed disdain, of scotland's pay the scanty gain. all brave in arms, well trained to wield the heavy halberd, brand, and shield; in camps licentious, wild, and bold; in pillage fierce and uncontrolled; and now, by holytide and feast, from rules of discipline released. iv. 'they held debate of bloody fray, fought 'twixt loch katrine and achray. fierce was their speech, and mid their words 'their hands oft grappled to their swords; nor sunk their tone to spare the ear of wounded comrades groaning near, whose mangled limbs and bodies gored bore token of the mountain sword, though, neighbouring to the court of guard, their prayers and feverish wails were heard,-- sad burden to the ruffian joke, and savage oath by fury spoke!-- at length up started john of brent, a yeoman from the banks of trent; a stranger to respect or fear, in peace a chaser of the deer, in host a hardy mutineer, but still the boldest of the crew when deed of danger was to do. he grieved that day their games cut short, and marred the dicer's brawling sport, and shouted loud, 'renew the bowl! and, while a merry catch i troll, let each the buxom chorus bear, like brethren of the brand and spear.' v. soldier's song. our vicar still preaches that peter and poule laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl, that there 's wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack, and the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack; yet whoop, barnaby! off with thy liquor, drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar! our vicar he calls it damnation to sip the ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip, says that beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly, and apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye; yet whoop, jack! kiss gillian the quicker, till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar! our vicar thus preaches,--and why should he not? for the dues of his cure are the placket and pot; and 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch who infringe the domains of our good mother church. yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor, sweet marjorie 's the word and a fig for the vicar! vi. the warder's challenge, heard without, stayed in mid-roar the merry shout. a soldier to the portal went,-- 'here is old bertram, sirs, of ghent; and--beat for jubilee the drum!-- a maid and minstrel with him come.' bertram, a fleming, gray and scarred, was entering now the court of guard, a harper with him, and, in plaid all muffled close, a mountain maid, who backward shrunk to 'scape the view of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 'what news?' they roared:--' i only know, from noon till eve we fought with foe, as wild and as untamable as the rude mountains where they dwell; on both sides store of blood is lost, nor much success can either boast.'-- 'but whence thy captives, friend? such spoil as theirs must needs reward thy toil. old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp; thou now hast glee-maiden and harp! get thee an ape, and trudge the land, the leader of a juggler band.' vii. 'no, comrade;--no such fortune mine. after the fight these sought our line, that aged harper and the girl, and, having audience of the earl, mar bade i should purvey them steed, and bring them hitherward with speed. forbear your mirth and rude alarm, for none shall do them shame or harm.-- 'hear ye his boast?' cried john of brent, ever to strife and jangling bent; 'shall he strike doe beside our lodge, and yet the jealous niggard grudge to pay the forester his fee? i'll have my share howe'er it be, despite of moray, mar, or thee.' bertram his forward step withstood; and, burning in his vengeful mood, old allan, though unfit for strife, laid hand upon his dagger-knife; but ellen boldly stepped between, and dropped at once the tartan screen:-- so, from his morning cloud, appears the sun of may through summer tears. the savage soldiery, amazed, as on descended angel gazed; even hardy brent, abashed and tamed, stood half admiring, half ashamed. viii. boldly she spoke: 'soldiers, attend! my father was the soldier's friend, cheered him in camps, in marches led, and with him in the battle bled. not from the valiant or the strong should exile's daughter suffer wrong.' answered de brent, most forward still in every feat or good or ill: 'i shame me of the part i played; and thou an outlaw's child, poor maid! an outlaw i by forest laws, and merry needwood knows the cause. poor rose,--if rose be living now,'-- he wiped his iron eye and brow,-- 'must bear such age, i think, as thou.-- hear ye, my mates! i go to call the captain of our watch to hall: there lies my halberd on the floor; and he that steps my halberd o'er, to do the maid injurious part, my shaft shall quiver in his heart! beware loose speech, or jesting rough; ye all know john de brent. enough.' ix. their captain came, a gallant young,-- of tullibardine's house he sprung,-- nor wore he yet the spurs of knight; gay was his mien, his humor light and, though by courtesy controlled, forward his speech, his bearing bold. the high-born maiden ill could brook the scanning of his curious look and dauntless eye:--and yet, in sooth young lewis was a generous youth; but ellen's lovely face and mien ill suited to the garb and scene, might lightly bear construction strange, and give loose fancy scope to range. 'welcome to stirling towers, fair maid! come ye to seek a champion's aid, on palfrey white, with harper hoar, like errant damosel of yore? does thy high quest a knight require, or may the venture suit a squire?' her dark eye flashed;--she paused and sighed:-- 'o what have i to do with pride!-- through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife, a suppliant for a father's life, i crave an audience of the king. behold, to back my suit, a ring, the royal pledge of grateful claims, given by the monarch to fitz-james.' x. the signet-ring young lewis took with deep respect and altered look, and said: 'this ring our duties own; and pardon, if to worth unknown, in semblance mean obscurely veiled, lady, in aught my folly failed. soon as the day flings wide his gates, the king shall know what suitor waits. please you meanwhile in fitting bower repose you till his waking hour. female attendance shall obey your hest, for service or array. permit i marshal you the way.' but, ere she followed, with the grace and open bounty of her race, she bade her slender purse be shared among the soldiers of the guard. the rest with thanks their guerdon took, but brent, with shy and awkward look, on the reluctant maiden's hold forced bluntly back the proffered gold:-- 'forgive a haughty english heart, and o, forget its ruder part! the vacant purse shall be my share, which in my barrel-cap i'll bear, perchance, in jeopardy of war, where gayer crests may keep afar.' with thanks--'twas all she could--the maid his rugged courtesy repaid. xi. when ellen forth with lewis went, allan made suit to john of brent:-- 'my lady safe, o let your grace give me to see my master's face! his minstrel i,--to share his doom bound from the cradle to the tomb. tenth in descent, since first my sires waked for his noble house their iyres, nor one of all the race was known but prized its weal above their own. with the chief's birth begins our care; our harp must soothe the infant heir, teach the youth tales of fight, and grace his earliest feat of field or chase; in peace, in war, our rank we keep, we cheer his board, we soothe his sleep, nor leave him till we pour our verse-- a doleful tribute!--o'er his hearse. then let me share his captive lot; it is my right,--deny it not!' 'little we reck,' said john of brent, 'we southern men, of long descent; nor wot we how a name--a word-- makes clansmen vassals to a lord: yet kind my noble landlord's part,-- god bless the house of beaudesert! and, but i loved to drive the deer more than to guide the labouring steer, i had not dwelt an outcast here. come, good old minstrel, follow me; thy lord and chieftain shalt thou see.' xii. then, from a rusted iron hook, a bunch of ponderous keys he took, lighted a torch, and allan led through grated arch and passage dread. portals they passed, where, deep within, spoke prisoner's moan and fetters' din; through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored, lay wheel, and axe, and headsmen's sword, and many a hideous engine grim, for wrenching joint and crushing limb, by artists formed who deemed it shame and sin to give their work a name. they halted at a iow-browed porch, and brent to allan gave the torch, while bolt and chain he backward rolled, and made the bar unhasp its hold. they entered:--'twas a prison-room of stern security and gloom, yet not a dungeon; for the day through lofty gratings found its way, and rude and antique garniture decked the sad walls and oaken floor, such as the rugged days of old deemed fit for captive noble's hold. 'here,' said de brent, 'thou mayst remain till the leech visit him again. strict is his charge, the warders tell, to tend the noble prisoner well.' retiring then the bolt he drew, and the lock's murmurs growled anew. roused at the sound, from lowly bed a captive feebly raised his head. the wondering minstrel looked, and knew-- not his dear lord, but roderick dhu! for, come from where clan-alpine fought, they, erring, deemed the chief he sought. xiii. as the tall ship, whose lofty prore shall never stem the billows more, deserted by her gallant band, amid the breakers lies astrand,-- so on his couch lay roderick dhu! and oft his fevered limbs he threw in toss abrupt, as when her sides lie rocking in the advancing tides, that shake her frame with ceaseless beat, yet cannot heave her from her seat;-- o, how unlike her course at sea! or his free step on hill and lea!-- soon as the minstrel he could scan,-- 'what of thy lady?--of my clan?-- my mother?--douglas?--tell me all! have they been ruined in my fall? ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here? yet speak,--speak boldly,--do not fear.'-- for allan, who his mood well knew, was choked with grief and terror too.-- 'who fought?--who fled?--old man, be brief;-- some might,--for they had lost their chief. who basely live?--who bravely died?' 'o, calm thee, chief!' the minstrel cried, 'ellen is safe!' 'for that thank heaven!' 'and hopes are for the douglas given;-- the lady margaret, too, is well; and, for thy clan,--on field or fell, has never harp of minstrel told of combat fought so true and bold. thy stately pine is yet unbent, though many a goodly bough is rent.' xiv. the chieftain reared his form on high, and fever's fire was in his eye; but ghastly, pale, and livid streaks checkered his swarthy brow and cheeks. 'hark, minstrel! i have heard thee play, with measure bold on festal day, in yon lone isle,--again where ne'er shall harper play or warrior hear!-- that stirring air that peals on high, o'er dermid's race our victory.-- strike it!--and then,--for well thou canst,-- free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced, fling me the picture of the fight, when met my clan the saxon might. i'll listen, till my fancy hears the clang of swords' the crash of spears! these grates, these walls, shall vanish then for the fair field of fighting men, and my free spirit burst away, as if it soared from battle fray.' the trembling bard with awe obeyed,-- slow on the harp his hand he laid; but soon remembrance of the sight he witnessed from the mountain's height, with what old bertram told at night, awakened the full power of song, and bore him in career along;-- as shallop launched on river's tide, 'that slow and fearful leaves the side, but, when it feels the middle stream, drives downward swift as lightning's beam. xv. battle of beal' an duine. 'the minstrel came once more to view the eastern ridge of benvenue, for ere he parted he would say farewell to lovely loch achray where shall he find, in foreign land, so lone a lake, so sweet a strand!-- there is no breeze upon the fern, no ripple on the lake, upon her eyry nods the erne, the deer has sought the brake; the small birds will not sing aloud, the springing trout lies still, so darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, that swathes, as with a purple shroud, benledi's distant hill. is it the thunder's solemn sound that mutters deep and dread, or echoes from the groaning ground the warrior's measured tread? is it the lightning's quivering glance that on the thicket streams, or do they flash on spear and lance the sun's retiring beams?-- i see the dagger-crest of mar, i see the moray's silver star, wave o'er the cloud of saxon war, that up the lake comes winding far! to hero boune for battle-strife, or bard of martial lay, 'twere worth ten years of peaceful life, one glance at their array! xvi. 'their light-armed archers far and near surveyed the tangled ground, their centre ranks, with pike and spear, a twilight forest frowned, their barded horsemen in the rear the stern battalia crowned. no cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, still were the pipe and drum; save heavy tread, and armor's clang, the sullen march was dumb. there breathed no wind their crests to shake, or wave their flags abroad; scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake that shadowed o'er their road. their vaward scouts no tidings bring, can rouse no lurking foe, nor spy a trace of living thing, save when they stirred the roe; the host moves like a deep-sea wave, where rise no rocks its pride to brave high-swelling, dark, and slow. the lake is passed, and now they gain a narrow and a broken plain, before the trosachs' rugged jaws; and here the horse and spearmen pause while, to explore the dangerous glen dive through the pass the archer-men. xvii. 'at once there rose so wild a yell within that dark and narrow dell, as all the fiends from heaven that fell had pealed the banner-cry of hell! forth from the pass in tumult driven, like chaff before the wind of heaven, the archery appear: for life! for life! their flight they ply-- and shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, and plaids and bonnets waving high, and broadswords flashing to the sky, are maddening in the rear. onward they drive in dreadful race, pursuers and pursued; before that tide of flight and chase, how shall it keep its rooted place, the spearmen's twilight wood?--" "down, down," cried mar, "your lances down' bear back both friend and foe! "-- like reeds before the tempest's frown, that serried grove of lances brown at once lay levelled low; and closely shouldering side to side, the bristling ranks the onset bide.--" "we'll quell the savage mountaineer, as their tinchel cows the game! they come as fleet as forest deer, we'll drive them back as tame." xviii. 'bearing before them in their course the relics of the archer force, like wave with crest of sparkling foam, right onward did clan-alpine come. above the tide, each broadsword bright was brandishing like beam of light, each targe was dark below; and with the ocean's mighty swing, when heaving to the tempest's wing, they hurled them on the foe. i heard the lance's shivering crash, as when the whirlwind rends the ash; i heard the broadsword's deadly clang, as if a hundred anvils rang! but moray wheeled his rearward rank of horsemen on clan-alpine's flank,-- "my banner-man, advance! i see," he cried, "their column shake. now, gallants! for your ladies' sake, upon them with the lance!"-- the horsemen dashed among the rout, as deer break through the broom; their steeds are stout, their swords are out, they soon make lightsome room. clan-alpine's best are backward borne-- where, where was roderick then! one blast upon his bugle-horn were worth a thousand men. and refluent through the pass of fear the battle's tide was poured; vanished the saxon's struggling spear, vanished the mountain-sword. as bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, receives her roaring linn as the dark caverns of the deep suck the wild whirlpool in, so did the deep and darksome pass devour the battle's mingled mass; none linger now upon the plain save those who ne'er shall fight again. xix. 'now westward rolls the battle's din, that deep and doubling pass within.-- minstrel, away! the work of fate is bearing on; its issue wait, where the rude trosachs' dread defile opens on katrine's lake and isle. gray benvenue i soon repassed, loch katrine lay beneath me cast. the sun is set;--the clouds are met, the lowering scowl of heaven an inky hue of livid blue to the deep lake has given; strange gusts of wind from mountain glen swept o'er the lake, then sunk again. i heeded not the eddying surge, mine eye but saw the trosachs' gorge, mine ear but heard that sullen sound, which like an earthquake shook the ground, and spoke the stern and desperate strife that parts not but with parting life, seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll the dirge of many a passing soul. nearer it comes--the dim-wood glen the martial flood disgorged again, but not in mingled tide; the plaided warriors of the north high on the mountain thunder forth and overhang its side, while by the lake below appears the darkening cloud of saxon spears. at weary bay each shattered band, eying their foemen, sternly stand; their banners stream like tattered sail, that flings its fragments to the gale, and broken arms and disarray marked the fell havoc of the day. xx. 'viewing the mountain's ridge askance, the saxons stood in sullen trance, till moray pointed with his lance, and cried: "behold yon isle!-- see! none are left to guard its strand but women weak, that wring the hand: 'tis there of yore the robber band their booty wont to pile;-- my purse, with bonnet-pieces store, to him will swim a bow-shot o'er, and loose a shallop from the shore. lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then, lords of his mate, and brood, and den." forth from the ranks a spearman sprung, on earth his casque and corselet rung, he plunged him in the wave:-- all saw the deed,--the purpose knew, and to their clamors benvenue a mingled echo gave; the saxons shout, their mate to cheer, the helpless females scream for fear and yells for rage the mountaineer. 't was then, as by the outcry riven, poured down at once the lowering heaven: a whirlwind swept loch katrine's breast, her billows reared their snowy crest. well for the swimmer swelled they high, to mar the highland marksman's eye; for round him showered, mid rain and hail, the vengeful arrows of the gael. in vain.--he nears the isle--and lo! his hand is on a shallop's bow. just then a flash of lightning came, it tinged the waves and strand with flame; i marked duncraggan's widowed dame, behind an oak i saw her stand, a naked dirk gleamed in her hand:-- it darkened,--but amid the moan of waves i heard a dying groan;-- another flash!--the spearman floats a weltering corse beside the boats, and the stern matron o'er him stood, her hand and dagger streaming blood. xxi. "'revenge! revenge!" the saxons cried, the gaels' exulting shout replied. despite the elemental rage, again they hurried to engage; but, ere they closed in desperate fight, bloody with spurring came a knight, sprung from his horse, and from a crag waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. clarion and trumpet by his side rung forth a truce-note high and wide, while, in the monarch's name, afar a herald's voice forbade the war, for bothwell's lord and roderick bold were both, he said, in captive hold.'-- but here the lay made sudden stand, the harp escaped the minstrel's hand! oft had he stolen a glance, to spy how roderick brooked his minstrelsy: at first, the chieftain, to the chime, with lifted hand kept feeble time; that motion ceased,--yet feeling strong varied his look as changed the song; at length, no more his deafened ear the minstrel melody can hear; his face grows sharp,--his hands are clenched' as if some pang his heart-strings wrenched; set are his teeth, his fading eye is sternly fixed on vacancy; thus, motionless and moanless, drew his parting breath stout roderick dhu!-- old allan-bane looked on aghast, while grim and still his spirit passed; but when he saw that life was fled, he poured his wailing o'er the dead. xxii. lament. 'and art thou cold and lowly laid, thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, breadalbane's boast, clan-alpine's shade! for thee shall none a requiem say?-- for thee, who loved the minstrel's lay, for thee, of bothwell's house the stay, the shelter of her exiled line, e'en in this prison-house of thine, i'll wail for alpine's honored pine! 'what groans shall yonder valleys fill! what shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill! what tears of burning rage shall thrill, when mourns thy tribe thy battles done, thy fall before the race was won, thy sword ungirt ere set of sun! there breathes not clansman of thy line, but would have given his life for thine. o, woe for alpine's honoured pine! 'sad was thy lot on mortal stage!-- the captive thrush may brook the cage, the prisoned eagle dies for rage. brave spirit, do dot scorn my strain! and, when its notes awake again, even she, so long beloved in vain, shall with my harp her voice combine, and mix her woe and tears with mine, to wail clan-alpine's honoured pine.' xxiii. ellen the while, with bursting heart, remained in lordly bower apart, where played, with many-coloured gleams, through storied pane the rising beams. in vain on gilded roof they fall, and lightened up a tapestried wall, and for her use a menial train a rich collation spread in vain. the banquet proud, the chamber gay, scarce drew one curious glance astray; or if she looked, 't was but to say, with better omen dawned the day in that lone isle, where waved on high the dun-deer's hide for canopy; where oft her noble father shared the simple meal her care prepared, while lufra, crouching by her side, her station claimed with jealous pride, and douglas, bent on woodland game, spoke of the chase to malcolm graeme, whose answer, oft at random made, the wandering of his thoughts betrayed. those who such simple joys have known are taught to prize them when they 're gone. but sudden, see, she lifts her head; the window seeks with cautious tread. what distant music has the power to win her in this woful hour? 't was from a turret that o'erhung her latticed bower, the strain was sung. xxiv. lay of the imprisoned huntsman. 'my hawk is tired of perch and hood, my idle greyhound loathes his food, my horse is weary of his stall, and i am sick of captive thrall. i wish i were as i have been, hunting the hart in forest green, with bended bow and bloodhound free, for that's the life is meet for me. i hate to learn the ebb of time from yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, inch after inch, along the wall. the lark was wont my matins ring, the sable rook my vespers sing; these towers, although a king's they be, have not a hall of joy for me. no more at dawning morn i rise, and sun myself in ellen's eyes, drive the fleet deer the forest through, and homeward wend with evening dew; a blithesome welcome blithely meet, and lay my trophies at her feet, while fled the eve on wing of glee,-- that life is lost to love and me!' xxv. the heart-sick lay was hardly said, the listener had not turned her head, it trickled still, the starting tear, when light a footstep struck her ear, and snowdoun's graceful knight was near. she turned the hastier, lest again the prisoner should renew his strain. 'o welcome, brave fitz-james!' she said; 'how may an almost orphan maid pay the deep debt--' 'o say not so! to me no gratitude you owe. not mine, alas! the boon to give, and bid thy noble father live; i can but be thy guide, sweet maid, with scotland's king thy suit to aid. no tyrant he, though ire and pride may lay his better mood aside. come, ellen, come! 'tis more than time, he holds his court at morning prime.' with heating heart, and bosom wrung, as to a brother's arm she clung. gently he dried the falling tear, and gently whispered hope and cheer; her faltering steps half led, half stayed, through gallery fair and high arcade, till at his touch its wings of pride a portal arch unfolded wide. xxvi. within 't was brilliant all and light, a thronging scene of figures bright; it glowed on ellen's dazzled sight, as when the setting sun has given ten thousand hues to summer even, and from their tissue fancy frames aerial knights and fairy dames. still by fitz-james her footing staid; a few faint steps she forward made, then slow her drooping head she raised, and fearful round the presence gazed; for him she sought who owned this state, the dreaded prince whose will was fate!-- she gazed on many a princely port might well have ruled a royal court; on many a splendid garb she gazed,-- then turned bewildered and amazed, for all stood bare; and in the room fitz-james alone wore cap and plume. to him each lady's look was lent, on him each courtier's eye was bent; midst furs and silks and jewels sheen, he stood, in simple lincoln green, the centre of the glittering ring,-- and snowdoun's knight is scotland's king! xxvii. as wreath of snow on mountain-breast slides from the rock that gave it rest, poor ellen glided from her stay, and at the monarch's feet she lay; no word her choking voice commands,-- she showed the ring,--she clasped her hands. o, not a moment could he brook, the generous prince, that suppliant look! gently he raised her,--and, the while, checked with a glance the circle's smile; graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed, and bade her terrors be dismissed:-- 'yes, fair; the wandering poor fitz-james the fealty of scotland claims. to him thy woes, thy wishes, bring; he will redeem his signet ring. ask naught for douglas;--yester even, his prince and he have much forgiven; wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, i, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. we would not, to the vulgar crowd, yield what they craved with clamor loud; calmly we heard and judged his cause, our council aided and our laws. i stanched thy father's death-feud stern with stout de vaux and gray glencairn; and bothwell's lord henceforth we own the friend and bulwark of our throne.-- but, lovely infidel, how now? what clouds thy misbelieving brow? lord james of douglas, lend thine aid; thou must confirm this doubting maid.' xxviii. then forth the noble douglas sprung, and on his neck his daughter hung. the monarch drank, that happy hour, the sweetest, holiest draught of power,-- when it can say with godlike voice, arise, sad virtue, and rejoice! yet would not james the general eye on nature's raptures long should pry; he stepped between--' nay, douglas, nay, steal not my proselyte away! the riddle 'tis my right to read, that brought this happy chance to speed. yes, ellen, when disguised i stray in life's more low but happier way, 'tis under name which veils my power nor falsely veils,--for stirling's tower of yore the name of snowdoun claims, and normans call me james fitz-james. thus watch i o'er insulted laws, thus learn to right the injured cause.' then, in a tone apart and low,-- 'ah, little traitress! none must know what idle dream, what lighter thought what vanity full dearly bought, joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew my spell-bound steps to benvenue in dangerous hour, and all but gave thy monarch's life to mountain glaive!' aloud he spoke: 'thou still dost hold that little talisman of gold, pledge of my faith, fitz-james's ring,-- what seeks fair ellen of the king?' xxix. full well the conscious maiden guessed he probed the weakness of her breast; but with that consciousness there came a lightening of her fears for graeme, and more she deemed the monarch's ire kindled 'gainst him who for her sire rebellious broadsword boldly drew; and, to her generous feeling true, she craved the grace of roderick dhu. 'forbear thy suit;--the king of kings alone can stay life's parting wings. i know his heart, i know his hand, have shared his cheer, and proved his brand; my fairest earldom would i give to bid clan-alpine's chieftain live!-- hast thou no other boon to crave? no other captive friend to save?' blushing, she turned her from the king, and to the douglas gave the ring, as if she wished her sire to speak the suit that stained her glowing cheek. 'nay, then, my pledge has lost its force, and stubborn justice holds her course. malcolm, come forth!'--and, at the word, down kneeled the graeme to scotland's lord. 'for thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, from thee may vengeance claim her dues, who, nurtured underneath our smile, hast paid our care by treacherous wile, and sought amid thy faithful clan a refuge for an outlawed man, dishonoring thus thy loyal name.-- fetters and warder for the graeme!' his chain of gold the king unstrung, the links o'er malcolm's neck he flung, then gently drew the glittering band, and laid the clasp on ellen's hand. harp of the north, farewell! the hills grow dark, on purple peaks a deeper shade descending; in twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, the deer, half seen, are to the covert wending. resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, and the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending, with distant echo from the fold and lea, and herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. yet, once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp! yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, and little reck i of the censure sharp may idly cavil at an idle lay. much have i owed thy strains on life's long way, through secret woes the world has never known, when on the weary night dawned wearier day, and bitterer was the grief devoured alone.-- that i o'erlive such woes, enchantress! is thine own. hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, some spirit of the air has waked thy string! 'tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'tis now the brush of fairy's frolic wing. receding now, the dying numbers ring fainter and fainter down the rugged dell; and now the mountain breezes scarcely bring a wandering witch-note of the distant spell-- and now, 'tis silent all!--enchantress, fare thee well! abbreviations used in the notes. cf. (confer), compare. f.q., spenser's faerie queene. fol., following. id. (idem), the same. lockhart, j. g. lockhart's edition of scott's poems (various issues). p.l., milton's paradise lost. taylor, r. w. taylor's edition of the lady of the lake (london, ). wb., webster's dictionary (revised quarto edition of ). worc., worcester's dictionary (quarto edition). the abbreviations of the names of shakespeare's plays will be readily understood. the line-numbers are those of the "globe" edition. the references to scott's lay of the last minstrel are to canto and line; those to marmion and other poems to canto and stanza. notes. introduction. the lady of the lake was first published in , when scott was thirty-nine, and it was dedicated to "the most noble john james, marquis of abercorn." eight thousand copies were sold between june d and september d, , and repeated editions were subsequently called for. in , the following "introduction" was prefixed to the poem by the author:-- after the success of marmion, i felt inclined to exclaim with ulysses in the odyssey: [greek letters] odys. x. . "one venturous game my hand has won to-day-- another, gallants, yet remains to play." the ancient manners, the habits and customs of the aboriginal race by whom the highlands of scotland were inhabited, had always appeared to me peculiarly adapted to poetry. the change in their manners, too, had taken place almost within my own time, or at least i had learned many particulars concerning the ancient state of the highlands from the old men of the last generation. i had always thought the old scottish gael highly adapted for poetical composition. the feuds and political dissensions which, half a century earlier, would have rendered the richer and wealthier part of the kingdom indisposed to countenance a poem, the scene of which was laid in the highlands, were now sunk in the generous compassion which the english, more than any other nation, feel for the misfortunes of an honourable foe. the poems of ossian had by their popularity sufficiently shown that, if writings on highland subjects were qualified to interest the reader, mere national prejudices were, in the present day, very unlikely to interfere with their success. i had also read a great deal, seen much, and heard more, of that romantic country where i was in the habit of spending some time every autumn; and the scenery of lock katrine was connected with the recollection of many a dear friend and merry expedition of former days. this poem, the action of which lay among scenes so beautiful and so deeply imprinted on my recollections, was a labour of love, and it was no less so to recall the manners and incidents introduced. the frequent custom of james iv., and particularly of james v., to walk through their kingdom in disguise, afforded me the hint of an incident which never fails to be interesting if managed with the slightest address or dexterity. i may now confess, however, that the employment, though attended with great pleasure, was not without its doubts and anxieties. a lady, to whom i was nearly related, and with whom i lived, during her whole life, on the most brotherly terms of affection, was residing with me at the time when the work was in progress, and used to ask me, what i could possibly do to rise so early in the morning (that happening to be the most convenient to me for composition). at last i told her the subject of my meditations; and i can never forget the anxiety and affection expressed in her reply. "do not be so rash," she said, "my dearest cousin. [ ] you are already popular,--more so, perhaps, than you yourself will believe, or than even i, or other partial friends, can fairly allow to your merit. you stand high,--do not rashly attempt to climb higher, and incur the risk of a fall; for, depend upon it, a favourite will not be permitted even to stumble with impunity." i replied to this affectionate expostulation in the words of montrose,-- "'he either fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small, who dares not put it to the touch to gain or lose it all.' "if i fail," i said, for the dialogue is strong in my recollection, "it is a sign that i ought never to have succeeded, and i will write prose for life: you shall see no change in my temper, nor will i eat a single meal the worse. but if i succeed, 'up with the bonnie blue bonnet, the dirk, and the feather, and a'!'" afterwards i showed my affectionate and anxious critic the first canto of the poem, which reconciled her to my imprudence. nevertheless, although i answered thus confidently, with the obstinacy often said to be proper to those who bear my surname, i acknowledge that my confidence was considerably shaken by the warning of her excellent taste and unbiased friendship. nor was i much comforted by her retraction of the unfavourable judgment, when i recollected how likely a natural partiality was to effect that change of opinion. in such cases, affection rises like a light on the canvas, improves any favourable tints which it formerly exhibited, and throws its defects into the shade. i remember that about the same time a friend started in to "heeze up my hope," like the "sportsman with his cutty gun," in the old song. he was bred a farmer, but a man of powerful understanding, natural good taste, and warm poetical feeling, perfectly competent to supply the wants of an imperfect or irregular education. he was a passionate admirer of field-sports, which we often pursued together. as this friend happened to dine with me at ashestiel one day, i took the opportunity of reading to him the first canto of the lady of the lake, in order to ascertain the effect the poem was likely to produce upon a person who was but too favourable a representative of readers at large. it is of course to be supposed that i determined rather to guide my opinion by what my friend might appear to feel, than by what he might think fit to say. his reception of my recitation, or prelection, was rather singular. he placed his hand across his brow, and listened with great attention through the whole account of the stag-hunt, till the dogs threw themselves into the lake to follow their master, who embarks with ellen douglas. he then started up with a sudden exclamation, struck his hand on the table, and declared, in a voice of censure calculated for the occasion, that the dogs must have been totally ruined by being permitted to take the water after such a severe chase. i own i was much encouraged by the species of revery which had possessed so zealous a follower of the sports of the ancient nimrod, who had been completely surprised out of all doubts of the reality of the tale. another of his remarks gave me less pleasure. he detected the identity of the king with the wandering knight, fitz-james, when he winds his bugle to summon his attendants. he was probably thinking of the lively, but somewhat licentious, old ballad, in which the denouement of a royal intrigue takes place as follows: "he took a bugle frae his side, he blew both loud and shrill, and four and twenty belted knights came skipping over the hill; then he took out a little knife, let a' his duddies fa', and he was the brawest gentleman that was amang them a'. and we'll go no more a roving," etc. this discovery, as mr. pepys says of the rent in his camlet cloak, was but a trifle, yet it troubled me; and i was at a good deal of pains to efface any marks by which i thought my secret could be traced before the conclusion, when i relied on it with the same hope of producing effect, with which the irish post-boy is said to reserve a "trot for the avenue." i took uncommon pains to verify the accuracy of the local circumstances of this story. i recollect, in particular, that to ascertain whether i was telling a probable tale, i went into perthshire, to see whether king james could actually have ridden from the banks of loch vennachar to stirling castle within the time supposed in the poem, and had the pleasure to satisfy myself that it was quite practicable. after a considerable delay, the lady of the lake appeared in june, ; and its success was certainly so extraordinary as to induce me for the moment to conclude that i had at last fixed a nail in the proverbially inconstant wheel of fortune, whose stability in behalf of an individual who had so boldly courted her favours for three successive times had not as yet been shaken. i had attained, perhaps, that degree of reputation at which prudence, or certainly timidity, would have made a halt, and discontinued efforts by which i was far more likely to diminish my fame than to increase it. but, as the celebrated john wilkes is said to have explained to his late majesty, that he himself, amid his full tide of popularity, was never a wilkite, so i can, with honest truth, exculpate myself from having been at any time a partisan of my own poetry, even when it was in the highest fashion with the million. it must not be supposed that i was either so ungrateful, or so superabundantly candid, as to despise or scorn the value of those whose voice had elevated me so much higher than my own opinion told me i deserved. i felt, on the contrary, the more grateful to the public, as receiving that from partiality to me, which i could not have claimed from merit; and i endeavoured to deserve the partiality, by continuing such exertions as i was capable of for their amusement. it may be that i did not, in this continued course of scribbling, consult either the interest of the public or my own. but the former had effectual means of defending themselves, and could, by their coldness, sufficiently check any approach to intrusion; and for myself, i had now for several years dedicated my hours so much to literary labour that i should have felt difficulty in employing myself otherwise; and so, like dogberry, i generously bestowed all my tediousness on the public, comforting myself with the reflection that, if posterity should think me undeserving of the favour with which i was regarded by my contemporaries, "they could not but say i had the crown," and had enjoyed for a time that popularity which is so much coveted. i conceived, however, that i held the distinguished situation i had obtained, however unworthily, rather like the champion of pugilism, [ ] on the condition of being always ready to show proofs of my skill, than in the manner of the champion of chivalry, who performs his duties only on rare and solemn occasions. i was in any case conscious that i could not long hold a situation which the caprice, rather than the judgment, of the public, had bestowed upon me, and preferred being deprived of my precedence by some more worthy rival, to sinking into contempt for my indolence, and losing my reputation by what scottish lawyers call the negative prescription. accordingly, those who choose to look at the introduction to rokeby, will be able to trace the steps by which i declined as a poet to figure as a novelist; as the ballad says, queen eleanor sunk at charing cross to rise again at queenhithe. it only remains for me to say that, during my short pre-eminence of popularity, i faithfully observed the rules of moderation which i had resolved to follow before i began my course as a man of letters. if a man is determined to make a noise in the world, he is as sure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops furiously through a village must reckon on being followed by the curs in full cry. experienced persons know that in stretching to flog the latter, the rider is very apt to catch a bad fall; nor is an attempt to chastise a malignant critic attended with less danger to the author. on this principle, i let parody, burlesque, and squibs find their own level; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, i was cautious never to catch them up, as schoolboys do, to throw them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, wisely remembering that they are in such cases apt to explode in the handling. let me add, that my reign [ ] (since byron has so called it) was marked by some instances of good-nature as well as patience. i never refused a literary person of merit such services in smoothing his way to the public as were in my power; and i had the advantage, rather an uncommon one with our irritable race, to enjoy general favour without incurring permanent ill-will, so far as is known to me, among any of my contemporaries. w.s. abbotsford, april, . our limits do not permit us to add any extended selections from the many critical notices of the poem. the verdict of jeffrey, in the edinburgh review, on its first appearance, has been generally endorsed:-- "upon the whole, we are inclined to think more highly of the lady of the lake than of either of its author's former publications [the lay and marmion]. we are more sure, however, that it has fewer faults than that it has greater beauties; and as its beauties bear a strong resemblance to those with which the public has been already made familiar in these celebrated works, we should not be surprised if its popularity were less splendid and remarkable. for our own parts, however, we are of opinion that it will be oftener read hereafter than either of them; and that, if it had appeared first in the series, their reception would have been less favourable than that which it has experienced. it is more polished in its diction, and more regular in its versification; the story is constructed with infinitely more skill and address; there is a greater proportion of pleasing and tender passages, with much less antiquarian detail; and, upon the whole, a larger variety of characters, more artfully and judiciously contrasted. there is nothing so fine, perhaps, as the battle in marmion, or so picturesque as some of the scattered sketches in the lay; but there is a richness and a spirit in the whole piece which does not pervade either of those poems,--a profusion of incident and a shifting brilliancy of colouring that reminds us of the witchery of ariosto, and a constant elasticity and occasional energy which seem to belong more peculiarly to the author now before us." canto first. each canto is introduced by one or more spenserian stanzas, [ ] forming a kind of prelude to it. those prefixed to the first canto serve as an introduction to the whole poem, which is "inspired by the spirit of the old scottish minstrelsy." . witch-elm. the broad-leaved or wych elm (ulmus montana), indigenous to scotland. forked branches of the tree were used in the olden time as divining-rods, and riding switches from it were supposed to insure good luck on a journey. in the closing stanzas of the poem (vi. ) it is called the "wizard elm." tennyson (in memoriam, ) refers to "witch-elms that counterchange the floor of this flat lawn with dusk and bright." saint fillan was a scotch abbot of the seventh century who became famous as a saint. he had two springs, which appear to be confounded by some editors of the poem. one was at the eastern end of loch earn, where the pretty modern village of st. fillans now stands, under the shadow of dun fillan, or st. fillan's hills, six hundred feet high, on the top of which the saint used to say his prayers, as the marks of his knees in the rock still testify to the credulous. the other spring is at another village called st. fillans, nearly thirty miles to the westward, just outside the limits of our map, on the road to tyndrum. in this holy pool, as it is called, insane folk were dipped with certain ceremonies, and then left bound all night in the open air. if they were found loose the next morning, they were supposed to have been cured. this treatment was practised as late as , according to pennant, who adds that the patients were generally found in the morning relieved of their troubles--by death. another writer, in , says that the pool is still visited, not by people of the vicinity, who have no faith in its virtue, but by those from distant places. scott alludes to this spring in marmion, i. : "thence to saint fillan's blessed well, whose springs can frenzied dreams dispel, and the crazed brain restore." . and down the fitful breeze, etc. the original ms. reads: "and on the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, till envious ivy, with her verdant ring, mantled and muffled each melodious string,-- o wizard harp, still must thine accents sleep?" . caledon. caledonia, the roman name of scotland. . each according pause. that is, each pause in the singing. in marmion, ii. , according is used of music that fills the intervals of other music: "soon as they neared his turrets strong, the maidens raised saint hilda's song, and with the sea-wave and the wind their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, and made harmonious close; then, answering from the sandy shore, half-drowned amid the breakers' roar, according chorus rose." the ms. reads here: "at each according pause thou spokest aloud thine ardent sympathy sublime and high." . the stag at eve had drunk his fill. the metre of the poem proper is iambic, that is, with the accent on the even syllables, and octosyllabic, or eight syllables to the line. . monan's rill. st. monan was a scotch martyr of the fourth century. we can find no mention of any rill named for him. . glenartney. a valley to the north-east of callander, with benvoirlich (which rises to the height of feet) on the north, and uam-var (see below) on the south, separating it from the valley of the teith. it takes its name from the artney, the stream flowing through it. . his beacon red. the figure is an appropriate one in describing this region, where fires on the hill-tops were so often used as signals in the olden time. cf. the lay, iii. : "and soon a score of fires, i ween, from height, and hill, and cliff, were seen, each with warlike tidings fraught; each from each the signal caught," etc. . deep-mouthed. cf. shakespeare, hen. vi. ii. . : "between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth;" and t. of s. ind. . : "the deep-mouthed brach" (that is, hound). the ms. reads: "the bloodhound's notes of heavy bass resounded hoarsely up the pass." . resounded... rocky. the poet often avails himself of "apt alliteration's artful aid," as here, and in the next two lines; most frequently in pairs of words. . as chief, etc. note here, as often, the simile put before that which it illustrates,--an effective rhetorical, though not the logical, arrangement. . beamed frontlet. antlered forehead. . adown. an instance of a purely poetical word, not admissible in prose. . chase. here put for those engaged in the chase; as in and , below. one of its regular meanings is the object of the chase, or the animal pursued. . uam-var. "ua-var, as the name is pronounced, or more properly uaigh-mor, is a mountain to the north-east of the village of callander, in menteith, deriving its name, which signifies the great den, or cavern, from a sort of retreat among the rocks on the south side, said, by tradition, to have been the abode of a giant. in latter times, it was the refuge of robbers and banditti, who have been only extirpated within these forty or fifty years. strictly speaking, this stronghold is not a cave, as the name would imply, but a sort of small enclosure, or recess, surrounded with large rocks and open above head. it may have been originally designed as a toil for deer, who might get in from the outside, but would find it difficult to return. this opinion prevails among the old sportsmen and deer-stalkers in the neighborhood" (scott). . yelled. note the emphatic force of the inversion, as in below. cf. above. opening. that is, barking on view or scent of the game; a hunting term. cf. shakespeare, m. w. iv. . : "if i bark out thus upon no trail never trust me when i open again." the description of the echo which follows is very spirited. . cairn. literally, a heap of stones; here put poetically for the rocky point which the falcon takes as a look-out. . hurricane. a metaphor for the wild rush of the hunt. . linn. literally, a deep pool; but often = cataract, as in bracklinn, ii. below (cf. vi. ), and sometimes = precipice. . on the lone wood. note the musical variation in the measure here; the st, d, and th syllables being accented instead of the d and th. it is occasionally introduced into iambic metre with admirable effect. cf. and below. . the cavern, etc. see on above. . perforce. a poetical word. see on above. . shrewdly. severely, keenly; a sense now obsolete. shrewd originally meant evil, mischievous. cf. shakespeare, a. y. l. v. . , where it is said that those "that have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us shall share the good of our returned fortune." in chaucer (tale of melibocus) we find, "the prophete saith: flee shrewdnesse, and do goodnesse" (referring to ps. xxxiv. ). . menteith. the district in the southwestern part of perthshire, watered by the teith. . mountain and meadow, etc. see on above. moss is used in the north-of-england sense of a boggy or peaty district, like the famous chat moss between liverpool and manchester. . lochard. loch ard is a beautiful lakelet, about five miles south of loch katrine. on its eastern side is the scene of helen macgregor's skirmish with the king's troops in rob roy; and near its head, on the northern side, is a waterfall, which is the original of flora macivor's favorite retreat in waverley. aberfoyle is a village about a mile and a half to the east of the lake. . loch achray. a lake between loch katrine and loch vennachar, lying just beyond the pass of the trosachs. . benvenue. a mountain, feet in height, on the southern side of loch katrine. . with the hope. the ms. has "with the thought," and "flying hoof" in the next line. . 'twere. it would be. cf. shakespeare, macb. ii. . : "to know my deed, 't were best not know myself." . cambusmore. the estate of a family named buchanan, whom scott frequently visited in his younger days. it is about two miles from callander, on the wooded banks of the keltie, a tributary of the teith. . benledi. a mountain, feet high, northwest from callander. the name is said to mean "mountain of god." . bochastle's heath. a moor between the east end of loch vennachar and callander. see also on v. below. . the flooded teith. the teith is formed by streams from loch voil and from loch katrine (by way of loch achray and loch vennachar), which unite at callander. it joins the forth near stirling. . vennachar. as the map shows, this "lake of the fair valley" is the most eastern of the three lakes around which the scenery of the poem lies. it is about five miles long and a mile and a half wide. . the brigg of turk. this brig, or bridge (cf. burns's poem of the brigs of ayr), is over a stream that comes down from glenfinlas and flows into the one connecting lochs achray and vennachar. according to graham, it is "the scene of the death of a wild boar famous in celtic tradition." . unbated. cf. shakespeare, m. of v. ii. . : "where is the horse that doth untread again his tedious measures with the unbated fire that he did pace them first?" . scourge and steel. whip and spur. steel is often used for the sword (as in v. below: "foeman worthy of their steel"), the figure being of the same sort as here--"the material put for the thing made of it." cf. v. below. . embossed. an old hunting term. george turbervile, in his noble art of venerie or hunting (a.d. ), says: "when the hart is foamy at the mouth, we say, that he is emboss'd." cf. shakespeare, t. of s. ind. . : "brach merriman, the poor cur, is emboss'd;" and a. and c. iv. . : "the boar of thessaly was never so emboss'd." . saint hubert's breed. scott quotes turbervile here: "the hounds which we call saint hubert's hounds are commonly all blacke, yet neuertheless, the race is so mingled at these days, that we find them of all colours. these are the hounds which the abbots of st. hubert haue always kept some of their race or kind, in honour or remembrance of the saint, which was a hunter with s. eustace. whereupon we may conceiue that (by the grace of god) all good huntsmen shall follow them into paradise." . quarry. the animal hunted; another technical term. shakespeare uses it in the sense of a heap of slaughtered game; as in cor. i. . : "would the nobility lay aside their ruth, and let me use my sword, i'd make a quarry with thousands of these quarter'd slaves," etc. cf. longfellow, hiawatha: "seldom stoops the soaring vulture o'er his quarry in the desert." . stock. tree-stump. cf. job, xiv. . . turn to bay. like stand at bay, etc., a term used when the stag, driven to extremity, turns round and faces his pursuers. cf. shakespeare, . hen. vi. iv. . , where it is used figuratively (as in vi. below): "turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel, and make the cowards stand aloof at bay;" and t. of s. v. . : "'t is thought your deer does hold you at a bay," etc. . for the death-wound, etc. scott has the following note here: "when the stag turned to bay, the ancient hunter had the perilous task of going in upon, and killing or disabling, the desperate animal. at certain times of the year this was held particularly dangerous, a wound received from a stag's horn being then deemed poisonous, and more dangerous than one from the tusks of a boar, as the old rhyme testifies: 'if thou be hurt with hart, it bring thee to thy bier, but barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, therefore thou need'st not fear.' at all times, however, the task was dangerous, and to be adventured upon wisely and warily, either by getting behind the stag while he was gazing on the hounds, or by watching an opportunity to gallop roundly in upon him, and kill him with the sword. see many directions to this purpose in the booke of hunting, chap. . wilson, the historian, has recorded a providential escape which befell him in the hazardous sport, while a youth, and follower of the earl of essex: 'sir peter lee, of lime, in cheshire, invited my lord one summer to hunt the stagg. and having a great stagg in chase, and many gentlemen in the pursuit, the stag took soyle. and divers, whereof i was one, alighted, and stood with swords drawne, to have a cut at him, at his coming out of the water. the staggs there being wonderfully fierce and dangerous, made us youths more eager to be at him. but he escaped us all. and it was my misfortune to be hindered of my coming nere him, the way being sliperie, by a falle; which gave occasion to some, who did not know mee, to speak as if i had falne for feare. which being told mee, i left the stagg, and followed the gentleman who [first] spake it. but i found him of that cold temper, that it seems his words made an escape from him; as by his denial and repentance it appeared. but this made mee more violent in the pursuit of the stagg, to recover my reputation. and i happened to be the only horseman in, when the dogs sett him up at bay; and approaching near him on horsebacke, he broke through the dogs, and run at mee, and tore my horse's side with his hornes, close by my thigh. then i quitted my horse, and grew more cunning (for the dogs had sette him up againe), stealing behind him with my sword, and cut his hamstrings; and then got upon his back, and cut his throate; which, as i was doing, the company came in, and blamed my rashness for running such a hazard' (peck's desiderata curiosa, ii. )." . whinyard. a short stout sword or knife; the same as the whinger of the lay of last minstrel, v. : "and whingers, now in friendship bare the social meal to part and share, had found a bloody sheath." . turned him. in elizabethan, and still more in earlier english, personal pronouns were often used reflexively; and this, like many other old constructions, is still used in poetry. . trosachs. "the rough or bristled territory" (graham); the wild district between lochs katrine and vennachar. the name is now especially applied to the pass between lochs katrine and achray. . close couched. that is, as he lay close couched, or hidden. such ellipses are common in poetry. . amain. with main, or full force. we still say "with might and main." . chiding. not a mere figurative use of chide as we now understand it (cf. below), but an example of the old sense of the word as applied to any oft-repeated noise. shakespeare uses it of the barking of dogs in m. n. d. iv. . : "never did i hear such gallant chiding;" of the wind, as in a. y. l. ii. . : "and churlish chiding of the winter's wind;" and of the sea, as in hen. iv. iii. . : "the sea that chides the banks of england;" and hen. viii. iii. . : "the chiding flood." . the banks of seine. james visited france in , and sued for the hand of magdalen, daughter of francis i. he married her the following spring, but she died a few months later. he then married mary of guise, whom he had doubtless seen while in france. . woe worth the chase. that is, woe be to it. this worth is from the a. s. weorthan, to become. cf. spenser, f. q. ii. . : "wo worth the man, that first did teach the cursed steele to bight in his owne flesh, and make way to the living spright!" see also ezek. xxx. . . and on the hunter, etc. the ms. reads: "and on the hunter hied his pace, to meet some comrades of the chase;" and the st ed. retains "pace" and "chase." . the western waves, etc. this description of the trosachs was written amid the scenery it delineates, in the summer of . the quarterly review (may, ) says of the poet: "he sees everything with a painter's eye. whatever he represents has a character of individuality, and is drawn with an accuracy and minuteness of discrimination which we are not accustomed to expect from mere verbal description. it is because mr. scott usually delineates those objects with which he is perfectly familiar that his touch is so easy, correct, and animated. the rocks, the ravines, and the torrents which he exhibits are not the imperfect sketches of a hurried traveller, but the finished studies of a resident artist." see also on below. ruskin (modern painters, iii. ) refers to "the love of color" as a leading element in scott's love of beauty. he might have quoted the present passage among the illustrations he adds. . the native bulwarks, etc. the ms. has "the mimic castles of the pass." . the tower, etc. cf. gen. xi. - . . the rocky. the st ed. has "their rocky," etc. . nor were, etc. the ms. reads: "nor were these mighty bulwarks bare." . dewdrop sheen. not "dewdrops sheen," or "dewdrops' sheen," as sometimes printed. sheen = shining, bright; as in v. below. cf. spenser, f. q. ii. . : "so faire and sheene;" id. iii. . : "in top of heaven sheene," etc. see wb. the ms. has here: "bright glistening with the dewdrop sheen." . boon. bountiful. cf. milton, p. l. iv. : "flowers worthy of paradise, which not nice art in beds and curious knots, but nature boon pour'd forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain." see also p. l. ix. : "jocund and boon." . bower. in the old sense of chamber, lodging-place; as in iv. and vi. below. cf. spenser, f. q. iii. . : "eftesoones long waxen torches weren light unto their bowres to guyden every guest." for clift (= cleft), the reading of the st ed. and unquestionably what scott wrote, every other edition that we have seen reads "cliff." . emblems of punishment and pride. see on iii. below. , . note the imperfect rhyme in breath and beneath. cf. - , - , - , - below. such instances are comparatively rare in scott's poetry. some rhymes that appear to be imperfect are to be explained by peculiarities of scottish pronunciation. see on below. . shaltered. the ms. has "scathed;" also "rugged arms athwart the sky" in , and "twinkling" for glistening in . the st ed. has "scattered" for shattered; corrected in the errata. . streamers. of ivy or other vines. . affording, etc. the ms. reads: "affording scarce such breadth of flood as served to float the wild-duck's brood." . emerging, etc. the ms. has "emerging dry-shod from the wood." . and now, to issue from the glen, etc. "until the present road was made through the romantic pass which i have presumptuously attempted to describe in the preceding stanzas, there was no mode of issuing out of the defile called the trosachs, excepting by a sort of ladder, composed of the branches and roots of trees" (scott). . loch katrine. in a note to the fair maid of perth, scott derives the name from the catterans, or highland robbers, that once infested the shores of the lake. others make it "the lake of the battle," in memory of some prehistoric conflict. . livelier. because in motion; like living gold above. . benvenue. see on above. . down to. most editions misprint "down on." . confusedly. a trisyllable; as in ii. below, and in the lay, iii. : "and helms and plumes, confusedly tossed." . wildering. bewildering. cf. dryden, aurungzebe, i. : "wilder'd in the way," etc. see also and v. below. . his ruined sides, etc. the ms. reads: "his ruined sides and fragments hoar, while on the north to middle air." . ben-an. this mountain, feet high, is north of the trosachs, separating that pass from glenfinlas. . from the steep, etc. the ms. reads: "from the high promontory gazed the stranger, awe-struck and amazed." the critical review (aug. ) remarks of this portion of the poem ( fol.): "perhaps the art of landscape-painting in poetry has never been displayed in higher perfection than in these stanzas, to which rigid criticism might possibly object that the picture is somewhat too minute, and that the contemplation of it detains the traveller somewhat too long from the main purpose of his pilgrimage, but which it would be an act of the greatest injustice to break into fragments and present by piecemeal. not so the magnificent scene which bursts upon the bewildered hunter as he emerges at length from the dell, and commands at one view the beautiful expanse of loch katrine." . churchman. in its old sense of one holding high office in the church. cf. shakespeare, hen. vi. i. . , where cardinal beaufort is called "the imperious churchman," etc. . cloister. monastery; originally, the covered walk around the inner court of the building. . chide. here, figuratively, in the modern sense. see in above. . should lave. the st ed. has "did lave," which is perhaps to be preferred. . while the deep peal's. for the measure, see on above. . to friendly feast, etc. the ms. has "to hospitable feast and hall." . beshrew. may evil befall (see on shrewdly, above); a mild imprecation, often used playfully and even tenderly. cf. shakespeare, hen. iv. ii. . : "beshrew your heart, fair daughter, you do draw my spirits from me with new lamenting ancient oversights!" . some mossy bank, etc. the ms. reads: "and hollow trunk of some old tree my chamber for the night must be." . highland plunderers. "the clans who inhabited the romantic regions in the neighborhood of loch katrine were, even until a late period, much addicted to predatory excursions upon their lowland neighbors" (scott). . fall the worst. if the worst befall that can happen. cf. shakespeare, m. of v. i. . : "an the worst fall that ever fell, i hope i shall make shift to go without him." . but scarce again, etc. the ms. reads: "the bugle shrill again he wound, and lo! forth starting at the sound;" and below: "a little skiff shot to the bay. the hunter left his airy stand, and when the boat had touched the sand, concealed he stood amid the brake, to view this lady of the lake." . strain. the st ed. has a comma after strain, and a period after art in . the ed. of points as in the text. . naiad. water nymph. . and ne'er did grecian chisel, etc. the ms. reads: "a finer form, a fairer face, had never marble nymph or grace, that boasts the grecian chisel's trace;" and in below, "a stranger tongue." . measured mood. the formal manner required by court etiquette. . dear. this is the reading of the st ed. and almost every other that we have seen. we are inclined, however, to believe that scott wrote "clear." the facsimiles of his handwriting show that his d's and cl's might easily be confounded by a compositor. . snood. the fillet or ribbon with which the scotch maidens bound their hair. see on iii. below. it is the rich materials of snood, plaid, and brooch that betray her birth. the rhyme of plaid with maid and betrayed is not imperfect, the scottish pronunciation of plaid being like our played. . one only. for the inversion, cf. shakespeare, j. c. i. . : "when there is in it but one only man;" goldsmith, d. v. : "one only master grasps the whole domain," etc. . awhile she paused, etc. the ms. reads: "a space she paused, no answer came,-- 'alpine, was thine the blast?' the name less resolutely uttered fell, the echoes could not catch the swell. 'nor foe nor friend,' the stranger said, advancing from the hazel shade. the startled maid, with hasty oar, pushed her light shallop from the shore." and just below: "so o'er the lake the swan would spring, then turn to prune its ruffled wing." . prune. pick out damaged feathers and arrange the plumage with the bill. cf. shakespeare, cymb. v. . : "his royal bird prunes the immortal wing," etc. . wont. are wont, or accustomed; now used only in the participle. the form here is the past tense of the obsolete won, or wone, to dwell. the present is found in milton, p. l. vii. : "as from his lair the wild beast, where he wons in forest wild, in thicket, brake, or den." cf. spenser, virgil's gnat: "of poets prince, whether we woon beside faire xanthus sprincled with chimaeras blood, or in the woods of astery abide;" and colin clouts come home againe: "i weened sure he was out god alone, and only woond in fields and forests here." see also iv. and below. . middle age. as james died at the age of thirty (in ), this is not strictly true, but the portrait in other respects is quite accurate. he was fond of going about disguised, and some of his freaks of this kind are pleasantly related in scott's tales of a grandfather. see on vi. below. . slighting, etc. "treating lightly his need of food and shelter." . at length. the st ed. has "at last." . that highland halls were, etc. the ms. has "her father's hall was," etc. . wildered. see on above. . a couch. that is, the heather for it. cf. below. . mere. lake; as in windermere, etc. . rood. cross, or crucifix. by the rood was a common oath; so by the holy rood, as in shakespeare, rich. iii. iii. . , iv. . . cf. the name of holyrood palace in edinburgh. see ii. below. . romantic. the ms. has "enchanting." . yesternight. we have lost this word, though we retain yesterday. cf. yester-morn in v. below. as far = as far back as. . was on, etc. the ms. reads: "is often on the future bent." if force of evidence could authorize us to believe facts inconsistent with the general laws of nature, enough might be produced in favor of the existence of the second-sight. it is called in gaelic taishitaraugh, from taish, an unreal or shadowy appearance; and those possessed of the faculty are called taishatrin, which may be aptly translated visionaries. martin, a steady believer in the second-sight, gives the following account of it:-- 'the second-sight is a singular faculty of seeing an otherwise invisible object without any previous means used by the person that uses if for that end: the vision makes such a lively impression upon the seers, that they neither see nor think of any thing else, except the vision, as long as it continues; and then they appear pensive or jovial, according to the object that was represented to them. 'at the sight of a vision, the eyelids of the person are erected, and the eyes continue staring until the object vanish. this is obvious to others who are by when the persons happen to see a vision, and occurred more than once to my own observation, and to others that were with me.... 'if a woman is seen standing at a man's left hand, it is a presage that she will be his wife, whether they be married to others, or unmarried at the time of the apparition. 'to see a spark of fire fall upon one's arm or breast is a forerunner of a dead child to be seen in the arms of those persons; of which there are several fresh instances.... 'to see a seat empty at the time of one's sitting in it, is a presage of that person's death soon after' (martin's description of the western islands, , vo, p. , et seq.). "to these particulars innumerable examples might be added, all attested by grave and credible authors. but, in despite of evidence which neither bacon, boyle, nor johnson were able to resist, the taish, with all its visionary properties, seems to be now universally abandoned to the use of poetry. the exquisitely beautiful poem of lochiel will at once occur to the recollection of every reader" (scott). . birchen. shaded by birches. cf. milton's "cedarn alleys" in comus, . . lincoln green. a cloth made in lincoln, much worn by hunters. . heron. the early eds. have "heron's." . errant-knight. knight-errant. . sooth. true. we find soothest in milton, comus, . the noun sooth (truth) is more common, and still survives in soothsayer (teller of hidden truth). cf. v. below. . emprise. enterprise. cf. spenser, f. q. ii. . : "but give me leave to follow my emprise," etc. . his noble hand. the ms. has "this gentle hand;" and in the next line, "the oars he drew." . frequent. often; one of the many instances of the adjective used adverbially in the poem. . the rocky isle. it is still known as ellen's isle. "it is rather high, and irregularly pyramidal. it is mostly composed of dark-gray rocks, mottled with pale and gray lichens, peeping out here and there amid trees that mantle them,--chiefly light, graceful birches, intermingled with red-berried mountain ashes and a few dark-green, spiry pines. the landing is beneath an aged oak; and, as did the lady and the knight, the traveller now ascends 'a clambering unsuspected road,' by rude steps, to the small irregular summit of the island. a more poetic, romantic retreat could hardly be imagined: it is unique. it is completely hidden, not only by the trees, but also by an undergrowth of beautiful and abundant ferns and the loveliest of heather" (hunnewell's lands of scott). . winded. wound; used for the sake of the measure, as in v. below. we find the participle winded in much ado, i. . ; but it is = blown. the verb in that sense is derived from the noun wind (air in motion), and has no connection with wind, to turn. cf. wb. . here for retreat, etc. scott has the following note here: "the celtic chieftains, whose lives were continually exposed to peril, had usually, in the most retired spot of their domains, some place of retreat for the hour of necessity, which, as circumstances would admit, was a tower, a cavern, or a rustic hut, in a strong and secluded situation. one of these last gave refuge to the unfortunate charles edward, in his perilous wanderings after the battle of culloden. "it was situated in the face of a very rough, high, and rocky mountain, called letternilichk, still a part of benalder, full of great stones and crevices, and some scattered wood interspersed. the habitation called the cage, in the face of that mountain, was within a small thick bush of wood. there were first some rows of trees laid down, in order to level the floor for a habitation; and as the place was steep, this raised the lower side to an equal height with the other: and these trees, in the way of joists or planks, were levelled with earth and gravel. there were betwixt the trees, growing naturally on their own roots, some stakes fixed in the earth, which, with the trees, were interwoven with ropes, made of heath and birch twigs, up to the top of the cage, it being of a round or rather oval shape; and the whole thatched and covered over with fog. the whole fabric hung, as it were, by a large tree, which reclined from the one end, all along the roof, to the other, and which gave it the name of the cage; and by chance there happened to be two stones at a small distance from one another, in the side next the precipice, resembling the pillars of a chimney, where the fire was placed. the smoke had its vent out here, all along the fall of the rock, which was so much of the same color, that one could discover no difference in the clearest day' (home's history of the rebellion, lond. , to, p. )." . idoean vine. some have taken this to refer to the "red whortleberry," the botanical name of which is vaccinium vitis idoea; but as that is not a climber, it is more probably that the common vine is here meant. idoean is from ida, a mountain near ancient troy (there was another in crete), famous for its vines. . clematis. the climatis vitalba, one of the popular english names of which is virgin-bower. . and every favored plant could bear. that is, which could endure. this ellipsis of the relative was very common in elizabethan english. cf. shakespeare, m. for m. ii. . : "i have a brother is condemned to die;" rich. ii. ii. . : "the hate of those love not the king," etc. see also john, iii. , etc. . on heaven and on thy lady call. this is said gayly, or sportively, as keeping up the idea of a knight-errant. cf. above. . careless. see on above. . target. buckler; the targe of iii. , etc. see scott's note on v. below. . store. stored, laid up; an obsolete adjective. cf. iii. below, and see also on vi. . . and there the wild-cat's, etc. the ms. reads: "there hung the wild-cat's brindled hide, above the elk's branched brow and skull, and frontlet of the forest bull." . garnish forth. cf. furnish forth in above. . brook. bear, endure; now seldom used except with reference to what is endured against one's will or inclination. it seems to be a favorite word with scott. . ferragus or ascabart. "these two sons of anak flourished in romantic fable. the first is well known to the admirers of ariosto by the name of ferrau. he was an antagonist of orlando, and was at length slain by him in single combat.... ascapart, or ascabart, makes a very material figure in the history of bevis of hampton, by whom he was conquered. his effigies may be seen guarding one side of the gate at southampton, while the other is occupied by bevis himself" (scott). . to whom, though more than kindred knew. the ms. reads: "to whom, though more remote her claim, young ellen gave a mother's name." she was the maternal aunt of ellen, but was loved as a mother by her, or more than (such) kindred (usually) knew (in way of affection). . though all unasked, etc. "the highlanders, who carried hospitality to a punctilious excess, are said to have considered it as churlish to ask a stranger his name or lineage before he had taken refreshment. feuds were so frequent among them, that a contrary rule would in many cases have produced the discovery of some circumstance which might have excluded the guest from the benefit of the assistance he stood in need of" (scott). . snowdoun. an old name of stirling castle. see vi. below. . lord of a barren heritage. "by the misfortunes of the earlier jameses, and the internal feuds of the scottish chiefs, the kingly power had become little more than a name. each chief was a petty king in his own district, and gave just so much obedience to the king's authority as suited his convenience" (taylor). . wot. knows; the present of the obsolete wit (the infinitive to wit is still use in legal forms), not of weet, as generally stated. see matzner, eng. gram. i. . cf. shakespeare, rich. iii. ii. . : "no, no, good friends, god wot." he also uses wots (as in hen. v. iv. . ) and a participle wotting (in w. t. iii. . ). . require. request, ask; as in elizanethan english. cf. shakespeare, hen. viii. ii. . : "in humblest manner i require your highness," etc. . the elder lady's mien. the ms. has "the mother's easy mien." . ellen, though more, etc. the ms. reads: "ellen, though more her looks betrayed the simple heart of mountain maid, in speech and gesture, form and grace, showed she was come of gentle race; 't was strange, in birth so rude, to find such face, such manners, and such mind. each anxious hint the stranger gave, the mother heard with silence grave." . weird women we, etc. see on above. weird here = skilled in witchcraft; like the "weird sisters" of macbeth. down = hill (the gaelic dun). . a harp unseen. scott has the following note here: "'"they [the highlanders] delight much in musicke, but chiefly in harps and clairschoes of their own fashion. the strings of the clairschoes are made of brasse wire, and the strings of the harps of sinews; which strings they strike either with their nayles, growing long, or else with an instrument appointed for that use. they take great pleasure to decke their harps and clairschoes with silver and precious stones; the poore ones that cannot attayne hereunto, decke them with christall. they sing verses prettily compound, contayning (for the most part) prayses of valiant men. there is not almost any other argument, whereof their rhymes intreat. they speak the ancient french language, altered a little." [ ] "the harp and chairschoes are now only heard of in the highlands in ancient song. at what period these instruments ceased to be used, is not on record; and tradition is silent on this head. but, as irish harpers occasionally visited the highlands and western isles till lately, the harp might have been extant so late as the middle of the present century. thus far we know, that from remote times down to the present, harpers were received as welcome guests, particularly in the highlands of scotland; and so late as the latter end of the sixteenth century, as appears by the above quotations, the harp was in common use among the natives of the western isles. how it happened that the noisy and inharmonious bagpipe banished the soft and expressive harp, we cannot say; but certain it is, that the bagpipe is now the only instrument that obtains universally in the highland districts' (campbell's journey through north britain. london, , to, i. ). "mr. gunn, of edinburgh, has lately published a curious essay upon the harp and harp music of the highlands of scotland. that the instrument was once in common use there, is most certain. cleland numbers an acquaintance with it among the few accomplishments which his satire allows to the highlanders:-- 'in nothing they're accounted sharp, except in bagpipe or in harm.'" . soldier, rest! etc. the metre of this song is trochaic; that is, the accents fall regularly on the odd syllables. . in slumber dewing. that is, bedewing. for the metaphor, cf. shakespeare, rich. iii. iv. . : "the golden dew of sleep;" and j. c. ii. . : "the honey-heavy dew of slumber." . morn of toil, etc. the ms. has "noon of hunger, night of waking;" and in the next line, "rouse" for reach. . pibroch. "a highland air, suited to the particular passion which the musician would either excite or assuage; generally applied to those airs that are played on the bagpipe before the highlanders when they go out to battle" (jamieson). here it is put for the bagpipe itself. see also on ii. below. . and the bittern sound his drum. goldsmith (d. v. ) calls the bird "the hollow-sounding bittern;" and in his animated nature, he says that of all the notes of waterfowl "there is none so dismally hollow as the booming of the bittern." . she paused, etc. the ms. has "she paused--but waked again the lay." . the ms. reads: "slumber sweet our spells shall deal ye;" and in : "let our slumbrous spells| avail ye | beguile ye." . reveille. the call to rouse troops or huntsmen in the morning. . forest sports. the ms. has "mountain chase." . not ellens' spell. that is, not even ellen's spell. on the passage, cf. rokeby, i. : "sleep came at length, but with a train of feelings true and fancies vain, mingling, in wild disorder cast, the expected future with the past." . or is it all a vision now? lockhart quotes here thomson's castle of indolence: "ye guardian spirits, to whom man is dear, from these foul demons shield the midnight gloom: angels of fancy and love, be near. and o'er the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom: evoke the sacred shades of greece and rome, and let them virtue with a look impart; but chief, awhile, o! lend us from the tomb those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart, and fill with pious awe and joy-mixt woe the heart. "or are you sportive?--bid the morn of youth rise to new light, and beam afresh the days of innocence, simplicity, and truth; to cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways. what transport, to retrace our boyish plays, our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied; the woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze of the wild books!" the critical review says of the following stanza (xxxiv): "such a strange and romantic dream as may be naturally expected to flow from the extraordinary events of the day. it might, perhaps, be quoted as one of mr. scott's most successful efforts in descriptive poetry. some few lines of it are indeed unrivalled for delicacy and melancholy tenderness." . grisly. grim, horrible; an obsolete word, much used in old poetry. cf. spenser, f. q. i. . : "her darke griesly looke;" shakespeare, hen. vi. i. . : "my grisly countenance made others fly," etc. see also iv. , etc. below. . played, etc. the ms. reads: "played on/ the bosoms of the lake, / lock katrine's still expanse; the birch, the wild rose, and the broom wasted around their rich perfume... the birch-trees wept in balmy dew; the aspen slept on benvenue; wild were the heart whose passions' power defied the influence of the hour." . passion's. the reading of the st ed. and that of ; some recent eds. have "passions'." . orisons. the st ed. has "orison" both here and in (the ed. of only in the latter); but the word is almost invariably plural, both in poetry and prose--always in shakespeare and milton. canto second. . a minstrel gray. "that highland chieftains, to a late period, retained in their service the bard, as a family officer, admits of very easy proof. the author of the letters from the north of scotland, an officer of engineers, quartered at inverness about , who certainly cannot be deemed a favorable witness, gives the following account of the office, and of a bard, whom he heard exercise his talent of recitation:--'the bard is killed in the genealogy of all the highland families, sometimes preceptor to the young laird, celebrates in irish verse the original of the tribe, the famous warlike actions of the successive heads, and sings his own lyricks as an opiate to the chief, when indisposed for sleep; but poets are not equally esteemed and honored in all countries. i happened to be a witness of the dishonour done to the muse, at the house of one of the chiefs, where two of these bards were set at a good distance, at the lower end of a long table, with a parcel of highlanders of no extraordinary appearance, over a cup of ale. poor inspiration! they were not asked to drink a glass of wine at our table, though the whole company consisted only of the great man, one of his near relations, and myself. after some little time, the chief ordered one of them to sing me a highland song. the bard readily obeyed, and with a hoarse voice, and in a tune of few various notes, began, as i was told, one of his own lyricks; and when he had proceeded to the fourth of fifth stanza, i perceived, by the names of several persons, glens, and mountains, which i had known or heard of before, that it was an account of some clan battle. but in his going on, the chief (who piques himself upon his school-learning) at some particular passage, bid him cease, and cryed out, "there's nothing like that in virgil or homer." i bowed, and told him i believed so. this you may believe was very edifying and delightful'" (scott). . than men, etc. "it is evident that the old bard, with his second-sight, has a glimmering notion who the stranger is. he speaks below { } of 'courtly spy,' and james's speech had betrayed a knowledge of the douglas" (taylor). . battled. the reading of the st ed. and that of ; "battle" in most others. cf. i. above. . where beauty, etc. the ms. has "at tourneys where the brave resort." the reference is to the tournaments, "where," as milton says (l'allegro, ), "throngs of knights and barons bold. in weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, with store of ladies, whose bright eyes rain influence, and judge the prize of wit or arms, while both contend to win her grace whom all commend." cf. below. . love's. the reading of the st ed. and that of ; most eds. have "love." . plaided. the plaid was properly the dress of a highlander, though it was worn also in the lowlands. . the harper on the islet beach. "this picture is touched with the hand of the true poet" (jeffrey). . as from. as if from. cf. and below. this ellipsis was common in elizabethan english. cf. shakespeare, macb. ii. . : "one cried 'god bless us!' and 'amen' the other, as they had seen me with these hangman's hands." . in the last sound. for the measure, see on i. above. . his fleet. that is, of ducks. cf. i. above. . would scorn. who would scorn. see on i. above. . turned him. see on i. above, and cf. below. . after. afterwards; as in shakespeare, temp. ii. . : "and after bite me," etc. the word is not now used adverbially of time, though we may say "he followed after," etc. the st ed. reads "that knight." . parts. departs; as often in poetry and earlier english. cf. goldsmith, d. v. : "beside the bed where parting life was laid;" gray, elegy, : "the knell of parting day," etc. on the other hand, depart was used in the sense of part. in the marriage service "till death us do part" is a corruption of "till death us depart." wiclif's bible, in matt. xix. , has "therfor a man departe not that thing that god hath ioyned." . another step, etc. the ms. has "the loveliest lowland fair to spy;" and the st ed. reads "the step of parting fair to spy." . the graeme. scott has the following note here: "the ancient and powerful family of graham (which, for metrical reasons, is here smelled after the scottish pronunciation) held extensive possessions in the counties of dumbarton and stirling. few families can boast of more historical renown, having claim to three of the most remarkable characters in the scottish annals. sir john the graeme, the faithful and undaunted partaker of the labors and patriotic warfare of wallace, fell in the unfortunate field of falkirk, in . the celebrated marquis of montrose, in whom de retz saw realized his abstract idea of the heroes of antiquity, was the second of these worthies. and, not withstanding the severity of his temper, and the rigor with which he executed the oppressive mandates of the princes whom he served, i do not hesitate to name as the third, john graeme, of claverhouse, viscount of dundee, whose heroic death, in the arms of victory, may be allowed to cancel the memory of his cruelty to the non-conformists, during the reigns of charles ii. and james ii." . bower. the word meant a chamber (see on i. above), and was often used of the ladies' apartments in a house. in hall and bower = among men and women. the words are often thus associated. cf. spenser, astrophel, : "merily masking both in bowre and hall," etc. . arose. the st ed. misprints "across;" not noted in the errata. . and the proud march. see on i. above. . saint modan. a scotch abbot of the th century. scott says here: "i am not prepared to show that saint modan was a performer on the harp. it was, however, no unsaintly accomplishment; for saint dunstan certainly did play upon that instrument, which retaining, as was natural, a portion of the sanctity attached to its master's character, announced future events by its spontaneous sound. 'but labouring once in these mechanic arts for a devout matrone that had sett him on work, his violl, that hung by him on the wall, of its own accord, without anie man's helpe, distinctly sounded this anthime: gaudent in coelis animae sanctorum qui christi vestigia sunt secuti; et quia pro eius amore sanguinem suum fuderunt, ideo cum christo gaudent aeternum. whereat all the companie being much astonished, turned their eyes from beholding him working, to looke on that strange accident.... not long after, manie of the court that hitherunto had born a kind of fayned friendship towards him, began now greatly to envie at his progresse and rising in goodness, using manie crooked, backbiting meanes to diffame his vertues with the black markes of hypocrisie. and the better to authorise their calumnie, they brought in this that happened in the violl, affirming it to have been done by art magick. what more? this wicked rumour encreased, dayly, till the king and others of the nobilitie taking hould thereof, dunstan grew odious in their sight. therefore he resolued to leaue the court, and goe to elphegus, surnamed the bauld, then bishop of winchester, who was his cozen. which his enemies understanding, they layd wayte for him in the way, and hauing throwne him off his horse, beate him, and dragged him in the durt in the most miserable manner, meaning to have slaine him, had not a companie of mastiue dogges, that came unlookt uppon them, defended and redeemed him from their crueltie. when with sorrow he was ashamed to see dogges more humane than they. and giuing thankes to almightie god, he sensibly againe perceaued that the tunes of his violl had giuen him a warning of future accidents' (flower of the lives of the most renowned sainets of england, scotland, and ireland, by the r. father hierome porter. doway, to. tome i. p. ). "the same supernatural circumstance is alluded to by the anonymous author of grim, the collier of croydon: '-----[dunstant's harp sounds on the wall.] 'forrest. hark, hark, my lord, the holy abbot's harp sounds by itself so hanging on the wall! 'dunstan. unhallow'd man, that scorn'st the sacred rede, hark, how the testimony of my truth sounds heavenly music with an angel's hand, to testify dunstan's integrity, and prove thy active boast of no effect.'" . bothwell's bannered hall. the picturesque ruins of bothwell castle stand on the banks of the clyde, about nine miles above glasgow. some parts of the walls are feet thick, and feet in height. they are covered with ivy, wild roses, and wall-flowers. "the tufted grass lines bothwell's ancient hall, the fox peeps cautious from the creviced wall, where once proud murray, clydesdale's ancient lord, a mimic sovereign, held the festal board." . ere douglases, to ruin driven. scott says: "the downfall of the douglases of the house of angus, during the reign of james v., is the event alluded to in the text. the earl of angus, it will be remembered, had married the queen dowager, and availed himself of the right which he thus acquired, as well as of his extensive power, to retain the king in a sort of tutelage, which approached very near to captivity. several open attempts were made to rescue james from this thraldom, with which he was well known to be deeply disgusted; but the valor of the douglases, and their allies, gave them the victory in every conflict. at length, the king, while residing at falkland, contrived to escape by night out of his own court and palace, and rode full speed to stirling castle, where the governor, who was of the opposite faction, joyfully received him. being thus at liberty, james speedily summoned around him such peers as he knew to be most inimical to the domination of angus, and laid his complaint before them, says pitscottie, 'with great lamentations: showing to them how he was holding in subjection, thir years bygone, by the earl of angus, and his kin and friends, who oppressed the whole country, and spoiled it, under the pretence of justice and his authority; and had slain many of his lieges, kinsmen, and friends, because they would have had it mended at their hands, and put him at liberty, as he ought to have been, at the counsel of his whole lords, and not have been subjected and corrected with no particular men, by the rest of his nobles: therefore, said he, i desire, my lords, that i may be satisfied of the said earl, his kin, and friends; for i avow, that scotland shall not hold us both, while [i.e. till] i be revenged on him and his. 'the lords hearing the king's complaint and lamentation, and also the great rage, fury, and malice, that he bure toward the earl of angus, his kin and friends, they concluded all and thought it best, that he should be summoned to underly the law; if he fand not caution, nor yet compear himself, that he should be put to the horn, with all his kin and friends, so many as were contained in the letters. and further, the lords ordained, by advice of his majesty, that his brother and friends should be summoned to find caution to underly the law within a certain day, or else be put to the horn. but the earl appeared not, nor none for him; and so he was put to the horn, with all his kin and friends: so many as were contained in the summons, that compeared not, were banished, and holden traitors to the king.'" . from tweed to spey. from the tweed, the southern boundary of scotland, to the spey, a river far to the north in invernessshire; that is, from one end of the land to the other. . reave. tear away. the participle reft is still used, at least in poetry. cf. shakespeare, v. and a. : "or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life" (that is, bereaves); spenser, f. q. i. . : "he to him lept, in minde to reave his life;" id. ii. . : "i will him reave of arms," etc. . it drinks, etc. the ms. has "no blither dewdrop cheers the rose." , . to see... dance. this couplet is not in the ms. . the lady of the bleeding heart. the bleeding heart was the cognizance of the douglas family. robert bruce, on his death-bed, bequeathed his heart to his friend, the good lord james, to be borne in war against the saracens. "he joined alphonso, king of leon and castile, then at war with the moorish chief osurga, of granada, and in a keen contest with the moslems he flung before him the casket containing the precious relic, crying out, 'onward as thou wert wont, thou noble heart, douglas will follow thee.' douglas was slain, but his body was recovered, and also the precious casket, and in the end douglas was laid with his ancestors, and the heart of bruce deposited in the church of melrose abbey" (burton's hist. of scotland). . fair. the st ed. (and probably the ms., though not noted by lockhart) has "gay." . yet is this, etc. the ms. and st ed. read: "this mossy rock, my friend, to me is worth gay chair and canopy." . footstep. the reading of the st and other early eds.; "footsteps" in recent ones. . strathspey. a highland dance, which takes its name from the strath, or broad valley, of the spey ( above). . clan-alpine's pride. "the siol alpine, or race of alpine, includes several clans who claimed descent from kenneth mcalpine, an ancient king. these are the macgregors, the grants, the mackies, the mackinnans, the macnabs, the macquarries, and the macaulays. their common emblem was the pine, which is now confined to the macgregors" (taylor). . loch lomond. this beautiful lake, "the pride of scottish lakes," is about miles in length and miles in its greatest breadth. at the southern end are many islands, one of which, inch-cailliach (the island of women, so called from a nunnery that was once upon it), was the burial-place of clan-alpine. see iii. below. . a lennox foray. that is, a raid in the lands of the lennox family, bordering on the southern end of loch lomond. on the island of inch-murrin, the ruins of lennox castle, formerly a residence of the earls of lennox, are still to be seen. there was another of their strongholds on the shore of the lake near balloch, where the modern balloch castle now stands. . her glee. the st ed. misprints "his glee;" not noted in the errata. . black sir roderick. roderick dhu, or the black, as he was called. . in holy-rood a knight he slew. that is, in holyrood palace. "this was by no means an uncommon occurrence in the court of scotland; nay, the presence of the sovereign himself scarcely restrained the ferocious and inveterate feuds which were the perpetual source of bloodshed among the scottish nobility" (scott). . courtiers give place, etc. the ms. reads: "courtiers give place with heartless stride of the retiring homicide." . who else, etc. the ms. has the following couplet before this line: "who else dared own the kindred claim that bound him to thy mother's name?" . the douglas, etc. scott says here: "the exiled state of this powerful race is not exaggerated in this and subsequent passages. the hatred of james against the race of douglas was so inveterate, that numerous as their allies were, and disregarded as the regal authority had usually been in similar cases, their nearest friends, even in the most remote part of scotland, durst not entertain them, unless under the strictest and closest disguise. james douglas, son of the banished earl of angus, afterwards well known by the title of earl of morton, lurked, during the exile of his family, in the north of scotland, under the assumed name of james innes, otherwise james the grieve (i.e. reve or bailiff). 'and as he bore the name,' says godscroft, 'so did he also execute the office of a grieve or overseer of the lands and rents, the corn and cattle of him with whom he lived.' from the habits of frugality and observation which he acquired in his humble situation, the historian traces that intimate acquaintance with popular character which enabled him to rise so high in the state, and that honorable economy by which he repaired and established the shattered estates of angus and morton (history of the house of douglas, edinburgh, , vol. ii. p. )." . guerdon. reward; now rarely used except in poetry. cf. spenser, f. q. i. . : "that glory does to them for guerdon graunt," etc. . dispensation. as roderick and ellen were cousins, they could not marry without a dispensation from the pope. . orphan. referring to child, not to she, as its position indicates. . shrouds. shields, protects. cf. spenser, f. q. i. . : "and this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain" (that is, from the rain). so the noun = shelter, protection; as in shakespeare, a. and c. iii. . : "put yourself under his shroud," etc. see also on below. . maronnan's cell. "the parish of kilmaronock, at the eastern extremity of loch lomond, derives its name from a cell, or chapel, dedicated to saint maronock, or marnock, or maronnan, about whose sanctity very little is now remembered" (scott). kill = cell; as in colmekill (macb. ii. . ), "the cell of columba," now known as icolmkill, or iona. . bracklinn's thundering wave. this beautiful cascade is on the keltie, a mile from callander. the height of the fall is about fifty feet. "a few years ago a marriage party of lowland peasants met with a tragic end here, two of them having tumbled into the broken, angry waters, where they had no more chance of life than if they had dropped into the crater of hecla" (black). . save. unless; here followed by the subjunctive. . claymore. the word means "a large sword" (gaelic claidheamh, sword, and more, great). . shadowy plaid and sable plume. appropriate to roderick dhu. see on above. . woe the while. woe be to the time, alas the time! cf. shakespeare, j. c. i. . : "but, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead," etc. see also on i. above. . tine-man. "archibald, the third earl of douglas, was so unfortunate in all his enterprises, that he acquired the epithet of 'tine-man,' because he tined, or lost, his followers in every battle which he fought. he was vanquished, as every reader must remember, in the bloody battle of homildon-hill, near wooler, where he himself lost an eye, and was made prisoner by hotspur. he was no less unfortunate when allied with percy, being wounded and taken at the battle of shrewsbury. he was so unsuccessful in an attempt to beseige roxburgh castle, that it was called the 'foul raid,' or disgraceful expedition. his ill fortune left him indeed at the battle of beauge, in france; but it was only to return with double emphasis at the subsequent action of vernoil, the last and most unlucky of his encounters, in which he fell, with the flower of the scottish chivalry, then serving as auxiliaries in france, and about two thousand common soldiers, a.d. " (scott). . what time, etc. that is, at the time when douglas allied himself with percy in the rebellion against henry iv. of england. see shakespeare, hen. iv. . did, self unscabbarded, etc. scott says here: "the ancient warriors, whose hope and confidence rested chiefly in their blades, were accustomed to deduce omens from them, especially from such as were supposed to have been fabricated by enchanted skill, of which we have various instances in the romances and legends of the time. the wonderful sword skofnung, wielded by the celebrated hrolf kraka, was of this description. it was deposited in the tomb of the monarch at his death, and taken from thence by skeggo, a celebrated pirate, who bestowed it upon his son-in-law, kormak, with the following curious directions: '"the manner of using it will appear strange to you. a small bag is attached to it, which take heed not to violate. let not the rays of the sun touch the upper part of the handle, nor unsheathe it, unless thou art ready for battle. but when thou comest to the place of fight, go aside from the rest, grasp and extend the sword, and breathe upon it. then a small worm will creep out of the handle; lower the handle, that he may more easily return into it." kormak, after having received the sword, returned home to his mother. he showed the sword, and attempted to draw it, as unnecessarily as ineffectually, for he could not pluck it out of the sheath. his mother, dalla, exclaimed, "do not despise the counsel given to thee, my son." kormak, however, repeating his efforts, pressed down the handle with his feet, and tore off the bag, when skofung emitted a hollow groan; but still he could not unsheathe the sword. kormak then went out with bessus, whom he had challenged to fight with him, and drew apart at the place of combat. he sat down upon the ground, and ungirding the sword, which he bore above his vestments, did not remember to shield the hilt from the rays of the sun. in vain he endeavored to draw it, till he placed his foot against the hilt; then the worm issued from it. but kormak did not rightly handle the weapon, in consequence whereof good fortune deserted it. as he unsheathed skofnung, it emitted a hollow murmur' (bartholini de causis contemptae a danis adhuc gentilibus mortis, libri tres. hafniae, , to, p. ). "to the history of this sentient and prescient weapon, i beg leave to add, from memory, the following legend, for which i cannot produce any better authority. a young nobleman, of high hopes and fortune, chanced to lose his way in the town which he inhabited, the capital, if i mistake not, of a german province. he had accidentally involved himself among the narrow and winding streets of a suburb, inhabited by the lowest order of the people, and an approaching thunder-shower determined him to ask a short refuge in the most decent habitation that was near him. he knocked at the door, which was opened by a tall man, of a grisly and ferocious aspect, and sordid dress. the stranger was readily ushered to a chamber, where swords, scourges, and machines, which seemed to be implements of torture, were suspended on the wall. one of these swords dropped from its scabbard, as the nobleman, after a moment's hesitation, crossed the threshold. his host immediately stared at him with such a marked expression, that the young man could not help demanding his name and business, and the meaning of his looking at him so fixedly. 'i am,' answered the man, 'the public executioner of this city; and the incident you have observed is a sure augury that i shall, in discharge of my duty, one day cut off your head with the weapon which has just now spontaneously unsheathed itself.' the nobleman lost no time in leaving his place of refuge; but, engaging in some of the plots of the period, was shortly after decapitated by that very man and instrument. "lord lovat is said, by the author of the letters from scotland (vol. ii. p. ), to have affirmed that a number of swords that hung up in the hall of the mansion-house, leaped of themselves out of the scabbard at the instant he was born. the story passed current among his clan, but, like that of the story i have just quoted, proved an unfortunate omen." . if courtly spy hath, etc. the st ed. has "if courtly spy, and harbored," etc. the ed. of reads "had harbored." . beltane. the first of may, when there was a celtic festival in honor of the sun. beltane = beal-tein, or the fire of beal, a gaelic name for the sun. it was celebrated by kindling fires on the hill-tops at night, and other ceremonies, followed by dances, and merry-making. cf. below. see also the lord of the isles, i. : "the shepherd lights his belane-fire;" and glenfinlas: "but o'er his hills, in festal day, how blazed lord ronald's beltane-tree!" . but hark! etc. "the moving picture--the effect of the sounds--and the wild character and strong peculiar nationality of the whole procession, are given with inimitable spirit and power of expression" (jeffrey). . the canna's hoary beard. the down of the canna, or cotton-grass. . glengyle. a valley at the northern end of lock katrine. . brianchoil. a promontory on the northern shore of the lake. . spears, pikes, and axes. the st ed. and that of have spears, but all the recent ones misprint "spear." the "globe" ed. has "spear, spikes," etc. . tartans. the checkered woollen cloth so much worn in scotland. curiously enough, the name is not gaelic but french. see jamieson or wb. brave. fine, beautiful; the same word as the scottish braw. cf. shakespeare, sonn. . : "and see the brave day sunk in hideous night;" ham. ii. . : "this brave o'erhanging firmament," etc. it is often used of dress, as also is bravery (= finery); as in t. of s. iv. . : "with scarfs and fans and double change of bravery." see also spenser, mother hubberds tale, : "which oft maintain'd his masters braverie" (that is, dressed as well as his master). . chanters. the pipes of the bagpipes, to which long ribbons were attached. . the sounds. misprinted "the sound" in the ed. of , and all the more recent eds. that we have seen. cf. below. . those thrilling sounds, etc. scott says here: "the connoisseurs in pipe-music affect to discover in a well-composed pibroch, the imitative sounds of march, conflict, flight, pursuit, and all the 'current of a heady fight.' to this opinion dr. beattie has given his suffrage, in that following elegant passage:--'a pibroch is a species of tune, peculiar, i think, to the highlands and western isles of scotland. it is performed on a bagpipe, and differs totally from all other music. its rhythm is so irregular, and its notes, especially in the quick movement, so mixed and huddled together, that a stranger finds it impossible to reconcile his ear to it, so as to perceive its modulation. some of these pibrochs, being intended to represent a battle, begin with a grave motion, resembling a march; then gradually quicken into the onset; run off with noisy confusion, and turbulent rapidity, to imitate the conflict and pursuit; then swell into a few flourishes of triumphant joy; and perhaps close with the wild and slow wailings of a funeral procession' (essay on laughter and ludicrious composition, chap. iii. note)." . hurrying. referring to their, or rather to the them implied in that word. . the burden bore. that is, sustained the burden, or chorus, of the song. cf. shakespeare, temp. i. . : "and, sweet sprites, the burden bear." . hail to the chief, etc. the metre of the song is dactylic; the accents being on the st, th, th, and th syllables. it is little used in english. tennyson's charge of the light brigade and longfellow's skeleton in armor are familiar examples of it. . bourgeon. bud. cf. fairfax, tasso, vii. : when first on trees bourgeon the blossoms soft;" and tennyson, in memoriam, : "now burgeons every maze of quick about the flowering squares," etc. . roderigh vich alpine dhu. "besides his ordinary name and surname, which were chiefly used in the intercourse with the lowlands, every highland chief had an epithet expressive of his patriarchal dignity as head of the clan, and which was common to all his predecessors and successors, as pharaoh to the kings of egypt, or arsaces to those of parthia. this name was usually a patronymic, expressive of his descent from the founder of the family. thus the duke of argyll is called maccallum more, or the son of colin the great. sometimes, however, it is derived from armorial distinctions, or the memory of some great feat; thus lord seaforth, as chief of the mackenzies, or clan-kennet, bears the epithet of caber-fae, or buck's head, as representative of colin fitzgerald, founder of the family, who saved the scottish king, when endangered by a stag. but besides this title, which belonged to his office and dignity, the chieftain had usually another peculiar to himself, which distinguished him from the chieftains of the same race. this was sometimes derived from complexion, as dhu or roy; sometimes from size, as beg or more; at other times, from some peculiar exploit, or from some peculiarity of habit or appearance. the line of the text therefore signifies, black roderick, the descendant of alpine. "the song itself is intended as an imitation of the jorrams, or boat songs, of the highlanders, which were usually composed in honor of a favorite chief. they are so adapted as to keep time with the sweep of the oars, and it is easy to distinguish between those intended to be sung to the oars of a galley, where the stroke is lengthened and doubled, as it were, and those which were timed to the rowers of an ordinary boat" (scott). . beltane. see on above. . roots him. see on i. above. . breadalbane. the district north of loch lomond and around loch tay. the seat of the earl of breadalbane is taymouth castle, near the northern end of loch tay. for menteith, see on i. above. . glen fruin. a valley to the southwest of loch lomond. the ruins of the castle of benuchara, or bannochar (see on just below), still overhang the entrance to the glen. glen luss is another valley draining into the lake, a few miles from glen fruin, and ross-dhu is on the shore of the lake, midway between the two. here stands a tower, the only remnant of the ancient castle of the family of luss, which became merged in that of colquhoun. . the best of loch lomond, etc. scott has the following note here: "the lennox, as the district is called which encircles the lower extremity of loch lomond, was peculiarly exposed to the incursions of the mountaineers, who inhabited the inaccessible fastnesses at the upper end of the lake, and the neighboring district of loch katrine. these were often marked by circumstances of great ferocity, of which the noted conflict of glen fruin is a celebrated instance. this was a clan-battle, in which the macgregors, headed by allaster macgregor, chief of the clan, encountered the sept of colquhouns, commanded by sir humphry colquhoun of luss. it is on all hands allowed that the action was desperately fought, and that the colquhouns were defeated with slaughter, leaving two hundred of their name dead upon the field. but popular tradition has added other horrors to the tale. it is said that sir humphry colquhoun, who was on horseback, escaped to the castle of benechra, or bannochar, and was next day dragged out and murdered by the victorious macgregors in cold blood. buchanan of auchmar, however, speaks of his slaughter as a subsequent event, and as perpetrated by the macfarlanes. again, it is reported that the macgregors murdered a number of youths, whom report of the intended battle had brought to be spectators, and whom the colquhouns, anxious for their safety, had shut up in a barn to be out of danger. one account of the macgregors denies this circumstance entirely; another ascribes it to the savage and bloodthirsty disposition of a single individual, the bastard brother of the laird of macgregor, who amused himself with this second massacre of the innocents, in express disobedience to the chief, by whom he was left their guardian during the pursuit of the colquhouns. it is added that macgregor bitterly lamented this atrocious action, and prophesied the ruin which it must bring upon their ancient clan. ... "the consequences of the battle of glen fruin were very calamitous to the family of macgregor, who had already been considered as an unruly clan. the widows of the slain colquhouns, sixty, it is said, in number, appeared in doleful procession before the king at stirling, each riding upon a white palfrey, and bearing in her hand the bloody shirt of her husband displayed upon a pike. james vi. was so much moved by the complaints of this 'choir of mourning dames,' that he let loose his vengeance against the macgregors without either bounds or moderation. the very name of the clan was proscribed, and those by whom it had been borne were given up to sword and fire, and absolutely hunted down by bloodhounds like wild beasts. argyll and the campbells, on the one hand, montrose, with the grahames and buchanans, on the other, are said to have been the chief instruments in suppressing this devoted clan. the laird of macgregor surrendered to the former, on condition that he would take him out of scottish ground. but, to use birrel's expression, he kept 'a highlandman's promise;' and, although he fulfilled his word to the letter, by carrying him as far as berwick, he afterwards brought him back to edinburgh, where he was executed with eighteen of his clan (birrel's diary, d oct. ). the clan gregor being thus driven to utter despair, seem to have renounced the laws from the benefit of which they were excluded, and their depredations produced new acts of council, confirming the severity of their proscription, which had only the effect of rendering them still more united and desperate. it is a most extraordinary proof of the ardent and invincible spirit of clanship, that notwithstanding the repeated proscriptions providently ordained by the legislature, 'for the timeous preventing the disorders and oppression that may fall out by the said name and clan of macgregors, and their followers,' they were, in and , a potent clan, and continue to subsist as a distinct and numerous race." . leven-glen. the valley of the leven, which connects loch lomond with the clyde. . the rosebud. that is, ellen. "note how this song connects allan's forebodings with roderick's subsequent offer" (taylor). . and chorus wild, etc. the ms. has "the chorus to the chieftain's fame." . weeped. the form is used for the rhyme. cf. note on i. above. . nor while, etc. the ms. reads: "nor while on ellen's faltering tongue her filial greetings eager hung, marked not that awe (affection's proof) still held yon gentle youth aloof; no! not till douglas named his name, although the youth was malcolm graeme. then with flushed cheek and downcast eye, their greeting was confused and shy." . bothwell. see on above. . percy's norman pennon. taken in the raid which led to the battle of otterburn, in northumberland, in the year , and which forms the theme of the ballads of chevy chase. . my pomp. my triumphal procession; the original meaning of pomp. . crescent. the badge of the buccleuch family (miss yonge). . blantyre. a priory, the ruins of which are still to be seen on a height above the clyde, opposite bothwell castle. . the dogs, etc. the ms. has "the dogs with whimpering notes repaid." . unhooded. the falcon was carried on the wrist, with its head covered, or hooded, until the prey was seen, when it was unhooded for flight. cf. vi. below. . trust. believe me. . like fabled goddess. the ms. has "like fabled huntress;" referring of course to diana. . stature fair. the reading of the st ed. and that of ; "stature tall" in most of the other eds. . the ptarmigan. a white bird. . menteith. see on i. above. . ben lomond. this is much the highest ( feet) of the mountains on the shores of loch lomond. the following lines on the ascent were scratched upon the window-pane of the old inn at tarbet a hundred years or more ago: "trust not at first a quick adventurous pace; six miles its top points gradual from its base; up the high rise with panting haste i past, and gained the long laborious steep at last; more prudent thou--when once you pass the deep, with cautious steps and slow ascend the steep." . not a sob. that is, without panting, or getting out of breath, like the degenerate modern tourist. . glenfinlas. a wooded valley between ben-an and benledi, the entrance to which is between lochs achray and vennachar. it is the scene of scott's ballad, glenfinlas, or lord ronald's coronach. a mile from the entrance are the falls of the hero's targe. see iv. below. . still a royal ward. still under age, with the king for guardian. . strath-endrick. a valley to the southeast of loch lomond, drained by endrick water. . peril aught. incur any peril. milton uses the verb intransitively in reason of church government, ii. : "it may peril to stain itself." . not in action. the st ed. has "nor in action." . news. now generally used as a singular; but in old writers both as singular and as plural. cf. shakespeare, k. john, iii. . : "at that news he dies;" and id. v. . : "these dead news," etc. . as. as if. see on above. . glozing. that glosses over the truth, not plain and outspoken. sometimes it means to flatter, or deceive with smooth words; as in spenser, f. q. iii. . : "for he could well his glozing speeches frame to such vaine uses that him best became;" smith, sermons (a. d. ): "every smooth tale is not to be believed; and every glosing tongue is not to be trusted;" milton, p. l. iii. : "his glozing lies;" id. ix. : "so glozed the tempter;" comus, : "well-placed words of glozing courtesy," etc. . the king's vindictive pride, etc. scott says here: "in , james made a convention at edinburgh, for the purpose of considering the best mode of quelling the border robbers, who, during the license of his minority, and the troubles which followed, had committed many exorbitances. accordingly he assembled a flying army of ten thousand men, consisting of his principal nobility and their followers, who were directed to bring their hawks and dogs with them, that the monarch might refresh himself with sport during the intervals of military execution. with this array he swept through ettrick forest, where he hanged over the gate of his own castle piers cockburn of henderland, who had prepared, according to tradition, a feast for his reception. he caused adam scott of tushiclaw also to be executed, who was distinguished by the title of king of the border. but the most noted victim of justice during that expedition was john armstrong of gilnockie, famous in scottish song, who, confiding in his own supposed innocence, met the king, with a retinue of thirty-six persons, all of whom were hanged at carlenrig, near the source of the teviot. the effect of this severity was such, that, as the vulgar expressed it, 'the rush-bush kept the cow,' and 'thereafter was great peace and rest a long time, wherethrough the king had great profit; for he had ten thousand sheep going in the ettrick forest in keeping by andrew bell, who made the king as good count of them as they had gone in the bounds of fife' (pitscottie's history, p. )." . meggat's mead. the meggat, or megget, is a mountain stream flowing into the yarrow, a branch of the etrrick, which is itself a branch of the tweed. the teviot is also a branch of the tweed. . the dales, etc. the ms. has "the dales where clans were wont to bide." . by fate of border chivalry. scott says: "james was, in fact, equally attentive to restrain rapine and feudal oppression in every part of his dominions. 'the king past to the isles, and there held justice courts, and punished both thief and traitor according to their demerit. and also he caused great men to show their holdings, wherethrough he found many of the said lands in non-entry; the which he confiscate and brought home to his own use, and afterwards annexed them to the crown, as ye shall hear. syne brought many of the great men of the isles captive with him, such as mudyart, m'connel, m'loyd of the lewes, m'neil, m'lane, m'intosh, john mudyart, m'kay, m'kenzie, with many other that i cannot rehearse at this time. some of them he put in ward and some in court, and some he took pledges for good rule in time coming. so he brought the isles, both north and south, in good rule and peace; wherefore he had great profit, service, and obedience of people a long time hereafter; and as long as he had the heads of the country in subjection, they lived in great peace and rest, and there was great riches and policy by the king's justice' (pitscottie, p. )." . your counsel. that is, give me your counsel. streight = strait. . the bleeding heart. see on above. . quarry. see on i. above. . to wife. for wife. cf. shakespeare, temp. ii. . : "such a paragon to their queen;" rich. ii. iv. . : "i have a king here to my flatterer," etc. see also matt. iii. , luke, iii. , etc. . enow. the old plural of enough; as in shakespeare, hen. v. iv. . : "we have french quarrels enow," etc. . the links of forth. the windings of the forth between stirling and alloa. . stirling's porch. the gate of stirling castle. . blench. start, shrink. . heat. misprinted "heart" in many eds. . from pathless glen. the ms. has "from hill and glen." . there are who have. for the ellipsis, cf. shakespeare, temp. ii. . : "there be that can rule naples," etc. see also iii. below. . that beetled o'er. cf. hamlet, i. . : "the dreadful summit of the cliff that beetles o'er his base into the sea." . their dangerous dream. the ms. has "their desperate dream." . battled. battlemented; as in vi. below. . it waved. that it waved; an ellipsis very common in elizabethan and earlier english. cf. below. . astound. astounded. this contraction of the participle (here used for the sake of the rhyme) was formerly not uncommon in verbs ending in d and t. thus in shakespeare we find the participles bloat (ham. iii. . ), enshield (m. for m. ii. . ), taint ( hen. vi. v. . ), etc. . crossing. conflicting. . ere. the st ed. misprints "e'er." . level. aim; formerly a technical term. cf. hen. iv. iii. . : "the foeman may with as great aim level at the edge of a penknife," etc. . nighted. benighted. it is to be regarded as a contraction of that word; like lated for belated in macbeth, iii. . , etc. nighted (= dark, black) in hamlet, i. . ("thy nighted colour") is an adjective formed from the noun night. . checkered shroud. tartain plaid. the original meaning of shroud (see wb.) was garment. . parting. departing. see on above. . so deep, etc. according to lockhart, the ms. reads: "the deep-toned anguish of despair flushed, in fierce jealousy, to air;" but we suspect that "flushed" should be "flashed." . so lately. at the "beltane game" ( above). . thus as they strove, etc. the ms. reads: "thus, as they strove, each better hand grasped for the dagger or the brand." . i hold, etc. scott has the following note on the last page of the st ed.: "the author has to apologize for the inadvertent appropriation of a whole line from the tragedy of douglas: 'i hold the first who strikes my foe.'" . his daughter's hand, etc. for the ellipsis of that, see on above. deemed is often misprinted "doomed." . sullen and slowly, etc. the ms. reads: "sullen and slow the rivals bold loosed at his hest their desperate hold, but either still on other glared," etc. . brands. a pet word with scott. note how often it has been used already in the poem. . as faltered. see on above. . pity 't were, etc. scott says here: "hardihood was in every respect so essential to the character of a highlander, that the reproach of effeminacy was the most bitter which could be thrown upon him. yet it was sometimes hazarded on what we might presume to think slight grounds. it is reported of old sir ewen cameron of lochiel, when upwards of seventy, that he was surprised by night on a hunting or military expedition. he wrapped him in his plaid, and lay contentedly down upon the snow, with which the ground happened to be covered. among his attendants, who were preparing to take their rest in the same manner, he observed that one of his grandsons, for his better accommodation, had rolled a large snow-ball, and placed it below his head. the wrath of the ancient chief was awakened by a symptom of what he conceived to be degenerate luxury. 'out upon thee,' said he, kicking the frozen bolster from the head which it supported, 'art thou so effeminate as to need a pillow?' the officer of engineers, whose curious letters from the highlands have been more than once quoted, tells a similar story of macdonald of keppoch, and subjoins the following remarks: 'this and many other stories are romantick; but there is one thing, that at first thought might seem very romantick, of which i have been credibly assured, that when the highlanders are constrained to lie among the hills, in cold dry weather, they sometimes soak the plaid in some river or burn (i.e. brook), and then holding up a corner of it a little above their heads, they turn themselves round and round, till they are enveloped by the whole mantle. they then lay themselves down on the heath, upon the leeward side of some hill, where the wet and the warmth of their bodies make a steam, like that of a boiling kettle. the wet, they say, keeps them warm by thickening the stuff, and keeping the wind from penetrating. i must confess i should have been apt to question this fact, had i not frequently seen them wet from morning to night, and, even at the beginning of the rain, not so much as stir a few yards to shelter, but continue in it without necessity, till they were, as we say, wet through and through. and that is soon effected by the looseness and spunginess of the plaiding; but the bonnet is frequently taken off, and wrung like a dishclout, and then put on again. they have been accustomed from their infancy to be often wet, and to take the water like spaniels, and this is become a second nature, and can scarcely be called a hardship to them, insomuch that i used to say, they seemed to be of the duck kind, and to love water as well. though i never saw this preparation for sleep in windy weather, yet, setting out early in a morning from one of the huts, i have seen the marks of their lodging, where the ground has been free from rime or snow, which remained all round the spot where they had lain' (letters from scotland, lond. , vo, ii. p. )." . his henchman. scott quotes again the letters from scotland (ii. ): "this officer is a sort of secretary, and is to be ready, upon all occasions, to venture his life in defence of his master; and at drinking-bouts he stands behind his seat, at his haunch, from whence his title is derived, and watches the conversation, to see if any one offends his patron. an english officer being in company with a certain chieftain, and several other highland gentlemen, near killichumen, had an argument with the great man; and both being well warmed with usky [whisky], at last the dispute grew very hot. a youth who was henchman, not understanding one word of english, imagined his chief was insulted, and thereupon drew his pistol from his side, and snapped it at the officer's head; but the pistol missed fire, otherwise it is more than probable he might have suffered death from the hand of that little vermin. but it is very disagreeable to an englishman over a bottle with the highlanders, to see every one of them have his gilly, that is, his servant, standing behind him all the while, let what will be the subject of conversation." . on the morn. modifying should circle, not the nearer verb had sworn. . the fiery cross. see on iii. below. . point. point out, appoint. cf. shakespeare, sonn. . : "nor can i fortune to brief minutes tell, pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind." the word in this and similar passages is generally printed "'point" by modern editors, but it is not a contraction of appoint. . then plunged, etc. the ms. has "he spoke, and plunged into the tide." . steered him. see on i. above. , . darkening... gave. in the st ed. these lines are joined to what precedes, as they evidently should be; in all the more recent eds. they are joined to what follows. canto third. . store. see on i. above. . that be. in old english, besides the present tense am, etc., there was also this form be, from the anglo-saxon beon. the d person singular was beest. the st and d person plural be is often found in shakespeare and the bible. . yet live there still, etc. see on ii. above. . what time. cf. ii. above. . the gathering sound. the sound, or signal, for the gathering. the phrase illustrates the difference between the participle and the verbal noun (or whatever it may be called) in -ing. cf. "a laboring man" and "a laboring day" (julius caesar, i. . ); and see our ed. of j. c. p. . . the fiery cross. scott says here: "when a chieftain designed to summon his clan, upon any sudden or important emergency, he slew a goat, and making a cross of any light wood, seared its extremities in the fire, and extinguished them in the blood of the animal. this was called the fiery cross, also crean tarigh, or the cross of shame, because disobedience to what the symbol implied, inferred infamy. it was delivered to a swift and trusty messenger, who ran full speed with it to the next hamlet, where he presented it to the principal person, with a single word, implying the place of rendezvous. he who received the symbol was bound to send it forward, with equal despatch, to the next village; and thus it passed with incredible celerity through all the district which owed allegiance to the chief, and also among his allies and neighbours, if the danger was common to them. at sight of the fiery cross, every man, from sixteen years old to sixty, capable of bearing arms, was obliged instantly to repair, in his best arms and accoutrements, to the place of rendezvous. he who failed to appear suffered the extremities of fire and sword, which were emblematically denounced to the disobedient by the bloody and burnt marks upon this warlike signal. during the civil war of - , the fiery cross often made its circuit; and upon one occasion it passed through the whole district of breadalbane, a tract of thirty-two miles, in three hours. the late alexander stewart, esq., of invernahyle, described to me his having sent round the fiery cross through the district of appine, during the same commotion. the coast was threatened by a descent from two english trigates, and the flower of the young men were with the army of prince charles edward, then in england; yet the summons was so effectual that even old age and childhood obeyed it; and a force was collected in a few hours, so numerous and so enthusiastic, that all attempt at the intended diversion upon the country of the absent warriors was in prudence abandoned, as desperate." . the summer dawn's reflected hue, etc. mr. ruskin says (modern painters, iii. ): "and thus nature becomes dear to scott in a threefold way: dear to him, first, as containing those remains or memories of the past, which he cannot find in cities, and giving hope of praetorian mound or knight's grave in every green slope and shade of its desolate places; dear, secondly, in its moorland liberty, which has for him just as high a charm as the fenced garden had for the mediaeval;... and dear to him, finally, in that perfect beauty, denied alike in cities and in men, for which every modern heart had begun at last to thirst, and scott's, in its freshness and power, of all men's most earnestly. "and in this love of beauty, observe that the love of colour is a leading element, his healthy mind being incapable of losing, under any modern false teaching, its joy in brilliancy of hue. ... in general, if he does not mean to say much about things, the one character which he will give is colour, using it with the most perfect mastery and faithfulness." after giving many illustrations of scott's use of colour in his poetry, ruskin quotes the present passage, which he says is "still more interesting, because it has no form in it at all except in one word (chalice), but wholly composes its imagery either of colour, or of that delicate half-believed life which we have seen to be so important an element in modern landscape." "two more considerations," he adds, "are, however, suggested by the above passage. the first, that the love of natural history, excited by the continual attention now given to all wild landscape, heightens reciprocally the interest of that landscape, and becomes an important element in scott's description, leading him to finish, down to the minutest speckling of breast, and slightest shade of attributed emotion, the portraiture of birds and animals; in strange opposition to homer's slightly named 'sea-crows, who have care of the works of the sea,' and dante's singing-birds, of undefined species. compare carefully the d and d stanzas of rokeby. "the second point i have to note is scott's habit of drawing a slight moral from every scene,... and that this slight moral is almost always melancholy. here he has stopped short without entirely expressing it: "the mountain-shadows.. ..................... lie like future joys to fancy's eye.' his completed thought would be, that these future joys, like the mountain-shadows, were never to be attained. it occurs fully uttered in many other places. he seems to have been constantly rebuking his own worldly pride and vanity, but never purposefully: 'the foam-globes on her eddies ride, thick as the schemes of human pride that down life's current drive amain, as frail, as frothy, and as vain.'" ruskin adds, among other illustrations, the reference to "foxglove and nightshade" in i. , above. . like future joys, etc. this passage, quoted by ruskin above, also illustrates what is comparatively rare in figurative language--taking the immaterial to exemplify the material. the latter is constantly used to symbolize or elucidate the former; but one would have to search long in our modern poetry to find a dozen instances where, as here, the relation is reversed. cf. below. we have another example in the second passage quoted by ruskin. cf. also tennyson's "thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, that like a broken purpose waste in air;" and shelly's "our boat is asleep on serchio's stream; its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream." . reared. the st ed. has "oped." . after this line the ms. has the couplet, "invisible in fleecy cloud, the lark sent down her matins loud," which reappears in altered form below. . gray mist. the ms. has "light mist." . good-morrow gave, etc. cf. byron, childe harold: "and the bills of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass." . cushat dove. ring-dove. . his impatient blade. note the "transferred epithet." it is not the blade that is impatient. . beneath a rock, etc. the ms. reads: "hard by, his vassals' early care the mystic ritual prepare." . antiquity. the men of old; "the abstract for the concrete." . with her broad shadow, etc. cf. longfellow, maidenhood: "seest thou shadows sailing by, as the dove, with startled eye, sees the falcon's shadow fly?" . rowan. the mountain-ash. . that monk, of savage form and face. scott says here: "the state of religion in the middle ages afforded considerable facilities for those whose mode of life excluded them from regular worship, to secure, nevertheless, the ghostly assistance of confessors, perfectly willing to adapt the nature of their doctrine to the necessities and peculiar circumstances of their flock. robin hood, it is well known, had his celebrated domestic chaplain friar tuck. and that same curtal friar was probably matched in manners and appearance by the ghostly fathers of the tynedale robbers, who are thus described in an excommunication fulminated against their patrons by richard fox, bishop of durham, tempore henrici viii.: 'we have further understood, that there are many chaplains in the said territories of tynedale and redesdale, who are public and open maintainers of concubinage, irregular, suspended, excommunicated, and interdicted persons, and withal so utterly ignorant of letters, that it has been found by those who objected this to them, that there were some who, having celebrated mass for ten years, were still unable to read the sacramental service. we have also understood there are persons among them who, although not ordained, do take upon them the offices of priesthood, and, in contempt of god, celebrate the divine and sacred rites, and administer the sacraments, not only in sacred and dedicated places, but in those which are prophane and interdicted, and most wretchedly ruinous, they themselves being attired in ragged, torn, and most filthy vestments, altogether unfit to be used in divine, or even in temporal offices. the which said chaplains do administer sacraments and sacramental rites to the aforesaid manifest and infamous thieves, robbers, depredators, receivers of stolen goods, and plunderers, and that without restitution, or intention to restore, as evinced by the act; and do also openly admit them to the rites of ecclesiastical sepulchre, without exacting security for restitution, although they are prohibited from doing so by the sacred canons, as well as by the institutes of the saints and fathers. all which infers the heavy peril of their own souls, and is a pernicious example to the other believers in christ, as well as no slight, but an aggravated injury, to the numbers despoiled and plundered of their goods, gear, herds, and chattels.'" . benharrow. a mountain near the head of loch lomond. . brook. see on i. above. . the hallowed creed. the christian creed, as distinguished from heathen lore. the ms. has "while the blest creed," etc. . bound. that is, of his haunts. . glen or strath. a glen is the deep and narrow valley of a small stream, a strath the broader one of a river. . he prayed, etc. the ms. reads: "he prayed, with many a cross between, and terror took devotion's mien." . of brian's birth, etc. scott says that the legend which follows is not of his invention, and goes on to show that it is taken with slight variation from "the geographical collections made by the laird of macfarlane." . bucklered. served as a buckler to, shielded. . snood. cf. i. above. scott has the following note here: "the snood, or riband, with which as scottish lass braided her hair, had an emblematical signification, and applied to her maiden character. it was exchanged for the curch, toy, or coif, when she passed, by marriage, into the matron state. but if the damsel was so unfortunate as to lose pretensions to the name of maiden, without gaining a right to that of matron, she was neither permitted to use the snood, nor advanced to the graver dignity of the curch. in old scottish songs there occur many sly allusions to such misfortune; as in the old words to the popular tune of 'ower the muir amang the heather:' 'down amang the broom, the broom, down amang the broom, my dearie, the lassie lost her silken snood, that gard her greet till she was wearie.'" . or... or. for either... or, as often in poetry. . till, frantic, etc. the ms. reads: "till, driven to frenzy, he believed the legend of his birth received." . the cloister. here personified as feminine. . sable-lettered. "black-letter;" the technical term for the "old english" form of letter, used in the earliest english manuscripts and books. . cabala. mysteries. for the original meaning of the word, see wb. . curious. inquisitive, prying into hidden things. . hid him. see on i. above. . the desert gave him, etc. scott says here: "in adopting the legend concerning the birth of the founder of the church of kilmallie, the author has endeavored to trace the effects which such a belief was likely to produce, in a barbarous age, on the person to whom it related. it seems likely that he must have become a fanatic or an impostor, or that mixture of both which forms a more frequent character than either of them, as existing separately. in truth, mad persons are frequently more anxious to impress upon others a faith in their visions, than they are themselves confirmed in their reality; as, on the other hand, it is difficult for the most cool-headed impostor long to personate an enthusiast, without in some degree believing what he is so eager to have believed. it was a natural attribute of such a character as the supposed hermit, that he should credit the numerous superstitions with which the minds of ordinary highlanders are almost always imbued. a few of these are slightly alluded to in this stanza. the river demon, or river-horse, for it is that form which he commonly assumes, is the kelpy of the lowlands, an evil and malicious spirit, delighting to forebode and to witness calamity. he frequents most highland lakes and rivers; and one of his most memorable exploits was performed upon the banks of loch vennachar, in the very district which forms the scene of our action: it consisted in the destruction of a funeral procession, with all its attendants. the 'noontide hag,' called in gaelic glas-lich, a tall, emaciated, gigantic female figure, is supposed in particular to haunt the district of knoidart. a goblin dressed in antique armor, and having one hand covered with blood, called, from that circumstance, lham-dearg, or red-hand, is a tenant of the forests of glenmore and rothiemurcus. other spirits of the desert, all frightful in shape and malignant in disposition, are believed to frequent different mountains and glens of the highlands, where any unusual appearance, produced by mist, or the strange lights that are sometimes thrown upon particular objects, never fails to present an apparition to the imagination of the solitary and melancholy mountaineer." . mankind. accented on the first syllable; as it is almost invariably in shakespeare, except in timon of athens, where the modern accent prevails. milton uses either accent, as suits the measure. we find both in p. l. viii. : "above mankind, or aught than mankind higher." . alpine's. some eds. misprint "alpine;" also "horsemen" in below. . the fatal ben-shie's boding scream. the ms. reads: "the fatal ben-shie's dismal scream, and seen her wrinkled form, the sign of woe and death to alpine's line." scott has the following note here: "most great families in the highlands were supposed to have a tutelar, or rather a domestic, spirit, attached to them, who took an interest in their prosperity, and intimated, by its wailings, any approaching disaster. that of grant of grant was called may moullach, and appeared in the form of a girl, who had her arm covered with hair. grant of rothiemurcus had an attendant called bodach-an-dun, or the ghost of the hill; and many other examples might be mentioned. the ben-shie implies the female fairy whose lamentations were often supposed to precede the death of a chieftain of particular families. when she is visible, it is in the form of an old woman, with a blue mantle and streaming hair. a superstition of the same kind is, i believe, universally received by the inferior ranks of the native irish. "the death of the head of a highland family is also sometimes supposed to be announced by a chain of lights of different colours, called dr'eug, or death of the druid. the direction which it takes marks the place of the funeral." [see the essay on fairy superstitions in scott's border minstrelsy.] . sounds, too, had come, etc. scott says: "a presage of the kind alluded to in the text, is still believed to announce death to the ancient highland family of m'lean of lochbuy. the spirit of an ancestor slain in battle is heard to gallop along a stony bank, and then to ride thrice around the family residence, ringing his fairy bridle, and thus intimating the approaching calamity. how easily the eye as well as the ear may be deceived upon such occasions, is evident from the stories of armies in the air, and other spectral phenomena with which history abounds. such an apparition is said to have been witnessed upon the side of southfell mountain, between penrith and keswick, upon the d june, , by two persons, william lancaster of blakehills, and daniel stricket his servant, whose attestation to the fact, with a full account of the apparition, dated the st of july, , is printed in clarke's survey of the lakes. the apparition consisted of several troops of horse moving in regular order, with a steady rapid motion, making a curved sweep around the fell, and seeming to the spectators to disappear over the ridge of the mountain. many persons witnessed this phenomenon, and observed the last, or last but one, of the supposed troop, occasionally leave his rank, and pass, at a gallop, to the front, when he resumed the steady pace. the curious appearance, making the necessary allowance for imagination, may be perhaps sufficiently accounted for by optical deception." . shingly. gravelly, pebbly. . thunderbolt. the st ed. has "thunder too." . framed. the reading of the st ed.; commonly misprinted "formed," which occurs in . . limbs. the st ed. has "limb." . inch-cailliach. scott says: "inch-cailliach, the isle of nuns, or of old women, is a most beautiful island at the lower extremity of loch lomond. the church belonging to the former nunnery was long used as the place of worship for the parish of buchanan, but scarce any vestiges of it now remain. the burial-ground continues to be used, and contains the family places of sepulture of several neighboring clans. the monuments of the lairds of macgregor, and of other families claiming a descent from the old scottish king alpine, are most remarkable. the highlanders are as zealous of their rights of sepulture as may be expected from a people whose whole laws and government, if clanship can be called so, turned upon the single principle of family descent. 'may his ashes be scattered on the water,' was one of the deepest and most solemn imprecations which they used against an enemy." [see a detailed description of the funeral ceremonies of a highland chieftain in the fair maid of perth.] . dwelling low. that is, burial-place. . each clansman's execration, etc. the ms. reads: "our warriors, on his worthless bust, shall speak disgrace and woe;" and below: "their clattering targets hardly strook; and first they muttered low." . stook. one of the old forms of struck. in the early eds. of shakespeare, we find struck, stroke, and strook (or strooke) for the past tense, and all these, together with stricken, strucken, stroken, and strooken, for the participle. cf. milton, hymn of nativity, : "when such music sweet their hearts and ears did greet as never was by mortal finger strook;" where, as here, it used for the sake of the rhyme. . then, like the billow, etc. the repetition of the same rhyme here gives well the cumulative effect of the rising billow. . burst, with load roar. see on i. above; and cf. below. . holiest name. the ms. has "holy name." . mingled with childhood's babbling trill, etc. "the whole of this stanza is very impressive; the mingling of the children's curses is the climax of horror. note the meaning of the triple curse. the cross is of ancestral yew--the defaulter is cut off from communion with his clan; it is sealed in the fire--the fire shall destroy his dwelling; it is dipped in blood--his heart's blood is to be shed" (taylor). . coir-uriskin. see on below. . beala-nam-bo. "the pass of the cattle," on the other side of benvenue from the goblin's cave; "a magnificent glade, overhung with birch-trees, by which the cattle, taken in forays, were conveyed within the protection of the trosachs" (black). . this sign. that is, the cross. to all, which we should not expect with bought, was apparently suggested by the antithetical to him in the preceding line; but if all the editions did not read bought, we might suspect that scott wrote brought. . the murmur, etc. the ms. has "the slowly muttered deep amen." . the muster-place, etc. the ms. reads "murlagan is the spot decreed." lanrick mead is a meadow at the northwestern end of loch vennachar. . the dun deer's hide, etc. scott says: "the present brogue of the highlanders is made of half-dried leather, with holes to admit and let out the water; for walking the moors dry-shod is a matter altogether out of the question. the ancient buskin was still ruder, being made of undressed deer's hide, with the hair outwards,--a circumstance which procured the highlanders the well-known epithet of red-shanks. the process is very accurately described by one elder (himself a highlander), in the project for a union between england and scotland, addressed to henry viii.: 'we go a-hunting, and after that we have slain red-deer, we flay off the skin by and by, and setting of our barefoot on the inside thereof, for want of cunning shoemakers, by your grace's pardon, we play the cobblers, compassing and measuring so much thereof as shall reach up to our ankles, pricking the upper part thereof with holes, that the water may repass where it enters, and stretching it up with a strong thong of the same above our said ankles. so, and please your noble grace, we make our shoes. therefore, we using such manner of shoes, the rough hairy side outwards, in your grace's dominions of england, we be called rough-footed scots' (pinkerton's history, vol. ii. p. )." cf. marmion, v. : "the hunted red-deer's undressed hide their hairy buskins well supplied." . steepy. for the word (see also iv. below) and the line, cf. shakespeare, t. of a. i. . : "bowing his head against the steepy mount to climb his happiness." . questing. seeking its game. bacon (adv. of learning, v. ) speaks of "the questing of memory." . scaur. cliff, precipice; the same word as scar. cf. tennyson's bugle song: "o sweet and far, from cliff and scar;" and in the idyls of the king: "shingly scaur." . herald of battle, etc. the ms. reads: "dread messenger of fate and fear, herald of danger, fate and fear, stretch onward in thy fleet career! thou track'st not now the stricken doe, nor maiden coy through greenwood bough." . fast as the fatal symbol flies, etc. "the description of the starting of the fiery cross bears more marks of labor than most of mr. scott's poetry, and borders, perhaps, on straining and exaggeration; yet it shows great power" (jeffrey). . cheer. in its original sense of countenance, or look. cf. shakespeare, m. n. d. iii. . : "pale of cheer;" spenser, f. q. i. . : "but of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad;" dryden, hind and panther, iii. : "till frowning skies began to change their cheer," etc. . his scythe. the reading of the st and other early eds.; "the scythe" in more recent ones. . alas, thou lovely lake! etc. "observe scott's habit of looking at nature, neither as dead, nor merely material, nor as altered by his own feelings; but as having an animation and pathos of its own, wholly irrespective of human passion--an animation which scott loves and sympathizes with, as he would with a fellow creature, forgetting himself altogether, and subduing his own humanity before what seems to him the power of the landscape.... instead of making nature anywise subordinate to himself, he makes himself subordinate to her--follows her lead simply--does not venture to bring his own cares and thoughts into her pure and quiet presence--paints her in her simple and universal truth, adding no result of momentary passion or fancy, and appears, therefore, at first shallower than other poets, being in reality wider and healthier" (ruskin). . bosky. bushy, woody. cf. milton, comus, : "and every bosky bourn from side to side;" shakespeare, temp. iv. i. : "my bosky acres and my unshrubb'd down," etc. . seems for the scene, etc. the ms. has "seems all too lively and too loud." . duncraggan's huts. a homestead between lochs achray and vennachar, near the brigg of turk. . shot him. see on i. above. scott is much given to this construction. . the funeral yell, etc. the ms. has "'t is woman's scream, 't is childhood's wail." yell may at first seem too strong a word here, but it is in keeping with the people and the times described. besides scott was familiar with old english poetry, in which it was often used where a modern writer would choose another word. cf. surrey, virgil's aeneid: "with wailing great and women's shrill yelling;" and gascoigne, de profundis: "from depth of doole wherein my soule dooth dwell, ........... o gracious god, to thee i crie and yell." . torch's ray. the st ed. reads "torches ray" and supply;" corrected in the errata to read as in the text. most eds. print "torches' ray." . coronach. scott has the following note here: "the coronach of the highlanders, like the ululatus of the romans, and the ululoo of the irish, was a wild expression of lamentation, poured forth by the mourners over the body of a departed friend. when the words of it were articulate, they expressed the praises of the deceased, and the loss the clan would sustain by his death. the following is a lamentation of this kind, literally translated from the gaelic, to some of the ideas of which the text stands indebted. the tune is so popular that it has since become the war-march, or gathering of the clan. coronach on sir lauchlan, chief of maclean. 'which of all the senachies can trace thy line from the root, up to paradise, but macvuirih, the son of fergus? no sooner had thine ancient stately tree taken firm root in albin, than one of thy forefathers fell at harlaw.-- 't was then we lost a chief of deathless name. ''t is no base weed--no planted tree, nor a seedling of last autumn; nor a sapling planted at beltain; [ ] wide, wide around were spread its lofty branches-- but the topmost bough is lowly laid! thou hast forsaken us before sawaine. [ ] 'thy dwelling is the winter house;-- loud, sad, and mighty is thy death-song! oh! courteous champion of montrose! oh! stately warrior of the celtic isles! thou shalt buckle thy harness on no more!' "the coronach has for some years past been suspended at funerals by the use of the bagpipe; and that also is, like many other highland peculiarities, falling into disuse, unless in remote districts." . he is gone, etc. as taylor remarks, the metre of this dirge seems to be amphibrachic; that is, made up of feet, or metrical divisions, of three syllables, the second of which is accented. some of the lines appear to be anapestic (made up of trisyllabic feet, with the last syllable accented); but the rhythm of these is amphibrachic; that is, the rhythmic pause is after the syllable that follows the accent. "(he) is gone on | the mountain, {like) a summer- | dried fountain." ten lines out of twenty-four are distinctly amphibrachic, as "to duncan | no morrow." so that it seems best to treat the rest as amphibrachic, with a superfluous unaccented syllable at the beginning of the line. taylor adds: "the song is very carefully divided. to each of the three things, mountain, forest, fountain, four lines are given, in the order , , ." . in flushing. in full bloom. cf. hamlet, iii. . : "broad blown, as flush as may." . correi. a hallow in the side of a hill, where game usually lies. . cumber. trouble, perplexity. cf. fairfax, tasso ii. : "thus fade thy helps, and thus thy cumbers spring;" and sir john harrington, epigrams, i. : "without all let [hindrance] or cumber." . red. bloody, not afraid of the hand-to-hand fight. . stumah. "faithful; the name of a dog" (scott). . angus, the heir, etc. the ms. reads: "angus, the first of duncan's line, sprung forth and seized the fatal sign, and then upon his kinsman's bier fell malise's suspended tear. in haste the stripling to his side his father's targe and falchion tied." . hest. behest, bidding; used only in poetry. cf. shakespeare, temp. iii. . : "i have broke your hest to say so;" id. iv. . : "at thy hest," etc. . benledi saw the cross of fire, etc. scott says here: "inspection of the provincial map of perthshire, or any large map of scotland, will trace the progress of the signal through the small district of lakes and mountains, which, in exercise of my imaginary chieftain, and which, at the period of my romance, was really occupied by a clan who claimed a descent from alpine,--a clan the most unfortunate and most persecuted, but neither the least distinguished, least powerful, nor least brave of the tribes of the gael. "the first stage of the fiery cross is to duncraggan, a place near the brigg of turk, where a short stream divides loch achray from loch vennachar. from thence, it passes towards callander, and then, turning to the left up the pass of leny, is consigned to norman at the chapel of saint bride, which stood on a small and romantic knoll in the middle of the valley, called strath-ire. tombea and arnandave, or adrmandave, are names of places in the vicinity. the alarm is then supposed to pass along the lake of lubnaig, and through the various glens in the district of balquidder, including the neighboring tracts of glenfinlas and strath-gartney." . strath-ire. this valley connects lochs voil and lubnaig. the chapel of saint bride is about half a mile from the southern end of loch lubnaig, on the banks of the river leny, a branch of the teith (hence "teith's young waters"). the churchyard, with a few remains of the chapel, are all that now mark the spot. . until, where, etc. the ms. reads: "and where a steep and wooded knoll graced the dark strath with emerald green." . though reeled his sympathetic eye. that is, his eye reeled in sympathy with the movement of the waters--a poetic expression of what every one has felt when looking into a "dizzily dancing" stream. . that morning-tide. that morning time. tide in this sense is now used only in a few poetic compounds like eventide, springtide, etc. see iv. below. for its former use, cf. spenser, f. q. i. . : "and rest their weary limbs a tide;" id. iii. . : "that mine may be your paine another tide," etc. see also scott's lay, vi. : "me lists not at this tide declare." . bridal. bridal party; used as a collective noun. . coif-clad. wearing the coif, or curch. see on above; as also for snooded. . unwitting. unknowing. cf. above. for the verb wit, see on i. above. . kerchief. curch, which is etymologically the same word, and means a covering for the head. some eds. print "'kerchief," as if the word were a contraction of handkerchief. . muster-place. the st ed. has "mustering place;" and in "brooks" for brook. . and must he, etc. the ms. reads: "and must he then exchange the hand." . lugnaig's lake. loch lubnaig is about four miles long and a mile broad, hemmed in by steep, and rugged mountains. the view of benledi from the lake is peculiarly grand and impressive. . the sickening pang, etc. cf. the lord of the isles, vi. : "the heartsick faintness of the hope delayed." see prov. xiii. . . and memory, etc. the ms. reads: "and memory brought the torturing train of all his morning visions vain; but mingled with impatience came the manly love of martial fame." . brae. the brow or side of a hill. . the heath, etc. the metre of the song is the same as that of the poem, the only variation being in the order of the rhymes. . bracken. fern; "the pteris aquilina" (taylor). . fancy now. the ms. has "image now." . a time will come, etc. the ms. reads: "a time will come for love and faith, for should thy bridegroom yield his breath, 't will cheer him in the hour of death, the boasted right to thee, mary." . balquidder. a village near the eastern end of loch voil, the burial-place of rob roy and the scene of many of his exploits. the braes extend along the north side of the lake and of the balvaig which flows into it. scott says here: "it may be necessary to inform the southern reader that the heath on the scottish moorlands is often set fire to, that the sheep may have the advantage of the young herbage produced, in room of the tough old heather plants. this custom (execrated by sportsmen) produces occasionally the most beautiful nocturnal appearances, similar almost to the discharge of a volcano. this simile is not new to poetry. the charge of a warrior, in the fine ballad of hardyknute, is said to be 'like fire to heather set.'" . nor faster speeds it, etc. "the eager fidelity with which this fatal signal is hurried on and obeyed, is represented with great spirit and felicity" (jeffrey). . coil. turmoil. cf. shakespeare, temp. i. . : "who was so firm, so constant, that this coil would not infect his reason?" c. of e. iii. . : "what a coil is there, dromio?" etc. . loch doine. a lakelet just above loch voil, and almost forming a part of it. the epithets sullen and still are peculiarly appropriate to this valley. "few places in scotland have such an air of solitude and remoteness from the haunts of men" (black). . strath-gartney. the north side of the basin of loch katrine. . each man might claim. that is, who could claim. see on i. above. . no law but roderick dhu's command. scott has the following note here: "the deep and implicit respect paid by the highland clansmen to their chief, rendered this both a common and a solemn oath. in other respects, they were like most savage nations, capricious in their ideas concerning the obligatory power of oaths. one solemn mode of swearing was by kissing the dirk, imprecating upon themselves death by that, or a similar weapon, if they broke their vow. but for oaths in the usual form, they are said to have had little respect. as for the reverence due to the chief, it may be guessed from the following odd example of a highland point of honour: 'the clan whereto the above-mentioned tribe belongs, is the only one i have heard of which is without a chief; that is, being divided into families, under several chieftains, without any particular patriarch of the whole name. and this is a great reproach, as may appear from an affair that fell out at my table, in the highlands, between one of that name and a cameron. the provocation given by the latter was, "name your chief." the return of it at once was, "you are a fool." they went out next morning, but having early notice of it, i sent a small party of soldiers after them, which, in all probability, prevented some barbarous mischief that might have ensued; for the chiefless highlander, who is himself a petty chieftain, was going to the place appointed with a small-sword and pistol, whereas the cameron (an old man) took with him only his broadsword, according to the agreement. 'when all was over, and i had, at least seemingly, reconciled them, i was told the words, of which i seemed to think but slightly, were, to one of the clan, the greatest of all provocations' (letters from scotland, vol. ii. p. )." . menteith. see on i. above. . rednock. the ruins of rednock castle are about two miles to the north of loch menteith, on the road to callander. cardross castle (in which robert bruce died) was on the banks of the clyde, a few miles below dumbarton. duchray castle is a mile south of lochard. loch con, or chon, is a lakelet, about three miles northwest from lochard (into which it drains) and two miles south of loch katrine. . wot ye. know ye. see on i. above. . coir-nan-uriskin. scott has the following note here: "this is a very steep and most romantic hollow in the mountain of benvenue, overhanging the southeastern extremity of loch katrine. it is surrounded with stupendous rocks, and overshadowed with birch-trees, mingled with oaks, the spontaneous production of the mountain, even where its cliffs appear denuded of soil. a dale in so wild a situation, and amid a people whose genius bordered on the romantic, did not remain without appropriate deities. the name literally implies the corri, or den, of the wild or shaggy men. perhaps this, as conjectured by mr. alexander campbell (journey from edinburgh, , p. ), may have originally only implied its being the haunt of a ferocious banditti. but tradition has ascribed to the urisk, who gives name to the cavern, a figure between a goat and a man; in short, however much the classical reader may be startled, precisely that of the grecian satyr. the urisk seems not to have inherited, with the form, the petulance of the silvan deity of the classics; his occupation, on the contrary, resembled those of milton's lubbar fiend, or of the scottish brownie, though he differed from both in name and appearance. 'the urisks,' says dr. graham, 'were a sort of lubberly supernaturals, who, like the brownies, could be gained over by kind attention to perform the drudgery of the farm, and it was believed that many families in the highlands had one of the order attached to it. they were supposed to be dispersed over the highlands, each in his own wild recess, but the solemn stated meetings of the order were regularly held in this cave of benvenue. this current superstition, no doubt, alludes to some circumstance in the ancient history of this country' (scenery on the southern confines of perthshire, p. , ). it must be owned that the coir, or den, does not, in its present state, meet our ideas of a subterraneous grotto or cave, being only a small and narrow cavity, among huge fragments of rocks rudely piled together. but such a scene is liable to convulsions of nature which a lowlander cannot estimate, and which may have choked up what was originally a cavern. at least the name and tradition warrant the author of a fictitious tale to assert its having been such at the remote period in which this scene is laid." . with such a glimpse, etc. see on above. . still. stillness; the adjective used substantively, for the sake of the rhyme. . satyrs. "the urisk, or highland satyr" (scott). . beal-nam-bo. see on above; and for the measure of the first half of the line, on i. above. . 'cross. scott ( st ed.) prints "cross," as in below. . a single page, etc. scott says: "a highland chief, being as absolute in his patriarchal authority as any prince, had a corresponding number of officers attached to his person. he had his body-guards, called luichttach, picked from his clan for strength, activity, and entire devotion to his person. these, according to their deserts, were sure to share abundantly in the rude profusion of his hospitality. it is recorded, for example, by tradition, that allan maclean, chief of that clan, happened upon a time to hear one of these favorite retainers observe to his comrade, that their chief grew old. 'whence do you infer that?' replied the other. 'when was it,' rejoined the first, 'that a solider of allan's was obliged, as i am now, not only to eat the flesh from the bone, but even to tear off the inner skin, or filament?' the hint was quite sufficient, and maclean next morning, to relieve his followers from such dire necessity, undertook an inroad on the mainland, the ravage of which altogether effaced the memory of his former expeditions for the like purpose. "our officer of engineers, so often quoted, has given us a distinct list of the domestic officers who, independent of luichttach, or gardes de corps, belonged to the establishment of a highland chief. these are, . the henchman. . the bard. see preceding notes. . bladier, or spokesman. . gillie-more, or sword-bearer, alluded to in the text. . gillie-casflue, who carried the chief, if on foot, over the fords. . gillie-comstraine, who leads the chief's horse. . gillie-trushanarinsh, the baggage-man. . the piper. . the piper's gillie, or attendant, who carries the bagpipe (letters from scotland, vol. ii. p. ). although this appeared, naturally enough, very ridiculous to an english officer, who considered the master of such a retinue as no more than an english gentleman of £ a year, yet in the circumstances of the chief, whose strength and importance consisted in the number and attachment of his followers, it was of the last consequence, in point of policy, to have in his gift subordinate offices, which called immediately round his person those who were most devoted to him, and, being of value in their estimation, were also the means of rewarding them." . to drown, etc. the ms. reads: "to drown his grief in war's wild roar, nor think of love and ellen more." . ave maria! etc. "the metrical peculiarity of this song is that the rhymes of the even lines of the first quatrain (or set of four lines) are taken up as those of the odd lines in the second, and that they are the same in all three stanzas" (taylor). . we now must share. the ms. has "my sire must share;" and in "the murky grotto's noxious air." . bow us. see on i. , and cf. below. . lanrick height. overlooking lanrick mead. see on above. . where mustered, etc. the ms. reads: "where broad extending far below, mustered clan-alpine's martial show." on the first of these lines, cf. i. above. . yell. see on above. . bochastle's plain. see on i. above. canto fourth. . and hope, etc. the ms. has "and rapture dearest when obscured by fears." . wilding. wild; a rare word, used only in poetry. cf. tennyson, geraint and enid: "and like a crag was gay with wilding flowers." spenser has the noun (= wild apples) in f. q. iii. . : "oft from the forrest wildings he did bring," etc. whom is used on account of the personification. . what time. cf. ii. and iii. above. . braes of doune. the undulating region between callander and doune, on the north side of the teith. the doune of below is the old castle of that name, the ruins of which still form a majestic pile on the steep banks of the teith. it figures in waverley as the place where the hero was confined by the highlanders. . boune. prepared, ready; a scottish word. cf. and vi. below. . bide. endure; not to be printed 'bide, as if a contraction of abide. cf. shakespeare, lear, iii. . : "that bide the pelting of this pitiless storm," etc. bout. turn (of fortune). . repair. that is, to repair. . 't is well advised. well thought of, well planned. cf. advised careful, well considered; as in m. of v. i. . : "with more advised watch," etc. the ms. reads: "'tis well advised--a prudent plan, worthy the father of his clan." . evening-tide. see on iii. above. . the taghairm. scott says here: "the highlanders, like all rude people, had various superstitious modes of inquiring into futurity. one of the most noted was the taghairm, mentioned in the text. a person was wrapped up in the skin of a newly-slain bullock, and deposited beside a waterfall, or at the bottom of a precipice, or in some other strange, wild, and unusual situation, where the scenery around him suggested nothing but objects of horror. in this situation, he revolved in his mind the question proposed; and whatever was impressed upon him by his exalted imagination, passed for the inspiration of the disembodied spirits, who haunt these desolate recesses. in some of the hebrides they attributed the same oracular power to a large black stone by the sea-shore, which they approached with certain solemnities, and considered the first fancy which came into their own minds, after they did so, to be the undoubted dictate of the tutelar deity of the stone, and, as such, to be, if possible, punctually complied with." . gallangad. we do not find this name elsewhere, but it probably belongs to some part of the district referred to in scott's note inserted here: "i know not if it be worth observing that this passage is taken almost literally from the mouth of an old highland kern, or ketteran, as they were called. he used to narrate the merry doings of the good old time when he was follower of rob roy macgregor. this leader, on one occasion, thought proper to make a descent upon the lower part of the loch lomond district, and summoned all the heritors and farmers to meet at the kirk of drymen, to pay him black-mail; i.e., tribute for forbearance and protection. as this invitation was supported by a band of thirty or forty stout fellows, only one gentleman, an ancestor, if i mistake not, of the present mr. grahame of gartmore, ventured to decline compliance. rob roy instantly swept his land of all he could drive away, and among the spoil was a bull of the old scottish wild breed, whose ferocity occasioned great plague to the ketterans. 'but ere we had reached the row of dennan,' said the old man, 'a child might have scratched his ears.' the circumstance is a minute one, but it paints the time when the poor beeve was compelled 'to hoof it o'er as many weary miles, with goading pikemen hollowing at his heels, as e'er the bravest antler of the woods' (ethwald)." . kerns. the gaelic and irish light-armed soldiers, the heavy-armed being known as gallowglasses. the names are often associated; as in macbeth, i. . : "kerns and gallowglasses;" hen. vi. iv. . : "gallowglasses and stout kerns;" drayton, heroical epist.: "the kerne and irish galliglasse," etc. . beal'maha. "the pass of the plain," on the east of loch lomond, opposite inch-cailliach. in the olden time it was one of the established roads for making raids into the lowlands. . dennan's row. the modern rowardennan, on loch lomond at the foot of ben lomond, and a favorite starting=point for the ascent of that mountain. . boss. knob; in keeping with targe. . verge. pronounced varge, as the rhyme shows. in v. below it has its ordinary sound; but cf. v. . . the hero's targe. "there is a rock so named in the forest of glenfinlas, by which a tumultuary cataract takes its course. this wild place is said in former times to have afforded refuge to an outlaw, who was supplied with provisions by a woman, who lowered them down from the brink of the precipice above. his water he procured for himself, by letting down a flagon tied to a string into the black pool beneath the fall" (scott). . broke. quartered. cf. the quotation from jonson below. scott says here: "everything belonging to the chase was matter of solemnity among our ancestors; but nothing was more so than the mode of cutting up, or, as it was technically called, breaking, the slaughtered stag. the forester had his allotted portion; the hounds had a certain allowance; and, to make the division as general as possible, the very birds had their share also. 'there is a little gristle,' says tubervile, 'which is upon the spoone of the brisket, which we call the raven's bone; and i have seen in some places a raven so wont and accustomed to it, that she would never fail to croak and cry for it all the time you were in breaking up of the deer, and would not depart till she had it.' in the very ancient metrical romance of sir tristrem, that peerless knight, who is said to have been the very deviser of all rules of chase, did not omit the ceremony: 'the rauen he yaue his yiftes sat on the fourched tre.' [ ] "the raven might also challenge his rights by the book of st. albans; for thus says dame juliana berners: 'slitteth anon the bely to the side, from the corbyn bone; that is corbyns fee, at the death he will be.' jonson, in the sad shepherd, gives a more poetical account of the same ceremony: 'marian. he that undoes him, doth cleave the brisket bone, upon the spoon of which a little gristle grows--you call it robin hood. the raven's bone. marian. now o'er head sat a raven on a sere bough, a grown, great bird, and hoarse, who, all the while the deer was breaking up, so croaked and cried for 't, as all the huntsmen, especially old scathlock, thought it ominous.'" . rouse. rise, stand erect. cf. macbeth, v. . : "the time has been, my senses would have cool'd to hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in 't." . mine. many eds. have "my." . fateful. the reading of the st ed. and that of ; "fatal" in some recent eds. . which spills, etc. the ms. has "which foremost spills a foeman's life." "though this be in the text described as a response of the taghairm, or oracle of the hide, it was of itself an augury frequently attended to. the fate of the battle was often anticipated, in the imagination of the combatants, by observing which party first shed blood. it is said that the highlanders under montrose were so deeply imbued with this notion, that on the morning of the battle of tippermoor, they murdered a defenceless herdsman, whom they found in the fields, merely to secure an advantage of so much consequence to their party" (scott). . a spy. that is, fitz-james. for has sought, the st ed. has "hath sought." . red murdoch, etc. the ms. has "the clansman vainly deemed his guide," etc. . those shall bring him down. for the ellipsis of who, see on i. above. the ms. has "stab him down." . pale. in the heraldic sense of "a broad perpendicular stripe in an escutcheon." see wb. . i love to hear, etc cf. v. below. . when move they on? etc. the ms reads: "'when move they on?' |'this sun | at noon |'to-day | 't is said will see them march from doune.' 'to-morrow then |makes| meeting stern.'" |sees | . earn. that is, the district about loch earn and the river of the same name flowing from the lake. . shaggy glen. as already stated, trosachs means bristling. . stance. station; a scottish word. . trusty targe. the ms. has "highland targe." . shifting like flashes, etc. that is, like the northern lights. cf. the lay, ii. : "and red and bright the streamers light were dancing in the glowing north. ....... he knew by the streamers that shot so bright that spirits were riding the northern light." the ms. reads: "thick as the flashes darted forth by morrice-dancers of the north; and saw at morn their |barges ride, |little fleet, close moored by the lone islet's side. since this rude race dare not abide upon their native mountain side, 't is fit that douglas should provide for his dear child some safe abode, and soon he comes to point the road." . no, allan, etc. the ms. reads: "no, allan, no! his words so kind were but pretexts my fears to blind. when in such solemn tone and grave douglas a parting blessing gave." . fixed and high. often misprinted "fixed on high." . stroke. the ms. has "shock," and in the next line "adamantine" for invulnerable. . trowed. trusted, believed. cf. spenser, f. q. v. . : "so much is more then [than] just to trow." see also luke, xvii. . . cambus-kenneth's fane. cambus-kenneth abbey, about a mile from stirling, on the other side of the forth. the massive tower is now the only part remaining entire. . friends'. many recent eds. misprint "friend's." . sooth. true. see on i. above. . merry it is, etc. scott says: "this little fairy tale is founded upon a very curious danish ballad which occurs in the kaempe viser, a collection of heroic songs first published in , and reprinted in , inscribed by anders sofrensen, the collector and editor, to sophia, queen of denmark." the measure is the common ballad-metre, the basis of which is a line of eight syllables followed by one of six, the even syllables accented, with the alternate lines rhyming, so as to form a four-line stanza. it is varied by extra unaccented syllables, and by rhymes within the longer lines (both of which modifications we have in and ), and by "double rhymes" (like singing and ringing). . mavis and merle. thrush and blackbird. . wold. open country, as opposed to wood. cf. tennyson, in memoriam, : "calm and deep peace on this high wold," etc. see also below. . glaive. broadsword. cf. spenser, f. q. iv. . : "laying both his hands upon his glave," etc. see also v. below. . pall. a rich fabric used for making palls, or mantles. cf. f. q. i. . : "he gave her gold and purple pall to weare." . wont. were accustomed. see on i. above. . 'twas but, etc. the ms. reads: "'twas but a midnight chance; for blindfold was the battle plied, and fortune held the lance." . darkling. in the dark; a poetical word. cf. milton, p. l. iii. : "as the wakeful bird sings darkling;" shakespeare, lear, i. . : "so out went the candle, and we were left darkling," etc. see also below. . vair. the fur of the squirrel. see wb. . sheen. see on i. above. . richard. here accented on the final syllable. such license is not unusual in ballad poetry. . woned. dwelt. see on i. above. scott has the following note here: "in a long dissertation upon the fairy superstitions, published in the minstrelsy of the scottish border, the most valuable part of which was supplied by my learned and indefatigable friend, dr. john leyden, most of the circumstances are collected which can throw light upon the popular belief which even yet prevails respecting them in scotland. dr. grahame, author of an entertaining work upon the scenery of the perthshire highlands, already frequently quoted, has recorded with great accuracy the peculiar tenets held by the highlanders on this topic, in the vicinity of loch katrine. the learned author is inclined to deduce the whole mythology from the druidical system--an opinion to which there are many objections. 'the daoine shi', or men of peace, of the highlanders, though not absolutely malevolent, are believed to be a peevish, repining race of beings, who, possessing themselves but a scanty portion of happiness, are supposed to envy mankind their more complete and substantial enjoyments. they are supposed to enjoy, in their subterraneous recesses, a sort of shadowy happiness,--a tinsel grandeur; which, however, they would willingly exchange for the more solid joys of mortality. 'they are believed to inhabit certain round grassy eminences, where they celebrate their nocturnal festivities by the light of the moon. about a mile beyond the source of the forth, above loch con, there is a placed called coirshi'an, or the cove of the men of peace, which is still supposed to be a favorite place of their residence. in the neighborhood are to be seen many round conical eminences, particularly one near the head of the lake, by the skirts of which many are still afraid to pass after sunset. it is believed that if, on hallow-eve, any person, alone, goes round one of these hills nine times, towards the left hand (sinistrorsum) a door shall open, by which he will be admitted into their subterraneous abodes. many, it is said, of mortal race have been entertained in their secret recesses. there they have been received into the most splendid apartments, and regaled with the most sumptuous banquets and delicious wines. their females surpass the daughters of men in beauty. the seemingly happy inhabitants pass their time in festivity, and in dancing to notes of the softest music. but unhappy is the mortal who joins in their joys or ventures to partake of their dainties. by this indulgence he forfeits for ever the society of men, and is bound down irrevocably to the condition of shi'ich, or man of peace.'" . why sounds, etc. "it has been already observed that fairies, if not positively malevolent, are capricious, and easily offended. they are, like other proprietors of forests, peculiarly jealous of their rights of vert and venison.... this jealousy was also an attribute of the northern duergar, or dwarfs; to many of whose distinctions the fairies seem so have succeeded, if, indeed, they are not the same class of beings. in the huge metrical record of german chivalry entitled the helden-buch, sir hildebrand, and the other heroes of whom it treats, are engaged in one of their most desperate adventures, from a rash violation of the rose-garden of an elfin or dwarf king. "there are yet traces of a belief in this worst and most malicious order of fairies among the border wilds. dr. leyden has introduced such a dwarf into his ballad entitled the cout of keeldar, and has not forgot his characteristic detestation of the chase. 'the third blast that young keeldar blew, still stood the limber fern, and a wee man, of swarthy hue, upstarted by a cairn. 'his russet weeds were brown as heath that clothes the upland fell, and the hair of his head was frizzy red as the purple heather-bell. 'an urchin, clad in prickles red, clung cow'ring to his arm; the hounds they howl'd, and backward fled, as struck by fairy charm. '"why rises high the staghound's cry, where staghound ne'er should be? why wakes that horn the silent morn, without the leave of me?"-- '"brown dwarf, that o'er the muirland strays, thy name to keeldar tell!"-- "the brown man of the muirs, who stays beneath the heather-bell. '"'t is sweet beneath the heather-bell to live in autumn brown; and sweet to hear the lav'rock's swell, far, far from tower and town. '"but woe betide the shrilling horn, the chase's surly cheer! and ever that hunter is forlorn whom first at morn i hear."' "the poetical picture here given of the duergar corresponds exactly with the following northumberland legend, with which i was lately favored by my learned and kind friend, mr. surtees of mainsforth, who has bestowed indefatigable labor upon the antiquities of the english border counties. the subject is in itself so curious, that the length of the note will, i hope, be pardoned: 'i have only one record to offer of the appearance of our northumbrian duergar. my narratrix is elizabeth cockburn, and old wife of offerton, in this country, whose credit, in a case of this kind, will not, i hope, be much impeached when i add that she is by her dull neighbors supposed to be occasionally insane, but by herself to be at those times endowed with a faculty of seeing visions and spectral appearances which shun the common ken. 'in the year before the great rebellion, two young men from newcastle were sporting on the high moors above eldson, and after pursuing their game several hours, sat down to dine in a green glen near one of the mountain streams. after their repast, the younger lad ran to the brook for water, and after stooping to drink, was surprised, on lifting his head again, by the appearance of a brown dwarf, who stood on a crag covered with brackens, across the burn. this extraordinary personage did not appear to be above half the stature of a common man, but was uncommonly stout and broad-built, having the appearance of vast strength. his dress was entirely brown, the color of the brackens, and his head covered with frizzled red hair. his countenance was expressive of the most savage ferocity, and his eyes glared like a bull. it seems he addressed the young man first, threatening him with his vengeance for having trespassed on his demesnes, and asking him if he knew in whose presence he stood? the youth replied that he now supposed him to be the lord of the moors; that he offended through ignorance; and offered to bring him the game he had killed. the dwarf was a little mollified by this submission, but remarked that nothing could be more offensive to him than such an offer, as he considered the wild animals as his subjects, and never failed to avenge their destruction. he condescended further to inform him that he was, like himself, mortal, though of years far exceeding the lot of common humanity, and (what i should not have had an idea of) that he hoped for salvation. he never, he added, fed on anything that had life, but lived in the summer on whortleberries, and in winter on nuts and apples, of which he had great store in the woods. finally, he invited his new acquaintance to accompany him home and partake his hospitality, an offer which the youth was on the point of accepting, and was just going to spring across the brook (which if he had done, says elizabeth, the dwarf would certainly have torn him in pieces), when his foot was arrested by the voice of his companion, who thought he had tarried long, and on looking round again, "the wee brown man was fled." the story adds that he was imprudent enough to slight the admonition, and to sport over the moors on his way homewards, but soon after his return he fell into a lingering disorder, and died within the year'" (scott). . our moonlight circle's. the ms. has "our fairy ringlet's." . the fairies' fatal green. "as the daoine shi', or men of peace, wore green habits, they were supposed to take offence when any mortals ventured to assume their favorite color. indeed, from some reason, which has been, perhaps originally a general superstition, green is held in scotland to be unlucky to particular tribes and counties. the caithness men, who hold this belief, allege as a reason that their bands wore that color when they were cut off at the battle of flodden; and for the same reason they avoid crossing the ord on a monday, being the day of the week on which their ill-omened array set forth. green is also disliked by those of the name of ogilvy; but more especially it is held fatal to the whole clan of grahame. it is remembered of an aged gentleman of that name that when his horse fell in a fox-chase, he accounted for it at once by observing that the whipcord attached to his lash was of this unlucky color" (scott). . wert christened man. scott says: "the elves were supposed greatly to envy the privileges acquired by christian initiation, and they gave to those mortals who had fallen into their power a certain precedence, founded upon this advantageous distinction. tamlane, in the old ballad, describes his own rank in the fairy procession: 'for i ride on a milk-white steed, and aye nearest the town; because i was a christen'd knight, they give me that renown.'" . the curse of the sleepless eye. cf. macbeth, i. . : "sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his pent-house lid," etc. . part. depart. see on ii. above. . grisly. see on i. above. . kindly. kindred, natural. see wb., and cf. shakespeare, much ado, iv. . : "that fatherly and kindly power that you have in her," etc. . all is glistening show. "no fact respecting fairy-land seems to be better ascertained than the fantastic and illusory nature of their apparent pleasure and splendour. it has been already noticed in the former quotations from dr. grahame's entertaining volume, and may be confirmed by the following highland tradition:--'a woman, whose new-born child had been conveyed by them into their secret abodes, was also carried thither herself, to remain, however, only until she should suckle her infant. she one day, during this period, observed the shi'ichs busily employed in mixing various ingredients in a boiling caldron, and as soon as the composition was prepared, she remarked that they all carefully anointed their eyes with it, laying the remainder aside for future use. in a moment when they were all absent, she also attempted to anoint her eyes with the precious drug, but had time to apply it to one eye only, when the daoine shi' returned. but with that eye she was henceforth enabled to see everything as it really passed in their secret abodes; she saw every object, not as she hitherto had done, in deceptive splendour and elegance, but in its genuine colours and form. the gaudy ornaments of the apartment were reduced to the walls of a gloomy cavern. soon after, having discharged her office, she was dismissed to her own home. still, however, she retained the faculty of seeing, with her medicated eye, everything that was done, anywhere in her presence, by the deceptive art of the order. one day, amidst a throng of people, she chanced to observe the shi'ich, or man of peace, in whose possession she had left her child, though to every other eye invisible. prompted by maternal affection, she inadvertently accosted him, and began to inquire after the welfare of her child. the man of peace, astonished at being thus recognized by one of mortal race, demanded how she had been enabled to discover him. awed by the terrible frown of his countenance, she acknowledged what she had done. he spat in her eye, and extinguished it for ever.' "it is very remarkable that this story, translated by dr. grahame from popular gaelic tradition, is to be found in the otia imperialia of gervase of tilbury. [fn # ] a work of great interest might be compiled upon the original of popular fiction, and the transmission of similar tales from age to age, and from country to country. the mythology of one period would then appear to pass into the romance of the next century, and that into the nursery tale of the subsequent ages. such an investigation, while it went greatly to diminish our ideas of the richness of human invention, would also show that these fictions, however wild and childish, possess such charms for the populace as enable them to penetrate into countries unconnected by manners and language, and having no apparent intercourse to afford the means of transmission. it would carry me far beyond my bounds to produce instances of fable among nations who never borrowed from each other any thing intrinsically worth learning. indeed the wide diffusion of popular factions may be compared to the facility with which straws and feathers are dispersed abroad by the wind, while valuable metals cannot be transported without trouble and labour. there lives, i believe, only one gentleman whose unlimited acquaintance with this subject might enable him to do it justice,--i mean my friend mr. francis douce, of the british museum, whose usual kindness will, i hope, pardon my mentioning his name while on a subject so closely connected with his extensive and curious researches" (scott). . snatched away, etc. "the subjects of fairy-land were recruited from the regions of humanity by a sort of crimping system, which extended to adults as well as to infants. many of those who were in this world supposed to have discharged the debt of nature, had only become denizens of the 'londe of faery'" (scott). . but wist i, etc. but if i knew, etc. wist is the past tense of wit (matzner). see on i. above. . dunfermline. a town in fifeshire, miles northwest of edinburgh. it was long the residence of the scottish kings, and the old abbey, which succeeded iona as the place of royal sepulture, has been called "the westminster of scotland." robert bruce was the last sovereign buried here. . steepy. cf. iii. above. . lincoln green. see on i. above. . morning-tide. cf. iii. above. . bourne. bound, limit. cf. the quotation from milton in note on iii. above. . scathe. harm, mischief. spenser uses the word often; as in f. q. i. , : "to worke new woe and improvided scath," etc. cf. shakespeare, k. john, ii. . : "to do offence and scathe in christendom;" rich. iii. i. . : "to pray for them that have done scathe to us," etc. . kern. see on above. . conjure. in prose we should have to write "conjure him." . yet life i hold, etc. cf. julius caesar, i. . : "if it be aught toward the general good, set honor in one eye and death i' the other, and i will look on both indifferently; for let the gods so speed me as i love the name of honor more than i fear death." . near bochastle. the ms. has "by cambusmore." see on i. and above. . bower. lodging, dwelling. see on i. above. . art. affectation. . before. that is, at his visit to the isle. cf. ii. fol. above. . was idly soothed, etc. the ms. has "was idly fond thy praise to hear." . atone. atone for. shakespeare uses the verb transitively several times, but in the sense of reconcile; as in rich. ii. i. . : "since we cannot atone you," etc. cf. v. below. . if yet he is. if he is still living. . train. lure; as in macbeth, iv. . : "devilish macbeth by many of these trains hath sought to win me into his power." cf. the use of the verb (= allure, entice); as in c. of e. iii. . : "o, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note;" scott's lay, iii. : "he thought to train him to the wood," etc. james was much given to gallantry, and many of his travels in disguise were on adventures of this kind. see on i. above and vi. below. . as death, etc. as if death, etc. see on ii. above, and cf. below. . this ring. the ms. has "this ring of gold the monarch gave." . lordship. landed estates. . reck of. care for; poetical. . ellen, thy hand. the ms. has "permit this hand;" and below: "'seek thou the king, and on thy knee put forth thy suit, whate'er it be, as ransom of his pledge to me; my name and this shall make thy way.' he put the little signet on," etc. . he stammered, etc. the ms. reads: "he stammered forth confused reply: 'saxon, | i shouted but to scare 'sir knight, | yon raven from his dainty fare.'" . fared. went; the original sense of the word. cf. farewell (which was at first a friendly wish for "the parting guest"), wayfarer, thoroughfare, etc. . in tattered weeds, etc. the ms. has "wrapped in a tattered mantle gray." weeds is used in the old sense of garments. cf. shakespeare, m. n. d. ii. . : "weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in;" id. ii. . : "weeds of athens he doth wear;" milton l'allegro, : "in weeds of peace," etc. see also v. below. . in better time. that is, in better times or days; not in the musical sense. . chime. accord, sing; a poetical use of the word. cf. vi. below. . allan. "the allan and devan are two beautiful streams--the latter celebrated in the poetry of burns--which descend from the hills of perthshire into the great carse, or plain, of stirling" (lockhart). . 't is blanche, etc. the ms. has: "'a saxon born, a crazy maid-- t is blanche of devan,' murdoch said." . bridegroom. here accented on the second syllable. in below it has the ordinary accent. . 'scapes. the word may be so printed here, but not in elizabethan poetry. we find it in prose of that day; as in bacon, adv. of l. ii. . : "such as had scaped shipwreck." see wb., and cf. state and estate, etc. . pitched a bar. that is, in athletic contests. cf. v. below. . see the gay pennons, etc. the ms. reads: "with thee these pennons will i share, then seek my true love through the air; but i'll not lend that savage groom, to break his fall, one downy plume! deep, deep, mid yon disjointed stones, the wolf shall batten his bones." . batten. fatten; as in hamlet, iii. . : "batten on this moor." milton uses it transitively in lycidas, : "battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night." . the lincoln green. "the lowland garb" ( ). cf. also above. . for o my sweet william, etc. the ms. reads: "sweet william was a woodsman true, he stole poor blanche's heart away; his coat was of the forest hue, and sweet he sung the lowland lay." . the toils are pitched. the nets are set. cf. shakespeare, l. l. l., iv. . : "they have pitched a toil," etc. "the meaning is obvious. the hunters are clan-alpine's men; the stag of ten is fitz-james; the wounded doe is herself" (taylor). . a stag of ten. "having ten branches on his antlers" (scott). nares says that antlers is an error here, the word meaning "the short brow horns, not the branched horns;" but see wb. cf. jonson, sad shepherd, i. : "aud a hart of ten, madam, i trow to be;" and massinger, emperor of the east, iv. : "he'll make you royal sport; he is a deer of ten, at least." . sturdily. as taylor notes, the "triple rhymes" in this song are "of a very loose kind." . blanche's song. jeffrey says: "no machinery can be conceived more clumsy for effecting the deliverance of a distressed hero than the introduction of a mad woman, who, without knowing or caring about the wanderer, warns him by a song to take care of the ambush that was set for him. the maniacs or poetry have indeed had a prescriptive right to be musical, since the days of ophelia downwards; but it is rather a rash extension of this privilege to make them sing good sense, and to make sensible people be guided by them." to this taylor well replied: "this criticism seems unjust. the cruelty of roderick's raids in the lowlands has already been hinted at, and the sight of the lowland dress might well stir associations in the poor girl's mind which would lead her to look to the knight for help and protection and also to warn him of his danger. it is plain, from murdoch's surprise, that her being out of her captors' sight is looked on as dangerous, from which we may infer that she is not entirely crazed. her song is not the only hint that fitz-james follows. his suspicions had already twice been excited, so that the episode seems natural enough. as giving a distinct personal ground for the combat in canto v., it serves the poet's purpose still further. without it, we should sympathize too much with the robber chief, who thinks that 'plundering lowland field and fold is naught but retribution true;' but the sight of this sad fruit of his raids wins us back to the cause of law and order." . forth at full speed, etc. the ms. reads: "forth at full speed the clansman went, but in his race his bow he bent, halted--and back an arrow sent." . thrilled. quivered. . thine ambushed kin, etc. the ms. transposes this line and the next, and goes on thus: "resistless as the lightning's flame, the thrust betwixt his shoulder came." just below it reads: "the o'er him hung, with falcon eye, and grimly smiled to see him die." . daggled. wet, soaked. cf. the lay, i. : "was daggled by the dashing spray." . helpless. the ms. has "guiltless." . shred. cut off; a sense now obsolete. cf. withal's dictionary (ed. ): "the superfluous and wast sprigs of vines, being cut and shreaded off are called sarmenta." . my brain, etc. the ms. has "but now, my champion, it shall wave." . wreak. avenge. cf. shakespeare, r. and j. iii. . : "to wreak the love i bore my cousin upon his body that hath slaughter'd him;" spenser, f. q. ii. . : "to wreak so foule despight;" etc. . god, in my need, etc. the ms. reads: "god, in my need, to me be true, as i wreak this on roderick dhu." . favor. the token of the next line; referring to the knightly custom of wearing such a gift of lady-love or mistress. cf. rich. ii. v. . : "and from the common'st creature pluck a glove, and wear it as a favour," etc. see also the lay, iv. : "with favor in his crest, or glove, memorial of his layde-love." . at bay. see on i. above; and for the dangerous foe, cf. the note on i. . . couched him. lay down. see on i. above. . rash adventures. see on above. . must prove. the st ed. has "will prove." . bands at doune. cf. above. . darkling. see on above. . not the summer solstice. not even the heat of the summer. . wold. see on above. . beside its embers, etc. the ms. reads: "by the decaying flame was laid a warrior in his highland plaid." for the rhyme here, see on i. above. cf. below. . i dare, etc. the ms. reads: "i dare! to him and all the swarm he brings to aid his murderous arm." . slip. a hunter's term for letting loose the greyhounds from the slips, or nooses, by which they were held until sent after the game. tubervile (art of venerie) says: "we let slip a greyhound, and we cast off a hound." cf. shakespeare, cor. i. . : "holding corioli in the name of rome, even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, to let him slip at will;" and for the noun, hen. v. iii. . : "i see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start." . who ever recked, etc. scott says: "st. john actually used this illustration when engaged in confuting the plea of law proposed for the unfortunate earl of strafford: 'it was true, we gave laws to hares and deer, because they are beasts of chase; but it was never accounted either cruelty or foul play to knock foxes or wolves on the head as they can be found, because they are beasts of prey. in a word, the law and humanity were alike: the one being more fallacious, and the other more barbarous, than in any age had been vented in such an authority' (clarendon's history of the rebellion)." . the hardened flesh of mountain deer. "the scottish highlanders, in former times, had a concise mode of cooking their venison, or rather of dispensing with cooking it, which appears greatly to have surprised the french, whom chance made acquainted with it. the vidame of chartres, when a hostage in england, during the reign of edward vi., was permitted to travel into scotland, and penetrated as far as to the remote highlands (au fin fond des sauvages). after a great hunting-party, at which a most wonderful quantity of game was destroyed, he saw these scottish savages devour a part of their venison raw, without any farther preparation than compressing it between two batons of wood, so as to force out the blood, and render it extremely hard. this they reckoned a great delicacy; and when the vidame partook of it, his compliance with their taste rendered him extremely popular. this curious trait of manners was communicated by mons. de montmorency, a great friend of the vidame, to brantome, by whom it is recorded in vies des hommes illustres, lxxxix. .... after all, it may be doubted whether la chaire nostree, for so the french called the venison thus summarily prepared, was anything more than a mere rude kind of deer ham" (scott). . a mighty augury. that of the taghairm. . not for clan. the st ed. has "nor for clan." . stock and stone. cf. i. above. . coilantogle's ford. on the teith just below its exit from loch vennachar. . the bittern's cry. see on i. above. . and slept, etc. the ms. has "streak" and "lake" for beam and stream. canto fifth. . fair as the earliest beam, etc. "this introductory stanza is well worked in with the story. the morning beam 'lights the fearful path on mountain side' which the two heroes of the poem are to traverse, and the comparison which it suggest enlists our sympathy for roderick, who is to be the victim of defeat" (taylor). . and lights, etc. the ms. has "and lights the fearful way along its side." . sheen. see on i. . . the dappled sky. cf. milton, l'allegro, : "till the dappled dawn doth rise;" and shakespeare, much ado, v. . : "and look, the gentle day, before the wheels of phoebus, round about dapples the drowsy east with spots of gray." . by. the word is used for the rhyme, but perhaps gives the idea of a hurry--muttered off the prayers. . steal. the word here is expressive of haste. . gael. "the scottish highlander calls himself, gael, or gaul, and terms the lowlanders sassenach, or saxons" (scott). . wildering. bewildering. see on i. above. for winded, see on i. . . bursting through. that is, as it burst through--"a piece of loose writing" (taylor). . at length, etc. the ms. reads: "at length they paced the mountain's side, and saw beneath the waters wide." . the rugged mountain's scanty cloak, etc. the ms. reads: "the rugged mountain's stunted screen was dwarfish | shrubs | with cliffs between." | copse | . shingles. gravel or pebbles. see on iii. above. taylor says: "note how the details of this description are used in stanza ix.--shingles, bracken, broom." . dank. damp, moist. cf. shakespeare, r. and j. ii. . : "and night's dank dew;" milton, sonnet to mr. lawrence: "now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire," etc. . sooth to tell. to tell the truth. see on i. above. sooth to say, to say sooth, in sooth, in good sooth, etc., are common in old writers. cf. the lay, introd. : "the sooth to speak." . to claim its aid. the ms. has "to draw my blade." . enough. suffice it that. . a knight's free footsteps, etc. the ms. reads: "my errant footsteps | far and wide." a knight's bold wanderings | . i urge thee not. the ms. has "i ask it not," and in "hall" for doune. . outlawed. the st ed. has "exiled." . in the regent's court, etc. cf. ii. above. . albany. the regent of above. he was the son of a younger brother of james iii., who had been driven into exile by his brother's attempts on his life. he took refuge in france, where his son was made lord high admiral. on the death of james iv. he was called home by the scottish nobles to assume the regency. . mewed. shut up. the word seems originally to have meant to moult, or shed the feathers; and as a noun, "the place, whether it be abroad or in the house, in which the hawk is put during the time she casts, or doth change her feathers" (r. holmes's academy of armory, etc.). spenser has both noun and verb; as in f. q. i. . : "forth comming from her darksome mew;" and id. ii. . : "in which vaine braggadocchio was mewd." milton uses the verb in the grand description of liberty in of unlicensed printing: "methinks i see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam." in england the noun is still used in the plural to denote a stable for horses. pennant says that the royal stables in london were called mews from the fact that the buildings were formerly used for keeping the king's falcons. scott says here: "there is scarcely a more disorderly period of scottish history than that which succeeded the battle of flodden, and occupied the minority of james v. feuds of ancient standing broke out like old wounds, and every quarrel among the independent nobility, which occurred daily, and almost hourly, gave rise to fresh bloodshed. 'there arose,' said pitscottie, 'great trouble and deadly feuds in many parts of scotland, both in the north and west parts. the master of forbes, in the north, slew the laird of meldrum, under tryst' (that is, at an agreed and secure meeting). 'likewise, the laird of drummelzier slew the lord fleming at the hawking; and, likewise, there was slaughter among many other great lords.' nor was the matter much mended under the government of the earl of angus; for though he caused the king to ride through all scotland, 'under the pretence and color of justice, to punish thief and traitor, none were found greater than were in their own company. and none at that time durst strive with a douglas, nor yet a douglas's man; for if they would, they got the worst. therefore none durst plainzie of no extortion, theft, reiff, nor slaughter done to them by the douglases or their men; in that cause they were not heard so long as the douglas had the court in guiding." . shingles. cf. above. . as to your sires. the target and claymore were the weapons of the ancient britons. taylor quotes tacitus, agricola: "ingentibus gladiis et brevibus cetris." . rears. raises. the word was formerly less restricted in its application than at present. cf. shakespeare's "rear my hand" (temp. ii. . , j. c. iii. . ), "rear the higher our opinion" (a. and c. ii. . ), etc.; milton's "he rear'd me," that is, lifted me up (p. l. viii. ), "rear'd her lank head" (comus, ), etc. spenser uses it in the sense of take away (like the cant lift = steal); as in f. q. iii. . : "she to his closet went, where all his wealth lay hid; thereof she countlesse summes did reare;" and id. iii. . : "like as a beare, that creeping close among the hives to reare an hony-combe," etc. wb. does not give this sense, which we believe is found only in spenser. . shall with strong hand, etc. scott has the following note here: "the ancient highlanders verified in their practice the lines of gray (fragment on the alliance of education and government): 'an iron race the mountain cliffs maintain, foes to the gentler genius of the plain; for where unwearied sinews must be found, with side-long plough to quell the flinty ground, to turn the torrent's swift descending flood, to tame the savage rushing from the wood, what wonder if, to patient valor train'd, they guard with spirit what by strength they gain'd; and while their rocky ramparts round they see the rough abode of want and liberty (as lawless force from confidence will grow), insult the plenty of the vales below?' "so far, indeed, was a creagh, or foray, from being held disgraceful, that a young chief was always expected to show his talents for command so soon as he assumed it, by leading his clan on a successful enterprise of this nature, either against a neighboring sept, for which constant feuds usually furnished an apology, or against the sassencach, saxons, or lowlanders, for which no apology was necessary. the gael, great traditional historians, never forgot that the lowlands had, at some remote period, been the property of their celtic forefathers, which furnished an ample vindication of all the ravages that they could make on the unfortunate districts which lay within their reach. sir james grant of grant is in possession of a letter of apology from cameron of lochiel, whose men had committed some depredation upon a farm called moines, occupied by one of the grants. lochiel assures grant that, however the mistake had happened, his instructions were precise, that the party should foray the province of moray (a lowland district), where, as he coolly observes, 'all men take their prey.'" . good faith. in good faith, bona fide; as often in old writers. . bower. see on i. above. . this rebel chieftain, etc. the ms. reads: "this dark sir roderick | and his band;" this savage chieftain | and below: "from copse to copse the signal flew. instant, through copse and crags, arose;" and in "shoots" for sends. . and every tuft, etc. the ms. reads: "and each lone tuft of broom gives life to plaided warrior armed for strife. that whistle manned the lonely glen with full five hundred armed men;" and below ( ): "all silent, too, they stood, and still, watching their leader's beck and will, while forward step and weapon show they long to rush upon the foe, like the loose crag whose tottering mass hung threatening o'er the hollow pass." . verge. see on iv. above. . manned himself. cf. addison's "manned his soul," quoted by wb. . the stern joy, etc. cf. iv. above. . foeman. the reading of the st ed. and that of ; "foeman" in many recent eds. . their mother earth, etc. alluding to the old myths of the earth-born giants and of cadmus. . glinted. flashed; a scottish word. jamieson defines glint "to glance, gleam, or pass suddenly like a flash of lightning." . glaive. see on iv. above. the jack was "a horseman's defensive upper garment, quilted and covered with strong leather" (nares). it was sometimes also strengthened with iron rings, plates, or bosses. cf. lyly, euphues: "jackes quilted, and covered over with leather, fustian, or canvas, over thick plates of yron that are sowed to the same." scott, in the eve of st. john, speaks of "his plate-jack." for spear the st ed. has "lance." . one valiant hand. the ms. has "one brave man's hand." . lay. were staked. . i only meant, etc. scott says: "this incident, like some other passages in the poem, illustrative of the character of the ancient gael, is not imaginary, but borrowed from fact. the highlanders, with the inconsistency of most nations in the same state, were alternately capable of great exertions of generosity and of cruel revenge and perfidy. the following story i can only quote from tradition, but with such an assurance from those by whom it was communicated as permits me little doubt of its authenticity. early in the last century, john gunn, a noted cateran, or highland robber, infested inverness-shire, and levied black-mail up to the walls of the provincial capital. a garrison was then maintained in the castle of that town, and their pay (country banks being unknown) was usually transmitted in specie under the guard of a small escort. it chanced that the officer who commanded this little party was unexpectedly obliged to halt, about thirty miles from inverness, at a miserable inn. about nightfall, a stranger in the highland dress, and of very prepossessing appearance, entered the same house. separate accommodations being impossible, the englishman offered the newly-arrived guest a part of his supper, which was accepted with reluctance. by the conversation he found his new acquaintance knew well all the passes of the country, which induced him eagerly to request his company on the ensuing morning. he neither disguised his business and charge, nor his apprehensions of that celebrated freebooter, john gunn. the highlander hesitated a moment, and then frankly consented to be his guide. forth they set in the morning; and in travelling through a solitary and dreary glen, the discourse again turned on john gunn. 'would you like to see him?' said the guide; and without waiting an answer to this alarming question, he whistled, and the english officer, with his small party, were surrounded by a body of highlanders, whose numbers put resistance out of question, and who were all well armed. 'stranger,' resumed the guide, 'i am that very john gunn by whom you feared to be intercepted, and not without cause; for i came to the inn last night with the express purpose of learning your route, that i and my followers might ease you of your charge by the road. but i am incapable of betraying the trust you reposed in me, and having convinced you that you were in my power, i can only dismiss you unplundered and uninjured.' he then gave the officer directions for his journey, and disappeared with his party as suddenly as they had presented themselves." . flood. flow; used for the sake of the rhyme, like drew just below. wont = wonted. . and still, etc. the ms. reads: "and still, from copse and heather bush, fancy saw spear and broadsword ruch." . three mighty lakes. katrine, achray, and vennachar. scott says: "the torrent which discharges itself from loch vennachar, the lowest and eastmost of the three lakes which form the scenery adjoining to the trosachs, sweeps through a flat and extensive moor, called bochastle. upon a small eminence called the dun of bochastle, and indeed on the plain itself, are some intrenchments which have been thought roman. there is adjacent to callander a sweet villa, the residence of captain fairfoul, entitled the roman camp." . mouldering. the ms. has "martial." . this murderous chief, etc. cf. above. . all vantageless, etc. scott says: "the duellists of former times did not always stand upon those punctilios respecting equality of arms, which are not judged essential to fair combat. it is true that in formal combats in the lists the parties were, by the judges of the field, put as nearly as possible in the same circumstances. but in private duel it was often otherwise. in that desperate combat which was fought between quelus, a minion of henry iii. of france, and antraguet, with two seconds on each side, from which only two persons escaped alive, quelus complained that his antagonist had over him the advantage of a poniard which he used in parrying, while his left hand, which he was forced to employ for the same purpose, was cruelly mangled. when he charged antraguet with this odds, 'thou hast done wrong,' answered he, 'to forget thy dagger at home. we are here to fight, and not to settle punctilios of arms.' in a similar duel, however, a young brother of the house of aubayne, in angoulesme, behaved more generously on the like occasion, and at once threw away his dagger when his enemy challenged it as an undue advantage. but at this time hardly anything can be conceived more horridly brutal and savage than the mode in which private quarrels were conducted in france. those who were most jealous of the point of honor, and acquired the title of ruffines, did not scruple to take advantage of strength, numbers, surprise, and arms, to accomplish their revenge." . by prophet bred, etc. see iii. fol. above; and for the expression cf. iv. . . dark lightning, etc. the ms. has "in lightning flashed the chief's dark eye," which might serve as a comment on dark lightning. . kern. see on iv. above. . he yields not, etc. the ms. has "he stoops not, he, to james nor fate." . carpet knight. cf. shakespeare, t. n. iii. . : "he is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier and on carpet consideration." . ruth. pity; obsolete, though we still have ruthless. cf. spenser, f. q. i. . : "to stirre up gentle ruth both for her noble blood, and for her tender youth;" milton, lycidas, : "look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth," etc. . his targe. scott says: "a round target of light wood, covered with strong leather and studded with brass or iron, was a necessary part of a highlander's equipment. in charging regular troops they received the thrust of the bayonet in this buckler, twisted it aside, and used the broadsword against the encumbered soldier. in the civil war of most of the front rank of the clans were thus armed; and captain grose (military antiquities, vol. i. p. ) informs us that in the privates of the d regiment, then in flanders, were for the most part permitted to carry targets. a person thus armed had a considerable advantage in private fray. among verses between swift and sheridan, lately published by dr. barrett, there is an account of such an encounter, in which the circumstances, and consequently the relative superiority of the combatants, are precisely the reverse of those in the text: 'a highlander once fought a frenchman at margate, the weapons, a rapier, a backsword, and target; brisk monsieur advanced as fast as he could, but all his fine pushes were caught in the wood, and sawny, with backsword, did slash him and nick him, while t'other, enraged that he could not once prick him, cried, "sirrah, you rascal, you son of a whore, me will fight you, be gar! if you'll come from your door."'" . trained abroad. that is, in france. see on i. above. scott says here: "the use of defensive armor, and particularly of the buckler, or target, was general in queen elizabeth's time, although that of the single rapier seems to have been occasionally practised much earlier (see douce's illustrations of shakespeare, vol. ii. p. ). rowland yorke, however, who betrayed the fort of zutphen to the spaniards, for which good service he was afterwards poisoned by them, is said to have been the first who brought the rapier-fight into general use. fuller, speaking of the swash-bucklers, or bullies, of queen elizabeth's time, says, 'west smithfield was formerly called ruffian's hall, where such men usually met, casually or otherwise, to try masteries with sword or buckler. more were frightened than hurt, more hurt than killed therewith, it being accounted unmanly to strike beneath the knee. but since that desperate traitor rowland yorke first introduced thrusting with rapiers, sword and buckler are disused.' in the two angry women of abingdon, a comedy, printed in , we have a pathetic complaint: 'sword and buckler fight begins to grow out of use. i am sorry for it; i shall never see good manhood again. if it be once gone, this poking fight of rapier and dagger will come up; then a tall man and a good sword and buckler man will be spitted like a cat or rabbit.' but the rapier had upon the continent long superseded, in private duel, the use of sword and shield. the masters of the noble science of defence were chiefly italians. they made great mystery of their art and mode of instruction, never suffered any person to be present but the scholar who was to be taught, and even examined closets, beds, and other places of possible concealment. their lessons often gave the most treacherous advantages; for the challenged, having the right to choose his weapons, frequently selected some strange, unusual, and inconvenient kind of arms, the use of which he practised under these instructors, and thus killed at his ease his antagonist, to whom it was presented for the first time on the field of battle. see brantome's discourse on duels, and the work on the same subject, 'si gentement ecrit,' by the venerable dr. paris de puteo. the highlanders continued to use broadsword and target until disarmed after the affair of - ." . ward. posture of defence; a technical term in fencing. cf. falstaff's "thou knowest my old ward" ( hen. iv. ii. . ), etc. . while less expert, etc. the ms. reads: "not roderick thus, though stronger far, more tall, and more inured to war." , . and backward, etc. this couplet is not in the ms.; and the same is true of , . . let recreant yield, etc. the ms. has "yield they alone who fear to die." scott says: "i have not ventured to render this duel so savagely desperate as that of the celebrated sir ewan of lochiel, chief of the clan cameron, called, from his sable complexion, ewan dhu. he was the last man in scotland who maintained the royal cause during the great civil war, and his constant incursions rendered him a very unpleasant neighbor to the republican garrison at inverlochy, now fort william. the governor of the fort detached a party of three hundred men to lay waste lochiel's possessions and cut down his trees; by in a sudden and desperate attack made upon them by the chieftain with very inferior numbers, they were almost all cut to pieces. the skirmish is detailed in a curious memoir of sir ewan's life, printed in the appendix of pennant's scottish tour (vol. i. p. ): 'in this engagement lochiel himself had several wonderful escapes. in the retreat of the english, one of the strongest and bravest of the officers retired behind a bush, when he observed lochiel pursuing, and seeing him unaccompanied with any, he leapt out and thought him his prey. they met one another with equal fury. the combat was long and doubtful: the english gentleman had by far the advantage in strength and size; but lochiel, exceeding him in nimbleness and agility, in the end tript the sword out of his hand; they closed and wrestled, till both fell to the ground in each other's arms. the english officer got above lochiel, and pressed him hard, but stretching forth his neck, by attempting to disengage himself, lochiel, who by this time had his hands at liberty, with his left hand seized him by the collar, and jumping at his extended throat, he bit it with his teeth quite through, and kept such a hold of his grasp, that he brought away his mouthful; this, he said, was the sweetest bit he ever had in his lifetime.'" . unwounded, etc. the ms. reads: "panting and breathless on the sands, but all unwounded, now he stands;" and just below: "redeemed, unhoped, from deadly strife: next on his foe his look he | cast, | threw, whose every breath appeared his last." . unbonneted. past tense, not participle. . then faint afar. the ms. has "faint and afar." . lincoln green. see on i. above. . we destined, etc. cf. iv. above. . weed. dress. see on iv. above. . boune. ready. see on iv. above. . steel. spur. cf. i. above. . carhonie's hill. about a mile from the lower end of loch vennachar. . pricked. spurred. it came to mean ride; as in f. q. i. . : "a gentle knight was pricking on the plaine," etc. cf. below. . torry and lendrick. these places, like deanstown, doune (see on iv. above), blair-drummond, ochtertyre, and kier, are all on the banks of the teith, between callander and stirling. lockhart says: "it may be worth noting that the poet marks the progress of the king by naming in succession places familiar and dear to his own early recollections--blair-drummond, the seat of the homes of kaimes; kier, that of the principal family of the name of stirling; ochtertyre, that of john ramsay, the well-known antiquary, and correspondent of burns; and craigforth, that of the callenders of craigforth, almost under the walls of stirling castle;--all hospitable roofs, under which he had spent many of his younger days." . sees the hoofs strike fire. the ms. has "saw their hoofs of fire." . they mark, etc. the to of the infinitive is omitted in glance, as if mark had been see. . sweltering. the st ed. has "swelling." . flinty. the ms. has "steepy;" and in "gains" for scales. . saint serle. "the king himself is in such distress for a rhyme as to be obliged to apply to one of the obscurest saints in the calendar" (jeffrey). the ms. has "by my word," and "lord" for earl in the next line. . cambus-kenneth's abbey gray. see on iv. above. . by. gone by, past. . o sad and fatal mound! "an eminence on the northeast of the castle, where state criminals were executed. stirling was often polluted with noble blood. it is thus apostrophized by j. johnston: 'discordia tristis heu quotis procerum sanguine tinxit humum! hoc uno infelix, et felix cetera; nusquam laetior aut caeli frons geniusve soli.' "the fate of william, eighth earl of douglas, whom james ii. stabbed in stirling castle with his own hand, and while under his royal safe-conduct, is familiar to all who read scottish history. murdack duke of albany, duncan earl of lennox, his father-in-law, and his two sons, walter and alexander stuart, were executed at stirling, in . they were beheaded upon an eminence without the castle walls, but making part of the same hill, from whence they could behold their strong castle of doune and their extensive possessions. this 'heading hill,' as it was sometimes termed, bears commonly the less terrible name of hurly-hacket, from its having been the scene of a courtly amusement alluded to by sir david lindsay, who says of the pastimes in which the young king was engaged: 'some harled him to the hurly-hacket;' which consisted in sliding--in some sort of chair, it may be supposed--from top to bottom of a smooth bank. the boys of edinburgh, about twenty years ago, used to play at the hurly-hacket on the calton hill, using for their seat a horse's skull" (scott). . the franciscan steeple. the greyfriars church, built by james iv. in on the hill not far from the castle, is still standing, and has been recently restored. here james vi. was crowned on the th of july, , and john knox preached the coronation sermon. . morrice-dancers. the morrice or morris dance was probably of spanish (or moorish, as the name implies) origin, but after its introduction into england it became blended with the mayday games. a full historical account of it is given in douce's illustrations of shakespeare. the characters in it in early times were the following: "robin hood, little john, friar tuck, maid marian (robin's mistress and the queen or lady of the may), the fool, the piper, and several morris-dancers habited, as it appears, in various modes. afterwards a hobby-horse and a dragon were added" (douce). for a description of the game, see scott's abbot, ch. xiv., and the author's note. see also on below. . the burghers hold their sports to-day. scott has the following note here: "every burgh of scotland of the least note, but more especially the considerable towns, had their solemn play, or festival, when feats of archery were exhibited, and prized distributed to those who excelled in wrestling, hurling the bar, and the other gymnastic exercises of the period. stirling, a usual place of royal residence, was not likely to be deficient in pomp upon such occasions, especially since james v. was very partial to them. his ready participation in these popular amusements was one cause of his acquiring the title of the king of the commons, or rex plebeiorum, as lesley has latinized it. the usual prize to the best shooter was a silver arrow. such a one is preserved at selkirk and at peebles. at dumfries a silver gun was substituted, and the contention transferred to firearms. the ceremony, as there performed, is the subject of an excellent scottish poem, by mr. john mayne, entitled the siller gun , which surpasses the efforts of fergusson, and comes near those of burns. "of james's attachment to archery, pitscottie, the faithful though rude recorder of the manners of that period, has given us evidence: 'in this year there came an ambassador out of england, named lord william howard, with a bishop with him, with many other gentlemen, to the number of threescore horse, which were all able men and waled [picked] men for all kind of games and pastimes, shooting, louping, running, wrestling, and casting of the stone, but they were well sayed [essayed or tried] ere they past out of scotland, and that by their own provocation; but ever they tint: till at last, the queen of scotland, the king's mother, favoured the english-men, because she was the king of england's sister; and therefore she took an enterprise of archery upon the englishmen's hands, contrary her son the king, and any six in scotland that he would wale, either gentlemen or yeomen, that the englishmen should shoot against them either at pricks, revers, or buts, as the scots pleased. 'the king, hearing this of his mother, was content, and gart her pawn a hundred crowns and a tun of wine upon the english-men's hands; and he incontinent laid down as much for the scottish-men. the field and ground was chosen in st. andrews, and three landed men and three yeomen chosen to shoot against the english-men,--to wit, david wemyss of that ilk, david arnot of that ilk, and mr. john wedderburn, vicar of dundee; the yeomen, john thomson, in leith, steven taburner, with a piper, called alexander bailie; they shot very near, and warred [worsted] the english-men of the enterprise, and wan the hundred crowns and the tun of wine, which made the king very merry that his men wan the victory.'" . play my prize. the same expression occurs in shakespeare, t. a. i. . : "you have play'd your prize." cf. also m. of v. iii. . : "like one of two contending in a prize," etc. . the castle gates. the main entrance to the castle, not the postern gate of above. . fair scotland's king, etc. the ms. reads: "king james and all his nobles went... ever the king was bending low to his white jennet's saddle-bow, doffing his cap to burgher dame, who smiling blushed for pride and shame." . there nobles, etc. the ms. reads: "nobles who mourned their power restrained, and the poor burgher's joys disdained; dark chief, who, hostage for his clan, was from his home a banished man, who thought upon his own gray tower, the waving woods, his feudal bower, and deemed himself a shameful part of pageant that he cursed in heart." . with bell at heel. douce says that "the number of bells round each leg of the morris-dancers amounted from twenty to forty;" but scott, in a note to the fair maid of perth, speaks of small bells in sets of twelve at regular musical intervals. . their mazes wheel. the ms. adds: "with awkward stride there city groom would part of fabled knight assume." . robin hood. scott says here: "the exhibition of this renowned outlaw and his band was a favorite frolic at such festivals as we are describing. this sporting, in which kings did not disdain to be actors, was prohibited in scotland upon the reformation, by a statute of the th parliament of queen mary, c. , a. d. , which ordered, under heavy penalties that 'na manner of person be chosen robert hude, nor little john, abbot of unreason, queen of may, nor otherwise.' but in , the 'rascal multitude,' says john knox, 'were stirred up to make a robin hude, whilk enormity was of mony years left and damned by statute and act of paliament; yet would they not be forbidden.' accordingly they raised a very serious tumult, and at length made prisoners the magistrates who endeavored to suppress it, and would not release them till they extorted a formal promise that no one should be punished for his share of the disturbance. it would seem, from the complaints of the general assembly of the kirk, that these profane festivities were continued down to (book of the universal kirk, p. ). bold robin was, to say the least, equally successful in maintaining his ground against the reformed clergy of england; for the simple and evangelical latimer complains of coming to a country church where the people refused to hear him because it was robin hood's day, and his mitre and rochet were fain to give way to the village pastime. much curious information on this subject may be found in the preliminary dissertation to the late mr. ritson's edition of the songs respecting this memorable outlaw. the game of robin hood was usually acted in may; and he was associated with the morrice-dancers, on whom so much illustration has been bestowed by the commentators on shakespeare. a very lively picture of these festivities, containing a great deal of curious information on the subject of the private life and amusements of our ancestors, was thrown, by the late ingenious mr. strutt, into his romance entitled queen-hoo hall, published after his death, in ." . friar tuck. "robin hood's fat friar," as shakespeare calls him (t. g. of v. iv. . ), who figures in the robin hood ballads and in ivanhoe. scarlet and little john are mentioned in one of master silence's snatches of song in hen. iv. v. . : "and robin, scarlet, and john." scathelocke is a brother of scarlet in ben jonson's sad shepherd, which is a "tale of robin hood," and mutch is a bailiff in the same play. . stake. prize. . fondly he watched, etc. the ms. reads: "fondly he watched, with watery eye, for answering glance of sympathy, but no emotion made reply! indifferent as to unknown | wight, cold as to unknown yeoman | the king gave forth the arrow bright." . to archer wight. that is, to any ordinary archer. scott has the following note here: "the douglas of the poem is an imaginary person, a supposed uncle of the earl of angus. but the king's behavior during an unexpected interview with the laird of kilspindie, one of the banished douglases, under circumstances similar to those in the text, is imitated from a real story told by hume of godscroft. i would have availed myself more fully of the simple and affecting circumstances of the old history, had they not been already woven into a pathetic ballad by my friend mr. finlay. [ ] 'his [the king's] implacability [towards the family of douglas] did also appear in his carriage towards archibald of kilspinke, whom he, when he was a child, loved singularly well for his ability of body, and was wont to call him his gray-steill. [ ] archibald, being banished into england, could not well comport with the humor of that nation, which he thought to be too proud, and that they had too high a conceit of themselves, joined with a contempt and despising of all others. wherefore, being wearied of that life, and remembering the king's favor of old towards him, he determined to try the king's mercifulness and clemency. so he comes into scotland, and taking occasion of the king's hunting in the park at stirling he casts himself to be in his way, as he was coming home to the castle. so soon as the king saw him afar off, ere he came near, he guessed it was he, and said to one of his courtiers, "yonder is my gray-steill, archibald of kilspindie, if he be alive." the other answered that it could not be he, and that he durst not come into the king's presence. the king approaching, he fell upon his knees and craved pardon, and promised from thenceforward to abstain from meddling in public affairs, and to lead a quiet and private life. the king went by without giving him any answer, and trotted a good round pace up the hill. kilspindie followed, and though he wore on him a secret, or shirt of mail, for his particular enemies, was as soon at the castle gate as the king. there he sat him down upon a stone without, and entreated some of the king's servants for a cup of drink, being weary and thirsty; but they, fearing the king's displeasure, durst gave him none. when the king was set at his dinner, he asked what he had done, what he had said, and whither he had gone? it was told him that he had desired a cup of drink, and had gotten none. the king reproved them very sharply for their discourtesy, and told them that if he had not taken an oath that no douglas should ever serve him, he would have received him into his service, for he had seen him sometime a man of great ability. then he sent him word to go to leith, and expect his further pleasure. then some kinsman of david falconer, the cannonier, that was slain at tantallon, began to quarrel with archibald about the matter, wherewith the king showed himself not well pleased when he heard of it. then he commanded him to go to france for a certain space, till he heard further from him. and so he did, and died shortly after. this gave occasion to the king of england (henry viii.) to blame his nephew, alleging the old saying, that a king's face should give grace. for this archibald (whatsoever were angus's or sir george's fault) had not been principal actor of anything, nor no counsellor nor stirrer up, but only a follower of his friends, and that noways cruelly disposed' (hume of godscroft, ii. )." . larbert is a town about ten miles to the south of stirling, and alloa another seven miles to the east on the north side of the forth. . to douglas gave a golden ring. scott says: "the usual prize of a wrestling was a ram and a ring, but the animal would have embarrassed my story. thus, in the cokes tale of gamelyn, ascribed to chaucer: 'there happed to be there beside tryed a wrestling; and therefore there was y-setten a ram and als a ring." again, the litil geste of robin hood: 'by a bridge was a wrestling, and there taryed was he and there was all the best yemen of all the west countrey. a full fayre game there was set up, a white bull up y-pight, a great courser with saddle and brydle, with gold burnished full bryght; a payre of gloves, a red golde ringe, a pipe of wine, good day; what man bereth him best, i wis, the prise shall bear away.'" . to hurl the massive bar. cf. iv. above. . scottish strength. the ms. has "mortal strength." . the ladies' rock. a point in the "valley" between the castle and the greyfriars church. it was formerly the chief place for viewing the games, which were held in this "valley," or depression in the hill on which the castle stands. it must not be confounded with the ladies' lookout, a favorite point of view on the castle walls. . well filled. the ms. has "weighed down;" and in , "scattered the gold among the crowd." . ere douglas, etc. the ms. has "ere james of douglas' stalwart hand;" and in , "worn" for wrecked. . murmurs. some eds. have "murmur." . the banished man. the ms. has "his stately form." . needs but a buffet. only a single blow is needed. . then clamored, etc. the ms. and st ed. have "clamored his comrades of the train;" and in the ms. has "warrior's" for baron's. . atone. see on iv. above. . but shall a monarch's presence, etc. the ms. reads: "but in my court injurious blow, and bearded thus, and thus out-dared? what, ho!" etc. . ward. guarding, confinement under guard. cf. gen. xl. . . misarray. disorder, confusion. neither wb. nor worc. gives the word. . pricked. spurred, rode. see on above. . repelled, etc. the ms. has "their threats repelled by insult loud." . hyndford. a village on the clyde, a few miles above lanark. . widow's mate expires. an instance of prolepsis, or "anticipation" in the use of a word. he must expire before she can be a widow. cf. macbeth, iii. . : "blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, ere human statute purg'd the gentle weal;" that is, purged it and made it gentle. . ward. ward off, avert. . the crowd's wild fury, etc. the ms. reads: "the crowd's wild fury ebbed amain in tears, as tempests sink in rain." the st ed. reads as in the text, but that of has "sunk amain." the figure here is a favorite one with shakespeare. cf. r. of l. : "this windy tempest, till it blow up rain, held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more; at last it rains, and busy winds give o'er;" hen. vi. i. . : "for raging wind blows up incessant showers, and, when the rage allays, the rain begins;" id. ii. . : "see, see, what showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart;" t. and c. iv. . : "where are my tears? rain, to lay this wind, or my heart will be blown up by the root;" and macbeth, i. . : "that tears shall down the wind." . the rough soldier. sir john of hyndford ( above). . he led. the st ed. has "they led," and "their" for his in . . verge. note the rhyme with charge, and see on iv. above. . this common fool. cf. shakespeare's "fool multitude" (m. of v. ii. . ). just below lockhart quotes coriolanus, i. . : "who deserves greatness deserves your hate; and your affections are a sick man's appetite, who desires most that which would increase his evil. he that depends upon your favors swims with fins of lead and hews down oaks with rushes. hang ye! trust ye? with every minute you do change a mind, and call him noble that was now your hate, him vile that was your garland." . douglas. the reading of the st ed., as in below; not "douglas'," as in some recent eds. . vain as the leaf, etc. the ms. has "vain as the sick man's idle dream." . cognizance. "the sable pale of mar." see on iv. above. . with scanty train, etc. the ms. has "on distant chase you will not ride." . lost it. forgot it. . for spoiling of. for fear of ruining. cf. shakespeare, sonn. . : "the which he will not every hour survey, for blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure; t. g. of v. i. . : "yet here they shall not lie for catching cold;" beaumont and fletcher, captain, iii. : "we'll have a bib for spoiling of thy doublet," etc. . earl william. the douglas who was stabbed by james ii. see on above. canto sixth. "lord jeffrey has objected to the guard-room scene and its accompanying song as the greatest blemish in the whole poem. the scene contrasts forcibly with the grace which characterizes the rest; but in a poem which rests its interest upon incident, such a criticism seems overstrained. it gives us a vigorous picture of a class of men who played a very important part in the history of the time, especially across the border; men who, many of them outlaws, and fighting, not for country or for king, but for him who paid them best, were humored with every license when they were not on strict military duty. the requirements of the narrative might have been satisfied without these details, it is true; but the use which sir walter has made of them--to show the power of beauty and innocence, and the chords of tenderness and goodness which lie ready to vibrate in the wildest natures--may surely reconcile us to such a piece of realism. "the scene of roderick's death harmonizes well with his character. the minstrel's account of the battle the poet himself felt to be somewhat long, and yet it is difficult to see how it could be curtailed without spoiling it. it is full of life and vigor, and our only cause of surprise is that the lay should only come to a sudden stand when it is really completed" (taylor). . scaring, etc. the st ed. reads: "and scaring prowling robbers to their den." . battled. battlemented; as in ii. above. . the kind nurse of men. cf. hen. iv. iii. . : "o sleep, o gentle sleep, nature's soft nurse," etc. . through narrow loop, etc. the ms. has "through blackened arch," etc.; and below: "the lights in strange alliance shone beneath the arch of blackened stone." . struggling with. some recent eds. misprint "struggling through." . adventurers they, etc. scott says: "the scottish armies consisted chiefly of the nobility and barons, with their vassals, who held lands under them for military service by themselves and their tenants. the patriarchal influence exercised by the heads of clans in the highlands and borders was of a different nature, and sometimes at variance with feudal principles. it flowed from the patria potestas, exercised by the chieftain as representing the original father of the whole name, and was often obeyed in contradiction to the feudal superior. james v. seems first to have introduced, in addition to the militia furnished from these sources, the service of a small number of mercenaries, who formed a body-guard, called the foot-band. the satirical poet, sir david lindsay (or the person who wrote the prologue to his play of the three estaites), has introduced finlay of the foot-band, who after much swaggering upon the stage is at length put to flight by the fool, who terrifies him by means of a sheep's skull upon a pole. i have rather chosen to give them the harsh features of the mercenary soldiers of the period, than of this scottish thraso. these partook of the character of the adventurous companions of froissart, or the condottieri of italy." . the fleming, etc. the soil of flanders is very fertile and productive, in marked contrast to the greater part of scotland. . halberd. a combination of spear and battle-axe. see wb. . holytide. holiday. for tide = time, see on iii. above. . neighboring to. that is, lying in adjacent rooms. . burden. alluding to the burden, or chorus, of a song. cf. ii. above. the ms. has "jest" for joke; and in the next line "and rude oaths vented by the rest." . trent. the english river of that name. cf. below. . that day. modifying cut shore, not grieved. . a merry catch, i troll. cf. shakespeare, temp, iii. . : "will you troll the catch," etc. . buxom. lively, brisk; as in hen. v. iii. . : "of buxom valour," etc. its original sense was yielding, obedient; as in f. q. i. . : "the buxome aire" (see also milton, p. l. ii. ); and id. iii. . : "of them that to him buxome are and prone." for the derivation, see wb. . poule. paul; an old spelling, found in chaucer and other writers. the measure of the song is anapestic (that is, with the accent on every third syllable), with modifications. . black-jack. a kind of pitcher made of leather. taylor quotes old mortality, chap. viii.: "the large black-jack filled with very small beer." . sack. a name applied to spanish and canary wines in general; but sometimes the particular kind was specified. cf. hen. iv. iv. . : "good sherris-sack" (that is, sherry wine); and herrick, poems: "thy isles shall lack grapes, before herrick leaves canarie sack." . upsees. "bacchanalian interjection, borrowed from the dutch" (scott). nares criticises scott for using the word as a noun. it is generally found in the phrases "upsee dutch" and "upsee freeze" (the same thing, frise being = dutch), which appear to mean "in the dutch fashion." cf. ben jonson, alchemist, iv. : "i do not like the dullness of your eye, it hath a heavy east, 't is upsee dutch;" that is, looks like intoxication. see also beaumont and fletcher, beggar's bush, iv. : "the bowl... which must be upsey english, strong, lusty, london beer." . kerchief. see on iii. above. . gillian. a common old english name (according to coles and others, a corruption of juliana), often contracted into gill of jill, and used as a familiar term for a woman, as jack was for a man. the two are often associated; as in the proverbs "every jack must have his jill," and "a good jack makes a good jill." . placket. explained by some as = stomacher; by others as = petticoat, or the slit or opening in those garments. cf. wb. it is often used figuratively for woman, as here. placket and pot = women and wine. . lurch. rob. cf. shakespeare, cor. ii. . : "he lurch'd all swords of the garland;" that is, robbed them all of the prize. . the drum. the st ed. has "your drum." . plaid. for the rhyme, see on i. above. . store of blood. plenty of blood. cf. milton, l'allegro, : "with store of ladies," etc. see also on the adjective, i. above. . reward thy toil. the ms. goes on thus: "get thee an ape, and then at once thou mayst renounce the warder's lance, and trudge through borough and through land, the leader of a juggler band." scott has the following note here: "the jongleurs, or jugglers, as we learn from the elaborate work of the late mr. strutt, on the sports and pastimes of the people of england, used to call in the aid of various assistants, to render these performances as captivating as possible. the glee-maiden was a necessary attendant. her duty was tumbling and dancing; and therefore the anglo-saxon version of saint mark's gospel states herodias to have vaulted or tumbled before king herod. in scotland these poor creatures seem, even at a late period, to have been bondswomen to their masters, as appears from a case reported by fountainhall: 'reid the mountebank pursues scot of harden and his lady for stealing away from him a little girl, called the tumbling-lassie, that dance upon his stage; and he claimed damages, and produced a contract, whereby he bought her from her mother for £ scots. but we have no slaves in scotland, and mothers cannot sell their bairns; and physicians attested the employment of tumbling would kill her; and her joints were now grown stiff, and she declined to return; though she was at least a 'prentice, and so could not run away from her master; yet some cited moses's law, that if a servant shelter himself with thee against his master's cruelty, thou shalt surely not deliver him up. the lords, renitente cancellario, assoilzied harden on the th of january ( )' (fountainhall's decisions, vol. i. p. )." . purvey. provide. cf. spenser, f. q. v. . : "he all things did purvay which for them needfull weare." . bertram, etc. the ms. has "bertram | his | | such | violence withstood." . the tartan screen. that is, the tartan which she had drawn over her head as a veil. . the savage soldiery, etc. the ms. has "while the rude soldiery, amazed;" and in below, "should ellen douglas suffer wrong." . i shame me. i shame myself, i am ashamed. the very was formerly used intransitively in this sense. cf. shakespeare, r. of l. : "as shaming any eye should thee behold;" a. y. l. iv. . : "i do not shame to tell you what i was," etc. . needwood. a royal forest in staffordshire. . poor rose, etc. the ms. reads: "'my rose,'--he wiped his iron eye and brow,-- 'poor rose,--if rose be living now.'" . part. act; used for the rhyme. the expression is not unlike "do the part of an honest man" (much ado, ii. . ), or "act the part," as we should now put it. . tullibardine. the name of an old seat of the murray family, about twenty miles from stirling. . errant damosel. cf. spenser, f. q. ii. . : "th' adventure of the errant damozell." . given by the monarch, etc. the ms. has "the monarch gave to james fitz-james." . bower. chamber. see on i. above. . permit i marshal you the way. permit that i conduct you thither. . the vacant purse, etc. the ms. reads: "the silken purse shall serve for me, and in my barret-cap shall flee""-- a forced rhyme which the poet did well to get rid of. . barret-cap. cloth cap. cf. the lay, iii. : "old england's sign, st. george's cross, his barret-cap did grace." he puts the purse in his cap as a favor. see on iv. above. . master's. he means the douglas, but john of brent takes it to refer to roderick. see below. . wot. know, understand. see on i. above. . rugged vaults. the ms. has "low broad vaults;" and in , "stretching" for crushing. . oaken floor. the ms. and st ed. have "flinty floor;" and below: "'thou mayst remain;' and then, retiring, bolt and chain, and rusty bar, he drew again. roused at the sound," etc. , . such... hold. this couplet is not in the st ed., and presumably not in the ms., though the fact is not noted by lockhart. . leech. physician. cf. f. q. iii. . : "yf any leaches skill," etc.; and in the preceding stanza, "more neede of leach-crafte hath your damozell," etc. . prore. prow (latin prora); used only in poetry. . astrand. on strand (cf. ashore), stranded. . at sea. the ms. has "on main," and "plain" for lea in the rhyme. the st ed. and that of have "on sea." . has never harp, etc. the ms. reads: "shall never harp of minstrel tell of combat fought so fierce and well." . strike it! scott says: "there are several instances, at least in tradition, of persons so much attached to particular tunes, as to require to hear them on their death-bed. such an anecdote is mentioned by the late mr. riddel of glenriddel, in his collection of border tunes, respecting an air called the 'dandling of the bairns,' for which a certain gallovidian laird is said to have evinced this strong mark of partiality. it is popularly told of a famous freebooter, that he composed the tune known by the name of macpherson's rant while under sentence of death, and played it at the gallows-tree. some spirited words have been adapted to it by burns. a similar story is recounted of a welsh bard, who composed and played on his death-bed the air called dafyddy garregg wen. but the most curious example is given by brantome of a maid of honor at the court of france, entitled mademoiselle de limeuil: 'durant sa maladie, dont elle trespassa, jamais elle ne cessa, ainsi causa tousjours; car elle estoit fort grande parleuse, brocardeuse, et tres-bien et fort a propos, et tres-belle avec cela. quand l'heure de sa fin fut venue, elle fit venir a soy son valet (ainsi que les filles de la cour en ont chacune un), qui s'appelloit julien, et scavoit tres-bien jouer du violon. "julien," luy dit elle, "prenez vostre violon, et sonnez moy tousjours jusques a ce que vous me voyez morte (car je m'y en vais) la defaite des suisses, et le mieux que vous pourrez, et quand vous serez sur le mot, 'tout est perdu,' sonnez le par quatre ou cing fois, le plus piteusement que vous pourrez," ce qui fit l'autre, et elle-mesme luy aidoit de la voix, et quand ce vint "tout est perdu," elle le reitera par deux fois; et se tournant de l'autre coste du chevet, elle dit a ses compagnes: "tout est perdu a ce coup, et a bon escient;" et ainsi deceda. voila une morte joyeuse et plaisante. je tiens ce conte de deux de ses compagnes, dignes de foi, qui virent jouer ce mystere' (oeuvres de brantome, iii. ). the tune to which this fair lady chose to make her final exit was composed on the defeat of the swiss of marignano. the burden is quoted by panurge in rabelais, and consists of these words, imitating the jargon of the swiss, which is a mixture of french and german: 'tout est verlore, la tintelore, tout est verlore bi got.'" . with what, etc. this line is not in the ms. . battle of beal' au duine. scott has the following note here: "a skirmish actually took place at a pass thus called in the trosachs, and closed with the remarkable incident mentioned in the text. it was greatly posterior in date to the reign of james v. 'in this roughly-wooded island [ ] the country people secreted their wives and children and their most valuable effects from the rapacity of cromwell's soldiers during their inroad into this country, in the time of the republic. these invaders, not venturing to ascend by the ladders along the lake, took a more circuitous road through the heart of the trosachs, the most frequented path at that time, which penetrates the wilderness about half way between binean and the lake by a tract called yea-chilleach, or the old wife's bog. 'in one of the defiles of this by-road the men of the country at that time hung upon the rear of the invading enemy, and shot one of cromwell's men, whose grave marks the scene of action, and gives name to that pass. [ ] in revenge of this insult, the soldiers resolved to plunder the island, to violate the women, and put the children to death. with this brutal intention, one of the party, more expert than the rest, swam towards the island, to fetch the boat to his comrades, which had carried the women to their asylum, and lay moored in one of the creeks. his companions stood on the shore of the mainland, in full view of all that was to pass, waiting anxiously for his return with the boat. but just as the swimmer had got to the nearest point of the island, and was laying hold of a black rock to get on shore, a heroine, who stood on the very point where he meant to land, hastily snatching a dagger from below her apron, with one stroke severed his head from the body. his party seeing this disaster, and relinquishing all future hope of revenge or conquest, made the best of their way out of their perilous situation. this amazon's great grandson lives at bridge of turk, who, besides others, attests the anecdote' (sketch of the scenery near callander, stirling, , p. ). i have only to add to this account that the heroine's name was helen stuart." . no ripple on the lake. "the liveliness of this description of the battle is due to the greater variety of the metre, which resembles that of marmion. the three-accent lines introduced at intervals give it lightness, and the repetition of the same rhyme enables the poet to throw together without break all that forms part of one picture" (taylor). . erne. eagle. see wb. . i see, etc. cf. iv. above. . boune. see on iv. above. most eds. misprint "bound." . barded. the reading of the st ed. and that of ; "corrected" in all the recent ones into "barbed." scott doubtless wrote barded (= armored, or wearing defensive armor; but applied only to horses), a word found in many old writers. cf. holinshed (quoted by nares): "with barded horses, all covered with iron," etc. see also wb. scott has the word again in the lay, i. : "above the foaming tide, i ween, scarce half the charger's neck was seen; for he was barded from counter to tail, and the rider was armed complete in mail." . battalia. battalion, army. the word is not a plural of battalion, as some have seemed to think. see wb. . vaward. in the vanward, or vanguard; misprinted "vanward" in some editions. shakespeare has the noun several times; as in hen. v. iv. . : "the leading of the vaward;" cor. i. . : "their bands i' the vaward;" and figuratively in m. n. d. iv. . : "the vaward of the day," etc. . pride. some eds. misprint "power." . as. as if. see on ii. above. . their flight they ply. the reading of the st ed. and that of . most of the eds. have "plight" for flight, and taylor has the following note on their plight they ply: "the meaning of this is not very clear. possibly 'they keep up a constant fire,' but they seem in too complete a rout for that." cf. iii. above. . the rear. the st ed. has "their rear." . twilight wood. cf. above. "the appearance of the spears and pikes was such that in the twilight they might have been mistaken at a distance for a wood" (taylor). - . and closely shouldering, etc. this couplet is not in the ms. . tinchel. "a circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding a great space, and gradually narrowing, brought immense quantities of deer together, which usually made desperate efforts to breach through the tinchel" (scott). . the tide. the st ed. has "their tide." . now, gallants! etc. cf. macaulay, battle of ivry: "now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of france, charge for the golden lilies,-- upon them with the lance!" . and refluent, etc. the ms. reads: "and refluent down the darksome pass the battle's tide was poured; there toiled the spearman's struggling spear, there raged the mountain sword." . linn. here the word is = cataract. see on i. and ii. above. . minstrel, away! the ms. has "away! away!" . surge. note the imperfect rhyme. see on i. above. . that sullen. the reading of the st ed. and that of ; "the sullen" in many eds. . that parts not, etc. lockhart quotes byron, giaour: "the loveliness in death that parts not quite with parting breath." . seeming, etc. the ms. reads: "and seemed, to minstrel ear, to toll the parting dirge of many a soul." for part = depart, see on ii. above. . while by the lake, etc. the ms. reads: "while by the darkened lake below file out the spearmen of the foe." . at weary bay. see on i. above. . tattered sail. the st ed. has "shattered sail;" not noted in the errata. . saxons. some eds. misprint "saxon." . wont. see on i. above. . store. see on i. above. bonnet-pieces were gold coins on which the king's head was represented with a bonnet instead of a crown. . to him will swim. for the ellipsis, see on i. above. . her billows, etc. the st ed. has "her billow reared his snowy crest," and "its" for they in the next line. . it tinged, etc. the ms. has "it tinged the boats and lake with flame." lines - are interpolated in the ms. on a slip of paper. . duncraggan's widowed dame. cf. iii. fol. above. . a naked dirk. the st ed. has "her husband's dirk." . chime. music. cf. iv. above. . varied his look, etc. the ms. has "glowed in his look, as swelled the song;" and in , "his | glazing | eye." | fiery | . thus, motionless, etc. cf. the introduction to rob roy; "rob roy, while on his death-bed, learned that a person, with whom he was at enmity, proposed to visit him. 'raise me from my bed,' said the invalid; 'throw my plaid around me, and bring me my claymore, dirk, and pistols: it shall never be said that a foeman saw rob roy macgregor defenceless and unarmed.' his foeman, conjectured to be one of the maclarens, entered and paid his compliments, inquiring after the health of his formidable neighbor. rob roy maintained a cold, haughty civility during their short conference; and so soon as he had left the house, 'now,' he said, 'all is over--let the piper play ha til mi tulidh' [we return no more], and he is said to have expired before the dirge was finished." . grim and still. originally "stern and still." in a note to the printer, sent with the final stanzas, scott writes: "i send the grand finale, and so exit the lady of the lake from the head she has tormented for six months. in canto vi. stanza ,--stern and still, read grim and still; sternly occurs four lines higher. for a similar reason, stanza ,--dun deer read fleet deer." . and art thou, etc. the ms. has "'and art thou gone,' the minstrel said." . foeman's. misprinted "foeman's" in some eds. . breadalbane. see on ii. above. . the shelter, etc. the ms. has "the mightiest of a mighty line." . even she. that is, ellen. . storied. referring to the scenes depicted on the painted glass. cf. milton, il penseroso, : "and storied windows, richly dight." the change of tense in fall is of course for the rhyme; but we might expect "lighten" for lightened. . the banquet, etc. the ms. reads: "the banquet gay, the chamber's pride, scarce drew one curious glance aside;" and in , "earnest on his game." . of perch and hood. that is, of enforced idleness. see on ii. above. in some eds. this song is printed without any division into stanzas. . forest. the st ed. and that of have "forests," but we suspect that scott wrote forest. . is meet for me. the ms. has "was meant for me." for the ellipsis, cf. above. . from yon dull steeple's," etc. the ms. has "from darkened steeple's" etc. see on v. above. . the lark, etc. the ms. has "the lively lark my matins rung," and "sung" in the rhyme. the omission of to with ring and sing is here a poetic license; but in elizabethan english it is common in many cases where it would not now be admissible. cf. othello, ii. . : "you were wont be civil;" f. q. i. . : "he thought have slaine her," etc. . a hall, etc. the ms. has "a hall should harbor me." . fleet deer. see on above. . at morning prime. early in the morning. prime is properly the first canonical hour of prayer, or a.m. for its looser use here, cf. f. q. ii. . : "at evening and at prime." . stayed. supported; not to be printed "staid," as in some editions. . within, etc. the ms. reads: "within 't was brilliant all, and bright the vision glowed on ellen's sight." . presence. presence-chamber. cf. rich. ii. i. . : "suppose the singing birds musicians, the grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd" (that is, strewn with rushes); hen. viii. iii. . : "the two great cardinals wait in the presence," etc. . for him, etc. the ms. reads: "for him who owned this royal state." . sheen. bright. see on i. above. . and snowdoun's knight is scotland's king. scott says: "this discovery will probably remind the reader of the beautiful arabian tale of il bondocani. yet the incident is not borrowed from that elegant story, but from scottish tradition. james v., of whom we are treating, was a monarch whose good and benevolent intentions often rendered his romantic freaks venial, if not respectable, since, from his anxious attention to the interests of the lower and most oppressed class of his subjects, he was, as we have seen, popularly termed the king of the commons. for the purpose of seeing that justice was regularly administered, and frequently from the less justifiable motive of gallantry, he used to traverse the vicinage of his several palaces in various disguises. the two excellent comic songs entitled the gaberlunzie man and we'll gae nae mair a roving are said to have been founded upon the success of his amorous adventures when travelling in the disguise of a beggar. the latter is perhaps the best comic ballad in any language. "another adventure, which had nearly cost james his life, is said to have taken place at the village of cramond, near edinburgh, where he had rendered his addresses acceptable to a pretty girl of the lower rank. four or five persons, whether relations or lovers of his mistress is uncertain, beset the disguised monarch as he returned from his rendezvous. naturally gallant, and an admirable master of his weapon, the king took post on the high and narrow bridge over the almond river, and defended himself bravely with his sword. a peasant who was thrashing in a neighboring barn came out upon the noise, and, whether moved by compassion or by natural gallantry, took the weaker side, and laid about with his flail so effectually as to disperse the assailants, well thrashed, even according to the letter. he then conducted the king into his barn, where his guest requested a basin and a towel, to remove the stains of the broil. this being procured with difficulty, james employed himself in learning what was the summit of the deliverer's earthly wishes, and found that they were bounded by the desire of possessing, in property, the farm of braehead, upon which he labored as a bondsman. the lands chanced to belong to the crown; and james directed him to come to the palace of holyrood and inquire for the guidman (that is, farmer) of ballenguich, a name by which he was known in his excursions, and which answered to the il bondocani of haroun alraschid. he presented himself accordingly, and found, with due astonishment, that he had saved his monarch's life, and that he was to be gratified with a crown charter of the lands of braehead, under the service of presenting a ewer, basin, and towel for the king to wash his hands when he shall happen to pass the bridge of cramond. this person was ancestor of the howisons of braehead, in mid-lothian, a respectable family, who continue to hold the lands (now passed into the female line) under the same tenure. [ ] "another of james's frolics is thus narrated by mr. campbell from the statistical account: 'being once benighted when out a-hunting, and separated from his attendants, he happened to enter a cottage in the midst of a moor, at the foot of the ochil hills, near alloa, where, unknown, he was kindly received. in order to regale their unexpected guest, the gudeman desired the gudewife to fetch the hen that roosted nearest the cock, which is always the plumpest, for the stranger's supper. the king, highly pleased with his night's lodging and hospitable entertainment, told mine host, at parting, that he should be glad to return his civility, and requested that the first time he came to stirling he would call at the castle, and inquire for the gudeman of ballenguich. donaldson, the landlord, did not fail to call on the gudeman of ballenguich, when his astonishment at finding that the king had been his guest afforded no small amusement to the merry monarch and his courtiers; and to carry on the pleasantry, he was thenceforth designated by james with the title of king of the moors, which name and designation have descended from father to son ever since, and they have continued in possession of the identical spot, the property of mr. erskine of mar, till very lately, when this gentleman with reluctance turned out the descendant and representative of the king of the moors, on account of his majesty's invincible indolence, and great dislike to reform or innovation of any kind, although, from the spirited example of his neighbor tenants on the same estate, he is convinced similar exertion would promote his advantage.' "the author requests permission yet farther to verify the subject of his poem, by an extract from the genealogical work of buchanan of auchmar, upon scottish surnames (essay upon the family of buchanan, p. ): 'this john buchanan of auchmar and arnpryor was afterwards termed king of kippen [a small district of perthshire] upon the following account: king james v., a very sociable, debonair prince, residing at stirling, in buchanan of arnpryor's time, carriers were very frequently passing along the common road, being near arnpryor's house, with necessaries for the use of the king's family; and he, having some extraordinary occasion, ordered one of these carriers to leave his load at his house, and he would pay him for it; which the carrier refused to do, telling him he was the king's carrier, and his load for his majesty's use; to which arnpryor seemed to have small regard, compelling the carrier, in the end, to leave his load; telling him, if king james was king of scotland, he was king of kippen, so that it was reasonable he should share with his neighbor king in some of these loads, so frequently carried that road. the carrier representing these usage, and telling the story as arnpryor spoke it, to some of the king's servants, it came at length to his majesty's ears, who shortly thereafter, with a few attendants, came to visit his neighbor king, who was in the meantime at dinner. king james, having sent a servant to demand access, was denied the same by a tall fellow with a battle-axe, who stood porter at the gate, telling there could be no access till dinner was over. this answer not satisfying the king, he sent to demand access a second time; upon which he was desired by the porter to desist, otherwise he would find cause to repent his rudeness. his majesty finding this method would not do, desired the porter to tell his master that the goodman of ballangeigh desired to speak with the king of kippen. the porter telling arnpryor so much, he, in all humble manner, came and received the king, and having entertained him with much sumptuousness and jollity, became so agreeable to king james, that he allowed him to take so much of any provision he found carrying that road as he had occasion for; and seeing he made the first visit, desired arnpryor in a few days to return him a second to stirling, which he performed, and continued in very much favor with the king, always thereafter being termed king of kippen while he lived.' "the readers of ariosto must give credit for the amiable features with which james is represented, since he is generally considered as the prototype of zerbino, the most interesting hero of the orlando furioso." . glided from her stay. the ms. has "shrinking, quits her stay." ruskin asks us to "note the northern love of rocks" in this passage, and adds: "dante could not have thought of his 'cut rocks' as giving rest even to snow. he must put it on the pine branches, if it is to be at peace." taylor quotes holmes, autocrat of breakfast table: "she melted away from her seat like an image of snow." . pry. look pryingly or curiously. in prose on would not be used with pry. . to speed. to a fortunate issue; unless speed be the verb, and = pass. . in life's more low but happier way. the ms. has "in lowly life's more happy way." . the name of snowdoun. scott says: "william of worcester, who wrote about the middle of the fifteenth century, calls stirling castle snowdoun. sir david lindsay bestows the same epithet upon it in his complaint of the papingo: 'adieu, fair snawdoun, with thy towers high, thy chaple-royal, park, and table round; may, june, and july, would i dwell in thee, were i a man, to hear the birdis sound, whilk doth agane thy royal rock rebound.' "mr. chalmers, in his late excellent edition of sir david lindsay's works, has refuted the chimerical derivation of snawdoun from snedding, or cutting. it was probably derived from the romantic legend which connected stirling with king arthur, to which the mention of the round table gives countenance. the ring within which justs were formerly practised in the castle park, is still called the round table. snawdoun is the official title of one of the scottish heralds, whose epithets seem in all countries to have been fantastically adopted from ancient history or romance. "it appears from the preceding note that the real name by which james was actually distinguished in his private excursions was the goodman of ballenguich; derived from a steep pass leading up to the castle of stirling, so called. but the epithet would not have suited poetry, and would besides at once, and prematurely, have announced the plot to many of my country men, among whom the traditional stories above mentioned are still current." . my spell-bound steps. the ms. has "thy sovereign back | to benvenue." thy sovereign's steps | . glaive. sword. see on iv. above. . pledge of my faith, etc. the ms. has "pledge of fitz-james's faith, the ring." . a lightening. some eds. have "a lightning." . and more, etc. the ms. reads: "and in her breast strove maiden shame; more deep she deemed the monarch's ire kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire, against his sovereign broadsword drew; and, with a pleading, warm and true, she craved the grace of roderick dhu." . grace. pardon. . stained. reddened. . the graeme. jeffrey says: "malcolm graeme has too insignificant a part assigned him, considering the favor in which he is held both by ellen and the author; and in bringing out the shaded and imperfect character of roderick dhu as a contrast to the purer virtue of his rival, mr. scott seems to have fallen into the common error of making him more interesting than him whose virtues he was intended to set off, and converted the villain of the piece in some measure into its hero. a modern poet, however, may perhaps be pardoned for an error of which milton himself is thought not to have kept clear, and for which there seems so natural a cause in the difference between poetical and amiable characters." . warder. guard, jailer. . lockhart quotes here the following extract from a letter of byron's to scott, dated july , : "and now, waiving myself, let me talk to you of the prince regent. he ordered me to be presented to him at a ball; and after some saying, peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, as to my own attempts, he talked to me of you and your immoralities: he preferred you to every bard past and present, and asked which of your works pleased me most. it was a difficult question. i answered, i thought the lay. he said his own opinion was nearly similar. in speaking of the others, i told him that i thought you more particularly the poet of princes, as they never appeared more fascinating than in marmion and the lady of the lake. he was pleased to coincide, and to dwell on the description of your james's as no less royal than poetical. he spoke alternately of homer and yourself, and seemed well acquainted with both." . harp of the north, farewell! cf. the introduction to the poem. . wizard elm. see on i. above. . housing. returning to the hive. . the grief devoured. for the figure, cf. ps. xlii. , lxxx. , and isa. xxx. . . o'erlive. several eds. misprint "o'erlived." addendum. since our first edition appeared we have had the privilege of examining a copy of scott's d ed. ( ), belonging to mr. e. s. gould, of yonkers, n. y. this d ed. is in smaller type than the st, and in octavo form, the st being in quarto. a minute collation of the text with that of the st ed. and our own shows that scott carefully revised the poem for this d ed., and that the changes he afterwards made in it were few and unimportant. for instance, the text includes the verbal changes which we have adopted in i. , , , ii. , , , , iii. , , , , v. , , , , iv. , , , , , etc. in vi. fol. it reads (including the omissions and insertions) as in our text. in i. , , the pointing is the same as in the st ed.; and in i. , the reading is "dear." in ii. , , it varies from the pointing of the st ed.; but we are inclined to regard this as a misprint, not a correction. in ii. this d ed. has "lingerewave" for "lingerer wave," and in ii. it repeats the preposterous misprint of "his glee" from the st ed. if scott could overlook such palpable errors as these, he might easily fail to detect the misplacing of a comma. we have our doubts as to i. , , where the st and d eds. agree; but there a misprint may have been left uncorrected, as in ii. . jan. , . footnotes: [footnote : one of scott's (on vi. ) has suffered badly in lockhart's edition. in a quotation from lord berners's froissart (which i omit) a whole page seems to have dropped out, and the last sentence, as it now stands, is made up of pans of the one preceding and the one following the lost matter. it reads thus (i mark the gap): "there all the companyons made them[... ] breke no poynt of that ye have ordayned and commanded.,' this is palpable nonsense, but it has been repeated without correction in every reprint of lockhart's edition for the last fifty years.] [footnote : lockhart says: "the lady with whom sir walter scott held this conversation was, no doubt, his aunt, miss christian rutherford; there was no other female relation dead when this introduction was written, whom i can suppose him to have consulted on literary questions. lady capulet, on seeing the corpse of tybalt, exclaims,-- 'tybalt, my cousin! o my brother's child!'"] [footnote : lockhart quotes byron, don juan, xi. : "in twice five years the 'greatest living poet,' like to the champion in the fisty ring, is called on to support his claim, or show it, although 't is an imaginary thing," etc.] [footnote : "sir walter reigned before me," etc. (don juan, xi. ).] [footnote : the spenserian stanza, first used by spenser in his faerie queene, consists of eight lines of ten syllables, followed by a line of twelve syllables, the accents throughout being on the even syllables (the so-called iambic measure). there are three sets of rhymes: one for the first and third lines; another for the second, fourth, fifth, and seventh; and a third for the sixth, eighth, and ninth.] [footnote : vide certayne matters concerning the realme of scotland, etc., as they were anno domini . london, .] [footnote : see on ii. above.] [footnote : hallowe'en.] [footnote : to the raven that sat on the forked tree he gave his gifts.] [footnote : "this story is still current in the moors of staffordshire, and adapted by the peasantry to their own meridian. i have repeatedly heard it told, exactly as here, by rustics who could not read. my last authority was a nailer near cheadle" (r. jamieson).] [footnote : see scottish historical and romantic ballads, glasgow, , vol. ii. p. .] [footnote : a champion of popular romance; see ellis's romances, vol. iii.] [footnote : "that at the eastern extremity of loch katrine, so often mentioned in the text."] [footnote : "beallach an duine."] [footnote : "the reader will find this story told at greater length, and with the addition in particular of the king being recognized, like the fitz-james of the lady of the lake, by being the only person covered, in the first series of tales of a grandfather, vol. iii, p. . the heir of braehead discharged his duty at the banquet given to king george iv. in the parliament house at edinburgh, in " (lockhart).] the story of the champions of the round table written and illustrated by howard pyle. in the distinguished american artist howard pyle undertook to retell and illustrate the legend of king arthur and the knights of the round table. his four-volume work has long been considered one of the outstanding interpretations of the arthur cycle. _the story of the champions of the round table_, the second of pyle's volumes, was originally published in . reissued now, identical in format to the original volume, with pyle's superb illustrations and decorations, it is destined to reach new generations of readers. _the story of the champions of the round table_ recounts the full and moving saga of three of arthur's famous knights: percival, tristram, and launcelot of the lake. * * * * * _"the period in which howard pyle did his work frequently has been spoken of as that golden age in children's literature that was to last for the decade to follow. it is difficult to do justice to his contribution to the shining quality of that era. the magnitude and diversity of his work eludes definition. creative artist and born storyteller, each aspect of his twofold genius enriched and interpreted the other."_ --elizabeth nesbitt, in _a critical history of children's literature_ [illustration: sir launcelot of the lake] foreword in a book which was written by me aforetime, and which was set forth in print, i therein told much of the history of king arthur; of how he manifested his royalty in the achievement of that wonderful magic sword which he drew forth out of the anvil; of how he established his royalty; of how he found a splendid sword yclept excalibur in a miraculously wonderful manner; of how he won the most beautiful lady in the world for his queen; and of how he established the famous round table of noble worthy knights, the like of whose prowess the world hath never seen, and will not be likely ever to behold again. also i told in that book the adventures of certain worthy knights and likewise how the magician merlin was betrayed to his undoing by a sorceress hight vivien. now, if you took any joy in reading that book, i have great hope that that which follows may be every whit as pleasing to you; for i shall hereinafter have to do with the adventures of certain other worthies with whom you may have already become acquainted through my book and otherwise; and likewise of the adventures of certain other worthies, of whom you have not yet been told by me. more especially, i believe, you will find entertainment in what i shall have to tell you of the adventures of that great knight who was altogether the most noble of spirit, and the most beautiful, and the bravest of heart, of any knight who ever lived--excepting only his own son, galahad, who was the crowning glory of his house and of his name and of the reign of king arthur. however, if sir launcelot of the lake failed now and then in his behavior, who is there in the world shall say, "i never fell into error"? and if he more than once offended, who is there shall have hardihood to say, "i never committed offence"? yea, that which maketh launcelot so singularly dear to all the world, is that he was not different from other men, but like other men, both in his virtues and his shortcomings; only that he was more strong and more brave and more untiring than those of us who are his brethren, both in our endeavors and in our failures. contents the story of launcelot chapter first how sir launcelot came forth from the enchanted castle of the lake and entered into the world again, and how king arthur made him knight chapter second how sir launcelot and sir lionel rode forth errant together and how sir lionel met sir turquine to his great dole. also how sir ector grieved for the departure of his brother launcelot and so, following him, fell into a very sorry adventure chapter third how sir launcelot was found in a sleep by queen morgana le fay and three other queens who were with her, and how he was taken to a castle of queen morgana's and of what befell him there chapter fourth how sir launcelot sought sir lionel and how a young damsel brought him to the greatest battle that ever he had in all his life chapter fifth how sir launcelot went upon an adventure with the damsel croisette as companion, and how he overcame sir peris of the forest sauvage chapter sixth how sir launcelot took part in the tournament between king bagdemagus and the king of north wales, and how he won that battle for king bagdemagus chapter seventh how sir launcelot fell into the greatest peril that ever he encountered in all his life. also how he freed a misfortunate castle and town from the giants who held them, and how he released the lord thereof from a dungeon chapter eighth how sir launcelot rescued sir kay from a perilous pass also how he changed armor with sir kay and what befell the book of sir tristram part i the story of sir tristram and the lady belle isoult chapter first how the new queen of lyonesse sought tristram's life; how he went to france, and how he returned again to lyonesse and was received with love at that place chapter second how sir tristram was made knight by the king of cornwall, and how he fought a battle with a famous champion chapter third how sir tristram went to ireland to be healed of his wound by the king's daughter of ireland, and of how he came to love the lady belle isoult. also concerning sir palamydes and the lady belle isoult chapter fourth how sir tristram encountered sir palamydes at the tournament and of what befell. also how sir tristram was forced to leave the kingdom of ireland chapter fifth how sir tristram was sent by command of king mark to go to ireland to bring the lady the belle isoult from ireland to cornwall and how it fared with him chapter sixth how sir tristram had to do in battle with three knights of the round table. also how he had speech with king arthur chapter seventh how sir tristram had speech with king angus of ireland; how he undertook to champion the cause of king angus and of what happened thereafter part ii the story of sir tristram and sir lamorack chapter first how sir lamorack of gales came to tintagel and how he and sir tristram sware friendship together in the forest chapter second how sir tristram started to go to camelot, and how he stayed by the way to do battle with sir nabon le noir chapter third how sir tristram did justice in the island, and thereby released sir lamorack from captivity. also how sir tristram and sir lamorack renewed their great tenderness toward one another part iii the madness of sir tristram chapter first how sir tristram was discovered with the lady belle isoult; how he assaulted king mark, and how he escaped from tintagel into the forest chapter second how sir tristram got him a sword from sir kay, and how he slew therewith a huge knight in the forest and rescued a lady in very great distress. also how sir launcelot found sir tristram in the forest and brought him thence to tintagel again chapter third how sir tristram was discovered at tintagel and of what befell thereby chapter fourth how sir tristram and the lady belle isoult returned to cornwall, and how they ended their days together the book of sir percival chapter first how percival departed into the world and how he found a fair damsel in a pavilion; likewise how he came before queen guinevere and how he undertook his first adventure chapter second how sir percival was made knight by king arthur; how he rode forth with sir lamorack and how he left sir lamorack in quest of adventure upon his own account; likewise how a great knight taught him craft in arms chapter third how sir percival met two strange people in the forest, and how he succored a knight who was in very great sorrow and dole chapter fourth how sir percival undertook the adventure of the castle of beaurepaire and how he fared therein after several excellent adventures chapter fifth how sir percival repaid sir kay the buffet he one time gave yelande the dumb maiden, and how, thereafter, he went forth to seek his own lady of love list of illustrations head piece--table of contents tail piece--table of contents head piece--list of illustrations tail piece--list of illustrations the lady nymue beareth away launcelot into the lake head piece--prologue tail piece--prologue sir launcelot greets queen guinevere head piece--the story of launcelot sir lionel of britain queen morgana appears unto sir launcelot sir launcelot doeth battle with sir turquine sir launcelot sits with sir hilaire and croisette sir launcelot and elouise the fair sir launcelot climbs to catch the lady's falcon sir launcelot takes the armor of sir kay tail piece--the story of launcelot sir tristram of lyonesse head piece--prologue tail piece--prologue tristram succors the lady moeya head piece--the story of sir tristram and the lady belle isoult king mark of cornwall the lady belle isoult the queen of ireland seeks to slay sir tristram sir tristram harpeth before king mark sir tristram sits with sir launcelot tail piece belle isoult and sir tristram drink the love draught tail piece--the story of sir tristram and the lady belle isoult sir lamorack of gales head piece--the story of sir tristram and sir lamorack sir tristram cometh to ye castle of sir nabon sir lamorack herds the swine of sir nabon tail piece--the story of sir tristram and sir lamorack sir tristram assaults king mark head piece--the madness of sir tristram sir kay and the forest madman sir tristram leaps into ye sea king mark broods mischief tail piece--the madness of sir tristram sir percival of gales head piece--prologue the lady yvette the fair sir percival and sir lamorack ride together sir percival overcometh ye enchantress vivien the demoiselle blanchefleur sir kay interrupts ye meditations of sir percival tail piece--the book of sir percival [illustration: the lady nymue beareth away launcelot into the lake] prologue. it hath already been set forth in print in a volume written by me concerning the adventures of king arthur when he first became king, how there were certain lesser kings who favored him and were friendly allies with him, and how there were certain others of the same sort who were his enemies. among those who were his friends was king ban of benwick, who was an exceedingly noble lord of high estate and great honor, and who was of a lineage so exalted that it is not likely that there was anyone in the world who was of a higher strain. [sidenote: of king ban and his misfortunes] now, upon a certain time, king ban of benwick fell into great trouble; for there came against him a very powerful enemy, to wit, king claudas of scotland. king claudas brought unto benwick a huge army of knights and lords, and these sat down before the castle of trible with intent to take that strong fortress and destroy it. this noble castle of trible was the chiefest and the strongest place of defence in all king ban's dominions, wherefore he had intrenched himself there with all of his knights and with his queen, hight helen, and his youngest son, hight launcelot. now this child, launcelot, was dearer to queen helen than all the world besides, for he was not only large of limb but so extraordinarily beautiful of face that i do not believe an angel from paradise could have been more beautiful than he. he had been born with a singular birth-mark upon his shoulder, which birth-mark had the appearance as of a golden star enstamped upon the skin; wherefore, because of this, the queen would say: "launcelot, by reason of that star upon thy shoulder i believe that thou shalt be the star of our house and that thou shalt shine with such remarkable glory that all the world shall behold thy lustre and shall marvel thereat for all time to come." so the queen took extraordinary delight in launcelot and loved him to the very core of her heart--albeit she knew not, at the time she spake, how that prophecy of hers concerning the star was to fall so perfectly true. now, though king ban thought himself very well defended at his castle of trible, yet king claudas brought so terribly big an army against that place that it covered the entire plain. a great many battles were fought under the walls of the castle, but ever king claudas waxed greater and stronger, and king ban's party grew weaker and more fearful. [sidenote: king ban bethinks him of king arthur] so by and by things came to such a pass that king ban bethought him of king arthur, and he said to himself: "i will go to my lord the king and beseech help and aid from him, for he will certainly give it me. nor will i trust any messenger in this affair other than myself; for i myself will go to king arthur and will speak to him with my own lips." having thus bethought him, he sent for queen helen to come into his privy closet and he said to her: "my dear love, nothing remaineth for me but to go unto the court of king arthur and beseech him to lend his powerful aid in this extremity of our misfortunes; nor will i trust any messenger in this affair but myself. now, this castle is no place for thee, when i am away, therefore, when i go upon this business, i will take thee and launcelot with me, and i will leave you both in safety at king arthur's court with our other son, sir ector, until this war be ended and done." and to these queen helen lent her assent. so king ban summoned to him the seneschal of the castle, who was named sir malydor le brun, and said to him: "messire, i go hence to-night by a secret pass, with intent to betake me unto king arthur, and to beseech his aid in this extremity. moreover, i shall take with me my lady and the young child launcelot, to place them within the care of king arthur during these dolorous wars. but besides these, i will take no other one with me but only my favorite esquire, foliot. now i charge thee, sir, to hold this castle in my behalf with all thy might and main, and yield it not to our enemies upon any extremity; for i believe i shall in a little while return with sufficient aid from king arthur to compass the relief of this place." [sidenote: king ban with queen helen and launcelot escape from trible] so when night had fallen very dark and still, king ban, and queen helen, and the young child launcelot, and the esquire foliot left the town privily by means of a postern gate. thence they went by a secret path, known only to a very few, that led down a steep declivity of rocks, with walls of rock upon either side that were very high indeed, and so they came out in safety beyond the army of king claudas and into the forest of the valley below. and the forest lay very still and solemn and dark in the silence of the nighttime. having thus come out in safety into the forest, that small party journeyed on with all celerity that they were able to achieve until, some little time before dawn, they came to where was a lake of water in an open meadow of the forest. here they rested for a little while, for queen helen had fallen very weary with the rough and hasty journey which they had traveled. [sidenote: foliot seeth a light] now whilst they sat there resting, foliot spake of a sudden, saying unto king ban: "lord, what is that light that maketh the sky so bright yonder-ways?" then king ban looked a little and presently said: "methinks it must be the dawn that is breaking." "lord," quoth foliot, "that cannot very well be; for that light in the sky lieth in the south, whence we have come, and not in the east, where the sun should arise." then king ban's heart misgave him, and his soul was shaken with a great trouble. "foliot," he said, "i believe that you speak sooth and that that light bodes very ill for us all." then he said: "stay here for a little and i will go and discover what that light may be." therewith he mounted his horse and rode away in the darkness. [sidenote: king ban beholdeth the burning of trible] now there was a very high hill near-by where they were, and upon the top of the hill was an open platform of rock whence a man could see a great way off in every direction. so king ban went to this place, and, when he had come there, he cast his eyes in the direction of the light and he straightway beheld with a manner of terror that the light came from trible; and then, with that terror still growing greater at his heart, he beheld that the town and the castle were all in one great flame of fire. when king ban saw this he sat for a while upon his horse like one turned into a stone. then, after a while, he cried out in a great voice: "woe! woe! woe is me!" and then he cried out still in a very loud voice, "certes, god hath deserted me entirely." [sidenote: the death of king ban] therewith a great passion of grief took hold upon him and shook him like to a leaf, and immediately after that he felt that something brake within him with a very sharp and bitter pain, and he wist that it was his heart that had broken. so being all alone there upon the hilltop, and in the perfect stillness of the night, he cried out, "my heart! my heart!" and therewith, the shadows of death coming upon him, he could not sit any longer upon his horse, but fell down upon the ground. and he knew very well that death was nigh him, so, having no cross to pray upon, he took two blades of grass and twisted them into that holy sign, and he kissed it and prayed unto it that god would forgive him his sins. so he died all alone upon that hilltop. meanwhile, queen helen and foliot sat together waiting for him to return and presently they heard the sound of his horse's hoofs coming down that rocky path. then queen helen said: "foliot, methinks my lord cometh." so in a little came the horse with the empty saddle. when foliot beheld that he said: "lady, here meseems is great trouble come to us, for methinks something hath befallen my lord, and that he is in sore travail, for here is his horse without him." then it seemed to queen helen as though the spirit of life suddenly went away from her, for she foresaw what had befallen. so she arose like one in a dream, and, speaking very quietly, she said: "foliot, take me whither my lord went awhile since!" to this foliot said: "lady, wait until the morning, which is near at hand, for it is too dark for you to go thitherward at this present." whereunto the lady helen replied: "foliot, i cannot wait, for if i stay here and wait i believe i shall go mad." upon this, foliot did not try to persuade her any more but made ready to take her whither she would go. now the young child launcelot was then asleep upon the queen's knees, wherefore she took her cloak and wrapped the child in it and laid him very gently upon the ground, so that he did not wake. then she mounted upon her palfrey and foliot led the palfrey up the hill whither king ban had gone a short time since. [sidenote: the lady helen findeth the king] when they came to that place of open rocks above told of, they found king ban lying very quiet and still upon the ground and with a countenance of great peace. for i believe of a surety that god had forgiven him all his sins, and he would now suffer no more because of the cares and the troubles of this life. thus queen helen found him, and finding him she made no moan or outcry of any kind, only she looked for a long while into his dead face, which she could see very plainly now, because that the dawn had already broken. and by and by she said: "dear lord, thou art at this time in a happier case than i." and by and by she said to foliot: "go and bring his horse to this place, that we may bear him hence." "lady," said foliot, "it is not good for you to be left here alone." "foliot," said the queen, "thou dost not know how much alone i am; thy leaving me here cannot make me more alone." therewith she fell to weeping with great passion. then foliot wept also in great measure and, still weeping like rain, he went away and left her. when he came again with king ban's horse the sun had risen and all the birds were singing with great jubilation and everything was so blithe and gay that no one could have believed that care and trouble could dwell in a world that was so beautiful. [sidenote: the lady helen bringeth her dead down from the mountain] so queen helen and foliot lifted the dead king to his horse and then the queen said: "come thou, foliot, at thine own gait, and i will go ahead and seek my child, for i have yet launcelot to be my joy. haply he will be needing me at this moment." so the queen made haste down the steep hill ahead of foliot and by and by she came to the margin of that little lake where they had rested awhile since. by now the sun had risen very strong and warm so that all the lake, and the meadows circumadjacent, and the forest that stood around about that meadow were illumined with the glory of his effulgence. now as queen helen entered that meadow she beheld that a very wonderful lady was there, and this lady bare the child launcelot in her arms. and the lady sang to launcelot, and the young child looked up into her face and laughed and set his hand against her cheek. all this queen helen beheld; and she likewise beheld that the lady was of a very extraordinary appearance, being clad altogether in green that glistered and shone with a wonderful brightness. and she beheld that around the neck of the lady was a necklace of gold, inset with opal stones and emeralds; and she perceived that the lady's face was like ivory--very white and clear--and that her eyes, which were very bright, shone like jewels set into ivory. and she saw that the lady was very wonderfully beautiful, so that the beholder, looking upon her, felt a manner of fear--for that lady was fay. (and that lady was the lady of the lake, spoken of aforetime in the book of king arthur, wherein it is told how she aided king arthur to obtain that wonderful, famous sword yclept excalibur, and how she aided sir pellias, the gentle knight, in the time of his extremity, and took him into the lake with her. also divers other things concerning her are told of therein.) then the queen came near to where the lady was, and she said to her, "lady, i pray you give me my child again!" upon this the lady of the lake smiled very strangely and said: "thou shalt have thy child again, lady, but not now; after a little thou shalt have him again." then queen helen cried out with great agony of passion: "lady, would you take my child from me? give him to me again, for he is all i have left in the world. lo, i have lost house and lands and husband, and all the other joys that life has me to give, wherefore, i beseech you, take not my child from me." to this the lady of the lake said: "thou must endure thy sorrow a while longer; for it is so ordained that i must take thy child; for i take him only that i may give him to thee again, reared in such a wise that he shall make the glory of thy house to be the glory of the world. for he shall become the greatest knight in the world, and from his loins shall spring a greater still than he, so that the glory of the house of king ban shall be spoken of as long as mankind shall last." but queen helen cried out all the more in a great despair: "what care i for all this? i care only that i shall have my little child again! give him to me!" [sidenote: the lady of the lake taketh launcelot into the lake] therewith she would have laid hold of the garments of the lady of the lake in supplication, but the lady of the lake drew herself away from queen helen's hand and said: "touch me not, for i am not mortal, but fay." and thereupon she and launcelot vanished from before queen helen's eyes as the breath vanishes from the face of a mirror. for when you breathe upon a mirror the breath will obscure that which lieth behind; but presently the breath will disappear and vanish, and then you shall behold all things entirely clear and bright to the sight again. so the lady of the lake vanished away, and everything behind her where she had stood was clear and bright, and she was gone. then queen helen fell down in a swoon, and lay beside the lake of the meadow like one that is dead; and when foliot came he found her so and wist not what to do for her. there was his lord who was dead and his lady who was so like to death that he knew not whether she was dead or no. so he knew not what to do but sat down and made great lamentation for a long while. [sidenote: the lady helen taketh to a nunnery] what time he sat thus there came that way three nuns who dwelt in an abbey of nuns which was not a great distance away from that place. these made great pity over that sorrowful sight, and they took away from there the dead king and the woeful queen, and the king they buried in holy ground, and the queen they let live with them and she was thereafter known as the "sister of sorrows." [sidenote: how launcelot dwelt in the lake] now launcelot dwelt for nigh seventeen years with the lady nymue of the lake in that wonderful, beautiful valley covered over with the appearance of such a magical lake as hath been aforetime described in the book of king arthur. and that land of the lake was of this sort that shall here be described:-- unto anyone who could enter into the magic water of that lake (and there were very few of those who were mortal who were allowed to come to those meadows of faery that were there concealed beneath those enchanted waters) he would behold before him a wide and radiant field of extraordinary beauty. and he would behold that that field was covered all over with such a multitude of exquisite and beautiful flowers that the heart of the beholder would be elated with pure joy to find himself in the midst of that waving sea of multitudinous and fragrant blossoms. and he would behold many fair and shady groves of trees that here and there grew up from that valley, each glade overshadowing a fountain of water as clear as crystal. and he would perhaps behold, at such pleasant places beneath the shade of those trees, some party of the fair and gentle folk of that country; and he would see them playing in sport, or he would hear them chanting to the music of shining golden harps. and he would behold in the midst of that beautiful plain a wonderful castle with towers and roofs uplifted high into the sky, and all shining in the peculiar radiance of that land, like to castles and battlements of pure gold. such was the land unto which launcelot was brought, and from what i have told you you may see what a wonderful, beautiful place it was. and the mystery of that place entered into the soul of launcelot, so that thereafter, when he came out thence, he was never like other folk, but always appeared to be in a manner remote and distant from other of his fellow-mortals with whom he dwelt. for though he smiled a great deal, it was not often that he laughed; and if he did laugh, it was never in scorn, but always in loving-kindness. * * * * * it was here in this land that sir pellias had now dwelt for several years, with great peace and content. (for it hath been told in the book of king arthur how, when he was upon the edge of death, the lady nymue of the lake brought him back to life again, and how, after that time, he was half fay and half mortal.) and the reason why launcelot was brought to that place was that sir pellias might teach him and train him in all the arts of chivalry. for no one in all the world was more skilful in arms than sir pellias, and no one could so well teach launcelot the duties of chivalry as he. so sir pellias taught launcelot all that was best of knighthood, both as to conduct of manner, and as to the worthiness and skill at arms, wherefore it was that when launcelot was completely taught, there was no knight in all the world who was his peer in strength of arms or in courtesy of behavior, until his own son, sir galahad, appeared in the courts of chivalry as shall by and by be told of. so when launcelot came forth into the world again he became the greatest knight in all the history of chivalry, wherefore that prophecy of his mother was fulfilled as to his being like to a bright star of exceeding lustre. accordingly, i have herein told you with great particularity all these circumstances of his early history so that you may know exactly how it was that he was taken away into the lake, and why it was that he was afterward known as sir launcelot, surnamed of the lake. as to how he came into the world to achieve that greatness unto which he had been preordained, and as to how king arthur made him knight, and as to many very excellent adventures that befell him, you shall immediately read in what followeth. part i the story of launcelot _here beginneth the story of sir launcelot, surnamed of the lake, who was held by all men to be the most excellent, noble, perfect knight-champion who was ever seen in the world from the very beginning of chivalry unto the time when his son, sir galahad, appeared like a bright star of extraordinary splendor shining in the sky of chivalry. in this book it shall be told how he was taken into a magic lake, how he came out thence to be made knight by king arthur, and of how he undertook several of those adventures that made him at once the wonder and the admiration of all men, and the chiefest glory of the round table of arthur-pendragon._ [illustration: sir launcelot greets queen guinevere] chapter first _how sir launcelot came forth from the enchanted castle of the lake and entered into the world again, and how king arthur made him knight._ [sidenote: of the springtime of long ago] i know not any time of the year that is more full of joyfulness than the early summer season; for that time the sun is wonderfully lusty and strong, yet not so very hot; that time the trees and shrubs are very full of life and very abundant of shade and yet have not grown dry with the heats and droughts of later days; that time the grass is young and lush and green, so that when you walk athwart the meadow-lands it is as though you walked through a fair billowy lake of magical verdure, sprinkled over with a great multitude of little flowers; that time the roses are everywhere a-bloom, both the white rose and the red, and the eglantine is abundant; that time the nests are brimful of well-fledged nestlings, and the little hearts of the small parent fowls are so exalted with gladness that they sing with all their mights and mains, so that the early daytime is filled full of the sweet jargon and the jubilant medley of their voices. yea; that is a goodly season of the year, for though, haply, the spirit may not be so hilarious as in the young and golden springtime, yet doth the soul take to itself so great a content in the fulness of the beauty of the world, that the heart is elated with a great and abundant joy that it is not apt to feel at another season. [sidenote: king arthur and two knights ride a-hunting] now it chanced upon the day before saint john's day in the fulness of a summer-time such as this, that king arthur looked forth from his chamber very early in the morning and beheld how exceedingly fair and very lusty was the world out-of-doors--all in the freshness of the young daylight. for the sun had not yet risen, though he was about to rise, and the sky was like to pure gold for brightness; all the grass and leaves and flowers were drenched with sweet and fragrant dew, and the birds were singing so vehemently that the heart of any man could not but rejoice in the fulness of life that lay all around about him. there were two knights with king arthur at that time, one was sir ewain, the son of morgana le fay (and he was king arthur's nephew), and the other was sir ector de maris, the son of king ban of benwick and of queen helen--this latter a very noble, youthful knight, and the youngest of all the knights of the round table who were at that time elected. these stood by king arthur and looked forth out of the window with him and they also took joy with him in the sweetness of the summer season. unto them, after a while, king arthur spake, saying: "messires, meseems this is too fair a day to stay within doors. for, certes, it is a shame that i who am a king should be prisoner within mine own castle, whilst any ploughman may be free of the wold and the green woods and the bright sun and the blue sky and the wind that blows over hill and dale. now, i too would fain go forth out of doors and enjoy these things; wherefore i ordain that we shall go a-hunting this day and that ye and i shall start before any others of the lords and the ladies that dwell herein are awake. so let us take our horses and our hounds and let us take certain foresters and huntsmen, and let us go forth a-hunting into the green forest; for this day shall be holiday for me and for you and we shall leave care behind us, and for a while we shall disport ourselves in pleasant places." so they all did as king arthur bade; they made them each man ready with his own hands, and they bade the huntsmen and the foresters to attend thereupon as the king had ordained. then they rode forth from the castle and out into the wide world that lay beyond, and it was yet so early in the morning that none of the castle folk were astir to know of their departure. all that day they hunted in the forest with much joy and with great sport, nor did they turn their faces toward home again until the day was so far spent that the sun had sunk behind the tops of the tall leafy trees. then, at that time, king arthur gave command that they should bend their ways toward camelot once more. [sidenote: king arthur and his companions find a strange damsel and a dwarf] now this time, being the eve of saint john, fairies and those folk who are fay come forth, as is very well known, into the world from which they dwell apart at other times. so when king arthur and those two knights and their several foresters and huntsmen came to a certain outlying part of the forest, they were suddenly aware of a damsel and a dwarf waiting where the road upon which they were travelling crossed another road, and they perceived, from her very remarkable appearance, that the damsel was very likely fay. for both she and her dwarf sat each upon a milk-white horse, very strangely still, close to where was a shrine by a hedge of hawthorne; and the damsel was so wonderfully fair of face that it was a marvel to behold her. moreover, she was clad all in white samite from top to toe and her garments were embroidered with silver; and the trappings and garniture of her horse were of white samite studded with bright silver bosses, wherefore, because of this silver, she glistered with a sudden lustre whensoever she moved a little. when king arthur and the two knights who were with him drew nigh this damsel, much marvelling at her appearance, she hailed him in a voice that was both high and clear, crying: "welcome, king arthur! welcome, king arthur! welcome, king arthur!" saying three words three times; and "welcome, sir ewain!" "welcome, sir ector de maris!" addressing each of those lords by his name. "damsel," quoth king arthur, "it is very singular that you should know who we are and that we should not know you. now, will you not tell us your name and whence you come and whither you go? for of a surety i believe you are fay." "lord," said the damsel, "it matters not who i am, saving that i am of the court of a wonderful lady who is your very good friend. she hath sent me here to meet you and to beseech you to come with me whither i shall lead you, and i shall lead you unto her." "damsel," said king arthur, "i shall be right glad to go with you as you desire me to do. so, if you will lead me to your lady, i and my knights will gladly follow you thitherway to pay our court unto her." [sidenote: king arthur and his knights follow the damsel] upon this the damsel waved her hand, and drawing her bridle-rein she led the way, accompanied by the dwarf, and king arthur and the two knights followed her, and all their party of foresters and huntsmen and hounds and beagles followed them. by this time the sun had set and the moon had risen very fair and round and as yellow as gold, making a great light above the silent tree-tops. everything now was embalmed in the twilight, and all the world was enshrouded in the mystery of the midsummer eve. yet though the sun had gone the light was wonderfully bright, wherefore all that the eye could see stood sharp-cut and very clear to the vision. so the damsel and the dwarf led the way for somewhat of a distance, though not for so very far, until they came of a sudden to where was an open meadow in the forest, hedged all around with the trees of the woodland. and here the king and his knights were aware of a great bustle of many people, some working very busily in setting up several pavilions of white samite, and others preparing a table as for a feast, and others upon this business and others upon that; and there were various sumpter-mules and pack-horses and palfreys all about, as though belonging to a party of considerable estate. then king arthur and those who were with him beheld that, at some distance away upon the other side of the meadow, there were three people sitting under a crab-apple tree upon a couch especially prepared for them, and they were aware that these people were the chief of all that company. [sidenote: king arthur and his companions are brought to speak with strange folk] the first party of the three was a knight of very haughty and noble appearance, clad all in armor as white as silver; and his jupon was white embroidered with silver, and the scabbard of the sword and the sword-belt were white, and his shield hung in the crab-tree above him and that, too, was all white as of silver. this knight still wore his helmet, so that his countenance was not to be seen. the second party of the three was a lady clad all in white raiment. her face was covered by her wimple so that her countenance also was not to be seen very clearly, but her garments were of wonderful sort, being of white sarcenet embroidered over with silver in the pattern of lily flowers. also she wore around her breast and throat a chain of shining silver studded with bright and sparkling gems of divers sorts. the third party of the three was a youth of eighteen years, so beautiful of face that it seemed to king arthur that he had never beheld so noble a being. for his countenance was white and shining, and his hair was as soft as silk and as black as it was possible to be, and curled down upon his shoulders; and his eyes were large and bright and extraordinarily black, and his eyebrows arched so smoothly that if they had been painted they could not have been marked upon his forehead more evenly than they were; and his lips, which pouted a little, though not very much, were as red as coral, and his upper lip was shaded with a soft down of black. moreover, this youth was clad altogether in white cloth of satin with no ornaments whatsoever saving only a fine chain of shining silver set with opal-stones and emeralds that hung about his neck. then when king arthur approached near enough he perceived by certain signs that the lady was the chiefest of those three, wherefore he paid his court to her especially, saying to her: "lady, it seems that i have been brought hitherward unto you and that you were aware of my name and estate when you sent for me. now i should be exceedingly glad if you would enlighten me in the same manner as to yourself." "sir," she said, "that i shall be glad to do; for if i have known you aforetime, you have also seen me afore time and have known me as your friend." therewith the lady lowered the wimple from her face and king arthur perceived that it was the lady of the lake. [sidenote: king arthur findeth sir pellias again] upon this he kneeled down upon one knee and took her hand and set it to his lips. "lady," quoth he, "i have indeed cause to know you very well, for you have, as you affirm, been a friend to me and to my friends upon many several occasions." then king arthur turned to that knight who was with that lady of the lake, and he said unto him: "messire, if i mistake not, i should know you also; and i doubt not, if you will lift the umbril of your helmet, we shall all three know your face." upon this the knight without more ado lifted his umbril as king arthur had desired him to do and the three beheld that it was sir pellias, the gentle knight. now it hath already been very fully told about sir pellias in the book of king arthur, and those of you who read of him therein will remember, no doubt, how sorely he was wounded in a combat with sir gawaine, who was his best friend, and of how the lady of the lake took him to dwell with her in that wonderful city that was hidden by the appearance as of an enchanted lake, and of how it was sir gawaine who last beheld him upon that occasion. but if sir gawaine was the dearest friend that sir pellias had at that time, then sir ewain was only less dear to him. therefore, when sir ewain beheld that the strange knight was sir pellias, he wist not what to think for pure wonder; for no mortal eyes had ever beheld sir pellias since he had gone into the lake with the lady of the lake that time as foretold, and it was not thought that anyone would ever see him again. so when sir ewain beheld that the knight was sir pellias he emitted a great cry of joy and ran to him and catched him in his arms, and sir pellias forbade him not. for though at most times those who are of faery do not suffer themselves to be touched by mortal hands, yet, upon the eve of saint john's day, fairies and mortals may commune as though they were of the same flesh and blood. wherefore sir pellias did not forbid sir ewain, and they embraced, as one-time brethren-in-arms should embrace. and each kissed the other upon the face, and each made great joy the one over the other. yea, so great was their joy that all those who stood about were moved with pure happiness at beholding them. then sir pellias came to king arthur and kneeled down before him and kissed his hand, as is the bounden duty of every knight unto his lord. "ha, messire," quoth king arthur, "methought when i beheld this lady, that you would not be very far distant from her." then he said unto the lady of the lake: "lady, i prithee tell me, who is this fair youth who is with you. for methinks i never beheld before so noble and so beautiful a countenance as his. maybe you will make us acquainted with him also." "lord," said the lady nymue, "who he is, and of what quality, shall, i hope, be made manifest in due time; just now i would not wish that he should be known even unto you. but touching him, i may say that it was for his sake that i sent my damsel to meet you at the cross-roads awhile ago. but of that, more anon; for see! the feast is now spread which we have prepared for your entertainment. so let us first eat and drink and make merry together, and then we shall speak further of this matter." [sidenote: the lady of the lake prepareth a feast for king arthur] so they all six went and sat down to the table that had been spread for them in the open meadow-land. for the night was very pleasant and warm and a wonderful full moon shone down upon them with a marvellous lustre, and there was a pleasant air, soft and warm, from the forest, and, what with the scores of bright waxen tapers that stood in silver candlesticks upon the table (each taper sparkling as bright as any star), the night was made all illuminate like to some singular mid-day. there was set before them a plenty of divers savory meats and of several excellent wines, some as yellow as gold, and some as red as carbuncle, and they ate and they drank and they made merry in the soft moonlight with talk and laughter. somewhiles they told sir pellias and the lady of all that was toward at court at camelot; otherwhiles sir pellias and the lady told them such marvellous things concerning the land in which they two dwelt that it would be hard to believe that the courts of heaven could be fairer than the courts of fairyland whence they had come. then, after the feast was ended, the lady of the lake said to king arthur, "sir, an i have won your favor in any way, there is a certain thing i would ask of you." to the which king arthur made reply: "ask it, lady, and it shall be granted thee, no matter what it may be." "sir," said the lady of the lake, "this is what i would ask of you. i would ask you to look upon this youth who sits beside me. he is so dear to me that i cannot very well make you know how dear he is. i have brought him hither from our dwelling-place for one certain reason; to wit, that you should make him knight. that is the great favor i would ask of you. to this intent i have brought armor and all the appurtenances of knighthood; for he is of such noble lineage that no armor in the world could be too good for him." "lady," quoth king arthur, "i will do what you ask with much pleasure and gladness. but, touching that armor of which you speak, it is my custom to provide anyone whom i make a knight with armor of mine own choosing." to this the lady of the lake smiled very kindly, saying, "lord, i pray you, let be in this case, for i daresay that the armor which hath been provided for this youth shall be so altogether worthy of your nobility and of his future credit that you will be entirely contented with it." and with that, king arthur was altogether satisfied. [sidenote: of the armor, etc., of sir launcelot] and, touching that armor, the ancient history that speaketh of these matters saith that it was of such a sort as this that followeth, and that it was brought from that enchanted court of the lake in this wise; to wit, in the front came two youths, leading two white mules, and the mules bore two chests studded with silver bosses. in one chest was the hauberk of that armor and in the other were the iron boots. these were bright like to silver and were inlaid with cunningly devised figures, all of pure gold. next to them came two esquires, clad in white robes and mounted upon white horses, bearing the one a silver shield and the other a shining helmet, as of silver--it likewise being very wonderfully inlaid with figures of pure gold. after these came two other esquires, the one bearing a sword in a white sheath embossed with studs of silver (the belt whereof was of silver with facets of gold) and the other leading a white charger, whose coat was as soft and as shining as silk. and all the gear and furniture of this horse was of silver and of white samite embellished with silver. so from this you can see how nobly that young acolyte was provided with all that beseemed his future greatness. for, as you may have guessed, this youth was launcelot, king ban's son of benwick, who shortly became the greatest knight in the world. [sidenote: launcelot guards his armor at night] now there was in that part of the forest border a small abbey of monks, and in the chapel of that abbey launcelot watched his armor for that night and sir ewain was with him for all that time. meantime king arthur and sir ector de maris slept each in a silken pavilion provided for them by the lady of the lake. in the morning sir ewain took launcelot to the bath and bathed him, for such was the custom of those who were being prepared for knighthood. now, whilst sir ewain was bathing the youth, he beheld that on his shoulder was a mark in the likeness of a golden star and he marvelled very much thereat; but he made no mention of it at that time, but held his peace concerning what he saw; only he marvelled very greatly thereat. [sidenote: king arthur creates sir launcelot a knight-royal] then, after sir ewain had bathed launcelot, he clothed him in raiment fitted for that ceremony unto which he was ordained, and when the youth was so clothed, sir ewain brought him to king arthur, and king arthur knighted launcelot with great ceremony, and buckled the belt around him with his own hands. after he had done this sir ewain and sir ector de maris set the golden spurs to his heels, and sir ector wist not that he was performing such office for his own brother. so sir launcelot was made knight with great estate and ceremony, whereof i have told you all, unto every particular. for it is fitting that all things should be so told concerning that most great and famous knight. after king arthur had so dubbed sir launcelot knight, it was time that those two parties should part company--to wit, the party of the lady of the lake and the party of king arthur. but when they were about to leave one another the lady of the lake took sir launcelot aside, and she spake to him after this manner: [sidenote: the lady of the lake gives sir launcelot good advice] "launcelot, forget not that you are a king's son, and that your lineage is as noble as that of anyone upon earth--for so i have often told you aforetime. wherefore, see to it that your worthiness shall be as great as your beauty, and that your courtesy and gentleness shall be as great as your prowess. to-day you shall go unto camelot with king arthur to make yourself known unto that famous court of chivalry. but do not tarry there, but, ere the night cometh, depart and go forth into the world to prove your knighthood as worthily as god shall give you grace to do. for i would not have you declare yourself to the world until you have proved your worthiness by your deeds. wherefore, do not yourself proclaim your name, but wait until the world proclaimeth it; for it is better for the world to proclaim the worthiness of a man than that the man should proclaim his own worthiness. so hold yourself ready to undertake any adventure whatsoever that god sendeth to you to do, but never let any other man complete a task unto which you yourself have set your hand." then, after the lady of the lake had so advised sir launcelot, she kissed him upon the face, and therewith gave him a ring curiously wrought and set with a wonderful purple stone, which ring had such power that it would dissolve every enchantment. then she said: "launcelot, wear this ring and never let it be from off your finger." and launcelot said: "i will do so." so sir launcelot set the ring upon his finger and it was so that it never left his finger whilst he drew the breath of life. then king arthur and sir ewain and sir ector de maris and the young sir launcelot laid their ways toward camelot. and, as they journeyed so together, sir ewain communicated privily to sir ector de maris how that the youth had a mark as of a golden star upon the skin of his shoulder, and upon this news sir ector fell very silent. for sir ector knew that that sign was upon his own brother's shoulder, and he did not know how it could be upon the shoulder of any other man. wherefore, he wist not what to think that it should be upon the shoulder of this youth. but he said naught of these thoughts to sir ewain, but held his peace. [sidenote: sir launcelot cometh to camelot] so they reached camelot whilst it was still quite early in the morning and all they who were there made great joy at the coming of so wonderfully fair and noble a young knight as sir launcelot appeared to be. wherefore, there was great sound of rejoicing at his coming. then, after a while, king arthur said: "let us go and see if, haply, this youth's name is marked upon any of the seats of the round table, for i think it should be there." so all they of the court went to that pavilion afore described, where the round table was established, and they looked; and lo! upon the seat that king pellinore had one time occupied was this name: the knight of the lake so the name stood at first, nor did it change until the name of sir launcelot of the lake became so famous in all the world. then it became changed to this: sir launcelot of the lake. * * * * * [sidenote: sir launcelot becometh knight of the round table] so sir launcelot remained at camelot for that entire day and was made acquainted with a great many of the lords and ladies and knights and dames of king arthur's court. and all that while he was like one that walked in a dream, for he had never before beheld anything of the world of mankind since he had been carried away into the lake, wherefore he wist not very well whether what he saw was real or whether he beheld it in a vision of enchantment. for it was all very new and wonderful to him and he took great delight in it because that he was a man and because this world was the world of mankind. wherefore, though that castle of the lake was so beautiful, yet he felt his heart go forth to this other and less beautiful land as it did not go forth to that, because he was human and this was human. nevertheless, though that was so joyful a day for him, yet sir launcelot did not forget what the lady of the lake had said concerning the time he was to abide there! wherefore, when it drew toward evening he besought leave of king arthur to depart from that place in search of adventures, and king arthur gave him leave to do as he desired. so sir launcelot prepared to depart, and whilst he was in his chamber making ready there came in unto him sir ector de maris. and sir ector said unto him: "sir, i prithee tell me--is it true that you bear upon your right shoulder a mark like unto a golden star?" and sir launcelot made reply: "yea, that is true." then sir ector said: "i beseech you to tell me if your name is launcelot." and sir launcelot said: "yea, that is my name." [sidenote: of the brotherhood of sir ector and sir launcelot] upon this sir ector broke out into great weeping and he catched sir launcelot in his arms and he cried out: "launcelot, thou art mine own brother! for thy father was my father, and my mother was thy mother! for we are both sons unto king ban of benwick, and queen helen was our mother." therewith he kissed sir launcelot with great passion upon the face. and sir launcelot upon his part kissed sir ector with a great passion of joy that he had found a brother in this strange world into which he had so newly come. but sir launcelot charged sir ector that he should say nothing of this to any man; and sir ector pledged his knightly word to that effect. (nor did he ever tell anyone who sir launcelot was until sir launcelot had performed such deeds that all the world spake his name.) for when sir launcelot went out into the world in that wise he undertook several very weighty achievements and brought them all to a successful issue, so that his name very quickly became known in every court of chivalry. [sidenote: of sundry adventures of sir launcelot] first he removed an enchantment that overhung a castle, hight dolorous gard; and he freed that castle and liberated all the sad, sorry captives that lay therein. (and this castle he held for his own and changed the name from dolorous gard to joyous gard and the castle became very famous afterward as his best-loved possession. for this was the first of all his possessions that he won by the prowess of his arms and he loved it best of all and considered it always his home.) after that sir launcelot, at the bidding of queen guinevere, took the part of the lady of nohan against the king of northumberland, and he overcame the king of northumberland and made him subject unto king arthur. then he overcame sir gallehaut, king of the marches, and sent him captive to the court of king arthur (and afterward sir gallehaut and sir launcelot became great friends for aye). so in a little while all the world spoke of sir launcelot, for it was said of him, and truly, that he had never been overcome by any other knight, whether upon horseback or upon foot, and that he always succeeded in every adventure which he undertook, whether that adventure were great or whether it were small. so it was as the lady of the lake desired it to be, for sir launcelot's name became famous, not because he was his father's son, but because of the deeds which he performed upon his own account. so sir launcelot performed all these famous adventures, and after that he returned again to the court of king arthur crowned with the glory of his successful knighthood, and there he was received with joy and acclaim and was duly installed in that seat of the round table that was his. and in that court he was held in the greatest honor and esteem of all the knights who were there. for king arthur spake many times concerning him to this effect: that he knew not any honor or glory that could belong to a king greater than having such a knight for to serve him as was sir launcelot of the lake. for a knight like sir launcelot came hardly ever into the world, and when he did come his glory must needs illuminate with its effulgence the entire reign of that king whose servant he was. so it was that sir launcelot was greatly honored by everybody at the court of king arthur, and he thereafter abided at that court for the most part of his life. * * * * * [sidenote: of sir launcelot and queen guinevere] and now i must needs make mention of that friendship that existed betwixt sir launcelot and queen guinevere, for after he thus returned to the court of the king, they two became such friends that no two people could be greater friends than they were. now i am aware that there have been many scandalous things said concerning that friendship, but i do not choose to believe any such evil sayings. for there are always those who love to think and say evil things of others. yet though it is not to be denied that sir launcelot never had for his lady any other dame than the lady guinevere, still no one hath ever said with truth that she regarded sir launcelot otherwise than as her very dear friend. for sir launcelot always avouched with his knightly word, unto the last day of his life, that the lady guinevere was noble and worthy in all ways, wherefore i choose to believe his knightly word and to hold that what he said was true. for did not he become an hermit, and did not she become a nun in their latter days, and were they not both broken of heart when king arthur departed from this life in so singular a manner as he did? wherefore i choose to believe good of such noble souls as they, and not evil of them. [sidenote: how sir launcelot dwelt at camelot] yet, though sir launcelot thus abided at the court of the king, he ever loved the open world and a life of adventure above all things else. for he had lived so long in the lake that these things of the sturdy life of out-of-doors never lost their charm for him. so, though he found, for a while, great joy in being at the court of the king (for there were many jousts held in his honor, and, whithersoever he rode forth, men would say to one another: "yonder goeth that great knight, sir launcelot, who is the greatest knight in the world"), yet he longed ever to be abroad in the wide world again. so one day he besought king arthur for leave to depart thence and to go forth for a while in search of adventures; and king arthur gave him leave to do as he desired. so now shall be told of several excellent adventures that sir launcelot undertook, and which he carried through with entire success, and to the great glory and renown of the round table, of which he was the foremost knight. [illustration: sir lionel of britain] chapter second _how sir launcelot and sir lionel rode forth errant together and how sir lionel met sir turquine to his great dole. also how sir ector grieved for the departure of his brother launcelot and so, following him, fell into a very sorry adventure_. now after king arthur had thus given sir launcelot leave to go errant and whilst sir launcelot was making himself ready to depart there came to him sir lionel, who was his cousin germain, and sir lionel besought leave to go with him as his knight-companion, and sir launcelot gave him that leave. [sidenote: sir launcelot and sir lionel depart in search of adventure] so when king arthur confirmed sir launcelot's permission sir lionel also made himself ready very joyfully, and early of the morning of the next day they two took their leave of the court and rode away together; the day being very fair and gracious and all the air full of the joy of that season--which was in the flower of the spring-time. so, about noon-tide, they came to a certain place where a great apple-tree stood by a hedge, and by that time they had grown an-hungered. so they tied their horses near-by in a cool and shady place and straightway sat them down under the apple-tree in the soft tall grass, which was yet fresh with the coolness of the morning. [sidenote: sir launcelot sleepeth beneath an apple-tree] then when they had ended their meal sir launcelot said: "brother, i have a great lust to sleep for a little space, for i find myself so drowsy that mine eyelids are like scales of lead." unto which sir lionel made reply: "very well; sleep thou for a while, and i will keep watch, and after that thou shalt watch, and i will sleep for a little space." so sir launcelot put his helmet beneath his head and turned upon his side, and in a little had fallen into a sleep which had neither dream nor thought of any kind, but which was deep and pure like to a clear well of water in the forest. and, whilst he slept thus, sir lionel kept watch, walking up and down in the shade of a hedge near-by. [sidenote: sir lionel perceives how one knight pursues three knights] where they were was upon the side of a hill, and beneath them was a little valley; and a road ran through the valley, very white and shining in the sunlight, like a silken ribbon, and the road lay between growing fields of corn and pasture-land. now as sir lionel walked beside the hedge he beheld three knights come riding into that valley and along that road with very great speed and in several clouds of dust; and behind them came a fourth knight, who was very huge of frame and who was clad altogether in black armor. moreover, this knight rode upon a black horse and his shield was black and his spear was black and the furniture of his horse was black, so that everything appertaining to that knight was as black as any raven. and sir lionel beheld that this one knight pursued those other three knights and that his horse went with greater speed than theirs, so that by and by he overtook the hindermost knight. and sir lionel beheld that the sable knight smote the fleeing knight a great buffet with his sword, so that that knight fell headlong from his horse and rolled over two or three times upon the ground and then lay as though he were dead. then the black knight catched the second of the three, and served him as he had served his fellow. then the third of the three, finding that there was no escape for him, turned as if to defend himself; but the black knight drave at him, and smote him so terrible a blow that i believe had a thunderbolt smitten him he would not have fallen from his horse more suddenly than he did. for, though that combat was full three furlongs away, yet sir lionel heard the sound of that blow as clearly as though it had been close by. then after the black knight had thus struck down those three knights he went to each in turn and tied his hands behind his back. then, lifting each man with extraordinary ease, he laid him across the saddle of that horse from which he had fallen, as though he were a sack of grain. and all this sir lionel beheld with very great wonder, marvelling much at the strength and prowess of that black knight. "ha," quoth he to himself, "i will go and inquire into this business, for it may haply be that yonder black knight shall not find it to be so easy to deal with a knight of the round table as with those other three knights." so, with this, sir lionel loosed his horse very quietly and went his way so softly that sir launcelot was not awakened. and after he had gone some way, he mounted his steed and rode off at a fast gallop down into that valley. [sidenote: sir lionel addresses the sable knight] when sir lionel had come to that place where the knight was, he found that he had just bound the last of the three knights upon the saddle of his horse as aforetold. so sir lionel spoke to the sable knight in this wise: "sir, i pray you tell me your name and degree and why you treat those knights in so shameful a fashion as i behold you to do." "messire," said the black knight very fiercely, "this matter concerns you not at all; yet i may tell you that those knights whom i have overthrown are knights of king arthur's court, and so i serve all such as come into this place. so will i serve you, too, if you be a knight of king arthur's." "well," said sir lionel, "that is a very ungracious thing for you to say. and as for that, i too am a knight of king arthur's court, but i do not believe that you will serve me as you have served those three. instead of that, i have great hope that i shall serve you in such a fashion that i shall be able to set these knights free from your hands." [sidenote: the sable knight overcomes sir lionel] thereupon, without more ado, he made him ready with spear and shield, and the black knight, perceiving his design, also made him ready. then they rode a little distance apart so as to have a fair course for a tilt upon the roadway. then each set spur to his horse and the two drave together with such violence that the earth shook beneath them. so they met fair in the middle of the course, but lo! in that encounter the spear of sir lionel broke into as many as thirty or forty pieces, but the spear of the black knight held, so that sir lionel was lifted clean out from his saddle and over the crupper of his horse with such violence that when he smote the ground he rolled three times over ere he ceased to fall. and because of that fierce, terrible blow he swooned away entirely, and all was black before his eyes, and he knew nothing. therewith the black knight dismounted and tied sir lionel's arms behind his back and he laid him across the saddle of his horse as he had laid those others across the saddles of their horses; and he tied him there very securely with strong cords so that sir lionel could not move. and all this while sir launcelot slept beneath the apple-tree upon the hillside, for he was greatly soothed by the melodious humming of the bees in the blossoms above where he lay. [sidenote: of sir turquine the sable knight] now you are to know that he who had thus taken sir lionel and those three knights prisoner was one sir turquine, a very cruel, haughty knight, who had a great and strong castle out beyond the mouth of that valley in which these knights took combat as aforetold. moreover, it was the custom of sir turquine to make prisoner all the knights and ladies who came that way; and all the knights and ladies who were not of king arthur's court he set free when they had paid a sufficient ransom unto him; but the knights who were of king arthur's court, and especially those who were of the round table, he held prisoner for aye within his castle. the dungeon of that castle was a very cold, dismal, and unlovely place, and it was to this prison that he proposed to take those four knights whom he had overcome, with intent to hold them prisoner as aforetold. and now turn we to king arthur's court and consider what befell there after sir launcelot and sir lionel had left it in search of adventures. [sidenote: sir ector follows sir launcelot and sir lionel] when sir ector found that sir launcelot and sir lionel had gone away in that fashion he was very much grieved in spirit; wherefore he said to himself, "meseems my brother might have taken me with him as well as our cousin." so he went to king arthur and besought his leave to quit the court and to ride after those other two and to join in their adventures, and king arthur very cheerfully gave him that leave. so sir ector made him ready with all despatch, and rode away at a great gait after sir launcelot and sir lionel. and ever as sir ector rode he made diligent inquiry and he found that those two knights had ridden before him, so he said to himself: "by and by i shall overtake them--if not to-day, at least by night, or by to-morrow day." [sidenote: sir ector seeks adventure] but after a while he came to a cross-roads, and there he took a way that sir launcelot and sir lionel had not taken; so that, after he had gone a distance, he found that he had missed them by taking that road. nevertheless, he went on until about the prime of the day, what time he met a forester, to whom he said: "sirrah, saw you two knights ride this way--one knight clad in white armor with a white shield upon which was depicted the figure of a lady, and the other knight clad in red armor with the figure of a red gryphon upon his shield?" "nay," said the forester, "i saw not such folk." then said sir ector, "is there any adventure to be found hereabouts?" upon this the forester fell to laughing in great measure. "yea," he said, "there is an adventure to be found hard by and it is one that many have undertaken and not one yet hath ever fulfilled." then sir ector said, "tell me what that adventure is and i will undertake it." "sir," said the forester, "if you will follow along yonder road for a distance you will find a very large, strong castle surrounded by a broad moat. in front of that castle is a stream of water with a fair, shallow ford, where the roadway crosses the water. upon this side of that ford there groweth a thorn-tree, very large and sturdy, and upon it hangs a basin of brass. strike upon that basin with the butt of your spear, and you shall presently meet with that adventure concerning which i have just now spoken." "fellow," said sir ector, "grammercy for your news." and, therewith, straightway he rode off in search of that adventure. he rode a great distance at a very fast gait and by and by he came to the top of a hill and therewith he saw before him the mouth of a fair valley. across from where he stood was another hill not very large or high, but exceedingly steep and rocky. upon this farther hill was builded a tall, noble castle of gray stone with many towers and spires and tall chimneys and with several score of windows, all shining bright in the clear weather. a fair river ran down into the mouth of that valley and it was as bright and as smooth as silver, and on each side of it were smooth level meadow-lands--very green--and here and there shady groves of trees and plantations of fruit-trees. and sir ector perceived that the road upon which he travelled crossed the aforesaid river by a shallow ford, and he wist that this must be the ford whereof the forester had spoken. so he rode down unto that ford, and when he had come nigh he perceived the thorn-tree of which the forester had told him, and he saw that a great basin of brass hung to the thorn-tree, just as the forester had said. [sidenote: sir ector smites upon the brazen basin] then sir ector rode to that thorn-tree and he smote upon that basin of brass with the butt of his spear, so that the basin rang with a noise like thunder; and he smote it again and again, several times over. but though he was aware of a great commotion within that fair castle, yet no adventure befell him, although he smote the brazen basin several times. now, his horse being athirst, sir ector drove him into the ford that he might drink, and whilst he was there he was suddenly aware where, on the other side of the stream, was a singular party coming along the roadway. for first of all there rode a knight entirely clad in black, riding upon a black horse, and all the harness and furniture of that horse entirely of black. behind him, that knight led four horses as though they were pack-horses, and across each one of those four horses was a knight in full armor, bound fast to the saddle like to a sack of grain, whereat sir ector was very greatly astonished. as soon as that sable knight approached the castle, several came running forth and relieved him of those horses he led and took them into the castle, and as soon as he had been thus relieved the sable knight rode very violently up to where sir ector was. as soon as he had come to the water's edge he cried out: "sir knight, come forth from out of that water and do me battle." "very well," said sir ector, "i will do so, though it will, i think, be to thy very great discomfort." [sidenote: sir ector essays battle with the sable knight] with that he came quickly out from the ford, the water whereof was all broken and churned into foam at his passing, and straightway he cast aside his spear and drew his sword and, driving against that sable knight, he smote him such a buffet that his horse turned twice about. "ha," said the black knight, "that is the best blow that ever i had struck me in all of my life." therewith he rushed upon sir ector, and without using a weapon of any sort he catched him about the body, underneath the arms, and dragged him clean out of his saddle, and flung him across the horn of his own saddle. thereupon, having accomplished this marvellous feat, and with sir ector still across his saddle-bow, he rode up unto his castle, nor stopped until he had reached the court-yard of the keep. there he set sir ector down upon the stone pavement. then he said: "messire, thou hast done to me this day what no other knight hath ever done to me before, wherefore, if thou wilt promise to be my man from henceforth, i will let thee go free and give thee great rewards for thy services as well." but sir ector was filled very full of shame, wherefore he cried out fiercely, "rather would i lie within a prison all my life than serve so catiff a knight as thou, who darest to treat other knights as thou hast just now treated me." "well," said the black knight very grimly, "thou shalt have thy choice." therewith he gave certain orders, whereupon a great many fierce fellows set upon sir ector and stripped him of all his armor, and immediately haled him off, half-naked, to that dungeon aforementioned. [sidenote: the sable knight makes prisoner of sir ector] there he found many knights of king arthur's court, and several of the round table, all of whom he knew, and when they beheld sir ector flung in unto them in that fashion they lifted up their voices in great lamentation that he should have been added to their number, instead of freeing them from their dolorous and pitiable case. "alas," said they, "there is no knight alive may free us from this dungeon, unless it be sir launcelot. for this sir turquine is, certes, the greatest knight in all the world, unless it be sir launcelot." [illustration: queen morgana appears unto sir launcelot] chapter third _how sir launcelot was found in a sleep by queen morgana le fay and three other queens who were with her, and how he was taken to a castle of queen morgana's and of what befell him there._ [sidenote: four queens and their courts pass by where sir launcelot lies sleeping] so sir launcelot lay in deep slumber under that apple-tree, and knew neither that sir lionel had left him nor what ill-fortune had befallen that good knight. whilst he lay there sleeping in that wise there came by, along the road, and at a little distance from him, a very fair procession of lordly people, making a noble parade upon the highway. the chiefest of this company were four ladies, who were four queens. with them rode four knights, and, because the day was warm, the four knights bore a canopy of green silk by the four corners upon the points of their lances in such wise as to shelter those queens from the strong heat of the sun. and those four knights rode all armed cap-a-pie on four noble war-horses, and the four queens, bedight in great estate, rode on four white mules richly caparisoned with furniture of divers colors embroidered with gold. after these lordly folk there followed a very excellent court of esquires and demoiselles to the number of a score or more; some riding upon horses and some upon mules that ambled very easily. now all these folk of greater or lesser degree were entirely unaware that sir launcelot lay sleeping so nigh to them as they rode by chattering very gayly together in the spring-time weather, taking great pleasure in the warm air, and in growing things, and the green fields, and the bright sky; and they would have had no knowledge that the knight was there, had not sir launcelot's horse neighed very lustily. thereupon, they were aware of the horse, and then they were aware of sir launcelot where he lay asleep under the apple-tree, with his head lying upon his helmet. now foremost of all those queens was queen morgana le fay (who was king arthur's sister, and a potent, wicked enchantress, of whom much hath been told in the book of king arthur), and besides queen morgana there was the queen of north wales, and the queen of eastland, and the queen of the outer isles. now when this party of queens, knights, esquires, and ladies heard the war-horse neigh, and when they beheld sir launcelot where he lay, they drew rein and marvelled very greatly to see a knight sleeping so soundly at that place, maugre all the noise and tumult of their passing. so queen morgana called to her one of the esquires who followed after them, and she said to him: "go softly and see if thou knowest who is yonder knight; but do not wake him." [sidenote: an esquire knoweth sir launcelot] so the esquire did as she commanded; he went unto that apple-tree and he looked into sir launcelot's face, and by hap he knew who it was because he had been to camelot erstwhiles and he had seen sir launcelot at that place. so he hastened back to queen morgana and he said to her: "lady, i believe that yonder knight is none other than the great sir launcelot of the lake, concerning whom there is now such report; for he is reputed to be the most powerful of all the knights of king arthur's round table, and the greatest knight in the world, so that king arthur loves him and favors him above all other knights." now when queen morgana le fay was aware that the knight who was asleep there was sir launcelot, it immediately entered her mind for to lay some powerful, malignant enchantment upon him to despite king arthur. for she too knew how dear sir launcelot was to king arthur, and so she had a mind to do him mischief for king arthur's sake. so she went softly to where sir launcelot lay with intent to work some such spell upon him. but when she had come to sir launcelot she was aware that this purpose of mischief was not possible whilst he wore that ring upon his finger which the lady of the lake had given him; wherefore she had to put by her evil design for a while. [sidenote: queen morgana le fay sets a mild enchantment upon sir launcelot] but though she was unable to work any malign spell upon him, she was able to cause it by her magic that that sleep in which he lay should remain unbroken for three or four hours. so she made certain movements of her hands above his face and by that means she wove the threads of his slumber so closely together that he could not break through them to awake. after she had done this she called to her several of the esquires who were of her party, and these at her command fetched the shield of sir launcelot and laid him upon it. then they lifted him and bore him away, carrying him in that manner to a certain castle in the forest that was no great distance away. and the name of that castle was chateaubras and it was one of queen morgana's castles. [sidenote: sir launcelot awakens in a fair chamber] and all that while sir launcelot wist nothing, but lay in a profound sleep, so that when he awoke and looked about him he was so greatly astonished that he knew not whether he was in a vision or whether he was awake. for whilst he had gone asleep beneath that apple-tree, here he now lay in a fair chamber upon a couch spread with a coverlet of flame-colored linen. then he perceived that it was a very fair room in which he lay, for it was hung all about with tapestry hangings representing fair ladies at court and knights at battle. and there were woven carpets upon the floor, and the couch whereon he lay was of carved wood, richly gilt. there were two windows to that chamber, and when he looked forth he perceived that the chamber where he was was very high from the ground, being built so loftily upon the rugged rocks at its foot that the forest lay far away beneath him like a sea of green. and he perceived that there was but one door to this chamber and that the door was bound with iron and studded with great bosses of wrought iron, and when he tried that door he found that it was locked. so sir launcelot was aware from these things that he was a prisoner--though not a prisoner in a hard case--and he wist not how he had come thither nor what had happened to him. [sidenote: a fair damsel beareth light and food unto sir launcelot] now when the twilight of the evening had fallen, a porter, huge of frame and very forbidding of aspect, came and opened the door of the chamber where sir launcelot lay, and when he had done so there entered a fair damsel, bearing a very good supper upon a silver tray. moreover, she bore upon the tray three tapers of perfumed wax set in three silver candlesticks, and these gave a fair light to the entire room. but, when sir launcelot saw the maiden coming thus with intent to serve him, he arose and took the tray from her and set it himself upon the table; and for this civility the damsel made acknowledgement to him. then she said to him: "sir knight, what cheer do you have?" "ha, damsel," said sir launcelot, "i do not know how to answer you that, for i wist not what cheer to have until i know whether i be with friends or with enemies. for though this chamber wherein i lie is very fair and well-bedight, yet meseems i must have been brought here by some enchantment, and that i am a prisoner in this place; wherefore i know not what cheer to take." [sidenote: the damsel has pity for sir launcelot] then the damsel looked upon sir launcelot, and she was very sorry for him. "sir," quoth she, "i take great pity to see you in this pass, for i hear tell you are the best knight in the world and, of a surety, you are of a very noble appearance. i must tell you that this castle wherein you lie is a castle of enchantment, and they who dwell here mean you no good; wherefore i would advise you to be upon your guard against them." "maiden," said sir launcelot, "i give you grammercy for your kind words, and i will be upon my guard as you advise me." then the damsel would have said more, but she durst not for fear that she should be overheard and that evil should befall her, for the porter was still without the door. so in a little she went away and sir launcelot was left alone. but though the damsel bade sir launcelot have good cheer, yet he had no very good cheer for that night, as anyone may well suppose, for he wist not what was to befall him upon the morrow. now when the morning had come sir launcelot was aware of someone at his chamber door, and when that one entered it was queen morgana le fay. [sidenote: how queen morgana cometh to sir launcelot] she was clad in all the glory at her command, and her appearance was so shining and radiant that when she came into that room sir launcelot knew not whether it was a vision his eyes beheld or whether she was a creature of flesh and blood. for she came with her golden crown upon her head, and her hair, which was as red as gold, was bound around with ribbons of gold; and she was clad all in cloth of gold; and she wore golden rings with jewels upon her fingers and golden bracelets upon her arms and a golden collar around her shoulders; wherefore, when she came into the room she shone with an extraordinary splendor, as if she were a marvellous statue made all of pure gold--only that her face was very soft and beautiful, and her eyes shone exceedingly bright, and her lips, which were as red as coral, smiled, and her countenance moved and changed with all the wiles of fascination that she could cause it to assume. when sir launcelot beheld her come thus gloriously into his room he rose and greeted her with a very profound salutation, for he was astonished beyond measure at beholding that shining vision. then queen morgana gave him her hand, and he kneeled, and took her jewelled fingers in his and set her hand to his lips. "welcome, sir launcelot!" quoth she; "welcome to this place! for it is indeed a great honor to have here so noble and famous a knight as you!" "ha, lady," said sir launcelot, "you are gracious to me beyond measure! but i pray you tell me how i came to this place and by what means? for when i fell asleep yesterday at noon i lay beneath an apple-tree upon a hillside; and when i awoke--lo! i found myself in this fair chamber." [sidenote: queen morgana seeks to beguile sir launcelot] to this queen morgana le fay made smiling reply as follows: "sir, i am queen morgana le fay, of whom you may have heard tell, for i am the sister of king arthur, whose particular knight you are. yesterday, at noon, riding with certain other queens and a small court of knights, esquires, and demoiselles, we went by where you lay sleeping. finding you lying so, alone and without any companion, i was able, by certain arts which i possess, to lay a gentle enchantment upon you so that the sleep wherein you lay should remain unbroken for three or four hours. so we brought you to this place in hopes that you would stay with us for two or three days or more, and give us the pleasure of your company. for your fame, which is very great, hath reached even as far as this place, wherefore we have made a gentle prisoner of you for this time being." "lady," said sir launcelot, "such constraint as that would be very pleasing to me at another time. but when i fell asleep i was with my cousin, sir lionel, and i know not what hath become of him, and haply he will not know what hath become of me should he seek me. now i pray you let me go forth and find my cousin, and when i have done so i will return to you again at this place with an easy spirit." "well, messire," said queen morgana, "it shall be as you desire, only i require of you some pledge of your return." (herewith she drew from her finger a golden ring set very richly with several jewels.) "now take this ring," she said, "and give me that ring which i see upon your finger, and when you shall return hither each shall have his ring again from the other." "lady," said sir launcelot, "that may not be. for this ring was placed upon my finger with such a pledge that it may never leave where it is whilst my soul abideth in my body. ask of me any other pledge and you shall have it; but i cannot give this ring to you." [sidenote: queen morgana hath anger for sir launcelot] upon this queen morgana's cheeks grew very red, and her eyes shone like sparks of fire. "ha, sir knight," she said, "i do not think you are very courteous to refuse a lady and a queen so small a pledge as that. i am much affronted with you that you should have done so. wherefore, i now demand of you, as the sister of king arthur whom you serve, that you give me that ring." "lady," said sir launcelot, "i may not do that, though it grieveth me much to refuse you." then queen morgana looked at sir launcelot awhile with a very angry countenance, but she perceived that she was not to have her will with him, wherefore she presently turned very quickly and went out of the room, leaving sir launcelot much perturbed in spirit. for he knew how great were the arts of queen morgana le fay, and he could not tell what harm she might seek to work upon him by those arts. but he ever bore in mind how that the ring which he wore was sovereign against such malignant arts as she practised, wherefore he took what comfort he could from that circumstance. nevertheless, he abode in that chamber in great uncertainty for all that day, and when night came he was afraid to let himself slumber, lest they of the castle should come whilst he slept and work him some secret ill; wherefore he remained awake whilst all the rest of the castle slept. now at the middle of the night, and about the time of the first cock-crow, he was aware of a sound without and a light that fell through the crack of the door. then, in a little, the door was opened and there entered that young damsel who had served him with his supper the night before, and she bare a lighted taper in her hand. [sidenote: the damsel cometh again to sir launcelot] when sir launcelot perceived that damsel he said: "maiden, do you come hither with good intent or with evil intent?" "sir," she said, "i come with good intent, for i take great pity to see you in such a sorry case as this. i am a king's daughter in attendance upon queen morgana le fay, but she is so powerful an enchantress that, in good sooth, i am in great fear lest she some time do me an ill-hap. so to-morrow i leave her service and return unto my father's castle. meantime, i am of a mind to help you in your adversity. for queen morgana trusts me, and i have knowledge of this castle and i have all the keys thereof, wherefore i can set you free. and i will set you free if you will, upon your part, serve me in a way that you can very easily do." "well," said sir launcelot, "provided i may serve you in a way fitting my knightly honor, i shall be glad to do so under any condition. now i pray you tell me what it is you would have of me." [sidenote: the damsel speaketh to sir launcelot of her father, king bagdemagus] "sir," said the damsel, "my father hath made a tournament betwixt him and the king of north wales upon tuesday next, and that is just a fortnight from this day. now, already my father hath lost one such a tournament, for he hath no very great array of knights upon his side, and the king of north wales hath three knights of king arthur's round table to aid his party. because of the great help of these knights of the round table, the king of north wales won the last tournament and my father lost it, and now he feareth to lose the tournament that is to be. now if you will enter upon my father's side upon the day of the tournament, i doubt not that he shall win that tournament; for all men say that you are the greatest knight in the world at this time. so if you will promise to help my father and will seal that promise with your knightly word, then will i set you free of this castle of enchantment." "fair maiden," said sir launcelot, "tell me your name and your father's name, for i cannot give you my promise until i know who ye be." [sidenote: sir launcelot promises to aid king bagdemagus] "sir," said the demoiselle, "i am called elouise the fair, and my father is king bagdemagus." "ha!" quoth sir launcelot, "i know your father, and i know that he is a good king and a very worthy knight besides. if you did me no service whatsoever, i would, at your simple asking, were i free of this place, lend him such aid as it is in my power to give." at this the damsel took great joy and gave sir launcelot thanks beyond measure. so they spoke together as to how that matter might be brought about so that sir launcelot should be brought to talk to king bagdemagus. and the damsel elouise said: "let it be this way, sir launcelot. imprimis--thou art to know that somewhat of a long distance to the westward of that place where thou didst fall asleep yesterday, there standeth a very large, fair abbey known as the abbey of saint james the lesser. this abbey is surrounded by an exceedingly noble estate that lieth all around about it so that no man that haps in that part of the country can miss it if he make inquiry for it. now i will go and take lodging at that abbey a little while after i leave this place. so when it suits thee to do so, come thou thither and thou wilt find me there and i will bring thee to my father." "very well," said sir launcelot, "let it be that way. i will come to that place in good time for the tournament. meantime, i prithee, rest in the assurance that i shall never forgot thy kindness to me this day, nor thy gracious behavior and speech unto me. wherefore i shall deem it not a duty but a pleasure to serve thee." [sidenote: the damsel bringeth sir launcelot to freedom] so, having arranged all these matters, the damsel elouise opened the door of that room and led sir launcelot out thence; and she led him through various passages and down several long flights of steps, and so brought him at last unto a certain chamber, where was his armor. then the damsel helped sir launcelot to encase him in his armor, so that in a little while he was altogether armed as he had been when he fell asleep under that apple-tree. thereafter the damsel brought him out past the court-yard and unto the stable where was sir launcelot's horse, and the horse knew him when he came. so he saddled the horse by the light of a half-moon which sailed like a boat high up in the sky through the silver, floating clouds, and therewith he was ready to depart. then the damsel opened the gate and he rode out into the night, which was now drawing near the dawning of the day. thus elouise the fair aided sir launcelot to escape from that castle of enchantment, where else great ill might have befallen him. * * * * * and now it shall be told how sir launcelot did battle with sir turquine and of what happened thereat. [illustration: sir launcelot doeth battle with sir turquine] chapter fourth _how sir launcelot sought sir lionel and how a young damsel brought him to the greatest battle that ever he had in all his life_. so sir launcelot rode through the forest, and whilst he rode the day began to break. about sunrise he came out into an open clearing where certain charcoal-burners were plying their trade. [sidenote: sir launcelot breaks his fast in the forest] to these rude fellows he appeared out of the dark forest like some bright and shining vision; and they made him welcome and offered him to eat of their food, and he dismounted and sat down with them and brake his fast with them. and when he had satisfied his hunger, he gave them grammercy for their entertainment, and took horse and rode away. [sidenote: sir launcelot cometh again to the place of the apple-tree] he made forward until about the middle of the morning, what time he came suddenly upon that place where, two days before, he had fallen asleep beneath the blooming apple-tree. here he drew rein and looked about him for a considerable while; for he thought that haply he might find some trace of sir lionel thereabouts. but there was no trace of him, and sir launcelot wist not what had become of him. [sidenote: sir launcelot perceives a damsel upon a palfrey] now whilst sir launcelot was still there, not knowing what to do to find sir lionel, there passed that way a damsel riding upon a white palfrey. unto her sir launcelot made salutation, and she made salutation to him and asked him what cheer. "maiden," said sir launcelot, "the cheer that i have is not very good, seeing that i have lost my companion-at-arms and know not where he is." then he said: "did you haply meet anywhere with a knight with the figure of a red gryphon upon his shield?" whereunto the damsel answered: "nay, i saw none such." then sir launcelot said: "tell me, fair damsel, dost thou know of any adventure hereabouts that i may undertake? for, as thou seest, i am errant and in search of such." upon this the damsel fell a-laughing: "yea, sir knight," said she, "i know of an adventure not far away, but it is an adventure that no knight yet that ever i heard tell of hath accomplished. i can take thee to that adventure if thou hast a desire to pursue it." "why should i not pursue it," said sir launcelot, "seeing that i am here for that very cause--to pursue adventure?" "well," said the damsel, "then come with me, sir knight, i will take thee to an adventure that shall satisfy thee." [sidenote: the damsel leads sir launcelot to an adventure] so sir launcelot and that damsel rode away from that place together; he upon his great war-horse and she upon her ambling palfrey beside him. and the sun shone down upon them, very pleasant and warm, and all who passed them turned to look after them; for the maiden was very fair and slender, and sir launcelot was of so noble and stately a mien that few could behold him even from a distance without looking twice or three times upon him. and as they travelled in that way together they fell into converse, and the damsel said to sir launcelot: "sir, thou appearest to be a very good knight, and of such a sort as may well undertake any adventure with great hope of success. now i prithee to tell me thy name and what knight thou art." "fair maiden," said sir launcelot, "as for telling you my name, that i will gladly do. i am called sir launcelot of the lake, and i am a knight of king arthur's court and of his round table." [sidenote: sir launcelot and the maiden discourse together] at this the damsel was very greatly astonished and filled with admiration. "hah!" quoth she, "it is a great pleasure to me to fall in with you, sir launcelot, for all the world now bespeaketh your fame. little did i ever think to behold your person, much less speak with you, and ride in this way with you. now i will tell you what this adventure is on which we are set; it is this--there is, some small distance from this, a castle of a knight hight sir turquine, who hath in his prison a great many knights of king arthur's court, and several knights of his round table. these knights he keepeth there in great dole and misery, for it is said that their groans may be heard by the passers along the high-road below the castle. this sir turquine is held to be the greatest knight in the world (unless it be thou) for he hath never yet been overcome in battle, whether a-horseback or a-foot. but, indeed, i think it to be altogether likely that thou wilt overcome him." "fair damsel," quoth sir launcelot, "i too have hope that i shall hold mine own with him, when i meet him, and to that i shall do my best endeavor. yet this and all other matters are entirely in the hands of god." then the damsel said, "if you should overcome this sir turquine, i know of still another adventure which, if you do not undertake it, i know of no one else who may undertake to bring it to a successful issue." quoth sir launcelot, "i am glad to hear of that or of any other adventure, for i take great joy in such adventuring. now, tell me, what is this other adventure?" [sidenote: the maiden tells sir launcelot of the savage forest knight] "sir," said the damsel, "a long distance to the west of this there is a knight who hath a castle in the woods and he is the evilest disposed knight that ever i heard tell of. for he lurks continually in the outskirts of the woods, whence he rushes forth at times upon those who pass by. especially he is an enemy to all ladies of that country, for he hath taken many of them prisoners to his castle and hath held them in the dungeon thereof for ransom; and sometimes he hath held them for a long while. now i am fain that thou undertake that adventure for my sake." "well," said sir launcelot, "i believe it would be a good thing for any knight to do to rid the world of such an evil-disposed knight as that, so if i have the good fortune to overcome this sir turquine, i give my knightly word that i will undertake this adventure for thy sake, if so be thou wilt go with me for to show me the way to his castle." "that i will do with all gladness," said the damsel, "for it is great pride for any lady to ride with you upon such an adventure." thus they talked, and all was arranged betwixt them. and thus they rode very pleasantly through that valley for the distance of two leagues or a little more, until they came to that place where the road crossed the smooth stream of water afore told of; and there was the castle of sir turquine as afore told of; and there was the thorn-bush and the basin hanging upon the thorn-bush as afore told of. then the maiden said: "sir launcelot, beat upon that basin and so thou shalt summon sir turquine to battle with thee." [sidenote: sir launcelot smites upon the basin] so sir launcelot rode to that basin where it hung and he smote upon it very violently with the butt of his spear. and he smote upon that basin again and again until he smote the bottom from out it; but at that time immediately no one came. then, after a while, he was ware of one who came riding toward him, and he beheld that he who came riding was a knight very huge of frame, and long and strong of limb. and he beheld that the knight was clad entirely in black, and that the horse upon which he rode and all the furniture of the horse was black. and he beheld that this knight drave before him another horse, and that across the saddle of that other horse there lay an armed knight, bound hand and foot; and sir launcelot wist that the sable knight who came riding was that sir turquine whom he sought. [sidenote: the sable knight bringeth sir gaheris captive] so sir turquine came very rapidly along the highway toward where sir launcelot sat, driving that other horse and the captive knight before him all the while. and as they came nearer and nearer sir launcelot thought that he should know who the wounded knight was and when they came right close, so that he could see the markings of the shield of that captive knight, he wist that it was sir gaheris, the brother of sir gawaine, and the nephew of king arthur, whom sir turquine brought thither in that wise. at this sir launcelot was very wroth; for he could not abide seeing a fellow-knight of the round table treated with such disregard as that which sir gaheris suffered at the hands of sir turquine; wherefore sir launcelot rode to meet sir turquine, and he cried out: "sir knight! put that wounded man down from his horse, and let him rest for a while, and we two will prove our strength, the one against the other! for it is a shame for thee to treat a noble knight of the round table with such despite as thou art treating that knight." "sir," said sir turquine, "as i treat that knight, so treat i all knights of the round table--and so will i treat thee if thou be of the round table." "well," said sir launcelot, "as for that, i am indeed of the round table, and i have come hither for no other reason than for to do battle with thee." "sir knight," said sir turquine, "thou speakest very boldly; now i pray thee to tell me what knight thou art and what is thy name." "messire," said sir launcelot, "i have no fear to do that. i am called sir launcelot of the lake, and i am a knight of king arthur's, who made me knight with his own hand." "ha!" said sir turquine, "that is very good news to me, for of all knights in the world thou art the one i most desire to meet, for i have looked for thee for a long while with intent to do battle with thee. for it was thou who didst slay my brother sir caradus at dolorous gard, who was held to be the best knight in all the world. wherefore, because of this, i have the greatest despite against thee of any man in the world, and it was because of that despite that i waged particular battle against all the knights of king arthur's court. and in despite of thee i now hold five score and eight knights, who are thy fellows, in the dismallest dungeon of my castle. also i have to tell thee that among those knights is thine own brother, sir ector, and thy kinsman, sir lionel. for i overthrew sir ector and sir lionel only a day or two ago, and now they lie almost naked in the lower parts of that castle yonder. i will put down this knight as thou biddst me, and when i have done battle with thee i hope to tie thee on his saddle-horn in his place." so sir turquine loosed the cords that bound sir gaheris and set him from off the horse's back, and sir gaheris, who was sorely wounded and very weak, sat him down upon a slab of stone near-by. [sidenote: sir launcelot and sir turquine do battle together] then sir launcelot and sir turquine made themselves ready at all points, and each took such stand as seemed to him to be best; and when each was ready for the assault, each set spurs to his horse and rushed the one against the other with such terrible violence that they smote together like a clap of thunder. so fierce was that onset that each horse fell back upon the ground and only by great skill and address did the knight who rode him void his saddle, so as to save himself from a fall. and in that meeting the horse of sir turquine was killed outright and the back of sir launcelot's horse was broken and he could not rise, but lay like dead upon the ground. then each knight drew his sword and set his shield before him and they came together with such wrath that it appeared as though their fierce eyes shot sparks of fire through the oculariums of their helmets. so they met and struck; and they struck many scores of times, and their blows were so violent that neither shield nor armor could withstand the strokes they gave. for their shields were cleft and many pieces of armor were hewn from their limbs, so that the ground was littered with them. and each knight gave the other so many grim wounds that the ground presently was all sprinkled with red where they stood. now that time the day had waxed very hot, for it was come high noontide, so presently sir turquine cried out: "stay thee, sir launcelot, for i have a boon to ask!" at this sir launcelot stayed his hand and said: "what is it thou hast to ask, sir knight?" sir turquine said: "messire, i am athirst--let me drink." and sir launcelot said: "go and drink." so sir turquine went to that river and entered into that water, which was presently stained with red all about him. and he stooped where he stood and drank his fill, and presently came forth again altogether refreshed. therewith he took up his sword once more and rushed at sir launcelot and smote with double strength, so that sir launcelot bent before him and had much ado to defend himself from these blows. then by and by sir launcelot waxed faint upon his part and was athirst, and he cried out: "i crave of thee a boon, sir knight!" "what wouldst thou have?" said sir turquine. "sir knight," said sir launcelot, "bide while i drink, for i am athirst." "nay," said sir turquine, "thou shalt not drink until thou quenchest thy thirst in paradise." "ha!" cried sir launcelot, "thou art a foul churl and no true knight. for when thou wert athirst, i let thee drink; and now that i am athirst, thou deniest me to quench my thirst." therewith he was filled with such anger that he was like one gone wode; wherefore he flung aside his shield and took his sword in both hands and rushed upon sir turquine and smote him again and again; and the blows he gave were so fierce that sir turquine waxed somewhat bewildered and bore aback, and held his shield low for faintness. [sidenote: sir launcelot overcometh sir turquine] then when sir launcelot beheld that sir turquine was faint in that wise, he rushed upon him and catched him by the beaver of his helmet and pulled him down upon his knees. and sir launcelot rushed sir turquine's helmet from off his head. and he lifted his sword and smote sir turquine's head from off his shoulders, so that it rolled down upon the ground. then for a while sir launcelot stood there panting for to catch his breath after that sore battle, for he was nearly stifled with the heat and fury thereof. then he went down into the water, and he staggered like a drunken man as he went, and the water ran all red at his coming. and sir launcelot stooped and slaked his thirst, which was very furious and hot. thereafter he came up out of the water again, all dripping, and he went to where the damsel was and he said to her; "damsel, lo, i have overcome sir turquine; now i am ready to go with thee upon that other adventure, as i promised thee i would." at this the damsel was astonished beyond measure, wherefore she cried: "sir, thou art sorely hurt, and in need of rest for two or three days, and maybe a long time more, until thy wounds are healed." "nay," said sir launcelot, "no need to wait; i will go with thee now." then sir launcelot went to sir gaheris--for sir gaheris had been sitting for all that while upon that slab of stone. sir launcelot said to sir gaheris: "fair lord, be not angry if i take your horse, for i must presently go with this damsel, and you see mine own horse hath broke his back." "sir knight," said sir gaheris, "this day you have saved both me and my horse, wherefore it is altogether fitting that my horse or anything that is mine should be yours to do with as you please. so i pray you take my horse, only tell me your name and what knight you are; for i swear by my sword that i never saw any knight in all the world do battle so wonderfully as you have done to-day." [sidenote: sir launcelot makes himself known to sir gaheris] "sir," said sir launcelot, "i am called sir launcelot of the lake, and i am a knight of king arthur's. so it is altogether fitting that i should do such service unto you as this, seeing that you are the brother of that dear knight, sir gawaine. for if i should not do this battle that i have done for your sake, i should yet do it for the sake of my lord, king arthur, who is your uncle and sir gawaine's uncle." now when sir gaheris heard who sir launcelot was, he made great exclamation of amazement. "ha, sir launcelot!" he cried, "and is it thou! often have i heard of thee and of thy prowess at arms! i have desired to meet thee more than any knight in the world; but never did i think to meet thee in such a case as this." therewith sir gaheris arose, and went to sir launcelot, and sir launcelot came to him and they met and embraced and kissed one another upon the face; and from that time forth they were as brethren together. [sidenote: sir launcelot bids sir gaheris to free the castle captives] then sir launcelot said to sir gaheris: "i pray you, lord, for to go up unto yonder castle, and bring succor to those unfortunates who lie therein. for i think you will find there many fellow-knights of the round table. and i believe that you will find therein my brother, sir ector, and my cousin, sir lionel. and if you find any other of my kindred i pray you to set them free and to do what you can for to comfort them and to put them at their ease. and if there is any treasure in that castle, i bid you give it unto those knights who are prisoners there, for to compensate them for the pains they have endured. moreover, i pray you tell sir ector and sir lionel not to follow after me, but to return to court and wait for me there, for i have two adventures to undertake and i must essay them alone." then sir gaheris was very much astonished, and he cried out upon sir launcelot: "sir! sir! surely you will not go forth upon another adventure at this time, seeing that you are so sorely wounded." but sir launcelot said: "yea, i shall go now; for i do not think that my wounds are so deep that i shall not be able to do my devoirs when my time cometh to do them." at this sir gaheris was amazed beyond measure, for sir launcelot was very sorely wounded, and his armor was much broken in that battle, wherefore sir gaheris had never beheld a person who was so steadfast of purpose as to do battle in such a case. [sidenote: sir launcelot departs with the damsel] so sir launcelot mounted sir gaheris' horse and rode away with that young damsel, and sir gaheris went to the castle as sir launcelot had bidden him to do. [sidenote: sir gaheris frees the castle captives] in that castle he found five score and eight prisoners in dreadful case, for some who were there had been there for a long time, so that the hair of them had grown down upon their shoulders, and their beards had grown down upon their breasts. and some had been there but a short time, as was the case of sir lionel and sir ector. but all were in a miserable sorry plight; and all of those sad prisoners but two were knights of king arthur's court, and eight of them were knights of the round table. all these crowded around sir gaheris, for they saw that he was wounded and they deemed that it was he had set them free, wherefore they gave him thanks beyond measure. "not so," said sir gaheris, "it was not i who set you free; it was sir launcelot of the lake. he overcame sir turquine in such a battle as i never before beheld. for i saw that battle with mine own eyes, being at a little distance seated upon a stone slab and wounded as you see. and i make my oath that i never beheld so fierce and manful a combat in all of my life. but now your troubles are over and done, and sir launcelot greets you all with words of good cheer and bids me tell you to take all ease and comfort that you can in being free, and in especial he bids me greet you, sir ector, and you, sir lionel, and to tell you that you are to follow him no farther, but to return to court and bide there until he cometh; for he goeth upon an adventure which he must undertake by himself." [sidenote: sir lionel and sir ector and sir kay follow after sir launcelot] "not so," said sir lionel, "i will follow after him, and find him." and so said sir ector likewise, that he would go and find sir launcelot. then sir kay the seneschal said that he would ride with those two; so the three took horse and rode away together to find sir launcelot. as for those others, they ransacked throughout the castle of sir turquine, and they found twelve treasure-chests full of treasure, both of silver and of gold, together with many precious jewels; and they found many bales of cloth of silk and of cloth of gold. so, as sir launcelot had bid them do so, they divided the treasure among themselves, setting aside a part for sir ector and a part for sir lionel and a part for sir kay. then, whereas before they had been mournful, now they were joyful at having been made so rich with those precious things. thus happily ended that great battle with sir turquine which was very likely the fiercest and most dolorous fight that ever sir launcelot had in all of his life. for, unless it was sir tristram, he never found any other knight so big as sir turquine except sir galahad, who was his own son. and now it shall be told how sir launcelot fared upon that adventure which he had promised the young damsel to undertake. [illustration: sir launcelot sits with sir hilaire and croisette] chapter fifth _how sir launcelot went upon an adventure with the damsel croisette as companion, and how he overcame sir peris of the forest sauvage._ now after sir launcelot had finished that battle with sir turquine as aforetold, and when he had borrowed the horse of sir gaheris, he rode away from that place of combat with the young damsel, with intent to carry out the other adventure which he had promised her to undertake. [sidenote: how sir launcelot's wounds pain him] but though he rode with her, yet, for a while, he said very little to her, for his wounds ached him sorely and he was in a great deal of pain. so, because of this, he had small mind to talk, but only to endure what he had to endure with as much patience as he might command. and the damsel upon her part was somewhat aware of what sir launcelot was suffering and she was right sorry for him, wherefore she did not trouble him with idle discourse at that moment, but waited for a while before she spake. then by and by she said to him: "messire, i would that thou wouldst rest for some days, and take thine ease, and have thy wounds searched and dressed, and have thy armor looked to and redded. now there is a castle at some distance from this, and it is my brother's castle, and thither we may go in a little pass. there thou mayst rest for this night and take thine ease. for i know that my brother will be wonderfully glad to see thee because thou art so famous." then sir launcelot turned his eyes upon the damsel: "fair maiden," quoth he, "i make confession that i do in sooth ache a very great deal, and that i am somewhat aweary with the battle i have endured this day. wherefore i am very well content to follow thy commands in this matter. but i prithee, damsel, tell me what is thy name, for i know not yet how thou art called." "sir," she said, "i am called croisette of the dale, and my brother is called sir hilaire of the dale, and it is to his castle that i am about to take thee to rest for this time." then sir launcelot said: "i go with thee, damsel, wherever it is thy will to take me." [sidenote: of how sir launcelot and the damsel ride together] so they two rode through that valley at a slow pace and very easily. and toward the waning of the afternoon they left the valley by a narrow side way, and so in a little while came into a shallow dale, very fertile and smiling, but of no great size. for the more part that dale was all spread over with fields and meadow-lands, with here and there a plantation of trees in full blossom and here and there a farm croft. a winding river flowed down through the midst of this valley, very quiet and smooth, and brimming its grassy banks, where were alder and sedge and long rows of pollard willows overreaching the water. [sidenote: sir launcelot and croisette come to a fair valley] at the farther end of the valley was a castle of very comely of appearance, being built part of stone and part of bright red bricks; and the castle had many windows of glass and tall chimneys, some a-smoke. about the castle and nigh to it was a little village of thatched cottages, with many trees in blossom and some without blossom shading the gables of the small houses that took shelter beneath them. now when sir launcelot and croisette came into that little valley it was at the declining of the day and the sky was all alight with the slanting sun, and the swallows were flying above the smooth shining surface of the river in such multitudes that it was wonderful to behold them. and the lowing herds were winding slowly along by the river in their homeward way, and all was so peaceful and quiet that sir launcelot drew rein for pure pleasure, and sat for some while looking down upon that fair, happy dale. then by and by he said: "croisette, meseems i have never beheld so sweet and fair a country as this, nor one in which it would be so pleasant to live." upon this croisette was very much pleased, and she smiled upon sir launcelot. "think you so, sir launcelot?" quoth she. "well, in sooth, i am very glad that this valley pleasures you; for i love it beyond any other place in all the world. for here was i born and here was i raised in that castle yonder. for that is my brother's castle and it was my father's castle before his time; wherefore meseems that no place in all the world can ever be so dear to my heart as this dale." [sidenote: croisette bringeth sir launcelot to her brother's house] thereupon they went forward up that little valley, and along by the smoothly flowing river, and the farther they went the more sir launcelot took pleasure in all that he beheld. thus they came through the pretty village where the folk stood and watched with great admiration how that noble knight rode that way; and so they came to the castle and rode into the court-yard thereof. then presently there came the lord of that castle, who was sir hilaire of the dale. and sir hilaire greeted sir launcelot, saying: "welcome, sir knight. this is great honor you do me to come into this quiet dale with my sister, for we do not often have with us travellers of such quality as you." "brother," said croisette, "you may well say that it is an honor to have this knight with us, for this is none other knight than the great sir launcelot of the lake. this day i beheld him overcome sir turquine in fair and honorable battle. so he doth indeed do great honor for to visit us in this wise." then sir hilaire looked at sir launcelot very steadily, and he said: "sir launcelot, your fame is so great that it hath reached even unto this peaceful outland place; wherefore it shall not soon be forgotten here how you came hither. now, i pray you, come in and refresh yourself, for i see that you are wounded and i doubt not you are weary." [sidenote: sir launcelot is made at ease] upon this several attendants came, and they took sir launcelot and led him to a pleasant chamber. there they unarmed him and gave him a bath in tepid water, and there came a leech and searched his wounds and dressed them. then those in attendance upon him gave him a soft robe of cloth of velvet, and when sir launcelot had put it on he felt much at ease, and in great comfort of body. by and by, when evening had fallen, a very good, excellent feast was spread in the hall of the castle, and there sat down thereto sir launcelot and sir hilaire and the damsel croisette. as they ate they discoursed of various things, and sir launcelot told many things concerning his adventures, so that all who were there were very quiet, listening to what he said. for it was as though he were a visitor come to them from some other world, very strange and distant, of which they had no knowledge, wherefore they all listened so as not to lose a single word of what he told them. so that evening passed very pleasantly, and sir launcelot went to his bed with great content of spirit. [sidenote: how sir launcelot abides at the castle of sir hilaire] so sir launcelot abided for several days in that place until his wounds were healed. then one morning, after they had all broken their fast, he made request that he and the damsel might be allowed to depart upon that adventure which he had promised her to undertake, and unto this sir hilaire gave his consent. now, during this while, sir launcelot's armor had been so pieced and mended by the armor-smiths of that castle that when he donned it it was, in a measure, as sound as it had ever been, and of that sir launcelot was very glad. so having made ready in all ways he and croisette took leave of that place, and all they who were there bade them adieu and gave sir launcelot god-speed upon that adventure. now some while after they left that dale they rode through a very ancient forest, where the sod was exceedingly soft underfoot and silent to the tread of the horses, and where it was very full of bursting foliage overhead. and as they rode at an easy pace through that woodland place they talked of many things in a very pleasant and merry discourse. quoth the damsel unto sir launcelot: "messire, i take very great wonder that thou hast not some special lady for to serve in all ways as a knight should serve a lady." [sidenote: sir launcelot and croisette discourse together] "ha, damsel," said sir launcelot, "i do serve a lady in that manner and she is peerless above all other ladies; for that lady is the lady guinevere, who is king arthur's queen. yet though i am her servant i serve her from a very great distance. for in serving her i am like one who standeth upon the earth, yet looketh upward ever toward the bright and morning star. for though such an one may delight in that star from a distance, yet may he never hope to reach an altitude whereon that star standeth." "heyday!" quoth croisette, "for that matter, there are other ways of serving a lady than that wise. were i a knight meseems i would rather serve a lady nearer at hand than at so great distance as that of which thou speakest. for in most cases a knight would rather serve a lady who may smile upon him nigh at hand, and not stand so far off from him as a star in the sky." but to this sir launcelot made no reply but only smiled. then in a little croisette said: "dost thou never think of a lady in that wise, sir launcelot?" [sidenote: sir launcelot speaketh of the lady guinevere] "nay," said sir launcelot, "and neither do i desire so to serve any lady. for it is thus with me, croisette--for all that while of my life until i was eighteen years of age i lived in a very wonderful land beneath a magical lake, of which i may not tell thee. then i came out of that lake and into this world and king arthur made me a knight. now because i was so long absent from this world of mankind and never saw aught of it until i was grown into a man, meseems i love that world so greatly that i cannot tell thee how beautiful and wonderful it seems to me. for it is so wonderful and so beautiful that methinks my soul can never drink its fill of the pleasures thereof. yea; methinks i love every blade of grass upon the fields, and every leaf upon every tree: and that i love everything that creepeth or that flyeth, so that when i am abroad under the sky and behold those things about me i am whiles like to weep for very joy of them. wherefore it is, croisette, that i would rather be a knight-errant in this world which i love so greatly than to be a king seated upon a throne with a golden crown upon my head and all men kneeling unto me. yea; meseems that because of my joy in these things i have no room in my heart for such a love of lady as thou speakest of, but only for the love of knight-errantry, and a great wish for to make this world in which i now live the better and the happier for my dwelling in it. thus it is, croisette, that i have no lady for to serve in the manner thou speakest of. nor will i ever have such, saving only the lady guinevere, the thought of whom standeth above me like that bright star afore spoken of." "ha," quoth croisette, "then am i sad for the sake of some lady, i know not who. for if thou wert of another mind thou mightest make some lady very glad to have so great a knight as thou art to serve her." upon this sir launcelot laughed with a very cheerful spirit, for he and the damsel were grown to be exceedingly good friends, as you may suppose from such discourse as this. [sidenote: sir launcelot perceives the castle of sir peris] so they wended their way in this fashion until somewhat after the prime of day, and by that time they had come out of that forest and into a very rugged country. for this place into which they were now come was a sort of rocky valley, rough and bare and in no wise beautiful. when they had entered into it they perceived, a great way off, a castle built up upon the rocks. and that castle was built very high, so that the roofs and the chimneys thereof stood wonderfully sharp and clear against the sky; yet the castle was so distant that it looked like a toy which you might easily take into your hand and hold betwixt your fingers. then croisette said to sir launcelot: "yonder is the castle of that evil-minded knight of whom i spake to thee yesterday, and his name is sir peris of the forest sauvage. below that castle, where the road leads into that woodland, there doth he lurk to seize upon wayfarers who come thitherward. and indeed he is a very catiff knight, for, though he is strong and powerful, he doth not often attack other knights, but only ladies and demoiselles who come hither. for these he may take captive without danger to himself. for i believe that though he is so big of frame yet is he a coward in his heart." [sidenote: sir launcelot advises croisette what to do] then sir launcelot sat for a while and regarded that castle, and fell into thought; and he said, "damsel, if so be this knight is such a coward as thou sayest, meseems that if i travel with thee i shall have some ado to come upon him; because, if he sees me with thee, he may keep himself hidden in the thicket of the forest from my sight. now i will have it this way; do thou ride along the highway in plain sight of the castle, and i will keep within the woodland skirts, where i may have thee in sight and still be hidden from the sight of others. then if this knight assail thee, as i think it likely he may do, i will come out and do battle with him ere he escapes." so it was arranged as sir launcelot said and they rode in that wise: croisette rode along the highway, and sir launcelot rode under the trees in the outskirts of the forest, where he was hidden from the eyes of anyone who might be looking that way. so they went on for a long pass until they came pretty nigh to where the castle was. [sidenote: sir peris attacks croisette] then, as they came to a certain part of the road that dipped down toward a small valley, they were suddenly aware of a great noise, and immediately there issued out from the forest a knight, large and strong of frame, and followed close behind by a squire dressed altogether in scarlet from head to foot. this knight bore down with great speed upon where croisette was, and the esquire followed close behind him. when these two had come near to croisette, the esquire leaped from off his horse and caught her palfrey by the bridle, and the knight came close to her and catched her as though to drag her off from her horse. with that croisette shrieked very loud, and immediately sir launcelot broke out from the woods and rode down upon where all this was toward with a noise like to thunder. as he came he cried aloud in a great and terrible voice: "sir knight, let go that lady, and turn thou to me and defend thyself!" [sidenote: sir launcelot overthrows sir peris] then sir peris of the forest sauvage looked this way and that with intent to escape, but he was aware that he could not escape from sir launcelot, wherefore he took his shield in hand and drew his sword and put himself into a position of defence; for, whereas he could not escape, he was, perforce, minded to do battle. then sir launcelot threw aside his spear, and he set his shield before him and he took his sword in his hand, and he drave his horse against sir peris. and when he had come nigh to sir peris he raised himself in his stirrups and struck him such a buffet that i believe nothing in the world could withstand its force. for though sir peris raised his shield against that blow, yet the sword of sir launcelot smote through the shield and it smote down the arm that held the shield, and it smote with such a terrible force upon the helm of sir peris that sir peris fell down from his horse and lay in a swoon without any motion at all. then sir launcelot leaped down from his horse and rushed off the helm of sir peris, and lifted his sword with intent to strike off his head. upon that the senses of sir peris came somewhat back to him, and he set his palms together and he cried out, though in a very weak voice: "spare me, sir knight! i yield myself to thee!" "why should i spare thee?" said sir launcelot. "sir," said sir peris, "i beseech thee, by thy knighthood, to spare me." "well," said sir launcelot, "since thou hast besought me upon my knighthood i cannot do else than spare thee. but if i do spare thee, thou shalt have to endure such shame that any true knight in thy stead would rather die than be spared in such a manner." "sir knight," said sir peris, "i am content with anything thou mayst do, so be that thou wilt spare my life." upon this sir launcelot bade sir peris rise. and he took the halter of sir peris's horse, and he bound sir peris's arms behind his back, and when he had done this he drove him up to his castle at the point of his lance. and when they came to the castle he bade sir peris have open the castle; and sir peris did so; and thereupon sir launcelot and sir peris entered the castle and the damsel and the squire followed after them. [sidenote: sir launcelot liberates the captive ladies] in that castle were fourteen ladies of high degree held captive for ransom; and some of these had been there for a considerable time, to their great discomfort. all these were filled with joy when they were aware that sir launcelot had set them free. so they came to sir launcelot and paid their court to him and gave him great thanks beyond measure. [sidenote: sir launcelot gives the castle treasure to the captive ladies] sir launcelot and croisette abode in that castle all that night, and when the next morning had come sir launcelot made search all over that castle, and he found a considerable treasure of silver and gold, which had been gathered there by the ransom of the ladies and the damsels of degree whom sir peris had made prisoner aforetime. all this treasure sir launcelot divided among those ladies who were prisoners, and a share of the treasure he gave to the damsel croisette, because that they two were such good friends and because croisette had brought him thither to that adventure, and thereof croisette was very glad. but sir launcelot kept none of that treasure for himself. then croisette said: "how is this, sir launcelot? you have not kept any of this treasure for yourself, yet you won it by your own force of arms, wherefore it is altogether yours to keep if you will to do so." "croisette," said sir launcelot, "i do not care for such things as this treasure; for when i lived within that lake of which i have spoken to thee, such things as this treasure were there as cheap as pebbles which you may gather up at any river-bed, wherefore it has come to pass that such things have no value to me." [sidenote: sir launcelot makes sir peris a dishonored captive] now, after all this had been settled, sir launcelot had sir peris of the forest sauvage haled before him, and sir launcelot said: "catiff knight, now is it time for thy shame to come upon thee." therewith he had sir peris stripped of all armor and raiment, even to his jerkin and his hose, and he had his arms tied behind his back, and he had a halter set about his neck; and sir launcelot tied the halter that was about the neck of sir peris to the horn of the saddle of his own horse, so that when he rode away with croisette sir peris must needs follow behind him at whatever gait the horse of sir launcelot might take. [sidenote: sir hilaire sendeth sir peris to king arthur] so sir launcelot and croisette rode back to the manor of sir hilaire of the dale with sir peris running behind them, and when they had come there sir launcelot delivered sir peris unto sir hilaire, and sir hilaire had sir peris bound upon a horse's back with his feet underneath the belly of the horse; and sent him to camelot for king arthur to deal with him as might seem to the king to be fit. but sir launcelot remained with sir hilaire of the dale all the next day and he was very well content to be in that pleasant place. and upon the day after that, which was sunday, he set forth at about the prime of the day to go to that abbey of monks where he had appointed to meet the damsel elouise the fair, as aforetold. and now you shall hear how sir launcelot behaved at the tournament of king bagdemagus, if it please you to read that which herewith immediately followeth. [illustration: sir launcelot and elouise the fair] chapter sixth _how sir launcelot took part in the tournament between king bagdemagus and the king of north wales, and how he won that battle for king bagdemagus._ [sidenote: how sir launcelot rode to find elouise the fair] sir launcelot rode by many highways and many byways at a very slow pace, stopping now and then when it pleased him to do so, for he took great joy in being free in the open air again. for the day was warm and that time the clouds were very thick, drifting in great abundance across the sky. and anon there would fall a sudden shower of rain, and anon the sun would shine forth again, very warm and strong, so that all the world sparkled as with incredible myriads of jewels. then the cock crowed lustily because the shower was past, and another cock answered him far away, and all the world suddenly smiled, and the water trickled everywhere, and the little hills clapped their hands for joy. so sir launcelot took great pleasure in the day and he went his way at so easy a pace that it was night-time ere he reached that abbey of monks where he was to meet elouise the fair. now that evening elouise was sitting in a certain apartment of the abbey overlooking the court-yard, and a maiden was reading to her by the light of several waxen tapers from a book of painted pictures. and the maiden read in a voice that was both high and clear; meanwhile, elouise sat very still and listened to what she read. now while elouise the fair sat so, there was of a sudden the sound of a great horse coming on the stone pavement of the court below. therewith elouise arose hastily and ran to the window and looked down into that court-yard. then she saw who he was that came, and that it was sir launcelot of the lake. for the light was not yet altogether gone from the sky, which was all shining with gray, so that she could see who it was who came there. then elouise gave great exclamation of joy, and clapped her hands. and she ran down to the court where sir launcelot was, and several of her maidens went with her. [sidenote: elouise the fair gives welcome to sir launcelot] when she had come to the court she gave great welcome to sir launcelot, and she summoned many attendants and she bade them look to sir launcelot. so some of them aided sir launcelot to dismount and some took his horse, and some brought him up to a chamber that had been set apart for him, and there unarmed and served him, and set him at his ease. then elouise sent to him a soft robe of purple cloth of velvet, lined with fur, and sir launcelot put it upon him and took great comfort in it. after that sir launcelot descended to where elouise was, and he found that a fair supper had been set for his refreshment. so he sat and ate, and elouise the fair herself served him. [sidenote: elouise sends for king bagdemagus] meanwhile she had sent for her father, king bagdemagus, who was at that time no great distance away, and a little after sir launcelot had finished his supper king bagdemagus came to that place, much wondering why elouise had sent for him. when king bagdemagus came, elouise took him by the hand and led him to sir launcelot, and she said: "sire, here is a knight who, for my sake, is come to help you in this tournament upon tuesday." now king bagdemagus had never before seen sir launcelot, so he knew not who that knight was. wherefore he said to him: "messire, i am much beholden to you for coming to my aid in this battle. now i pray you that you tell me your name and what knight you are." "lord," said sir launcelot, "i am hight launcelot, and am surnamed 'he of the lake.'" now when king bagdemagus heard this he was astonished beyond measure, wherefore he cried out, "this is wonderful, that you who are the very flower of knighthood should be here, and that you should come to aid me in my battle!" [sidenote: sir launcelot talks with king bagdemagus] "sire," said sir launcelot, "i know not how much aid i may be to thee until that matter is proven. but of a surety i owe it to this damsel to do what i am able at her request, in return for all that she hath done for me to aid me in my time of great peril. so it is a very small repayment for me to aid thee, her father, in thy time of difficulties. wherefore if, by good hap, i may be of use to thee in this battle which is nigh at hand, then i shall be glad beyond measure that i have paid some part of that debt which i owe to this lady." "messire," said king bagdemagus, "i give thee grammercy for thy good will in this matter. i am sure that, with thy aid, i shall be successful in this battle, and that it will always be most renowned in the history of chivalry because thou hast taken part in it." so spake they with great courtesy to one another. then, by and by, sir launcelot said: "sir, i pray you tell me who are those knights of king arthur's court who are upon the part of the king of north wales? for i would fain know against whom i am to do battle." to which king bagdemagus said: "messire, those three knights of the round table are as follows--there is sir mordred, nephew unto king arthur, and there is sir galahantine, and there is sir mador de la porte." "ha," quoth sir launcelot, "these are three very good knights indeed, and i am not at all astonished that the king of north wales should have had such good fortune aforetime in that other tournament with you, seeing that he had three such knights as they to do battle upon his side." [sidenote: sir launcelot arranges the order of battle with king bagdemagus] after this they fell into discourse as to the manner in which they should do battle upon the morrow, and sir launcelot advised in this wise: "lord, let me take three knights of yours, such as you trust, and such as you hold to be the strongest knights of your party. let these three knights paint their shields altogether white and i will paint mine white, and then no man will know who we are. for i would have it so that i should not be known to be in this battle until i shall have approved myself in it. now, when you have chosen those three knights, we four will take hiding in some wood or glade nigh to the place of combat, and when you are most busily engaged, and when you begin to be hard-pressed, then we will come forth and fall upon the flank of the party of the king of north wales with intent to throw them into confusion. then you will push your assault very hard, and i doubt not by the grace of god that we shall betwixt us be able to bear back their array in confusion." this advice seemed very good to king bagdemagus, and so he did as sir launcelot said. he chose him three very strong, worthy, honorable knights, and these made their shields white as sir launcelot directed. thus, all things being arranged as sir launcelot willed, it came to be the eve before the battle. so a little after sunset sir launcelot and those three knights whom king bagdemagus had chosen rode over toward the place of tourney (which was some twelve miles from the abbey where the damsel elouise was lodged). there they found a little woodland of tall, leafy trees fit for sir launcelot's purpose, and that wood stood to one side of the meadow of battle and at about the distance of three furlongs from it. in this little wood sir launcelot and the three knights-companion whom king bagdemagus had chosen laid themselves down upon the ground and wrapped, each man, his cloak about him. so they slept there until the morrow, when the battle was ordained to be. now there had been very great preparation made for this tournament for on three sides of the meadow of battle scaffolds had been built and rows of seats had been placed. these were covered over with tapestries and hangings of divers colors--some of figured and some of plain weaving--so that the green and level meadow-land was hung all about with these gay and gaudy colors. now when the morning had come, the folk who came to witness that tournament began to assemble from all directions--lords and ladies of high degree, esquires and damsels of lesser rank, burghers and craftsmen with their wives, townspeople from the town, yeomen from the woodlands, and freeholders from the farm crofts. with these came many knights of the two parties in contest, and with the knights came their esquires in attendance. now these knights were all in full armor, shining very bright, and the esquires were clad in raiment of many textures and various colors, so that they were very gay and debonair. so, with all this throng moving along the highway toward the meadow of battle, it seemed as though the entire world was alive with gay and moving figures. [sidenote: sir launcelot and his companions lie near the place of tournament] now the place where sir launcelot and those three knights who were with him lay hidden was not far from the highway, so, whence they lay, they could see all that goodly procession of folk taking their way toward the lists, and they could look down upon the meadow of battle, which, as hath been said, was not more than three furlongs distant, and they could see the crowds of people of high and low degree taking their places upon those seats according to their rank and station. and they could see how the knights-contestant arrayed themselves upon this side of the field and upon that, and how the esquires and attendants hurried hither and thither, busying themselves in making their lords ready for the encounter that was soon to befall. yea, all this could they see as plainly as though it lay upon the palm of a hand. so they saw that about noontide all those who had come thither had taken their places, and that the field was clean, and that the two parties of combat were arrayed in order for battle. then sir launcelot perceived that the party of the king of north wales was very much greater than the party of king bagdemagus; for while the party of the king of north wales had nigh eight score of helms, the party of king bagdemagus had hardly four score of helms. so sir launcelot perceived that that party of king bagdemagus would have much labor to do if it was to win in the battle. [sidenote: how the battle began] now, all being prepared, the marshal stood forth and blew upon his trumpet, and therewith those two parties of knights rushed the one against the other, each in so great a cloud of dust that one could hardly see the knights in their passage. therewith they met in the midst of the meadow of battle, with such a crash and uproar of splintered lances as was terrible to hear. and for a while no man could see what was toward, so great was the dust and the tumult. but by and by the dust raised itself a little and then sir launcelot perceived that the party of king bagdemagus had been pushed back by that other party, as might have been supposed in such a case. so sir launcelot looked upon the battle for some while and he saw that the party of king bagdemagus was pushed farther and farther back. then by and by sir launcelot said to his knights-companion: "messires, methinks now is our time to enter this engagement." therewith he and they rode forth out of that woods, and they rode down the hill and across the fields and so came into that meadow-of-battle. [sidenote: sir launcelot and his companions enter the battle] at that time the party of the king of north wales was so busily engaged in its assault upon the party of king bagdemagus that very few of those knights engaged were aware of those four knights coming, and those who were aware of them thought but very little of the coming of so small a number. so no one interfered with their coming, wherefore they were able to bear down with great speed upon the flank of the party of the king of north wales. therewith they struck that flank with such force that both horses and horsemen were overturned by their assault. in that encounter sir launcelot carried a spear that was wonderfully strong and tough. with it he ran with great fierceness into the very thickest of the press, and before he was checked he struck down five knights with that one spear. and likewise those three knights that were with him did such good service that all that flank of the party of the king of north wales was thrown into great confusion and wist not what to do for to guard themselves against that fierce, furious onset. then sir launcelot and his three companions bore back a little, and when they got their distance they ran again into the press, and this time sir launcelot overthrew the king of north wales himself, and that with such violence that the bone of his thigh was broken, and he had to be carried away out of that field by his attendants. and in this second assault sir launcelot and the three knights who were with him overthrew eleven knights besides the king of north wales, wherefore all that part of the press began to break away from them and to seek some place where they could defend themselves from such another assault. now when the party of king bagdemagus saw into what confusion the other party were thrown by these four knights-champion, they began a very fierce and furious attack, and with such vehemence that in a little the party of the king of north wales began to bear back before them. so, what with those who withdrew before sir launcelot's assault, and what with those who withdrew from the assault of king bagdemagus, there was a great deal of confusion in the ranks of the party of the king of north wales. [sidenote: sir launcelot overthrows sir mordred] now those three knights who were of king arthur's court perceived how sir launcelot and his knights-companion were throwing the ranks of the party of the king of north wales into confusion, and they knew that unless the onset of sir launcelot was checked, the day would of a surety be lost unto them. wherefore said sir mador de la porte: "yonder is a very strong and fierce-fighting knight; if we do not check his onset we will very likely be brought to shame in this battle." "yea," said sir mordred, "that is so. now i will take it upon me to joust with that knight and to overthrow him." upon that those other two knights bade him go and do as he said. so sir mordred made way to where sir launcelot was, coming forward very fiercely and with great violence, and sir launcelot was aware of sir mordred's coming and made him ready for that assault. so the two came together with terrible violence and sir launcelot struck sir mordred such a buffet that the breast-band of sir mordred's saddle brake, and both the saddle and sir mordred flew over his horse's tail. therewith sir mordred fell upon his head and struck with such violence upon the ground that his neck was nigh broken, and he lay altogether in a dead swoon and had to be carried out of the lists by his attendants. [sidenote: sir launcelot overthrows sir mador] this saw sir mador de la porte, and he cried out: "ha! see what hath befallen sir mordred!" and therewith he also bare down upon sir launcelot with all his might and main with intent to overthrow him. and sir launcelot ran against him, and they struck together so fiercely that it was terrible to behold. but the spear of sir mador de la porte burst into pieces, whilst the spear of sir launcelot held, so that both sir mador and his horse were overthown, the horse rolling upon the man. and in that encounter sir mador's shoulder went out of place, and he also had to be borne away by his attendants. [sidenote: sir launcelot strikes sir galahantine a sad blow] then sir galahantine took a great spear from his esquire, who was nigh him, and he also ran against sir launcelot with all his might; and sir launcelot met him in full course and that onset was more terrible than either of the other two. for the spear of each knight was burst into splinters, even to the butt thereof. then each threw away the butt of his spear and drew out his sword, and sir galahantine struck sir launcelot such a blow that the legs of sir launcelot's horse trembled under him because of the weight of that stroke. at this sir launcelot waxed wroth beyond measure and he rose in his stirrups and he smote sir galahantine such a buffet that the blood burst out from his nose and his ears, and all his senses so went away from him that he might hardly behold the light of day because of the swimming of his sight. therewith sir galahantine's head hung down upon his breast and he had no power to guide his horse, wherefore his horse made way out of the press and galloped off, bearing sir galahantine away, whether he would or no. and after the horse had galloped a little distance sir galahantine could not any longer sit upon his saddle, but he fell off of his horse and rolled over upon the ground and had not strength to rise therefrom. then sir launcelot catched another spear, great and strong, from the esquire who followed him, and before ever that spear broke he overthrew sixteen knights therewith. wherefore all who beheld him were amazed and terrified at what he did. [sidenote: sir launcelot wins the battle for king bagdemagus] by now the party of the king of north wales began to bear more and more aback and in a little they broke, and then the party of king bagdemagus pursued them hither and thither, and those who did not surrender were overthrown so that it was not possible for them to make any new order of battle. then that party surrendered itself as conquered, one and all, and so king bagdemagus won that tournament with the greatest glory that it was possible for him to have. for it had never been heard of before that a party of four-score knights should overcome in that way a party of eight-score knights, with three knights of the round table to champion them. nor would such a victory have been possible only for what sir launcelot did in that battle. so sir launcelot won that tournament for king bagdemagus, and after the battle was over and done king bagdemagus came to sir launcelot and said to him: "messire, thou hast brought to me the greatest glory this day that ever fell to my lot in all of my life. now i prithee come with me and refresh thyself with me, so that i may give thee fitting thanks for all thou hast done, and so that i may reward thee in such a way as is fit for a king to reward a knight-champion such as thou art." [sidenote: sir launcelot departs without reward] unto this sir launcelot made reply: "lord, i give you thanks for your courtesy, but i need no reward; for it is meet that i should have done what i could for the sake of the demoiselle elouise the fair, seeing that she rescued me from the mischiefs that queen morgana had intent to do me." then king bagdemagus besought sir launcelot that he would tarry awhile and rest, but sir launcelot would not do so, but would be going upon his way without any tarrying. but he said to king bagdemagus: "i prithee greet your daughter for me, and say to her that if ever she hath need of my services again let her send to me, and i will come to her even if it be to the end of the earth. for i have not yet repaid her for what she hath done for me." therewith sir launcelot went his way from that meadow of battle, and, coming to the skirts of the forest he entered therein, and those who were there at the meadow of battle did not see him any more. so endeth the history of that famous tournament betwixt king bagdemagus and the king of north wales. [illustration: sir launcelot climbs to catch the lady's falcon] chapter seventh _how sir launcelot fell into the greatest peril that ever he encountered in all his life. also how he freed a misfortunate castle and town from the giants who held them, and how he released the lord thereof from a dungeon._ now sir launcelot wandered errant for many days, meeting no adventure of any moment, but taking great joy in all that he beheld of the wide world about him, and in that time he found lodging wheresoever he chanced to be (if not in house, then beneath the skies), and he endured all sorts of weather, both wet and dry. [sidenote: sir launcelot cometh to a fair valley with a castle] upon a certain day, in the prime of the morning, he came across a hilltop, and beheld beneath him a valley, very fertile and well-tilled, with fields and meadow-lands spread all over it like to a fair green carpet woven in divers patterns. and in the midst of the valley was a very large and noble castle, with many towers, and tall, steep roofs, and clustering chimneys. so sir launcelot descended into that valley, and the road which he took ended in front of the castle and under the shade of the tall gray walls thereof. but he did not stop at that castle but went on by it. now after sir launcelot had passed by that castle it seemed to him that he heard very delicate silver bells ringing sweetly in the air above him, and when he looked up he beheld that a falcon was flying over his head toward a high elm tree that stood at a little distance, and he wist that it was the bells upon the cap of the falcon that rang so sweetly. and sir launcelot beheld that long lunes hung from the feet of the falcon as she flew, wherefore he was aware that the falcon had slipped her lunes and had flown from her owner. [sidenote: sir launcelot beholdeth a falcon entangled] so sir launcelot watched the falcon, and he beheld that she lit in a tall elm tree, where she took her perch and rested, balancing with her wings part spread. then by and by she would have taken her flight again, but the lunes about her feet had become entangled around the bough on which she sat, so that when she would have flown she could not do so. now sir launcelot was very sorry to see the falcon beating herself in that wise, straining to escape from where she was prisoner, but he knew not what to do to aid her, for the tree was very high, and he was no good climber of trees. while he stood there watching that falcon he heard the portcullis of the castle lifted, with a great noise, and the drawbridge let fall, and therewith there came a lady riding out of the castle very rapidly upon a white mule, and she rode toward where sir launcelot watched the falcon upon the tree. when that lady had come nigh to sir launcelot, she cried out to him: "sir knight, didst thou see a falcon fly this way?" sir launcelot said: "yea, lady, and there she hangs, caught by her lunes in yonder elm-tree." then when that lady beheld how that her falcon hung there she smote her hands together, crying out: "alas, alas! what shall i do? that falcon is my lord's favorite hawk! while i was playing with her a while since, she slipped from me and took flight, and has sped as thou dost see. now when my lord findeth that i have lost his hawk in that wise he will be very angry with me, and will haply do me some grievous hurt." [sidenote: the lady beseeches sir launcelot to get her the falcon again] quoth sir launcelot: "lady, i am very sorry for you." "sir," she said, "it boots nothing for you to be sorry for me unless you can aid me." "how may i aid you in this?" said sir launcelot. "messire," quoth she, "how otherwise could you aid me than by climbing up into this tree for my hawk? for if you aid me not in such a fashion, i know not what i shall do, for my lord hath a very hot and violent temper, and he is not likely to brook having his favorite hawk lost to him, as it is like to be." upon this sir launcelot was put to a great pass and knew not what to do, for he had no good mind to climb that tree. "lady," quoth he, "i prithee tell me what is thy lord's name." "messire," she replied, "he is hight sir phelot, and is a knight of the court of the king of north wales." "well, lady," said sir launcelot, "thou dost put upon me a very sore task in this, for god knoweth i am no climber of trees. yea, i would rather do battle with twenty knights than to climb one such tree as this. nevertheless, i cannot find it in me to refuse the asking of any lady, if so be it lieth at all in my power to perform her will. now if you will aid me to unarm myself, i will endeavor to climb this tree and get your hawk." [sidenote: sir launcelot climbs the tree] so the lady dismounted from her mule, and sir launcelot dismounted from his horse, and the lady aided sir launcelot to unarm himself. and when he had unarmed himself he took off all his clothes saving only his hosen and his doublet. then he climbed that tree, though with great labor and pain to himself, and with much dread lest he should fall. so he, at last, reached the falcon where it was, and he loosened the lunes from where they were entangled about the branch, and he freed the bird. then he brake off a great piece of rotten bough of the tree and he tied the lunes of the falcon to it and he tossed the falcon down to where the lady was; and the lady ran with great joy and caught the falcon and loosed it from the piece of branch and tied the lunes to her wrist, so that it could not escape again. then sir launcelot began to descend the tree with as great labor and pain as he had climbed into it. [sidenote: sir phelot threatens sir launcelot's life] but he had not come very far down when he perceived a knight who came riding very rapidly toward that tree, and he saw that the knight was in full armor. when this knight came to the tree he drew rein and bespoke the lady who was there, though sir launcelot could not hear what he said. so, after he had spoken for a little, the knight dismounted from his horse and went to sir launcelot's shield and looked upon the face of it very carefully. then presently he looked upward toward sir launcelot, and he said: "art thou sir launcelot of the lake?" and sir launcelot said: "yea." "very well," said the knight, "i am pleased beyond measure at that. for i am sir phelot, the lord of this castle, and the brother of that sir peris of the forest sauvage, whom thou didst treat so shamefully after thou hadst overcome him in battle." "sir," said sir launcelot, "i treated him nowise differently from what he deserved." "no matter for that," said sir phelot, "he was my brother, and thou didst put great despite and shame upon him. so now i will be revenged upon thee, for now i have thee where i would have thee, and i will slay thee as shamefully as thou didst put shame upon him. so say thy prayers where thou art, for thou shalt never go away from this place alive." "sir knight," said sir launcelot, "i do not believe that thou wouldst really assault a naked and harmless man, for it would certainly be a great shame to thee to do me a harm in that wise. for lo! thou art armed in full, and i am a naked man, and to slay me as i am would be both murder and treason." "no matter for that," said sir phelot; "as for the shame of it, i take no thought of it. i tell thee thou shalt have no grace nor mercy from me. wherefore make thy peace with heaven, for thine hour is come." "sir knight," said sir launcelot, "i ask only one boon of thee; if thou art of a mind to take so much shame upon thee, as appears to be the case, let me not, at least, die like a felon without any weapon. let me have my sword in my hand, even if i have no other defence. for if a knight must die, it is a shame for him to die without weapons. so hang my sword upon yonder bough, where i may reach it, and then thou mayst slay me." "nay," said sir phelot, "i will not do that, for i know very well how wonderful is thy prowess. wherefore i believe that even if thou wert otherwise unarmed thou mightst overcome me if thou hadst thy sword. so i will give thee no such chance, but will have my will of thee as thou art." [sidenote: sir launcelot is put to a sad pass to escape] then sir launcelot was put to a great pass of anxiety, for he wist not what to do to escape from that danger in which he lay. wherefore he looked all about him and above him and below him, and at last he beheld a great branch of the elm tree just above his head, very straight and tough. so he catched this branch and broke it off from the tree and shaped it to a club of some sort. then he came lower, and the knight waited to strike him with his sword, when he was low enough; but sir launcelot did not come low enough for that. then sir launcelot perceived that his horse stood below him and a little to one side, so of a sudden he ran out along the branch whereon he stood and he leaped quickly down to the earth upon the farther side of his horse from where the knight stood. [sidenote: sir launcelot overcomes sir phelot with a strange weapon] at this sir phelot ran at him and lashed at him with his sword, thinking to slay him before he had recovered from his leap. but sir launcelot was quicker than he, for he recovered his feet and put away the blow of sir phelot with his club which he held. then he ran in upon sir phelot under his sword arm, and before he could use his sword he struck sir phelot with all his might upon the side of his head. and he struck him very quickly again, and he struck him the third time, all in the space whilst one might count two. and those blows he struck were so direful that sir phelot fell down upon his knees, all stunned and bedazed, and the strength went out of his thews because of faintness. then sir launcelot took the sword out of the hand of sir phelot and sir phelot did not have strength to deny him. and sir launcelot plucked off sir phelot's helm and catched him by the hair and dragged his neck forward so as to have ease to strike his head from off his body. now all this while the lady had been weeping and watching what befell. but when she saw the great danger sir phelot was in, she ran and clasped her arms about him, and cried out in a very loud and piercing voice upon sir launcelot to spare sir phelot and to slay him not. but sir launcelot, still holding him by the hair of the head, said: "lady, i cannot spare him, for he has treated me more treacherously than any other knight with whom i ever had dealings." but the lady cried out all the more vehemently, "sir launcelot, thou good knight, i beseech thee, of thy knighthood, to spare him." [sidenote: sir launcelot spares sir phelot's life] "well," said sir launcelot, "it hath yet to be said of me that i have denied anything that i was able to grant unto any lady that hath asked it of me upon my knighthood. and yet i know not how to trust either of ye. for thou didst not say one word in my behalf when i was in danger of being slain so treacherously just now. as for this knight, i perceive that he is every whit as great a traitor and a coward as was his brother sir peris of the sauvage forest. so i will spare him, but i will not trust him, lest he turn against me ere i arm myself again. wherefore give me hither the halter rein of your mule." so the lady gave sir launcelot the halter rein, weeping amain as she did so. and sir launcelot took the halter rein and he tied the arms of sir phelot behind him. then he bade the lady of sir phelot to help him arm himself from head to foot, and she did so, trembling a very great deal. then, when she had done so, quoth sir launcelot: "now i fear the treachery of no man." therewith he mounted his horse and rode away from that place and he looked not behind him at all, but rode away as though he held too much scorn of that knight and of that lady to give any more thought to them. so after that sir launcelot travelled for a while through the green fields of that valley, till by and by he passed out of that valley, and came into a forest through which he travelled for a very long time. [sidenote: sir launcelot cometh to a marish country] for it was about the slanting of the afternoon ere he came forth out of that forest and under the open sky again. and when he came out of the forest he beheld before him a country of perfectly level marish, very lush and green, with many ponds of water and sluggish streams bordered by rushes and sedge, and with pollard willows standing in rows beside the waters. in the midst of this level plain of green (which was like to the surface of a table for flatness) there stood a noble castle, part built of brick and part of stone, and a town of no great size and a wall about the town. and this castle and town stood upon an island surrounded by a lake of water, and a long bridge, built upon stone buttresses, reached from the mainland to the island. and this castle and town were a very long distance away, though they appeared very clear and distinct to the sight across the level marish, like, as it were, to a fine bit of very small and cunning carving. now the way that sir launcelot travelled, led somewhat toward that town, wherefore he went along that way with intent to view the place more near by. so he conveyed by that road for some time without meeting any soul upon the way. but at last he came of a sudden upon an archer hiding behind an osier tree with intent to shoot the water-fowl that came to a pond that was there--for he had several such fowl hanging at his girdle. to him sir launcelot said: "good fellow, what town is that yonderway?" "sir," said the yeoman, "that is called the town of the marish because it stands in these fenlands. and that castle is called the castle of the fenlands for the same reason." [sidenote: sir launcelot talks with a yeoman] quoth sir launcelot: "what manner of place is that? is it a good place, or is it otherwise?" "sir," said the archer, "that place was one while a very good, happy place; for in times gone by there was a lord who dwelt there who was both just and noble, and kind to all folk, wherefore he was loved by all the people. but one night there came two very grim and horrible giants thither from the welsh mountains and these entered into the castle by treachery and made prisoner of the lord of the castle. him they cast into the dungeon of the castle, where they held him prisoner as an hostage. for they threaten that if friends of that lord's should send force against them to dispossess them, they will slay him. as for any other rescue, there is no knight who dareth to go against them because of their terrible size, and their strength, and their dreadful, horrible countenances." "well," said sir launcelot, "that is a pity and i am sorry for that noble lordling. now, since there is no other single knight who dareth to undertake this adventure, i myself will go and encounter these giants." "nay, sir knight," said the yeoman, "do not do so, for they are not like mortal men, but rather like monsters that are neither beast nor man. wherefore anyone who beholdeth them, feareth them." "grammercy for thy thought of me, good fellow," quoth sir launcelot, "but if i shall refuse an adventure because i find it perilous, then i am not like to undertake any adventure at all." therewith he bade good den to that yeoman and rode upon his way, directing his course toward that town at an easy pass. so he came at last to the long bridge that reached from the land to the island, and he saw that at the farther end of the bridge was the gateway of the town and through the arch thereof he could perceive a street of the town, and the houses upon either side of the street, and the people thereof coming and going. [sidenote: sir launcelot crosses the bridge to the town] so he rode forth upon the bridge and at the noise of his coming (for the hoofs of his horse sounded like thunder upon the floor of the bridge) the people of the town came running to see who it was that dared to come so boldly into their town. these, when sir launcelot came nigh, began to call to him on high, crying: "turn back, sir knight! turn back! else you will meet your death at this place." but sir launcelot would not turn back, but advanced very steadfastly upon his way. now somewhat nigh the farther end of that bridge there stood a little lodge of stone, built to shelter the warden of the bridge from stress of weather. when sir launcelot came nigh to this lodge there started suddenly out from it a great churl, above seven feet high, who bore in his hand a huge club, shod with iron and with great spikes of iron at the top. this churl ran to sir launcelot and catched his horse by the bridle-rein and thrust it back upon its haunches, crying out in a great hoarse voice: "whither goest thou, sir knight, for to cross this bridge?" sir launcelot said: "let go my horse's rein, sir churl." whereunto the churl made answer: "i will not let go thy horse's rein, and thou shalt not cross this bridge." [sidenote: sir launcelot slays the huge churl] at this sir launcelot waxed very angry, and he drew his sword and struck the churl a blow with the flat thereof upon the shoulder, so that he dropped the rein very quickly. therewith that churl drew back and took his great iron-shod club in both hands and struck at sir launcelot a blow that would have split a millstone. but sir launcelot put by the blow with his sword so that it did him no harm. but therewith he waxed so wroth that he ground his teeth together with anger, and, rising in his stirrups, he lashed that churl so woeful a blow that he cleft through his iron cap and his head and his breast even to the paps. [sidenote: the folk warn sir launcelot] now when the people of the town beheld that terrible blow they lifted up their voices in a great outcry, crying out: "turn back, sir knight! turn back! for this is a very woful thing for thee that thou hast done!" and some cried out: "thou hast killed the giants' warder of the bridge!" and others cried: "thou art a dead man unless thou make haste away from this." but to all this sir launcelot paid no heed, but wiped his sword and thrust it back into its sheath. then he went forward upon his way across the bridge as though nothing had befallen, and so came to the farther side. then, without paying any heed to all the people who were there, he rode straight to the castle and into the gate of the castle and into the court-yard thereof. now by this time all the castle was astir, and in great tumult, and many people came running to the windows and looked down upon sir launcelot. and sir launcelot sat his horse and looked all about him. so he perceived that beyond the court-yard was a fair space of grass, very smooth and green, well fitted for battle, wherefore he dismounted from his horse and tied it to a ring in the wall, and then he went to that green field and made him ready for whatever might befall. meantime all those people who were at the windows of the castle cried out to him, as the people of the town had done: "go away, sir knight! go away whilst there is still time for you to escape, or else you are a dead man!" but sir launcelot replied not, but stood there and waited very steadfastly. then the great door of the castle hall opened, and there came forth therefrom those two giants of whom he had heard tell. [sidenote: two giants attack sir launcelot] and in truth sir launcelot had never beheld such horrible beings as they; for they were above ten feet high, and very huge of body and long of limb. and they were clad in armor of bull-hide with iron rings upon it, and each was armed with a great club, huge and thick, and shod with iron, and studded with spikes. these came toward sir launcelot swinging their clubs and laughing very hideously and gnashing their long white teeth, for they thought to make easy work of him. [sidenote: how sir launcelot slays the first giant] then sir launcelot, seeing them coming thus, set his shield before him, and made ready for that assault with great calmness of demeanor. then the giants rushed suddenly upon him and struck at him, the both of them together; for they deemed that by so doing the enemy could not escape both blows, but if one failed the other would slay him. but sir launcelot put aside the blow of one giant with his sword and of the other with his shield, with marvellous dexterity. thereupon, ere they could recover themselves, he turned upon that giant who was upon his left hand and he struck him so terrible a blow upon the shoulder that he cut through the armor and through the shoulder and half-way through the body, so that the head and one arm of the giant leaned toward one way, and the other arm and the shoulder leaned toward the other way. therewith the giant fell down upon the ground bellowing, so that it was most terrible to hear; and in a little he had died where he had fallen. [sidenote: how sir launcelot slays the second giant] now when the fellow of that giant beheld that dreadful, horrible stroke, he was so possessed with terror that he stood for a while trembling and like one in a maze. but when he saw sir launcelot turn upon him with intent to make at him also, he let fall his club and ran away with great and fearful outcry. therewith he ran toward the castle and would have entered therein, but those within the castle had closed the doors and the gates against him, so that he could not escape in that way. so the giant ran around and around the court with great outcry, seeking for some escape from his pursuer, and sir launcelot ran after him. and sir launcelot struck him several times with his sword, so that at last, what with terror and pain and weariness, that giant stumbled and fell upon the ground. therewith sir launcelot ran at him, and, ere he could rise, he took his sword in both hands and smote off his head so that it rolled down upon the ground like a ball. then sir launcelot stood there panting for breath, for he had raced very hard after the giant, and could hardly catch his breath again. as he stood so, many of those of the castle and many of those who were of the town came to him from all sides; and they crowded around him and gave him great acclaim for ridding that place of those giants. then sir launcelot said to them: "where is your lord?" whereunto they made reply: "sir, he lieth in the dungeon of the castle under the ground chained to the walls thereof, and there he hath been for three years or more, and no one hath dared to bring him succor until you came hither." "go find him," said sir launcelot, "and set him free, and lose no time in doing so. and put him at all ease that you can." [sidenote: sir launcelot departs without refreshment] they say: "will you not stay and see him, messire, and receive his acknowledgements for what you have done?" but sir launcelot replied: "nay, not so." then they say: "will you not have some refreshment after this battle?" whereunto sir launcelot said: "i do not need such refreshment." then they say: "but will you not rest a little?" "nay," said sir launcelot: "i may not tarry, for i have far to go and several things to do, so that i do not care to stay." so he loosed his horse from the ring in the wall, and mounted upon it and rode away from that castle and from that town and across the bridge whence he had come. and all the people followed after him, giving him great acclaim. so sir launcelot left the castle, not because he needed no rest, but because he could not endure to receive the thanks of those whom he benefited. for though he loved to bring aid to the needy, yet he did not love to receive their thanks and their praise. wherefore, having freed the lord of that castle from that brood of giants, he was content therewith and went his way without resting or waiting for thanks. for so it was with those noble gallant knights of those days; that whilst they would perform signal service for mankind, yet they were not pleased to receive thanks or reward for the same, but took the utmost satisfaction, not in what they gained by their acts, but in the doing of knightly deeds, for they found all their reward in their deeds, because that thereby they made the world in which they lived better; and because they made the glory of the king, whose servants they were, the more glorious. and i hold that such behavior upon the part of anyone makes him the peer of sir launcelot or sir tristram or sir lamorack or sir percival; yea, of sir galahad himself. for it does not need either the accolade or the bath to cause a man to be a true knight of god's making; nor does it need that a mortal king should lay sword upon shoulder to constitute a man the fellow of such knightly company as that whose history i am herewith writing; it needs only that he should prove himself at all times worthy in the performance of his duty, and that he shall not consider the hope of reward, or of praise of others in the performance of that duty. so look to it that in all your services you take example of the noble sir launcelot of the lake, and that you do your uttermost with might and main, and that you therewith rest content with having done your best, maugre any praise. so you shall become a worthy fellow of sir launcelot and of his fellows. [illustration: sir launcelot takes the armor of sir kay] chapter eighth _how sir launcelot rescued sir kay from a perilous pass. also how he changed armor with sir kay and what befell._ one day sir launcelot came at early nightfall to a goodly manor-house and there he besought lodging for the night, and lodging was granted to him very willingly. [sidenote: the old gentlewoman makes sir launcelot welcome] now there was no lord of that manor, but only an old gentlewoman of very good breeding and address. she made sir launcelot right welcome and gave such cheer as she could, setting before him a very good supper, hot and savory, and a great beaker of humming mead wherewith to wash it down. whilst sir launcelot ate, the gentlewoman inquired of him his name and he told her it was sir launcelot of the lake. "ha!" quoth she, "i never heard that name before, but it is a very good name." at this sir launcelot laughed: "i am glad," said he, "that my name belikes thee. as for thy not having heard of it--well, i am a young knight as yet, having had but three years of service. yet i have hopes that by and by it may be better known than it is at this present." "thou sayest well," quoth she, "for thou art very young yet, wherefore thou mayst not know what thou canst do till thou hast tried." and therewith sir launcelot laughed again, and said: "yea, that is very true." now after sir launcelot had supped, his hostess showed him to the lodging she had provided for him wherein to sleep, and the lodging was in a fair garret over the gateway of the court. so sir launcelot went to his bed and, being weary with journeying, he presently fell into a deep and gentle sleep. [sidenote: sir launcelot is aroused from sleep] now about the middle of the night there fell of a sudden the noise of someone beating upon the gate and calling in a loud voice and demanding immediate admittance thereat. this noise awoke sir launcelot, and he arose from his couch and went to the window and looked out to see who it was that shouted so loudly and made such uproar. the moon was shining at that time, very bright and still, and by the light thereof sir launcelot beheld that there was a knight in full armor seated upon horseback without the gate, and that the knight beat upon the gate with the pommel of his sword, and shouted that they should let him in. but ere anyone could run to answer his call there came a great noise of horses upon the highroad, and immediately after there appeared three knights riding very fiercely that way, and these three knights were plainly pursuing that one knight. for, when they perceived him, they rode very violently to where he was, and fell upon him fiercely, all three at one time; wherefore, though that one knight defended himself as well as he could, yet was he in a very sorry way, and altogether likely to be overborne. for those three surrounded him so close to the gate that he could do little to shift himself away from their assaults. now when sir launcelot beheld how those three knights attacked that one knight, he said to himself: "of a surety, yonder knight is in a very sorry way. i will do what i can to help him; for it is a shame to behold three knights attack one knight in that way. and if he be slain in this assault, meseems i shall be a party to his death." [sidenote: sir launcelot goeth to the rescue of the knight assaulted] therewith he ran and put his armor upon him, and made ready for battle. then he drew the sheet from his bed, and he tied the sheet to the bar of the window and by it he let himself quickly down to the ground not far from where those knights were doing battle. so being safely arrived in that way he cried out in a very loud voice: "messires, leave that knight whom ye assail, and turn to me, for i have a mind to do battle with you myself." then one of those knights, speaking very fiercely, said: "who are you, and what business have you here?" "it matters not who i am," said sir launcelot, "but i will not have it that you three shall attack that one without first having had to do with me." "very well," said that knight who had spoken, "you shall presently have your will of that." therewith he and his fellows immediately descended from their horses, and drew their swords and came at sir launcelot upon three sides at once. then sir launcelot set his back against the gate and prepared to defend himself. therewith that knight whom he would defend immediately got down from his horse with intent to come to the aid of sir launcelot, but sir launcelot forbade him very fiercely, saying: "let be, sir knight, this is my quarrel, and you shall not meddle in it." [sidenote: sir launcelot does battle with three knights] upon this, those three knights rushed upon him very furiously, and they struck at him all at once, smiting at him wherever they could and with all their might and main. so sir launcelot had much ado to defend himself from their assault. but he made shift that they should not all rush in upon him at once, and by and by he found his chance with one of them. whereupon he turned suddenly upon that one, and suddenly he lashed so terrible a buffet at him that the knight fell down and lay as though he had been struck dead with the force thereof. then, ere those other two had recovered themselves, he ran at a second and struck him so fierce a blow that his wits left him, and he staggered like a drunken man and ran around and around in a circle, not knowing whither he went. then he rushed upon the third and thrust him back with great violence, and as he went back sir launcelot struck him, too, as he had struck his companions and therewith that knight dropped his sword and fell down upon his knees and had not power to raise himself up. then sir launcelot ran to him and snatched off his helmet, and catched him by the hair with intent to cut off his head. but at that the fallen knight embraced sir launcelot about the knees, crying out: "spare my life!" "why should i spare you?" said sir launcelot. "sir," cried the knight, "i beseech you of your knighthood to spare me." "what claim have you upon knighthood," said sir launcelot, "who would attack a single knight, three men against one man?" then the other of those knights who had been staggered by sir launcelot's blow, but who had by now somewhat recovered himself, came and kneeled to sir launcelot, and said: "sir, spare his life, for we all yield ourselves unto you, for certes, you are the greatest champion in all the world." then sir launcelot was appeased, but he said: "nay, i will not take your yielding unto me. for as you three assaulted this single knight, so shall you all three yield to him." "messire," said the knight who kneeled: "i am very loth to yield us to that knight, for we chased him hither, and he fled from us, and we would have overcome him had you not come to his aid." "well," said sir launcelot, "i care nothing for all that, but only that you do as i will. and if ye do not do it, then i must perforce slay your companions and you two. wherefore you may take your choice." [sidenote: the three knights must yield to the one knight] then said that knight who kneeled: "messire, i see no other thing to do than to yield us as you would have, wherefore we submit ourselves unto this knight whom you have rescued from us." then sir launcelot turned to that knight to whom he had brought aid in that matter, and he said: "sir knight, these knights yield themselves unto you to do as you command them. now i pray you of your courtesy to tell me your name and who you are." "sir," said that knight, "i am sir kay the seneschal, and am king arthur's foster-brother, and a knight of the round table. i have been errant now for some time in search of sir launcelot of the lake. now, i deem either that you are sir launcelot, or else that you are the peer of sir launcelot." "thou art right, sir kay," said sir launcelot, "and i am sir launcelot of the lake." so thereat they two made great joy over one another, and embraced one another as brothers-in-arms should do. then sir kay told sir launcelot how it was with those three knights who had assailed him; that they were three brethren, and that he had overthrown the fourth brother in an adventure at arms and had hurt him very sorely thereby. so those three had been pursuing him for three days with intent to do him a harm. [sidenote: sir kay taketh submission of the three knights] now sir kay was very loath to take submission of those three knights, but sir launcelot would have it so and no other way. so sir kay consented to let it be as sir launcelot willed. thereupon those three knights came and submitted themselves to sir kay, and sir kay ordained that they should go to camelot and lay their case before king arthur, and that king arthur should adjudge their case according to what he considered to be right and fitting. then those three knights mounted upon their horses and rode away, and when they had done so the gates of the manor were opened, and sir launcelot and sir kay entered in. but when the old lady who was his hostess beheld sir launcelot come in, she was very greatly astonished, for she wist he was still asleep in his bed-chamber. wherefore she said: "sir, methought you were in bed and asleep." "so indeed i was," said sir launcelot, "but when i saw this knight in peril of his life against three knights, i leaped out of my window and went to his aid." "well," said his hostess, "meseems that you will sometime be a very good knight, if you have so much courage whilst you are so young." and at that both sir launcelot and sir kay laughed a great deal. then the chatelaine set bread and wine before sir kay, and he ate and refreshed himself, and thereafter he and sir launcelot went to that garret above the gate, and there fell asleep with great ease of body. [sidenote: sir launcelot takes sir kay's armor] now before the sun arose sir launcelot awoke but sir kay still slept very soundly. then sir launcelot beheld how sir kay slept, and he had a mind for a jest. so he clad himself in sir kay's armor altogether from head to foot, and he took sir kay's shield and spear, and he left his armor and shield and spear for sir kay to use. then he went very softly from that room, and left sir kay still sleeping. and he took sir kay's horse and mounted upon it and rode away; and all that while sir kay knew not what had befallen, but slept very deeply. now after a while sir kay awoke, and he found that sir launcelot was gone, and when he looked he found that his own armor was gone and that sir launcelot's armor was left. then he wist what sir launcelot had done, and he said: "ha! what a noble, courteous knight is the gentleman. for he hath left me his armor for my protection, and whilst i wear it and carry his shield and ride his horse, it is not likely that anyone will assail me upon my way. as for those who assail him, i do not believe that they will be likely to find great pleasure in their battle." therewith he arose and clad himself in sir launcelot's armor, and after he had broken his fast he thanked his hostess for what she had given him, and rode upon his way with great content of spirit. (and it was as sir kay had said, for when he met other knights upon the road, and when they beheld the figure upon his shield, they all said: "it is not well to meddle with that knight, for that is sir launcelot." and so he came to camelot without having to do battle with any man.) [sidenote: how sir launcelot travels toward camelot] as for sir launcelot, he rode upon his way with great cheerfulness of spirit, taking no heed at all of any trouble in the world, but chanting to himself as he rode in the pleasant weather. but ever he made his way toward camelot, for he said: "i will return to camelot for a little, and see how it fares with my friends at the court of the king." [sidenote: sir launcelot perceives three knights at feast] so by and by he entered into the country around about camelot, which is a very smooth and fertile country, full of fair rivers and meadows with many cots and hamlets, and with fair hedge-bordered highways, wonderfully pleasant to journey in. so travelling he came to a very large meadow where were several groves of trees standing here and there along by a river. and as he went through this meadow he saw before him a long bridge, and at the farther side of the bridge were three pavilions of silk of divers colors, which pavilions had been cast in the shade of a grove of beech-trees. in front of each pavilion stood a great spear thrust in the earth, and from the spear hung the shield of the knight to whom the pavilion belonged. these shields sir launcelot read very easily, and so knew the knights who were there. to wit: that they were sir gunther, sir gylmere, and sir raynold, who were three brothers of the court of king arthur. as sir launcelot passed their pavilions, he saw that the three knights sat at feast in the midmost pavilion of the three, and that a number of esquires and pages waited upon them and served them, for those knights were of very high estate, and so they were established as high lords should be. [sidenote: the three knights bid sir launcelot come to feast with them] [sidenote: sir launcelot overthrows sir gunther] now when those knights perceived sir launcelot they thought it was sir kay because of the armor he wore, and sir gunther, who was the eldest of the three brothers, cried out: "come hither, sir kay, and eat with us!" but to this sir launcelot made no reply, but rode on his way. then said sir gunther: "meseems sir kay hath grown very proud this morning. now i will go and bring him back with me, or else i will bring down his pride to earth." so he made haste and donned his helmet and ran and took his shield and his spear, and mounted his horse and rode after sir launcelot at a hard gallop. as he drew nigh to sir launcelot he cried out: "stay, sir knight! turn again, and go with me!" "why should i go with you?" said sir launcelot. quoth sir gunther: "because you must either return with me or do battle with me." "well," said sir launcelot, "i would rather do battle than return against my will." and at that sir gunther was astonished, for sir kay was not wont to be so ready for a battle. so sir launcelot set his shield and spear and took his stand, and sir gunther took his stand. then, when they were in all ways prepared, each set spur to his horse and rushed together with terrible speed. so each knight struck the other in the midst of his shield, but the onset of sir launcelot was so terrible that it was not to be withstood, wherefore both sir gunther and his horse were overthrown in such a cloud of dust that nothing at all was to be seen of them until that cloud lifted. at this both sir raynold and sir gylmere were astonished beyond measure, for sir gunther was reckoned to be a much better knight than sir kay, wherefore they wist not how it was that sir kay should have overthrown him in that fashion. so straightway sir gylmere, who was the second of those brothers, called out to sir launcelot to tarry and do battle. "very well," said sir launcelot, "if i cannot escape thee i must needs do battle. only make haste, for i would fain be going upon my way." so sir gylmere donned his helm in haste and ran and took his shield and spear and mounted upon his horse. so when he had made himself ready in all ways he rushed upon sir launcelot with all his might and sir launcelot rushed against him. [sidenote: sir launcelot overthrows sir gylmere] in that encounter each knight struck the other in the midst of his shield, and the spear of sir gylmere burst into pieces, but sir launcelot's spear held, so the breast-strap of sir gylmere's saddle bursting, both saddle and knight were swept entirely off the horse and to the earth, where sir gylmere lay altogether stunned. [sidenote: sir launcelot wins from sir raynold] then sir raynold came against sir launcelot in like manner as the others had done, and in that encounter sir launcelot overthrew both horse and man so that, had not sir raynold voided his horse, he would likely have been very sadly hurt. then sir raynold drew his sword and cried out in a loud voice: "come, sir knight, and do me battle afoot!" but sir launcelot said: "why will you have it so, sir knight? i have no such quarrel with you as to do battle with swords." "ha!" said sir raynold, "you shall fight with me. for though you wear sir kay's armor, i wot very well that you are not sir kay, but a great deal bigger man than ever sir kay is like to be." "nay," said sir launcelot, "i will not do any more battle with you." and therewith he drew rein and rode away, leaving sir raynold standing very angry in the middle of the highway. [sidenote: sir launcelot meets four noble knights] after that sir launcelot rode very easily at a quiet gait, with no great thought whither he rode, until after a while he came to a place where a road went across a level field with two rows of tall poplar trees, one upon either side of the highway. then sir launcelot perceived where, beneath the shade of these poplar trees, were four knights standing each by his horse. and these four knights were conversing very pleasantly together. now as sir launcelot drew nigh he perceived that those were four very famous noble knights of the round table; to wit: one of those knights was his own brother, sir ector de maris, another was sir gawain, another was sir ewain, and the fourth was sir sagramore le desirous. now as sir launcelot drew nigh sir gawain said: "look, yonder cometh sir kay the seneschal." unto this sir sagramore le desirous said: "yea, this is he; now bide you here for a little while, and i will go and take a fall of him." so straightway he mounted upon his horse, and he rode toward sir launcelot, and he cried out: "stay, sir knight, you cannot go farther until you have had to do with me." "what would you have of me?" quoth sir launcelot. "sir," said sir sagramore, "i will have a fall of you." "well," said sir launcelot, "i suppose i must pleasure you, since it cannot be otherwise." [sidenote: sir launcelot overthrows sir sagramore] therewith he dressed his shield and his spear and sir sagramore dressed his shield and his spear, and when they were in all ways prepared they ran together at full tilt. in that encounter sir sagramore's spear broke, but sir launcelot struck so powerful a blow that he overthrew both horse and man into a ditch of water that was near-by. then sir ector de maris said: "ha, surely some very ill chance has befallen sir sagramore for to be overthrown by sir kay. now i will go and have ado with him, for if the matter rests here there will be no living at court with the jests which will be made upon us." so he took horse and rode to where sir launcelot was, and he went at a very fast gallop. when he had come near to sir launcelot he cried out: "have at thee, sir kay, for it is my turn next!" "why should i have at thee?" said sir launcelot, "i have done thee no harm." "no matter," said sir ector, "you can go no farther until you have had to do with me." "well," said sir launcelot, "if that is so, the sooner i have to do with thee, the sooner shall i be able to go upon my way." [sidenote: sir launcelot overthrows sir ector] therewith each knight made himself ready and when they were in all ways prepared they came together with such force that sir launcelot's spear went through sir ector's shield and smote him upon the shoulder, and sir ector was thrown down upon the ground with such violence that he lay where he had fallen, without power to move. then said sir ewain to sir gawain where they stood together: "that is the most wonderful thing that ever i beheld, for never did i think to behold sir kay bear himself in battle in such a fashion as that. now bide thee here and let me have a try at him." therewith sir ewain mounted his horse and rode at sir launcelot, and there were no words spoken this time, but each knight immediately took his stand to do battle. then they ran their horses together, and sir launcelot gave sir ewain such a buffet that he was astonished, and for a little he knew not where he was, for his spear fell down out of his hand, and he bore his shield so low that sir launcelot might have slain him where he stood if he had been minded to do so. [sidenote: sir ewain yields to sir launcelot] then sir launcelot said: "sir knight, i bid thee yield to me." and sir ewain said: "i yield me. for i do not believe that thou art sir kay but a bigger man than he shall ever be. wherefore i yield me." "then that is well," said sir launcelot. "now stand thou a little aside where thou mayst bring succor unto these other two knights, for i see that sir gawain has a mind to tilt with me." [sidenote: sir gawain fails with sir launcelot] and it was as sir launcelot said, for sir gawain also had mounted his horse and had made himself ready for that encounter. so sir gawain and sir launcelot took stand at such place as suited them. then each knight set spurs to his horse and rushed together like thunder, and each knight smote the other knight in the midst of his shield; and in that encounter the spear of sir gawain brake in twain but the spear of sir launcelot held, and therewith he gave sir gawain such a buffet that sir gawain's horse reared up into the air, and it was with much ado that he was able to void his saddle ere his horse fell over backward. for if he had not leaped to earth the horse would have fallen upon him. then sir gawain drew his sword and cried very fiercely: "come down and fight me, sir knight! for thou art not sir kay!" "nay, i will not fight thee that way," said sir launcelot, and therewith he passed on his way without tarrying further. but he laughed to himself behind his helmet as he rode, and he said: "god give sir kay joy of such a spear as this, for i believe there came never so good a spear as this into my hand. for with it i have overthrown seven famous knights in this hour." as for those four knights of the round table, they comforted one another as best they could, for they knew not what to think of that which had befallen them. only sir ector said: "that was never sir kay who served us in this wise, but such a man as is better than ten sir kays, or twice ten sir kays, for the matter of that." [sidenote: how sir launcelot returned to camelot] now sir launcelot came to camelot about eventide, what time king arthur and his court were assembled at their supper. then there was great joy when news was brought of his coming and they brought him in to the court and set him beside the king and the lady guinevere all armed as he was. then king arthur said: "sir launcelot, how is it with thee?" and sir launcelot said: "it is well." then king arthur said: "tell us what hath befallen thee." and sir launcelot told all that had happened in that month since he had left court. and all they who were there listened, and were much astonished. but when sir launcelot told how he had encountered those seven knights, in the armor of sir kay, all laughed beyond measure excepting those of the seven who were there, for they took no very good grace to be laughed at in that wise. * * * * * so now i hope i have made you acquainted with sir launcelot of the lake, who was the greatest knight in the world. for not only have i told you how he was created a knight at the hands of king arthur, but i have also led you errant along with him, so that you might see for yourself how he adventured his life for other folk and what a noble and generous gentleman he was; and how pitiful to the weak and suffering, and how terrible to the evil-doer. but now i shall have to leave him for a while (but after a while in another book that shall follow this, i shall return to him to tell you a great many things concerning other adventures of his), for meantime it is necessary that i should recount the history of another knight, who was held by many to be nearly as excellent a knight as sir launcelot was himself. conclusion _here endeth the story of sir launcelot. that which followeth is the story of sir tristram of lyonesse, who was knit with sir launcelot into such close ties of friendship that if they had been brothers of the same blood, with the same father and mother, they could not have loved one another more than they did. for indeed it would not be possible to tell any history of sir launcelot of the lake without telling that of sir tristram of lyonesse as well, for as the web of a fair fabric is woven in with the woof thereof, so were the lives of sir launcelot and sir tristram woven closely together. wherefore you shall now hear tell of the goodly adventures of sir tristram of lyonesse; and god grant that you may have the same joy in reading thereof that i shall have in telling of them to you._ the book of sir tristram [illustration: sir tristram of lyonesse] prologue. there was a certain kingdom called lyonesse, and the king of that country was hight meliadus, and the queen thereof who was hight the lady elizabeth, was sister to king mark of cornwall. in the country of lyonesse, there was a very beautiful lady, who was a cunning and wicked sorceress. this lady took great love for king meliadus, who was of an exceedingly noble appearance, and she meditated continually how she might bring him to her castle so as to have him near her. [sidenote: king meliadus rides a-hunting] now king meliadus was a very famous huntsman, and he loved the chase above all things in the world, excepting the joy he took in the love of his queen, the lady elizabeth. so, upon a certain day, in the late autumn season he was minded to go forth a-hunting, although the day was very cold and bleak. about the prime of the day the hounds started, of a sudden, a very wonderful stag. for it was white and its horns were gilded very bright, shining like pure gold, so that the creature itself appeared like a living miracle in the forest. when this stag broke cover, the hounds immediately set chase to it with a great outcry of yelling, as though they were suddenly gone frantic, and when the king beheld the creature, he also was immediately seized as with a great fury for chasing it. for, beholding it, he shouted aloud and drove spurs into his horse, and rushed away at such a pass that his court was, in a little while, left altogether behind him, and he and the chase were entirely alone in the forest. [sidenote: king meliadus chases the stag] the stag, with the hounds close behind it, ran at a great rate through the passes of the woodlands, and king meliadus pursued it with might and main until the chase burst out of the forest into an open plain beyond the woodland. then king meliadus beheld that in the midst of the plain was a considerable lake of water; and that in the midst of the water was an island; and that upon the island was a very tall and stately castle. toward this castle the stag ran with great speed, and so, coming to the lake, it leaped into the water and swam across to the island--and there was a thin sheet of clear ice upon the water close to either bank. but when the hounds that pursued the stag came to that frozen water, they stinted their pursuit and stood whimpering upon the brink, for the ice and the water repelled them. but king meliadus made no such pause, but immediately leaped off from his horse, and plunged into the water and swam across in pursuit of the stag. and when he reached the other side, he chased the stag afoot with great speed, and therewith the stag ran to the castle and into the court-yard thereof, and king meliadus ran after it. then, immediately he had entered in, the gates of the castle were shut and king meliadus was a prisoner. [sidenote: king meliadus is made prisoner at an enchanted castle] (now you are to know that that castle was the abode of the beautiful enchantress afore spoken of, and you are to know that she had sent that enchanted stag to beguile king meliadus to her court, and so she made king meliadus her captive. further, it is to be told that when she had him there within her castle, she wove a web of enchantment all about him so that he forgot the lady elizabeth and his court and his kingdom and thought of nothing but that beautiful sorceress who had thus beguiled him into her power.) [sidenote: the lady elizabeth grieves to distraction] now, when those who were with the king returned to the castle of lyonesse without him, and when the king did not return that day nor the next day nor at any time, the lady elizabeth grew more and more distracted in her anxiety because of him. and when a fortnight had gone by and still there was no news of the king, her grief and apprehension became so great that she turned distracted and they had to set watch and ward upon her lest she do herself a harm in her madness. so for a long time they kept her within the castle; but upon a certain day she broke away from her keepers and ran out from the castle and into the forest ere those in attendance upon her knew she had gone. only one gentlewoman saw her, and she called upon a young page to follow her, and thereupon ran after the queen whither she went, with intent to bring her back again. [sidenote: the lady elizabeth escapes into the forest] but the lady elizabeth ran very deep into the forest, and the gentlewoman and the page ran after her; and the queen thought that she was going to find her lord in the forest. so she ran very rapidly for a great distance, until by and by she waxed faint with weariness from running and sank down upon the ground; and there they that followed her found her lying. and they found that the queen was in a great passion of pain and sick to death. for the day was very wintry, with a fine powder of snow all over the ground, so that the cold of the weather pierced through the garments of the lady elizabeth and entered into her body and chilled her to the heart. now the gentlewoman, seeing how it was with the queen, called the page to her and said: "make haste! go back to the castle of lyonesse, and bring some of the knights of the castle with all speed, else the queen will die at this place." and upon that the page ran off with great speed to do her bidding and the queen was left alone with her gentlewoman. then the gentlewoman said, "lady, what cheer?" and the queen said, "alas, i am sick to death." the gentlewoman said, "lady, cannot you bear up a little until help cometh?" thereupon the lady elizabeth fell to weeping very piteously, and said, "nay, i cannot bear up any longer, for the cold hath entered into my heart." (yea, even at that time death was upon her because of the cold at her heart.) then by and by in the midst of her tears and in very sore travail a man-child was born to the queen, and when that came to pass a great peace fell suddenly upon her. [sidenote: how tristram is born in the forest] then she said, speaking to the nurse like one in great weariness, "what child is it that i have given unto the world?" the nurse said, "it is a man-child." the queen said to her, "hold him up until i see him." thereupon the nurse held the child up and the queen looked at him, though she could hardly see him because it was as though a mist lay upon her eyes which she could not clear away from her sight; for at that time she was drawing deep draughts of death. then, when she had seen the child and had beheld that he was very strong and lusty and exceedingly comely, she said: "behold, this is my child, born in the midst of sore travail and great sorrow; wherefore his name shall be called tristram because he hath caused so many tears to be shed." then in a little while the lady died, and the gentlewoman stood weeping beside her, making great outcry in that cold and lonely forest. anon there came those knights who were sent from the castle to find the queen; and when they came to that place, they beheld that she lay upon the ground all cold and white like to a statue of marble stone. so they lifted her up and bare her away upon a litter, and the gentlewoman followed weeping and wailing in great measure, and bearing the child wrapped in a mantle. so tristram was born in that wise, and so his name was given to him because of the tears that were shed at his birth. and now it is to be told how king meliadus returned from that castle of enchantment where he was held prisoner. [sidenote: king meliadus is released from durance] at this time merlin was still living in the world, for vivien had not yet bewitched him, as hath been told in the book of king arthur. so by and by it came to pass that he discovered where king meliadus was imprisoned and how it fared with him in the castle of that enchantress. so he made greater spells than those that enmeshed king meliadus, and he brought king meliadus back into his memory of the queen and his kingdom. then straightway the king broke out from the castle of the enchantress and returned to his kingdom. but when he came there it was to find everything in great sorrow and dole; for the lady elizabeth was no longer upon this earth to bring joy to the heart of the king. so for a long while after his return king meliadus lay altogether stricken down with the grief of that bereavement. here followeth the story of tristram, how he passed his youth, and how he became a knight of cornwall of king mark's making. part i the story of sir tristram and the lady belle isoult _here followeth the story of sir tristram of lyonesse, who, with sir launcelot of the lake, was deemed to be one of the two most worthy and perfect knights champion of his day. likewise herein shall be told the story of the lady belle isoult, who next to queen guinevere, was reckoned to be the most fair, gentle lady in all of the world._ [illustration: tristram succors the lady moeya] chapter first _how the new queen of lyonesse sought tristram's life; how he went to france, and how he returned again to lyonesse and was received with love at that place._ so king meliadus grieved very bitterly for the lady elizabeth for the space of seven years, and in that time he took but little pleasure in life, and still less pleasure in that son who had been born to him in that wise. then one day a certain counsellor who was in great favor with the king came to him and said: "lord, it is not fitting that you should live in this wise and without a mate; for you should have a queen, and you should have other children besides tristram, else all the fate of this kingdom shall depend upon the life of that one small child." [sidenote: king meliadus taketh the lady moeya to second wife] and king meliadus took this counsel to heart, and after a while he said: "what you tell me is true, and so i shall take another queen, even though it is not in me to love any other woman in all of the world but that dear one who is dead and gone." so a while after that he took to wife the lady moeya, who was the daughter of king howell of britain. now queen moeya had been married to an earl of britain, and by him she had a son who was about the age of tristram. so she brought this son to lyonesse with her, and he and tristram were very good companions. but the lady moeya took great hatred of tristram, for she said in her heart: "except for this tristram, mayhap my son might be king and overlord of this land." and these thoughts brooded with her, so that after a while she began to meditate how she might make away with tristram so that her own son might come into his inheritance. now at that time tristram was about thirteen years of age and very large and robust of form and of extraordinary strength of body and beauty of countenance. but the son of queen moeya was not of such a sort, so the more beautiful and noble tristram was the more the queen hated him. so one day she called to her a very cunning chemist and she said to him: "give me a drink of such and such a sort, so that he who drinks thereof shall certainly die, maugre help of any kind." and the chemist gave her what she desired, and it was in a phial and was of a golden color. [sidenote: the lady moeya devises mischief against tristram] now tristram and the son of the lady moeya were wont to play ball in a certain court of the castle, and when they would play there they would wax all of a heat with their sport. this the lady moeya was well aware of; so one day she took that phial of poison and she poured a part of it into a chalice and she filled the chalice with clear water and she set the chalice upon a bench where those two would play at ball. for she said to herself: "when they grow warm with their play, tristram will certainly drink of this water to quench his thirst, and then my son will maybe enter into his inheritance." [sidenote: the son of the queen drinks of the poison] so the two youths played very fiercely at their game, and they waxed exceedingly hot and presently were both very violently athirst. then tristram said, "i would i had somewhat to drink," and his stepbrother said, "look, yonder is a chalice of water; drink! and when thou hast quenched thy thirst, then i will drink also." but tristram said: "nay, brother, drink thou first, for thou art more athirst than i." then at first the son of the lady moeya would not have it so, but would have tristram drink; but afterward he did as tristram bade him, and, taking the chalice in both hands, he drank freely of that poison which his own mother had prepared. then when he had drunk his fill, tristram took the chalice and would have drunk too; but the other said, "stay, tristram, there is great bitterness in that chalice"; and then he said, "methinks i feel a very bitter pang within my vitals," and then he cried out, "woe is me! i am in great pain!" therewith he fell down upon the ground and lay there in a great passion of agony. then tristram cried aloud for help in a piercing voice; but when help came thither it was too late, for the son of the lady moeya was dead. then the lady moeva was in great torment of soul, and beat her breast and tore her hair and king meliadus had much ado for to comfort her. and after this she hated tristram worse than ever before, for she would say to herself: "except for this tristram, my own son would yet be alive!" so she brooded upon these things until she could not rest, whether by day or night. then one day she took the rest of the poison that was in the phial and poured it into a goblet of yellow wine. this goblet she gave to one of her pages, saying: "take this to tristram, and offer it to him when i shall tell you to do so!" [sidenote: the lady moeya seeks tristram's life a second time] therewith she went down to the hall where tristram was, and she said, "tristram, let there be peace betwixt us." and tristram said: "lady, that meets my wishes, for i have never had in my heart aught but loving-kindness toward you, and so i would have it in your heart toward me." with this the page came in the hall with that goblet of yellow wine. then the lady moeya took the goblet and said: "take this cup, and drink of the wine that is in it, and so there shall be peace betwixt us forever." and as she said that she looked very strangely upon tristram, but tristram was altogether innocent of any evil against him. so he reached out his hand to take the cup which the page brought to him. now at that moment king meliadus came into the hall fresh from the chase, and he was much heated and greatly athirst, wherefore, when he saw that cup of wine he said: "stay, tristram, let me drink, for i am greatly athirst. after i have quenched my thirst, then thou shalt drink." therewith he took the goblet of wine and made to lift it to his lips. but at that the lady moeya cried out, in a very loud and piercing voice, "do not drink of that wine!" the king said, "why should i not drink of it?" "no matter," said the lady moeya, "thou shalt not drink of it, for there is death in it." therewith she ran to the king and catched him by the hand, and she plucked away the goblet so that the wine was spilled out of it upon the ground. [sidenote: king meliadus threatens to slay the queen] then king meliadus gazed at the lady moeya, and he thought of many things in very little time. thereupon he seized her by the hair and dragged her forward, so that she fell down upon her hands and knees to the pavement of the hall. and king meliadus drew his great sword so that it flashed like lightning, and he cried: "tell me what thou hast done, and tell me quickly, or thou shalt not be able to tell me at all!" then the lady moeya clutched king meliadus about the thighs, and she cried out: "do not slay me with thine own hand, or else my blood will stain thee with dishonor! i will tell thee all, and then thou mayst deal with me according to the law, for indeed i am not fit to live." so therewithal the lady moeya confessed everything to the king. then king meliadus shouted aloud and called the attendants and said: "take this woman and cast her into prison, and see that no harm befall her there; for the lords of this country shall adjudge her, and not i." and therewith he turned away and left her. and thereafter, in due season, the lady moeya was brought to trial and was condemned to be burned at the stake. [sidenote: tristram begs mercy for the queen] now when the day came that she was to be burnt, tristram was very sorry for her. so when he beheld her tied fast to the stake he came to where king meliadus was and he kneeled before him, and he said, "father, i crave a boon of thee." thereupon king meliadus looked upon tristram, and he loved him very tenderly and he said: "my son, ask what thou wilt, and it shall be thine." then tristram said: "father, i pray thee, spare the life of this lady, for methinks she hath repented her of her evil, and surely god hath punished her very sorely for the wickedness she hath tried to do." then king meliadus was very wroth that tristram should interfere with the law; but yet he had granted that boon to his son and could not withdraw. so after a while of thought he said: "well, i have promised, and so i will perform my promise. her life is thine; go to the stake and take her. but when thou hast done so i bid thee go forth from this place and show thy face here no more. for thou hast interfered with the law, and hast done ill that thou, the son of the king, should save this murderess. so thou shalt leave this place, for i mistrust that between you two some murder will befall in this country." so tristram went weeping to where the queen was bound to the stake; and he cut her bonds with his dagger and set her free. and he said: "lady, thou art free; now go thy way, and may god forgive thee as i do." then the queen wept also, and said, "tristram, thou art very good to me." and because she was barefoot and in her shift, tristram took his cloak and wrapped it about her. [sidenote: tristram departs from lyonesse] after that, tristram straightway left lyonesse, and king meliadus appointed that a noble and honorable lord of the court, hight gouvernail, should go with him. they two went to france, and there they were made very welcome at the court of the king. so tristram dwelt in france till he was eighteen years old, and everyone at the court of the king of france loved him and honored him so that he dwelt there as though he were of the blood of france. during the time that he was in france he became the greatest hunter in the world, and he wrote many books on venery that were read and studied long after he had ceased to live. also he became so skilful with the harp that no minstrel in the world was his equal. and ever he waxed more sturdy of frame and more beautiful of countenance, and more well-taught in all the worship of knighthood. for during that time he became so wonderfully excellent in arms that there was no one in france who was his equal. thus tristram dwelt at peace in that land for five years, but even he longed for his own home with all the might and main of his heart. so one day he said to gouvernail: "gouvernail, i cannot deny myself any longer from seeing my father and my own country, for i feel that i must see them or else my heart will certainly break because of its great longing." nor would he listen to anything that gouvernail might say contrary to this. so they two took their departure from france, and tristram travelled as a harper and gouvernail as his attendant. thus they came to lyonesse in that wise. [sidenote: how tristram returns to lyonesse] one day whilst king meliadus sat at meat, they two came into the hall, and gouvernail wore a long white beard which altogether disguised him so that no one knew him. but tristram shone with such a great radiance of beauty and of youth that all who looked upon him marvelled at him. and the heart of king meliadus went out to tristram very strongly, and he said before all of his court, "who art thou, fair youth? and whence comest thou?" to which tristram made reply: "lord, i am a harper, and this is my man, and we have come from france." then king meliadus said to tristram: "sir, have you seen a youth in france whom men call tristram?" and tristram replied, "yea, i have seen him several times." king meliadus said, "doth he do well?" "yea," said tristram, "he doeth very well, though at times he is sore oppressed with a great desire for his own country." at this king meliadus turned away his face, for his heart went very strongly out at the thought of his son. then by and by he said to tristram, "wilt thou play upon thy harp?" and tristram said, "yea, if it will please thee to hear me." therewith he took his harp and he set it before him, and he struck the strings and played upon it, and he sang in such a wise that no one who was there had ever heard the like thereof. then king meliadus' heart was melted at tristram's minstrelsy, and he said: "that is wonderful harping. now ask what thou wilt of me, and it shall be thine, whatever it may be." to this tristram said, "lord, that is a great thing that thou sayest." "nevertheless," said king meliadus, "it shall be as i say." then tristram left his harp and he came to where king meliadus sat, and he kneeled down before him and he said: "lord, if so be that is the case, then that which i ask of thee is this: that thou wilt forgive me and bring me back into thy favor again." [sidenote: king meliadus is reconciled to tristram] at that king meliadus was filled with a great wonder, and he said: "fair youth, who art thou, and what have i to forgive thee?" "lord," said tristram, "i am thy son, and ask thee to forgive me that i should have saved the life of that lady who is thy queen." at this king meliadus cried out with joy, and he came down from where he sat and he took tristram into his arms and kissed him upon the face, and tristram wept and kissed his father upon the face. so they were reconciled. after that, tristram abode in peace in lyonesse for some while, and during that time he made peace betwixt king meliadus and queen moeya, and the queen loved him because he was so good to her. [sidenote: tristram refuses knighthood] now after the return of tristram as aforesaid, king meliadus would have made him a knight, but tristram would not suffer the honor of knighthood to be bestowed upon him at that time, but always said: "lord, think not ill of me if i do not accept knighthood at this time. for i would fain wait until the chance for some large adventure cometh; then i would be made a knight for to meet that adventure, so that i might immediately win renown. for what credit could there be to our house if i should be made knight, only that i might sit in hall and feast and drink and make merry?" so spoke sir tristram, and his words sounded well to king meliadus, wherefore from thenceforth king meliadus refrained from urging knighthood upon him. now the way that sir tristram achieved knighthood shall be told in that which followeth, and also it shall then be told how he fought his first battle, which was one of the most famous that ever he fought in all of his life. [illustration: king mark of cornwall] chapter second _how sir tristram was made knight by the king of cornwall, and how he fought a battle with a famous champion._ now first of all it is to be here said that at that time there was great trouble come to king mark of cornwall (who, as aforesaid, was uncle to sir tristram) and the trouble was this: [sidenote: the king of ireland claims truage of cornwall] the king of cornwall and the king of ireland had great debate concerning an island that lay in the sea betwixt cornwall and ireland. for though that island was held by cornwall, yet the king of ireland laid claim to it and demanded that the king of cornwall should pay him truage for the same. this king mark refused to do, and there was great contention betwixt cornwall and ireland, so that each country made ready for war. but the king of ireland said: "let there not be war betwixt ireland and cornwall concerning this disagreement, but let us settle this affair in some other way. let us each choose a champion and let those two champions decide the rights of this case by a combat at arms. for so the truth shall be made manifest." now you are to know that at that time the knights of cornwall were held in great disregard by all courts of chivalry; for there was not in those days any knight of repute in all the court of cornwall. wherefore king mark knew not where he should find him a champion to meet that challenge from the king of ireland. yet he must needs meet it, for he was ashamed to refuse such a challenge as that, and so to acknowledge that cornwall had no knight-champion to defend it. so he said it should be as the king of ireland would have it, and that if the king of ireland would choose a champion, he also would do the same. [sidenote: the king of ireland chooses sir marhaus for his champion] thereupon the king of ireland chose for his champion sir marhaus of ireland, who was one of the greatest knights in the world. for in the book of king arthur (which i wrote aforetime) you may there read in the story of sir pellias how great and puissant a champion sir marhaus was, and how he overthrew sir gawaine and others with the greatest ease. wherefore at that time he was believed by many to be the greatest knight in the world (it being before the days of sir launcelot of the lake), and even in the days of sir launcelot it was doubted whether he or sir launcelot were the greater champion. so king mark could not find any knight in cornwall to stand against sir marhaus. nor could he easily find any knight outside of cornwall to do battle with him. for sir marhaus, being a knight of the round table, no other knight of the round table would fight against him--and there were no other knights so great as that famous brotherhood of the table round. accordingly, king mark knew not where to turn to find him a champion to do battle in his behalf. in this strait, king mark sent a letter by a messenger to lyonesse, asking if there was any knight at lyonesse who would stand his champion against sir marhaus, and he offered great reward if such a champion would undertake his cause against ireland. [sidenote: tristram asks leave to go to cornwall] now when young tristram heard this letter of his uncle king mark, he straightway went to his father and said: "sire, some whiles ago you desired that i should become a knight. now i would that you would let me go to cornwall upon this occasion. for when i come there i will beseech my uncle king mark to make me a knight, and then i will go out against sir marhaus. for i have a great mind to undertake this adventure in behalf of king mark, and to stand his champion against sir marhaus. for though sir marhaus is so great a knight and so famous a hero, yet if i should have the good fortune to overcome him in battle, there would, certes, be great glory to our house through my knighthood." then king meliadus looked upon tristram and loved him very dearly, and he said: "tristram, thou hast assuredly a very great heart to undertake this adventure, which no one else will essay. so i bid thee go, in god's name, if so be thy heart bids thee to go. for maybe god will lend the strength necessary to carry this adventure through to a successful issue." so that very day tristram departed from lyonesse for cornwall, taking with him only gouvernail as his companion. so, by ship, he reached cornwall, and the castle of tintagel, where king mark was then holding court. and it was at the sloping of the afternoon when he so came, and at that time king mark was sitting in hall with many of his knights and lords about him. and the king was brooding in great trouble of spirit. unto him came an attendant, saying: "lord, there are two strangers who stand without, and crave to be admitted to your presence. one of them hath great dignity and sobriety of demeanor, and the other, who is a youth, is of so noble and stately an appearance that i do not believe his like is to be found in the entire world." to this the king said, "show them in." [sidenote: tristram and gouvernail come to cornwall] so those two were immediately admitted into the hall and came and stood before king mark; and the one of them was gouvernail and the other was young tristram. so tristram stood forth before gouvernail and gouvernail bore the harp of tristram, and the harp was of gold and shone most brightly and beautifully. then king mark looked upon tristram, and marvelled at his size and beauty; for tristram stood above any man in that place, so that he looked like a hero amongst them. his brow was as white as milk and his lips were red like to coral and his hair was as red as gold and as plentiful as the mane of a young lion, and his neck was thick and sturdy and straight like to a round pillar of white-stone, and he was clad in garments of blue silk embroidered very cunningly with threads of gold and set with a countless multitude of gems of divers colors. so because of all this he glistened with a singular radiance of richness and beauty. so king mark marvelled at the haughtiness of tristram's appearance, and he felt his heart drawn toward tristram with love and admiration. then, after a little, he spoke, saying: "fair youth, who are you, and whence come you, and what is it you would have of me?" [sidenote: tristram offers himself as champion for cornwall] "lord," said tristram, "my name is tristram, and i come from the country of lyonesse, where your own sister was one time queen. touching the purpose of my coming hither, it is this: having heard that you are in need of a champion to contend for your rights against the champion of ireland, i come hither to say that if you will make me a knight with your own hand, i will take it upon me to stand your champion and to meet sir marhaus of ireland upon your behalf." then king mark was filled with wonder at the courage of tristram, and he said: "fair youth, are you not aware that sir marhaus of ireland is a knight well set in years and of such great and accredited deeds of arms that it is supposed that, excepting sir launcelot of the lake, there is not his peer in any court of chivalry in all of the world? how then can you, who are altogether new to the use of arms, hope to stand against so renowned a champion as he?" "lord," quoth tristram, "i am well aware of what sort of knight sir marhaus is, and i am very well aware of the great danger of this undertaking. yet if one who covets knighthood shall fear to face a danger, what virtue would there then be in the chivalry of knighthood? so, messire, i put my trust in god, his mercies, and i have great hope that he will lend me both courage and strength in my time of need." then king mark began to take great joy, for he said to himself: "maybe this youth shall indeed bring me forth in safety out of these dangers that menace my honor." so he said: "tristram, i do believe that you will stand a very excellent chance of success in this undertaking, wherefore it shall be as you desire; i will make you a knight, and besides that i will fit you with armor and accoutrements in all ways becoming to the estate of a knight-royal. likewise i will provide you a flemish horse of the best strain, so that you shall be both furnished and horsed as well as any knight in the world hath ever been." [sidenote: tristram is made knight-royal] so that night tristram watched his armor in the chapel of the castle, and the next day he was made knight with all the circumstances appertaining to a ceremony of such solemnity as that. and upon the afternoon of the day upon which he was thus made knight, king mark purveyed a ship in all ways befitting the occasion, and in the ship tristram and gouvernail set sail for that island where sir marhaus was known to be abiding at that time. now upon the second day of their voyaging and about the middle of the day they came to a land which they knew must be the place which they were seeking, and there the sailors made a safe harbor. as soon as they were at anchor a gangway was set from the ship to the shore and sir tristram and gouvernail drave their horses across the gangway and so to the dry land. thereafter they rode forward for a considerable distance, until about the first slanting of the afternoon they perceived in the distance three very fair ships drawn up close to the shore. and then they were aware of a knight, clad in full armor and seated upon a noble horse under the shadow of those ships, and they wist that that must be he whom sir tristram sought. then gouvernail spake to sir tristram, saying: "sir, that knight resting yonder beneath the shelter of the ships must be sir marhaus." [sidenote: sir tristram goes forth to meet sir marhaus] "yea," said sir tristram, "that is assuredly he." so he gazed very steadily at the knight for a long while, and by and by he said: "gouvernail, yonder seems to me to be a very great and haughty knight for a knight so young as i am to have to do with in his first battle; yet if god will lend me his strong aid in this affair, i shall assuredly win me great credit at his hands." then after another short while he said: "now go, gouvernail, and leave me alone in this affair, for i do not choose for anyone to be by when i have to do with yonder knight. for either i shall overcome him in this combat or else i will lay down my life at this place. for the case is thus, gouvernail; if sir marhaus should overcome me and if i should yield me to him as vanquished, then mine uncle must pay truage to the king of ireland for the land of cornwall; but if i died without yielding me to mine enemy, then he must yet do battle with another champion at another time, if my uncle the king can find such an one to do battle in his behalf. so i am determined either to win this battle or to die therein." now when gouvernail heard this, he fell a-weeping in great measure; and he cried out: "sir, let not this battle be of that sort!" to him sir tristram said very steadfastly: "say no more, gouvernail, but go as i bid thee." whereupon gouvernail turned and went away, as he was bidden to do, weeping very bitterly as he went. [sidenote: sir tristram proclaims his degree] now by this sir marhaus had caught sight of sir tristram where he stood in that field, and so presently he came riding thitherward to meet sir tristram. when he had come nigh, sir marhaus said: "who art thou, sir knight?" unto these sir tristram made reply: "sir, i am sir tristram of lyonesse, son of king meliadus of that land, and nephew of king mark of cornwall. i am come to do battle upon behalf of the king of cornwall, to release him from the demands of truage made by the king of ireland." quoth sir marhaus: "messire, are you a knight of approval and of battles?" "nay," said sir tristram, "i have only been created knight these three days." "alas!" said sir marhaus, "i am very sorry for thee and for thy noble courage that hath brought thee hither to this place. thou art not fit to have to do with me, for i am one who hath fought in more than twice twenty battles, each one of which was, i believe, greater than this is like to be. also i have matched me with the very best knights in the world, and have never yet been overcome. so i advise thee, because of thy extreme youth, to return to king mark and bid him send me another champion in thy stead, who shall be better seasoned than thou art." "sir," said sir tristram, "i give thee gramercy for thy advice. but i may tell thee that i was made knight for no other purpose than to do battle with thee; so i may not return without having fulfilled mine adventure. moreover, because of thy great renown and thy courage and prowess, i feel all the more desirous to have to do with thee; for if i should die at thy hand, then there will be no shame to me, but if i should win this battle from thee, then i shall have very great renown in the courts of chivalry." "well," said sir marhaus, "it is not likely that thou shalt die at my hand. for because of thy youth i will not have it that this battle shall be so desperate as that." "say not so," said sir tristram, "for either i shall die at thy hand, or else i shall overcome thee in this battle, for i make my vow to god that i will not yield myself to thee so long as there is life within my body." "alas!" said sir marhaus, "that is certes a great pity. but as thou hast foreordained it, so it must needs be." therewith he saluted sir tristram and drew rein and rode aside to a little distance where he straightway made ready for that battle. nor was sir tristram behind him in making preparation, albeit he was filled with doubts as to the outcome of that undertaking. [sidenote: sir tristram is wounded] then when they were in all ways prepared, each gave shout and drave spurs into his horse and rushed toward the other with such fury that it was terrible to behold. and each smote the other with his spear in the centre of his shield, and in that encounter sir marhaus smote through sir tristram's shield and gave sir tristram a great wound in his side. then sir tristram felt the blood gush out of that wound in such abundance that it filled his iron boots, so that they were sodden therewith, and he thought he had got his death-wound. but in spite of that grievous bitter stroke, he held his seat and was not overthrown. then so soon as he had recovered himself he voided his horse and drew his sword and set his shield before him; and when sir marhaus saw his preparations, he likewise voided his horse and made ready for battle upon foot. so straightway they came together with terrible fury, lashing at each other with such fearful strength and evil will that it was dreadful to behold. and each gave the other many grievous strokes, so that whole pieces of armor were hewn off from their bodies; and each gave the other many deep wounds, so that that part of the armor that still hung to them became red as though it were painted with red. likewise the ground was all besprinkled red where they stood, yet neither gave any thought to quitting that battle in which they were engaged. [sidenote: sir tristram gives sir marhaus a death-wound] now for a while sir tristram feared because of the wound which he had at first received that he would die in that battle, but by and by he perceived that he was stouter than sir marhaus and better winded; wherefore great hope came to him and uplifted him with redoubled strength. then presently sir marhaus fell back a little and when sir tristram perceived that he ran in upon him and smote him several times, such direful strokes that sir marhaus could not hold up his shield against that assault. then sir tristram perceived that sir marhaus was no longer able to hold up his shield, and therewith he smote him a great blow with his sword upon the helmet. so direful was that blow that the sword of sir tristram pierced very deep through the helm of sir marhaus and into the brainpan. and sir tristram's sword stuck fast in the helm and the brain-pan of sir marhaus so that sir tristram could not pull it out again. then sir marhaus, half a-swoon, fell down upon his knees, and therewith a part of the edge of the blade brake off from sir tristram's sword, and remained in the wound that he had given to sir marhaus. [sidenote: sir marhaus leaves the field] then sir marhaus was aware that he had got his death-wound, wherefore a certain strength came to him so that he rose to his feet staggering like a drunken man. and at first he began going about in a circle and crying most dolorously. then as he wist all that had happed he threw away his sword and his shield, and made away from that place, staggering and stumbling like one who had gone blind; for he was all bewildered with that mortal wound, and wist not very well what he was doing or whither he was going. then sir tristram would have made after him to stop him, but he could not do so because he himself was so sorely wounded and so weak from the loss of blood. yet he called after sir marhaus: "stay, stay, sir knight! let us finish this battle now we are about it!" but to this sir marhaus made no answer, but went on down to his ships, staggering and stumbling like a blind man as aforesaid, for the sore wound which he had received still lent him a false strength of body so that he was able to go his way. then those who were aboard the ships, beholding him thus coming staggering toward them, came down and met him and lifted him up and bore him away to his own ship. thereafter, as soon as might be they hoisted sail and lifted anchor and took their way from that place. then by and by came gouvernail and several others of sir tristram's party to where sir tristram was; and there they found him leaning upon his sword and groaning very sorely because of the great wound in his side. so presently they perceived that he could not walk, wherefore they lifted him up upon his own shield and bore him thence to that ship that had brought him thither. and when they had come to the ship they laid him down upon a couch and stripped him of his armor to search his wounds. then they beheld what a great wound it was that sir marhaus had given him in the side, and they lifted up their voices in sorrow, for they all believed that he would die. [sidenote: sir tristam returns to cornwall] so they set sail, and in two days brought him back to king mark, where he sat at tintagel in cornwall. and when king mark saw how pale and wan and weak sir tristram was, he wept and grieved very sorely for sorrow of that sight, for he too thought that sir tristram was certainly about to die. but sir tristram smiled upon king mark, and he said: "lord, have i done well for thy sake?" and king mark said, "yea," and fell to weeping again. [sidenote: sir tristram proclaims himself to king mark] "then," quoth tristram, "it is time for me to tell thee who i am who have saved thy kingdom from the shame of having to pay truage to ireland, and that i am thine own sister's son. for my father is king meliadus of lyonesse, and my mother was the lady elizabeth, who was thine own sister till god took her soul to paradise to dwell there with his angels." but when king mark heard this he went forth from that place and into his own chamber. and when he had come there he fell down upon his knees and cried out aloud: "alas, alas, that this should be! rather, god, would i lose my entire kingdom than that my sister's son should come to his death in this wise!" now it remaineth to say of sir marhaus that those who were with him brought him back to ireland and that there in a little while he died of the wound that sir tristram had given him upon the head. but ere he died, and whilst they were dressing that hurt, the queen of ireland, who was sister to sir marhaus, discovered the broken piece of the blade still in that grim wound. this she drew forth and set aside, and hid very carefully, saying to herself: "if ever i meet that knight to whose sword this piece of blade fitteth, then it will be an evil day for him." thus i have told you all the circumstances of that great battle betwixt sir tristram of lyonesse and sir marhaus of ireland. and now you shall hear how it befell sir tristram thereafter; so harken to what followeth. [illustration: the lady belle isoult] chapter third _how sir tristram went to ireland to be healed of his wound by the king's daughter of ireland, and of how he came to love the lady belle isoult. also concerning sir palamydes and the lady belle isoult._ now that grievous hurt which sir tristram had received at the hands of sir marhaus did not heal, but instead grew even more rankled and sore, so that there were many who thought that there had been treachery practised and that the spearhead had been poisoned to cause such a malignant disease as that with which the wounded man suffered. so by and by sir tristram grew so grievously sick of his hurt that all those who were near him thought that he must certainly die. then king mark sent everywhere and into all parts for the most wise and learned leeches and chirurgeons to come to cornwall and search the wounds of sir tristram, but of all these no one could bring him any ease. [sidenote: how sir tristram lieth sick in cornwall] now one day there came to the court of king mark a very wise lady, who had travelled much in the world and had great knowledge of wounds of all sorts. at the bidding of the king, she went to where sir tristram lay, and searched the wound as so many had already done. and when she had done that she came out of sir tristram's chamber and unto king mark, where he was waiting for her. then king mark said to her: "well, how will it be with yonder knight?" "lord," quoth she, "it is thus; i can do nothing to save his life, nor do i know of any one who may save it unless it be the king's daughter of ireland, who is known as the belle isoult because of her wonderful beauty. she is the most skilful leech in all of the world, and she alone may hope to bring sir tristram back to life and health again, for i believe that if she fail no one else can save him." then after the aforesaid lady had gone, king mark went to where sir tristram lay, and he told him all that she had said concerning his condition; and king mark said: "tristram, wilt thou go to the king's daughter of ireland and let her search thy wound?" then sir tristram groaned at the thought of the weariness and pain of moving, and he said: "lord, this is a great undertaking for one who is so sick. moreover, it is a great risk for me, for, if i go to ireland, and if it be found that i am he who slew sir marhaus, then it is hardly likely that i shall ever escape from that country again with my life. ne'theless, i am so sorely sick of this wound that i would rather die than live as i am living; wherefore i will go to ireland for the sake of being healed, if such a thing is possible." accordingly, a little while after that, king mark provided a ship to carry sir tristram to ireland. this ship he furnished with sails of silk of divers colors, and he had it hung within with fine embroidered cloth, and fabrics woven with threads of silver and gold, so that in its appearance it was a worthy vessel even for a great king to sail in. then, when all was ready, king mark had a number of attendants carry sir tristram down to the ship in a litter, and he had them lay sir tristram upon a soft couch of crimson satin, which was set upon the deck beneath a canopy of crimson silk, embroidered with threads of silver and garnished with fringe of silver, and sir tristram lay there at ease where the breezes of the ocean came pleasantly to him, and breathed upon his face and his temples and his hair and his hands with coolness; and gouvernail was with sir tristram all the while in attendance upon him. [sidenote: sir tristram sails to ireland to have his wound searched] so they set sail for ireland, the weather being very fair and pleasant, and on the third day, at about the time of sunset, they came to a part of the coast of ireland where there was a castle built upon the rocks that rose out of the sea. now there were several fishermen fishing in boats near that castle, and of these the pilot of sir tristram's boat made inquiry what castle that was. to him the fisherman replied: "that castle is the castle of king angus of ireland." and the fisherman said: "it so happens that the king and queen and their daughter, hight the lady belle isoult, and all of their court are there at this very while." this sir tristram heard and said: "this is good news, for indeed i am very sick and am right glad that my voyaging is ended." so he gave orders that the pilot should bring the ship close under the walls of that castle, and that he should there let go anchor; and the pilot did as sir tristram had commanded him. [sidenote: how sir tristram came to ireland] now, as aforesaid, that ship was of a very wonderful appearance, like to the ship of a king or a high prince, wherefore many people came down to the walls of the castle and stood there and gazed at the vessel as it sailed into the harbor. and by that time the sun had set and all the air was illuminated with a marvellous golden light; and in this sky of gold the moon hung like a shield of silver, very bright and steady above the roofs and towers of the castle. and there came from the land a pleasing perfume of blossoms; for it was then in the fulness of the spring-time, and all the fruit-bearing trees were luxuriant with bloom so that the soft air of evening was full of fragrance thereby. then there came a great content into the heart of sir tristram, wherefore he said to gouvernail: "gouvernail, either i shall soon be healed of this wound, or else i shall presently die and enter into paradise free of pain, for i am become very full of content and of peace toward all men." and then he said: "bring me hither my harp, that i may play upon it a little, for i have a desire to chant in this pleasant evening-time." [sidenote: sir tristram sings] so gouvernail brought to sir tristram his shining harp, and when sir tristram had taken it into his hands he tuned it, and when he had tuned it he struck it and sang; and, because of the stillness of the evening, his voice sounded marvellously clear and sweet across the level water, so that those who stood upon the castle walls and heard it thought that maybe an angel was singing on board of that ship. that time the lady belle isoult sat at the window of her bower enjoying the pleasantness of the evening. she also heard sir tristram singing, and she said to those damsels who were with her, "ha, what is that i hear?" therewith she listened for a little while, and then she said: "meseems that must be the voice of some angel that is singing." they say: "nay, lady, it is a wounded knight singing, and he came to this harbor in a wonderful ship some while ago." then the lady belle isoult said to a page who was in attendance: "bid the king and queen come hither, that they may hear this singing also, for never did i think to hear such singing beyond the walls of paradise." so the page ran with all speed, and in a little the king and queen came to the bower of the lady belle isoult; and she and they leaned upon the window-ledge and listened to sir tristram whilst he sang in the soft twilight. then by and by king angus said: "now i will have yonder minstrel brought thither to this castle to do us pleasure, for i believe that he must be the greatest minstrel in all the world to sing in that wise." and the lady belle isoult said: "i pray you, sir, do so, for it would be great joy to everybody to have such singing as that in this place." so king angus sent a barge to that ship, and besought that he who sang should be brought to the castle. at that sir tristram was very glad, for he said: "now i shall be brought to the lady the belle isoult and maybe she will heal me." so he had them bare him to the barge of the king of ireland, and so they brought him to the castle of king angus, where they laid him upon a bed in a fair room of the castle. [sidenote: king angus cometh to tristram] then king angus came to sir tristram where he lay, and he said: "messire what can i do for you to put you more at your ease than you are?" "lord," said sir tristram, "i pray you to permit the lady belle isoult to search a great wound in my side that i received in battle. for i hear that she is the most skilful leech in all the world, and so i have come hither from a great distance, being in such pain and dole from my grievous hurt that i shall die in a little while unless it be healed." "messire," said king angus, "i perceive that you are no ordinary knight, but somebody of high nobility and estate, so it shall be as you desire." and then king angus said: "i pray you, tell me your name and whence you come." upon this, sir tristram communed within his own mind, saying: "an i say my name is tristram, haply there may be someone here will know me and that i was the cause why the brother of the queen of this place hath died." so he said: "lord, my name is sir tramtris, and i am come from a country called lyonesse, which is a great distance from this." quoth king angus, "well, sir tramtris, i am glad that you have come to this place. now it shall be done to you as you desire, for to-morrow the lady belle isoult shall search your wound to heal it if possible." [sidenote: my lady belle isoult searches the wound] and so it was as king angus said, for the next day the lady belle isoult came with her attendants to where sir tristram lay, and one of the attendants bare a silver basin and another bare a silver ewer, and others bare napkins of fine linen. so the lady belle isoult came close to sir tristram and kneeled beside the couch whereon he lay and said, "let me see the wound." therewith sir tristram laid bare his bosom and his side and she beheld it. then she felt great pity for sir tristram because of that dolorous wound, and she said: "alas, that so young and so fair and so noble a knight should suffer so sore a wound as this!" therewith still kneeling beside sir tristram she searched the wound with very gentle, tender touch (for her fingers were like to rose leaves for softness) and lo! she found a part of the blade of a spear-head embedded very deep in the wound of sir tristram. this she drew forth very deftly (albeit sir tristram groaned with a great passion of pain) and therewithafter came forth an issue of blood like a crimson fountain, whereupon sir tristram swooned away like one who had gone dead. but he did not die, for they quickly staunched the flow, set aromatic spices to his nostrils, so that in a little he revived in spirit to find himself at great ease and peace in his body (albeit it was for a while like to the peace of death). [sidenote: sir tristram is healed] thus it was that the lady belle isoult saved the life of sir tristram, for in a little while he was able to be about again, and presently waxed almost entirely hale and strong in limb and body. and now it is to be told how sir tristram loved the lady belle isoult and how she loved sir tristram. also how a famous knight, hight sir palamydes the saracen, loved belle isoult and of how she loved not him. [sidenote: sir tristram loves the lady belle isoult] for, as was said, it came about that in a little while sir tristram was healed of that grievous wound aforetold of so that he was able to come and go whithersoever he chose. but always he would be with the lady belle isoult, for sir tristram loved her with a wonderfully passionate regard. and so likewise the lady loved sir tristram. for if he loved her because she had saved his life, then she also loved him for the same reason. for she did not ever forget how she had drawn out the head of that spear from the wound at his side, and of how he had groaned when she brought it forth, and of how the blood had gushed out of that wound. wherefore she loved him very aboundingly for the agony of pain she had one time caused him to suffer. so they two fair and noble creatures were always together in bower or in hall, and no one in all that while wist that sir tramtris was sir tristram, and that it was his hand that had slain sir marhaus of ireland. so sir tristram was there in ireland for a year, and in that time he grew to be altogether well and sturdy again. [sidenote: sir palamydes cometh to ireland] now it was in those days that there came sir palamydes the saracen knight to that place, who was held to be one of the very foremost knights in the world. so great rejoicing was made over him because he had come thither, and great honor was shown to him by everyone. but when sir palamydes beheld the lady belle isoult and when he saw how fair she was, he came in a short while to love her with almost as passionate a regard as that with which sir tristram loved her, so that he also sought ever to be with her whenever the chance offered. but belle isoult felt no regard for sir palamydes, but only fear of him, for all of her love was given to sir tristram. nevertheless, because sir palamydes was so fierce and powerful a knight, she did not dare to offend him; wherefore she smiled upon him and treated him with all courtesy and kindness although she loved him not, dissembling her regard for him. [sidenote: sir tristram is displeased] all this sir tristram beheld from aside and it displeased him a very great deal to see how sir palamydes was always beside the lady. but belle isoult beheld how sir tristram was displeased, wherefore she took occasion to say to him: "tramtris, be not displeased, for what am i to do? you know very well that i do not love this knight, but i am afraid of him because he is so fierce and so strong." to this sir tristram said: "lady, it would be a great shame to me if i, being by, should suffer any knight to come betwixt you and me and win your regard through fear of him." she said: "tramtris, what would you do? would you give challenge to this knight? lo, you are not yet entirely healed of your hurt, and sir palamydes is in perfect strength of body. for indeed it is for you i am most of all afraid lest you and sir palamydes should come to battle and lest he should do you a harm before you are entirely healed." [sidenote: sir tristram desires to do battle] "lady," quoth sir tristram, "i thank god that i am not at all afraid of this knight, or of any other knight, and i have to thank you that i am now entirely recovered and am as strong as ever i was. wherefore i have now a mind to deal with this knight in your behalf. so if you will provide me with armor i will deal with him so that maybe he will not trouble you again. now i will devise it in this way:--tell your father, king angus, to proclaim a great jousting. in that jousting i will seek out sir palamydes and will encounter him, and i hope with god's aid that i shall overcome him, so that you shall be free from him." belle isoult said, "tramtris, are you able for this?" he said, "yea, i am as ready as ever i shall be in all of my life." whereat belle isoult said, "it shall be as you will have it." then sir tristram charged belle isoult that she should keep secret all this that had been said betwixt them. and more especially she was to keep it secret that he was to take part in such a tournament as that which they had devised. and he said to her: "lady, i lie here under a great peril to my life, though i cannot tell you what that peril is. but i may tell you that if my enemies should discover me at this place, it would go hard with me to preserve my life from them. wherefore, if i take part in any such affair as this, it must be altogether a secret betwixt us." so therewith they parted and lady belle isoult went to her father and besought him to proclaim a great day of jousting in honor of sir palamydes, and the king said that he would do so. so the king sent forth proclamation to all the courts of that nation that a great tournament was to be held and that great rewards and great honors were to be given to the best knight thereat. and that tournament was talked about in all the courts of chivalry where there were knights who desired to win glory in such affairs at arms. and now it shall be told concerning that tournament and how it befell with sir tristram thereat, and with sir palamydes thereat. [illustration: the queen of ireland seeks to slay sir tristram] chapter fourth _how sir tristram encountered sir palamydes at the tournament and of what befell. also how sir tristram was forced to leave the kingdom of ireland._ so came the time for the tournament that king angus of ireland had ordained; and that was a very famous affair at arms indeed. for it hath very rarely happened that so noble a gathering of knights hath ever come together as that company which there presented itself for that occasion at the court of the king of ireland. [sidenote: of the court of chivalry at ireland] for you may know how excellent was the court of chivalry that fore gathered thereat when you shall hear that there came to that tournament, the king of an hundred knights and the king of the scots, and that there came several knights of the round table, to wit: sir gawaine, sir gaheris and sir agravaine; and sir bagdemagus and sir kay and sir dodinas, and sir sagramore le desirous, and sir gumret the less, and sir griflet; and that there came besides these many other knights of great renown. these and many others gathered at the court of king angus of ireland, so that all those meadows and fields coadjacent to the place of battle were gay as beds of flowers with the multitude of tents and pavilions of divers colors that were there emplanted. and on the day of the tournament there came great crowds of people into the lists, so that all that place was alive with movement. for it was as though a sea of people had arisen to overflow the seats and stalls thereof. now that tournament was to last for three days, and upon the third day there was to be a grand melee in which all these knights contestant were to take stand upon this side or upon that. but upon the first two of those three days sir tristram sat in the stall of the king and looked down upon the jousting, for, because of the illness from which he had recovered, he was minded to save his body until the right time should come, what time he should be called upon to do his uttermost. [sidenote: sir palamydes performeth wonders] and in those two days, sir tristram beheld that sir palamydes did more wonderfully in battle than he would have believed it possible for any knight to do. for sir palamydes was aware that the eyes of the lady belle isoult were gazing upon him, wherefore he felt himself uplifted to battle as with the strength of ten. wherefore he raged about that field like a lion of battle, seeking whom he might overthrow and destroy. and upon the first day he challenged sir gawaine to joust with him, and then he challenged sir gaheris, and the king of an hundred knights, and sir griflet, and sir sagramore le desirous and fourteen other knights, and all of these he met and many he overcame, and that without any mishap to himself. and upon the second day he met with great success sir agravaine and sir griflet and sir kay and sir dodinas and twelve other knights. wherefore those who beheld how he did gave great shouts and outcries of applause and acclaim, saying: "certes, there was never knight in all of the world so great as this knight. yea; even sir launcelot himself could not do more than that knight doeth." then belle isoult was troubled in her mind, and she said: "tramtris, yonder in very truth is a most fierce and terrible knight. now somewhiles i have fear that you may not be able to overcome him." thereat sir tristram smiled very grimly, and said: "lady, already i have overcome in battle a bigger knight than ever sir palamydes has been or is like to be." but the lady belle isoult wist not that that knight of whom sir tristram spake was sir marhaus of ireland. [sidenote: sir palamydes bespeaks the lady belle isoult] now upon the evening of the second day of that tournament, sir palamydes came to where the lady belle isoult was, and he said: "lady, all these things i have done for your sake. for had it not been for my love for you, i would not have been able to do a third part of that which i did. now i think you should have pity and regard for one who loves you so strongly as that; wherefore i beseech you to bestow some part of your good-will upon me." "sir," said the lady belle isoult, "you are not to forget that there is still another day of this battle, and in it you may not happen to have the same fortune that favored you to-day; so i will wait until you have won that battle also before i answer you." "well," said sir palamydes, "you shall see that i shall do even more worthily to-morrow for your sake than i have done to-day." but the lady belle isoult was not very well pleased with that saying, for she began again to fear that maybe the will of sir palamydes was so strong that sir tristram would not have any success against him. so came the third day of that very famous contest at arms, and when this morning was come there began to gather together in the two parties those who were to contest the one against the other. of one of these parties, sir palamydes was the chiefest knight, and upon that side was also sir gawaine and several of the knights who were with him. for these said, "there shall certes be greater credit to be had with sir palamydes than against him," and so they joined them with his party. of the other party the chiefest knights were the king of an hundred knights and the king of scots, and both of these were very famous and well-approved champions, of high courage and remarkable achievements. [sidenote: belle isoult arms sir tristram] now when the time was nigh ready for that tournament, sir tristram went to put on the armor that the lady belle isoult had provided him, and when he was armed he mounted very lightly upon the horse which she had given him. and the armor of sir tristram was white, shining like to silver, and the horse was altogether white, and the furniture and trappings thereof were all white, so that sir tristram glistened with extraordinary splendor. now when he was armed and prepared in all ways, the lady belle isoult came to where he was and she said, "tramtris, are you ready?" and he answered "yea." therewith she took the horse of sir tristram by the bridle and she led him to the postern gate of the castle, and put him out that way into a fair field that lay beyond; and sir tristram abided in the fields for some while until the tournament should have begun. but the lady belle isoult went to the tournament with her father, the king, and her mother, the queen, and took her station at that place assigned to her whence she might overlook the field. [sidenote: how sir palamydes fought in the tournament] so in a little while that friendly battle began. and again sir palamydes was filled with the vehement fury of contest, wherefore he raged about the field, spreading terror whithersoever he came. for first he made at the king of an hundred knights, and he struck that knight so direful a blow that both horse and man fell to the ground with the force thereof. then in the same manner he struck the king of scots with his sword, and smote him straightway out of the saddle also. then he struck down one after another, seven other knights, all of well-proved strength and prowess, so that all those who looked thereon cried out, "is he a man or is he a demon?" so, because of the terror of sir palamydes, all those in that contest bore away from him as they might do from a lion in anger. at this time came sir tristram, riding at a free pace, shining like to a figure of silver. then many saw him and observed him and said to one another: "who is this knight, and what party will he join with to do battle?" these had not long to wait to know what side he would join, for immediately sir tristram took stand with that party which was the party of the king of an hundred knights and the king of scots, and at that the one party was very glad, and the other party was sorry; for they deemed that sir tristram was certes some great champion. [sidenote: sir tristram enters the tournament] then straightway there came against sir tristram four knights of the other party, and one of these was sir gaheris, and another was sir griflet and another was sir bagdemagus and another was sir kay. but sir tristram was possessed with a great joy of battle, so that in a very short time he had struck down or overthrown all those knights, beginning with sir gaheris, and ending with sir kay the seneschal. this sir gawaine beheld, and said to sir sagramore: "yonder is certes a knight of terrible strength; now let us go and see of what mettle he be." therewith sir gawaine pushed against sir tristram from the one side, and sir sagramore came against him on the other side, and so they met him both at once. then first sir gawaine struck sir tristram such a buffet that the horse of sir tristram turned twice about with the force of that stroke; and therewith sir sagramore smote him a buffet upon the other side so that sir tristram wist not upon which side to defend himself. then, at those blows sir tristram waxed so exceedingly fierce that it was as though a fire of rage flamed up into his brains and set them into a blaze of rage. so with that he rose up in his stirrups and launched so dreadful a blow upon sir gawaine that i believe nothing could have withstood the force of that blow. for it clave through the shield of sir gawaine and it descended upon the crown of his helmet and it clave away a part of his helmet and a part of the epauliere of his shoulder; and with the force of that dreadful, terrible blow, sir gawaine fell down upon the ground and lay there as though he were dead. then sir tristram wheeled upon sir sagramore (who sat wonder-struck at that blow he had beheld) and thereafter he smote him too, so that he fell down and lay upon the ground in a swoon from which he did not recover for more than two hours. now sir palamydes also had beheld those two strokes that sir tristram had given, wherefore he said: "hah! yonder is a very wonderful knight. now if i do not presently meet him, and that to my credit, he will have more honor in this battle than i." so therewith sir palamydes pushed straight against sir tristram, and [sidenote: sir palamydes rides against sir tristram] when sir tristram beheld that he was very glad, for he said: "now it will either be sir palamydes his day, or else it will be mine." so he upon his part pushed against sir palamydes with good intent to engage him in battle, and then they two met in the midst of the field. then immediately sir palamydes smote sir tristram such a buffet that sir tristram thought a bolt of lightning had burst upon him, and for a little while he was altogether bemazed and wist not where he was. but when he came to himself he was so filled with fury that his heart was like to break therewith. [sidenote: sir tristram smites sir palamydes] thereupon he rushed upon sir palamydes and smote him again and again and again with such fury and strength that sir palamydes was altogether stunned at the blows he received and bare back before them. then sir tristram perceived how that sir palamydes bare his shield low because of the fierceness of that assault, and thereupon he rose up in his stirrups and struck sir palamydes upon the crown of the helmet so dreadful a buffet that the brains of sir palamydes swam like water, and he must needs catch the pommel of his saddle to save himself from falling. then sir tristram smote him another buffet, and therewith darkness came upon the sight of sir palamydes and he rolled off from his horse into the dust beneath its feet. then all who beheld the encounter shouted very loud and with great vehemence, for it was the very best and most notable assault at arms that had been performed in all that battle. but most of those who beheld that assault cried out "the silver knight!" for at that time no one but the lady belle isoult wist who that silver knight was. but she wist very well who he was, and was so filled with the glory of his prowess that she wept for joy thereof. [sidenote: belle isoult declares sir tristram] then the king of ireland said: "who is yonder knight who hath so wonderfully overthrown sir palamydes? i had not thought there was any knight in the world so great as he; but this must be some great champion whom none of us know." upon that the lady belle isoult, still weeping for joy, could contain herself no longer, but cried out: "sir, that is tramtris, who came to us so nigh to death and who hath now done us so great honor being of our household! for i knew very well that he was no common knight but some mighty champion when i first beheld him." at that the king of ireland was very much astonished and overjoyed, and he said: "if that is indeed so, then it is a very great honor for us all." now after that assault sir tristram took no more part in that battle but withdrew to one side. but he perceived where the esquires attendant upon sir palamydes came to him and lifted him up and took him away. then by and by he perceived that sir palamydes had mounted his horse again with intent to leave that meadow of battle, and in a little he saw sir palamydes ride away with his head bowed down like to one whose heart was broken. all this sir tristram beheld and did not try to stay sir palamydes in his departure. but some while after sir palamydes had quitted that place, sir tristram also took his departure, going in that same direction that sir palamydes had gone. then after he had come well away from the meadow of battle, sir tristram set spurs to his horse and rode at a hard gallop along that way that sir palamydes had taken. so he rode at such a gait for a considerable pass until, by and by, he perceived sir palamydes upon the road before him; and sir palamydes was at that time come to the edge of a woods where there were several stone windmills with great sails swinging very slowly around before a strong wind that was blowing. [sidenote: sir tristram overthrows palamydes again] now this was a lonely place, and one very fit to do battle in, wherefore sir tristram cried out to sir palamydes in a loud voice: "sir palamydes! sir palamydes! turn you about! for here is the chance for you to recover the honor that you have lost to me." thereupon sir palamydes, hearing that loud voice, turned him about. but when he beheld that the knight who called was he who had just now wrought such shame upon him, he ground his teeth together with rage, and therewith drave his horse at sir tristram, drawing his sword so that it flashed like lightning in the bright sunlight. and when he came nigh to sir tristram, he stood up in his stirrups and lashed a blow at him with all his might and main; for he said to himself: "maybe i shall now recover mine honor with one blow which i lost to this knight a while since." but sir tristram put aside that blow of sir palamydes with his shield with very great skill and dexterity, and thereupon, recovering himself, he lashed at sir palamydes upon his part. and at that first stroke sir tristram smote down the shield of sir palamydes, and gave him such a blow upon the head that sir palamydes fell down off his horse upon the earth. then sir tristram voided his own horse very quickly, and running to sir palamydes where he lay he plucked off his helmet with great violence. therewith he cried out very fiercely: "sir knight, yield thee to me, or i will slay thee." and therewithal he lifted up his sword as though to strike off the head of sir palamydes. then when sir palamydes saw sir tristram standing above him in that wise, he dreaded his buffets so that he said: "sir knight, i yield me to thee to do thy commands, if so be thou wilt spare my life." thereupon sir tristram said, "arise," and at that sir palamydes got him up to his knees with some ado, and so remained kneeling before sir tristram. "well," said sir tristram, "i believe you have saved your life by thus yielding yourself to me. now this shall be my commandment upon you. first of all, my commandment is that you forsake the lady belle isoult, and that you do not come near her for the space of an entire year. and this is my second commandment; that from this day you do not assume the arms of knighthood for an entire year and a day." "alas!" said sir palamydes, "why do you not slay me instead of bringing me to such shame as this! would that i had died instead of yielding myself to you as i did." and therewith he wept for shame and despite. "well," said sir tristram, "let that pass which was not done. for now you have yielded yourself to me and these are my commands." so with that sir tristram set his sword back again into its sheath, and he mounted his horse and rode away, leaving sir palamydes where he was. [sidenote: sir palamydes disarms himself] but after sir tristram had gone, sir palamydes arose, weeping aloud. and he said: "this is such shame to me that i think there can be no greater shame." thereupon he drew his misericordia, and he cut the thongs of his harness and he tore the pieces of armor from off his body and flung them away very furiously, upon the right hand and upon the left. and when he had thus stripped himself of all of his armor, he mounted his horse and rode away into the forest, weeping like one altogether brokenhearted. so sir tristram drave sir palamydes away from the lady belle isoult as he had promised to do. now when tristram came back to the castle of the king of ireland once more, he thought to enter privily in by the postern-gate as he had gone out. but lo! instead of that he found a great party waiting for him before the castle and these gave him loud acclaim, crying, "welcome, sir tramtris! welcome, sir tramtris!" and king angus came forward and took the hand of sir tristram, and he also said: "welcome, sir tramtris, for you have brought us great honor this day!" [sidenote: sir tristram chides belle isoult] but sir tristram looked at the lady the belle isoult with great reproach and by and by when they were together he said: "lady, why did you betray me who i was when you had promised me not to do so?" "sir," she said, "i meant not to betray you, but in the joy of your victory i know not very well what i said." "well," said sir tristram, "god grant that no harm come of it." she said, "what harm can come of it, messire?" sir tristram said: "i may not tell you, lady, but i fear that harm will come of it." anon the queen of ireland came and said: "tramtris, one so nigh to death as you have been should not so soon have done battle as you have done. now i will have a bain prepared and you shall bathe therein, for you are not yet hale and strong." "lady," said tristram, "i do not need any bain, for i believe i am now strong and well in all wise." "nay," said the queen, "you must have that bain so that no ill may come to you hereafter from this battle which you have fought." so she had that bain prepared of tepid water, and it was very strong and potent with spices and powerful herbs of divers sorts. and when that bain was prepared, sir tristram undressed and entered the bath, and the queen and the lady belle isoult were in the adjoining chamber which was his bed-chamber. [sidenote: the queen of ireland beholds sir tristram's sword] now whilst sir tristram was in that bath, the queen and belle isoult looked all about his chamber. and they beheld the sword of sir tristram where it lay, for he had laid it upon the bed when he had unlatched the belt to make himself ready for that bath. then the queen said to the lady belle isoult, "see what a great huge sword this is," and thereupon she lifted it and drew the blade out of its sheath, and she beheld what a fair, bright, glistering sword it was. then in a little she saw where, within about a foot and a half from the point, there was a great piece in the shape of a half-moon broken out of the edge of the sword; and she looked at that place for a long while. then of a sudden she felt a great terror, for she remembered how even such a piece of sword as that which had been broken off from that blade, she had found in the wound of sir marhaus of which he had died. so she stood for a while holding that sword of sir tristram in her hand and looking as she had been turned into stone. at this the lady belle isoult was filled with a sort of fear, wherefore she said, "lady, what ails you?" the queen said, "nothing that matters," and therewith she laid aside the sword of sir tristram and went very quickly to her own chamber. there she opened her cabinet and took thence the piece of sword-blade which she had drawn from the wound of sir marhaus, and which she had kept ever since. with this she hurried back to the chamber of sir tristram, and fitted that piece of the blade to the blade; and lo! it fitted exactly, and without flaw. [sidenote: the queen assails sir tristram] upon that the queen was seized as with a sudden madness; for she shrieked out in a very loud voice, "traitor! traitor! traitor!" saying that word three times. therewith she snatched up the sword of sir tristram and she ran with great fury into the room where he lay in his bath. and she beheld him where he was there all naked in his bath, and therewith she rushed at him and lashed at him with his sword. but sir tristram threw himself to one side and so that blow failed of its purpose. then the queen would have lashed at him again or have thrust him through with the weapon; but at that gouvernail and sir helles ran to her and catched her and held her back, struggling and screaming very violently. so they took the sword away from her out of her hands, and all the while she shrieked like one gone entirely distracted. then as soon as gouvernail and sir helles loosed her, she ran very violently out of that room with great outcry of screaming, and so to king angus and flung herself upon her knees before him, crying out: "justice! justice! i have found that man who slew my brother! i beseech of you that you will deal justice upon him." then king angus rose from where he sat, and he said: "where is that man? bring me to him." and the queen said: "it is tramtris, who hath come hither unknown unto this place." king angus said: "lady, what is this you tell me? i cannot believe that what you say is true." upon this the queen cried out: "go yourself, lord, and inquire, and find out how true it is." then king angus rose, and went forth from that place, and he went to the chamber of sir tristram. and there he found that sir tristram had very hastily dressed himself and had armed himself in such wise as he was able. then king angus came to tristram, and he said: "how is this, that i find thee armed? art thou an enemy to my house?" and tristram wept, and said: "nay, lord, i am not your enemy, but your friend, for i have great love for you and for all that is yours, so that i would be very willing to do battle for you even unto death if so be i were called upon to do so." then king angus said: "if that is so, how is it that i find thee here armed as if for battle, with thy sword in thy hand?" "lord," said sir tristram, "although i be friends with you and yours, yet i know not whether you be friends or enemies unto me; wherefore i have prepared myself so that i may see what is your will with me, for i will not have you slay me without defence upon my part." then king angus said: "thou speakest in a very foolish way, for how could a single knight hope to defend himself against my whole household? now i bid thee tell me who thou art, and what is thy name, and why thou earnest hither knowing that thou hadst slain my brother?" [sidenote: sir tristram confesses to king angus] then sir tristram said, "lord, i will tell thee all the truth." and therewith he confessed everything to king angus, to wit: who was his father and his mother, and how he was born and reared; how he fought sir marhaus, and for what reason; and of how he came hither to be healed of his wound, from which else he must die in very grievous pain. and he said: "all this is truth, lord, and it is truth that i had no ill-will against sir marhaus; for i only stood to do battle with him for the sake of mine uncle, king mark of cornwall, and to enhance mine own honor; and i took my fortune with him as he took his with me. moreover, i fought with sir marhaus upon the same day that i was made knight, and that was the first battle which i fought, and in that battle i was wounded so sorely that i was like to die as you very well know. as for him, he was a knight well-tried and seasoned with many battles, and he suffered by no treachery but only with the fortune of war." so king angus listened to all that sir tristram said, and when he had ended, quoth he: "as god sees me, tristram, i cannot deny that you did with sir marhaus as a true knight should. for it was certes your part to take the cause of your uncle upon you if you had the heart to do so, and it was truly a real knightly thing for you who were so young to seek honor at the hands of so famous a knight as sir marhaus. for i do not believe that until you came his way there was any knight in the world who was greater than he, unless it were sir launcelot of the lake. wherefore, from that, and from what i saw you do at the tournament, some time ago, i believe that you are one of the strongest knights in the world, and the peer of sir launcelot, or of anybody else. "but though all this is true, nevertheless it will not be possible for me to maintain you in this country, for if i keep you here i shall greatly displease not only the queen and her kin, but many of those lords and knights who were kin to sir marhaus or who were united to him in pledges of friendship. so you must even save yourself as you can and leave here straightway, for i may not help or aid you in any way." then sir tristram said: "lord, i thank you for your great kindness unto me, and i know not how i shall repay the great goodness that my lady belle isoult hath showed to me. for i swear to you upon the pommel of my sword which i now hold up before me that i would lay down my life for her sake. yea, and my honor too! for she hath the entire love of my heart, so that i would willingly die for her, or give up for her all that i have in the world. now as for my knighthood, i do believe that i shall in time become a knight of no small worship, for i feel within my heart that this shall be so. so if my life be spared, it may be that you will gain more having me for your friend and your true servant than you will by taking my life in this outland place. for whithersoever i go i give you my knightly word that i shall be your daughter's servant, and that i shall ever be her true knight in right or in wrong, and that i shall never fail her if i shall be called upon to do her service." then king angus meditated upon this for a while, and he said: "tristram, what thou sayest is very well said, but how shall i get you away from this place in safety?" sir tristram said: "lord, there is but one way to get me away with credit unto yourself. now i beseech you of your grace that i may take leave of my lady your daughter, and that i may then take leave of all your knights and kinsmen as a right knight should. and if there be any among them who chooses to stop me or to challenge my going, then i must face that one at my peril, however great it may be." "well," said king angus, "that is a very knightly way to behave, and so it shall be as you will have it." so sir tristram went down stairs to a certain chamber where belle isoult was. and he went straight to her and took her by the hand; and he said: "lady, i am to go away from this place, if i may do so with credit to my honor; but before i go i must tell you that i shall ever be your own true knight in all ways that a knight may serve a lady. for no other lady shall have my heart but you, so i shall ever be your true knight. even though i shall haply never see your face again, yet i shall ever carry your face with me in my heart, and the thought of you shall always abide with me withersoever i go." at this the lady belle isoult fell to weeping in great measure, and thereat the countenance of sir tristram also was all writhed with passion, and he said, "lady, do not weep so!" she said, "alas i cannot help it!" then he said: "lady, you gave me my life when i thought i was to lose it, and you brought me back from pain unto ease, and from sorrow unto joy. would god i were suffering all those pangs as aforetime, so that there might be no more tears upon your face." [sidenote: sir tristram parts from belle isoult] then, king angus being by, he took her face into his hands and kissed her upon the forehead, and the eyes, and the lips. therewith he turned and went away, all bedazed with his sorrow, and feeling for the latch of the door ere he was able to find it and go out from that place. after that sir tristram went straight unto the hall of the castle, and there he found a great many of the lords of the castle and knights attendant upon the king. for the news of these things had flown fast, and many of them were angry and some were doubtful. but tristram came in very boldly, clad all in full armor, and when he stood in the midst of them he spoke loud and with great courage, saying: "if there be any man here whom i have offended in any way, let him speak, and i will give him entire satisfaction whoever he may be. but let such speech be now or never, for here is my body to make good my knighthood against the body of any man, whomsoever he may be." at this all those knights who were there stood still and held their peace, and no man said anything against sir tristram (although there were several knights and lords who were kin to the queen), for the boldness of tristram overawed them, and no one had the heart to answer him. so after a little while sir tristram left that place, without turning his head to see if any man followed him. [sidenote: sir tristram departs from ireland] so he left that castle and gouvernail went with him, and no one stopped him in his going. after that, he and gouvernail came to the shore and took a boat and they came to the ship of sir tristram, and so they sailed away from ireland. but the heart of sir tristram was so full of sorrow that he wished a great many times that he was dead. so sir tristram, though as to his body he was very whole and sound, was, as to his spirit, very ill at ease; for though he was so well and suffered no pain, yet it appeared to him that all the joy of his life had been left behind him, so that he could nevermore have any more pleasure in this world which lieth outside of the walls of paradise. [illustration: sir tristram harpeth before king mark] chapter fifth _how sir tristram was sent by command of king mark to go to ireland to bring the lady the belle isoult from ireland to cornwall and how it fared with him._ so sir tristram came back again to cornwall, and king mark and all the knights and lords of the court of the king gave him great welcome and made much joy over him because he had returned safely. but sir tristram took no joy in their joy because he was filled with such heavy melancholy that it was as though even the blue sky had turned to sackcloth to his eyes, so that he beheld nothing bright in all the world. [sidenote: sir tristram tells of the lady bell isoult] but though he had no great pleasure in life, yet sir tristram made many very good songs about belle isoult; about her beauty and her graciousness; about how he was her sad, loving knight; about how he was pledged unto her to be true to her all of his life even though he might never hope to see her again. these like words he would sing to the music of his shining, golden harp, and king mark loved to listen to him. and sometimes king mark would sigh very deeply and maybe say: "messire, that lady of thine must in sooth be a very wonderful, beautiful, gracious lady." and sir tristram would say, "yea, she is all that." so it was at that time that king mark had great love for sir tristram; in a little while all that was very different, and his love was turned to bitter hate, as you shall presently hear tell. now in those days the knights of cornwall were considered to be the least worthy of all knights in that part of the world, for they had so little skill and prowess at arms that they were a jest and a laughing-stock to many courts of chivalry. it was said of them that a knight-champion of cornwall was maybe a knight, but certes was no champion at all; and this was great shame to all those of cornwall, more especially as that saying was in a great measure true. [sidenote: sir bleoberis comes to cornwall] one day there came to the court of cornwall a very noble, haughty knight, hight sir bleoberis de ganys, who was brother to sir blamor de ganys and right cousin to sir launcelot of the lake. this knight was a fellow of king arthur's round table, and so he was received with great honor at cornwall, and much joy was taken of his being there; for it was not often that knights of such repute as he came to those parts. at that time sir tristram was not present at the court, having gone hunting into the forest, but a messenger was sent to him with news that sir bleoberis was present at the court of the king and that king mark wished him to be at court also. now whilst sir tristram was upon his way to return to the court in obedience to these commands, there was held a feast at the castle of the king in honor of sir bleoberis. there was much strong wine drunk at that feast, so that the brains of sir bleoberis and of others grew very much heated therewith. then, what with the heat of the wine and the noise and tumult of the feast, sir bleoberis waxed very hot-headed, and boastful. so, being in that condition and not knowing very well how he spake, he made great boast of the prowess of the knights of king arthur's court above those of cornwall. and in this boastful humor he said: "it is perfectly true that one single knight of the round table is the peer of twenty knights of cornwall, for so it is said and so i maintain it to be." upon that there fell a silence over all that part of the feast, for all the knights and lords who were there heard what sir bleoberis said, and yet no one knew how to reply to him. as for king mark, he looked upon sir bleoberis, smiling very sourly, and as though with great distaste of his words, and he said: "messire, inasmuch as thou art our guest, and sitting here at feast with us, it is not fit that we should take thy words seriously; else what thou sayst might be very easily disproved." upon this the blood rushed with great violence into the face and head of sir bleoberis, and he laughed very loud. then he said: "well, lord, it need not be that i should be a guest here very long. and as for what i say, you may easily put the truth thereof to the proof." [sidenote: sir bleoberis challenges the knights of cornwall] therewith sir bleoberis arose and looked about him, and he perceived that there was near by where he stood a goblet of gold very beautifully chased and cunningly carved. this sir bleoberis took into his hand, and it was half full of red wine. so he stood up before them all, and he cried in a very loud voice: "messires, and all you knights of cornwall, here i drink to your more excellent courage and prowess, and wish that you may have better fortune in arms than you have heretofore proved yourselves to have?" and therewith he drank all the wine that was in the goblet. then he said: "now i go away from here and take this goblet with me; and if any knight of cornwall may take it away from me and bring it back again to the king, then i am very willing to own that there are better knights in this country than i supposed there to be." therewith he turned and went out from that place very haughtily and scornfully, taking that goblet with him, and not one of all those knights who were there made any move to stay him, or to reprove him for his discourteous speech. now after he had come out of the hall and into the cool of the air, the heat of the wine soon left him, and he began to repent him of what he had done; and he said: "alas! meseems i was not very courteous to king mark, who was mine host." so for a while he was minded to take that goblet back again and make amends for what he had said; but afterward he could not do this because of his pride. so he went to the chamber that had been allotted to him and clad himself in his armor, and after that he rode away from the court of king mark carrying the goblet with him. [sidenote: sir tristram is angry] now some while after he had gone, sir tristram came into the hall where the others were, and there he found them all sitting with ill countenances, and no man daring, for shame, to look at his fellow. so sir tristram came to king mark and said: "where is sir bleoberis?" and king mark said, "he is gone away." sir tristram said, "why did he go?" thereupon king mark told sir tristram of what had befallen, and how sir bleoberis had taken away that goblet to the great shame and scorn of all those who were there. upon this the blood flew very violently into sir tristram's face, and he said: "was there no knight here with spirit enough to call reproof upon sir bleoberis, or to stay him in his going?" therewith he looked all about that hall, and he was like a lion standing among them, and no man dared to look him in the face or to reply to him. then he said: "well, if there is no knight in cornwall who hath the will to defend his king, then is there a knight of lyonesse who will do so because he received knighthood at the hands of the king of cornwall." and therewith he turned and went away, and left them very haughtily, and they were all still more abashed than they had been before. then sir tristram went to his chamber and had himself armed in all wise; and he took his horse and mounted and rode away in the direction that sir bleoberis had gone, and gouvernail went with him. [sidenote: sir tristram follows sir bleoberis] so sir tristram and gouvernail rode at a good pace for a long time, making inquiry of whomsoever they met if sir bleoberis had passed that way. at last they entered the forest and rode therein a great way, meeting no one till toward the latter part of the afternoon. by and by they saw before them two knights, very large and strong of frame and clad all in bright and shining armor, and each riding a great war-horse of flemish strain. [sidenote: sir tristram comes to two knights] "gouvernail," said sir tristram, "ride forward apace and see for me who are yonder knights." so gouvernail rode forward at a gallop, and so, in a little, came near enough to the two knights to see the devices upon their shields. upon that he returned to sir tristram, and said: "messire, those are two very famous worthy knights of king arthur's court, and of the two you are acquainted with one, but the other is a stranger to you. for the one is sir sagramore le desirous, who was at that tournament in ireland, and the other is sir dodinas le sauvage." "well," said sir tristram, "those are indeed two very good, worthy knights. now if you will sit here for a while, i will go forward and have speech with them." "messire," said gouvernail, "i would counsel you not to have to do with those knights, for there are hardly any knights more famous at arms than they, so it is not likely that you can have success of them if you should assay them." but to this sir tristram said: "peace, gouvernail! hold thy peace, and bide here while i go forward!" now those knights when they became aware that sir tristram and gouvernail were there, had halted at a clear part of the woodland to await what should befall. unto them sir tristram came, riding with great dignity and haughtiness, and when he had come nigh enough he drew rein and spoke with great pride of bearing, saying: "messires, i require of you to tell me whence you come, and whither you go, and what you do in these marches?" unto him sir sagramore made reply, speaking very scornfully: "fair knight, are you a knight of cornwall?" and sir tristram said: "why do you ask me that?" "messire," said sir sagramore, "i ask you that because it hath seldom been heard tell that a cornish knight hath courage to call upon two knights to answer such questions as you have asked of us." "well," said sir tristram, "for the matter of that, i am at this present a knight of cornwall, and i hereby let you know that you shall not go away from here unless you either answer my question or give me satisfaction at arms." then sir dodinas spoke very fiercely, saying: "sir cornish knight, you shall presently have all the satisfaction at arms that you desire and a great deal more than you desire." therewith he took a very stout spear in his hand and rode to a little distance, and sir tristram, beholding his intent to do battle, also rode to a little distance, and took stand in such a place as seemed to him to be best. then, when they were in all wise prepared, they rushed together with such astonishing vehemence that the earth shook and trembled beneath them. [sidenote: sir tristram does battle with sir dodinas] therewith they met in the middle of their course with a great uproar of iron and wood. but in that onset the spear of sir dodinas broke into a great many small pieces, but the spear of sir tristram held, so that in the encounter he lifted sir dodinas entirely out of his saddle, and out behind the crupper of his horse. and he flung sir dodinas down so violently that his neck was nearly broken, and he lay for a while in a deep swoon like one who has been struck dead. then sir sagramore said: "well, sir knight, that was certes a very great buffet that you gave my fellow, but now it is my turn to have ado with you." [sidenote: sir tristram does battle with sir sagramore] so therewith he took also his spear in hand and chose his station for an assault as sir dodinas had done, and sir tristram also took station as he had done before. then immediately they two ran together with the same terrible force that sir tristram and sir dodinas had coursed, and in that encounter sir tristram struck sir sagramore so direful a buffet with his spear that he overthrew both horse and man, and the horse, falling upon sir sagramore, so bruised his leg that he could not for a while arise from where he lay. therewith sir tristram, having run his course, came back to where those two knights lay upon the ground, and he said, "fair knights, will you have any more fighting?" they said, "no, we have had fighting enough." then sir tristram said: "i pray you, tell me, are there any bigger knights at the court of king arthur than you? if it is not so, then i should think you would take great shame to yourselves that you have been overthrown the one after the other by a single knight. for this day a knight of cornwall hath assuredly matched you both to your great despite." [sidenote: sir tristram acknowledges his degree] then sir sagramore said: "sir, i pray you upon your true knighthood to tell us who you are, for you are assuredly one of the greatest knights in the world." upon this sir tristram laughed, "nay," quoth he, "i am as yet a young knight, who has had but little proof in battle. as for my name, since you ask it of me, upon my knighthood i am not ashamed to tell you that i am hight sir tristram, and that i am king meliadus' son of lyonesse." "ha!" said sir sagramore, "if that be so, then there is little shame in being overthrown by you. for not only do i well remember how at the court of the king of ireland you overthrew six knights of the round table, and how easily you overthrew sir palamydes the saracen, but it is also very well known how you did battle with sir marhaus, and of how you overcame him. now sir marhaus and sir palamydes were two of the best knights in the world, so it is not astonishing that you should have done as you did with us. but, since you have overthrown us, what is it you would have us do?" "messires," said sir tristram, "i have only to demand two things of you. one of them is that you give me your word that you will go to cornwall and confess to king mark that you have been overthrown by a cornish knight; and the second thing is that you tell me if you saw sir bleoberis de ganys pass this way?" they say: "messire, touching that demand you make upon us to go to king mark and to confess our fall, that we will do as you desire; and as for sir bleoberis, we met him only a short while ago, and he cannot even now be very far from this place." "well," said sir tristram, "i give you good den, and thank you for your information. i have some words to say to sir bleoberis before he leave these marches." so thereafter he called gouvernail, and they two rode into the forest and on their way as fast as they were able. as for sir dodinas and sir sagramore, they betook their course to the court of king mark, as they had promised to do. [sidenote: sir tristram comes to sir bleoberis] now, by and by, after sir tristram and gouvernail had gone some considerable distance farther upon that road, they beheld sir bleoberis before them in a forest path, riding very proudly and at an easy pass upon his way. at that time the sun was setting very low toward the earth, so that all the tops of the forest trees were aflame with a very ruddy light, though all below in the forest was both cool and gray. now when sir tristram and gouvernail with him had come pretty nigh to sir bleoberis, sir tristram called to him in a very loud voice, and bade him turn and stand. therewith sir bleoberis turned about and waited for sir tristram to come up with him. and when sir tristram was come near by, he said to sir bleoberis: "messire, i hear tell that you have with you a very noble goblet which you have taken in a shameful way from the table of king mark of cornwall. now i demand of you that you give me that goblet to take back unto the king again." "well," said sir bleoberis, "you shall freely have that goblet if you can take it from me, and if you will look, you will see where it hangs here from my saddle-horn. but i may tell you that i do not believe that there is any cornish knight who may take away that goblet against my will." "as for that," said sir tristram, "we shall see in a little while how it may be." [sidenote: sir tristram overcometh sir bleoberis] therewith each knight took his spear in hand and rode a little distance away, and made himself in all wise ready for the assault. then when they were in all ways prepared, each launched himself against the other, coming together with such violence that sparks of fire flew out from the points of their spears. and in that assault the horse of each knight was overthrown, but each knight voided his saddle and leaped very lightly to earth, without either having had a fall. then each drew his sword and set his shield before him, and therewith came together, foining and lashing with all the power of their might. each gave the other many sore strokes, so that the armor of each was indented in several places and in other places was stained with red. then at last sir tristram waxed very wode with anger and he rushed at sir bleoberis, smiting him so fiercely that sir bleoberis bare back and held his shield low before him. this sir tristram perceived, and therewith, rushing in upon sir bleoberis, he smote that knight such a great buffet upon the head that sir bleoberis fell down upon his knees, without having strength to keep his feet. then sir tristram rushed off the helmet of sir bleoberis, and he said, "sir knight, yield to me or i shall slay you." "messire," said sir bleoberis, "i yield myself to you, and indeed you are as right a knight as ever i met in all of my life." then sir tristram took sir bleoberis by the hand and he lifted him up upon his feet, and he said: "sir, i am very sorry for to have had to do with you in this fashion, for almost would i rather that you should have overcome me than that i should have overcome you. for i do not at any time forget that you are cousin unto sir launcelot of the lake, and i honor sir launcelot above all men else in the world, and would rather have his friendship than that of any man living. so i have had no despite against you in this battle, but have only fought with you because it behooved me to do so for the sake of the king of cornwall, who is my uncle." then sir bleoberis said, "messire, i pray you tell me who you are?" "lord," said sir tristram, "i am a very young knight hight tristram, and i am the son of king meliadus of lyonesse and the lady elizabeth, sister unto king mark of cornwall." [sidenote: sir bleoberis gives the goblet to sir tristram] "ha," said sir bleoberis, "i have heard great report of you, sir tristram, and now i know at mine own cost that you are one of the best knights in the world. yea; i have no doubt that at some time you will be the peer of sir launcelot of the lake himself, or of sir lamorak of gales, and they two are, certes, the best knights in the world. now i believe that i would have given you this goblet, even without your having to fight for it, had i known who you were; and as it is i herewith give it to you very freely." so sir bleoberis untied the goblet from where it hung at his saddle-bow, and sir tristram took the goblet and gave him gramercy for it; and therewith having recovered their horses, each knight mounted, and betook his way whither he was going. so a little after nightfall sir tristram came to the king of cornwall and his court, and he said to king mark: "here is your goblet which i have brought back to you; and i would god that some of your knights who are so much older than i had the courage to do for you what i have had to do." and therewith he went away and left them all sitting ashamed. now it chanced some little while after these things happened as aforesaid, that king mark lay down upon his couch after his midday meal for to sleep a little space during the heat of the day; and it likewise happened that the window near by where he lay was open so that the air might come into the room. now at that time three knights of the court sat in the garden beneath where the window was. these knights talked to one another concerning sir tristram, and of how he had brought back that goblet from sir bleoberis de ganys, and of what honor it was to have such a champion in cornwall for to stand for the honor of that court. in their talk they said to one another that if only the king of cornwall were such a knight as sir tristram, then there would be plenty of knights of good worth who would come to that court, and cornwall would no longer have to be ashamed of its chivalry as it was nowadays. so they said: "would god our king were such a knight as sir tristram!" [sidenote: king mark takes hatred to sir tristram] all this king mark overheard, and the words that they said were like a very bitter poison in his heart. for their words entered into his soul and abided there, and thereupon at that same hour all his love for tristram was turned into hate. thus it befell that, after that day, king mark ever pondered and pondered upon that which he had heard, and the longer he pondered it, the more bitter did his life become to him, and the more he hated sir tristram. so it came to pass that whenever he was with sir tristram and looked upon him, he would say in his heart: "so they say that you are a better knight than i? would god you were dead or away from this place, for i believe that some day you will be my undoing!" yea; there were times when he would look upon sir tristram in that wise and whisper to himself: "would god would send a blight upon thee, so that thou wouldst wither away!" but always the king dissembled this hatred for sir tristram, so that no one suspected him thereof; least of all did sir tristram suspect how changed was the heart of the king toward him. now one day sir tristram was playing upon his harp and singing before king mark, and the king sat brooding upon these things as he gazed at tristram. and sir tristram, as he ofttimes did nowadays, sang of the lady belle isoult, and of how her face was like to a rose for fairness, and of how her soul was like to a nightingale in that it uplifted the spirit of whosoever was near her even though the darkness of sorrow as of night might envelop him. and whilst sir tristram sang thus, king mark listened to him, and as he listened a thought entered his heart and therewith he smiled. so when sir tristram had ended his song of the belle isoult, king mark said: "fair nephew, i would that you would undertake a quest for me." sir tristram said, "what quest is that, lord?" "nay," said king mark, "i will not tell you what quest it is unless you will promise me upon your knighthood to undertake it upon my behalf." then sir tristram suspected no evil, wherefore he smiled and said: "dear lord, if the quest is a thing that it is in my power to undertake, i will undertake it upon your asking, and unto that i pledge my knighthood." king mark said, "it is a quest that you may undertake." sir tristram said, "then i will undertake it, if you will tell me what it is." [sidenote: king mark betrays sir tristram to a promise] king mark said: "i have listened to your singing for this long while concerning the lady belle isoult. so the quest i would have you undertake is this: that you go to ireland, and bring thence the lady belle isoult to be my queen. for because of your songs and ballads i have come to love her so greatly that i believe that i shall have no happiness in life until i have her for my queen. so now, since you have pledged me your word upon your knighthood to do my bidding in this case, such is the quest that i would send you upon." and therewith he smiled upon sir tristram very strangely. [sidenote: how sir tristram fell into despair] then sir tristram perceived how he had been betrayed and he put aside his harp and rose from where he sat. and he gazed for a long while at king mark, and his countenance was wonderfully white like that of a dead man. then by and by he said: "sir, i know not why you have put this upon me, nor do i know why you have betrayed me. for i have ever served you truly as a worthy knight and a kinsman should. wherefore i know not why you have done this unto me, nor why you seek to compass my death. for you know very well that if i return to ireland i shall very likely be slain either by the queen or by some of her kindred, because that for your sake i slew in battle sir marhaus, the queen's brother of ireland. yet, so far as that is concerned, i would rather lose my life than succeed in this quest, for if so be i do not lose my life, then i must do that which i would liever die than do. yea; i believe that there was never any knight loved a lady as i love the lady belle isoult. for i love her not only because of her beauty and graciousness, but because she healed mine infirmities and lent ease unto my great sufferings and brought me back from death unto life. wherefore that which you bid me fulfil is more bitter to me than death." "well," said king mark, "i know nothing of all this--only i know that you have given me your knightly word to fulfil this quest." "very well," said sir tristram, "if god will give me his good help in this matter, then i will do that which i have pledged my knighthood to undertake." therewith he turned and went out from that place in such great despair that it was as though his heart had been turned into ashes. but king mark was filled with joy that he should have caused sir tristram all that pain, and he said to his heart: "this is some satisfaction for the hate which i feel for this knight; by and by i shall maybe have greater satisfaction than that." after that sir tristram did not come any more where king mark was, but he went straight away from the king's court and into a small castle that king mark had given him some while since for his own. there he abided for several days in great despair of soul, for it seemed to him as though god had deserted him entirely. there for a while gouvernail alone was with him and no one else, but after a while several knights came to him and gave him great condolence and offered to join with him as his knights-companion. and there were eighteen of these knights, and sir tristram was very glad of their comradeship. these said to him: "sir, you should not lend yourself to such great travail of soul, but should bend yourself as a true knight should to assume that burden that god hath assigned you to bear." so they spoke, and by and by sir tristram aroused himself from his despair and said to himself: "well, what these gentlemen say is true, and god hath assuredly laid this very heavy burden upon me; as that is so, i must needs assume it for his sake." [sidenote: sir tristram departs from cornwall] so sir tristram and the knights who were with him abode in that place for a day or two or three, and then one morning sir tristram armed himself and they armed themselves, and all took their departure from that castle and went down to the sea. then they took ship with intent to depart to ireland upon that quest sir tristram had promised king mark he would undertake, and in a little they hoisted sail and departed from cornwall for ireland. but they were not to make their quest upon that pass so speedily as they thought, for, upon the second day of their voyaging, there arose a great storm of wind of such a sort that the sailors of that ship had never seen the like thereof in all of their lives. for the waves rose up like mountains, and anon the waters sank away into deep valleys with hills of water upon either side all crested over with foam as white as snow. and anon that ship would be uplifted as though the huge sea would toss it into the clouds; and anon it would fall down into a gulf so deep that it appeared as though the green waters would swallow it up entirely. the air roared as though it were full of demons and evil spirits out of hell, and the wind was wet and very bitter with brine. so the ship fled away before that tempest, and the hearts of all aboard were melted with fear because of the great storm of wind and the high angry waves. then toward evening those who were watching from the lookout beheld a land and a haven, and they saw upon the land overlooking the haven was a noble castle and a fair large town, surrounded by high walls of stone. so they told the others of what they saw, and all gave great rejoicing for that they were so nigh the land. therewith they sailed the ship toward the haven, and having entered therein in safety, they cast anchor under the walls of the castle and the town, taking great joy that god had brought them safe and sound through that dreadful peril of the tempest. [sidenote: sir tristram comes to camelot] then sir tristram said to gouvernail: "knowest thou, gouvernail, what place is this to which we have come?" "messire," said gouvernail, "i think it is camelot." and then those knights of cornwall who stood by said, "yea, that is true, and it is camelot." and one of them said: "messire, it is likely that king arthur is at that place at this very time, for so it was reported that he was, and so i believe it to be." "ha," quoth tristram, "that is very good news to me, for i believe that it would be the greatest joy to me that the world can now give to behold king arthur and those noble knights of his court ere i die. more especially do i desire above all things to behold that great, noble champion, sir launcelot of the lake. so let us now go ashore, and mayhap it shall come to pass that i shall see the great king and sir launcelot and mayhap shall come to speak with the one or the other." and that saying of sir tristram's seemed good to those knights who were with him, for they were weary of the sea, and desired to rest for a while upon the dry land. [sidenote: sir tristram sets up his pavilion] so they presently all went ashore and bade their attendants set up their pavilions in a fair level meadow that was somewhat near a league distant away from the castle and the town. in the midst of the other pavilions upon that plain was set the pavilion of sir tristram. it was of fine crimson cloth striped with silver and there was the figure of a gryphon carved upon the summit of the centre pole of the pavilion. the spear of sir tristram was emplanted by the point of the truncheon in the ground outside the pavilion, and thereunto his shield was hung so that those who passed that way might clearly behold what was the device thereon. and now shall be told how sir tristram became united in friendship with the brotherhood of good knights at king arthur's court. [illustration: sir tristram sits with sir launcelot] chapter sixth _how sir tristram had to do in battle with three knights of the round table. also how he had speech with king arthur._ so came the next morning, and uprose the sun in all the splendor of his glory, shedding his beams to every quarter with a rare dazzling effulgence. for by night the clouds of storm had passed away and gone, and now all the air was clear and blue, and the level beams of light fell athwart the meadow-lands so that countless drops of water sparkled on leaf and blade of grass, like an incredible multitude of shining jewels scattered all over the earth. then they who slept were awakened by the multitudinous voicing of the birds; for at that hour the small fowl sang so joyous a roundelay that all the early morning was full of the sweet jargon of their chanting. at this time, so early in the day, there came two knights riding by where sir tristram and his companions had set up their pavilions. these were two very famous knights of king arthur's court and of the round table; for one was sir ector de maris and the other was sir morganor of lisle. [sidenote: how two knights came to the pavilion of sir tristram] when these two knights perceived the pavilions of sir tristram and his knights-companion, they made halt, and sir ector de maris said, "what knights are these who have come hither?" then sir morganor looked and presently he said: "sir, i perceive by their shields that these are cornish knights, and he who occupies this central pavilion must be the champion of this party." "well," quoth sir ector, "as for that i take no great thought of any cornish knight, so do thou strike the shield of that knight and call him forth, and let us see of what mettle he is made." "i will do so," said sir morganor; and therewith he rode forward to where the shield of sir tristram hung from the spear, and he smote the shield with the point of his lance, so that it rang with a very loud noise. upon this, sir tristram immediately came to the door of his pavilion, and said, "messires, why did you strike upon my shield?" "because," said sir ector, "we are of a mind to try your mettle what sort of a knight you be." quoth sir tristram: "god forbid that you should not be satisfied. so if you will stay till i put on my armor you shall immediately have your will in this matter." thereupon he went back into his tent and armed himself and mounted his horse and took a good stout spear of ash-wood into his hand. then all the knights of cornwall who were with sir tristram came forth to behold what their champion would do, and all their esquires, pages, and attendants came forth for the same purpose, and it was a very pleasant time of day for jousting. [sidenote: sir tristram overthrows sir morganor] then first of all sir morganor essayed sir tristram, and in that encounter sir tristram smote him so dreadful, terrible a blow that he cast him a full spear's length over the crupper of his horse, and that so violently that the blood gushed out of the nose and mouth and ears of sir morganor, and he groaned very dolorously and could not arise from where he lay. "hah," quoth sir ector, "that was a very wonderful buffet you struck my fellow. but now it is my turn to have ado with you, and i hope god will send me a better fortune." [sidenote: sir tristram overthrows sir ector] so he took stand for battle as did sir tristram likewise, and when they were in all wise prepared they rushed very violently to the assault. in that encounter ector suffered hardly less ill fortune than sir morganor had done. for he brake his spear against sir tristram into as many as an hundred pieces, whilst sir tristram's spear held so that he overthrew both the horse and the knight-rider against whom he drove. then all the knights of cornwall gave loud acclaim that their knight had borne himself so well in those encounters. but sir tristram rode back to where those two knights still lay upon the ground, and he said: "well, messires, this is no very good hap that you have had with me." upon that speech sir ector de maris gathered himself up from the dust and said: "sir knight, i pray you of your knighthood to tell us who you be and what is your degree, for i declare to you, i believe you are one of the greatest knights-champion of the world." "sir," said sir tristram, "i am very willing to tell you my name and my station; i am sir tristram, the son of king meliadus of lyonesse." "ha," quoth sir ector, "i would god i had known that before i had ado with you, for your fame hath already reached to these parts, and there hath been such report of your prowess and several songs have been made about you by minstrels and poets. i who speak to you am sir ector, surnamed de maris, and this, my companion, is sir morganor of lisle." "alas!" cried out sir tristram, "i would that i had known who you were ere i did battle with you. for i have greater love for the knights of the round table than all others in the world, and most of all, sir ector, do i have reverence for your noble brother sir launcelot of the lake. so i take great shame to myself that any mishap should have befallen you this day through me." upon this sir ector laughed. "well," quoth he, "let not that trouble lie with you, for it was we who gave you challenge without inquiry who you were, and you did but defend yourself. we were upon our way to camelot yonder, when we fell into this mishap, for king arthur is at this time holding court at that place. so now, if we have your leave to go upon our way, we will betake ourselves to the king and tell him that you are here, for we know that he will be very glad of that news." upon this sir tristram gave them leave to depart, and they did so with many friendly words of good cheer. and after they had gone sir tristram went back into his pavilion again and partook of refreshment that was brought to him. [sidenote: there comes a knight in white armor] now, some while after sir ector and sir morganor had left that place, and whilst sir tristram was still resting in his pavilion, there came a single knight riding that way, and this knight was clad altogether in white armor and his shield was covered over with a covering of white leather, so that one could not see what device he bare thereon. when this white knight came to the place where sir tristram and his companions had pitched their pavilions, he also stopped as sir ector and sir morganor had done, for he desired to know what knights these were. at that time gouvernail was standing alone in front of sir tristram's pavilion, and unto him the white knight said: "sir, i pray you, tell me who is the knight to whom this pavilion belongs." now gouvernail thought to himself: "here is another knight who would have ado with my master. perhaps sir tristram may have glory by him also." so he answered the white knight: "sir, i may not tell you the name of this knight, for he is my master, and if he pleases to tell you his name he must tell it himself." "very well," said the white knight, "then i will straightway ask him." therewith he rode to where the shield of sir tristram hung, and he struck upon the shield so violent a blow that it rang very loud and clear. then straightway came forth sir tristram and several of his knights-companion from out of the pavilion, and sir tristram said, "sir knight, wherefore did you strike upon my shield?" "messire," quoth the white knight, "i struck upon your shield so that i might summon you hither for to tell me your name, for i have asked it of your esquire and he will not tell me." "fair knight," quoth sir tristram, "neither will i tell you my name until i have wiped out that affront which you have set upon my shield by that stroke you gave it. for no man may touch my shield without my having to do with him because of the affront he gives me thereby." "well," said the white knight, "i am satisfied to have it as you please." [sidenote: sir tristram does battle with the white knight] so therewith sir tristram went back into his pavilion and several went with him. these put his helmet upon his head and they armed him for battle in all ways. after that sir tristram came forth and mounted his horse and took his spear in hand and made himself in all ways ready for battle, and all that while the white knight awaited his coming very calmly and steadfastly. then sir tristram took ground for battle, and the white knight did so likewise. so being in all ways prepared, each launched forth against the other with such amazing and terrible violence that those who beheld that encounter stood as though terrified with the thunder of the onset. therewith the two knights met in the midst of the course, and each knight smote the other directly in the centre of the shield. in that encounter the spear of each knight broke all to small pieces, even to the truncheon which he held in his fist. and so terrible was the blow that each struck the other that the horse of each fell back upon his haunches, and it was only because of the great address of the knight-rider that the steed was able to recover his footing. as for sir tristram, that was the most terrible buffet he ever had struck him in all his life before that time. then straightway sir tristram voided his saddle and drew his sword and dressed his shield. and he cried out: "ha, sir knight! i demand of you that you descend from your horse and do me battle afoot." "very well," said the white knight, "thou shalt have thy will." and thereupon he likewise voided his horse and drew his sword and dressed his shield and made himself in all ways ready for battle as sir tristram had done. therewith they two came together and presently fell to fighting with such ardor that sparks of fire flew from every stroke. and if sir tristram struck hard and often, the white knight struck as hard and as often as he, so that all the knights of cornwall who stood about marvelled at the strength and fierceness of the knights-combatant. each knight gave the other many sore buffets so that the armor was here and there dinted and here and there was broken through by the edge of the sword so that the red blood flowed out therefrom and down over the armor, turning its brightness in places into an ensanguined red. thus they fought for above an hour and in all that time neither knight gave ground or gained any vantage over the other. [sidenote: sir tristram falls in the battle] then after a while sir tristram grew more weary of fighting than ever he had been in all of his life before, and he was aware that this was the greatest knight whom he had ever met. but still he would not give ground, but fought from this side and from that side with great skill and address until of a sudden, he slipped upon some of that blood that he himself had shed, and because of his great weariness, fell down upon his knees, and could not for the instant rise again. then that white knight might easily have struck him down if he had been minded to do so. but, instead, he withheld the blow and gave sir tristram his hand and said: "sir knight, rise up and stand upon thy feet and let us go at this battle again if it is thy pleasure to do so; for i do not choose to take advantage of thy fall." then sir tristram was as greatly astonished at the extraordinary courtesy of his enemy as he had been at his prowess. and because of that courtesy he would not fight again, but stood leaning upon his sword panting. then he said: "sir knight, i pray thee of thy knighthood to tell me what is thy name and who thou art." "messire," said the white knight, "since you ask me that upon my knighthood, i cannot refuse to tell you my name. and so i will do, provided you, upon your part, will do me a like courtesy and will first tell me your name and degree." quoth sir tristram: "i will tell you that. my name is sir tristram of lyonesse, and i am the son of king meliadus of that land whereby i have my surname." [sidenote: sir launcelot confesses himself] "ha, sir tristram," said the white knight, "often have i heard of thee and of thy skill at arms, and well have i proved thy fame this day and that all that is said of thee is true. i must tell thee that i have never yet met my match until i met thee this day. for i know not how this battle might have ended hadst thou not slipped and fallen by chance as thou didst. my name is sir launcelot, surnamed of the lake, and i am king ban's son of benwick." at this sir tristram cried out in a loud voice: "sir launcelot! sir launcelot! is it thou against whom i have been doing battle! rather i would that anything should have happened to me than that, for of all men in the world i most desire thy love and friendship." [sidenote: sir tristram yields to sir launcelot] then, having so spoken, sir tristram immediately kneeled down upon his knees and said: "messire, i yield myself unto thee, being overcome not more by thy prowess than by thy courtesy. for i freely confess that thou art the greatest knight in the world, against whom no other knight can hope to stand; for i could fight no more and thou mightest easily have slain me when i fell down a while since." "nay, sir tristram," said sir launcelot, "arise, and kneel not to me, for i am not willing to accept thy submission, for indeed it is yet to be proved which of us is the better knight, thou or i. wherefore let neither of us yield to the other, but let us henceforth be as dear as brothers-in-arms the one toward the other." then sir tristram rose up to his feet again. "well, sir launcelot," he said, "whatsoever thou shalt ordain shall be as thou wouldst have it. but there is one thing i must do because of this battle." [sidenote: sir tristram breaks his sword] then he looked upon his sword which he held naked and ensanguined in his hand and he said: "good sword; thou hast stood my friend and hast served me well in several battles, but this day thou hast served me for the last time." therewith he suddenly took the blade of the sword in both hands--the one at the point and the other nigh the haft--and he brake the blade across his knee and flung the pieces away. upon this sir launcelot cried out in a loud voice: "ha, messire! why didst thou do such a thing as that? to break thine own fair sword?" "sir," quoth sir tristram, "this sword hath this day received the greatest honor that is possible for any blade to receive; for it hath been baptized in thy blood. so, because aught else that might happen to it would diminish that honor, i have broken it so that its honor might never be made less than it is at this present time." upon this sir launcelot ran to sir tristram and catched him in his arms, and he cried out: "tristram, i believe that thou art the noblest knight whom ever i beheld!" and sir tristram replied: "and thou, launcelot, i love better than father or kindred." therewith each kissed the other upon the face, and all they who stood by were so moved at that sight that several of them wept for pure joy. [sidenote: sir tristram and sir launcelot feast together] thereafter they two went into sir tristram's pavilion and disarmed themselves. then there came sundry attendants who were excellent leeches and these searched their hurts and bathed them and dressed them. and several other attendants came and fetched soft robes and clothed the knights therein so that they were very comfortable in their bodies. then still other attendants brought them good strong wine and manchets of bread and they sat together at table and ate very cheerfully and were greatly refreshed. so i have told you of that famous affair-at-arms betwixt sir launcelot and sir tristram, and i pray god that you may have the same pleasure in reading of it that i had in writing of it. [sidenote: king arthur comes to sir tristram's pavilion] now, as sir launcelot and sir tristram sat in the pavilion of sir tristram making pleasant converse together, there suddenly entered an esquire to where they were sitting. this esquire proclaimed: "messires, hither cometh king arthur, and he is very near at hand." thereupon, even as that esquire spoke, there came from without the pavilion a great noise of trampling horses and the pleasant sound of ringing armor, and then immediately a loud noise of many voices uplifted in acclamation. therewith sir launcelot and sir tristram arose from where they sat, and as they did so the curtains at the doorway of the pavilion were parted and there entered king arthur himself enveloped, as it were, with all the glory of his royal estate. unto him sir tristram ran, and would have fallen upon his knees, but king arthur stayed him from so doing. for the great king held him by the hand and lifted him up, and he said, "sir, are you sir tristram of lyonesse?" "yea," said sir tristram, "i am he." "ha," said king arthur, "i am gladder to see you than almost any man i know of in the world," and therewith he kissed sir tristram upon the face, and he said: "welcome, messire, to these parts! welcome! and thrice welcome!" then sir tristram besought king arthur that he would refresh himself, and the king said he would do so. so sir tristram brought him to the chiefest place, and there king arthur sat him down. and sir tristram would have served him with wine and with manchets of bread with his own hand, but king arthur would not have it so, but bade sir tristram to sit beside him on his right hand, and sir tristram did so. after that, king arthur spake to sir tristram about many things, and chiefly about king meliadus, the father of sir tristram, and about the court of lyonesse. then, after a while king arthur said: "messire, i hear tell that you are a wonderful harper." and sir tristram said, "lord, so men say of me." king arthur said, "i would fain hear your minstrelsy." to which sir tristram made reply: "lord, i will gladly do anything at all that will give you pleasure." so therewith sir tristram gave orders to gouvernail, and gouvernail brought him his shining golden harp, and the harp glistered with great splendor in the dim light of the pavilion. [sidenote: sir tristram sings before king arthur] sir tristram took the harp in his hands and tuned it and struck upon it. and he played upon the harp, and he sang to the music thereof so wonderfully that they who sat there listened in silence as though they were without breath. for not one of them had ever heard such singing as that music which sir tristram sang; for it was as though some angel were singing to those who sat there harkening to his chanting. so after sir tristram had ended, all who were there gave loud acclaim and much praise to his singing. "ha, messire!" quoth king arthur, "many times in my life have i heard excellent singing, but never before in my life have i heard such singing as that. now i wish that we might always have you at this court and that you would never leave us." and sir tristram said: "lord, i too would wish that i might always be with you and with these noble knights of your court, for i have never met any whom i love as i love them." so they sat there in great joy and friendliness of spirit, and, for the while, sir tristram forgot the mission he was upon and was happy in heart and glad of that terrible storm that had driven him thitherward. and now i shall tell you the conclusion of all these adventures, and of how it fared with sir tristram. [illustration: belle isoult and sir tristram drink the love draught] chapter seventh _how sir tristram had speech with king angus of ireland; how he undertook to champion the cause of king angus and of what happened thereafter_. [sidenote: sir tristram hears news of king angus] now, as sir tristram and king arthur and sir launcelot sat together in the pavilion of sir tristram in pleasant, friendly discourse, as aforetold, there came gouvernail of a sudden into that place. he, coming to sir tristram, leaned over his shoulder and he whispered into his ear: "sir, i have just been told that king angus of ireland is at this very time at camelot at the court of the king." upon this sir tristram turned to king arthur and said: "lord, my esquire telleth me that king angus of ireland is here at camelot; now i pray you tell me, is that saying true?" "yea," said king arthur, "that is true; but what of it?" "well," said sir tristram, "i had set forth to seek king angus in ireland, when i and my companions were driven hither by a great storm of wind. yet when i find him, i know not whether king angus may look upon me as a friend or as an unfriend." [sidenote: how sir bertrand was killed in ireland] "ha," said king arthur, "you need not take trouble concerning the regard in which king angus shall hold you. for he is at this time in such anxiety of spirit that he needs to have every man his friend who will be his friend, and no man his enemy whom he can reconcile to him. he is not just now in very good grace, either with me or with my court, for the case with him is thus: some while ago, after you left the court of ireland, there came to that place sir blamor de ganys (who is right cousin to sir launcelot of the lake) and with sir blamor a knight-companion hight sir bertrand de la riviere rouge. these two knights went to ireland with intent to win themselves honor at the court of ireland. whilst they were in that kingdom there were held many jousts and tourneys, and in all of them sir blamor and sir bertrand were victorious, and all the knights of ireland who came against them were put to shame at their hands. many of the irish knights were exceedingly angry at this, and so likewise was the king of ireland. now it happened one day that sir bertrand was found dead and murdered at a certain pass in the king's forest, and when the news thereof was brought to sir blamor, he was very wroth that his knight-companion should have been thus treacherously slain. so he immediately quitted ireland and returned hither straightway, and when he had come before me he accused king angus of treason because of that murder. now at this time king angus is here upon my summons for to answer that charge and to defend himself therefrom; for sir blamor offers his body to defend the truth of his accusation, and as for the king of ireland, he can find no knight to take his part in that contention. for not only is sir blamor, as you very well know, one of the best knights in the world, but also nearly everybody here hath doubt of the innocence of king angus in this affair. now from this you may see that king angus is very much more in need of a friend at this time than he is of an enemy." "lord," said sir tristram, "what you tell me is very excellent good news, for now i know that i may have talk with king angus with safety to myself, and that he will no doubt receive me as a friend." so after king arthur and his court had taken their departure--it being then in the early sloping of the afternoon--sir tristram called gouvernail to him and bade him make ready their horses, and when gouvernail had done so, they two mounted and rode away by themselves toward that place where king angus had taken up his lodging. when they had come there, sir tristram made demand to have speech with the king, and therewith they in attendance ushered him in to where the king angus was. [sidenote: king angus welcomes sir tristram] but when king angus saw sir tristram who he was, and when he beheld a face that was both familiar and kind, he gave a great cry of joy, and ran to sir tristram and flung his arms about him, and kissed him upon the cheek; for he was rejoiced beyond measure to find a friend in that unfriendly place. then sir tristram said, "lord, what cheer have you?" unto that king angus replied: "tristram, i have very poor cheer; for i am alone amongst enemies with no one to befriend me, and unless i find some knight who will stand my champion to-morrow or the next day i am like to lose my life for the murder of sir bertrand de la riviere rouge. and where am i to find any one to act as my champion in defence of my innocence in this place, where i behold an enemy in every man whom i meet? alas, tristram! there is no one in all the world who will aid me unless it be you, for you alone of all the knights in the world beyond the circle of the knights of the round table may hope to stand against so excellent and so strong a hero!" "lord," quoth sir tristram, "i know very well what great trouble overclouds you at this time, and it is because of that that i am come hither for to visit you. for i have not at any time forgotten how that i told you when you spared my life in ireland that mayhap the time might come when i might serve as your friend in your day of need. so if you will satisfy me upon two points, then i myself will stand for your champion upon this occasion." "ah, tristram," quoth king angus, "what you say is very good news to me indeed. for i believe there is no other knight in all the world (unless it be sir launcelot of the lake) who is so strong and worthy a knight as you. so tell me what are those two matters concerning which you would seek satisfaction, and, if it is possible for me to do so, i will give you such an answer as may please you." "lord," said sir tristram, "the first matter is this: that you shall satisfy me that you are altogether innocent of the death of sir bertrand. and the second matter is this: that you shall grant me whatsoever favor it is that i shall have to ask of you." [sidenote: king angus swears innocence to sir tristram] then king angus arose and drew his sword and he said: "tristram, behold; here is my sword--and the guard thereof and the blade thereof and the handle thereof make that holy sign of the cross unto which all christian men bow down to worship. look! see! here i kiss that holy sign and herewith i swear an oath upon that sacred symbol, and i furthermore swear upon the honor of my knighthood, that i am altogether guiltless of the death of that noble, honorable knight aforesaid. nor do i at all know how it was he met his death, for i am innocent of all evil knowledge thereof. now, messire, art thou satisfied upon that point?" and sir tristram said, "i am satisfied." then king angus said: "as to the matter of granting you a favor, that i would do in any case for the love i bear you. so let me hear what it is that you have to ask of me." [sidenote: sir tristram asks his boon] "lord," cried out sir tristram, "the favor is one i had liever die than ask. it is this: that you give me your daughter, the lady belle isoult, for wife unto mine uncle, king mark of cornwall." upon these words, king angus sat in silence for a long while, gazing very strangely upon sir tristram. then by and by he said: "messire, this is a very singular thing you ask of me; for from what you said to me aforetime and from what you said to my daughter i had thought that you desired the lady belle isoult for yourself. now i can in no wise understand why you do not ask for her in your name instead of asking for her in the name of king mark." then sir tristram cried out as in great despair: "messire, i love that dear lady a great deal more than i love my life; but in this affair i am fulfilling a pledge made upon the honor of my knighthood and unto the king of cornwall, who himself made me knight. for i pledged him unaware, and now i am paying for my hastiness. yet i would god that you might take the sword which you hold in your hand and thrust it through my heart; for i had liefer die than fulfil this obligation to which i am pledged." "well," said king angus, "you know very well that i will not slay you, but that i will fulfil your boon as i have promised. as for what you do in this affair, you must answer for it to god and to the honor of your own knighthood whether it is better to keep that promise which you made to the king of cornwall or to break it." then sir tristram cried out again in great travail of soul: "lord, you know not what you say, nor what torments i am at this present moment enduring." and therewith he arose and went forth from that place, for he was ashamed that anyone should behold the passion that moved him. and now is to be told of that famous battle betwixt sir tristram and sir blamor de ganys of which so much hath been written in all the several histories of chivalry that deal with these matters. now when the next morning had come--clear and fair and with the sun shining wonderfully bright--a great concourse of people began to betake themselves to that place where the lists had been set up in preparation for that ordeal of battle. that place was on a level meadow of grass very fair bedight with flowers and not far from the walls of the town nor from the high road that led to the gate of the same. [sidenote: of the meadow of battle] and, indeed, that was a very beautiful place for battle, for upon the one hand was the open countryside, all gay with spring blossoms and flowers; and upon the other hand were the walls of the town. over above the top of those walls was to be seen a great many tall towers--some built of stone and some of brick--that rose high up into the clear, shining sky all full of slow-drifting clouds, that floated, as it were, like full-breasted swans in a sea of blue. and beyond the walls of the town you might behold a great many fair houses with bright windows of glass all shining against the sky. so you may see how fair was all that place, where that fierce battle was presently to be fought. meanwhile, great multitudes of people had gathered all about the meadow of battle, and others stood like flies upon the walls of the town and looked down into that fair, pleasant meadow-land, spread with its carpet of flowers. all along one side of the ground of battle was a scaffolding of seats fair bedraped with fabrics of various colors and textures. in the midst of all the other seats were two seats hung with cloth of scarlet, and these seats were the one for king arthur and the other for king angus of ireland. in the centre of the meadow-land sir blamor rode up and down very proudly. he was clad in red armor, and the trappings and the furniture of his horse were all of red, so that he paraded the field like a crimson flame of fire. "sir." quoth king arthur to king angus, "yon is a very strong, powerful, noble knight; now where mayst thou find one who can hope to stand against him in this coming battle?" [sidenote: king angus presents sir tristram for his champion] "lord," said king angus, "i do believe that god hath raised up a defender for me in this extremity. for sir tristram of lyonesse came to me yesterday, and offered for to take this quarrel of mine upon him. now i do not believe that there is any better knight in all of christendom than he, wherefore i am to-day uplifted with great hopes that mine innocence shall be proved against mine accuser." "ha!" quoth king arthur, "if sir tristram is to stand thy champion in this affair, then i do believe that thou hast indeed found for thyself a very excellent, worthy defender." so anon there came sir tristram riding to that place, attended only by gouvernail. and he was clad all in bright, polished armor so that he shone like a star of great splendor as he entered the field of battle. he came straight to where king arthur sat and saluted before him. king arthur said, "sir, what knight art thou?" "lord," answered he, "i am sir tristram of lyonesse, and i am come to champion king angus who sits beside you. for i believe him to be innocent of that matter of which he is accused, and i will emperil my body in that belief for to prove the truth of the same." "well," quoth king arthur, "this king accused hath, certes, a very noble champion in thee. so go and do thy devoirs, and may god defend the right." [sidenote: sir tristram does battle with sir blamor] thereupon each knight took a good stout spear into his hand and chose his place for the encounter, and each set his shield before him and feutered his lance in rest. then, when each was ready, the marshal blew a great blast upon his trumpet, and thereupon, in an instant, each knight launched against the other like a bolt of thunder. so they met in the very middle of the course with such violence that the spear of each knight was shattered all into pieces unto the very truncheon thereof. each horse fell back upon his haunches, and each would no doubt, have fallen entirely, had not the knight-rider recovered his steed with the greatest skill and address. then each knight voided his saddle and each drew his sword and set his shield before him. therewith they came to battle on foot like two wild boars--so fiercely and felly that it was terrible to behold. for they traced this way and that and foined and struck at one another so that whole pieces of armor were hewn from the bodies of each. [sidenote: sir tristram overcomes sir blamor] but in all this battle sir tristram had so much the better that, by and by after they had fought for above an hour, sir blamor de ganys began to bare back before him, and to give ground, holding his shield low for weariness. this sir tristram perceived, and, running in suddenly upon sir blamor, he struck him so terrible a blow upon the right shoulder that sir blamor's arm was altogether benumbed thereby, and he could no longer hold his sword in his hand. so the sword of sir blamor fell down into the grass, and sir tristram, perceiving this, ran and set his foot upon it. then sir blamor could not stand any longer, but fell down upon his knees because of a great weariness and faintness that lay upon him like the weariness and faintness of approaching death. then sir tristram said: "sir knight, thou canst fight no longer. now i bid thee for to yield thyself to me as overcome in this battle." thereunto sir blamor made reply, speaking very deep and hollow from out of his helmet: "sir knight, thou hast overcome me by thy strength and prowess, but i will not yield myself to thee now nor at any time. for that would be so great shame that i would rather die than endure it. i am a knight of the round table, and have never yet been overcome in this wise by any man. so thou mayst slay me, but i will not yield myself to thee." then sir tristram cried out: "sir knight, i beseech thee to yield thyself, for thou art not fit to fight any more this day." sir blamor said, "i will not yield, so strike and have done with it." so sir tristram wist not what to do, but stood there in doubt looking down upon sir blamor. then sir blamor said, again: "strike, sir knight, and have done with it." upon this sir tristram said: "i may not strike thee, sir blamor de ganys, to slay thee, for thou art very nigh of blood to sir launcelot of the lake, and unto him i have sworn brotherhood in arms; wherefore i pray thee now to yield thyself to me." sir blamor said, "nay, i will not yield me to thee." "well," said sir tristram, "then i must fain act this day in a manner like as i acted yesterday." [sidenote: sir tristram gives sir blamor back his sword] therewith speaking, he took his sword into both his hands and he swung it several times around his head and when he had done that he flung it to a great distance away, so that he was now entirely unarmed saving only for his misericordia. after that he gave sir blamor his hand and lifted him up upon his feet. and he stooped and picked up sir blamor's sword out of the grass and gave it back to sir blamor into his hands, and he said: "sir knight, now thou art armed and i am entirely unarmed, and so thou hast me at thy mercy. now thou shalt either yield thyself to me or slay me as i stand here without any weapon; for i cannot now strike thee, and though i have overcome thee fairly yet thou hast it now in thy power to slay me. so now do thy will with me in this matter." then sir blamor was greatly astonished at the magnanimity of sir tristram, and he said, "sir knight, what is thy name?" sir tristram said, "it is tristram, surnamed of lyonesse." upon this sir blamor came to sir tristram and put his arms about his shoulders, and he said: "tristram, i yield myself to thee, but in love and not in hate. for i yield myself not because of thy strength of arms (and yet i believe there is no knight in the world, unless it be my cousin sir launcelot of the lake, who is thy peer), but i yield me because of thy exceeding nobility. yet i would that i might only be satisfied that this king of ireland is no traitor." "messire," said sir tristram, "of that i have assured myself very strongly ere i entered into this contest, wherefore i may now freely avouch upon mine own knightly word that he is innocent." "then," said sir blamor, "i also am satisfied, and i herewith withdraw all my impeachment against him." [sidenote: sir tristram and sir blamor are reconciled] then those two noble, excellent knights took one another by the hand and went forward together to where king arthur sat in high estate, and all those who looked on and beheld that reconciliation gave loud acclaim. and when king arthur beheld them coming thus, he arose from where he sat and met them and embraced them both, and he said: "i do not believe that any king can have greater glory in his life than this, to have such knights about him as ye be." so ended this famous battle with great glory to sir tristram and yet with no disregard to that famous knight against whom he did battle. after that, they and king arthur and king angus of ireland and all the court went up unto the castle of camelot, and there the two knights-combatant were bathed in tepid water and their wounds were searched and dressed and they were put at their ease in all ways that it was possible. now that very day, as they all sat at feast in the castle of camelot, there came one with news that the name of sir tristram had suddenly appeared upon one of the seats of the round table. so after they had ended their feast they all immediately went to see how that might be. when they came to the pavilion of the round table, there, behold! was his name indeed upon that seat that had once been the seat of king pellinore. for this was the name that now was upon that seat: sir tristram of lyonesse [sidenote: sir tristram becomes knight of the round table] so the next day sir tristram was duly installed as a knight-companion of the round table with a great pomp and estate of circumstance, and a day or two after that he set sail for ireland with king angus, taking with him gouvernail and those cornish knights who were his companions. so they all reached ireland in safety, and, because sir tristram had aided the king of ireland in the day of his extremity, the queen forgave him all the despite she held against him, so that he was received at the court of the king and queen with great friendship and high honor. [sidenote: how sir tristram dwelt in ireland] for a while sir tristram dwelt in ireland and said nothing concerning that purpose for which he had come. then one day he said to king angus: "lord, thou art not to forget to fulfil that promise which thou madst to me concerning the lady belle isoult." to this king angus made reply: "i had hoped that now we were come to ireland you had changed your purpose in that matter. are you yet of the same mind as when you first spake to me?" "yea," said sir tristram, "for it cannot be otherwise." "well, then," said king angus, "i shall go to prepare my daughter for this ill-hap that is to befall her, though indeed it doth go against my heart to do such a thing. after i have first spoken to her, you are to take the matter into your own hands, for, to tell you the truth, i have not the heart to contrive it further." so king angus went away from where sir tristram was, and he was gone a long while. when he returned he said: "sir, go you that way and the lady belle isoult will see you." so sir tristram went in the direction king angus had said, and a page showed him the way. so by and by he came to where the lady belle isoult was, and it was a great chamber in a certain tower of the castle and high up under the eaves of the roof. [sidenote: how lady belle isoult appeared to sir tristram] the lady belle isoult stood upon the farther side of this chamber so that the light from the windows shone full upon her face, and sir tristram perceived that she was extraordinarily beautiful, and rather like to a shining spirit than to a lady of flesh and blood. for she was clad altogether in white and her face was like to wax for whiteness and clearness, and she wore ornaments of gold set with shining stones of divers colors about her neck and about her arms so that they glistered with a wonderful lustre. her eyes shone very bright and clear like one with a fever, and sir tristram beheld that there were channels of tears upon her face and several tears stood upon her white cheeks like to shining jewels hanging suspended there. so, for a while, sir tristram stood still without speaking and regarded her from afar. then after a while she spake and said, "sir, what is this you have done?" "lady," he said, "i have done what god set me to do, though i would rather die than do it." she said, "tristram, you have betrayed me." upon the which he cried out in a very loud and piercing voice, "lady, say not so!" she said: "tristram, tell me, is it better to fulfil this pledge you have made, knowing that in so doing you sacrifice both my happiness and your happiness to satisfy your pride of honor; or is it better that you sacrifice your pride and break this promise so that we may both be happy? tristram, i beseech you to break this promise you have made and let us be happy together." at this sir tristram cried out in a very loud voice: "lady, did you put your hand into my bosom and tear my naked heart, you could not cause me so much pain as that which i this moment endure. it cannot be as you would have it, for it is thus with me: were it but myself whom i might consider, i would freely sacrifice both my life and my honor for your sake. but it may not be so, lady; for i am held to be one of the chiefest of that order of knighthood to which i belong, wherefore i may not consider myself, but must ever consider that order. for if i should violate a pledge given upon my knighthood, then would i dishonor not myself, but that entire order to which i belong. for, did i so, all the world would say, what virtue is there in the order of knighthood when one of the chiefest of that order may violate his pledge when it pleases him to do so? so, lady, having assumed that great honor of knighthood i must perform its obligations even to the uttermost; yea, though in fulfilling my pledge i sacrifice both thee and myself." then belle isoult looked upon sir tristram for some little while, and by and by she smiled very pitifully and said: "ah, tristram, i believe i am more sorry for thee than i am for myself." "lady," said tristram, "i would god that i lay here dead before you. but i am not able to die, but am altogether strong and hale--only very sorrowful at heart." and therewith he turned and left that place. only when he had come to a place where he was entirely by himself with no one but god to see him, he hid his face in his hands and wept as though his heart were altogether broken. so it was that sir tristram fulfilled his pledge. [sidenote: belle isoult and sir tristram depart for cornwall] after that, king angus furnished a very noble and beautiful ship with sails of satin embroidered with figures of divers sorts, and he fitted the ship in all ways such as became the daughter of a king and the wife of a king to embark upon. and that ship was intended for the lady belle isoult and sir tristram in which to sail to the court of cornwall. and it was ordained that a certain very excellent lady of the court of the queen, who had been attendant upon the lady belle isoult when she was a little child and who had been with her in attendance ever since that time, should accompany her to the court of cornwall. and the name of this lady was the lady bragwaine. [sidenote: the queen of ireland provides a love potion for king mark and belle isoult] now the day before the lady belle isoult was to take her departure from ireland, the queen of ireland came to the lady bragwaine and she bare with her a flagon of gold very curiously wrought. and the queen said: "bragwaine, here is a flask of a very singular and precious sort of an elixir; for that liquor it is of such a sort that when a man and a woman drink of it together, they two shall thereafter never cease to love one another as long as they shall have life. take this flask, and when you have come to cornwall, and when the lady belle isoult and king mark have been wedded, then give them both to drink of this elixir; for after they have drunk they shall forget all else in the world and cleave only to one another. this i give you to the intent that the lady isoult may forget sir tristram, and may become happy in the love of king mark whom she shall marry." soon thereafter the lady belle isoult took leave of the king and the queen and entered into that ship that had been prepared for her. thus, with sir tristram and with dame bragwaine and with their attendants, she set sail for cornwall. now it happened that, whilst they were upon that voyage, the lady bragwaine came of a sudden into the cabin of that ship and there she beheld the lady belle isoult lying upon a couch weeping. dame bragwaine said, "lady, why do you weep?" whereunto the lady belle isoult made reply: "alas, bragwaine, how can i help but weep seeing that i am to be parted from the man i love and am to be married unto another whom i do not love?" dame bragwaine laughed and said: "do you then weep for that? see! here is a wonderful flask as it were of precious wine. when you are married to the king of cornwall, then you are to quaff of it and he is to quaff of it and after that you will forget all others in the world and cleave only to one another. for it is a wonderful love potion and it hath been given to me to use in that very way. wherefore dry your eyes, for happiness may still lay before you." when the lady belle isoult heard these words she wept no more but smiled very strangely. then by and by she arose and went away to where sir tristram was. when she came to him she said, "tristram, will you drink of a draught with me?" he said, "yea, lady, though it were death in the draught." she said, "there is not death in it, but something very different," and thereupon she went away into the cabin where that chalice aforesaid was hidden. and at that time dame bragwaine was not there. then the lady belle isoult took the flagon from where it was hidden, and poured the elixir out into a chalice of gold and crystal and she brought it to where sir tristram was. when she had come there, she said, "tristram, i drink to thee," and therewith she drank the half of the elixir there was in the chalice. then she said, "now drink thou the rest to me." upon that sir tristram took the chalice and lifted it to his lips, and drank all the rest of that liquor that was therein. [sidenote: sir tristram and belle isoult drink the love potion] now immediately sir tristram had drunk that elixir he felt it run like fire through every vein in his body. thereupon he cried out, "lady, what is this you have given me to drink?" she said: "tristram, that was a powerful love potion intended for king mark and me. but now thou and i have drunk of it and never henceforth can either of us love anybody in all of the world but the other." then sir tristram catched her into his arms and he cried out: "isoult! isoult! what hast thou done to us both? was it not enough that i should have been unhappy but that thou shouldst have chosen to be unhappy also?" thereat the lady belle isoult both wept and smiled, looking up into sir tristram's face, and she said: "nay, tristram; i would rather be sorry with thee than happy with another." he said, "isoult, there is much woe in this for us both." she said, "i care not, so i may share it with thee." thereupon sir tristram kissed her thrice upon the face, and then immediately put her away from him and he left her and went away by himself in much agony of spirit. thereafter they reached the kingdom of cornwall in safety, and the lady belle isoult and king mark were wedded with much pomp and ceremony and after that there was much feasting and every appearance of rejoicing. part ii the story of sir tristram and sir lamorack and now shall be told the story of sir tristram and sir lamorack of gales, how they became brothers-in-arms; how sir lamorack took offence at sir tristram, and how they became reconciled again. but first of all you must know that sir lamorack of gales was deemed to be one of the greatest knights alive. for it was said that there were three knights that were the greatest in all of the world, and those three were sir launcelot of the lake, sir tristram of lyonesse, and sir lamorack of gales. sir lamorack was the son of king pellinore, of whom it hath already been told in the book of king arthur that he was the greatest knight during that time; and he was the brother of sir percival, of whom it is to be told hereinafter that he was the peer even of sir launcelot of the lake. so because that house produced three such great and famous knights, the house of king pellinore hath always been singularly renowned in all histories of chivalry. for indeed there was not any house so famous as it saving only the house of king ban of benwick, which brought forth those two peerless knights beyond all compare:--to wit, sir launcelot of the lake and sir galahad, who achieved the quest of the san grail. so i hope that you may find pleasure in the story of how sir tristram and sir lamorack became acquainted, and of how they became brothers-in-arms. [illustration: sir lamorack of gales] chapter first _how sir lamorack of gales came to tintagel and how he and sir tristram sware friendship together in the forest._ after these happenings, sir tristram abode for awhile at the court of cornwall, for so king mark commanded him to do. and he sought in every way to distract his mind from his sorrows by deeds of prowess. so during this time he performed several adventures of which there is not now space to tell you. but these adventures won such credit to his knighthood that all the world talked of his greatness. and ever as he grew more and more famous, king mark hated him more and more. for he could not bear to see sir tristram so noble and so sorrowful with love of the lady belle isoult. also sir tristram spent a great deal of time at chase with hawk and hound; for he hoped by means also of such sports to drive away, in some measure, his grief for the loss of belle isoult. now the season whereof this chapter speaketh was in the autumn of the year, what time all the earth is glorious with the brown and gold of the woodlands. for anon, when the wind would blow, then the leaves would fall down from the trees like showers of gold so that everywhere they lay heaped like flakes of gold upon the russet sward, rustling dry and warm beneath the feet, and carpeting all the world with splendor. and the deep blue sky overhead was heaped full of white, slow-moving clouds, and everywhere the warm air was fragrant with the perfume of the forest, and at every strong breeze the nuts would fall pattering down upon the ground like hailstones. [sidenote: sir tristram rides ahunting] and because the world was so beautiful and so lusty, sir tristram took great pleasure in life in spite of that trouble that lay upon him. so he and his court rode very joyfully amid the trees and thickets, making the woodlands merry with the music of winding horns and loud-calling voices and with the baying of hounds sounding like sweet tolling bells in the remoter aisles of the forest spaces. thus sir tristram made sport all one morning, in such an autumn season, and when noon had come he found himself to be anhungered. so he gave orders to those who were in attendance upon him that food should be spread at a certain open space in the forest; and therewith, in accordance with those orders, they in attendance immediately opened sundry hampers of wicker, and therefrom brought forth a noble pasty of venison, and manchets of bread and nuts and apples and several flasks and flagons of noble wine of france and the rhine countries. this abundance of good things they set upon a cloth as white as snow which they had laid out upon the ground. now just as sir tristram was about to seat himself at this goodly feast he beheld amid the thin yellow foliage that there rode through a forest path not far away a very noble-seeming knight clad all in shining armor and with vestments and trappings of scarlet so that he shone like a flame of fire in the woodlands. then sir tristram said to those who stood near him, "know ye who is yonder knight who rides alone?" they say, "no, lord, we know him not." sir tristram said, "go and bid that knight of his courtesy that he come hither and eat with me." so three or four esquires ran to where that knight was riding, and in a little they came attending him to where sir tristram was, and sir tristram went to meet him. then sir tristram said: "sir knight, i pray you for to tell me your name and degree, for it seems to me that you are someone very high in order of knighthood." [sidenote: sir lamorack meets sir tristam] "messire," quoth the other, "i shall be very glad to tell you my name if so be you will do the like courtesy unto me. i am sir lamorack of gales, and i am son of the late king pellinore, who was in his days held to be the foremost knight in this realm. i come to these parts seeking sir tristram of lyonesse, of whose fame i hear told in every court of chivalry whither i go. for i have never beheld sir tristram, and i have a great desire to do so." "well," quoth sir tristram, "meseems i should be greatly honored that you should take so much trouble for nothing else than that; for lo! i am that very sir tristram of lyonesse whom you seek." then sir lamorack immediately leaped down from his war-horse and putting up the umbril of his helmet, he came to sir tristram and took him by the hand and kissed him upon the cheek. and sir tristram kissed sir lamorack again, and each made great joy of the other. after that, sir lamorack, with the aid of these esquires attendant upon sir tristram, put aside his armor, and bathed his face and neck and hands in a cold forest brook, as clear as crystal, that came brawling down out of the woodlands. therewith, being greatly refreshed he and sir tristram sat down to that bountiful feast together, and ate and drank with great joy and content of spirit. and whiles they ate each made inquiry of the other what he did, and each told the other many things concerning the goodly adventures that had befallen him. [sidenote: sir tristram sings to sir lamorack] and after they were through eating and drinking, sir tristram took his harp in hand and sang several excellent ballads and rondels which he had made in honor of belle isoult, and sir lamorack listened and made great applause at each song that sir tristram sang. and so each knight loved the other more and more the longer they sat together. then, after a while, sir tristram said: "dear friend, let us swear brotherhood to one another, for i find that my heart goeth out to thee with a wonderful strength." "ha, tristram," said sir lamorack, "i would rather live in brotherhood with thee than with any man whom i know, for i find that the longer i am with thee, the greater and the stronger my love groweth for thee." then sir tristram drew from his finger a very splendid ring (for the ring held an emerald carved into the likeness of the head of a beautiful woman, and that emerald was set into the gold of the ring) and sir tristram said: "give me that ring upon thy finger, o lamorack! and take thou this ring in its stead; so we shall have confirmed our brotherhood to one another." then sir lamorack did very joyfully as sir tristram bade him, and he took the ring that sir tristram gave him and kissed it and put it upon his finger; and sir tristram kissed the ring that sir lamorack gave him and put it upon his finger. thus they confirmed brotherhood with one another that day as they sat together in the forest at feast, with the golden leaves falling about them. and so they sat together all that afternoon and until the sun began to hang low in the west; after that, they arose and took horse, and rode away together toward tintagel in great pleasure of companionship. [sidenote: sir lamorack is honored at tintagel] now all the court at tintagel was greatly rejoiced at the presence of so famous a knight as sir lamorack of gales; so there was great celebration upon that account, and everybody did the most that he was able to give pleasure to sir lamorack. and during the time that sir lamorack was at tintagel there were several joustings held in his honor, and in all these assays at arms sir lamorack himself took part and overthrew everyone who came against him, so that he approved himself to be so wonderful a champion that all men who beheld his performance exclaimed with astonishment at his prowess. but from all these affairs at arms sir tristram held himself aloof, and would not take part in them. for he took such pleasure in sir lamorack's glory that he would not do anything that might imperil the credit that his friend thus gained by his prowess. for though sir tristram dearly loved such affairs, he would ever say to himself: "perhaps if i should enter the lists against my friend it might be my mishap to overthrow him and then his glory would be forfeited unto me." [sidenote: sir lamorack does famous battle] now upon a certain time there was held a great day of jousting in honor of sir lamorack, and in that affair at arms twenty of the best knights, both of cornwall and the countries circumadjacent, took the field to hold it against all comers. of these knights, several were well-known champions, so that they maintained the field for a long while, to the great credit both of themselves and of cornwall. but some while after the prime of day, there came sir lamorack into that field, and, the day being cool and fresh, he was filled with a wonderful strength and spirit of battle. so he challenged first one of those cornish champions and then another, and in all such challenges he was successful, so that he overthrew of those knights, the one after the other, fifteen men, some of whom were sorely hurt in the encounter. upon this, the other five of those champions, beholding the prowess and strength and skill of sir lamorack said to one another: "why should we venture against this man? of a verity, this knight is no mere man, but a demon of strength and skill. wherefore no man may hope to stand against him in an assault of arms; for lo! if he doth but touch a man with his lance that man straightway falleth from his saddle." so they withdrew themselves from that encounter and would not have to do with sir lamorack. now at that time sir tristram was sitting with the court of the king, and not far from the lady belle isoult, overlooking the meadow of battle. to him king mark said: "messire, why do you take no part against this knight? is it that you fear him?" to this sir tristram replied with great calmness: "nay, i fear not him nor any man alive, and that you know, lord, better than anyone in all of the world." "i am glad to hear of your courage and fearlessness," quoth king mark, "for meseems it is a great shame to all of us that this gentleman, who is a stranger amongst us, should win so much credit to the disadvantage of all the knights of cornwall. now, as you say you have no fear of him, i pray you go down into the field and do battle with him in our behalf." so said king mark, for he thought to himself: "perhaps sir lamorack may overthrow sir tristram, and so bring him into disrepute with those who praise him so greatly." but sir tristram said: "no; i will not go down to battle against sir lamorack this day whatever i may do another day. for i have sworn brotherhood to that noble and gentle champion, and it would ill beseem me to assault him now, when he is weary and short of breath from this great battle which he hath done to-day against such odds. for if i should overthrow him now, it would bring great shame upon him. some other day and in some other place i may assay him in friendliness, with honor and credit both to myself and him." [sidenote: king mark commands sir tristram to do battle] "well," said king mark, "as for that, i do not choose to wait. nor am i pleased that you should sit by and suffer this knight to carry away all the credit of arms from cornwall in despite of the knights of cornwall. for not only would this be a great shame to the knights of cornwall (of whom you are the acknowledged champion), but it would be equally a shame unto this lady whom you have fetched hither from ireland to be queen of cornwall. so i lay this command upon you--not only because i am your king, but because i am he who made you knight--that you straightway go down into yonder meadow and do battle with this knight who beareth himself so proudly in our midst." then sir tristram looked upon king mark with great anger and bitterness, and he said: "this is great shame and despite which you seek to put upon me by giving such commands unto me. verily, it would seem that in all ways you seek to put shame and sorrow upon me. and yet i have ever been your true knight, and have saved your kingdom from truage to ireland and have served you very faithfully in all ways. would to god i had been made knight by any man in the world rather than by you." at this king mark smiled very bitterly upon tristram. "sirrah," quoth he, "meseems you speak very outrageously to me who am your king. now i herewith command you to go straightway down into that field without any further words and to do my bidding against yonder knight." then sir tristram groaned in spirit, and then he said, "i go." so sir tristram arose and went away from that place very full of bitterness and anger against the king and his court. for whiles there were some of that court who were sorry for the affront that king mark had put upon him in public before the eyes of the entire court, yet there were others who smiled and were glad of his humiliation. for even so true and noble a gentleman as sir tristram, when he groweth great and famous, is like to have as many enemies as friends. for there are ever those who envy truth and nobility in a man, as well as others who hate meanness and falsity, and so sir tristram ever had many enemies whithersoever he went. and that also was the case with sir launcelot and sir lamorack, and with other noble knights at that time. [sidenote: sir tristram arms himself] but though sir tristram was so filled with indignation he said nothing to any man, but went to his lodging and summoned gouvernail, and bade gouvernail to help him to his armor and his horse. gouvernail said: "lord, what would you do for to arm and horse yourself at this hour?" sir tristram made reply: "the king hath commanded me to do battle with sir lamorack, and yet sir lamorack is my very dear friend and sworn brother-in-arms. he is already weary with battle, and of a surety i shall be very likely to overthrow him in an assault at arms at this time." gouvernail said, "lord, that would be great shame to you as well as to him." and sir tristram said, "yea, it is great shame." then gouvernail beheld sir tristram's face, how it was all filled with a passion of shame and indignation, and so he guessed what had passed, and held his peace. so when sir tristram was armed and mounted, he rode down into the meadow of battle, where was sir lamorack parading with great glory before the applause of all who looked down upon that field. [sidenote: sir lamorack speaks to sir tristram] but when sir lamorack beheld that it was sir tristram who came against him, he was greatly astonished, and cried out: "ha, tristram, how is this? is it you who come against me? have you then forgot that i am your brother-in-arms and a fellow of the round table?" to this sir tristram said: "messire, i come not of my own free will, but only because i must needs come, being so commanded by the king of cornwall." "very well," said sir lamorack, "so be it as you will, though i am very much surprised that you should do battle against me, after all that hath passed betwixt us. more especially at this season when, as you very well know, i am weary and winded with battle." thereupon and without further parley, each knight took stand for the encounter at the position assigned to him. then when they were in all ways prepared, the marshal of the field blew upon his trumpet a call for the assault. so rushed those two together like two stones, flung each out of a catapult; and therewith they two smote together in the midst of their course like to a clap of thunder. [sidenote: sir tristram overthrows sir lamorack] in that encounter the spear of sir lamorack brake into as many as twenty or thirty pieces; but the spear of sir tristram held, so that the horse of sir lamorack, which was weary with the several charges he had made, was overthrown into a great cloud of dust. but sir lamorack did not fall with his steed; for he voided his saddle with a very wonderful agility and dexterity, so that he himself kept his feet, although his horse fell as aforesaid. then he was filled with great rage and shame that he had been so overthrown before all those who looked upon him; wherefore he immediately drew his sword and cried out aloud: "come down, sir knight, and do battle with me afoot, for though my horse hath failed me because of his weariness, yet you shall find that my body shall not so fail me." but that while sir tristram sat very sorrowful, and he said: "nay, i will not have to do with thee again this day, for it was against my will that i came hither to do battle with thee, and it is to my shame that i did so. wherefore i will not now do further battle with thee. but wait until to-morrow and until thou art fresh, and then i will give thee the chance of battle again." to this sir lamorack made answer very bitterly: "sir, i think you talk to amuse me; for first you put shame upon me in this encounter, and then you bid me wait until to-morrow ere i purge me of that shame. now i demand of you to do battle with me upon this moment and not to-morrow." sir tristram said: "i will not do battle with thee, lamorack, for i have done wrong already, and i will not do more wrong." [sidenote: sir lamorack reproves sir tristram] upon this, sir lamorack was so filled with anger that he scarce knew what to say or to do. wherefore he turned him to several who had come down into the meadow of battle, and he said: "hear ye all, and listen to my words: this knight came against me in this field after i had had to do with fifteen other knights. in that encounter he overthrew me, because of the weariness of my horse. having done that unknightly deed, he now refuseth me any further test of battle, but allows me to lie beneath that shame which he put upon me. now i bid you who stand here to take this word to sir launcelot of the lake; i bid ye tell sir launcelot that sir tristram of lyonesse, having sworn brother-hood-in-arms to me, and being a fellow-knight of the round table, hath come against me when i was weary with battle and he was fresh. tell sir launcelot that so sir tristram overthrew me with shame to himself and with discredit to me, and that he then refused me all satisfaction such as one true knight should afford another." then sir tristram cried out in a loud voice, "i pray you, hear me speak, messire!" but sir lamorack replied, "i will not hear thee!" and therewith turned and went away, leaving sir tristram where he was. and sir tristram sat there without movement, like to a statue of stone. [sidenote: sir lamorack leaves tintagel] after that sir lamorack did not tarry longer at tintagel, but immediately left the king's court without making speech with anyone. and thereafter he went down to the seashore and embarked in a boat with intent to sail to camelot where king arthur was then holding court. for his heart was still so bitter against sir tristram that he intended to lay complaint against him before the court of chivalry at camelot. but sir lamorack did not reach camelot upon that voyage; for, whilst he was in passage, there suddenly arose a great tempest of wind, and in spite of all that the mariners could do, that small ship wherein he sailed was driven upon a cruel headland of rocks and cliffs where it was dashed to pieces. but sir lamorack had foreseen that that small boat was to be wrecked, wherefore, before the end came, he stripped himself entirely naked and leaped into the waters and swam for his life. [sidenote: sir lamorack is shipwrecked upon a strange land] so he swam for a long time until he was wellnigh exhausted and upon the point of drowning in the waters. but at that moment he came by good hap to where was a little bay of quiet water, whereinto he swam and so made shift to come safe to land--but faint and weak, and so sick that he feared that he was nigh to death. then sir lamorack perceived that there was heather at that place growing upon the rocks of the hillside, so he crawled into the heather and lay him down therein in a dry spot and immediately fell into such a deep sleep of weariness that it was more like to the swoon of death than to slumber. [sidenote: of sir nabon le noir] now the lord of that country whereunto sir lamorack had come was a very wicked knight, huge of frame and very cruel and hard of heart. the name of this knight was sir nabon, surnamed le noir; for he was very swarth of hue, and he always wore armor entirely of black. this knight had several years before slain the lord of that land, and had seized upon all of the island as his own possession, and no one dared to come against him for to recover these possessions, for his prowess was so remarkable and his body so huge that all the world was afraid of him. so he dwelt there unmolested in a strong castle of stone built up upon a rock near to the seashore, whence he might behold all the ships that passed him by. then, whenever he would see such a ship pass by, he would issue forth in his own ships and seize upon that other vessel, and either levy toll upon it or sink it with all upon board. and if he found any folk of high quality aboard such a ship, that one he would seize and hold for ransom. so sir nabon made himself the terror of all that part of the world, and all men avoided the coasts of so inhospitable a country. such was the land upon which sir lamorack had been cast by the tempest. [sidenote: the fisher-folk disarm sir lamorack] now whilst sir lamorack lay sleeping in the heather in that wise as aforetold, there came by that way several fisher-folk; these, when they saw him lying there, thought at first that he was dead. but as they stood talking concerning him, sir lamorack was aware of their voices and woke and sat up and beheld them. then the chiefest of those fisher-folk spake and said, "who are you, and how came you here?" him sir lamorack answered: "alas! friend! i am a poor soul who was cast ashore from a shipwreck, naked as you see me. now i pray you, give me some clothes to cover my nakedness, and give me some food to eat, and lend me such succor as man may give to man in distress." then the chief fisherman perceived the ring upon sir lamorack's finger that sir tristram had given him, and he said, "how got you that ring upon your finger?" sir lamorack said, "he who was my friend gave it to me." "well," quoth the fisherman, "i will give you clothes to wear and food to eat, but if i do so you must give me that ring that i see upon your hand. as for lending you aid, i must tell you that the lord of this island hath ordained upon peril of our lives that all who come hither must straightway be brought before him to be dealt with as he may deem fitting. wherefore, after i have fed you and clothed you i must immediately take you to him." [sidenote: the fisher-folk give sir lamorack clothes and food] "alas!" quoth sir lamorack, "this is certes an inhospitable land into which i have come! ne'ertheless, as i am naked and starving, i see that i have no choice other than that which ye put upon me." so therewith he gave the chief of the fisher-folk the ring that sir tristram had given him, and in return the fishermen gave him such garments as they could spare to cover his nakedness; and they gave him black bread and cheese to eat, and bitter ale to drink from a skin that they carried with them. after that they tied sir lamorack's hands behind his back, and so, having made him prisoner, they brought him to the castle of sir nabon, and before sir nabon who was there at that time. now it chanced that the swineherd of sir nabon's castle had been slain in a quarrel with one of his fellows, so that when sir nabon beheld sir lamorack, that he was big and sturdy of frame, he said: "i will spare this fellow his life, but i will make him my swineherd. so take ye him away and let him herd my swine." [sidenote: sir lamorack turns swineherd] so they led sir lamorack away, and he became swineherd to sir nabon surnamed le noir, and presently in a little while he grew so rough and shaggy that his own mother would hardly have known him had she beheld him. so endeth this adventure of sir lamorack. and now it shall be told how it befel with sir tristram after sir lamorack had left tintagel as aforetold. [illustration: sir tristram cometh to ye castle of sir nabon] chapter second _how sir tristram started to go to camelot, and how he stayed by the way to do battle with sir nabon le noir._ now after sir lamorack had quit the court of king mark of cornwall as aforetold, sir tristram was very sad at heart for a long while. nevertheless, he tried to comfort himself by saying: "well, it was not by my will that i did battle with my friend and brother-in-arms, for i had no choice as to that which i was compelled to do." so he spake to himself, and took what comfort he was able from such considerations, and that comfort was not very great. [sidenote: sir launcelot sends a letter to sir tristram] then one day there came from sir launcelot of the lake a letter in which sir launcelot said that he had heard that sir tristram had assailed sir lamorack when that knight was weary and spent with battle. and in that letter sir launcelot further said: "it is very strange to me, messire, that such things should be said of you, and that by several mouths. now, i pray you, set this matter at right, for i do not choose to have such a thing said of you; that you would wait until a knight was weary with fighting before you would do battle with him. moreover, sir lamorack is your sworn brother-at-arms, and a fellow-knight of the round table, and is, besides, one of the noblest and gentlest knights in christendom. wherefore i beseech you to set this matter right, so that those who accuse you of unknightliness may be brought to confusion." so wrote sir launcelot, and at those words sir tristram was cast into a great deal of pain and trouble of spirit; for he wist not how to answer that letter of sir launcelot's so as to make the matter clear to that knight. wherefore he said: "i will straightway go to camelot and to sir launcelot and will speak to him by word of mouth, and so will make him understand why i did that which i had to do." [sidenote: sir tristram rides to camelot] so when the next day had come sir tristram arose and took horse and rode away from tintagel with intent to betake himself to camelot where king arthur was then holding court, and where he might hope to find sir launcelot abiding. and sir tristram took no companion with him, not even gouvernail. and now i shall tell you how sir tristram rode: the way that he took led him down by the seashore, and by and by to a deep forest, which was then nearly altogether devoid of leaves, so that the branches above him were in some places like to the meshes of a net spread against the sky. here that young knight rode upon a deep carpet of leaves, so that the steps of his war-horse were silenced save only for the loud and continued rustling of his footfalls in the dry and yellow foliage. and as sir tristram rode he sang several songs in praise of the lady belle isoult, chanting in a voice that was both clear and loud and very sweet, and that sounded to a great distance through the deep, silent aisles of the forest. thus he travelled, anon singing as aforetold of, and anon sank in meditation, so travelling until the day declined and the early gray of the evening began to fall. then he began to bethink him how he should spend the night, and he thought he would have to sleep abroad in the forest. but just as the gray of the evening was fading away into darkness he came to a certain place of open land, where, before him, he perceived a tall castle, partly of stone and partly of red bricks, built up upon a steep hill of rocks. and upon one side of this castle was the forest, and upon the other side was the wide and open stretch of sea. and sir tristram perceived that there were lights shining from several windows of that castle, and that all within was aglow with red as of a great fire in the hall of the castle; and at these signs of good cheer, his heart was greatly expanded with joy that he should not after all have to spend that night in the darkness and in the chill of the autumn wilds. [sidenote: sir tristram comes to a friendly castle] so sir tristram set spurs to his good horse and rode up to the castle and made request for rest and refreshment for the night. then, after a little parley, the drawbridge was lowered, and the portcullis was raised, and he rode with a great noise into the stone-paved courtyard of the castle. thereupon there came several attendants of the castle, and took his horse and aided him to descend from the saddle; and then other attendants came and led him away into the castle and so to an apartment where there was a warm bath of tepid water, and where were soft towels and napkins of linen for to dry himself upon after he was bathed. and when he had bathed and refreshed himself, there came still other attendants bearing soft warm robes for him in which to clothe himself after his journey; and sir tristram clothed himself and felt greatly at his ease, and was glad that he had come to that place. for thus it was that worthy knights like sir tristram travelled the world in those days so long ago; and so they were received in castle and hall with great pleasure and hospitality. for all folk knew the worth of these noble gentlemen and were glad to make them welcome whithersoever they went. and so i have told to you how sir tristram travelled, that you might, perchance, find pleasure in the thought thereof. [sidenote: sir tristram meets the lady of the castle] now after sir tristram had refreshed himself and clothed himself as aforesaid, there came the steward of the castle and besought him that he would come to where the lady of the castle was awaiting him for to welcome him. and sir tristram went with the steward, and the steward brought him where the lady sat at a table prepared for supper. and sir tristram perceived that the lady was very beautiful, but that she was clad in the deep weeds of a widow. when the lady perceived sir tristram, she arose and went to meet him, and gave him welcome, speaking in a voice both soft and very sweet. "messire," quoth she, "i am grieved that there is no man here to welcome you in such a manner as is fitting. but, alas! as you may see by the weeds in which i am clad, i am alone in the world and without any lord of the castle to do the courtesies thereof as is fitting. yet such as i am, i give you welcome with my entire heart." "lady," quoth sir tristram, "i give you gramercy for your courtesy. and indeed i am grieved to see you in such sorrow as your dress foretells. now if there is any service i may render to you, i beseech you to call upon me for whatever aid i may give you." [sidenote: sir tristram feasts with the chatelaine] "nay," quoth she, "there is nothing you can do to help me." and therewith the lady, who was hight loise, took sir tristram by the hand and led him to the table and sat him down beside her. then straightway there came sundry attendants, and set a noble feast before them, with good excellent wines, both white and red; and they two ate and drank together with great appetite and enjoyment. now after that feast was over and done, sir tristram said: "lady, will you not of your courtesy tell me why you wear the weeds of sorrow in which you are clad? this i ask, not from idle humor, but because, as i said before, i may haply be able to aid you in whatever trouble it is under which you lie." [sidenote: the lady telleth sir tristram of sir nabon le noir] "alas, sir knight!" quoth she, "my trouble lieth beyond your power to aid or to amend. for can you conquer death, or can you bring the dead back to life again? nevertheless, i will tell you what my sorrow is, and how it came unto me. you must know that some distance away across the sea, which you may behold from yonder window, there lieth an island. the present lord of that island is a very wicked and cruel knight, huge of frame and big of limb, hight sir nabon surnamed le noir. one time the noble and gentle knight who was my husband was the lord of that island and the castle thereon, and of several other castles and manors and estates upon this mainland as well. but one evil day when i and my lord were together upon that island, this sir nabon came thither by night, and with certain evil-disposed folk of the island he overcame my lord and slew him very treacherously. me also he would have slain, or else have taken into shameful captivity, but, hearing the noise of that assault in which my lord was slain, i happily escaped, and so, when night had come, i got away from that island with several attendants who were faithful to me, and thus came to this castle where we are. since that time sir nabon has held that castle as his own, ruling it in a very evil fashion. for you are to know that the castle sits very high upon the crags overlooking the sea, and whenever a vessel passeth by that way, sir nabon goeth forth to meet it; and upon some of these crafts he levies toll, and other ships he sinks after slaying the mariners and sailor-folk who may by evil hap be aboard thereof. and if anyone is by chance cast ashore upon that island, that one he either slays or holds for ransom, or makes thereof a slave for to serve him. because of this, very few ships now go by that way, for all people shun the coasts of so evil a country as that. so sir nabon took that land away from me; nor have i any kin who will take up this quarrel for me, and so i must endure my losses as best i may." "ha!" quoth sir tristram, "and is there then no good knight-champion in this country who will rid the world of such an evil being as that sir nabon of whom you speak?" "nay," said the lady, "there is no one who cares to offer challenge to that knight, for he is as strong and as doughty as he is huge of frame, and he is as fierce and cruel as he is strong and masterful, wherefore all men hold him in terror and avoid him." "well," said sir tristram, "meseems it is the business of any knight to rid the world of such a monster as that, whatever may be the danger to himself. now as there is no knight hereabouts who hath heart to undertake such an adventure, i myself shall undertake it so soon as to-morrow shall have come." "sir," said the lady, "i beseech you to think twice before you enter into such an affair as that. or rather be ruled by me and do not undertake this quest at all; for i misdoubt that anyone could conquer this huge and powerful champion, even if that knight were such as sir launcelot of the lake or sir tristram of lyonesse." [sidenote: sir tristram confesses his degree to the chatelaine] at this sir tristram laughed with great good-will, and he said, "lady, do you not then know who i am?" "nay," said she, "i know you not." "well," said sir tristram, "then i may tell you that i am that sir tristram of lyonesse of whom you spoke just now. and i also tell you that i shall undertake this adventure to-morrow morning." now when the lady found that the stranger she had taken in was sir tristram of lyonesse, she made great exclamation of surprise and pleasure at having him at that place, for at that time all the world was talking of sir tristram's performances. so she took great pleasure and pride that her castle should have given him shelter. she made many inquiries concerning his adventures, and sir tristram told her all she asked of him. then the lady said: "messire, i hear tell that you sing very sweetly, and that you are a wonderful harper upon the harp. now will you not chaunt for me a song or two or three?" and sir tristram said: "lady, i will do whatsoever you ask me that may give you pleasure." [sidenote: sir tristram sings to the lady] so the lady bade them bring a harp and they did so. and sir tristram took the harp and set it before him and tuned it and played upon it, and sang so sweetly that they of the castle said: "certes, this is no knight-errant who sings, but an angel from paradise who hath come among us. for surely no one save an angel from paradise could sing so enchantingly." so passed that evening very pleasantly until the hours waxed late. then sir tristram retired to a very noble apartment where a soft couch spread with flame-colored linen had been prepared for him, and where he slept a soft sleep without disturbance of any kind. [sidenote: sir tristram departs for the island of sir nabon] now when the next morning had come, sir tristram armed himself and mounted upon his war-horse, and rode him to a certain place on the shore. there he found some mariners in haven with a large boat, and to these he paid ten pieces of silver money to bear him across the sea to that island where sir nabon le noir abided. at first these mariners said they would not sail to such a coast of danger and death; but afterward they said they would, and they did do so. but still they would not bring sir tristram to land nigh to the castle, but only at a place that was a great way off, and where they deemed themselves to be more safe from the cruel lord of that land. as for sir tristram he made merry with their fear, saying: "it is well that we who are knights-errant have more courage than you who are sailor-men, else it would not be possible that monsters such as this sir nabon should ever be made an end of." upon this the captain of these sailors replied: "well, messire, for the matter of that, it is true that mariners such as we have not much courage, for we are the first of our order who have dared to come hither. but it is also true that you are the first errant-knight who hath ever had courage to come hither. so what say you for the courage of your own order?" and at that sir tristram laughed with great good will and rode his way. [sidenote: sir tristram arrives at the castle of sir nabon] thereafter he rode forward along the coast of that land for several leagues, with the noise of the sea ever beating in his ears, and the shrill clamor of the sea-fowl ever sounding in the air about him. by and by he came to a place of certain high fells, and therefrom perceived before him in the distance a tall and forbidding castle standing upon a high headland of the coast. and the castle was built of stone, that was like the rocks upon which it stood, so that at first one could not tell whether what one beheld was a part of the cliffs or whether it was the habitation of man. but when sir tristram had come somewhat nearer, he perceived the windows of the castle shining against the sky, and he saw the gateway thereof, and the roofs and the chimneys thereof, so that he knew that it was a castle of great size and strength and no wall of rock as he had at first supposed it to be; and he wist that this must be the castle of that wicked and malignant knight, sir nabon, whom he sought. now as sir tristram wended his way toward that castle by a crooked path meditating how he should come at sir nabon for to challenge him to battle, he was by and by aware of a fellow clad in pied black and white, who walked along the way in the direction that he himself was taking. at the first that fellow was not aware of sir tristram; then presently he was aware of him and turned him about, and beheld that a strange knight was riding rapidly down toward him upon a horse. then at first that fellow stood like one struck with amazement; but in a moment he cried out aloud as with a great fear, and instantly turned again and ran away, yelling like one who had gone mad. but sir tristram thundered after him at speed, and, in a little, came up with him, and catched him by the collar of his jerkin and held him fast. and sir tristram said: "fellow, who are you?" "lord," quoth the fellow, "i am an attendant upon the knight of yonder castle, which same is hight sir nabon surnamed le noir." [sidenote: sir tristram talks with a knave of the earth] then sir tristram said: "sirrah, why did you run from me when you first beheld me?" and the fellow replied: "messire, you are the first stranger who hath dared to come hither to this country; wherefore, seeing you, and seeing that you rode upon horseback, and not knowing how you came to this land, i wist not whether you were a man of flesh and blood, or whether you were a spirit come hither for to punish us for our sins; so i ran away from you." "well," said sir tristram, "as you see, i am no spirit, but a man of flesh and blood. yet i have great hope that i have indeed been sent hither for to punish those who have done evil, for i come hither seeking the knight of yonder castle for to do battle with him in behalf of that lady whose lord he slew so treacherously as i have heard tell. and i hope to take away from him this island and return it to the lady loise, to whom it belongeth." "alas, messire," quoth the fellow, "this is for you a very sorry quest upon which you have come. for this sir nabon whom you seek is accounted to be the most potent knight in all of the world. yea; he is held to be a bigger knight than even sir launcelot of the lake or sir tristram of lyonesse or sir lamorack of gales. wherefore i beseech you to turn about and go away whither you have come whilst there is still the chance for you to escape." [sidenote: sir tristram sends challenge to sir nabon] "gramercy for your pity, good fellow," quoth sir tristram, "and may god grant that it may not be deserved. nevertheless, in spite of the danger in this quest, i am still of the same mind as i was when i came hither. so do you presently go to your lord and tell him from me that a knight hath come to do battle with him upon the behalf of the lady to whom this island by rights belongeth." therewith sir tristram let the fellow go, and he ran off with great speed and so away to the postern of the castle and entered in and shut the door behind him. now at that time sir nabon le noir was walking along the wall of the castle, and his son, who was a lad of seventeen years, was with him. there the messenger from sir tristram found him and delivered his message. thereupon sir nabon looked over the battlements and down below and he beheld that there was indeed a tall and noble knight seated upon horseback in a level meadow that reached away, descending inland from the foot of the crags whereon the castle stood. but when sir nabon perceived that a stranger knight had dared to come thus into his country, he was filled with amazement at the boldness of that knight that he wist not what to think. then, presently a great rage got hold upon him, and he ground his teeth together, and the cords on his neck stood out like knots on the trunk of a tree. for a while he stood as though bereft of speech; then anon he roared out in a voice like that of a bull, crying to those who were near him: "go! haste ye! fetch me straightway my horse and armor and i will go immediately forth and so deal with yonder champion of ladies that he shall never take trouble upon their account again." then those who were in attendance upon sir nabon were terrified at his words and ran with all speed to do his bidding, and presently fetched his armor and clad him in it; and they fetched his horse into the courtyard of the castle and helped him to mount upon it. and lo! the armor of sir nabon was as black as ink; and the great horse upon which he sat was black; and all the trappings and furniture of the armor and of the horse were black, so that from top to toe he was altogether as black and as forbidding as death himself. [sidenote: sir nabon rides forth to meet sir tristram] so when sir nabon was thus in all wise prepared for battle, the portcullis of the castle was lifted up, and he rode forth to meet sir tristram; and his young son rode with him as his esquire. then all the people of the castle gathered together upon the walls to see that battle that was to be, and not one of those several score of folk thought otherwise than that sir tristram would certainly be overcome in that encounter. sir nabon rode straight up to sir tristram and he said very fiercely, "sirrah, what is it brings you hither to this land?" "as to that," said sir tristram, "the messenger whom i have sent to you hath, i believe, told you what i come for, and that it is to redeem this island from your possession, and to restore it to the lady loise, to whom it belongeth. likewise that i come to punish you for all the evil you have done." "and what business is all this of yours?" quoth sir nabon, speaking with great fury of voice. "messire," quoth sir tristram, "know ye not that it is the business of every true knight to rid the world of all such evil monsters as you be?" "ha!" quoth sir nabon, "that was very well said, for whatever mercy i should have been willing before this to show you hath now been forfeited unto you. for now i shall have no mercy upon you but shall slay you." "well," quoth sir tristram, "as for that, meseems it will be time enough to offer me mercy after you have overcome me in battle." [sidenote: sir tristram does battle with sir nabon] so thereupon each knight took his place for assault, and when they were in all ways prepared, each set spurs to his horse and dashed the one against the other, with a dreadful, terrible fury of onset. each smote the other in the very midst of his shield, and at that blow the lance of each was altogether shivered into pieces to the very truncheon thereof. but each knight recovered his horse from the fall and each leaped to earth and drew his sword, and each rushed against the other with such fury that it was as though sparks of pure fire flew out from the oculariums of the helmets. therewith they met together, and each lashed and smote at the other such fell strokes that the noise thereof might easily have been heard several furlongs away. now in the beginning of that battle sir tristram was at first sore bestead and wist that he had met the biggest knight that ever he had encountered in all of his life, unless it was sir launcelot of the lake, whom he had encountered as aforetold of in this history. so at first he bore back somewhat from the might of the blows of sir nabon. for sir nabon was so huge of frame and the blows he struck were so heavy that they drove sir tristram back as it were in spite of himself. [sidenote: sir tristram slays sir nabon] then sir tristram began to say to himself: "tristram, if you indeed lose this battle, then there will be no one to defend your honor before sir launcelot who hath impeached it." therewith it was as though new strength and life came back to him, and of a sudden he rushed that battle, and struck with threefold fury, and gave stroke upon stroke with such fierceness of strength that sir nabon was astonished and fell back before his assault. then sir tristram perceived how sir nabon held his shield passing low, and therewith he rushed in upon him and smote him again and again and yet again. and so he smote sir nabon down upon his knees. then he rushed in upon him and catched his helmet and plucked it off from his head. and he catched sir nabon by the hair of his head and drew his head forward. and sir tristram lifted his sword on high and he smote sir nabon's head from off his body so that it rolled down into the dust upon the ground. now when the son of sir nabon perceived how that his father was slain, he shrieked like a woman. and he fell down upon his knees and crawled upon his knees to sir tristram and catched him about the thighs, crying out to him, "spare me, and slay me not!" but sir tristram thrust him away and said, "who art thou?" "messire," said the youth, "i am the son of him whom thou hast just slain." [sidenote: sir tristram slays the son of sir nabon] then sir tristram looked closely into his face, and he perceived that it was wicked and treacherous and malevolent like to the face of sir nabon. thereupon sir tristram said: "if a man shall slay the wolf and spare the whelp of the wolf, what shall the world be the better therefor?" therewith he catched the son of sir nabon by the hair and dragged him down and smote off his head likewise as he had smitten off the head of his father, so that it fell upon the ground beside the head of sir nabon. and now it shall be told how sir tristram discovered sir lamorack upon the island and how he made amends to him, so that they became friends and brethren-in-arms once more as they had been before. [illustration: sir lamorack herds the swine of sir nabon] chapter third _how sir tristram did justice in the island, and thereby released sir lamorack from captivity. also how sir tristram and sir lamorack renewed their great tenderness toward one another._ now after sir tristram had overcome sir nabon le noir, and had slain the son of sir nabon as has been just told, he went straightway to the castle that had been sir nabon's, and commanded that they should bring forth the seneschal and the officers thereof unto him. meantime, being a little wounded in that battle, he sat himself down upon a bench of wood that stood in the hall of the castle, and there he held his court. so, in a little while, there came the seneschal and several of the officers of the household to where sir tristram was, and when the seneschal came before sir tristram, he fell down upon his knees and besought pardon and mercy. [sidenote: sir tristram talks with the castle help] then sir tristram said: "i will consider thy case anon, and if i may assure myself that thou and these others are truly repentant, and if i may have assurity that ye will henceforth be faithful in your duty toward that lady who is now again the mistress of this castle and land, then i shall have mercy. but if ye show yourselves recreant and treacherous, according to the manners of this sir nabon who is dead, then i shall of a surety return hither and shall punish you even as ye beheld me punish that wicked knight and his young son." then sir tristram said, "who is the porter of this castle?" and the porter lifted his hand and said, "lord, i am he." sir tristram said, "what captives have ye in this place?" the porter said: "lord, there be four knights and three ladies who are held captive here for ransom." then sir tristram said, "bring them forth hither to me." [sidenote: sir tristram comforts the captives] so the porter and several other of the castle folk departed with all speed and presently returned bringing with them those miserable captives whom they had liberated from the dungeons of the castle. these they led to where sir tristram still sat in justice upon the bench of wood. and sir tristram looked upon them with pity and beheld that they were in a very sad and forlorn condition and so sorrowful from their captivity that some of them wept from pure weakness of heart. then sir tristram said: "comfort ye, and take no more sorrow to yourselves, for now your troubles are past and gone, and happiness lieth before you. sir nabon is dead, and so is his son, and there is no one now to torment you. moreover, i dare say that there is much treasure gathered at this place by sir nabon, and all that treasure shall be divided amongst you, for to comfort ye, wherefore when ye leave this place, ye shall go away a great deal richer than ye were when ye came." so spake sir tristram, promising them much for to comfort them a little. as to that treasure he spake of, ye shall immediately be told how it was. for when sir tristram had summoned the treasurer of that place, he brought sir tristram down into the vaults of the castle and there he beheld seven strong chests bolted and locked. then sir tristram summoned the locksmith of that castle; and the smith came and burst open the chests; and lo! the eyes of all were astonished and bedazzled with the treasure which they therewith beheld; for in those chests was heaped an incalculable treasure of gold and silver and precious gems of many divers sorts. and besides this treasure, you are to know that they found in that vault many bales of cloths--some of silk and velvet, and some of tissues of cloth of gold and silver; and they found many precious ornaments, and many fine suits of armor, and many other valuable things. for in several years sir nabon had gathered all that treasure in toll from those ships that had sailed past that land. [sidenote: sir tristram divides the treasure amongst the captives] all this treasure sir tristram had them bring forth into the light of day, and he divided it into seven equal parcels. then he said to those sad, sorrowful captives: "look! see! all this shall be yours for to comfort ye! take each of you one parcel and depart hence in joy!" then all they were greatly astonished at sir tristram's generosity, and they said: "lord, how is this? do you not then take any of this treasure for yourself?" to them sir tristram made reply: "nay, why should i take it? i am not sad, nor sick, nor troubled at heart as you poor captives are. all this i have taken for to comfort you, and not for to satisfy my own covetousness. so let each take his share of it and see that ye all use it in comfort and peace and for the advantage of other men and women who are in trouble as ye have been. for, as hitherto this treasure hath been used for evil purpose, so shall it be henceforth that it shall be used to good purpose." so there was great rejoicing amongst all those poor people who had been so sad and sorrowful before. [sidenote: sir tristram appoints sir segwarides governor of the castle] now, after all this had been settled, sir tristram cast about how he might put that land under good government upon behalf of the lady loise. to this intent he chose from amongst those captives whom he had liberated a certain very worthy honorable knight of cornwall hight sir segwarides. him sir tristram appointed to be governor of that island, giving him liberty to rule it as he chose saving only that he should do homage to the lady loise as lady paramount. and sir tristram ordained that sir segwarides should pay tribute to that lady every year such an amount as should be justly determined upon betwixt them. for sir tristram wist that some strong worthy knight should rule that island, or else, from its position, it might again some time fall from the lady loise's possession into the hands of such an evil and malignant overlord as sir nabon had been. so it was done as sir tristram had ordained. and it may here be said that sir segwarides ruled that land very justly and that he and the lady loise became dear friends, so that at the end of three years from that time he and she were made husband and wife. now sir tristram remained in that island several days, with intent to see to it that the power of sir segwarides should be established. and he made all the people of that land come before sir segwarides for to pledge obedience to him. amongst these came sir lamorack in the guise of a swineherd, and sir tristram knew him not, because that he was clad in rags and in the skins of animals and because that his beard and his hair were uncut and unkempt, and hung down very shaggy upon his breast. but sir lamorack knew sir tristram yet would not acknowledge him, being ashamed that sir tristram should discover him in such a guise and so ragged and forlorn as he then was. so he kept his eyes from sir tristram, and sir tristram passed him by and knew him not. [sidenote: sir tristram beholds sir lamorack's ring] but amongst other of the people of the castle that passed before sir tristram, there came a woman, very fair to look upon, and she had been a house-slave to sir nabon. as this woman passed before sir tristram, he beheld that she wore upon her thumb a very fair and shining ring, that bare a green stone set in wrought gold. and when he looked again he saw it was that ring of carven emerald that he had given to sir lamorack as aforetold. at this sir tristram was astonished beyond measure, and he ordered that woman to come before him, and she came and stood before him trembling. then sir tristram said: "fear not, but tell me where got ye that ring that i behold upon your hand?" and the woman said: "lord, i will tell you the very truth. my husband is the chief fisherman of this place, and one day, some while ago, he gave me this ring when i had favor in his sight." sir tristram said, "where is your husband?" the slave-woman said, "yonder he stands." then sir tristram said: "come hither, sirrah!" and therewith the fisherman came and stood before sir tristram as his wife had done, and he also trembled with fear as she had done. [sidenote: sir tristram questions the fisherman] to him sir tristram said, "why do you tremble so?" and the fisher-man said, "lord, i am afeard!" sir tristram said: "have no fear, unless you have done wrong, but tell me the truth. where got ye that ring that yonder woman weareth?" "lord," said the fisherman, "i will tell you the perfect truth. one day i and several of my fellows found a man lying naked in a bed of heather near the seaside. at first we thought he was dead, but he awoke and arose when he heard our voices. he was naked and hungry, and he besought us for clothes to cover his nakedness and for food to eat. so we gave him what we could, demanding that ring in payment. so he gave the ring to me, who am the chief of the fishermen, and i gave it to that woman who is my wife; and that, lord, is the very truth." then sir tristram was very much disturbed in mind, for he feared that it might have gone ill with sir lamorack. and he said, "where now is that man of whom ye speak?" the fisherman replied: "lord, he was set to keep the swine, and he is the swineherd of the castle to this day." at this sir tristram was very glad that no more ill had befallen sir lamorack, and that he was yet alive. then, after the fisherman had departed from that place, sir tristram sat for a while sunk into deep thought. and he said to himself: "alas, that so noble a knight should be brought to such a pass as that! how greatly must my friend be abased when he would not acknowledge himself to me nor claim my assistance because of the shame of his appearance! meseems it is not fitting for me to send for him to come to me in the guise which he now wears, for it would be discourteous a thing for me to do, to make him so declare himself. so first i shall see to it that he is clothed in such a manner as shall be fitting to his high estate, and then haply he will be willing to make himself manifest to me. after that, perhaps his love will return to me again, and remain with me as it was at first." so sir tristram called to him several of the people of that castle, and he bade them do certain things according to his command, and straightway they departed to do as he ordained. now turn we to sir lamorack: whilst he sat keeping watch over his swine there came to him four men from the castle. these say to him, "you must come straightway with us." sir lamorack said, "whither would you take me?" they say: "that we are not permitted to tell you, only that you are to go with us as we bid you." so sir lamorack arose and went with those four, much wondering what it was that was to befall him, and whether that which was to happen was good or evil. [sidenote: sir lamorack is brought to the castle] the four men brought him to the castle and they entered in thereat, and they escorted sir lamorack, still greatly wondering, up the stairway of the castle, and so into a noble and stately apartment, hung with tapestries and embroidered hangings. and there sir lamorack beheld a great bath of tepid water, hung within and without with linen. there were at this place several attendants; these took sir lamorack and unclothed him and brought him to the bath, and bathed him and dried him with soft linen and with fine towels. then there came the barber and he shaved sir lamorack and clipped his hair, and when he was thus bathed and trimmed, his nobility shone forth again as the sun shines forth from a thick cloud that hides its effulgence for a while, only to withdraw so that the glorious day-star may shine forth again with redoubled splendor. [sidenote: sir lamorack is armed in armor] then there came divers other attendants and clothed sir lamorack in rich and handsome garments such as were altogether fitting for a knight-royal to wear. and after that there came several esquires and brought a very splendid suit of armor; and they clad sir lamorack in that armor; and the armor gleamed as bright as daylight, being polished to a wonderful clearness, and inlaid with figures of arabesqued silver. then sir lamorack said, "what means all this that ye do to me?" and they said, "wait, messire, and you shall see." so after all these things were done, five other esquires appeared to conduct sir lamorack away from that place. these led him through several passages and hallways until at last they came to a great space of hall wherein stood a single man; and that man was sir tristram. and sir tristram gazed upon sir lamorack and his heart yearned over him with great loving-kindness. but he would not betray his love to those who had come with sir lamorack, so he contained himself for a little, and he said to those in attendance, "get ye gone," and straightway they departed. then sir lamorack lifted up his eyes and he came to where sir tristram was standing and he said: "is it thou, tristram, who hath bestowed all these benefits upon me?" and he said: "from thy nobility of soul such things may be expected." [sidenote: sir tristram and sir lamorack are reconciled] then sir tristram wept for joy, and he said: "lamorack, it is little that i have done to pleasure thee, and much that i have done to affront thee." then sir lamorack said: "nay; it is much that thou hast done to comfort me, and little to cause me discomfort. for lo! thou hast uplifted me from misery into happiness, and thou hast brought me from nakedness and want into prosperity and ease, and what more may one man do for another man than that?" "lamorack," said sir tristram, "there is much more than one man may do for another man than that. for if one man hath given offence to another man, he may be reconciled to that one so offended, and so the soul of that other shall be clothed with peace and joy, even as thy body hath been clothed with garments of silk and fine linen." then sir tristram took sir lamorack by the hand, and he said, "dear friend, art thou now strong and fresh of body?" and sir lamorack, greatly wondering, said, "ay." "then," said sir tristram, "i may now offer thee reparation for that offence which i one time unwillingly committed against thee. for lo! i have had thee clad in the best armor that it is possible to provide, and now that thou art fresh and hale and strong, i am ready to do battle with thee at any time thou mayst assign. for if, before, thou wert overcome because thou wert weary with battle, now thou mayst prove thy prowess upon me being both strong and sound in wind and limb." but upon this sir lamorack ran to sir tristram and catched him in his arms and kissed him upon the cheek. and he said: "tristram, thou art indeed a very noble soul. i will do no battle with thee, but instead i will take thee into my heart and cherish thee there forever." sir tristram said, "art thou altogether satisfied?" and sir lamorack said, "yea." and therewith sir tristram wept for pure joy. [sidenote: sir tristram and sir lamorack depart from the island] then sir tristram said: "let us go to sir launcelot of the lake, so that i may make my peace with him also. for he hath writ me a letter chiding me for having done battle with thee when thou wert weary and winded with fighting. and i was upon my way to see sir launcelot and to plead my cause with him when i came hither by good hap, and was able to uplift thee out of thy distress." to this sir lamorack said: "i will go with thee to sir launcelot whenever it shall please thee; and i will bear full testimony to thy knightliness and to thy courtesy." so when the next morning had come they took boat and sailed away from that island. and the night of that day they abided at the castle of the lady loise, who gave thanks without measure to sir tristram for ridding the world of so wicked and malign a being as sir nabon, and for restoring her inheritance of that land unto her again. and upon the morning of the next day those two good knights betook their way to camelot, where they found sir launcelot. there sir lamorack exculpated sir tristram, and sir launcelot immediately withdrew his rebuke for that battle which sir tristram had aforetime done against sir lamorack. after that sir tristram and sir lamorack abode at the court of king arthur for nigh a year, and during that time they went upon many quests and adventures of various sorts--sometimes alone, sometimes together. all these have been set down in ancient histories that tell of the adventures of sir tristram and sir lamorack. some of them i would like right well to tell you of, but should i undertake to do so, the story of those happenings would fill several volumes such as this. nevertheless, i may tell you that they did together many knightly deeds, the fame whereof hath been handed down to us in several histories of chivalry. therein you may read of those things if you should care to do so. all this i leave to tell you how sir tristram returned into cornwall, and likewise to tell you of one more famous adventure that he did at this time. [sidenote: sir tristram hears from cornwall of sir palamydes] sir tristram had been at the court of king arthur for about a year when one day there came a messenger unto the court at camelot with news that sir palamydes, the saracen knight aforetold of in this history, had through a cunning trick seized the lady belle isoult and had carried her away to a lonely tower in the forest of cornwall. the messenger bore a letter from king mark beseeching sir tristram to return as immediately as possible unto cornwall and to rescue that lady from her captivity. and the letter further said that two knights of cornwall had already essayed to rescue the lady belle isoult, but that they had failed, having been overcome and sorely wounded in battle by sir palamydes. and the letter said that it was acknowledged by all men that sir tristram was the only knight of cornwall who could achieve the rescue of belle isoult from so wonderful and puissant a knight as sir palamydes. so in answer to that letter, sir tristram immediately left the court of king arthur and returned in all haste to cornwall, and there he found them all in great perturbation that the lady belle isoult had thus been stolen away. but sir tristram did not remain at court very long for, after he had obtained such information as he desired, he immediately left tintagel and plunged into the forest with gouvernail as his companion in quest of that lonely tower where belle isoult was said to be held prisoner. after several adventures of no great note he came at last very, very deep into the forest and into an open space thereof; and in the midst of that open space he beheld a lonely tower surrounded by a moat. and he wist that that must be the place where the lady belle isoult was held prisoner. [sidenote: sir tristram finds sir palamydes in the forest] but when sir tristram drew nigh to this tower he perceived a single knight sitting at the base of the tower with head hanging down upon his breast as though he were broken-hearted with sorrow. and when he came still more nigh, sir tristram was astonished to perceive that that mournful knight was sir palamydes the saracen, and he wondered why sir palamydes should be so broken-hearted. and now it must be told why it was that sir palamydes came to be in such a sorry case as that; for the truth was that he was locked and shut outside of the tower, whilst the lady belle isoult was shut and locked inside thereof. now it hath already been told how the letter of king mark had said to sir tristram that two knights of cornwall went both against sir palamydes for to challenge him and to rescue the lady belle isoult. the second of these knights was sir adthorp, and he had followed sir palamydes so closely through the forest that he had come to the forest tower not more than an hour after sir palamydes had brought the lady belle isoult thither. therewith sir adthorp gave loud challenge to sir palamydes to come forth and do him battle, and therewith sir palamydes came immediately out against him, full of anger that sir adthorp should have meddled in that affair. but immediately sir palamydes had thus issued forth to do battle with sir adthorp, the lady belle isoult ran down the tower stairs and immediately shut the door through which he had passed, and she locked it and set a great bar of oak across the door. [sidenote: how sir palamydes came without the tower] so when sir palamydes had overthrown the cornish knight, and when he would have returned to the tower, he could not, for lo! it was fastened against him. so now for three days he had set there at the foot of the tower and beside the moat, sunk in sorrow like to one who had gone out of his mind. so sir tristram found him, and perceiving that it was sir palamydes who was sitting there, he said to gouvernail: "go thou and bid that knight to come and do battle with me." so gouvernail went to sir palamydes and he said: "sir, arise, for here is a knight would speak with you!" but sir palamydes would not move. then gouvernail touched him with his lance, and said: "sir palamydes, arise and bestir yourself, for here is sir tristram come to do battle with you." with that, sir palamydes awoke from his stupor and arose very slowly and stiffly. and he gathered up his helmet which was lying beside him and put it upon his head. then he took down his shield from where it hung against the wall and he mounted upon his horse, doing all as though he were moving in a dream. but as soon as he was upon horseback he suddenly aroused himself, for his fierce spirit had come back to him once more. then he gnashed his teeth, crying out in a loud voice, "tristram, this time either thou or i shall perish." [sidenote: sir tristram overcomes sir palamydes] therewith he rushed upon sir tristram and smote him so violently that sir tristram had much ado to defend himself. and sir palamydes smote him again and again; and with that sir tristram smote in return. and if the blows of sir palamydes were terrible, the blows of sir tristram were terrible likewise. then by and by sir tristram smote sir palamydes so sore a buffet that the saracen knight fell down from his horse and was unable immediately to arise. then sir tristram ran to him and rushed off his helmet and catched him by the hair with intent to cut his head from off his body. but with that the lady belle isoult came running from out the tower and cried out: "tristram, is it thou? spare that mistaken knight and have mercy upon him as thou hopest for mercy." "lady," said sir tristram, "for thy sake and at thy bidding i will spare him." then he said to sir palamydes, "arise." and sir palamydes arose very painfully, and sir tristram said: "get thee hence, and go to the court of king arthur and make thy confession to the king and ask him to forgive thee, and if he forgive thee, then also i will forgive thee." therewith sir palamydes mounted upon his horse and rode away without speaking another word, his head bowed with sorrow upon his breast for shame and despair. then sir tristram took the lady belle isoult up behind him on his horse, and he and she and gouvernail departed from that place. [sidenote: sir tristram brings belle isoult back to cornwall] so sir tristram brought the lady isoult back to cornwall, and there he was received with loud praise and great rejoicing, for everybody was glad that belle isoult had been brought safely back again. and now it shall be told what reward sir tristram received for this deed of arms. for, though at first king mark was greatly beholden to sir tristram, that he had thus rescued the lady belle isoult, yet, by little and little, he grew to hate that noble knight more bitterly than ever. for he heard men say to one another: "lo, sir tristram is, certes, the very champion of cornwall, for who is there in this country is his equal?" so king mark, hearing these things said to himself: "the more noble tristram is, the more ignoble will men deem me to be who am under obligations to such an enemy." so he would say in his heart, "yea, tristram; i hate thee more than death." part iii the madness of sir tristram _here followeth the story of how sir tristram was driven out of cornwall and of how he went mad because of his troubles. likewise it shall be told how he performed several very wonderful adventures whilst he was in that state, and of how he was brought back into his senses again._ [illustration: sir tristram assaults king mark] chapter first _how sir tristram was discovered with the lady belle isoult; how he assaulted king mark, and how he escaped from tintagel into the forest._ after sir tristram had thus rescued the lady belle isoult from the hand of sir palamydes, he dwelt very peacefully at the court of cornwall for all of that winter and until the spring that followed, and during that time he was given every meed of praise and honor. but although king mark and his court gave praise to sir tristram with the lips, yet he and many of his people hated sir tristram at heart, and there were many mischief-makers about the court who were ever ready to blow the embers of the king's wrath into a flame. now the chiefest of all these mischief-makers was sir andred, who was nephew unto king mark, and cousin-germaine unto sir tristram. sir andred was a fierce strong knight, and one very dextrous at arms; but he was as mean and as treacherous as sir tristram was generous and noble, wherefore he hated sir tristram with great bitterness (though he dissembled that hatred) and sought for every opportunity to do sir tristram a harm by bringing him and the king into conflict. [sidenote: sir andred of cornwall sets spies upon sir tristram] so sir andred set spies upon sir tristram, and he himself spied upon his cousin, yet neither he nor they were able to find anything with which to accuse sir tristram. then one day sir andred came to sir tristram and said: "sir, the lady belle isoult wishes to see you to talk with you." sir tristram said, "where is she?" and sir andred said, "she is in her bower." then sir tristram said, "very well, i will go to her." so sir tristram arose and departed from where he was with intent to find the lady; and therewith sir andred hurried to where king mark was, and said: "lord, arise, for sir tristram and the lady isoult are holding converse together." king mark said, "where are they?" and sir andred said, "they are in the bower of the queen." at that king mark's rage and jealousy blazed up into a flame, so that he was like one seized with a sudden frensy. so, in that madness of rage, he looked about for some weapon with which to destroy sir tristram, and he perceived a great sword where it hung against the wall. thereupon he ran to the sword and took it down from where it was, and ran with all speed to that place where sir tristram and the lady isoult were, and sir andred guided him thither. [sidenote: king mark assaults sir tristram] and when king mark reached the bower of the lady isoult he flung open the door and found sir tristram and the lady isoult sitting together in the seat of a deep window. and he perceived that the lady isoult wept and that sir tristram's face was very sorrowful because of her sorrow. then king mark twisted him about and bent double as with a great pain, and then he cried out thrice in a voice very hoarse and loud: "traitor! traitor! traitor!" saying those words three times. therewith he ran at sir tristram and struck furiously at him with that sword he held, with intent to slay him. now sir tristram was at that time altogether without armor and was clad in clothes of scarlet silk. accordingly, he was able to be very quick and alert in his movements. so perceiving king mark rushing upon him with intent to slay him he leaped aside and so avoided the blow. then immediately he rushed in upon king mark and catched him by the wrist and wrenched the sword out of his hand. then sir tristram was blinded with his rage and might have slain his uncle, but the lady isoult, beholding the fury in his face, shrieked in a very piercing voice, "forbear! forbear!" and therewith he remembered him how that king mark was his mother's brother and that it was his hand that had made him a knight. [sidenote: sir tristram beats king mark] so he turned the sword in his hand and he smote king mark with the flat thereof again and again, and at those blows king mark was filled with terror so that he howled like a wild beast. and king mark fled away from that place, striving to escape, but sir tristram ever pursued him, grinding his teeth like a wild boar in rage, and smiting the king as he ran, over and over again, with the flat of the sword so that the whole castle was filled with the tumult and uproar of that assault. then many of the knights of cornwall came running with intent to defend the king, and with them came sir andred. but when sir tristram saw them, his rage suddenly left the king and went out toward them; so therewith, naked of armor as he was, he rushed at them, and he struck at them so fiercely that they were filled with the terror of his fury, and fled away from before his face. and sir tristram chased them through the courts of the castle, striking right and left until he was weary with striking, and many he struck down with the fierceness of his blows, and amongst them was sir andred who was sorely wounded. so after a while sir tristram grew weary of that battle, and he cried out, "certes, these are not knights, but swine!" and therewith he ceased striking, and allowed those who could do so to escape. [sidenote: sir tristram departs from tintagel] thereafter he went to his chamber and armed himself without summoning gouvernail, and after that he took horse and rode away altogether from that place. and not even gouvernail went with him, but only his favorite hound, hight houdaine, which same followed him into the forest as he rode thitherward. and in his going sir tristram looked neither to the right nor to the left but straight before him very proudly and haughtily, and no one dared to stay him in his going. yet, though he appeared so steadfast, he was like one who was brokenhearted, for he wist that in going away from that place he was leaving behind him all that he held dear in the world, wherefore he was like one who rode forth from a pleasant garden into an empty wilderness of sorrow and repining. [sidenote: gouvernail finds sir tristram in the forest] then, some little while after sir tristram had gone, gouvernail also took horse and rode into the forest, and he searched for a long while in the forest without finding his master. but after a while he came upon sir tristram seated under a tree with his head hanging down upon his breast. and houdaine lay beside sir tristram and licked his hand, but sir tristram paid no heed to him, being so deeply sunk in his sorrow that he was unaware that houdaine licked his hand in that wise. then gouvernail dismounted from his horse and came to where sir tristram was, and gouvernail wept at beholding the sorrow of sir tristram. and gouvernail said: "messire, look up and take cheer, for there must yet be joy for thee in the world." then sir tristram raised his eyes very slowly (for they were heavy and dull like lead) and he looked at gouvernail for some while as though not seeing him. then by and by he said: "gouvernail, what evil have i done that i should have so heavy a curse laid upon me?" gouvernail said, still weeping: "lord, thou hast done no ill, but art in all wise a very noble, honorable gentleman." "alas!" quoth sir tristram, "i must unwittingly have done some great evil in god's sight, for certes the hand of god lieth grievously heavy upon me." gouvernail said: "lord, take heart, and tell me whither shall we go now?" and sir tristram said, "i know not." then gouvernail said: "lord, let us go hence, i care not where, for i reckon nothing of storm or rain or snow or hail if it so be that i am with you." [sidenote: sir tristram bids gouvernail return to tintagel] then sir tristram looked upon gouvernail and smiled, and he said: "gouvernail, it is great joy to me that you should love me so greatly as you do. but this time you may not go with me whither i go, for the lady belle isoult hath few friends at the court of cornwall, and many enemies, wherefore i would have you return unto her for my sake, so that you may befriend her and cherish her when that i am no longer by her for to stand her friend in her hour of need. and take this dog houdaine with you and bid the lady belle isoult for to keep him by her to remind her of my faithfulness unto her. for even as this creature is faithful unto me under all circumstances, so am i faithful unto her whether she be glad or sorry, or in good or evil case. so return to tintagel as i bid thee, and see that thou pay thy duty unto that lady even as thou payst it unto me. for she is so singularly dear unto me that, even as a man's heart is the life of his body, so is her happiness the life of my life." then gouvernail wept again in very great measure, and he said, "lord, i obey." therewith he mounted his horse, still weeping with a great passion of sorrow, and rode away from that place, and houdaine followed after him and sir tristram was left sitting alone in the deep forest. [sidenote: sir tristram wanders in the forest mad] after that sir tristram wandered for several days in the forest, he knew not whither for he was bewildered with that which had happened; so that he ate no food and took no rest of any sort for all that time. wherefore, because of the hardship he then endured, he by and by became distraught in his mind. so, after a while, he forgot who he himself was, and what was his condition, or whence he came or whither he wended. and because his armor weighed heavily upon him, he took it off and cast it away from him, and thereafter roamed half naked through the woodlands. now upon the sixth day of this wandering he came to the outskirts of the forest and nigh to the coast of the sea at a spot that was not very far away was the castle of the lady loise, where he had once stayed at the time that he undertook the adventure against sir nabon as aforetold. there, being exhausted with hunger and weariness, he laid himself down in the sunlight out beyond the borders of the forest and presently fell into a deep sleep that was like to a swoon. now it chanced at that time that there came that way a certain damsel attendant upon the lady loise. she perceiving that a man lay there on the grass at the edge of the forest was at first of a mind to quit that place. then, seeing that the man lay very strangely still as though he were dead, she went forward very softly and looked into his face. now that damsel had beheld sir tristram a great many times when he was at the castle of the lady loise; wherefore now, in spite of his being so starved and shrunken, and so unkempt and unshaved, she remembered his face and she knew that this was sir tristram. therewith the damsel hurried away to the lady loise (and the lady was not a very great distance away) and she said: "lady, yonder way there lieth a man by the forest side and i believe that it is sir tristram of lyonesse. yet he is but half-clad and in great distress of body so that i know not of a surety whether it is really sir tristram or not. now i pray you come with me and look upon his face and see if you may know him." so the lady loise went with the damsel to where sir tristram lay and looked into his face, and she knew sir tristram in spite of his ill condition. [sidenote: the lady loise finds sir tristram] then the lady loise touched sir tristram upon the shoulder and shook him, and thereupon sir tristram awoke and sat up. then the lady loise said, "sir tristram, is it thou who liest here?" and sir tristram said, "i know not who i am." the lady loise said, "messire, how came you here in this sad case?" and sir tristram said: "i know not whence i came, nor how i came hither, nor who i am, nor what it is that ails me, for i cannot hold my mind with enough steadiness to remember those things." then the lady sighed for sorrow of sir tristram, and she said: "alas, sir tristram, that i should find you thus! now i pray you, lord, for to come with me to my castle which is hard by. there we may care for you and may perhaps bring you back to health again." to this sir tristram said: "lady, i may not go with you. for though i cannot remember whence i came, nor who i am, this much i know--i know that i am mad, and that the forest is the only fit place for such as i am come to be." the lady said: "alas, sir tristram, thou wilt die if thou art left alone here in the forest." and sir tristram said: "lady, i know not what you mean when you say i am to die. what is it to die?" so at these words the lady loise saw how it was with sir tristram; that his brains were altogether turned; and she wist that some sore trouble must have befallen to bring him to such a pass. then she bethought her of how dearly he loved the music of the harp, and she said to herself: "mayhap by means of music i may bring him back into his senses again." so she said to that damsel who had brought her thither: "go thou and bring hither my little harp of gold, and let us see if music may charm him to remembrance." so the damsel ran to the castle and brought the harp thence, and the lady loise took the harp and tuned it and struck it and played upon it. and the lady sang very sweetly a ballad that she knew sir tristram loved. [sidenote: the lady loise harps to sir tristram] then when sir tristram heard the sound of the music and singing he aroused himself. for first he listened with great pleasure, and then he said, "give it to me! give it to me!" and he reached out his hands and would have taken the harp from the lady. [sidenote: sir tristram comes to the lady's castle] but the lady loise laughed and shook her head, and she walked away from sir tristram and toward the castle, still playing upon the little harp and singing; and sir tristram followed close after, saying ever, "give it to me! give it to me!" and reaching out his hands for the harp. so the lady loise led him away from that place across the meadows; and she led him to the castle and into the castle; and ever sir tristram followed after her, beseeching her for to give the harp unto him. and the lady led sir tristram that way until she had brought him to a fair room, and there she gave him the harp, and sir tristram took it very eagerly into his hands and struck upon it and played and sang most sweetly and with great joy and pleasure. afterward, being so much comforted, he ate and drank with appetite, and then fell into a fair sound sleep. yet, though he so slept, still sir tristram's wits in no wise recovered themselves; for when he awoke from that slumber he still could not remember who he was or whence he came, neither could he remember the faces of any of those who were around about him. but, though he was thus mad, he was still gentle and kind in his madness and courteous and civil to all those who came nigh him. so sir tristram remained a gentle captive in the castle of the lady loise for nigh upon a month, and somewhiles she would sing and harp to him, and otherwhiles he himself would harp and sing. but ever and anon, when he found the chance for to do so, he would escape from the captivity of the castle and seek the forest; for he was aware of his madness and he ever sought to hide that madness in the deep and shady woodland where only the wild creatures of the forest might see him. yet always when he so escaped the lady loise would take her little golden harp and go forth to the skirts of the forest and play upon it, and when the music thereof would reach sir tristram's ears he would return to the castle, being led thither by the music. [sidenote: sir tristram quits the lady's castle] but one day he wandered so far astray that the music of the harp could not reach his ears, and then he wandered on farther and farther until he was altogether lost. at that lady loise took much sorrow for she had much love for sir tristram. so she sent many of her people to search the forest for him, but none of these were able to find him and thereafter he came no more to the castle. thus sir tristram escaped from that castle and after that he wandered in the forest as he had done at the first. and in that time he took no food and but little rest. and the brambles tore his clothes, so that in a short time he was wellnigh altogether naked. and somewhiles during this time of wandering he would be seized as with a fury of battle, and in such case he would shout aloud as though in challenge to an enemy. and then he would rend and tear great branches from the trees in the fury of his imaginings. but otherwhiles he would wander through the leafy aisles of the forest in gentler mood, singing so sweetly that had you heard him you would have thought that it was some fairy spirit of the forest chanting in those solitudes. [sidenote: sir tristram dwells with the swineherds] so he wandered until he failed with faintness, and sank down into the leaves; and i believe that he would then have died, had it not been that there chanced to come that way certain swineherds of the forest who fed their swine upon acorns that were to be therein found. these found sir tristram lying there as though dead, and they gave him to eat and to drink so that he revived once more. after that they took him with them, and he dwelt with them in those woodlands. there these forest folk played with him and made merry with him, and he made them great sport. for he was ever gentle and mild like a little child for innocence so that he did no harm to anyone, but only talked in such a way that the swineherds found great sport in him. now sir andred of cornwall very greatly coveted the possessions of sir tristram, so that when several months had passed by and sir tristram did not return to tintagel, he said to himself: "of a surety, tristram must now be dead in the forest, and, as there is no one nigher of kin to him than i, it is altogether fitting that i should inherit his possessions." but as sir andred could not inherit without proof of the death of sir tristram, he suborned a certain very beautiful but wicked lady who dwelt in the forest, persuading her that she should give false evidence of sir tristram's death. accordingly, he one day brought that lady before king mark, and she gave it as her evidence that sir tristram had died in the forest and that she had been with him when he died. and she showed them a new-made grave in the forest, and she said: "that is the grave of sir tristram, for i saw him die and i saw him buried there with mine own eyes." [sidenote: sir adred seizes sir tristram's possessions] so everybody believed this evidence, and thought that sir tristram was really dead, and so sir andred seized upon all the possessions of sir tristram. and there were many who were very sorry that sir tristram was dead and there were others who were glad thereof in the same measure. but when the news was brought to belle isoult that sir tristram was dead, she shrieked aloud and swooned away. and she lay in that swoon so long that they thought for a while she would never recover from it. but by and by she awoke therefrom, crying, "would to god that i were dead with tristram and had never awakened!" and thereafter she mourned continually for sir tristram and would not be comforted; for she was like to a woman who hath been widowed from a lover of her youth. and now it shall be told of how it fared with sir tristram in the forest where he dwelt with the swineherds, and of how he achieved a very notable adventure therein. [illustration: sir kay and the forest madman] chapter second _how sir tristram got him a sword from sir kay and how he slew therewith a huge knight in the forest and rescued a lady in very great distress. also how sir launcelot found sir tristram in the forest and brought him thence to tintagel again._ now it chanced one day that sir kay the seneschal came riding through those parts of the forest where sir tristram abided with the swineherds, and with sir kay there came a considerable court of esquires. and with him besides there travelled sir dagonet, king arthur's fool. [sidenote: sir kay and sir dagonet come to the forest] now, you are to know that though sir dagonet was the king's jester, and though he was slack of wit, yet he was also a knight of no mean prowess. for he had performed several deeds of good repute and was well held in all courts of chivalry. so sir dagonet always went armed; though he bore upon his shield the device of a cockerel's head as a symbol of his calling. the time that sir kay and his court travelled as aforesaid was in the summer season and the day was very warm, so that sir kay was minded to take rest during the midday and until the coolness of the afternoon should come. so they all dismounted from their horses and sat them down under the shade of the trees where it was cool and pleasant and where the breezes reached them to breathe upon their faces. [sidenote: sir dagonet wanders in the woodland] but whilst sir kay and his court thus rested themselves, sir dagonet must needs be gadding, for he was of a very restless, meddlesome disposition. so, being at that time clad only in half armor, he wandered hither and thither through the forest as his fancy led him. for somewhiles he would whistle and somewhiles he would gape, and otherwhiles he would cut a caper or two. so, as chance would have it, he came by and by to that open glade of the forest where the swineherds were gathered; and at that time they were eating their midday meal of black bread and cheese, and were drinking beer; some talking and laughing and others silent as they ate their food. unto these sir dagonet appeared, coming out of the forest in very gay attire, and shining in the half armor he wore, so that he appeared like a bright bird of the woodland. then sir dagonet, seeing where those rude boors were eating their meal of food, came to them and stood amongst them. and he said, "who are ye fellows?" whereunto they replied, "we are swineherds, messire; who be ye?" quoth sir dagonet: "i am king arthur's fool. and whilst there are haply many in the world with no more wits than i possess, yet there are few so honest as i to confess that they are fools." at these words those swineherds laughed very loudly. "well," quoth one, "if king arthur hath his fool, so have we, and yonder he is," and therewith he pointed to where sir tristram lay in the shade of the trees some distance away and beside a deep well of the forest. upon that sir dagonet must needs go to where sir tristram lay, nearly naked, upon the ground. and when he had come there he said, "arise, fool." whereunto sir tristram replied: "why should i arise? lo! i am weary." then sir dagonet said: "it is not fitting that thou, who art the fool of swineherds shouldst lie upon the grass, whilst i who am the fool of a king stand upright upon my shanks. so, fool, i bid thee bestir thyself and arise." but sir tristram said, "i will not arise." and therewith sir dagonet took his sword and pricked the thigh of sir tristram with the point thereof with intent to make him bestir himself. [sidenote: sir tristram souses sir dagonet in the well] now when sir tristram felt the prick of sir dagonet's sword, a certain part of his memory of knighthood came back to him and he was seized with a sudden fury against sir dagonet. so he arose and ran at sir dagonet and catched him in his arms, and lifted sir dagonet off his feet and he soused him in the well four or five times so that he was like to have drowned him. as for those swineherds, when they saw what their fool did to that other fool, they roared with laughter so that some of them rolled down upon the ground and lay grovelling there for pure mirth. but others of them called out to sir tristram, "let be, or thou wilt drown that man"; and therewith sir tristram let sir dagonet go, and sir dagonet ran away. nor did sir dagonet cease to run until he came to his party under the shade of the trees. but when sir kay perceived what a sorry plight it was in which sir dagonet appeared, he said, "what hath befallen thee?" to this sir dagonet replied as follows: "messire, i, who am a fool, went into the forest and met another fool. i fool would have a jest with he fool, but he fool catched i fool and soused i fool in a well of cold water. so it came about that while i fool had the jest, he fool had the sport of the jest." [sidenote: sir kay seeks to avenge sir dagonet] then sir kay understood in some manner what had befallen, and he was very angry that sir dagonet should have been so served. wherefore he said, "where did this befall thee?" and sir dagonet said, "over yonder ways." then sir kay said: "i will avenge thee for the affront that hath been put upon thee. for no boor shall serve a knight of king arthur's court in such a fashion!" so therewith sir kay arose and put on his armor and mounted his horse and rode away; and after a while he came to that place where the swineherds were. then sir kay said very sternly: "which of ye is that boor who put so grievous an affront upon a gentleman of my party?" the swineherds say: "yonder he is lying by the well; but he is slack of wit, wherefore we beseech you to do him no harm." [sidenote: sir tristram souses sir kay in the water] then sir kay rode to where sir tristram was, and he said: "sirrah, why did you souse sir dagonet into the water?" to this sir tristram did not reply, but only looked at sir kay and laughed, for it pleased him wonderfully to behold that knight all in shining armor. but when sir kay beheld sir tristram laugh in that wise, he waxed exceedingly wroth. wherefore he drew his sword straightway, and rode at sir tristram with intent to strike him with the blade thereof. but when sir tristram saw the sword of sir kay shining like lightning in the sunlight, somewhat of his knightly spirit arose within him and took wing like to a bird springing up out of the marish grass into the clear air. for beholding that bright flashing sword he cried out aloud and arose and came very steadily toward sir kay, and sir kay rode toward sir tristram. then when sir kay had come near enough to strike, he arose in his stirrups and lifted the blade on high with intent to strike sir tristram with it. but therewith sir tristram ran very quickly in beneath the blow, so that the stroke of sir kay failed of its mark. then sir tristram leaped up and catched sir kay around the body and dragged him down from off his horse very violently upon the ground, and with that the sword of sir kay fell down out of his hands and lay in the grass. then sir tristram lifted up sir kay very easily and ran with him to the well of water and soused him therein several times until sir kay cried out, "fellow, spare me or i strangle!" upon that sir tristram let go sir kay, and sir kay ran to his horse and mounted thereon and rode away from that place with might and main, all streaming with water like to a fountain. and all that while those swineherds roared with great laughter, ten times louder than they had laughed when sir tristram had soused sir dagonet into the well. then sir tristram beheld the sword of sir kay where it lay in the grass and forthwith he ran to it and picked it up. and when he held it in his hands he loved it with a great passion of love, wherefore he hugged it to his bosom and kissed the pommel thereof. but when the swineherds beheld the sword in sir tristram's hands, they said, "that is no fit plaything for a madman to have," and they would have taken it from him, but sir tristram would not permit them, for he would not give them the sword, and no one dared to try to take it from him. [sidenote: sir tristram keeps the sword of sir kay] so thereafter he kept that sword ever by him both by night and by day, and ever he loved it and kissed it and fondled it; for, as aforesaid, it aroused his knightly spirit to life within him, wherefore it was he loved it. so it hath been told how sir tristram got him a sword, and now it shall be told how well he used it. now there was at that time in the woodlands of that part of cornwall a gigantic knight hight sir tauleas, and he was the terror of all that district. for not only was he a head and shoulders taller than the tallest of cornish men, but his strength and fierceness were great in the same degree that he was big of frame. many knights had undertaken to rid the world of this sir tauleas, but no knight had ever yet encountered him without meeting some mishap at his hands. (yet it is to be said that heretofore no such knight as sir launcelot or sir lamorack had come against sir tauleas, but only the knights of cornwall and wales, whose borders marched upon that district where sir tauleas ranged afield.) [sidenote: sir daynant and his lady come to the forest] now one day there came riding through the forest a very noble, gallant young knight, hight sir daynant, and with him rode his lady, a beautiful dame to whom he had lately been wedded with a great deal of love. these wayfarers in their travelling came to that part of the forest where the swineherds abode, and where were the open glade of grass and the fair well of water aforespoken of. hereunto coming, and the day being very warm, these two travellers dismounted and besought refreshment of the swineherds who were there, and those rude good fellows gladly gave them to eat and to drink of the best they had. [sidenote: sir daynant regards sir tristam] whilst they ate, sir tristram came and sat nigh to sir daynant and his lady and smiled upon them, for he loved them very greatly because of their nobility and beauty. then sir daynant looked upon sir tristram and beheld how strong and beautiful of body and how noble of countenance he was, and he saw that beautiful shining sword that sir tristram carried ever with him. and sir daynant said, "fair friend, who are you, and where gat ye that sword?" "i know not who i am," said sir tristram, "nor know i whence i came nor whither i go. as for this sword, i had it from a gentleman who came hither to us no great while ago." then the chiefest of the swineherds said: "lord, this is a poor madman whom we found naked and starving in the forest. as for that sword, i may tell you that he took it away from a knight who came hither to threaten his life, and he soused that knight into the well so that he was wellnigh drowned." sir daynant said: "that is a very strange story, that a naked madman should take the sword out of the hands of an armed knight and treat that knight as ye tell me. now maybe this is some famous hero or knight who hath lost his wits through sorrow or because of some other reason, and who hath so come to this sorry pass." (so said sir daynant, and it may here be said that from that time those rude swineherds began to look upon sir tristram with different eyes than before, saying amongst themselves: "maybe what that knight said is true, and this is indeed no common madman.") now whilst sir daynant sat there with his lady, holding converse with the swineherds concerning sir tristram in that wise, there came a great noise in the forest, and out therefrom there came riding with great speed that huge savage knight sir tauleas aforetold of. then sir daynant cried out, "alas, here is misfortune!" and therewith he made all haste to put his helmet upon his head. [sidenote: sir tauleas strikes down sir daynant] but ere he could arm himself in any sufficient wise, sir tauleas drave down very fiercely upon him. and sir tauleas rose up in his stirrups and lashed so terrible a blow at sir daynant that it struck through sir daynant's helmet and into his brain-pan, wherefore sir daynant immediately fell down to the ground as though he had been struck dead. [sidenote: sir tauleas bears away the lady] then sir tauleas rode straightway to where the lady of sir daynant was, and he said: "lady, thou art a prize that it is very well worth while fighting for! and lo! i have won thee." therewith he catched her and lifted her up, shrieking and screaming and struggling, and sat her upon the saddle before him and held her there maugre all her struggles. then straightway he rode away into the forest, carrying her with him; and all that while sir tristram stood as though in a maze, gazing with a sort of terror upon what befell and not rightly knowing what it all meant. for there lay sir daynant as though dead upon the ground, and he could yet hear the shrieks of the lady sounding out from the forest whither sir tauleas had carried her. then the chief of the swineherds came to sir tristram, and said: "fellow, as thou hast a sword, let us see if thou canst use it. if thou art a hero as that knight said of thee a while since, and not a pure madman, then follow after that knight and bring that lady back hither again." [sidenote: sir tristram follows sir tauleas] then sir tristram awoke from that maze and said, "i will do so." and therewith he ran away very rapidly into the forest, pursuing the direction that sir tauleas had taken. and he ran for a great distance, and by and by, after a while, he beheld sir tauleas before him where he rode. and by that time the lady was in a deep swoon and lay as though dead across the saddle of sir tauleas. then sir tristram cried out in a great voice: "stay, sir knight, and turn this way, for i come to take that lady away from thee and to bring her back unto her friend again!" [sidenote: sir tristram slays sir tauleas] then sir tauleas turned him and beheld a naked man running after him with a sword in his hand, whereupon he was seized with a great rage of anger, so that he put that lady he carried down to the ground. and he drew his sword and rushed at sir tristram very violently with intent to slay him. and when he came nigh to sir tristram he arose up on his stirrups and lashed so terrible a blow at him that, had it met its mark, it would have cloven sir tristram in twain. but sir tristram leaped aside and turned the blow very skilfully; and therewith a memory of his knightly prowess came upon him and he, upon his part, lashed a blow at sir tauleas that sir tauleas received very unexpectedly. and that blow struck sir tauleas so terrible a buffet upon the head that the brain of sir tauleas swam, and he swayed about and then fell down from off his horse. therewith sir tristram ran to him and rushed his helmet from off his head. and when he beheld the naked head of sir tauleas he catched it by the hair and drew the neck of sir tauleas forward. then sir tauleas cried out, "spare me, fellow!" but sir tristram said, "i will not spare thee for thou art a wicked man!" and therewith he lifted his sword on high and smote off the head of sir tauleas so that it rolled down upon the ground. after that, sir tristram went to the lady and he chafed her hands and her face so that she revived from her swoon. and when she was revived, he said: "lady, take cheer; for look yonder and thou wilt see thy enemy is dead, and so now i may take thee back again unto thy friend." and therewith the lady smiled upon sir tristram and catched his hand in hers and kissed it. then sir tristram lifted the lady upon the horse of sir tauleas, and after that he went back again to where he had left sir daynant and the swineherds; and he led the horse of sir tauleas by the bridle with the lady upon the back thereof and he bore the head of sir tauleas in his hand by the hair. but when those swineherds saw sir tristram come forth thus out of the forest bringing that lady and bearing the head of sir tauleas, they were amazed beyond measure, and they said to one another: "of a certainty what this young knight hath just said is sooth and this madman is indeed some great champion in distress. but who he is no one may know, since he himself doth not know." and when sir daynant had recovered from that blow that sir tauleas had given him, he also gave sir tristram great praise for what he had done. and sir tristram was abashed at all the praise that was bestowed upon him. then sir daynant and his lady besought sir tristram that he would go with them to their castle so that they might care for him, but sir tristram would not, for he said: "i wist very well that i am mad, and so this forest is a fit place for me to dwell and these kind rude fellows are fit companions for me at this time whilst my wits are wandering." thus it was with this adventure. and now you shall hear how sir launcelot found sir tristram in the forest and how he brought him out thence and likewise what befell thereafter. [sidenote: sir launcelot enters the forest] for only the next day after all these things had happened, sir launcelot came riding through the forest that way, seeking for sir tauleas with intent to do battle with him because of his many evil deeds. for sir launcelot purposed either to slay him or else to bring him captive to king arthur. so it came to pass that sir launcelot came to that place where sir tristram and the swineherds abode. there sir launcelot made pause for to rest and to refresh himself, and whilst he sat with his helmet lying beside him so that the breezes might cool his face, all those rude swineherds gathered about and stared at him. and sir launcelot smiled upon them, and he said: "good fellows, i pray you tell me; do you know where, hereabouts, i shall find a knight whom men call sir tauleas?" unto this the chief swineherd made reply, saying: "lord, if you come hither seeking sir tauleas, you shall seek him in vain. for yesterday he was slain, and if you look yonder way you may see his head hanging from a branch of a tree at the edge of the glade." upon this sir launcelot cried out in great amazement, "how hath that come to pass?" and therewith he immediately arose from where he sat and went to that tree where the head hung. and he looked into the face of the head, and therewith he saw that it was indeed the head of sir tauleas that hung there. then sir launcelot said: "this is very wonderful. now i pray you, tell me what knight was it who slew this wicked wretch, and how his head came to be left hanging here?" to this the chief of the swineherds made reply: "messire, he who slew sir tauleas was no knight, but a poor madman whom we found in the forest and who has dwelt with us now for a year past. yonder you may see him, lying half naked, sleeping beside that well of water." sir launcelot said, "was it he who did indeed slay sir tauleas?" and the swineherd said, "yea, lord, it was he." sir launcelot said, "do ye not then know who he is?" the swineherd replied: "no, lord, we only know that one day we found him lying in the forest naked and nigh to death from hunger and that we fed him and clothed him, and that since then he hath dwelt ever with us, showing great love for us all." then sir launcelot went to where sir tristram lay, and he looked upon him as he slept and he knew him not; for the beard and the hair of sir tristram had grown down all over his breast and shoulders and he was very ragged and beaten by the weather. but though sir launcelot knew him not, yet he beheld that the body of sir tristram was very beautiful and strong, for he saw how all the muscles and thews thereof were cut very smooth and clean as you might cut them out of wax, wherefore sir launcelot gazed for a long while and felt great admiration for his appearance. [sidenote: sir launcelot regards sir tristam] then sir launcelot beheld how the sleeping man held a naked sword in his arms very caressingly, as though he loved it, and thereat he was very much surprised to find such a sword as that in the hands of this forest madman. wherefore he said to those swineherds, "where got this man that sword?" "messire," said the swineherd who had afore spoken, "some while since there came a knight hitherward who ill-treated him. thereupon this poor man ran at the knight and overthrew him and took the sword away from him and soused him several times in the well. after that he hath ever held fast to this sword and would not give it up to any of us." "ha!" said sir launcelot, "that is a very wonderful story, that a naked man should overthrow an armed knight and take his sword away from him. now i deem that this is no mere madman, but some noble knight in misfortune." [sidenote: sir launcelot awakens sir tristram] therewith he reached forward and touched sir tristram very gently on the shoulder, and at that sir tristram awoke and opened his eyes and sat up. and sir tristram looked upon sir launcelot, but knew him not, albeit some small memory moved very deeply within him. nevertheless, though he knew not sir launcelot, yet he felt great tenderness for that noble knight in arms, and he smiled very lovingly upon him. and sir launcelot felt in return a very great deal of regard for sir tristram, but wist not why that was; yet it seemed to sir launcelot that he should know the face of sir tristram, and that it was not altogether strange to him. then sir launcelot said, "fair friend, was it thou who slew sir tauleas?" and sir tristram said, "ay." sir launcelot said, "who art thou?" whereunto sir tristram made reply: "i know not who i am, nor whence i come, nor how i came hither." then sir launcelot felt great pity and tenderness for sir tristram, and he said: "friend, wilt thou go with me away from this place and into the habitations of men? there i believe thy mind maybe made whole again, and that it may be with thee as it was beforetime. and verily, i believe that when that shall come to pass, the world shall find in thee some great knight it hath lost." sir tristram said: "sir knight, though i know not who i am, yet i know that i am not sound in my mind; wherefore i am ashamed to go out in the world and amongst mankind, but would fain hide myself away in this forest. yet i love thee so much that, if thou wert to bid me go with thee to the ends of the world, i believe i would go with thee." then sir launcelot smiled upon sir tristram very kindly and said, "i do bid thee come with me away from here," and sir tristram said, "i will go." [sidenote: sir tristram quits the forest with sir launcelot] so sir launcelot bade the swineherds clothe sir tristram in such a wise that his nakedness might be covered, and he bade them give sir tristram hosen and shoon, and when sir tristram was thus decently clad, sir launcelot made ready to take his departure from that place. but ere the two left, all those good fellows crowded around sir tristram, and embraced him and kissed him upon the cheek; for they had come to love him a very great deal. then the two went away through the forest, sir launcelot proudly riding upon his great horse and sir tristram running very lightly beside him. but sir launcelot had other business at that time than to seek out sir tauleas as aforetold. for at that time there were three knights of very ill-repute who harried the west coast of that land that overlooked the sea toward the kingdom of ireland, and sir launcelot was minded to seek them out after he had finished with sir tauleas. so ere he returned to the court of king arthur he had first of all to go thitherward. now you are to know that the castle of tintagel lay upon the way that he was to take upon that adventure, and so it was that he brought sir tristram to the castle of tintagel, where king mark of cornwall was then holding court. for sir launcelot was minded to leave sir tristram there whilst he went upon that adventure aforetold of. [sidenote: sir tristram comes to tintagel] and sir launcelot was received in tintagel with very great honor and acclaim, for it was the first time he had ever been there. and king mark besought sir launcelot for to abide a while in tintagel; but sir launcelot refused this hospitality, saying: "i have an adventure to do for the sake of my master, king arthur, and i may not abide here at this present. but i pray you to grant me a favor, and it is this: that you cherish this poor madman whom i found in the forest, and that you keep him here, treating him kindly until i shall return from the quest i am upon. for i have great love for this poor fellow and i would not have any harm befall him whilst i am away." then king mark said: "i am sorry you will not remain with us, but as to this thing it shall be done as you desire, for we will cherish and care for this man while you are away." so said king mark, speaking with great cheerfulness and courtesy; for neither he nor any of his court at that time wist who sir tristram was. so sir launcelot went upon his way, and king mark gave orders that sir tristram should be well-clothed and fed, and it was done as he commanded. * * * * * thus it was that sir tristram was brought back to the castle of tintagel again. and now it shall be told how it befell with him thereat. [illustration: sir tristram leaps into ye sea] chapter third _how sir tristram was discovered at tintagel and of what befell thereby._ now during the time that sir tristram abode thus unknown at the court of tintagel, he was allowed to wander thereabouts whithersoever he chose, and no one hindered him either in going or in coming. for none in all that place suspected who he was, but everyone thought that he was only a poor gentle madman of the forest; so he was allowed to wander at will as his fancy led him. [sidenote: how sir tristram dwelt at tintagel] and sir tristram's memory never awoke; but though it awoke not, yet it stirred within him. for though he could not remember what this place was whereunto he had come, yet it was very strangely familiar to him, so that whithersoever he went, he felt that those places were not altogether strange to him. and in some of those places he felt great pleasure and in other places somewhat of pain, yet he knew not why he should have the one feeling or the other. now of all those places whereunto he wandered, sir tristram found most pleasure in the pleasance of the castle where was a fair garden and fruit trees; for it was there that he and the lady belle isoult had walked together aforetime ere his affliction had befallen him, and he remembered this place better than any other, and took more pleasure in it. now one day sir tristram came wandering thus into that pleasance and, the day being warm, he sat under the shade of an appletree beside a marble fountain of water; and the appletree above his head was all full of red and golden fruit. so sir tristram sat there, striving to remember how it was that he had once aforetime beheld that fountain and that garden and that appletree beneath which he sat. so whilst he sat there pondering in that wise, there came the lady belle isoult into the garden of that pleasance and her lady, the dame bragwaine, was with her, and the hound, hight houdaine, which sir tristram had sent to her by gouvernail, walked beside her on the other side. then belle isoult perceived that there was a man sitting under the appletree, and she said to dame bragwaine: "who is yonder man who hath dared to come hither into our privy garden?" unto this, dame bragwaine replied: "that, lady, is the gentle madman of the forest whom sir launcelot brought hither two days ago." then the lady belle isoult said, "let us go nearer and see what manner of man he is"; and so they went forward toward where sir tristram sat, and the dog houdaine went with them. then sir tristram was aware that someone was nigh; and therewith he turned his face and beheld the lady isoult for the first time since he had gone mad in the forest; and the lady was looking at him, but knew him not. then of a sudden, because of his great love for belle isoult, the memory of sir tristram came all back to him in the instant, and upon that instant he knew who he was and all that had befallen him, and how he had been brought there as a madman out of the forest. but though he knew her in that wise, yet, as has been said, she knew not him. then sir tristram was all overwhelmed with shame that he should be thus found by that dear lady; wherefore he turned away his face and bowed his head so that she might not remember him, for he perceived that as yet she did not know him who he was. now at that moment the dog, houdaine, was aware of the savor of sir tristram; wherefore he leaped away from the lady belle isoult and ran to sir tristram and smelt very eagerly of him. and with that he knew his master. [sidenote: houdaine knoweth sir tristram] then the two ladies who looked beheld houdaine fall down at the feet of sir tristram and grovel there with joy. and they beheld that he licked sir tristram's feet and his hands, and that he leaped upon sir tristram and licked his neck and face, and at that they were greatly astonished. then of a sudden a thought came to dame bragwaine, and she catched the lady isoult by the arm and she said: "lady, know you not who yonder madman is?" but the lady belle isoult said: "nay, i know not who he is. who is he, bragwaine?" and bragwaine said: "certes, that is sir tristram, and no one else in all the world." [sidenote: belle isoult knows sir tristram] therewith, at those words, the scales suddenly fell from lady belle isoult's eyes and she knew him. then, for a little space, she stood as though turned into stone; then she emitted a great loud cry of joy and ran to sir tristram where he sat, and flung herself down upon the ground at the feet of sir tristram and embraced him about the knees. and she cried out in a voice of great passion: "tristram! tristram! is it thou? they told me thou wert dead, and lo! thou art come to life again!" and with that she fell to weeping with such fury of passion that it was as though the soul of her were struggling to escape from her body. then sir tristram got to his feet in great haste and agitation and he said: "lady! lady! this must not be--arise, and stay your passion or else it will be our ruin. for behold, i am alone and unarmed in this castle, and there are several herein who seek my life. so if it be discovered who i am, both thou and i are lost." then, perceiving how that belle isoult was in a way distracted and out of her mind with joy and grief and love, he turned him unto bragwaine and said to her: "take thy lady hence and by and by i will find means whereby i may come to speech with her in private. meanwhile it is death both for her and for me if she remain here to betray me unto the others of this castle." so bragwaine and sir tristram lifted up the lady belle isoult, and bragwaine led her thence out of that place; for i believe that belle isoult knew not whither she went but walked like one walking half in a swoon. [sidenote: sir andred knoweth sir tristram] now it chanced at that time that sir andred was in a balcony overlooking that pleasance, and, hearing the sound of voices and the sound of a disturbance that was suppressed, he looked out and beheld all that passed. then he also wist who was that madman whom sir launcelot had fetched to that place out of the forest, and that he was sir tristram. therewith he was filled with a great rage and fury and was likewise overwhelmed with great fear lest, if sir tristram should escape from that castle with his life, he would reclaim those possessions that he, sir andred, had seized upon. [sidenote: sir andres betrays sir tristram to king mark] so therewith he withdrew himself from that balcony very softly, into the apartment behind. and he sat down in that apartment for a little while as though not knowing rightly what to do. but after a little while he arose and went to king mark; and king mark looked up and beheld him and said, "what news do you bring, messire?" thereunto sir andred made reply: "lord, know you who that madman is whom sir launcelot hath fetched hither?" king mark said, "nay, i know not who he is." but with that he fell to trembling throughout his entire body, for he began to bethink him who that madman was. "lord," said sir andred, "it is sir tristram, and me-seems sir launcelot was aware who it was, and that he was plotting treason when he fetched him hither." at that king mark smote his hands together and he cried in a terrible voice, "i know it! i know it!" and then he said: "blind! blind! how was it that i knew him not?" then after a little he fell to laughing and he said to sir andred: "lo! god hath assuredly delivered that traitor, sir tristram, into mine hands so that i may punish him for his treasons. for, behold! he is here in our midst and he is altogether unarmed. go, messire, with all haste, gather together such force as may be needful, and seize upon him and bind him so that he may do no further harm to any man. then let justice be executed upon him so soon as it is possible to do so." and sir andred said: "lord, it shall be done according to your demands and upon the instant." therewith sir andred went forth from where the king was, and he armed himself in complete armor, and he gathered together a number of knights and esquires and he led them to that place where he knew sir tristram would be; and there he found sir tristram sitting sunk in thought. and when sir tristram beheld those armed men come in thus upon him, he arose to defend himself. but then sir andred cried out in a loud voice: "seize him ere he can strike and bind him fast, for he is unarmed and may do you no harm!" [sidenote: the castle folk seize sir tristram] with that a dozen or more of those who were with sir andred flung themselves upon sir tristram, shouting and roaring like wild beasts. and they bore him to the earth by numbers, and after a while, by dint of great effort, they held him and bound his hands together by the wrists. then they lifted up sir tristram and stood him upon his feet, and lo! his bosom heaved with his struggles, and his eyes were all shot with blood and his lips afroth with the fury of his fighting; and his clothes were torn in that struggle so that his body was half naked. and they held him there, a knight in armor with a naked sword standing upon his right hand and another armed knight with a naked sword standing upon his left hand. then sir andred came and stood in front of sir tristram and taunted him, saying: "ha, tristram, how is it with thee now? lo! thou camest like a spy into this place, and now thou art taken with all thy treason upon thee. so thou shalt die no knightly death, but, in a little while, thou shalt be hanged like a thief." then he came close to sir tristram, and he laughed and said: "tristram where is now the glory of thy strength that one time overcame all thine enemies? lo! thou art helpless to strike a single blow in defence of thine honor." and therewith sir andred lifted his hand and smote sir tristram upon the face with the palm thereof. [sidenote: sir tristram slays sir andred] at that blow the rage of sir tristram so flamed up in him that his eyes burned as with pure green fire. and in an instant, so quickly that no man wist what he did, he turned with amazing suddenness upon that knight who stood at his left hand, and he lifted up both hands that were bound, and he smote that knight such a blow upon the face that the knight fell down upon the ground and his sword fell out of his hand. then sir tristram snatched the sword and, turning with astonishing quickness, he smote the knight upon his right hand such a buffet that he instantly fell down upon his knees and then rolled over upon the ground in a swoon. then sir tristram turned upon sir andred, and lifting high the sword with both hands tied, he smote him so terrible a blow that the blade cut through his epulier and half through his body as far as the paps. at that great terrible blow the breath fled out of sir andred with a deep groan, and he fell down upon the ground and immediately died. now all this had happened so suddenly that they who beheld it were altogether amazed and stood staring as though bewitched by some spell. but when they beheld sir tristram turn upon them and make at them with that streaming sword lifted on high, the terror of his fury so seized upon them that they everywhere broke from before him and fled, yelling, and with the fear of death clutching them in the vitals. and sir tristram chased them out of that place and into the courtyard of the castle, and some he smote down and others escaped; but all who could do so scattered away before him like chaff before the wind. then, when they were gone, sir tristram stood panting and glaring about him like a lion at bay. then he set the point of his sword upon the pavement of the court and the pommel thereof he set against his breast, and he drew the bonds that held his wrists across the edge of the sword so that they were cut and he was free. [sidenote: sir tristram defends the chapel] but sir tristram wist that in a little the whole castle would be aroused against him, and that he would certainly be overwhelmed by dint of numbers, wherefore he looked about him for some place of refuge; and he beheld that the door of the chapel which opened upon the courtyard stood ajar. so he ran into the chapel and shut to that door and another door and locked and bolted them both, and set a heavy bar of wood across both of them so that for a while he was safe. but yet he was only safe for a little while, for about the time of early nightfall, which came not long thereafter, a great party of several score of king mark's people came against the chapel where he was. and when they found that the doors were locked and barred, they brought rams for to batter in the chief door of the chapel. then sir tristram beheld how parlous was his case, and that he must in a little while die if he did not immediately do something to save himself. so with that he ran to a window of the chapel and opened it and looked out thence. and lo! below him and far beneath was the sea, and the rocks of the shore upon which the castle was built; and the sea and the rocks lay twelve fathoms beneath him. [sidenote: sir tristram leaps into the sea] but sir tristram said, "better death there than here;" and therewith finding that the door was now falling in beneath the rams, he leaped out from the window-ledge, and thence he dived down into the sea; and no one saw that terrible leap that he made. so he sank down deep into the sea, but met no rocks, so that he presently came up again safe and sound. then, looking about him, he perceived in the twilight a cave in the rocks, and thither he swam with the intent to find shelter for a little. now when they who had come against him had broken into the chapel they all ran in in one great crowd, for they expected to find sir tristram and to do battle with him. but lo! sir tristram was not there, but only the empty walls. then at first they were greatly astonished, and knew not what to think. and some who came cried out: "is that man then a spirit that he can melt away into thin air?" but after a little, one of them perceived where the window of the chapel stood open, and therewith several of them ran thereunto and looked out, and they wist that sir tristram had leaped out thence into the sea. then they said to one another: "either that knight is now dead, or else he will perish when the tide rises and covers the rocks; so to-night we will do no more with this business; but to-morrow we will go and find his body where it lies among the rocks of the shore." so thereupon they shut the window and went their ways. now gouvernail was not at that time at tintagel, nor did he return thereunto until all this affair was over and done. but when he came there, there were many voices to tell him what had befallen, and to all of them gouvernail listened without saying anything. but afterward gouvernail went and sought out a certain knight hight sir santraille de lushon, who, next to himself, was the most faithful friend to sir tristram at that place. to him gouvernail said: "messire, i do not think that sir tristram is dead, for he hath always been a most wonderful swimmer and diver. but if he be alive, and we do not save him, he will assuredly perish when the tide comes up and covers over those rocks amongst which he may now be hidden." so gouvernail and sir santraille went to that chapel unknown to anyone, and they went to that window whence sir tristram had leaped, and they opened the window, and leaned out and called upon sir tristram in low voices: "sir tristram, if thou art alive, arise and answer us, for we are friends!" then after a while sir tristram recognized gouvernail's voice and answered them: "i am alive; but save me, or i perish in a little while." then gouvernail said: "lord, are you hurt, or are you whole?" sir tristram replied, "i am strong and well in body, but the tide rises fast." gouvernail said, "messire, can you wait a little?" sir tristram said, "ay; for a little, but not for too long." [sidenote: gouvernail and sir santraille rescue sir tristram] then gouvernail and sir santraille withdrew from where they were and they made all haste, and they got together a great number of sheets and napkins, and tied these together and made a rope, and lowered the rope down to the rocks where sir tristram was. then sir tristram climbed up the rope of linen and so reached the chapel in safety. and at that time it was nigh to midnight and very dark. but when sir tristram stood with them in the chapel, he gave them hardly any greeting, but said at once: "messires, how doth it fare with the lady belle isoult?" for he thought of her the first of all and above all things else. to this sir santraille made reply: "sir, the lady hath been shut into a tower, and the door thereof hath been locked upon her, and she is a close prisoner." then sir tristram said: "how many knights are there in the place who are my friends, and who will stand with me to break out hence?" to this gouvernail said: "lord, there are twelve besides ourselves, and that makes fourteen in all who are with thee in this quarrel unto life or death." sir tristram said: "provide me presently with arms and armor and bring those twelve hither armed at all points. but first let them saddle horses for themselves and for us, and for the lady belle isoult and for her waiting-woman, dame bragwaine. when this is done, we will depart from this place unto some other place of refuge, and i do not think there will be any in the castle will dare stop or stay us after we are armed." [sidenote: sir tristram arms himself] so it was done as sir tristram commanded, and when all those were gathered together, and their horses ready, sir tristram and several of the knights of his party went openly to that tower where the lady belle isoult was prisoner. and they burst open the doors and went in with torches, and found belle isoult and her attendant in the upper part of the castle. but when belle isoult beheld the face of sir tristram, she said: "is it thou, my love; and art thou still alive, and art thou come tome?" sir tristram said: "yea, i am still alive nor will i die, god willing, until i have first brought thee out of this wicked castle and into some place of safety. and never again will i entrust thee unto king mark's hands; for i have great fear that if he have thee in his hands he will work vengeance upon thee so as to strike at my heart through thee. so, dear love, i come to take thee away from this place; and never again right or wrong, shalt thou be without the shelter of my arm." then the lady belle isoult smiled very wonderfully upon sir tristram so that her face appeared to shine with a great illumination of love. and she said: "tristram, i will go with thee whithersoever thou wilt. yea, i would go with thee even to the grave, for i believe that i should be happy even there, so that thou wert lying beside me." then sir tristram groaned in spirit and he said: "isoult, what have i done, that i should always bring unhappiness upon thee?" but the lady belle isoult spake very steadily, saying: "never unhappiness, tristram, but always happiness; for i have thy love for aye, and thou hast mine in the same measure, and in that is happiness, even in tears and sorrow, and never unhappiness." with that sir tristram kissed belle isoult upon the forehead, and then he lifted her up and carried her in his arms down the stairs of the tower and sat her upon her horse. and bragwaine followed after, and gouvernail lifted her up upon her horse. [sidenote: sir tristram taketh belle isoult away from tintagel] now all they of that castle were amazed beyond measure to find all those knights armed and prepared for battle so suddenly in their midst. and most of all were they filled with terror to find sir tristram at the head of these knights. wherefore when sir tristram made demand that they should open the portcullis of the castle and let fall the drawbridge, the porters thereof dared not refuse him, but did as he said. so sir tristram and his knights rode forth with the lady belle isoult and bragwaine and no one stayed them. and they rode into the forest, betaking their way toward a certain castle of sir tristram's, which they reached in the clear dawning of the daytime. and so sir tristram brought the lady belle isoult away from tintagel and into safety. [illustration: king mark broods mischief] chapter fourth _how sir tristram and the lady belle isoult returned to cornwall and how they ended their days together._ and now remaineth to be told the rest of these adventures of sir tristram as briefly as may be. for indeed i thought not, when i began this history, to tell you as much concerning him as i have done. but as i have entered into this history i have come so strongly to perceive how noble and true and loyal was the knighthood of sir tristram, that i could not forbear telling you of many things that i had not purposed to speak of. yet, as i have said before this, there are a great many adventures that i have not spoken of in this book. for i have told only those things that were necessary for to make you understand how it fared with him in his life. so now shall be told those last things that concerned him. [sidenote: sir launcelot reproves king mark] now two days after those things aforesaid had come to pass, sir launcelot returned unto tintagel from that quest which he had been upon, and so soon as he came thither he made inquiry of king mark concerning the welfare of that madman of the forest whom he had left in the care of king mark. but when he heard that that madman was sir tristram, he was astonished beyond all measure; but when he heard how sir tristram had been served by king mark and by the people of the castle under the lead of sir andred, he was filled with a great and violent indignation. so he arose and stood before king mark and said: "lord king, i have heard much ill said of thee and shameful things concerning thy unknightliness in several courts of chivalry where i have been; and now i know that those things were true; for i have heard from the lips of many people here, how thou didst betray sir tristram into bringing the lady belle isoult unto thee; and i have heard from many how thou dost ever do ill and wickedly by him, seeking to take from him both his honor and his life. and yet sir tristram hath always been thy true and faithful knight, and hath served thee in all ways thou hast demanded of him. i know that thou hast jealousy for sir tristram in thy heart and that thou hast ever imputed wickedness and sin unto him. yet all the world knoweth that sir tristram is a true knight and altogether innocent of any evil. for all the evil which thou hast imputed to him hath no existence saving only in thine own evil heart. now i give thee and all thy people to know that had ill befallen sir tristram at your hands i should have held you accountable therefor and should have punished you in such a way that you would not soon have forgotten it. but of that there is no need, for sir tristram himself hath punished you in full measure without any aid from me. so now i will go away from this place and will never come hither again; nor will i acknowledge you should i meet you in court or in field." so saying, sir launcelot turned and went away from that place very proudly and haughtily, leaving them all abashed at his rebuke. [sidenote: sir launcelot findeth sir tristram and belle isoult in the forest] so that day sir launcelot went forward through the forest until he reached that castle whereunto sir tristram had taken the lady belle isoult, and there he was received by sir tristram with all joy and honor. and sir launcelot abided at that place for two days, with great pleasure to himself and to sir tristram and to belle isoult. at the end of that time sir launcelot said to sir tristram: "messire, it is not well that you and this dear lady should abide here so nigh to tintagel. for, certes, king mark will some time work some grievous ill upon you. so i beseech you to come with me unto my castle of joyous gard. there this lady shall reign queen paramount and we shall be her very faithful servants to do her pleasure in all ways. that castle is a very beautiful place, and there she may dwell in peace and safety and tranquillity all the days of her life if she chooses to do so." [sidenote: they depart for joyous gard] now that saying of sir launcelot's seemed good to sir tristram and to belle isoult; wherefore in three days all they and their court made ready to depart. and they did depart from that castle in the forest unto joyous gard, where they were received with great honor and rejoicing. so the lady belle isoult abided for three years at joyous gard, dwelling there as queen paramount in all truth and innocence of life; and sir launcelot and sir tristram were her champions and all their courts were her servants. and during those three years there were many famous joustings held at joyous gard, and several bel-adventures were performed both by sir launcelot and sir tristram in her honor. and indeed i believe that this was the happiest time of all the lady belle isoult's life, for she lived there in peace and love and tranquillity and she suffered neither grief nor misfortune in all that time. [sidenote: king arthur comes to joyous gard] then one day there came king arthur to joyous gard, and he was received with such joy and celebration as that place had never before beheld. a great feast was set in his honor, and after the feast king arthur and sir tristram and belle isoult withdrew to one side and sat together in converse. then after a while king arthur said, "lady, may i ask you a question?" and at that lady belle isoult lifted up her eyes and looked very strangely upon the king, and after a while she said, "ask thy question, lord king, and i will answer it if i can." "lady," said king arthur, "answer me this question: is it better to dwell in honor with sadness or in dishonor with joy?" then belle isoult began to pant with great agitation, and by and by she said, "lord, why ask you me that?" king arthur said: "because, lady, i think your heart hath sometimes asked you the selfsame question." then the lady belle isoult clasped her hands together and cried out: "yea, yea, my heart hath often asked me that question, but i would not answer it." king arthur said: "neither shalt thou answer me, for i am but a weak and erring man as thou art a woman. but answer thou that question to god, dear lady, and then thou shalt answer it in truth." therewith king arthur fell to talking of other things with sir tristram, but the lady could not join them in talk, but sat thenceforth in silence, finding it hard to breathe because of the oppression of tears that lay upon her bosom. and belle isoult said no more concerning that question that king arthur had asked. but three days after that time she came to sir tristram and said: "dear lord, i have bethought me much of what king arthur said, and this hath come of it, that i must return again unto cornwall." then sir tristram turned away his face so that she might not see it, and he said, "methought it would come to that." and then in a little he went away from that place, leaving her standing there. so it came about that peace was made betwixt sir tristram and king mark, and belle isoult and king mark, and king arthur was the peacemaker. [sidenote: belle isoult scorns king mark] thereafter sir tristram and his court and the lady belle isoult returned unto cornwall, and there they dwelt for some time in seeming peace. but in that time the lady belle isoult would never see king mark nor exchange a word with him, but lived entirely apart from him and in her own life in a part of the castle; and at that king mark was struck with such bitterness of despair that he was like to a demon in torment. for he saw, as it were, a treasure very near and yet afar, for he could not come unto it. and the more he suffered that torment, the more he hated sir tristram, for in his suffering it appeared to him that sir tristram was the cause of that suffering. so it came about that king mark set spies to watch sir tristram, for in his evil heart he suspected sir tristram of treason, and he hoped that his spies might discover sir tristram in some act for which he might be punished. so those spies watched sir tristram both night and day, but they could find nothing that he did that was amiss. now one day belle isoult felt such a longing for sir tristram that she could not refrain from sending a note to him beseeching him for to come to her so that they might see one another again; and though sir tristram misdoubted what he did, yet he went as she desired, even if it should mean the peril of death to him. then came those spies to king mark and told him that sir tristram was gone to the bower of the lady belle isoult, and that she had bidden him to come thither. at that the vitals of king mark were twisted with such an agony of hatred and despair that he bent him double and cried out, "woe! woe! i suffer torments!" [sidenote: king mark spies upon sir tristram and isoult] therewith he arose and went very quickly to that part of the castle where the lady belle isoult inhabited; and he went very softly up by a back way and through a passage to where was a door with curtains hanging before it; and when he had come there he parted the curtains and peeped within. and he beheld that the lady belle isoult and sir tristram sat at a game of chess, and he beheld that they played not at the game but that they sat talking together very sadly; and he beheld that dame bragwaine sat in a deep window to one side--for belle isoult did not wish it to be said that she and sir tristram sat alone. all this king mark saw and trembled with a torment of jealousy. so by and by he left that place and went very quietly back into that passageway whence he had come. and when he had come there he perceived a great glaive upon a pole two ells long. this he took into his hand and returned unto that curtained doorway again. then being in all ways prepared he parted the curtains silently and stepped very quickly and without noise into the room. and the back of sir tristram was toward him. then king mark lifted the glaive on high and he struck; and sir tristram sank without a sound. yea, i believe that that good knight knew naught of what had happened until he awoke in paradise to find himself in that realm of happiness and peace. [sidenote: of the passing of tristram and isoult] then belle isoult arose, overturning the table of chessmen as she did so, but she made no outcry nor sound of any sort. but she stood looking down at sir tristram for a little space, and then she kneeled down beside his body and touched the face thereof as though to make sure that it was dead. therewith, as though being assured, she fell down with her body upon his; and king mark stood there looking down upon them. all this had passed so quickly that dame bragwaine hardly knew what had befallen; but now, upon an instant, she suddenly fell to shrieking so piercingly that the whole castle rang with the sound thereof. now there were in the outer room several of the knights of the court of sir tristram who had come thither with him as witnesses that he performed no treason to the king. these, when dame bragwaine shrieked in that wise, came running into the room and therewith beheld what had happened. then all they stood aghast at that sight. [sidenote: sir alexander slays king mark] but there was in the court of sir tristram a very young, gallant knight hight sir alexander. this knight came to where king mark stood looking down upon his handiwork as though entranced with what he had done. then sir alexander said to king mark, "is this thy work?" and king mark raised his eyes very heavily and looked at sir alexander and he answered, "ay!" then sir alexander cried out, "thou hast lived too long!" and therewith drawing his misericordia, he catched king mark by the left wrist and lifted his arm. and sir alexander drave the dagger into the side of king mark, and king mark groaned and sank down upon the ground, and in a little while died where he lay. then those knights went to where the lady belle isoult lay and lifted her up; but, lo! the soul had left her, and she was dead. for i believe that it was not possible for one of those loving souls to leave its body with out the other quitting its body also, so that they might meet together in paradise. for there never were two souls in all the history of chivalry that clave to one another so tenderly as did the souls of tristram and isoult. so endeth this story of sir tristram, with only this to say, that they two were buried with the graves close together, and that it is said by many who have written of them that there grew a rose-tree up from sir tristram's grave, and down upon the grave of belle isoult; and it is said that this rose-tree was a miracle, for that upon his grave there grew red roses, and upon her grave there grew pure white roses. for her soul was white like to thrice-carded wool, and so his soul was red with all that was of courage or knightly pride. and i pray that god may rest the souls of those two as i pray he may rest the souls of all of us who must some time go the way that those two and so many others have travelled before us. amen. the book of sir percival _here beginneth the story of sir percival of gales, who was considered to be one of the three great knights of the round table at that time. for, if sir launcelot was the chiefest of all the knights who ever came unto king arthur's court, then it is hard to say whether sir tristram of lyonesse or sir percival of gales was second unto him in renown_. _and i pray that it shall be given unto all of ye to live as brave and honorable and pure a life as he did; and that you, upon your part, may claim a like glory and credit in the world in which you dwell by such noble behavior as he exhibited_. [illustration: sir percival of gales] prologue. the father of sir percival was that king hight pellinore who fought so terrible a battle with king arthur as has been told in the book of king arthur. for it was after that fight that king arthur obtained his famous sword excalibur, as was therein told. now, king pellinore was one of those eleven kings who, in the beginning of king arthur's reign, were in rebellion against king arthur as hath been told in the book aforesaid, and he was one of the last of all those kings to yield when he was overcome. so king arthur drove him from town to town and from place to place until, at last, he was driven away from the habitations of men and into the forests like to a wild beast. [sidenote: king pellinore fleeth to the wilderness] now, king pellinore took with him into the wilderness his wife and his four sons; to wit, lamorack and aglaval and dornar and percival. of these, percival was but three years of age; the others, excepting dornar, being nigh to the estate of manhood. thereafter that noble family dwelt in the forest like hunted animals, and that was a very great hardship for the lady who had been queen; and, likewise, it was greatly to the peril of the young child, percival. now, percival was extraordinarily beautiful and his mother loved him above all her other sons. wherefore she feared lest the young child should die of those hardships in the wilderness. so one day king pellinore said: "dear love, i am now in no wise prepared for to defend thee and this little one. wherefore, for a while, i shall put ye away from me so that ye may remain in secret hiding until such time as the child shall have grown in years and stature to the estate of manhood and may so defend himself. "now of all my one-time possessions i have only two left to me. one of these is a lonely castle in this forest (unto which i am now betaking my way), and the other is a solitary tower at a great distance from this, and in a very desolate part of the world where there are many mountains. unto that place i shall send ye, for it will not be likely that mine enemies will ever find ye there. "so my will is this: that if this child groweth in that lonely place to manhood, and if he be weak in body or timid in spirit, thou shalt make of him a clerk of holy orders. but if when he groweth, he shall prove to be strong and lusty of frame and high of spirit, and shall desire to undertake deeds of knighthood, thou then shalt not stay him from his desires, but shall let him go forth into the world as he shall have a mind to do. "and if a time should come when he desireth to go thus into the world behold! here is a ring set with a very precious ruby; let him bring that ring to me or to any of our sons wheresoever he may find us, and by that ring we shall know that he is my son and their brother, and we will receive him with great gladness." [sidenote: percival's mother taketh him to the mountains] and king pellinore's lady said, "it shall be done as thou dost ordain." so it was that king pellinore betook himself to that lonely castle where king arthur found him and fought with him; and percival's mother betook herself to that dwelling-place in the mountains of which king pellinore had spoken--which was a single tower that reached up into the sky, like unto a finger of stone. there she abided with percival for sixteen years, and in all that time percival knew naught of the world nor of what sort it was, but grew altogether wild and was entirely innocent like to a little child. in the mean time, during those years, it happened very ill to the house of king pellinore. for though king arthur became reconciled to king pellinore, yet there were in king arthur's court many who were bitter enemies to that good, worthy knight. so it came about that first king pellinore was slain by treachery, and then sir aglaval and sir dornar were slain in the same way, so that sir lamorack alone was left of all that noble family. (and it was said that sir gawaine and his brothers were implicated in those murders--they being enemies unto king pellinore--and great reproach hath always clung to them for the treacherous, unknightly way in which those noble knights of the house of pellinore were slain.) [sidenote: percival's mother grieveth for the death of her dear ones] now the news of those several deaths was brought to that lonely tower of the mountain wilderness and to sir percival's mother; and when she heard how her husband and two of her sons were dead she gave great outcry of grief, and smote her hands together and wept with great passion. and she cried out: "mefeareth it will be the time of lamorack next to be slain. as for percival; never shall i be willing for him to go out into that cruel world of wicked murderers. for if he should perish also, my heart would surely break." [sidenote: how percival dwelt in the mountains] so she kept percival always with her and in ignorance of all that concerned the world of knighthood. and though percival waxed great of body and was beautiful and noble of countenance, yet he dwelt there among those mountains knowing no more of the world that lay beyond that place in which he dwelt than would a little innocent child. nor did he ever see anyone from the outside world, saving only an old man who was a deaf-mute. and this old man came and went betwixt that tower where percival and his mother dwelt and the outer world, and from the world he would come back with clothing and provisions loaded upon an old sumpter horse for percival and his mother and their few attendants. yet percival marvelled many times whence those things came, but no one told him and so he lived in entire ignorance of the world. and percival's mother would not let him touch any weapon saving only a small scot's spear which same is a sort of javelin. but with this percival played every day of his life until he grew so cunning in handling it that he could pierce with it a bird upon the wing in the air. now it chanced upon a time when percival was nineteen years of age that he stood upon a pinnacle of rock and looked down into a certain valley. and it was very early in the spring-time, so that the valley appeared, as it were, to be carpeted all with clear, thin green. there was a shining stream of water that ran down through the midst of the valley, and it was a very fair and peaceful place to behold. [sidenote: percival beholds a knight-rider] so percival stood and gazed into that low-land, and lo! a knight rode up through that valley, and the sun shone out from behind a cloud of rain and smote upon his armor so that it appeared to be all ablaze as with pure light, and percival beheld that knight and wist not what it was he saw. so, after the knight had gone away from the valley, he ran straightway to his mother, all filled with a great wonder, and he said: "mother! mother! i have beheld a very wonderful thing." she said, "what was it thou didst see?" percival said: "i beheld somewhat that was like a man, and he rode upon a horse, and he shone very brightly and with exceeding splendor. now, i prithee tell me what it was i saw?" then percival's mother knew very well what it was he had seen, and she was greatly troubled at heart, for she wist that if percival's knightly spirit should be awakened he would no longer be content to dwell in those peaceful solitudes. wherefore she said to herself: "how is this? is it to be that this one lamb also shall be taken away from me and nothing left to me of all my flock?" then she said to percival: "my son, that which thou didst behold was doubtless an angel." and percival said, "i would that i too were an angel!" and at that speech the lady, his mother, sighed very deeply. now it chanced upon the next day after that that percival and his mother went down into the forest that lay at the foot of the mountain whereon that tower stood, and they had intent to gather such early flowers of the spring-time as were then abloom. and whilst they were there, lo! there came five knights riding through the forest, and, the leaves being thin like to a mist of green, percival perceived them a great way off. so he cried out in a loud voice: "mother! mother! behold! yonder is a whole company of angels such as i saw yesterday! now i will go and give them greeting." but his mother said: "how now! how now! wouldst thou make address unto angels!" and percival said: "yea; for they appear to be both mild of face and gentle of mien." so he went forward for to greet those knights. [sidenote: percival holds discourse with five knights] now the foremost of that party of knights was sir ewaine, who was always both gentle and courteous to everybody. wherefore, when sir ewaine saw percival nigh at hand, he gave him greeting and said, "fair youth, what is thy name?" unto this percival made reply: "my name is percival." sir ewaine said: "that is a very good name, and thy face likewise is so extraordinarily comely that i take thee to be of some very high lineage. now tell me, i prithee, who is thy father?" to this percival said, "i cannot tell thee what is my lineage, for i do not know," and at that sir ewaine marvelled a very great deal. then, after a little while, he said: "i prithee tell me, didst thou see a knight pass this way to-day or yesterday?" and percival said, "i know not what sort of a thing is a knight." sir ewaine said, "a knight is such a sort of man as i am." upon this percival understood many things that he did not know before, and he willed with all his soul to know more than those. wherefore he said: "if thou wilt answer several questions for me, i will gladly answer thine." upon this sir ewaine smiled very cheerfully (for he liked percival exceedingly), and he said: "ask what thou wilt and i will answer thee in so far as i am able." so percival said, "i prithee tell me what is this thing?" and he laid his hand thereon. and sir ewaine said, "that is a saddle." and percival said, "what is this thing?" and sir ewaine said, "that is a sword." and percival said, "what is this thing?" and sir ewaine said, "that is a shield." and so percival asked him concerning all things that appertained to the accoutrements of a knight, and sir ewaine answered all his questions. then percival said: "now i will answer thy question. i saw a knight ride past this way yesterday, and he rode up yonder valley and to the westward." upon this sir ewaine gave gramercy to percival and saluted him, and so did the other knights, and they rode their way. after they had gone percival returned to his mother, and he beheld that she sat exactly where he had left her, for she was in great travail of soul because she perceived that percival would not now stay with her very much longer. and when percival came to where she sat he said to her: "mother, those were not angels, but very good, excellent knights." and upon this the lady, his mother, burst into a great passion of weeping, so that percival stood before her all abashed, not knowing why she wept. so by and by he said, "mother, why dost thou weep?" but she could not answer him for a while, and after a while she said, "let us return homeward." and so they walked in silence. now when they had come to the tower where they dwelt, the lady turned of a sudden unto percival and she said to him, "percival, what is in thy heart?" and he said, "mother, thou knowest very well what is there." she said, "is it that thou wouldst be a knight also?" and he said, "thou sayst it." and upon that she said, "thou shalt have thy will; come with me." so percival's mother led him to the stable and to where was that poor pack-horse that brought provisions to that place, and she said: "this is a sorry horse but i have no other for thee. now let us make a saddle for him." so percival and his mother twisted sundry cloths and wisps of hay and made a sort of a saddle thereof. and percival's mother brought him a scrip with bread and cheese for his refreshment and she hung it about his shoulder. and she brought him his javelin which he took in his hand. and then she gave him the ring of king pellinore with that precious ruby jewel inset into it, and she said: "take thou this, percival, and put it upon thy finger, for it is a royal ring. now when thou leavest me, go unto the court of king arthur and make diligent inquiry for sir lamorack of gales. and when thou hast found him, show him that ring, and he will see that thou art made a very worthy knight; for, percival, sir lamorack is thy brother. one time thou hadst a father alive, and thou hadst two other brothers. but all they were slain by treachery of our enemies, and only thou and lamorack are left; so look to it that thou guard thyself when thou art in the world and in the midst of those enemies; for if thou shouldst perish at their hands, i believe my heart would break." [sidenote: percival's mother giveth him advice] then she gave percival advice concerning the duty of one who would make himself worthy of knighthood, and that advice was as follows: "in thy journeying thou art to observe these sundry things: when thou comest to a church or a shrine say a pater-noster unto the glory of god; and if thou hearest a cry of anyone in trouble, hasten to lend thine aid--especially if it be a woman or a child who hath need of it; and if thou meet a lady or a damosel, salute her in seemly fashion; and if thou have to do with a man, be both civil and courageous unto him; and if thou art an-hungered or athirst and findest food and wine, eat and drink enough to satisfy thee, but no more; and if thou findest a treasure or a jewel of price and canst obtain those things without injustice unto another, take that thing for thine own--but give that which thou hast with equal freedom unto others. so, by obeying these precepts, thou shalt become worthy to be a true knight and, haply, be also worthy of thy father, who was a true knight before thee." and percival said, "all these things will i remember and observe to do." and percival's mother said, "but thou wilt not forget me, percival?" [sidenote: percival departs from the mountain] and he said: "nay, mother; but when i have got me power and fame and wealth, then will i straightway return thitherward and take thee away from this place, and thou shalt be like to a queen for all the glory that i shall bestow upon thee." upon this the lady, his mother, both laughed and wept; and percival stooped and kissed her upon the lips. then he turned and left her, and he rode away down the mountain and into the forest, and she stood and gazed after him as long as she could see him. and she was very lonely after he had gone. so i have told you how it came that percival went out into the world for to become a famous knight. [illustration: the lady yvette the fair] chapter first _how percival departed into the world and how he found a fair damsel in a pavilion; likewise how he came before queen guinevere and how he undertook his first adventure_. [sidenote: percival maketh himself armor of willow twigs] now after percival had ridden upon his way for a very long time, he came at last out of that part of the forest and unto a certain valley where were many osiers growing along beside a stream of water. so he gathered branches of the willow-trees and peeled them and wove them very cunningly into the likeness of armor such as he had seen those knights wear who had come into his forest. and when he had armed himself with wattled osiers he said unto himself, "now am i accoutred as well as they." whereupon he rode upon his way with an heart enlarged with joy. by and by he came out of the forest altogether and unto a considerable village where were many houses thatched with straw. and percival said to himself: "ha! how great is the world; i knew not that there were so many people in the world." [sidenote: how percival rode in the world] but when the folk of that place beheld what sort of a saddle was upon the back of the pack-horse; and when they beheld what sort of armor it was that percival wore--all woven of osier twigs; and when they beheld how he was armed with a javelin and with no other weapon, they mocked and laughed at him and jeered him. but percival understood not their mockery, whereupon he said: "lo! how pleasant and how cheerful is the world. i knew not it was so merry a place." so he laughed and nodded and gave them greeting who mocked him in that manner. and some of them said, "that is a madman." and others said, "nay, he is a silly fool." and when percival heard these he said to himself: "i wonder whether there are other sorts of knights that i have not yet heard tell of?" so he rode upon his way very happy, and whenever he met travellers, they would laugh at him; but he would laugh louder than they and give them greeting because of pure pleasure that the great world was so merry and kind. now in the declining of the afternoon, he came to a certain pleasant glade, and there he beheld a very noble and stately pavilion in among the trees, and that pavilion was all of yellow satin so that it shone like to gold in the light of the declining sun. then percival said to himself: "verily, this must be one of those churches concerning which my mother spake to me." so he descended from his horse and went to that pavilion and knelt down and said a pater-noster. [sidenote: percival enters the golden pavilion] and when he had ended that prayer, he arose and went into the pavilion, and lo! he beheld there a wonderfully beautiful young damsel of sixteen years of age who sat in the pavilion upon a carved bench and upon a cushion of cloth of gold, and who bent over a frame of embroidery, which she was busy weaving in threads of silver and gold. and the hair of that damosel was as black as ebony and her cheeks were like rose leaves for redness, and she wore a fillet of gold around her head, and she was clad in raiment of sky blue silk. and near by was a table spread with meats of divers sorts and likewise with several wines, both white and red. and all the goblets were of silver and all the pattens were of gold, and the table was spread with a napkin embroidered with threads of gold. now you are to know that the young lady who sat there was the lady yvette the fair, the daughter of king pecheur. when percival came to that pavilion the lady yvette looked up and beheld him with great astonishment, and she said to herself: "that must either be a madman or a foolish jester who comes hither clad all in armor of wattled willow twigs." so she said to him, "sirrah, what dost thou here?" he said, "lady, is this a church?" upon that she was angered thinking that he had intended to make a jest and she said: "begone, fool, for if my father, who is king pecheur, cometh and findeth thee here, he will punish thee for this jest." but percival replied, "nay; i think he will not, lady." then the damosel looked at percival more narrowly and she beheld how noble and beautiful was his countenance and she said to herself: "this is no fool nor a jester, but who he is or what he is i know not." [sidenote: percival breaks bread in the golden pavilion] so she said to percival, "whence comest thou?" and he said, "from the mountains and the wilderness." then he said: "lady, when i left my mother she told me that whenever i saw good food and drink and was an-hungered, i was to take what i needed. now i will do so in this case." whereupon he sat him down to that table and fell to with great appetite. then when that damosel beheld what he did she laughed in great measure and clapped her hands together in sport. and she said: "if my father and brothers should return and find thee at this, they would assuredly punish thee very sorely, and thou couldst not make thyself right with them." percival said, "why would they do that, lady?" and she said: "because that is their food and drink, and because my father is a king and my brethren are his sons." then percival said, "certes, they would be uncourteous to begrudge food to a hungry man"; and thereat the damsel laughed again. now when percival had eaten and drunk his fill, he arose from where he sat. and he beheld that the damsel wore a very beautiful ring of carved gold set with a pearl of great price. so he said to her: "lady, my mother told me that if i beheld a jewel or treasure and desired it for my own, i was to take it if i could do so without offence to anyone. now i prithee give me that ring upon thy finger, for i desire it a very great deal." at this the maiden regarded percival very strangely, and she beheld that he was comely beyond any man whom she had ever seen and that his countenance was very noble and exalted and yet exceedingly mild and gentle. so she said to him, speaking very gently, "why should i give thee my ring?" whereunto he made reply: "because thou art the most beautiful lady whom mine eyes ever beheld and i find that i love thee more than i had thought possible to love anyone." at that the damosel smiled upon him and said, "what is thy name?" and he said, "it is percival." she said, "that is a good name; who is thy father?" whereunto he said: "that i cannot tell thee for my mother hath bidden me tell his name to no one yet whiles." she said, "i think he must be some very noble and worthy knight," and percival said, "he is all that, for he too was a king." [sidenote: the damsel giveth percival her ring] then the damsel said, "thou mayst have my ring," and she gave it to him. and when percival had placed it upon his finger he said: "my mother also told me that i should give freely of what is mine own, wherefore i do give thee this ring of mine in exchange for thine, and i do beseech thee to wear it until i have proved myself worthy of thy kindness. for i hope to win a very famous knighthood and great praise and renown, all of which, if i so accomplish my desires, shall be to thy great glory. i would fain come to thee another time in that wise instead of as i am at this present." at that the damsel said: "i know not what thou art or whence thou comest who should present thyself in such an extraordinary guise as thou art pleased to do, but, certes, thou must be of some very noble strain. wherefore i do accept thee for my knight, and i believe that i shall some time have great glory through thee." [sidenote: percival salutes the damsel of the golden pavilion] then percival said: "lady, my mother said to me that if i met a damosel i was to salute her with all civility. now have i thy leave to salute thee?" and she said, "thou hast my leave." so percival took her by the hand, and kissed her upon the lips (for that was the only manner in which he knew how to salute a woman) and, lo! her face grew all red like to fire. thereupon percival quitted that pavilion and mounted his horse and rode away. and it seemed to him that the world was assuredly a very beautiful and wonderful place for to live in. yet he knew not what the world was really like nor of what a sort it was nor how passing wide, else had he not been so certainly assured that he would win him credit therein, or that he could so easily find that young damsel again after he had thus parted from her. that night percival came to a part of the forest where were many huts of folk who made their living by gathering fagots. these people gave him harborage and shelter for the night, for they thought that he was some harmless madman who had wandered afar. and they told him many things he had never known before that time, so that it appeared to him that the world was still more wonderful than he had thought it to be at first. so he abided there for the night, and when the next morning had come he arose and bathed himself and went his way; and, as he rode upon his poor starved horse, he brake his fast with the bread and cheese that his mother had put into his wallet, and he was very glad at heart and rejoiced exceedingly in the wonderfulness and the beauty of the world in which he found himself to be. [sidenote: how percival travelled in the forest] so percival journeyed on into that forest, and he took such great delight in the beauty of the world in which he travelled that he was at times like to shed tears of pure happiness because of the joy he felt in being alive. for that forest path he travelled led beneath the trees of the woodland; and the trees at that time were in their early tender leaf, so that they appeared to shed showers of golden light everywhere down upon the earth. and the birds of the woodland sang in every bush and thicket; and, anon, the wood pigeon cooed so softly that the heart of percival yearned with great passion for he knew not what. thus he rode, somewhiles all in a maze of green, and somewhiles out thence into an open glade where the light was wide and bright; and other whiles he came to some forest stream where was a shallow pool of golden gravel, and where the water was so thin and clear that you might not tell where it ended and the pure air began. and therethrough he would drive his horse, splashing with great noise, whilst the little silvery fish would dart away upon all sides, hither and thither, like sparks of light before his coming. so, because of the beauty of this forest land in its spring-time verdure and pleasantness, the heart of percival was uplifted with so much joy and delight that he was like to weep for pure pleasure as aforesaid. now it chanced at that time that king arthur and several of his court had come into that forest ahawking; but, the day being warm, the queen had grown weary of the sport, so she had commanded her attendants to set up a pavilion for her whilst the king continued his hawking. and the pavilion was pitched in an open glade of the forest whereunto percival came riding. then percival perceived that pavilion set up among the trees, and likewise he saw that the pavilion was of rose colored silk. also he perceived that not far from him was a young page very gayly and richly clad. [sidenote: percival bespeaketh the lady guinevere's page] now when the page beheld percival and what a singular appearance he presented, he laughed beyond all measure, and percival, not knowing that he laughed in mockery, laughed also and gave him a very cheerful greeting in return. then percival said to the page: "i prithee tell me, fair youth, whose is that pavilion yonder?" and the page said: "it belongeth to queen guinevere; for king arthur is coming hither into the forest with his court." at this percival was very glad, for he deemed that he should now find sir lamorack. so he said: "i pray thee tell me, is sir lamorack of gales with the court of the king, for i come hither seeking that good worthy knight?" then the page laughed a very great deal, and said: "who art thou to seek sir lamorack? art thou then a jester?" and percival said, "what sort of a thing is a jester?" and the page said, "certes, thou art a silly fool." and percival said, "what is a fool?" upon this the page fell alaughing as though he would never stint his mirth so that percival began to wax angry for he said to himself: "these people laugh too much and their mirth maketh me weary." so, without more ado, he descended from his horse with intent to enter the queen's pavilion and to make inquiry there for sir lamorack. now when that page saw what percival had a mind to do, he thrust in to prevent him, saying, "thou shalt not go in!" upon that percival said, "ha! shall i not so?" and thereupon he smote the page such a buffet that the youth fell down without any motion, as though he had gone dead. then percival straightway entered the queen's pavilion. [sidenote: percival beholdeth queen guinevere] and the first thing he saw was a very beautiful lady surrounded by a court of ladies. and the queen was eating a mid-day repast whilst a page waited upon her for to serve her, bearing for her refreshment pure wine in a cup of entire gold. and he saw that a noble lord (and the lord was sir kay the seneschal), stood in the midst of that beautiful rosy pavilion directing the queen's repast; for sir kay of all the court had been left in charge of the queen and her ladies. now when percival entered the tent sir kay looked up, and when he perceived what sort of a figure was there, he frowned with great displeasure. "ha!" he said, "what mad fool is this who cometh hitherward?" unto him percival made reply: "thou tall man, i prithee tell me, which of these ladies present here is the queen?" sir kay said, "what wouldst thou have with the queen?" to this percival said: "i have come hither for to lay my case before king arthur, and my case is this: i would fain obtain knighthood, and meseems that king arthur may best help me thereunto." [sidenote: sir kay chides percival] when the queen heard the words of percival she laughed with great merriment. but sir kay was still very wroth, and he said: "sirrah, thou certainly art some silly fool who hath come hither dressed all in armor of willow twigs and without arms or equipment of any sort save only a little scots spear. now this is the queen's court and thou art not fit to be here." "ha," said percival, "it seems to me that thou art very foolish--thou tall man--to judge of me by my dress and equipment. for, even though i wear such poor apparel as this, yet i may easily be thy superior both in birth and station." [sidenote: sir boindegardus enters the queen's pavilion] then sir kay was exceedingly wroth and would have made a very bitter answer to percival, but at that moment something of another sort befell. for, even as percival ceased speaking, there suddenly entered the pavilion a certain very large and savage knight of an exceedingly terrible appearance; and his countenance was very furious with anger. and this knight was one sir boindegardus le savage, who was held in terror by all that part of king arthur's realm. for sir boindegardus was surnamed the savage because he dwelt like a wild man in the forest in a lonely dismal castle of the woodland; and because that from this castle he would issue forth at times to rob and pillage the wayfarers who passed by along the forest byways. many knights had gone against sir boindegardus, with intent either to slay him or else to make him prisoner; but some of these knights he had overcome, and from others he had escaped, so that he was as yet free to work his evil will as he chose. so now this savage knight entered that pavilion with his helmet upon his hip and his shield upon his shoulder, and all those ladies who were there were terrified at his coming, for they wist that he came in anger with intent of mischief. as for sir kay (he being clad only in a silken tunic of green color and with scarlet hosen and velvet shoes, fit for the court of a lady) he was afraid, and he wist not how to bear himself in the presence of sir boindegardus. then sir boindegardus said, "where is king arthur?" and sir kay made no reply because of fear. then one of the queen's damsels said, "he is hawking out beyond here in the outskirts of the forest." then sir boindegardus said: "i am sorry for that, for i had thought to find him here at this time and to show challenge to him and his entire court, for i fear no one of them. but, as king arthur is not here, i may, at least, affront his queen." [sidenote: sir boindegardus affronts the queen] with that he smote the elbow of the page who held the goblet for the queen, and the wine was splashed all in the queen's face and over her stomacher. thereupon the queen shrieked with terror, and one of her maidens ran to her aid and others came with napkins and wiped her face and her apparel and gave her words of cheer. then sir kay found courage to say: "ha! thou art a churlish knight to so affront a lady." with that sir boindegardus turned very fiercely upon him and said: "and thou likest not my behavior, thou mayst follow me hence into a meadow a little distance from this to the eastward where thou mayst avenge that affront upon my person if thou art minded to do so." then sir kay knew not what to reply for he wist that sir boindegardus was a very strong and terrible knight. wherefore he said, "thou seest that i am altogether without arms or armor." upon that sir boindegardus laughed in great scorn, and therewith seized the golden goblet from the hands of the page and went out from the pavilion, and mounting his horse rode away bearing that precious chalice with him. [sidenote: percival berates sir kay] then the queen fell aweeping very sorely from fright and shame, and when young percival beheld her tears, he could not abide the sight thereof. so he cried out aloud against sir kay, saying: "thou tall man! that was very ill done of thee; for, certes, with or without armor thou shouldst have taken the quarrel of this lady upon thee. for my mother told me i should take upon me the defence of all such as needed defence, but she did not say that i was to wait for arms or armor to aid me to do what was right. now, therefore, though i know little of arms or of knighthood, i will take this quarrel upon myself and will do what i may to avenge this lady's affront, if i have her leave to do so." and queen guinevere said: "thou hast my leave, since sir kay does not choose to assume my quarrel." [sidenote: the damsel praises percival] now there was a certain very beautiful young damsel of the court of the queen hight yelande, surnamed the "dumb maiden," because she would hold no commerce with any knight of the court. for in all the year she had been at the court of the king, she had spoken no word to any man, nor had she smiled upon any. this damsel perceiving how comely and noble was the countenance of percival, came to him and took him by the hand and smiled upon him very kindly. and she said to him: "fair youth, thou hast a large and noble heart, and i feel very well assured that thou art of a sort altogether different from what thine appearance would lead one to suppose. now i do affirm that if thou art able to carry this adventure through with thy life, thou wilt some time become one of the greatest knights in all of the world. for never did i hear tell of one who, without arm or armor, would take up a quarrel with a well-approved knight clad in full array. but indeed thy heart is as brave as thy face is comely, and i believe that thou art as noble as thy speech and manner is gentle." [sidenote: sir kay strikes the damsel] then sir kay was very angry with that damsel and he said: "truly, thou art ill taught to remain for all this year in the court of king arthur amid the perfect flower of chivalry and yet not to have given to one of those noble and honorable knights a single word or a smile such as thou hast bestowed upon this boor." so saying, he lifted his hand and smote that damsel a box on the ear so that she screamed out aloud with pain and terror. upon this percival came very close to sir kay and he said: "thou discourteous tall man; now i tell thee, except that there are so many ladies here present, and one of these a queen, i would have to do with thee in such a manner as i do not believe would be at all to thy liking. now, first of all i shall follow yonder uncivil knight and endeavor to avenge this noble queen for the affront he hath put upon her, and when i have done with him, then will i hope for the time to come in which i shall have to do with thee for laying hands upon this beautiful young lady who was so kind to me just now. for, in the fulness of time, i will repay the foul blow thou gavest her, and that twenty-fold." thereupon percival straightway went out from that pavilion and mounted upon his sorry horse and rode away in the direction that sir boindegardus had taken with the golden goblet. [sidenote: percival follows sir boindegardus] now after a long time, he came to another level meadow of grass, and there he beheld sir boindegardus riding before him in great state with the golden goblet hanging to the horn of his saddle. and sir boindegardus wore his helmet and carried his spear in his right hand and his shield upon his other arm, and he was in all ways prepared for an encounter at arms. and when he perceived percival come riding out of the forest in pursuit of him, he drew rein and turned. and when percival had come nigh enough sir boindegardus said, "whence comest thou, fool?" percival replied, "i come from queen guinevere, her pavilion." then sir boindegardus said, "does that knight who was there follow me hitherward?" unto which percival made reply: "nay, but i have followed thee with intent to punish thee for the affront which thou didst put upon queen guinevere." then sir boindegardus was very wroth and he said: "thou fool; i have a very good intention for to slay thee." therewith he raised his spear and smote percival with it upon the back of the neck so terrible a blow that he was flung violently down from off his horse. upon this percival was so angry that the sky all became like scarlet before his eyes. wherefore, when he had recovered from the blow he ran unto sir boindegardus and catched the spear in his hands and wrestled with such terrible strength that he plucked it away from sir boindegardus. and having thus made himself master of that spear, he brake it across his knee and flung it away. [sidenote: percival slays sir boindegardus] then sir boindegardus was in furious rage, wherefore he drew his bright, shining sword with intent to slay percival. but when percival saw what he would be at, he catched up his javelin and, running to a little distance, he turned and threw it at sir boindegardus with so cunning an aim that the point of the javelin entered the ocularium of the helmet of sir boindegardus and pierced through the eye and the brain and came out of the back of the head. then sir boindegardus pitched down from off his horse all into a heap upon the ground, and percival ran to him and stooped over him and perceived that he was dead. then percival said: "well, it would seem that i have put an end to a terribly discourteous knight to ladies." [sidenote: king arthur sends sir launcelot and sir lamorack in quest of percival] now a little after percival had quitted the pavilion of queen guinevere, king arthur and eleven noble knights of the court returned thither from hawking, and amongst those knights was sir launcelot of the lake and sir lamorack of gales. then those who were of the queen's court told king arthur what had befallen, and thereat the king felt great displeasure toward sir kay. and he said: "kay, not only hast thou been very discourteous in not assuming this quarrel of the queen's, but i believe that thou, a well-approved knight, hast in thy fear of sir boindegardus been the cause of sending this youth upon an adventure in which he will be subject to such great danger that it may very well be that he shall hardly escape with his life. now i will that two of you knights shall follow after that youth for to rescue him if it be not too late; and those two shall be sir launcelot of the lake and sir lamorack of gales. so make all haste, messires, lest some misfortune shall befall this brave, innocent madman." thereupon those two knights mounted straightway upon their horses and rode away in that direction whither percival had gone. [illustration: sir percival & sir lamorack ride together] chapter second _how sir percival was made knight by king arthur; how he rode forth with sir lamorack and how he left sir lamorack in quest of adventure upon his own account; likewise how a great knight taught him craft in arms_. so after a considerable time they came to that meadow-land where percival had found sir boindegardus. [sidenote: how the two knights find percival in the meadow] but when they came to that place they perceived a very strange sight. for they beheld one clad all in armor of wattled willow-twigs and that one dragged the body of an armed knight hither and thither upon the ground. so they two rode up to where that affair was toward, and when they had come nigh enough, sir launcelot said: "ha, fair youth, thou art doing a very strange thing. what art thou about?" to him percival said: "sir, i would get those plates of armor off this knight, and i know not how to do it!" then sir launcelot laughed, and he said: "let be for a little while, and i will show thee how to get the plates of armor off." and he said: "how came this knight by his death." percival said: "sir, this knight hath greatly insulted queen guinevere (that beautiful lady), and when i followed him thither with intent to take her quarrel upon me, he struck me with his spear. and when i took his spear away from him, and brake it across my knee, he drew his sword and would have slain me, only that i slew him instead." then sir launcelot was filled with amazement, and he said: "is not that knight sir boindegardus?" and percival said: "ay." then sir launcelot said: "fair youth, know that thou hast slain one of the strongest and most terrible knights in all the world. in this thou hast done a great service unto king arthur, so if thou wilt come with us to the court of king arthur, he will doubtless reward thee very bountifully for what thou hast done." then percival looked up into the faces of sir launcelot and sir lamorack and he perceived that they were very noble. so he smiled upon them and said: "messires, i pray you tell me who you are and what is your degree." then sir launcelot smiled in return and said: "i am called sir launcelot of the lake, and this, my companion, is called sir lamorack of gales." [sidenote: percival knoweth sir lamorack] then percival wist that he stood in the presence of his own brother, and he looked into the countenance of sir lamorack and marvelled how noble and exalted it was. and he felt a great passion of love for sir lamorack, and a great joy in that love. but he did not tell sir lamorack who he was, for he had learned several things since he had come out into the world, and one was that he must not be too hasty in such things. so he said to himself: "i will not as yet tell my brother who i am, lest he shall be ashamed of me. but first i shall win me such credit that he shall not be ashamed of me, and then i will acknowledge to him who i am." then sir launcelot said: "i prithee, fair youth, tell me what is thy name since i have told thee ours, for i find that i have great love for thee so that i would fain know who thou art." then percival said: "my name is percival." at that sir lamorack cried out: "i knew one whose name was percival, and he was mine own brother. and if he be alive he must now be just such a youth as thou art." then percival's heart yearned toward sir lamorack, so that he looked up and smiled with great love into his face; yet he would not acknowledge to sir lamorack who he was, but held his peace for that while. then sir launcelot said: "now, fair youth, we will show you how to take the armor off of this dead knight, and after we have done that, we shall take you back to king arthur, so that he may reward you for what you have done in the way that he may deem best." [sidenote: the two knights arm percival] so with that sir launcelot and sir lamorack dismounted from their horses, and they went to that dead knight and unlaced his armor and removed the armor from his body. and when they had done that they aided percival to remove the armor of wattled osier twigs and they cased him in the armor of sir boindegardus; and thereafter they all three rode back to that pavilion where the king and queen were holding court. but when king arthur heard that sir boindegardus was dead he was filled with great joy; and when he heard how it was that percival had slain him, he was amazed beyond measure; and he said to percival: "surely god is with thee, fair youth, to help thee to perform such a worthy feat of arms as this that thou hast done, for no knight yet hath been able to perform that service." then he said: "tell me what it is that thou hast most desire to have, and if it is in my power to give it to thee thou shalt have it." then percival kneeled down before king arthur, and he said: "lord, that which i most desire of all things else is to be made knight. so if it is in thy power to do so, i pray thee to make me a knight-royal with thine own hands." then king arthur smiled upon percival very kindly, and he said: "percival, it shall be as thou dost desire, and to-morrow i will make thee a knight." [sidenote: king arthur makes percival a knight-royal] so that night percival watched his armor in the chapel of a hermit of the forest, and the armor that he watched was the armor that had belonged to sir boindegardus (for percival besought king arthur that he might wear that armor for his own because it was what he himself had won in battle). and when the next morning had come, sir launcelot and sir lamorack brought percival before king arthur, and king arthur made him a knight. after that sir percival besought king arthur that he would give him leave to depart from court so that he might do some worthy deed of arms that might win him worship; and king arthur gave him that leave he asked for. [sidenote: sir percival threatens sir kay] then sir percival went to where sir kay was sitting, and he said: "messire, i have not forgot that blow you gave that fair damsel yesterday when she spake so kindly to me. as yet i am too young a knight to handle you; but by and by the time will come when i shall return and repay you that blow tenfold and twentyfold what you gave!" and at these words sir kay was in no wise pleased, for he wist that sir percival would one day become a very strong and worthy knight. now all this while the heart of sir lamorack yearned very greatly toward sir percival, though sir lamorack knew not why that should be; so when sir percival had obtained permission to go errant, sir lamorack asked king arthur for leave to ride forth so as to be with him; and king arthur gave sir lamorack that leave. [sidenote: sir percival and sir lamorack ride together] thus it befell that sir lamorack and sir percival rode forth together very lovingly and cheerfully. and as they rode upon their way sir lamorack told sir percival many things concerning the circumstances of knighthood, and to all that he said sir percival gave great heed. but sir lamorack knew not that he was riding with his own brother or that it was his own brother to whom he was teaching the mysteries of chivalry, and sir percival told him nothing thereof. but ever in his heart sir percival said to himself: "if god will give me enough of his grace, i will some day do full credit unto thy teaching, o my brother!" now, after sir percival and sir lamorack had travelled a great way, they came at last out of that forest and to an open country where was a well-tilled land and a wide, smooth river flowing down a level plain. and in the centre of that plain was a town of considerable size, and a very large castle with several tall towers and many roofs and chimneys that stood overlooking the town. that time they came thitherward the day was declining toward its close, so that all the sky toward the westward shone, like, as it were, to a flame of gold--exceedingly beautiful. and the highway upon which they entered was very broad and smooth, like to a floor for smoothness. and there were all sorts of folk passing along that highway; some afoot and some ahorseback. also there was a river path beside the river where the horses dragged deep-laden barges down to the town and thence again; and these barges were all painted in bright colors, and the horses were bedight with gay harness and hung with tinkling bells. all these things sir percival beheld with wonder for he had never seen their like before; wherefore he cried out with amazement, saying: "saints of glory! how great and wonderful is the world!" then sir lamorack looked upon him and smiled with great loving-kindness; and he said: "ha, percival! this is so small a part of the world that it is but a patch upon it." unto this sir percival made reply: "dear messire, i am so glad that i have come forth into the world that i am hardly able to know whether i am in a vision or am awake." so, after a considerable while, they came to that town with its castle, and these stood close beside the river--and the town and the castle were hight cardennan. and the town was of great consideration, being very well famed for its dyed woollen fabrics. [sidenote: sir percival and sir lamorack come to cardennan] so sir percival and sir lamorack entered the town. and when sir percival beheld all the people in the streets, coming and going upon their businesses; and when he beheld all the gay colors and apparels of fine fabrics that the people wore; and when he beheld the many booths filled with rich wares of divers sorts, he wist not what to think for the wonder that possessed him; wherefore he cried out aloud, as with great passion: "what marvel do i behold! i knew not that a city could be so great as this." and again sir lamorack smiled very kindly upon him and said: "sayst thou so? now i tell thee that when one compares this place with camelot (which is the king's city) it is as a star compared to the full moon in her glory." and at that sir percival knew not what to think for wonder. so they went up the street of the town until they came to the castle of cardennan and there requested admission. and when the name and the estate of sir lamorack were declared, the porter opened the gate with great joy and they entered. then, by and by, the lord and the lady of the castle came down from a carved wooden gallery and bade them welcome by word of mouth. and after that sundry attendants immediately appeared and assisted sir percival and sir lamorack to dismount and took their horses to the stable, and sundry other attendants conducted them to certain apartments where they were eased of their armor and bathed in baths of tepid water and given soft raiment for to wear. after that the lord and the lady entertained them with a great feast, where harpers and singers made music, and where certain actors acted a mystery before them. [sidenote: how the two knights were welcomed by the lord and lady of the castle] so these two knights and the lord and the lady of the castle ate together and discoursed very pleasantly for a while; but, when the evening was pretty well gone, sir lamorack bade good-night, and he and sir percival were conducted to a certain very noble apartment where beds of down, spread with flame-colored cloth, had been prepared for their repose. thus ended that day which was the first day of the knighthood of sir percival of gales. now though sir percival had travelled very contentedly with sir lamorack for all that while, yet he had determined in his own mind that, as soon as possible, he would leave sir lamorack and depart upon his own quest. for he said to himself: "lo! i am a very green knight as yet, and haply my brother may grow weary of my company and cease to love me. so i will leave him ere he have the chance to tire of me, and i will seek knighthood for myself. after that, if god wills it that i shall win worthy knighthood, then my brother will be glad enough to acknowledge me as his father's son." so when the next morning had come, sir percival arose very softly all in the dawning, and he put on his armor without disturbing sir lamorack. then he stooped and looked into sir lamorack's face and beheld that his brother was still enfolded in a deep sleep as in a soft mantle. and as sir percival gazed upon sir lamorack thus asleep, he loved him with such ardor that he could hardly bear the strength of his love. but he said to himself: "sleep on, my brother, whilst i go away and leave thee. but when i have earned me great glory, then will i return unto thee and will lay all that i have achieved at thy feet, so that thou shalt be very glad to acknowledge me." so saying to himself, he went away from that place very softly, and sir lamorack slept so deeply that he wist not that sir percival was gone. [sidenote: sir percival leaves sir lamorack] thereafter sir percival went to the courtyard of the castle and he bade certain attendants to prepare his horse for him, and they did so. and he bade certain others for to arm him, and they did so. thereupon he mounted his horse and left that castle and rode away. now after sir percival had left sir lamorack still sleeping in the castle as aforetold, he journeyed upon his way, taking great pleasure in all things that he beheld. so he travelled all that morning, and the day was very bright and warm, so that by and by he was an-hungered and athirst. so after a while he came to a certain road that appeared to him to be good for his purpose, so he took that way in great hopes that some adventure would befall him, or else that he would find food and drink. then after a while he heard a bell ringing, and after he had followed that bell for some distance, he came to where was the dwelling-place of a hermit and where was a small chapel by the wayside. and sir percival beheld that the hermit, who was an old man with a long white beard, rang the bell of that chapel. [sidenote: sir percival meets his fate at the forest chapel] so sir percival thought that here he might find food and drink; and so he rode forward to where the hermit was ringing the bell. but when sir percival came still more nigh he perceived that behind the chapel and to one side there was a very noble knight upon horseback; and he perceived that the knight was clad all in white armor and that his horse (which was white as milk and of very noble strength and proportions) was furnished altogether with furniture of white. this knight, when he perceived sir percival, immediately rode up to meet him and saluted sir percival very courteously. and the knight said: "sir, will you not joust a fall with me ere you break your fast? for this is a very fair and level field of green grass and well fitted for such a friendly trial at arms if you have the time for it." unto this sir percival said: "messire, i will gladly try a fall with you, though i must tell you that i am a very young green knight, having been knighted only yesterday by king arthur himself. but though i am unskilled in arms, yet it will pleasure me a great deal to accept so gentle and courteous a challenge as that which you give me." [sidenote: sir percival is overthrown by the white knight] so with that each knight turned his horse and each took such stand as appeared to him to be best. and when they were in all ways prepared, they drave their horses together with great speed, the one against the other, meeting one another, shield against spear, in the very midst of the course. in that encounter (which was the first that he ever ran) sir percival bare himself very well and with great knightliness of endeavor; for he broke his spear upon the white knight into small pieces. but the spear of the white knight held so that sir percival was lifted out of his saddle and over the crupper of his horse, and fell upon the ground with great violence and a cloud of dust. then the white knight returned from his course and came up to where sir percival was. and he inquired of him very courteously: "sir, art thou hurt?" thereunto sir percival replied: "nay, sir! i am not hurt, only somewhat shaken by my fall.'" then the white knight dismounted from his horse and came to where sir percival was. and he lifted up the umbril of his helmet, and sir percival perceived that that white knight was sir launcelot of the lake. and sir launcelot said: "percival, i well knew who you were from the first, but i thought i would see of what mettle you are, and i have found that you are of very good mettle indeed. but you are to know that it is impossible for a young knight such as you, who knoweth naught of the use of knightly weapons, to have to do with a knight well-seasoned in arms as i am, and to have any hope of success in such an encounter. wherefore you need to be taught the craft of using your weapons perfectly." to this sir percival said: "messire, tell me, how may i hope to acquire craft at arms such as may serve me in such a stead as this?" sir launcelot said: "i myself will teach thee, imparting to thee such skill as i have at my command. less than half a day's journey to the southward of this is my castle of joyous gard. thither i was upon my way when i met thee here. now thou shalt go with me unto joyous gard, and there thou shalt abide until thou art in all ways taught the use of arms so that thou mayst uphold that knighthood which i believe god hath endowed thee withal." so after that sir launcelot and sir percival went to the dwelling-place of the hermit, and the hermit fed them with the best of that simple fare which he had at his command. [sidenote: how sir percival dwelt at joyous gard] after that, they mounted horse again and rode away to joyous gard, and there sir percival abided for a year, training himself in all wise so as to prepare himself to uphold that knighthood which in him became so famous. for, during that year sir launcelot was his teacher in the art of arms. likewise he instructed him in all the civilities and the customs of chivalry, so it befell that ere sir percival came forth from joyous gard again he was well acquainted with all the ways in which he should comport himself at any time, whether in field or in court. so when sir percival came forth again from joyous gard, there was no knight, unless it was sir launcelot himself, who could surpass him in skill at arms; nay, not even his own brother, sir lamorack; nor was there anybody, even if one were sir gawaine or sir geraint, who surpassed him in civility of courtliness or nobility of demeanor. and now i shall tell you of the great adventure that befell sir percival after sir launcelot had thus taught him at joyous gard. [illustration: sir percival overcometh ye enchantress vivien] chapter third _how sir percival met two strange people in the forest, and how he succored a knight who was in very great sorrow and dole._ now after sir percival had left joyous gard he rode for several days seeking adventure but meeting none. then one day he came to a very dark and wonderful forest which appeared to be so silent and lonely and yet so full of beauty that sir percival bethought him that this must surely be some forest of magic. so he entered into that forest with intent to discover if he might find any worthy adventure therein. [sidenote: sir percival enters the forest of arroy] (and that forest was a forest of magic; for you are to know that it was the forest of arroy, sometimes called the forest of adventure, which was several times spoken of in the book of king arthur. for no one ever entered into that forest but some singular adventure befell him.) so sir percival rode through this wonderful woodland for a long time very greatly wondering, for everywhere about him was perfect silence, with not so much as a single note of a bird of the woodlands to lighten that stillness. now, as sir percival rode through that silence, he presently became aware of the sound of voices talking together, and shortly thereafter he perceived a knight with a lady riding amid the thin trees that grew there. and the knight rode upon a great white horse, and the lady rode upon a red roan palfrey. [sidenote: sir percival meets two strange people] these, when they beheld sir percival, waited for him, and as sir percival drew nigh to them he perceived that they were of a very singular appearance. for both of them were clad altogether in green, and both of them wore about their necks very wonderful collars of wrought gold inset with opal stones and emeralds. and the face of each was like clear wax for whiteness; and the eyes of each were very bright, like jewels set in ivory. and these two neither laughed nor frowned, but only smiled continually. and that knight whom sir percival beheld was sir pellias, and the lady was the lady nymue of the lake. now when sir percival beheld these two, he wist that they were fay, wherefore he dismounted very quickly, and kneeled down upon the ground and set his palms together. then the lady of the lake smiled very kindly upon sir percival, and she said: "sir percival, arise, and tell me what you do in these parts?" then sir percival arose and he stood before that knight and lady, and he said: "lady, i wist not how you know who i am, but i believe you are fay and know many things. touching my purpose in coming here, it is that i am in search of adventure. so if you know of any that i may undertake for your sake, i pray you to tell me of it." the lady said: "if so be thy desire is of that sort, i may, perchance be able to bring thee unto an adventure that is worthy for any knight to undertake. go a little distance from this upon the way thou art following and by and by thou wilt behold a bird whose feathers shall shine like to gold for brightness. follow that bird and it will bring thee to a place where thou shalt find a knight in sore need of thy aid." and percival said: "i will do as thou dost advise." [sidenote: the lady of the lake giveth sir percival a charm] then the lady said: "wait a little, i have something for thee." therewith she took from her neck a small golden amulet pendant from a silken cord very fine and thin. and she said: "wear this for it will protect thee from all evil enchantments." therewith saying, she hung the amulet about the neck of sir percival, and sir percival gave her thanks beyond measure for it. then the knight and the lady saluted him and he saluted them, and they each went their separate ways. [sidenote: how percival followed the golden bird] so sir percival travelled that path for some distance as the lady had advised him to do, and by and by he beheld the bird of which she had spoken. and he saw that the plumage of the bird glistered as though it was of gold so that he marvelled at it. and as he drew nigh the bird flew a little distance down the path and then lit upon the ground and he followed it. and when he had come nigh to it again it flew a distance farther and still he followed it. so it flew and he followed for a very great way until by and by the forest grew thin and sir percival beheld that there was an open country lying beyond the skirts thereof. and when the bird had brought him thus far it suddenly flew back into the forest again whence it had come, chirping very keenly and shrilly as it flew. [sidenote: sir percival beholds a wonderful castle] so percival came out of the forest into the open country, the like of which he had never before seen, for it was a very desolate barren waste of land. and in the midst of this desolate plain there stood a castle of a very wonderful appearance; for in some parts it was the color of ultramarine and in other parts it was of crimson; and the ultramarine and the crimson were embellished with very extraordinary devices painted in gold. so because of all those extraordinary colors, that castle shone like a bright rainbow against the sky, wherefore sir percival sat his horse for some while and marvelled very greatly thereat. then, by and by sir percival perceived that the road that led to the castle crossed a bridge of stone, and when he looked at the bridge he saw that midway upon it was a pillar of stone and that a knight clad all in full armor stood chained with iron chains to that stone pillar, and at that sight sir percival was very greatly astonished. so he rode very rapidly along that way and so to the bridge and upon the bridge to where the knight was. and when sir percival came thus upon the bridge he perceived that the knight who was bound with chains was very noble and haughty of appearance, but that he seemed to be in great pain and suffering because of his being thus bound to that pillar. for the captive knight made continual moan so that it moved the heart of sir percival to hear him. so sir percival said: "sir knight, this is a sorrowful condition thou art in." and the knight said: "yea, and i am sorrowful; for i have stood here now for three days and i am in great torment of mind and body." sir percival said, "maybe i can aid thee," and thereupon he got down from off his horse's back and approached the knight. and he drew his sword so that it flashed in the sun very brightly. upon this the knight said: "messire, what would you be at?" and sir percival said: "i would cut the chains that bind thee." to this the knight said: "how could you do that? for who could cut through chains of iron such as these?" but sir percival said: "i will try what i may do." [sidenote: sir percival sets free the captive knight] thereupon he lifted up his sword and smote so terribly powerful a blow that the like of it had hardly ever been seen before. for that blow cut through the iron chains and smote the hauberk of the knight so smart a buffet that he fell down to the ground altogether deprived of breath. but when sir percival saw the knight fall down in that wise, he cried out: "woe is me! have i slain this good, gentle knight when i would but do him service?" thereupon he lifted the knight up upon his knee and eased the armor about his throat. but the knight was not dead, and by and by the breath came back to him again, and he said: "by my faith, that was the most wonderful stroke that ever i beheld any man strike in all of my life." thereafter, when the knight had sufficiently recovered, sir percival helped him to stand upon his feet; and when he stood thus his strength presently came back to him again in great measure. and the knight was athirst and craved very vehemently to drink. so sir percival helped him to descend a narrow path that led to a stream of water that flowed beneath the bridge; and there the knight stooped and slaked his thirst. and when he had drunk his fill, his strength came altogether back to him again, and he said: "messire, i have to give thee all thanks that it is possible for me to do, for hadst thou not come unto mine aid, i would else have perished very miserably and at no very distant time from this." then sir percival said: "i beseech you, messire, to tell me how you came into that sad plight in which i found you." [sidenote: the knight telleth his story] to this the knight said: "i will tell you; it was thus: two days ago i came thitherward and past yonder castle, and with me were two excellent esquires--for i am a knight of royal blood. now as we went past that castle there came forth a lady clad all in red and so exceedingly beautiful that she entirely enchanted my heart. and with this lady there came a number of esquires and pages, all of them very beautiful of face, and all clad, as she was, in red. now when this lady had come nigh to me she spoke me very fair and tempted me with kind words so that i thought i had never fallen upon anyone so courteous as she. but when she had come real close to me, she smote me of a sudden across the shoulders with an ebony staff that she carried in her hand, and at the same time she cried out certain words that i remember not. for immediately a great darkness like to a deep swoon fell upon me and i knew nothing. and when i awakened from that swoon lo! i found myself here, chained fast to this stone pillar. and hadst thou not come hither i would else certainly have died in my torment. and as to what hath become of my esquires, i know not; but as for that lady, methinks she can be none other than a certain enchantress, hight vivien, who hath wrought such powerful spells upon merlin as to have removed him from the eyes of all mankind." unto all this sir percival listened in great wonder, and when the knight had ended his tale he said: "what is thy name?" and the knight said: "my name is percydes and i am the son of king pecheur--so called because he is the king of all the fisher-folk who dwell upon the west coast. and now i prithee tell me also thy name and condition, for i find i love thee a very great deal." and sir percival said: "my name is percival, but i may not at this present tell thee my condition and of whom i am born; for that i must keep secret until i have won me good credit as a knight. but now i have somewhat to do, and that is to deal with this lady vivien as she shall deserve." upon that sir percydes cried out: "go not near to that sorceress, else she will do some great harm to thee with her potent spells as she did to me." but sir percival said: "i have no fear of her." so sir percival arose and crossed the bridge and went toward that wonderful enchanted castle; and sir percydes would have gone with him, but sir percival said: "stay where thou art." and so sir percydes stayed and sir percival went forward alone. [sidenote: the lady vivien cometh forth to sir percival] now as he drew nigh to the castle the gate thereof was opened, and there came forth thence an extraordinarily beautiful lady surrounded by a court of esquires and pages all very beautiful of countenance. and this lady and all of her court were clad in red so that they shone like to several flames of fire. and the lady's hair was as red as gold, and she wore gold ornaments about her neck so that she glistered exceedingly and was very wonderful to behold. and her eyebrows were very black and fine and were joined in the middle like two fine lines drawn together with a pencil, and her eyes were narrow and black, shining like those of a snake. then when sir percival beheld this lady how singularly beautiful she was he was altogether enchanted so that he could not forbear to approach her. and, lo! she stood still and smiled upon him so that his heart stirred within his bosom like as though it pulled at the strings that held it. then she said to sir percival, speaking in a very sweet and gentle voice: "sir knight, thou art welcome to this place. it would pleasure us very greatly if thou wouldst consider this castle as though it were thine own and would abide within it with me for a while." therewith speaking she smiled again upon sir percival more cunningly than before and reached out her hand toward him. then sir percival came toward her with intent to take her hand, she smiling upon him all the while so that he could not do otherwise than as she willed. now in the other hand this lady held an ebony staff of about an ell in length, and when sir percival had come close enough to her, she lifted this staff of a sudden and smote him with it very violently across the shoulders, crying out at the same time, in a voice terribly piercing and shrill: "be thou a stone!" then that charm that the lady of the lake had hung around the neck of sir percival stood him in good stead, for, excepting for it, he would that instant have been transformed into a stone. but the charm of the sorceress did not work upon him, being prevented by the greater charm of that golden amulet. [sidenote: sir percival draweth sword upon the lady vivien] but sir percival knew very well what the sorceress vivien had intended to do to him, and he was filled with a great rage of indignation against her because she had meant to transform him into a stone. therefore he cried out with a loud voice and seized the enchantress by her long golden hair, and drew her so violently forward that she fell down upon her knees. then he drew his shining sword with intent to sever her long neck, so slender and white like alabaster. but the lady shrieked with great vehemence of terror and besought him mercy. and at that sir percival's heart grew soft for pity, for he bethought him that she was a woman and he beheld how smooth and beautiful was her neck, and how her skin was like white satin for smoothness. so when he heard her voice--the voice of a woman beseeching mercy--his heart grew soft, and he could not find strength within him to strike that neck apart with his sword. so he bade her to arise--though he still held her by the hair (all warm, it was, and as soft as silk and very fragrant) and the lady stood up, trembling before him. then sir percival said to her: "if thou wouldst have thy life i command thee to transform back to their own shape all those people whom thou hast bewitched as thou wouldst have bewitched me." then the lady said: "it shall be done." whereupon she smote her hands very violently together crying out: "all ye who have lost your proper shapes, return thereunto." [sidenote: the lady vivien undoes her enchantment] then, lo! upon the instant, a great multitude of round stones that lay scattered about became quick, like to eggs; and they moved and stirred as the life entered into them. and they melted away and, behold! there arose up a great many knights and esquires and several ladies to the number of four score and eight in all. and certain other stones became quickened in like manner, and as percival looked, lo! there rose up the horses of those people, all caparisoned as though for travel. now when those people who had been thus bewitched beheld the lady vivien, how sir percival held her by the hair of her head, they made great outcry against her for vengeance, saying: "slay her! slay her!" and therewith several made at her as though to do as they said and to slay her. but percival waved his sword before her and said: "not so! not so! for this lady is my prisoner and we shall not harm her unless ye come at her through me." thereat they fell silent in a little while, and when he had thus stilled them, he turned to the lady vivien and said: "this is my command that i lay upon thee: that thou shalt go into the court of king arthur and shalt confess thyself to him and that thou shalt fulfil whatever penance he may lay upon thee to perform because of thy transgressions. now wilt thou do this for to save thy life?" and the lady vivien made reply: "all shall be done according to thy command." therewith sir percival released his hold upon her and she was free. then, finding herself to be thus free, she stepped back a pace or two and looked into sir percival his face, and she laughed. and she said: "thou fool, didst thou think that i would do so mad a thing as that which thou hast made me promise? for what mercy could i expect at the hands of king arthur seeing that it was i who destroyed the enchanter merlin, who was the right adviser of king arthur! go to king arthur thyself and deliver to him thine own messages." [sidenote: the lady vivien escapes] so saying, in an instant, she vanished from the sight of all those who stood there. and with her vanished that castle of crimson and ultramarine and gold--and nothing was left but the bare rocks and the barren plain. then when those who were there recovered from their astonishment, upon beholding that great castle so suddenly disappear, they turned to sir percival and gave him worship and thanks without measure, saying to him: "what shall we do in return for saving us from the enchantment of this sorceress?" and percival said: "ye shall do this: ye shall go to the court of king arthur and tell him how that young knight, percival, whom he made a knight a year ago, hath liberated you from the enchantment of this sorceress. and you shall seek out sir kay and shall say to him that, by and by, i shall return and repay him in full measure, twenty times over, that blow which he gave to the damosel yelande, the dumb maiden because of her kindness to me." so said sir percival, and they said: "it shall be done as thou dost ordain." then sir percydes said: "wilt thou not come to my castle and rest thyself there for the night? for thou must be aweary with all thy toil." and sir percival said, "i will go with thee." so sir percydes and sir percival rode away together to the castle of sir percydes. [sidenote: sir percydes knoweth the ring that percival wears] now while sir percival and sir percydes sat at supper in the castle of sir percydes, sir percival chanced to lay his hand in love upon the sleeve of sir percydes's arm, and that moment sir percydes saw the ring upon sir percival's finger which the young damosel of the pavilion had given unto him in exchange for his ring. when sir percydes saw that ring he cried out in great astonishment, "where didst thou get that ring?" sir percival said, "i will tell thee"; and therewith he told sir percydes all that had befallen him when he first came down into the world from the wilderness where he had aforetime dwelt, and how he had entered the yellow pavilion and had discovered the damosel who was now his chosen lady. when sir percydes heard that story he laughed in great measure, and then he said: "but how wilt thou find that young damosel again when thou hast a mind for to go to her once more?" to the which sir percival made reply: "i know not how i shall find her, nevertheless, i shall assuredly do so. for though the world is much wider and greater than i had thought it to be when i first came down into it, yet i know that i shall find that lady when the fit time cometh for me to seek her." then sir percydes said: "dear friend, when thou desireth to find that damosel to whom belongeth the ring, come thou to me and i will tell thee where thou mayst find her; yet i know not why thou dost not go and find her now." unto this sir percival made reply: "i do not seek her immediately because i am yet so young and so unknown to the world that i could not be of any credit to her should i find her; so first i will seek to obtain credit as a knight, and then i will seek her." sir percydes said: "well, percival, i think thou hast great promise of a very wonderful knighthood. nor do i think thou wilt have difficulty in finding plenty of adventures to undertake. for even to-day i know of an adventure, which if thou couldst perform it successfully, would bring thee such worship that there are very few knights in all the world who will have more worship than thou." then sir percival said: "i prithee, dear friend, tell me what is that adventure." then sir percydes told sir percival what that adventure was as followeth: [sidenote: sir percydes telleth sir percival of beaurepaire] "thou art to know," quoth he, "that somewhat more than a day's journey to the north of this there is a fair plain, very fertile and beautiful to the sight. in the midst of that plain is a small lake of water, and in that lake is an island, and upon the island is a tall castle of very noble size and proportions. that castle is called beaurepaire, and the lady of that castle is thought to be one of the most beautiful damosels in the world. and the name of the lady is lady blanchefleur. "now there is a very strong and powerful knight hight sir clamadius, otherwise known as the king of the isles; and he is one of the most famous knights in the world. sir clamadius hath for a long while loved the lady blanchefleur with such a passion of love that i do not think that the like of that passion is to be found anywhere else in the world. but the lady blanchefleur hath no love for sir clamadius, but ever turneth away from him with a heart altogether cold of liking. "but sir clamadius is a wonderfully proud and haughty king, wherefore he can ill brook being scorned by any lady. wherefore he hath now come against the castle of beaurepaire with an array of knights of his court, and at present layeth siege to that castle aforesaid. "now there is not at that castle any knight of sufficient worship to serve as champion thereof, wherefore all they of beaurepaire stay within the castle walls and sir clamadius holds the meadows outside of the castle so that no one enters in or goeth out thereof. "if thou couldst liberate the lady blanchefleur from the duress which sir clamadius places upon her, i believe thou wouldst have as great credit in courts of chivalry as it is possible to have. for, since sir tristram is gone, sir clamadius is believed by many to be the best knight in the world, except sir launcelot of the lake; unless it be that sir lamorack of gales is a better knight than he." then sir percival said: "what thou tellest me gives me great pleasure, for it would be a very good adventure for any young knight to undertake. for if he should lose there would be no shame in losing, and if he should win there would be great glory in winning. so to-morrow i will enter upon that adventure, with intent to discover what fortune i may have therein." so i have told you how sir percival performed his first adventures in the world of chivalry after he had perfected himself in the mysteries of knighthood under the teaching of sir launcelot of the lake, and i have told you how he achieved that adventure with great credit to himself and with great glory to the order of knighthood to which he now truly belonged as a most worthy member. that night he abided in the castle of sir percydes with great comfort and rest to his body, and when the next morning had come he arose, much refreshed and strengthened in spirit. and he descended to the hall where was set a fair and generous breakfast for his further refreshment, and thereat he and sir percydes sat themselves down and ate with hearty appetite, discoursing with great amity of spirit as aforetold. after he had broken his fast he bade farewell to sir percydes and mounted his horse and rode away through the bright sunlight toward beaurepaire and those further adventures that awaited him thereat. and, as it was with sir percival in that first adventure, so may you meet with a like success when you ride forth upon your first undertakings after you have entered into the glory of your knighthood, with your life lying before you and a whole world whereinto ye may freely enter to do your devoirs to the glory of god and your own honor. so now it shall be told how it fared with sir percival in that adventure of the castle of beaurepaire. [illustration: the demoiselle blanchefleur] chapter fourth _how sir percival undertook the adventure of the castle of beaurepaire and how he fared therein after several excellent adventures_. [sidenote: sir percival breaks his fast at a forest cottage] now the way that sir percival travelled led him by the outskirts of the forest, so that somewhiles he would be in the woodland and somewhiles he would be in the open country. and about noontide he came to a certain cottage of a neatherd that stood all alone in a very pleasant dale. that place a little brook came bickering out from the forest and ran down into the dale and spread out into a small lake, besides which daffadowndillys bloomed in such abundance that it appeared as though all that meadow land was scattered over with an incredible number of yellow stars that had fallen down from out of the sky. and, because of the pleasantness of this place, sir percival here dismounted from his horse and sat him down upon a little couch of moss under the shadow of an oak tree that grew nigh to the cottage, there to rest himself for a while with great pleasure. and as he sat there there came a barelegged lass from the cottage and brought him fresh milk to drink; and there came a good, comely housewife and brought him bread and cheese made of cream; and sir percival ate and drank with great appetite. now whilst sir percival sat there resting and refreshing himself in that wise, there appeared of a sudden coming thitherward, a tall and noble knight riding upon a piebald war-horse of norway strain. so when sir percival beheld that knight coming in that wise he quickly put on his helmet and mounted his horse and made him ready for defence in case the knight had a mind to assail him. [sidenote: sir percival bespeaketh the strange knight] meantime that knight came riding up with great haughtiness of bearing to where sir percival was, and when he had come nigh enough he bespake sir percival, saying: "sir knight, i pray you to tell me your name and whither you go, and upon what quest?" unto this sir percival made reply: "messire, i do not choose to tell you my name, for i am a young knight, very new to adventure, and i know not how i shall succeed in that quest which i have undertaken. so i will wait to try the success of that adventure before i tell my name. but though i may not tell my name i will tell you whither i go and upon what quest. i go for to find a certain castle called beaurepaire, and i intend to endeavor to liberate the lady of that castle from the duress of a certain knight hight sir clamadius, who, i understand, holds her by siege within the walls thereof." now, when sir percival had ceased speaking, the strange knight said: "sir, this is a very singular thing: for that adventure of which you speak is the very adventure upon which i myself am bound. now, as you say, you are a very young knight unused to arms, and as i am in the same degree a knight well seasoned in deeds of arms, it is more fitting that i should undertake this quest than you. for you may know how very well i am used to the service of arms when i tell you that i have had to do in four and twenty battles of various sorts; some of them friendly and some of them otherwise; and that i have had to do in more than four times that many affairs-at-arms with single knights, nearly all of them of great prowess. so now it would seem fitting that you should withdraw you from this affair and let me first essay it. then, if i fail in my undertaking, you shall assume that adventure." "messire," quoth sir percival, "i see that you are a knight of much greater experience than i; but, ne'ertheless, i cannot find it in my heart to forego this adventure. so what i have to propose is this: that you and i do combat here in this place, and that he who proveth himself to be the better of us twain shall carry out this undertaking that we are both set upon." unto this, that strange knight lent a very willing assent, saying: "very well, messire, it shall be as you ask." [sidenote: sir percival doeth battle with the strange knight] so with that each knight turned his horse and rode a little piece away; and each took such stand as pleased him; and each dressed his spear and shield and made him in all wise ready for the encounter. and when they had so prepared themselves, each knight shouted to his horse, and drave spur into its flank and rushed, the one against the other, with such terrible noise and violence that the sound thereof was echoed back from the woods like to a storm of thunder. so they met in the midst of the course with such a vehement impact that it was terrible to behold. and in that encounter the spear of each knight was burst all into fragments; and the horse of each fell back upon his haunches and would have been overthrown had not each knight voided his saddle with a very wonderful skill and agility. then each knight drew sword and came the one against the other, as furiously as two rams at battle. so they fought for nigh the space of an hour, foining and striking, and tracing hither and tracing thither most furiously; and the noise of the blows they struck might have been heard several furlongs away. [sidenote: sir percival overcometh the strange knight] during that battle sir percival received several sore wounds so that by and by a great passion of rage seized upon him. so he rushed the battle with might and main, and therewith struck so many furious blows that by and by that other knight held his shield very low for weariness. this sir percival perceived, and therewith he smote the other so furious a blow upon the head that the knight sank down upon his knees and could not arise. then sir percival ran to him and catched him by the neck and flung him down violently upon the ground, crying out, "yield or i slay thee!" then that knight besought mercy in a very weak voice, saying: "sir knight, i beseech thee, spare my life!" sir percival said: "well, i will spare thee, but tell me, what is thy name?" to this the other said: "i am sir lionel, and i am a knight of king arthur's court and of the round table." [sidenote: sir percival giveth aid to sir lionel] now when sir percival heard this he cried out aloud, for he was very greatly grieved, and he said: "al as, what have i done for to fight against thee in this wise! i am sir percival, whom thine own kinsman, sir launcelot of the lake, hath trained in arms. but indeed, i did never think to use that art which he taught me against one so dear to his heart as thou art, sir lionel." so with that sir percival assisted sir lionel to arise to his feet, and sir lionel was so weak from that woeful battle that he could hardly stand. now that stream and lake of water above spoken of was near by, so sir percival brought sir lionel thither, holding him up as he walked; and there sir lionel refreshed himself. then, when he was revived a little, he turned his eyes very languidly upon sir percival, and he said: "percival, thou hast done to me this day what few knights have ever done before. so all the glory that ever i have won is now thy glory because of this battle. for thou hast overcome me in a fair quarrel and i have yielded myself unto thee, wherefore it is now thy right to command me to thy will." then percival said: "alas, dear sir knight! it is not meet that i should lay command upon such as thou art. but, if thou wilt do so, i beseech thee when thou art come to king arthur's court that thou wilt tell the king that i, who am his young knight percival, have borne myself not unbecomingly in my battle with thee. for this is the first battle, knight against knight, that i have undertaken in all of my life. and i beseech thee that thou wilt greet sir kay the seneschal, from me, and that thou wilt say to him that by and by i shall meet him and repay him that buffet which he gave to the damsel yelande, the dumb maiden, in the queen's pavilion." sir lionel said: "it shall be as thou sayst, and i will do thy bidding. but, touching sir kay, i do not believe that he will take very much joy at thy message to him. for he will find small pleasure in the thought of the payment of that buffet that thou hast promised to give him." [sidenote: sir percival goeth forward upon his adventure] now, as the day by this time was waxing late, sir percival abided that night at that neatherd's hut nigh to which this battle had been fought and there had his wounds bathed and dressed; and when the next morning had come he arose early, and saddled his horse, and rode forward upon his way. and as he rode he was very well pleased at the thought of that battle he had fought with sir lionel, for he wist that he had obtained great credit to himself in that encounter, and he was aware, now that he had made trial of his strength against such a one as sir lionel, he must be one of the greatest knights of the world. so his heart was uplifted with great joy and delight at that thought; that he was now a well-approved knight-champion, worthy of his knighthood. therefore he rode away for all that day, greatly rejoicing in spirit at the thought of what he had done the day before. about the first slant of the afternoon sir percival came at last out of the woodlands and into a wide-open plain, very fertile and well tilled, with fields of wheat and rye abounding on all sides. and he saw that in the midst of that plain there was a considerable lake, and that in the midst of that lake there was an island, and that upon the island there stood a fair noble castle, and he wist that that castle must be the castle of beaurepaire. so he rode down into that valley with some speed. [sidenote: sir percival perceives a red knight] now after he had so ridden for a while, he was aware of a knight, very haughty of appearance and bearing, who rode before him upon the same way that he was going. and that knight was clad all in red armor, and he rode upon a horse so black that i believe there was not a single white hair upon him. and all the trappings and the furniture of that horse were of red, so that he presented a very noble appearance. so sir percival made haste to overtake that knight, and when he had come nigh he drew rein at a little distance. thereupon that knight in red bespake sir percival very proudly, saying: "sir knight, whither ride you, and upon what mission?" "messire," quoth percival, "i ride toward yonder castle, which i take to be the castle of beaurepaire, and i come hither with intent to succor the lady blanchefleur of that castle from a knight, hight sir clamadius, who keeps her there a prisoner against her will, so that it behooves any good knight to attempt her rescue." upon this the red knight spake very fiercely, saying: "messire, what business is that of yours? i would have you know that i am a knight of king clamadius', wherefore i am able to say to you that you shall go no further upon that quest. for i am sir engeneron of grandregarde, and i am seneschal unto king clamadius, and i will not have it that thou shalt go any farther upon this way unless you ride over me to go upon it." "messire," quoth sir percival, "i have no quarrel with you, but if you have a mind to force a quarrel upon me, i will not seek to withdraw myself from an encounter with you. so make yourself ready, and i will make myself ready, and then we shall soon see whether or not i am to pass upon this way." [sidenote: sir percival doeth battle with sir engeneron] so therewith each knight turned his horse away to such a place as seemed to him to be fitting; and when they were in all wise prepared they rushed together with an amazing velocity and a noise like to thunder. so they met in the midst of the course. and in that encounter the spear of sir engeneron broke into many pieces, but the spear of sir percival held, so that he flung sir engeneron entirely out of his saddle and over the crupper of his horse and down upon the ground so violently that sir engeneron lay there in a swoon. [sidenote: sir engeneron yields himself to sir percival] then sir percival dismounted from his horse with all speed, and he rushed the helmet of sir engeneron off of his head with intent to slay him. but with that sir engeneron awoke to his danger, and therewith gat upon his knees and clasped sir percival about the thighs, crying out: "sir, i beseech you upon your knighthood to spare my life." "well," said sir percival, "since you beseech that upon my knighthood i must needs do as you ask. but i will only do so upon two conditions. the first of these conditions is that you go to the court of king arthur, and that you surrender yourself as captive to a damsel of that court who is known as the lady yelande the dumb maiden. and you are to tell that maiden that the young knight who slew sir boindegardus greets her and that he tells her that in a little while he will return to repay to sir kay that buffet he gave her. this is my first condition." and sir engeneron said: "i will perform that condition." "and my second condition," said sir percival, "is this: that you give me your armor for me to use upon this adventure which i have undertaken, and that you take my armor and deposit it with the hermit of a little chapel you shall after a while come to if you return upon the road which brought me hither. after a while i will return and reclaim my armor and will return your armor. this is my second condition." and sir engeneron said: "that condition also i shall fulfil according to your command." [sidenote: sir percival and sir engeneron exchange armor] then sir percival said: "arise." and sir engeneron did so. and after that sir engeneron put off his armor, and sir percival put off his armor. and sir percival put on the armor of sir engeneron, and sir engeneron packed the armor of sir percival upon his horse and prepared to depart in obedience to those conditions of sir percival. so they parted company, sir percival riding upon his way to beaurepaire, and sir engeneron betaking his way to find the chapel of that hermit of whom sir percival had spoken. so it was that after two adventures, sir percival entered upon that undertaking which he had come to perform in behalf of the lady blanchefleur. and now, if it please you to read what follows, you shall hear how it befell with sir percival at the castle of beaurepaire. after that adventure with sir engeneron, sir percival rode onward upon his way, and by and by he came to the lake whereon stood the castle and the town of beaurepaire. and sir percival beheld that a long narrow bridge crossed over that part of the lake from the mainland to the island and the town. so sir percival rode very boldly forth upon that bridge and across it, and no one stayed him, for all of the knights of sir clamadius who beheld him said: "yonder rides sir engeneron." thus sir percival crossed the bridge and rode very boldly forward until he came to the gate of the castle, and those who beheld him said: "sir engeneron haply beareth a message to the castle." for no one wist that that knight was not sir engeneron, but all thought that it was he because of the armor which he wore. [sidenote: sir percival cometh to beaurepaire] so sir percival came close to the castle, and when he was come there he called very loudly to those within, and by and by there appeared the face of a woman at an upper window and the face was very pale and woe-begone. then sir percival said to the woman at the window: "bid them open the gate and let me in; for i come to bring you succor at this place." to this the woman said: "i shall not bid them open the gate, for i know from your armor who you are, and that you are sir engeneron the seneschal. and i know that you are one of our bitterest enemies; for you have already slain several of the knights of this castle, and now you seek by guile to enter into the castle itself." [sidenote: sir percival entereth beaurepaire] then sir percival said: "i am not sir engeneron, but one who hath overthrown sir engeneron in battle. i have put on his armor with intent that i might come hither to help defend this place against sir clamadius." so said sir percival, and therewith he put up the umbril of his helmet, saying: "look, see; i am not sir engeneron." then the woman at the window saw his face and that it was not the face of sir engeneron. and she saw that the face of sir percival was mild and gentle, wherefore she ran and told the people of the castle that a knight who was a friend stood without. therewith they of the castle let fall the drawbridge and opened the gates, and sir percival entered into the castle. then there came several of the chief people of the castle, and they also were all pale and woe-begone from long fasting, as was the woman whom sir percival had first seen; for all were greatly wasted because of the toil and anxiety of that siege. these asked sir percival who he was and whence he came and how he came thither; and sir percival told them all that it was necessary for them to know. for he told them how he was a young knight trained under the care of sir launcelot; and he told them that he had come thither with the hope of serving the lady blanchefleur; and he told them what adventures had befallen him in the coming and how he had already overthrown sir lionel and sir engeneron to get there. wherefore, from these things, they of the castle perceived that sir percival was a very strong, worthy knight, and they gave great joy that he should have come thither to their aid. so he who was chief of those castle people summoned several attendants, and these came and some took the horse of sir percival and led it to the stables, and others relieved sir percival of his armor; and others took him to a bath of tepid water, where he bathed himself, and was dried on soft linen towels; and others brought soft garments of gray cloth and clad sir percival in them and afterward brought him down into a fair large chamber where there was a table spread as though ready for meat. [sidenote: sir percival beholds the lady blanchefleur] now in a little after sir percival was come to that supper-hall the door thereof was opened and there entered several people. with these came a damsel of such extraordinary beauty and gracefulness of figure that sir percival stood amazed. for her face was fair beyond words; red upon white, like rose-leaves upon cream; and her eyes were bright and glancing like those of a falcon, and her nose was thin and straight, and her lips were very red, like to coral for redness, and her hair was dark and abundant and like to silk for softness. she was clad all in a dress of black, shot with stars of gold, and the dress was lined with ermine and was trimmed with sable at the collar and the cuffs and the hem thereof. so sir percival stood and gazed at that lady with a pleasure beyond words to express, and he wist that this must be the lady blanchefleur, for whose sake he had come thither. and the lady blanchefleur looked upon sir percival with great kindness, for he appeared to her like to a hero for strength and beauty; wherefore she smiled upon sir percival very graciously and came forward and gave him her hand. and sir percival took her hand and set it to his lips; and lo! her hand was as soft as silk and very warm, rosy and fragrant, and the fingers thereof glistered with bright golden rings and with gems of divers colors. then that beautiful lady blanchefleur said: "messire, this is a very knightly thing for you to do to come hither to this place. and you come in good time, for food groweth very scarce with us so that in a little while we must face starvation. for because of the watch that sir clamadius keepeth upon this place, no one can either enter in or go out. yea, thou art the very first one who hath come hither since he has sat down before beaurepaire." [sidenote: the lady blanchefleur telleth her sorrows to sir percival] then presently she ceased smiling and her face clouded over; then bright tears began to drop from the lady blanchefleur's eyes; and then she said: "i fear me greatly that sir clamadius will at last seize upon this castle, for he hath kept us here prisoner for a long while. yet though he seize the castle, he shall never seize that which the castle contains. for i keep by me a little casket of silver, and therein is a dagger, very sharp and fine. therefore the day that sir clamadius enters into this castle, i shall thrust that dagger into my heart. for, though sir clamadius may seize upon my castle, he shall never possess my soul." then sir percival was very sorry for the tears he saw shining upon the lady blanchefleur's face, wherefore he said: "lady, i have great hopes that this affair may never reach to that woful extremity thou speakest of." the lady blanchefleur said: "i hope not also." and therewith she wiped away her tears and smiled again. then she said: "see, sir percival, the evening has come and it is time to sit at supper, now i beseech thee for to come to table with me, for though we have but little to eat here, yet i assure thee that thou art very welcome to the best that we have." so therewith lady blanchefleur led sir percival to the table, and they sat down to such feast as could be had at that place of starvation. for what they had was little enough, being only such fish as they could catch from the lake, and a little bread--but not much--and a very little wine. [sidenote: the lady sings to sir percival] then after they had eaten and drunk what they had, the lady blanchefleur took a golden harp into her hand and played thereon, and sang in a voice so clear and high and beautiful that percival was altogether enchanted and bewitched thereat. thus it was that that evening passed with them very pleasantly and cheerfully, so that it was the middle of the night ere sir percival withdrew to that couch that had been prepared for his rest. now word was brought to sir clamadius that sir engeneron the seneschal had been overcome by another knight, wherefore sir clamadius wist that that was the knight in sir engeneron's armor who had entered into the castle. so sir clamadius said: "certes, this must be a champion of no small prowess who hath undertaken single-handed such a dangerous quest as this, and hath thus entered into the castle, for they appear to make great rejoicings at his coming. now if he remaineth there it may very well be that they will be encouraged to resist me a great while longer, and so all that i have thus far accomplished shall have been in vain." [sidenote: the old counsellor giveth advice to sir clamadius] now there was among the counsellors of sir clamadius an old knight who was very cunning and far-sighted. he said to the king: "sire, i think we may be able to devise some plan whereby we may withdraw this knight-champion out of the castle. my plan is this: let ten of your best knights make parade before that castle tomorrow, and let them give challenge to those within the castle to come forth to battle. then i believe that this knight will come forth with the other knights from the castle to accept that challenge. thereafter let it be that our knights withdraw as though in retreat, and so lead this knight and the knights of the castle into an ambushment. there let many fall upon them at once and either slay them or make them prisoners. so the castle shall be deprived of this new champion that hath come to it, and therewith may be so disheartened that it will yield to thee." this advice seemed very good to king clamadius, wherefore, when the next morning had come, he chose him ten knights from among the foremost of all his knights, and he bade them give that challenge in that wise. these did so, and therewith sir percival and nine other knights issued out from the castle against them. [sidenote: sir percival doeth great battle] but it did not fare as sir clamadius had expected; for the attack of sir percival and his knights was so fierce and sudden that those ten knights could not withdraw so easily as they intended. for, ere they were able to withdraw, sir percival had struck down six of these knights with his own hand and the other four were made prisoners. thus sir percival and his knights did not come into that ambush that had been prepared for them. then those who were in ambush perceived that their plan had failed wherefore they broke from cover with intent to do what they could. but sir percival and his knights beheld them coming, and so withdrew, defending themselves with great valor. so they came into the castle again in safety. thus it was that the plans of king clamadius and his counsellor failed of effect, whereupon sir clamadius was very angry at that wise old knight. so that, when that counsellor came to him again and said: "sir, i have another plan," king clamadius cried out very fiercely: "away with thy plans! they are all of no avail." then sir clamadius said: "when to-morrow comes, i myself will undertake this affair. for i will go and give challenge to this knight, and so i shall hope to decide this quarrel man to man. for unless yonder knight be sir launcelot of the lake or sir lamorack of gales, i do not think he will be my peer in an encounter of man to man." [sidenote: sir clamadius arms himself for battle] so when the next morning had come, sir clamadius armed himself at all points and straightway betook himself to a fair, smooth meadow beneath the walls of the castle. and when he had come there he cried out: "sir red knight, come forth and speak with me." so after a while sir percival appeared at the top of the castle wall, and he said: "messire, here i am; what is it you would have of me?" then sir clamadius said: "messire, are you sir launcelot of the lake?" and sir percival said: "nay, i am not he." sir clamadius said: "art thou then sir lamorack of gales?" and sir percival said: "nay, i am not he." then sir clamadius said: "who, then, art thou?" sir percival said: "i am not any great knight-champion such as those two of whom you speak, but am a young knight who have not fought more than twice or thrice in my life." at that sir clamadius was very glad, for he feared that sir percival might be some famous knight well-seasoned in arms. wherefore when he found that sir percival was only a young and untried knight, he thought it would be an easy matter to deal with him. so he said: "messire, i challenge thee to come forth to battle with me man to man so that thou and i may settle this quarrel betwixt us, for it is a pity to shed more blood than is necessary in this quarrel. so if thou wilt come forth and overthrow me, then i will withdraw my people from this place; but if i overthrow thee, then this castle shall be yielded up to me with all that it contains." to this sir percival said: "sir knight, i am very willing to fight with thee upon that issue. but first of all i must obtain the consent of the lady blanchefleur to stand her champion." so sir percival went to the lady blanchefleur, and he said: "lady, will you accept me as your champion to fight the issue of this quarrel man to man with sir clamadius?" she said: "percival, thou art very young to have to do with so old and well-seasoned a knight. now i greatly fear for your life in such a battle as that." to this sir percival said: "lady, i know that i am young, but indeed i feel a very big spirit stir within me, so that if thou wilt trust me, i have belief that, with the grace of god, i shall win this battle." then the lady blanchefleur smiled upon sir percival and she said: "percival, i will gladly entrust my life and safety into thy keeping, for i too have great dependence in thy knighthood." so straightway sir percival armed himself, and when he was in all wise prepared he went forth to that battle with a heart very full of great courage and hope. there he found sir clamadius still parading in that meadow beneath the walls, awaiting the coming of his opponent. [sidenote: sir percival and sir clamadius do battle] meanwhile many folk came and stood upon the walls of the castle to behold that encounter, whilst each knight took such stand as appeared good to him. then, when they were in all wise prepared, each knight drave spurs into his horse and rushed himself against the other with most terrible and fierce violence. therewith they met in the very midst of the course with an uproar like to thunder that echoed back from the flat walls of the castle. in that encounter the spear of sir percival held, but the spear of sir clamadius was riven into splinters. and so, sir percival riding forward with furious violence, sir clamadius was overthrown, horse and man, with such violence that he lay there upon the ground as though he were dead. then all those upon the walls shouted aloud with a great noise of rejoicing, whilst those of the party of sir clamadius gave lamentation in the same degree. [sidenote: sir clamadius yields himself] but sir percival voided his saddle in haste, and ran to where sir clamadius lay. and sir percival rushed the helmet off from the head of sir clamadius, and he catched him by the hair of the head, and he raised his sword on high with intent to finish the work he had begun. therewith sir clamadius aroused himself unto his danger, and he cried in a very piercing voice: "messire, i beseech thee of thy knighthood to spare my life!" "well," said sir percival, "since you ask me upon my knighthood, i cannot refuse you, for so i was taught by the noble knight, sir launcelot, to refuse no boon asked upon my knighthood that i was able to grant. but i will only spare your life upon one condition, and that is this: that you disarm yourself in all wise, and that you go without armor to the court of king arthur. there you shall deliver yourself as a servant unto a damsel of king arthur's court, hight yelande, surnamed the dumb maiden. her you are to tell that the youth who slew sir boindegardus hath sent you unto her as a servant. and you are to say to sir kay, the seneschal of king arthur, that the young knight percival will in a little while come to repay that buffet he gave to the damoiselle yelande aforesaid." so said sir percival, and sir clamadius said: "it shall be done in all wise as you command, if so be you will spare my life." then sir percival said: "arise"; and sir clamadius arose; and sir percival said: "go hence"; and therewith sir clamadius departed as sir percival commanded. so that day sir clamadius withdrew from the castle of beaurepaire with all his array of knights, and after that he went to the court of king arthur and did in all respects as sir percival had commanded him to do. so it was that sir percival fulfilled that quest, and set the lady blanchefleur free from duress; and may god grant that you also fulfil all your quests with as great honor and nobility as therein exhibited. [illustration: sir kay interrupts ye meditations of sir percival] chapter fifth _how sir percival repaid sir kay the buffet he one time gave yelande the dumb maiden, and how, thereafter, he went forth to seek his own lady of love._ now, after these adventures aforesaid, sir percival remained for a long while at beaurepaire, and during that time he was the knight-champion to the lady blanchefleur. and the lady blanchefleur loved sir percival every day with a greater and greater passion, but sir percival showed no passion of love for her in return, and thereat lady blanchefleur was greatly troubled. [sidenote: sir percival and the lady blanchefleur walk together] now one day the lady blanchefleur and sir percival were walking together on a terrace; and it was then come to be the fall of the year, so that the leaves of the trees were showering all down about them like flakes of gold. and that day the lady blanchefleur loved sir percival so much that her heart was pierced with that love as though with a great agony. but sir percival wist not of that. then the lady blanchefleur said: "messire, i would that thou wouldst stay here always as our knight-champion." "lady," quoth percival, "that may not be, for in a little while now i must leave you. for, though i shall be sad to go from such a friendly place as this is, yet i am an errant knight, and as i am errant i must fulfil many adventures besides the one i have accomplished here." "messire," said the lady blanchefleur, "if you will but remain here, this castle shall be yours and all that it contains." at this sir percival was greatly astonished, wherefore he said: "lady, how may that be? lo! this castle is yours, and no one can take it away from you, nor can you give it to me for mine own." then the lady blanchefleur turned away her face and bowed her head, and said in a voice as though it were stifling her for to speak: "percival, it needs not to take the castle from me; take thou me for thine own, and then the castle and all shall be thine." [sidenote: sir percival denies the lady blanchefleur] at that sir percival stood for a space very still as though without breathing. then by and by he said: "lady, meseems that no knight could have greater honor paid to him than that which you pay to me. yet should i accept such a gift as you offer, then i would be doing such dishonor to my knighthood that would make it altogether unworthy of that high honor you pay it. for already i have made my vow to serve a lady, and if i should forswear that vow, i would be a dishonored and unworthy knight." then the lady blanchefleur cried out in a great voice of suffering: "say no more, for i am ashamed." sir percival said: "nay, there is no shame to thee, but great honor to me." but the lady blanchefleur would not hear him, but brake away from him in great haste, and left him standing where he was. so sir percival could stay no longer at that place; but as soon as might be, he took horse and rode away. nor did he see blanchefleur again after they had thus talked together upon that terrace as aforesaid. and after sir percival had gone, the lady blanchefleur abandoned herself to great sorrow, for she wept a long while and a very great deal; nor would she, for a long while, take any joy in living or in the world in which she lived. [sidenote: of the further adventures of sir percival] so sir percival performed that adventure of setting free the duress of the castle of beaurepaire. and after that and ere the winter came, he performed several other adventures of more or less fame. and during that time, he overthrew eleven knights in various affairs at arms and in all those adventures he met with no mishap himself. and besides such encounters at arms, he performed several very worthy works; for he slew a wild boar that was a terror to all that dwelt nigh to the forest of umber; and he also slew a very savage wolf that infested the moors of the dart. wherefore, because of these several adventures, the name of sir percival became very famous in all courts of chivalry, and many said: "verily, this young knight must be the peer of sir launcelot of the lake himself." now one day toward eventide (and it was a very cold winter day) sir percival came to the hut of a hermit in the forest of usk; and he abode all night at that place. now when the morning had come he went out and stood in front of the hut, and he saw that during the night a soft snow had fallen so that all the earth was covered with white. and he saw that it likewise had happened that a hawk had struck a raven in front of the hermit's habitation, and that some of the raven's feathers and some of its blood lay upon the snow. [sidenote: sir percival stands in meditation] now when sir percival beheld the blood and the black feathers upon that white snow, he said to himself: "behold! that snow is not whiter than the brow and the neck of my lady; and that red is not redder than her lips; and that black is not blacker than her hair." therewith the thought of that lady took great hold upon him and he sighed so deeply that he felt his heart lifted within him because of that sigh. so he stood and gazed upon that white and red and black, and he forgot all things else in the world than his lady-love. now it befell at that time that there came a party riding through those parts, and that party were sir gawaine and sir geraint and sir kay. and when they saw sir percival where he stood leaning against a tree and looking down upon the ground in deep meditation, sir kay said: "who is yonder knight?" (for he wist not that that knight was sir percival.) and sir kay said further: "i will go and bespeak that knight and ask him who he is." but sir gawaine perceived that sir percival was altogether sunk in deep thought, wherefore he said: "nay, thou wilt do ill to disturb that knight; for either he hath some weighty matter upon his mind, or else he is bethinking him of his lady, and in either case it would be a pity to disturb him until he arouses himself." [sidenote: sir kay shakes the arm of sir percival] but sir kay would not heed what sir gawaine said, but forthwith he went to where sir percival stood; and sir percival was altogether unaware of his coming, being so deeply sunk in his thoughts. then sir kay said: "sir knight,"--but sir percival did not hear him. and sir kay said: "sir knight, who art thou?" but still sir percival did not reply. then sir kay said: "sir knight, thou shalt answer me!" and therewith he catched sir percival by the arm and shook him very roughly. [sidenote: sir percival smites sir kay a buffet] then sir percival aroused himself, and he was filled with indignation that anyone should have laid rough hands upon his person. and sir percival did not recognize sir kay because he was still entangled in that network of thought, but he said very fiercely: "ha, sirrah! wouldst thou lay hands upon me!" and therewith he raised his fist and smote sir kay so terrible a buffet beside the head that sir kay instantly fell down as though he were dead and lay without sense of motion upon the ground. then sir percival perceived that there were two other knights standing not far off, and therewith his thoughts of other things came back to him again and he was aware of what he had done in his anger, and was very sorry and ashamed that he should have been so hasty as to have struck that blow. then sir gawaine came to sir percival and spake sternly to him saying. "sir knight, why didst thou strike my companion so unknightly a blow as that?" [sidenote: sir gawaine chides sir percival] to which sir percival said: "messire, it grieves me sorely that i should have been so hasty, but i was bethinking me of my lady, and this knight disturbed my thoughts; wherefore i smote him in haste." to this sir gawaine made reply: "sir, i perceive that thou hadst great excuse for thy blow. ne'theless, i am displeased that thou shouldst have struck that knight. now i make demand of thee what is thy name and condition?" and sir percival said: "my name is percival, and i am a knight of king arthur's making." [sidenote: sir gawaine and sir geraint rejoice over sir percival] at that, when sir gawaine and sir geraint heard what sir percival said, they cried out in great amazement; and sir gawaine said: "ha, sir percival! this is indeed well met, for my name is gawaine and i am a nephew unto king arthur and am of his court; and this knight is sir geraint, and he also is of king arthur's court and of his round table. and we have been in search of thee for this long time for to bring thee unto king arthur at camelot. for thy renown is now spread all over this realm, so that they talk of thee in every court of chivalry." and sir percival said: "that is good news to me, for i wist not that i had so soon won so much credit. but, touching the matter of returning unto king arthur's court with you; unto that i crave leave to give my excuses. for, since you tell me that i now have so much credit of knighthood, it behooves me to go immediately unto my lady and to offer my services unto her. for when i parted from her i promised her that i would come to her as soon as i had won me sufficient credit of knighthood. as for this knight whom i have struck, i cannot be sorry for that buffet, even if it was given with my fist and not with my sword as i should have given it. for i have promised sir kay by several mouths that i would sometime repay him with just such a buffet as that which he struck the damosel yelande. so now i have fulfilled my promise and have given him that buffet." then sir gawaine and sir geraint laughed, and sir gawaine said: "well, sir percival, thou hast indeed fulfilled thy promise in very good measure. for i make my vow that no one could have been better served with his dessert than was sir kay." now by this time sir kay had recovered from that blow, so that he rose up very ruefully, looking about as though he wist not yet just where he was. [sidenote: sir percival will not return to court] then sir gawaine said to sir percival: "as to thy coming unto the court of the king, thou dost right to fulfil thy promise unto thy lady before undertaking any other obligation. for, even though the king himself bid thee come, yet is thy obligation to thy lady superior to the command of the king. so now i bid thee go in quest of thy lady in god's name; only see to it that thou comest to the king's court as soon as thou art able." so it was that sir percival fulfilled the promise of that buffet unto sir kay. and now you shall hear how he found the lady yvette the fair. * * * * * [sidenote: sir percival cometh to the castle of sir percydes] now after sir percival had parted from sir gawaine, and sir geraint and sir kay, he went his way in that direction he wist, and by and by, toward eventide, he came again to the castle of sir percydes. and sir percydes was at home and he welcomed sir percival with great joy and congratulations. for the fame of sir percival was now abroad in all the world, so that sir percydes welcomed him with great acclaim. so sir percival sat down with sir percydes and they ate and drank together, and, for the time, sir percival said nothing of that which was upon his heart--for he was of a very continent nature and was in no wise hasty in his speech. but after they had satisfied themselves with food and drink, then sir percival spake to sir percydes of that which was upon his mind, saying: "dear friend, thou didst tell me that when i was ready for to come to thee with a certain intent thou wouldst tell me who is the lady whose ring i wear and where i shall find her. now, i believe that i am a great deal more worthy for to be her knight than i was when i first saw thee; wherefore i am now come to beseech thee to redeem thy promise to me. now tell me, i beg of thee, who is that lady and where does she dwell?" [sidenote: sir percydes declares himself to sir percival] then sir percydes said: "friend, i will declare to thee that which thou dost ask of me. firstly, that lady is mine own sister, hight yvette, and she is the daughter of king pecheur. secondly, thou shalt find her at the castle of my father, which standeth upon the west coast of this land. nor shalt thou have any difficulty in finding that castle, for thou mayst easily come to it by inquiring the way of those whom thou mayst meet in that region. but, indeed, it hath been two years since i have seen my father and my sister, and i know not how it is with them." then sir percival came to sir percydes and he put his arm about him and kissed him upon either cheek, and he said: "should i obtain the kind regard of that lady, i know nothing that would more rejoice me than to know that thou art her brother. for, indeed, i entertain a great deal of love for thee." at that sir percydes laughed for joy and he said: "percival, wilt thou not tell me of what house thou art come?" percival said: "i will tell thee what thou dost ask: my father is king pellinore who was a very good, noble knight of the court of king arthur and of his round table." then sir percydes cried out with great amazement, saying: "that is very marvellous! i would that i had known this before, for thy mother and my mother were sisters of one father and one mother. so we are cousins german." then sir percival said: "this is great joy to me!" and his heart was expanded with pleasure at finding that sir percydes was of his kindred and that he was no longer alone in that part of the world. [sidenote: sir percival departs for the castle of king pecheur] so sir percival abided for two days with sir percydes and then he betook his way to the westward in pursuance of that adventure. and he was upon the road three days, and upon the morning of the fourth day he came, through diligent inquiry, within sight of the castle of king pecheur. this castle stood upon a high crag of rock from which it arose against the sky so that it looked to be a part of the crag. and it was a very noble and stately castle, having many tall towers and many buildings within the walls thereof. and a village of white houses of the fisher-folk gathered upon the rocks beneath the castle walls like chicks beneath the shadow of their mother's wings. and, behold! percival saw the great sea for the first time in all his life, and was filled with wonder at the huge waves that ran toward the shore and burst upon the rocks, all white like snow. and he was amazed at the multitude of sea fowl that flew about the rocks in such prodigious numbers that they darkened the sky. likewise he was astonished at the fisher-boats that spread their white sails against the wind, and floated upon the water like swans, for he had never seen their like before. so he sat his horse upon a high rock nigh to the sea and gazed his fill upon those things that were so wonderful to him. then after a while sir percival went forward to the castle. and as he drew nigh to the castle he became aware that a very reverend man, whose hair and beard were as white as snow, sat upon a cushion of crimson velvet upon a rock that overlooked the sea. two pages, richly clad in black and silver, stood behind him; and the old man gazed out across the sea, and sir percival saw that he neither spake nor moved. but when sir percival came near to him the old man arose and went into the castle, and the two pages took up the two crimson velvet cushions and followed him. but percival rode up to the castle, and he saw that the gateway of the castle stood open, wherefore he rode into the courtyard of the castle. and when he had come into the courtyard, two attendants immediately appeared and took his horse and assisted him to dismount; but neither of these attendants said aught to him, but both were as silent as deaf-mutes. [sidenote: sir percival finds king pecheur] then percival entered the hall and there he saw the old man whom he had before seen, and the old man sat in a great carved chair beside a fire of large logs of wood. and sir percival saw that the eyes of the old man were all red and that his cheeks were channeled with weeping; and percival was abashed at the sadness of his aspect. nevertheless, he came to where the old man sat and saluted him with great reverence, and he said: "art thou king pecheur?" and the old man answered, "aye, for i am both a fisher and a sinner" (for that word pecheur meaneth both fisher and sinner). then sir percival said: "sire, i bring thee greetings from thy son, sir percydes, who is a very dear friend to me. and likewise i bring thee greeting from myself: for i am percival, king pellinore's son, and thy queen and my mother are sisters. and likewise i come to redeem a pledge, for, behold, here is the ring of thy daughter yvette, unto whom i am pledged for her true knight. wherefore, having now achieved a not dishonorable renown in the world of chivalry, i am come to beseech her kindness and to redeem my ring which she hath upon her finger and to give her back her ring again." then king pecheur fell to weeping in great measure and he said: "percival thy fame hath reached even to this remote place, for every one talketh of thee with great unction. but, touching my daughter yvette, if thou wilt come with me i will bring thee to her." so king pecheur arose and went forth and sir percival followed him. and king pecheur brought sir percival to a certain tower; and he brought him up a long and winding stair; and at the top of the stairway was a door. and king pecheur opened the door and sir percival entered the apartment. [sidenote: sir percival findeth the lady yvette] the windows of the apartment stood open, and a cold wind came in thereat from off the sea; and there stood a couch in the middle of the room, and it was spread with black velvet; and the lady yvette lay reclined upon the couch, and, lo! her face was like to wax for whiteness, and she neither moved nor spake, but only lay there perfectly still; for she was dead. seven waxen candles burned at her head, and seven others at her feet, and the flames of the candles spread and wavered as the cold wind blew upon them. and the hair of her head (as black as those raven feathers that sir percival had beheld lying upon the snow) moved like threads of black silk as the wind blew in through the window--but the lady yvette moved not nor stirred, but lay like a statue of marble all clad in white. then at the first sir percival stood very still at the door-way as though he had of a sudden been turned into stone. then he went forward and stood beside the couch and held his hands very tightly together and gazed at the lady yvette where she lay. so he stood for a long while, and he wist not why it was that he felt like as though he had been turned into a stone, without such grief at his heart as he had thought to feel thereat. (for indeed, his spirit was altogether broken though he knew it not.) [sidenote: of the grief of sir percival] then he spake unto that still figure, and he said: "dear lady, is it thus i find thee after all this long endeavor of mine? yet from paradise, haply, thou mayst perceive all that i have accomplished in thy behalf. so shalt thou be my lady always to the end of my life and i will have none other than thee. wherefore i herewith give thee thy ring again and take mine own in its stead." therewith, so speaking, he lifted that hand (all so cold like the snow) and took his ring from off her finger and put her ring back upon it again. then king pecheur said, "percival, hast thou no tears?" and percival said, "nay, i have none." therewith he turned and left that place, and king pecheur went with him. after that sir percival abided in that place for three days, and king pecheur and his lady queen and their two young sons who dwelt at that place made great pity over him, and wept a great deal. but sir percival said but little in reply and wept not at all. * * * * * and now i shall tell you of that wonderful vision that came unto sir percival at this place upon christmas day. [sidenote: sir percival beholds the grail] for on the third day (which was christmas day) it chanced that sir percival sat alone in the hall of the castle, and he meditated upon the great sorrow that lay upon him. and as he sat thus this very wonderful thing befell him: he suddenly beheld two youths enter that hall. and the faces of the two youths shone with exceeding brightness, and their hair shone like gold, and their raiment was very bright and glistering like to gold. one of these youths bare in his hand a spear of mighty size, and blood dropped from the point of the spear; and the other youth bare in his hand a chalice of pure gold, very wonderful to behold, and he held the chalice in a napkin of fine cambric linen. then, at first, sir percival thought that that which he beheld was a vision conjured up by the deep sorrow that filled his heart, and he was afeard. but the youth who bare the chalice spake in a voice extraordinarily high and clear. and he said: "percival! percival! be not afraid! this which thou here beholdest is the sangreal, and that is the spear of sorrow. what then may thy sorrow be in the presence of these holy things that brought with them such great sorrow and affliction of soul that they have become entirely sanctified thereby! thus, percival, should thy sorrow so sanctify thy life and not make it bitter to thy taste. for so did this bitter cup become sanctified by the great sorrow that tasted of it." percival said: "are these things real or are they a vision that i behold?" he who bare the chalice said, "they are real." and he who bare the spear said, "they are real." then a great peace and comfort came to sir percival's heart and they never left him to the day of his death. then they who bare the sangreal and the spear went out of the hall, and sir percival kneeled there for a while after they had gone and prayed with great devotion and with much comfort and satisfaction. and this was the first time that any of those knights that were of king arthur's round table ever beheld that holy chalice, the which sir percival was one of three to achieve in after-years. so when sir percival came forth from that hall, all those who beheld him were astonished at the great peace and calmness that appeared to emanate from him. but he told no one of that miraculous vision which he had just beheld, and, though it appeareth in the history of these things, yet it was not then made manifest. then sir percival said to king pecheur, his uncle and to his aunt and to their sons: "now, dear friends, the time hath come when i must leave you. for i must now presently go to the court of king arthur in obedience to his commands and to acknowledge myself unto my brother, sir lamorack." [sidenote: sir percival departs for court] so that day sir percival set forth with intent to go to camelot, where king arthur was then holding court in great estate of pomp. and sir percival reached camelot upon the fourth day from that time and that was during the feasts of christmas-tide. now king arthur sat at those feasts and there were six score of very noble company seated with him. and the king's heart was greatly uplifted and expanded with mirth and good cheer. then, while all were feasting with great concord, there suddenly came into that hall an herald-messenger; the whom, when king arthur beheld him, he asked: "what message hast thou brought?" upon this the messenger said: "lord, there hath come one asking permission to enter here whom you will be very well pleased to see." the king said, "who is it?" and the herald-messenger said, "he saith his name is percival." upon this king arthur arose from where he sat and all the others uprose with him and there was a great sound of loud voices; for the fame of sir percival had waxed very great since he had begun his adventures. so king arthur and the others went down the hall for to meet sir percival. then the door opened and sir percival came into that place, and his face shone very bright with peace and good-will; and he was exceedingly comely. [sidenote: sir percival is received with joy] king arthur said, "art thou percival?" and percival said, "i am he." thereupon king arthur took sir percival's head into his hands, and he kissed him upon the brow. and sir percival kissed king arthur's hand and he kissed the ring of royalty upon the king's finger, and so he became a true knight in fealty unto king arthur. then sir percival said: "lord, have i thy leave to speak?" and king arthur said, "say on." sir percival said, "where is sir lamorack?" and king arthur said, "yonder he is." then sir percival perceived where sir lamorack stood among the others, and he went to sir lamorack and knelt down before him; and sir lamorack was very much astonished, and said: "why dost thou kneel to me, percival?" then sir percival said, "dost thou know this ring?" then sir lamorack knew his father's ring and he cried out in a loud voice: "that is my father's ring; how came ye by it?" percival said: "our mother gave it to me, for i am thy brother." [sidenote: sir percival declares himself to sir lamorack] upon this sir lamorack cried out with great passion; and he flung his arms about sir percival, and he kissed him repeatedly upon the face. and so ardent was the great love and the great passion that moved him that all those who stood about could in no wise contain themselves, but wept at that which they beheld. then, after a while, king arthur said: "percival, come with me, for i have somewhat to show thee." [sidenote: sir percival is made knight of the round table] so king arthur and sir lamorack and sir percival and several others went unto that pavilion which was the pavilion of the round table, and there king arthur showed sir percival a seat which was immediately upon the right hand of the seat perilous. and upon the back of that seat there was a name emblazoned in letters of gold; and the name was this: percival of gales then king arthur said: "behold, sir percival, this is thy seat, for four days ago that name appeared most miraculously, of a sudden, where thou seest it; wherefore that seat is thine." then sir percival was aware that that name had manifested itself at the time when the sangreal had appeared unto him in the castle of king pecheur, and he was moved with a great passion of love and longing for the lady yvette; so that, because of the strength of that passion, it took upon it the semblance of a terrible joy. and he said to himself: "if my lady could but have beheld these, how proud would she have been! but, doubtless, she now looketh down from paradise and beholdeth us and all that we do." thereupon he lifted up his eyes as though to behold her, but she was not there, but only the roof of that pavilion. but he held his peace and said naught to anyone of those thoughts that disturbed him. with this i conclude for the present the adventures of sir percival with only this to say: that thereafter, as soon as might be, he and sir lamorack went up into the mountains where their mother dwelt and brought her down thence into the world, and that she was received at the court of king arthur with great honor and high regard until, after a while, she entered into a nunnery and took the veil. likewise it is to be said that sir percival lived, as he had vowed to do, a virgin knight for all of his life; for he never paid court to any lady from that time, but ever held within the sanctuary of his mind the image of that dear lady who waited for him in paradise until he should come unto her in such season as god should see fit. but you must not think that this is all that there is to tell of that noble, gentle and worthy young knight whose history we have been considering. for after this he performed many glorious services to the great honor of his knighthood and achieved so many notable adventures that the world spoke of him as being second in worship only to sir launcelot of the lake. yea; there were many who doubted whether sir launcelot himself was really a greater knight than sir percival; and though i may admit that sir launcelot had the greater prowess, yet sir percival was, certes, the more pure in heart and transparent of soul of those two. so, hereafter, if god so wills, i shall tell more of sir percival, for i shall have much to write concerning him when i have to tell of the achievement of the sangreal which he beheld in that vision at the castle of king pecheur as aforetold. so, for this time, no more of these adventures, but fare you well. conclusion thus endeth the particular history of those three worthy, noble, excellent knights-champion--sir launcelot of the lake, sir tristram of lyonesse, and sir percival of gales. and i do hope that you may have found pleasure in considering their lives and their works as i have done. for as i wrote of their behavior and pondered upon it, meseemed they offered a very high example that anyone might follow to his betterment who lives in this world where so much that is ill needs to be amended. but though i have told so much, yet, as i have just said, there remain many other things to tell concerning sir launcelot and sir percival, which may well afford anyone pleasure to read. these i shall recount in another volume at another time, with such particularity as those histories may demand. four arthurian romances: "erec et enide", "cliges", "yvain", and "lancelot" by chretien detroyes fl. th century a.d. originally written in old french, sometime in the second half of the th century a.d., by the court poet chretien detroyes. selected bibliography: original text-- carroll, carleton w. (ed.): "chretien detroyes: erec and enide" (garland library of medieval literature, new york & london, ). edited with a translation (see penguin classics edition below). kibler, william w. (ed.): "chretien detroyes: the knight with the lion, or yvain (garland library of medieval literature a, new york & london, ). original text with english translation (see penguin classics edition below). kibler, william w. (ed.): "chretien detroyes: lancelot, or the knight of the cart (garland library of medieval literature a, new york & london, ). original text with english translation (see penguin classics edition below). micha, alexandre (ed.): "les romans de chretien de troyes, vol. ii: cliges" (champion, paris, ). other translations-- cline, ruth harwood (trans.): "chretien detroyes: yvain, or the knight with the lion" (university of georgia press, athens ga, ). kibler, william w. & carleton w. carroll (trans.): "chretien detroyes: arthurian romances" (penguin classics, london, ). contains translations of "erec et enide" (by carroll), "cliges", "yvain", "lancelot", and detroyes' incomplete "perceval" (by kibler). highly recommended. owen, d.d.r (trans.): "chretien detroyes: arthurian romances" (everyman library, london, ). contains translations of "erec et enide", "cliges", "yvain", "lancelot", and detroyes' incomplete "perceval". note: this edition replaced w.w. comfort's in the everyman library catalogue. highly recommended. recommended reading-- anonymous: "lancelot of the lake" (trans: corin corely; oxford university press, oxford, ). english translation of one of the earliest prose romances concerning lancelot. anonymous: "the mabinogion" (ed: jeffrey gantz; penguin classics, london, ). contains a translation of "geraint and enid", an earlier welsh version of "erec et enide". anonymous: "yvain and gawain", "sir percyvell of gales", and "the anturs of arther" (ed: maldwyn mills; everyman, london, ). note: texts are in middle-english; "yvain and gawain" is a middle-english work based almost exclusively on chretien detroyes' "yvain". malory, sir thomas: "le morte d'arthur" (ed: janet cowen; penguin classics, london, ). ***** introduction chretien de troyes has had the peculiar fortune of becoming the best known of the old french poets to students of mediaeval literature, and of remaining practically unknown to any one else. the acquaintance of students with the work of chretien has been made possible in academic circles by the admirable critical editions of his romances undertaken and carried to completion during the past thirty years by professor wendelin foerster of bonn. at the same time the want of public familiarity with chretien's work is due to the almost complete lack of translations of his romances into the modern tongues. the man who, so far as we know, first recounted the romantic adventures of arthur's knights, gawain. yvain, erec, lancelot, and perceval, has been forgotten; whereas posterity has been kinder to his debtors, wolfram yon eschenbach, malory, lord tennyson, and richard wagner. the present volume has grown out of the desire to place these romances of adventure before the reader of english in a prose version based directly upon the oldest form in which they exist. such extravagant claims for chretien's art have been made in some quarters that one feels disinclined to give them even an echo here. the modem reader may form his own estimate of the poet's art, and that estimate will probably not be high. monotony, lack of proportion, vain repetitions, insufficient motivation, wearisome subtleties, and threatened, if not actual, indelicacy are among the most salient defects which will arrest, and mayhap confound, the reader unfamiliar with mediaeval literary craft. no greater service can be performed by an editor in such a case than to prepare the reader to overlook these common faults, and to set before him the literary significance of this twelfth-century poet. chretien de troyes wrote in champagne during the third quarter of the twelfth century. of his life we know neither the beginning nor the end, but we know that between and he lived, perhaps as herald-at-arms (according to gaston paris, based on "lancelot" - ) at troyes, where was the court of his patroness, the countess marie de champagne. she was the daughter of louis vii, and of that famous eleanor of aquitaine, as she is called in english histories, who, coming from the south of france in , first to paris and later to england, may have had some share in the introduction of those ideals of courtesy and woman service which were soon to become the cult of european society. the countess marie, possessing her royal mother's tastes and gifts, made of her court a social experiment station, where these provencal ideals of a perfect society were planted afresh in congenial soil. it appears from contemporary testimony that the authority of this celebrated feudal dame was weighty, and widely felt. the old city of troyes, where she held her court, must be set down large in any map of literary history. for it was there that chretien was led to write four romances which together form the most complete expression we possess from a single author of the ideals of french chivalry. these romances, written in eight-syllable rhyming couplets, treat respectively of erec and enide, cliges, yvain, and lancelot. another poem, "perceval le gallois", was composed about for philip, count of flanders, to whom chretien was attached during his last years. this last poem is not included in the present translation because of its extraordinary length of , verses, because chretien wrote only the first verses, and because miss jessie l. weston has given us an english version of wolfram's well-known "parzival", which tells substantially the same story, though in a different spirit. to have included this poem, of which he wrote less than one-third, in the works of chretien would have been unjust to him. it is true the romance of "lancelot" was not completed by chretien, we are told, but the poem is his in such large part that one would be over-scrupulous not to call it his. the other three poems mentioned are his entire. in addition, there are quite generally assigned to the poet two insignificant lyrics, the pious romance of "guillaume d'angleterre", and the elaboration of an episode from ovid's "metamorphoses" (vi., - ) called "philomena" by its recent editor (c. de boer, paris, ). all these are extant and accessible. but since "guillaume d'angleterre" and "philomena" are not universally attributed to chretien, and since they have nothing to do with the arthurian material, it seems reasonable to limit the present enterprise to "erec and enide", "cliges", "yvain", and "lancelot". professor foerster, basing his remark upon the best knowledge we possess of an obscure matter, has called "erec and enide" the oldest arthurian romance extant. it is not possible to dispute this significant claim, but let us make it a little more intelligible. scholarship has shown that from the early middle ages popular tradition was rife in britain and brittany. the existence of these traditions common to the brythonic peoples was called to the attention of the literary world by william of malmesbury ("gesta regum anglorum") and geoffrey of monmouth ("historia regum britanniae") in their latin histories about and respectively, and by the anglo-norman poet wace immediately afterward. scholars have waged war over the theories of transmission of the so-called arthurian material during the centuries which elapsed between the time of the fabled chieftain's activity in a.d. and his appearance as a great literary personage in the twelfth century. documents are lacking for the dark ages of popular tradition before the norman conquest, and the theorists may work their will. but arthur and his knights, as we see them in the earliest french romances, have little in common with their celtic prototypes, as we dimly catch sight of them in irish, welsh, and breton legend. chretien belonged to a generation of french poets who rook over a great mass of celtic folk-lore they imperfectly understood, and made of what, of course, it had never been before: the vehicle to carry a rich freight of chivalric customs and ideals. as an ideal of social conduct, the code of chivalry never touched the middle and lower classes, but it was the religion of the aristocracy and of the twelfth-century "honnete homme". never was literature in any age closer to the ideals of a social class. so true is this that it is difficult to determine whether social practices called forth the literature, or whether, as in the case of the seventeenth-century pastoral romance in france, it is truer to say that literature suggested to society its ideals. be that as it may, it is proper to observe that the french romances of adventure portray late mediaeval aristocracy as it fain would be. for the glaring inconsistencies between the reality and the ideal, one may turn to the chronicles of the period. yet, even history tells of many an ugly sin rebuked and of many a gallant deed performed because of the courteous ideals of chivalry. the debt of our own social code to this literature of courtesy and frequent self-sacrifice is perfectly manifest. what chretien's immediate and specific source was for his romances is of deep interest to the student. unfortunately, he has left us in doubt. he speaks in the vaguest way of the materials he used. there is no evidence that he had any celtic written source. we are thus thrown back upon latin or french literary originals which are lost, or upon current continental lore going back to a celtic source. this very difficult problem is as yet unsolved in the case of chretien, as it is in the case of the anglo-norman beroul, who wrote of tristan about . the material evidently was at hand and chretien appropriated it, without much understanding of its primitive spirit, but appreciating it as a setting for the ideal society dreamed of but not realised in his own day. add to this literary perspicacity, a good foundation in classic fable, a modicum of ecclesiastical doctrine, a remarkable facility in phrase, figure, and rhyme and we have the foundations for chretien's art as we shall find it upon closer examination. a french narrative poet of the twelfth century had three categories of subject-matter from which to choose: legends connected with the history of france ("matiere de france"), legends connected with arthur and other celtic heroes ("matiere de bretagne"), and stories culled from the history or mythology of greece and rome, current in latin and french translations ("matiere de rome la grant"). chretien tells us in "cliges" that his first essays as a poet were the translations into french of certain parts of ovid's most popular works: the "metamorphoses", the "ars amatoria", and perhaps the "remedia amoris". but he appears early to have chosen as his special field the stories of celtic origin dealing with arthur, the round table, and other features of celtic folk-lore. not only was he alive to the literary interest of this material when rationalised to suit the taste of french readers; his is further the credit of having given to somewhat crude folk-lore that polish and elegance which is peculiarly french, and which is inseparably associated with the arthurian legends in all modern literature. though beroul, and perhaps other poets, had previously based romantic poems upon individual celtic heroes like tristan, nevertheless to chretien, so far as we can see, is due the considerable honour of having constituted arthur's court as a literary centre and rallying-point for an innumerable company of knights and ladies engaged in a never-ending series of amorous adventures and dangerous quests. rather than unqualifiedly attribute to chretien this important literary convention, one should bear in mind that all his poems imply familiarity on the part of his readers with the heroes of the court of which he speaks. one would suppose that other stories, told before his versions, were current. some critics would go so far as to maintain that chretien came toward the close, rather than at the beginning, of a school of french writers of arthurian romances. but, if so, we do not possess these earlier versions, and for lack of rivals chretien may be hailed as an innovator in the current schools of poetry. and now let us consider the faults which a modern reader will not be slow to detect in chretien's style. most of his salient faults are common to all mediaeval narrative literature. they may be ascribed to the extraordinary leisure of the class for whom it was composed--a class which was always ready to read an old story told again, and which would tolerate any description, however detailed. the pastimes of this class of readers were jousting, hunting, and making love. hence the preponderance of these matters in the literature of its leisure hours. no detail of the joust or hunt was unfamiliar or unwelcome to these readers; no subtle arguments concerning the art of love were too abstruse to delight a generation steeped in amorous casuistry and allegories. and if some scenes seem to us indelicate, yet after comparison with other authors of his times, chretien must be let off with a light sentence. it is certain he intended to avoid what was indecent, as did the writers of narrative poetry in general. to appreciate fully the chaste treatment of chretien one must know some other forms of mediaeval literature, such as the fabliaux, farces, and morality plays, in which courtesy imposed no restraint. for our poet's lack of sense of proportion, and for his carelessness in the proper motivation of many episodes, no apology can be made. he is not always guilty; some episodes betoken poetic mastery. but a poet acquainted, as he was, with some first-class latin poetry, and who had made a business of his art, ought to have handled his material more intelligently, even in the twelfth century. the emphasis is not always laid with discrimination, nor is his yarn always kept free of tangles in the spinning. reference has been made to chretien's use of his sources. the tendency of some critics has been to minimise the french poet's originality by pointing out striking analogies in classic and celtic fable. attention has been especially directed to the defence of the fountain and the service of a fairy mistress in "yvain", to the captivity of arthur's subjects in the kingdom of gorre, as narrated in "lancelot", reminding one so insistently of the treatment of the kingdom of death from which some god or hero finally delivers those in durance, and to the reigned death of fenice in "cliges", with its many variants. these episodes are but examples of parallels which will occur to the observant reader. the difficult point to determine, in speaking of conceptions so widespread in classic and mediaeval literature, is the immediate source whence these conceptions reached chretien. the list of works of reference appended to this volume will enable the student to go deeper into this much debated question, and will permit us to dispense with an examination of the arguments in this place. however, such convincing parallels for many of chretien's fairy and romantic episodes have been adduced by students of irish and welsh legend that one cannot fail to be impressed by the fact that chretien was in touch, either by oral or literary tradition, with the populations of britain and of brittany, and that we have here his most immediate inspiration. professor foerster, stoutly opposing the so-called anglo-norman theory which supposes the existence of lost anglo-norman romances in french as the sources of chretien de troyes, is, nevertheless, well within the truth when he insists upon what is, so far as we are concerned, the essential originality of the french poet. the general reader will to-day care as little as did the reader of the twelfth century how the poet came upon the motives and episodes of his stories, whether he borrowed them or invented them himself. any poet should be judged not as a "finder" but as a "user" of the common stock of ideas. the study of sources of mediaeval poetry, which is being so doggedly carried on by scholars, may well throw light upon the main currents of literary tradition, but it casts no reflection, favourable or otherwise, upon the personal art of the poet in handling his stuff. on that count he may plead his own cause before the jury. chretien's originality, then, consists in his portrayal of the social ideal of the french aristocracy in the twelfth century. so far as we know he was the first to create in the vulgar tongues a vast court, where men and women lived in conformity with the rules of courtesy, where the truth was told, where generosity was open-handed, where the weak and the innocent were protected by men who dedicated themselves to the cult of honour and to the quest of a spotless reputation. honour and love combined to engage the attention of this society; these were its religion in a far more real sense than was that of the church. perfection was attainable under this code of ethics: gawain, for example, was a perfect knight. though the ideals of this court and those of christianity are in accord at many points, vet courtly love and christian morality are irreconcilable. this arthurian material, as used by chretien, is fundamentally immoral as judged by christian standards. beyond question, the poets and the public alike knew this to be the case, and therein lay its charm for a society in which the actual relations or the sexes were rigidly prescribed by the church and by feudal practice, rather than by the sentiments of the individuals concerned. the passionate love of tristan for iseut, of lancelot for guinevere, of cliges for fenice, fascinate the conventional christian society of the twelfth century and of the twentieth century alike, but there-is only one name among men for such relations as theirs, and neither righteousness nor reason lie that way. even tennyson, in spite of all he has done to spiritualise this material, was compelled to portray the inevitable dissolution and ruin of arthur's court. chretien well knew the difference between right and wrong, between reason and passion, as the reader of "cliges" may learn for himself. fenice was not iseut, and she would not have her cliges to be a tristan. infidelity, if you will, but not "menage a trois". both "erec" and "yvain" present a conventional morality. but "lancelot" is flagrantly immoral, and the poet is careful to state that for this particular romance he is indebted to his patroness marie de champagne. he says it was she who furnished him with both the "matiere" and the "san", the material of the story and its method of treatment. scholars have sought to fix the chronology of the poet's works, and have been tempted to speculate upon the evolution of his literary and moral ideas. professor foerster's chronology is generally accepted, and there is little likelihood of his being in error when he supposes chretien's work to have been done as follows: the lost "tristan" (the existence of which is denied by gaston paris in "journal des savants", , pp. f.), "erec and enide", "cliges", "lancelot", "yvain", "perceval". the arguments for this chronology, based upon external as well as internal criticism, may be found in the introductions to professor foerster's recent editions. when we speculate upon the development of chretien's moral ideas we are not on such sure ground. as we have seen, his standards vary widely in the different romances. how much of this variation is due to chance circumstance imposed by the nature of his subject or by the taste of his public, and how much to changing conviction it is easy to see, when we consider some contemporary novelist, how dangerous it is to judge of moral convictions as reflected in literary work. "lancelot" must be the keystone of any theory constructed concerning the moral evolution of chretien. the following supposition is tenable, if the chronology of foerster is correct. after the works of his youth, consisting of lyric poems and translations embodying the ideals of ovid and of the school of contemporary troubadour poets, chretien took up the arthurinn material and started upon a new course. "erec" is the oldest arthurinn romance to have survived in any language, but it is almost certainly not the first to have been written. it is a perfectly clean story: of love, estrangement, and reconciliation in the persons of erec and his charming sweetheart enide. the psychological analysis of erec's motives in the rude testing of enide is worthy of attention, and is more subtle than anything previous in french literature with which we are acquainted. the poem is an episodical romance in the biography of an arthurinn hero, with the usual amount of space given to his adventures. "cliges" apparently connects a byzantine tale of doubtful origin in an arbitrary fashion with the court of arthur. it is thought that the story embodies the same motive as the widespread tale of the deception practised upon solomon by his wife, and that chretien's source, as he himself claims, was literary (cf. gaston paris in "journal des savants", , pp. - ). the scene where fenice feigns death in order to rejoin her lover is a parallel of many others in literary history, and will, of course, suggest the situation in romeo and juliet. this romance well illustrates the drawing power of arthur's court as a literary centre, and its use as a rallying-point for courteous knights of whatever extraction. the poem has been termed an "anti-tristan", because of its disparaging reference to the love of tristan and iseut, which, it is generally supposed, had been narrated by chretien in his earlier years. next may come "lancelot", with its significant dedication to the countess of champagne. of all the poet's work, this tale of the rescue of guinevere by her lover seems to express most closely the ideals of marie's court ideals in which devotion and courtesy but thinly disguise free love. "yvain" is a return to the poet's natural bent, in an episodical romance, while "perceval" crowns his production with its pure and exalted note, though without a touch of that religious mysticism which later marked wolfram yon eschenbach's "parzival". "guillaime d'angleterre" is a pseudo-historical romance of adventure in which the worldly distresses and the final reward of piety are conventionally exposed. it is uninspired, its place is difficult to determine, and its authorship is questioned by some. it is aside from the arthurian material, and there is no clue to its place in the evolution of chretien's art, if indeed it be his work. a few words must be devoted to chretien's place in the history of mediaeval narrative poetry. the heroic epic songs of france, devoted either to the conflict of christendom under the leadership of france against the saracens, or else to the strife and rivalry of french vassals among themselves, had been current for perhaps a century before our poet began to write. these epic poems, of which some three score have survived, portray a warlike, virile, unsentimental feudal society, whose chief occupation was fighting, and whose dominant ideals were faith in god, loyalty to feudal family ties, and bravery in battle. woman's place is comparatively obscure, and of love-making there is little said. it is a poetry of vigorous manhood, of uncompromising morality, and of hard knocks given and taken for god, for christendom, and the king of france. this poetry is written in ten- or twelve- syllable verses grouped, at first in assonanced, later in rhymed, "tirades" of unequal length. it was intended for a society which was still homogeneous, and to it at the outset doubtless all classes of the population listened with equal interest. as poetry it is monotonous, without sense of proportion, padded to facilitate memorisation by professional reciters, and unadorned by figure, fancy, or imagination. its pretention to historic accuracy begot prosaicness in its approach to the style of the chronicles. but its inspiration was noble, its conception of human duties was lofty. it gives a realistic portrayal of the age which produced it, the age of the first crusades, and to this day we would choose as our models of citizenship roland and oliver rather than tristan and lancelot. the epic poems, dealing with the pseudo-historical characters who had fought in civil and foreign wars under charlemagne, remained the favourite literary pabulum of the middle classes until the close of the thirteenth century. professor bedier is at present engaged in explaining the extraordinary hold which these poems had upon the public, and in proving that they exercised a distinct function when exploited by the church throughout the period of the crusades to celebrate local shrines and to promote muscular christianity. but the refinement which began to penetrate the ideals of the french aristocracy about the middle of the twelfth century craved a different expression in narrative literature. greek and roman mythology and history were seized upon with some effect to satisfy the new demand. the "roman de thebes", the "roman d'alexandre", the "roman de troie", and its logical continuation, the "roman d'eneas", are all twelfth-century attempts to clothe classic legend in the dress of mediaeval chivalry. but better fitted to satisfy the new demand was the discovery by the alert anglo-normans perhaps in brittany, perhaps in the south of england, of a vast body of legendary material which, so far as we know, had never before this century received any elaborate literary treatment. the existence of the literary demand and this discovery of the material for its prompt satisfaction is one of the most remarkable coincidences in literary history. it would seem that the pride of the celtic populations in a celtic hero, aided and abetted by geoffrey of monmouth, who first showed the romantic possibilities of the material, made of the obscure british chieftain arthur a world conqueror. arthur thus became already in geoffrey's "historia regum britaniae" a conscious protagonist of charlemagne and his rival in popularity. this grandiose conception of arthur persisted in england, but this conception of the british chieftain did not interest the french. for chretien arthur had no political significance. he is simply the arbiter of his court in all affairs of justice and courtesy. charlemagne's very realistic entourage of virile and busy barons is replaced by a court of elegant chevaliers and unemployed ladies. charlemagne's setting is historical and geographical; arthur's setting is ideal and in the air. in the oldest epic poems we find only god-fearing men and a few self-effacing women; in the arthurian romances we meet gentlemen and ladies, more elegant and seductive than any one in the epic poems, but less fortified by faith and sense of duty against vice because breathing an enervating atmosphere of leisure and decadent morally. though the church made the attempt in "parzival", it could never lay its hands so effectively upon this celtic material, because it contained too many elements which were root and branch inconsistent with the essential teachings of christianity. a fleeting comparison of the noble end of charlemagne's peers fighting for their god and their king at ronceval with the futile and dilettante careers of arthur's knights in joust and hunt, will show better than mere words where the difference lies. the student of the history of social and moral ideals will find much to interest him in chretien's romances. mediaeval references show that he was held by his immediate successors, as he is held to-day when fairly viewed, to have been a master of the art of story-telling. more than any other single narrative poet, he was taken as a model both in france and abroad. professor f. m. warren has set forth in detail the finer points in the art of poetry as practised by chretien and his contemporary craftsmen (see "some features of style in early french narrative poetry, - in "modern philology", iii., - ; iii., - ; iv., - ). poets in his own land refer to him with reverence, and foreign poets complimented him to a high degree by direct translation and by embroidering upon the themes which he had made popular. the knights made famous by chretien soon crossed the frontiers and obtained rights of citizenship in counties so diverse as germany, england, scandinavia, holland, italy, and to a lesser extent in spain and portugal. the inevitable tendency of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries to reduce poetry to prose affected the arthurian material; vast prose compilations finally embodied in print the matter formerly expressed in verse, and it was in this form that the stories were known to later generations until revived interest in the middle ages brought to light the manuscripts in verse. aside from certain episodes of chretien's romances, the student will be most interested in the treatment of love as therein portrayed. on this topic we may hear speaking the man of his time. "cliges" contains the body of chretien's doctrine of love, while lancelot is his most perfect lover. his debt to ovid has not yet been indicated with sufficient preciseness. an elaborate code to govern sentiment and its expression was independently developed by the troubadours of provence in the early twelfth century. these provencal ideals of the courtly life were carried into northern france partly as the result of a royal marriage in and of the crusade of , and there by such poets as chretien they were gathered up and fused with the ovidian doctrine into a highly complicated but perfectly definite statement of the ideal relations of the sexes. nowhere in the vulgar tongues can a better statement of these relations be found than in "cliges." so we leave chretien to speak across the ages for himself and his generation. he is to be read as a story-teller rather than as a poet, as a casuist rather than as a philosopher. but when all deductions are made, his significance as a literary artist and as the founder of a precious literary tradition distinguishes him from all other poets of the latin races between the close of the empire and the arrival of dante. --w. w. comfort. erec et enide [ ] (vv. - .) the rustic's proverb says that many a thing is despised that is worth much more than is supposed. therefore he does well who makes the most of whatever intelligence he may possess. for he who neglects this concern may likely omit to say something which would subsequently give great pleasure. so chretien de troyes maintains that one ought always to study and strive to speak well and teach the right; and he derives from a story of adventure a pleasing argument whereby it may be proved and known that he is not wise who does not make liberal use of his knowledge so long as god may give him grace. the story is about erec the son of lac--a story which those who earn a living by telling stories are accustomed to mutilate and spoil in the presence of kings and counts. and now i shall begin the tale which will be remembered so long as christendom endures. this is chretien's boast. (vv. - .) one easter day in the springtime, king arthur held court in his town of cardigan. never was there seen so rich a court; for many a good knight was there, hardy, bold, and brave, and rich ladies and damsels, gentle and fair daughters of kings. but before the court was disbanded, the king told his knights that he wished to hunt the white stag, [ ] in order to observe worthily the ancient custom. when my lord gawain heard this, he was sore displeased, and said: "sire, you will derive neither thanks nor goodwill from this hunt. we all know long since what this custom of the white stag is: whoever can kill the white stag must forsooth kiss the fairest maiden of your court, come what may. but of this there might come great ill, for there are here five hundred damsels of high birth, gentle and prudent daughters of kings, and there is none of them but has a bold and valiant knight for her lover who would be ready to contend, whether fight or wrong, that she who is his lady is the fairest and gentlest of them all." the king replies: "that i know well; yet will i not desist on that account; for a king's word ought never to be gainsaid. to-morrow morning we shall all gaily go to hunt the white stag in the forest of adventure. and very delightful this hunt will be." (vv. - .) and so the affair is arranged for the next morning at daybreak. the morrow, as soon as it is day, the king gets up and dresses, and dons a short jacket for his forest ride. he commands the knights to be aroused and the horses to be made ready. already they are ahorse, and off they go, with bows and arrows. after them the queen mounts her horse, taking a damsel with her. a maid she was, the daughter of a king, and she rode a white palfrey. after them there swiftly followed a knight, named erec, who belonged to the round table, and had great fame at the court. [ ] of all the knights that ever were there, never one received such praise; and he was so fair that nowhere in the world need one seek a fairer knight than he. he was very fair, brave, and courteous, though not yet twenty-five years old. never was there a man of his age of greater knighthood. and what shall i say of his virtues? mounted on his horse, and clad in an ermine mantle, he came galloping down the road, wearing a coat of splendid flowered silk which was made at constantinople. he had put on hose of brocade, well made and cut, and when his golden spurs were well attached, he sat securely in his stirrups. he carried no arm with him but his sword. as he galloped along, at the corner of a street he came up with the queen, and said: "my lady, if it please you, i should gladly accompany you along this road, having come for no other purpose than to bear you company." and the queen thanks him: "fair friend, i like your company well, in truth; for better i could not have." (vv. - .) then they ride along at full speed until they come into the forest, where the party who had gone before them had already started the stag. some wind the horns and others shout; the hounds plunge ahead after the stag, running, attacking, and baying; the bowmen shoot amain. and before them all rode the king on a spanish hunter. (vv. - .) queen guinevere was in the wood listening for the dogs; beside her were erec and the damsel, who was very courteous and fair. but those who had pursued the stag were so far from them that, however intently they might listen to catch the sound of horn or baying of hound, they no longer could hear either horse, huntsman, or hound. so all three of them drew rein in a clearing beside the road. they had been there but a short time when they saw an armed knight along on his steed, with shield slung about his neck, and his lance in hand. the queen espied him from a distance by his right side rode a damsel of noble bearing, and before them, on a hack, came a dwarf carrying in his hand a knotted scourge. when queen guinevere saw the comely and graceful knight, she desired to know who he and his damsel were. so she bid her damsel go quickly and speak to him. (vv. - .) "damsel," says the queen, "go and bid yonder knight come to me and bring his damsel with him." the maiden goes on amble straight toward the knight. but the spiteful dwarf sallies forth to meet her with his scourge in hand, crying: "halt, maiden, what do you want here? you shall advance no farther." "dwarf," says she, "let me pass. i wish to speak with yonder knight; for the queen sends me hither." the dwarf, who was rude and mean, took his stand in the middle of the road, and said: "you have no business here. go back. it is not meet that you should speak to so excellent a knight." the damsel advanced and tried to pass him by force, holding the dwarf in slight esteem when she saw that he was so small. then the dwarf raised his whip, when he saw her coming toward him and tried to strike her in the face. she raised her arm to protect herself, but he lifted his hand again and struck her all unprotected on her bare hand: and so hard did he strike her on the back of her hand that it turned all black and blue. when the maiden could do nothing else, in spite of herself she must needs return. so weeping she turned back. the tears came to her eyes and ran down her cheeks. when the queen sees her damsel wounded, she is sorely grieved and angered and knows not what to do. "ah, erec, fair friend," she says, "i am in great sorrow for my damsel whom that dwarf has wounded. the knight must be discourteous indeed, to allow such a monster to strike so beautiful a creature. erec, fair friend, do you go to the knight and bid him come to me without delay. i wish to know him and his lady." erec starts off thither, giving spurs to his steed, and rides straight toward the knight. the ignoble dwarf sees him coming and goes to meet him. "vassal," says he, "stand back! for i know not what business you have here. i advise you to withdraw." "avaunt," says erec, "provoking dwarf! thou art vile and troublesome. let me pass." "you shall not." "that will i." "you shall not." erec thrusts the dwarf aside. the dwarf had no equal for villainy: he gave him a great blow with his lash right on the neck, so that erec's neck and face are scarred with the blow of the scourge; from top to bottom appear the lines which the thongs have raised on him. he knew well that he could not have the satisfaction of striking the dwarf; for he saw that the knight was armed, arrogant, and of evil intent, and he was afraid that he would soon kill him, should he strike the dwarf in his presence. rashness is not bravery. so erec acted wisely in retreating without more ado. "my lady," he says, "now matters stand worse; for the rascally dwarf has so wounded me that he has badly cut my face. i did not dare to strike or touch him; but none ought to reproach me, for i was completely unarmed. i mistrusted the armed knight, who, being an ugly fellow and violent, would take it as no jest, and would soon kill me in his pride. but this much i will promise you; that if i can, i shall yet avenge my disgrace, or increase it. but my arms are too far away to avail me in this time of need; for at cardigan did i leave them this morning when i came away. and if i should go to fetch them there, peradventure i should never again find the knight who is riding off apace. so i must follow him at once, far or near, until i find some arms to hire or borrow. if i find some one who will lend me arms, the knight will quickly find me ready for battle. and you may be sure without fail that we two shall fight until he defeat me, or i him. and if possible, i shall be back by the third day, when you will see me home again either joyous or sad, i know not which. lady, i cannot delay longer, for i must follow after the knight. i go. to god i commend you." and the queen in like manner more than five hundred rimes commends him to god, that he may defend him from harm. (vv. - .) erec leaves the queen and ceases not to pursue the knight. the queen remains in the wood, where now the king had come up with the stag. the king himself outstripped the others at the death. thus they killed and took the white stag, and all returned, carrying the stag, till they came again to cardigan. after supper, when the knights were all in high spirits throughout the hall, the king, as the custom was, because he had taken the stag, said that he would bestow the kiss and thus observe the custom of the stag. throughout the court a great murmur is heard: each one vows and swears to his neighbour that it shall not be done without the protest of sword or ashen lance. each one gallantly desires to contend that his lady is the fairest in the hall. their conversation bodes no good, and when my lord gawain heard it, you must know that it was not to his liking. thus he addressed the king: "sire," he says, "your knights here are greatly aroused, and all their talk is of this kiss. they say that it shall never be bestowed without disturbance and a fight." and the king wisely replied to him: "fair nephew gawain, give me counsel now, sparing my honour and my dignity, for i have no mind for any disturbance." (vv. - .) to the council came a great part of the best knights of the court. king yder [ ] arrived, who was the first to be summoned, and after him king cadoalant, who was very wise and bold. kay and girflet came too, and king amauguin was there, and a great number of other knights were there with them. the discussion was in process when the queen arrived and told them of the adventure which she had met in the forest, of the armed knight whom she saw, and of the malicious little dwarf who had struck her damsel on the bare hand with his whip, and who struck erec, too, in the same way an ugly blow on the face; but that erec followed the knight to obtain vengeance, or increase his shame, and how he said that if possible he would be back by the third day. "sire," says the queen to the king, "listen to me a moment. if these knights approve what i say, postpone this kiss until the third day, when erec will be back." there is none who does not agree with her, and the king himself approves her words. (vv. - .) erec steadily follows the knight who was armed and the dwarf who had struck him until they come to a well placed town, strong and fine [ ]. they enter straight through the gate. within the town there was great joy of knights and ladies, of whom there were many and fair. some were feeding in the streets their sparrow-hawks and moulting falcons; others were giving an airing to their tercels, [ ] their mewed birds, and young yellow hawks; others play at dice or other game of chance, some at chess, and some at backgammon. the grooms in front of the stables are rubbing down and currying the horses. the ladies are bedecking themselves in their boudoirs. as soon as they see the knight coming, whom they recognised with his dwarf and damsel, they go out three by three to meet him. the knight they all greet and salute, but they give no heed to erec, for they did not know him. erec follows close upon the knight through the town, until he saw him lodged. then, very joyful, he passed on a little farther until he saw reclining upon some steps a vavasor [ ] well on in years. he was a comely man, with white locks, debonair, pleasing, and frank. there he was seated all alone, seeming to be engaged in thought. erec took him for an honest man who would at once give him lodging. when he turned through the gate into the yard, the vavasor ran to meet him, and saluted him before erec had said a word. "fair sir," says he, "be welcome. if you will deign to lodge with me, here is my house all ready for you." erec replies: "thank you! for no other purpose have i come; i need a lodging place this night." (vv. - .) erec dismounts from his horse, which the host himself leads away by the bridle, and does great honour to his guest. the vavasor summons his wife and his beautiful daughter, who were busy in a work-room--doing i know not what. the lady came out with her daughter, who was dressed in a soft white under-robe with wide skirts hanging loose in folds. over it she wore a white linen garment, which completed her attire. and this garment was so old that it was full of holes down the sides. poor, indeed, was her garb without, but within her body was fair. (vv. - .) the maid was charming, in sooth, for nature had used all her skill in forming her. nature herself had marvelled more than five hundred times how upon this one occasion she had succeeded in creating such a perfect thing. never again could she so strive successfully to reproduce her pattern. nature bears witness concerning her that never was so fair a creature seen in all the world. in truth i say that never did iseut the fair have such radiant golden tresses that she could be compared with this maiden. [ ] the complexion of her forehead and face was clearer and more delicate than the lily. but with wondrous art her face with all its delicate pallor was suffused with a fresh crimson which nature had bestowed upon her. her eyes were so bright that they seemed like two stars. god never formed better nose, mouth, and eyes. what shall i say of her beauty? in sooth, she was made to be looked at; for in her one could have seen himself as in a mirror. so she came forth from the work-room: and when she saw the knight whom she had never seen before, she drew back a little, because she did not know him, and in her modesty she blushed. erec, for his part, was amazed when he beheld such beauty in her, and the vavasor said to her: "fair daughter dear, take this horse and lead him to the stable along with my own horses. see that he lack for nothing: take off his saddle and bridle, give him oats and hay, look after him and curry him, that he may be in good condition." (vv. - ) the maiden takes the horse, unlaces his breast-strap, and takes off his bridle and saddle. now the horse is in good hands, for she takes excellent care of him. she throws a halter over his head, rubs him down, curries him, and makes him comfortable. then she ties him to the manger and puts plenty of fresh sweet hay and oats before him. then she went back to her father, who said to her: "fair daughter dear, take now this gentleman by the hand and show him all honour. take him by the hand upstairs." the maiden did not delay (for in her there was no lack of courtesy) and led him by the hand upstairs. the lady had gone before and prepared the house. she had laid embroidered cushions and spreads upon the couches, where they all three sat down erec with his host beside him, and the maiden opposite. before them, the fire burns brightly. the vavasor had only one man-servant, and no maid for chamber or kitchen work. this one man was busy in the kitchen preparing meat and birds for supper. a skilful cook was he, who knew how to prepare meal in boiling water and birds on the spit. when he had the meal prepared in accordance with the orders which had been given him, he brought them water for washing in two basins. the table was soon set, cloths, bread, and wine set out, and they sat down to supper. they had their fill of all they needed. when they had finished and when the table was cleared, erec thus addressed his host, the master of the house: "tell me, fair host." he asked, "why your daughter, who is so passing fair and clever, is so poorly and unsuitably attired." "fair friend," the vavasor replies, "many a man is harmed by poverty, and even so am i. i grieve to see her so poorly clad, and yet i cannot help it, for i have been so long involved in war that i have lost or mortgaged or sold all my land. [ ] and yet she would be well enough dressed if i allowed her to accept everything that people wish to give her. the lord of this castle himself would have dressed her in becoming fashion and would have done her every manner of favour, for she is his niece and he is a count. and there is no nobleman in this region, however rich and powerful, who would not willingly have taken her to wife had i given my consent. but i am waiting yet for some better occasion, when god shall bestow still greater honour upon her, when fortune shall bring hither some king or count who shall lead her away, for there is under heaven no king or count who would be ashamed of my daughter, who is so wondrous fair that her match cannot be found. fair, indeed, she is; but yet greater far than her beauty, is her intelligence. god never created any one so discreet and of such open heart. when i have my daughter beside me, i don't care a marble about all the rest of the world. she is my delight and my pastime, she is my joy and comfort, my wealth and my treasure, and i love nothing so much as her own precious self." (vv. - .) when erec had listened to all that his host told him, he asked him to inform him whence came all the chivalry that was quartered in the town. for there was no street or house so poor and small but it was full of knights and ladies and squires. and the vavasor said to him: "fair friend, these are the nobles of the country round; all, both young and old, have come to a fete which is to be held in this town tomorrow; therefore the houses are so full. when they shall all have gathered, there will be a great stir to-morrow; for in the presence of all the people there will be set upon a silver perch a sparrow-hawk of five or six moultings--the best you can imagine. whoever wishes to gain the hawk must have a mistress who is fair, prudent, and courteous. and if there be a knight so bold as to wish to defend the worth and the name of the fairest in his eyes, he will cause his mistress to step forward and lift the hawk from the perch, if no one dares to interpose. this is the custom they are observing, and for this each year they gather here." thereupon erec speaks and asks him: "fair host, may it not displease you, but tell me, if you know, who is a certain knight bearing arms of azure and gold, who passed by here not long ago, having close beside him a courtly damsel, preceded by a hump-backed dwarf." to him the host then made reply: "that is he who will win the hawk without any opposition from the other knights. i don't believe that any one will offer opposition; this time there will be no blows or wounds. for two years already he has won it without being challenged; and if he wins it again this year, he will have gained permanent possession of it. every succeeding year he may keep it without contest or challenge." quickly erec makes reply: "i do not like that knight. upon my word, had i some arms i should challenge him for the hawk. fair host, i beg you as a boon to advise me how i may be equipped with arms whether old or new, poor or rich, it matters not." and he replies to him generously: "it were a pity for you to feel concern on that score! i have good fine arms which i shall be glad to lend you. in the house i have a triple-woven hauberk, [ ] which was selected from among five hundred. and i have some fine valuable greaves, polished, handsome, and light in weight. the helmet is bright and handsome, and the shield fresh and new. horse, sword, and lance all i will lend you, of course; so let no more be said." "thank you kindly, fair gentle host! but i wish for no better sword that this one which i have brought with me, nor for any other horse than my own, for i can get along well enough with him. if you will lend me the rest, i shall esteem it a great favour. but there is one more boon i wish to ask of you, for which i shall make just return if god grant that i come off from the battle with honour." and frankly he replies to him: "ask confidently for what you want, whatever it be, for nothing of mine shall lack you." then erec said that he wished to defend the hawk on behalf of his daughter; for surely there will be no damsel who is one hundredth part as beautiful as she. and if he takes her with him, he will have good and just reason to maintain and to prove that she is entitled to carry away the hawk. then he added: "sire, you know not what guest you have sheltered here, nor do you know my estate and kin. i am the son of a rich and puissant king: my father's name is king lac, and the bretons call me erec. i belong to king arthur's court, and have been with him now three years. i know not if any report of my father or of me has ever reached this land. but i promise you and vow that if you will fit me out with arms, and will give me your daughter to-morrow when i strive for the hawk, i will take her to my country, if god grant me the victory, and i will give her a crown to wear, and she shall be queen of three cities." "ah, fair sir! is it true that you are erec, the son of lac?" "that is who i am, indeed" quoth he. then the host was greatly delighted and said: "we have indeed heard of you in this country. now i think all the more of you, for you are very valiant and brave. nothing now shall you be refused by me. at your request i give you my fair daughter." then taking her by the hand, he says: "here, i give her to you." erec received her joyfully, and now has all he desired. now they are all happy there: the father is greatly delighted, and the mother weeps for joy. the maiden sat quiet; but she was very happy and glad that she was betrothed to him, because he was valiant and courteous: and she knew that he would some day be king, and she should receive honour and be crowned rich queen. (vv. - .) they had sat up very late that night. but now the beds were prepared with white sheets and soft pillows, and when the conversation flagged they all went to bed in happy frame. erec slept little that night, and the next morn, at crack of dawn, he and his host rose early. they both go to pray at church, and hear a hermit chant the mass of the holy spirit, not forgetting to make an offering. when they had heard mass both kneel before the altar and then return to the house. erec was eager for the battle; so he asks for arms, and they are given to him. the maiden herself puts on his arms (though she casts no spell or charm), [ ] laces on his iron greaves, and makes them fast with thong of deer-hide. she puts on his hauberk with its strong meshes, and laces on his ventail. the gleaming helmet she sets upon his head, and thus arms him well from tip to toe. at his side she fastens his sword, and then orders his horse to be brought, which is done. up he jumped clear of the ground. the damsel then brings the shield and the strong lance: she hands him the shield, and he takes it and hangs it about his neck by the strap. she places the lance in his hand, and when he had grasped it by the butt-end, he thus addressed the gentle vavasor: "fair sire," quoth he, "if you please, make your daughter ready now; for i wish to escort her to the sparrow-hawk in accordance with our agreement." the vavasor then without delay had saddled a bay palfrey. there can nothing be said of the harness because of the dire poverty with which the vavasor was afflicted. saddle and bridle were put on, and up the maiden mounted all free and in light attire, without waiting to be urged. erec wished to delay no longer; so off he starts with the host's daughter by his side, followed by the gentleman and his lady. (vv. - .) erec rides with lance erect and with the comely damsel by his side. all the people, great and small, gaze at them with wondering eyes as they pass through the streets. and thus they question each other: "who is yonder knight? he must be doughty and brave, indeed, to act as escort for this fair maid. his efforts will be well employed in proving that this damsel is the fairest of them all." one man to another says: "in very truth, she ought to have the sparrow-hawk." some praised the maid, while many said: "god! who can this knight be, with the fair damsel by his side?" "i know not." "nor i." thus spake each one. "but his gleaming helmet becomes him well, and the hauberk, and shield, and his sharp steel sword. he sits well upon his steed and has the bearing of a valiant vassal, well-shapen in arm, in limb and foot." while all thus stand and gaze at them, they for their part made no delay to take their stand by the sparrow-hawk, where to one side they awaited the knight. and now behold! they see him come, attended by his dwarf and his damsel. he had heard the report, that a knight had come who wished to obtain the sparrow-hawk, but he did not believe there could be in the world a knight so bold as to dare to fight with him. he would quickly defeat him and lay him low. all the people knew him well, and all welcome him and escort him in a noisy crowd: knights, squires, ladies, and damsels make haste to run after him. leading them all the knight rides proudly on, with his damsel and his dwarf at his side, and he makes his way quickly to the sparrow-hawk. but all about there was such a press of the rough and vulgar crowd that it was impossible to touch the hawk or to come near where it was. then the count arrived on the scene, and threatened the populace with a switch which he held in his hand. the crowd drew back, and the knight advanced and said quietly to his lady: "my lady, this bird, which is so perfectly moulted and so fair, should be yours as your just portion; for you are wondrous fair and full of charm. yours it shall surely be so long as i live. step forward, my dear, and lift the hawk from the perch." the damsel was on the point of stretching forth her hand when erec hastened to challenge her, little heeding the other's arrogance. "damsel," he cries, "stand back! go dally with some other bird, for to this one you have no right. in spite of all, i say this hawk shall never be yours. for a better one than you claims it--aye, much more fair and more courteous." the other knight is very wroth; but erec does not mind him, and bids his own maiden step forward. "fair one." he cries, "come forth. lift the bird from the perch, for it is right that you should have it. damsel, come forth! for i will make boast to defend it if any one is so bold as to intervene. for no woman excels you in beauty or worth, in grace or honour any more than the moon outshines the sun." the other could suffer it no longer, when he hears him so manfully offer himself to do battle. "vassal," he cries, "who art thou who dost thus dispute with me the hawk?" erec boldly answers him: "a knight i am from another land. this hawk i have come to obtain; for it is right, i say it in spite of all, that this damsel of mine should have it." "away!" cries the other, "it shall never be. madness has brought thee here. if thou dost wish to have the hawk, thou shalt pay fight dearly for it." "pay, vassal; and how?" "thou must fight with me, if thou dost not resign it to me." "you talk madness," cries erec; "for me these are idle threats; for little enough do i fear you." "then i defy thee here and now. the battle is inevitable." erec replies: "god help me now; for never did i wish for aught so much." now soon you will hear the noise of battle. (vv. - .) the large place was cleared, with the people gathered all around. they draw off from each other the space of an acre, then drive their horses together; they reach for each other with the tips of their lances, and strike each other so hard that the shields are pierced and broken; the lances split and crack; the saddle-bows are knocked to bits behind. they must needs lose their stirrups, so that they both fall to the ground, and the horses run off across the field. though smitten with the lances, they are quickly on their feet again, and draw their swords from the scabbards. with great fierceness they attack each other, and exchange great sword blows, so that the helmets are crushed and made to ring. fierce is the clash of the swords, as they rain great blows upon neck and shoulders. for this is no mere sport: they break whatever they touch, cutting the shields and shattering the hauberks. the swords are red with crimson blood. long the battle lasts; but they fight so lustily that they become weary and listless. both the damsels are in tears, and each knight sees his lady weep and raise her hands to god and pray that he may give the honours of the battle to the one who strives for her. "ha! vassal," quoth the knight to erec, "let us withdraw and rest a little; for too weak are these blows we deal. we must deal better blows than these; for now it draws near evening. it is shameful and highly discreditable that this battle should last so long. see yonder that gentle maid who weeps for thee and calls on god. full sweetly she prays for thee, as does also mine for me. surely we should do our best with our blades of steel for the sake of our lady-loves." erec replies: "you have spoken well." then they take a little rest, erec looking toward his lady as she softly prays for him. while he sat and looked on her, great strength was recruited within him. her love and beauty inspired him with great boldness. he remembered the queen, to whom he pledged his word that he would avenge the insult done him, or would make it greater yet. "ah! wretch," says he, "why do i wait? i have not yet taken vengeance for the injury which this vassal permitted when his dwarf struck me in the wood." his anger is revived within him as he summons the knight: "vassal," quoth he, "i call you to battle anew. too long we have rested; let us now renew our strife." and he replies: "that is no hardship to me." whereupon, they again fall upon each other. they were both expert fencers. at his first lunge the knight would have wounded erec had he not skilfully parried. even so, he smote him so hard over the shield beside his temple that he struck a piece from his helmet. closely shaving his white coif, the sword descends, cleaving the shield through to the buckle, and cutting more than a span from the side of his hauberk. then he must have been well stunned, as the cold steel penetrated to the flesh on his thigh. may god protect him now! if the blow had not glanced off, it would have cut right through his body. but erec is in no wise dismayed: he pays him back what is owing him, and. attacking him boldly, smites him upon the shoulder so violently a blow that the shield cannot withstand it, nor is the hauberk of any use to prevent the sword from penetrating to the bone. he made the crimson blood flow down to his waist-band. both of the vassals are hard fighters: they fight with honours even, for one cannot gain from the other a single foot of ground. their hauberks are so torn and their shields so hacked, that there is actually not enough of them left to serve as a protection. so they fight all exposed. each one loses a deal of blood, and both grow weak. he strikes erec and erec strikes him. erec deals him such a tremendous blow upon the helmet that he quite stuns him. then he lets him have it again and again, giving him three blows in quick succession, which entirely split the helmet and cut the coif beneath it. the sword even reaches the skull and cuts a bone of his head, but without penetrating the brain. he stumbles and totters, and while he staggers, erec pushes him over, so that he falls upon his right side. erec grabs him by the helmet and forcibly drags it from his head, and unlaces the ventail, so that his head and face are completely exposed. when erec thinks of the insult done him by the dwarf in the wood, he would have cut off his head, had he not cried for mercy. "ah! vassal," says he, "thou hast defeated me. mercy now, and do not kill me, after having overcome me and taken me prisoner: that would never bring thee praise or glory. if thou shouldst touch me more, thou wouldst do great villainy. take here my sword; i yield it thee." erec, however, does not take it, but says in reply: "i am within an ace of killing thee." "ah! gentle knight, mercy! for what crime, indeed, or for what wrong shouldst thou hate me with mortal hatred? i never saw thee before that i am aware, and never have i been engaged in doing thee any shame or wrong." erec replies: "indeed you have." "ah, sire, tell me when! for i never saw you, that i can remember, and if i have done you any wrong, i place myself at your mercy." then erec said: "vassal, i am he who was in the forest yesterday with queen guinevere, when thou didst allow thy ill-bred dwarf to strike my lady's damsel. it is disgraceful to strike a woman. and afterwards he struck me, taking me for some common fellow. thou wast guilty of too great insolence when thou sawest such an outrage and didst complacently permit such a monster of a lout to strike the damsel and myself. for such a crime i may well hate thee; for thou hast committed a grave offence. thou shalt now constitute thyself my prisoner, and without delay go straight to my lady whom thou wilt surely find at cardigan, if thither thou takest thy way. thou wilt reach there this very night, for it is not seven leagues from here, i think. thou shalt hand over to her thyself, thy damsel, and thy dwarf, to do as she may dictate; and tell her that i send her word that to-morrow i shall come contented, bringing with me a damsel so fair and wise and fine that in all the world she has not her match. so much thou mayst tell her truthfully. and now i wish to know thy name." then he must needs say in spite of himself: "sire, my name is yder, son of nut. this morning i had not thought that any single man by force of arms could conquer me. now i have found by experience a man who is better than i. you are a very valiant knight, and i pledge you my faith here and now that i will go without delay and put myself in the queen's hands. but tell me without reserve what your name may be. who shall i say it is that sends me? for i am ready to start." and he replies: "my name i will tell thee without disguise: it is erec. go, and tell her that it is i who have sent thee to her." "now i'll go, and i promise you that i will put my dwarf, my damsel, and myself altogether at her disposal (you need have no fear), and i will give her news of you and of your damsel." then erec received his plighted word, and the count and all the people round about the ladies and the gentlemen were present at the agreement. some were joyous, and some downcast; some were sorry, and others glad. the most rejoiced for the sake of the damsel with the white raiment, the daughter of the poor vavasor she of the gentle and open heart; but his damsel and those who were devoted to him were sorry for yder. (vv. - .) yder, compelled to execute his promise, did not wish to tarry longer, but mounted his steed at once. but why should i make a long story? taking his dwarf and his damsel, they traversed the woods and the plain, going on straight until they came to cardigan. in the bower [ ] outside the great hall, gawain and kay the seneschal and a great number of other lords were gathered. the seneschal was the first to espy those approaching, and said to my lord gawain: "sire, my heart divines that the vassal who yonder comes is he of whom the queen spoke as having yesterday done her such an insult. if i am not mistaken, there are three in the party, for i see the dwarf and the damsel." "that is so," says my lord gawain; "it is surely a damsel and a dwarf who are coming straight toward us with the knight. the knight himself is fully armed, but his shield is not whole. if the queen should see him, she would know him. hello, seneschal, go call her now!" so he went straightway and found her in one of the apartments. "my lady," says he, "do you remember the dwarf who yesterday angered you by wounding your damsel?" "yes, i remember him right well. seneschal, have you any news of him? why have you mentioned him?" "lady, because i have seen a knight-errant armed coming upon a grey horse, and if my eyes have not deceived me, i saw a damsel with him; and it seems to me that with him comes the dwarf, who still holds the scourge from which erec received his lashing." then the queen rose quickly and said: "let us go quickly, seneschal, to see if it is the vassal. if it is he, you may be sure that i shall tell you so, as soon as i see him." and kay said: "i will show him to you. come up into the bower where your knights are assembled. it was from there we saw him coming, and my lord gawain himself awaits you there. my lady, let us hasten thither, for here we have too long delayed." then the queen bestirred herself, and coming to the windows she took her stand by my lord gawain, and straightway recognised the knight. "ha! my lords," she cries, "it is he. he has been through great danger. he has been in a battle. i do not know whether erec has avenged his grief, or whether this knight has defeated erec. but there is many a dent upon his shield, and his hauberk is covered with blood, so that it is rather red than white." "in sooth, my lady," quoth my lord gawain, "i am very sure that you are quite right. his hauberk is covered with blood, and pounded and beaten, showing plainly that he has been in a fight. we can easily see that the battle has been hot. now we shall soon hear from him news that will give us joy or gloom: whether erec sends him to you here as a prisoner at your discretion, or whether he comes in pride of heart to boast before us arrogantly that he has defeated or killed erec. no other news can he bring, i think." the queen says: "i am of the same opinion." and all the others say: "it may well be so." (vv. - .) meanwhile yder enters the castle gate, bringing them news. they all came down from the bower, and went to meet him. yder came up to the royal terrace and there dismounted from his horse. and gawain took the damsel and helped her down from her palfrey; the dwarf, for his part, dismounted too. there were more than one hundred knights standing there, and when the three newcomers had all dismounted they were led into the king's presence. as soon as yder saw the queen, he bowed low and first saluted her, then the king and his knights, and said: "lady, i am sent here as your prisoner by a gentleman, a valiant and noble knight, whose face yesterday my dwarf made smart with his knotted scourge. he has overcome me at arms and defeated me. lady, the dwarf i bring you here: he has come to surrender to you at discretion. i bring you myself, my damsel, and my dwarf to do with us as you please." the queen keeps her peace no longer, but asks him for news of erec: "tell me," she says, "if you please, do you know when erec will arrive?" "to-morrow, lady, and with him a damsel he will bring, the fairest of all i ever knew." when he had delivered his message, the queen, who was kind and sensible, said to him courteously: "friend, since thou hast thrown thyself upon my mercy, thy confinement shall be less harsh; for i have no desire to seek thy harm. but tell me now, so help thee god, what is thy name?" and he replies: "lady, my name is yder, son of nut." and they knew that he told the truth. then the queen arose, and going before the king, said: "sire, did you hear? you have done well to wait for erec, the valiant knight. i gave you good advice yesterday, when i counselled you to await his return. this proves that it is wise to take advice." the king replies: "that is no lie; rather is it perfectly true that he who takes advice is no fool. happily we followed your advice yesterday. but if you care anything for me, release this knight from his durance, provided he consent to join henceforth my household and court; and if he does not consent, let him suffer the consequence." when the king had thus spoken, the queen straightway released the knight; but it was on this condition, that he should remain in the future at the court. he did not have to be urged before he gave his consent to stay. now he was of the court and household to which he had not before belonged. then valets were at hand to run and relieve him of his arms. (vv. - .) now we must revert to erec, whom we left in the field where the battle had taken place. even tristan, when he slew fierce morhot on saint samson's isle [ ], awakened no such jubilee as they celebrated here over erec. great and small, thin and stout--all make much of him and praise his knighthood. there is not a knight but cries: "lord what a vassal! under heaven there is not his like!" they follow him to his lodgings, praising him and talking much. even the count himself embraces him, who above the rest was glad, and said: "sire, if you please, you ought by right to lodge in my house, since you are the son of king lac. if you would accept of my hospitality you would do me a great honour, for i regard you as my liege. fair sire, may it please you, i beg you to lodge with me." erec answers: "may it not displease you, but i shall not desert my host to-night, who has done me much honour in giving me his daughter. what say you, sir? is it not a fair and precious gift?" "yes, sire," the count replies; "the gift, in truth, is fine and good. the maid herself is fair and clever, and besides is of very noble birth. you must know that her mother is my sister. surely, i am glad at heart that you should deign to take my niece. once more i beg you to lodge with me this night." erec replies: "ask me no more. i will not do it." then the count saw that further insistence was useless, and said: "sire, as it please you! we may as well say no more about it; but i and my knights will all be with you to-night to cheer you and bear you company." when erec heard that, he thanked him, and returned to his host's dwelling, with the count attending him. ladies and knights were gathered there, and the vavasor was glad at heart. as soon as erec arrived, more than a score of squires ran quickly to remove his arms. any one who was present in that house could have witnessed a happy scene. erec went first and took his seat; then all the others in order sit down upon the couches, the cushions, and benches. at erec's side the count sat down, and the damsel with her radiant face, who was feeding the much disputed hawk upon her wrist with a plover's wing. [ ] great honour and joy and prestige had she gained that day, and she was very glad at heart both for the bird and for her lord. she could not have been happier, and showed it plainly, making no secret of her joy. all could see how gay she was, and throughout the house there was great rejoicing for the happiness of the maid they loved. (vv. - .) erec thus addressed the vavasor: "fair host, fair friend, fair sire! you have done me great honour, and richly shall it be repaid you. to-morrow i shall take away your daughter with me to the king's court, where i wish to take her as my wife; and if you will tarry here a little, i shall send betimes to fetch you. i shall have you escorted into the country which is my father's now, but which later will be mine. it is far from here--by no means near. there i shall give you two towns, very splendid, rich, and fine. you shall be lord of roadan, which was built in the time of adam, and of another town close by, which is no less valuable. the people call it montrevel, and my father owns no better town. [ ] and before the third day has passed, i shall send you plenty of gold and silver, of dappled and grey furs, and precious silken stuffs wherewith to adorn yourself and your wife my dear lady. to-morrow at dawn i wish to take your daughter to court, dressed and arrayed as she is at present. i wish my lady, the queen, to dress her in her best dress of satin and scarlet cloth." (vv. - .) there was a maiden near at hand, very honourable, prudent, and virtuous. she was seated on a bench beside the maid with the white shift, and was her own cousin the niece of my lord the count. when she heard how erec intended to take her cousin in such very poor array to the queen's court, she spoke about it to the count. "sire," she says, "it would be a shame to you more than to any one else if this knight should take your niece away with him in such sad array." and the count made answer: "gentle niece, do you give her the best of your dresses." but erec heard the conversation, and said: "by no means, my lord. for be assured that nothing in the world would tempt me to let her have another robe until the queen shall herself bestow it upon her." when the damsel heard this, she replied: "alas! fair sire, since you insist upon leading off my cousin thus dressed in a white shift and chemise, and since you are determined that she shall have none of my dresses, a different gift i wish to make her. i have three good palfreys, as good as any of king or count, one sorrel, one dappled, and the other black with white forefeet. upon my word, if you had a hundred to pick from, you would not find a better one than the dappled mount. the birds in the air do not fly more swiftly than the palfrey; and he is not too lively, but just suits a lady. a child can ride him, for he is neither skittish nor balky, nor does he bite nor kick nor become unmanageable. any one who is looking for something better does not know what he wants. and his pace is so easy and gentle that a body is more comfortable and easy on his back than in a boat." then said erec: "my dear, i have no objection to her accepting this gift; indeed, i am pleased with the offer, and do not wish her to refuse it." then the damsel calls one of her trusty servants, and says to him: "go, friend, saddle my dappled palfrey, and lead him here at once." and he carries out her command: he puts on saddle and bridle and strives to make him appear well. then he jumps on the maned palfrey, which is now ready for inspection. when erec saw the animal, he did not spare his praise, for he could see that he was very fine and gentle. so he bade a servant lead him back and hitch him in the stable beside his own horse. then they all separated, after an evening agreeably spent. the count goes off to his own dwelling, and leaves erec with the vavasor, saying that he will bear him company in the morning when he leaves. all that night they slept well. in the morning, when the dawn was bright, erec prepares to start, commanding his horses to be saddled. his fair sweetheart, too, awakes, dresses, and makes ready. the vavasor and his wife rise too, and every knight and lady there prepares to escort the damsel and the knight. now they are all on horseback, and the count as well. erec rides beside the count, having beside him his sweetheart ever mindful of her hawk. having no other riches, she plays with her hawk. very merry were they as they rode along; but when the time came to part, the count wished to send along with erec a party of his knights to do him honour by escorting him. but he announced that none should bide with him, and that he wanted no company but that of the damsel. then, when they had accompanied them some distance, he said: "in god's name, farewell!" then the count kisses erec and his niece, and commends them both to merciful god. her father and mother, too, kiss them again and again, and could not keep back their tears: at parting, the mother weeps, the father and the daughter too. for such is love and human nature, and such is affection between parents and children. they wept from sorrow, tenderness, and love which they had for their child; yet they knew full well that their daughter was to fill a place from which great honour would accrue to them. they shed tears of love and pity when they separated from their daughter, but they had no other cause to weep. they knew well enough that eventually they would receive great honour from her marriage. so at parting many a tear was shed, as weeping they commend one another to god, and thus separate without more delay. (vv. - .) erec quit his host; for he was very anxious to reach the royal court. in his adventure he took great satisfaction; for now he had a lady passing fair, discreet, courteous, and debonair. he could not look at her enough: for the more he looks at her, the more she pleases him. he cannot help giving her a kiss. he is happy to ride by her side, and it does him good to look at her. long he gazes at her fair hair, her laughing eyes, and her radiant forehead, her nose, her face, and mouth, for all of which gladness fills his heart. he gazes upon her down to the waist, at her chin and her snowy neck, her bosom and sides, her arms and hands. but no less the damsel looks at the vassal with a clear eye and loyal heart, as if they were in competition. they would not have ceased to survey each other even for promise of a reward! a perfect match they were in courtesy, beauty, and gentleness. and they were so alike in quality, manner, and customs, that no one wishing to tell the truth could choose the better of them, nor the fairer, nor the more discreet. their sentiments, too, were much alike; so that they were well suited to each other. thus each steals the other's heart away. law or marriage never brought together two such sweet creatures. and so they rode along until just on the stroke of noon they approached the castle of cardigan, where they were both expected. some of the first nobles of the court had gone up to look from the upper windows and see if they could see them. queen guinevere ran up, and even the king came with kay and perceval of wales, and with them my lord gawain and tor, the son of king ares; lucan the cupbearer was there, too, and many another doughty knight. finally, they espied erec coming along in company with his lady. they all knew him well enough from as far as they could see him. the queen is greatly pleased, and indeed the whole court is glad of his coming, because they all love him so. as soon as he was come before the entrance hall, the king and queen go down to meet him, all greeting him in god's name. they welcome erec and his maiden, commending and praising her great beauty. and the king himself caught her and lifted her down from her palfrey. the king was decked in fine array and was then in cheery mood. he did signal honour to the damsel by taking her hand and leading her up into the great stone hall. after them erec and the queen also went up hand in hand, and he said to her: "i bring you, lady, my damsel and my sweetheart dressed in poor garb. as she was given to me, so have i brought her to you. she is the daughter of a poor vavasor. through poverty many an honourable man is brought low: her father, for instance, is gentle and courteous, but he has little means. and her mother is a very gentle lady, the sister of a rich count. she has no lack of beauty or of lineage, that i should not marry her. it is poverty that has compelled her to wear this white linen garment until both sleeves are torn at the side. and yet, had it been my desire, she might have had dresses rich enough. for another damsel, a cousin of hers, wished to give her a robe of ermine and of spotted or grey silk. but i would not have her dressed in any other robe until you should have seen her. gentle lady, consider the matter now and see what need she has of a fine becoming gown." and the queen at once replies: "you have done quite right; it is fitting that she should have one of my gowns, and i will give her straightway a rich, fair gown, both fresh and new." the queen then hastily took her off to her own private room, and gave orders to bring quickly the fresh tunic and the greenish-purple mantle, embroidered with little crosses, which had been made for herself. the one who went at her behest came bringing to her the mantle and the tunic, which was lined with white ermine even to the sleeves. at the wrists and on the neck-band there was in truth more than half a mark's weight of beaten gold, and everywhere set in the gold there were precious stones of divers colours, indigo and green, blue and dark brown. this tunic was very rich, but not a writ less precious, i trow, was the mantle. as yet, there were no ribbons on it; for the mantle like the tunic was brand new. the mantle was very rich and fine: laid about the neck were two sable skins, and in the tassels there was more than an ounce of gold; on one a hyacinth, and on the other a ruby flashed more bright than burning candle. the fur lining was of white ermine; never was finer seen or found. the cloth was skilfully embroidered with little crosses, all different, indigo, vermilion, dark blue, white, green, blue, and yellow. the queen called for some ribbons four ells long, made of silken thread and gold. the ribbons are given to her, handsome and well matched. quickly she had them fastened to the mantle by some one who knew how to do it, and who was master of the art. when the mantle needed no more touches, the gay and gentle lady clasped the maid with the white gown and said to her cheerily: "mademoiselle, you must change this frock for this tunic which is worth more than a hundred marks of silver. so much i wish to bestow upon you. and put on this mantle, too. another time i will give you more." not able to refuse the gift, she takes the robe and thanks her for it. then two maids took her aside into a room, where she took off her frock as being of no further value; but she asked and requested that it be given away (to some poor woman) for the love of god. then she dons the tunic, and girds herself, binding on tightly a golden belt, and afterwards puts on the mantle. now she looked by no means ill; for the dress became her so well that it made her look more beautiful than ever. the two maids wove a gold thread in amongst her golden hair: but her tresses were more radiant than the thread of gold, fine though it was. the maids, moreover, wove a fillet of flowers of many various colours and placed it upon her head. they strove as best they might to adorn her in such wise that no fault should be found with her attire. strung upon a ribbon around her neck, a damsel hung two brooches of enamelled gold. now she looked so charming and fair that i do not believe that you could find her equal in any land, search as you might, so skilfully had nature wrought in her. then she stepped out of the dressing-room into the queen's presence. the queen made much of her, because she liked her and was glad that she was beautiful and had such gentle manners. they took each other by the hand and passed into the king's presence. and when the king saw them, he got up to meet them. when they came into the great hall, there were so many knights there who rose before them that i cannot call by name the tenth part of them, or the thirteenth, or the fifteenth. but i can tell you the names of some of the best of the knights who belonged to the round table and who were the best in the world. (vv. - .) before all the excellent knights, gawain ought to be named the first, and second erec the son of lac, and third lancelot of the lake. [ ] gornemant of gohort was fourth, and the fifth was the handsome coward. the sixth was the ugly brave, the seventh meliant of liz, the eighth mauduit the wise, and the ninth dodinel the wild. let gandelu be named the tenth, for he was a goodly man. the others i shall mention without order, because the numbers bother me. eslit was there with briien, and yvain the son of uriien. and yvain of loenel was there, as well as yvain the adulterer. beside yvain of cavaliot was garravain of estrangot. after the knight with the horn was the youth with the golden ring. and tristan who never laughed sat beside bliobleheris, and beside brun of piciez was his brother gru the sullen. the armourer sat next, who preferred war to peace. next sat karadues the shortarmed, a knight of good cheer; and caveron of robendic, and the son of king quenedic and the youth of quintareus and yder of the dolorous mount. gaheriet and kay of estraus, amauguin and gales the bald, grain, gornevain, and carabes, and tor the son of king aras, girflet the son of do, and taulas, who never wearied of arms: and a young man of great merit, loholt the son of king arthur, [ ] and sagremor the impetuous, who should not be forgotten, nor bedoiier the master of the horse, who was skilled at chess and trictrac, nor bravain, nor king lot, nor galegantin of wales, nor gronosis, versed in evil, who was son of kay the seneschal, nor labigodes the courteous, nor count cadorcaniois, nor letron of prepelesant, whose manners were so excellent, nor breon the son of canodan, nor the count of honolan who had such a head of fine fair hair; he it was who received the king's horn in an evil day; [ ] he never had any care for truth. (vv. - .) when the stranger maiden saw all the knights arrayed looking steadfastly at her, she bowed her head in embarrassment; nor was it strange that her face blushed all crimson. but her confusion was so becoming to her that she looked all the more lovely. when the king saw that she was embarrassed, he did not wish to leave her side. taking her gently by the hand, he made her sit down on his right hand; and on his left sat the queen, speaking thus to the king the while. "sire, in my opinion he who can win such a fair lady by his arms in another land ought by right to come to a royal court. it was well we waited for erec; for now you can bestow the kiss upon the fairest of the court. i should think none would find fault with you! for none can say, unless he lie, that this maiden is not the most charming of all the damsels here, or indeed in all the world." the king makes answer: "that is no lie; and upon her, if there is no remonstrance, i shall bestow the honour of the white stag." then he added to the knights: "my lords, what say you? what is your opinion? in body, in face, and in whatever a maid should have, this one is the most charming and beautiful to be found, as i may say, before you come to where heaven and earth meet. i say it is meet that she should receive the honour of the stag. and you, my lords, what do you think about it? can you make any objection? if any one wishes to protest, let him straightway speak his mind. i am king, and must keep my word and must not permit any baseness, falsity, or arrogance. i must maintain truth and righteousness. it is the business of a loyal king to support the law, truth, faith, and justice. i would not in any wise commit a disloyal deed or wrong to either weak or strong. it is not meet that any one should complain of me; nor do i wish the custom and the practice to lapse, which my family has been wont to foster. you, too, would doubtless regret to see me strive to introduce other customs and other laws than those my royal sire observed. regardless of consequences, i am bound to keep and maintain the institution of my father pendragon, who was a just king and emperor. now tell me fully what you think! let none be slow to speak his mind, if this damsel is not the fairest of my household and ought not by right to receive the kiss of the white stag: i wish to know what you truly think." then they all cry with one accord: "sire, by the lord and his cross! you may well kiss her with good reason, for she is the fairest one there is. in this damsel there is more beauty than there is of radiance in the sun. you may kiss her freely, for we all agree in sanctioning it." when the king hears that this is well pleasing to them all, he will no longer delay in bestowing the kiss, but turns toward her and embraces her. the maid was sensible, and perfectly willing that the king should kiss her; she would have been discourteous, indeed, to resent it. in courteous fashion and in the presence of all his knights the king kissed her, and said: "my dear. i give you my love in all honesty. i will love you with true heart, without malice and without guile." by this adventure the king carried out the practice and the usage to which the white stag was entitled at his court. here ends the first part of my story. [ ] (vv. - .) when the kiss of the stag was taken according to the custom of the country, erec, like a polite and kind man, was solicitous for his poor host. it was not his intention to fail to execute what he had promised. hear how he kept his covenant: for he sent him now five sumpter mules, strong and sleek, loaded with dresses and clothes, buckrams and scarlets, marks of gold and silver plate, furs both vair and grey, skins of sable, purple stuffs, and silks. when the mules were loaded with all that a gentleman can need, he sent with them an escort of ten knights and sergeants chosen from his own men, and straightly charged them to salute his host and show great honour both to him and to his lady, as if it were to himself in person; and when they should have presented to them the sumpters which they brought them, the gold, the silver, and money, and all the other furnishings which were in the boxes, they should escort the lady and the vavasor with great honour into his kingdom of farther wales. [ ] two towns there he had promised them, the most choice and the best situated that there were in all his land, with nothing to fear from attack. montrevel was the name of one, and the other's name was roadan. when they should arrive in his kingdom, they should make over to them these two towns, together with their rents and their jurisdiction, in accordance with what he had promised them. all was carried out as erec had ordered. the messengers made no delay, and in good time they presented to his host the gold and the silver and the sumpters and the robes and the money, of which there was great plenty. they escorted them into erec's kingdom, and strove to serve them well. they came into the country on the third day, and transferred to them the towers of the towns; for king lac made no objection. he gave them a warm welcome and showed them honour, loving them for the sake of his son erec. he made over to them the title to the towns, and established their suzerainty by making knights and bourgeois swear that they would reverence them as their true liege lords. when this was done and accomplished, the messengers returned to their lord erec, who received them gladly. when he asked for news of the vavasor and his lady, of his own father and of his kingdom, the report they gave him was good and fair. (vv. - .) not long after this, the time drew near when erec was to celebrate his marriage. the delay was irksome to him, and he resolved no longer to suffer and wait. so he went and asked of the king that it might please him to allow him to be married at the court. the king vouchsafed him the boon, and sent through all his kingdom to search for the kings and counts who were his liege-men, bidding them that none be so bold as not to be present at pentecost. none dares to hold back and not go to court at the king's summons. now i will tell you, and listen well, who were these counts and kings. with a rich escort and one hundred extra mounts count brandes of gloucester came. after him came menagormon, who was count of clivelon. and he of the haute montagne came with a very rich following. the count of treverain came, too, with a hundred of his knights, and count godegrain with as many more. along with those whom i have just mentioned came maheloas, a great baron, lord of the isle of voirre. in this island no thunder is heard, no lightning strikes, nor tempests rage, nor do toads or serpents exist there, nor is it ever too hot or too cold. [ ] graislemier of fine posterne brought twenty companions, and had with him his brother guigomar, lord of the isle of avalon. of the latter we have heard it said that he was a friend of morgan the fay, and such he was in very truth. davit of tintagel came, who never suffered woe or grief. guergesin, the duke of haut bois, came with a very rich equipment. there was no lack of counts and dukes, but of kings there were still more. garras of cork, a doughty king, was there with five hundred knights clad in mantles, hose, and tunics of brocade and silk. upon a cappadocian steed came aguisel, the scottish king, and brought with him his two sons, cadret and coi--two much respected knights. along with those whom i have named came king ban of gomeret, and he had in his company only young men, beardless as yet on chin and lip. a numerous and gay band he brought two hundred of them in his suite; and there was none, whoever he be, but had a falcon or tercel, a merlin or a sparrow-hawk, or some precious pigeon-hawk, golden or mewed. kerrin, the old king of riel, brought no youth, but rather three hundred companions of whom the youngest was seven score years old. because of their great age, their heads were all as white as snow, and their beards reached down to their girdles. arthur held them in great respect. the lord of the dwarfs came next, bilis, the king of antipodes. this king of whom i speak was a dwarf himself and own brother of brien. bilis, on the one hand, was the smallest of all the dwarfs, while his brother brien was a half-foot or full palm taller than any other knight in the kingdom. to display his wealth and power, bilis brought with him two kings who were also dwarfs and who were vassals of his, grigoras and glecidalan. every one looked at them as marvels. when they had arrived at court, they were treated with great esteem. all three were honoured and served at the court like kings, for they were very perfect gentlemen. in brief, when king arthur saw all his lords assembled, his heart was glad. then, to heighten the joy, he ordered a hundred squires to be bathed whom he wished to dub knights. there was none of them but had a parti-coloured robe of rich brocade of alexandria, each one choosing such as pleased his fancy. all had arms of a uniform pattern, and horses swift and full of mettle, of which the worst was worth a hundred livres. (vv. - .) when erec received his wife, he must needs call her by her right name. for a wife is not espoused unless she is called by her proper name. as yet no one knew her name, but now for the first time it was made known: enide was her baptismal name. [ ] the archbishop of canterbury, who had come to the court, blessed them, as is his right. when the court was all assembled, there was not a minstrel in the countryside who possessed any pleasing accomplishment that did not come to the court. in the great hall there was much merry-making, each one contributing what he could to the entertainment: one jumps, another tumbles, another does magic; there is story-telling, singing, whistling, playing from notes; they play on the harp, the rote, the fiddle, the violin, the flute, and pipe. the maidens sing and dance, and outdo each other in the merry-making. at the wedding that day everything was done which can give joy and incline man's heart to gladness. drums are beaten, large and small, and there is playing of pipes, fifes, horns, trumpets, and bagpipes. what more shall i say? there was not a wicket or a gate kept closed; but the exits and entrances all stood ajar, so that no one, poor or rich, was turned away. king arthur was not miserly, but gave orders to the bakers, the cooks, and the butlers that they should serve every one generously with bread, wine, and venison. no one asked anything whatever to be passed to him without getting all he desired. (vv. - .) there was great merriment in the palace. but i will pass over the rest, and you shall hear of the joy and pleasure in the bridal chamber. bishops and archbishops were there on the night when the bride and groom retired. at this their first meeting, iseut was not filched away, nor was brangien put in her place. [ ] the queen herself took charge of their preparations for the night; for both of them were dear to her. the hunted stag which pants for thirst does not so long for the spring, nor does the hungry sparrow-hawk return so quickly when he is called, as did these two come to hold each other in close embrace. that night they had full compensation for their long delay. after the chamber had been cleared, they allow each sense to be gratified: the eyes, which are the entrance-way of love, and which carry messages to the heart, take satisfaction in the glance, for they rejoice in all they see; after the message of the eyes comes the far surpassing sweetness of the kisses inviting love; both of them make trial of this sweetness, and let their hearts quaff so freely that hardly can they leave off. thus, kissing was their first sport. and the love which is between them emboldened the maid and left her quite without her fears; regardless of pain, she suffered all. before she rose, she no longer bore the name of maid; in the morning she was a new-made dame. that day the minstrels were in happy mood, for they were all well paid. they were fully compensated for the entertainment they had given, and many a handsome gift was bestowed upon them: robes of grey squirrel skin and ermine, of rabbit skins and violet stuffs, scarlets and silken stuffs. whether it be a horse or money, each one got what he deserved according to his skill. and thus the wedding festivities and the court lasted almost a fortnight with great joy and magnificence. for his own glory and satisfaction, as well as to honour erec the more, king arthur made all the knights remain a full fortnight. when the third week began, all together by common consent agreed to hold a tournament. on the one side, my lord gawain offered himself as surety that it would take place between evroic and tenebroc: and meliz and meliadoc were guarantors on the other side. then the court separated. (vv. - .) a month after pentecost the tournament assembled, and the jousting began in the plain below tenebroc. many an ensign of red, blue, and white, many a veil and many a sleeve were bestowed as tokens of love. many a lance was carried there, flying the colours argent and green, or gold and azure blue. there were many, too, with different devices, some with stripes and some with dots. that day one saw laced on many a helmet of gold or steel, some green, some yellow, and others red, all aglowing in the sun; so many scutcheons and white hauberks; so many swords girt on the left side; so many good shields, fresh and new, some resplendent in silver and green, others of azure with buckles of gold; so many good steeds marked with white, or sorrel, tawny, white, black, and bay: all gather hastily. and now the field is quite covered with arms. on either side the ranks tremble, and a roar rises from the fight. the shock of the lances is very great. lances break and shields are riddled, the hauberks receive bumps and are torn asunder, saddles go empty and horsemen ramble, while the horses sweat and foam. swords are quickly drawn on those who tumble noisily, and some run to receive the promise of a ransom, others to stave off this disgrace. erec rode a white horse, and came forth alone at the head of the line to joust, if he may find an opponent. from the opposite side there rides out to meet him orguelleus de la lande, mounted on an irish steed which bears him along with marvellous speed. on the shield before his breast erec strikes him with such force that he knocks him from his horse: he leaves him prone and passes on. then raindurant opposed him, son of the old dame of tergalo, covered with blue cloth of silk; he was a knight of great prowess. against one another now they charge and deal fierce blows on the shields about their neck. erec from lance's length lays him over on the hard ground. while riding back he met the king of the red city, who was very valiant and bold. they grasp their reins by the knots and their shields by the inner straps. they both had fine arms, and strong swift horses, and good shields, fresh and new. with such fury they strike each other that both their lances fly in splinters. never was there seen such a blow. they rush together with shields, arms, and horses. but neither girth nor rein nor breast-strap could prevent the king from coming to earth. so he flew from his steed, carrying with him saddle and stirrup, and even the reins of his bridle in his hand. all those who witnessed the jousting were filled with amazement, and said it cost him dear to joust with such a goodly knight. erec did not wish to stop to capture either horse or rider, but rather to joust and distinguish himself in order that his prowess might appear. he thrills the ranks in front of him. gawain animates those who were on his side by his prowess, and by winning horses and knights to the discomfiture of his opponents. i speak of my lord gawain, who did right well and valiantly. in the fight he unhorsed guincel, and took gaudin of the mountain; he captured knights and horses alike: my lord gawain did well. girtlet the son of do, and yvain, and sagremor the impetuous, so evilly entreated their adversaries that they drove them back to the gates, capturing and unhorsing many of them. in front of the gate of the town the strife began again between those within and those without. there sagremor was thrown down, who was a very gallant knight. he was on the point of being detained and captured, when erec spurs to rescue him, breaking his lance into splinters upon one of the opponents. so hard he strikes him on the breast that he made him quit the saddle. then he made of his sword and advances upon them, crushing and splitting their helmets. some flee, and others make way before him, for even the boldest fears him. finally, he distributed so many blows and thrusts that he rescued sagremor from them, and drove them all in confusion into the town. meanwhile, the vesper hour drew to a close. erec bore himself so well that day that he was the best of the combatants. but on the morrow he did much better yet: for he took so many knights and left so many saddles empty that none could believe it except those who had seen it. every one on both sides said that with his lance and shield he had won the honours of the tournament. now was erec's renown so high that no one spoke save of him, nor was any one of such goodly favour. in countenance he resembled absalom, in language he seemed a solomon, in boldness he equalled samson, [ ] and in generous giving and spending he was the equal of alexander. on his return from the tourney erec went to speak with the king. he went to ask him for leave to go and visit his own land; but first he thanked him like a frank, wise, and courteous man for the honour which he had done him; for very deep was his gratitude. then he asked his permission to leave, for he wished to visit his own country, and he wished to take his wife with him. this request the king could not deny, and yet he would have had him stay. he gives him leave and begs him to return as soon as possible: for in the whole court there was no better or more gallant knight, save only his dear nephew gawain; [ ] with him no one could be compared. but next after him, he prized erec most, and held him more dear than any other knight. (vv. - .) erec wished to delay no longer. as soon as he had the king's leave, he bid his wife make her preparations, and he retained as his escort sixty knights of merit with horses and with dappled and grey furs. as soon as he was ready for his journey, he tarried little further at court, but took leave of the queen and commended the knights to god. the queen grants him leave to depart. at the hour of prime he set out from the royal palace. in the presence of them all he mounted his steed, and his wife mounted the dappled horse which she had brought from her own country; then all his escort mounted. counting knights and squires, there were full seven score in the train. after four long days' journey over hills and slopes, through forests, plains, and streams, they came on the fifth day to camant, where king lac was residing in a very charming town. no one ever saw one better situated; for the town was provided with forests and meadow-land, with vineyards and farms, with streams and orchards, with ladies and knights, and fine, lively youths, and polite, well-mannered clerks who spent their incomes freely, with fair and charming maidens, and with prosperous burghers. before erec reached the town, he sent two knights ahead to announce his arrival to the king. when he heard the news, the king had clerks, knights, and damsels quickly mount, and ordered the bells to be rung, and the streets to be hung with tapestries and silken stuffs, that his son might be received with joy; then he himself got on his horse. of clerks there were present fourscore, gentle and honourable men, clad in grey cloaks bordered with sable. of knights there were full five hundred, mounted on bay, sorrel, or white-spotted steeds. there were so many burghers and dames that no one could tell the number of them. the king and his son galloped and rode on till they saw and recognised each other. they both jump down from their horses and embrace and greet each other for a long time, without stirring from the place where they first met. each party wished the other joy: the king makes much of erec, but all at once breaks off to turn to enide. on all sides he is in clover: he embraces and kisses them both, and knows not which of the two pleases him the more. as they gaily enter the castle, the bells all ring their peals to honour erec's arrival. the streets are all strewn with reeds, mint, and iris, and are hung overhead with curtains and tapestries of fancy silk and satin stuffs. there was great rejoicing; for all the people came together to see their new lord, and no one ever saw greater happiness than was shown alike by young and old. first they came to the church, where very devoutly they were received in a procession. erec kneeled before the altar of the crucifix, and two knights led his wife to the image of our lady. when she had finished her prayer, she stepped back a little and crossed herself with her right hand, as a well-bred dame should do. then they came out from the church and entered the royal palace, when the festivity began. that day erec received many presents from the knights and burghers: from one a palfrey of northern stock, and from another a golden cup. one presents him with a golden pigeon-hawk, another with a setter-dog, this one a greyhound, this other a sparrowhawk, and another a swift arab steed, this one a shield, this one an ensign, this one a sword, and this a helmet. never was a king more gladly seen in his kingdom, nor received with greater joy, as all strove to serve him well. yet greater joy they made of enide than of him, for the great beauty which they saw in her, and still more for her open charm. she was seated in a chamber upon a cushion of brocade which had been brought from thessaly. round about her was many a fair lady; yet as the lustrous gem outshines the brown flint, and as the rose excels the poppy, so was enide fairer than any other lady or damsel to be found in the world, wherever one might search. she was so gentle and honourable, of wise speech and affable, of pleasing character and kindly mien. no one could ever be so watchful as to detect in her any folly, or sign of evil or villainy. she had been so schooled in good manners that she had learned all virtues which any lady can possess, as well as generosity and knowledge. all loved her for her open heart, and whoever could do her any service was glad and esteemed himself the more. no one spoke any ill of her, for no one could do so. in the realm or empire there was no lady of such good manners. but erec loved her with such a tender love that he cared no more for arms, nor did he go to tournaments, nor have any desire to joust; but he spent his time in cherishing his wife. he made of her his mistress and his sweetheart. he devoted all his heart and mind to fondling and kissing her, and sought no delight in other pastime. his friends grieved over this, and often regretted among themselves that he was so deep in love. often it was past noon before he left her side; for there he was happy, say what they might. he rarely left her society, and yet he was as open-handed as ever to his knights with arms, dress, and money. there was not a tournament anywhere to which he did not send them well apparelled and equipped. whatever the cost might be, he gave them fresh steeds for the tourney and joust. all the knights said it was a great pity and misfortune that such a valiant man as he was wont to be should no longer wish to bear arms. he was blamed so much on all sides by the knights and squires that murmurs reached enide's ears how that her lord had turned craven about arms and deeds of chivalry, and that his manner of life was greatly changed. [ ] she grieved sorely over this, but she did not dare to show her grief; for her lord at once would take affront, if she should speak to him. so the matter remained a secret, until one morning they lay in bed where they had had sport together. there they lay in close embrace, like the true lovers they were. he was asleep, but she was awake, thinking of what many a man in the country was saying of her lord. and when she began to think it all over, she could not keep back the tears. such was her grief and her chagrin that by mischance she let fall a word for which she later felt remorse, though in her heart there was no guile. she began to survey her lord from head to foot, his well-shaped body and his clear countenance, until her tears fell fast upon the bosom of her lord, and she said: "alas, woe is me that i ever left my country! what did i come here to seek? the earth ought by right to swallow me up when the best knight, the most hardy, brave, fair, and courteous that ever was a count or king, has completely abjured all his deeds of chivalry because of me. and thus, in truth, it is i who have brought shame upon his head, though i would fain not have done so at any price." then she said to him: "unhappy thou!" and then kept silence and spoke no more. erec was not sound asleep and, though dozing, heard plainly what she said. he aroused at her words, and much surprised to see her weeping, he asked her: "tell me, my precious beauty, why do you weep thus? what has caused you woe or sorrow? surely it is my wish to know. tell me now, my gentle sweetheart; and raise care to keep nothing back, why you said that woe was me? for you said it of me and of no one else. i heard your words plainly enough." then was enide in a great plight, afraid and dismayed. "sire," says she, "i know nothing of what you say." "lady, why do you conceal it? concealment is of no avail. you hare been crying; i can see that, and you do not cry for nothing. and in my sleep i heard what you said." "ah! fair sire, you never heard it, and i dare say it was a dream." "now you are coming to me with lies. i hear you calmly lying to me. but if you do not tell me the truth now, you will come to repent of it later." "sire, since you torment me thus, i will tell you the whole truth, and keep nothing back. but i am afraid that you will not like it. in this land they all say--the dark, the fair, and the ruddy--that it is a great pity that you should renounce your arms; your reputation has suffered from it. every one used to say not long ago that in all the world there was known no better or more gallant knight. now they all go about making game of you--old and young, little and great--calling you a recreant. do you suppose it does not give me pain to hear you thus spoken of with scorn? it grieves me when i hear it said, and yet it grieves me more that they put the blame for it on me. yes, i am blamed for it, i regret to say, and they all assert it is because i have so ensnared and caught you that you are losing all your merit, and do not care for aught but me. you must choose another course, so that you may silence this reproach and regain your former fame; for i have heard too much of this reproach, and yet i did not dare to disclose it to you. many a time, when i think of it, i have to weep for very grief. such chagrin i felt just now that i could not keep myself from saying that you were ill-starred." "lady," said he, "you were in the right, and those who blame me do so with reason. and now at once prepare yourself to take the road. rise up from here, and dress yourself in your richest robe, and order your saddle to be put on your best palfrey." now enide is in great distress: very sad and pensive, she gets up, blaming and upbraiding herself for the foolish words she spoke: she had now made her bed, and must lie in it. "ah!" said she, "poor fool! i was too happy, for there lacked me nothing. god! why was i so forward as to dare to utter such folly? god! did not my lord love me to excess? in faith, alas, he was too fond of me. and now i must go away into exile. but i have yet a greater grief, that i shall no longer see my lord, who loved me with such tenderness that there was nothing he held so dear. the best man that was ever born had become so wrapped up in me that he cared for nothing else. i lacked for nothing then. i was very happy. but pride it is that stirred me up: because of my pride, i must suffer woe for telling him such insulting words, and it is right that i should suffer woe. one does not know what good fortune is until he has made trial of evil." thus the lady bemoaned her fate, while she dressed herself fitly in her richest robe. yet nothing gave her any pleasure, but rather cause for deep chagrin. then she had a maid call one of her squires, and bids him saddle her precious palfrey of northern stock, than which no count or king ever had a better. as soon as she had given him the command, the fellow asked for no delay, but straightway went and saddled the dappled palfrey. and erec summoned another squire and bade him bring his arms to arm his body withal. then he went up into a bower, and had a limoges rug laid out before him on the floor. meanwhile, the squire ran to fetch the arms and came back and laid them on the rug. erec took a seat opposite, on the figure of a leopard which was portrayed on the rug. he prepares and gets ready to put on his arms: first, he had laced on a pair of greaves of polished steel; next, he dons a hauberk, which was so fine that not a mesh could be cut away from it. this hauberk of his was rich, indeed, for neither inside nor outside of it was there enough iron to make a needle, nor could it gather any rust; for it was all made of worked silver in tiny meshes triple-wove; and it was made with such skill that i can assure you that no one who had put it on would have been more uncomfortable or sore because of it, than if he had put on a silk jacket over his undershirt. the knights and squires all began to wonder why he was being armed; but no one dared to ask him why. when they had put on his hauberk, a valet laces about his head a helmet fluted with a band of gold, shining brighter than a mirror. then he takes the sword and girds it on, and orders them to bring him saddled his bay steed of gascony. then he calls a valet to him, and says: "valet, go quickly, run to the chamber beside the tower where my wife is, and tell her that she is keeping me waiting here too long. she has spent too much time on her attire. tell her to come and mount at once, for i am awaiting her." and the fellow goes and finds her all ready, weeping and making moan: and he straightway addressed her thus: "lady, why do you so delay? my lord is awaiting you outside yonder, already fully armed. he would have mounted some time ago, had you been ready." enide wondered greatly what her lord's intention was; but she very wisely showed herself with as cheerful a countenance as possible, when she appeared before him. in the middle of the courtyard she found him, and king lac comes running out. knights come running, too, striving with each other to reach there first. there is neither young nor old but goes to learn and ask if he will take any of them with him. so each offers and presents himself. but he states definitely and affirms that he will take no companion except his wife, asserting that he will go alone. then the king is in great distress. "fair son," says he, "what dost thou intend to do? thou shouldst tell me thy business and keep nothing back. tell me whither thou will go; for thou art unwilling on any account to be accompanied by an escort of squires or knights. if thou hast undertaken to fight some knight in single combat, yet shouldst thou not for that reason fail to take a part of thy knights with thee to betoken thy wealth and lordship. a king's son ought not to fare alone. fair son, have thy sumpters loaded now, and take thirty or forty or more of thy knights, and see that silver and gold is taken, and whatever a gentleman needs." finally erec makes reply and tells him all in detail how he has planned his journey. "sire," says he, "it must be so. i shall take no extra horse, nor have i any use for gold or silver, squire or sergeant; nor do i ask for any company save that of my wife alone. but i pray you, whatever may happen, should i die and she come back, to love her and hold her dear for love of me and for my prayer, and give her so long as she live, without contention or any strife, the half of your land to be her own." upon hearing his son's request, the king said: "fair son, i promise it. but i grieve much to see thee thus go off without escort, and if i had my way, thou shouldst not thus depart." "sire, it cannot be otherwise. i go now, and to god commend you. but keep in mind my companions, and give them horses and arms and all that knight may need." the king cannot keep back the tears when he is parted from his son. the people round about weep too; the ladies and knights shed tears and make great moan for him. there is not one who does not mourn, and many a one in the courtyard swoons. weeping, they kiss and embrace him, and are almost beside themselves with grief. i think they would not have been more sad if they had seen him dead or wounded. then erec said to comfort them: "my lords, why do you weep so sore? i am neither in prison nor wounded. you gain nothing by this display of grief. if i go away, i shall come again when it please god and when i can. to god i commend you one and all; so now let me go; too long you keep me here. i am sorry and grieved to see you weep." to god he commends them and they him. (vv. - .) so they departed, leaving sorrow behind them. erec starts, and leads his wife he knows not whither, as chance dictates. "ride fast," he says, "and take good care not to be so rash as to speak to me of anything you may see. take care never to speak to me, unless i address you first. ride on now fast and with confidence." "sire," says she, "it shall be done." she rode ahead and held her peace. neither one nor the other spoke a word. but enide's heart is very sad, and within herself she thus laments, soft and low that he may not hear: "alas," she says, "god had raised and exalted me to such great joy; but now he has suddenly cast me down. fortune who had beckoned me has quickly now withdrawn her hand. i should not mind that so much, alas, if only i dared to address my lord. but i am mortified and distressed because my lord has turned against me, i see it clearly, since he will not speak to me. and i am not so bold as to dare to look at him." while she thus laments, a knight who lived by robbery issued forth from the woods. he had two companions with him, and all three were armed. they covet the palfrey which enide rides. "my lords, do you know the news i bring?" says he to his two companions. "if we do not now make a haul, we are good-for-nothing cowards and are playing in bad luck. here comes a lady wondrous fair, whether married or not i do not know, but she is very richly dressed. the palfrey and saddle, with the breast-strap and reins, are worth a thousand livres of chartres. i will take the palfrey for mine, and the rest of the booty you may have. i don't want any more for my share. the knight shall not lead away the lady, so help me god. for i intend to give him such a thrust as he will dearly pay. i it was who saw him first, and so it is my right to go the first and offer battle." they give him leave and he rides off, crouching well beneath his shield, while the other two remain aloof. in those days it was the custom and practice that in an attack two knights should not join against one; thus if they too had assailed him, it would seem that they had acted treacherously. enide saw the robbers, and was seized with great fear. "god," says she, "what can i say? now my lord will be either killed or made a prisoner; for there are three of them and he is alone. the contest is not fair between one knight and three. that fellow will strike him now at a disadvantage; for my lord is off his guard. god, shall i be then such a craven as not to dare to raise my voice? such a coward i will not be: i will not fail to speak to him." on the spot she turns about and calls to him: "fair sire, of what are you thinking? there come riding after you three knights who press you hard. i greatly fear they will do you harm." "what?" says erec, "what's that you say? you have surely been very bold to disdain my command and prohibition. this time you shall be pardoned; but if it should happen another time, you would not be forgiven." then turning his shield and lance, he rushes at the knight. the latter sees him coming and challenges him. when erec hears him, he defies him. both give spur and clash together, holding their lances at full extent. but he missed erec, while erec used him hard; for he knew well the right attack. he strikes him on the shield so fiercely that he cracks it from top to bottom. nor is his hauberk any protection: erec pierces and crushes it in the middle of his breast, and thrusts a foot and a half of his lance into his body. when he drew back, he pulled out the shaft. and the other fell to earth. he must needs die, for the blade had drunk of his life's blood. then one of the other two rushes forward, leaving his companion behind, and spurs toward erec, threatening him. erec firmly grasps his shield, and attacks him with a stout heart. the other holds his shield before his breast. then they strike upon the emblazoned shields. the knight's lance flies into two bits, while erec drives a quarter of lance's length through the other's breast. he will give him no more trouble. erec unhorses him and leaves him in a faint, while he spurs at an angle toward the third robber. when the latter saw him coming on he began to make his escape. he was afraid, and did not dare to face him; so he hastened to take refuge in the woods. but his flight is of small avail, for erec follows him close and cries aloud: "vassal, vassal, turn about now, and prepare to defend yourself, so that i may not slay you in act of flight. it is useless to try to escape." but the fellow has no desire to turn about, and continues to flee with might and main. following and overtaking him, erec hits him squarely on his painted shield, and throws him over on the other side. to these three robbers he gives no further heed: one he has killed, another wounded, and of the third he got rid by throwing him to earth from his steed. he took the horses of all three and tied them together by the bridles. in colour they were not alike: the first was white as milk, the second black and not at all bad looking, while the third was dappled all over. he came back to the road where enide was awaiting him. he bade her lead and drive the three horses in front of her, warning her harshly never again to be so bold as to speak a single word unless he give her leave. she makes answer: "i will never do so, fair sire, if it be your will." then they ride on, and she holds her peace. (vv. - .) they had not yet gone a league when before them in a valley there came five other knights, with lances in rest, shields held close in to the neck, and their shining helmets laced up tight; they, too, were on plunder bent. all at once they saw the lady approach in charge of the three horses, and erec who followed after. as soon as they saw them, they divided their equipment among themselves, just as if they had already taken possession of it. covetousness is a bad thing. but it did not turn out as they expected; for vigorous defence was made. much that a fool plans is not executed, and many a man misses what he thinks to obtain. so it befell them in this attack. one said that he would take the maid or lose his life in the attempt; and another said that the dappled steed shall be his, and that he will be satisfied with that. the third said that he would take the black horse. "and the white one for me," said the fourth. the fifth was not at all backward, and vowed that he would have the horse and arms of the knight himself. he wished to win them by himself, and would fain attack him first, if they would give him leave: and they willingly gave consent. then he leaves them and rides ahead on a good and nimble steed. erec saw him, but made pretence that he did not yet notice him. when enide saw them, her heart jumped with fear and great dismay. "alas!" said she, "i know not what to say or do; for my lord severely threatens me, and says that he will punish me, if i speak a word to him. but if my lord were dead now, there would be no comfort for me. i should be killed and roughly treated. god! my lord does not see them! why, then, do i hesitate, crazed as i am? i am indeed too chary of my words, when i have not already spoken to him. i know well enough that those who are coming yonder are intent upon some wicked deed. and god! how shall i speak to him? he will kill me. well, let him kill me! yet i will not fail to speak to him." then she softly calls him: "sire!" "what?" says he, "what do you want?" "your pardon, sire. i want to tell you that five knights have emerged from yonder thicket, of whom i am in mortal fear. having noticed them, i am of the opinion that they intend to fight with you. four of them have stayed behind, and the other comes toward you as fast as his steed can carry him. i am afraid every moment lest he will strike you. 'tis true, the four have stayed behind; but still they are not far away, and will quickly aid him, if need arise." erec replies: "you had an evil thought, when you transgressed my command--a thing which i had forbidden you. and yet i knew all the time that you did not hold me in esteem. your service has been ill employed; for it has not awakened my gratitude, but rather kindled the more my ire. i have told you that once, and i say it again. this once again i will pardon you; but another time restrain yourself, and do not again turn around to watch me: for in doing so you would be very foolish. i do not relish your words." then he spurs across the field toward his adversary, and they come together. each seeks out and assails the other. erec strikes him with such force that his shield flies from his neck, and thus he breaks his collar-bone. his stirrups break, and he falls without the strength to rise again, for he was badly bruised and wounded. one of the others then appeared, and they attack each other fiercely. without difficulty erec thrusts the sharp and well forged steel into his neck beneath the chin, severing thus the bones and nerves. at the back of his neck the blade protrudes, and the hot red blood flows down on both sides from the wound. he yields his spirit, and his heart is still. the third sallies forth from his hiding-place on the other side of a ford. straight through the water, on he comes. erec spurs forward and meets him before he came out of the water, striking him so hard that he beats down flat both rider and horse. the steed lay upon the body long enough to drown him in the stream, and then struggled until with difficulty he got upon his feet. thus he conquered three of them, when the other two thought it wise to quit the conflict and not to strive with him. in flight they follow the stream, and erec after them in hot pursuit, until he strikes one upon the spine so hard that he throws him forward upon the saddle-bow. he put all his strength into the blow, and breaks his lance upon his body, so that the fellow fell head foremost. erec makes him pay dearly for the lance which he has broken on him, and drew his sword from the scabbard. the fellow unwisely straightened up; for erec gave him three such strokes that he slaked his sword's thirst in his blood. he severs the shoulder from his body, so that it fell down on the ground. then, with sword drawn, he attacked the other, as he sought to escape without company or escort. when he sees erec pursuing him, he is so afraid that he knows not what to do: he does not dare to face him, and cannot turn aside; he has to leave his horse, for he has no more trust in him. he throws away his shield and lance, and slips from his horse to earth. when he saw him on his feet, erec no longer cared to pursue him, but he stooped over for the lance, not wishing to leave that, because of his own which had been broken. he carries off his lance and goes away, not leaving the horses behind: he catches all five of them and leads them off. enide had hard work to lead them all; for he hands over all five of them to her with the other three, and commands her to go along smartly, and to keep from addressing him in order that no evil or harm may come to her. so not a word does she reply, but rather keeps silence; and thus they go, leading with them all the eight horses. (vv. - .) they rode till nightfall without coming to any town or shelter. when night came on, they took refuge beneath a tree in an open field. erec bids his lady sleep, and he will watch. she replies that she will not, for it is not right, and she does not wish to do so. it is for him to sleep who is more weary. well pleased at this, erec accedes. beneath his head he placed his shield, and the lady took her cloak, and stretched it over him from head to foot. thus, he slept and she kept watch, never dozing the whole night, but holding tight in her hand by the bridle the horses until the morning broke; and much she blamed and reproached herself for the words which she had uttered, and said that she acted badly, and was not half so ill-treated as she deserved to be. "alas," said she, "in what an evil hour have i witnessed my pride and presumption! i might have known without doubt that there was no knight better than, or so good as, my lord. i knew it well enough before, but now i know it better. for i have seen with my own eyes how he has not quailed before three or even five armed men. a plague for ever upon my tongue for having uttered such pride and insult as now compel me to suffer shame!" all night long she thus lamented until the morning dawned. erec rises early, and again they take the road, she in front and he behind. at noon a squire met them in a little valley, accompanied by two fellows who were carrying cakes and wine and some rich autumn cheeses to those who were mowing the hay in the meadows belonging to count galoain. the squire was a clever fellow, and when he saw erec and enide, who were coming from the direction of the woods, he perceived that they must have spent the night in the forest and had had nothing to eat or drink; for within a radius of a day's journey there was no town, city or tower, no strong place or abbey, hospice or place of refuge. so he formed an honest purpose and turned his steps toward them, saluting them politely and saving: "sire, i presume that you have had a hard experience last night. i am sure you have had no sleep and have spent the night in these woods. i offer you some of this white cake, if it please you to partake of it. i say it not in hope of reward: for i ask and demand nothing of you. the cakes are made of good wheat; i have good wine and rich cheeses, too, a white cloth and fine jugs. if you feel like taking lunch, you need not seek any farther. beneath these white beeches, here on the greensward, you might lay off your arms and rest yourself a while. my advice is that you dismount." erec got down from his horse and said: "fair gentle friend, i thank you kindly: i will eat something, without going farther." the young man knew well what to do: he helped the lady from her horse, and the boys who had come with the squire held the steeds. then they go and sit down in the shade. the squire relieves erec of his helmet, unlaces the mouth-piece from before his face; then he spreads out the cloth before them on the thick tuff. he passes them the cake and wine, and prepares and cuts a cheese. hungry as they were, they helped themselves, and gladly drank of the wine. the squire serves them and omits no attention. when they had eaten and drunk their fill, erec was courteous and generous. "friend," says he, "as a reward, i wish to present you with one of my horses. take the one you like the best. and i pray it may be no hardship for you to return to the town and make ready there a goodly lodging." and he replies that he will gladly do whatever is his will. then he goes up to the horses and, untying them, chooses the dapple, and speaks his thanks; for this one seems to be the best. up he springs by the left stirrup, and leaving them both there, he rode off to the town at top speed, where he engaged suitable quarters. now behold! he is back again: "now mount, sire, quickly," says he, "for you have a good fine lodging ready." erec mounted, and then his lady, and, as the town was hard by, they soon had reached their lodging-place. there they were received with joy. the host with kindness welcomed them, and with joy and gladness made generous provision for their needs. (vv. - .) when the squire had done for them all the honour that he could do, he came and mounted his horse again, leading it off in front of the count's bower to the stable. the count and three of his vassals were leaning out of the bower, when the count, seeing his squire mounted on the dappled steed, asked him whose it was. and he replied that it was his. the count, greatly astonished, says: "how is that? where didst thou get him?" "a knight whom i esteem highly gave him to me, sire," says he. "i have conducted him within this town, and he is lodged at a burgher's house. he is a very courteous knight and the handsomest man i ever saw. even if i had given you my word and oath, i could not half tell you how handsome he is." the count replies: "i suppose and presume that he is not more handsome than i am." "upon my word, sire," the sergeant says, "you are very handsome and a gentleman. there is not a knight in this country, a native of this land, whom you do not excel in favour. but i dare maintain concerning this one that he is fairer than you, if he were not beaten black and blue beneath his hauberk, and bruised. in the forest he has been fighting single-handed with eight knights, and leads away their eight horses. and there comes with him a lady so fair that never lady was half so fair as she." [ ] when the count hears this news, the desire takes him to go and see if this is true or false. "i never heard such a thing," says he; "take me now to his lodging-place, for certainly i wish to know if thou dost lie or speak the truth." he replies: "right gladly, sire. this is the way and the path to follow, for it is not far from here." "i am anxious to see them," says the count. then he comes down, and the squire gets off his horse, and makes the count mount in his place. then he ran ahead to tell erec that the count was coming to visit him. erec's lodging was rich indeed--the kind to which he was accustomed. there were many tapers and candles lighted all about. the count came attended by only three companions. erec, who was of gracious manners, rose to meet him, and exclaimed: "welcome, sire!" and the count returned his salutation. they both sat down side by side upon a soft white couch, where they chat with each other. the count makes him an offer and urges him to consent to accept from him a guarantee for the payment of his expenses in the town. but erec does not deign to accept, saying he is well supplied with money, and has no need to accept aught from him. they speak long of many things, but the count constantly glances about in the other direction, where he caught sight of the lady. because of her manifest beauty, he fixed all his thought on her. he looked at her as much as he could; he coveted her, and she pleased him so that her beauty filled him with love. very craftily he asked erec for permission to speak with her. "sire," he says "i ask a favour of you, and may it not displease you. as an act of courtesy and as a pleasure, i would fain sit by yonder lady's side. with good intent i came to see you both, and you should see no harm in that. i wish to present to the lady my service in all respects. know well that for love of you i would do whatever may please her." erec was not in the least jealous and suspected no evil or treachery. "sire," says he, "i have no objection. you may sit down and talk with her. don't think that i have any objection. i give you permission willingly." the lady was seated about two spear-lengths away from him. and the count took his seat close beside her on a low stool. prudent and courteous, the lady turned toward him. "alas," quoth he, "how grieved i am to see you in such humble state! i am sorry and feel great distress. but if you would believe my word, you could have honour and great advantage, and much wealth would accrue to you. such beauty as yours is entitled to great honour and distinction. i would make you my mistress, if it should please you and be your will; you would be my mistress dear and lady over all my land. when i deign to woo you thus, you ought not to disdain my suit. i know and perceive that your lord does not love and esteem you. if you will remain with me, you would be mated with a worthy lord." "sire," says enide, "your proposal is vain. it cannot be. ah! better that i were yet unborn, or burnt upon a fire of thorns and my ashes scattered abroad than that i should ever in any wise be false to my lord, or conceive any felony or treachery toward him. you have made a great mistake in making such a proposal to me. i shall not agree to it in any wise." the count's ire began to rise. "you disdain to love me, lady?" says he; "upon my word, you are too proud. neither for flattery nor for prayer you will do my will? it is surely true that a woman's pride mounts the more one prays and flatters her; but whoever insults and dishonours her will often find her more tractable. i give you my word that if you do not do my will there soon will be some sword-play here. rightly or wrongly, i will have your lord slain right here before your eyes." "ah, sire," says enide, "there is a better way than that you say. you would commit a wicked and treacherous deed if you killed him thus. calm yourself again, i pray; for i will do your pleasure. you may regard me as all your own, for i am yours and wish to be. i did not speak as i did from pride, but to learn and prove if i could find in you the true love of a sincere heart. but i would not at any price have you commit an act of treason. my lord is not on his guard; and if you should kill him thus, you would do a very ugly deed, and i should have the blame for it. every one in the land would say that it had been done with my consent. go and rest until the morrow, when my lord shall be about to rise. then you can better do him harm without blame and without reproach." with her heart's thoughts her words do not agree. "sire," says she, "believe me now! have no anxiety; but send here to-morrow your knights and squires and have me carried away by force. my lord will rush to my defence, for he is proud and bold enough. either in earnest or in jest, have him seized and treated ill, or strike his head off, if you will. i have led this life now long enough; to tell the truth. i like not the company of this my lord. rather would i feel your body lying beside me in a bed. and since we have reached this point, of my love you may rest assured." the count replies: "it is well, my lady! god bless the hour that you were born; in great estate you shall be held." "sire," says she, "indeed, i believe it. and yet i would fain have your word that you will always hold me dear; i could not believe you otherwise." glad and merry, the count replies: "see here, my faith i will pledge to you loyally as a count, madame, that i shall do all your behests. have no further fear of that. all you want you shall always have." then she took his plighted word; but little she valued or cared for it, except therewith to save her lord. well she knows how to deceive a fool, when she puts her mind upon it. better it were to lie to him than that her lord should be cut off. the count now rose from her side, and commends her to god a hundred times. but of little use to him will be the faith which she has pledged to him. erec knew nothing at all of this that they were plotting to work his death; but god will be able to lend him aid, and i think he will do so. now erec is in great peril, and does not know that he must be on his guard. the count's intentions are very base in planning to steal away his wife and kill him when he is without defence. in treacherous guise he takes his leave: "to god i commend you," says he, and erec replies: "and so do i you, sire." thus they separated. already a good part of the night was passed. out of the way, in one of the rooms, two beds were made upon the floor. in one of them erec lays him down, in the other enide went to rest. full of grief and anxiety, she never closed her eyes that night, but remained on watch for her lord's sake; for from what she had seen of the count, she knew him to be full of wickedness. she knows full well that if he once gets possession of her lord, he will not fail to do him harm. he may be sure of being killed: so for his sake she is in distress. all night she must needs keep her vigil; but before the dawn, if she can bring it about, and if her lord will take her word, they will be ready to depart. (vv. - .) erec slept all night long securely until daylight. then enide realised and suspected that she might hesitate too long. her heart was tender toward her lord, like a good and loyal lady. her heart was neither deceitful nor false. so she rises and makes ready, and drew near to her lord to wake him up. "ah, sire," says she, "i crave your pardon. rise quickly now, for you are betrayed beyond all doubt, though guiltless and free from any crime. the count is a proven traitor, and if he can but catch you here, you will never get away without his having cut you in pieces. he hates you because he desires me. but if it please god, who knows all things, you shall be neither slain nor caught. last evening he would have killed you had i not assured him that i would be his mistress and his wife. you will see him return here soon: he wants to seize me and keep me here and kill you if he can find you." now erec learns how loyal his wife is to him. "lady," says he, "have our horses quickly saddled; then run and call our host, and tell him quickly to come here. treason has been long abroad." now the horses are saddled, and the lady summoned the host. erec has armed and dressed himself, and into his presence came the host. "sire," said he, "what haste is this, that you are risen at such an hour, before the day and the sun appear?" erec replies that he has a long road and a full day before him, and therefore he has made ready to set out, having it much upon his mind; and he added: "sire, you have nor yet handed me any statement of my expenses. you have received me with honour and kindness, and therein great merit redounds to you. cancel my indebtedness with these seven horses that i brought here with me. do not disdain them, but keep them for your own. i cannot increase my gift to you by so much as the value of a halter." the burgher was delighted with this gift and bowed low, expressing his thanks and gratitude. then erec mounts and takes his leave, and they set out upon their way. as they ride, he frequently warns enide that if she sees anything she should not be so bold as to speak to him about it. meanwhile, there entered the house a hundred knights well armed, and very much dismayed they were to find erec no longer there. then the count learned that the lady had deceived him. he discovered the footsteps of the horses, and they all followed the trail, the count threatening erec and vowing that, if he can come up with him, nothing can keep him from having his head on the spot. "a curse on him who now hangs back, and does not spur on fast!" quoth he; "he who presents me with the head of the knight whom i hate so bitterly, will have served me to my taste." then they plunge on at topmost speed, filled with hostility toward him who had never laid eyes on them and had never harmed them by deed or word. they ride ahead until they made him out; at the edge of a forest they catch sight of him before he was hid by the forest trees. not one of them halted then, but all rushed on in rivalry. enide hears the clang and noise of their arms and horses, and sees that the valley is full of them. as soon as she saw them, she could not restrain her tongue. "ah, sire," she cries, "alas, how this count has attacked you, when he leads against you such a host! sire, ride faster now, until we be within this wood. i think we can easily distance them, for they are still a long way behind. if you go on at this pace, you can never escape from death, for you are no match for them." erec replies: "little esteem you have for me, and lightly you hold my words. it seems i cannot correct you by fair request. but as the lord have mercy upon me until i escape from here, i swear that you shall pay dearly for this speech of yours; that is, unless my mind should change." then he straightway turns about, and sees the seneschal drawing near upon a horse both strong and fleet. before them all he takes his stand at the distance of four cross-bow shots. he had not disposed of his arms, but was thoroughly well equipped. erec reckons up his opponents' strength, and sees there are fully a hundred of them. then he who thus is pressing him thinks he had better call a hair. then they ride to meet each other, and strike upon each other's shield great blows with their sharp and trenchant swords. erec caused his stout steel sword to pierce his body through and through, so that his shield and hauberk protected him no more than a shred of dark-blue silk. and next the count comes spurring on, who, as the story tells, was a strong and doughty knight. but the count in this was ill advised when he came with only shield and lance. he placed such trust in his own prowess that he thought that he needed no other arms. he showed his exceeding boldness by rushing on ahead of all his men more than the space of nine acres. when erec saw him stand alone, he turned toward him; the count is not afraid of him, and they come together with clash of arms. first the count strikes him with such violence upon the breast that he would have lost his stirrups if he had not been well set. he makes the wood of his shield to split so that the iron of his lance protrudes on the other side. but erec's hauberk was very solid and protected him from death without the tear of a single mesh. the count was strong and breaks his lance; then erec strikes him with such force on his yellow painted shield that he ran more than a yard of his lance through his abdomen, knocking him senseless from his steed. then he turned and rode away without further tarrying on the spot. straight into the forest he spurs at full speed. now erec is in the woods, and the others paused a while over those who lay in the middle of the field. loudly they swear and vow that they will rather follow after him for two or three days than fail to capture and slaughter him. the count, though grievously wounded in the abdomen, hears what they say. he draws himself up a little and opens his eyes a tiny bit. now he realises what an evil deed he had begun to execute. he makes the knights step back, and says: "my lords, i bid you all, both strong and weak, high and low, that none of you be so bold as to dare to advance a single step. all of you return now quickly! i have done a villainous deed, and i repent me of my foul design. the lady who outwitted me is very honourable, prudent, and courteous. her beauty fired me with love for her; because i desired her, i wished to kill her lord and keep her back with me by force. i well deserved this woe, and now it has come upon me. how abominably disloyal and treacherous i was in my madness! never was there a better knight born of mother than he. never shall he receive harm through me if i can in any way prevent it. i command you all to retrace your steps." back they go disconsolate, carrying the lifeless seneschal on the shield reversed. the count, whose wound was not mortal, lived on for some time after. thus was erec delivered. (vv. - .) erec goes off at full speed down a road between two hedgerows--he and his wife with him. both putting spurs to their horses, they rode until they came to a meadow which had been mown. after emerging from the hedged enclosure they came upon a drawbridge before a high tower, which was all closed about with a wall and a broad and deep moat. they quickly pass over the bridge, but had not gone far before the lord of the place espied them from up in his tower. about this man i can tell you the truth: that he was very small of stature, but very courageous of heart. when he sees erec cross the bridge, he comes down quickly from his tower, and on a great sorrel steed of his he causes a saddle to be placed, which showed portrayed a golden lion. then he orders to be brought his shield, his stiff, straight lance, a sharp polished sword, his bright shining helmet, his gleaming hauberk, and triple-woven greaves; for he has seen an armed knight pass before his list against whom he wishes to strive in arms, or else this stranger will strive against him until he shall confess defeat. his command was quickly done: behold the horse now led forth; a squire brought him around already bridled and with saddle on. another fellow brings the arms. the knight passed out through the gate, as quickly as possible, all alone, without companion. erec is riding along a hill-side, when behold the knight comes tearing down over the top of the hill, mounted upon a powerful steed which tore along at such a pace that he crushed the stones beneath his hoofs finer than a millstone grinds the corn; and bright gleaming sparks flew off in all directions, so that it seemed as if his four feet were all ablaze with fire. enide heard the noise and commotion, and almost fell from her palfrey, helpless and in a faint. there was no vein in her body in which the blood did not turn, and her face became all pale and white as if she were a corpse. great is her despair and dismay, for she does not dare to address her lord, who often threatens and chides at her and charges her to hold her peace. she is distracted between two courses to pursue, whether to speak or to hold her peace. she takes counsel with herself, and often she prepares to speak, so that her tongue already moves, but the voice cannot issue forth; for her teeth are clenched with fear, and thus shut up her speech within. thus she admonishes and reproaches herself, but she closes her mouth and grits her teeth so that her speech cannot issue forth. at strife with herself, she said: "i am sure and certain that i shall incur a grievous loss, if here i lose my lord. shall i tell him all, then, openly? not i. why not? i would not dare, for thus i should enrage my lord. and if my lord's ire is once aroused, he will leave me in this wild place alone, wretched and forlorn. then i shall be worse off than now. worse off? what care i? may grief and sorrow always be mine as long as i live, if my lord does not promptly escape from here without being delivered to a violent death. but if i do not quickly inform him, this knight who is spurring hither will have killed him before he is aware; for he seems of very evil intent. i think i have waited too long from fear of his vigorous prohibition. but i will no longer hesitate because of his restraint. i see plainly that my lord is so deep in thought that he forgets himself; so it is fight that i should address him." she spoke to him. he threatens her, but has no desire to do her harm, for he realises and knows full well that she loves him above all else, and he loves her, too, to the utmost. he rides toward the knight, who challenges him to battle, and they meet at the foot of the hill, where they attack and defy each other. both smite each other with their iron-tipped lances with all their strength. the shields that hang about their necks are not worth two coats of bark: the leather tears, and they split the wood, and they shatter the meshes of the hauberks. both are pierced to the vitals by the lances, and the horses fall to earth. now, both the warriors were doughty. grievously, but not mortally, wounded, they quickly got upon their feet and grasped afresh their lances, which were not broken nor the worse for wear. but they cast them away on the ground, and drawing their swords from the scabbard, they attack each other with great fury. each wounds and injures the other, for there is no mercy on either side. they deal such blows upon the helmets that gleaming sparks fly out when their swords recoil. they split and splinter the shields; they batter and crush the hauberks. in four places the swords are brought down to the bare flesh, so that they are greatly weakened and exhausted. and if both their swords had lasted long without breaking, they would never have retreated, nor would the battle have come to an end before one of them perforce had died. enide, who was watching them, was almost beside herself with grief. whoever could have seen her then, as she showed her great woe by wringing her hands, tearing her hair and shedding tears, could have seen a loyal lady. and any man would have been a vulgar wretch who saw and did not pity her. and the knights still fight, knocking the jewels from the helmets and dealing at each other fearful blows. from the third to the ninth hour the battle continued so fierce that no one could in any wise make out which was to have the better of it. erec exerts himself and strives; he brought his sword down upon his enemy's helmet, cleaving it to the inner lining of mail and making him stagger; but he stood firmly and did not fall. then he attacked erec in turn, and dealt him such a blow upon the covering of his shield that his strong and precious sword broke when he tried to pull it out. when he saw that his sword was broken, in a spite he threw as far away as he could the part that remained in his hand. now he was afraid and must needs draw back; for any knight that lacks his sword cannot do much execution in battle or assault. erec pursues him until he begs him, for god's sake, not to kill him. "mercy, noble knight," he cries, "be not so cruel and harsh toward me. now that i am left without my sword, you have the strength and the power to take my life or make me your prisoner, for i have no means of defence." erec replies: "when thou thus dost petition me i fain would hear thee admit outright whether thou art defeated and overcome. thou shalt not again be touched by me if thou dost surrender at my discretion." the knight was slow to make reply. so, when erec saw him hesitate, in order to further dismay him, he again attacked him, rushing at him with drawn sword; whereupon, thoroughly terrified, he cried: "mercy, sire! regard me as your captive, since it cannot be otherwise." erec answers: "more than that is necessary. you shall not get off so easily as that. tell me your station and your name, and i in turn will tell you mine." "sire," says he, "you are right. i am king of this country. my liegemen are irishmen, and there is none who does not have to pay me rent. [ ] my name is guivret the little. i am very rich and powerful; for there is no landholder whose lands touch mine in any direction who ever transgresses my command and who does not do my pleasure. i have no neighbour who does not fear me, however proud and bold he may be. but i greatly desire to be your confidant and friend from this time on." erec replies: "i, too, can boast that i am a noble man. my name is erec, son of king lac. my father is king of farther wales, and has many a rich city, fine hall, and strong town; no king or emperor has more than he, save only king arthur. him, of course, i except; for with him none can compare." guivret is greatly astonished at this, and says: "sire, a great marvel is this i hear. i was never so glad of anything as of your acquaintance. you may put full trust in me! and should it please you to abide in my country within my estates, i shall have you treated with great honour. so long as you care to remain here, you shall be recognised as my lord. we both have need of a physician, and i have a castle of mine near here, not eight leagues away, nor even seven. i wish to take you thither with me, and there we shall have our wounds tended." erec replies: "i thank you for what i have heard you say. however, i will not go, thank you. but only so much i request of you, that if i should be in need, and you should hear that i had need of aid, you would not then forget me." "sire" says he, "i promise you that never, so long as i am alive, shall you have need of my help but that i shall go at once to aid you with all the assistance i can command." "i have nothing more to ask of you," says erec; "you have promised me much. you are now my lord and friend, if your deed is as good as your word." then each kisses and embraces the other. never was there such an affectionate parting after such a fierce battle; for from very affection and generosity each one cut off long, wide strips from the bottom of his shirt and bound up the other's wounds. when they had thus bandaged each other, they commended each other to god. (vv. - .) so thus they parted. guivret takes his way back alone, while erec resumed his road, in dire need of plaster wherewith to heal his wounds. he did not cease to travel until he came to a plain beside a lofty forest all full of stags, hinds, deer, does, and other beasts, and all sorts of game. now king arthur and the queen and the best of his barons had come there that very day. the king wished to spend three or four days in the forest for pleasure and sport, and had commanded tents, pavilions, and canopies to be brought. my lord gawain had stepped into the king's tent, all tired out by a long ride. in front of the tent a white beech stood, and there he had left a shield of his, together with his ashen lance. he left his steed, all saddled and bridled, fastened to a branch by the rein. there the horse stood until kay the seneschal came by. [ ] he came up quickly and, as if to beguile the time, took the steed and mounted, without the interference of any one. he took the lance and the shield, too, which were close by under the tree. galloping along on the steed, kay rode along a valley until it came about by chance that erec met him. now erec recognised the seneschal, and he knew the arms and the horse, but kay did not recognise him, for he could not be distinguished by his arms. so many blows of sword and lance had he received upon his shield that all the painted design had disappeared from it. and the lady, who did not wish to be seen or recognised by him, shrewdly held her veil before her face, as if she were doing it because of the sun's glare and the dust. kay approached rapidly and straightway seized erec's rein, without so much as saluting him. before he let him move, he presumptuously asked him: "knight," says he, "i wish to know who you are and whence you come." "you must be mad to stop me thus," says erec; "you shall not know that just now." and the other replies: "be not angry; i only ask it for your good. i can see and make out clearly that you are wounded and hurt. if you will come along with me you shall have a good lodging this night; i shall see that you are well cared for, honoured and made comfortable: for you are in need of rest. king arthur and the queen are close by here in a wood, lodged in pavilions and tents. in all good faith, i advise you to come with me to see the queen and king, who will take much pleasure in you and will show you great honour." erec replies: "you say well; yet will i not go thither for anything. you know not what my business is: i must yet farther pursue my way. now let me go; too long i stay. there is still some daylight left." kay makes answer: "you speak madness when you decline to come. i trow you will repent of it. and however much it may be against your will, you shall both go, as the priest goes to the council, willy-nilly. to-night you will be badly served, if, unmindful of my advice, you go there as strangers. come now quickly, for i will take you." at this word erec's ire was roused. "vassal," says he, "you are mad to drag me thus after you by force. you have taken me quite off my guard. i tell you you have committed an offence. for i thought to be quite safe, and was not on my guard against you." then he lays his hand upon his sword and cries: "hands off my bridle, vassal! step aside. i consider you proud and impudent. i shall strike you, be sure of that, if you drag me longer after you. leave me alone now." then he lets him go, and draws off across the field more than an acre's width; then turns about and, as a man with evil intent, issues his challenge. each rushed at the other. but, because kay was without armour, erec acted courteously and turned the point of his lance about and presented the butt-end instead. even so, he gave him such a blow high up on the broad expanse of his shield that he caused it to wound him on the temple, pinning his arm to his breast: all prone he throws him to the earth. then he went to catch the horse and hands him over by the bridle to enide. he was about to lead it away, when the wounded man with his wonted flattery begs him to restore it courteously to him. with fair words he flatters and wheedles him. "vassal," says he, "so help me god, that horse is not mine. rather does it belong to that knight in whom dwells the greatest prowess in the world, my lord gawain the bold. i tell you so much on his behalf, in order that you may send it back to him and thus win honour. so shall you be courteous and wise, and i shall be your messenger." erec makes answer: "take the horse, vassal, and lead it away. since it belongs to my lord gawain it is not meet that i should appropriate it." kay takes the horse, remounts, and coming to the royal tent, tells the king the whole truth, keeping nothing back. and the king summoned gawain, saying: "fair nephew gawain, if ever you were true and courteous, go quickly after him and ask him in winsome wise who he is and what his business. and if you can influence him and bring him along with you to us, take care not to fail to do so." then gawain mounts his steed, two squires following after him. they soon made erec out, but did not recognise him. gawain salutes him, and he gawain: their greetings were mutual. then said my lord gawain with his wonted openness: "sire," says he, "king arthur sends me along this way to encounter you. the queen and king send you their greeting, and beg you urgently to come and spend some time with them (it may benefit you and cannot harm), as they are close by." erec replies: "i am greatly obliged to the king and queen and to you who are, it seems, both kind of heart and of gentle mien. i am not in a vigorous state; rather do i bear wounds within my body: yet will i not turn aside from my way to seek a lodging-place. so you need not longer wait: i thank you, but you may be gone." now gawain was a man of sense. he draws back and whispers in the ear of one of the squires, bidding him go quickly and tell the king to take measures at once to take down and lower his tents and come and set them up in the middle of the road three or four leagues in advance of where they now are. there the king must lodge to-night, if he wishes to meet and extend hospitality to the best knight in truth whom he can ever hope to see; but who will not go out of his way for a lodging at the bidding of any one. the fellow went and gave his message. the king without delay causes his tents to be taken down. now they are lowered, the sumpters loaded, and off they set. the king mounted aubagu, and the queen afterwards mounted a white norse palfrey. all this while, my lord gawain did not cease to detain erec, until the latter said to him: "yesterday i covered more ground than i shall do to-day. sire, you annoy me; let me go. you have already disturbed a good part of my day." and my lord gawain answers him: "i should like to accompany you a little way, if you do not object; for it is yet a long while until night. they spent so much time in talking that all the tents were set up before them, and erec sees them, and perceives that his lodging is arranged for him. "ah! gawain," he says, "your shrewdness has outwitted me. by your great cunning you have kept me here. since it has turned out thus, i shall tell you my name at once. further concealment would be useless. i am erec, who was formerly your companion and friend." gawain hears him and straightway embraces him. he raised up his helmet and unlaced his mouthpiece. joyfully he clasps him in his embrace, while erec embraces him in turn. then gawain leaves him, saying, "sire, this news will give great pleasure to my lord; he and my lady will both be glad, and i must go before to tell them of it. but first i must embrace and welcome and speak comfortably to my lady enide, your wife. my lady the queen has a great desire to see her. i heard her speak of her only yesterday." then he steps up to enide and asks her how she is, if she is well and in good case. she makes answer courteously: "sire, i should have no cause for grief, were i not in great distress for my lord; but as it is, i am in dismay, for he has hardly a limb without a wound." gawain replies: "this grieves me much. it is perfectly evident from his face, which is all pale and colourless. i could have wept myself when i saw him so pale and wan, but my joy effaced my grief, for at sight of him i felt so glad that i forgot all other pain. now start and ride along slowly. i shall ride ahead at top-speed to tell the queen and the king that you are following after me. i am sure that they will both be delighted when they hear it." then he goes, and comes to the king's tent. "sire," he cries, "now you and my lady must be glad, for here come erec and his wife." the king leaps to his feet with joy. "upon my word!" he says, "right glad i am. i could hear no news which could give me so much happiness." the queen and all the rest rejoice, and come out from the tents as fast as they may. even the king comes forth from his pavilion, and they met erec near at band. when erec sees the king coming, he quickly dismounts, and enide too. the king embraces and meets them, and the queen likewise tenderly kisses and embraces them: there is no one that does not show his joy. right there, upon the spot, they took off erec's armour; and when they saw his wounds, their joy turned to sadness. the king draws a deep sigh at the sight of them, and has a plaster brought which morgan, his sister, had made. this piaster, which morgan had given to arthur, was of such sovereign virtue that no wound, whether on nerve or joint, provided it were treated with the piaster once a day, could fail to be completely cured and healed within a week. they brought to the king the piaster which gave erec great relief. when they had bathed, dried, and bound up his wounds, the king leads him and enide into his own royal tent, saying that he intends, out of love for erec, to tarry in the forest a full fortnight, until he be completely restored to health. for this erec thanks the king, saying: "fair sire, my wounds are not so painful that i should desire to abandon my journey. no one could detain me; to-morrow, without delay, i shall wish to get off in the morning, as soon as i see the dawn." at this the king shook his head and said: "this is a great mistake for you not to remain with us. i know that you are far from well. stay here, and you will do the right thing. it will be a great pity and cause for grief if you die in this forest. fair gentle friend, stay here now until you are quite yourself again." erec replies: "enough of this. i have undertaken this journey, and shall not tarry in any wise." the king hears that he would by no means stay for prayer of his; so he says no more about it, and commands the supper to be prepared at once and the tables to be spread. the servants go to make their preparations. it was a saturday night; so they ate fish and fruit, pike and perch, salmon and trout, and then pears both raw and cooked. [ ] soon after supper they ordered the beds to be made ready. the king, who held erec dear, had him laid in a bed alone; for he did not wish that any one should lie with him who might touch his wounds. that night he was well lodged. in another bed close by lay enide with the queen under a cover of ermine, and they all slept in great repose until the day broke next morning. (vv. - .) next day, as soon as it is dawn. erec arises, dresses, commands his horses to be saddled, and orders his arms to be brought to him. the valets run and bring them to him. again the king and all the knights urge him to remain; but entreaty is of no avail, for he will not stay for anything. then you might have seen them all weep and show such grief as if they already saw him dead. he puts on his arms, and enide arises. all the knights are sore distressed, for they think they will never see them more. they follow them out from the tents, and send for their own horses, that they may escort and accompany them. erec said to them: "be not angry! but you shall not accompany me a single step. i'll thank you if you'll stay behind!" his horse was brought to him, and he mounts without delay. taking his shield and lance, he commends them all to god, and they in turn wish erec well. then enide mounts, and they ride away. (vv. - .) entering a forest, they rode on without halting till hour of prime. while they thus traversed the wood, they heard in the distance the cry of a damsel in great distress. when erec heard the cry, he felt sure from the sound that it was the voice of one in trouble and in need of help. straightway calling enide, he says: "lady, there is some maiden who goes through the wood calling aloud. i take it that she is in need of aid and succour. i am going to hasten in that direction and see what her trouble is. do you dismount and await me here, while i go yonder." "gladly, sire," she says. leaving her alone, he makes his way until he found the damsel, who was going through the wood, lamenting her lover whom two giants had taken and were leading away with very cruel treatment. the maiden was rending her garments, and tearing her hair and her tender crimson face. erec sees her and, wondering greatly, begs her to tell him why she cries and weeps so sore. the maiden cries and sighs again, then sobbing, says: "fair sire, it is no wonder if i grieve, for i wish i were dead. i neither love nor prize my life, for my lover has been led away prisoner by two wicked and cruel giants who are his mortal enemies. god! what shall i do? woe is me! deprived of the best knight alive, the most noble and the most courteous. and now he is in great peril of death. this very day, and without cause, they will bring him to some vile death. noble knight, for god's sake, i beg you to succour my lover, if now you can lend him any aid. you will not have to run far, for they must still be close by." "damsel," says erec, "i will follow them, since you request it, and rest assured that i shall do all within my power: either i shall be taken prisoner along with him, or i shall restore him to you safe and sound. if the giants let him live until i can find him, i intend to measure my strength with theirs." "noble knight," the maiden said, "i shall always be your servant if you restore to me my lover. now go in god's name, and make haste, i beseech you." "which way lies their path?" "this way, my lord. here is the path with the footprints." then erec started at a gallop, and told her to await him there. the maid commends him to the lord, and prays god very fervently that he should give him force by his command to discomfit those who intend evil toward her lover. (vv. - .) erec went off along the trail, spurring his horse in pursuit of the giants. he followed in pursuit of them until he caught sight of them before they emerged from the wood; he saw the knight with bare limbs mounted naked on a nag, his hands and feet bound as if he were arrested for highway robbery. the giants had no lances, shields or whetted swords; but they both had clubs and scourges, with which they were beating him so cruelly that already they had cut the skin on his back to the bone. down his sides and flanks the blood ran, so that the nag was all covered with blood down to the belly. [ ] erec came along alone after them. he was very sad and distressed about the knight whom he saw them treat so spitefully. between two woods in an open field he came up with them, and asks: "my lords," says he, "for what crime do you treat this man so ill and lead him along like a common thief? you are treating him too cruelly. you are driving him just as if he had been caught stealing. it is a monstrous insult to strip a knight naked, and then bind him and beat him so shamefully. hand him over to me, i beg of you with all good-will and courtesy. i have no wish to demand him of you forcibly." "vassal," they say, "what business is this of yours? you must be mad to make any demand of us. if you do not like it, try and improve matters." erec replies: "indeed, i like it not, and you shall not lead him away so easily. since you have left the matter in my hands, i say whoever can get possession of him let him keep him. take your positions. i challenge you. you shall not take him any farther before some blows have been dealt." "vassal," they reply, "you are mad, indeed, to wish to measure your strength with us. if you were four instead of one, you would have no more strength against us than one lamb against two wolves." "i do not know how it will turn out," erec replies; "if the sky fails and the earth melts, then many a lark will be caught. many a man boasts loudly who is of little worth. on guard now, for i am going to attack you." the giants were strong and fierce, and held in their clenched hands their big clubs tipped with iron. erec went at them lance in rest. he fears neither of them, in spite of their menace and their pride, and strikes the foremost of them through the eye so deep into the brain that the blood and brains spurt out at the back of his neck; that one lies dead and his heart stops beating. when the other saw him dead, he had reason to be sorely grieved. furious, he went to avenge him: with both hands he raised his club on high and thought to strike him squarely upon his unprotected head: but erec watched the blow, and received it on his shield. even so, the giant landed such a blow that it quite stunned him, and almost made him fall to earth from his steed. erec covers himself with his shield and the giant, recovering himself, thinks to strike again quickly upon his head. but erec had drawn his sword, and attacked him with such fierceness that the giant was severely handled: he strikes him so hard upon the neck that he splits him down to the saddle-bow. he scatters his bowels upon the earth, and the body falls full length, split in two halves. the knight weeps with joy and, worshipping, praises god who has sent him this aid. then erec unbound him, made him dress and arm himself, and mount one of the horses; the other he made him lead with his right hand, and asks him who he is. and he replied: "noble knight, thou art my liege lord. i wish to regard thee as my lord, as by right i ought to do, for thou hast saved my life, which but now would have been cut off from my body with great torment and cruelty. what chance, fair gentle sire, in god's name, guided thee hither to me, to free me by thy courage from the hands of my enemies? sire, i wish to do thee homage. henceforth, i shall always accompany thee and serve thee as my lord." erec sees that he is disposed to serve him gladly, if he may, and says: "friend, for your service i have no desire; but you must know that i came hither to succour you at the instance of your lady, whom i found sorrowing in this wood. because of you, she grieves and moans; for full of sorrow is her heart. i wish to present you to her now. as soon as i have reunited you with her, i shall continue my way alone; for you have no call to go with me. i have no need cf your company; but i fain would know your name." "sire," says he, "as you wish. since you desire to know my name, it must not be kept from you. my name is cadoc of tabriol: know that thus i am called. but since i must part from you. i should like to know, if it may be, who you are and of what land, where i may sometime find and search for you, when i shall go a way from here." erec replies: "friend, that i will never confide to you. never speak of it again; but if you wish to find it out and do me honour in any wise go quickly now without delay to my lord, king arthur, who with might and main is hunting the stag in yonder wood, as i take it, not five short leagues from here. go thither quickly and take him word that you are sent to him as a gift by him whom yesterday within his tent he joyfully received and lodged. and be careful not to conceal from him from what peril i set free both your life and body. i am dearly cherished at the court, and if you present yourself in my name you will do me a service and honour. there you shall ask who i am; but you cannot know it otherwise." "sire," says cadoc, "i will follow your bidding in all respects. you need never have any fear that i do not go with a glad heart. i shall tell the king the full truth regarding the battle which you have fought on my behalf." thus speaking, they continued their way until they came to the maiden where erec had left her. the damsel's joy knew no bounds when she saw coming her lover whom she never thought to see again. taking him by the hand, erec presents him to her with the words: "grieve no longer, demoiselle! behold your lover glad and joyous." and she with prudence makes reply: "sire, by right you have won us both. yours we should be, to serve and honour. but who could ever repay half the debt we owe you?" erec makes answer: "my gentle lady, no recompense do i ask of you. to god i now commend you both, for too long, methinks, i have tarried here." then he turns his horse about, and rides away as fast as he can. cadoc of tabriol with his damsel rides off in another direction; and soon he told the news to king arthur and the queen. (vv. - .) erec continues to ride at great speed to the place where enide was awaiting him in great concern, thinking that surely he had completely deserted her. and he, too, was in great fear lest some one, finding her alone, might have carried her off. so he made all haste to return. but the heat of the day was such, and his arms caused him such distress, that his wounds broke open and burst the bandages. his wounds never stopped bleeding before he came directly to the spot where enide was waiting for him. she espied him and rejoiced: but she did not realise or know the pain from which he was suffering; for all his body was bathed in blood, and his heart hardly had strength to beat. as he was descending a hill he fell suddenly over upon his horse's neck. as he tried to straighten up, he lost his saddle and stirrups, falling, as if lifeless, in a faint. then began such heavy grief, when enide saw him fall to earth. full of fear at the sight of him, she runs toward him like one who makes no concealment of her grief. aloud she cries, and wrings her hands: not a shred of her robe remains untorn across her breast. she begins to tear her hair and lacerate her tender face. [ ] "ah god!" she cries, "fair gentle lord, why dost thou let me thus live on? come death, and kill me hastily!" with these words she faints upon his body. when she recovered, she said to herself reproachfully: "woe is me, wretched enide; i am the murderer of my lord, in having killed him by my speech. my lord would still be now alive, if i in my mad presumption had not spoken the word which engaged him in this adventure. silence never harmed any one, but speech often worketh woe. the truth of this i have tried and proved in more ways than one." beside her lord she took her seat, holding his head upon her lap. then she begins her dole anew. "alas," she says, "my lord, unhappy thou, thou who never hadst a peer; for in thee was beauty seen and prowess was made manifest; wisdom had given thee its heart, and largess set a crown upon thee, without which no one is esteemed. but what did i say? a grievous mistake i made in uttering the word which has killed my lord--that fatal poisoned word for which i must justly be reproached; and i recognise and admit that no one is guilty but myself; i alone must be blamed for this." then fainting she falls upon the ground, and when she later sat up again, she only moans again the more: "god, what shall i do, and why live on? why does death delay and hesitate to come and seize me without respite? truly, death holds me in great contempt! since death does not deign to take my life, i must myself perforce achieve the vengeance for my sinful deed. thus shall i die in spite of death, who will not heed my call for aid. yet, i cannot die through mere desire, nor would complaining avail me aught. the sword, which my lord had gilded on, ought by right to avenge his death. i will not longer consume myself in distress, in prayer, and vain desire." she draws the sword forth from its sheath and begins to consider it. god, who is full of mercy, caused her to delay a little; and while she passes in review her sorrow and her misfortune, behold there comes riding apace a count with numerous suite, who from afar had heard the lady's loud outcry. god did not wish to desert her; for now she would have killed herself, had she not been surprised by those who took away from her the sword and thrust it back into its sheath. the count then dismounted from his horse and began to inquire of her concerning the knight, and whether she was his wife or his lady-love. "both one and the other, sire," she says, "my sorrow is such as i cannot tell. woe is me that i am not dead." and the count begins to comfort her: "lady," he says, "by the lord, i pray you, to take some pity on yourself! it is meet that you should mourn, but it is no use to be disconsolate; for you may yet rise to high estate. do not sink into apathy, but comfort yourself; that will be wise, and god will give you joy again. your wondrous beauty holds good fortune in store for you; for i will take you as my wife, and make you a countess and dame of rank: this ought to bring you much consolation. and i shall have the body removed and laid away with great honour. leave off now this grief of yours which in your frenzy you display." and she replies: "sire, begone! for god's sake, let me be! you can accomplish nothing here. nothing that one could say or do could ever make me glad again." at this the count drew back and said: "let us make a bier, whereon to carry away this body with the lady to the town of limors. there the body shall be interred. then will i espouse the lady, whether or not she give consent: for never did i see any one so fair, nor desire any as i do her. happy i am to have met with her. now make quickly and without delay a proper bier for this dead knight. halt not for the trouble, nor from sloth." then some of his men draw out their swords and soon cut two saplings, upon which they laid branches cross-wise. upon this litter they laid erec down; then hitched two horses to it. enide rides alongside, not ceasing to make lament, and often fainting and falling back; but the horsemen hold her tight, and try to support her with their arms, and raise her up and comfort her. all the way to limors they escort the body, until they come to the palace of the count. all the people follow up after them--ladies, knights, and townspeople. in the middle off the hall upon a dais they stretched the body out full length, with his lance and shield alongside. the hall is full, the crowd is dense. each one is anxious to inquire what is this trouble, what marvel here. meanwhile the count takes counsel with his barons privily. "my lords," he says, "upon the spot i wish to espouse this lady here. we can plainly judge by her beauty and prudent mien that she is of very gentle rank. her beauty and noble bearing show that the honour of a kingdom or empire might well be bestowed upon her. i shall never suffer disgrace through her; rather i think to win more honour. have my chaplain summoned now, and do you go and fetch the lady. the half of all my land i will give her as her dower if she will comply with my desire." then they bade the chaplain come, in accordance with the count's command, and the dame they brought there, too, and made her marry him perforce; for she flatly refused to give consent. but in spite of all, the count married her in accordance with his wish. and when he had married her, the constable at once had the tables set in the palace, and had the food prepared; for already it was time for the evening meal. (vv. - .) after vespers, that day in may, enide was in sore distress, nor did her grief cease to trouble her. and the count urged her mildly by prayer and threat to make her peace and be consoled, and he made her sit down upon a chair, though it was against her will. in spite of her, they made her take a seat and placed the table in front of her. the count takes his place on the other side, almost beside himself with rage to find that he cannot comfort her. "lady," he says, "you must now leave off this grief and banish it. you can have full trust in me, that honour and riches will be yours. you must surely realise that mourning will not revive the dead; for no one ever saw such a thing come about. remember now, though poor you were, that great riches are within your reach. once you were poor; rich now you will be. fortune has not been stingy toward you, in bestowing upon you the honour of being henceforth hailed as countess. it is true that your lord is dead. if you grieve and lament because of this, do you think that i am surprised? nay. but i am giving you the best advice i know how to give. in that i have married you, you ought to be content. take care you do not anger me! eat now, as i bid you do." and she replies: "not i, my lord. in faith, as long as i live i will neither eat nor drink unless i first see my lord eat who is lying on yonder dais" "lady, that can never be. people will think that you are mad when you talk such great nonsense. you will receive a poor reward if you give occasion to-day for further reproof." to this she vouchsafed no reply, holding his threats in slight esteem, and the count strikes her upon the face. at this she shrieks, and the barons present blame the count. "hold, sire!" they cry to the count; "you ought to be ashamed of having struck this lady because she will not eat. you have done a very ugly deed. if this lady is distressed because of her lord whom she now sees dead, no one should say that she is wrong." "keep silence, all." the count replies; "the dame is mine and i am hers, and i will do with her as i please." at this she could not hold her peace, but swears she will never be his. and the count springs up and strikes her again, and she cries out aloud. "ha! wretch," she says, "i care not what thou say to me, or what thou do! i fear not thy blows, nor yet thy threats. beat me and strike me, as thou wilt. i shall never heed thy power so much as to do thy bidding more or less, even were thou with thy hands fight now to snatch out my eyes or flay me alive." (vv. - .) in the midst of these words and disputes erec recovered from his swoon, like a man who awakes from sleep. no wonder that he was amazed at the crowd of people he saw around. but great was his grief and great his woe when he heard the voice of his wife. he stepped to the floor from off the dais and quickly drew his sword. wrath and the love he bore his wife gave him courage. he runs thither where he sees her, and strikes the count squarely upon the head, so that he beats out his brains and, knocking in his forehead, leaves him senseless and speechless; his blood and brains flow out. the knights spring from the tables, persuaded that it is the devil who had made his way among them there. of young or old there none remains, for all were thrown in great dismay. each one tries to outrun the other in beating a hasty retreat. soon they were all clear of the palace, and cry aloud, both weak and strong: "flee, flee, here comes the corpse!" at the door the press is great: each one strives to make his escape, and pushes and shoves as best he may. he who is last in the surging throng would fain get into the foremost line. thus they make good their escape in flight, for one dares not stand upon another's going. erec ran to seize his shield, hanging it about his neck by the strap, while enide lays hands upon the lance. then they step out into the courtyard. there is no one so bold as to offer resistance; for they did not believe it could be a man who had thus expelled them, but a devil or some enemy who had entered the dead body. erec pursues them as they flee, and finds outside in the castle-yard a stable-boy in the act of leading his steed to the watering-place, all equipped with bridle and saddle. this chance encounter pleased erec well: as he steps up quickly to the horse, the boy in fear straightway yields him up. erec takes his seat between the saddle-bows, while enide, seizing the stirrup, springs up on to the horse's neck, as erec, who bade her mount, commanded and instructed her to do. the horse bears them both away; and finding open the town gate, they make their escape without detention. in the town there was great anxiety about the count who had been killed; but there is no one, however brave, who follows erec to take revenge. at his table the count was slain; while erec, who bears his wife away, embraces and kisses and gives her cheer. in his arms he clasps her against his heart, and says: "sweet sister mine, my proof of you has been complete! be no more concerned in any wise, for i love you now more than ever i did before; and i am certain and rest assured that you love me with a perfect love. from this time on for evermore, i offer myself to do your will just as i used to do before. and if you have spoken ill of me, i pardon you and call you quit of both the offence and the word you spoke." then he kisses her again and clasps her tight. now enide is not ill at ease when her lord clasps and kisses her and tells her again that he loves her still. rapidly through the night they ride, and they are very glad that the moon shines bright. (vv. - .) meanwhile, the news has travelled fast, and there is nothing else so quick. the news had reached guivret the little that a knight wounded with arms had been found dead in the forest, and that with him was a lady making moan, and so wondrous fair that iseut would have seemed her waiting-maid. count oringle of limors had found them both, and had caused the corpse to be borne away, and wished himself to espouse the lady; but she refused him. when guivret heard this news, he was by no means pleased; for at once the thought of erec occurred to him. it came into his heart and mind to go and seek out the lady, and to have the body honourably interred, if it should turn out to be he. he assembled a thousand men-at-arms and knights to take the town. if the count would not surrender of his own accord the body and the lady, he would put all to fire and flame. in the moonlight shining clear he led his men on toward limors, with helmets laced, in hauberks clad, and from their necks the shields were hung. thus, under arms, they all advanced until nearly midnight, when erec espied them. now he expects to be ensnared or killed or captured inevitably. he makes enide dismount beside a thicket-hedge. no wonder if he is dismayed. "lady, do you stay here," he says, "beside this thicket-hedge a while, until these people shall have passed. i do not wish them to catch sight of you, for i do not know what manner of people they are, nor of what they go in search. i trust we may not attract their attention. but i see nowhere any place where we could take refuge, should they wish to injure us. i know not if any harm may come to me, but not from fear shall i fail to sally out against them. and if any one assails me, i shall not fail to joust with him. yet, i am so sore and weary that it is no wonder if i grieve. now to meet them i must go, and do you stay quiet here. take care that no one see you, until they shall have left you far behind." behold now guivret, with lance outstretched, who espied him from afar. they did not recognise each other, for the moon had gone behind the shadow of a dark cloud. erec was weak and exhausted, and his antagonist was quite recovered from his wounds and blows. now erec will be far from wise if he does not promptly make himself known. he steps out from the hedge. and guivret spurs toward him without speaking to him at all, nor does erec utter a word to him: he thought he could do more than he could. whoever tries to run farther than he is able must perforce give up or take a rest. they clash against each other; but the fight was unequal, for one was weak and the other strong. guivret strikes him with such force that he carries him down to earth from his horse's back. enide, who was in hiding, when she sees her lord on the ground, expects to be killed and badly used. springing forth from the hedge, she runs to help her lord. if she grieved before, now her anguish is greater. coming up to guivret, she seized his horse's rein, and then said: "cursed be thou, knight! for thou hast attacked a weak and exhausted man, who is in pain and mortally wounded, with such injustice that thou canst not find reason for thy deed. if thou hadst been alone and helpless, thou wouldst have rued this attack, provided my lord had been in health. now be generous and courteous, and kindly let cease this battle which thou hast begun. for thy reputation would be no better for having killed or captured a knight who has not the strength to rise, as thou canst see. for he has suffered so many blows of arms that he is all covered with wounds" and he replies: "fear not, lady! i see that loyally you love your lord, and i commend you for it. have no fear whatsoever of me or of my company. but tell me now without concealment what is the name of your lord; for only advantage will you get from telling me. whoever he be, tell me his name; then he shall go safe and unmolested. neither he nor you have aught to fear, for you are both in safe hands." (vv. - .) then enide learns that she is safe, she answers him briefly in a word: "his name is erec; i ought not to lie, for i see you are honest and of good intent." guivret, in his delight, dismounts and goes to fall at erec's feet, where he was lying on the ground. "my lord," he says, "i was going to seek for you, and was on my way to limors, where i expected to find you dead. it was told and recounted to me as true that count oringle had carried off to limors a knight who was mortally wounded, and that he wickedly intended to marry a lady whom he had found in his company; but that she would have nothing to do with him. and i was coming urgently to aid and deliver her. if he refused to hand over to me both the lady and you without resistance, i should esteem myself of little worth if i left him a foot of earth to stand upon. be sure that had i not loved you dearly i should never have taken this upon myself. i am guivret, your friend; but if i have done you any hurt through my failure to recognise you, you surely ought to pardon me." at this erec sat up, for he could do no more, and said: "rise up, my friend. be absolved of the harm you have done me, since you did not recognise me." guivret gets up, and erec tells him how he has killed the count while he sat at meat, and how he had gained possession again of his steed in front of the stable, and how the sergeants and the squires had fled across the yard, crying: "flee, flee, the corpse is chasing us;" then, how he came near being caught, and how he escaped through the town and down the hill, carrying his wife on his horse's neck: all this adventure of his he told him. then guivret said, "sire, i have a castle here close by, which is well placed in a healthful site. for your comfort and benefit i wish to take you there to-morrow and have your wounds cared for. i have two charming and sprightly sisters who are skilful in the care of wounds: they will soon completely cure you. [ ] to-night we shall let our company lodge here in the fields until morning; for i think a little rest to-night will do you much good. my advice is that we spend the night here." erec replies: "i am in favour of doing so." so there they stayed and spent the night. they were not reluctant to prepare a lodging-place, but they found few accommodations, for the company was quite numerous. they lodge as best they may among the bushes: guivret had his tent set up, and ordered tinder to be kindled, that they might have light and cheer. he has tapers taken out from the boxes, and they light them within the tent. now enide no longer grieves, for all has turned out well. she strips her lord of his arms and clothes, and having washed his wounds, she dried them and bound them up again; for she would let no one else touch him. now erec knows no further reason to reproach her, for he has tried her well and found that she bears great love to him. and guivret, who treats them kindly, had a high, long bed constructed of quilted coverlids, laid upon grass and reed, which they found in abundance. there they laid erec and covered him up. then guivret opened a box and took out two patties. "friend," says he, "now try a little of these cold patties, and drink some wine mixed with water. i have as much as six barrels of it, but undiluted it is not good for you; for you are injured and covered with wounds. fair sweet friend, now try to eat; for it will do you good. and my lady will eat some too--your wife who has been to-day in sore distress on your account. but you have received full satisfaction for all that, and have escaped. so eat now, and i will eat too, fair friend." then guivret sat down by erec's side, and so did enide who was much pleased by all that guivret did. both of them urge him to eat, giving him wine mixed with water'; for unmixed it is too strong and heating. erec ate as a sick man eats, and drank a little--all he dared. but he rested comfortably and slept all night; for on his account no noise or disturbance was made. (vv. - .) in the early morning they awoke, and prepared again to mount and ride. erec was so devoted to his own horse that he would ride no other. they gave to enide a mule, for she had lost her palfrey. but she was not concerned; to judge by her looks, she gave the matter no thought. she had a good mule with an easy gait that bore her very comfortably. and it gave her great satisfaction that erec was not cast down, but rather assured them that he would recover completely. before the third hour they reached penevric, a strong castle, well and handsomely situated. there dwelt the two sisters of guivret; for the place was agreeable enough. guivret escorted erec to a delightful, airy room in a remote part of the castle. his sisters, at his request, exerted themselves to cure erec; and erec placed himself in their hands, for they inspired him with perfect confidence. first, they removed the dead flesh, then applied plaster and lint, devoting to his care all their skill, like women who knew their business well. again and again they washed his wounds and applied the plaster. four times or more each day they made him eat and drink, allowing him, however, no garlic or pepper. but whoever might go in or out enide was always with him, being more than any one else concerned. guivret often came in to ask and inquire if he wanted anything. he was well kept and well served, and everything that he wished was willingly done. but the damsels cheerfully and gladly showed such devotion in caring for him that by the end of a fortnight he felt no hurt or pain. then, to bring his colour back, they began to give him baths. there was no need to instruct the damsels, for they understood the treatment well. when he was able to walk about. guivret had two loose gowns made of two different kinds of silk, one trimmed with ermine, the other with vair. one was of a dark purple colour, and the other striped, sent to him as a present by a cousin of his from scotland. enide had the purple gown trimmed with ermine, which was very precious, while erec had the striped stuff with the fur, which was no less valuable. now erec was strong and well, cured and recovered. now that enide was very happy and had everything she desired, her great beauty returned to her; for her great distress had affected her so much that she was very pale and wan. now she was embraced and kissed, now she was blessed with all good things, now she had her joy and pleasures; for unadorned they lie in bed and each enfolds and kisses the other; nothing gives them so much joy. they have had so much pain and sorrow, he for her, and she for him, that now they have their satisfaction. each vies in seeking to please the other. of their further sport i must not speak. now they have so welded their love and forgotten their grief that they scarcely remember it any more. but now they must go on their way; so they asked his leave to depart from guivret, in whom they had found a friend indeed; for he had honoured and served them in every way. when he came to take leave, erec said: "sire, i do not wish to delay longer my departure for my own land. order everything to be prepared and collected, in order that i may have all i need. i shall wish to start to-morrow morning, as soon as it is day. i have stayed so long with you that i feel strong and vigorous. god grant, if it please him, that i may live to meet you again somewhere, when i may be able in my turn to serve and honour you. unless i am captured or detained, i do not expect to tarry anywhere until i reach the court of king arthur, whom i hope to find either at robais or carduel." to which guivret makes prompt reply, "sire, you shall not go off alone! for i myself shall go with you and shall take companions with us, if it be your pleasure." erec accedes to this advice, and says that, in accordance with his plans, he wishes the journey to be begun. that night they make preparations for their journey, not wishing to delay there longer. they all make ready and prepare. in the early morning, when they awake, the saddles are placed upon the steeds. before he leaves, erec goes to bid farewell to the damsels in their rooms; and enide (who was glad and full of joy) thither follows him. when their preparations for departure were made, they took their leave of the damsels. erec, who was very courteous, in taking leave of them, thanks them for his health and life, and pledges to them his service. then he took one of them by the hand she who was the nearer to him and enide took the other's hand: hand in hand they came up from the bedroom into the castle hall. guivret urges them to mount at once without delay. enide thinks the time will never come for them to mount. they bring around to the block for her a good-tempered palfrey, a soft stepper, handsome and well shaped. the palfrey was of fine appearance and a good mount: it was no less valuable than her own which had stayed behind at limors. that other one was dappled, this one was sorrel; but the head was of another colour: it was marked in such a way that one cheek was all white, while the other was raven black. between the two colours there was a line, greener than a grape-vine leaf, which separated the white from the black. of the bridle, breast-strap, and saddle i can surely say that the workmanship was rich and handsome. all the breast-strap and bridle was of gold set with emeralds. the saddle was decorated in another style, covered with a precious purple cloth. the saddle-bows were of ivory, on which was carved the story of how aeneas came from troy, how at carthage with great joy dido received him to her bed, how aeneas deceived her, and how for him she killed herself, how aeneas conquered laurentum and all lombardy, of which he was king all his life. [ ] cunning was the workmanship and well carved, all decorated with fine gold. a skilful craftsman, who made it spent more than seven years in carving it, without touching any other piece of work. i do not know whether he sold it; but he ought to have obtained a good price for it. now that enide was presented with this palfrey, she was well compensated for the loss of her own. the palfrey, thus richly apparelled, was given to her and she mounted it gladly; then the gentlemen and squires quickly mounted too. for their pleasure and sport guivret caused to be taken with them rich falcons, both young and moulted, many a tercel and sparrow-hawk, and many a setter and greyhound. (vv. - .) [ ] they rode straight on from morn till eve more than thirty welsh leagues, and then came to the towers of a stronghold, rich and fair, girt all about with a new wall. and all around, beneath this wall, ran a very deep stream, roaring rushing like a storm. erec stops to look at it, and ask and find out if any one could truly tell him who was the lord of this town. "friend," said he to his kind companion, "could you tell me the name of this town, and whose it is? tell me if it belongs to a count or a king. since you have brought me here, tell me, if you know." "sire," he says, "i know very well, and will tell you the truth about it. the name of the town is brandigant, and it is so strong and fine that it fears neither king nor emperor. if france, and all of england, and all who live from here to liege were ranged about to lay a siege, they would never take it in their lives; for the isle on which the town stands stretches away four leagues or more, and within the enclosure grows all that a rich town needs: fruit and wheat and wine are found; and of wood and water there is no lack. it fears no assault on any side, nor could anything reduce it to starvation. king evrain had it fortified, and he has possessed it all his days unmolested, and will possess it all his life. but not because he feared any one did he thus fortify it; but the town is more pleasing so. for if it had no wall or tower, but only the stream that encircles it, it would still be so secure and strong that it would have no fear of the whole world." "god!" said erec, "what great wealth! let us go and see the fortress, and we shall take lodging in the town, for i wish to stop here." "sire," said the other in great distress, "were it not to disappoint you, we should not stop here. in the town there is a dangerous passage." "dangerous?" says erec; "do you know about it? whatever it be, tell us about it; for very gladly would i know." "sire," says he, "i should fear that you might suffer some harm there. i know there is so much boldness and excellence in your heart that, were i to tell you what i know of the perilous and hard adventure, you would wish to enter in. i have often heard the story, and more than seven years have passed since any one that went in quest of the adventure has come back from the town; yet, proud, bold knights have come hither from many a land. sire, do not treat this as a jest: for you will never learn the secret from me until you shall have promised me, by the love you have sworn to me, that never by you will be undertaken this adventure, from which no one escapes without receiving shame or death." (vv. - .) now erec hears what pleases him, and begs guivret not to be grieved, saying: "ah, fair sweet friend, permit that our lodging be made in the town, and do not be disturbed. it is time to halt for the night, and so i trust that it will not displease you; for if any honour comes to us here you ought to be very glad. i appeal to you conceding the adventure that you tell me just the name of it, and i'll not insist upon the rest." "sire." he says, "i cannot be silent and refuse the information you desire. the name is very fair to say, but the execution is very hard: for no one can come from it alive. the adventure, upon my word, is called 'the joy of the court.'" "god! there can be nothing but good in joy," says erec; "i go to seek it. don't go now and discourage me about this or anything else, fair gentle friend; but let us have our lodgings taken, for great good may come to us of this. nothing could restrain me from going to seek the joy." "sire," says he, "god grant your prayer, that you may find joy and return without mishap. i clearly see that we must go in. since otherwise it may not be, let us go in. our lodging is secured; for no knight of high degree, as i have heard it said and told, can enter this castle with intent to lodge here but that king evrain offers to shelter him. so gentle and courteous is the king that he has given notice to all his townsmen, appealing to their love for him, that any gentleman from afar should not find lodging in their houses, so that he himself may do honour to all gentlemen who may wish to tarry here." (vv. - .) [ ] thus they proceed toward the castle, passing the list and the drawbridge; and when they passed the listing-place, the people who were gathered in the streets in crowds see erec in all his beauty, and apparently they think and believe that all the others are in his train. marvelling much, they stare at him; the whole town was stirred and moved, as they take counsel and discuss about him. even the maidens at their song leave off their singing and desist, as all together they look at him; and because of his great beauty they cross themselves, and marvellously they pity him. one to another whispers low: "alas! this knight, who is passing, is on his way to the 'joy of the court.' he will be sorry before he returns; no one ever came from another land to claim the 'joy of the court' who did not receive shame and harm, and leave his head there as a forfeit." then, that he may hear their words, they cry-aloud: "god defend thee, knight, from harm; for thou art wondrously handsome, and thy beauty is greatly to be pitied, for to-morrow we shall see it quenched. tomorrow thy death is come; to-morrow thou shalt surely die if god does not guard and defend thee." erec hears and understands that they are speaking of him through the lower town: more than two thousand pitied him; but nothing causes him dismay. he passes on without delay, bowing gaily to men and women alike. and they all salute him too; and most of them swear with anxiety, fearing more than he does himself, for his shame and for his hurt. the mere sight of his countenance, his great beauty and his bearing, has so won to him the hearts of all, that knights, ladies, and maids alike fear his harm. king evrain hears the news that men were arriving at his court who brought with them a numerous train, and by his harness it appeared that their leader was a count or king. king evrain comes down the street to meet them, and saluting them he cries: "welcome to this company, both to the master and all his suite. welcome, gentlemen! dismount." they dismounted, and there were plenty to receive and take their horses. nor was king evrain backward when he saw enide coming; but he straightway saluted her and ran to help her to dismount. taking her white and tender hand, he led her up into the palace, as was required by courtesy, and honoured her in every way he could, for he knew right well what he ought to do, without nonsense and without malice. he ordered a chamber to be scented with incense, myrrh, and aloes. when they entered, they all complimented king evrain on its fine appearance. hand in hand they enter the room, the king escorting them and taking great pleasure in them. but why should i describe to you the paintings and the silken draperies with which the room was decorated? i should only waste time in folly, and i do not wish to waste it, but rather to hasten on a little; for he who travels the straight road passes him who turns aside; therefore i do not wish to tarry. when the time and hour arrived, the king orders supper to be prepared; but i do not wish to stop over that if i can find some more direct way. that night they had in abundance all that heart desires and craves: birds, venison, and fruit, and wines of different sorts. but better than all is a happy cheer! for of all dishes the sweetest is a joyful countenance and a happy face. they were very richly served until erec suddenly left off eating and drinking, and began speaking of what rested most upon his heart: he remembered 'the joy', and began a conversation about it in which king evrain joined. "sire" says he, "it is time now to tell you what i intend, and why i have come here. too long i have refrained from speech, and now can no longer conceal my object. i ask you for 'the joy' of the court, for i covet nothing else so much. grant it to me, whatever it be, if you are in control of it." "in truth, fair friend." the king replies, "i hear you speak great nonsense. this is a very parlous thing, which has caused sorrow to many a worthy man; you yourself will eventually be killed and undone if you will not heed my counsel. but if you were willing to take my word, i should advise you to desist from soliciting so grievous a thing in which you would never succeed. speak of it no more! hold your peace! it would be imprudent on your part not to follow my advice. i am not at all surprised that you desire honour and fame; but if i should see you harmed or injured in your body i should be distressed at heart. and know well that i have seen many a man ruined who solicited this joy. they were never any the better for it, but rather did they all die and perish. before to-morrow's evening come you may expect a like reward. if you wish to strive for the joy, you shall do so, though it grieve me sore. it is something from which you are free to retreat and draw back if you wish to work your welfare. therefore i tell you, for i should commit treachery and do you wrong were i not to tell you all the truth." erec hears him and admits that the king with reason counsels him. but the greater the wonder and the more perilous the adventure, the more he covets it and yearns for it, saying: "sire, i can tell you that i find you a worthy and a loyal man, and i can put no blame on you. i wish to undertake this boon, however it may fall out with me. the die is cast, for i shall never draw back from anything i have undertaken without exerting all my strength before i quit the field." "i know that well," the king replied; "you are acting against my will. you shall have the joy which you desire. but i am in great despair; for i greatly fear you will be undone. but now be assured that you shall have what you desire. if you come out of it happily, you will have won such great honour that never did man win greater; and may god, as i desire, grant you a joyous deliverance." (vv. - .) all that night they talked of it, until the beds were prepared and they went to rest. in the morning, when it was daylight, erec, who was on the watch, saw the clear dawn and the sun, and quickly rising, clothed himself. enide again is in distress, very sad and ill at ease; all night she is greatly disquieted with the solicitude and fear which she felt for her lord, who is about to expose himself to great peril. but nevertheless he equips himself, for no one can make him change his mind. for his equipment the king sent him, when he arose, arms which he put to good use. erec did not refuse them, for his own were worn and impaired and in bad state. he gladly accepted the arms and had himself equipped with them in the hall. when he was armed, he descends the steps and finds his horse saddled and the king who had mounted. every one in the castle and in the houses of the town hastened to mount. in all the town there remained neither man nor woman, erect or deformed, great or small, weak or strong, who is able to go and does not do so. when they start, there is a great noise and clamour in all the streets; for those of high and low degree alike cry out: "alas, alas! oh knight, the joy that thou wishest to win has betrayed thee, and thou goest to win but grief and death." and there is not one but says: "god curse this joy! which has been the death of so many gentlemen. to-day it will wreak the worst woe that it has ever yet wrought." erec hears well and notes that up and down they said of him: "alas, alas, ill-starred wert thou, fair, gentle, skilful knight! surely it would not be just that thy life should end so soon, or that harm should come to wound and injure thee." he hears clearly the words and what they said; but notwithstanding, he passes on without lowering his head, and without the bearing of a craven. whoever may speak, he longs to see and know and understand why they are all in such distress, anxiety, and woe. the king leads him without the town into a garden that stood near by; and all the people follow after, praying that from this trial god may grant him a happy issue. but it is not meet that i should pass on, from weariness and exhaustion of tongue, without telling you the whole truth about the garden, according as the story runs. (vv. - .) [ ] the garden had around it no wall or fence except of air: yet, by a spell, the garden was on all sides so shut in by the air that nothing could enter there any more than if the garden were enclosed in iron, unless it flew in over the top. and all through the summer and the winter, too, there were flowers and ripe fruits there; and the fruit was of such a nature that it could be eaten inside; the danger consisted in carrying it out; for whoever should wish to carry out a little would never be able to find the gate, and never could issue from the garden until he had restored the fruit to its place. and there is no flying bird under heaven, pleasing to man, but it sings there to delight and to gladden him, and can be heard there in numbers of every kind. and the earth, however far it stretch, bears no spice or root of use in making medicine, but it had been planted there, and was to be found in abundance. through a narrow entrance the people entered--king evrain and all the rest. erec went riding, lance in rest, into the middle of the garden, greatly delighting in the song of the birds which were singing there; they put him in mind of his joy the thing he most was longing for. but he saw a wondrous thing, which might arouse fear in the bravest warrior of all whom we know, be it thiebaut the esclavon, [ ] or ospinel, or fernagu. for before them, on sharpened stakes, there stood bright and shining helmets, and each one had beneath the rim a man's head. but at the end there stood a stake where as yet there was nothing but a horn. [ ] he knows not what this signifies, yet draws not back a step for that; rather does he ask the king, who was beside him at the right, what this can be. the king speaks and explains to him: "friend," he says, "do you know the meaning of this thing that you see here? you must be in great terror of it, if you care at all for your own body; for this single stake which stands apart, where you see this horn hung up, has been waiting a very long time, but we know not for whom, whether for you or someone else. take care lest thy head be set up there; for such is the purpose of the stake. i had warned you well of that before you came here. i do not expect that you will escape hence, but that you will be killed and rent apart. for this much we know, that the stake awaits your head. and if it turns out that it be placed there, as the matter stands agreed, as soon as thy head is fixed upon it another stake will be set up beside it which will await the arrival of some one else--i know not when or whom. i will tell you nothing of the horn; but never has any one been able to blow it. [ ] however, he who shall succeed in blowing it his fame and honour will grow until it distance all those of his country, and he shall find such renown that all will come to do him honour, and will hold him to be the best of them all. now there is no more of this matter. have your men withdraw; for 'the joy' will soon arrive, and will make you sorry, i suspect." (vv. - .) meanwhile king evrain leaves his side, and erec stoops over before enide, whose heart was in great distress, although she held her peace; for grief on lips is of no account unless it also touch the heart. and he who well knew her heart, said to her: "fair sister dear, gentle, loyal, and prudent lady, i am acquainted with your thoughts. you are in fear, i see that well, and yet you do not know for what; but there is no reason for your dismay until you shall see that my shield is shattered and that my body is wounded, and until you see the meshes of my bright hauberk covered with blood, and my helmet broken and smashed, and me defeated and weary, so that i can no longer defend myself, but must beg and sue for mercy against my will; then you may lament, but now you have begun too soon. gentle lady, as yet you know not what this is to be; no more do i. you are troubled without cause. but know this truly: if there were in me only so much courage as your love inspires, truly i should not fear to face any man alive. but i am foolish to vaunt myself; yet i say it not from any pride, but because i wish to comfort you. so comfort yourself, and let it be! i cannot longer tarry here, nor can you go along with me; for, as the king has ordered, i must not take you beyond this point." then he kisses her and commends her to god, and she him. but she is much chagrined that she cannot follow and escort him, until she may learn and see what this adventure is to be, and how he will conduct himself. but since she must stay behind and cannot follow him, she remains sorrowful and grieving. and he went off alone down a path, without companion of any sort, until he came to a silver couch with a cover of gold-embroidered cloth, beneath the shade of a sycamore; and on the bed a maiden of comely body and lovely face, completely endowed with all beauty, was seated all alone. i intended to say no more of her; but whoever could consider well all her attire and her beauty might well say that never did lavinia of laurentum, who was so fair and comely, possess the quarter of her beauty. erec draws near to her, wishing to see her more closely, and the onlookers go and sit down under the trees in the orchard. then behold, there comes a knight armed with vermilion arms, and he was wondrous tall; and if he were not so immeasurably tall, under the heavens there would be none fairer than he; but, as every one averred, he was a foot taller than any knight he knew. before erec caught sight of him, he cried out: "vassal, vassal! you are mad, upon my life, thus to approach my damsel. i should say you are not worthy to draw near her. you will pay dearly for your presumption, by my head! stand back!" and erec stops and looks at him, and the other, too, stood still. neither made advance until erec had replied all that he wished to say to him. "friend," he says, "one can speak folly as well as good sense. threaten as much as you please, and i will keep silence; for in threatening there is no sense. do you know why? a man sometimes thinks he has won the game who afterward loses it. so he is manifestly a fool who is too presumptuous and who threatens too much. if there are some who flee there are plenty who chase, but i do not fear you so much that i am going to run away yet. i am ready to make such defence, if there is any who wishes to offer me battle, that he will have to do his uttermost, or otherwise he cannot escape." "nay," quoth he, "so help me god! know that you shall have the battle, for i defy and challenge you." and you may know, upon my word, that then the reins were not held in. the lances they had were not light, but were big and square; nor were they planed smooth, but were rough and strong. upon the shields with mighty strength they smote each other with their sharp weapons, so that a fathom of each lance passes through the gleaming shields. but neither touches the other's flesh, nor was either lance cracked; each one, as quickly as he could, draws back his lance, and both rushing together, return to the fray. one against the other rides, and so fiercely they smite each other that both lances break and the horses fall beneath them. but they, being seated on their steeds, sustain no harm; so they quickly rise, for they were strong and lithe. they stand on foot in the middle of the garden, and straightway attack each other with their green swords of german steel, and deal great wicked blows upon their bright and gleaming helmets, so that they hew them into bits, and their eyes shoot out flame. no greater efforts can be made than those they make in striving and toiling to injure and wound each other. both fiercely smite with the gilded pommel and the cutting edge. such havoc did they inflict upon each other's teeth, cheeks, nose, hands, arms, and the rest, upon temples, neck, and throat that their bones all ache. they are very sore and very tired; yet they do not desist, but rather only strive the more. sweat, and the blood which flows down with it, dim their eyes, so that they can hardly see a thing; and very often they missed their blows, like men who did not see to wield their swords upon each other. they can scarcely harm each other now; yet, they do not desist at all from exercising all their strength. because their eyes are so blinded that they completely lose their sight, they let their shields fall to the ground, and seize each other angrily. each pulls and drags the other, so that they fall upon their knees. thus, long they fight until the hour of noon is past, and the big knight is so exhausted that his breath quite fails him. erec has him at his mercy, and pulls and drags so that he breaks all the lacing of his helmet, and forces him over at his feet. he falls over upon his face against erec's breast, and has not strength to rise again. though it distresses him, he has to say and own: "i cannot deny it, you have beaten me; but much it goes against my will. and yet you may be of such degree and fame that only credit will redound to me; and insistently i would request, if it may be in any way, that i might know your name, and he thereby somewhat comforted. if a better man has defeated me, i shall be glad, i promise you; but if it has so fallen out that a baser man than i has worsted me, then i must feel great grief indeed." "friend, dost thou wish to know my name?" says erec; "well, i shall tell thee ere i leave here; but it will be upon condition that thou tell me now why thou art in this garden. concerning that i will know all what is thy name and what the joy; for i am very anxious to hear the truth from beginning to end of it." "sire," says he, "fearlessly i will tell you all you wish to know." erec no more withholds his name, but says: "didst thou ever hear of king lac and of his son erec?" "yea, sire, i knew him well; for i was at his father's court for many a day before i was knighted, and, if he had had his will, i should never have left him for anything." "then thou oughtest to know me well, if thou weft ever with me at the court of my father, the king." "then, upon my faith, it has turned out well. now hear who has detained me so long in this garden. i will tell the truth in accordance with your injunction, whatever it may cost me. that damsel who yonder sits, loved me from childhood and i loved her. it pleased us both, and our love grew and increased, until she asked a boon of me, but did not tell me what it was. who would deny his mistress aught? there is no lover but would surely do all his sweet-heart's pleasure without default or guile, whenever he can in any way. i agreed to her desire; but when i had agreed, she would have it, too, that i should swear. i would have done more than that for her, but she took me at my word. i made her a promise, without knowing what. time passed until i was made a knight. king evrain, whose nephew i am, dubbed me a knight in the presence of many honourable men in this very garden where we are. my lady, who is sitting there, at once recalled to me my word, and said that i had promised her that i would never go forth from here until there should come some knight who should conquer me by trial of arms. it was right that i should remain, for rather than break my word, i should never have pledged it. since i knew the good there was in her, i could nor reveal or show to the one whom i hold most dear that in all this i was displeased; for if she had noticed it, she would have withdrawn her heart, and i would not have had it so for anything that might happen. thus my lady thought to detain me here for a long stay; she did not think that there would ever enter this garden any vassal who could conquer me. in this way she intended to keep me absolutely shut up with her all the days of my life. and i should have committed an offence if i had had resort to guile and not defeated all those against whom i could prevail; such escape would have been a shame. and i dare to assure you that i have no friend so dear that i would have feigned at all in fighting with him. never did i weary of arms, nor did i ever refuse to fight. you have surely seen the helmets of those whom i have defeated and put to death; but the guilt of it is not mine, when one considers it aright. i could not help myself, unless i were willing to be false and recreant and disloyal. now i have told you the truth, and be assured that it is no small honour which you have gained. you have given great joy to the court of my uncle and my friends; for now i shall be released from here; and because all those who are at the court will have joy of it, therefore those who awaited the joy called it 'joy of the court'. they have awaited it so long that now it will be granted them by you who have won it by your fight. you have defeated and bewitched my prowess and my chivalry. now it is right that i tell you my name, if you would know it. i am called mabonagrain; but i am not remembered by that name in any land where i have been, save only in this region; for never, when i was a squire, did i tell or make known my name. sire, you knew the truth concerning all that you asked me. but i must still tell you that there is in this garden a horn which i doubt not you have seen. i cannot issue forth from here until you have blown the horn; but then you will have released me, and then the joy will begin. whoever shall hear and give it heed no hindrance will detain him, when he shall hear the sound of the horn, from coming straight-way to the court. rise up, sire! go quickly now! go take the horn right joyfully; for you have no further cause to wait; so do that which you must do." now erec rose, and the other rises with him, and both approach the horn. erec takes it and blows it, putting into it all his strength, so that the sound of it reaches far. greatly did enide rejoice when she heard the note, and guivret was greatly delighted too. the king is glad, and so are his people; there is not one who is not well suited and pleased at this. no one ceases or leaves off from making merry and from song. erec could boast that day, for never was such rejoicing made; it could not be described or related by mouth of man, but i will tell you the sum of it briefly and with few words. the news spreads through the country that thus the affair has turned out. then there was no holding back from coming to the court. all the people hasten thither in confusion, some on foot and some on horse, without waiting for each other. and those who were in the garden hastened to remove erec's arms, and in emulation they all sang a song about the joy; and the ladies made up a lay which they called 'the lay of joy', [ ] but the lay is not well known. erec was well sated with joy and well served to his heart's desire; but she who sat on the silver couch was not a bit pleased. the joy which she saw was not at all to her taste. but many people have to keep still and look on at what gives them pain. enide acted graciously; because she saw her sitting pensive, alone on the couch, she felt moved to go and speak with her and tell her about her affairs and about herself, and to strive, if possible, to make her tell in return about herself, if it did not cause her too great distress. enide thought to go alone, wishing to take no one with her, but some of the most noble and fairest dames and damsels followed her out of affection to bear her company, and also to comfort her to whom the joy brings great chagrin; for she assumed that now her lover would be no longer with her so much as he had been, inasmuch as he desired to leave the garden. however disappointing it may be, no one can prevent his going away, for the hour and the time have come. therefore the tears ran down her face from her eyes. much more than i can say was she grieving and distressed; nevertheless she sat up straight. but she does not care so much for any of those who try to comfort her that she ceases her moan. enide salutes her kindly; but for a while the other could not reply a word, being prevented by the sighs and sobs which torment and distress her. some time it was before the damsel returned her salutation, and when she had looked at her and examined her for a while, it seemed that she had seen and known her before. but not being very certain of it, she was not slow to inquire from whence she was, of what country, and where her lord was born; she inquires who they both are. enide replies briefly and tells her the truth, saying: "i am the niece of the count who holds sway over lalut, the daughter of his own sister; at lalut i was born and brought up." the other cannot help smiling, without hearing more, for she is so delighted that she forgets her sorrow. her heart leaps with joy which she cannot conceal. she runs and embraces enide, saying: "i am your cousin! this is the very truth, and you are my father's niece; for he and your father are brothers. but i suspect that you do not know and have never heard how i came into this country. the count, your uncle, was at war, and to him there came to fight for pay knights of many lands. thus, fair cousin, it came about, that with these hireling knights there came one who was the nephew of the king of brandigan. he was with my father almost a year. that was, i think, twelve years ago, and i was still but a little child. he was very handsome and attractive. there we had an understanding between us that pleased us both. i never had any wish but his, until at last he began to love me and promised and swore to me that he would always be my lover, and that he would bring me here; that pleased us both alike. he could not wait, and i was longing to come hither with him; so we both came away, and no one knew of it but ourselves. in those days you and i were both young and little girls. i have told you the truth; so now tell me in turn, as i have told you, all about your lover, and by what adventure he won you." "fair cousin, he married me in such a way that my father knew all about it, and my mother was greatly pleased. all our relatives knew it and rejoiced over it, as they should do. even the count was glad. for he is so good a knight that better cannot be found, and he does not need to prove his honour and knighthood, and he is of very gentle birth: i do not think that any can be his equal. he loves me much, and i love him more, and our love cannot be greater. never yet could i withhold my love from him, nor should i do so. for is not my lord the son of a king? for did he not take me when i was poor and naked? through him has such honour come to me that never was any such vouchsafed to a poor helpless girl. and if it please you, i will tell you without lying how i came to be thus raised up; for never will i be slow to tell the story." then she told and related to her how erec came to lalut; for she had no desire to conceal it. she told her the adventure word for word, without omission. but i pass over it now, because he who tells a story twice makes his tale now tiresome. while they were thus conversing, one lady slipped away alone, who sent and told it all to the gentlemen, in order to increase and heighten their pleasure too. all those who heard it rejoiced at this news. and when mabonagrain knew it he was delighted for his sweetheart because now she was comforted. and she who bore them quickly the news made them all happy in a short space. even the king was glad for it; although he was very happy before, yet now he is still happier, and shows erec great honour. enide leads away her fair cousin, fairer than helen, more graceful and charming. now erec and mabonagrain, guivret and king evrain, and all the others run to meet them and salute them and do them honour, for no one is grudging or holds back. mabonagrain makes much of enide, and she of him. erec and guivret, for their part, rejoice over the damsel as they all kiss and embrace each other. they propose to return to the castle, for they have stayed too long in the garden. they are all prepared to go out; so they sally forth joyfully, kissing each other on the way. all go out after the king, but before they reached the castle, the nobles were assembled from all the country around, and all those who knew of the joy, and who could do so, came hither. great was the gathering and the press. every one, high and low, rich and poor, strives to see erec. each thrusts himself before the other, and they all salute him and bow before him, saying constantly: "may god save him through whom joy and gladness come to our court! god save the most blessed man whom god has ever brought into being!" thus they bring him to the court, and strive to show their glee as their hearts dictate. breton zithers, harps, and viols sound, fiddles, psalteries, and other stringed instruments, and all kinds of music that one could name or mention. but i wish to conclude the matter briefly without too long delay. the king honours him to the extent of his power, as do all the others ungrudgingly. there is no one who does not gladly offer to do his service. three whole days the joy lasted, before erec could get away. on the fourth he would no longer tarry for any reason they could urge. there was a great crowd to accompany him and a very great press when it came to taking leave. if he had wished to reply to each one, he would not have been able in half a day to return the salutations individually. the nobles he salutes and embraces; the others he commends to god in a word, and salutes them. enide, for her part, is not silent when she takes leave of the nobles. she salutes them all by name, and they in turn do the like. before she goes, she kisses her cousin very tenderly and embraces her. then they go and the joy is over. (vv. - .) they go off and the others return. erec and guivret do not tarry, but keep joyfully on their way, until they came in nine days to robais, where they were told the king was. the day before he had been bled privately in his apartments; with him he had only five hundred nobles of his household. never before at any time was the king found so alone, and he was much distressed that he had no more numerous suite at his court. at that time a messenger comes running, whom they had sent ahead to apprise the king of their approach. this man came in before the assembly, found the king and all his people, and saluting him correctly, said: "i am a messenger of erec and of guivret the little." then he told him how they were coming to see him at his court. the king replies: "let them be welcome, as valiant and gallant gentlemen! nowhere do i know of any better than they two. by their presence my court will be much enhanced." then he sent for the queen and told her the news. the others have their horses saddled to go and meet the gentlemen. in such haste are they to mount that they did not put on their spurs. i ought to state briefly that the crowd of common people, including squires, cooks, and butlers, had already entered the town to prepare for the lodgings. the main party came after, and had already drawn so near that they had entered the town. now the two parties have met each other, and salute and kiss each other. they come to the lodgings and make themselves comfortable, removing their hose and making their toilet by donning their rich robes. when they were completely decked out, they took their way to the court. they come to court, where the king sees them, and the queen, who is beside herself with impatience to see erec and enide. the king makes them take seats beside him, kisses erec and guivret; about enide's neck he throws his arms and kisses her repeatedly, in his great joy. nor is the queen slow in embracing erec and enide. one might well rejoice to see her now so full of joy. every one enters with spirit into the merry-making. then the king causes silence to be made, and appeals to erec and asks news of his adventures. when the noise had ceased, erec began his story, telling him of his adventures, without forgetting any detail. do you think now that i shall tell you what motive he had had in starting out? nay, for you know the whole truth about this and the rest, as i have revealed it to you. to tell the story again would burden me; for the tale is not short, that any one should wish to begin it afresh and re-embelish it, as he told and related it: of the three knights whom he defeated, and then of the five, and then of the count who strove to do him harm, and then of the two giants--all in order, one after the other, he told him of his adventures up to the point where he met count oringle of limors. "many a danger have you gone through, fair gentle friend," said the king to him; "now tarry in this country at my court, as you are wont to do." "sire, since you wish it, i shall remain very gladly three or four years entire. but ask guivret to remain here too a request in which i would fain join." the king prays him to remain, and he consents to stay. so they both stay: the king kept them with him, and held them dear and honoured them. (vv. - .) erec stayed at court, together with guivret and enide, until the death of his father, the king, who was an old man and full of years. the messengers then started out: the nobles who went to seek him, and who were the greatest men of the land, sought and searched for him until they found him at tintagel three weeks before christmas; they told him the truth what had happened to his old, white-haired father, and how he now was dead and gone. this grieved erec much more than he showed before the people. but sorrow is not seemly in a king, nor does it become a king to mourn. there at tintagel where he was, he caused vigils for the dead and masses to be sung; he promised and kept his promises, as he had vowed to the religious houses and churches; he did well all that he ought to do: he chose out more than one hundred and sixty-nine of the wretched poor, and clothed them all in new garments. to the poor clerks and priors he gave, as was right, black copes and warm linings to wear beneath. for god's sake he did great good to all: to those who were in need he distributed more than a barrel of small coins. when he had shared his wealth, he then did a very wise thing in receiving his land from the king's hand; and then he begged the king to crown him at his court. the king bade him quickly be prepared; for they shall both be crowned, he together with his wife, at the approaching christmastide; and he added: "you must go hence to nantes in brittany; there you shall carry a royal ensign with crown on head and sceptre in hand; this gift and privilege i bestow upon you." erec thanked the king, and said that that was a noble gift. at christmas the king assembles all his nobles, summoning them individually and commanding them to come to nantes. he summoned them all, and none stayed behind. erec, too, sent word to many of his followers, and summoned them to come thither; but more came than he had bidden, to serve him and do him honour. i cannot tell you or relate who each one was, and what his name; but whoever came or did not come, the father and mother of my lady enide were not forgotten. her father was sent for first of all, and he came to court in handsome style, like a great lord and a chatelain. there was no great crowd of chaplains or of silly, gaping yokels, but of excellent knights and of people well equipped. each day they made a long day's journey, and rode on each day with great joy and great display, until on christmas eve they came to the city of nantes. they made no halt until they entered the great hall where the king and his courtiers were. erec and enide see them, and you may know how glad they were. to meet them they quickly make their way, and salute and embrace them, speaking to them tenderly and showing their delight as they should. when they had rejoiced together, taking each other by the hand, they all four came before the king, saluting him and likewise the queen, who was sitting by his side. taking his host by the hand, erec said: "sire, behold my good host, my kind friend, who did me such honour that he made me master in his own house. before he knew anything about me, he lodged me well and handsomely. all that he had he made over to me, and even his daughter he bestowed upon me, without the advice or counsel of any one." "and this lady with him," the king inquires, "who is she?" erec does not conceal the truth: "sire," says he, "of this lady i may say that she is the mother of my wife." "is she her mother?" "yes, truly, sire." "certainly, i may then well say that fair and comely should be the flower born of so fair a stem, and better the fruit one picks; for sweet is the smell of what springs from good. fair is enide and fair she should be in all reason and by right; for her mother is a very handsome lady, and her father is a goodly knight. nor does she in aught belie them; for she descends and inherits directly from them both in many respects." then the king ceases and sits down, bidding them be seated too. they do not disobey his command, but straightway take seats. now is enide filled with joy when she sees her father and mother, for a very long time had passed since she had seen them. her happiness now is greatly increased, for she was delighted and happy, and she showed it all she could, but she could not make such demonstration but that her joy was yet greater. but i wish to say no more of that, for my heart draws me toward the court which was now assembled in force. from many a different country there were counts and dukes and kings, normans, bretons. scotch, and irish: from england and cornwall there was a very rich gathering of nobles; for from wales to anjou, in maine and in poitou, there was no knight of importance, nor lady of quality, but the best and the most elegant were at the court at nantes, as the king had bidden them. now hear, if you will, the great joy and grandeur, the display and the wealth, that was exhibited at the court. before the hour of nones had sounded, king arthur dubbed four hundred knights or more all sons of counts and of kings. to each one he gave three horses and two pairs of suits, in order that his court may make a better showing. puissant and lavish was the king; for the mantles he bestowed were not of serge, nor of rabbit-skins, nor of cheap brown fur, but of heavy silk and ermine, of spotted fur and flowered silks, bordered with heavy and stiff gold braid. alexander, who conquered so much that he subdued the whole world, and who was so lavish and rich, compared with him was poor and mean. caesar, the emperor of rome, and all the kings whose names you hear in stories and in epic songs, did not distribute at any feast so much as arthur gave on the day that he crowned erec; nor would caesar and alexander dare to spend so much as he spent at the court. the raiment was taken from the chests and spread about freely through the halls; one could take what he would, without restraint. in the midst of the court, upon a rug, stood thirty bushels of bright sterlings; [ ] for since the time of merlin until that day sterlings had currency throughout britain. there all helped themselves, each one carrying away that night all that he wanted to his lodging-place. at nine o'clock on christmas day, all came together again at court. the great joy that is drawing near for him had completely filched erec's heart away. the tongue and the mouth of no man, however skilful, could describe the third, or the fourth, or the fifth part of the display which marked his coronation. so it is a mad enterprise i undertake in wishing to attempt to describe it. but since i must make the effort, come what may, i shall not fail to relate a part of it, as best i may. (vv. - .) the king had two thrones of white ivory, well constructed and new, of one pattern and style. he who made them beyond a doubt was a very skilled and cunning craftsman. for so precisely did he make the two alike in height, in breadth, and in ornamentation, that you could nor look at them from every side to distinguish one from the other and find in one aught that was not in the other. there was no part of wood, but all of gold and fine ivory. well were they carved with great skill, for the two corresponding sides of each bore the representation of a leopard, and the other two a dragon's shape. a knight named bruiant of the isles had made a gift and present of them to king arthur and the queen. king arthur sat upon the one, and upon the other he made erec sit, who was robed in watered silk. as we read in the story, we find the description of the robe, and in order that no one may say that i lie, i quote as my authority macrobius, [ ] who devoted himself to the description of it. macrobius instructs me how to describe, according as i have found it in the book, the workmanship and the figures of the cloth. four fairies had made it with great skill and mastery. [ ] one represented there geometry, how it estimates and measures the extent of the heavens and the earth, so that nothing is lacking there; and then the depth and the height, and the width, and the length; then it estimates, besides, how broad and deep the sea is, and thus measures the whole world. such was the work of the first fairy. and the second devoted her effort to the portrayal of arithmetic, and she strove hard to represent clearly how it wisely enumerates the days and the hours of time, and the water of the sea drop by drop, and then all the sand, and the stars one by one, knowing well how to tell the truth, and how many leaves there are in the woods: such is the skill of arithmetic that numbers have never deceived her, nor will she ever be in error when she wishes to apply her sense to them. the third design was that of music, with which all merriment finds itself in accord, songs and harmonies, and sounds of string: of harp, of breton violin, and of viol. this piece of work was good and fine; for upon it were portrayed all the instruments and all the pastimes. the fourth, who next performed her task, executed a most excellent work; for the best of the arts she there portrayed. she undertook astronomy, which accomplishes so many marvels and draws inspiration from the stars, the moon, and the sun. nowhere else does it seek counsel concerning aught which it has to do. they give it good and sure advice. concerning whatever inquiry it make of them, whether in the past or in the future, they give it information without falsehood and without deception. this work was portrayed on the stuff of which erec's robe was made, all worked and woven with thread of gold. the fur lining that was sewed within, belonged to some strange beasts whose heads are all white, and whose necks are as black as mulberries, and which have red backs and green bellies, and dark blue tail. these beasts live in india and they are called "barbiolets". they eat nothing but spices, cinnamon, and fresh cloves. what shall i tell you of the mantle? it was very rich and fine and handsome; it had four stones in the tassels--two chrysolites on one side, and two amethysts on the other, which were mounted in gold. (vv. - .) as yet enide had not come to the palace. when the king sees that she delays, he bids gawain go quickly to bring her and the queen. gawain hastens and was not slow, and with him king cadoalant and the generous king of galloway. guivret the little accompanies them, followed by yder the son of nut. so many of the other nobles ran thither to escort the two ladies that they would have sufficed to overcome a host; for there were more than a thousand of them. the queen had made her best effort to adorn enide. into the palace they brought her the courteous gawain escorting her on one side, and on the other the generous king of galloway, who loved her dearly on account of erec who was his nephew. when they came to the palace, king arthur came quickly toward them, and courteously seated enide beside erec; for he wished to do her great honour. now he orders to be brought forth from his treasure two massive crowns of fine gold. as soon as he had spoken and given the command, without delay the crowns were brought before him, all sparkling with carbuncles, of which there were four in each. the light of the moon is nothing compared with the light which the least of the carbuncles could shed. because of the radiance which they shed, all those who were in the palace were so dazzled that for a moment they could see nothing; and even the king was amazed, and yet filled with satisfaction, when he saw them to be so clear and bright. he had one of them held by two damsels, and the other by two gentlemen. then he bade the bishops and priors and the abbots of the church step forward and anoint the new king, as the christian practice is. now all the prelates, young and old, came forward; for at the court there were a great number of bishops and abbots. the bishop of nantes himself, who was a very worthy and saintly man, anointed the new king in a very holy and becoming manner, and placed the crown upon his head. king arthur had a sceptre brought which was very fine. listen to the description of the sceptre, which was clearer than a pane of glass, all of one solid emerald, fully as large as your fist. i dare to tell you in very truth that in all the world there is no manner of fish, or of wild behest, or of man, or of flying bird that was not worked and chiselled upon it with its proper figure. the sceptre was handed to the king, who looked at it with amazement; then he put it without delay into king erec's right hand; and now he was king as he ought to be. then he crowned enide in turn. now the bells ring for mass, and they go to the main church to hear the mass and service; they go to pray at the cathedral. you would have seen weeping with joy the father of queen enide and her mother, carsenefide. in truth this was her mother's name, and her father's name was liconal. very happy were they both. when they came to the cathedral, the procession came out from the church with relics and treasures to meet them. crosses and prayerbooks and censers and reliquaries, with all the holy relics, of which there were many in the church, were all brought out to meet them; nor was there any lack of chants made. never were seen so many kings, counts, dukes, and nobles together at a mass, and the press was so great and thick that the church was completely filled. no low-born man could enter there, but only ladies and knights. outside the door of the church a great number still remained, so many were there come together who could not get inside the church. when they had heard all the mass they returned to the palace. it was all prepared and decorated: tables set and cloths spread five hundred tables and more were there; but i do not wish to make you believe a thing which does not seem true. it would seem too great a lie were i to say that five hundred tables were set in rows in one palace, so i will not say it; rather were there five hails so filled with them that with great difficulty could one make his way among the tables. at each table there was in truth a king or a duke or a count; and full a hundred knights were seated at each table. a thousand knights served the bread, and a thousand served the wine, and a thousand the meat--all of them dressed in fresh fur robes of ermine. all are served with divers dishes. even if i did not see them, i might still be able to tell you about them; but i must attend to something else than to tell you what they had to eat. they had enough, without wanting more; joyfully and liberally they were served to their heart's desire. (vv. - .) when this celebration was concluded, the king dismissed the assemblage of kings, dukes, and counts, of which the number was immense, and of the other humble folk who had come to the festival. he rewarded them liberally with horses, arms and silver, cloths and brocades of many kinds, because of his generosity, and because of erec whom he loved so much. here the story ends at last. ----endnotes: erec et enide note: endnotes supplied by prof. foerster are indicated by "(f.)"; all other endnotes are supplied by w.w. comfort. [footnote : a welsh version, "geraint the son of erbin", included in lady charlotte guest's translation of "the mabinogion" (london, - ; a modern edition will be found in everyman library, london, ), tells the same story as "erec et enide" with some variations. this welsh version has also been translated into modern french by j. loth ("les mabinogion", paris, ), where it may be consulted with the greatest confidence. the relation of the welsh prose to the french poem is a moot point. cf. e. philipot in "romania", xxv. - , and earlier, k. othmer, "ueber das verhaltnis chrestiens erec und enide zu dem mabinogion des rothen buch von hergest" (koln, ); g. paris in "romania", xix. , and id. xx. - .] [footnote : we frequently read in the romances of a hunt at easter (f.). as here, so in "fergus" (ed. martin, halle, ), p. f., the knights hunt a white stag, which perceval finally slays, but there is no mention of the ceremony of the bestowal of a kiss.] [footnote : chretien nowhere gives any description of the nature of the round table. with him, it is an institution. layamon in "brut" and wace in "le roman de brut" are more specific in their accounts of this remarkable piece of furniture. from their descriptions, and from other sources in welsh and irish literature, it is reasonable to suppose that the round table had a place in primitive celtic folk-lore. cf. l.f. mott, "the round table" in "pub. of the modern language association of america", xx. - ; a.c.l. brown, "the round table before wace" in "harvard studies and notes in philology and literature", vii. - (boston, ); miss j.l weston, "a hitherto unconsidered aspect of the round table" in "melanges de philologie romane offerts a m. wilmotte", ii. - , vols. (paris, ).] [footnote : there exists a romance devoted to yder, of which g. paris printed a resume in "hist. litt. de la france", xxx., and which has been recently edited by heinrich gelzer: "der altfranzosische yderroman" (dresden, ). there are apparently three different knight of this name in the old french romances (f.).] [footnote : the word "chastel" (from "castellum") is usually to be translated as "town" or strong place within fortifications. only where it plainly refers to a detached building will the word "castle" be used.] [footnote : a "tercel" is a species of falcon, of which the male bird is one-third smaller than the female.] [footnote : a "vavasor" (from "vassus vassallorum") was a low order of vassal, but a freeman. the vavasors are spoken of with respect in the old french romances, as being of honourable character, though not of high birth.] [footnote : the numerous references to the story of king mark, tristan, and iseut in the extant poems of chretien support his own statement, made at the outset of "cliges", that he himself composed a poem on the nephew and wife of the king of cornwall. we have fragments of poems on tristan by the anglo-norman poets beroul and thomas, who were contemporaries of chretien. foerster's hypothesis that the lost "tristan" of chretien antedated "erec" is doubtless correct. that the poet later treated of the love of cliges and fenice as a sort of literary atonement for the inevitable moral laxity of tristan and iseut has been held by some, and the theory is acceptable in view of the references to be met later in "cliges". for the contrary opinion of gaston paris see "journal des savants" ( ), p. f.] [footnote : in the mabinogi "geraint the son of erbin", the host explains that he had wrongfully deprived his nephew of his possessions, and that in revenge the nephew had later taken all his uncle's property, including an earldom and this town. see guest, "the mabinogion".] [footnote : the hauberk was a long shirt of mail reaching to the knees, worn by knights in combat. the helmet, and the "coiffe" beneath it, protected the head; the "ventail" of linked meshes was worn across the lower part of the face, and was attached on each side of the neck to the "coiffe", so that it protected the throat; the greaves covered the legs. the body of the knight was thus well protected against blow of sword or lance. cf. vv. f.] [footnote : this passage seems to imply that charms and enchantments were sometimes used when a knight was armed (f.).] [footnote : the "loges", so often mentioned in old french romances, were either window-balconies or architectural points of vantage commanding some pleasing prospect. the conventional translation in the old english romances is "bower".] [footnote : tristan killed morholt, the uncle of iseut, when he came to claim tribute form king mark (cf. bedier, "le roman de tristan", etc., i. f., vols., paris, ). the combat took place on an island, unnamed in the original text (id. i. ), but later identified with st. samson's isle, one of the scilly isles.] [footnote : the same act of feeding a hunting-bird with a plover's wing is mentioned in "le roman de thebes", - (ed. "anciens textes").] [footnote : for such figurative expressions used to complement the negative, cf. gustav dreyling, "die ausdruckweise der ubertriebenen verkleinerung im altfranzosischen karlsepos", in stengel's "ausgaben und abhandlungen", no. (marsburg, ); w.w. comfort in "modern language notes" (baltimore, february ).] [footnote : chretien in his later romances will avoid compiling such a prosaic blue-book as is found in this passage, though similar lists of knights occur in the old english romances as late as malory, though of some of them but little is known. unfortunately, we have for the old french romances no such complete work as that furnished for the epic poems by e. langois, "table des noms propres de toute nature compris dans les chansons de geste" (paris, ).] [footnote : the only mention by chretien of this son of arthur, whose role is absolutely insignificant in the arthurian romances.] [footnote : what was this drinking-cup, and who sent it to arthur? we have "le lai du cor" (ed. wulff, lund, ), which tells how a certain king mangount of moraine sent a magic drinking-cup to arthur. no one could drink of this cup without spilling the contents if he were a cuckold. drinking from this cup was, then, one of the many current tests of chastity. further light may be thrown on the passage in our text by the english poem "the cokwold's daunce" (in c.h. hartshorne's "ancient metrical ballads", london, ), where arthur is described as a cuckold himself and as having always by him a horn (cup) which he delights in trying on his knights as a test of their ladies' chastity. for bibliography see t.p. cross, "notes on the chastity-testing horns and mantle" in "modern philology", x. - .] [footnote : a unique instance of such a division of the material in chretien's poems (f.).] [footnote : outre-gales=estre-gales (v. )=extra-galliam.] [footnote : such fanciful descriptions of men and lands are common in the french epic poems, where they are usually applied to the saracens (f.). cf. w.w. comfort, "the saracens in christian poetry" in "the dublin review", july ; j. malsch, "die charakteristik der volker im altfranzosischen nationalen epos" (heidelberg, ).] [footnote : with what seems to us mistaken taste, chretien frequently thus delays mentioning the name of his leading charecters. the father and mother of enide remain anonymous until the end of this poem. the reader will remark other instances of this peculiarity in "yvain" and "lancelot".] [footnote : the maid brangien was substituted for iseut, the bride, upon the first night after her marriage with mark. similar traditions are associated with the marriage of arthur and guinevere, and of pepin and berte aus grans pies, the parents of charlemagne. adenet le roi toward the end of the th century is the author of the most artistic treatments of berte's history (ed. a. scheler, bruxelles, ). cf. w.w. comfort, "adenet le roi: the end of a literary era" in "the quarterly review", april .] [footnote : the reading "sanson" (=samson) is foerster's most recent ( ) suggestion to replace the word "lion" which stands in all the mss. solomon's name has always been synonymous with wisdom, and alexander's generosity was proverbial in the middle ages. for alexander, cf. paul meyer, "alexandre le grand dans la litterature francaise du moyen age", vols. (paris, ), vol ii., pp. - , and paget toynbee, "dante studies and researches" (london, ), p. .] [footnote : of arthur's several nephews, gawain is represented by chretien as peerless in respect of courage and courtesy. in the english romances his character steadily deteriorates.] [footnote : this sentence contains the motive for all the action in the sequel. the same situation is threatened in "yvain", but there gawain rescues the hero from the lethargy, ignoble in the eyes of a feudal audience, into which he was falling. cf. also "marques de rome" ("lit. verein in stuttgart", tubingen, ), p. , where the empress of rome thus incites her husband to the chase: "toz jors cropez vos a postel; vos n'estes point chevalereus, si come vos deussiez estre, si juenes hom come vos estes"; also j. gower, "le mirour de l'omme, , ff.: "rois est des femmes trop decu, qant plus les ayme que son dieu, dont laist honour pour foldelit: cil rois ne serra pas cremu, q'ensi voet laisser sou escu et querre le bataille ou lit."] [footnote : this brusque command, implying so sudden a change in erec's attitude toward his wife, initiates a long series of tests of enide's devotion, which fill the rest of the romance. why did erec treat his wife with such severity? in the mabinogi of "geraint the son of erbin", it is plain that jealousy was the hero's motive. the reader of "erec" may judge whether, as we believe, the hero's sudden resolve is not rather that of a man piqued at being justly reproved by his wife for a delinquency he had not himself remarked; irate at his wife's imputation, and fearful of having forfeited her respect, he starts out to redeem his reputation in her eyes, and to maker her retract any insinuation she had made. erec is simply angry with himself, but he expends his wrath upon his defenceless wife until he is reassured of her love and respect for him.] [footnote : the situation here is a common one. parallels will be found in the "voyage de charlemagne", in the first tale of the "arabian nights", in the poem "biterolf and dietlieb", and in the english ballad of "king arthur and king cornwall". professor child, in his "english and scotch ballads", indexes the ballads in his collection, which present this motive, under the following caption: "king who regards himself as the richest, most magnificent, etc., in the world, is told that there is one who outstrips him, and undertakes to see for himself whether this is so, threatening death to the person who has affirmed his inferiority in case this is disproved."] [footnote : the presence of the irish in this connection is explained by g. paris in "romania", xx. .] [footnote : kay the seneschal appears here for the first time in chretien's poems with the character which he regularly ascribes to him. readers of arthurian romance are all familiar with sir kay; they will find that in chretien, the seneschal, in addition to his undeniable qualities of bravery and frankness, has less pleasing traits; he is foolhardy, tactless, mean, and a disparager of others' merit. he figures prominently in "yvain" and "lancelot". his poetic history has not yet been written. his role in the german romances has been touched upon by dr. friedrich sachse, "ueber den ritter kei" (berlin, ).] [footnote : no meat was eaten because it was the eve of sunday.] [footnote : in the french epic poems and romances of adventure alike it is customary for giants and all manner of rustic boors to carry clubs, the arms of knighthood being appropriate for such ignoble creatures. other instances of this convention will be remarked in the text.] [footnote : there follows and excellent example of an old french lament for the dead. such a wail was known in old french as a "regret", a word which has lost its specific meaning in english.] [footnote : many examples will be met of women skilled in the practice of medicine and surgery. on the subject, cf. a. hertel, "versauberte oertlichkeiten und gegenstande in der altfranzosschen dichtung" (hanover, ); georg manheimer, "etwas liber die aerzte im alten frankreich" in "romanische forschungen", vi. - .] [footnote : the reference here and in v. is probably suggested by the "roman d'eneas", which tells the same story as virgil's "aeneid", in old french eight-syllable rhymed couplets, and which is dated by the most recent scholarship circ. cf. f.m. warren in "modern philology", iii. - ; iii. - ; iv. - . also m. wilmotte, "l'evolution du roman francais aux environs de " (paris, ). scenes from classical and medieval romance were for a long time favourite subject of portrayal upon cloths and tapestries, as well as of illuminations for manuscripts.] [footnote : various conjectures have been advanced concerning the significance of this strange adventure and its mysterious name "la joie de la cour". it is a quite extraneous episode, and tennyson in his artistic use of our hero and heroine in the idyl of "geraint and enid" did well to omit it. chretien's explanation, a little farther on, of "la joie de la cour" is lame and unsatisfactory, as if he himself did not understand the significance of the matter upon which he was working. cf. e. philipot in "romania", xxv. - ; k. othmer, "ueber das verhaltnis chrestiens erec und enide zu dem mabinogion des rothen buch von hergest" (bonn, ); g. paris in "romania", xx. f.] [footnote : the following description of erec's reception is repeated with variations at the time of yvain's entrance in the "chastel de pesme avanture" ("yvain", f.) (f.).] [footnote : for such conventional mediaeval descriptions of other-world castles, palaces, and landscapes, cf. o.m. johnston in "ztsch fur romanische philologie", xxxii. - .] [footnote : tiebaut li esclavon, frequently mentioned in the epic poems, was a saracen king, the first husband of guibourne, who later married the christian hero guillaume d'orange. opinel was also a saracen, mentioned in "gaufrey", p. , and the hero of a lost epic poem (see g. paris, "historie poetique de charlemagne", p. ). fernagu was another saracen king, killed in a famous encounter by roland, "otinel", p. (f.). for further references to these characters, see e. langlois, "table des noms propres de toute nature compris dans les chansons de geste" (paris, ).] [footnote : there is a similar picket fence topped with helmets in the "las de la mule sanz frain", v. (ed. by r.t. hill, baltimore, ).] [footnote : for such magic horns, cf. a. hertel, "verzauberte oertlichkeiten", etc. (hanover, ).] [footnote : in fact, nothing is known of this "lai", if, indeed, it ever existed. for a recent definition of "lai", se l. foulet in "ztsch. fur romanische philologie", xxxii. f.] [footnote : the sterling was the english silver penny, of which equalled pound sterling of silver of grains fine. it is early described as "denarius angliae qui vocatur sterlingus" ("ency. brit").] [footnote : macrobius was a neoplatonic philosopher and latin grammarian of the early part of the th century a.d. he is best known as the author of the "saturnalia" and of a commentary upon cicero's "somnium scipionis" in that author's "de republica". it is this latter work that is probably in the mind of chretien, as well as of gower, who refers to him in his "mirour l'omme", and of jean de meun, the author of the second part of the "roman de la rose".] [footnote : for fairies and their handiwork in the middle ages, cf. l.f.a. maury, "les fees du moyen age" (paris, ); keightley, "fairy mythology" (london, ); lucy a. paton, "studies in the fairy mythology of arthurian romance", radcliffe monograph (boston, ); d.b. easter, "the magic elements in the romans d'aventure and the romans bretons" (baltimore, ).] cliges [ ] (vv. - .) he who wrote of erec and enide, and translated into french the commands of ovid and the art of love, and wrote the shoulder bite, [ ] and about king mark and the fair iseut, [ ] and about the metamorphosis of the lapwing, [ ] the swallow, and the nightingale, will tell another story now about a youth who lived in greece and was a member of king arthur's line. but before i tell you aught of him, you shall hear of his father's life, whence he came and of what family. he was so bold and so ambitious that he left greece and went to england, which was called britain in those days, in order to win fame and renown. this story, which i intend to relate to you, we find written in one of the books of the library of my lord saint peter at beauvais. [ ] from there the material was drawn of which chretien has made this romance. the book is very old in which the story is told, and this adds to its authority. [ ] from such books which have been preserved we learn the deeds of men of old and of the times long since gone by. our books have informed us that the pre-eminence in chivalry and learning once belonged to greece. then chivalry passed to rome, together with that highest learning which now has come to france. god grant that it may be cherished here, and that it may be made so welcome here that the honour which has taken refuge with us may never depart from france: god had awarded it as another's share, but of greeks and romans no more is heard, their fame is passed, and their glowing ash is dead. (vv. - .) chretien begins his story as we find it in the history, which tells of an emperor powerful in wealth and honour who ruled over greece and constantinople. a very noble empress, too, there was, by whom the emperor had two children. but the elder son was already so far advanced before the younger one was born that, if he had wished, he might have become a knight and held all the empire beneath his sway. the name of the elder was alexander, and the other's name was alis. alexander, too, was the father's name, and the mother's name was tantalis. i shall now say nothing more of the emperor and of alis; but i shall speak of alexander, who was so bold and proud that he scorned to become a knight in his own country. he had heard of king arthur, who reigned in those days, and of the knights whom he always kept about him, thus causing his court to be feared and famed throughout the world. however, the affair may result and whatever fortune may await him, nothing can restrain alexander from his desire to go into britain, but he must obtain his father's consent before proceeding to britain and cornwall. so alexander, fair and brave, goes to speak with the emperor in order to ask and obtain his leave. now he will tell him of his desire and what he wishes to do and undertake. "fair sire," he says, "in quest of honour and fame and praise i dare to ask you a boon, which i desire you to give me now without delay, if you are willing to grant it to me." the emperor thinks no harm will come from this request: he ought rather to desire and long for his son's honour. "fair son," he says, "i grant you your desire; so tell me now what you wish me to give you." now the youth has accomplished his purpose, and is greatly pleased when the boon is granted him which he so greatly desired. "sire," says he, "do you wish to know what it is that you have promised me? i wish to have a great plenty of gold and silver, and such companions from among your men as i will select; for i wish to go forth from your empire, and to present my service to the king who rules over britain, in order that he may make me a knight. i promise you never in my life to wear armour on my face or helmet upon my head until king arthur shall gird on my sword, if he will graciously do so. for from no other than from him will i accept my arms." without hesitation the emperor replies: "fair son, for god's sake, speak not so! this country all belongs to you, as well as rich constantinople. you ought not to think me mean, when i am ready to make you such a gift. i shall be ready soon to have you crowned, and to-morrow you shall be a knight. all greece will be in your hands, and you shall receive from your nobles, as is right, their homage and oaths of allegiance. whoever refuses such an offer is not wise." (vv. - .) the youth hears the promise how the next morning after mass his father is ready to dub him knight; but he says he will seek his fortune for better or worse in another land. "if you are willing in this matter to grant the boon i have asked of you, then give me mottled and grey furs, some good horses and silken stuffs: for before i become a knight i wish to enrol in king arthur's service. nor have i yet sufficient strength to bear arms. no one could induce me by prayer or flattery not to go to the foreign land to see his nobles and that king whose fame is so great for courtesy and prowess. many men of high degree lose through sloth the great renown which they might win, were they to wander about the world. [ ] repose and glory ill agree, as it seems to me; for a man of wealth adds nothing to his reputation if he spends all his days at ease. prowess is irksome to the ignoble man, and cowardice is a burden to the man of spirit; thus the two are contrary and opposite. he is the slave of his wealth who spends his days in storing and increasing it. fair father, so long as i have the chance, and so long as my rigour lasts, i wish to devote my effort and energy to the pursuit of fame." (vv. - .) upon hearing this; the emperor doubtless feels both joy and grief: he is glad that his son's intention is fixed upon honour, and on the other hand he is sorrowful because his son is about to be separated from him. yet, because of the promise which he made, despite the grief he feels, he must grant his request; for an emperor must keep his word. "fair son," he says, "i must not fail to do your pleasure, when i see you thus striving for honour. from my treasure you may have two barges full of gold and silver; but take care to be generous and courteous and well-behaved." now the youth is very happy when his father promises him so much, and places his treasure at his disposal, and bids him urgently to give and spend generously. and his father explains his reason for this: "fair son," he says, "believe me, that generosity is the dame and queen which sheds glory upon all the other virtues. and the proof of this is not far to seek. for where could you find a man, be he never so rich and powerful, who is not blamed if he is mean? nor could you find one, however ungracious he may be, whom generosity will not bring into fair repute? thus largess makes the gentleman, which result can be accomplished neither by high birth, courtesy, knowledge, gentility, money, strength, chivalry, boldness, dominion, beauty, or anything else. [ ] but just as the rose is fairer than any other flower when it is fresh and newly blown, so there, where largess dwells, it takes its place above all other virtues, and increases five hundred fold the value of other good traits which it finds in the man who acquits himself well. so great is the merit of generosity that i could not tell you the half of it." the young man has now successfully concluded the negotiations for what he wished; for his father has acceded to all his desires. but the empress was sorely grieved when she heard of the journey which her son was about to take. yet, whoever may grieve or sorrow, and whoever may attribute his intention to youthful folly, and ever may blame and seek to dissuade him, the youth ordered his ships to be made ready as soon as possible, desiring to tarry no longer in his native land. at his command the ships were freighted that very night with wine, meat, and biscuit. (vv. - .) the ships were loaded in the port, and the next morning alexander came to the strand in high spirits, accompanied by his companions, who were happy over the prospective voyage. they were escorted by the emperor and the empress in her grief. at the port they find the sailors in the ships drawn up beside the cliff. the sea was calm and smooth, the wind was light, and the weather clear. when he had taken leave of his father, and bidden farewell to the empress, whose heart was heavy in her bosom, alexander first stepped from the small boat into the skip; then all his companions hastened by fours, threes, and twos to embark without delay. soon the sail was spread and the anchor raised. those on shore whose heart is heavy because of the men whom they watch depart, follow them with their gaze as long as they can: and in order to watch them longer, they all climb a high hill behind the beach. from there they sadly gaze, as long as their eyes can follow them. with sorrow, indeed, they watch them go, being solicitous for the youths, that god may bring them to their haven without accident and without peril. all of april and part of may they spent at sea. without any great danger or mishap they came to port at southampton. [ ] one day, between three o'clock and vespers, they cast anchor and went ashore. the young men, who had never been accustomed to endure discomfort or pain, had suffered so long from their life at sea that they had all lost their colour, and even the strongest and most vigorous were weak and faint. in spite of that, they rejoice to have escaped from the sea and to have arrived where they wished to be. because of their depleted state, they spend the night at southampton in happy frame, and make inquiries whether the king is in england. they are told that he is at winchester, and that they can reach there in a very short time if they will start early in the morning and keep to the straight road. at this news they are greatly pleased, and the next morning at daybreak the youths wake early, and prepare and equip themselves. and when they were ready, they left southampton, and kept to the direct road until they reached winchester, where the king was. before six o'clock in the morning the greeks had arrived at the court. the squires with the horses remain below in the yard, while the youths go up into the presence of the king, who was the best that ever was or ever will be in the world. and when the king sees them coming, they please him greatly, and meet with his favour. but before approaching the king's presence, they remove the cloaks from about their necks, lest they should be considered ill-bred. thus, all unmantled, they came before the king, while all the nobles present held their peace, greatly pleased at the sight of these handsome and well-behaved young men. they suppose that of course they are all sons of counts or kings; and, to be sure, so they were, and of a very charming age, with graceful and shapely forms. and the clothes they wore were all of the same stuff and cut of the same appearance and colour. there were twelve of them beside their lord, of whom i need tell you no more than that there was none better than he. with modesty and orderly mien, he was handsome and shapely as he stood uncovered before the king. then he kneeled before him, and all the others, for honour's sake, did the same beside their lord. (vv. - .) alexander, with his tongue well skilled in speaking fair and wisely, salutes the king. "king," he says, "unless the report is false that spreads abroad your fame, since god created the first man there was never born a god-fearing man of such puissance as yours. king, your widespread renown has drawn me to serve and honour you in your court, and if you will accept my service, i would fain remain here until i be dubbed a knight by your hand and by no one else. for unless i receive this honour from your hand, i shall renounce all intention of being knighted. if you will accept my service until you are willing to dub me a knight, retain me now, oh gentle king, and my companions gathered here." to which at once the king replies: "friend, i refuse neither you nor your companions. be welcome all. for surely you seem, and i doubt it not, to be sons of high-born men. whence do you come?" "from greece." "from greece?" "yes." "who is thy father?" "upon my word, sire, the emperor." "and what is thy name, fair friend?" "alexander is the name that was given me when i received the salt and holy oil, and christianity and baptism." "alexander, my dear, fair friend. i will keep you with me very gladly, with great pleasure and delight. for you have done me signal honour in thus coming to my court. i wish you to be honoured here, as free vassals who are wise and gentle. you have been too long upon your knees; now, at my command, and henceforth make your home with man and in my court; it is well that you have come to us." (vv. - .) then the greeks rise up, joyful that the king has so kindly invited them to stay. alexander did well to come; for he lacks nothing that he desires, and there is no noble at the court who does not address him kindly and welcome him. he is not so foolish as to be puffed up, nor does he vaunt himself nor boast. he makes acquaintance with my lord gawain and with the others, one by one. he gains the good graces of them all, but my lord gawain grows so fond of him that he chooses him as his friend and companion. [ ] the greeks took the best lodgings to be had, with a citizen of the town. alexander had brought great possessions with him from constantinople, intending to give heed above all to the advice and counsel of the emperor, that his heart should be ever ready to give and dispense his riches well. to this end he devotes his efforts, living well in his lodgings, and giving and spending liberally, as is fitting in one so rich, and as his heart dictates. the entire court wonders where he got all the wealth that he bestows; for on all sides he presents the valuable horses which he had brought from his own land. so much did alexander do, in the performance of his service, that the king, the queen, and the nobles bear him great affection. king arthur about this time desired to cross over into brittany. so he summons all his barons together to take counsel and inquire to whom he may entrust england to be kept in peace and safety until his return. by common consent, it seems, the trust was assigned to count angres of windsor, for it was their judgement that there was no more trustworthy lord in all the king's realm. when this man had received the land, king arthur set out the next day accompanied by the queen and her damsels. the bretons make great rejoicing upon hearing the news in brittany that the king and his barons are on the way. (vv. - .) into the ship in which the king sailed there entered no youth or maiden save only alexander and soredamors, whom the queen brought with her. this maiden was scornful of love, for she had never heard of any man whom she would deign to love, whatever might be his beauty, prowess, lordship, or birth. and yet the damsel was so charming and fair that she might fitly have learned of love, if it had pleased her to lend a willing ear; but she would never give a thought to love. now love will make her grieve, and will avenge himself for all the pride and scorn with which she has always treated him. carefully love has aimed his dart with which he pierced her to the heart. now she grows pale and trembles, and in spite of herself must succumb to love. only with great difficulty can she restrain herself from casting a glance toward alexander; but she must be on her guard against her brother, my lord gawain. dearly she pays and atones for her great pride and disdain. love has heated for her a bath which heats and burns her painfully. at first it is grateful to her, and then it hurts; one moment she likes it, and the next she will have none of it. she accuses her eyes of treason, and says: [ ] "my eyes, you have betrayed me now! my heart, usually so faithful, now bears me ill-will because of you. now what i see distresses me. distresses? nay, verily, rather do i like it well. and if i actually see something that distresses me, can i not control my eyes? my strength must indeed have failed, and little should i esteem myself, if i cannot control my eyes and make them turn their glance elsewhere. thus, i shall be able to baffle love in his efforts to get control of me. the heart feels no pain when the eye does not see; so, if i do not look at him, no harm will come to me. he addresses me no request or prayer, as he would do were he in love with me. and since he neither loves nor esteems me, shall i love him without return? if his beauty allures my eyes, and my eyes listen to the call, shall i say that i love him just for that? nay, for that would be a lie. therefore, he has no ground for complaint, nor can i make any claim against him. one cannot love with the eyes alone. what crime, then, have my eyes committed, if their glance but follows my desire? what is their fault and what their sin? ought i to blame them, then? nay, verily. who, then, should be blamed? surely myself, who have them in control. my eye glances at nothing unless it gives my heart delight. my heart ought not to have any desire which would give me pain. yet its desire causes me pain. pain? upon my faith, i must be mad, if to please my heart i wish for something which troubles me. if i can, i ought to banish any wish that distresses me. if i can? mad one, what have i said? i must, indeed, have little power if i have no control over myself. does love think to set me in the same path which is wont to lead others astray? others he may lead astray, but not me who care not for him. never shall i be his, nor ever was, and i shall never seek his friendship." thus she argues with herself, one moment loving, and hating the next. she is in such doubt that she does not know which course she had better adopt. she thinks to be on the defence against love, but defence is not what she wants. god! she does not know that alexander is thinking of her too! love bestows upon them equally such a share as is their due. he treats them very fairly and justly, for each one loves and desires the other. and this love would be true and right if only each one knew what was the other's wish. but he does not know what her desire is, and she knows not the cause of his distress. (vv. - .) the queen takes note of them and sees them often blanch and pale and heave deep sighs and tremble. but she knows no reason why they should do so, unless it be because of the sea where they are. i think she would have divined the cause had the sea not thrown her off her guard, but the sea deceives and tricks her, so that she does not discover love because of the sea; and it is from love that comes the bitter pain that distresses them. [ ] but of the three concerned, the queen puts all the blame upon the sea; for the other two accuse the third to her, and hold it alone responsible for their guilt. some one who is not at fault is often blamed for another's wrong. thus, the queen lays all the blame and guilt upon the sea, but it is unfair to put the blame upon the sea, for it is guilty of no misdeed. soredamors' deep distress continued until the vessel came to port. as for the king, it is well known that the bretons were greatly pleased, and served him gladly as their liege lord. but of king arthur i will not longer speak in this place; rather shall you hear me tell how love distresses these two lovers whom he has attacked. (vv. - .) alexander loves and desires her; and she, too, pines for the love of him, but he knows it not, nor will he know it until he has suffered many a pain and many a grief. it is for her sake that he renders to the queen loving service, as well as to her maids-in-waiting; but to her on whom his thoughts are fixed, he dares not speak or address a word. if she but dared to assert to him the right which she thinks she has, she would gladly inform him of the truth; but she does not dare, and cannot do it. they dare neither speak nor act in accordance with what each sees in the other--which works a great hardship to them both, and their love but grows and flames the more. however, it is the custom of all lovers to feast their eyes gladly with gazing, if they can do no more; and they assume that, because they find pleasure in that which causes their love to be born and grow, therefore it must be to their advantage; whereas it only harms them more, just as he who approaches and draws close beside the fire burns himself more than he who holds aloof. their love waxes and grows anon; but each is abashed before the other, and so much is hidden and concealed that no flame or smoke arises from the coals beneath the ashes. the heat is no less on this account, but rather is better sustained beneath the ashes than above. both of them are in great torment; for, in order that none may perceive their trouble, they are forced to deceive people by a feigned bearing; but at night comes the bitter moan, which each one makes within his breast. of alexander i will tell you first how he complains and vents his grief. love presents before his mind her for whom he is in such distress; it is she who has filched his heart away, and grants him no rest upon his bed, because, forsooth, he delights to recall the beauty and the grace of her who, he has no hope, will ever bring him any joy. "i may as well hold myself a madman." he exclaims. "a madman? truly, i am beside myself, when i dare not speak what i have in mind; for it would speedily fare worse with me (if i held my peace). i have engaged my thoughts in a mad emprise. but is it not better to keep my thoughts to myself than to be called a fool? my wish will never then be known. shall i then conceal the cause of my distress, and not dare to seek aid and healing for my wound? he is mad who feels himself afflicted, and seeks not what will bring him health, if perchance he may find it anywhere; but many a one seeks his welfare by striving for his heart's desire, who pursues only that which brings him woe instead. and why should one ask for advice, who does not expect to gain his health? he would only exert himself in vain. i feel my own illness to be so grievous that i shall never be healed by any medicine or draught, by any herb or root. for some ills there is no remedy, and mine lies so deep within that it is beyond the reach of medicine. is there no help, then? methinks i have lied. when first i felt this malady, if i had dared to make mention of it. i might have spoken with a physician who could have completely cured me. but i like not to discuss such matters; i think he would pay me no heed and would not consent to accept a fee. no wonder, then, if i am terrified; for i am very ill, yet i do not know what disease this is which has me in its grip, and i know not whence this pain has come. i do not know? i know full well that it is love who does me this injury. how is that? can love do harm? is he not gentle and well-bred? i used to think that there was naught but good in love; but i have found him full of enmity. he who has not had experience of him does not know what tricks love plays. he is a fool who joins his ranks; for he always seeks to harm his followers. upon my faith, his tricks are bad. it is poor sport to play with him, for his game will only do me harm. what shall i do, then? shall i retreat? i think it would be wise to do so, but i know not how to do it. if love chastens and threatens me in order to teach and instruct me, ought i to disdain my teacher? he is a fool who scorns his master. i ought to keep and cherish the lesson which love teaches me, for great good may soon come of it. but i am frightened because he beats me so. and dost thou complain, when no sign of blow or wound appears? art thou not mistaken? nay, for he has wounded me so deep that he has shot his dart to my very heart, and has not yet drawn it out again. [ ] how has he pierced thy body with it, when no wound appears without? tell me that, for i wish to know. how did he make it enter in? through the eye. through the eye? but he has not put it out? he did not harm the eye at all, but all the pain is in the heart. then tell me, if the dart passed through the eye, how is it that the eye itself is not injured or put out. if the dart entered through the eye, why does the heart in the breast complain, when the eye, which received the first effect, makes no complaint of it at all? i can readily account for that: the eye is not concerned with the understanding, nor has it any part in it; but it is the mirror of the heart, and through this mirror passes, without doing harm or injury, the flame which sets the heart on fire. for is not the heart placed in the breast just like a lighted candle which is set in a lantern? if you take the candle away no light will shine from the lantern; but so long as the candle lasts the lantern is not dark at all, and the flame which shines within does it no harm or injury. likewise with a pane of glass, which might be very strong and solid, and yet a ray of the sun could pass through it without cracking it at all; yet a piece of glass will never be so bright as to enable one to see, unless a stronger light strikes its surface. know that the same thing is true of the eyes as of the glass and the lantern; for the light strikes the eyes in which the heart is accustomed to see itself reflected, and lo! it sees some light outside, and many other things, some green, some purple, others red or blue; and some it dislikes, and some it likes, scorning some and prizing others. but many an object seems fair to it when it looks at it in the glass, which will deceive it if it is not on its guard. my mirror has greatly deceived me; for in it my heart saw a ray of light with which i am afflicted, and which has penetrated deep within me, causing me to lose my wits. i am ill-treated by my friend, who deserts me for my enemy. i may well accuse him of felony for the wrong he has done to me. i thought i had three friends, my heart and my two eyes together; but it seems that they hate me. where shall i ever find a friend, when these three are my enemies, belonging to me, yet putting me to death? my servants mock at my authority, in doing what they please without consulting my desire. after my experience with these who have done me wrong, i know full well that a good man's love may be befouled by wicked servants in his employ. he who is attended by a wicked servant will surely have cause to rue it, sooner or later. now i will tell you how the arrow, which has come into my keeping and possession, is made and fashioned; but i fear greatly that i shall fail in the attempt; for the fashion of it is so fine that it will be no wonder if i fail. yet i shall devote all my effort to telling you how it seems to me. the notch and the feathers are so close together, when carefully examined, that the line of separation is as fine as a hair's breadth; but the notch is so smooth and straight that in it surely no improvement could be made. the feathers are coloured as if they were of gold or gilt; but gilt is here beside the mark, for i know these feathers were more brilliant than any gilt. this dart is barbed with the golden tresses that i saw the other day at sea. that is the dart which awakes my love. god! what a treasure to possess! would he who could gain such a prize crave other riches his whole life long? for my part i could swear that i should desire nothing else; i would not give up even the barb and the notch for all the gold of antioch. and if i prize so highly these two things, who could estimate the value of what remains? that is so fair and full of charm, so dear and precious, that i yearn and long to gaze again upon her brow, which god's hand has made so clear that it were vain to compare with it any mirror, emerald, or topaz. but all this is of little worth to him who sees her flashing eyes; to all who gaze on them they seem like twin candles burning. and whose tongue is so expert as to describe the fashion of her well-shaped nose and radiant face, in which the rose suffuses the lily so as to efface it somewhat, and thus enhance the glory of her visage? and who shall speak of her laughing mouth, which god shaped with such great skill that none might see it and not suppose that she was laughing? and what about her teeth? they are so close to one another that it seems they are all of one solid piece, and in order that the effect might still be enhanced nature added her handiwork; for any one, to see her part her lips, would suppose that the teeth were of ivory or of silver. there is so much to be said were i to portray each detailed charm of chin and ears, that it would not be strange were i to pass over some little thing. of her throat i shall only say that crystal beside it looks opaque. and her neck beneath her hair is four times as white as ivory. between the border of her gown and the buckle at the parted throat, i saw her bosom left exposed and whiter than new-fallen snow. my pain would be indeed assuaged, if i had seen the dart entire. gladly would i tell, if i but knew, what was the nature of the shaft. but i did nor see it, and it is not my fault if i do not attempt to describe something i have never seen. at that time love showed me only the notch and the barb; for the shaft was hidden in the quiver, to wit, in the robe and shift in which the damsel was arrayed. upon my faith, malady which tortures me is the arrow--it is the dart at which i am a wretch to be enraged. i am ungrateful to be incensed. never shall a straw be broken because of any distrust or quarrel that may arise between love and me. now let love do what he will with me as with one who belongs to him; for i wish it, and so it pleases me. i hope that this malady may never leave me, but that it may thus always maintain its hold, and that health may never come to me except from the source of my illness." (vv. - .) alexander's complaint is long enough; but that of the maiden is nothing less. all night she lies in such distress that she cannot sleep or get repose. love has confined within her heart a struggle and conflict which disturbs her breast, and which causes her such pain and anguish that she weeps and moans all night, and tosses about with sudden starts, so that she is almost beside herself. and when she has tossed and sobbed and groaned and started up and sighed again then she looked within her heart to see who and what manner of man it was for whom love was tormenting her. and when she has refreshed herself somewhat with thinking to her heart's content, she stretches and tosses about again, and ridicules all the thoughts she has had. then she takes another course, and says: "silly one, what matters it to me if this youth is of good birth and wise and courteous and valorous? all this is simply to his honour and credit. and as for his beauty, what care i? let his beauty be gone with him! but if so, it will be against my will, for it is not my wish to deprive him of anything. deprive? no, indeed! that i surely will not do. if he had the wisdom of solomon, and if nature had bestowed on him all the beauty she can place in human form, and if god had put in my power to undo it all, yet would i not injure him; but i would gladly, if i could, make him still more wise and fair. in faith, then, i do not hate him! and am i for that reason his friend? nay, i am not his any more than any other man's. then what do i think of him so much, if he pleases me no more than other men? i do not know; i am all confused; for i never thought so much about any man in the world, and if i had my will, i should see him all the time, and never take my eyes from him. i feel such joy at the sight of him! is this love? yes, i believe it is. i should not appeal to him so often, if i did not love him above all others. so i love him, then, let it be agreed. then shall i not do what i please? yes, provided he does not refuse. this intention of mine is wrong; but love has so filled my heart that i am mad and beside myself, nor will any defence avail me now, if i must endure the assault of love. i have demeaned myself prudently toward love so long, and would never accede to his will; but now i am more than kindly disposed toward him. and what thanks will he owe to me, if he cannot have my loving service and good-will? by force he has humbled my pride, and now i must follow his pleasure. now i am ready to love, and i have a master, and love will teach me--but what? how i am to serve his will. but of that i am very well informed, and am so expert in serving him that no one could find fault with me. i need learn no more of that. love would have it, and so would i, that i should be sensible and modest and kind and approachable to all for the sake of one i love. shall i love all men, then, for the sake of one? i should be pleasant to every one, but love does not bid me be the true friend of every one. love's lessons are only good. it is not without significance that i am called by the name of soredamors. [ ] i am destined to love and be loved in turn, and i intend to prove it by my name, if i can find the explanation there. there is some significance in the fact that the first part of my name is of golden colour; for what is golden is the best. for this reason i highly esteem my name, because it begins with that colour with which the purest gold harmonises. and the end of the name calls love to my mind; for whoever calls me by my right name always refreshes me with love. and one half gilds the other with a bright coat of yellow gold; for soredamors has the meaning of 'one gilded over with love.' love has highly honoured me in gilding me over with himself. a gilding of real gold is not so fine as that which makes me radiant. and i shall henceforth do my best to be his gilding, and shall never again complain of it. now i love and ever more shall love. whom? truly, that is a fine question! him whom love bids me love, for no other shall ever have my love. what will he care in his ignorance, unless i tell him of it myself? what shall i do, if i do not make to him my prayer? whoever desires anything ought to ask for it and make request. what? shall i beseech him, then? nay. why? did ever such a thing come about that a woman should be so forward as to make love to any man; unless she were clean beside herself. i should be mad beyond question if i uttered anything for which i might be reproached. if he should know the truth through word of mine i think he would hold me in slight esteem, and would often reproach me with having solicited his love. may love never be so base that i should be the first to prefer a request which would lower me in his eyes! alas, god! how will he ever know the truth, since i shall not tell him of it? as yet i have very little cause to complain. i will wait until his attention is aroused, if ever it is to be aroused. he will surely guess the truth, i think, if ever he has had commerce with love, or has heard of it by word of mouth. heard of it? that is a foolish thing to say. love is not of such easy access that any one may claim acquaintance by hear-say only and without personal experience. i have come to know that well enough myself; for i could never learn anything of love through flattery and wooing words, though i have often been in the school of experience, and have been flattered many a time. but i have always stood aloof, and now he makes me pay a heavy penalty: now i know more about it than does the ox of ploughing. but one thing causes me despair: i fear he has never been in love. and if he is not in love, and never has been so, then i have sowed in the sea where no seed can take root. so there is nothing to do but wait and suffer, until i see whether i can lead him on by hints and covered words. i shall continue this until he is sure of my love and dares to ask me for it. so there is nothing more about the matter, but that i love him and am his. if he loves me not, yet will i love him." (vv. - .) thus he and she utter their complaint, unhappy at night and worse by day, each hiding the truth from the other's eyes. in such distress they remained a long time in brittany, i believe, until the end of the summer came. at the beginning of october there came messengers by dover from london and canterbury, bearing to the king news which troubled him. the messengers told him that he might be tarrying too long in brittany; for, he to whom he had entrusted the kingdom was intending to withstand him, and had already summoned a great army of his vassals and friends, and had established himself in london for the purpose of defending the city against arthur when he should return. (vv. - .) when the king heard this news, angry and sore displeased he summons all his knights. in order the better to spur them on to punish the traitor, he tells them that they are entirely to blame for his trouble and strife; for on their advice he entrusted his land to the hands of the traitor, who is worse than ganelon. [ ] there is not a single one who does not agree that the king is right, for he had only followed their advice; but now this man is to be outlawed, and you may be sure that no town or city will avail to save his body from being dragged out by force. thus they all assure the king, giving him their word upon oath, that they will deliver the traitor to him, or never again claim their fiefs. and the king proclaims throughout brittany that no one who can bear arms shall refuse to follow him at once. (vv. - .) all brittany is now astir. never was such an army seen as king arthur brought together. when the ships came to set sail, it seemed that the whole world was putting out to sea; for even the water was hid from view, being covered with the multitude of ships. it is certainly true that, to judge by the commotion, all brittany is under way. now the ships have crossed the channel, and the assembled host is quartered on the shore. alexander bethought himself to go and pray the king to make him a knight, for if ever he should win renown it will be in this war. prompted by his desire, he takes his companions with him to accomplish what he has in mind. on reaching the king's quarters, they found him seated before his tent. when he saw the greeks approaching, he summoned them to him, saying: "gentlemen, do not conceal what business has brought you here." alexander replied on behalf of all, and told him his desire: "i have come," he says, "to request of you, as i ought to do of my liege lord, on behalf of my companions and myself, that you should make us knights." the king replies: "very gladly; nor shall there be any delay about it, since you have preferred your request." then the king commands that equipment shall be furnished for twelve knights. straightway the king's command is done. as each one asks for his equipment, it is handed to him--rich arms and a good horse: thus each one received his outfit. the arms and robes and horse were of equal value for each of the twelve; but the harness for alexander s body, if it should be valued or sold, was alone worth as much as that of all the other twelve. at the water's edge they stripped, and then washed and bathed themselves. not wishing that any other bath should be heated for them, they washed in the sea and used it as their tub. [ ] (vv. - .) all this is known to the queen, who bears alexander no ill will, but rather loves, esteems, and values him. she wishes to make alexander a gift, but it is far more precious than she thinks. she seeks and delves in all her boxes until she finds a white silk shirt, well made of delicate texture, and very soft. every thread in the stitching of it was of gold, or of silver at least. soredamors had taken a hand in the stitching of it here and there, and at intervals, in the sleeves and neck, she had inserted beside the gold a strand of her own hair, to see if any man could be found who, by close examination, could detect the difference. for the hair was quite as bright and golden as the thread of gold itself. the queen takes the shirt and presents it to alexander. ah, god! what joy would alexander have felt had he known what the queen was giving him! and how glad would she, too, have been, who had inserted her own hair, if she had known that her lover was to own and wear it! she could then have taken great comfort; for she would not have cared so much for all the hair she still possessed as for the little that alexander had. but, more is the pity, neither of them knew the truth. the queen's messenger finds the youths on the shore where they are bathing, and gives the shirt to alexander. he is greatly pleased with it, esteeming the present all the more because it was given him by the queen. but if he had known the rest, he would have valued it still more; in exchange for it he would not have taken the whole world, but rather would have made a shrine of it and worshipped it, doubtless, day and night. (vv. - .) alexander delays no longer, but dresses himself at once. when he was dressed and ready, he returned to the king's tent with all his companions. the queen, it seems, had come there, too, wishing to see the new knights present themselves. they might all be called handsome, but alexander with his shapely body was the fairest of them all. well, now that they are knights i will say no more of them for the present, but will tell of the king and of his host which came to london. most of the people remained faithful to him, though many allied themselves with the opposition. count angres assembled his forces, consisting of all those whose influence could be gained by promises or gifts. when he had gathered all his strength, he slipped away quietly at night, fearing to be betrayed by the many who hated him. but before he made off, he sacked london as completely as possible of provisions, gold and silver, which he divided among his followers. this news was told to the king, how the traitor had escaped with all his forces, and that he had carried off from the city so many supplies that the distressed citizens were impoverished and destitute. then the king replied that he would not take a ransom for the traitor, but rather hang him, if he could catch him or lay hands on him. thereupon, all the army proceeded to windsor. however it may be now, in those days the castle was not easy to take when any one chose to defend it. the traitor made it secure, as soon as he planned his treacherous deed, with a triple line of walls and moats, and had so braced the walls inside with sharpened stakes that catapults could not throw them down. they had taken great pains with the fortifications, spending all of june, july, and august in building walls and barricades, making moats and drawbridges, ditches, obstructions, and barriers, and iron portcullises and a great square tower of stone. the gate was never closed from fear or against assault. the castle stood upon a high hill, and around beneath it flows the thames. the host encamped on the river bank, and that day they have time only to pitch camp and set up the tents. (vv. - .) the army is in camp beside the thames, and all the meadow is filled with green and red tents. the sun, striking on the colours, causes the river to flash for more than a league around. those in the town had come down to disport themselves upon the river bank with only their lances in their hands and their shields grasped before their breasts, and carrying no other arms at all. in coming thus, they showed those without the walls that they stood in no fear of them. alexander stood aloof and watched the knights disporting themselves at feats of arms. he yearns to attack them, and summons his companions one by one by name. first cornix, whom he dearly loved, then the doughty licorides, then nabunal of mvcene, and acorionde of athens, and ferolin of salonica, and calcedor from africa, parmenides and francagel, mighty torin and pinabel, nerius and neriolis. "my lords," he says, "i feel the call to go with shield and lance to make the acquaintance of those who disport themselves yonder before our eyes. i see they scorn us and hold us in slight esteem, when they come thus without their arms to exercise before our very eyes. we have just been knighted, and have not yet given an account of ourselves against any knight or manikin. [ ] we have kept our first lances too long intact. and for what were our shields intended? as yet, they have not a hole or crack to show. there is no use in having them except in a combat or a fight. let's cross the ford and rush at them!" "we shall not fail you," all reply; and each one adds: "so help me god, who fails you now is no friend of yours." then they fasten on their swords, tighten their saddles and girths, and mount their steeds with shields in hand. when they had hung the shields about their necks, and taken their lances with the gaily coloured ensigns, they all proceed to the ford at once. those on the farther side lower their lances, and quickly ride to strike at them. but they (on the hither bank) knew how to pay them back, not sparing nor avoiding them, nor yielding to them a foot of ground. rather, each man struck his opponent so fiercely that there is no knight so brave but is compelled to leave the saddle. they did not underestimate the experience, skill, and bravery of their antagonists, but made their first blows count, and unhorsed thirteen of them. the report spread to the camp of the fight and of the blows that were being struck. there would soon have been a merry strife if the others had dared to stand their ground. all through the camp they run to arms, and raising a shout they cross the ford. and those on the farther bank take to flight, seeing no advantage in staying where they are. and the greeks pursue them with blows of lance and sword. though they struck off many a head they themselves did not receive a wound, and gave a good account of themselves that day. but alexander distinguished himself, who by his own efforts led off four captive knights in bonds. the sands are strewn with headless dead, while many others lie wounded and injured. (vv. - .) alexander courteously presents the victims of his first conquest to the queen, not wishing them to fall into the hands of the king, who would have had them all hanged. the queen, however, had them seized and safely kept under guard, as being charged with treason. throughout the camp they talk of the greeks, and all maintain that alexander acted very courteously and wisely in not surrendering the knights whom he had captured to the king, who would surely have had them burned or hanged. but the king is not so well satisfied, and sending promptly to the queen he bids her come into his presence and not detain those who have proved treacherous towards him, for either she must give them up or offend him by keeping them. while the queen was in conference with the king, as was necessary, about the traitors, the greeks remained in the queen's tent with her maids-in-waiting. while his twelve companions conversed with them, alexander uttered not a word. soredamors took note of this, seated as she was close by his side. her head resting upon her hand, it was plain that she was lost in thought. [ ] thus they sat a long time, until soredamors saw on his sleeve and about his neck the hair which she had stitched into the shirt. then she drew a little closer thinking now to find an excuse for speaking a word to him. she considers how she can address him first, and what the first word is to be--whether she should address him by his name; and thus she takes counsel with herself: "what shall i say first?" she says; "shall i address him by his name, or shall i call him 'friend'? friend? not i. how then? shall i call him by his name? god! the name of 'friend' is fair and sweet to take upon the lips. if i should dare to call him 'friend'! should i dare? what forbids me to do so? the fact that that implies a lie. a lie? i know not what the result will be, but i shall be sorry if i do not speak the truth. therefore, it is best to admit that i should not like to speak a lie. god! yet he would not speak a lie were he to call me his sweet friend! and should i lie in thus addressing him? we ought both to tell the truth. but if i lie the fault is his. but why does his name seem so hard to me that i should wish to replace it by a surname? i think it is because it is so long that i should stop in the middle. but if i simply called him 'friend', i could soon utter so short a name. fearing lest i should break down in uttering his proper name, i would fain shed my blood if his name were simply 'my sweet friend.'" (vv. - .) she turns this thought over in her mind until the queen returns from the king who had summoned her. alexander, seeing her come, goes to meet her, and inquires what is the king's command concerning the prisoners, and what is to be their fate. "friend," says she, "he requires of me to surrender them at his discretion, and to let his justice be carried out. indeed, he is much incensed that i have not already handed them over. so i must needs send them to him, since i see no help for it." thus they passed that day; and the next day there was a great assembly of all the good and loyal knights before the royal tent to sit in judgment and decide by what punishment and torture the four traitors should die. some hold that they should be flayed alive, and others that they should be hanged or burned. and the king, for his part, maintains that traitors ought to be torn asunder. then he commands them to be brought in. when they are brought, he orders them to be bound, and says that they shall not be torn asunder until they are taken beneath the town, so that those within may see the sight. [ ] (vv. - .) when this sentence was pronounced, the king addresses alexander, calling him his dear friend. "my friend," he says, "yesterday i saw you attack and defend yourself with great bravery. i wish now to reward your action! i will add to your company five hundred welsh knights and one thousand troopers from that land. in addition to what i have given you, when the war is over i will crown you king of the best kingdom in wales. towns and castles, cities and halls will i give you until the time you receive the land which your father holds, and of which you are to be emperor." alexander's companions join him in thanking the king kindly for this boon, and all the nobles of the court say that the honour which the king has bestowed upon alexander is well deserved. (vv. - .) as soon as alexander sees his force, consisting of the companions and the men-at-arms whom it had pleased the king to give him, straightway they begin to sound the horns and trumpets throughout the camp. men of wales and britain, of scotland and cornwall, both good and bad without exception--all take arms, for the forces of the host were recruited from all quarters. the thames was low because of the drought resulting from a summer without rain, so that all the fish were dead, and the ships were stranded upon the shore, and it was possible to ford the stream even in the widest part. (vv. - .) after fording the thames, the army divided, some taking possession of the valley, and others occupying the high ground. those in the town take notice of them, and when they see approaching the wonderful array, bent upon reducing and taking the town, they prepare on their side to defend it. but before any assault is made, the king has the traitors drawn by four horses through the valleys and over the hills and unploughed fields. at this count angres is much distressed, when he sees those whom he held dear dragged around outside the town. and his people, too, are much dismayed, but in spite of the anxiety which they feel, they have no mind to yield the place. they must needs defend themselves, for the king makes it plain to all that he is angry, and ill-disposed, and they see that if he should lay hands upon them he would make them die a shameful death. (vv. - .) when the four had been torn asunder and their limbs lay strewn upon the field, then the assault begins. but all their labour is in vain, for no matter how much they cast and shoot, their efforts are of no effect. yet they strive to do their utmost, hurling their javelins amain, and shooting darts and bolts. on all sides is heard the din of cross-bows and slings as the arrows and the round stones fly thick, like rain mixed with hail. thus all day long the struggle of attack and defence continues, until the night separates them. and the king causes to be proclaimed what gift he will bestow upon him who shall effect the surrender of the town: a cup of great price weighing fifteen marks of gold, the richest in his treasure, shall be his reward. the cup will be very fine and rich, and, to tell the truth, the cup is to be esteemed for the workmanship rather than for the material of which it is made. but good as the workmanship may be, and fine though the gold, if the truth be told, the precious stones set in the outside of the cup were of most value. he through whose efforts the town shall be taken is to have the cup, if he be only a foot soldier; and if the town is taken by a knight, with the cup in his possession he shall never seek his fortune in vain, if there is any to be found in the world. (vv. - .) when this news was announced, alexander had not forgotten his custom of going to see the queen each evening. that night, too, he had gone thither and was seated beside the queen. soredamors was sitting alone close by them, looking at him with such satisfaction that she would not have exchanged her lot for paradise. the queen took alexander by the hand, and examined the golden thread which was showing the effects of wear; but the strand of hair was becoming more lustrous, while the golden thread was tarnishing. and she laughed as she happened to recall that the embroidery was the work of soredamors. alexander noticed this, and begged her to tell him, if suitable, why she laughed. the queen was slow to make reply, and looking toward soredamors, bade her come to her. gladly she went and knelt before her. alexander was overjoyed when he saw her draw so near that he could have touched her. but he is not so bold as even to look at her; but rather does he so lose his senses that he is well-nigh speechless. and she, for her part, is so overcome that she has not the use of her eyes; but she casts her glance upon the ground without fastening it upon anything. the queen marvels greatly at seeing her now pale, now crimson, and she notes well in her heart the bearing and expression of each of them. she notices and thinks she sees that these changes of colour are the fruit of love. but not wishing to embarrass them, she pretends to understand nothing of what she sees. in this she did well, for she gave no evidence of what was in her mind beyond saying: "look here, damsel, and tell us truly where the shirt was sewed that this knight has on, and if you had any hand in it or worked anything of yours into it." though the maiden feels some shame, yet she tells the story gladly; for she wishes the truth to be known by him, who, when he hears her tell of how the shirt was made, can hardly restrain himself for joy from worshipping and adoring the golden hair. his companions and the queen, who were with him, annoy him and embarrass him; for their presence prevents him from raising the hair to his eyes and mouth, as he would fain have done, had he not thought that it would be remarked. he is glad to have so much of his lady, but he does not hope or expect ever to receive more from her: his very desire makes him dubious. yet, when he has left the queen and is by himself, he kisses it more than a hundred thousand times, feeling how fortunate he is. all night long he makes much of it, but is careful that no one shall see him. as he lies upon his bed, he finds a vain delight and solace in what can give him no satisfaction. all night he presses the shirt in his arms, and when he looks at the golden hair, he feels like the lord of the whole wide world. thus love makes a fool of this sensible man, who finds his delight in a single hair and is in ecstasy over its possession. but this charm will come to an end for him before the sun's bright dawn. for the traitors are met in council to discuss what they can do; and what their prospects are. to be sure they will be able to make a long defence of the town if they determine so to do; but they know the king's purpose to be so firm that he will not give up his efforts to take the town so long as he lives, and when that time comes they needs must die. and if they should surrender the town, they need expect no mercy for doing so. thus either outcome looks dark indeed, for they see no help, but only death in either case. but this decision at last is reached, that the next morning, before dawn appears, they shall issue secretly from the town and find the camp disarmed, and the knights still sleeping in their beds. before they wake and get their armour on there will have been such slaughter done that posterity will always speak of the battle of that night. having no further confidence in life, the traitors as a last resort all subscribe to this design. despair emboldened them to fight, whatever the result might be; for they see nothing sure in store for them save death or imprisonment. such an outcome is not attractive; nor do they see any use in flight, for they see no place where they could find refuge should they betake themselves to flight, being completely surrounded by the water and their enemies. so they spend no more time in talk, but arm and equip themselves and make a sally by an old postern gate [ ] toward the north-west, that being the side where they thought the camp would least expect attack. in serried ranks they sallied forth, and divided their force into five companies, each consisting of two thousand well armed foot, in addition to a thousand knights. that night neither star nor moon had shed a ray across the sky. but before they reached the tents, the moon began to show itself, and i think it was to work them woe that it rose sooner than was its wont. thus god, who opposed their enterprise, illumined the darkness of the night, having no love for these evil men, but rather hating them for their sin. for god hates traitors and treachery more than any other sin. so the moon began to shine in order to hamper their enterprise. (vv. - .) they are much hampered by the moon, as it shines upon their shields, and they are handicapped by their helmets, too, as they glitter in the moonlight. they are detected by the pickets keeping watch over the host, who now shout throughout the camp: "up, knights, up! rise quickly, take your arms and arm yourselves! the traitors are upon us." through all the camp they run to arms, and hastily strive to equip themselves in the urgent need; but not a single one of them left his place until they were all comfortably armed and mounted upon their steeds. while they are arming themselves, the attacking forces are eager for battle and press forward, hoping to catch them off their guard and find them disarmed. they bring up from different directions the five companies into which they had divided their troops: some hug the woods, others follow the river, the third company deploys upon the plain, while the fourth enters a valley, and the fifth proceeds beside a rocky cliff. for they planned to fall upon the tents suddenly with great fury. but they did not find the path clear. for the king's men resist them, defying them courageously and reproaching them for their treason. their iron lance-tips are splintered and shattered as they meet; they come together with swords drawn, striking each other and casting each other down upon the face. they rush upon each other with the fury of lions, which devour whatever they capture. in this first rush there was heavy slaughter on both sides. when they can no longer maintain themselves, help comes to the traitors, who are defending themselves bravely and selling their lives dearly. they see their troops from four sides arrive to succour them. and the king's men ride hard with spur to attack them. they deal such blows upon their shields that, beside the wounded, they unhorse more than five hundred of them. alexander, with his greeks, has no thought of sparing them, making every effort to prevail into the thickest of the fight he goes to strike a knave whose shield and hauberk are of no avail to keep him from falling to the earth. when he has finished with him, he offers his service to another freely and without stint, and serves him, too, so savagely that he drives the soul from his body quite, and leaves the apartment without a tenant. after these two, he addresses himself to another, piercing a noble and courteous knight clean through and through, so that the blood spurts out on the other side, and his expiring soul takes leave of the body. many he killed and many stunned, for like a flying thunderbolt he blasts all those whom he seeks out. neither coat of mail nor shield can protect him whom he strikes with lance or sword. his companions, too, are generous in the spilling of blood and brains, for they, too, know well how to deal their blows. and the royal troops butcher so many of them that they break them up and scatter them like low-born folk who have lost their heads. so many dead lay about the fields, and so long did the battle rage, that long before the day dawned the ranks were so cut in pieces that the rows of dead stretched for five leagues along the stream. count angres leaves his banner on the field and steals away, accompanied by only seven of his men. towards his town he made his way by a secret path, thinking that no one could see him. but alexander notices this, and sees them escaping from the troops, and he thinks that if he can slip away without the knowledge of any one, he will go to catch up with them. but before he got down into the valley, he saw thirty knights following him down the path, of whom six were greeks, and twenty-four were men of wales. these intended to follow him at a distance until he should stand in need of them. when alexander saw them coming, he stopped to wait for them, without failing to observe what course was taken by those who were making their way back to the town. finally, he saw them enter it. then he began to plan a very daring deed and a very marvellous design. and when he had made up his mind, he turned toward his companions and thus addressed them: "my lords," says he, "whether it be folly or wisdom, frankly grant me my desire if you care for my good-will." and they promised him never to oppose his will in aught. then he says: "let us change our outer gear, by taking the shields and lances from the traitors whom we have killed. thus, when we approach the town, the traitors within will suppose that we are of their party, and regardless of the fate in store for them, they will throw open the gates for us. and do you know what reward we shall offer them? if god so will we shall take them all dead or alive. now, if any of you repents of his promise, be sure that, so long as i live, i shall never hold him dear." (vv. - .) all the others grant his boon, and, despoiling the corpses of their shields, they arm themselves with them instead. the men within the town had mounted to the battlements, and, recognising the shields, suppose that they belong to their party, never dreaming of the ruse hidden beneath the shields. the gatekeeper opens the gate for them and admits them to the town. he is beguiled and deceived in not addressing them a word; for no one of them speaks to him, but silently and mute they pass, making such a show of grief that they trail their lances after them and support themselves upon their shields. thus it seems that they are in great distress, as they pass on at their own sweet will until they are within the triple walls. inside they find a number of men-at-arms and knights with the count. i cannot tell you just how many; but they were unarmed, except eight of them who had just returned from the fight, and even they were preparing to remove their arms. but their haste was ill considered; for now the other party make no further pretence, but without any challenge by way of warning, they brace themselves in the stirrups, and let their horses charge straight at them, attacking them with such rigour that they lay low more than thirty-one of them. the traitors in great dismay shout out: "we are betrayed, betrayed!" but the assailants take no heed of this, and let those whom they find unarmed feel the temper of their swords. indeed, three of those whom they found still armed were so roughly handled that but five remained alive. count angres rushed at calcedor, and in the sight of all struck him upon his golden shield with such violence that he stretched him dead upon the ground. alexander is greatly troubled, and is almost beside himself with rage when he sees his companion dead; his blood boils with anger, but his strength and courage are doubled as he strikes the count with such fury that he breaks his lance. if possible, he would avenge his friend. but the count was a powerful man and a good and hardy knight, whose match it would have been hard to find, had he not been a base traitor. he now returns the blow, making his lance double up so that it splits and breaks; but the other's shield holds firm, and neither gives way before the other any more than a rock would do, for both men were passing strong. but the fact that the count was in the wrong disturbs him greatly and troubles him. [ ] the anger of each rises higher as they both draw their swords after their lances had been broken. no escape would have been possible if these two swordsmen had persisted in continuing the fight. but at last one or the other must die. the count dares not longer hold his ground, when he sees lying dead about him his men who had been caught unarmed. meanwhile the others press them hard, cutting, slashing, and carving them, spilling their brains, and reproaching the count for his treachery. when he hears himself accused of treason, he flees for safety to his tower, followed by his men. and their enemies follow after them, fiercely charging them from the rear, and not letting a single one escape of all upon whom they lay their hands. they kill and slay so many of them that i guess not more than seven made good their escape. (vv. - .) when they had got inside the tower, they made a stand at the gate; for those who were coming close behind had followed so closely after them that they too would have pressed in had the gateway been left exposed. the traitors make a brave defence, waiting for succour from their friends, who were arming themselves down in the town. but upon the advice of nabunal, who was a greek of great wisdom, the approach was blocked so that relief could not arrive in time; for those below had tarried too long, either from cowardice or sloth. now there was only one entrance to the stronghold; so that, if they stop that entrance-way, they need have no fear that any force shall approach to do them harm. nabunal bids and exhorts twenty of them to hold the gate; for soon such a company might arrive with force as would do them harm by their assault and attack. while these twenty hold the gate, the remaining ten should attack the tower and prevent the count from barricading himself inside. nabunal's advice is taken: ten remain to continue the assault at the entrance of the tower, while twenty go to defend the gate. in doing so, they delay almost too long; for they see approaching, furious and keen for the fight, a company containing many cross-bow men and foot soldiers of different grades who carried arms of divers sorts. some carried light missiles, and others danish axes, lances and turkish swords, bolts for cross-bows, arrows and javelins. the greeks would have had to pay a heavy score, if this crowd had actually fallen upon them; but they did not reach the place in time. nabunal by his foresight and counsel had blocked their plans, and they were forced to remain outside. when they see that they are shut out, they pause in their advance, as it is evident they can gain nothing by making an assault. then there begins such weeping and wailing of women and young children, of old men and youths, that those in the town could not have heard a thunder-clap from heaven. at this the greeks are overjoyed; for now they know of a certainty that the count by no good luck can escape capture. four of them mount the walls to keep watch lest those outside by any means or ruse should enter the stronghold and fall upon them. the remaining sixteen returned to where the ten were fighting. the day was already breaking, and the ten had fought so well that they had forced their way within the tower. the count took his stand against a post, and, armed with a battleaxe, defended himself with great bravery. those whom he reaches, he splits in half. and his men line up about him, and are not slow to avenge themselves in this last stand of the day, alexander's men have reason to complain, for of the original sixteen there remain now but thirteen. alexander is almost beside himself when he sees the havoc wrought among his dead or exhausted followers. yet his thoughts are fixed on vengeance: finding at hand a long heavy club, he struck one of the rascals with it so fiercely that neither shield nor hauberk was worth a button in preventing him from failing to the ground. after finishing with him, he pursues the count, and raising his club to strike him he deals him such a blow with his square club that the axe falls from his hands; and he was so stunned and bewildered that he could not have stood up unless he had leaned against the wall. (vv. - .) after this blow the battle ceases. alexander leaps at the count and holds him so that he cannot move. of the others nothing need be said, for they were easily mastered when they saw the capture of their lord. all are made prisoners with the count and led away in disgrace, in accordance with their deserts. of all this the men outside knew nothing. but when morning came they found their companions shields lying among the slain when the battle was over. then the greeks, misled, made a great lament for their lord. recognising his shield, all are in an agony of grief, swooning at sight of his shield and saying that now they have lived too long. cornix and nerius first swoon, then, recovering their senses, wish they were dead. so do torin and acorionde. the tears run down in floods from their eyes upon their breasts. life and joy seem hateful now. and parmenides more than the rest tore his hair in dire distress. no greater grief could be shown than that of these five for their lord. yet, their dismay is groundless, for it is another's body which they bear away when they think to have their lord. their distress is further increased by the sight of the other shields, which cause them to mistake these corpses for their companions. so over them they lament and swoon. but they are deceived by all these shields, for of their men only one was killed, whose name was neriolis. him, indeed, they would have borne away had they known the truth. but they are in as great anxiety for the others as for him; so they bore them all away. in every case but one they were misled. but like the man who dreams and takes a fiction for the truth, so the shields cause them to suppose this illusion to be a reality. it is the shields, then, that cause this mistake. [ ] carrying the corpses, they move away and come to their tents, where there was a sorrowing troop. upon hearing the lament raised by the greeks, soon all the others gathered, until there was but one great outcry. now saredamors thinks of her wretched estate when she hears the cry and lament over her lover. their anguish and distress cause her to lose her senses and her colour, and her grief and sorrow are increased because she dares not openly show a trace of her distress. she shut up her grief within her heart. had any one looked at her, he could have seen by the expression of her face what agony she was in; but every one was so engrossed with his own sorrow that he had no care for another's grief. each one lamented his own loss. for they find the river bank covered with their relatives and friends, who had been wounded or roughly treated. each one wept for his own heavy and bitter loss: here is a son weeping for a father, there a father for a son; one swoons at the sight of his cousin, another over his nephew. thus fathers, brothers, and relatives bemoan their loss on every side. but above all is noticeable the sorrow of the greeks; and yet they might have anticipated great joy, for the deepest grief of all the camp will soon be changed into rejoicing. (vv. - .) the greeks outside continue their lament, while those inside strive to let them know the news which will cause them to rejoice. they disarm and bind their prisoners, who pray and beg of them to strike off their heads straightway. but the greeks are unwilling, and disdain their entreaties, saying that them will keep then under guard and hand them over to the king, who will grant them such recompense as shall require their services. when they had disarmed them all they made them go up on the wall that they might be seen by the troops below. this privilege is not to their liking, and when they saw their lord bound as a prisoner, they were unhappy men. alexander upon the walls swears to god and all the saints that he will not let one of them live, but will kill them all speedily, unless they will go to surrender to the king before he can seize them. "go," says he, "confidently to the king at my command, and cast yourselves upon his mercy. none of you, except the count, has deserved to die. you shall not lose either life or limb if you surrender to the king. if you do not deliver yourselves from death by crying for mercy, you need have little hope of saving your lives or bodies. go forth disarmed to meet the king, and tell him from me that alexander sends you to him. your action will not be in vain; for my lord the king is so gentle and courteous that he will lay aside his wrath and anger. but if you wish to act otherwise, you must expect to die, for his heart will be closed to pity." all agree in accepting this advice, and do not hesitate until they come to the king's tent, where they all fall at his feet. the story they told was soon known throughout the camp. the king and all his men mounted and spurred their horses to the town without delay. (vv. - .) alexander goes out from the town to meet the king, who was greatly pleased, and to surrender to him the count. the king did not delay in fitly punishing him. but alexander is congratulated and praised by the king and all the others who esteem him highly. their joy drives away the grief which they had felt not long before. but no joy of the others can compare with the exultation of the greeks. the king presents him with the precious cup, weighing fifteen marks, and tells him confidently that there is nothing in his possession so valuable that he would not place it in his hands upon request--save only the crown and the queen. alexander dares not mention his heart's desire, though he knows well that he would not be refused in asking for his sweetheart's hand. but he fears so much lest he might displease her, whose heart would have been made glad, that he prefers to suffer without her rather than to win her against her will. therefore, he asks for a little time, not wishing to prefer his request until he is sure of her pleasure. but he asked for no respite or delay in accepting the cup of gold. he takes the cup, and courteously begs my lord gawain to accept this cup as a gift from him, which gawain did most reluctantly. when soredamors learned the truth about alexander she was greatly pleased and delighted. when she heard that he was alive, she was so happy that it seemed to her as though she could never be sad again. but she reflects that he is slower in coming than is his wont. yet in good time she will have her wish, for both of them in rivalry are occupied with one common thought. (vv. - .) it seemed to alexander an age before he could feast his eyes with even one soft glance from her. long ago he would fain have gone to the queen's tent, if he had not been detained elsewhere. he was much put out by this delay, and as soon as he could, he betook himself to the queen in her tent. the queen went to greet him, and, without his having confided in her, she had already read his thoughts, and knew what was passing in his mind. she greets him at the entrance of the tent, and strives to make him welcome, well knowing for what purpose he has come. desirous of according him a favour, she beckons soredamors to join them, and they three engage in conversation at some distance from the rest. the queen first speaks, in whose mind there was no doubt that this couple were in love. of this fact she is quite sure, and is persuaded moreover that soredamors could not have a better lover. she took her place between the two and began to say what was appropriate. (vv. - .) "alexander," says the queen, "any love is worse than hate, when it torments and distresses its devotee. lovers know not what they do when they conceal their passion from one another. love is a serious business, and whoever does not boldly lay its foundation firm can hardly succeed in completing the edifice. they say there is nothing so hard to cross as the threshold. now i wish to instruct you in the lore of love; for i know well that love is tormenting you. therefore, i have undertaken to instruct you; and do you take good care not to keep anything back from me, for i have plainly seen in the faces of you both that of two hearts you have made but one. so beware, and conceal nothing from me! you are acting very foolishly in not speaking out your mind; for concealment will be the death of you; thus you will be the murderers of love. now i counsel you to exercise no tyranny, and to seek no passing gratification in your love; but to be honourably joined together in marriage. so, i believe, your love shall long endure. i can assure you that, if you agree to this, i will arrange the marriage." (vv. - .) when the queen had spoken her mind, alexander thus made reply: "lady," he says, "i enter no defence against the charge you make, but rather admit the truth of all you say. i wish never to be deserted by love, but always to fix my thoughts on it. i am pleased and delighted by what you have so kindly said. since you know what my wishes are, i see no reason why i should conceal them from you. long ago, if i had dared i would have confessed them openly; for the silence has been hard. but it may well be that for some reason this maiden may not wish that i be hers and she mine. but even if she grant me no rights over her, yet will i place myself in her hands." at these words she trembled, having no desire to refuse the gift. her heart's desire betrays itself in her words and her countenance. falteringly she gives herself to him, and says that without exception her will, her heart, and her body all is at the disposal of the queen, to do with her as she may please. the queen clasps them both in her arms, and presents one to the other. then laughingly she adds: "i give over to thee, alexander, thy sweetheart's body, and i know that thy heart does not draw back. whoever may like it or like it not, i give each of you to the other. do thou, soredamors, take what is thine, and thou, alexander, take what is thine!" now she has her own entire, and he has his without lack. at windsor that day, with the approval and permission of my lord gawain and the king, the marriage was celebrated. no one could tell, i am sure, so much of the magnificence and the food, of the pleasure and entertainment, at this wedding without falling short of the truth. inasmuch as it would be distasteful to some, i do not care to waste further words upon the matter, but am anxious to turn to another subject. (vv. - .) that day at windsor alexander had all the honour and happiness that he could desire. three different joys and honours were his: one was the town which he captured; another was the present of the best kingdom in wales, which king arthur had promised to give him when the war was over; that very day he made him king in his hall. but the greatest joy of all was the third--that his sweetheart was queen of the chess-board where he was king. before five months had passed, soredamors found herself with child, and carried it until the time was fulfilled. the seed remained in germ until the fruit was fully matured. no more beautiful child was ever born before or since than he whom they now called cliges. (vv. - .) so cliges was born, in whose honour this story has been put in the romance tongue. you shall hear me tell of him and of his valorous deeds, when he shall have grown to manhood and obtained a good report. but meanwhile in greece it came about that he who ruled over constantinople drew near his end. he died, as indeed he must, not being able to outlive his time. but before he died he assembled all the nobles of his land to send and seek for his son alexander, who was happily detained in britain. the messengers start out from greece, and begin their voyage over the seas; but a tempest catches them in its grasp, and damages their ship and company. they were all drowned at sea, except one unfaithful wretch, who was more devoted to alis the younger son than to alexander the eider. when he escaped from the sea, he returned to greece with the story that they had all been lost at sea as they were conducting their lord back from britain, and that he was the only survivor of the tragedy. they believed this lie of his, and, taking alis without objection or dissent, they crowned him emperor of greece. but it was not long before alexander learned that alis was emperor. then he took leave of king arthur, unwilling to let his brother usurp his land without protest. the king makes no opposition to his plan, but bids him take with him so great a company of welshmen, scots, and cornishmen that his brother will not dare to withstand him when he sees him come with such a host. alexander, had he pleased, might have led a mighty force; but he has no desire to harm his own people, if his brother will consent to do his will. he took with him forty knights besides soredamors and his son; these two persons, who were so dear to him, he did not wish to leave behind. escorted as far as shoreham by the entire court, they there embarked, and with fair winds their ship made way more quickly than a fleeing stag. within a month, i think, they arrived in port before athens, a rich and powerful city. indeed, the emperor was residing there, and had convoked, a great assembly of his noblemen. as soon as they arrived alexander sent a privy messenger into the city to learn whether they would receive him, or whether they would resist his claim to be their only lawful lord. (vv. - .) he who was chosen for this mission was a courteous knight with good judgment, named acorionde, a rich man and eloquent; he was a native of the country, too, having been born in athens. his ancestors for generations had always exercised lordship in the city. when he had learned that the emperor was in the city he went and challenged the crown on behalf of his brother alexander, accusing him openly of having usurped it unlawfully. arriving at the palace, he finds plenty of people who welcome him; but he says nothing to any of those who greet him until he learns what is their attitude and disposition toward their lawful lord. coming into the presence of the emperor he neither greets him nor bows before him nor calls him emperor. "alis," he says, "i bring thee tidings of alexander, who is out yonder in the harbour. listen to thy brother's message: he asks thee for what belongs to him, nor does he demand what is unjust. constantinople, which thou dost hold, should be his and shall be his. it would be neither just nor right that discord should arise between you two. so give him the crown without contest, for it is right that thou shouldst surrender it." (vv. - .) alis replies: "fair gentle friend, thou hast undertaken a mad enterprise in bearing this message. there is little comfort in thy speech, for well i know that my brother is dead. i should rejoice, indeed, to learn that he was still alive. but i shall not believe the news until i have seen him with my eyes. he died some time ago, alas! what thou sayest is not credible. and if he lives, why does he not come? he need never fear that i will not bestow on him some lands. he is a fool to hold aloof from me, for in serving me he will find profit. but no one shall possess the crown and empire beside me." he liked not the speech of the emperor, and did not fail to speak his mind in the reply he made. "alis," he says, "may god confound me if the matter is thus allowed to stand. i defy thee in thy brother's name, and dutifully speaking in his name, i summon all those whom i see here to renounce thee and to join his cause. it is right that they should side with him and recognise him as their lord. let him who is loyal now stand forth." (vv. - .) upon saying this he leaves the court, and the emperor summons those in whom he has most confidence. he requests their advice concerning this defiance upon his brother's part, and wishes to learn if he can trust them to lend no support or help to his brother's claim. thus he tries to test the loyalty of each; but he finds not one who sides with him in the dispute, rather do they all bid him remember the war which eteocles undertook against his own brother polynices, and how each one died by the other's hand. [ ] "so, too, it may happen to you, if you undertake a war, and all the land will be distressed." therefore, they advise that such a peace be sought as shall be both reasonable and just, and that neither one make excessive demands. thus alis understands that if he does not make an equitable agreement with his brother all his vassals will desert him; so he says that he will respect their wishes in making any suitable contract, provided that however the affair may rum out the crown shall remain in his possession. (vv. - .) in order to secure a firm and stable peace alis sends one of his officers to alexander, bidding him come to him in person and receive the government of the land, but stipulating that he should leave to him the honour of emperor in name and of wearing the crown: thus, if alexander is willing, peace may be established between them. when this news was brought to alexander his men made ready with him and came to athens, where they were received with joy. but alexander is not willing that his brother should have the sovereignty of the empire and of the crown unless he will pledge his word never to take a wife, and that after him cliges shall be emperor of constantinople. upon this the brothers both agreed. alexander dictated the terms of the oath, and his brother agreed and gave his word that he would never in his life take a wife in marriage. so peace is made, and they are friends again, to the great satisfaction of the lords. they hold alis as their emperor, but all business is referred to alexander. what he commands is done, and little is done except through him. alis has nothing but the name of emperor; but alexander is served and loved; and he who does not serve him for love must needs do so from fear. through the effect of one or the other of these two motives he has all the land within his power. but he whom they call death spares neither the strong man nor the weak, but kills and slays them all. so alexander had to die; for a disease caught him in its grip from which he could obtain no relief. but before he was surprised by death he summoned his son and said to him: "fair son cliges, thou canst never know that prowess and valour are thine unless thou go first to make test of them with the bretons and french at king arthur's court. if adventure takes thee thither, so conduct and demean thyself that thy identity be not known until thou hast tried thy strength with the most excellent knights of that court. i beg thee to heed my counsel in this matter, and if the occasion arises have no fear to measure thy skill with thy uncle, my lord gawain. do not forget this advice, i pray." (vv. - .) after he had thus exhorted him, he did not live long. soredamors' grief was such that she could not survive him, but died after him of a broken heart. alis and cliges both mourned him becomingly, but finally they ceased their grief, for sorrow, like everything else, must be outlived. to continue in sorrow is wrong, for no good can come from it. so the mourning was ended, and the emperor refrained for a long time from taking a wife, being careful of his word. but there is no court in all the world which is free from evil counsel. great men often go astray, and do not observe loyalty because of the bad advice they take. thus, the emperor hears his men giving him advice and counselling him to take a wife; and daily they so exhort and urge him that by their very insistence they persuade him to break his oath, and to accede to their desire. but he insists that she who is to be mistress of constantinople must be gentle, fair, wise, rich, and noble. then his counsellors say that they wish to prepare to go away to the german land, and seek the daughter of the emperor. she is the choice they propose to him; for the emperor of germany is very rich and powerful, and his daughter is so charming that never was there a maid of her beauty in christendom. the emperor grants them full authority, and they set out upon the journey well provided with all they need. they proceeded on their way until they found the emperor at regensburg, when they asked him to give them his oldest daughter at the instance of their lord. (vv. - .) the emperor was pleased with this request, and gladly gave them his daughter; for in doing so, he does not debase himself, nor diminish his honour in any way. but he says that he had promised her to the duke of saxony, and that they would not be able to lead her away unless the emperor should come with a great army, so that the duke would be unable to do him any harm or injury while homeward bound. (vv. - .) when the messengers heard the emperor's reply, they took leave and departed. they returned to their lord, and bore him the answer. and the emperor selected a chosen company of the most experienced knights whom he could find, and took with him his nephew, in whose interests he had vowed never to marry a wife, but he will not respect this vow if he can once reach cologne. [ ] upon a certain day he leaves greece and draws near to germany, intending to take a wife despite all blame and reproach; but his honour will be smirched. upon reaching cologne, he found that the emperor had assembled all his court for a festival. when the company of the greeks reached cologne, there was such a great number of greeks and germans that it was necessary to lodge more than sixty thousand of them outside the city. (vv. - .) great was the crowd of people, and great the joy of the two emperors when they met. when the barons had gathered in the vast palace, the emperor summoned his charming daughter. the maiden made no delay in coming straightway into the palace. she had been made very fair and shapely by the creator, whose pleasure it had been to arouse the people's admiration. god, who had fashioned her, never gave man a word which could adequately express such beauty as she possessed. (vv. - .) fenice was the maiden's name, and for this there was good reason: [ ] for if the phoenix bird is unique as the most beautiful of all the birds, so fenice, it seems to me, had no equal in beauty. she was such a miracle and marvel that nature was never able to make her like again. in order to be more brief, i will not describe in words her arms, her body, her head and hands; for if i should live a thousand years, and if my skill were to double every day, yet should i waste all my time in trying to tell the truth about her. i know very well, if i should undertake it, that i would exhaust my brain and waste my pains: it would be but misspent energy. [ ] the damsel hastened until she came into the palace, with head uncovered and face unveiled; and the radiance of her beauty lighted the palace more brightly than four carbuncles would have done. cliges stood, his over-cloak removed, in his uncle's presence. the day outside was somewhat dark, but he and the maiden were both so fair that a ray shone forth from their beauty which illumined the palace, just as the morning sun shines clear and red. (vv. - .) i wish to attempt in a very few words to describe the beauty of cliges. he was in his flower, being now almost fifteen years of age. he was more comely and charming than narcissus who saw his reflection in the spring beneath the elm-tree, and, when he saw it, he loved it so that he died, they say, because he could not get it. narcissus was fair, but had little sense; [ ] but as fine gold surpasses copper, so was cliges better endowed with wisdom, and even then i have not said all. his locks seemed made of fine gold, and his face was of a fresh rosy colour. he had a well-formed nose and shapely mouth, and in stature he was built upon nature's best pattern; for in him she had united gifts which she is wont to scatter wide. nature was so lavish with him that she gave him all she could, and placed all in one receptacle. such was cliges, who combined good sense and beauty, generosity and strength. he possessed the wood as well as the bark; he knew more of fencing and of the bow than did tristan, king mark's nephew, and more about birds and hounds than he. [ ] in cliges there lacked no good thing. (vv. - .) cliges stood in all his beauty before his uncle, and those who did not know who he was looked at him with eager curiosity. and on the other hand, the interest was aroused of those who did not know the maiden: wonderingly they gaze upon her. but cliges, under the sway of love, let his eyes rest on her covertly, and withdrew them again so discreetly that in their passage to and fro no one could blame his lack of skill. blithely he looks upon the maid, but does not note that she repays him in kind. not flattering him, but in sincere love, she gives him her eyes, and takes back his. this exchange seems good to her, and would have seemed to her better still had she known something of who he was. but she knows nothing except that he is fair, and that, if she is ever to love any one for beauty's sake, she need not seek elsewhere to bestow her heart. she handed over to him the possession of her eyes and heart, and he pledged his in turn to her. pledged? rather gave outright. gave? nay, upon my faith, i lie; for no one can give away his heart. i must express it some other way. i will not say it, as some have done who make two hearts dwell in one body, for it bears not even the semblance of truth that there should be in one body two hearts; and even if they could be so united, it would never seem true. but if it please you to heed my words, i shall be able explain how two hearts form but one without coming to be identified. only so far are they merged in one as the desire of each passes from one to the other, thus joining in one common desire; and because of this harmony of desire, there are some who are wont to say that each one has both hearts; but one heart cannot be in two places. each one always keeps his own heart, though the desire be shared by both, just as many different men may sing a song or tune in unison. by this comparison i prove that for one body to contain two hearts it is not enough to know each other's wish, nor yet for one to know what the other loves and what he hates; just as voices which are heard together seem to be merged in one, and yet do not all come from one mouth, so it is with a body which can contain but one heart. but there is no need of further argument, for other matters press upon me. i must speak now of the damsel and of cliges, and you shall hear of the duke of saxony, who has sent to cologne a young nephew of his. this youth informs the emperor that his uncle, the duke, sends word that he need expect no peace or trace with him, unless he sends to him his daughter, and that the one who is intending to carry her away with him had better not start home, for he will find the road occupied and well defended unless the maiden be surrendered. (vv. - .) the youth spoke his message well, without pride and without insult. but he found neither knight nor emperor who would answer him. when he saw that they all held their peace and treated him with scorn, he left the court in defiant mood. but youth and thirst for daring deeds made cliges defy him in combat as he left. for the contest they mount their steeds, three hundred of them on either side, exactly equal thus in strength. all the palace is quite emptied of knights and ladies, who mount to the balconies, battlements, and windows to see and watch those who were about to fight. even the maiden, whose will love had subdued beneath his sway, sought for a point from which to see. she took her place at a window, where she sat with great delight, because from there she could get a view of him whom she holds secretly in her heart with no desire to remove him thence; for she will never love any other man. but she does not know his name, nor who he is, nor of what race; for it is not proper to ask questions; but she yearns to hear tidings which will bring joy to her heart. she looks out of the window at the shields with their gleaming gold, and she gazes at those who wear the shields about their necks, as they prepare for the trial at arms. but all her thoughts and glances soon rest upon one object, and to all others she is indifferent. whereever cliges goes, she seeks to follow him with her eyes. and he in turn does his best for her, and battles openly, in order that she at least may hear it said that he is bold and very skilled: thus she will be compelled to prize him for his prowess. he attacks the duke's nephew, who was breaking many a lance and sorely discomfiting the greeks. but cliges, who is displeased at this, braces himself firmly in his stirrups, and goes to strike him so speedily that in spite of himself he had to vacate the saddle-bows. when he got up, the uproar was great; for the youth arose and mounted, thinking to avenge his shame. but many a man only falls into deeper disgrace who thinks to avenge his shame when he has the chance. the young man rushes at cliges, who lowers his lance to meet him, and thrusts at him with such force that he carries him to earth again. now his shame is doubled, and all his followers are in dismay, seeing that they can never leave the field with honour; for not one of them is so valiant that he can keep his seat in the saddle when cliges thrust reaches him. but those of germany and the greeks are overjoyed when they see their party drive off the saxons, who retreat discomfited. with mockery they pursue them until they come up with them at a stream, into which they drive them for a plunge. in the deepest part of the ford cliges unhorsed the duke's nephew and so many of his men that they escaped grieving and sad in their shame and confusion. but cliges, twice victor, returned in glee, and entered a gate which was near the apartment where the maiden was; and as he passed through the gate she exacted as toll a tender glance, which he paid her as their eyes met. thus was the maiden subdued by the man. but there is not a german of the lowland or highland, possessing the power of speech who does not cry: "god! who is this in whom such beauty is radiant? god! how has it happened that so suddenly he has attained such great success?" thus one man and another asks: "who is this youth, who is he, i say?" thus, soon throughout the city it is known what his name is, and who is his father, and what pledge that was which had been made to him by the emperor. so much was said and noised about that the news reached the ears of her who in her heart rejoiced because she could no more say that love had made sport of her, nor had she any ground for complaint. for love has made her give her heart to the fairest, most courteous, and valiant man that could anywhere be found. but some force must be employed, if she would gain possession of him who is not free do her will. this makes her anxious and distraught. for she has no one with whom to take counsel concerning him for whom she pines, but must waste herself in thought and vigils. she becomes so affected by these cares that she loses her colour and grows wan, and it becomes plain to all that her loss of colour betokens an unfulfilled desire. she plays less now than she used to do, and laughs less and loses her gaiety. but she conceals her trouble and passes it off, if any one asks what her ailment is. her old nurse's name was thessala, [ ] who was skilled in necromancy, having been born in thessaly, where devilish charms are taught and wrought; for the women of that country perform many a charm and mystic rite. (vv. - .) thessala saw pale and wan her whom love holds in his bonds, and thus she addressed her with advice: "god!" she said, "are you bewitched, my lady dear, that your face should be so pale? i wonder what your trouble is. tell me, if you can, where this pain attacks you most, for if any one can cure you, you may safely trust me to give you back your health again. i can cure the dropsy, gout, quinsy, and asthma; i am so expert in examining the urine and the pulse that you need consult no other physician. and i dare say that i know more than ever medea [ ] knew of enchantments and of charms which tests have proven to be true. i have never spoken to you of this, though i have cared for you all your life; and now i should not mention it did i not plainly see that you are so afflicted as to need my ministrations. my lady, you will do well to tell me what your sickness is before its hold becomes more severe. the emperor has committed you to me in order that i may care for you, and my devotion has been such that i have kept you safe and sound. now all my pains will come to naught if i do not relieve this malady. take care not to conceal from me whether this is sickness or something else." the damsel dares not openly expose her desire in all its fullness for she is in fear lest she be disapproved and blamed. and when she hears and understands how thessala boasts and highly rates herself as being expert in enchantments, charms, and potions, she decides to tell her what is the cause of her pale and colourless face; but first she makes her promise to keep her secret and never to oppose her will. (vv. - .) "nurse," she said, "i truly thought i felt no pain, but i shall soon feel differently. for as soon as i begin to think about it, i feel great pain, and am dismayed. but when one has no experience, how can one tell what is sickness and what is health? my illness is different from all others; for when i wish to speak of it, it causes me both joy and pain, so happy i am in my distress. and if it can be that sickness brings delight, then my trouble and joy are one, and in my illness consists my health. so i do not know why i complain, for i know not whence my trouble comes, unless it is caused by my desire. perchance my desire is my disease, but i find so much joy in it that the suffering it causes me is grateful, and there is so much contentment in my pain that it is sweet to suffer so. nurse thessala, now tell me true, is not this a deceitful ill, to charm and torment me both at once? i do not see how i can tell whether this is a disease or not. nurse, tell me now its name, nature, and character. but understand well that i have no desire to be cured of it, for my distress is very dear to me." thessala, who was very wise about love and its symptoms knows full well from what she hears that it is love which is tormenting her; the tender, endearing terms she uses are certain proof that she is in love, for all other woes are hard to bear, except that alone which comes from love; but love transforms its bitterness into sweetness and joy, then often transforms them back again. the nurse, who was expert in this matter, thus replies to her: "have no fear, for i will tell you at once the name of your malady. you told me, i believe, that the pain which you feel seems rather to be joy and health: now of such a nature is love-sickness, for in it, too, there is joy and bliss. you are in love, then, as i can prove to you, for i find no pleasure in any malady save only in love. all other sickness is always bad and horrible, but love is sweet and peaceable. you are in love; of that i am sure, nor do i see any wrong in that. but i shall consider it very wrong, if through some childish folly you conceal from me your heart." "nurse, there is no need of your speaking so. but first i must be sure and certain that under no circumstances will you speak of it to any living soul." "my lady, surely the winds will speak of it before i do without your leave, and i will give you my word so to favour your desires that you may safely trust in having your joy fulfilled through my services." "in that case, nurse, i shall be cured. but the emperor is giving me in marriage, wherefore i grieve and am sorrowful; for he who has won my heart is the nephew of him whom i must take. and though he may find joy in me, yet is my joy forever lost, and no respite is possible. i would rather be torn limb from limb than that men should speak of us as they speak of the loves of iseut and tristan, of so many unseemly stories are told that i should be ashamed to mention them. i could never bring myself to lead the life that iseut led. such love as hers was far too base; for her body belonged to two, whereas her heart was possessed by one. thus all her life was spent, refusing her favours to neither one. but mine is fixed on one object, and under no circumstances will there be any sharing of my body and heart. never will my body be portioned out between two shareholders. who has the heart has the body, too, and may bid all others stand aside. but i cannot clearly see how he whom i love can have my body when my father gives me to another, and his will i do not dare resist. and when this other is lord of my body, and does something which displeases me, it is not right for me to summon another to my aid. nor can this man marry a wife without breaking his plighted word; for, unless injustice be done, cliges is to have the empire after his uncle's death. but i should be well served by you, if you were so skilful as to present him, to whom i am pledged and engaged, from having any claim upon me. o nurse, exert yourself to the end that he may not break the pledge which he gave to the father of cliges, when he promised him solemnly never to take a wife in marriage. for now, if he should marry me his promise would be broken. but cliges is so dear to me that i would rather be under ground than that he should ever lose through me a penny of the fortune which should be his. may never a child be born to me to cause his disinheritance! nurse, now do your best, and i will always be your slave." then the nurse tells her and assures her that she will cast so many charms, and prepare so many potions and enchantments that she need never have any worry or fear concerning the emperor after he shall have drunk of the potion which she will give him; even when they shall lie together and she be at his side, she may be as secure as if there were a wall between them. "but do not be alarmed, if, in his sleep, he sports with you, for when he is plunged in sleep he will have his sport with you, and he will be convinced that he has had you when wide awake, nor will he think it is all a dream, a fiction, and illusion. thus he will have his sport with you when asleep, he will think he is awake." (vv. - .) the maiden is highly pleased and delighted by the nurse's kindness and offer of help. her nurse inspires good hope in her by the promise which she makes, and which she binds herself to keep; with this hope she expects to obtain her desire, in spite of wearisome delay, for if cliges' nature is as noble as she takes it to be he cannot fail to take pity upon her when he learns that she loves him, and that she has imposed virginity upon herself in order to insure his inheritance. so the maiden believes her nurse, and puts full confidence in her. one promises to the other, and gives her word, that this plot shall be kept so secret as never to be revealed. at this point their conversation ceases, and the next morning the emperor summons his daughter. at his command she goes to him. but why should i weary you with details? the two emperors have so settled the matter that the marriage is solemnised, and joy reigns in the palace. but i do not wish to stop to describe all this in detail. rather will i address myself to thessala, as she diligently prepares and tempers her potions. (vv. - .) thessala steeps her drink, putting in spices in abundance to sweeten and temper it. after having well beaten and mixed it, she strains it clear, with no sharp or bitter taste, for the spices she puts in give it a sweet and pleasant fragrance. when the potion was prepared, the day had drawn to a close, the tables were set for supper, and the cloths were spread. but thessala delays the supper, because she must discover by what device and what agent she can have the potion served. at supper, finally, all were seated, and more than six dishes had been passed, and cliges served behind his uncle's place. thessala, as she watches him, thinks how ill he serves his own interests, and how he is assisting in his own disinheritance, and the thought torments and worries her. then in her kindness she conceives the plan of having the potion served by him to whom it will bring both joy and honour. so thessala summoned cliges; and when he had come to her, he asked her why she had sent for him. "friend," said she, "i wish to present the emperor at this meal with a beverage which he will esteem highly, and i want him to taste no other to-night, either at supper or when he goes to bed. i think he cannot fail to relish it, for he never has tasted a better drink or one that has cost so much. and i warn you, take good care to let no one else drink of it, for there is but a little of it. and this, too, i beg of you, not to let him know whence it came; but tell him it came about by chance that you found it among the presents, and tasted it yourself, and detected the aroma of the sweet spices in the air; then, seeing the wine to be all clear you poured it into his cup. if by chance he should inquire, you can satisfy him with this reply. but have no suspicion yourself, after what i have said, for the drink is pure and healthful, full excellent spices, and i think it may some day bring you joy." when he heard that advantage would come to him, he took the potion and went away, for he did not know there was any harm in it. he set it in a crystal cup before the emperor, who took it without question, trusting in his nephew. after taking a long draught of the beverage, he straightway feels its strength, as it descends from head to heart, and rises again from heart to head, and penetrates every part of him without doing the slightest harm. and by the time they left the tables, the emperor had drunk so much of the pleasing drink that he can never escape it influence. every night he will sleep under its influence, and its effects will be such that he will think he is awake when sound asleep. (vv. - .) now the emperor has been deceived. many bishops and abbots were present to bless and hallow the marriage-bed. when the time came to retire, the emperor, as was his right, lay beside his wife that night. "as was his right;" but the statement is inexact, for he neither kissed nor fondled her, yet they lay together in one bed. at first the maiden trembled with fear and anxiety lest the potion should not act. but it has so mastered him that he will never desire her or any other woman except in his sleep. but when asleep he will have such sport with her as one may have in dreams, and he will think the dream is true. nevertheless, she is on her guard, and at first, holds aloof from him, so that he cannot approach her. but now he must needs fall asleep; then he sleeps and dreams, though, the senses are awake, and he exerts himself to win the favours of the maid, while she, realising the danger, defends her virginity. he woos her and calls her gently his sweetheart, and thinks he possesses her, but in vain. but he is gratified by this vain semblance, embracing, kissing, and fondling an empty thing, seeing and speaking to no purpose, struggling and striving without effect. surely the potion was effective in thus possessing and mastering him. all his pains are of no avail, as he thinks and is persuaded that the fortress is won. thus he thinks and is convinced, when he desists after his vain efforts. but now i may say once for all that his satisfaction was never more than this. to such relations with her he will for ever be condemned if indeed he can lead her to his own land; but before he can get her to safety, i judge that there is trouble in store for him. for while he is on his journey home, the duke, to whom his bride had been betrothed, will appear upon the scene. the duke gathered a numerous force, and garrisoned the frontiers, while at court he had his spies to inform him each day of the emperor's doings and preparations, and how long they are going to stay, and by what route they intend to return. the emperor did not tarry long after the marriage, but left cologne in high spirits. the german emperor escorted him with a numerous company, fearing and dreading the force of the duke of saxony. (vv. - .) the two emperors pursued their journey until they were beyond regensburg, where one evening they were encamped in a meadow by the danube. the greeks were in their tents in the fields bordering upon the black forest. opposite to them the saxons were lodged, spying upon them. the duke's nephew stood alone upon a hill, whence he could reconnoitre for a chance to inflict some loss or harm on the enemy. from that point of vantage he espied cliges with three of his young men disporting themselves with lances and shields, eager for a conflict and shock of arms. if he could get the chance the duke's nephew would gladly attack them and do them harm. starting out with five companions he concealed them in a valley close by a wood, so that the greeks never saw them until they emerged from the valley; then the duke's nephew made an attack, and striking cliges, wounded him slightly in the back. cliges, bending over, avoids the lance which passed him, inflicting only a slight hurt. (vv. - .) when cliges felt himself wounded, he charged the youth, and struck him with such force that he drove his lance quite through his heart, and stretched him dead. then all the saxons in fear of him betook themselves to flight through the woods. and cliges, ignorant of the ambuscade, courageously but imprudently leaving his companions behind, pursues them to the place where the duke's troops were in force preparing to attack the greeks. alone he goes in hot pursuit after the youths, who, in despair over their lord whom they had lost, come running to the duke and tell him weeping of his nephew's death. the duke saw no joke in this affair; and, swearing by god and all his saints that he will take no joy or pride in life so long as the slayer of his nephew remains alive, he adds that whoever will bring him his head will be his friend and will serve him well. then a knight made boast that if he can find the guilty man, he will present him with cliges' head. cliges follows the young men until he falls among the saxons, when he is seen by him who had undertaken to carry off his head, and who starts after him without delay. but cliges haste had turned back to escape from his enemies and came in to where he had left his companions; he found none there, for they had returned to camp to relate their adventure. and the emperor ordered to horse the greeks and germans in one band. soon all through the camp the knights are arming and mounting. meanwhile cliges is hotly pursued by his enemy, all armed and with helmet closed. cliges, who never wished to be numbered among the coward and craven-hearted, notices that he comes alone. first, the knight challenged him, calling him "fellow," unable to conceal his rage: "young fellow," he cried, "thou shalt leave me here a pledge for my lord whom thou hast killed. if i do not carry away thy head with me, i am not worth a counterfeit besant. i must make of it a present to the duke, and will accept no other forfeit. in return for his nephew, i shall make such restitution that he will profit by the exchange." cliges hears him reproaching him thus boldly and with impudence. "vassal," he says, "be on your guard! for i will defend my head, and you shall not get it without my leave." then the attack begins. the other missed his blow, while cliges struck him with such force that horse and rider went down together in one heap. the horse fell upon him so heavily that he shattered completely one of his legs. cliges dismounted on the greensward and disarmed him. when he had disarmed him, he appropriated his weapons, and cut off his enemy's head with the sword which had just now been his. after severing his head he fixed it firmly on the point of his lance, thinking to offer it to the duke, to whom his nephew had promised to present his own if he could meet him in the strife. cliges had no sooner put on the dead man's helmet and taken his shield and mounted his steed, letting his own stray at large to terrify the greeks, than he saw advancing with more than a hundred banners flying several full squadrons of greeks and germans. now the fierce and cruel struggles will soon begin between the saxons and the greeks. as soon as cliges sees his men advancing, he betakes himself toward the saxons, his own men hotly pursuing him, and not knowing him in his disguise. it is no wonder that his uncle is in despair and fear, when he sees the head he is carrying off. so all the host pursue him fast, while cliges leads them on to provoke a fight, until the saxons see him drawing near. but they, too, are quite misled by the arms with which he has armed and equipped himself. he succeeds in deceiving and mocking them; for the duke and all the rest, when they saw him approaching lance in rest, cried out: "here comes our knight! on the point of his lance he carries cliges' head, and the greeks are hotly pursuing him!" then, as they give their horses rein, cliges spurs to meet the saxons, crouching low beneath his shield, the lance out straight with the head affixed. now, though he was braver than a lion, he was no stronger than any other man. both parties think that he is dead, and while the saxons rejoice, the greeks and germans grieve. but before long the truth will out. for cliges no longer held his peace: but, rushing fiercely at a saxon, he struck him with his ashen lance upon the head and in the breast, so that he made him lose his stirrups, and at the same time he cried aloud: "strike gentlemen, for i am cliges whom you seek. come on, my bold and hardy knights! let none hold back, for the first joust is already won! he is a coward who does not relish such a dish." (vv. - .) the emperor's joy was great when he heard the voice of his nephew cliges summoning and exhorting them; he was greatly pleased and comforted. but the duke is greatly chagrined now when he sees he is betrayed, unless his force should prove the stronger. while he draws together his troops in serried lines, the greeks do the same, and pressing them close, attack and rush upon them. on both sides lances are lowered as they meet for the proper reception of a hostile host. at the first shock shields are pierced and lances shattered, girths are cut and stirrups broken, while the horses of those who fall to earth are left without a rider. but regardless of what any other does, cliges and the duke meet in the fray; holding their lances low, they strike one another upon the shield with such violence that the strong and well-made lances fly into splinters. cliges was skilful on horseback, and sits straight in his saddle without shaking or losing his balance. but the duke has lost his seat, and in spite of himself quits the saddle-bows. cliges struggled and strove to capture him and carry him away, but his strength did not suffice, for the saxons were around about fighting to rescue him. nevertheless, cliges escapes from the conflict without receiving harm and with a precious prize; for he makes off with the duke's steed, which was whiter than wool, and was worth more to a gentleman than the fortune of octavian [ ] at rome. the steed was an arabian. the greeks and germans are overjoyed to see cliges on such a mount, for they had already remarked the excellence and beauty of the arab steed. but they were not on their guard against an ambuscade; and before they are aware of it great damage will be done. (vv. - .) a spy came to the duke, bringing him welcome news. "duke," says the spy, "not a man remains in all the encampment of the greeks who is able to defend himself. if thou wilt take my word for it, now is the time to have the emperor's daughter seized, while the greeks are seen intent upon the battle and the strife. lend me a hundred of thy knights, and i will put the lady in their hands. by an old and secluded path i will lead them so carefully that they will not be seen or met by any man of germany, until they can seize the damsel in her tent and carry her off so handily that no resistance will be made." at this the duke is highly pleased. he sent a hundred and more tried knights with the spy, who so successfully conducted them that they carried the maiden away captive without exerting any force; for they could abduct her easily. after carrying her some distance from the tents, they send her on under escort of twelve of their number whom they accompany but a short distance. while the twelve led the damsel on, the others went to tell the duke how successful they had been. the duke's desire being now satisfied, he at once makes a truce with the greeks until next day. the truce was sworn by both parties. the duke's men then turned back, while the greeks without delay repaired each man to his own tent. but cliges stays behind alone, stationed upon a little hill where no one caught sight of him, until he saw the twelve pass by with her whom they were carrying off at topmost speed. cliges, in his thirst for glory, rides at them without delay; for he thinks within himself, and his heart tells him, that it is not for nothing that they flee. so, as soon as he espied them, he spurred after them; and when they saw him coming on, a foolish thought occurred to them: "it is the duke," they said, "who comes. let us rein in a little; for he has left the troops and is riding hard after us alone." every man thinks that so it is. they all want to turn back to meet him, but each one wishes to go alone. meanwhile, cliges must needs descend a deep valley between two mountains. he would never have recognised their blazons, if they had not come to meet him, or if they had not awaited him. six of the twelve come to meet him in an encounter they will soon regret. the other six stay with the damsel, leading her gently at a walk and easy jog. and the six ride quickly on, spurring up the valley, until he who had the swiftest horse reached him first and cried aloud: "hail, duke of saxony! god bless thee! duke, we have recovered thy lady. the greeks shall not get her now, for she shall be placed in thy hands." when cliges heard the words this fellow shouts, his heart is not gay; rather is it strange that he does not lose his wits. never was any wild beast--leopard, tiger, or lion--upon seeing its young captured, so fierce and furious as cliges, who sets no value upon his life if he deserts his sweetheart now. he would rather die than not win her back. in his trouble he feels great wrath, which gives him the courage he requires. he urges and spurs the arab steed, and rushes to give the saxon such a blow upon his painted shield that without exaggeration, he makes his heart feel the lance. this gives cliges confidence. he drove and spurred the arab charger on for more than the space of an acre before he came upon the next saxon, for they came up singly, each fearless of his predecessor's fare, for cliges fights them one by one. as he takes them thus individually, no one receives another's aid. he makes a rush at the second one, who, like the first, thought to give him joy by telling him of his own evil fate. but cliges has no concern to heed his talk and idle charter. thrusting his lance into his body so that the blood spurts out when it is withdrawn, he deprives him of life and the gift of speech. after these two he meets the third, who expects to find him in good humour and to make him rejoice over his own mischance. spurring eagerly he came up to him; but before he has time to say a word, cliges ran a fathom of his lance through the middle of his body, leaving him senseless on the ground. to the fourth he gives such a blow that he leaves him fainting on the field. after the fourth he goes at the fifth, and after him he attacks the sixth. none of them could defend himself, but each was left silent and mute. he stood in less fear of the others now, and more hardily pressed after them, taking no further thought of the six dead men. (vv. - .) feeling no further care for them, he starts to present a debt of shame and woe to the others who are leading the maid away. he caught up with them, and made such an onslaught upon them as a hungry and ravenous wolf makes when leaping upon its prey. now he feels his luck has come, when he can display his chivalry and bravery openly before her who is his very life. now may he die, if he does not rescue her! and she, too, is at death's door from anxiety for his sake, though she does not know that he is no near. lance in rest, cliges made an attack which pleased him well; for he struck first one saxon and then another, so that with a single rush he carried them both to earth, though it cost him his ashen lance. and they both fall in such distress, being wounded in the body, that they have no power to rise again and do him any harm or ill. the other four in bitter rage join in an attack upon cliges; but he neither quails nor trembles, and they are unable to dislodge him from his seat. quickly drawing his keen sword from its sheath, in order to please her who awaits his love, he rode hard at a saxon and, striking him with his whetted blade, he severed his head and half his neck from the body: such was the limit of his pity. fenice, who witnesses what transpires, does not know yet that this is cliges. she wishes that it were he, indeed, but because of the present danger she says to herself that she would not have him there. thus, doubly she shows the devotion of a sweetheart, fearing at once his death, and desiring that honour may be his. and cliges sword in hand attacks the other three, who face him bravely and puncture and split his shield. but they are unable to lay hands upon him, or to pierce the meshes of his hauberk. and whatever cliges reaches cannot stand against his blow, but must needs be split and torn apart; for he turns faster than a top driven and lashed by the whip. boldness and love, which holds him enthralled, make him eager for the fray. he pressed the saxons so hard that he left them all dead and defeated, some only wounded, and others dead--except one whom he let escape, disdaining to kill him when left alone at his mercy; besides, he wished him to tell the duke of the loss and injury he had sustained. but before this fellow left cliges, he begged him to tell him his name, which later he repeated to the duke, thus rousing his bitter ire. (vv. - .) now bad luck had fallen to the duke, who was in great distress and grief. and cliges takes back fenice, whose love torments and troubles him. if he does not confess to her now, love will long be his enemy, and hers too, if she holds her peace and speaks not the word which will bring him joy; for now each can tell the other privily the thoughts that lie within the heart. but they so fear to be refused that they dare not reveal their hearts. for his part, he fears lest she will not accept his love, whereas she, too, would have spoken out had she not feared to be rejected. in spite of this, the eyes of each reveal the hidden thought, if only they had heeded this evidence. they converse by glance of eye, but their tongues are so cowardly that they dare not speak in any wise of the love which possesses them. no wonder if she hesitates to begin, for a maid must be a simple and shrinking thing; but he--why does he wait and hold back who was so bold for her just now, but now in her presence is cowardly? god! whence comes this fear, that he should shrink from a lonely girl, feeble and timid, simple and mild? it is as if i should see the dog flee before the hare, and the fish chase the beaver, the lamb the wolf, and the dove the eagle. in the same fashion the labourer would forsake his pick with which he strives to earn a livelihood, and the falcon would flee from the duck, and the gerfalcon from the heron, and the pike from the minnow, and the stag would chase the lion, and everything would be reversed. now i feel within me the desire to give some reason why it should happen to true lovers that they lose their sense and boldness to say what they have in mind when they have leisure and place and time. (vv. - .) ye who are interested in the art of love, who do faithfully maintain the customs and usage of his court, who never failed to obey his law, whatever the result might be, tell me if there is anything that pleases because of love without causing us to tremble and grow pale. if any one oppose me in this, i can at once refute his argument; for whoever does not grow pale and tremble, whoever does not lose his senses and memory, is trying to filch and get by stealth what does not by right belong to him. the servant who does not fear his master ought not to remain in his employ nor do his service. he who does not esteem his lord does not fear him, and whoever does not esteem him does not hold him dear, but rather tries to deceive him and to steal from him what is his. the servant ought to tremble with fear when his master calls or summons him. and whoever commits himself to love owns him as his lord and master, and is bound to do him reverence and fear him much and honour him, if he wishes to be numbered in his court. love without alarm or fear is like a fire without flame or heat, day without sun, comb without honey, summer without flowers, winter without frost, sky without moon, and a book without letters. such is my argument in refutation, for where fear is absent love is not to be mentioned. whoever would love must needs feel fear, for otherwise he cannot be in love. but let him fear only her whom he loves, and for her sake be brave against all others. then if he stands in awe of his lady-love cliges is guilty of nothing wrong. even so, he would not have failed to speak straightway with her of love, whatever the outcome might have been, had it not been that she was his uncle's wife. this causes the festering of his wound, and it torments and pains him the more because he dares not utter what he fain would say. (vv. - .) thus they make their way back to their own people, and if they speak of anything it is nothing of much concern. each seated on a white horse, they rode rapidly toward the camp, which was plunged in great sorrow. the whole army is beside itself with grief, but they are altogether wrong in supposing cliges to be dead: hence their bitter and poignant grief. and for fenice, too, they are in dismay, thinking never to win her back again. thus, for her and him the whole army is in great distress. but soon upon their return the whole affair will change its aspect; for now they have reached the camp again, and have quickly changed the grief to joy. joy returns and sorrow flees. all the troops come together and sally forth to welcome them. the two emperors, upon hearing the report about cliges and the damsel, go to meet them with joyful hearts, and each can hardly wait to hear how cliges found and recovered the empress. cliges tells them, and, as they listen, they are amazed and are loud in their praises of his courage and devotion. but, for his part, the duke is furious, swearing and proclaiming his determination to fight cliges, if he dares, in single combat; and it shall be agreed that if cliges wins the battle the emperor shall proceed unchallenged, and freely take the maiden with him, and if he should kill or defeat cliges, who had done him such injury, then let there be no truce or stay to prevent each party from doing its best. this is what the duke desires, and by an interpreter of his, who knew both the greek and the german tongues, he announces to the two emperors his desire thus to arrange the battle. (vv. - .) the messenger delivered his message so well in both languages that all could understand it. the entire army was in an uproar, saying that may god forbid that cliges ever engage in the battle. both emperors are in a fright, but cliges throws himself at their feet and begs them not to grieve, but if ever he did them any favour, he prays them to grant him this battle as a guerdon and reward. and if the right to fight should be denied him, then he will never again serve for a single day his uncle's cause and honour. the emperor, who loved his nephew as he should, raised him by the hand and said: "fair nephew, i am deeply grieved to know you are so keen to fight; for after joy, sorrow is to be expected. [ ] you have made me glad, i cannot deny it; but it is hard for me to yield the point and send you forth to this battle, when i see you still so young. and yet i know you to be so confident of yourself that i dare not ever refuse anything that you choose to ask of me. be assured that, merely to gratify you, it should be done; but if my request has any power, you would never assume this task." "my lord, there is no need of further speech," said cliges; "may god damn me, if i would take the whole world, and miss this battle! i do not know why i should seek from you any postponement or long delay." the emperor weeps with pity, while cliges sheds tears of joy when the permission to fight is granted him. many a tear was shed that day, and no respite or delay was asked. before the hour of prime, by the duke's own messenger the challenge to battle was sent back to him accepted as he had proposed. (vv. - .) the duke, who thinks and confidently trusts that cliges will be unable to stave off death and defeat at his hands, has himself quickly armed. cliges, who is anxious for the fight, feels no concern as to how he shall defend himself. he asks the emperor for his arms, and desires him to dub him a knight. so the emperor generously gives him his arms, and he takes them, his heart being keen for the battle which he anticipates with joy and eagerness. no time is lost in arming him. and when he was armed from head to foot, the emperor, all sorrowing, girds the sword upon his side. thus cliges completely armed mounts his white arab steed; from his neck he hangs by the straps an ivory shield, such as will never break or split; and upon it there was neither colour nor design. all his armour was white, and the steed, and the harness, too, was all whiter than any snow. (vv. - .) cliges and the duke, now being armed, summon each other to meet half way, and they stipulate that their men shall take their stand on either side, but without their swords and lances, under oath and pledge that not a man will be so rash, so long as the battle lasts, as to dare to move for any reason, any more than he would dare to pluck out his own eye. when this had been agreed upon, they came together, each yearning ardently for the glory he hopes to win and for the joy of victory. but before a single blow was dealt, the empress has herself borne thither, solicitous for cliges' fate. it seems to her that if he dies, she, too, must needs do so. no comfort can avail to keep her from joining him in death, for, without him, life has no joys for her. when all were gathered on the field--high and low, young and old--and the guards had taken their place, then both seized their lances and rushed together so savagely that they both broke their lances and fell to the ground, unable to keep their saddles. but not being wounded, they quickly get upon their feet and attack each other without delay. upon their resonant helmets they play such a tune with swords that it seems to those who are looking on that the helmets are on fire and send forth sparks. and when the swords rebound in air, gleaming sparks fly off from them as from a smoking piece of iron which the smith beats upon his anvil after, drawing it from the forge. both of the vassals are generous in dealing blows in great plenty, and each has the best of intentions to repay quickly what he borrows; neither one holds back from repaying promptly capital and interest, without accounting and without measure. but the duke is much chagrined with anger and discomfiture when he fails to defeat and slay cliges in the first assault. such a marvellously great and mighty blow he deals him that he falls at his feet upon his knee. (vv. - .) when this blow brought cliges down, the emperor was struck with fear, and would have been no more dismayed had he himself been beneath the shield. nor could fenice in her fear longer contain herself, whatever the effect might be, from crying: "god help him!" as loud as she could. but that was the only word she uttered, for straightway her voice failed her, and she fell forward upon her face, which was somewhat wounded by the fall. two high nobles raised her up and supported her upon her feet until she returned to consciousness. but in spite of her countenance, none who saw her guessed why she had swooned. not a man there blamed her, but rather praised her for her act, for each one supposes that she would have done the same thing for him, if he had been in cliges' place, but in all this they are quite astray. cliges heard, and well understood, the sound of fenice's cry. her voice restored his strength and courage, as he leaped up quickly, and came with fury, toward the duke, so charging and attacking him that the duke in turn was now dismayed. for now he found him more fierce for the fray, stronger and more agile and energetic than when at first they came together. and because he feared his onslaught, he cried: "young man, so help me god, i see thou art brave and very bold. if it were not for my nephew now, whom i shall never more forget, i would gladly make peace with thee, and leave thy quarrel without interfering in it more." (vv. - .) "duke," says cliges, "what is your pleasure now? must one not surrender his right when he is unable to recover it? when one of two evils must be faced, one should choose the lesser one. your nephew was not wise to become angrily embroiled with me. you may be sure that i shall treat you in like fashion, if i get the chance, unless you agree to my terms of peace." the duke, to whom it seems that cliges' vigour is steadily growing, thinks that he had better desist in mid-career before he is utterly undone. nevertheless, he does not openly give in, but says: "young man, i see thou art skilful and alert and not lacking in courage. but thou art yet too young; therefore i feel assured that if i defeat and kill thee i shall gain no praise or fame, and i should never like to confess in the hearing of a man of honour that i had fought with thee, for i should but do thee honour, and myself win shame. but if thou art aware of honour's worth, it will always be a glorious thing for thee to have withstood me for two rounds at arms. so now my heart and feeling bid me let thee have thy way, and no longer fight with thee." [ ] "duke," says cliges, "that will not do. in the hearing of all you must repeat those words, for it shall never be said and noised abroad that you let me off and had mercy on me. in the hearing of all those who are gathered here, you must repeat your words, if you wish to be reconciled with me." so the duke repeats his words in the hearing of all. then they make peace and are reconciled. but however the matter be regarded cliges had all the honour and glory of it, and the greeks were greatly pleased. for their part, the saxons could not laugh, all of them having plainly seen that their lord was worn out and exhausted just now; but there is no doubt at all that, if he could have helped himself, this peace would never have been made, and that cliges' soul would have been drawn from his body had it proven possible. the duke goes back to saxony sorrowing, downcast, and filled with shame; for of his men there are not even two who do not regard him as worsted, defeated, and disgraced. the saxons with all their shame have now returned to saxony, while the greeks without delay make their way with joy and gladness toward constantinople, for cliges by his prowess has opened the way for them. the emperor of germany no longer follows and convoys them. taking leave of the greek troops and of his daughter and cliges, and finally of the emperor, he stayed behind in germany. and the emperor of the greeks goes off happily and in joyous mood. cliges, brave and courteous, calls to mind his sire's command. if his uncle, the emperor, will give him his permission, he will go and ask him for leave to return to britain and there converse with his great-uncle, the king; for he is desirous of seeing and knowing him. so he presents himself before the emperor, and requests that he consent to let him go to britain to see his uncle and his friends. gently he proffered his request. but his uncle refused, when he had listened to the request he made. "fair nephew," he said, "it is not my will that you should wish to leave me. i shall never give you without regret this permission to go away. for it is my pleasure and desire that you should be my companion and lord, with me, of all my empire." (vv. - .) now cliges hears something that does not suit him when his uncle refuses the prayer and request he made. "fair sire," said he, "i am not brave and wise enough, nor would it be seemly for me to join myself with you or any one else in the duty of governing this empire; i am too young and inexperienced. they put gold to the test when they wish to learn if it is fine. and so it is my wish, in brief, to try to prove myself, wherever i can find the test. in britain, if i am brave, i can apply myself to the whetstone and to the real true test, whereby my prowess shall be proved. in britain are the gentlemen whom honour and prowess distinguish. and he who wishes to win honour should associate himself with them, for honour is won and gained by him who associates with gentlemen. and so i ask you for leave to go, and you may be very sure that if you do not grant me the boon and send me thither i shall go without your leave." "fair nephew, i will give you leave, seeing you are so disposed that i cannot keep you back either by force or prayer of mine. now since prayer, prohibition, and force do not avail, may god give you the desire and inclination promptly to return. i wish you to take with you more than a bushel of gold and silver, and i will give for your pleasure such horses as you may choose." he had no sooner spoken than cliges bowed before him. all that the emperor, mentioned and promised him was straightway brought thither. (vv. - .) cliges took all the money and companions that he wished and needed. for his personal use he took four horses of different colours: one white, one sorrel, one fallow red, and one black. but i must have passed over something which it is not proper to omit. cliges goes to ask and obtain leave to depart from his sweetheart fenice; for he wishes to commend her to god's safe keeping. coming before her, he throws himself upon his knees, weeping so bitterly that the tears moisten his tunic and ermine, the while keeping his eyes upon the ground; for he dares not raise his eyes to her, as if he were guilty of some crime and misdeed toward her, for which he seems overcome with shame. and fenice, who timidly and fearfully looks at him, does not know the occasion of his coming, and speaks to him with difficulty. "rise, friend and fair sir! sit here beside me, and weep no more, and tell me what your pleasure is." "lady, what shall i say, and what leave unsaid? i come to ask your leave." "leave? to do what?" "lady, i must go off to britain." "then tell me what your business is, before i give you leave to go." "lady, my father, before he departed this life and died, begged me not to fail to go to britain as soon as i should be made a knight. i should not wish for any reason to disregard his command. i must not falter until i have accomplished the journey. it is a long road from here to greece, and if i should go thither, the journey would be too long from constantinople to britain. but it is right that i should ask leave from you to whom i altogether belong." many a covert sigh and sob marked the separation. but the eyes of none were keen enough, nor the ears of any sharp enough, to learn from what he saw and heard that there was any love between these two. cliges, in spite of the grief he felt, took his leave at the first opportunity. he is full of thought as he goes away, and so are the emperor and many others who stay behind. but more than all the others, fenice is pensive: she finds no bottom or bound to the reflections which occupy her, so abundantly are her cares multiplied. she was still oppressed with thought when she arrived in greece. there she was held in great honour as mistress and empress; but her heart and mind belong to cliges, wherever he goes, and she wishes her heart never to return to her, unless it is brought back to her by him who is perishing of the same disease with which he has smitten her. if he should get well, she would recover too, but he will never be its victim without her being so as well. her trouble appears in her pale and changed colour; for the fresh, clear, and radiant colour which nature had given her is now a stranger to her face. she often weeps and often sighs. little she cares for her empire and for the riches that are hers. she always cherishes in her remembrance the hour when cliges went away, and the leave he took of her, how he changed colour and grew pale, and how tearful his expression was, for he came to weep in her presence humbly and simply upon his knees, as if constrained to worship her. all this is sweet and pleasant for her to remember and think about. and afterward, as a little treat, she takes on her tongue instead of spice a sweet word which for all greece she would not wish him to have used contrary to the sense she had understood when he first had uttered it; for she lives upon no other dainty, and there is nothing else that pleases her. this word alone sustains and nourishes her, and assuages all her pain. she cares to eat and drink of no other dish or beverage, for when the two lovers came to part, cliges had said he was "altogether hers." this word is so sweet and tastes so good that from the tongue it stirs her heart, and she takes it into her mouth and heart to be all the more sure of it. under any other lock she would not dare to store this treasure. nowhere could it be lodged so well as in her own bosom. she will never leave it exposed at any price, being in such fear of robbers and thieves. but there is no ground for her anxiety, and she need have no fear of the birds of prey, for her treasure is not movable, but is rather like a house which cannot be destroyed by fire or flood, but will always stay fixed in a single place. but she feels no confidence in the matter, so she worries and strives to find and hold some ground on which to stand, interpreting the situation in divers ways. she both opposes and defends her position, and engages in the following argument: "with what intention should cliges say 'i am altogether yours' unless it was love that prompted him? what power can i have over him that he should esteem me so highly as to make me the mistress of his heart? is he not more fair than i, and of higher rank than i? i see in it naught but love, which could vouchsafe me such a boon. i, who cannot escape its power, will prove by my own case that unless he loved me he would never say that he was mine; unless love holds him in its toils, cliges could never say that he was mine any more than i could say that i was altogether his unless love had put me in his hands. for if he loves me not, at least he does not fear me. i hope that love which gives me to him will in return give him to me. but now i am sore dismayed because it is so trite a word, and i may simply be deceived, for many there be who in flattering terms will say even to a total stranger, 'i and all that i have are yours,' and they are more idle chatterers than the jays. so i do not know what to think, for it might well turn out that he said it just to flatter me. yet i saw his colour change, and i saw him weeping piteously. in my judgment, the tears and his face confused and pale were not produced by treachery, nor were they the fruits of trickery. those eyes from which i saw tears roll down were not guilty of falsehood. signs enough of love i saw, if i know anything about it. yes, in an evil hour i thought of love; woe is me that i ever learned it, for the experience has been bitter. has it indeed? yes, verily. i am dead when i cannot see him who has stolen my heart away by his cajoling flattery, because of which my heart leaves its dwelling, and will not abide with me, hating my home and establishment. in truth i have been ill treated by him who has my heart in his keeping. he who robs me and takes what is mine cannot love me, of that i am sure. but am i sure? why then did he weep? why? it was not in vain, for there was cause enough. i must not assume that i was the cause of it, for one is always loath to leave people whom one loves and knows. so it is not strange if he was sorry and grieved and if he wept when he left some one whom he knew. but he who gave him this advice to go and dwell in britain could not have smitten me more effectively. he is cut to the quick who loses his heart. he who deserves it, should be treated ill; but i have never deserved such treatment. alas, unhappy one, why has cliges killed me when i am innocent? but i am unjust to accuse him thus without cause. surely cliges would never have deserted me if his heart were like mine. i am sure his heart is not like mine. and if my heart is lodged in his it will never draw away, and his will never part from mine, for my heart follows him secretly: they have formed such a goodly company. but, after all, to tell the truth, they are very different and contrary. how are they different and contrary? why, his is the master and mine the slave; and the slave can have no will of his own, but only do his master's will and forsake all other affairs. but what reference has that to me? my heart and service are no concern to him. this arrangement distresses me, that one is master of us both. why is not my heart as independent as his? then their power would be equalised. my heart is now a prisoner, unable to move itself unless his moves as well. and whether his heart wanders or stays still, mine must needs prepare to follow him in his train. god! why are our bodies not so near one another that i could in some way bring back my heart! bring back? foolish one, if i should remove it from its joy i should be the death of it. let it stay there! i have no desire to dislodge it, but rather wish that it tarry with its lord until he feel some pity for it. for rather over there than here ought he to have mercy on his servant, because they are both in a foreign land. if my heart knows well the language of flattery, as is necessary for the courtier, it will be rich ere it comes back. whoever wishes to stand in the good graces of his lord and sit beside him on his right, to be in the fashion now-a-days, must remove the feather from his head, even when there is none there. but there is one bad feature of this practice: while he is smoothing down his master, who is filled with evil and villainy, he will never be so courteous as to tell him the truth; rather he makes him think and believe that no one could compare with him in prowess and in knowledge, and the master thinks that he is speaking the truth. that man does not know himself who takes another's word about qualities which he does not possess. for even if he is a wicked and insolent wretch, and as cowardly as a hare, mean, crazy, and misshapen, and a villain both in word and deed--yet some man will praise him to his face who behind his back will mock at him. but when in his hearing he speaks of him to some other, he praises him, while his lord pretends not to hear what they say between themselves; if, however, he thought that he would not be heard, he would say something his master would not like. and if his master is pleased to lie, the servant is all ready with his consent, and will never be backward in averring that all his master says is true. he who frequents courts and lords must ever be ready with a lie. so, too, must my heart do if it would find favour with its lord. let it flatter and be obsequious. but cliges is such a knight, so fair, so open, and so loyal, that my heart, in praising him, need never be false or perfidious, for in him there is nothing to be improved. therefore i wish my heart to serve him, for, as the people's proverb runs, 'he who serves a noble man is bad indeed if he does not improve in his company.'" (vv. - .) thus love harrows fenice. but this torment is her delight, of which she can never grow weary. and cliges now has crossed the sea and come to wallingford. there he took expensive quarters in great state. but his thoughts are always of fenice, not forgetting her for a single hour. while he delays and tarries there, his men, acting under his instructions, made diligent inquiries. they were informed that king arthur's barons and the king in person had appointed a tourney to be held in the plain before oxford, which lies close to wallingford. [ ] there the struggle was arranged, and it was to last four days. but cliges will have abundant time to prepare himself if in the meantime he needs anything, for more than a fortnight must elapse before the tournament begins. he orders three of his squires to go quickly to london and there buy three different sets of arms, one black, another red, the third green, and that on the way back each shall be kept covered with new cloth, so that if any one should meet them on the road he may not know the colour of the arms they carry. the squires start at once and come to london, where they find available everything they need. having finished this errand, they return at once without losing any time. when the arms they had brought were shown to cliges he was well pleased with them. he ordered them to be set away and concealed, together with those which the emperor had given him by the danube, when he knighted him. i do not choose to tell you now why he had them stored away; but it will be explained to you when all the high barons of the land are mounted on their steeds and assemble in search of fame. (vv. - .) on the day which had been agreed upon, the nobles of renown came together. king arthur, with all his men whom he had selected from among the best, took up his position at oxford, while most of the knights ranged themselves near wallingford. do not expect me to delay the story and tell you that such and such kings and counts were there, and that this, that, and the other were of the number. [ ] when the time came for the knights to gather, in accordance with the custom of those days, there came forth alone between two lines one of king arthur's most valiant knights to announce that the tourney should begin. but in this case no one dares to advance and confront him for the joust. there is none who does not hold back. and there are some who ask: "why do these knights of ours delay, without stepping forward from the ranks? some one will surely soon begin." and the others make reply: "don't you see, then, what an adversary yonder party has sent against us? any one who does not know should learn that he is a pillar, [ ] able to stand beside the best three in the world." "who is he, then?" "why, don't you see? it is sagremor the wild." "is it he?" "it surely is." cliges listens and hears what they say, as he sits on his horse morel, clad in armour blacker than a mulberry: for all his armour was black. as he emerges from the ranks and spurs morel free of the crowd, there is not one, upon seeing him, but exclaims to his neighbour: "that fellow rides well lance in rest; he is a very, skilful knight and carries his arms right handily; his shield fits well about his neck. but he must be a fool to undertake of his own free will to joust with one of the most valiant knights to be found in all the land. who can he be? where was he born? who knows him here?" "not i." "nor i." "there is not a flake of snow on him; but all his armour is blacker far than the cloak of any monk or prior." while thus they talk, the two contestants give their horses rein without delay, for they are very eager and keen to come together in the fight. cliges strikes him so that he crushes the shield against his arm, and the arm against his body, whereupon sagremor falls full length. cliges goes unerringly and bids him declare himself his prisoner, which sagremor does at once. now the tourney is fairly begun, and adversaries meet in rivalry. cliges rushes about the field, seeking adversaries with whom to joust, but not a knight presents himself whom he does not cast down or take prisoner. he excels in glory, all the knights on either side, for wherever he goes to battle, there the fight is quickly ended. that man may be considered brave who holds his ground to joust with him, for it is more credit to dare face him than it is to defeat another knight. and if cliges leads him away prisoner, for this at least he gains renown that he dared to wait and fight with him. cliges wins the fame and glory of all the tournament. when evening came, he secretly repaired to his lodging-place in order that none might have any words with him. and lest any one should seek the house where the black arms are displayed, he puts them away in a room in order that no one may find them or see them, and he hangs up his green arms at the street-door, where they will be in evidence, and where passers-by will see them. and if any one asks and inquires where his lodging is, he cannot learn when he sees no sign of the black shield for which he seeks. (vv. - .) by this ruse cliges remains hidden in the town. and those who were his prisoners went from one end of the town to the other asking for the black knight, but none could give them any information. even king arthur himself has search made up and down for him; but there is only one answer: "we have not seen him since we left the lists, and do not know what became of him." more than twenty young men seek him, whom the king sent out; but cliges so successfully concealed himself that they cannot find a trace of him. king arthur is filled with astonishment when he is informed that no one of high or low degree can point out his lodging-place, any more than if he were in caesarea, toledo, or crete. "upon my word," he says, "i know not what they may say, but to me this seems a marvellous thing. perchance it was a phantom that appeared in our midst. many a knight has been unhorsed, and noble men have pledged faith to one whose house they cannot find, or even his country or locality; each of these men perforce must fail to keep his pledge." thus the king spoke his mind, but he might as well have held his peace. (vv. - .) that evening among all the barons there was much talk of the black knight, for indeed they spoke of nothing else. the next day they armed themselves again without summons and without request. lancelot of the lake, in whom there is no lack of courage, rides forth with lance upright to await a contestant in the first joust. here comes cliges tiding fast, greener than the grass of the field, and mounted on a fallow red steed, carrying its mane on the right-hand side. wherever cliges spurs the horse, there is no one, either with hair or without, who does not look at him amazed and exclaim to his neighbour on either side: "this knight is in all respects more graceful and skilful than the one who yesterday wore the black arms, just as a pine is more beautiful than a white beech, and the laurel than the elder-bush. as yet we know not who yesterday's victor was; but we shall know to-night who this man is." each one makes reply: "i don't know him, nor did i ever see him, that i am aware. but he is fairer than he who fought yesterday, and fairer than lancelot of the lake. if this man rode armed in a bag and lancelot in silver and gold, this man would still be fairer than he." thus they all take cliges' part. and the two champions drive their steeds together with all the force of spur. cliges gives him such a blow upon the golden shield with the lion portrayed thereon that he knocks him down from his saddle and stands over him to receive his surrender. for lancelot there was no help; so he admitted himself his prisoner. then the noise began afresh with the shock of breaking lances. those who are on cliges' side place all their confidence in him. for of those whom he challenges and strikes, there is none so strong but must fall from his horse to earth. that day cliges did so well, and unhorsed and took captive so many knights, that he gave double the satisfaction to his side, and won for himself twice the glory that he had gained on the preceding day. when evening came, he betook himself as fast as he could to his lodging-place, and quickly ordered out the vermilion shield and his other arms, while he ordered the arms which he had worn that day to be laid away: the host carefully put them aside. again that evening the knights whom he had captured sought for him, but without hearing any news of him. in their lodging-places, most of those who speak of him do so with praise and admiration. the next day the gay and doughty knights return to the contest. from the oxford side comes forth a vassal of great renown--his name was perceval of wales. as soon as cliges saw him start, and learned certainly who it was, when he had heard the name of perceval he was very anxious to contest with him. he issued straightway from the ranks upon a spanish sorrel steed, and completely clad in vermilion armour. then all gaze at him, wondering more than ever before, and saying that they had never seen so perfect a knight. and the contestants without delay spur forward until their mighty blows land upon their shields. the lances, though they were short and stout, bend until they look like hoops. in the sight of all who were looking on, cliges struck perceval so hard that he knocked him from his horse and made him surrender without a long struggle or much ado. when perceval had pledged his word then the joust began again, and the engagement became general. every knight whom cliges meets he forces to earth. he did not quit the lists that day even for a single hour, while all the others struck at him as at a tower--individually, of course, and not in groups of two or three, for such was not the custom then. upon his shield, as upon an anvil, the others strike and pound, splitting and hewing it to bits. but every one who strikes him there, he pays back by casting him from his stirrups and saddle; and no one, unless he wished to lie, could fail to say when the jousting ceased that the knight with the red shield had won all the glory on that day. and all the best and most courtly knights would fain have made his acquaintance. but their desire was not felt before he had departed secretly, seeing the sun already set; and he had his vermilion shield and all his other harness removed, and ordered his white arms to be brought out, in which he had first been dubbed a knight, while the other arms and the steeds were fastened outside by the door. those who notice this realise and exclaim that they have all been defeated and undone by one single man; for each day he has disguised himself with a different horse and set of armour, thus seeming to change his identity; for the first time now they noticed this. and my lord gawain proclaimed that he never saw such a champion, and therefore he wished to make his acquaintance and learn his name, announcing that on the morrow he himself will be the first at the rally of the knights. yet, withal, he makes no boast; on the other hand, he says that he fully expects the stranger knight will have all the advantage with the lance; but it may be that with the sword he will not be his superior (for with the sword gawain had no master). now it is gawain's desire to measure his strength on the morrow with this strange knight who changes every day his arms, as well as his horse and harness. his moultings will soon be numerous if he continues thus each day, as is his custom, to discard his old and assume new plumage. thus, when he thought of the sword and the lance respectively. gawain disparaged and esteemed highly the prowess of his foe. the next day he sees cliges come back whiter than the fleur-delis, his shield grasped tight by the inside straps and seated on his white arab steed, as he had planned the night before. gawain, brave and illustrious, seeks no repose on the battleground, but spurs and rides forward, endeavouring as best he may to win honour in the fray, if he can find an opponent. in a moment they will both be on the field. for cliges had no desire to hold back when he overheard the words of the men who said: "there goes gawain, who is no weakling either on foot or ahorse. he is a man whom no one will attack." when cliges hears these words, he rushes toward him in mid-field; they both advance and come together with a swifter leap than that of the stag who hears the sound of the dogs as they come baying after him. the lances are thrust at the shields, and the blows produce such havoc that the lances split, crack and break clear down to the butt-end, and the saddle-bows behind give away, and the girths and breast-straps snap. both come to earth at once and draw their naked swords, while the others gather round to watch the battle. then king arthur stepped forward to separate them and establish peace. but before the truce was sworn, the white hauberks were badly torn and rent apart, the shields were cracked and hewed to bits, and the helmets crushed. (vv. - .) the king viewed them with pleasure for a while, as did many others who said that they esteemed the white knight's deeds of arms no less than those of my lord gawain, and they were not ready yet to say which was the better and which the worse, nor which was likely to win, if they had been allowed to fight to a finish; but it did not please the king to let them do more than they had done. so he stepped forward to separate them, saying: "stop now! woe if another blow be struck! make peace now, and be good friends. fair nephew gawain, i make this request of you; for without resentment and hate it is not becoming for a gentleman to continue to fight and defy his foe. but if this knight would consent to come to my court and join our sport it would not be to his sorrow or hurt. nephew, make this request of him." "gladly, my lord." cliges has no desire to refuse, and gladly consents to go when the tourney is concluded. for now he has more than sufficiently carried out the injunction of his father. and the king says he has no desire that the tournament shall last too long, and that they can afford to stop at once. so the knights drew off, according to the wish and order of the king. now that he is to follow in the royal suite, cliges sends for all his armour. as soon as he can, he comes to court; but first, he completely changed his gear, and came dressed in the style of the french. as soon as he arrived at court, all ran to meet him without delay, making such joy and festival that never was there greater seen, and all those call him lord whom he had captured in the joust; but he would hear none of this, and said they might all go free, if they were quite sure and satisfied that it was he who had captured them. and there was not one who did not cry: "you were the man; we are sure of that! we value highly your acquaintance, and we ought to love and esteem you and call you our lord, for none of us can equal you. just as the sun outshines the little stars, so that their light cannot be seen in the sky when the sun's rays appear, so is our prowess extinguished and abased in the presence of yours, though ours too was once famous in the world." cliges knows not what to reply, for in his opinion they all praise him more than he deserves; it pleases him, but he feels ashamed, and the blood rises in his face, revealing to all his modesty. escorting him into the middle of the hall, they led him to the king, where all ceased their words of compliment and praise. the time for the meal had come, and those whose duty it was hastened to set the tables. the tables in the hall were quickly spread, then while some took the towels, and others held the basins, they offered water to all who came. when all had washed, they took their seats. and the king, taking cliges by the hand, made him sit down in front of him, for he wished to learn this very day, if possible, who he was. of the meal i need not further speak, for the courses were as well supplied as if beef were selling at a penny. (vv. - .) when all the courses had been served, the king no longer held his peace. "my friend," he says, "i wish to learn if it was from pride that you did not deign to come to court as soon as you arrived in this country, and why you kept aloof from people, and why you changed your arms; and tell me what your name is, too, and from what race you spring." cliges replies: "it shall not be hid." he told and related to the king everything he wished to know. and when the king had heard it all, he embraced him, and made much of him, while all joined in greeting him. and when my lord gawain learned the truth, he, more than the others, cordially welcomed him. thus, all unite in saluting him, saying that he is very fair and brave. the king loves and honours him above all his nephews. cliges tarries with the king until the summer comes around, in the meantime visiting all brittany, france, and normandy, where he did so many knightly deeds that he thoroughly proved his worth. but the love whose wound he bears gives him no peace or relief. the inclination of his heart keeps him fixed upon a single thought. to fenice his thought harks back, who from afar afflicts his heart. the desire takes him to go back; for he has been deprived too long of the sight of the most desired lady who was ever desired by any one. he will not prolong this privation, but prepares to return to greece, and sets out, after taking leave. the king and my lord gawain were grieved, i can well believe, when they could no longer detain him. but he is anxious to return to her whom he loves and so covets that the way seems long to him as he passes over land and sea: so ardently he longs for the sight of her who has stolen and filched iris heart away. but she makes him recompense in full; for she pays him, as it were rent, the coin of her own heart, which is no less dear to her. but he is by no means sure of that, having no contract or agreement to show; wherefore his anxiety is great. and she is in just as great distress, harried and tormented by love, taking no pleasure in aught she sees since that moment when she saw him last. the fact that she does not even know whether he be alive or not fills her heart with anguish. but cliges draws nearer day by day, being fortunate in having favourable winds, until he joyfully comes to port before constantinople. when the news reached the city, none need ask if the emperor was glad; but a hundred times greater was the empress's joy. (vv. - .) cliges, with his company, having landed at constantinople, has now returned to greece. the richest and most noble men all come to meet him at the port. and when the emperor encounters him, who before all others had gone to meet him with the empress by his side, he runs to embrace and greet him in the presence of them all. and when fenice welcomes him, each changes colour in the other's presence, and it is indeed a marvel, when they are so close together, how they keep from embracing each other and bestowing such kisses as love would have; but that would have been folly and madness. the people come together from all sides with the desire to see him, and conduct him through the city, some on foot and some on horseback, until they bring him to the imperial palace. no words can ever tell the joy and honour and courteous service that were there displayed. but each one strove as best he might to do everything which he thought would please and gratify cliges. and his uncle hands over to him all his possessions, except the crown: he wishes him to gratify his pleasure fully, and to take all he desires of his wealth, either in the form of land or treasure. but he has no care for silver or gold, so long as he dares not reveal his thoughts to her because of whom he can find no repose; and yet he has plenty of time and opportunity to speak, if he were not afraid of being repelled; for now he can see her every day, and sit beside her "tete-a-tete" without opposition or hindrance, for no one sees any harm in that. (vv. - .) some time after his return, he came alone one day to the room of her who was not his enemy, and you may be sure that the door was not barred at his approach. by her side he took his seat, while the others moved away, so that no one might be seated near them and hear their words. first, fenice spoke of britain, and asked him about the character and appearance of my lord gawain, until her words finally hit upon the subject which filled her with dread. she asked him if he had given his love to any dame or damsel in that land. cliges was not obstinate or slow to respond to this demand, but he knew at once what reply to make as soon as she had put the question. "lady," he says, "i was in love while there, but not with any one of that land. in britain my body was without my heart, as a piece of bark without the wood. since leaving germany i have not known what became of my heart, except that it came here after you. my heart was here, and my body was there. i was not really away from greece; for hither my heart had come, for which i now have come back again; yet, it does not return to its lodging-place, nor can i draw it back to me, nor do i wish to do so, if i could. and you--how has it fared with you, since you came to this country? what joy have you had here? do you like the people, do you like the land? i ought not to ask you any other question than whether the country pleases you." "it has not pleased me until now; but at present i feel a certain joy and satisfaction, which, you may be sure, i would not lose for pavia or piacenza. from this joy i cannot wrest my heart, nor shall i ever use force in the attempt. nothing but the bark is left in me, for i live and exist without a heart. i have never been in britain, and yet without me my heart has been engaged in business there i know not what." "lady, when was it that your heart was there? tell me when it went thither--the time and season--if it be a thing that you can fairly tell me or any one else. was it there while i was there?" "yes, but you were not aware of it. it was there as long as you were, and came away again with you." "god! i never saw it, nor knew it was there. god! why did i not know it? if i had been informed of this, surely, my lady, i would have borne it pleasant company." "you would have repaid me with the consolation which you really owed to me, for i should have been very gracious to your heart if it had been pleased to come where it might have known i was." "lady, surely it came to you." "to me? then it came to no strange place, for mine also went to you." "then, lady, according to what you say, our hearts are here with us now, for my heart is altogether in your hands." "you in turn have mine, my friend; so we are in perfect accord. and you may be sure, so help me god, that your uncle has never shared in me, for it was not my pleasure, and he could not. never has he yet known me as adam knew his wife. in error i am called a wife; but i am sure that whoever calls me wife does not know that i am still a maid. even your uncle is not aware of it, for, having drunk of the sleeping potion, he thinks he is awake when he is asleep, and he fancies he has his sport with me while i lie in his embrace. but his exclusion has been complete. my heart is yours, and my body too, and from me no one shall ever learn how to practise villainy. for when my heart went over to you it presented you with the body too, and it made a pledge that none other should ever share in it. love for you has wounded me so deep that i should never recover from it, any more than the sea can dry up. if i love you, and you love me, you shall never be called tristan, nor i iseut; [ ] for then our love would not be honourable. but i make you this promise, that you shall never have other joy of me than that you now have, unless you can devise some means whereby i can be removed from your uncle and his society without his finding me again, or being able to blame either you or me, or having any ground for accusation. and to-morrow you shall tell me of the best plan you have devised, and i, too, will think of it. to-morrow, as soon as i arise, come and speak with me; then each of us will speak his mind, and we shall proceed to execute whatever seems best." (vv. - .) as soon as cliges heard her will be fully agreed with her, and said that would be the best thing to do. he leaves her happy, and goes off with a light heart himself. that night each one lies awake thinking over, with great delight, what the best plan will be. the next morning, as soon as they had arisen, they meet again to take counsel privately, as indeed they must. cliges speaks first and says what he had thought of in the night: "my lady," says he, "i think, and am of the opinion, that we could not do better than go to britain; i thought i might take you there; now do not refuse, for never was helen so joyfully received at troy when paris took her thither but that still greater joy would be felt over you and me in the land of the king, my uncle. and if this plan does not meet with your favour, tell me what you think, for i am ready, whatever may happen, to abide by your decision." and she replies: "this is my answer: i will never go off with you thus; for after we had gone away, every one would speak of us as they do of iseut the blond and of tristan. and everywhere all men and women would speak evil of our love. no one would believe, nor is it natural that they should do so, the truth of the matter. who would believe that i have thus, all to no purpose, evaded and escaped from your uncle still a maid? i should be regarded simply as wanton and dissolute, and you would be thought mad. it is well to remember and observe the injunction of st. paul: if any one is unwilling to live chaste, st. paul counsels him to act so that he shall receive no criticism, or blame, or reproach. [ ] it is well to stop evil mouths, and therefore, if you agree, i have a proposal to make: it seems best to me to consent to feign that i am dead. i shall fall sick in a little while. and you in the meantime may plan some preparations for a place of burial. put all your wits to work to the end that a sepulchre and bier be so constructed that i shall not die in it, or be stifled, and that no one shall mount guard over it at night when you come to take me out. so now seek such a retreat for me, where no one may see me excepting you; and let no one provide for any need of mine except you, to whom i surrender and give myself. never, my whole life long, do i wish to be served by other man than you. my lord and my servant you shall be; whatever you do shall seem good to me; and never shall i be mistress of any empire unless you are its master. any wretched place, however dark and foul, will seem brighter to me than all these halls if you are with me. if i have you where i can see you, i shall be mistress of boundless treasure, and the world will belong to me. and if the business is carefully managed, no harm will come of it, and no one will ever be able to speak ill of it, for it will be believed throughout the empire that i am mouldering in the ground. my maid, thessala, who has been my nurse, and in whom i have great confidence, will give me faithful aid, for she is very clever, and i trust her fully." and cliges, when he heard his sweetheart, replies: "my lady, if this is feasible, and if you think your nurse's advice reliable, we have nothing to do but make our preparations without delay; but if we commit any imprudence, we are lost without escape. in this city there is an artisan who cuts and carves wonderful images: there is no land where he is not known for the figures which he has shapen and carved and made. john is his name, and he is a serf of mine. no one could cope with john's best efforts in any art, however varied it might be. for, compared with him, they are all novices, and like a child with nurse. by imitating his handiwork the artisans of antioch and rome have learned all they know how to do--and besides there is no more loyal man. now i want to make a test, and if i can put trust in him i will set him and all his descendants free; and i shall not fail to tell him of all our plan if he will swear and give his word to me that he will aid me loyally, and will never divulge my secret." (vv. - .) and she replies: "so let it be." with her permission cliges left the room and went away. and she sends for thessala, her maid, whom she brought with her from her native land. thessala came at once without delay, yet not knowing why she was summoned. when she asked fenice privately what was her desire and pleasure, she concealed none of her intentions from her. "nurse," she said, "i know full well that anything i tell you will go no further, for i have tried you thoroughly and have found you very prudent. i love you for all you have done for me. in all my troubles i appeal to you without seeking counsel elsewhere. you know why i lie awake, and what my thoughts and wishes are. my eyes behold only one object which pleases me, but i can have no pleasure or joy in it if i do not first buy it with a heavy price. for i have now found my peer; and if i love him he loves me in return, and if i grieve he grieves too for my pain and sorrow. now i must acquaint you with a plan and project upon which we two have privately agreed." then she told and explained to her how she was willing to feign illness, and would complain so bitterly that at last she would pretend to be dead, and how cliges would steal her away at night, and then they would be together all their days. she thinks that in no other way she could longer bear to live. but if she was sure that she would consent to lend her aid, the matter would be arranged in accordance with their wishes. "but i am tired of waiting for my joy and luck." then her nurse assured her that she would help her in every way, telling her to have no further fear. she said that as soon as she set to work she would bring it about that there would be no man, upon seeing her, who would not certainly believe that the soul had left the body after she had drunk of a potion which would leave her cold, colourless, pale, and stiff, without power of speech and deprived of health; yet she would be alive and well, and would have no sensations of any kind, and would be none the worse for a day and a night entire spent in the sepulchre and bier. [ ] (vv. - .) when fenice heard these words, she thus spoke in reply: "nurse, i commit myself to you, and, with full confidence in you, will take no steps in my own behalf. i am in your hands; so think of my interests, and tell all the people who are here to betake themselves away, for i am ill, and they bother me." so, like a prudent woman, she said to them: "my lords, my lady is not well, and desires you all to go away. you are talking loud and making a noise, and the noise is disagreeable to her. she can get no rest or repose so long as you are in the room. i never remember her to have complained of such a sickness as this so violent and serious does it seem. so go away, and don't feel hurt." as soon as she had issued this command, they all quickly go away. and cliges sent for john to come quickly, and thus in private spoke to him: "john, dost thou know what i am about to say? thou art my slave and i thy master, and i can give away or sell thy body like a thing which is my own. but if i could trust thee in an affair i meditate, thou wouldst go for ever free, as well as the heirs which may be born of thee." john, in his desire for freedom, replies at once: "my lord, there is nothing i would not gladly do to see myself, my wife, and children free. tell me what your orders are, for nothing can be so hard as to cause me any work or pain or be hard for me to execute. for that matter, even were it against my will, i must needs obey your commands and give up my own affairs." "true, john; but this is a matter of which i hardly dare to speak, unless thou wilt assure me upon thy oath thou wilt faithfully give me aid and never betray me." "willingly, sire," john makes reply: "have never a fear on that account! for i will swear and pledge my word that, so long as i live, i will never say a word which i think will grieve you or cause you harm." "ah john, even were i to die for it, there is no man to whom i would dare mention the matter in which i desire thy counsel; i would rather have my eye plucked out; i would rather be put to death by thee than that thou shouldst speak of it to another man. but i hold thee to be so loyal and prudent that i will reveal to thee all my thought. i am sure thou wilt observe my wishes, both by aiding me and holding thy peace." "truly, sire so, help me god!" then cliges speaks and explains to him openly the adventurous plan. and when he had revealed the project--as you have heard me set it forth--then john said that he would promise to construct the sepulchre in accordance with his best skill, and said that he would take him to see a certain house of his which no one yet had ever seen--not even his wife or any child of his. this house, which he had built, he would show him, if he cared to go with him to the place where in absolute privacy he works and paints and carves. he would show him the finest and prettiest place that he had ever seen. cliges replies: "let us go thither then." (vv. - .) below the city, in a remote spot, john had expended much labour in the construction of a tower. thither he conducted cliges, leading him through the different storeys, which were decorated with fine painted pictures. he shows him the rooms and the fire-places, taking him everywhere up and down. cliges examines this lonely house where no one lives or has access. he passes from one room to another, until he thinks he has seen it all, and he is much pleased with the tower and says he thinks it is very fine. the lady will be comfortable there as long as she lives, for no one will know of her dwelling place. "no sire, you are right; she will never be discovered here. but do you think you have seen all of my tower and fair retreat? there still remain rooms so concealed that no man could ever find them out. and if you choose to test the truth of this by investigating as thoroughly as you can, you can never be so shrewd and clever in your search as to find another story here, unless i show you and point it out. you must know that baths are not lacking here, nor anything else which a lady needs, and which i can think of or recall. the lady will be here at her ease. below the level of the ground the tower widens out, as you will see, and you cannot anywhere find any entrance-door. the door is made of hard stone with such skill and art that you cannot find the crack." cliges says: "these are wonderful things i hear. lead on and i will follow you, for i am anxious to see all this." then john started on, taking cliges by the hand, until he came to a smooth and polished door, all coloured and painted over. when john came to the wall, he stopped, holding cliges by the right hand. "sire," he says, "there is no one who could see a window or a door in this wall; and do you think that any one could pass through it without using violence and breaking it down?" and cliges replies that he does not think so, and that he will never think so, unless he sees it first. then john says that he shall see it at once, and that he will open a door in the wall for him. john, who constructed this piece of work, unfastens the door in the wall and opens it for him, so that he has to use no strength or violence to force it; then, one stepping before the other, they descend by a winding-stair to a vaulted apartment where john used to do his work, when it pleased him to labour at anything. "sire," he says, "of all the men god ever made, no one but us two has ever been where we are now. and you shall see presently how convenient the place is. my advice is that you choose this as your retreat, and that your sweetheart be lodged here. these quarters are good enough for such a guest; for there are bedrooms, and bathrooms with hot water in the tubs, which comes through pipes under the ground. whoever is looking for a comfortable place in which to establish and conceal his lady, would have to go a long way before he would find anything so charming. when you shall have explored it thoroughly you will find this place very suitable." then john showed him everything, fine chambers and painted vaults, pointing out many examples of his work which pleased cliges much. when they had examined the whole tower, cliges said: "john, my friend, i set you free and all your descendants, and my life is absolutely in your hands. i desire that my sweetheart be here all alone, and that no one shall know of it excepting me and you and her." john makes answer: "i thank you, sire. now we have been here long enough, and as we have nothing more to do, let us return." "that is right," says cliges, "let us be gone." then they go away, and leave the tower. upon their return they hear every one in the city saying to his neighbour: "don't you know the marvellous news about my lady, the empress? may the holy spirit give her health--the gentle and prudent lady; for she lies sick of a grievous malady." (vv. - .) when cliges heard this talk he went in haste to the court. but there was no joy or gladness there: for all the people were sad and prostrated because of the empress, who is only feigning to be ill; for the illness of which she complains causes her no grief or pain. but she has told them all that she wishes no one to enter her room so long as her sickness maintains its grip with its accompanying pains in her heart and head. she makes an exception, however, in favour of the emperor and his nephew, not wishing to place a ban upon them; but she will not care if the emperor, her lord, does not come. for cliges' sake she is compelled to pass through great pain and peril. it distresses her that he does not come, for she has no desire to see any one but him. cliges, however, will soon be there, to tell her of what he has seen and found. he came into the room and spoke to her, but stayed only a moment, for fenice, in order that they might think she was annoyed by what pleased her so, cried out aloud: "be gone, be gone! you disturb and bother me too much, for i am so seriously ill that i shall never rise up again." cliges, though pleased with this, goes away with a sad face: you would never see so woeful a countenance. to judge from his appearance he is very sad; but within his heart is gay in anticipation of its joy. (vv. - .) the empress, without being really ill, complains and pretends that she is sick. and the emperor, who has faith in her, ceases not to grieve, and summons a physician. but she will not allow any one to see her or touch her. the emperor may well feel chagrined when she says that she will never have but one doctor, who can easily restore her to health whenever it pleases him to do so. he can cause her to die or to live, and to him she trusts her health and life. they think that she refers to god; but her meaning is very different, for she is thinking of no one but cliges. he is her god who can bring her health, or who can cause her death. (vv. - .) thus the empress takes care that no physician shall examine her; and more completely to deceive the emperor she refuses to eat or drink, until she grows all pale and blue. meanwhile her nurse keeps busy about her, and with great shrewdness sought privily all through the city, without the knowledge of any one, until she found a woman who was hopelessly ill with a mortal disease. in order to perfect her ruse she used to go to see her often and promised to cure her of her illness; so each day she used to take a urinal in which to examine the urine, until she saw one day that no medicine could ever be of any help, and that she would die that very day. this urine thessala carried off and kept until the emperor arose, when she went to him and said: "if now it be your will, my lord, send for all your physicians; for my mistress has passed some water; she is very ill with this disease, and she desires the doctors to see it, but she does not wish them to come where she is." the doctors came into the hall and found upon examination that the urine was very bad and colourless, and each one said what he thought about it. finally, they all agreed that she would never recover, and that she would scarcely live till three o'clock, when, at the latest, god would take her soul to himself. this conclusion they reached privately, when the emperor asked and conjured them to tell him the truth. they reply that they have no confidence in her recovery, and that she cannot live past three o'clock but will yield up her soul before that time. when the emperor heard this, he almost fell unconscious to the floor, as well as many others who heard the news. never did any people make such moan as there was then throughout the palace. however, i will speak no further of their grief; but you shall hear of thessala's activities--how she mixes and brews the potion. she mixed and stirred it up, for she had provided herself a long time in advance with everything which she would need for the potion. a little before three o'clock she gives her the potion to drink. at once her sight became dimmed, her face grew as pale and white as if she had lost her blood: she could not have moved a foot or hand, if they had flayed her alive, and she does not stir or say a word, although she perceives and hears the emperor's grief and the cries which fill the hall. the weeping crowds lament through all the city, saying: "god! what woe and misfortune has been brought upon us by wicked death! o covetous and voracious death! death is worse than a she-wolf which always remains insatiable. such a cruel bite thou hast never inflicted upon the world! death, what hast thou done? may god confound thee for having put out the light of perfect beauty! thou hast done to death the fairest and most lovely creature, had she but lived, whom god has ever sought to form. god's patience surely is too great when he suffers thee to have the power to break in pieces what belongs to him. now god ought to be wroth with thee, and cast thee out of thy bailiwick; for thy impudence has been too great, as well as thy pride and disrespect." thus the people storm about and wring their arms and beat their hands; while the priests read their psalms, making prayers for the good lady, that god may have mercy on her soul. (vv. - .) [ ] in the midst of the tears and cries, as the story runs, there arrived aged physicians from salerno, where they had long sojourned. at the sight of the great mourning they stopped to ask and inquire the cause of the cries and tears--why all the people are in such sorrow and distress. and this is the answer they receive: "god! gentlemen, don't you know? the whole world would be beside itself as we are, if it but knew of the great sorrow and grief and woe and loss which has come to us this day. god! where have you come from, then, that you do not know what has happened just now in this city? we will tell you the truth, for we wish you to join with us in the grief we feel. do you not know about grim death, who desires and covets all things, and everywhere lies in wait for what is best, do you not know what mad act she has committed to-day, as it is her wont to do? god has illuminated the world with one great radiance, with one bright light. but death cannot restrain herself from acting as her custom is. every day, to the extent of her power, she blots out the best creature she can find. so she wishes to try her power, and in one body she has carried off more excellence than she has left behind. she would have done better to take the whole world, and leave alive and sound this prey which now she has carried off. beauty, courtesy, and knowledge, and all that a lady can possess of goodness has been taken and filched from us by death, who has destroyed all goodness in the person of our lady, the empress. thus death has deprived us all of life." "ah, god!" the doctors say, "we know that thou art wroth with this city because we did not reach here sooner. if we had arrived here yesterday, death might have boasted of her strength if she could wrest her prey from us." "gentlemen, madame would not have allowed you at any price to see her or to exercise your skill. of good physicians there was no lack, but madame would not permit any one of them to see her or to investigate her malady." "no?" "truly, sirs, that she would not." then they recalled the case of solomon, who was so hated by his wife that she deceived him by feigning death. [ ] they think this woman has done the same. but if they could in any way bring about her cure, no one could make them lie or keep them from exposing the truth, if they discovered any trickery. so to the court they take their way, where there was such a noise and cry that you could not have heard god's thunder crash. the chief of these three doctors, who knew the most, drew near the bier. no one says to him "keep hands off," and no one tries to hold him back. he places his hand on her breast and side, and surely feels that life is still in the body: he perceives and knows that well enough. he sees the emperor standing by, mad and tormented by his grief. seeing him, he calls aloud: "emperor, console thyself! i am sure and plainly see that this lady is not dead. leave off thy grief, and be comforted! if i do not restore her alive to thee, thou mayst kill me or string me up." (vv. - .) at once throughout the palace the noise is quieted and hushed. and the emperor bade the doctor tell him fully his orders and wishes, whatever they might be. if he can restore life in the empress he will be sire and lord over the emperor himself; but if he has in any respect lied to him he will be hanged like a common thief. and the doctor said: "i consent to that, and may you never have mercy upon me if i do not cause her to speak to you here! without tarrying and without delay have the palace cleared at once, and let not a single soul remain. i must examine in private the illness which afflicts the lady. these two doctors, who are my friends, will remain with me alone in the room, and let every one else go out." this order would have been opposed by cliges, john, and thessala; but all the others who were there might have turned against them if they had tried to oppose his order. so they hold their peace and approve what they hear approved by the others, and leave the palace. after the three doctors had forcibly tipped apart the lady's winding-sheer, without using any knife or scissors, they said to her: "lady, don't be frightened, have no fear, but speak to us with confidence! we know well enough that you are perfectly sound and in good state. be sensible and obliging now, and do not despair of anything, for if you have any need of us we will all three assure you of our aid, whether for good or ill. we shall be very loyal to you, both in keeping our counsel and in helping you. do not keep us talking here! since we put at your disposal our skill and service, you should surely not refuse." thus they think to hoodwink and deceive her, but they have no success; for she has no need or care for the service which they promise her; so they are wasting their time in a vain effort. when the three physicians see that they will make nothing out of her either by prayer or flattery, then they take her from her bier, and begin to beat and belabour her. but their efforts are foolish, for not a word can they extract from her. then they threaten and try to terrify her by saying that if she does not speak she will soon have reason to repent of her folly, for they are going to do such a wonderful thing to her that such a thing was never done to the body of any wretched woman. "we know that you are alive, and will not deign to speak to us. we know that you are feigning death, and would thus deceive the emperor. have no fear of us! if any of us has angered you, before we do you further harm, cease your mad behaviour now, for you are acting wickedly; and we will lend you our aid in any enterprise--wise or mad." but it cannot be; they have no success. then they renew their attack, striking her with thongs upon the back, so that the welts are plainly seen, and they combine to tear her tender flesh until they cause the blood to flow. (vv. - .) when they had beaten her with the thongs until they had slashed her flesh, and when the blood is dropping down, as it trickles from among the wounds, even then their efforts are of no avail to extract from her a sigh or word, nor to make her stir or move. then they say that they must procure fire and lead, which they will melt and lay upon her hands, rather than fail in their efforts to make her speak. after securing a light and some lead they kindle a fire and melt the lead. thus the miserable villains torment and afflict the lady, by taking the lead all boiling hot from the fire and pouring it into the palms of her hands. not satisfied with pouring the lead clean through her palms, the cowardly rascals say that, if she does not speak at once they will straightway stretch her on the grate until she is completely grilled. yet, she holds her peace, and does not refuse to have her body beaten and maltreated by them. now they were on the point of placing her upon the fire to be roasted and grilled when more than a thousand ladies, who were stationed before the palace, come to the door and through a little crack catch sight of the torture and anguish which they were inflicting upon the lady, as with coal and flame they accomplished her martyrdom. they bring clubs and hammers to smash and break down the door. great was the noise and uproar as they battered and broke in the door. if now they can lay hands on the doctors, the latter will not have long to wait before they receive their full deserts. with a single rush the ladies enter the palace, and in the press is thessala, who has no other aim than to reach her mistress. beside the fire she finds her stripped, severely wounded and injured. she puts her back in the bier again, and over her she spreads a cloth, while the ladies go to give their reward to the three doctors, without wishing to wait for the emperor or his seneschal. out of the windows they threw them down into the court-yard, breaking the necks, ribs, arms, and legs of all: no better piece of work was ever done by any ladies. (vv. - .) now the three doctors have received their gruesome reward at the hands of the ladies. but cliges is terror-stricken and filled with grief upon hearing of the pain and martyrdom which his sweetheart has endured for him. he is almost beside himself, fearing greatly, and with good reason, that she may be dead or badly injured by the torture inflicted upon her by the three physicians who now are dead. so he is in despair and despondency when thessala comes, bringing with her a very precious ointment with which she has already gently rubbed the body and wounds of her mistress. when they laid her back in her bier the ladies wrapped her again in a cloth of syrian stuff, leaving her face uncovered. all that night there is no abatement of the cries they raise unceasingly. throughout the city, high and low, poor and rich, are beside themselves with grief, and it seems as if each one boasts that he will outdo all others in his woe, and would fain never be comforted. all that night the grief continues. the next morning john came to the court; and the emperor sends for him and issues to him this command: "john, if ever thou wroughtest a fine piece of work, now put forth and show all thy skill in constructing such a sepulchre as for beauty and workmanship shall have no match." and john, who had already performed the task, says that he has already completed one which is very fine and cleverly wrought; but when he began the work he had no thought that other than a holy body should be laid in it. "now let the empress be laid in it and buried in some sacred place, for she, i think, is sanctified." "you have spoken well," says the emperor; "she shall be buried yonder in my lord saint peter's church, where bodies are wont to be interred. for before her death she made this request of me, that i should have her buried there. now go about your task, and place your sepulchre in the best position in the cemetery, where it ought rightfully to be." john replies: "very well, my lord." john at once takes his leave, and prepares the sepulchre with great skill; a feather-bed he placed inside, because the stone was hard and cold; and in order that the odour may be sweet, he spreads flowers and leaves about. another reason for doing this was that no one might perceive the mattress he had laid within the grave. already mass had been said for the dead in the churches and parishes, and the bells were tolling continuously as is proper for the dead. orders are given to bring the body to be laid in the sepulchre, which john with all his skill has constructed so richly and handsomely. in all constantinople none remains, whether small or great, who does not follow the body in tears, cursing and reproaching death. knights and youths alike grow faint, while the ladies and damsels beat their breasts as they thus find fault with death: "o death," cries each, "why didst thou not take ransom for my lady? surely, thy gain was slight enough, whereas the loss to us is great." and in this grief cliges surely bears his part, as he suffers and laments more than all the others do, and it is strange he does not kill himself. but still he decides to put this off until the hour and the time shall come for him to disinter her and get possession of her and see whether she be alive or not. over the gave stand the men who let down the body into its place; but, with john there, they do not meddle with the adjustment of the sarcophagus, and since they were so prostrated that they could not see, john had plenty of time to perform his special task. when the coffin was in its place, and nothing else was in the grave, he sealed up tightly all the joints. when this was done, any one would have been skilful who, except by force or violence, could take away or loosen anything which john had put inside. (vv. - .) fenice lies in the sepulchre until the darkness of night came on. but thirty knights mount guard over her, and there are ten tapers burning there, which light up the place all about. the knights were weary and exhausted by the strain they had undergone; so they ate and drank that night until they all fell sound asleep. when night came on, cliges steals away from the court and from all his followers, so that there was not a single knight or servant who knew what had become of him. he did not stop until he found john, who advises him as best he can. he furnishes him with arms, but he will never have any need of them. once armed, they both spur to the cemetery. the cemetery was enclosed all about with a high wall, so that the knights, who had gone asleep after making the gate fast within, could rest assured that no one would enter there. cliges does not see how he can get in, for there is no passing through the gate. and yet, somehow he must pass through, for love bids him and drives him on. he tries the wall and climbs up, being strong and agile. inside was a garden planted with trees, one of which stood so near the wall that it touched it. now cliges had what he needed, and after letting himself down by the tree, the first thing he did was to go to open the gate for john. seeing the knights asleep, they extinguished all the lights, so that the place remained in darkness. and john now uncovers the grave and opens the coffin, taking care to do it no harm. cliges steps into the grave and lifts out his sweetheart, all weak and prostrate, whom he fondles, kisses, and embraces. he does not know whether to rejoice or regret that she does not stir or move. and john, as quickly as he could, closed up the sepulchre again, so that it was not apparent that any one had tampered with it. then they betook themselves as fast as they could to the tower. when they had set her in the tower, in the rooms which were beneath the level of the ground, they took off her grave clothes; and cliges, who knew nothing of the potion which she had taken, which made her dumb and kept her motionless, thinks that she is dead, and is in despair with anxiety as he heavily sighs and weeps. but soon the time will come for the potion to lose its force. and fenice, who hears his grief, struggles and strives for strength to comfort him by word or glance. her heart almost bursts because of the sorrow which he shows. "ah death!" he says, "how mean thou art, to spare and reprieve all things despicable and vile--to let them live on and endure. death! art thou beside thyself or drunk, who hast killed my lady without me? this is a marvellous thing i see: my lady is dead, and i still live on! ah, precious one, why does your lover live to see you dead? one now could rightly say that you have died in my service, and that it is i who have killed and murdered you. sweetheart, then i am the death that has smitten you. is not that wrong? for it is my own life i have lost in you, and have preserved your life in me. for did not your health and life belong to me, sweet one? and did not mine belong to you? for i loved nothing excepting you, and our double existence was as one. so now i have done what was right in keeping your soul in my body while mine has escaped from your body, and one ought to go to seek the company of the other, wherever it may be, and nothing ought to separate them." at this she heaves a gentle sigh and whispers faintly: "lover mine, i am not altogether dead, but very near it. i value my life but little now. i thought it a jest and a mere pretence; but now i am indeed to be pitied, for death has not treated this as a jest. it will be a marvel if i escape alive. for the doctors have seriously wounded me, and broken my flesh and disfigured me. and yet, if it was possible for my nurse to come here, and if efforts were of any avail, she would restore me to health again." "do not worry, dear, about that," says cliges, "for this very night i will bring her here." "dear, let john go for her now." so john departed and looked for her until he found her, and told her how he wished her to come along and to let no other cause detain her; for fenice and cliges have sent for her to come to a tower where they are awaiting her; and that fenice is in a grievous state, so that she must come provided with ointments and remedies, and to bear in mind that she will not live long, if she does not quickly come to bear her aid. thessala runs at once and, taking ointments, plaster, and remedies which she has prepared, she meets john again. secretly they go out from the city, until they come straight to the tower. when fenice sees her nurse, she feels already cured, because of the loving faith and trust she places in her. and cliges greets her affectionately, and says: "welcome, nurse, whom i love and prize. nurse, for god's sake, what do you think of this young lady's malady? what is your opinion? will she recover?" "yes, my lord, have no fear but that i shall restore her completely. a fortnight will not pass before i make her so well that she was never before so lively and strong." (vv. - .) while thessala is busy with her remedies, john goes to provide the tower with everything that is necessary. cliges goes to the tower and comes away bravely and openly, for he has lodged a moulting falcon there, and he says that he goes to visit it; thus no one can guess that he goes there for any other reason than for the falcon. he makes long stays there night and day. he orders john to guard the tower, so that no one shall enter against his will. fenice now has no further cause to complain, for thessala has completely cured her. if cliges were duke of almeria, morocco, or tudela, he would not consider it all worth a holly-berry compared with the joy which he now feels. certainly love did not debase itself when it joined these two, for it seems to them, when they embrace and kiss each other, that all the world must be better for their joy and happiness. now ask me no more of this, for one can have no wish in which the other does not acquiesce. thus they have but one desire, as if they two themselves were one. (vv. - .) fenice was in the tower, i believe, all that year and full two months of the next, until summer came again. when the trees bring forth their flowers and leaves, and the little birds rejoice, singing gaily their litanies, it came about that fenice one morning heard the song of the nightingale. cliges was holding her tightly clasped with his arms about her waist and neck, and she held him in a like embrace, as she said: "dear fair lover mine. a garden would do me good, in which i could disport myself. for more than fifteen months i have not seen the light of moon or sun. if possible, i would fain go out yonder into the daylight, for here in this tower i am confined. if there was a garden near, where i could go and amuse myself, it would often do me good." then cliges promises her to consult with john about it as soon as he can see him. at that very moment john came in, as he was often wont to do, and cliges spoke to him of what fenice desired. john replies: "all that she asks for is already provided and supplied. this tower is well equipped with what she wishes and requires." then fenice was very glad, and asked john to take her there, which he said he would very gladly do. then john goes and opens a door, constructed in a fashion which i cannot properly describe. no one but john could have made it, and no one could have asserted that there was any door or window there--so perfectly was it concealed. (vv. - .) when fenice saw the door open, and the sun come streaming in, as she had not seen it for many a day, her heart beat high with joy; she said that now there was nothing lacking, since she could leave her dungeon-tower, and that she wished for no other lodging-place. she passed out through the door into the garden, with its pleasures and delights. in the middle of the garden stood a grafted tree loaded with blooming flowers and leaves, and with a wide-spreading top. the branches of it were so trained that they all hung downwards until they almost touched the ground; the main trunk, however, from which they sprang, rose straight into the air. fenice desires no other place. beneath the tree the turf is very pleasant and fine, and at noon, when it is hot, the sun will never be high enough for its rays to penetrate there. john had shown his skill in arranging and training the branches thus. there fenice goes to enjoy herself, where they set up a bed for her by day. there they taste of joy and delight. and the garden is enclosed about with a high wall connected with the tower, so that nothing can enter there without first passing through the tower. (vv. - .) fenice now is very happy: there is nothing to cause her displeasure, and nothing is lacking which she desires, when her lover is at liberty to embrace her beneath the blossoms and the leaves. [ ] at the season when people take the sparrow-hawk and setter and hunt the lark and brown-thrush or stalk the quail and partridge, it chanced that a knight of thrace, who was young and alert and inclined to knightly sport, came one day close by the tower in his search for game. the hawk of bertrand (for such was his name) having missed a lark, had flown away, and bertrand thought how great his loss would be if he should lose his hunting-bird. when he saw it come down and light in a garden beneath the tower he was glad, for he thought he could not lose it now. at once he goes and clambers up the wall until he succeeds in getting over it, when beneath the tree he sees fenice and cliges lying asleep and naked in close embrace. "god!" said he, "what has happened to me now? what marvel is this i see? is that not cliges? it surely is. is not that the empress with him there? nay, but it looks like her. never did one thing so resemble another. her nose, her mouth, and brow are like those of my lady the empress. never did nature make two creatures of such similitude. there is no feature in this woman here which i have not seen in my lady. if she were alive, i should say that it was certainly she herself." just then a pear falls down and strikes close by fenice's ear. she jumps and awakes and, seeing bertrand, cries out aloud: "my dear, my dear, we are lost. yonder is bertrand. if he escapes you, we are caught in a bad trap, for he will tell that he has seen us." then bertrand realised that it was the empress beyond any doubt. he sees the necessity of leaving at once, for cliges had brought with him his sword into the garden, and had laid it down beside the bed. he jumped up now and grasped his sword, while bertrand hastily took his leave. as fast as he could he scaled the wall, and was almost safely over when cliges coming after him raised his sword and struck him with such violence that he severed his leg below the knee, as if it had been a fennel stalk. in spite of this, bertrand got away, though badly wounded and maimed. beside themselves with grief and wrath at the sight of his sorry state, his men on the other side picked him up, and insistently inquired who it was who had used him thus. "don't speak to me now," he says, "but help me to mount my horse. no mention shall be made of this excepting to the emperor. he who thus has treated me must be, and doubtless is, in great terror; for he is in great danger of his life." then they set him upon his palfrey and lead him through the city, sorely grieved in their fright the while. after them more than twenty thousand others come, following them to the court. and all the people run together, each striving to be there first. bertrand made his complaint aloud, in the hearing of all, to the emperor: but they took him for an idle chatterer when he said that he had seen the empress all exposed. the city is in a ferment of excitement: some regard the news they hear as simple nonsense, others advise and urge the emperor to visit the tower himself. great is the noise and confusion of the people who prepare to accompany him. but they find nothing in the tower, for fenice and cliges make their escape, taking with them thessala, who comforts them and declares to them that, if perchance they see people coming after them to arrest them, they need have no fear; that they would never approach to do them harm within the range of a strong cross-bow. and the emperor within the tower has john sought for and brought. he orders him to be bound and tied saying that he will have him hanged or burnt, and will have his ashes scattered wide. he shall receive his due reward for the shame he has caused the emperor; but this reward will not be agreeable, because john has hidden in the tower his nephew with his wife. "upon my word, you tell the truth," says john; "i will not lie, but will go still further and declare the truth, and if i have done any wrong it is right that i should be seized. but i offer this as my excuse: that a servant ought to refuse nothing when his lawful lord commands. now, every one knows forsooth that i am his, and this tower is too." "it is not, john. rather is it thine." "mine, sire? yes, after him: but neither do i belong to myself, nor have i anything which is mine, except what he pleased to bestow on me. and if you should think to say that my lord is guilty of having done you wrong, i am ready to take up his defence without any command from him. but i feel emboldened to proclaim openly what is on my mind, just as i have thought it out, for i know full well that i must die. so i will speak regardless of results. for if i die for my lord's sake, i shall not die an ignoble death, for the facts are generally known about that oath and pledge which you gave to your brother, that after you cliges should be emperor, who now is banished as a wanderer. but if god will, he shall yet be emperor! hence you are open to reproach, for you ought not to have taken a wife; yet you married her and did cliges a wrong, and he has done you no wrong at all. and if i am punished with death by you, and if i die wrongfully for his sake, and if he is still alive, he will avenge my death on you. now go and do the best you can, for if i die you shall also die." (vv. - .) the emperor trembles with wrath upon hearing the mocking words addressed to him by john. "john," he says, "thou shalt have so much respite, until we find thy lord, who has done such wrong to me, though i loved him dearly and had no thought of defrauding him. meanwhile, thou shalt stay in prison. if thou knowest what has become of him, tell me at once, i order thee." "i tell you? how can i commit such treachery? were the life to be drawn from my body i would not reveal my lord to you, even if i knew his whereabouts. as a matter of fact, i do not know any more than you where they have gone, so help me god! but there is no need for your jealousy. i do not so much fear your wrath that i should not say, so that all can hear, how you have been deceived, even my words are not believed. you were deceived and tricked by potion you drank on your wedding night. unless it happened in dream, when you were asleep, you have never had your pleasure with her; but the night made you dream, and the dream gave you as much satisfaction as if it had happened in your waking hours that she had held you in her arms: that was the sum of your satisfaction. her heart was so devoted to cliges that she feigned death for his sake; and he had such confidence in me that he explained it all to me and established her in my house, which rightfully belongs to him. you ought not to find fault with me. i ought, indeed, to be burnt or hanged, were i to betray my lord or refuse to do his will." (vv. - .) when the emperor's attention is recalled to the potion which he had been pleased to drink, and with which thessala had deceived him, then he realised for the first time that he had never had pleasure with his wife, unless it had happened in a dream: thus it was but an illusory joy. and he says that if he does not take vengeance for the shame and disgrace inflicted upon him by the traitor who has seduced his wife, he will never again be happy. "now quick!" he says, "as far as pavia, and from here to germany, let no castle, town, or city remain in which search is not made. i will hold that man above all others dear who will bring to me captive the two of them. now up and down, near and far, go diligently and search!" then they started out with zeal and spent all that day in the search. but in the number cliges had some friends, who, if they found them, would have led them to some hiding-place rather than hale them back again. all that fortnight they exhausted themselves in a fruitless search. for thessala, who is acting as their guide, conducts them by her arts and charms in such security that they feel no dread or fear of all the strength of the emperor. they seek repose in no town or city; yet they have all they wish or desire, even more so than is usually the case. for all they need is procured for them by thessala, who searches and scours and purveys for them. nor is there any who hunts them now, for all have returned to their homes again. meanwhile cliges is not idle, but starts to find his uncle, king arthur. he continued his search until he found him, and to him he made his claim and protest about his uncle, the emperor, who, in order to disinherit him, had disloyally taken a wife, which it was not right for him to do; for he had sworn to his father that he would never marry in his life. and the king says that with a fleet he will proceed to constantinople, and that he will fill a thousand ships with knights, and three thousand more with men-at-arms, until no city or burg, town or castle, however strong or however high, will be able to withstand their assault. then cliges did not forget to thank the king for the aid he offered him. the king sends out to seek and summon all the high barons of the land, and causes to be requisitioned and equipped ships, war vessels, boats, and barks. he has a hundred ships loaded and filled with shields, lances, bucklers, and armour fit for knights. the king makes such great preparations for the war that never did caesar or alexander make the like. he orders to assemble at his summons all england, and all flanders, normandy, france, and brittany, and all the men as far as the pyrenees. [ ] already they were about to set sail, when messengers arrived from greece who delayed the embarkation and kept the king and his people back. among the messengers who came was john, that trusty man, for he would never be a witness or messenger of any news which was not true, and which he did not know for a certainty. the messengers were high born men of greece, who came in search for cliges. they made inquiry and asked for him, until they found him at the king's court, when they said to him: "god save you, sire! greece is made over to you, and constantinople is given to you by all those of your empire, because of the right you have to them. your uncle (but you know it not) is dead of the grief he felt because he could not discover you. his grief was such that he lost his mind; he would neither drink nor eat, but died like a man beside himself. fair sire, now come back again! for all your lords have sent for you. greatly they desire and long for you, wishing to make you their emperor." some there were that rejoiced at this; and others there were who would have gladly seen their guests elsewhere, and the fleet make sail for greece. but the expedition is given up, and the king dismisses his men, and the hosts depart to their homes again. and cliges hurriedly makes haste in his desire to return to greece. he has no wish to tarry. his preparations made, he took his leave of the king, and then of all his friends, and taking fenice with him, he goes away. they travel until they arrive in greece, where they receive him with the jubilation which they ought to show to their rightful lord, and they give him his sweetheart to be his wife. both of them are crowned at once. his mistress he has made his wife, but he still calls her his mistress and sweetheart, and she can complain of no loss of affection, for he loves her still as his mistress, and she loves him, too, as a lady ought to love her lover. and each day saw their love grow stronger: he never doubted her, nor did she blame him for anything. she was never kept confined, as so many women have been who have lived since her time. for never since has there been an emperor who did not stand in fear of his wife, lest he should be deceived by her, upon his hearing the story of how fenice deceived alis, first with the potion which he drank, and then later by that other ruse. therefore, every empress, however rich and noble she may be, is guarded in constantinople as in a prison, for the emperor has no confidence in her when he remembers the story of fenice. he keeps her constantly guarded in her room, nor is there ever allowed any man in her presence, unless he be a eunuch from his youth; in the case of such there is no fear or doubt that love will ensnare them in his bonds. here ends the work of chretien. [ ] ----endnotes: cliges endnotes supplied by prof. foerster are indicated by "(f.)"; all other endnotes are supplied by w.w. comfort. [footnote : there is no english version corresponding to the old french "cliges". the english metrical romance "sir cleges" has nothing to do with the french romance.] [footnote : ovid in "metamorphosis", vi. , relates how tantalus at a feast to the gods offered them the shoulder of his own son. it is not certain, however, that chretien is referring here to this slight episode of the "metamorphosis".] [footnote : this allusion is generally taken as evidence that the poet had written previously of the love of tristan and iseut. gaston paris, however, in one of his last utterances ("journal des savants", , p. ), says: "je n'hesite pas a dire que l'existence d'un poeme sur tristan par chretien de troies, a laquelle j'ai cru comme presque tout le monde, me parait aujourd'hui fort peu probable; j'en vais donner les raisons."] [footnote : the story of philomela or philomena, familiar in chaucer's "legende of good women", is told by ovid in "metamorphosis", vi. - . cretiens li gois is cited by the author of the "ovide moralise" as the author of the episode of philomena incorporated in his long didactic poem. this episode has been ascribed to chretien de troyes by many recent critics, and has been separately edited by c. de boer, who offers in his introduction a lengthy discussion of its authorship. see c. de boer, "philomena, conte raconte d'apres ovide par chretien de troyes" (paris, ).] [footnote : the present cathedral of beauvais is dedicated to st. peter, and its construction was begun in . the earlier structure here referred to, destroyed in , probably was also dedicated to the same saint. (f.)] [footnote : the real kernal of the cliges story, stripped of its lengthy introduction concerning alexandre and soredamors, is told in a few lines in "marques de rome", p. (ed. j. alton in "lit. verein in stuttgart", no. , tubingen, ), as one of the tales or "exempla" recounted by the empress of rome to the emperor and the seven sages. no names are given except that of cliges himself; the version owes nothing to chretien's poem, and seems to rest upon a story which the author may have heard orally. see foerster's "einleitung to cliges" ( ), p. f.] [footnote : this criticism of ignoble leisure on the part of a warrior is found also in "erec et enide" and "yvain".] [footnote : this allegorical tribute to "largesse" is quite in the spirit of the age. when professional poets lived upon the bounty of their patrons, it is not strange that their poetry should dwell upon the importance of generosity in their heroes. for an exhaustive collection of "chastisements" or "enseignements", such as that here given to alexandre by his father, see eugen altner, "ueber die chastiements in den altfranzosischen chansons de geste" (leipzig, ).] [footnote : as miss weston has remarked ("the three days' tournament", p. ), the peculiar georgraphy of this poem "is distinctly anglo-norman rather than arthurian".] [footnote : for this intimate relation between heroes, so common in the old french heroic and romantic poems, see jacques flach, "le compagnonnage dans les chansons de geste" in "etudes romances dediees a gaston paris" (paris, ). reviewed in "romania", xxii. .] [footnote : here begins one of those long dialogues, where one person is represented as taking both sides of an argument. this rhetorical device, so wearisome to modern readers, is used by chretien preferably when some sentiment or deep emotion is to be portrayed. ovid may well have suggested the device, but ovid never abuses it as does the more prolix mediaeval poet. for the part playing by the eyes in mediaeval love sophistry, see j.f. hanford, "the debate of heart and eye" in "modern language notes", xxvi. - ; and h.r. lang, "the eyes as generators of love." id. xxiii. - .] [footnote : for play upon words and for fanciful derivation of proper names in mediaeval romance literature, see the interesting article of adolf tobler in "vermischte beitrage", ii. - . gaston paris ("journal des savants", , p. ) points out that thomas used the same scene and the play upon the same words "mer", "amer", and "amers" in his "tristan" and was later imitated by gottfried von strassburg.] [footnote : according to the th century troubadours, the shafts of love entered the victim's body through the eyes, and thence pierced the heart.] [footnote : for fanciful derivation of proper names, cf. a. tobler, "vermischte beitrage", ii. - .] [footnote : ganelon, the traitor in the "chanson de roland", to whose charge is laid the defeat of charlemagne's rear-guard at ronceval, became the arch-traitor of mediaeval literature. it will be recalled that dante places him in the lowest pit of hell ("inferno", xxxii. ). (note: there is a slight time discrepance here. roland, ganelon, and the battle of ronceval were said to have happened in th century a.d., fully years after arthur and the round table.--dbk).] [footnote : for the ceremonies attendant upon the conferring of knighthood, see karl treis, "die formalitaten des ritterschlags in der altfranzosischen epik" (berlin, ).] [footnote : the "quintainne" was "a manikin mounted on a pivot and armed with a club in such a way that, when a man struck it unskilfully with his lance, it turned and landed a blow upon his back" (larousse).] [footnote : this conventional attitude of one engaged in thought or a prey to sadness has been referred to by g.l. hamilton in "ztsch fur romanische philologie", xxxiv. - .] [footnote : many traitors in old french literature suffered the same punishments as ganelon, and were drawn asunder by horses ("roland", - ).] [footnote : the same rare words "galerne" and "posterne" occur in rhyme in the "roman de thebes", - .] [footnote : this qualified praise is often used in speaking of traitors and of saracens.] [footnote : the failure to identify the warriors is due to the fact that the knights are totally encased in armour.] [footnote : a reference to the "roman de thebes", circ.] [footnote : the disregard of alis for his nephew cliges is similar to that of king mark for tristan in another legend. in the latter, however, tristan joins with the other courtiers in advising his uncle to marry, though he himself had been chosen heir to the throne by mark. cf. j. bedier, "le roman de tristan", vols. (paris, ), i. f.] [footnote : see endnote # above.] [footnote : cf. shakespeare, "othello", ii. i, where cassio, speaking of othello's marriage with desdemona, says: "he hath achieved a maid that paragons description and wild fame; one that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, and in the essential vesture of creation does tire the enginer."] [footnote : ovid ("metamorphosis", iii. - ) is chretien's authority.] [footnote : cf. l. sudre, "les allusions a la legende de tristan dans la litterature du moyen age", "romania", xv. f. tristan was famed as a hunter, fencer, wrestler, and harpist.] [footnote : "the word 'thessala' was a common one in latin, as meaning 'enchantress', 'sorceress', 'witch', as pliny himself tells us, adding that the art of enchantment was not, however, indigenous to thessaly, but came originally from persia." ("natural history", xxx. ).--d.b. easter, "magic elements in the romans d'aventure and the romans bretons, p. . (baltimore, ). a jeanroy in "romania", xxxiii. note, says: "quant au nom de thessala, il doit venir de lucain, tres lu dans les ecoles au xiie siecle." see also g. paris in "journal des savants", , p. note. thessala is mentioned in the "roman de la violetta", v. , in company with brangien of the tristan legend.] [footnote : medea, the wife of jason, is the great sorceress of classic legend.] [footnote : this personage was regarded in the middle ages as an emperor of rome. in the th-century poem of "octavian" (ed. vollmuller, heilbronn, ) he is represented as a contemporary of king dagobert!] [footnote : this commonplace remark is quoted as a proverb of the rustic in "ipomedon", - ; id., , - ; "roman de mahomet", - ; "roman de renart", vi. - ; gower's "mirour de l'omme", , , etc.] [footnote : it is curious to note that corneille puts almost identical words in the mouth of don gomes as he addresses the cid ("le cid", ii. ).] [footnote : for this tournament and its parallels in folk-lore, see miss j.l. weston, "the three days' tournament" (london, ). she argues (p. f. and p. f.) against foerster's unqualified opinion of the originality of chretien in his use of this current description of a tournament, an opinion set forth in his "einleitung to lancelot", pp. , , , .] [footnote : note that chretien here deliberately avoids such a list of knights as he introduces in "erec". (f.)] [footnote : it must be admitted that the text, which is offered by all but one ms., is here unintelligible. the reference, if any be intended, is not clear. (f.)] [footnote : much has been made of this expression as intimating that chretien wrote "cliges" as a sort of disavowal of the immorality of his lost "tristan". cf. foerster, "cliges" (ed. ), p. xxxix f., and myrrha borodine, "la femme et l'amour au xxie seicle d'apres les poemes de chretien de troyes" (paris, ). g. paris has ably defended another interpretation of the references in "cliges" to the tristan legend in "journal des savants", , p. f.] [footnote : this curious moral teaching appears to be a perversion of three passages form st. paul's epistles: i cor. vii. , i cor. x. , eph. v. . cf. h. emecke, "chretien von troyes als personlichkeit und als dichter" (wurzburg, ).] [footnote : "this feature of a woman who, thanks to some charm, preserves her virginity with a husband whom she does not love, is found not only in widespread stories, but in several french epic poems. in only one, "les enfances guillaume", does the husband, like alis, remain ignorant of the fraud of which he is the victim, and think that he really possesses the woman.... if chretien alone gave to the charm of the form of a potion, it is in imitation of the love potion in "tristan". (g. paris in "journal des savants", , p. ). for many other references to the effect of herb potions, cf. a. hertel, "verzauberte oerlichkeiten und gegenstande in der altfranzosische erzahlende dichtung", p. ff. (hanover, ).] [footnote : i have pointed out the curious parallel between the following passage and dante's "vita nova", ("romantic review", ii. ). there is no certain evidence that dante knew chretien's work (cf. a. farinelli, "dante e la francia", vol. i., p. note), but it would be strange if he did not know such a distinguished predecessor.] [footnote : for the legend of solomon deceived by his wife, see foerster "cliges" (ed. ), p. xxxii. f., and g. paris in "romania", ix. - , and in "journal des savants", , p. f. for an additional reference, add "ipomedon", .] [footnote : for an imitation of the following scene, see hans herzog in "germania", xxxi. .] [footnote : "porz d'espaingne" refers to the passes in the pyrenees which formed the entrance-ways to spain. cf. the "cilician gates" in xenophon's "anabasis".] [footnote : chretien here insists upon his divergence from the famous dictum attributed to the countess marie de champagne by andre le chapelain: "praeceptum tradit amoris, quod nulla etiam coniugata regis poterit amoris praemio coronari, nisi extra coniugii foedera ipsius amoris militae cernatur adiuneta". (andreae capellini, "de amore", p. ; ed. trojel, havniae, ). yvain or, the knight with the lion (vv. - .) arthur, the good king of britain, whose prowess teaches us that we, too, should be brave and courteous, held a rich and royal court upon that precious feast-day which is always known by the name of pentecost. [ ] the court was at carduel in wales. when the meal was finished, the knights betook themselves whither they were summoned by the ladies, damsels, and maidens. some told stories; others spoke of love, of the trials and sorrows, as well as of the great blessings, which often fall to the members of its order, which was rich and flourishing in those days of old. but now its followers are few, having deserted it almost to a man, so that love is much abased. for lovers used to deserve to be considered courteous, brave, generous, and honourable. but now love is a laughing-stock, for those who have no intelligence of it assert that they love, and in that they lie. thus they utter a mockery and lie by boasting where they have no right. [ ] but let us leave those who are still alive, to speak of those of former time. for, i take it, a courteous man, though dead, is worth more than a living knave. so it is my pleasure to relate a matter quite worthy of heed concerning the king whose fame was such that men still speak of him far and near; and i agree with the opinion of the bretons that his name will live on for evermore. and in connection with him we call to mind those goodly chosen knights who spent themselves for honour's sake. but upon this day of which i speak, great was their astonishment at seeing the king quit their presence; and there were some who felt chagrined, and who did not mince their words, never before having seen the king, on the occasion of such a feast, enter his own chamber either to sleep or to seek repose. but this day it came about that the queen detained him, and he remained so long at her side that he forgot himself and fell asleep. outside the chamber door were dodinel, sagremor, and kay, my lord gawain, my lord yvain, and with them calogrenant, a very comely knight, who had begun to tell them a tale, though it was not to his credit, but rather to his shame. the queen could hear him as he told his tale, and rising from beside the king, she came upon them so stealthily that before any caught sight of her, she had fallen, as it were, right in their midst. calogrenant alone jumped up quickly when he saw her come. then kay, who was very quarrelsome, mean, sarcastic, and abusive, said to him: "by the lord, calogrenant, i see you are very bold and forward now, and certainly it pleases me to see you the most courteous of us all. and i know that you are quite persuaded of your own excellence, for that is in keeping with your little sense. and of course it is natural that my lady should suppose that you surpass us all in courtesy and bravery. we failed to rise through sloth, forsooth, or because we did not care! upon my word, it is not so, my lord; but we did not see my lady until you had risen first." "really, kay," the queen then says, "i think you would burst if you could not pour out the poison of which you are so full. you are troublesome and mean thus to annoy your companions." "lady," says kay, "if we are not better for your company, at least let us not lose by it. i am not aware that i said anything for which i ought to be accused, and so i pray you say no more. it is impolite and foolish to keep up a vain dispute. this argument should go no further, nor should any one try to make more of it. but since there must be no more high words, command him to continue the tale he had begun." thereupon calogrenant prepares to reply in this fashion: "my lord, little do i care about the quarrel, which matters little and affects me not. if you have vented your scorn on me, i shall never be harmed by it. you have often spoken insultingly, my lord kay, to braver and better men than i, for you are given to this kind of thing. the manure-pile will always stink, [ ] and gadflies sting, and bees will hum, and so a bore will torment and make a nuisance of himself. however, with my lady's leave, i'll not continue my tale to-day, and i beg her to say no more about it, and kindly not give me any unwelcome command." "lady," says kay, "all those who are here will be in your debt, for they are desirous to hear it out. don't do it as a favour to me! but by the faith you owe the king, your lord and mine, command him to continue, and you will do well." "calogrenant," the queen then says, "do not mind the attack of my lord kay the seneschal. he is so accustomed to evil speech that one cannot punish him for it. i command and request you not to be angered because of him, nor should you fail on his account to say something which it will please us all to hear; if you wish to preserve my good-will, pray begin the tale anew." "surely, lady, it is a very unwelcome command you lay upon me. rather than tell any more of my tale to-day, i would have one eye plucked out, if i did not fear your displeasure. yet will i perform your behest, however distasteful it may be. then since you will have it so, give heed. let your heart and ears be mine. for words, though heard, are lost unless understood within the heart. some men there are who give consent to what they hear but do not understand: these men have the hearing alone. for the moment the heart fails to understand, the word falls upon the ears simply as the wind that blows, without stopping to tarry there; rather it quickly passes on if the heart is not so awake as to be ready to receive it. for the heart alone can receive it when it comes along, and shut it up within. the ears are the path and channel by which the voice can reach the heart, while the heart receives within the bosom the voice which enters through the ear. now, whoever will heed my words, must surrender to me his heart and ears, for i am not going to speak of a dream, an idle tale, or lie, with which many another has regaled you, but rather shall i speak of what i saw." (vv. - .) "it happened seven years ago that, lonely as a countryman, i was making my way in search of adventures, fully armed as a knight should be, when i came upon a road leading off to the right into a thick forest. the road there was very bad, full of briars and thorns. in spite of the trouble and inconvenience, i followed the road and path. almost the entire day i went thus riding until i emerged from the forest of broceliande. [ ] out from the forest i passed into the open country where i saw a wooden tower at the distance of half a welsh league: it may have been so far, but it was not anymore. proceeding faster than a walk, i drew near and saw the palisade and moat all round it, deep and wide, and standing upon the bridge, with a moulted falcon upon his wrist, i saw the master of the castle. i had no sooner saluted him than he came forward to hold my stirrup and invited me to dismount. i did so, for it was useless to deny that i was in need of a lodging-place. then he told me more than a hundred times at once that blessed was the road by which i had come thither. meanwhile, we crossed the bridge, and passing through the gate, found ourselves in the courtyard. in the middle of the courtyard of this vavasor, to whom may god repay such joy and honour as he bestowed upon me that night, there hung a gong not of iron or wood, i trow, but all of copper. upon this gong the vavasor struck three times with a hammer which hung on a post close by. those who were upstairs in the house, upon hearing his voice and the sound, came out into the yard below. some took my horse which the good vavasor was holding; and i saw coming toward me a very fair and gentle maid. on looking at her narrowly i saw she was tall and slim and straight. skilful she was in disarming me, which she did gently and with address; then, when she had robed me in a short mantle of scarlet stuff spotted with a peacock's plumes, all the others left us there, so that she and i remained alone. this pleased me well, for i needed naught else to look upon. then she took me to sit down in the prettiest little field, shut in by a wall all round about. there i found her so elegant, so fair of speech and so well informed, of such pleasing manners and character, that it was a delight to be there, and i could have wished never to be compelled to move. but as ill luck would have it, when night came on, and the time for supper had arrived. the vavasor came to look for me. no more delay was possible, so i complied with his request. of the supper i will only say that it was all after my heart, seeing that the damsel took her seat at the table just in front of me. after the supper the vavasor admitted to me that, though he had lodged many an errant knight, he knew not how long it had been since he had welcomed one in search of adventure. then, as a favour, he begged of me to return by way of his residence, if i could make it possible. so i said to him: 'right gladly, sire!' for a refusal would have been impolite, and that was the least i could do for such a host." (vv. - .) "that night, indeed, i was well lodged, and as soon as the morning light appeared, i found my steed ready saddled, as i had requested the night before; thus my request was carried out. my kind host and his dear daughter i commended to the holy spirit, and, after taking leave of all, i got away as soon as possible. i had not proceeded far from my stopping-place when i came to a clearing, where there were some wild bulls at large; they were fighting among themselves and making such a dreadful and horrible noise that if the truth be known, i drew back in fear, for there is no beast so fierce and dangerous as a bull. i saw sitting upon a stump, with a great club in his hand, a rustic lout, as black as a mulberry, indescribably big and hideous; indeed, so passing ugly was the creature that no word of mouth could do him justice. on drawing near to this fellow, i saw that his head was bigger than that of a horse or of any other beast; that his hair was in tufts, leaving his forehead bare for a width of more than two spans; that his ears were big and mossy, just like those of an elephant; his eyebrows were heavy and his face was flat; his eyes were those of an owl, and his nose was like a cat's; his jowls were split like a wolf, and his teeth were sharp and yellow like a wild boar's; his beard was black and his whiskers twisted; his chin merged into his chest and his backbone was long, but twisted and hunched. [ ] there he stood, leaning upon his club and accoutred in a strange garb, consisting not of cotton or wool, but rather of the hides recently flayed from two bulls or two beeves: these he wore hanging from his neck. the fellow leaped up straightway when he saw me drawing near. i do not know whether he was going to strike me or what he intended to do, but i was prepared to stand him off, until i saw him stop and stand stock-still upon a tree trunk, where he stood full seventeen feet in height. then he gazed at me but spoke not a word, any more than a beast would have done. and i supposed that he had not his senses or was drunk. however, i made bold to say to him: 'come, let me know whether thou art a creature of good or not.' and he replied: 'i am a man.' 'what kind of a man art thou?' 'such as thou seest me to be: i am by no means otherwise.' 'what dost thou here?' 'i was here, tending these cattle in this wood.' 'wert thou really tending them? by saint peter of rome! they know not the command of any man. i guess one cannot possibly guard wild beasts in a plain or wood or anywhere else unless they are tied or confined inside.' 'well, i tend and have control of these beasts so that they will never leave this neighbourhood.' 'how dost thou do that? come, tell me now!' 'there is not one of them that dares to move when they see me coming. for when i can get hold of one i give its two horns such a wrench with my hard, strong hands that the others tremble with fear, and gather at once round about me as if to ask for mercy. no one could venture here but me, for if he should go among them he would be straightway done to death. in this way i am master of my beasts. and now thou must tell me in turn what kind of a man thou art, and what thou seekest here.' 'i am, as thou seest, a knight seeking for what i cannot find; long have i sought without success.' 'and what is this thou fain wouldst find?' 'some adventure whereby to test my prowess and my bravery. now i beg and urgently request thee to give me some counsel, if possible, concerning some adventure or marvellous thing.' says he: 'thou wilt have to do without, for i know nothing of adventure, nor did i ever hear tell of such. but if thou wouldst go to a certain spring here hard by and shouldst comply with the practice there, thou wouldst not easily come back again. close by here thou canst easily find a path which will lead thee thither. if thou wouldst go aright, follow the straight path, otherwise thou mayst easily go astray among the many other paths. thou shalt see the spring which boils, though the water is colder than marble. it is shadowed by the fairest tree that ever nature formed, for its foliage is evergreen, regardless of the winter's cold, and an iron basin is hanging there by a chain long enough to reach the spring. and beside the spring thou shalt find a massive stone, as thou shalt see, but whose nature i cannot explain, never having seen its like. on the other side a chapel stands, small, but very beautiful. if thou wilt take of the water in the basin and spill it upon the stone, thou shalt see such a storm come up that not a beast will remain within this wood; every doe, star, deer, boar, and bird will issue forth. for thou shalt see such lightning-bolts descend, such blowing of gales and crashing of trees, such torrents fail, such thunder and lightning, that, if thou canst escape from them without trouble and mischance, thou wilt be more fortunate than ever any knight was yet.' i left the fellow then, after he had pointed our the way. it must have been after nine o'clock and might have been drawing on toward noon, when i espied the tree and the chapel. i can truly say that this tree was the finest pine that ever grew on earth. i do not believe that it ever rained so hard that a drop of water could penetrate it, but would rather drip from the outer branches. from the tree i saw the basin hanging, [ ] of the finest gold that was ever for sale in any fair. as for the spring, you may take my word that it was boiling like hot water. the stone was of emerald, with holes in it like a cask, and there were four rubies underneath, more radiant and red than is the morning sun when it rises in the east. now not one word will i say which is not true. i wished to see the marvellous appearing of the tempest and the storm; but therein i was not wise, for i would gladly have repented, if i could, when i had sprinkled the perforated stone with the water from the basin. but i fear i poured too much, for straightway i saw the heavens so break loose that from more than fourteen directions the lightning blinded my eyes, and all at once the clouds let fall snow and rain and hail. the storm was so fierce and terrible that a hundred times i thought i should be killed by the bolts which fell about me and by the trees which were rent apart. know that i was in great distress until the uproar was appeased. but god gave me such comfort that the storm did not continue long, and all the winds died down again. the winds dared not blow against god's will. and when i saw the air clear and serene i was filled with joy again. for i have observed that joy quickly causes trouble to be forgot. as soon as the storm was completely past, i saw so many birds gathered in the pine tree (if any one will believe my words) that not a branch or twig was to be seen which was not entirely covered with birds. [ ] the tree was all the more lovely then, for all the birds sang in harmony, yet the note of each was different, so that i never heard one singing another's note. i, too, rejoiced in their joyousness, and listened to them until they had sung their service through, for i have never heard such happy song, nor do i think any one else will hear it, unless he goes to listen to what filled me with such joy and bliss that i was lost in rapture. i stayed there until i heard some knights coming, as i thought it seemed that there must be ten of them. but all the noise and commotion was made by the approach of a single knight. when i saw him coming on alone i quickly caught my steed and made no delay in mounting him. and the knight, as if with evil intent, came on swifter than an eagle, looking as fierce as a lion. from as far as his voice could reach he began to challenge me, and said: 'vassal, without provocation you have caused me shame and harm. if there was any quarrel between us you should first have challenged me, or at least sought justice before attacking me. but, sir vassal, if it be within my power, upon you shall fall the punishment for the damage which is evident. about me here lies the evidence of my woods destroyed. he who has suffered has the right to complain. and i have good reason to complain that you have driven me from my house with lightning-bolt and rain. you have made trouble for me, and cursed be he who thinks it fair. for within my own woods and town you have made such an attack upon me that resources of men of arms and of fortifications would have been of no avail to me; no man could have been secure, even if he had been in a fortress of solid stone and wood. but be assured that from this moment there shall be neither truce nor peace between us.' at these words we rushed together, each one holding his shield well gripped and covering himself with it. the knight had a good horse and a stout lance, and was doubtless a whole head taller than i. thus, i was altogether at a disadvantage, being shorter than he, while his horse was stronger than mine. you may be sure that i will tell the facts, in order to cover up my shame. with intent to do my best, i dealt him as hard a blow as i could give, striking the top of his shield, and i put all my strength into it with such effect that my lance flew all to splinters. his lance remained entire, being very heavy and bigger than any knight's lance i ever saw. and the knight struck me with it so heavily that he knocked me over my horse's crupper and laid me flat upon the ground, where he left me ashamed and exhausted, without bestowing another glance upon me. he took my horse, but me he left, and started back by the way he came. and i, who knew not what to do, remained there in pain and with troubled thoughts. seating myself beside the spring i rested there awhile, not daring to follow after the knight for fear of committing some rash act of madness. and, indeed, had i had the courage, i knew not what had become of him. finally, it occurred to me that i would keep my promise to my host and would return by way of his dwelling. this idea pleased me, and so i did. i laid off all my arms in order to proceed more easily, and thus with shame i retraced my steps. when i reached his home that night, i found my host to be the same good-natured and courteous man as i had before discovered him to be. i could not observe that either his daughter or he himself welcomed me any less gladly, or did me any less honour than they had done the night before. i am indebted to them for the great honour they all did me in that house; and they even said that, so far as they knew or had heard tell, no one had ever escaped, without being killed or kept a prisoner, from the place whence i returned. thus i went and thus i returned, feeling, as i did so, deeply ashamed. so i have foolishly told you the story which i never wished to tell again." (vv. - .) "by my head," cries my lord yvain, "you are my own cousin-german, and we ought to love each other well. but i must consider you as mad to have concealed this from me so long. if i call you mad, i beg you not to be incensed. for if i can, and if i obtain the leave, i shall go to avenge your shame." "it is evident that we have dined," says kay, with his ever-ready speech; "there are more words in a pot full of wine than in a whole barrel of beer. [ ] they say that a cat is merry when full. after dinner no one stirs, but each one is ready to slay noradin, [ ] and you will take vengeance on forre! are your saddle-cloths ready stuffed, and your iron greaves polished, and your banners unfurled? come now, in god's name, my lord yvain, is it to-night or to-morrow that you start? tell us, fair sire, when you will start for this rude test, for we would fain convoy you thither. there will be no provost or constable who will not gladly escort you. and however it may be, i beg that you will not go without taking leave of us; and if you have a bad dream to-night, by all means stay at home!" "the devil, sir kay," the queen replies, "are you beside yourself that your tongue always runs on so? cursed be your tongue which is so full of bitterness! surely your tongue must hate you, for it says the worst it knows to every man. damned be any tongue that never ceases to speak ill! as for your tongue, it babbles so that it makes you hated everywhere. it cannot do you greater treachery. see here: if it were mine, i would accuse it of treason. any man that cannot be cured by punishment ought to be tied like a madman in front of the chancel in the church." "really, madame," says my lord yvain, "his impudence matters not to me. in every court my lord kay has so much ability, knowledge, and worth that he will never be deaf or dumb. he has the wit to reply wisely and courteously to all that is mean, and this he has always done. you well know if i lie in saying so. but i have no desire to dispute or to begin our foolishness again. for he who deals the first blow does not always win the fight, but rather he who gains revenge. he who fights with his companion had better fight against some stranger. i do not wish to be like the hound that stiffens up and growls when another dog yaps at him." (vv. - .) while they were talking thus, the king came out of his room where he had been all this time asleep. and when the knights saw him they all sprang to their feet before him, but he made them at once sit down again. he took his place beside the queen, who repeated to him word for word, with her customary skill, the story of calogrenant. the king listened eagerly to it, and then he swore three mighty oaths by the soul of his father utherpendragon, and by the soul of his son, and of his mother too, that he would go to see that spring before a fortnight should have passed; and he would see the storm and the marvels there by reaching it on the eve of my lord saint john the baptist's feast; there he would spend the night, and all who wished might accompany him. all the court thought well of this, for the knights and the young bachelors were very eager to make the expedition. but despite the general joy and satisfaction my lord yvain was much chagrined, for he intended to go there all alone; so he was grieved and much put out because of the king who planned to go. the chief cause of his displeasure was that he knew that my lord kay, to whom the favour would not be refused if he should solicit it, would secure the battle rather than he himself, or else perchance my lord gawain would first ask for it. if either one of these two should make request, the favour would never be refused him. but, having no desire for their company, he resolves not to wait for them, but to go off alone, if possible, whether it be to his gain or hurt. and whoever may stay behind, he intends to be on the third day in the forest of broceliande, and there to seek if possibly he may find the narrow wooded path for which he yearns eagerly, and the plain with the strong castle, and the pleasure and delight of the courteous damsel, who is so charming and fair, and with the damsel her worthy sire, who is so honourable and nobly born that he strives to dispense honour. then he will see the bulls in the clearing, with the giant boor who watches them. great is his desire to see this fellow, who is so stout and big and ugly and deformed, and as black as a smith. then, too, he will see, if possible, the stone and the spring itself, and the basin and the birds in the pine-tree, and he will make it rain and blow. but of all this he will not boast, nor, if he can help it, shall any one know of his purpose until he shall have received from it either great humiliation or great renown: then let the facts be known. (vv. - .) my lord yvain gets away from the court without any one meeting him, and proceeds alone to his lodging place. there he found all his household, and gave orders to have his horse saddled; then, calling one of his squires who was privy to his every thought, he says: "come now, follow me outside yonder, and bring me my arms. i shall go out at once through yonder gate upon my palfrey. for thy part, do not delay, for i have a long road to travel. have my steed well shod, and bring him quickly where i am; then shalt thou lead back my palfrey. but take good care, i adjure thee, if any one questions thee about me, to give him no satisfaction. otherwise, whatever thy confidence in me, thou need never again count on my goodwill." "sire," he says, "all will be well, for no one shall learn anything from me. proceed, and i shall follow you." (vv. - .) my lord yvain mounts at once, intending to avenge, if possible, his cousin's disgrace before he returns. the squire ran for the arms and steed; he mounted at once without delay, since he was already equipped with shoes and nails. then he followed his master's track until he saw him standing mounted, waiting to one side of the road in a place apart. he brought him his harness and equipment, and then accoutred him. my lord yvain made no delay after putting on his arms, but hastily made his way each day over the mountains and through the valleys, through the forests long and wide, through strange and wild country, passing through many gruesome spots, many a danger and many a strait, until he came directly to the path, which was full of brambles and dark enough; then he felt he was safe at last, and could not now lose his way. whoever may have to pay the cost, he will not stop until he sees the pine which shades the spring and stone, and the tempest of hail and rain and thunder and wind. that night, you may be sure, he had such lodging as he desired, for he found the vavasor to be even more polite and courteous than he had been told, and in the damsel he perceived a hundred times more sense and beauty than calogrenant had spoken of, for one cannot rehearse the sum of a lady's or a good man's qualities. the moment such a man devotes himself to virtue, his story cannot be summed up or told, for no tongue could estimate the honourable deeds of such a gentleman. my lord yvain was well content with the excellent lodging he had that night, and when he entered the clearing the next day, he met the bulls and the rustic boor who showed him the way to take. but more than a hundred times he crossed himself at sight of the monster before him--how nature had ever been able to form such a hideous, ugly creature. then to the spring he made his way, and found there all that he wished to see. without hesitation and without sitting down he poured the basin full of water upon the stone, when straightway it began to blow and rain, and such a storm was caused as had been foretold. and when god had appeased the storm, the birds came to perch upon the pine, and sang their joyous songs up above the perilous spring. but before their jubilee had ceased there came the knight, more blazing with wrath than a burning log, and making as much noise as if he were chasing a lusty stag. as soon as they espied each other they rushed together and displayed the mortal hate they bore. each one carried a stiff, stout lance, with which they dealt such mighty blows that they pierced the shields about their necks, and cut the meshes of their hauberks; their lances are splintered and sprung, while the fragments are cast high in air. then each attacks the other with his sword, and in the strife they cut the straps of the shields away, and cut the shields all to bits from end to end, so that the shreds hang down, no longer serving as covering or defence; for they have so split them up that they bring down the gleaming blades upon their sides, their arms, and hips. fierce, indeed, is their assault; yet they do not budge from their standing-place any more than would two blocks of stone. never were there two knights so intent upon each other's death. they are careful not to waste their blows, but lay them on as best they may; they strike and bend their helmets, and they send the meshes of their hauberks flying so, that they draw not a little blood, for the hauberks are so hot with their body's heat that they hardly serve as more protection than a coat. as they drive the sword-point at the face, it is marvellous that so fierce and bitter a strife should last so long. but both are possessed of such courage that one would not for aught retreat a foot before his adversary until he had wounded him to death. yet, in this respect they were very honourable in not trying or deigning to strike or harm their steeds in any way; but they sat astride their steeds without putting foot to earth, which made the fight more elegant. at last my lord yvain crushed the helmet of the knight, whom the blow stunned and made so faint that he swooned away, never having received such a cruel blow before. beneath his kerchief his head was split to the very brains, so that the meshes of his bright hauberk were stained with the brains and blood, all of which caused him such intense pain that his heart almost ceased to beat. he had good reason then to flee, for he felt that he had a mortal wound, and that further resistance would not avail. with this thought in mind he quickly made his escape toward his town, where the bridge was lowered and the gate quickly opened for him; meanwhile my lord yvain at once spurs after him at topmost speed. as a gerfalcon swoops upon a crane when he sees him rising from afar, and then draws so near to him that he is about to seize him, yet misses him, so flees the knight, with yvain pressing him so close that he can almost throw his arm about him, and yet cannot quite come up with him, though he is so close that he can hear him groan for the pain he feels. while the one exerts himself in flight the other strives in pursuit of him, fearing to have wasted his effort unless he takes him alive or dead; for he still recalls the mocking words which my lord kay had addressed to him. he had not yet carried out the pledge which he had given to his cousin; nor will they believe his word unless he returns with the evidence. the knight led him a rapid chase to the gate of his town, where they entered in; but finding no man or woman in the streets through which they passed, they both rode swiftly on till they came to the palace-gate. (vv. - .) the gate was very high and wide, yet it had such a narrow entrance-way that two men or two horses could scarcely enter abreast or pass without interference or great difficulty; for it was constructed just like a trap which is set for the rat on mischief bent, and which has a blade above ready to fall and strike and catch, and which is suddenly released whenever anything, however gently, comes in contact with the spring. in like fashion, beneath the gate there were two springs connected with a portcullis up above, edged with iron and very sharp. if anything stepped upon this contrivance the gate descended from above, and whoever below was struck by the gate was caught and mangled. precisely in the middle the passage lay as narrow as if it were a beaten track. straight through it exactly the knight rushed on, with my lord yvain madly following him apace, and so close to him that he held him by the saddle-bow behind. it was well for him that he was stretched forward, for had it not been for this piece of luck he would have been cut quite through; for his horse stepped upon the wooden spring which kept the portcullis in place. like a hellish devil the gate dropped down, catching the saddle and the horse's haunches, which it cut off clean. but, thank god, my lord yvain was only slightly touched when it grazed his back so closely that it cut both his spurs off even with his heels. and while he thus fell in dismay, the other with his mortal wound escaped him, as you now shall see. farther on there was another gate just like the one they had just passed; through this the knight made his escape, and the gate descended behind him. thus my lord yvain was caught, very much concerned and discomfited as he finds himself shut in this hallway, which was all studded with gilded nails, and whose walls were cunningly decorated with precious paints. [ ] but about nothing was he so worried as not to know what had become of the knight. while he was in this narrow place, he heard open the door of a little adjoining room, and there came forth alone a fair and charming maiden who closed the door again after her. when she found my lord yvain, at first she was sore dismayed. [ ] "surely, sir knight," she says, "i fear you have come in an evil hour. if you are seen here, you will be all cut to pieces. for my lord is mortally wounded, and i know it is you who have been the death of him. my lady is in such a state of grief, and her people about her are crying so that they are ready to die with rage; and, moreover, they know you to be inside. but as yet their grief is such that they are unable to attend to you. the moment they come to attack you, they cannot fail to kill or capture you, as they may choose." and my lord yvain replies to her: "if god will they shall never kill me, nor shall i fall into their hands." "no," she says, "for i shall do my utmost to assist you. it is not manly to cherish fear. so i hold you to be a man of courage, when you are not dismayed. and rest assured that if i could i would help you and treat you honourably, as you in turn would do for me. once my lady sent me on an errand to the king's court, and i suppose i was not so experienced or courteous or so well behaved as a maiden ought to be; at any rate, there was not a knight there who deigned to say a word to me except you alone who stand here now; but you, in your kindness, honoured and aided me. for the honour you did me then i shall now reward you. i know full well what your name is, and i recognised you at once: your name is my lord yvain. you may be sure and certain that if you take my advice you will never be caught or treated ill. please take this little ring of mine, which you will return when i shall have delivered you." [ ] then she handed him the little ring and told him that its effect was like that of the bark which covers the wood so that it cannot be seen; but it must be worn so that the stone is within the palm; then he who wears the ring upon his finger need have no concern for anything; for no one, however sharp his eyes may be, will be able to see him any more than the wood which is covered by the outside bark. all this is pleasing to my lord yvain. and when she had told him this, she led him to a seat upon a couch covered with a quilt so rich that the duke of austria had none such, and she told him that if he cared for something to eat she would fetch it for him; and he replied that he would gladly do so. running quickly into the chamber, she presently returned, bringing a roasted fowl and a cake, a cloth, a full pot of good grape-wine covered with a white drinking-cup; all this she offered to him to eat. and he, who stood in need of food, very gladly ate and drank. (vv. - .) by the time he had finished his meal the knights were astir inside looking for him and eager to avenge their lord, who was already stretched upon his bier. then the damsel said to yvain: "friend, do you hear them all seeking you? there is a great noise and uproar brewing. but whoever may come or go, do not stir for any noise of theirs, for they can never discover you if you do not move from this couch. presently you will see this room all full of ill-disposed and hostile people, who will think to find you here; and i make no doubt that they will bring the body here before interment, and they will begin to search for you under the seats and the beds. it will be amusing for a man who is not afraid when he sees people searching so fruitlessly, for they will all be so blind, so undone, and so misguided that they will be beside themselves with rage. i cannot tell you more just now, for i dare no longer tarry here. but i may thank god for giving me the chance and the opportunity to do some service to please you, as i yearned to do." then she turned away, and when she was gone all the crowd with one accord had come from both sides to the gates, armed with clubs and swords. there was a mighty crowd and press of hostile people surging about, when they espied in front of the gate the half of the horse which had been cut down. then they felt very sure that when the gates were opened they would find inside him whose life they wished to take. then they caused to be drawn up those gates which had been the death of many men. but since no spring or trap was laid for their passage they all came through abreast. then they found at the threshold the other half of the horse that had been killed; but none of them had sharp enough eyes to see my lord yvain, whom they would gladly have killed; and he saw them beside themselves with rage and fury, as they said: "how can this be? for there is no door or window here through which anything could escape, unless it be a bird, a squirrel, or marmot, or some other even smaller animal; for the windows are barred, and the gates were closed as soon as my lord passed through. the body is in here, dead or alive, since there is no sign of it outside there; we can see more than half of the saddle in here, but of him we see nothing, except the spurs which fell down severed from his feet. now let us cease this idle talk, and search in all these comers, for he is surely in here still, or else we are all enchanted, or the evil spirits have filched him away from us." thus they all, aflame with rage, sought him about the room, beating upon the walls, and beds, and seats. but the couch upon which he lay was spared and missed the blows, so that he was not struck or touched. but all about they thrashed enough, and raised an uproar in the room with their clubs, like a blind man who pounds as he goes about his search. while they were poking about under the beds and the stools, there entered one of the most beautiful ladies that any earthly creature ever saw. word or mention was never made of such a fair christian dame, and yet she was so crazed with grief that she was on the point of taking her life. all at once she cried out at the top of her voice, and then fell prostrate in a swoon. and when she had been picked up she began to claw herself and tear her hair, like a woman who had lost her mind. she tears her hair and rips her dress, and faints at every step she takes; nor can anything comfort her when she sees her husband borne along lifeless in the bier; for her happiness is at an end, and so she made her loud lament. the holy water and the cross and the tapers were borne in advance by the nuns from a convent; then came missals and censers and the priests, who pronounce the final absolution required for the wretched soul. (vv. - .) my lord yvain heard the cries and the grief that can never be described, for no one could describe it, nor was such ever set down in a book. the procession passed, but in the middle of the room a great crowd gathered about the bier, for the fresh warm blood trickled out again from the dead man's wound, and this betokened certainly that the man was still surely present who had fought the battle and had killed and defeated him. then they sought and searched everywhere, and turned and stirred up everything, until they were all in a sweat with the trouble and the press which had been caused by the sight of the trickling crimson blood. then my lord yvain was well struck and beaten where he lay, but not for that did he stir at all. and the people became more and more distraught because of the wounds which burst open, and they marvelled why they bled, without knowing whose fault it was. [ ] and each one to his neighbour said: "the murderer is among us here, and yet we do not see him, which is passing strange and mysterious." at this the lady showed such grief that she made an attempt upon her life, and cried as if beside herself: "all god, then will the murderer not be found, the traitor who took my good lord's life? good? aye, the best of the good, indeed! true god, thine will be the fault if thou dost let him thus escape. no other man than thou should i blame for it who dost hide him from my sight. such a wonder was never seen, nor such injustice, as thou dost to me in not allowing me even to see the man who must be so close to me. when i cannot see him, i may well say that some demon or spirit has interposed himself between us, so that i am under a spell. or else he is a coward and is afraid of me: he must be a craven to stand in awe of me, and it is an act of cowardice not to show himself before me. ah, thou spirit, craven thing! why art thou so in fear of me, when before my lord thou weft so brave? o empty and elusive thing, why cannot i have thee in my power? why cannot i lay hands upon thee now? but how could it ever come about that thou didst kill my lord, unless it was done by treachery? surely my lord would never have met defeat at thy hands had he seen thee face to face. for neither god nor man ever knew of his like, nor is there any like him now. surely, hadst thou been a mortal man, thou wouldst never have dared to withstand my lord, for no one could compare with him." thus the lady struggles with herself, and thus she contends and exhausts herself. and her people with her, for their part, show the greatest possible grief as they carry off the body to burial. after their long efforts and search they are completely exhausted by the quest, and give it up from weariness, inasmuch as they can find no one who is in any way guilty. the nuns and priests, having already finished the service, had returned from the church and were gone to the burial. but to all this the damsel in her chamber paid no heed. her thoughts are with my lord yvain, and, coming quickly, she said to him: "fair sir, these people have been seeking you in force. they have raised a great tumult here, and have poked about in all the corners more diligently than a hunting-dog goes ferreting a partridge or a quail. doubtless you have been afraid." "upon my word, you are right," says he: "i never thought to be so afraid. and yet, if it were possible i should gladly look out through some window or aperture at the procession and the corpse." yet he had no interest in either the corpse or the procession, for he would gladly have seen them all burned, even had it cost him a thousand marks. a thousand marks? three thousand, verily, upon my word. but he said it because of the lady of the town, of whom he wished to catch a glimpse. so the damsel placed him at a little window, and repaid him as well as she could for the honour which he had done her. from this window my lord yvain espies the fair lady, as she says: "sire, may god have mercy upon your soul! for never, i verily believe, did any knight ever sit in saddle who was your equal in any respect. no other knight, my fair sweet lord, ever possessed your honour or courtesy. generosity was your friend and boldness your companion. may your soul rest among the saints, my fair dear lord." then she strikes and tears whatever she can lay her hands upon. whatever the outcome may be, it is hard for my lord yvain to restrain himself from running forward to seize her hands. but the damsel begs and advises him, and even urgently commands him, though with courtesy and graciousness, not to commit any rash deed, saying: "you are well off here. do not stir for any cause until this grief shall be assuaged; let these people all depart, as they will do presently. if you act as i advise, in accordance with my views, great advantage may come to you. it will be best for you to remain seated here, and watch the people inside and out as they pass along the way without their seeing you. but take care not to speak violently, for i hold that man to be rather imprudent than brave who goes too far and loses his self-restraint and commits some deed of violence the moment he has the time and chance. so if you cherish some rash thought be careful not to utter it. the wise man conceals his imprudent thought and works out righteousness if he can. so wisely take good care not to risk your head, for which they would accept no ransom. be considerate of yourself and remember my advice. rest assured until i return, for i dare not stay longer now. i might stay so long, i fear, that they would suspect me when they did not see me in the crowd, and then i should suffer for it." (vv. - .) then she goes off, and he remains, not knowing how to comport himself. he is loath to see them bury the corpse without his securing anything to take back as evidence that he has defeated and killed him. if he has no proof or evidence he will be held in contempt, for kay is so mean and obstinate, so given to mockery, and so annoying, that he could never succeed in convincing him. he would go about for ever insulting him, flinging his mockery and taunts as he did the other day. these taunts are still fresh and rankling in his heart. but with her sugar and honey a new love now softened him; he had been to hunt upon his lands and had gathered in his prey. his enemy carries off his heart, and he loves the creature who hates him most. the lady, all unaware, has well avenged her lord's death. she has secured greater revenge than she could ever have done unless she had been aided by love, who attacks him so gently that he wounds his heart through his eyes. and this wound is more enduring than any inflicted by lance or sword. a sword-blow is cured and healed at once as soon as a doctor attends to it, but the wound of love is worst when it is nearest to its physician. this is the wound of my lord yvain, from which he will never more recover, for love has installed himself with him. he deserts and goes away from the places he was wont to frequent. he cares for no lodging or landlord save this one, and he is very wise in leaving a poor lodging-place in order to betake himself to him. in order to devote himself completely to him, he will have no other lodging-place, though often he is wont to seek out lowly hostelries. it is a shame that love should ever so basely conduct himself as to select the meanest lodging-place quite as readily as the best. but now he has come where he is welcome, and where he will be treated honourably, and where he will do well to stay. this is the way love ought to act, being such a noble creature that it is marvellous how he dares shamefully to descend to such low estate. he is like him who spreads his balm upon the ashes and dust, who mingles sugar with gall, and suet with honey. however, he did not act so this time, but rather lodged in a noble place, for which no one can reproach him. when the dead man had been buried, all the people dispersed, leaving no clerks or knights or ladies, excepting only her who makes no secret of her grief. she alone remains behind, often clutching at her throat, wringing her hands, and beating her palms, as she reads her psalms in her gilt lettered psalter. all this while my lord yvain is at the window gazing at her, and the more he looks at her the more he loves her and is enthralled by her. he would have wished that she should cease her weeping and reading, and that she should feel inclined to converse with him. love, who caught him at the window, filled him with this desire. but he despairs of realising his wish, for he cannot imagine or believe that his desire can be gratified. so he says: "i may consider myself a fool to wish for what i cannot have. her lord it was whom i wounded mortally, and yet do i think i can be reconciled with her? upon my word, such thoughts are folly, for at present she has good reason to hate me more bitterly than anything. i am right in saying 'at present', for a woman has more than one mind. that mind in which she is just now i trust she will soon change; indeed, she will change it certainly, and i am mad thus to despair. god grant that she change it soon! for i am doomed to be her slave, since such is the will of love. whoever does not welcome love gladly, when he comes to him, commits treason and a felony. i admit (and let whosoever will, heed what i say) that such an one deserves no happiness or joy. but if i lose, it will not be for such a reason; rather will i love my enemy. for i ought not to feel any hate for her unless i wish to betray love. i must love in accordance with love's desire. and ought she to regard me as a friend? yes, surely, since it is she whom i love. and i call her my enemy, for she hates me, though with good reason, for i killed the object of her love. so, then, am i her enemy? surely no, but her true friend, for i never so loved any one before. i grieve for her fair tresses, surpassing gold in their radiance; i feel the pangs of anguish and torment when i see her tear and cut them, nor can her tears e'er be dried which i see falling from her eyes; by all these things i am distressed. although they are full of ceaseless, ever-flowing tears, yet never were there such lovely eves. the sight of her weeping causes me agony, but nothing pains me so much as the sight of her face, which she lacerates without its having merited such treatment. i never saw such a face so perfectly formed, nor so fresh and delicately coloured. and then it has pierced my heart to see her clutch her throat. surely, it is all too true that she is doing the worst she can. and yet no crystal nor any mirror is so bright and smooth. god! why is she thus possessed, and why does she not spare herself? why does she wring her lovely hands and beat and tear her breast? would she not be marvellously fair to look upon when in happy mood, seeing that she is so fair in her displeasure? surely yes, i can take my oath on that. never before in a work of beauty was nature thus able to outdo herself, for i am sure she has gone beyond the limits of any previous attempt. how could it ever have happened then? whence came beauty so marvellous? god must have made her with his naked hand that nature might rest from further toil. if she should try to make a replica, she might spend her time in vain without succeeding in her task. even god himself, were he to try, could not succeed, i guess, in ever making such another, whatever effort he might put forth." (vv. - .) thus my lord yvain considers her who is broken with her grief, and i suppose it would never happen again that any man in prison, like my lord yvain in fear for his life, would ever be so madly in love as to make no request on his own behalf, when perhaps no one else will speak for him. he stayed at the window until he saw the lady go away, and both the portcullises were lowered again. another might have grieved at this, who would prefer a free escape to tarrying longer where he was. but to him it is quite indifferent whether they be shut or opened. if they were open he surely would not go away, no, even were the lady to give him leave and pardon him freely for the death of her lord. for he is detained by love and shame which rise up before him on either hand: he is ashamed to go away, for no one would believe in the success of his exploit; on the other hand, he has such a strong desire to see the lady at least, if he cannot obtain any other favour, that he feels little concern about his imprisonment. he would rather die than go away. and now the damsel returns, wishing to bear him company with her solace and gaiety, and to go and fetch for him whatever he may desire. but she found him pensive and quite worn out with the love which had laid hold of him; whereupon she addressed him thus: "my lord yvain, what sort of a time have you had to-day?" "i have been pleasantly occupied," was his reply. "pleasantly? in god's name, is that the truth? what? how can one enjoy himself seeing that he is hunted to death, unless he courts and wishes it?" "of a truth," he says, "my gentle friend, i should by no means wish to die; and yet, as god beholds me, i was pleased, am pleased now, and always shall be pleased by what i saw." "well, let us say no more of that," she makes reply, "for i can understand well enough what is the meaning of such words. i am not so foolish or inexperienced that i cannot understand such words as those; but come now after me, for i shall find some speedy means to release you from your confinement. i shall surely set you free to-night or to-morrow, if you please. come now, i will lead you away." and he thus makes reply: "you may be sure that i will never escape secretly and like a thief. when the people are all gathered out there in the streets, i can go forth more honourably than if i did so surreptitiously." then he followed her into the little room. the damsel, who was kind, secured and bestowed upon him all that he desired. and when the opportunity arose, she remembered what he had said to her how he had been pleased by what he saw when they were seeking him in the room with intent to kill him. (vv. - .) the damsel stood in such favour with her lady that she had no fear of telling her anything, regardless of the consequences, for she was her confidante and companion. then, why should she be backward in comforting her lady and in giving her advice which should redound to her honour? the first time she said to her privily: "my lady, i greatly marvel to see you act so extravagantly. do you think you can recover your lord by giving away thus to your grief?" "nay, rather, if i had my wish," says she, "i would now be dead of grief." "and why?" "in order to follow after him." "after him? god forbid, and give you again as good a lord, as is consistent with his might." "thou didst never speak such a lie as that, for he could never give me so good a lord again." "he will give you a better one, if you will accept him, and i can prove it." "begone! peace! i shall never find such a one." "indeed you shall, my lady, if you will consent. just tell me, if you will, who is going to defend your land when king arthur comes next week to the margin of the spring? you have already been apprised of this by letters sent you by the dameisele sauvage. alas, what a kind service she did for you! you ought to be considering how you will defend your spring, and yet you cease not to weep! if it please you, my dear lady, you ought not to delay. for surely, all the knights you have are not worth, as you well know, so much as a single chamber-maid. neither shield nor lance will ever be taken in hand by the best of them. you have plenty of craven servants, but there is not one of them brave enough to dare to mount a steed. and the king is coming with such a host that his victory will be inevitable." the lady, upon reflection, knows very well that she is giving her sincere advice, but she is unreasonable in one respect, as also are other women who are, almost without exception, guilty of their own folly, and refuse to accept what they really wish. "begone," she says; "leave me alone. if i ever hear thee speak of this again it will go hard with thee, unless thou flee. thou weariest me with thy idle words." "very well, my lady," she says; "that you are a woman is evident, for woman will grow irate when she hears any one give her good advice." (vv. - .) then she went away and left her alone. and the lady reflected that she had been in the wrong. she would have been very glad to know how the damsel could ever prove that it would be possible to find a better knight than her lord had ever been. she would be very glad to hear her speak, but now she has forbidden her. with this desire in mind, she waited until she returned. but the warning was of no avail, for she began to say to her at once: "my lady, is it seemly that you should thus torment yourself with grief? for god's sake now control yourself, and for shame, at least, cease your lament. it is not fitting that so great a lady should keep up her grief so long. remember your honourable estate and your very gentle birth! think you that all virtue ceased with the death of your lord? there are in the world a hundred as good or better men." "may god confound me, if thou dost not lie! just name to me a single one who is reputed to be so excellent as my lord was all his life." "if i did so you would be angry with me, and would fly into a passion and you would esteem me less." "no, i will not, i assure thee." "then may it all be for your future welfare if you would but consent, and may god so incline your will! i see no reason for holding my peace, for no one hears or heeds what we say. doubtless you will think i am impudent, but i shall freely speak my mind. when two knights have met in an affray of arms and when one has beaten the other, which of the two do you think is the better? for my part i award the prize to the victor. now what do you think?" "it seems to me you are laying a trap for me and intend to catch me in my words." "upon my faith, you may rest assured that i am in the right, and i can irrefutably prove to you that he who defeated your lord is better than he was himself. he beat him and pursued him valiantly until he imprisoned him in his house." "now," she replies, "i hear the greatest nonsense that was ever uttered. begone, thou spirit charged with evil! begone, thou foolish and tiresome girl! never again utter such idle words, and never come again into my presence to speak a word on his behalf!" "indeed, my lady, i knew full well that i should receive no thanks from you, and i said so before i spoke. but you promised me you would not be displeased, and that you would not be angry with me for it. but you have failed to keep your promise, and now, as it has turned out, you have discharged your wrath on me, and i have lost by not holding my peace." (vv. - .) thereupon she goes back to the room where my lord yvain is waiting, comfortably guarded by her vigilance. but he is ill at ease when he cannot see the lady, and he pays no attention, and hears no word of the report which the damsel brings to him. the lady, too, is in great perplexity all night, being worried about how she should defend the spring; and she begins to repent of her action to the damsel, whom she had blamed and insulted and treated with contempt. she feels very sure and certain that not for any reward or bribe, nor for any affection which she may bear him, would the maiden ever have mentioned him; and that she must love her more than him, and that she would never give her advice which would bring her shame or embarrassment: the maid is too loyal a friend for that. thus, lo! the lady is completely changed: she fears now that she to whom she had spoken harshly will never love her again devotedly; and him whom she had repulsed, she now loyally and with good reason pardons, seeing that he had done her no wrong. so she argues as if he were in her presence there, and thus she begins her argument: "come," she says, "canst thou deny that my lord was killed by thee?" "that," says he, "i cannot deny. indeed, i fully admit it." "tell me, then, the reason of thy deed. didst thou do it to injure me, prompted by hatred or by spite?" "may death not spare me now, if i did it to injure you." "in that case, thou hast done me no wrong, nor art thou guilty of aught toward him. for he would have killed thee, if he could. so it seems to me that i have decided well and righteously." thus, by her own arguments she succeeds in discovering justice, reason, and common sense, how that there is no cause for hating him; thus she frames the matter to conform with her desire, and by her own efforts she kindles her love, as a bush which only smokes with the flame beneath, until some one blows it or stirs it up. if the damsel should come in now, she would win the quarrel for which she had been so reproached, and by which she had been so hurt. and next morning, in fact, she appeared again, taking the subject up where she had let it drop. meanwhile, the lady bowed her head, knowing she had done wrong in attacking her. but now she is anxious to make amends, and to inquire concerning the name, character, and lineage of the knight: so she wisely humbles herself, and says: "i wish to beg your pardon for the insulting words of pride which in my rage i spoke to you: i will follow your advice. so tell me now, if possible, about the knight of whom you have spoken so much to me: what sort of a man is he, and of what parentage? if he is suited to become my mate, and provided he be so disposed, i promise you to make him my husband and lord of my domain. but he will have to act in such a way that no one can reproach me by saying: 'this is she who took him who killed her lord.'" "in god's name, lady, so shall it be. you will have the gentlest, noblest, and fairest lord who ever belonged to abel's line." "what is his name?" "my lord yvain." "upon my word, if he is king urien's son he is of no mean birth, but very noble, as i well know." "indeed, my lady, you say the truth." "and when shall we be able to see him?" "in five days' time." "that would be too long; for i wish he were already come. let him come to-night, or to-morrow, at the latest." "my lady, i think no one could fly so far in one day. but i shall send one of my squires who can run fast, and who will reach king arthur's court at least by to-morrow night, i think; that is the place we must seek for him." "that is a very long time. the days are long. but tell him that to-morrow night he must be back here, and that he must make greater haste than usual. if he will only do his best, he can do two days' journey in one. moreover, to-night the moon will shine; so let him turn night into day. and when he returns i will give him whatever he wishes me to give." "leave all care of that to me; for you shall have him in your hands the day after to-morrow at the very latest. meanwhile you shall summon your men and confer with them about the approaching visit of the king. in order to make the customary defence of your spring it behoves you to consult with them. none of them will be so hardy as to dare to boast that he will present himself. in that case you will have a good excuse for saving that it behoves you to marry again. a certain knight, highly qualified, seeks your hand; but you do not presume to accept him without their unanimous consent. and i warrant what the outcome will be: i know them all to be such cowards that in order to put on some one else the burden which would be too heavy for them, they will fall at your feet and speak their gratitude; for thus their responsibility will be at an end. for, whoever is afraid of his own shadow willingly avoids, if possible, any meeting with lance or spear; for such games a coward has no use." "upon my word," the lady replies, "so i would have it, and so i consent, having already conceived the plan which you have expressed; so that is what we shall do. but why do you tarry here? go, without delay, and take measures to bring him here, while i shall summon my liege-men." thus concluded their conference. and the damsel pretends to send to search for my lord yvain in his country; while every day she has him bathed, and washed, and groomed. and besides this she prepares for him a robe of red scarlet stuff, brand new and lined with spotted fur. there is nothing necessary for his equipment which she does not lend to him: a golden buckle for his neck, ornamented with precious stones which make people look well, a girdle, and a wallet made of rich gold brocade. she fitted him out perfectly, then informed her lady that the messenger had returned, having done his errand well. "how is that?" she says, "is he here? then let him come at once, secretly and privily, while no one is here with me. see to it that no one else come in, for i should hate to see a fourth person here." at this the damsel went away, and returned to her guest again. however, her face did not reveal the joy that was in her heart; indeed, she said that her lady knew that she had been sheltering him, and was very much incensed at her. "further concealment is useless now. the news about you has been so divulged that my lady knows the whole story and is very angry with me, heaping me with blame and reproaches. but she has given me her word that i may take you into her presence without any harm or danger. i take it that you will have no objection to this, except for one condition (for i must not disguise the truth, or i should be unjust to you): she wishes to have you in her control, and she desires such complete possession of your body that even your heart shall not be at large." "certainly," he said, "i readily consent to what will be no hardship to me. i am willing to be her prisoner." "so shall you be: i swear it by this right hand laid upon you!. now come and, upon my advice, demean yourself so humbly in her presence that your imprisonment may not be grievous. otherwise feel no concern. i do not think that your restraint will be irksome." then the damsel leads him off, now alarming, now reassuring him, and speaking to him mysteriously about the confinement in which he is to find himself; for every lover is a prisoner. she is right in calling him a prisoner; for surely any one who loves is no longer free. (vv. - .) taking my lord yvain by the hand, the damsel leads him where he will be dearly loved; but expecting to be ill received, it is not strange if he is afraid. they found the lady seated upon a red cushion. i assure you my lord yvain was terrified upon entering the room, where he found the lady who spoke not a word to him. at this he was still more afraid, being overcome with fear at the thought that he had been betrayed. he stood there to one side so long that the damsel at last spoke up and said: "five hundred curses upon the head of him who takes into a fair lady's chamber a knight who will not draw near, and who has neither tongue nor mouth nor sense to introduce himself." thereupon, taking him by the arm, she thrust him forward with the words: "come, step forward, knight, and have no fear that my lady is going to snap at you; but seek her good-will and give her yours. i will join you in your prayer that she pardon you for the death of her lord, esclados the red." then my lord yvain clasped his hands, and failing upon his knees, spoke like a lover with these words: "i will not crave your pardon, lady, but rather thank you for any treatment you may inflict on me, knowing that no act of yours could ever be distasteful to me." "is that so, sir? and what if i think to kill you now?" "my lady, if it please you, you will never hear me speak otherwise." "i never heard of such a thing as this: that you put yourself voluntarily and absolutely within my power, without the coercion of any one." "my lady, there is no force so strong, in truth, as that which commands me to conform absolutely to your desire. i do not fear to carry out any order you may be pleased to give. and if i could atone for the death, which came through no fault of mine, i would do so cheerfully." "what?" says she, "come tell me now and be forgiven, if you did no wrong in killing my lord?" "lady," he says, "if i may say it, when your lord attacked me, why was i wrong to defend myself? when a man in self-defence kills another who is trying to kill or capture him, tell me if in any way he is to blame." "no, if one looks at it aright. and i suppose it would have been no use, if i had had you put to death. but i should be glad to learn whence you derive the force that bids you to consent unquestioningly to whatever my will may dictate. i pardon you all your misdeeds and crimes. but be seated, and tell us now what is the cause of your docility?" "my lady," he says, "the impelling force comes from my heart, which is inclined toward you. my heart has fixed me in this desire." "and what prompted your heart, my fair sweet friend?" "lady, my eyes." "and what the eyes?" "the great beauty that i see in you." "and where is beauty's fault in that?" "lady, in this: that it makes me love." "love? and whom?" "you, my lady dear." "i?" "yes, truly." "really? and how is that?" "to such an extent that my heart will not stir from you, nor is it elsewhere to be found; to such an extent that i cannot think of anything else, and i surrender myself altogether to you, whom i love more than i love myself, and for whom, if you will, i am equally ready to die or live." "and would you dare to undertake the defence of my spring for love of me?" "yes, my lady, against the world." "then you may know that our peace is made." (vv. - .) thus they are quickly reconciled. and the lady, having previously consulted her lords, says: "we shall proceed from here to the hall where my men are assembled, who, in view of the evident need, have advised and counselled me to take a husband at their request. and i shall do so, in view of the urgent need: here and now i give myself to you; for i should not refuse to accept as lord, such a good knight and a king's son." (vv. - .) now the damsel has brought about exactly what she had desired. and my lord yvain's mastery is more complete than could be told or described; for the lady leads him away to the hall, which was full of her knights and men-at-arms. and my lord yvain was so handsome that they all marvelled to look at him, and all, rising to their feet, salute and bow to my lord yvain, guessing well as they did so: "this is he whom my lady will select. cursed be he who opposes him! for he seems a wonderfully fine man. surely, the empress of rome would be well married with such a man. would now that he had given his word to her, and she to him, with clasped hand, and that the wedding might take place to-day or tomorrow." thus they spoke among themselves. at the end of the hall there was a seat, and there in the sight of all the lady took her place. and my lord yvain made as if he intended to seat himself at her feet; but she raised him up, and ordered the seneschal to speak aloud, so that his speech might be heard by all. then the seneschal began, being neither stubborn nor slow of speech: "my lords," he said, "we are confronted by war. every day the king is preparing with all the haste he can command to come to ravage our lands. before a fortnight shall have passed, all will have been laid waste, unless some valiant defender shall appear. when my lady married first, not quite seven years ago, she did it on your advice. now her husband is dead, and she is grieved. six feet of earth is all he has, who formerly owned all this land, and who was indeed its ornament. [ ] it is a pity he lived so short a while. a woman cannot bear a shield, nor does she know how to fight with lance. it would exalt and dignify her again if she should marry some worthy lord. never was there greater need than now; do all of you recommend that she take a spouse, before the custom shall lapse which has been observed in this town for more than the past sixty years." at this, all at once proclaim that it seems to them the right thing to do, and they all throw themselves at her feet. they strengthen her desire by their consent; yet she hesitates to assert her wishes until, as if against her will, she finally speaks to the same intent as she would have done, indeed, if every one had opposed her wish: "my lords, since it is your wish, this knight who is seated beside me has wooed me and ardently sought my hand. he wishes to engage himself in the defence of my rights and in my service, for which i thank him heartily, as you do also. it is true i have never known him in person, but i have often heard his name. know that he is no less a man than the son of king urien. beside his illustrious lineage, he is so brave, courteous, and wise that no one has cause to disparage him. you have all already heard, i suppose, of my lord yvain, and it is he who seeks my hand. when the marriage is consummated, i shall have a more noble lord than i deserve." they all say: "if you are prudent, this very day shall not go by without the marriage being solemnised. for it is folly to postpone for a single hour an advantageous act." they beseech her so insistently that she consents to what she would have done in any case. for love bids her do that for which she asks counsel and advice; but there is more honour for him in being accepted with the approval of her men. to her their prayers are not unwelcome; rather do they stir and incite her heart to have its way. the horse, already under speed, goes faster yet when it is spurred. in the presence of all her lords, the lady gives herself to my lord yvain. from the hand of her chaplain he received the lady, laudine de landuc, daughter of duke laudunet, of whom they sing a lay. that very day without delay he married her, and the wedding was celebrated. there were plenty of mitres and croziers there, for the lady had summoned her bishops and abbots. great was the joy and rejoicing, there were many people, and much wealth was displayed--more than i could tell you of, were i to devote much thought to it. it is better to keep silent than to be inadequate. so my lord yvain is master now, and the dead man is quite forgot. he who killed him is now married to his wife, and they enjoy the marriage rights. the people love and esteem their living lord more than they ever did the dead. they served him well at his marriage-feast, until the eve before the day when the king came to visit the marvellous spring and its stone, bringing with him upon this expedition his companions and all those of his household; not one was left behind. and my lord kay remarked: "ah, what now has become of yvain, who after his dinner made the boast that he would avenge his cousin's shame? evidently he spoke in his cups. i believe that he has run away. he would not dare to come back for anything. he was very presumptuous to make such a boast. he is a bold man who dares to boast of what no one would praise him for, and who has no proof of his great feats except the words of some false flatterer. there is a great difference between a coward and a hero; for the coward seated beside the fire talks loudly about himself, holding all the rest as fools, and thinking that no one knows his real character. a hero would be distressed at hearing his prowess related by some one else. and yet i maintain that the coward is not wrong to praise and vaunt himself, for he will find no one else to lie for him. if he does not boast of his deeds, who will? all pass over him in silence, even the heralds, who proclaim the brave, but discard the cowards." when my lord kay had spoken thus, my lord gawain made this reply: "my lord kay, have some mercy now! since my lord yvain is not here, you do not know what business occupies him. indeed, he never so debased himself as to speak any ill of you compared with the gracious things he has said." "sire," says kay, "i'll hold my peace. i'll not say another word to-day, since i see you are offended by my speech." then the king, in order to see the rain, poured a whole basin full of water upon the stone beneath the pine, and at once the rain began to pour. it was not long before my lord yvain without delay entered the forest fully armed, tiding faster than a gallop on a large, sleek steed, strong, intrepid, and fleet of foot. and it was my lord kay's desire to request the first encounter. for, whatever the outcome might be, he always wished to begin the fight and joust the first, or else he would be much incensed. before all the rest, he requested the king to allow him to do battle first. the king says: "kay, since it is your wish, and since you are the first to make the request, the favour ought not to be denied." kay thanks him first, then mounts his steed. if now my lord yvain can inflict a mild disgrace upon him, he will be very glad to do so; for he recognises him by his arms. [ ] each grasping his shield by the straps, they rush together. spurring their steeds, they lower the lances, which they hold tightly gripped. then they thrust them forward a little, so that they grasped them by the leather-wrapped handles, and so that when they came together they were able to deal such cruel blows that both lances broke in splinters clear to the handle of the shaft. my lord yvain gave him such a mighty blow that kay took a summersault from out of his saddle and struck with his helmet on the ground. my lord yvain has no desire to inflict upon him further harm, but simply dismounts and takes his horse. this pleased them all, and many said: "ah, ah, see how you prostrate lie, who but now held others up to scorn! and yet it is only right to pardon you this time; for it never happened to you before." thereupon my lord yvain approached the king, leading the horse in his hand by the bridle, and wishing to make it over to him. "sire," says he, "now take this steed, for i should do wrong to keep back anything of yours." "and who are you?" the king replies; "i should never know you, unless i heard your name, or saw you without your arms." then my lord told him who he was, and kay was overcome with shame, mortified, humbled, and discomfited, for having said that he had run away. but the others were greatly pleased, and made much of the honour he had won. even the king was greatly gratified, and my lord gawain a hundred times more than any one else. for he loved his company more than that of any other knight he knew. and the king requested him urgently to tell him, if it be his will, how he had fared; for he was very curious to learn all about his adventure; so the king begs him to tell the truth. and he soon told him all about the service and kindness of the damsel, not passing over a single word, not forgetting to mention anything. and after this he invited the king and all his knights to come to lodge with him, saying they would be doing him great honour in accepting his hospitality. and the king said that for an entire week he would gladly do him the honour and pleasure, and would bear him company. and when my lord yvain had thanked him, they tarry no longer there, but mount and take the most direct road to the town. my lord yvain sends in advance of the company a squire beating a crane-falcon, in order that they might not take the lady by surprise, and that her people might decorate the streets against the arrival of the king. when the lady heard the news of the king's visit she was greatly pleased; nor was there any one who, upon hearing the news, was not happy and elated. and the lady summons them all and requests them to go to meet him, to which they make no objection or remonstrance, all being anxious to do her will. (vv. - .) [ ] mounted on great spanish steeds, they all go to meet the king of britain, saluting king arthur first with great courtesy and then all his company. "welcome," they say, "to this company, so full of honourable men! blessed be he who brings them hither and presents us with such fair guests!" at the king's arrival the town resounds with the joyous welcome which they give. silken stuffs are taken out and hung aloft as decorations, and they spread tapestries to walk upon and drape the streets with them, while they wait for the king's approach. and they make still another preparation, in covering the streets with awnings against the hot rays of the sun. bells, horns, and trumpets cause the town to ring so that god's thunder could not have been heard. the maidens dance before him, flutes and pipes are played, kettle-drums, drums, and cymbals are beaten. on their part the nimble youths leap, and all strive to show their delight. with such evidence of their joy, they welcome the king fittingly. and the lady came forth, dressed in imperial garb a robe of fresh ermine--and upon her head she wore a diadem all ornamented with rubies. no cloud was there upon her face, but it was so gay and full of joy that she was more beautiful, i think, than any goddess. around her the crowd pressed close, as they cried with one accord: "welcome to the king of kings and lord of lords!" the king could not reply to all before he saw the lady coming toward him to hold his stirrup. however, he would not wait for this, but hastened to dismount himself as soon as he caught sight of her. then she salutes him with these words: "welcome a hundred thousand times to the king, my lord, and blessed be his nephew, my lord gawain!" the king replies: "i wish all happiness and good luck to your fair body and your face, lovely creature!" then clasping her around the waist, the king embraced her gaily and heartily as she did him, throwing her arms about him. i will say no more of how gladly she welcomed them, but no one ever heard of any people who were so honourably received and served. i might tell you much of the joy should i not be wasting words, but i wish to make brief mention of an acquaintance which was made in private between the moon and the sun. do you know of whom i mean to speak? he who was lord of the knights, and who was renowned above them all, ought surely to be called the sun. i refer, of course, to my lord gawain, for chivalry is enhanced by him just as when the morning sun sheds its rays abroad and lights all places where it shines. and i call her the moon, who cannot be otherwise because of her sense and courtesy. however, i call her so not only because of her good repute, but because her name is, in fact, lunete. (vv. - .) the damsel's name was lunete, and she was a charming brunette, prudent, clever, and polite. as her acquaintance grows with my lord gawain, he values her highly and gives her his love as to his sweetheart, because she had saved from death his companion and friend; he places himself freely at her service. on her part she describes and relates to him with what difficulty she persuaded her mistress to take my lord yvain as her husband, and how she protected him from the hands of those who were seeking him; how he was in their midst but they did not see him. my lord gawain laughed aloud at this story of hers, and then he said: "mademoiselle, when you need me and when you don't, such as i am, i place myself at your disposal. never throw me off for some one else when you think you can improve your lot. i am yours, and do you be from now on my demoiselle!" "i thank you kindly, sire," she said. while the acquaintance of these two was ripening thus, the others, too, were engaged in flirting. for there were perhaps ninety ladies there, each of whom was fair and charming, noble and polite, virtuous and prudent, and a lady of exalted birth, so the men could agreeably employ themselves in caressing and kissing them, and in talking to them and in gazing at them while they were seated by their side; that much satisfaction they had at least. my lord yvain is in high feather because the king is lodged with him. and the lady bestows such attention upon them all, as individuals and collectively, that some foolish person might suppose that the charming attentions which she showed them were dictated by love. but such persons may properly be rated as fools for thinking that a lady is in love with them just because she is courteous and speaks to some unfortunate fellow, and makes him happy and caresses him. a fool is made happy by fair words, and is very easily taken in. that entire week they spent in gaiety; forest and stream offered plenty of sport for any one who desired it. and whoever wished to see the land which had come into the hands of my lord yvain with the lady whom he had married, could go to enjoy himself at one of the castles which stood within a radius of two, three, or four leagues. when the king had stayed as long as he chose, he made ready to depart. but during the week they had all begged urgently, and with all the insistence at their command, that they might take away my lord yvain with them. "what? will you be one of those." said my lord gawain to him, "who degenerate after marriage? [ ] cursed be he by saint mary who marries and then degenerates! whoever has a fair lady as his mistress or his wife should be the better for it, and it is not right that her affection should be bestowed on him after his worth and reputation are gone. surely you, too, would have cause to regret her love if you grew soft, for a woman quickly withdraws her love, and rightly so, and despises him who degenerates in any way when he has become lord of the realm. now ought your fame to be increased! slip off the bridle and halter and come to the tournament with me, that no one may say that you are jealous. now you must no longer hesitate to frequent the lists, to share in the onslaught, and to contend with force, whatever effort it may cost! inaction produces indifference. but, really, you must come, for i shall be in your company. have a care that our comradeship shall not fail through any fault of yours, fair companion; for my part, you may count on me. it is strange how a man sets store by the life of ease which has no end. pleasures grow sweeter through postponement; and a little pleasure, when delayed, is much sweeter to the taste than great pleasure enjoyed at once. the sweets of a love which develops late are like a fire in a green bush; for the longer one delays in lighting it the greater will be the heat it yields, and the longer will its force endure. one may easily fall into habits which it is very difficult to shake off, for when one desires to do so, he finds he has lost the power. don't misunderstand my words, my friend: if i had such a fair mistress as you have, i call god and his saints to witness, i should leave her most reluctantly; indeed, i should doubtless be infatuated. but a man may give another counsel, which he would not take himself, just as the preachers, who are deceitful rascals, and preach and proclaim the right but who do not follow it themselves." (vv. - .) my lord gawain spoke at such length and so urgently that he promised him that he would go; but he said that he must consult his lady and ask for her consent. whether it be a foolish or a prudent thing to do, he will not fail to ask her leave to return to britain. then he took counsel with his wife, who had no inkling of the permission he desired, as he addressed her with these words: "my beloved lady, my heart and soul, my treasure, joy, and happiness, grant me now a favour which will redound to your honour and to mine." the lady at once gives her consent, not knowing what his desire is, and says: "fair lord, you may command me your pleasure, whatever it be." then my lord yvain at once asks her for permission to escort the king and to attend at tournaments, that no one may reproach his indolence. and she replies: "i grant you leave until a certain date; but be sure that my love will change to hate if you stay beyond the term that i shall fix. remember that i shall keep my word; if you break your word i will keep mine. if you wish to possess my love, and if you have any regard for me, remember to come back again at the latest a year from the present date a week after st. john's day; for to-day is the eighth day since that feast. you will be checkmated of my love if you are not restored to me on that day." (vv. - .) my lord yvain weeps and sighs so bitterly that he can hardly find words to say: "my lady, this date is indeed a long way off. if i could be a dove, whenever the fancy came to me, i should often rejoin you here. and i pray god that in his pleasure he may not detain me so long away. but sometimes a man intends speedily to return who knows not what the future has in store for him. and i know not what will be my fate--perhaps some urgency of sickness or imprisonment may keep me back: you are unjust in not making an exception at least of actual hindrance." "my lord," says she, "i will make that exception. and yet i dare to promise you that, if god deliver you from death, no hindrance will stand in your way so long as you remember me. so put on your finger now this ring of mine, which i lend to you. and i will tell you all about the stone: no true and loyal lover can be imprisoned or lose any blood, nor can any harm befall him, provided he carry it and hold it dear, and keep his sweetheart in mind. you will become as hard as iron, and it will serve you as shield and hauberk. i have never before been willing to lend or entrust it to any knight, but to you i give it because of my affection for you." now my lord yvain is free to go, but he weeps bitterly on taking leave. the king, however, would not tarry longer for anything that might be said: rather was he anxious to have the palfreys brought all equipped and bridled. they acceded at once to his desire, bringing the palfreys forth, so that it remained only to mount. i do not know whether i ought to tell you how my lord yvain took his leave, and of the kisses bestowed on him, mingled with tears and steeped in sweetness. and what shall i tell you about the king how the lady escorts him, accompanied by her damsels and seneschal? all this would require too much time. when he sees the lady's tears, the king implores her to come no farther, but to return to her abode. he begged her with such urgency that, heavy at heart, she turned about followed by her company. (vv. - .) my lord yvain is so distressed to leave his lady that his heart remains behind. the king may take his body off, but he cannot lead his heart away. she who stays behind clings so tightly to his heart that the king has not the power to take it away with him. when the body is left without the heart it cannot possibly live on. for such a marvel was never seen as the body alive without the heart. yet this marvel now came about: for he kept his body without the heart, which was wont to be enclosed in it, but which would not follow the body now. the heart has a good abiding-place, while the body, hoping for a safe return to its heart, in strange fashion takes a new heart of hope, which is so often deceitful and treacherous. he will never know in advance, i think, the hour when this hope will play him false, for if he overstays by single day the term which he has agreed upon, it will be hard for him to gain again his lady's pardon and goodwill. yet i think he will overstay the term, for my lord gawain will not allow him to part from him, as together they go to joust wherever tournaments are held. and as the year passes by my lord yvain had such success that my lord gawain strove to honour him, and caused him to delay so long that all the first year slipped by, and it came to the middle of august of the ensuing year, when the king held court at chester, whither they had returned the day before from a tournament where my lord yvain had been and where he had won the glory and the story tells how the two companions were unwilling to lodge in the town, but had their tents set up outside the city, and held court there. for they never went to the royal court, but the king came rather to join in theirs, for they had the best knights, and the greatest number, in their company. now king arthur was seated in their midst, when yvain suddenly had a thought which surprised him more than any that had occurred to him since he had taken leave of his lady, for he realised that he had broken his word, and that the limit of his leave was already exceeded. he could hardly keep back his tears, but he succeeded in doing so from shame. he was still deep in thought when he saw a damsel approaching rapidly upon a black palfrey with white forefeet. as she got down before the tent no one helped her to dismount, and no one went to take her horse. as soon as she made out the king, she let her mantle fall, and thus displayed she entered the tent and came before the king, announcing that her mistress sent greetings to the king, and to my lord gawain and all the other knights, except yvain, that disloyal traitor, liar, hypocrite, who had deserted her deceitfully. "she has seen clearly the treachery of him who pretended he was a faithful lover while he was a false and treacherous thief. this thief has traduced my lady, who was all unprepared for any evil, and to whom it never occurred that he would steal her heart away. those who love truly do not steal hearts away; there are, however, some men, by whom these former are called thieves, who themselves go about deceitfully making love, but in whom there is no real knowledge of the matter. the lover takes his lady's heart, of course, but he does not run away with it; rather does he treasure it against those thieves who, in the guise of honourable men, would steal it from him. but those are deceitful and treacherous thieves who vie with one another in stealing hearts for which they care nothing. the true lover, wherever he may go, holds the heart dear and brings it back again. but yvain has caused my lady's death, for she supposed that he would guard her heart for her, and would bring it back again before the year elapsed. yvain, thou wast of short memory when thou couldst not remember to return to thy mistress within a year. she gave thee thy liberty until st. john's day, and thou settest so little store by her that never since has a thought of her crossed thy mind. my lady had marked every day in her chamber, as the seasons passed: for when one is in love, one is ill at ease and cannot get any restful sleep, but all night long must needs count and reckon up the days as they come and go. dost thou know how lovers spend their time? they keep count of the time and the season. her complaint is not presented prematurely or without cause, and i am not accusing him in any way, but i simply say that we have been betrayed by him who married my lady. yvain, my mistress has no further care for thee, but sends thee word by me never to come back to her, and no longer to keep her ring. she bids thee send it back to her by me, whom thou seest present here. surrender it now, as thou art bound to do." (vv. - .) senseless and deprived of speech, yvain is unable to reply. and the damsel steps forth and takes the ring from his finger, commending to god the king and all the others except him, whom she leaves in deep distress. and his sorrow grows on him: he feels oppressed by what he hears, and is tormented by what he sees. he would rather be banished alone in some wild land, where no one would know where to seek for him, and where no man or woman would know of his whereabouts any more than if he were in some deep abyss. he hates nothing so much as he hates himself, nor does he know to whom to go for comfort in the death he has brought upon himself. but he would rather go insane than not take vengeance upon himself, deprived, as he is, of joy through his own fault. he rises from his place among the knights, fearing he will lose his mind if he stays longer in their midst. on their part, they pay no heed to him, but let him take his departure alone. they know well enough that he cares nothing for their talk or their society. and he goes away until he is far from the tents and pavilions. then such a storm broke loose in his brain that he loses his senses; he tears his flesh and, stripping off his clothes, he flees across the meadows and fields, leaving his men quite at a loss, and wondering what has become of him. [ ] they go in search of him through all the country around--in the lodgings of the knights, by the hedgerows, and in the gardens--but they seek him where he is not to be found. still fleeing, he rapidly pursued his way until he met close by a park a lad who had in his hand a bow and five barbed arrows, which were very sharp and broad. he had sense enough to go and take the bow and arrows which he held. however, he had no recollection of anything that he had done. he lies in wait for the beasts in the woods, killing them, and then eating the venison raw. thus he dwelt in the forest like a madman or a savage, until he came upon a little, low-lying house belonging to a hermit, who was at work clearing his ground. when he saw him coming with nothing on, he could easily perceive that he was not in his right mind; and such was the case, as the hermit very well knew. so, in fear, he shut himself up in his little house, and taking some bread and fresh water, he charitably set it outside the house on a narrow window-ledge. and thither the other comes, hungry for the bread which he takes and eats. i do not believe that he ever before had tasted such hard and bitter bread. the measure of barley kneaded with the straw, of which the bread, sourer than yeast, was made, had not cost more than five sous; and the bread was musty and as dry as bark. but hunger torments and whets his appetite, so that the bread tasted to him like sauce. for hunger is itself a well mixed and concocted sauce for any food. my lord yvain soon ate the hermit's bread, which tasted good to him, and drank the cool water from the jar. when he had eaten, he betook himself again to the woods in search of stags and does. and when he sees him going away, the good man beneath his roof prays god to defend him and guard him lest he ever pass that way again. but there is no creature, with howsoever little sense, that will not gladly return to a place where he is kindly treated. so, not a day passed while he was in this mad fit that he did not bring to his door some wild game. such was the life he led; and the good man took it upon himself to remove the skin and set a good quantity of the venison to cook; and the bread and the water in the jug was always standing on the window-ledge for the madman to make a meal. thus he had something to eat and drink: venison without salt or pepper, and good cool water from the spring. and the good man exerted himself to sell the hide and buy bread made of barley, or oats, or of some other grain; so, after that, yvain had a plentiful supply of bread and venison, which sufficed him for a long time, until one day he was found asleep in the forest by two damsels and their mistress, in whose service they were. when they saw the naked man, one of the three ran and dismounted and examined him closely, before she saw anything about him which would serve to identify him. if he had only been richly attired, as he had been many a time, and if she could have seen him then she would have known him quickly enough. but she was slow to recognise him, and continued to look at him until at last she noticed a scar which he had on his face, and she recollected that my lord yvain's face was scarred in this same way; she was sure of it, for she had often seen it. because of the scar she saw that it was he beyond any doubt; but she marvelled greatly how it came about that she found him thus poor and stripped. often she crosses herself in amazement, but she does not touch him or wake him up; rather does she mount her horse again, and going back to the others, tells them tearfully of her adventure. i do not know if i ought to delay to tell you of the grief she showed; but thus she spoke weeping to her mistress: "my lady, i have found yvain, who has proved himself to be the best knight in the world, and the most virtuous. i cannot imagine what sin has reduced the gentleman to such a plight. i think he must have had some misfortune, which causes him thus to demean himself, for one may lose his wits through grief. and any one can see that he is not in his right mind, for it would surely never be like him to conduct himself thus indecently unless he had lost his mind. would that god had restored to him the best sense he ever had, and would that he might then consent to render assistance to your cause! for count alier, who is at war with you, has made upon you a fierce attack. i should see the strife between you two quickly settled in your favour if god favoured your fortunes so that he should return to his senses and undertake to aid you in this stress." to this the lady made reply: "take care now! for surely, if he does not escape, with god's help i think we can clear his head of all the madness and insanity. but we must be on our way at once! for i recall a certain ointment with which morgan the wise presented me, saying there was no delirium of the head which it would not cure." thereupon, they go off at once toward the town, which was hard by, for it was not any more than half a league of the kind they have in that country; and, as compared with ours, two of their leagues make one and four make two. and he remains sleeping all alone, while the lady goes to fetch the ointment. the lady opens a case of hers, and, taking out a box, gives it to the damsel, and charges her not to be too prodigal in its use: she should rub only his temples with it, for there is no use of applying it elsewhere; she should anoint only his temples with it, and the remainder she should carefully keep, for there is nothing the matter with him except in his brain. she sends him also a robe of spotted fur, a coat, and a mantle of scarlet silk. the damsel takes them, and leads in her right hand an excellent palfrey. and she added to these, of her own store, a shirt, some soft hose, and some new drawers of proper cut. with all these things she quickly set out, and found him still asleep where she had left him. after putting her horse in an enclosure where she tied him fast, she came with the clothes and the ointment to the place where he was asleep. then she made so bold as to approach the madman, so that she could touch and handle him: then taking the ointment she rubbed him with it until none remained in the box, being so solicitous for his recovery that she proceeded to anoint him all over with it; and she used it so freely that she heeded not the warning of her mistress, nor indeed did she remember it. she put more on than was needed, but in her opinion it was well employed. she rubbed his temples and forehead, and his whole body down to the ankles. she rubbed his temples and his whole body so much there in the hot sunshine that the madness and the depressing gloom passed completely out of his brain. but she was foolish to anoint his body, for of that there was no need. if she had had five measures of it she would doubtless have done the same thing. she carries off the box, and takes hidden refuge by her horse. but she leaves the robe behind, wishing that, if god calls him back to life, he may see it all laid out, and may take it and put it on. she posts herself behind an oak tree until he had slept enough, and was cured and quite restored, having regained his wits and memory. then he sees that he is as naked as ivory, and feels much ashamed; but he would have been yet more ashamed had he known what had happened. as it is, he knows nothing but that he is naked. he sees the new robe lying before him, and marvels greatly how and by what adventure it had come there. but he is ashamed and concerned, because of his nakedness, and says that he is dead and utterly undone if any one has come upon him there and recognised him. meanwhile, he clothes himself and looks out into the forest to see if any one was approaching. he tries to stand up and support himself, but cannot summon the strength to walk away, for his sickness has so affected him that he can scarcely stand upon his feet. thereupon, the damsel resolves to wait no longer, but, mounting, she passed close by him, as if unaware of his presence. quite indifferent as to whence might come the help, which he needed so much to lead him away to some lodging-place, where he might recruit his strength, he calls out to her with all his might. and the damsel, for her part, looks about her as if not knowing what the trouble is. confused, she goes hither and thither, not wishing to go straight up to him. then he begins to call again: "damsel, come this way, here!" and the damsel guided toward him her soft-stepping palfrey. by this ruse she made him think that she knew nothing of him and had never seen him before; in so doing she was wise and courteous. when she had come before him, she said: "sir knight, what do you desire that you call me so insistently?" "ah," said he, "prudent damsel, i have found myself in this wood by some mishap--i know not what. for god's sake and your belief in him, i pray you to lend me, taking my word as pledge, or else to give me outright, that palfrey you are leading in your hand." "gladly, sire: but you must accompany me whither i am going." "which way?" says he. "to a town that stands near by, beyond the forest." "tell me, damsel, if you stand in need of me." "yes," she says, "i do; but i think you are not very well. for the next two weeks at least you ought to rest. take this horse, which i hold in my right hand, and we shall go to our lodging-place." and he, who had no other desire, takes it and mounts, and they proceed until they come to a bridge over a swift and turbulent stream. and the damsel throws into the water the empty box she is carrying, thinking to excuse herself to her mistress for her ointment by saying that she was so unlucky as to let the box fall into the water for, when her palfrey stumbled under her, the box slipped from her gasp, and she came near falling in too, which would have been still worse luck. it is her intention to invent this story when she comes into her mistress' presence. together they held their way until they came to the town, where the lady detained my lord yvain and asked her damsel in private for her box and ointment: and the damsel repeated to her the lie as she had invented it, not daring to tell her the truth. then the lady was greatly enraged, and said: "this is certainly a very serious loss, and i am sure and certain that the box will never be found again. but since it has happened so, there is nothing more to be done about it. one often desires a blessing which turns out to be a curse; thus i, who looked for a blessing and joy from this knight, have lost the dearest and most precious of my possessions. however, i beg you to serve him in all respects." "ah, lady, how wisely now you speak! for it would be too bad to convert one misfortune into two." (vv. - .) then they say no more about the box, but minister in every way they can to the comfort of my lord yvain, bathing him and washing his hair, having him shaved and clipped, for one could have taken up a fist full of hair upon his face. his every want is satisfied: if he asks for arms, they are furnished him: if he wants a horse, they provide him with one that is large and handsome, strong and spirited. he stayed there until, upon a tuesday, count alier came to the town with his men and knights, who started fires and took plunder. those in the town at once rose up and equipped themselves with arms. some armed and some unarmed, they issued forth to meet the plunderers, who did not deign to retreat before them, but awaited them in a narrow pass. my lord yvain struck at the crowd; he had had so long a rest that his strength was quite restored, and he struck a knight upon his shield with such force that he sent down in a heap, i think, the knight together with his horse. the knight never rose again, for his backbone was broken and his heart burst within his breast. my lord yvain drew back a little to recover. then protecting himself completely with his shield, he spurred forward to clear the pass. one could not have counted up to four before one would have seen him cast down speedily four knights. whereupon, those who were with him waxed more brave, for many a man of poor and timid heart, at the sight of some brave man who attacks a dangerous task before his eyes, will be overwhelmed by confusion and shame, which will drive out the poor heart in his body and give him another like to a hero's for courage. so these men grew brave and each stood his ground in the fight and attack. and the lady was up in the tower, whence she saw the fighting and the rush to win and gain possession of the pass, and she saw lying upon the ground many who were wounded and many killed, both of her own party and of the enemy, but more of the enemy than of her own. for my courteous, bold, and excellent lord yvain made them yield just as a falcon does the teal. and the men and women who had remained within the town declared as they watched the strife: "ah, what a valiant knight! how he makes his enemies yield, and how fierce is his attack! he was about him as a lion among the fallow deer, when he is impelled by need and hunger. then, too, all our other knights are more brave and daring because of him, for, were it not for him alone, not a lance would have been splintered nor a sword drawn to strike. when such an excellent man is found he ought to be loved and dearly prized. see now how he proves himself, see how he maintains his place, see how he stains with blood his lance and bare sword, see how he presses the enemy and follows them up, how he comes boldly to attack them, then gives away and turns about; but he spends little time in giving away, and soon returns to the attack. see him in the fray again, how lightly he esteems his shield, which he allows to be cut in pieces mercilessly. just see how keen he is to avenge the blows which are dealt at him. for, if some one should use all the forest of argone [ ] to make lances for him, i guess he would have none left by night. for he breaks all the lances that they place in his socket, and calls for more. and see how he wields the sword when he draws it! roland never wrought such havoc with durendal against the turks at ronceval or in spain! [ ] if he had in his company some good companions like himself, the traitor, whose attack we are suffering, would retreat today discomfited, or would stand his ground only to find defeat." then they say that the woman would be blessed who should be loved by one who is so powerful in arms, and who above all others may be recognised as a taper among candles, as a moon among the stars, and as the sun above the moon. he so won the hearts of all that the prowess which they see in him made them wish that he had taken their lady to wife, and that he were master of the land. (vv. - .) thus men and women alike praised him, and in doing so they but told the truth. for his attack on his adversaries was such that they vie with one another in flight. but he presses hard upon their heels, and all his companions follow him, for by his side they feel as safe as if they were enclosed in a high and thick stone wall. the pursuit continues until those who flee become exhausted, and the pursuers slash at them and disembowel their steeds. the living roll over upon the dead as they wound and kill each other. they work dreadful destruction upon each other; and meanwhile the count flees with my lord yvain after him, until he comes up with him at the foot of a steep ascent, near the entrance of a strong place which belonged to the count. there the count was stopped, with no one near to lend him aid; and without any excessive parley my lord yvain received his surrender. for as soon as he held him in his hands, and they were left just man to man, there was no further possibility of escape, or of yielding, or of self-defence; so the count pledged his word to go to surrender to the lady of noroison as her prisoner, and to make such peace as she might dictate. and when he had accepted his word he made him disarm his head and remove the shield from about his neck, and the count surrendered to him his sword. thus he won the honour of leading off the count as his prisoner, and of giving him over to his enemies, who make no secret of their joy. but the news was carried to the town before they themselves arrived. while all come forth to meet them, the lady herself leads the way. my lord yvain holds his prisoner by the hand, and presents him to her. the count gladly acceded to her wishes and demands, and secured her by his word, oath, and pledges. giving her pledges, he swears to her that he will always live on peaceful terms with her, and will make good to her all the loss which she can prove, and will build up again the houses which he had destroyed. when these things were agreed upon in accordance with the lady's wish, my lord yvain asked leave to depart. but she would not have granted him this permission had he been willing to take her as his mistress, or to marry her. but he would not allow himself to be followed or escorted a single step, but rather departed hastily: in this case entreaty was of no avail. so he started out to retrace his path, leaving the lady much chagrined, whose joy he had caused a while before. when he will not tarry longer she is the more distressed and ill at ease in proportion to the happiness he had brought to her, for she would have wished to honour him, and would have made him, with his consent, lord of all her possessions, or else she would have paid him for his services whatever sum he might have named. but he would not heed any word of man or woman. despite their grief he left the knights and the lady who vainly tried to detain him longer. (vv. - .) pensively my lord yvain proceeded through a deep wood, until he heard among the trees a very loud and dismal cry, and he turned in the direction whence it seemed to come. and when he had arrived upon the spot he saw in a cleared space a lion, and a serpent which held him by the tail, burning his hind-quarters with flames of fire. my lord yvain did not gape at this strange spectacle, but took counsel with himself as to which of the two he should aid. then he says that he will succour the lion, for a treacherous and venomous creature deserves to be harmed. now the serpent is poisonous, and fire bursts forth from its mouth--so full of wickedness is the creature. so my lord yvain decides that he will kill the serpent first. drawing his sword he steps forward, holding the shield before his face in order not to be harmed by the flame emerging from the creature's throat, which was larger than a pot. if the lion attacks him next, he too shall have all the fight he wishes; but whatever may happen afterwards he makes up his mind to help him now. for pity urges him and makes request that he should bear succour and aid to the gentle and noble beast. with his sword, which cuts so clean, he attacks the wicked serpent, first cleaving him through to the earth and cutting him in two, then continuing his blows until he reduces him to tiny bits. but he had to cut off a piece of the lion's tail to get at the serpent's head, which held the lion by the tail. he cut off only so much as was necessary and unavoidable. when he had set the lion free, he supposed that he would have to fight with him, and that the lion would come at him; but the lion was not minded so. just hear now what the lion did! he acted nobly and as one well-bred; for he began to make it evident that he yielded himself to him, by standing upon his two hind-feet and bowing his face to the earth, with his fore-feet joined and stretched out toward him. then he fell on his knees again, and all his face was wet with the tears of humility. my lord yvain knows for a truth that the lion is thanking him and doing him homage because of the serpent which he had killed, thereby delivering him from death. he was greatly pleased by this episode. he cleaned his sword of the serpent's poison and filth; then he replaced it in its scabbard, and resumed his way. and the lion walks close by his side, unwilling henceforth to part from him: he will always in future accompany him, eager to serve and protect him. [ ] he goes ahead until he scents in the wind upon his way some wild beasts feeding; then hunger and his nature prompt him to seek his prey and to secure his sustenance. it is his nature so to do. he started ahead a little on the trail, thus showing his master that he had come upon and detected the odour and scent of some wild game. then he looks at him and halts, wishing to serve his every wish, and unwilling to proceed against his will. yvain understands by his attitude that he is showing that he awaits his pleasure. he perceives this and understands that if he holds back he will hold back too, and that if he follows him he will seize the game which he has scented. then he incites and cries to him, as he would do to hunting-dogs. at once the lion directed his nose to the scent which he had detected, and by which he was not deceived, for he had not gone a bow-shot when he saw in a valley a deer grazing all alone. this deer he will seize, if he has his way. and so he did, at the first spring, and then drank its blood still warm. when he had killed it he laid it upon his back and carried it back to his master, who thereupon conceived a greater affection for him, and chose him as a companion for all his life, because of the great devotion he found in him. it was near nightfall now, and it seemed good to him to spend the night there, and strip from the deer as much as he cared to eat. beginning to carve it he splits the skin along the rib, and taking a steak from the loin he strikes from a flint a spark, which he catches in some dry brush-wood; then he quickly puts his steak upon a roasting spit to cook before the fire, and roasts it until it is quite cooked through. but there was no pleasure in the meal, for there was no bread, or wine, or salt, or cloth, or knife, or anything else. while he was eating, the lion lay at his feet; nor a movement did he make, but watched him steadily until he had eaten all that he could eat of the steak. what remained of the deer the lion devoured, even to the bones. and while all night his master laid his head upon his shield to gain such rest as that afforded, the lion showed such intelligence that he kept awake, and was careful to guard the horse as it fed upon the grass, which yielded some slight nourishment. (vv. - .) in the morning they go off together, and the same sort of existence, it seems, as they had led that night, they two continued to lead all the ensuing week, until chance brought them to the spring beneath the pine-tree. there my lord yvain almost lost his wits a second time, as he approached the spring, with its stone and the chapel that stood close by. so great was his distress that a thousand times he sighed "alas!" and grieving fell in a swoon; and the point of his sharp sword, falling from its scabbard, pierced the meshes of his hauberk right in the neck beside the cheek. there is not a mesh that does not spread, and the sword cuts the flesh of his neck beneath the shining mail, so that it causes the blood to start. then the lion thinks that he sees his master and companion dead. you never heard greater grief narrated or told about anything than he now began to show. he casts himself about, and scratches and cries, and has the wish to kill himself with the sword with which he thinks his master has killed himself. taking the sword from him with his teeth he lays it on a fallen tree, and steadies it on a trunk behind, so that it will not slip or give way, when he hurls his breast against it, his intention was nearly accomplished when his master recovered from his swoon, and the lion restrained himself as he was blindly rushing upon death, like a wild boar heedless of where he wounds himself. thus my lord yvain lies in a swoon beside the stone, but, on recovering, he violently reproached himself for the year during which he had overstayed his leave, and for which he had incurred his lady's hate, and he said: "why does this wretch not kill himself who has thus deprived himself of joy? alas! why do i not take my life? how can i stay here and look upon what belongs to my lady? why does the soul still tarry in my body? what is the soul doing in so miserable a frame? if it had already escaped away it would not be in such torment. it is fitting to hate and blame and despise myself, even as in fact i do. whoever loses his bliss and contentment through fault or error of his own ought to hate himself mortally. he ought to hate and kill himself. and now, when no one is looking on, why do i thus spare myself? why do i not take my life? have i not seen this lion a prey to such grief on my behalf that he was on the point just now of thrusting my sword through his breast? and ought i to fear death who have changed happiness into grief? joy is now a stranger to me. joy? what joy is that? i shall say no more of that, for no one could speak of such a thing; and i have asked a foolish question. that was the greatest joy of all which was assured as my possession, but it endured for but a little while. whoever loses such joy through his own misdeed is undeserving of happiness." (vv. - .) while he thus bemoaned his fate, a lorn damsel in sorry plight, who was in the chapel, saw him and heard his words through a crack in the wall. as soon as he was recovered from his swoon, she called to him: "god," said she, "who is that i hear? who is it that thus complains?" and he replied: "and who are you?" "i am a wretched one," she said, "the most miserable thing alive." and he replied: "be silent, foolish one! thy grief is joy and thy sorrow is bliss compared with that in which i am cast down. in proportion as a man becomes more accustomed to happiness and joy, so is he more distracted and stunned than any other man by sorrow when it comes. a man of little strength can carry, through custom and habit, a weight which another man of greater strength could not carry for anything." "upon my word," she said, "i know the truth of that remark; but that is no reason to believe that your misfortune is worse than mine. indeed, i do not believe it at all, for it seems to me that you can go anywhere you choose to go, whereas i am imprisoned here, and such a fate is my portion that to-morrow i shall be seized and delivered to mortal judgment." "ah, god!" said he, "and for what crime?" "sir knight, may god never have mercy upon my soul, if i have merited such a fate! nevertheless, i shall tell you truly, without deception, why i am here in prison: i am charged with treason, and i cannot find any one to defend me from being burned or hanged to-morrow." "in the first place," he replied, "i may say that my grief and woe are greater than yours, for you may yet be delivered by some one from the peril in which you are. is that not true:" "yes, but i know not yet by whom. there are only two men in the world who would dare on my behalf to face three men in battle." "what? in god's name, are there three of them?" "yes, sire, upon my word. there are three who accuse me of treachery." "and who are they who are so devoted to you that either one of them would be bold enough to fight against three in your defence?" "i will answer your question truthfully: one of them is my lord gawain, and the other is my lord yvain, because of whom i shall to-morrow be handed over unjustly to the martyrdom of death." "because of whom?" he asked, "what did you say?" "sire, so help me god, because of the son of king urien." "now i understand your words, but you shall not die, without he dies too. i myself am that yvain, because of whom you are in such distress. and you, i take it, are she who once guarded me safely in the hall, and saved my life and my body between the two portcullises, when i was troubled and distressed, and alarmed at being trapped. i should have been killed or seized, had it not been for your kind aid. now tell me, my gentle friend, who are those who now accuse you of treachery, and have confined you in this lonely place?" "sire, i shall not conceal it from you, since you desire me to tell you all. it is a fact that i was not slow in honestly aiding you. upon my advice my lady received you, after heeding my opinion and my counsel. and by the holy paternoster, more for her welfare than for your own i thought i was doing it, and i think so still. so much now i confess to you: it was her honour and your desire that i sought to serve, so help me god! but when it became evident that you had overstayed the year when you should return to my mistress, then she became enraged at me, and thought that she had been deceived by putting trust in my advice. and when this was discovered by the seneschal--a rascally, underhanded, disloyal wretch, who was jealous of me because in many matters my lady trusted me more than she trusted him, he saw that he could now stir up great enmity between me and her. in full court and in the presence of all he accused me of having betrayed her in your favour. and i had no counsel or aid except my own; but i knew that i had never done or conceived any treacherous act toward my lady, so i cried out, as one beside herself, and without the advice of any one, that i would present in my own defence one knight who should fight against three. the fellow was not courteous enough to scorn to accept such odds, nor was i at liberty to retreat or withdraw for anything that might happen. so he took me at my word, and i was compelled to furnish bail that i would present within forty days a knight to do battle against three knights. since then i have visited many courts; i was at king arthur's court, but found no help from any there, nor did i find any one who could tell me any good news of you, for they knew nothing of your affairs." "pray tell me. where then was my good and gentle lord gawain? no damsel in distress ever needed his aid without its being extended to her." "if i had found him at court, i could not have asked him for anything which would have been refused me; but a certain knight has carried off the queen, so they told me; surely the king was mad to send her off in his company. [ ] i believe it was kay who escorted her to meet the knight who has taken her away; and my lord gawain in great distress has gone in search for her. he will never have any rest until he finds her. now i have told you the whole truth of my adventure. to-morrow i shall be put to a shameful death, and shall be burnt inevitably, a victim of your criminal neglect." and he replies: "may god forbid that you should be harmed because of me! so long as i live you shall not die! you may expect me tomorrow, prepared to the extent of my power to present my body in your cause, as it is proper that i should do. but have no concern to tell the people who i am! however the battle may turn out, take care that i be not recognised!" "surely, sire, no pressure could make me reveal your name. i would sooner suffer death, since you will have it so. yet, after all, i beg you not to return for my sake. i would not have you undertake a battle which will be so desperate. i thank you for your promised word that you would gladly undertake it, but consider yourself now released, for it is better that i should die alone than that i should see them rejoice over your death as well as mine; they would not spare my life after they had put you to death. so it is better for you to remain alive than that we both should meet death." "that is very ungrateful remark, my dear," says my lord yvain; "i suppose that either you do not wish to be delivered from death, or else that you scorn the comfort i bring you with my aid. i will not discuss the matter more, for you have surely done so much for me that i cannot fail you in any need. i know that you are in great distress; but, if it be god's will, in whom i trust, they shall all three be discomfited. so no more upon that score: i am going off now to find some shelter in this wood, for there is no dwelling near at hand." "sire," she says, "may god give you both good shelter and good night, and protect you as i desire from everything that might do you harm!" then my lord yvain departs, and the lion as usual after him. they journeyed until they came to a baron's fortified place, which was completely surrounded by a massive, strong, and high wall. the castle, being extraordinarily well protected, feared no assault of catapult or storming-machine; but outside the walls the ground was so completely cleared that not a single hut or dwelling remained standing. you will learn the cause of this a little later, when the time comes. my lord yvain made his way directly toward the fortified place, and seven varlets came out who lowered the bridge and advanced to meet him. but they were terrified at sight of the lion, which they saw with him, and asked him kindly to leave the lion at the gate lest he should wound or kill them. and he replies: "say no more of that! for i shall not enter without him. either we shall both find shelter here or else i shall stay outside; he is as dear to me as i am myself. yet you need have no fear of him! for i shall keep him so well in hand that you may be quite confident." they made answer: "very well!" then they entered the town, and passed on until they met knights and ladies and charming damsels coming down the street, who salute him and wait to remove his armour as they say: "welcome to our midst, fair sire! and may god grant that you tarry here until you may leave with great honour and satisfaction!" high and low alike extend to him a glad welcome, and do all they can for him, as they joyfully escort him into the town. but after they had expressed their gladness they are overwhelmed by grief, which makes them quickly forget their joy, as they begin to lament and weep and beat themselves. thus, for a long space of time, they cease not to rejoice or make lament: it is to honour their guest that they rejoice, but their heart is not in what they do, for they are greatly worried over an event which they expect to take place on the following day, and they feel very sure and certain that it will come to pass before midday. my lord yvain was so surprised that they so often changed their mood, and mingled grief with their happiness, that he addressed the lord of the place on the subject. "for god's sake," he said, "fair gentle sir, will you kindly inform me why you have thus honoured me, and shown at once such joy and such heaviness?" "yes, if you desire to know, but it would be better for you to desire ignorance and silence. i will never tell you willingly anything to cause you grief. allow us to continue to lament, and do you pay no attention to what we do!" "it would be quite impossible for me to see you sad and nor take it upon my heart, so i desire to know the truth, whatever chagrin may result to me." "well, then," he said, "i will tell you all. i have suffered much from a giant, who has insisted that i should give him my daughter, who surpasses in beauty all the maidens in the world. this evil giant, whom may god confound, is named harpin of the mountain. not a day passes without his taking all of my possessions upon which he can lay his hands. no one has a better right than i to complain, and to be sorrowful, and to make lament. i might well lose my senses from very grief, for i had six sons who were knights, fairer than any i knew in the world, and the giant has taken all six of them. before my eyes he killed two of them, and to-morrow he will kill the other four, unless i find some one who will dare to fight him for the deliverance of my sons, or unless i consent to surrender my daughter to him; and he says that when he has her in his possession he will give her over to be the sport of the vilest and lewdest fellows in his house, for he would scorn to take her now for himself. that is the disaster which awaits me to-morrow, unless the lord god grant me his aid. so it is no wonder, fair sir, if we are all in tears. but for your sake we strive for the moment to assume as cheerful a countenance as we can. for he is a fool who attracts a gentleman to his presence and then does not honour him; and you seem to be a very perfect gentleman. now i have told you the entire story of our great distress. neither in town nor in fortress has the giant left us anything, except what we have here. if you had noticed, you must have seen this evening that he has not left us so much as an egg, except these walls which are new; for he has razed the entire town. when he had plundered all he wished, he set fire to what remained. in this way he has done me many an evil turn." (vv. - .) my lord yvain listened to all that his host told him, and when he had heard it all he was pleased to answer him: "sire, i am sorry and distressed about this trouble of yours; but i marvel greatly that you have not asked assistance at good king arthur's court. there is no man so mighty that he could not find at his court some who would be glad to try their strength with his." then the wealthy man reveals and explains to him that he would have had efficient help if he had known where to find my lord gawain. "he would not have failed me upon this occasion, for my wife is his own sister; but a knight from a strange land, who went to court to seek the king's wife, has led her away. however, he could not have gotten possession of her by any means of his own invention, had it not been for kay, who so befooled the king that he gave the queen into his charge and placed her under his protection. he was a fool, and she imprudent to entrust herself to his escort. and i am the one who suffers and loses in all this; for it is certain that my excellent lord gawain would have made haste to come here, had he known the facts, for the sake of his nephews and his niece. but he knows nothing of it, wherefore i am so distressed that my heart is almost breaking, for he is gone in pursuit of him, to whom may god bring shame and woe for having led the queen away." while listening to this recital my lord yvain does not cease to sigh. inspired by the pity which he feels, he makes this reply: "fair gentle sire, i would gladly undertake this perilous adventure, if the giant and your sons should arrive to-morrow in time to cause me no delay, for tomorrow at noon i shall be somewhere else, in accordance with a promise i have made." "once for all, fair sire," the good man said, "i thank you a hundred thousand times for your willingness." and all the people of the house likewise expressed their gratitude. (vv. - .) just then the damsel came out of a room, with her graceful body and her face so fair and pleasing to look upon. she was very simple and sad and quiet as she came, for there was no end to the grief she felt: she walked with her head bowed to the ground. and her mother, too, came in from an adjoining room, for the gentleman had sent for them to meet his guest. they entered with their mantles wrapped about them to conceal their tears; and he bid them throw back their mantles, and hold up their heads, saying: "you ought not to hesitate to obey my behests, for god and good fortune have given us here a very well-born gentleman who assures me that he will fight against the giant. delay no longer now to throw yourselves at his feet!" "may god never let me see that!" my lord yvain hastens to exclaim; "surely it would not be proper under any circumstances for the sister and the niece of my lord gawain to prostrate themselves at my feet. may god defend me from ever giving place to such pride as to let them fall at my feet! indeed, i should never forget the shame which i should feel; but i should be very glad if they would take comfort until to-morrow, when they may see whether god will consent to aid them. i have no other request to make, except that the giant may come in such good time that i be not compelled to break my engagement elsewhere; for i would not fail for anything to be present to-morrow noon at the greatest business i could ever undertake." thus he is unwilling to reassure them completely, for he fears that the giant may not come early enough to allow him to reach in time the damsel who is imprisoned in the chapel. nevertheless, he promises them enough to arouse good hope in them. they all alike join in thanking him, for they place great confidence in his prowess, and they think he must be a very good man, when they see the lion by his side as confident as a lamb would be. they take comfort and rejoice because of the hope they stake on him, and they indulge their grief no more. when the time came they led him off to bed in a brightly lighted room; both the damsel and her mother escorted him, for they prized him dearly, and would have done so a hundred thousand times more had they been informed of his prowess and courtesy. he and the lion together lay down there and took their rest. the others dared not sleep in the room; but they closed the door so tight that they could not come out until the next day at dawn. when the room was thrown open he got up and heard mass, and then, because of the promise he had made, he waited until the hour of prime. then in the hearing of all he summoned the lord of the town and said: "my lord, i have no more time to wait, but must ask your permission to leave at once; i cannot tarry longer here. but believe truly that i would gladly and willingly stay here yet awhile for the sake of the nephews and the niece of my beloved lord gawain, if i did not have a great business on hand, and if it were not so far away." at this the damsel's blood quivered and boiled with fear, as well as the lady's and the lord's. they were so afraid he would go away that they were on the point of humbling themselves and casting themselves at his feet, when they recalled that he would not approve or permit their action. then the lord makes him an offer of all he will take of his lands or wealth, if only he will wait a little longer. and he replied: "god forbid that ever i should take anything of yours!" then the damsel, who is in dismay, begins to weep aloud, and beseeches him to stay. like one distracted and prey to dread, she begs him by the glorious queen of heaven and of the angels, and by the lord, not to go but to wait a little while; and then, too, for her uncle's sake, whom he says he knows, and loves, and esteems. then his heart is touched with deep pity when he hears her adjuring him in the name of him whom he loves the most, and by the mistress of heaven, and by the lord, who is the very honey and sweet savour of pity. filled with anguish he heaved a sigh, for were the kingdom of tarsus at stake he would not see her burned to whom he had pledged his aid. if he could not reach her in time, he would be unable to endure his life, or would live on without his wits on the other hand, the kindness of his friend, my lord gawain, only increased his distress; his heart almost bursts in half at the thought that he cannot delay. nevertheless, he does not stir, but delays and waits so long that the giant came suddenly, bringing with him the knights: and hanging from his neck he carried a big square stake with a pointed end, and with this he frequently spurred them on. for their part they had no clothing on that was worth a straw, except some soiled and filthy shirts: and their feet and hands were bound with cords, as they came riding upon four limping jades, which were weak, and thin, and miserable. as they came riding along beside a wood, a dwarf, who was puffed up like a toad, had tied the horses' tails together, and walked beside them, beating them remorselessly with a four-knotted scourge until they bled, thinking thereby to be doing something wonderful. thus they were brought along in shame by the giant and the dwarf. stopping in the plain in front of the city gate, the giant shouts out to the noble lord that he will kill his sons unless he delivers to him his daughter, whom he will surrender to his vile fellows to become their sport. for he no longer loves her nor esteems her, that he should deign to abase himself to her. she shall be constantly beset by a thousand lousy and ragged knaves, vacant wretches, and scullery boys, who all shall lay hands on her. the worthy man is well-nigh beside himself when he hears how his daughter will be made a bawd, or else, before his very eyes, his four sons will be put to a speedy death. his agony is like that of one who would rather be dead than alive. again and again he bemoans his fate, and weeps aloud and sighs. then my frank and gentle lord yvain thus began to speak to him: "sire, very vile and impudent is that giant who vaunts himself out there. but may god never grant that he should have your daughter in his power! he despises her and insults her openly. it would be too great a calamity if so lovely a creature of such high birth were handed over to become the sport of boys. give me now my arms and horse! have the drawbridge lowered, and let me pass. one or the other must be cast down, either i or he, i know not which. if i could only humiliate the cruel wretch who is thus oppressing you, so that he would release your sons and should come and make amends for the insulting words he has spoken to you, then i would commend you to god and go about my business." then they go to get his horse, and hand over to him his arms, striving so expeditiously that they soon have him quite equipped. they delayed as little as they could in arming him. when his equipment was complete, there remained nothing but to lower the bridge and let him go. they lowered it for him, and he went out. but the lion would by no means stay behind. all those who were left behind commended the knight to the saviour, for they fear exceedingly lest their devilish enemy, who already had slain so many good men on the same field before their eyes, would do the same with him. so they pray god to defend him from death, and return him to them safe and sound, and that he may give him strength to slay the giant. each one softly prays to god in accordance with his wish. and the giant fiercely came at him, and with threatening words thus spake to him: "by my eyes, the man who sent thee here surely had no love for thee! no better way could he have taken to avenge himself on thee. he has chosen well his vengeance for whatever wrong thou hast done to him." but the other, fearing naught, replies: "thou treatest of what matters not. now do thy best, and i'll do mine. idle parley wearies me." thereupon my lord yvain, who was anxious to depart, rides at him. he goes to strike him on the breast, which was protected by a bear's skin, and the giant runs at him with his stake raised in air. my lord yvain deals him such a blow upon the chest that he thrusts through the skin and wets the tip of his lance in his body's blood by way of sauce. and the giant belabours him with the stake, and makes him bend beneath the blows. my lord yvain then draws the sword with which he knew how to deal fierce blows. he found the giant unprotected, for he trusted in his strength so much that he disdained to arm himself. and he who had drawn his blade gave him such a slash with the cutting edge, and not with the flat side, that he cut from his cheek a slice fit to roast. then the other in turn gave him such a blow with the stake that it made him sing in a heap upon his horse's neck. thereupon the lion bristles up, ready to lend his master aid, and leaps up in his anger and strength, and strikes and tears like so much bark the heavy bearskin the giant wore, and he tore away beneath the skin a large piece of his thigh, together with the nerves and flesh. the giant escaped his clutches, roaring and bellowing like a bull, for the lion had badly wounded him. then raising his stake in both hands, he thought to strike him, but missed his aim, when the lion leaded backward so he missed his blow, and fell exhausted beside my lord yvain, but without either of them touching the other. then my lord yvain took aim and landed two blows on him. before he could recover himself he had severed with the edge of his sword the giant's shoulder from his body. with the next blow he ran the whole blade of his sword through his liver beneath his chest; the giant falls in death's embrace. and if a great oak tree should fall, i think it would make no greater noise than the giant made when he tumbled down. all those who were on the wall would fain have witnessed such a blow. then it became evident who was the most fleet of foot, for all ran to see the game, just like hounds which have followed the beast until they finally come up with him. so men and women in rivalry ran forward without delay to where the giant lay face downward. the daughter comes running, and her mother too. and the four brothers rejoice after the woes they have endured. as for my lord yvain they are very sure that they could not detain him for any reason they might allege, but they beseech him to return and stay to enjoy himself as soon as he shall have completed the business which calls him away. and he replies that he cannot promise them anything, for as yet he cannot guess whether it will fare well or ill with him. but thus much did he say to his host: that he wished that his four sons and his daughter should take the dwarf and go to my lord gawain when they hear of his return, and should tell and relate to him how he has conducted himself. for kind actions are of no use if you are not willing that they be known. and they reply: "it is not right that such kindness as this should be kept hid: we shall do whatever you desire. but tell us what we can say when we come before him. whose praises can we speak, when we know not what your name may be?" and he answers them: "when you come before him, you may say thus much: that i told you 'the knight with the lion' was my name. and at the same time i must beg you to tell him from me that, if he does not recognise who i am, yet he knows me well and i know him. now i must be gone from here, and the thing which most alarms me is that i may too long have tarried here, for before the hour of noon be passed i shall have plenty to do elsewhere, if indeed i can arrive there in time." then, without further delay, he starts. but first his host begged him insistently that he would take with him his four sons: for there was none of them who would not strive to serve him, if he would allow it. but it did not please or suit him that any one should accompany him; so he left the place to them, and went away alone. and as soon as he starts, riding as fast as his steed can carry him, he heads toward the chapel. the path was good and straight, and he knew well how to keep the road. but before he could reach the chapel, the damsel had been dragged out and the pyre prepared upon which she was to be placed. clad only in a shift, she was held bound before the fire by those who wrongly attributed to her an intention she had never had. my lord yvain arrived, and, seeing her beside the fire into which she was about to be cast, he was naturally incensed. he would be neither courteous nor sensible who had any doubt about that fact. so it is true that he was much incensed; but he cherishes within himself the hope that god and the right will be on his side. in such helpers he confides; nor does he scorn his lion's aid. rushing quickly toward the crowd, he shouts: "let the damsel be, you wicked folk! having committed no crime, it is not right that she should be cast upon a pyre or into a furnace." and they draw off on either side, leaving a passage-way for him. but he yearns to see with his own eyes her whom his heart beholds in whatever place she may be. his eyes seek her until he finds her, while he subdues and holds in check his heart, just as one holds in check with a strong curb a horse that pulls. nevertheless, he gladly gazes at her, and sighs the while; but he does not sigh so openly that his action is detected; rather does he stifle his sighs, though with difficulty. and he is seized with pity at hearing, seeing, and perceiving the grief of the poor ladies, who cried: "ah, god, how hast thou forgotten us! how desolate we shall now remain when we lose so kind a friend, who gave us such counsel and such aid, and interceded for us at court! it was she who prompted madame to clothe us with her clothes of vair. henceforth the situation will change, for there will be no one to speak for us! cursed be he who is the cause of our loss! for we shall fare badly in all this. there will be no one to utter such advice as this: 'my lady, give this vair mantle, this cloak, and this garment to such and such an honest dame! truly, such charity will be well employed, for she is in very dire need of them.' no such words as these shall be uttered henceforth, for there is no one else who is frank and courteous; but every one solicits for himself rather than for some one else, even though he have no need." (vv. - .) thus they were bemoaning their fate; and my lord yvain who was in their midst, heard their complaints, which were neither groundless nor assumed. he saw lunete on her knees and stripped to her shift, having already made confession, and besought god's mercy for her sins. then he who had loved her deeply once came to her and raised her up, saying: "my damsel, where are those who blame and accuse you? upon the spot, unless they refuse, battle will be offered them." and she, who had neither seen nor looked at him before, said: "sire, you come from god in this time of my great need! the men who falsely accuse me are all ready before me here; if you had been a little later i should soon have been reduced to fuel and ashes. you have come here in my defence, and may god give you the power to accomplish it in proportion as i am guiltless of the accusation which is made against me!" the seneschal and his two brothers heard these words. "ah!" they exclaim, "woman, chary of uttering truth but generous with lies! he indeed is mad who for thy words assumes so great a task. the knight must be simple-minded who has come here to die for thee, for he is alone and there are three of us. my advice to him is that he turn back before any harm shall come to him." then he replies, as one impatient to begin: "whoever is afraid, let him run away! i am not so afraid of your three shields that i should go off defeated without a blow. i should be indeed discourteous, if, while yet unscathed and in perfect case, i should leave the place and field to you. never, so long as i am alive and sound, will i run away before such threats. but i advise thee to set free the damsel whom thou hast unjustly accused; for she tells me, and i believe her word, and she has assured me upon the salvation of her soul, that she never committed, or spoke, or conceived any treason against her mistress. i believe implicitly what she has told me, and will defend her as best i can, for i consider the righteousness of her cause to be in my favour. for, if the truth be known, god always sides with the righteous cause, for god and the right are one; and if they are both upon my side, then i have better company and better aid than thou." [ ] then the other responds imprudently that he may make every effort that pleases him and is convenient to do him injury, provided that his lion shall not do him harm. and he replies that he never brought the lion to champion his cause, nor does he wish any but himself to take a hand: but if the lion attacks him, let him defend himself against him as best he can, for concerning him he will give no guarantee. then the other answers: "whatever thou mayst say; unless thou now warn thy lion, and make him stand quietly to one side, there is no use of thy longer staying here, but begone at once, and so shalt thou be wise; for throughout this country every one is aware how this girl betrayed her lady, and it is right that she receive her due reward in fire and flame." "may the holy spirit forbid!" says he who knows the truth; "may god not let me stir from here until i have delivered her!" then he tells the lion to withdraw and to lie down quietly, and he does so obediently. (vv. - .) the lion now withdrew, and the parley and quarrel being ended between them two, they all took their distance for the charge. the three together spurred toward him, and he went to meet them at a walk. he did not wish to be overturned or hurt at this first encounter. so he let them split their lances, while keeping his entire, making for them a target of his shield, whereon each one broke his lance. then he galloped off until he was separated from them by the space of an acre; but he soon returned to the business in hand, having no desire to delay. on his coming up the second time, he reached the seneschal before his two brothers, and breaking his lance upon his body, he carried him to earth in spite of himself, and he gave him such a powerful blow that for a long while he lay stunned, incapable of doing him any harm. and then the other two came at him with their swords bared, and both deal him great blows, but they receive still heavier blows from him. for a single one of the blows he deals is more than a match for two of theirs; thus he defends himself so well that they have no advantage over him, until the seneschal gets up and does his best to injure him, in which attempt the others join, until they begin to press him and get the upper hand. then the lion, who is looking on, delays no longer to lend him aid; for it seems to him that he needs it now. and all the ladies, who are devoted to the damsel, beseech god repeatedly and pray to him earnestly not to allow the death or the defeat of him who has entered the fray on her account. the ladies, having no other weapons, thus assist him with their prayers. and the lion brings him such effective aid, that at his first attack, he strikes so fiercely the seneschal, who was now on his feet, that he makes the meshes fly from the hauberk like straw, and he drags him down with such violence that he tears the soft flesh from his shoulder and all down his side. he strips whatever he touches, so that the entrails lie exposed. the other two avenge this blow. (vv. - .) now they are all even on the field. the seneschal is marked for death, as he turns and welters in the red stream of warm blood pouring from his body. the lion attacks the others; for my lord yvain is quite unable, though he did his best by beating or by threatening him, to drive him back; but the lion doubtless feels confident that his master does not dislike his aid, but rather loves him the more for it: so he fiercely attacks them, until they have reason to complain of his blows, and they wound him in turn and use him badly. when my lord yvain sees his lion wounded, his heart is wroth within his breast, and rightly so; but he makes such efforts to avenge him, and presses them so hard, that he completely reduces them; they no longer resist him, but surrender to him at discretion, because of the lion's help, who is now in great distress; for he was wounded everywhere, and had good cause to be in pain. for his part, my lord yvain was by no means in a healthy state, for his body bore many a wound. but he is not so anxious about himself as about his lion, which is in distress. now he has delivered the damsel exactly in accordance with his wish, and the lady has very willingly dismissed the grudge that she bore her. and those men were burned upon the pyre which had been kindled for the damsel's death; for it is right and just that he who has misjudged another, should suffer the same manner of death as that to which he had condemned the other. now lunete is joyous and glad at being reconciled with her mistress, and together they were more happy than any one ever was before. without recognising him, all present offered to him, who was their lord, their service so long as life should last; even the lady, who possessed unknowingly his heart, begged him insistently to tarry there until his lion and he had quite recovered. and he replied: "lady, i shall not now tarry here until my lady removes from me her displeasure and anger: then the end of all my labours will come." "indeed," she said, "that grieves me. i think the lady cannot be very courteous who cherishes ill-will against you. she ought not to close her door against so valorous a knight as you, unless he had done her some great wrong." "lady," he replies, "however great the hardship be, i am pleased by what ever may be her will. but speak to me no more of that; for i shall say nothing of the cause or crime, except to those who are informed of it." "does any one know it, then, beside you two?" "yes, truly, lady." "well, tell us at least your name, fair sir; then you will be free to go." "quite free, my lady? no, i shall not be free. i owe more than i can pay. yet, i ought not to conceal from you my name. you will never hear of 'the knight with the lion' without hearing of me; for i wish to be known by that name." "for god's sake, sir, what does that name mean? for we never saw you before, nor have we ever heard mentioned this name of yours." "my lady, you may from that infer that my fame is not widespread." then the lady says: "once more, if it did not oppose your will, i would pray you to tarry here." "really, my lady, i should not dare, until i knew certainly that i had regained my lady's good-will." "well, then, go in god's name, fair sir; and, if it be his will, may he convert your grief and sorrow into joy." "lady," says he, "may god hear your prayer." then he added softly under his breath: "lady, it is you who hold the key, and, though you know it not, you hold the casket in which my happiness is kept under lock." (vv. - .) then he goes away in great distress, and there is no one who recognises him save lunete, who accompanied him a long distance. lunete alone keeps him company, and he begs her insistently never to reveal the name of her champion. "sire," says she, "i will never do so." then he further requested her that she should not forget him, and that she should keep a place for him in his mistress' heart, whenever the chance arose. she tells him to be at ease on that score; for she will never be forgetful, nor unfaithful, nor idle. then he thanks her a thousand times, and he departs pensive and oppressed, because of his lion that he must needs carry, being unable to follow him on foot. he makes for him a litter of moss and ferns in his shield. when he has made a bed for him there, he lays him in it as gently as he can, and carries him thus stretched out full length on the inner side of his shield. thus, in his shield he bears him off, until he arrives before the gate of a mansion, strong and fair. finding it closed, he called, and the porter opened it so promptly that he had no need to call but once. he reaches out to take his rein, and greets him thus: "come in, fair sire. i offer you the dwelling of my lord, if it please you to dismount." "i accept the offer gladly," he replies, "for i stand in great need of it, and it is time to find a lodging." (vv. - .) thereupon, he passed through the gate, and saw the retainers in a mass coming to meet him. they greeted him and helped him from his horse, and laid down upon the pavement his shield with the lion on it. and some, taking his horse, put it in a stable: while others very properly relieved him of his arms and took them. then the lord of the castle heard the news, and at once came down into the courtyard, and greeted him. and his lady came down, too, with all her sons and daughters and a great crowd of other people, who all rejoiced to offer him a lodging. they gave him a quiet room, because they deemed that he was sick; but their good nature was put to a test when they allowed the lion to go with him. his cure was undertaken by two maidens skilled in surgery, who were daughters of the lord. i do not know how many days he stayed there, until he and his lion, being cured, were compelled to proceed upon their way. (vv. - .) but within this time it came about that my lord of noire espine had a struggle with death, and so fierce was death's attack that he was forced to die. after his death it happened that the elder of two daughters whom he had, announced that she would possess uncontested all the estates for herself during her entire lifetime, and that she would give no share to her sister. and the other one said that she would go to king arthur's court to seek help for the defence of her claim to the land. when the former saw that her sister would by no means concede all the estates to her without contest, she was greatly concerned, and thought that, if possible, she would get to court before her. at once she prepared and equipped herself, and without any tarrying or delay, she proceeded to the court. the other followed her, and made all the haste she could; but her journey was all in vain, for her eider sister had already presented her case to my lord gawain, and he had promised to execute her will. but there was an agreement between them that if any one should learn of the facts from her, he would never again take arms for her, and to this arrangement she gave consent. (vv. - .) just then the other sister arrived at court, clad in a short mantle of scarlet cloth and fresh ermine. it happened to be the third day after the queen had returned from the captivity in which maleagant had detained her with all the other prisoners; but lancelot had remained behind, treacherously confined within a tower. and on that very day, when the damsel came to court, news was received of the cruel and wicked giant whom the knight with the lion had killed in battle. in his name, my lord gawain was greeted by his nephews and niece, who told him in detail of all the great service and great deeds of prowess he had done for them for his sake, and how that he was well acquainted with him, though not aware of his identity. (vv. - .) all this was heard by her, who was plunged thereby into great despair and sorrow and dejection; for, since the best of the knights was absent, she thought she would find no aid or counsel at the court. she had already made several loving and insistent appeals to my lord gawain; but he had said to her: "my dear, it is useless to appeal to me; i cannot do it; i have another affair on hand, which i shall in no wise give up." then the damsel at once left him, and presented herself before the king. "o king," said she, "i have come to thee and to thy court for aid. but i find none, and i am very much mazed that i can get no counsel here. yet it would not be right for me to go away without taking leave. my sister may know, however, that she might obtain by kindness whatever she desired of my property; but i will never surrender my heritage to her by force, if i can help it, and if i can find any aid or counsel." "you have spoken wisely," said the king; "since she is present here, i advise, recommend, and urge her to surrender to you what is your right." then the other, who was confident of the best knight in the world, replied: "sire, may god confound me, if ever i bestow on her from my estates any castle, town, clearing, forest, land, or anything else. but if any knight dares to take arms on her behalf and desires to defend her cause, let him step forth at once." "your offer to her is not fair; she needs more time," the king replied; "if she desires, she may have forty days to secure a champion, according to the practice of all courts." to which the elder sister replied: "fair king, my lord, you may establish your laws as it pleases you, and as seems good, nor is it my place to gainsay you, so i must consent to the postponement, if she desires it." whereupon, the other says that she does desire it, and she makes formal request for it. then she commended the king to god, and left the court resolving to devote her life to the search through all the land for the knight with the lion, who devotes himself to succouring women in need of aid. (vv. - .) thus she entered upon her quest, and traversed many a country without hearing any news of him, which caused her such grief that she fell sick. but it was well for her that it happened so; for she came to the dwelling of a friend of hers, by whom she was dearly loved. by this time her face showed clearly that she was not in good health. they insisted upon detaining her until she told them of her plight; whereupon, another damsel took up the quest wherein she had been engaged, and continued the search on her behalf. so while the one remained in this retreat, the other rode rapidly all day long, until the darkness of night came on, and caused her great anxiety. [ ] and her trouble was doubled when the rain came on with terrible violence, as if god himself were doing his worst, while she was in the depths of the forest. the night and the woods cause her great distress, but she is more tormented by the rain than by either the woods or the night. and the road was so bad that her horse was often up to the girth in mud; any damsel might well be terrified to be in the woods, without escort, in such bad weather and in such darkness that she could not see the horse she was riding. so she called on god first, and his mother next, and then on all the saints in turn, and offered up many a prayer that god would lead her out from this forest and conduct her to some lodging-place. she continued in prayer until she heard a horn, at which she greatly rejoiced; for she thought now she would find shelter, if she could only reach the place. so she turned in the direction of the sound, and came upon a paved road which led straight toward the horn whose sound she heard; for the horn had given three long, loud blasts. and she made her way straight toward the sound, until she came to a cross which stood on the right side of the road, and there she thought that she might find the horn and the person who had sounded it. so she spurred her horse in that direction, until she drew near a bridge, and descried the white walls and the barbican of a circular castle. thus, by chance she came upon the castle, setting her course by the sound which had led her thither. she had been attracted by the sound of the horn blown by a watchman upon the walls. as soon as the watchman caught sight of her, he called to her, then came down, and taking the key of the gate, opened it for her and said: "welcome, damsel, whoe'er you be. you shall be well lodged this night." "i have no other desire than that," the damsel replied, as he let her in. after the toil and anxiety she had endured that day, she was fortunate to find such a lodging-place; for she was very comfortable there. after the meal the host addressed her, and inquired where she was going and what was her quest. whereupon, she thus replied: "i am seeking one whom i never saw, so far as i am aware, and never knew; but he has a lion with him, and i am told that, if i find him, i can place great confidence in him." "i can testify to that," the other said: "for the day before yesterday god sent him here to me in my dire need. blessed be the paths which led him to my dwelling. for he made me glad by avenging me of a mortal enemy and killing him before my eyes. outside yonder gate you may see to-morrow the body of a mighty giant, whom he slew with such ease that he hardly had to sweat." "for god's sake, sire," the damsel said, "tell me now the truth, if you know whither he went, and where he is." "i don't know," he said, "as god sees me here; but to-morrow i will start you on the road by which he went away from here." "and may god," said she, "lead me where i may hear true news of him. for if i find him, i shall be very glad." (vv. - .) thus they continued in long converse until at last they went to bed. when the day dawned, the maid arose, being in great concern to find the object of her quest. and the master of the house arose with all his companions, and set her upon the road which led straight to the spring beneath the pine. and she, hastening on her way toward the town, came and asked the first men whom she met, if they could tell her where she would find the lion and the knight who travelled in company. and they told her that they had seen him defeat three knights in that very place. whereupon, she said at once: "for god's sake, since you have said so much, do not keep back from me anything that you can add." "no," they replied; "we know nothing more than we have said, nor do we know what became of him. if she for whose sake he came here, cannot give you further news, there will be no one here to enlighten you. you will not have far to go, if you wish to speak with her; for she has gone to make prayer to god and to hear mass in yonder church, and judging by the time she has been inside, her orisons have been prolonged." (vv. - .) while they were talking thus, lunete came out from the church, and they said: "there she is." then she went to meet her, and they greeted each other. she asked lunete at once for the information she desired; and lunete said that she would have a palfrey saddled; for she wished to accompany her, and would take her to an enclosure where she had left him. the other maiden thanked her heartily. lunete mounts the palfrey which is brought without delay, and, as they ride, she tells her how she had been accused and charged with treason, and how the pyre was already kindled upon which she was to be laid, and how he had come to help her in just the moment of her need. while speaking thus, she escorted her to the road which led directly to the spot where my lord yvain had parted from her. when she had accompanied her thus far, she said: "follow this road until you come to a place where, if it please god and the holy spirit, you will hear more reliable news of him than i can tell. i very well remember that i left him either near here, or exactly here, where we are now; we have not seen each other since then, and i do not know what he has done. when he left me, he was in sore need of a plaster for his wounds. so i will send you along after him, and if it be god's will, may he grant that you find him to-night or to-morrow in good health. now go: i commend you to god. i must not follow you any farther, lest my mistress be displeased with me." then lunete leaves her and turns back; while the other pushed on until she found a house, where my lord yvain had tarried until he was restored to health. she saw people gathered before the gate, knights, ladies and men-at-arms, and the master of the house; she saluted them, and asked them to tell her, if possible, news of a knight for whom she sought. "who is he?" they ask. "i have heard it said that he is never without a lion." "upon my word, damsel," the master says, "he has just now left us. you can come up with him to-night, if you are able to keep his tracks in sight, and are careful not to lose any time." "sire," she answers, "god forbid. but tell me now in what direction i must follow him." and they tell her: "this way, straight ahead," and they beg her to greet him on their behalf. but their courtesy was not of much avail; for, without giving any heed, she galloped off at once. the pace seemed much too slow to her, though her palfrey made good time. so she galloped through the mud just the same as where the road was good and smooth, until she caught sight of him with the lion as his companion. then in her gladness she exclaims: "god, help me now. at last i see him whom i have so long pursued, and whose trace i have long followed. but if i pursue and nothing gain, what will it profit me to come up with him? little or nothing, upon my word. if he does not join in my enterprise, i have wasted all my pains." thus saying, she pressed on so fast that her palfrey was all in a sweat; but she caught up with him and saluted him. he thus at once replied to her: "god save you, fair one, and deliver you from grief and woe." "the same to you, sire, who, i hope, will soon be able to deliver me." then she draws nearer to him, and says: "sire, i have long searched for you. the great fame of your merit has made me traverse many a county in my weary search for you. but i continued my quest so long, thank god, that at last i have found you here. and if i brought any anxiety with me, i am no longer concerned about it, nor do i complain or remember it now. i am entirely relieved; my worry has taken flight the moment i met with you. moreover, the affair is none of mine: i come to you from one that is better than i, a woman who is more noble and excellent. but if she be disappointed in her hopes of you, then she has been betrayed by your fair renown, for she has no expectation of other aid. my damsel, who is deprived of her inheritance by a sister, expects with your help to win her suit; she will have none but you defend her cause. no one can make her believe that any one else could bear her aid. by securing her share of the heritage, you will have won and acquired the love of her who is now disinherited, and you will also increase your own renown. she herself was going in search for you to secure the boon for which she hoped; no one else would have taken her place, had she not been detained by an illness which compels her to keep her bed. now tell me, please, whether you will dare to come, or whether you will decline." "no," he says; "no man can win praise in a life of ease; and i will not hold back, but will follow you gladly, my sweet friend, whithersoever it may please you. and if she for whose sake you have sought me out stands in some great need of me, have no fear that i shall not do all i can for her. now may god grant me the happiness and grace to settle in her favour her rightful claim." (vv. - .) [ ] thus conversing, they two rode away until they approached the town of pesme avanture. they had no desire to pass it by, for the day was already drawing to a close. they came riding to the castle, when all the people, seeing them approach, called out to the knight: "ill come, sire, ill come. this lodging-place was pointed out to you in order that you might suffer harm and shame. an abbot might take his oath to that." "ah," he replied, "foolish and vulgar folk, full of all mischief, and devoid of honour, why have you thus assailed me?" "why? you will find out soon enough, if you will go a little farther. but you shall learn nothing more until you have ascended to the fortress." at once my lord yvain turns toward the tower, and the crowd cries out, all shouting aloud at him: "eh, eh, wretch, whither goest thou? if ever in thy life thou hast encountered one who worked thee shame and woe, such will be done thee there, whither thou art going, as will never be told again by thee." my lord yvain, who is listening, says: "base and pitiless people, miserable and impudent, why do you assail me thus, why do you attack me so? what do you wish of me, what do you want, that you growl this way after me?" a lady, who was somewhat advanced in years, who was courteous and sensible, said: "thou hast no cause to be enraged: they mean no harm in what they say; but, if thou understoodest them aright, they are warning thee not to spend the night up there; they dare not tell thee the reason for this, but they are warning and blaming thee because they wish to arouse thy fears. this they are accustomed to do in the case of all who come, so that they may not go inside. and the custom is such that we dare not receive in our own houses, for any reason whatsoever, any gentleman who comes here from a distance. the responsibility now is thine alone; no one will stand in thy way. if thou wishest, thou mayst go up now; but my advice is to turn back again." "lady," he says, "doubtless it would be to my honour and advantage to follow your advice; but i do not know where i should find a lodging-place to-night." "upon my word," says she, "i'll say no more, for the concern is none of mine. go wherever you please. nevertheless, i should be very glad to see you return from inside without too great shame; but that could hardly be." "lady," he says, "may god reward you for the wish. however, my wayward heart leads me on inside, and i shall do what my heart desires." thereupon, he approaches the gate, accompanied by his lion and his damsel. then the porter calls to him, and says: "come quickly, come. you are on your way to a place where you will be securely detained, and may your visit be accursed." (vv. - .) the porter, after addressing him with this very ungracious welcome, hurried upstairs. but my lord yvain, without making reply, passed straight on, and found a new and lofty hall; in front of it there was a yard enclosed with large, round, pointed stakes, and seated inside the stakes he saw as many as three hundred maidens, working at different kinds of embroidery. each one was sewing with golden thread and silk, as best she could. but such was their poverty, that many of them wore no girdle, and looked slovenly, because so poor; and their garments were torn about their breasts and at the elbows, and their shifts were soiled about their necks. their necks were thin, and their faces pale with hunger and privation. they see him, as he looks at them, and they weep, and are unable for some time to do anything or to raise their eyes from the ground, so bowed down they are with woe. when he had contemplated them for a while, my lord yvain turned about and moved toward the door; but the porter barred the way, and cried: "it is no use, fair master; you shall not get out now. you would like to be outside: but, by my head, it is of no use. before you escape you will have suffered such great shame that you could not easily suffer more; so you were not wise to enter here, for there is no question of escaping now." "nor do i wish to do so, fair brother," said he; "but tell me, by thy father's soul, whence came the damsels whom i saw in the yard, weaving cloths of silk and gold. i enjoy seeing the work they do, but i am much distressed to see their bodies so thin, and their faces so pale and sad. i imagine they would be fair and charming, if they had what they desire." "i will tell you nothing," was the reply; "seek some one else to tell you." "that will i do, since there is no better way." then he searches until he finds the entrance of the yard where the damsels were at work: and coming before them, he greets them all, and sees tears flowing from their eyes, as they weep. then he says to them: "may it please god to remove from your hearts, and turn to joy, this grief, the cause of which i do not know." one of them answers: "may you be heard by god, to whom you have addressed your prayer. it shall not be concealed from you who we are, and from what land: i suppose that is what you wish to know." "for no other purpose came i here," says he. [ ] "sire, it happened a long while ago that the king of the isle of damsels went seeking news through divers courts and countries, and he kept on his travels like a dunce until he encountered this perilous place. it was an unlucky hour when he first came here, for we wretched captives who are here receive all the shame and misery which we have in no wise deserved. and rest assured that you yourself may expect great shame, unless a ransom for you be accepted. but, at any rate, so it came about that my lord came to this town, where there are two sons of the devil (do not take it as a jest) who were born of a woman and an imp. these two were about to fight with the king, whose terror was great, for he was not yet eighteen years old, and they would have been able to cleave him through like a tender lamb. so the king, in his terror, escaped his fate as best he could, by swearing that he would send hither each year, as required, thirty of his damsels, and with this rent he freed himself. and when he swore, it was agreed that this arrangement should remain in force as long as the two devils lived. but upon the day when they should be conquered and defeated in battle, he would be relieved from this tribute, and we should be delivered who are now shamefully given over to distress and misery. never again shall we know what pleasure is. but i spoke folly just now in referring to our deliverance, for we shall never more leave this place. we shall spend our days weaving cloths of silk, without ever being better clad. we shall always be poor and naked, and shall always suffer from hunger and thirst, for we shall never be able to earn enough to procure for ourselves any better food. our bread supply is very scarce--a little in the morning and less at night, for none of us can gain by her handiwork more than fourpence a day for her daily bread. and with this we cannot provide ourselves with sufficient food and clothes. for though there is not one of us who does not earn as much as twenty sous [ ] a week, yet we cannot live without hardship. now you must know that there is not a single one of us who does not do twenty sous worth of work or more, and with such a sum even a duke would be considered rich. so while we are reduced to such poverty, he, for whom we work, is rich with the product of our toil. we sit up many nights, as well as every day, to earn the more, for they threaten to do us injury, when we seek some rest, so we do not dare to rest ourselves. but why should i tell you more? we are so shamefully treated and insulted that i cannot tell you the fifth part of it all. but what makes us almost wild with rage is that we very often see rich and excellent knights, who fight with the two devils, lose their lives on our account. they pay dearly for the lodging they receive, as you will do to-morrow. for, whether you wish to do so or not, you will have to fight singlehanded and lose your fair renown with these two devils." "may god, the true and spiritual, protect me," said my lord yvain, "and give you back your honour and happiness, if it be his will. i must go now and see the people inside there, and find out what sort of entertainment they will offer me." "go now, sire, and may he protect you who gives and distributes all good things." (vv. - .) then he went until he came to the hall where he found no one, good or bad, to address him. then he and his companion passed through the house until they came to a garden. they never spoke of, or mentioned, stabling their horses. but what matters it? for those who considered them already as their own had stabled them carefully. i do not know whether their expectation was wise, for the horses' owners are still perfectly hale. the horses, however, have oats and hay, and stand in litter up to their belly. my lord yvain and his company enter the garden. there he sees, reclining upon his elbow upon a silken rug, a gentleman, to whom a maiden was reading from a romance about i know not whom. there had come to recline there with them and listen to the romance a lady, who was the mother of the damsel, as the gentleman was her father; they had good reason to enjoy seeing and hearing her, for they had no other children. she was not yet sixteen years old, and was so fair and full of grace that the god of love would have devoted himself entirely to her service, if he had seen her, and would never have made her fall in love with anybody except himself. for her sake he would have become a man, and would lay aside his deity, and would smite his own body with that dart whose wound never heals unless some base physician attends to it. it is not fitting that any one should recover until he meets with faithlessness. any one who is cured by other means is not honestly in love. i could tell you so much about this wound, if you were pleased to listen to it, that i would not get through my tale to-day. but there would be some one who would promptly say that i was telling you but an idle tale; for people don't fall in love nowadays, nor do they love as they used to do, so they do not care to hear of it. [ ] but hear now in what fashion and with what manner of hospitality my lord yvain was received. all those who were in the garden leaped to their feet when they saw him come, and cried out: "this way, fair sire. may you and all you love be blessed with all that god can do or say." i know not if they were deceiving him, but they receive him joyfully and act as if they are pleased that he should be comfortably lodged. even the lord's daughter serves him very honourably, as one should treat a worthy guest. she relieves him of all his arms, nor was it the least attention she bestowed on him when she herself washed his neck and face. the lord wishes that all honour should be shown him, as indeed they do. she gets out from her wardrobe a folded shirt, white drawers, needle and thread for his sleeves, which she sews on, thus clothing him. [ ] may god want now that this attention and service may not prove too costly to him! she gave him a handsome jacket to put on over his shirt, and about his neck she placed a brand new spotted mantle of scarlet stuff. she takes such pains to serve him well that he feels ashamed and embarrassed. but the damsel is so courteous and open-hearted and polite that she feels she is doing very little. and she knows well that it is her mother's will that she shall leave nothing undone for him which she thinks may win his gratitude. that night at table he was so well served with so many dishes that there were too many. the servants who brought in the dishes might well have been wearied by serving them. that night they did him all manner of honour, putting him comfortably to bed, and not once going near him again after he had retired. his lion lay at his feet, as his custom was. in the morning, when god lighted his great light for the world, as early as was consistent in one who was always considerate, my lord yvain quickly arose, as did his damsel too. they heard mass in a chapel, where it was promptly said for them in honour of the holy spirit. (vv. - .) after the mass my lord yvain heard bad news, when he thought the time had come for him to leave and that nothing would stand in his way; but it could not be in accordance with his wish. when he said: "sire, if it be your will, and with your permission, i am going now," the master of the house replied: "friend, i will not grant you permission yet. there is a reason why i cannot do so, for there is established in this castle a very terrible practice which i am bound to observe. i shall now cause to approach two great, strong fellows of mine, against whom, whether right or wrong, you must take arms. if you can defend yourself against them, and conquer and slay them both, my daughter desires you as her lord, and the suzerainty of this town and all its dependencies awaits you." "sire," said he, "for all this i have no desire. so may god never bestow your daughter upon me, but may she remain with you; for she is so fair and so elegant that the emperor of germany would be fortunate to win her as his wife." "no more, fair guest," the lord replied: "there is no need of my listening to your refusal, for you cannot escape. he who can defeat the two, who are about to attack you, must by right receive my castle, and all my land, and my daughter as his wife. there is no way of avoiding or renouncing the battle. but i feel sure that your refusal of my daughter is due to cowardice, for you think that in this manner you can completely avoid the battle. know, however, without fail that you must surely fight. no knight who lodges here can possibly escape. this is a settled custom and statute, which will endure yet for many a year, for my daughter will never be married until i see them dead or defeated." "then i must fight them in spite of myself. but i assure you that i should very gladly give it up. in spite of my reluctance, however, i shall accept the battle, since it is inevitable." thereupon, the two hideous, black sons of the devil come in, both armed with a crooked club of a cornelian cherry-tree, which they had covered with copper and wound with brass. they were armed from the shoulders to the knees, but their head and face were bare, as well as their brawny legs. thus armed, they advanced, bearing in their hands round shields, stout and light for fighting. the lion begins to quiver as soon as he sees them, for he sees the arms they have, and perceives that they come to fight his master. he is aroused, and bristles up at once, and, trembling with rage and bold impulse, he thrashes the earth with his tail, desiring to rescue his master before they kill him. and when they see him they say: "vassal, remove the lion from here that he may not do us harm. either surrender to us at once, or else, we adjure you, that lion must be put where he can take no part in aiding you or in harming us. you must come alone to enjoy our sport, for the lion would gladly help you, if he could." my lord yvain then replies to them: "take him away yourselves if you are afraid of him. for i shall be well pleased and satisfied if he can contrive to injure you, and i shall be grateful for his aid." they answer: "upon my word that will not do; you shall never receive any help from him. do the best you can alone, without the help of any one. you must fight single-handed against us two. if you were not alone, it would be two against two; so you must follow our orders, and remove your lion from here at once, however much you may dislike to do so." "where do you wish him to be?" he asks, "or where do you wish me to put him?" then they show him a small room, and say: "shut him up in there." "it shall be done, since it is your will." then he takes him and shuts him up. and now they bring him arms for his body, and lead out his horse, which they give to him, and he mounts. the two champions, being now assured about the lion, which is shut up in the room, come at him to injure him and do him harm. they give him such blows with the maces that his shield and helmet are of little use, for when they hit him on the helmet they batter it in and break it; and the shield is broken and dissolved like ice, for they make such holes in it that one could thrust his fists through it: their onslaught is truly terrible. and he--what does he do against these two devils? urged on by shame and fear, he defends himself with all his strength. he strains every nerve, and exerts himself to deal heavy, and telling blows; they lost nothing by his gifts, for he returned their attentions with double measure. in his room, the lion's heart is heavy and sad, for he remembers the kind deed done for him by this noble man, who now must stand in great need of his service and aid. if now he could escape from there, he would return him the kindness with full measure and full bushel, without any discount whatsoever. he looks about in all directions, but sees no way of escape. he hears the blows of the dangerous and desperate fight, and in his grief he rages and is beside himself. he investigates, until he comes to the threshold, which was beginning to grow rotten; and he scratches at it until he can squeeze himself in as far as his haunches, when he sticks fast. meanwhile, my lord yvain was hard pressed and sweating freely, for he found that the two fellows were very strong, fierce, and persistent. he had received many a blow, and repaid it as best he could, but without doing them any harm, for they were well skilled in fencing, and their shields were not of a kind to be hacked by any sword, however sharp and well tempered it might be. so my lord yvain had good reason to fear his death, yet he managed to hold his own until the lion extricated himself by continued scratching beneath the threshold. if the rascals are not killed now, surely they will never be. for so long as the lion knows them to be alive, they can never obtain truce or peace with him. he seizes one of them, and pulls him down to earth like a tree-trunk. the wretches are terrified, and there is not a man present who does not rejoice. for he whom the lion has dragged down will never be able to rise again, unless the other succours him. he runs up to bring him aid, and at the same time to protect himself, lest the lion should attack him as soon as he had despatched the one whom he had thrown down; he was more afraid of the lion than of his master. but my lord yvain will be foolish now if he allows him longer life, when he sees him turn his back, and sees his neck bare and exposed; this chance turned out well for him. when the rascal exposed to him his bare head and neck, he dealt him such a blow that he smote his head from his shoulders so quietly that the fellow never knew a word about it. then he dismounts, wishing to help and save the other one from the lion, who holds him fast. but it is of no use, for already he is in such straits that a physician can never arrive in time; for the lion, coming at him furiously, so wounded him at the first attack, that he was in a dreadful state. nevertheless, he drags the lion back, and sees that he had torn his shoulder from its place. he is in no fear of the fellow now, for his club has fallen from his hand, and he lies like a dead man without action or movement; still he has enough strength to speak, and he said as clearly as he could: "please take your lion away, fair sire, that he may not do me further harm. henceforth you may do with me whatever may be your desire. whoever begs and prays for mercy, ought not to have his prayer refused, unless he addresses a heartless man. i will no longer defend myself, nor will i ever get up from here with my own strength; so i put myself in your hands." "speak out then," he says, "if thou dost admit that thou art conquered and defeated." "sire," he says, "it is evident. i am defeated in spite of myself, and i surrender, i promise you." "then thou needest have no further fear of me, and my lion will leave thee alone." then he is surrounded by all the crowd, who arrive on the scene in haste. and both the lord and his lady rejoice over him, and embrace him, and speak to him of their daughter, saying: "now you will be the lord and master of us all, and our daughter will be your wife, for we bestow her upon you as your spouse." "and for my part," he says. "i restore her to you. let him who has her keep her. i have no concern with her, though i say it not in disparagement. take it not amiss if i do not accept her, for i cannot and must not do so. but deliver to me now, if you will, the wretched maidens in your possession. the agreement, as you well know, is that they shall all go free." "what you say is true," he says: "and i resign and deliver them freely to you: there will be no dispute on that score. but you will be wise to take my daughter with all my wealth, for she is fair, and charming, and sensible. you will never find again such a rich marriage as this." "sire," he replies, "you do not know of my engagements and my affairs, and i do not dare to explain them to you. but, you may be sure, when i refuse what would never be refused by any one who was free to devote his heart and intentions to such a fair and charming girl, that i too would willingly accept her hand if i could, or if i were free to accept her or any other maid. but i assure you that i cannot do it: so let me depart in peace. for the damsel, who escorted me hither, is awaiting me. she has kept me company, and i would not willingly desert her whatever the future may have in store." "you wish to go, fair sire? but how? my gate will never be opened for you unless my judgment bids me give the command; rather shall you remain here as my prisoner. you are acting haughtily and making a mistake when you disdain to take my daughter at my request." "disdain, my lord? upon my soul, i do not disdain her. whatever the penalty may be, i cannot marry a wife or tarry here. i shall follow the damsel who is my guide: for otherwise it cannot be. but, with your consent, i will pledge you my right hand, and you may take my word, that, just as you see me now, i will return if possible, and then will accept your daughter's hand, whenever it may seem good ro you." "confound any one," he says, "who asks you for your word or promise or pledge. if my daughter pleases you, you will return quickly enough. you will not return any sooner. i think, for having given your word or sworn an oath. begone now. i release you from all oaths and promises. if you are detained by rain or wind, or by nothing at all, it is of no consequence to me. i do not hold my daughter so cheap as to bestow her upon you forcibly. now go about your business. for it is quite the same to me whether you go or whether you stay." (vv. - .) thereupon my lord yvain turns away and delays no longer in the castle. he escorted the poor and ill-clad wretches, who were now released from captivity, and whom the lord committed to his care. these maidens feel that now they are rich, as they file out in pairs before him from the castle. i do not believe that they would rejoice so much as they do now were he who created the whole world to descend to earth from heaven. now all those people who had insulted him in every possible way come to beseech him for mercy and peace, and escort him on his way. he replies that he knows nothing of what they mean. "i do not understand what you mean," he says; "but i have nothing against you. i do not remember that you ever said anything that harmed me." they are very glad for what they hear, and loudly praise his courtesy, and after escorting him a long distance, they all commend him to god. then the damsels, after asking his permission, separated from him. when they left him, they all bowed to him, and prayed and expressed the wish that god might grant him joy and health, and the accomplishment of his desire, wherever in the future he should go. then he, who is anxious to be gone, says that he hopes god will save them all. "go," he says, "and may god conduct you into your countries safe and happy." then they continue their way joyfully; and my lord yvain departs in the other direction. all the days of that week he never ceases to hurry on under the escort of the maid, who was well acquainted with the road, and with the retired place where she had left the unhappy and disconsolate damsel who had been deprived of her inheritance. but when she heard news of the arrival of the maiden and of the knight with the lion. there never was such joy as she felt within her heart. for now she thinks that, if she insists, her sister will cede her a part of her inheritance. the damsel had long lain sick, and had just recovered from her malady. it had seriously affected her, as was apparent from her face. straightway she went forth to meet them, greeting them and honouring them in every way she could. there is no need to speak of the happiness that prevailed that night in the house. no mention will be made of it, for the story would be too long to tell. i pass over all that, until they mounted next morning and went away. they rode until they saw the town where king arthur had been staying for a fortnight or more. and there, too, was the damsel who had deprived her sister of her heritage, for she had kept close to the court, waiting for the arrival of her sister, who now draws near. but she does not worry much, for she does not think that her sister can find any knight who can withstand my lord gawain's attack, and only one day of the forty yet remains. if this single day had passed, she would have had the reasonable and legal right to claim the heritage for herself alone. but more stands in the way than she thinks or believes. that night they spent outside the town in a small and humble house, where, in accordance with their desire, they were not recognised. at the first sign of dawn the next morning they necessarily issue forth, but ensconce themselves in hiding until broad daylight. (vv. - .) i know not how many days had passed since my lord gawain had so completely disappeared that no one at court knew anything about him, except only the damsel in whose cause he was to fight. he had concealed himself three or four leagues from the court, and when he returned he was so equipped that even those who knew him perfectly could not recognise him by the arms he bore. the damsel, whose injustice toward her sister was evident, presented him at court in the sight of all, for she intended with his help to triumph in the dispute where she had no rights. so she said to the king: "my lord, time passes. the noon hour will soon be gone, and this is the last day. as you see, i am prepared to defend my claim. if my sister were going to return, there would be nothing to do but await her arrival. but i may praise god that she is not coming back again. it is evident that she cannot better her affairs, and that her trouble has been for naught. for my part, i have been ready all the time up to this last day, to prove my claim to what is mine. i have proved my point entirely without a fight, and now i may rightfully go to accept my heritage in peace; for i shall render no accounting for it to my sister as long as i live, and she will lead a wretched and miserable existence." then the king, who well knew that the damsel was disloyally unjust toward her sister, said to her: "my dear, upon my word, in a royal court one must wait as long as the king's justice sits and deliberates upon the verdict. it is not yet time to pack up, for it is my belief that your sister will yet arrive in time." before the king had finished, he saw the knight with the lion and the damsel with him. they two were advancing alone, having slipped away from the lion, who had stayed where they spent the night. (vv. - .) the king saw the damsel whom he did not fail to recognise, and he was greatly pleased and delighted to see her, for he was on her side of the quarrel, because he had regard for what was right. joyfully he cried out to her as soon as he could: "come forward, fair one: may god save you!" when the other sister hears these words, she turns trembling, and sees her with the knight whom she had brought to defend in her claim: then she turned blacker than the earth. the damsel, after being kindly welcomed by all, went to where the king was sitting. when she had come before him, she spoke to him thus: "god save the king and his household. if my rights in this dispute can be settled by a champion, then it will be done by this knight who has followed me hither. this frank and courteous knight had many other things to do elsewhere; but he felt such pity for me that he cast aside all his other affairs for the sake of mine. now, madame, my very dear sister, whom i love as much as my own heart, would do the right and courteous thing if she would let me have so much of what is mine by right that there might be peace between me and her; for i ask for nothing that is hers." "nor do i ask for anything that is thine," the other replied; "for thou hast nothing, and nothing shalt thou have. thou canst never talk so much as to gain anything by thy words. thou mayest dry up with grief." then the other, who was very polite and sensible and courteous, replied with the words: "certainly i am sorry that two such gentlemen as these should fight on our behalf over so small a disagreement. but i cannot disregard my claim, for i am in too great need of it. so i should be much obliged to you if you would give me what is rightly mine." "surely," the other said, "any one would be a fool to consider thy demands. may i burn in evil fire and flame if i give thee anything to ease thy life! the banks of the seine will meet, and the hour of prime will be called noon, before i refuse to carry out the fight." "may god and the right, which i have in this cause, and in which i trust and have trusted till the present time, aid him, who in charity and courtesy has offered himself in my service, though he knows not who i am, and though we are ignorant of each other's identity." (vv. - .) so they talked until their conversation ceased, and then produced the knights in the middle of the court. then all the people crowd about, as people are wont to do when they wish to witness blows in battle or in joust. but those who were about to fight did not recognise each other, though their relations were wont to be very affectionate. then do they not love each other now? i would answer you both "yes" and "no." and i shall prove that each answer is correct. in truth, my lord gawain loves yvain and regards him as his companion, and so does yvain regard him, wherever he may be. even here, if he knew who he was, he would make much of him, and either one of them would lay down his head for the other before he would allow any harm to come to him. is not that a perfect and lofty love? yes, surely. but, on the other hand, is not their hate equally manifest? yes; for it is a certain thing that doubtless each would be glad to have broken the other's head, and so to have injured him as to cause his humiliation. upon my word, it is a wondrous thing, that love and mortal hate should dwell together. god! how can two things so opposed find lodging in the same dwelling-place? it seems to me they cannot live together; for one could not dwell with the other, without giving rise to noise and contention, as soon as each knew of the other's presence. but upon the ground-floor there may be several apartments: for there are halls and sleeping-rooms. it may be the same in this case: i think love had ensconced himself in some hidden room, while hate had betaken herself to the balconies looking on the high-road, because she wishes to be seen. just now hate is in the saddle, and spurs and pricks forward as she can, to get ahead of love who is indisposed to move. ah! love, what has become of thee? come out now, and thou shalt see what a host has been brought up and opposed to thee by the enemies of thy friends. the enemies are these very men who love each other with such a holy love for love, which is neither false nor feigned, is a precious and a holy thing. in this case love is completely blind, and hate, too, is deprived of sight. for if love had recognised these two men, he must have forbidden each to attack the other, or to do any thing to cause him harm. in this respect, then, love is blind and discomfited and beguiled; for, though he sees them, he fails to recognise those who rightly belong to him. and though hate is unable to tell why one of them should hate the other, yet she tries to engage them wrongfully, so that each hates the other mortally. you know, of course, that he cannot be said to love a man who would wish to harm him and see him dead. how then? does yvain wish to kill his friend, my lord gawain? yes, and the desire is mutual. would, then, my lord gawain desire to kill yvain with his own hands, or do even worse than i have said? nay, not really, i swear and protest. one would not wish to injure or harm the other, in return for all that god has done for man, or for all the empire of rome. but this, in turn, is a lie of mine, for it is plainly to be seen that, with lance raised high in rest, each is ready to attack the other, and there will be no restraint of the desire of each to wound the other with intent to injure him and work him woe. now tell me! when one will have defeated the other, of whom can he complain who has the worst of it? for if they go so far as to come to blows, i am very much afraid that they will continue the battle and the strife until victory be definitely decided. if he is defeated, will yvain be justified in saying that he has been harmed and wronged by a man who counts him among his friends, and who has never mentioned him but by the name of friend or companion? or, if it comes about perchance that yvain should hurt him in turn, or defeat him in any way, will gawain have the right to complain? nay, for he will not know whose fault it is. in ignorance of each other's identity, they both drew off and took their distance. at this first shock, their lances break, though they were stout, and made of ash. not a word do they exchange, for if they had stopped to converse their meeting would have been different. in that case, no blow would have been dealt with lance or sword; they would have kissed and embraced each other rather than sought each other's harm. for now they attack each other with injurious intent. the condition of the swords is not improved, nor that of the helmets and shields, which are dented and split; and the edges of the swords are nicked and dulled. for they strike each other violently, not with the fiat of the swords, but with the edge, and they deal such blows with the pommels upon the nose-guards and upon the neck, forehead and cheeks, that they are all marked black and blue where the blood collects beneath the skin. and their hauberks are so torn, and their shields so broken in pieces, that neither one escaped without wounds. their breath is almost exhausted with the labour of the strife; they hammer away at each other so lustily that every hyacinth and emerald set in their helmets is crushed and smashed. for they give each other such a battering with their pommels upon the helmets that they are quite stunned, as they almost beat out each other's brains. the eyes in their heads gleam like sparks, as, with stout square fists, and strong nerves, and hard bones, they strike each other upon the mouth as long as they can grip their swords, which are of great service to them in dealing their heavy blows. (vv. - .) when they had for a long time strained themselves, until the helmets were crushed, and the hauberks' meshes were torn apart with the hammering of the swords, and the shields were split and cracked, they drew apart a little to give their pulse a rest and to catch their breath again. however, they do not long delay, but run at each other again more fiercely than before. and all declare that they never saw two more courageous knights. "this fight between them is no jest, but they are in grim earnest. they will never be repaid for their merits and deserts." the two friends, in their bitter struggle, heard these words, and heard how the people were talking of reconciling the two sisters; but they had no success in placating the elder one. and the younger one said she would leave it to the king, and would not gainsay him in anything. but the elder one was so obstinate that even the queen guinevere and the knights and the king and the ladies and the townspeople side with the younger sister, and all join in beseeching the king to give her a third or a fourth part of the land in spite of the elder sister, and to separate the two knights who had displayed such bravery, for it would be too bad if one should injure the other or deprive him of any honour. and the king replied that he would take no hand in making peace, for the elder sister is so cruel that she has no desire for it. all these words were heard by the two, who were attacking each other so bitterly that all were astonished thereat; for the battle is waged so evenly that it is impossible to judge which has the better and which the worse. even the two men themselves, who fight, and who are purchasing honour with agony, are filled with amazement and stand aghast, for they are so well matched in their attack, that each wonders who it can be that withstands him with such bravery. they fight so long that the day draws on to night, while their arms grow weary and their bodies sore, and the hot, boiling blood flows from many a spot and trickles down beneath their hauberks: they are in such distress that it is no wonder if they wish to rest. then both withdraw to rest themselves, each thinking within himself that, however long he has had to wait, he now at last has met his match. for some time they thus seek repose, without daring to resume the fight. they feel no further desire to fight, because of the night which is growing dark, and because of the respect they feel for each other's might. these two considerations keep them apart, and urge them to keep the peace. but before they leave the field they will discover each other's identity, and joy and mercy will be established between them. (vv. - .) my brave and courteous lord yvain was the first to speak. but his good friend was unable to recognise him by his utterance; for he was prevented by his low tone and by his voice which was hoarse, weak, and broken; for his blood was all stirred up by the blows he had received. "my lord," he says, "the night comes on! i think no blame or reproach will attach to us if the night comes between us. but i am willing to admit, for my own part, that i feel great respect and admiration for you, and never in my life have i engaged in a battle which has made me smart so much, nor did i ever expect to see a knight whose acquaintance i should so yearn to make. you know well how to land your blows and how to make good use of them: i have never known a knight who was so skilled in dealing blows. it was against my will that i received all the blows you have bestowed on me to-day; i am stunned by the blows you have i struck upon my head." "upon my word," my lord gawain replies, "you are not so stunned and faint but that i am as much so, or more. and if i should tell you the simple truth, i think you would not be loath to hear it, for if i have lent you anything of mine, you have fully paid me back, principal and interest; for you were more ready to pay back than i was to accept the payment. but however that may be, since you wish me to inform you of my name, it shall not be kept from you: my name is gawain the son of king lot." as soon as my lord yvain heard that, he was amazed and sorely troubled; angry and grief-stricken, he cast upon the ground his bloody sword and broken shield, then dismounted from his horse, and cried: "alas, what mischance is this! through what unhappy ignorance in not recognising each other have we waged this battle! for if i had known who you were, i should never have fought with you; but, upon my word, i should have surrendered without a blow." "how is that?" my lord gawain inquires, "who are you, then?" "i am yvain, who love you more than any man in the whole wide world, for you have always been fond of me and shown me honour in every court. but i wish to make you such amends and do you such honour in this affair that i will confess myself to have been defeated." "will you do so much for my sake?" my gentle lord gawain asks him; "surely i should be presumptuous to accept any such amends from you. this honour shall never be claimed as mine, but it shall be yours, to whom i resign it." "ah, fair sire, do not speak so. for that could never be. i am so wounded and exhausted that i cannot endure more." "surely, you have no cause to be concerned." his friend and companion replies; "but for my part, i am defeated and overcome; i say it not as a compliment; for there is no stranger in the world, to whom i would not say as much, rather than receive any more blows." thus saying, he got down from his horse, and they threw their arms about each other's neck, kissing each other, and each continuing to assert that it is he who has met defeat. the argument is still in progress when the king and the knights come running up from every side, at the sight of their reconciliation; and great is their desire to hear how this can be, and who these men are who manifest such happiness. the king says: "gentlemen, tell us now who it is that has so suddenly brought about this friendship and harmony between you two, after the hatred and strife there has been this day?" then his nephew, my lord gawain, thus answers him: "my lord, you shall be informed of the misfortune and mischance which have been the cause of our strife. since you have tarried in order to hear and learn the cause of it, it is right to let you know the truth. i, gawain, who am your nephew, did not recognise this companion of mine, my lord yvain, until he fortunately, by the will of god, asked me my name. after each had informed the other of his name, we recognised each other, but not until we had fought it out. our struggle already has been long; and if we had fought yet a little longer, it would have fared ill with me, for, by my head, he would have killed me, what with his prowess and the evil cause of her who chose me as her champion. but i would rather be defeated than killed by a friend in battle." then my lord yvain's blood was stirred, as he said to him in reply: "fair dear sire, so help me god, you have no right to say so much. let my lord, the king, well know in this battle i am surely the one who has been defeated and overcome!" "i am the one" "no, i am." thus each cries out, and both are so honest and courteous that each allows the victory and crown to be the other's prize, while neither one of them will accept it. thus each strives to convince the king and all the people that he has been defeated and overthrown. but when he had listened to them for a while, the king terminated the dispute. he was well pleased with what he heard and with the sight of them in each other's arms, though they had wounded and injured each other in several places. "my lords," he says, "there is deep affection between you two. you give clear evidence of that, when each insists that it is he who has been defeated. now leave it all to me! for i think i can arrange it in such a way that it will redound to your honour, and every one will give consent." then they both promised him that they would do his will in every particular. and the king says that he will decide the quarrel fairly and faithfully. "where is the damsel," he inquires, "who has ejected her sister from her land, and has forcibly and cruelly disinherited her?" "my lord," she answers, "here i am." "are you there? then draw near to me! i saw plainly some time ago that you were disinheriting her. but her right shall no longer be denied; for you yourself have avowed the truth to me. you must now resign her share to her." "sire," she says, "if i uttered a foolish and thoughtless word, you ought not to take me up in it. for god's sake, sire, do not be hard on me! you are a king, and you ought to guard against wrong and error." the king replies: "that is precisely why i wish to give your sister her rights; for i have never defended what is wrong. and you have surely heard how your knight and hers have left the matter in my hands. i shall not say what is altogether pleasing to you; for your injustice is well known. in his desire to honour the other, each one says that he has been defeated. but there is no need to delay further: since the matter has been left to me, either you will do in all respects what i say, without resistance, or i shall announce that my nephew has been defeated in the fight. that would be the worst thing that could happen to your cause, and i shall be sorry to make such a declaration." in reality, he would not have said it for anything; but he spoke thus in order to see if he could frighten her into restoring the heritage to her sister; for he clearly saw that she never would surrender anything to her for any words of his unless she was influenced by force or fear. in fear and apprehension, she replied to him: "fair lord, i must now respect your desire, though my heart is very loath to yield. yet, however hard it may go with me, i shall do it, and my sister shall have what belongs to her. i give her your own person as a pledge of her share in my inheritance, in order that she may be more assured of it." "endow her with it, then, at once," the king replies; "let her receive it from your hands, and let her vow fidelity to you! do you love her as your vassal, and let her love you as her sovereign lady and as her sister." thus the king conducts the affair until the damsel takes possession of her land, and offers her thanks to him for it. then the king asked the valiant and brave knight who was his nephew to allow himself to be disarmed; and he requested my lord yvain to lay aside his arms also; for now they may well dispense with them. then the two vassals lay aside their arms and separate on equal terms. and while they are taking off their armour, they see the lion running up in search of his master. as soon as he catches sight of him, he begins to show his joy. then you would have seen people draw aside, and the boldest among them takes to flight. my lord yvain cries out: "stand still, all! why do you flee? no one is chasing you. have no fear that yonder lion will do you harm. believe me, please, when i say that he is mine, and i am his, and we are both companions." then it was known of a truth by all those who had heard tell of the adventures of the lion and of his companion that this must be the very man who had killed the wicked giant. and my lord gawain said to him: "sir companion, so help me god, you have overwhelmed me with shame this day. i did not deserve the service that you did me in killing the giant to save my nephews and my niece. i have been thinking about you for some time, and i was troubled because it was said that we were acquainted as loving friends. i have surely thought much upon the subject: but i could not hit upon the truth, and had never heard of any knight that i had known in any land where i had been, who was called 'the knight with the lion.'" while they chatted thus they took their armour off, and the lion came with no slow step to the place where his master sat, and showed such joy as a dumb beast could. then the two knights had to be removed to a sick-room and infirmary, for they needed a doctor and piaster to cure their wounds. king arthur, who loved them well, had them both brought before him, and summoned a surgeon whose knowledge of surgery was supreme. he exercised his art in curing them, until he had healed their wounds as well and as quickly as possible. when he had cured them both, my lord yvain, who had his heart set fast on love, saw clearly that he could not live, but that he finally would die unless his lady took pity upon him; for he was dying for love of her; so he thought he would go away from the court alone, and would go to fight at the spring that belonged to her, where he would cause such a storm of wind and rain that she would be compelled perforce to make peace with him; otherwise, there would be no end to the disturbance of the spring, and to the rain and wind. (vv. - .) as soon as my lord yvain felt that he was cured and sound again, he departed without the knowledge of any one. but he had with him his lion, who never in his life wished to desert him. they travelled until they saw the spring and made the rain descend. think not that this is a lie of mine, when i tell you that the disturbance was so violent that no one could tell the tenth part of it: for it seemed as if the whole forest must surely be engulfed. the lady fears for her town, lest it, too, will crumble away; the walls totter, and the tower rocks so that it is on the verge of falling down. the bravest turk would rather be a captive in persia than be shut up within those walls. the people are so stricken with terror that they curse all their ancestors, saying: "confounded be the man who first constructed a house in this neighbourhood, and all those who built this town! for in the wide world they could not have found so detestable a spot, for a single man is able here to invade and worry and harry us." "you must take counsel in this matter, my lady," says lunete; "you will find no one who will undertake to aid you in this time of need unless you seek for him afar. in the future we shall never be secure in this town, nor dare to pass beyond the walls and gate. you know full well that, were some one to summon together all your knights for this cause, the best of them would not dare to step forward. if it is true that you have no one to defend your spring, you will appear ridiculous and humiliated. it will redound greatly to your honour, forsooth, if he who has attacked you shall retire without a fight! surely you are in a bad predicament if you do not devise some other plan to benefit yourself." the lady replies: "do thou, who art so wise, tell me what plan i can devise, and i will follow thy advice." "indeed, lady, if i had any plan, i should gladly propose it to you. but you have great need of a wiser counsellor. so i shall certainly not dare to intrude, and in common with the others i shall endure the rain and wind until, if it please god, i shall see some worthy man appear here in your court who will assume the responsibility and burden of the battle; but i do not believe that that will happen to-day, and we have not yet seen the worst of your urgent need." then the lady replies at once: "damsel, speak now of something else! say no more of the people of my household; for i cherish no further expectation that the spring and its marble brim will ever be defended by any of them. but, if it please god, let us hear now what is your opinion and plan; for people always say that in time of need one can test his friend." [ ] "my lady, if there is any one who thinks he could find him who slew the giant and defeated the three knights, he would do well to go to search for him. but so long as he shall incur the enmity, wrath, and displeasure of his lady, i fancy there is not under heaven any man or woman whom he would follow, until he had been assured upon oath that everything possible would be done to appease the hostility which his lady feels for him, and which is so bitter that he is dying of the grief and anxiety it causes him." and the lady said: "before you enter upon the quest, i am prepared to promise you upon my word and to swear that, if he will return to me, i will openly and frankly do all i can to bring about his peace of mind." then lunete replies to her: "lady, have no fear that you cannot easily effect his reconciliation, when once it is your desire to do so; but, if you do not object, i will take your oath before i start." "i have no objection," the lady says. with delicate courtesy, lunete procured at once for her a very precious relic, and the lady fell upon her knees. thus lunete very courteously accepted her upon her oath. in administering the oath, she forgot nothing which it might be an advantage to insert. "lady," she says, "now raise your hand! i do not wish that the day after to-morrow you should lay any charge upon me; for you are not doing anything for me, but you are acting for your own good. if you please now, you shall swear that you will exert yourself in the interests of the knight with the lion until he recover his lady's love as completely as he ever possessed it." the lady then raised her right hand and said: "i swear to all that thou hast said, so help me god and his holy saint, that my heart may never fail to do all within my power. if i have the strength and ability, i will restore to him the love and favour which with his lady he once enjoyed." (vv. - .) lunete has now done well her work; there was nothing which she had desired so much as the object which she had now attained. they had already got out for her a palfrey with an easy pace. gladly and in a happy frame of mind lunete mounts and rides away, until she finds beneath the pine-tree him whom she did not expect to find so near at hand. indeed, she had thought that she would have to seek afar before discovering him. as soon as she saw him, she recognised him by the lion, and coming toward him rapidly, she dismounted upon the solid earth. and my lord yvain recognised her as soon as he saw her, and greeted her, as she saluted him with the words: "sire, i am very happy to have found you so near at hand." and my lord yvain said in reply: "how is that? were you looking for me, then?" "yes, sire, and in all my life i have never felt so glad, for i have made my mistress promise, if she does not go back upon her word, that she will be again your lady as was once the case, and that you shall be her lord; this truth i make bold to tell." my lord yvain was greatly elated at the news he hears, and which he had never expected to hear again. he could not sufficiently show his gratitude to her who had accomplished this for him. he kisses her eyes, and then her face, saying: "surely, my sweet friend, i can never repay you for this service. i fear that ability and time will fail me to do you the honour and service which is your due." "sire," she replies, "have no concern, and let not that thought worry you! for you will have an abundance of strength and time to show me and others your good will. if i have paid this debt i owed, i am entitled to only so much gratitude as the man who borrows another's goods and then discharges the obligation. even now i do not consider that i have paid you the debt i owed." "indeed you have, as god sees me, more than five hundred thousand times. now, when you are ready, let us go. but have you told her who i am?" "no, i have not, upon my word. she knows you only by the name of 'the knight with the lion.'" (vv. - .) thus conversing they went along, with the lion following after them, until they all three came to the town. they said not a word to any man or woman there, until they arrived where the lady was. and the lady was greatly pleased as soon as she heard that the damsel was approaching, and that she was bringing with her the lion and the knight, whom she was very anxious to meet and know and see. all clad in his arms, my lord yvain fell at her feet upon his knees, while lunete, who was standing by, said to her: "raise him up, lady, and apply all your efforts and strength and skill in procuring that peace and pardon which no one in the world, except you, can secure for him." then the lady bade him rise, and said: "he may dispose of all my power! i shall be very happy, if possible, to accomplish his wish and his desire." "surely, my lady," lunete replied, "i would not say it if it were not true. but all this is even more possible for you than i have said: but now i will tell you the whole truth, and you shall see: you never had and you never will have such a good friend as this gentleman. god, whose will it is that there should be unending peace and love between you and him, has caused me to find him this day so near at hand. in order to test the truth of this, i have only one thing to say: lady, dismiss the grudge you bear him! for he has no other mistress than you. this is your husband, my lord yvain." (vv. - .) the lady, trembling at these words, replied: "god save me! you have caught me neatly in a trap! you will make me love, in spite of myself, a man who neither loves nor esteems me. this is a fine piece of work, and a charming way of serving me! i would rather endure the winds and the tempests all my life: and if it were not a mean and ugly thing to break one's word, he would never make his peace or be reconciled with me. this purpose would have always lurked within me, as a fire smoulders in the ashes; but i do not wish to renew it now, nor do i care to refer to it, since i must be reconciled with him." (vv. - .) my lord yvain hears and understands that his cause is going well, and that he will be peacefully reconciled with her. so he says: "lady, one ought to have mercy on a sinner. i have had to pay, and dearly to pay, for my mad act. it was madness that made me stay away, and i now admit my guilt and sin. i have been bold, indeed, in daring to present myself to you; but if you will deign to keep me now, i never again shall do you any wrong." she replied: "i will surely consent to that; for if i did not do all i could to establish peace between you and me, i should be guilty of perjury. so, if you please, i grant your request." "lady," says he, "so truly as god in this mortal life could not otherwise restore me to happiness, so may the holy spirit bless me five hundred times!" (vv. - .) now my lord yvain is reconciled, and you may believe that, in spite of the trouble he has endured, he was never so happy for anything. all has turned out well at last; for he is beloved and treasured by his lady, and she by him. his troubles no longer are in his mind; for he forgets them all in the joy he feels with his precious wife. and lunete, for her part, is happy too: all her desires are satisfied when once she had made an enduring peace between my polite lord yvain and his sweetheart so dear and so elegant. (vv. - .) thus chretien concludes his romance of the knight with the lion; for i never heard any more told of it, nor will you ever hear any further particulars, unless some one wishes to add some lies. ----endnotes: yvain endnotes supplied by prof. foerster are indicated by "(f.)"; all other endnotes are supplied by w.w. comfort. [footnote : "cele feste, qui tant coste, qu'an doit clamer la pantecoste." this rhyme is frequently met in mediaeval narrative poems. (f.)]] [footnote : the contemporary degeneracy of lovers and of the art of love is a favourite theme of mediaeval poets.] [footnote : cf. "roman de la rose", , for the stinking manure pit. (f.)] [footnote : the forest of broceliande is in brittany, and in it chretien places the marvellous spring of barenton, of which we read in the sequel. in his version the poet forgets that the sea separates the court at carduel from the forest of broceliande. his readers, however, probably passed over this "lapsus". the most famous passage relating to this forest and its spring is found in wace, "le roman de rou et des dues de normandie", vv. - , vols. (heilbronn, - ). cf. further the informing note by w.l. holland, "chretien von troies", p. f. (tubingen, ).] [footnote : this grotesque portrait of the "vilain" is perfectly conventional in aristocratic poetry, and is also applied to some saracens in the epic poems. cf. w.w. comfort in "pub. of the modern language association of america", xxi. f., and in "the dublin review", july .] [footnote : for the description of the magic fountain, cf. w.a. nitze, "the fountain defended" in "modern philology", vii. - ; g.l. hamilton, "storm-making springs", etc., in "romantic review", ii. - ; a.f. grimme in "germania", xxxiii. ; o.m. johnston in "transactions and proceedings of the american philological association", xxxiii., p. lxxxiii. f.] [footnote : eugen kolbing, "christian von troyes yvain und die brandanuslegende" in "ztsch. fur vergleichende literaturgeschichte" (neue folge, xi. brand, ), pp. - , has pointed out other striking allusions in the latin "navigatio s. brandans" (ed. wahlund, upsala, ) and elsewhere in celtic legend to trees teeming with singing birds, in which the souls of the blessed are incorporated. a more general reference to trees, animated by the souls of the dead, is found in j.g. frazer, "the golden bough" ( nd ed. ), vol. i., p. f.] [footnote : cf. a. tobler in "ztsch. fur romanische philologie", iv. - , who gives many other instances of boasting after meals. see next note.] [footnote : noradin is the sultan nureddin mahmud (reigned - ), a contemporary of the poet; forre is a legendary saracen king of naples, mentioned in the epic poems (cf. e. langlois, "table des noms propres de toute nature compris dans les chansons de geste", paris, ; albert counson, "noms epiques entres dans le vocabulaire commun" in "romanische forschungen", xxiii. - ). these names are mentioned here in connection with the brave exploits which christian knights, while in their cups, may boast that they will accomplish (f.). this practice of boasting was called indulging in "gabs" (=eng. "gab"), a good instance of which will be found in "le voyage de charlemagne a jeruslaem" (ed. koschwitz), v. ff.] [footnote : it is evident in this passage that chretien's version is not clear; the reader cannot be sure in what sort of an apartment yvain is secreted. the passage is perfectly clear, however, in the welsh "owein", as shown by a.c.l. brown in "romanic review", iii. - , "on the independent character of the welsh 'owain'", where he argues convincingly for an original older than either the extant french of welsh versions.] [footnote : the damsel's surprise and fright at the sight of yvain, which puzzled professor foerster, is satisfactorily explained by j. acher in "ztsch. fur franzosische sprache und literatur", xxxv. .] [footnote : for magic rings, cf. a. hertel, "verzauberte oertlichkeiten", etc. (hanover, ); d.b. easter, "the magic elements in the romans d'aventure and the romans bretons" (baltimore, ).] [footnote : much has been written on the widespread belief that a dead person's wounds would bleed afresh in the presence of his murderer. the passage in our text is interesting as being the earliest literary reference to the belief. other instances will be found in shakespear ("king richard iii., act. i., sc. ), cervantes ("don quixote"), scott ("ballads"), and schiller ("braut von messina"). in the th and th centuries especially, the bleeding of the dead became in italy, germany, france, and spain an absolute or contributory proof of guilt in the eyes of the law. the suspected culprit might be subjected to this ordeal as part of the inquisitional method to determine guilt. for theories of the origin of this belief and of its use in legal trials, as well as for more extended bibliography, cf. karl lehmann in "germanistische abhandlungen fur konrad von maurer" (gottingen, ), pp. - ; c.v. christensen, "baareproven" (copenhagen, ).] [footnote : w.l. holland in his note for this passage recalls schiller's "jungfrau von orleans", act iii. sc. , and shakespeare, first part of "king henry iv.", act v. sc. : "when that this body did contain a spirit, a kingdom for it was too small a bound; but now two paces of the vilest earth is room enough."] [footnote : foerster regards this excuse for kay's defeat as ironical.] [footnote : it is hoped that the following passage may have retained in the translation some of the gay animation which clothes this description of a royal entry into a mediaeval town.] [footnote : this idea forms the dominating motive, it will be recalled, in "erec et enide" (cf. note to "erec", v. ).] [footnote : the parallel between yvain's and roland's madness will occur to readers of ariosto's "orlando furioso", though in the former case yvain's madness seems to be rather a retribution for his failure to keep his promise, while roland's madness arises from excess of love.] [footnote : argonne is the name of a hilly and well-wooded district in the north-east of france, lying between the meuse and the aisne.] [footnote : an allusion to the well-known epic tradition embodied in the "chanson de roland". it was common for mediaeval poets to give names to both the horses and the swords of their heroes.] [footnote : for the faithful lion in the latin bestiaries and mediaeval romances, see the long note of w.l. holland, "chretien von troies" (tubingen, ), p. f., and g. baist in zeitschrift fur romanische philologie, xxi. - . to the examples there cited may be added the episodes in "octavian" ( th century), published in the "romanische bibliothek" (heilbronn, ).] [footnote : this is the first of three references in this poem to the abduction of guinevere as fully narrated in the poem of "lancelot". the other references are in v. and v. f.] [footnote : yvain here states the theory of the judicial trial by combat. for another instance see "lancelot", v. f. cf. m. pfeffer in "ztsch. fur romanische philogie", ix. - , and l. jordan, id. xxix. - .] [footnote : a similar description of a distressed damsel wandering at night in a forest is found in "berte aus grans pies", by adenet le roi ( th century).] [footnote : the lion is forgotten for the moment, but will appear again v. . (f.)] [footnote : this entire passage belongs in the catagory of widespread myths which tell of a tribute of youths or maidens paid to some cruel monster, from which some hero finally obtains deliverance. instances are presented in the adventures of theseus and tristan.] [footnote : the old french monetary table was as follows: as = denier; deniers = sol; sous = livre] [footnote : it appears to be the poet's prerogative in all epochs of social history to bemoan the degeneracy of true love in his own generation.] [footnote : the sleeves of shirts were detachable, and were sewed on afresh when a clean garment was put on. (f.)] [footnote : this was an axiom of feudal society, and occurs more frequently in feudal literature than any other statement of mediaeval social relations.] lancelot or, the knight of the cart (vv. - .) since my lady of champagne wishes me to undertake to write a romance, [ ] i shall very gladly do so, being so devoted to her service as to do anything in the world for her, without any intention of flattery. but if one were to introduce any flattery upon such an occasion, he might say, and i would subscribe to it, that this lady surpasses all others who are alive, just as the south wind which blows in may or april is more lovely than any other wind. but upon my word, i am not one to wish to flatter my lady. i will simply say: "the countess is worth as many queens as a gem is worth of pearls and sards." nay i shall make no comparison, and yet it is true in spite of me; i will say, however, that her command has more to do with this work than any thought or pains that i may expend upon it. here chretien begins his book about the knight of the cart. the material and the treatment of it are given and furnished to him by the countess, and he is simply trying to carry out her concern and intention. here he begins the story. (vv. - .) upon a certain ascension day king arthur had come from caerleon, and had held a very magnificent court at camelot as was fitting on such a day. [ ] after the feast the king did not quit his noble companions, of whom there were many in the hall. the queen was present, too, and with her many a courteous lady able to converse in french. and kay, who had furnished the meal, was eating with the others who had served the food. while kay was sitting there at meat, behold there came to court a knight, well equipped and fully armed, and thus the knight appeared before the king as he sat among his lords. he gave him no greeting, but spoke out thus: "king arthur, i hold in captivity knights, ladies, and damsels who belong to thy dominion and household; but it is not because of any intention to restore them to thee that i make reference to them here; rather do i wish to proclaim and serve thee notice that thou hast not the strength or the resources to enable thee to secure them again. and be assured that thou shalt die before thou canst ever succour them." the king replies that he must needs endure what he has not the power to change; nevertheless, he is filled with grief. then the knight makes as if to go away, and turns about, without tarrying longer before the king; but after reaching the door of the hall, he does not go down the stairs, but stops and speaks from there these words: "king, if in thy court there is a single knight in whom thou hast such confidence that thou wouldst dare to entrust to him the queen that he might escort her after me out into the woods whither i am going, i will promise to await him there, and will surrender to thee all the prisoners whom i hold in exile in my country if he is able to defend the queen and if he succeeds in bringing her back again." many who were in the palace heard this challenge, and the whole court was in an uproar. kay, too, heard the news as he sat at meat with those who served. leaving the table, he came straight to the king, and as if greatly enraged, he began to say: "o king, i have served thee long, faithfully, and loyally; now i take my leave, and shall go away, having no desire to serve thee more." the king was grieved at what he heard, and as soon as he could, he thus replied to him: "is this serious, or a joke?" and kay replied: "o king, fair sire, i have no desire to jest, and i take my leave quite seriously. no other reward or wages do i wish in return for the service i have given you. my mind is quite made up to go away immediately." "is it in anger or in spite that you wish to go?" the king inquired; "seneschal, remain at court, as you have done hitherto, and be assured that i have nothing in the world which i would not give you at once in return for your consent to stay." "sire," says kay, "no need of that. i would not accept for each day's pay a measure of fine pure gold." thereupon, the king in great dismay went off to seek the queen. "my lady," he says, "you do not know the demand that the seneschal makes of me. he asks me for leave to go away, and says he will no longer stay at court; the reason of this i do not know. but he will do at your request what he will not do for me. go to him now, my lady dear. since he will not consent to stay for my sake, pray him to remain on your account, and if need be, fall at his feet, for i should never again be happy if i should lose his company." [ ] the king sends the queen to the seneschal, and she goes to him. finding him with the rest, she went up to him, and said: "kay, you may be very sure that i am greatly troubled by the news i have heard of you. i am grieved to say that i have been told it is your intention to leave the king. how does this come about? what motive have you in your mind? i cannot think that you are so sensible or courteous as usual. i want to ask you to remain: stay with us here, and grant my prayer." "lady," he says, "i give you thanks; nevertheless, i shall not remain." the queen again makes her request, and is joined by all the other knights. and kay informs her that he is growing tired of a service which is unprofitable. then the queen prostrates herself at full length before his feet. kay beseeches her to rise, but she says that she will never do so until he grants her request. then kay promises her to remain, provided the king and she will grant in advance a favour he is about to ask. "kay," she says, "he will grant it, whatever it may be. come now, and we shall tell him that upon this condition you will remain." so kay goes away with the queen to the king's presence. the queen says: "i have had hard work to detain kay; but i have brought him here to you with the understanding that you will do what he is going to ask." the king sighed with satisfaction, and said that he would perform whatever request he might make. (vv. - .) "sire," says kay, "hear now what i desire, and what is the gift you have promised me. i esteem myself very fortunate to gain such a boon with your consent. sire, you have pledged your word that you would entrust to me my lady here, and that we should go after the knight who awaits us in the forest." though the king is grieved, he trusts him with the charge, for he never went back upon his word. but it made him so ill-humoured and displeased that it plainly showed in his countenance. the queen, for her part, was sorry too, and all those of the household say that kay had made a proud, outrageous, and mad request. then the king took the queen by the hand, and said: "my lady, you must accompany kay without making objection." and kay said: "hand her over to me now, and have no fear, for i shall bring her back perfectly happy and safe." the king gives her into his charge, and he takes her off. after them all the rest go out, and there is not one who is not sad. you must know that the seneschal was fully armed, and his horse was led into the middle of the courtyard, together with a palfrey, as is fitting, for the queen. the queen walked up to the palfrey, which was neither restive nor hard-mouthed. grieving and sad, with a sigh the queen mounts, saying to herself in a low voice, so that no one could hear: "alas, alas, if you only knew it, i am sure you would never allow me without interference to be led away a step." [ ] she thought she had spoken in a very low tone; but count guinable heard her, who was standing by when she mounted. when they started away, as great a lament was made by all the men and women present as if she already lay dead upon a bier. they do not believe that she will ever in her life come back. the seneschal in his impudence takes her where that other knight is awaiting her. but no one was so much concerned as to undertake to follow him; until at last my lord gawain thus addressed the king his uncle: "sire," he says, "you have done a very foolish thing, which causes me great surprise; but if you will take my advice, while they are still near by, i and you will ride after them, and all those who wish to accompany us. for my part, i cannot restrain myself from going in pursuit of them at once. it would not be proper for us not to go after them, at least far enough to learn what is to become of the queen, and how kay is going to comport himself." "ah, fair nephew," the king replied, "you have spoken courteously. and since you have undertaken the affair, order our horses to be led out bridled and saddled that there may be no delay in setting out." (vv. - .) the horses are at once brought out, all ready and with the saddles on. first the king mounts, then my lord gawain, and all the others rapidly. each one, wishing to be of the party, follows his own will and starts away. some were armed, but there were not a few without their arms. my lord gawain was armed, and he bade two squires lead by the bridle two extra steeds. and as they thus approached the forest, they saw kay's horse running out; and they recognised him, and saw that both reins of the bridle were broken. the horse was running wild, the stirrup-straps all stained with blood, and the saddle-bow was broken and damaged. every one was chagrined at this, and they nudged each other and shook their heads. my lord gawain was riding far in advance of the rest of the party, and it was not long before he saw coming slowly a knight on a horse that was sore, painfully tired, and covered with sweat. the knight first saluted my lord gawain, and his greeting my lord gawain returned. then the knight, recognising my lord gawain, stopped and thus spoke to him: "you see, sir, my horse is in a sweat and in such case as to be no longer serviceable. i suppose that those two horses belong to you now, with the understanding that i shall return the service and the favour, i beg you to let me have one or the other of them, either as a loan or outright as a gift." and he answers him: "choose whichever you prefer." then he who was in dire distress did not try to select the better or the fairer or the larger of the horses, but leaped quickly upon the one which was nearer to him, and rode him off. then the one he had just left fell dead, for he had ridden him hard that day, so that he was used up and overworked. the knight without delay goes pricking through the forest, and my lord gawain follows in pursuit of him with all speed, until he reaches the bottom of a hill. and when he had gone some distance, he found the horse dead which he had given to the knight, and noticed that the ground had been trampled by horses, and that broken shields and lances lay strewn about, so that it seemed that there had been a great combat between several knights, and he was very sorry and grieved not to have been there. however, he did not stay there long, but rapidly passed on until he saw again by chance the knight all alone on foot, completely armed, with helmet laced, shield hanging from his neck, and with his sword girt on. he had overtaken a cart. in those days such a cart served the same purpose as does a pillory now; and in each good town where there are more than three thousand such carts nowadays, in those times there was only one, and this, like our pillories, had to do service for all those who commit murder or treason, and those who are guilty of any delinquency, and for thieves who have stolen others' property or have forcibly seized it on the roads. whoever was convicted of any crime was placed upon a cart and dragged through all the streets, and he lost henceforth all his legal rights, and was never afterward heard, honoured, or welcomed in any court. the carts were so dreadful in those days that the saying was then first used: "when thou dost see and meet a cart, cross thyself and call upon god, that no evil may befall thee." the knight on foot, and without a lance, walked behind the cart, and saw a dwarf sitting on the shafts, who held, as a driver does, a long goad in his hand. then he cries out: "dwarf, for god's sake, tell me now if thou hast seen my lady, the queen, pass by here." the miserable, low-born dwarf would not give him any news of her, but replied: "if thou wilt get up into the cart i am driving thou shalt hear to-morrow what has happened to the queen." then he kept on his way without giving further heed. the knight hesitated only for a couple of steps before getting in. yet, it was unlucky for him that he shrank from the disgrace, and did not jump in at once; for he will later rue his delay. but common sense, which is inconsistent with love's dictates, bids him refrain from getting in, warning him and counselling him to do and undertake nothing for which he may reap shame and disgrace. reason, which dares thus speak to him, reaches only his lips, but not his heart; but love is enclosed within his heart, bidding him and urging him to mount at once upon the cart. so he jumps in, since love will have it so, feeling no concern about the shame, since he is prompted by love's commands. and my lord gawain presses on in haste after the cart, and when he finds the knight sitting in it, his surprise is great. "tell me," he shouted to the dwarf, "if thou knowest anything of the queen." and he replied: "if thou art so much thy own enemy as is this knight who is sitting here, get in with him, if it be thy pleasure, and i will drive thee along with him." when my lord gawain heard that, he considered it great foolishness, and said that he would not get in, for it would be dishonourable to exchange a horse for a cart: "go on, and wherever thy journey lies, i will follow after thee." (vv. - .) thereupon they start ahead, one mounted on his horse, the other two riding in the cart, and thus they proceed in company. late in the afternoon they arrive at a town, which, you must know, was very rich and beautiful. all three entered through the gate; the people are greatly amazed to see the knight borne upon the cart, and they take no pains to conceal their feelings, but small and great and old and young shout taunts at him in the streets, so that the knight hears many vile and scornful words at his expense. [ ] they all inquire: "to what punishment is this knight to be consigned? is he to be rayed, or hanged, or drowned, or burned upon a fire of thorns? tell us, thou dwarf, who art driving him, in what crime was he caught? is he convicted of robbery? is he a murderer, or a criminal?" and to all this the dwarf made no response, vouchsafing to them no reply. he conducts the knight to a lodging-place; and gawain follows the dwarf closely to a tower, which stood on the same level over against the town. beyond there stretched a meadow, and the tower was built close by, up on a lofty eminence of rock, whose face formed a sharp precipice. following the horse and cart, gawain entered the tower. in the hall they met a damsel elegantly attired, than whom there was none fairer in the land, and with her they saw coming two fair and charming maidens. as soon as they saw my lord gawain, they received him joyously and saluted him, and then asked news about the other knight: "dwarf, of what crime is this knight guilty, whom thou dost drive like a lame man?" he would not answer her question, but he made the knight get out of the cart, and then he withdrew, without their knowing whither he went. then my lord gawain dismounts, and valets come forward to relieve the two knights of their armour. the damsel ordered two green mantles to be brought, which they put on. when the hour for supper came, a sumptuous repast was set. the damsel sat at table beside my lord gawain. they would not have changed their lodging-place to seek any other, for all that evening the damsel showed them gear honour, and provided them with fair and pleasant company. (vv. - .) when they had sat up long enough, two long, high beds were prepared in the middle of the hall; and there was another bed alongside, fairer and more splendid than the rest; for, as the story testifies, it possessed all the excellence that one could think of in a bed. when the time came to retire, the damsel took both the guests to whom she had offered her hospitality; she shows them the two fine, long, wide beds, and says: "these two beds are set up here for the accommodation of your bodies; but in that one yonder no one ever lay who did not merit it: it was not set up to be used by you." the knight who came riding on the cart replies at once: "tell me," he says, "for what cause this bed is inaccessible." being thoroughly informed of this, she answers unhesitatingly: "it is not your place to ask or make such an inquiry. any knight is disgraced in the land after being in a cart, and it is not fitting that he should concern himself with the matter upon which you have questioned me; and most of all it is not right that he should lie upon the bed, for he would soon pay dearly for his act. so rich a couch has not been prepared for you, and you would pay dearly for ever harbouring such a thought." he replies: "you will see about that presently.".... "am i to see it?".... "yes.".... "it will soon appear.".... "by my head," the knight replies, "i know not who is to pay the penalty. but whoever may object or disapprove, i intend to lie upon this bed and repose there at my ease." then he at once disrobed in the bed, which was long and raised half an ell above the other two, and was covered with a yellow cloth of silk and a coverlet with gilded stars. the furs were not of skinned vair but of sable; the covering he had on him would have been fitting for a king. the mattress was not made of straw or rushes or of old mats. at midnight there descended from the rafters suddenly a lance, as with the intention of pinning the knight through the flanks to the coverlet and the white sheets where he lay. [ ] to the lance there was attached a pennon all ablaze. the coverlet, the bedclothes, and the bed itself all caught fire at once. and the tip of the lance passed so close to the knight's side that it cut the skin a little, without seriously wounding him. then the knight got up, put out the fire and, taking the lance, swung it in the middle of the hall, all this without leaving his bed; rather did he lie down again and slept as securely as at first. (vv. - .) in the morning, at daybreak, the damsel of the tower had mass celebrated on their account, and had them rise and dress. when mass had been celebrated for them, the knight who had ridden in the cart sat down pensively at a window, which looked out upon the meadow, and he gazed upon the fields below. the damsel came to another window close by, and there my lord gawain conversed with her privately for a while about something, i know not what. i do not know what words were uttered, but while they were leaning on the window-sill they saw carried along the river through the fields a bier, upon which there lay a knight, [ ] and alongside three damsels walked, mourning bitterly. behind the bier they saw a crowd approaching, with a tall knight in front, leading a fair lady by the horse's rein. the knight at the window knew that it was the queen. he continued to gaze at her attentively and with delight as long as she was visible. and when he could no longer see her, he was minded to throw himself out and break his body down below. and he would have let himself fall out had not my lord gawain seen him, and drawn him back, saying: "i beg you, sire, be quiet now. for god's sake, never think again of committing such a mad deed. it is wrong for you to despise your life." "he is perfectly right," the damsel says; "for will not the news of his disgrace be known everywhere? since he has been upon the cart, he has good reason to wish to die, for he would be better dead than alive. his life henceforth is sure to be one of shame, vexation, and unhappiness." then the knights asked for their armour, and armed themselves, the damsel treating them courteously, with distinction and generosity; for when she had joked with the knight and ridiculed him enough, she presented him with a horse and lance as a token of her goodwill. the knights then courteously and politely took leave of the damsel, first saluting her, and then going off in the direction taken by the crowd they had seen. thus they rode out from the town without addressing them. they proceeded quickly in the direction they had seen taken by the queen, but they did not overtake the procession, which had advanced rapidly. after leaving the fields, the knights enter an enclosed place, and find a beaten road. they advanced through the woods until it might be six o'clock, [ ] and then at a crossroads they met a damsel, whom they both saluted, each asking and requesting her to tell them, if she knows, whither the queen has been taken. replying intelligently, she said to them: "if you would pledge me your word, i could set you on the right road and path, and i would tell you the name of the country and of the knight who is conducting her; but whoever would essay to enter that country must endure sore trials, for before he could reach there he must suffer much." then my lord gawain replies: "damsel, so help me god, i promise to place all my strength at your disposal and service, whenever you please, if you will tell me now the truth." and he who had been on the cart did not say that he would pledge her all his strength; but he proclaims, like one whom love makes rich, powerful and bold for any enterprise, that at once and without hesitation he will promise her anything she desires, and he puts himself altogether at her disposal. "then i will tell you the truth," says she. then the damsel relates to them the following story: "in truth, my lords, meleagant, a tall and powerful knight, son of the king of gorre, has taken her off into the kingdom whence no foreigner returns, but where he must perforce remain in servitude and banishment." then they ask her: "damsel, where is this country? where can we find the way thither?" she replies: "that you shall quickly learn; but you may be sure that you will meet with many obstacles and difficult passages, for it is not easy to enter there except with the permission of the king, whose name is bademagu; however, it is possible to enter by two very perilous paths and by two very difficult passage-ways. one is called the water-bridge, because the bridge is under water, and there is the same amount of water beneath it as above it, so that the bridge is exactly in the middle; and it is only a foot and a half in width and in thickness. this choice is certainly to be avoided, and yet it is the less dangerous of the two. in addition there are a number of other obstacles of which i will say nothing. the other bridge is still more impracticable and much more perilous, never having been crossed by man. it is just like a sharp sword, and therefore all the people call it 'the sword-bridge'. now i have told you all the truth i know." but they ask of her once again: "damsel, deign to show us these two passages." to which the damsel makes reply: "this road here is the most direct to the water-bridge, and that one yonder leads straight to the sword-bridge." then the knight, who had been on the cart, says: "sire, i am ready to share with you without prejudice: take one of these two routes, and leave the other one to me; take whichever you prefer." "in truth," my lord gawain replies, "both of them are hard and dangerous: i am not skilled in making such a choice, and hardly know which of them to take; but it is not right for me to hesitate when you have left the choice to me: i will choose the water-bridge." the other answers: "then i must go uncomplainingly to the sword-bridge, which i agree to do." thereupon, they all three part, each one commending the others very courteously to god. and when she sees them departing, she says: "each one of you owes me a favour of my choosing, whenever i may choose to ask it. take care not to forget that." "we shall surely not forget it, sweet friend," both the knights call out. then each one goes his own way, and he of the cart is occupied with deep reflections, like one who has no strength or defence against love which holds him in its sway. his thoughts are such that he totally forgets himself, and he knows not whether he is alive or dead, forgetting even his own name, not knowing whether he is armed or not, or whither he is going or whence he came. only one creature he has in mind, and for her his thought is so occupied that he neither sees nor hears aught else. [ ] and his horse bears him along rapidly, following no crooked road, but the best and the most direct; and thus proceeding unguided, he brings him into an open plain. in this plain there was a ford, on the other side of which a knight stood armed, who guarded it, and in his company there was a damsel who had come on a palfrey. by this time the afternoon was well advanced, and yet the knight, unchanged and unwearied, pursued his thoughts. the horse, being very thirsty, sees clearly the ford, and as soon as he sees it, hastens toward it. then he on the other side cries out: "knight, i am guarding the ford, and forbid you to cross." he neither gives him heed, nor hears his words, being still deep in thought. in the meantime, his horse advanced rapidly toward the water. the knight calls out to him that he will do wisely to keep at a distance from the ford, for there is no passage that way; and he swears by the heart within his breast that he will smite him if he enters the water. but his threats are not heard, and he calls out to him a third time: "knight, do not enter the ford against my will and prohibition; for, by my head, i shall strike you as soon as i see you in the ford." but he is so deep in thought that he does not hear him. and the horse, quickly leaving the bank, leaps into the ford and greedily begins to drink. and the knight says he shall pay for this, that his shield and the hauberk he wears upon his back shall afford him no protection. first, he puts his horse at a gallop, and from a gallop he urges him to a run, and he strikes the knight so hard that he knocks him down flat in the ford which he had forbidden him to cross. his lance flew from his hand and the shield from his neck. when he feels the water, he shivers, and though stunned, he jumps to his feet, like one aroused from sleep, listening and looking about him with astonishment, to see who it can be who has struck him. then face to face with the other knight, he said: "vassal, tell me why you have struck me, when i was not aware of your presence, and when i had done you no harm." "upon my word, you had wronged me," the other says: "did you not treat me disdainfully when i forbade you three times to cross the ford, shouting at you as loudly as i could? you surely heard me challenge you at least two or three times, and you entered in spite of me, though i told you i should strike you as soon as i saw you in the ford." then the knight replies to him: "whoever heard you or saw you, let him be damned, so far as i am concerned. i was probably deep in thought when you forbade me to cross the ford. but be assured that i would make you reset it, if i could just lay one of my hands on your bridle." and the other replies: "why, what of that? if you dare, you may seize my bridle here and now. i do not esteem your proud threats so much as a handful of ashes." and he replies: "that suits me perfectly. however the affair may turn out, i should like to lay my hands on you." then the other knight advances to the middle of the ford, where the other lays his left hand upon his bridle, and his right hand upon his leg, pulling, dragging, and pressing him so roughly that he remonstrates, thinking that he would pull his leg out of his body. then he begs him to let go, saying: "knight, if it please thee to fight me on even terms, take thy shield and horse and lance, and joust with me." he answers: "that will i not do, upon my word; for i suppose thou wouldst run away as soon as thou hadst escaped my grip." hearing this, he was much ashamed, and said: "knight, mount thy horse, in confidence for i will pledge thee loyally my word that i shall not flinch or run away." then once again he answers him: "first, thou wilt have to swear to that, and i insist upon receiving thy oath that thou wilt neither run away nor flinch, nor touch me, nor come near me until thou shalt see me on my horse; i shall be treating thee very generously, if, when thou art in my hands, i let thee go." he can do nothing but give his oath; and when the other hears him swear, he gathers up his shield and lance which were floating in the ford and by this time had drifted well down-stream; then he returns and takes his horse. after catching and mounting him, he seizes the shield by the shoulder-straps and lays his lance in rest. then each spurs toward the other as fast as their horses can carry them. and he who had to defend the ford first attacks the other, striking him so hard that his lance is completely splintered. the other strikes him in return so that he throws him prostrate into the ford, and the water closes over him. having accomplished that, he draws back and dismounts, thinking he could drive and chase away a hundred such. while he draws from the scabbard his sword of steel, the other jumps up and draws his excellent flashing blade. then they clash again, advancing and covering themselves with the shields which gleam with gold. ceaselessly and without repose they wield their swords; they have the courage to deal so many blows that the battle finally is so protracted that the knight of the cart is greatly ashamed in his heart, thinking that he is making a sorry start in the way he has undertaken, when he has spent so much time in defeating a single knight. if he had met yesterday a hundred such, he does not think or believe that they could have withstood him; so now he is much grieved and wroth to be in such an exhausted state that he is missing his strokes and losing time. then he runs at him and presses him so hard that the other knight gives way and flees. however reluctant he may be, he leaves the ford and crossing free. but the other follows him in pursuit until he falls forward upon his hands; then he of the cart runs up to him, swearing by all he sees that he shall rue the day when he upset him in the ford and disturbed his revery. the damsel, whom the knight had with him, upon hearing the threats, is in great fear, and begs him for her sake to forbear from killing him; but he tells her that he must do so, and can show him no mercy for her sake, in view of the shameful wrong that he has done him. then, with sword drawn, he approaches the knight who cries in sore dismay: "for god's sake and for my own, show me the mercy i ask of you." and he replies: "as god may save me, no one ever sinned so against me that i would not show him mercy once, for god's sake as is right, if he asked it of me in god's name. and so on thee i will have mercy; for i ought not to refuse thee when thou hast besought me. but first, thou shalt give me thy word to constitute thyself my prisoner whenever i may wish to summon thee." though it was hard to do so, he promised him. at once the damsel said: "o knight, since thou hast granted the mercy he asked of thee, if ever thou hast broken any bonds, for my sake now be merciful and release this prisoner from his parole. set him free at my request, upon condition that when the time comes, i shall do my utmost to repay thee in any way that thou shalt choose." then he declares himself satisfied with the promise she has made, and sets the knight at liberty. then she is ashamed and anxious, thinking that he will recognise her, which she did not wish. but he goes away at once, the knight and the damsel commending him to god, and taking leave of him. he grants them leave to go, while he himself pursues his way, until late in the afternoon he met a damsel coming, who was very fair and charming, well attired and richly dressed. the damsel greets him prudently and courteously, and he replies: "damsel, god grant you health and happiness." then the damsel said to him: "sire, my house is prepared for you, if you will accept my hospitality, but you shall find shelter there only on condition that you will lie with me; upon these terms i propose and make the offer." not a few there are who would have thanked her five hundred times for such a gift; but he is much displeased, and made a very different answer: "damsel, i thank you for the offer of your house, and esteem it highly, but, if you please, i should be very sorry to lie with you." "by my eyes," the damsel says, "then i retract my offer." and he, since it is unavoidable, lets her have her way, though his heart grieves to give consent. he feels only reluctance now; but greater distress will be his when it is time to go to bed. the damsel, too, who leads him away, will pass through sorrow and heaviness. for it is possible that she will love him so that she will not wish to part with him. as soon as he had granted her wish and desire, she escorts him to a fortified place, than which there was none fairer in thessaly; for it was entirely enclosed by a high wall and a deep moat, and there was no man within except him whom she brought with her. (vv. - .) here she had constructed for her residence a quantity of handsome rooms, and a large and roomy hall. riding along a river bank, they approached their lodging-place, and a drawbridge was lowered to allow them to pass. crossing the bridge, they entered in, and found the hall open with its roof of tiles. through the open door they pass, and see a table laid with a broad white cloth, upon which the dishes were set, and the candles burning in their stands, and the gilded silver drinking-cups, and two pots of wine, one red and one white. standing beside the table, at the end of a bench, they found two basins of warm water in which to wash their hands, with a richly embroidered towel, all white and clean, with which to dry their hands. no valets, servants, or squires were to be found or seen. the knight, removing his shield from about his neck, hangs it upon a hook, and, taking his lance, lays it above upon a rack. then he dismounts from his horse, as does the damsel from hers. the knight, for his part, was pleased that she did not care to wait for him to help her to dismount. having dismounted, she runs directly to a room and brings him a short mantle of scarlet cloth which she puts on him. the hall was by no means dark; for beside the light from the stars, there were many large twisted candles lighted there, so that the illumination was very bright. when she had thrown the mantle about his shoulders, she said to him: "friend, here is the water and the towel; there is no one to present or offer it to you except me whom you see. wash your hands, and then sit down, when you feel like doing so. the hour and the meal, as you can see, demand that you should do so." he washes, and then gladly and readily takes his seat, and she sits down beside him, and they eat and drink together, until the time comes to leave the table. (vv. - .) when they had risen from the table, the damsel said to the knight: "sire, if you do not object, go outside and amuse yourself; but, if you please, do not stay after you think i must be in bed. feel no concern or embarrassment; for then you may come to me at once, if you will keep the promise you have made." and he replies: "i will keep my word, and will return when i think the time has come." then he went out, and stayed in the courtyard until he thought it was time to return and keep the promise he had made. going back into the hall, he sees nothing of her who would be his mistress; for she was not there. not finding or seeing her, he said: "wherever she may be, i shall look for her until i find her." he makes no delay in his search, being bound by the promise he had made her. entering one of the rooms, he hears a damsel cry aloud, and it was the very one with whom he was about to lie. at the same time, he sees the door of another room standing open, and stepping toward it, he sees right before his eyes a knight who had thrown her down, and was holding her naked and prostrate upon the bed. she, thinking that he had come of course to help her, cried aloud: "help, help, thou knight, who art my guest. if thou dost not take this man away from me, i shall find no one to do so; if thou dost not succour me speedily, he will wrong me before thy eyes. thou art the one to lie with me, in accordance with thy promise; and shall this man by force accomplish his wish before thy eyes? gentle knight, exert thyself, and make haste to bear me aid." he sees that the other man held the damsel brutally uncovered to the waist, and he is ashamed and angered to see him assault her so; yet it is not jealousy he feels, nor will he be made a cuckold by him. at the door there stood as guards two knights completely armed and with swords drawn. behind them there stood four men-at-arms, each armed with an axe the sort with which you could split a cow down the back as easily as a root of juniper or broom. the knight hesitated at the door, and thought: "god, what can i do? i am engaged in no less an affair than the quest of queen guinevere. i ought not to have the heart of a hare, when for her sake i have engaged in such a quest. if cowardice puts its heart in me, and if i follow its dictates, i shall never attain what i seek. i am disgraced, if i stand here; indeed, i am ashamed even to have thought of holding back. my heart is very sad and oppressed: now i am so ashamed and distressed that i would gladly die for having hesitated here so long. i say it not in pride: but may god have mercy on me if i do not prefer to die honourably rather than live a life of shame! if my path were unobstructed, and if these men gave me leave to pass through without restraint, what honour would i gain? truly, in that case the greatest coward alive would pass through; and all the while i hear this poor creature calling for help constantly, and reminding me of my promise, and reproaching me with bitter taunts." then he steps to the door, thrusting in his head and shoulders; glancing up, he sees two swords descending. he draws back, and the knights could not check their strokes: they had wielded them with such force that the swords struck the floor, and both were broken in pieces. when he sees that the swords are broken, he pays less attention to the axes, fearing and dreading them much less. rushing in among them, he strikes first one guard in the side and then another. the two who are nearest him he jostles and thrusts aside, throwing them both down flat; the third missed his stroke at him, but the fourth, who attacked him, strikes him so that he cuts his mantle and shirt, and slices the white flesh on his shoulder so that the blood trickles down from the wound. but he, without delay, and without complaining of his wound, presses on more rapidly, until he strikes between the temples him who was assaulting his hostess. before he departs, he will try to keep his pledge to her. he makes him stand up reluctantly. meanwhile, he who had missed striking him comes at him as fast as he can and, raising his arm again, expects to split his head to the teeth with the axe. but the other, alert to defend himself, thrusts the knight toward him in such a way that he receives the axe just where the shoulder joins the neck, so that they are cleaved apart. then the knight seizes the axe, wresting it quickly from him who holds it; then he lets go the knight whom he still held, and looks to his own defence; for the knights from the door, and the three men with axes are all attacking him fiercely. so he leaped quickly between the bed and the wall, and called to them: "come on now, all of you. if there were thirty-seven of you, you would have all the fight you wish, with me so favourably placed; i shall never be overcome by you." and the damsel watching him, exclaimed: "by my eyes, you need have no thought of that henceforth where i am." then at once she dismisses the knights and the men-at-arms, who retire from there at once, without delay or objection. and the damsel continues: "sire you have well defended me against the men of my household. come now, and i'll lead you on." hand in hand they enter the hall, but he was not at all pleased, and would have willingly dispensed with her. (vv. - .) in the midst of the hall a bed had been set up, the sheets of which were by no means soiled, but were white and wide and well spread out. the bed was not of shredded straw or of coarse spreads. but a covering of two silk cloths had been laid upon the couch. the damsel lay down first, but without removing her chemise. he had great trouble in removing his hose and in untying the knots. he sweated with the trouble of it all; yet, in the midst of all the trouble, his promise impels and drives him on. is this then an actual force? yes, virtually so; for he feels that he is in duty bound to take his place by the damsel's side. it is his promise that urges him and dictates his act. so he lies down at once, but like her, he does not remove his shirt. he takes good care not to touch her; and when he is in bed, he turns away from her as far as possible, and speaks not a word to her, like a monk to whom speech is forbidden. not once does he look at her, nor show her any courtesy. why not? because his heart does not go out to her. she was certainly very fair and winsome, but not every one is pleased and touched by what is fair and winsome. the knight has only one heart, and this one is really no longer his, but has been entrusted to some one else, so that he cannot bestow it elsewhere. love, which holds all hearts beneath its sway, requires it to be lodged in a single place. all hearts? no, only those which it esteems. and he whom love deigns to control ought to prize himself the more. love prized his heart so highly that it constrained it in a special manner, and made him so proud of this distinction that i am not inclined to find fault with him, if he lets alone what love forbids, and remains fixed where it desires. the maiden clearly sees and knows that he dislikes her company and would gladly dispense with it, and that, having no desire to win her love, he would not attempt to woo her. so she said: "my lord, if you will not feel hurt, i will leave and return to bed in my own room, and you will be more comfortable. i do not believe that you are pleased with my company and society. do not esteem me less if i tell you what i think. now take your rest all night, for you have so well kept your promise that i have no right to make further request of you. so i commend you to god; and shall go away." thereupon she arises: the knight does not object, but rather gladly lets her go, like one who is the devoted lover of some one else; the damsel clearly perceived this, and went to her room, where she undressed completely and retired, saying to herself: "of all the knights i have ever known, i never knew a single knight whom i would value the third part of an angevin in comparison with this one. as i understand the case, he has on hand a more perilous and grave affair than any ever undertaken by a knight; and may god grant that he succeed in it." then she fell asleep, and remained in bed until the next day's dawn appeared. (vv. - .) at daybreak she awakes and gets up. the knight awakes too, dressing, and putting on his arms, without waiting for any help. then the damsel comes and sees that he is already dressed. upon seeing him, she says: "may this day be a happy one for you." "and may it be the same to you, damsel," the knight replies, adding that he is waiting anxiously for some one to bring out his horse. the maiden has some one fetch the horse, and says: "sire, i should like to accompany you for some distance along the road, if you would agree to escort and conduct me according to the customs and practices which were observed before we were made captive in the kingdom of logres." in those days the customs and privileges were such that, if a knight found a damsel or lorn maid alone, and if he cared for his fair name, he would no more treat her with dishonour than he would cut his own throat. and if he assaulted her, he would be disgraced for ever in every court. but if, while she was under his escort, she should be won at arms by another who engaged him in battle, then this other knight might do with her what he pleased without receiving shame or blame. this is why the damsel said she would go with him, if he had the courage and willingness to safe guard her in his company, so that no one should do her any harm. and he says to her: "no one shall harm you, i promise you, unless he harm me first." "then," she says, "i will go with you." she orders her palfrey to be saddled, and her command is obeyed at once. her palfrey was brought together with the knight's horse. without the aid of any squire, they both mount, and rapidly ride away. she talks to him, but not caring for her words, he pays no attention to what she says. he likes to think, but dislikes to talk. love very often inflicts afresh the wound it has given him. yet, he applied no poultice to the wound to cure it and make it comfortable, having no intention or desire to secure a poultice or to seek a physician, unless the wound becomes more painful. yet, there is one whose remedy he would gladly seek .... [ ] they follow the roads and paths in the right direction until they come to a spring, situated in the middle of a field, and bordered by a stone basin. some one had forgotten upon the stone a comb of gilded ivory. never since ancient times has wise man or fool seen such a comb. in its teeth there was almost a handful of hair belonging to her who had used the comb. (vv. - .) when the damsel notices the spring, and sees the stone, she does not wish her companion to see it; so she turns off in another direction. and he, agreeably occupied with his own thoughts, does not at once remark that she is leading him aside; but when at last he notices it, he is afraid of being beguiled, thinking that she is yielding and is going out of the way in order to avoid some danger. "see here, damsel," he cries, "you are not going right; come this way! no one, i think, ever went straight who left this road." "sire, this is a better way for us," the damsel says, "i am sure of it." then he replies to her: "i don't know, damsel, what you think; but you can plainly see that the beaten path lies this way; and since i have started to follow it, i shall not turn aside. so come now, if you will, for i shall continue along this way." then they go forward until they come near the stone basin and see the comb. the knight says: "i surely never remember to have seen so beautiful a comb as this." "let me have it," the damsel says. "willingly, damsel," he replies. then he stoops over and picks it up. while holding it, he looks at it steadfastly, gazing at the hair until the damsel begins to laugh. when he sees her doing so, he begs her to tell him why she laughs. and she says: "never mind, for i will never tell you." "why not?" he asks. "because i don't wish to do so." and when he hears that, he implores her like one who holds that lovers ought to keep faith mutually: "damsel, if you love anything passionately, by that i implore and conjure and beg you not to conceal from me the reason why you laugh." "your appeal is so strong," she says, "that i will tell you and keep nothing back. i am sure, as i am of anything, that this comb belonged to the queen. and you may take my word that those are strands of the queen's hair which you see to be so fair and light and radiant, and which are clinging in the teeth of the comb; they surely never grew anywhere else." then the knight replied: "upon my word, there are plenty of queens and kings; what queen do you mean?" and she answered: "in truth, fair sire, it is of king arthur's wife i speak." when he hears that, he has not strength to keep from bowing his head over his saddle-bow. and when the damsel sees him thus, she is amazed and terrified, thinking he is about to fall. do not blame her for her fear, for she thought him in a faint. he might as well have swooned, so near was he to doing so; for in his heart he felt such grief that for a long time he lost his colour and power of speech. and the damsel dismounts, and runs as quickly as possible to support and succour him; for she would not have wished for anything to see him fall. when he saw her, he felt ashamed, and said: "why do you need to bear me aid?" you must not suppose that the damsel told him why; for he would have been ashamed and distressed, and it would have annoyed and troubled him, if she had confessed to him the truth. so she took good care not to tell the truth, but tactfully answered him: "sire, i dismounted to get the comb; for i was so anxious to hold it in my hand that i could not longer wait." willing that she should have the comb, he gives it to her, first pulling out the hair so carefully that he tears none of it. never will the eye of man see anything receive such honour as when he begins to adore these tresses. a hundred thousand times he raises them to his eyes and mouth, to his forehead and face: he manifests his joy in every way, considering himself rich and happy now. he lays them in his bosom near his heart, between the shirt and the flesh. he would not exchange them for a cartload of emeralds and carbuncles, nor does he think that any sore or illness can afflict him now; he holds in contempt essence of pearl, treacle, and the cure for pleurisy; [ ] even for st. martin and st. james he has no need; for he has such confidence in this hair that he requires no other aid. but what was this hair like? if i tell the truth about it, you will think i am a mad teller of lies. when the mart is full at the yearly fair of st. denis, [ ] and when the goods are most abundantly displayed, even then the knight would not take all this wealth, unless he had found these tresses too. and if you wish to know the truth, gold a hundred thousand times refined, and melted down as many times, would be darker than is night compared with the brightest summer day we have had this year, if one were to see the gold and set it beside this hair. but why should i make a long story of it? the damsel mounts again with the comb in her possession; while he revels and delights in the tresses in his bosom. leaving the plain, they come to a forest and take a short cut through it until they come to a narrow place, where they have to go in single file; for it would have been impossible to ride two horses abreast. just where the way was narrowest, they see a knight approach. as soon as she saw him, the damsel recognised him, and said: "sir knight, do you see him who yonder comes against us all armed and ready for a battle? i know what his intention is: he thinks now that he cannot fail to take me off defenceless with him. he loves me, but he is very foolish to do so. in person, and by messenger, he has been long wooing me. but my love is not within his reach, for i would not love him under any consideration, so help me god! i would kill myself rather than bestow my love on him. i do not doubt that he is delighted now, and is as satisfied as if he had me already in his power. but now i shall see what you can do, and i shall see how brave you are, and it will become apparent whether your escort can protect me. if you can protect me now, i shall not fail to proclaim that you are brave and very worthy." and he answered her: "go on, go on!" which was as much as to say: "i am not concerned; there is no need of your being worried about what you have said." (vv. - .) while they were proceeding, talking thus, the knight, who was alone, rode rapidly toward them on the run. he was the more eager to make haste, because he felt more sure of success; he felt that he was lucky now to see her whom he most dearly loves. as soon as he approaches her, he greets her with words that come from his heart: "welcome to her, whence-soever she comes, whom i most desire, but who has hitherto caused me least joy and most distress!" it is not fitting that she should be so stingy of her speech as not to return his greeting, at least by word of mouth. the knight is greatly elated when the damsel greets him; though she does not take the words seriously, and the effort costs her nothing. yet, if he had at this moment been victor in a tournament, he would not have so highly esteemed himself, nor thought he had won such honour and renown. being now more confident of his worth, he grasped the bridle rein, and said: "now i shall lead you away: i have to-day sailed well on my course to have arrived at last at so good a port. now my troubles are at an end: after dangers, i have reached a haven; after sorrow, i have attained happiness; after pain, i have perfect health; now i have accomplished my desire, when i find you in such case that i can without resistance lead you away with me at once." then she says: "you have no advantage; for i am under this knight's escort." "surely, the escort is not worth much," he says, "and i am going to lead you off at once. this knight would have time to eat a bushel of salt before he could defend you from me; i think i could never meet a knight from whom i should not win you. and since i find you here so opportunely, though he too may do his best to prevent it, yet i will take you before his very eyes, however disgruntled he may be." the other is not angered by all the pride he hears expressed, but without any impudence or boasting, he begins thus to challenge him for her: "sire, don't be in a hurry, and don't waste your words, but speak a little reasonably. you shall not be deprived of as much of her as rightly belongs to you. you must know, however, that the damsel has come hither under my protection. let her alone now, for you have detained her long enough!" the other gives them leave to burn him, if he does not take her away in spite of him. then the other says: "it would not be right for me to let you take her away; i would sooner fight with you. but if we should wish to fight, we could not possibly do it in this narrow road. let us go to some level place--a meadow or an open field." and he replies that that will suit him perfectly: "certainly, i agree to that: you are quite right, this road is too narrow. my horse is so much hampered here that i am afraid he will crush his flank before i can turn him around." then with great difficulty he turns, and his horse escapes without any wound or harm. then he says: "to be sure, i am much chagrined that we have not met in a favourable spot and in the presence of other men, for i should have been glad to have them see which is the better of us two. come on now, let us begin our search: we shall find in the vicinity some large, broad, and open space." then they proceed to a meadow, where there were maids, knights, and damsels playing at divers games in this pleasant place. they were not all engaged in idle sport, but were playing backgammon and chess or dice, and were evidently agreeably employed. most were engaged in such games as these; but the others there were engaged in sports, dancing, singing, tumbling, leaping, and wrestling with each other. (vv. - .) a knight somewhat advanced in years was on the other side of the meadow, seared upon a sorrel spanish steed. his bridle and saddle were of gold, and his hair was turning grey. one hand hung at his side with easy grace. the weather being fine, he was in his shirt sleeves, with a short mantle of scarlet cloth and fur slung over his shoulders, and thus he watched the games and dances. on the other side of the field, close by a path, there were twenty-three knights mounted on good irish steeds. as soon as the three new arrivals come into view, they all cease their play and shout across the fields: "see, yonder comes the knight who was driven in the cart! let no one continue his sport while he is in our midst. a curse upon him who cares or deigns to play so long as he is here!" meanwhile he who loved the damsel and claimed her as his own, approached the old knight, and said: "sire, i have attained great happiness; let all who will now hear me say that god has granted me the thing that i have always most desired; his gift would not have been so great had he crowned me as king, nor would i have been so indebted to him, nor would i have so profited; for what i have gained is fair and good." "i know not yet if it be thine," the knight replies to his son. but the latter answers him: "don't you know? can't you see it, then? for god's sake, sire, have no further doubt, when you see that i have her in my possession. in this forest, whence i come, i met her as she was on her way. i think god had fetched her there for me, and i have taken her for my own." "i do not know whether this will be allowed by him whom i see coming after thee; he looks as if he is coming to demand her of thee." during this conversation the dancing had ceased because of the knight whom they saw, nor were they gaily playing any more because of the disgust and scorn they felt for him. but the knight without delay came up quickly after the damsel, and said: "let the damsel alone, knight, for you have no right to her! if you dare, i am willing at once to fight with you in her defence." then the old knight remarked: "did i not know it? fair son, detain the damsel no longer, but let her go." he does not relish this advice, and swears that he will not give her up: "may god never grant me joy if i give her up to him! i have her, and i shall hold on to her as something that is mine own. the shoulder-strap and all the armlets of my shield shall first be broken, and i shall have lost all confidence in my strength and arms, my sword and lance, before i will surrender my mistress to him." and his father says: "i shall not let thee fight for any reason thou mayest urge. thou art too confident of thy bravery. so obey my command." but he in his pride replies: "what? am i a child to be terrified? rather will i make my boast that there is not within the sea-girt land any knight, wheresoever he may dwell, so excellent that i would let him have her, and whom i should not expect speedily to defeat." the father answers: "fair son, i do not doubt that thou dost really think so, for thou art so confident of thy strength. but i do not wish to see thee enter a contest with this knight." then he replies: "i shall be disgraced if i follow your advice. curse me if i heed your counsel and turn recreant because of you, and do not do my utmost in the fight. it is true that a man fares ill among his relatives: i could drive a better bargain somewhere else, for you are trying to take me in. i am sure that where i am not known, i could act with better grace. no one, who did not know me, would try to thwart my will; whereas you are annoying and tormenting me. i am vexed by your finding fault with me. you know well enough that when any one is blamed, he breaks out still more passionately. but may god never give me joy if i renounce my purpose because of you; rather will i fight in spite of you!" "by the faith i bear the apostle st. peter," his father says, "now i see that my request is of no avail. i waste my time in rebuking thee; but i shall soon devise such means as shall compel thee against thy will to obey my commands and submit to them." straightway summoning all the knights to approach, he bids them lay hands upon his son whom he cannot correct, saying: "i will have him bound rather than let him fight. you here are all my men, and you owe me your devotion and service: by all the fiefs you hold from me, i hold you responsible, and i add my prayer. it seems to me that he must be mad, and that he shows excessive pride, when he refuses to respect my will." then they promise to take care of him, and say that never, while he is in their charge, shall he wish to fight, but that he must renounce the damsel in spite of himself. then they all join and seize him by the arms and neck. "dost thou not think thyself foolish now?" his father asks; "confess the truth: thou hast not the strength or power to fight or joust, however distasteful and hard it may be for thee to admit it. thou wilt be wise to consent to my will and pleasure. dost thou know what my intention is? in order somewhat to mitigate thy disappointment, i am willing to join thee, if thou wilt, in following the knight to-day and to-morrow, through wood and plain, each one mounted on his horse. perhaps we shall soon find him to be of such a character and bearing that i might let thee have thy way and fight with him." to this proposal the other must perforce consent. like the man who has no alternative, he says that he will give in, provided they both shall follow him. and when the people in the field see how this adventure has turned out, they all exclaim: "did you see? he who was mounted on the cart has gained such honour here that he is leading away the mistress of the son of my lord, and he himself is allowing it. we may well suppose that he finds in him some merit, when he lets him take her off. now cursed a hundred times be he who ceases longer his sport on his account! come, let us go back to our games again." then they resume their games and dances. (vv. - .) thereupon the knight turns away, without longer remaining in the field, and the damsel accompanies him. they leave in haste, while the father and his son ride after them through the mown fields until toward three o'clock, when in a very pleasant spot they come upon a church; beside the chancel there was a cemetery enclosed by a wall. the knight was both courteous and wise to enter the church on foot and make his prayer to god, while the damsel held his horse for him until he returned. when he had made his prayer, and while he was coming back, a very old monk suddenly presented himself; whereupon the knight politely requests him to tell him what this place is; for he does not know. and he tells him it is a cemetery. and the other says: "take me in, so help you god!" "gladly, sire," and he takes him in. following the monk's lead, the knight beholds the most beautiful tombs that one could find as far as dombes [ ] or pampelune; and on each tomb there were letters cut, telling the names of those who were destined to be buried there. and he began in order to read the names, and came upon some which said: "here gawain is to lie, here louis, and here yvain." after these three, he read the names of many others among the most famed and cherished knights of this or any other land. among the others, he finds one of marble, which appears to be new, and is more rich and handsome than all the rest. calling the monk, the knight inquired: "of what use are these tombs here?" and the monk replied: "you have already read the inscriptions; if you have understood, you must know what they say, and what is the meaning of the tombs." "now tell me, what is this large one for?" and the hermit answered: "i will tell you. that is a very large sarcophagus, larger than any that ever was made; one so rich and well-carved was never seen. it is magnificent without, and still more so within. but you need not be concerned with that, for it can never do you any good; you will never see inside of it; for it would require seven strong men to raise the lid of stone, if any one wished to open it. and you may be sure that to raise it would require seven men stronger than you and i. there is an inscription on it which says that any one who can lift this stone of his own unaided strength will set free all the men and women who are captives in the land, whence no slave or noble can issue forth, unless he is a native of that land. no one has ever come back from there, but they are detained in foreign prisons; whereas they of the country go and come in and out as they please." at once the knight goes to grasp the stone, and raises it without the slightest trouble, more easily than ten men would do who exerted all their strength. and the monk was amazed, and nearly fell down at the sight of this marvellous thing; for he thought he would never see the like again, and said: "sire, i am very anxious to know your name. will you tell me what it is?" "not i," says the knight, "upon my word." "i am certainly sorry, for that," he says; "but if you would tell me, you would do me a great favour, and might benefit yourself. who are you, and where do you come from?" "i am a knight, as you may see, and i was born in the kingdom of logre. after so much information, i should prefer to be excused. now please tell me, for your part, who is to lie within this tomb." "sire, he who shall deliver all those who are held captive in the kingdom whence none escapes." and when he had told him all this, the knight commended him to god and all his saints. and then, for the first time, he felt free to return to the damsel. the old white-haired monk escorts him out of the church, and they resume their way. while the damsel is mounting, however, the hermit relates to her all that the knight had done inside, and then he begged her to tell him, if she knew, what his name was; but she assured him that she did not know, but that there was one sure thing she could say, namely, that there was not such a knight alive where the four winds of heaven blow. (vv. - .) then the damsel takes leave of him, and rides swiftly after the knight. then those who were following them come up and see the hermit standing alone before the church. the old knight in his shirt sleeves said: "sire, tell us, have you seen a knight with a damsel in his company?" and he replies: "i shall not be loath to tell you all i know, for they have just passed on from here. the knight was inside yonder, and did a very marvellous thing in raising the stone from the huge marble tomb, quite unaided and without the least effort. he is bent upon the rescue of the queen, and doubtless he will rescue her, as well as all the other people. you know well that this must be so, for you have often read the inscription upon the stone. no knight was ever born of man and woman, and no knight ever sat in a saddle, who was the equal of this man." then the father turns to his son, and says: "son, what dost thou think about him now? is he not a man to be respected who has performed such a feat? now thou knowest who was wrong, and whether it was thou or i. i would not have thee fight with him for all the town of amiens; and yet thou didst struggle hard, before any one could dissuade thee from thy purpose. now we may as well go back, for we should be very foolish to follow him any farther." and he replies: "i agree to that. it would be useless to follow him. since it is your pleasure, let us return." they were very wise to retrace their steps. and all the time the damsel rides close beside the knight, wishing to compel him to give heed to her. she is anxious to learn his name, and she begs and beseeches him again and again to tell her, until in his annoyance he answers her: "have i not already told you that i belong in king arthur's realm? i swear by god and his goodness that you shall not learn my name." then she bids him give her leave to go, and she will turn back, which request he gladly grants. (vv. - .) thereupon the damsel departs, and he rides on alone until it grew very late. after vespers, about compline, as he pursued his way, he saw a knight returning from the wood where he had been hunting. with helmet unlaced, he rode along upon his big grey hunter, to which he had tied the game which god had permitted him to take. this gentleman came quickly to meet the knight, offering him hospitality. "sire," he says, "night will soon be here. it is time for you to be reasonable and seek a place to spend the night. i have a house of mine near at hand, whither i shall take you. no one ever lodged you better than i shall do, to the extent of my resources: i shall be very glad, if you consent." "for my part, i gladly accept," he says. the gentleman at once sends his son ahead, to prepare the house and start the preparations for supper. the lad willingly executes his command forthwith, and goes off at a rapid pace, while the others, who are in no haste, follow the road leisurely until they arrive at the house. the gentleman's wife was a very accomplished lady; and he had five sons, whom he dearly loved, three of them mere lads, and two already knights; and he had two fair and charming daughters, who were still unmarried. they were not natives of the land, but were there in durance, having been long kept there as prisoners away from their native land of logres. when the gentleman led the knight into his yard, the lady with her sons and daughters jumped up and ran to meet them, vying in their efforts to do him honour, as they greeted him and helped him to dismount. neither the sisters nor the five brothers paid much attention to their father, for they knew well enough that he would have it so. they honoured the knight and welcomed him; and when they had relieved him of his armour, one of his host's two daughters threw her own mantle about him, taking it from her own shoulders and throwing it about his neck. i do not need to tell how well he was served at supper; but when the meal was finished, they felt no further hesitation in speaking of various matters. first, the host began to ask him who he was, and from what land, but he did not inquire about his name. the knight promptly answered him: "i am from the kingdom of logres, and have never been in this land before." and when the gentleman heard that, he was greatly amazed, as were his wife and children too, and each one of them was sore distressed. then they began to say to him: "woe that you have come here, fair sire, for only trouble will come of it! for, like us, you will be reduced to servitude and exile." "where do you come from, then?" he asked. "sire, we belong in your country. many men from your country are held in servitude in this land. cursed be the custom, together with those who keep it up! no stranger comes here who is not compelled to stay here in the land where he is detained. for whoever wishes may come in, but once in, he has to stay. about your own fate, you may be at rest, you will doubtless never escape from here." he replies: "indeed, i shall do so, if possible." to this the gentleman replies: "how? do you think you can escape?" "yes, indeed, if it be god's will; and i shall do all within my power." "in that case, doubtless all the rest would be set free; for, as soon as one succeeds in fairly escaping from this durance, then all the rest may go forth unchallenged." then the gentleman recalled that he had been told and informed that a knight of great excellence was making his way into the country to seek for the queen, who was held by the king's son, meleagant; and he said to himself: "upon my word, i believe it is he, and i'll tell him so." so he said to him: "sire, do not conceal from me your business, if i promise to give you the best advice i know. i too shall profit by any success you may attain. reveal to me the truth about your errand, that it may be to your advantage as well as mine. i am persuaded that you have come in search of the queen into this land and among these heathen people, who are worse than the saracens." and the knight replies: "for no other purpose have i come. i know not where my lady is confined, but i am striving hard to rescue her, and am in dire need of advice. give me any counsel you can." and he says: "sire, you have undertaken a very grievous task. the road you are travelling will lead you straight to the sword-bridge. [ ] you surely need advice. if you would heed my counsel, you would proceed to the sword-bridge by a surer way, and i would have you escorted thither." then he, whose mind is fixed upon the most direct way, asks him: "is the road of which you speak as direct as the other way?" "no, it is not," he says; "it is longer, but more sure." then he says: "i have no use for it; tell me about this road i am following!" "i am ready to do so," he replies; "but i am sure you will not fare well if you take any other than the road i recommend. to-morrow you will reach a place where you will have trouble: it is called 'the stony passage'. shall i tell you how bad a place it is to pass? only one horse can go through at a time; even two men could not pass abreast, and the passage is well guarded and defended. you will meet with resistance as soon as you arrive. you will sustain many a blow of sword and lance, and will have to return full measure before you succeed in passing through." and when he had completed the account, one of the gentleman's sons, who was a knight, stepped forward, saying: "sire, if you do not object, i will go with this gentleman." then one of the lads jumps up, and says: "i too will go." and the father gladly gives them both consent. now the knight will not have to go alone, and he expresses his gratitude, being much pleased with the company. (vv. - .) then the conversation ceases, and they take the knight to bed, where he was glad to fall asleep. as soon as daylight was visible he got up, and those who were to accompany him got up too. the two knights donned their armour and took their leave, while the young fellow started on ahead. together they pursued their way until they came at the hour of prime to "the stony passage." in the middle of it they found a wooden tower, where there was always a man on guard. before they drew near, he who was on the tower saw them and cried twice aloud: "woe to this man who comes!" and then behold! a knight issued from the tower, mounted and armed with fresh armour, and escorted on either side by servants carrying sharp axes. then, when the other draws near the passage, he who defends it begins to heap him with abuse about the cart, saying: "vassal, thou art bold and foolish, indeed, to have entered this country. no man ought ever to come here who had ridden upon a cart, and may god withhold from him his blessing!" then they spur toward each other at the top of their horses' speed. and he who was to guard the passage-way at once breaks his lance and lets the two pieces fall; the other strikes him in the neck, reaching him beneath the shield, and throws him over prostrate upon the stones. then the servants come forward with the axes, but they intentionally fail to strike him, having no desire to harm or damage him; so he does not deign to draw his sword, and quickly passes on with his companions. one of them remarks to the other: "no one has ever seen so good a knight, nor has he any equal. is not this a marvellous thing, that he has forced a passage here?" and the knight says to his brother: "fair brother, for god's sake, make haste to go and tell our father of this adventure." but the lad asserts and swears that he will not go with the message, and will never leave the knight until he has dubbed and knighted him; let his brother go with the message, if he is so much concerned. (vv. - .) then they go on together until about three o'clock, when they come upon a man, who asks them who they are. and they answer: "we are knights, busy about our own affairs." then the man says to the knight: "sire, i should be glad to offer hospitality to you and your companions here." this invitation he delivers to him whom he takes to be the lord and master of the others. and this one replies to him: "i could not seek shelter for the night at such an hour as this; for it is not well to tarry and seek one's ease when one has undertaken some great task. and i have such business on hand that i shall not stop for the night for some time yet." then the man continues: "my house is not near here, but is some distance ahead. it will be late when you reach there, so you may proceed, assured that you will find a place to lodge just when it suits you." "in that case," he says, "i will go thither." thereupon the man starts ahead as guide, and the knight follows along the path. and when they had proceeded some distance, they met a squire who was coming along at a gallop, mounted upon a nag that was as fat and round as an apple. and the squire calls our to the man: "sire, sire, make haste! for the people of logres have attacked in force the inhabitants of this land, and war and strife have already broken out; and they say that this country has been invaded by a knight who has been in many battles, and that wherever he wishes to go, no one, however reluctantly, is able to deny him passage. and they further say that he will deliver those who are in this country, and will subdue our people. now take my advice and make haste!" then the man starts at a gallop, and the others are greatly delighted at the words they have heard, for they are eager to help their side. and the vavasor's son says: "hear what this squire says! come and let us aid our people who are fighting their enemies!" meanwhile the man rides off, without waiting for them, and makes his way rapidly toward a fortress which stood upon a fortified hill; thither he hastens, till he comes to the gate, while the others spur after him. the castle was surrounded by a high wall and moat. as soon as they had got inside, a gate was lowered upon their heels, so that they could not get out again. then they say: "come on, come on! let us not stop here!" and they rapidly pursue the man until they reach another gate which was not closed against them. but as soon as the man had passed through, a portcullis dropped behind him. then the others were much dismayed to see themselves shut in, and they think they must be bewitched. but he, of whom i have more to tell, wore upon his finger a ring, whose stone was of such virtue that any one who gazed at it was freed from the power of enchantment. [ ] holding the ring before his eyes, he gazed at it, and said: "lady, lady, so help me god, now i have great need of your succour!" [ ] this lady was a fairy, who had given it to him, and who had cared for him in his infancy. and he had great confidence that, wherever he might be, she would aid and succour him. but after appealing to her and gazing upon the ring, he realises that there is no enchantment here, but that they are actually shut in and confined. then they come to the barred door of a low and narrow postern gate. drawing their swords, they all strike it with such violence that they cut the bar. as soon as they were outside the tower, they see that a fierce strife was already begun down in the meadows, and that there are at least a thousand knights engaged, beside the low-bred infantry. while they were descending to the plain, the wise and moderate son of the vavasor remarked: "sire, before we arrive upon the field, it would be wise for us, it seems to me, to find out and learn on which side our people are. i do not know where they are placed, but i will go and find out, if you wish it so." "i wish you would do so," he replies, "go quickly, and do not fail to come back again at once." he goes and returns at once, saying: "it has turned out well for us, for i have plainly seen that these are our troops on this side of the field." then the knight at once rode into the fight and jousted with a knight who was approaching him, striking him in the eye with such violence that he knocked him lifeless to the ground. then the lad dismounts, and taking the dead knight's horse and arms, he arms himself with skill and cleverness. when he was armed, he straightway mounts, taking the shield and the lance, which was heavy, stiff, and decorated, and about his waist he girt a sharp, bright, and flashing sword. then he followed his brother and lord into the fight. the latter demeaned himself bravely in the melee for some time, breaking, splitting, and crushing shields, helmets and hauberks. no wood or steel protected the man whom he struck; he either wounded him or knocked him lifeless from the horse. unassisted, he did so well that he discomfited all whom he met, while his companions did their part as well. the people of logres, not knowing him, are amazed at what they see, and ask the vavasor's sons about the stranger knight. this reply is made to them: "gentlemen, this is he who is to deliver us all from durance and misery, in which we have so long been confined, and we ought to do him great honour when, to set us free, he has passed through so many perils and is ready to face many more. he has done much, and will do yet more." every one is overjoyed at hearing this welcome news. the news travelled fast, and was noised about, until it was known by all. their strength and courage rise, so that they slay many of those still alive, and apparently because of the example of a single knight they work greater havoc than because of all the rest combined. and if it had not been so near evening, all would have gone away defeated; but night came on so dark that they had to separate. (vv. - .) when the battle was over, all the captives pressed about the knight, grasping his rein on either side, and thus addressing him: "welcome, fair sire," and each one adds: "sire, for the name of god, do not fail to lodge with me!" what one says they all repeat, for young and old alike insist that he must lodge with them, saying: "you will be more comfortably lodged with me than with any one else." thus each one addresses him to his face, and in the desire to capture him, each one drags him from the rest, until they almost come to blows. then he tells them that they are very foolish and silly to struggle so. "cease this wrangling among yourselves, for it does no good to me or you. instead of quarrelling among ourselves, we ought rather to lend one another aid. you must not dispute about the privilege of lodging me, but rather consider how to lodge me in such a place that it may be to your general advantage, and that i may be advanced upon my way." then each one exclaims at once: "that is my house, or, no, it is mine," until the knight replies: "follow my advice and say nothing more; the wisest of you is foolish to contend this way. you ought to be concerned to further my affairs, and instead you are seeking to turn me aside. if you had each individually done me all the honour and service it is possible to do, and i had accepted your kindness, by all the saints of rome i swear that i could not be more obliged to you than i am now for your good-will. so may god give me joy and health, your good intentions please me as much as if each one of you had already shown me great honour and kindness: so let the will stand for the deed!" thus he persuades and appeases them all. then they take him quickly along the road to a knight's residence, where they seek to serve him: all rejoice to honour and serve him throughout the evening until bedtime, for they hold him very dear. next morning, when the time came to separate, each one offers and presents himself, with the desire to accompany him; but it is not his will or pleasure that any one shall go with him except the two whom he had brought with him. accompanied by them alone, he resumed his journey. that day they rode from morn till evening without encountering any adventure. when it was now very late, and while they were riding rapidly out of a forest, they saw a house belonging to a knight, and seated at the door they saw his wife, who had the bearing of a gentle lady. as soon as she espied them coming, she rose to her feet to meet them, and greeted them joyfully with a smile: "welcome! i wish you to accept my house; this is your lodging; pray dismount" "lady, since it is your will, we thank you, and will dismount; we accept your hospitality for the night." when they had dismounted, the lady had the horses taken by members of her well-ordered household. she calls her sons and daughters who come at once: the youths were courteous, handsome, and well-behaved, and the daughters were fair. she bids the lads remove the saddles and curry the horses well; no one refused to do this, but each carried out her instructions willingly. when she ordered the knights to be disarmed, her daughters step forward to perform this service. they remove their armour, and hand them three short mantles to put on. then at once they take them into the house which was very handsome. the master was not at home, being out in the woods with two of his sons. but he presently returned, and his household, which was well-ordered, ran to meet him outside the door. quickly they untie and unpack the game he brings, and tell him the news: "sire, sire, you do not know that you have three knights for guests." "god be praised for that," he says. then the knight and his two sons extend a glad welcome to their guests. the rest of the household were not backward, for even the least among them prepared to perform his special task. while some run to prepare the meal, others light the candles in profusion; still others get a towel and basins, and offer water for the hands: they are not niggardly in all this. when all had washed, they take their seats. nothing that was done there seemed to be any trouble or burdensome. but at the first course there came a surprise in the form of a knight outside the door. as he sat on his charger, all armed from head to feet, he looked prouder than a bull, and a bull is a yew proud beast. one leg was fixed in the stirrup, but the other he had thrown over the mane of his horse's neck, to give himself a careless and jaunty air. behold him advancing thus, though no one noticed him until he came forward with the words: "i wish to know which is the man who is so foolish and proud a numskull that he has come to this country and intends to cross the sword-bridge. all his pains will come to naught, and his expedition is in vain." then he, who felt no fear at all, thus replies with confidence: "i am he who intends to cross the bridge." "thou? thou? how didst thou dare to think of such a thing? before undertaking such a course, thou oughtest to have thought of the end that is in store for thee, and thou oughtest to have in mind the memory of the cart on which thou didst ride. i know not whether thou feelest shame for the ride thou hadst on it, but no sensible man would have embarked on such an enterprise as this if he had felt the reproach of his action." (vv. - .) not a word does he deign to reply to what he hears the other say; but the master of the house and all the others express their surprise openly: "ah, god, what a misfortune this is," each one of them says to himself; "cursed be the hour when first a cart was conceived or made! for it is a very vile and hateful thing. ah, god, of what was he accused? why was he carried in a cart? for what sin, or for what crime? he will always suffer the reproach. if he were only clear of this disgrace, no knight could be found in all the world, however his valour might be proved, who would equal the merit of this knight. if all good knights could be compared, and if the truth were to be known, you could find none so handsome or so expert." thus they expressed their sentiments. then he began his speech of impudence: "listen, thou knight, who art bound for the sword-bridge! if thou wishest, thou shalt cross the water very easily and comfortably. i will quickly have thee ferried over in a skiff. but once on the other side, i will make thee pay me toll, and i will take thy head, if i please to do so, or if not, thou shalt be held at my discretion." and he replies that he is not seeking trouble, and that he will never risk his head in such an adventure for any consideration. to which the other answers at once: "since thou wilt not do this, whosesoever the shame and loss may be, thou must come outside with me and there engage me hand to hand." then, to beguile him. the other says: "if i could refuse, i would very gladly excuse myself; but in truth i would rather fight than be compelled to do what is wrong." before he arose from the table where they were sitting, he told the youths who were serving him, to saddle his horse at once, and fetch his arms and give them to him. this order they promptly execute: some devote themselves to arming him, while others go to fetch his horse. as he slowly rode along completely armed, holding his shield tight by the straps, you must know that he was evidently to be included in the list of the brave and fair. his horse became him so well that it is evident he must be his own, and as for the shield he held by the straps and the helmet laced upon his head, which fitted him so well, you would never for a moment have thought that he had borrowed it or received it as a loan; rather, you would be so pleased with him that you would maintain that he had been thus born and raised: for all this i should like you to take my word. (vv. - .) outside the gate, where the battle was to be fought, there was a stretch of level ground well adapted for the encounter. when they catch sight of each other, they spur hotly to the attack and come together with such a shock, dealing such blows with their lances, that they first bend, then buckle up, and finally fly into splinters. with their swords they then hew away at their shields, helmets, and hauberks. the wood is cut and the steel gives way, so that they wound each other in several places. they pay each other such angry blows that it seems as if they had made a bargain. the swords often descend upon the horses' croups, where they drink and feast upon their blood; their riders strike them upon the flanks until at last they kill them both. and when both have fallen to earth, they attack each other afoot; and if they had cherished a mortal hatred, they could not have assailed each other more fiercely with their swords. they deal their blows with greater frequency than the man who stakes his money at dice and never fails to double the stakes every time he loses; yet, this game of theirs was very different; for there were no losses here, but only fierce blows and cruel strife. all the people came out from the house: the master, his lady, his sons and daughters; no man or woman, friend or stranger, stayed behind, but all stood in line to see the fight in progress in the broad, level field. the knight of the cart blames and reproaches himself for faintheartedness when he sees his host watching him and notices all the others looking on. his heart is stirred with anger, for it seems to him that he ought long since to have beaten his adversary. then he strikes him, rushing in like a storm and bringing his sword down close by his head; he pushes and presses him so hard that he drives him from his ground and reduces him to such a state of exhaustion that he has little strength to defend himself. then the knight recalls how the other had basely reproached him about the cart; so he assails him and drubs him so soundly that not a string or strap remains unbroken about the neck-band of his hauberk, and he knocks the helmet and ventail from his head. his wounds and distress are so great that he has to cry for mercy. just as the lark cannot withstand or protect itself against the hawk which outflies it and attacks it from above, so he in his helplessness and shame, must invoke him and sue for mercy. and when he hears him beg for mercy, he ceases his attack and says: "dost thou wish for mercy?" he replies: "you have asked a very clever question; any fool could ask that. i never wished for anything so much as i now wish for mercy." then he says to him: "thou must mount, then, upon a cart. nothing thou couldst say would have any influence with me, unless thou mountest the cart, to atone for the vile reproaches thou didst address to me with thy silly mouth." and the knight thus answers him: "may it never please god that i mount a cart!" "no?" he asks; "then you shall die." "sire, you can easily put me to death; but i beg and beseech you for god's sake to show me mercy and not compel me to mount a cart. i will agree to anything, however grievous, excepting that. i would rather die a hundred times than undergo such a disgrace. in your goodness and mercy you can tell me nothing so distasteful that i will not do it." (vv. - .) while he is thus beseeching him, behold across the field a maiden riding on a tawny mule, her head uncovered and her dress disarranged. in her hand she held a whip with which she belaboured the mule; and in truth no horse could have galloped so fast as was the pace of the mule. the damsel called out to the knight of the cart: "may god bless thy heart, sir knight, with whatever delights thee most!" and he, who heard her gladly, says: "may god bless you, damsel, and give you joy and health!" then she tells him of her desire. "knight," she says, "in urgent need i have come from afar to thee to ask a favour, for which thou wilt deserve the best guerdon i can make to thee; and i believe that thou wilt yet have need of my assistance." and he replies: "tell me what it is you wish; and if i have it, you shall have it at once, provided it be not something extravagant." then she says: "it is the head of the knight whom thou hast just defeated; in truth, thou hast never dealt with such a wicked and faithless man. thou wilt be committing no sin or wrong, but rather doing a deed of charity, for he is the basest creature that ever was or ever shall be." and when he who had been vanquished hears that she wishes him to be killed, he says to him: "don't believe her, for she hates me; but by that god who was at once father and son, and who chose for his mother her who was his daughter and handmaiden, i beg you to have mercy upon me!" "ah, knight!" the maid exclaims, "pay no attention to what this traitor says! may god give thee all the joy and honour to which thou dost aspire, and may he give thee good success in thy undertaking." then the knight is in a predicament, as he thinks and ponders over the question: whether to present to her the head she asks him to cut off, or whether he shall allow himself to be touched by pity for him. [ ] he wishes to respect the wishes of both her and him. generosity and pity each command him to do their will; for he was both generous and tender-hearted. but if she carries off the head, then will pity be defeated and put to death; whereas, if she does not carry off the head, generosity will be discomfited. thus, pity and generosity hold him so confined and so distressed that he is tormented and spurred on by each of them in turn. the damsel asks him to give her the head, and on the other hand the knight makes his request, appealing to his pity and kindness. and, since he has implored him, shall he not receive mercy? yes, for it never happened that, when he had put down an enemy and compelled him to sue for mercy, he would refuse such an one his mercy or longer bear him any grudge. since this is his custom, he will not refuse his mercy to him who now begs and sues for it. and shall she have the head she covets? yes, if it be possible. "knight," he says, "it is necessary for thee to fight me again, and if thou dost care to defend thy head again, i will show thee such mercy as to allow thee to resume the helmet; and i will give thee time to arm thy body and thy head as well as possible. but, if i conquer thee again, know that thou shalt surely die." and he replies: "i desire nothing better than that, and ask for no further favour." "and i will give thee this advantage," he adds: "i will fight thee as i stand, without changing my present position." then the other knight makes ready, and they begin the fight again eagerly. but this time the knight triumphed more quickly than he had done at first. and the damsel at once cries out: "do not spare him, knight, for anything he may say to thee. surely he would not have spared thee, had he once defeated thee. if thou heedest what he says, be sure that he will again beguile thee. fair knight, cut off the head of the most faithless man in the empire and kingdom, and give it to me! thou shouldst present it to me, in view of the guerdon i intend for thee. for another day may well come when, if he can, he will beguile thee again with his words." he, thinking his end is near, cries aloud to him for mercy; but his cry is of no avail, nor anything that he can say. the other drags him by the helmet, tearing all the fastening, and he strikes from his head the ventail and the gleaming coif. then he cries out more loudly still: "mercy, for god's sake! mercy, sir!" but the other answers: "so help me, i shall never again show thee pity, after having once let thee off." "ah," he says, "thou wouldst do wrong to heed my enemy and kill me thus." while she, intent upon his death, admonishes him to cut off his head, and not to believe a word he says. he strikes: the head flies across the sward and the body fails. then the damsel is pleased and satisfied. grasping the head by the hair, the knight presents it to the damsel, who takes it joyfully with the words: "may thy heart receive such delight from whatever it most desires as my heart now receives from what i most coveted. i had only one grief in life, and that was that this man was still alive. i have a reward laid up for thee which thou shalt receive at the proper time. i promise thee that thou shalt have a worthy reward for the service thou hast rendered me. now i will go away, with the prayer that god may guard thee from harm." then the damsel leaves him, as each commends the other to god. but all those who had seen the battle in the plain are overjoyed, and in their joy they at once relieve the knight of his armour, and honour him in every way they can. then they wash their hands again and take their places at the meal, which they eat with better cheer than is their wont. when they had been eating for some time, the gentleman turned to his guest at his side, and said: "sire, a long while ago we came hither from the kingdom of logres. we were born your countrymen, and we should like to see you win honour and fortune and joy in this country; for we should profit by it as well as you, and it would be to the advantage of many others, if you should gain honour and fortune in the enterprise you have undertaken in this land." and he makes answer: "may god hear your desire." (vv. - .) when the host had dropped his voice and ceased speaking, one of his sons followed him and said: "sire, we ought to place all our resources at your service, and give them outright rather than promise them; if you have any need of our assistance, we ought not to wait until you ask for it. sire, be not concerned over your horse which is dead. we have good strong horses here. i want you to take anything of ours which you need, and you shall choose the best of our horses in place of yours." and he replies: "i willingly accept." thereupon, they have the beds prepared and retire for the night. the next morning they rise early, and dress, after which they prepare to start. upon leaving, they fail in no act of courtesy, but take leave of the lady, her lord, and all the rest. but in order to omit nothing, i must remark that the knight was unwilling to mount the borrowed steed which was standing ready at the door; rather, he caused him to be ridden by one of the two knights who had come with him, while he took the latter's horse instead, for thus it pleased him best to do. when each was seated on his horse, they all asked for leave to depart from their host who had served them so honourably. then they ride along the road until the day draws to a close, and late in the afternoon they reach the sword-bridge. (vv. - .) at the end of this very difficult bridge they dismount from their steeds and gaze at the wicked-looking stream, which is as swift and raging, as black and turgid, as fierce and terrible as if it were the devil's stream; and it is so dangerous and bottomless that anything failing into it would be as completely lost as if it fell into the salt sea. and the bridge, which spans it, is different from any other bridge; for there never was such a one as this. if any one asks of me the truth, there never was such a bad bridge, nor one whose flooring was so bad. the bridge across the cold stream consisted of a polished, gleaming sword; but the sword was stout and stiff, and was as long as two lances. at each end there was a tree-trunk in which the sword was firmly fixed. no one need fear to fall because of its breaking or bending, for its excellence was such that it could support a great weight. but the two knights who were with the third were much discouraged; for they surmised that two lions or two leopards would be found tied to a great rock at the other end of the bridge. the water and the bridge and the lions combine so to terrify them that they both tremble with fear, and say: "fair sire, consider well what confronts you; for it is necessary and needful to do so. this bridge is badly made and built, and the construction of it is bad. if you do not change your mind in time, it will be too late to repent. you must consider which of several alternatives you will choose. suppose that you once get across (but that cannot possibly come to pass, any more than one could hold in the winds and forbid them to blow, or keep the birds from singing, or re-enter one's mother's womb and be born again--all of which is as impossible as to empty the sea of its water); but even supposing that you got across, can you think and suppose that those two fierce lions that are chained on the other side will not kill you, and suck the blood from your veins, and eat your flesh and then gnaw your bones? for my part, i am bold enough, when i even dare to look and gaze at them. if you do not take care, they will certainly devour you. your body will soon be torn and rent apart, for they will show you no mercy. so take pity on us now, and stay here in our company! it would be wrong for you to expose yourself intentionally to such mortal peril." and he, laughing, replies to them: "gentlemen, receive my thanks and gratitude for the concern you feel for me: it comes from your love and kind hearts. i know full well that you would not like to see any mishap come to me; but i have faith and confidence in god, that he will protect me to the end. i fear the bridge and stream no more than i fear this dry land; so i intend to prepare and make the dangerous attempt to cross. i would rather die than turn back now." the others have nothing more to say; but each weeps with pity and heaves a sigh. meanwhile he prepares, as best he may, to cross the stream, and he does a very marvellous thing in removing the armour from his feet and hands. he will be in a sorry state when he reaches the other side. he is going to support himself with his bare hands and feet upon the sword, which was sharper than a scythe, for he had not kept on his feet either sole or upper or hose. but he felt no fear of wounds upon his hands or feet; he preferred to maim himself rather than to fall from the bridge and be plunged in the water from which he could never escape. in accordance with this determination, he passes over with great pain and agony, being wounded in the hands, knees, and feet. but even this suffering is sweet to him: for love, who conducts and leads him on, assuages and relieves the pain. creeping on his hands, feet, and knees, he proceeds until he reaches the other side. then he recalls and recollects the two lions which he thought he had seen from the other side; but, on looking about, he does not see so much as a lizard or anything else to do him harm. he raises his hand before his face and looks at his ring, and by this test he proves that neither of the lions is there which he thought he had seen, and that he had been enchanted and deceived; for there was not a living creature there. when those who had remained behind upon the bank saw that he had safely crossed, their joy was natural; but they do not know of his injuries. he, however, considers himself fortunate not to have suffered anything worse. the blood from his wounds drips on his shirt on all sides. then he sees before him a tower, which was so strong that never had he seen such a strong one before: indeed, it could not have been a better tower. at the window there sat king bademagu, who was very scrupulous and precise about matters of honour and what was right, and who was careful to observe and practise loyalty above all else; and beside him stood his son, who always did precisely the opposite so far as possible, for he found his pleasure in disloyalty, and never wearied of villainy, treason, and felony. from their point of vantage they had seen the knight cross the bridge with trouble and pain. meleagant's colour changed with the rage and displeasure he felt; for he knows now that he will be challenged for the queen; but his character was such that he feared no man, however strong or formidable. if he were not base and disloyal, there could no better knight be found; but he had a heart of wood, without gentleness and pity. what enraged his son and roused his ire, made the king happy and glad. the king knew of a truth that he who had crossed the bridge was much better than any one else. for no one would dare to pass over it in whom there dwelt any of that evil nature which brings more shame upon those who possess it than prowess brings of honour to the virtuous. for prowess cannot accomplish so much as wickedness and sloth can do: it is true beyond a doubt that it is possible to do more evil than good. (vv. - .) i could say more on these two heads, if it did not cause me to delay. but i must turn to something else and resume my subject, and you shall hear how the king speaks profitably to his son: "son," he says, "it was fortunate that thou and i came to look out this window; our reward has been to witness the boldest deed that ever entered the mind of man. tell me now if thou art not well disposed toward him who has performed such a marvellous feat. make peace and be reconciled with him, and deliver the queen into his hands. thou shalt gain no glory in battle with him, but rather mayst thou incur great loss. show thyself to be courteous and sensible, and send the queen to meet him before he sees thee. show him honour in this land of thine, and before he asks it, present to him what he has come to seek. thou knowest well enough that he has come for the queen guinevere. do not act so that people will take thee to be obstinate, foolish, or proud. if this man has entered thy land alone, thou shouldst bear him company, for one gentleman ought not to avoid another, but rather attract him and honour him with courtesy. one receives honour by himself showing it; be sure that the honour will be thine, if thou doest honour and service to him who is plainly the best knight in the world." and he replies: "may god confound me, if there is not as good a knight, or even a better one than he!" it was too bad that he did not mention himself, of whom he entertains no mean opinion. and he adds: "i suppose you wish me to clasp my hands and kneel before him as his liegeman, and to hold my lands from him? so help me god, i would rather become his man than surrender to him the queen! god forbid that in such a fashion i should deliver her to him! she shall never be given up by me, but rather contested and defended against all who are so foolish as to dare to come in quest of her." then again the king says to him: "son, thou wouldst act very courteously to renounce this pretension. i advise thee and beg thee to keep the peace. thou knowest well that the honour will belong to the knight, if he wins the queen from thee in battle. he would doubtless rather win her in battle than as a gift, for it will thus enhance his fame. it is my opinion that he is seeking her, not to receive her peaceably, but because he wishes to win her by force of arms. so it would be wise on thy part to deprive him of the satisfaction of fighting thee. i am sorry to see thee so foolish; but if thou dost not heed my advice, evil will come of it, and the ensuing misfortune will be worse for thee. for the knight need fear no hostility from any one here save thee. on behalf of myself and all my men, i will grant him a truce and security. i have never yet done a disloyal deed or practised treason and felony, and i shall not begin to do so now on thy account any more than i would for any stranger. i do not wish to flatter thee, for i promise that the knight shall not lack any arms, or horse or anything else he needs, in view of the boldness he has displayed in coming thus far. he shall be securely guarded and well defended against all men here excepting thee. i wish him clearly to understand that, if he can maintain himself against thee, he need have no fear of any one else." "i have listened to you in silence long enough," says meleagant, "and you may say what you please. but little do i care for all you say. i am not a hermit, nor so compassionate and charitable, and i have no desire to be so honourable as to give him what i most love. his task will not be performed so quickly or so lightly; rather will it turn out otherwise than as you and he expect. you and i need not quarrel because you aid him against me. even if he enjoys peace and a truce with you and all your men, what matters that to me? my heart does not quail on that account; rather, so help me god, i am glad that he need not feel concern for any one here but me; i do not wish you to do on my account anything which might be construed as disloyalty or treachery. be as compassionate as you please, but let me be cruel." "what? wilt thou not change thy mind?" "no," he says. "then i will say nothing more. i will leave thee alone to do thy best and will go now to speak with the knight. i wish to offer and present to him my aid and counsel in all respects; for i am altogether on his side." (vv. - .) then the king goes down and orders them to bring his horse. a large steed is brought to him, upon which he springs by the stirrup, and he rides off with some of his men: three knights and two squires he bade to go with him. they did not stop their ride downhill until they came to the bridge, where they see him stanching his wounds and wiping the blood from them. the king expects to keep him as his guest for a long time while his wounds are healing; but he might as well expect to drain the sea. the king hastens to dismount, and he who was grievously wounded, stood up at once to meet him, though he did not know him, and he gave no more evidence of the pain he felt in his feet and hands than if he had been actually sound. the king sees that he is exerting himself, and quickly runs to greet him with the words: "sire, i am greatly amazed that you have fallen upon us in this land. but be welcome, for no one will ever repeat the attempt: it never happened in the past, and it will never happen in the future that any one should perform such a hardy feat or expose himself to such peril. and know that i admire you greatly for having executed what no one before ever dared to conceive. you will find me very kindly disposed, and loyal and courteous toward you. i am the king of this land, and offer you freely all my counsel and service; and i think i know pretty well what you have come here to seek. you come, i am sure, to seek the queen." "sire," he replies, "your surmise is correct; no other cause brings me here." "friend, you must suffer hardship to obtain her," he replies; "and you are sorely wounded, as i see by the wounds and the flowing blood. you will not find him who brought her hither so generous as to give her up without a struggle; but you must tarry, and have your wounds cared for until they are completely healed. i will give you some of 'the three marys' ointment, [ ] and something still better, if it can be found, for i am very solicitous about your comfort and your recovery. and the queen is so confined that no mortal man has access to her--not even my son, who brought her here with him and who resents such treatment, for never was a man so beside himself and so desperate as he. but i am well disposed toward you, and will gladly give you, so help me god, all of which you stand in need. my son himself will not have such good arms but that i will give you some that are just as good, and a horse, too, such as you will need, though my son will be angry with me. despite the feelings of any one, i will protect you against all men. you will have no cause to fear any one excepting him who brought the queen here. no man ever menaced another as i have menaced him, and i came near driving him from my land, in my displeasure because he will not surrender her to you. to be sure, he is my son; but feel no concern, for unless he defeats you in battle, he can never do you the slightest harm against my will." "sire," he says, "i thank you. but i am losing time here which i do not wish to waste. i have no cause to complain, and have no wound which is paining me. take me where i can find him; for with such arms as i have, i am ready to divert myself by giving and receiving blows." "friend, you had better wait two or three weeks until your wounds are healed, for it would be well for you to tarry here at least two weeks, and not on any account could i allow it, or look on, while you fought in my presence with such arms and with such an outfit." and he replies: "with your permission, no other arms would be used than these, for i should prefer to fight with them, and i should not ask for the slightest postponement, adjournment or delay. however, in deference to you, i will consent to wait until to-morrow; but despite what any one may say, longer i will not wait." then the king assured him that all would be done as he wished; then he has the lodging-place prepared, and insistently requests his men, who are in the company, to serve him, which they do devotedly. and the king, who would gladly have made peace, had it been possible, went at once to his son and spoke to him like one who desires peace and harmony, saying: "fair son, be reconciled now with this knight without a fight! he has not come here to disport himself or to hunt or chase, but he comes in search of honour and to increase his fame and renown, and i have seen that he stands in great need of rest. if he had taken my advice, he would not have rashly undertaken, either this month or the next, the battle which he so greatly desires. if thou makest over the queen to him, dost thou fear any dishonour in the deed? have no fear of that, for no blame can attach to thee; rather is it wrong to keep that to which one has no rightful claim. he would gladly have entered the battle at once, though his hands and feet are not sound, but cut and wounded." meleagant answers his father thus: "you are foolish to be concerned. by the faith i owe st. peter, i will not take your advice in this matter. i should deserve to be drawn apart with horses, if i heeded your advice. if he is seeking his honour, so do i seek mine; if he is in search of glory, so am i; if he is anxious for the battle, so am i a hundred times more so than he." "i see plainly," says the king, "that thou art intent upon thy mad enterprise, and thou shalt have thy fill of it. since such is thy pleasure, to-morrow thou shalt try thy strength with the knight." "may no greater hardship ever visit me than that!" meleagant replies; "i would much rather it were to-day than to-morrow. just see how much more downcast i am than is usual! my eyes are wild, and my face is pale! i shall have no joy or satisfaction or any cause for happiness until i am actually engaged with him." (vv. - .) the king understands that further advice and prayers are of no avail, so reluctantly he leaves his son and, taking a good, strong horse and handsome arms, he sends them to him who well deserves them, together with a surgeon who was a loyal and christian man. there was in the world no more trusty man, and he was more skilled in the cure of wounds than all the doctors of montpeilier. [ ] that night he treated the knight as best he could, in accordance with the king's command. already the news was known by the knights and damsels, the ladies and barons of all the country-side, and all through the night until daybreak strangers and friends were making long journeys from all the country round. when morning came, there was such a press before the castle that there was not room to move one's foot. and the king, rising early in his distress about the battle, goes directly to his son, who had already laced upon his head the helmet which was of poitiers make. no delay or peace is possible, for though the king did his best, his efforts are of no effect. in the middle of the castle-square, where all the people are assembled, the battle will be fought in compliance with the king's wish and command. the king sends at once for the stranger knight, and he is conducted to the grounds which were filled with people from the kingdom of logres. for just as people are accustomed to go to church to hear the organ on the annual feast-days of pentecost or christmas, so they had all assembled now. all the foreign maidens from king arthur's realm had fasted three days and gone barefoot in their shifts, in order that god might endow with strength and courage the knight who was to fight his adversary on behalf of the captives. very early, before prime had yet been sounded, both of the knights fully armed were led to the place, mounted upon two horses equally protected. meleagant was very graceful, alert, and shapely; the hauberk with its fine meshes, the helmet, and the shield hanging from his neck--all these became him well. all the spectators, however, favoured the other knight, even those who wished him ill, and they say that meleagant is worth nothing compared with him. as soon as they were both on the ground, the king comes and detains them as long as possible in an effort to make peace between them, but he is unable to persuade his son. then he says to them: "hold in your horses until i reach the top of the tower. it will be only a slight favour, if you will wait so long for me." then in sorrowful mood he leaves them and goes directly to the place where he knew he would find the queen. she had begged him the evening before to place her where she might have an unobstructed view of the battle; he had granted her the boon, and went now to seek and fetch her, for he was very anxious to show her honour and courtesy. he placed her at one window, and took his place at another window on her right. beside them, there were gathered there many knights and prudent dames and damsels, who were natives of that land; and there were many others, who were captives, and who were intent upon their orisons and prayers. those who were prisoners were praying for their lord, for to god and to him they entrusted their succour and deliverance. then the combatants without delay make all the people stand aside; then they clash the shields with their elbows, and thrust their arms into the straps, and spur at each other so violently that each sends his lance two arms' length through his opponent's shield, causing the lance to split and splinter like a flying spark. and the horses meet head on, clashing breast to breast, and the shields and helmets crash with such a noise that it seems like a mighty thunder-clap; not a breast-strap, girth, rein or surcingle remains unbroken, and the saddle-bows, though strong, are broken to pieces. the combatants felt no shame in falling to earth, in view of their mishaps, but they quickly spring to their feet, and without waste of threatening words rush at each other more fiercely than two wild boars, and deal great blows with their swords of steel like men whose hate is violent. repeatedly they trim the helmets and shining hauberks so fiercely that after the sword the blood spurts out. they furnished an excellent battle, indeed, as they stunned and wounded each other with their heavy, wicked blows. many fierce, hard, long bouts they sustained with equal honour, so that the onlookers could discern no advantage on either side. but it was inevitable that he who had crossed the bridge should be much weakened by his wounded hands. the people who sided with him were much dismayed, for they notice that his strokes are growing weaker, and they fear he will get the worst of it; it seemed to them that he was weakening, while meleagant was triumphing, and they began to murmur all around. but up at the window of the tower there was a wise maiden who thought within herself that the knight had not undertaken the battle either on her account or for the sake of the common herd who had gathered about the list, but that his only incentive had been the queen; and she thought that, if he knew that she was at the window seeing and watching him, his strength and courage would increase. and if she had known his name, she would gladly have called to him to look about him. then she came to the queen and said: "lady, for god's sake and your own as well as ours, i beseech you to tell me, if you know, the name of yonder knight, to the end that it may be of some help to him." "damsel," the queen replies, "you have asked me a question in which i see no hate or evil, but rather good intent; the name of the knight, i know, is lancelot of the lake." [ ] "god, how happy and glad at heart i am!" the damsel says. then she leans forward and calls to him by name so loudly that all the people hear: "lancelot, turn about and see who is here taking note of thee!" (vv. - .) when lancelot heard his name, he was not slow to turn around: he turns and sees seated up there at the window of the tower her whom he desired most in the world to see. from the moment he caught sight of her, he did not turn or take his eyes and face from her, defending himself with backhand blows. and meleagant meanwhile attacked him as fiercely as he could, delighted to think that the other cannot withstand him now; and they of the country are well pleased too, while the foreigners are so distressed that they can no longer support themselves, and many of them fall to earth either upon their knees or stretched out prone; thus some are glad, and some distressed. then the damsel cried again from the window: "ah, lancelot, how is it that thou dost now conduct thyself so foolishly? once thou wert the embodiment of prowess and of all that is good, and i do not think god ever made a knight who could equal thee in valour and in worth. but now we see thee so distressed that thou dealest back-hand blows and fightest thy adversary, behind thy back. turn, so as to be on the other side, and so that thou canst face toward this tower, for it will help thee to keep it in view." then lancelot is so ashamed and mortified that he hates himself, for he knows full well that all have seen how, for some time past, he has had the worst of the fight. thereupon he leaps backward and so manoeuvres as to force meleagant into a position between him and the tower. meleagant makes every effort to regain his former position. but lancelot rushes upon him, and strikes him so violently upon his body and shield whenever he tries to get around him, that he compels him to whirl about two or three times in spite of himself. lancelot's strength and courage grow, partly because he has love's aid, and partly because he never hated any one so much as him with whom he is engaged. love and mortal hate, so fierce that never before was such hate seen, make him so fiery and bold that meleagant ceases to treat it as a jest and begins to stand in awe of him, for he had never met or known so doughty a knight, nor had any knight ever wounded or injured him as this one does. he is glad to get away from him, and he winces and sidesteps, fearing his blows and avoiding them. and lancelot does not idly threaten him, but drives him rapidly toward the tower where the queen was stationed on the watch. there upon the tower he did her the homage of his blows until he came so close that, if he advanced another step, he would lose sight of her. thus lancelot drove him back and forth repeatedly in whatever direction he pleased, always stopping before the queen, his lady, who had kindled the flame which compels him to fix his gaze upon her. and this same flame so stirred him against meleagant that he was enabled to lead and drive him wherever he pleased. in spite of himself he drives him on like a blind man or a man with a wooden leg. the king sees his son so hard pressed that he is sorry for him and he pities him, and he will not deny him aid and assistance if possible; but if he wishes to proceed courteously, he must first beg the queen's permission. so he began to say to her: "lady, since i have had you in my power, i have loved you and faithfully served and honoured you. i never consciously left anything undone in which i saw your honour involved; now repay me for what i have done. for i am about to ask you a favour which you should not grant unless you do so willingly. i plainly see that my son is getting the worst of this battle; i do not speak so because of the chagrin i feel, but in order that lancelot, who has him in his power, may not kill him. nor ought you to wish to see him killed; not because he has not wronged both you and him, but because i make the request of you: so tell him, please, to stop beating him. if you will, you can thus repay me for what i have done for you." "fair sire, i am willing to do so at your request," the queen replies; "had i mortal hatred for your son, whom it is true i do not love, yet you have served me so well that, to please you, i am quite willing that he should desist." these words were not spoken privately, but lancelot and meleagrant heard what was said. the man who is a perfect lover is always obedient and quickly and gladly does his mistress' pleasure. so lancelot was constrained to do his lady's will, for he loved more than pyramus, [ ] if that were possible for any man to do. lancelot heard what was said, and as soon as the last word had issued from her mouth, "since you wish him to desist, i am willing that he should do so," lancelot would not have touched him or made a movement for anything, even if the other had killed him. he does not touch him or raise his hand. but meleagant, beside himself with rage and shame when he hears that it has been necessary to intercede in his behalf, strikes him with all the strength he can muster. and the king went down from the tower to upbraid his son, and entering the list he addressed him thus: "how now? is this becoming, to strike him when he is not touching thee? thou art too cruel and savage, and thy prowess is now out of place! for we all know beyond a doubt that he is thy superior." then meleagant, choking with shame, says to the king: "i think you must be blind! i do not believe you see a thing. any one must indeed be blind to think i am not better than he." "seek some one to believe thy words!" the king replies, "for all the people know whether thou speakest the truth or a lie. all of us know full well the truth." then the king bids his barons lead his son away, which they do at once in execution of his command: they led away meleagant. but it was not necessary to use force to induce lancelot to withdraw, for meleagant might have harmed him grievously, before he would have sought to defend himself. then the king says to his son: "so help me god, now thou must make peace and surrender the queen. thou must cease this quarrel once for all and withdraw thy claim." "that is great nonsense you have uttered! i hear you speak foolishly. stand aside! let us fight, and do not mix in our affairs!" but the king says he will take a hand, for he knows well that, were the fight to continue, lancelot would kill his son. "he kill me! rather would i soon defeat and kill him, if you would leave us alone and let us fight." then the king says: "so help me god, all that thou sayest is of no avail." "why is that?" he asks. "because i will not consent. i will not so trust in thy folly and pride as to allow thee to be killed. a man is a fool to court death, as thou dost in thy ignorance. i know well that thou hatest me because i wish to save thy life. god will not let me see and witness thy death, if i can help it, for it would cause me too much grief." he talks to him and reproves him until finally peace and good-will are restored. the terms of the peace are these: he will surrender the queen to lancelot, provided that the latter without reluctance will fight them again within a year of such time as he shall choose to summon him: this is no trial to lancelot. when peace is made, all the people press about, and it is decided that the battle shall be fought at the court of king arthur, who holds britain and cornwall in his sway: there they decide that it shall be. and the queen has to consent, and lancelot has to promise, that if meleagant can prove him recreant, she shall come back with him again without the interference of any one. when the queen and lancelot had both agreed to this, the arrangement was concluded, and they both retired and removed their arms. now the custom in the country was that when one issued forth, all the others might do so too. all called down blessings upon lancelot: and you may know that he must have felt great joy, as in truth he did. all the strangers assemble and rejoice over lancelot, speaking so as to be heard by him: "sire, in truth we were joyful as soon as we heard your name, for we felt sure at once that we should all be set free." there was a great crowd present at this glad scene, as each one strives and presses forward to touch him if possible. any one who succeeded in touching him was more delighted than he could tell. there was plenty of joy, and of sorrow too; those who were now set free rejoiced unrestrainedly; but meleagant and his followers have not anything they want, but are pensive, gloomy, and downcast. the king turns away from the list, taking with him lancelot, who begs him to take him to the queen. "i shall not fail to do so," the king replies; "for it seems to me the proper thing to do. and if you like, i will show you kay the seneschal." at this lancelot is so glad that he almost falls at his feet. then the king took him at once into the hall, where the queen had come to wait for him. (vv. - .) when the queen saw the king holding lancelot by the hand, she rose before the king, but she looked displeased with clouded brow, and she spoke not a word. "lady, here is lancelot come to see you," says the king; "you ought to be pleased and satisfied." "i, sire? he cannot please me. i care nothing about seeing him." "come now, lady," says the king who was very frank and courteous, "what induces you to act like this? you are too scornful toward a man who has served you so faithfully that he has repeatedly exposed his life to mortal danger on this journey for your sake, and who has defended and rescued you from my son meleagant who had deeply wronged you." "sire, truly he has made poor use of his time. i shall never deny that i feel no gratitude toward him." now lancelot is dumbfounded; but he replies very humbly like a polished lover: "lady, certainly i am grieved at this, but i dare not ask your reason." the queen listened as lancelot voiced his disappointment, but in order to grieve and confound him, she would not answer a single word, but returned to her room. and lancelot followed her with his eyes and heart until she reached the door; but she was not long in sight, for the room was close by. his eyes would gladly have followed her, had that been possible; but the heart, which is more lordly and masterful in its strength, went through the door after her, while the eyes remained behind weeping with the body. and the king said privily to him: "lancelot, i am amazed at what this means: and how it comes about that the queen cannot endure the sight of you, and that she is so unwilling to speak with you. if she is ever accustomed to speak with you, she ought not to be niggardly now or avoid conversation with you, after what you have done for her. now tell me, if you know, why and for what misdeed she has shown you such a countenance." "sire, i did not notice that just now; but she will not look at me or hear my words, and that distresses and grieves me much." "surely," says the king, "she is in the wrong, for you have risked your life for her. come away now, fair sweet friend, and we shall go to speak with the seneschal." "i shall be glad to do so," he replies. then they both go to the seneschal. as soon as lancelot came where he was, the seneschal's first exclamation was: "how thou hast shamed me!" "i? how so?" lancelot inquires; "tell me what disgrace have i brought upon you?" "a very great disgrace, for thou hast carried out what i could not accomplish, and thou hast done what i could not do." (vv. - .) then the king left them together in the room, and went out alone. and lancelot inquires of the seneschal if he has been badly off. "yes," he answers, "and i still am so. i was never more wretched than i am now. and i should have died a long time ago, had it not been for the king, who in his compassion has shown me so much gentleness and kindness that he willingly let me lack nothing of which i stood in need; but i was furnished at once with everything that i desired. but opposed to the kindness which he showed me, was meleagant his son, who is full of wickedness, and who summoned the physicians to him and bade them apply such ointments as would kill me. such a father and stepfather have i had! for when the king had a good plaster applied to my wounds in his desire that i should soon be cured, his treacherous son, wishing to put me to death, had it promptly taken off and some harmful salve applied. but i am very sure that the king was ignorant of this; he would not tolerate such base and murderous tricks. but you do not know how courteous he has been to my lady: no frontier tower since the time that noah built the ark was ever so carefully guarded, for he has guarded her so vigilantly that, though his son chafed under the restraint, he would nor let him see her except in the presence of the king himself. up to the present time the king in his mercy has shown her all the marks of consideration which she herself proposed. she alone had the disposition of her affairs. and the king esteemed her all the more for the loyalty she showed. but is it true, as i am told, that she is so angry with you that she has publicly refused to speak with you?" "you have been told the exact truth," lancelot replies, "but for god's sake, can you tell me why she is so displeased with me?" he replies that he does not know, and that he is greatly surprised at it. "well, let it be as she pleases," says lancelot, feeling his helplessness; "i must now take my leave, and i shall go to seek my lord gawain who has entered this land, and who arranged with me that he would proceed directly to the waterbridge." then, leaving the room, he appeared before the king and asked for leave to proceed in that direction. and the king willingly grants him leave to go. then those whom lancelot had set free and delivered from prison ask him what they are to do. and he replies: "all those who desire may come with me, and those who wish to stay with the queen may do so: there is no reason why they should accompany me." then all those, who so desire, accompany him, more glad and joyous than is their wont. with the queen remain her damsels who are light of heart, and many knights and ladies too. but there is not one of those who stay behind, who would not have preferred to return to his own country to staying there. but on my lord gawain's account, whose arrival is expected, the queen keeps them, saying that she will never stir until she has news of him. (vv. - .) the news spreads everywhere that the queen is free to go, and that all the other prisoners have been set at liberty and are free to go whenever it suits and pleases them. wherever the people of the land gather together, they ask each other about the truth of this report, and never talk of anything else. they are very much enraged that all the dangerous passes have been overcome, and that any one may come and go as he pleases. but when the natives of the country, who had not been present at the battle, learned how lancelot had been the victor, they all betook themselves to the place where they knew he must pass by, thinking that the king would be well pleased if they should seize lancelot and hale him back to him. all of his own men were without their arms, and therefore they were at a disadvantage when they saw the natives of the country coming under arms. it was not strange that they seized lancelot, who was without his arms. they lead him back prisoner, his feet lashed together beneath his horse. then his own men say: "gentlemen, this is an evil deed; for the king has given us his safe-conduct, and we are under his protection." but the others reply: "we do not know how that may be; but as we have taken you, you must return with us to court." the rumour, which swiftly flies and runs, reaches the king, that his men have seized lancelot and put him to death. when the king hears it, he is sorely grieved and swears angrily by his head that they who have killed him shall surely die for the deed; and that, if he can seize or catch them, it shall be their fate to be hanged, burned, or drowned. and if they attempt to deny their deed, he will not believe what they say, for they have brought him such grief and shame that he would be disgraced were vengeance not to be exacted from them; but he will be avenged without a doubt. the news of this spread until it reached the queen, who was sitting at meat. she almost killed herself on hearing the false report about lancelot, but she supposes it to be true, and therefore she is in such dismay that she almost loses the power to speak; but, because of those present, she forces herself to say: "in truth, i am sorry for his death, and it is no wonder that i grieve, for he came into this country for my sake, and therefore i should mourn for him." then she says to herself, so that the others should not hear, that no one need ask her to drink or eat, if it is true that he is dead, in whose life she found her own. then grieving she rises from the table, and makes her lament, but so that no one hears or notices her. she is so beside herself that she repeatedly grasps her throat with the desire to kill herself; but first she confesses to herself, and repents with self-reproach, blaming and censuring herself for the wrong she had done him, who, as she knew, had always been hers, and would still be hers, if he were alive. she is so distressed at the thought of her cruelty, that her beauty is seriously impaired. her cruelty and meanness affected her and marred her beauty more than all the vigils and fastings with which she afflicted herself. when all her sins rise up before her, she gathers them together, and as she reviews them, she repeatedly exclaims: "alas! of what was i thinking when my lover stood before me and i should have welcomed him, that i would not listen to his words? was i not a fool, when i refused to look at or speak to him? foolish indeed? rather was i base and cruel, so help me god. i intended it as a jest, but he did not take it so, and has not pardoned me. i am sure it was no one but me who gave him his death-blow. when he came before me smiling and expecting that i would be glad to see him and would welcome him, and when i would not look at him, was not that a mortal blow? when i refused to speak with him, then doubtless at one blow i deprived him of his heart and life. these two strokes have killed him, i am sure; no other bandits have caused his death. god! can i ever make amends for this murder and this crime? no, indeed; sooner will the rivers and the sea dry up. alas! how much better i should feel, and how much comfort i should take, if only once before he died i had held him in my arms! what? yes, certainly, quite unclad, in order the better to enjoy him. if he is dead, i am very wicked not to destroy myself. why? can it harm my lover for me to live on after he is dead, if i take no pleasure in anything but in the woe i bear for him? in giving myself up to grief after his death, the very woes i court would be sweet to me, if he were only still alive. it is wrong for a woman to wish to die rather than to suffer for her lover's sake. it is certainly sweet for me to mourn him long. i would rather be beaten alive than die and be at rest." (vv. - .) for two days the queen thus mourned for him without eating or drinking, until they thought she too would die. there are plenty of people ready to carry bad news rather than good. the news reaches lancelot that his lady and sweetheart is dead. you need have no doubt of the grief he felt; every one may feel sure that he was afflicted and overcome with grief. indeed, if you would know the truth, he was so downcast that he held his life in slight esteem. he wished to kill himself at once, but first he uttered a brief lament. he makes a running noose at one end of the belt he wore, and then tearfully communes thus with himself: "ah, death, how hast thou spied me out and undone me, when in the bloom of health! i am undone, and yet i feel no pain except the grief within my heart. this is a terrible mortal grief. i am willing that it should be so, and if god will, i shall die of it. then can i not die some other way, without god's consent? yes, if he will let me tie this noose around my neck. i think i can compel death, even against her will, to take my life. death, who covets only those who fear her, will not come to me; but my belt will bring her within my power, and as soon as she is mine, she will execute my desire. but, in truth, she will come too tardily for me, for i yearn to have her now!" then he delays and hesitates no longer, but adjusts his head within the noose until it rests about his neck; and in order that he may not fail to harm himself, he fastens the end of the belt tightly about the saddle-bow, without attracting the attention of any one. then he let himself slide to earth, intending his horse to drag him until he was lifeless, for he disdains to live another hour. when those who ride with him see him fallen to earth, they suppose him to be in a faint, for no one sees the noose which he had attached about his neck. at once they caught him in their arms and, on raising him, they found the noose which he had put around his neck and with which he sought to kill himself. they quickly cut the noose; but the noose had so hurt his throat that for some time he could not speak; the veins of his neck and throat are almost broken. now he could not harm himself, even had he wished to do so; however, he is grieved that they have laid hands on him, and he almost burns up with rage, for willingly would he have killed himself had no one chanced to notice him. and now when he cannot harm himself, he cries: "ah, vile and shameless death! for god's sake, why hadst thou not the power and might to kill me before my lady died? i suppose it was because thou wouldst not deign to do what might be a kindly deed. if thou didst spare me, it must be attributed to thy wickedness. ah, what kind of service and kindness is that! how well hast thou employed them here! a curse upon him who thanks thee or feels gratitude for such a service! i know not which is more my enemy: life, which detains me, or death, which will not slay me. each one torments me mortally; and it serves me right, so help me god, that in spite of myself i should still live on. for i ought to have killed myself as soon as my lady the queen showed her hate for me; she did not do it without cause, but she had some good reason, though i know not what it is. and if i had known what it was before her soul went to god, i should have made her such rich amends as would have pleased her and gained her mercy. god! what could my crime have been? i think she must have known that i mounted upon the cart. i do not know what other cause she can have to blame me. this has been my undoing. if this is the reason of her hate, god! what harm could this crime do? any one who would reproach me for such an act never knew what love is, for no one could mention anything which, if prompted by love, ought to be turned into a reproach. rather, everything that one can do for his lady-love is to be regarded as a token of his love and courtesy. yet, i did not do it for my 'lady-love'. i know not by what name to call her, whether 'lady-love', or not. i do not dare to call her by this name. but i think i know this much of love: that if she loved me, she ought not to esteem me less for this crime, but rather call me her true lover, inasmuch as i regarded it as an honour to do all love bade me do, even to mount upon a cart. she ought to ascribe this to love; and this is a certain proof that love thus tries his devotees and thus learns who is really his. but this service did not please my lady, as i discovered by her countenance. and yet her lover did for her that for which many have shamefully reproached and blamed him, though she was the cause of it; and many blame me for the part i have played, and have turned my sweetness into bitterness. in truth, such is the custom of those who know so little of love, that even honour they wash in shame. but whoever dips honour into shame, does not wash it, but rather sullies it. but they, who maltreat him so, are quite ignorant of love; and he, who fears not his commands, boasts himself very superior to him. for unquestionably he fares well who obeys the commands of love, and whatever he does is pardonable, but he is the coward who does not dare." (vv. - .) thus lancelot makes his lament, and his men stand grieving by his side, keeping hold of him and guarding him. then the news comes that the queen is not dead. thereupon lancelot at once takes comfort, and if his grief for her death had before been intense and deep, now his joy for her life was a hundred thousand times as great. and when they arrived within six or seven leagues of the castle where king bademagu was, grateful news of lancelot was told him, how he was alive and was coming hale and hearty, and this news the king was glad to hear. he did a very courteous thing in going at once to appraise the queen. and she replies: "fair sire, since you say so, i believe it is true, but i assure you that, if he were dead, i should never be happy again. all my joy would be cut off, if a knight had been killed in my service." (vv. - .) then the king leaves her, and the queen yearns ardently for the arrival of her lover and her joy. she has no desire this time to bear him any grudge. but rumour, which never rests but runs always unceasingly, again reaches the queen to the effect that lancelot would have killed himself for her sake, if he had had the chance. she is happy at the thought that this is true, but she would not have had it happen so for anything, for her sorrow would have been too great. thereupon lancelot arrived in haste. [ ] as soon as the king sees him, he runs to kiss and embrace him. he feels as if he ought to fly, borne along by the buoyancy of his joy. but his satisfaction is cut short by those who had taken and bound his guest, and the king tells them they have come in an evil hour, for they shall all be killed and confounded. then they made answer that they thought he would have it so. "it is i whom you have insulted in doing your pleasure. he has no reason to complain," the king replies; "you have not shamed him at all, but only me who was protecting him. however you look at it, the shame is mine. but if you escape me now, you will see no joke in this." when lancelot hears his wrath, he puts forth every effort to make peace and adjust matters; when his efforts have met with success, the king takes him away to see the queen. this time the queen did not lower her eyes to the ground, but she went to meet him cheerfully, honouring him all she could, and making him sit down by her side. then they talked together at length of all that was upon their hearts, and love furnished them with so much to say that topics did not lack. and when lancelot sees how well he stands, and that all he says finds favour with the queen, he says to her in confidence: "lady, i marvel greatly why you received me with such a countenance when you saw me the day before yesterday, and why you would not speak a word to me: i almost died of the blow you gave me, and i had not the courage to dare to question you about it, as i now venture to do. i am ready now, lady, to make amends, when you have told me what has been the crime which has caused me such distress." then the queen replies: "what? did you not hesitate for shame to mount the cart? you showed you were loath to get in, when you hesitated for two whole steps. that is the reason why i would neither address nor look at you." "may god save me from such a crime again," lancelot replies, "and may god show me no mercy, if you were not quite right! for god's sake, lady, receive my amends at once, and tell me, for god's sake, if you can ever pardon me." "friend, you are quite forgiven," the queen replies; "i pardon you willingly." "thank you for that, lady," he then says; "but i cannot tell you here all that i should like to say; i should like to talk with you more at leisure, if possible." then the queen indicates a window by her glance rather than with her finger, and says: "come through the garden to-night and speak with me at yonder window, when every one inside has gone to sleep. you will not be able to get in: i shall be inside and you outside: to gain entrance will be impossible. i shall be able to touch you only with my lips or hand, but, if you please, i will stay there until morning for love of you. our bodies cannot be joined, for close beside me in my room lies kay the seneschal, who is still suffering from his wounds. and the door is not open, but is tightly closed and guarded well. when you come, take care to let no spy catch sight of you." "lady," says he, "if i can help it, no spy shall see me who might think or speak evil of us." then, having agreed upon this plan, they separate very joyfully. (vv. - .) lancelot leaves the room in such a happy frame that all his past troubles are forgotten. but he was so impatient for the night to come that his restlessness made the day seem longer than a hundred ordinary days or than an entire year. if night had only come, he would gladly have gone to the trysting place. dark and sombre night at last won its struggle with the day, and wrapped it up in its covering, and laid it away beneath its cloak. when he saw the light of day obscured, he pretended to be tired and worn, and said that, in view of his protracted vigils, he needed rest. you, who have ever done the same, may well understand and guess that he pretends to be tired and goes to bed in order to deceive the people of the house; but he cared nothing about his bed, nor would he have sought rest there for anything, for he could not have done so and would not have dared, and furthermore he would not have cared to possess the courage or the power to do so. soon he softly rose, and was pleased to find that no moon or star was shining, and that in the house there was no candle, lamp, or lantern burning. thus he went out and looked about, but there was no one on the watch for him, for all thought that he would sleep in his bed all night. without escort or company he quickly went out into the garden, meeting no one on the way, and he was so fortunate as to find that a part of the garden-wall had recently fallen down. through this break he passes quickly and proceeds to the window, where he stands, taking good care not to cough or sneeze, until the queen arrives clad in a very white chemise. she wore no cloak or coat, but had thrown over her a short cape of scarlet cloth and shrew-mouse fur. as soon as lancelot saw the queen leaning on the window-sill behind the great iron bars, he honoured her with a gentle salute. she promptly returned his greeting, for he was desirous of her, and she of him. their talk and conversation are not of vulgar, tiresome affairs. they draw close to one another, until each holds the other's hand. but they are so distressed at not being able to come together more completely, that they curse the iron bars. then lancelot asserts that, with the queen's consent, he will come inside to be with her, and that the bars cannot keep him out. and the queen replies: "do you not see how the bars are stiff to bend and hard to break? you could never so twist, pull or drag at them as to dislodge one of them." "lady," says he, "have no fear of that. it would take more than these bars to keep me out. nothing but your command could thwart my power to come to you. if you will but grant me your permission, the way will open before me. but if it is not your pleasure, then the way is so obstructed that i could not possibly pass through." "certainly," she says, "i consent. my will need not stand in your way; but you must wait until i retire to my bed again, so that no harm may come to you, for it would be no joke or jest if the seneschal, who is sleeping here, should wake up on hearing you. so it is best for me to withdraw, for no good could come of it, if he should see me standing here." "go then, lady," he replies; "but have no fear that i shall make any noise. i think i can draw out the bars so softly and with so little effort that no one shall be aroused." (vv. - .) then the queen retires, and he prepares to loosen the window. seizing the bars, he pulls and wrenches them until he makes them bend and drags them from their places. but the iron was so sharp that the end of his little finger was cut to the nerve, and the first joint of the next finger was torn; but he who is intent upon something else paid no heed to any of his wounds or to the blood which trickled down. though the window is not low, lancelot gets through it quickly and easily. first he finds kay asleep in his bed, then he comes to the bed of the queen, whom he adores and before whom he kneels, holding her more dear than the relic of any saint. and the queen extends her arms to him and, embracing him, presses him tightly against her bosom, drawing him into the bed beside her and showing him every possible satisfaction; her love and her heart go out to him. it is love that prompts her to treat him so; and if she feels great love for him, he feels a hundred thousand times as much for her. for there is no love at all in other hearts compared with what there is in his; in his heart love was so completely embodied that it was niggardly toward all other hearts. now lancelot possesses all he wants, when the queen voluntarily seeks his company and love, and when he holds her in his arms, and she holds him in hers. their sport is so agreeable and sweet, as they kiss and fondle each other, that in truth such a marvellous joy comes over them as was never heard or known. but their joy will not be revealed by me, for in a story, it has no place. yet, the most choice and delightful satisfaction was precisely that of which our story must not speak. that night lancelot's joy and pleasure were very great. but, to his sorrow, day comes when he must leave his mistress' side. it cost him such pain to leave her that he suffered a real martyr's agony. his heart now stays where the queen remains; he has not the power to lead it away, for it finds such pleasure in the queen that it has no desire to leave her: so his body goes, and his heart remains. but enough of his body stays behind to spot and stain the sheets with the blood which has fallen from his fingers. full of sighs and tears, lancelot leaves in great distress. he grieves that no time is fixed for another meeting, but it cannot be. regretfully he leaves by the window through which he had entered so happily. he was so badly wounded in the fingers that they were in sorry, state; yet he straightened the bars and set them in their place again, so that from neither side, either before or behind, was it evident that any one had drawn out or bent any of the bars. when he leaves the room, he bows and acts precisely as if he were before a shrine; then he goes with a heavy heart, and reaches his lodgings without being recognised by any one. he throws himself naked upon his bed without awaking any one, and then for the first time he is surprised to notice the cuts in his fingers; but he is not at all concerned, for he is very sure that the wound was caused by dragging the window bars from the wall. therefore he was not at all worried, for he would rather have had both arms dragged from his body than not enter through the window. but he would have been very angry and distressed, if he had thus injured and wounded himself under any other circumstances. (vv. - .) in the morning, within her curtained room, the queen had fallen into a gentle sleep; she had not noticed that her sheets were spotted with blood, but she supposed them to be perfectly white and clean and presentable. now meleagant, as soon as he was dressed and ready, went to the room where the queen lay. he finds her awake, and he sees the sheets spotted with fresh drops of blood, whereupon he nudges his companions and, suspicious of some mischief, looks at the bed of kay the seneschal, and sees that his sheets are blood-stained too, for you must know that in the night his wounds had begun to bleed afresh. then he said: "lady, now i have found the evidence that i desired. it is very true that any man is a fool to try to confine a woman: he wastes his efforts and his pains. he who tries to keep her under guard loses her sooner than the man who takes no thought of her. a fine watch, indeed, has been kept by my father, who is guarding you on my behalf! he has succeeded in keeping you from me, but, in spite of him, kay the seneschal has looked upon you last night, and has done what he pleased with you, as can readily be proved." "what is that?" she asks. "since i must speak, i find blood on your sheets, which proves the fact. i know it and can prove it, because i find on both your sheets and his the blood which issued from his wounds: the evidence is very strong." then the queen saw on both beds the bloody sheets, and marvelling, she blushed with shame and said: "so help me god, this blood which i see upon my sheets was never brought here by kay, but my nose bled during the night, and i suppose it must be from my nose." in saying so, she thinks she tells the truth. "by my head," says meleagant, "there is nothing in what you say. swearing is of no avail, for you are taken in your guilt, and the truth will soon be proved." then he said to the guards who were present: "gentlemen, do not move, and see to it that the sheets are not taken from the bed until i return. i wish the king to do me justice, as soon as he has seen the truth." then he searched until he found him, and failing at his feet, he said: "sire, come to see what you have failed to guard. come to see the queen, and you shall see the certain marvels which i have already seen and tested. but, before you go, i beg you not to fail to be just and upright toward me. you know well to what danger i have exposed myself for the queen; yet, you are no friend of mine and keep her from me under guard. this morning i went to see her in her bed, and i remarked that kay lies with her every night. sire, for god's sake, be not angry, if i am disgruntled and if i complain. for it is very humiliating for me to be hated and despised by one with whom kay is allowed to lie." "silence!" says the king; "i don't believe it." "then come, my lord, and see the sheets and the state in which kay has left them. since you will not believe my words, and since you think i am lying, i will show you the sheets and the quilt covered with blood from kay's wounds." "come now," says the king, "i wish to see for myself, and my eyes will judge of the truth." then the king goes directly to the room, where the queen got up at his approach. he sees that the sheets are blood-stained on her bed and on kay's alike and he says: "lady, it is going badly now, if what my son has said is true." then she replies: "so help me god, never even in a dream was uttered such a monstrous lie. i think kay the seneschal is courteous and loyal enough not to commit such a deed, and besides, i do not expose my body in the market-place, nor offer it of my own free will. surely, kay is not the man to make an insulting proposal to me, and i have never desired and shall never desire to do such a thing myself." "sire, i shall be much obliged to you," says meleagant to his father, "if kay shall be made to atone for this outrage, and the queen's shame thus be exposed. it devolves upon you to see that justice is done, and this justice i now request and claim. kay has betrayed king arthur, his lord, who had such confidence in him that he entrusted to him what he loved most in the world." "let me answer, sire," says kay, "and i shall exonerate myself. may god have no mercy upon my soul when i leave this world, if i ever lay with my lady! indeed, i should rather be dead than ever do my lord such an ugly wrong, and may god never grant me better health than i have now but rather kill me on the spot, if such a thought ever entered my mind! but i know that my wounds bled profusely last night, and that is the reason why my sheets are stained with blood. that is why your son suspects me, but surely he has no right to do so." and meleagant answers him: "so help me god, the devils and demons have betrayed you. you grew too heated last night and, as a result of your exertions, your wounds have doubtless bled afresh. there is no use in your denying it; we can see it, and it is perfectly evident. it is right that he should atone for his crime, who is so plainly taken in his guilt. never did a knight with so fair a name commit such iniquities as this, and yours is the shame for it." "sire, sire," says kay to the king, "i will defend the queen and myself against the accusation of your son. he harasses and distresses me, though he has no ground to treat me so." "you cannot fight," the king replies, "you are too ill." "sire, if you will allow it, i will fight with him, ill as i am, and will show him that i am not guilty of the crime which he imputes to me." but the queen, having secretly sent word to lancelot, tells the king that she will present a knight who will defend the seneschal, if meleagant dares to urge this charge. then meleagant said at once: "there is no knight without exception, even were he a giant, whom i will not fight until one of us is defeated." then lancelot came in, and with him such a rout of knights that the whole hall was filled with them. as soon as he had entered, in the hearing of all, both young and old, the queen told what had happened, and said: "lancelot, this insult has been done me by meleagant. in the presence of all who hear his words he says i have lied, if you do not make him take it back. last night, he asserted, kay lay with me, because he found my sheets, like his, all stained with blood; and he says that he stands convicted, unless he will undertake his own defence, or unless some one else will fight the battle on his behalf." lancelot says: "you need never use arguments with me. may it not please god that either you or he should be thus discredited! i am ready to fight and to prove to the extent of my power that he never was guilty of such a thought. i am ready to employ my strength in his behalf, and to defend him against this charge." then meleagant jumped up and said: "so help me god, i am pleased and well satisfied with that: no one need think that i object." and lancelot said: "my lord king, i am well acquainted with suits and laws, with trials and verdicts: in a question of veracity an oath should be taken before the fight." meleagant at once replies: "i agree to take an oath; so let the relics be brought at once, for i know well that i am right." and lancelot answers him: "so help me god, no one who ever knew kay the seneschal would doubt his word on such a point." then they call for their horses, and ask that their arms be brought. this is promptly done, and when the valets had armed them, they were ready for the fight. then the holy relics are brought forth: meleagant steps forward, with lancelot by his side, and both fall on their knees. then meleagant, laying his hands upon the relics, swears unreservedly: "so help me god and this holy relic, kay the seneschal lay with the queen in her bed last night and, had his pleasure with her." "and i swear that thou liest," says lancelot, "and furthermore i swear that he neither lay with her nor touched her. and may it please god to take vengeance upon him who has lied, and may he bring the truth to light! moreover, i will take another oath and swear, whoever may dislike it or be displeased, that if i am permitted to vanquish meleagant to-day, i will show him no mercy, so help me god and these relics here!" the king felt no joy when he heard this oath. (vv. - .) when the oaths had been taken, their horses were brought forward, which were fair and good in every way. each man mounts his own home, and they ride at once at each other as fast as the steeds can carry them; and when the horses are in mid-career, the knights strike each other so fiercely that there is nothing left of the lances in their hands. each brings the other to earth; however, they are not dismayed, but they rise at once and attack each other with their sharp drawn swords. the burning sparks fly in the air from their helmets. they assail each other so bitterly with the drawn swords in their hands that, as they thrust and draw, they encounter each other with their blows and will not pause even to catch their breath. the king in his grief and anxiety called the queen, who had gone up in the tower to look out from the balcony: he begged her for god's sake, the creator, to let them be separated. "whatever is your pleasure is agreeable to me," the queen says honestly: "i shall not object to anything you do." lancelot plainly heard what reply the queen made to the king's request, and from that time he ceased to fight and renounced the struggle at once. but meleagant does not wish to stop, and continues to strike and hew at him. but the king rushes between them and stops his son, who declares with an oath that he has no desire for peace. he wants to fight, and cares not for peace. then the king says to him: "be quiet, and take my advice, and be sensible. no shame or harm shall come to thee, if thou wilt do what is right and heed my words. dost thou not remember that thou hast agreed to fight him at king arthur's court? and dost thou not suppose that it would be a much greater honour for thee to defeat him there than anywhere else?" the king says this to see if he can so influence him as to appease him and separate them. and lancelot, who was impatient to go in search of my lord gawain, requests leave of the king and queen to depart. with their permission he goes away toward the water-bridge, and after him there followed a great company of knights. but it would have suited him very well, if many of those who went had stayed behind. they make long days' journeys until they approach the water-bridge, but are still about a league from it. before they came in sight of the bridge, a dwarf came to meet them on a mighty hunter, holding a scourge with which to urge on and incite his steed. in accordance with his instructions, he at once inquired: "which of you is lancelot? don't conceal him from me; i am of your party; tell me confidently, for i ask the question for your good." lancelot replies in his own behalf, and says: "i am he whom thou seekest and askest for." "ah," says the dwarf, "frank knight, leave these people, and trust in me. come along with me alone, for i will take thee to a goodly place. let no one follow thee for anything, but let them wait here; for we shall return presently." he, suspecting no harm in this, bids all his men stay there, and follows the dwarf who has betrayed him. meanwhile his men who wait for him may continue to expect him long in vain, for they, who have taken and seized him, have no desire to give him up. and his men are in such a state of grief at his failure to return that they do not know what steps to take. they all say sorrowfully that the dwarf has betrayed them. it would be useless to inquire for him: with heavy hearts they begin to search, but they know not where to look for him with any hope of finding him. so they all take counsel, and the most reasonable and sensible agree on this, it seems: to go to the passage of the water-bridge, which is close by, to see if they can find my lord gawain in wood or plain, and then with his advice search for lancelot. upon this plan they all agree without dissension. toward the water-bridge they go, and as soon as they reach the bridge, they see my lord gawain overturned and fallen from the bridge into the stream which is very deep. one moment he rises, and the next he sinks; one moment they see him, and the next they lose him from sight. they make such efforts that they succeed in raising him with branches, poles and hooks. he had nothing but his hauberk on his back, and on his head was fixed his helmet, which was worth ten of the common sort, and he wore his iron greaves, which were all rusty with his sweat, for he had endured great trials, and had passed victoriously through many perils and assaults. his lance, his shield, and horse were all behind on the other bank. those who have rescued him do not believe he is alive. for his body was full of water, and until he got rid of it, they did not hear him speak a word. but when his speech and voice and the passageway to his heart are free, and as soon, as what he said could be heard and understood, he tried to speak he inquired at once for the queen, whether those present had any news of her. and they replied that she is still with king bademagu, who serves her well and honourably. "has no one come to seek her in this land?" my lord gawain then inquires of them. and they answer him: "yes, indeed." "who?" "lancelot of the lake," they say, "who crossed the sword-bridge, and rescued and delivered her as well as all the rest of us. but we have been betrayed by a pot-bellied, humpbacked, and crabbed dwarf. he has deceived us shamefully in seducing lancelot from us, and we do not know what he has done with him." "when was that?" my lord gawain inquires. "sire, near here this very day this trick was played on us, while he was coming with us to meet you." "and how has lancelot been occupied since he entered this land?" then they begin to tell him all about him in detail, and then they tell him about the queen, how she is waiting for him and asserting that nothing could induce her to leave the country, until she sees him or hears some credible news of him. to them my lord gawain replies: "when we leave this bridge, we shall go to search for lancelot." there is not one who does not advise rather that they go to the queen at once, and have the king seek lancelot, for it is their opinion that his son meleagant has shown his enmity by having him cast into prison. but if the king can learn where he is, he will certainly make him surrender him: they can rely upon this with confidence. (vv. - .) they all agreed upon this plan, and started at once upon their way until they drew near the court where the queen and king were. there, too, was kay the seneschal, and that disloyal man, full to overflowing of treachery, who has aroused the greatest anxiety for lancelot on the part of the party which now arrives. they feel they have been discomfited and betrayed, and they make great lament in their misery. it is not a gracious message which reports this mourning to the queen. nevertheless, she deports herself with as good a grace as possible. she resolves to endure it, as she must, for the sake of my lord gawain. however, she does not so conceal her grief that it does not somewhat appear. she has to show both joy and grief at once: her heart is empty for lancelot, and to my lord gawain she shows excessive joy. every one who hears of the loss of lancelot is grief-stricken and distracted. the king would have rejoiced at the coming of my lord gawain and would have been delighted with his acquaintance; but he is so sorrowful and distressed over the betrayal of lancelot that he is prostrated and full of grief. and the queen beseeches him insistently to have him searched for, up and down throughout the land, without postponement or delay. my lord gawain and kay and all the others join in this prayer and request. "leave this care to me, and speak no more of it," the king replies, "for i have been ready to do so for some time. without need of request or prayer this search shall be made with thoroughness." everyone bows in sign of gratitude, and the king at once sends messengers through his realm, sagacious and prudent men-at-arms, who inquired for him throughout the land. they made inquiry for him everywhere, but gained no certain news of him. not finding any, they come back to the place where the knights remain; then gawain and kay and all the others say that they will go in search of him, fully armed and lance in rest; they will not trust to sending some one else. (vv. - .) one day after dinner they were all in the hall putting on their arms, and the point had been reached where there was nothing to do but start, when a valet entered and passed by them all until he came before the queen, whose cheeks were by no means rosy! for she was in such mourning for lancelot, of whom she had no news, that she had lost all her colour. the valet greeted her as well as the king, who was by her side, and then all the others and kay and my lord gawain. he held a letter in his hand which he gave to the king, who took it. the king had it read in the hearing of all by one who made no mistake in reading it. the reader knew full well how to communicate to them what was written in the parchment: he says that lancelot sends greetings to the king as his kind lord, and thanks him for the honour and kindness he has shown him, and that he now places himself at the king's orders. and know that he is now hale and hearty at king arthur's court, and he bids him tell the queen to come thither, if she will consent, in company with my lord gawain and kay. in proof of which, he affixed his signature which they should recognise, as indeed they did. at this they were very happy and glad; the whole court resounds with their jubilation, and they say they will start next day as soon as it is light. so, when the day broke, they make ready and prepare: they rise and mount and start. with great joy and jubilee the king escorts them for a long distance on their way. when he has conducted them to the frontier and has seen them safely across the border, he takes leave of the queen, and likewise of all the rest. and when he comes to take his leave, the queen is careful to express her gratitude for all the kindness he has shown to her, and throwing her arms about his neck, she offers and promises him her own service and that of her lord: no greater promise can she make. and my lord gawain promises his service to him, as to his lord and friend, and then kay does likewise, and all the rest. then the king commends them to god as they start upon their way. after these three, he bids the rest farewell, and then turns his face toward home. the queen and her company do not tarry a single day until news of them reaches the court. king arthur was delighted at the news of the queen's approach, and he is happy and pleased at the thought that his nephew had brought about the queen's return, as well as that of kay and of the lesser folk. but the truth is quite different from what he thinks. all the town is cleared as they go to meet them, and knights and vassals join in shouting as they approach: "welcome to my lord gawain, who has brought back the queen and many another captive lady, and has freed for us many prisoners!" then gawain answered them: "gentlemen, i do not deserve your praise. do not trouble ever to say this again, for the compliment does not apply to me. this honour causes me only shame, for i did not reach the queen in time; my detention made me late. but lancelot reached there in time, and won such honour as was never won by any other knight." "where is he, then, fair dear sire, for we do not see him here?" "where?" echoes my lord gawain; "at the court of my lord the king, to be sure. is he not?" "no, he is not here, or anywhere else in this country. since my lady was taken away, we have had no news of him." then for the first time my lord gawain realised that the letter had been forged, and that they had been betrayed and deceived: by the letter they had been misled. then they all begin to lament, and they come thus weeping to the court, where the king at once asks for information about the affair. there were plenty who could tell him how much lancelot had done, how the queen and all the captives were delivered from durance by him, and by what treachery the dwarf had stolen him and drawn him away from them. this news is not pleasing to the king, and he is very sorry and full of grief; but his heart is so lightened by the pleasure he takes in the queen's return, that his grief concludes in joy. when he has what he most desires, he cares little for the rest. (vv. - .) while the queen was out of the country, i believe, the ladies and the damsels who were disconsolate, decided among themselves that they would marry, soon, and they organised a contest and a tournament. the lady of noauz was patroness of it, with the lady of pomelegloi. they will have nothing to do with those who fare ill, but they assert that they will accept those who comport themselves well in the tournament. and they had the date of the contest proclaimed s long while in advance in all the countries near and far, in order that there might be more participants. now the queen arrived before the date they had set, and as soon as the ladies heard of the queen's return, most of them came at once to the king and besought him to grant them a favour and boon, which he did. he promised to do whatever they wished, before he knew what their desire might be. then they told him that they wished him to let the queen come to be present at their contest. and he who was not accustomed to forbid, said he was willing, if she wished ir so. in happy mood they go to the queen and say to her: "lady, do not deprive us of the boon which the king has granted us." then she asks them: "what is that? don't fail to tell!" then they say to her: "if you will come to our tournament, he will not gainsay you nor stand in the way." then she said that she would come, since he was willing that she should. promptly the dames send word throughout the realm that they are going to bring the queen on the day set for the tournament. the news spread far and near, here and there, until it reached the kingdom whence no one used to return--but now whoever wished might enter or pass out unopposed. the news travelled in this kingdom until it came to a seneschal of the faithless meleagant may an evil fire burn him! this seneschal had lancelot in his keeping, for to him he had been entrusted by his enemy meleagant, who hated him with deadly hate. lancelot learned the hour and date of the tournament, and as soon as he heard of it, his eyes were not tearless nor was his heart glad. the lady of the house, seeing lancelot sad and pensive, thus spoke to him: "sire, for god's sake and for your own soul's good, tell me truly," the lady said, "why you are so changed. you won't eat or drink anything, and i see that you do not make merry or laugh. you can tell me with confidence why you are so sad and troubled." "ah, lady, for god's sake, do not be surprised that i am sad! truly, i am very much downcast, since i cannot be present where all that is good in the world will be assembled: that is, at the tournament where there will be a gathering of the people who make the earth tremble. nevertheless, if it pleased you, and if god should incline your heart to let me go thither, you might rest assured that i should be careful to return to my captivity here." "i would gladly do it," she replied, "if i did not see that my death and destruction would result. but i am in such terror of my lord, the despicable meleagant, that i would not dare to do it, for he would kill my husband at once. it is not strange that i am afraid of him, for, as you know, he is very bad." "lady, if you are afraid that i may not return to you at once after the tournament, i will take an oath which i will never break, that nothing will detain me from returning at once to my prison here immediately after the tournament." "upon my word," said she, "i will allow it upon one condition." "lady, what condition is that?" then she replies: "sire, upon condition that you wilt swear to return to me, and promise that i shall have your love." "lady, i give you all the love i have, and swear to come back." then the lady laughs and says: "i have no cause to boast of such a gift, for i know you have bestowed upon some one else the love for which i have just made request. however, i do not disdain to take so much of it as i can get. i shall be satisfied with what i can have, and will accept your oath that you will be so considerate of me as to return hither a prisoner." (vv. - .) in accordance with her wish, lancelot swears by holy church that he will return without fail. and the lady at once gives him the vermilion arms of her lord, and his horse which was marvellously good and strong and brave. he mounts and leaves, armed with handsome, new arms, and proceeds until he comes to noauz. he espoused this side in the tournament, and took his lodging outside the town. never did such a noble man choose such a small and lowly lodging-place; but he did not wish to lodge where he might be recognised. there were many good and excellent knights gathered within the town. but there were many more outside, for so many had come on account of the presence of the queen that the fifth part could not be accommodated inside. for every one who would have been there under ordinary circumstances, there were seven who would not have come excepting on the queen's account. the barons were quartered in tents, lodges, and pavilions for five leagues around. moreover, it was wonderful how many gentle ladies and damsels were there. lancelot placed his shield outside the door of his lodging-place, and then, to make himself more comfortable, he took off his arms and lay down upon a bed which he held in slight esteem; for it was narrow and had a thin mattress, and was covered with a coarse hempen cloth. lancelot had thrown himself upon the bed all disarmed, and as he lay there in such poor estate, behold! a fellow came in in his shirt-sleeves; he was a herald-at-arms, and had left his coat and shoes in the tavern as a pledge; so he came running barefoot and exposed to the wind. he saw the shield hanging outside the door, and looked at it: but naturally he did not recognise it or know to whom it belonged, or who was the bearer of it. he sees the door of the house standing open, and upon entering, he sees lancelot upon the bed, and as soon as he saw him, he recognised him and crossed himself. and lancelot made a sign to him, and ordered him not to speak of him wherever he might go, for if he should tell that he knew him, it would be better for him to have his eyes put out or his neck broken. "sire," the herald says, "i have always held you in high esteem, and so long as i live, i shall never do anything to cause you displeasure." then he runs from the house and cries aloud: "now there has come one who will take the measure! [ ] now there has come one who will take the measure!" the fellow shouts this everywhere, and the people come from every side and ask him what is the meaning of his cry. he is not so rash as to answer them, but goes on shouting the same words: "now there has come one who will take the measure!" this herald was the master of us all, when he taught us to use the phrase, for he was the first to make use of it. (vv. - .) now the crowd was assembled, including the queen and all the ladies, the knights and the other people, and there were many men-at-arms everywhere, to the right and left. at the place where the tournament was to be, there were some large wooden stands for the use of the queen with her ladies and damsels. such fine stands were never seen before they were so long and well constructed. thither the ladies betook themselves with the queen, wishing to see who would fare better or worse in the combat. knights arrive by tens, twenties, and thirties, here eighty and there ninety, here a hundred, there still more, and yonder twice as many yet; so that the press is so great in front of the stands and all around that they decide to begin the joust. as they assemble, armed and unarmed, their lances suggest the appearance of a wood, for those who have come to the sport brought so many lances that there is nothing in sight but lances, banners, and standards. those who are going to take part begin to joust, and they find plenty of their companions who had come with similar intent. still others prepare to perform other feats of chivalry. the fields, meadows, and fallow lands are so full of knights that it is impossible to estimate how many of them are there. but there was no sign of lancelot at this first gathering of the knights; but later, when he entered the middle of the field, the herald saw him and could not refrain from crying out: "behold him who will take the measure! behold him who will take the measure!" and the people ask him who he is, but he will not tell them anything. (vv. - .) when lancelot entered the tournament, he was as good as twenty of the best, and he began to fight so doughtily that no one could take his eyes from him, wherever he was. on the pomelegloi side there was a brave and valorous knight, and his horse was spirited and swifter than a wild stag. he was the son of the irish king, and fought well and handsomely. but the unknown knight pleased them all more a hundred times. in wonder they all make haste to ask: "who is this knight who fights so well?" and the queen privily called a clever and wise damsel to her and said: "damsel, you must carry a message, and do it quickly and with few words. go down from the stand, and approach yonder knight with the vermilion shield, and tell him privately that i bid him do his 'worst'." she goes quickly, and with intelligence executes the queen's command. she sought the knight until she came up close to him; then she said to him prudently and in a voice so low that no one standing by might hear: "sire, my lady the queen sends you word by me that you shall do your 'worst'." when he heard this, he replied: "very willingly," like one who is altogether hers. then he rides at another knight as hard as his horse can carry him, and misses his thrust which should have struck him. from that time till evening fell he continued to do as badly as possible in accordance with the queen's desire. but the other, who fought with him, did not miss his thrust, but struck him with such violence that he was roughly handled. thereupon he took to flight, and after that he never turned his horse's head toward any knight, and were he to die for it, he would never do anything unless he saw in it his shame, disgrace, and dishonour; he even pretends to be afraid of all the knights who pass to and fro. and the very knights who formerly esteemed him now hurled jests and jibes at him. and the herald who had been saying: "he will beat them all in turn!" is greatly dejected and discomfited when he hears the scornful jokes of those who shout: "friend, say no more! this fellow will not take any one's measure again. he has measured so much that his yardstick is broken, of which thou hast boasted to us so much." many say: "what is he going to do? he was so brave just now; but now he is so cowardly that there is not a knight whom he dares to face. the cause of his first success must have been that he never engaged at arms before, and he was so brave at his first attack that the most skilled knight dared not withstand him, for he fought like a wild man. but now he has learned so much of arms that he will never wish to bear them again his whole life long. his heart cannot longer endure the thought, for there is nothing more cowardly than his heart." and the queen, as she watches him, is happy and well-pleased, for she knows full well, though she does not say it, that this is surely lancelot. thus all day long till evening he played his coward's part, and late in the afternoon they separated. at parting there was a great discussion as to who had done the best. the son of the irish king thinks that without doubt or contradiction he has all the glory and renown. but he is grievously mistaken, for there were plenty of others as good as he. even the vermilion knight so pleased the fairest and gentlest of the ladies and damsels that they had gazed at him more than at any other knight, for they had remarked how well he fought at first, and how excellent and brave he was; then he had become so cowardly that he dared not face a single knight, and even the worst of them could defeat and capture him at will. but knights and ladies all agreed that on the morrow they should return to the list, and the damsels should choose as their lords those who should win honour in that day's fight: on this arrangement they all agree. then they turn toward their lodgings, and when they had returned, here and there men began to say: "what has become of the worst, the most craven and despised of knights? whither did he go? where is he concealed? where is he to be found? where shall we search for him? we shall probably never see him again. for he has been driven off by cowardice, with which he is so filled that there is no greater craven in the world than he. and he is not wrong, for a coward is a hundred times more at ease than a valorous fighting man. cowardice is easy of entreaty, and that is the reason he has given her the kiss of peace and has taken from her all she has to give. courage never so debased herself as to lodge in his breast or take quarters near him. but cowardice is altogether lodged with him, and she has found a host who will honour her and serve her so faithfully that he is willing to resign his own fair name for hers." thus they wrangle all night, vying with each other in slander. but often one man maligns another, and yet is much worse himself than the object of his blame and scorn. thus, every one said what he pleased about him. and when the next day dawned, all the people prepared and came again to the jousting place. the queen was in the stand again, accompanied by her ladies and damsels and many knights without their arms, who had been captured or defeated, and these explained to them the armorial bearings of the knights whom they most esteem. thus they talk among themselves: [ ] "do you see that knight yonder with a golden band across the middle of his red shield? that is governauz of roberdic. and do you see that other one, who has an eagle and a dragon painted side by side upon his shield? that is the son of the king of aragon, who has come to this land in search of glory and renown. and do you see that one beside him, who thrusts and jousts so well, bearing a shield with a leopard painted on a green ground on one part, and the other half is azure blue? that is ignaures the well-beloved, a lover himself and jovial. and he who bears the shield with the pheasants portrayed beak to beak is coguillanz of mautirec. do you see those two side by side, with their dappled steeds, and golden shields showing black lions? one is named semiramis, and the other is his companion; their shields are painted alike. and do you see the one who has a shield with a gate painted on it, through which a stag appears to be passing out? that is king ider, in truth." thus they talk up in the stand. "that shield was made at limoges, whence it was brought by pilades, who is very ardent and keen to be always in the fight. that shield, bridle, and breast-strap were made at toulouse, and were brought here by kay of estraus. the other came from lyons on the rhone, and there is no better under heaven; for his great merit it was presented to taulas of the desert, who bears it well and protects himself with it skilfully. yonder shield is of english workmanship and was made at london; you see on it two swallows which appear as if about to fly; yet they do not move, but receive many blows from the poitevin lances of steel; he who has it is poor thoas." thus they point out and describe the arms of those they know; but they see nothing of him whom they had held in such contempt, and, not remarking him in the fray, they suppose that he has slipped away. when the queen sees that he is not there, she feels inclined to send some one to search for him in the crowd until he be found. she knows of no one better to send in search of him than she who yesterday performed her errand. so, straightway calling her, she said to her: "damsel, go and mount your palfrey! i send you to the same knight as i sent you yesterday, and do you seek him until you find him. do not delay for any cause, and tell him again to do his 'worst'. and when you have given him this message, mark well what reply he makes." the damsel makes no delay, for she had carefully noticed the direction he took the night before, knowing well that she would be sent to him again. she made her way through the ranks until she saw the knight, whom she instructs at once to do his "worst" again, if he desires the love and favour of the queen which she sends him. and he makes answer: "my thanks to her, since such is her will." then the damsel went away, and the valets, sergeants, and squires begin to shout: "see this marvellous thing! he of yesterday with the vermilion arms is back again. what can he want? never in the world was there such a vile, despicable, and craven wretch! he is so in the power of cowardice that resistance is useless on his part." and the damsel returns to the queen, who detained her and would not let her go until she heard what his response had been; then she heartily rejoiced, feeling no longer any doubt that this is he to whom she altogether belongs, and he is hers in like manner. then she bids the damsel quickly return and tell him that it is her command and prayer that he shall do his "best "; and she says she will go at once without delay. she came down from the stand to where her valet with the palfrey was awaiting her. she mounted and rode until she found the knight, to whom she said at once: "sire, my lady now sends word that you shall do the 'best' you can!" and he replies: "tell her now that it is never a hardship to do her will, for whatever pleases her is my delight." the maiden was not slow in bearing back this message, for she thinks it will greatly please and delight the queen. she made her way as directly as possible to the stand, where the queen rose and started to meet her, however, she did not go down, but waited for her at the top of the steps. and the damsel came happy in the message she had to bear. when she had climbed the steps and reached her side, she said: "lady, i never saw so courteous g knight, for he is more than ready to obey every command you send to him, for, if the truth be known, he accepts good and evil with the same countenance." "indeed," says the queen, "that may well be so." then she returns to the balcony to watch the knights. and lancelot without delay seizes his shield by the leather straps, for he is kindled and consumed by the desire to show his prowess. guiding his horse's head, he lets him run between two lines. all those mistaken and deluded men, who have spent a large part of the day and night in heaping him with ridicule, will soon be disconcerted. for a long time they have had their sport and joke and fun. the son of the king of ireland held his shield closely gripped by the leather straps, as he spurs fiercely to meet him from the opposite direction. they come together with such violence that the son of the irish king having broken and splintered his lance, wishes no more of the tournament; for it was not moss he struck, but hard, dry boards. in this encounter lancelot taught him one of his thrusts, when he pinned his shield to his arm, and his arm to his side, and brought him down from his horse to earth. like arrows the knights at once fly out, spurring and pricking from either side, some to relieve this knight, others to add to his distress. while some thus try to aid their lords, many a saddle is left empty in the strife and fray. but all that day gawain took no hand at arms, though he was with the others there, for he took such pleasure in watching the deeds of him with the red painted arms that what the others did seemed to him pale in comparison. and the herald cheered up again, as he shouted aloud so that all could hear: "here there has one come who will take the measure! to-day you shall see what he can do. to-day his prowess shall appear." then the knight directs his steed and makes a very skilful thrust against a certain knight, whom he strikes so hard that he carries him a hundred feet or more from his horse. his feats with sword and lance are so well performed that there is none of the onlookers who does not find pleasure in watching him. many even of those who bear arms find pleasure and satisfaction in what he does, for it is great sport to see how he makes horses and knights tumble and fall. he encounters hardly a single knight who is able to keep his seat, and he gives the horses he wins to those who want them. then those who had been making game of him said: "now we are disgraced and mortified. it was a great mistake for us to deride and vilify this man, for he is surely worth a thousand such as we are on this field; for he has defeated and outdone all the knights in the world, so that there is no one now that opposes him." and the damsels, who amazed were watching him, all said that he might take them to wife; but they did not dare to trust in their beauty or wealth, or power or highness, for not for her beauty or wealth would this peerless knight deign to choose any one of them. yet, most of them are so enamoured of him that they say that, unless they marry him, they will not be bestowed upon any man this year. and the queen, who hears them boast, laughs to herself and enjoy the fun, for well she knows that if all the gold of arabia should be set before him, yet he who is beloved by them all would not select the best, the fairest, or the most charming of the group. one wish is common to them all--each wishes to have him as her spouse. one is jealous of another, as if she were already his wife; and all this is because they see him so adroit that in their opinion no mortal man could perform such deeds as he had done. he did so well that when the time came to leave the list, they admitted freely on both sides that no one had equalled the knight with the vermilion shield. all said this, and it was true. but when he left, he allowed his shield and lance and trappings to fall where he saw the thickest press, then he rode off hastily with such secrecy that no one of all the host noticed that he had disappeared. but he went straight back to the place whence he had come, to keep his oath. when the tournament broke up, they all searched and asked for him, but without success, for he fled away, having no desire to be recognised. the knights are disappointed and distressed, for they would have rejoiced to have him there. but if the knights were grieved to have been deserted thus, still greater was the damsels' grief when they learned the truth, and they asserted by st. john that they would not marry at all that year. if they can't have him whom they truly love, then all the others may be dismissed. thus the tourney was adjourned without any of them choosing a husband. meanwhile lancelot without delay repairs to his prison. but the seneschal arrived two or three days before lancelot, and inquired where he was. and his wife, who had given to lancelot his fair and well-equipped vermilion arms, as well as his harness and his horse, told the truth to the seneschal--how she had sent him where there had been jousting at the tourney of noauz. "lady," the seneschal replies, "you could truly have done nothing worse than that. doubtless, i shall smart for this, for my lord meleagant will treat me worse than the beach-combers' law would treat me were i a mariner in distress. i shall be killed or banished the moment he hears the news, and he will have no pity for me." "fair sire, be not now dismayed," the lady said; "there is no occasion for the fear you feel. there is no possibility of his detention, for he swore to me by the saints that he would return as soon as possible." (vv. - .) [ ] then the seneschal mounts, and coming to his lord, tells him the whole story of the episode; but at the same time, he emphatically reassures him, telling how his wife had received his oath that he would return to his prison. "he will not break his word, i know," says meleagant: "and yet i am very much displeased at what your wife has done. not for any consideration would i have had him present at that tournament. but return now, and see to it that, when he comes back, he be so strictly guarded that he shall not escape from his prison or have any freedom of body: and send me word at once." "your orders shall be obeyed," says the seneschal. then he goes away and finds lancelot returned as prisoner in his yard. a messenger, sent by the seneschal, runs back at once to meleagant, appraising him of lancelot's return. when he heard this news, he took masons and carpenters who unwillingly or of their own free-will executed his commands. he summoned the best artisans in the land, and commanded them to build a tower, and exert themselves to build it well. the stone was quarried by the seaside; for near gorre on this side there runs a big broad arm of the sea, in the midst of which an island stood, as meleagant well knew. he ordered the stone to be carried thither and the material for the construction of the tower. in less than fifty-seven days the tower was completely built, high and thick and well-founded. when it was completed, he had lancelot brought thither by night, and after putting him in the tower, he ordered the doors to be walled up, and made all the masons swear that they would never utter a word about this tower. it was his will that it should be thus sealed up, and that no door or opening should remain, except one small window. here lancelot was compelled to stay, and they gave him poor and meagre fare through this little window at certain hours, as the disloyal wretch had ordered and commanded them. (vv. - .) now meleagant has carried out all his purpose, and he betakes himself to king arthur's court: behold him now arrived! and when he was before the king, he thus spoke with pride and arrogance: "king, i have scheduled a battle to take place in thy presence and in thy court. but i see nothing of lancelot who agreed to be my antagonist. nevertheless, as my duty is, in the hearing of all who are present here, i offer myself to fight this battle. and if he is here, let him now step forth and agree to meet me in your court a year from now. i know not if any one has told you how this battle was agreed upon. but i see knights here who were present at our conference, and who, if they would, could tell you the truth. if he should try to deny the truth, i should employ no hireling to take my place, but would prove it to him hand to hand." the queen, who was seated beside the king, draws him to her as she says: "sire, do you know who that knight is? it is meleagant who carried me away while escorted by kay the seneschal; he caused him plenty of shame and mischief too." and the king answered her: "lady, i understand; i know full well that it is he who held my people in distress." the queen says no more, but the king addresses meleagant: "friend," he says, "so help me god, we are very sad because we know nothing of lancelot." "my lord king," says meleagant, "lancelot told me that i should surely find him here. nowhere but in your court must i issue the call to this battle, and i desire all your knights here to bear me witness that i summon him to fight a year from to-day, as stipulated when we agreed to fight." (vv. - .) at this my lord gawain gets up, much distressed at what he hears: "sire, there is nothing known of lancelot in all this land," he says; "but we shall send in search of him and, if god will, we shall find him yet, before the end of the year is reached, unless he be dead or in prison. and if he does not appear, then grant me the battle, and i will fight for him: i will arm myself in place of lancelot, if he does not return before that day." "ah," says meleagant, "for god's sake, my fair lord king, grant him the boon. i join my request to his desire, for i know no knight in all the world with whom i would more gladly try my strength, excepting only lancelot. but bear in mind that, if i do not fight with one of them, i will accept no exchange or substitution for either one." and the king says that this is understood, if lancelot does not return within the time. then meleagant left the royal court and journeyed until he found his father, king bademagu. in order to appear brave and of consideration in his presence, he began by making a great pretence and by assuming an expression of marvellous cheer. that day the king was holding a joyous court at his city of bade; [ ] it was his birthday, which he celebrated with splendour and generosity, and there were many people of divers sorts gathered with him. all the palace was filled with knights and damsels, and among them was the sister of meleagant, of whom i shall tell you, farther on, what is my thought and reason for mentioning her here. but it is not fitting that i should explain it here, for i do not wish to confuse or entangle my material, but rather to treat it straight forwardly. now i must tell you that meleagant in the hearing of all, both great and small, spoke thus to his father boastingly: "father," he says, "so help me god, please tell me truly now whether he ought not to be well-content, and whether he is not truly brave, who can cause his arms to be feared at king arthur's court?" to this question his father replies at once: "son," he says, "all good men ought to honour and serve and seek the company of one whose deserts are such." then he flattered him with the request that he should not conceal why he has alluded to this, what he wishes, and whence he comes. "sire, i know not whether you remember," meleagant begins, "the agreements and stipulations which were recorded when lancelot and i made peace. it was then agreed, i believe, and in the presence of many we were told, that we should present ourselves at the end of a year at arthur's court. i went thither at the appointed time, ready equipped for my business there. i did everything that had been prescribed: i called and searched for lancelot, with whom i was to fight, but i could not gain a sight of him: he had fled and run away. when i came away, gawain pledged his word that, if lancelot is not alive and does not return within the time agreed upon, no further postponement will be asked, but that he himself will fight the battle against me in place of lancelot. arthur has no knight, as is well known, whose fame equals his, but before the flowers bloom again, i shall see, when we come to blows, whether his fame and his deeds are in accord: i only wish it could be settled now!" "son," says his father, "thou art acting exactly like a fool. any one, who knew it not before, may learn of thy madness from thy own lips. a good heart truly humbles itself, but the fool and the boastful never lose their folly. son, to thee i direct my words, for the traits of thy character are so hard and dry, that there is no place for sweetness or friendship. thy heart is altogether pitiless: thou art altogether in folly's grasp. this accounts for my slight respect for thee, and this is what will cast thee down. if thou art brave, there will be plenty of men to say so in time of need. a virtuous man need not praise his heart in order to enhance his deed; the deed itself will speak in its own praise. thy self-praise does not aid thee a whit to increase in any one's esteem; indeed, i hold thee in less esteem. son, i chasten thee; but to what end? it is of little use to advise a fool. he only wastes his strength in vain who tries to cure the madness of a fool, and the wisdom that one teaches and expounds is worthless, wasted and unemployed, unless it is expressed in works." then meleagant was sorely enraged and furious. i may truly say that never could you see a mortal man so full of anger as he was; the last bond between them was broken then, as he spoke to his father these ungracious words: "are you in a dream or trance, when you say that i am mad to tell you how my matters stand? i thought i had come to you as to my lord and my father; but that does not seem to be the case, for you insult me more outrageously than i think you have any right to do; moreover, you can give no reason for having addressed me thus." "indeed, i can." "what is it, then?" "because i see nothing in thee but folly and wrath. i know very well what thy courage is like, and that it will cause thee great trouble yet. a curse upon him who supposes that the elegant lancelot, who is esteemed by all but thee, has ever fled from thee through fear. i am sure that he is buried or confined in some prison whose door is barred so tight that he cannot escape without leave. i should surely be sorely grieved if he were dead or in distress. it would surely be too bad, were a creature so splendidly equipped, so fair, so bold, yet so serene, to perish thus before his time. but, may it please god, this is not true." then bademagu said no more; but a daughter of his had listened attentively to all his words, and you must know that it was she whom i mentioned earlier in my tale, and who is not happy now to hear such news of lancelot. it is quite clear to her that he is shut up, since no one knows any news of him or his wanderings. "may god never look upon me, if i rest until i have some sure and certain news of him!" straightway, without making any noise or disturbance, she runs and mounts a fair and easy-stepping mule. but i must say that when she leaves the court, she knows not which way to turn. however, she asks no advice in her predicament, but takes the first road she finds, and rides along at random rapidly, unaccompanied by knight or squire. in her eagerness she makes haste to attain the object of her search. keenly she presses forward in her quest, but it will not soon terminate. she may not rest or delay long in any single place, if she wishes to carry out her plan, to release lancelot from his prison, if she can find him and if it is possible. but in my opinion, before she finds him she will have searched in many a land, after many a journey and many a quest, before she has any news of him. but what would be the use of my telling you of her lodgings and her journeyings? finally, she travelled so far through hill and dale, up and down, that more than a month had passed, and as yet she had learned only so much as she knew before--that is, absolutely nothing. one day she was crossing a field in a sad and pensive mood, when she saw a tower in the distance standing by the shore of an arm of the sea. not within a league around about was there any house, cottage, or dwelling-place. meleagant had had it built, and had confined lancelot within. but of all this she still was unaware. as soon as she espied the tower, she fixed her attention upon it to the exclusion of all else. and her heart gives her assurance that here is the object of her quest; now at last she has reached her goal, to which fortune through many trials has at last directed her. (vv. - .) the damsel draws so near to the tower that she can touch it with her hands. she walks about, listening attentively, i suppose, if perchance she may hear some welcome sound. she looks down and she gazes up, and she sees that the tower is strong and high and thick. she is amazed to see no door or window, except one little narrow opening. moreover, there was no ladder or steps about this high, sheer tower. for this reason she surmises that it was made so intentionally, and that lancelot is confined inside. but she resolves that before she tastes of food, she will learn whether this is so or not. she thinks she will call lancelot by name, and is about to do so when she is deterred by hearing from the tower a voice which was making a marvellously sad moan as it called on death. it implores death to come, and complains of misery unbearable. in contempt of the body and life, it weakly piped in a low, hoarse tone: "ah, fortune, how disastrously thy wheel has turned for me! thou hast mocked me shamefully: a while ago i was up, but now i am down; i was well off of late, but now i am in a sorry state; not long since thou didst smile on me, but now thy eyes are filled with tears. alas, poor wretch, why didst thou trust in her, when so soon she has deserted thee! behold, in a very little while she has cast thee down from thy high estate! fortune, it was wrong of thee to mock me thus; but what carest thou! thou carest not how it may turn out. ah, sacred cross! all, holy ghost! how am i wretched and undone! how completely has my career been closed! ah, gawain, you who possess such worth, and whose goodness is unparalleled, surely i may well be amazed that you do not come to succour me. surely you delay too long and are not showing courtesy. he ought indeed to receive your aid whom you used to love so devotedly! for my part i may truly say that there is no lodging place or retreat on either side of the sea, where i would not have searched for you at least seven or ten years before finding you, if i knew you to be in prison. but why do i thus torment myself? you do not care for me even enough to take this trouble. the rustic is right when he says that it is hard nowadays to find a friend! it is easy to rest the true friend in time of need. alas! more than a year has passed since first i was put inside this tower. i feel hurt, gawain, that you have so long deserted me! but doubtless you know nothing of all this, and i have no ground for blaming you. yes, when i think of it, this must be the case, and i was very wrong to imagine such a thing; for i am confident that not for all the world contains would you and your men have failed to come to release me from this trouble and distress, if you were aware of it. if for no other reason, you would be bound to do this out of love for me, your companion. but it is idle to talk about it--it cannot be. ah, may the curse and the damnation of god and st. sylvester rest upon him who has shut me up so shamefully! he is the vilest man alive, this envious meleagant, to treat me as evilly as possible!" then he, who is wearing out his life in grief, ceases speaking and holds his peace. but when she, who was lingering at the base of the tower, heard what he said, she did not delay, but acted wisely and called him thus: "lancelot," as loudly as she could; "friend, up there, speak to one who is your friend!" but inside he did not hear her words. then she called out louder yet, until he in his weakness faintly heard her, and wondered who could be calling him. [ ] he heard the voice and heard his name pronounced, but he did not know who was calling him: he thinks it must be a spirit. he looks all about him to see, i suppose, if he could espy any one; but there is nothing to be seen but the tower and himself. "god," says he, "what is that i heard? i heard some one speak, but see nothing! indeed, this is passing marvellous, for i am not asleep, but wide awake. of course, if this happened in a dream, i should consider it an illusion; but i am awake, and therefore i am distressed." then with some trouble he gets up, and with slow and feeble steps he moves toward the little opening. once there, he peers through it, up and down and to either side. when he had looked out as best he might, he caught sight of her who had hailed him. he did not recognise her by sight. but she knew him at once and said: "lancelot, i have come from afar in search of you. now, thank god, at last i have found you. i am she who asked of you a boon as you were on your way to the sword-bridge, and you very gladly granted it at my request; it was the head i bade you cut from the conquered knight whom i hated so. because of this boon and this service you did me, i have gone to this trouble. as a guerdon i shall deliver you from here." "damsel, many thanks to you," the prisoner then replied; "the service i did you will be well repaid if i am set at liberty. if you can get me out of here, i promise and engage to be henceforth always yours, so help me the holy apostle paul! and as i may see god face to face, i shall never fail to obey your commands in accordance with your will. you may ask for anything i have, and receive it without delay." "friend, have no fear that you will not be released from here. you shall be loosed and set free this very day. not for a thousand pounds would i renounce the expectation of seeing you free before the datum of another day. then i shall take you to a pleasant place, where you may rest and take your ease. there you shall have everything you desire, whatever it be. so have no fear. but first i must see if i can find some tool anywhere hereabouts with which you might enlarge this hole, at least enough to let you pass." "god grant that you find something," he said, agreeing to this plan; "i have plenty of rope in here, which the rascals gave me to pull up my food--hard barley bread and dirty water, which sicken my stomach and heart." then the daughter of bademagu sought and found a strong, stout, sharp pick, which she handed to him. he pounded, and hammered and struck and dug, notwithstanding the pain it caused him, until he could get out comfortably. now he is greatly relieved and glad, you may be sure, to be out of prison and to get away from the place where he has been so long confined. now he is at large in the open air. you may be sure that he would not go back again, were some one to gather in a pile and give to him all the gold there is scattered in the world. (vv. - .) behold lancelot now released, but so feeble that he staggered from his weakness and disability. gently, without hurting him, she sets him before her on her mule, and then they ride off rapidly. but the damsel purposely avoids the beaten track, that they may not be seen, and proceeds by a hidden path; for if she had travelled openly, doubtless some one would have recognised them and done them harm, and she would not have wished that to happen. so she avoided the dangerous places and came to a mansion where she often makes her sojourn because of its beauty and charm. the entire estate and the people on it belonged to her, and the place was well furnished, safe, and private. there lancelot arrived. and as soon as he had come, and had laid aside his clothes, the damsel gently laid him on a lofty, handsome couch, then bathed and rubbed him so carefully that i could not describe half the care she took. she handled and treated him as gently as if he had been her father. her treatment makes a new man of him, as she revives him with her cares. now he is no less fair than an angel and is more nimble and more spry than anything you ever saw. when he arose, he was no longer mangy and haggard, but strong and handsome. and the damsel sought out for him the finest robe she could find, with which she clothed him when he arose. and he was glad to put it on, quicker than a bird in flight. he kissed and embraced the maid, and then said to her graciously: "my dear, i have only god and you to thank for being restored to health again. since i owe my liberty to you, you may take and command at will my heart and body, my service and estate. i belong to you in return for what you have done for me; but it is long since i have been at the court of my lord arthur, who has shown me great honour; and there is plenty there for me to do. now, my sweet gentle friend, i beg you affectionately for leave to go; then, with your consent, i should feel free to go." "lancelot, fair, sweet dear friend, i am quite willing," the damsel says; "i desire your honour and welfare above everything everywhere." then she gives him a wonderful horse she has, the best horse that ever was seen, and he leaps up without so much as saying to the stirrups "by your leave": he was up without considering them. then to god, who never lies, they commend each other with good intent. (vv. - .) lancelot was so glad to be on the road that, if i should take an oath, i could not possibly describe the joy he felt at having escaped from his trap. but he said to himself repeatedly that woe was the traitor, the reprobate, whom now he has tricked and ridiculed, "for in spite of him i have escaped." then he swears by the heart and body of him who made the world that not for all the riches and wealth from babylon to ghent would he let meleagant escape, if he once got him in his power: for he has him to thank for too much harm and shame! but events will soon turn out so as to make this possible; for this very meleagant, whom he threatens and presses hard, had already come to court that day without being summoned by any one; and the first thing he did was to search until he found my lord gawain. then the rascally proven traitor asks him about lancelot, whether he had been seen or found, as if he himself did not know the truth. as a matter of fact, he did not know the truth, although he thought he knew it well enough. and gawain told him, as was true, that he had not been seen, and that he had not come. "well, since i don't find him," says meleagant, "do you come and keep the promise you made me: i shall not longer wait for you." then gawain makes answer: "i will keep presently my word with you, if it please god in whom i place my trust. i expect to discharge my debt to you. but if it comes to throwing dice for points, and i should throw a higher number than you, so help me god and the holy faith, i'll not withdraw, but will keep on until i pocket all the stakes." [ ] then without delay gawain orders a rug to be thrown down and spread before him. there was no snivelling or attempt to run away when the squires heard this command, but without grumbling or complaint they execute what he commands. they bring the rug and spread it out in the place indicated; then he who had sent for it takes his seat upon it and gives orders to be armed by the young men who were standing unarmed before him. there were two of them, his cousins or nephews, i know not which, but they were accomplished and knew what to do. they arm him so skilfully and well that no one could find any fault in the world with them for any mistake in what they did. when they finished arming him, one of them went to fetch a spanish steed able to cross the fields, woods, hills, and valleys more swiftly than the good bucephalus. [ ] upon a horse such as you have heard gawain took his seat--the admired and most accomplished knight upon whom the sign of the cross was ever made. already he was about to seize his shield, when he saw lancelot dismount before him, whom he was not expecting to see. he looked at him in amazement, because he had come so unexpectedly; and, if i am not wrong, he was as much surprised as if he had fallen from the clouds. however, no business of his own can detain him, as soon as he sees lancelot, from dismounting and extending his arms to him, as he embraces, salutes and kisses him. now he is happy and at ease, when he has found his companion. now i will tell you the truth, and you must not think i lie, that gawain would not wish to be chosen king, unless he had lancelot with him. the king and all the rest now learn that, in spite of all, lancelot, for whom they so long have watched, has come back quite safe and sound. therefore they all rejoice, and the court, which so long has looked for him, comes together to honour him. their happiness dispels and drives away the sorrow which formerly was theirs. grief takes flight and is replaced by an awakening joy. and how about the queen? does she not share in the general jubilee? yes, verily, she first of all. how so? for god's sake, where, then, could she be keeping herself? she was never so glad in her life as she was for his return. and did she not even go to him? certainly she did; she is so close to him that her body came near following her heart. where is her heart, then? it was kissing and welcoming lancelot. and why did the body conceal itself? why is not her joy complete? is it mingled with anger or hate? no, certainly, not at all; but it may be that the king or some of the others who are there, and who are watching what takes place, would have taken the whole situation in, if, while all were looking on, she had followed the dictates of her heart. if common-sense had not banished this mad impulse and rash desire, her heart would have been revealed and her folly would have been complete. therefore reason closes up and binds her fond heart and her rash intent, and made it more reasonable, postponing the greeting until it shall see and espy a suitable and more private place where they would fare better than here and now. the king highly honoured lancelot, and after welcoming him, thus spoke: "i have not heard for a long time news of any man which were so welcome as news of you; yet i am much concerned to learn in what region and in what land you have tarried so long a time. i have had search made for you up and down, all the winter and summer through, but no one could find a trace of you." "indeed, fair sire," says lancelot, "i can inform you in a few words exactly how it has fared with me. the miserable traitor meleagant has kept me in prison ever since the hour of the deliverance of the prisoners in his land, and has condemned me to a life of shame in a tower of his beside the sea. there he put me and shut me in, and there i should still be dragging out my weary life, if it were not for a friend of mine, a damsel for whom i once performed a slight service. in return for the little favour i did her, she has repaid me liberally: she has bestowed upon me great honour and blessing. but i wish to repay without delay him for whom i have no love, who has sought out and devised for me this shame and injury. he need not wait, for the sum is all ready, principal and interest; but god forbid that he find in it cause to rejoice!" then gawain said to lancelot: "friend, it will be only a slight favour for me, who am in your debt, to make this payment for you. moreover, i am all ready and mounted, as you see. fair, sweet friend, do not deny me the boon i desire and request." but lancelot replies that he would rather have his eye plucked out, or even both of them, than be persuaded to do this: he swears it shall never be so. he owes the debt and he will pay it himself: for with his own hand he promised it. gawain plainly sees that nothing he can say is of any avail, so he loosens and takes off his hauberk from his back, and completely disarms himself. lancelot at once arms himself without delay; for he is impatient to settle and discharge his debt. meleagant, who is amazed beyond measure at what he sees, has reached the end of his good fortunes, and is about to receive what is owing him. he is almost beside himself and comes near fainting. "surely i was a fool," he says, "not to go, before coming here, to see if i still held imprisoned in my tower him who now has played this trick on me. but, god, why should i have gone? what cause had i to think that he could possibly escape? is not the wall built strong enough, and is not the tower sufficiently strong and high? there was no hole or crevice in it, through which he could pass, unless he was aided from outside. i am sure his hiding-place was revealed. if the wall were worn away and had fallen into decay, would he not have been caught and injured or killed at the same time? yes, so help me god, if it had fallen down, he would certainly have been killed. but i guess, before that wall gives away without being torn down, that all the water in the sea will dry up without leaving a drop and the world will come to an end. no, that is not it: it happened otherwise: he was helped to escape, and could not have got out otherwise: i have been outwitted through some trickery. at any rate, he has escaped; but if i had been on my guard, all this would never have happened, and he would never have come to court. but it's too late now to repent. the rustic, who seldom errs, pertinently remarks that it is too late to close the stable when the horse is out. i know i shall now be exposed to great shame and humiliation, if indeed i do not suffer and endure something worse. what shall i suffer and endure? rather, so long as i live, i will give him full measure, if it please god, in whom i trust." thus he consoles himself, and has no other desire than to meet his antagonist on the field. and he will not have long to wait, i think, for lancelot goes in search of him, expecting soon to conquer him. but before the assault begins, the king bids them go down into the plain where the tower stands, the prettiest place this side of ireland for a fight. so they did, and soon found themselves on the plain below. the king goes down too, and all the rest, men and women in crowds. no one stays behind; but many go up to the windows of the tower, among them the queen, her ladies and damsels, of whom she had many with her who were fair. (vv. - .) in the field there stood a sycamore as fair as any tree could be; it was wide-spread and covered a large area, and around it grew a fine border of thick fresh grass which was green at all seasons of the year. under this fair and stately sycamore, which was planted back in abel's time, there rises a clear spring of water which flows away hurriedly. the bed of the spring is beautiful and as bright as silver, and the channel through which the water flows is formed, i think, of refined and tested gold, and it stretches away across the field down into a valley between the woods. there it pleases the king to take his seat where nothing unpleasant is in sight. after the crowd has drawn back at the king's command, lancelot rushes furiously at meleagant as at one whom he hates cordially, but before striking him, he shouted with a loud and commanding voice: "take your stand, i defy you! and take my word, this time you shall not be spared." then he spurs his steed and draws back the distance of a bow-shot. then they drive their horses toward each other at top speed, and strike each other so fiercely upon their resisting shields that they pierced and punctured them. but neither one is wounded, nor is the flesh touched in this first assault. they pass each other without delay, and come back at the top of their horses: speed to renew their blows on the strong, stout shields. both of the knights are strong and brave, and both of the horses are stout and fast. so mighty are the blows they deal on the shields about their necks that the lances passed clean through, without breaking or splintering, until the cold steel reached their flesh. each strikes the other with such force that both are borne to earth, and no breast-strap, girth, or stirrup could save them from falling backward over their saddle-bow, leaving the saddle without an occupant. the horses run riderless over hill and dale, but they kick and bite each other, thus showing their mortal hatred. as for the knights who fell to earth, they leaped up as quickly as possible and drew their swords, which were engraved with chiselled lettering. holding their shields before the face, they strive to wound each other with their swords of steel. lancelot stands in no fear of him, for he knew half as much again about fencing as did his antagonist, having learned it in his youth. both dealt such blows on the shield slung from their necks, and upon their helmets barred with gold, that they crushed and damaged them. but lancelot presses him hard and gives him a mighty blow upon his right arm which, though encased in mail, was unprotected by the shield, severing it with one clean stroke. and when he felt the loss of his right arm, he said that it should be dearly sold. if it is at all possible, he will not fail to exact the price; he is in such pain and wrath and rage that he is well-nigh beside himself, and he has a poor opinion of himself, if he cannot score on his rival now. he rushes at him with the intent to seize him, but lancelot forestalls his plan, for with his trenchant sword he deals his body such a cut as he will not recover from until april and may be passed. he smashes his nose-guard against his teeth, breaking three of them in his mouth. and meleagant's rage is such that he cannot speak or say a word; nor does he deign to cry for mercy, for his foolish heart holds tight in such constraint that even now it deludes him still. lancelot approaches and, unlacing his helmet, cuts off his head. never more will this man trouble him; it is all over with him as he falls dead. not a soul who was present there felt any pity at the sight. the king and all the others there are jubilant and express their joy. happier than they ever were before, they relieve lancelot of his arms, and lead him away exultingly. (vv. - .) my lords, if i should prolong my tale, it would be beside the purpose, and so i will conclude. godefroi de leigni, the clerk, has written the conclusion of "the cart"; but let no one find fault with him for having embroidered on chretien's theme, for it was done with the consent of chretien who started it. godefroi has finished it from the point where lancelot was imprisoned in the tower. so much he wrote; but he would fain add nothing more, for fear of disfiguring the tale. ----endnotes: lancelot endnotes supplied by prof. foerster are indicated by "(f.)"; all other endnotes are supplied by w.w. comfort. [footnote : marie, daughter of louis vii. of france and eleanor of aquitaine, married in , henri i., count of champagne. on the poet's own statement below, she furnished him with the subject matter ("maitere") and the manner of treatment ("san") of this romance. (f.)] [footnote : the situation of camelot has not been certainly determined. foerster places it in somersetshire, while f. paris identified it with colchester in essex. (f.)] [footnote : the high value here set upon kay by king arthur is worth noting in view of the unfavourable light in which chretien usually portrays him.] [footnote : this enigmatic exclamation is addressed to the absent lancelot, who is the secret lover of guinevere, and who, though he long remains anonymous as "the knight of the cart", is really the hero of the poem.] [footnote : it was not uncommon in old french romances and epic poems for knights to be subjected to the mockery and raillery of the vulgar townspeople (cf. "aiol", - ; id. - ; and even moliere in "monsieur de pourceaugnac", f. ).] [footnote : for magic beds with descending swords, see a. hertel, "versauberte oertlichkeiten", etc., p. f. (hanover, ).] [footnote : the wounded knight is the defeated seneschal.] [footnote : mediaeval knights were such early risers as to cause us astonishment!] [footnote : lancelot has constantly in mind the queen, for whose sake he is enduring all this pain and shame.] [footnote : i.e., the queen.] [footnote : nothing can here be added to the tentative conjectures of foerster regarding the nature of these unknown remedies.] [footnote : a great annual fair at paris marked the festival, on june , of st. denis, the patron saint of the city. (f.)] [footnote : "donbes" (=dombes) is the reading chosen by foerster from a number of variants. none of these variants has any significance, but a place-name rhyming with "tonbes" in the preceding verse is required. modern dombes is the name of a former principality in burgundy, between the rhone and the saone, while pampelune is, of course, a spanish city near the french frontier. (f.)] [footnote : the topography of the kingdom of gorre, the land where dwell the captives held by king bademagu, is much confused. one would suppose at first that the stream traversed by the two perilous bridges formed the frontier of the kingdom. but here (v. ), before reaching such a frontier, the captives are already met. foerster suggests that we may be here at a sort of foreground or borderland which is defended by the knight at the ford (v. f.), and which, though not within the limits of the kingdom, is nevertheless beneath the sway of bademagu. in the sequel the stream with the perilous bridges is placed immediately before the king's palace (cf. foerster's note and g. paris in "romania", xxi. note).] [footnote : for magic rings, see a. hertel, op. cit., p. f.] [footnote : this "dame" was the fairy vivian, "the lady of the lake". (f.)] [footnote : a good example of the moral dilemmas in which chretien delights to place his characters. under the displeasing shell of allegory and mediaeval casuistry we have here the germ of psychological analysis of motive.] [footnote : the legendary origin of this ointment, named after mary magdelene, mary the mother of james, and mary salome, is mentioned in the epic poem "mort aimeri de narbonne" (ed. "anciens textes", p. ). (f.)] [footnote : the universities of montpellier and of salerno were the chief centres of medical study in the middle ages. salerno is referred to in "cliges", v. .] [footnote : the hero of the poem is here first mentioned by name.] [footnote : the classic love-story of pyramus and thisbe, told by ovid et al., was a favourite in the middle ages.] [footnote : here he have the explanation of guinevere's cold reception of lancelot; he had been faithless to the rigid code of courtesy when he had hesitated for even a moment to cover himself with shame for her sake.] [footnote : the expression "or est venuz qui aunera", less literally means "who will defeat the entire field". though chretien refers to the expression as a current proverb, only two other examples of its use have been found. (cf. "romania", xvi. , and "ztsch. fur romanische philologie", xi. .) from this passage g. paris surmised that chretien himself was a herald-at-arms ("journal des savants", , p. ), but as foerster says, the text hardly warrants the supposition.] [footnote : the evident satisfaction with which chretien describes in detail the bearings of the knights in the following passage lends colour to gaston paris' conjecture that he was a herald as well as a poet.] [footnote : according to the statement made at the end of the poem by the continuator of chretien, godefroi de leigni, it must have been at about this point that the continuator took up the thread of the story. it is not known why chretien dropped the poem where he did.] [footnote : bade = bath. (f.)] [footnote : the situation recalls that in "aucassin et nicolette", where aucassin confined in the tower hears his sweetheart calling to him from outside.] [footnote : the figure is, of course, taken from the game of throwing dice for high points. for an exhaustive account of dice-playing derived from old french texts, cf. franz semrau, "wurfel und wurfelspiel in alten frankreich", "beiheft" of "ztsch. fur romanische philologie (halle," ).] [footnote : alexander's horse.] proofreaders europe, http://dp.rastko.net. the legends of king arthur and his knights sir james knowles illustrated by lancelot speed to alfred tennyson, d.c.l. poet laureate this attempt at a popular version of the arthur legends is by his permission dedicated as a tribute of the sincerest and warmest respect preface to the eighth edition the publishers have asked me to authorise a new edition, in my own name, of this little book--now long out of print--which was written by me thirty-five years ago under the initials j.t.k. in acceding to their request i wish to say that the book as now published is merely a word-for-word reprint of my early effort to help to popularise the arthur legends. it is little else than an abridgment of sir thomas malory's version of them as printed by caxton--with a few additions from geoffrey of monmouth and other sources--and an endeavour to arrange the many tales into a more or less consecutive story. the chief pleasure which came to me from it was, and is, that it began for me a long and intimate acquaintance with lord tennyson, to whom, by his permission, i dedicated it before i was personally known to him. james knowles. _addendum by lady knowles_ in response to a widely expressed wish for a fresh edition of this little book--now for some years out of print--a new and ninth edition has been prepared. in his preface my husband says that the intimacy with lord tennyson to which it led was the chief pleasure the book brought him. i have been asked to furnish a few more particulars on this point that may be generally interesting, and feel that i cannot do better than give some extracts from a letter written by himself to a friend in july . "dear ----, "i am so _very_ glad you approve of my little effort to popularise the arthur legends. tennyson had written his first four 'idylls of the king' before my book appeared, which was in . indeed, it was in consequence of the first four idylls that i sought and obtained, while yet a stranger to him, leave to dedicate my venture to him. he was extremely kind about it--declared 'it ought to go through forty editions'--and when i came to know him personally talked very frequently about it and arthur with me, and made constant use of it when he at length yielded to my perpetual urgency and took up again his forsaken project of treating the whole subject of king arthur. "he discussed and rediscussed at any amount of length the way in which this could now be done--and the symbolism, which had from his earliest time haunted him as the inner meaning to be given to it, brought him back to the poem in its changed shape of separate pictures. "he used often to say that it was entirely my doing that he revived his old plan, and added, 'i know more about arthur than any other man in england, and i think you know next most.' it would amuse you to see in what intimate detail he used to consult with me--and often with my little book in front of us--over the various tales, and when i wrote an article (in the shape of a long letter) in the _spectator_ of january he asked to reprint it, and published it with the collected idylls. "for years, while his boys were at school and college, i acted as his confidential friend in business and many other matters, and i suppose he told me more about himself and his life than any other man now living knows." isabel knowles. contents chapter i the finding of merlin--the fight of the dragons--the giants' dance--the prophecies of merlin and the birth of arthur--uther attacks the saxons--the death of uther chapter ii merlin's advice to the archbishop--the miracle of the sword and stone--the coronation of king arthur--the opposition of the six kings--the sword excalibur--the defeat of the six kings--the war with the eleven kings chapter iii the adventure of the questing beast--the siege of york--the battles of celidon forest and badon hill--king arthur drives the saxons from the realm--the embassy from rome--the king rescues merlin--the knight of the fountain chapter iv king arthur conquers ireland and norway--slays the giant of st. michael's mount and conquers gaul--king ryence's insolent message--the damsel and the sword--the lady of the lake--the adventures of sir balin chapter v sir balin kills sir lancear--the sullen knight--the knight invisible is killed--sir balin smites the dolorous stroke, and fights with his brother sir balan chapter vi the marriage of king arthur and guinevere--the coronation of the queen--the founding of the round table--the quest of the white hart--the adventures of sir gawain--the quest of the white hound--sir tor kills abellius--the adventures of sir pellinore--the death of sir hantzlake--merlin saves king arthur chapter vii king arthur and sir accolon of gaul are entrapped by sir damas--they fight each other through enchantment of queen morgan le fay--sir damas is compelled to surrender all his lands to sir outzlake his brother their rightful owner--queen morgan essays to kill king arthur with a magic garment--her damsel is compelled to wear it and is thereby burned to cinders chapter viii a second embassy from rome--king arthur's answer--the emperor assembles his armies--king arthur slays the emperor--sir gawain and sir prianius--the lombards are defeated--king arthur crowned at rome chapter ix the adventures of sir lancelot--he and his cousin sir lionel set forth--the four witch-queens--king bagdemagus--sir lancelot slays sir turquine and delivers his captive knights--the foul knight--sir gaunter attacks sir lancelot--the four knights--sir lancelot comes to the chapel perilous--ellawes the sorceress--the lady and the falcon--sir bedivere and the dead lady chapter x beaumains is made a kitchen page by sir key--he claims the adventure of the damsel linet--he fights with sir lancelot and is knighted by him in his true name of gareth--is flouted by the damsel linet--but overthrows all knights he meets and sends them to king arthur's court--he delivers the lady lyones from the knight of the redlands--the tournament before castle perilous--marriage of sir gareth and the lady lyones chapter xi the adventures of sir tristram--his stepmother--he is knighted--fights with sir marhaus--sir palomedes and la belle isault--sir bleoberis and sir segwarides--sir tristram's quest--his return--the castle pluere--sir brewnor is slain--sir kay hedius--la belle isault's hound--sir dinedan refuses to fight--sir pellinore follows sir tristram--sir brewse-without-pity--the tournament at the maiden's castle--sir palomedes and sir tristram chapter xii merlin is bewitched by a damsel of the lady of the lake--galahad knighted by sir lancelot--the perilous seat--the marvellous sword--sir galahad in the perilous seat--the sangreal--the knights vow themselves to its quest--the shield of the white knight--the fiend of the tomb--sir galahad at the maiden's castle--the sick knight and the sangreal--sir lancelot declared unworthy to find the holy vessel--sir percival seeks sir galahad--the black steed--sir bors and the hermit--sir pridan le noir--sir lionel's anger--he meets sir percival--the ship "faith"--sir galahad and earl hernox--the leprous lady--sir galahad discloses himself to sir lancelot--they part--the blind king evelake--sir galahad finds the sangreal--his death chapter xiii the queen quarrels with sir lancelot--she is accused of murder--her champion proves her innocence--the tourney at camelot--sir lancelot in the tourney--sir baldwin the knight-hermit--elaine, the maid of astolat, seeks for sir lancelot--she tends his wounds--her death--the queen and sir lancelot are reconciled chapter xiv sir lancelot attacked by sir agravaine, sir modred, and thirteen other knights--he slays them all but sir modred--he leaves the court--sir modred accuses him to the king--the queen condemned to be burnt--her rescue by sir lancelot and flight with him--the war between sir lancelot and the king--the enmity of sir gawain--the usurpation of sir modred--the queen retires to a nunnery--sir lancelot goes on pilgrimage--the battle of barham downs--sir bedivere and the sword excalibur--the death of king arthur illustrator's note of scenes from the legends of king arthur and his knights of the round table many lovely pictures have been painted, showing much diversity of figures and surroundings, some being definitely sixth-century british or saxon, as in blair leighton's fine painting of the dead elaine; others--for example, watts' sir galahad--show knight and charger in fifteenth-century armour; while the warriors of burne jones wear strangely impracticable armour of some mystic period. each of these painters was free to follow his own conception, putting the figures into whatever period most appealed to his imagination; for he was not illustrating the actual tales written by sir thomas malory, otherwise he would have found himself face to face with a difficulty. king arthur and his knights fought, endured, and toiled in the sixth century, when the saxons were overrunning britain; but their achievements were not chronicled by sir thomas malory until late in the fifteenth century. sir thomas, as froissart has done before him, described the habits of life, the dresses, weapons, and armour that his own eyes looked upon in the every-day scenes about him, regardless of the fact that almost every detail mentioned was something like a thousand years too late. had malory undertaken an account of the landing of julius caesar he would, as a matter of course, have protected the roman legions with bascinet or salade, breastplate, pauldron and palette, coudiére, taces and the rest, and have armed them with lance and shield, jewel-hilted sword and slim misericorde; while the emperor himself might have been given the very suit of armour stripped from the duke of clarence before his fateful encounter with the butt of malmsey. did not even shakespeare calmly give cannon to the romans and suppose every continental city to lie majestically beside the sea? by the old writers, accuracy in these matters was disregarded, and anachronisms were not so much tolerated as unperceived. in illustrating this edition of "the legends of king arthur and his knights," it has seemed best, and indeed unavoidable if the text and the pictures are to tally, to draw what malory describes, to place the fashion of the costumes and armour somewhere about a.d. , and to arm the knights in accordance with the tabard period. lancelot speed. list of illustrations the marriage of king arthur then fell sir ector down upon his knees upon the ground before young arthur, and sir key also with him. the lady of the lake the giant sat at supper, gnawing on a limb of a man, and baking his huge frame by the fire the castle rocked and rove throughout, and all the walls fell crashed and breaking to the earth came forth twelve fair damsels, and saluted king arthur by his name prianius was christened, and made a duke and knight of the round table sir lancelot smote down with one spear five knights, and brake the backs of four, and cast down the king of northgales beyond the chapel, he met a fair damsel, who said, "sir lancelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou diest" "lady," replied sir beaumains, "a knight is little worth who may not bear with a damsel" so he rode into the hall and alighted then they began the battle, and tilted at their hardest against each other and running to her chamber, she sought in her casket for the piece of iron ... and fitted it in tristram's sword by the time they had finished drinking they loved each other so well that their love never more might leave them waving her hands and muttering the charm, and presently enclosed him fast within the tree galahad ... quickly lifted up the stone, and forthwith came out a foul smoke "this girdle, lords," said she, "is made for the most part of mine own hair, which, while i was yet in the world, i loved full well" at last the strange knight smote him to the earth, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as wellnigh killed him then was sir lancelot sent for, and the letter read aloud by a clerk but still the knights cried mightily without the door, "traitor, come forth!" the legends of king arthur chapter i _the prophecies of merlin, and the birth of arthur_ king vortigern the usurper sat upon his throne in london, when, suddenly, upon a certain day, ran in a breathless messenger, and cried aloud-- "arise, lord king, for the enemy is come; even ambrosius and uther, upon whose throne thou sittest--and full twenty thousand with them--and they have sworn by a great oath, lord, to slay thee, ere this year be done; and even now they march towards thee as the north wind of winter for bitterness and haste." at those words vortigern's face grew white as ashes, and, rising in confusion and disorder, he sent for all the best artificers and craftsmen and mechanics, and commanded them vehemently to go and build him straightway in the furthest west of his lands a great and strong castle, where he might fly for refuge and escape the vengeance of his master's sons--"and, moreover," cried he, "let the work be done within a hundred days from now, or i will surely spare no life amongst you all." then all the host of craftsmen, fearing for their lives, found out a proper site whereon to build the tower, and eagerly began to lay in the foundations. but no sooner were the walls raised up above the ground than all their work was overwhelmed and broken down by night invisibly, no man perceiving how, or by whom, or what. and the same thing happening again, and yet again, all the workmen, full of terror, sought out the king, and threw themselves upon their faces before him, beseeching him to interfere and help them or to deliver them from their dreadful work. filled with mixed rage and fear, the king called for the astrologers and wizards, and took counsel with them what these things might be, and how to overcome them. the wizards worked their spells and incantations, and in the end declared that nothing but the blood of a youth born without mortal father, smeared on the foundations of the castle, could avail to make it stand. messengers were therefore sent forthwith through all the land to find, if it were possible, such a child. and, as some of them went down a certain village street, they saw a band of lads fighting and quarrelling, and heard them shout at one--"avaunt, thou imp!--avaunt! son of no mortal man! go, find thy father, and leave us in peace." at that the messengers looked steadfastly on the lad, and asked who he was. one said his name was merlin; another, that his birth and parentage were known by no man; a third, that the foul fiend alone was his father. hearing the things, the officers seized merlin, and carried him before the king by force. but no sooner was he brought to him than he asked in a loud voice, for what cause he was thus dragged there? "my magicians," answered vortigern, "told me to seek out a man that had no human father, and to sprinkle my castle with his blood, that it may stand." "order those magicians," said merlin, "to come before me, and i will convict them of a lie." the king was astonished at his words, but commanded the magicians to come and sit down before merlin, who cried to them-- "because ye know not what it is that hinders the foundation of the castle, ye have advised my blood for a cement to it, as if that would avail; but tell me now rather what there is below that ground, for something there is surely underneath that will not suffer the tower to stand?" the wizards at these words began to fear, and made no answer. then said merlin to the king-- "i pray, lord, that workmen may be ordered to dig deep down into the ground till they shall come to a great pool of water." this then was done, and the pool discovered far beneath the surface of the ground. then, turning again to the magicians, merlin said, "tell me now, false sycophants, what there is underneath that pool?"--but they were silent. then said he to the king, "command this pool to be drained, and at the bottom shall be found two dragons, great and huge, which now are sleeping, but which at night awake and fight and tear each other. at their great struggle all the ground shakes and trembles, and so casts down thy towers, which, therefore, never yet could find secure foundations." the king was amazed at these words, but commanded the pool to be forthwith drained; and surely at the bottom of it did they presently discover the two dragons, fast asleep, as merlin had declared. but vortigern sat upon the brink of the pool till night to see what else would happen. then those two dragons, one of which was white, the other red, rose up and came near one another, and began a sore fight, and cast forth fire with their breath. but the white dragon had the advantage, and chased the other to the end of the lake. and he, for grief at his flight, turned back upon his foe, and renewed the combat, and forced him to retire in turn. but in the end the red dragon was worsted, and the white dragon disappeared no man knew where. when their battle was done, the king desired merlin to tell him what it meant. whereat he, bursting into tears, cried out this prophecy, which first foretold the coming of king arthur. "woe to the red dragon, which figureth the british nation, for his banishment cometh quickly; his lurkingholes shall be seized by the white dragon--the saxon whom thou, o king, hast called to the land. the mountains shall be levelled as the valleys, and the rivers of the valleys shall run blood; cities shall be burned, and churches laid in ruins; till at length the oppressed shall turn for a season and prevail against the strangers. for a boar of cornwall shall arise and rend them, and trample their necks beneath his feet. the island shall be subject to his power, and he shall take the forests of gaul. the house of romulus shall dread him--all the world shall fear him--and his end shall no man know; he shall be immortal in the mouths of the people, and his works shall be food to those that tell them. "but as for thee, o vortigern, flee thou the sons of constantine, for they shall burn thee in thy tower. for thine own ruin wast thou traitor to their father, and didst bring the saxon heathens to the land. aurelius and uther are even now upon thee to revenge their father's murder; and the brood of the white dragon shall waste thy country, and shall lick thy blood. find out some refuge, if thou wilt! but who may escape the doom of god?" the king heard all this, trembling greatly; and, convicted of his sins, said nothing in reply. only he hasted the builders of his tower by day and night, and rested not till he had fled thereto. in the meantime, aurelius, the rightful king, was hailed with joy by the britons, who flocked to his standard, and prayed to be led against the saxons. but he, till he had first killed vortigern, would begin no other war. he marched therefore to cambria, and came before the tower which the usurper had built. then, crying out to all his knights, "avenge ye on him who hath ruined britain and slain my father and your king!" he rushed with many thousands at the castle walls. but, being driven back again and yet again, at length he thought of fire, and ordered blazing brands to be cast into the building from all sides. these finding soon a proper fuel, ceased not to rage, till spreading to a mighty conflagration, they burned down the tower and vortigern within it. then did aurelius turn his strength against hengist and the saxons, and, defeating them in many places, weakened their power for a long season, so that the land had peace. anon the king, making many journeys to and fro, restoring ruined churches and, creating order, came to the monastery near salisbury, where all those british knights lay buried who had been slain there by the treachery of hengist. for when in former times hengist had made a solemn truce with vortigern, to meet in peace and settle terms, whereby himself and all his saxons should depart from britain, the saxon soldiers carried every one of them beneath his garment a long dagger, and, at a given signal, fell upon the britons, and slew them, to the number of nearly five hundred. the sight of the place where the dead lay moved aurelius to great sorrow, and he cast about in his mind how to make a worthy tomb over so many noble martyrs, who had died there for their country. when he had in vain consulted many craftsmen and builders, he sent, by the advice of the archbishop, for merlin, and asked him what to do. "if you would honour the burying-place of these men," said merlin, "with an everlasting monument, send for the giants' dance which is in killaraus, a mountain in ireland; for there is a structure of stone there which none of this age could raise without a perfect knowledge of the arts. they are stones of a vast size and wondrous nature, and if they can be placed here as they are there, round this spot of ground, they will stand for ever." at these words of merlin, aurelius burst into laughter, and said, "how is it possible to remove such vast stones from so great a distance, as if britain, also, had no stones fit for the work?" "i pray the king," said merlin, "to forbear vain laughter; what i have said is true, for those stones are mystical and have healing virtues. the giants of old brought them from the furthest coast of africa, and placed them in ireland while they lived in that country: and their design was to make baths in them, for use in time of grievous illness. for if they washed the stones and put the sick into the water, it certainly healed them, as also it did them that were wounded in battle; and there is no stone among them but hath the same virtue still." when the britons heard this, they resolved to send for the stones, and to make war upon the people of ireland if they offered to withhold them. so, when they had chosen uther the king's brother for their chief, they set sail, to the number of , men, and came to ireland. there gillomanius, the king, withstood them fiercely, and not till after a great battle could they approach the giants' dance, the sight of which filled them with joy and admiration. but when they sought to move the stones, the strength of all the army was in vain, until merlin, laughing at their failures, contrived machines of wondrous cunning, which took them down with ease, and placed them in the ships. when they had brought the whole to salisbury, aurelius, with the crown upon his head, kept for four days the feast of pentecost with royal pomp; and in the midst of all the clergy and the people, merlin raised up the stones, and set them round the sepulchre of the knights and barons, as they stood in the mountains of ireland. then was the monument called "stonehenge," which stands, as all men know, upon the plain of salisbury to this very day. soon thereafter it befell that aurelius was slain by poison at winchester, and was himself buried within the giants' dance. at the same time came forth a comet of amazing size and brightness, darting out a beam, at the end whereof was a cloud of fire shaped like a dragon, from whose mouth went out two rays, one stretching over gaul, the other ending in seven lesser rays over the irish sea. at the appearance of this star a great dread fell upon the people, and uther, marching into cambria against the son of vortigern, himself was very troubled to learn what it might mean. then merlin, being called before him, cried with a loud voice: "o mighty loss! o stricken britain! alas! the great prince is gone from us. aurelius ambrosius is dead, whose death will be ours also, unless god help us. haste, therefore, noble uther, to destroy the enemy; the victory shall be thine, and thou shalt be king of all britain. for the star with the fiery dragon signifies thyself; and the ray over gaul portends that thou shalt have a son, most mighty, whom all those kingdoms shall obey which the ray covers." thus, for the second time, did merlin foretell the coming of king arthur. and uther, when he was made king, remembered merlin's words, and caused two dragons to be made in gold, in likeness of the dragon he had seen in the star. one of these he gave to winchester cathedral, and had the other carried into all his wars before him, whence he was ever after called uther pendragon, or the dragon's head. now, when uther pendragon had passed through all the land, and settled it--and even voyaged into all the countries of the scots, and tamed the fierceness of that rebel people--he came to london, and ministered justice there. and it befell at a certain great banquet and high feast which the king made at easter-tide, there came, with many other earls and barons, gorloïs, duke of cornwall, and his wife igerna, who was the most famous beauty in all britain. and soon thereafter, gorloïs being slain in battle, uther determined to make igerna his own wife. but in order to do this, and enable him to come to her--for she was shut up in the high castle of tintagil, on the furthest coast of cornwall--the king sent for merlin, to take counsel with him and to pray his help. this, therefore, merlin promised him on one condition--namely, that the king should give him up the first son born of the marriage. for merlin by his arts foreknew that this firstborn should be the long-wished prince, king arthur. when uther, therefore, was at length happily wedded, merlin came to the castle on a certain day, and said, "sir, thou must now provide thee for the nourishing of thy child." and the king, nothing doubting, said, "be it as thou wilt." "i know a lord of thine in this land," said merlin, "who is a man both true and faithful; let him have the nourishing of the child. his name is sir ector, and he hath fair possessions both in england and in wales. when, therefore, the child is born, let him be delivered unto me, unchristened, at yonder postern-gate, and i will bestow him in the care of this good knight." so when the child was born, the king bid two knights and two ladies to take it, bound in rich cloth of gold, and deliver it to a poor man whom they should discover at the postern-gate. and the child being delivered thus to merlin, who himself took the guise of a poor man, was carried by him to a holy priest and christened by the name of arthur, and then was taken to sir ector's house, and nourished at sir ector's wife's own breasts. and in the same house he remained privily for many years, no man soever knowing where he was, save merlin and the king. anon it befell that the king was seized by a lingering distemper, and the saxon heathens, taking their occasion, came back from over sea, and swarmed upon the land, wasting it with fire and sword. when uther heard thereof, he fell into a greater rage than his weakness could bear, and commanded all his nobles to come before him, that he might upbraid them for their cowardice. and when he had sharply and hotly rebuked them, he swore that he himself, nigh unto death although he lay, would lead them forth against the enemy. then causing a horse-litter to be made, in which he might be carried--for he was too faint and weak to ride--he went up with all his army swiftly against the saxons. but they, when they heard that uther was coming in a litter, disdained to fight with him, saying it would be shame for brave men to fight with one half dead. so they retired into their city; and, as it were in scorn of danger, left the gates wide open. but uther straightway commanding his men to assault the town, they did so without loss of time, and had already reached the gates, when the saxons, repenting too late of their haughty pride, rushed forth to the defence. the battle raged till night, and was begun again next day; but at last, their leaders, octa and eosa, being slain, the saxons turned their backs and fled, leaving the britons a full triumph. the king at this felt so great joy, that, whereas before he could scarce raise himself without help, he now sat upright in his litter by himself, and said, with a laughing and merry face, "they called me the half-dead king, and so indeed i was; but victory to me half dead is better than defeat and the best health. for to die with honour is far better than to live disgraced." but the saxons, although thus defeated, were ready still for war. uther would have pursued them; but his illness had by now so grown, that his knights and barons kept him from the adventure. whereat the enemy took courage, and left nothing undone to destroy the land; until, descending to the vilest treachery, they resolved to kill the king by poison. to this end, as he lay sick at verulam, they sent and poisoned stealthily a spring of clear water, whence he was wont to drink daily; and so, on the very next day, he was taken with the pains of death, as were also a hundred others after him, before the villainy was discovered, and heaps of earth thrown over the well. the knights and barons, full of sorrow, now took counsel together, and came to merlin for his help to learn the king's will before he died, for he was by this time speechless. "sirs, there is no remedy," said merlin, "and god's will must be done; but be ye all to-morrow before him, for god will make him speak before he die." so on the morrow all the barons, with merlin, stood round the bedside of the king; and merlin said aloud to uther, "lord, shall thy son arthur be the king of all this realm after thy days?" then uther pendragon turned him about, and said, in the hearing of them all, "god's blessing and mine be upon him. i bid him pray for my soul, and also that he claim my crown, or forfeit all my blessing;" and with those words he died. then came together all the bishops and the clergy, and great multitudes of people, and bewailed the king; and carrying his body to the convent of ambrius, they buried it close by his brother's grave, within the "giants' dance." chapter ii _the miracle of the sword and stone, and the coronation of king arthur--the sword excalilur--the war with the eleven kings_ now arthur the prince had all this time been nourished in sir ector's house as his own son, and was fair and tall and comely, being of the age of fifteen years, great in strength, gentle in manner, and accomplished in all exercises proper for the training of a knight. but as yet he knew not of his father; for merlin had so dealt, that none save uther and himself knew aught about him. wherefore it befell, that many of the knights and barons who heard king uther speak before his death, and call his son arthur his successor, were in great amazement; and some doubted, and others were displeased. anon the chief lords and princes set forth each to his own land, and, raising armed men and multitudes of followers, determined every one to gain the crown for himself; for they said in their hearts, "if there be any such a son at all as he of whom this wizard forced the king to speak, who are we that a beardless boy should have rule over us?" so the land stood long in great peril, for every lord and baron sought but his own advantage; and the saxons, growing ever more adventurous, wasted and overran the towns and villages in every part. then merlin went to brice, the archbishop of canterbury, and advised him to require all the earls and barons of the realm and all knights and gentlemen-at-arms to come to him at london, before christmas, under pain of cursing, that they might learn the will of heaven who should be king. this, therefore, the archbishop did, and upon christmas eve were met together in london all the greatest princes, lords, and barons; and long before day they prayed in st. paul's church, and the archbishop besought heaven for a sign who should be lawful king of all the realm. and as they prayed, there was seen in the churchyard, set straight before the doorways of the church, a huge square stone having a naked sword stuck in the midst of it. and on the sword was written in letters of gold, "whoso pulleth out the sword from this stone is born the rightful king of britain." at this all the people wondered greatly; and, when mass was over, the nobles, knights, and princes ran out eagerly from the church to see the stone and sword; and a law was forthwith made that whoso should pull out the sword should be acknowledged straightway king of britain. then many knights and barons pulled at the sword with all their might, and some of them tried many times, but none could stir or move it. when all had tried in vain, the archbishop declared the man whom heaven had chosen was not yet there. "but god," said he, "will doubtless make him known ere many days." so ten knights were chosen, being men of high renown, to watch and keep the sword; and there was proclamation made through all the land that whosoever would, had leave and liberty to try and pull it from the stone. but though great multitudes of people came, both gentle and simple, for many days, no man could ever move the sword a hair's breadth from its place. now, at the new year's eve a great tournament was to be held in london, which the archbishop had devised to keep together lords and commons, lest they should grow estranged in the troublous and unsettled times. to the which tournament there came, with many other knights, sir ector, arthur's foster-father, who had great possessions near to london; and with him came his son, sir key, but recently made knight, to take his part in the jousting, and young arthur also to witness all the sports and fighting. but as they rode towards the jousts, sir key found suddenly he had no sword, for he had left it at his father's house; and turning to young arthur, he prayed him to ride back and fetch it for him. "i will with a good will," said arthur; and rode fast back after the sword. but when he came to the house he found it locked and empty, for all were gone forth to see the tournament. whereat, being angry and impatient, he said within himself, "i will ride to the churchyard and take with me the sword that sticketh in the stone, for my brother shall not go without a sword this day." so he rode and came to the churchyard, and alighting from his horse he tied him to the gate, and went to the pavilion, which was pitched near the stone, wherein abode the ten knights who watched and kept it; but he found no knights there, for all were gone to see the jousting. then he took the sword by its handle, and lightly and fiercely he pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and rode until he came to sir key and delivered him the sword. but as soon as sir key saw it he knew well it was the sword of the stone, and, riding swiftly to his father, he cried out, "lo! here, sir, is the sword of the stone, wherefore it is i who must be king of all this land." when sir ector saw the sword, he turned back straight with arthur and sir key and came to the churchyard, and there alighting, they went all three into the church, and sir key was sworn to tell truly how he came by the sword. then he confessed it was his brother arthur who had brought it to him. whereat sir ector, turning to young arthur, asked him--"how gottest thou the sword?" "sir," said he, "i will tell you. when i went home to fetch my brother's sword, i found nobody to deliver it to me, for all were abroad to the jousts. yet was i loath to leave my brother swordless, and, bethinking me of this one, i came hither eagerly to fetch it for him, and pulled it out of the stone without any pain." then said sir ector, much amazed and looking steadfastly on arthur, "if this indeed be thus, 'tis thou who shalt be king of all this land--and god will have it so--for none but he who should be rightful lord of britain might ever draw this sword forth from that stone. but let me now with mine own eyes see thee put back the sword into its place and draw it forth again." "that is no mystery," said arthur; and straightway set it in the stone. and then sir ector pulled at it himself, and after him sir key, with all his might, but both of them in vain: then arthur reaching forth his hand and grasping at the pommel, pulled it out easily, and at once. then fell sir ector down upon his knees upon the ground before young arthur, and sir key also with him, and straightway did him homage as their sovereign lord. [illustration: then fell sir ector down upon his knees upon the ground before young arthur, and sir key also with him.] but arthur cried aloud, "alas! mine own dear father and my brother, why kneel ye thus to me?" "nay, my lord arthur," answered then sir ector, "we are of no blood-kinship with thee, and little though i thought how high thy kin might be, yet wast thou never more than foster-child of mine." and then he told him all he knew about his infancy, and how a stranger had delivered him, with a great sum of gold, into his hands to be brought up and nourished as his own born child, and then had disappeared. but when young arthur heard of it, he fell upon sir ector's neck, and wept, and made great lamentation, "for now," said he, "i have in one day lost my father and my mother and my brother." "sir," said sir ector presently, "when thou shalt be made king be good and gracious unto me and mine." "if not," said arthur, "i were no true man's son at all, for thou art he in all the world to whom i owe the most; and my good lady and mother, thy wife, hath ever kept and fostered me as though i were her own; so if it be god's will that i be king hereafter as thou sayest, desire of me whatever thing thou wilt and i will do it; and god forbid that i should fail thee in it." "i will but pray," replied sir ector, "that thou wilt make my son sir key, thy foster-brother, seneschal of all the lands." "that shall he be," said arthur; "and never shall another hold that office, save thy son, while he and i do live." anon, they left the church and went to the archbishop to tell him that the sword had been achieved. and when he saw the sword in arthur's hand he set a day and summoned all the princes, knights, and barons to meet again at st. paul's church and see the will of heaven signified. so when they came together, the sword was put back in the stone, and all tried, from the greatest to the least, to move it; but there before them all not one could take it out save arthur only. but then befell a great confusion and dispute, for some cried out it was the will of heaven, and, "long live king arthur," but many more were full of wrath and said, "what! would ye give the ancient sceptre of this land unto a boy born none know how?" and the contention growing greatly, till nothing could be done to pacify their rage, the meeting was at length broken up by the archbishop and adjourned till candlemas, when all should meet again. but when candlemas was come, arthur alone again pulled forth the sword, though more than ever came to win it; and the barons, sorely vexed and angry, put it in delay till easter. but as he had sped before so he did at easter, and the barons yet once more contrived delays till pentecost. but now the archbishop, fully seeing god's will, called together, by merlin's counsel, a band of knights and gentlemen-at-arms, and set them about arthur to keep him safely till the feast of pentecost. and when at the feast arthur still again alone prevailed to move the sword, the people all with one accord cried out, "long live king arthur! we will have no more delay, nor any other king, for so it is god's will; and we will slay whoso resisteth him and arthur;" and wherewithal they kneeled down all at once, and cried for arthur's grace and pardon that they had so long delayed him from his crown. then he full sweetly and majestically pardoned them; and taking in his hand the sword, he offered it upon the high altar of the church. anon was he solemnly knighted with great pomp by the most famous knight there present, and the crown was placed upon his head; and, having taken oath to all the people, lords and commons, to be true king and deal in justice only unto his life's end, he received homage and service from all the barons who held lands and castles from the crown. then he made sir key, high steward of england, and sir badewaine of britain, constable, and sir ulfius, chamberlain: and after this, with all his court and a great retinue of knights and armed men, he journeyed into wales, and was crowned again in the old city of caerleon-upon-usk. meanwhile those knights and barons who had so long delayed him from the crown, met together and went up to the coronation feast at caerleon, as if to do him homage; and there they ate and drank such things as were set before them at the royal banquet, sitting with the others in the great hall. but when after the banquet arthur began, according to the ancient royal custom, to bestow great boons and fiefs on whom he would, they all with one accord rose up, and scornfully refused his gifts, crying that they would take nothing from a beardless boy come of low or unknown birth, but would instead give him good gifts of hard sword-strokes between neck and shoulders. whereat arose a deadly tumult in the hall, and every man there made him ready to fight. but arthur leaped up as a flame of fire against them, and all his knights and barons drawing their swords, rushed after him upon them and began a full sore battle; and presently the king's party prevailed, and drave the rebels from the hall and from the city, closing the gates behind them; and king arthur brake his sword upon them in his eagerness and rage. but amongst them were six kings of great renown and might, who more than all raged against arthur and determined to destroy him, namely, king lot, king nanters, king urien, king carados, king yder, and king anguisant. these six, therefore, joining their armies together, laid close siege to the city of caerleon, wherefrom king arthur had so shamefully driven them. and after fifteen days merlin came suddenly into their camp and asked them what this treason meant. then he declared to them that arthur was no base adventurer, but king uther's son, whom they were bound to serve and honour even though heaven had not vouchsafed the wondrous miracle of the sword. some of the kings, when they heard merlin speak thus, marvelled and believed him; but others, as king lot, laughed him and his words to scorn, and mocked him for a conjurer and wizard. but it was agreed with merlin that arthur should come forth and speak with the kings. so he went forth to them to the city gate, and with him the archbishop and merlin, and sir key, sir brastias, and a great company of others. and he spared them not in his speech, but spoke to them as king and chieftain telling them plainly he would make them all bow to him if he lived, unless they choose to do him homage there and then; and so they parted in great wrath, and each side armed in haste. "what will ye do?" said merlin to the kings; "ye had best hold your hands, for were ye ten times as many ye should not prevail." "shall we be afraid of a dream-reader?" quoth king lot in scorn. with that merlin vanished away and came to king arthur. then arthur said to merlin, "i have need now of a sword that shall chastise these rebels terribly." "come then with me," said merlin, "for hard by there is a sword that i can gain for thee." so they rode out that night till they came to a fair and broad lake, and in the midst of it king arthur saw an arm thrust up, clothed in white samite, and holding a great sword in the hand. "lo! yonder is the sword i spoke of," said merlin. then saw they a damsel floating on the lake in the moonlight. "what damsel is that?" said the king. "the lady of the lake," said merlin; "for upon this lake there is a rock, and on the rock a noble palace, where she abideth, and she will come towards thee presently, thou shalt ask her courteously for the sword." [illustration: the lady of the lake.] therewith the damsel came to king arthur, and saluted him, and he saluted her, and said, "lady, what sword is that the arm holdeth above the water? i would that it were mine, for i have no sword." "sir king," said the lady of the lake, "that sword is mine, and if thou wilt give me in return a gift whenever i shall ask it of thee, thou shalt have it." "by my faith," said he, "i will give thee any gift that thou shalt ask." "well," said the damsel, "go into yonder barge, and row thyself unto the sword, and take it and the scabbard with thee, and i will ask my gift of thee when i see my time." so king arthur and merlin alighted, and tied their horses to two trees, and went into the barge; and when they came to the sword that the hand held, king arthur took it by the handle and bore it with him, and the arm and hand went down under the water; and so they came back to land, and rode again to caerleon. on the morrow merlin bade king arthur to set fiercely on the enemy; and in the meanwhile three hundred good knights went over to king arthur from the rebels' side. then at the spring of day, when they had scarce left their tents, he fell on them with might and main, and sir badewaine, sir key, and sir brastias slew on the right hand and on the left marvellously; and ever in the thickest of the fight king arthur raged like a young lion, and laid on with his sword, and did wondrous deeds of arms, to the joy and admiration of the knights and barons who beheld him. then king lot, king carados, and the king of the hundred knights--who also rode with them--going round to the rear, set on king arthur fiercely from behind; but arthur, turning to his knights, fought ever in the foremost press until his horse was slain beneath him. at that, king lot rode furiously at him, and smote him down; but rising straightway, and being set again on horseback, he drew his sword excalibur that he had gained by merlin from the lady of the lake, which, shining brightly as the light of thirty torches, dazzled the eyes of his enemies. and therewith falling on them afresh with all his knights, he drove them back and slew them in great numbers, and merlin by his arts scattered among them fire and pitchy smoke, so that they broke and fled. then all the common people of caerleon, seeing them give way, rose up with one accord, and rushed at them with clubs and staves, and chased them far and wide, and slew many great knights and lords, and the remainder of them fled and were seen no more. thus won king arthur his first battle and put his enemies to shame. but the six kings, though sorely routed, prepared for a new war, and joining to themselves five others swore together that, whether for weal or woe, they would keep steadfast alliance till they had destroyed king arthur. then, with a host of , men-at-arms on horseback, and , foot, they were soon ready, and sent forth their fore-riders, and drew from the northern country towards king arthur, to the castle of bedgraine. but he by merlin's counsel had sent over sea to king ban of benwick and king bors of gaul, praying them to come and help him in his wars, and promising to help in return against king claudas, their foe. to which those kings made answer that they would joyfully fulfil his wish, and shortly after came to london with knights, well arrayed for both peace and war, leaving behind them a great army on the other side of the sea till they had consulted with king arthur and his ministers how they might best dispose of it. and merlin being asked for his advice and help, agreed to go himself and fetch it over sea to england, which in one night he did; and brought with him , horsemen and led them northward privately to the forest of bedgraine, and there lodged them in a valley secretly. then, by the counsel of merlin, when they knew which way the eleven kings would ride and sleep, king arthur with kings ban and bors made themselves ready with their army for the fight, having yet but , men, counting the , who had come from gaul. "now shall ye do my advice," said merlin; "i would that king ban and king bors, with all their fellowship of , men, were led to ambush in this wood ere daylight, and stir not therefrom until the battle hath been long waged. and thou, lord arthur, at the spring of day draw forth thine army before the enemy, and dress the battle so that they may at once see all thy host, for they will be the more rash and hardy when they see you have but , men." to this the three knights and the barons heartily consented, and it was done as merlin had devised. so on the morrow when the hosts beheld each other, the host of the north was greatly cheered to find so few led out against them. then gave king arthur the command to sir ulfius and sir brastias to take men-at-arms, and to open battle. they therefore setting fiercely on the enemy slew them on the right hand and the left till it was wonderful to see their slaughter. when the eleven kings beheld so small a band doing such mighty deeds of arms they were ashamed, and charged them fiercely in return. then was sir ulfius' horse slain under him; but he fought well and marvellously on foot against duke eustace and king clarience, who set upon him grievously, till sir brastias, seeing his great peril, pricked towards them swiftly, and so smote the duke through with his spear that horse and man fell down and rolled over. whereat king clarience turned upon sir brastias, and rushing furiously together they each unhorsed the other and fell both to the ground, and there lay a long time stunned, their horses' knees being cut to the bone. then came sir key the seneschal with six companions, and did wondrous well, till the eleven kings went out against them and overthrew sir griflet and sir lucas the butler. and when sir key saw sir griflet unhorsed and on foot, he rode against king nanters hotly and smote him down, and led his horse to griflet and horsed him again; with the same spear did sir key smite down king lot and wounded him full sore. but seeing that, the king of the hundred knights rushed at sir key and overthrew him in return, and took his horse and gave it to king lot. and when sir griflet saw sir key's mischance, he set his spear in rest, and riding at a mighty man-at-arms, he cast him down headlong and caught his horse and led it straightway to sir key. by now the battle was growing perilous and hard, and both sides fought with rage and fury. and sir ulfius and sir brastias were both afoot and in great danger of their death, and foully stained and trampled under horses' feet. then king arthur, putting spurs to his horse, rushed forward like a lion into the midst of all the _mêlée_, and singling out king cradlemont of north wales, smote him through the left side and overthrew him, and taking his horse by the rein he brought it to sir ulfius in haste and said, "take this horse, mine old friend, for thou hast great need of one, and charge by side of me." and even as he spoke he saw sir ector, sir key's father, smitten to the earth by the king of the hundred knights, and his horse taken to king cradlemont. but when king arthur saw him ride upon sir ector's horse his wrath was very great, and with his sword he smote king cradlemont upon the helm, and shore off the fourth part thereof and of the shield, and drave the sword onward to the horse's neck and slew the horse, and hurled the king upon the ground. and now the battle waxed so great and furious that all the noise and sound thereof rang out by water and by wood, so that kings ban and bors, with all their knights and men-at-arms in ambush, hearing the tumult and the cries, trembled and shook for eagerness, and scarce could stay in secret, but made them ready for the fray and dressed their shields and harness. but when king arthur saw the fury of the enemy, he raged like a mad lion, and stirred and drove his horse now here, now there, to the right hand and to the left, and stayed not in his wrath till he had slain full twenty knights. he wounded also king lot so sorely in the shoulder that he left the field, and in great pain and dolour cried out to the other kings, "do ye as i devise, or we shall be destroyed. i, with the king of the hundred knights, king anguisant, king yder, and the duke of cambinet, will take fifteen thousand men and make a circuit, meanwhile that ye do hold the battle with twelve thousand. then coming suddenly we will fall fiercely on them from behind and put them to the rout, but else shall we never stand against them." so lot and four kings departed with their party to one side, and the six other kings dressed their ranks against king arthur and fought long and stoutly. but now kings ban and bors, with all their army fresh and eager, broke from their ambush and met face to face the five kings and their host as they came round behind, and then began a frantic struggle with breaking of spears and clashing of swords and slaying of men and horses. anon king lot, espying in the midst king bors, cried out in great dismay, "our lady now defend us from our death and fearful wounds; our peril groweth great, for yonder cometh one of the worshipfullest kings and best knights in all the world." "who is he?" said the king of the hundred knights. "it is king bors of gaul," replied king lot, "and much i marvel how he may have come with all his host into this land without our knowledge." "aha!" cried king carados, "i will encounter with this king if ye will rescue me when there is need." "ride on," said they. so king carados and all his host rode softly till they came within a bow-shot of king bors, and then both hosts, spurring their horses to their greatest swiftness, rushed at each other. and king bors encountered in the onset with a knight, and struck him through with a spear, so that he fell dead upon the earth; then drawing his sword, he did such mighty feats of arms that all who saw him gazed with wonder. anon king ban came also forth upon the field with all his knights, and added yet more fury, sound, and slaughter, till at length both hosts of the eleven kings began to quake, and drawing all together into one body, they prepared to meet the worst, while a great multitude already fled. then said king lot, "lords, we must take yet other means, or worse loss still awaits us. see ye not what people we have lost in waiting on the footmen, and that it costs ten horsemen to save one of them? therefore it is my counsel to put away our footmen from us, for it is almost night, and king arthur will not stay to slaughter them. so they can save their lives in this great wood hard by. then let us gather into one band all the horsemen that remain, and whoso breaketh rank or leaveth us, let him be straightway slain by him that seeth him, for it is better that we slay a coward than through a coward be all slain. how say ye?" said king lot; "answer me, all ye kings." "it is well said," replied they all. and swearing they would never fail each other, they mended and set right their armour and their shields, and took new spears and set them steadfastly against their thighs, waiting, and so stood still as a clump of trees stands on the plain; and no assaults could shake them, they held so hard together; which when king arthur saw he marvelled greatly, and was very wroth. "yet," cried he, "i may not blame them, by my faith, for they do as brave men ought to do, and are the best fighting men and knights of most prowess that i ever saw or heard tell of." and so said also kings ban and bors, and praised them greatly for their noble chivalry. but now came forty noble knights out of king arthur's host, and prayed that he would suffer them to break the enemy. and when they were allowed, they rode forth with their spears upon their thighs, and spurred their horses to their hottest. then the eleven kings, with a party of their knights, rushed with set spears as fast and mightily to meet them; and when they were encountered, all the crash and splinter of their spears and armour rang with a mighty din, and so fierce and bloody was their onset that in all that day there had been no such cruel press, and rage, and smiting. at that same moment rode fiercely into the thickest of the struggle king arthur and kings ban and bors, and slew downright on both hands right and left, until their horses went in blood up to the fetlocks. and while the slaughter and the noise and shouting were at their greatest, suddenly there came down through the battle merlin the wizard, upon a great black horse, and riding to king arthur, he cried out, "alas, my lord! will ye have never done? of sixty thousand have ye left but fifteen thousand men alive. is it not time to stay this slaying? for god is ill pleased with ye that ye have never ended, and yonder kings shall not be altogether overthrown this time. but if ye fall upon them any more, the fortune of this day will turn, and go to them. withdraw, lord, therefore, to thy lodging, and there now take thy rest, for to-day thou hast won a great victory, and overcome the noblest chivalry of all the world. and now for many years those kings shall not disturb thee. therefore, i tell thee, fear them no more, for now they are sore beaten, and have nothing left them but their honour; and why shouldest thou slay them to take that?" then said king arthur, "thou sayest well, and i will take thy counsel." with that he cried out, "ho!" for the battle to cease, and sent forth heralds through the field to stay more fighting. and gathering all the spoil, he gave it not amongst his own host, but to kings ban and bors and all their knights and men-at-arms, that he might treat them with the greater courtesy as strangers. then merlin took his leave of arthur and the two other kings, and went to see his master, blaise, a holy hermit, dwelling in northumberland, who had nourished him through all his youth. and blaise was passing glad to see him, for there was a great love ever between them; and merlin told him how king arthur had sped in the battle, and how it had ended; and told him the names of every king and knight of worship who was there. so blaise wrote down the battle, word for word, as merlin told him; and in the same way ever after, all the battles of king arthur's days merlin caused blaise, his master, to record. chapter iii _the adventure of the questing beast--king arthur drives the saxons from the realm--the battles of celidon forest and badon hill_ anon, thereafter, came word to king arthur that ryence, king of north wales, was making war upon king leodegrance of camelgard; whereat he was passing wroth, for he loved leodegrance well, and hated ryence. so he departed with kings ban and bors and twenty thousand men, and came to camelgard, and rescued leodegrance, and slew ten thousand of ryence's men and put him to flight. then leodegrance made a great festival to the three kings, and treated them with every manner of mirth and pleasure which could be devised. and there had king arthur the first sight of guinevere, daughter of leodegrance, whom in the end he married, as shall be told hereafter. then did kings ban and bors take leave, and went to their own country, where king claudas worked great mischief. and king arthur would have gone with them, but they refused him, saying, "nay, ye shall not at this time, for ye have yet much to do in these lands of your own; and we with the riches we have won here by your gifts shall hire many good knights, and, by the grace of god, withstand the malice of king claudas; and if we have need we will send to ye for succour; and likewise ye, if ye have need, send for us, and we will not tarry, by the faith of our bodies." when the two kings had left, king arthur rode to caerleon, and thither came to him his half-sister belisent, wife to king lot, sent as a messenger, but in truth to espy his power; and with her came a noble retinue, and also her four sons--gawain, gaheris, agravaine, and gareth. but when she saw king arthur and his nobleness, and all the splendour of his knights and service, she forbore to spy upon him as a foe, and told him of her husband's plots against him and his throne. and the king, not knowing that she was his half-sister, made great court to her; and being full of admiration for her beauty, loved her out of measure, and kept her a long season at caerleon. wherefore her husband, king lot, was more than ever king arthur's enemy, and hated him till death with a passing great hatred. at that time king arthur had a marvellous dream, which gave him great disquietness of heart. he dreamed that the whole land was full of many fiery griffins and serpents, which burnt and slew the people everywhere; and then that he himself fought with them, and that they did him mighty injuries, and wounded him nigh to death, but that at last he overcame and slew them all. when he woke, he sat in great heaviness of spirit and pensiveness, thinking what this dream might signify, but by-and-by, when he could by no means satisfy himself what it might mean, to rid himself of all his thoughts of it, he made ready with a great company to ride out hunting. as soon as he was in the forest, the king saw a great hart before him, and spurred his horse, and rode long eagerly after it, and chased until his horse lost breath and fell down dead from under him. then, seeing the hart escaped and his horse dead, he sat down by a fountain, and fell into deep thought again. and as he sat there alone, he thought he heard the noise of hounds, as it were some thirty couple in number, and looking up he saw coming towards him the strangest beast that ever he had seen or heard tell of, which ran towards the fountain and drank of the water. its head was like a serpent's, with a leopard's body and a lion's tail, and it was footed like a stag; and the noise was in its belly, as it were the baying or questing of thirty couple of hounds. while it drank there was no noise within it; but presently, having finished, it departed with a greater sound than ever. the king was amazed at all this; but being greatly wearied, he fell asleep, and was before long waked up by a knight on foot, who said, "knight, full of thought and sleepy, tell me if thou sawest a strange beast pass this way?" "such a one i saw," said king arthur to the knight, "but that is now two miles distant at the least. what would you with that beast?" "sir," said the knight, "i have followed it for a long time, and have killed my horse, and would to heaven i had another to pursue my quest withal." at that moment came a yeoman with another horse for the king, which, when the knight saw, he earnestly prayed to be given him. "for i have followed this quest," said he, "twelve months, and either i shall achieve him or bleed of the best blood of my body." it was king pellinore who at that time followed the questing beast, but neither he nor king arthur knew each other. "sir knight," said king arthur, "leave that quest and suffer me to have it, and i will follow it other twelve months." "ah, fool," said the knight, "thy desire is utterly in vain, for it shall never be achieved but by me, or by my next of kin." therewith he started to the king's horse, and mounted to the saddle, crying out, "grammercy, this horse is mine!" "well," said the king, "thou mayest take my horse by force, and i will not say nay; but till we prove whether thou or i be best on horseback, i shall not rest content." "seek me here," said the knight, "whenever thou wilt, and here by this fountain thou shalt find me;" and so he passed forth on his way. then sat king arthur in a deep fit of study, and bade his yeomen fetch him yet another horse as quickly as they could. and when they left him all alone came merlin, disguised as a child of fourteen years of age, and saluted the king, and asked him why he was so pensive and heavy. "i may well be pensive and heavy," he replied, "for here even now i have seen the strangest sight i ever saw." "that know i well," said merlin, "as well as thyself, and also all thy thoughts; but thou art foolish to take thought, for it will not amend thee. also i know what thou art, and know thy father and thy mother." "that is false," said king arthur; "how shouldst thou know? thy years are not enough." "yea," said merlin, "but i know better than thou how thou wast born, and better than any man living." "i will not believe thee," said king arthur, and was wroth with the child. so merlin departed, and came again in the likeness of an old man of fourscore years of age; and the king was glad at his coming, for he seemed wise and venerable. then said the old man, "why art thou so sad?" "for divers reasons," said king arthur; "for i have seen strange things to-day, and but this moment there was here a child who told me things beyond his years to know." "yea," said the old man, "but he told thee truth, and more he would have told thee hadst thou suffered him. but i will tell thee wherefore thou art sad, for thou hast done a thing of late for which god is displeased with thee, and what it is thou knowest in thy heart, though no man else may know." "what art thou," said king arthur, starting up all pale, "that tellest me these tidings?" "i am merlin," said he, "and i was he in the child's likeness, also." "ah," said king arthur, "thou art a marvellous and right fearful man, and i would ask and tell thee many things this day." as they talked came one with the king's horses, and so, king arthur mounting one, and merlin another, they rode together to caerleon; and merlin prophesied to arthur of his death, and also foretold his own end. and now king arthur, having utterly dispersed and overwhelmed those kings who had so long delayed his coronation, turned all his mind to overthrow the saxon heathens who yet in many places spoiled the land. calling together, therefore, his knights and men-at-arms, he rode with all his hosts to york, where colgrin, the saxon, lay with a great army; and there he fought a mighty battle, long and bloody, and drove him into the city, and besieged him. then baldulph, colgrin's brother, came secretly with six thousand men to assail king arthur and to raise the siege. but king arthur was aware of him, and sent six hundred horsemen and three thousand foot to meet and fall on him instead. this therefore they did, encountering them at midnight, and utterly defeated them, till they fled away for life. but baldulph, full of grief, resolved to share his brother's peril; wherefore he shaved his head and beard, and disguised himself as a jester, and so passed through king arthur's camp, singing and playing on a harp, till by degrees he drew near to the city walls, where presently he made himself known, and was drawn up by ropes into the town. anon, while arthur closely watched the city, came news that full six hundred ships had landed countless swarms of saxons, under cheldric, on the eastern coast. at that he raised the siege, and marched straight to london, and there increased his army, and took counsel with his barons how to drive the saxons from the land for evermore. then with his nephew, hoel, king of the armorican britons, who came with a great force to help him, king arthur, with a mighty multitude of barons, knights, and fighting men, went swiftly up to lincoln, which the saxons lay besieging. and there he fought a passing fierce battle, and made grievous slaughter, killing above six thousand men, till the main body of them turned and fled. but he pursued them hotly into the wood of celidon, where, sheltering themselves among the trees from his arrows, they made a stand, and for a long season bravely defended themselves. anon, he ordered all the trees in that part of the forest to be cut down, leaving no shelter or ambush; and with their trunks and branches made a mighty barricade, which shut them in and hindered their escape. after three days, brought nigh to death by famine, they offered to give up their wealth of gold and silver spoils, and to depart forthwith in their empty ships; moreover, to pay tribute to king arthur when they reached their home, and to leave him hostages till all was paid. this offer, therefore, he accepted, and suffered them to depart. but when they had been a few hours at sea, they repented of their shameful flight, and turned their ships back again, and landing at totnes, ravaged all the land as far as the severn, and, burning and slaying on all sides, bent their steps towards bath. when king arthur heard of their treachery and their return, he burned with anger till his eyes shone like two torches, and then he swore a mighty oath to rest no more until he had utterly destroyed those enemies of god and man, and had rooted them for ever out of the land of britain. then marching hotly with his armies on to bath, he cried aloud to them, "since these detestable impious heathens disdain to keep their faith with me, to keep faith with god, to whom i sware to cherish and defend this realm, will now this day avenge on them the blood of all that they have slain in britain!" in like manner after him spoke the archbishop, standing upon a hill, and crying that to-day they should fight both for their country and for paradise, "for whoso," he said, "shall in this holy war be slain, the angels shall forthwith receive him; for death in this cause shall be penance and absolution for all sins." at these words every man in the whole army raged with hatred, and pressed eagerly to rush upon those savages. anon king arthur, dressed in armour shining with gold and jewels, and wearing on his head a helmet with a golden dragon, took a shield painted with the likeness of the blessed mary. then girding on excalibur and taking in his right hand his great lance ron, he placed his men in order and led them out against the enemy, who stood for battle on the slope of badon hill, ranged in the form of a wedge, as their custom was. and they, resisting all the onslaughts of king arthur and his host, made that day a stout defence, and at night lay down upon the hill. but on the next day arthur led his army once again to the attack, and with wounds and slaughter such as no man had ever seen before, he drove the heathen step by step before him, backwards and upwards, till he stood with all his noblest knights upon the summit of the hill. and then men saw him, "red as the rising sun from spur to plume," lift up his sword, and, kneeling, kiss the cross of it; and after, rising to his feet, set might and main with all his fellowship upon the foe, till, as a troop of lions roaring for their prey, they drove them like a scattered herd along the plains, and cut them down till they could cut no more for weariness. that day king arthur by himself alone slew with his word excalibur four hundred and seventy heathens. colgrin also, and his brother baldulph, were slain. then the king bade cador, duke of cornwall, follow cheldric, the chief leader, and the remnant of his hosts, unto the uttermost. he, therefore, when he had first seized their fleet, and filled it with chosen men, to beat them back when they should fly to it at last, chased them and slew them without mercy so long as he could overtake them. and though they crept with trembling hearts for shelter to the coverts of the woods and dens of mountains, yet even so they found no safety, for cador slew them, even one by one. last of all he caught and slew cheldric himself, and slaughtering a great multitude took hostages for the surrender of the rest. meanwhile, king arthur turned from badon hill, and freed his nephew hoel from the scots and picts, who besieged him in alclud. and when he had defeated them in three sore battles, he drove them before him to a lake, which was one of the most wondrous lakes in all the world, for it was fed by sixty rivers, and had sixty islands, and sixty rocks, and on every island sixty eagles' nests. but king arthur with a great fleet sailed round the rivers and besieged them in the lake for fifteen days, so that many thousands died of hunger. anon the king of ireland came with an army to relieve them; but arthur, turning on him fiercely, routed him, and compelled him to retreat in terror to his land. then he pursued his purpose, which was no less to destroy the race of picts and scots, who, beyond memory, had been a ceaseless torment to the britons by their barbarous malice. so bitterly, therefore, did he treat them, giving quarter to none, that at length the bishops of that miserable country with the clergy met together, and, bearing all the holy relics, came barefooted to the king to pray his mercy for their people. as soon as they were led before him they fell down upon their knees, and piteously besought him to spare the few survivors of their countrymen, and grant them any corner of the land where they might live in peace. when he thus heard them, and knew that he had now fully punished them, he consented to their prayer, and withdrew his hosts from any further slaughter. then turned he back to his own realm, and came to york for christmas, and there with high solemnity observed that holy tide; and being passing grieved to see the ruin of the churches and houses, which the rage or the pagans had destroyed, he rebuilt them, and restored the city to its ancient happy state. and on a certain day, as the king sat with his barons, there came into the court a squire on horseback, carrying a knight before him wounded to the death, and told the king that hard by in the forest was a knight who had reared up a pavilion by the fountain, "and hath slain my master, a valiant knight, whose name was nirles; wherefore i beseech thee, lord, my master may be buried, and that some good knight may avenge his death." at that stepped forth a squire named griflet, who was very young, being of the same age with king arthur, and besought the king, for all the service he had done, to give him knighthood. "thou art full young and tender of age," said king arthur, "to take so high an order upon thee." "sir," said griflet, "i beseech thee make me a knight;" and merlin also advising the king to grant his request, "well," said arthur, "be it then so," and knighted him forthwith. then said he to him, "since i have granted thee this favour, thou must in turn grant me a gift." "whatsoever thou wilt, my lord," replied sir griflet. "promise me," said king arthur, "by the faith of thy body, that when thou hast jousted with this knight at the fountain, thou wilt return to me straightway, unless he slay thee." "i promise," said sir griflet; and taking his horse in haste, he dressed his shield, and took a spear in his hand and rode full gallop till he came to the fountain, by the side of which he saw a rich pavilion, and a great horse standing well saddled and bridled, and on a tree close by there hung a shield of many colours and a long lance. then sir griflet smote upon the shield with the butt of his spear until he cast it to the ground. at that a knight came out of the pavilion and said, "fair knight, why smote ye down my shield?" "because," said griflet, "i would joust with thee." "it were better not," replied the knight; "for thou art young and but lately made a knight, and thy strength is small compared to mine." "for all that," said sir griflet, "i will joust with ye." "i am full loath," replied the knight; "but if i must i must." then did they wheel their horses far apart, and running them together, the strange knight shivered sir griflet's spear to fragments, and smote him through the shield and the left side, and broke his own spear into sir griflet's body, so that the truncheon stuck there, and sir griflet and his horse fell down. but when the strange knight saw him overthrown, he was sore grieved, and hastily alighted, for he thought that he had slain him. then he unlaced his helm and gave him air, and tended him carefully till he came out of his swoon, and leaving the truncheon of his spear in his body, he set him upon horse, and commended him to god, and said he had a mighty heart, and if he lived would prove a passing good knight. and so sir griflet rode to the court, where, by aid of good physicians, he was healed in time and his life saved. at that same time there came before the king twelve old men, ambassadors from lucius tiberius, emperor of rome, and demanded of arthur tribute unto caesar for his realm, or else, said they, the emperor would destroy both him and his land. to whom king arthur answered that he owed the emperor no tribute, nor would send him any; but said he, "on a fair field i will pay him his proper tribute--with a sharp spear and sword; and by my father's soul that tribute shall he take from me, whether he will or not." so the ambassadors departed passing wroth, and king arthur was as wroth as they. but on the morrow of sir griflet's hurt, the king commanded to take his horse and armour secretly outside the city walls before sunrise of the next morning, and, rising a long while before dawn, he mounted up and took his shield and spear, and bade his chamberlain tarry till he came again; but he forbore to take excalibur, for he had given it for safety into charge of his sister, queen morgan le fay. and as the king rode at a soft pace he saw suddenly three villains chasing merlin and making to attack and slay him. clapping spurs to his horse, he rushed towards them, and cried out in a terrible voice, "flee, churls, or take your deaths;" but they, as soon as they perceived a knight, fled away with the haste of hares. "o merlin," said the king; "here hadst thou been killed, despite thy many crafts, had i not chanced to pass." "not so," said merlin, "for when i would, i could have saved myself; but thou art nearer to thy death than i, for without special help from heaven thou ridest now towards thy grave." and as they were thus talking, they came to the fountain and the rich pavilion pitched beside it, and saw a knight sitting all armed on a chair in the opening of the tent. "sir knight," said king arthur, "for what cause abidest thou here? to joust with any knight that passeth by? if so, i caution thee to quit that custom." "that custom," said the knight, "have i followed and will follow, let whosoever will say nay, and if any is aggrieved at it, let him who will amend it." "i will amend it," said king arthur. "and i will defend it," answered the knight. then the knight mounted his horse and made himself ready, and charging at each other they met so hard that both their lances splintered into pieces. then king arthur drew his sword, but the knight cried out, "not so; but let us run another tilt together with sharp spears." "i would with a good will," said king arthur; "but i have no more spears." "i have enough of spears," replied the knight, and called a squire, who brought two good new lances. then spurring their horses, they rushed together with all their might, and broke each one his own spear short off in his hand. then the king again put his hand to his sword, but the knight once more cried out, "nay, yet abide awhile; ye are the best jouster that i ever met with; for the love of knighthood, let us joust yet once again." so once again they tilted with their fullest force, and this time king arthur's spear was shivered, but the knight's held whole, and drove so furiously against the king that both his horse and he were hurled to the ground. at that, king arthur was enraged and drew his sword and said, "i will attack thee now, sir knight, on foot, for on horseback i have lost the honour." "i will be on horseback," said the knight. but when he saw him come on foot, he lighted from his horse, thinking it shame to have so great advantage. and then began they a strong battle, with many great strokes and grievous blows, and so hewed with their swords that the fragments of their armour flew about the fields, and both so bled that all the ground around was like a marsh of blood. thus they fought long and mightily, and anon, after brief rest fell to again, and so hurtled together like two wild boars that they both rolled to the ground. at last their swords clashed furiously together, and the knight's sword shivered the king's in two. then said the knight, "now art thou in my power, to save thee or to slay. yield therefore as defeated, and a recreant knight, or thou shall surely die." "as for death," replied king arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh; but as for yielding me to thee as a recreant because of this poor accident upon my sword, i had far liefer die than be so shamed." so saying, he sprang on the knight, and took him by the middle and threw him down, and tore off his helm. but the knight, being a huge man, wrestled and struggled in a frenzy with the king until he brought him under, and tore off his helm in turn, and would have smitten off his head. at that came merlin and said, "knight, hold thy hand, for if thou slayest yonder knight, thou puttest all this realm to greater loss and damage than ever realm was in; for he is a man of greater worship than thou dreamest of." "who then is he?" cried the knight. "arthur pendragon!" answered merlin. then would he have slain him for dread of his wrath, but merlin cast a spell upon the knight, so that he fell suddenly to the earth in a deep sleep. then raising up the king, he took the knight's horse for himself and rode away. "alas," said king arthur, "what hast thou done, merlin? hast thou slain this good knight by thy crafts? there never lived a better knight; i had rather lose my kingdom for a year than have him dead." "be not afraid," said merlin; "he is more whole and sound than thou art, and is but in a sleep, wherefrom in three hours' time he will awake. i told thee what a knight he was, and how near thou wast to death. there liveth not a better knight than he in all the world, and hereafter he shall do thee good service. his name is king pellinore, and he shall have two sons, who shall be passing valiant men, and, save one another, shall have no equal in prowess and in purity of life. the one shall be named percival, and the other lamoracke of wales." so they rode on to caerleon, and all the knights grieved greatly when they heard of this adventure, that the king would jeopardise his person thus alone. yet could they not hide their joy at serving under such a noble chief, who adventured his own life as much as did the poorest knight among them all. chapter iv _king arthur conquers ireland and norway, slays the giant of st. michael's mount, and conquers gaul--the adventures of sir balin_ the land of britain being now in peace, and many great and valiant knights therein ready to take part in whatsoever battles or adventures might arise, king arthur resolved to follow all his enemies to their own coasts. anon he fitted out a great fleet, and sailing first to ireland, in one battle he miserably routed the people of the country. the king of ireland also he took prisoner, and forced all earls and barons to pay him homage. having conquered ireland, he went next to iceland and subdued it also, and the winter being then arrived, returned to britain. in the next year he set forth to norway, whence many times the heathen had descended on the british coasts; for he was determined to give so terrible a lesson to those savages as should be told through all their tribes both far and near, and make his name fearful to them. as soon as he was come, riculf, the king, with all the power of that country, met and gave him battle; but, after mighty slaughter, the britons had at length the advantage, and slew riculf and a countless multitude besides. having thus defeated them, they set the cities on fire, dispersed the country people, and pursued the victory till they had reduced all norway, as also dacia, under the dominion of king arthur. now, therefore, having thus chastised those pagans who so long had harassed britain, and put his yoke upon them, he voyaged on to gaul, being steadfastly set upon defeating the roman governor of that province, and so beginning to make good the threats which he had sent the emperor by his ambassadors. so soon as he was landed on the shores of gaul, there came to him a countryman who told him of a fearful giant in the land of brittany, who had slain, murdered, and devoured many people, and had lived for seven years upon young children only, "insomuch," said the man, "that all the children of the country are destroyed; and but the other day he seized upon our duchess, as she rode out with her men, and took her away to his lodging in a cave of a mountain, and though five hundred people followed her, yet could they give her no help or rescue, but left her shrieking and crying lamentably in the giant's hands; and, lord, she is thy cousin hoel's wife, who is of thy near kindred; wherefore, as thou art a rightful king, have pity on this lady; and as thou art a valiant conqueror, avenge us and deliver us." "alas!" said king arthur, "this is a great mischief that ye tell of. i had rather than the best realm i have, that i had rescued that lady ere the giant laid his hand on her; but tell me now, good fellow, canst thou bring me where this giant haunteth?" "yea, lord!" replied the man; "lo, yonder, where thou seest two great fires, there shall thou find him, and more treasure also than is in all gaul besides." then the king returned to his tent, and, calling sir key and sir bedwin, desired them to get horses ready for himself and them, for that after evensong he would ride a pilgrimage with them alone to st. michael's mount. so in the evening they departed, and rode as fast as they could till they came near the mount, and there alighted; and the king commanded the two knights to await him at the hill foot, while he went up alone. then he ascended the mountain till he came to a great fire. and there he found a sorrowful widow wringing her hands and weeping miserably, sitting by a new-made grave. and saluting her, king arthur prayed her wherefore she made such heavy lamentations. "sir knight," she said, "speak softly, for yonder is a devil, who, if he hear thy voice, will come and straightway slay thee. alas! what dost thou here? fifty such men as thou were powerless to resist him. here lieth dead my lady, duchess of brittany, wife to sir hoel, who was the fairest lady in the world, foully and shamefully slaughtered by that fiend! beware that thou go not too nigh, for he hath overcome and vanquished fifteen kings, and hath made himself a coat of precious stones, embroidered with their beards; but if thou art hardy, and wilt speak with him, at yonder great fire he is at supper." "well," said king arthur, "i will accomplish mine errand, for all thy fearful words;" and so went forth to the crest of the hill, and saw where the giant sat at supper, gnawing on a limb of a man, and baking his huge frame by the fire, while three damsels turned three spits whereon were spitted, like larks, twelve young children lately born. [illustration: the giant sat at supper, gnawing on a limb of a man, and baking his huge frame by the fire.] when king arthur saw all that, his heart bled for sorrow, and he trembled for rage and indignation; then lifting up his voice he cried aloud--"god, that wieldeth all the world, give thee short life and shameful death, and may the devil have thy soul! why hast thou slain those children and that fair lady? wherefore arise, and prepare thee to perish, thou glutton and fiend, for this day thou shalt die by my hands." then the giant, mad with fury at these words, started up, and seizing a great club, smote the king, and struck his crown from off his head. but king arthur smote him with his sword so mightily in return, that all his blood gushed forth in streams. at that the giant, howling in great anguish, threw away his club of iron, and caught the king in both his arms and strove to crush his ribs together. but king arthur struggled and writhed, and twisted him about, so that the giant could not hold him tightly; and as they fiercely wrestled, they both fell, and rolling over one another, tumbled--wrestling, and struggling, and fighting frantically--from rock to rock, till they came to the sea. and as they tore and strove and tumbled, the king ever and anon smote at the giant with his dagger, till his arms stiffened in death around king arthur's body, and groaning horribly, he died. so presently the two knights came and found the king locked fast in the giant's arms, and very faint and weary, and loosed him from their hold. then the king bade sir key to "smite off the giant's head and set it on the truncheon of a spear, and bear it to sir hoel, and tell him that his enemy is slain; and afterwards let it be fastened to the castle gate, that all the people may behold it. and go ye two up on the mountain and fetch me my shield and sword, and also the great club of iron ye will see there; and as for the treasure, ye shall find there wealth beyond counting, but take as much as ye will, for if i have his kirtle and the club, i desire no more." then the knights fetched the club and kirtle, as the king had ordered, and took the treasure to themselves, as much as they could carry, and returned to the army. but when this deed was noised abroad, all the people came in multitudes to thank the king, who told them "to give thanks to god, and to divide the giant's spoils amongst them equally." and king arthur desired sir hoel to build a church upon the mount, and dedicate it to the archangel michael. on the morrow, all the host moved onwards into the country of champagne, and flollo, the roman tribune, retired before them into paris. but while he was preparing to collect more forces from the neighbouring countries, king arthur came upon him unawares, and besieged him in the town. and when a month had passed, flollo--full of grief at the starvation of his people, who died in hundreds day by day--sent to king arthur, and desired that they two might fight together; for he was a man of mighty stature and courage, and thought himself sure of the victory. this challenge, king arthur, full weary the siege, accepted with great joy, and sent back word to flollo that he would meet him whensoever he appointed. and a truce being made on both sides, they met together the next day on the island without the city, where all the people also were gathered to see the issue. and as the king and flollo rode up to the lists, each was so nobly armed and horsed, and sat so mightily upon his saddle, that no man could tell which way the battle would end. when they had saluted one another, and presented themselves against each other with their lances aloft, they put spurs to their horses and began a fierce encounter. but king arthur, carrying his spear more warily, struck it on the upper part of flollo's breast, and flung him from his saddle to the earth. then drawing his sword, he cried to him to rise, and rushed upon him; but flollo, starting up, met him with his spear couched, and pierced the breast of king arthur's horse, and overthrew both horse and man. the britons, when they saw their king upon the ground, could scarcely keep themselves from breaking up the truce and falling on the gauls. but as they were about to burst the barriers, and rush upon the lists, king arthur hastily arose, and, guarding himself with his shield, ran with speed on flollo. and now they renewed the assault with great rage, being sorely bent upon each other's death. at length, flollo, seizing his advantage, gave king arthur a huge stroke upon the helm, which nigh overthrew him, and drew forth his blood in streams. but when king arthur saw his armour and shield red with blood, he was inflamed with fury, and lifting up excalibur on high, with all his might, he struck straight through the helmet into flollo's head, and smote it into halves; and flollo falling backwards, and tearing up the ground with his spurs, expired. as soon as this news spread, the citizens all ran together, and, opening the gates, surrendered the city to the conqueror. and when he had overrun the whole province with his arms, and reduced it everywhere to subjection, he returned again to britain, and held his court at caerleon, with greater state than ever. anon he invited thereto all the kings, dukes, earls, and barons, who owed him homage, that he might treat them royally, and reconcile them to each other, and to his rule. and never was there a city more fit and pleasant for such festivals. for on one side it was washed by a noble river, so that the kings and princes from the countries beyond sea might conveniently sail up to it; and on the other side, the beauty of the groves and meadows, and the stateliness and magnificence of the royal palaces, with lofty gilded roofs, made it even rival the grandeur of rome. it was famous also for two great and noble churches, whereof one was built in honour of the martyr julius, and adorned with a choir of virgins who had devoted themselves wholly to the service of god; and the other, founded in memory of st. aaron, his companion, maintained a convent of canons, and was the third metropolitan church of britain. besides, there was a college of two hundred philosophers, learned in astronomy, and all the other sciences and arts. in this place, therefore, full of such delights, king arthur held his court, with many jousts and tournaments, and royal huntings, and rested for a season after all his wars. and on a certain day there came into the court a messenger from ryence, king of north wales, bearing this message from his master: that king ryence had discomfited eleven kings, and had compelled each one of them to cut off his beard; that he had trimmed a mantle with these beards, and lacked but one more beard to finish it; and that he therefore now sent for king arthur's beard, which he required of him forthwith, or else he would enter his lands and burn and slay, and never leave them till he had taken by force not his beard only, but his head also. when king arthur heard these words he flushed all scarlet, and rising in great anger said, "well is it for thee that thou speakest another man's words with thy lips, and not thine own. thou hast said thy message, which is the most insolent and villainous that ever man heard sent to any king: now hear my reply. my beard is yet too young to trim that mantle of thy master's with; yet, young although i be, i owe no homage either to him or any man--nor will ever owe. but, young although i be, i will have thy master's homage upon both his knees before this year be past, or else he shall lose his head, by the faith of my body, for this message is the shamefullest i ever heard speak of. i see well thy king hath never yet met with a worshipful man; but tell that king arthur will have his head or his worship right soon." then the messenger departed, and arthur, looking round upon his knights, demanded of them if any there knew this king ryence. "yea," answered sir noran, "i know him well, and there be few better or stronger knights upon a field than he; and he is passing proud and haughty in his heart; wherefore i doubt not, lord, he will make war on thee with mighty power." "well," said king arthur, "i shall be ready for him, and that shall he find." while the king thus spoke, there came into the hall a damsel having on a mantle richly furred, which she let fall and showed herself to be girded with a noble sword. the king being surprised at this, said, "damsel, wherefore art thou girt with that sword, for it beseemeth thee not?" "sir," said she, "i will tell thee. this sword wherewith i am thus girt gives me great sorrow and encumbrance, for i may not be delivered from it till i find a knight faithful and pure and true, strong of body and of valiant deeds, without guile or treachery, who shall be able to draw it from its scabbard, which no man else can do. and i have but just now come from the court of king ryence, for there they told me many great and good knights were to be ever found; but he and all his knights have tried to draw it forth in vain--for none of them can move it." "this is a great marvel," said king arthur; "i will myself try to draw forth this sword, not thinking in my heart that i am the best knight, but rather to begin and give example that all may try after me." saying this, he took the sword and pulled at it with all his might, but could not shake or move it. "thou needest not strive so hard, lord," said the damsel, "for whoever may be able to pull it forth shall do so very easily." "thou sayest well," replied the king, remembering how he had himself drawn forth the sword from the stone before st. paul's. "now try ye, all my barons; but beware ye be not stained with shame, or any treachery, or guile." and turning away his face from them, king arthur mused full heavily of sins within his breast he knew of, and which his failure brought to mind right sadly. then all the barons present tried each after other, but could none of them succeed; whereat the damsel greatly wept, and said, "alas, alas! i thought in this court to have found the best knight, without shame or treachery or treason." now by chance there was at that time a poor knight with king arthur, who had been prisoner at his court for half a year and more, charged with slaying unawares a knight who was a cousin of the king's. he was named balin le savage, and had been by the good offices of the barons delivered from prison, for he was of good and valiant address and gentle blood. he being secretly present at the court saw this adventure, and felt his heart rise high within him, and longed to try the sword as did the others; but being poor and poorly clad, he was ashamed to come forward in the press of knights and nobles. but in his heart he felt assured that he could do better--if heaven willed--than any knight among them all. so as the damsel left the king, he called to her and said, "damsel, i pray thee of thy courtesy, suffer me to try the sword as well as all these lords; for though i be but poorly clad, i feel assurance in my heart." the damsel looking at him, saw in him a likely an honest man, but because of his poor garments could not think him to be any knight of worship, and said, "sir, there is no need to put me to any more pain or labour; why shouldst thou succeed where so many worthy ones have failed?" "ah, fair lady," answered balin, "worthiness and brave deeds are not shown by fair raiment, but manhood and truth lie hid within the heart. there be many worshipful knights unknown to all the people." "by my faith, thou sayest truth," replied the damsel; "try therefore, if thou wilt, what thou canst do." so balin took the sword by the girdle and hilt, and drew it lightly out, and looking on its workmanship and brightness, it pleased him greatly. but the king and all the barons marvelled at sir balin's fortune, and many knights were envious of him, for, "truly," said the damsel, "this is a passing good knight, and the best man i have ever found, and the most worshipfully free from treason, treachery, or villainy, and many wonders shall he achieve." "now, gentle and courteous knight," continued she, turning to balin, "give me the sword again." "nay," said sir balin, "save it be taken from me by force, i shall preserve this sword for evermore." "thou art not wise," replied the damsel, "to keep it from me; for if thou wilt do so, thou shalt slay with it the best friend thou hast, and the sword shall be thine destruction also." "i will take whatever adventure god may send," said balin; "but the sword will i keep, by the faith of my body." "thou will repent it shortly," said the damsel; "i would take the sword for thy sake rather than for mine for i am passing grieved and heavy for thy sake, who wilt not believe the peril i foretell thee." with that she departed, making great lamentation. then balin sent for his horse and armour, and took his leave of king arthur, who urged him to stay at his court. "for," said he, "i believe that thou art displeased that i showed thee unkindness; blame me not overmuch, for i was misinformed against thee, and knew not truly what a knight of worship thou art. abide in this court with my good knights, and i will so advance thee that thou shalt be well pleased." "god thank thee, lord," said balin, "for no man can reward thy bounty and thy nobleness; but at this time i must needs depart, praying thee ever to hold me in thy favour." "truly," said king arthur, "i am grieved for thy departure; but tarry not long, and thou shalt be right welcome to me and all my knights when thou returnest, and i will repair my neglect and all that i have done amiss against thee." "god thank thee, lord," again said balin, and made ready to depart. but meanwhile came into the court a lady upon horseback, full richly dressed, and saluted king arthur, and asked him for the gift that he had promised her when she gave him his sword excalibur, "for," said she, "i am the lady of the lake." "ask what thou wilt," said the king, "and thou shalt have it, if i have power to give." "i ask," said she, "the head of that knight who hath just achieved the sword, or else the damsel's head who brought it, or else both; for the knight slew my brother, and the lady caused my father's death." "truly," said king arthur, "i cannot grant thee this desire; it were against my nature and against my name; but ask whatever else thou wilt, and i will do it." "i will demand no other thing," said she. and as she spake came balin, on his way to leave the court, and saw her where she stood, and knew her straightway for his mother's murderess, whom he had sought in vain three years. and when they told him that she had asked king arthur for his head, he went up straight to her and said, "may evil have thee! thou desirest my head, therefore shalt thou lose thine;" and with his sword he lightly smote her head off, in the presence of the king and all the court. "alas, for shame!" cried out king arthur, rising up in wrath; "why hast thou done this, shaming both me and my court? i am beholden greatly to this lady, and under my safe conduct came she here; thy deed is passing shameful; never shall i forgive thy villainy." "lord," cried sir balin, "hear me; this lady was the falsest living, and by her witchcraft hath destroyed many, and caused my mother also to be burnt to death by her false arts and treachery." "what cause soever thou mightest have had," said the king, "thou shouldst have forborne her in my presence. deceive not thyself, thou shalt repent this sin, for such a shame was never brought upon my court; depart now from my face with all the haste thou mayest." then balin took up the head of the lady and carried it to his lodgings, and rode forth with his squire from out the town. then said he, "now must we part; take ye this head and bear it to my friends in northumberland, and tell them how i speed, and that our worst foe is dead; also tell them that i am free from prison, and of the adventure of my sword." "alas!" said the squire, "ye are greatly to blame to have so displeased king arthur." "as for that," said sir balin, "i go now to find king ryence, and destroy him or lose my life; for should i take him prisoner, and lead him to the court, perchance king arthur would forgive me, and become my good and gracious lord." "where shall i meet thee again?" said the squire. "in king arthur's court," said balin. chapter v _sir balin smites the dolorous stroke, and fights with his brother, sir balan_ now there was a knight at the court more envious than the others of sir balin, for he counted himself one of the best knights in britain. his name was lancear; and going to the king, he begged leave to follow after sir balin and avenge the insult he had put upon the court. "do thy best," replied the king, "for i am passing wroth with balin." in the meantime came merlin, and was told of this adventure of the sword and lady of the lake. "now hear me," said he, "when i tell ye that this lady who hath brought the sword is the falsest damsel living." "say not so," they answered, "for she hath a brother a good knight, who slew another knight this damsel loved; so she, to be revenged upon her brother, went to the lady lile, of avilion, and besought her help. then lady lile gave her the sword, and told her that no man should draw it forth but one, a valiant knight and strong, who should avenge her on her brother. this, therefore, was the reason why the damsel came here." "i know it all as well as ye do," answered merlin; "and would to god she had never come hither, for never came she into any company but to do harm; and that good knight who hath achieved the sword shall be himself slain by it, which shall be great harm and loss, for a better knight there liveth not; and he shall do unto my lord the king great honour and service." then sir lancear, having armed himself at all points, mounted, and rode after sir balin, as fast as he could go, and overtaking him, he cried aloud, "abide, sir knight! wait yet awhile, or i shall make thee do so." hearing him cry, sir balin fiercely turned his horse, and said, "fair knight, what wilt thou with me? wilt thou joust?" "yea," said sir lancear, "it is for that i have pursued thee." "peradventure," answered balin, "thou hadst best have staid at home, for many a man who thinketh himself already victor, endeth by his own downfall. of what court art thou?" "of king arthur's court," cried lancear, "and i am come to revenge the insult thou hast put on it this day." "well," said sir balin, "i see that i must fight thee, and i repent to be obliged to grieve king arthur or his knights; and thy quarrel seemeth full foolish to me, for the damsel that is dead worked endless evils through the land, or else i had been loath as any knight that liveth to have slain a lady." "make thee ready," shouted lancear, "for one of us shall rest for ever in this field." but at their first encounter sir lancear's spear flew into splinters from sir balin's shield, and sir balin's lance pierced with such might through sir lancear's shield that it rove the hauberk also, and passed through the knight's body and the horse's crupper. and sir balin turning fiercely round again, drew out his sword, and knew not that he had already slain him; and then he saw him lie a corpse upon the ground. at that same moment came a damsel riding towards him as fast as her horse could gallop, who, when she saw sir lancear dead, wept and sorrowed out of measure, crying, "o, sir balin, two bodies hast thou slain, and one heart; and two hearts in one body; and two souls also hast thou lost." therewith she took the sword from her dead lover's side--for she was sir lancear's lady-love--and setting the pommel of it on the ground, ran herself through the body with the blade. when sir balin saw her dead he was sorely hurt and grieved in spirit, and repented the death of lancear, which had also caused so fair a lady's death. and being unable to look on their bodies for sorrow, he turned aside into a forest, where presently as he rode, he saw the arms of his brother, sir balan. and when they were met they put off their helms, and embraced each other, kissing, and weeping for joy and pity. then sir balin told sir balan all his late adventures, and that he was on his way to king ryence, who at that time was besieging castle terrabil. "i will be with thee," answered sir balan, "and we will help each other, as brethren ought to do." anon by chance, as they were talking, came king mark, of cornwall, by that way, and when he saw the two dead bodies of sir lancear and his lady lying there, and heard the story of their death, he vowed to build a tomb to them before he left that place. so pitching his pavilion there, he sought through all the country round to find a monument, and found at last a rich and fair one in a church, which he took and raised above the dead knight and his damsel, writing on it--"here lieth lancear, son of the king of ireland, who, at his own request, was slain by balin; and here beside him also lieth his lady colombe, who slew herself with her lover's sword for grief and sorrow." then as sir balin and sir balan rode away, merlin met with them, and said to balin, "thou hast done thyself great harm not to have saved that lady's life who slew herself; and because of it, thou shalt strike the most dolorous stroke that ever man struck, save he that smote our lord. for thou shalt smite the truest and most worshipful of living knights, who shall not be recovered from his wounds for many years, and through that stroke three kingdoms shall be overwhelmed in poverty and misery." "if i believed," said balin, "what thou sayest, i would slay myself to make thee a liar." at that merlin vanished suddenly away; but afterwards he met them in disguise towards night, and told them he could lead them to king ryence, whom they sought. "for this night he is to ride with sixty lances only through a wood hard by." so sir balin and sir balan hid themselves within the wood, and at midnight came out from their ambush among the leaves by the highway, and waited for the king, whom presently they heard approaching with his company. then did they suddenly leap forth and smote at him and overthrew him and laid him on the ground, and turning on his company wounded and slew forty of them, and put the rest to flight. and returning to king ryence they would have slain him there, but he craved mercy, and yielded to their grace, crying, "knights full of prowess, slay me not; for by my life ye may win something--but my death can avail ye nought." "ye say truth," said the two knights, and put him in a horse-litter, and went swiftly through all the night, till at cock-crow they came to king arthur's palace. there they delivered him to the warders and porters, to be brought before the king, with this message--"that he was sent to king arthur by the knight of the two swords (for so was balin known by name, since his adventure with the damsel) and by his brother." and so they rode away again ere sunrise. within a month or two thereafter, king arthur being somewhat sick, went forth outside the town, and had his pavilion pitched in a meadow, and there abode, and laid him down on a pallet to sleep, but could get no rest. and as he lay he heard the sound of a great horse, and looking out of the tent door, saw a knight ride by, making great lamentation. "abide, fair sir," said king arthur, "and tell me wherefore thou makest this sorrow." "ye may little amend it," said the knight, and so passed on. presently after sir balin, rode, by chance, past that meadow, and when he saw the king he alighted and came to him on foot, and kneeled and saluted him. "by my head," said king arthur, "ye be welcome, sir balin;" and then he thanked him heartily for revenging him upon king ryence, and for sending him so speedily a prisoner to his castle, and told him how king nero, ryence's brother, had attacked him afterwards to deliver ryence from prison; and how he had defeated him and slain him, and also king lot, of orkney who was joined with nero, and whom king pellinore had killed in the battle. then when they had thus talked, king arthur told sir balin of the sullen knight that had just passed his tent, and desired him to pursue him and to bring him back. so sir balin rode and overtook the knight in a forest with a damsel, and said, "sir knight, thou must come back with me unto my lord, king arthur, to tell him the cause of thy sorrow, which thou hast refused even now to do." "that will i not," replied the knight, "for it would harm me much, and do him no advantage." "sir," said sir balin, "i pray thee make ready, for thou must needs go with me--or else i must fight with thee and take thee by force." "wilt thou be warrant for safe conduct, if i go with thee?" inquired the knight. "yea, surely," answered balin, "i will die else." so the knight made ready to go with sir balin, and left the damsel in the wood. but as they went, there came one invisible, and smote the knight through the body with a spear. "alas," cried sir herleus (for so was he named), "i am slain under thy guard and conduct, by that traitor knight called garlon, who through magic and witchcraft rideth invisibly. take, therefore, my horse, which is better than thine, and ride to the damsel whom we left, and the quest i had in hand, as she will lead thee--and revenge my death when thou best mayest." "that will i do," said sir balin, "by my knighthood, and so i swear to thee." then went sir balin to the damsel, and rode forth with her; she carrying ever with her the truncheon of the spear wherewith sir herleus had been slain. and as they went, a good knight, perin de mountbelgard, joined their company, and vowed to take adventure with them wheresoever they might go. but presently as they passed a hermitage fast by a churchyard, came the knight garlon, again invisible, and smote sir perin through the body with a spear, and slew him as he had slain sir herleus. whereat, sir balin greatly raged, and swore to have sir garlon's life, whenever next he might encounter and behold him in his bodily shape. anon, he and the hermit buried the good knight sir perin, and rode on with the damsel till they came to a great castle, whereinto they were about to enter. but when sir balin had passed through the gateway, the portcullis fell behind him suddenly, leaving the damsel on the outer side, with men around her, drawing their swords as if to slay her. when he saw that, sir balin climbed with eager haste by wall and tower, and leaped into the castle moat, and rushed towards the damsel and her enemies, with his sword drawn, to fight and slay them. but they cried out, "put up thy sword, sir knight, we will not fight thee in this quarrel, for we do nothing but an ancient custom of this castle." then they told him that the lady of the castle was sick, and had lain ill for many years, and might never more be cured, unless she had a silver dish full of the blood of a pure maid and a king's daughter. wherefore the custom of the castle was, that never should a damsel pass that way but she must give a dish full of her blood. then sir balin suffered them to bleed the damsel with her own consent, but her blood helped not the lady of the castle. so on the morrow they departed, after right good cheer and rest. then they rode three or four days without adventure and came at last to the abode of a rich man, who sumptuously lodged and fed them. and while they sat at supper sir balin heard a voice of some one groaning grievously. "what noise is this?" said he. "forsooth," said the host, "i will tell you. i was lately at a tournament, and there i fought a knight who is brother to king pelles, and overthrew him twice, for which he swore to be revenged on me through my best friend, and so he wounded my son, who cannot be recovered till i have that knight's blood, but he rideth through witchcraft always invisibly, and i know not his name." "ah," said sir balin, "but i know him; his name is garlon, and he hath slain two knights, companions of mine own, in the same fashion, and i would rather than all the riches in this realm that i might meet him face to face." "well," said his host, "let me now tell thee that king pelles hath proclaimed in all the country a great festival, to be held at listeniss, in twenty days from now, whereto no knight may come without a lady. at that great feast we might perchance find out this garlon, for many will be there; and if it please thee we will set forth together." so on the morrow they rode all three towards listeniss, and travelled fifteen days, and reached it on the day the feast began. then they alighted and stabled their horses, and went up to the castle, and sir balin's host was denied entrance, having no lady with him. but sir balin was right heartily received, and taken to a chamber, where they unarmed him, and dressed him in rich robes, of any colour that he chose, and told him he must lay aside his sword. this, however, he refused, and said, "it is the custom of my country for a knight to keep his sword ever with him; and if i may not keep it here, i will forthwith depart." then they gave him leave to wear his sword. so he went to the great hall, and was set among knights of rank and worship, and his lady before him. soon he found means to ask one who sat near him, "is there not here a knight whose name is garlon?" "yonder he goeth," said his neighbour, "he with that black face; he is the most marvellous knight alive, for he rideth invisibly, and destroyeth whom he will." "ah, well," said balin, drawing a long breath, "is that indeed the man? i have aforetime heard of him." then he mused long within himself, and thought, "if i shall slay him here and now, i shall not escape myself; but if i leave him, peradventure i shall never meet with him again at such advantage; and if he live, how much more harm and mischief will he do!" but while he deeply thought, and cast his eyes from time to time upon sir garlon, that false knight saw that he watched him, and thinking that he could at such a time escape revenge, he came and smote sir balin on the face with the back of his hand, and said, "knight, why dost thou so watch me? be ashamed, and eat thy meat, and do that which thou camest for." "thou sayest well," cried sir balin, rising fiercely; "now will i straightway do that which i came to do, as thou shalt find." with that he whirled his sword aloft and struck him downright on the head, and clove his skull asunder to the shoulder. "give me the truncheon," cried out sir balin to his lady, "wherewith he slew thy knight." and when she gave it him--for she had always carried it about with her, wherever she had gone--he smote him through the body with it, and said, "with that truncheon didst thou treacherously murder a good knight, and now it sticketh in thy felon body." then he called to the father of the wounded son, who had come with him to listeniss, and said, "now take as much blood as thou wilt, to heal thy son withal." but now arose a terrible confusion, and all the knights leaped from the table to slay balin, king pelles himself the foremost, who cried out, "knight, thou hast slain my brother at my board; die, therefore, die, for thou shalt never leave this castle." "slay me, thyself, then," shouted balin. "yea," said the king, "that will i! for no other man shall touch thee, for the love i bear my brother." then king pelles caught in his hand a grim weapon and smote eagerly at balin, but balin put his sword between his head and the king's stroke, and saved himself but lost his sword, which fell down smashed and shivered into pieces by the blow. so being weaponless he ran to the next room to find a sword, and so from room to room, with king pelles after him, he in vain ever eagerly casting his eyes round every place to find some weapon. at last he ran into a chamber wondrous richly decked, where was a bed all dressed with cloth of gold, the richest that could be thought of, and one who lay quite still within the bed; and by the bedside stood a table of pure gold borne on four silver pillars, and on the table stood a marvellous spear, strangely wrought. when sir balin saw the spear he seized it in his hand, and turned upon king pelles, and smote at him so fiercely and so sore that he dropped swooning to the ground. but at that dolorous and awful stroke the castle rocked and rove throughout, and all the walls fell crashed and breaking to the earth, and balin himself fell also in their midst, struck as it were to stone, and powerless to move a hand or foot. and so three days he lay amidst the ruins, until merlin came and raised him up and brought him a good horse, and bade him ride out of that land as swiftly as he could. [illustration: the castle rocked and rove throughout, and all the walls fell crashed and breaking to the earth.] "may i not take the damsel with me i brought hither?" said sir balin. "lo! where she lieth dead," said merlin. "ah, little knowest thou, sir balin, what thou hast done; for in this castle and that chamber which thou didst defile, was the blood of our lord christ! and also that most holy cup--the sangreal--wherefrom the wine was drunk at the last supper of our lord. joseph of arimathea brought it to this land, when first he came here to convert and save it. and on that bed of gold it was himself who lay, and the strange spear beside him was the spear wherewith the soldier longus smote our lord, which evermore had dripped with blood. king pelles is the nearest kin to joseph in direct descent, wherefore he held these holy things in trust; but now have they all gone at thy dolorous stroke, no man knoweth whither; and great is the damage to this land, which until now hath been the happiest of all lands, for by that stroke thou hast slain thousands, and by the loss and parting of the sangreal the safety of this realm is put in peril, and its great happiness is gone for evermore." then balin departed from merlin, struck to his soul with grief and sorrow, and said, "in this world shall we meet never more." so he rode forth through the fair cities and the country, and found the people lying dead on every side. and all the living cried out on him as he passed, "o balin, all this misery hast thou done! for the dolorous stroke thou gavest king pelles, three countries are destroyed, and doubt not but revenge will fall on thee at last!" when he had passed the boundary of those countries, he was somewhat comforted, and rode eight days without adventure. anon he came to a cross, whereon was written in letters of gold, "it is not for a knight alone to ride towards this castle." looking up, he saw a hoary ancient man come towards him, who said, "sir balin le savage, thou passest thy bounds this way; therefore turn back again, it will be best for thee;" and with these words he vanished. then did he hear a horn blow as it were the deathnote of some hunted beast. "that blast," said balin, "is blown for me, for i am the prey; though yet i be not dead." but as he spoke he saw a hundred ladies with a great troop of knights come forth to meet him, with bright faces and great welcome, who led him to the castle and made a great feast, with dancing and minstrelsy and all manner of joy. then the chief lady of the castle said, "knight with the two swords, thou must encounter and fight with a knight hard by, who dwelleth on an island, for no man may pass this way without encountering him." "it is a grievous custom," answered sir balin. "there is but one knight to defeat," replied the lady. "well," said sir balin, "be it as thou wilt. i am ready and quite willing, and though my horse and my body be full weary, yet is my heart not weary, save of life. and truly i were glad if i might meet my death." "sir," said one standing by, "methinketh your shield is not good; i will lend you a bigger." "i thank thee, sir," said balin, and took the unknown shield and left his own, and so rode forth, and put himself and horse into a boat and came to the island. as soon as he had landed, he saw come riding towards him, a knight dressed all in red, upon a horse trapped in the same colour. when the red knight saw sir balin, and the two swords he wore, he thought it must have been his brother (for the red knight was sir balan), but when he saw the strange arms on his shield, he forgot the thought, and came against him fiercely. at the first course they overthrew each other, and both lay swooning on the ground; but sir balin was the most hurt and bruised, for he was weary and spent with travelling. so sir balan rose up first to his feet and drew his sword, and sir balin painfully rose against him and raised his shield. then sir balan smote him through the shield and brake his helmet; and sir balin, in return, smote at him with his fated sword, and had wellnigh slain his brother. so they fought till their breaths failed. then sir balin, looking up, saw all the castle towers stand full of ladies. so they went again to battle, and wounded each other full sore, and paused, and breathed again, and then again began the fight; and this for many times they did, till all the ground was red with blood. and by now, each had full grievously wounded the other with seven great wounds, the least of which might have destroyed the mightiest giant in the world. but still they rose against each other, although their hauberks now were all unnailed, and they smiting at each other's naked bodies with their sharp swords. at the last, sir balan, the younger brother, withdrew a little space and laid him down. then said sir balin le savage, "what knight art thou? for never before have i found a knight to match me thus." "my name," said he, all faintly, "is balan, brother to the good knight sir balin." "ah, god!" cried balin, "that ever i should see this day!" and therewith fell down backwards in a swoon. then sir balan crept with pain upon his feet and hands, and put his brother's helmet off his head, but could not know him by his face, it was so hewed and bloody. but presently, when sir balin came to, he said, "oh! balan, mine own brother, thou hast slain me, and i thee! all the wide world saw never greater grief!" "alas!" said sir balan, "that i ever saw this day; and through mishap alone i knew thee not, for when i saw thy two swords, if it had not been for thy strange shield, i should have known thee for my brother." "alas!" said balin, "all this sorrow lieth at the door of one unhappy knight within the castle, who made me change my shield. if i might live, i would destroy that castle and its evil customs." "it were well done," said balan, "for since i first came hither i have never been able to depart, for here they made me fight with one who kept this island, whom i slew, and by enchantment i might never quit it more; nor couldst thou, brother, hadst thou slain me, and escaped with thine own life." anon came the lady of the castle, and when she heard their talk, and saw their evil case, she wrung her hands and wept bitterly. so sir balan prayed the lady of her gentleness that, for his true service, she would bury them both together in that place. this she granted, weeping full sore, and said it should be done right solemnly and richly, and in the noblest manner possible. then did they send for a priest, and received the holy sacrament at his hands. and balin said, "write over us upon our tomb, that here two brethren slew each other; then shall never good knight or pilgrim pass this way but he will pray for both our souls." and anon sir balan died, but sir balin died not till the midnight after; and then they both were buried. on the morrow of their death came merlin, and took sir balin's sword and fixed on it a new pommel, and set it in a mighty stone, which then, by magic, he made float upon the water. and so, for many years, it floated to and fro around the island, till it swam down the river to camelot, where young sir galahad achieved it, as shall be told hereafter. chapter vi _the marriage of king arthur and queen guinevere, and the founding of the round table--the adventure of the hart and hound_ it befell upon a certain day, that king arthur said to merlin, "my lords and knights do daily pray me now to take a wife; but i will have none without thy counsel, for thou hast ever helped me since i came first to this crown." "it is well," said merlin, "that thou shouldst take a wife, for no man of bounteous and noble nature should live without one; but is there any lady whom thou lovest better than another?" "yea," said king arthur, "i love guinevere, the daughter of king leodegrance, of camelgard, who also holdeth in his house the round table that he had from my father uther; and as i think, that damsel is the gentlest and the fairest lady living." "sir," answered merlin, "as for her beauty, she is one of the fairest that do live; but if ye had not loved her as ye do, i would fain have had ye choose some other who was both fair and good. but where a man's heart is set, he will be loath to leave." this merlin said, knowing the misery that should hereafter happen from this marriage. then king arthur sent word to king leodegrance that he mightily desired to wed his daughter, and how that he had loved her since he saw her first, when with kings ban and bors he rescued leodegrance from king ryence of north wales. when king leodegrance heard the message, he cried out "these be the best tidings i have heard in all my life--so great and worshipful a prince to seek my daughter for his wife! i would fain give him half my lands with her straightway, but that he needeth none--and better will it please him that i send him the round table of king uther, his father, with a hundred good knights towards the furnishing of it with guests, for he will soon find means to gather more, and make the table full." then king leodegrance delivered his daughter guinevere to the messengers of king arthur, and also the round table with the hundred knights. so they rode royally and freshly, sometimes by water and sometimes by land, towards camelot. and as they rode along in the spring weather, they made full many sports and pastimes. and, in all those sports and games, a young knight lately come to arthur's court, sir lancelot by name, was passing strong, and won praise from all, being full of grace and hardihood; and guinevere also ever looked on him with joy. and always in the eventide, when the tents were set beside some stream or forest, many minstrels came and sang before the knights and ladies as they sat in the tent-doors, and many knights would tell adventures; and still sir lancelot was foremost, and told the knightliest tales, and sang the goodliest songs, of all the company. and when they came to camelot, king arthur made great joy, and all the city with him; and riding forth with a great retinue he met guinevere and her company, and led her through the streets all filled with people, and in the midst of all their shoutings and the ringing of church bells, to a palace hard by his own. then, in all haste, the king commanded to prepare the marriage and the coronation with the stateliest and most honourable pomp that could be made. and when the day was come, the archbishops led the king to the cathedral, whereto he walked, clad in his royal robes, and having four kings, bearing four golden swords, before him; a choir of passing sweet music going also with him. in another part, was the queen dressed in her richest ornaments, and led by archbishops and bishops to the chapel of the virgins, the four queens also of the four kings last mentioned walked before her, bearing four white doves, according to ancient custom; and after her there followed many damsels, singing and making every sign of joy. and when the two processions were come to the churches, so wondrous was the music and the singing, that all the knights and barons who were there pressed on each other, as in the crowd of battle, to hear and see the most they might. when the king was crowned, he called together all the knights that came with the round table from camelgard, and twenty-eight others, great and valiant men, chosen by merlin out of all the realm, towards making up the full number of the table. then the archbishop of canterbury blessed the seats of all the knights, and when they rose again therefrom to pay their homage to king arthur there was found upon the back of each knight's seat his name, written in letters of gold. but upon one seat was found written, "this is the siege perilous, wherein if any man shall sit save him whom heaven hath chosen, he shall be devoured by fire." anon came young gawain, the king's nephew, praying to be made a knight, whom the king knighted then and there. soon after came a poor man, leading with him a tall fair lad of eighteen years of age, riding on a lean mare. and falling at the king's feet, the poor man said, "lord, it was told me, that at this time of thy marriage thou wouldst give to any man the gift he asked for, so it were not unreasonable." "that is the truth," replied king arthur, "and i will make it good." "thou sayest graciously and nobly," said the poor man. "lord, i ask nothing else but that thou wilt make my son here a knight." "it is a great thing that thou askest," said the king. "what is thy name?" "aries, the cowherd," answered he. "cometh this prayer from thee or from thy son?" inquired king arthur. "nay, lord, not from myself," said he, "but from him only, for i have thirteen other sons, and all of them will fall to any labour that i put them to. but this one will do no such work for anything that i or my wife may do, but is for ever shooting or fighting, and running to see knights and joustings, and torments me both night and day that he be made a knight." "what is thy name?" said the king to the young man. "my name is tor," said he. then the king, looking at him steadfastly, was well pleased with his face and figure, and with his look of nobleness and strength. "fetch all thy other sons before me," said the king to aries. but when he brought them, none of them resembled tor in size or shape or feature. then the king knighted tor, saying, "be thou to thy life's end a good knight and a true, as i pray god thou mayest be; and if thou provest worthy, and of prowess, one day thou shall be counted in the round table." then turning to merlin, arthur said, "prophesy now, o merlin, shall sir tor become a worthy knight, or not?" "yea, lord," said merlin, "so he ought to be, for he is the son of that king pellinore whom thou hast met, and proved to be one of the best knights living. he is no cowherd's son." presently after came in king pellinore, and when he saw sir tor he knew him for his son, and was more pleased than words can tell to find him knighted by the king. and pellinore did homage to king arthur, and was gladly and graciously accepted of the king; and then was led by merlin to a high seat at the table round, near to the perilous seat. but sir gawain was full of anger at the honour done king pellinore, and said to his brother gaheris, "he slew our father, king lot, therefore will i slay him." "do it not yet," said he; "wait till i also be a knight, then will i help ye in it: it is best ye suffer him to go at this time, and not trouble this high feast with bloodshed." "as ye will, be it," said sir gawain. then rose the king and spake to all the table round, and charged them to be ever true and noble knights, to do neither outrage nor murder, nor any unjust violence, and always to flee treason; also by no means ever to be cruel, but give mercy unto him that asked for mercy, upon pain of forfeiting the liberty of his court for evermore. moreover, at all times, on pain of death, to give all succour unto ladies and young damsels; and lastly, never to take part in any wrongful quarrel, for reward or payment. and to all this he swore them knight by knight. then he ordained that, every year at pentecost, they should all come before him, wheresoever he might appoint a place, and give account of all their doings and adventures of the past twelvemonth. and so, with prayer and blessing, and high words of cheer, he instituted the most noble order of the round table, whereto the best and bravest knights in all the world sought afterwards to find admission. then was the high feast made ready, and the king and queen sat side by side, before the whole assembly; and great and royal was the banquet and the pomp. and as they sat, each man in his place, merlin went round and said, "sit still awhile, for ye shall see a strange and marvellous adventure." so as they sat, there suddenly came running through the hall, a white hart, with a white hound next after him, and thirty couple of black running hounds, making full cry; and the hart made circuit of the table round, and past the other tables; and suddenly the white hound flew upon him and bit him fiercely, and tore out a piece from his haunch. whereat the hart sprang suddenly with a great leap, and overthrew a knight sitting at the table, who rose forthwith, and, taking up the hound, mounted, and rode fast away. but no sooner had he left, than there came in a lady, mounted on a white palfrey, who cried out to the king, "lord, suffer me not to have this injury!--the hound is mine which that knight taketh." and as she spake, a knight rode in all armed, on a great horse, and suddenly took up the lady and rode away with her by force, although she greatly cried and moaned. then the king desired sir gawain, sir tor, and king pellinore to mount and follow this adventure to the uttermost; and told sir gawain to bring back the hart, sir tor the hound and knight, and king pellinore the knight and the lady. so sir gawain rode forth at a swift pace, and with him gaheris, his brother, for a squire. and as they went, they saw two knights fighting on horseback, and when they reached them they divided them and asked the reason of their quarrel. "we fight for a foolish matter," one replied, "for we be brethren; but there came by a white hart this way, chased by many hounds, and thinking it was an adventure for the high feast of king arthur, i would have followed it to have gained worship; whereat my younger brother here declared he was the better knight and would go after it instead, and so we fight to prove which of us be the better knight." "this is a foolish thing," said sir gawain. "fight with all strangers, if ye will, but not brother with brother. take my advice, set on against me, and if ye yield to me, as i shall do my best to make ye, ye shall go to king arthur and yield ye to his grace." "sir knight," replied the brothers, "we are weary, and will do thy wish without encountering thee; but by whom shall we tell the king that we were sent?" "by the knight that followeth the quest of the white hart," said sir gawain. "and now tell me your names, and let us part." "sorlous and brian of the forest," they replied; and so they went their way to the king's court. then sir gawain, still following his quest by the distant baying of the hounds, came to a great river, and saw the hart swimming over and near to the further bank. and as he was about to plunge in and swim after, he saw a knight upon the other side, who cried, "come not over here, sir knight, after that hart, save thou wilt joust with me." "i will not fail for that," said sir gawain; and swam his horse across the stream. anon they got their spears, and ran against each other fiercely; and sir gawain smote the stranger off his horse, and turning, bade him yield. "nay," replied he, "not so; for though ye have the better of me on horseback, i pray thee, valiant knight, alight, and let us match together with our swords on foot." "what is thy name?" quoth gawain. "allardin of the isles," replied the stranger. then they fell on each other; but soon sir gawain struck him through the helm, so deeply and so hard, that all his brains were scattered, and sir allardin fell dead. "ah," said gaheris, "that was a mighty stroke for a young knight!" then did they turn again to follow the white hart, and let slip three couple of greyhounds after him; and at the last they chased him to a castle, and there they overtook and slew him, in the chief courtyard. at that there rushed a knight forth from a chamber, with a drawn sword in his hand, and slew two of the hounds before their eyes, and chased the others from the castle, crying, "oh, my white hart! alas, that thou art dead! for thee my sovereign lady gave to me, and evil have i kept thee; but if i live, thy death shall be dear bought." anon he went within and armed, and came out fiercely, and met sir gawain face to face. "why have ye slain my hounds?" said sir gawain; "they did but after their nature: and ye had better have taken vengeance on me than on the poor dumb beasts." "i will avenge me on thee, also," said the other, "ere thou depart this place." then did they fight with each other savagely and madly, till the blood ran down to their feet. but at last sir gawain had the better, and felled the knight of the castle to the ground. then he cried out for mercy, and yielded to sir gawain, and besought him as he was a knight and gentleman to save his life. "thou shalt die," said sir gawain, "for slaying my hounds." "i will make thee all amends within my power," replied the knight. but sir gawain would have no mercy, and unlaced his helm to strike his head off; and so blind was he with rage, that he saw not where a lady ran out from her chamber and fell down upon his enemy. and making a fierce blow at him, he smote off by mischance the lady's head. "alas!" cried gaheris, "foully and shamefully have ye done--the shame shall never leave ye! why give ye not your mercy unto them that ask it? a knight without mercy is without worship also." then sir gawain was sore amazed at that fair lady's death, and knew not what to do, and said to the fallen knight, "arise, for i will give thee mercy." "nay, nay," said he, "i care not for thy mercy now, for thou hast slain my lady and my love--that of all earthly things i loved the best." "i repent me sorely of it," said sir gawain, "for i meant to have struck thee: but now shalt thou go to king arthur and tell him this adventure, and how thou hast been overcome by the knight that followeth the quest of the white hart." "i care not whether i live or die, or where i go," replied the knight. so sir gawain sent him to the court to camelot, making him bear one dead greyhound before and one behind him on his horse. "tell me thy name before we part," said he. "my name is athmore of the marsh," he answered. then went sir gawain into the castle, and prepared to sleep there and began to unarm; but gaheris upbraided him, saying, "will ye disarm in this strange country? bethink ye, ye must needs have many enemies about." no sooner had he spoken than there came out suddenly four knights, well armed, and assailed them hard, saying to sir gawain, "thou new-made knight, how hast thou shamed thy knighthood! a knight without mercy is dishonoured! slayer of fair ladies, shame to thee evermore! doubt not thou shalt thyself have need of mercy ere we leave thee." then were the brothers in great jeopardy, and feared for their lives, for they were but two to four, and weary with travelling; and one of the four knights shot sir gawain with a bolt, and hit him through the arm, so that he could fight no more. but when there was nothing left for them but death, there came four ladies forth and prayed the four knights' mercy for the strangers. so they gave sir gawain and gaheris their lives, and made them yield themselves prisoners. on the morrow, came one of the ladies to sir gawain, and talked with him, saying, "sir knight, what cheer?" "not good," said he. "it is your own default, sir," said the lady, "for ye have done a passing foul deed in slaying that fair damsel yesterday--and ever shall it be great shame to you. but ye be not of king arthur's kin." "yea, truly am i," said he; "my name is gawain, son of king lot of orkney, whom king pellinore slew--and my mother, belisent, is half-sister to the king." when the lady heard that, she went and presently got leave for him to quit the castle; and they gave him the head of the white hart to take with him, because it was in his quest; but made him also carry the dead lady with him--her head hung round his neck and her body lay before him on his horse's neck. so in that fashion he rode back to camelot; and when the king and queen saw him, and heard tell of his adventures, they were heavily displeased, and, by the order of the queen, he was put upon his trial before a court of ladies--who judged him to be evermore, for all his life, the knight of ladies' quarrels, and to fight always on their side, and never against any, except he fought for one lady and his adversary for another; also they charged him never to refuse mercy to him that asked it, and swore him to it on the holy gospels. thus ended the adventure of the white hart. meanwhile, sir tor had made him ready, and followed the knight who rode away with the hound. and as he went, there suddenly met him in the road a dwarf, who struck his horse so viciously upon the head with a great staff, that he leaped backwards a spear's length. "wherefore so smitest thou my horse, foul dwarf?" shouted sir tor. "because thou shall not pass this way," replied the dwarf, "unless thou fight for it with yonder knights in those pavilions," pointing to two tents, where two great spears stood out, and two shields hung upon two trees hard by. "i may not tarry, for i am on a quest i needs must follow," said sir tor. "thou shalt not pass," replied the dwarf, and therewith blew his horn. then rode out quickly at sir tor one armed on horseback, but sir tor was quick as he, and riding at him bore him from his horse, and made him yield. directly after came another still more fiercely, but with a few great strokes and buffets sir tor unhorsed him also, and sent them both to camelot to king arthur. then came the dwarf and begged sir tor to take him in his service, "for," said he, "i will serve no more recreant knights." "take then a horse, and come with me," said tor. "ride ye after the knight with the white hound?" said the dwarf; "i can soon bring ye where he is." so they rode through the forest till they came to two more tents. and sir tor alighting, went into the first, and saw three damsels lie there, sleeping. then went he to the other, and found another lady also sleeping, and at her feet the white hound he sought for, which instantly began to bay and bark so loudly, that the lady woke. but sir tor had seized the hound and given it to the dwarfs charge. "what will ye do, sir knight?" cried out the lady; "will ye take away my hound from me by force?" "yea, lady," said sir tor; "for so i must, having the king's command; and i have followed it from king arthur's court, at camelot, to this place." "well" said the lady, "ye will not go far before ye be ill handled, and will repent ye of the quest." "i shall cheerfully abide whatsoever adventure cometh, by the grace of god," said sir tor; and so mounted his horse and began to ride back on his way. but night coming on, he turned aside to a hermitage that was in the forest, and there abode till the next day, making but sorrowful cheer of such poor food as the hermit had to give him, and hearing a mass devoutly before he left on the morrow. and in the early morning, as he rode forth with the dwarf towards camelot, he heard a knight call loudly after him, "turn, turn! abide, sir knight, and yield me up the hound thou tookest from my lady." at which he turned, and saw a great and strong knight, armed full splendidly, riding down upon him fiercely through a glade of the forest. now sir tor was very ill provided, for he had but an old courser, which was as weak as himself, because of the hermit's scanty fare. he waited, nevertheless, for the strange knight to come, and at the first onset with their spears, each unhorsed the other, and then fell to with their swords like two mad lions. then did they smite through one another's shields and helmets till the fragments flew on all sides, and their blood ran out in streams; but yet they carved and rove through the thick armour of the hauberks, and gave each other great and ghastly wounds. but in the end, sir tor, finding the strange knight faint, doubled his strokes until he beat him to the earth. then did he bid him yield to his mercy. "that will i not," replied abellius, "while my life lasteth and my soul is in my body, unless thou give me first the hound." "i cannot," said sir tor, "and will not, for it was my quest to bring again that hound and thee unto king arthur, or otherwise to slay thee." with that there came a damsel riding on a palfrey, as fast as she could drive, and cried out to sir tor with a loud voice, "i pray thee, for king arthur's love, give me a gift." "ask," said sir tor, "and i will give thee." "grammercy," said the lady, "i ask the head of this false knight abellius, the most outrageous murderer that liveth." "i repent me of the gift i promised," said sir tor. "let him make thee amends for all his trespasses against thee." "he cannot make amends," replied the damsel, "for he hath slain my brother, a far better knight than he, and scorned to give him mercy, though i kneeled for half an hour before him in the mire, to beg it, and though it was but by a chance they fought, and for no former injury or quarrel. i require my gift of thee as a true knight, or else will i shame thee in king arthur's court; for this abellius is the falsest knight alive, and a murderer of many." when abellius heard this, he trembled greatly, and was sore afraid, and yielded to sir tor, and prayed his mercy. "i cannot now, sir knight," said he, "lest i be false to my promise. ye would not take my mercy when i offered it; and now it is too late." therewith he unlaced his helmet, and took it off; but abellius, in dismal fear, struggled to his feet, and fled, until sir tor overtook him, and smote off his head entirely with one blow. "now, sir," said the damsel, "it is near night, i pray ye come and lodge at my castle hard by." "i will, with a good will," said he, for both his horse and he had fared but poorly since they left camelot. so he went to the lady's castle and fared sumptuously, and saw her husband, an old knight, who greatly thanked him for his service, and urged him oftentimes to come again. on the morrow he departed, and reached camelot by noon, where the king and queen rejoiced to see him, and the king made him earl; and merlin prophesied that these adventures were but little to the things he should achieve hereafter. now while sir gawain and sir tor had fulfilled their quests, king pellinore pursued the lady whom the knight had seized away from the wedding-feast. and as he rode through the woods, he saw in a valley a fair young damsel sitting by a well-side, and a wounded knight lying in her arms, and king pellinore saluted her as he passed by. as soon as she perceived him she cried out, "help, help me, knight, for our lord's sake!" but pellinore was far too eager in his quest to stay or turn, although she cried a hundred times to him for help; at which she prayed to heaven he might have such sore need before he died as she had now. and presently thereafter her knight died in her arms; and she, for grief and love slew herself with his sword. but king pellinore rode on till he met a poor man and asked him had he seen a knight pass by that way leading by force a lady with him. "yea, surely," said the man, "and greatly did she moan and cry; but even now another knight is fighting with him to deliver the lady; ride on and thou shalt find them fighting still." at that king pellinore rode swiftly on, and came to where he saw the two knights fighting, hard by where two pavilions stood. and when he looked in one of them he saw the lady that was his quest, and with her the two squires of the two knights who fought. "fair lady," said he, "ye must come with me unto arthur's court." "sir knight," said the two squires, "yonder be two knights fighting for this lady; go part them, and get their consent to take her, ere thou touch her." "ye say well," said king pellinore, and rode between the combatants, and asked them why they fought. "sir knight," said the one, "yon lady is my cousin, mine aunt's daughter, whom i met borne away against her will, by this knight here, with whom i therefore fight to free her." "sir knight," replied the other, whose name was hantzlake of wentland, "this lady got i, by my arms and prowess, at king arthur's court to-day." "that is false," said king pellinore; "ye stole the lady suddenly, and fled away with her, before any knight could arm to stay thee. but it is my service to take her back again. neither of ye shall therefore have her; but if ye will fight for her, fight with me now and here." "well," said the knights, "make ready, and we will assail thee with all our might." then sir hantzlake ran king pellinore's horse through with his sword, so that they might be all alike on foot. but king pellinore at that was passing wroth, and ran upon sir hantzlake, with a cry, "keep well thy head!" and gave him such a stroke upon the helm as clove him to the chin, so that he fell dead to the ground. when he saw that, the other knight refused to fight, and kneeling down said, "take my cousin the lady with thee, as thy quest is; but as thou art a true knight, suffer her to come to neither shame nor harm." so the next day king pellinore departed for camelot, and took the lady with him; and as they rode in a valley full of rough stones, the damsel's horse stumbled and threw her, so that her arms were sorely bruised and hurt. and as they rested in the forest for the pain to lessen, night came on, and there they were compelled to make their lodging. a little before midnight they heard the trotting of a horse. "be ye still," said king pellinore, "for now we may hear of some adventure," and therewith he armed him. then he heard two knights meet and salute each other, in the dark; one riding from camelot, the other from the north. "what tidings at camelot?" said one. "by my head," said the other, "i have but just left there, and have espied king arthur's court, and such a fellowship is there as never may be broke or overcome; for wellnigh all the chivalry of the world is there, and all full loyal to the king, and now i ride back homewards to the north to tell our chiefs, that they waste not their strength in wars against him." "as for all that," replied the other knight, "i am but now from the north, and bear with me a remedy, the deadliest poison that ever was heard tell of, and to camelot will i with it; for there we have a friend close to the king, and greatly cherished of him, who hath received gifts from us to poison him, as he hath promised soon to do." "beware," said the first knight, "of merlin, for he knoweth all things, by the devil's craft." "i will not fear for that," replied the other, and so rode on his way. anon king pellinore and the lady passed on again; and when they came to the well at which the lady with the wounded knight had sat, they found both knight and damsel utterly devoured by lions and wild beasts, all save the lady's head. when king pellinore saw that, he wept bitterly, saying, "alas! i might have saved her life had i but tarried a few moments in my quest." "wherefore make so much sorrow now?" said the lady. "i know not," answered he, "but my heart grieveth greatly for this poor lady's death, so fair she was and young." then he required a hermit to bury the remains of the bodies, and bare the lady's head with him to camelot, to the court. when he was arrived, he was sworn to tell the truth of his quest before the king and queen, and when he had entered the queen somewhat upbraided him, saying, "ye were much to blame that ye saved not that lady's life." "madam," said he, "i shall repent it all my life." "ay, king," quoth merlin, who suddenly came in, "and so ye ought to do, for that lady was your daughter, not seen since infancy by thee. and she was on her way to court, with a right good young knight, who would have been her husband, but was slain by treachery of a felon knight, lorraine le savage, as they came; and because thou wouldst not abide and help her, thy best friend shall fail thee in thine hour of greatest need, for such is the penance ordained thee for that deed." then did king pellinore tell merlin secretly of the treason he had heard in the forest, and merlin by his craft so ordered that the knight who bare the poison was himself soon after slain by it, and so king arthur's life was saved. chapter vii _king arthur and sir accolon of gaul_ being now happily married, king arthur for a season took his pleasure, with great tournaments, and jousts, and huntings. so once upon a time the king and many of his knights rode hunting in a forest, and arthur, king urience, and sir accolon of gaul, followed after a great hart, and being all three well mounted, they chased so fast that they outsped their company, and left them many miles behind; but riding still as rapidly as they could go, at length their horses fell dead under them. then being all three on foot, and seeing the stag not far before them, very weary and nigh spent--"what shall we do," said king arthur, "for we are hard bested?" "let us go on afoot," said king urience, "till we can find some lodging." at that they saw the stag lying upon the bank of a great lake, with a hound springing at his throat, and many other hounds trooping towards him. so, running forward, arthur blew the death-note on his horn, and slew the hart. then lifting up his eyes he saw before him on the lake a barge, all draped down to the water's edge, with silken folds and curtains, which swiftly came towards him, and touched upon the sands; but when he went up close and looked in, he saw no earthly creature. then he cried out to his companions, "sirs, come ye hither, and let us see what there is in this ship." so they all three went in, and found it everywhere throughout furnished, and hung with rich draperies of silk and gold. by this time eventide had come, when suddenly a hundred torches were set up on all sides of the barge, and gave a dazzling light, and at the same time came forth twelve fair damsels, and saluted king arthur by his name, kneeling on their knees, and telling him that he was welcome, and should have their noblest cheer, for which the king thanked them courteously. then did they lead him and his fellows to a splendid chamber, where was a table spread with all the richest furniture, and costliest wines and viands; and there they served them with all kinds of wines and meats, till arthur wondered at the splendour of the feast, declaring he had never in his life supped better, or more royally. after supper they led him to another chamber, than which he had never beheld a richer, where he was left to rest. king urience, also, and sir accolon were each conducted into rooms of like magnificence. and so they all three fell asleep, and being very weary slept deeply all that night. [illustration: came forth twelve fair damsels, and saluted king arthur by his name.] but when the morning broke, king urience found himself in his own house in camelot, he knew not how; and arthur awaking found himself in a dark dungeon, and heard around him nothing but the groans of woful knights, prisoners like himself. then said king arthur, "who are ye, thus groaning and complaining?" and some one answered him, "alas, we be all prisoners, even twenty good knights, and some of us have lain here seven years--some more--nor seen the light of day for all that time." "for what cause?" said king arthur. "know ye not then yourself?" they answered--"we will soon tell you. the lord of this strong castle is sir damas, and is the falsest and most traitorous knight that liveth; and he hath a younger brother, a good and noble knight, whose name is outzlake. this traitor damas, although passing rich, will give his brother nothing of his wealth, and save what outzlake keepeth to himself by force, he hath no share of the inheritance. he owneth, nevertheless, one fair rich manor, whereupon he liveth, loved of all men far and near. but damas is as altogether hated as his brother is beloved, for he is merciless and cowardly: and now for many years there hath been war between these brothers, and sir outzlake evermore defieth damas to come forth and fight with him, body to body, for the inheritance; and if he be too cowardly, to find some champion knight that will fight for him. and damas hath agreed to find some champion, but never yet hath found a knight to take his evil cause in hand, or wager battle for him. so with a strong band of men-at-arms he lieth ever in ambush, and taketh captive every passing knight who may unwarily go near, and bringeth him into this castle, and desireth him either to fight sir outzlake, or to lie for evermore in durance. and thus hath he dealt with all of us, for we all scorned to take up such a cause for such a false foul knight--but rather one by one came here, where many a good knight hath died of hunger and disease. but if one of us would fight, sir damas would deliver all the rest." "god of his mercy send you deliverance," said king arthur, and sat turning in his mind how all these things should end, and how he might himself gain freedom for so many noble hearts. anon there came a damsel to the king, saying, "sir if thou wilt fight for my lord thou shalt be delivered out of prison, but else nevermore shalt thou escape with thy life." "nay," said king arthur, "that is but a hard choice, yet had i rather fight than die in prison, and if i may deliver not myself alone, but all these others, i will do the battle." "yea," said the damsel, "it shall be even so." "then," said king arthur, "i am ready now, if but i had a horse and armour." "fear not," said she, "that shalt thou have presently, and shalt lack nothing proper for the fight." "have i not seen thee," said the king, "at king arthur's court? for it seemeth that thy face is known to me." "nay," said the damsel, "i was never there; i am sir damas' daughter, and have never been but a day's journey from this castle." but she spoke falsely, for she was one of the damsels of morgan le fay, the great enchantress, who was king arthur's half-sister. when sir damas knew that there had been at length a knight found who would fight for him, he sent for arthur, and finding him a man so tall and strong, and straight of limb, he was passingly well pleased, and made a covenant with him, that he should fight unto the uttermost for his cause, and that all the other knights should be delivered. and when they were sworn to each other on the holy gospels, all those imprisoned knights were straightway led forth and delivered, but abode there one and all to see the battle. in the meanwhile there had happened to sir accolon of gaul a strange adventure; for when he awoke from his deep sleep upon the silken barge, he found himself upon the edge of a deep well, and in instant peril of falling thereinto. whereat, leaping up in great affright, he crossed himself and cried aloud, "may god preserve my lord king arthur and king urience, for those damsels in the ship have betrayed us, and were doubtless devils and no women; and if i may escape this misadventure, i will certainly destroy them wheresoever i may find them." with that there came to him a dwarf with a great mouth, and a flat nose, and saluted him, saying that he came from queen morgan le fay. "and she greeteth you well," said he, "and biddeth you be strong of heart, for to-morrow you shall do battle with a strange knight, and therefore she hath sent you here excalibur, king arthur's sword, and the scabbard likewise. and she desireth you as you do love her to fight this battle to the uttermost, and without any mercy, as you have promised her you would fight when she should require it of you; and she will make a rich queen for ever of any damsel that shall bring her that knight's head with whom you are to fight." "well," said sir accolon, "tell you my lady queen morgan, that i shall hold to that i promised her, now that i have this sword--and," said he, "i suppose it was to bring about this battle that she made all these enchantments by her craft." "you have guessed rightly," said the dwarf, and therewithal he left him. then came a knight and lady, and six squires, to sir accolon, and took him to a manor house hard by, and gave him noble cheer; and the house belonged to sir outzlake, the brother of sir damas, for so had morgan le fay contrived with her enchantments. now sir outzlake himself was at that time sorely wounded and disabled, having been pierced through both his thighs by a spear-thrust. when, therefore, sir damas sent down messengers to his brother, bidding him make ready by to-morrow morning, and be in the field to fight with a good knight, for that he had found a champion ready to do battle at all points, sir outzlake was sorely annoyed and distressed, for he knew he had small chance of victory, while yet he was disabled by his wounds; notwithstanding, he determined to take the battle in hand, although he was so weak that he must needs be lifted to his saddle. but when sir accolon of gaul heard this, he sent a message to sir outzlake offering to take the battle in his stead, which cheered sir outzlake mightily, who thanked sir accolon with all his heart, and joyfully accepted him. so, on the morrow, king arthur was armed and well horsed, and asked sir damas, "when shall we go to the field?" "sir," said sir damas, "you shall first hear mass." and when mass was done, there came a squire on a great horse, and asked sir damas if his knight were ready, "for our knight is already in the field." then king arthur mounted on horseback, and there around were all the knights, and barons, and people of the country; and twelve of them were chosen to wait upon the two knights who were about to fight. and as king arthur sat on horseback, there came a damsel from morgan le fay, and brought to him a sword, made like excalibur, and a scabbard also, and said to him, "morgan le fay sendeth you here your sword for her great love's sake." and the king thanked her, and believed it to be as she said; but she traitorously deceived him, for both sword and scabbard were counterfeit, brittle, and false, and the true sword excalibur was in the hands of sir accolon. then, at the sound of a trumpet, the champions set themselves on opposite sides of the field, and giving rein and spur to their horses urged them to so great a speed that each smiting the other in the middle of the shield, rolled his opponent to the ground, both horse and man. then starting up immediately, both drew their swords and rushed swiftly together. and so they fell to eagerly, and gave each other many great and mighty strokes. and as they were thus fighting, the damsel vivien, lady of the lake, who loved king arthur, came upon the ground, for she knew by her enchantments how morgan le fay had craftily devised to have king arthur slain by his own sword that day, and therefore came to save his life. and arthur and sir accolon were now grown hot against each other, and spared not strength nor fury in their fierce assaults; but the king's sword gave way continually before sir accolon's, so that at every stroke he was sore wounded, and his blood ran from him so fast that it was a marvel he could stand. when king arthur saw the ground so sore be-blooded, he bethought him in dismay that there was magic treason worked upon him, and that his own true sword was changed, for it seemed to him that the sword in sir accolon's hand was excalibur, for fearfully it drew his blood at every blow, while what he held himself kept no sharp edge, nor fell with any force upon his foe. "now, knight, look to thyself, and keep thee well from me," cried out sir accolon. but king arthur answered not, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as made him stagger and nigh fall upon the ground. then sir accolon withdrew a little, and came on with excalibur on high, and smote king arthur in return with such a mighty stroke as almost felled him; and both being now in hottest wrath, they gave each other grievous and savage blows. but arthur all the time was losing so much blood that scarcely could he keep upon his feet yet so full was he of knighthood, that knightly he endured the pain, and still sustained himself, though now he was so feeble that he thought himself about to die. sir accolon, as yet, had lost no drop of blood, and being very bold and confident in excalibur, even grew more vigorous and hasty in his assaults. but all men who beheld them said they never saw a knight fight half so well as did king arthur; and all the people were so grieved for him that they besought sir damas and sir outzlake to make up their quarrel and so stay the fight; but they would not. so still the battle raged, till arthur drew a little back for breath and a few moments' rest; but accolon came on after him, following fiercely and crying loud, "it is no time for me to suffer thee to rest," and therewith set upon him. then arthur, full of scorn and rage, lifted up his sword and struck sir accolon upon the helm so mightily that he drove him to his knees; but with the force of that great stroke his brittle, treacherous sword broke short off at the hilt, and fell down in the grass among the blood, leaving the pommel only in his hand. at that, king arthur thought within himself that all was over, and secretly prepared his mind for death, yet kept himself so knightly sheltered by his shield that he lost no ground, and made as though he yet had hope and cheer. then said sir accolon, "sir knight, thou now art overcome and canst endure no longer, seeing thou art weaponless, and hast lost already so much blood. yet am i fully loth to slay thee; yield, then, therefore, to me as recreant." "nay," said king arthur, "that may i not, for i have promised to do battle to the uttermost by the faith of my body while my life lasteth; and i had rather die with honour than live with shame; and if it were possible for me to die an hundred times, i had rather die as often than yield me to thee, for though i lack weapons, i shall lack no worship, and it shall be to thy shame to slay me weaponless." "aha," shouted then sir accolon, "as for the shame, i will not spare; look to thyself, sir knight, for thou art even now but a dead man." therewith he drove at him with pitiless force, and struck him nearly down; but arthur evermore waxing in valour as he waned in blood, pressed on sir accolon with his shield, and hit at him so fiercely with the pommel in his hand, as hurled him three strides backwards. this, therefore, so confused sir accolon, that rushing up, all dizzy, to deliver once again a furious blow, even as he struck, excalibur, by vivien's magic, fell from out his hands upon the earth. beholding which, king arthur lightly sprang to it, and grasped it, and forthwith felt it was his own good sword, and said to it, "thou hast been from me all too long, and done me too much damage." then spying the scabbard hanging by sir accolon's side, he sprang and pulled it from him, and cast it away as far as he could throw it; for so long as he had worn it, arthur new his life would have been kept secure. "oh, knight!" then said the king, "thou hast this day wrought me much damage by this sword, but now art thou come to thy death, for i shall not warrant thee but that thou shalt suffer, ere we part, somewhat of that thou hast made me suffer." and therewithal king arthur flew at him with all his might, and pulled him to the earth, and then struck off his helm, and gave him on the head a fearful buffet, till the blood leaped forth. "now will i slay thee!" cried king arthur; for his heart was hardened, and his body all on fire with fever, till for a moment he forgot his knightly mercy. "slay me thou mayest," said sir accolon, "for thou art the best knight i ever found, and i see well that god is with thee; and i, as thou hast, have promised to fight this battle to the uttermost, and never to be recreant while i live; therefore shall i never yield me with my mouth, and god must do with my body what he will." and as sir accolon spoke, king arthur thought he knew his voice; and parting all his blood-stained hair from out his eyes, and leaning down towards him, saw, indeed, it was his friend and own true knight. then said he--keeping his own visor down--"i pray thee tell me of what country art thou, and what court?" "sir knight," he answered, "i am of king arthur's court, and my name is sir accolon of gaul." then said the king, "oh, sir knight! i pray thee tell me who gave thee this sword? and from whom thou hadst it?" then said sir accolon, "woe worth this sword, for by it i have gotten my death. this sword hath been in my keeping now for almost twelve months, and yesterday queen morgan le fay, wife of king urience, sent it to me by a dwarf, that therewith i might in some way slay her brother, king arthur; for thou must understand that king arthur is the man she hateth most in all the world, being full of envy and jealousy because he is of greater worship and renown than any other of her blood. she loveth me also as much as she doth hate him; and if she might contrive to slay king arthur by her craft and magic, then would she straightway kill her husband also, and make me the king of all this land, and herself my queen, to reign with me; but now," said he, "all that is over, for this day i am come to my death." "it would have been sore treason of thee to destroy thy lord," said arthur. "thou sayest truly," answered he; "but now that i have told thee, and openly confessed to thee all that foul treason whereof i now do bitterly repent, tell me, i pray thee, whence art thou, and of what court?" "o, sir accolon!" said king arthur, "learn that i am myself king arthur." when sir accolon heard this he cried aloud, "alas, my gracious lord! have mercy on me, for i knew thee not." "thou shalt have mercy," said he, "for thou knewest not my person at this time; and though by thine own confession thou art a traitor, yet do i blame thee less, because thou hast been blinded by the false crafts of my sister morgan le fay, whom i have trusted more than all others of my kin, and whom i now shall know well how to punish." then did sir accolon cry loudly, "o, lords, and all good people! this noble knight that i have fought with is the noblest and most worshipful in all the world; for it is king arthur, our liege lord and sovereign king; and full sorely i repent that i have ever lifted lance against him, though in ignorance i did it." then all the people fell down on their knees and prayed the pardon of the king for suffering him to come to such a strait. but he replied, "pardon ye cannot have, for, truly, ye have nothing sinned; but here ye see what ill adventure may ofttimes befall knights-errant, for to my own hurt, and his danger also, i have fought with one of my own knights." then the king commanded sir damas to surrender to his brother the whole manor, sir outzlake only yielding him a palfrey every year; "for," said he scornfully, "it would become thee better to ride on than a courser;" and ordered damas, upon pain of death, never again to touch or to distress knights-errant riding on their adventures; and also to make full compensation and satisfaction to the twenty knights whom he had held in prison. "and if any of them," said the king, "come to my court complaining that he hath not had full satisfaction of thee for his injuries, by my head, thou shalt die therefor." afterwards, king arthur asked sir outzlake to come with him to his court, where he should become a knight of his, and, if his deeds were noble, be advanced to all he might desire. so then he took his leave of all the people and mounted upon horseback, and sir accolon went with him to an abbey hard by, where both their wounds were dressed. but sir accolon died within four days after. and when he was dead, the king sent his body to queen morgan, to camelot, saying that he sent her a present in return for the sword excalibur which she had sent him by the damsel. so, on the morrow, there came a damsel from queen morgan to the king, and brought with her the richest mantle that ever was seen, for it was set as full of precious stones as they could stand against each other, and they were the richest stones that ever the king saw. and the damsel said, "your sister sendeth you this mantle, and prayeth you to take her gift, and in whatsoever thing she hath offended you, she will amend it at your pleasure." to this the king replied not, although the mantle pleased him much. with that came in the lady of the lake, and said, "sir, put not on this mantle till thou hast seen more; and in nowise let it be put upon thee, or any of thy knights, till ye have made the bringer of it first put it on her." "it shall be done as thou dost counsel," said the king. then said he to the damsel that came from his sister, "damsel, i would see this mantle ye have brought me upon yourself." "sir," said she, "it will not beseem me to wear a knight's garment." "by my head," said king arthur, "thou shall wear it ere it go on any other person's back!" and so they put it on her by force, and forthwith the garment burst into a flame and burned the damsel into cinders. when the king saw that, he hated that false witch morgan le fay with all his heart, and evermore was deadly quarrel between her and arthur to their lives' end. chapter viii _king arthur conquers rome, and is crowned emperor_ and now again the second time there came ambassadors from lucius tiberius, emperor of rome, demanding, under pain of war, tribute and homage from king arthur, and the restoration of all gaul, which he had conquered from the tribune flollo. when they had delivered their message, the king bade them withdraw while he consulted with his knights and barons what reply to send. then some of the younger knights would have slain the ambassadors, saying that their speech was a rebuke to all who heard the king insulted by it. but when king arthur heard that, he ordered none to touch them upon pain of death; and sending officers, he had them taken to a noble lodging, and there entertained with the best cheer. "and," said he, "let no dainty be spared, for the romans are great lords; and though their message please me not, yet must i remember mine honour." then the lords and knights of the round table were called on to declare their counsel--what should be done upon this matter; and sir cador of cornwall speaking first, said, "sir, this message is the best news i have heard for a long time, for we have been now idle and at rest for many days, and i trust that thou wilt make sharp war upon the romans, wherein, i doubt not, we shall all gain honour." "i believe well," said arthur, "that thou art pleased, sir cador; but that is scarce an answer to the emperor of rome, and his demand doth grieve me sorely, for truly i will never pay him tribute; wherefore, lords, i pray ye counsel me. now, i have understood that belinus and brennius, knights of britain, held the roman empire in their hands for many days, and also constantine, the son of helen, which is open evidence, not only that we owe rome no tribute, but that i, being descended from them, may, of right, myself claim the empire." then said king anguish of scotland, "sir, thou oughtest of right to be above all other kings, for in all christendom is there not thine equal; and i counsel thee never to obey the romans. for when they reigned here they grievously distressed us, and put the land to great and heavy burdens; and here, for my part, i swear to avenge me on them when i may, and will furnish thee with twenty thousand men-at-arms, whom i will pay and keep, and who shall wait on thee with me, when it shall please thee." then the king of little britain rose and promised king arthur thirty thousand men; and likewise many other kings, and dukes, and barons, promised aid--as the lord of west wales thirty thousand men, sir ewaine and his cousin thirty thousand men, and so forth; sir lancelot also, and every other knight of the round table, promised each man a great host. so the king, passing joyful at their courage and good will, thanked them all heartily, and sent for the ambassadors again, to hear his answer. "i will," said he, "that ye now go back straightway unto the emperor your master and tell him that i give no heed to his words, for i have conquered all my kingdoms by the will of god and by my own right arm, and i am strong enough to keep them, without paying tribute to any earthly creature. but, on the other hand, i claim both tribute and submission from himself, and also claim the sovereignty of all his empire, whereto i am entitled by the right of my own ancestors--sometime kings of this land. and say to him that i will shortly come to rome, and by god's grace will take possession of my empire and subdue all rebels. wherefore, lastly, i command him and all the lords of rome that they forthwith pay me their homage, under pain of my chastisement and wrath." then he commanded his treasurers to give the ambassadors great gifts, and defray all their charges, and appointed sir cador to convey them worshipfully out of the land. so when they returned to rome and came before lucius, he was sore angry at their words, and said, "i thought this arthur would have instantly obeyed my orders and have served me as humbly as any other king; but because of his fortune in gaul, he hath grown insolent." "ah, lord," said one of the ambassadors, "refrain from such vain words, for truly i and all with me were fearful at his royal majesty and angry countenance. i fear me thou hast made a rod for thee more sharp than thou hast counted on. he meaneth to be master of this empire; and is another kind of man than thou supposest, and holdeth the most noble court of all the world. we saw him on the new year's day, served at his table by nine kings, and the noblest company of other princes, lords, and knights that ever was in all the world; and in his person he is the most manly-seeming man that liveth, and looketh like to conquer all the earth." then lucius sent messengers to all the subject countries of rome, and brought together a mighty army, and assembled sixteen kings, and many dukes, princes, lords, and admirals, and a wondrous great multitude of people. fifty giants also, born of fiends, were set around him for a body-guard. with all that host he straightway went from rome, and passed beyond the mountains into gaul, and burned the towns and ravaged all the country of that province, in rage for its submission to king arthur. then he moved on towards little britain. meanwhile, king arthur having held a parliament at york, left the realm in charge of sir badewine and sir constantine, and crossed the sea from sandwich to meet lucius. and so soon as he was landed, he sent sir gawain, sir bors, sir lionel, and sir bedivere to the emperor, commanding him "to move swiftly and in haste out of his land, and, if not, to make himself ready for battle, and not continue ravaging the country and slaying harmless people." anon, those noble knights attired themselves and set forth on horseback to where they saw, in a meadow, many silken tents of divers colours, and the emperor's pavilion in the midst, with a golden eagle set above it. then sir gawain and sir bors rode forward, leaving the other two behind in ambush, and gave king arthur's message. to which the emperor replied, "return, and tell your lord that i am come to conquer him and all his land." at this, sir gawain burned with anger, and cried out, "i had rather than all france that i might fight with thee alone!" "and i also," said sir bors. then a knight named ganius, a near cousin of the emperor, laughed out aloud, and said, "lo! how these britons boast and are full of pride, bragging as though they bare up all the world!" at these words, sir gawain could refrain no longer, but drew forth his sword and with one blow shore oft ganius' head; then with sir bors, he turned his horse and rode over waters and through woods, back to the ambush, where sir lionel and sir bedivere were waiting. the romans followed fast behind them till the knights turned and stood, and then sir bors smote the foremost of them through the body with a spear, and slew him on the spot. then came on calibere, a huge pavian, but sir bors overthrew him also. and then the company of sir lionel and sir bedivere brake from their ambush and fell on the romans, and slew and hewed them down, and forced them to return and flee, chasing them to their tents. but as they neared the camp, a great host more rushed forth, and turned the battle backwards, and in the turmoil, sir bors and sir berel fell into the romans' hands. when sir gawain saw that, he drew his good sword galotine, and swore to see king arthur's face no more if those two knights were not delivered; and then, with good sir idrus, made so sore an onslaught that the romans fled and left sir bors and sir berel to their friends. so the britons returned in triumph to king arthur, having slain more than ten thousand romans, and lost no man of worship from amongst themselves. when the emperor lucius heard of that discomfiture he arose, with all his army, to crush king arthur, and met him in the vale of soissons. then speaking to all his host, he said, "sirs, i admonish you that this day ye fight and acquit yourselves as men; and remembering how rome is chief of all the earth, and mistress of the universal world, suffer not these barbarous and savage britons to abide our onset." at that, the trumpets blew so loud, that the ground trembled and shook. then did the rival hosts draw near each other with great shoutings; and when they closed, no tongue can tell the fury of their smiting, and the sore struggling, wounds, and slaughter. then king arthur, with his mightiest knights, rode down into the thickest of the fight, and drew excalibur, and slew as lightning slays for swiftness and for force. and in the midmost crowd he met a giant, galapas by name, and struck off both his legs at the knee-joints; then saying, "now art thou a better size to deal with!" smote his head off at a second blow: and the body killed six men in falling down. anon, king arthur spied where lucius fought and worked great deeds of prowess with his own hands. forthwith he rode at him, and each attacked the other passing fiercely; till at the last, lucius struck king arthur with a fearful wound across the face, and arthur, in return, lifting up excalibur on high, drove it with all his force upon the emperor's head, shivering his helmet, crashing his head in halves, and splitting his body to the breast. and when the romans saw their emperor dead they fled in hosts of thousands; and king arthur and his knights, and all his army followed them, and slew one hundred thousand men. then returning to the field, king arthur rode to the place where lucius lay dead, and round him the kings of egypt and ethiopia, and seventeen other kings, with sixty roman senators, all noble men. all these he ordered to be carefully embalmed with aromatic gums, and laid in leaden coffins, covered with their shields and arms and banners. then calling for three senators who were taken prisoners, he said to them, "as the ransom of your lives, i will that ye take these dead bodies and carry them to rome, and there present them for me, with these letters saying i will myself be shortly there. and i suppose the romans will beware how they again ask tribute of me; for tell them, these dead bodies that i send them are for the tribute they have dared to ask of me; and if they wish for more, when i come i will pay them the rest." so, with that charge, the three senators departed with the dead bodies, and went to rome; the body of the emperor being carried in a chariot blazoned with the arms of the empire, all alone, and the bodies of the kings two and two in chariots following. after the battle, king arthur entered lorraine, brabant, and flanders, and thence, subduing all the countries as he went, passed into germany, and so beyond the mountains into lombardy and tuscany. at length he came before a city which refused to obey him, wherefore he sat down before it to besiege it. and after a long time thus spent, king arthur called sir florence, and told him they began to lack food for his hosts--"and not far from hence," said he, "are great forests full of cattle belonging to my enemies. go then, and bring by force all that thou canst find; and take with thee sir gawain, my nephew, and sir clegis, sir claremond the captain of cardiff, and a strong band." anon, those knights made ready, and rode over holts and hills, and through forests and woods, till they came to a great meadow full of fair flowers and grass, and there they rested themselves and their horses that night. and at the dawn of the next day, sir gawain took his horse and rode away from his fellows to seek some adventure. soon he saw an armed knight walking his horse by a wood's side, with his shield laced to his shoulder, and no attendant with him save a page, bearing a mighty spear; and on his shield were blazoned three gold griffins. when sir gawain spied him, he put his spear in rest, and riding straight to him, asked who he was. "a tuscan," said he; "and they mayest prove me when thou wilt, for thou shalt be my prisoner ere we part." then said sir gawain, "thou vauntest thee greatly, and speakest proud words; yet i counsel thee, for all thy boastings, look to thyself the best thou canst." at that they took their spears and ran at each other with all the might they had, and smote each other through their shields into their shoulders; and then drawing swords smote with great strokes, till the fire sprang out of their helms. then was sir gawain enraged, and with his good sword galotine struck his enerny through shield and hauberk, and splintered into pieces all the precious stones of it, and made so huge a wound that men might see both lungs and liver. at that the tuscan, groaning loudly, rushed on to sir gawain, and gave him a deep slanting stroke, and made a mighty wound and cut a great vein asunder, so that he bled fast. then he cried out, "bind thy wound quickly up, sir knight, for thou be-bloodest all thy horse and thy fair armour, and all the surgeons of the world shall never staunch thy blood; for so shall it be to whomsoever is hurt with this good sword." then answered sir gawain, "it grieveth me but little, and thy boastful words give me no fear, for thou shalt suffer greater grief and sorrow ere we part; but tell me quickly who can staunch this blood." "that can i do," said the strange knight, "and will, if thou wilt aid and succour me to become christened, and to believe on god, which now i do require of thee upon thy manhood." "i am content," said sir gawain; "and may god help me to grant all thy wishes. but tell mefirst, what soughtest thou thus here alone, and of what land art thou?" "sir," said the knight, "my name is prianius, and my father is a great prince, who hath rebelled against rome. he is descended from alexander and hector, and of our lineage also were joshua and maccabaeus. i am of right the king of alexandria, and africa, and all the outer isles, yet i would believe in the lord thou worshippest, and for thy labour i will give thee treasure enough. i was so proud in heart that i thought none my equal, but now have i encountered with thee, who hast given me my fill of fighting; wherefore, i pray thee, sir knight, tell me of thyself." "i am no knight," said sir gawain; "i have been brought up many years in the wardrobe of the noble prince king arthur, to mind his armour and array." "ah," said prianius, "if his varlets be so keen and fierce, his knights must be passing good! now, for the love of heaven, whether thou be knight or knave, tell me thy name." "by heaven!" said gawain, "now will i tell thee the truth. my name is sir gawain, and i am a knight of the round table." "now am i better pleased," said prianius, "than if thou hadst given me all the province of paris the rich. i had rather have been torn by wild horses than that any varlet should have won such victory over me as thou hast done. but now, sir knight, i warn thee that close by is the duke of lorraine, with sixty thousand good men of war; and we had both best flee at once, for he will find us else, and we be sorely wounded and never likely to recover. and let my page be careful that he blow no horn, for hard by are a hundred knights, my servants; and if they seize thee, no ransom of gold or silver would acquit thee." then sir gawain rode over a river to save himself, and sir prianius after him, and so they both fled till they came to his companions who were in the meadow, where they spent the night. when sir whishard saw sir gawain so hurt, he ran to him weeping, and asked him who it was had wounded him; and sir gawain told him how he had fought with that man--pointing to prianius--who had salves to heal them both. "but i can tell ye other tidings," said he--"that soon we must encounter many enemies, for a great army is close to us in our front." then prianius and sir gawain alighted and let their horses graze while they unarmed, and when they took their armour and their clothing off, the hot blood ran down freshly from their wounds till it was piteous to see. but prianius took from his page a vial filled from the four rivers that flow out of paradise, and anointed both their wounds with a certain balm, and washed them with that water, and within an hour afterwards they were both as sound and whole as ever they had been. then, at the sound of a trumpet, all the knights were assembled to council; and after much talking, prianius said, "cease your words, for i warn you in yonder wood ye shall find knights out of number, who will put out cattle for a decoy to lead you on; and ye are not seven hundred!" "nevertheless," said sir gawain, "let us at once encounter them, and see what they can do; and may the best have the victory." then they saw suddenly an earl named sir ethelwold, and the duke of duchmen come leaping out of ambush of the woods in front, with many a thousand after them, and all rode straight down to the battle. and sir gawain, full of ardour and courage, comforted his knights, saying, "they all are ours." then the seven hundred knights, in one close company, set spurs to their horses and began to gallop, and fiercely met their enemies. and then were men and horses slain and overthrown on every side, and in and out amidst them all, the knights of the round table pressed and thrust, and smote down to the earth all who withstood them, till at length the whole of them turned back and fled. "by heaven!" said sir gawain, "this gladdeneth well my heart, for now behold them as they flee! they are full seventy thousand less in number than they were an hour ago!" thus was the battle quickly ended, and a great host of high lords and knights of lombardy and saracens left dead upon the field. then sir gawain and his company collected a great plenty of cattle, and of gold and silver, and all kind of treasure, and returned to king arthur, where he still kept the siege. "now god be thanked," cried he; "but who is he that standeth yonder by himself, and seemeth not a prisoner?" "sir," said sir gawain, "he is a good man with his weapons, and hath matched me; but cometh hither to be made a christian. had it not been for his warnings, we none of us should have been here this day. i pray thee, therefore, let him be baptized, for there can be few nobler men, or better knights." so prianius was christened, and made a duke and knight of the round table. [illustration: prianius was christened, and made a duke and knight of the round table.] presently afterwards, they made a last attack upon the city, and entered by the walls on every side; and as the men were rushing to the pillage, came the duchess forth, with many ladies and damsels, and kneeled before king arthur; and besought him to receive their submission. to whom the king made answer, with a noble countenance, "madam, be well assured that none shall harm ye, or your ladies; neither shall any that belong to thee be hurt; but the duke must abide my judgment." then he commanded to stay the assault and took the keys from the duke's eldest son, who brought them kneeling. anon the duke was sent a prisoner to dover for his life, and rents and taxes were assigned for dowry of the duchess and her children. then went he on with all his hosts, winning all towns and castles, and wasting them that refused obedience, till he came to viterbo. from thence he sent to rome, to ask the senators whether they would receive him for their lord and governor. in answer, came out to him all the senate who remained alive, and the cardinals, with a majestic retinue and procession; and laying great treasures at his feet, they prayed him to come in at once to rome, and there be peaceably crowned as emperor. "at this next christmas," said king arthur, "will i be crowned, and hold my round table in your city." anon he entered rome, in mighty pomp and state; and after him came all his hosts, and his knights, and princes, and great lords, arrayed in gold and jewels, such as never were beheld before. and then was he crowned emperor by the pope's hands, with all the highest solemnity that could be made. then after his coronation, he abode in rome for a season, settling his lands and giving kingdoms to his knights and servants, to each one after his deserving, and in such wise fashion that no man among them all complained. also he made many dukes and earls, and loaded all his men-at-arms with riches and great treasures. when all this was done, the lords and knights, and all the men of great estate, came together before him, and said, "noble emperor! by the blessing of eternal god, thy mortal warfare is all finished, and thy conquests all achieved; for now in all the world is none so great and mighty as to dare make war with thee. wherefore we beseech and heartily pray thee of thy noble grace, to turn thee homeward, and to give us also leave to see our wives and homes again, for now we have been from them a long season, and all thy journey is completed with great honour and worship." "ye say well," replied he, "and to tempt god is no wisdom; therefore make ready in all haste, and turn we home to england." so king arthur returned with his knights and lords and armies, in great triumph and joy, through all the countries he had conquered, and commanded that no man, upon pain of death, should rob or do any violence by the way. and crossing the sea, he came at length to sandwich, where queen guinevere received him, and made great joy at his arrival. and through all the realm of britain was there such rejoicing as no tongue can tell. chapter ix _the adventures of sir lancelot du lake_ then, at the following pentecost, was held a feast of the round table at caerleon, with high splendour; and all the knights thereof resorted to the court, and held many games and jousts. and therein sir lancelot increased in fame and worship above all men, for he overthrew all comers, and never was unhorsed or worsted, save by treason and enchantment. when queen guinevere had seen his wondrous feats, she held him in great favour, and smiled more on him than on any other knight. and ever since he first had gone to bring her to king arthur, had lancelot thought on her as fairest of all ladies, and done his best to win her grace. so the queen often sent for him, and bade him tell of his birth and strange adventures: how he was only son of great king ban of brittany, and how, one night, his father, with his mother helen and himself, fled from his burning castle; how his father, groaning deeply, fell to the ground and died of grief and wounds, and how his mother, running to her husband, left himself alone; how, as he thus lay wailing, came the lady of the lake, and took him in her arms and went with him into the midst of the waters, where, with his cousins lionel and bors he had been cherished all his childhood until he came to king arthur's court; and how this was the reason why men called him lancelot du lake. anon it was ordained by king arthur, that in every year at pentecost there should be held a festival of all the knights of the round table at caerleon, or such other place as he should choose. and at those festivals should be told publicly the most famous adventures of any knight during the past year. so, when sir lancelot saw queen guinevere rejoiced to hear his wanderings and adventures, he resolved to set forth yet again, and win more worship still, that he might more increase her favour. then he bade his cousin sir lionel make ready, "for," said he, "we two will seek adventure." so they mounted their horses--armed at all points--and rode into a vast forest; and when they had passed through it, they came to a great plain, and the weather being very hot about noontide, sir lancelot greatly longed to sleep. then sir lionel espied a great apple-tree standing by a hedge, and said, "brother, yonder is a fair shadow where we may rest ourselves and horses." "i am full glad of it," said sir lancelot, "for all these seven years i have not been so sleepy." so they alighted there, and tied their horses up to sundry trees; and sir lionel waked and watched while sir lancelot fell asleep, and slept passing fast. in the meanwhile came three knights, riding as fast flying as ever they could ride, and after them followed a single knight; but when sir lionel looked at him, he thought he had never seen so great and strong a man, or so well furnished and apparelled. anon he saw him overtake the last of those who fled, and smite him to the ground; then came he to the second, and smote him such a stroke that horse and man went to the earth; then rode he to the third, likewise, and struck him off his horse more than a spear's length. with that he lighted from his horse, and bound all three knights fast with the reins of their own bridles. when sir lionel saw this he thought the time was come to prove himself against him, so quietly and cautiously, lest he should wake sir lancelot, he took his horse and mounted and rode after him. presently overtaking him, he cried aloud to him to turn, which instantly he did, and smote sir lionel so hard that horse and man went down forthwith. then took he up sir lionel, and threw him bound over his own horse's back; and so he served the three other knights, and rode them away to his own castle. there they were disarmed, stripped naked, and beaten with thorns, and afterwards thrust into a deep prison, where many more knights, also, made great moans and lamentations, saying, "alas, alas! there is no man can help us but sir lancelot, for no other knight can match this tyrant turquine, our conqueror." but all this while, sir lancelot lay sleeping soundly under the apple-tree. and, as it chanced, there passed that way four queens, of high estate, riding upon four white mules, under four canopies of green silk borne on spears, to keep them from the sun. as they rode thus, they heard a great horse grimly neigh, and, turning them about, soon saw a sleeping knight that lay all armed under an apple-tree; and when they saw his face, they knew it was lancelot of the lake. then they began to strive which of them should have the care of him. but queen morgan le fay, king arthur's half sister, the great sorceress, was one of them, and said "we need not strive for him, i have enchanted him, so that for six hours more he shall not wake. let us take him to my castle, and, when he wakes, himself shall choose which one of us he would rather serve." so sir lancelot was laid upon his shield and borne on horseback between two knights, to the castle, and there laid in a cold chamber, till the spell should pass. anon, they sent him a fair damsel, bearing his supper, who asked him, "what cheer?" "i cannot tell, fair damsel," said he, "for i know not how i came into this castle, if it were not by enchantment." "sir," said she, "be of good heart, and to-morrow at the dawn of day, ye shall know more." and so she left him alone, and there he lay all night. in the morning early came the four queens to him, passing richly dressed; and said, "sir knight, thou must understand that thou art our prisoner, and that we know thee well for king ban's son, sir lancelot du lake. and though we know full well there is one lady only in this world may have thy love, and she queen guinevere--king arthur's wife--yet now are we resolved to have thee to serve one of us; choose, therefore, of us four which thou wilt serve. i am queen morgan le fay, queen of the land of gore, and here also is the queen of northgales, and the queen of eastland, and the queen of the out isles. choose, then, at once, for else shall thou abide here, in this prison, till thy death." "it is a hard case," said sir lancelot, "that either i must die, or choose one of you for my mistress! yet had i rather die in this prison than serve any living creature against my will. so take this for my answer. i will serve none of ye, for ye be false enchantresses. and as for my lady, queen guinevere, whom lightly ye have spoken of, were i at liberty i would prove it upon you or upon yours she is the truest lady living to her lord the king." "well," said the queen, "is this your answer, that ye refuse us all?" "yea, on my life," said lancelot, "refused ye be of me." so they departed from him in great wrath, and left him sorrowfully grieving in his dungeon. at noon the damsel came to him and brought his dinner, and asked him as before, "what cheer?" "truly, fair damsel," said sir lancelot, "in all my life never so ill." "sir," replied she, "i grieve to see ye so, but if ye do as i advise, i can help ye out of this distress, and will do so if you promise me a boon." "fair damsel," said sir lancelot, "right willingly will i grant it thee, for sorely do i dread these four witch-queens, who have destroyed and slain many a good knight with their enchantments." then said the damsel, "sir, wilt thou promise me to help my father on next tuesday, for he hath a tournament with the king of northgales, and last tuesday lost the field through three knights of king arthur's court, who came against him. and if next tuesday thou wilt aid him, to-morrow, before daylight, by god's grace, i will deliver thee." "fair maiden," said sir lancelot, "tell me thy father's name and i will answer thee." "my father is king bagdemagus," said she. "i know him well," replied sir lancelot, "for a noble king and a good knight; and by the faith of my body i will do him all the service i am able on that day." "grammercy to thee, sir knight," said the damsel. "to-morrow, when thou art delivered from this place, ride ten miles hence unto an abbey of white monks, and there abide until i bring my father to thee." "so be it," said sir lancelot, "as i am a true knight." so she departed, and on the morrow, early, came again, and let him out of twelve gates, differently locked, and brought him to his armour; and when he was all armed, she brought him his horse also, and lightly he saddled him, and took a great spear in his hand, and mounted and rode forth, saying, as he went, "fair damsel, i shall not fail thee, by the grace of god." and all that day he rode in a great forest, and could find no highway, and spent the night in the wood; but the next morning found his road, and came to the abbey of white monks. and there he saw king bagdemagus and his daughter waiting for him. so when they were together in a chamber, sir lancelot told the king how he had been betrayed by an enchantment, and how his brother lionel was gone he knew not where, and how the damsel had delivered him from the castle of queen morgan le fay. "wherefore while i live," said he, "i shall do service to herself and all her kindred." "then am i sure of thy aid," said the king, "on tuesday now next coming?" "yea, sir, i shall not fail thee," said sir lancelot; "but what knights were they who last week defeated thee, and took part with the king of northgales?" "sir mador de la port, sir modred, and sir gahalatine," replied the king. "sir," said sir lancelot, "as i understand, the tournament shall take place but three miles from this abbey; send then to me here, three knights of thine, the best thou hast, and let them all have plain white shields, such as i also will; then will we four come suddenly into the midst between both parties, and fall upon thy enemies, and grieve them all we can, and none will know us who we are." so, on the tuesday, sir lancelot and the three knights lodged themselves in a small grove hard by the lists. then came into the field the king of northgales, with one hundred and sixty helms, and the three knights of king arthur's court, who stood apart by themselves. and when king bagdemagus had arrived, with eighty helms, both companies set all their spears in rest and came together with a mighty clash, wherein were slain twelve knights of king bagdemagus, and six of the king of northgales; and the party of king bagdemagus was driven back. with that, came sir lancelot, and thrust into the thickest of the press, and smote down with one spear five knights, and brake the backs of four, and cast down the king of northgales, and brake his thigh by the fall. when the three knights of arthur's court saw this, they rode at sir lancelot, and each after other attacked him; but he overthrew them all, and smote them nigh to death. then taking a new spear, he bore down to the ground sixteen more knights, and hurt them all so sorely, that they could carry arms no more that day. and when his spear at length was broken, he took yet another, and smote down twelve knights more, the most of whom he wounded mortally, till in the end the party of the king of northgales would joust no more, and the victory was cried to king bagdemagus. [illustration: sir lancelot smote down with one spear five knights, and brake the backs of four, and cast down the king of northgales.] then sir lancelot rode forth with king bagdemagus to his castle, and there he feasted with great cheer and welcome, and received many royal gifts. and on the morrow he took leave and went to find his brother lionel. anon, by chance, he came to the same forest where the four queens had found him sleeping, and there he met a damsel riding on a white palfrey. when they had saluted each other, sir lancelot said, "fair damsel, knowest thou where any adventures may be had in this country?" "sir knight," said she, "there are adventures great enough close by if thou darest prove them." "why should i not," said he, "since for that cause i came here?" "sir," said the damsel, "hard by this place there dwelleth a knight that cannot be defeated by any man, so great and perilously strong he is. his name is sir turquine, and in the prisons of his castle lie three score knights and four, mostly from king arthur's court, whom he hath taken with his own hands. but promise me, ere thou undertakest their deliverance, to go and help me afterwards, and free me and many other ladies that are distressed by a false knight." "bring me but to this felon turquine," quoth sir lancelot, "and i will afterwards fulfil all your wishes." so the damsel went before, and brought him to a ford, and a tree whereon a great brass basin hung; and sir lancelot beat with his spear-end upon the basin, long and hard, until he beat the bottom of it out, but he saw nothing. then he rode to and fro before the castle gates for well-nigh half an hour, and anon saw a great knight riding from the distance, driving a horse before him, across which hung an armed man bound. and when they came near, sir lancelot knew the prisoner for a knight of the round table. by that time, the great knight who drove the prisoner saw sir lancelot, and each of them began to settle his spear, and to make ready. "fair sir," then said sir lancelot, "put off that wounded knight, i pray thee, from his horse, and let him rest while thou and i shall prove our strength upon each other; for, as i am told, thou doest, and hast done, great shame and injury to knights of the round table. wherefore, i warn thee now, defend thyself." "if thou mayest be of the round table," answered turquine, "i defy thee, and all thy fellows." "that is saying overmuch," said sir lancelot. then, setting their lances in rest, they spurred their horses towards each other, as fast as they could go, and smote so fearfully upon each other's shields, that both their horses' backs brake under them. as soon as they could clear their saddles, they took their shields before them, and drew their swords, and came together eagerly, and fought with great and grievous strokes; and soon they both had many grim and fearful wounds, and bled in streams. thus they fought two hours and more, thrusting and smiting at each other, wherever they could hit. anon, they both were breathless, and stood leaning on their swords. "now, comrade," said sir turquine, "let us wait awhile, and answer me what i shall ask thee." "say on," said lancelot. "thou art," said turquine, "the best man i ever met, and seemest like one that i hate above all other knights that live; but if thou be not he, i will make peace with thee, and for sake of thy great valour, will deliver all the three score prisoners and four who lie within my dungeons, and thou and i will be companions evermore. tell me, then, thy name." "thou sayest well," replied sir lancelot; "but who is he thou hatest so above all others?" "his name," said turquine, "is sir lancelot of the lake; and he slew my brother sir carados, at the dolorous tower; wherefore, if ever i shall meet with him, one of us two shall slay the other; and thereto i have sworn by a great oath. and to discover and destroy him i have slain a hundred knights, and crippled utterly as many more, and many have died in my prisons; and now, as i have told thee, i have many more therein, who all shall be delivered, if thou tell me thy name, and it be not sir lancelot." "well," said lancelot, "i am that knight, son of king ban of benwick, and knight of the round table; so now i defy thee to do thy best!" "aha!" said turquine, with a shout, "is it then so at last! thou art more welcome to my sword than ever knight or lady was to feast, for never shall we part till one of us be dead." then did they hurtle together like two wild bulls, slashing and lashing with their shields and swords, and sometimes falling both on to the ground. for two more hours they fought so, and at the last sir turquine grew very faint, and gave a little back, and bare his shield full low for weariness. when sir lancelot saw him thus, he leaped upon him fiercely as a lion, and took him by the crest of his helmet, and dragged him to his knees; and then he tore his helmet off and smote his neck asunder. then he arose, and went to the damsel who had brought him to sir turquine, and said, "i am ready, fair lady, to go with thee upon thy service, but i have no horse." "fair sir," said she, "take ye this horse of the wounded knight whom turquine but just now was carrying to his prisons, and send that knight on to deliver all the prisoners." so sir lancelot went to the knight and prayed him for the loan of his horse. "fair lord," said he, "ye are right welcome, for to-day ye have saved both me and my horse; and i see that ye are the best knight in all the world, for in my sight have ye slain the mightiest man and the best knight, except thyself, i ever saw." "sir," said sir lancelot, "i thank thee well; and now go into yonder castle, where thou shall find many noble knights of the round table, for i have seen their shields hung on the trees around. on yonder tree alone there are sir key's, sir brandel's, sir marhaus', sir galind's, and sir aliduke's, and many more; and also my two kinsmen's shields, sir ector de maris' and sir lionel's. and i pray you greet them all from me, sir lancelot of the lake, and tell them that i bid them help themselves to any treasures they can find within the castle; and that i pray my brethren, lionel and ector, to go to king arthur's court and stay there till i come. and by the high feast at pentecost i must be there; but now i must ride forth with this damsel to fulfil my promise." so, as they went, the damsel told him, "sir, we are now near the place where the foul knight haunteth, who robbeth and distresseth all ladies and gentlewomen travelling past this way, against whom i have sought thy aid." then they arranged that she should ride on foremost, and sir lancelot should follow under cover of the trees by the roadside, and if he saw her come to any mishap, he should ride forth and deal with him that troubled her. and as the damsel rode on at a soft ambling pace, a knight and page burst forth from the roadside and forced the damsel from her horse, till she cried out for help. then came sir lancelot rushing through the wood as fast as he might fly, and all the branches of the trees crackled and waved around him. "o thou false knight and traitor to all knighthood!" shouted he, "who taught thee to distress fair ladies thus?" the foul knight answered nothing, but drew out his sword and rode at sir lancelot, who threw his spear away and drew his own sword likewise, and struck him such a mighty blow as clave his head down to the throat. "now hast thou the wages thou long hast earned!" said he; and so departed from the damsel. then for two days he rode in a great forest, and had but scanty food and lodging, and on the third day he rode over a long bridge, when suddenly there started up a passing foul churl, and smote his horse across the nose, so that he started and turned back, rearing with pain. "why ridest thou over here without my leave?" said he. "why should i not?" said sir lancelot; "there is no other way to ride." "thou shalt not pass by here," cried out the churl, and dashed at him with a great club full of iron spikes, till sir lancelot was fain to draw his sword and smite him dead upon the earth. at the end of the bridge was a fair village, and all the people came and cried, "ah, sir! a worse deed for thyself thou never didst, for thou hast slain the chief porter of the castle yonder!" but he let them talk as they pleased, and rode straight forward to the castle. there he alighted, and tied his horse to a ring in the wall; and going in, he saw a wide green court, and thought it seemed a noble place to fight in. and as he looked about, he saw many people watching him from doors and windows, making signs of warning, and saying, "fair knight, thou art unhappy." in the next moment came upon him two great giants, well armed save their heads, and with two horrible clubs in their hands. then he put his shield before him, and with it warded off one giant's stroke, and clove the other with his sword from the head downward to the chest. when the first giant saw that, he ran away mad with fear; but sir lancelot ran after him, and smote him through the shoulder, and shore him down his back, so that he fell dead. then he walked onward to the castle hall, and saw a band of sixty ladies and young damsels coming forth, who knelt to him, and thanked him for their freedom. "for, sir," said they, "the most of us have been prisoners here these seven years; and have been kept at all manner of work to earn our meat, though we be all great gentlewomen born. blessed be the time that thou wast born, for never did a knight a deed of greater worship than thou hast this day, and thereto will we all bear witness in all times and places! tell us, therefore, noble knight, thy name and court, that we may tell them to our friends!" and when they heard it, they all cried aloud, "well may it be so, for we knew that no knight save thou shouldst ever overcome those giants; and many a long day have we sighed for thee; for the giants feared no other name among all knights but thine." then he told them to take the treasures of the castle as a reward for their grievances, and to return to their homes, and so rode away into many strange and wild countries. and at last, after many days, by chance he came, near the night time, to a fair mansion, wherein he found an old gentlewoman, who gave him and his horse good cheer. and when bed time was come, his host brought him to a chamber over a gate, and there he unarmed, and went to bed and fell asleep. but soon thereafter came one riding in great haste, and knocking vehemently at the gate below, which when sir lancelot heard, he rose and looked out of the window, and, by the moonlight, saw three knights come riding fiercely after one man, and lashing on him all at once with their swords, while the one knight nobly fought all. then sir lancelot quickly armed himself, and getting through the window, let himself down by a sheet into the midst of them, crying out, "turn ye on me, ye cowards, and leave fighting with that knight!" then they all left sir key, for the first knight was he, and began to fall upon sir lancelot furiously. and when sir key would have come forward to assist him, sir lancelot refused, and cried, "leave me alone to deal with them." and presently, with six great strokes, he felled them all. then they cried out, "sir knight, we yield us unto thee, as to a man of might!" "i will not take your yielding!" said he; "yield ye to sir key, the seneschal, or i will have your lives." "fair knight," said they, "excuse us in that thing, for we have chased sir key thus far, and should have overcome him but for thee." "well," said sir lancelot, "do as ye will, for ye may live or die; but, if ye live, ye shall be holden to sir key." then they yielded to him; and sir lancelot commanded them to go unto king arthur's court at the next pentecost, and say, sir key had sent them prisoners to queen guinevere. and this they sware to do upon their swords. then sir lancelot knocked at the gate with his sword-hilt till his hostess came and let him in again, and sir key also. and when the light came, sir key knew sir lancelot, and knelt and thanked him for his courtesy, and gentleness, and kindness. "sir," said he, "i have done no more than what i ought to do, and ye are welcome; therefore let us now take rest." so when sir key had supped, they went to sleep, and sir lancelot and he slept in the same bed. on the morrow, sir lancelot rose early, and took sir key's shield and armour and set forth. when sir key arose, he found sir lancelot's armour by his bedside, and his own arms gone. "now, by my faith," thought he, "i know that he will grieve some knights of our king's court; for those who meet him will be bold to joust with him, mistaking him for me, while i, dressed in his shield and armour, shall surely ride in peace." then sir lancelot, dressed in sir key's apparel, rode long in a great forest, and came at last to a low country, full of rivers and fair meadows, and saw a bridge before him, whereon were three silk tents of divers colours, and to each tent was hung a white shield, and by each shield stood a knight. so sir lancelot went by without speaking a word. and when he had passed, the three knights said it was the proud sir key, "who thinketh no knight equal to himself, although the contrary is full often proved upon him." "by my faith!" said one of them, named gaunter, "i will ride after and attack him for all his pride, and ye shall watch my speed." then, taking shield and spear, he mounted and rode after sir lancelot, and cried, "abide, proud knight, and turn, for thou shalt not pass free!" so sir lancelot turned, and each one put his spear in rest and came with all his might against the other. and sir gaunter's spear brake short, but sir lancelot smote him down, both horse and man. when the other knights saw this, they said, "yonder is not sir key, but a bigger man." "i dare wager my head," said sir gilmere, "yonder knight hath slain sir key, and taken his horse and harness." "be it so, or not," said sir reynold, the third brother; "let us now go to our brother gaunter's rescue; we shall have enough to do to match that knight, for, by his stature, i believe it is sir lancelot or sir tristram." anon, they took their horses and galloped after sir lancelot; and sir gilmere first assailed him, but was smitten down forthwith, and lay stunned on the earth. then said sir reynold, "sir knight, thou art a strong man, and, i believe, hast slain my two brothers, wherefore my heart is sore against thee; yet, if i might with honour, i would avoid thee. nevertheless, that cannot be, so keep thyself." and so they hurtled together with all their might, and each man shivered his spear to pieces; and then they drew their swords and lashed out eagerly. and as they fought, sir gaunter and sir gilmere presently arose and mounted once again, and came down at full tilt upon sir lancelot. but, when he saw them coming, he put forth all his strength, and struck sir reynold off his horse. then, with two other strokes, he served the others likewise. anon, sir reynold crept along the ground, with his head all bloody, and came towards sir lancelot. "it is enough," said lancelot, "i was not far from thee when thou wast made a knight, sir reynold, and know thee for a good and valiant man, and was full loth to slay thee." "grammercy for thy gentleness!" said sir reynold. "i and my brethren will straightway yield to thee when we know thy name, for well we know that thou art not sir key." "as for that," said sir lancelot, "be it as it may, but ye shall yield to queen guinevere at the next feast of pentecost as prisoners, and say that sir key sent ye." then they swore to him it should be done as he commanded. and so sir lancelot passed on, and the three brethren helped each other's wounds as best they might. then rode sir lancelot forward into a deep forest, and came upon four knights of king arthur's court, under an oak tree--sir sagramour, sir ector, sir gawain, and sir ewaine. and when they spied him, they thought he was sir key. "now by my faith," said sir sagramour, "i will prove sir key's might!" and taking his spear he rode towards sir lancelot. but sir lancelot was aware of him, and, setting his spear in rest, smote him so sorely, that horse and man fell to the earth. "lo!" cried sir ector, "i see by the buffet that knight hath given our fellow he is stronger than sir key. now will i try what i can do against him!" so sir ector took his spear, and galloped at sir lancelot; and sir lancelot met him as he came, and smote him through shield and shoulder, so that he fell, but his own spear was not broken. "by my faith," cried sir ewaine, "yonder is a strong knight, and must have slain sir key, and taken his armour! by his strength, i see it will be hard to match him." so saying he rode towards sir lancelot, who met him halfway and struck him so fiercely, that at one blow he overthrew him also. "now," said sir gawain, "will i encounter him." so he took a good spear in his hand, and guarded himself with his shield. and he and sir lancelot rode against each other, with their horses at full speed, and furiously smote each other on the middle of their shields; but sir gawain's spear broke short asunder, and sir lancelot charged so mightily upon him, that his horse and he both fell, and rolled upon the ground. "ah," said sir lancelot, smiling, as he rode away from the four knights, "heaven give joy to him who made this spear, for never held i better in my hand." but the four knights said to each other, "truly one spear hath felled us all." "i dare lay my life," said sir gawain, "it is sir lancelot. i know him by his riding." so they all departed for the court. and as sir lancelot rode still in the forest, he saw a black bloodhound, running with its head towards the ground, as if it tracked a deer. and following after it, he came to a great pool of blood. but the hound, ever and anon looking behind, ran through a great marsh, and over a bridge, towards an old manor house. so sir lancelot followed, and went into the hall, and saw a dead knight lying there, whose wounds the hound licked. and a lady stood behind him, weeping and wringing her hands, who cried, "o knight! too great is the sorrow which thou hast brought me!" "why say ye so?" replied sir lancelot; "for i never harmed this knight, and am full sorely grieved to see thy sorrow." "nay, sir," said the lady, "i see it is not thou hast slain my husband, for he that truly did that deed is deeply wounded, and shall never more recover." "what is thy husband's name?" said sir lancelot. "his name," she answered, "was sir gilbert--one of the best knights in all the world; but i know not his name who hath slain him." "god send thee comfort," said sir lancelot, and departed again into the forest. and as he rode, he met with a damsel who knew him, who cried out, "well found, my lord! i pray ye of your knighthood help my brother, who is sore wounded and ceases not to bleed, for he fought this day with sir gilbert, and slew him, but was himself well nigh slain. and there is a sorceress, who dwelleth in a castle hard by, and she this day hath told me that my brother's wound shall never be made whole until i find a knight to go into the chapel perilous, and bring from thence a sword and the bloody cloth in which the wounded knight was wrapped." "this is a marvellous thing!" said sir lancelot; "but what is your brother's name?" "his name, sir," she replied, "is sir meliot de logres." "he is a fellow of the round table," said sir lancelot, "and truly will i do my best to help him." "then, sir," said she, "follow this way, and it will bring ye to the chapel perilous. i will abide here till god send ye hither again; for if ye speed not, there is no living knight who may achieve that adventure." so sir lancelot departed, and when he came to the chapel perilous he alighted, and tied his horse to the gate. and as soon as he was within the churchyard, he saw on the front of the chapel many shields of knights whom he had known, turned upside down. then saw he in the pathway thirty mighty knights, taller than any men whom he had ever seen, all armed in black armour, with their swords drawn; and they gnashed their teeth upon him as he came. but he put his shield before him, and took his sword in hand, ready to do battle with them. and when he would have cut his way through them, they scattered on every side and let him pass. then he went into the chapel, and saw therein no light but of a dim lamp burning. then he was aware of a corpse in the midst of the chapel, covered with a silken cloth, and so stooped down and cut off a piece of the cloth, whereat the earth beneath him trembled. then saw he a sword lying by the dead knight, and taking it in his hand, he hied him from the chapel. as soon as he was in the churchyard again, all the thirty knights cried out to him with fierce voices, "sir lancelot! lay that sword from thee, or thou diest!" "whether i live or die," said he, "ye shall fight for it ere ye take it from me." with that they let him pass. and further on, beyond the chapel, he met a fair damsel, who said, "sir lancelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou diest." [illustration: beyond the chapel, he met a fair damsel, who said, "sir lancelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou diest."] "i will not leave it," said sir lancelot, "for any asking." "then, gentle knight," said the damsel, "i pray thee kiss me once." "nay," said sir lancelot, "that god forbid!" "alas!" cried she, "i have lost all my labour! but hadst thou kissed me, thy life's days had been all done!" "heaven save me from thy subtle crafts!" said sir lancelot; and therewith took his horse and galloped forth. and when he was departed, the damsel sorrowed greatly, and died in fifteen days. her name was ellawes, the sorceress. then came sir lancelot to sir meliot's sister, who, when she saw him, clapped her hands and wept for joy, and took him to the castle hard by, where sir meliot was. and when sir lancelot saw sir meliot, he knew him, though he was pale as ashes for loss of blood. and sir meliot, when he saw sir lancelot, kneeled to him and cried aloud, "o lord, sir lancelot! help me!" and thereupon, sir lancelot went to him and touched his wounds with the sword, and wiped them with the piece of bloody cloth. and immediately he was as whole as though he had been never wounded. then was there great joy between him and sir meliot; and his sister made sir lancelot good cheer. so on the morrow, he took his leave, that he might go to king arthur's court, "for," said he, "it draweth nigh the feast of pentecost, and there, by god's grace, shall ye then find me." and riding through many strange countries, over marshes and valleys, he came at length before a castle. as he passed by he heard two little bells ringing, and looking up, he saw a falcon flying overhead, with bells tied to her feet, and long strings dangling from them. and as the falcon flew past an elm-tree, the strings caught in the boughs, so that she could fly no further. in the meanwhile, came a lady from the castle and cried, "oh, sir lancelot! as thou art the flower of all knights in the world, help me to get my hawk, for she hath slipped away from me, and if she be lost, my lord my husband is so hasty, he will surely slay me!" "what is thy lord's name?" said sir lancelot. "his name," said she, "is sir phelot, a knight of the king of northgales." "fair lady," said sir lancelot, "since you know my name, and require me, on my knighthood, to help you, i will do what i can to get your hawk." and thereupon alighting, he tied his horse to the same tree, and prayed the lady to unarm him. so when he was unarmed, he climbed up and reached the falcon, and threw it to the lady. then suddenly came down, out of the wood, her husband, sir phelot, all armed, with a drawn sword in his hand, and said, "oh, sir lancelot! now have i found thee as i would have thee!" and stood at the trunk of the tree to slay him. "ah, lady!" cried sir lancelot, "why have ye betrayed me?" "she hath done as i commanded her," said sir phelot, "and thine hour is come that thou must die." "it were shame," said lancelot, "for an armed to slay an unarmed man." "thou hast no other favour from me," said sir phelot. "alas!" cried sir lancelot, "that ever any knight should die weaponless!" and looking overhead, he saw a great bough without leaves, and wrenched it off the tree, and suddenly leaped down. then sir phelot struck at him eagerly, thinking to have slain him, but sir lancelot put aside the stroke with the bough, and therewith smote him on the side of the head, till he fell swooning to the ground. and tearing his sword from out his hands, he shore his neck through from the body. then did the lady shriek dismally, and swooned as though she would die. but sir lancelot put on his armour, and with haste took his horse and departed thence, thanking god he had escaped that peril. and as he rode through a valley, among many wild ways, he saw a knight, with a drawn sword, chasing a lady to slay her. and seeing sir lancelot, she cried and prayed to him to come and rescue her. at that he went up, saying, "fie on thee, knight! why wilt thou slay this lady? thou doest shame to thyself and all knights." "what hast thou to do between me and my wife?" replied the knight. "i will slay her in spite of thee." "thou shall not harm her," said sir lancelot, "till we have first fought together." "sir," answered the knight, "thou doest ill, for this lady hath betrayed me." "he speaketh falsely," said the lady, "for he is jealous of me without cause, as i shall answer before heaven; but as thou art named the most worshipful knight in the world, i pray thee of thy true knighthood to save me, for he is without mercy." "be of good cheer," said sir lancelot; "it shall not lie within his power to harm thee." "sir," said the knight, "i will be ruled as ye will have me." so sir lancelot rode between the knight and the lady. and when they had ridden awhile, the knight cried out suddenly to sir lancelot to turn and see what men they were who came riding after them; and while sir lancelot, thinking not of treason, turned to look, the knight, with one great stroke, smote off the lady's head. then was sir lancelot passing wroth, and cried, "thou traitor! thou hast shamed me for ever!" and, alighting from his horse, he drew his sword to have slain him instantly; but the knight fell on the ground and clasped sir lancelot's knees, and cried out for mercy. "thou shameful knight," answered lancelot, "thou mayest have no mercy, for thou showedst none, therefore arise and fight with me." "nay," said the knight, "i will not rise till thou dost grant me mercy." "now will i deal fairly by thee," said sir lancelot; "i will unarm me to my shirt, and have my sword only in my hand, and if thou canst slay me thou shall be quit for ever." "that will i never do," said the knight. "then," answered sir lancelot, "take this lady and the head, and bear it with thee, and swear to me upon thy sword never to rest until thou comest to queen guinevere." "that will i do," said he. "now," said sir lancelot, "tell me thy name." "it is pedivere," answered the knight. "in a shameful hour wert thou born," said sir lancelot. so sir pedivere departed, bearing with him the dead lady and her head. and when he came to winchester, where the queen was with king arthur, he told them all the truth; and afterwards did great and heavy penance many years, and became an holy hermit. "so, two days before the feast of pentecost, sir lancelot returned to the court, and king arthur was full glad of his coming. and when sir gawain, sir ewaine, sir sagramour, and sir ector, saw him in sir key's armour, they knew well it was he who had smitten them all down with one spear. anon, came all the knights sir turquine had taken prisoners, and gave worship and honour to sir lancelot. then sir key told the king how sir lancelot had rescued him when he was in near danger of his death; "and," said sir key, "he made the knights yield, not to himself, but me. and by heaven! because sir lancelot took my armour and left me his, i rode in peace, and no man would have aught to do with me." then came the knights who fought with sir lancelot at the long bridge and yielded themselves also to sir key, but he said nay, he had not fought with them. "it is sir lancelot," said he, "that overcame ye." next came sir meliot de logres, and told king arthur how sir lancelot had saved him from death. and so all sir lancelot's deeds and great adventures were made known; how the four sorceress-queens had him in prison; how he was delivered by the daughter of king bagdemagus, and what deeds of arms he did at the tournament between the king of north wales and king bagdemagus. and so, at that festival, sir lancelot had the greatest name of any knight in all the world, and by high and low was he the most honoured of all men. chapter x _adventures of sir beaumains or sir gareth_ again king arthur held the feast of pentecost, with all the table round, and after his custom sat in the banquet hall, before beginning meat, waiting for some adventure. then came there to the king a squire and said, "lord, now may ye go to meat, for here a damsel cometh with some strange adventure." so the king was glad, and sat down to meat. anon the damsel came in and saluted him, praying him for succour. "what wilt thou?" said the king. "lord," answered she, "my mistress is a lady of great renown, but is at this time besieged by a tyrant, who will not suffer her to go out of her castle; and because here in thy court the knights are called the noblest in the world, i come to pray thee for thy succour. "where dwelleth your lady?" answered the king. "what is her name, and who is he that hath besieged her?" "for her name," replied the damsel, "as yet i may not tell it; but she is a lady of worship and great lands. the tyrant that besiegeth her and wasteth her lands is called the red knight of the redlands." "i know him not," said arthur. "but i know him, lord," said sir gawain, "and he is one of the most perilous knights in all the world. men say he hath the strength of seven; and from him i myself once hardly escaped with life." "fair damsel," said the king, "there be here many knights that would gladly do their uttermost to rescue your lady, but unless ye tell me her name, and where she dwelleth, none of my knights shall go with you by my leave." now, there was a stripling at the court called beaumains, who served in the king's kitchen, a fair youth and of great stature. twelve months before this time he had come to the king as he sat at meat, at whitsuntide, and prayed three gifts of him. and being asked what gifts, he answered, "as for the first gift i will ask it now, but the other two gifts i will ask on this day twelve months, wheresoever ye hold your high feast." then said king arthur, "what is thy first request?" "this, lord," said he, "that thou wilt give me meat and drink enough for twelve months from this time, and then will i ask my other two gifts." and the king seeing that he was a goodly youth, and deeming that he was come of honourable blood, had granted his desire, and given him into the charge of sir key, the steward. but sir key scorned and mocked the youth, calling him beaumains, because his hands were large and fair, and putting him into the kitchen, where he had served for twelve months as a scullion, and, in spite of all his churlish treatment, had faithfully obeyed sir key. but sir lancelot and sir gawain were angered when they saw sir key so churlish to a youth that had so worshipful a bearing, and ofttimes had they given him gold and clothing. and now at this time came young beaumains to the king, while the damsel was there, and said, "lord, now i thank thee well and heartily that i have been twelve months kept in thy kitchen, and have had full sustenance. now will i ask my two remaining gifts." "ask," said king arthur, "on my good faith." "these, lord," said he, "shall be my two gifts--the one, that thou wilt grant me this adventure of the damsel, for to me of right it belongeth; and the other, that thou wilt bid sir lancelot make me a knight, for of him only will i have that honour; and i pray that he may ride after me and make me a knight when i require him." "be it as thou wilt," replied the king. but thereupon the damsel was full wroth, and said, "shall i have a kitchen page for this adventure?" and so she took horse and departed. then came one to beaumains, and told him that a dwarf with a horse and armour were waiting for him. and all men marvelled whence these things came. but when he was on horseback and armed, scarce any one at the court was a goodlier man than he. and coming into the hall, he took his leave of the king and sir gawain, and prayed sir lancelot to follow him. so he rode after the damsel, and many of the court went out to see him, so richly arrayed and horsed; yet he had neither shield nor spear. then sir key cried, "i also will ride after the kitchen boy, and see whether he will obey me now." and taking his horse, he rode after him, and said, "know ye not me, beaumains?" "yea," said he, "i know thee for an ungentle knight, therefore beware of me." then sir key put his spear in rest and ran at him, but beaumains rushed upon him with his sword in his hand, and therewith, putting aside the spear, struck sir key so sorely in the side, that he fell down, as if dead. then he alighted, and took his shield and spear, and bade his dwarf ride upon sir key's horse. by this time, sir lancelot had come up, and beaumains offering to tilt with him, they both made ready. and their horses came together so fiercely that both fell to the earth, full sorely bruised. then they arose, and beaumains, putting up his shield before him, offered to fight sir lancelot, on foot. so they rushed upon each other, striking, and thrusting, and parrying, for the space of an hour. and lancelot marvelled at the strength of beaumains, for he fought more like a giant than a man, and his fighting was passing fierce and terrible. so, at the last, he said, "fight not so sorely, beaumains; our quarrel is not such that we may not now cease." "true," answered beaumains; "yet it doth me good to feel thy might, though i have not yet proved my uttermost." "by my faith," said lancelot, "i had as much as i could do to save myself from you unshamed, therefore be in no doubt of any earthly knight." "may i, then, stand as a proved knight?" said beaumains. "for that will i be thy warrant," answered lancelot. "then, i pray thee," said he, "give me the order of knighthood." "first, then, must thou tell me of thy name and kindred," said sir lancelot. "if thou wilt tell them to no other, i will tell thee," answered he. "my name is gareth of orkney, and i am own brother to sir gawain." "ah!" said sir lancelot, "at that am i full glad; for, truly, i deemed thee to be of gentle blood." so then he knighted beaumains, and, after that, they parted company, and sir lancelot, returning to the court, took up sir key on his shield. and hardly did sir key escape with his life, from the wound beaumains had given him; but all men blamed him for his ungentle treatment of so brave a knight. then sir beaumains rode forward, and soon overtook the damsel; but she said to him, in scorn, "return again, base kitchen page! what art thou, but a washer-up of dishes!" "damsel," said he, "say to me what thou wilt, i will not leave thee; for i have undertaken to king arthur to relieve thy adventure, and i will finish it to the end, or die." "thou finish my adventure!" said she--"anon, thou shalt meet one, whose face thou wilt not even dare to look at." "i shall attempt it," answered he. so, as they rode thus, into a wood, there met them a man, fleeing, as for his life. "whither fleest thou?" said sir beaumains. "o lord!" he answered, "help me; for, in a valley hard by, there are six thieves, who have taken my lord, and bound him, and i fear will slay him." "bring me thither," said sir beaumains. so they rode to the place, and sir beaumains rushed after the thieves, and smote one, at the first stroke, so that he died; and then, with two other blows, slew a second and third. then fled the other three, and sir beaumains rode after them, and overtook and slew them all. then he returned and unbound the knight. and the knight thanked him, and prayed him to ride to his castle, where he would reward him. "sir," answered sir beaumains, "i will have no reward of thee, for but this day was i made knight by the most noble sir lancelot; and besides, i must go with this damsel." then the knight begged the damsel to rest that night at his castle. so they all rode thither, and ever the damsel scoffed at sir beaumains as a kitchen boy, and laughed at him before the knight their host, so that he set his meat before him at a lower table, as though he were not of their company. and on the morrow, the damsel and sir beaumains took their leave of the knight, and thanking him departed. then they rode on their way till they came to a great forest, through which flowed a river, and there was but one passage over it, whereat stood two knights armed to hinder the way. "wilt thou match those two knights," said the damsel to sir beaumains, "or return again?" "i would not return," said he, "though they were six." therewith he galloped into the water, and swam his horse into the middle of the stream. and there, in the river, one of the knights met him, and they brake their spears together, and then drew their swords, and smote fiercely at each other. and at the last, sir beaumains struck the other mightily upon the helm, so that he fell down stunned into the water, and was drowned. then sir beaumains spurred his horse on to the land, where instantly the other knight fell on him. and they also brake their spears upon each other, and then drew their swords, and fought savagely and long together. and after many blows, sir beaumains clove through the knight's skull down to the shoulders. then rode sir beaumains to the damsel, but ever she still scoffed at him, and said, "alas! that a kitchen page should chance to slay two such brave knights! thou deemest now that thou hast done a mighty deed, but it is not so; for the first knight's horse stumbled, and thus was he drowned--not by thy strength; and as for the second knight, thou wentest by chance behind him, and didst kill him shamefully." "damsel," said sir beaumains, "say what ye list, i care not so i may win your lady; and wouldst thou give me but fair language, all my care were past; for whatsoever knights i meet, i fear them not." "thou shalt see knights that shall abate thy boast, base kitchen knave," replied she; "yet say i this for thine advantage, for if thou followest me thou wilt be surely slain, since i see all thou doest is but by chance, and not by thy own prowess." "well damsel," said he, "say what ye will, wherever ye go i will follow." so they rode on until the eventide, and still the damsel evermore kept chiding sir beaumains. then came they to a black space of land, whereon was a black hawthorn tree, and on the tree there hung a black banner, and on the other side was a black shield and spear, and by them a great black horse, covered with silk; and hard by sat a knight armed in black armour, whose name was the knight of the blacklands. when the damsel saw him, she cried out to beaumains, "flee down the valley, for thy horse is not saddled!" "wilt thou for ever deem me coward?" answered he. with that came the black knight to the damsel, and said, "fair damsel, hast thou brought this knight from arthur's court to be thy champion?" "not so, fair knight," said she; "he is but a kitchen knave." "then wherefore cometh he in such array?" said he; "it is a shame that he should bear thee company." "i cannot be delivered from him," answered she: "for in spite of me he rideth with me; and would to heaven you would put him from me, or now slay him, for he hath slain two knights at the river passage yonder, and done many marvellous deeds through pure mischance." "i marvel," said the black knight, "that any man of worship will fight with him." "they know him not," said the damsel, "and think, because he rideth with me, that he is well born." "truly, he hath a goodly person, and is likely to be a strong man," replied the knight; "but since he is no man of worship, he shall leave his horse and armour with me, for it were a shame for me to do him more harm." when sir beaumains heard him speak thus, he said, "horse or armour gettest thou none of me, sir knight, save thou winnest them with thy hands; therefore defend thyself, and let me see what thou canst do." "how sayest thou?" answered the black knight. "now quit this lady also, for it beseemeth not a kitchen knave like thee to ride with such a lady." "i am of higher lineage than thou," said sir beaumains, "and will straightway prove it on thy body." then furiously they drove their horses at each other, and came together as it had been thunder. but the black knight's spear brake short, and sir beaumains thrust him through the side, and his spear breaking at the head, left its point sticking fast in the black knight's body. yet did the black knight draw his sword, and smite at sir beaumains with many fierce and bitter blows; but after they had fought an hour and more, he fell down from his horse in a swoon, and forthwith died. then sir beaumains lighted down and armed himself in the black knight's armour, and rode on after the damsel. but notwithstanding all his valour, still she scoffed at him, and said, "away! for thou savourest ever of the kitchen. alas! that such a knave should by mishap destroy so good a knight; yet once again i counsel thee to flee, for hard by is a knight who shall repay thee!" "it may chance that i am beaten or slain," answered sir beaumains, "but i warn thee, fair damsel, that i will not flee away, nor leave thy company or my quest, for all that ye can say." anon, as they rode, they saw a knight come swiftly towards them, dressed all in green, who, calling to the damsel said, "is that my brother, the black knight, that ye have brought with you?" "nay, and alas!" said she, "this kitchen knave hath slain thy brother through mischance." "alas!" said the green knight, "that such a noble knight as he was should be slain by a knave's hand. traitor!" cried he to sir beaumains, "thou shalt die for this! sir pereard was my brother, and a full noble knight." "i defy thee," said sir beaumains, "for i slew him knightly and not shamefully." then the green knight rode to a thorn whereon hung a green horn, and, when he blew three notes, there came three damsels forth, who quickly armed him, and brought him a great horse and a green shield and spear. then did they run at one another with their fullest might, and break their spears asunder; and, drawing their swords, they closed in fight, and sorely smote and wounded each other with many grievous blows. at last, sir beaumains' horse jostled against the green knight's horse, and overthrew him. then both alighted, and, hurtling together like mad lions, fought a great while on foot. but the damsel cheered the green knight, and said, "my lord, why wilt thou let a kitchen knave so long stand up against thee?" hearing these words, he was ashamed, and gave sir beaumains such a mighty stroke as clave his shield asunder. when sir beaumains heard the damsel's words, and felt that blow, he waxed passing wroth, and gave the green knight such a buffet on the helm that he fell on his knees, and with another blow sir beaumains threw him on the ground. then the green knight yielded, and prayed him to spare his life. "all thy prayers are vain," said he, "unless this damsel who came with me pray for thee." "that will i never do, base kitchen knave," said she. "then shall he die," said beaumains. "alas! fair lady," said the green knight, "suffer me not to die for a word! o, sir knight," cried he to beaumains, "give me my life, and i will ever do thee homage; and thirty knights, who owe me service, shall give allegiance to thee." "all availeth not," answered sir beaumains, "unless the damsel ask me for thy life;" and thereupon he made as though he would have slain him. then cried the damsel, "slay him not; for if thou do thou shalt repent it." "damsel," said sir beaumains, "at thy command, he shall obtain his life. arise, sir knight of the green armour, i release thee!" then the green knight knelt at his feet, and did him homage with his words. "lodge with me this night," said he, "and to-morrow will i guide ye through the forest." so, taking their horses, they rode to his castle, which was hard by. yet still did the damsel rebuke and scoff at sir beaumains, and would not suffer him to sit at her table. "i marvel," said the green knight to her, "that ye thus chide so noble a knight, for truly i know none to match him; and be sure, that whatsoever he appeareth now, he will prove, at the end, of noble blood and royal lineage." but of all this would the damsel take no heed, and ceased not to mock at sir beaumains. on the morrow, they arose and heard mass; and when they had broken their fast, took their horses and rode on their way, the green knight conveying them through the forest. then, when he had led them for a while, he said to sir beaumains, "my lord, my thirty knights and i shall always be at thy command whensoever thou shalt send for us." "it is well said," replied he; "and when i call upon you, you shall yield yourself and all your knights unto king arthur." "that will we gladly do," said the green knight, and so departed. and the damsel rode on before sir beaumains, and said to him, "why dost thou follow me, thou kitchen boy? i counsel thee to throw aside thy spear and shield, and flee betimes, for wert thou as mighty as sir lancelot or sir tristram, thou shouldest not pass a valley near this place, called the pass perilous." "damsel," answered he, "let him that feareth flee; as for me, it were indeed a shameful thing to turn after so long a journey." as he spake, they came upon a tower as white as snow, with mighty battlements, and double moats round it, and over the tower-gate hung fifty shields of divers colours. before the tower walls, they saw a fair meadow, wherein were many knights and squires in pavilions, for on the morrow there was a tournament at that castle. then the lord of the castle, seeing a knight armed at all points, with a damsel and a page, riding towards the tower, came forth to meet them; and his horse and harness, with his shield and spear, were all of a red colour. when he came near sir beaumains, and saw his armour all of black, he thought him his own brother, the black knight, and so cried aloud, "brother! what do ye here, within these borders?" "nay!" said the damsel, "it is not thy brother, but a kitchen knave of arthur's court, who hath slain thy brother, and overcome thy other brother also, the green knight." "now do i defy thee!" cried the red knight to sir beaumains, and put his spear in rest and spurred his horse. then both knights turned back a little space, and ran together with all their might, till their horses fell to the earth. then, with their swords, they fought fiercely for the space of three hours. and at last, sir beaumains overcame his foe, and smote him to the ground. then the red knight prayed his mercy, and said, "slay me not, noble knight, and i will yield to thee with sixty knights that do my bidding." "all avails not," answered sir beaumains, "save this damsel pray me to release thee." then did he lift his sword to slay him; but the damsel cried aloud, "slay him not, beaumains, for he is a noble knight." then sir beaumains bade him rise up and thank the damsel, which straightway he did, and afterwards invited them to his castle, and made them goodly cheer. but notwithstanding all sir beaumains' mighty deeds, the damsel ceased not to revile and chide him, at which the red knight marvelled much; and caused his sixty knights to watch sir beaumains, that no villainy might happen to him. and on the morrow, they heard mass and broke their fast, and the red knight came before sir beaumains, with his sixty knights, and proffered him homage and fealty. "i thank thee," answered he; "and when i call upon thee thou shalt come before my lord king arthur at his court, and yield yourselves to him." "that will we surely do," said the red knight. so sir beaumains and the damsel departed. and as she constantly reviled him and tormented him, he said to her, "damsel, ye are discourteous thus always to rebuke me, for i have done you service; and for all your threats of knights that shall destroy me, all they who come lie in the dust before me. now, therefore, i pray you rebuke me no more till you see me beaten or a recreant, and then bid me go from you." "there shall soon meet thee a knight who shall repay thee all thy deeds, thou boaster," answered she, "for, save king arthur, he is the man of most worship in the world." "it will be the greater honour to encounter him," said sir beaumains. soon after, they saw before them a city passing fair, and between them and the city was a meadow newly mown, wherein were many goodly tents. "seest thou yonder blue pavilion?" said the damsel to sir beaumains; "it is sir perseant's, the lord of that great city, whose custom is, in all fair weather, to lie in this meadow, and joust with his knights." and as she spake, sir perseant, who had espied them coming, sent a messenger to meet sir beaumains, and to ask him if he came in war or peace. "say to thy lord," he answered, "that i care not whether of the twain it be." so when the messenger gave this reply, sir perseant came out to fight with sir beaumains. and making ready, they rode their steeds against each other; and when their spears were shivered asunder, they fought with their swords. and for more than two hours did they hack and hew at each other, till their shields and hauberks were all dinted with many blows, and they themselves were sorely wounded. and at the last, sir beaumains smote sir perseant on the helm, so that he fell grovelling on the earth. and when he unlaced his helm to slay him, the damsel prayed for his life. "that will i grant gladly," answered sir beaumains, "for it were pity such a noble knight should die." "grammercy!" said sir perseant, "for now i certainly know that it was thou who slewest my brother, the black knight, sir pereard; and overcame my brothers, the green knight, sir pertolope, and the red knight, sir perimones; and since thou hast overcome me also, i will do thee homage and fealty, and place at thy command one hundred knights to do thy bidding." but when the damsel saw sir perseant overthrown, she marvelled greatly at the might of sir beaumains, and said, "what manner of man may ye be, for now am i sure that ye be come of noble blood? and truly, never did woman revile knight as i have done thee, and yet ye have ever courteously borne with me, which surely never had been were ye not of gentle blood and lineage." "lady," replied sir beaumains, "a knight is little worth who may not bear with a damsel; and so whatsoever ye said to me i took no heed, save only that at times when your scorn angered me, it made me all the stronger against those with whom i fought, and thus have ye furthered me in my battles. but whether i be born of gentle blood or no, i have done you gentle service, and peradventure will do better still, ere i depart from you." [illustration: "lady," replied sir beaumains, "a knight is little worth who may not bear with a damsel."] "alas!" said she, weeping at his courtesy, "forgive me, fair sir beaumains, all that i have missaid and misdone against you." "with all my heart," said he; "and since you now speak fairly to me, i am passing glad of heart, and methinks i have the strength to overcome whatever knights i shall henceforth encounter." then sir perseant prayed them to come to his pavilion, and set before them wines and spices, and made them great cheer. so they rested that night; and on the morrow, the damsel and sir beaumains rose, and heard mass. and when they had broken their fast, they took their leave of sir perseant. "fair damsel," said he "whither lead ye this knight?" "sir," answered she, "to the castle dangerous, where my sister is besieged by the knight of the redlands." "i know him well," said sir perseant, "for the most perilous knight alive--a man without mercy, and with the strength of seven men. god save thee, sir beaumains, from him! and enable thee to overcome him, for the lady lyones, whom he besiegeth, is as fair a lady as there liveth in this world." "thou sayest truth, sir," said the damsel; "for i am her sister; and men call me linet, or the wild maiden." "now, i would have thee know," said sir perseant to sir beaumains, "that the knight of the redlands hath kept that siege more than two years, and prolongeth the time hoping that sir lancelot, or sir tristram, or sir lamoracke, may come and battle with him; for these three knights divide between them all knighthood; and thou if thou mayest match the knight of the redlands, shall well be called the fourth knight of the world." "sir," said sir beaumains, "i would fain have that good fame; and truly, i am come of great and honourable lineage. and so that you and this fair damsel will conceal it, i will tell ye my descent." and when they swore to keep it secret, he told them, "my name is sir gareth of orkney, my father was king lot, and my mother the lady belisent, king arthur's sister. sir gawain, sir agravain, and sir gaheris, are my brethren, and i am the youngest of them all. but, as yet king arthur and the court know me not, who i am." when he had thus told them, they both wondered greatly. and the damsel linet sent the dwarf forward to her sister, to tell her of their coming. then did dame lyones inquire what manner of man the knight was who was coming to her rescue. and the dwarf told her of all sir beaumains' deeds by the way: how he had overthrown sir key, and left him for dead; how he had battled with sir lancelot, and was knighted of him; how he had fought with, and slain, the thieves; how he had overcome the two knights who kept the river passage; how he had fought with, and slain, the black knight; and how he had overcome the green knight, the red knight, and last of all, the blue knight, sir perseant. then was dame lyones passing glad, and sent the dwarf back to sir beaumains with great gifts, thanking him for his courtesy, in taking such a labour on him for her sake, and praying him to be of good heart and courage. and as the dwarf returned, he met the knight of the redlands, who asked him whence he came. "i came here with the sister of my lady of the castle," said the dwarf, "who hath been now to king arthur's court and brought a knight with her to take her battle on him." "then is her travail lost," replied the knight; "for, though she had brought sir lancelot, sir tristram, sir lamoracke, or sir gawain, i count myself their equal, and who besides shall be so called?" then the dwarf told the knight what deeds sir beaumains had done; but he answered, "i care not for him, whosoever he be, for i shall shortly overcome him, and give him shameful death, as to so many others i have done." then the damsel linet and sir beaumains left sir perseant, and rode on through a forest to a large plain, where they saw many pavilions, and hard by, a castle passing fair. but as they came near sir beaumains saw upon the branches of some trees which grew there, the dead bodies of forty knights hanging, with rich armour on them, their shields and swords about their necks, and golden spurs upon their heels. "what meaneth this?" said he, amazed. "lose not thy courage, fair sir," replied the damsel, "at this shameful sight, for all these knights came hither to rescue my sister; and when the knight of the redlands had overcome them, he put them to this piteous death, without mercy; and in such wise will he treat thee also unless thou bearest thee more valiantly than they." "truly he useth shameful customs," said sir beaumains; "and it is a marvel that he hath endured so long." so they rode onward to the castle walls, and found them double-moated, and heard the sea waves dashing on one side the walls. then said the damsel, "see you that ivory horn hanging upon the sycamore-tree? the knight of the redlands hath hung it there, that any knight may blow thereon, and then will he himself come out and fight with him. but i pray thee sound it not till high noontide, for now it is but daybreak, and till noon his strength increases to the might of seven men." "let that be as it may, fair damsel," answered he, "for were he stronger knight than ever lived, i would not fail him. either will i defeat him at his mightiest, or die knightly in the field." with that he spurred his horse unto the sycamore, and blew the ivory horn so eagerly, that all the castle rang its echoes. instantly, all the knights who were in the pavilions ran forth, and those within the castle looked out from the windows, or above the walls. and the knight of the redlands, arming himself quickly in blood-red armour, with spear, and shield, and horse's trappings of like colour, rode forth into a little valley by the castle walls, so that all in the castle, and at the siege, might see the battle. "be of good cheer," said the damsel linet to sir beaumains, "for thy deadly enemy now cometh; and at yonder window is my lady and sister, dame lyones." "in good sooth," said sir beaumains, "she is the fairest lady i have ever seen, and i would wish no better quarrel than to fight for her." with that, he looked up to the window, and saw the lady lyones, who waved her handkerchief to her sister and to him to cheer them. then called the knight of the redlands to sir beaumains, "leave now thy gazing, sir knight, and turn to me, for i warn thee that lady is mine." "she loveth none of thy fellowship," he answered; "but know this, that i love her, and will rescue her from thee, or die." "say ye so!" said the red knight. "take ye no warning from those knights that hang on yonder trees?" "for shame that thou so boastest!" said sir beaumains. "be sure that sight hath raised a hatred for thee that will not lightly be put out, and given me not fear, but rage." "sir knight, defend thyself," said the knight of the redlands, "for we will talk no longer." then did they put their spears in rest, and came together at the fullest speed of their horses, and smote each other in the midst of their shields, so that their horses' harness sundered by the shock, and they fell to the ground. and both lay there so long time, stunned, that many deemed their necks were broken. and all men said the strange knight was a strong man, and a noble jouster, for none had ever yet so matched the knight of the redlands. then, in a while, they rose, and putting up their shields before them, drew their swords, and fought with fury, running at each other like wild beasts--now striking such buffets that both reeled backwards, now hewing at each other till they shore the harness off in pieces, and left their bodies naked and unarmed. and thus they fought till noon was past, when, for a time they rested to get breath, so sorely staggering and bleeding, that many who beheld them wept for pity. then they renewed the battle--sometimes rushing so furiously together, that both fell to the ground, and anon changing swords in their confusion. thus they endured, and lashed, and struggled, until eventide, and none who saw knew which was the likeliest to win; for though the knight of the redlands was a wily and subtle warrior, his subtlety made sir beaumains wilier and wiser too. so once again they rested for a little space, and took their helms off to find breath. but when sir beaumains' helm was off, he looked up to dame lyones, where she leaned, gazing and weeping, from her window. and when he saw the sweetness of her smiling, all his heart was light and joyful, and starting up, he bade the knight of the redlands make ready. then did they lace their helms and fight together yet afresh, as though they had never fought before. and at the last, the knight of the redlands with a sudden stroke smote sir beaumains on the hand, so that his sword fell from it, and with a second stroke upon the helm he drove him to the earth. then cried aloud the damsel linet, "alas! sir beaumains, see how my sister weepeth to behold thee fallen!" and when sir beaumains heard her words, he sprang upon his feet with strength, and leaping to his sword, he caught it; and with many heavy blows pressed so sorely on the knight of the redlands, that in the end he smote his sword from out his hand, and, with a mighty blow upon the head, hurled him upon the ground. then sir beaumains unlaced his helm, and would have straightway slain him, but the knight of the redlands yielded, and prayed for mercy. "i may not spare thee," answered he, "because of the shameful death which thou hast given to so many noble knights." "yet hold thy hand, sir knight," said he, "and hear the cause. i loved once a fair damsel, whose brother was slain, as she told me, by a knight of arthur's court, either sir lancelot, or sir gawain; and she prayed me, as i truly loved her, and by the faith of my knighthood, to labour daily in deeds of arms, till i should meet with him; and to put all knights of the round table whom i should overcome to a villainous death. and this i swore to her." then prayed the earls, and knights, and barons, who stood round sir beaumains, to spare the red knight's life. "truly," replied he, "i am loth to slay him, notwithstanding he hath done such shameful deeds. and inasmuch as what he did was done to please his lady and to gain her love, i blame him less, and for your sakes i will release him. but on this agreement only shall he hold his life--that straightway he depart into the castle, and yield him to the lady there, and make her such amends as she shall ask, for all the trespass he hath done upon her lands; and afterwards, that he shall go unto king arthur's court, and ask the pardon of sir lancelot and sir gawain for all the evil he hath done against them." "all this, sir knight, i swear to do," said the knight of the redlands; and therewith he did him homage and fealty. then came the damsel linet to sir beaumains and the knight of the redlands, and disarmed them, and staunched their wounds. and when the knight of the redlands had made amends for all his trespasses, he departed for the court. then sir beaumains, being healed of his wounds, armed himself, and took his horse and spear and rode straight to the castle of dame lyones, for greatly he desired to see her. but when he came to the gate they closed it fast, and pulled the drawbridge up. and as he marvelled thereat, he saw the lady lyones standing at a window, who said, "go thy way as yet, sir beaumains, for thou shalt not wholly have my love until thou be among the worthiest knights of all the world. go, therefore, and labour yet in arms for twelve months more, and then return to me." "alas! fair lady," said sir beaumains, "i have scarce deserved this of thee, for sure i am that i have bought thy love with all the best blood in my body." "be not aggrieved, fair knight," said she, "for none of thy service is forgot or lost. twelve months will soon be passed in noble deeds; and trust that to my death i shall love thee and not another." with that she turned and left the window. so sir beaumains rode away from the castle very sorrowrul at heart, and rode he knew not whither, and lay that night in a poor man's cottage. on the morrow he went forward, and came at noon to a broad lake, and thereby he alighted, being very sad and weary, and rested his head upon his shield, and told his dwarf to keep watch while he slept. now, as soon as he had departed, the lady lyones repented, and greatly longed to see him back, and asked her sister many times of what lineage he was; but the damsel would not tell her, being bound by her oath to sir beaumains, and said his dwarf best knew, so she called sir gringamors, her brother, who dwelt with her, and prayed him to ride after sir beaumains till he found him sleeping, and then to take his dwarf away and bring him back to her. anon sir gringamors departed, and rode till he came to sir beaumains, and found him as he lay sleeping by the water-side. then stepping stealthily behind the dwarf he caught him in his arms and rode off in haste. and though the dwarf cried loudly to his lord for help, and woke sir beaumains, yet, though he rode full quickly after him, he could not overtake sir gringamors. when dame lyones saw her brother come back, she was passing glad of heart, and forthwith asked the dwarf his master's lineage. "he is a king's son," said the dwarf, "and his mother is king arthur's sister. his name is sir gareth of orkney, and he is brother to the good knight, sir gawain. but i pray you suffer me to go back to my lord, for truly he will never leave this country till he have me again." but when the lady lyones knew her deliverer was come of such a kingly stock, she longed more than ever to see him again. now as sir beaumains rode in vain to rescue his dwarf, he came to a fair green road and met a poor man of the country, and asked him had he seen a knight on a black horse, riding with a dwarf of a sad countenance behind him. "yea," said the man, "i met with such a knight an hour agone, and his name is sir gringamors. he liveth at a castle two miles from hence; but he is a perilous knight, and i counsel ye not to follow him save ye bear him goodwill." then sir beaumains followed the path which the poor man showed him, and came to the castle. and riding to the gate in great anger, he drew his sword, and cried aloud, "sir gringamors, thou traitor! deliver me my dwarf again, or by my knighthood it shall be ill for thee!" then sir gringamors looked out of a window and said, "sir gareth of orkney, leave thy boasting words, for thou wilt not get thy dwarf again." but the lady lyones said to her brother, "nay brother, but i will that he have his dwarf, for he hath done much for me, and delivered me from the knight of the redlands, and well do i love him above all other knights." so sir gringamors went down to sir gareth and cried him mercy, and prayed him to alight and take good cheer. then he alighted, and his dwarf ran to him. and when he was in the hall came the lady lyones dressed royally like a princess. and sir gareth was right glad of heart when he saw her. then she told him how she had made her brother take away his dwarf and bring him back to her. and then she promised him her love, and faithfully to cleave to him and none other all the days of her life. and so they plighted their troth to each other. then sir gringamors prayed him to sojourn at the castle, which willingly he did. "for," said he, "i have promised to quit the court for twelve months, though sure i am that in the meanwhile i shall be sought and found by my lord king arthur and many others." so he sojourned long at the castle. anon the knights, sir perseant, sir perimones, and sir pertolope, whom sir gareth had overthrown, went to king arthur's court with all the knights who did them service, and told the king they had been conquered by a knight of his named beaumains. and as they yet were talking, it was told the king there came another great lord with five hundred knights, who, entering in, did homage, and declared himself to be the knight of the redlands. "but my true name," said he, "is ironside, and i am hither sent by one sir beaumains, who conquered me, and charged me to yield unto your grace." "thou art welcome," said king arthur, "for thou hast been long a foe to me and mine, and truly i am much beholden to the knight who sent thee. and now, sir ironside, if thou wilt amend thy life and hold of me, i will entreat thee as a friend, and make thee knight of the round table; but thou mayst no more be a murderer of noble knights." then the knight of the redlands knelt to the king, and told him of his promise to sir beaumains to use never more such shameful customs; and how he had so done but at the prayer of a lady whom he loved. then knelt he to sir lancelot and sir gawain, and prayed their pardon for the hatred he had borne them. but the king and all the court marvelled greatly who sir beaumains was. "for," said the king, "he is a full noble knight." then said sir lancelot, "truly he is come of honourable blood, else had i not given him the order of knighthood; but he charged me that i should conceal his secret." now as they talked thus it was told king arthur that his sister, the queen of orkney, was come to the court with a great retinue of knights and ladies. then was there great rejoicing, and the king rose and saluted his sister. and her sons, sir gawain, sir agravain, and sir gaheris knelt before her and asked her blessing, for during fifteen years last past they had not seen her. anon she said, "where is my youngest son, sir gareth? for i know that he was here a twelvemonth with you, and that ye made a kitchen knave of him. then the king and all the knights knew that sir beaumains and sir gareth were the same. "truly," said the king, "i knew him not." "nor i," said sir gawain and both his brothers. then said the king, "god be thanked, fair sister, that he is proved as worshipful a knight as any now alive, and by the grace of heaven he shall be found forthwith if he be anywhere within these seven realms." then said sir gawain and his brethren, "lord, if ye will give us leave we will go seek him." but sir lancelot said, "it were better that the king should send a messenger to dame lyones and pray her to come hither with all speed, and she will counsel where ye shall find him." "it is well said," replied the king; and sent a messenger quickly unto dame lyones. when she heard the message she promised she would come forthwith, and told sir gareth what the messenger had said, and asked him what to do. "i pray you," said he, "tell them not where i am, but when my lord king arthur asketh for me, advise him thus--that he proclaim a tournament before this castle on assumption day, and that the knight who proveth best shall win yourself and all your lands." so the lady lyones departed and came to king arthur's court, and there was right nobly welcomed. and when they asked her where sir gareth was, she said she could not tell. "but, lord," said she, "with thy goodwill i will proclaim a tournament before my castle on the feast of the assumption, whereof the prize shall be myself and all my lands. then if it be proclaimed that you, lord, and your knights will be there, i will find knights on my side to fight you and yours, and thus am i sure ye will hear tidings of sir gareth." "be it so done," replied the king. so sir gareth sent messengers privily to sir perseant and sir ironside, and charged them to be ready on the day appointed, with their companies of knights to aid him and his party against the king. and when they were arrived he said, "now be ye well assured that we shall be matched with the best knights of the world, and therefore must we gather all the good knights we can find." so proclamation was made throughout all england, wales, scotland, ireland, and cornwall, and in the out isles and other countries, that at the feast of the assumption of our lady, next coming, all knights who came to joust at castle perilous should make choice whether they would side with the king or with the castle. then came many good knights on the side of the castle. sir epinogris, the son of the king of northumberland, and sir palomedes the saracen, and sir grummore grummorsum, a good knight of scotland, and sir brian des iles, a noble knight, and sir carados of the tower dolorous, and sir tristram, who as yet was not a knight of the round table, and many others. but none among them knew sir gareth, for he took no more upon him than any mean person. and on king arthur's side there came the king of ireland and the king of scotland, the noble prince sir galahaut, sir gawain and his brothers sir agravain and sir gaheris, sir ewaine, sir tor, sir perceval, and sir lamoracke, sir lancelot also and his kindred, sir lionel, sir ector, sir bors and sir bedivere, likewise sir key and the most part of the table round. the two queens also, queen guinevere and the queen of orkney, sir gareth's mother, came with the king. so there was a great array both within and without the castle, with all manner of feasting and minstrelsy. now before the tournament began, sir gareth privily prayed dame lyones, sir gringamors, sir ironside, and sir perseant, that they would in nowise disclose his name, nor make more of him than of any common knight. then said dame lyones, "dear lord, i pray thee take this ring, which hath the power to change the wearer's clothing into any colour he may will, and guardeth him from any loss of blood. but give it me again, i pray thee, when the tournament is done, for it greatly increaseth my beauty whensoever i wear it." "grammercy, mine own lady," said sir gareth, "i wished for nothing better, for now i may be certainly disguised as long as i will." then sir gringamors gave sir gareth a bay courser that was a passing good horse, with sure armour, and a noble sword, won by his father from a heathen tyrant. and then every knight made him ready for the tournament. so on the day of the assumption, when mass and matins were said, the heralds blew their trumpets and sounded for the tourney. anon came out the knights of the castle and the knights of king arthur, and matched themselves together. then sir epinogris, son of the king of northumberland, a knight of the castle, encountered sir ewaine, and both broke off their spears short to their hands. then came sir palomedes from the castle, and met sir gawain, and they so hardly smote each other, that both knights and horses fell to the earth. then sir tristram, from the castle, encountered with sir bedivere, and smote him to the earth, horse and man. then the knight of the redlands and sir gareth met with sir bors and sir bleoberis; and the knight of the redlands and sir bors smote together so hard that their spears burst, and their horses fell grovelling to the ground. and sir bleoberis brake his spear upon sir gareth, but himself was hurled upon the ground. when sir galihodin saw that, he bade sir gareth keep him, but sir gareth lightly smote him to the earth. then sir galihud got a spear to avenge his brother, but was served in like manner. and sir dinadam, and his brother la-cote-male-taile, and sir sagramour le desirous, and dodinas le savage, he bore down all with one spear. when king anguish of ireland saw this, he marvelled what that knight could be who seemed at one time green and at another blue; for so at every course he changed his colour that none might know him. then he ran towards him and encountered him, and sir gareth smote the king from his horse, saddle and all. and in like manner he served the king of scotland, and king urience of gore, and king bagdemagus. then sir galahaut, the noble prince, cried out, "knight of the many colours! thou hast jousted well; now make thee ready to joust with me." when sir gareth heard him, he took a great spear and met him swiftly. and the prince's spear broke off, but sir gareth smote him on the left side of the helm, so that he reeled here and there, and had fallen down had not his men recovered him. "by my faith," said king arthur, "that knight of the many colours is a good knight. i pray thee, sir lancelot du lake, encounter with him." "lord," said sir lancelot, "by thy leave i will forbear. i find it in my heart to spare him at this time, for he hath done enough work for one day; and when a good knight doth so well it is no knightly part to hinder him from this honour. and peradventure his quarrel is here to-day, and he may be the best beloved of the lady lyones of all that be here; for i see well he paineth and forceth himself to do great deeds. therefore, as for me, this day he shall have the honour; for though i were able to put him from it, i would not." "you speak well and truly," said the king. then after the tilting, they drew swords, and there began a great tournament, and there sir lancelot did marvellous deeds of arms, for first he fought with both sir tristram and sir carados, albeit they were the most perilous in all the world. then came sir gareth and put them asunder, but would not smite a stroke against sir lancelot, for by him he had been knighted. anon sir gareth's helm had need of mending, and he rode aside to see to it and to drink water, for he was sore athirst with all his mighty feats of strength. and while he drank, his dwarf said to him, "give me your ring, lest ye lose it while ye drink." so sir gareth took it off. and when he had finished drinking, he rode back eagerly to the field, and in his haste forgot to take the ring again. then all the people saw that he wore yellow armour. and king arthur told a herald, "ride and espy the cognizance of that brave knight, for i have asked many who he is, and none can tell me." then the herald rode near, and saw written round about his helmet in letters of gold, "sir gareth of orkney." and instantly the herald cried his name aloud, and all men pressed to see him. but when he saw he was discovered, he pushed with haste through all the crowd, and cried to his dwarf, boy, thou hast beguiled me foully in keeping my ring; give it me again, that i may be hidden." and as soon as he had put it on, his armour changed again, and no man knew where he had gone. then he passed forth from the field; but sir gawain, his brother, rode after him. and when sir gareth had ridden far into the forest, he took off his ring, and sent it back by the dwarf to the lady lyones, praying her to be true and faithful to him while he was away. then rode sir gareth long through the forest, till night fell, and coming to a castle he went up to the gate, and prayed the porter to let him in. but churlishly he answered "that he should not lodge there." then said sir gareth, "tell thy lord and lady that i am a knight of king arthur's court, and for his sake i pray their shelter." with that the porter went to the duchess who owned the castle. "let him in straightway," cried she; "for the king's sake he shall not be harbourless!" and went down to receive him. when sir gareth saw her coming, he saluted her, and said, "fair lady, i pray you give me shelter for this night, and if there be here any champion or giant with whom i must needs fight, spare me till to-morrow, when i and my horse shall have rested, for we are full weary." "sir knight," she said, "thou speakest boldly; for the lord of this castle is a foe to king arthur and his court, and if thou wilt rest here to-night thou must agree, that wheresoever thou mayest meet my lord, thou must yield to him as a prisoner." "what is thy lord's name, lady?" said sir gareth. "the duke de la rowse," said she. "i will promise thee," said he, "to yield to him, if he promise to do me no harm; but if he refuse, i will release myself with my sword and spear." "it is well," said the duchess; and commanded the drawbridge to be let down. so he rode into the hall and alighted. and when he had taken off his armour, the duchess and her ladies made him passing good cheer. and after supper his bed was made in the hall, and there he rested that night. on the morrow he rose and heard mass, and having broken his fast, took his leave and departed. [illustration: so he rode into the hall and alighted.] and as he rode past a certain mountain there met him a knight named sir bendelaine, and cried unto him "thou shalt not pass unless thou joust with me or be my prisoner!" "then will we joust," replied sir gareth. so they let their horses run at full speed, and sir gareth smote sir bendelaine through his body so sorely that he scarcely reached his castle ere he fell dead. and as sir gareth presently came by the castle, sir bendelaine's knights and servants rode out to revenge their lord. and twenty of them fell on him at once, although his spear was broken. but drawing his sword he put his shield before him. and though they brake their spears upon him, one and all, and sorely pressed on him, yet ever he defended himself like a noble knight. anon, finding they could not overcome him, they agreed to slay his horse; and having killed it with their spears, they set upon sir gareth as he fought on foot. but every one he struck he slew, and drave at them with fearful blows, till he had slain them all but four, who fled. then taking the horse of one of those that lay there dead, he rode upon his way. anon he came to another castle and heard from within a sound as of many women moaning and weeping. then said he to a page who stood without, "what noise is this i hear?" "sir knight," said he, "there be within thirty ladies, the widows of thirty knights who have been slain by the lord of this castle. he is called the brown knight without pity, and is the most perilous knight living, wherefore i warn thee to flee." "that will i never do," said sir gareth, "for i fear him not." then the page saw the brown knight coming and said to gareth, "lo! my lord is near." so both knights made them ready and galloped their horses towards each other, and the brown knight brake his spear upon sir gareth's shield; but sir gareth smote him through the body so that he fell dead. at that he rode into the castle and told the ladies he had slain their foe. then were they right glad of heart and made him all the cheer they could, and thanked him out of measure. but on the morrow as he went to mass he found the ladies weeping in the chapel upon divers tombs that were there. and he knew that in those tombs their husbands lay. then he bade them be comforted, and with noble and high words he desired and prayed them all to be at arthur's court on the next feast of pentecost. so he departed and rode past a mountain where was a goodly knight waiting, who said to him, "abide, sir knight, and joust with me!" "how are ye named?" said sir gareth. "i am the duke de la rowse," answered he. "in good sooth," then said sir gareth, "not long ago i lodged within your castle, and there promised i would yield to you whenever we might meet." "art thou that proud knight," said the duke, "who was ready to fight with me? guard thyself therefore and make ready." so they ran together, and sir gareth smote the duke from his horse. then they alighted and drew their swords, and fought full sorely for the space of an hour; and at the last sir gareth smote the duke to the earth and would have slain him, but he yielded. "then must ye go," said sir gareth, "to my lord king arthur at the next feast of pentecost and say that i, sir gareth, sent ye." "as ye will be it," said the duke; and gave him up his shield for pledge. and as sir gareth rode alone he saw an armed knight coming towards him. and putting the duke's shield before him he rode fast to tilt with him; and so they ran together as it had been thunder, and brake their spears upon each other. then fought they fiercely with their swords and lashed together with such mighty strokes that blood ran to the ground on every side. and after they had fought together for two hours and more, it chanced the damsel linet passed that way; and when she saw them she cried out, "sir gawain and sir gareth, leave your fighting, for ye are brethren!" at that they threw away their shields and swords, and took each other in their arms and wept a great while ere they could speak. and each gave to the other the honour of the battle, and there was many a kind word between them. then said sir gawain, "o my brother, for your sake have i had great sorrow and labour! but truly i would honour you though ye were not my brother, for ye have done great worship to king arthur and his court, and sent more knights to him than any of the table round, except sir lancelot." then the damsel linet staunched their wounds, and their horses being weary she rode her palfrey to king arthur and told him of this strange adventure. when she had told her tidings, the king himself mounted his horse and bade all come with him to meet them. so a great company of lords and ladies went forth to meet the brothers. and when king arthur saw them he would have spoken hearty words, but for gladness he could not. and both sir gawain and sir gareth fell down at their uncle's knees and did him homage, and there was passing great joy and gladness among them all. then said the king to the damsel linet, "why cometh not the lady lyones to visit her knight, sir gareth, who hath had such travail for her love?" "she knoweth not, my lord, that he is here," replied the damsel, "for truly she desireth greatly to see him." "go ye and bring her hither," said the king. so the damsel rode to tell her sister where sir gareth was, and when she heard it she rejoiced full heartily and came with all the speed she could. and when sir gareth saw her, there was great joy and comfort between them. then the king asked sir gareth whether he would have that lady for his wife? "my lord," replied sir gareth, "know well that i love her above all ladies living." "now, fair lady," said king arthur, "what say ye?" "most noble king," she answered, "my lord, sir gareth, is my first love and shall be my last, and if i may not have him for my husband i will have none." then said the king to them, "be well assured that for my crown i would not be the cause of parting your two hearts." then was high preparation made for the marriage, for the king desired it should be at the michaelmas next following, at kinkenadon-by-the-sea. so sir gareth sent out messages to all the knights whom he had overcome in battle that they should be there upon his marriage-day. therefore, at the next michaelmas, came a goodly company to kinkenadon-by-the-sea. and there did the archbishop of canterbury marry sir gareth and the lady lyones with all solemnity. and all the knights whom sir gareth had overcome were at the feast; and every manner of revels and games was held with music and minstrelsy. and there was a great jousting for three days. but because of his bride the king would not suffer sir gareth to joust. then did king arthur give great lands and fair, with store of gold, to sir gareth and his wife, that so they might live royally together to their lives' end. chapter xi _the adventures of sir tristram of lyonesse_ again king arthur held high festival at caerleon, at pentecost, and gathered round him all the fellowship of the round table, and so, according to his custom, sat and waited till some adventure should arise, or some knight return to court whose deeds and perils might be told. anon he saw sir lancelot and a crowd of knights coming through the doors and leading in their midst the mighty knight, sir tristram. as soon as king arthur saw him, he rose up and went through half the hall, and held out both his hands and cried, "right welcome to thee, good sir tristram, as welcome art thou as any knight that ever came before into this court. a long time have i wished for thee amongst my fellowship." then all the knights and barons rose up with one accord and came around, and cried out, "welcome." queen guinevere came also, and many ladies with her, and all with one voice said the same. then the king took sir tristram by the hand and led him to the round table and said, "welcome again for one of the best and gentlest knights in all the world; a chief in war, a chief in peace, a chief in field and forest, a chief in the ladies' chamber--right heartily welcome to this court, and mayest thou long abide in it." when he had so said he looked at every empty seat until he came to what had been sir marhaus', and there he found written in gold letters, "this is the seat of the noble knight, sir tristram." whereat they made him, with great cheer and gladness, a fellow of the round table. now the story of sir tristram was as follows:-- there was a king of lyonesse, named meliodas, married to the sister of king mark of cornwall, a right fair lady and a good. and so it happened that king meliodas hunting in the woods was taken by enchantment and made prisoner in a castle. when his wife elizabeth heard it she was nigh mad with grief, and ran into the forest to seek out her lord. but after many days of wandering and sorrow she found no trace of him, and laid her down in a deep valley and prayed to meet her death. and so indeed she did, but ere she died she gave birth in the midst of all her sorrow to a child, a boy, and called him with her latest breath tristram; for she said, "his name shall show how sadly he hath come into this world." therewith she gave up her ghost, and the gentlewoman who was with her took the child and wrapped it from the cold as well as she was able, and lay down with it in her arms beneath the shadow of a tree hard by, expecting death to come to her in turn. but shortly after came a company of lords and barons seeking for the queen, and found the lady and the child and took them home. and on the next day came king meliodas, whom merlin had delivered, and when he heard of the queen's death his sorrow was greater than tongue can tell. and anon he buried her solemnly and nobly, and called the child tristram as she had desired. then for seven years king meliodas mourned and took no comfort, and all that time young tristram was well nourished; but in a while he wedded with the daughter of howell, king of brittany, who, that her own children might enjoy the kingdom, cast about in her mind how she might destroy tristram. so on a certain day she put poison in a silver cup, where tristram and her children were together playing, that when he was athirst he might drink of it and die. but so it happened that her own son saw the cup, and, thinking it must hold good drink, he climbed and took it, and drank deeply of it, and suddenly thereafter burst and fell down dead. when the queen heard that, her grief was very great, but her anger and envy were fiercer than before, and soon again she put more poison in the cup. and by chance one day her husband finding it when thirsty, took it up and was about to drink therefrom, when, seeing him, she sprang up with a mighty cry and dashed it from his hands. at that king meliodas, wondering greatly, called to mind the sudden death of his young child, and taking her fiercely by the hand he cried: "traitress, tell me what drink is in this cup or i will slay thee in a moment;" and therewith pulling out his sword he swore by a great oath to slay her if she straightway told him not the truth. "ah, mercy, lord," said she, and fell down at his feet; "mercy, and i will tell thee all." and then she told him of her plot to murder tristram, that her own sons might enjoy the kingdom. "the law shall judge thee," said the king. and so anon she was tried before the barons, and condemned to be burnt to death. but when the fire was made, and she brought out, came tristram kneeling at his father's feet and besought of him a favour. "whatsoever thou desirest i will give thee," said the king. "give me the life, then, of the queen, my stepmother," said he. "thou doest wrong to ask it," said meliodas; "for she would have slain thee with her poisons if she could, and chiefly for thy sake she ought to die." "sir," said he, "as for that, i beseech thee of thy mercy to forgive it her, and for my part may god pardon her as i do; and so i pray thee grant me my boon, and for god's sake hold thee to thy promise." "if it must be so," said the king, "take thou her life, for to thee i give it, and go and do with her as thou wilt." then went young tristram to the fire and loosed the queen from all her bonds and delivered her from death. and after a great while by his good means the king again forgave and lived in peace with her, though never more in the same lodgings. anon was tristram sent abroad to france in care of one named governale. and there for seven years he learned the language of the land, and all knightly exercises and gentle crafts, and especially was he foremost in music and in hunting, and was a harper beyond all others. and when at nineteen years of age he came back to his father, he was as lusty and strong of body and as noble of heart as ever man was seen. now shortly after his return it befell that king anguish of ireland sent to king mark of cornwall for the tribute due to ireland, but which was now seven years behindhand. to whom king mark sent answer, if he would have it he must send and fight for it, and they would find a champion to fight against it. so king anguish called for sir marhaus, his wife's brother, a good knight of the round table, who lived then at his court, and sent him with a knightly retinue in six great ships to cornwall. and, casting anchor by the castle of tintagil, he sent up daily to king mark for the tribute or the champion. but no knight there would venture to assail him, for his fame was very high in all the realm for strength and hardihood. then made king mark a proclamation throughout cornwall, that if any knight would fight sir marhaus he should stand at the king's right hand for evermore, and have great honour and riches all the rest of his days. anon this news came to the land of lyonesse, and when young tristram heard it he was angry and ashamed to think no knight of cornwall durst assail the irish champion. "alas," said he, "that i am not a knight, that i might match this marhaus! i pray you give me leave, sir, to depart to king mark's court and beg of his grace to make me knight." "be ruled by thy own courage," said his father. so tristram rode away forthwith to tintagil to king mark, and went up boldly to him and said, "sir, give me the order of knighthood and i will fight to the uttermost with sir marhaus of ireland." "what are ye, and whence come ye?" said the king, seeing he was but a young man, though strong and well made both in body and limb. "my name is tristram," said he, "and i was born in the country of lyonesse." "but know ye," said the king, "this irish knight will fight with none who be not come of royal blood and near of kin to kings or queens, as he himself is, for his sister is the queen of ireland." then said tristram, "let him know that i am come both on my father's and my mother's side of blood as good as his, for my father is king meliodas and my mother was that queen elizabeth, thy sister, who died in the forest at my birth." when king mark heard that he welcomed him with all his heart, and knighted him forthwith, and made him ready to go forth as soon as he would choose, and armed him royally in armour covered with gold and silver. then he sent sir marhaus word, "that a better man than he should fight with him, sir tristram of lyonesse, son of king meliodas and of king mark's own sister." so the battle was ordained to be fought in an island near sir marhaus' ships, and there sir tristram landed on the morrow, with governale alone attending him for squire, and him he sent back to the land when he had made himself ready. when sir marhaus and sir tristram were thus left alone, sir marhaus said, "young knight sir tristram what doest thou here? i am full sorry for thy rashness, for ofttimes have i been assailed in vain, and by the best knights of the world. be warned in time, return to them that sent thee." "fair knight, and well-proved knight," replied sir tristram, "be sure that i shall never quit this quarrel till one of us be overcome. for this cause have i been made knight, and thou shalt know before we part that though as yet unproved, i am a king's son and first-born of a queen. moreover i have promised to deliver cornwall from this ancient burden, or to die. also, thou shouldst have known, sir marhaus, that thy valour and thy might are but the better reasons why i should assail thee; for whether i win or lose i shall gain honour to have met so great a knight as thou art." then they began the battle, and tilted at their hardest against each other, so that both knights and horses fell to the earth. but sir marhaus' spear smote sir tristram a great wound in the side. then, springing up from their horses, they lashed together with their swords like two wild boars. and when they had stricken together a great while they left off strokes and lunged at one another's breasts and visors; but seeing this availed not they hurtled together again to bear each other down. [illustration: then they began the battle, and tilted at their hardest against each other.] thus fought they more than half the day, till both were sorely spent and blood ran from them to the ground on every side. but by this time sir tristram remained fresher than sir marhaus and better winded, and with a mighty stroke he smote him such a buffet as cut through his helm into his brain-pan, and there his sword stuck in so fast that thrice sir tristram pulled ere he could get it from his head. then fell sir marhaus down upon his knees, and the edge of sir tristram's sword broke off into his brain-pan. and suddenly when he seemed dead, sir marhaus rose and threw his sword and shield away from him and ran and fled into his ship. and tristram cried out after him, "aha! sir knight of the round table, dost thou withdraw thee from so young a knight? it is a shame to thee and all thy kin; i would rather have been hewn into a hundred pieces than have fled from thee." but sir marhaus answered nothing, and sorely groaning fled away. "farewell, sir knight, farewell," laughed tristram, whose own voice now was hoarse and faint with loss of blood; "i have thy sword and shield in my safe keeping, and will wear them in all places where i ride on my adventures, and before king arthur and the table round." then was sir marhaus taken back to ireland by his company; and as soon as he arrived his wounds were searched, and when they searched his head they found therein a piece of tristram's sword; but all the skill of surgeons was in vain to move it out. so anon sir marhaus died. but the queen, his sister, took the piece of sword-blade and put it safely by, for she thought that some day it might help her to revenge her brother's death. meanwhile, sir tristram, being sorely wounded, sat down softly on a little mound and bled passing fast; and in that evil case was found anon by governale and king mark's knights. then they gently took him up and brought him in a barge back to the land, and lifted him into a bed within the castle, and had his wounds dressed carefully. but for a great while he lay sorely sick, and was likely to have died of the first stroke sir marhaus had given him with the spear, for the point of it was poisoned. and, though the wisest surgeons and leeches--both men and women--came from every part, yet could he be by no means cured. at last came a wise lady, and said plainly that sir tristram never should be healed, until he went and stayed in that same country whence the poison came. when this was understood, the king sent sir tristram in a fair and goodly ship to ireland, and by fortune he arrived fast by a castle where the king and queen were. and as the ship was being anchored, he sat upon his bed and harped a merry lay, and made so sweet a music as was never equalled. when the king heard that the sweet harper was a wounded knight, he sent for him, and asked his name. "i am of the country of lyonesse," he answered, "and my name is tramtrist;" for he dared not tell his true name lest the vengeance of the queen should fall upon him for her brother's death. "well," said king anguish, "thou art right welcome here, and shalt have all the help this land can give thee; but be not anxious if i am at times cast down and sad, for but lately in cornwall the best knight in the world, fighting for my cause, was slain; his name was sir marhaus, a knight of king arthur's round table." and then he told sir tristram all the story of sir marhaus' battle, and sir tristram made pretence of great surprise and sorrow, though he knew all far better than the king himself. then was he put in charge of the king's daughter, la belle isault, to be healed of his wound, and she was as fair and noble a lady as men's eyes might see. and so marvellously was she skilled in medicine, that in a few days she fully cured him; and in return sir tristram taught her the harp; so, before long, they two began to love each other greatly. but at that time a heathen knight, sir palomedes, was in ireland, and much cherished by the king and queen. he also loved mightily la belle isault, and never wearied of making her great gifts, and seeking for her favour, and was ready even to be christened for her sake. sir tristram therefore hated him out of measure, and sir palomedes was full of rage and envy against tristram. and so it befell that king anguish proclaimed a great tournament to be held, the prize whereof should be a lady called the lady of the launds, of near kindred to the king: and her the winner of the tournament should wed in three days afterwards, and possess all her lands. when la belle isault told sir tristram of this tournament, he said, "fair lady! i am yet a feeble knight, and but for thee had been a dead man now: what wouldest thou i should do? thou knowest well i may not joust." "ah, tristram," said she, "why wilt thou not fight in this tournament? sir palomedes will be there, and will do his mightiest; and therefore be thou there, i pray thee, or else he will be winner of the prize." "madam," said tristram, "i will go, and for thy sake will do my best; but let me go unknown to all men; and do thou, i pray thee, keep my counsel, and help me to a disguise." so on the day of jousting came sir palomedes, with a black shield, and overthrew many knights. and all the people wondered at his prowess; for on the first day he put to the worse sir gawain, sir gaheris, sir agravaine, sir key, and many more from far and near. and on the morrow he was conqueror again, and overthrew the king with a hundred knights and the king of scotland. but presently sir tristram rode up to the lists, having been let out at a privy postern of the castle, where none could see. la belle isault had dressed him in white armour and given him a white horse and shield, and so he came suddenly into the field as it had been a bright angel. as soon as sir palomedes saw him he ran at him with a great spear in rest, but sir tristram was ready, and at the first encounter hurled him to the ground. then there arose a great cry that the knight with the black shield was overthrown. and palomedes sorely hurt and shamed, sought out a secret way and would have left the field; but tristram watched him, and rode after him, and bade him stay, for he had not yet done with him. then did sir palomedes turn with fury, and lash at sir tristram with his sword; but at the first stroke sir tristram smote him to the earth, and cried, "do now all my commands, or take thy death." then he yielded to sir tristram's mercy, and promised to forsake la belle isault, and for twelve months to wear no arms or armour. and rising up, he cut his armour off him into shreds with rage and madness, and turned and left the field: and sir tristram also left the lists, and rode back to the castle through the postern gate. then was sir tristram long cherished by the king and queen of ireland, and ever with la belle isault. but on a certain day, while he was bathing, came the queen with la belle isault by chance into his chamber, and saw his sword lie naked on the bed: anon she drew it from the scabbard and looked at it a long while, and both thought it a passing fair sword; but within a foot and a half of the end there was a great piece broken out, and while the queen was looking at the gap, she suddenly remembered the piece of sword-blade that was found in the brain-pan of her brother sir marhaus. therewith she turned and cried, "by my faith, this is the felon knight who slew thy uncle!" and running to her chamber she sought in her casket for the piece of iron from sir marhaus' head and brought it back, and fitted it in tristram's sword; and surely did it fit therein as closely as it had been but yesterday broke out. [illustration: and running to her chamber, she sought in her casket for the piece of iron ... and fitted it in tristram's sword.] then the queen caught the sword up fiercely in her hand, and ran into the room where sir tristram was yet in his bath, and making straight for him, had run him through the body, had not his squire, sir hebes, got her in his arms, and pulled the sword away from her. then ran she to the king, and fell upon her knees before him, saying, "lord and husband, thou hast here in thy house that felon knight who slew my brother marhaus!" "who is it?" said the king. "it is sir tristram!" said she, "whom isault hath healed." "alas!" replied the king, "i am full grieved thereat, for he is a good knight as ever i have seen in any field; but i charge thee leave thou him, and let me deal with him." then the king went to sir tristram's chamber and found him all armed and ready to mount his horse, and said to him, "sir tristram, it is not to prove me against thee i come, for it were shameful of thy host to seek thy life. depart in peace, but tell me first thy name, and whether thou slewest my brother, sir marhaus." then sir tristram told him all the truth, and how he had hid his name, to be unknown in ireland; and when he had ended, the king declared he held him in no blame. "howbeit, i cannot for mine honour's sake retain thee at this court, for so i should displease my barons, and my wife, and all her kin." "sir," said sir tristram, "i thank thee for the goodness thou hast shown me here, and for the great goodness my lady, thy daughter, hath shown me; and it may chance to be more for thy advantage if i live than if i die; for wheresoever i may be, i shall ever seek thy service, and shall be my lady thy daughter's servant in all places, and her knight in right and wrong, and shall never fail to do for her as much as knight can do." then sir tristram went to la belle isault, and took his leave of her. "o gentle knight," said she, "full of grief am i at your departing, for never yet i saw a man to love so well." "madam," said he, "i promise faithfully that all my life i shall be your knight." then sir tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and after that he left her, weeping and lamenting, and went among the barons, and openly took his leave of them all, saying, "fair lords, it so befalleth that i now must depart hence; therefore, if there be any here whom i have offended or who is grieved with me, let him now say it, and before i go i will amend it to the utmost of my power. and if there be but one who would speak shame of me behind my back, let him say it now or never, and here is my body to prove it on--body against body." and all stood still and said no word, though some there were of the queen's kindred who would have assailed him had they dared. so sir tristram departed from ireland and took the sea and came with a fair wind to tintagil. and when the news came to king mark that sir tristram was returned, healed of his wound, he was passing glad, and so were all his barons. and when he had visited the king his uncle, he rode to his father, king meliodas, and there had all the heartiest welcome that could be made him. and both the king and queen gave largely to him of their lands and goods. anon he came again to king mark's court, and there lived in great joy and pleasure, till within a while the king grew jealous of his fame, and of the love and favour shown him by all damsels. and as long as king mark lived, he never after loved sir tristram, though there was much fair speech between them. then it befell upon a certain day that the good knight sir bleoberis de ganis, brother to sir blamor de ganis, and nigh cousin to sir lancelot of the lake, came to king mark's court and asked of him a favour. and though the king marvelled, seeing he was a man of great renown, and a knight of the round table, he granted him all his asking. then said sir bleoberis, "i will have the fairest lady in your court, at my own choosing." "i may not say thee nay," replied the king; "choose therefore, but take all the issues of thy choice." so when he had looked around, he chose the wife of earl segwarides, and took her by the hand, and set her upon horseback behind his squire, and rode forth on his way. presently thereafter came in the earl, and rode out straightway after him in rage. but all the ladies cried out shame upon sir tristram that he had not gone, and one rebuked him foully and called him coward knight, that he would stand and see a lady forced away from his uncle's court. but sir tristram answered her, "fair lady, it is not my place to take part in this quarrel while her lord and husband is here to do it. had he not been at this court, peradventure i had been her champion. and if it so befall that he speed ill, then may it happen that i speak with that foul knight before he pass out of this realm." anon ran in one of sir segwarides' squires, and told that his master was sore wounded, and at the point of death. when sir tristram heard that, he was soon armed and on his horse, and governale, his servant, followed him with shield and spear. and as he rode, he met his cousin sir andret, who had been commanded by king mark to bring home to him two knights of king arthur's court who roamed the country thereabouts seeking adventures. "what tidings?" said sir tristram. "god help me, never worse," replied his cousin; "for those i went to bring have beaten and defeated me, and set my message at naught." "fair cousin," said sir tristram, "ride ye on your way, perchance if i should meet them ye may be revenged." so sir andret rode into cornwall, but sir tristram rode after the two knights who had misused him, namely, sir sagramour le desirous, and sir dodinas le savage. and before long he saw them but a little way before him. "sir," said governale, "by my advice thou wilt leave them alone, for they be two well-proved knights of arthur's court." "shall i not therefore rather meet them?" said sir tristram, and, riding swiftly after them, he called to them to stop, and asked them whence they came, and whither they were going, and what they were doing in those marches. sir sagramour looked haughtily at sir tristram, and made mocking of his words, and said, "fair knight, be ye a knight of cornwall?" "wherefore askest thou that?" said tristram. "truly, because it is full seldom seen," replied sir sagramour, "that cornish knights are valiant with their arms as with their tongues. it is but two hours since there met us such a cornish knight, who spoke great words with might and prowess, but anon, with little mastery, he was laid on earth, as i trow wilt thou be also." "fair lords," said sir tristram, "it may chance i be a better man than he; but, be that as it may, he was my cousin, and for his sake i will assail ye both; one cornish knight against ye two." when sir dodinas le savage heard this speech, he caught at his spear and said, "sir knight, keep well thyself;" and then they parted and came together as it had been thunder, and sir dodinas' spear split asunder; but sir tristram smote him with so full a stroke as hurled him over his horse's crupper, and nearly brake his neck. sir sagramour, seeing his fellow's fall, marvelled who this new knight might be, and dressed his spear, and came against sir tristram as a whirlwind; but sir tristram smote him a mighty buffet, and rolled him with his horse down on the ground; and in the falling he brake his thigh. then, looking at them both as they lay grovelling on the grass, sir tristram said, "fair knights, will ye joust any more? are there no bigger knights in king arthur's court? will ye soon again speak shame of cornish knights?" "thou hast defeated us, in truth," replied sir sagramour, "and on the faith of knighthood i require thee tell us thy right name?" "ye charge me by a great thing," said sir tristram, "and i will answer ye." and when they heard his name the two knights were right glad that they had met sir tristram, for his deeds were known through all the land, and they prayed him to abide in their company. "nay," said he, "i must find a fellow-knight of yours, sir bleoberis de ganis, whom i seek." "god speed you well," said the two knights; and sir tristram rode away. soon he saw before him in a valley sir bleoberis with sir segwarides' wife riding behind his squire upon a palfrey. at that he cried out aloud, "abide, sir knight of king arthur's court, bring back again that lady or deliver her to me." "i will not," said bleoberis, "for i dread no cornish knight." "why," said sir tristram, "may not a cornish knight do well as any other? this day, but three miles back, two knights of thy own court met me, and found one cornish knight enough for both before we parted." "what were their names?" said sir bleoberis. "sir sagramour le desirous and sir dodinas le savage," said sir tristram. "ah," said sir bleoberis, amazed; "hast thou then met with them? by my faith, they were two good knights and men of worship, and if thou hast beat both thou must needs be a good knight; but for all that thou shalt beat me also ere thou hast this lady." "defend thee, then," cried out sir tristram, and came upon him swiftly with his spear in rest. but sir bleoberis was as swift as he, and each bore down the other, horse and all, on to the earth. then they sprang clear of their horses, and lashed together full eagerly and mightily with their swords, tracing and traversing on the right hand and on the left more than two hours, and sometimes rushing together with such fury that they both lay grovelling on the ground. at last sir bleoberis started back and said, "now, gentle knight, hold hard awhile, and let us speak together." "say on," said sir tristram, "and i will answer thee." "sir," said sir bleoberis, "i would know thy name, and court, and country." "i have no shame to tell them," said sir tristram. "i am king meliodas' son, and my mother was sister to king mark, from whose court i now come. my name is sir tristram de lyonesse." "truly," said sir bleoberis, "i am right glad to hear it, for thou art he that slew sir marhaus hand-to-hand, fighting for the cornish tribute; and overcame sir palomedes at the great irish tournament, where also thou didst overthrow sir gawain and his nine companions." "i am that knight," said sir tristram, "and now i pray thee tell me thy name." "i am sir bleoberis de ganis, cousin of sir lancelot of the lake, one of the best knights in all the world," he answered. "thou sayest truth," said sir tristram; "for sir lancelot, as all men know, is peerless in courtesy and knighthood, and for the great love i bear to his name i will not willingly fight more with thee his kinsman." "in good faith, sir," said sir bleoberis, "i am as loth to fight thee more; but since thou hast followed me to win this lady, i proffer thee kindness, courtesy, and gentleness; this lady shall be free to go with which of us she pleaseth best." "i am content," said sir tristram, "for i doubt not she will come to me." "that shalt thou shortly prove," said he, and called his squire, and set the lady in the midst between them, who forthwith walked to sir bleoberis and elected to abide with him. which, when sir tristram saw, he was in wondrous anger with her, and felt that he could scarce for shame return to king mark's court. but sir bleoberis said, "hearken to me, good knight, sir tristram, because king mark gave me free choice of any gift, and because this lady chose to go with me, i took her; but now i have fulfilled my quest and my adventure, and for thy sake she shall be sent back to her husband at the abbey where he lieth." so sir tristram rode back to tintagil, and sir bleoberis to the abbey where sir segwarides lay wounded, and there delivered up his lady, and departed as a noble knight. after this adventure sir tristram abode still at his uncle's court, till in the envy of his heart king mark devised a plan to be rid of him. so on a certain day he desired him to depart again for ireland, and there demand la belle isault on his behalf, to be his queen--for ever had sir tristram praised her beauty and her goodness, till king mark desired to wed her for himself. moreover, he believed his nephew surely would be slain by the queen's kindred if he once were found again in ireland. but sir tristram, scorning fear, made ready to depart, and took with him the noblest knights that could be found, arrayed in the richest fashion. and when they were come to ireland, upon a certain day sir tristram gave his uncle's message, and king anguish consented thereto. but when la belle isault was told the tidings she was very sorrowful and loth--yet made she ready to set forth with sir tristram, and took with her dame bragwaine, her chief gentlewoman. then the queen gave dame bragwaine, and governale, sir tristram's servant, a little flask, and charged them that la belle isault and king mark should both drink of it on their marriage day, and then should they surely love each other all their lives. anon, sir tristram and isault, with a great company, took the sea and departed. and so it chanced that one day sitting in their cabin they were athirst, and saw a little flask of gold which seemed to hold good wine. so sir tristram took it up, and said, "fair lady, this looketh to be the best of wines, and your maid, dame bragwaine, and my servant, governale, have kept it for themselves." thereat they both laughed merrily, and drank each after other from the flask, and never before had they tasted any wine which seemed so good and sweet. but by the time they had finished drinking they loved each other so well that their love nevermore might leave them for weal or woe. and thus it came to pass that though sir tristram might never wed la belle isault, he did the mightiest deeds of arms for her sake only all his life. [illustration: by the time they had finished drinking they loved each other so well that their love never more might leave them.] then they sailed onwards till they came to a castle called pluere, where they would have rested. but anon there ran forth a great company and took them prisoners. and when they were in prison, sir tristram asked a knight and lady whom they found therein wherefore they were so shamefully dealt with; "for," said he, "it was never the custom of any place of honour that i ever came unto to seize a knight and lady asking shelter and thrust them into prison, and a full evil and discourteous custom is it." "sir," said the knight, "know ye not that this is called the castle pluere, or the weeping castle, and that it is an ancient custom here that whatsoever knight abideth in it must needs fight the lord of it, sir brewnor, and he that is the weakest shall lose his head. and if the lady he hath with him be less fair than the lord's wife, she shall lose her head; but if she be fairer, then must the lady of the castle lose her head." "now heaven help me," said sir tristram, "but this is a foul and shameful custom. yet have i one advantage, for my lady is the fairest that doth live in all the world, so that i nothing fear for her; and as for me, i will full gladly fight for my own head in a fair field." then said the knight, "look ye be up betimes to-morrow, and make you ready and your lady." and on the morrow came sir brewnor to sir tristram, and put him and isault forth out of prison, and brought him a horse and armour, and bade him make ready, for all the commons and estates of that lordship waited in the field to see and judge the battle. then sir brewnor, holding his lady by the hand, all muffled, came forth, and sir tristram went to meet him with la belle isault beside him, muffled also. then said sir brewnor, "sir knight, if thy lady be fairer than mine, with thy sword smite off my lady's head; but if my lady be fairer than thine, with my sword i will smite off thy lady's head. and if i overcome thee thy lady shall be mine, and thou shalt lose thy head." "sir knight," replied sir tristram, "this is a right foul and felon custom, and rather than my lady shall lose her head will i lose my own." "nay," said sir brewnor, "but the ladies shall be now compared together and judgment shall be had." "i consent not," cried sir tristram, "for who is here that will give rightful judgment? yet doubt not that my lady is far fairer than thine own, and that will i prove and make good." therewith sir tristram lifted up the veil from off la belle isault, and stood beside her with his naked sword drawn in his hand. then sir brewnor unmuffled his lady and did in like manner. but when he saw la belle isault he knew that none could be so fair, and all there present gave their judgment so. then said sir tristram, "because thou and thy lady have long used this evil custom, and have slain many good knights and ladies, it were a just thing to destroy thee both." "in good sooth," said sir brewnor, "thy lady is fairer than mine, and of all women i never saw any so fair. therefore, slay my lady if thou wilt, and i doubt not but i shall slay thee and have thine." "thou shalt win her," said sir tristram, "as dearly as ever knight won lady; and because of thy own judgment and of the evil custom that thy lady hath consented to, i will slay her as thou sayest." and therewithal sir tristram went to him and took his lady from him, and smote off her head at a stroke. "now take thy horse," cried out sir brewnor, "for since i have lost my lady i will win thine and have thy life." so they took their horses and came together as fast as they could fly, and sir tristram lightly smote sir brewnor from his horse. but he rose right quickly, and when sir tristram came again he thrust his horse through both the shoulders, so that it reeled and fell. but sir tristram was light and nimble, and voided his horse, and rose up and dressed his shield before him, though meanwhile, ere he could draw out his sword, sir brewnor gave him three or four grievous strokes. then they rushed furiously together like two wild boars, and fought hurtling and hewing here and there for nigh two hours, and wounded each other full sorely. then at the last sir brewnor rushed upon sir tristram and took him in his arms to throw him, for he trusted greatly in his strength. but sir tristram was at that time called the strongest and biggest knight of the world; for he was bigger than sir lancelot, though sir lancelot was better breathed. so anon he thrust sir brewnor grovelling to the earth, and then unlaced his helm and struck off his head. then all they that belonged to the castle came and did him homage and fealty, and prayed him to abide there for a season and put an end to that foul custom. but within a while he departed and came to cornwall, and there king mark was forthwith wedded to la belle isault with great joy and splendour. and sir tristram had high honour, and ever lodged at the king's court. but for all he had done him such services king mark hated him, and on a certain day he set two knights to fall upon him as he rode in the forest. but sir tristram lightly smote one's head off, and sorely wounded the other, and made him bear his fellow's body to the king. at that the king dissembled and hid from sir tristram that the knights were sent by him; yet more than ever he hated him in secret, and sought to slay him. so on a certain day, by the assent of sir andret, a false knight, and forty other knights, sir tristram was taken prisoner in his sleep and carried to a chapel on the rocks above the sea to be cast down. but as they were about to cast him in, suddenly he brake his bonds asunder, and rushing at sir andret, took his sword and smote him down therewith. then, leaping down the rocks where none could follow, he escaped them. but one shot after him and wounded him full sorely with a poisoned arrow in the arm. anon, his servant governale, with sir lambegus sought him and found him safe among the rocks, and told him that king mark had banished him and all his followers to avenge sir andret's death. so they took ship and came to brittany. now sir tristram, suffering great anguish from his wound, was told to seek isoude, the daughter of the king of brittany, for she alone could cure such wounds. wherefore he went to king howell's court, and said, "lord, i am come into this country to have help from thy daughter, for men tell me none but she may help me." and isoude gladly offering to do her best, within a month he was made whole. while he abode still at that court, an earl named grip made war upon king howell, and besieged him; and sir kay hedius, the king's son, went forth against him, but was beaten in battle and sore wounded. then the king praying sir tristram for his help, he took with him such knights as he could find, and on the morrow, in another battle, did such deeds of arms that all the land spake of him. for there he slew the earl with his own hands, and more than a hundred knights besides. when he came back king howell met him, and saluted him with every honour and rejoicing that could be thought of, and took him in his arms, and said, "sir tristram, all my kingdom will i resign to thee." "nay," answered he, "god forbid, for truly am i beholden to you for ever for your daughter's sake." then the king prayed him to take isoude in marriage, with a great dower of lands and castles. to this sir tristram presently consenting anon they were wedded at the court. but within a while sir tristram greatly longed to see cornwall, and sir kay hedius desired to go with him. so they took ship; but as soon as they were at sea the wind blew them upon the coast of north wales, nigh to castle perilous, hard by a forest wherein were many strange adventures ofttimes to be met. then said sir tristram to sir kay hedius, "let us prove some of them ere we depart." so they took their horses and rode forth. when they had ridden a mile or more, sir tristram spied a goodly knight before him well armed, who sat by a clear fountain with a strong horse near him, tied to an oak-tree. "fair sir," said he, when they came near, "ye seem to be a knight errant by your arms and harness, therefore make ready now to joust with one of us, or both." thereat the knight spake not, but took his shield and buckled it round his neck, and leaping on his horse caught a spear from his squire's hand. then said sir kay hedius to sir tristram, "let me assay him." "do thy best," said he. so the two knights met, and sir kay hedius fell sorely wounded in the breast. "thou hast well jousted," cried sir tristram to the knight; "now make ready for me!" "i am ready," answered he, and encountered him, and smote him so heavily that he fell down from his horse. whereat, being ashamed, he put his shield before him, and drew his sword, crying to the strange knight to do likewise. then they fought on foot for well nigh two hours, till they were both weary. at last sir tristram said, "in all my life i never met a knight so strong and well-breathed as ye be. it were a pity we should further hurt each other. hold thy hand, fair knight, and tell me thy name." "that will i," answered he, "if thou wilt tell me thine." "my name," said he, "is sir tristram of lyonesse." "and mine, sir lamoracke of gaul." then both cried out together, "well met;" and sir lamoracke said, "sir, for your great renown, i will that ye have all the worship of this battle, and therefore will i yield me unto you." and therewith he took his sword by the point to yield him. "nay," said sir tristram, "ye shall not do so, for well i know ye do it of courtesy, and not of dread." and therewith he offered his sword to sir lamoracke, saying, "sir, as an overcome knight, i yield me unto you as unto the man of noblest powers i have ever met with." "hold," said sir lamoracke, "let us now swear together nevermore to fight against each other." then did they swear as he said. then sir tristram returned to sir kay hedius, and when he was whole of his wounds, they departed together in a ship, and landed on the coast of cornwall. and when they came ashore, sir tristram eagerly sought news of la belle isault. and one told him in mistake that she was dead. whereat, for sore and grievous sorrow, he fell down in a swoon, and so lay for three days and nights. when he awoke therefrom he was crazed, and ran into the forest and abode there like a wild man many days; whereby he waxed lean and weak of body, and would have died, but that a hermit laid some meat beside him as he slept. now in that forest was a giant named tauleas, who, for fear of tristram, had hid himself within a castle, but when they told him he was mad, came forth and went at large again. and on a certain day he saw a knight of cornwall, named sir dinaunt, pass by with a lady, and when he had alighted by a well to rest, the giant leaped out from his ambush, and took him by the throat to slay him. but sir tristram, as he wandered through the forest, came upon them as they struggled; and when the knight cried out for help, he rushed upon the giant, and taking up sir dinaunt's sword, struck off therewith the giant's head, and straightway disappeared among the trees. anon, sir dinaunt took the head of tauleas, and bare it with him to the court of king mark, whither he was bound, and told of his adventures. "where had ye this adventure?" said king mark. "at a fair fountain in thy forest," answered he. "i would fain see that wild man," said the king. so within a day or two he commanded his knights to a great hunting in the forest. and when the king came to the well, he saw a wild man lying there asleep, having a sword beside him; but he knew not that it was sir tristram. then he blew his horn, and summoned all his knights to take him gently up and bear him to the court. and when they came thereto they bathed and washed him, and brought him somewhat to his right mind. now la belle isault knew not that sir tristram was in cornwall; but when she heard that a wild man had been found in the forest, she came to see him. and so sorely was he changed, she knew him not. "yet," said she to dame bragwaine, "in good faith i seem to have beheld him ofttimes before." as she thus spoke a little hound, which sir tristram had given her when she first came to cornwall, and which was ever with her, saw sir tristram lying there, and leapt upon him, licking his hands and face, and whined and barked for joy. "alas," cried out la belle isault, "it is my own true knight, sir tristram." and at her voice sir tristram's senses wholly came again, and wellnigh he wept for joy to see his lady living. but never would the hound depart from tristram; and when king mark and other knights came up to see him, it sat upon his body and bayed at all who came too near. then one of the knights said, "surely this is sir tristram; i see it by the hound." "nay," said the king, "it cannot be," and asked sir tristram on his faith who he was. "my name," said he, "is sir tristram of lyonesse, and now ye may do what ye list with me." then the king said, "it repents me that ye are recovered," and sought to make his barons slay him. but most of them would not assent thereto, and counselled him instead to banish tristram for ten years again from cornwall, for returning without orders from the king. so he was sworn to depart forthwith. and as he went towards the ship a knight of king arthur, named sir dinadan, who sought him, came and said, "fair knight, ere that you pass out of this country, i pray you joust with me!" "with a good will," said he. then they ran together, and sir tristram lightly smote him from his horse. anon he prayed sir tristram's leave to bear him company, and when he had consented they rode together to the ship. then was sir tristram full of bitterness of heart, and said to all the knights who took him to the shore, "greet well king mark and all mine enemies from me, and tell them i will come again when i may. well am i now rewarded for slaying sir marhaus, and delivering this kingdom from its bondage, and for the perils wherewithal i brought la belle isault from ireland to the king, and rescued her at the castle pluere, and for the slaying of the giant tauleas, and all the other deeds that i have done for cornwall and king mark." thus angrily and passing bitterly he spake, and went his way. and after sailing awhile the ship stayed at a landing-place upon the coast of wales; and there sir tristram and sir dinadan alighted, and on the shore they met two knights, sir ector and sir bors. and sir ector encountered with sir dinadan and smote him to the ground; but sir bors would not encounter with sir tristram, "for," said he, "no cornish knights are men of worship." thereat sir tristram was full wroth, but presently there met them two more knights, sir bleoberis and sir driant; and sir bleoberis proffered to joust with sir tristram, who shortly smote him down. "i had not thought," cried out sir bors, "that any cornish knight could do so valiantly." then sir tristram and sir dinadan departed, and rode into a forest, and as they rode a damsel met them, who for sir lancelot's sake was seeking any noble knights to rescue him. for queen morgan le fay, who hated him, had ordered thirty men-at-arms to lie in ambush for him as he passed, with the intent to kill him. so the damsel prayed them to rescue him. then said sir tristram, "bring me to that place, fair damsel." but sir dinadan cried out, "it is not possible for us to meet with thirty knights! i will take no part in such a hardihood, for to match one or two or three knights is enough; but to match fifteen i will never assay." "for shame," replied sir tristram, "do but your part." "that will i not," said he; "wherefore, i pray ye, lend me your shield, for it is of cornwall, and because men of that country are deemed cowards, ye are but little troubled as ye ride with knights to joust with." "nay," said sir tristram, "i will never give my shield up for her sake who gave it me; but if thou wilt not stand by me to-day i will surely slay thee; for i ask no more of thee than to fight one knight, and if thy heart will not serve thee that much, thou shalt stand by and look on me and them." "would god that i had never met with ye!" cried sir dinadan; "but i promise to look on and do all that i may to save myself." anon they came to where the thirty knights lay waiting, and sir tristram rushed upon them, saying, "here is one who fights for love of lancelot!" then slew he two of them at the first onset with his spear, and ten more swiftly after with his sword. at that sir dinadan took courage, and assailed the others with him, till they turned and fled. but sir tristram and sir dinadan rode on till nightfall, and meeting with a shepherd, asked him if he knew of any lodging thereabouts. "truly, fair lords," said he, "there is good lodging in a castle hard by, but it is a custom there that none shall lodge therein save ye first joust with two knights, and as soon as ye be within, ye shall find your match." "that is an evil lodging," said sir dinadan; "lodge where ye will, i will not lodge there." "shame on thee!" said sir tristram; "art thou a knight at all?" then he required him on his knighthood to go with him, and they rode together to the castle. as soon as they were near, two knights came out and ran full speed against them; but both of them they overthrew, and went within the castle, and had noble cheer. now, when they were unarmed and ready to take rest, there came to the castle-gate two knights, sir palomedes and sir gaheris, and desired the custom of the castle. "i would far rather rest than fight," said sir dinadan. "that may not be," replied sir tristram, "for we must needs defend the custom of the castle, seeing we have overcome its lords; therefore, make ready." "alas that i ever came into your company," said sir dinadan. so they made ready, and sir gaheris encountered sir tristram and fell before him; but sir palomedes overthrew sir dinadan. then would all fight on foot save sir dinadan, for he was sorely bruised and frighted by his fall. and when sir tristram prayed him to fight, "i will not," answered he, "for i was wounded by those thirty knights with whom we fought this morning; and as to you, ye are in truth like one gone mad, and who would cast himself away! there be but two knights in the world so mad, and the other is sir lancelot, with whom i once rode forth, who kept me evermore at battling so that for a quarter of a year thereafter i lay in my bed. heaven defend me again from either of your fellowships!" "well," said sir tristram, "if it must be, i will fight them both." therewith he drew his sword and assailed sir palomedes and sir gaheris together; but sir palomedes said, "nay, but it is a shame for two to fight with one." so he bade sir gaheris stand by, and he and sir tristram fought long together; but in the end sir tristram drave him backward, whereat sir gaheris and sir dinadan with one accord sundered them. then sir tristram prayed the two knights to lodge there; but sir dinadan departed and rode away into a priory hard by, and there he lodged that night. and on the morrow came sir tristram to the priory to find him, and seeing him so weary that he could not ride, he left him, and departed. at that same priory was lodged sir pellinore, who asked sir dinadan sir tristram's name, but could not learn it, for sir tristram had charged that he should remain unknown. then said sir pellinore, "since ye will not tell it me, i will ride after him and find it myself." "beware, sir knight," said sir dinadan, "ye will repent it if ye follow him." but sir pellinore straightway mounted and overtook him, and cried to him to joust; whereat sir tristram forthwith turned and smote him down, and wounded him full sorely in the shoulder. on the day after, sir tristram met a herald, who told him of a tournament proclaimed between king carados of scotland, and the king of north wales, to be held at the maiden's castle. now king carados sought sir lancelot to fight there on his side, and the king of north wales sought sir tristram. and sir tristram purposed to be there. so as he rode, he met sir key, the seneschal, and sir sagramour, and sir key proffered to joust with him. but he refused, desiring to keep himself unwearied for the tourney. then sir key cried, "sir knight of cornwall, joust with me, or yield as recreant." when sir tristram heard that, he fiercely turned and set his spear in rest, and spurred his horse towards him. but when sir key saw him so madly coming on, he in his turn refused, whereat sir tristram called him coward, till for shame he was compelled to meet him. then sir tristram lightly smote him down, and rode away. but sir sagramour pursued him, crying loudly to joust with him also. so sir tristram turned and quickly overthrew him likewise, and departed. anon a damsel met him as he rode, and told him of a knight adventurous who did great harm thereby, and prayed him for his help. but as he went with her he met sir gawain, who knew the damsel for a maiden of queen morgan le fay. knowing, therefore, that she needs must have evil plots against sir tristram, sir gawain demanded of him courteously whither he went. "i know not whither," said he, "save as this damsel leadeth me." "sir," said sir gawain, "ye shall not ride with her, for she and her lady never yet did good to any;" and, drawing his sword, he said to the damsel, "tell me now straightway for what cause thou leadest this knight or else shalt thou die; for i know of old thy lady's treason." "mercy, sir gawain," cried the damsel, "and i will tell thee all." then she told him that queen morgan had ordained thirty fair damsels to seek out sir lancelot and sir tristram, and by their wiles persuade them to her castle, where she had thirty knights in wait to slay them. "oh shame!" cried sir gawain, "that ever such foul treason should be wrought by a queen, and a king's sister." then said he to sir tristram, "sir knight, if ye will stand with me, we will together prove the malice of these thirty knights." "i will not fail you," answered he, "for but few days since i had to do with thirty knights of that same queen, and trust we may win honour as lightly now as then." so they rode together, and when they came to the castle, sir gawain cried aloud, "queen morgan le fay, send out thy knights that we may fight with them." then the queen urged her knights to issue forth, but they durst not, for they well knew sir tristram, and feared him greatly. so sir tristram and sir gawain went on their way, and as they rode they saw a knight, named sir brewse-without-pity, chasing a lady, with intent to slay her. then sir gawain prayed sir tristram to hold still and let him assail that knight. so he rode up between sir brewse and the lady, and cried, "false knight, turn thee to me and leave that lady." then sir brewse turned and set his spear in rest, and rushed against sir gawain and overthrew him, and rode his horse upon him as he lay, which when sir tristram saw, he cried, "forbear that villainy," and galloped at him. but when sir brewse saw by the shield it was sir tristram, he turned and fled. and though sir tristram followed swiftly after him, yet he was so well horsed that he escaped. anon sir tristram and sir gawain came nigh the maiden's castle, and there an old knight named sir pellonnes gave them lodging. and sir persides, the son of sir pellonnes, a good knight, came out to welcome them. and, as they stood talking at a bay window of the castle, they saw a goodly knight ride by on a black horse, and carrying a black shield. "what knight is that?" asked tristram. "one of the best knights in all the world," said sir persides. "is he sir lancelot?" said sir tristram. "nay," answered sir persides, "it is sir palomedes, who is yet unchristened." within a while one came and told them that a knight with a black shield had smitten down thirteen knights. "let us go and see this jousting," said sir tristram. so they armed themselves and went down. and when sir palomedes saw sir persides, he sent a squire to him and proffered him to joust. so they jousted, and sir persides was overthrown. then sir tristram made ready to joust, but ere he had his spear in rest, sir palomedes took him at advantage, and struck him on the shield so that he fell. at that sir tristram was wroth out of measure and sore ashamed, wherefore he sent a squire and prayed sir palomedes to joust once again. but he would not, saying, "tell thy master to revenge himself to-morrow at the maiden's castle, where he shall see me again." so on the morrow sir tristram commanded his servant to give him a black shield with no cognizance thereon, and he and sir persides rode into the tournament and joined king carados' side. then the knights of the king of north wales came forth, and there was a great fighting and breaking of spears, and overthrow of men and horses. now king arthur sat above in a high gallery to see the tourney and give the judgment, and sir lancelot sat beside him. then came against sir tristram and sir persides, two knights with them of north wales, sir bleoberis and sir gaheris; and sir persides was smitten down and nigh slain, for four horsemen rode over him. but sir tristram rode against sir gaheris and smote him from his horse, and when sir bleoberis next encountered him, he overthrew him also. anon they horsed themselves again, and with them came sir dinadan, whom sir tristram forthwith smote so sorely, that he reeled off his saddle. then cried he, "ah! sir knight, i know ye better than ye deem, and promise nevermore to come against ye." then rode sir bleoberis at him the second time, and had a buffet that felled him to the earth. and soon thereafter the king commanded to cease for that day, and all men marvelled who sir tristram was, for the prize of the first day was given him in the name of the knight of the black shield. now sir palomedes was on the side of the king of north wales, but knew not sir tristram again. and, when he saw his marvellous deeds, he sent to ask his name. "as to that," said sir tristram, "he shall not know at this time, but tell him he shall know when i have broken two spears upon him, for i am the knight he smote down yesterday, and whatever side he taketh, i will take the other." so when they told him that sir palomedes would be on king carados' side--for he was kindred to king arthur--"then will i be on the king of north wales' side," said he, "but else would i be on my lord king arthur's." then on the morrow, when king arthur was come, the heralds blew unto the tourney. and king carados jousted with the king of a hundred knights and fell before him, and then came in king arthur's knights and bare back those of north wales. but anon sir tristram came to aid them and bare back the battle, and fought so mightily that none could stand against him, for he smote down on the right and on the left, so that all the knights and common people shouted his praise. "since i bare arms," said king arthur, "never saw i a knight do more marvellous deeds." then the king of the hundred knights and those of north wales, set upon twenty knights who were of sir lancelot's kin, who fought all together, none failing the others. when sir tristram beheld their nobleness and valour, he marvelled much. "well may he be valiant and full of prowess," said he, "who hath such noble knights for kindred." so, when he had looked on them awhile, he thought it shame to see two hundred men assailing twenty, and riding to the king of a hundred knights, he said, "i pray thee, sir king, leave your fighting with those twenty knights, for ye be too many and they be too few. for ye shall gain no honour if ye win, and that i see verily ye will not do unless ye slay them; but if ye will not stay, i will ride with them and help them." "nay," said the king, "ye shall not do so; for full gladly i will do you courtesy," and with that he withdrew his knights. then sir tristram rode his way into the forest, that no man might know him. and king arthur caused the heralds to blow that the tourney should end that day, and he gave the king of north wales the prize, because sir tristram was on his side. and in all the field there was such a cry that the sound thereof was heard two miles away--"the knight with the black shield hath won the field." "alas!" said king arthur, "where is that knight? it is shame to let him thus escape us." then he comforted his knights, and said, "be not dismayed, my friends, howbeit ye have lost the day; be of good cheer; to-morrow i myself will be in the field, and fare with you." so they all rested that night. and on the morrow the heralds blew unto the field. so the king of north wales and the king of a hundred knights encountered with king carados and the king of ireland, and overthrew them. with that came king arthur, and did mighty deeds of arms, and overthrew the king of north wales and his fellows, and put twenty valiant knights to the worse. anon came in sir palomedes, and made great fight upon king arthur's side. but sir tristram rode furiously against him, and sir palomedes was thrown from his horse. then cried king arthur, "knight of the black shield, keep thyself." and as he spake he came upon him, and smote him from his saddle to the ground, and so passed on to other knights. then sir palomedes having now another horse rushed at sir tristram, as he was on foot, thinking to run over him. but he was aware of him, and stepped aside, and grasped sir palomedes by the arms, and pulled him off his horse. then they rushed together with their swords, and many stood still to gaze on them. and sir tristram smote sir palomedes with three mighty strokes upon the helm, crying at each stroke, "take this for sir tristram's sake," and with that sir palomedes fell to the earth. anon the king of north wales brought sir tristram another horse, and sir palomedes found one also. then did they joust again with passing rage, for both by now were like mad lions. but sir tristram avoided his spear, and seized sir palomedes by the neck, and pulled him from his saddle, and bore him onward ten spears' length, and so let him fall. then king arthur drew forth his sword and smote the spear asunder, and gave sir tristram two or three sore strokes ere he could get at his own sword. but when he had it in his hand he mightily assailed the king. with that eleven knights of lancelot's kin went forth against him, but he smote them all down to the earth, so that men marvelled at his deeds. and the cry was now so great that sir lancelot got a spear in his hand, and came down to assay sir tristram, saying, "knight with the black shield, make ready." when sir tristram heard him he levelled his spear, and both stooping their heads, they ran together mightily, as it had been thunder. and sir tristram's spear brake short, but sir lancelot struck him with a deep wound in the side and broke his spear, yet overthrew him not. therewith sir tristram, smarting at his wound, drew forth his sword, and rushing at sir lancelot, gave him mighty strokes upon the helm, so that the sparks flew from it, and sir lancelot stooped his head down to the saddle-bow. but then sir tristram turned and left the field, for he felt his wound so grievous that he deemed he should soon die. then did sir lancelot hold the field against all comers, and put the king of north wales and his party to the worse. and because he was the last knight in the field the prize was given him. but he refused to take it, and when the cry was raised, "sir lancelot hath won the day," he cried out, "nay, but sir tristram is the victor, for he first began and last endured, and so hath he done each day." and all men honoured lancelot more for his knightly words than if he had taken the prize. thus was the tournament ended, and king arthur departed to caerleon, for the whitsun feast was now nigh come, and all the knights adventurous went their ways. and many sought sir tristram in the forest whither he had gone, and at last sir lancelot found him, and brought him to king arthur's court, as hath been told already. chapter xii _the quest of the sangreal, and the adventures of sir percival, sir bors, and sir galahad_ after these things, merlin fell into a dotage of love for a damsel of the lady of the lake, and would let her have no rest, but followed her in every place. and ever she encouraged him, and made him welcome till she had learned all his crafts that she desired to know. then upon a time she went with him beyond the sea to the land of benwicke, and as they went he showed her many wonders, till at length she was afraid, and would fain have been delivered from him. and as they were in the forest of broceliande, they sat together under an oak-tree, and the damsel prayed to see all that charm whereby men might be shut up yet alive in rocks or trees. but he refused her a long time, fearing to let her know, yet in the end, her prayers and kisses overcame him, and he told her all. then did she make him great cheer, but anon, as he lay down to sleep, she softly rose, and walked about him waving her hands and muttering the charm, and presently enclosed him fast within the tree whereby he slept. and therefrom nevermore he could by any means come out for all the crafts that he could do. and so she departed and left merlin. [illustration: waving her hands and muttering the charm, and presently enclosed him fast within the tree.] at the vigil of the next feast of pentecost, when all the knights of the round table were met together at camelot, and had heard mass, and were about to sit down to meat, there rode into the hall a fair lady on horseback, who went straight up to king arthur where he sat upon his throne, and reverently saluted him. "god be with thee, fair damsel," quoth the king; "what desirest thou of me?" "i pray thee tell me, lord," she answered, "where sir lancelot is." "yonder may ye see him," said king arthur. then went she to sir lancelot and said, "sir, i salute thee in king pelles' name, and require thee to come with me into the forest hereby." then asked he her with whom she dwelt, and what she wished of him. "i dwell with king pelles," said she, "whom balin erst so sorely wounded when he smote the dolorous stroke. it is he who hath sent me to call thee." "i will go with thee gladly," said sir lancelot, and bade his squire straightway saddle his horse and bring his armour. then came the queen to him and said, "sir lancelot, will ye leave me thus at this high feast?" "madam," replied the damsel, "by dinner-time to-morrow he shall be with you." "if i thought not," said the queen, "he should not go with thee by my goodwill." then sir lancelot and the lady rode forth till they came to the forest, and in a valley thereof found an abbey of nuns, whereby a squire stood ready to open the gates. when they had entered, and descended from their horses, a joyful crowd pressed round sir lancelot and heartily saluted him, and led him to the abbess's chamber, and unarmed him. anon he saw his cousins likewise there, sir bors and sir lionel, who also made great joy at seeing him, and said, "by what adventure art thou here, for we thought to have seen thee at camelot to-morrow?" "a damsel brought me here," said he, "but as yet i know not for what service." as they thus talked twelve nuns came in, who brought with them a youth so passing fair and well made, that in all the world his match could not be found. his name was galahad, and though he knew him not, nor lancelot him, sir lancelot was his father. "sir," said the nuns, "we bring thee here this child whom we have nourished from his youth, and pray thee to make him a knight, for from no worthier hand can he receive that order." then sir lancelot, looking on the youth, saw that he was seemly and demure as a dove, with every feature good and noble, and thought he never had beheld a better fashioned man of his years. "cometh this desire from himself?" said he. "yea," answered galahad and all the nuns. "to-morrow, then, in reverence for the feast, he shall have his wish," said sir lancelot. and the next day at the hour of prime, he knighted him, and said, "god make of thee as good a man as he hath made thee beautiful." then with sir lionel and sir bors he returned to the court, and found all gone to the minster to hear service. when they came into the banquet-hall each knight and baron found his name written in some seat in letters of gold, as "here ought to sit sir lionel," "here ought to sit sir gawain,"--and so forth. and in the perilous seat, at the high centre of the table, a name was also written, whereat they marvelled greatly, for no living man had ever yet dared sit upon that seat, save one, and him a flame leaped forth and drew down under earth, so that he was no more seen. then came sir lancelot and read the letters in that seat, and said, "my counsel is that this inscription be now covered up until the knight be come who shall achieve this great adventure." so they made a veil of silk and put it over the letters. in the meanwhile came sir gawain to the court and told the king he had a message to him from beyond the sea, from merlin. "for," said he, "as i rode through the forest of broceliande but five days since, i heard the voice of merlin speaking to me from the midst of an oak-tree, whereat, in great amazement, i besought him to come forth. but he, with many groans, replied he never more might do so, for that none could free him, save the damsel of the lake, who had enclosed him there by his own spells which he had taught her. 'but go,' said he, 'to king arthur, and tell him, that he now prepare his knights and all his table round to seek the sangreal, for the time is come when it shall be achieved.'" when sir gawain had spoken thus, king arthur sat pensive in spirit, and mused deeply of the holy grale an what saintly knight should come who might achieve it. anon he bade them hasten to set on the banquet. "sir," said sir key, the seneschal, "if ye go now to meat ye will break the ancient custom of your court, for never have ye dined at this high feast till ye have seen some strange adventure." "thou sayest truly," said the king, "but my mind was full of wonders and musings, till i bethought me not of mine old custom." as they stood speaking thus, a squire ran in and cried, "lord, i bring thee marvellous tidings." "what be they?" said king arthur. "lord," said he, "hereby at the river is a marvellous great stone, which i myself saw swim down hitherwards upon the water, and in it there is set a sword, and ever the stone heaveth and swayeth on the water, but floateth down no further with the stream." "i will go and see it," said the king. so all the knights went with him, and when they came to the river, there surely found they a mighty stone of red marble floating on the water, as the squire had said, and therein stuck a fair and rich sword, on the pommel whereof were precious stones wrought skilfully with gold into these words: "no man shall take me hence but he by whose side i should hang, and he shall be the best knight in the world." when the king read this, he turned round to sir lancelot, and said, "fair sir, this sword ought surely to be thine, for thou art the best knight in all the world." but lancelot answered soberly, "certainly, sir, it is not for me; nor will i have the hardihood to set my hand upon it. for he that toucheth it and faileth to achieve it shall one day be wounded by it mortally. but i doubt not, lord, this day will show the greatest marvels that we yet have seen, for now the time is fully come, as merlin hath forewarned us, when all the prophecies about the sangreal shall be fulfilled." then stepped sir gawain forward and pulled at the sword, but could not move it, and after him sir percival, to keep him fellowship in any peril he might suffer. but no other knight durst be so hardy as to try. "now may ye go to your dinner," said sir key, "for a marvellous adventure ye have had." so all returned from the river, and every knight sat down in his own place, and the high feast and banquet then was sumptuously begun, and all the hall was full of laughter and loud talk and jests, and running to and fro of squires who served their knights, and noise of jollity and mirth. then suddenly befell a wondrous thing, for all the doors and windows of the hall shut violently of themselves, and made thick darkness; and presently there came a fair and gentle light from out the perilous seat, and filled the palace with its beams. then a dead silence fell on all the knights, and each man anxiously beheld his neighbour. but king arthur rose and said, "lords and fair knights, have ye no fear, but rejoice; we have seen strange things to-day, but stranger yet remain. for now i know we shall to-day see him who may sit in the siege perilous, and shall achieve the sangreal. for as ye all well know, that holy vessel, wherefrom at the supper of our lord before his death he drank the wine with his disciples, hath been held ever since the holiest treasure of the world, and wheresoever it hath rested peace and prosperity have rested with it on the land. but since the dolorous stroke which balin gave king pelles none have seen it, for heaven, wroth with that presumptuous blow, hath hid it none know where. yet somewhere in the world it still may be, and may be it is left to us, and to this noble order of the table round, to find and bring it home, and make of this our realm the happiest in the earth. many great quests and perilous adventures have ye all taken and achieved, but this high quest he only shall attain who hath clean hands and a pure heart, and valour and hardihood beyond all othermen." while the king spoke there came in softly an old man robed all in white, leading with him a young knight clad in red from top to toe, but without armour or shield, and having by his side an empty scabbard. the old man went up to the king, and said, "lord, here i bring thee this young knight of royal lineage, and of the blood of joseph of arimathea, by whom the marvels of thy court shall fully be accomplished." the king was right glad at his words, and said, "sir, ye be right heartily welcome, and the young knight also." then the old man put on sir galahad (for it was he) a crimson robe trimmed with fine ermine, and took him by the hand and led him to the perilous seat, and lifting up the silken cloth which hung upon it, read these words written in gold letters, "this is the seat of sir galahad, the good knight." "sir," said the old man, "this place is thine." then sat sir galahad down firmly and surely, and said to the old man, "sir, ye may now go your way, for ye have done well and truly all ye were commanded, and commend me to my grandsire, king pelles, and say that i shall see him soon." so the old man departed with a retinue of twenty noble squires. but all the knights of the round table marvelled at sir galahad, and at his tender age, and at his sitting there so surely in the perilous seat. then the king led sir galahad forth from the palace, to show him the adventure of the floating stone. "here" said he, "is as great a marvel as i ever saw, and right good knights have tried and failed to gain that sword." "i marvel not thereat," said galahad, "for this adventure is not theirs, but mine; and for the certainty i had thereof, i brought no sword with me, as thou mayst see here by this empty scabbard." anon he laid his hand upon the sword, and lightly drew it from the stone, and put it in his sheath, and said, "this sword was that enchanted one which erst belonged to the good knight, sir balin, wherewith he slew through piteous mistake his brother balan; who also slew him at the same time: all which great woe befell him through the dolorous stroke he gave my grandsire, king pelles, the wound whereof is not yet whole, nor shall be till i heal him." as he stood speaking thus, they saw a lady riding swiftly down the river's bank towards them, on a white palfrey; who, saluting the king and queen, said, "lord king, nacien the hermit sendeth thee word that to thee shall come to-day the greatest honour and worship that hath yet ever befallen a king of britain; for this day shall the sangreal appear in thy house." with that the damsel took her leave, and departed the same way she came. "now," said the king, "i know that from to-day the quest of the sangreal shall begin, and all ye of the round table will be scattered so that nevermore shall i see ye again together as ye are now; let me then see a joust and tournament amongst ye for the last time before ye go." so they all took their harness and met together in the meadows by camelot, and the queen and all her ladies sat in a tower to see. then sir galahad, at the prayer of the king and queen, put on a coat of light armour, and a helmet, but shield he would take none, and grasping a lance, he drove into the middle of the press of knights, and began to break spears marvellously, so that all men were full of wonder. and in so short a time he had surmounted and exceeded the rest, save sir lancelot and sir percival, that he took the chief worship of the field. then the king and all the court and fellowship of knights went back to the palace, and so to evensong in the great minster, a royal and goodly company, and after that sat down to supper in the hall, every knight in his own seat, as they had been before. anon suddenly burst overhead the cracking and crying of great peals of thunder, till the palace walls were shaken sorely, and they thought to see them riven all to pieces. and in the midst of the blast there entered in a sunbeam, clearer by seven times than ever they saw day, and a marvellous great glory fell upon them all. then each knight, looking on his neighbour, found his face fairer than he had ever seen, and so--all standing on their feet--they gazed as dumb men on each other, not knowing what to say. then entered into the hall the sangreal, borne aloft without hands through the midst of the sunbeam, and covered with white samite, so that none might see it. and all the hall was filled with perfume and incense, and every knight was fed with the food he best loved. and when the holy vessel had been thus borne through the hall, it suddenly departed, no man saw whither. when they recovered breath to speak, king arthur first rose up, and yielded thanks to god and to our lord. then sir gawain sprang up and said, "now have we all been fed by miracle with whatsoever food we thought of or desired; but with our eyes we have not seen the blessed vessel whence it came, so carefully and preciously it was concealed. therefore, i make a vow, that from to-morrow i shall labour twelve months and a day in quest of the sangreal, and longer if need be; nor will i come again into this court until mine eyes have seen it evidently." when he had spoken thus, knight after knight rose up and vowed himself to the same quest, till the most part of the round table had thus sworn. but when king arthur heard them all, he could not refrain his eyes from tears, and said, "sir gawain, sir gawain, thou hast set me in great sorrow, for i fear me my true fellowship shall never meet together here again; and surely never christian king had such a company of worthy knights around his table at one time." and when the queen and her ladies and gentlewomen heard the vows, they had such grief and sorrow as no tongue could tell; and queen guinevere cried out, "i marvel that my lord will suffer them to depart from him." and many of the ladies who loved knights would have gone with them, but were forbidden by the hermit nacien, who sent this message to all who had sworn themselves to the quest: "take with ye no lady nor gentlewoman, for into so high a service as ye go in, no thought but of our lord and heaven may enter." on the morrow morning all the knights rose early, and when they were fully armed, save shields and helms, they went in with the king and queen to service in the minster. then the king counted all who had taken the adventure on themselves, and found them a hundred and fifty knights of the round table; and so they all put on their helms, and rode away together in the midst of cries and lamentations from the court, and from the ladies, and from all the town. but the queen went alone to her chamber, that no man might see her sorrow; and sir lancelot followed her to say farewell. when she saw him she cried out, "oh, sir lancelot, thou hast betrayed me; thou hast put me to death thus to depart and leave my lord the king." "ah, madam," said he, "be not displeased or angry, for i shall come again as soon as i can with honour." "alas!" said she, "that ever i saw thee; but he that suffered death upon the cross for all mankind be to thee safety and good conduct, and to all thy company." then sir lancelot saluted her and the king, and went forth with the rest, and came with them that night to castle vagon, where they abode, and on the morrow they departed from each other on their separate ways, every knight taking the way that pleased him best. now sir galahad went forth without a shield, and rode so four days without adventure; and on the fourth day, after evensong, he came to an abbey of white monks, where he was received in the house, and led into a chamber. and there he was unarmed, and met two knights of the round table, king bagdemagus, and sir uwaine. "sirs," said sir galahad, "what adventure hath brought ye here?" "within this place, as we are told," they answered, "there is a shield no man may bear around his neck without receiving sore mischance, or death within three days." "to-morrow," said king bagdemagus, "i shall attempt the adventure; and if i fail, do thou, sir galahad, take it up after me." "i will willingly," said he; "for as ye see i have no shield as yet." so on the morrow they arose and heard mass, and afterwards king bagdemagus asked where the shield was kept. then a monk led him behind the altar, where the shield hung, as white as any snow, and with a blood-red cross in the midst of it. "sir," said the monk, "this shield should hang from no knight's neck unless he be the worthiest in the world. i warn ye, therefore, knights; consider well before ye dare to touch it." "well," said king bagdemagus, "i know well that i am far from the best knight in all the world, yet shall i make the trial;" and so he took the shield, and bore it from the monastery. "if it please thee," said he to sir galahad, "abide here till thou hearest how i speed." "i will abide thee," said he. then taking with him a squire who might return with any tidings to sir galahad, the king rode forth; and before he had gone two miles, he saw in a fair valley a hermitage, and a knight who came forth dressed in white armour, horse and all, who rode fast against him. when they encountered, bagdemagus brake his spear upon the white knight's shield, but was himself struck through the shoulder with a sore wound, and hurled down from his horse. then the white knight alighting, came and took the white shield from the king, and said, "thou hast done great folly, for this shield ought never to be borne but by one who hath no living peer." and turning to the squire, he said, "bear thou this shield to the good knight, sir galahad, and greet him well from me." "in whose name shall i greet him?" said the squire. "take thou no heed of that," he answered; "it is not for thee or any earthly man to know." "now tell me, fair sir, at the least," said the squire, "why may this shield be never borne except its wearer come to injury or death?" "because it shall belong to no man save its rightful owner, galahad," replied the knight. then the squire went to his master, and found him wounded nigh to death, wherefore he fetched his horse, and bore him back with him to the abbey. and there they laid him in a bed, and looked to his wounds; and when he had lain many days grievously sick, he at the last barely escaped with his life. "sir galahad," said the squire, "the knight who overthrew king bagdemagus sent you greeting, and bade you bear this shield." "now blessed be god and fortune," said sir galahad, and hung the shield about his neck, and armed him, and rode forth. anon he met the white knight by the hermitage, and each saluted courteously the other. "sir," said sir galahad, "this shield i bear hath surely a full marvellous history." "thou sayest rightly," answered he. "that shield was made in the days of joseph of arimathea, the gentle knight who took our lord down from the cross. he, when he left jerusalem with his kindred, came to the country of king evelake, who warred continually with one tollome; and when, by the teaching of joseph, king evelake became a christian, this shield was made for him in our lord's name; and through its aid king tollome was defeated. for when king evelake met him next in battle, he hid it in a veil, and suddenly uncovering it, he showed his enemies the figure of a bleeding man nailed to a cross, at sight of which they were discomfited and fled. presently after that, a man whose hand was smitten off touched the cross upon the shield, and had his hand restored to him; and many other miracles it worked. but suddenly the cross that was upon it vanished away. anon both joseph and king evelake came to britain, and by the preaching of joseph the people were made christians. and when at length he lay upon his death-bed, king evelake begged of him some token ere he died. then, calling for his shield, he dipped his finger in his own blood, for he was bleeding fast, and none could staunch the wound, and marked that cross upon it, saying, 'this cross shall ever show as bright as now, and the last of my lineage shall wear this shield about his neck, and go forth to all the marvellous deeds he will achieve.'" when the white knight had thus spoken he vanished suddenly away, and sir galahad returned to the abbey. as he alighted, came a monk, and prayed him to go see a tomb in the churchyard, wherefrom came such a great and hideous noise, that none could hear it but they went nigh mad, or lost all strength. "and sir," said he, "i deem it is a fiend." "lead me thither," said sir galahad. when they were come near the place, "now," said the monk, "go thou to the tomb, and lift it up." and galahad, nothing afraid, quickly lifted up the stone, and forthwith came out a foul smoke, and from the midst thereof leaped up the loathliest figure that ever he had seen in the likeness of man; and galahad blessed himself, for he knew it was a fiend of hell. then he heard a voice crying out, "oh, galahad, i cannot tear thee as i would; i see so many angels round thee, that i may not come at thee." [illustration: galahad ... quickly lifted up the stone, and forthwith came out a foul smoke.] then the fiend suddenly disappeared with a marvellous great cry; and sir galahad, looking in the tomb, saw there a body all armed, with a sword beside it. "now, fair brother," said he to the monk, "let us remove this cursed body, which is not fit to lie in a churchyard, for when it lived, a false and perjured christian man dwelt in it. cast it away, and there shall come no more hideous noises from the tomb." "and now must i depart," he added, "for i have much in hand, and am upon the holy quest of the sangreal, with many more good knights." so he took his leave, and rode many journeys backwards and forwards as adventure would lead him; and at last one day he departed from a castle without first hearing mass, which was it ever his custom to hear before he left his lodging. anon he found a ruined chapel on a mountain, and went in and kneeled before the altar, and prayed for wholesome counsel what to do; and as he prayed he heard a voice, which said, "depart, adventurous knight, unto the maiden's castle, and redress the violence and wrongs there done!" hearing these words he cheerfully arose, and mounted his horse, and rode but half a mile, when he saw before him a strong castle, with deep ditches round it, and a fair river running past. and seeing an old churl hard by, he asked him what men called that castle. "fair sir," said he, "it is the maiden's castle." "it is a cursed place," said galahad, "and all its masters are but felons, full of mischief and hardness and shame." "for that good reason," said the old man, "thou wert well-advised to turn thee back." "for that same reason," quoth sir galahad, "will i the more certainly ride on." then, looking at his armour carefully, to see that nothing failed him, he went forward, and presently there met him seven damsels, who cried out, "sir knight, thou ridest in great peril, for thou hast two waters to pass over." "why should i not pass over them?" said he, and rode straight on. anon he met a squire, who said, "sir knight, the masters of this castle defy thee, and bid thee go no further, till thou showest them thy business here." "fair fellow," said sir galahad, "i am come here to destroy their wicked customs." "if that be thy purpose," answered he, "thou wilt have much to do." "go thou," said galahad, "and hasten with my message." in a few minutes after rode forth furiously from the gateways of the castle seven knights, all brothers, and crying out, "knight, keep thee," bore down all at once upon sir galahad. but thrusting forth his spear, he smote the foremost to the earth, so that his neck was almost broken, and warded with his shield the spears of all the others, which every one brake off from it, and shivered into pieces. then he drew out his sword, and set upon them hard and fiercely, and by his wondrous force drave them before him, and chased them to the castle gate, and there he slew them. at that came out to him an ancient man, in priest's vestments, saying, "behold, sir, here, the keys of this castle." then he unlocked the gates, and found within a multitude of people, who cried out, "sir knight, ye be welcome, for long have we waited thy deliverance," and told him that the seven felons he had slain had long enslaved the people round about, and killed all knights who passed that way, because the maiden whom they had robbed of the castle had foretold that by one knight they should themselves be overthrown. "where is the maiden?" asked sir galahad. "she lingereth below in a dungeon," said they. so sir galahad went down and released her, and restored her her inheritance; and when he had summoned the barons of the country to do her homage, he took his leave, and departed. presently thereafter, as he rode, he entered a great forest, and in a glade thereof met two knights, disguised, who proffered him to joust. these were sir lancelot, his father, and sir percival, but neither knew the other. so he and sir lancelot encountered first, and sir galahad smote down his father. then drawing his sword, for his spear was broken, he fought with sir percival, and struck so mightily that he clave sir percival's helm, and smote him from his horse. now hard by where they fought there was a hermitage, where dwelt a pious woman, a recluse, who, when she heard the sound, came forth, and seeing sir galahad ride, she cried, "god be with thee, the best knight in the world; had yonder knights known thee as well as i do, they would not have encountered with thee." when sir galahad heard that, fearing to be made known, he forthwith smote his horse with his spurs, and departed at a great pace. sir lancelot and sir percival heard her words also, and rode fast after him, but within awhile he was out of their sight. then sir percival rode back to ask his name of the recluse; but sir lancelot went forward on his quest, and following any path his horse would take, he came by-and-by after nightfall to a stone cross hard by an ancient chapel. when he had alighted and tied his horse up to a tree, he went and looked in through the chapel door, which was all ruinous and wasted, and there within he saw an altar, richly decked with silk, whereon there stood a fair candlestick of silver, bearing six great lights. and when sir lancelot saw the light, he tried to get within the chapel, but could find no place. so, being passing weary and heavy, he came again to his horse, and when he had unsaddled him, and set him free to pasture, he unlaced his helm, and ungirded his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon his shield before the cross. and while he lay between waking and sleeping, he saw come by him two white palfreys bearing a litter, wherein a sick knight lay, and the palfreys stood still by the cross. then sir lancelot heard the sick man say, "o sweet lord, when shall this sorrow leave me, and the holy vessel pass by me, wherethrough i shall be blessed? for i have long endured." with that sir lancelot saw the chapel open, and the candlestick with the six tapers come before the cross, but he could see none who bare it. then came there also a table of silver, and thereon the holy vessel of the sangreal. and when the sick knight saw that, he sat up, and lifting both his hands, said, "fair lord, sweet lord, who art here within this holy vessel, have mercy on me, that i may be whole;" and therewith he crept upon his hands and knees so nigh, that he might touch the vessel; and when he had kissed it, he leaped up, and stood and cried aloud, "lord god, i thank thee, for i am made whole." then the holy grale departed with the table and the silver candlestick into the chapel, so that sir lancelot saw it no more, nor for his sins' sake could he follow it. and the knight who was healed went on his way. then sir lancelot awake, and marvelled whether he had seen aught but a dream. and as he marvelled, he heard a voice saying, "sir lancelot, thou are unworthy, go thou hence, and withdraw thee from this holy place." and when he heard that, he was passing heavy, for he bethought him of his sins. so he departed weeping, and cursed the day of his birth, for the words went into his heart, and he knew wherefore he was thus driven forth. then he went to seek his arms and horse, but could not find them; and then he called himself the wretchedest and most unhappy of all knights, and said, "my sin hath brought me unto great dishonour: for when i sought earthly honours, i achieved them ever; but now i take upon me holy things, my guilt doth hinder me, and shameth me; therefore had i no power to stir or speak when the holy blood appeared before me." so thus he sorrowed till it was day, and he heard the birds sing; then was he somewhat comforted, and departing from the cross on foot, he came into a wild forest, and to a high mountain, and there he found a hermitage; and, kneeling before the hermit down upon both his knees, he cried for mercy for his wicked works, and prayed him to hear his confession. but when he told his name, the hermit marvelled to see him in so sore a case, and said, "sir, ye ought to thank god more than any knight living, for he hath given thee more honour than any; yet for thy presumption, while in deadly sin to come into the presence of his flesh and blood, he suffered thee neither to see nor follow it. wherefore, believe that all thy strength and manhood will avail thee little, when god is against thee." then sir lancelot wept and said, "now know i well ye tell me truth." then he confessed to him, and told him all his sins, and how he had for fourteen years served but queen guinevere only, and forgotten god, and done great deeds of arms for her, and not for heaven, and had little or nothing thanked god for the honour that he won. and then sir lancelot said, "i pray you counsel me." "i will counsel thee," said he: "never more enter into that queen's company when ye can avoid it." so sir lancelot promised him. "look that your heart and your mouth accord," said the good man, "and ye shall have more honour and more nobleness than ever ye have had." then were his arms and horse restored to him, and so he took his leave, and rode forth, repenting greatly. now sir percival had ridden back to the recluse, to learn who that knight was whom she had called the best in the world. and when he had told her that he was sir percival, she made passing great joy of him, for she was his mother's sister, wherefore she opened her door to him, and made him good cheer. and on the morrow she told him of her kindred to him, and they both made great rejoicing. then he asked her who that knight was, and she told him, "he it is who on whit sunday last was clad in the red robe, and bare the red arms; and he hath no peer, for he worketh all by miracle, and shall be never overcome by any earthly hands." "by my goodwill," said sir percival, "i will never after these tidings have to do with sir galahad but in the way of kindness; and i would fain learn where i may find him." "fair nephew," said she, "ye must ride to the castle of goth, where he hath a cousin; by him ye may be lodged, and he will teach you the way to go; but if he can tell you no tidings, ride straight to the castle of carbonek, where the wounded king is lying, for there shall ye surely hear true tidings of him." so sir percival departed from his aunt, and rode till evensong time, when he was ware of a monastery closed round with walls and deep ditches, where he knocked at the gate, and anon was let in. and there he had good cheer that night, and on the morrow heard mass. and beside the altar where the priest stood, was a rich bed of silk and cloth of gold; and on the bed there lay a man passing old, having a crown of gold upon his head, and all his body was full of great wounds, and his eyes almost wholly blind; and ever he held up his hands and said, "sweet lord, forget not me!" then sir percival asked one of the brethren who he was. "sir," said the good man, "ye have heard of joseph of arimathea, how he was sent of jesus christ into this land to preach and teach the christian faith. now, in the city of sarras he converted a king named evelake, and this is he. he came with joseph to this land, and ever desired greatly to see the sangreal; so on a time he came nigh thereto, and was struck almost blind. then he cried out for mercy, and said, 'fair lord, i pray thee let me never die until a good knight of my blood achieve the sangreal, and i may see and kiss him.' when he had thus prayed, he heard a voice that said, 'thy prayers be heard and answered, for thou shalt not die till that knight kiss thee; and when he cometh shall thine eyes be opened and thy wounds be healed.' and now hath he lived here for three hundred winters in a holy life, and men say a certain knight of king arthur's court shall shortly heal him." thereat sir percival marvelled greatly, for he well knew who that knight should be; and so, taking his leave of the monk, departed. then he rode on till noon, and came into a valley where he met twenty men-at-arms bearing a dead knight on a bier. and they cried to him, "whence comest thou?" "from king arthur's court," he answered. then they all cried together, "slay him," and set upon him. but he smote down the first man to the ground, and his horse upon him; whereat seven of them all at once assailed him, and others slew his horse. thus he had been either taken or slain, but by good chance sir galahad was passing by that way, who, seeing twenty men attacking one, cried, "slay him not," and rushed upon them; and, as fast as his horse could drive, he encountered with the foremost man, and smote him down. then, his spear being broken, he drew forth his sword and struck out on the right hand and on the left, at each blow smiting down a man, till the remainder fled, and he pursued them. then sir percival, knowing that it was sir galahad, would fain have overtaken him, but could not, for his horse was slain. yet followed he on foot as fast as he could go; and as he went there met him a yeoman riding on a palfrey, and leading in his hand a great black steed. so sir percival prayed him to lend him the steed, that he might overtake sir galahad. but he replied, "that can i not do, fair sir, for the horse is my master's, and should i lend it he would slay me." so he departed, and sir percival sat down beneath a tree in heaviness of heart. and as he sat, anon a knight went riding past on the black steed which the yeoman had led. and presently after came the yeoman back in haste, and asked sir percival if he had seen a knight riding his horse. "yea," said sir percival. "alas," said the yeoman, "he hath reft him from me by strength, and my master will slay me." then he besought sir percival to take his hackney and follow, and get back his steed. so he rode quickly, and overtook the knight, and cried, "knight, turn again." whereat he turned and set his spear, and smote sir percival's hackney in the breast, so that it fell dead, and then went on his way. then cried sir percival after him, "turn now, false knight, and fight with me on foot;" but he would not, and rode out of sight. then was sir percival passing wroth and heavy of heart, and lay down to rest beneath a tree, and slept till midnight. when he awoke he saw a woman standing by him, who said to him right fiercely, "sir percival, what doest thou here?" "i do neither good nor evil," said he. "if thou wilt promise me," said she, "to do my will whenever i shall ask thee, i will bring thee here a horse that will bear thee wheresoever thou desirest." at that he was full glad, and promised as she asked. then anon she came again, with a great black steed, strong and well apparelled. so sir percival mounted, and rode through the clear moonlight, and within less than an hour had gone a four days' journey, till he came to a rough water that roared; and his horse would have borne him into it, but sir percival would not suffer him, yet could he scarce restrain him. and seeing the water so furious, he made the sign of the cross upon his forehead, whereat the horse suddenly shook him off, and with a terrible sound leaped into the water and disappeared, the waves all burning up in flames around him. then sir percival knew it was a fiend which had brought him the horse; so he commended himself to god, and prayed that he might escape temptations, and continued in prayer till it was day. then he saw that he was on a wild mountain, nigh surrounded on all sides by the sea, and filled with wild beasts; and going on into a valley, he saw a serpent carrying a young lion by the neck. with that came another lion, crying and roaring after the serpent, and anon overtook him, and began to battle with him. and sir percival helped the lion, and drew his sword, and gave the serpent such a stroke that it fell dead. thereat the lion fawned upon him like a dog, licking his hands, and crouching at his feet, and at night lay down by him and slept at his side. and at noon the next day sir percival saw a ship come sailing before a strong wind upon the sea towards him, and he rose and went towards it. and when it came to shore, he found it covered with white samite, and on the deck there stood an old man dressed in priest's robes, who said, "god be with you, fair sir; whence come ye?" "i am a knight of king arthur's court," said he, "and follow the quest of the sangreal; but here have i lost myself in this wilderness." "fear nothing," said the old man, "for i have come from a strange country to comfort thee." then he told sir percival it was a fiend of hell upon which he had ridden to the sea, and that the lion, whom he had delivered from the serpent, meant the church. and sir percival rejoiced at these tidings, and entered into the ship, which presently sailed from the shore into the sea. now when sir bors rode forth from camelot to seek the sangreal, anon he met a holy man riding on an ass, and courteously saluted him. "who are ye, son?" said the good man. "i am a knight," said he, "in quest of the sangreal, and would fain have thy counsel, for he shall have much earthly honour who may bring it to a favourable end." "that is truth," said the good man, "for he shall be the best knight of the world; yet know that none shall gain it save by sinless living." so they rode to his hermitage together, and there he prayed sir bors to abide that night, and anon they went into the chapel, and sir bors was confessed. and they eat bread and drank water together. "now," said the hermit, "i pray thee eat no other food till thou sit at the table where the sangreal shall be." thereto sir bors agreed. "also," said the hermit, "it were wise that ye should wear a sackcloth garment next your skin, for penance;" and in this also did sir bors as he was counselled. and afterwards he armed himself and took his leave. then rode he onwards all that day, and as he rode he saw a passing great bird sit in an old dry tree, whereon no leaves were left; and many little birds lay round the great one, nigh dead with hunger. then did the big bird smite himself with his own bill, and bled till he died amongst his little ones, and they recovered life in drinking up his blood. when sir bors saw this he knew it was a token, and rode on full of thought. and about eventide he came to a tower, whereto he prayed admission, and he was received gladly by the lady of the castle. but when a supper of many meats and dainties was set before him, he remembered his vow, and bade a squire to bring him water, and therein he dipped his bread, and ate. then said the lady, "sir bors, i fear ye like not my meat." "yea, truly," said he; "god thank thee, madam; but i may eat no other meat this day." after supper came a squire, and said, "madam, bethink thee to provide a champion for thee to-morrow for the tourney, or else shall thy sister have thy castle." at that the lady wept, and made great sorrow. but sir bors prayed her to be comforted, and asked her why the tournament was held. then she told him how she and her sister were the daughters of king anianse, who left them all his lands between them; and how her sister was the wife of a strong knight, named sir pridan le noir, who had taken from herself all her lands, save the one tower wherein she dwelt. "and now," said she, "this also will they take, unless i find a champion by to-morrow." then said sir bors, "be comforted; to-morrow i will fight for thee;" whereat she rejoiced not a little, and sent word to sir pridan that she was provided and ready. and sir bors lay on the floor, and in no bed, nor ever would do otherwise till he had achieved his quest. on the morrow he arose and clothed himself, and went into the chapel, where the lady met him, and they heard mass together. anon he called for his armour, and went with a goodly company of knights to the battle. and the lady prayed him to refresh himself ere he should fight, but he refused to break his fast until the tournament were done. so they all rode together to the lists, and there they saw the lady's eldest sister, and her husband, sir pridan le noir. and a cry was made by the heralds that, whichever should win, his lady should have all the other's lands. then the two knights departed asunder a little space, and came together with such force, that both their spears were shivered, and their shields and hauberks pierced through; and both fell to the ground sorely wounded, with their horses under them. but swiftly they arose, and drew their swords, and smote each other on the head with many great and heavy blows, till the blood ran down their bodies; and sir pridan was a full good knight, so that sir bors had more ado than he had thought for to overcome him. but at last sir pridan grew a little faint; that instantly perceived sir bors, and rushed upon him the more vehemently, and smote him fiercely, till he rent off his helm, and then gave him great strokes upon his visage with the flat of his sword, and bade him yield or be slain. and then sir pridan cried him mercy, and said, "for god's sake slay me not, and i will never war against thy lady more." so sir bors let him go, and his wife fled away with all her knights. then all those who had held lands of the lady of the tower came and did homage to her again, and swore fealty. and when the country was at peace sir bors departed, and rode forth into a forest until it was midday, and there befell him a marvellous adventure. for at a place where two ways parted, there met him two knights, bearing sir lionel, his brother, all naked, bound on a horse, and as they rode, they beat him sorely with thorns, so that the blood trailed down in more than a hundred places from his body; but for all this he uttered no word or groan, so great he was of heart. as soon as sir bors knew his brother, he put his spear in rest to run and rescue him; but in the same moment heard a woman's voice cry close beside him in the wood, "st. mary, succour thy maid;" and, looking round, he saw a damsel whom a felon knight dragged after him into the thickets; and she, perceiving him, cried piteously for help, and adjured him to deliver her as he was a sworn knight. then was sir bors sore troubled, and knew not what to do, for he thought within himself, "if i let my brother be, he will be murdered; but if i help not the maid, she is shamed for ever, and my vow compelleth me to set her free; wherefore must i first help her, and trust my brother unto god." so, riding to the knight who held the damsel, he cried out, "sir knight, lay your hand off that maid, or else ye be but dead." at that the knight set down the maid, and dropped his shield, and drew forth his sword against sir bors, who ran at him, and smote him through both shield and shoulder, and threw him to the earth; and when he pulled his spear forth, the knight swooned. then the maid thanked sir bors heartily, and he set her on the knight's horse, and brought her to her men-at-arms, who presently came riding after her. and they made much joy, and besought him to come to her father, a great lord, and he should be right welcome. but "truly," said he, "i may not at this time, for i have a great adventure yet to do;" and commending them to god, he departed in great haste to find his brother. so he rode, seeking him by the track of the horses a great while. anon he met a seeming holy man riding upon a strong black horse, and asked him, had he seen pass by that way a knight led bound and beaten with thorns by two others. "yea, truly, such an one i saw," said the man; "but he is dead, and lo! his body is hard by in a bush." then he showed him a newly slain body lying in a thick bush, which seemed indeed to be sir lionel. then made sir bors such mourning and sorrow that by-and-by he fell into a swoon upon the ground. and when he came to himself again, he took the body in his arms and put it on his horse's saddle, and bore it to a chapel hard by, and would have buried it. but when he made the sign of the cross, he heard a full great noise and cry as though all the fiends of hell had been about him, and suddenly the body and the chapel and the old man vanished all away. then he knew that it was the devil who had thus beguiled him, and that his brother yet lived. then held he up his hands to heaven, and thanked god for his own escape from hurt, and rode onwards; and anon, as he passed by an hermitage in a forest, he saw his brother sitting armed by the door. and when he saw him he was filled with joy, and lighted from his horse, and ran to him and said, "fair brother, when came ye hither?" but sir lionel answered, with an angry face, "what vain words be these, when for you i might have been slain? did ye not see me bound and led away to death, and left me in that peril to go succouring a gentlewoman, the like whereof no brother ever yet hath done? now, for thy false misdeed, i do defy thee, and ensure thee speedy death." then sir bors prayed his brother to abate his anger, and said, "fair brother, remember the love that should be between us twain." but sir lionel would not hear, and prepared to fight and mounted his horse and came before him, crying, "sir bors, keep thee from me, for i shall do to thee as a felon and a traitor; therefore, start upon thy horse, for if thou wilt not, i will run upon thee as thou standest." but for all his words sir bors would not defend himself against his brother. and anon the fiend stirred up sir lionel to such rage, that he rushed over him and overthrew him with his horse's hoofs, so that he lay swooning on the ground. then would he have rent off his helm and slain him, but the hermit of that place ran out, and prayed him to forbear, and shielded sir bors with his body. then sir lionel cried out, "now, god so help me, sir priest, but i shall slay thee else thou depart, and him too after thee." and when the good man utterly refused to leave sir bors, he smote him on the head until he died, and then he took his brother by the helm and unlaced it, to have stricken off his head, and so he would have done, but suddenly was pulled off backwards by a knight of the round table, who, by the will of heaven, was passing by that place--sir colgrevance by name. "sir lionel," he cried, "will ye slay your brother, one of the best knights of all the world? that ought no man to suffer." "why," said sir lionel, "will ye hinder me and meddle in this strife? beware, lest i shall slay both thee and him." and when sir colgrevance refused to let them be, sir lionel defied him, and gave him a great stroke through the helmet, whereat sir colgrevance drew his sword, and smote again right manfully. and so long they fought together that sir bors awoke from his swoon, and tried to rise and part them, but had no strength to stand upon his feet. anon sir colgrevance saw him, and cried out to him for help, for now sir lionel had nigh defeated him. when sir bors heard that, he struggled to his feet, and put his helmet on, and took his sword. but before he could come to him, sir lionel had smitten off sir colgrevance's helm, and thrown him to the earth and slain him. then turned he to his brother as a man possessed by fiends, and gave him such a stroke as bent him nearly double. but still sir bors prayed him for god's sake to quit that battle, "for if it befell us that we either slew the other we should die for care of that sin." "never will i spare thee if i master thee," cried out sir lionel. then sir bors drew his sword all weeping, and said, "now, god have mercy on me, though i defend my life against my brother;" with that he lifted up his sword to strike, but suddenly he heard a mighty voice, "put up thy sword, sir bors, and flee, or thou shalt surely slay him." and then there fell upon them both a fiery cloud, which flamed and burned their shields, and they fell to the earth in sore dread. anon sir bors rose to his feet, and saw that sir lionel had taken no harm. then came the voice again, and said, "sir bors, go hence and leave thy brother, and ride thou forward to the sea, for there sir percival abideth thee." then he said to his brother, "brother, forgive me all my trespass against thee." and sir lionel answered, "god forgive it thee, as i do." then he departed and rode to the sea, and on the strand he found a ship all covered with white samite, and as soon as he had entered thereinto, it put forth from the shore. and in the midst of the ship there stood an armed knight, whom he knew to be sir percival. then they rejoiced greatly over each other, and said, "we lack nothing now but the good knight sir galahad." now when sir galahad had rescued sir percival from the twenty knights he rode into a vast forest. and after many days it befell that he came to a castle whereat was a tournament. and the knights of the castle were put to the worse; which when he saw, he set his spear in rest and ran to help them, and smote down many of their adversaries. and as it chanced, sir gawain was amongst the stranger knights, and when he saw the white shield with the red cross, he knew it was sir galahad, and proffered to joust with him. so they encountered, and having broken their spears, they drew their swords, and sir galahad smote sir gawain so sorely on the helm that he clove it through, and struck on slanting to the earth, carving the horse's shoulder in twain, and sir gawain fell to the earth. then sir galahad beat back all who warred against the castle, yet would he not wait for thanks, but rode away that no man might know him. and he rested that night at a hermitage, and when he was asleep, he heard a knocking at the door. so he rose, and found a damsel there, who said, "sir galahad, i will that ye arm you, and mount upon your horse and follow me, for i will show you within these three days the highest adventure that ever any knight saw." anon sir galahad armed him, and took his horse, and commended himself to god, and bade the gentlewoman go, and he would follow where she liked. so they rode onwards to the sea as fast as their horses might gallop, and at night they came to a castle in a valley, inclosed by running water, and by strong and high walls, whereinto they entered and had great cheer, for the lady of the castle was the damsel's mistress. and when he was unarmed, the damsel said to her lady, "madam, shall we abide here this night?" "nay," said she, "but only till he hath dined and slept a little." so he ate and slept a while, till the maid called him, and armed him by torchlight; and when he had saluted the lady of the castle, the damsel and sir galahad rode on. anon they came to the seaside, and lo! the ship, wherein were sir percival and sir bors, abode by the shore. then they cried, "welcome, sir galahad, for we have awaited thee long." then they rejoiced to see each other, and told of all their adventures and temptations. and the damsel went into the ship with them, and spake to sir percival: "sir percival, know ye not who i am?" and he replied, "nay, certainly, i know thee not." then said she, "i am thy sister, the daughter of king pellinore, and am sent to help thee and these knights, thy fellows, to achieve the quest which ye all follow." so sir percival rejoiced to see his sister, and they departed from the shore. and after a while they came upon a whirlpool, where their ship could not live. then saw they another greater ship hard by and went towards it, but saw neither man nor woman therein. and on the end of it these words were written, "thou who shalt enter me, beware that thou be in steadfast belief, for i am faith; and if thou doubtest, i cannot help thee." then were they all adread, but, commending themselves to god, they entered in. as soon as they were on board they saw a fair bed; whereon lay a crown of silk, and at the foot was a fair and rich sword drawn from its scabbard half a foot and more. the pommel was of precious stones of many colours, every colour having a different virtue, and the scales of the haft were of two ribs of different beasts. the one was bone of a serpent from calidone forest, named the serpent of the fiend; and its virtue saveth all men who hold it from weariness. the other was of a fish that haunteth the floods of euphrates, named ertanax; and its virtue causeth whoever holdeth it to forget all other things, whether of joy or pain, save the thing he seeth before him. "in the name of god," said sir percival, "i shall assay to handle this sword; "and set his hand to it, but could not grasp it. "by my faith," said he, "now have i failed." sir bors set his hand to it, and failed also. then came sir galahad, and saw these letters written red as blood, "none shall draw me forth save the hardiest of all men; but he that draweth me shall never be shamed or wounded to death." "by my faith," said sir galahad, "i would draw it forth, but dare not try." "ye may try safely," said the gentlewoman, sir percival's sister, "for be ye well assured the drawing of this sword is forbid to all but you. for this was the sword of david, king of israel, and solomon his son made for it this marvellous pommel and this wondrous sheath, and laid it on this bed till thou shouldest come and take it up; and though before thee some have dared to raise it, yet have they all been maimed or wounded for their daring." "where," said sir galahad, "shall we find a girdle for it?" "fair sir," said she, "dismay you not;" and therewith took from out a box a girdle, nobly wrought with golden thread, set full of precious stones and with a rich gold buckle. "this girdle, lords," said she, "is made for the most part of mine own hair, which, while i was yet in the world, i loved full well; but when i knew that this adventure was ordained me, i cut off and wove as ye now see." [illustration: "this girdle, lords," said she, "is made for the most part of mine own hair, which, while i was yet in the world, i loved full well."] then they all prayed sir galahad to take the sword, and so anon he gripped it in his fingers; and the maiden girt it round his waist, saying, "now reck i not though i die, for i have made thee the worthiest knight of all the world." "fair damsel," said sir galahad, "ye have done so much that i shall be your knight all the days of my life." then the ship sailed a great way on the sea, and brought them to land near the castle of carteloise. when they were landed came a squire and asked them, "be ye of king arthur's court?" "we are," said they. "in an evil hour are ye come," said he, and went back swiftly to the castle. within a while they heard a great horn blow, and saw a multitude of well-armed knights come forth, who bade them yield or die. at that they ran together, and sir percival smote one to the earth and mounted his horse, and so likewise did sir bors and sir galahad, and soon had they routed all their enemies and alighted on foot, and with their swords slew them downright, and entered into the castle. then came there forth a priest, to whom sir galahad kneeled and said, "in sooth, good father, i repent me of this slaughter; but we were first assailed, or else it had not been." "repent ye not," said the good man, "for if ye lived as long as the world lasted ye could do no better deed, for these were all the felon sons of a good knight, earl hernox, whom they have thrown into a dungeon, and in his name have slain priests and clerks, and beat down chapels far and near." then sir galahad prayed the priest to bring him to the earl; who, when he saw sir galahad, cried out, "long have i waited for thy coming, and now i pray thee hold me in thine arms that i may die in peace." and therewith, when sir galahad had taken him in his arms, his soul departed from his body. then came a voice in the hearing of them all, "depart now, sir galahad, and go quickly to the maimed king, for he hath long abided to receive health from thy hand." so the three knights departed, and sir percival's sister with them, and came to a vast forest, and saw before them a white hart, exceeding fair, led by four lions; and marvelling greatly at that sight, they followed. anon they came to a hermitage and a chapel, whereunto the hart entered, and the lions with it. then a priest offered mass, and presently they saw the hart change into the figure of a man, most sweet and comely to behold; and the four lions also changed and became a man, an eagle, a lion, and an ox. and suddenly all those five figures vanished without sound. then the knights marvelled greatly, and fell upon their knees, and when they rose they prayed the priest to tell them what that sight might mean. "what saw ye, sirs?" said he, "for i saw nothing." then they told him. "ah, lords!" said he, "ye are full welcome; now know i well ye be the knights who shall achieve the sangreal, for unto them alone such mysteries are revealed. the hart ye saw is one above all men, white and without blemish, and the four lions with him are the four evangelists." when they heard that they heartily rejoiced, and thanking the priest, departed. anon, as they passed by a certain castle, an armed knight suddenly came after them, and cried out to the damsel, "by the holy cross, ye shall not go till ye have yielded to the custom of the castle." "let her go," said sir percival, "for a maiden, wheresoever she cometh, is free." "whatever maiden passeth here," replied the knight, "must give a dishful of her blood from her right arm." "it is a foul and shameful custom," cried sir galahad and both his fellows, "and sooner will we die than let this maiden yield thereto." "then shall ye die," replied the knight, and as he spake there came out from a gate hard by, ten or twelve more, and encountered with them, running upon them vehemently with a great cry. but the three knights withstood them, and set their hands to their swords, and beat them down and slew them. at that came forth a company of threescore knights, all armed. "fair lords," said sir galahad, "have mercy on yourselves and keep from us." "nay, fair lords," they answered, "rather be advised by us, and yield ye to our custom." "it is an idle word," said galahad, "in vain ye speak it." "well," said they, "will ye die?" "we be not come thereto as yet," replied sir galahad. then did they fall upon each other, and sir galahad drew forth his sword, and smote on the right hand and on the left, and slew so mightily that all who saw him thought he was a monster and no earthly man. and both his comrades helped him well, and so they held the field against that multitude till it was night. then came a good knight forward from the enemy and said, "fair knights, abide with us to-night and be right welcome; by the faith of our bodies as we are true knights, to-morrow ye shall rise unharmed, and meanwhile maybe ye will, of your own accord, accept the custom of the castle when ye know it better." so they entered and alighted and made great cheer. anon, they asked them whence that custom came. "the lady of this castle is a leper," said they, "and can be no way cured save by the blood of a pure virgin and a king's daughter; therefore to save her life are we her servants bound to stay every maid that passeth by, and try if her blood may not cure our mistress." then said the damsel, "take ye of my blood as much as ye will, if it may avail your lady." and though the three knights urged her not to put her life in that great peril, she replied, "if i die to heal another's body, i shall get health to my soul," and would not be persuaded to refuse. so on the morrow she was brought to the sick lady, and her arm was bared, and a vein thereof was opened, and the dish filled with her blood. then the sick lady was anointed therewith, and anon she was whole of her malady. with that sir percival's sister lifted up her hand and blessed her, saying, "madam, i am come to my death to make you whole; for god's love pray for me;" and thus saying she fell down in a swoon. then sir galahad, sir percival, and sir bors started to lift her up and staunch her blood, but she had lost too much to live. so when she came to herself she said to sir percival, "fair brother, i must die for the healing of this lady, and now, i pray thee, bury me not here, but when i am dead put me in a boat at the next haven and let me float at venture on the sea. and when ye come to the city of sarras, to achieve the sangreal, shall ye find me waiting by a tower, and there i pray thee bury me, for there shall sir galahad and ye also be laid." thus having said, she died. then sir percival wrote all the story of her life and put it in her right hand, and so laid her in a barge and covered it with silk. and the wind arising drove the barge from land, and all the knights stood watching it till it was out of sight. anon they returned to the castle, and forthwith fell a sudden tempest of thunder and lightning and rain, as if the earth were broken up: and half the castle was thrown down. then came a voice to the three knights which said, "depart ye now asunder till ye meet again where the maimed king is lying." so they parted and rode divers ways. now after sir lancelot had left the hermit, he rode a long while till he knew not whither to turn, and so he lay down to sleep, if haply he might dream whither to go. and in his sleep a vision came to him saying, "lancelot, rise up and take thine armour, and enter the first ship that thou shalt find." when he awoke he obeyed the vision, and rode till he came to the sea-shore, and found there a ship without sails or oars, and as soon as he was in it he smelt the sweetest savour he had ever known, and seemed filled with all things he could think of or desire. and looking round he saw a fair bed, and thereon a gentlewoman lying dead, who was sir percival's sister. and as sir lancelot looked on her he spied the writing in her right hand, and, taking it, he read therein her story. and more than a month thereafter he abode in that ship and was nourished by the grace of heaven, as israel was fed with manna in the desert. and on a certain night he went ashore to pass the time, for he was somewhat weary, and, listening, he heard a horse come towards him, from which a knight alighted and went up into the ship; who, when he saw sir lancelot, said, "fair sir, ye be right welcome to mine eyes, for i am thy son galahad, and long time i have sought for thee." with that he kneeled and asked his blessing, and took off his helm and kissed him, and the great joy there was between them no tongue can tell. then for half a year they dwelt together in the ship, and served god night and day with all their powers, and went to many unknown islands, where none but wild beasts haunted, and there found many strange and perilous adventures. and upon a time they came to the edge of a forest, before a cross of stone, and saw a knight armed all in white, leading a white horse. then the knight saluted them, and said to galahad, "ye have been long time enough with your father; now, therefore, leave him and ride this horse till ye achieve the holy quest." then went sir galahad to his father and kissed him full courteously, and said, "fair father, i know not when i shall see thee again." and as he took his horse a voice spake in their hearing, "ye shall meet no more in this life." "now, my son, sir galahad," said sir lancelot, "since we must so part and see each other never more, i pray the high father of heaven to preserve both you and me." then they bade farewell, and sir galahad entered the forest, and sir lancelot returned to the ship, and the wind rose and drove him more than a month through the sea, whereby he slept but little, yet ever prayed that he might see the sangreal. so it befell upon a certain midnight, the moon shining clear, he came before a fair and rich castle, whereof the postern gate was open towards the sea, having no keeper save two lions in the entry. anon sir lancelot heard a voice: "leave now thy ship and go within the castle, and thou shalt see a part of thy desire." then he armed and went towards the gate, and coming to the lions he drew out his sword, but suddenly a dwarf rushed out and smote him on the arm, so that he dropt his sword, and heard again the voice, "oh, man of evil faith, and poor belief, wherefore trustest thou thine arms above thy maker?" then he put up his sword and signed the cross upon his forehead, and so passed by the lions without hurt. and going in, he found a chamber with the door shut, which in vain he tried to open. and listening thereat he heard a voice within, which sang so sweetly that it seemed no earthly thing, "joy and honour be to the father of heaven!" then he kneeled down at the door, for he knew well the sangreal was there within. anon the door was opened without hands, and forthwith came thereout so great a splendour as if all the torches of the world had been alight together. but when he would have entered in, a voice forbad him; wherefore he drew back, and looked, standing upon the threshold of the door. and there he saw a table of silver, and the holy vessel covered with red samite, and many angels round it holding burning candles and a cross and all the ornaments of the altar. then a priest stood up and offered mass, and when he took the vessel up, he seemed to sink beneath that burden. at that sir lancelot cried, "o father, take it not for sin that i go in to help the priest, who hath much need thereof." so saying, he went in, but when he came towards the table he felt a breath of fire which issued out therefrom and smote him to the ground, so that he had no power to rise. then felt he many hands about him, which took him up and laid him down outside the chapel door. there lay he in a swoon all through that night, and on the morrow certain people found him senseless, and bore him to an inner chamber and laid him on a bed. and there he rested, living, but moving no limbs, twenty-four days and nights. on the twenty-fifth day he opened his eyes and saw those standing round, and said, "why have ye waked me? for i have seen marvels that no tongue can tell, and more than any heart can think." then he asked where he was, and they told him, "in the castle of carbonek." "tell your lord, king pelles," said he, "that i am sir lancelot." at that they marvelled greatly, and told their lord it was sir lancelot who had lain there so long. then was king pelles wondrous glad and went to see him, and prayed him to abide there for a season. but sir lancelot said, "i know well that i have now seen as much as mine eyes may behold of the sangreal; wherefore i will return to my own country." so he took leave of king pelles, and departed towards logris. now after sir galahad had parted from sir lancelot, he rode many days, till he came to the monastery where the blind king evelake lay, whom sir percival had seen. and on the morrow, when he had heard mass, sir galahad desired to see the king, who cried out, "welcome, sir galahad, servant of the lord! long have i abided thy coming. take me now in thine arms, that i may die in peace." at that sir galahad embraced him; and when he had so done the king's eyes were opened, and he said, "fair lord jesus, suffer me now to come to thee;" and anon his soul departed. then they buried him royally, as a king should be; and sir galahad went on his way. within a while he came to a chapel in a forest, in the crypt whereof he saw a tomb which always blazed and burnt. and asking the brethren what that might mean, they told him, "joseph of arimathea's son did found this monastery, and one who wronged him hath lain here these three hundred and fifty years and burneth evermore, until that perfect knight who shall achieve the sangreal doth quench the fire." then said he, "i pray ye bring me to the tomb." and when he touched the place immediately the fire was quenched, and a voice came from the grave and cried, "thanks be to god, who now hath purged me of my sin, and draweth me from earthly pains into the joys of paradise." then sir galahad took the body in his arms and bore it to the abbey, and on the morrow put it in the earth before the high altar. anon he departed from thence and rode five days in a great forest; and after that he met sir percival, and a little further on sir bors. when they had told each other their adventures, they rode together to the castle of carbonek: and there king pelles gave them hearty welcome, for he knew they should achieve the holy quest. as soon as they were come into the castle, a voice cried in the midst of the chamber, "let them who ought not now to sit at the table of the lord rise and depart hence!" then all, save those three knights, departed. anon they saw other knights come in with haste at the hall doors and take their harness off, who said to sir galahad, "sir, we have tried sore to be with you at this table." "ye be welcome," said he, "but whence are ye?" so three of them said they were from gaul; and three from ireland; and three from denmark. then came forth the likeness of a bishop, with a cross in his hand, and four angels stood by him, and a table of silver was before them, whereon was set the vessel of the sangreal. then came forth other angels also--two bearing burning candles, and the third a towel, and the fourth a spear which bled marvellously, the drops wherefrom fell into a box he held in his left hand. anon the bishop took the wafer up to consecrate it, and at the lifting up, they saw the figure of a child, whose visage was as bright as any fire, which smote itself into the midst of the wafer and vanished, so that all saw the flesh made bread. thereat the bishop went to galahad and kissed him, and bade him go and kiss his fellows; and said, "now, servants of the lord, prepare for food such as none ever yet were fed with since the world began." with that he vanished, and the knights were filled with a great dread and prayed devoutly. then saw they come forth from the holy vessel the vision of a man bleeding all openly, whom they knew well by the tokens of his passion for the lord himself. at that they fell upon their faces and were dumb. anon he brought the holy grale to them and spake high words of comfort, and, when they drank therefrom, the taste thereof was sweeter than any tongue could tell or heart desire. then a voice said to galahad, "son, with this blood which drippeth from the spear anoint thou the maimed king and heal him. and when thou hast this done, depart hence with thy brethren in a ship that ye shall find, and go to the city of sarras. and bear with thee the holy vessel, for it shall no more be seen in the realm of logris." at that sir galahad walked to the bleeding spear, and therefrom anointing his fingers went out straightway to the maimed king pelles, and touched his wound. then suddenly he uprose from his bed as whole a man as ever he was, and praised god passing thankfully with all his heart. then sir galahad, sir bors, and sir percival departed as they had been told; and when they had ridden three days they came to the sea-shore, and found the ship awaiting them. therein they entered, and saw in the midst the silver table and the vessel of the sangreal, covered with red samite. then were they passing glad, and made great reverence thereto. and sir galahad prayed that now he might leave the world and pass to god. and presently, the while he prayed, a voice said to him, "galahad, thy prayer is heard, and when thou asketh the death of the body thou shalt have it, and find the life of thy soul." but while they prayed and slept the ship sailed on, and when they woke they saw the city of sarras before them, and the other ship wherein was sir percival's sister. then the three knights took up the holy table and the sangreal and went into the city; and there, in a chapel, they buried sir percival's sister right solemnly. now at the gate of the town they saw an old cripple sitting, whom sir galahad called to help them bear their weight. "truly," said the old man, "it is ten years since i have gone a step without these crutches." "care ye not," said sir galahad; "rise now and show goodwill." so he assayed to move, and found his limbs as strong as any man's might be, and running to the table helped to carry it. anon there rose a rumour in the city that a cripple had been healed by certain marvellous strange knights. but the king, named estouranse, who was a heathen tyrant, when he heard thereof took sir galahad and his fellows, and put them in prison in a deep hole. therein they abode a great while, but ever the sangreal was with them and fed them with marvellous sweet food, so that they fainted not, but had all joy and comfort they could wish. at the year's end the king fell sick and felt that he should die. then sent he for the three knights, and when they came before him prayed their mercy for his trespasses against them. so they forgave him gladly, and anon he died. then the chief men of the city took counsel together who should be king in his stead, and as they talked, a voice cried in their midst, "choose ye the youngest of the three knights king estouranse cast into prison for your king." at that they sought sir galahad and made him king with the assent of all the city, and else they would have slain him. but within a twelvemonth came to him, upon a certain day, as he prayed before the sangreal, a man in likeness of a bishop, with a great company of angels round about him, who offered mass, and afterwards called to sir galahad, "come forth, thou servant of the lord, for the time hath come thou hast desired so long." then sir galahad lifted up his hands and prayed, "now, blessed lord! would i no longer live if it might please thee." anon the bishop gave him the sacrament, and when he had received it with unspeakable gladness, he said, "who art thou, father?" "i am joseph of arimathea," answered he, "whom our lord hath sent to bear thee fellowship." when he heard that, sir galahad went to sir percival and sir bors and kissed them and commended them to god, saying, "salute for me sir lancelot, my father, and bid him remember this unstable world." therewith he kneeled down and prayed, and suddenly his soul departed, and a multitude of angels bare it up to heaven. then came a hand from heaven and took the vessel and the spear and bare them out of sight. since then was never man so hardy as to say that he had seen the sangreal. and after all these things, sir percival put off his armour and betook him to an hermitage, and within a little while passed out of this world. and sir bors, when he had buried him beside his sister, returned, weeping sore for the loss of his two brethren, to king arthur, at camelot. chapter xiii _sir lancelot and the fair maid of astolat_ now after the quest of the sangreal was fulfilled and all the knights who were left alive were come again to the round table, there was great joy in the court. and passing glad were king arthur and queen guinevere to see sir lancelot and sir bors, for they had been long absent in that quest. and so greatly was sir lancelot's fame now spread abroad that many ladies and damsels daily resorted to him and besought him for their champion; and all right quarrels did he gladly undertake for the pleasure of our lord christ. and always as much as he might he withdrew him from the queen. wherefore queen guinevere, who counted him for her own knight, grew wroth with him, and on a certain day she called him to her chamber, and said thus: "sir lancelot, i daily see thy loyalty to me doth slack, for ever thou art absent from this court, and takest other ladies' quarrels on thee more than ever thou wert wont. now do i understand thee, false knight, and therefore shall i never trust thee more. depart now from my sight, and come no more within this court upon pain of thy head." with that she turned from him and would hear no excuses. so sir lancelot departed in heaviness of heart, and calling sir bors, sir ector, and sir lionel, he told them how the queen had dealt with him. "fair sir," replied sir bors, "remember what honour ye have in this country, and how ye are called the noblest knight in the world; wherefore go not, for women are hasty, and do often what they sore repent of afterwards. be ruled by my advice. take horse and ride to the hermitage beside windsor, and there abide till i send ye better tidings." to that sir lancelot consented, and departed with a sorrowful countenance. now when the queen heard of his leaving she was inwardly sorry, but made no show of grief, bearing a proud visage outwardly. and on a certain day she made a costly banquet to all the knights of the round table, to show she had as great joy in all others as in sir lancelot. and at the banquet were sir gawain, and his brothers sir agravaine, sir gaheris, and sir gareth; also sir modred, sir bors, sir blamor, sir bleoberis, sir ector, sir lionel, sir palomedes, sir mador de la port, and his cousin sir patrice--a knight of ireland, sir pinell le savage, and many more. now sir pinell hated sir gawain because he had slain one of his kinsmen by treason; and sir gawain had a great love for all kinds of fruit, which, when sir pinell knew, he poisoned certain apples that were set upon the table, with intent to slay him. and so it chanced as they ate and made merry, sir patrice, who sat next to sir gawain, took one of the poisoned apples and eat it, and when he had eaten he suddenly swelled up and fell down dead. at that every knight leapt from the board ashamed and enraged nigh out of their wits, for they knew not what to say, yet seeing that the queen had made the banquet they all had suspicion of her. "my lady the queen," said sir gawain, "i wit well this fruit was meant for me, for all men know my love for it, and now had i been nearly slain; wherefore, i fear me, ye will be ashamed." "this shall not end so," cried sir mador de la port; "now have i lost a noble knight of my own blood, and for this despite and shame i will be revenged to the uttermost." then he challenged queen guinevere concerning the death of his cousin, but she stood still, sore abashed, and anon with her sorrow and dread, she swooned. at the noise and sudden cry came in king arthur, and to him appealed sir mador, and impeached the queen. "fair lords," said he, "full sorely am i troubled at this matter, for i must be rightful judge, and therein it repenteth me i may not do battle for my wife, for, as i deem, this deed was none of hers. but i suppose she will not lack a champion, and some good knight surely will put his body in jeopardy to save her." but all who had been bidden to the banquet said they could not hold the queen excused, or be her champions, for she had made the feast, and either by herself or servants must it have come. "alas!" said the queen, "i made this dinner for a good intent, and no evil, so god help me in my need." "my lord the king," said sir mador, "i require you heartily as you be a righteous king give me a day when i may have justice." "well," said the king, "i give ye this day fifteen days, when ye shall be ready and armed in the meadow beside westminster, and if there be a knight to fight with you, god speed the right, and if not, then must my queen be burnt." when the king and queen were alone together he asked her how this case befell. "i wot not how or in what manner," answered she. "where is sir lancelot?" said king arthur, "for he would not grudge to do battle for thee." "sir," said she, "i cannot tell you, but all his kinsmen deem he is not in this realm." "these be sad tidings," said the king; "i counsel ye to find sir bors, and pray him for sir lancelot's sake to do this battle for you." so the queen departed and sent for sir bors to her chamber, and besought his succour. "madam," said he, "what would you have me do? for i may not with my honour take this matter on me, for i was at that same dinner, and all the other knights would have me ever in suspicion. now do ye miss sir lancelot, for he would not have failed you in right nor yet in wrong, as ye have often proved, but now ye have driven him from the country." "alas! fair knight," said the queen, "i put me wholly at your mercy, and all that is done amiss i will amend as ye will counsel me." and therewith she kneeled down upon both her knees before sir bors, and besought him to have mercy on her. anon came in king arthur also, and prayed him of his courtesy to help her, saying, "i require you for the love of lancelot." "my lord," said he, "ye require the greatest thing of me that any man can ask, for if i do this battle for the queen i shall anger all my fellows of the table round; nevertheless, for my lord sir lancelot's sake, and for yours, i will that day be the queen's champion, unless there chance to come a better knight than i am to do battle for her." and this he promised on his faith. then were the king and queen passing glad, and thanked him heartily, and so departed. but sir bors rode in secret to the hermitage where sir lancelot was, and told him all these tidings. "it has chanced as i would have it," said sir lancelot; "yet make ye ready for the battle, but tarry till ye see me come." "sir," said sir bors, "doubt not but ye shall have your will." but many of the knights were greatly wroth with him when they heard he was to be the queen's champion, for there were few in the court but deemed her guilty. then said sir bors, "wit ye well, fair lords, it were a shame to us all to suffer so fair and noble a lady to be burnt for lack of a champion, for ever hath she proved herself a lover of good knights; wherefore i doubt not she is guiltless of this treason." at that were some well pleased, but others rested passing wroth. and when the day was come, the king and queen and all the knights went to the meadow beside westminster, where the battle should be fought. then the queen was put in ward, and a great fire was made round the iron stake, where she must be burnt if sir mador won the day. so when the heralds blew, sir mador rode forth, and took oath that queen guinevere was guilty of sir patrice's death, and his oath he would prove with his body against any who would say the contrary. then came forth sir bors, and said, "queen guinevere is in the right, and that will i prove with my hands." with that they both departed to their tents to make ready for the battle. but sir bors tarried long, hoping sir lancelot would come, till sir mador cried out to king arthur, "bid thy champion come forth, unless he dare not." then was sir bors ashamed, and took his horse and rode to the end of the lists. but ere he could meet sir mador he was ware of a knight upon a white horse, armed at all points, and with a strange shield, who rode to him and said, "i pray you withdraw from this quarrel, for it is mine, and i have ridden far to fight in it." thereat sir bors rode to king arthur, and told him that another knight was come who would do battle for the queen. "who is he?" said king arthur. "i may not tell you," said sir bors; "but he made a covenant with me to be here to-day, wherefore i am discharged." then the king called that knight, and asked him if he would fight for the queen. "therefore came i hither, sir king," answered he; "but let us tarry no longer, for anon i have other matters to do. but wit ye well," said he to the knights of the round table, "it is shame to ye for such a courteous queen to suffer this dishonour." and all men marvelled who this knight might be, for none knew him save sir bors. then sir mador and the knight rode to either end of the lists, and couching their spears, ran one against the other with all their might; and sir mador's spear broke short, but the strange knight bore both him and his horse down to the ground. then lightly they leaped from their saddles and drew their swords, and so came eagerly to the battle, and either gave the other many sad strokes and sore and deep wounds. thus they fought nigh an hour, for sir mador was a full strong and valiant knight. but at last the strange knight smote him to the earth, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as wellnigh killed him. then did sir mador yield, and prayed his life. [illustration: at last the strange knight smote him to the earth, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as well-nigh killed him. ] "i will but grant it thee," said the strange knight, "if thou wilt release the queen from this quarrel for ever, and promise that no mention shall be made upon sir patrice's tomb that ever she consented to that treason." "all this shall be done," said sir mador. then the knights parters took up sir mador and led him to his tent, and the other knight went straight to the stair foot of king arthur's throne; and by that time was the queen come to the king again, and kissed him lovingly. then both the king and she stooped down, and thanked the knight, and prayed him to put off his helm and rest him, and to take a cup of wine. and when he put his helmet off to drink, all people saw it was sir lancelot. but when the queen beheld him she sank almost to the ground weeping for sorrow and for joy, that he had done her such great goodness when she had showed him such unkindness. then the knights of his blood gathered round him, and there was great joy and mirth in the court. and sir mador and sir lancelot were soon healed of their wounds; and not long after came the lady of the lake to the court, and told all there by her enchantments how sir pinell, and not the queen, was guilty of sir patrice's death. whereat the queen was held excused of all men, and sir pinell fled the country. so sir patrice was buried in the church of winchester, and it was written on his tomb that sir pinell slew him with a poisoned apple, in error for sir gawain. then, through sir lancelot's favour, the queen was reconciled to sir mador, and all was forgiven. now fifteen days before the feast of the assumption of our lady, the king proclaimed a tourney to be held that feast-day at camelot, whereat himself and the king of scotland would joust with all who should come against them. so thither went the king of north wales, and king anguish of ireland, and sir galahaut the noble prince, and many other nobles of divers countries. and king arthur made ready to go, and would have had the queen go with him, but she said that she was sick. sir lancelot, also, made excuses, saying he was not yet whole of his wounds. at that the king was passing heavy and grieved, and so departed alone towards camelot. and by the way he lodged in a town called astolat, and lay that night in the castle. as soon as he had gone, sir lancelot said to the queen, "this night i will rest, and to-morrow betimes will i take my way to camelot; for at these jousts i will be against the king and his fellowship." "ye may do as ye list," said queen guinevere; "but by my counsel ye will not be against the king, for in his company are many hardy knights, as ye well know." "madam," said sir lancelot, "i pray ye be not displeased with me, for i will take the adventure that god may send me." and on the morrow he went to the church and heard mass, and took his leave of the queen, and so departed. then he rode long till he came to astolat, and there lodged at the castle of an old baron called sir bernard of astolat, which was near the castle where king arthur lodged. and as sir lancelot entered the king espied him, and knew him. then said he to the knights, "i have just seen a knight who will fight full well at the joust toward which we go." "who is it?" asked they. "as yet ye shall not know," he answered smiling. when sir lancelot was in his chamber unarming, the old baron came to him saluting him, though as yet he knew not who he was. now sir bernard had a daughter passing beautiful, called the fair maid of astolat, and when she saw sir lancelot she loved him from that instant with her whole heart, and could not stay from gazing on him. on the morrow, sir lancelot asked the old baron to lend him a strange shield. "for," said he, "i would be unknown." "sir," said his host, "ye shall have your desire, for here is the shield of my eldest son, sir torre, who was hurt the day he was made knight, so that he cannot ride; and his shield, therefore, is not known. and, if it please you, my youngest son, sir lavaine, shall ride with you to the jousts, for he is of his age full strong and mighty; and i deem ye be a noble knight, wherefore i pray ye tell me your name." "as to that," said sir lancelot, "ye must hold me excused at this time, but if i speed well at the jousts, i will come again and tell you; but in anywise let me have your son, sir lavaine, with me, and lend me his brother's shield." then, ere they departed, came elaine, the baron's daughter, and said to sir lancelot, "i pray thee, gentle knight, to wear my token at to-morrow's tourney." "if i should grant you that, fair damsel," said he, "ye might say that i did more for you than ever i have done for lady or damsel." then he bethought him that if he granted her request he would be the more disguised, for never before had he worn any lady's token. so anon he said, "fair damsel, i will wear thy token on my helmet if thou wilt show it me." thereat was she passing glad, and brought him a scarlet sleeve broidered with pearls, which sir lancelot took, and put upon his helm. then he prayed her to keep his shield for him until he came again, and taking sir torre's shield instead, rode forth with sir lavaine towards camelot. on the morrow the trumpets blew for the tourney, and there was a great press of dukes and earls and barons and many noble knights; and king arthur sat in a gallery to behold who did the best. so the king of scotland and his knights, and king anguish of ireland rode forth on king arthur's side; and against them came the king of north wales, the king of a hundred knights, the king of northumberland, and the noble prince sir galahaut. but sir lancelot and sir lavaine rode into a little wood behind the party which was against king arthur, to watch which side should prove the weakest. then was there a strong fight between the two parties, for the king of a hundred knights smote down the king of scotland; and sir palomedes, who was on king arthur's side, overthrew sir galahaut. then came fifteen knights of the round table and beat back the kings of northumberland and north wales with their knights. "now," said sir lancelot to sir lavaine, "if ye will help me, ye shall see yonder fellowship go back as fast as they came." "sir," said sir lavaine, "i will do what i can." then they rode together into the thickest of the press, and there, with one spear, sir lancelot smote down five knights of the round table, one after other, and sir lavaine overthrew two. and taking another spear, for his own was broken, sir lancelot smote down four more knights, and sir lavaine a fifth. then, drawing his sword, sir lancelot fought fiercely on the right hand and the left, and unhorsed sir safire, sir epinogris, and sir galleron. at that the knights of the round table withdrew themselves as well as they were able. "now, mercy," said sir gawain, who sat by king arthur; "what knight is that who doth such marvellous deeds of arms? i should deem him by his force to be sir lancelot, but that he wears a lady's token on his helm as never lancelot doth." "let him be," said king arthur; "he will be better known, and do more ere he depart." thus the party against king arthur prospered at this time, and his knights were sore ashamed. then sir bors, sir ector, and sir lionel called together the knights of their blood, nine in number, and agreed to join together in one band against the two strange knights. so they encountered sir lancelot all at once, and by main force smote his horse to the ground; and by misfortune sir bors struck sir lancelot through the shield into the side, and the spear broke off and left the head in the wound. when sir lavaine saw that, he ran to the king of scotland and struck him off his horse, and brought it to sir lancelot, and helped him to mount. then sir lancelot bore sir bors and his horse to the ground, and in like manner served sir ector and sir lionel; and turning upon three other knights he smote them down also; while sir lavaine did many gallant deeds. but feeling himself now sorely wounded sir lancelot drew his sword, and proffered to fight with sir bors, who, by this time, was mounted anew. and as they met, sir ector and sir lionel came also, and the swords of all three drave fiercely against him. when he felt their buffets, and his wound that was so grievous, he determined to do all his best while he could yet endure, and smote sir bors a blow that bent his head down nearly to the ground and razed his helmet off and pulled him from his horse. then rushing at sir ector and sir lionel, he smote them down, and might have slain all three, but when he saw their faces his heart forbade him. leaving them, therefore, on the field, he hurled into the thickest of the press, and did such feats of arms as never were beheld before. and sir lavaine was with him through it all, and overthrew ten knights; but sir lancelot smote down more than thirty, and most of them knights of the round table. then the king ordered the trumpets to blow for the end of the tourney, and the prize to be given by the heralds to the knight with the white shield who bore the red sleeve. but ere sir lancelot was found by the heralds, came the king of the hundred knights, the king of north wales, the king of northumberland, and sir galahaut, and said to him, "fair knight, god bless thee, for much have ye done this day for us; wherefore we pray ye come with us and receive the honour and the prize as ye have worshipfully deserved it." "my fair lords," said sir lancelot, "wit ye well if i have deserved thanks, i have sore bought them, for i am like never to escape with my life; therefore i pray ye let me depart, for i am sore hurt. i take no thought of honour, for i had rather rest me than be lord of all the world." and therewith he groaned piteously, and rode a great gallop away from them. and sir lavaine rode after him, sad at heart, for the broken spear still stuck fast in sir lancelot's side, and the blood streamed sorely from the wound. anon they came near a wood more than a mile from the lists, where he knew he could be hidden. then said he to sir lavaine, "o gentle knight, help me to pull out this spear-head from my side, for the pain thereof nigh killeth me." "dear lord," said he, "i fain would help ye; but i dread to draw it forth, lest ye should die for loss of blood." "i charge you as you love me," said sir lancelot, "draw it out." so they dismounted, and with a mighty wrench sir lavaine drew the spear forth from sir lancelot's side; whereat he gave a marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, and all his blood leaped forth in a full stream. then he sank swooning to the earth, with a visage pale as death. "alas!" cried sir lavaine, "what shall i do now?" and then he turned his master's face towards the wind, and sat by him nigh half an hour while he lay quiet as one dead. but at the last he lifted up his eyes, and said, "i pray ye bear me on my horse again, and lead me to a hermit who dwelleth within two miles hence, for he was formerly a knight of arthur's court, and now hath mighty skill in medicine and herbs." so with great pain sir lavaine got him to his horse, and led him to the hermitage within the wood, beside a stream. then knocked he with his spear upon the door, and prayed to enter. at that a child came out, to whom he said, "fair child, pray the good man thy master to come hither and let in a knight who is sore wounded." anon came out the knight-hermit, whose name was sir baldwin, and asked, "who is this wounded knight?" "i know not," said sir lavaine, "save that he is the noblest knight i ever met with, and hath done this day such marvellous deeds of arms against king arthur that he hath won the prize of the tourney." then the hermit gazed long on sir lancelot, and hardly knew him, so pale he was with bleeding, yet said he at the last, "who art thou, lord?" sir lancelot answered feebly, "i am a stranger knight adventurous, who laboureth through many realms to win worship." "why hidest thou thy name, dear lord, from me?" cried sir baldwin; "for in sooth i know thee now to be the noblest knight in all the world--my lord sir lancelot du lake, with whom i long had fellowship at the round table." "since ye know me, fair sir," said he, "i pray ye, for christ's sake, to help me if ye may." "doubt not," replied he, "that ye shall live and fare right well." then he staunched his wound, and gave him strong medicines and cordials till he was refreshed from his faintness and came to himself again. now after the jousting was done king arthur held a feast, and asked to see the knight with the red sleeve that he might take the prize. so they told him how that knight had ridden from the field wounded nigh to death. "these be the worst tidings i have heard for many years," cried out the king; "i would not for my kingdom he were slain." then all men asked, "know ye him, lord?" "i may not tell ye at this time," said he; "but would to god we had good tidings of him." then sir gawain prayed leave to go and seek that knight, which the king gladly gave him. so forthwith he mounted and rode many leagues round camelot, but could hear no tidings. within two days thereafter king arthur and his knights returned from camelot, and sir gawain chanced to lodge at astolat, in the house of sir bernard. and there came in the fair elaine to him, and prayed him news of the tournament, and who won the prize. "a knight with a white shield," said he, "who bare a red sleeve in his helm, smote down all comers and won the day." at that the visage of elaine changed suddenly from white to red, and heartily she thanked our lady. then said sir gawain, "know ye that knight?" and urged her till she told him that it was her sleeve he wore. so sir gawain knew it was for love that she had given it; and when he heard she kept his proper shield he prayed to see it. as soon as it was brought he saw sir lancelot's arms thereon, and cried, "alas! now am i heavier of heart than ever yet." "wherefore?" said fair elaine. "fair damsel," answered he, "know ye not that the knight ye love is of all knights the noblest in the world, sir lancelot du lake? with all my heart i pray ye may have joy of each other, but hardly dare i think that ye shall see him in this world again, for he is so sore wounded he may scarcely live, and is gone out of sight where none can find him." then was elaine nigh mad with grief and sorrow, and with piteous words she prayed her father that she might go seek sir lancelot and her brother. so in the end her father gave her leave, and she departed. and on the morrow came sir gawain to the court, and told how he had found sir lancelot's shield in elaine's keeping, and how it was her sleeve which he had worn; whereat all marvelled, for sir lancelot had done for her more than he had ever done for any woman. but when queen guinevere heard it she was beside herself with wrath, and sending privily for sir bors, who sorrowed sorely that through him sir lancelot had been hurt--"have ye now heard," said she, "how falsely sir lancelot hath betrayed me?" "i beseech thee, madam," said he, "speak not so, for else i may not hear thee." "shall i not call him traitor," cried she, "who hath worn another lady's token at the jousting?" "be sure he did it, madam, for no ill intent," replied sir bors, "but that he might be better hidden, for never did he in that wise before." "now shame on him, and thee who wouldest help him," cried the queen. "madam, say what ye will," said he; "but i must haste to seek him, and god send me soon good tidings of him." so with that he departed to find sir lancelot. now elaine had ridden with full haste from astolat, and come to camelot, and there she sought throughout the country for any news of lancelot. and so it chanced that sir lavaine was riding near the hermitage to exercise his horse, and when she saw him she ran up and cried aloud, "how doth my lord sir lancelot fare?" then said sir lavaine, marvelling greatly, "how know ye my lord's name, fair sister?" so she told him how sir gawain had lodged with sir bernard, and knew sir lancelot's shield. then prayed she to see his lord forthwith, and when she came to the hermitage and found him lying there sore sick and bleeding, she swooned for sorrow. anon, as she revived, sir lancelot kissed her, and said, "fair maid, i pray ye take comfort, for, by god's grace, i shall be shortly whole of this wound, and if ye be come to tend me, i am heartily bounden to your great kindness." yet was he sore vexed to hear sir gawain had discovered him, for he knew queen guinevere would be full wroth because of the red sleeve. so elaine rested in the hermitage, and ever night and day she watched and waited on sir lancelot, and would let none other tend him. and as she saw him more, the more she set her love upon him, and could by no means withdraw it. then said sir lancelot to sir lavaine, "i pray thee set some to watch for the good knight sir bors, for as he hurt me, so will he surely seek for me." now sir bors by this time had come to camelot, and was seeking for sir lancelot everywhere, so sir lavaine soon found him, and brought him to the hermitage. and when he saw sir lancelot pale and feeble, he wept for pity and sorrow that he had given him that grievous wound. "god send thee a right speedy cure, dear lord," said he; "for i am of all men most unhappy to have wounded thee, who art our leader, and the noblest knight in all the world." "fair cousin," said sir lancelot, "be comforted, for i have but gained what i sought, and it was through pride that i was hurt, for had i warned ye of my coming it had not been; wherefore let us speak of other things." so they talked long together, and sir bors told him of the queen's anger. then he asked sir lancelot, "was it from this maid who tendeth you so lovingly ye had the token?" "yea," said sir lancelot; "and would i could persuade her to withdraw her love from me." "why should ye do so?" said sir bors; "for she is passing fair and loving. i would to heaven ye could love her." "that may not be," replied he; "but it repenteth me in sooth to grieve her." then they talked of other matters, and of the great jousting at allhallowtide next coming, between king arthur and the king of north wales. "abide with me till then," said sir lancelot, "for by that time i trust to be all whole again, and we will go together." so elaine daily and nightly tending him, within a month he felt so strong he deemed himself full cured. then on a day, when sir bors and sir lavaine were from the hermitage, and the knight-hermit also was gone forth, sir lancelot prayed elaine to bring him some herbs from the forest. when she was gone he rose and made haste to arm himself, and try if he were whole enough to joust, and mounted on his horse, which was fresh with lack of labour for so long a time. but when he set his spear in the rest and tried his armour, the horse bounded and leapt beneath him, so that sir lancelot strained to keep him back. and therewith his wound, which was not wholly healed, burst forth again, and with a mighty groan he sank down swooning on the ground. at that came fair elaine and wept and piteously moaned to see him lying so. and when sir bors and sir lavaine came back, she called them traitors to let him rise, or to know any rumour of the tournament. anon the hermit returned and was wroth to see sir lancelot risen, but within a while he recovered him from his swoon and staunched the wound. then sir lancelot told him how he had risen of his own will to assay his strength for the tournament. but the hermit bad him rest and let sir bors go alone, for else would he sorely peril his life. and elaine, with tears, prayed him in the same wise, so that sir lancelot in the end consented. so sir bors departed to the tournament, and there he did such feats of arms that the prize was given between him and sir gawain, who did like valiantly. and when all was over he came back and told sir lancelot, and found him so nigh well that he could rise and walk. and within a while thereafter he departed from the hermitage and went with sir bors, sir lavaine, and fair elaine to astolat, where sir bernard joyfully received them. but after they had lodged there a few days sir lancelot and sir bors must needs depart and return to king arthur's court. so when elaine knew sir lancelot must go, she came to him and said, "have mercy on me, fair knight, and let me not die for your love." then said sir lancelot, very sad at heart, "fair maid, what would ye that i should do for you?" "if i may not be your wife, dear lord," she answered, "i must die." "alas!" said he, "i pray heaven that may not be; for in sooth i may not be your husband. but fain would i show ye what thankfulness i can for all your love and kindness to me. and ever will i be your knight, fair maiden; and if it chance that ye shall ever wed some noble knight, right heartily will i give ye such a dower as half my lands will bring." "alas! what shall that aid me?" answered she; "for i must die," and therewith she fell to the earth in a deep swoon. then was sir lancelot passing heavy of heart, and said to sir bernard and sir lavaine, "what shall i do for her?" "alas!" said sir bernard, "i know well that she will die for your sake." and sir lavaine said, "i marvel not that she so sorely mourneth your departure, for truly i do as she doth, and since i once have seen you, lord, i cannot leave you." so anon, with a full sorrowful heart, sir lancelot took his leave, and sir lavaine rode with him to the court. and king arthur and the knights of the round table joyed greatly to see him whole of his wound, but queen guinevere was sorely wroth, and neither spake with him nor greeted him. now when sir lancelot had departed, the maid of astolat could neither eat, nor drink, not sleep for sorrow; and having thus endured ten days, she felt within herself that she must die. then sent she for a holy man, and was shriven and received the sacrament. but when he told her she must leave her earthly thoughts, she answered, "am i not an earthly woman? what sin is it to love the noblest knight of all the world? and, by my truth, i am not able to withstand the love whereof i die; wherefore, i pray the high father of heaven to have mercy on my soul." then she besought sir bernard to indite a letter as she should devise, and said, "when i am dead put this within my hand, and dress me in my fairest clothes, and lay me in a barge all covered with black samite, and steer it down the river till it reach the court. thus, father, i beseech thee let it be." then, full of grief, he promised her it should be so. and anon she died, and all the household made a bitter lamentation over her. then did they as she had desired, and laid her body, richly dressed, upon a bed within the barge, and a trusty servant steered it down the river towards the court. now king arthur and queen guinevere sat at a window of the palace, and saw the barge come floating with the tide, and marvelled what was laid therein, and sent a messenger to see, who, soon returning, prayed them to come forth. when they came to the shore they marvelled greatly, and the king asked of the serving-men who steered the barge what this might mean. but he made signs that he was dumb, and pointed to the letter in the damsel's hands. so king arthur took the letter from the hand of the corpse, and found thereon written, "to the noble knight, sir lancelot du lake." then was sir lancelot sent for, and the letter read aloud by a clerk, and thus it was written:-- [illustration: then was sir lancelot sent for, and the letter read aloud by a clerk.] "most noble knight, my lord sir lancelot, now hath death for ever parted us. i, whom men call the maid of astolat, set my love upon you, and have died for your sake. this is my last request, that ye pray for my soul and give me burial. grant me this, sir lancelot, as thou art a peerless knight." at these words the queen and all the knights wept sore for pity. then said sir lancelot, "my lord, i am right heavy for the death of this fair damsel; and god knoweth that right unwillingly i caused it, for she was good as she was fair, and much was i beholden to her; but she loved me beyond measure, and asked me that i could not give her." "ye might have shown her gentleness enough to save her life," answered the queen. "madam," said he, "she would but be repaid by my taking her to wife, and that i could not grant her, for love cometh of the heart and not by constraint." "that is true," said the king; "for love is free." "i pray you," said sir lancelot, "let me now grant her last asking, to be buried by me." so on the morrow, he caused her body to be buried richly and solemnly, and ordained masses for her soul, and made great sorrow over her. then the queen sent for sir lancelot, and prayed his pardon for her wrath against him without cause. "this is not the first time it hath been so," answered he; "yet must i ever bear with ye, and so do i now forgive you." so queen guinevere and sir lancelot were made friends again; but anon such favour did she show him, as in the end brought many evils on them both and all the realm. chapter xiv _the war between king arthur and sir lancelot and the death of king arthur_ within a while thereafter was a jousting at the court, wherein sir lancelot won the prize. and two of those he smote down were sir agravaine, the brother of sir gawain, and sir modred, his false brother--king arthur's son by belisent. and because of his victory they hated sir lancelot, and sought how they might injure him. so on a night, when king arthur was hunting in the forest, and the queen sent for sir lancelot to her chamber, they two espied him; and thinking now to make a scandal and a quarrel between lancelot and the king, they found twelve others, and said sir lancelot was ever now in the queen's chamber, and king arthur was dishonoured. then, all armed, they came suddenly round the queen's door, and cried, "traitor! now art thou taken." "madam, we be betrayed," said sir lancelot; "yet shall my life cost these men dear." then did the queen weep sore, and dismally she cried, "alas! there is no armour here whereby ye might withstand so many; wherefore ye will be slain, and i be burnt for the dread crime they will charge on me." but while she spake the shouting of the knights was heard without, "traitor, come forth, for now thou art snared!" "better were twenty deaths at once than this vile outcry," said sir lancelot. then he kissed her and said, "most noble lady, i beseech ye, as i have ever been your own true knight, take courage; pray for my soul if i be now slain, and trust my faithful friends, sir bors and sir lavaine, to save you from the fire." but ever bitterly she wept and moaned, and cried, "would god that they would take and slay me, and that thou couldest escape." "that shall never be," said he. and wrapping his mantle round his arm he unbarred the door a little space, so that but one could enter. then first rushed in sir chalaunce, a full strong knight, and lifted up his sword to smite sir lancelot; but lightly he avoided him, and struck sir chalaunce, with his hand, such a sore buffet on the head as felled him dead upon the floor. then sir lancelot pulled in his body and barred the door again, and dressed himself in his armour, and took his drawn sword in his hand. but still the knights cried mightily without the door, "traitor, come forth!" [illustration: but still the knights cried mightily without the door, "traitor, come forth!"] "be silent and depart," replied sir lancelot; "for be ye sure ye will not take me, and to-morrow will i meet ye face to face before the king." "ye shall have no such grace," they cried; "but we will slay thee, or take thee as we list." "then save yourselves who may," he thundered, and therewith suddenly unbarred the door and rushed forth at them. and at the first blow he slew sir agravaine, and after him twelve other knights, with twelve more mighty buffets. and none of all escaped him save sir modred, who, sorely wounded, fled away for life. then returned he to the queen, and said, "now, madam, will i depart, and if ye be in any danger i pray ye come to me." "surely will i stay here, for i am queen," she answered; "yet if to-morrow any harm come to me i trust to thee for rescue." "have ye no doubt of me," said he, "for ever while i live am i your own true knight." therewith he took his leave, and went and told sir bors and all his kindred of this adventure. "we will be with thee in this quarrel," said they all; "and if the queen be sentenced to the fire, we certainly will save her." meanwhile sir modred, in great fear and pain, fled from the court, and rode until he found king arthur, and told him all that had befallen. but the king would scarce believe him till he came and saw the bodies of sir agravaine and all the other knights. then felt he in himself that all was true, and with his passing grief his heart nigh broke. "alas!" cried he, "now is the fellowship of the round table for ever broken: yea, woe is me! i may not with my honour spare my queen." anon it was ordained that queen guinevere should be burned to death, because she had dishonoured king arthur. but when sir gawain heard thereof, he came before the king, and said, "my lord, i counsel thee be not too hasty in this matter, but stay the judgment of the queen a season, for it may well be that sir lancelot was in her chamber for no evil, seeing she is greatly beholden to him for so many deeds done for her sake, and peradventure she had sent to him to thank him, and did it secretly that she might avoid slander." but king arthur answered, full of grief, "alas! i may not help her; she is judged as any other woman." then he required sir gawain and his brethren, sir gaheris and sir gareth, to be ready to bear the queen to-morrow to the place of execution. "nay, noble lord," replied sir gawain, "that can i never do; for neither will my heart suffer me to see the queen die, nor shall men ever say i was of your counsel in this matter." then said his brothers, "ye may command us to be there, but since it is against our will, we will be without arms, that we may do no battle against her." so on the morrow was queen guinevere led forth to die by fire, and a mighty crowd was there, of knights and nobles, armed and unarmed. and all the lords and ladies wept sore at that piteous sight. then was she shriven by a priest, and the men came nigh to bind her to the stake and light the fire. at that sir lancelot's spies rode hastily and told him and his kindred, who lay hidden in a wood hard by; and suddenly, with twenty knights, he rushed into the midst of all the throng to rescue her. but certain of king arthur's knights rose up and fought with them, and there was a full great battle and confusion. and sir lancelot drave fiercely here and there among the press, and smote on every side, and at every blow struck down a knight, so that many were slain by him and his fellows. then was the queen set free, and caught up on sir lancelot's saddle and fled away with him and all his company to the castle of la joyous garde. now so it chanced that, in the turmoil of the fighting, sir lancelot had unawares struck down and slain the two good knights sir gareth and sir gaheris, knowing it not, for he fought wildly, and saw not that they were unarmed. when king arthur heard thereof, and of all that battle, and the rescue of the queen, he sorrowed heavily for those good knights, and was passing wroth with lancelot and the queen. but when sir gawain heard of his brethren's death he swooned for sorrow and wrath, for he wist that sir lancelot had killed them in malice. and as soon as he recovered he ran in to the king, and said, "lord king and uncle, hear this oath which now i swear, that from this day i will not fail sir lancelot till one of us hath slain the other. and now, unless ye haste to war with him, that we may be avenged, will i myself alone go after him." then the king, full of wrath and grief, agreed thereto, and sent letters throughout the realm to summon all his knights, and went with a vast army to besiege the castle of la joyous garde. and sir lancelot, with his knights, mightily defended it; but never would he suffer any to go forth and attack one of the king's army, for he was right loth to fight against him. so when fifteen weeks were passed, and king arthur's army wasted itself in vain against the castle, for it was passing strong, it chanced upon a day sir lancelot was looking from the walls and espied king arthur and sir gawain close beside. "come forth, sir lancelot," said king arthur right fiercely, "and let us two meet in the midst of the field." "god forbid that i should encounter with thee, lord, for thou didst make me a knight," replied sir lancelot. then cried sir gawain, "shame on thee, traitor and false knight, yet be ye well assured we will regain the queen and slay thee and thy company; yea, double shame on ye to slay my brother gaheris unarmed, sir gareth also, who loved ye so well. for that treachery, be sure i am thine enemy till death." "alas!" cried sir lancelot, "that i hear such tidings, for i knew not i had slain those noble knights, and right sorely now do i repent it with a heavy heart. yet abate thy wrath, sir gawain, for ye know full well i did it by mischance, for i loved them ever as my own brothers." "thou liest, false recreant," cried sir gawain, fiercely. at that sir lancelot was wroth, and said, "i well see thou art now mine enemy, and that there can be no more peace with thee, or with my lord the king, else would i gladly give back the queen." then the king would fain have listened to sir lancelot, for more than all his own wrong did he grieve at the sore waste and damage of the realm, but sir gawain persuaded him against it, and ever cried out foully on sir lancelot. when sir bors and the other knights of lancelot's party heard the fierce words of sir gawain, they were passing wroth, and prayed to ride forth and be avenged on him, for they were weary of so long waiting to no good. and in the end sir lancelot, with a heavy heart, consented. so on the morrow the hosts on either side met in the field, and there was a great battle. and sir gawain prayed his knights chiefly to set upon sir lancelot; but sir lancelot commanded his company to forbear king arthur and sir gawain. so the two armies jousted together right fiercely, and sir gawain proffered to encounter with sir lionel, and overthrew him. but sir bors, and sir blamor, and sir palomedes, who were on sir lancelot's side, did great feats of arms, and overthrew many of king arthur's knights. then the king came forth against sir lancelot, but sir lancelot forbore him and would not strike again. at that sir bors rode up against the king and smote him down. but sir lancelot cried, "touch him not on pain of thy head," and going to king arthur he alighted and gave him his own horse, saying, "my lord, i pray thee forbear this strife, for it can bring to neither of us any honour." and when king arthur looked on him the tears came to his eyes as he thought of his noble courtesy, and he said within himself, "alas! that ever this war began." but on the morrow sir gawain led forth the army again, and sir bors commanded on sir lancelot's side. and they two struck together so fiercely that both fell to the ground sorely wounded; and all the day they fought till night fell, and many were slain on both sides, yet in the end neither gained the victory. but by now the fame of this fierce war spread through all christendom, and when the pope heard thereof he sent a bull, and charged king arthur to make peace with lancelot, and receive back queen guinevere; and for the offence imputed to her absolution should be given by the pope. thereto would king arthur straightway have obeyed, but sir gawain ever urged him to refuse. when sir lancelot heard thereof, he wrote thus to the king: "it was never in my thought, lord, to withhold thy queen from thee; but since she was condemned for my sake to death, i deemed it but a just and knightly part to rescue her therefrom; wherefore i recommend me to your grace, and within eight days will i come to thee and bring the queen in safety." then, within eight days, as he had said, sir lancelot rode from out the castle with queen guinevere, and a hundred knights for company, each carrying an olive branch, in sign of peace. and so they came to the court, and found king arthur sitting on his throne, with sir gawain and many other knights around him. and when sir lancelot entered with the queen, they both kneeled down before the king. anon sir lancelot rose and said, "my lord, i have brought hither my lady the queen again, as right requireth, and by commandment of the pope and you. i pray ye take her to your heart again and forget the past. for myself i may ask nothing, and for my sin i shall have sorrow and sore punishment; yet i would to heaven i might have your grace." but ere the king could answer, for he was moved with pity at his words, sir gawain cried aloud, "let the king do as he will, but be sure, sir lancelot, thou and i shall never be accorded while we live, for thou has slain my brethren traitorously and unarmed." "as heaven is my help," replied sir lancelot, "i did it ignorantly, for i loved them well, and while i live i shall bewail their death; but to make war with me were no avail, for i must needs fight with thee if thou assailest, and peradventure i might kill thee also, which i were right loth to do." "i will forgive thee never," cried sir gawain, "and if the king accordeth with thee he shall lose my service." then the knights who stood near tried to reconcile sir gawain to sir lancelot, but he would not hear them. so, at the last, sir lancelot said, "since peace is vain, i will depart, lest i bring more evil on my fellowship." and as he turned to go, the tears fell from him, and he said, "alas, most noble christian realm, which i have loved above all others, now shall i see thee never more!" then said he to the queen, "madam, now must i leave ye and this noble fellowship for ever. and, i beseech ye, pray for me, and if ye ever be defamed of any, let me hear thereof, and as i have been ever thy true knight in right and wrong, so will i be again." with that he kneeled and kissed king arthur's hands, and departed on his way. and there was none in all that court, save sir gawain alone, but wept to see him go. so he returned with all his knights to the castle of la joyous garde, and, for his sorrow's sake, he named it dolorous garde thenceforth. anon he left the realm, and went with many of his fellowship beyond the sea to france, and there divided all his lands among them equally, he sharing but as the rest. and from that time forward peace had been between him and king arthur, but for sir gawain, who left the king no rest, but constantly persuaded him that lancelot was raising mighty hosts against him. so in the end his malice overcame the king, who left the government in charge of modred, and made him guardian of the queen, and went with a great army to invade sir lancelot's lands. yet sir lancelot would make no war upon the king, and sent a message to gain peace on any terms king arthur chose. but sir gawain met the herald ere he reached the king, and sent him back with taunting and bitter words. whereat sir lancelot sorrowfully called his knights together and fortified the castle of benwicke, and there was shortly besieged by the army of king arthur. and every day sir gawain rode up to the walls, and cried out foully on sir lancelot, till, upon a time, sir lancelot answered him that he would meet him in the field and put his boasting to the proof. so it was agreed on both sides that there should none come nigh them or separate them till one had fallen or yielded; and they two rode forth. then did they wheel their horses apart, and turning, came together as it had been thunder, so that both horses fell, and both their lances broke. at that they drew their swords and set upon each other fiercely, with passing grievous strokes. now sir gawain had through magic a marvellous great gift. for every day, from morning till noon, his strength waxed to the might of seven men, but after that waned to his natural force. therefore till noon he gave sir lancelot many mighty buffets, which scarcely he endured. yet greatly he forbore sir gawain, for he was aware of his enchantment, and smote him slightly till his own knights marvelled. but after noon sir gawain's strength sank fast, and then, with one full blow, sir lancelot laid him on the earth. then sir gawain cried out, "turn not away, thou traitor knight, but slay me if thou wilt, or else i will arise and fight with thee again some other time." "sir knight," replied sir lancelot, "i never yet smote a fallen man." at that they bore sir gawain sorely wounded to his tent, and king arthur withdrew his men, for he was loth to shed the blood of so many knights of his own fellowship. but now came tidings to king arthur from across the sea, which caused him to return in haste. for thus the news ran, that no sooner was sir modred set up in his regency, than he had forged false tidings from abroad that the king had fallen in a battle with sir lancelot. whereat he had proclaimed himself the king, and had been crowned at canterbury, where he had held a coronation feast for fifteen days. then he had gone to winchester, where queen guinevere abode, and had commanded her to be his wife; whereto, for fear and sore perplexity, she had feigned consent, but, under pretext of preparing for the marriage, had fled in haste to london and taken shelter in the tower, fortifying it and providing it with all manner of victuals, and defending it against sir modred, and answering to all his threats that she would rather slay herself than be his queen. thus was it written to king arthur. then, in passing great wrath and haste, he came with all his army swiftly back from france and sailed to england. but when sir modred heard thereof, he left the tower and marched with all his host to meet the king at dover. then fled queen guinevere to amesbury to a nunnery, and there she clothed herself in sackcloth, and spent her time in praying for the king and in good deeds and fasting. and in that nunnery evermore she lived, sorely repenting and mourning for her sin, and for the ruin she had brought on all the realm. and there anon she died. and when sir lancelot heard thereof, he put his knightly armour off, and bade farewell to all his kin, and went a mighty pilgrimage for many years, and after lived a hermit till his death. when sir modred came to dover, he found king arthur and his army but just landed; and there they fought a fierce and bloody battle, and many great and noble knights fell on both sides. but the king's side had the victory, for he was beyond himself with might and passion, and all his knights so fiercely followed him, that, in spite of all their multitude, they drove sir modred's army back with fearful wounds and slaughter, and slept that night upon the battle-field. but sir gawain was smitten by an arrow in the wound sir lancelot gave him, and wounded to the death. then was he borne to the king's tent, and king arthur sorrowed over him as it had been his own son. "alas!" said he; "in sir lancelot and in you i had my greatest earthly joy, and now is all gone from me." and sir gawain answered, with a feeble voice, "my lord and king, i know well my death is come, and through my own wilfulness, for i am smitten in the wound sir lancelot gave me. alas! that i have been the cause of all this war, for but for me thou hadst been now at peace with lancelot, and then had modred never done this treason. i pray ye, therefore, my dear lord, be now agreed with lancelot, and tell him, that although he gave me my death-wound, it was through my own seeking; wherefore i beseech him to come back to england, and here to visit my tomb, and pray for my soul." when he had thus spoken, sir gawain gave up his ghost, and the king grievously mourned for him. then they told him that the enemy had camped on barham downs, whereat, with all his hosts, he straightway marched there, and fought again a bloody battle, and overthrew sir modred utterly. howbeit, he raised yet another army, and retreating ever from before the king, increased his numbers as he went, till at the farthest west in lyonesse, he once more made a stand. now, on the night of trinity sunday, being the eve of the battle, king arthur had a vision, and saw sir gawain in a dream, who warned him not to fight with modred on the morrow, else he would be surely slain; and prayed him to delay till lancelot and his knights should come to aid him. so when king arthur woke he told his lords and knights that vision, and all agreed to wait the coming of sir lancelot. then a herald was sent with a message of truce to sir modred, and a treaty was made that neither army should assail the other. but when the treaty was agreed upon, and the heralds returned, king arthur said to his knights, "beware, lest sir modred deceive us, for i in no wise trust him, and if swords be drawn be ready to encounter!" and sir modred likewise gave an order, that if any man of the king's army drew his sword, they should begin to fight. and as it chanced, a knight of the king's side was bitten by an adder in the foot, and hastily drew forth his sword to slay it. that saw sir modred, and forthwith commanded all his army to assail the king's. so both sides rushed to battle, and fought passing fiercely. and when the king saw there was no hope to stay them, he did right mightily and nobly as a king should do, and ever, like a lion, raged in the thickest of the press, and slew on the right hand and on the left, till his horse went fetlock deep in blood. so all day long they fought, and stinted not till many a noble knight was slain. but the king was passing sorrowful to see his trusty knights lie dead on every side. and at the last but two remained beside him, sir lucan, and his brother, sir bedivere, and both were sorely wounded. "now am i come to mine end," said king arthur; "but, lo! that traitor modred liveth yet, and i may not die till i have slain him. now, give me my spear, sir lucan." "lord, let him be," replied sir lucan; "for if ye pass through this unhappy day, ye shall be right well revenged upon him. my good lord, remember well your dream, and what the spirit of sir gawain did forewarn ye." "betide me life, betide me death," said the king; "now i see him yonder alone, he shall never escape my hands, for at a better vantage shall i never have him." "god speed you well," said sir bedivere. then king arthur got his spear in both his hands, and ran towards sir modred, crying, "traitor, now is thy death-day come!" and when sir modred heard his words, and saw him come, he drew his sword and stood to meet him. then king arthur smote sir modred through the body more than a fathom. and when sir modred felt he had his death wound, he thrust himself with all his might up to the end of king arthur's spear, and smote his father, arthur, with his sword upon the head, so that it pierced both helm and brain-pan. and therewith sir modred fell down stark dead to the earth, and king arthur fell down also in a swoon, and swooned many times. then sir lucan and sir bedivere came and bare him away to a little chapel by the sea-shore. and there sir lucan sank down with the bleeding of his own wounds, and fell dead. and king arthur lay long in a swoon, and when he came to himself, he found sir lucan lying dead beside him, and sir bedivere weeping over the body of his brother. then said the king to sir bedivere, "weeping will avail no longer, else would i grieve for evermore. alas! now is the fellowship of the round table dissolved for ever, and all my realm i have so loved is wasted with war. but my time hieth fast, wherefore take thou excalibur, my good sword, and go therewith to yonder water-side and throw it in, and bring me word what thing thou seest." so sir bedivere departed; but as he went he looked upon the sword, the hilt whereof was all inlaid with precious stones exceeding rich. and presently he said within himself, "if i now throw this sword into the water, what good should come of it?" so he hid the sword among the reeds, and came again to the king. "what sawest thou?" said he to sir bedivere. "lord," said he, "i saw nothing else but wind and waves." "thou hast untruly spoken," said the king; "wherefore go lightly back and throw it in, and spare not." then sir bedivere returned again, and took the sword up in his hand; but when he looked on it, he thought it sin and shame to throw away a thing so noble. wherefore he hid it yet again, and went back to the king. "what saw ye?" said king arthur. "lord," answered he, "i saw nothing but the water ebbing and flowing." "oh, traitor and untrue!" cried out the king; "twice hast thou now betrayed me. art thou called of men a noble knight, and wouldest betray me for a jewelled sword? now, therefore, go again for the last time, for thy tarrying hath put me in sore peril of my life, and i fear my wound hath taken cold; and if thou do it not this time, by my faith i will arise and slay thee with my hands." then sir bedivere ran quickly and took up the sword, and went down to the water's edge, and bound the girdle round the hilt and threw it far into the water. and lo! an arm and hand came forth above the water, and caught the sword, and brandished it three times, and vanished. so sir bedivere came again to the king and told him what he had seen. "help me from hence," said king arthur; "for i dread me i have tarried over long." then sir bedivere took the king up in his arms, and bore him to the water's edge. and by the shore they saw a barge with three fair queens therein, all dressed in black, and when they saw king arthur they wept and wailed. "now put me in the barge," said he to sir bedivere, and tenderly he did so. then the three queens received him, and he laid his head upon the lap of one of them, who cried, "alas! dear brother, why have ye tarried so long, for your wound hath taken cold?" with that the barge put from the land, and when sir bedivere saw it departing, he cried with a bitter cry, "alas! my lord king arthur, what shall become of me now ye have gone from me?" "comfort ye," said king arthur, "and be strong, for i may no more help ye. i go to the vale of avilion to heal me of my grievous wound, and if ye see me no more, pray for my soul." then the three queens kneeled down around the king and sorely wept and wailed, and the barge went forth to sea, and departed slowly out of sir bedivere's sight. a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) part . chapter xxxvi an encounter in the dark london--to a slave--was a sufficiently interesting place. it was merely a great big village; and mainly mud and thatch. the streets were muddy, crooked, unpaved. the populace was an ever flocking and drifting swarm of rags, and splendors, of nodding plumes and shining armor. the king had a palace there; he saw the outside of it. it made him sigh; yes, and swear a little, in a poor juvenile sixth century way. we saw knights and grandees whom we knew, but they didn't know us in our rags and dirt and raw welts and bruises, and wouldn't have recognized us if we had hailed them, nor stopped to answer, either, it being unlawful to speak with slaves on a chain. sandy passed within ten yards of me on a mule--hunting for me, i imagined. but the thing which clean broke my heart was something which happened in front of our old barrack in a square, while we were enduring the spectacle of a man being boiled to death in oil for counterfeiting pennies. it was the sight of a newsboy--and i couldn't get at him! still, i had one comfort--here was proof that clarence was still alive and banging away. i meant to be with him before long; the thought was full of cheer. i had one little glimpse of another thing, one day, which gave me a great uplift. it was a wire stretching from housetop to housetop. telegraph or telephone, sure. i did very much wish i had a little piece of it. it was just what i needed, in order to carry out my project of escape. my idea was to get loose some night, along with the king, then gag and bind our master, change clothes with him, batter him into the aspect of a stranger, hitch him to the slave-chain, assume possession of the property, march to camelot, and-- but you get my idea; you see what a stunning dramatic surprise i would wind up with at the palace. it was all feasible, if i could only get hold of a slender piece of iron which i could shape into a lock-pick. i could then undo the lumbering padlocks with which our chains were fastened, whenever i might choose. but i never had any luck; no such thing ever happened to fall in my way. however, my chance came at last. a gentleman who had come twice before to dicker for me, without result, or indeed any approach to a result, came again. i was far from expecting ever to belong to him, for the price asked for me from the time i was first enslaved was exorbitant, and always provoked either anger or derision, yet my master stuck stubbornly to it--twenty-two dollars. he wouldn't bate a cent. the king was greatly admired, because of his grand physique, but his kingly style was against him, and he wasn't salable; nobody wanted that kind of a slave. i considered myself safe from parting from him because of my extravagant price. no, i was not expecting to ever belong to this gentleman whom i have spoken of, but he had something which i expected would belong to me eventually, if he would but visit us often enough. it was a steel thing with a long pin to it, with which his long cloth outside garment was fastened together in front. there were three of them. he had disappointed me twice, because he did not come quite close enough to me to make my project entirely safe; but this time i succeeded; i captured the lower clasp of the three, and when he missed it he thought he had lost it on the way. i had a chance to be glad about a minute, then straightway a chance to be sad again. for when the purchase was about to fail, as usual, the master suddenly spoke up and said what would be worded thus --in modern english: "i'll tell you what i'll do. i'm tired supporting these two for no good. give me twenty-two dollars for this one, and i'll throw the other one in." the king couldn't get his breath, he was in such a fury. he began to choke and gag, and meantime the master and the gentleman moved away discussing. "an ye will keep the offer open--" "'tis open till the morrow at this hour." "then i will answer you at that time," said the gentleman, and disappeared, the master following him. i had a time of it to cool the king down, but i managed it. i whispered in his ear, to this effect: "your grace _will_ go for nothing, but after another fashion. and so shall i. to-night we shall both be free." "ah! how is that?" "with this thing which i have stolen, i will unlock these locks and cast off these chains to-night. when he comes about nine-thirty to inspect us for the night, we will seize him, gag him, batter him, and early in the morning we will march out of this town, proprietors of this caravan of slaves." that was as far as i went, but the king was charmed and satisfied. that evening we waited patiently for our fellow-slaves to get to sleep and signify it by the usual sign, for you must not take many chances on those poor fellows if you can avoid it. it is best to keep your own secrets. no doubt they fidgeted only about as usual, but it didn't seem so to me. it seemed to me that they were going to be forever getting down to their regular snoring. as the time dragged on i got nervously afraid we shouldn't have enough of it left for our needs; so i made several premature attempts, and merely delayed things by it; for i couldn't seem to touch a padlock, there in the dark, without starting a rattle out of it which interrupted somebody's sleep and made him turn over and wake some more of the gang. but finally i did get my last iron off, and was a free man once more. i took a good breath of relief, and reached for the king's irons. too late! in comes the master, with a light in one hand and his heavy walking-staff in the other. i snuggled close among the wallow of snorers, to conceal as nearly as possible that i was naked of irons; and i kept a sharp lookout and prepared to spring for my man the moment he should bend over me. but he didn't approach. he stopped, gazed absently toward our dusky mass a minute, evidently thinking about something else; then set down his light, moved musingly toward the door, and before a body could imagine what he was going to do, he was out of the door and had closed it behind him. "quick!" said the king. "fetch him back!" of course, it was the thing to do, and i was up and out in a moment. but, dear me, there were no lamps in those days, and it was a dark night. but i glimpsed a dim figure a few steps away. i darted for it, threw myself upon it, and then there was a state of things and lively! we fought and scuffled and struggled, and drew a crowd in no time. they took an immense interest in the fight and encouraged us all they could, and, in fact, couldn't have been pleasanter or more cordial if it had been their own fight. then a tremendous row broke out behind us, and as much as half of our audience left us, with a rush, to invest some sympathy in that. lanterns began to swing in all directions; it was the watch gathering from far and near. presently a halberd fell across my back, as a reminder, and i knew what it meant. i was in custody. so was my adversary. we were marched off toward prison, one on each side of the watchman. here was disaster, here was a fine scheme gone to sudden destruction! i tried to imagine what would happen when the master should discover that it was i who had been fighting him; and what would happen if they jailed us together in the general apartment for brawlers and petty law-breakers, as was the custom; and what might-- just then my antagonist turned his face around in my direction, the freckled light from the watchman's tin lantern fell on it, and, by george, he was the wrong man! chapter xxxvii an awful predicament sleep? it was impossible. it would naturally have been impossible in that noisome cavern of a jail, with its mangy crowd of drunken, quarrelsome, and song-singing rapscallions. but the thing that made sleep all the more a thing not to be dreamed of, was my racking impatience to get out of this place and find out the whole size of what might have happened yonder in the slave-quarters in consequence of that intolerable miscarriage of mine. it was a long night, but the morning got around at last. i made a full and frank explanation to the court. i said i was a slave, the property of the great earl grip, who had arrived just after dark at the tabard inn in the village on the other side of the water, and had stopped there over night, by compulsion, he being taken deadly sick with a strange and sudden disorder. i had been ordered to cross to the city in all haste and bring the best physician; i was doing my best; naturally i was running with all my might; the night was dark, i ran against this common person here, who seized me by the throat and began to pummel me, although i told him my errand, and implored him, for the sake of the great earl my master's mortal peril-- the common person interrupted and said it was a lie; and was going to explain how i rushed upon him and attacked him without a word-- "silence, sirrah!" from the court. "take him hence and give him a few stripes whereby to teach him how to treat the servant of a nobleman after a different fashion another time. go!" then the court begged my pardon, and hoped i would not fail to tell his lordship it was in no wise the court's fault that this high-handed thing had happened. i said i would make it all right, and so took my leave. took it just in time, too; he was starting to ask me why i didn't fetch out these facts the moment i was arrested. i said i would if i had thought of it--which was true --but that i was so battered by that man that all my wit was knocked out of me--and so forth and so on, and got myself away, still mumbling. i didn't wait for breakfast. no grass grew under my feet. i was soon at the slave quarters. empty--everybody gone! that is, everybody except one body--the slave-master's. it lay there all battered to pulp; and all about were the evidences of a terrific fight. there was a rude board coffin on a cart at the door, and workmen, assisted by the police, were thinning a road through the gaping crowd in order that they might bring it in. i picked out a man humble enough in life to condescend to talk with one so shabby as i, and got his account of the matter. "there were sixteen slaves here. they rose against their master in the night, and thou seest how it ended." "yes. how did it begin?" "there was no witness but the slaves. they said the slave that was most valuable got free of his bonds and escaped in some strange way--by magic arts 'twas thought, by reason that he had no key, and the locks were neither broke nor in any wise injured. when the master discovered his loss, he was mad with despair, and threw himself upon his people with his heavy stick, who resisted and brake his back and in other and divers ways did give him hurts that brought him swiftly to his end." "this is dreadful. it will go hard with the slaves, no doubt, upon the trial." "marry, the trial is over." "over!" "would they be a week, think you--and the matter so simple? they were not the half of a quarter of an hour at it." "why, i don't see how they could determine which were the guilty ones in so short a time." "_which_ ones? indeed, they considered not particulars like to that. they condemned them in a body. wit ye not the law?--which men say the romans left behind them here when they went--that if one slave killeth his master all the slaves of that man must die for it." "true. i had forgotten. and when will these die?" "belike within a four and twenty hours; albeit some say they will wait a pair of days more, if peradventure they may find the missing one meantime." the missing one! it made me feel uncomfortable. "is it likely they will find him?" "before the day is spent--yes. they seek him everywhere. they stand at the gates of the town, with certain of the slaves who will discover him to them if he cometh, and none can pass out but he will be first examined." "might one see the place where the rest are confined?" "the outside of it--yes. the inside of it--but ye will not want to see that." i took the address of that prison for future reference and then sauntered off. at the first second-hand clothing shop i came to, up a back street, i got a rough rig suitable for a common seaman who might be going on a cold voyage, and bound up my face with a liberal bandage, saying i had a toothache. this concealed my worst bruises. it was a transformation. i no longer resembled my former self. then i struck out for that wire, found it and followed it to its den. it was a little room over a butcher's shop--which meant that business wasn't very brisk in the telegraphic line. the young chap in charge was drowsing at his table. i locked the door and put the vast key in my bosom. this alarmed the young fellow, and he was going to make a noise; but i said: "save your wind; if you open your mouth you are dead, sure. tackle your instrument. lively, now! call camelot." "this doth amaze me! how should such as you know aught of such matters as--" "call camelot! i am a desperate man. call camelot, or get away from the instrument and i will do it myself." "what--you?" "yes--certainly. stop gabbling. call the palace." he made the call. "now, then, call clarence." "clarence _who_?" "never mind clarence who. say you want clarence; you'll get an answer." he did so. we waited five nerve-straining minutes--ten minutes --how long it did seem!--and then came a click that was as familiar to me as a human voice; for clarence had been my own pupil. "now, my lad, vacate! they would have known _my_ touch, maybe, and so your call was surest; but i'm all right now." he vacated the place and cocked his ear to listen--but it didn't win. i used a cipher. i didn't waste any time in sociabilities with clarence, but squared away for business, straight-off--thus: "the king is here and in danger. we were captured and brought here as slaves. we should not be able to prove our identity --and the fact is, i am not in a position to try. send a telegram for the palace here which will carry conviction with it." his answer came straight back: "they don't know anything about the telegraph; they haven't had any experience yet, the line to london is so new. better not venture that. they might hang you. think up something else." might hang us! little he knew how closely he was crowding the facts. i couldn't think up anything for the moment. then an idea struck me, and i started it along: "send five hundred picked knights with launcelot in the lead; and send them on the jump. let them enter by the southwest gate, and look out for the man with a white cloth around his right arm." the answer was prompt: "they shall start in half an hour." "all right, clarence; now tell this lad here that i'm a friend of yours and a dead-head; and that he must be discreet and say nothing about this visit of mine." the instrument began to talk to the youth and i hurried away. i fell to ciphering. in half an hour it would be nine o'clock. knights and horses in heavy armor couldn't travel very fast. these would make the best time they could, and now that the ground was in good condition, and no snow or mud, they would probably make a seven-mile gait; they would have to change horses a couple of times; they would arrive about six, or a little after; it would still be plenty light enough; they would see the white cloth which i should tie around my right arm, and i would take command. we would surround that prison and have the king out in no time. it would be showy and picturesque enough, all things considered, though i would have preferred noonday, on account of the more theatrical aspect the thing would have. now, then, in order to increase the strings to my bow, i thought i would look up some of those people whom i had formerly recognized, and make myself known. that would help us out of our scrape, without the knights. but i must proceed cautiously, for it was a risky business. i must get into sumptuous raiment, and it wouldn't do to run and jump into it. no, i must work up to it by degrees, buying suit after suit of clothes, in shops wide apart, and getting a little finer article with each change, until i should finally reach silk and velvet, and be ready for my project. so i started. but the scheme fell through like scat! the first corner i turned, i came plump upon one of our slaves, snooping around with a watchman. i coughed at the moment, and he gave me a sudden look that bit right into my marrow. i judge he thought he had heard that cough before. i turned immediately into a shop and worked along down the counter, pricing things and watching out of the corner of my eye. those people had stopped, and were talking together and looking in at the door. i made up my mind to get out the back way, if there was a back way, and i asked the shopwoman if i could step out there and look for the escaped slave, who was believed to be in hiding back there somewhere, and said i was an officer in disguise, and my pard was yonder at the door with one of the murderers in charge, and would she be good enough to step there and tell him he needn't wait, but had better go at once to the further end of the back alley and be ready to head him off when i rousted him out. she was blazing with eagerness to see one of those already celebrated murderers, and she started on the errand at once. i slipped out the back way, locked the door behind me, put the key in my pocket and started off, chuckling to myself and comfortable. well, i had gone and spoiled it again, made another mistake. a double one, in fact. there were plenty of ways to get rid of that officer by some simple and plausible device, but no, i must pick out a picturesque one; it is the crying defect of my character. and then, i had ordered my procedure upon what the officer, being human, would _naturally_ do; whereas when you are least expecting it, a man will now and then go and do the very thing which it's _not_ natural for him to do. the natural thing for the officer to do, in this case, was to follow straight on my heels; he would find a stout oaken door, securely locked, between him and me; before he could break it down, i should be far away and engaged in slipping into a succession of baffling disguises which would soon get me into a sort of raiment which was a surer protection from meddling law-dogs in britain than any amount of mere innocence and purity of character. but instead of doing the natural thing, the officer took me at my word, and followed my instructions. and so, as i came trotting out of that cul de sac, full of satisfaction with my own cleverness, he turned the corner and i walked right into his handcuffs. if i had known it was a cul de sac--however, there isn't any excusing a blunder like that, let it go. charge it up to profit and loss. of course, i was indignant, and swore i had just come ashore from a long voyage, and all that sort of thing--just to see, you know, if it would deceive that slave. but it didn't. he knew me. then i reproached him for betraying me. he was more surprised than hurt. he stretched his eyes wide, and said: "what, wouldst have me let thee, of all men, escape and not hang with us, when thou'rt the very _cause_ of our hanging? go to!" "go to" was their way of saying "i should smile!" or "i like that!" queer talkers, those people. well, there was a sort of bastard justice in his view of the case, and so i dropped the matter. when you can't cure a disaster by argument, what is the use to argue? it isn't my way. so i only said: "you're not going to be hanged. none of us are." both men laughed, and the slave said: "ye have not ranked as a fool--before. you might better keep your reputation, seeing the strain would not be for long." "it will stand it, i reckon. before to-morrow we shall be out of prison, and free to go where we will, besides." the witty officer lifted at his left ear with his thumb, made a rasping noise in his throat, and said: "out of prison--yes--ye say true. and free likewise to go where ye will, so ye wander not out of his grace the devil's sultry realm." i kept my temper, and said, indifferently: "now i suppose you really think we are going to hang within a day or two." "i thought it not many minutes ago, for so the thing was decided and proclaimed." "ah, then you've changed your mind, is that it?" "even that. i only _thought_, then; i _know_, now." i felt sarcastical, so i said: "oh, sapient servant of the law, condescend to tell us, then, what you _know_." "that ye will all be hanged _to-day_, at mid-afternoon! oho! that shot hit home! lean upon me." the fact is i did need to lean upon somebody. my knights couldn't arrive in time. they would be as much as three hours too late. nothing in the world could save the king of england; nor me, which was more important. more important, not merely to me, but to the nation--the only nation on earth standing ready to blossom into civilization. i was sick. i said no more, there wasn't anything to say. i knew what the man meant; that if the missing slave was found, the postponement would be revoked, the execution take place to-day. well, the missing slave was found. chapter xxxviii sir launcelot and knights to the rescue nearing four in the afternoon. the scene was just outside the walls of london. a cool, comfortable, superb day, with a brilliant sun; the kind of day to make one want to live, not die. the multitude was prodigious and far-reaching; and yet we fifteen poor devils hadn't a friend in it. there was something painful in that thought, look at it how you might. there we sat, on our tall scaffold, the butt of the hate and mockery of all those enemies. we were being made a holiday spectacle. they had built a sort of grand stand for the nobility and gentry, and these were there in full force, with their ladies. we recognized a good many of them. the crowd got a brief and unexpected dash of diversion out of the king. the moment we were freed of our bonds he sprang up, in his fantastic rags, with face bruised out of all recognition, and proclaimed himself arthur, king of britain, and denounced the awful penalties of treason upon every soul there present if hair of his sacred head were touched. it startled and surprised him to hear them break into a vast roar of laughter. it wounded his dignity, and he locked himself up in silence. then, although the crowd begged him to go on, and tried to provoke him to it by catcalls, jeers, and shouts of: "let him speak! the king! the king! his humble subjects hunger and thirst for words of wisdom out of the mouth of their master his serene and sacred raggedness!" but it went for nothing. he put on all his majesty and sat under this rain of contempt and insult unmoved. he certainly was great in his way. absently, i had taken off my white bandage and wound it about my right arm. when the crowd noticed this, they began upon me. they said: "doubtless this sailor-man is his minister--observe his costly badge of office!" i let them go on until they got tired, and then i said: "yes, i am his minister, the boss; and to-morrow you will hear that from camelot which--" i got no further. they drowned me out with joyous derision. but presently there was silence; for the sheriffs of london, in their official robes, with their subordinates, began to make a stir which indicated that business was about to begin. in the hush which followed, our crime was recited, the death warrant read, then everybody uncovered while a priest uttered a prayer. then a slave was blindfolded; the hangman unslung his rope. there lay the smooth road below us, we upon one side of it, the banked multitude wailing its other side--a good clear road, and kept free by the police--how good it would be to see my five hundred horsemen come tearing down it! but no, it was out of the possibilities. i followed its receding thread out into the distance--not a horseman on it, or sign of one. there was a jerk, and the slave hung dangling; dangling and hideously squirming, for his limbs were not tied. a second rope was unslung, in a moment another slave was dangling. in a minute a third slave was struggling in the air. it was dreadful. i turned away my head a moment, and when i turned back i missed the king! they were blindfolding him! i was paralyzed; i couldn't move, i was choking, my tongue was petrified. they finished blindfolding him, they led him under the rope. i couldn't shake off that clinging impotence. but when i saw them put the noose around his neck, then everything let go in me and i made a spring to the rescue--and as i made it i shot one more glance abroad--by george! here they came, a-tilting!--five hundred mailed and belted knights on bicycles! the grandest sight that ever was seen. lord, how the plumes streamed, how the sun flamed and flashed from the endless procession of webby wheels! i waved my right arm as launcelot swept in--he recognized my rag --i tore away noose and bandage, and shouted: "on your knees, every rascal of you, and salute the king! who fails shall sup in hell to-night!" i always use that high style when i'm climaxing an effect. well, it was noble to see launcelot and the boys swarm up onto that scaffold and heave sheriffs and such overboard. and it was fine to see that astonished multitude go down on their knees and beg their lives of the king they had just been deriding and insulting. and as he stood apart there, receiving this homage in rags, i thought to myself, well, really there is something peculiarly grand about the gait and bearing of a king, after all. i was immensely satisfied. take the whole situation all around, it was one of the gaudiest effects i ever instigated. and presently up comes clarence, his own self! and winks, and says, very modernly: "good deal of a surprise, wasn't it? i knew you'd like it. i've had the boys practicing this long time, privately; and just hungry for a chance to show off." chapter xxxix the yankee's fight with the knights home again, at camelot. a morning or two later i found the paper, damp from the press, by my plate at the breakfast table. i turned to the advertising columns, knowing i should find something of personal interest to me there. it was this: de par le roi. know that the great lord and illus- trious kni ht, sir sagramor le desirous having condescended to meet the king's minister, hank mor- gan, the which is surnamed the boss, for satisfgction of offence anciently given, these will engage in the lists by camelot about the fourth hour of the morning of the sixteenth day of this next succeeding month. the battle will be a l outrance, sith the said offence was of a deadly sort, admitting of no composition. de par le roi clarence's editorial reference to this affair was to this effect: it will be observed, by a gl nce at our advertising columns, that the commu- nity is to be favored with a treat of un- usual interest in the tournament line. the n ames of the artists are warrant of good entertemment. the box-office will be open at noon of the th; ad- mission cents, reserved seatsh ; pro- ceeds to go to the hospital fund the royal pair and all the court will be pres- ent. with these exceptions, and the press and the clergy, the free list is strict- ly suspended. parties are hereby warn- ed against buying tickets of speculators; they will not be good at the door. everybody knows and likes the boss, everybody knows and likes sir sag.; come, let us give the lads a good send- off. remember, the proceeds go to a great and free charity, and one whose broad begevolence stretches out its help- ing hand, warm with the blood of a lov- ing heart, to all that suffer, regardless of race, creed, condition or color--the only charity yet established in the earth which has no politico-religious stop- cock on its compassion, but says here flows the stream, let all come and drink! turn out, all hands! fetch along your dou hnuts and your gum-drops and have a good time. pie for sale on the grounds, and rocks to crack it with; and circus-lemonade--three drops of lime juice to a barrel of water. n.b. this is the first tournament under the new law, whidh allow each combatant to use any weapon he may pre- fer. you may want to make a note of that. up to the day set, there was no talk in all britain of anything but this combat. all other topics sank into insignificance and passed out of men's thoughts and interest. it was not because a tournament was a great matter, it was not because sir sagramor had found the holy grail, for he had not, but had failed; it was not because the second (official) personage in the kingdom was one of the duellists; no, all these features were commonplace. yet there was abundant reason for the extraordinary interest which this coming fight was creating. it was born of the fact that all the nation knew that this was not to be a duel between mere men, so to speak, but a duel between two mighty magicians; a duel not of muscle but of mind, not of human skill but of superhuman art and craft; a final struggle for supremacy between the two master enchanters of the age. it was realized that the most prodigious achievements of the most renowned knights could not be worthy of comparison with a spectacle like this; they could be but child's play, contrasted with this mysterious and awful battle of the gods. yes, all the world knew it was going to be in reality a duel between merlin and me, a measuring of his magic powers against mine. it was known that merlin had been busy whole days and nights together, imbuing sir sagramor's arms and armor with supernal powers of offense and defense, and that he had procured for him from the spirits of the air a fleecy veil which would render the wearer invisible to his antagonist while still visible to other men. against sir sagramor, so weaponed and protected, a thousand knights could accomplish nothing; against him no known enchantments could prevail. these facts were sure; regarding them there was no doubt, no reason for doubt. there was but one question: might there be still other enchantments, _unknown_ to merlin, which could render sir sagramor's veil transparent to me, and make his enchanted mail vulnerable to my weapons? this was the one thing to be decided in the lists. until then the world must remain in suspense. so the world thought there was a vast matter at stake here, and the world was right, but it was not the one they had in their minds. no, a far vaster one was upon the cast of this die: _the life of knight-errantry_. i was a champion, it was true, but not the champion of the frivolous black arts, i was the champion of hard unsentimental common-sense and reason. i was entering the lists to either destroy knight-errantry or be its victim. vast as the show-grounds were, there were no vacant spaces in them outside of the lists, at ten o'clock on the morning of the th. the mammoth grand-stand was clothed in flags, streamers, and rich tapestries, and packed with several acres of small-fry tributary kings, their suites, and the british aristocracy; with our own royal gang in the chief place, and each and every individual a flashing prism of gaudy silks and velvets--well, i never saw anything to begin with it but a fight between an upper mississippi sunset and the aurora borealis. the huge camp of beflagged and gay-colored tents at one end of the lists, with a stiff-standing sentinel at every door and a shining shield hanging by him for challenge, was another fine sight. you see, every knight was there who had any ambition or any caste feeling; for my feeling toward their order was not much of a secret, and so here was their chance. if i won my fight with sir sagramor, others would have the right to call me out as long as i might be willing to respond. down at our end there were but two tents; one for me, and another for my servants. at the appointed hour the king made a sign, and the heralds, in their tabards, appeared and made proclamation, naming the combatants and stating the cause of quarrel. there was a pause, then a ringing bugle-blast, which was the signal for us to come forth. all the multitude caught their breath, and an eager curiosity flashed into every face. out from his tent rode great sir sagramor, an imposing tower of iron, stately and rigid, his huge spear standing upright in its socket and grasped in his strong hand, his grand horse's face and breast cased in steel, his body clothed in rich trappings that almost dragged the ground--oh, a most noble picture. a great shout went up, of welcome and admiration. and then out i came. but i didn't get any shout. there was a wondering and eloquent silence for a moment, then a great wave of laughter began to sweep along that human sea, but a warning bugle-blast cut its career short. i was in the simplest and comfortablest of gymnast costumes--flesh-colored tights from neck to heel, with blue silk puffings about my loins, and bareheaded. my horse was not above medium size, but he was alert, slender-limbed, muscled with watchsprings, and just a greyhound to go. he was a beauty, glossy as silk, and naked as he was when he was born, except for bridle and ranger-saddle. the iron tower and the gorgeous bedquilt came cumbrously but gracefully pirouetting down the lists, and we tripped lightly up to meet them. we halted; the tower saluted, i responded; then we wheeled and rode side by side to the grand-stand and faced our king and queen, to whom we made obeisance. the queen exclaimed: "alack, sir boss, wilt fight naked, and without lance or sword or--" but the king checked her and made her understand, with a polite phrase or two, that this was none of her business. the bugles rang again; and we separated and rode to the ends of the lists, and took position. now old merlin stepped into view and cast a dainty web of gossamer threads over sir sagramor which turned him into hamlet's ghost; the king made a sign, the bugles blew, sir sagramor laid his great lance in rest, and the next moment here he came thundering down the course with his veil flying out behind, and i went whistling through the air like an arrow to meet him --cocking my ear the while, as if noting the invisible knight's position and progress by hearing, not sight. a chorus of encouraging shouts burst out for him, and one brave voice flung out a heartening word for me--said: "go it, slim jim!" it was an even bet that clarence had procured that favor for me --and furnished the language, too. when that formidable lance-point was within a yard and a half of my breast i twitched my horse aside without an effort, and the big knight swept by, scoring a blank. i got plenty of applause that time. we turned, braced up, and down we came again. another blank for the knight, a roar of applause for me. this same thing was repeated once more; and it fetched such a whirlwind of applause that sir sagramor lost his temper, and at once changed his tactics and set himself the task of chasing me down. why, he hadn't any show in the world at that; it was a game of tag, with all the advantage on my side; i whirled out of his path with ease whenever i chose, and once i slapped him on the back as i went to the rear. finally i took the chase into my own hands; and after that, turn, or twist, or do what he would, he was never able to get behind me again; he found himself always in front at the end of his maneuver. so he gave up that business and retired to his end of the lists. his temper was clear gone now, and he forgot himself and flung an insult at me which disposed of mine. i slipped my lasso from the horn of my saddle, and grasped the coil in my right hand. this time you should have seen him come!--it was a business trip, sure; by his gait there was blood in his eye. i was sitting my horse at ease, and swinging the great loop of my lasso in wide circles about my head; the moment he was under way, i started for him; when the space between us had narrowed to forty feet, i sent the snaky spirals of the rope a-cleaving through the air, then darted aside and faced about and brought my trained animal to a halt with all his feet braced under him for a surge. the next moment the rope sprang taut and yanked sir sagramor out of the saddle! great scott, but there was a sensation! unquestionably, the popular thing in this world is novelty. these people had never seen anything of that cowboy business before, and it carried them clear off their feet with delight. from all around and everywhere, the shout went up: "encore! encore!" i wondered where they got the word, but there was no time to cipher on philological matters, because the whole knight-errantry hive was just humming now, and my prospect for trade couldn't have been better. the moment my lasso was released and sir sagramor had been assisted to his tent, i hauled in the slack, took my station and began to swing my loop around my head again. i was sure to have use for it as soon as they could elect a successor for sir sagramor, and that couldn't take long where there were so many hungry candidates. indeed, they elected one straight off --sir hervis de revel. _bzz_! here he came, like a house afire; i dodged: he passed like a flash, with my horse-hair coils settling around his neck; a second or so later, _fst_! his saddle was empty. i got another encore; and another, and another, and still another. when i had snaked five men out, things began to look serious to the ironclads, and they stopped and consulted together. as a result, they decided that it was time to waive etiquette and send their greatest and best against me. to the astonishment of that little world, i lassoed sir lamorak de galis, and after him sir galahad. so you see there was simply nothing to be done now, but play their right bower--bring out the superbest of the superb, the mightiest of the mighty, the great sir launcelot himself! a proud moment for me? i should think so. yonder was arthur, king of britain; yonder was guenever; yes, and whole tribes of little provincial kings and kinglets; and in the tented camp yonder, renowned knights from many lands; and likewise the selectest body known to chivalry, the knights of the table round, the most illustrious in christendom; and biggest fact of all, the very sun of their shining system was yonder couching his lance, the focal point of forty thousand adoring eyes; and all by myself, here was i laying for him. across my mind flitted the dear image of a certain hello-girl of west hartford, and i wished she could see me now. in that moment, down came the invincible, with the rush of a whirlwind--the courtly world rose to its feet and bent forward --the fateful coils went circling through the air, and before you could wink i was towing sir launcelot across the field on his back, and kissing my hand to the storm of waving kerchiefs and the thunder-crash of applause that greeted me! said i to myself, as i coiled my lariat and hung it on my saddle-horn, and sat there drunk with glory, "the victory is perfect--no other will venture against me--knight-errantry is dead." now imagine my astonishment--and everybody else's, too--to hear the peculiar bugle-call which announces that another competitor is about to enter the lists! there was a mystery here; i couldn't account for this thing. next, i noticed merlin gliding away from me; and then i noticed that my lasso was gone! the old sleight-of-hand expert had stolen it, sure, and slipped it under his robe. the bugle blew again. i looked, and down came sagramor riding again, with his dust brushed off and his veil nicely re-arranged. i trotted up to meet him, and pretended to find him by the sound of his horse's hoofs. he said: "thou'rt quick of ear, but it will not save thee from this!" and he touched the hilt of his great sword. "an ye are not able to see it, because of the influence of the veil, know that it is no cumbrous lance, but a sword--and i ween ye will not be able to avoid it." his visor was up; there was death in his smile. i should never be able to dodge his sword, that was plain. somebody was going to die this time. if he got the drop on me, i could name the corpse. we rode forward together, and saluted the royalties. this time the king was disturbed. he said: "where is thy strange weapon?" "it is stolen, sire." "hast another at hand?" "no, sire, i brought only the one." then merlin mixed in: "he brought but the one because there was but the one to bring. there exists none other but that one. it belongeth to the king of the demons of the sea. this man is a pretender, and ignorant, else he had known that that weapon can be used in but eight bouts only, and then it vanisheth away to its home under the sea." "then is he weaponless," said the king. "sir sagramore, ye will grant him leave to borrow." "and i will lend!" said sir launcelot, limping up. "he is as brave a knight of his hands as any that be on live, and he shall have mine." he put his hand on his sword to draw it, but sir sagramor said: "stay, it may not be. he shall fight with his own weapons; it was his privilege to choose them and bring them. if he has erred, on his head be it." "knight!" said the king. "thou'rt overwrought with passion; it disorders thy mind. wouldst kill a naked man?" "an he do it, he shall answer it to me," said sir launcelot. "i will answer it to any he that desireth!" retorted sir sagramor hotly. merlin broke in, rubbing his hands and smiling his lowdownest smile of malicious gratification: "'tis well said, right well said! and 'tis enough of parleying, let my lord the king deliver the battle signal." the king had to yield. the bugle made proclamation, and we turned apart and rode to our stations. there we stood, a hundred yards apart, facing each other, rigid and motionless, like horsed statues. and so we remained, in a soundless hush, as much as a full minute, everybody gazing, nobody stirring. it seemed as if the king could not take heart to give the signal. but at last he lifted his hand, the clear note of the bugle followed, sir sagramor's long blade described a flashing curve in the air, and it was superb to see him come. i sat still. on he came. i did not move. people got so excited that they shouted to me: "fly, fly! save thyself! this is murther!" i never budged so much as an inch till that thundering apparition had got within fifteen paces of me; then i snatched a dragoon revolver out of my holster, there was a flash and a roar, and the revolver was back in the holster before anybody could tell what had happened. here was a riderless horse plunging by, and yonder lay sir sagramor, stone dead. the people that ran to him were stricken dumb to find that the life was actually gone out of the man and no reason for it visible, no hurt upon his body, nothing like a wound. there was a hole through the breast of his chain-mail, but they attached no importance to a little thing like that; and as a bullet wound there produces but little blood, none came in sight because of the clothing and swaddlings under the armor. the body was dragged over to let the king and the swells look down upon it. they were stupefied with astonishment naturally. i was requested to come and explain the miracle. but i remained in my tracks, like a statue, and said: "if it is a command, i will come, but my lord the king knows that i am where the laws of combat require me to remain while any desire to come against me." i waited. nobody challenged. then i said: "if there are any who doubt that this field is well and fairly won, i do not wait for them to challenge me, i challenge them." "it is a gallant offer," said the king, "and well beseems you. whom will you name first?" "i name none, i challenge all! here i stand, and dare the chivalry of england to come against me--not by individuals, but in mass!" "what!" shouted a score of knights. "you have heard the challenge. take it, or i proclaim you recreant knights and vanquished, every one!" it was a "bluff" you know. at such a time it is sound judgment to put on a bold face and play your hand for a hundred times what it is worth; forty-nine times out of fifty nobody dares to "call," and you rake in the chips. but just this once--well, things looked squally! in just no time, five hundred knights were scrambling into their saddles, and before you could wink a widely scattering drove were under way and clattering down upon me. i snatched both revolvers from the holsters and began to measure distances and calculate chances. bang! one saddle empty. bang! another one. bang--bang, and i bagged two. well, it was nip and tuck with us, and i knew it. if i spent the eleventh shot without convincing these people, the twelfth man would kill me, sure. and so i never did feel so happy as i did when my ninth downed its man and i detected the wavering in the crowd which is premonitory of panic. an instant lost now could knock out my last chance. but i didn't lose it. i raised both revolvers and pointed them--the halted host stood their ground just about one good square moment, then broke and fled. the day was mine. knight-errantry was a doomed institution. the march of civilization was begun. how did i feel? ah, you never could imagine it. and brer merlin? his stock was flat again. somehow, every time the magic of fol-de-rol tried conclusions with the magic of science, the magic of fol-de-rol got left. chapter xl three years later when i broke the back of knight-errantry that time, i no longer felt obliged to work in secret. so, the very next day i exposed my hidden schools, my mines, and my vast system of clandestine factories and workshops to an astonished world. that is to say, i exposed the nineteenth century to the inspection of the sixth. well, it is always a good plan to follow up an advantage promptly. the knights were temporarily down, but if i would keep them so i must just simply paralyze them--nothing short of that would answer. you see, i was "bluffing" that last time in the field; it would be natural for them to work around to that conclusion, if i gave them a chance. so i must not give them time; and i didn't. i renewed my challenge, engraved it on brass, posted it up where any priest could read it to them, and also kept it standing in the advertising columns of the paper. i not only renewed it, but added to its proportions. i said, name the day, and i would take fifty assistants and stand up _against the massed chivalry of the whole earth and destroy it_. i was not bluffing this time. i meant what i said; i could do what i promised. there wasn't any way to misunderstand the language of that challenge. even the dullest of the chivalry perceived that this was a plain case of "put up, or shut up." they were wise and did the latter. in all the next three years they gave me no trouble worth mentioning. consider the three years sped. now look around on england. a happy and prosperous country, and strangely altered. schools everywhere, and several colleges; a number of pretty good newspapers. even authorship was taking a start; sir dinadan the humorist was first in the field, with a volume of gray-headed jokes which i had been familiar with during thirteen centuries. if he had left out that old rancid one about the lecturer i wouldn't have said anything; but i couldn't stand that one. i suppressed the book and hanged the author. slavery was dead and gone; all men were equal before the law; taxation had been equalized. the telegraph, the telephone, the phonograph, the typewriter, the sewing-machine, and all the thousand willing and handy servants of steam and electricity were working their way into favor. we had a steamboat or two on the thames, we had steam warships, and the beginnings of a steam commercial marine; i was getting ready to send out an expedition to discover america. we were building several lines of railway, and our line from camelot to london was already finished and in operation. i was shrewd enough to make all offices connected with the passenger service places of high and distinguished honor. my idea was to attract the chivalry and nobility, and make them useful and keep them out of mischief. the plan worked very well, the competition for the places was hot. the conductor of the . express was a duke; there wasn't a passenger conductor on the line below the degree of earl. they were good men, every one, but they had two defects which i couldn't cure, and so had to wink at: they wouldn't lay aside their armor, and they would "knock down" fare --i mean rob the company. there was hardly a knight in all the land who wasn't in some useful employment. they were going from end to end of the country in all manner of useful missionary capacities; their penchant for wandering, and their experience in it, made them altogether the most effective spreaders of civilization we had. they went clothed in steel and equipped with sword and lance and battle-axe, and if they couldn't persuade a person to try a sewing-machine on the installment plan, or a melodeon, or a barbed-wire fence, or a prohibition journal, or any of the other thousand and one things they canvassed for, they removed him and passed on. i was very happy. things were working steadily toward a secretly longed-for point. you see, i had two schemes in my head which were the vastest of all my projects. the one was to overthrow the catholic church and set up the protestant faith on its ruins --not as an established church, but a go-as-you-please one; and the other project was to get a decree issued by and by, commanding that upon arthur's death unlimited suffrage should be introduced, and given to men and women alike--at any rate to all men, wise or unwise, and to all mothers who at middle age should be found to know nearly as much as their sons at twenty-one. arthur was good for thirty years yet, he being about my own age--that is to say, forty--and i believed that in that time i could easily have the active part of the population of that day ready and eager for an event which should be the first of its kind in the history of the world--a rounded and complete governmental revolution without bloodshed. the result to be a republic. well, i may as well confess, though i do feel ashamed when i think of it: i was beginning to have a base hankering to be its first president myself. yes, there was more or less human nature in me; i found that out. clarence was with me as concerned the revolution, but in a modified way. his idea was a republic, without privileged orders, but with a hereditary royal family at the head of it instead of an elective chief magistrate. he believed that no nation that had ever known the joy of worshiping a royal family could ever be robbed of it and not fade away and die of melancholy. i urged that kings were dangerous. he said, then have cats. he was sure that a royal family of cats would answer every purpose. they would be as useful as any other royal family, they would know as much, they would have the same virtues and the same treacheries, the same disposition to get up shindies with other royal cats, they would be laughably vain and absurd and never know it, they would be wholly inexpensive; finally, they would have as sound a divine right as any other royal house, and "tom vii, or tom xi, or tom xiv by the grace of god king," would sound as well as it would when applied to the ordinary royal tomcat with tights on. "and as a rule," said he, in his neat modern english, "the character of these cats would be considerably above the character of the average king, and this would be an immense moral advantage to the nation, for the reason that a nation always models its morals after its monarch's. the worship of royalty being founded in unreason, these graceful and harmless cats would easily become as sacred as any other royalties, and indeed more so, because it would presently be noticed that they hanged nobody, beheaded nobody, imprisoned nobody, inflicted no cruelties or injustices of any sort, and so must be worthy of a deeper love and reverence than the customary human king, and would certainly get it. the eyes of the whole harried world would soon be fixed upon this humane and gentle system, and royal butchers would presently begin to disappear; their subjects would fill the vacancies with catlings from our own royal house; we should become a factory; we should supply the thrones of the world; within forty years all europe would be governed by cats, and we should furnish the cats. the reign of universal peace would begin then, to end no more forever.... me-e-e-yow-ow-ow-ow--fzt!--wow!" hang him, i supposed he was in earnest, and was beginning to be persuaded by him, until he exploded that cat-howl and startled me almost out of my clothes. but he never could be in earnest. he didn't know what it was. he had pictured a distinct and perfectly rational and feasible improvement upon constitutional monarchy, but he was too feather-headed to know it, or care anything about it, either. i was going to give him a scolding, but sandy came flying in at that moment, wild with terror, and so choked with sobs that for a minute she could not get her voice. i ran and took her in my arms, and lavished caresses upon her and said, beseechingly: "speak, darling, speak! what is it?" her head fell limp upon my bosom, and she gasped, almost inaudibly: "hello-central!" "quick!" i shouted to clarence; "telephone the king's homeopath to come!" in two minutes i was kneeling by the child's crib, and sandy was dispatching servants here, there, and everywhere, all over the palace. i took in the situation almost at a glance--membranous croup! i bent down and whispered: "wake up, sweetheart! hello-central." she opened her soft eyes languidly, and made out to say: "papa." that was a comfort. she was far from dead yet. i sent for preparations of sulphur, i rousted out the croup-kettle myself; for i don't sit down and wait for doctors when sandy or the child is sick. i knew how to nurse both of them, and had had experience. this little chap had lived in my arms a good part of its small life, and often i could soothe away its troubles and get it to laugh through the tear-dews on its eye-lashes when even its mother couldn't. sir launcelot, in his richest armor, came striding along the great hall now on his way to the stock-board; he was president of the stock-board, and occupied the siege perilous, which he had bought of sir galahad; for the stock-board consisted of the knights of the round table, and they used the round table for business purposes now. seats at it were worth--well, you would never believe the figure, so it is no use to state it. sir launcelot was a bear, and he had put up a corner in one of the new lines, and was just getting ready to squeeze the shorts to-day; but what of that? he was the same old launcelot, and when he glanced in as he was passing the door and found out that his pet was sick, that was enough for him; bulls and bears might fight it out their own way for all him, he would come right in here and stand by little hello-central for all he was worth. and that was what he did. he shied his helmet into the corner, and in half a minute he had a new wick in the alcohol lamp and was firing up on the croup-kettle. by this time sandy had built a blanket canopy over the crib, and everything was ready. sir launcelot got up steam, he and i loaded up the kettle with unslaked lime and carbolic acid, with a touch of lactic acid added thereto, then filled the thing up with water and inserted the steam-spout under the canopy. everything was ship-shape now, and we sat down on either side of the crib to stand our watch. sandy was so grateful and so comforted that she charged a couple of church-wardens with willow-bark and sumach-tobacco for us, and told us to smoke as much as we pleased, it couldn't get under the canopy, and she was used to smoke, being the first lady in the land who had ever seen a cloud blown. well, there couldn't be a more contented or comfortable sight than sir launcelot in his noble armor sitting in gracious serenity at the end of a yard of snowy church-warden. he was a beautiful man, a lovely man, and was just intended to make a wife and children happy. but, of course guenever--however, it's no use to cry over what's done and can't be helped. well, he stood watch-and-watch with me, right straight through, for three days and nights, till the child was out of danger; then he took her up in his great arms and kissed her, with his plumes falling about her golden head, then laid her softly in sandy's lap again and took his stately way down the vast hall, between the ranks of admiring men-at-arms and menials, and so disappeared. and no instinct warned me that i should never look upon him again in this world! lord, what a world of heart-break it is. the doctors said we must take the child away, if we would coax her back to health and strength again. and she must have sea-air. so we took a man-of-war, and a suite of two hundred and sixty persons, and went cruising about, and after a fortnight of this we stepped ashore on the french coast, and the doctors thought it would be a good idea to make something of a stay there. the little king of that region offered us his hospitalities, and we were glad to accept. if he had had as many conveniences as he lacked, we should have been plenty comfortable enough; even as it was, we made out very well, in his queer old castle, by the help of comforts and luxuries from the ship. at the end of a month i sent the vessel home for fresh supplies, and for news. we expected her back in three or four days. she would bring me, along with other news, the result of a certain experiment which i had been starting. it was a project of mine to replace the tournament with something which might furnish an escape for the extra steam of the chivalry, keep those bucks entertained and out of mischief, and at the same time preserve the best thing in them, which was their hardy spirit of emulation. i had had a choice band of them in private training for some time, and the date was now arriving for their first public effort. this experiment was baseball. in order to give the thing vogue from the start, and place it out of the reach of criticism, i chose my nines by rank, not capacity. there wasn't a knight in either team who wasn't a sceptered sovereign. as for material of this sort, there was a glut of it always around arthur. you couldn't throw a brick in any direction and not cripple a king. of course, i couldn't get these people to leave off their armor; they wouldn't do that when they bathed. they consented to differentiate the armor so that a body could tell one team from the other, but that was the most they would do. so, one of the teams wore chain-mail ulsters, and the other wore plate-armor made of my new bessemer steel. their practice in the field was the most fantastic thing i ever saw. being ball-proof, they never skipped out of the way, but stood still and took the result; when a bessemer was at the bat and a ball hit him, it would bound a hundred and fifty yards sometimes. and when a man was running, and threw himself on his stomach to slide to his base, it was like an iron-clad coming into port. at first i appointed men of no rank to act as umpires, but i had to discontinue that. these people were no easier to please than other nines. the umpire's first decision was usually his last; they broke him in two with a bat, and his friends toted him home on a shutter. when it was noticed that no umpire ever survived a game, umpiring got to be unpopular. so i was obliged to appoint somebody whose rank and lofty position under the government would protect him. here are the names of the nines: bessemers ulsters king arthur. emperor lucius. king lot of lothian. king logris. king of northgalis. king marhalt of ireland. king marsil. king morganore. king of little britain. king mark of cornwall. king labor. king nentres of garlot. king pellam of listengese. king meliodas of liones. king bagdemagus. king of the lake. king tolleme la feintes. the sowdan of syria. umpire--clarence. the first public game would certainly draw fifty thousand people; and for solid fun would be worth going around the world to see. everything would be favorable; it was balmy and beautiful spring weather now, and nature was all tailored out in her new clothes. a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) part . chapter xxxii dowley's humiliation well, when that cargo arrived toward sunset, saturday afternoon, i had my hands full to keep the marcos from fainting. they were sure jones and i were ruined past help, and they blamed themselves as accessories to this bankruptcy. you see, in addition to the dinner-materials, which called for a sufficiently round sum, i had bought a lot of extras for the future comfort of the family: for instance, a big lot of wheat, a delicacy as rare to the tables of their class as was ice-cream to a hermit's; also a sizeable deal dinner-table; also two entire pounds of salt, which was another piece of extravagance in those people's eyes; also crockery, stools, the clothes, a small cask of beer, and so on. i instructed the marcos to keep quiet about this sumptuousness, so as to give me a chance to surprise the guests and show off a little. concerning the new clothes, the simple couple were like children; they were up and down, all night, to see if it wasn't nearly daylight, so that they could put them on, and they were into them at last as much as an hour before dawn was due. then their pleasure--not to say delirium--was so fresh and novel and inspiring that the sight of it paid me well for the interruptions which my sleep had suffered. the king had slept just as usual--like the dead. the marcos could not thank him for their clothes, that being forbidden; but they tried every way they could think of to make him see how grateful they were. which all went for nothing: he didn't notice any change. it turned out to be one of those rich and rare fall days which is just a june day toned down to a degree where it is heaven to be out of doors. toward noon the guests arrived, and we assembled under a great tree and were soon as sociable as old acquaintances. even the king's reserve melted a little, though it was some little trouble to him to adjust himself to the name of jones along at first. i had asked him to try to not forget that he was a farmer; but i had also considered it prudent to ask him to let the thing stand at that, and not elaborate it any. because he was just the kind of person you could depend on to spoil a little thing like that if you didn't warn him, his tongue was so handy, and his spirit so willing, and his information so uncertain. dowley was in fine feather, and i early got him started, and then adroitly worked him around onto his own history for a text and himself for a hero, and then it was good to sit there and hear him hum. self-made man, you know. they know how to talk. they do deserve more credit than any other breed of men, yes, that is true; and they are among the very first to find it out, too. he told how he had begun life an orphan lad without money and without friends able to help him; how he had lived as the slaves of the meanest master lived; how his day's work was from sixteen to eighteen hours long, and yielded him only enough black bread to keep him in a half-fed condition; how his faithful endeavors finally attracted the attention of a good blacksmith, who came near knocking him dead with kindness by suddenly offering, when he was totally unprepared, to take him as his bound apprentice for nine years and give him board and clothes and teach him the trade--or "mystery" as dowley called it. that was his first great rise, his first gorgeous stroke of fortune; and you saw that he couldn't yet speak of it without a sort of eloquent wonder and delight that such a gilded promotion should have fallen to the lot of a common human being. he got no new clothing during his apprenticeship, but on his graduation day his master tricked him out in spang-new tow-linens and made him feel unspeakably rich and fine. "i remember me of that day!" the wheelwright sang out, with enthusiasm. "and i likewise!" cried the mason. "i would not believe they were thine own; in faith i could not." "nor other!" shouted dowley, with sparkling eyes. "i was like to lose my character, the neighbors wending i had mayhap been stealing. it was a great day, a great day; one forgetteth not days like that." yes, and his master was a fine man, and prosperous, and always had a great feast of meat twice in the year, and with it white bread, true wheaten bread; in fact, lived like a lord, so to speak. and in time dowley succeeded to the business and married the daughter. "and now consider what is come to pass," said he, impressively. "two times in every month there is fresh meat upon my table." he made a pause here, to let that fact sink home, then added --"and eight times salt meat." "it is even true," said the wheelwright, with bated breath. "i know it of mine own knowledge," said the mason, in the same reverent fashion. "on my table appeareth white bread every sunday in the year," added the master smith, with solemnity. "i leave it to your own consciences, friends, if this is not also true?" "by my head, yes," cried the mason. "i can testify it--and i do," said the wheelwright. "and as to furniture, ye shall say yourselves what mine equipment is." he waved his hand in fine gesture of granting frank and unhampered freedom of speech, and added: "speak as ye are moved; speak as ye would speak; an i were not here." "ye have five stools, and of the sweetest workmanship at that, albeit your family is but three," said the wheelwright, with deep respect. "and six wooden goblets, and six platters of wood and two of pewter to eat and drink from withal," said the mason, impressively. "and i say it as knowing god is my judge, and we tarry not here alway, but must answer at the last day for the things said in the body, be they false or be they sooth." "now ye know what manner of man i am, brother jones," said the smith, with a fine and friendly condescension, "and doubtless ye would look to find me a man jealous of his due of respect and but sparing of outgo to strangers till their rating and quality be assured, but trouble yourself not, as concerning that; wit ye well ye shall find me a man that regardeth not these matters but is willing to receive any he as his fellow and equal that carrieth a right heart in his body, be his worldly estate howsoever modest. and in token of it, here is my hand; and i say with my own mouth we are equals--equals"--and he smiled around on the company with the satisfaction of a god who is doing the handsome and gracious thing and is quite well aware of it. the king took the hand with a poorly disguised reluctance, and let go of it as willingly as a lady lets go of a fish; all of which had a good effect, for it was mistaken for an embarrassment natural to one who was being called upon by greatness. the dame brought out the table now, and set it under the tree. it caused a visible stir of surprise, it being brand new and a sumptuous article of deal. but the surprise rose higher still when the dame, with a body oozing easy indifference at every pore, but eyes that gave it all away by absolutely flaming with vanity, slowly unfolded an actual simon-pure tablecloth and spread it. that was a notch above even the blacksmith's domestic grandeurs, and it hit him hard; you could see it. but marco was in paradise; you could see that, too. then the dame brought two fine new stools--whew! that was a sensation; it was visible in the eyes of every guest. then she brought two more--as calmly as she could. sensation again--with awed murmurs. again she brought two --walking on air, she was so proud. the guests were petrified, and the mason muttered: "there is that about earthly pomps which doth ever move to reverence." as the dame turned away, marco couldn't help slapping on the climax while the thing was hot; so he said with what was meant for a languid composure but was a poor imitation of it: "these suffice; leave the rest." so there were more yet! it was a fine effect. i couldn't have played the hand better myself. from this out, the madam piled up the surprises with a rush that fired the general astonishment up to a hundred and fifty in the shade, and at the same time paralyzed expression of it down to gasped "oh's" and "ah's," and mute upliftings of hands and eyes. she fetched crockery--new, and plenty of it; new wooden goblets and other table furniture; and beer, fish, chicken, a goose, eggs, roast beef, roast mutton, a ham, a small roast pig, and a wealth of genuine white wheaten bread. take it by and large, that spread laid everything far and away in the shade that ever that crowd had seen before. and while they sat there just simply stupefied with wonder and awe, i sort of waved my hand as if by accident, and the storekeeper's son emerged from space and said he had come to collect. "that's all right," i said, indifferently. "what is the amount? give us the items." then he read off this bill, while those three amazed men listened, and serene waves of satisfaction rolled over my soul and alternate waves of terror and admiration surged over marco's: pounds salt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . dozen pints beer, in the wood . . . . . bushels wheat . . . . . . . . . . . . . , pounds fish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . hens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . goose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . dozen eggs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . roast of beef . . . . . . . . . . . . . roast of mutton . . . . . . . . . . . . ham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . sucking pig . . . . . . . . . . . . . . crockery dinner sets . . . . . . . . . , men's suits and underwear . . . . . . . , stuff and linsey-woolsey gown and underwear . . . . . . . . . . . . . , wooden goblets . . . . . . . . . . . . various table furniture . . . . . . . . . , deal table . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , stools . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , miller guns, loaded . . . . . . . . . . , he ceased. there was a pale and awful silence. not a limb stirred. not a nostril betrayed the passage of breath. "is that all?" i asked, in a voice of the most perfect calmness. "all, fair sir, save that certain matters of light moment are placed together under a head hight sundries. if it would like you, i will sepa--" "it is of no consequence," i said, accompanying the words with a gesture of the most utter indifference; "give me the grand total, please." the clerk leaned against the tree to stay himself, and said: "thirty-nine thousand one hundred and fifty milrays!" the wheelwright fell off his stool, the others grabbed the table to save themselves, and there was a deep and general ejaculation of: "god be with us in the day of disaster!" the clerk hastened to say: "my father chargeth me to say he cannot honorably require you to pay it all at this time, and therefore only prayeth you--" i paid no more heed than if it were the idle breeze, but, with an air of indifference amounting almost to weariness, got out my money and tossed four dollars on to the table. ah, you should have seen them stare! the clerk was astonished and charmed. he asked me to retain one of the dollars as security, until he could go to town and --i interrupted: "what, and fetch back nine cents? nonsense! take the whole. keep the change." there was an amazed murmur to this effect: "verily this being is _made_ of money! he throweth it away even as if it were dirt." the blacksmith was a crushed man. the clerk took his money and reeled away drunk with fortune. i said to marco and his wife: "good folk, here is a little trifle for you"--handing the miller-guns as if it were a matter of no consequence, though each of them contained fifteen cents in solid cash; and while the poor creatures went to pieces with astonishment and gratitude, i turned to the others and said as calmly as one would ask the time of day: "well, if we are all ready, i judge the dinner is. come, fall to." ah, well, it was immense; yes, it was a daisy. i don't know that i ever put a situation together better, or got happier spectacular effects out of the materials available. the blacksmith--well, he was simply mashed. land! i wouldn't have felt what that man was feeling, for anything in the world. here he had been blowing and bragging about his grand meat-feast twice a year, and his fresh meat twice a month, and his salt meat twice a week, and his white bread every sunday the year round--all for a family of three; the entire cost for the year not above . . (sixty-nine cents, two mills and six milrays), and all of a sudden here comes along a man who slashes out nearly four dollars on a single blow-out; and not only that, but acts as if it made him tired to handle such small sums. yes, dowley was a good deal wilted, and shrunk-up and collapsed; he had the aspect of a bladder-balloon that's been stepped on by a cow. chapter xxxiii sixth century political economy however, i made a dead set at him, and before the first third of the dinner was reached, i had him happy again. it was easy to do--in a country of ranks and castes. you see, in a country where they have ranks and castes, a man isn't ever a man, he is only part of a man, he can't ever get his full growth. you prove your superiority over him in station, or rank, or fortune, and that's the end of it--he knuckles down. you can't insult him after that. no, i don't mean quite that; of course you _can_ insult him, i only mean it's difficult; and so, unless you've got a lot of useless time on your hands it doesn't pay to try. i had the smith's reverence now, because i was apparently immensely prosperous and rich; i could have had his adoration if i had had some little gimcrack title of nobility. and not only his, but any commoner's in the land, though he were the mightiest production of all the ages, in intellect, worth, and character, and i bankrupt in all three. this was to remain so, as long as england should exist in the earth. with the spirit of prophecy upon me, i could look into the future and see her erect statues and monuments to her unspeakable georges and other royal and noble clothes-horses, and leave unhonored the creators of this world--after god--gutenburg, watt, arkwright, whitney, morse, stephenson, bell. the king got his cargo aboard, and then, the talk not turning upon battle, conquest, or iron-clad duel, he dulled down to drowsiness and went off to take a nap. mrs. marco cleared the table, placed the beer keg handy, and went away to eat her dinner of leavings in humble privacy, and the rest of us soon drifted into matters near and dear to the hearts of our sort--business and wages, of course. at a first glance, things appeared to be exceeding prosperous in this little tributary kingdom--whose lord was king bagdemagus--as compared with the state of things in my own region. they had the "protection" system in full force here, whereas we were working along down toward free-trade, by easy stages, and were now about half way. before long, dowley and i were doing all the talking, the others hungrily listening. dowley warmed to his work, snuffed an advantage in the air, and began to put questions which he considered pretty awkward ones for me, and they did have something of that look: "in your country, brother, what is the wage of a master bailiff, master hind, carter, shepherd, swineherd?" "twenty-five milrays a day; that is to say, a quarter of a cent." the smith's face beamed with joy. he said: "with us they are allowed the double of it! and what may a mechanic get--carpenter, dauber, mason, painter, blacksmith, wheelwright, and the like?" "on the average, fifty milrays; half a cent a day." "ho-ho! with us they are allowed a hundred! with us any good mechanic is allowed a cent a day! i count out the tailor, but not the others--they are all allowed a cent a day, and in driving times they get more--yes, up to a hundred and ten and even fifteen milrays a day. i've paid a hundred and fifteen myself, within the week. 'rah for protection--to sheol with free-trade!" and his face shone upon the company like a sunburst. but i didn't scare at all. i rigged up my pile-driver, and allowed myself fifteen minutes to drive him into the earth--drive him _all_ in --drive him in till not even the curve of his skull should show above ground. here is the way i started in on him. i asked: "what do you pay a pound for salt?" "a hundred milrays." "we pay forty. what do you pay for beef and mutton--when you buy it?" that was a neat hit; it made the color come. "it varieth somewhat, but not much; one may say seventy-five milrays the pound." "_we_ pay thirty-three. what do you pay for eggs?" "fifty milrays the dozen." "we pay twenty. what do you pay for beer?" "it costeth us eight and one-half milrays the pint." "we get it for four; twenty-five bottles for a cent. what do you pay for wheat?" "at the rate of nine hundred milrays the bushel." "we pay four hundred. what do you pay for a man's tow-linen suit?" "thirteen cents." "we pay six. what do you pay for a stuff gown for the wife of the laborer or the mechanic?" "we pay eight cents, four mills." "well, observe the difference: you pay eight cents and four mills, we pay only four cents." i prepared now to sock it to him. i said: "look here, dear friend, _what's become of your high wages you were bragging so about a few minutes ago?_"--and i looked around on the company with placid satisfaction, for i had slipped up on him gradually and tied him hand and foot, you see, without his ever noticing that he was being tied at all. "what's become of those noble high wages of yours?--i seem to have knocked the stuffing all out of them, it appears to me." but if you will believe me, he merely looked surprised, that is all! he didn't grasp the situation at all, didn't know he had walked into a trap, didn't discover that he was _in_ a trap. i could have shot him, from sheer vexation. with cloudy eye and a struggling intellect he fetched this out: "marry, i seem not to understand. it is _proved_ that our wages be double thine; how then may it be that thou'st knocked therefrom the stuffing?--an miscall not the wonderly word, this being the first time under grace and providence of god it hath been granted me to hear it." well, i was stunned; partly with this unlooked-for stupidity on his part, and partly because his fellows so manifestly sided with him and were of his mind--if you might call it mind. my position was simple enough, plain enough; how could it ever be simplified more? however, i must try: "why, look here, brother dowley, don't you see? your wages are merely higher than ours in _name_, not in _fact_." "hear him! they are the _double_--ye have confessed it yourself." "yes-yes, i don't deny that at all. but that's got nothing to do with it; the _amount_ of the wages in mere coins, with meaningless names attached to them to know them by, has got nothing to do with it. the thing is, how much can you _buy_ with your wages? --that's the idea. while it is true that with you a good mechanic is allowed about three dollars and a half a year, and with us only about a dollar and seventy-five--" "there--ye're confessing it again, ye're confessing it again!" "confound it, i've never denied it, i tell you! what i say is this. with us _half_ a dollar buys more than a _dollar_ buys with you--and therefore it stands to reason and the commonest kind of common-sense, that our wages are _higher_ than yours." he looked dazed, and said, despairingly: "verily, i cannot make it out. ye've just said ours are the higher, and with the same breath ye take it back." "oh, great scott, isn't it possible to get such a simple thing through your head? now look here--let me illustrate. we pay four cents for a woman's stuff gown, you pay . . , which is four mills more than _double_. what do you allow a laboring woman who works on a farm?" "two mills a day." "very good; we allow but half as much; we pay her only a tenth of a cent a day; and--" "again ye're conf--" "wait! now, you see, the thing is very simple; this time you'll understand it. for instance, it takes your woman days to earn her gown, at mills a day-- weeks' work; but ours earns hers in forty days--two days _short_ of weeks. your woman has a gown, and her whole seven weeks wages are gone; ours has a gown, and two days' wages left, to buy something else with. there--_now_ you understand it!" he looked--well, he merely looked dubious, it's the most i can say; so did the others. i waited--to let the thing work. dowley spoke at last--and betrayed the fact that he actually hadn't gotten away from his rooted and grounded superstitions yet. he said, with a trifle of hesitancy: "but--but--ye cannot fail to grant that two mills a day is better than one." shucks! well, of course, i hated to give it up. so i chanced another flyer: "let us suppose a case. suppose one of your journeymen goes out and buys the following articles: " pound of salt; dozen eggs; dozen pints of beer; bushel of wheat; tow-linen suit; pounds of beef; pounds of mutton. "the lot will cost him cents. it takes him working days to earn the money-- weeks and days. let him come to us and work days at _half_ the wages; he can buy all those things for a shade under / cents; they will cost him a shade under days' work, and he will have about half a week's wages over. carry it through the year; he would save nearly a week's wages every two months, _your_ man nothing; thus saving five or six weeks' wages in a year, your man not a cent. _now_ i reckon you understand that 'high wages' and 'low wages' are phrases that don't mean anything in the world until you find out which of them will _buy_ the most!" it was a crusher. but, alas! it didn't crush. no, i had to give it up. what those people valued was _high wages_; it didn't seem to be a matter of any consequence to them whether the high wages would buy anything or not. they stood for "protection," and swore by it, which was reasonable enough, because interested parties had gulled them into the notion that it was protection which had created their high wages. i proved to them that in a quarter of a century their wages had advanced but per cent., while the cost of living had gone up ; and that with us, in a shorter time, wages had advanced per cent. while the cost of living had gone steadily down. but it didn't do any good. nothing could unseat their strange beliefs. well, i was smarting under a sense of defeat. undeserved defeat, but what of that? that didn't soften the smart any. and to think of the circumstances! the first statesman of the age, the capablest man, the best-informed man in the entire world, the loftiest uncrowned head that had moved through the clouds of any political firmament for centuries, sitting here apparently defeated in argument by an ignorant country blacksmith! and i could see that those others were sorry for me--which made me blush till i could smell my whiskers scorching. put yourself in my place; feel as mean as i did, as ashamed as i felt--wouldn't _you_ have struck below the belt to get even? yes, you would; it is simply human nature. well, that is what i did. i am not trying to justify it; i'm only saying that i was mad, and _anybody_ would have done it. well, when i make up my mind to hit a man, i don't plan out a love-tap; no, that isn't my way; as long as i'm going to hit him at all, i'm going to hit him a lifter. and i don't jump at him all of a sudden, and risk making a blundering half-way business of it; no, i get away off yonder to one side, and work up on him gradually, so that he never suspects that i'm going to hit him at all; and by and by, all in a flash, he's flat on his back, and he can't tell for the life of him how it all happened. that is the way i went for brother dowley. i started to talking lazy and comfortable, as if i was just talking to pass the time; and the oldest man in the world couldn't have taken the bearings of my starting place and guessed where i was going to fetch up: "boys, there's a good many curious things about law, and custom, and usage, and all that sort of thing, when you come to look at it; yes, and about the drift and progress of human opinion and movement, too. there are written laws--they perish; but there are also unwritten laws--_they_ are eternal. take the unwritten law of wages: it says they've got to advance, little by little, straight through the centuries. and notice how it works. we know what wages are now, here and there and yonder; we strike an average, and say that's the wages of to-day. we know what the wages were a hundred years ago, and what they were two hundred years ago; that's as far back as we can get, but it suffices to give us the law of progress, the measure and rate of the periodical augmentation; and so, without a document to help us, we can come pretty close to determining what the wages were three and four and five hundred years ago. good, so far. do we stop there? no. we stop looking backward; we face around and apply the law to the future. my friends, i can tell you what people's wages are going to be at any date in the future you want to know, for hundreds and hundreds of years." "what, goodman, what!" "yes. in seven hundred years wages will have risen to six times what they are now, here in your region, and farm hands will be allowed cents a day, and mechanics ." "i would't i might die now and live then!" interrupted smug, the wheelwright, with a fine avaricious glow in his eye. "and that isn't all; they'll get their board besides--such as it is: it won't bloat them. two hundred and fifty years later--pay attention now--a mechanic's wages will be--mind you, this is law, not guesswork; a mechanic's wages will then be _twenty_ cents a day!" there was a general gasp of awed astonishment, dickon the mason murmured, with raised eyes and hands: "more than three weeks' pay for one day's work!" "riches!--of a truth, yes, riches!" muttered marco, his breath coming quick and short, with excitement. "wages will keep on rising, little by little, little by little, as steadily as a tree grows, and at the end of three hundred and forty years more there'll be at least _one_ country where the mechanic's average wage will be _two hundred_ cents a day!" it knocked them absolutely dumb! not a man of them could get his breath for upwards of two minutes. then the coal-burner said prayerfully: "might i but live to see it!" "it is the income of an earl!" said smug. "an earl, say ye?" said dowley; "ye could say more than that and speak no lie; there's no earl in the realm of bagdemagus that hath an income like to that. income of an earl--mf! it's the income of an angel!" "now, then, that is what is going to happen as regards wages. in that remote day, that man will earn, with _one_ week's work, that bill of goods which it takes you upwards of _fifty_ weeks to earn now. some other pretty surprising things are going to happen, too. brother dowley, who is it that determines, every spring, what the particular wage of each kind of mechanic, laborer, and servant shall be for that year?" "sometimes the courts, sometimes the town council; but most of all, the magistrate. ye may say, in general terms, it is the magistrate that fixes the wages." "doesn't ask any of those poor devils to _help_ him fix their wages for them, does he?" "hm! that _were_ an idea! the master that's to pay him the money is the one that's rightly concerned in that matter, ye will notice." "yes--but i thought the other man might have some little trifle at stake in it, too; and even his wife and children, poor creatures. the masters are these: nobles, rich men, the prosperous generally. these few, who do no work, determine what pay the vast hive shall have who _do_ work. you see? they're a 'combine'--a trade union, to coin a new phrase--who band themselves together to force their lowly brother to take what they choose to give. thirteen hundred years hence--so says the unwritten law--the 'combine' will be the other way, and then how these fine people's posterity will fume and fret and grit their teeth over the insolent tyranny of trade unions! yes, indeed! the magistrate will tranquilly arrange the wages from now clear away down into the nineteenth century; and then all of a sudden the wage-earner will consider that a couple of thousand years or so is enough of this one-sided sort of thing; and he will rise up and take a hand in fixing his wages himself. ah, he will have a long and bitter account of wrong and humiliation to settle." "do ye believe--" "that he actually will help to fix his own wages? yes, indeed. and he will be strong and able, then." "brave times, brave times, of a truth!" sneered the prosperous smith. "oh,--and there's another detail. in that day, a master may hire a man for only just one day, or one week, or one month at a time, if he wants to." "what?" "it's true. moreover, a magistrate won't be able to force a man to work for a master a whole year on a stretch whether the man wants to or not." "will there be _no_ law or sense in that day?" "both of them, dowley. in that day a man will be his own property, not the property of magistrate and master. and he can leave town whenever he wants to, if the wages don't suit him!--and they can't put him in the pillory for it." "perdition catch such an age!" shouted dowley, in strong indignation. "an age of dogs, an age barren of reverence for superiors and respect for authority! the pillory--" "oh, wait, brother; say no good word for that institution. i think the pillory ought to be abolished." "a most strange idea. why?" "well, i'll tell you why. is a man ever put in the pillory for a capital crime?" "no." "is it right to condemn a man to a slight punishment for a small offense and then kill him?" there was no answer. i had scored my first point! for the first time, the smith wasn't up and ready. the company noticed it. good effect. "you don't answer, brother. you were about to glorify the pillory a while ago, and shed some pity on a future age that isn't going to use it. i think the pillory ought to be abolished. what usually happens when a poor fellow is put in the pillory for some little offense that didn't amount to anything in the world? the mob try to have some fun with him, don't they?" "yes." "they begin by clodding him; and they laugh themselves to pieces to see him try to dodge one clod and get hit with another?" "yes." "then they throw dead cats at him, don't they?" "yes." "well, then, suppose he has a few personal enemies in that mob and here and there a man or a woman with a secret grudge against him--and suppose especially that he is unpopular in the community, for his pride, or his prosperity, or one thing or another--stones and bricks take the place of clods and cats presently, don't they?" "there is no doubt of it." "as a rule he is crippled for life, isn't he?--jaws broken, teeth smashed out?--or legs mutilated, gangrened, presently cut off? --or an eye knocked out, maybe both eyes?" "it is true, god knoweth it." "and if he is unpopular he can depend on _dying_, right there in the stocks, can't he?" "he surely can! one may not deny it." "i take it none of _you_ are unpopular--by reason of pride or insolence, or conspicuous prosperity, or any of those things that excite envy and malice among the base scum of a village? _you_ wouldn't think it much of a risk to take a chance in the stocks?" dowley winced, visibly. i judged he was hit. but he didn't betray it by any spoken word. as for the others, they spoke out plainly, and with strong feeling. they said they had seen enough of the stocks to know what a man's chance in them was, and they would never consent to enter them if they could compromise on a quick death by hanging. "well, to change the subject--for i think i've established my point that the stocks ought to be abolished. i think some of our laws are pretty unfair. for instance, if i do a thing which ought to deliver me to the stocks, and you know i did it and yet keep still and don't report me, _you_ will get the stocks if anybody informs on you." "ah, but that would serve you but right," said dowley, "for you _must_ inform. so saith the law." the others coincided. "well, all right, let it go, since you vote me down. but there's one thing which certainly isn't fair. the magistrate fixes a mechanic's wage at one cent a day, for instance. the law says that if any master shall venture, even under utmost press of business, to pay anything _over_ that cent a day, even for a single day, he shall be both fined and pilloried for it; and whoever knows he did it and doesn't inform, they also shall be fined and pilloried. now it seems to me unfair, dowley, and a deadly peril to all of us, that because you thoughtlessly confessed, a while ago, that within a week you have paid a cent and fifteen mil--" oh, i tell _you_ it was a smasher! you ought to have seen them to go to pieces, the whole gang. i had just slipped up on poor smiling and complacent dowley so nice and easy and softly, that he never suspected anything was going to happen till the blow came crashing down and knocked him all to rags. a fine effect. in fact, as fine as any i ever produced, with so little time to work it up in. but i saw in a moment that i had overdone the thing a little. i was expecting to scare them, but i wasn't expecting to scare them to death. they were mighty near it, though. you see they had been a whole lifetime learning to appreciate the pillory; and to have that thing staring them in the face, and every one of them distinctly at the mercy of me, a stranger, if i chose to go and report--well, it was awful, and they couldn't seem to recover from the shock, they couldn't seem to pull themselves together. pale, shaky, dumb, pitiful? why, they weren't any better than so many dead men. it was very uncomfortable. of course, i thought they would appeal to me to keep mum, and then we would shake hands, and take a drink all round, and laugh it off, and there an end. but no; you see i was an unknown person, among a cruelly oppressed and suspicious people, a people always accustomed to having advantage taken of their helplessness, and never expecting just or kind treatment from any but their own families and very closest intimates. appeal to _me_ to be gentle, to be fair, to be generous? of course, they wanted to, but they couldn't dare. chapter xxxiv the yankee and the king sold as slaves well, what had i better do? nothing in a hurry, sure. i must get up a diversion; anything to employ me while i could think, and while these poor fellows could have a chance to come to life again. there sat marco, petrified in the act of trying to get the hang of his miller-gun--turned to stone, just in the attitude he was in when my pile-driver fell, the toy still gripped in his unconscious fingers. so i took it from him and proposed to explain its mystery. mystery! a simple little thing like that; and yet it was mysterious enough, for that race and that age. i never saw such an awkward people, with machinery; you see, they were totally unused to it. the miller-gun was a little double-barreled tube of toughened glass, with a neat little trick of a spring to it, which upon pressure would let a shot escape. but the shot wouldn't hurt anybody, it would only drop into your hand. in the gun were two sizes--wee mustard-seed shot, and another sort that were several times larger. they were money. the mustard-seed shot represented milrays, the larger ones mills. so the gun was a purse; and very handy, too; you could pay out money in the dark with it, with accuracy; and you could carry it in your mouth; or in your vest pocket, if you had one. i made them of several sizes --one size so large that it would carry the equivalent of a dollar. using shot for money was a good thing for the government; the metal cost nothing, and the money couldn't be counterfeited, for i was the only person in the kingdom who knew how to manage a shot tower. "paying the shot" soon came to be a common phrase. yes, and i knew it would still be passing men's lips, away down in the nineteenth century, yet none would suspect how and when it originated. the king joined us, about this time, mightily refreshed by his nap, and feeling good. anything could make me nervous now, i was so uneasy--for our lives were in danger; and so it worried me to detect a complacent something in the king's eye which seemed to indicate that he had been loading himself up for a performance of some kind or other; confound it, why must he go and choose such a time as this? i was right. he began, straight off, in the most innocently artful, and transparent, and lubberly way, to lead up to the subject of agriculture. the cold sweat broke out all over me. i wanted to whisper in his ear, "man, we are in awful danger! every moment is worth a principality till we get back these men's confidence; _don't_ waste any of this golden time." but of course i couldn't do it. whisper to him? it would look as if we were conspiring. so i had to sit there and look calm and pleasant while the king stood over that dynamite mine and mooned along about his damned onions and things. at first the tumult of my own thoughts, summoned by the danger-signal and swarming to the rescue from every quarter of my skull, kept up such a hurrah and confusion and fifing and drumming that i couldn't take in a word; but presently when my mob of gathering plans began to crystallize and fall into position and form line of battle, a sort of order and quiet ensued and i caught the boom of the king's batteries, as if out of remote distance: "--were not the best way, methinks, albeit it is not to be denied that authorities differ as concerning this point, some contending that the onion is but an unwholesome berry when stricken early from the tree--" the audience showed signs of life, and sought each other's eyes in a surprised and troubled way. "--whileas others do yet maintain, with much show of reason, that this is not of necessity the case, instancing that plums and other like cereals do be always dug in the unripe state--" the audience exhibited distinct distress; yes, and also fear. "--yet are they clearly wholesome, the more especially when one doth assuage the asperities of their nature by admixture of the tranquilizing juice of the wayward cabbage--" the wild light of terror began to glow in these men's eyes, and one of them muttered, "these be errors, every one--god hath surely smitten the mind of this farmer." i was in miserable apprehension; i sat upon thorns. "--and further instancing the known truth that in the case of animals, the young, which may be called the green fruit of the creature, is the better, all confessing that when a goat is ripe, his fur doth heat and sore engame his flesh, the which defect, taken in connection with his several rancid habits, and fulsome appetites, and godless attitudes of mind, and bilious quality of morals--" they rose and went for him! with a fierce shout, "the one would betray us, the other is mad! kill them! kill them!" they flung themselves upon us. what joy flamed up in the king's eye! he might be lame in agriculture, but this kind of thing was just in his line. he had been fasting long, he was hungry for a fight. he hit the blacksmith a crack under the jaw that lifted him clear off his feet and stretched him flat on his back. "st. george for britain!" and he downed the wheelwright. the mason was big, but i laid him out like nothing. the three gathered themselves up and came again; went down again; came again; and kept on repeating this, with native british pluck, until they were battered to jelly, reeling with exhaustion, and so blind that they couldn't tell us from each other; and yet they kept right on, hammering away with what might was left in them. hammering each other--for we stepped aside and looked on while they rolled, and struggled, and gouged, and pounded, and bit, with the strict and wordless attention to business of so many bulldogs. we looked on without apprehension, for they were fast getting past ability to go for help against us, and the arena was far enough from the public road to be safe from intrusion. well, while they were gradually playing out, it suddenly occurred to me to wonder what had become of marco. i looked around; he was nowhere to be seen. oh, but this was ominous! i pulled the king's sleeve, and we glided away and rushed for the hut. no marco there, no phyllis there! they had gone to the road for help, sure. i told the king to give his heels wings, and i would explain later. we made good time across the open ground, and as we darted into the shelter of the wood i glanced back and saw a mob of excited peasants swarm into view, with marco and his wife at their head. they were making a world of noise, but that couldn't hurt anybody; the wood was dense, and as soon as we were well into its depths we would take to a tree and let them whistle. ah, but then came another sound--dogs! yes, that was quite another matter. it magnified our contract--we must find running water. we tore along at a good gait, and soon left the sounds far behind and modified to a murmur. we struck a stream and darted into it. we waded swiftly down it, in the dim forest light, for as much as three hundred yards, and then came across an oak with a great bough sticking out over the water. we climbed up on this bough, and began to work our way along it to the body of the tree; now we began to hear those sounds more plainly; so the mob had struck our trail. for a while the sounds approached pretty fast. and then for another while they didn't. no doubt the dogs had found the place where we had entered the stream, and were now waltzing up and down the shores trying to pick up the trail again. when we were snugly lodged in the tree and curtained with foliage, the king was satisfied, but i was doubtful. i believed we could crawl along a branch and get into the next tree, and i judged it worth while to try. we tried it, and made a success of it, though the king slipped, at the junction, and came near failing to connect. we got comfortable lodgment and satisfactory concealment among the foliage, and then we had nothing to do but listen to the hunt. presently we heard it coming--and coming on the jump, too; yes, and down both sides of the stream. louder--louder--next minute it swelled swiftly up into a roar of shoutings, barkings, tramplings, and swept by like a cyclone. "i was afraid that the overhanging branch would suggest something to them," said i, "but i don't mind the disappointment. come, my liege, it were well that we make good use of our time. we've flanked them. dark is coming on, presently. if we can cross the stream and get a good start, and borrow a couple of horses from somebody's pasture to use for a few hours, we shall be safe enough." we started down, and got nearly to the lowest limb, when we seemed to hear the hunt returning. we stopped to listen. "yes," said i, "they're baffled, they've given it up, they're on their way home. we will climb back to our roost again, and let them go by." so we climbed back. the king listened a moment and said: "they still search--i wit the sign. we did best to abide." he was right. he knew more about hunting than i did. the noise approached steadily, but not with a rush. the king said: "they reason that we were advantaged by no parlous start of them, and being on foot are as yet no mighty way from where we took the water." "yes, sire, that is about it, i am afraid, though i was hoping better things." the noise drew nearer and nearer, and soon the van was drifting under us, on both sides of the water. a voice called a halt from the other bank, and said: "an they were so minded, they could get to yon tree by this branch that overhangs, and yet not touch ground. ye will do well to send a man up it." "marry, that we will do!" i was obliged to admire my cuteness in foreseeing this very thing and swapping trees to beat it. but, don't you know, there are some things that can beat smartness and foresight? awkwardness and stupidity can. the best swordsman in the world doesn't need to fear the second best swordsman in the world; no, the person for him to be afraid of is some ignorant antagonist who has never had a sword in his hand before; he doesn't do the thing he ought to do, and so the expert isn't prepared for him; he does the thing he ought not to do; and often it catches the expert out and ends him on the spot. well, how could i, with all my gifts, make any valuable preparation against a near-sighted, cross-eyed, pudding-headed clown who would aim himself at the wrong tree and hit the right one? and that is what he did. he went for the wrong tree, which was, of course, the right one by mistake, and up he started. matters were serious now. we remained still, and awaited developments. the peasant toiled his difficult way up. the king raised himself up and stood; he made a leg ready, and when the comer's head arrived in reach of it there was a dull thud, and down went the man floundering to the ground. there was a wild outbreak of anger below, and the mob swarmed in from all around, and there we were treed, and prisoners. another man started up; the bridging bough was detected, and a volunteer started up the tree that furnished the bridge. the king ordered me to play horatius and keep the bridge. for a while the enemy came thick and fast; but no matter, the head man of each procession always got a buffet that dislodged him as soon as he came in reach. the king's spirits rose, his joy was limitless. he said that if nothing occurred to mar the prospect we should have a beautiful night, for on this line of tactics we could hold the tree against the whole country-side. however, the mob soon came to that conclusion themselves; wherefore they called off the assault and began to debate other plans. they had no weapons, but there were plenty of stones, and stones might answer. we had no objections. a stone might possibly penetrate to us once in a while, but it wasn't very likely; we were well protected by boughs and foliage, and were not visible from any good aiming point. if they would but waste half an hour in stone-throwing, the dark would come to our help. we were feeling very well satisfied. we could smile; almost laugh. but we didn't; which was just as well, for we should have been interrupted. before the stones had been raging through the leaves and bouncing from the boughs fifteen minutes, we began to notice a smell. a couple of sniffs of it was enough of an explanation --it was smoke! our game was up at last. we recognized that. when smoke invites you, you have to come. they raised their pile of dry brush and damp weeds higher and higher, and when they saw the thick cloud begin to roll up and smother the tree, they broke out in a storm of joy-clamors. i got enough breath to say: "proceed, my liege; after you is manners." the king gasped: "follow me down, and then back thyself against one side of the trunk, and leave me the other. then will we fight. let each pile his dead according to his own fashion and taste." then he descended, barking and coughing, and i followed. i struck the ground an instant after him; we sprang to our appointed places, and began to give and take with all our might. the powwow and racket were prodigious; it was a tempest of riot and confusion and thick-falling blows. suddenly some horsemen tore into the midst of the crowd, and a voice shouted: "hold--or ye are dead men!" how good it sounded! the owner of the voice bore all the marks of a gentleman: picturesque and costly raiment, the aspect of command, a hard countenance, with complexion and features marred by dissipation. the mob fell humbly back, like so many spaniels. the gentleman inspected us critically, then said sharply to the peasants: "what are ye doing to these people?" "they be madmen, worshipful sir, that have come wandering we know not whence, and--" "ye know not whence? do ye pretend ye know them not?" "most honored sir, we speak but the truth. they are strangers and unknown to any in this region; and they be the most violent and bloodthirsty madmen that ever--" "peace! ye know not what ye say. they are not mad. who are ye? and whence are ye? explain." "we are but peaceful strangers, sir," i said, "and traveling upon our own concerns. we are from a far country, and unacquainted here. we have purposed no harm; and yet but for your brave interference and protection these people would have killed us. as you have divined, sir, we are not mad; neither are we violent or bloodthirsty." the gentleman turned to his retinue and said calmly: "lash me these animals to their kennels!" the mob vanished in an instant; and after them plunged the horsemen, laying about them with their whips and pitilessly riding down such as were witless enough to keep the road instead of taking to the bush. the shrieks and supplications presently died away in the distance, and soon the horsemen began to straggle back. meantime the gentleman had been questioning us more closely, but had dug no particulars out of us. we were lavish of recognition of the service he was doing us, but we revealed nothing more than that we were friendless strangers from a far country. when the escort were all returned, the gentleman said to one of his servants: "bring the led-horses and mount these people." "yes, my lord." we were placed toward the rear, among the servants. we traveled pretty fast, and finally drew rein some time after dark at a roadside inn some ten or twelve miles from the scene of our troubles. my lord went immediately to his room, after ordering his supper, and we saw no more of him. at dawn in the morning we breakfasted and made ready to start. my lord's chief attendant sauntered forward at that moment with indolent grace, and said: "ye have said ye should continue upon this road, which is our direction likewise; wherefore my lord, the earl grip, hath given commandment that ye retain the horses and ride, and that certain of us ride with ye a twenty mile to a fair town that hight cambenet, whenso ye shall be out of peril." we could do nothing less than express our thanks and accept the offer. we jogged along, six in the party, at a moderate and comfortable gait, and in conversation learned that my lord grip was a very great personage in his own region, which lay a day's journey beyond cambenet. we loitered to such a degree that it was near the middle of the forenoon when we entered the market square of the town. we dismounted, and left our thanks once more for my lord, and then approached a crowd assembled in the center of the square, to see what might be the object of interest. it was the remnant of that old peregrinating band of slaves! so they had been dragging their chains about, all this weary time. that poor husband was gone, and also many others; and some few purchases had been added to the gang. the king was not interested, and wanted to move along, but i was absorbed, and full of pity. i could not take my eyes away from these worn and wasted wrecks of humanity. there they sat, grounded upon the ground, silent, uncomplaining, with bowed heads, a pathetic sight. and by hideous contrast, a redundant orator was making a speech to another gathering not thirty steps away, in fulsome laudation of "our glorious british liberties!" i was boiling. i had forgotten i was a plebeian, i was remembering i was a man. cost what it might, i would mount that rostrum and-- click! the king and i were handcuffed together! our companions, those servants, had done it; my lord grip stood looking on. the king burst out in a fury, and said: "what meaneth this ill-mannered jest?" my lord merely said to his head miscreant, coolly: "put up the slaves and sell them!" _slaves!_ the word had a new sound--and how unspeakably awful! the king lifted his manacles and brought them down with a deadly force; but my lord was out of the way when they arrived. a dozen of the rascal's servants sprang forward, and in a moment we were helpless, with our hands bound behind us. we so loudly and so earnestly proclaimed ourselves freemen, that we got the interested attention of that liberty-mouthing orator and his patriotic crowd, and they gathered about us and assumed a very determined attitude. the orator said: "if, indeed, ye are freemen, ye have nought to fear--the god-given liberties of britain are about ye for your shield and shelter! (applause.) ye shall soon see. bring forth your proofs." "what proofs?" "proof that ye are freemen." ah--i remembered! i came to myself; i said nothing. but the king stormed out: "thou'rt insane, man. it were better, and more in reason, that this thief and scoundrel here prove that we are _not_ freemen." you see, he knew his own laws just as other people so often know the laws; by words, not by effects. they take a _meaning_, and get to be very vivid, when you come to apply them to yourself. all hands shook their heads and looked disappointed; some turned away, no longer interested. the orator said--and this time in the tones of business, not of sentiment: "an ye do not know your country's laws, it were time ye learned them. ye are strangers to us; ye will not deny that. ye may be freemen, we do not deny that; but also ye may be slaves. the law is clear: it doth not require the claimant to prove ye are slaves, it requireth you to prove ye are not." i said: "dear sir, give us only time to send to astolat; or give us only time to send to the valley of holiness--" "peace, good man, these are extraordinary requests, and you may not hope to have them granted. it would cost much time, and would unwarrantably inconvenience your master--" "_master_, idiot!" stormed the king. "i have no master, i myself am the m--" "silence, for god's sake!" i got the words out in time to stop the king. we were in trouble enough already; it could not help us any to give these people the notion that we were lunatics. there is no use in stringing out the details. the earl put us up and sold us at auction. this same infernal law had existed in our own south in my own time, more than thirteen hundred years later, and under it hundreds of freemen who could not prove that they were freemen had been sold into lifelong slavery without the circumstance making any particular impression upon me; but the minute law and the auction block came into my personal experience, a thing which had been merely improper before became suddenly hellish. well, that's the way we are made. yes, we were sold at auction, like swine. in a big town and an active market we should have brought a good price; but this place was utterly stagnant and so we sold at a figure which makes me ashamed, every time i think of it. the king of england brought seven dollars, and his prime minister nine; whereas the king was easily worth twelve dollars and i as easily worth fifteen. but that is the way things always go; if you force a sale on a dull market, i don't care what the property is, you are going to make a poor business of it, and you can make up your mind to it. if the earl had had wit enough to-- however, there is no occasion for my working my sympathies up on his account. let him go, for the present; i took his number, so to speak. the slave-dealer bought us both, and hitched us onto that long chain of his, and we constituted the rear of his procession. we took up our line of march and passed out of cambenet at noon; and it seemed to me unaccountably strange and odd that the king of england and his chief minister, marching manacled and fettered and yoked, in a slave convoy, could move by all manner of idle men and women, and under windows where sat the sweet and the lovely, and yet never attract a curious eye, never provoke a single remark. dear, dear, it only shows that there is nothing diviner about a king than there is about a tramp, after all. he is just a cheap and hollow artificiality when you don't know he is a king. but reveal his quality, and dear me it takes your very breath away to look at him. i reckon we are all fools. born so, no doubt. chapter xxxv a pitiful incident it's a world of surprises. the king brooded; this was natural. what would he brood about, should you say? why, about the prodigious nature of his fall, of course--from the loftiest place in the world to the lowest; from the most illustrious station in the world to the obscurest; from the grandest vocation among men to the basest. no, i take my oath that the thing that graveled him most, to start with, was not this, but the price he had fetched! he couldn't seem to get over that seven dollars. well, it stunned me so, when i first found it out, that i couldn't believe it; it didn't seem natural. but as soon as my mental sight cleared and i got a right focus on it, i saw i was mistaken; it _was_ natural. for this reason: a king is a mere artificiality, and so a king's feelings, like the impulses of an automatic doll, are mere artificialities; but as a man, he is a reality, and his feelings, as a man, are real, not phantoms. it shames the average man to be valued below his own estimate of his worth, and the king certainly wasn't anything more than an average man, if he was up that high. confound him, he wearied me with arguments to show that in anything like a fair market he would have fetched twenty-five dollars, sure--a thing which was plainly nonsense, and full or the baldest conceit; i wasn't worth it myself. but it was tender ground for me to argue on. in fact, i had to simply shirk argument and do the diplomatic instead. i had to throw conscience aside, and brazenly concede that he ought to have brought twenty-five dollars; whereas i was quite well aware that in all the ages, the world had never seen a king that was worth half the money, and during the next thirteen centuries wouldn't see one that was worth the fourth of it. yes, he tired me. if he began to talk about the crops; or about the recent weather; or about the condition of politics; or about dogs, or cats, or morals, or theology--no matter what --i sighed, for i knew what was coming; he was going to get out of it a palliation of that tiresome seven-dollar sale. wherever we halted where there was a crowd, he would give me a look which said plainly: "if that thing could be tried over again now, with this kind of folk, you would see a different result." well, when he was first sold, it secretly tickled me to see him go for seven dollars; but before he was done with his sweating and worrying i wished he had fetched a hundred. the thing never got a chance to die, for every day, at one place or another, possible purchasers looked us over, and, as often as any other way, their comment on the king was something like this: "here's a two-dollar-and-a-half chump with a thirty-dollar style. pity but style was marketable." at last this sort of remark produced an evil result. our owner was a practical person and he perceived that this defect must be mended if he hoped to find a purchaser for the king. so he went to work to take the style out of his sacred majesty. i could have given the man some valuable advice, but i didn't; you mustn't volunteer advice to a slave-driver unless you want to damage the cause you are arguing for. i had found it a sufficiently difficult job to reduce the king's style to a peasant's style, even when he was a willing and anxious pupil; now then, to undertake to reduce the king's style to a slave's style--and by force--go to! it was a stately contract. never mind the details--it will save me trouble to let you imagine them. i will only remark that at the end of a week there was plenty of evidence that lash and club and fist had done their work well; the king's body was a sight to see--and to weep over; but his spirit?--why, it wasn't even phased. even that dull clod of a slave-driver was able to see that there can be such a thing as a slave who will remain a man till he dies; whose bones you can break, but whose manhood you can't. this man found that from his first effort down to his latest, he couldn't ever come within reach of the king, but the king was ready to plunge for him, and did it. so he gave up at last, and left the king in possession of his style unimpaired. the fact is, the king was a good deal more than a king, he was a man; and when a man is a man, you can't knock it out of him. we had a rough time for a month, tramping to and fro in the earth, and suffering. and what englishman was the most interested in the slavery question by that time? his grace the king! yes; from being the most indifferent, he was become the most interested. he was become the bitterest hater of the institution i had ever heard talk. and so i ventured to ask once more a question which i had asked years before and had gotten such a sharp answer that i had not thought it prudent to meddle in the matter further. would he abolish slavery? his answer was as sharp as before, but it was music this time; i shouldn't ever wish to hear pleasanter, though the profanity was not good, being awkwardly put together, and with the crash-word almost in the middle instead of at the end, where, of course, it ought to have been. i was ready and willing to get free now; i hadn't wanted to get free any sooner. no, i cannot quite say that. i had wanted to, but i had not been willing to take desperate chances, and had always dissuaded the king from them. but now--ah, it was a new atmosphere! liberty would be worth any cost that might be put upon it now. i set about a plan, and was straightway charmed with it. it would require time, yes, and patience, too, a great deal of both. one could invent quicker ways, and fully as sure ones; but none that would be as picturesque as this; none that could be made so dramatic. and so i was not going to give this one up. it might delay us months, but no matter, i would carry it out or break something. now and then we had an adventure. one night we were overtaken by a snow-storm while still a mile from the village we were making for. almost instantly we were shut up as in a fog, the driving snow was so thick. you couldn't see a thing, and we were soon lost. the slave-driver lashed us desperately, for he saw ruin before him, but his lashings only made matters worse, for they drove us further from the road and from likelihood of succor. so we had to stop at last and slump down in the snow where we were. the storm continued until toward midnight, then ceased. by this time two of our feebler men and three of our women were dead, and others past moving and threatened with death. our master was nearly beside himself. he stirred up the living, and made us stand, jump, slap ourselves, to restore our circulation, and he helped as well as he could with his whip. now came a diversion. we heard shrieks and yells, and soon a woman came running and crying; and seeing our group, she flung herself into our midst and begged for protection. a mob of people came tearing after her, some with torches, and they said she was a witch who had caused several cows to die by a strange disease, and practiced her arts by help of a devil in the form of a black cat. this poor woman had been stoned until she hardly looked human, she was so battered and bloody. the mob wanted to burn her. well, now, what do you suppose our master did? when we closed around this poor creature to shelter her, he saw his chance. he said, burn her here, or they shouldn't have her at all. imagine that! they were willing. they fastened her to a post; they brought wood and piled it about her; they applied the torch while she shrieked and pleaded and strained her two young daughters to her breast; and our brute, with a heart solely for business, lashed us into position about the stake and warmed us into life and commercial value by the same fire which took away the innocent life of that poor harmless mother. that was the sort of master we had. i took _his_ number. that snow-storm cost him nine of his flock; and he was more brutal to us than ever, after that, for many days together, he was so enraged over his loss. we had adventures all along. one day we ran into a procession. and such a procession! all the riffraff of the kingdom seemed to be comprehended in it; and all drunk at that. in the van was a cart with a coffin in it, and on the coffin sat a comely young girl of about eighteen suckling a baby, which she squeezed to her breast in a passion of love every little while, and every little while wiped from its face the tears which her eyes rained down upon it; and always the foolish little thing smiled up at her, happy and content, kneading her breast with its dimpled fat hand, which she patted and fondled right over her breaking heart. men and women, boys and girls, trotted along beside or after the cart, hooting, shouting profane and ribald remarks, singing snatches of foul song, skipping, dancing--a very holiday of hellions, a sickening sight. we had struck a suburb of london, outside the walls, and this was a sample of one sort of london society. our master secured a good place for us near the gallows. a priest was in attendance, and he helped the girl climb up, and said comforting words to her, and made the under-sheriff provide a stool for her. then he stood there by her on the gallows, and for a moment looked down upon the mass of upturned faces at his feet, then out over the solid pavement of heads that stretched away on every side occupying the vacancies far and near, and then began to tell the story of the case. and there was pity in his voice --how seldom a sound that was in that ignorant and savage land! i remember every detail of what he said, except the words he said it in; and so i change it into my own words: "law is intended to mete out justice. sometimes it fails. this cannot be helped. we can only grieve, and be resigned, and pray for the soul of him who falls unfairly by the arm of the law, and that his fellows may be few. a law sends this poor young thing to death--and it is right. but another law had placed her where she must commit her crime or starve with her child--and before god that law is responsible for both her crime and her ignominious death! "a little while ago this young thing, this child of eighteen years, was as happy a wife and mother as any in england; and her lips were blithe with song, which is the native speech of glad and innocent hearts. her young husband was as happy as she; for he was doing his whole duty, he worked early and late at his handicraft, his bread was honest bread well and fairly earned, he was prospering, he was furnishing shelter and sustenance to his family, he was adding his mite to the wealth of the nation. by consent of a treacherous law, instant destruction fell upon this holy home and swept it away! that young husband was waylaid and impressed, and sent to sea. the wife knew nothing of it. she sought him everywhere, she moved the hardest hearts with the supplications of her tears, the broken eloquence of her despair. weeks dragged by, she watching, waiting, hoping, her mind going slowly to wreck under the burden of her misery. little by little all her small possessions went for food. when she could no longer pay her rent, they turned her out of doors. she begged, while she had strength; when she was starving at last, and her milk failing, she stole a piece of linen cloth of the value of a fourth part of a cent, thinking to sell it and save her child. but she was seen by the owner of the cloth. she was put in jail and brought to trial. the man testified to the facts. a plea was made for her, and her sorrowful story was told in her behalf. she spoke, too, by permission, and said she did steal the cloth, but that her mind was so disordered of late by trouble that when she was overborne with hunger all acts, criminal or other, swam meaningless through her brain and she knew nothing rightly, except that she was so hungry! for a moment all were touched, and there was disposition to deal mercifully with her, seeing that she was so young and friendless, and her case so piteous, and the law that robbed her of her support to blame as being the first and only cause of her transgression; but the prosecuting officer replied that whereas these things were all true, and most pitiful as well, still there was much small theft in these days, and mistimed mercy here would be a danger to property--oh, my god, is there no property in ruined homes, and orphaned babes, and broken hearts that british law holds precious!--and so he must require sentence. "when the judge put on his black cap, the owner of the stolen linen rose trembling up, his lip quivering, his face as gray as ashes; and when the awful words came, he cried out, 'oh, poor child, poor child, i did not know it was death!' and fell as a tree falls. when they lifted him up his reason was gone; before the sun was set, he had taken his own life. a kindly man; a man whose heart was right, at bottom; add his murder to this that is to be now done here; and charge them both where they belong --to the rulers and the bitter laws of britain. the time is come, my child; let me pray over thee--not _for_ thee, dear abused poor heart and innocent, but for them that be guilty of thy ruin and death, who need it more." after his prayer they put the noose around the young girl's neck, and they had great trouble to adjust the knot under her ear, because she was devouring the baby all the time, wildly kissing it, and snatching it to her face and her breast, and drenching it with tears, and half moaning, half shrieking all the while, and the baby crowing, and laughing, and kicking its feet with delight over what it took for romp and play. even the hangman couldn't stand it, but turned away. when all was ready the priest gently pulled and tugged and forced the child out of the mother's arms, and stepped quickly out of her reach; but she clasped her hands, and made a wild spring toward him, with a shriek; but the rope--and the under-sheriff--held her short. then she went on her knees and stretched out her hands and cried: "one more kiss--oh, my god, one more, one more,--it is the dying that begs it!" she got it; she almost smothered the little thing. and when they got it away again, she cried out: "oh, my child, my darling, it will die! it has no home, it has no father, no friend, no mother--" "it has them all!" said that good priest. "all these will i be to it till i die." you should have seen her face then! gratitude? lord, what do you want with words to express that? words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself. she gave that look, and carried it away to the treasury of heaven, where all things that are divine belong. idylls of the king in twelve books by alfred, lord tennyson flos regum arthurus (joseph of exeter) contents dedication the coming of arthur the round table gareth and lynette the marriage of geraint geraint and enid balin and balan merlin and vivien lancelot and elaine the holy grail pelleas and ettarre the last tournament guinevere the passing of arthur to the queen dedication these to his memory--since he held them dear, perchance as finding there unconsciously some image of himself--i dedicate, i dedicate, i consecrate with tears-- these idylls. and indeed he seems to me scarce other than my king's ideal knight, 'who reverenced his conscience as his king; whose glory was, redressing human wrong; who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it; who loved one only and who clave to her--' her--over all whose realms to their last isle, commingled with the gloom of imminent war, the shadow of his loss drew like eclipse, darkening the world. we have lost him: he is gone: we know him now: all narrow jealousies are silent; and we see him as he moved, how modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise, with what sublime repression of himself, and in what limits, and how tenderly; not swaying to this faction or to that; not making his high place the lawless perch of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground for pleasure; but through all this tract of years wearing the white flower of a blameless life, before a thousand peering littlenesses, in that fierce light which beats upon a throne, and blackens every blot: for where is he, who dares foreshadow for an only son a lovelier life, a more unstained, than his? or how should england dreaming of his sons hope more for these than some inheritance of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, thou noble father of her kings to be, laborious for her people and her poor-- voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day-- far-sighted summoner of war and waste to fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace-- sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam of letters, dear to science, dear to art, dear to thy land and ours, a prince indeed, beyond all titles, and a household name, hereafter, through all times, albert the good. break not, o woman's-heart, but still endure; break not, for thou art royal, but endure, remembering all the beauty of that star which shone so close beside thee that ye made one light together, but has past and leaves the crown a lonely splendour. may all love, his love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow thee, the love of all thy sons encompass thee, the love of all thy daughters cherish thee, the love of all thy people comfort thee, till god's love set thee at his side again! the coming of arthur leodogran, the king of cameliard, had one fair daughter, and none other child; and she was the fairest of all flesh on earth, guinevere, and in her his one delight. for many a petty king ere arthur came ruled in this isle, and ever waging war each upon other, wasted all the land; and still from time to time the heathen host swarmed overseas, and harried what was left. and so there grew great tracts of wilderness, wherein the beast was ever more and more, but man was less and less, till arthur came. for first aurelius lived and fought and died, and after him king uther fought and died, but either failed to make the kingdom one. and after these king arthur for a space, and through the puissance of his table round, drew all their petty princedoms under him. their king and head, and made a realm, and reigned. and thus the land of cameliard was waste, thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, and none or few to scare or chase the beast; so that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear came night and day, and rooted in the fields, and wallowed in the gardens of the king. and ever and anon the wolf would steal the children and devour, but now and then, her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat to human sucklings; and the children, housed in her foul den, there at their meat would growl, and mock their foster mother on four feet, till, straightened, they grew up to wolf-like men, worse than the wolves. and king leodogran groaned for the roman legions here again, and caesar's eagle: then his brother king, urien, assailed him: last a heathen horde, reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood, and on the spike that split the mother's heart spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed, he knew not whither he should turn for aid. but--for he heard of arthur newly crowned, though not without an uproar made by those who cried, 'he is not uther's son'--the king sent to him, saying, 'arise, and help us thou! for here between the man and beast we die.' and arthur yet had done no deed of arms, but heard the call, and came: and guinevere stood by the castle walls to watch him pass; but since he neither wore on helm or shield the golden symbol of his kinglihood, but rode a simple knight among his knights, and many of these in richer arms than he, she saw him not, or marked not, if she saw, one among many, though his face was bare. but arthur, looking downward as he past, felt the light of her eyes into his life smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitched his tents beside the forest. then he drave the heathen; after, slew the beast, and felled the forest, letting in the sun, and made broad pathways for the hunter and the knight and so returned. for while he lingered there, a doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts of those great lords and barons of his realm flashed forth and into war: for most of these, colleaguing with a score of petty kings, made head against him, crying, 'who is he that he should rule us? who hath proven him king uther's son? for lo! we look at him, and find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, are like to those of uther whom we knew. this is the son of gorlois, not the king; this is the son of anton, not the king.' and arthur, passing thence to battle, felt travail, and throes and agonies of the life, desiring to be joined with guinevere; and thinking as he rode, 'her father said that there between the man and beast they die. shall i not lift her from this land of beasts up to my throne, and side by side with me? what happiness to reign a lonely king, vext--o ye stars that shudder over me, o earth that soundest hollow under me, vext with waste dreams? for saving i be joined to her that is the fairest under heaven, i seem as nothing in the mighty world, and cannot will my will, nor work my work wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm victor and lord. but were i joined with her, then might we live together as one life, and reigning with one will in everything have power on this dark land to lighten it, and power on this dead world to make it live.' thereafter--as he speaks who tells the tale-- when arthur reached a field-of-battle bright with pitched pavilions of his foe, the world was all so clear about him, that he saw the smallest rock far on the faintest hill, and even in high day the morning star. so when the king had set his banner broad, at once from either side, with trumpet-blast, and shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood, the long-lanced battle let their horses run. and now the barons and the kings prevailed, and now the king, as here and there that war went swaying; but the powers who walk the world made lightnings and great thunders over him, and dazed all eyes, till arthur by main might, and mightier of his hands with every blow, and leading all his knighthood threw the kings carados, urien, cradlemont of wales, claudias, and clariance of northumberland, the king brandagoras of latangor, with anguisant of erin, morganore, and lot of orkney. then, before a voice as dreadful as the shout of one who sees to one who sins, and deems himself alone and all the world asleep, they swerved and brake flying, and arthur called to stay the brands that hacked among the flyers, 'ho! they yield!' so like a painted battle the war stood silenced, the living quiet as the dead, and in the heart of arthur joy was lord. he laughed upon his warrior whom he loved and honoured most. 'thou dost not doubt me king, so well thine arm hath wrought for me today.' 'sir and my liege,' he cried, 'the fire of god descends upon thee in the battle-field: i know thee for my king!' whereat the two, for each had warded either in the fight, sware on the field of death a deathless love. and arthur said, 'man's word is god in man: let chance what will, i trust thee to the death.' then quickly from the foughten field he sent ulfius, and brastias, and bedivere, his new-made knights, to king leodogran, saying, 'if i in aught have served thee well, give me thy daughter guinevere to wife.' whom when he heard, leodogran in heart debating--'how should i that am a king, however much he holp me at my need, give my one daughter saving to a king, and a king's son?'--lifted his voice, and called a hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom he trusted all things, and of him required his counsel: 'knowest thou aught of arthur's birth?' then spake the hoary chamberlain and said, 'sir king, there be but two old men that know: and each is twice as old as i; and one is merlin, the wise man that ever served king uther through his magic art; and one is merlin's master (so they call him) bleys, who taught him magic, but the scholar ran before the master, and so far, that bleys, laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote all things and whatsoever merlin did in one great annal-book, where after-years will learn the secret of our arthur's birth.' to whom the king leodogran replied, 'o friend, had i been holpen half as well by this king arthur as by thee today, then beast and man had had their share of me: but summon here before us yet once more ulfius, and brastias, and bedivere.' then, when they came before him, the king said, 'i have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl, and reason in the chase: but wherefore now do these your lords stir up the heat of war, some calling arthur born of gorlois, others of anton? tell me, ye yourselves, hold ye this arthur for king uther's son?' and ulfius and brastias answered, 'ay.' then bedivere, the first of all his knights knighted by arthur at his crowning, spake-- for bold in heart and act and word was he, whenever slander breathed against the king-- 'sir, there be many rumours on this head: for there be those who hate him in their hearts, call him baseborn, and since his ways are sweet, and theirs are bestial, hold him less than man: and there be those who deem him more than man, and dream he dropt from heaven: but my belief in all this matter--so ye care to learn-- sir, for ye know that in king uther's time the prince and warrior gorlois, he that held tintagil castle by the cornish sea, was wedded with a winsome wife, ygerne: and daughters had she borne him,--one whereof, lot's wife, the queen of orkney, bellicent, hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved to arthur,--but a son she had not borne. and uther cast upon her eyes of love: but she, a stainless wife to gorlois, so loathed the bright dishonour of his love, that gorlois and king uther went to war: and overthrown was gorlois and slain. then uther in his wrath and heat besieged ygerne within tintagil, where her men, seeing the mighty swarm about their walls, left her and fled, and uther entered in, and there was none to call to but himself. so, compassed by the power of the king, enforced was she to wed him in her tears, and with a shameful swiftness: afterward, not many moons, king uther died himself, moaning and wailing for an heir to rule after him, lest the realm should go to wrack. and that same night, the night of the new year, by reason of the bitterness and grief that vext his mother, all before his time was arthur born, and all as soon as born delivered at a secret postern-gate to merlin, to be holden far apart until his hour should come; because the lords of that fierce day were as the lords of this, wild beasts, and surely would have torn the child piecemeal among them, had they known; for each but sought to rule for his own self and hand, and many hated uther for the sake of gorlois. wherefore merlin took the child, and gave him to sir anton, an old knight and ancient friend of uther; and his wife nursed the young prince, and reared him with her own; and no man knew. and ever since the lords have foughten like wild beasts among themselves, so that the realm has gone to wrack: but now, this year, when merlin (for his hour had come) brought arthur forth, and set him in the hall, proclaiming, "here is uther's heir, your king," a hundred voices cried, "away with him! no king of ours! a son of gorlois he, or else the child of anton, and no king, or else baseborn." yet merlin through his craft, and while the people clamoured for a king, had arthur crowned; but after, the great lords banded, and so brake out in open war.' then while the king debated with himself if arthur were the child of shamefulness, or born the son of gorlois, after death, or uther's son, and born before his time, or whether there were truth in anything said by these three, there came to cameliard, with gawain and young modred, her two sons, lot's wife, the queen of orkney, bellicent; whom as he could, not as he would, the king made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat, 'a doubtful throne is ice on summer seas. ye come from arthur's court. victor his men report him! yea, but ye--think ye this king-- so many those that hate him, and so strong, so few his knights, however brave they be-- hath body enow to hold his foemen down?' 'o king,' she cried, 'and i will tell thee: few, few, but all brave, all of one mind with him; for i was near him when the savage yells of uther's peerage died, and arthur sat crowned on the dais, and his warriors cried, "be thou the king, and we will work thy will who love thee." then the king in low deep tones, and simple words of great authority, bound them by so strait vows to his own self, that when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some were pale as at the passing of a ghost, some flushed, and others dazed, as one who wakes half-blinded at the coming of a light. 'but when he spake and cheered his table round with large, divine, and comfortable words, beyond my tongue to tell thee--i beheld from eye to eye through all their order flash a momentary likeness of the king: and ere it left their faces, through the cross and those around it and the crucified, down from the casement over arthur, smote flame-colour, vert and azure, in three rays, one falling upon each of three fair queens, who stood in silence near his throne, the friends of arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright sweet faces, who will help him at his need. 'and there i saw mage merlin, whose vast wit and hundred winters are but as the hands of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 'and near him stood the lady of the lake, who knows a subtler magic than his own-- clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. she gave the king his huge cross-hilted sword, whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist of incense curled about her, and her face wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom; but there was heard among the holy hymns a voice as of the waters, for she dwells down in a deep; calm, whatsoever storms may shake the world, and when the surface rolls, hath power to walk the waters like our lord. 'there likewise i beheld excalibur before him at his crowning borne, the sword that rose from out the bosom of the lake, and arthur rowed across and took it--rich with jewels, elfin urim, on the hilt, bewildering heart and eye--the blade so bright that men are blinded by it--on one side, graven in the oldest tongue of all this world, "take me," but turn the blade and ye shall see, and written in the speech ye speak yourself, "cast me away!" and sad was arthur's face taking it, but old merlin counselled him, "take thou and strike! the time to cast away is yet far-off." so this great brand the king took, and by this will beat his foemen down.' thereat leodogran rejoiced, but thought to sift his doubtings to the last, and asked, fixing full eyes of question on her face, 'the swallow and the swift are near akin, but thou art closer to this noble prince, being his own dear sister;' and she said, 'daughter of gorlois and ygerne am i;' 'and therefore arthur's sister?' asked the king. she answered, 'these be secret things,' and signed to those two sons to pass, and let them be. and gawain went, and breaking into song sprang out, and followed by his flying hair ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw: but modred laid his ear beside the doors, and there half-heard; the same that afterward struck for the throne, and striking found his doom. and then the queen made answer, 'what know i? for dark my mother was in eyes and hair, and dark in hair and eyes am i; and dark was gorlois, yea and dark was uther too, wellnigh to blackness; but this king is fair beyond the race of britons and of men. moreover, always in my mind i hear a cry from out the dawning of my life, a mother weeping, and i hear her say, "o that ye had some brother, pretty one, to guard thee on the rough ways of the world."' 'ay,' said the king, 'and hear ye such a cry? but when did arthur chance upon thee first?' 'o king!' she cried, 'and i will tell thee true: he found me first when yet a little maid: beaten i had been for a little fault whereof i was not guilty; and out i ran and flung myself down on a bank of heath, and hated this fair world and all therein, and wept, and wished that i were dead; and he-- i know not whether of himself he came, or brought by merlin, who, they say, can walk unseen at pleasure--he was at my side, and spake sweet words, and comforted my heart, and dried my tears, being a child with me. and many a time he came, and evermore as i grew greater grew with me; and sad at times he seemed, and sad with him was i, stern too at times, and then i loved him not, but sweet again, and then i loved him well. and now of late i see him less and less, but those first days had golden hours for me, for then i surely thought he would be king. 'but let me tell thee now another tale: for bleys, our merlin's master, as they say, died but of late, and sent his cry to me, to hear him speak before he left his life. shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage; and when i entered told me that himself and merlin ever served about the king, uther, before he died; and on the night when uther in tintagil past away moaning and wailing for an heir, the two left the still king, and passing forth to breathe, then from the castle gateway by the chasm descending through the dismal night--a night in which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost-- beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps it seemed in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof a dragon winged, and all from stern to stern bright with a shining people on the decks, and gone as soon as seen. and then the two dropt to the cove, and watched the great sea fall, wave after wave, each mightier than the last, till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep and full of voices, slowly rose and plunged roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: and down the wave and in the flame was borne a naked babe, and rode to merlin's feet, who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried "the king! here is an heir for uther!" and the fringe of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand, lashed at the wizard as he spake the word, and all at once all round him rose in fire, so that the child and he were clothed in fire. and presently thereafter followed calm, free sky and stars: "and this the same child," he said, "is he who reigns; nor could i part in peace till this were told." and saying this the seer went through the strait and dreadful pass of death, not ever to be questioned any more save on the further side; but when i met merlin, and asked him if these things were truth-- the shining dragon and the naked child descending in the glory of the seas-- he laughed as is his wont, and answered me in riddling triplets of old time, and said: '"rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the sky! a young man will be wiser by and by; an old man's wit may wander ere he die. rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the lea! and truth is this to me, and that to thee; and truth or clothed or naked let it be. rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows: sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows? from the great deep to the great deep he goes." 'so merlin riddling angered me; but thou fear not to give this king thy only child, guinevere: so great bards of him will sing hereafter; and dark sayings from of old ranging and ringing through the minds of men, and echoed by old folk beside their fires for comfort after their wage-work is done, speak of the king; and merlin in our time hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn though men may wound him that he will not die, but pass, again to come; and then or now utterly smite the heathen underfoot, till these and all men hail him for their king.' she spake and king leodogran rejoiced, but musing, 'shall i answer yea or nay?' doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw, dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew, field after field, up to a height, the peak haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king, now looming, and now lost; and on the slope the sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven, fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick, in drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, streamed to the peak, and mingled with the haze and made it thicker; while the phantom king sent out at times a voice; and here or there stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest slew on and burnt, crying, 'no king of ours, no son of uther, and no king of ours;' till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze descended, and the solid earth became as nothing, but the king stood out in heaven, crowned. and leodogran awoke, and sent ulfius, and brastias and bedivere, back to the court of arthur answering yea. then arthur charged his warrior whom he loved and honoured most, sir lancelot, to ride forth and bring the queen;--and watched him from the gates: and lancelot past away among the flowers, (for then was latter april) and returned among the flowers, in may, with guinevere. to whom arrived, by dubric the high saint, chief of the church in britain, and before the stateliest of her altar-shrines, the king that morn was married, while in stainless white, the fair beginners of a nobler time, and glorying in their vows and him, his knights stood around him, and rejoicing in his joy. far shone the fields of may through open door, the sacred altar blossomed white with may, the sun of may descended on their king, they gazed on all earth's beauty in their queen, rolled incense, and there past along the hymns a voice as of the waters, while the two sware at the shrine of christ a deathless love: and arthur said, 'behold, thy doom is mine. let chance what will, i love thee to the death!' to whom the queen replied with drooping eyes, 'king and my lord, i love thee to the death!' and holy dubric spread his hands and spake, 'reign ye, and live and love, and make the world other, and may thy queen be one with thee, and all this order of thy table round fulfil the boundless purpose of their king!' so dubric said; but when they left the shrine great lords from rome before the portal stood, in scornful stillness gazing as they past; then while they paced a city all on fire with sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets blew, and arthur's knighthood sang before the king:-- 'blow, trumpet, for the world is white with may; blow trumpet, the long night hath rolled away! blow through the living world--"let the king reign." 'shall rome or heathen rule in arthur's realm? flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm, fall battleaxe, and flash brand! let the king reign. 'strike for the king and live! his knights have heard that god hath told the king a secret word. fall battleaxe, and flash brand! let the king reign. 'blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust. blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust! clang battleaxe, and clash brand! let the king reign. 'strike for the king and die! and if thou diest, the king is king, and ever wills the highest. clang battleaxe, and clash brand! let the king reign. 'blow, for our sun is mighty in his may! blow, for our sun is mightier day by day! clang battleaxe, and clash brand! let the king reign. 'the king will follow christ, and we the king in whom high god hath breathed a secret thing. fall battleaxe, and flash brand! let the king reign.' so sang the knighthood, moving to their hall. there at the banquet those great lords from rome, the slowly-fading mistress of the world, strode in, and claimed their tribute as of yore. but arthur spake, 'behold, for these have sworn to wage my wars, and worship me their king; the old order changeth, yielding place to new; and we that fight for our fair father christ, seeing that ye be grown too weak and old to drive the heathen from your roman wall, no tribute will we pay:' so those great lords drew back in wrath, and arthur strove with rome. and arthur and his knighthood for a space were all one will, and through that strength the king drew in the petty princedoms under him, fought, and in twelve great battles overcame the heathen hordes, and made a realm and reigned. gareth and lynette the last tall son of lot and bellicent, and tallest, gareth, in a showerful spring stared at the spate. a slender-shafted pine lost footing, fell, and so was whirled away. 'how he went down,' said gareth, 'as a false knight or evil king before my lance if lance were mine to use--o senseless cataract, bearing all down in thy precipitancy-- and yet thou art but swollen with cold snows and mine is living blood: thou dost his will, the maker's, and not knowest, and i that know, have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall linger with vacillating obedience, prisoned, and kept and coaxed and whistled to-- since the good mother holds me still a child! good mother is bad mother unto me! a worse were better; yet no worse would i. heaven yield her for it, but in me put force to weary her ears with one continuous prayer, until she let me fly discaged to sweep in ever-highering eagle-circles up to the great sun of glory, and thence swoop down upon all things base, and dash them dead, a knight of arthur, working out his will, to cleanse the world. why, gawain, when he came with modred hither in the summertime, asked me to tilt with him, the proven knight. modred for want of worthier was the judge. then i so shook him in the saddle, he said, "thou hast half prevailed against me," said so--he-- though modred biting his thin lips was mute, for he is alway sullen: what care i?' and gareth went, and hovering round her chair asked, 'mother, though ye count me still the child, sweet mother, do ye love the child?' she laughed, 'thou art but a wild-goose to question it.' 'then, mother, an ye love the child,' he said, 'being a goose and rather tame than wild, hear the child's story.' 'yea, my well-beloved, an 'twere but of the goose and golden eggs.' and gareth answered her with kindling eyes, 'nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine was finer gold than any goose can lay; for this an eagle, a royal eagle, laid almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm as glitters gilded in thy book of hours. and there was ever haunting round the palm a lusty youth, but poor, who often saw the splendour sparkling from aloft, and thought "an i could climb and lay my hand upon it, then were i wealthier than a leash of kings." but ever when he reached a hand to climb, one, that had loved him from his childhood, caught and stayed him, "climb not lest thou break thy neck, i charge thee by my love," and so the boy, sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck, but brake his very heart in pining for it, and past away.' to whom the mother said, 'true love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed, and handed down the golden treasure to him.' and gareth answered her with kindling eyes, 'gold?' said i gold?--ay then, why he, or she, or whosoe'er it was, or half the world had ventured--had the thing i spake of been mere gold--but this was all of that true steel, whereof they forged the brand excalibur, and lightnings played about it in the storm, and all the little fowl were flurried at it, and there were cries and clashings in the nest, that sent him from his senses: let me go.' then bellicent bemoaned herself and said, 'hast thou no pity upon my loneliness? lo, where thy father lot beside the hearth lies like a log, and all but smouldered out! for ever since when traitor to the king he fought against him in the barons' war, and arthur gave him back his territory, his age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there a yet-warm corpse, and yet unburiable, no more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows. and both thy brethren are in arthur's hall, albeit neither loved with that full love i feel for thee, nor worthy such a love: stay therefore thou; red berries charm the bird, and thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang of wrenched or broken limb--an often chance in those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls, frights to my heart; but stay: follow the deer by these tall firs and our fast-falling burns; so make thy manhood mightier day by day; sweet is the chase: and i will seek thee out some comfortable bride and fair, to grace thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year, till falling into lot's forgetfulness i know not thee, myself, nor anything. stay, my best son! ye are yet more boy than man.' then gareth, 'an ye hold me yet for child, hear yet once more the story of the child. for, mother, there was once a king, like ours. the prince his heir, when tall and marriageable, asked for a bride; and thereupon the king set two before him. one was fair, strong, armed-- but to be won by force--and many men desired her; one good lack, no man desired. and these were the conditions of the king: that save he won the first by force, he needs must wed that other, whom no man desired, a red-faced bride who knew herself so vile, that evermore she longed to hide herself, nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye-- yea--some she cleaved to, but they died of her. and one--they called her fame; and one,--o mother, how can ye keep me tethered to you--shame. man am i grown, a man's work must i do. follow the deer? follow the christ, the king, live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the king-- else, wherefore born?' to whom the mother said 'sweet son, for there be many who deem him not, or will not deem him, wholly proven king-- albeit in mine own heart i knew him king, when i was frequent with him in my youth, and heard him kingly speak, and doubted him no more than he, himself; but felt him mine, of closest kin to me: yet--wilt thou leave thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all, life, limbs, for one that is not proven king? stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth hath lifted but a little. stay, sweet son.' and gareth answered quickly, 'not an hour, so that ye yield me--i will walk through fire, mother, to gain it--your full leave to go. not proven, who swept the dust of ruined rome from off the threshold of the realm, and crushed the idolaters, and made the people free? who should be king save him who makes us free?' so when the queen, who long had sought in vain to break him from the intent to which he grew, found her son's will unwaveringly one, she answered craftily, 'will ye walk through fire? who walks through fire will hardly heed the smoke. ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof, before thou ask the king to make thee knight, of thine obedience and thy love to me, thy mother,--i demand. and gareth cried, 'a hard one, or a hundred, so i go. nay--quick! the proof to prove me to the quick!' but slowly spake the mother looking at him, 'prince, thou shalt go disguised to arthur's hall, and hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves, and those that hand the dish across the bar. nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone. and thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day.' for so the queen believed that when her son beheld his only way to glory lead low down through villain kitchen-vassalage, her own true gareth was too princely-proud to pass thereby; so should he rest with her, closed in her castle from the sound of arms. silent awhile was gareth, then replied, 'the thrall in person may be free in soul, and i shall see the jousts. thy son am i, and since thou art my mother, must obey. i therefore yield me freely to thy will; for hence will i, disguised, and hire myself to serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves; nor tell my name to any--no, not the king.' gareth awhile lingered. the mother's eye full of the wistful fear that he would go, and turning toward him wheresoe'er he turned, perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, when wakened by the wind which with full voice swept bellowing through the darkness on to dawn, he rose, and out of slumber calling two that still had tended on him from his birth, before the wakeful mother heard him, went. the three were clad like tillers of the soil. southward they set their faces. the birds made melody on branch, and melody in mid air. the damp hill-slopes were quickened into green, and the live green had kindled into flowers, for it was past the time of easterday. so, when their feet were planted on the plain that broadened toward the base of camelot, far off they saw the silver-misty morn rolling her smoke about the royal mount, that rose between the forest and the field. at times the summit of the high city flashed; at times the spires and turrets half-way down pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone only, that opened on the field below: anon, the whole fair city had disappeared. then those who went with gareth were amazed, one crying, 'let us go no further, lord. here is a city of enchanters, built by fairy kings.' the second echoed him, 'lord, we have heard from our wise man at home to northward, that this king is not the king, but only changeling out of fairyland, who drave the heathen hence by sorcery and merlin's glamour.' then the first again, 'lord, there is no such city anywhere, but all a vision.' gareth answered them with laughter, swearing he had glamour enow in his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes, to plunge old merlin in the arabian sea; so pushed them all unwilling toward the gate. and there was no gate like it under heaven. for barefoot on the keystone, which was lined and rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, the lady of the lake stood: all her dress wept from her sides as water flowing away; but like the cross her great and goodly arms stretched under the cornice and upheld: and drops of water fell from either hand; and down from one a sword was hung, from one a censer, either worn with wind and storm; and o'er her breast floated the sacred fish; and in the space to left of her, and right, were arthur's wars in weird devices done, new things and old co-twisted, as if time were nothing, so inveterately, that men were giddy gazing there; and over all high on the top were those three queens, the friends of arthur, who should help him at his need. then those with gareth for so long a space stared at the figures, that at last it seemed the dragon-boughts and elvish emblemings began to move, seethe, twine and curl: they called to gareth, 'lord, the gateway is alive.' and gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes so long, that even to him they seemed to move. out of the city a blast of music pealed. back from the gate started the three, to whom from out thereunder came an ancient man, long-bearded, saying, 'who be ye, my sons?' then gareth, 'we be tillers of the soil, who leaving share in furrow come to see the glories of our king: but these, my men, (your city moved so weirdly in the mist) doubt if the king be king at all, or come from fairyland; and whether this be built by magic, and by fairy kings and queens; or whether there be any city at all, or all a vision: and this music now hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth.' then that old seer made answer playing on him and saying, 'son, i have seen the good ship sail keel upward, and mast downward, in the heavens, and solid turrets topsy-turvy in air: and here is truth; but an it please thee not, take thou the truth as thou hast told it me. for truly as thou sayest, a fairy king and fairy queens have built the city, son; they came from out a sacred mountain-cleft toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand, and built it to the music of their harps. and, as thou sayest, it is enchanted, son, for there is nothing in it as it seems saving the king; though some there be that hold the king a shadow, and the city real: yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass beneath this archway, then wilt thou become a thrall to his enchantments, for the king will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame a man should not be bound by, yet the which no man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear, pass not beneath this gateway, but abide without, among the cattle of the field. for an ye heard a music, like enow they are building still, seeing the city is built to music, therefore never built at all, and therefore built for ever.' gareth spake angered, 'old master, reverence thine own beard that looks as white as utter truth, and seems wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall! why mockest thou the stranger that hath been to thee fair-spoken?' but the seer replied, 'know ye not then the riddling of the bards? "confusion, and illusion, and relation, elusion, and occasion, and evasion"? i mock thee not but as thou mockest me, and all that see thee, for thou art not who thou seemest, but i know thee who thou art. and now thou goest up to mock the king, who cannot brook the shadow of any lie.' unmockingly the mocker ending here turned to the right, and past along the plain; whom gareth looking after said, 'my men, our one white lie sits like a little ghost here on the threshold of our enterprise. let love be blamed for it, not she, nor i: well, we will make amends.' with all good cheer he spake and laughed, then entered with his twain camelot, a city of shadowy palaces and stately, rich in emblem and the work of ancient kings who did their days in stone; which merlin's hand, the mage at arthur's court, knowing all arts, had touched, and everywhere at arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak and pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven. and ever and anon a knight would pass outward, or inward to the hall: his arms clashed; and the sound was good to gareth's ear. and out of bower and casement shyly glanced eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love; and all about a healthful people stept as in the presence of a gracious king. then into hall gareth ascending heard a voice, the voice of arthur, and beheld far over heads in that long-vaulted hall the splendour of the presence of the king throned, and delivering doom--and looked no more-- but felt his young heart hammering in his ears, and thought, 'for this half-shadow of a lie the truthful king will doom me when i speak.' yet pressing on, though all in fear to find sir gawain or sir modred, saw nor one nor other, but in all the listening eyes of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne, clear honour shining like the dewy star of dawn, and faith in their great king, with pure affection, and the light of victory, and glory gained, and evermore to gain. then came a widow crying to the king, 'a boon, sir king! thy father, uther, reft from my dead lord a field with violence: for howsoe'er at first he proffered gold, yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes, we yielded not; and then he reft us of it perforce, and left us neither gold nor field.' said arthur, 'whether would ye? gold or field?' to whom the woman weeping, 'nay, my lord, the field was pleasant in my husband's eye.' and arthur, 'have thy pleasant field again, and thrice the gold for uther's use thereof, according to the years. no boon is here, but justice, so thy say be proven true. accursed, who from the wrongs his father did would shape himself a right!' and while she past, came yet another widow crying to him, 'a boon, sir king! thine enemy, king, am i. with thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord, a knight of uther in the barons' war, when lot and many another rose and fought against thee, saying thou wert basely born. i held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught. yet lo! my husband's brother had my son thralled in his castle, and hath starved him dead; and standeth seized of that inheritance which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son. so though i scarce can ask it thee for hate, grant me some knight to do the battle for me, kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son.' then strode a good knight forward, crying to him, 'a boon, sir king! i am her kinsman, i. give me to right her wrong, and slay the man.' then came sir kay, the seneschal, and cried, 'a boon, sir king! even that thou grant her none, this railer, that hath mocked thee in full hall-- none; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag.' but arthur, 'we sit king, to help the wronged through all our realm. the woman loves her lord. peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates! the kings of old had doomed thee to the flames, aurelius emrys would have scourged thee dead, and uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence-- lest that rough humour of the kings of old return upon me! thou that art her kin, go likewise; lay him low and slay him not, but bring him here, that i may judge the right, according to the justice of the king: then, be he guilty, by that deathless king who lived and died for men, the man shall die.' then came in hall the messenger of mark, a name of evil savour in the land, the cornish king. in either hand he bore what dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines a field of charlock in the sudden sun between two showers, a cloth of palest gold, which down he laid before the throne, and knelt, delivering, that his lord, the vassal king, was even upon his way to camelot; for having heard that arthur of his grace had made his goodly cousin, tristram, knight, and, for himself was of the greater state, being a king, he trusted his liege-lord would yield him this large honour all the more; so prayed him well to accept this cloth of gold, in token of true heart and fealty. then arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend in pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. an oak-tree smouldered there. 'the goodly knight! what! shall the shield of mark stand among these?' for, midway down the side of that long hall a stately pile,--whereof along the front, some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank, there ran a treble range of stony shields,-- rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth. and under every shield a knight was named: for this was arthur's custom in his hall; when some good knight had done one noble deed, his arms were carven only; but if twain his arms were blazoned also; but if none, the shield was blank and bare without a sign saving the name beneath; and gareth saw the shield of gawain blazoned rich and bright, and modred's blank as death; and arthur cried to rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. 'more like are we to reave him of his crown than make him knight because men call him king. the kings we found, ye know we stayed their hands from war among themselves, but left them kings; of whom were any bounteous, merciful, truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolled among us, and they sit within our hall. but as mark hath tarnished the great name of king, as mark would sully the low state of churl: and, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold, return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes, lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead, silenced for ever--craven--a man of plots, craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings-- no fault of thine: let kay the seneschal look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied-- accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!' and many another suppliant crying came with noise of ravage wrought by beast and man, and evermore a knight would ride away. last, gareth leaning both hands heavily down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, approached between them toward the king, and asked, 'a boon, sir king (his voice was all ashamed), for see ye not how weak and hungerworn i seem--leaning on these? grant me to serve for meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves a twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. hereafter i will fight.' to him the king, 'a goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon! but so thou wilt no goodlier, then must kay, the master of the meats and drinks, be thine.' he rose and past; then kay, a man of mien wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself root-bitten by white lichen, 'lo ye now! this fellow hath broken from some abbey, where, god wot, he had not beef and brewis enow, however that might chance! but an he work, like any pigeon will i cram his crop, and sleeker shall he shine than any hog.' then lancelot standing near, 'sir seneschal, sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds; a horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know: broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine, high nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands large, fair and fine!--some young lad's mystery-- but, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy is noble-natured. treat him with all grace, lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.' then kay, 'what murmurest thou of mystery? think ye this fellow will poison the king's dish? nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery! tut, an the lad were noble, he had asked for horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth! sir fine-face, sir fair-hands? but see thou to it that thine own fineness, lancelot, some fine day undo thee not--and leave my man to me.' so gareth all for glory underwent the sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage; ate with young lads his portion by the door, and couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves. and lancelot ever spake him pleasantly, but kay the seneschal, who loved him not, would hustle and harry him, and labour him beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set to turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood, or grosser tasks; and gareth bowed himself with all obedience to the king, and wrought all kind of service with a noble ease that graced the lowliest act in doing it. and when the thralls had talk among themselves, and one would praise the love that linkt the king and lancelot--how the king had saved his life in battle twice, and lancelot once the king's-- for lancelot was the first in tournament, but arthur mightiest on the battle-field-- gareth was glad. or if some other told, how once the wandering forester at dawn, far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, on caer-eryri's highest found the king, a naked babe, of whom the prophet spake, 'he passes to the isle avilion, he passes and is healed and cannot die'-- gareth was glad. but if their talk were foul, then would he whistle rapid as any lark, or carol some old roundelay, and so loud that first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him. or gareth telling some prodigious tale of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way through twenty folds of twisted dragon, held all in a gap-mouthed circle his good mates lying or sitting round him, idle hands, charmed; till sir kay, the seneschal, would come blustering upon them, like a sudden wind among dead leaves, and drive them all apart. or when the thralls had sport among themselves, so there were any trial of mastery, he, by two yards in casting bar or stone was counted best; and if there chanced a joust, so that sir kay nodded him leave to go, would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights clash like the coming and retiring wave, and the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy was half beyond himself for ecstasy. so for a month he wrought among the thralls; but in the weeks that followed, the good queen, repentant of the word she made him swear, and saddening in her childless castle, sent, between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon, arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow. this, gareth hearing from a squire of lot with whom he used to play at tourney once, when both were children, and in lonely haunts would scratch a ragged oval on the sand, and each at either dash from either end-- shame never made girl redder than gareth joy. he laughed; he sprang. 'out of the smoke, at once i leap from satan's foot to peter's knee-- these news be mine, none other's--nay, the king's-- descend into the city:' whereon he sought the king alone, and found, and told him all. 'i have staggered thy strong gawain in a tilt for pastime; yea, he said it: joust can i. make me thy knight--in secret! let my name be hidden, and give me the first quest, i spring like flame from ashes.' here the king's calm eye fell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bow lowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him, 'son, the good mother let me know thee here, and sent her wish that i would yield thee thine. make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, and, loving, utter faithfulness in love, and uttermost obedience to the king.' then gareth, lightly springing from his knees, 'my king, for hardihood i can promise thee. for uttermost obedience make demand of whom ye gave me to, the seneschal, no mellow master of the meats and drinks! and as for love, god wot, i love not yet, but love i shall, god willing.' and the king 'make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he, our noblest brother, and our truest man, and one with me in all, he needs must know.' 'let lancelot know, my king, let lancelot know, thy noblest and thy truest!' and the king-- 'but wherefore would ye men should wonder at you? nay, rather for the sake of me, their king, and the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed, than to be noised of.' merrily gareth asked, 'have i not earned my cake in baking of it? let be my name until i make my name! my deeds will speak: it is but for a day.' so with a kindly hand on gareth's arm smiled the great king, and half-unwillingly loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. then, after summoning lancelot privily, 'i have given him the first quest: he is not proven. look therefore when he calls for this in hall, thou get to horse and follow him far away. cover the lions on thy shield, and see far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain.' then that same day there past into the hall a damsel of high lineage, and a brow may-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom, hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose tip-tilted like the petal of a flower; she into hall past with her page and cried, 'o king, for thou hast driven the foe without, see to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset by bandits, everyone that owns a tower the lord for half a league. why sit ye there? rest would i not, sir king, an i were king, till even the lonest hold were all as free from cursed bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth from that best blood it is a sin to spill.' 'comfort thyself,' said arthur. 'i nor mine rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore, the wastest moorland of our realm shall be safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. what is thy name? thy need?' 'my name?' she said-- 'lynette my name; noble; my need, a knight to combat for my sister, lyonors, a lady of high lineage, of great lands, and comely, yea, and comelier than myself. she lives in castle perilous: a river runs in three loops about her living-place; and o'er it are three passings, and three knights defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth and of that four the mightiest, holds her stayed in her own castle, and so besieges her to break her will, and make her wed with him: and but delays his purport till thou send to do the battle with him, thy chief man sir lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow, then wed, with glory: but she will not wed save whom she loveth, or a holy life. now therefore have i come for lancelot.' then arthur mindful of sir gareth asked, 'damsel, ye know this order lives to crush all wrongers of the realm. but say, these four, who be they? what the fashion of the men?' 'they be of foolish fashion, o sir king, the fashion of that old knight-errantry who ride abroad, and do but what they will; courteous or bestial from the moment, such as have nor law nor king; and three of these proud in their fantasy call themselves the day, morning-star, and noon-sun, and evening-star, being strong fools; and never a whit more wise the fourth, who alway rideth armed in black, a huge man-beast of boundless savagery. he names himself the night and oftener death, and wears a helmet mounted with a skull, and bears a skeleton figured on his arms, to show that who may slay or scape the three, slain by himself, shall enter endless night. and all these four be fools, but mighty men, and therefore am i come for lancelot.' hereat sir gareth called from where he rose, a head with kindling eyes above the throng, 'a boon, sir king--this quest!' then--for he marked kay near him groaning like a wounded bull-- 'yea, king, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am i, and mighty through thy meats and drinks am i, and i can topple over a hundred such. thy promise, king,' and arthur glancing at him, brought down a momentary brow. 'rough, sudden, and pardonable, worthy to be knight-- go therefore,' and all hearers were amazed. but on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath slew the may-white: she lifted either arm, 'fie on thee, king! i asked for thy chief knight, and thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.' then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned, fled down the lane of access to the king, took horse, descended the slope street, and past the weird white gate, and paused without, beside the field of tourney, murmuring 'kitchen-knave.' now two great entries opened from the hall, at one end one, that gave upon a range of level pavement where the king would pace at sunrise, gazing over plain and wood; and down from this a lordly stairway sloped till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers; and out by this main doorway past the king. but one was counter to the hearth, and rose high that the highest-crested helm could ride therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled the damsel in her wrath, and on to this sir gareth strode, and saw without the door king arthur's gift, the worth of half a town, a warhorse of the best, and near it stood the two that out of north had followed him: this bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held the horse, the spear; whereat sir gareth loosed a cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, a cloth of roughest web, and cast it down, and from it like a fuel-smothered fire, that lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those dull-coated things, that making slide apart their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns a jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly. so gareth ere he parted flashed in arms. then as he donned the helm, and took the shield and mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt with trenchant steel, around him slowly prest the people, while from out of kitchen came the thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked lustier than any, and whom they could but love, mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried, 'god bless the king, and all his fellowship!' and on through lanes of shouting gareth rode down the slope street, and past without the gate. so gareth past with joy; but as the cur pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause be cooled by fighting, follows, being named, his owner, but remembers all, and growls remembering, so sir kay beside the door muttered in scorn of gareth whom he used to harry and hustle. 'bound upon a quest with horse and arms--the king hath past his time-- my scullion knave! thralls to your work again, for an your fire be low ye kindle mine! will there be dawn in west and eve in east? begone!--my knave!--belike and like enow some old head-blow not heeded in his youth so shook his wits they wander in his prime-- crazed! how the villain lifted up his voice, nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave. tut: he was tame and meek enow with me, till peacocked up with lancelot's noticing. well--i will after my loud knave, and learn whether he know me for his master yet. out of the smoke he came, and so my lance hold, by god's grace, he shall into the mire-- thence, if the king awaken from his craze, into the smoke again.' but lancelot said, 'kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the king, for that did never he whereon ye rail, but ever meekly served the king in thee? abide: take counsel; for this lad is great and lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.' 'tut, tell not me,' said kay, 'ye are overfine to mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:' then mounted, on through silent faces rode down the slope city, and out beyond the gate. but by the field of tourney lingering yet muttered the damsel, 'wherefore did the king scorn me? for, were sir lancelot lackt, at least he might have yielded to me one of those who tilt for lady's love and glory here, rather than--o sweet heaven! o fie upon him-- his kitchen-knave.' to whom sir gareth drew (and there were none but few goodlier than he) shining in arms, 'damsel, the quest is mine. lead, and i follow.' she thereat, as one that smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt, and deems it carrion of some woodland thing, or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose with petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, 'hence! avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. and look who comes behind,' for there was kay. 'knowest thou not me? thy master? i am kay. we lack thee by the hearth.' and gareth to him, 'master no more! too well i know thee, ay-- the most ungentle knight in arthur's hall.' 'have at thee then,' said kay: they shocked, and kay fell shoulder-slipt, and gareth cried again, 'lead, and i follow,' and fast away she fled. but after sod and shingle ceased to fly behind her, and the heart of her good horse was nigh to burst with violence of the beat, perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke. 'what doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship? deem'st thou that i accept thee aught the more or love thee better, that by some device full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, thou hast overthrown and slain thy master--thou!-- dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!--to me thou smellest all of kitchen as before.' 'damsel,' sir gareth answered gently, 'say whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, i leave not till i finish this fair quest, or die therefore.' 'ay, wilt thou finish it? sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks! the listening rogue hath caught the manner of it. but, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave, and then by such a one that thou for all the kitchen brewis that was ever supt shalt not once dare to look him in the face.' 'i shall assay,' said gareth with a smile that maddened her, and away she flashed again down the long avenues of a boundless wood, and gareth following was again beknaved. 'sir kitchen-knave, i have missed the only way where arthur's men are set along the wood; the wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves: if both be slain, i am rid of thee; but yet, sir scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine? fight, an thou canst: i have missed the only way.' so till the dusk that followed evensong rode on the two, reviler and reviled; then after one long slope was mounted, saw, bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines a gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink to westward--in the deeps whereof a mere, round as the red eye of an eagle-owl, under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts ascended, and there brake a servingman flying from out of the black wood, and crying, 'they have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.' then gareth, 'bound am i to right the wronged, but straitlier bound am i to bide with thee.' and when the damsel spake contemptuously, 'lead, and i follow,' gareth cried again, 'follow, i lead!' so down among the pines he plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere, and mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed, saw six tall men haling a seventh along, a stone about his neck to drown him in it. three with good blows he quieted, but three fled through the pines; and gareth loosed the stone from off his neck, then in the mere beside tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere. last, gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet set him, a stalwart baron, arthur's friend. 'well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs to hate me, for my wont hath ever been to catch my thief, and then like vermin here drown him, and with a stone about his neck; and under this wan water many of them lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, and rise, and flickering in a grimly light dance on the mere. good now, ye have saved a life worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood. and fain would i reward thee worshipfully. what guerdon will ye?' gareth sharply spake, 'none! for the deed's sake have i done the deed, in uttermost obedience to the king. but wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?' whereat the baron saying, 'i well believe you be of arthur's table,' a light laugh broke from lynette, 'ay, truly of a truth, and in a sort, being arthur's kitchen-knave!-- but deem not i accept thee aught the more, scullion, for running sharply with thy spit down on a rout of craven foresters. a thresher with his flail had scattered them. nay--for thou smellest of the kitchen still. but an this lord will yield us harbourage, well.' so she spake. a league beyond the wood, all in a full-fair manor and a rich, his towers where that day a feast had been held in high hall, and many a viand left, and many a costly cate, received the three. and there they placed a peacock in his pride before the damsel, and the baron set gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 'meseems, that here is much discourtesy, setting this knave, lord baron, at my side. hear me--this morn i stood in arthur's hall, and prayed the king would grant me lancelot to fight the brotherhood of day and night-- the last a monster unsubduable of any save of him for whom i called-- suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave, "the quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am i, and mighty through thy meats and drinks am i." then arthur all at once gone mad replies, "go therefore," and so gives the quest to him-- him--here--a villain fitter to stick swine than ride abroad redressing women's wrong, or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.' then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord now looked at one and now at other, left the damsel by the peacock in his pride, and, seating gareth at another board, sat down beside him, ate and then began. 'friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not, or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, and whether she be mad, or else the king, or both or neither, or thyself be mad, i ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke, for strong thou art and goodly therewithal, and saver of my life; and therefore now, for here be mighty men to joust with, weigh whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back to crave again sir lancelot of the king. thy pardon; i but speak for thine avail, the saver of my life.' and gareth said, 'full pardon, but i follow up the quest, despite of day and night and death and hell.' so when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way and left them with god-speed, sir gareth spake, 'lead, and i follow.' haughtily she replied. 'i fly no more: i allow thee for an hour. lion and stout have isled together, knave, in time of flood. nay, furthermore, methinks some ruth is mine for thee. back wilt thou, fool? for hard by here is one will overthrow and slay thee: then will i to court again, and shame the king for only yielding me my champion from the ashes of his hearth.' to whom sir gareth answered courteously, 'say thou thy say, and i will do my deed. allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find my fortunes all as fair as hers who lay among the ashes and wedded the king's son.' then to the shore of one of those long loops wherethrough the serpent river coiled, they came. rough-thicketed were the banks and steep; the stream full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc took at a leap; and on the further side arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold in streaks and rays, and all lent-lily in hue, save that the dome was purple, and above, crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. and therebefore the lawless warrior paced unarmed, and calling, 'damsel, is this he, the champion thou hast brought from arthur's hall? for whom we let thee pass.' 'nay, nay,' she said, 'sir morning-star. the king in utter scorn of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here his kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself: see that he fall not on thee suddenly, and slay thee unarmed: he is not knight but knave.' then at his call, 'o daughters of the dawn, and servants of the morning-star, approach, arm me,' from out the silken curtain-folds bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls in gilt and rosy raiment came: their feet in dewy grasses glistened; and the hair all over glanced with dewdrop or with gem like sparkles in the stone avanturine. these armed him in blue arms, and gave a shield blue also, and thereon the morning star. and gareth silent gazed upon the knight, who stood a moment, ere his horse was brought, glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone immingled with heaven's azure waveringly, the gay pavilion and the naked feet, his arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. then she that watched him, 'wherefore stare ye so? thou shakest in thy fear: there yet is time: flee down the valley before he get to horse. who will cry shame? thou art not knight but knave.' said gareth, 'damsel, whether knave or knight, far liefer had i fight a score of times than hear thee so missay me and revile. fair words were best for him who fights for thee; but truly foul are better, for they send that strength of anger through mine arms, i know that i shall overthrow him.' and he that bore the star, when mounted, cried from o'er the bridge, 'a kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me! such fight not i, but answer scorn with scorn. for this were shame to do him further wrong than set him on his feet, and take his horse and arms, and so return him to the king. come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave. avoid: for it beseemeth not a knave to ride with such a lady.' 'dog, thou liest. i spring from loftier lineage than thine own.' he spake; and all at fiery speed the two shocked on the central bridge, and either spear bent but not brake, and either knight at once, hurled as a stone from out of a catapult beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge, fell, as if dead; but quickly rose and drew, and gareth lashed so fiercely with his brand he drave his enemy backward down the bridge, the damsel crying, 'well-stricken, kitchen-knave!' till gareth's shield was cloven; but one stroke laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground. then cried the fallen, 'take not my life: i yield.' and gareth, 'so this damsel ask it of me good--i accord it easily as a grace.' she reddening, 'insolent scullion: i of thee? i bound to thee for any favour asked!' 'then he shall die.' and gareth there unlaced his helmet as to slay him, but she shrieked, 'be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay one nobler than thyself.' 'damsel, thy charge is an abounding pleasure to me. knight, thy life is thine at her command. arise and quickly pass to arthur's hall, and say his kitchen-knave hath sent thee. see thou crave his pardon for thy breaking of his laws. myself, when i return, will plead for thee. thy shield is mine--farewell; and, damsel, thou, lead, and i follow.' and fast away she fled. then when he came upon her, spake, 'methought, knave, when i watched thee striking on the bridge the savour of thy kitchen came upon me a little faintlier: but the wind hath changed: i scent it twenty-fold.' and then she sang, '"o morning star" (not that tall felon there whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness or some device, hast foully overthrown), "o morning star that smilest in the blue, o star, my morning dream hath proven true, smile sweetly, thou! my love hath smiled on me." 'but thou begone, take counsel, and away, for hard by here is one that guards a ford-- the second brother in their fool's parable-- will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. care not for shame: thou art not knight but knave.' to whom sir gareth answered, laughingly, 'parables? hear a parable of the knave. when i was kitchen-knave among the rest fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates owned a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat, "guard it," and there was none to meddle with it. and such a coat art thou, and thee the king gave me to guard, and such a dog am i, to worry, and not to flee--and--knight or knave-- the knave that doth thee service as full knight is all as good, meseems, as any knight toward thy sister's freeing.' 'ay, sir knave! ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight, being but knave, i hate thee all the more.' 'fair damsel, you should worship me the more, that, being but knave, i throw thine enemies.' 'ay, ay,' she said, 'but thou shalt meet thy match.' so when they touched the second river-loop, huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail burnished to blinding, shone the noonday sun beyond a raging shallow. as if the flower, that blows a globe of after arrowlets, ten thousand-fold had grown, flashed the fierce shield, all sun; and gareth's eyes had flying blots before them when he turned from watching him. he from beyond the roaring shallow roared, 'what doest thou, brother, in my marches here?' and she athwart the shallow shrilled again, 'here is a kitchen-knave from arthur's hall hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms.' 'ugh!' cried the sun, and vizoring up a red and cipher face of rounded foolishness, pushed horse across the foamings of the ford, whom gareth met midstream: no room was there for lance or tourney-skill: four strokes they struck with sword, and these were mighty; the new knight had fear he might be shamed; but as the sun heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth, the hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream descended, and the sun was washed away. then gareth laid his lance athwart the ford; so drew him home; but he that fought no more, as being all bone-battered on the rock, yielded; and gareth sent him to the king, 'myself when i return will plead for thee.' 'lead, and i follow.' quietly she led. 'hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?' 'nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here. there lies a ridge of slate across the ford; his horse thereon stumbled--ay, for i saw it. '"o sun" (not this strong fool whom thou, sir knave, hast overthrown through mere unhappiness), "o sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, o moon, that layest all to sleep again, shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." what knowest thou of lovesong or of love? nay, nay, god wot, so thou wert nobly born, thou hast a pleasant presence. yea, perchance,-- '"o dewy flowers that open to the sun, o dewy flowers that close when day is done, blow sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 'what knowest thou of flowers, except, belike, to garnish meats with? hath not our good king who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom, a foolish love for flowers? what stick ye round the pasty? wherewithal deck the boar's head? flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay. '"o birds, that warble to the morning sky, o birds that warble as the day goes by, sing sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me." 'what knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle, linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth may-music growing with the growing light, their sweet sun-worship? these be for the snare (so runs thy fancy) these be for the spit, larding and basting. see thou have not now larded thy last, except thou turn and fly. there stands the third fool of their allegory.' for there beyond a bridge of treble bow, all in a rose-red from the west, and all naked it seemed, and glowing in the broad deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight, that named himself the star of evening, stood. and gareth, 'wherefore waits the madman there naked in open dayshine?' 'nay,' she cried, 'not naked, only wrapt in hardened skins that fit him like his own; and so ye cleave his armour off him, these will turn the blade.' then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge, 'o brother-star, why shine ye here so low? thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain the damsel's champion?' and the damsel cried, 'no star of thine, but shot from arthur's heaven with all disaster unto thine and thee! for both thy younger brethren have gone down before this youth; and so wilt thou, sir star; art thou not old?' 'old, damsel, old and hard, old, with the might and breath of twenty boys.' said gareth, 'old, and over-bold in brag! but that same strength which threw the morning star can throw the evening.' then that other blew a hard and deadly note upon the horn. 'approach and arm me!' with slow steps from out an old storm-beaten, russet, many-stained pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, and armed him in old arms, and brought a helm with but a drying evergreen for crest, and gave a shield whereon the star of even half-tarnished and half-bright, his emblem, shone. but when it glittered o'er the saddle-bow, they madly hurled together on the bridge; and gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew, there met him drawn, and overthrew him again, but up like fire he started: and as oft as gareth brought him grovelling on his knees, so many a time he vaulted up again; till gareth panted hard, and his great heart, foredooming all his trouble was in vain, laboured within him, for he seemed as one that all in later, sadder age begins to war against ill uses of a life, but these from all his life arise, and cry, 'thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down!' he half despairs; so gareth seemed to strike vainly, the damsel clamouring all the while, 'well done, knave-knight, well-stricken, o good knight-knave-- o knave, as noble as any of all the knights-- shame me not, shame me not. i have prophesied-- strike, thou art worthy of the table round-- his arms are old, he trusts the hardened skin-- strike--strike--the wind will never change again.' and gareth hearing ever stronglier smote, and hewed great pieces of his armour off him, but lashed in vain against the hardened skin, and could not wholly bring him under, more than loud southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge, the buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs for ever; till at length sir gareth's brand clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. 'i have thee now;' but forth that other sprang, and, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms around him, till he felt, despite his mail, strangled, but straining even his uttermost cast, and so hurled him headlong o'er the bridge down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, 'lead, and i follow.' but the damsel said, 'i lead no longer; ride thou at my side; thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves. '"o trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, o rainbow with three colours after rain, shine sweetly: thrice my love hath smiled on me." 'sir,--and, good faith, i fain had added--knight, but that i heard thee call thyself a knave,-- shamed am i that i so rebuked, reviled, missaid thee; noble i am; and thought the king scorned me and mine; and now thy pardon, friend, for thou hast ever answered courteously, and wholly bold thou art, and meek withal as any of arthur's best, but, being knave, hast mazed my wit: i marvel what thou art.' 'damsel,' he said, 'you be not all to blame, saving that you mistrusted our good king would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one not fit to cope your quest. you said your say; mine answer was my deed. good sooth! i hold he scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet to fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets his heart be stirred with any foolish heat at any gentle damsel's waywardness. shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me: and seeing now thy words are fair, methinks there rides no knight, not lancelot, his great self, hath force to quell me.' nigh upon that hour when the lone hern forgets his melancholy, lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams of goodly supper in the distant pool, then turned the noble damsel smiling at him, and told him of a cavern hard at hand, where bread and baken meats and good red wine of southland, which the lady lyonors had sent her coming champion, waited him. anon they past a narrow comb wherein where slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues. 'sir knave, my knight, a hermit once was here, whose holy hand hath fashioned on the rock the war of time against the soul of man. and yon four fools have sucked their allegory from these damp walls, and taken but the form. know ye not these?' and gareth lookt and read-- in letters like to those the vexillary hath left crag-carven o'er the streaming gelt-- 'phosphorus,' then 'meridies'--'hesperus'-- 'nox'--'mors,' beneath five figures, armed men, slab after slab, their faces forward all, and running down the soul, a shape that fled with broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair, for help and shelter to the hermit's cave. 'follow the faces, and we find it. look, who comes behind?' for one--delayed at first through helping back the dislocated kay to camelot, then by what thereafter chanced, the damsel's headlong error through the wood-- sir lancelot, having swum the river-loops-- his blue shield-lions covered--softly drew behind the twain, and when he saw the star gleam, on sir gareth's turning to him, cried, 'stay, felon knight, i avenge me for my friend.' and gareth crying pricked against the cry; but when they closed--in a moment--at one touch of that skilled spear, the wonder of the world-- went sliding down so easily, and fell, that when he found the grass within his hands he laughed; the laughter jarred upon lynette: harshly she asked him, 'shamed and overthrown, and tumbled back into the kitchen-knave, why laugh ye? that ye blew your boast in vain?' 'nay, noble damsel, but that i, the son of old king lot and good queen bellicent, and victor of the bridges and the ford, and knight of arthur, here lie thrown by whom i know not, all through mere unhappiness-- device and sorcery and unhappiness-- out, sword; we are thrown!' and lancelot answered, 'prince, o gareth--through the mere unhappiness of one who came to help thee, not to harm, lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole, as on the day when arthur knighted him.' then gareth, 'thou--lancelot!--thine the hand that threw me? an some chance to mar the boast thy brethren of thee make--which could not chance-- had sent thee down before a lesser spear, shamed had i been, and sad--o lancelot--thou!' whereat the maiden, petulant, 'lancelot, why came ye not, when called? and wherefore now come ye, not called? i gloried in my knave, who being still rebuked, would answer still courteous as any knight--but now, if knight, the marvel dies, and leaves me fooled and tricked, and only wondering wherefore played upon: and doubtful whether i and mine be scorned. where should be truth if not in arthur's hall, in arthur's presence? knight, knave, prince and fool, i hate thee and for ever.' and lancelot said, 'blessed be thou, sir gareth! knight art thou to the king's best wish. o damsel, be you wise to call him shamed, who is but overthrown? thrown have i been, nor once, but many a time. victor from vanquished issues at the last, and overthrower from being overthrown. with sword we have not striven; and thy good horse and thou are weary; yet not less i felt thy manhood through that wearied lance of thine. well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed, and thou hast wreaked his justice on his foes, and when reviled, hast answered graciously, and makest merry when overthrown. prince, knight hail, knight and prince, and of our table round!' and then when turning to lynette he told the tale of gareth, petulantly she said, 'ay well--ay well--for worse than being fooled of others, is to fool one's self. a cave, sir lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks and forage for the horse, and flint for fire. but all about it flies a honeysuckle. seek, till we find.' and when they sought and found, sir gareth drank and ate, and all his life past into sleep; on whom the maiden gazed. 'sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast thou. wake lusty! seem i not as tender to him as any mother? ay, but such a one as all day long hath rated at her child, and vext his day, but blesses him asleep-- good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle in the hushed night, as if the world were one of utter peace, and love, and gentleness! o lancelot, lancelot'--and she clapt her hands-- 'full merry am i to find my goodly knave is knight and noble. see now, sworn have i, else yon black felon had not let me pass, to bring thee back to do the battle with him. thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first; who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave miss the full flower of this accomplishment.' said lancelot, 'peradventure he, you name, may know my shield. let gareth, an he will, change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh, not to be spurred, loving the battle as well as he that rides him.' 'lancelot-like,' she said, 'courteous in this, lord lancelot, as in all.' and gareth, wakening, fiercely clutched the shield; 'ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears are rotten sticks! ye seem agape to roar! yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord!-- care not, good beasts, so well i care for you. o noble lancelot, from my hold on these streams virtue--fire--through one that will not shame even the shadow of lancelot under shield. hence: let us go.' silent the silent field they traversed. arthur's harp though summer-wan, in counter motion to the clouds, allured the glance of gareth dreaming on his liege. a star shot: 'lo,' said gareth, 'the foe falls!' an owl whoopt: 'hark the victor pealing there!' suddenly she that rode upon his left clung to the shield that lancelot lent him, crying, 'yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight: i curse the tongue that all through yesterday reviled thee, and hath wrought on lancelot now to lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have done; miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow in having flung the three: i see thee maimed, mangled: i swear thou canst not fling the fourth.' 'and wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know. you cannot scare me; nor rough face, or voice, brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery appal me from the quest.' 'nay, prince,' she cried, 'god wot, i never looked upon the face, seeing he never rides abroad by day; but watched him have i like a phantom pass chilling the night: nor have i heard the voice. always he made his mouthpiece of a page who came and went, and still reported him as closing in himself the strength of ten, and when his anger tare him, massacring man, woman, lad and girl--yea, the soft babe! some hold that he hath swallowed infant flesh, monster! o prince, i went for lancelot first, the quest is lancelot's: give him back the shield.' said gareth laughing, 'an he fight for this, belike he wins it as the better man: thus--and not else!' but lancelot on him urged all the devisings of their chivalry when one might meet a mightier than himself; how best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield, and so fill up the gap where force might fail with skill and fineness. instant were his words. then gareth, 'here be rules. i know but one-- to dash against mine enemy and win. yet have i seen thee victor in the joust, and seen thy way.' 'heaven help thee,' sighed lynette. then for a space, and under cloud that grew to thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode in converse till she made her palfrey halt, lifted an arm, and softly whispered, 'there.' and all the three were silent seeing, pitched beside the castle perilous on flat field, a huge pavilion like a mountain peak sunder the glooming crimson on the marge, black, with black banner, and a long black horn beside it hanging; which sir gareth graspt, and so, before the two could hinder him, sent all his heart and breath through all the horn. echoed the walls; a light twinkled; anon came lights and lights, and once again he blew; whereon were hollow tramplings up and down and muffled voices heard, and shadows past; till high above him, circled with her maids, the lady lyonors at a window stood, beautiful among lights, and waving to him white hands, and courtesy; but when the prince three times had blown--after long hush--at last-- the huge pavilion slowly yielded up, through those black foldings, that which housed therein. high on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms, with white breast-bone, and barren ribs of death, and crowned with fleshless laughter--some ten steps-- in the half-light--through the dim dawn--advanced the monster, and then paused, and spake no word. but gareth spake and all indignantly, 'fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten, canst thou not trust the limbs thy god hath given, but must, to make the terror of thee more, trick thyself out in ghastly imageries of that which life hath done with, and the clod, less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers as if for pity?' but he spake no word; which set the horror higher: a maiden swooned; the lady lyonors wrung her hands and wept, as doomed to be the bride of night and death; sir gareth's head prickled beneath his helm; and even sir lancelot through his warm blood felt ice strike, and all that marked him were aghast. at once sir lancelot's charger fiercely neighed, and death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him. then those that did not blink the terror, saw that death was cast to ground, and slowly rose. but with one stroke sir gareth split the skull. half fell to right and half to left and lay. then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm as throughly as the skull; and out from this issued the bright face of a blooming boy fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, 'knight, slay me not: my three brethren bad me do it, to make a horror all about the house, and stay the world from lady lyonors. they never dreamed the passes would be past.' answered sir gareth graciously to one not many a moon his younger, 'my fair child, what madness made thee challenge the chief knight of arthur's hall?' 'fair sir, they bad me do it. they hate the king, and lancelot, the king's friend, they hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream, they never dreamed the passes could be past.' then sprang the happier day from underground; and lady lyonors and her house, with dance and revel and song, made merry over death, as being after all their foolish fears and horrors only proven a blooming boy. so large mirth lived and gareth won the quest. and he that told the tale in older times says that sir gareth wedded lyonors, but he, that told it later, says lynette. the marriage of geraint the brave geraint, a knight of arthur's court, a tributary prince of devon, one of that great order of the table round, had married enid, yniol's only child, and loved her, as he loved the light of heaven. and as the light of heaven varies, now at sunrise, now at sunset, now by night with moon and trembling stars, so loved geraint to make her beauty vary day by day, in crimsons and in purples and in gems. and enid, but to please her husband's eye, who first had found and loved her in a state of broken fortunes, daily fronted him in some fresh splendour; and the queen herself, grateful to prince geraint for service done, loved her, and often with her own white hands arrayed and decked her, as the loveliest, next after her own self, in all the court. and enid loved the queen, and with true heart adored her, as the stateliest and the best and loveliest of all women upon earth. and seeing them so tender and so close, long in their common love rejoiced geraint. but when a rumour rose about the queen, touching her guilty love for lancelot, though yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard the world's loud whisper breaking into storm, not less geraint believed it; and there fell a horror on him, lest his gentle wife, through that great tenderness for guinevere, had suffered, or should suffer any taint in nature: wherefore going to the king, he made this pretext, that his princedom lay close on the borders of a territory, wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights, assassins, and all flyers from the hand of justice, and whatever loathes a law: and therefore, till the king himself should please to cleanse this common sewer of all his realm, he craved a fair permission to depart, and there defend his marches; and the king mused for a little on his plea, but, last, allowing it, the prince and enid rode, and fifty knights rode with them, to the shores of severn, and they past to their own land; where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife true to her lord, mine shall be so to me, he compassed her with sweet observances and worship, never leaving her, and grew forgetful of his promise to the king, forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, forgetful of the tilt and tournament, forgetful of his glory and his name, forgetful of his princedom and its cares. and this forgetfulness was hateful to her. and by and by the people, when they met in twos and threes, or fuller companies, began to scoff and jeer and babble of him as of a prince whose manhood was all gone, and molten down in mere uxoriousness. and this she gathered from the people's eyes: this too the women who attired her head, to please her, dwelling on his boundless love, told enid, and they saddened her the more: and day by day she thought to tell geraint, but could not out of bashful delicacy; while he that watched her sadden, was the more suspicious that her nature had a taint. at last, it chanced that on a summer morn (they sleeping each by either) the new sun beat through the blindless casement of the room, and heated the strong warrior in his dreams; who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, and bared the knotted column of his throat, the massive square of his heroic breast, and arms on which the standing muscle sloped, as slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, running too vehemently to break upon it. and enid woke and sat beside the couch, admiring him, and thought within herself, was ever man so grandly made as he? then, like a shadow, past the people's talk and accusation of uxoriousness across her mind, and bowing over him, low to her own heart piteously she said: 'o noble breast and all-puissant arms, am i the cause, i the poor cause that men reproach you, saying all your force is gone? i am the cause, because i dare not speak and tell him what i think and what they say. and yet i hate that he should linger here; i cannot love my lord and not his name. far liefer had i gird his harness on him, and ride with him to battle and stand by, and watch his mightful hand striking great blows at caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. far better were i laid in the dark earth, not hearing any more his noble voice, not to be folded more in these dear arms, and darkened from the high light in his eyes, than that my lord through me should suffer shame. am i so bold, and could i so stand by, and see my dear lord wounded in the strife, and maybe pierced to death before mine eyes, and yet not dare to tell him what i think, and how men slur him, saying all his force is melted into mere effeminacy? o me, i fear that i am no true wife.' half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, and the strong passion in her made her weep true tears upon his broad and naked breast, and these awoke him, and by great mischance he heard but fragments of her later words, and that she feared she was not a true wife. and then he thought, 'in spite of all my care, for all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, she is not faithful to me, and i see her weeping for some gay knight in arthur's hall.' then though he loved and reverenced her too much to dream she could be guilty of foul act, right through his manful breast darted the pang that makes a man, in the sweet face of her whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. at this he hurled his huge limbs out of bed, and shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 'my charger and her palfrey;' then to her, 'i will ride forth into the wilderness; for though it seems my spurs are yet to win, i have not fallen so low as some would wish. and thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress and ride with me.' and enid asked, amazed, 'if enid errs, let enid learn her fault.' but he, 'i charge thee, ask not, but obey.' then she bethought her of a faded silk, a faded mantle and a faded veil, and moving toward a cedarn cabinet, wherein she kept them folded reverently with sprigs of summer laid between the folds, she took them, and arrayed herself therein, remembering when first he came on her drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, and all her foolish fears about the dress, and all his journey to her, as himself had told her, and their coming to the court. for arthur on the whitsuntide before held court at old caerleon upon usk. there on a day, he sitting high in hall, before him came a forester of dean, wet from the woods, with notice of a hart taller than all his fellows, milky-white, first seen that day: these things he told the king. then the good king gave order to let blow his horns for hunting on the morrow morn. and when the king petitioned for his leave to see the hunt, allowed it easily. so with the morning all the court were gone. but guinevere lay late into the morn, lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love for lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt; but rose at last, a single maiden with her, took horse, and forded usk, and gained the wood; there, on a little knoll beside it, stayed waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead a sudden sound of hoofs, for prince geraint, late also, wearing neither hunting-dress nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, came quickly flashing through the shallow ford behind them, and so galloped up the knoll. a purple scarf, at either end whereof there swung an apple of the purest gold, swayed round about him, as he galloped up to join them, glancing like a dragon-fly in summer suit and silks of holiday. low bowed the tributary prince, and she, sweet and statelily, and with all grace of womanhood and queenhood, answered him: 'late, late, sir prince,' she said, 'later than we!' 'yea, noble queen,' he answered, 'and so late that i but come like you to see the hunt, not join it.' 'therefore wait with me,' she said; 'for on this little knoll, if anywhere, there is good chance that we shall hear the hounds: here often they break covert at our feet.' and while they listened for the distant hunt, and chiefly for the baying of cavall, king arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; whereof the dwarf lagged latest, and the knight had vizor up, and showed a youthful face, imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. and guinevere, not mindful of his face in the king's hall, desired his name, and sent her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; who being vicious, old and irritable, and doubling all his master's vice of pride, made answer sharply that she should not know. 'then will i ask it of himself,' she said. 'nay, by my faith, thou shalt not,' cried the dwarf; 'thou art not worthy even to speak of him;' and when she put her horse toward the knight, struck at her with his whip, and she returned indignant to the queen; whereat geraint exclaiming, 'surely i will learn the name,' made sharply to the dwarf, and asked it of him, who answered as before; and when the prince had put his horse in motion toward the knight, struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. the prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive hand caught at the hilt, as to abolish him: but he, from his exceeding manfulness and pure nobility of temperament, wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrained from even a word, and so returning said: 'i will avenge this insult, noble queen, done in your maiden's person to yourself: and i will track this vermin to their earths: for though i ride unarmed, i do not doubt to find, at some place i shall come at, arms on loan, or else for pledge; and, being found, then will i fight him, and will break his pride, and on the third day will again be here, so that i be not fallen in fight. farewell.' 'farewell, fair prince,' answered the stately queen. 'be prosperous in this journey, as in all; and may you light on all things that you love, and live to wed with her whom first you love: but ere you wed with any, bring your bride, and i, were she the daughter of a king, yea, though she were a beggar from the hedge, will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.' and prince geraint, now thinking that he heard the noble hart at bay, now the far horn, a little vext at losing of the hunt, a little at the vile occasion, rode, by ups and downs, through many a grassy glade and valley, with fixt eye following the three. at last they issued from the world of wood, and climbed upon a fair and even ridge, and showed themselves against the sky, and sank. and thither there came geraint, and underneath beheld the long street of a little town in a long valley, on one side whereof, white from the mason's hand, a fortress rose; and on one side a castle in decay, beyond a bridge that spanned a dry ravine: and out of town and valley came a noise as of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed brawling, or like a clamour of the rooks at distance, ere they settle for the night. and onward to the fortress rode the three, and entered, and were lost behind the walls. 'so,' thought geraint, 'i have tracked him to his earth.' and down the long street riding wearily, found every hostel full, and everywhere was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss and bustling whistle of the youth who scoured his master's armour; and of such a one he asked, 'what means the tumult in the town?' who told him, scouring still, 'the sparrow-hawk!' then riding close behind an ancient churl, who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, went sweating underneath a sack of corn, asked yet once more what meant the hubbub here? who answered gruffly, 'ugh! the sparrow-hawk.' then riding further past an armourer's, who, with back turned, and bowed above his work, sat riveting a helmet on his knee, he put the self-same query, but the man not turning round, nor looking at him, said: 'friend, he that labours for the sparrow-hawk has little time for idle questioners.' whereat geraint flashed into sudden spleen: 'a thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk! tits, wrens, and all winged nothings peck him dead! ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg the murmur of the world! what is it to me? o wretched set of sparrows, one and all, who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks! speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad, where can i get me harbourage for the night? and arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? speak!' whereat the armourer turning all amazed and seeing one so gay in purple silks, came forward with the helmet yet in hand and answered, 'pardon me, o stranger knight; we hold a tourney here tomorrow morn, and there is scantly time for half the work. arms? truth! i know not: all are wanted here. harbourage? truth, good truth, i know not, save, it may be, at earl yniol's, o'er the bridge yonder.' he spoke and fell to work again. then rode geraint, a little spleenful yet, across the bridge that spanned the dry ravine. there musing sat the hoary-headed earl, (his dress a suit of frayed magnificence, once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said: 'whither, fair son?' to whom geraint replied, 'o friend, i seek a harbourage for the night.' then yniol, 'enter therefore and partake the slender entertainment of a house once rich, now poor, but ever open-doored.' 'thanks, venerable friend,' replied geraint; 'so that ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks for supper, i will enter, i will eat with all the passion of a twelve hours' fast.' then sighed and smiled the hoary-headed earl, and answered, 'graver cause than yours is mine to curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: but in, go in; for save yourself desire it, we will not touch upon him even in jest.' then rode geraint into the castle court, his charger trampling many a prickly star of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. he looked and saw that all was ruinous. here stood a shattered archway plumed with fern; and here had fallen a great part of a tower, whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, and like a crag was gay with wilding flowers: and high above a piece of turret stair, worn by the feet that now were silent, wound bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, and sucked the joining of the stones, and looked a knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. and while he waited in the castle court, the voice of enid, yniol's daughter, rang clear through the open casement of the hall, singing; and as the sweet voice of a bird, heard by the lander in a lonely isle, moves him to think what kind of bird it is that sings so delicately clear, and make conjecture of the plumage and the form; so the sweet voice of enid moved geraint; and made him like a man abroad at morn when first the liquid note beloved of men comes flying over many a windy wave to britain, and in april suddenly breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red, and he suspends his converse with a friend, or it may be the labour of his hands, to think or say, 'there is the nightingale;' so fared it with geraint, who thought and said, 'here, by god's grace, is the one voice for me.' it chanced the song that enid sang was one of fortune and her wheel, and enid sang: 'turn, fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud; thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 'turn, fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; with that wild wheel we go not up or down; our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 'smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; for man is man and master of his fate. 'turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.' 'hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest,' said yniol; 'enter quickly.' entering then, right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, the dusky-raftered many-cobwebbed hall, he found an ancient dame in dim brocade; and near her, like a blossom vermeil-white, that lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, moved the fair enid, all in faded silk, her daughter. in a moment thought geraint, 'here by god's rood is the one maid for me.' but none spake word except the hoary earl: 'enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court; take him to stall, and give him corn, and then go to the town and buy us flesh and wine; and we will make us merry as we may. our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.' he spake: the prince, as enid past him, fain to follow, strode a stride, but yniol caught his purple scarf, and held, and said, 'forbear! rest! the good house, though ruined, o my son, endures not that her guest should serve himself.' and reverencing the custom of the house geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. so enid took his charger to the stall; and after went her way across the bridge, and reached the town, and while the prince and earl yet spoke together, came again with one, a youth, that following with a costrel bore the means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. and enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, and in her veil enfolded, manchet bread. and then, because their hall must also serve for kitchen, boiled the flesh, and spread the board, and stood behind, and waited on the three. and seeing her so sweet and serviceable, geraint had longing in him evermore to stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, that crost the trencher as she laid it down: but after all had eaten, then geraint, for now the wine made summer in his veins, let his eye rove in following, or rest on enid at her lowly handmaid-work, now here, now there, about the dusky hall; then suddenly addrest the hoary earl: 'fair host and earl, i pray your courtesy; this sparrow-hawk, what is he? tell me of him. his name? but no, good faith, i will not have it: for if he be the knight whom late i saw ride into that new fortress by your town, white from the mason's hand, then have i sworn from his own lips to have it--i am geraint of devon--for this morning when the queen sent her own maiden to demand the name, his dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, struck at her with his whip, and she returned indignant to the queen; and then i swore that i would track this caitiff to his hold, and fight and break his pride, and have it of him. and all unarmed i rode, and thought to find arms in your town, where all the men are mad; they take the rustic murmur of their bourg for the great wave that echoes round the world; they would not hear me speak: but if ye know where i can light on arms, or if yourself should have them, tell me, seeing i have sworn that i will break his pride and learn his name, avenging this great insult done the queen.' then cried earl yniol, 'art thou he indeed, geraint, a name far-sounded among men for noble deeds? and truly i, when first i saw you moving by me on the bridge, felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state and presence might have guessed you one of those that eat in arthur's hall in camelot. nor speak i now from foolish flattery; for this dear child hath often heard me praise your feats of arms, and often when i paused hath asked again, and ever loved to hear; so grateful is the noise of noble deeds to noble hearts who see but acts of wrong: o never yet had woman such a pair of suitors as this maiden: first limours, a creature wholly given to brawls and wine, drunk even when he wooed; and be he dead i know not, but he past to the wild land. the second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk, my curse, my nephew--i will not let his name slip from my lips if i can help it--he, when that i knew him fierce and turbulent refused her to him, then his pride awoke; and since the proud man often is the mean, he sowed a slander in the common ear, affirming that his father left him gold, and in my charge, which was not rendered to him; bribed with large promises the men who served about my person, the more easily because my means were somewhat broken into through open doors and hospitality; raised my own town against me in the night before my enid's birthday, sacked my house; from mine own earldom foully ousted me; built that new fort to overawe my friends, for truly there are those who love me yet; and keeps me in this ruinous castle here, where doubtless he would put me soon to death, but that his pride too much despises me: and i myself sometimes despise myself; for i have let men be, and have their way; am much too gentle, have not used my power: nor know i whether i be very base or very manful, whether very wise or very foolish; only this i know, that whatsoever evil happen to me, i seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, but can endure it all most patiently.' 'well said, true heart,' replied geraint, 'but arms, that if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight in next day's tourney i may break his pride.' and yniol answered, 'arms, indeed, but old and rusty, old and rusty, prince geraint, are mine, and therefore at thy asking, thine. but in this tournament can no man tilt, except the lady he loves best be there. two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, and over these is placed a silver wand, and over that a golden sparrow-hawk, the prize of beauty for the fairest there. and this, what knight soever be in field lays claim to for the lady at his side, and tilts with my good nephew thereupon, who being apt at arms and big of bone has ever won it for the lady with him, and toppling over all antagonism has earned himself the name of sparrow-hawk.' but thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight.' to whom geraint with eyes all bright replied, leaning a little toward him, 'thy leave! let me lay lance in rest, o noble host, for this dear child, because i never saw, though having seen all beauties of our time, nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. and if i fall her name will yet remain untarnished as before; but if i live, so aid me heaven when at mine uttermost, as i will make her truly my true wife.' then, howsoever patient, yniol's heart danced in his bosom, seeing better days, and looking round he saw not enid there, (who hearing her own name had stolen away) but that old dame, to whom full tenderly and folding all her hand in his he said, 'mother, a maiden is a tender thing, and best by her that bore her understood. go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest tell her, and prove her heart toward the prince.' so spake the kindly-hearted earl, and she with frequent smile and nod departing found, half disarrayed as to her rest, the girl; whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then on either shining shoulder laid a hand, and kept her off and gazed upon her face, and told them all their converse in the hall, proving her heart: but never light and shade coursed one another more on open ground beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale across the face of enid hearing her; while slowly falling as a scale that falls, when weight is added only grain by grain, sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast; nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it; so moving without answer to her rest she found no rest, and ever failed to draw the quiet night into her blood, but lay contemplating her own unworthiness; and when the pale and bloodless east began to quicken to the sun, arose, and raised her mother too, and hand in hand they moved down to the meadow where the jousts were held, and waited there for yniol and geraint. and thither came the twain, and when geraint beheld her first in field, awaiting him, he felt, were she the prize of bodily force, himself beyond the rest pushing could move the chair of idris. yniol's rusted arms were on his princely person, but through these princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights and ladies came, and by and by the town flowed in, and settling circled all the lists. and there they fixt the forks into the ground, and over these they placed the silver wand, and over that the golden sparrow-hawk. then yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown, spake to the lady with him and proclaimed, 'advance and take, as fairest of the fair, what i these two years past have won for thee, the prize of beauty.' loudly spake the prince, 'forbear: there is a worthier,' and the knight with some surprise and thrice as much disdain turned, and beheld the four, and all his face glowed like the heart of a great fire at yule, so burnt he was with passion, crying out, 'do battle for it then,' no more; and thrice they clashed together, and thrice they brake their spears. then each, dishorsed and drawing, lashed at each so often and with such blows, that all the crowd wondered, and now and then from distant walls there came a clapping as of phantom hands. so twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still the dew of their great labour, and the blood of their strong bodies, flowing, drained their force. but either's force was matched till yniol's cry, 'remember that great insult done the queen,' increased geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft, and cracked the helmet through, and bit the bone, and felled him, and set foot upon his breast, and said, 'thy name?' to whom the fallen man made answer, groaning, 'edyrn, son of nudd! ashamed am i that i should tell it thee. my pride is broken: men have seen my fall.' 'then, edyrn, son of nudd,' replied geraint, 'these two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. first, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf, shalt ride to arthur's court, and coming there, crave pardon for that insult done the queen, and shalt abide her judgment on it; next, thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. these two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.' and edyrn answered, 'these things will i do, for i have never yet been overthrown, and thou hast overthrown me, and my pride is broken down, for enid sees my fall!' and rising up, he rode to arthur's court, and there the queen forgave him easily. and being young, he changed and came to loathe his crime of traitor, slowly drew himself bright from his old dark life, and fell at last in the great battle fighting for the king. but when the third day from the hunting-morn made a low splendour in the world, and wings moved in her ivy, enid, for she lay with her fair head in the dim-yellow light, among the dancing shadows of the birds, woke and bethought her of her promise given no later than last eve to prince geraint-- so bent he seemed on going the third day, he would not leave her, till her promise given-- to ride with him this morning to the court, and there be made known to the stately queen, and there be wedded with all ceremony. at this she cast her eyes upon her dress, and thought it never yet had looked so mean. for as a leaf in mid-november is to what it is in mid-october, seemed the dress that now she looked on to the dress she looked on ere the coming of geraint. and still she looked, and still the terror grew of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court, all staring at her in her faded silk: and softly to her own sweet heart she said: 'this noble prince who won our earldom back, so splendid in his acts and his attire, sweet heaven, how much i shall discredit him! would he could tarry with us here awhile, but being so beholden to the prince, it were but little grace in any of us, bent as he seemed on going this third day, to seek a second favour at his hands. yet if he could but tarry a day or two, myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, far liefer than so much discredit him.' and enid fell in longing for a dress all branched and flowered with gold, a costly gift of her good mother, given her on the night before her birthday, three sad years ago, that night of fire, when edyrn sacked their house, and scattered all they had to all the winds: for while the mother showed it, and the two were turning and admiring it, the work to both appeared so costly, rose a cry that edyrn's men were on them, and they fled with little save the jewels they had on, which being sold and sold had bought them bread: and edyrn's men had caught them in their flight, and placed them in this ruin; and she wished the prince had found her in her ancient home; then let her fancy flit across the past, and roam the goodly places that she knew; and last bethought her how she used to watch, near that old home, a pool of golden carp; and one was patched and blurred and lustreless among his burnished brethren of the pool; and half asleep she made comparison of that and these to her own faded self and the gay court, and fell asleep again; and dreamt herself was such a faded form among her burnished sisters of the pool; but this was in the garden of a king; and though she lay dark in the pool, she knew that all was bright; that all about were birds of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work; that all the turf was rich in plots that looked each like a garnet or a turkis in it; and lords and ladies of the high court went in silver tissue talking things of state; and children of the king in cloth of gold glanced at the doors or gamboled down the walks; and while she thought 'they will not see me,' came a stately queen whose name was guinevere, and all the children in their cloth of gold ran to her, crying, 'if we have fish at all let them be gold; and charge the gardeners now to pick the faded creature from the pool, and cast it on the mixen that it die.' and therewithal one came and seized on her, and enid started waking, with her heart all overshadowed by the foolish dream, and lo! it was her mother grasping her to get her well awake; and in her hand a suit of bright apparel, which she laid flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly: 'see here, my child, how fresh the colours look, how fast they hold like colours of a shell that keeps the wear and polish of the wave. why not? it never yet was worn, i trow: look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it.' and enid looked, but all confused at first, could scarce divide it from her foolish dream: then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, and answered, 'yea, i know it; your good gift, so sadly lost on that unhappy night; your own good gift!' 'yea, surely,' said the dame, 'and gladly given again this happy morn. for when the jousts were ended yesterday, went yniol through the town, and everywhere he found the sack and plunder of our house all scattered through the houses of the town; and gave command that all which once was ours should now be ours again: and yester-eve, while ye were talking sweetly with your prince, came one with this and laid it in my hand, for love or fear, or seeking favour of us, because we have our earldom back again. and yester-eve i would not tell you of it, but kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise? for i myself unwillingly have worn my faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, and howsoever patient, yniol his. ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house, with store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, and page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, and pastime both of hawk and hound, and all that appertains to noble maintenance. yea, and he brought me to a goodly house; but since our fortune swerved from sun to shade, and all through that young traitor, cruel need constrained us, but a better time has come; so clothe yourself in this, that better fits our mended fortunes and a prince's bride: for though ye won the prize of fairest fair, and though i heard him call you fairest fair, let never maiden think, however fair, she is not fairer in new clothes than old. and should some great court-lady say, the prince hath picked a ragged-robin from the hedge, and like a madman brought her to the court, then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the prince to whom we are beholden; but i know, that when my dear child is set forth at her best, that neither court nor country, though they sought through all the provinces like those of old that lighted on queen esther, has her match.' here ceased the kindly mother out of breath; and enid listened brightening as she lay; then, as the white and glittering star of morn parts from a bank of snow, and by and by slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose, and left her maiden couch, and robed herself, helped by the mother's careful hand and eye, without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown; who, after, turned her daughter round, and said, she never yet had seen her half so fair; and called her like that maiden in the tale, whom gwydion made by glamour out of flowers and sweeter than the bride of cassivelaun, flur, for whose love the roman caesar first invaded britain, 'but we beat him back, as this great prince invaded us, and we, not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy and i can scarcely ride with you to court, for old am i, and rough the ways and wild; but yniol goes, and i full oft shall dream i see my princess as i see her now, clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.' but while the women thus rejoiced, geraint woke where he slept in the high hall, and called for enid, and when yniol made report of that good mother making enid gay in such apparel as might well beseem his princess, or indeed the stately queen, he answered: 'earl, entreat her by my love, albeit i give no reason but my wish, that she ride with me in her faded silk.' yniol with that hard message went; it fell like flaws in summer laying lusty corn: for enid, all abashed she knew not why, dared not to glance at her good mother's face, but silently, in all obedience, her mother silent too, nor helping her, laid from her limbs the costly-broidered gift, and robed them in her ancient suit again, and so descended. never man rejoiced more than geraint to greet her thus attired; and glancing all at once as keenly at her as careful robins eye the delver's toil, made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, but rested with her sweet face satisfied; then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow, her by both hands she caught, and sweetly said, 'o my new mother, be not wroth or grieved at thy new son, for my petition to her. when late i left caerleon, our great queen, in words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet, made promise, that whatever bride i brought, herself would clothe her like the sun in heaven. thereafter, when i reached this ruined hall, beholding one so bright in dark estate, i vowed that could i gain her, our fair queen, no hand but hers, should make your enid burst sunlike from cloud--and likewise thought perhaps, that service done so graciously would bind the two together; fain i would the two should love each other: how can enid find a nobler friend? another thought was mine; i came among you here so suddenly, that though her gentle presence at the lists might well have served for proof that i was loved, i doubted whether daughter's tenderness, or easy nature, might not let itself be moulded by your wishes for her weal; or whether some false sense in her own self of my contrasting brightness, overbore her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall; and such a sense might make her long for court and all its perilous glories: and i thought, that could i someway prove such force in her linked with such love for me, that at a word (no reason given her) she could cast aside a splendour dear to women, new to her, and therefore dearer; or if not so new, yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power of intermitted usage; then i felt that i could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, fixt on her faith. now, therefore, i do rest, a prophet certain of my prophecy, that never shadow of mistrust can cross between us. grant me pardon for my thoughts: and for my strange petition i will make amends hereafter by some gaudy-day, when your fair child shall wear your costly gift beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees, who knows? another gift of the high god, which, maybe, shall have learned to lisp you thanks.' he spoke: the mother smiled, but half in tears, then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, and claspt and kissed her, and they rode away. now thrice that morning guinevere had climbed the giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, men saw the goodly hills of somerset, and white sails flying on the yellow sea; but not to goodly hill or yellow sea looked the fair queen, but up the vale of usk, by the flat meadow, till she saw them come; and then descending met them at the gates, embraced her with all welcome as a friend, and did her honour as the prince's bride, and clothed her for her bridals like the sun; and all that week was old caerleon gay, for by the hands of dubric, the high saint, they twain were wedded with all ceremony. and this was on the last year's whitsuntide. but enid ever kept the faded silk, remembering how first he came on her, drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, and all her foolish fears about the dress, and all his journey toward her, as himself had told her, and their coming to the court. and now this morning when he said to her, 'put on your worst and meanest dress,' she found and took it, and arrayed herself therein. geraint and enid o purblind race of miserable men, how many among us at this very hour do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, by taking true for false, or false for true; here, through the feeble twilight of this world groping, how many, until we pass and reach that other, where we see as we are seen! so fared it with geraint, who issuing forth that morning, when they both had got to horse, perhaps because he loved her passionately, and felt that tempest brooding round his heart, which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce upon a head so dear in thunder, said: 'not at my side. i charge thee ride before, ever a good way on before; and this i charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, whatever happens, not to speak to me, no, not a word!' and enid was aghast; and forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, when crying out, 'effeminate as i am, i will not fight my way with gilded arms, all shall be iron;' he loosed a mighty purse, hung at his belt, and hurled it toward the squire. so the last sight that enid had of home was all the marble threshold flashing, strown with gold and scattered coinage, and the squire chafing his shoulder: then he cried again, 'to the wilds!' and enid leading down the tracks through which he bad her lead him on, they past the marches, and by bandit-haunted holds, gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, and wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode: round was their pace at first, but slackened soon: a stranger meeting them had surely thought they rode so slowly and they looked so pale, that each had suffered some exceeding wrong. for he was ever saying to himself, 'o i that wasted time to tend upon her, to compass her with sweet observances, to dress her beautifully and keep her true'-- and there he broke the sentence in his heart abruptly, as a man upon his tongue may break it, when his passion masters him. and she was ever praying the sweet heavens to save her dear lord whole from any wound. and ever in her mind she cast about for that unnoticed failing in herself, which made him look so cloudy and so cold; till the great plover's human whistle amazed her heart, and glancing round the waste she feared in every wavering brake an ambuscade. then thought again, 'if there be such in me, i might amend it by the grace of heaven, if he would only speak and tell me of it.' but when the fourth part of the day was gone, then enid was aware of three tall knights on horseback, wholly armed, behind a rock in shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all; and heard one crying to his fellow, 'look, here comes a laggard hanging down his head, who seems no bolder than a beaten hound; come, we will slay him and will have his horse and armour, and his damsel shall be ours.' then enid pondered in her heart, and said: 'i will go back a little to my lord, and i will tell him all their caitiff talk; for, be he wroth even to slaying me, far liefer by his dear hand had i die, than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.' then she went back some paces of return, met his full frown timidly firm, and said; 'my lord, i saw three bandits by the rock waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast that they would slay you, and possess your horse and armour, and your damsel should be theirs.' he made a wrathful answer: 'did i wish your warning or your silence? one command i laid upon you, not to speak to me, and thus ye keep it! well then, look--for now, whether ye wish me victory or defeat, long for my life, or hunger for my death, yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.' then enid waited pale and sorrowful, and down upon him bare the bandit three. and at the midmost charging, prince geraint drave the long spear a cubit through his breast and out beyond; and then against his brace of comrades, each of whom had broken on him a lance that splintered like an icicle, swung from his brand a windy buffet out once, twice, to right, to left, and stunned the twain or slew them, and dismounting like a man that skins the wild beast after slaying him, stript from the three dead wolves of woman born the three gay suits of armour which they wore, and let the bodies lie, but bound the suits of armour on their horses, each on each, and tied the bridle-reins of all the three together, and said to her, 'drive them on before you;' and she drove them through the waste. he followed nearer; ruth began to work against his anger in him, while he watched the being he loved best in all the world, with difficulty in mild obedience driving them on: he fain had spoken to her, and loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath and smouldered wrong that burnt him all within; but evermore it seemed an easier thing at once without remorse to strike her dead, than to cry 'halt,' and to her own bright face accuse her of the least immodesty: and thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more that she could speak whom his own ear had heard call herself false: and suffering thus he made minutes an age: but in scarce longer time than at caerleon the full-tided usk, before he turn to fall seaward again, pauses, did enid, keeping watch, behold in the first shallow shade of a deep wood, before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, three other horsemen waiting, wholly armed, whereof one seemed far larger than her lord, and shook her pulses, crying, 'look, a prize! three horses and three goodly suits of arms, and all in charge of whom? a girl: set on.' 'nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a knight.' the third, 'a craven; how he hangs his head.' the giant answered merrily, 'yea, but one? wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.' and enid pondered in her heart and said, 'i will abide the coming of my lord, and i will tell him all their villainy. my lord is weary with the fight before, and they will fall upon him unawares. i needs must disobey him for his good; how should i dare obey him to his harm? needs must i speak, and though he kill me for it, i save a life dearer to me than mine.' and she abode his coming, and said to him with timid firmness, 'have i leave to speak?' he said, 'ye take it, speaking,' and she spoke. 'there lurk three villains yonder in the wood, and each of them is wholly armed, and one is larger-limbed than you are, and they say that they will fall upon you while ye pass.' to which he flung a wrathful answer back: 'and if there were an hundred in the wood, and every man were larger-limbed than i, and all at once should sally out upon me, i swear it would not ruffle me so much as you that not obey me. stand aside, and if i fall, cleave to the better man.' and enid stood aside to wait the event, not dare to watch the combat, only breathe short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. and he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. aimed at the helm, his lance erred; but geraint's, a little in the late encounter strained, struck through the bulky bandit's corselet home, and then brake short, and down his enemy rolled, and there lay still; as he that tells the tale saw once a great piece of a promontory, that had a sapling growing on it, slide from the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, and there lie still, and yet the sapling grew: so lay the man transfixt. his craven pair of comrades making slowlier at the prince, when now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood; on whom the victor, to confound them more, spurred with his terrible war-cry; for as one, that listens near a torrent mountain-brook, all through the crash of the near cataract hears the drumming thunder of the huger fall at distance, were the soldiers wont to hear his voice in battle, and be kindled by it, and foemen scared, like that false pair who turned flying, but, overtaken, died the death themselves had wrought on many an innocent. thereon geraint, dismounting, picked the lance that pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves their three gay suits of armour, each from each, and bound them on their horses, each on each, and tied the bridle-reins of all the three together, and said to her, 'drive them on before you,' and she drove them through the wood. he followed nearer still: the pain she had to keep them in the wild ways of the wood, two sets of three laden with jingling arms, together, served a little to disedge the sharpness of that pain about her heart: and they themselves, like creatures gently born but into bad hands fallen, and now so long by bandits groomed, pricked their light ears, and felt her low firm voice and tender government. so through the green gloom of the wood they past, and issuing under open heavens beheld a little town with towers, upon a rock, and close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased in the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: and down a rocky pathway from the place there came a fair-haired youth, that in his hand bare victual for the mowers: and geraint had ruth again on enid looking pale: then, moving downward to the meadow ground, he, when the fair-haired youth came by him, said, 'friend, let her eat; the damsel is so faint.' 'yea, willingly,' replied the youth; 'and thou, my lord, eat also, though the fare is coarse, and only meet for mowers;' then set down his basket, and dismounting on the sward they let the horses graze, and ate themselves. and enid took a little delicately, less having stomach for it than desire to close with her lord's pleasure; but geraint ate all the mowers' victual unawares, and when he found all empty, was amazed; and 'boy,' said he, 'i have eaten all, but take a horse and arms for guerdon; choose the best.' he, reddening in extremity of delight, 'my lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 'ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the prince. 'i take it as free gift, then,' said the boy, 'not guerdon; for myself can easily, while your good damsel rests, return, and fetch fresh victual for these mowers of our earl; for these are his, and all the field is his, and i myself am his; and i will tell him how great a man thou art: he loves to know when men of mark are in his territory: and he will have thee to his palace here, and serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare.' then said geraint, 'i wish no better fare: i never ate with angrier appetite than when i left your mowers dinnerless. and into no earl's palace will i go. i know, god knows, too much of palaces! and if he want me, let him come to me. but hire us some fair chamber for the night, and stalling for the horses, and return with victual for these men, and let us know.' 'yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went, held his head high, and thought himself a knight, and up the rocky pathway disappeared, leading the horse, and they were left alone. but when the prince had brought his errant eyes home from the rock, sideways he let them glance at enid, where she droopt: his own false doom, that shadow of mistrust should never cross betwixt them, came upon him, and he sighed; then with another humorous ruth remarked the lusty mowers labouring dinnerless, and watched the sun blaze on the turning scythe, and after nodded sleepily in the heat. but she, remembering her old ruined hall, and all the windy clamour of the daws about her hollow turret, plucked the grass there growing longest by the meadow's edge, and into many a listless annulet, now over, now beneath her marriage ring, wove and unwove it, till the boy returned and told them of a chamber, and they went; where, after saying to her, 'if ye will, call for the woman of the house,' to which she answered, 'thanks, my lord;' the two remained apart by all the chamber's width, and mute as two creatures voiceless through the fault of birth, or two wild men supporters of a shield, painted, who stare at open space, nor glance the one at other, parted by the shield. on a sudden, many a voice along the street, and heel against the pavement echoing, burst their drowse; and either started while the door, pushed from without, drave backward to the wall, and midmost of a rout of roisterers, femininely fair and dissolutely pale, her suitor in old years before geraint, entered, the wild lord of the place, limours. he moving up with pliant courtliness, greeted geraint full face, but stealthily, in the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, found enid with the corner of his eye, and knew her sitting sad and solitary. then cried geraint for wine and goodly cheer to feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously according to his fashion, bad the host call in what men soever were his friends, and feast with these in honour of their earl; 'and care not for the cost; the cost is mine.' and wine and food were brought, and earl limours drank till he jested with all ease, and told free tales, and took the word and played upon it, and made it of two colours; for his talk, when wine and free companions kindled him, was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem of fifty facets; thus he moved the prince to laughter and his comrades to applause. then, when the prince was merry, asked limours, 'your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak to your good damsel there who sits apart, and seems so lonely?' 'my free leave,' he said; 'get her to speak: she doth not speak to me.' then rose limours, and looking at his feet, like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, bowed at her side and uttered whisperingly: 'enid, the pilot star of my lone life, enid, my early and my only love, enid, the loss of whom hath turned me wild-- what chance is this? how is it i see you here? ye are in my power at last, are in my power. yet fear me not: i call mine own self wild, but keep a touch of sweet civility here in the heart of waste and wilderness. i thought, but that your father came between, in former days you saw me favourably. and if it were so do not keep it back: make me a little happier: let me know it: owe you me nothing for a life half-lost? yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. and, enid, you and he, i see with joy, ye sit apart, you do not speak to him, you come with no attendance, page or maid, to serve you--doth he love you as of old? for, call it lovers' quarrels, yet i know though men may bicker with the things they love, they would not make them laughable in all eyes, not while they loved them; and your wretched dress, a wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks your story, that this man loves you no more. your beauty is no beauty to him now: a common chance--right well i know it--palled-- for i know men: nor will ye win him back, for the man's love once gone never returns. but here is one who loves you as of old; with more exceeding passion than of old: good, speak the word: my followers ring him round: he sits unarmed; i hold a finger up; they understand: nay; i do not mean blood: nor need ye look so scared at what i say: my malice is no deeper than a moat, no stronger than a wall: there is the keep; he shall not cross us more; speak but the word: or speak it not; but then by him that made me the one true lover whom you ever owned, i will make use of all the power i have. o pardon me! the madness of that hour, when first i parted from thee, moves me yet.' at this the tender sound of his own voice and sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, made his eye moist; but enid feared his eyes, moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast; and answered with such craft as women use, guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance that breaks upon them perilously, and said: 'earl, if you love me as in former years, and do not practise on me, come with morn, and snatch me from him as by violence; leave me tonight: i am weary to the death.' low at leave-taking, with his brandished plume brushing his instep, bowed the all-amorous earl, and the stout prince bad him a loud good-night. he moving homeward babbled to his men, how enid never loved a man but him, nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. but enid left alone with prince geraint, debating his command of silence given, and that she now perforce must violate it, held commune with herself, and while she held he fell asleep, and enid had no heart to wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased to find him yet unwounded after fight, and hear him breathing low and equally. anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heaped the pieces of his armour in one place, all to be there against a sudden need; then dozed awhile herself, but overtoiled by that day's grief and travel, evermore seemed catching at a rootless thorn, and then went slipping down horrible precipices, and strongly striking out her limbs awoke; then thought she heard the wild earl at the door, with all his rout of random followers, sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her; which was the red cock shouting to the light, as the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, and glimmered on his armour in the room. and once again she rose to look at it, but touched it unawares: jangling, the casque fell, and he started up and stared at her. then breaking his command of silence given, she told him all that earl limours had said, except the passage that he loved her not; nor left untold the craft herself had used; but ended with apology so sweet, low-spoken, and of so few words, and seemed so justified by that necessity, that though he thought 'was it for him she wept in devon?' he but gave a wrathful groan, saying, 'your sweet faces make good fellows fools and traitors. call the host and bid him bring charger and palfrey.' so she glided out among the heavy breathings of the house, and like a household spirit at the walls beat, till she woke the sleepers, and returned: then tending her rough lord, though all unasked, in silence, did him service as a squire; till issuing armed he found the host and cried, 'thy reckoning, friend?' and ere he learnt it, 'take five horses and their armours;' and the host suddenly honest, answered in amaze, 'my lord, i scarce have spent the worth of one!' 'ye will be all the wealthier,' said the prince, and then to enid, 'forward! and today i charge you, enid, more especially, what thing soever ye may hear, or see, or fancy (though i count it of small use to charge you) that ye speak not but obey.' and enid answered, 'yea, my lord, i know your wish, and would obey; but riding first, i hear the violent threats you do not hear, i see the danger which you cannot see: then not to give you warning, that seems hard; almost beyond me: yet i would obey.' 'yea so,' said he, 'do it: be not too wise; seeing that ye are wedded to a man, not all mismated with a yawning clown, but one with arms to guard his head and yours, with eyes to find you out however far, and ears to hear you even in his dreams.' with that he turned and looked as keenly at her as careful robins eye the delver's toil; and that within her, which a wanton fool, or hasty judger would have called her guilt, made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. and geraint looked and was not satisfied. then forward by a way which, beaten broad, led from the territory of false limours to the waste earldom of another earl, doorm, whom his shaking vassals called the bull, went enid with her sullen follower on. once she looked back, and when she saw him ride more near by many a rood than yestermorn, it wellnigh made her cheerful; till geraint waving an angry hand as who should say 'ye watch me,' saddened all her heart again. but while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, the sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof smote on her ear, and turning round she saw dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. then not to disobey her lord's behest, and yet to give him warning, for he rode as if he heard not, moving back she held her finger up, and pointed to the dust. at which the warrior in his obstinacy, because she kept the letter of his word, was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. and in the moment after, wild limours, borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud whose skirts are loosened by the breaking storm, half ridden off with by the thing he rode, and all in passion uttering a dry shriek, dashed down on geraint, who closed with him, and bore down by the length of lance and arm beyond the crupper, and so left him stunned or dead, and overthrew the next that followed him, and blindly rushed on all the rout behind. but at the flash and motion of the man they vanished panic-stricken, like a shoal of darting fish, that on a summer morn adown the crystal dykes at camelot come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, but if a man who stands upon the brink but lift a shining hand against the sun, there is not left the twinkle of a fin betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; so, scared but at the motion of the man, fled all the boon companions of the earl, and left him lying in the public way; so vanish friendships only made in wine. then like a stormy sunlight smiled geraint, who saw the chargers of the two that fell start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, mixt with the flyers. 'horse and man,' he said, 'all of one mind and all right-honest friends! not a hoof left: and i methinks till now was honest--paid with horses and with arms; i cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg: and so what say ye, shall we strip him there your lover? has your palfrey heart enough to bear his armour? shall we fast, or dine? no?--then do thou, being right honest, pray that we may meet the horsemen of earl doorm, i too would still be honest.' thus he said: and sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, and answering not one word, she led the way. but as a man to whom a dreadful loss falls in a far land and he knows it not, but coming back he learns it, and the loss so pains him that he sickens nigh to death; so fared it with geraint, who being pricked in combat with the follower of limours, bled underneath his armour secretly, and so rode on, nor told his gentle wife what ailed him, hardly knowing it himself, till his eye darkened and his helmet wagged; and at a sudden swerving of the road, though happily down on a bank of grass, the prince, without a word, from his horse fell. and enid heard the clashing of his fall, suddenly came, and at his side all pale dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, and tearing off her veil of faded silk had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, and swathed the hurt that drained her dear lord's life. then after all was done that hand could do, she rested, and her desolation came upon her, and she wept beside the way. and many past, but none regarded her, for in that realm of lawless turbulence, a woman weeping for her murdered mate was cared as much for as a summer shower: one took him for a victim of earl doorm, nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, rode on a mission to the bandit earl; half whistling and half singing a coarse song, he drove the dust against her veilless eyes: another, flying from the wrath of doorm before an ever-fancied arrow, made the long way smoke beneath him in his fear; at which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, and scoured into the coppices and was lost, while the great charger stood, grieved like a man. but at the point of noon the huge earl doorm, broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, came riding with a hundred lances up; but ere he came, like one that hails a ship, cried out with a big voice, 'what, is he dead?' 'no, no, not dead!' she answered in all haste. 'would some of your people take him up, and bear him hence out of this cruel sun? most sure am i, quite sure, he is not dead.' then said earl doorm: 'well, if he be not dead, why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child. and be he dead, i count you for a fool; your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not, ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. yet, since the face is comely--some of you, here, take him up, and bear him to our hall: an if he live, we will have him of our band; and if he die, why earth has earth enough to hide him. see ye take the charger too, a noble one.' he spake, and past away, but left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, each growling like a dog, when his good bone seems to be plucked at by the village boys who love to vex him eating, and he fears to lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, gnawing and growling: so the ruffians growled, fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, their chance of booty from the morning's raid, yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, such as they brought upon their forays out for those that might be wounded; laid him on it all in the hollow of his shield, and took and bore him to the naked hall of doorm, (his gentle charger following him unled) and cast him and the bier in which he lay down on an oaken settle in the hall, and then departed, hot in haste to join their luckier mates, but growling as before, and cursing their lost time, and the dead man, and their own earl, and their own souls, and her. they might as well have blest her: she was deaf to blessing or to cursing save from one. so for long hours sat enid by her lord, there in the naked hall, propping his head, and chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. till at the last he wakened from his swoon, and found his own dear bride propping his head, and chafing his faint hands, and calling to him; and felt the warm tears falling on his face; and said to his own heart, 'she weeps for me:' and yet lay still, and feigned himself as dead, that he might prove her to the uttermost, and say to his own heart, 'she weeps for me.' but in the falling afternoon returned the huge earl doorm with plunder to the hall. his lusty spearmen followed him with noise: each hurling down a heap of things that rang against his pavement, cast his lance aside, and doffed his helm: and then there fluttered in, half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, a tribe of women, dressed in many hues, and mingled with the spearmen: and earl doorm struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, and called for flesh and wine to feed his spears. and men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, and all the hall was dim with steam of flesh: and none spake word, but all sat down at once, and ate with tumult in the naked hall, feeding like horses when you hear them feed; till enid shrank far back into herself, to shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. but when earl doorm had eaten all he would, he rolled his eyes about the hall, and found a damsel drooping in a corner of it. then he remembered her, and how she wept; and out of her there came a power upon him; and rising on the sudden he said, 'eat! i never yet beheld a thing so pale. god's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. eat! look yourself. good luck had your good man, for were i dead who is it would weep for me? sweet lady, never since i first drew breath have i beheld a lily like yourself. and so there lived some colour in your cheek, there is not one among my gentlewomen were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. but listen to me, and by me be ruled, and i will do the thing i have not done, for ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, and we will live like two birds in one nest, and i will fetch you forage from all fields, for i compel all creatures to my will.' he spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek bulge with the unswallowed piece, and turning stared; while some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn down, as the worm draws in the withered leaf and makes it earth, hissed each at other's ear what shall not be recorded--women they, women, or what had been those gracious things, but now desired the humbling of their best, yea, would have helped him to it: and all at once they hated her, who took no thought of them, but answered in low voice, her meek head yet drooping, 'i pray you of your courtesy, he being as he is, to let me be.' she spake so low he hardly heard her speak, but like a mighty patron, satisfied with what himself had done so graciously, assumed that she had thanked him, adding, 'yea, eat and be glad, for i account you mine.' she answered meekly, 'how should i be glad henceforth in all the world at anything, until my lord arise and look upon me?' here the huge earl cried out upon her talk, as all but empty heart and weariness and sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her, and bare her by main violence to the board, and thrust the dish before her, crying, 'eat.' 'no, no,' said enid, vext, 'i will not eat till yonder man upon the bier arise, and eat with me.' 'drink, then,' he answered. 'here!' (and filled a horn with wine and held it to her,) 'lo! i, myself, when flushed with fight, or hot, god's curse, with anger--often i myself, before i well have drunken, scarce can eat: drink therefore and the wine will change thy will.' 'not so,' she cried, 'by heaven, i will not drink till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, and drink with me; and if he rise no more, i will not look at wine until i die.' at this he turned all red and paced his hall, now gnawed his under, now his upper lip, and coming up close to her, said at last: 'girl, for i see ye scorn my courtesies, take warning: yonder man is surely dead; and i compel all creatures to my will. not eat nor drink? and wherefore wail for one, who put your beauty to this flout and scorn by dressing it in rags? amazed am i, beholding how ye butt against my wish, that i forbear you thus: cross me no more. at least put off to please me this poor gown, this silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed: i love that beauty should go beautifully: for see ye not my gentlewomen here, how gay, how suited to the house of one who loves that beauty should go beautifully? rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey.' he spoke, and one among his gentlewomen displayed a splendid silk of foreign loom, where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue played into green, and thicker down the front with jewels than the sward with drops of dew, when all night long a cloud clings to the hill, and with the dawn ascending lets the day strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems. but enid answered, harder to be moved than hardest tyrants in their day of power, with life-long injuries burning unavenged, and now their hour has come; and enid said: 'in this poor gown my dear lord found me first, and loved me serving in my father's hall: in this poor gown i rode with him to court, and there the queen arrayed me like the sun: in this poor gown he bad me clothe myself, when now we rode upon this fatal quest of honour, where no honour can be gained: and this poor gown i will not cast aside until himself arise a living man, and bid me cast it. i have griefs enough: pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: i never loved, can never love but him: yea, god, i pray you of your gentleness, he being as he is, to let me be.' then strode the brute earl up and down his hall, and took his russet beard between his teeth; last, coming up quite close, and in his mood crying, 'i count it of no more avail, dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you; take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand, however lightly, smote her on the cheek. then enid, in her utter helplessness, and since she thought, 'he had not dared to do it, except he surely knew my lord was dead,' sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, as of a wild thing taken in the trap, which sees the trapper coming through the wood. this heard geraint, and grasping at his sword, (it lay beside him in the hollow shield), made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it shore through the swarthy neck, and like a ball the russet-bearded head rolled on the floor. so died earl doorm by him he counted dead. and all the men and women in the hall rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled yelling as from a spectre, and the two were left alone together, and he said: 'enid, i have used you worse than that dead man; done you more wrong: we both have undergone that trouble which has left me thrice your own: henceforward i will rather die than doubt. and here i lay this penance on myself, not, though mine own ears heard you yestermorn-- you thought me sleeping, but i heard you say, i heard you say, that you were no true wife: i swear i will not ask your meaning in it: i do believe yourself against yourself, and will henceforward rather die than doubt.' and enid could not say one tender word, she felt so blunt and stupid at the heart: she only prayed him, 'fly, they will return and slay you; fly, your charger is without, my palfrey lost.' 'then, enid, shall you ride behind me.' 'yea,' said enid, 'let us go.' and moving out they found the stately horse, who now no more a vassal to the thief, but free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped with a low whinny toward the pair: and she kissed the white star upon his noble front, glad also; then geraint upon the horse mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot she set her own and climbed; he turned his face and kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms about him, and at once they rode away. and never yet, since high in paradise o'er the four rivers the first roses blew, came purer pleasure unto mortal kind than lived through her, who in that perilous hour put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, and felt him hers again: she did not weep, but o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist like that which kept the heart of eden green before the useful trouble of the rain: yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes as not to see before them on the path, right in the gateway of the bandit hold, a knight of arthur's court, who laid his lance in rest, and made as if to fall upon him. then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, she, with her mind all full of what had chanced, shrieked to the stranger 'slay not a dead man!' 'the voice of enid,' said the knight; but she, beholding it was edyrn son of nudd, was moved so much the more, and shrieked again, 'o cousin, slay not him who gave you life.' and edyrn moving frankly forward spake: 'my lord geraint, i greet you with all love; i took you for a bandit knight of doorm; and fear not, enid, i should fall upon him, who love you, prince, with something of the love wherewith we love the heaven that chastens us. for once, when i was up so high in pride that i was halfway down the slope to hell, by overthrowing me you threw me higher. now, made a knight of arthur's table round, and since i knew this earl, when i myself was half a bandit in my lawless hour, i come the mouthpiece of our king to doorm (the king is close behind me) bidding him disband himself, and scatter all his powers, submit, and hear the judgment of the king.' 'he hears the judgment of the king of kings,' cried the wan prince; 'and lo, the powers of doorm are scattered,' and he pointed to the field, where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, were men and women staring and aghast, while some yet fled; and then he plainlier told how the huge earl lay slain within his hall. but when the knight besought him, 'follow me, prince, to the camp, and in the king's own ear speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured strange chances here alone;' that other flushed, and hung his head, and halted in reply, fearing the mild face of the blameless king, and after madness acted question asked: till edyrn crying, 'if ye will not go to arthur, then will arthur come to you,' 'enough,' he said, 'i follow,' and they went. but enid in their going had two fears, one from the bandit scattered in the field, and one from edyrn. every now and then, when edyrn reined his charger at her side, she shrank a little. in a hollow land, from which old fires have broken, men may fear fresh fire and ruin. he, perceiving, said: 'fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause to fear me, fear no longer, i am changed. yourself were first the blameless cause to make my nature's prideful sparkle in the blood break into furious flame; being repulsed by yniol and yourself, i schemed and wrought until i overturned him; then set up (with one main purpose ever at my heart) my haughty jousts, and took a paramour; did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, and, toppling over all antagonism, so waxed in pride, that i believed myself unconquerable, for i was wellnigh mad: and, but for my main purpose in these jousts, i should have slain your father, seized yourself. i lived in hope that sometime you would come to these my lists with him whom best you loved; and there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes the truest eyes that ever answered heaven, behold me overturn and trample on him. then, had you cried, or knelt, or prayed to me, i should not less have killed him. and so you came,-- but once you came,--and with your own true eyes beheld the man you loved (i speak as one speaks of a service done him) overthrow my proud self, and my purpose three years old, and set his foot upon me, and give me life. there was i broken down; there was i saved: though thence i rode all-shamed, hating the life he gave me, meaning to be rid of it. and all the penance the queen laid upon me was but to rest awhile within her court; where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, and waiting to be treated like a wolf, because i knew my deeds were known, i found, instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, such fine reserve and noble reticence, manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace of tenderest courtesy, that i began to glance behind me at my former life, and find that it had been the wolf's indeed: and oft i talked with dubric, the high saint, who, with mild heat of holy oratory, subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. and you were often there about the queen, but saw me not, or marked not if you saw; nor did i care or dare to speak with you, but kept myself aloof till i was changed; and fear not, cousin; i am changed indeed.' he spoke, and enid easily believed, like simple noble natures, credulous of what they long for, good in friend or foe, there most in those who most have done them ill. and when they reached the camp the king himself advanced to greet them, and beholding her though pale, yet happy, asked her not a word, but went apart with edyrn, whom he held in converse for a little, and returned, and, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse, and kissed her with all pureness, brother-like, and showed an empty tent allotted her, and glancing for a minute, till he saw her pass into it, turned to the prince, and said: 'prince, when of late ye prayed me for my leave to move to your own land, and there defend your marches, i was pricked with some reproof, as one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, by having looked too much through alien eyes, and wrought too long with delegated hands, not used mine own: but now behold me come to cleanse this common sewer of all my realm, with edyrn and with others: have ye looked at edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed? this work of his is great and wonderful. his very face with change of heart is changed. the world will not believe a man repents: and this wise world of ours is mainly right. full seldom doth a man repent, or use both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch of blood and custom wholly out of him, and make all clean, and plant himself afresh. edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart as i will weed this land before i go. i, therefore, made him of our table round, not rashly, but have proved him everyway one of our noblest, our most valorous, sanest and most obedient: and indeed this work of edyrn wrought upon himself after a life of violence, seems to me a thousand-fold more great and wonderful than if some knight of mine, risking his life, my subject with my subjects under him, should make an onslaught single on a realm of robbers, though he slew them one by one, and were himself nigh wounded to the death.' so spake the king; low bowed the prince, and felt his work was neither great nor wonderful, and past to enid's tent; and thither came the king's own leech to look into his hurt; and enid tended on him there; and there her constant motion round him, and the breath of her sweet tendance hovering over him, filled all the genial courses of his blood with deeper and with ever deeper love, as the south-west that blowing bala lake fills all the sacred dee. so past the days. but while geraint lay healing of his hurt, the blameless king went forth and cast his eyes on each of all whom uther left in charge long since, to guard the justice of the king: he looked and found them wanting; and as now men weed the white horse on the berkshire hills to keep him bright and clean as heretofore, he rooted out the slothful officer or guilty, which for bribe had winked at wrong, and in their chairs set up a stronger race with hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men to till the wastes, and moving everywhere cleared the dark places and let in the law, and broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land. then, when geraint was whole again, they past with arthur to caerleon upon usk. there the great queen once more embraced her friend, and clothed her in apparel like the day. and though geraint could never take again that comfort from their converse which he took before the queen's fair name was breathed upon, he rested well content that all was well. thence after tarrying for a space they rode, and fifty knights rode with them to the shores of severn, and they past to their own land. and there he kept the justice of the king so vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts applauded, and the spiteful whisper died: and being ever foremost in the chase, and victor at the tilt and tournament, they called him the great prince and man of men. but enid, whom her ladies loved to call enid the fair, a grateful people named enid the good; and in their halls arose the cry of children, enids and geraints of times to be; nor did he doubt her more, but rested in her fealty, till he crowned a happy life with a fair death, and fell against the heathen of the northern sea in battle, fighting for the blameless king. balin and balan pellam the king, who held and lost with lot in that first war, and had his realm restored but rendered tributary, failed of late to send his tribute; wherefore arthur called his treasurer, one of many years, and spake, 'go thou with him and him and bring it to us, lest we should set one truer on his throne. man's word is god in man.' his baron said 'we go but harken: there be two strange knights who sit near camelot at a fountain-side, a mile beneath the forest, challenging and overthrowing every knight who comes. wilt thou i undertake them as we pass, and send them to thee?' arthur laughed upon him. 'old friend, too old to be so young, depart, delay not thou for aught, but let them sit, until they find a lustier than themselves.' so these departed. early, one fair dawn, the light-winged spirit of his youth returned on arthur's heart; he armed himself and went, so coming to the fountain-side beheld balin and balan sitting statuelike, brethren, to right and left the spring, that down, from underneath a plume of lady-fern, sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it. and on the right of balin balin's horse was fast beside an alder, on the left of balan balan's near a poplartree. 'fair sirs,' said arthur, 'wherefore sit ye here?' balin and balan answered 'for the sake of glory; we be mightier men than all in arthur's court; that also have we proved; for whatsoever knight against us came or i or he have easily overthrown.' 'i too,' said arthur, 'am of arthur's hall, but rather proven in his paynim wars than famous jousts; but see, or proven or not, whether me likewise ye can overthrow.' and arthur lightly smote the brethren down, and lightly so returned, and no man knew. then balin rose, and balan, and beside the carolling water set themselves again, and spake no word until the shadow turned; when from the fringe of coppice round them burst a spangled pursuivant, and crying 'sirs, rise, follow! ye be sent for by the king,' they followed; whom when arthur seeing asked 'tell me your names; why sat ye by the well?' balin the stillness of a minute broke saying 'an unmelodious name to thee, balin, "the savage"--that addition thine-- my brother and my better, this man here, balan. i smote upon the naked skull a thrall of thine in open hall, my hand was gauntleted, half slew him; for i heard he had spoken evil of me; thy just wrath sent me a three-years' exile from thine eyes. i have not lived my life delightsomely: for i that did that violence to thy thrall, had often wrought some fury on myself, saving for balan: those three kingless years have past--were wormwood-bitter to me. king, methought that if we sat beside the well, and hurled to ground what knight soever spurred against us, thou would'st take me gladlier back, and make, as ten-times worthier to be thine than twenty balins, balan knight. i have said. not so--not all. a man of thine today abashed us both, and brake my boast. thy will?' said arthur 'thou hast ever spoken truth; thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie. rise, my true knight. as children learn, be thou wiser for falling! walk with me, and move to music with thine order and the king. thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands vacant, but thou retake it, mine again!' thereafter, when sir balin entered hall, the lost one found was greeted as in heaven with joy that blazed itself in woodland wealth of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers, along the walls and down the board; they sat, and cup clashed cup; they drank and some one sang, sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, whereupon their common shout in chorus, mounting, made those banners of twelve battles overhead stir, as they stirred of old, when arthur's host proclaimed him victor, and the day was won. then balan added to their order lived a wealthier life than heretofore with these and balin, till their embassage returned. 'sir king' they brought report 'we hardly found, so bushed about it is with gloom, the hall of him to whom ye sent us, pellam, once a christless foe of thine as ever dashed horse against horse; but seeing that thy realm hath prospered in the name of christ, the king took, as in rival heat, to holy things; and finds himself descended from the saint arimathaean joseph; him who first brought the great faith to britain over seas; he boasts his life as purer than thine own; eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat; hath pushed aside his faithful wife, nor lets or dame or damsel enter at his gates lest he should be polluted. this gray king showed us a shrine wherein were wonders--yea-- rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom, thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross, and therewithal (for thus he told us) brought by holy joseph thither, that same spear wherewith the roman pierced the side of christ. he much amazed us; after, when we sought the tribute, answered "i have quite foregone all matters of this world: garlon, mine heir, of him demand it," which this garlon gave with much ado, railing at thine and thee. 'but when we left, in those deep woods we found a knight of thine spear-stricken from behind, dead, whom we buried; more than one of us cried out on garlon, but a woodman there reported of some demon in the woods was once a man, who driven by evil tongues from all his fellows, lived alone, and came to learn black magic, and to hate his kind with such a hate, that when he died, his soul became a fiend, which, as the man in life was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence, strikes from behind. this woodman showed the cave from which he sallies, and wherein he dwelt. we saw the hoof-print of a horse, no more.' then arthur, 'let who goes before me, see he do not fall behind me: foully slain and villainously! who will hunt for me this demon of the woods?' said balan, 'i'! so claimed the quest and rode away, but first, embracing balin, 'good my brother, hear! let not thy moods prevail, when i am gone who used to lay them! hold them outer fiends, who leap at thee to tear thee; shake them aside, dreams ruling when wit sleeps! yea, but to dream that any of these would wrong thee, wrongs thyself. witness their flowery welcome. bound are they to speak no evil. truly save for fears, my fears for thee, so rich a fellowship would make me wholly blest: thou one of them, be one indeed: consider them, and all their bearing in their common bond of love, no more of hatred than in heaven itself, no more of jealousy than in paradise.' so balan warned, and went; balin remained: who--for but three brief moons had glanced away from being knighted till he smote the thrall, and faded from the presence into years of exile--now would strictlier set himself to learn what arthur meant by courtesy, manhood, and knighthood; wherefore hovered round lancelot, but when he marked his high sweet smile in passing, and a transitory word make knight or churl or child or damsel seem from being smiled at happier in themselves-- sighed, as a boy lame-born beneath a height, that glooms his valley, sighs to see the peak sun-flushed, or touch at night the northern star; for one from out his village lately climed and brought report of azure lands and fair, far seen to left and right; and he himself hath hardly scaled with help a hundred feet up from the base: so balin marvelling oft how far beyond him lancelot seemed to move, groaned, and at times would mutter, 'these be gifts, born with the blood, not learnable, divine, beyond my reach. well had i foughten--well-- in those fierce wars, struck hard--and had i crowned with my slain self the heaps of whom i slew-- so--better!--but this worship of the queen, that honour too wherein she holds him--this, this was the sunshine that hath given the man a growth, a name that branches o'er the rest, and strength against all odds, and what the king so prizes--overprizes--gentleness. her likewise would i worship an i might. i never can be close with her, as he that brought her hither. shall i pray the king to let me bear some token of his queen whereon to gaze, remembering her--forget my heats and violences? live afresh? what, if the queen disdained to grant it! nay being so stately-gentle, would she make my darkness blackness? and with how sweet grace she greeted my return! bold will i be-- some goodly cognizance of guinevere, in lieu of this rough beast upon my shield, langued gules, and toothed with grinning savagery.' and arthur, when sir balin sought him, said 'what wilt thou bear?' balin was bold, and asked to bear her own crown-royal upon shield, whereat she smiled and turned her to the king, who answered 'thou shalt put the crown to use. the crown is but the shadow of the king, and this a shadow's shadow, let him have it, so this will help him of his violences!' 'no shadow' said sir balin 'o my queen, but light to me! no shadow, o my king, but golden earnest of a gentler life!' so balin bare the crown, and all the knights approved him, and the queen, and all the world made music, and he felt his being move in music with his order, and the king. the nightingale, full-toned in middle may, hath ever and anon a note so thin it seems another voice in other groves; thus, after some quick burst of sudden wrath, the music in him seemed to change, and grow faint and far-off. and once he saw the thrall his passion half had gauntleted to death, that causer of his banishment and shame, smile at him, as he deemed, presumptuously: his arm half rose to strike again, but fell: the memory of that cognizance on shield weighted it down, but in himself he moaned: 'too high this mount of camelot for me: these high-set courtesies are not for me. shall i not rather prove the worse for these? fierier and stormier from restraining, break into some madness even before the queen?' thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain home, and glancing on the window, when the gloom of twilight deepens round it, seems a flame that rages in the woodland far below, so when his moods were darkened, court and king and all the kindly warmth of arthur's hall shadowed an angry distance: yet he strove to learn the graces of their table, fought hard with himself, and seemed at length in peace. then chanced, one morning, that sir balin sat close-bowered in that garden nigh the hall. a walk of roses ran from door to door; a walk of lilies crost it to the bower: and down that range of roses the great queen came with slow steps, the morning on her face; and all in shadow from the counter door sir lancelot as to meet her, then at once, as if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced the long white walk of lilies toward the bower. followed the queen; sir balin heard her 'prince, art thou so little loyal to thy queen, as pass without good morrow to thy queen?' to whom sir lancelot with his eyes on earth, 'fain would i still be loyal to the queen.' 'yea so' she said 'but so to pass me by-- so loyal scarce is loyal to thyself, whom all men rate the king of courtesy. let be: ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.' then lancelot with his hand among the flowers 'yea--for a dream. last night methought i saw that maiden saint who stands with lily in hand in yonder shrine. all round her prest the dark, and all the light upon her silver face flowed from the spiritual lily that she held. lo! these her emblems drew mine eyes--away: for see, how perfect-pure! as light a flush as hardly tints the blossom of the quince would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood.' 'sweeter to me' she said 'this garden rose deep-hued and many-folded! sweeter still the wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of may. prince, we have ridden before among the flowers in those fair days--not all as cool as these, though season-earlier. art thou sad? or sick? our noble king will send thee his own leech-- sick? or for any matter angered at me?' then lancelot lifted his large eyes; they dwelt deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall: her hue changed at his gaze: so turning side by side they past, and balin started from his bower. 'queen? subject? but i see not what i see. damsel and lover? hear not what i hear. my father hath begotten me in his wrath. i suffer from the things before me, know, learn nothing; am not worthy to be knight; a churl, a clown!' and in him gloom on gloom deepened: he sharply caught his lance and shield, nor stayed to crave permission of the king, but, mad for strange adventure, dashed away. he took the selfsame track as balan, saw the fountain where they sat together, sighed 'was i not better there with him?' and rode the skyless woods, but under open blue came on the hoarhead woodman at a bough wearily hewing. 'churl, thine axe!' he cried, descended, and disjointed it at a blow: to whom the woodman uttered wonderingly 'lord, thou couldst lay the devil of these woods if arm of flesh could lay him.' balin cried 'him, or the viler devil who plays his part, to lay that devil would lay the devil in me.' 'nay' said the churl, 'our devil is a truth, i saw the flash of him but yestereven. and some do say that our sir garlon too hath learned black magic, and to ride unseen. look to the cave.' but balin answered him 'old fabler, these be fancies of the churl, look to thy woodcraft,' and so leaving him, now with slack rein and careless of himself, now with dug spur and raving at himself, now with droopt brow down the long glades he rode; so marked not on his right a cavern-chasm yawn over darkness, where, nor far within, the whole day died, but, dying, gleamed on rocks roof-pendent, sharp; and others from the floor, tusklike, arising, made that mouth of night whereout the demon issued up from hell. he marked not this, but blind and deaf to all save that chained rage, which ever yelpt within, past eastward from the falling sun. at once he felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud and tremble, and then the shadow of a spear, shot from behind him, ran along the ground. sideways he started from the path, and saw, with pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape, a light of armour by him flash, and pass and vanish in the woods; and followed this, but all so blind in rage that unawares he burst his lance against a forest bough, dishorsed himself, and rose again, and fled far, till the castle of a king, the hall of pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped with streaming grass, appeared, low-built but strong; the ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss, the battlement overtopt with ivytods, a home of bats, in every tower an owl. then spake the men of pellam crying 'lord, why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield?' said balin 'for the fairest and the best of ladies living gave me this to bear.' so stalled his horse, and strode across the court, but found the greetings both of knight and king faint in the low dark hall of banquet: leaves laid their green faces flat against the panes, sprays grated, and the cankered boughs without whined in the wood; for all was hushed within, till when at feast sir garlon likewise asked 'why wear ye that crown-royal?' balin said 'the queen we worship, lancelot, i, and all, as fairest, best and purest, granted me to bear it!' such a sound (for arthur's knights were hated strangers in the hall) as makes the white swan-mother, sitting, when she hears a strange knee rustle through her secret reeds, made garlon, hissing; then he sourly smiled. 'fairest i grant her: i have seen; but best, best, purest? thou from arthur's hall, and yet so simple! hast thou eyes, or if, are these so far besotted that they fail to see this fair wife-worship cloaks a secret shame? truly, ye men of arthur be but babes.' a goblet on the board by balin, bossed with holy joseph's legend, on his right stood, all of massiest bronze: one side had sea and ship and sail and angels blowing on it: and one was rough with wattling, and the walls of that low church he built at glastonbury. this balin graspt, but while in act to hurl, through memory of that token on the shield relaxed his hold: 'i will be gentle' he thought 'and passing gentle' caught his hand away, then fiercely to sir garlon 'eyes have i that saw today the shadow of a spear, shot from behind me, run along the ground; eyes too that long have watched how lancelot draws from homage to the best and purest, might, name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine, who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure to mouth so huge a foulness--to thy guest, me, me of arthur's table. felon talk! let be! no more!' but not the less by night the scorn of garlon, poisoning all his rest, stung him in dreams. at length, and dim through leaves blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs whined in the wood. he rose, descended, met the scorner in the castle court, and fain, for hate and loathing, would have past him by; but when sir garlon uttered mocking-wise; 'what, wear ye still that same crown-scandalous?' his countenance blackened, and his forehead veins bloated, and branched; and tearing out of sheath the brand, sir balin with a fiery 'ha! so thou be shadow, here i make thee ghost,' hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew splintering in six, and clinkt upon the stones. then garlon, reeling slowly backward, fell, and balin by the banneret of his helm dragged him, and struck, but from the castle a cry sounded across the court, and--men-at-arms, a score with pointed lances, making at him-- he dashed the pummel at the foremost face, beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet wings through a glimmering gallery, till he marked the portal of king pellam's chapel wide and inward to the wall; he stept behind; thence in a moment heard them pass like wolves howling; but while he stared about the shrine, in which he scarce could spy the christ for saints, beheld before a golden altar lie the longest lance his eyes had ever seen, point-painted red; and seizing thereupon pushed through an open casement down, leaned on it, leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth; then hand at ear, and harkening from what side the blindfold rummage buried in the walls might echo, ran the counter path, and found his charger, mounted on him and away. an arrow whizzed to the right, one to the left, one overhead; and pellam's feeble cry 'stay, stay him! he defileth heavenly things with earthly uses'--made him quickly dive beneath the boughs, and race through many a mile of dense and open, till his goodly horse, arising wearily at a fallen oak, stumbled headlong, and cast him face to ground. half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad, knightlike, to find his charger yet unlamed, sir balin drew the shield from off his neck, stared at the priceless cognizance, and thought 'i have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me, thee will i bear no more,' high on a branch hung it, and turned aside into the woods, and there in gloom cast himself all along, moaning 'my violences, my violences!' but now the wholesome music of the wood was dumbed by one from out the hall of mark, a damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode the woodland alleys, vivien, with her squire. 'the fire of heaven has killed the barren cold, and kindled all the plain and all the wold. the new leaf ever pushes off the old. the fire of heaven is not the flame of hell. 'old priest, who mumble worship in your quire-- old monk and nun, ye scorn the world's desire, yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire! the fire of heaven is not the flame of hell. 'the fire of heaven is on the dusty ways. the wayside blossoms open to the blaze. the whole wood-world is one full peal of praise. the fire of heaven is not the flame of hell. 'the fire of heaven is lord of all things good, and starve not thou this fire within thy blood, but follow vivien through the fiery flood! the fire of heaven is not the flame of hell!' then turning to her squire 'this fire of heaven, this old sun-worship, boy, will rise again, and beat the cross to earth, and break the king and all his table.' then they reached a glade, where under one long lane of cloudless air before another wood, the royal crown sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm drew the vague glance of vivien, and her squire; amazed were these; 'lo there' she cried--'a crown-- borne by some high lord-prince of arthur's hall, and there a horse! the rider? where is he? see, yonder lies one dead within the wood. not dead; he stirs!--but sleeping. i will speak. hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest, not, doubtless, all unearned by noble deeds. but bounden art thou, if from arthur's hall, to help the weak. behold, i fly from shame, a lustful king, who sought to win my love through evil ways: the knight, with whom i rode, hath suffered misadventure, and my squire hath in him small defence; but thou, sir prince, wilt surely guide me to the warrior king, arthur the blameless, pure as any maid, to get me shelter for my maidenhood. i charge thee by that crown upon thy shield, and by the great queen's name, arise and hence.' and balin rose, 'thither no more! nor prince nor knight am i, but one that hath defamed the cognizance she gave me: here i dwell savage among the savage woods, here die-- die: let the wolves' black maws ensepulchre their brother beast, whose anger was his lord. o me, that such a name as guinevere's, which our high lancelot hath so lifted up, and been thereby uplifted, should through me, my violence, and my villainy, come to shame.' thereat she suddenly laughed and shrill, anon sighed all as suddenly. said balin to her 'is this thy courtesy--to mock me, ha? hence, for i will not with thee.' again she sighed 'pardon, sweet lord! we maidens often laugh when sick at heart, when rather we should weep. i knew thee wronged. i brake upon thy rest, and now full loth am i to break thy dream, but thou art man, and canst abide a truth, though bitter. hither, boy--and mark me well. dost thou remember at caerleon once-- a year ago--nay, then i love thee not-- ay, thou rememberest well--one summer dawn-- by the great tower--caerleon upon usk-- nay, truly we were hidden: this fair lord, the flower of all their vestal knighthood, knelt in amorous homage--knelt--what else?--o ay knelt, and drew down from out his night-black hair and mumbled that white hand whose ringed caress had wandered from her own king's golden head, and lost itself in darkness, till she cried-- i thought the great tower would crash down on both-- "rise, my sweet king, and kiss me on the lips, thou art my king." this lad, whose lightest word is mere white truth in simple nakedness, saw them embrace: he reddens, cannot speak, so bashful, he! but all the maiden saints, the deathless mother-maidenhood of heaven, cry out upon her. up then, ride with me! talk not of shame! thou canst not, an thou would'st, do these more shame than these have done themselves.' she lied with ease; but horror-stricken he, remembering that dark bower at camelot, breathed in a dismal whisper 'it is truth.' sunnily she smiled 'and even in this lone wood, sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this. fools prate, and perish traitors. woods have tongues, as walls have ears: but thou shalt go with me, and we will speak at first exceeding low. meet is it the good king be not deceived. see now, i set thee high on vantage ground, from whence to watch the time, and eagle-like stoop at thy will on lancelot and the queen.' she ceased; his evil spirit upon him leapt, he ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell, tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield, drove his mailed heel athwart the royal crown, stampt all into defacement, hurled it from him among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale, the told-of, and the teller. that weird yell, unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast, thrilled through the woods; and balan lurking there (his quest was unaccomplished) heard and thought 'the scream of that wood-devil i came to quell!' then nearing 'lo! he hath slain some brother-knight, and tramples on the goodly shield to show his loathing of our order and the queen. my quest, meseems, is here. or devil or man guard thou thine head.' sir balin spake not word, but snatched a sudden buckler from the squire, and vaulted on his horse, and so they crashed in onset, and king pellam's holy spear, reputed to be red with sinless blood, redded at once with sinful, for the point across the maiden shield of balan pricked the hauberk to the flesh; and balin's horse was wearied to the death, and, when they clashed, rolling back upon balin, crushed the man inward, and either fell, and swooned away. then to her squire muttered the damsel 'fools! this fellow hath wrought some foulness with his queen: else never had he borne her crown, nor raved and thus foamed over at a rival name: but thou, sir chick, that scarce hast broken shell, art yet half-yolk, not even come to down-- who never sawest caerleon upon usk-- and yet hast often pleaded for my love-- see what i see, be thou where i have been, or else sir chick--dismount and loose their casques i fain would know what manner of men they be.' and when the squire had loosed them, 'goodly!--look! they might have cropt the myriad flower of may, and butt each other here, like brainless bulls, dead for one heifer! then the gentle squire 'i hold them happy, so they died for love: and, vivien, though ye beat me like your dog, i too could die, as now i live, for thee.' 'live on, sir boy,' she cried. 'i better prize the living dog than the dead lion: away! i cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.' then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen oak, and bounding forward 'leave them to the wolves.' but when their foreheads felt the cooling air, balin first woke, and seeing that true face, familiar up from cradle-time, so wan, crawled slowly with low moans to where he lay, and on his dying brother cast himself dying; and he lifted faint eyes; he felt one near him; all at once they found the world, staring wild-wide; then with a childlike wail and drawing down the dim disastrous brow that o'er him hung, he kissed it, moaned and spake; 'o balin, balin, i that fain had died to save thy life, have brought thee to thy death. why had ye not the shield i knew? and why trampled ye thus on that which bare the crown?' then balin told him brokenly, and in gasps, all that had chanced, and balan moaned again. 'brother, i dwelt a day in pellam's hall: this garlon mocked me, but i heeded not. and one said "eat in peace! a liar is he, and hates thee for the tribute!" this good knight told me, that twice a wanton damsel came, and sought for garlon at the castle-gates, whom pellam drove away with holy heat. i well believe this damsel, and the one who stood beside thee even now, the same. "she dwells among the woods" he said "and meets and dallies with him in the mouth of hell." foul are their lives; foul are their lips; they lied. pure as our own true mother is our queen." 'o brother' answered balin 'woe is me! my madness all thy life has been thy doom, thy curse, and darkened all thy day; and now the night has come. i scarce can see thee now. goodnight! for we shall never bid again goodmorrow--dark my doom was here, and dark it will be there. i see thee now no more. i would not mine again should darken thine, goodnight, true brother. balan answered low 'goodnight, true brother here! goodmorrow there! we two were born together, and we die together by one doom:' and while he spoke closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep with balin, either locked in either's arm. merlin and vivien a storm was coming, but the winds were still, and in the wild woods of broceliande, before an oak, so hollow, huge and old it looked a tower of ivied masonwork, at merlin's feet the wily vivien lay. for he that always bare in bitter grudge the slights of arthur and his table, mark the cornish king, had heard a wandering voice, a minstrel of caerleon by strong storm blown into shelter at tintagil, say that out of naked knightlike purity sir lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl but the great queen herself, fought in her name, sware by her--vows like theirs, that high in heaven love most, but neither marry, nor are given in marriage, angels of our lord's report. he ceased, and then--for vivien sweetly said (she sat beside the banquet nearest mark), 'and is the fair example followed, sir, in arthur's household?'--answered innocently: 'ay, by some few--ay, truly--youths that hold it more beseems the perfect virgin knight to worship woman as true wife beyond all hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl. they place their pride in lancelot and the queen. so passionate for an utter purity beyond the limit of their bond, are these, for arthur bound them not to singleness. brave hearts and clean! and yet--god guide them--young.' then mark was half in heart to hurl his cup straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose to leave the hall, and, vivien following him, turned to her: 'here are snakes within the grass; and you methinks, o vivien, save ye fear the monkish manhood, and the mask of pure worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.' and vivien answered, smiling scornfully, 'why fear? because that fostered at thy court i savour of thy--virtues? fear them? no. as love, if love is perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate is perfect, casts out fear. my father died in battle against the king, my mother on his corpse in open field; she bore me there, for born from death was i among the dead and sown upon the wind-- and then on thee! and shown the truth betimes, that old true filth, and bottom of the well where truth is hidden. gracious lessons thine and maxims of the mud! "this arthur pure! great nature through the flesh herself hath made gives him the lie! there is no being pure, my cherub; saith not holy writ the same?"-- if i were arthur, i would have thy blood. thy blessing, stainless king! i bring thee back, when i have ferreted out their burrowings, the hearts of all this order in mine hand-- ay--so that fate and craft and folly close, perchance, one curl of arthur's golden beard. to me this narrow grizzled fork of thine is cleaner-fashioned--well, i loved thee first, that warps the wit.' loud laughed the graceless mark, but vivien, into camelot stealing, lodged low in the city, and on a festal day when guinevere was crossing the great hall cast herself down, knelt to the queen, and wailed. 'why kneel ye there? what evil hath ye wrought? rise!' and the damsel bidden rise arose and stood with folded hands and downward eyes of glancing corner, and all meekly said, 'none wrought, but suffered much, an orphan maid! my father died in battle for thy king, my mother on his corpse--in open field, the sad sea-sounding wastes of lyonnesse-- poor wretch--no friend!--and now by mark the king for that small charm of feature mine, pursued-- if any such be mine--i fly to thee. save, save me thou--woman of women--thine the wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power, be thine the balm of pity, o heaven's own white earth-angel, stainless bride of stainless king-- help, for he follows! take me to thyself! o yield me shelter for mine innocency among thy maidens! here her slow sweet eyes fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose fixt on her hearer's, while the queen who stood all glittering like may sunshine on may leaves in green and gold, and plumed with green replied, 'peace, child! of overpraise and overblame we choose the last. our noble arthur, him ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know. nay--we believe all evil of thy mark-- well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour we ride a-hawking with sir lancelot. he hath given us a fair falcon which he trained; we go to prove it. bide ye here the while.' she past; and vivien murmured after 'go! i bide the while.' then through the portal-arch peering askance, and muttering broken-wise, as one that labours with an evil dream, beheld the queen and lancelot get to horse. 'is that the lancelot? goodly--ay, but gaunt: courteous--amends for gauntness--takes her hand-- that glance of theirs, but for the street, had been a clinging kiss--how hand lingers in hand! let go at last!--they ride away--to hawk for waterfowl. royaller game is mine. for such a supersensual sensual bond as that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth-- touch flax with flame--a glance will serve--the liars! ah little rat that borest in the dyke thy hole by night to let the boundless deep down upon far-off cities while they dance-- or dream--of thee they dreamed not--nor of me these--ay, but each of either: ride, and dream the mortal dream that never yet was mine-- ride, ride and dream until ye wake--to me! then, narrow court and lubber king, farewell! for lancelot will be gracious to the rat, and our wise queen, if knowing that i know, will hate, loathe, fear--but honour me the more.' yet while they rode together down the plain, their talk was all of training, terms of art, diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. 'she is too noble' he said 'to check at pies, nor will she rake: there is no baseness in her.' here when the queen demanded as by chance 'know ye the stranger woman?' 'let her be,' said lancelot and unhooded casting off the goodly falcon free; she towered; her bells, tone under tone, shrilled; and they lifted up their eager faces, wondering at the strength, boldness and royal knighthood of the bird who pounced her quarry and slew it. many a time as once--of old--among the flowers--they rode. but vivien half-forgotten of the queen among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watched and whispered: through the peaceful court she crept and whispered: then as arthur in the highest leavened the world, so vivien in the lowest, arriving at a time of golden rest, and sowing one ill hint from ear to ear, while all the heathen lay at arthur's feet, and no quest came, but all was joust and play, leavened his hall. they heard and let her be. thereafter as an enemy that has left death in the living waters, and withdrawn, the wily vivien stole from arthur's court. she hated all the knights, and heard in thought their lavish comment when her name was named. for once, when arthur walking all alone, vext at a rumour issued from herself of some corruption crept among his knights, had met her, vivien, being greeted fair, would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood with reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, and fluttered adoration, and at last with dark sweet hints of some who prized him more than who should prize him most; at which the king had gazed upon her blankly and gone by: but one had watched, and had not held his peace: it made the laughter of an afternoon that vivien should attempt the blameless king. and after that, she set herself to gain him, the most famous man of all those times, merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, had built the king his havens, ships, and halls, was also bard, and knew the starry heavens; the people called him wizard; whom at first she played about with slight and sprightly talk, and vivid smiles, and faintly-venomed points of slander, glancing here and grazing there; and yielding to his kindlier moods, the seer would watch her at her petulance, and play, even when they seemed unloveable, and laugh as those that watch a kitten; thus he grew tolerant of what he half disdained, and she, perceiving that she was but half disdained, began to break her sports with graver fits, turn red or pale, would often when they met sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him with such a fixt devotion, that the old man, though doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times would flatter his own wish in age for love, and half believe her true: for thus at times he wavered; but that other clung to him, fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. then fell on merlin a great melancholy; he walked with dreams and darkness, and he found a doom that ever poised itself to fall, an ever-moaning battle in the mist, world-war of dying flesh against the life, death in all life and lying in all love, the meanest having power upon the highest, and the high purpose broken by the worm. so leaving arthur's court he gained the beach; there found a little boat, and stept into it; and vivien followed, but he marked her not. she took the helm and he the sail; the boat drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, and touching breton sands, they disembarked. and then she followed merlin all the way, even to the wild woods of broceliande. for merlin once had told her of a charm, the which if any wrought on anyone with woven paces and with waving arms, the man so wrought on ever seemed to lie closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, from which was no escape for evermore; and none could find that man for evermore, nor could he see but him who wrought the charm coming and going, and he lay as dead and lost to life and use and name and fame. and vivien ever sought to work the charm upon the great enchanter of the time, as fancying that her glory would be great according to his greatness whom she quenched. there lay she all her length and kissed his feet, as if in deepest reverence and in love. a twist of gold was round her hair; a robe of samite without price, that more exprest than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, in colour like the satin-shining palm on sallows in the windy gleams of march: and while she kissed them, crying, 'trample me, dear feet, that i have followed through the world, and i will pay you worship; tread me down and i will kiss you for it;' he was mute: so dark a forethought rolled about his brain, as on a dull day in an ocean cave the blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall in silence: wherefore, when she lifted up a face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 'o merlin, do ye love me?' and again, 'o merlin, do ye love me?' and once more, 'great master, do ye love me?' he was mute. and lissome vivien, holding by his heel, writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, behind his ankle twined her hollow feet together, curved an arm about his neck, clung like a snake; and letting her left hand droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, made with her right a comb of pearl to part the lists of such a board as youth gone out had left in ashes: then he spoke and said, not looking at her, 'who are wise in love love most, say least,' and vivien answered quick, 'i saw the little elf-god eyeless once in arthur's arras hall at camelot: but neither eyes nor tongue--o stupid child! yet you are wise who say it; let me think silence is wisdom: i am silent then, and ask no kiss;' then adding all at once, 'and lo, i clothe myself with wisdom,' drew the vast and shaggy mantle of his beard across her neck and bosom to her knee, and called herself a gilded summer fly caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, who meant to eat her up in that wild wood without one word. so vivien called herself, but rather seemed a lovely baleful star veiled in gray vapour; till he sadly smiled: 'to what request for what strange boon,' he said, 'are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, o vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks, for these have broken up my melancholy.' and vivien answered smiling saucily, 'what, o my master, have ye found your voice? i bid the stranger welcome. thanks at last! but yesterday you never opened lip, except indeed to drink: no cup had we: in mine own lady palms i culled the spring that gathered trickling dropwise from the cleft, and made a pretty cup of both my hands and offered you it kneeling: then you drank and knew no more, nor gave me one poor word; o no more thanks than might a goat have given with no more sign of reverence than a beard. and when we halted at that other well, and i was faint to swooning, and you lay foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those deep meadows we had traversed, did you know that vivien bathed your feet before her own? and yet no thanks: and all through this wild wood and all this morning when i fondled you: boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange-- how had i wronged you? surely ye are wise, but such a silence is more wise than kind.' and merlin locked his hand in hers and said: 'o did ye never lie upon the shore, and watch the curled white of the coming wave glassed in the slippery sand before it breaks? even such a wave, but not so pleasurable, dark in the glass of some presageful mood, had i for three days seen, ready to fall. and then i rose and fled from arthur's court to break the mood. you followed me unasked; and when i looked, and saw you following me still, my mind involved yourself the nearest thing in that mind-mist: for shall i tell you truth? you seemed that wave about to break upon me and sweep me from my hold upon the world, my use and name and fame. your pardon, child. your pretty sports have brightened all again. and ask your boon, for boon i owe you thrice, once for wrong done you by confusion, next for thanks it seems till now neglected, last for these your dainty gambols: wherefore ask; and take this boon so strange and not so strange.' and vivien answered smiling mournfully: 'o not so strange as my long asking it, not yet so strange as you yourself are strange, nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. i ever feared ye were not wholly mine; and see, yourself have owned ye did me wrong. the people call you prophet: let it be: but not of those that can expound themselves. take vivien for expounder; she will call that three-days-long presageful gloom of yours no presage, but the same mistrustful mood that makes you seem less noble than yourself, whenever i have asked this very boon, now asked again: for see you not, dear love, that such a mood as that, which lately gloomed your fancy when ye saw me following you, must make me fear still more you are not mine, must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, and make me wish still more to learn this charm of woven paces and of waving hands, as proof of trust. o merlin, teach it me. the charm so taught will charm us both to rest. for, grant me some slight power upon your fate, i, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. and therefore be as great as ye are named, not muffled round with selfish reticence. how hard you look and how denyingly! o, if you think this wickedness in me, that i should prove it on you unawares, that makes me passing wrathful; then our bond had best be loosed for ever: but think or not, by heaven that hears i tell you the clean truth, as clean as blood of babes, as white as milk: o merlin, may this earth, if ever i, if these unwitty wandering wits of mine, even in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, have tript on such conjectural treachery-- may this hard earth cleave to the nadir hell down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, if i be such a traitress. yield my boon, till which i scarce can yield you all i am; and grant my re-reiterated wish, the great proof of your love: because i think, however wise, ye hardly know me yet.' and merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, 'i never was less wise, however wise, too curious vivien, though you talk of trust, than when i told you first of such a charm. yea, if ye talk of trust i tell you this, too much i trusted when i told you that, and stirred this vice in you which ruined man through woman the first hour; for howsoe'er in children a great curiousness be well, who have to learn themselves and all the world, in you, that are no child, for still i find your face is practised when i spell the lines, i call it,--well, i will not call it vice: but since you name yourself the summer fly, i well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, that settles, beaten back, and beaten back settles, till one could yield for weariness: but since i will not yield to give you power upon my life and use and name and fame, why will ye never ask some other boon? yea, by god's rood, i trusted you too much.' and vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid that ever bided tryst at village stile, made answer, either eyelid wet with tears: 'nay, master, be not wrathful with your maid; caress her: let her feel herself forgiven who feels no heart to ask another boon. i think ye hardly know the tender rhyme of "trust me not at all or all in all." i heard the great sir lancelot sing it once, and it shall answer for me. listen to it. "in love, if love be love, if love be ours, faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. "it is the little rift within the lute, that by and by will make the music mute, and ever widening slowly silence all. "the little rift within the lover's lute or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, that rotting inward slowly moulders all. "it is not worth the keeping: let it go: but shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. and trust me not at all or all in all." o master, do ye love my tender rhyme?' and merlin looked and half believed her true, so tender was her voice, so fair her face, so sweetly gleamed her eyes behind her tears like sunlight on the plain behind a shower: and yet he answered half indignantly: 'far other was the song that once i heard by this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: for here we met, some ten or twelve of us, to chase a creature that was current then in these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. it was the time when first the question rose about the founding of a table round, that was to be, for love of god and men and noble deeds, the flower of all the world. and each incited each to noble deeds. and while we waited, one, the youngest of us, we could not keep him silent, out he flashed, and into such a song, such fire for fame, such trumpet-glowings in it, coming down to such a stern and iron-clashing close, that when he stopt we longed to hurl together, and should have done it; but the beauteous beast scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, and like a silver shadow slipt away through the dim land; and all day long we rode through the dim land against a rushing wind, that glorious roundel echoing in our ears, and chased the flashes of his golden horns till they vanished by the fairy well that laughs at iron--as our warriors did-- where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, "laugh, little well!" but touch it with a sword, it buzzes fiercely round the point; and there we lost him: such a noble song was that. but, vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, i felt as though you knew this cursed charm, were proving it on me, and that i lay and felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame.' and vivien answered smiling mournfully: 'o mine have ebbed away for evermore, and all through following you to this wild wood, because i saw you sad, to comfort you. lo now, what hearts have men! they never mount as high as woman in her selfless mood. and touching fame, howe'er ye scorn my song, take one verse more--the lady speaks it--this: '"my name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, for fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, and shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. so trust me not at all or all in all." 'says she not well? and there is more--this rhyme is like the fair pearl-necklace of the queen, that burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt; some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. but nevermore the same two sister pearls ran down the silken thread to kiss each other on her white neck--so is it with this rhyme: it lives dispersedly in many hands, and every minstrel sings it differently; yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls: "man dreams of fame while woman wakes to love." yea! love, though love were of the grossest, carves a portion from the solid present, eats and uses, careless of the rest; but fame, the fame that follows death is nothing to us; and what is fame in life but half-disfame, and counterchanged with darkness? ye yourself know well that envy calls you devil's son, and since ye seem the master of all art, they fain would make you master of all vice.' and merlin locked his hand in hers and said, 'i once was looking for a magic weed, and found a fair young squire who sat alone, had carved himself a knightly shield of wood, and then was painting on it fancied arms, azure, an eagle rising or, the sun in dexter chief; the scroll "i follow fame." and speaking not, but leaning over him i took his brush and blotted out the bird, and made a gardener putting in a graff, with this for motto, "rather use than fame." you should have seen him blush; but afterwards he made a stalwart knight. o vivien, for you, methinks you think you love me well; for me, i love you somewhat; rest: and love should have some rest and pleasure in himself, not ever be too curious for a boon, too prurient for a proof against the grain of him ye say ye love: but fame with men, being but ampler means to serve mankind, should have small rest or pleasure in herself, but work as vassal to the larger love, that dwarfs the petty love of one to one. use gave me fame at first, and fame again increasing gave me use. lo, there my boon! what other? for men sought to prove me vile, because i fain had given them greater wits: and then did envy call me devil's son: the sick weak beast seeking to help herself by striking at her better, missed, and brought her own claw back, and wounded her own heart. sweet were the days when i was all unknown, but when my name was lifted up, the storm brake on the mountain and i cared not for it. right well know i that fame is half-disfame, yet needs must work my work. that other fame, to one at least, who hath not children, vague, the cackle of the unborn about the grave, i cared not for it: a single misty star, which is the second in a line of stars that seem a sword beneath a belt of three, i never gazed upon it but i dreamt of some vast charm concluded in that star to make fame nothing. wherefore, if i fear, giving you power upon me through this charm, that you might play me falsely, having power, however well ye think ye love me now (as sons of kings loving in pupilage have turned to tyrants when they came to power) i rather dread the loss of use than fame; if you--and not so much from wickedness, as some wild turn of anger, or a mood of overstrained affection, it may be, to keep me all to your own self,--or else a sudden spurt of woman's jealousy,-- should try this charm on whom ye say ye love.' and vivien answered smiling as in wrath: 'have i not sworn? i am not trusted. good! well, hide it, hide it; i shall find it out; and being found take heed of vivien. a woman and not trusted, doubtless i might feel some sudden turn of anger born of your misfaith; and your fine epithet is accurate too, for this full love of mine without the full heart back may merit well your term of overstrained. so used as i, my daily wonder is, i love at all. and as to woman's jealousy, o why not? o to what end, except a jealous one, and one to make me jealous if i love, was this fair charm invented by yourself? i well believe that all about this world ye cage a buxom captive here and there, closed in the four walls of a hollow tower from which is no escape for evermore.' then the great master merrily answered her: 'full many a love in loving youth was mine; i needed then no charm to keep them mine but youth and love; and that full heart of yours whereof ye prattle, may now assure you mine; so live uncharmed. for those who wrought it first, the wrist is parted from the hand that waved, the feet unmortised from their ankle-bones who paced it, ages back: but will ye hear the legend as in guerdon for your rhyme? 'there lived a king in the most eastern east, less old than i, yet older, for my blood hath earnest in it of far springs to be. a tawny pirate anchored in his port, whose bark had plundered twenty nameless isles; and passing one, at the high peep of dawn, he saw two cities in a thousand boats all fighting for a woman on the sea. and pushing his black craft among them all, he lightly scattered theirs and brought her off, with loss of half his people arrow-slain; a maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful, they said a light came from her when she moved: and since the pirate would not yield her up, the king impaled him for his piracy; then made her queen: but those isle-nurtured eyes waged such unwilling though successful war on all the youth, they sickened; councils thinned, and armies waned, for magnet-like she drew the rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts; and beasts themselves would worship; camels knelt unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back that carry kings in castles, bowed black knees of homage, ringing with their serpent hands, to make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. what wonder, being jealous, that he sent his horns of proclamation out through all the hundred under-kingdoms that he swayed to find a wizard who might teach the king some charm, which being wrought upon the queen might keep her all his own: to such a one he promised more than ever king has given, a league of mountain full of golden mines, a province with a hundred miles of coast, a palace and a princess, all for him: but on all those who tried and failed, the king pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it to keep the list low and pretenders back, or like a king, not to be trifled with-- their heads should moulder on the city gates. and many tried and failed, because the charm of nature in her overbore their own: and many a wizard brow bleached on the walls: and many weeks a troop of carrion crows hung like a cloud above the gateway towers.' and vivien breaking in upon him, said: 'i sit and gather honey; yet, methinks, thy tongue has tript a little: ask thyself. the lady never made unwilling war with those fine eyes: she had her pleasure in it, and made her good man jealous with good cause. and lived there neither dame nor damsel then wroth at a lover's loss? were all as tame, i mean, as noble, as the queen was fair? not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, or make her paler with a poisoned rose? well, those were not our days: but did they find a wizard? tell me, was he like to thee? she ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's on her new lord, her own, the first of men. he answered laughing, 'nay, not like to me. at last they found--his foragers for charms-- a little glassy-headed hairless man, who lived alone in a great wild on grass; read but one book, and ever reading grew so grated down and filed away with thought, so lean his eyes were monstrous; while the skin clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. and since he kept his mind on one sole aim, nor ever touched fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, nor owned a sensual wish, to him the wall that sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men became a crystal, and he saw them through it, and heard their voices talk behind the wall, and learnt their elemental secrets, powers and forces; often o'er the sun's bright eye drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud, and lashed it at the base with slanting storm; or in the noon of mist and driving rain, when the lake whitened and the pinewood roared, and the cairned mountain was a shadow, sunned the world to peace again: here was the man. and so by force they dragged him to the king. and then he taught the king to charm the queen in such-wise, that no man could see her more, nor saw she save the king, who wrought the charm, coming and going, and she lay as dead, and lost all use of life: but when the king made proffer of the league of golden mines, the province with a hundred miles of coast, the palace and the princess, that old man went back to his old wild, and lived on grass, and vanished, and his book came down to me.' and vivien answered smiling saucily: 'ye have the book: the charm is written in it: good: take my counsel: let me know it at once: for keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, with each chest locked and padlocked thirty-fold, and whelm all this beneath as vast a mound as after furious battle turfs the slain on some wild down above the windy deep, i yet should strike upon a sudden means to dig, pick, open, find and read the charm: then, if i tried it, who should blame me then?' and smiling as a master smiles at one that is not of his school, nor any school but that where blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, on all things all day long, he answered her: 'thou read the book, my pretty vivien! o ay, it is but twenty pages long, but every page having an ample marge, and every marge enclosing in the midst a square of text that looks a little blot, the text no larger than the limbs of fleas; and every square of text an awful charm, writ in a language that has long gone by. so long, that mountains have arisen since with cities on their flanks--thou read the book! and ever margin scribbled, crost, and crammed with comment, densest condensation, hard to mind and eye; but the long sleepless nights of my long life have made it easy to me. and none can read the text, not even i; and none can read the comment but myself; and in the comment did i find the charm. o, the results are simple; a mere child might use it to the harm of anyone, and never could undo it: ask no more: for though you should not prove it upon me, but keep that oath ye sware, ye might, perchance, assay it on some one of the table round, and all because ye dream they babble of you.' and vivien, frowning in true anger, said: 'what dare the full-fed liars say of me? they ride abroad redressing human wrongs! they sit with knife in meat and wine in horn! they bound to holy vows of chastity! were i not woman, i could tell a tale. but you are man, you well can understand the shame that cannot be explained for shame. not one of all the drove should touch me: swine!' then answered merlin careless of her words: 'you breathe but accusation vast and vague, spleen-born, i think, and proofless. if ye know, set up the charge ye know, to stand or fall!' and vivien answered frowning wrathfully: 'o ay, what say ye to sir valence, him whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife and two fair babes, and went to distant lands; was one year gone, and on returning found not two but three? there lay the reckling, one but one hour old! what said the happy sire?' a seven-months' babe had been a truer gift. those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood.' then answered merlin, 'nay, i know the tale. sir valence wedded with an outland dame: some cause had kept him sundered from his wife: one child they had: it lived with her: she died: his kinsman travelling on his own affair was charged by valence to bring home the child. he brought, not found it therefore: take the truth.' 'o ay,' said vivien, 'overtrue a tale. what say ye then to sweet sir sagramore, that ardent man? "to pluck the flower in season," so says the song, "i trow it is no treason." o master, shall we call him overquick to crop his own sweet rose before the hour?' and merlin answered, 'overquick art thou to catch a loathly plume fallen from the wing of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey is man's good name: he never wronged his bride. i know the tale. an angry gust of wind puffed out his torch among the myriad-roomed and many-corridored complexities of arthur's palace: then he found a door, and darkling felt the sculptured ornament that wreathen round it made it seem his own; and wearied out made for the couch and slept, a stainless man beside a stainless maid; and either slept, nor knew of other there; till the high dawn piercing the royal rose in arthur's casement glimmered chastely down, blushing upon them blushing, and at once he rose without a word and parted from her: but when the thing was blazed about the court, the brute world howling forced them into bonds, and as it chanced they are happy, being pure.' 'o ay,' said vivien, 'that were likely too. what say ye then to fair sir percivale and of the horrid foulness that he wrought, the saintly youth, the spotless lamb of christ, or some black wether of st satan's fold. what, in the precincts of the chapel-yard, among the knightly brasses of the graves, and by the cold hic jacets of the dead!' and merlin answered careless of her charge, 'a sober man is percivale and pure; but once in life was flustered with new wine, then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard; where one of satan's shepherdesses caught and meant to stamp him with her master's mark; and that he sinned is not believable; for, look upon his face!--but if he sinned, the sin that practice burns into the blood, and not the one dark hour which brings remorse, will brand us, after, of whose fold we be: or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns are chanted in the minster, worse than all. but is your spleen frothed out, or have ye more?' and vivien answered frowning yet in wrath: 'o ay; what say ye to sir lancelot, friend traitor or true? that commerce with the queen, i ask you, is it clamoured by the child, or whispered in the corner? do ye know it?' to which he answered sadly, 'yea, i know it. sir lancelot went ambassador, at first, to fetch her, and she watched him from her walls. a rumour runs, she took him for the king, so fixt her fancy on him: let them be. but have ye no one word of loyal praise for arthur, blameless king and stainless man?' she answered with a low and chuckling laugh: 'man! is he man at all, who knows and winks? sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks? by which the good king means to blind himself, and blinds himself and all the table round to all the foulness that they work. myself could call him (were it not for womanhood) the pretty, popular cause such manhood earns, could call him the main cause of all their crime; yea, were he not crowned king, coward, and fool.' then merlin to his own heart, loathing, said: 'o true and tender! o my liege and king! o selfless man and stainless gentleman, who wouldst against thine own eye-witness fain have all men true and leal, all women pure; how, in the mouths of base interpreters, from over-fineness not intelligible to things with every sense as false and foul as the poached filth that floods the middle street, is thy white blamelessness accounted blame!' but vivien, deeming merlin overborne by instance, recommenced, and let her tongue rage like a fire among the noblest names, polluting, and imputing her whole self, defaming and defacing, till she left not even lancelot brave, nor galahad clean. her words had issue other than she willed. he dragged his eyebrow bushes down, and made a snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, and muttered in himself, 'tell her the charm! so, if she had it, would she rail on me to snare the next, and if she have it not so will she rail. what did the wanton say? "not mount as high;" we scarce can sink as low: for men at most differ as heaven and earth, but women, worst and best, as heaven and hell. i know the table round, my friends of old; all brave, and many generous, and some chaste. she cloaks the scar of some repulse with lies; i well believe she tempted them and failed, being so bitter: for fine plots may fail, though harlots paint their talk as well as face with colours of the heart that are not theirs. i will not let her know: nine tithes of times face-flatterer and backbiter are the same. and they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime are pronest to it, and impute themselves, wanting the mental range; or low desire not to feel lowest makes them level all; yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain, to leave an equal baseness; and in this are harlots like the crowd, that if they find some stain or blemish in a name of note, not grieving that their greatest are so small, inflate themselves with some insane delight, and judge all nature from her feet of clay, without the will to lift their eyes, and see her godlike head crowned with spiritual fire, and touching other worlds. i am weary of her.' he spoke in words part heard, in whispers part, half-suffocated in the hoary fell and many-wintered fleece of throat and chin. but vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood, and hearing 'harlot' muttered twice or thrice, leapt from her session on his lap, and stood stiff as a viper frozen; loathsome sight, how from the rosy lips of life and love, flashed the bare-grinning skeleton of death! white was her cheek; sharp breaths of anger puffed her fairy nostril out; her hand half-clenched went faltering sideways downward to her belt, and feeling; had she found a dagger there (for in a wink the false love turns to hate) she would have stabbed him; but she found it not: his eye was calm, and suddenly she took to bitter weeping like a beaten child, a long, long weeping, not consolable. then her false voice made way, broken with sobs: 'o crueller than was ever told in tale, or sung in song! o vainly lavished love! o cruel, there was nothing wild or strange, or seeming shameful--for what shame in love, so love be true, and not as yours is--nothing poor vivien had not done to win his trust who called her what he called her--all her crime, all--all--the wish to prove him wholly hers.' she mused a little, and then clapt her hands together with a wailing shriek, and said: 'stabbed through the heart's affections to the heart! seethed like the kid in its own mother's milk! killed with a word worse than a life of blows! i thought that he was gentle, being great: o god, that i had loved a smaller man! i should have found in him a greater heart. o, i, that flattering my true passion, saw the knights, the court, the king, dark in your light, who loved to make men darker than they are, because of that high pleasure which i had to seat you sole upon my pedestal of worship--i am answered, and henceforth the course of life that seemed so flowery to me with you for guide and master, only you, becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short, and ending in a ruin--nothing left, but into some low cave to crawl, and there, if the wolf spare me, weep my life away, killed with inutterable unkindliness.' she paused, she turned away, she hung her head, the snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid slipt and uncoiled itself, she wept afresh, and the dark wood grew darker toward the storm in silence, while his anger slowly died within him, till he let his wisdom go for ease of heart, and half believed her true: called her to shelter in the hollow oak, 'come from the storm,' and having no reply, gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame; then thrice essayed, by tenderest-touching terms, to sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. at last she let herself be conquered by him, and as the cageling newly flown returns, the seeming-injured simple-hearted thing came to her old perch back, and settled there. there while she sat, half-falling from his knees, half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw the slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet, about her, more in kindness than in love, the gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. but she dislinked herself at once and rose, her arms upon her breast across, and stood, a virtuous gentlewoman deeply wronged, upright and flushed before him: then she said: 'there must now be no passages of love betwixt us twain henceforward evermore; since, if i be what i am grossly called, what should be granted which your own gross heart would reckon worth the taking? i will go. in truth, but one thing now--better have died thrice than have asked it once--could make me stay-- that proof of trust--so often asked in vain! how justly, after that vile term of yours, i find with grief! i might believe you then, who knows? once more. lo! what was once to me mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown the vast necessity of heart and life. farewell; think gently of me, for i fear my fate or folly, passing gayer youth for one so old, must be to love thee still. but ere i leave thee let me swear once more that if i schemed against thy peace in this, may yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send one flash, that, missing all things else, may make my scheming brain a cinder, if i lie.' scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt (for now the storm was close above them) struck, furrowing a giant oak, and javelining with darted spikes and splinters of the wood the dark earth round. he raised his eyes and saw the tree that shone white-listed through the gloom. but vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath, and dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, and deafened with the stammering cracks and claps that followed, flying back and crying out, 'o merlin, though you do not love me, save, yet save me!' clung to him and hugged him close; and called him dear protector in her fright, nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, but wrought upon his mood and hugged him close. the pale blood of the wizard at her touch took gayer colours, like an opal warmed. she blamed herself for telling hearsay tales: she shook from fear, and for her fault she wept of petulancy; she called him lord and liege, her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, her god, her merlin, the one passionate love of her whole life; and ever overhead bellowed the tempest, and the rotten branch snapt in the rushing of the river-rain above them; and in change of glare and gloom her eyes and neck glittering went and came; till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, moaning and calling out of other lands, had left the ravaged woodland yet once more to peace; and what should not have been had been, for merlin, overtalked and overworn, had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. then, in one moment, she put forth the charm of woven paces and of waving hands, and in the hollow oak he lay as dead, and lost to life and use and name and fame. then crying 'i have made his glory mine,' and shrieking out 'o fool!' the harlot leapt adown the forest, and the thicket closed behind her, and the forest echoed 'fool.' lancelot and elaine elaine the fair, elaine the loveable, elaine, the lily maid of astolat, high in her chamber up a tower to the east guarded the sacred shield of lancelot; which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray might strike it, and awake her with the gleam; then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it a case of silk, and braided thereupon all the devices blazoned on the shield in their own tinct, and added, of her wit, a border fantasy of branch and flower, and yellow-throated nestling in the nest. nor rested thus content, but day by day, leaving her household and good father, climbed that eastern tower, and entering barred her door, stript off the case, and read the naked shield, now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms, now made a pretty history to herself of every dint a sword had beaten in it, and every scratch a lance had made upon it, conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh; that ten years back; this dealt him at caerlyle; that at caerleon; this at camelot: and ah god's mercy, what a stroke was there! and here a thrust that might have killed, but god broke the strong lance, and rolled his enemy down, and saved him: so she lived in fantasy. how came the lily maid by that good shield of lancelot, she that knew not even his name? he left it with her, when he rode to tilt for the great diamond in the diamond jousts, which arthur had ordained, and by that name had named them, since a diamond was the prize. for arthur, long before they crowned him king, roving the trackless realms of lyonnesse, had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. a horror lived about the tarn, and clave like its own mists to all the mountain side: for here two brothers, one a king, had met and fought together; but their names were lost; and each had slain his brother at a blow; and down they fell and made the glen abhorred: and there they lay till all their bones were bleached, and lichened into colour with the crags: and he, that once was king, had on a crown of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. and arthur came, and labouring up the pass, all in a misty moonshine, unawares had trodden that crowned skeleton, and the skull brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown rolled into light, and turning on its rims fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn: and down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, and set it on his head, and in his heart heard murmurs, 'lo, thou likewise shalt be king.' thereafter, when a king, he had the gems plucked from the crown, and showed them to his knights, saying, 'these jewels, whereupon i chanced divinely, are the kingdom's, not the king's-- for public use: henceforward let there be, once every year, a joust for one of these: for so by nine years' proof we needs must learn which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow in use of arms and manhood, till we drive the heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land hereafter, which god hinder.' thus he spoke: and eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still had lancelot won the diamond of the year, with purpose to present them to the queen, when all were won; but meaning all at once to snare her royal fancy with a boon worth half her realm, had never spoken word. now for the central diamond and the last and largest, arthur, holding then his court hard on the river nigh the place which now is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust at camelot, and when the time drew nigh spake (for she had been sick) to guinevere, 'are you so sick, my queen, you cannot move to these fair jousts?' 'yea, lord,' she said, 'ye know it.' 'then will ye miss,' he answered, 'the great deeds of lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, a sight ye love to look on.' and the queen lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly on lancelot, where he stood beside the king. he thinking that he read her meaning there, 'stay with me, i am sick; my love is more than many diamonds,' yielded; and a heart love-loyal to the least wish of the queen (however much he yearned to make complete the tale of diamonds for his destined boon) urged him to speak against the truth, and say, 'sir king, mine ancient wound is hardly whole, and lets me from the saddle;' and the king glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. no sooner gone than suddenly she began: 'to blame, my lord sir lancelot, much to blame! why go ye not to these fair jousts? the knights are half of them our enemies, and the crowd will murmur, "lo the shameless ones, who take their pastime now the trustful king is gone!"' then lancelot vext at having lied in vain: 'are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise, my queen, that summer, when ye loved me first. then of the crowd ye took no more account than of the myriad cricket of the mead, when its own voice clings to each blade of grass, and every voice is nothing. as to knights, them surely can i silence with all ease. but now my loyal worship is allowed of all men: many a bard, without offence, has linked our names together in his lay, lancelot, the flower of bravery, guinevere, the pearl of beauty: and our knights at feast have pledged us in this union, while the king would listen smiling. how then? is there more? has arthur spoken aught? or would yourself, now weary of my service and devoir, henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?' she broke into a little scornful laugh: 'arthur, my lord, arthur, the faultless king, that passionate perfection, my good lord-- but who can gaze upon the sun in heaven? he never spake word of reproach to me, he never had a glimpse of mine untruth, he cares not for me: only here today there gleamed a vague suspicion in his eyes: some meddling rogue has tampered with him--else rapt in this fancy of his table round, and swearing men to vows impossible, to make them like himself: but, friend, to me he is all fault who hath no fault at all: for who loves me must have a touch of earth; the low sun makes the colour: i am yours, not arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond. and therefore hear my words: go to the jousts: the tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream when sweetest; and the vermin voices here may buzz so loud--we scorn them, but they sting.' then answered lancelot, the chief of knights: 'and with what face, after my pretext made, shall i appear, o queen, at camelot, i before a king who honours his own word, as if it were his god's?' 'yea,' said the queen, 'a moral child without the craft to rule, else had he not lost me: but listen to me, if i must find you wit: we hear it said that men go down before your spear at a touch, but knowing you are lancelot; your great name, this conquers: hide it therefore; go unknown: win! by this kiss you will: and our true king will then allow your pretext, o my knight, as all for glory; for to speak him true, ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem, no keener hunter after glory breathes. he loves it in his knights more than himself: they prove to him his work: win and return.' then got sir lancelot suddenly to horse, wroth at himself. not willing to be known, he left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, chose the green path that showed the rarer foot, and there among the solitary downs, full often lost in fancy, lost his way; till as he traced a faintly-shadowed track, that all in loops and links among the dales ran to the castle of astolat, he saw fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. thither he made, and blew the gateway horn. then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man, who let him into lodging and disarmed. and lancelot marvelled at the wordless man; and issuing found the lord of astolat with two strong sons, sir torre and sir lavaine, moving to meet him in the castle court; and close behind them stept the lily maid elaine, his daughter: mother of the house there was not: some light jest among them rose with laughter dying down as the great knight approached them: then the lord of astolat: 'whence comes thou, my guest, and by what name livest thou between the lips? for by thy state and presence i might guess thee chief of those, after the king, who eat in arthur's halls. him have i seen: the rest, his table round, known as they are, to me they are unknown.' then answered sir lancelot, the chief of knights: 'known am i, and of arthur's hall, and known, what i by mere mischance have brought, my shield. but since i go to joust as one unknown at camelot for the diamond, ask me not, hereafter ye shall know me--and the shield-- i pray you lend me one, if such you have, blank, or at least with some device not mine.' then said the lord of astolat, 'here is torre's: hurt in his first tilt was my son, sir torre. and so, god wot, his shield is blank enough. his ye can have.' then added plain sir torre, 'yea, since i cannot use it, ye may have it.' here laughed the father saying, 'fie, sir churl, is that answer for a noble knight? allow him! but lavaine, my younger here, he is so full of lustihood, he will ride, joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour, and set it in this damsel's golden hair, to make her thrice as wilful as before.' 'nay, father, nay good father, shame me not before this noble knight,' said young lavaine, 'for nothing. surely i but played on torre: he seemed so sullen, vext he could not go: a jest, no more! for, knight, the maiden dreamt that some one put this diamond in her hand, and that it was too slippery to be held, and slipt and fell into some pool or stream, the castle-well, belike; and then i said that if i went and if i fought and won it (but all was jest and joke among ourselves) then must she keep it safelier. all was jest. but, father, give me leave, an if he will, to ride to camelot with this noble knight: win shall i not, but do my best to win: young as i am, yet would i do my best.' 'so will ye grace me,' answered lancelot, smiling a moment, 'with your fellowship o'er these waste downs whereon i lost myself, then were i glad of you as guide and friend: and you shall win this diamond,--as i hear it is a fair large diamond,--if ye may, and yield it to this maiden, if ye will.' 'a fair large diamond,' added plain sir torre, 'such be for queens, and not for simple maids.' then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, elaine, and heard her name so tost about, flushed slightly at the slight disparagement before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, full courtly, yet not falsely, thus returned: 'if what is fair be but for what is fair, and only queens are to be counted so, rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, not violating the bond of like to like.' he spoke and ceased: the lily maid elaine, won by the mellow voice before she looked, lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. the great and guilty love he bare the queen, in battle with the love he bare his lord, had marred his face, and marked it ere his time. another sinning on such heights with one, the flower of all the west and all the world, had been the sleeker for it: but in him his mood was often like a fiend, and rose and drove him into wastes and solitudes for agony, who was yet a living soul. marred as he was, he seemed the goodliest man that ever among ladies ate in hall, and noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. however marred, of more than twice her years, seamed with an ancient swordcut on the cheek, and bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes and loved him, with that love which was her doom. then the great knight, the darling of the court, loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall stept with all grace, and not with half disdain hid under grace, as in a smaller time, but kindly man moving among his kind: whom they with meats and vintage of their best and talk and minstrel melody entertained. and much they asked of court and table round, and ever well and readily answered he: but lancelot, when they glanced at guinevere, suddenly speaking of the wordless man, heard from the baron that, ten years before, the heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. 'he learnt and warned me of their fierce design against my house, and him they caught and maimed; but i, my sons, and little daughter fled from bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods by the great river in a boatman's hut. dull days were those, till our good arthur broke the pagan yet once more on badon hill.' 'o there, great lord, doubtless,' lavaine said, rapt by all the sweet and sudden passion of youth toward greatness in its elder, 'you have fought. o tell us--for we live apart--you know of arthur's glorious wars.' and lancelot spoke and answered him at full, as having been with arthur in the fight which all day long rang by the white mouth of the violent glem; and in the four loud battles by the shore of duglas; that on bassa; then the war that thundered in and out the gloomy skirts of celidon the forest; and again by castle gurnion, where the glorious king had on his cuirass worn our lady's head, carved of one emerald centered in a sun of silver rays, that lightened as he breathed; and at caerleon had he helped his lord, when the strong neighings of the wild white horse set every gilded parapet shuddering; and up in agned-cathregonion too, and down the waste sand-shores of trath treroit, where many a heathen fell; 'and on the mount of badon i myself beheld the king charge at the head of all his table round, and all his legions crying christ and him, and break them; and i saw him, after, stand high on a heap of slain, from spur to plume red as the rising sun with heathen blood, and seeing me, with a great voice he cried, "they are broken, they are broken!" for the king, however mild he seems at home, nor cares for triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts-- for if his own knight cast him down, he laughs saying, his knights are better men than he-- yet in this heathen war the fire of god fills him: i never saw his like: there lives no greater leader.' while he uttered this, low to her own heart said the lily maid, 'save your own great self, fair lord;' and when he fell from talk of war to traits of pleasantry-- being mirthful he, but in a stately kind-- she still took note that when the living smile died from his lips, across him came a cloud of melancholy severe, from which again, whenever in her hovering to and fro the lily maid had striven to make him cheer, there brake a sudden-beaming tenderness of manners and of nature: and she thought that all was nature, all, perchance, for her. and all night long his face before her lived, as when a painter, poring on a face, divinely through all hindrance finds the man behind it, and so paints him that his face, the shape and colour of a mind and life, lives for his children, ever at its best and fullest; so the face before her lived, dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full of noble things, and held her from her sleep. till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought she needs must bid farewell to sweet lavaine. first in fear, step after step, she stole down the long tower-stairs, hesitating: anon, she heard sir lancelot cry in the court, 'this shield, my friend, where is it?' and lavaine past inward, as she came from out the tower. there to his proud horse lancelot turned, and smoothed the glossy shoulder, humming to himself. half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew nearer and stood. he looked, and more amazed than if seven men had set upon him, saw the maiden standing in the dewy light. he had not dreamed she was so beautiful. then came on him a sort of sacred fear, for silent, though he greeted her, she stood rapt on his face as if it were a god's. suddenly flashed on her a wild desire, that he should wear her favour at the tilt. she braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 'fair lord, whose name i know not--noble it is, i well believe, the noblest--will you wear my favour at this tourney?' 'nay,' said he, 'fair lady, since i never yet have worn favour of any lady in the lists. such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.' 'yea, so,' she answered; 'then in wearing mine needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, that those who know should know you.' and he turned her counsel up and down within his mind, and found it true, and answered, 'true, my child. well, i will wear it: fetch it out to me: what is it?' and she told him 'a red sleeve broidered with pearls,' and brought it: then he bound her token on his helmet, with a smile saying, 'i never yet have done so much for any maiden living,' and the blood sprang to her face and filled her with delight; but left her all the paler, when lavaine returning brought the yet-unblazoned shield, his brother's; which he gave to lancelot, who parted with his own to fair elaine: 'do me this grace, my child, to have my shield in keeping till i come.' 'a grace to me,' she answered, 'twice today. i am your squire!' whereat lavaine said, laughing, 'lily maid, for fear our people call you lily maid in earnest, let me bring your colour back; once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed:' so kissed her, and sir lancelot his own hand, and thus they moved away: she stayed a minute, then made a sudden step to the gate, and there-- her bright hair blown about the serious face yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss-- paused by the gateway, standing near the shield in silence, while she watched their arms far-off sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. then to her tower she climbed, and took the shield, there kept it, and so lived in fantasy. meanwhile the new companions past away far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs, to where sir lancelot knew there lived a knight not far from camelot, now for forty years a hermit, who had prayed, laboured and prayed, and ever labouring had scooped himself in the white rock a chapel and a hall on massive columns, like a shorecliff cave, and cells and chambers: all were fair and dry; the green light from the meadows underneath struck up and lived along the milky roofs; and in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees and poplars made a noise of falling showers. and thither wending there that night they bode. but when the next day broke from underground, and shot red fire and shadows through the cave, they rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away: then lancelot saying, 'hear, but hold my name hidden, you ride with lancelot of the lake,' abashed young lavaine, whose instant reverence, dearer to true young hearts than their own praise, but left him leave to stammer, 'is it indeed?' and after muttering 'the great lancelot, at last he got his breath and answered, 'one, one have i seen--that other, our liege lord, the dread pendragon, britain's king of kings, of whom the people talk mysteriously, he will be there--then were i stricken blind that minute, i might say that i had seen.' so spake lavaine, and when they reached the lists by camelot in the meadow, let his eyes run through the peopled gallery which half round lay like a rainbow fallen upon the grass, until they found the clear-faced king, who sat robed in red samite, easily to be known, since to his crown the golden dragon clung, and down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, and from the carven-work behind him crept two dragons gilded, sloping down to make arms for his chair, while all the rest of them through knots and loops and folds innumerable fled ever through the woodwork, till they found the new design wherein they lost themselves, yet with all ease, so tender was the work: and, in the costly canopy o'er him set, blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. then lancelot answered young lavaine and said, 'me you call great: mine is the firmer seat, the truer lance: but there is many a youth now crescent, who will come to all i am and overcome it; and in me there dwells no greatness, save it be some far-off touch of greatness to know well i am not great: there is the man.' and lavaine gaped upon him as on a thing miraculous, and anon the trumpets blew; and then did either side, they that assailed, and they that held the lists, set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move, meet in the midst, and there so furiously shock, that a man far-off might well perceive, if any man that day were left afield, the hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. and lancelot bode a little, till he saw which were the weaker; then he hurled into it against the stronger: little need to speak of lancelot in his glory! king, duke, earl, count, baron--whom he smote, he overthrew. but in the field were lancelot's kith and kin, ranged with the table round that held the lists, strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight should do and almost overdo the deeds of lancelot; and one said to the other, 'lo! what is he? i do not mean the force alone-- the grace and versatility of the man! is it not lancelot?' 'when has lancelot worn favour of any lady in the lists? not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.' 'how then? who then?' a fury seized them all, a fiery family passion for the name of lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. they couched their spears and pricked their steeds, and thus, their plumes driven backward by the wind they made in moving, all together down upon him bare, as a wild wave in the wide north-sea, green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, down on a bark, and overbears the bark, and him that helms it, so they overbore sir lancelot and his charger, and a spear down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear pricked sharply his own cuirass, and the head pierced through his side, and there snapt, and remained. then sir lavaine did well and worshipfully; he bore a knight of old repute to the earth, and brought his horse to lancelot where he lay. he up the side, sweating with agony, got, but thought to do while he might yet endure, and being lustily holpen by the rest, his party,--though it seemed half-miracle to those he fought with,--drave his kith and kin, and all the table round that held the lists, back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights, his party, cried 'advance and take thy prize the diamond;' but he answered, 'diamond me no diamonds! for god's love, a little air! prize me no prizes, for my prize is death! hence will i, and i charge you, follow me not.' he spoke, and vanished suddenly from the field with young lavaine into the poplar grove. there from his charger down he slid, and sat, gasping to sir lavaine, 'draw the lance-head:' 'ah my sweet lord sir lancelot,' said lavaine, 'i dread me, if i draw it, you will die.' but he, 'i die already with it: draw-- draw,'--and lavaine drew, and sir lancelot gave a marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, and half his blood burst forth, and down he sank for the pure pain, and wholly swooned away. then came the hermit out and bare him in, there stanched his wound; and there, in daily doubt whether to live or die, for many a week hid from the wide world's rumour by the grove of poplars with their noise of falling showers, and ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. but on that day when lancelot fled the lists, his party, knights of utmost north and west, lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles, came round their great pendragon, saying to him, 'lo, sire, our knight, through whom we won the day, hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize untaken, crying that his prize is death.' 'heaven hinder,' said the king, 'that such an one, so great a knight as we have seen today-- he seemed to me another lancelot-- yea, twenty times i thought him lancelot-- he must not pass uncared for. wherefore, rise, o gawain, and ride forth and find the knight. wounded and wearied needs must he be near. i charge you that you get at once to horse. and, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you will deem this prize of ours is rashly given: his prowess was too wondrous. we will do him no customary honour: since the knight came not to us, of us to claim the prize, ourselves will send it after. rise and take this diamond, and deliver it, and return, and bring us where he is, and how he fares, and cease not from your quest until ye find.' so saying, from the carven flower above, to which it made a restless heart, he took, and gave, the diamond: then from where he sat at arthur's right, with smiling face arose, with smiling face and frowning heart, a prince in the mid might and flourish of his may, gawain, surnamed the courteous, fair and strong, and after lancelot, tristram, and geraint and gareth, a good knight, but therewithal sir modred's brother, and the child of lot, nor often loyal to his word, and now wroth that the king's command to sally forth in quest of whom he knew not, made him leave the banquet, and concourse of knights and kings. so all in wrath he got to horse and went; while arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, past, thinking 'is it lancelot who hath come despite the wound he spake of, all for gain of glory, and hath added wound to wound, and ridden away to die?' so feared the king, and, after two days' tarriance there, returned. then when he saw the queen, embracing asked, 'love, are you yet so sick?' 'nay, lord,' she said. 'and where is lancelot?' then the queen amazed, 'was he not with you? won he not your prize?' 'nay, but one like him.' 'why that like was he.' and when the king demanded how she knew, said, 'lord, no sooner had ye parted from us, than lancelot told me of a common talk that men went down before his spear at a touch, but knowing he was lancelot; his great name conquered; and therefore would he hide his name from all men, even the king, and to this end had made a pretext of a hindering wound, that he might joust unknown of all, and learn if his old prowess were in aught decayed; and added, "our true arthur, when he learns, will well allow me pretext, as for gain of purer glory."' then replied the king: 'far lovelier in our lancelot had it been, in lieu of idly dallying with the truth, to have trusted me as he hath trusted thee. surely his king and most familiar friend might well have kept his secret. true, indeed, albeit i know my knights fantastical, so fine a fear in our large lancelot must needs have moved my laughter: now remains but little cause for laughter: his own kin-- ill news, my queen, for all who love him, this!-- his kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him; so that he went sore wounded from the field: yet good news too: for goodly hopes are mine that lancelot is no more a lonely heart. he wore, against his wont, upon his helm a sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls, some gentle maiden's gift.' 'yea, lord,' she said, 'thy hopes are mine,' and saying that, she choked, and sharply turned about to hide her face, past to her chamber, and there flung herself down on the great king's couch, and writhed upon it, and clenched her fingers till they bit the palm, and shrieked out 'traitor' to the unhearing wall, then flashed into wild tears, and rose again, and moved about her palace, proud and pale. gawain the while through all the region round rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, touched at all points, except the poplar grove, and came at last, though late, to astolat: whom glittering in enamelled arms the maid glanced at, and cried, 'what news from camelot, lord? what of the knight with the red sleeve?' 'he won.' 'i knew it,' she said. 'but parted from the jousts hurt in the side,' whereat she caught her breath; through her own side she felt the sharp lance go; thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she swooned: and, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came the lord of astolat out, to whom the prince reported who he was, and on what quest sent, that he bore the prize and could not find the victor, but had ridden a random round to seek him, and had wearied of the search. to whom the lord of astolat, 'bide with us, and ride no more at random, noble prince! here was the knight, and here he left a shield; this will he send or come for: furthermore our son is with him; we shall hear anon, needs must hear.' to this the courteous prince accorded with his wonted courtesy, courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, and stayed; and cast his eyes on fair elaine: where could be found face daintier? then her shape from forehead down to foot, perfect--again from foot to forehead exquisitely turned: 'well--if i bide, lo! this wild flower for me!' and oft they met among the garden yews, and there he set himself to play upon her with sallying wit, free flashes from a height above her, graces of the court, and songs, sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence and amorous adulation, till the maid rebelled against it, saying to him, 'prince, o loyal nephew of our noble king, why ask you not to see the shield he left, whence you might learn his name? why slight your king, and lose the quest he sent you on, and prove no surer than our falcon yesterday, who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went to all the winds?' 'nay, by mine head,' said he, 'i lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, o damsel, in the light of your blue eyes; but an ye will it let me see the shield.' and when the shield was brought, and gawain saw sir lancelot's azure lions, crowned with gold, ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mocked: 'right was the king! our lancelot! that true man!' 'and right was i,' she answered merrily, 'i, who dreamed my knight the greatest knight of all.' 'and if i dreamed,' said gawain, 'that you love this greatest knight, your pardon! lo, ye know it! speak therefore: shall i waste myself in vain?' full simple was her answer, 'what know i? my brethren have been all my fellowship; and i, when often they have talked of love, wished it had been my mother, for they talked, meseemed, of what they knew not; so myself-- i know not if i know what true love is, but if i know, then, if i love not him, i know there is none other i can love.' 'yea, by god's death,' said he, 'ye love him well, but would not, knew ye what all others know, and whom he loves.' 'so be it,' cried elaine, and lifted her fair face and moved away: but he pursued her, calling, 'stay a little! one golden minute's grace! he wore your sleeve: would he break faith with one i may not name? must our true man change like a leaf at last? nay--like enow: why then, far be it from me to cross our mighty lancelot in his loves! and, damsel, for i deem you know full well where your great knight is hidden, let me leave my quest with you; the diamond also: here! for if you love, it will be sweet to give it; and if he love, it will be sweet to have it from your own hand; and whether he love or not, a diamond is a diamond. fare you well a thousand times!--a thousand times farewell! yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two may meet at court hereafter: there, i think, so ye will learn the courtesies of the court, we two shall know each other.' then he gave, and slightly kissed the hand to which he gave, the diamond, and all wearied of the quest leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went a true-love ballad, lightly rode away. thence to the court he past; there told the king what the king knew, 'sir lancelot is the knight.' and added, 'sire, my liege, so much i learnt; but failed to find him, though i rode all round the region: but i lighted on the maid whose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her, deeming our courtesy is the truest law, i gave the diamond: she will render it; for by mine head she knows his hiding-place.' the seldom-frowning king frowned, and replied, 'too courteous truly! ye shall go no more on quest of mine, seeing that ye forget obedience is the courtesy due to kings.' he spake and parted. wroth, but all in awe, for twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, lingered that other, staring after him; then shook his hair, strode off, and buzzed abroad about the maid of astolat, and her love. all ears were pricked at once, all tongues were loosed: 'the maid of astolat loves sir lancelot, sir lancelot loves the maid of astolat.' some read the king's face, some the queen's, and all had marvel what the maid might be, but most predoomed her as unworthy. one old dame came suddenly on the queen with the sharp news. she, that had heard the noise of it before, but sorrowing lancelot should have stooped so low, marred her friend's aim with pale tranquillity. so ran the tale like fire about the court, fire in dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared: till even the knights at banquet twice or thrice forgot to drink to lancelot and the queen, and pledging lancelot and the lily maid smiled at each other, while the queen, who sat with lips severely placid, felt the knot climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen crushed the wild passion out against the floor beneath the banquet, where all the meats became as wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. but far away the maid in astolat, her guiltless rival, she that ever kept the one-day-seen sir lancelot in her heart, crept to her father, while he mused alone, sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said, 'father, you call me wilful, and the fault is yours who let me have my will, and now, sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?' 'nay,' said he, 'surely.' 'wherefore, let me hence,' she answered, 'and find out our dear lavaine.' 'ye will not lose your wits for dear lavaine: bide,' answered he: 'we needs must hear anon of him, and of that other.' 'ay,' she said, 'and of that other, for i needs must hence and find that other, wheresoe'er he be, and with mine own hand give his diamond to him, lest i be found as faithless in the quest as yon proud prince who left the quest to me. sweet father, i behold him in my dreams gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. the gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, my father, to be sweet and serviceable to noble knights in sickness, as ye know when these have worn their tokens: let me hence i pray you.' then her father nodding said, 'ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, my child, right fain were i to learn this knight were whole, being our greatest: yea, and you must give it-- and sure i think this fruit is hung too high for any mouth to gape for save a queen's-- nay, i mean nothing: so then, get you gone, being so very wilful you must go.' lightly, her suit allowed, she slipt away, and while she made her ready for her ride, her father's latest word hummed in her ear, 'being so very wilful you must go,' and changed itself and echoed in her heart, 'being so very wilful you must die.' but she was happy enough and shook it off, as we shake off the bee that buzzes at us; and in her heart she answered it and said, 'what matter, so i help him back to life?' then far away with good sir torre for guide rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs to camelot, and before the city-gates came on her brother with a happy face making a roan horse caper and curvet for pleasure all about a field of flowers: whom when she saw, 'lavaine,' she cried, 'lavaine, how fares my lord sir lancelot?' he amazed, 'torre and elaine! why here? sir lancelot! how know ye my lord's name is lancelot?' but when the maid had told him all her tale, then turned sir torre, and being in his moods left them, and under the strange-statued gate, where arthur's wars were rendered mystically, past up the still rich city to his kin, his own far blood, which dwelt at camelot; and her, lavaine across the poplar grove led to the caves: there first she saw the casque of lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve, though carved and cut, and half the pearls away, streamed from it still; and in her heart she laughed, because he had not loosed it from his helm, but meant once more perchance to tourney in it. and when they gained the cell wherein he slept, his battle-writhen arms and mighty hands lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream of dragging down his enemy made them move. then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn, gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, uttered a little tender dolorous cry. the sound not wonted in a place so still woke the sick knight, and while he rolled his eyes yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, 'your prize the diamond sent you by the king:' his eyes glistened: she fancied 'is it for me?' and when the maid had told him all the tale of king and prince, the diamond sent, the quest assigned to her not worthy of it, she knelt full lowly by the corners of his bed, and laid the diamond in his open hand. her face was near, and as we kiss the child that does the task assigned, he kissed her face. at once she slipt like water to the floor. 'alas,' he said, 'your ride hath wearied you. rest must you have.' 'no rest for me,' she said; 'nay, for near you, fair lord, i am at rest.' what might she mean by that? his large black eyes, yet larger through his leanness, dwelt upon her, till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself in the heart's colours on her simple face; and lancelot looked and was perplext in mind, and being weak in body said no more; but did not love the colour; woman's love, save one, he not regarded, and so turned sighing, and feigned a sleep until he slept. then rose elaine and glided through the fields, and past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates far up the dim rich city to her kin; there bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past down through the dim rich city to the fields, thence to the cave: so day by day she past in either twilight ghost-like to and fro gliding, and every day she tended him, and likewise many a night: and lancelot would, though he called his wound a little hurt whereof he should be quickly whole, at times brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem uncourteous, even he: but the meek maid sweetly forbore him ever, being to him meeker than any child to a rough nurse, milder than any mother to a sick child, and never woman yet, since man's first fall, did kindlier unto man, but her deep love upbore her; till the hermit, skilled in all the simples and the science of that time, told him that her fine care had saved his life. and the sick man forgot her simple blush, would call her friend and sister, sweet elaine, would listen for her coming and regret her parting step, and held her tenderly, and loved her with all love except the love of man and woman when they love their best, closest and sweetest, and had died the death in any knightly fashion for her sake. and peradventure had he seen her first she might have made this and that other world another world for the sick man; but now the shackles of an old love straitened him, his honour rooted in dishonour stood, and faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made full many a holy vow and pure resolve. these, as but born of sickness, could not live: for when the blood ran lustier in him again, full often the bright image of one face, making a treacherous quiet in his heart, dispersed his resolution like a cloud. then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace beamed on his fancy, spoke, he answered not, or short and coldly, and she knew right well what the rough sickness meant, but what this meant she knew not, and the sorrow dimmed her sight, and drave her ere her time across the fields far into the rich city, where alone she murmured, 'vain, in vain: it cannot be. he will not love me: how then? must i die?' then as a little helpless innocent bird, that has but one plain passage of few notes, will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er for all an april morning, till the ear wearies to hear it, so the simple maid went half the night repeating, 'must i die?' and now to right she turned, and now to left, and found no ease in turning or in rest; and 'him or death,' she muttered, 'death or him,' again and like a burthen, 'him or death.' but when sir lancelot's deadly hurt was whole, to astolat returning rode the three. there morn by morn, arraying her sweet self in that wherein she deemed she looked her best, she came before sir lancelot, for she thought 'if i be loved, these are my festal robes, if not, the victim's flowers before he fall.' and lancelot ever prest upon the maid that she should ask some goodly gift of him for her own self or hers; 'and do not shun to speak the wish most near to your true heart; such service have ye done me, that i make my will of yours, and prince and lord am i in mine own land, and what i will i can.' then like a ghost she lifted up her face, but like a ghost without the power to speak. and lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, and bode among them yet a little space till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced he found her in among the garden yews, and said, 'delay no longer, speak your wish, seeing i go today:' then out she brake: 'going? and we shall never see you more. and i must die for want of one bold word.' 'speak: that i live to hear,' he said, 'is yours.' then suddenly and passionately she spoke: 'i have gone mad. i love you: let me die.' 'ah, sister,' answered lancelot, 'what is this?' and innocently extending her white arms, 'your love,' she said, 'your love--to be your wife.' and lancelot answered, 'had i chosen to wed, i had been wedded earlier, sweet elaine: but now there never will be wife of mine.' 'no, no,' she cried, 'i care not to be wife, but to be with you still, to see your face, to serve you, and to follow you through the world.' and lancelot answered, 'nay, the world, the world, all ear and eye, with such a stupid heart to interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue to blare its own interpretation--nay, full ill then should i quit your brother's love, and your good father's kindness.' and she said, 'not to be with you, not to see your face-- alas for me then, my good days are done.' 'nay, noble maid,' he answered, 'ten times nay! this is not love: but love's first flash in youth, most common: yea, i know it of mine own self: and you yourself will smile at your own self hereafter, when you yield your flower of life to one more fitly yours, not thrice your age: and then will i, for true you are and sweet beyond mine old belief in womanhood, more specially should your good knight be poor, endow you with broad land and territory even to the half my realm beyond the seas, so that would make you happy: furthermore, even to the death, as though ye were my blood, in all your quarrels will i be your knight. this i will do, dear damsel, for your sake, and more than this i cannot.' while he spoke she neither blushed nor shook, but deathly-pale stood grasping what was nearest, then replied: 'of all this will i nothing;' and so fell, and thus they bore her swooning to her tower. then spake, to whom through those black walls of yew their talk had pierced, her father: 'ay, a flash, i fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. too courteous are ye, fair lord lancelot. i pray you, use some rough discourtesy to blunt or break her passion.' lancelot said, 'that were against me: what i can i will;' and there that day remained, and toward even sent for his shield: full meekly rose the maid, stript off the case, and gave the naked shield; then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, unclasping flung the casement back, and looked down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. and lancelot knew the little clinking sound; and she by tact of love was well aware that lancelot knew that she was looking at him. and yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away. this was the one discourtesy that he used. so in her tower alone the maiden sat: his very shield was gone; only the case, her own poor work, her empty labour, left. but still she heard him, still his picture formed and grew between her and the pictured wall. then came her father, saying in low tones, 'have comfort,' whom she greeted quietly. then came her brethren saying, 'peace to thee, sweet sister,' whom she answered with all calm. but when they left her to herself again, death, like a friend's voice from a distant field approaching through the darkness, called; the owls wailing had power upon her, and she mixt her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms of evening, and the moanings of the wind. and in those days she made a little song, and called her song 'the song of love and death,' and sang it: sweetly could she make and sing. 'sweet is true love though given in vain, in vain; and sweet is death who puts an end to pain: i know not which is sweeter, no, not i. 'love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be: love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. o love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 'sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, i know not which is sweeter, no, not i. 'i fain would follow love, if that could be; i needs must follow death, who calls for me; call and i follow, i follow! let me die.' high with the last line scaled her voice, and this, all in a fiery dawning wild with wind that shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought with shuddering, 'hark the phantom of the house that ever shrieks before a death,' and called the father, and all three in hurry and fear ran to her, and lo! the blood-red light of dawn flared on her face, she shrilling, 'let me die!' as when we dwell upon a word we know, repeating, till the word we know so well becomes a wonder, and we know not why, so dwelt the father on her face, and thought 'is this elaine?' till back the maiden fell, then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. at last she said, 'sweet brothers, yesternight i seemed a curious little maid again, as happy as when we dwelt among the woods, and when ye used to take me with the flood up the great river in the boatman's boat. only ye would not pass beyond the cape that has the poplar on it: there ye fixt your limit, oft returning with the tide. and yet i cried because ye would not pass beyond it, and far up the shining flood until we found the palace of the king. and yet ye would not; but this night i dreamed that i was all alone upon the flood, and then i said, "now shall i have my will:" and there i woke, but still the wish remained. so let me hence that i may pass at last beyond the poplar and far up the flood, until i find the palace of the king. there will i enter in among them all, and no man there will dare to mock at me; but there the fine gawain will wonder at me, and there the great sir lancelot muse at me; gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me, lancelot, who coldly went, nor bad me one: and there the king will know me and my love, and there the queen herself will pity me, and all the gentle court will welcome me, and after my long voyage i shall rest!' 'peace,' said her father, 'o my child, ye seem light-headed, for what force is yours to go so far, being sick? and wherefore would ye look on this proud fellow again, who scorns us all?' then the rough torre began to heave and move, and bluster into stormy sobs and say, 'i never loved him: an i meet with him, i care not howsoever great he be, then will i strike at him and strike him down, give me good fortune, i will strike him dead, for this discomfort he hath done the house.' to whom the gentle sister made reply, 'fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth, seeing it is no more sir lancelot's fault not to love me, than it is mine to love him of all men who seems to me the highest.' 'highest?' the father answered, echoing 'highest?' (he meant to break the passion in her) 'nay, daughter, i know not what you call the highest; but this i know, for all the people know it, he loves the queen, and in an open shame: and she returns his love in open shame; if this be high, what is it to be low?' then spake the lily maid of astolat: 'sweet father, all too faint and sick am i for anger: these are slanders: never yet was noble man but made ignoble talk. he makes no friend who never made a foe. but now it is my glory to have loved one peerless, without stain: so let me pass, my father, howsoe'er i seem to you, not all unhappy, having loved god's best and greatest, though my love had no return: yet, seeing you desire your child to live, thanks, but you work against your own desire; for if i could believe the things you say i should but die the sooner; wherefore cease, sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.' so when the ghostly man had come and gone, she with a face, bright as for sin forgiven, besought lavaine to write as she devised a letter, word for word; and when he asked 'is it for lancelot, is it for my dear lord? then will i bear it gladly;' she replied, 'for lancelot and the queen and all the world, but i myself must bear it.' then he wrote the letter she devised; which being writ and folded, 'o sweet father, tender and true, deny me not,' she said--'ye never yet denied my fancies--this, however strange, my latest: lay the letter in my hand a little ere i die, and close the hand upon it; i shall guard it even in death. and when the heat is gone from out my heart, then take the little bed on which i died for lancelot's love, and deck it like the queen's for richness, and me also like the queen in all i have of rich, and lay me on it. and let there be prepared a chariot-bier to take me to the river, and a barge be ready on the river, clothed in black. i go in state to court, to meet the queen. there surely i shall speak for mine own self, and none of you can speak for me so well. and therefore let our dumb old man alone go with me, he can steer and row, and he will guide me to that palace, to the doors.' she ceased: her father promised; whereupon she grew so cheerful that they deemed her death was rather in the fantasy than the blood. but ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh her father laid the letter in her hand, and closed the hand upon it, and she died. so that day there was dole in astolat. but when the next sun brake from underground, then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows accompanying, the sad chariot-bier past like a shadow through the field, that shone full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, palled all its length in blackest samite, lay. there sat the lifelong creature of the house, loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. so those two brethren from the chariot took and on the black decks laid her in her bed, set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung the silken case with braided blazonings, and kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her 'sister, farewell for ever,' and again 'farewell, sweet sister,' parted all in tears. then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, oared by the dumb, went upward with the flood-- in her right hand the lily, in her left the letter--all her bright hair streaming down-- and all the coverlid was cloth of gold drawn to her waist, and she herself in white all but her face, and that clear-featured face was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, but fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled. that day sir lancelot at the palace craved audience of guinevere, to give at last, the price of half a realm, his costly gift, hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow, with deaths of others, and almost his own, the nine-years-fought-for diamonds: for he saw one of her house, and sent him to the queen bearing his wish, whereto the queen agreed with such and so unmoved a majesty she might have seemed her statue, but that he, low-drooping till he wellnigh kissed her feet for loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye the shadow of some piece of pointed lace, in the queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls, and parted, laughing in his courtly heart. all in an oriel on the summer side, vine-clad, of arthur's palace toward the stream, they met, and lancelot kneeling uttered, 'queen, lady, my liege, in whom i have my joy, take, what i had not won except for you, these jewels, and make me happy, making them an armlet for the roundest arm on earth, or necklace for a neck to which the swan's is tawnier than her cygnet's: these are words: your beauty is your beauty, and i sin in speaking, yet o grant my worship of it words, as we grant grief tears. such sin in words perchance, we both can pardon: but, my queen, i hear of rumours flying through your court. our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, should have in it an absoluter trust to make up that defect: let rumours be: when did not rumours fly? these, as i trust that you trust me in your own nobleness, i may not well believe that you believe.' while thus he spoke, half turned away, the queen brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, till all the place whereon she stood was green; then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand received at once and laid aside the gems there on a table near her, and replied: 'it may be, i am quicker of belief than you believe me, lancelot of the lake. our bond is not the bond of man and wife. this good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, it can be broken easier. i for you this many a year have done despite and wrong to one whom ever in my heart of hearts i did acknowledge nobler. what are these? diamonds for me! they had been thrice their worth being your gift, had you not lost your own. to loyal hearts the value of all gifts must vary as the giver's. not for me! for her! for your new fancy. only this grant me, i pray you: have your joys apart. i doubt not that however changed, you keep so much of what is graceful: and myself would shun to break those bounds of courtesy in which as arthur's queen i move and rule: so cannot speak my mind. an end to this! a strange one! yet i take it with amen. so pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls; deck her with these; tell her, she shines me down: an armlet for an arm to which the queen's is haggard, or a necklace for a neck o as much fairer--as a faith once fair was richer than these diamonds--hers not mine-- nay, by the mother of our lord himself, or hers or mine, mine now to work my will-- she shall not have them.' saying which she seized, and, through the casement standing wide for heat, flung them, and down they flashed, and smote the stream. then from the smitten surface flashed, as it were, diamonds to meet them, and they past away. then while sir lancelot leant, in half disdain at love, life, all things, on the window ledge, close underneath his eyes, and right across where these had fallen, slowly past the barge. whereon the lily maid of astolat lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. but the wild queen, who saw not, burst away to weep and wail in secret; and the barge, on to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. there two stood armed, and kept the door; to whom, all up the marble stair, tier over tier, were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that asked 'what is it?' but that oarsman's haggard face, as hard and still as is the face that men shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks on some cliff-side, appalled them, and they said 'he is enchanted, cannot speak--and she, look how she sleeps--the fairy queen, so fair! yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh and blood? or come to take the king to fairyland? for some do hold our arthur cannot die, but that he passes into fairyland.' while thus they babbled of the king, the king came girt with knights: then turned the tongueless man from the half-face to the full eye, and rose and pointed to the damsel, and the doors. so arthur bad the meek sir percivale and pure sir galahad to uplift the maid; and reverently they bore her into hall. then came the fine gawain and wondered at her, and lancelot later came and mused at her, and last the queen herself, and pitied her: but arthur spied the letter in her hand, stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all: 'most noble lord, sir lancelot of the lake, i, sometime called the maid of astolat, come, for you left me taking no farewell, hither, to take my last farewell of you. i loved you, and my love had no return, and therefore my true love has been my death. and therefore to our lady guinevere, and to all other ladies, i make moan: pray for my soul, and yield me burial. pray for my soul thou too, sir lancelot, as thou art a knight peerless.' thus he read; and ever in the reading, lords and dames wept, looking often from his face who read to hers which lay so silent, and at times, so touched were they, half-thinking that her lips, who had devised the letter, moved again. then freely spoke sir lancelot to them all: 'my lord liege arthur, and all ye that hear, know that for this most gentle maiden's death right heavy am i; for good she was and true, but loved me with a love beyond all love in women, whomsoever i have known. yet to be loved makes not to love again; not at my years, however it hold in youth. i swear by truth and knighthood that i gave no cause, not willingly, for such a love: to this i call my friends in testimony, her brethren, and her father, who himself besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, to break her passion, some discourtesy against my nature: what i could, i did. i left her and i bad her no farewell; though, had i dreamt the damsel would have died, i might have put my wits to some rough use, and helped her from herself.' then said the queen (sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) 'ye might at least have done her so much grace, fair lord, as would have helped her from her death.' he raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, he adding, 'queen, she would not be content save that i wedded her, which could not be. then might she follow me through the world, she asked; it could not be. i told her that her love was but the flash of youth, would darken down to rise hereafter in a stiller flame toward one more worthy of her--then would i, more specially were he, she wedded, poor, estate them with large land and territory in mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, to keep them in all joyance: more than this i could not; this she would not, and she died.' he pausing, arthur answered, 'o my knight, it will be to thy worship, as my knight, and mine, as head of all our table round, to see that she be buried worshipfully.' so toward that shrine which then in all the realm was richest, arthur leading, slowly went the marshalled order of their table round, and lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see the maiden buried, not as one unknown, nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, and mass, and rolling music, like a queen. and when the knights had laid her comely head low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, then arthur spake among them, 'let her tomb be costly, and her image thereupon, and let the shield of lancelot at her feet be carven, and her lily in her hand. and let the story of her dolorous voyage for all true hearts be blazoned on her tomb in letters gold and azure!' which was wrought thereafter; but when now the lords and dames and people, from the high door streaming, brake disorderly, as homeward each, the queen, who marked sir lancelot where he moved apart, drew near, and sighed in passing, 'lancelot, forgive me; mine was jealousy in love.' he answered with his eyes upon the ground, 'that is love's curse; pass on, my queen, forgiven.' but arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, approached him, and with full affection said, 'lancelot, my lancelot, thou in whom i have most joy and most affiance, for i know what thou hast been in battle by my side, and many a time have watched thee at the tilt strike down the lusty and long practised knight, and let the younger and unskilled go by to win his honour and to make his name, and loved thy courtesies and thee, a man made to be loved; but now i would to god, seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes, thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems, by god for thee alone, and from her face, if one may judge the living by the dead, delicately pure and marvellously fair, who might have brought thee, now a lonely man wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons born to the glory of thine name and fame, my knight, the great sir lancelot of the lake.' then answered lancelot, 'fair she was, my king, pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. to doubt her fairness were to want an eye, to doubt her pureness were to want a heart-- yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love could bind him, but free love will not be bound.' 'free love, so bound, were freest,' said the king. 'let love be free; free love is for the best: and, after heaven, on our dull side of death, what should be best, if not so pure a love clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee she failed to bind, though being, as i think, unbound as yet, and gentle, as i know.' and lancelot answered nothing, but he went, and at the inrunning of a little brook sat by the river in a cove, and watched the high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes and saw the barge that brought her moving down, far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said low in himself, 'ah simple heart and sweet, ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love far tenderer than my queen's. pray for thy soul? ay, that will i. farewell too--now at last-- farewell, fair lily. "jealousy in love?" not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride? queen, if i grant the jealousy as of love, may not your crescent fear for name and fame speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? why did the king dwell on my name to me? mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, lancelot, whom the lady of the lake caught from his mother's arms--the wondrous one who passes through the vision of the night-- she chanted snatches of mysterious hymns heard on the winding waters, eve and morn she kissed me saying, "thou art fair, my child, as a king's son," and often in her arms she bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. would she had drowned me in it, where'er it be! for what am i? what profits me my name of greatest knight? i fought for it, and have it: pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain; now grown a part of me: but what use in it? to make men worse by making my sin known? or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? alas for arthur's greatest knight, a man not after arthur's heart! i needs must break these bonds that so defame me: not without she wills it: would i, if she willed it? nay, who knows? but if i would not, then may god, i pray him, send a sudden angel down to seize me by the hair and bear me far, and fling me deep in that forgotten mere, among the tumbled fragments of the hills.' so groaned sir lancelot in remorseful pain, not knowing he should die a holy man. the holy grail from noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done in tournament or tilt, sir percivale, whom arthur and his knighthood called the pure, had passed into the silent life of prayer, praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl the helmet in an abbey far away from camelot, there, and not long after, died. and one, a fellow-monk among the rest, ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest, and honoured him, and wrought into his heart a way by love that wakened love within, to answer that which came: and as they sat beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half the cloisters, on a gustful april morn that puffed the swaying branches into smoke above them, ere the summer when he died the monk ambrosius questioned percivale: 'o brother, i have seen this yew-tree smoke, spring after spring, for half a hundred years: for never have i known the world without, nor ever strayed beyond the pale: but thee, when first thou camest--such a courtesy spake through the limbs and in the voice--i knew for one of those who eat in arthur's hall; for good ye are and bad, and like to coins, some true, some light, but every one of you stamped with the image of the king; and now tell me, what drove thee from the table round, my brother? was it earthly passion crost?' 'nay,' said the knight; 'for no such passion mine. but the sweet vision of the holy grail drove me from all vainglories, rivalries, and earthly heats that spring and sparkle out among us in the jousts, while women watch who wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual strength within us, better offered up to heaven.' to whom the monk: 'the holy grail!--i trust we are green in heaven's eyes; but here too much we moulder--as to things without i mean-- yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours, told us of this in our refectory, but spake with such a sadness and so low we heard not half of what he said. what is it? the phantom of a cup that comes and goes?' 'nay, monk! what phantom?' answered percivale. 'the cup, the cup itself, from which our lord drank at the last sad supper with his own. this, from the blessed land of aromat-- after the day of darkness, when the dead went wandering o'er moriah--the good saint arimathaean joseph, journeying brought to glastonbury, where the winter thorn blossoms at christmas, mindful of our lord. and there awhile it bode; and if a man could touch or see it, he was healed at once, by faith, of all his ills. but then the times grew to such evil that the holy cup was caught away to heaven, and disappeared.' to whom the monk: 'from our old books i know that joseph came of old to glastonbury, and there the heathen prince, arviragus, gave him an isle of marsh whereon to build; and there he built with wattles from the marsh a little lonely church in days of yore, for so they say, these books of ours, but seem mute of this miracle, far as i have read. but who first saw the holy thing today?' 'a woman,' answered percivale, 'a nun, and one no further off in blood from me than sister; and if ever holy maid with knees of adoration wore the stone, a holy maid; though never maiden glowed, but that was in her earlier maidenhood, with such a fervent flame of human love, which being rudely blunted, glanced and shot only to holy things; to prayer and praise she gave herself, to fast and alms. and yet, nun as she was, the scandal of the court, sin against arthur and the table round, and the strange sound of an adulterous race, across the iron grating of her cell beat, and she prayed and fasted all the more. 'and he to whom she told her sins, or what her all but utter whiteness held for sin, a man wellnigh a hundred winters old, spake often with her of the holy grail, a legend handed down through five or six, and each of these a hundred winters old, from our lord's time. and when king arthur made his table round, and all men's hearts became clean for a season, surely he had thought that now the holy grail would come again; but sin broke out. ah, christ, that it would come, and heal the world of all their wickedness! "o father!" asked the maiden, "might it come to me by prayer and fasting?" "nay," said he, "i know not, for thy heart is pure as snow." and so she prayed and fasted, till the sun shone, and the wind blew, through her, and i thought she might have risen and floated when i saw her. 'for on a day she sent to speak with me. and when she came to speak, behold her eyes beyond my knowing of them, beautiful, beyond all knowing of them, wonderful, beautiful in the light of holiness. and "o my brother percivale," she said, "sweet brother, i have seen the holy grail: for, waked at dead of night, i heard a sound as of a silver horn from o'er the hills blown, and i thought, 'it is not arthur's use to hunt by moonlight;' and the slender sound as from a distance beyond distance grew coming upon me--o never harp nor horn, nor aught we blow with breath, or touch with hand, was like that music as it came; and then streamed through my cell a cold and silver beam, and down the long beam stole the holy grail, rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, till all the white walls of my cell were dyed with rosy colours leaping on the wall; and then the music faded, and the grail past, and the beam decayed, and from the walls the rosy quiverings died into the night. so now the holy thing is here again among us, brother, fast thou too and pray, and tell thy brother knights to fast and pray, that so perchance the vision may be seen by thee and those, and all the world be healed." 'then leaving the pale nun, i spake of this to all men; and myself fasted and prayed always, and many among us many a week fasted and prayed even to the uttermost, expectant of the wonder that would be. 'and one there was among us, ever moved among us in white armour, galahad. "god make thee good as thou art beautiful," said arthur, when he dubbed him knight; and none, in so young youth, was ever made a knight till galahad; and this galahad, when he heard my sister's vision, filled me with amaze; his eyes became so like her own, they seemed hers, and himself her brother more than i. 'sister or brother none had he; but some called him a son of lancelot, and some said begotten by enchantment--chatterers they, like birds of passage piping up and down, that gape for flies--we know not whence they come; for when was lancelot wanderingly lewd? 'but she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair which made a silken mat-work for her feet; and out of this she plaited broad and long a strong sword-belt, and wove with silver thread and crimson in the belt a strange device, a crimson grail within a silver beam; and saw the bright boy-knight, and bound it on him, saying, "my knight, my love, my knight of heaven, o thou, my love, whose love is one with mine, i, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my belt. go forth, for thou shalt see what i have seen, and break through all, till one will crown thee king far in the spiritual city:" and as she spake she sent the deathless passion in her eyes through him, and made him hers, and laid her mind on him, and he believed in her belief. 'then came a year of miracle: o brother, in our great hall there stood a vacant chair, fashioned by merlin ere he past away, and carven with strange figures; and in and out the figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll of letters in a tongue no man could read. and merlin called it "the siege perilous," perilous for good and ill; "for there," he said, "no man could sit but he should lose himself:" and once by misadvertence merlin sat in his own chair, and so was lost; but he, galahad, when he heard of merlin's doom, cried, "if i lose myself, i save myself!" 'then on a summer night it came to pass, while the great banquet lay along the hall, that galahad would sit down in merlin's chair. 'and all at once, as there we sat, we heard a cracking and a riving of the roofs, and rending, and a blast, and overhead thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. and in the blast there smote along the hall a beam of light seven times more clear than day: and down the long beam stole the holy grail all over covered with a luminous cloud. and none might see who bare it, and it past. but every knight beheld his fellow's face as in a glory, and all the knights arose, and staring each at other like dumb men stood, till i found a voice and sware a vow. 'i sware a vow before them all, that i, because i had not seen the grail, would ride a twelvemonth and a day in quest of it, until i found and saw it, as the nun my sister saw it; and galahad sware the vow, and good sir bors, our lancelot's cousin, sware, and lancelot sware, and many among the knights, and gawain sware, and louder than the rest.' then spake the monk ambrosius, asking him, 'what said the king? did arthur take the vow?' 'nay, for my lord,' said percivale, 'the king, was not in hall: for early that same day, scaped through a cavern from a bandit hold, an outraged maiden sprang into the hall crying on help: for all her shining hair was smeared with earth, and either milky arm red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all she wore torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn in tempest: so the king arose and went to smoke the scandalous hive of those wild bees that made such honey in his realm. howbeit some little of this marvel he too saw, returning o'er the plain that then began to darken under camelot; whence the king looked up, calling aloud, "lo, there! the roofs of our great hall are rolled in thunder-smoke! pray heaven, they be not smitten by the bolt." for dear to arthur was that hall of ours, as having there so oft with all his knights feasted, and as the stateliest under heaven. 'o brother, had you known our mighty hall, which merlin built for arthur long ago! for all the sacred mount of camelot, and all the dim rich city, roof by roof, tower after tower, spire beyond spire, by grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing brook, climbs to the mighty hall that merlin built. and four great zones of sculpture, set betwixt with many a mystic symbol, gird the hall: and in the lowest beasts are slaying men, and in the second men are slaying beasts, and on the third are warriors, perfect men, and on the fourth are men with growing wings, and over all one statue in the mould of arthur, made by merlin, with a crown, and peaked wings pointed to the northern star. and eastward fronts the statue, and the crown and both the wings are made of gold, and flame at sunrise till the people in far fields, wasted so often by the heathen hordes, behold it, crying, "we have still a king." 'and, brother, had you known our hall within, broader and higher than any in all the lands! where twelve great windows blazon arthur's wars, and all the light that falls upon the board streams through the twelve great battles of our king. nay, one there is, and at the eastern end, wealthy with wandering lines of mount and mere, where arthur finds the brand excalibur. and also one to the west, and counter to it, and blank: and who shall blazon it? when and how?-- o there, perchance, when all our wars are done, the brand excalibur will be cast away. 'so to this hall full quickly rode the king, in horror lest the work by merlin wrought, dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, wrapt in unremorseful folds of rolling fire. and in he rode, and up i glanced, and saw the golden dragon sparkling over all: and many of those who burnt the hold, their arms hacked, and their foreheads grimed with smoke, and seared, followed, and in among bright faces, ours, full of the vision, prest: and then the king spake to me, being nearest, "percivale," (because the hall was all in tumult--some vowing, and some protesting), "what is this?" 'o brother, when i told him what had chanced, my sister's vision, and the rest, his face darkened, as i have seen it more than once, when some brave deed seemed to be done in vain, darken; and "woe is me, my knights," he cried, "had i been here, ye had not sworn the vow." bold was mine answer, "had thyself been here, my king, thou wouldst have sworn." "yea, yea," said he, "art thou so bold and hast not seen the grail?" '"nay, lord, i heard the sound, i saw the light, but since i did not see the holy thing, i sware a vow to follow it till i saw." 'then when he asked us, knight by knight, if any had seen it, all their answers were as one: "nay, lord, and therefore have we sworn our vows." '"lo now," said arthur, "have ye seen a cloud? what go ye into the wilderness to see?" 'then galahad on the sudden, and in a voice shrilling along the hall to arthur, called, "but i, sir arthur, saw the holy grail, i saw the holy grail and heard a cry-- 'o galahad, and o galahad, follow me.'" '"ah, galahad, galahad," said the king, "for such as thou art is the vision, not for these. thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign-- holier is none, my percivale, than she-- a sign to maim this order which i made. but ye, that follow but the leader's bell" (brother, the king was hard upon his knights) "taliessin is our fullest throat of song, and one hath sung and all the dumb will sing. lancelot is lancelot, and hath overborne five knights at once, and every younger knight, unproven, holds himself as lancelot, till overborne by one, he learns--and ye, what are ye? galahads?--no, nor percivales" (for thus it pleased the king to range me close after sir galahad); "nay," said he, "but men with strength and will to right the wronged, of power to lay the sudden heads of violence flat, knights that in twelve great battles splashed and dyed the strong white horse in his own heathen blood-- but one hath seen, and all the blind will see. go, since your vows are sacred, being made: yet--for ye know the cries of all my realm pass through this hall--how often, o my knights, your places being vacant at my side, this chance of noble deeds will come and go unchallenged, while ye follow wandering fires lost in the quagmire! many of you, yea most, return no more: ye think i show myself too dark a prophet: come now, let us meet the morrow morn once more in one full field of gracious pastime, that once more the king, before ye leave him for this quest, may count the yet-unbroken strength of all his knights, rejoicing in that order which he made." 'so when the sun broke next from under ground, all the great table of our arthur closed and clashed in such a tourney and so full, so many lances broken--never yet had camelot seen the like, since arthur came; and i myself and galahad, for a strength was in us from this vision, overthrew so many knights that all the people cried, and almost burst the barriers in their heat, shouting, "sir galahad and sir percivale!" 'but when the next day brake from under ground-- o brother, had you known our camelot, built by old kings, age after age, so old the king himself had fears that it would fall, so strange, and rich, and dim; for where the roofs tottered toward each other in the sky, met foreheads all along the street of those who watched us pass; and lower, and where the long rich galleries, lady-laden, weighed the necks of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, thicker than drops from thunder, showers of flowers fell as we past; and men and boys astride on wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan, at all the corners, named us each by name, calling, "god speed!" but in the ways below the knights and ladies wept, and rich and poor wept, and the king himself could hardly speak for grief, and all in middle street the queen, who rode by lancelot, wailed and shrieked aloud, "this madness has come on us for our sins." so to the gate of the three queens we came, where arthur's wars are rendered mystically, and thence departed every one his way. 'and i was lifted up in heart, and thought of all my late-shown prowess in the lists, how my strong lance had beaten down the knights, so many and famous names; and never yet had heaven appeared so blue, nor earth so green, for all my blood danced in me, and i knew that i should light upon the holy grail. 'thereafter, the dark warning of our king, that most of us would follow wandering fires, came like a driving gloom across my mind. then every evil word i had spoken once, and every evil thought i had thought of old, and every evil deed i ever did, awoke and cried, "this quest is not for thee." and lifting up mine eyes, i found myself alone, and in a land of sand and thorns, and i was thirsty even unto death; and i, too, cried, "this quest is not for thee." 'and on i rode, and when i thought my thirst would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a brook, with one sharp rapid, where the crisping white played ever back upon the sloping wave, and took both ear and eye; and o'er the brook were apple-trees, and apples by the brook fallen, and on the lawns. "i will rest here," i said, "i am not worthy of the quest;" but even while i drank the brook, and ate the goodly apples, all these things at once fell into dust, and i was left alone, and thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. 'and then behold a woman at a door spinning; and fair the house whereby she sat, and kind the woman's eyes and innocent, and all her bearing gracious; and she rose opening her arms to meet me, as who should say, "rest here;" but when i touched her, lo! she, too, fell into dust and nothing, and the house became no better than a broken shed, and in it a dead babe; and also this fell into dust, and i was left alone. 'and on i rode, and greater was my thirst. then flashed a yellow gleam across the world, and where it smote the plowshare in the field, the plowman left his plowing, and fell down before it; where it glittered on her pail, the milkmaid left her milking, and fell down before it, and i knew not why, but thought "the sun is rising," though the sun had risen. then was i ware of one that on me moved in golden armour with a crown of gold about a casque all jewels; and his horse in golden armour jewelled everywhere: and on the splendour came, flashing me blind; and seemed to me the lord of all the world, being so huge. but when i thought he meant to crush me, moving on me, lo! he, too, opened his arms to embrace me as he came, and up i went and touched him, and he, too, fell into dust, and i was left alone and wearying in a land of sand and thorns. 'and i rode on and found a mighty hill, and on the top, a city walled: the spires pricked with incredible pinnacles into heaven. and by the gateway stirred a crowd; and these cried to me climbing, "welcome, percivale! thou mightiest and thou purest among men!" and glad was i and clomb, but found at top no man, nor any voice. and thence i past far through a ruinous city, and i saw that man had once dwelt there; but there i found only one man of an exceeding age. "where is that goodly company," said i, "that so cried out upon me?" and he had scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasped, "whence and what art thou?" and even as he spoke fell into dust, and disappeared, and i was left alone once more, and cried in grief, "lo, if i find the holy grail itself and touch it, it will crumble into dust." 'and thence i dropt into a lowly vale, low as the hill was high, and where the vale was lowest, found a chapel, and thereby a holy hermit in a hermitage, to whom i told my phantoms, and he said: '"o son, thou hast not true humility, the highest virtue, mother of them all; for when the lord of all things made himself naked of glory for his mortal change, 'take thou my robe,' she said, 'for all is thine,' and all her form shone forth with sudden light so that the angels were amazed, and she followed him down, and like a flying star led on the gray-haired wisdom of the east; but her thou hast not known: for what is this thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins? thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself as galahad." when the hermit made an end, in silver armour suddenly galahad shone before us, and against the chapel door laid lance, and entered, and we knelt in prayer. and there the hermit slaked my burning thirst, and at the sacring of the mass i saw the holy elements alone; but he, "saw ye no more? i, galahad, saw the grail, the holy grail, descend upon the shrine: i saw the fiery face as of a child that smote itself into the bread, and went; and hither am i come; and never yet hath what thy sister taught me first to see, this holy thing, failed from my side, nor come covered, but moving with me night and day, fainter by day, but always in the night blood-red, and sliding down the blackened marsh blood-red, and on the naked mountain top blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below blood-red. and in the strength of this i rode, shattering all evil customs everywhere, and past through pagan realms, and made them mine, and clashed with pagan hordes, and bore them down, and broke through all, and in the strength of this come victor. but my time is hard at hand, and hence i go; and one will crown me king far in the spiritual city; and come thou, too, for thou shalt see the vision when i go." 'while thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine, drew me, with power upon me, till i grew one with him, to believe as he believed. then, when the day began to wane, we went. 'there rose a hill that none but man could climb, scarred with a hundred wintry water-courses-- storm at the top, and when we gained it, storm round us and death; for every moment glanced his silver arms and gloomed: so quick and thick the lightnings here and there to left and right struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead, yea, rotten with a hundred years of death, sprang into fire: and at the base we found on either hand, as far as eye could see, a great black swamp and of an evil smell, part black, part whitened with the bones of men, not to be crost, save that some ancient king had built a way, where, linked with many a bridge, a thousand piers ran into the great sea. and galahad fled along them bridge by bridge, and every bridge as quickly as he crost sprang into fire and vanished, though i yearned to follow; and thrice above him all the heavens opened and blazed with thunder such as seemed shoutings of all the sons of god: and first at once i saw him far on the great sea, in silver-shining armour starry-clear; and o'er his head the holy vessel hung clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. and with exceeding swiftness ran the boat, if boat it were--i saw not whence it came. and when the heavens opened and blazed again roaring, i saw him like a silver star-- and had he set the sail, or had the boat become a living creature clad with wings? and o'er his head the holy vessel hung redder than any rose, a joy to me, for now i knew the veil had been withdrawn. then in a moment when they blazed again opening, i saw the least of little stars down on the waste, and straight beyond the star i saw the spiritual city and all her spires and gateways in a glory like one pearl-- no larger, though the goal of all the saints-- strike from the sea; and from the star there shot a rose-red sparkle to the city, and there dwelt, and i knew it was the holy grail, which never eyes on earth again shall see. then fell the floods of heaven drowning the deep. and how my feet recrost the deathful ridge no memory in me lives; but that i touched the chapel-doors at dawn i know; and thence taking my war-horse from the holy man, glad that no phantom vext me more, returned to whence i came, the gate of arthur's wars.' 'o brother,' asked ambrosius,--'for in sooth these ancient books--and they would win thee--teem, only i find not there this holy grail, with miracles and marvels like to these, not all unlike; which oftentime i read, who read but on my breviary with ease, till my head swims; and then go forth and pass down to the little thorpe that lies so close, and almost plastered like a martin's nest to these old walls--and mingle with our folk; and knowing every honest face of theirs as well as ever shepherd knew his sheep, and every homely secret in their hearts, delight myself with gossip and old wives, and ills and aches, and teethings, lyings-in, and mirthful sayings, children of the place, that have no meaning half a league away: or lulling random squabbles when they rise, chafferings and chatterings at the market-cross, rejoice, small man, in this small world of mine, yea, even in their hens and in their eggs-- o brother, saving this sir galahad, came ye on none but phantoms in your quest, no man, no woman?' then sir percivale: 'all men, to one so bound by such a vow, and women were as phantoms. o, my brother, why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee how far i faltered from my quest and vow? for after i had lain so many nights a bedmate of the snail and eft and snake, in grass and burdock, i was changed to wan and meagre, and the vision had not come; and then i chanced upon a goodly town with one great dwelling in the middle of it; thither i made, and there was i disarmed by maidens each as fair as any flower: but when they led me into hall, behold, the princess of that castle was the one, brother, and that one only, who had ever made my heart leap; for when i moved of old a slender page about her father's hall, and she a slender maiden, all my heart went after her with longing: yet we twain had never kissed a kiss, or vowed a vow. and now i came upon her once again, and one had wedded her, and he was dead, and all his land and wealth and state were hers. and while i tarried, every day she set a banquet richer than the day before by me; for all her longing and her will was toward me as of old; till one fair morn, i walking to and fro beside a stream that flashed across her orchard underneath her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk, and calling me the greatest of all knights, embraced me, and so kissed me the first time, and gave herself and all her wealth to me. then i remembered arthur's warning word, that most of us would follow wandering fires, and the quest faded in my heart. anon, the heads of all her people drew to me, with supplication both of knees and tongue: "we have heard of thee: thou art our greatest knight, our lady says it, and we well believe: wed thou our lady, and rule over us, and thou shalt be as arthur in our land." o me, my brother! but one night my vow burnt me within, so that i rose and fled, but wailed and wept, and hated mine own self, and even the holy quest, and all but her; then after i was joined with galahad cared not for her, nor anything upon earth.' then said the monk, 'poor men, when yule is cold, must be content to sit by little fires. and this am i, so that ye care for me ever so little; yea, and blest be heaven that brought thee here to this poor house of ours where all the brethren are so hard, to warm my cold heart with a friend: but o the pity to find thine own first love once more--to hold, hold her a wealthy bride within thine arms, or all but hold, and then--cast her aside, foregoing all her sweetness, like a weed. for we that want the warmth of double life, we that are plagued with dreams of something sweet beyond all sweetness in a life so rich,-- ah, blessed lord, i speak too earthlywise, seeing i never strayed beyond the cell, but live like an old badger in his earth, with earth about him everywhere, despite all fast and penance. saw ye none beside, none of your knights?' 'yea so,' said percivale: 'one night my pathway swerving east, i saw the pelican on the casque of our sir bors all in the middle of the rising moon: and toward him spurred, and hailed him, and he me, and each made joy of either; then he asked, "where is he? hast thou seen him--lancelot?--once," said good sir bors, "he dashed across me--mad, and maddening what he rode: and when i cried, 'ridest thou then so hotly on a quest so holy,' lancelot shouted, 'stay me not! i have been the sluggard, and i ride apace, for now there is a lion in the way.' so vanished." 'then sir bors had ridden on softly, and sorrowing for our lancelot, because his former madness, once the talk and scandal of our table, had returned; for lancelot's kith and kin so worship him that ill to him is ill to them; to bors beyond the rest: he well had been content not to have seen, so lancelot might have seen, the holy cup of healing; and, indeed, being so clouded with his grief and love, small heart was his after the holy quest: if god would send the vision, well: if not, the quest and he were in the hands of heaven. 'and then, with small adventure met, sir bors rode to the lonest tract of all the realm, and found a people there among their crags, our race and blood, a remnant that were left paynim amid their circles, and the stones they pitch up straight to heaven: and their wise men were strong in that old magic which can trace the wandering of the stars, and scoffed at him and this high quest as at a simple thing: told him he followed--almost arthur's words-- a mocking fire: "what other fire than he, whereby the blood beats, and the blossom blows, and the sea rolls, and all the world is warmed?" and when his answer chafed them, the rough crowd, hearing he had a difference with their priests, seized him, and bound and plunged him into a cell of great piled stones; and lying bounden there in darkness through innumerable hours he heard the hollow-ringing heavens sweep over him till by miracle--what else?-- heavy as it was, a great stone slipt and fell, such as no wind could move: and through the gap glimmered the streaming scud: then came a night still as the day was loud; and through the gap the seven clear stars of arthur's table round-- for, brother, so one night, because they roll through such a round in heaven, we named the stars, rejoicing in ourselves and in our king-- and these, like bright eyes of familiar friends, in on him shone: "and then to me, to me," said good sir bors, "beyond all hopes of mine, who scarce had prayed or asked it for myself-- across the seven clear stars--o grace to me-- in colour like the fingers of a hand before a burning taper, the sweet grail glided and past, and close upon it pealed a sharp quick thunder." afterwards, a maid, who kept our holy faith among her kin in secret, entering, loosed and let him go.' to whom the monk: 'and i remember now that pelican on the casque: sir bors it was who spake so low and sadly at our board; and mighty reverent at our grace was he: a square-set man and honest; and his eyes, an out-door sign of all the warmth within, smiled with his lips--a smile beneath a cloud, but heaven had meant it for a sunny one: ay, ay, sir bors, who else? but when ye reached the city, found ye all your knights returned, or was there sooth in arthur's prophecy, tell me, and what said each, and what the king?' then answered percivale: 'and that can i, brother, and truly; since the living words of so great men as lancelot and our king pass not from door to door and out again, but sit within the house. o, when we reached the city, our horses stumbling as they trode on heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, cracked basilisks, and splintered cockatrices, and shattered talbots, which had left the stones raw, that they fell from, brought us to the hall. 'and there sat arthur on the dais-throne, and those that had gone out upon the quest, wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them, and those that had not, stood before the king, who, when he saw me, rose, and bad me hail, saying, "a welfare in thine eye reproves our fear of some disastrous chance for thee on hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. so fierce a gale made havoc here of late among the strange devices of our kings; yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of ours, and from the statue merlin moulded for us half-wrenched a golden wing; but now--the quest, this vision--hast thou seen the holy cup, that joseph brought of old to glastonbury?" 'so when i told him all thyself hast heard, ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt resolve to pass away into the quiet life, he answered not, but, sharply turning, asked of gawain, "gawain, was this quest for thee?" '"nay, lord," said gawain, "not for such as i. therefore i communed with a saintly man, who made me sure the quest was not for me; for i was much awearied of the quest: but found a silk pavilion in a field, and merry maidens in it; and then this gale tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin, and blew my merry maidens all about with all discomfort; yea, and but for this, my twelvemonth and a day were pleasant to me." 'he ceased; and arthur turned to whom at first he saw not, for sir bors, on entering, pushed athwart the throng to lancelot, caught his hand, held it, and there, half-hidden by him, stood, until the king espied him, saying to him, "hail, bors! if ever loyal man and true could see it, thou hast seen the grail;" and bors, "ask me not, for i may not speak of it: i saw it;" and the tears were in his eyes. 'then there remained but lancelot, for the rest spake but of sundry perils in the storm; perhaps, like him of cana in holy writ, our arthur kept his best until the last; "thou, too, my lancelot," asked the king, "my friend, our mightiest, hath this quest availed for thee?" '"our mightiest!" answered lancelot, with a groan; "o king!"--and when he paused, methought i spied a dying fire of madness in his eyes-- "o king, my friend, if friend of thine i be, happier are those that welter in their sin, swine in the mud, that cannot see for slime, slime of the ditch: but in me lived a sin so strange, of such a kind, that all of pure, noble, and knightly in me twined and clung round that one sin, until the wholesome flower and poisonous grew together, each as each, not to be plucked asunder; and when thy knights sware, i sware with them only in the hope that could i touch or see the holy grail they might be plucked asunder. then i spake to one most holy saint, who wept and said, that save they could be plucked asunder, all my quest were but in vain; to whom i vowed that i would work according as he willed. and forth i went, and while i yearned and strove to tear the twain asunder in my heart, my madness came upon me as of old, and whipt me into waste fields far away; there was i beaten down by little men, mean knights, to whom the moving of my sword and shadow of my spear had been enow to scare them from me once; and then i came all in my folly to the naked shore, wide flats, where nothing but coarse grasses grew; but such a blast, my king, began to blow, so loud a blast along the shore and sea, ye could not hear the waters for the blast, though heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea drove like a cataract, and all the sand swept like a river, and the clouded heavens were shaken with the motion and the sound. and blackening in the sea-foam swayed a boat, half-swallowed in it, anchored with a chain; and in my madness to myself i said, 'i will embark and i will lose myself, and in the great sea wash away my sin.' i burst the chain, i sprang into the boat. seven days i drove along the dreary deep, and with me drove the moon and all the stars; and the wind fell, and on the seventh night i heard the shingle grinding in the surge, and felt the boat shock earth, and looking up, behold, the enchanted towers of carbonek, a castle like a rock upon a rock, with chasm-like portals open to the sea, and steps that met the breaker! there was none stood near it but a lion on each side that kept the entry, and the moon was full. then from the boat i leapt, and up the stairs. there drew my sword. with sudden-flaring manes those two great beasts rose upright like a man, each gript a shoulder, and i stood between; and, when i would have smitten them, heard a voice, 'doubt not, go forward; if thou doubt, the beasts will tear thee piecemeal.' then with violence the sword was dashed from out my hand, and fell. and up into the sounding hall i past; but nothing in the sounding hall i saw, no bench nor table, painting on the wall or shield of knight; only the rounded moon through the tall oriel on the rolling sea. but always in the quiet house i heard, clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, a sweet voice singing in the topmost tower to the eastward: up i climbed a thousand steps with pain: as in a dream i seemed to climb for ever: at the last i reached a door, a light was in the crannies, and i heard, 'glory and joy and honour to our lord and to the holy vessel of the grail.' then in my madness i essayed the door; it gave; and through a stormy glare, a heat as from a seventimes-heated furnace, i, blasted and burnt, and blinded as i was, with such a fierceness that i swooned away-- o, yet methought i saw the holy grail, all palled in crimson samite, and around great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes. and but for all my madness and my sin, and then my swooning, i had sworn i saw that which i saw; but what i saw was veiled and covered; and this quest was not for me." 'so speaking, and here ceasing, lancelot left the hall long silent, till sir gawain--nay, brother, i need not tell thee foolish words,-- a reckless and irreverent knight was he, now boldened by the silence of his king,-- well, i will tell thee: "o king, my liege," he said, "hath gawain failed in any quest of thine? when have i stinted stroke in foughten field? but as for thine, my good friend percivale, thy holy nun and thou have driven men mad, yea, made our mightiest madder than our least. but by mine eyes and by mine ears i swear, i will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, and thrice as blind as any noonday owl, to holy virgins in their ecstasies, henceforward." '"deafer," said the blameless king, "gawain, and blinder unto holy things hope not to make thyself by idle vows, being too blind to have desire to see. but if indeed there came a sign from heaven, blessed are bors, lancelot and percivale, for these have seen according to their sight. for every fiery prophet in old times, and all the sacred madness of the bard, when god made music through them, could but speak his music by the framework and the chord; and as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. '"nay--but thou errest, lancelot: never yet could all of true and noble in knight and man twine round one sin, whatever it might be, with such a closeness, but apart there grew, save that he were the swine thou spakest of, some root of knighthood and pure nobleness; whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower. '"and spake i not too truly, o my knights? was i too dark a prophet when i said to those who went upon the holy quest, that most of them would follow wandering fires, lost in the quagmire?--lost to me and gone, and left me gazing at a barren board, and a lean order--scarce returned a tithe-- and out of those to whom the vision came my greatest hardly will believe he saw; another hath beheld it afar off, and leaving human wrongs to right themselves, cares but to pass into the silent life. and one hath had the vision face to face, and now his chair desires him here in vain, however they may crown him otherwhere. '"and some among you held, that if the king had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow: not easily, seeing that the king must guard that which he rules, and is but as the hind to whom a space of land is given to plow. who may not wander from the allotted field before his work be done; but, being done, let visions of the night or of the day come, as they will; and many a time they come, until this earth he walks on seems not earth, this light that strikes his eyeball is not light, this air that smites his forehead is not air but vision--yea, his very hand and foot-- in moments when he feels he cannot die, and knows himself no vision to himself, nor the high god a vision, nor that one who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen." 'so spake the king: i knew not all he meant.' pelleas and ettarre king arthur made new knights to fill the gap left by the holy quest; and as he sat in hall at old caerleon, the high doors were softly sundered, and through these a youth, pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields past, and the sunshine came along with him. 'make me thy knight, because i know, sir king, all that belongs to knighthood, and i love.' such was his cry: for having heard the king had let proclaim a tournament--the prize a golden circlet and a knightly sword, full fain had pelleas for his lady won the golden circlet, for himself the sword: and there were those who knew him near the king, and promised for him: and arthur made him knight. and this new knight, sir pelleas of the isles-- but lately come to his inheritance, and lord of many a barren isle was he-- riding at noon, a day or twain before, across the forest called of dean, to find caerleon and the king, had felt the sun beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reeled almost to falling from his horse; but saw near him a mound of even-sloping side, whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, and here and there great hollies under them; but for a mile all round was open space, and fern and heath: and slowly pelleas drew to that dim day, then binding his good horse to a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay at random looking over the brown earth through that green-glooming twilight of the grove, it seemed to pelleas that the fern without burnt as a living fire of emeralds, so that his eyes were dazzled looking at it. then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud floating, and once the shadow of a bird flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes closed. and since he loved all maidens, but no maid in special, half-awake he whispered, 'where? o where? i love thee, though i know thee not. for fair thou art and pure as guinevere, and i will make thee with my spear and sword as famous--o my queen, my guinevere, for i will be thine arthur when we meet.' suddenly wakened with a sound of talk and laughter at the limit of the wood, and glancing through the hoary boles, he saw, strange as to some old prophet might have seemed a vision hovering on a sea of fire, damsels in divers colours like the cloud of sunset and sunrise, and all of them on horses, and the horses richly trapt breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood: and all the damsels talked confusedly, and one was pointing this way, and one that, because the way was lost. and pelleas rose, and loosed his horse, and led him to the light. there she that seemed the chief among them said, 'in happy time behold our pilot-star! youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride, armed as ye see, to tilt against the knights there at caerleon, but have lost our way: to right? to left? straight forward? back again? which? tell us quickly.' pelleas gazing thought, 'is guinevere herself so beautiful?' for large her violet eyes looked, and her bloom a rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens, and round her limbs, mature in womanhood; and slender was her hand and small her shape; and but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn, she might have seemed a toy to trifle with, and pass and care no more. but while he gazed the beauty of her flesh abashed the boy, as though it were the beauty of her soul: for as the base man, judging of the good, puts his own baseness in him by default of will and nature, so did pelleas lend all the young beauty of his own soul to hers, believing her; and when she spake to him, stammered, and could not make her a reply. for out of the waste islands had he come, where saving his own sisters he had known scarce any but the women of his isles, rough wives, that laughed and screamed against the gulls, makers of nets, and living from the sea. then with a slow smile turned the lady round and looked upon her people; and as when a stone is flung into some sleeping tarn, the circle widens till it lip the marge, spread the slow smile through all her company. three knights were thereamong; and they too smiled, scorning him; for the lady was ettarre, and she was a great lady in her land. again she said, 'o wild and of the woods, knowest thou not the fashion of our speech? or have the heavens but given thee a fair face, lacking a tongue?' 'o damsel,' answered he, 'i woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave pardon: but will ye to caerleon? i go likewise: shall i lead you to the king?' 'lead then,' she said; and through the woods they went. and while they rode, the meaning in his eyes, his tenderness of manner, and chaste awe, his broken utterances and bashfulness, were all a burthen to her, and in her heart she muttered, 'i have lighted on a fool, raw, yet so stale!' but since her mind was bent on hearing, after trumpet blown, her name and title, 'queen of beauty,' in the lists cried--and beholding him so strong, she thought that peradventure he will fight for me, and win the circlet: therefore flattered him, being so gracious, that he wellnigh deemed his wish by hers was echoed; and her knights and all her damsels too were gracious to him, for she was a great lady. and when they reached caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she, taking his hand, 'o the strong hand,' she said, 'see! look at mine! but wilt thou fight for me, and win me this fine circlet, pelleas, that i may love thee?' then his helpless heart leapt, and he cried, 'ay! wilt thou if i win?' 'ay, that will i,' she answered, and she laughed, and straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her; then glanced askew at those three knights of hers, till all her ladies laughed along with her. 'o happy world,' thought pelleas, 'all, meseems, are happy; i the happiest of them all.' nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood, and green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves; then being on the morrow knighted, sware to love one only. and as he came away, the men who met him rounded on their heels and wondered after him, because his face shone like the countenance of a priest of old against the flame about a sacrifice kindled by fire from heaven: so glad was he. then arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights from the four winds came in: and each one sat, though served with choice from air, land, stream, and sea, oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes his neighbour's make and might: and pelleas looked noble among the noble, for he dreamed his lady loved him, and he knew himself loved of the king: and him his new-made knight worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him more than all the ranged reasons of the world. then blushed and brake the morning of the jousts, and this was called 'the tournament of youth:' for arthur, loving his young knight, withheld his older and his mightier from the lists, that pelleas might obtain his lady's love, according to her promise, and remain lord of the tourney. and arthur had the jousts down in the flat field by the shore of usk holden: the gilded parapets were crowned with faces, and the great tower filled with eyes up to the summit, and the trumpets blew. there all day long sir pelleas kept the field with honour: so by that strong hand of his the sword and golden circlet were achieved. then rang the shout his lady loved: the heat of pride and glory fired her face; her eye sparkled; she caught the circlet from his lance, and there before the people crowned herself: so for the last time she was gracious to him. then at caerleon for a space--her look bright for all others, cloudier on her knight-- lingered ettarre: and seeing pelleas droop, said guinevere, 'we marvel at thee much, o damsel, wearing this unsunny face to him who won thee glory!' and she said, 'had ye not held your lancelot in your bower, my queen, he had not won.' whereat the queen, as one whose foot is bitten by an ant, glanced down upon her, turned and went her way. but after, when her damsels, and herself, and those three knights all set their faces home, sir pelleas followed. she that saw him cried, 'damsels--and yet i should be shamed to say it-- i cannot bide sir baby. keep him back among yourselves. would rather that we had some rough old knight who knew the worldly way, albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride and jest with: take him to you, keep him off, and pamper him with papmeat, if ye will, old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys. nay, should ye try him with a merry one to find his mettle, good: and if he fly us, small matter! let him.' this her damsels heard, and mindful of her small and cruel hand, they, closing round him through the journey home, acted her hest, and always from her side restrained him with all manner of device, so that he could not come to speech with her. and when she gained her castle, upsprang the bridge, down rang the grate of iron through the groove, and he was left alone in open field. 'these be the ways of ladies,' pelleas thought, 'to those who love them, trials of our faith. yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, for loyal to the uttermost am i.' so made his moan; and darkness falling, sought a priory not far off, there lodged, but rose with morning every day, and, moist or dry, full-armed upon his charger all day long sat by the walls, and no one opened to him. and this persistence turned her scorn to wrath. then calling her three knights, she charged them, 'out! and drive him from the walls.' and out they came but pelleas overthrew them as they dashed against him one by one; and these returned, but still he kept his watch beneath the wall. thereon her wrath became a hate; and once, a week beyond, while walking on the walls with her three knights, she pointed downward, 'look, he haunts me--i cannot breathe--besieges me; down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes, and drive him from my walls.' and down they went, and pelleas overthrew them one by one; and from the tower above him cried ettarre, 'bind him, and bring him in.' he heard her voice; then let the strong hand, which had overthrown her minion-knights, by those he overthrew be bounden straight, and so they brought him in. then when he came before ettarre, the sight of her rich beauty made him at one glance more bondsman in his heart than in his bonds. yet with good cheer he spake, 'behold me, lady, a prisoner, and the vassal of thy will; and if thou keep me in thy donjon here, content am i so that i see thy face but once a day: for i have sworn my vows, and thou hast given thy promise, and i know that all these pains are trials of my faith, and that thyself, when thou hast seen me strained and sifted to the utmost, wilt at length yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.' then she began to rail so bitterly, with all her damsels, he was stricken mute; but when she mocked his vows and the great king, lighted on words: 'for pity of thine own self, peace, lady, peace: is he not thine and mine?' 'thou fool,' she said, 'i never heard his voice but longed to break away. unbind him now, and thrust him out of doors; for save he be fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, he will return no more.' and those, her three, laughed, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate. and after this, a week beyond, again she called them, saying, 'there he watches yet, there like a dog before his master's door! kicked, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye? ye know yourselves: how can ye bide at peace, affronted with his fulsome innocence? are ye but creatures of the board and bed, no men to strike? fall on him all at once, and if ye slay him i reck not: if ye fail, give ye the slave mine order to be bound, bind him as heretofore, and bring him in: it may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.' she spake; and at her will they couched their spears, three against one: and gawain passing by, bound upon solitary adventure, saw low down beneath the shadow of those towers a villainy, three to one: and through his heart the fire of honour and all noble deeds flashed, and he called, 'i strike upon thy side-- the caitiffs!' 'nay,' said pelleas, 'but forbear; he needs no aid who doth his lady's will.' so gawain, looking at the villainy done, forbore, but in his heat and eagerness trembled and quivered, as the dog, withheld a moment from the vermin that he sees before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills. and pelleas overthrew them, one to three; and they rose up, and bound, and brought him in. then first her anger, leaving pelleas, burned full on her knights in many an evil name of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound: 'yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch, far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out, and let who will release him from his bonds. and if he comes again'--there she brake short; and pelleas answered, 'lady, for indeed i loved you and i deemed you beautiful, i cannot brook to see your beauty marred through evil spite: and if ye love me not, i cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: i had liefer ye were worthy of my love, than to be loved again of you--farewell; and though ye kill my hope, not yet my love, vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.' while thus he spake, she gazed upon the man of princely bearing, though in bonds, and thought, 'why have i pushed him from me? this man loves, if love there be: yet him i loved not. why? i deemed him fool? yea, so? or that in him a something--was it nobler than myself? seemed my reproach? he is not of my kind. he could not love me, did he know me well. nay, let him go--and quickly.' and her knights laughed not, but thrust him bounden out of door. forth sprang gawain, and loosed him from his bonds, and flung them o'er the walls; and afterward, shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag, 'faith of my body,' he said, 'and art thou not-- yea thou art he, whom late our arthur made knight of his table; yea and he that won the circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed thy brotherhood in me and all the rest, as let these caitiffs on thee work their will?' and pelleas answered, 'o, their wills are hers for whom i won the circlet; and mine, hers, thus to be bounden, so to see her face, marred though it be with spite and mockery now, other than when i found her in the woods; and though she hath me bounden but in spite, and all to flout me, when they bring me in, let me be bounden, i shall see her face; else must i die through mine unhappiness.' and gawain answered kindly though in scorn, 'why, let my lady bind me if she will, and let my lady beat me if she will: but an she send her delegate to thrall these fighting hands of mine--christ kill me then but i will slice him handless by the wrist, and let my lady sear the stump for him, howl as he may. but hold me for your friend: come, ye know nothing: here i pledge my troth, yea, by the honour of the table round, i will be leal to thee and work thy work, and tame thy jailing princess to thine hand. lend me thine horse and arms, and i will say that i have slain thee. she will let me in to hear the manner of thy fight and fall; then, when i come within her counsels, then from prime to vespers will i chant thy praise as prowest knight and truest lover, more than any have sung thee living, till she long to have thee back in lusty life again, not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm, dearer than freedom. wherefore now thy horse and armour: let me go: be comforted: give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope the third night hence will bring thee news of gold.' then pelleas lent his horse and all his arms, saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took gawain's, and said, 'betray me not, but help-- art thou not he whom men call light-of-love?' 'ay,' said gawain, 'for women be so light.' then bounded forward to the castle walls, and raised a bugle hanging from his neck, and winded it, and that so musically that all the old echoes hidden in the wall rang out like hollow woods at hunting-tide. up ran a score of damsels to the tower; 'avaunt,' they cried, 'our lady loves thee not.' but gawain lifting up his vizor said, 'gawain am i, gawain of arthur's court, and i have slain this pelleas whom ye hate: behold his horse and armour. open gates, and i will make you merry.' and down they ran, her damsels, crying to their lady, 'lo! pelleas is dead--he told us--he that hath his horse and armour: will ye let him in? he slew him! gawain, gawain of the court, sir gawain--there he waits below the wall, blowing his bugle as who should say him nay.' and so, leave given, straight on through open door rode gawain, whom she greeted courteously. 'dead, is it so?' she asked. 'ay, ay,' said he, 'and oft in dying cried upon your name.' 'pity on him,' she answered, 'a good knight, but never let me bide one hour at peace.' 'ay,' thought gawain, 'and you be fair enow: but i to your dead man have given my troth, that whom ye loathe, him will i make you love.' so those three days, aimless about the land, lost in a doubt, pelleas wandering waited, until the third night brought a moon with promise of large light on woods and ways. hot was the night and silent; but a sound of gawain ever coming, and this lay-- which pelleas had heard sung before the queen, and seen her sadden listening--vext his heart, and marred his rest--'a worm within the rose.' 'a rose, but one, none other rose had i, a rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair, one rose, a rose that gladdened earth and sky, one rose, my rose, that sweetened all mine air-- i cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there. 'one rose, a rose to gather by and by, one rose, a rose, to gather and to wear, no rose but one--what other rose had i? one rose, my rose; a rose that will not die,-- he dies who loves it,--if the worm be there.' this tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt, 'why lingers gawain with his golden news?' so shook him that he could not rest, but rode ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse hard by the gates. wide open were the gates, and no watch kept; and in through these he past, and heard but his own steps, and his own heart beating, for nothing moved but his own self, and his own shadow. then he crost the court, and spied not any light in hall or bower, but saw the postern portal also wide yawning; and up a slope of garden, all of roses white and red, and brambles mixt and overgrowing them, went on, and found, here too, all hushed below the mellow moon, save that one rivulet from a tiny cave came lightening downward, and so spilt itself among the roses, and was lost again. then was he ware of three pavilions reared above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one, red after revel, droned her lurdane knights slumbering, and their three squires across their feet: in one, their malice on the placid lip frozen by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay: and in the third, the circlet of the jousts bound on her brow, were gawain and ettarre. back, as a hand that pushes through the leaf to find a nest and feels a snake, he drew: back, as a coward slinks from what he fears to cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound beaten, did pelleas in an utter shame creep with his shadow through the court again, fingering at his sword-handle until he stood there on the castle-bridge once more, and thought, 'i will go back, and slay them where they lie.' and so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep said, 'ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep, your sleep is death,' and drew the sword, and thought, 'what! slay a sleeping knight? the king hath bound and sworn me to this brotherhood;' again, 'alas that ever a knight should be so false.' then turned, and so returned, and groaning laid the naked sword athwart their naked throats, there left it, and them sleeping; and she lay, the circlet of her tourney round her brows, and the sword of the tourney across her throat. and forth he past, and mounting on his horse stared at her towers that, larger than themselves in their own darkness, thronged into the moon. then crushed the saddle with his thighs, and clenched his hands, and maddened with himself and moaned: 'would they have risen against me in their blood at the last day? i might have answered them even before high god. o towers so strong, huge, solid, would that even while i gaze the crack of earthquake shivering to your base split you, and hell burst up your harlot roofs bellowing, and charred you through and through within, black as the harlot's heart--hollow as a skull! let the fierce east scream through your eyelet-holes, and whirl the dust of harlots round and round in dung and nettles! hiss, snake--i saw him there-- let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. who yells here in the still sweet summer night, but i-- i, the poor pelleas whom she called her fool? fool, beast--he, she, or i? myself most fool; beast too, as lacking human wit--disgraced, dishonoured all for trial of true love-- love?--we be all alike: only the king hath made us fools and liars. o noble vows! o great and sane and simple race of brutes that own no lust because they have no law! for why should i have loved her to my shame? i loathe her, as i loved her to my shame. i never loved her, i but lusted for her-- away--' he dashed the rowel into his horse, and bounded forth and vanished through the night. then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat, awaking knew the sword, and turned herself to gawain: 'liar, for thou hast not slain this pelleas! here he stood, and might have slain me and thyself.' and he that tells the tale says that her ever-veering fancy turned to pelleas, as the one true knight on earth, and only lover; and through her love her life wasted and pined, desiring him in vain. but he by wild and way, for half the night, and over hard and soft, striking the sod from out the soft, the spark from off the hard, rode till the star above the wakening sun, beside that tower where percivale was cowled, glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn. for so the words were flashed into his heart he knew not whence or wherefore: 'o sweet star, pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn!' and there he would have wept, but felt his eyes harder and drier than a fountain bed in summer: thither came the village girls and lingered talking, and they come no more till the sweet heavens have filled it from the heights again with living waters in the change of seasons: hard his eyes; harder his heart seemed; but so weary were his limbs, that he, gasping, 'of arthur's hall am i, but here, here let me rest and die,' cast himself down, and gulfed his griefs in inmost sleep; so lay, till shaken by a dream, that gawain fired the hall of merlin, and the morning star reeled in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell. he woke, and being ware of some one nigh, sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying, 'false! and i held thee pure as guinevere.' but percivale stood near him and replied, 'am i but false as guinevere is pure? or art thou mazed with dreams? or being one of our free-spoken table hast not heard that lancelot'--there he checked himself and paused. then fared it with sir pelleas as with one who gets a wound in battle, and the sword that made it plunges through the wound again, and pricks it deeper: and he shrank and wailed, 'is the queen false?' and percivale was mute. 'have any of our round table held their vows?' and percivale made answer not a word. 'is the king true?' 'the king!' said percivale. 'why then let men couple at once with wolves. what! art thou mad?' but pelleas, leaping up, ran through the doors and vaulted on his horse and fled: small pity upon his horse had he, or on himself, or any, and when he met a cripple, one that held a hand for alms-- hunched as he was, and like an old dwarf-elm that turns its back upon the salt blast, the boy paused not, but overrode him, shouting, 'false, and false with gawain!' and so left him bruised and battered, and fled on, and hill and wood went ever streaming by him till the gloom, that follows on the turning of the world, darkened the common path: he twitched the reins, and made his beast that better knew it, swerve now off it and now on; but when he saw high up in heaven the hall that merlin built, blackening against the dead-green stripes of even, 'black nest of rats,' he groaned, 'ye build too high.' not long thereafter from the city gates issued sir lancelot riding airily, warm with a gracious parting from the queen, peace at his heart, and gazing at a star and marvelling what it was: on whom the boy, across the silent seeded meadow-grass borne, clashed: and lancelot, saying, 'what name hast thou that ridest here so blindly and so hard?' 'no name, no name,' he shouted, 'a scourge am i to lash the treasons of the table round.' 'yea, but thy name?' 'i have many names,' he cried: 'i am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame, and like a poisonous wind i pass to blast and blaze the crime of lancelot and the queen.' 'first over me,' said lancelot, 'shalt thou pass.' 'fight therefore,' yelled the youth, and either knight drew back a space, and when they closed, at once the weary steed of pelleas floundering flung his rider, who called out from the dark field, 'thou art as false as hell: slay me: i have no sword.' then lancelot, 'yea, between thy lips--and sharp; but here i will disedge it by thy death.' 'slay then,' he shrieked, 'my will is to be slain,' and lancelot, with his heel upon the fallen, rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then spake: 'rise, weakling; i am lancelot; say thy say.' and lancelot slowly rode his warhorse back to camelot, and sir pelleas in brief while caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field, and followed to the city. it chanced that both brake into hall together, worn and pale. there with her knights and dames was guinevere. full wonderingly she gazed on lancelot so soon returned, and then on pelleas, him who had not greeted her, but cast himself down on a bench, hard-breathing. 'have ye fought?' she asked of lancelot. 'ay, my queen,' he said. 'and hast thou overthrown him?' 'ay, my queen.' then she, turning to pelleas, 'o young knight, hath the great heart of knighthood in thee failed so far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, a fall from him?' then, for he answered not, 'or hast thou other griefs? if i, the queen, may help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know.' but pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce she quailed; and he, hissing 'i have no sword,' sprang from the door into the dark. the queen looked hard upon her lover, he on her; and each foresaw the dolorous day to be: and all talk died, as in a grove all song beneath the shadow of some bird of prey; then a long silence came upon the hall, and modred thought, 'the time is hard at hand.' the last tournament dagonet, the fool, whom gawain in his mood had made mock-knight of arthur's table round, at camelot, high above the yellowing woods, danced like a withered leaf before the hall. and toward him from the hall, with harp in hand, and from the crown thereof a carcanet of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize of tristram in the jousts of yesterday, came tristram, saying, 'why skip ye so, sir fool?' for arthur and sir lancelot riding once far down beneath a winding wall of rock heard a child wail. a stump of oak half-dead, from roots like some black coil of carven snakes, clutched at the crag, and started through mid air bearing an eagle's nest: and through the tree rushed ever a rainy wind, and through the wind pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree scaling, sir lancelot from the perilous nest, this ruby necklace thrice around her neck, and all unscarred from beak or talon, brought a maiden babe; which arthur pitying took, then gave it to his queen to rear: the queen but coldly acquiescing, in her white arms received, and after loved it tenderly, and named it nestling; so forgot herself a moment, and her cares; till that young life being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold past from her; and in time the carcanet vext her with plaintive memories of the child: so she, delivering it to arthur, said, 'take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, and make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize.' to whom the king, 'peace to thine eagle-borne dead nestling, and this honour after death, following thy will! but, o my queen, i muse why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone those diamonds that i rescued from the tarn, and lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear.' 'would rather you had let them fall,' she cried, 'plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were, a bitterness to me!--ye look amazed, not knowing they were lost as soon as given-- slid from my hands, when i was leaning out above the river--that unhappy child past in her barge: but rosier luck will go with these rich jewels, seeing that they came not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, but the sweet body of a maiden babe. perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights may win them for the purest of my maids.' she ended, and the cry of a great jousts with trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways from camelot in among the faded fields to furthest towers; and everywhere the knights armed for a day of glory before the king. but on the hither side of that loud morn into the hall staggered, his visage ribbed from ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, and one with shattered fingers dangling lame, a churl, to whom indignantly the king, 'my churl, for whom christ died, what evil beast hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? man was it who marred heaven's image in thee thus?' then, sputtering through the hedge of splintered teeth, yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump pitch-blackened sawing the air, said the maimed churl, 'he took them and he drave them to his tower-- some hold he was a table-knight of thine-- a hundred goodly ones--the red knight, he-- lord, i was tending swine, and the red knight brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; and when i called upon thy name as one that doest right by gentle and by churl, maimed me and mauled, and would outright have slain, save that he sware me to a message, saying, "tell thou the king and all his liars, that i have founded my round table in the north, and whatsoever his own knights have sworn my knights have sworn the counter to it--and say my tower is full of harlots, like his court, but mine are worthier, seeing they profess to be none other than themselves--and say my knights are all adulterers like his own, but mine are truer, seeing they profess to be none other; and say his hour is come, the heathen are upon him, his long lance broken, and his excalibur a straw."' then arthur turned to kay the seneschal, 'take thou my churl, and tend him curiously like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. the heathen--but that ever-climbing wave, hurled back again so often in empty foam, hath lain for years at rest--and renegades, thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom the wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere, friends, through your manhood and your fealty,--now make their last head like satan in the north. my younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, the loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. but thou, sir lancelot, sitting in my place enchaired tomorrow, arbitrate the field; for wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, only to yield my queen her own again? speak, lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?' thereto sir lancelot answered, 'it is well: yet better if the king abide, and leave the leading of his younger knights to me. else, for the king has willed it, it is well.' then arthur rose and lancelot followed him, and while they stood without the doors, the king turned to him saying, 'is it then so well? or mine the blame that oft i seem as he of whom was written, "a sound is in his ears"? the foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance that only seems half-loyal to command,-- a manner somewhat fallen from reverence-- or have i dreamed the bearing of our knights tells of a manhood ever less and lower? or whence the fear lest this my realm, upreared, by noble deeds at one with noble vows, from flat confusion and brute violences, reel back into the beast, and be no more?' he spoke, and taking all his younger knights, down the slope city rode, and sharply turned north by the gate. in her high bower the queen, working a tapestry, lifted up her head, watched her lord pass, and knew not that she sighed. then ran across her memory the strange rhyme of bygone merlin, 'where is he who knows? from the great deep to the great deep he goes.' but when the morning of a tournament, by these in earnest those in mockery called the tournament of the dead innocence, brake with a wet wind blowing, lancelot, round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, the words of arthur flying shrieked, arose, and down a streetway hung with folds of pure white samite, and by fountains running wine, where children sat in white with cups of gold, moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps ascending, filled his double-dragoned chair. he glanced and saw the stately galleries, dame, damsel, each through worship of their queen white-robed in honour of the stainless child, and some with scattered jewels, like a bank of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. he looked but once, and vailed his eyes again. the sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream to ears but half-awaked, then one low roll of autumn thunder, and the jousts began: and ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf and gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume went down it. sighing weariedly, as one who sits and gazes on a faded fire, when all the goodlier guests are past away, sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. he saw the laws that ruled the tournament broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down before his throne of arbitration cursed the dead babe and the follies of the king; and once the laces of a helmet cracked, and showed him, like a vermin in its hole, modred, a narrow face: anon he heard the voice that billowed round the barriers roar an ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, but newly-entered, taller than the rest, and armoured all in forest green, whereon there tript a hundred tiny silver deer, and wearing but a holly-spray for crest, with ever-scattering berries, and on shield a spear, a harp, a bugle--tristram--late from overseas in brittany returned, and marriage with a princess of that realm, isolt the white--sir tristram of the woods-- whom lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain his own against him, and now yearned to shake the burthen off his heart in one full shock with tristram even to death: his strong hands gript and dinted the gilt dragons right and left, until he groaned for wrath--so many of those, that ware their ladies' colours on the casque, drew from before sir tristram to the bounds, and there with gibes and flickering mockeries stood, while he muttered, 'craven crests! o shame! what faith have these in whom they sware to love? the glory of our round table is no more.' so tristram won, and lancelot gave, the gems, not speaking other word than 'hast thou won? art thou the purest, brother? see, the hand wherewith thou takest this, is red!' to whom tristram, half plagued by lancelot's languorous mood, made answer, 'ay, but wherefore toss me this like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? lest be thy fair queen's fantasy. strength of heart and might of limb, but mainly use and skill, are winners in this pastime of our king. my hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it-- no blood of mine, i trow; but o chief knight, right arm of arthur in the battlefield, great brother, thou nor i have made the world; be happy in thy fair queen as i in mine.' and tristram round the gallery made his horse caracole; then bowed his homage, bluntly saying, 'fair damsels, each to him who worships each sole queen of beauty and of love, behold this day my queen of beauty is not here.' and most of these were mute, some angered, one murmuring, 'all courtesy is dead,' and one, 'the glory of our round table is no more.' then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, and pettish cries awoke, and the wan day went glooming down in wet and weariness: but under her black brows a swarthy one laughed shrilly, crying, 'praise the patient saints, our one white day of innocence hath past, though somewhat draggled at the skirt. so be it. the snowdrop only, flowering through the year, would make the world as blank as winter-tide. come--let us gladden their sad eyes, our queen's and lancelot's, at this night's solemnity with all the kindlier colours of the field.' so dame and damsel glittered at the feast variously gay: for he that tells the tale likened them, saying, as when an hour of cold falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, and all the purple slopes of mountain flowers pass under white, till the warm hour returns with veer of wind, and all are flowers again; so dame and damsel cast the simple white, and glowing in all colours, the live grass, rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced about the revels, and with mirth so loud beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the queen, and wroth at tristram and the lawless jousts, brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. and little dagonet on the morrow morn, high over all the yellowing autumn-tide, danced like a withered leaf before the hall. then tristram saying, 'why skip ye so, sir fool?' wheeled round on either heel, dagonet replied, 'belike for lack of wiser company; or being fool, and seeing too much wit makes the world rotten, why, belike i skip to know myself the wisest knight of all.' 'ay, fool,' said tristram, 'but 'tis eating dry to dance without a catch, a roundelay to dance to.' then he twangled on his harp, and while he twangled little dagonet stood quiet as any water-sodden log stayed in the wandering warble of a brook; but when the twangling ended, skipt again; and being asked, 'why skipt ye not, sir fool?' made answer, 'i had liefer twenty years skip to the broken music of my brains than any broken music thou canst make.' then tristram, waiting for the quip to come, 'good now, what music have i broken, fool?' and little dagonet, skipping, 'arthur, the king's; for when thou playest that air with queen isolt, thou makest broken music with thy bride, her daintier namesake down in brittany-- and so thou breakest arthur's music too.' 'save for that broken music in thy brains, sir fool,' said tristram, 'i would break thy head. fool, i came too late, the heathen wars were o'er, the life had flown, we sware but by the shell-- i am but a fool to reason with a fool-- come, thou art crabbed and sour: but lean me down, sir dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, and harken if my music be not true. '"free love--free field--we love but while we may: the woods are hushed, their music is no more: the leaf is dead, the yearning past away: new leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: new life, new love, to suit the newer day: new loves are sweet as those that went before: free love--free field--we love but while we may." 'ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, not stood stockstill. i made it in the woods, and heard it ring as true as tested gold.' but dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, 'friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday made to run wine?--but this had run itself all out like a long life to a sour end-- and them that round it sat with golden cups to hand the wine to whosoever came-- the twelve small damosels white as innocence, in honour of poor innocence the babe, who left the gems which innocence the queen lent to the king, and innocence the king gave for a prize--and one of those white slips handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, "drink, drink, sir fool," and thereupon i drank, spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud.' and tristram, 'was it muddier than thy gibes? is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?-- not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool-- "fear god: honour the king--his one true knight-- sole follower of the vows"--for here be they who knew thee swine enow before i came, smuttier than blasted grain: but when the king had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up it frighted all free fool from out thy heart; which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, a naked aught--yet swine i hold thee still, for i have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.' and little dagonet mincing with his feet, 'knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck in lieu of hers, i'll hold thou hast some touch of music, since i care not for thy pearls. swine? i have wallowed, i have washed--the world is flesh and shadow--i have had my day. the dirty nurse, experience, in her kind hath fouled me--an i wallowed, then i washed-- i have had my day and my philosophies-- and thank the lord i am king arthur's fool. swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese trooped round a paynim harper once, who thrummed on such a wire as musically as thou some such fine song--but never a king's fool.' and tristram, 'then were swine, goats, asses, geese the wiser fools, seeing thy paynim bard had such a mastery of his mystery that he could harp his wife up out of hell.' then dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, 'and whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, that harpest downward! dost thou know the star we call the harp of arthur up in heaven?' and tristram, 'ay, sir fool, for when our king was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, glorying in each new glory, set his name high on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.' and dagonet answered, 'ay, and when the land was freed, and the queen false, ye set yourself to babble about him, all to show your wit-- and whether he were king by courtesy, or king by right--and so went harping down the black king's highway, got so far, and grew so witty that ye played at ducks and drakes with arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?' 'nay, fool,' said tristram, 'not in open day.' and dagonet, 'nay, nor will: i see it and hear. it makes a silent music up in heaven, and i, and arthur and the angels hear, and then we skip.' 'lo, fool,' he said, 'ye talk fool's treason: is the king thy brother fool?' then little dagonet clapt his hands and shrilled, 'ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools! conceits himself as god that he can make figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk from burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, and men from beasts--long live the king of fools!' and down the city dagonet danced away; but through the slowly-mellowing avenues and solitary passes of the wood rode tristram toward lyonnesse and the west. before him fled the face of queen isolt with ruby-circled neck, but evermore past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood made dull his inner, keen his outer eye for all that walked, or crept, or perched, or flew. anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, unruffling waters re-collect the shape of one that in them sees himself, returned; but at the slot or fewmets of a deer, or even a fallen feather, vanished again. so on for all that day from lawn to lawn through many a league-long bower he rode. at length a lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs furze-crammed, and bracken-rooft, the which himself built for a summer day with queen isolt against a shower, dark in the golden grove appearing, sent his fancy back to where she lived a moon in that low lodge with him: till mark her lord had past, the cornish king, with six or seven, when tristram was away, and snatched her thence; yet dreading worse than shame her warrior tristram, spake not any word, but bode his hour, devising wretchedness. and now that desert lodge to tristram lookt so sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank down on a drift of foliage random-blown; but could not rest for musing how to smoothe and sleek his marriage over to the queen. perchance in lone tintagil far from all the tonguesters of the court she had not heard. but then what folly had sent him overseas after she left him lonely here? a name? was it the name of one in brittany, isolt, the daughter of the king? 'isolt of the white hands' they called her: the sweet name allured him first, and then the maid herself, who served him well with those white hands of hers, and loved him well, until himself had thought he loved her also, wedded easily, but left her all as easily, and returned. the black-blue irish hair and irish eyes had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid his brows upon the drifted leaf and dreamed. he seemed to pace the strand of brittany between isolt of britain and his bride, and showed them both the ruby-chain, and both began to struggle for it, till his queen graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. then cried the breton, 'look, her hand is red! these be no rubies, this is frozen blood, and melts within her hand--her hand is hot with ill desires, but this i gave thee, look, is all as cool and white as any flower.' followed a rush of eagle's wings, and then a whimpering of the spirit of the child, because the twain had spoiled her carcanet. he dreamed; but arthur with a hundred spears rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, and many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, the wide-winged sunset of the misty marsh glared on a huge machicolated tower that stood with open doors, whereout was rolled a roar of riot, as from men secure amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease among their harlot-brides, an evil song. 'lo there,' said one of arthur's youth, for there, high on a grim dead tree before the tower, a goodly brother of the table round swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield showing a shower of blood in a field noir, and therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights at that dishonour done the gilded spur, till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. but arthur waved them back. alone he rode. then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, that sent the face of all the marsh aloft an ever upward-rushing storm and cloud of shriek and plume, the red knight heard, and all, even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, in blood-red armour sallying, howled to the king, 'the teeth of hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!-- lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted king who fain had clipt free manhood from the world-- the woman-worshipper? yea, god's curse, and i! slain was the brother of my paramour by a knight of thine, and i that heard her whine and snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, and stings itself to everlasting death, to hang whatever knight of thine i fought and tumbled. art thou king? --look to thy life!' he ended: arthur knew the voice; the face wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. and arthur deigned not use of word or sword, but let the drunkard, as he stretched from horse to strike him, overbalancing his bulk, down from the causeway heavily to the swamp fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave, heard in dead night along that table-shore, drops flat, and after the great waters break whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, from less and less to nothing; thus he fell head-heavy; then the knights, who watched him, roared and shouted and leapt down upon the fallen; there trampled out his face from being known, and sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: nor heard the king for their own cries, but sprang through open doors, and swording right and left men, women, on their sodden faces, hurled the tables over and the wines, and slew till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, and all the pavement streamed with massacre: then, echoing yell with yell, they fired the tower, which half that autumn night, like the live north, red-pulsing up through alioth and alcor, made all above it, and a hundred meres about it, as the water moab saw came round by the east, and out beyond them flushed the long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. so all the ways were safe from shore to shore, but in the heart of arthur pain was lord. then, out of tristram waking, the red dream fled with a shout, and that low lodge returned, mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. he whistled his good warhorse left to graze among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, and rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, stayed him. 'why weep ye?' 'lord,' she said, 'my man hath left me or is dead;' whereon he thought-- 'what, if she hate me now? i would not this. what, if she love me still? i would not that. i know not what i would'--but said to her, 'yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, he find thy favour changed and love thee not'-- then pressing day by day through lyonnesse last in a roky hollow, belling, heard the hounds of mark, and felt the goodly hounds yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gained tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, a crown of towers. down in a casement sat, a low sea-sunset glorying round her hair and glossy-throated grace, isolt the queen. and when she heard the feet of tristram grind the spiring stone that scaled about her tower, flushed, started, met him at the doors, and there belted his body with her white embrace, crying aloud, 'not mark--not mark, my soul! the footstep fluttered me at first: not he: catlike through his own castle steals my mark, but warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls who hates thee, as i him--even to the death. my soul, i felt my hatred for my mark quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh.' to whom sir tristram smiling, 'i am here. let be thy mark, seeing he is not thine.' and drawing somewhat backward she replied, 'can he be wronged who is not even his own, but save for dread of thee had beaten me, scratched, bitten, blinded, marred me somehow--mark? what rights are his that dare not strike for them? not lift a hand--not, though he found me thus! but harken! have ye met him? hence he went today for three days' hunting--as he said-- and so returns belike within an hour. mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with mark, because he hates thee even more than fears; nor drink: and when thou passest any wood close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush should leave me all alone with mark and hell. my god, the measure of my hate for mark is as the measure of my love for thee.' so, plucked one way by hate and one by love, drained of her force, again she sat, and spake to tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, 'o hunter, and o blower of the horn, harper, and thou hast been a rover too, for, ere i mated with my shambling king, ye twain had fallen out about the bride of one--his name is out of me--the prize, if prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)-- thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks to wreck thee villainously: but, o sir knight, what dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?' and tristram, 'last to my queen paramount, here now to my queen paramount of love and loveliness--ay, lovelier than when first her light feet fell on our rough lyonnesse, sailing from ireland.' softly laughed isolt; 'flatter me not, for hath not our great queen my dole of beauty trebled?' and he said, 'her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, and thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-- save when thy mark is kindled on thy lips most gracious; but she, haughty, even to him, lancelot; for i have seen him wan enow to make one doubt if ever the great queen have yielded him her love.' to whom isolt, 'ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou who brakest through the scruple of my bond, calling me thy white hind, and saying to me that guinevere had sinned against the highest, and i--misyoked with such a want of man-- that i could hardly sin against the lowest.' he answered, 'o my soul, be comforted! if this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, if here be comfort, and if ours be sin, crowned warrant had we for the crowning sin that made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear and fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale-- thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories of tristram in that year he was away.' and, saddening on the sudden, spake isolt, 'i had forgotten all in my strong joy to see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour, here in the never-ended afternoon, o sweeter than all memories of thee, deeper than any yearnings after thee seemed those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, watched from this tower. isolt of britain dashed before isolt of brittany on the strand, would that have chilled her bride-kiss? wedded her? fought in her father's battles? wounded there? the king was all fulfilled with gratefulness, and she, my namesake of the hands, that healed thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-- well--can i wish her any huger wrong than having known thee? her too hast thou left to pine and waste in those sweet memories. o were i not my mark's, by whom all men are noble, i should hate thee more than love.' and tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, 'grace, queen, for being loved: she loved me well. did i love her? the name at least i loved. isolt?--i fought his battles, for isolt! the night was dark; the true star set. isolt! the name was ruler of the dark--isolt? care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, pale-blooded, she will yield herself to god.' and isolt answered, 'yea, and why not i? mine is the larger need, who am not meek, pale-blooded, prayerful. let me tell thee now. here one black, mute midsummer night i sat, lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, murmuring a light song i had heard thee sing, and once or twice i spake thy name aloud. then flashed a levin-brand; and near me stood, in fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend-- mark's way to steal behind one in the dark-- for there was mark: "he has wedded her," he said, not said, but hissed it: then this crown of towers so shook to such a roar of all the sky, that here in utter dark i swooned away, and woke again in utter dark, and cried, "i will flee hence and give myself to god"-- and thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms.' then tristram, ever dallying with her hand, 'may god be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, and past desire!' a saying that angered her. '"may god be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, and sweet no more to me!" i need him now. for when had lancelot uttered aught so gross even to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? the greater man, the greater courtesy. far other was the tristram, arthur's knight! but thou, through ever harrying thy wild beasts-- save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself. how darest thou, if lover, push me even in fancy from thy side, and set me far in the gray distance, half a life away, her to be loved no more? unsay it, unswear! flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, broken with mark and hate and solitude, thy marriage and mine own, that i should suck lies like sweet wines: lie to me: i believe. will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, and solemnly as when ye sware to him, the man of men, our king--my god, the power was once in vows when men believed the king! they lied not then, who sware, and through their vows the king prevailing made his realm:--i say, swear to me thou wilt love me even when old, gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair.' then tristram, pacing moodily up and down, 'vows! did you keep the vow you made to mark more than i mine? lied, say ye? nay, but learnt, the vow that binds too strictly snaps itself-- my knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt-- we run more counter to the soul thereof than had we never sworn. i swear no more. i swore to the great king, and am forsworn. for once--even to the height--i honoured him. "man, is he man at all?" methought, when first i rode from our rough lyonnesse, and beheld that victor of the pagan throned in hall-- his hair, a sun that rayed from off a brow like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, the golden beard that clothed his lips with light-- moreover, that weird legend of his birth, with merlin's mystic babble about his end amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool shaped as a dragon; he seemed to me no man, but michael trampling satan; so i sware, being amazed: but this went by-- the vows! o ay--the wholesome madness of an hour-- they served their use, their time; for every knight believed himself a greater than himself, and every follower eyed him as a god; till he, being lifted up beyond himself, did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, and so the realm was made; but then their vows-- first mainly through that sullying of our queen-- began to gall the knighthood, asking whence had arthur right to bind them to himself? dropt down from heaven? washed up from out the deep? they failed to trace him through the flesh and blood of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord to bind them by inviolable vows, which flesh and blood perforce would violate: for feel this arm of mine--the tide within red with free chase and heather-scented air, pulsing full man; can arthur make me pure as any maiden child? lock up my tongue from uttering freely what i freely hear? bind me to one? the wide world laughs at it. and worldling of the world am i, and know the ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour woos his own end; we are not angels here nor shall be: vows--i am woodman of the woods, and hear the garnet-headed yaffingale mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; and therefore is my love so large for thee, seeing it is not bounded save by love.' here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, 'good: an i turned away my love for thee to some one thrice as courteous as thyself-- for courtesy wins woman all as well as valour may, but he that closes both is perfect, he is lancelot--taller indeed, rosier and comelier, thou--but say i loved this knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back thine own small saw, "we love but while we may," well then, what answer?' he that while she spake, mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, the jewels, had let one finger lightly touch the warm white apple of her throat, replied, 'press this a little closer, sweet, until-- come, i am hungered and half-angered--meat, wine, wine--and i will love thee to the death, and out beyond into the dream to come.' so then, when both were brought to full accord, she rose, and set before him all he willed; and after these had comforted the blood with meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-- now talking of their woodland paradise, the deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; now mocking at the much ungainliness, and craven shifts, and long crane legs of mark-- then tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: 'ay, ay, o ay--the winds that bend the brier! a star in heaven, a star within the mere! ay, ay, o ay--a star was my desire, and one was far apart, and one was near: ay, ay, o ay--the winds that bow the grass! and one was water and one star was fire, and one will ever shine and one will pass. ay, ay, o ay--the winds that move the mere.' then in the light's last glimmer tristram showed and swung the ruby carcanet. she cried, 'the collar of some order, which our king hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, for thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers.' 'not so, my queen,' he said, 'but the red fruit grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, and won by tristram as a tourney-prize, and hither brought by tristram for his last love-offering and peace-offering unto thee.' he spoke, he turned, then, flinging round her neck, claspt it, and cried, 'thine order, o my queen!' but, while he bowed to kiss the jewelled throat, out of the dark, just as the lips had touched, behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-- 'mark's way,' said mark, and clove him through the brain. that night came arthur home, and while he climbed, all in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, the stairway to the hall, and looked and saw the great queen's bower was dark,--about his feet a voice clung sobbing till he questioned it, 'what art thou?' and the voice about his feet sent up an answer, sobbing, 'i am thy fool, and i shall never make thee smile again.' guinevere queen guinevere had fled the court, and sat there in the holy house at almesbury weeping, none with her save a little maid, a novice: one low light betwixt them burned blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad, beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, the white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. for hither had she fled, her cause of flight sir modred; he that like a subtle beast lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this he chilled the popular praises of the king with silent smiles of slow disparagement; and tampered with the lords of the white horse, heathen, the brood by hengist left; and sought to make disruption in the table round of arthur, and to splinter it into feuds serving his traitorous end; and all his aims were sharpened by strong hate for lancelot. for thus it chanced one morn when all the court, green-suited, but with plumes that mocked the may, had been, their wont, a-maying and returned, that modred still in green, all ear and eye, climbed to the high top of the garden-wall to spy some secret scandal if he might, and saw the queen who sat betwixt her best enid, and lissome vivien, of her court the wiliest and the worst; and more than this he saw not, for sir lancelot passing by spied where he couched, and as the gardener's hand picks from the colewort a green caterpillar, so from the high wall and the flowering grove of grasses lancelot plucked him by the heel, and cast him as a worm upon the way; but when he knew the prince though marred with dust, he, reverencing king's blood in a bad man, made such excuses as he might, and these full knightly without scorn; for in those days no knight of arthur's noblest dealt in scorn; but, if a man were halt or hunched, in him by those whom god had made full-limbed and tall, scorn was allowed as part of his defect, and he was answered softly by the king and all his table. so sir lancelot holp to raise the prince, who rising twice or thrice full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went: but, ever after, the small violence done rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, as the sharp wind that ruffles all day long a little bitter pool about a stone on the bare coast. but when sir lancelot told this matter to the queen, at first she laughed lightly, to think of modred's dusty fall, then shuddered, as the village wife who cries 'i shudder, some one steps across my grave;' then laughed again, but faintlier, for indeed she half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, would track her guilt until he found, and hers would be for evermore a name of scorn. henceforward rarely could she front in hall, or elsewhere, modred's narrow foxy face, heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye: henceforward too, the powers that tend the soul, to help it from the death that cannot die, and save it even in extremes, began to vex and plague her. many a time for hours, beside the placid breathings of the king, in the dead night, grim faces came and went before her, or a vague spiritual fear-- like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, heard by the watcher in a haunted house, that keeps the rust of murder on the walls-- held her awake: or if she slept, she dreamed an awful dream; for then she seemed to stand on some vast plain before a setting sun, and from the sun there swiftly made at her a ghastly something, and its shadow flew before it, till it touched her, and she turned-- when lo! her own, that broadening from her feet, and blackening, swallowed all the land, and in it far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. and all this trouble did not pass but grew; till even the clear face of the guileless king, and trustful courtesies of household life, became her bane; and at the last she said, 'o lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land, for if thou tarry we shall meet again, and if we meet again, some evil chance will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze before the people, and our lord the king.' and lancelot ever promised, but remained, and still they met and met. again she said, 'o lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.' and then they were agreed upon a night (when the good king should not be there) to meet and part for ever. vivien, lurking, heard. she told sir modred. passion-pale they met and greeted. hands in hands, and eye to eye, low on the border of her couch they sat stammering and staring. it was their last hour, a madness of farewells. and modred brought his creatures to the basement of the tower for testimony; and crying with full voice 'traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,' aroused lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike leapt on him, and hurled him headlong, and he fell stunned, and his creatures took and bare him off, and all was still: then she, 'the end is come, and i am shamed for ever;' and he said, 'mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise, and fly to my strong castle overseas: there will i hide thee, till my life shall end, there hold thee with my life against the world.' she answered, 'lancelot, wilt thou hold me so? nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells. would god that thou couldst hide me from myself! mine is the shame, for i was wife, and thou unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly, for i will draw me into sanctuary, and bide my doom.' so lancelot got her horse, set her thereon, and mounted on his own, and then they rode to the divided way, there kissed, and parted weeping: for he past, love-loyal to the least wish of the queen, back to his land; but she to almesbury fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, and heard the spirits of the waste and weald moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan: and in herself she moaned 'too late, too late!' till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, a blot in heaven, the raven, flying high, croaked, and she thought, 'he spies a field of death; for now the heathen of the northern sea, lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.' and when she came to almesbury she spake there to the nuns, and said, 'mine enemies pursue me, but, o peaceful sisterhood, receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask her name to whom ye yield it, till her time to tell you:' and her beauty, grace and power, wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared to ask it. so the stately queen abode for many a week, unknown, among the nuns; nor with them mixed, nor told her name, nor sought, wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, but communed only with the little maid, who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness which often lured her from herself; but now, this night, a rumour wildly blown about came, that sir modred had usurped the realm, and leagued him with the heathen, while the king was waging war on lancelot: then she thought, 'with what a hate the people and the king must hate me,' and bowed down upon her hands silent, until the little maid, who brooked no silence, brake it, uttering, 'late! so late! what hour, i wonder, now?' and when she drew no answer, by and by began to hum an air the nuns had taught her; 'late, so late!' which when she heard, the queen looked up, and said, 'o maiden, if indeed ye list to sing, sing, and unbind my heart that i may weep.' whereat full willingly sang the little maid. 'late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! late, late, so late! but we can enter still. too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 'no light had we: for that we do repent; and learning this, the bridegroom will relent. too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 'no light: so late! and dark and chill the night! o let us in, that we may find the light! too late, too late: ye cannot enter now. 'have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? o let us in, though late, to kiss his feet! no, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.' so sang the novice, while full passionately, her head upon her hands, remembering her thought when first she came, wept the sad queen. then said the little novice prattling to her, 'o pray you, noble lady, weep no more; but let my words, the words of one so small, who knowing nothing knows but to obey, and if i do not there is penance given-- comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow from evil done; right sure am i of that, who see your tender grace and stateliness. but weigh your sorrows with our lord the king's, and weighing find them less; for gone is he to wage grim war against sir lancelot there, round that strong castle where he holds the queen; and modred whom he left in charge of all, the traitor--ah sweet lady, the king's grief for his own self, and his own queen, and realm, must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. for me, i thank the saints, i am not great. for if there ever come a grief to me i cry my cry in silence, and have done. none knows it, and my tears have brought me good: but even were the griefs of little ones as great as those of great ones, yet this grief is added to the griefs the great must bear, that howsoever much they may desire silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud: as even here they talk at almesbury about the good king and his wicked queen, and were i such a king with such a queen, well might i wish to veil her wickedness, but were i such a king, it could not be.' then to her own sad heart muttered the queen, 'will the child kill me with her innocent talk?' but openly she answered, 'must not i, if this false traitor have displaced his lord, grieve with the common grief of all the realm?' 'yea,' said the maid, 'this is all woman's grief, that she is woman, whose disloyal life hath wrought confusion in the table round which good king arthur founded, years ago, with signs and miracles and wonders, there at camelot, ere the coming of the queen.' then thought the queen within herself again, 'will the child kill me with her foolish prate?' but openly she spake and said to her, 'o little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, what canst thou know of kings and tables round, or what of signs and wonders, but the signs and simple miracles of thy nunnery?' to whom the little novice garrulously, 'yea, but i know: the land was full of signs and wonders ere the coming of the queen. so said my father, and himself was knight of the great table--at the founding of it; and rode thereto from lyonnesse, and he said that as he rode, an hour or maybe twain after the sunset, down the coast, he heard strange music, and he paused, and turning--there, all down the lonely coast of lyonnesse, each with a beacon-star upon his head, and with a wild sea-light about his feet, he saw them--headland after headland flame far on into the rich heart of the west: and in the light the white mermaiden swam, and strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, and sent a deep sea-voice through all the land, to which the little elves of chasm and cleft made answer, sounding like a distant horn. so said my father--yea, and furthermore, next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods, himself beheld three spirits mad with joy come dashing down on a tall wayside flower, that shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes when three gray linnets wrangle for the seed: and still at evenings on before his horse the flickering fairy-circle wheeled and broke flying, and linked again, and wheeled and broke flying, for all the land was full of life. and when at last he came to camelot, a wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; and in the hall itself was such a feast as never man had dreamed; for every knight had whatsoever meat he longed for served by hands unseen; and even as he said down in the cellars merry bloated things shouldered the spigot, straddling on the butts while the wine ran: so glad were spirits and men before the coming of the sinful queen.' then spake the queen and somewhat bitterly, 'were they so glad? ill prophets were they all, spirits and men: could none of them foresee, not even thy wise father with his signs and wonders, what has fallen upon the realm?' to whom the novice garrulously again, 'yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said, full many a noble war-song had he sung, even in the presence of an enemy's fleet, between the steep cliff and the coming wave; and many a mystic lay of life and death had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops, when round him bent the spirits of the hills with all their dewy hair blown back like flame: so said my father--and that night the bard sang arthur's glorious wars, and sang the king as wellnigh more than man, and railed at those who called him the false son of gorlois: for there was no man knew from whence he came; but after tempest, when the long wave broke all down the thundering shores of bude and bos, there came a day as still as heaven, and then they found a naked child upon the sands of dark tintagil by the cornish sea; and that was arthur; and they fostered him till he by miracle was approven king: and that his grave should be a mystery from all men, like his birth; and could he find a woman in her womanhood as great as he was in his manhood, then, he sang, the twain together well might change the world. but even in the middle of his song he faltered, and his hand fell from the harp, and pale he turned, and reeled, and would have fallen, but that they stayed him up; nor would he tell his vision; but what doubt that he foresaw this evil work of lancelot and the queen?' then thought the queen, 'lo! they have set her on, our simple-seeming abbess and her nuns, to play upon me,' and bowed her head nor spake. whereat the novice crying, with clasped hands, shame on her own garrulity garrulously, said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue full often, 'and, sweet lady, if i seem to vex an ear too sad to listen to me, unmannerly, with prattling and the tales which my good father told me, check me too nor let me shame my father's memory, one of noblest manners, though himself would say sir lancelot had the noblest; and he died, killed in a tilt, come next, five summers back, and left me; but of others who remain, and of the two first-famed for courtesy-- and pray you check me if i ask amiss-- but pray you, which had noblest, while you moved among them, lancelot or our lord the king?' then the pale queen looked up and answered her, 'sir lancelot, as became a noble knight, was gracious to all ladies, and the same in open battle or the tilting-field forbore his own advantage, and the king in open battle or the tilting-field forbore his own advantage, and these two were the most nobly-mannered men of all; for manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal nature, and of noble mind.' 'yea,' said the maid, 'be manners such fair fruit?' then lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold less noble, being, as all rumour runs, the most disloyal friend in all the world.' to which a mournful answer made the queen: 'o closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls, what knowest thou of the world, and all its lights and shadows, all the wealth and all the woe? if ever lancelot, that most noble knight, were for one hour less noble than himself, pray for him that he scape the doom of fire, and weep for her that drew him to his doom.' 'yea,' said the little novice, 'i pray for both; but i should all as soon believe that his, sir lancelot's, were as noble as the king's, as i could think, sweet lady, yours would be such as they are, were you the sinful queen.' so she, like many another babbler, hurt whom she would soothe, and harmed where she would heal; for here a sudden flush of wrathful heat fired all the pale face of the queen, who cried, 'such as thou art be never maiden more for ever! thou their tool, set on to plague and play upon, and harry me, petty spy and traitress.' when that storm of anger brake from guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, white as her veil, and stood before the queen as tremulously as foam upon the beach stands in a wind, ready to break and fly, and when the queen had added 'get thee hence,' fled frighted. then that other left alone sighed, and began to gather heart again, saying in herself, 'the simple, fearful child meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt, simpler than any child, betrays itself. but help me, heaven, for surely i repent. for what is true repentance but in thought-- not even in inmost thought to think again the sins that made the past so pleasant to us: and i have sworn never to see him more, to see him more.' and even in saying this, her memory from old habit of the mind went slipping back upon the golden days in which she saw him first, when lancelot came, reputed the best knight and goodliest man, ambassador, to lead her to his lord arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead of his and her retinue moving, they, rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love and sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time was maytime, and as yet no sin was dreamed,) rode under groves that looked a paradise of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth that seemed the heavens upbreaking through the earth, and on from hill to hill, and every day beheld at noon in some delicious dale the silk pavilions of king arthur raised for brief repast or afternoon repose by couriers gone before; and on again, till yet once more ere set of sun they saw the dragon of the great pendragonship, that crowned the state pavilion of the king, blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. but when the queen immersed in such a trance, and moving through the past unconsciously, came to that point where first she saw the king ride toward her from the city, sighed to find her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold, high, self-contained, and passionless, not like him, 'not like my lancelot'--while she brooded thus and grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, there rode an armed warrior to the doors. a murmuring whisper through the nunnery ran, then on a sudden a cry, 'the king.' she sat stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed feet through the long gallery from the outer doors rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell, and grovelled with her face against the floor: there with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair she made her face a darkness from the king: and in the darkness heard his armed feet pause by her; then came silence, then a voice, monotonous and hollow like a ghost's denouncing judgment, but though changed, the king's: 'liest thou here so low, the child of one i honoured, happy, dead before thy shame? well is it that no child is born of thee. the children born of thee are sword and fire, red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, the craft of kindred and the godless hosts of heathen swarming o'er the northern sea; whom i, while yet sir lancelot, my right arm, the mightiest of my knights, abode with me, have everywhere about this land of christ in twelve great battles ruining overthrown. and knowest thou now from whence i come--from him from waging bitter war with him: and he, that did not shun to smite me in worse way, had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, he spared to lift his hand against the king who made him knight: but many a knight was slain; and many more, and all his kith and kin clave to him, and abode in his own land. and many more when modred raised revolt, forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave to modred, and a remnant stays with me. and of this remnant will i leave a part, true men who love me still, for whom i live, to guard thee in the wild hour coming on, lest but a hair of this low head be harmed. fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death. howbeit i know, if ancient prophecies have erred not, that i march to meet my doom. thou hast not made my life so sweet to me, that i the king should greatly care to live; for thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. bear with me for the last time while i show, even for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinned. for when the roman left us, and their law relaxed its hold upon us, and the ways were filled with rapine, here and there a deed of prowess done redressed a random wrong. but i was first of all the kings who drew the knighthood-errant of this realm and all the realms together under me, their head, in that fair order of my table round, a glorious company, the flower of men, to serve as model for the mighty world, and be the fair beginning of a time. i made them lay their hands in mine and swear to reverence the king, as if he were their conscience, and their conscience as their king, to break the heathen and uphold the christ, to ride abroad redressing human wrongs, to speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, to honour his own word as if his god's, to lead sweet lives in purest chastity, to love one maiden only, cleave to her, and worship her by years of noble deeds, until they won her; for indeed i knew of no more subtle master under heaven than is the maiden passion for a maid, not only to keep down the base in man, but teach high thought, and amiable words and courtliness, and the desire of fame, and love of truth, and all that makes a man. and all this throve before i wedded thee, believing, "lo mine helpmate, one to feel my purpose and rejoicing in my joy." then came thy shameful sin with lancelot; then came the sin of tristram and isolt; then others, following these my mightiest knights, and drawing foul ensample from fair names, sinned also, till the loathsome opposite of all my heart had destined did obtain, and all through thee! so that this life of mine i guard as god's high gift from scathe and wrong, not greatly care to lose; but rather think how sad it were for arthur, should he live, to sit once more within his lonely hall, and miss the wonted number of my knights, and miss to hear high talk of noble deeds as in the golden days before thy sin. for which of us, who might be left, could speak of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee? and in thy bowers of camelot or of usk thy shadow still would glide from room to room, and i should evermore be vext with thee in hanging robe or vacant ornament, or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. for think not, though thou wouldst not love thy lord, thy lord hast wholly lost his love for thee. i am not made of so slight elements. yet must i leave thee, woman, to thy shame. i hold that man the worst of public foes who either for his own or children's sake, to save his blood from scandal, lets the wife whom he knows false, abide and rule the house: for being through his cowardice allowed her station, taken everywhere for pure, she like a new disease, unknown to men, creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps the fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse with devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. worst of the worst were that man he that reigns! better the king's waste hearth and aching heart than thou reseated in thy place of light, the mockery of my people, and their bane.' he paused, and in the pause she crept an inch nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. far off a solitary trumpet blew. then waiting by the doors the warhorse neighed at a friend's voice, and he spake again: 'yet think not that i come to urge thy crimes, i did not come to curse thee, guinevere, i, whose vast pity almost makes me die to see thee, laying there thy golden head, my pride in happier summers, at my feet. the wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, the doom of treason and the flaming death, (when first i learnt thee hidden here) is past. the pang--which while i weighed thy heart with one too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, made my tears burn--is also past--in part. and all is past, the sin is sinned, and i, lo! i forgive thee, as eternal god forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. but how to take last leave of all i loved? o golden hair, with which i used to play not knowing! o imperial-moulded form, and beauty such as never woman wore, until it became a kingdom's curse with thee-- i cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine, but lancelot's: nay, they never were the king's. i cannot take thy hand: that too is flesh, and in the flesh thou hast sinned; and mine own flesh, here looking down on thine polluted, cries "i loathe thee:" yet not less, o guinevere, for i was ever virgin save for thee, my love through flesh hath wrought into my life so far, that my doom is, i love thee still. let no man dream but that i love thee still. perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, and so thou lean on our fair father christ, hereafter in that world where all are pure we two may meet before high god, and thou wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know i am thine husband--not a smaller soul, nor lancelot, nor another. leave me that, i charge thee, my last hope. now must i hence. through the thick night i hear the trumpet blow: they summon me their king to lead mine hosts far down to that great battle in the west, where i must strike against the man they call my sister's son--no kin of mine, who leagues with lords of the white horse, heathen, and knights, traitors--and strike him dead, and meet myself death, or i know not what mysterious doom. and thou remaining here wilt learn the event; but hither shall i never come again, never lie by thy side; see thee no more-- farewell!' and while she grovelled at his feet, she felt the king's breath wander o'er her neck, and in the darkness o'er her fallen head, perceived the waving of his hands that blest. then, listening till those armed steps were gone, rose the pale queen, and in her anguish found the casement: 'peradventure,' so she thought, 'if i might see his face, and not be seen.' and lo, he sat on horseback at the door! and near him the sad nuns with each a light stood, and he gave them charge about the queen, to guard and foster her for evermore. and while he spake to these his helm was lowered, to which for crest the golden dragon clung of britain; so she did not see the face, which then was as an angel's, but she saw, wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, the dragon of the great pendragonship blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. and even then he turned; and more and more the moony vapour rolling round the king, who seemed the phantom of a giant in it, enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray and grayer, till himself became as mist before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. then she stretched out her arms and cried aloud 'oh arthur!' there her voice brake suddenly, then--as a stream that spouting from a cliff fails in mid air, but gathering at the base re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale-- went on in passionate utterance: 'gone--my lord! gone through my sin to slay and to be slain! and he forgave me, and i could not speak. farewell? i should have answered his farewell. his mercy choked me. gone, my lord the king, my own true lord! how dare i call him mine? the shadow of another cleaves to me, and makes me one pollution: he, the king, called me polluted: shall i kill myself? what help in that? i cannot kill my sin, if soul be soul; nor can i kill my shame; no, nor by living can i live it down. the days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months the months will add themselves and make the years, the years will roll into the centuries, and mine will ever be a name of scorn. i must not dwell on that defeat of fame. let the world be; that is but of the world. what else? what hope? i think there was a hope, except he mocked me when he spake of hope; his hope he called it; but he never mocks, for mockery is the fume of little hearts. and blessed be the king, who hath forgiven my wickedness to him, and left me hope that in mine own heart i can live down sin and be his mate hereafter in the heavens before high god. ah great and gentle lord, who wast, as is the conscience of a saint among his warring senses, to thy knights-- to whom my false voluptuous pride, that took full easily all impressions from below, would not look up, or half-despised the height to which i would not or i could not climb-- i thought i could not breathe in that fine air that pure severity of perfect light-- i yearned for warmth and colour which i found in lancelot--now i see thee what thou art, thou art the highest and most human too, not lancelot, nor another. is there none will tell the king i love him though so late? now--ere he goes to the great battle? none: myself must tell him in that purer life, but now it were too daring. ah my god, what might i not have made of thy fair world, had i but loved thy highest creature here? it was my duty to have loved the highest: it surely was my profit had i known: it would have been my pleasure had i seen. we needs must love the highest when we see it, not lancelot, nor another.' here her hand grasped, made her vail her eyes: she looked and saw the novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, 'yea, little maid, for am i not forgiven?' then glancing up beheld the holy nuns all round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed within her, and she wept with these and said, 'ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke the vast design and purpose of the king. o shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, meek maidens, from the voices crying "shame." i must not scorn myself: he loves me still. let no one dream but that he loves me still. so let me, if you do not shudder at me, nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you; wear black and white, and be a nun like you, fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts; grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, but not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; pray and be prayed for; lie before your shrines; do each low office of your holy house; walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole to poor sick people, richer in his eyes who ransomed us, and haler too than i; and treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own; and so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer the sombre close of that voluptuous day, which wrought the ruin of my lord the king.' she said: they took her to themselves; and she still hoping, fearing 'is it yet too late?' dwelt with them, till in time their abbess died. then she, for her good deeds and her pure life, and for the power of ministration in her, and likewise for the high rank she had borne, was chosen abbess, there, an abbess, lived for three brief years, and there, an abbess, past to where beyond these voices there is peace. the passing of arthur that story which the bold sir bedivere, first made and latest left of all the knights, told, when the man was no more than a voice in the white winter of his age, to those with whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. for on their march to westward, bedivere, who slowly paced among the slumbering host, heard in his tent the moanings of the king: 'i found him in the shining of the stars, i marked him in the flowering of his fields, but in his ways with men i find him not. i waged his wars, and now i pass and die. o me! for why is all around us here as if some lesser god had made the world, but had not force to shape it as he would, till the high god behold it from beyond, and enter it, and make it beautiful? or else as if the world were wholly fair, but that these eyes of men are dense and dim, and have not power to see it as it is: perchance, because we see not to the close;-- for i, being simple, thought to work his will, and have but stricken with the sword in vain; and all whereon i leaned in wife and friend is traitor to my peace, and all my realm reels back into the beast, and is no more. my god, thou hast forgotten me in my death; nay--god my christ--i pass but shall not die.' then, ere that last weird battle in the west, there came on arthur sleeping, gawain killed in lancelot's war, the ghost of gawain blown along a wandering wind, and past his ear went shrilling, 'hollow, hollow all delight! hail, king! tomorrow thou shalt pass away. farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee. and i am blown along a wandering wind, and hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.' and fainter onward, like wild birds that change their season in the night and wail their way from cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream shrilled; but in going mingled with dim cries far in the moonlit haze among the hills, as of some lonely city sacked by night, when all is lost, and wife and child with wail pass to new lords; and arthur woke and called, 'who spake? a dream. o light upon the wind, thine, gawain, was the voice--are these dim cries thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild mourn, knowing it will go along with me?' this heard the bold sir bedivere and spake: 'o me, my king, let pass whatever will, elves, and the harmless glamour of the field; but in their stead thy name and glory cling to all high places like a golden cloud for ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass. light was gawain in life, and light in death is gawain, for the ghost is as the man; and care not thou for dreams from him, but rise-- i hear the steps of modred in the west, and with him many of thy people, and knights once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. right well in heart they know thee for the king. arise, go forth and conquer as of old.' then spake king arthur to sir bedivere: 'far other is this battle in the west whereto we move, than when we strove in youth, and brake the petty kings, and fought with rome, or thrust the heathen from the roman wall, and shook him through the north. ill doom is mine to war against my people and my knights. the king who fights his people fights himself. and they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke that strikes them dead is as my death to me. yet let us hence, and find or feel a way through this blind haze, which ever since i saw one lying in the dust at almesbury, hath folded in the passes of the world.' then rose the king and moved his host by night, and ever pushed sir modred, league by league, back to the sunset bound of lyonnesse-- a land of old upheaven from the abyss by fire, to sink into the abyss again; where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, and the long mountains ended in a coast of ever-shifting sand, and far away the phantom circle of a moaning sea. there the pursuer could pursue no more, and he that fled no further fly the king; and there, that day when the great light of heaven burned at his lowest in the rolling year, on the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. nor ever yet had arthur fought a fight like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. a deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea: whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew down with his blood, till all his heart was cold with formless fear; and even on arthur fell confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. for friend and foe were shadows in the mist, and friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew; and some had visions out of golden youth, and some beheld the faces of old ghosts look in upon the battle; and in the mist was many a noble deed, many a base, and chance and craft and strength in single fights, and ever and anon with host to host shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn, shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash of battleaxes on shattered helms, and shrieks after the christ, of those who falling down looked up for heaven, and only saw the mist; and shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, oaths, insults, filth, and monstrous blasphemies, sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs in that close mist, and cryings for the light, moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. last, as by some one deathbed after wail of suffering, silence follows, or through death or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, save for some whisper of the seething seas, a dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day grew drearier toward twilight falling, came a bitter wind, clear from the north, and blew the mist aside, and with that wind the tide rose, and the pale king glanced across the field of battle: but no man was moving there; nor any cry of christian heard thereon, nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave brake in among dead faces, to and fro swaying the helpless hands, and up and down tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, and shivered brands that once had fought with rome, and rolling far along the gloomy shores the voice of days of old and days to be. then spake king arthur to sir bedivere, and whiter than the mist that all day long had held the field of battle was the king: 'hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world, and wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, and beats upon the faces of the dead, my dead, as though they had not died for me?-- o bedivere, for on my heart hath fallen confusion, till i know not what i am, nor whence i am, nor whether i be king. behold, i seem but king among the dead.' then spake the bold sir bedivere: 'my king, king everywhere! and so the dead have kings, there also will i worship thee as king. yet still thy life is whole, and still i live who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought the heathen back among us, yonder stands, modred, unharmed, the traitor of thine house.' then spake the king: 'my house hath been my doom. but call not thou this traitor of my house who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. my house are rather they who sware my vows, yea, even while they brake them, owned me king. and well for thee, saying in my dark hour, when all the purport of my throne hath failed, that quick or dead thou holdest me for king. king am i, whatsoever be their cry; and one last act of kinghood shalt thou see yet, ere i pass.' and uttering this the king made at the man: then modred smote his liege hard on that helm which many a heathen sword had beaten thin; while arthur at one blow, striking the last stroke with excalibur, slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. so all day long the noise of battle rolled among the mountains by the winter sea; until king arthur's table, man by man, had fallen in lyonnesse about their lord, king arthur. then, because his wound was deep, the bold sir bedivere uplifted him, and bore him to a chapel nigh the field, a broken chancel with a broken cross, that stood on a dark strait of barren land: on one side lay the ocean, and on one lay a great water, and the moon was full. then spake king arthur to sir bedivere: 'the sequel of today unsolders all the goodliest fellowship of famous knights whereof this world holds record. such a sleep they sleep--the men i loved. i think that we shall never more, at any future time, delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, walking about the gardens and the halls of camelot, as in the days that were. i perish by this people which i made,-- though merlin sware that i should come again to rule once more; but, let what will be, be, i am so deeply smitten through the helm that without help i cannot last till morn. thou therefore take my brand excalibur, which was my pride: for thou rememberest how in those old days, one summer noon, an arm rose up from out the bosom of the lake, clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, holding the sword--and how i rowed across and took it, and have worn it, like a king; and, wheresoever i am sung or told in aftertime, this also shall be known: but now delay not: take excalibur, and fling him far into the middle mere: watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.' to him replied the bold sir bedivere: 'it is not meet, sir king, to leave thee thus, aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm-- a little thing may harm a wounded man; yet i thy hest will all perform at full, watch what i see, and lightly bring thee word.' so saying, from the ruined shrine he stept, and in the moon athwart the place of tombs, where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. he, stepping down by zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, came on the shining levels of the lake. there drew he forth the brand excalibur, and o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth and sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: for all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work of subtlest jewellery. he gazed so long that both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, this way and that dividing the swift mind, in act to throw: but at the last it seemed better to leave excalibur concealed there in the many-knotted waterflags, that whistled stiff and dry about the marge. so strode he back slow to the wounded king. then spake king arthur to sir bedivere: 'hast thou performed my mission which i gave? what is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' and answer made the bold sir bedivere: 'i heard the ripple washing in the reeds, and the wild water lapping on the crag.' to whom replied king arthur, faint and pale: 'thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name, not rendering true answer, as beseemed thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: for surer sign had followed, either hand, or voice, or else a motion of the mere. this is a shameful thing for men to lie. yet now, i charge thee, quickly go again, as thou art lief and dear, and do the thing i bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.' then went sir bedivere the second time across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought; but when he saw the wonder of the hilt, how curiously and strangely chased, he smote his palms together, and he cried aloud: 'and if indeed i cast the brand away, surely a precious thing, one worthy note, should thus be lost for ever from the earth, which might have pleased the eyes of many men. what good should follow this, if this were done? what harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, seeing obedience is the bond of rule. were it well to obey then, if a king demand an act unprofitable, against himself? the king is sick, and knows not what he does. what record, or what relic of my lord should be to aftertime, but empty breath and rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, some one might show it at a joust of arms, saying, "king arthur's sword, excalibur, wrought by the lonely maiden of the lake. nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps upon the hidden bases of the hills." so might some old man speak in the aftertime to all the people, winning reverence. but now much honour and much fame were lost.' so spake he, clouded with his own conceit, and hid excalibur the second time, and so strode back slow to the wounded king. then spoke king arthur, breathing heavily: 'what is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' and answer made the bold sir bedivere: 'i heard the water lapping on the crag, and the long ripple washing in the reeds.' to whom replied king arthur, much in wrath: 'ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, unknightly, traitor-hearted! woe is me! authority forgets a dying king, laid widowed of the power in his eye that bowed the will. i see thee what thou art, for thou, the latest-left of all my knights, in whom should meet the offices of all, thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; either from lust of gold, or like a girl valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, and the third time may prosper, get thee hence: but, if thou spare to fling excalibur, i will arise and slay thee with my hands.' then quickly rose sir bedivere, and ran, and, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged among the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword, and strongly wheeled and threw it. the great brand made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, and flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, shot like a streamer of the northern morn, seen where the moving isles of winter shock by night, with noises of the northern sea. so flashed and fell the brand excalibur: but ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, and caught him by the hilt, and brandished him three times, and drew him under in the mere. and lightly went the other to the king. then spoke king arthur, drawing thicker breath: 'now see i by thine eyes that this is done. speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?' and answer made the bold sir bedivere: 'sir king, i closed mine eyelids, lest the gems should blind my purpose, for i never saw, nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till i die, not though i live three lives of mortal men, so great a miracle as yonder hilt. then with both hands i flung him, wheeling him; but when i looked again, behold an arm, clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, that caught him by the hilt, and brandished him three times, and drew him under in the mere.' and answer made king arthur, breathing hard: 'my end draws nigh; 'tis time that i were gone. make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, and bear me to the margin; yet i fear my wound hath taken cold, and i shall die.' so saying, from the pavement he half rose, slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, and looking wistfully with wide blue eyes as in a picture. him sir bedivere remorsefully regarded through his tears, and would have spoken, but he found not words; then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, o'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, and rising bore him through the place of tombs. but, as he walked, king arthur panted hard, like one that feels a nightmare on his bed when all the house is mute. so sighed the king, muttering and murmuring at his ear, 'quick, quick! i fear it is too late, and i shall die.' but the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked, larger than human on the frozen hills. he heard the deep behind him, and a cry before. his own thought drove him like a goad. dry clashed his harness in the icy caves and barren chasms, and all to left and right the bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based his feet on juts of slippery crag that rang sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels-- and on a sudden, lo! the level lake, and the long glories of the winter moon. then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, beneath them; and descending they were ware that all the decks were dense with stately forms, black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these three queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose a cry that shivered to the tingling stars, and, as it were one voice, an agony of lamentation, like a wind that shrills all night in a waste land, where no one comes, or hath come, since the making of the world. then murmured arthur, 'place me in the barge.' so to the barge they came. there those three queens put forth their hands, and took the king, and wept. but she, that rose the tallest of them all and fairest, laid his head upon her lap, and loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands, and called him by his name, complaining loud, and dropping bitter tears against a brow striped with dark blood: for all his face was white and colourless, and like the withered moon smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; and all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops of onset; and the light and lustrous curls-- that made his forehead like a rising sun high from the dais-throne--were parched with dust; or, clotted into points and hanging loose, mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. so like a shattered column lay the king; not like that arthur who, with lance in rest, from spur to plume a star of tournament, shot through the lists at camelot, and charged before the eyes of ladies and of kings. then loudly cried the bold sir bedivere: 'ah! my lord arthur, whither shall i go? where shall i hide my forehead and my eyes? for now i see the true old times are dead, when every morning brought a noble chance, and every chance brought out a noble knight. such times have been not since the light that led the holy elders with the gift of myrrh. but now the whole round table is dissolved which was an image of the mighty world, and i, the last, go forth companionless, and the days darken round me, and the years, among new men, strange faces, other minds.' and slowly answered arthur from the barge: 'the old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfils himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world. comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? i have lived my life, and that which i have done may he within himself make pure! but thou, if thou shouldst never see my face again, pray for my soul. more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. wherefore, let thy voice rise like a fountain for me night and day. for what are men better than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life within the brain, if, knowing god, they lift not hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friend? for so the whole round earth is every way bound by gold chains about the feet of god. but now farewell. i am going a long way with these thou seest--if indeed i go (for all my mind is clouded with a doubt)-- to the island-valley of avilion; where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns and bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, where i will heal me of my grievous wound.' so said he, and the barge with oar and sail moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan that, fluting a wild carol ere her death, ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood with swarthy webs. long stood sir bedivere revolving many memories, till the hull looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, and on the mere the wailing died away. but when that moan had past for evermore, the stillness of the dead world's winter dawn amazed him, and he groaned, 'the king is gone.' and therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, 'from the great deep to the great deep he goes.' whereat he slowly turned and slowly clomb the last hard footstep of that iron crag; thence marked the black hull moving yet, and cried, 'he passes to be king among the dead, and after healing of his grievous wound he comes again; but--if he come no more-- o me, be yon dark queens in yon black boat, who shrieked and wailed, the three whereat we gazed on that high day, when, clothed with living light, they stood before his throne in silence, friends of arthur, who should help him at his need?' then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint as from beyond the limit of the world, like the last echo born of a great cry, sounds, as if some fair city were one voice around a king returning from his wars. thereat once more he moved about, and clomb even to the highest he could climb, and saw, straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, or thought he saw, the speck that bare the king, down that long water opening on the deep somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go from less to less and vanish into light. and the new sun rose bringing the new year. to the queen o loyal to the royal in thyself, and loyal to thy land, as this to thee-- bear witness, that rememberable day, when, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the prince who scarce had plucked his flickering life again from halfway down the shadow of the grave, past with thee through thy people and their love, and london rolled one tide of joy through all her trebled millions, and loud leagues of man and welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, the prayer of many a race and creed, and clime-- thunderless lightnings striking under sea from sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, and that true north, whereof we lately heard a strain to shame us 'keep you to yourselves; so loyal is too costly! friends--your love is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go.' is this the tone of empire? here the faith that made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice and meaning, whom the roar of hougoumont left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? what shock has fooled her since, that she should speak so feebly? wealthier--wealthier--hour by hour! the voice of britain, or a sinking land, some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas? there rang her voice, when the full city pealed thee and thy prince! the loyal to their crown are loyal to their own far sons, who love our ocean-empire with her boundless homes for ever-broadening england, and her throne in our vast orient, and one isle, one isle, that knows not her own greatness: if she knows and dreads it we are fallen. --but thou, my queen, not for itself, but through thy living love for one to whom i made it o'er his grave sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, new-old, and shadowing sense at war with soul, ideal manhood closed in real man, rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost, streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak, and cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him of geoffrey's book, or him of malleor's, one touched by the adulterous finger of a time that hovered between war and wantonness, and crownings and dethronements: take withal thy poet's blessing, and his trust that heaven will blow the tempest in the distance back from thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark, or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, waverings of every vane with every wind, and wordy trucklings to the transient hour, and fierce or careless looseners of the faith, and softness breeding scorn of simple life, or cowardice, the child of lust for gold, or labour, with a groan and not a voice, or art with poisonous honey stolen from france, and that which knows, but careful for itself, and that which knows not, ruling that which knows to its own harm: the goal of this great world lies beyond sight: yet--if our slowly-grown and crowned republic's crowning common-sense, that saved her many times, not fail--their fears are morning shadows huger than the shapes that cast them, not those gloomier which forego the darkness of that battle in the west, where all of high and holy dies away. a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) part . chapter xxiii restoration of the fountain saturday noon i went to the well and looked on a while. merlin was still burning smoke-powders, and pawing the air, and muttering gibberish as hard as ever, but looking pretty down-hearted, for of course he had not started even a perspiration in that well yet. finally i said: "how does the thing promise by this time, partner?" "behold, i am even now busied with trial of the powerfulest enchantment known to the princes of the occult arts in the lands of the east; an it fail me, naught can avail. peace, until i finish." he raised a smoke this time that darkened all the region, and must have made matters uncomfortable for the hermits, for the wind was their way, and it rolled down over their dens in a dense and billowy fog. he poured out volumes of speech to match, and contorted his body and sawed the air with his hands in a most extraordinary way. at the end of twenty minutes he dropped down panting, and about exhausted. now arrived the abbot and several hundred monks and nuns, and behind them a multitude of pilgrims and a couple of acres of foundlings, all drawn by the prodigious smoke, and all in a grand state of excitement. the abbot inquired anxiously for results. merlin said: "if any labor of mortal might break the spell that binds these waters, this which i have but just essayed had done it. it has failed; whereby i do now know that that which i had feared is a truth established; the sign of this failure is, that the most potent spirit known to the magicians of the east, and whose name none may utter and live, has laid his spell upon this well. the mortal does not breathe, nor ever will, who can penetrate the secret of that spell, and without that secret none can break it. the water will flow no more forever, good father. i have done what man could. suffer me to go." of course this threw the abbot into a good deal of a consternation. he turned to me with the signs of it in his face, and said: "ye have heard him. is it true?" "part of it is." "not all, then, not all! what part is true?" "that that spirit with the russian name has put his spell upon the well." "god's wounds, then are we ruined!" "possibly." "but not certainly? ye mean, not certainly?" "that is it." "wherefore, ye also mean that when he saith none can break the spell--" "yes, when he says that, he says what isn't necessarily true. there are conditions under which an effort to break it may have some chance--that is, some small, some trifling chance--of success." "the conditions--" "oh, they are nothing difficult. only these: i want the well and the surroundings for the space of half a mile, entirely to myself from sunset to-day until i remove the ban--and nobody allowed to cross the ground but by my authority." "are these all?" "yes." "and you have no fear to try?" "oh, none. one may fail, of course; and one may also succeed. one can try, and i am ready to chance it. i have my conditions?" "these and all others ye may name. i will issue commandment to that effect." "wait," said merlin, with an evil smile. "ye wit that he that would break this spell must know that spirit's name?" "yes, i know his name." "and wit you also that to know it skills not of itself, but ye must likewise pronounce it? ha-ha! knew ye that?" "yes, i knew that, too." "you had that knowledge! art a fool? are ye minded to utter that name and die?" "utter it? why certainly. i would utter it if it was welsh." "ye are even a dead man, then; and i go to tell arthur." "that's all right. take your gripsack and get along. the thing for _you_ to do is to go home and work the weather, john w. merlin." it was a home shot, and it made him wince; for he was the worst weather-failure in the kingdom. whenever he ordered up the danger-signals along the coast there was a week's dead calm, sure, and every time he prophesied fair weather it rained brickbats. but i kept him in the weather bureau right along, to undermine his reputation. however, that shot raised his bile, and instead of starting home to report my death, he said he would remain and enjoy it. my two experts arrived in the evening, and pretty well fagged, for they had traveled double tides. they had pack-mules along, and had brought everything i needed--tools, pump, lead pipe, greek fire, sheaves of big rockets, roman candles, colored fire sprays, electric apparatus, and a lot of sundries--everything necessary for the stateliest kind of a miracle. they got their supper and a nap, and about midnight we sallied out through a solitude so wholly vacant and complete that it quite overpassed the required conditions. we took possession of the well and its surroundings. my boys were experts in all sorts of things, from the stoning up of a well to the constructing of a mathematical instrument. an hour before sunrise we had that leak mended in ship-shape fashion, and the water began to rise. then we stowed our fireworks in the chapel, locked up the place, and went home to bed. before the noon mass was over, we were at the well again; for there was a deal to do yet, and i was determined to spring the miracle before midnight, for business reasons: for whereas a miracle worked for the church on a week-day is worth a good deal, it is worth six times as much if you get it in on a sunday. in nine hours the water had risen to its customary level--that is to say, it was within twenty-three feet of the top. we put in a little iron pump, one of the first turned out by my works near the capital; we bored into a stone reservoir which stood against the outer wall of the well-chamber and inserted a section of lead pipe that was long enough to reach to the door of the chapel and project beyond the threshold, where the gushing water would be visible to the two hundred and fifty acres of people i was intending should be present on the flat plain in front of this little holy hillock at the proper time. we knocked the head out of an empty hogshead and hoisted this hogshead to the flat roof of the chapel, where we clamped it down fast, poured in gunpowder till it lay loosely an inch deep on the bottom, then we stood up rockets in the hogshead as thick as they could loosely stand, all the different breeds of rockets there are; and they made a portly and imposing sheaf, i can tell you. we grounded the wire of a pocket electrical battery in that powder, we placed a whole magazine of greek fire on each corner of the roof--blue on one corner, green on another, red on another, and purple on the last--and grounded a wire in each. about two hundred yards off, in the flat, we built a pen of scantlings, about four feet high, and laid planks on it, and so made a platform. we covered it with swell tapestries borrowed for the occasion, and topped it off with the abbot's own throne. when you are going to do a miracle for an ignorant race, you want to get in every detail that will count; you want to make all the properties impressive to the public eye; you want to make matters comfortable for your head guest; then you can turn yourself loose and play your effects for all they are worth. i know the value of these things, for i know human nature. you can't throw too much style into a miracle. it costs trouble, and work, and sometimes money; but it pays in the end. well, we brought the wires to the ground at the chapel, and then brought them under the ground to the platform, and hid the batteries there. we put a rope fence a hundred feet square around the platform to keep off the common multitude, and that finished the work. my idea was, doors open at : , performance to begin at : sharp. i wished i could charge admission, but of course that wouldn't answer. i instructed my boys to be in the chapel as early as , before anybody was around, and be ready to man the pumps at the proper time, and make the fur fly. then we went home to supper. the news of the disaster to the well had traveled far by this time; and now for two or three days a steady avalanche of people had been pouring into the valley. the lower end of the valley was become one huge camp; we should have a good house, no question about that. criers went the rounds early in the evening and announced the coming attempt, which put every pulse up to fever heat. they gave notice that the abbot and his official suite would move in state and occupy the platform at : , up to which time all the region which was under my ban must be clear; the bells would then cease from tolling, and this sign should be permission to the multitudes to close in and take their places. i was at the platform and all ready to do the honors when the abbot's solemn procession hove in sight--which it did not do till it was nearly to the rope fence, because it was a starless black night and no torches permitted. with it came merlin, and took a front seat on the platform; he was as good as his word for once. one could not see the multitudes banked together beyond the ban, but they were there, just the same. the moment the bells stopped, those banked masses broke and poured over the line like a vast black wave, and for as much as a half hour it continued to flow, and then it solidified itself, and you could have walked upon a pavement of human heads to--well, miles. we had a solemn stage-wait, now, for about twenty minutes--a thing i had counted on for effect; it is always good to let your audience have a chance to work up its expectancy. at length, out of the silence a noble latin chant--men's voices--broke and swelled up and rolled away into the night, a majestic tide of melody. i had put that up, too, and it was one of the best effects i ever invented. when it was finished i stood up on the platform and extended my hands abroad, for two minutes, with my face uplifted--that always produces a dead hush--and then slowly pronounced this ghastly word with a kind of awfulness which caused hundreds to tremble, and many women to faint: "constantinopolitanischerdudelsackspfeifenmachersgesellschafft!" just as i was moaning out the closing hunks of that word, i touched off one of my electric connections and all that murky world of people stood revealed in a hideous blue glare! it was immense --that effect! lots of people shrieked, women curled up and quit in every direction, foundlings collapsed by platoons. the abbot and the monks crossed themselves nimbly and their lips fluttered with agitated prayers. merlin held his grip, but he was astonished clear down to his corns; he had never seen anything to begin with that, before. now was the time to pile in the effects. i lifted my hands and groaned out this word--as it were in agony: "nihilistendynamittheaterkaestchenssprengungsattentaetsversuchungen!" --and turned on the red fire! you should have heard that atlantic of people moan and howl when that crimson hell joined the blue! after sixty seconds i shouted: "transvaaltruppentropentransporttrampelthiertreibertrauungsthraenen- tragoedie!" --and lit up the green fire! after waiting only forty seconds this time, i spread my arms abroad and thundered out the devastating syllables of this word of words: "mekkamuselmannenmassenmenchenmoerdermohrenmuttermarmormonumentenmacher!" --and whirled on the purple glare! there they were, all going at once, red, blue, green, purple!--four furious volcanoes pouring vast clouds of radiant smoke aloft, and spreading a blinding rainbowed noonday to the furthest confines of that valley. in the distance one could see that fellow on the pillar standing rigid against the background of sky, his seesaw stopped for the first time in twenty years. i knew the boys were at the pump now and ready. so i said to the abbot: "the time is come, father. i am about to pronounce the dread name and command the spell to dissolve. you want to brace up, and take hold of something." then i shouted to the people: "behold, in another minute the spell will be broken, or no mortal can break it. if it break, all will know it, for you will see the sacred water gush from the chapel door!" i stood a few moments, to let the hearers have a chance to spread my announcement to those who couldn't hear, and so convey it to the furthest ranks, then i made a grand exhibition of extra posturing and gesturing, and shouted: "lo, i command the fell spirit that possesses the holy fountain to now disgorge into the skies all the infernal fires that still remain in him, and straightway dissolve his spell and flee hence to the pit, there to lie bound a thousand years. by his own dread name i command it--bgwjjilligkkk!" then i touched off the hogshead of rockets, and a vast fountain of dazzling lances of fire vomited itself toward the zenith with a hissing rush, and burst in mid-sky into a storm of flashing jewels! one mighty groan of terror started up from the massed people --then suddenly broke into a wild hosannah of joy--for there, fair and plain in the uncanny glare, they saw the freed water leaping forth! the old abbot could not speak a word, for tears and the chokings in his throat; without utterance of any sort, he folded me in his arms and mashed me. it was more eloquent than speech. and harder to get over, too, in a country where there were really no doctors that were worth a damaged nickel. you should have seen those acres of people throw themselves down in that water and kiss it; kiss it, and pet it, and fondle it, and talk to it as if it were alive, and welcome it back with the dear names they gave their darlings, just as if it had been a friend who was long gone away and lost, and was come home again. yes, it was pretty to see, and made me think more of them than i had done before. i sent merlin home on a shutter. he had caved in and gone down like a landslide when i pronounced that fearful name, and had never come to since. he never had heard that name before,--neither had i--but to him it was the right one. any jumble would have been the right one. he admitted, afterward, that that spirit's own mother could not have pronounced that name better than i did. he never could understand how i survived it, and i didn't tell him. it is only young magicians that give away a secret like that. merlin spent three months working enchantments to try to find out the deep trick of how to pronounce that name and outlive it. but he didn't arrive. when i started to the chapel, the populace uncovered and fell back reverently to make a wide way for me, as if i had been some kind of a superior being--and i was. i was aware of that. i took along a night shift of monks, and taught them the mystery of the pump, and set them to work, for it was plain that a good part of the people out there were going to sit up with the water all night, consequently it was but right that they should have all they wanted of it. to those monks that pump was a good deal of a miracle itself, and they were full of wonder over it; and of admiration, too, of the exceeding effectiveness of its performance. it was a great night, an immense night. there was reputation in it. i could hardly get to sleep for glorying over it. chapter xxiv a rival magician my influence in the valley of holiness was something prodigious now. it seemed worth while to try to turn it to some valuable account. the thought came to me the next morning, and was suggested by my seeing one of my knights who was in the soap line come riding in. according to history, the monks of this place two centuries before had been worldly minded enough to want to wash. it might be that there was a leaven of this unrighteousness still remaining. so i sounded a brother: "wouldn't you like a bath?" he shuddered at the thought--the thought of the peril of it to the well--but he said with feeling: "one needs not to ask that of a poor body who has not known that blessed refreshment sith that he was a boy. would god i might wash me! but it may not be, fair sir, tempt me not; it is forbidden." and then he sighed in such a sorrowful way that i was resolved he should have at least one layer of his real estate removed, if it sized up my whole influence and bankrupted the pile. so i went to the abbot and asked for a permit for this brother. he blenched at the idea--i don't mean that you could see him blench, for of course you couldn't see it without you scraped him, and i didn't care enough about it to scrape him, but i knew the blench was there, just the same, and within a book-cover's thickness of the surface, too--blenched, and trembled. he said: "ah, son, ask aught else thou wilt, and it is thine, and freely granted out of a grateful heart--but this, oh, this! would you drive away the blessed water again?" "no, father, i will not drive it away. i have mysterious knowledge which teaches me that there was an error that other time when it was thought the institution of the bath banished the fountain." a large interest began to show up in the old man's face. "my knowledge informs me that the bath was innocent of that misfortune, which was caused by quite another sort of sin." "these are brave words--but--but right welcome, if they be true." "they are true, indeed. let me build the bath again, father. let me build it again, and the fountain shall flow forever." "you promise this?--you promise it? say the word--say you promise it!" "i do promise it." "then will i have the first bath myself! go--get ye to your work. tarry not, tarry not, but go." i and my boys were at work, straight off. the ruins of the old bath were there yet in the basement of the monastery, not a stone missing. they had been left just so, all these lifetimes, and avoided with a pious fear, as things accursed. in two days we had it all done and the water in--a spacious pool of clear pure water that a body could swim in. it was running water, too. it came in, and went out, through the ancient pipes. the old abbot kept his word, and was the first to try it. he went down black and shaky, leaving the whole black community above troubled and worried and full of bodings; but he came back white and joyful, and the game was made! another triumph scored. it was a good campaign that we made in that valley of holiness, and i was very well satisfied, and ready to move on now, but i struck a disappointment. i caught a heavy cold, and it started up an old lurking rheumatism of mine. of course the rheumatism hunted up my weakest place and located itself there. this was the place where the abbot put his arms about me and mashed me, what time he was moved to testify his gratitude to me with an embrace. when at last i got out, i was a shadow. but everybody was full of attentions and kindnesses, and these brought cheer back into my life, and were the right medicine to help a convalescent swiftly up toward health and strength again; so i gained fast. sandy was worn out with nursing; so i made up my mind to turn out and go a cruise alone, leaving her at the nunnery to rest up. my idea was to disguise myself as a freeman of peasant degree and wander through the country a week or two on foot. this would give me a chance to eat and lodge with the lowliest and poorest class of free citizens on equal terms. there was no other way to inform myself perfectly of their everyday life and the operation of the laws upon it. if i went among them as a gentleman, there would be restraints and conventionalities which would shut me out from their private joys and troubles, and i should get no further than the outside shell. one morning i was out on a long walk to get up muscle for my trip, and had climbed the ridge which bordered the northern extremity of the valley, when i came upon an artificial opening in the face of a low precipice, and recognized it by its location as a hermitage which had often been pointed out to me from a distance as the den of a hermit of high renown for dirt and austerity. i knew he had lately been offered a situation in the great sahara, where lions and sandflies made the hermit-life peculiarly attractive and difficult, and had gone to africa to take possession, so i thought i would look in and see how the atmosphere of this den agreed with its reputation. my surprise was great: the place was newly swept and scoured. then there was another surprise. back in the gloom of the cavern i heard the clink of a little bell, and then this exclamation: "hello central! is this you, camelot?--behold, thou mayst glad thy heart an thou hast faith to believe the wonderful when that it cometh in unexpected guise and maketh itself manifest in impossible places--here standeth in the flesh his mightiness the boss, and with thine own ears shall ye hear him speak!" now what a radical reversal of things this was; what a jumbling together of extravagant incongruities; what a fantastic conjunction of opposites and irreconcilables--the home of the bogus miracle become the home of a real one, the den of a mediaeval hermit turned into a telephone office! the telephone clerk stepped into the light, and i recognized one of my young fellows. i said: "how long has this office been established here, ulfius?" "but since midnight, fair sir boss, an it please you. we saw many lights in the valley, and so judged it well to make a station, for that where so many lights be needs must they indicate a town of goodly size." "quite right. it isn't a town in the customary sense, but it's a good stand, anyway. do you know where you are?" "of that i have had no time to make inquiry; for whenas my comradeship moved hence upon their labors, leaving me in charge, i got me to needed rest, purposing to inquire when i waked, and report the place's name to camelot for record." "well, this is the valley of holiness." it didn't take; i mean, he didn't start at the name, as i had supposed he would. he merely said: "i will so report it." "why, the surrounding regions are filled with the noise of late wonders that have happened here! you didn't hear of them?" "ah, ye will remember we move by night, and avoid speech with all. we learn naught but that we get by the telephone from camelot." "why _they_ know all about this thing. haven't they told you anything about the great miracle of the restoration of a holy fountain?" "oh, _that_? indeed yes. but the name of _this_ valley doth woundily differ from the name of _that_ one; indeed to differ wider were not pos--" "what was that name, then?" "the valley of hellishness." "_that_ explains it. confound a telephone, anyway. it is the very demon for conveying similarities of sound that are miracles of divergence from similarity of sense. but no matter, you know the name of the place now. call up camelot." he did it, and had clarence sent for. it was good to hear my boy's voice again. it was like being home. after some affectionate interchanges, and some account of my late illness, i said: "what is new?" "the king and queen and many of the court do start even in this hour, to go to your valley to pay pious homage to the waters ye have restored, and cleanse themselves of sin, and see the place where the infernal spirit spouted true hell-flames to the clouds --an ye listen sharply ye may hear me wink and hear me likewise smile a smile, sith 'twas i that made selection of those flames from out our stock and sent them by your order." "does the king know the way to this place?" "the king?--no, nor to any other in his realms, mayhap; but the lads that holp you with your miracle will be his guide and lead the way, and appoint the places for rests at noons and sleeps at night." "this will bring them here--when?" "mid-afternoon, or later, the third day." "anything else in the way of news?" "the king hath begun the raising of the standing army ye suggested to him; one regiment is complete and officered." "the mischief! i wanted a main hand in that myself. there is only one body of men in the kingdom that are fitted to officer a regular army." "yes--and now ye will marvel to know there's not so much as one west pointer in that regiment." "what are you talking about? are you in earnest?" "it is truly as i have said." "why, this makes me uneasy. who were chosen, and what was the method? competitive examination?" "indeed, i know naught of the method. i but know this--these officers be all of noble family, and are born--what is it you call it?--chuckleheads." "there's something wrong, clarence." "comfort yourself, then; for two candidates for a lieutenancy do travel hence with the king--young nobles both--and if you but wait where you are you will hear them questioned." "that is news to the purpose. i will get one west pointer in, anyway. mount a man and send him to that school with a message; let him kill horses, if necessary, but he must be there before sunset to-night and say--" "there is no need. i have laid a ground wire to the school. prithee let me connect you with it." it sounded good! in this atmosphere of telephones and lightning communication with distant regions, i was breathing the breath of life again after long suffocation. i realized, then, what a creepy, dull, inanimate horror this land had been to me all these years, and how i had been in such a stifled condition of mind as to have grown used to it almost beyond the power to notice it. i gave my order to the superintendent of the academy personally. i also asked him to bring me some paper and a fountain pen and a box or so of safety matches. i was getting tired of doing without these conveniences. i could have them now, as i wasn't going to wear armor any more at present, and therefore could get at my pockets. when i got back to the monastery, i found a thing of interest going on. the abbot and his monks were assembled in the great hall, observing with childish wonder and faith the performances of a new magician, a fresh arrival. his dress was the extreme of the fantastic; as showy and foolish as the sort of thing an indian medicine-man wears. he was mowing, and mumbling, and gesticulating, and drawing mystical figures in the air and on the floor,--the regular thing, you know. he was a celebrity from asia--so he said, and that was enough. that sort of evidence was as good as gold, and passed current everywhere. how easy and cheap it was to be a great magician on this fellow's terms. his specialty was to tell you what any individual on the face of the globe was doing at the moment; and what he had done at any time in the past, and what he would do at any time in the future. he asked if any would like to know what the emperor of the east was doing now? the sparkling eyes and the delighted rubbing of hands made eloquent answer--this reverend crowd _would_ like to know what that monarch was at, just as this moment. the fraud went through some more mummery, and then made grave announcement: "the high and mighty emperor of the east doth at this moment put money in the palm of a holy begging friar--one, two, three pieces, and they be all of silver." a buzz of admiring exclamations broke out, all around: "it is marvelous!" "wonderful!" "what study, what labor, to have acquired a so amazing power as this!" would they like to know what the supreme lord of inde was doing? yes. he told them what the supreme lord of inde was doing. then he told them what the sultan of egypt was at; also what the king of the remote seas was about. and so on and so on; and with each new marvel the astonishment at his accuracy rose higher and higher. they thought he must surely strike an uncertain place some time; but no, he never had to hesitate, he always knew, and always with unerring precision. i saw that if this thing went on i should lose my supremacy, this fellow would capture my following, i should be left out in the cold. i must put a cog in his wheel, and do it right away, too. i said: "if i might ask, i should very greatly like to know what a certain person is doing." "speak, and freely. i will tell you." "it will be difficult--perhaps impossible." "my art knoweth not that word. the more difficult it is, the more certainly will i reveal it to you." you see, i was working up the interest. it was getting pretty high, too; you could see that by the craning necks all around, and the half-suspended breathing. so now i climaxed it: "if you make no mistake--if you tell me truly what i want to know--i will give you two hundred silver pennies." "the fortune is mine! i will tell you what you would know." "then tell me what i am doing with my right hand." "ah-h!" there was a general gasp of surprise. it had not occurred to anybody in the crowd--that simple trick of inquiring about somebody who wasn't ten thousand miles away. the magician was hit hard; it was an emergency that had never happened in his experience before, and it corked him; he didn't know how to meet it. he looked stunned, confused; he couldn't say a word. "come," i said, "what are you waiting for? is it possible you can answer up, right off, and tell what anybody on the other side of the earth is doing, and yet can't tell what a person is doing who isn't three yards from you? persons behind me know what i am doing with my right hand--they will indorse you if you tell correctly." he was still dumb. "very well, i'll tell you why you don't speak up and tell; it is because you don't know. _you_ a magician! good friends, this tramp is a mere fraud and liar." this distressed the monks and terrified them. they were not used to hearing these awful beings called names, and they did not know what might be the consequence. there was a dead silence now; superstitious bodings were in every mind. the magician began to pull his wits together, and when he presently smiled an easy, nonchalant smile, it spread a mighty relief around; for it indicated that his mood was not destructive. he said: "it hath struck me speechless, the frivolity of this person's speech. let all know, if perchance there be any who know it not, that enchanters of my degree deign not to concern themselves with the doings of any but kings, princes, emperors, them that be born in the purple and them only. had ye asked me what arthur the great king is doing, it were another matter, and i had told ye; but the doings of a subject interest me not." "oh, i misunderstood you. i thought you said 'anybody,' and so i supposed 'anybody' included--well, anybody; that is, everybody." "it doth--anybody that is of lofty birth; and the better if he be royal." "that, it meseemeth, might well be," said the abbot, who saw his opportunity to smooth things and avert disaster, "for it were not likely that so wonderful a gift as this would be conferred for the revelation of the concerns of lesser beings than such as be born near to the summits of greatness. our arthur the king--" "would you know of him?" broke in the enchanter. "most gladly, yea, and gratefully." everybody was full of awe and interest again right away, the incorrigible idiots. they watched the incantations absorbingly, and looked at me with a "there, now, what can you say to that?" air, when the announcement came: "the king is weary with the chase, and lieth in his palace these two hours sleeping a dreamless sleep." "god's benison upon him!" said the abbot, and crossed himself; "may that sleep be to the refreshment of his body and his soul." "and so it might be, if he were sleeping," i said, "but the king is not sleeping, the king rides." here was trouble again--a conflict of authority. nobody knew which of us to believe; i still had some reputation left. the magician's scorn was stirred, and he said: "lo, i have seen many wonderful soothsayers and prophets and magicians in my life days, but none before that could sit idle and see to the heart of things with never an incantation to help." "you have lived in the woods, and lost much by it. i use incantations myself, as this good brotherhood are aware--but only on occasions of moment." when it comes to sarcasming, i reckon i know how to keep my end up. that jab made this fellow squirm. the abbot inquired after the queen and the court, and got this information: "they be all on sleep, being overcome by fatigue, like as to the king." i said: "that is merely another lie. half of them are about their amusements, the queen and the other half are not sleeping, they ride. now perhaps you can spread yourself a little, and tell us where the king and queen and all that are this moment riding with them are going?" "they sleep now, as i said; but on the morrow they will ride, for they go a journey toward the sea." "and where will they be the day after to-morrow at vespers?" "far to the north of camelot, and half their journey will be done." "that is another lie, by the space of a hundred and fifty miles. their journey will not be merely half done, it will be all done, and they will be _here_, in this valley." _that_ was a noble shot! it set the abbot and the monks in a whirl of excitement, and it rocked the enchanter to his base. i followed the thing right up: "if the king does not arrive, i will have myself ridden on a rail: if he does i will ride you on a rail instead." next day i went up to the telephone office and found that the king had passed through two towns that were on the line. i spotted his progress on the succeeding day in the same way. i kept these matters to myself. the third day's reports showed that if he kept up his gait he would arrive by four in the afternoon. there was still no sign anywhere of interest in his coming; there seemed to be no preparations making to receive him in state; a strange thing, truly. only one thing could explain this: that other magician had been cutting under me, sure. this was true. i asked a friend of mine, a monk, about it, and he said, yes, the magician had tried some further enchantments and found out that the court had concluded to make no journey at all, but stay at home. think of that! observe how much a reputation was worth in such a country. these people had seen me do the very showiest bit of magic in history, and the only one within their memory that had a positive value, and yet here they were, ready to take up with an adventurer who could offer no evidence of his powers but his mere unproven word. however, it was not good politics to let the king come without any fuss and feathers at all, so i went down and drummed up a procession of pilgrims and smoked out a batch of hermits and started them out at two o'clock to meet him. and that was the sort of state he arrived in. the abbot was helpless with rage and humiliation when i brought him out on a balcony and showed him the head of the state marching in and never a monk on hand to offer him welcome, and no stir of life or clang of joy-bell to glad his spirit. he took one look and then flew to rouse out his forces. the next minute the bells were dinning furiously, and the various buildings were vomiting monks and nuns, who went swarming in a rush toward the coming procession; and with them went that magician --and he was on a rail, too, by the abbot's order; and his reputation was in the mud, and mine was in the sky again. yes, a man can keep his trademark current in such a country, but he can't sit around and do it; he has got to be on deck and attending to business right along. chapter xxv a competitive examination when the king traveled for change of air, or made a progress, or visited a distant noble whom he wished to bankrupt with the cost of his keep, part of the administration moved with him. it was a fashion of the time. the commission charged with the examination of candidates for posts in the army came with the king to the valley, whereas they could have transacted their business just as well at home. and although this expedition was strictly a holiday excursion for the king, he kept some of his business functions going just the same. he touched for the evil, as usual; he held court in the gate at sunrise and tried cases, for he was himself chief justice of the king's bench. he shone very well in this latter office. he was a wise and humane judge, and he clearly did his honest best and fairest,--according to his lights. that is a large reservation. his lights--i mean his rearing--often colored his decisions. whenever there was a dispute between a noble or gentleman and a person of lower degree, the king's leanings and sympathies were for the former class always, whether he suspected it or not. it was impossible that this should be otherwise. the blunting effects of slavery upon the slaveholder's moral perceptions are known and conceded, the world over; and a privileged class, an aristocracy, is but a band of slaveholders under another name. this has a harsh sound, and yet should not be offensive to any--even to the noble himself--unless the fact itself be an offense: for the statement simply formulates a fact. the repulsive feature of slavery is the _thing_, not its name. one needs but to hear an aristocrat speak of the classes that are below him to recognize--and in but indifferently modified measure --the very air and tone of the actual slaveholder; and behind these are the slaveholder's spirit, the slaveholder's blunted feeling. they are the result of the same cause in both cases: the possessor's old and inbred custom of regarding himself as a superior being. the king's judgments wrought frequent injustices, but it was merely the fault of his training, his natural and unalterable sympathies. he was as unfitted for a judgeship as would be the average mother for the position of milk-distributor to starving children in famine-time; her own children would fare a shade better than the rest. one very curious case came before the king. a young girl, an orphan, who had a considerable estate, married a fine young fellow who had nothing. the girl's property was within a seigniory held by the church. the bishop of the diocese, an arrogant scion of the great nobility, claimed the girl's estate on the ground that she had married privately, and thus had cheated the church out of one of its rights as lord of the seigniory--the one heretofore referred to as le droit du seigneur. the penalty of refusal or avoidance was confiscation. the girl's defense was, that the lordship of the seigniory was vested in the bishop, and the particular right here involved was not transferable, but must be exercised by the lord himself or stand vacated; and that an older law, of the church itself, strictly barred the bishop from exercising it. it was a very odd case, indeed. it reminded me of something i had read in my youth about the ingenious way in which the aldermen of london raised the money that built the mansion house. a person who had not taken the sacrament according to the anglican rite could not stand as a candidate for sheriff of london. thus dissenters were ineligible; they could not run if asked, they could not serve if elected. the aldermen, who without any question were yankees in disguise, hit upon this neat device: they passed a by-law imposing a fine of l upon any one who should refuse to be a candidate for sheriff, and a fine of l upon any person who, after being elected sheriff, refused to serve. then they went to work and elected a lot of dissenters, one after another, and kept it up until they had collected l , in fines; and there stands the stately mansion house to this day, to keep the blushing citizen in mind of a long past and lamented day when a band of yankees slipped into london and played games of the sort that has given their race a unique and shady reputation among all truly good and holy peoples that be in the earth. the girl's case seemed strong to me; the bishop's case was just as strong. i did not see how the king was going to get out of this hole. but he got out. i append his decision: "truly i find small difficulty here, the matter being even a child's affair for simpleness. an the young bride had conveyed notice, as in duty bound, to her feudal lord and proper master and protector the bishop, she had suffered no loss, for the said bishop could have got a dispensation making him, for temporary conveniency, eligible to the exercise of his said right, and thus would she have kept all she had. whereas, failing in her first duty, she hath by that failure failed in all; for whoso, clinging to a rope, severeth it above his hands, must fall; it being no defense to claim that the rest of the rope is sound, neither any deliverance from his peril, as he shall find. pardy, the woman's case is rotten at the source. it is the decree of the court that she forfeit to the said lord bishop all her goods, even to the last farthing that she doth possess, and be thereto mulcted in the costs. next!" here was a tragic end to a beautiful honeymoon not yet three months old. poor young creatures! they had lived these three months lapped to the lips in worldly comforts. these clothes and trinkets they were wearing were as fine and dainty as the shrewdest stretch of the sumptuary laws allowed to people of their degree; and in these pretty clothes, she crying on his shoulder, and he trying to comfort her with hopeful words set to the music of despair, they went from the judgment seat out into the world homeless, bedless, breadless; why, the very beggars by the roadsides were not so poor as they. well, the king was out of the hole; and on terms satisfactory to the church and the rest of the aristocracy, no doubt. men write many fine and plausible arguments in support of monarchy, but the fact remains that where every man in a state has a vote, brutal laws are impossible. arthur's people were of course poor material for a republic, because they had been debased so long by monarchy; and yet even they would have been intelligent enough to make short work of that law which the king had just been administering if it had been submitted to their full and free vote. there is a phrase which has grown so common in the world's mouth that it has come to seem to have sense and meaning--the sense and meaning implied when it is used; that is the phrase which refers to this or that or the other nation as possibly being "capable of self-government"; and the implied sense of it is, that there has been a nation somewhere, some time or other which _wasn't_ capable of it--wasn't as able to govern itself as some self-appointed specialists were or would be to govern it. the master minds of all nations, in all ages, have sprung in affluent multitude from the mass of the nation, and from the mass of the nation only--not from its privileged classes; and so, no matter what the nation's intellectual grade was; whether high or low, the bulk of its ability was in the long ranks of its nameless and its poor, and so it never saw the day that it had not the material in abundance whereby to govern itself. which is to assert an always self-proven fact: that even the best governed and most free and most enlightened monarchy is still behind the best condition attainable by its people; and that the same is true of kindred governments of lower grades, all the way down to the lowest. king arthur had hurried up the army business altogether beyond my calculations. i had not supposed he would move in the matter while i was away; and so i had not mapped out a scheme for determining the merits of officers; i had only remarked that it would be wise to submit every candidate to a sharp and searching examination; and privately i meant to put together a list of military qualifications that nobody could answer to but my west pointers. that ought to have been attended to before i left; for the king was so taken with the idea of a standing army that he couldn't wait but must get about it at once, and get up as good a scheme of examination as he could invent out of his own head. i was impatient to see what this was; and to show, too, how much more admirable was the one which i should display to the examining board. i intimated this, gently, to the king, and it fired his curiosity. when the board was assembled, i followed him in; and behind us came the candidates. one of these candidates was a bright young west pointer of mine, and with him were a couple of my west point professors. when i saw the board, i did not know whether to cry or to laugh. the head of it was the officer known to later centuries as norroy king-at-arms! the two other members were chiefs of bureaus in his department; and all three were priests, of course; all officials who had to know how to read and write were priests. my candidate was called first, out of courtesy to me, and the head of the board opened on him with official solemnity: "name?" "mal-ease." "son of?" "webster." "webster--webster. h'm--i--my memory faileth to recall the name. condition?" "weaver." "weaver!--god keep us!" the king was staggered, from his summit to his foundations; one clerk fainted, and the others came near it. the chairman pulled himself together, and said indignantly: "it is sufficient. get you hence." but i appealed to the king. i begged that my candidate might be examined. the king was willing, but the board, who were all well-born folk, implored the king to spare them the indignity of examining the weaver's son. i knew they didn't know enough to examine him anyway, so i joined my prayers to theirs and the king turned the duty over to my professors. i had had a blackboard prepared, and it was put up now, and the circus began. it was beautiful to hear the lad lay out the science of war, and wallow in details of battle and siege, of supply, transportation, mining and countermining, grand tactics, big strategy and little strategy, signal service, infantry, cavalry, artillery, and all about siege guns, field guns, gatling guns, rifled guns, smooth bores, musket practice, revolver practice--and not a solitary word of it all could these catfish make head or tail of, you understand--and it was handsome to see him chalk off mathematical nightmares on the blackboard that would stump the angels themselves, and do it like nothing, too--all about eclipses, and comets, and solstices, and constellations, and mean time, and sidereal time, and dinner time, and bedtime, and every other imaginable thing above the clouds or under them that you could harry or bullyrag an enemy with and make him wish he hadn't come--and when the boy made his military salute and stood aside at last, i was proud enough to hug him, and all those other people were so dazed they looked partly petrified, partly drunk, and wholly caught out and snowed under. i judged that the cake was ours, and by a large majority. education is a great thing. this was the same youth who had come to west point so ignorant that when i asked him, "if a general officer should have a horse shot under him on the field of battle, what ought he to do?" answered up naively and said: "get up and brush himself." one of the young nobles was called up now. i thought i would question him a little myself. i said: "can your lordship read?" his face flushed indignantly, and he fired this at me: "takest me for a clerk? i trow i am not of a blood that--" "answer the question!" he crowded his wrath down and made out to answer "no." "can you write?" he wanted to resent this, too, but i said: "you will confine yourself to the questions, and make no comments. you are not here to air your blood or your graces, and nothing of the sort will be permitted. can you write?" "no." "do you know the multiplication table?" "i wit not what ye refer to." "how much is times ?" "it is a mystery that is hidden from me by reason that the emergency requiring the fathoming of it hath not in my life-days occurred, and so, not having no need to know this thing, i abide barren of the knowledge." "if a trade a barrel of onions to b, worth pence the bushel, in exchange for a sheep worth pence and a dog worth a penny, and c kill the dog before delivery, because bitten by the same, who mistook him for d, what sum is still due to a from b, and which party pays for the dog, c or d, and who gets the money? if a, is the penny sufficient, or may he claim consequential damages in the form of additional money to represent the possible profit which might have inured from the dog, and classifiable as earned increment, that is to say, usufruct?" "verily, in the all-wise and unknowable providence of god, who moveth in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, have i never heard the fellow to this question for confusion of the mind and congestion of the ducts of thought. wherefore i beseech you let the dog and the onions and these people of the strange and godless names work out their several salvations from their piteous and wonderful difficulties without help of mine, for indeed their trouble is sufficient as it is, whereas an i tried to help i should but damage their cause the more and yet mayhap not live myself to see the desolation wrought." "what do you know of the laws of attraction and gravitation?" "if there be such, mayhap his grace the king did promulgate them whilst that i lay sick about the beginning of the year and thereby failed to hear his proclamation." "what do you know of the science of optics?" "i know of governors of places, and seneschals of castles, and sheriffs of counties, and many like small offices and titles of honor, but him you call the science of optics i have not heard of before; peradventure it is a new dignity." "yes, in this country." try to conceive of this mollusk gravely applying for an official position, of any kind under the sun! why, he had all the earmarks of a typewriter copyist, if you leave out the disposition to contribute uninvited emendations of your grammar and punctuation. it was unaccountable that he didn't attempt a little help of that sort out of his majestic supply of incapacity for the job. but that didn't prove that he hadn't material in him for the disposition, it only proved that he wasn't a typewriter copyist yet. after nagging him a little more, i let the professors loose on him and they turned him inside out, on the line of scientific war, and found him empty, of course. he knew somewhat about the warfare of the time--bushwhacking around for ogres, and bull-fights in the tournament ring, and such things--but otherwise he was empty and useless. then we took the other young noble in hand, and he was the first one's twin, for ignorance and incapacity. i delivered them into the hands of the chairman of the board with the comfortable consciousness that their cake was dough. they were examined in the previous order of precedence. "name, so please you?" "pertipole, son of sir pertipole, baron of barley mash." "grandfather?" "also sir pertipole, baron of barley mash." "great-grandfather?" "the same name and title." "great-great-grandfather?" "we had none, worshipful sir, the line failing before it had reached so far back." "it mattereth not. it is a good four generations, and fulfilleth the requirements of the rule." "fulfills what rule?" i asked. "the rule requiring four generations of nobility or else the candidate is not eligible." "a man not eligible for a lieutenancy in the army unless he can prove four generations of noble descent?" "even so; neither lieutenant nor any other officer may be commissioned without that qualification." "oh, come, this is an astonishing thing. what good is such a qualification as that?" "what good? it is a hardy question, fair sir and boss, since it doth go far to impugn the wisdom of even our holy mother church herself." "as how?" "for that she hath established the self-same rule regarding saints. by her law none may be canonized until he hath lain dead four generations." "i see, i see--it is the same thing. it is wonderful. in the one case a man lies dead-alive four generations--mummified in ignorance and sloth--and that qualifies him to command live people, and take their weal and woe into his impotent hands; and in the other case, a man lies bedded with death and worms four generations, and that qualifies him for office in the celestial camp. does the king's grace approve of this strange law?" the king said: "why, truly i see naught about it that is strange. all places of honor and of profit do belong, by natural right, to them that be of noble blood, and so these dignities in the army are their property and would be so without this or any rule. the rule is but to mark a limit. its purpose is to keep out too recent blood, which would bring into contempt these offices, and men of lofty lineage would turn their backs and scorn to take them. i were to blame an i permitted this calamity. _you_ can permit it an you are minded so to do, for you have the delegated authority, but that the king should do it were a most strange madness and not comprehensible to any." "i yield. proceed, sir chief of the herald's college." the chairman resumed as follows: "by what illustrious achievement for the honor of the throne and state did the founder of your great line lift himself to the sacred dignity of the british nobility?" "he built a brewery." "sire, the board finds this candidate perfect in all the requirements and qualifications for military command, and doth hold his case open for decision after due examination of his competitor." the competitor came forward and proved exactly four generations of nobility himself. so there was a tie in military qualifications that far. he stood aside a moment, and sir pertipole was questioned further: "of what condition was the wife of the founder of your line?" "she came of the highest landed gentry, yet she was not noble; she was gracious and pure and charitable, of a blameless life and character, insomuch that in these regards was she peer of the best lady in the land." "that will do. stand down." he called up the competing lordling again, and asked: "what was the rank and condition of the great-grandmother who conferred british nobility upon your great house?" "she was a king's leman and did climb to that splendid eminence by her own unholpen merit from the sewer where she was born." "ah, this, indeed, is true nobility, this is the right and perfect intermixture. the lieutenancy is yours, fair lord. hold it not in contempt; it is the humble step which will lead to grandeurs more worthy of the splendor of an origin like to thine." i was down in the bottomless pit of humiliation. i had promised myself an easy and zenith-scouring triumph, and this was the outcome! i was almost ashamed to look my poor disappointed cadet in the face. i told him to go home and be patient, this wasn't the end. i had a private audience with the king, and made a proposition. i said it was quite right to officer that regiment with nobilities, and he couldn't have done a wiser thing. it would also be a good idea to add five hundred officers to it; in fact, add as many officers as there were nobles and relatives of nobles in the country, even if there should finally be five times as many officers as privates in it; and thus make it the crack regiment, the envied regiment, the king's own regiment, and entitled to fight on its own hook and in its own way, and go whither it would and come when it pleased, in time of war, and be utterly swell and independent. this would make that regiment the heart's desire of all the nobility, and they would all be satisfied and happy. then we would make up the rest of the standing army out of commonplace materials, and officer it with nobodies, as was proper--nobodies selected on a basis of mere efficiency--and we would make this regiment toe the line, allow it no aristocratic freedom from restraint, and force it to do all the work and persistent hammering, to the end that whenever the king's own was tired and wanted to go off for a change and rummage around amongst ogres and have a good time, it could go without uneasiness, knowing that matters were in safe hands behind it, and business going to be continued at the old stand, same as usual. the king was charmed with the idea. when i noticed that, it gave me a valuable notion. i thought i saw my way out of an old and stubborn difficulty at last. you see, the royalties of the pendragon stock were a long-lived race and very fruitful. whenever a child was born to any of these --and it was pretty often--there was wild joy in the nation's mouth, and piteous sorrow in the nation's heart. the joy was questionable, but the grief was honest. because the event meant another call for a royal grant. long was the list of these royalties, and they were a heavy and steadily increasing burden upon the treasury and a menace to the crown. yet arthur could not believe this latter fact, and he would not listen to any of my various projects for substituting something in the place of the royal grants. if i could have persuaded him to now and then provide a support for one of these outlying scions from his own pocket, i could have made a grand to-do over it, and it would have had a good effect with the nation; but no, he wouldn't hear of such a thing. he had something like a religious passion for royal grant; he seemed to look upon it as a sort of sacred swag, and one could not irritate him in any way so quickly and so surely as by an attack upon that venerable institution. if i ventured to cautiously hint that there was not another respectable family in england that would humble itself to hold out the hat--however, that is as far as i ever got; he always cut me short there, and peremptorily, too. but i believed i saw my chance at last. i would form this crack regiment out of officers alone--not a single private. half of it should consist of nobles, who should fill all the places up to major-general, and serve gratis and pay their own expenses; and they would be glad to do this when they should learn that the rest of the regiment would consist exclusively of princes of the blood. these princes of the blood should range in rank from lieutenant-general up to field marshal, and be gorgeously salaried and equipped and fed by the state. moreover--and this was the master stroke --it should be decreed that these princely grandees should be always addressed by a stunningly gaudy and awe-compelling title (which i would presently invent), and they and they only in all england should be so addressed. finally, all princes of the blood should have free choice; join that regiment, get that great title, and renounce the royal grant, or stay out and receive a grant. neatest touch of all: unborn but imminent princes of the blood could be _born_ into the regiment, and start fair, with good wages and a permanent situation, upon due notice from the parents. all the boys would join, i was sure of that; so, all existing grants would be relinquished; that the newly born would always join was equally certain. within sixty days that quaint and bizarre anomaly, the royal grant, would cease to be a living fact, and take its place among the curiosities of the past. chapter xxvi the first newspaper when i told the king i was going out disguised as a petty freeman to scour the country and familiarize myself with the humbler life of the people, he was all afire with the novelty of the thing in a minute, and was bound to take a chance in the adventure himself--nothing should stop him--he would drop everything and go along--it was the prettiest idea he had run across for many a day. he wanted to glide out the back way and start at once; but i showed him that that wouldn't answer. you see, he was billed for the king's-evil--to touch for it, i mean--and it wouldn't be right to disappoint the house and it wouldn't make a delay worth considering, anyway, it was only a one-night stand. and i thought he ought to tell the queen he was going away. he clouded up at that and looked sad. i was sorry i had spoken, especially when he said mournfully: "thou forgettest that launcelot is here; and where launcelot is, she noteth not the going forth of the king, nor what day he returneth." of course, i changed the subject. yes, guenever was beautiful, it is true, but take her all around she was pretty slack. i never meddled in these matters, they weren't my affair, but i did hate to see the way things were going on, and i don't mind saying that much. many's the time she had asked me, "sir boss, hast seen sir launcelot about?" but if ever she went fretting around for the king i didn't happen to be around at the time. there was a very good lay-out for the king's-evil business--very tidy and creditable. the king sat under a canopy of state; about him were clustered a large body of the clergy in full canonicals. conspicuous, both for location and personal outfit, stood marinel, a hermit of the quack-doctor species, to introduce the sick. all abroad over the spacious floor, and clear down to the doors, in a thick jumble, lay or sat the scrofulous, under a strong light. it was as good as a tableau; in fact, it had all the look of being gotten up for that, though it wasn't. there were eight hundred sick people present. the work was slow; it lacked the interest of novelty for me, because i had seen the ceremonies before; the thing soon became tedious, but the proprieties required me to stick it out. the doctor was there for the reason that in all such crowds there were many people who only imagined something was the matter with them, and many who were consciously sound but wanted the immortal honor of fleshly contact with a king, and yet others who pretended to illness in order to get the piece of coin that went with the touch. up to this time this coin had been a wee little gold piece worth about a third of a dollar. when you consider how much that amount of money would buy, in that age and country, and how usual it was to be scrofulous, when not dead, you would understand that the annual king's-evil appropriation was just the river and harbor bill of that government for the grip it took on the treasury and the chance it afforded for skinning the surplus. so i had privately concluded to touch the treasury itself for the king's-evil. i covered six-sevenths of the appropriation into the treasury a week before starting from camelot on my adventures, and ordered that the other seventh be inflated into five-cent nickels and delivered into the hands of the head clerk of the king's evil department; a nickel to take the place of each gold coin, you see, and do its work for it. it might strain the nickel some, but i judged it could stand it. as a rule, i do not approve of watering stock, but i considered it square enough in this case, for it was just a gift, anyway. of course, you can water a gift as much as you want to; and i generally do. the old gold and silver coins of the country were of ancient and unknown origin, as a rule, but some of them were roman; they were ill-shapen, and seldom rounder than a moon that is a week past the full; they were hammered, not minted, and they were so worn with use that the devices upon them were as illegible as blisters, and looked like them. i judged that a sharp, bright new nickel, with a first-rate likeness of the king on one side of it and guenever on the other, and a blooming pious motto, would take the tuck out of scrofula as handy as a nobler coin and please the scrofulous fancy more; and i was right. this batch was the first it was tried on, and it worked to a charm. the saving in expense was a notable economy. you will see that by these figures: we touched a trifle over of the patients; at former rates, this would have cost the government about $ ; at the new rate we pulled through for about $ , thus saving upward of $ at one swoop. to appreciate the full magnitude of this stroke, consider these other figures: the annual expenses of a national government amount to the equivalent of a contribution of three days' average wages of every individual of the population, counting every individual as if he were a man. if you take a nation of , , , where average wages are $ per day, three days' wages taken from each individual will provide $ , , and pay the government's expenses. in my day, in my own country, this money was collected from imposts, and the citizen imagined that the foreign importer paid it, and it made him comfortable to think so; whereas, in fact, it was paid by the american people, and was so equally and exactly distributed among them that the annual cost to the -millionaire and the annual cost to the sucking child of the day-laborer was precisely the same--each paid $ . nothing could be equaler than that, i reckon. well, scotland and ireland were tributary to arthur, and the united populations of the british islands amounted to something less than , , . a mechanic's average wage was cents a day, when he paid his own keep. by this rule the national government's expenses were $ , a year, or about $ a day. thus, by the substitution of nickels for gold on a king's-evil day, i not only injured no one, dissatisfied no one, but pleased all concerned and saved four-fifths of that day's national expense into the bargain--a saving which would have been the equivalent of $ , in my day in america. in making this substitution i had drawn upon the wisdom of a very remote source--the wisdom of my boyhood--for the true statesman does not despise any wisdom, howsoever lowly may be its origin: in my boyhood i had always saved my pennies and contributed buttons to the foreign missionary cause. the buttons would answer the ignorant savage as well as the coin, the coin would answer me better than the buttons; all hands were happy and nobody hurt. marinel took the patients as they came. he examined the candidate; if he couldn't qualify he was warned off; if he could he was passed along to the king. a priest pronounced the words, "they shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover." then the king stroked the ulcers, while the reading continued; finally, the patient graduated and got his nickel--the king hanging it around his neck himself--and was dismissed. would you think that that would cure? it certainly did. any mummery will cure if the patient's faith is strong in it. up by astolat there was a chapel where the virgin had once appeared to a girl who used to herd geese around there--the girl said so herself--and they built the chapel upon that spot and hung a picture in it representing the occurrence--a picture which you would think it dangerous for a sick person to approach; whereas, on the contrary, thousands of the lame and the sick came and prayed before it every year and went away whole and sound; and even the well could look upon it and live. of course, when i was told these things i did not believe them; but when i went there and saw them i had to succumb. i saw the cures effected myself; and they were real cures and not questionable. i saw cripples whom i had seen around camelot for years on crutches, arrive and pray before that picture, and put down their crutches and walk off without a limp. there were piles of crutches there which had been left by such people as a testimony. in other places people operated on a patient's mind, without saying a word to him, and cured him. in others, experts assembled patients in a room and prayed over them, and appealed to their faith, and those patients went away cured. wherever you find a king who can't cure the king's-evil you can be sure that the most valuable superstition that supports his throne--the subject's belief in the divine appointment of his sovereign--has passed away. in my youth the monarchs of england had ceased to touch for the evil, but there was no occasion for this diffidence: they could have cured it forty-nine times in fifty. well, when the priest had been droning for three hours, and the good king polishing the evidences, and the sick were still pressing forward as plenty as ever, i got to feeling intolerably bored. i was sitting by an open window not far from the canopy of state. for the five hundredth time a patient stood forward to have his repulsivenesses stroked; again those words were being droned out: "they shall lay their hands on the sick"--when outside there rang clear as a clarion a note that enchanted my soul and tumbled thirteen worthless centuries about my ears: "camelot _weekly hosannah and literary volcano!_--latest irruption--only two cents --all about the big miracle in the valley of holiness!" one greater than kings had arrived--the newsboy. but i was the only person in all that throng who knew the meaning of this mighty birth, and what this imperial magician was come into the world to do. i dropped a nickel out of the window and got my paper; the adam-newsboy of the world went around the corner to get my change; is around the corner yet. it was delicious to see a newspaper again, yet i was conscious of a secret shock when my eye fell upon the first batch of display head-lines. i had lived in a clammy atmosphere of reverence, respect, deference, so long that they sent a quivery little cold wave through me: high times in the valley of holiness! ---- the water-works corked! ---- brer merlin works his arts, but gets left? ---- but the boss scores on his first innings! ---- the miraculous well uncorked amid awful outbursts of infernal fire and smoke athunder! ---- the buzzard-roost astonished! ---- unparalleled rejoibings! --and so on, and so on. yes, it was too loud. once i could have enjoyed it and seen nothing out of the way about it, but now its note was discordant. it was good arkansas journalism, but this was not arkansas. moreover, the next to the last line was calculated to give offense to the hermits, and perhaps lose us their advertising. indeed, there was too lightsome a tone of flippancy all through the paper. it was plain i had undergone a considerable change without noticing it. i found myself unpleasantly affected by pert little irreverencies which would have seemed but proper and airy graces of speech at an earlier period of my life. there was an abundance of the following breed of items, and they discomforted me: local smoke and cinders. sir launcelot met up with old king agrivance of ireland unexpectedly last weok over on the moor south of sir balmoral le merveilleuse's hog dasture. the widow has been notified. expedition no. will start adout the first of mext month on a search f r sir sagramour le desirous. it is in com- and of the renowned knight of the red lawns, assissted by sir persant of inde, who is compete t. intelligent, courte- ous, and in every way a brick, and fur- ther assisted by sir palamides the sara- cen, who is no huckleberry hinself. this is no pic-nic, these boys mean busine&s. the readers of the hosannah will re- gret to learn that the hadndsome and popular sir charolais of gaul, who dur- ing his four weeks' stay at the bull and halibut, this city, has won every heart by his polished manners and elegant cpnversation, will pull out to-day for home. give us another call, charley! the bdsiness end of the funeral of the late sir dalliance the duke's son of cornwall, killed in an encounter with the giant of the knotted bludgeon last tuesday on the borders of the plain of enchantment was in the hands of the ever affable and efficient mumble, prince of un ertakers, then whom there exists none by whom it were a more satisfying pleasure to have the last sad offices performed. give him a trial. the cordial thanks of the hosannah office are due, from editor down to devil, to the ever courteous and thought- ful lord high stew d of the palace's third assistant v t for several sau- cets of ice cream a quality calculated to make the ey of the recipients hu- mid with grt ude; and it done it. when this administration wants to chalk up a desirable name for early promotion, the hosannah would like a chance to sudgest. the demoiselle irene dewlap, of south astolat, is visiting her uncle, the popular host of the cattlemen's board- ing ho&se, liver lane, this city. young barker the bellows-mender is home again, and looks much improved by his vacation round-up among the out- lying smithies. see his ad. of course it was good enough journalism for a beginning; i knew that quite well, and yet it was somehow disappointing. the "court circular" pleased me better; indeed, its simple and dignified respectfulness was a distinct refreshment to me after all those disgraceful familiarities. but even it could have been improved. do what one may, there is no getting an air of variety into a court circular, i acknowledge that. there is a profound monotonousness about its facts that baffles and defeats one's sincerest efforts to make them sparkle and enthuse. the best way to manage--in fact, the only sensible way--is to disguise repetitiousness of fact under variety of form: skin your fact each time and lay on a new cuticle of words. it deceives the eye; you think it is a new fact; it gives you the idea that the court is carrying on like everything; this excites you, and you drain the whole column, with a good appetite, and perhaps never notice that it's a barrel of soup made out of a single bean. clarence's way was good, it was simple, it was dignified, it was direct and business-like; all i say is, it was not the best way: court circular. on monday, the king rode in the park. " tuesday, " " " " wendesday " " " " thursday " " " " friday, " " " " saturday " " " " sunday, " " " however, take the paper by and large, i was vastly pleased with it. little crudities of a mechanical sort were observable here and there, but there were not enough of them to amount to anything, and it was good enough arkansas proof-reading, anyhow, and better than was needed in arthur's day and realm. as a rule, the grammar was leaky and the construction more or less lame; but i did not much mind these things. they are common defects of my own, and one mustn't criticise other people on grounds where he can't stand perpendicular himself. i was hungry enough for literature to want to take down the whole paper at this one meal, but i got only a few bites, and then had to postpone, because the monks around me besieged me so with eager questions: what is this curious thing? what is it for? is it a handkerchief?--saddle blanket?--part of a shirt? what is it made of? how thin it is, and how dainty and frail; and how it rattles. will it wear, do you think, and won't the rain injure it? is it writing that appears on it, or is it only ornamentation? they suspected it was writing, because those among them who knew how to read latin and had a smattering of greek, recognized some of the letters, but they could make nothing out of the result as a whole. i put my information in the simplest form i could: "it is a public journal; i will explain what that is, another time. it is not cloth, it is made of paper; some time i will explain what paper is. the lines on it are reading matter; and not written by hand, but printed; by and by i will explain what printing is. a thousand of these sheets have been made, all exactly like this, in every minute detail--they can't be told apart." then they all broke out with exclamations of surprise and admiration: "a thousand! verily a mighty work--a year's work for many men." "no--merely a day's work for a man and a boy." they crossed themselves, and whiffed out a protective prayer or two. "ah-h--a miracle, a wonder! dark work of enchantment." i let it go at that. then i read in a low voice, to as many as could crowd their shaven heads within hearing distance, part of the account of the miracle of the restoration of the well, and was accompanied by astonished and reverent ejaculations all through: "ah-h-h!" "how true!" "amazing, amazing!" "these be the very haps as they happened, in marvelous exactness!" and might they take this strange thing in their hands, and feel of it and examine it?--they would be very careful. yes. so they took it, handling it as cautiously and devoutly as if it had been some holy thing come from some supernatural region; and gently felt of its texture, caressed its pleasant smooth surface with lingering touch, and scanned the mysterious characters with fascinated eyes. these grouped bent heads, these charmed faces, these speaking eyes --how beautiful to me! for was not this my darling, and was not all this mute wonder and interest and homage a most eloquent tribute and unforced compliment to it? i knew, then, how a mother feels when women, whether strangers or friends, take her new baby, and close themselves about it with one eager impulse, and bend their heads over it in a tranced adoration that makes all the rest of the universe vanish out of their consciousness and be as if it were not, for that time. i knew how she feels, and that there is no other satisfied ambition, whether of king, conqueror, or poet, that ever reaches half-way to that serene far summit or yields half so divine a contentment. during all the rest of the seance my paper traveled from group to group all up and down and about that huge hall, and my happy eye was upon it always, and i sat motionless, steeped in satisfaction, drunk with enjoyment. yes, this was heaven; i was tasting it once, if i might never taste it more. a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) part . chapter xli the interdict however, my attention was suddenly snatched from such matters; our child began to lose ground again, and we had to go to sitting up with her, her case became so serious. we couldn't bear to allow anybody to help in this service, so we two stood watch-and-watch, day in and day out. ah, sandy, what a right heart she had, how simple, and genuine, and good she was! she was a flawless wife and mother; and yet i had married her for no other particular reasons, except that by the customs of chivalry she was my property until some knight should win her from me in the field. she had hunted britain over for me; had found me at the hanging-bout outside of london, and had straightway resumed her old place at my side in the placidest way and as of right. i was a new englander, and in my opinion this sort of partnership would compromise her, sooner or later. she couldn't see how, but i cut argument short and we had a wedding. now i didn't know i was drawing a prize, yet that was what i did draw. within the twelvemonth i became her worshiper; and ours was the dearest and perfectest comradeship that ever was. people talk about beautiful friendships between two persons of the same sex. what is the best of that sort, as compared with the friendship of man and wife, where the best impulses and highest ideals of both are the same? there is no place for comparison between the two friendships; the one is earthly, the other divine. in my dreams, along at first, i still wandered thirteen centuries away, and my unsatisfied spirit went calling and harking all up and down the unreplying vacancies of a vanished world. many a time sandy heard that imploring cry come from my lips in my sleep. with a grand magnanimity she saddled that cry of mine upon our child, conceiving it to be the name of some lost darling of mine. it touched me to tears, and it also nearly knocked me off my feet, too, when she smiled up in my face for an earned reward, and played her quaint and pretty surprise upon me: "the name of one who was dear to thee is here preserved, here made holy, and the music of it will abide alway in our ears. now thou'lt kiss me, as knowing the name i have given the child." but i didn't know it, all the same. i hadn't an idea in the world; but it would have been cruel to confess it and spoil her pretty game; so i never let on, but said: "yes, i know, sweetheart--how dear and good it is of you, too! but i want to hear these lips of yours, which are also mine, utter it first--then its music will be perfect." pleased to the marrow, she murmured: "hello-central!" i didn't laugh--i am always thankful for that--but the strain ruptured every cartilage in me, and for weeks afterward i could hear my bones clack when i walked. she never found out her mistake. the first time she heard that form of salute used at the telephone she was surprised, and not pleased; but i told her i had given order for it: that henceforth and forever the telephone must always be invoked with that reverent formality, in perpetual honor and remembrance of my lost friend and her small namesake. this was not true. but it answered. well, during two weeks and a half we watched by the crib, and in our deep solicitude we were unconscious of any world outside of that sick-room. then our reward came: the center of the universe turned the corner and began to mend. grateful? it isn't the term. there _isn't_ any term for it. you know that yourself, if you've watched your child through the valley of the shadow and seen it come back to life and sweep night out of the earth with one all-illuminating smile that you could cover with your hand. why, we were back in this world in one instant! then we looked the same startled thought into each other's eyes at the same moment; more than two weeks gone, and that ship not back yet! in another minute i appeared in the presence of my train. they had been steeped in troubled bodings all this time--their faces showed it. i called an escort and we galloped five miles to a hilltop overlooking the sea. where was my great commerce that so lately had made these glistening expanses populous and beautiful with its white-winged flocks? vanished, every one! not a sail, from verge to verge, not a smoke-bank--just a dead and empty solitude, in place of all that brisk and breezy life. i went swiftly back, saying not a word to anybody. i told sandy this ghastly news. we could imagine no explanation that would begin to explain. had there been an invasion? an earthquake? a pestilence? had the nation been swept out of existence? but guessing was profitless. i must go--at once. i borrowed the king's navy--a "ship" no bigger than a steam launch--and was soon ready. the parting--ah, yes, that was hard. as i was devouring the child with last kisses, it brisked up and jabbered out its vocabulary! --the first time in more than two weeks, and it made fools of us for joy. the darling mispronunciations of childhood!--dear me, there's no music that can touch it; and how one grieves when it wastes away and dissolves into correctness, knowing it will never visit his bereaved ear again. well, how good it was to be able to carry that gracious memory away with me! i approached england the next morning, with the wide highway of salt water all to myself. there were ships in the harbor, at dover, but they were naked as to sails, and there was no sign of life about them. it was sunday; yet at canterbury the streets were empty; strangest of all, there was not even a priest in sight, and no stroke of a bell fell upon my ear. the mournfulness of death was everywhere. i couldn't understand it. at last, in the further edge of that town i saw a small funeral procession --just a family and a few friends following a coffin--no priest; a funeral without bell, book, or candle; there was a church there close at hand, but they passed it by weeping, and did not enter it; i glanced up at the belfry, and there hung the bell, shrouded in black, and its tongue tied back. now i knew! now i understood the stupendous calamity that had overtaken england. invasion? invasion is a triviality to it. it was the interdict! i asked no questions; i didn't need to ask any. the church had struck; the thing for me to do was to get into a disguise, and go warily. one of my servants gave me a suit of clothes, and when we were safe beyond the town i put them on, and from that time i traveled alone; i could not risk the embarrassment of company. a miserable journey. a desolate silence everywhere. even in london itself. traffic had ceased; men did not talk or laugh, or go in groups, or even in couples; they moved aimlessly about, each man by himself, with his head down, and woe and terror at his heart. the tower showed recent war-scars. verily, much had been happening. of course, i meant to take the train for camelot. train! why, the station was as vacant as a cavern. i moved on. the journey to camelot was a repetition of what i had already seen. the monday and the tuesday differed in no way from the sunday. i arrived far in the night. from being the best electric-lighted town in the kingdom and the most like a recumbent sun of anything you ever saw, it was become simply a blot--a blot upon darkness--that is to say, it was darker and solider than the rest of the darkness, and so you could see it a little better; it made me feel as if maybe it was symbolical--a sort of sign that the church was going to _keep_ the upper hand now, and snuff out all my beautiful civilization just like that. i found no life stirring in the somber streets. i groped my way with a heavy heart. the vast castle loomed black upon the hilltop, not a spark visible about it. the drawbridge was down, the great gate stood wide, i entered without challenge, my own heels making the only sound i heard--and it was sepulchral enough, in those huge vacant courts. chapter xlii war! i found clarence alone in his quarters, drowned in melancholy; and in place of the electric light, he had reinstituted the ancient rag-lamp, and sat there in a grisly twilight with all curtains drawn tight. he sprang up and rushed for me eagerly, saying: "oh, it's worth a billion milrays to look upon a live person again!" he knew me as easily as if i hadn't been disguised at all. which frightened me; one may easily believe that. "quick, now, tell me the meaning of this fearful disaster," i said. "how did it come about?" "well, if there hadn't been any queen guenever, it wouldn't have come so early; but it would have come, anyway. it would have come on your own account by and by; by luck, it happened to come on the queen's." "_and_ sir launcelot's?" "just so." "give me the details." "i reckon you will grant that during some years there has been only one pair of eyes in these kingdoms that has not been looking steadily askance at the queen and sir launcelot--" "yes, king arthur's." "--and only one heart that was without suspicion--" "yes--the king's; a heart that isn't capable of thinking evil of a friend." "well, the king might have gone on, still happy and unsuspecting, to the end of his days, but for one of your modern improvements --the stock-board. when you left, three miles of the london, canterbury and dover were ready for the rails, and also ready and ripe for manipulation in the stock-market. it was wildcat, and everybody knew it. the stock was for sale at a give-away. what does sir launcelot do, but--" "yes, i know; he quietly picked up nearly all of it for a song; then he bought about twice as much more, deliverable upon call; and he was about to call when i left." "very well, he did call. the boys couldn't deliver. oh, he had them--and he just settled his grip and squeezed them. they were laughing in their sleeves over their smartness in selling stock to him at and and along there that wasn't worth . well, when they had laughed long enough on that side of their mouths, they rested-up that side by shifting the laugh to the other side. that was when they compromised with the invincible at !" "good land!" "he skinned them alive, and they deserved it--anyway, the whole kingdom rejoiced. well, among the flayed were sir agravaine and sir mordred, nephews to the king. end of the first act. act second, scene first, an apartment in carlisle castle, where the court had gone for a few days' hunting. persons present, the whole tribe of the king's nephews. mordred and agravaine propose to call the guileless arthur's attention to guenever and sir launcelot. sir gawaine, sir gareth, and sir gaheris will have nothing to do with it. a dispute ensues, with loud talk; in the midst of it enter the king. mordred and agravaine spring their devastating tale upon him. _tableau_. a trap is laid for launcelot, by the king's command, and sir launcelot walks into it. he made it sufficiently uncomfortable for the ambushed witnesses--to wit, mordred, agravaine, and twelve knights of lesser rank, for he killed every one of them but mordred; but of course that couldn't straighten matters between launcelot and the king, and didn't." "oh, dear, only one thing could result--i see that. war, and the knights of the realm divided into a king's party and a sir launcelot's party." "yes--that was the way of it. the king sent the queen to the stake, proposing to purify her with fire. launcelot and his knights rescued her, and in doing it slew certain good old friends of yours and mine--in fact, some of the best we ever had; to wit, sir belias le orgulous, sir segwarides, sir griflet le fils de dieu, sir brandiles, sir aglovale--" "oh, you tear out my heartstrings." "--wait, i'm not done yet--sir tor, sir gauter, sir gillimer--" "the very best man in my subordinate nine. what a handy right-fielder he was!" "--sir reynold's three brothers, sir damus, sir priamus, sir kay the stranger--" "my peerless short-stop! i've seen him catch a daisy-cutter in his teeth. come, i can't stand this!" "--sir driant, sir lambegus, sir herminde, sir pertilope, sir perimones, and--whom do you think?" "rush! go on." "sir gaheris, and sir gareth--both!" "oh, incredible! their love for launcelot was indestructible." "well, it was an accident. they were simply onlookers; they were unarmed, and were merely there to witness the queen's punishment. sir launcelot smote down whoever came in the way of his blind fury, and he killed these without noticing who they were. here is an instantaneous photograph one of our boys got of the battle; it's for sale on every news-stand. there--the figures nearest the queen are sir launcelot with his sword up, and sir gareth gasping his latest breath. you can catch the agony in the queen's face through the curling smoke. it's a rattling battle-picture." "indeed, it is. we must take good care of it; its historical value is incalculable. go on." "well, the rest of the tale is just war, pure and simple. launcelot retreated to his town and castle of joyous gard, and gathered there a great following of knights. the king, with a great host, went there, and there was desperate fighting during several days, and, as a result, all the plain around was paved with corpses and cast-iron. then the church patched up a peace between arthur and launcelot and the queen and everybody--everybody but sir gawaine. he was bitter about the slaying of his brothers, gareth and gaheris, and would not be appeased. he notified launcelot to get him thence, and make swift preparation, and look to be soon attacked. so launcelot sailed to his duchy of guienne with his following, and gawaine soon followed with an army, and he beguiled arthur to go with him. arthur left the kingdom in sir mordred's hands until you should return--" "ah--a king's customary wisdom!" "yes. sir mordred set himself at once to work to make his kingship permanent. he was going to marry guenever, as a first move; but she fled and shut herself up in the tower of london. mordred attacked; the bishop of canterbury dropped down on him with the interdict. the king returned; mordred fought him at dover, at canterbury, and again at barham down. then there was talk of peace and a composition. terms, mordred to have cornwall and kent during arthur's life, and the whole kingdom afterward." "well, upon my word! my dream of a republic to _be_ a dream, and so remain." "yes. the two armies lay near salisbury. gawaine--gawaine's head is at dover castle, he fell in the fight there--gawaine appeared to arthur in a dream, at least his ghost did, and warned him to refrain from conflict for a month, let the delay cost what it might. but battle was precipitated by an accident. arthur had given order that if a sword was raised during the consultation over the proposed treaty with mordred, sound the trumpet and fall on! for he had no confidence in mordred. mordred had given a similar order to _his_ people. well, by and by an adder bit a knight's heel; the knight forgot all about the order, and made a slash at the adder with his sword. inside of half a minute those two prodigious hosts came together with a crash! they butchered away all day. then the king--however, we have started something fresh since you left--our paper has." "no? what is that?" "war correspondence!" "why, that's good." "yes, the paper was booming right along, for the interdict made no impression, got no grip, while the war lasted. i had war correspondents with both armies. i will finish that battle by reading you what one of the boys says: 'then the king looked about him, and then was he ware of all his host and of all his good knights were left no more on live but two knights, that was sir lucan de butlere, and his brother sir bedivere: and they were full sore wounded. jesu mercy, said the king, where are all my noble knights becomen? alas that ever i should see this doleful day. for now, said arthur, i am come to mine end. but would to god that i wist where were that traitor sir mordred, that hath caused all this mischief. then was king arthur ware where sir mordred leaned upon his sword among a great heap of dead men. now give me my spear, said arthur unto sir lucan, for yonder i have espied the traitor that all this woe hath wrought. sir, let him be, said sir lucan, for he is unhappy; and if ye pass this unhappy day, ye shall be right well revenged upon him. good lord, remember ye of your night's dream, and what the spirit of sir gawaine told you this night, yet god of his great goodness hath preserved you hitherto. therefore, for god's sake, my lord, leave off by this. for blessed be god ye have won the field: for here we be three on live, and with sir mordred is none on live. and if ye leave off now, this wicked day of destiny is past. tide me death, betide me life, saith the king, now i see him yonder alone, he shall never escape mine hands, for at a better avail shall i never have him. god speed you well, said sir bedivere. then the king gat his spear in both his hands, and ran toward sir mordred crying, traitor, now is thy death day come. and when sir mordred heard sir arthur, he ran until him with his sword drawn in his hand. and then king arthur smote sir mordred under the shield, with a foin of his spear throughout the body more than a fathom. and when sir mordred felt that he had his death's wound, he thrust himself, with the might that he had, up to the butt of king arthur's spear. and right so he smote his father arthur with his sword holden in both his hands, on the side of the head, that the sword pierced the helmet and the brain-pan, and therewithal sir mordred fell stark dead to the earth. and the noble arthur fell in a swoon to the earth, and there he swooned oft-times--'" "that is a good piece of war correspondence, clarence; you are a first-rate newspaper man. well--is the king all right? did he get well?" "poor soul, no. he is dead." i was utterly stunned; it had not seemed to me that any wound could be mortal to him. "and the queen, clarence?" "she is a nun, in almesbury." "what changes! and in such a short while. it is inconceivable. what next, i wonder?" "i can tell you what next." "well?" "stake our lives and stand by them!" "what do you mean by that?" "the church is master now. the interdict included you with mordred; it is not to be removed while you remain alive. the clans are gathering. the church has gathered all the knights that are left alive, and as soon as you are discovered we shall have business on our hands." "stuff! with our deadly scientific war-material; with our hosts of trained--" "save your breath--we haven't sixty faithful left!" "what are you saying? our schools, our colleges, our vast workshops, our--" "when those knights come, those establishments will empty themselves and go over to the enemy. did you think you had educated the superstition out of those people?" "i certainly did think it." "well, then, you may unthink it. they stood every strain easily --until the interdict. since then, they merely put on a bold outside--at heart they are quaking. make up your mind to it --when the armies come, the mask will fall." "it's hard news. we are lost. they will turn our own science against us." "no they won't." "why?" "because i and a handful of the faithful have blocked that game. i'll tell you what i've done, and what moved me to it. smart as you are, the church was smarter. it was the church that sent you cruising--through her servants, the doctors." "clarence!" "it is the truth. i know it. every officer of your ship was the church's picked servant, and so was every man of the crew." "oh, come!" "it is just as i tell you. i did not find out these things at once, but i found them out finally. did you send me verbal information, by the commander of the ship, to the effect that upon his return to you, with supplies, you were going to leave cadiz--" "cadiz! i haven't been at cadiz at all!" "--going to leave cadiz and cruise in distant seas indefinitely, for the health of your family? did you send me that word?" "of course not. i would have written, wouldn't i?" "naturally. i was troubled and suspicious. when the commander sailed again i managed to ship a spy with him. i have never heard of vessel or spy since. i gave myself two weeks to hear from you in. then i resolved to send a ship to cadiz. there was a reason why i didn't." "what was that?" "our navy had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared! also, as suddenly and as mysteriously, the railway and telegraph and telephone service ceased, the men all deserted, poles were cut down, the church laid a ban upon the electric light! i had to be up and doing--and straight off. your life was safe--nobody in these kingdoms but merlin would venture to touch such a magician as you without ten thousand men at his back--i had nothing to think of but how to put preparations in the best trim against your coming. i felt safe myself--nobody would be anxious to touch a pet of yours. so this is what i did. from our various works i selected all the men--boys i mean--whose faithfulness under whatsoever pressure i could swear to, and i called them together secretly and gave them their instructions. there are fifty-two of them; none younger than fourteen, and none above seventeen years old." "why did you select boys?" "because all the others were born in an atmosphere of superstition and reared in it. it is in their blood and bones. we imagined we had educated it out of them; they thought so, too; the interdict woke them up like a thunderclap! it revealed them to themselves, and it revealed them to me, too. with boys it was different. such as have been under our training from seven to ten years have had no acquaintance with the church's terrors, and it was among these that i found my fifty-two. as a next move, i paid a private visit to that old cave of merlin's--not the small one--the big one--" "yes, the one where we secretly established our first great electric plant when i was projecting a miracle." "just so. and as that miracle hadn't become necessary then, i thought it might be a good idea to utilize the plant now. i've provisioned the cave for a siege--" "a good idea, a first-rate idea." "i think so. i placed four of my boys there as a guard--inside, and out of sight. nobody was to be hurt--while outside; but any attempt to enter--well, we said just let anybody try it! then i went out into the hills and uncovered and cut the secret wires which connected your bedroom with the wires that go to the dynamite deposits under all our vast factories, mills, workshops, magazines, etc., and about midnight i and my boys turned out and connected that wire with the cave, and nobody but you and i suspects where the other end of it goes to. we laid it under ground, of course, and it was all finished in a couple of hours or so. we sha'n't have to leave our fortress now when we want to blow up our civilization." "it was the right move--and the natural one; military necessity, in the changed condition of things. well, what changes _have_ come! we expected to be besieged in the palace some time or other, but --however, go on." "next, we built a wire fence." "wire fence?" "yes. you dropped the hint of it yourself, two or three years ago." "oh, i remember--the time the church tried her strength against us the first time, and presently thought it wise to wait for a hopefuler season. well, how have you arranged the fence?" "i start twelve immensely strong wires--naked, not insulated --from a big dynamo in the cave--dynamo with no brushes except a positive and a negative one--" "yes, that's right." "the wires go out from the cave and fence in a circle of level ground a hundred yards in diameter; they make twelve independent fences, ten feet apart--that is to say, twelve circles within circles--and their ends come into the cave again." "right; go on." "the fences are fastened to heavy oaken posts only three feet apart, and these posts are sunk five feet in the ground." "that is good and strong." "yes. the wires have no ground-connection outside of the cave. they go out from the positive brush of the dynamo; there is a ground-connection through the negative brush; the other ends of the wire return to the cave, and each is grounded independently." "no, no, that won't do!" "why?" "it's too expensive--uses up force for nothing. you don't want any ground-connection except the one through the negative brush. the other end of every wire must be brought back into the cave and fastened independently, and _without_ any ground-connection. now, then, observe the economy of it. a cavalry charge hurls itself against the fence; you are using no power, you are spending no money, for there is only one ground-connection till those horses come against the wire; the moment they touch it they form a connection with the negative brush _through the ground_, and drop dead. don't you see?--you are using no energy until it is needed; your lightning is there, and ready, like the load in a gun; but it isn't costing you a cent till you touch it off. oh, yes, the single ground-connection--" "of course! i don't know how i overlooked that. it's not only cheaper, but it's more effectual than the other way, for if wires break or get tangled, no harm is done." "no, especially if we have a tell-tale in the cave and disconnect the broken wire. well, go on. the gatlings?" "yes--that's arranged. in the center of the inner circle, on a spacious platform six feet high, i've grouped a battery of thirteen gatling guns, and provided plenty of ammunition." "that's it. they command every approach, and when the church's knights arrive, there's going to be music. the brow of the precipice over the cave--" "i've got a wire fence there, and a gatling. they won't drop any rocks down on us." "well, and the glass-cylinder dynamite torpedoes?" "that's attended to. it's the prettiest garden that was ever planted. it's a belt forty feet wide, and goes around the outer fence--distance between it and the fence one hundred yards--kind of neutral ground that space is. there isn't a single square yard of that whole belt but is equipped with a torpedo. we laid them on the surface of the ground, and sprinkled a layer of sand over them. it's an innocent looking garden, but you let a man start in to hoe it once, and you'll see." "you tested the torpedoes?" "well, i was going to, but--" "but what? why, it's an immense oversight not to apply a--" "test? yes, i know; but they're all right; i laid a few in the public road beyond our lines and they've been tested." "oh, that alters the case. who did it?" "a church committee." "how kind!" "yes. they came to command us to make submission. you see they didn't really come to test the torpedoes; that was merely an incident." "did the committee make a report?" "yes, they made one. you could have heard it a mile." "unanimous?" "that was the nature of it. after that i put up some signs, for the protection of future committees, and we have had no intruders since." "clarence, you've done a world of work, and done it perfectly." "we had plenty of time for it; there wasn't any occasion for hurry." we sat silent awhile, thinking. then my mind was made up, and i said: "yes, everything is ready; everything is shipshape, no detail is wanting. i know what to do now." "so do i; sit down and wait." "no, _sir_! rise up and _strike_!" "do you mean it?" "yes, indeed! the _de_fensive isn't in my line, and the _of_fensive is. that is, when i hold a fair hand--two-thirds as good a hand as the enemy. oh, yes, we'll rise up and strike; that's our game." "a hundred to one you are right. when does the performance begin?" "_now!_ we'll proclaim the republic." "well, that _will_ precipitate things, sure enough!" "it will make them buzz, i tell you! england will be a hornets' nest before noon to-morrow, if the church's hand hasn't lost its cunning--and we know it hasn't. now you write and i'll dictate thus: "proclamation --- "be it known unto all. whereas the king having died and left no heir, it becomes my duty to continue the executive authority vested in me, until a government shall have been created and set in motion. the monarchy has lapsed, it no longer exists. by consequence, all political power has reverted to its original source, the people of the nation. with the monarchy, its several adjuncts died also; wherefore there is no longer a nobility, no longer a privileged class, no longer an established church; all men are become exactly equal; they are upon one common level, and religion is free. _a republic is hereby proclaimed_, as being the natural estate of a nation when other authority has ceased. it is the duty of the british people to meet together immediately, and by their votes elect representatives and deliver into their hands the government." i signed it "the boss," and dated it from merlin's cave. clarence said-- "why, that tells where we are, and invites them to call right away." "that is the idea. we _strike_--by the proclamation--then it's their innings. now have the thing set up and printed and posted, right off; that is, give the order; then, if you've got a couple of bicycles handy at the foot of the hill, ho for merlin's cave!" "i shall be ready in ten minutes. what a cyclone there is going to be to-morrow when this piece of paper gets to work!... it's a pleasant old palace, this is; i wonder if we shall ever again --but never mind about that." chapter xliii the battle of the sand belt in merlin's cave-- clarence and i and fifty-two fresh, bright, well-educated, clean-minded young british boys. at dawn i sent an order to the factories and to all our great works to stop operations and remove all life to a safe distance, as everything was going to be blown up by secret mines, "_and no telling at what moment--therefore, vacate at once_." these people knew me, and had confidence in my word. they would clear out without waiting to part their hair, and i could take my own time about dating the explosion. you couldn't hire one of them to go back during the century, if the explosion was still impending. we had a week of waiting. it was not dull for me, because i was writing all the time. during the first three days, i finished turning my old diary into this narrative form; it only required a chapter or so to bring it down to date. the rest of the week i took up in writing letters to my wife. it was always my habit to write to sandy every day, whenever we were separate, and now i kept up the habit for love of it, and of her, though i couldn't do anything with the letters, of course, after i had written them. but it put in the time, you see, and was almost like talking; it was almost as if i was saying, "sandy, if you and hello-central were here in the cave, instead of only your photographs, what good times we could have!" and then, you know, i could imagine the baby goo-gooing something out in reply, with its fists in its mouth and itself stretched across its mother's lap on its back, and she a-laughing and admiring and worshipping, and now and then tickling under the baby's chin to set it cackling, and then maybe throwing in a word of answer to me herself--and so on and so on --well, don't you know, i could sit there in the cave with my pen, and keep it up, that way, by the hour with them. why, it was almost like having us all together again. i had spies out every night, of course, to get news. every report made things look more and more impressive. the hosts were gathering, gathering; down all the roads and paths of england the knights were riding, and priests rode with them, to hearten these original crusaders, this being the church's war. all the nobilities, big and little, were on their way, and all the gentry. this was all as was expected. we should thin out this sort of folk to such a degree that the people would have nothing to do but just step to the front with their republic and-- ah, what a donkey i was! toward the end of the week i began to get this large and disenchanting fact through my head: that the mass of the nation had swung their caps and shouted for the republic for about one day, and there an end! the church, the nobles, and the gentry then turned one grand, all-disapproving frown upon them and shriveled them into sheep! from that moment the sheep had begun to gather to the fold--that is to say, the camps--and offer their valueless lives and their valuable wool to the "righteous cause." why, even the very men who had lately been slaves were in the "righteous cause," and glorifying it, praying for it, sentimentally slabbering over it, just like all the other commoners. imagine such human muck as this; conceive of this folly! yes, it was now "death to the republic!" everywhere--not a dissenting voice. all england was marching against us! truly, this was more than i had bargained for. i watched my fifty-two boys narrowly; watched their faces, their walk, their unconscious attitudes: for all these are a language --a language given us purposely that it may betray us in times of emergency, when we have secrets which we want to keep. i knew that that thought would keep saying itself over and over again in their minds and hearts, _all england is marching against us!_ and ever more strenuously imploring attention with each repetition, ever more sharply realizing itself to their imaginations, until even in their sleep they would find no rest from it, but hear the vague and flitting creatures of the dreams say, _all england_ --all england!--_is marching against you_! i knew all this would happen; i knew that ultimately the pressure would become so great that it would compel utterance; therefore, i must be ready with an answer at that time--an answer well chosen and tranquilizing. i was right. the time came. they had to speak. poor lads, it was pitiful to see, they were so pale, so worn, so troubled. at first their spokesman could hardly find voice or words; but he presently got both. this is what he said--and he put it in the neat modern english taught him in my schools: "we have tried to forget what we are--english boys! we have tried to put reason before sentiment, duty before love; our minds approve, but our hearts reproach us. while apparently it was only the nobility, only the gentry, only the twenty-five or thirty thousand knights left alive out of the late wars, we were of one mind, and undisturbed by any troubling doubt; each and every one of these fifty-two lads who stand here before you, said, 'they have chosen--it is their affair.' but think!--the matter is altered--_all england is marching against us_! oh, sir, consider! --reflect!--these people are our people, they are bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh, we love them--do not ask us to destroy our nation!" well, it shows the value of looking ahead, and being ready for a thing when it happens. if i hadn't foreseen this thing and been fixed, that boy would have had me!--i couldn't have said a word. but i was fixed. i said: "my boys, your hearts are in the right place, you have thought the worthy thought, you have done the worthy thing. you are english boys, you will remain english boys, and you will keep that name unsmirched. give yourselves no further concern, let your minds be at peace. consider this: while all england is marching against us, who is in the van? who, by the commonest rules of war, will march in the front? answer me." "the mounted host of mailed knights." "true. they are thirty thousand strong. acres deep they will march. now, observe: none but _they_ will ever strike the sand-belt! then there will be an episode! immediately after, the civilian multitude in the rear will retire, to meet business engagements elsewhere. none but nobles and gentry are knights, and _none but these_ will remain to dance to our music after that episode. it is absolutely true that we shall have to fight nobody but these thirty thousand knights. now speak, and it shall be as you decide. shall we avoid the battle, retire from the field?" "no!!!" the shout was unanimous and hearty. "are you--are you--well, afraid of these thirty thousand knights?" that joke brought out a good laugh, the boys' troubles vanished away, and they went gaily to their posts. ah, they were a darling fifty-two! as pretty as girls, too. i was ready for the enemy now. let the approaching big day come along--it would find us on deck. the big day arrived on time. at dawn the sentry on watch in the corral came into the cave and reported a moving black mass under the horizon, and a faint sound which he thought to be military music. breakfast was just ready; we sat down and ate it. this over, i made the boys a little speech, and then sent out a detail to man the battery, with clarence in command of it. the sun rose presently and sent its unobstructed splendors over the land, and we saw a prodigious host moving slowly toward us, with the steady drift and aligned front of a wave of the sea. nearer and nearer it came, and more and more sublimely imposing became its aspect; yes, all england was there, apparently. soon we could see the innumerable banners fluttering, and then the sun struck the sea of armor and set it all aflash. yes, it was a fine sight; i hadn't ever seen anything to beat it. at last we could make out details. all the front ranks, no telling how many acres deep, were horsemen--plumed knights in armor. suddenly we heard the blare of trumpets; the slow walk burst into a gallop, and then--well, it was wonderful to see! down swept that vast horse-shoe wave--it approached the sand-belt--my breath stood still; nearer, nearer--the strip of green turf beyond the yellow belt grew narrow--narrower still--became a mere ribbon in front of the horses--then disappeared under their hoofs. great scott! why, the whole front of that host shot into the sky with a thunder-crash, and became a whirling tempest of rags and fragments; and along the ground lay a thick wall of smoke that hid what was left of the multitude from our sight. time for the second step in the plan of campaign! i touched a button, and shook the bones of england loose from her spine! in that explosion all our noble civilization-factories went up in the air and disappeared from the earth. it was a pity, but it was necessary. we could not afford to let the enemy turn our own weapons against us. now ensued one of the dullest quarter-hours i had ever endured. we waited in a silent solitude enclosed by our circles of wire, and by a circle of heavy smoke outside of these. we couldn't see over the wall of smoke, and we couldn't see through it. but at last it began to shred away lazily, and by the end of another quarter-hour the land was clear and our curiosity was enabled to satisfy itself. no living creature was in sight! we now perceived that additions had been made to our defenses. the dynamite had dug a ditch more than a hundred feet wide, all around us, and cast up an embankment some twenty-five feet high on both borders of it. as to destruction of life, it was amazing. moreover, it was beyond estimate. of course, we could not _count_ the dead, because they did not exist as individuals, but merely as homogeneous protoplasm, with alloys of iron and buttons. no life was in sight, but necessarily there must have been some wounded in the rear ranks, who were carried off the field under cover of the wall of smoke; there would be sickness among the others--there always is, after an episode like that. but there would be no reinforcements; this was the last stand of the chivalry of england; it was all that was left of the order, after the recent annihilating wars. so i felt quite safe in believing that the utmost force that could for the future be brought against us would be but small; that is, of knights. i therefore issued a congratulatory proclamation to my army in these words: soldiers, champions of human liberty and equality: your general congratulates you! in the pride of his strength and the vanity of his renown, an arrogant enemy came against you. you were ready. the conflict was brief; on your side, glorious. this mighty victory, having been achieved utterly without loss, stands without example in history. so long as the planets shall continue to move in their orbits, the battle of the sand-belt will not perish out of the memories of men. the boss. i read it well, and the applause i got was very gratifying to me. i then wound up with these remarks: "the war with the english nation, as a nation, is at an end. the nation has retired from the field and the war. before it can be persuaded to return, war will have ceased. this campaign is the only one that is going to be fought. it will be brief --the briefest in history. also the most destructive to life, considered from the standpoint of proportion of casualties to numbers engaged. we are done with the nation; henceforth we deal only with the knights. english knights can be killed, but they cannot be conquered. we know what is before us. while one of these men remains alive, our task is not finished, the war is not ended. we will kill them all." [loud and long continued applause.] i picketed the great embankments thrown up around our lines by the dynamite explosion--merely a lookout of a couple of boys to announce the enemy when he should appear again. next, i sent an engineer and forty men to a point just beyond our lines on the south, to turn a mountain brook that was there, and bring it within our lines and under our command, arranging it in such a way that i could make instant use of it in an emergency. the forty men were divided into two shifts of twenty each, and were to relieve each other every two hours. in ten hours the work was accomplished. it was nightfall now, and i withdrew my pickets. the one who had had the northern outlook reported a camp in sight, but visible with the glass only. he also reported that a few knights had been feeling their way toward us, and had driven some cattle across our lines, but that the knights themselves had not come very near. that was what i had been expecting. they were feeling us, you see; they wanted to know if we were going to play that red terror on them again. they would grow bolder in the night, perhaps. i believed i knew what project they would attempt, because it was plainly the thing i would attempt myself if i were in their places and as ignorant as they were. i mentioned it to clarence. "i think you are right," said he; "it is the obvious thing for them to try." "well, then," i said, "if they do it they are doomed." "certainly." "they won't have the slightest show in the world." "of course they won't." "it's dreadful, clarence. it seems an awful pity." the thing disturbed me so that i couldn't get any peace of mind for thinking of it and worrying over it. so, at last, to quiet my conscience, i framed this message to the knights: to the honorable the commander of the insurgent chivalry of england: you fight in vain. we know your strength--if one may call it by that name. we know that at the utmost you cannot bring against us above five and twenty thousand knights. therefore, you have no chance--none whatever. reflect: we are well equipped, well fortified, we number . fifty-four what? men? no, minds--the capablest in the world; a force against which mere animal might may no more hope to prevail than may the idle waves of the sea hope to prevail against the granite barriers of england. be advised. we offer you your lives; for the sake of your families, do not reject the gift. we offer you this chance, and it is the last: throw down your arms; surrender unconditionally to the republic, and all will be forgiven. (signed) the boss. i read it to clarence, and said i proposed to send it by a flag of truce. he laughed the sarcastic laugh he was born with, and said: "somehow it seems impossible for you to ever fully realize what these nobilities are. now let us save a little time and trouble. consider me the commander of the knights yonder. now, then, you are the flag of truce; approach and deliver me your message, and i will give you your answer." i humored the idea. i came forward under an imaginary guard of the enemy's soldiers, produced my paper, and read it through. for answer, clarence struck the paper out of my hand, pursed up a scornful lip and said with lofty disdain: "dismember me this animal, and return him in a basket to the base-born knave who sent him; other answer have i none!" how empty is theory in presence of fact! and this was just fact, and nothing else. it was the thing that would have happened, there was no getting around that. i tore up the paper and granted my mistimed sentimentalities a permanent rest. then, to business. i tested the electric signals from the gatling platform to the cave, and made sure that they were all right; i tested and retested those which commanded the fences--these were signals whereby i could break and renew the electric current in each fence independently of the others at will. i placed the brook-connection under the guard and authority of three of my best boys, who would alternate in two-hour watches all night and promptly obey my signal, if i should have occasion to give it --three revolver-shots in quick succession. sentry-duty was discarded for the night, and the corral left empty of life; i ordered that quiet be maintained in the cave, and the electric lights turned down to a glimmer. as soon as it was good and dark, i shut off the current from all the fences, and then groped my way out to the embankment bordering our side of the great dynamite ditch. i crept to the top of it and lay there on the slant of the muck to watch. but it was too dark to see anything. as for sounds, there were none. the stillness was deathlike. true, there were the usual night-sounds of the country--the whir of night-birds, the buzzing of insects, the barking of distant dogs, the mellow lowing of far-off kine --but these didn't seem to break the stillness, they only intensified it, and added a grewsome melancholy to it into the bargain. i presently gave up looking, the night shut down so black, but i kept my ears strained to catch the least suspicious sound, for i judged i had only to wait, and i shouldn't be disappointed. however, i had to wait a long time. at last i caught what you may call in distinct glimpses of sound dulled metallic sound. i pricked up my ears, then, and held my breath, for this was the sort of thing i had been waiting for. this sound thickened, and approached--from toward the north. presently, i heard it at my own level--the ridge-top of the opposite embankment, a hundred feet or more away. then i seemed to see a row of black dots appear along that ridge--human heads? i couldn't tell; it mightn't be anything at all; you can't depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus. however, the question was soon settled. i heard that metallic noise descending into the great ditch. it augmented fast, it spread all along, and it unmistakably furnished me this fact: an armed host was taking up its quarters in the ditch. yes, these people were arranging a little surprise party for us. we could expect entertainment about dawn, possibly earlier. i groped my way back to the corral now; i had seen enough. i went to the platform and signaled to turn the current on to the two inner fences. then i went into the cave, and found everything satisfactory there--nobody awake but the working-watch. i woke clarence and told him the great ditch was filling up with men, and that i believed all the knights were coming for us in a body. it was my notion that as soon as dawn approached we could expect the ditch's ambuscaded thousands to swarm up over the embankment and make an assault, and be followed immediately by the rest of their army. clarence said: "they will be wanting to send a scout or two in the dark to make preliminary observations. why not take the lightning off the outer fences, and give them a chance?" "i've already done it, clarence. did you ever know me to be inhospitable?" "no, you are a good heart. i want to go and--" "be a reception committee? i will go, too." we crossed the corral and lay down together between the two inside fences. even the dim light of the cave had disordered our eyesight somewhat, but the focus straightway began to regulate itself and soon it was adjusted for present circumstances. we had had to feel our way before, but we could make out to see the fence posts now. we started a whispered conversation, but suddenly clarence broke off and said: "what is that?" "what is what?" "that thing yonder." "what thing--where?" "there beyond you a little piece--dark something--a dull shape of some kind--against the second fence." i gazed and he gazed. i said: "could it be a man, clarence?" "no, i think not. if you notice, it looks a lit--why, it _is_ a man!--leaning on the fence." "i certainly believe it is; let us go and see." we crept along on our hands and knees until we were pretty close, and then looked up. yes, it was a man--a dim great figure in armor, standing erect, with both hands on the upper wire--and, of course, there was a smell of burning flesh. poor fellow, dead as a door-nail, and never knew what hurt him. he stood there like a statue--no motion about him, except that his plumes swished about a little in the night wind. we rose up and looked in through the bars of his visor, but couldn't make out whether we knew him or not--features too dim and shadowed. we heard muffled sounds approaching, and we sank down to the ground where we were. we made out another knight vaguely; he was coming very stealthily, and feeling his way. he was near enough now for us to see him put out a hand, find an upper wire, then bend and step under it and over the lower one. now he arrived at the first knight--and started slightly when he discovered him. he stood a moment--no doubt wondering why the other one didn't move on; then he said, in a low voice, "why dreamest thou here, good sir mar--" then he laid his hand on the corpse's shoulder--and just uttered a little soft moan and sunk down dead. killed by a dead man, you see--killed by a dead friend, in fact. there was something awful about it. these early birds came scattering along after each other, about one every five minutes in our vicinity, during half an hour. they brought no armor of offense but their swords; as a rule, they carried the sword ready in the hand, and put it forward and found the wires with it. we would now and then see a blue spark when the knight that caused it was so far away as to be invisible to us; but we knew what had happened, all the same; poor fellow, he had touched a charged wire with his sword and been elected. we had brief intervals of grim stillness, interrupted with piteous regularity by the clash made by the falling of an iron-clad; and this sort of thing was going on, right along, and was very creepy there in the dark and lonesomeness. we concluded to make a tour between the inner fences. we elected to walk upright, for convenience's sake; we argued that if discerned, we should be taken for friends rather than enemies, and in any case we should be out of reach of swords, and these gentry did not seem to have any spears along. well, it was a curious trip. everywhere dead men were lying outside the second fence--not plainly visible, but still visible; and we counted fifteen of those pathetic statues--dead knights standing with their hands on the upper wire. one thing seemed to be sufficiently demonstrated: our current was so tremendous that it killed before the victim could cry out. pretty soon we detected a muffled and heavy sound, and next moment we guessed what it was. it was a surprise in force coming! whispered clarence to go and wake the army, and notify it to wait in silence in the cave for further orders. he was soon back, and we stood by the inner fence and watched the silent lightning do its awful work upon that swarming host. one could make out but little of detail; but he could note that a black mass was piling itself up beyond the second fence. that swelling bulk was dead men! our camp was enclosed with a solid wall of the dead--a bulwark, a breastwork, of corpses, you may say. one terrible thing about this thing was the absence of human voices; there were no cheers, no war cries; being intent upon a surprise, these men moved as noiselessly as they could; and always when the front rank was near enough to their goal to make it proper for them to begin to get a shout ready, of course they struck the fatal line and went down without testifying. i sent a current through the third fence now; and almost immediately through the fourth and fifth, so quickly were the gaps filled up. i believed the time was come now for my climax; i believed that that whole army was in our trap. anyway, it was high time to find out. so i touched a button and set fifty electric suns aflame on the top of our precipice. land, what a sight! we were enclosed in three walls of dead men! all the other fences were pretty nearly filled with the living, who were stealthily working their way forward through the wires. the sudden glare paralyzed this host, petrified them, you may say, with astonishment; there was just one instant for me to utilize their immobility in, and i didn't lose the chance. you see, in another instant they would have recovered their faculties, then they'd have burst into a cheer and made a rush, and my wires would have gone down before it; but that lost instant lost them their opportunity forever; while even that slight fragment of time was still unspent, i shot the current through all the fences and struck the whole host dead in their tracks! _there_ was a groan you could _hear_! it voiced the death-pang of eleven thousand men. it swelled out on the night with awful pathos. a glance showed that the rest of the enemy--perhaps ten thousand strong--were between us and the encircling ditch, and pressing forward to the assault. consequently we had them _all!_ and had them past help. time for the last act of the tragedy. i fired the three appointed revolver shots--which meant: "turn on the water!" there was a sudden rush and roar, and in a minute the mountain brook was raging through the big ditch and creating a river a hundred feet wide and twenty-five deep. "stand to your guns, men! open fire!" the thirteen gatlings began to vomit death into the fated ten thousand. they halted, they stood their ground a moment against that withering deluge of fire, then they broke, faced about and swept toward the ditch like chaff before a gale. a full fourth part of their force never reached the top of the lofty embankment; the three-fourths reached it and plunged over--to death by drowning. within ten short minutes after we had opened fire, armed resistance was totally annihilated, the campaign was ended, we fifty-four were masters of england. twenty-five thousand men lay dead around us. but how treacherous is fortune! in a little while--say an hour --happened a thing, by my own fault, which--but i have no heart to write that. let the record end here. chapter xliv a postscript by clarence i, clarence, must write it for him. he proposed that we two go out and see if any help could be accorded the wounded. i was strenuous against the project. i said that if there were many, we could do but little for them; and it would not be wise for us to trust ourselves among them, anyway. but he could seldom be turned from a purpose once formed; so we shut off the electric current from the fences, took an escort along, climbed over the enclosing ramparts of dead knights, and moved out upon the field. the first wounded mall who appealed for help was sitting with his back against a dead comrade. when the boss bent over him and spoke to him, the man recognized him and stabbed him. that knight was sir meliagraunce, as i found out by tearing off his helmet. he will not ask for help any more. we carried the boss to the cave and gave his wound, which was not very serious, the best care we could. in this service we had the help of merlin, though we did not know it. he was disguised as a woman, and appeared to be a simple old peasant goodwife. in this disguise, with brown-stained face and smooth shaven, he had appeared a few days after the boss was hurt and offered to cook for us, saying her people had gone off to join certain new camps which the enemy were forming, and that she was starving. the boss had been getting along very well, and had amused himself with finishing up his record. we were glad to have this woman, for we were short handed. we were in a trap, you see--a trap of our own making. if we stayed where we were, our dead would kill us; if we moved out of our defenses, we should no longer be invincible. we had conquered; in turn we were conquered. the boss recognized this; we all recognized it. if we could go to one of those new camps and patch up some kind of terms with the enemy--yes, but the boss could not go, and neither could i, for i was among the first that were made sick by the poisonous air bred by those dead thousands. others were taken down, and still others. to-morrow-- _to-morrow._ it is here. and with it the end. about midnight i awoke, and saw that hag making curious passes in the air about the boss's head and face, and wondered what it meant. everybody but the dynamo-watch lay steeped in sleep; there was no sound. the woman ceased from her mysterious foolery, and started tip-toeing toward the door. i called out: "stop! what have you been doing?" she halted, and said with an accent of malicious satisfaction: "ye were conquerors; ye are conquered! these others are perishing --you also. ye shall all die in this place--every one--except _him_. he sleepeth now--and shall sleep thirteen centuries. i am merlin!" then such a delirium of silly laughter overtook him that he reeled about like a drunken man, and presently fetched up against one of our wires. his mouth is spread open yet; apparently he is still laughing. i suppose the face will retain that petrified laugh until the corpse turns to dust. the boss has never stirred--sleeps like a stone. if he does not wake to-day we shall understand what kind of a sleep it is, and his body will then be borne to a place in one of the remote recesses of the cave where none will ever find it to desecrate it. as for the rest of us--well, it is agreed that if any one of us ever escapes alive from this place, he will write the fact here, and loyally hide this manuscript with the boss, our dear good chief, whose property it is, be he alive or dead. the end of the manuscript final p.s. by m.t. the dawn was come when i laid the manuscript aside. the rain had almost ceased, the world was gray and sad, the exhausted storm was sighing and sobbing itself to rest. i went to the stranger's room, and listened at his door, which was slightly ajar. i could hear his voice, and so i knocked. there was no answer, but i still heard the voice. i peeped in. the man lay on his back in bed, talking brokenly but with spirit, and punctuating with his arms, which he thrashed about, restlessly, as sick people do in delirium. i slipped in softly and bent over him. his mutterings and ejaculations went on. i spoke--merely a word, to call his attention. his glassy eyes and his ashy face were alight in an instant with pleasure, gratitude, gladness, welcome: "oh, sandy, you are come at last--how i have longed for you! sit by me--do not leave me--never leave me again, sandy, never again. where is your hand?--give it me, dear, let me hold it--there --now all is well, all is peace, and i am happy again--_we_ are happy again, isn't it so, sandy? you are so dim, so vague, you are but a mist, a cloud, but you are _here_, and that is blessedness sufficient; and i have your hand; don't take it away--it is for only a little while, i shall not require it long.... was that the child?... hello-central!... she doesn't answer. asleep, perhaps? bring her when she wakes, and let me touch her hands, her face, her hair, and tell her good-bye.... sandy! yes, you are there. i lost myself a moment, and i thought you were gone.... have i been sick long? it must be so; it seems months to me. and such dreams! such strange and awful dreams, sandy! dreams that were as real as reality--delirium, of course, but _so_ real! why, i thought the king was dead, i thought you were in gaul and couldn't get home, i thought there was a revolution; in the fantastic frenzy of these dreams, i thought that clarence and i and a handful of my cadets fought and exterminated the whole chivalry of england! but even that was not the strangest. i seemed to be a creature out of a remote unborn age, centuries hence, and even _that_ was as real as the rest! yes, i seemed to have flown back out of that age into this of ours, and then forward to it again, and was set down, a stranger and forlorn in that strange england, with an abyss of thirteen centuries yawning between me and you! between me and my home and my friends! between me and all that is dear to me, all that could make life worth the living! it was awful --awfuler than you can ever imagine, sandy. ah, watch by me, sandy --stay by me every moment--_don't_ let me go out of my mind again; death is nothing, let it come, but not with those dreams, not with the torture of those hideous dreams--i cannot endure _that_ again.... sandy?..." he lay muttering incoherently some little time; then for a time he lay silent, and apparently sinking away toward death. presently his fingers began to pick busily at the coverlet, and by that sign i knew that his end was at hand with the first suggestion of the death-rattle in his throat he started up slightly, and seemed to listen: then he said: "a bugle?... it is the king! the drawbridge, there! man the battlements!--turn out the--" he was getting up his last "effect"; but he never finished it. a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) part . preface the ungentle laws and customs touched upon in this tale are historical, and the episodes which are used to illustrate them are also historical. it is not pretended that these laws and customs existed in england in the sixth century; no, it is only pretended that inasmuch as they existed in the english and other civilizations of far later times, it is safe to consider that it is no libel upon the sixth century to suppose them to have been in practice in that day also. one is quite justified in inferring that whatever one of these laws or customs was lacking in that remote time, its place was competently filled by a worse one. the question as to whether there is such a thing as divine right of kings is not settled in this book. it was found too difficult. that the executive head of a nation should be a person of lofty character and extraordinary ability, was manifest and indisputable; that none but the deity could select that head unerringly, was also manifest and indisputable; that the deity ought to make that selection, then, was likewise manifest and indisputable; consequently, that he does make it, as claimed, was an unavoidable deduction. i mean, until the author of this book encountered the pompadour, and lady castlemaine, and some other executive heads of that kind; these were found so difficult to work into the scheme, that it was judged better to take the other tack in this book (which must be issued this fall), and then go into training and settle the question in another book. it is, of course, a thing which ought to be settled, and i am not going to have anything particular to do next winter anyway. mark twain hartford, july , a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court a word of explanation it was in warwick castle that i came across the curious stranger whom i am going to talk about. he attracted me by three things: his candid simplicity, his marvelous familiarity with ancient armor, and the restfulness of his company--for he did all the talking. we fell together, as modest people will, in the tail of the herd that was being shown through, and he at once began to say things which interested me. as he talked along, softly, pleasantly, flowingly, he seemed to drift away imperceptibly out of this world and time, and into some remote era and old forgotten country; and so he gradually wove such a spell about me that i seemed to move among the specters and shadows and dust and mold of a gray antiquity, holding speech with a relic of it! exactly as i would speak of my nearest personal friends or enemies, or my most familiar neighbors, he spoke of sir bedivere, sir bors de ganis, sir launcelot of the lake, sir galahad, and all the other great names of the table round--and how old, old, unspeakably old and faded and dry and musty and ancient he came to look as he went on! presently he turned to me and said, just as one might speak of the weather, or any other common matter-- "you know about transmigration of souls; do you know about transposition of epochs--and bodies?" i said i had not heard of it. he was so little interested--just as when people speak of the weather--that he did not notice whether i made him any answer or not. there was half a moment of silence, immediately interrupted by the droning voice of the salaried cicerone: "ancient hauberk, date of the sixth century, time of king arthur and the round table; said to have belonged to the knight sir sagramor le desirous; observe the round hole through the chain-mail in the left breast; can't be accounted for; supposed to have been done with a bullet since invention of firearms--perhaps maliciously by cromwell's soldiers." my acquaintance smiled--not a modern smile, but one that must have gone out of general use many, many centuries ago--and muttered apparently to himself: "wit ye well, _i saw it done_." then, after a pause, added: "i did it myself." by the time i had recovered from the electric surprise of this remark, he was gone. all that evening i sat by my fire at the warwick arms, steeped in a dream of the olden time, while the rain beat upon the windows, and the wind roared about the eaves and corners. from time to time i dipped into old sir thomas malory's enchanting book, and fed at its rich feast of prodigies and adventures, breathed in the fragrance of its obsolete names, and dreamed again. midnight being come at length, i read another tale, for a nightcap--this which here follows, to wit: how sir launcelot slew two giants, and made a castle free anon withal came there upon him two great giants, well armed, all save the heads, with two horrible clubs in their hands. sir launcelot put his shield afore him, and put the stroke away of the one giant, and with his sword he clave his head asunder. when his fellow saw that, he ran away as he were wood [*demented], for fear of the horrible strokes, and sir launcelot after him with all his might, and smote him on the shoulder, and clave him to the middle. then sir launcelot went into the hall, and there came afore him three score ladies and damsels, and all kneeled unto him, and thanked god and him of their deliverance. for, sir, said they, the most part of us have been here this seven year their prisoners, and we have worked all manner of silk works for our meat, and we are all great gentle-women born, and blessed be the time, knight, that ever thou wert born; for thou hast done the most worship that ever did knight in the world, that will we bear record, and we all pray you to tell us your name, that we may tell our friends who delivered us out of prison. fair damsels, he said, my name is sir launcelot du lake. and so he departed from them and betaught them unto god. and then he mounted upon his horse, and rode into many strange and wild countries, and through many waters and valleys, and evil was he lodged. and at the last by fortune him happened against a night to come to a fair courtilage, and therein he found an old gentle-woman that lodged him with a good-will, and there he had good cheer for him and his horse. and when time was, his host brought him into a fair garret over the gate to his bed. there sir launcelot unarmed him, and set his harness by him, and went to bed, and anon he fell on sleep. so, soon after there came one on horseback, and knocked at the gate in great haste. and when sir launcelot heard this he rose up, and looked out at the window, and saw by the moonlight three knights come riding after that one man, and all three lashed on him at once with swords, and that one knight turned on them knightly again and defended him. truly, said sir launcelot, yonder one knight shall i help, for it were shame for me to see three knights on one, and if he be slain i am partner of his death. and therewith he took his harness and went out at a window by a sheet down to the four knights, and then sir launcelot said on high, turn you knights unto me, and leave your fighting with that knight. and then they all three left sir kay, and turned unto sir launcelot, and there began great battle, for they alight all three, and strake many strokes at sir launcelot, and assailed him on every side. then sir kay dressed him for to have holpen sir launcelot. nay, sir, said he, i will none of your help, therefore as ye will have my help let me alone with them. sir kay for the pleasure of the knight suffered him for to do his will, and so stood aside. and then anon within six strokes sir launcelot had stricken them to the earth. and then they all three cried, sir knight, we yield us unto you as man of might matchless. as to that, said sir launcelot, i will not take your yielding unto me, but so that ye yield you unto sir kay the seneschal, on that covenant i will save your lives and else not. fair knight, said they, that were we loath to do; for as for sir kay we chased him hither, and had overcome him had ye not been; therefore, to yield us unto him it were no reason. well, as to that, said sir launcelot, advise you well, for ye may choose whether ye will die or live, for an ye be yielden, it shall be unto sir kay. fair knight, then they said, in saving our lives we will do as thou commandest us. then shall ye, said sir launcelot, on whitsunday next coming go unto the court of king arthur, and there shall ye yield you unto queen guenever, and put you all three in her grace and mercy, and say that sir kay sent you thither to be her prisoners. on the morn sir launcelot arose early, and left sir kay sleeping; and sir launcelot took sir kay's armor and his shield and armed him, and so he went to the stable and took his horse, and took his leave of his host, and so he departed. then soon after arose sir kay and missed sir launcelot; and then he espied that he had his armor and his horse. now by my faith i know well that he will grieve some of the court of king arthur; for on him knights will be bold, and deem that it is i, and that will beguile them; and because of his armor and shield i am sure i shall ride in peace. and then soon after departed sir kay, and thanked his host. as i laid the book down there was a knock at the door, and my stranger came in. i gave him a pipe and a chair, and made him welcome. i also comforted him with a hot scotch whisky; gave him another one; then still another--hoping always for his story. after a fourth persuader, he drifted into it himself, in a quite simple and natural way: the stranger's history i am an american. i was born and reared in hartford, in the state of connecticut--anyway, just over the river, in the country. so i am a yankee of the yankees--and practical; yes, and nearly barren of sentiment, i suppose--or poetry, in other words. my father was a blacksmith, my uncle was a horse doctor, and i was both, along at first. then i went over to the great arms factory and learned my real trade; learned all there was to it; learned to make everything: guns, revolvers, cannon, boilers, engines, all sorts of labor-saving machinery. why, i could make anything a body wanted--anything in the world, it didn't make any difference what; and if there wasn't any quick new-fangled way to make a thing, i could invent one--and do it as easy as rolling off a log. i became head superintendent; had a couple of thousand men under me. well, a man like that is a man that is full of fight--that goes without saying. with a couple of thousand rough men under one, one has plenty of that sort of amusement. i had, anyway. at last i met my match, and i got my dose. it was during a misunderstanding conducted with crowbars with a fellow we used to call hercules. he laid me out with a crusher alongside the head that made everything crack, and seemed to spring every joint in my skull and made it overlap its neighbor. then the world went out in darkness, and i didn't feel anything more, and didn't know anything at all --at least for a while. when i came to again, i was sitting under an oak tree, on the grass, with a whole beautiful and broad country landscape all to myself--nearly. not entirely; for there was a fellow on a horse, looking down at me--a fellow fresh out of a picture-book. he was in old-time iron armor from head to heel, with a helmet on his head the shape of a nail-keg with slits in it; and he had a shield, and a sword, and a prodigious spear; and his horse had armor on, too, and a steel horn projecting from his forehead, and gorgeous red and green silk trappings that hung down all around him like a bedquilt, nearly to the ground. "fair sir, will ye just?" said this fellow. "will i which?" "will ye try a passage of arms for land or lady or for--" "what are you giving me?" i said. "get along back to your circus, or i'll report you." now what does this man do but fall back a couple of hundred yards and then come rushing at me as hard as he could tear, with his nail-keg bent down nearly to his horse's neck and his long spear pointed straight ahead. i saw he meant business, so i was up the tree when he arrived. he allowed that i was his property, the captive of his spear. there was argument on his side--and the bulk of the advantage --so i judged it best to humor him. we fixed up an agreement whereby i was to go with him and he was not to hurt me. i came down, and we started away, i walking by the side of his horse. we marched comfortably along, through glades and over brooks which i could not remember to have seen before--which puzzled me and made me wonder--and yet we did not come to any circus or sign of a circus. so i gave up the idea of a circus, and concluded he was from an asylum. but we never came to an asylum--so i was up a stump, as you may say. i asked him how far we were from hartford. he said he had never heard of the place; which i took to be a lie, but allowed it to go at that. at the end of an hour we saw a far-away town sleeping in a valley by a winding river; and beyond it on a hill, a vast gray fortress, with towers and turrets, the first i had ever seen out of a picture. "bridgeport?" said i, pointing. "camelot," said he. my stranger had been showing signs of sleepiness. he caught himself nodding, now, and smiled one of those pathetic, obsolete smiles of his, and said: "i find i can't go on; but come with me, i've got it all written out, and you can read it if you like." in his chamber, he said: "first, i kept a journal; then by and by, after years, i took the journal and turned it into a book. how long ago that was!" he handed me his manuscript, and pointed out the place where i should begin: "begin here--i've already told you what goes before." he was steeped in drowsiness by this time. as i went out at his door i heard him murmur sleepily: "give you good den, fair sir." i sat down by my fire and examined my treasure. the first part of it--the great bulk of it--was parchment, and yellow with age. i scanned a leaf particularly and saw that it was a palimpsest. under the old dim writing of the yankee historian appeared traces of a penmanship which was older and dimmer still--latin words and sentences: fragments from old monkish legends, evidently. i turned to the place indicated by my stranger and began to read --as follows: the tale of the lost land chapter i camelot "camelot--camelot," said i to myself. "i don't seem to remember hearing of it before. name of the asylum, likely." it was a soft, reposeful summer landscape, as lovely as a dream, and as lonesome as sunday. the air was full of the smell of flowers, and the buzzing of insects, and the twittering of birds, and there were no people, no wagons, there was no stir of life, nothing going on. the road was mainly a winding path with hoof-prints in it, and now and then a faint trace of wheels on either side in the grass--wheels that apparently had a tire as broad as one's hand. presently a fair slip of a girl, about ten years old, with a cataract of golden hair streaming down over her shoulders, came along. around her head she wore a hoop of flame-red poppies. it was as sweet an outfit as ever i saw, what there was of it. she walked indolently along, with a mind at rest, its peace reflected in her innocent face. the circus man paid no attention to her; didn't even seem to see her. and she--she was no more startled at his fantastic make-up than if she was used to his like every day of her life. she was going by as indifferently as she might have gone by a couple of cows; but when she happened to notice me, _then_ there was a change! up went her hands, and she was turned to stone; her mouth dropped open, her eyes stared wide and timorously, she was the picture of astonished curiosity touched with fear. and there she stood gazing, in a sort of stupefied fascination, till we turned a corner of the wood and were lost to her view. that she should be startled at me instead of at the other man, was too many for me; i couldn't make head or tail of it. and that she should seem to consider me a spectacle, and totally overlook her own merits in that respect, was another puzzling thing, and a display of magnanimity, too, that was surprising in one so young. there was food for thought here. i moved along as one in a dream. as we approached the town, signs of life began to appear. at intervals we passed a wretched cabin, with a thatched roof, and about it small fields and garden patches in an indifferent state of cultivation. there were people, too; brawny men, with long, coarse, uncombed hair that hung down over their faces and made them look like animals. they and the women, as a rule, wore a coarse tow-linen robe that came well below the knee, and a rude sort of sandal, and many wore an iron collar. the small boys and girls were always naked; but nobody seemed to know it. all of these people stared at me, talked about me, ran into the huts and fetched out their families to gape at me; but nobody ever noticed that other fellow, except to make him humble salutation and get no response for their pains. in the town were some substantial windowless houses of stone scattered among a wilderness of thatched cabins; the streets were mere crooked alleys, and unpaved; troops of dogs and nude children played in the sun and made life and noise; hogs roamed and rooted contentedly about, and one of them lay in a reeking wallow in the middle of the main thoroughfare and suckled her family. presently there was a distant blare of military music; it came nearer, still nearer, and soon a noble cavalcade wound into view, glorious with plumed helmets and flashing mail and flaunting banners and rich doublets and horse-cloths and gilded spearheads; and through the muck and swine, and naked brats, and joyous dogs, and shabby huts, it took its gallant way, and in its wake we followed. followed through one winding alley and then another,--and climbing, always climbing--till at last we gained the breezy height where the huge castle stood. there was an exchange of bugle blasts; then a parley from the walls, where men-at-arms, in hauberk and morion, marched back and forth with halberd at shoulder under flapping banners with the rude figure of a dragon displayed upon them; and then the great gates were flung open, the drawbridge was lowered, and the head of the cavalcade swept forward under the frowning arches; and we, following, soon found ourselves in a great paved court, with towers and turrets stretching up into the blue air on all the four sides; and all about us the dismount was going on, and much greeting and ceremony, and running to and fro, and a gay display of moving and intermingling colors, and an altogether pleasant stir and noise and confusion. chapter ii king arthur's court the moment i got a chance i slipped aside privately and touched an ancient common looking man on the shoulder and said, in an insinuating, confidential way: "friend, do me a kindness. do you belong to the asylum, or are you just on a visit or something like that?" he looked me over stupidly, and said: "marry, fair sir, me seemeth--" "that will do," i said; "i reckon you are a patient." i moved away, cogitating, and at the same time keeping an eye out for any chance passenger in his right mind that might come along and give me some light. i judged i had found one, presently; so i drew him aside and said in his ear: "if i could see the head keeper a minute--only just a minute--" "prithee do not let me." "let you _what_?" "_hinder_ me, then, if the word please thee better. then he went on to say he was an under-cook and could not stop to gossip, though he would like it another time; for it would comfort his very liver to know where i got my clothes. as he started away he pointed and said yonder was one who was idle enough for my purpose, and was seeking me besides, no doubt. this was an airy slim boy in shrimp-colored tights that made him look like a forked carrot, the rest of his gear was blue silk and dainty laces and ruffles; and he had long yellow curls, and wore a plumed pink satin cap tilted complacently over his ear. by his look, he was good-natured; by his gait, he was satisfied with himself. he was pretty enough to frame. he arrived, looked me over with a smiling and impudent curiosity; said he had come for me, and informed me that he was a page. "go 'long," i said; "you ain't more than a paragraph." it was pretty severe, but i was nettled. however, it never phazed him; he didn't appear to know he was hurt. he began to talk and laugh, in happy, thoughtless, boyish fashion, as we walked along, and made himself old friends with me at once; asked me all sorts of questions about myself and about my clothes, but never waited for an answer--always chattered straight ahead, as if he didn't know he had asked a question and wasn't expecting any reply, until at last he happened to mention that he was born in the beginning of the year . it made the cold chills creep over me! i stopped and said, a little faintly: "maybe i didn't hear you just right. say it again--and say it slow. what year was it?" " ." " ! you don't look it! come, my boy, i am a stranger and friendless; be honest and honorable with me. are you in your right mind?" he said he was. "are these other people in their right minds?" he said they were. "and this isn't an asylum? i mean, it isn't a place where they cure crazy people?" he said it wasn't. "well, then," i said, "either i am a lunatic, or something just as awful has happened. now tell me, honest and true, where am i?" "in king arthur's court." i waited a minute, to let that idea shudder its way home, and then said: "and according to your notions, what year is it now?" " --nineteenth of june." i felt a mournful sinking at the heart, and muttered: "i shall never see my friends again--never, never again. they will not be born for more than thirteen hundred years yet." i seemed to believe the boy, i didn't know why. _something_ in me seemed to believe him--my consciousness, as you may say; but my reason didn't. my reason straightway began to clamor; that was natural. i didn't know how to go about satisfying it, because i knew that the testimony of men wouldn't serve--my reason would say they were lunatics, and throw out their evidence. but all of a sudden i stumbled on the very thing, just by luck. i knew that the only total eclipse of the sun in the first half of the sixth century occurred on the st of june, a.d. , o.s., and began at minutes after noon. i also knew that no total eclipse of the sun was due in what to _me_ was the present year--i.e., . so, if i could keep my anxiety and curiosity from eating the heart out of me for forty-eight hours, i should then find out for certain whether this boy was telling me the truth or not. wherefore, being a practical connecticut man, i now shoved this whole problem clear out of my mind till its appointed day and hour should come, in order that i might turn all my attention to the circumstances of the present moment, and be alert and ready to make the most out of them that could be made. one thing at a time, is my motto--and just play that thing for all it is worth, even if it's only two pair and a jack. i made up my mind to two things: if it was still the nineteenth century and i was among lunatics and couldn't get away, i would presently boss that asylum or know the reason why; and if, on the other hand, it was really the sixth century, all right, i didn't want any softer thing: i would boss the whole country inside of three months; for i judged i would have the start of the best-educated man in the kingdom by a matter of thirteen hundred years and upward. i'm not a man to waste time after my mind's made up and there's work on hand; so i said to the page: "now, clarence, my boy--if that might happen to be your name --i'll get you to post me up a little if you don't mind. what is the name of that apparition that brought me here?" "my master and thine? that is the good knight and great lord sir kay the seneschal, foster brother to our liege the king." "very good; go on, tell me everything." he made a long story of it; but the part that had immediate interest for me was this: he said i was sir kay's prisoner, and that in the due course of custom i would be flung into a dungeon and left there on scant commons until my friends ransomed me--unless i chanced to rot, first. i saw that the last chance had the best show, but i didn't waste any bother about that; time was too precious. the page said, further, that dinner was about ended in the great hall by this time, and that as soon as the sociability and the heavy drinking should begin, sir kay would have me in and exhibit me before king arthur and his illustrious knights seated at the table round, and would brag about his exploit in capturing me, and would probably exaggerate the facts a little, but it wouldn't be good form for me to correct him, and not over safe, either; and when i was done being exhibited, then ho for the dungeon; but he, clarence, would find a way to come and see me every now and then, and cheer me up, and help me get word to my friends. get word to my friends! i thanked him; i couldn't do less; and about this time a lackey came to say i was wanted; so clarence led me in and took me off to one side and sat down by me. well, it was a curious kind of spectacle, and interesting. it was an immense place, and rather naked--yes, and full of loud contrasts. it was very, very lofty; so lofty that the banners depending from the arched beams and girders away up there floated in a sort of twilight; there was a stone-railed gallery at each end, high up, with musicians in the one, and women, clothed in stunning colors, in the other. the floor was of big stone flags laid in black and white squares, rather battered by age and use, and needing repair. as to ornament, there wasn't any, strictly speaking; though on the walls hung some huge tapestries which were probably taxed as works of art; battle-pieces, they were, with horses shaped like those which children cut out of paper or create in gingerbread; with men on them in scale armor whose scales are represented by round holes--so that the man's coat looks as if it had been done with a biscuit-punch. there was a fireplace big enough to camp in; and its projecting sides and hood, of carved and pillared stonework, had the look of a cathedral door. along the walls stood men-at-arms, in breastplate and morion, with halberds for their only weapon --rigid as statues; and that is what they looked like. in the middle of this groined and vaulted public square was an oaken table which they called the table round. it was as large as a circus ring; and around it sat a great company of men dressed in such various and splendid colors that it hurt one's eyes to look at them. they wore their plumed hats, right along, except that whenever one addressed himself directly to the king, he lifted his hat a trifle just as he was beginning his remark. mainly they were drinking--from entire ox horns; but a few were still munching bread or gnawing beef bones. there was about an average of two dogs to one man; and these sat in expectant attitudes till a spent bone was flung to them, and then they went for it by brigades and divisions, with a rush, and there ensued a fight which filled the prospect with a tumultuous chaos of plunging heads and bodies and flashing tails, and the storm of howlings and barkings deafened all speech for the time; but that was no matter, for the dog-fight was always a bigger interest anyway; the men rose, sometimes, to observe it the better and bet on it, and the ladies and the musicians stretched themselves out over their balusters with the same object; and all broke into delighted ejaculations from time to time. in the end, the winning dog stretched himself out comfortably with his bone between his paws, and proceeded to growl over it, and gnaw it, and grease the floor with it, just as fifty others were already doing; and the rest of the court resumed their previous industries and entertainments. as a rule, the speech and behavior of these people were gracious and courtly; and i noticed that they were good and serious listeners when anybody was telling anything--i mean in a dog-fightless interval. and plainly, too, they were a childlike and innocent lot; telling lies of the stateliest pattern with a most gentle and winning naivety, and ready and willing to listen to anybody else's lie, and believe it, too. it was hard to associate them with anything cruel or dreadful; and yet they dealt in tales of blood and suffering with a guileless relish that made me almost forget to shudder. i was not the only prisoner present. there were twenty or more. poor devils, many of them were maimed, hacked, carved, in a frightful way; and their hair, their faces, their clothing, were caked with black and stiffened drenchings of blood. they were suffering sharp physical pain, of course; and weariness, and hunger and thirst, no doubt; and at least none had given them the comfort of a wash, or even the poor charity of a lotion for their wounds; yet you never heard them utter a moan or a groan, or saw them show any sign of restlessness, or any disposition to complain. the thought was forced upon me: "the rascals--_they_ have served other people so in their day; it being their own turn, now, they were not expecting any better treatment than this; so their philosophical bearing is not an outcome of mental training, intellectual fortitude, reasoning; it is mere animal training; they are white indians." chapter iii knights of the table round mainly the round table talk was monologues--narrative accounts of the adventures in which these prisoners were captured and their friends and backers killed and stripped of their steeds and armor. as a general thing--as far as i could make out--these murderous adventures were not forays undertaken to avenge injuries, nor to settle old disputes or sudden fallings out; no, as a rule they were simply duels between strangers--duels between people who had never even been introduced to each other, and between whom existed no cause of offense whatever. many a time i had seen a couple of boys, strangers, meet by chance, and say simultaneously, "i can lick you," and go at it on the spot; but i had always imagined until now that that sort of thing belonged to children only, and was a sign and mark of childhood; but here were these big boobies sticking to it and taking pride in it clear up into full age and beyond. yet there was something very engaging about these great simple-hearted creatures, something attractive and lovable. there did not seem to be brains enough in the entire nursery, so to speak, to bait a fish-hook with; but you didn't seem to mind that, after a little, because you soon saw that brains were not needed in a society like that, and indeed would have marred it, hindered it, spoiled its symmetry--perhaps rendered its existence impossible. there was a fine manliness observable in almost every face; and in some a certain loftiness and sweetness that rebuked your belittling criticisms and stilled them. a most noble benignity and purity reposed in the countenance of him they called sir galahad, and likewise in the king's also; and there was majesty and greatness in the giant frame and high bearing of sir launcelot of the lake. there was presently an incident which centered the general interest upon this sir launcelot. at a sign from a sort of master of ceremonies, six or eight of the prisoners rose and came forward in a body and knelt on the floor and lifted up their hands toward the ladies' gallery and begged the grace of a word with the queen. the most conspicuously situated lady in that massed flower-bed of feminine show and finery inclined her head by way of assent, and then the spokesman of the prisoners delivered himself and his fellows into her hands for free pardon, ransom, captivity, or death, as she in her good pleasure might elect; and this, as he said, he was doing by command of sir kay the seneschal, whose prisoners they were, he having vanquished them by his single might and prowess in sturdy conflict in the field. surprise and astonishment flashed from face to face all over the house; the queen's gratified smile faded out at the name of sir kay, and she looked disappointed; and the page whispered in my ear with an accent and manner expressive of extravagant derision-- "sir _kay_, forsooth! oh, call me pet names, dearest, call me a marine! in twice a thousand years shall the unholy invention of man labor at odds to beget the fellow to this majestic lie!" every eye was fastened with severe inquiry upon sir kay. but he was equal to the occasion. he got up and played his hand like a major--and took every trick. he said he would state the case exactly according to the facts; he would tell the simple straightforward tale, without comment of his own; "and then," said he, "if ye find glory and honor due, ye will give it unto him who is the mightiest man of his hands that ever bare shield or strake with sword in the ranks of christian battle--even him that sitteth there!" and he pointed to sir launcelot. ah, he fetched them; it was a rattling good stroke. then he went on and told how sir launcelot, seeking adventures, some brief time gone by, killed seven giants at one sweep of his sword, and set a hundred and forty-two captive maidens free; and then went further, still seeking adventures, and found him (sir kay) fighting a desperate fight against nine foreign knights, and straightway took the battle solely into his own hands, and conquered the nine; and that night sir launcelot rose quietly, and dressed him in sir kay's armor and took sir kay's horse and gat him away into distant lands, and vanquished sixteen knights in one pitched battle and thirty-four in another; and all these and the former nine he made to swear that about whitsuntide they would ride to arthur's court and yield them to queen guenever's hands as captives of sir kay the seneschal, spoil of his knightly prowess; and now here were these half dozen, and the rest would be along as soon as they might be healed of their desperate wounds. well, it was touching to see the queen blush and smile, and look embarrassed and happy, and fling furtive glances at sir launcelot that would have got him shot in arkansas, to a dead certainty. everybody praised the valor and magnanimity of sir launcelot; and as for me, i was perfectly amazed, that one man, all by himself, should have been able to beat down and capture such battalions of practiced fighters. i said as much to clarence; but this mocking featherhead only said: "an sir kay had had time to get another skin of sour wine into him, ye had seen the accompt doubled." i looked at the boy in sorrow; and as i looked i saw the cloud of a deep despondency settle upon his countenance. i followed the direction of his eye, and saw that a very old and white-bearded man, clothed in a flowing black gown, had risen and was standing at the table upon unsteady legs, and feebly swaying his ancient head and surveying the company with his watery and wandering eye. the same suffering look that was in the page's face was observable in all the faces around--the look of dumb creatures who know that they must endure and make no moan. "marry, we shall have it again," sighed the boy; "that same old weary tale that he hath told a thousand times in the same words, and that he _will_ tell till he dieth, every time he hath gotten his barrel full and feeleth his exaggeration-mill a-working. would god i had died or i saw this day!" "who is it?" "merlin, the mighty liar and magician, perdition singe him for the weariness he worketh with his one tale! but that men fear him for that he hath the storms and the lightnings and all the devils that be in hell at his beck and call, they would have dug his entrails out these many years ago to get at that tale and squelch it. he telleth it always in the third person, making believe he is too modest to glorify himself--maledictions light upon him, misfortune be his dole! good friend, prithee call me for evensong." the boy nestled himself upon my shoulder and pretended to go to sleep. the old man began his tale; and presently the lad was asleep in reality; so also were the dogs, and the court, the lackeys, and the files of men-at-arms. the droning voice droned on; a soft snoring arose on all sides and supported it like a deep and subdued accompaniment of wind instruments. some heads were bowed upon folded arms, some lay back with open mouths that issued unconscious music; the flies buzzed and bit, unmolested, the rats swarmed softly out from a hundred holes, and pattered about, and made themselves at home everywhere; and one of them sat up like a squirrel on the king's head and held a bit of cheese in its hands and nibbled it, and dribbled the crumbs in the king's face with naive and impudent irreverence. it was a tranquil scene, and restful to the weary eye and the jaded spirit. this was the old man's tale. he said: "right so the king and merlin departed, and went until an hermit that was a good man and a great leech. so the hermit searched all his wounds and gave him good salves; so the king was there three days, and then were his wounds well amended that he might ride and go, and so departed. and as they rode, arthur said, i have no sword. no force,* [*footnote from m.t.: no matter.] said merlin, hereby is a sword that shall be yours and i may. so they rode till they came to a lake, the which was a fair water and broad, and in the midst of the lake arthur was ware of an arm clothed in white samite, that held a fair sword in that hand. lo, said merlin, yonder is that sword that i spake of. with that they saw a damsel going upon the lake. what damsel is that? said arthur. that is the lady of the lake, said merlin; and within that lake is a rock, and therein is as fair a place as any on earth, and richly beseen, and this damsel will come to you anon, and then speak ye fair to her that she will give you that sword. anon withal came the damsel unto arthur and saluted him, and he her again. damsel, said arthur, what sword is that, that yonder the arm holdeth above the water? i would it were mine, for i have no sword. sir arthur king, said the damsel, that sword is mine, and if ye will give me a gift when i ask it you, ye shall have it. by my faith, said arthur, i will give you what gift ye will ask. well, said the damsel, go ye into yonder barge and row yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you, and i will ask my gift when i see my time. so sir arthur and merlin alight, and tied their horses to two trees, and so they went into the ship, and when they came to the sword that the hand held, sir arthur took it up by the handles, and took it with him. and the arm and the hand went under the water; and so they came unto the land and rode forth. and then sir arthur saw a rich pavilion. what signifieth yonder pavilion? it is the knight's pavilion, said merlin, that ye fought with last, sir pellinore, but he is out, he is not there; he hath ado with a knight of yours, that hight egglame, and they have fought together, but at the last egglame fled, and else he had been dead, and he hath chased him even to carlion, and we shall meet with him anon in the highway. that is well said, said arthur, now have i a sword, now will i wage battle with him, and be avenged on him. sir, ye shall not so, said merlin, for the knight is weary of fighting and chasing, so that ye shall have no worship to have ado with him; also, he will not lightly be matched of one knight living; and therefore it is my counsel, let him pass, for he shall do you good service in short time, and his sons, after his days. also ye shall see that day in short space ye shall be right glad to give him your sister to wed. when i see him, i will do as ye advise me, said arthur. then sir arthur looked on the sword, and liked it passing well. whether liketh you better, said merlin, the sword or the scabbard? me liketh better the sword, said arthur. ye are more unwise, said merlin, for the scabbard is worth ten of the sword, for while ye have the scabbard upon you ye shall never lose no blood, be ye never so sore wounded; therefore, keep well the scabbard always with you. so they rode into carlion, and by the way they met with sir pellinore; but merlin had done such a craft that pellinore saw not arthur, and he passed by without any words. i marvel, said arthur, that the knight would not speak. sir, said merlin, he saw you not; for and he had seen you ye had not lightly departed. so they came unto carlion, whereof his knights were passing glad. and when they heard of his adventures they marveled that he would jeopard his person so alone. but all men of worship said it was merry to be under such a chieftain that would put his person in adventure as other poor knights did." chapter iv sir dinadan the humorist it seemed to me that this quaint lie was most simply and beautifully told; but then i had heard it only once, and that makes a difference; it was pleasant to the others when it was fresh, no doubt. sir dinadan the humorist was the first to awake, and he soon roused the rest with a practical joke of a sufficiently poor quality. he tied some metal mugs to a dog's tail and turned him loose, and he tore around and around the place in a frenzy of fright, with all the other dogs bellowing after him and battering and crashing against everything that came in their way and making altogether a chaos of confusion and a most deafening din and turmoil; at which every man and woman of the multitude laughed till the tears flowed, and some fell out of their chairs and wallowed on the floor in ecstasy. it was just like so many children. sir dinadan was so proud of his exploit that he could not keep from telling over and over again, to weariness, how the immortal idea happened to occur to him; and as is the way with humorists of his breed, he was still laughing at it after everybody else had got through. he was so set up that he concluded to make a speech --of course a humorous speech. i think i never heard so many old played-out jokes strung together in my life. he was worse than the minstrels, worse than the clown in the circus. it seemed peculiarly sad to sit here, thirteen hundred years before i was born, and listen again to poor, flat, worm-eaten jokes that had given me the dry gripes when i was a boy thirteen hundred years afterwards. it about convinced me that there isn't any such thing as a new joke possible. everybody laughed at these antiquities --but then they always do; i had noticed that, centuries later. however, of course the scoffer didn't laugh--i mean the boy. no, he scoffed; there wasn't anything he wouldn't scoff at. he said the most of sir dinadan's jokes were rotten and the rest were petrified. i said "petrified" was good; as i believed, myself, that the only right way to classify the majestic ages of some of those jokes was by geologic periods. but that neat idea hit the boy in a blank place, for geology hadn't been invented yet. however, i made a note of the remark, and calculated to educate the commonwealth up to it if i pulled through. it is no use to throw a good thing away merely because the market isn't ripe yet. now sir kay arose and began to fire up on his history-mill with me for fuel. it was time for me to feel serious, and i did. sir kay told how he had encountered me in a far land of barbarians, who all wore the same ridiculous garb that i did--a garb that was a work of enchantment, and intended to make the wearer secure from hurt by human hands. however he had nullified the force of the enchantment by prayer, and had killed my thirteen knights in a three hours' battle, and taken me prisoner, sparing my life in order that so strange a curiosity as i was might be exhibited to the wonder and admiration of the king and the court. he spoke of me all the time, in the blandest way, as "this prodigious giant," and "this horrible sky-towering monster," and "this tusked and taloned man-devouring ogre", and everybody took in all this bosh in the naivest way, and never smiled or seemed to notice that there was any discrepancy between these watered statistics and me. he said that in trying to escape from him i sprang into the top of a tree two hundred cubits high at a single bound, but he dislodged me with a stone the size of a cow, which "all-to brast" the most of my bones, and then swore me to appear at arthur's court for sentence. he ended by condemning me to die at noon on the st; and was so little concerned about it that he stopped to yawn before he named the date. i was in a dismal state by this time; indeed, i was hardly enough in my right mind to keep the run of a dispute that sprung up as to how i had better be killed, the possibility of the killing being doubted by some, because of the enchantment in my clothes. and yet it was nothing but an ordinary suit of fifteen-dollar slop-shops. still, i was sane enough to notice this detail, to wit: many of the terms used in the most matter-of-fact way by this great assemblage of the first ladies and gentlemen in the land would have made a comanche blush. indelicacy is too mild a term to convey the idea. however, i had read "tom jones," and "roderick random," and other books of that kind, and knew that the highest and first ladies and gentlemen in england had remained little or no cleaner in their talk, and in the morals and conduct which such talk implies, clear up to a hundred years ago; in fact clear into our own nineteenth century--in which century, broadly speaking, the earliest samples of the real lady and real gentleman discoverable in english history--or in european history, for that matter--may be said to have made their appearance. suppose sir walter, instead of putting the conversations into the mouths of his characters, had allowed the characters to speak for themselves? we should have had talk from rebecca and ivanhoe and the soft lady rowena which would embarrass a tramp in our day. however, to the unconsciously indelicate all things are delicate. king arthur's people were not aware that they were indecent and i had presence of mind enough not to mention it. they were so troubled about my enchanted clothes that they were mightily relieved, at last, when old merlin swept the difficulty away for them with a common-sense hint. he asked them why they were so dull--why didn't it occur to them to strip me. in half a minute i was as naked as a pair of tongs! and dear, dear, to think of it: i was the only embarrassed person there. everybody discussed me; and did it as unconcernedly as if i had been a cabbage. queen guenever was as naively interested as the rest, and said she had never seen anybody with legs just like mine before. it was the only compliment i got--if it was a compliment. finally i was carried off in one direction, and my perilous clothes in another. i was shoved into a dark and narrow cell in a dungeon, with some scant remnants for dinner, some moldy straw for a bed, and no end of rats for company. chapter v an inspiration i was so tired that even my fears were not able to keep me awake long. when i next came to myself, i seemed to have been asleep a very long time. my first thought was, "well, what an astonishing dream i've had! i reckon i've waked only just in time to keep from being hanged or drowned or burned or something.... i'll nap again till the whistle blows, and then i'll go down to the arms factory and have it out with hercules." but just then i heard the harsh music of rusty chains and bolts, a light flashed in my eyes, and that butterfly, clarence, stood before me! i gasped with surprise; my breath almost got away from me. "what!" i said, "you here yet? go along with the rest of the dream! scatter!" but he only laughed, in his light-hearted way, and fell to making fun of my sorry plight. "all right," i said resignedly, "let the dream go on; i'm in no hurry." "prithee what dream?" "what dream? why, the dream that i am in arthur's court--a person who never existed; and that i am talking to you, who are nothing but a work of the imagination." "oh, la, indeed! and is it a dream that you're to be burned to-morrow? ho-ho--answer me that!" the shock that went through me was distressing. i now began to reason that my situation was in the last degree serious, dream or no dream; for i knew by past experience of the lifelike intensity of dreams, that to be burned to death, even in a dream, would be very far from being a jest, and was a thing to be avoided, by any means, fair or foul, that i could contrive. so i said beseechingly: "ah, clarence, good boy, only friend i've got,--for you _are_ my friend, aren't you?--don't fail me; help me to devise some way of escaping from this place!" "now do but hear thyself! escape? why, man, the corridors are in guard and keep of men-at-arms." "no doubt, no doubt. but how many, clarence? not many, i hope?" "full a score. one may not hope to escape." after a pause --hesitatingly: "and there be other reasons--and weightier." "other ones? what are they?" "well, they say--oh, but i daren't, indeed daren't!" "why, poor lad, what is the matter? why do you blench? why do you tremble so?" "oh, in sooth, there is need! i do want to tell you, but--" "come, come, be brave, be a man--speak out, there's a good lad!" he hesitated, pulled one way by desire, the other way by fear; then he stole to the door and peeped out, listening; and finally crept close to me and put his mouth to my ear and told me his fearful news in a whisper, and with all the cowering apprehension of one who was venturing upon awful ground and speaking of things whose very mention might be freighted with death. "merlin, in his malice, has woven a spell about this dungeon, and there bides not the man in these kingdoms that would be desperate enough to essay to cross its lines with you! now god pity me, i have told it! ah, be kind to me, be merciful to a poor boy who means thee well; for an thou betray me i am lost!" i laughed the only really refreshing laugh i had had for some time; and shouted: "merlin has wrought a spell! _merlin_, forsooth! that cheap old humbug, that maundering old ass? bosh, pure bosh, the silliest bosh in the world! why, it does seem to me that of all the childish, idiotic, chuckle-headed, chicken-livered superstitions that ev --oh, damn merlin!" but clarence had slumped to his knees before i had half finished, and he was like to go out of his mind with fright. "oh, beware! these are awful words! any moment these walls may crumble upon us if you say such things. oh call them back before it is too late!" now this strange exhibition gave me a good idea and set me to thinking. if everybody about here was so honestly and sincerely afraid of merlin's pretended magic as clarence was, certainly a superior man like me ought to be shrewd enough to contrive some way to take advantage of such a state of things. i went on thinking, and worked out a plan. then i said: "get up. pull yourself together; look me in the eye. do you know why i laughed?" "no--but for our blessed lady's sake, do it no more." "well, i'll tell you why i laughed. because i'm a magician myself." "thou!" the boy recoiled a step, and caught his breath, for the thing hit him rather sudden; but the aspect which he took on was very, very respectful. i took quick note of that; it indicated that a humbug didn't need to have a reputation in this asylum; people stood ready to take him at his word, without that. i resumed. "i've known merlin seven hundred years, and he--" "seven hun--" "don't interrupt me. he has died and come alive again thirteen times, and traveled under a new name every time: smith, jones, robinson, jackson, peters, haskins, merlin--a new alias every time he turns up. i knew him in egypt three hundred years ago; i knew him in india five hundred years ago--he is always blethering around in my way, everywhere i go; he makes me tired. he don't amount to shucks, as a magician; knows some of the old common tricks, but has never got beyond the rudiments, and never will. he is well enough for the provinces--one-night stands and that sort of thing, you know--but dear me, _he_ oughtn't to set up for an expert--anyway not where there's a real artist. now look here, clarence, i am going to stand your friend, right along, and in return you must be mine. i want you to do me a favor. i want you to get word to the king that i am a magician myself--and the supreme grand high-yu-muck-amuck and head of the tribe, at that; and i want him to be made to understand that i am just quietly arranging a little calamity here that will make the fur fly in these realms if sir kay's project is carried out and any harm comes to me. will you get that to the king for me?" the poor boy was in such a state that he could hardly answer me. it was pitiful to see a creature so terrified, so unnerved, so demoralized. but he promised everything; and on my side he made me promise over and over again that i would remain his friend, and never turn against him or cast any enchantments upon him. then he worked his way out, staying himself with his hand along the wall, like a sick person. presently this thought occurred to me: how heedless i have been! when the boy gets calm, he will wonder why a great magician like me should have begged a boy like him to help me get out of this place; he will put this and that together, and will see that i am a humbug. i worried over that heedless blunder for an hour, and called myself a great many hard names, meantime. but finally it occurred to me all of a sudden that these animals didn't reason; that _they_ never put this and that together; that all their talk showed that they didn't know a discrepancy when they saw it. i was at rest, then. but as soon as one is at rest, in this world, off he goes on something else to worry about. it occurred to me that i had made another blunder: i had sent the boy off to alarm his betters with a threat--i intending to invent a calamity at my leisure; now the people who are the readiest and eagerest and willingest to swallow miracles are the very ones who are hungriest to see you perform them; suppose i should be called on for a sample? suppose i should be asked to name my calamity? yes, i had made a blunder; i ought to have invented my calamity first. "what shall i do? what can i say, to gain a little time?" i was in trouble again; in the deepest kind of trouble... "there's a footstep!--they're coming. if i had only just a moment to think.... good, i've got it. i'm all right." you see, it was the eclipse. it came into my mind in the nick of time, how columbus, or cortez, or one of those people, played an eclipse as a saving trump once, on some savages, and i saw my chance. i could play it myself, now, and it wouldn't be any plagiarism, either, because i should get it in nearly a thousand years ahead of those parties. clarence came in, subdued, distressed, and said: "i hasted the message to our liege the king, and straightway he had me to his presence. he was frighted even to the marrow, and was minded to give order for your instant enlargement, and that you be clothed in fine raiment and lodged as befitted one so great; but then came merlin and spoiled all; for he persuaded the king that you are mad, and know not whereof you speak; and said your threat is but foolishness and idle vaporing. they disputed long, but in the end, merlin, scoffing, said, 'wherefore hath he not _named_ his brave calamity? verily it is because he cannot.' this thrust did in a most sudden sort close the king's mouth, and he could offer naught to turn the argument; and so, reluctant, and full loth to do you the discourtesy, he yet prayeth you to consider his perplexed case, as noting how the matter stands, and name the calamity--if so be you have determined the nature of it and the time of its coming. oh, prithee delay not; to delay at such a time were to double and treble the perils that already compass thee about. oh, be thou wise--name the calamity!" i allowed silence to accumulate while i got my impressiveness together, and then said: "how long have i been shut up in this hole?" "ye were shut up when yesterday was well spent. it is of the morning now." "no! then i have slept well, sure enough. nine in the morning now! and yet it is the very complexion of midnight, to a shade. this is the th, then?" "the th--yes." "and i am to be burned alive to-morrow." the boy shuddered. "at what hour?" "at high noon." "now then, i will tell you what to say." i paused, and stood over that cowering lad a whole minute in awful silence; then, in a voice deep, measured, charged with doom, i began, and rose by dramatically graded stages to my colossal climax, which i delivered in as sublime and noble a way as ever i did such a thing in my life: "go back and tell the king that at that hour i will smother the whole world in the dead blackness of midnight; i will blot out the sun, and he shall never shine again; the fruits of the earth shall rot for lack of light and warmth, and the peoples of the earth shall famish and die, to the last man!" i had to carry the boy out myself, he sunk into such a collapse. i handed him over to the soldiers, and went back. chapter vi the eclipse in the stillness and the darkness, realization soon began to supplement knowledge. the mere knowledge of a fact is pale; but when you come to _realize_ your fact, it takes on color. it is all the difference between hearing of a man being stabbed to the heart, and seeing it done. in the stillness and the darkness, the knowledge that i was in deadly danger took to itself deeper and deeper meaning all the time; a something which was realization crept inch by inch through my veins and turned me cold. but it is a blessed provision of nature that at times like these, as soon as a man's mercury has got down to a certain point there comes a revulsion, and he rallies. hope springs up, and cheerfulness along with it, and then he is in good shape to do something for himself, if anything can be done. when my rally came, it came with a bound. i said to myself that my eclipse would be sure to save me, and make me the greatest man in the kingdom besides; and straightway my mercury went up to the top of the tube, and my solicitudes all vanished. i was as happy a man as there was in the world. i was even impatient for to-morrow to come, i so wanted to gather in that great triumph and be the center of all the nation's wonder and reverence. besides, in a business way it would be the making of me; i knew that. meantime there was one thing which had got pushed into the background of my mind. that was the half-conviction that when the nature of my proposed calamity should be reported to those superstitious people, it would have such an effect that they would want to compromise. so, by and by when i heard footsteps coming, that thought was recalled to me, and i said to myself, "as sure as anything, it's the compromise. well, if it is good, all right, i will accept; but if it isn't, i mean to stand my ground and play my hand for all it is worth." the door opened, and some men-at-arms appeared. the leader said: "the stake is ready. come!" the stake! the strength went out of me, and i almost fell down. it is hard to get one's breath at such a time, such lumps come into one's throat, and such gaspings; but as soon as i could speak, i said: "but this is a mistake--the execution is to-morrow." "order changed; been set forward a day. haste thee!" i was lost. there was no help for me. i was dazed, stupefied; i had no command over myself, i only wandered purposely about, like one out of his mind; so the soldiers took hold of me, and pulled me along with them, out of the cell and along the maze of underground corridors, and finally into the fierce glare of daylight and the upper world. as we stepped into the vast enclosed court of the castle i got a shock; for the first thing i saw was the stake, standing in the center, and near it the piled fagots and a monk. on all four sides of the court the seated multitudes rose rank above rank, forming sloping terraces that were rich with color. the king and the queen sat in their thrones, the most conspicuous figures there, of course. to note all this, occupied but a second. the next second clarence had slipped from some place of concealment and was pouring news into my ear, his eyes beaming with triumph and gladness. he said: "tis through _me_ the change was wrought! and main hard have i worked to do it, too. but when i revealed to them the calamity in store, and saw how mighty was the terror it did engender, then saw i also that this was the time to strike! wherefore i diligently pretended, unto this and that and the other one, that your power against the sun could not reach its full until the morrow; and so if any would save the sun and the world, you must be slain to-day, while your enchantments are but in the weaving and lack potency. odsbodikins, it was but a dull lie, a most indifferent invention, but you should have seen them seize it and swallow it, in the frenzy of their fright, as it were salvation sent from heaven; and all the while was i laughing in my sleeve the one moment, to see them so cheaply deceived, and glorifying god the next, that he was content to let the meanest of his creatures be his instrument to the saving of thy life. ah how happy has the matter sped! you will not need to do the sun a _real_ hurt--ah, forget not that, on your soul forget it not! only make a little darkness--only the littlest little darkness, mind, and cease with that. it will be sufficient. they will see that i spoke falsely,--being ignorant, as they will fancy --and with the falling of the first shadow of that darkness you shall see them go mad with fear; and they will set you free and make you great! go to thy triumph, now! but remember--ah, good friend, i implore thee remember my supplication, and do the blessed sun no hurt. for _my_ sake, thy true friend." i choked out some words through my grief and misery; as much as to say i would spare the sun; for which the lad's eyes paid me back with such deep and loving gratitude that i had not the heart to tell him his good-hearted foolishness had ruined me and sent me to my death. as the soldiers assisted me across the court the stillness was so profound that if i had been blindfold i should have supposed i was in a solitude instead of walled in by four thousand people. there was not a movement perceptible in those masses of humanity; they were as rigid as stone images, and as pale; and dread sat upon every countenance. this hush continued while i was being chained to the stake; it still continued while the fagots were carefully and tediously piled about my ankles, my knees, my thighs, my body. then there was a pause, and a deeper hush, if possible, and a man knelt down at my feet with a blazing torch; the multitude strained forward, gazing, and parting slightly from their seats without knowing it; the monk raised his hands above my head, and his eyes toward the blue sky, and began some words in latin; in this attitude he droned on and on, a little while, and then stopped. i waited two or three moments; then looked up; he was standing there petrified. with a common impulse the multitude rose slowly up and stared into the sky. i followed their eyes, as sure as guns, there was my eclipse beginning! the life went boiling through my veins; i was a new man! the rim of black spread slowly into the sun's disk, my heart beat higher and higher, and still the assemblage and the priest stared into the sky, motionless. i knew that this gaze would be turned upon me, next. when it was, i was ready. i was in one of the most grand attitudes i ever struck, with my arm stretched up pointing to the sun. it was a noble effect. you could _see_ the shudder sweep the mass like a wave. two shouts rang out, one close upon the heels of the other: "apply the torch!" "i forbid it!" the one was from merlin, the other from the king. merlin started from his place--to apply the torch himself, i judged. i said: "stay where you are. if any man moves--even the king--before i give him leave, i will blast him with thunder, i will consume him with lightnings!" the multitude sank meekly into their seats, and i was just expecting they would. merlin hesitated a moment or two, and i was on pins and needles during that little while. then he sat down, and i took a good breath; for i knew i was master of the situation now. the king said: "be merciful, fair sir, and essay no further in this perilous matter, lest disaster follow. it was reported to us that your powers could not attain unto their full strength until the morrow; but--" "your majesty thinks the report may have been a lie? it _was_ a lie." that made an immense effect; up went appealing hands everywhere, and the king was assailed with a storm of supplications that i might be bought off at any price, and the calamity stayed. the king was eager to comply. he said: "name any terms, reverend sir, even to the halving of my kingdom; but banish this calamity, spare the sun!" my fortune was made. i would have taken him up in a minute, but i couldn't stop an eclipse; the thing was out of the question. so i asked time to consider. the king said: "how long--ah, how long, good sir? be merciful; look, it groweth darker, moment by moment. prithee how long?" "not long. half an hour--maybe an hour." there were a thousand pathetic protests, but i couldn't shorten up any, for i couldn't remember how long a total eclipse lasts. i was in a puzzled condition, anyway, and wanted to think. something was wrong about that eclipse, and the fact was very unsettling. if this wasn't the one i was after, how was i to tell whether this was the sixth century, or nothing but a dream? dear me, if i could only prove it was the latter! here was a glad new hope. if the boy was right about the date, and this was surely the th, it _wasn't_ the sixth century. i reached for the monk's sleeve, in considerable excitement, and asked him what day of the month it was. hang him, he said it was the _twenty-first_! it made me turn cold to hear him. i begged him not to make any mistake about it; but he was sure; he knew it was the st. so, that feather-headed boy had botched things again! the time of the day was right for the eclipse; i had seen that for myself, in the beginning, by the dial that was near by. yes, i was in king arthur's court, and i might as well make the most out of it i could. the darkness was steadily growing, the people becoming more and more distressed. i now said: "i have reflected, sir king. for a lesson, i will let this darkness proceed, and spread night in the world; but whether i blot out the sun for good, or restore it, shall rest with you. these are the terms, to wit: you shall remain king over all your dominions, and receive all the glories and honors that belong to the kingship; but you shall appoint me your perpetual minister and executive, and give me for my services one per cent of such actual increase of revenue over and above its present amount as i may succeed in creating for the state. if i can't live on that, i sha'n't ask anybody to give me a lift. is it satisfactory?" there was a prodigious roar of applause, and out of the midst of it the king's voice rose, saying: "away with his bonds, and set him free! and do him homage, high and low, rich and poor, for he is become the king's right hand, is clothed with power and authority, and his seat is upon the highest step of the throne! now sweep away this creeping night, and bring the light and cheer again, that all the world may bless thee." but i said: "that a common man should be shamed before the world, is nothing; but it were dishonor to the _king_ if any that saw his minister naked should not also see him delivered from his shame. if i might ask that my clothes be brought again--" "they are not meet," the king broke in. "fetch raiment of another sort; clothe him like a prince!" my idea worked. i wanted to keep things as they were till the eclipse was total, otherwise they would be trying again to get me to dismiss the darkness, and of course i couldn't do it. sending for the clothes gained some delay, but not enough. so i had to make another excuse. i said it would be but natural if the king should change his mind and repent to some extent of what he had done under excitement; therefore i would let the darkness grow a while, and if at the end of a reasonable time the king had kept his mind the same, the darkness should be dismissed. neither the king nor anybody else was satisfied with that arrangement, but i had to stick to my point. it grew darker and darker and blacker and blacker, while i struggled with those awkward sixth-century clothes. it got to be pitch dark, at last, and the multitude groaned with horror to feel the cold uncanny night breezes fan through the place and see the stars come out and twinkle in the sky. at last the eclipse was total, and i was very glad of it, but everybody else was in misery; which was quite natural. i said: "the king, by his silence, still stands to the terms." then i lifted up my hands--stood just so a moment--then i said, with the most awful solemnity: "let the enchantment dissolve and pass harmless away!" there was no response, for a moment, in that deep darkness and that graveyard hush. but when the silver rim of the sun pushed itself out, a moment or two later, the assemblage broke loose with a vast shout and came pouring down like a deluge to smother me with blessings and gratitude; and clarence was not the last of the wash, to be sure. a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) part . chapter xxvii the yankee and the king travel incognito about bedtime i took the king to my private quarters to cut his hair and help him get the hang of the lowly raiment he was to wear. the high classes wore their hair banged across the forehead but hanging to the shoulders the rest of the way around, whereas the lowest ranks of commoners were banged fore and aft both; the slaves were bangless, and allowed their hair free growth. so i inverted a bowl over his head and cut away all the locks that hung below it. i also trimmed his whiskers and mustache until they were only about a half-inch long; and tried to do it inartistically, and succeeded. it was a villainous disfigurement. when he got his lubberly sandals on, and his long robe of coarse brown linen cloth, which hung straight from his neck to his ankle-bones, he was no longer the comeliest man in his kingdom, but one of the unhandsomest and most commonplace and unattractive. we were dressed and barbered alike, and could pass for small farmers, or farm bailiffs, or shepherds, or carters; yes, or for village artisans, if we chose, our costume being in effect universal among the poor, because of its strength and cheapness. i don't mean that it was really cheap to a very poor person, but i do mean that it was the cheapest material there was for male attire--manufactured material, you understand. we slipped away an hour before dawn, and by broad sun-up had made eight or ten miles, and were in the midst of a sparsely settled country. i had a pretty heavy knapsack; it was laden with provisions--provisions for the king to taper down on, till he could take to the coarse fare of the country without damage. i found a comfortable seat for the king by the roadside, and then gave him a morsel or two to stay his stomach with. then i said i would find some water for him, and strolled away. part of my project was to get out of sight and sit down and rest a little myself. it had always been my custom to stand when in his presence; even at the council board, except upon those rare occasions when the sitting was a very long one, extending over hours; then i had a trifling little backless thing which was like a reversed culvert and was as comfortable as the toothache. i didn't want to break him in suddenly, but do it by degrees. we should have to sit together now when in company, or people would notice; but it would not be good politics for me to be playing equality with him when there was no necessity for it. i found the water some three hundred yards away, and had been resting about twenty minutes, when i heard voices. that is all right, i thought--peasants going to work; nobody else likely to be stirring this early. but the next moment these comers jingled into sight around a turn of the road--smartly clad people of quality, with luggage-mules and servants in their train! i was off like a shot, through the bushes, by the shortest cut. for a while it did seem that these people would pass the king before i could get to him; but desperation gives you wings, you know, and i canted my body forward, inflated my breast, and held my breath and flew. i arrived. and in plenty good enough time, too. "pardon, my king, but it's no time for ceremony--jump! jump to your feet--some quality are coming!" "is that a marvel? let them come." "but my liege! you must not be seen sitting. rise!--and stand in humble posture while they pass. you are a peasant, you know." "true--i had forgot it, so lost was i in planning of a huge war with gaul"--he was up by this time, but a farm could have got up quicker, if there was any kind of a boom in real estate--"and right-so a thought came randoming overthwart this majestic dream the which--" "a humbler attitude, my lord the king--and quick! duck your head! --more!--still more!--droop it!" he did his honest best, but lord, it was no great things. he looked as humble as the leaning tower at pisa. it is the most you could say of it. indeed, it was such a thundering poor success that it raised wondering scowls all along the line, and a gorgeous flunkey at the tail end of it raised his whip; but i jumped in time and was under it when it fell; and under cover of the volley of coarse laughter which followed, i spoke up sharply and warned the king to take no notice. he mastered himself for the moment, but it was a sore tax; he wanted to eat up the procession. i said: "it would end our adventures at the very start; and we, being without weapons, could do nothing with that armed gang. if we are going to succeed in our emprise, we must not only look the peasant but act the peasant." "it is wisdom; none can gainsay it. let us go on, sir boss. i will take note and learn, and do the best i may." he kept his word. he did the best he could, but i've seen better. if you have ever seen an active, heedless, enterprising child going diligently out of one mischief and into another all day long, and an anxious mother at its heels all the while, and just saving it by a hair from drowning itself or breaking its neck with each new experiment, you've seen the king and me. if i could have foreseen what the thing was going to be like, i should have said, no, if anybody wants to make his living exhibiting a king as a peasant, let him take the layout; i can do better with a menagerie, and last longer. and yet, during the first three days i never allowed him to enter a hut or other dwelling. if he could pass muster anywhere during his early novitiate it would be in small inns and on the road; so to these places we confined ourselves. yes, he certainly did the best he could, but what of that? he didn't improve a bit that i could see. he was always frightening me, always breaking out with fresh astonishers, in new and unexpected places. toward evening on the second day, what does he do but blandly fetch out a dirk from inside his robe! "great guns, my liege, where did you get that?" "from a smuggler at the inn, yester eve." "what in the world possessed you to buy it?" "we have escaped divers dangers by wit--thy wit--but i have bethought me that it were but prudence if i bore a weapon, too. thine might fail thee in some pinch." "but people of our condition are not allowed to carry arms. what would a lord say--yes, or any other person of whatever condition --if he caught an upstart peasant with a dagger on his person?" it was a lucky thing for us that nobody came along just then. i persuaded him to throw the dirk away; and it was as easy as persuading a child to give up some bright fresh new way of killing itself. we walked along, silent and thinking. finally the king said: "when ye know that i meditate a thing inconvenient, or that hath a peril in it, why do you not warn me to cease from that project?" it was a startling question, and a puzzler. i didn't quite know how to take hold of it, or what to say, and so, of course, i ended by saying the natural thing: "but, sire, how can i know what your thoughts are?" the king stopped dead in his tracks, and stared at me. "i believed thou wert greater than merlin; and truly in magic thou art. but prophecy is greater than magic. merlin is a prophet." i saw i had made a blunder. i must get back my lost ground. after a deep reflection and careful planning, i said: "sire, i have been misunderstood. i will explain. there are two kinds of prophecy. one is the gift to foretell things that are but a little way off, the other is the gift to foretell things that are whole ages and centuries away. which is the mightier gift, do you think?" "oh, the last, most surely!" "true. does merlin possess it?" "partly, yes. he foretold mysteries about my birth and future kingship that were twenty years away." "has he ever gone beyond that?" "he would not claim more, i think." "it is probably his limit. all prophets have their limit. the limit of some of the great prophets has been a hundred years." "these are few, i ween." "there have been two still greater ones, whose limit was four hundred and six hundred years, and one whose limit compassed even seven hundred and twenty." "gramercy, it is marvelous!" "but what are these in comparison with me? they are nothing." "what? canst thou truly look beyond even so vast a stretch of time as--" "seven hundred years? my liege, as clear as the vision of an eagle does my prophetic eye penetrate and lay bare the future of this world for nearly thirteen centuries and a half!" my land, you should have seen the king's eyes spread slowly open, and lift the earth's entire atmosphere as much as an inch! that settled brer merlin. one never had any occasion to prove his facts, with these people; all he had to do was to state them. it never occurred to anybody to doubt the statement. "now, then," i continued, "i _could_ work both kinds of prophecy --the long and the short--if i chose to take the trouble to keep in practice; but i seldom exercise any but the long kind, because the other is beneath my dignity. it is properer to merlin's sort --stump-tail prophets, as we call them in the profession. of course, i whet up now and then and flirt out a minor prophecy, but not often--hardly ever, in fact. you will remember that there was great talk, when you reached the valley of holiness, about my having prophesied your coming and the very hour of your arrival, two or three days beforehand." "indeed, yes, i mind it now." "well, i could have done it as much as forty times easier, and piled on a thousand times more detail into the bargain, if it had been five hundred years away instead of two or three days." "how amazing that it should be so!" "yes, a genuine expert can always foretell a thing that is five hundred years away easier than he can a thing that's only five hundred seconds off." "and yet in reason it should clearly be the other way; it should be five hundred times as easy to foretell the last as the first, for, indeed, it is so close by that one uninspired might almost see it. in truth, the law of prophecy doth contradict the likelihoods, most strangely making the difficult easy, and the easy difficult." it was a wise head. a peasant's cap was no safe disguise for it; you could know it for a king's under a diving-bell, if you could hear it work its intellect. i had a new trade now, and plenty of business in it. the king was as hungry to find out everything that was going to happen during the next thirteen centuries as if he were expecting to live in them. from that time out, i prophesied myself bald-headed trying to supply the demand. i have done some indiscreet things in my day, but this thing of playing myself for a prophet was the worst. still, it had its ameliorations. a prophet doesn't have to have any brains. they are good to have, of course, for the ordinary exigencies of life, but they are no use in professional work. it is the restfulest vocation there is. when the spirit of prophecy comes upon you, you merely cake your intellect and lay it off in a cool place for a rest, and unship your jaw and leave it alone; it will work itself: the result is prophecy. every day a knight-errant or so came along, and the sight of them fired the king's martial spirit every time. he would have forgotten himself, sure, and said something to them in a style a suspicious shade or so above his ostensible degree, and so i always got him well out of the road in time. then he would stand and look with all his eyes; and a proud light would flash from them, and his nostrils would inflate like a war-horse's, and i knew he was longing for a brush with them. but about noon of the third day i had stopped in the road to take a precaution which had been suggested by the whip-stroke that had fallen to my share two days before; a precaution which i had afterward decided to leave untaken, i was so loath to institute it; but now i had just had a fresh reminder: while striding heedlessly along, with jaw spread and intellect at rest, for i was prophesying, i stubbed my toe and fell sprawling. i was so pale i couldn't think for a moment; then i got softly and carefully up and unstrapped my knapsack. i had that dynamite bomb in it, done up in wool in a box. it was a good thing to have along; the time would come when i could do a valuable miracle with it, maybe, but it was a nervous thing to have about me, and i didn't like to ask the king to carry it. yet i must either throw it away or think up some safe way to get along with its society. i got it out and slipped it into my scrip, and just then here came a couple of knights. the king stood, stately as a statue, gazing toward them--had forgotten himself again, of course--and before i could get a word of warning out, it was time for him to skip, and well that he did it, too. he supposed they would turn aside. turn aside to avoid trampling peasant dirt under foot? when had he ever turned aside himself--or ever had the chance to do it, if a peasant saw him or any other noble knight in time to judiciously save him the trouble? the knights paid no attention to the king at all; it was his place to look out himself, and if he hadn't skipped he would have been placidly ridden down, and laughed at besides. the king was in a flaming fury, and launched out his challenge and epithets with a most royal vigor. the knights were some little distance by now. they halted, greatly surprised, and turned in their saddles and looked back, as if wondering if it might be worth while to bother with such scum as we. then they wheeled and started for us. not a moment must be lost. i started for _them_. i passed them at a rattling gait, and as i went by i flung out a hair-lifting soul-scorching thirteen-jointed insult which made the king's effort poor and cheap by comparison. i got it out of the nineteenth century where they know how. they had such headway that they were nearly to the king before they could check up; then, frantic with rage, they stood up their horses on their hind hoofs and whirled them around, and the next moment here they came, breast to breast. i was seventy yards off, then, and scrambling up a great bowlder at the roadside. when they were within thirty yards of me they let their long lances droop to a level, depressed their mailed heads, and so, with their horse-hair plumes streaming straight out behind, most gallant to see, this lightning express came tearing for me! when they were within fifteen yards, i sent that bomb with a sure aim, and it struck the ground just under the horses' noses. yes, it was a neat thing, very neat and pretty to see. it resembled a steamboat explosion on the mississippi; and during the next fifteen minutes we stood under a steady drizzle of microscopic fragments of knights and hardware and horse-flesh. i say we, for the king joined the audience, of course, as soon as he had got his breath again. there was a hole there which would afford steady work for all the people in that region for some years to come --in trying to explain it, i mean; as for filling it up, that service would be comparatively prompt, and would fall to the lot of a select few--peasants of that seignory; and they wouldn't get anything for it, either. but i explained it to the king myself. i said it was done with a dynamite bomb. this information did him no damage, because it left him as intelligent as he was before. however, it was a noble miracle, in his eyes, and was another settler for merlin. i thought it well enough to explain that this was a miracle of so rare a sort that it couldn't be done except when the atmospheric conditions were just right. otherwise he would be encoring it every time we had a good subject, and that would be inconvenient, because i hadn't any more bombs along. chapter xxviii drilling the king on the morning of the fourth day, when it was just sunrise, and we had been tramping an hour in the chill dawn, i came to a resolution: the king _must_ be drilled; things could not go on so, he must be taken in hand and deliberately and conscientiously drilled, or we couldn't ever venture to enter a dwelling; the very cats would know this masquerader for a humbug and no peasant. so i called a halt and said: "sire, as between clothes and countenance, you are all right, there is no discrepancy; but as between your clothes and your bearing, you are all wrong, there is a most noticeable discrepancy. your soldierly stride, your lordly port--these will not do. you stand too straight, your looks are too high, too confident. the cares of a kingdom do not stoop the shoulders, they do not droop the chin, they do not depress the high level of the eye-glance, they do not put doubt and fear in the heart and hang out the signs of them in slouching body and unsure step. it is the sordid cares of the lowly born that do these things. you must learn the trick; you must imitate the trademarks of poverty, misery, oppression, insult, and the other several and common inhumanities that sap the manliness out of a man and make him a loyal and proper and approved subject and a satisfaction to his masters, or the very infants will know you for better than your disguise, and we shall go to pieces at the first hut we stop at. pray try to walk like this." the king took careful note, and then tried an imitation. "pretty fair--pretty fair. chin a little lower, please--there, very good. eyes too high; pray don't look at the horizon, look at the ground, ten steps in front of you. ah--that is better, that is very good. wait, please; you betray too much vigor, too much decision; you want more of a shamble. look at me, please--this is what i mean.... now you are getting it; that is the idea--at least, it sort of approaches it.... yes, that is pretty fair. _but!_ there is a great big something wanting, i don't quite know what it is. please walk thirty yards, so that i can get a perspective on the thing.... now, then--your head's right, speed's right, shoulders right, eyes right, chin right, gait, carriage, general style right--everything's right! and yet the fact remains, the aggregate's wrong. the account don't balance. do it again, please.... _now_ i think i begin to see what it is. yes, i've struck it. you see, the genuine spiritlessness is wanting; that's what's the trouble. it's all _amateur_--mechanical details all right, almost to a hair; everything about the delusion perfect, except that it don't delude." "what, then, must one do, to prevail?" "let me think... i can't seem to quite get at it. in fact, there isn't anything that can right the matter but practice. this is a good place for it: roots and stony ground to break up your stately gait, a region not liable to interruption, only one field and one hut in sight, and they so far away that nobody could see us from there. it will be well to move a little off the road and put in the whole day drilling you, sire." after the drill had gone on a little while, i said: "now, sire, imagine that we are at the door of the hut yonder, and the family are before us. proceed, please--accost the head of the house." the king unconsciously straightened up like a monument, and said, with frozen austerity: "varlet, bring a seat; and serve to me what cheer ye have." "ah, your grace, that is not well done." "in what lacketh it?" "these people do not call _each other_ varlets." "nay, is that true?" "yes; only those above them call them so." "then must i try again. i will call him villein." "no-no; for he may be a freeman." "ah--so. then peradventure i should call him goodman." "that would answer, your grace, but it would be still better if you said friend, or brother." "brother!--to dirt like that?" "ah, but _we_ are pretending to be dirt like that, too." "it is even true. i will say it. brother, bring a seat, and thereto what cheer ye have, withal. now 'tis right." "not quite, not wholly right. you have asked for one, not _us_ --for one, not both; food for one, a seat for one." the king looked puzzled--he wasn't a very heavy weight, intellectually. his head was an hour-glass; it could stow an idea, but it had to do it a grain at a time, not the whole idea at once. "would _you_ have a seat also--and sit?" "if i did not sit, the man would perceive that we were only pretending to be equals--and playing the deception pretty poorly, too." "it is well and truly said! how wonderful is truth, come it in whatsoever unexpected form it may! yes, he must bring out seats and food for both, and in serving us present not ewer and napkin with more show of respect to the one than to the other." "and there is even yet a detail that needs correcting. he must bring nothing outside; we will go in--in among the dirt, and possibly other repulsive things,--and take the food with the household, and after the fashion of the house, and all on equal terms, except the man be of the serf class; and finally, there will be no ewer and no napkin, whether he be serf or free. please walk again, my liege. there--it is better--it is the best yet; but not perfect. the shoulders have known no ignobler burden than iron mail, and they will not stoop." "give me, then, the bag. i will learn the spirit that goeth with burdens that have not honor. it is the spirit that stoopeth the shoulders, i ween, and not the weight; for armor is heavy, yet it is a proud burden, and a man standeth straight in it.... nay, but me no buts, offer me no objections. i will have the thing. strap it upon my back." he was complete now with that knapsack on, and looked as little like a king as any man i had ever seen. but it was an obstinate pair of shoulders; they could not seem to learn the trick of stooping with any sort of deceptive naturalness. the drill went on, i prompting and correcting: "now, make believe you are in debt, and eaten up by relentless creditors; you are out of work--which is horse-shoeing, let us say--and can get none; and your wife is sick, your children are crying because they are hungry--" and so on, and so on. i drilled him as representing in turn all sorts of people out of luck and suffering dire privations and misfortunes. but lord, it was only just words, words--they meant nothing in the world to him, i might just as well have whistled. words realize nothing, vivify nothing to you, unless you have suffered in your own person the thing which the words try to describe. there are wise people who talk ever so knowingly and complacently about "the working classes," and satisfy themselves that a day's hard intellectual work is very much harder than a day's hard manual toil, and is righteously entitled to much bigger pay. why, they really think that, you know, because they know all about the one, but haven't tried the other. but i know all about both; and so far as i am concerned, there isn't money enough in the universe to hire me to swing a pickaxe thirty days, but i will do the hardest kind of intellectual work for just as near nothing as you can cipher it down--and i will be satisfied, too. intellectual "work" is misnamed; it is a pleasure, a dissipation, and is its own highest reward. the poorest paid architect, engineer, general, author, sculptor, painter, lecturer, advocate, legislator, actor, preacher, singer is constructively in heaven when he is at work; and as for the musician with the fiddle-bow in his hand who sits in the midst of a great orchestra with the ebbing and flowing tides of divine sound washing over him--why, certainly, he is at work, if you wish to call it that, but lord, it's a sarcasm just the same. the law of work does seem utterly unfair--but there it is, and nothing can change it: the higher the pay in enjoyment the worker gets out of it, the higher shall be his pay in cash, also. and it's also the very law of those transparent swindles, transmissible nobility and kingship. chapter xxix the smallpox hut when we arrived at that hut at mid-afternoon, we saw no signs of life about it. the field near by had been denuded of its crop some time before, and had a skinned look, so exhaustively had it been harvested and gleaned. fences, sheds, everything had a ruined look, and were eloquent of poverty. no animal was around anywhere, no living thing in sight. the stillness was awful, it was like the stillness of death. the cabin was a one-story one, whose thatch was black with age, and ragged from lack of repair. the door stood a trifle ajar. we approached it stealthily--on tiptoe and at half-breath--for that is the way one's feeling makes him do, at such a time. the king knocked. we waited. no answer. knocked again. no answer. i pushed the door softly open and looked in. i made out some dim forms, and a woman started up from the ground and stared at me, as one does who is wakened from sleep. presently she found her voice: "have mercy!" she pleaded. "all is taken, nothing is left." "i have not come to take anything, poor woman." "you are not a priest?" "no." "nor come not from the lord of the manor?" "no, i am a stranger." "oh, then, for the fear of god, who visits with misery and death such as be harmless, tarry not here, but fly! this place is under his curse--and his church's." "let me come in and help you--you are sick and in trouble." i was better used to the dim light now. i could see her hollow eyes fixed upon me. i could see how emaciated she was. "i tell you the place is under the church's ban. save yourself --and go, before some straggler see thee here, and report it." "give yourself no trouble about me; i don't care anything for the church's curse. let me help you." "now all good spirits--if there be any such--bless thee for that word. would god i had a sup of water!--but hold, hold, forget i said it, and fly; for there is that here that even he that feareth not the church must fear: this disease whereof we die. leave us, thou brave, good stranger, and take with thee such whole and sincere blessing as them that be accursed can give." but before this i had picked up a wooden bowl and was rushing past the king on my way to the brook. it was ten yards away. when i got back and entered, the king was within, and was opening the shutter that closed the window-hole, to let in air and light. the place was full of a foul stench. i put the bowl to the woman's lips, and as she gripped it with her eager talons the shutter came open and a strong light flooded her face. smallpox! i sprang to the king, and said in his ear: "out of the door on the instant, sire! the woman is dying of that disease that wasted the skirts of camelot two years ago." he did not budge. "of a truth i shall remain--and likewise help." i whispered again: "king, it must not be. you must go." "ye mean well, and ye speak not unwisely. but it were shame that a king should know fear, and shame that belted knight should withhold his hand where be such as need succor. peace, i will not go. it is you who must go. the church's ban is not upon me, but it forbiddeth you to be here, and she will deal with you with a heavy hand an word come to her of your trespass." it was a desperate place for him to be in, and might cost him his life, but it was no use to argue with him. if he considered his knightly honor at stake here, that was the end of argument; he would stay, and nothing could prevent it; i was aware of that. and so i dropped the subject. the woman spoke: "fair sir, of your kindness will ye climb the ladder there, and bring me news of what ye find? be not afraid to report, for times can come when even a mother's heart is past breaking --being already broke." "abide," said the king, "and give the woman to eat. i will go." and he put down the knapsack. i turned to start, but the king had already started. he halted, and looked down upon a man who lay in a dim light, and had not noticed us thus far, or spoken. "is it your husband?" the king asked. "yes." "is he asleep?" "god be thanked for that one charity, yes--these three hours. where shall i pay to the full, my gratitude! for my heart is bursting with it for that sleep he sleepeth now." i said: "we will be careful. we will not wake him." "ah, no, that ye will not, for he is dead." "dead?" "yes, what triumph it is to know it! none can harm him, none insult him more. he is in heaven now, and happy; or if not there, he bides in hell and is content; for in that place he will find neither abbot nor yet bishop. we were boy and girl together; we were man and wife these five and twenty years, and never separated till this day. think how long that is to love and suffer together. this morning was he out of his mind, and in his fancy we were boy and girl again and wandering in the happy fields; and so in that innocent glad converse wandered he far and farther, still lightly gossiping, and entered into those other fields we know not of, and was shut away from mortal sight. and so there was no parting, for in his fancy i went with him; he knew not but i went with him, my hand in his--my young soft hand, not this withered claw. ah, yes, to go, and know it not; to separate and know it not; how could one go peace--fuller than that? it was his reward for a cruel life patiently borne." there was a slight noise from the direction of the dim corner where the ladder was. it was the king descending. i could see that he was bearing something in one arm, and assisting himself with the other. he came forward into the light; upon his breast lay a slender girl of fifteen. she was but half conscious; she was dying of smallpox. here was heroism at its last and loftiest possibility, its utmost summit; this was challenging death in the open field unarmed, with all the odds against the challenger, no reward set upon the contest, and no admiring world in silks and cloth of gold to gaze and applaud; and yet the king's bearing was as serenely brave as it had always been in those cheaper contests where knight meets knight in equal fight and clothed in protecting steel. he was great now; sublimely great. the rude statues of his ancestors in his palace should have an addition--i would see to that; and it would not be a mailed king killing a giant or a dragon, like the rest, it would be a king in commoner's garb bearing death in his arms that a peasant mother might look her last upon her child and be comforted. he laid the girl down by her mother, who poured out endearments and caresses from an overflowing heart, and one could detect a flickering faint light of response in the child's eyes, but that was all. the mother hung over her, kissing her, petting her, and imploring her to speak, but the lips only moved and no sound came. i snatched my liquor flask from my knapsack, but the woman forbade me, and said: "no--she does not suffer; it is better so. it might bring her back to life. none that be so good and kind as ye are would do her that cruel hurt. for look you--what is left to live for? her brothers are gone, her father is gone, her mother goeth, the church's curse is upon her, and none may shelter or befriend her even though she lay perishing in the road. she is desolate. i have not asked you, good heart, if her sister be still on live, here overhead; i had no need; ye had gone back, else, and not left the poor thing forsaken--" "she lieth at peace," interrupted the king, in a subdued voice. "i would not change it. how rich is this day in happiness! ah, my annis, thou shalt join thy sister soon--thou'rt on thy way, and these be merciful friends that will not hinder." and so she fell to murmuring and cooing over the girl again, and softly stroking her face and hair, and kissing her and calling her by endearing names; but there was scarcely sign of response now in the glazing eyes. i saw tears well from the king's eyes, and trickle down his face. the woman noticed them, too, and said: "ah, i know that sign: thou'st a wife at home, poor soul, and you and she have gone hungry to bed, many's the time, that the little ones might have your crust; you know what poverty is, and the daily insults of your betters, and the heavy hand of the church and the king." the king winced under this accidental home-shot, but kept still; he was learning his part; and he was playing it well, too, for a pretty dull beginner. i struck up a diversion. i offered the woman food and liquor, but she refused both. she would allow nothing to come between her and the release of death. then i slipped away and brought the dead child from aloft, and laid it by her. this broke her down again, and there was another scene that was full of heartbreak. by and by i made another diversion, and beguiled her to sketch her story. "ye know it well yourselves, having suffered it--for truly none of our condition in britain escape it. it is the old, weary tale. we fought and struggled and succeeded; meaning by success, that we lived and did not die; more than that is not to be claimed. no troubles came that we could not outlive, till this year brought them; then came they all at once, as one might say, and overwhelmed us. years ago the lord of the manor planted certain fruit trees on our farm; in the best part of it, too--a grievous wrong and shame--" "but it was his right," interrupted the king. "none denieth that, indeed; an the law mean anything, what is the lord's is his, and what is mine is his also. our farm was ours by lease, therefore 'twas likewise his, to do with it as he would. some little time ago, three of those trees were found hewn down. our three grown sons ran frightened to report the crime. well, in his lordship's dungeon there they lie, who saith there shall they lie and rot till they confess. they have naught to confess, being innocent, wherefore there will they remain until they die. ye know that right well, i ween. think how this left us; a man, a woman and two children, to gather a crop that was planted by so much greater force, yes, and protect it night and day from pigeons and prowling animals that be sacred and must not be hurt by any of our sort. when my lord's crop was nearly ready for the harvest, so also was ours; when his bell rang to call us to his fields to harvest his crop for nothing, he would not allow that i and my two girls should count for our three captive sons, but for only two of them; so, for the lacking one were we daily fined. all this time our own crop was perishing through neglect; and so both the priest and his lordship fined us because their shares of it were suffering through damage. in the end the fines ate up our crop--and they took it all; they took it all and made us harvest it for them, without pay or food, and we starving. then the worst came when i, being out of my mind with hunger and loss of my boys, and grief to see my husband and my little maids in rags and misery and despair, uttered a deep blasphemy--oh! a thousand of them! --against the church and the church's ways. it was ten days ago. i had fallen sick with this disease, and it was to the priest i said the words, for he was come to chide me for lack of due humility under the chastening hand of god. he carried my trespass to his betters; i was stubborn; wherefore, presently upon my head and upon all heads that were dear to me, fell the curse of rome. "since that day we are avoided, shunned with horror. none has come near this hut to know whether we live or not. the rest of us were taken down. then i roused me and got up, as wife and mother will. it was little they could have eaten in any case; it was less than little they had to eat. but there was water, and i gave them that. how they craved it! and how they blessed it! but the end came yesterday; my strength broke down. yesterday was the last time i ever saw my husband and this youngest child alive. i have lain here all these hours--these ages, ye may say--listening, listening for any sound up there that--" she gave a sharp quick glance at her eldest daughter, then cried out, "oh, my darling!" and feebly gathered the stiffening form to her sheltering arms. she had recognized the death-rattle. chapter xxx the tragedy of the manor-house at midnight all was over, and we sat in the presence of four corpses. we covered them with such rags as we could find, and started away, fastening the door behind us. their home must be these people's grave, for they could not have christian burial, or be admitted to consecrated ground. they were as dogs, wild beasts, lepers, and no soul that valued its hope of eternal life would throw it away by meddling in any sort with these rebuked and smitten outcasts. we had not moved four steps when i caught a sound as of footsteps upon gravel. my heart flew to my throat. we must not be seen coming from that house. i plucked at the king's robe and we drew back and took shelter behind the corner of the cabin. "now we are safe," i said, "but it was a close call--so to speak. if the night had been lighter he might have seen us, no doubt, he seemed to be so near." "mayhap it is but a beast and not a man at all." "true. but man or beast, it will be wise to stay here a minute and let it get by and out of the way." "hark! it cometh hither." true again. the step was coming toward us--straight toward the hut. it must be a beast, then, and we might as well have saved our trepidation. i was going to step out, but the king laid his hand upon my arm. there was a moment of silence, then we heard a soft knock on the cabin door. it made me shiver. presently the knock was repeated, and then we heard these words in a guarded voice: "mother! father! open--we have got free, and we bring news to pale your cheeks but glad your hearts; and we may not tarry, but must fly! and--but they answer not. mother! father!--" i drew the king toward the other end of the hut and whispered: "come--now we can get to the road." the king hesitated, was going to demur; but just then we heard the door give way, and knew that those desolate men were in the presence of their dead. "come, my liege! in a moment they will strike a light, and then will follow that which it would break your heart to hear." he did not hesitate this time. the moment we were in the road i ran; and after a moment he threw dignity aside and followed. i did not want to think of what was happening in the hut--i couldn't bear it; i wanted to drive it out of my mind; so i struck into the first subject that lay under that one in my mind: "i have had the disease those people died of, and so have nothing to fear; but if you have not had it also--" he broke in upon me to say he was in trouble, and it was his conscience that was troubling him: "these young men have got free, they say--but _how_? it is not likely that their lord hath set them free." "oh, no, i make no doubt they escaped." "that is my trouble; i have a fear that this is so, and your suspicion doth confirm it, you having the same fear." "i should not call it by that name though. i do suspect that they escaped, but if they did, i am not sorry, certainly." "i am not sorry, i _think_--but--" "what is it? what is there for one to be troubled about?" "_if_ they did escape, then are we bound in duty to lay hands upon them and deliver them again to their lord; for it is not seemly that one of his quality should suffer a so insolent and high-handed outrage from persons of their base degree." there it was again. he could see only one side of it. he was born so, educated so, his veins were full of ancestral blood that was rotten with this sort of unconscious brutality, brought down by inheritance from a long procession of hearts that had each done its share toward poisoning the stream. to imprison these men without proof, and starve their kindred, was no harm, for they were merely peasants and subject to the will and pleasure of their lord, no matter what fearful form it might take; but for these men to break out of unjust captivity was insult and outrage, and a thing not to be countenanced by any conscientious person who knew his duty to his sacred caste. i worked more than half an hour before i got him to change the subject--and even then an outside matter did it for me. this was a something which caught our eyes as we struck the summit of a small hill--a red glow, a good way off. "that's a fire," said i. fires interested me considerably, because i was getting a good deal of an insurance business started, and was also training some horses and building some steam fire-engines, with an eye to a paid fire department by and by. the priests opposed both my fire and life insurance, on the ground that it was an insolent attempt to hinder the decrees of god; and if you pointed out that they did not hinder the decrees in the least, but only modified the hard consequences of them if you took out policies and had luck, they retorted that that was gambling against the decrees of god, and was just as bad. so they managed to damage those industries more or less, but i got even on my accident business. as a rule, a knight is a lummox, and some times even a labrick, and hence open to pretty poor arguments when they come glibly from a superstition-monger, but even _he_ could see the practical side of a thing once in a while; and so of late you couldn't clean up a tournament and pile the result without finding one of my accident-tickets in every helmet. we stood there awhile, in the thick darkness and stillness, looking toward the red blur in the distance, and trying to make out the meaning of a far-away murmur that rose and fell fitfully on the night. sometimes it swelled up and for a moment seemed less remote; but when we were hopefully expecting it to betray its cause and nature, it dulled and sank again, carrying its mystery with it. we started down the hill in its direction, and the winding road plunged us at once into almost solid darkness--darkness that was packed and crammed in between two tall forest walls. we groped along down for half a mile, perhaps, that murmur growing more and more distinct all the time. the coming storm threatening more and more, with now and then a little shiver of wind, a faint show of lightning, and dull grumblings of distant thunder. i was in the lead. i ran against something--a soft heavy something which gave, slightly, to the impulse of my weight; at the same moment the lightning glared out, and within a foot of my face was the writhing face of a man who was hanging from the limb of a tree! that is, it seemed to be writhing, but it was not. it was a grewsome sight. straightway there was an ear-splitting explosion of thunder, and the bottom of heaven fell out; the rain poured down in a deluge. no matter, we must try to cut this man down, on the chance that there might be life in him yet, mustn't we? the lightning came quick and sharp now, and the place was alternately noonday and midnight. one moment the man would be hanging before me in an intense light, and the next he was blotted out again in the darkness. i told the king we must cut him down. the king at once objected. "if he hanged himself, he was willing to lose him property to his lord; so let him be. if others hanged him, belike they had the right--let him hang." "but--" "but me no buts, but even leave him as he is. and for yet another reason. when the lightning cometh again--there, look abroad." two others hanging, within fifty yards of us! "it is not weather meet for doing useless courtesies unto dead folk. they are past thanking you. come--it is unprofitable to tarry here." there was reason in what he said, so we moved on. within the next mile we counted six more hanging forms by the blaze of the lightning, and altogether it was a grisly excursion. that murmur was a murmur no longer, it was a roar; a roar of men's voices. a man came flying by now, dimly through the darkness, and other men chasing him. they disappeared. presently another case of the kind occurred, and then another and another. then a sudden turn of the road brought us in sight of that fire--it was a large manor-house, and little or nothing was left of it--and everywhere men were flying and other men raging after them in pursuit. i warned the king that this was not a safe place for strangers. we would better get away from the light, until matters should improve. we stepped back a little, and hid in the edge of the wood. from this hiding-place we saw both men and women hunted by the mob. the fearful work went on until nearly dawn. then, the fire being out and the storm spent, the voices and flying footsteps presently ceased, and darkness and stillness reigned again. we ventured out, and hurried cautiously away; and although we were worn out and sleepy, we kept on until we had put this place some miles behind us. then we asked hospitality at the hut of a charcoal burner, and got what was to be had. a woman was up and about, but the man was still asleep, on a straw shake-down, on the clay floor. the woman seemed uneasy until i explained that we were travelers and had lost our way and been wandering in the woods all night. she became talkative, then, and asked if we had heard of the terrible goings-on at the manor-house of abblasoure. yes, we had heard of them, but what we wanted now was rest and sleep. the king broke in: "sell us the house and take yourselves away, for we be perilous company, being late come from people that died of the spotted death." it was good of him, but unnecessary. one of the commonest decorations of the nation was the waffle-iron face. i had early noticed that the woman and her husband were both so decorated. she made us entirely welcome, and had no fears; and plainly she was immensely impressed by the king's proposition; for, of course, it was a good deal of an event in her life to run across a person of the king's humble appearance who was ready to buy a man's house for the sake of a night's lodging. it gave her a large respect for us, and she strained the lean possibilities of her hovel to the utmost to make us comfortable. we slept till far into the afternoon, and then got up hungry enough to make cotter fare quite palatable to the king, the more particularly as it was scant in quantity. and also in variety; it consisted solely of onions, salt, and the national black bread made out of horse-feed. the woman told us about the affair of the evening before. at ten or eleven at night, when everybody was in bed, the manor-house burst into flames. the country-side swarmed to the rescue, and the family were saved, with one exception, the master. he did not appear. everybody was frantic over this loss, and two brave yeomen sacrificed their lives in ransacking the burning house seeking that valuable personage. but after a while he was found--what was left of him--which was his corpse. it was in a copse three hundred yards away, bound, gagged, stabbed in a dozen places. who had done this? suspicion fell upon a humble family in the neighborhood who had been lately treated with peculiar harshness by the baron; and from these people the suspicion easily extended itself to their relatives and familiars. a suspicion was enough; my lord's liveried retainers proclaimed an instant crusade against these people, and were promptly joined by the community in general. the woman's husband had been active with the mob, and had not returned home until nearly dawn. he was gone now to find out what the general result had been. while we were still talking he came back from his quest. his report was revolting enough. eighteen persons hanged or butchered, and two yeomen and thirteen prisoners lost in the fire. "and how many prisoners were there altogether in the vaults?" "thirteen." "then every one of them was lost?" "yes, all." "but the people arrived in time to save the family; how is it they could save none of the prisoners?" the man looked puzzled, and said: "would one unlock the vaults at such a time? marry, some would have escaped." "then you mean that nobody _did_ unlock them?" "none went near them, either to lock or unlock. it standeth to reason that the bolts were fast; wherefore it was only needful to establish a watch, so that if any broke the bonds he might not escape, but be taken. none were taken." "natheless, three did escape," said the king, "and ye will do well to publish it and set justice upon their track, for these murthered the baron and fired the house." i was just expecting he would come out with that. for a moment the man and his wife showed an eager interest in this news and an impatience to go out and spread it; then a sudden something else betrayed itself in their faces, and they began to ask questions. i answered the questions myself, and narrowly watched the effects produced. i was soon satisfied that the knowledge of who these three prisoners were had somehow changed the atmosphere; that our hosts' continued eagerness to go and spread the news was now only pretended and not real. the king did not notice the change, and i was glad of that. i worked the conversation around toward other details of the night's proceedings, and noted that these people were relieved to have it take that direction. the painful thing observable about all this business was the alacrity with which this oppressed community had turned their cruel hands against their own class in the interest of the common oppressor. this man and woman seemed to feel that in a quarrel between a person of their own class and his lord, it was the natural and proper and rightful thing for that poor devil's whole caste to side with the master and fight his battle for him, without ever stopping to inquire into the rights or wrongs of the matter. this man had been out helping to hang his neighbors, and had done his work with zeal, and yet was aware that there was nothing against them but a mere suspicion, with nothing back of it describable as evidence, still neither he nor his wife seemed to see anything horrible about it. this was depressing--to a man with the dream of a republic in his head. it reminded me of a time thirteen centuries away, when the "poor whites" of our south who were always despised and frequently insulted by the slave-lords around them, and who owed their base condition simply to the presence of slavery in their midst, were yet pusillanimously ready to side with the slave-lords in all political moves for the upholding and perpetuating of slavery, and did also finally shoulder their muskets and pour out their lives in an effort to prevent the destruction of that very institution which degraded them. and there was only one redeeming feature connected with that pitiful piece of history; and that was, that secretly the "poor white" did detest the slave-lord, and did feel his own shame. that feeling was not brought to the surface, but the fact that it was there and could have been brought out, under favoring circumstances, was something--in fact, it was enough; for it showed that a man is at bottom a man, after all, even if it doesn't show on the outside. well, as it turned out, this charcoal burner was just the twin of the southern "poor white" of the far future. the king presently showed impatience, and said: "an ye prattle here all the day, justice will miscarry. think ye the criminals will abide in their father's house? they are fleeing, they are not waiting. you should look to it that a party of horse be set upon their track." the woman paled slightly, but quite perceptibly, and the man looked flustered and irresolute. i said: "come, friend, i will walk a little way with you, and explain which direction i think they would try to take. if they were merely resisters of the gabelle or some kindred absurdity i would try to protect them from capture; but when men murder a person of high degree and likewise burn his house, that is another matter." the last remark was for the king--to quiet him. on the road the man pulled his resolution together, and began the march with a steady gait, but there was no eagerness in it. by and by i said: "what relation were these men to you--cousins?" he turned as white as his layer of charcoal would let him, and stopped, trembling. "ah, my god, how know ye that?" "i didn't know it; it was a chance guess." "poor lads, they are lost. and good lads they were, too." "were you actually going yonder to tell on them?" he didn't quite know how to take that; but he said, hesitatingly: "ye-s." "then i think you are a damned scoundrel!" it made him as glad as if i had called him an angel. "say the good words again, brother! for surely ye mean that ye would not betray me an i failed of my duty." "duty? there is no duty in the matter, except the duty to keep still and let those men get away. they've done a righteous deed." he looked pleased; pleased, and touched with apprehension at the same time. he looked up and down the road to see that no one was coming, and then said in a cautious voice: "from what land come you, brother, that you speak such perilous words, and seem not to be afraid?" "they are not perilous words when spoken to one of my own caste, i take it. you would not tell anybody i said them?" "i? i would be drawn asunder by wild horses first." "well, then, let me say my say. i have no fears of your repeating it. i think devil's work has been done last night upon those innocent poor people. that old baron got only what he deserved. if i had my way, all his kind should have the same luck." fear and depression vanished from the man's manner, and gratefulness and a brave animation took their place: "even though you be a spy, and your words a trap for my undoing, yet are they such refreshment that to hear them again and others like to them, i would go to the gallows happy, as having had one good feast at least in a starved life. and i will say my say now, and ye may report it if ye be so minded. i helped to hang my neighbors for that it were peril to my own life to show lack of zeal in the master's cause; the others helped for none other reason. all rejoice to-day that he is dead, but all do go about seemingly sorrowing, and shedding the hypocrite's tear, for in that lies safety. i have said the words, i have said the words! the only ones that have ever tasted good in my mouth, and the reward of that taste is sufficient. lead on, an ye will, be it even to the scaffold, for i am ready." there it was, you see. a man is a man, at bottom. whole ages of abuse and oppression cannot crush the manhood clear out of him. whoever thinks it a mistake is himself mistaken. yes, there is plenty good enough material for a republic in the most degraded people that ever existed--even the russians; plenty of manhood in them--even in the germans--if one could but force it out of its timid and suspicious privacy, to overthrow and trample in the mud any throne that ever was set up and any nobility that ever supported it. we should see certain things yet, let us hope and believe. first, a modified monarchy, till arthur's days were done, then the destruction of the throne, nobility abolished, every member of it bound out to some useful trade, universal suffrage instituted, and the whole government placed in the hands of the men and women of the nation there to remain. yes, there was no occasion to give up my dream yet a while. chapter xxxi marco we strolled along in a sufficiently indolent fashion now, and talked. we must dispose of about the amount of time it ought to take to go to the little hamlet of abblasoure and put justice on the track of those murderers and get back home again. and meantime i had an auxiliary interest which had never paled yet, never lost its novelty for me since i had been in arthur's kingdom: the behavior--born of nice and exact subdivisions of caste--of chance passers-by toward each other. toward the shaven monk who trudged along with his cowl tilted back and the sweat washing down his fat jowls, the coal-burner was deeply reverent; to the gentleman he was abject; with the small farmer and the free mechanic he was cordial and gossipy; and when a slave passed by with a countenance respectfully lowered, this chap's nose was in the air--he couldn't even see him. well, there are times when one would like to hang the whole human race and finish the farce. presently we struck an incident. a small mob of half-naked boys and girls came tearing out of the woods, scared and shrieking. the eldest among them were not more than twelve or fourteen years old. they implored help, but they were so beside themselves that we couldn't make out what the matter was. however, we plunged into the wood, they skurrying in the lead, and the trouble was quickly revealed: they had hanged a little fellow with a bark rope, and he was kicking and struggling, in the process of choking to death. we rescued him, and fetched him around. it was some more human nature; the admiring little folk imitating their elders; they were playing mob, and had achieved a success which promised to be a good deal more serious than they had bargained for. it was not a dull excursion for me. i managed to put in the time very well. i made various acquaintanceships, and in my quality of stranger was able to ask as many questions as i wanted to. a thing which naturally interested me, as a statesman, was the matter of wages. i picked up what i could under that head during the afternoon. a man who hasn't had much experience, and doesn't think, is apt to measure a nation's prosperity or lack of prosperity by the mere size of the prevailing wages; if the wages be high, the nation is prosperous; if low, it isn't. which is an error. it isn't what sum you get, it's how much you can buy with it, that's the important thing; and it's that that tells whether your wages are high in fact or only high in name. i could remember how it was in the time of our great civil war in the nineteenth century. in the north a carpenter got three dollars a day, gold valuation; in the south he got fifty--payable in confederate shinplasters worth a dollar a bushel. in the north a suit of overalls cost three dollars--a day's wages; in the south it cost seventy-five --which was two days' wages. other things were in proportion. consequently, wages were twice as high in the north as they were in the south, because the one wage had that much more purchasing power than the other had. yes, i made various acquaintances in the hamlet and a thing that gratified me a good deal was to find our new coins in circulation --lots of milrays, lots of mills, lots of cents, a good many nickels, and some silver; all this among the artisans and commonalty generally; yes, and even some gold--but that was at the bank, that is to say, the goldsmith's. i dropped in there while marco, the son of marco, was haggling with a shopkeeper over a quarter of a pound of salt, and asked for change for a twenty-dollar gold piece. they furnished it--that is, after they had chewed the piece, and rung it on the counter, and tried acid on it, and asked me where i got it, and who i was, and where i was from, and where i was going to, and when i expected to get there, and perhaps a couple of hundred more questions; and when they got aground, i went right on and furnished them a lot of information voluntarily; told them i owned a dog, and his name was watch, and my first wife was a free will baptist, and her grandfather was a prohibitionist, and i used to know a man who had two thumbs on each hand and a wart on the inside of his upper lip, and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection, and so on, and so on, and so on, till even that hungry village questioner began to look satisfied, and also a shade put out; but he had to respect a man of my financial strength, and so he didn't give me any lip, but i noticed he took it out of his underlings, which was a perfectly natural thing to do. yes, they changed my twenty, but i judged it strained the bank a little, which was a thing to be expected, for it was the same as walking into a paltry village store in the nineteenth century and requiring the boss of it to change a two thousand-dollar bill for you all of a sudden. he could do it, maybe; but at the same time he would wonder how a small farmer happened to be carrying so much money around in his pocket; which was probably this goldsmith's thought, too; for he followed me to the door and stood there gazing after me with reverent admiration. our new money was not only handsomely circulating, but its language was already glibly in use; that is to say, people had dropped the names of the former moneys, and spoke of things as being worth so many dollars or cents or mills or milrays now. it was very gratifying. we were progressing, that was sure. i got to know several master mechanics, but about the most interesting fellow among them was the blacksmith, dowley. he was a live man and a brisk talker, and had two journeymen and three apprentices, and was doing a raging business. in fact, he was getting rich, hand over fist, and was vastly respected. marco was very proud of having such a man for a friend. he had taken me there ostensibly to let me see the big establishment which bought so much of his charcoal, but really to let me see what easy and almost familiar terms he was on with this great man. dowley and i fraternized at once; i had had just such picked men, splendid fellows, under me in the colt arms factory. i was bound to see more of him, so i invited him to come out to marco's sunday, and dine with us. marco was appalled, and held his breath; and when the grandee accepted, he was so grateful that he almost forgot to be astonished at the condescension. marco's joy was exuberant--but only for a moment; then he grew thoughtful, then sad; and when he heard me tell dowley i should have dickon, the boss mason, and smug, the boss wheelwright, out there, too, the coal-dust on his face turned to chalk, and he lost his grip. but i knew what was the matter with him; it was the expense. he saw ruin before him; he judged that his financial days were numbered. however, on our way to invite the others, i said: "you must allow me to have these friends come; and you must also allow me to pay the costs." his face cleared, and he said with spirit: "but not all of it, not all of it. ye cannot well bear a burden like to this alone." i stopped him, and said: "now let's understand each other on the spot, old friend. i am only a farm bailiff, it is true; but i am not poor, nevertheless. i have been very fortunate this year--you would be astonished to know how i have thriven. i tell you the honest truth when i say i could squander away as many as a dozen feasts like this and never care _that_ for the expense!" and i snapped my fingers. i could see myself rise a foot at a time in marco's estimation, and when i fetched out those last words i was become a very tower for style and altitude. "so you see, you must let me have my way. you can't contribute a cent to this orgy, that's _settled_." "it's grand and good of you--" "no, it isn't. you've opened your house to jones and me in the most generous way; jones was remarking upon it to-day, just before you came back from the village; for although he wouldn't be likely to say such a thing to you--because jones isn't a talker, and is diffident in society--he has a good heart and a grateful, and knows how to appreciate it when he is well treated; yes, you and your wife have been very hospitable toward us--" "ah, brother, 'tis nothing--_such_ hospitality!" "but it _is_ something; the best a man has, freely given, is always something, and is as good as a prince can do, and ranks right along beside it--for even a prince can but do his best. and so we'll shop around and get up this layout now, and don't you worry about the expense. i'm one of the worst spendthrifts that ever was born. why, do you know, sometimes in a single week i spend --but never mind about that--you'd never believe it anyway." and so we went gadding along, dropping in here and there, pricing things, and gossiping with the shopkeepers about the riot, and now and then running across pathetic reminders of it, in the persons of shunned and tearful and houseless remnants of families whose homes had been taken from them and their parents butchered or hanged. the raiment of marco and his wife was of coarse tow-linen and linsey-woolsey respectively, and resembled township maps, it being made up pretty exclusively of patches which had been added, township by township, in the course of five or six years, until hardly a hand's-breadth of the original garments was surviving and present. now i wanted to fit these people out with new suits, on account of that swell company, and i didn't know just how to get at it --with delicacy, until at last it struck me that as i had already been liberal in inventing wordy gratitude for the king, it would be just the thing to back it up with evidence of a substantial sort; so i said: "and marco, there's another thing which you must permit--out of kindness for jones--because you wouldn't want to offend him. he was very anxious to testify his appreciation in some way, but he is so diffident he couldn't venture it himself, and so he begged me to buy some little things and give them to you and dame phyllis and let him pay for them without your ever knowing they came from him--you know how a delicate person feels about that sort of thing --and so i said i would, and we would keep mum. well, his idea was, a new outfit of clothes for you both--" "oh, it is wastefulness! it may not be, brother, it may not be. consider the vastness of the sum--" "hang the vastness of the sum! try to keep quiet for a moment, and see how it would seem; a body can't get in a word edgeways, you talk so much. you ought to cure that, marco; it isn't good form, you know, and it will grow on you if you don't check it. yes, we'll step in here now and price this man's stuff--and don't forget to remember to not let on to jones that you know he had anything to do with it. you can't think how curiously sensitive and proud he is. he's a farmer--pretty fairly well-to-do farmer --an i'm his bailiff; _but_--the imagination of that man! why, sometimes when he forgets himself and gets to blowing off, you'd think he was one of the swells of the earth; and you might listen to him a hundred years and never take him for a farmer--especially if he talked agriculture. he _thinks_ he's a sheol of a farmer; thinks he's old grayback from wayback; but between you and me privately he don't know as much about farming as he does about running a kingdom--still, whatever he talks about, you want to drop your underjaw and listen, the same as if you had never heard such incredible wisdom in all your life before, and were afraid you might die before you got enough of it. that will please jones." it tickled marco to the marrow to hear about such an odd character; but it also prepared him for accidents; and in my experience when you travel with a king who is letting on to be something else and can't remember it more than about half the time, you can't take too many precautions. this was the best store we had come across yet; it had everything in it, in small quantities, from anvils and drygoods all the way down to fish and pinchbeck jewelry. i concluded i would bunch my whole invoice right here, and not go pricing around any more. so i got rid of marco, by sending him off to invite the mason and the wheelwright, which left the field free to me. for i never care to do a thing in a quiet way; it's got to be theatrical or i don't take any interest in it. i showed up money enough, in a careless way, to corral the shopkeeper's respect, and then i wrote down a list of the things i wanted, and handed it to him to see if he could read it. he could, and was proud to show that he could. he said he had been educated by a priest, and could both read and write. he ran it through, and remarked with satisfaction that it was a pretty heavy bill. well, and so it was, for a little concern like that. i was not only providing a swell dinner, but some odds and ends of extras. i ordered that the things be carted out and delivered at the dwelling of marco, the son of marco, by saturday evening, and send me the bill at dinner-time sunday. he said i could depend upon his promptness and exactitude, it was the rule of the house. he also observed that he would throw in a couple of miller-guns for the marcos gratis--that everybody was using them now. he had a mighty opinion of that clever device. i said: "and please fill them up to the middle mark, too; and add that to the bill." he would, with pleasure. he filled them, and i took them with me. i couldn't venture to tell him that the miller-gun was a little invention of my own, and that i had officially ordered that every shopkeeper in the kingdom keep them on hand and sell them at government price--which was the merest trifle, and the shopkeeper got that, not the government. we furnished them for nothing. the king had hardly missed us when we got back at nightfall. he had early dropped again into his dream of a grand invasion of gaul with the whole strength of his kingdom at his back, and the afternoon had slipped away without his ever coming to himself again. arthurian chronicles: roman de brut by wace translated by eugene mason introduction "... in the chronicle of wasted time i see descriptions of the fairest wights, and beauty making beautiful old rhyme, in praise of ladies dead and lovely knights." shakespeare, sonnet cvi. i.--wace in the long line of arthurian chroniclers geoffrey of monmouth deservedly occupies the first place. the most gifted and the most original of their number, by his skilful treatment of the arthurian story in his _historia regum britanniae_, he succeeded in uniting scattered legends attached to arthur's name, and in definitely establishing their place in chronicle history in a form that persisted throughout the later british historical annals. his theme and his manner of presenting it were both peculiarly adapted to win the favour of his public, and his work attained a popularity that was almost unprecedented in an age that knew no printed books. not only was it accepted as an authority by british historians, but french chroniclers also used it for their own purposes. about the year , five years before the death of geoffrey, an anglo-norman, geoffrey gaimar, wrote the first french metrical chronicle. it consisted of two parts, the _estorie des bretons_ and the _estorie des engles_, of which only the latter is extant, but the former is known to have been a rhymed translation of the _historia_ of geoffrey of monmouth. gaimar's work might possibly have had a longer life if it had not been cast into the shade by another chronicle in verse, the _roman de brut_, by a norman poet, wace, which fills an important and interesting place among our arthurian sources, not merely because of the author's qualities as a poet and his treatment of the arthurian story, but also because of the type of composition that he produced. for the metrical chronicle occupies an intermediate position between the prose chronicle, one of the favourite forms of mediaeval monastic production throughout europe, and the metrical romance, which budded and blossomed most richly in france, where, during the last half of the twelfth century, it received its greatest impulse from crestien de troies, the most distinguished of the _trouvères_. the metrical romances were written for court circles, and were used as a vehicle for recounting adventures of love and chivalry, and for setting forth the code of behaviour which governed the courtly life of france at that period. wace's poem, though based upon chronicle history, is addressed to a public whose taste was turning toward chivalric narrative, and it foreshadows those qualities that characterised the verse romances, for which no more fitting themes could be found than those supplied by the stories of arthurian heroes, whose prowess teaches us that we should be valiant and courteous. wace saw the greater part of the twelfth century. we cannot be certain of the exact year of his birth or of his death, but we know that he lived approximately from to . practically all our information about his life is what he himself tells us in his _roman de rou_:-- "if anybody asks who said this, who put this history into the romance language, i say and i will say to him that i am wace of the isle of jersey, which lies in the sea, toward the west, and is a part of the fief of normandy. in the isle of jersey i was born, and to caen i was taken as a little lad; there i was put at the study of letters; afterward i studied long in france.[ ] when i came back from france, i dwelt long at caen. i busied myself with making books in romance; many of them i wrote and many of them i made." before he was a _clerc lisant_ (reading clerk), and at length, he says, his writings won for him from henry ii. preferment to the position of canon at bayeux. he was more author, however, than prebendary, and he gave his first effort and interest to his writings. he composed a number of saints' lives, which are still extant, but his two most important works were his historical poems, the _roman de brut_ and the _roman de rou_ (i.e. rollo), a chronicle history of the dukes of normandy. this latter was wace's last production, and beside having a literary and historic importance, it has a rather pathetic interest. he had begun it in , in obedience to a command of henry ii, but for some unknown reason henry later transferred the honour to another poet. wace laid aside his pen, left his work incomplete, and probably soon after died. "since the king has asked him to do this work, i must leave it and i must say no more. of old the king did me many a favour; much he gave me, more he promised me, and if he had given all that he promised me, it had been better for me. here ends the book of master wace; let him continue it who will." [ ] some twenty years earlier, in , wace had completed the _roman de brut_. he himself called it the _geste des bretons_ ("history of the britons"), but it is best known under the title that appears in the manuscripts, the _roman de brut_, given to it by scribes because of its connection with brutus, the founder of the british race. the brut is a reproduction in verse of geoffrey's _historia_. to call it a translation is almost to give it a misnomer, for although wace follows exactly the order and substance of the _historia_, he was more than a mere translator, and was too much of a poet not to impress his own individuality upon his work. he makes some few additions to geoffrey's arthurian history, but his real contribution to the legend is the new spirit that he put into it. in the first place his vehicle is the swift-moving french octo-syllabic couplet, which alone gives an entirely different tone to the narrative from that of geoffrey's high-sounding latin prose. wace, moreover, was norman born and norman bred, and he inherited the possessions of his race--a love of fact, the power of clear thought, the appreciation of simplicity, the command of elegance in form. such a spirit indeed was his as in a finer type had already expressed itself in caen in the two noble abbeys, under whose shadow he passed the greater part of his life, the dignified and sternly simple abbaye-aux-hommes of william the conqueror and the graceful, richly ornamented abbaye-aux-dames of queen matilda. sincerity and truth wace ever aims at, but he embellishes his narrative with countless imaginative details. as a narrator he has the tendency to garrulity, which few mediaeval poets altogether escaped, but he is by no means without conversational charm, and in brief sentences abounding in colloquial turns, he leads us easily on with seldom flagging interest even through those pages where he is most inclined to be prolix. he is a systematic person with accurate mental habits, and is keenly alive to the limitations of his own knowledge. he doubtless often had to bid his common sense console him with the reflections with which he begins his _life of st. nicholas_:--"nobody can know everything, or hear everything, or see everything ... god distributes different gifts to different people. each man should show his worth in that which god has given him." he is extremely careful to give his authorities for his statements, and has all the shyness of an antiquarian toward facts for which he has not full proof. through breton tales, for example, he heard of the fairy fountain of barenton in the forest of broceliande, where fays and many another marvel were to be seen, and he determined to visit it in order to find out how true these stories were. "i went there to look for marvels. i saw the forest and i saw the land; i sought marvels, but i found none. a fool i came back, a fool i went; a fool i went, a fool i came back; foolishness i sought, a fool i hold myself." [ ] the wonders related of arthur, he tells us, have been recounted so often that they have become fables. "not all lies, nor all true, all foolishness, nor all sense; so much have the storytellers told, and so much have the makers of fables fabled to embellish their stories that they have made all seem fable." [ ] he omits the prophecies of merlin from his narrative, because he does not understand them. "i am not willing to translate his book, because i do not know how to interpret it. i would say nothing that was not exactly as i said." [ ] to this scrupulous regard for the truth, absolutely foreign to the ingenious geoffrey, wace adds an unusual power of visualising. he sees clearly everything that he describes, and decorates his narrative with almost such minute details of any scene as a seventeenth-century dutch painter loved to put upon his canvas. the most famous instance of this power is his description of arthur's embarkation for the roman campaign. geoffrey, after saying simply that arthur went to southampton, where the wind was fair, passes at once to the dream that came to the king on his voyage across the channel. but wace paints a complete word-picture of the scene. here you may see the crews gathering, there the ships preparing, yonder friends exchanging parting words, on this side commanders calling orders, on that, sailors manning the vessels, and then the fleet speeding over the waves.[ ] another spirited example of this same characteristic is found in the _roman de rou_ [ ] in the stirring account of the advance of the normans under william the conqueror at the battle of hastings:-- "taillefer, who sang right well, mounted on a charger that went swiftly, rode before the duke singing of charlemagne and of roland, and of oliver and the vassals who died at roncesval. when they had ridden until they came close to the english, 'sire,' said taillefer, 'a grace! i have served you long; for all my service, you owe me a debt. to-day, an it please you, repay it me. for all my guerdon i beg you and fervently i pray you, grant me to deal the first blow in the battle!' the duke replied, 'i grant it.' and taillefer pricked on at full gallop, on before all the others he pressed. he struck an englishman and killed him; beneath the breast, clean through the body he thrust his lance; he felled him down full length on the ground; then he drew his sword, he struck another; then he cried, 'on, on! what do ye? strike, strike!' then the english surrounded him at the second blow that he dealt. hark to the noise raised and the cries!" apart from matters of style, wace made other changes from geoffrey's narrative that are more important for arthurian romance. he wrote the _brut_ under the patronage of henry ii, and, if we may trust layamon's statement, he dedicated it to queen eleanor, who was the ardent propagator in england of the courtly ideals of southern france. accordingly wace, perhaps partly because of his own milieu, partly because of his royal patroness, wove into geoffrey's narrative more pronouncedly chivalric material. the lack of the courtly virtue of mesure (moderation) that is noticeable in geoffrey's arthur, wace is careful to conceal; he gives, furthermore, a place to the descriptions of love, which fill so many lines in the later romances, but which are absent from geoffrey's pages. gawain, for instance, who is "valiant and of very great moderation," declares that jesting and the delights of love are good, and that for the sake of his lady a young knight performs deeds of chivalry.[ ] in addition to these changes, which are to be attributed to his personal bent and surroundings, wace also makes it clear that he was conversant with stories of arthur quite independent of the _historia_. fables about arthur he himself says that he had heard, as we have seen, and from these he adds to geoffrey's narrative two that bear unmistakable signs of a celtic origin, and that were destined to become important elements in later romance; for he gives us the first literary record of the famous round table, [ ] and the first definite mention in literature of the "hope of britain." [ ] wace is not to be regarded as one of the great contributors to our knowledge of arthurian legend, but without a familiarity with his work, later french romance can scarcely be appreciated, so important is his place as a delicate transformer of the story, the harsher elements of which he veiled with the courtliness familiar to him, while he diffused throughout it the indefinable spirit of french romance; and this he did with the naive simplicity and grace that were his by birth and temperament. ii.--layamon to wace we owe still another debt, for the _roman de brut_ served as the direct source for one of the greatest members of the arthurian literature of any period. this is the _brut_, written in the first half of the thirteenth century, after the year , by layamon, an english priest of the country parish of lower arnley in worcestershire. "there was a priest in the land, who was named layamon; he was son of leovenath--may the lord be gracious to him!--he dwelt at ernley, at a noble church upon severn's bank,--good it there seemed to him--near radestone, where he books read. it came to him in mind, and in his chief thought, that he would tell the noble deeds of the english; what they were named, and whence they came, who first possessed the english land, after the flood that came from the lord.... layamon began to journey wide over this land, and procured the noble books which he took for pattern. he took the english book that saint bede made; another he took in latin, that saint albin made, and the fair austin, who brought baptism in hither; the third book he took, and laid there in the midst, that a french clerk made, who was named wace, who well could write; and he gave it to the noble eleanor, who was the high king henry's queen. layamon laid before him these books, and turned over the leaves; lovingly he beheld them--may the lord be merciful to him!--pen he took with fingers, and wrote on book-skin, and the true words set together, and the three books compressed into one. now prayeth layamon, for love of the almighty god, each good man that shall read this book and learn this counsel, that he say together these soothfast words, for his father's soul, who brought him forth, and for his mother's soul, who bore him to be man, and for his own soul, that it be the better. amen!" [ ] with these words layamon introduces us to his book and to himself; in fact they contain the sum total of our information about his life. but they put us at once into sympathy with the earnest, sincere student, who wrote, not like geoffrey and wace, for the favour of a high-born patron, but for the love of england and of good men and his few hardly-won and treasured books. of these books wace's _brut_ received the lion's share of his attention, and he made little or no use of the others that lay before him. he followed wace's poem in outline, but he succeeded in extending its , verses to , , by giving a free rein to his fancy, which he often allowed to set the pace for his pen. for layamon in his retired parish, performing the monotonous and far from engrossing duties of a reading clerk,[ ] lived in reality a stirring life of the imagination. back in the saxon past of england his thoughts moved, and his mind dwelt on her national epic heroes. not only in his language, which belongs to the period of transition from anglo-saxon to middle english, but in his verse [ ] and phraseology, he shows the influence of earlier anglo-saxon literature. the sound of the _ode on athelstane's victory_ and of _beowulf_ is in our ears as we read his intense, stirring lines. wars and battles, the stern career of a saxon leader, the life of the woods and fields attracted him far more than the refinements of a norman court, and by emphasising the elements that were most congenial to himself he developed an entirely different picture from that presented by either geoffrey or wace. writing with intense interest, he lives and moves and has his being among the events that he is narrating, and is far too deeply absorbed in his story to limit himself to the page that he has before him. given a dramatic situation, the actors become living personalities to him, and he hears impassioned words falling from their lips in terse phrases such as he never found in the lines of wace. uther pendragon, in a deadly battle against the irish invaders under gillomar and pascent, slays gillomar, then overtakes pascent:-- "and said these words uther the good: 'pascent, thou shalt abide; here cometh uther riding!' he smote him upon the head, so that he fell down, and the sword put in his mouth--such meat to him was strange--so that the point of the sword went in the earth. then said uther, 'pascent, lie now there; now thou hast britain all won to thy hand! so is now hap to thee; therein thou art dead; dwell ye shall here, thou, and gillomar thy companion, and possess well britain! for now i deliver it to you in hand, so that ye may presently dwell with us here; ye need not ever dread who you shall feed.'" [ ] arthur leads his men close to the hosts of colgrim, the leader of the saxon invaders:-- "thus said arthur, noblest of kings: 'see ye, my britons, here beside us, our full foes,--christ destroy them!--colgrim the strong, out of saxonland? his kin in this land killed our ancestors; but now is the day come, that the lord hath appointed that he shall lose the life, and lose his friends, or else we shall be dead; we may not see him alive!....' up caught arthur his shield, before his breast, and he gan to rush as the howling wolf, when he cometh from the wood, behung with snow, and thinketh to bite such beasts as he liketh. arthur then called to his dear knights: 'advance we quickly, brave thanes! all together towards them; we all shall do well, and they forth fly, as the high wood, when the furious wind heaveth it with strength.' flew over the [fields] thirty thousand shields, and smote on colgrim's knights, so that the earth shook again. brake the broad spears, shivered shields; the saxish men fell to the ground.... some they gan wander as the wild crane doth in the moor-fen, when his flight is impaired, and swift hawks pursue after him, and hounds with mischief meet him in the reeds; then is neither good to him nor the land nor the flood; the hawks him smite, the hounds him bite, then is the royal fowl at his death-time." [ ] layamon lets his imagination display itself not merely in the dramatic speeches that he puts into the mouths of his actors; he occasionally composes a long incident, as in the story of the coronation of constans,[ ] of the announcement to arthur of mordred's treachery,[ ] and in the very striking account of arthur's election to the throne of britain and his reception of the messengers who come for him. "arthur sate full still; one while he was wan, and in hue exceeding pale; one while he was red, and was moved in heart. when it all brake forth, it was good that he spake; thus said he then, forthright, arthur, the noble knight: 'lord christ, god's son, be to us now in aid, that i may in life hold god's laws.'" [ ] but in general layamon's expansions of wace are merely slight additions or modifications, sufficient in number, however, to go far in doubling the size of the volume. his great change is that which i have already mentioned, the spirit in which the story is conceived, and this is best illustrated, perhaps, in the person of arthur himself. for arthur is no knight-errant, but a grim, stern, ferocious saxon warrior, loved by his subjects, yet dreaded by them as well as by his foes. "was never ere such king, so doughty through all things." he stands in the cold glare of monarchy and conquest, and save in the story of his birth and of his final battle he is seldom, if ever, seen through the softer light of romance. but layamon is the only source for the story of which we hear nothing in the later romances, and which is generally attributed to a teutonic origin, that elves came to arthur's cradle and gave him good gifts--to be the best of knights, a rich king, long lived, abounding in "virtues most good." layamon, too, gives a truly celtic version of arthur's disappearance from earth. two fairy maidens bear the wounded king in a boat from the battle-field over the sea to argante, the queen of avalon, who will make him whole again. "and the britons ever expect when arthur shall return." this story, and also layamon's very important account of the establishment of the round table, which is vastly more complete than wace's, bear unmistakable marks of a celtic origin. layamon, in fact, living as he did near the welsh border, naturally shows familiarity with current welsh tradition. his work has a high value in the vexed question of the origin and growth of arthurian romance; for it proves the existence of genuine welsh tradition about arthur, and makes untenable the position of those critics who maintain that the arthurian legend had an independent development only on the continent. layamon's contributions to our knowledge of the arthurian material are, however, comparatively small, since he augmented his original in the main by passages inspired by his own imagination.[ ] his additions may be called poetic rather than legendary. partly because of its saxon character his _brut_ never attained wide popularity, and it had little effect upon the cycle; but it remains one of the most truly great literary achievements in the field of both arthurian chronicle and romance. our three most important arthurian chroniclers, geoffrey, wace, and layamon, were all men of marked individuality and ability; each lives for us with as distinct a personality as if we had far more than our very imperfect knowledge of the details of his life. geoffrey, a clever combiner, a highly gifted narrator and scholar, born at a happy hour, gave the arthurian legend a definite literary form, brought permanently together independent elements of tradition, and contributed enormously to the popularity of the cycle. wace, the professional author, the scrupulous antiquarian and naïve poet, carefully refined the material of geoffrey, and dressed it in the french costume of courtly life. layamon, the intense and imaginative english priest, transformed it by the saxon spirit, and divesting it of its courtly elegance, filled it with greater simplicity and force. excursus i.--arthur's magic possessions arthur's magic possessions form a prominent element in welsh tradition, and their appearance in the early chronicles is an important testimony to the diffusion of welsh legend. _kilhwch and olwen_ contains a list of his belongings, all of which there is reason to believe, from record or from logical inference, were of otherworld origin. each has its significant proper name, which in most cases conveys the idea of brilliant whiteness, a characteristic of celtic fairy objects. his ship, for example, is named white form, his shield "night gainsayer," his dagger "white haft." the _dream of rhonabwy_ [ ] describes his carpet (or mantle), "white," which had the property of retaining no colour but its own, and of making whoever was on it (or wrapped in it) invisible, and also his sword, "hard-breacher," graven with two serpents from whose jaws two flames of fire seemed to burst when it was unsheathed, "and then so wonderful was the sword that it was hard for any one to look upon it." this sword (caletvwlch, caliburn, excalibur) is a pan-celtic marvellous object, and is one of arthur's most famous possessions. the deadly blows attributed by nennius to him in the battle of mount badon without doubt traditionally were dealt by caliburn. geoffrey of monmouth recognised it as a fairy sword, and says that it was made in avalon, namely, the celtic otherworld. we may also feel confident that the full panoply of armour with which geoffrey equips arthur (ix. ) consisted of magic objects, although geoffrey, who in general, as an historian, rationalises the supernatural, merely describes them as amazingly efficacious. the shield he calls by the name of arthur's ship in welsh sources, pridwen (evidently a fairy boat, limitless in capacity), either from some confusion in tradition, or because, being enchanted, pridwen might, of course, serve as either ship or shield. layamon adds further information about arthur's weapons. his burny, he says (vs. - ) "was named wygar" (anglo-saxon _wigheard_), "battle-hard," "which witeze wrought," witeze being a corrupted form for widia, the anglo-saxon name of the son of weland, the teutonic vulcan, a famous maker of magic weapons in romance, with whom his son might easily become identified in legend. this is the explanation given by professor g.l. kittredge of the above lines, as a correction of sir frederic madden's translation: "he [namely, the smith who made the burny] was named wygar, the witty wight." layamon says (v. ) that arthur's helmet was called goswhit, a name that is evidently a translation of some welsh term meaning "goosewhite," which at once classes the helmet with arthur's dazzlingly bright fairy belongings. moreover, layamon says (vs. , ff.) that his spear ron (a welsh common noun, meaning "spear") was made by a smith called griffin, whose name may be the result of an english substitution of the familiar word _griffin_ for the unfamiliar _gofan_, the name of the celtic smith-god. these facts are mainly important as testimony to the celtic element in arthurian romance, and especially to layamon's use of current welsh arthurian tradition. the large variety of magical possessions assigned to arthur is also a notable indication of the great emphasis that welsh legend laid upon his mythological attributes and his character as otherworld adventurer. [the above facts have been established and discussed by professor a.c.l. brown in his article on the round table (p. , note ) cited below in excursus ii.; also in _iwain_, boston, , p. , note ; _modern philology_, i., - ; _publications of the modern language association of america_, xxv., ff. see also the notes on the lines cited from layamon in sir frederic madden's edition of the _brut_. for other magic possessions of arthur, see below, excursus ii.] excursus ii.--the round table (wace, _brut_, vs. ff., , ; layamon, vs. ff.) our earliest authority for the story of the round table is wace. he and layamon agree in calling it a tale of the britons, and in saying that arthur had it made to prevent rivalry as to place among his vassals when they sat at meat. layamon, however, expands the few lines that wace devotes to the subject into one of his longest additions to his source, by introducing the story of a savage fight for precedence at a court feast, which was the immediate cause for fashioning the round table, a magical object. ancient sources prove that the celts had a grievous habit of quarrelling about precedence at banquets, probably because it was their custom to bestow the largest portion of meat upon the bravest warrior. it was also their practice to banquet seated in a circle with the most valiant chieftain of the company placed in the middle, possibly owing to the circular form of their huts, possibly for the sake of avoiding the disputes that so commonly disturbed their feastings. the round table, accordingly, is to be regarded as a pan-celtic institution of early date, and as one of the belongings that would naturally be attributed by popular tradition to any peculiarly distinguished leader. layamon's version so closely parallels early celtic stories of banquet fights, and has so barbaric a tone, as to make it evident that he is here recounting a folk-tale of pure celtic origin, which must have been connected with arthur before his time, and probably before that of wace; for this story was undoubtedly one of those "many fables" which wace says the britons told about the round table, but which he does not incorporate into his narrative. [see a.c.l. brown, _the round table before wace in studies and notes in philology and literature_, vii. (boston, ), ff.; l.f. mott, _publications of the modern language association of america_, xx, ff.; j.l. weston, as above (p. xv.), pp. ft.] excursus iii.--the hope of britain (wace, _brut_, ff.; layamon, ff., ff.) the belief that arthur would return to earth, which was firmly established among the britons by the beginning of the twelfth century, does not in early records appear clothed in any definite narrative form. in later sources it assumes several phases, the most common of which is that recorded by layamon that arthur had been taken by fays from his final battle-field to avalon, the celtic otherworld, whence after the healing of his mortal wound he would return to earth. layamon's story conforms essentially to an early type of celtic fairy-mistress story, according to which a valorous hero, in response to the summons of a fay who has set her love upon him, under the guidance of a fairy messenger sails over seas to the otherworld, where he remains for an indefinite time in happiness, oblivious of earth. it is easy to see that the belief that arthur was still living, though not in this world, might gradually take shape in such a form as this, and that his absence from his country might be interpreted as his prolonged sojourn in the distant land of a fairy queen, who was proffering him, not the delights of her love, but healing for his wounds, in order that when he was made whole again he might return "to help the britons." historic, mythical, and romantic tradition have combined to produce the version that layamon records. geoffrey of monmouth (xi. ), writing in the mock role of serious historian and with a tendency to rationalisation, says not a word of the wounded king's possible return to earth. wace, with characteristic caution, affirms that he will not commit himself as to whether the britons, who say that arthur is still in avalon, speak the truth or not. here, as in the story of the round table, it is layamon who has preserved for us what was undoubtedly the form that the belief had already assumed in celtic story, through whatever medium it may have passed before it reached his hands. in the _vita merlini_,[ ] a latin poem attributed by some scholars to geoffrey of monmouth, a curious version of arthur's stay in avalon is given. the wounded king is taken after the battle of camlan to the isle of apples (for such was understood to be the meaning of the name _avalon_), which is the domain of a supernatural maiden, wise and beautiful, morgen by name, who understands the healing art, and who promises the king that he shall be made whole again if he abides long with her. this is the first mention in literature of morgan la fée, the most powerful fay of french romance, and regularly the traditional healer of arthur's wounds in avalon. the argante of layamon's version is doubtless the same being as morgana, for whose name, which in any of its current spellings had the appearance of a masculine proper name, layamon either may have substituted a more familiar welsh name, argante, as i have already shown he might easily have done (_studies in the fairy mythology of arthurian romance_, boston, , pp. - ), or, as professor j.l. bruce, with equal plausibility, has recently suggested, he may have used a corruption of one form of the fay's name, morgant (_modern language notes_, march, , pp. - ). [i have discussed the various versions of arthur's stay in avalon in _studies in fairy mythology_, chapter iii. on avalon, see _id._, p. , note . on the early belief in arthur's return to earth, see geoffrey of monmouth (_everyman's library_), introduction, p. .] notes: [ ] i.e., paris, in the ile de france. vs. ff. [ ] vs. ff. [ ] _roman de rou_, vs. ff. [ ] _roman de brut_, vs. ff. [ ] _id._, vs. ff. [ ] _id._, vs. ff. cf. for other examples: arthur's conquest of denmark, _historia_, ix. ; _brut_, vs. ff.; arthur's return to britain from france, _historia_, ix. ; _brut_, vs. ff.; arthur's coronation, _historia_, ix. ff.; _brut_, vs. ff. [ ] vs. ff. [ ] see _excursus ii_. [ ] vs. ff. [ ] see _excursus iii_. [ ] vs. ff. [ ] layamon's statement that he "read books" at arnley is interpreted to mean that he read the services in the church. [ ] the poem is written in part in alliterative lines on the anglo-saxon system, in part in rhymed couplets of unequal length. [ ] vs. ff. [ ] vs. ff. more famous speeches still are arthur's comparison of childric the dane to a fox (vs. ff.) and his taunt over his fallen foes, baldulf and colgrim (vs. ff.). [ ] vs. ff. [ ] vs. ff. [ ] vs. ff. [ ] discussion of this point see j.l. weston, in _melanges de philologie romane offerts à m. wilmotte_, paris, , pp. , . [ ] see _mabinogion_, translated by lady charlotte guest, london, . [ ] ed. michel and wright, paris, . bibliography general works of reference for the chronicles r.h. fletcher, _the arthurian material in the chronicles (studies and notes in philology and literature, x)_, boston, . w. lewis jones, king arthur in history and legend, london, . m.w. maccallum, _tennyson's idylls of the king_, glasgow, . h. maynadier, _the arthur of the english poets_, boston and new york, . g. paris, _histoire littéraire de la france_, paris, . j. rhys, _studies in the arthurian legend_, oxford, . w.h. schofield, _english literature from the norman conquest to chaucer_, new york and london, . b. ten brink, _geschichte der englischen literatur_, and ed., a brandl, strassburg, . translated into english, st ed, i., h.m. kennedy, new york, , ii., i., w.c. robinson, , ii., ii., l.d. schmidt, . authors and works geoffrey gaimar, _l'estorie des engles_, ed. t.d. hardy and t.c. marten (rolls series), - . geoffrey of monmouth, _historia regum britanniae_, ed. san marte (a. schulz) halle, . translated, j.a. giles, _six old english chronicles_, london, ; s. evans, london, . layamon, _brut_, ed. with translation, sir f. madden, vols, london, . works on layamon--introduction, madden's ed. of _brut_. h. morley, english writers, london, - , iii, - . l. stephen and s. lee, _dictionary of national biography_, london, - , under layamon. for a further bibliography, see fletcher (as above), p. , note . wace, _roman de brut_, ed. le roux de lucy, vols, rouen, - . _roman de rou_, ed. f. pluquet, vols, rouen, , h. andresen, vols, heilbronn, - , translated by e. taylor (_chronicle of the norman conquest_), london, . works on wace--e. du méril, _la vie et les ouvrages de wace_, in _jahrbuch für romanische u. englische literatur, i, i ff.; also in his _etudes sur quelques points d'archéologie_, paris and leipzig, . grober, _grundriss der romanischen philologie_, strassburg, - , ii, i, ff. h. morley, _english writers_, iii, . g. paris, _romania_, ix, ff. l. stephens and s. lee, _dictionary national biography_, under wace. a ulbrich, _romanische forschungen_, xxvi, ff. for further bibliography, see fletcher (as above), p. , note . wace's roman de brut constantine came to totnes, and many a stout knight with him--there was not one but was worthy of the kingship. the host set forth towards london, and sent messages in every part, bidding the britons to their aid, for as yet they were too fearful to come from their secret places. when the britons heard these tidings they drew, thick as rain, from the woodlands and the mountain, and came before the host in troops and companies. to make short a long matter, these marched so far and wrought such deeds that in the end they altogether discomfited those evil men who had done such sore mischief to the land. after these things they held a great council at cirencester, commanding thereto all the lords and barons of the realm. in that place they chose constantine as their king, with no long tarrying, none being so bold as to say him nay. so when they had ordained him king, they set the crown on his head with marvellous joy, and owned themselves as his men. afterwards, by their counsel, constantine took to wife a dame who was come of gentle roman blood. on this lady he begat three sons. the eldest--whom the king named constant--he caused to be nourished at winchester, and there he made him to be vowed a monk. the second son was called aurelius, and his surname ambrosius. lastly was born uther, and it was he whose days were longest in the land. these two varlets were held in ward by gosselyn, the archbishop. so long as constantine lived the realm had rest and peace; but he died before his time had come, for he reigned but twelve short years. there was a certain pict of his household, a traitor, a foul felon, who for a great while had been about his person. i cannot tell the reason why he bore the king so mortal a grudge. this pict took the king aside privily in an orchard, as though he would speak to him of some hidden matter. the king had no thought to keep himself from this false felon, who whilst he made seeming to speak in his master's ear, drew forth a knife and smote him therewith so shrewdly that he died. then he fled forth from the garden. but many a time have i heard tell that it was vortigern who caused constantine to be slain. great was the sorrow the lords and all honest people made above their king, for the realm had now no prince, save only those children of so tender an age. they laid him in his tomb, but in no wise put him from remembrance. the whole realm assembled together that they might make to themselves a king. they doubted sorely which of the two young children they should choose, for of them they knew neither good nor ill, seeing they were but small and frail, and yet in their warden's charge. as to constant, the eldest son, who was of more fitting years, they dared not to pluck the habit from his back, since all men deemed it shame and folly to hale him forth from his abbey. the council would have ordained one of the two children to be king had it not been for vortigern, who arose before them all. this vortigern came from wales, and was earl in his own land. he was a strong knight of his body, exceeding rich in goods and kin. very courteous was he of speech; right prudent in counsel; and long since had made straight the road that he coveted to tread. "what reason is here," said he, "for doubtfulness? there is naught else to do but to make this monk, constant, our king. he is the rightful heir; his brothers are not long from the breast; neither is it fitting that the crown should be placed upon a stranger's head. let us strip the gown boldly from his shoulders. i charge the sin upon my own soul. my hand alone shall draw him from the abbey, and set him before you as your king." but all the lords of the council kept silence, for a horrible thing it seemed in their eyes that a monk should wear the mantle of a king. vortigern, purposing evil in his heart, took horse, and rode swiftly to winchester. he sought constant at the abbey, praying the prior of his courtesy that he might speak with him in the parlour. "constant," said he, "thy father is dead, and men seek to bestow his throne upon thy brothers. such honour is not seemly, for thine is the crown and seat. if thou bearest me love and affiance, and for thy part wilt promise to make richer all the riches that are mine, on my part i will free thee from these sullen rags and array thee in the purple and ermine of a king. choose now between this monastery and the heritage that is thine own." very desirous was constant of the lordship, and little love had he for his abbey. right weary was he of choir and psalter, and lightly and easily he made him ready to be gone. he pledged oath and faith to all that vortigern required, and after he had so done vortigern took him with a strong hand from the monastery, none daring to gainsay his deed. when vortigern was assured of his fealty, he caused constant to put off the monk's serge, and clothe him in furs and rich raiment. he carried him to london, and sat him in his father's chair, though not with the voice and welcome of the people. the archbishop who should have anointed the king with oil was dead, neither was any bishop found to give him unction, or to put his hand to the business. it was vortigern alone who took the crown and set it on his head. this king had no unction nor blessing, save from the hand of vortigern alone. constant reigned in his father's stead. he who had betrayed the commandment of god, was not one to hold his realm in surety; and thus he came to an evil end. sorrow not thereat. the man who sells his master with a kiss may not hope to spend the wages of his sin. vortigern held constant and his senarchy in the hollow of his hand. the king did all according to his pleasure, and granted freely to his every need. very quickly, by reason of divers matters, vortigern perceived that the king knew but little of the world, since he was nourished in a cloister. he remembered that the two princes were of tender age. he saw that the mighty lords of the realm were dead, that the people were in sore trouble and unrest, and judged that the place and time were come. mark now the cunning craft with which he set about to take his seisin of the realm. "sire," said he, "i have learned and would bring to your knowledge that the sea folk are gathered together from norway, and from the country of the danes. since our knights are few in number, and because of the weakness of the land, they purpose to descend upon the kingdom, and ravish and spoil your cities. draw now together thy men, to guard the realm and thee. set food within the strong places, and keep well thy towers. above all, have such fear of traitors that thy castles are held of none save those true men who will hold them to the death. if you act not after this counsel right speedily there must reign another king." "i have granted," answered constant, "everything to thy hand, and have done all according to thy will. take now this fresh burthen upon thee, for thou art wiser than i. i give you all the realm to thy keeping, so that none shall ravage it or burn. cities and manors; goods and treasure; they are thine as constable. thy will is my pleasure. do swiftly that which it is seemly should be done." vortigern was very subtle. none knew better how to hide away his greed. after he had taken the strong towers, the treasure, and the riches to himself, he went again before the king. "sire," said he, "if it seem good to the king, my counsel would be that he should send to the picts of scotland to seek of them horsemen and sergeants to have with him about his household. in that place where the battle is perilous we can call them to our aid. through these picts and their kindred we shall hear the talk of the outland men. they will parley between us and these danes, and serve as embassy between us and our foes." "do," replied the king, "at thy pleasure. bring of these picts as many as you wish. grant them as guerdon what you deem befits. do all which it is seemly should be done." when vortigern had taken to himself the walled cities, and gathered together the treasure, he sent such messages to the picts as he desired, so that they came according to his will. vortigern received them with much honour, giving them greatly to drink, so that they lived in mirth and in solace, altogether drunken and content. of his bounty vortigern granted such wages, and spoke so sweetly in the ear of each, that there was not one amongst them who did not cry loudly in the hearing of any who would hearken, that vortigern was more courteous and of higher valiance than the king--yea, that he was worthy to sit upon the king's throne, or in a richer chair than his. vortigern rejoiced greatly at these words. he made much of his picts, and honoured them more sweetly than ever before. on a day when they had sat long at their cups, and all were well drunken, vortigern came amongst them in the hall. he saluted them sadly, showing the semblance of a woeful man. "right dear are you to my heart;" said he, "very willingly have i served you, and right gladly would i serve you still, if but the wealth were mine. but this realm belongs altogether to the king. naught can i bestow, nothing is mine to spend, save only that i render him account of every doit. so little revenue is mine of this land, that it becomes me to seek my fortune beyond the sea. i have set my whole intent to serve my king to the utmost of my might, and for recompense have of him such estate that i can maintain scarce forty sergeants to my household. if all goes well with me we may meet again, for i commend me to your goodwill. this weighs heavily upon me that i must leave you now. but, beggar as i am, i can do no other; only i entreat you this, that if you hear my business has come to a fair end, you will of a surety seek my love again." for all his piteous speech vortigern was false, and had falsely spoken, but those who had well drunken gave faith to his words. they held for gospel truth what this vile traitor had told them. they murmured together amongst themselves: "what then shall become of us, since we lose so generous a lord! let us rather slay this mad king, this shaveling, and raise vortigern to his seat. worthy is he of crown and kingdom; so on him we will cast the lot. too long already have we suffered this renegade monk, whom now we serve." forthwith they entered in the king's chamber, and laying hands upon him, slew him where he stood. they smote the head from off his shoulders, and bare it to vortigern in his lodging, crying, "look now, and see by what bands we bind you to this realm. the king is dead, and we forbid you to go from amongst us. take now the crown, and become our king." vortigern knew again the head of his lord. he made semblance of bitter sorrow, but rejoiced privily in his heart, though of his cunning he hid his gladness from the eyes of men. to cover his falseness the deeper, vortigern called the romans together in council. he struck the heads from off those traitors, leaving not one to escape alive. but many a citizen was persuaded, and some said openly, that these murderers would not have laid hands upon the king, neither looked evilly upon him, nor thought to do him mischief, had not vortigern required of them such deed. when the death of the king was told to them who held the two brothers in ordinance, they were assured that he who slew the king would not scruple to serve the princes in the self-same fashion. for fear of vortigern they took aurelius and uther, and fled beyond the sea to little britain, commending themselves to the pity of budes, the king. since they were of his kin king budes welcomed them right courteously. he received them to his table with great honour, and bestowed upon them many rich gifts. now having taken to himself the strong places, the castles, and the cities of the kingdom, vortigern proclaimed him to be king with marvellous pride. his joy was the less because the realm was harassed by the picts, who would avenge their kindred, whom he had slain with the sword. moreover he was sorely troubled, since it was noised abroad that the two princes were gathering a company together, purposing in a short space to return to their own land. the rumour ran that the barons were resolved to join this great host, and to own the brothers as their lords, so that in a while vortigern would be utterly destroyed. many there were who told of such things. whilst men talked thus, there came to a haven in kent three galleys, bearing a strange people to the land. these folk were fair of face and comely of person. they owned as lords hengist and horsa, two brethren of mighty stature, and of outland speech. the tidings came to vortigern at canterbury, where he abode that day, that a foreign folk from a far country had drawn to the realm in ships. the king sent messages of peace and goodwill to these strangers, praying that be they whom they might, they would come quickly and speak with him in his palace, and return swiftly to their own place. when they received his commandment they sought him with the more surety. they came into the king's presence and did reverence, with a proud bearing. vortigern looked closely upon the brethren. shapely were they of body, bright of visage, taller and more comely than any youth he knew. "from what land have you come," inquired the king, "and on what errand? tell me now the place of your birth." the elder and the mightier of the brethren, called hengist, made answer in the name of all his fellows. "we be of a country called saxony," said he, "there were we born and there we abode. if thou wilt learn the chance we seek upon the sea, i will answer truly, if so it be according to thy will." "say on," said the king, "and hide nothing. no harm shall come to thee of this." "fair king," answered hengist, "gentle sire, i know not if i can make it plain. our race is of a fertile stock, more quick and abounding than any other you may know, or whereof you have heard speak. our folk are marvellously fruitful, and the tale of the children is beyond measure. women and men are more in number than the sand, for the greater sorrow of those amongst us who are here. when our people are so many that the land may not sustain nor suffice them, then the princes who rule the realm assemble before them all the young men of the age of fifteen years and upwards, for such is our use and custom. from out of these they choose the most valiant and the most strong, and, casting lots, send them forth from the country, so that they may travel into divers lands, seeking fiefs and houses of their own. go out they must, since the earth cannot contain them; for the children came more thickly than the beasts which pasture in the fields. because of the lot that fell upon us we have bidden farewell to our homes, and putting our trust in mercury, the god has led us to your realm." when the king heard the name of mercury as the god of their governance, be inquired what manner of men these were, and of the god in whom they believed. "we have," answered hengist, "gods a many, to whom it is our bounden duty to raise altars. these gods have to name phoebus and saturn, jupiter and mercury. many another god we worship, according to the wont of our country, and as our fathers have told us. but above all gods we keep in chiefest honour mercury, who in our own tongue is called woden. our fathers held this god in such reverence that they devoted the fourth day of the week to his service. because of their hope in woden they called his feast wednesday, and yet it bears his name. by the side of this god of whom i have spoken, we set our goddess freya, who is held in worship of us all. to show forth their love, our fathers consecrated the sixth day to her service, and on the high authority of the past we call friday by freya's name." "ill is your faith," replied the king, "and in an evil god you put your trust. this thing is grievous to me, but nevertheless i welcome your coming right gladly. you are valiant men, as i deem, accustomed to harness, and so you will be my servants, very willingly will i make you of my household, and of wealth you shall find no lack. certain thieves from scotland torment me grievously at this time, burning my land and preying on my cities. so it be god's pleasure, your coming may turn to my rich profit, for by his aid and yours, i look to destroy these same picts and scots. for from that land come and return these thieves who so harass and damage my realm. you shall find me no grudging master, and when i am avenged upon them, you will have no complaint to find with bounty or wages or gifts." in this manner the saxons came from out their ships, and the king's court was strengthened by a mighty company. now in no long time afterwards the picts entered the king's realm, with a great host, burning, wasting, and pilling at their will. when they would have passed the humber, the king, who was told thereof, hastened to meet them with his lords, the britons, and these saxons. the hosts came together, and the battle was grim and lasting, for many were discomfited to death that day. the picts, doubting nothing but that they would gain the victory as they had done before, carried themselves hardily, and struck fiercely with the sword. they fought thus stoutly, and endured so painfully, since they were shamed to do less than was their wont. but their evil custom was broken, for the saxons gained possession of the field. since by these saxons, and their aid, vortigern was delivered of this peril, he gave them their wages, and added thereto of his bounty. on hengist he bestowed fair manors, and goods, and great riches, so that love lasted between them for a long space. when hengist saw that the king might in no wise pass him by, he sought to turn this to his own profit, as was his undoubted right. he knew well how to flatter the king to his own advantage by specious words. on a day when the king's heart was merry, hengist opened out what was in his mind. "thou hast given me many honours," said he, "and bestowed on me plenteously of thy wealth. i am not ungrateful, but am thy servant and will remain thy servant, striving to serve thee better in the future even than i have striven in the past. but the longer i am about the king's person, and the more closely i know his court, the more clearly i see and hear and am assured that thou hast not the love of one only baron of thy realm. each bears thee hate, each nurses his own grudge. i cannot speak, since nothing i know, of those children who have stolen away the love of thine own house. they are the lawful lords of thy barons, and these are but loyal to the sons of their king. within a little they will come from over sea, and spoil thee of this realm. not one of thy men but purposes to do thee a mischief. evil they wish thee, and evil they hope will be thine end. horribly art thou abhorred; horribly art thou menaced; for evil is on thy track, and evil purposes shortly to pull thee down. i have considered how best i may help thee in this peril. if it pleases the king to bring my wife and children and all that is mine from my own land, the sweeter hostages will be his, and the more faithful will be my service. so diligently will i keep my trust that no foe, however bold, shall spoil thee of one foot of thy heritage moreover, sire, it is now a great while since i became thy servant, and many bear malice against me by reason of thy love. because of their wrath i dare not tarry at night outside my house, nor go beyond the walls. for this cause, sire, so it may please thee, it would become thy honour to grant me some town or tower or strong place, where i may lie in peace of nights, when i am weaned in the king's quarrels. when thy enemies mark the generosity of the king, they will cease to annoy so large a lord." "as to the folk of thine house," made answer the king, "send thou at thy pleasure, and receive them with all worship. the cost of their sustenance shall be mine. for the rest thou art not of the faith. pagan thou art, and no christian man men, therefore, will deem that i do very wrongfully should i grant thee the other gift you require." "sire," replied hengist, "i would of thy bounty a certain manor. i pray thee of thy courtesy to add thereto so much land--i seek no more--as i may cover with a hide, and as may be compassed therewith. it will be but the hide of a bull, but for the gift's sake i shall go the more surely." vortigern granted the boon, and hengist thanked his master. he made ready his messenger, and sent for his kindred from oversea. he took the hide of a bull, and cutting it as small as he might, made one thong of the whole skin. with this thong he compassed a great spoil of land, and gathering good masons together, built thereon a fair castle. in his own tongue he called this place vancaster, which being interpreted means thong castle, forasmuch as the place was compassed by a thong. now it is hight by many lancaster, and of these there are few who remember why it was first called after this name. when vancaster was well builded there drew near eighteen war galleys, bearing to land hengist's kindred, together with knights and footmen. with these came hengist's daughter, rowena by name, a maiden yet unwed, and most marvellously fair. after all things were made ready hengist prayed the king to lodge with him awhile, that he might delight himself with meat and drink, and view the new folk of his household, and the castle that he had builded. and the king was pleased to hearken unto his prayer. the king rode to vancaster with a mean company, since he would not have it noised about the land. he marked the castle and its towers, which were both strong and fair, and much he praised the work. the knights who were freshly come from sea he took to his service, and gave of his bounty. at the feast that day men ate and drank so greatly that for the most part they were drunken. then came forth from her chamber rowena, hengist's daughter, sweetly arrayed and right dainty to see, bearing in her hand a brimming cup of wine. she kneeled before vortigern very simply, and saluted him courteously after the fashion of her land, saying, "washael, lord king." the king, who knew nothing of her language, sought the meaning of the maiden's words. this was made plain to him by redic, the breton, a fair scholar, who--as it is related--was the first to become apt in the saxon tongue. he answered swiftly, "the maiden saluted thee courteously, calling thee lord. it is the wont of her people, sire, that when friend drinks with friend, he who proffers the cup cries, 'washael,' and that he who receives answers in turn, 'drinkhael'. then drinks he the half of this loving cup, and for joy and for friendship of him who set it in his hand, kisses the giver with all fair fellowship." when he had learned this thing, the king said "drinkhael," and smiled upon the damsel. rowena tasted of the cup, and placed it in the king's hand, and in taking it from the maiden the king kissed her sweetly. by the saxon were we first taught in this land to greet, saying, "washael," and afterwards to answer, "drinkhael," to drain the cup in full measure, or to share it with one other, to kiss together when the cup was passed. the custom was commenced as i have shown you, and we observe this ritual yet, as well i know, in the rich feasts of our country. now the maiden was gracious of body, and passing fair of face, dainty and tall, and plump of her person. she stood before the king in a web of fine raiment, and ravished his eyes beyond measure. she filled the king's cup willingly, and was altogether according to his wish. so merry was the king, so well had he drunken, that he desired the damsel in his heart. the devil, who has led many a man astray, snared vortigern with such sorcery, that he became mad with love to possess hengist's daughter. he was so fast in the devil's net that he saw neither shame nor sin in this love. he denied not his hope, though the maid was of pagans born. vortigern prayed hengist that he would grant him the maid in marriage, and hengist accorded her with goodwill. but first he took counsel with his brother and his friends. these praised the marriage, but counselled hengist to give the damsel only on such covenant that the king should deliver him kent as her dowry. the king coveted the maiden so greatly, he doted so dearly, that he made her his queen. she was a pagan woman, and became his wife according to the rites of the paynim. no priest blessed that marriage, there was neither mass nor prayer. so hot was the king's love that he espoused her the same evening, and bestowed on hengist kent as her dowry. hengist went into kent, and seized all the country into his hand. he drove forth garagon, the governor, who had heard no word of the business. vortigern showed more credence and love to the heathen than to christened men, so that these gave him again his malice, and abandoned his counsel. his own sons held him in hatred, forsaking his fellowship because of the pagans. for this vortigern had married a wife, who long was dead and at peace. on this first wife he had begotten three sons, these only. the first was named vortimer, the second passent, and the third vortiger. hated was this king by all the barons of his realm, and of all his neighbours. his very kindred held him in abhorrence. he came to an evil end, for he died in his shame, and the pagans he befriended with him. "sire," said hengist to the king, "men hold thee in hatred by reason of me, and because of thy love they bear me malice also. i am thy father, and thou my son, since thou wert pleased to ask my daughter for thy wife. it is my privilege to counsel my king, and he should hearken to my counsel, and aid me to his power. if thou wilt make sure thy throne, and grieve those who use thee despitefully, send now for octa my son, and for my cousin ebissa. there are not two more cunning captains than these, nor two champions to excel them in battle. give these captains of thy land towards scotland, for from thence comes all the mischief. they will deal with thy foes in such fashion that never more shall they take of thy realm, but for the rest of thy days we shall live in peace beyond the humber." then answered the king, "do what you will, and send messages for such men as it is good for us to have." at the king's word hengist sent messages to his son and nephew, who hastened to his help with a fleet of three hundred galleys. there was not a knight of their land, who would serve for guerdon, but they carried him across the water. after these captains were come, in their turn, from day to day, came many another, this one with four vessels, this other with five, or six, or seven, or eight, or nine, or ten. so thickly did the heathen wend, and so closely did they mingle with the christians, that you might scarcely know who was a christened man and who was not. the britons were sorely troubled at this matter, and prayed the king not to put such affiance in the outland folk, for they wrought much mischief. they complained that already were too many pagans in the land, working great shame and villainy to the people. "separate thyself from amongst them," they said, "at whatever cost, and send all, or as many as may be, from the realm." vortigern made answer that he might not do this thing. he had entreated the saxons to the land, and they served him as true men. so when the barons hearkened to his words they went their way to vortimer. the britons assembled themselves together, and taking the road to london, chose vortimer--the eldest of the king's three sons--to be their lord. the king, who was assotted on his wife, clave to her kindred, and would not forsake the heathen. vortimer defied the saxons, and drove them from the walled cities, chasing and tormenting them very grievously. he was a skilful captain, and the strife was right sore between vortimer and the britons, against his father and the saxons. four times the hosts met together, and four times vortimer vanquished his foe. the first battle was fought upon the banks of the darent. the second time the hosts strove together was upon the ford near aylesford. in this place vortiger, the king's son, and horsa the saxon, contended so fiercely in combat, body to body, that each did the other to death, according to his desire. the other battle was arrayed on the sea shore in kent. passing grim was this third battle, for the ships fought together upon the water. the saxons withdrew before the britons, so that from beyond the humber even to kent they were deceived in their hope. the heathen fled in their galleys to an islet called thanet. the britons assailed them in this fastness, and so long as it was day, harassed them with arrows and quarrels, with ships and with barges. they rejoiced loudly, for the pagans were caught in a corner, and those not slain by the sword were fain to die of hunger. for this reason, the britons raised a mighty tumult and shouting, when they trapped their enemy in the isle of thanet. when the saxons were assured that worse would befall them, save they departed from the realm, they prayed vortigern to go in embassy to vortimer his son, persuading him to give them safe conduct from the land, and not to do them further mischief. vortigern, who was in their company and would in no wise depart from their fellowship, went to his son to procure such truce as the saxons required. whilst he was about this business the saxons entered in their galleys, and with sail and oar put out to sea as swiftly as they were able. such was their haste to escape that they left their wives and sons with the britons, returning to their own country in exceeding fear. after the saxons had all forsaken the realm, and the britons were assumed of peace, vortimer gave again to every man that of which the heathen had spoiled him. to build anew the churches, and to declare the law of god, which had fallen into disuse amongst the people because of hengist and his heathendom, st. germanus came to britain, sent by st. romanus, the apostle of rome. with him came st. louis of troyes. these two fair bishops, germanus of auxerre and louis of troyes, crossed the sea to prepare the way of the lord. by them were the tables of the law redelivered, and men converted again to the faith. they brought many a man to salvation; many a miracle, many a virtue, did god show in their persons, and many a country was the sweeter for their lives. when the law of god was restored, and britain made again a christian land, hearken now what foul work was done by treason and by envy. rowena, that evil stepmother, caused vortimer, her husband's son, to be poisoned, by reason of the hatred she bore him, since he chased hengist from the realm. after vortimer was certified that he must die, and that no physician might cure him of his hurt, he called together all his barons, and delivered unto them the treasure which he had greatly gathered. listen well to that he prayed his friends. "knights," said he, "take into your service warriors not a few, and grudge not the sergeant his wages. hold one to another, and maintain the land against these saxons. that my work may not be wasted, and avenged upon those who live, do this thing for their terror. take my body, and bury it upon the shore. raise above me such a tomb, so large and lasting, that it may be seen from far by all who voyage on the sea. to that coast where my body is buried, living or dead, they shall not dare to come." having spoken in this fashion the gentle king died, finishing his course. his body was borne to london, and in london he was lain to his rest. the barons raised no barrow upon the shore, as with his dying speech he had bidden them. after vortimer's death, the britons made vortigern their king, even as he had been in days before. at the entreaties of his wife he sent messages to his father-in-law, hengist. him he prayed to return to the kingdom, but with a small company, so that the britons should not give heed to the matter; for since vortimer his son was dead, there was no need of a host. hengist took ship gladly, but with him he carried three hundred thousand men in mail. for dread of the britons, he made him ready as never he had done before. when the king learned that hengist drew to land with so mighty a host, he was altogether fearful, and knew no word to say. the britons assembled together in great wrath, promising amongst themselves that they would join them in battle, and throw the heathen from the realm. hengist was cunning and felon of heart. he sent false messages to the king, praying for a truce and love-day to be granted, that they might speak together as friend with friend. peace above all he desired; peace he ensued; peace was his love, and he sought her with tears. nothing was further from his wish than war, and he would rather be banished from the realm than remain by force of arms. it was for the britons to elect those whom they willed to stay, and for the others they would return whence they came. the britons granted the love-day, and the two peoples took pledges, one of the other; but who can trust the oath of a liar? a time was appointed when this council should be holden. the king sent messages to hengist that he must come with few companions; and hengist plighted troth right willingly. moreover, it was commanded that none should bear weapons at the council, for fear that men should pass from words to blows. the two parties met together near the abbey of ambresbury, on the great salisbury plain. the day was the kalends of may. hengist had taught his comrades, and warned them privily, that they should come each with a sharp, two-edged knife hidden in his hose. he bade them to sit in this parliament, and hearken to the talk; but when he cried, "nimad covre seax" (which being interpreted means "pluck forth your knives," and would not be understanded of the britons), they were to snatch out their daggers and make each a dead man of his neighbour. now when the council was met, and men were mingled together, the naked briton near by the false heathen, hengist cried loudly, "nimad covre seax." the saxons, at his word, drew forth the knives from their hose, and slew that man sitting at their side. hengist was seated very close the king. he held the king fast by his mantle, so that this murder passed him by. but those who gripped the knives thrust the keen blades through cloak and mantle, breast and bowels, till there lay upon back or belly in that place nigh upon four hundred and sixty men of the richest and most valiant lords of the kingdom. yet some won out and escaped with their lives, though they had naught to defend their bodies save the stones. eldof, earl of gloucester, got a great club in his right hand, which he found lying at his feet, though little he recked who had carried it to the council. he defended his body stoutly with this mighty staff, striking and smiting down, till he had slain fully sixty and ten of the pagan. a mighty champion was he, and of rich worth. he clave a path through the press, without taking a wound; for all the knives which were flung at his body he escaped with not a hurt to the flesh. he won at the end to his horse, which was right strong and speedy, and riding swiftly to gloucester, shut himself fast in his city and victualled tower. as to vortigern, the saxons would have slain him with his barons, but hengist stood between them, crying, "harm not the king, for nothing but good have i received at his hand, and much has he toiled for my profit. how then shall i suffer my daughter's lord to die such a death! rather let us hold him to ransom, and take freely of his cities and walled places, in return for his life." they, therefore, slew not the king but binding him fast with fetters of iron, kept him close in bonds for so long a space that he swore to render them all that they would. in quittance of his ransom, and to come forth from prison, vortigern granted sussex, essex, and middlesex to hengist as his fief, besides that earldom of kent which he had held before. to remember this foul treason, knives were long hight seax amongst the english, but names alter as the world moves on, and men recall no more the meaning of the past. in the beginning the word was used to rebuke the treason that was done. when the story of the seax was forgotten, men spoke again of their knives, and gave no further thought to the shame of their forefathers. when vortigern was a naked man he fled beyond the severn, and passing deeply into wales, dwelt there, taking counsel with his friends. he caused his wise clerks and magicians to be summoned, inquiring of them in what fashion he should maintain his right, and what they would counsel him to do, were he assailed of a mightier than himself. this he asked because he feared greatly the two brothers of constant, who were yet living, and knew not how to keep him from their hate. these sorcerers bade him to build so mighty a tower, that never at any time might it be taken by force, nor beaten down by any engine devised by the wit of man. when this strong castle was furnished and made ready, he should shut himself within, and abide secure from the malice of his foes. this pleased the king, who searched throughout the land to make choice of a fitting place to raise so strong a keep. such a place he met, altogether according to his mind, on mount erir. [ ] he brought masons together, the best that might be found, and set them to the work as quickly as they were able. the masons began to build, getting stones ready and making them fast with mortar, but all the work that the builders raised by day, adown it fell to the ground by night. they laboured therefore with the more diligence, but the higher they builded the tower the greater was its fall, to the very foundations they had digged. so it chanced for many days, till not one stone remained upon another. when the king knew this marvel, and perceived that his travail came in nowise to an end, he took counsel of his wizards. "by my faith," said he, "i wonder sorely what may be amiss with my tower, since the earth will not endure it. search and inquire the reason of this thing; and how these foundations shall be made sure." [footnote : snowdon] then the magicians by their lots and divinations--though, for that matter, it may well be that they lied--devised that the king should seek a man born of no earthly father, him he must slay, and taking of his blood, slake and temper therewith the mortar of the work, so that the foundations should be made fast, and the castle might endure. thereat the king sent messengers throughout all the land to seek such a man, and commanded that immediately he were found he should be carried to the court. these messengers went two by two upon their errand. they passed to and fro about the realm, and entered into divers countries, inquiring of all people, at the king's bidding, where he might be hid. but for all their labour and diligence they learned nothing. now it came to pass that two of the king's embassy went their road until they came together to the town called caermerdin.[ ] a great company of youths and children was gathered before the gate at the entrance to the city, and the messengers stayed awhile to mark their play. amongst those who disported themselves at this gate were two varlets, named merlin and dinabus. presently the two youths began to chide and jangle, and were passing wroth the one with the other. one of the twain spake ill of his fellow, reproaching him because of his birth. "hold thy peace, merlin", said dinabus, "it becomes you not to strive with me, whose race is so much better than thine own. be heedful, for i know of such an evil matter that it were well not to tempt me beyond my power. speak then no more against my lineage. for my part i am come from earls and kings, but if you set out to tell over your kindred, you could not name even your father's name. you know it not, nor shall learn it ever; for how may a son tell his father's name when a father he has never had?" now the king's messengers, who were in quest of such a sireless man, when they heard this bitter jibe of the varlet, asked of those around concerning the youth who had never seen his sire. the neighbours answered that the lad's father was known of none, yea, that the very mother who had borne him in her womb, knew nothing of the husbandman who had sown the seed. but if his father was hidden, all the world knew of the mother who nourished him. daughter was she to that king of dimetia, now gone from wales. nun she was of her state, a gentlewoman of right holy life, and lodged in a convent within the walls of their city. [footnote : carmarthen.] when the messengers heard these tidings, they went swiftly to the warden of the city, adjuring him, by the king's will, to lay hands upon merlin--that sireless man--and carry him straightway to the king, together with the lady, his mother. the warden durst not deny their commandment. he delivered merlin and his mother to the embassy, who led them before the king. the king welcomed the twain with much honour, and spoke kindly unto them. "lady," said he, "answer me truly. by none, save by thee, can i know who was the father of merlin, thy son." the nun bowed her head. after she had pondered for a little, she made reply, "so god have me in his keeping, as i know nothing and saw nothing of him who begat this varlet upon me. never have i heard, never may i tell, if he were verily man by whom i had my child. but this i know for truth, and to its truth will i pledge my oath. at that time when i was a maid growing tall, i cannot tell whether it was a ghostly man, but something came often to my chamber, and kissed me very close. by night and by day this presence sought me, ever alone, but always in such fashion as not to be perceived. as a man he spake soft words in my ear; as a man he dealt with me. but though many a time he had speech with me, ever he kept himself close. he came so often about me, so long were his kisses on my mouth, that he had his way, and i conceived, but whether he were man in no wise have i known. i had of him this varlet; but more i know not, and more i will not say." now the king had a certain clerk, named malgantius, whom he held for very wise. he sent for this learned clerk, and told over to him the whole matter, that he might be assured whether things could chance as this woman had said. the clerk made answer, "in books i have found it written that a certain order of spirit ranges between the moon and our earth. if you seek to learn of the nature of these spirits, they are of the nature partly of man, and partly of a loftier being. these demons are called incubi. their home and region is the air, but this warm world is their resort. it is not in their power to deal man great evil, and they can do little more mischief than to trick and to annoy. however they know well how to clothe themselves in human shape, for their nature lends itself marvellously to the deceit. many a maid has been their sport, and in this guise has been deceived. it may well be that merlin was begotten by such a being, and perchance is of a demon born." "king." cried merlin suddenly, "you brought me here; tell me now what you would, and wherefore you have sent after me." "merlin," answered the king, "know it you shall. hearken diligently, so shall you learn of all. i commenced to build a high tower, and got mortar together, and masons to set one stone upon another, but all the work that the builders raised by day, adown it fell to the ground, and was swallowed up of night. i know not if you have heard tell thereof. the day has not so many hours to labour, as the night has hours to destroy; and greatly has my substance been wasted in this toil. my councillors tell me that my tower may never stand tall, unless its stones and lime are slaked with thy blood--the blood of a fatherless man." "lord god," cried merlin, "believe not that my blood will bind your tower together. i hold them for liars who told over such a gab. bring these prophets before me who prophesy so glibly of my blood, and liars as they are, liars i will prove them to be." the king sent for his sorcerers, and set them before merlin. after merlin had regarded them curiously, one by one, "masters," said he, "and mighty magicians, tell us now i pray you the reason why the king's work faileth and may not stand. if you may not show me why the tower is swallowed up of the earth, how can your divinations declare to you that my blood will cause it to endure! make plain to us now what troubles the foundation, so that the walls tumble so often to the ground, and when you have certified this thing, show to us clearly how the mischief may be cured. if you are not willing to declare who labours secretly to make the house to fall, how shall it be credited that my blood will bind the stones fast? point out this troubler to the king, and then cry the remedy." but all the wizards kept silence, and answered merlin never a word. when merlin saw them abashed before him, he spake to the king, and said, "sire, give ear to me. beneath the foundations of your tower there lies a pool, both great and deep, and by reason of this water your building faileth to the ground. right easily may this be assured. bid your men to delve. you will then see why the tower was swallowed up, and the truth will be proven." the king bade therefore that the earth should be digged, and the pool was revealed as merlin had established. "masters and great magicians," cried merlin, "hearken once more. you who sought to mix your mortar with my blood, say what is hidden in this pond." but all the enchanters kept silence and were dumb; yea, for good or ill they made answer never a word. merlin turned him again to the king. he beckoned with his hand to the king's servants, saying, "dig now trenches, to draw off the water from this pool. at the bottom shall be found two hollow stones, and two dragons sleeping in the stones. one of these dragons is white, and his fellow, crimson as blood." thereat the king marvelled greatly, and the trenches were digged as merlin had commanded. when the water was carried about the fields, and stood low in the pool, two dragons got them on their feet, and envisaged each the other very proudly. passing eager was their contention, and they strove together right grievously. well might be seen the foam within their mouths, and the flames that issued from their jaws. the king seated himself upon the bank of the pool. he prayed merlin to show him the interpretation of these dragons which met together so furiously. merlin told the king what these matters betokened, as you have oft-times heard. these dragons prophesied of kings to come, who would yet hold the realm in their charge. i say no more, for i fear to translate merlin's prophecies, when i cannot be sure of the interpretation thereof. it is good to keep my lips from speech, since the issue of events may make my gloss a lie. the king praised merlin greatly, and esteemed him for a true prophet. he inquired of the youth in what hour he should die, and by what means he would come to his end. for this king was marvellously fearful of death. "beware," said merlin, "beware of the sons of constantine. by them you shall taste of death. already have they left armorica with high hearts, and even now are upon the sea. be certified of this, that their fleet of fourteen galleys comes to land on the morrow. much evil hast thou done to them; much evil will they do to thee, and avenge them of their wrongs. in an ill day you betrayed their brother to his death: in an ill day you set the crown on your head; in an ill day, to your own most bitter loss, you entreated this saxon heathenry to your help. you are as a man against whom arrows are loosed, both this side and that; and i know not whether your shield should be arrayed to left or to right. on the one road the saxon host draws near, eager to do you a mischief. along this other comes the rightful heirs, to pluck the realm from your hand, the crown from your head, and to exact the price of their brother's blood. if you yet may flee, escape quickly; for the brethren approach, and that speedily. of these brethren aurelius shall first be king, but shall also die the first, by poison. uther pendragon, his brother, will sit within his chair. he will hold the realm in peace; but he, too, will fall sick before his time, and die, by reason of the brewage of his friends. then arthur of cornwall, his son, like to a boar grim in battle, will utterly devour these false traitors, and destroy thy kinsfolk from the land. a right valiant knight, and a courteous, shall he be, and all his enemies shall he set beneath his feet." when merlin had come to an end, he departed from vortigern, and went his way. on the morrow, with no longer tarrying, the navy of the brethren arrived at totnes, and therein a great host of knights in their harness. the britons assembled themselves together, and joined them to the host. they came forth from the lurking places whence they had fled, at that time hengist harried them by mount and by dale, after he had slain the lords by felony, and destroyed their castles. at a great council the britons did homage to aurelius as their king. these tidings came to vortigern in wales, and he prepared to set his house in order. he fled to a strong castle, called generth,[ ] and there made him ready, taking with him the most valiant of his men. this tower was on the banks of a fair running water, called by the folk of that country the wye. it stood high upon mount droac, in the land of hergin, as testify the people of these parts. vortigern furnished his fortress with a plenteous store of arms and engines, of food and sergeants. to keep himself the surer from his foes, he garnished the tower with all that wit might devise. the lords of the country, having joined themselves to the brethren, sought so diligently for king vortigern, that in the end they arrayed them before the castle where he lay. they cast stones from their engines, and were ever about the gates, paining themselves grievously to take it, for they hated him beyond measure. much cause had the brethren to nurse so bitter a grudge against vortigern, since by guile and treason he had slain their brother constant, and constantine, their father, before him, as all men held to be the truth. eldof, earl of gloucester, had done homage to aurelius, and was with him in the host. much he knew of this land of wales. "eldof," said aurelius, "hast thou forgotten my father who cherished thee, and gave his faith to thee, and dost thou remember no more my brother who held thee so dear! these both honoured thee right willingly, with love and with reverence in their day. they were foully slain by the device of this tyrant, this cozener with oaths, this paymaster with a knife. we who are yet alive must bestir ourselves that we perish not by the same means. let us think upon the dead, and take bitter vengeance on vortigern for these wrongs." [footnote : in hereford.] aurelius and eldof laced them in their mail. they made the wild fire ready and caused men to cast timber in the moat, till the deep fosse was filled. when this was done they flung wild fire from their engines upon the castle. the fire laid hold upon the castle, it spread to the tower, and to all the houses that stood about. the castle flared like a torch; the flames leaped in the sky; the houses tumbled to the ground. in that place the king was burned with fire, and all his household who fled to generth with him. neither dame nor damsel got her living from that pyre; and on the same day perished the king's wife, who was so marvellously fair. when the new king had brought the realm into subjection to himself, he devised to seek the pagans, that he might deliver the country from their hand. right fearful was hengist to hear these tidings, and at once set forth for scotland. he abandoned all his fiefs, and fled straightway beyond the humber. he purposed to crave such aid and succour from the scots as would help him in his need, and made haste to get him to scotland with all the speed he might. the king pursued him swiftly with his host, making forced marches day by day. on the road his power was increased by a great company of britons; till with him was a multitude which no man could number, being innumerable as the sand of the sea. the king looked upon his realm, and saw it gnawed to the bone. none drave the plough, nor cast seed in the furrow. the castles and the walled cities were breached and ruined. he marked the villages blackened by fire, and the houses of god stripped bare as a peasant's hovel. the heathen pilled and wasted, but gathered neither corn into barns nor cattle within the byre. he testified that this should not endure, so he returned in safety from the battle. when hengist knew that the king followed closely after, and that fight he must, he strove to put heart and hardihood into the breasts of his fellows. "comrades," said he, "be not dismayed by reason of this rabble. we know well enough what these britons are, since they never stand before us. if but a handful go against them, not one will stay to fight. many a time, with but a mean company, have i vanquished and destroyed them. if they be in number as the sand, the more honour is yours. a multitude such as this counts nothing. a host like theirs, led by a weak and foolish captain, what is it worth? these are a trembling folk, without a chief, and of them we should have little fear. the shepherd of these sheep is a child, who is yet too young to bear a spear, or carry harness on his back. for our part we are heroes and champions, proven in many a stour, fighting for our very lives, since for us there will be no other ransom. now be confident and bold. let our bodies serve us for castles and for wall. be brave and strong, i say, for otherwise we are but dead men." when hengist ceased heartening his comrades, the knights arrayed them for the battle. they moved against the britons as speedily as their horses might bear them, for they hoped to find them naked and unready, and to take them unawares. the britons so misdoubted their adversary that they watched in their armour, both day and night. as soon as the king knew that the heathen advanced to give battle, he ordered his host in a plain that seemed good for his purpose. he supported the spearmen with three thousand horsemen, clothed in mail, his own trusty vassals, who had come with him from armorica. the welsh he made into two companies. the one part he set upon the hills, so that the paynim might not climb there if they would. the other part he hid within the wood, to stay them if they sought shelter in the forest. for the rest he put every man into the plain, that it should be the more strongly held and defended. now when he had arrayed the battle, and given his commandment to the captains, the king placed himself amidst the chosen men of his own household, those whom he deemed the most loyal to his person. he spoke apart with his friends concerning the battle. earl eldof was near the king's side that day, together with many another baron. "god," said eldof, "what joy will be mine that hour when hengist and i meet face to face, with none between us. i cannot forget the kalends of may, and that murder at ambresbury, when he slew all the flower of our chivalry. right narrowly escaped i from his net" whilst eldof spake these reproachful words, making complaint of hengist, the saxons drew near the field, and sought to take it. with no long tarrying the battle was joined. what time the two hosts looked on each other they hastened together. there you might see the vassals striving, hand to hand. they fought body to body, those assailing, these defending. mighty blows with the sword were given and received among them. many a champion lay stark upon the ground, and the living passed over the bodies of the dead. shields were hewn asunder; spears snapped like reeds; the wounded were trampled beneath men's feet, and many a warrior died that day. the christians called on christ, and the heathen answered, clamouring on their gods of clay. like men the pagans bore them, but the christians like heroes. the companies of the heathen flinched, giving ground on the field. the britons pressed about them, redoubling their blows, so that the saxons were discomfited, and turning their backs, strove no more. when hengist saw his champions turn their backs, like children, to the stroke, he fled to the town called caerconan,[ ] where he was persuaded of shelter. the king followed fast after him, crying to the hunters, "on, on." hengist heard the noise of the pursuit, and had no care to be trapped in his castle. better to fight in the open at the risk of his body, than to starve behind walls, with none to bring succour. hengist checked the rout, and rallying the host, set it again in order of battle. the combat was passing sharp and grievous, for the pagans advanced once more in rank and by companies. each heartened his fellow, so that great damage and loss were sustained by the christians. the host fell in disarray, and began to give back before the onset of the foe. all would have been lost were it not for those three thousand horsemen, who rode upon the saxon in one mighty troop, bringing succour and help to the footmen when they were overborne. the pagans fought starkly and grimly. well they knew not one would escape with his life, if they did not keep them in this peril. in the press, eldof the earl lighted on hengist. hatred gave him eyes, and he knew him again because of the malice he owed him. he deemed that the time and the means were come to satisfy his lust. eldof ran in upon his foe, striking him mightily with his sword. hengist was a stout champion, or he had fallen at the stroke. the two closed together, with naked brands and lifted shields, smiting and guarding. men forgot to fight, and stared upon them, watching the great blows fall and the gleaming swords. whilst the heroes strove, gorlois, earl of cornwall, came hastening like a paladin to the battle. eldof saw him come, and being assured of the end, arrayed himself against his adversary yet more proudly. he sprang upon hengist, and seizing him by the nasal of his helmet, dragged him, with fallen head, amongst the britons. "knights," he cried, "thanks be to god who has given me my desire. he is vanquished and taken who has caused such trouble to the land." [footnote : conisburg in yorkshire.] eldof showed the captive to his company, who demanded that he should be slain with the sword. "a short shrift for the mad dog," they clamoured, "who knows neither mercy nor pity. this is the source of the war. this is the shedder of blood. smite the head from his body, and the victory is in your hands." eldof made answer that hengist should have the law, good law and just. he bound him fast in fetters, and delivered him to king aurelius. the king chained him, hands and feet, and set him in a strong prison to await judgment. now octa, hengist's son, and ebissa, his cousin, who were in the field, hardly escaped from the battle, and fleeing, entered into york. they strengthened the city, and made all ready, till men might come to their aid. as for the others they hid in divers places, in the woods and valleys, in caves and in the hills. but the power of the paynim was broken, for many were dead, and of the living most were taken, and in bonds, or held as thralls. the king made merry over his victory, and gave the glory to god. he abode three full days at caerconan to heal the wounded of their hurt, and to give a little leisure to the weary. at that place he called a council of his captains, to know what it were good to do with the traitor hengist; whether he should be held in prison or slain outright. eldad got him to his feet. a right learned clerk was he, a bishop of his orders, and brother by blood to that earl eldof, of whom you have heard. "my counsel to the king," said the bishop, "is to do to the traitor hengist--our earthly adversary--that which holy samuel did in old days to king agag, when he was made captive. agag was a prince, passing proud, the right glorious king of the people of amalek. he set a quarrel upon the jews, that he might work them a mischief, since he sought to do them evil. he seized their lands; he burned their goods with fire, and very often he slew them for his pleasure. then on a day this king agag was taken at a battle, the more to his sorrow. he was led before saul, whom these jews so greatly desired for their king. whilst saul was considering what it were well should be done with agag, who was delivered into his hand, samuel stood upon his feet. this samuel was a holy prophet of israel; a saint of god of the utmost sanctity; never has there lived his like amongst the sons of men. this holy samuel seized on agag, the proud king. he hewed him in many pieces, dividing him limb from limb, and his members he sent throughout the realm. hearken and learn what samuel said whilst he was hewing agag small. 'agag, many a man hast thou tormented for thy pleasure; many a fair youth hast thou spoiled and slain. thou hast drawn out many a soul from its body, and made many a mother troubled for her son. many a babe hast thou rendered fatherless; but, o agag, things evil and good come to the like end. now your mother presently will i make barren, and from thy body shall the soul of thee be wrung.' mete therefore to your captive, o king, the measure which samuel counted out to his." eldof, earl of gloucester, was moved by the example furnished by the bishop. he rose in the council, and laying hands on hengist led him without the city. there eldof struck the head from hengist with his own sword. the king caused the head to be set again on the shoulders, and gave hengist's body seemly burial, according to the rite and fashion of those who observe the law of the paynim. the king made no long stay at caerconan, but followed eagerly after his enemies. he came to york with a great host, and sat himself down before the city. octa, the son of hengist, was within, and some of his kindred with him. when octa was persuaded that none might win to his aid, he considered within himself whether he should render him to the king's mercy. if he took his fate in his hand, and humbly besought pity of the king, so mercy were given him all would be well, but if his prayer was scorned, then he would defend himself to the death. octa did as he devised, and as his kinsfolk approved. he came forth from the gate of the city with a company of all his barons. octa wore a chain of iron upon his wrists, and walking at the head of his companions, came first to the king. "sire," said he, "i beseech you for mercy and pity. the gods in whom we put our trust have failed us at need. your gods are mightier than they. they have wrought wonders, and set strength upon you, since we are stricken to the dust. i am vanquished, and own myself thy servant. behold the chain of thy bondman! do with me now according to thy will, to me, and these my men. life and limb, yea, all that we have, are at thy pleasure. but if it seem good to the king to keep us about his person, we will toil early and late in his service. we will serve him loyally in his quarrels, and become his liege men." the king was a devout man, very piteous of heart. he looked around him to learn what his barons thought of this matter and what would be their counsel. eldad, the fair bishop, spake first as a wise elder. "good it is, and was, and ever shall be, to show mercy on him who requires mercy to be shown. he who forgives not another his trespass, how may he hope that god will pardon him his sin? these cry loudly upon thee for mercy, mercy they implore, and mercy they must have. britain is a great realm, long and wide, and in many a place is inhabited of none, save the beast. grant them enough thereof that they may dig and plant, and live of the increase. but take first of them such hostages, that they will serve thee loyally, and loyally content them in their lot. we learn from holy writ that the children of gibeon sought life and league from the jew when the israelites held them in their power. peace they prayed, peace they received; and life and covenant were given in answer to their cry. a christian man should not be harder than the jew proved himself to be in his hour. mercy they crave, mercy they should have; so let not death deceive them in their hope." the king granted land to the saxons, according to the counsel of eldad the lot was appointed them in scotland, and they set out speedily to the place where they must dwell. but first they gave to the king hostages of the children of their proudest blood and race. after the king was fifteen days in the city, he sent messages commanding his people to attend him in council. baron and clerk, abbot and bishop, he summoned to his court. at this council the rights of the heir and the privileges of the orders were re-affirmed. he bade and assured that the houses of religion, destroyed by the romans, should be rebuilt. he dismissed his soldiers to their homes, making viscounts and provosts to keep his fiefs in peace, and to ensure his revenues and rent. he sought masons and carpenters and built anew the churches. such chapels in his realm as were hurt or damaged in the wars, the king restored to their former estate, for the fairer service and honour of god. after the council was done the king set forth towards london, where his presence was greatly desired of the citizens. he found the city but the shadow of its former splendour, for the streets were emptied of people, and houses and churches were alike fallen or decayed. right grievously the king lamented the damage done to his fair city. he founded anew the churches, and bade clerks and burgesses to attend the service of god, as was of wont and right. from thence the king went to ambresbury, that he might kneel beside the graves of those who were foully slain at hengist's love-day, near the abbey. he called together a great company of masons, carpenters, and cunning artificers; for it was in his mind to raise to their worship a monument of stone that would endure to the world's end. thereat spake to the king a certain wise man, tremonius, archbishop of caerleon, praying him to send for merlin, and build according to his bidding, since there was none so skilled in counsel or labour, more truthful of word or apter in divination. the king desired greatly to behold merlin, and to judge by hearing of his worth. at that time merlin abode near the well of labenes. this fountain springs in a hidden place, very deep in wales, but i know not where, since i have never been. merlin came straightway to the king, even as he was bidden. the king welcomed him with marvellous joy, honouring him right gladly. he cherished him richly, and was ever about him with prayers and entreaties that he would show him somewhat of things that were yet to come, for these he was on itch to hear. "sire," replied merlin, "this i may not do. i dare not open my lips to speak of such awful matters, which are too high for me, save only when needs speak i must. should my tongue be unloosed by greed or lightness, should i be puffed up by vanity, then my familiar spirit--that being by whom i know that which i know--would withdraw his inspiration from my breath. my knowledge would depart from me, and the words i speak would be no weightier than the idle words on every gossip's lips. let the future take care of itself. consider rather the concerns of to-day. if thou art desirous to make a fair work and a lasting, of which men will brag till the end of time, cause to be brought hither the carol that a giant wrought in ireland. this giant laboured greatly in the building of a mighty circle of stones. he shaped his carol, setting the stones one upon another. the stones are so many, and of such a kind; they are so huge and so weighty; that the strength of man--as men are in these times--might not endure to lift the least of his pebbles" the king laughed loudly. "merlin," said he, "since these stones are of such heaviness that it passes the strength of the strong to move them, who shall carry them to my masons? have we not in this realm stones mighty enough, and to spare?" "king," answered merlin, "knowest thou not that wit is more than strength! muscle is good, but craft is better. skill devises means when strength fails. cunning and engines bring many matters to a good end, that strength would not venture even to begin. engines can move these stones, and by the use of engines we may make them our own. king, these stones were carried from africa: there they were first shapen. the giant who ravished them to ireland, set up his carol to his own content. very serviceable were these stones, and right profitable to the sick. it was the custom of the surgeons of that land to wash these stones with fair water. this water they would make hot in baths, and set therein those who had suffered hurt, or were grieved by any infirmity. they washed in this water, and were healed of their sickness. however sore their wound, however grievous their trouble, other medicine needed they none." when the king and his britons heard of the virtue residing in the stones, they all desired them very greatly. not one but would gladly have ventured on the quest for these stones, of which merlin told such marvels. they devised therefore to pass the sea with fifteen thousand men to make war upon the irish, and to ease them of the stones. uther, at his own desire, was chosen as their captain. merlin also went with them to furnish engines for their toil. so uther and his company crossed to ireland on such quest. when the king of ireland, that men called guillomer, heard tell that strangers were arrayed in his land, he assembled his household and the irish, and menaced them proudly, seeking to chase them from the realm. after they had learned the reason of this quarrel, and that for stones the britons were come, they mocked them loudly, making them their mirth and their song. for mad it seemed in the eyes of these irish that men should pain themselves so grievously by land and sea to gain a treasure of naked stones. "never a stone," said these, "shall they have; not one shall they carry with them to their homes." very lightly you may scorn your enemy in your heart, but at your peril you seek to do him mischief with your hands. the irish mocked and menaced the stranger, and sought him until they found. the combat was joined directly the hosts met together, but the irish were men of peace, unclad in mail, and not accustomed to battle. the britons were their jest, but they were also their victors. the king of ireland fled from the battle discomfited. he went from town to town, with no long tarrying in any place, so that the britons might not make him their captive. after the britons had laid aside their armour, and taken rest from the battle, they were brought by merlin, their companion, into a mountain where the carol was builded. this high place was called hilomar,[ ] by the folk whom they had vanquished, and the carol was upon the summit of the mount. the britons stared upon the stones. [footnote : kildare.] they went about them, saying each to his fellow that none had seen so mighty a building. they marvelled how these stones were set one upon another, and how they should be got across the sea. "comrades," said merlin, "you are strong champions. strive now if of your strength you may move these stones, and carry them from their seat." the young men therefore encompassed the stones before, behind, and on every side, but heave and tug as mightily as they could, the stones for all their travail would not budge one single inch. "bestir yourselves," cried merlin, "on, friends, on. but if by strength you can do no more, then you shall see that skill and knowledge are of richer worth than thews and fleshly force." having spoken these words merlin kept silence, and entered within the carol. he walked warily around the stones. his lips moved without stay, as those of a man about his orisons, though i cannot tell whether or no he prayed. at length merlin beckoned to the britons. "enter boldly," cried he; "there is nought to harm. now you may lift these pebbles from their seat, and bear and charge them on your ships." so at his word and bidding they wrought as merlin showed them. they took the stones and carrying them to the ships, bestowed them thereon. afterwards the mariners hoisted their sails, and set out for britain. when they were safely come to their own land, they bore the stones to ambresbury, and placed them on the mountain near by the burying ground. the king rode to ambresbury to keep the feast of pentecost. bishops, abbots, and barons, he had bidden them all to observe the feast. a great company of folk, both rich and poor, gathered themselves together, and at this fair festival the king set the crown upon his head. three days they observed the rite, and made merry. on the fourth--because of his exceeding reverence--he gave pastoral crosses to two prelates. holy dubricius became bishop of caerleon, and york he bestowed upon holy sampson. both these fair prelates were great churchmen, and priests of devout and spotless life. at the same time merlin ranged the stones in due order, building them side by side. this circle of stones was called by the britons in their own tongue the giant's carol, but in english it bears the name of stonehenge. when the rich feast was come to its appointed end, the court departed, each man unto his own place. now passent, that was a son of vortigern, had fled from wales and britain, for fear of aurelius and his brother uther. he sought refuge in germany, and there purchased to himself ships, and men who would serve him for guerdon; but of these he had no great company. this passent arrived in the north country and ravaged it, burning the towns and spoiling the land. he dared make no long stay, for the king hastened to the north to give him battle, and this he might not endure. passent took again to his ships, and fearing to return whence he came, fared so far with sail and oar that in the end he cast anchor off the coast of ireland. passent sought speech of the king of that realm. he told over his birth and state, and showed him his bitter need. passent prayed the king so urgently; the twain took such deep counsel together; that it was devised between them to pass the sea, and offer battle to the britons. this covenant was made of passent that he might avenge his father's death, and dispute his heritage with aurelius; but of the king of ireland to avenge him upon the britons, who had vanquished him in battle, robbed his folk, and taken to themselves the carol with a strong hand. thus they plighted faith to satisfy each the other for these wrongs. guillomer and passent made ready as many soldiers as they might. they ordained their ships, and with a fair wind crossed the sea, and came safely to wales. the host entered in menevia, that city so praised of the welsh, and now called of men, saint david. it befell that king aurelius lay sick at winchester. his infirmity was sore upon him, for the trouble was long and grievous, and the surgeons knew not whether he would mend or die. when aurelius learned that passent and the king of ireland were come together in wales to make sorrow in the land, he sent for uther his brother. he grieved beyond measure that he could not get him from his bed. he charged uther to hasten into wales, and drive them from the realm. uther sent messages to the barons, and summoned the knights to the war. he set out from winchester; but partly by reason of the long journey, and partly to increase the number of his power, he tarried for a great while upon the road. very long it was before he arrived in wales. whilst he dallied in this fashion a certain pagan named appas, a man born in saxony, craved speech of passent. this appas was meetly schooled, and apt in parts. he spoke to many people in their own tongues; he was wise in all that concerned medicine and surgery; but he was felon and kept bad faith. "passent," said appas privily, "thou hast hated this king aurelius for long. what should be mine if i were to slay him?" "ease and riches i will give thee," answered passent. "never a day but i will stand thy friend, so only thy word be fulfilled, and the king taste death at thy hand" "may your word," said appas, "be true as mine" so the covenant was ordained between them that passent should count out one thousand livres, what time appas had done to death the king appas was very cunning, and right greedy and covetous of wealth. he put upon him a habit of religion; he shaved his crown, and caused his hair to be polled close to his head. like a monk he was shaven, like a monk he seemed; in gown and hood he went vested as a monk. in this guise and semblance appas took his way to the royal court. being a liar he gave out that he was a good physician, and thus won to the king's bed. him he promised to make whole very speedily, if he would trust himself to his hand. he counted the pulse, and sought for the trouble "well i know," said he, "the cause of this evil. i have such a medicine as will soon give you ease." who could misdoubt so sweet a physician? the gentle king desired greatly to be healed of his hurt, as would any of you in a like case. having no thought of treason, he put himself in this traitor's care. appas made ready a potion, laced with venom, and gave the king to drink. he then wrapped the king warmly in a rich coverlet, and bade him lie in peace and sleep. after the king was heated, and the poison had lain hold upon his body, ah, god, the anguish, there was nothing for him but death. when aurelius knew that he must die, he took oath of his household, that so truly as they loved him they would carry his body to stonehenge, and bury him within the stones that he had builded. thus died the king and was buried; but the traitor, appas, escaped and fled with his life. uther entered in wales with his host, and found the folk of ireland abiding yet at menevia. at that time appeared a star, which was seen of many. this star was hight comet, and according to the clerks it signified death and the passing of kings. this star shone marvellously clear, and cast a beam that was brighter than the sun. at the end of this beam was a dragon's head, and from the dragon's mighty jaws issued two rays. one of these rays stretched over france, and went from france even to the mount of st. bernard. the other ray went towards ireland, and divided into seven beams. each of these seven beams shone bright and clear, alike on water and on land. by reason of this star which was seen of all, the peoples were sorely moved. uther marvelled greatly what it might mean, and marvellously was he troubled. he prayed merlin that he would read him the sign, and the interpretation thereof. merlin answered not a word. sorrow had him by the heart, and he wept bitterly. when speech returned to his mouth he lamented with many words and sighed often. "ah, god," said he, "sorrow and trouble and grief have fallen on britain this day. the realm has lost its great captain. the king is dead--that stout champion who has delivered the land from such evil and shame, and plucked his spoil from the pagan." when uther was certified that his brother and good lord had finished his course, he was right heavy, and much was he dismayed. but merlin comforted him as he might. "uther," said he, "be not altogether cast down, since from death there is no return. bring to an end this business of the war. give battle to thine enemies, for to-morrow shall see passent and the king of ireland vanquished. fight boldly on the morrow; so shalt thou conquer, and be crowned king of britain. hearken to the interpretation of the sign. the dragon at the end of the beam betokens thee thyself, who art a stout and hardy knight. one of the two rays signifies a son born of thy body, who shall become a puissant prince, conquering france, and beyond the borders of france. the other ray which parted from its fellow, betokens a daughter who shall be queen of scotland. many a fair heir shall she give to her lord, and mighty champions shall they prove both on land and sea." uther lent his ear to the counsel of merlin. he caused his folk to rest them the night, and in the morning arm them for the battle. he thought to take the city by assault, but when the irish saw him approach their walls, they put on their harness, and setting them in companies, issued forth to fight without the gates. the irish fought valiantly, but right soon were discomfited, for on that day the britons slew passent, and the king of ireland, his friend. those who escaped from the field fled towards the sea, but uther following swiftly after, harried them to the death. such as reached the water climbed wildly upon their ships, and with sail and oar set out to sea, that uther should work them no more mischief. when uther had brought his business to a good end, he took his way towards winchester, and the flower of his chivalry with him. on his road a messenger met him who told him of a surety the king was dead, and as to the manner of his death. he related how the bishops had laid aurelius to rest with great pomp in the giant's carol, even as he had required of his sergeants and barons whilst he was yet alive. at these tidings uther pressed on to winchester, sparing not the spur. the people came before him on his passage clamouring shrilly. "uther, sire," cried the common folk, "since he is dead who maintained the poor, and did nought but good to his people, we have none to defend us, save thee. take then the crown, as thine by heritage and right. fair sire, we thy poor commons pray this thing, who desire nothing but thy worship and thy gain." uther rejoiced greatly at their words. he saw clearly where his profit lay, and that no advancement is possible to a king. he hastened, therefore, to do as the folk entreated. he took the crown, and becoming king, loved well his people, and guarded the honour of the realm. in remembrance of the dragon, and of the hardy knight who should be king and a father of kings, which it betokened, uther wrought two golden dragons, by the counsel of his barons. one of these dragons he caused to be borne before him when he went into battle. the other he sent to winchester to be set up in the church of the bishop. for this reason he was ever after called uther pendragon. pendragon was his name in the britons' tongue, but dragon's head in that of rome. uther was a mighty lord, who had confidence in his power. his sacring at winchester he held for proof and token that he was a king who would beget puissant princes, by whom great deeds should be done. this faith in his destiny gave him increase of strength. he determined in his heart that he would accomplish all that was foretold of him, and that through good report and ill, never would he turn back. he knew and was persuaded that whatever the task he took in hand, he must in fulness of time bring it to a good end. merlin was a true prophet; and since no lying spirit was in his mouth, it was impossible to doubt that very swiftly all these things would come to pass. now octa, the son of hengist, had received from aurelius broad lands and fair manors for him and his companions. when octa knew that the mighty captain was dead, he kept neither loyalty nor faith with a king whom he despised in his heart. he called together a great company of his friends and kinsmen, and amongst them ossa, his cousin. octa and ossa were hardy champions, and they were the lords of the host. with them moreover were such folk as had escaped from uther at the slaying of passent. these octa had taken to himself, so that his fellowship was passing strong. this host overran the realm from humber to scotland, and subdued it in every part. octa then came before york, and would have seized it by violence, but the burgesses of the city held it stoutly against him, so that the pagans might not enter within the walls. he sat down, therefore, before the gates, and invested the city straitly, by reason of the numbers of his host. uther had no thought but to succour his city, and to rescue his friends who were shut within. he marched hot foot to york, calling his men together from every part. being resolved at all cost to force the heathen to give over the siege, uther offered them battle without delay. the melly was right sharp and grievous. many a soul was parted from the body. the heathen played their parts as men, and contended boldly with the sword. the britons could do them no mischief. they might not force their way into the city, neither could those within prevail to issue forth. the batons might endure the battle no longer. they gave back in the press, and as they fled, the pursuing saxons did them marvellous damage. the pursuit lasted until the britons took refuge in a fastness of those parts, and the night parted the adverseness one from the other. this mountain was named damen. the peak was very sharp. about its flanks were rocks and precipices, whilst close at hand stood a thicket of hazel trees. upon this mountain the britons climbed. by this way and that, they ascended the height, until they sought safety on the summit. there the heathen shut them fast, for they sat beneath them in the plain, whilst all about them stretched the mountain. the king was very fearful, and not for himself alone. he was in sore straits and perplexity as to what he should do to get his spearmen from the trap. now gorlois, earl of cornwall, was with the king. this lord was very valiant and courteous, though stricken in years, and was esteemed of all as a right prudent councillor. to him the king went, and unravelled all the coil. uther prayed gorlois to counsel him as became his honour, for he knew well that the earl regarded honour beyond the loss of life or limb. "you ask me my counsel," said gorlois. "my counsel--so it be according to your will--is that we should arm ourselves forthwith, and get down from this hill amongst our foes. they are assuredly sleeping at this hour, for they despise us overmuch to deem that we shall challenge them again to battle. in the morning they will come to seek us--so we await them in the trap. let us take our fate in our hands like men, and fall upon them suddenly. the foe will then be confused and bewildered, for we must come upon them silently, without battle cry or blowing of trumpets. before they are awakened from sleep, we shall have slain so many in our onset, that those who escape from our swords will not dare to rally against us in their flight. only this thing first. let every man have penitence for that he has done amiss. let us ask god's pardon for the sins that we have wrought, and promise faithfully to amend our lives. let us turn from the wickedness wherein we have walked all these days; praying the saviour to hold us in his hand, and grant us strength against those who fear not his name, and make war upon his christians. if we do these things god will sustain our quarrel; and if god be with us who then can do us wrong?" this counsel seemed good to the king and his captains. they did as gorlois said, and humbled themselves before god with a contrite heart, promising to put away the evil from their lives. after they had made an end of prayer, they took their arms, and stole down the hillside to the valley. the britons came amongst the pagans lying naked upon the ground, and fast in sleep. the swordplay was right merry, for the slaughter was very great. the britons thrust their glaives deep in the breasts of the foe. they lopped heads and feet and wrists from their bodies. the britons ranged like lions amongst their enemies. they were as lions a-hungered for their prey, killing ewes and lambs, and all the sheep of the flock, whether small or great. thus the britons did, for they spared neither spearman nor captain. the heathen were altogether dismayed. they were yet heavy with sleep, and could neither get to their harness, nor flee from the field. no mercy was shown them for all their nakedness. armed or naked the sword was thrust through their breast or heart or bowels. in that place the heathen perished from the land, since the christians destroyed them utterly. octa and ossa, the lords of their host--these troublers of britain--were taken alive. they were led to london, and set fast in a strong prison, bound in iron. if any of their fellows escaped from the battle, it was only by reason of the blackness of the night. he who was able to flee, ran from the field. he tarried not to succour his own familiar friend. but many more were slam in that surprise than got safely away. when uther parted from york he passed throughout northumberland. from northumberland he entered into scotland, having many ships and a great host with him. he went about the length and breadth of the land, and purged it throughly in every part. such folk as were oppressed of their neighbours he confirmed in their rights. never before had the realm such rest and peace as in the days of uther the king. after uther had brought his business in the north to an end, he set forth to london, where he purposed to take the crown on easter day. uther desired the feast to be very rich and great. he summoned therefore dukes, earls, and wardens, yea, all his baronage from near and far, by brief and message, to come with their wedded dames and privy households to london for his feast. so all the lords came at the king's commandment, bringing their wives as they were bidden. very richly the feast was holden. after the mass was sung, that fair company went in hall to meat. the king sat at the head of his hall, upon a dais. the lords of his realm were ranged about him, each in his order and degree. the earl of cornwall was near the king's person, so that one looked upon the other's face. by the earl's side was seated igerne, his wife. there was no lady so fair in all the land. right courteous was the dame, noble of peerage, and good as she was fair. the king had heard much talk of this lady, and never aught but praise. his eyes were ravished with her beauty. he loved her dearly, and coveted her hotly in his heart, for certainly she was marvellously praised. he might not refrain from looking upon her at table, and his hope and desire tyrned to her more and more. whether he ate or drank, spoke or was silent, she was ever in his thought. he glanced aside at the lady, and smiled if she met his eye. all that he dared of love he showed. he saluted her by his privy page, and bestowed upon her a gift. he jested gaily with the dame, looking nicely upon her, and made a great semblance of friendship. igerne was modest and discreet. she neither granted uther's hope, nor denied. the earl marked well these lookings and laughings, these salutations and gifts. he needed no other assurance that the king had set his love upon his wife. gorlois deemed that he owed no faith to a lord who would supplant him in her heart. the earl rose from his seat at table; he took his dame by the hand, and went straight from the hall. he called the folk of his household about him, and going to the stables, got him to horse. uther sent after gorlois by his chamberlain, telling him that he did shame and wrong in departing from the court without taking leave of his king. he bade him to do the right, and not to treat his lord so despitefully, lest a worse thing should befall him. he could have but little trust in his king, if he would not return for a space. gorlois rode proudly from the court without leave or farewell. the king menaced him very grievously, but the earl gave small heed to his threats, for he recked nothing of what might chance. he went into cornwall, and arrayed his two castles, making them ready against the war. his wife he put in his castle of tintagel, for this was the home of his father and of his race. it was a strong keep, easily holden of a few sergeants, since none could climb or throw down the walls. the castle stood on a tall cliff, near by the sea. men might not win to enter by the gate, and saving the gate, there was no door to enter in the tower. the earl shut his lady fast in the tower. he dared hide his treasure in no other place, lest thieves broke through, and stole her from him. therefore he sealed her close in tintagel. for himself he took the rest of his men-at-arms, and the larger part of his knights, and rode swiftly to the other strong fortress that was his. the king heard that gorlois had garnished and made ready his castle, purposing to defend himself even against his lord. partly to avenge himself upon the earl, and partly to be near his vassal's wife, the king arrayed a great host. he crossed the severn, and coming before the castle where the earl lay, he sought to take it by storm. finding that he might not speed, he sat down before the tower, and laid siege to those within. the host invested the castle closely for full seven days, but could not breach the walls. the earl stubbornly refused to yield, for he awaited succour from the king of ireland, whom he had entreated to his aid. king uther's heart was in another place. he was weaned beyond measure of gorlois and his castle. his love for igerne urged and called him thence, for the lady was sweeter to his mind than any other in the world. at the end he bade to him a baron of his household, named ulfin, who was privy to his mind. him he asked secretly of that which he should do. "ulfin," said the king, "my own familiar friend, counsel me wisely, for my hope is in thee. my love for igerne hath utterly cast me down i am altogether broken and undone. i cannot go or come about my business; i cannot wake nor sleep, i cannot rise from my bed nor lay my head on the pillow; neither can i eat or drink, except that this lady is ever in my mind. how to gain her to my wish i cannot tell. but this i know, that i am a dead man if you may not counsel me to my hope." "oh my king," answered ulfin, "i marvel at your words. you have tormented the earl grievously with your war, and have burned his lands. do you think to win a wife's heart by shutting her husband close in his tower? you show your love for the dame by harassing the lord! no, the matter is too high for me, and i have one only counsel to give you. merlin is with us in the host. send after him, for he is a wise clerk, and the best counsellor of any man living. if merlin may not tell you what to do, there is none by whom you may win to your desire." king uther, by the counsel of ulfin, commanded merlin to be brought before him. the king opened out his bitter need. he prayed that for pity's sake merlin would find him a way to his hope, so he were able, since die he must if of igerne he got no comfort. but let the clerk seek and buy so that the king had his will. money and wealth would be granted plenteously, if gold were needed, for great as was the king's evil, so large would be his delight. "sire," answered merlin, "have her you shall. never let it be said that you died for a woman's love. right swiftly will i bring you to your wish, or evil be the bounty that i receive of the king's hand. hearken to me. igerne is guarded very closely in tintagel. the castle is shut fast, and plenteously supplied with all manner of store. the walls are strong and high, so that it may not be taken by might; and it is victualled so well, that none may win there by siege. the castle also is held of loyal castellans, but for all their vigils, i know well how to enter therein at my pleasure, by reason of my potions. by craft i can change a man's countenance to the fashion of his neighbour, and of two men each shall take on his fellow's semblance. in body and visage, in speech and seeming, without doubt i can shape you to the likeness of the earl of cornwall. why waste the time with many words! you, sire, shall be fashioned as the earl. i, who purpose to go with you on this adventure, will wear the semblance of bertel. ulfin, here, shall come in the guise of jordan. these two knights are the earl's chosen friends, and are very close to his mind and heart. in this manner we may enter boldly in his castle of tintagel, and you shall have your will of the lady. we shall be known of none, for not a man will doubt us other than we seem." the king had faith in merlin's word, and held his counsel good. he gave over the governance of the host, privily, to a lord whom he much loved. merlin put forth his arts, and transfigured their faces and vesture into the likeness of the earl and his people. that very night the king and his companions entered in tintagel. the porter in his lodge, and the steward within his office, deemed him their lord. they welcomed him gladly, and served him with joy. when meat was done the king had his delight of a lady who was much deceived. of that embrace igerne conceived the good, the valiant, and the trusty king whom you have known as arthur. thus was arthur begotten, who was so renowned and chivalrous a lord. now the king's men learned very speedily that uther had departed from the host. the captains were wearied of sitting before the castle. to return the more quickly to their homes, they got into their harness and seized their arms. they did not tarry to order the battle, or make ready ladders for the wall, but they approached the tower in their disarray. the king's men assaulted the castle from every side, and the earl defended himself manfully, but at the last he himself was slain, and the castle was swiftly taken. those who were fortunate enough to escape from the tower fled lightfoot to tintagel. there they published the news of this misadventure, and the death of their lord. the sorrow and lamentation of those who bewailed the earl's death reached the ears of the king. he came forth from his chamber, and rebuked the messengers of evil tidings. "why all this noise and coil?" cried he "i am safe and sound, thank god, as you may see by looking on my face. these tidings are not true, and you must neither believe all that the messengers proclaim, nor deem that they tell naught but lies. the cause is plain why my household think me lost. i came out from the castle taking leave and speaking to no man. none knew that i went secretly through the postern, nor that i rode to you at tintagel, for i feared treachery upon the way. now men cry and clamour of my death, because i was not seen when the king won within the tower. doubtless it is a grievous thing to have lost my keep, and to know that so many goodly spearmen lie dead behind the walls. but whilst i live, my goods at least are my own. i will go forth to the king, requiring a peace, which he will gladly accord me. i will go at once, before he may come to tintagel, seeking to do us mischief, for if he falls upon us in this trap we shall pipe to deaf ears." igerne praised the counsel of him she deemed her lord. the king embraced her by reason of her tenderness, and kissed her as he bade farewell. he departed straightway from the castle, and his familiars with him. when they had ridden for a while upon the road, merlin again put forth his enchantments, so that he, the king, and ulfin took their own shapes, and became as they had been before. they hastened to the host without drawing rein, for the king was with child to know how the castle was so swiftly taken, and in what manner the earl was slain. he commanded before him his captains, and from this man and that sought to arrive at the truth. uther considered the adventure, and took his lords to witness that whoever had done the earl to death, had done not according to his will. he called to mind earl gorlois' noble deeds, and made complaint of his servants, looking upon the barons very evilly. he wore the semblance of a man in sore trouble, but there were few who were so simple as to believe him. uther returned with his host before tintagel. he cried to those who stood upon the wall asking why they purposed to defend the tower, since their lord was dead and his castle taken, neither could they look for succour in the realm, or from across the sea. the castellans knew that the king spake sooth, and that for them there was no hope of aid. they therefore set open the gates of the castle, and gave the fortress and its keys into the king's hand. uther, whose love was passing hot, spoused igerne forthwith, and made her his queen. she was with child, and when her time was come to be delivered, she brought forth a son. this son was named arthur, with the rumour of whose praise the whole world has been filled. after the birth of arthur, uther got upon igerne a daughter cleped anna. when this maiden came of age she was bestowed upon a right courteous lord, called lot of lyones. of this marriage was born gawain, the stout knight and noble champion. uther reigned for a long time in health and peace. then he fell into a great sickness, failing alike in mind and strength. his infirmity lay so sore upon him, that he might not get him from his bed. the warders, who watched over his prison in london, were passing weary of their long guard, and were corrupted also by fair promises that were made. they took rich gifts from octa, that was hengist's son, and from ossa, his cousin, and delivering them out of their bonds, let them go free from their dungeon. octa and ossa returned swiftly to their own place. they purchased war galleys to themselves, and gathering their men about them menaced uther very grievously. with a great company of knights, and spearmen, and archers they passed the marches of scotland, burning and spoiling all the realm. since uther was sick, and could do little to defend his life and land, he called lot, the husband of his daughter, to his aid. to this lord he committed the guidance of his host, and appointed him constable of his knights. he commanded these that they should hearken lot as himself, and observe all his biddings. this uther did because he knew lot for a courteous and liberal lord, cunning in counsel, and mighty with the spear. now octa vexed the britons very sorely. he boasted himself greatly, by reason of the number of his folk, and of the kings weakness. to avenge his father's death and his own wrongs, he made britain fearful of his name; for he neither granted truce nor kept faith. lot met octa once and again in battle. many a time he vanquished his foe, but often enough the victory remained with octa. the game of war is like a game of tables. each must lose in his turn, and the player who wins to-day will fail to-morrow. at the end octa was discomfited, and was driven from the country. but it afterwards befell that the britons despised lot. they would pay no heed to his summons, this man for reason of jealousy, this other because of the sharing of the spoil. the war, therefore, came never to an end, till the king himself perceived that something was amiss, whilst the folk of the country said openly that the captains were but carpet knights, who made pretence of war. at this certain men of repute came before the king, praying him to remain no longer hidden from his people. "come what may," said these counsellors, "you must get to the host, and show yourself to the barons." the king took them at their word. he caused himself to be set within a horse litter, and carried, as though in a bier, amongst his people. "now we shall see," said these, "which of these recreant lords will follow him to the host." the king sent urgent messages to the knights who were so disdainful of lot, summoning them on their allegiance to hasten to his aid. for himself he was carried straight to verulam.[ ] this once was a fair city where st. alban fell upon his death, but was now altogether ravaged and destroyed of the heathen. octa had led his people to the city, and seized thereon, making fast the gates. the king sat down without the town. he caused great engines to be arrayed to break through the wall, but it was very strong, and he might make no breach. octa and his friends made merry over the catapults set over against them. on a morning they opened wide their gates, and came forth to do battle with the king. a vile matter it seemed to them that the door should be locked and barred because of a king lying sick within a litter. they could not endure to be so despised that he should fight against them from his coffin. as i deem their pride went before a fall. that captain won who was deserving of the victory. the heathen were defeated, and in that battle octa and his fair cousin ossa were slain. [footnote : st. albans.] many who escaped from the field fled into scotland. there they made colgrin their chieftain, who was a friend of octa and his cousin. uther rejoiced so greatly by reason of his victory, and of the honour god had shown him, that for sheer joy he was as a man healed and altogether whole. he set himself to hearten his barons, and inspire them with his own courage. he said to his men, with mirth, "i like rather to be on my bier, languishing in long infirmity, than to use health and strength in fleeing from my foe. the saxons disdained me, holding me in despite because i cannot rise from my bed; but it has befallen that he who hath one foot in the grave hath overthrown the quick. forward then, and press hardly on their heels who seek to destroy our religion from the land." when the king had rested him for a space, and had encouraged the lords with his words, he would have followed after the heathen. seeing that his sickness was yet heavy upon him, the barons prayed that he would sojourn awhile in the city, until it pleased god to give him solace from his hurt. this they said fearing lest his courage should bring him to his death. it chanced, therefore, that the host departed, leaving uther at verulam, because of his infirmity, none being with him, save the folk of his private household. now the saxons who were driven from the land, when they had drawn together, considered within themselves that if the king were but dead, he had no heir who might do them a mischief, and despoil them of their goods. since they had no trust in their weapons, doubting that they could slay him with the sword, they devised to murder the king by craft and poison. they suborned certain evil-doers, whose names i do not know, by promises of pennies and of land. these men they conveyed to the king's court, arrayed in ragged raiment, the better to spy in what fashion they might draw near his person and carry out their purpose. the malefactors came to verulam, but for all their cunning and craft of tongues, in no way could they win anigh the king. they went to and fro so often; they listened to the servitors' talk so readily; that in the end they knew that the king drank nothing but cold water, that other liquor never passed his lips. this water was grateful to his sickness. it sprang from a well very near his hall, and of this water he drank freely, for none other was to his mind. when these privy murderers were persuaded that they might never come so close to the king's body as to slay him with a knife, they sowed their poison in the well. they lurked secretly about the country, until it came to their ears when and how he died, and then fled incontinent whence they came. presently the king was athirst, and called for drink. his cupbearer gave him water, laced with venom, from the spring. uther drank of the cup, and was infected by the plague, so that there was no comfort for him save in death. his body swelled, becoming foul and black, and very soon he died. right quickly all those who drank of the water from that fountain died of the death from which their lord lay dead. after this thing became known, and the malice of these evil-doers was made clear, the burgesses of the city met together, and choked the well for evermore. they cast therein so much earth, that a pyre stood above the source, as a witness to this deed. uther the king having fallen asleep, his body was borne to stonehenge, and laid to rest close by aurelius, his brother; the brethren lying side by side. the bishops and barons of the realm gathered themselves together, and sent messages to arthur, uther's son, bidding him to cirencester to be made their king. arthur at the time of his coronation was a damoiseau of some fifteen years, but tall and strong for his age. his faults and virtues i will show you alike, for i have no desire to lead you astray with words. he was a very virtuous knight, right worthy of praise, whose fame was much in the mouths of men. to the haughty he was proud, but tender and pitiful to the simple. he was a stout knight and a bold: a passing crafty captain, as indeed was but just, for skill and courage were his servants at need: and large of his giving. he was one of love's lovers; a lover also of glory; and his famous deeds are right fit to be kept in remembrance. he ordained the courtesies of courts, and observed high state in a very splendid fashion. so long as he lived and reigned he stood head and shoulders above all princes of the earth, both for courtesy and prowess, as for valour and liberality. when this arthur was freshly crowned king, of his own free will he swore an oath that never should the saxons have peace or rest so long as they tarried in his realm. this he did by reason that for a great while they had troubled the land, and had done his father and his uncle to their deaths. arthur called his meinie to his aid. he brought together a fair company of warriors, bestowing on them largely of his bounty, and promising to grant largely of the spoil. with this host he hastened into the land that lay about york, colgrin--who was the chief and captain of these saxons since the slaying of octa--had many picts and scots in his fellowship, besides a goodly company of his own people. he desired nothing more hotly than to meet arthur in battle, and to abate his pride. the armies drew together upon the banks of the douglas. the two hosts fell one upon the other furiously, and many a sergeant perished that day, by reason of lance thrust, or quarrel, or dart. at the end colgrin was discomfited, and fled from the field. arthur followed swiftly after, striving to come upon his adversary, before he might hide him in york. but colgrin, for all his pains, took refuge in the city; so arthur sat him down without the walls. now baldulph, the brother of colgrin, tamed by the shore, awaiting the coming of cheldric, the king, and his saxons from germany. when he heard the tidings of what had befallen colgrin at the ford of douglas, and of how he was holden straitly by arthur in york, he was passing heavy and sorrowful, for with this colgrin was all his hope. baldulph made no further tarrying for cheldric. he broke up his camp, and marching towards york, set his comrades in ambush, within a deep wood, some five miles from the host. together with the folk of his household, and the strangers of his fellowship, baldulph had in his company six thousand men in mail. he trusted to fall upon arthur by night, when he was unready, and force him to give over the siege. but certain of the country who had spied baldulph spread this snare, ran to the king, and showed him of the matter. arthur, knowing of the malice of baldulph, took counsel with cador, earl of cornwall, a brave captain, who had no fear of death. he delivered to the earl's care seven hundred horsemen, and of spearmen three thousand, and sent him secretly to fall upon baldulph in his lurking place. cador did the king's bidding. the saxons heard no rumour of his coming, for the host drew to the wood privily without trumpet or battle cry. then when cador was near the foe, he cried his name, and burst fiercely upon the heathen with the sword. in this combat there perished of the saxons more than three thousand men. had it not been for the darkness of the night, and the hindrance of the wood, not one might have fled on his feet. baldulph, the cunning captain, got him safely from the field, by hiding beneath every bush and brake. he had lost the fairer and the stronger half of his meinie, and was at his wits' end to know how to take counsel with his brother, or to come to his aid. but speak with him he would, so that craft and courage might find a way. baldulph devised to seek the besiegers' camp in the guise of a jongleur. he arrayed himself in all points as a harper, for he knew well how to chant songs and lays, and to touch the strings tunably. for his brother's sake he made himself as a fool. he shaved off one half of his beard and moustache, and caused the half of his head to be polled likewise. he hung a harp about his neck, and showed in every respect as a lewd fellow and a jester. baldulph presently went forth from his abode, being known again of none. he went to and fro harping on his harp, till he stood beneath the walls of the city. the warders on the towers hearkened to his speech, so that they drew him up by cords upon the wall. at baldulph's tale the folk within the city despaired of succour, and knew not how to flee, nor where to escape. in their extremity the news was bruited amongst them that cheldric had come to a haven in scotland, with a fleet of five hundred galleys, and was speeding to york. cheldric knew and was persuaded that arthur dared not abide his onset. this was a right judgment, for arthur made haste to begone. the king called a council of his captains, and by their rede decided not to await cheldric at york, neither to give him battle, because of the proud and marvellous host that was with him, "let the king fall back upon london," said the lords, "and summon his meinie about him. the king's power will increase daily, and if cheldric have the hardihood to follow, with the more confidence we shall fight." arthur took his captains at their word. he let well the siege, and came to london, that he might strengthen his castle, choose his own battle ground, and trouble his adversary the more surely. arthur, by the rede of his counsellors, sent letters to his nephew, the son of his sister, hoel, king of little britain. for in that country dwelt many strong barons, sib to his flesh, and the stoutest knights of his race. in these letters, and by the mouth of his ambassadors, arthur prayed the king to hasten to his rescue. if hoel came not swiftly over sea--wrote the king--certainly his realm would be taken from him, and shame would always be on those who watched tamely their cousin stripped of his heritage. when this bitter cry came to hoel he sought neither hindrance nor excuse. his vassals and kinsmen got in their harness forthwith. they arrayed their ships, and set thereon the stores. within these ships there entered twelve thousand knights alone, without taking count of the sergeants and archers. so in a good hour they crossed the sea, coming with a fair wind to the port of southampton. arthur welcomed them with great joy, showing them the honour which it became him to offer. they made no long tarrying at southampton, nor wasted the day in fair words and idle courtesies. the king had summoned his vassals, and had brought together his household. without speeches and blowings of trumpets the two hosts set forth together towards lincoln, which cheldric had besieged but had not yet taken. arthur came swiftly and secretly upon cheldric. he fell silently upon the saxons, making no stir with horns and clarions. king arthur and his men slew so many in so grim and stark a fashion, that never was seen such slaughter, such sorrow and destruction, as they made of the saxons in one single day. the saxons thought only of flight. they stripped off their armour to run the more lightly, and abandoned their horses on the field some fled to the mountains, others by the valleys, and many flung themselves into the river, and were drowned miserably, striving to get them from their foe. the britons followed hotly at their heels, giving the quarry neither rest nor peace. they struck many a mighty blow with the sword, on the heads, the necks, and bodies of their adversaries. the chase endured from lincoln town to the wood of cehdon. the saxons took refuge within the thick forest, and drew together the remnants of their power. for their part, the britons watched the wood, and held it very strictly. now arthur feared lest the saxons should steal from their coverts by night, and escape from his hand. he commanded, therefore, his meinie to cut down the trees on the skirts of the forest. these trunks he placed one upon another, lacing the branches fast together, and enclosing his foe. then he sat down on the further side of his barrier, so that none might issue forth, nor enter in. those within the wood were altogether dismayed, since they might neither eat nor drink. there was no man so cunning or strong, so rich or valiant, who could devise to carry bread and wine, flesh and flour, for their sustenance. three days they endured without food, till thur bodies were weak with hunger. since they would not die of famine, and might not win forth from the wood by arms, they took counsel as to what it were well to do. they approached arthur, praying him to keep raiment and harness and all that they had, saving only their ships, and let them depart to their own land. they promised to put hostages in his power, and render a yearly tribute of their wealth, so only the king allowed them to go on foot to the shore, and enter naked in the ships. arthur set faith in their word. he gave them leave to depart, receiving hostages for assurance of their covenant. he rendered them the ships, but kept their armour as a spoil, so that they left the realm without a mantle to their bodies, or a sword for their defence. the saxons set out across the water, until their sails were lost to sight. i know not what was their hope, nor the name of him who put it in their mind, but they turned their boats, and passed through the channel between england and normandy. with sail and oar they came to the land of devon, casting anchor in the haven of totnes. the heathen breathed out threatenings and slaughter against the folk of the country. they poured forth from their ships, and scattered themselves abroad amongst the people, searching out arms and raiment, firing homesteads and slaying christian men. they passed to and fro about the country, carrying off all they found beneath their hands. not only did they rob the hind of his weapon, but they slew him on his hearth with his own knife. thus throughout somerset and a great part of dorset, these pirates spoiled and ravaged at their pleasure, finding none to hinder them at their task. for the barons who might have made head against them were in scotland with the king. so by road and country, laden with raiment and all manner of spoil, the saxons came from their ships to bath. but the citizens of the town shut fast their gates, and defended the walls against them. arthur was in scotland, punishing the folk of that realm, because of the war they had made upon him, and of the aid they had afforded cheldric. when the king learned what mischief the pagans had done to his land, and of the siege they laid to bath, he hanged his hostages straightway. he dared tarry no longer in scotland, but hastened south, leaving hoel of brittany lying sick at dumbarton, i know not of what infirmity. with what men he might, arthur came to bath as swiftly as he was able, since he was resolved to chase the saxons from before the gates, and succour the burgesses of his city. now, near this town a wood stands within a wide country, and there arthur arranged his men and ordered the battle. he saw to the arming of his meinie, and for himself got him into his harness. arthur donned thigh pieces of steel, wrought strong and fairly by some cunning smith. his hauberk was stout and richly chased, even such a vesture as became so puissant a king. he girt him with his sword, excalibur. mighty was the glaive, and long in the blade. it was forged in the isle of avalon, and he who brandished it naked in his hand deemed himself a happy man. his helmet gleamed upon his head. the nasal was of gold; circlets of gold adorned the headpiece, with many a clear stone, and a dragon was fashioned for its crest. this helm had once been worn by uther, his sire. the king was mounted on a destrier, passing fair, strong, and speedy, loving well the battle. he had set his shield about his neck, and, certes, showed a stout champion, and a right crafty captain. on the buckler was painted in sweet colours the image of our lady st. mary. in her honour and for remembrance, arthur bore her semblance on his shield. in his hand the king carried his lance, named ron. sharp it was at the head, tough and great, and very welcome at need in the press of battle. arthur gave his commands to his captains, and ordained the order of the combat. he caused his host to march in rank and company at a slow pace towards the foe, so that when the battle was joined none might flinch but that he was sustained of his comrades. the host drew near to a certain mountain of those parts, and began to climb the hill. the saxons held this mountain strongly, and defended the height, as though they were shut fast and safely behind walls. small cause had the heathen for such assurance of safety, for a mighty captain was upon them, who would not endure their presence in his realm. arthur led his spearmen upon the slope, and there admonished his men. "behold," said he, "and see before you those false and scornful heathen, who have destroyed and ravished your kith and kin, your near ones and neighbours, and on your own goods and bodies have done so much mischief. avenge now your friends and your kinsfolk; avenge the great ruin and burnings; avenge all the loss and the travail that for so long a space we have suffered at their hands. for myself this day i will avenge me for all these bitter wrongs. i will avenge the oaths these perjurers have broken. i will silence the crying of my fathers' blood. this day i will exact the price for all they have cost me in loss and in sorrows, and avenge the bad faith which led them to return to totnes. if but this day we bear us in the battle like men, and smite the heathen in their fastness, never again will they array themselves proudly against us, but will be for ever before us as naked men without a shield." with these words arthur set his buckler before him, and hastened to the playing of the swords. i know not the name of the saxon who ran upon him in the stour, but the king smote him so fiercely that he died. before arthur passed across the body he cried aloud, "god aid, saint mary succour. he gives twice," said he, gaily, "who gives quickly. here lies one whose lodging for the night i have paid." when the britons saw this deed they aided the king mightily, beating down and slaying the saxons very grievously. they pressed upon them from every side, thrusting shrewdly with the spear, and striking lustily with the sword. arthur was of marvellous hardihood. strong beyond the common strength and of great prowess, with lifted shield and terrible sword he hewed a path towards the summit of the mount. he struck to right and to left, slaying many, so that the press gave back before so stout a champion. to himself alone he slew four hundred heathen that day, working them more mischief than was done by all his men. to an evil end came the captains of these saxons. baldulph lay dead upon the mount, and dead also was colgrin. cheldric and some others fled from the field, and would have got them to their ships that they might enter therein and garnish for their needs. when arthur heard tidings of cheldric's flight, and that he sought again his ships, he bade cador of cornwall to follow swiftly after the fugitives, giving ten thousand horsemen to his keeping chosen from his best and closest friends. for his part, arthur himself turned his face to scotland; for a messenger came who told that the wild scots held hoel close within his city, and for a little would take him where he lay. cheldric made in all haste to his ships, but cador was a crafty captain, and by a way that he knew well he rode swiftly to totnes, before cheldric might come to the town. he seized the galleys, manning them with archers and country folk, and then hastened hotly on the track of the fugitives. two by two, and three by three, these drew near the shore, as best they might hide them from the pursuers. to go the more lightly, to run the more nimbly, they had thrown away their harness, and carried nothing save their swords. they pained themselves to get to the ships, deeming that if they might enter therein their troubles would be at an end. as they strove to ford the river teign, cador, the huntsman, came winding upon their slot. the saxons were dismayed beyond measure, and without stay or delay fled from their foe. cador lighted upon cheldric in the steep mountain, called tenedic, and slew him in that place. as cador came on cheldric's companions he killed them with the sword, in sore sorrow. for those who escaped from cador they made their way from every part to the ships. there they were slain by the archers, or perished miserably in the sea. the britons took no captives, he who cried for mercy perished alike with him who strove with his sword. the rest of the saxons fled to the coverts of the woods and the mountains, by large companies. in such desolate and waste places they lurked and hid from their enemies until hunger and thirst put a term to their miseries. when cador had made an end of his slaying, and given quiet to the land, he followed after arthur, and took the road towards scotland. he came upon the king at dumbarton, where he had brought succour to his nephew, hoel of brittany. arthur found hoel safe in body and in wealth, and altogether whole of his infirmity. the scots had departed from before the city when they heard that arthur drew near, and hastening to murray, made strong the towers, and set barriers at the gates. this they did because they were resolved to await arthur in the city, thinking to hold themselves against him behind the walls. arthur knew well that the scots were gathered together to make head against him in that place. he came therefore to murray with all his power, but they dared not abide his coming, and for dread fled to lake lomond, scattering themselves abroad amongst the isles thereof. passing wide and deep is this fair mere. from the hills and valleys round about sixty rivers fall therein, and making together one sweet water, pass swiftly by a single river to the sea. sixty islands lie upon this water, the haunt and home of innumerable birds. each island holds an eyrie, where none but eagles repair to build their nests, to cry and fight together, and take their solace from the world. when evil folk arrive to raven and devour the realm, then all these eagles gather themselves together, making great coil and clamour, and arraying themselves proudly one against another. one day, or two days, three or four, the mighty birds will strive together; and the interpretation thereof portends horror and grim destruction amongst men. on this fair lake the scots sought hiding, going and coming upon its waters arthur followed swiftly after. he caused to be made shallops, barges, and light, speedy boats, and harassed them grievously in their refuge. by reason of famine and the sword, they died by twenties, by hundreds, and by thousands in those secret ways. now guillomer, a certain king from ireland, wishful to aid the scots in this quarrel, drew towards arthur with his host. arthur went his way to give him battle. when the battle was joined the irish king was discomfited anon. he and his men fled to their ships, getting them back to ireland, and arthur came again to the mere, where he had left his harrying of the scots. then the bishops and abbots of the realm, with divers monks and other orders, carrying in their hands bodies of the saints and many holy relics, came before the king beseeching him to show mercy on the scots. with these went a pitiful company of ladies of that country, naked of foot, spoiled of visage, with streaming hair and rent raiment, bearing their babes in their bosoms. these with tears and shrill lamentations fell at arthur's knees right humbly, weeping, clamouring, and imploring his grace. "sire, gentle king, have mercy and pity," cried these lamentable women, "on this wasted land, and on those wretched men who are dying of hunger and misery. if thou hast no bowels of pity for the fathers, look, sire, and behold these babes and these mothers; regard their sons and their daughters, and all the distressful folk thou art bringing down to death. give again the fathers to the little children, restore to the ladies their husbands, and to this sad company of damsels return their brothers and their lords. have we not paid enough by reason of the saxon passing this way? it was not for our pleasure they sojourned awhile in the land. we went the more heavily for their presence, for much pain and sorrow we suffered because of the heathen, and passing weary were we of their speech. if we sheltered them in our houses, the greater sorrow is ours, since we have endured the more at their hands. our beasts they have slain and eaten; and for our goods, these they have taken, and sent the gear into their own realm. there was none to help us, nor was any man so strong as to deliver us from their power. sire, if we prepared them a feast, it was because we feared to drink their wine cup to the dregs. might was theirs, and we were as the captive who sees no succour on the road. these saxons were pagan men. thy servants are christians. therefore the heathen oppressed us the more mightily, and laid the heavier burdens upon us. but great as was the mischief these saxons wrought us, thou hast done us the sorer harm. theirs were the whips, but thine are the stinging scorpions. it should prove little honour to the christian king that he slay by hunger amongst these rocks those folk who cry his pardon for their trespass. we die, sire, of famine and of all misease. nothing is left us save cold and wretchedness. thou hast overcome us, every one; destroy us not from the land, but suffer us to live of thy bounty. grant that we and all our race--so it be thy pleasure--may find peace in the king's service. have mercy on thy poor christians. we hold the faith that you, too, count dear. how foully then should christianity be wronged, if you destroy the whole realm. alas, has not mischief enough been wrought already!" arthur was tender of heart and marvellously pitiful. he took compassion on this doleful company of ladies, and by reason of those holy bodies of the saints and those fair prelates, he granted life and member to his captives, and forgave them their debts. the scots, having done homage to the king and owned themselves his men, departed, and went their way. hoel gazed long upon the mere, calling to him the folk of his house. he wondered exceedingly because of the grandeur of the lake, and because of the greatness of the water. he marvelled altogether to behold so many islands therein, and at the rocks thereof. he was astonied beyond measure at the number of the eagles and their eyries, at the clamour and the shrilling of their cries. he deemed in his heart that never had he gazed upon so beautiful a sight. "hoel, fair nephew," said arthur, "very marvellous this water seems in your eyes. your astonishment will be the more when you look upon yet another mere that i know. near this lake, in this very country, lies a water held in a cup, not round but square. this pond is twenty feet in length, twenty in breadth, and the water thereof is five feet deep. in the four corners of this pond are many fish of divers fashions. these fish pass never from their corner to another. yet none can certify by touch or sight whether craft keeps these fish each in his place, or what is that hindrance they may not overcome. yea, i cannot tell whether the pond was digged by the wit of man, or if nature shaped it to her will. moreover i know of another mere, whereof you would be more amazed than of both these marvels. this lake is close by the severn in the land of wales. the sea pours its tide into this lake; yet empty itself as it may, the waters of the lake remain ever at the same height, never more and never less. the ocean itself may not suffice to heap its waters above the lake, neither to cover its shores. yet at the ebbing of the tide, when the sea turns to flee, then the lake spues forth the water it has taken to its belly, so that the banks are swallowed up, the great waves rise tall in their wrath, and the wide fields round about are hid, and all is sodden with the foam. the folk of that country tell that should a man stare upon the wave in its anger, so that his vesture and body be wetted of the spray, then, whatever be his strength, the water will draw him to itself, for it is mightier than he. many a man has struggled and fallen on the brink, and been drowned in its clutch. but if a man turn his back upon the water, then he may stand safely upon the bank, taking his pleasure as long as he will. the wave will pass by him, doing him no mischief; he will not be wetted even of the flying foam." so hoel marvelled greatly at these wonders told him by the king. then arthur bade sound his horns, his clarions and trumpets to call his meinie to himself. he granted leave to all but the folk of his privy household to return to their homes. the host went therefore each to his own place, loudly praising the king. even in brittany men told that there was no more valiant captain than he. arthur turned south to york, abiding there till christmas was past. he kept the feast of the nativity within its walls. he marked clearly the weakness and impoverishment of the city, and how deeply it was fallen from its former state. the churches were empty and silent; whilst for the houses they were either breached or fallen to the ground. the king appointed pyramus, a learned clerk who had been diligent in his service, to the vacant see, so that the chapels might be maintained, and those convents built anew which the heathen had destroyed. arthur commanded that the criers should proclaim that all honest folk must return to their toil. he sent messages to every place, bidding those who were dispossessed of their lands to repair to his court. there he gave them again their heritage, and confirmed them in their fiefs and rents. now there were three brethren of right good birth and high peerage, kin to many a fair family, having to name lot, aguisel, and urian. the forefather of these lords was the earl of that great country beyond the humber; and these in their turn held justly their father's lands, doing wrong to none. arthur rendered these brothers their own, and restored them their heritage. on urian, as head of his house, arthur bestowed the province of murray, and without fee or recompense proclaimed him king of that realm. scotland was given to aguisel, who claimed it as his fief. as for lot, who had the king's sister to wife, arthur confirmed him in that kingdom of lyones, which he had held for a great while, and gave him many another earldom besides. this lot was the father of gawain, who as yet was a damoiseau, young and debonair. when arthur had settled his realm in peace, righted all wrongs, and restored the kingdom to its ancient borders, he took to wife a certain fresh and noble maiden, named guenevere, making her his queen. this damsel was passing fair of face and courteous, very gracious of manner, and come of a noble roman house. cador had nourished this lady long and richly in his earldom of cornwall. the maiden was the earl's near cousin, for by his mother he, too, was of roman blood. marvellously dainty was the maiden in person and vesture; right queenly of bearing, passing sweet and ready of tongue. arthur cherished her dearly, for his love was wonderfully set upon the damsel, yet never had they a child together, nor betwixt them might get an heir. as soon as winter was gone, and the warm days were come when it was good to wend upon the sea, arthur made ready his ships to cross the straits to ireland and conquer the land. arthur made no long tarrying. he brought together the most lusty warriors of his realm, both poor and rich, all of the people who were most vigorous and apt in war. with these he passed into ireland, and sent about the country seeking provand for his host. so the sergeants took seisin of cows and oxen, and brought to the camp in droves all that was desirable for meat. guillomer, the king of that realm, heard that arthur had fastened this quarrel upon him. he hearkened to the cries and the tidings, the plaints and the burdens, raised by those villeins whose granges and bields were pillaged for the sustenance of his foes. guillomer went forth to give battle to arthur, but in an ill hour he drew to the field. his men were naked to their adversaries, having neither helmets nor coats of leather nor shields. they knew nothing of archery, and were ignorant of catapults and slings. the britons were mighty bowmen. they shot their shafts thickly amongst their enemies, so that the irish dared not show their bodies, and might find no shelter. the irish could endure the arrows no longer. they fled from the fight, taking refuge where they were able. they hid in woods and thickets, in towns and in houses, seeking refuge from the stour. right grievous was their discomfiture. guillomer, their king, sought shelter within a forest, but his fate was upon him, and he might not conceal him from his foes. arthur searched him out so diligently, following so hotly on his track, that at the last he was taken captive. guillomer did very wisely. he paid fealty and homage to arthur, and owned that of him he held his heritage. moreover he put hostages within arthur's power, for surety that he would render a yearly tribute to the king. when arthur had subdued ireland, he went further and came even so far as iceland. he brought the land in subjection to himself, so that the folk thereof owned themselves his men, and granted him the lordship. now three princes, by name gonfal, king of the orkneys, doldamer, king of gothland, and romarec, king of finland, heard the rumour of these deeds. they sent spies to iceland, and learned from their messengers that arthur was making ready his host to pass the sea, and despoil them of their realms. in all the world--said these messengers--there was no such champion, nor so crafty a captain in the ordering of war. these three kings feared mightily in case arthur should descend upon them, and waste their land. lest a worse thing should befall them, with no compulsion and of their own free wills, they set forth for iceland and came humbly before the king. they gave of their substance rich gifts and offerings, and kneeling before arthur did him fealty, putting their countries between his hands, and proclaiming themselves his men. they owned that of grace they held their inheritance, they swore to render tribute to his treasury, and gave hostages for assurance of their covenant. so they departed in peace to their own place. for his part arthur came again to his ships. he returned to england, where he was welcomed of his people with marvellous joy. twelve years he abode in his realm in peace and content, since none was so bold as to do him a mischief, and he did mischief to none. arthur held high state in a very splendid fashion. he ordained the courtesies of courts, and bore himself with so rich and noble a bearing, that neither the emperor's court at rome, nor any other bragged of by man, was accounted as aught besides that of the king. arthur never heard speak of a knight in praise, but he caused him to be numbered of his household. so that he might he took him to himself, for help in time of need. because of these noble lords about his hall, of whom each knight pained himself to be the hardiest champion, and none would count him the least praiseworthy, arthur made the round table, so reputed of the britons. this round table was ordained of arthur that when his fair fellowship sat to meat their chairs should be high alike, their service equal, and none before or after his comrade. thus no man could boast that he was exalted above his fellow, for all alike were gathered round the board, and none was alien at the breaking of arthur's bread. at this table sat britons, frenchmen, normans, angevins, flemings, burgundians, and loherins. knights had their plate who held land of the king, from the furthest marches of the west even unto the hill of st. bernard. a most discourteous lord would he be deemed who sojourned not awhile in the king's hall, who came not with the countenance, the harness, and the vesture that were the garb and usage of those who served arthur about his court. from all the lands there voyaged to this court such knights as were in quest either of gain or worship. of these lords some drew near to hear tell of arthur's courtesies; others to marvel at the pride of his state; these to have speech with the knights of his chivalry; and some to receive of his largeness costly gifts. for this arthur in his day was loved right well of the poor, and honoured meetly by the rich. only the kings of the world bore him malice and envy, since they doubted and feared exceedingly lest he should set his foot upon them every one, and spoil them of their heritage. i know not if you have heard tell the marvellous gestes and errant deeds related so often of king arthur. they have been noised about this mighty realm for so great a space that the truth has turned to fable and an idle song. such rhymes are neither sheer bare lies, nor gospel truths. they should not be considered either an idiot's tale, or given by inspiration. the minstrel has sung his ballad, the storyteller told over his story so frequently, little by little he has decked and painted, till by reason of his embellishment the truth stands hid in the trappings of a tale. thus to make a delectable tune to your ear, history goes masking as fable. hear then how, because of his valour, the counsel of his barons, and in the strength of that mighty chivalry he had cherished and made splendid, arthur purposed to cross the sea and conquer the land of france. but first he deemed to sail to norway, since he would make lot, his sister's lord, its king. sichelm, the king of norway, was newly dead, leaving neither son nor daughter of his body. in the days of his health, as alike when he fell on death, sichelm had appointed lot to succeed him in his realm and fief. the crown was lot's by right, even as sichelm proclaimed, since lot was the king's nephew, and there was no other heir. when the folk of norway learned that sichelm had bequeathed his realm to lot, they held his command and ordinance in derision. they would have no alien for their lord, nor suffer a stranger to meddle in their business, lest he should deem them an ancient and feeble people, and give to outland folk what was due to the dwellers in the realm. the norwegians resolved to make king one of their own house, that he might cherish them and their children, and for this reason they chose from amongst them a certain lord named ridulph to be their king. when lot perceived that his right was despised, save that he took his heritage by force, he sought help of arthur, his lord. arthur agreed to aid him in his quarrel, promising to render him his own, and to avenge him bitterly on ridulph. arthur gathered together many ships and a mighty host. he entered into norway with this great company, wasting the land, seizing on the manors, and spoiling the towns. ridulph was no trembler, and had no thought to leave the country to its fate. he assembled his people, and prepared to give battle to the king. since however his carles were not many, and his friends but few, ridulph was defeated in the fight and slain. the greater part of his fellowship perished with him, so that no large number remained. in this manner lot the king of lyones destroyed the norwegians from the land. having delivered norway from itself arthur granted the kingdom to lot, so only that he did arthur homage as his lord. amongst the barons who rode in this adventure was gawain, the hardy and famous knight, who had freshly come from st. sulpicius the apostle, whose soul may god give rest and glory. the knight wore harness bestowed on him by the apostle, and wondrously was he praised. this gawain was a courteous champion, circumspect in word and deed, having no pride nor blemish in him. he did more than his boast, and gave more largely than he promised. his father had sent him to rome, that he might be schooled the more meetly. gawain was dubbed knight in the same day as wavain, and counted himself of arthur's household. mightily he strove to do his devoir in the field, for the fairer service and honour of his lord. after arthur had conquered norway, and firmly established his justice in the land, he chose of his host those men who were the most valiant and ready in battle, and assembled them by the sea. he brought to the same haven many ships and barges, together with such mariners as were needful for his purpose. when a quiet time was come, with a fortunate wind, arthur crossed the sea into denmark; for the realm was very greatly to his desire. acil, the danish king, considered the britons and the folk from norway. he considered arthur, who had prevailed against so many kings. acil knew and was persuaded that arthur was mightier than he. he had no mind to suffer hurt himself, or to see his goodly heritage spoiled in a useless quarrel. what did it profit to waste wealth and honour alike, to behold slain friends and ruined towers? acil wrought well and speedily. he sought peace, and ensued it. he gave costly gifts, and made promises which were larger still, till by reason of his words, his prayers, and supplications, concord was established between arthur and the king. acil paid fealty and homage, he became arthur's man, and owned that of arthur's grace he held his fief. king arthur rejoiced greatly at this adventure, and of the conquest he had made. he desired honour the more greedily because of the worship he had gained. from out of denmark he chose, by hundreds and by thousands, the stoutest knights and archers he could find. these he joined to his host, purposing to lead this fair company into france. without any long tarrying the king acted on his purpose. towns, cities, and castles fell before him, so that flanders and the country about boulogne were speedily in his power. arthur was a prudent captain. he perceived no profit in wasting his own realm, burning his towns, and stealing from his very purse. his eyes were in every place, and much was forbidden by his commandment. no soldier might rob nor pill. if there was need of raiment, meat, or provand, then must he buy with good minted coin in the market. nothing he dared to destroy or steal. now in arthur's day the land of france was known as gaul. the realm had neither king nor master, for the romans held it strongly as a province. this province was committed to the charge of frollo, and the tribune had governed the country for a great space. he took rent and tribute of the people, and in due season caused the treasure to be delivered to the emperor at rome. thus had it been since the time of caesar, that mighty emperor, who brought into subjection france and germany, and all the land of britain. frollo was a very worthy lord, come of a noble roman race, fearful of none, however hardy. he knew well, by divers letters, the loss and the mischief done by arthur and his host. frollo had no mind tamely to watch the romans lose their heritage. the tribune summoned to his aid all the men abiding in the province who carried arms and owned fealty to rome. he assembled these together, ordaining a great company, clad in harness and plenteously supplied with stores. with these he went out to battle against arthur, but he prospered less than his merit deserved. the roman tribune was discomfited so grievously that he sought safety in flight. of his fellowship he had lost a great number. many were slain outright in battle, others were sorely wounded, or made captive, or returned sorrowing to their own homes. out of the meinie frollo had gathered from so many cities, more than two thousand were destroyed. this was no great marvel, since the count of arthur's host was more than frollo might endure. from every land he had subdued to himself, from every city that was taken, arthur saw to it that not a spearman nor knight of fitting years and strength of body, but was numbered in the host, and commanded to serve arthur as his lord of these outland folk, arthur chose a fair company of the hardiest knights and most proven champions to be of his private household. the very french began to regard him as their king, so only that they had the courage of their minds. this man loved him for his wise and comely speech this by reason of his liberal hand: this because of his noble and upright spirit whether men were driven to his presence by fear, or considered him a refuge in the storm, all found cause enough to seek his court, to make their peace, and to acknowledge him as their suzerain. now frollo, after his discomfiture by the king, fled to paris with all the speed he might, making no stop upon the road. the tribune feared arthur and his power very sorely, and since he sought a fortress to defend his person, he would not trust his fortune to any other city. he resolved, therefore, to await arthur within paris, and to fight the king beneath the walls frollo called to himself such legions as were yet in towns near by. because of the number of the fugitives who were come to that place, together with the burgesses abiding therein, a great concourse of people filled the city. all these folk toiled diligently to furnish the city with corn and meat, and to make sure the walls and gates against their foes. arthur learned that frollo was making strong his towers, and filling the barns with victuals. he drew to paris, and sat down without the city. he lodged his men in the suburbs beyond the walls, holding the town so close that food might not enter whether by the river or the gates. arthur shut the city fast for more than a month, since the french defended them well and manfully. a mighty multitude was crowded within the walls, and there was a plentiful lack of meat. all the provand bought and gathered together in so short a space was quickly eaten and consumed, and the folk were afterwards a-hungered. there was little flesh, but many bellies; so that the women and children made much sorrow had the counsel of the poor been taken, right soon would the keys of the city have been rendered. "diva," clamoured the famished citizens, "what doest thou, frollo? why requirest thou not peace at arthur's hand?" frollo regarded the common people who failed for famine. he looked upon the folk dying by reason of their hunger, and knew that they would have him yield the city. frollo perceived that of a surety the end of all was come. the tribune chose to put his own body in peril--yea, rather to taste of death, than to abandon paris to her leaguers. frollo had full assurance of arthur's rectitude in the simplicity of his heart he sent urgent messages to the king, praying him to enter in the island, that body to body they might bring their quarrel to an end. he who prevailed over his fellow, and came living from the battle, should take the whole realm as his own and receive all france for his guerdon. thus the land would not perish, nor the folk be utterly destroyed. arthur hearkened willingly to the heralds, for very greatly was their message to his mind. he accorded that the battle should be between the two captains, even as frollo desired. gauntlets were taken from one and the other, and hostages given on behalf of paris and on the part of the besiegers for better assurance of the covenant that was made. on the morrow the two champions arrayed them in harness, and coming to the island, entered boldly in the lists. the banks were filled with a mighty concourse of people, making great tumult. not a man or woman remained that day in his chamber. they climbed upon the walls, and thronged the roofs of the houses, crying upon god, and adjuring him by his holy name to give victory to him who would guard the realm in peace, and preserve the poor from war arthur's meinie, for their part, awaited the judgment of god, in praying the king of glory to bestow the prize and honour on their lord. the two champions were set over against the other, laced each in his mail, and seated on his warhorse. the strong destriers were held with bit and bridle, so eager were they for the battle. the riders bestrode the steeds with lifted shields, brandishing great lances in their hands. it was no easy matter to perceive--however curiously men looked--which was the stouter knight, or to judge who would be victor in the joust. certainly each was a very worthy lord and a right courageous champion. when all was made ready the knights struck spurs to their steeds, and loosing the rein upon the horses' necks, hurtled together with raised buckler and lance in rest. they smote together with marvellous fierceness. whether by reason of the swerving of his destrier, i cannot tell, but frollo failed of his stroke arthur, on his side, smote the boss of his adversary's shield so fairly, that he bore him over his horse's buttock, as long as the ash staff held arthur drew forth his sword, and hastened to frollo to bring the battle to an end. frollo climbed stoutly on his feet. he held his lance before him like a rod, and the king's steed ran upon the spear, so that it pierced deeply in his body. of this thrust the destrier and his rider alike came tumbling to the ground. when the britons saw this thing, they might not contain themselves for grief. they cried aloud, and seizing their weapons, for a little would have violated the love-day. they made ready to cross the river to the island, and to avenge their lord upon the gauls. arthur cried loudly to his britons to observe their covenant, commanding that not a man should move to his help that day. he gripped excalibur sternly in his hand, resolving that frollo should pay dearly for his triumph. arthur dressed his shield above his head, and handselling his sword, rushed upon frollo. frollo was a passing good knight, hardy and strong, in no whit dismayed by the anger of his adversary. he raised his own glaive on high, striking fiercely at arthur's brow. frollo was strong beyond the strength of man. his brand was great and sharp, and the buffet was struck with all his power. the blade sheared through helm and coif alike, so that king arthur was wounded in his forehead, and the blood ran down his face. when arthur felt the dolour of his hurt, and looked upon his blood, he desired nothing, save to wreak evil on the man who had wrought this mischief. he pressed the more closely upon frollo. lifting excalibur, his good sword, in both hands, he smote so lustily that frollo's head was cloven down to his very shoulders. no helmet nor hauberk, whatever the armourer's craft, could have given surety from so mighty a blow. blood and brains gushed from the wound. frollo fell upon the ground, and beating the earth a little with his chausses of steel, presently died, and was still. when men saw this bitter stroke the burgesses and sergeants raised a loud cry. arthur's household rejoiced beyond measure; but those of the city wept, making great sorrow for frollo, their champion. nevertheless, the citizens of paris ran to their gates. they set the doors wide, and welcomed arthur, his meinie, and company within their walls. when arthur perceived the french were desirous to offer him their fealty, he suffered them so to do, taking hostages that they would abide in peace. he lodged within the city certain days, and appointed governors, for the assurance of his power. after quiet was established, arthur divided the host into two parts. the one of these companies he delivered into the charge of hoel, the king's nephew. with the other half he devised to conquer anjou, auvergne, gascony, and poitou; yea, to overrun lorraine and burgundy, if the task did not prove beyond his power. hoel did his lord's commandment, even as arthur purposed. he conquered berri, and afterwards touraine, auvergne, poitou, and gascony. guitard, the king of poitiers, was a valiant captain, having good knights in his service. to uphold his realm and his rights guitard fought many a hard battle. the luck went this way and that. sometimes he was the hunter, sometimes the quarry: often he prevailed, and often, again, he lost. at the end guitard was persuaded arthur was the stronger lord, and that only by submission could he keep his own. the land was utterly wasted and ravaged. beyond the walls of town and castle there was nothing left to destroy; and of all the fair vineyards not a vine but was rooted from the ground. guitard made overtures of peace, and accorded himself with hoel. he swore arthur fealty and homage, so that the king came to love him very dearly. the other parcels of france arthur conquered them every one by his own power. when there was peace over all the country, so that none dared lift a spear against the king, arthur sought such men as were grown old in his quarrels, and desired greatly to return to their homes. to these feeble sergeants arthur rendered their wages and gifts, and sent them rejoicing from whence they had come. the knights of his household, and such lusty youths as were desirous of honour, having neither dame nor children to their hearths, arthur held in his service for yet nine years. during these nine years that arthur abode in france, he wrought divers great wonders, reproving many haughty men and their tyrannies, and chastising many sinners after their deservings. now it befell that when easter was come, arthur held high feast at paris with his friends. on that day the king recompensed his servants for their losses, and gave to each after his deserts. he bestowed guerdon meetly on all, according to his zeal and the labour he had done. to kay, the master seneschal of his house, a loyal and chivalrous knight, the king granted all anjou and angers. bedevere, the king's cupbearer and very privy counsellor, received that fief of normandy, which aforetime was called neustria. these lords, kay and bedevere, were arthur's faithful friends, knowing the inmost counsel of his mind. boulogne was given to holden: le mans to borel, his cousin. on each and all, according to his gentleness of heart and diligence in his lord's service, arthur bestowed honours and fees, and granted largely of his lands. after arthur thus had feoffed his lords, and given riches to his friends, in april, when winter was gone, he passed the sea to england, his own realm. marvellous joy was shown of all good folk at the return of the king. dames held those husbands close from whom they had been parted so long. mothers kissed their sons, with happy tears upon their cheeks. sons and daughters embraced their fathers. cousin clipped cousin, and neighbour that friend who once was his companion. the aunt made much of her sister's son. ladies kissed long that lover who returned from france, yea, when the place was meet, clasped him yet more sweetly in their arms. wondrous was the joy shown of all. in the lanes and crossways, in the highways and by-ways, you might see friends a many staying friend, to know how it fared with him, how the land was settled when it was won, what adventures chanced to the seeker, what profit clave to him thereof, and why he remained so great a while beyond the sea. then the soldier fought his battles once again. he told over his adventures, he spoke of his hard and weary combats, of the toils he had endured, and the perils from which he was delivered. arthur cherished tenderly his servants, granting largely, and promising richly, to the worthy. he took counsel with his barons, and devised that for the louder proclamation of his fame and wealth, he would hold a solemn feast at pentecost, when summer was come, and that then in the presence of his earls and baronage he would be crowned king. arthur commanded all his lords on their allegiance to meet him at caerleon in glamorgan. he desired to be crowned king in caerleon, because it was rich beyond other cities, and marvellously pleasant and fair. pilgrims told in those days that the mansions of caerleon were more desirable than the palaces of rome. this rich city, caerleon, was builded on the usk, a river which falls within the severn. he who came to the city from a strange land, might seek his haven by this fair water. on one side of the town flowed this clear river; whilst on the other spread a thick forest. fish were very plentiful in the river, and of venison the burgesses had no lack. passing fair and deep were the meadows about the city, so that the barns and granges were very rich. within the walls rose two mighty churches, greatly praised. one of these famed churches was called in remembrance of saint julius the martyr, and held a convent of holy nuns for the fairer service of god. the second church was dedicate to saint aaron, his companion. the bishop had his seat therein. moreover, this church was furnished with many wealthy clergy and canons of seemly life. these clerks were students of astronomy, concerning themselves diligently with the courses of the stars. often enough they prophesied to arthur what the future would bring forth, and of the deeds that he would do. so goodly was the city, there was none more delectable in all the earth. now by reason of the lofty palaces, the fair woods and pastures, the ease and content, and all the delights of which you have heard, arthur desired to hold his court at caerleon, and to bid his barons to attend him every one. he commanded, therefore, to the feast, kings and earls, dukes and viscounts, knights and barons, bishops and abbots. nor did arthur bid englishmen alone, but frenchman and burgundian, auvergnat and gascon, norman and poitivin, angevin and fleming, together with him of brabant, hainault, and lorraine, the king bade to his dinner. frisian and teuton, dane and norwegian, scot, irish, and icelander, him of cathness and of gothland, the lords of galway and of the furthest islands of the hebrides, arthur summoned them all. when these received the king's messages commanding them to his crowning, they hastened to observe the feast as they were bidden, every one. from scotland came aguisel the king, richly vested in his royal robes; there, too, was unan, king of murief, together with his son yvam the courteous; lot of lyones also, to take a brave part in the revels, and with him that very frank and gentle knight gawain, his son. there besides were stater and cadual, kings of south wales and of north, cador of cornwall, right near to arthur's heart; morud, earl of gloucester; and guerdon, earl of winchester. anavalt came from salisbury, and rimarec from canterbury. earl baldulph drew from silchester, and vigenin from leicester. there, too, was algal of guivic, a baron much held in honour by the court. other lords were there a many, in no wise of less reputation than their fellows. the son of po that was hight donander; regian, son of abauder; ceilus the son of coil, that son of chater named chatellus, griffin, the heir of nagroil, ron, the son of neco; margoil, clefaut, ringar, angan, rimar and gorbonian, kinlint, neco and that peredur, whom men deemed to be gotten by eladur. besides these princes there drew to caerleon such knights as were of the king's house, and served him about his court. these were his chosen friends, who had their seats at the king's round table, but more of them i cannot tell. many other lords were there of only less wealth and worship than those i have named. so numerous was this fair company that i have lost count of their numbers. a noble array of prelates came also to arthur's solemn feast. abbots and mitred bishops walked in their order and degree. the three archbishops of the realm came in his honour, namely, the archbishop of london, his brother of york, and holy dubricius, whose chair was in that self same city. very holy of life was this fair prelate. very abundantly he laboured, being archbishop of caerleon and legate of rome. many wonderful works were wrought by his hands. the sick were brought to him gladly, and by reason of his love and his prayers, oftentimes they were healed of their hurt. in olden days this dubricius abode in london, but now was bishop in wales, by reason of the evil times when kings regarded not god, and the people forsook the churches of their fathers. these clergy assembled at arthur's court, for the king's feast, together with so great a fellowship of barons that i know not even to rehearse you their names. yet these must be remembered, whomsoever i forget. villamus, king of ireland, and mahnus, king of iceland, and doldamer, lord of that lean and meagre country, known as the land of goths. acil, the king of the danes; lot, who was king of norway, and gonfal, jarl of the lawless orkneys, from whence sail the pirates in their ships. from the parts beyond the seas came ligier, holding the dukedom and honour of burgundy; holden, earl of flanders; and guerin, earl of chartres, having the twelve peers of france in his company, for the richer dignity and splendour of his state. guitard was there, the earl of poitiers; kay, whom the king had created earl of angers; and bedevere of neustria, that province which men now call normandy. from le mans drew earl borel, and from brittany earl hoel. passing noble of visage was hoel, and all those lords who came forth from france. they voyaged to arthur's court in chased harness and silken raiment, riding on lusty horses with rich trappings, and wearing jewels, with many golden ornaments. there was not a prince from here even unto spain, yea, to the very rhine in the land of germany, but hastened to arthur's solemn feast, so only that he was bidden to that crowning. of these some came to look on the face of the king, some to receive of his largeness costly gifts, some to have speech with the lords of his council. some desired to marvel over the abundance of arthur's wealth, and others to hear tell of the great king's courtesies. this lord was drawn by the cords of love; this by compulsion of his suzerain's ban, this to learn by the witness of his eyes whether arthur's power and prosperity exceeded that fame of which the whole world bragged. when this proud company of kings, bishops, and princes was gathered together to observe arthur's feast, the whole city was moved. the king's servants tolled diligently making ready for so great a concourse of guests. soldiers ran to and fro, busily seeking hostels for this fair assemblage. houses were swept and garnished, spread with reeds, and furnished with hangings of rich arras. halls and chambers were granted to their needs, together with stables for the horses and their provand. those for whom hostelries might not be found abode in seemly lodgings, decently appointed to their degree. the city was full of stir and tumult. in every place you beheld squires leading horses and destriers by the bridle, setting saddles on hackneys and taking them off, buckling the harness and making the metal work shining and bright. grooms went about their business. never was such a cleansing of stables, such taking of horses to the meadows, such a currying and combing, shoeing and loosing of girths, washing and watering, such a bearing of straw and of grass for the litter, and oats for the manger. nor these alone, but in the courtyards and chambers of the hostels you might see the pages and chamberlains go swiftly about their tasks, in divers fashions. the varlets brushed and folded the habiliments and mantles of their lords. they looked to the stuff and the fastenings of their garments. you saw them hurry through the halls carrying furs and furred raiment, both vair and the grey. caerleon seemed rather a fair than a city, at arthur's feast. now telleth the chronicle of this geste, that when the morning was come of the day of the high feast, a fair procession of archbishops, bishops, and abbots wended to the king's palace, to place the crown upon arthur's head, and lead him within the church. two of these archbishops brought him through the streets of the city, one walking on either side of his person. each bishop sustained the king by his arm, and thus he was earned to his throne. four kings went before arthur and the clerks, bearing swords in their hands. pommel, scabbard, and hilt of these four swords were of wrought gold. this was the office of these kings when arthur held state at his court. the first of the princes was from scotland, the second from south wales, the third was of north wales, and as to the last it was cador of cornwall who earned the fourth sword. all these fair princes were at one in their purpose, being altogether at unity, when arthur was crowned king. to holy dubricius it fell, as prelate of caerleon and roman legate, to celebrate the office and perform such rites as were seemly to be rendered in the church. that the queen might not be overshadowed by her husband's state, the crown was set on her head in another fashion. for her part she had bidden to her court the great ladies of the country, and such dames as were the wives of her friends. together with these had assembled the ladies of her kindred, such ladies as were most to her mind, and many fair and gentle maidens whom she desired to be about her person at the feast. the presence of this gay company of ladies made the feast yet more rich, when the queen was crowned in her chamber, and brought to that convent of holy nuns for the conclusion of the rite. the press was so great that the queen might hardly make her way through the streets of the city. four dames preceded their lady, bearing four white doves in their hands. these dames were the wives of those lords who carried the golden swords before the king. a fair company of damsels followed after the queen, making marvellous joy and delight. this fair fellowship of ladies came from the noblest of the realm. passing dainty were they to see, wearing rich mantles above their silken raiment. all men gazed gladly upon them, for their beauty was such that none was sweeter than her fellows. these dames and maidens went clothed in their softest garments. their heads were tired in their fairest hennins, and they walked in their most holiday vesture. never were seen so many rich kirtles of divers colours, such costly mantles, such precious jewels and rings. never were seen such furs and such ornaments, both the vair and the grey. never was known so gay and noble a procession of ladies, as this which hastened to the church, lest it should be hindered from the rite. now within the church mass was commenced with due pomp and observance. the noise of the organ filled the church, and the clerks sang tunably in the choir. their voices swelled or failed, according as the chant mounted to the roof, or died away in supplication. the knights passed from one church to the other. now they would be at the convent of st. julius, and again at the cathedral church of st. aaron. this they did to compare the singing of the clerks, and to delight their eyes with the loveliness of the damsels. although the knights passed frequently between the churches, yet no man could answer for certain at which they remained the longer. they could not surfeit the heart by reason of the sweetness of the melody. yea, had the song endured the whole day through, i doubt those knights would ever have grown weary or content. when the office drew to its appointed end, and the last words were chanted, the king put off his crown that he had carried to the church. he took another crown which sat more lightly on his head; and in such fashion did the queen. they laid aside their heavy robes and ornaments of state, and vested them in less tiring raiment. the king parted from st. aaron's church, and returned to his palace for meat. the queen, for her part, came again to her own house, carrying with her that fair fellowship of ladies, yet making marvellous joy. for the britons held still to the custom brought by their sires from troy, that when the feast was spread, man ate with man alone, bringing no lady with him to the board. the ladies and damsels ate apart. no men were in their hall, save only the servitors, who served them with every observance, for the feast was passing rich, as became a monarch's court. when arthur was seated in his chair upon the dais, the lords and princes sat around the board, according to the usage of the country, each in his order and degree. the king's seneschal, hight sir kay, served arthur's table, clad in a fair dalmatic of vermeil silk. with sir kay were a thousand damoiseaux, clothed in ermine, who bore the dishes from the buttery. these pages moved briskly about the tables, carrying the meats in platters to the guests. together with these were yet another thousand damoiseaux, gentle and goodly to see, clothed likewise in coats of ermine. these fair varlets poured the wine from golden beakers into cups and hanaps of fine gold. not one of these pages but served in a vesture of ermine. bedevere, the king's cupbearer, himself set arthur's cup upon the board; and those called him master who saw that arthur's servants lacked not drink. the queen had so many servitors at her bidding, that i may not tell you the count. she and all her company of ladies were waited on, richly and reverently. right worshipfully were they tended. these ladies had to their table many rich meats, and wines and spiced drink of divers curious fashions. the dishes and vessels from which they ate were very precious, and passing fair. i know not how to put before you the wealth and the splendour of arthur's feast. whether for goodly men or for chivalrous deeds, for wealth as for plenty, for courtesy as for honour, in arthur's day england bore the flower from all the lands near by, yea, from every other realm whereof we know. the poorest peasant in his smock was a more courteous and valiant gentleman than was a belted knight beyond the sea. and as with the men, so, and no otherwise, was it with the women. there was never a knight whose praise was bruited abroad, but went in harness and raiment and plume of one and the self-same hue. the colour of surcoat and armour in the field was the colour of the gown he wore in hall. the dames and damsels would apparel them likewise in cloth of their own colour. no matter what the birth and riches of a knight might be, never, in all his days, could he gain fair lady to his friend, till he had proved his chivalry and worth. that knight was accounted the most nobly born who bore himself the foremost in the press. such a knight was indeed cherished of the ladies; for his friend was the more chaste as he was brave. after the king had risen from the feast, he and his fellowship went without the city to take their delight amongst the fields. the lords sought their pleasure in divers places. some amongst them jousted together, that their horses might be proven. others fenced with the sword, or cast the stone, or flung pebbles from a sling. there were those who shot with the bow, like cunning archers, or threw darts at a mark. every man strove with his fellow, according to the game he loved. that knight who proved the victor in his sport, and bore the prize from his companions, was carried before the king in the sight of all the princes. arthur gave him of his wealth so goodly a gift, that he departed from the king's presence in great mirth and content. the ladies of the court climbed upon the walls, looking down on the games very gladly. she, whose friend was beneath her in the field, gave him the glance of her eye and her face; so that he strove the more earnestly for her favour. now to the court had gathered many tumblers, harpers, and makers of music, for arthur's feast. he who would hear songs sung to the music of the rote, or would solace himself with the newest refrain of the minstrel, might win to his wish. here stood the viol player, chanting ballads and lays to their appointed tunes. everywhere might be heard the voice of viols and harp and flutes. in every place rose the sound of lyre and drum and shepherd's pipe, bagpipe, psaltery, cymbals, monochord, and all manner of music. here the tumbler tumbled on his carpet. there the mime and the dancing girl put forth their feats. of arthur's guests some hearkened to the teller of tales and fables. others called for dice and tables, and played games of chance for a wager. evil befalls to winner and loser alike from such sport as this. for the most part men played at chess or draughts. you might see them, two by two, bending over the board. when one player was beaten by his fellow, he borrowed moneys to pay his wager, giving pledges for the repayment of his debt. dearly enough he paid for his loan, getting but eleven to the dozen. but the pledge was offered and taken, the money rendered, and the game continued with much swearing and cheating, much drinking and quarrelling, with strife and with anger. often enough the loser was discontented, and rose murmuring against his fellow. two by two the dicers sat at table, casting the dice. they threw in turn, each throwing higher than his fellow. you might hear them count, six, five, three, four, two, and one. they staked their raiment on the cast, so there were those who threw half naked. fair hope had he who held the dice, after his fellow had cried his number. then the quarrel rose suddenly from the silence. one called across the table to his companion, "you cheat, and throw not fairly. grasp not the dice so tightly in your hand, but shake them forth upon the board. my count is yet before yours. if you still have pennies in your pouch bring them out, for i will meet you to your wish." thus the dicers wrangled, and to many of arthur's guests it chanced that he who sat to the board in furs, departed from the tables clothed in his skin. when the fourth day of the week was come, on a certain wednesday, the king made knights of his bachelors, granting them rents to support their stations. he recompensed those lords of his household who held of him their lands at suit and service. such clerks as were diligent in their master's business he made abbots and bishops; and bestowed castles and towns on his counsellors and friends. to those stranger knights who for his love had crossed the sea in his quarrel, the king gave armour and destrier and golden ornaments, to their desire. arthur divided amongst them freely of his wealth. he granted lordship and delights, greyhound and brachet, furred gown and raiment, beaker and hanap, sendal and signet, bhaut and mantle, lance and sword and quivers of sharp barbed arrows. he bestowed harness and buckler and weapons featly fashioned by the smith. he gave largesse of bears and of leopards, of palfreys and hackneys, of chargers with saddles thereon. he gave the helm as the hauberk, the gold as the silver, yea, he bestowed on his servants the very richest and most precious of his treasure. never a man of these outland knights, so only he was worthy of arthur's bounty, but the king granted him such gifts as he might brag of in his own realm. and as with the foreign lords, so to the kings and the princes, the knights, and all his barons, arthur gave largely many precious gifts. now as king arthur was seated on a dais with these princes and earls before him, there entered in his hall twelve ancient men, white and greyheaded, full richly arrayed in seemly raiment. these came within the palace two by two. with the one hand each clasped his companion, and in the other carried a fair branch of olive. the twelve elders passed at a slow pace down the hall, bearing themselves right worshipfully. they drew near to arthur's throne, and saluted the king very courteously. they were citizens of rome, said the spokesman of these aged men, and were ambassadors from the emperor, bringing with them letters to the king. having spoken such words, one amongst them made ready his parchment, and delivered it in arthur's hands. this was the sum of the writing sent by the emperor of rome. "lucius, the emperor and lord of rome, to king arthur, his enemy, these, according to his deservings. i marvel very greatly, and disdain whilst yet i marvel, the pride and ill-will which have puffed you up to seek to do me evil. i have nothing but contempt and wonder for those who counsel you to resist the word of rome, whilst yet one roman draws his breath. you have acted lightly, and by reason of vanity have wrought mischief to us who are the front and avengers of the world. you resemble a blind man, whose eyes the leech prepares to open. you know not yet, but very soon you will have learned, the presumption of him who teaches law to the justice of rome. it is not enough to say that you have acted after your kind, and sinned according to your nature. know you not whom you are, and from what dust you have come, that you dare to dispute the tribute to rome! why do you steal our land and our truage? why do you refuse to render caesar that which is his own? are you indeed so strong that we may not take our riches from your hand? perchance you would show us a marvellous matter. behold--you say--the lion fleeing from the lamb, the wolf trembling before the kid, and the leopard fearful of the hare. be not deceived. nature will not suffer such miracles to happen. julius caesar, our mighty ancestor--whom, maybe, you despise in your heart--conquered the land of britain, taking tribute thereof, and this you have paid until now. from other islands also, neighbours of this, it was our custom to receive truage. these in your presumption you have taken by force, to your own most grievous hurt. moreover, you have been so bold as to put yet greater shame and damage upon us, since frollo, our tribune, is slain, and france and britain, by fraud, you keep wrongfully in your power. since, then, you have not feared rome, neither regarded her honour, the senate summon you by these letters, and command you under pain of their displeasure, to appear before them at mid august, without fail or excuse. come prepared to make restitution of that you have taken, whatever the cost; and to give satisfaction for all those things whereof you are accused. if so be you think to keep silence, and do naught of that you are bidden, i will cross the mont st. bernard with a mighty host, and pluck britain and france from your hand. do not deem that you can make head against me, neither hold france in my despite. never will you dare to pass that sea, for my dearer pleasure; yea, were your courage indeed so great, yet never might you abide my coming. be persuaded that in what place soever you await me, from thence i will make you skip. for this is my purpose, to bind you with bonds, and bring you to rome, and deliver you, bound, to the judgment of the senate." when this letter was read in the hearing of those who were come to arthur's solemnity, a great tumult arose, for they were angered beyond measure. many of the britons took god to witness that they would do such things and more also to those ambassadors who had dared deliver the message. they pressed about those twelve ancient men, with many wild and mocking words. arthur rose hastily to his feet, bidding the brawlers to keep silence. he cried that none should do the romans a mischief, for they were an embassy, and carried the letters of their lord. since they were but another's mouthpiece, he commanded that none should work them harm. after the noise was at an end, and arthur was assured that the elders were no longer in peril, he called his privy council and the lords of his household together, in a certain stone keep, that was named the giant's tower. the king would be advised by his barons--so ran the summons--what answer he should give to the messengers of rome. now as they mounted the stairs, earl and prince, pell mell, together, cador, who was a merry man, saw the king before him. "fair king," said the earl gaily, "for a great while the thought has disturbed me, that peace and soft living are rotting away the british bone. idleness is the stepdame of virtue, as our preachers have often told us. soft living makes a sluggard of the hardiest knight, and steals away his strength. she cradles him with dreams of woman, and is the mother of chambering and wantonness. folded hands and idleness cause our young damoiseaux to waste their days over merry tales, and dice, raiment to catch a lady's fancy and things that are worse. rest and assurance of safety will in the end do britain more harm than force or guile. may the lord god be praised who has jogged our elbow. to my mind he has persuaded these romans to challenge our country that we may get us from sleep. if the romans trust so greatly in their might that they do according to their letters, be assured the briton has not yet lost his birthright of courage and hardness. i am a soldier, and have never loved a peace that lasts over long, since there are uglier things than war." gawain overheard these words. "lord earl," said he, "by my faith be not fearful because of the young men. peace is very grateful after war. the grass grows greener, and the harvest is more plenteous. merry tales, and songs, and ladies' love are delectable to youth. by reason of the bright eyes and the worship of his friend, the bachelor becomes knight and learns chivalry." whilst the lords jested amongst themselves in this fashion, they climbed the tower, and were seated in the chamber. when arthur marked that each was in his place, silent and attentive to the business, he considered for a little that he had to speak. presently he lifted his head, and spoke such words as these. "lords," said the king, "who are here with me, nay, rather my companions and my friends, companions alike, whether the day be good or evil, by whose sustenance alone i have endured such divers quarrels, hearken well to me. in the days that are told, have we not shared victory and defeat together, partners, you with me, as i with you, in gain and in loss? through you, and by reason of your help in time of trouble, have i won many battles. you have i carried over land and sea, far and near, to many strange realms. ever have i found you loyal and true, in business and counsel. because of your prowess i hold the heritage of divers neighbouring princes in subjection. lords, you have hearkened to the letters carried by the ambassadors of rome, and to the malice they threaten if we do not after their commandment. very despiteful are they against us, and purpose to work us bitter mischief. but if god be gracious to his people, we shall yet be delivered from their hand. now these romans are a strong nation, passing rich and of great power. it becomes us therefore to consider prudently what we shall say and do in answer to their message, looking always to the end. he who is assured of his mark gets there by the shortest road. when the arrows start to fly, the sergeant takes shelter behind his shield. let us be cautious and careful like these. this lucius seeks to do us a mischief. he is in his right, and it is ours to take such counsel, that his mischief falls on his own head. to-day he demands tribute from britain and other islands of the sea. to-morrow he purposes in his thought to receive truage of france. consider first the case of britain, and how to answer wisely therein. britain was conquered by caesar of force. the britons knew not how to keep them against his host, and perforce paid him their tribute. but force is no right. it is but pride puffed up and swollen beyond measure. they cannot hold of law what they have seized by violence and wrong. the land is ours by right, even if the roman took it to himself by force. the romans really reproach us for the shame and the damage, the loss and the sorrow caesar visited upon our fathers. they boast that they will avenge such losses as these, by taking the land with the rent, and making their little finger thicker than their father's loins. let them beware. hatred breeds hatred again, and things despiteful are done to those who despitefully use you. they come with threats, demanding truage, and reproving us for the evil we have done them. tribute they claim by the right of the strong, leaving sorrow and shame as our portion. but if the romans claim to receive tribute of britain because tribute was aforetime paid them from britain, by the same reasoning we may establish that rome should rather pay tribute to us. in olden days there lived two brothers, british born, namely, belinus, king of the britons, and brennus, duke of burgundy, both wise and doughty lords. these stout champions arrived with their men before rome, and shutting the city close, at the end gained it by storm. they took hostages of the citizens to pay them tribute, but since the burgesses did not observe their covenant, the brethren hanged the hostages, to the number of four and-twenty, in the eyes of all their kinsfolk. when belinus went to his own place, he commended rome to the charge of brennus, his brother. now constantine, the son of helena, drew from brennus and belinus, and in his turn held rome in his care. maximian, king of britain, after he had conquered france and germany, passed the mont st. bernard into lombardy, and took rome to his keeping. these mighty kings were my near kinsmen, and each was master of rome. thus you have heard, and see clearly, that not only am i king of britain, but by law emperor of rome also, so we maintain the rights of our fathers. the romans have had truage of us, and my ancestors have taken seisin of them. they claim britain, and i demand rome. this is the sum and end of my counsel as regards britain and rome. let him have the fief and the rent who is mightier in the field. as to france and those other countries which have been removed from their hands, the romans should not wish to possess that which they may not maintain. either the land was not to their mind, or they had not the strength to hold it. perchance the romans have no rights in the matter, and it is by reason of covetousness rather than by love of law, that they seek this quarrel. let him keep the land who can, by the right of the most strong. for all these things the emperor menaces us very grievously. i pray god that he may do us no harm. our fiefs and goods he promises to take from us, and lead us captive in bonds to rome. we care not overmuch for this, and are not greatly frighted at his words. if he seek us after his boast, please god, he will have no mind to threaten when he turns again to his own home. we accept his challenge, and appeal to god's judgment, that all may be rendered to his keeping, who is able to maintain it in his hand." when arthur the king had made an end of speaking in the ears of his barons, the word was with those who had hearkened to his counsel. hoel followed after the king. "sire," said he, "you have spoken much, and right prudently, nor is there any who can add wisdom to your speech. summon now your vassals and meinie, together with us who are of your household. cross the sea straightway into france, and make the realm sure with no further tarrying. from thence we can pass mont st. bernard, and overrun lombardy. by moving swiftly we shall carry the war into the emperor's own land. we shall fright him so greatly that he will have the less leisure to trouble britain. your movements, moreover, will be so unlooked for that the romans will be altogether amazed, and quickly confounded. sire, it is the lord's purpose to exalt you over all the kings of the earth. hinder not the will of god by doubtfulness. he is able to put even rome in your power, so only it be according to his thought. remember the books of the sibyl, and of the prophecies therein. the sibyl wrote that three kings should come forth from britain, who of their might should conquer rome. of these three princes, two are dead. belinus is dead, and constantine is dead, but each in his day was the master of rome. you are that third king destined to be stronger than the great city. in you the prophecy shall be fulfilled, and the sibyl's words accomplished. why then scruple to take what god gives of his bounty? rise up then, exalt yourself, exalt your servants, who would see the end of god's purpose. i tell you truly that nothing of blows or hurt, neither weariness nor prison nor death, counts aught with us in comparison with what is due to the king's honour. for my part, i will ride in your company, so long as this business endures, with ten thousand armed horsemen at my back. moreover, if your treasury has need of moneys for the quarrel, i will put my realm in pledge, and deliver the gold and the gain to your hand. never a penny will i touch of my own, so long as the king has need." after hoel had ended his counsel, aguisel, king of scotland, who was brother to lot and to urian, stood on his feet. "sire," said he, "the words you have spoken in this hall, where are gathered the flower of your chivalry, are dear to their ears, for we have listened to the disdainful messages of rome. be assured that each of your peers will aid you to the utmost of his power. now is the time and occasion to show forth the counsel and help we can afford to our king. not one of us here who is a subject of your realm, and holds his manors of the crown, but will do his duty to his liege, as is but just and right. no tidings i have heard for a great while past sounded so good and fair as the news that presently we shall have strife with rome. these romans are a people whom i neither love with my heart, nor esteem in my mind, but hate because they are very orgulous and proud. upright folk should avoid their fellowship, for they are an evil and a covetous race, caring for no other matter but to heap treasure together, and add to their store. the emperor of this people, by fraud and deceit, has fastened this quarrel upon us, sending you letters with an embassy. he deems that britain is no other than it was, or he would not demand his measure of tribute, pressed down and running over. the roman has raised such a smoke that his fingers will quickly be scorched in the flame. moreover, had the roman kept quiet, even had he refrained from threats, it becomes our honour, of our own choice, to enter on this war, to avenge the wrongs of our fathers, and to abase his pride. the romans' logic is that they are entitled to receive tribute at our hands, by reason that their fathers, in their day, took truage of our ancestors. if this be so, it was no free-will offering of our fathers, but was wrenched from them by force. so be it. by force we take again our own, and revenge ourselves for all the pilling of the past. we are a perilous people, who have proved victors in divers great battles, and brought many a bitter war to a good end. but what profit is ours of nil these triumphs, so long as we cry not 'check' to rome! i desire not drink to my lips when athirst, nor meat to my mouth when an hungered, as i desire the hour when we hurtle together in the field. then hey for the helm laced fast, the lifted shield, for the brandished sword, and the mighty horse. god! what spoil and rich ransom will he gain whose body god keeps with his buckler that day. never again will he be poor till his life's end. cities and castles will be his for the sacking; and mules, sumpters, and destriers to the heart's desire. on then, comrades, to the conquest of rome, and to the parcelling of the romans' lands. when the proud city is destroyed, and its wardens slain, there remains yet a work for us to do. we will pass into lorraine, and seize the realm. we will make our pleasaunce of all the strongholds of germany. so we will do, till there endures not a land to the remotest sea but is arthur's fief, nor one only realm to pluck them from his power. right or wrong this is our purpose. that my blow may be heavy as my word, and the deed accord with the speech, i am ready to go with the king, and ten thousand riders with me, besides men-at-arms in such plenty that no man may count them." when the king of scotland had spoken, there was much stir and tumult, all men crying that he would be shamed for ever who did not his utmost in this quarrel. arthur and his baronage being of one mind together, the king wrote certain letters to rome, and sealed them with his ring. these messages he committed to the embassy, honouring right worshipfully those reverend men. "tell your countrymen," said the king, "that i am lord of britain: that i hold france, and will continue to hold it, and purpose to defend it against the roman power. let them know of a surety that i journey to rome presently at their bidding, only it will be not to carry them tribute, but rather to seek it at their hand." the ambassadors, therefore, took their leave, and went again to rome. there they told where and in what fashion they were welcomed of the king, and reported much concerning him. this arthur--said these ancient men--is a lord amongst kings, generous and brave, lettered and very wise. not another king could furnish the riches spent on his state, by reason of the attendance of his ministers, and the glory of their apparel. it was useless to seek tribute from arthur, since in olden days britain received tribute of rome. now when the senate had heard the report of the messengers, and considered the letters wherewith they were charged, they were persuaded of ambassador and message alike that arthur neither would do homage nor pay them the tribute they demanded. the senate, therefore, took counsel with the emperor, requiring him to summon all the empire to his aid. they devised that with his host he should pass through the mountains into burgundy, and giving battle to king arthur deprive him of kingdom and crown. lucius tiberius moved very swiftly. he sent messages to kings, earls, and dukes, bidding them as they loved honour to meet him on a near day at rome, in harness for the quest. at the emperor's commandment came many mighty lords, whose names i find written in the chronicles of those times. to meet lucius came epistrophius, king of the greeks, ession, king of broeotia, and itarc, king of the turks, a passing strong and perilous knight. with these were found pandras, king of egypt, and hippolytus, king of crete. these were lords of very great worship, a hundred cities owning their tyranny. evander drew from syria, and teucer from phrygia; from babylon came micipsa, and from spain, aliphatma. from media came king bocus, from libya, sertonus, from bithyma, polydetes, and from idumea, king xerxes mustansar, the king of africa, came from his distant home, many a long days' journey. with him were black men and moors, bearing their king's rich treasure. the senate gave of their number these patricians: marcellus and lucius catellus, cocta, cams, and metellus. many other lords gladly joined themselves to that company, whose names for all my seeking i have not found. when the host was gathered together, the count of the footmen was four hundred thousand armed men, besides one hundred and eighty thousand riders on horses. this mighty army, meetly ordered and furnished with weapons, set forth on a day to give arthur battle from rome. arthur and his baronage departed from the court to make them ready for battle. the king sent his messengers to and fro about the land, calling and summoning each by his name, to hasten swiftly with his power, so that he valued arthur's love. not a knight but was bidden to ride on his allegiance, with all the men and horses that he had. the lords of the isles, ireland, gothland, iceland, denmark, norway and the orkneys, promised for their part one hundred and forty thousand men, armed and clad according to the fashion of their country. of these not a horseman but was a cunning rider, not a footman but bore his accustomed weapon, battle-axe, javelin, or spear normandy and anjou, auvergne and poitou, flanders and boulogne promised, without let, eighty thousand sergeants more, each with his armour on his back. so much it was their right and privilege to do, they said. the twelve peers of france, who were of the fellowship of guenn of chartres, promised every one to ride at arthur's need, each man with a hundred lances. this was their bounden service, said these peers. hoel of brittany promised ten thousand men, aguisel of scotland two thousand more. from britain, his proper realm, that we now call england, arthur numbered forty thousand horsemen in hauberks of steel. as for the count of the footmen--arbalestriers, archers, and spearmen--it was beyond all measure, for the number of the host was as the grains of the sand. when arthur was certified of the greatness of his power, and of the harness of his men, he wrote letters to each of his captains, commanding him that on an appointed day he should come in ships to barfleur in normandy. the lords of his baronage, who had repaired from the court to their fiefs, hastened to make ready with those whom they should bring across the sea. in like manner arthur pushed on with his business, that nothing should hinder or delay. arthur committed the care of his realm, and of dame guenevere, his wife, to his nephew, mordred, a marvellously hardy knight, whom arthur loved passing well. mordred was a man of high birth, and of many noble virtues, but he was not true. he had set his heart on guenevere, his kinswoman, but such a love brought little honour to the queen. mordred had kept this love close, for easy enough it was to hide, since who would be so bold as to deem that he loved his uncle's dame? the lady on her side had given her love to a lord of whom much good was spoken, but mordred was of her husband's kin! this made the shame more shameworthy. ah, god, the deep wrong done in this season by mordred and the queen. arthur, having put all the governance in mordred's power, save only the crown, went his way to southampton. his meinie was lodged about the city, whilst his vessels lay within the haven. the harbour was filled with the ships. they passed to and fro; they remained at anchorage; they were bound together by cables. the carpenter yet was busy upon them with his hammer. here the shipmen raised the mast, and bent the sail. there they thrust forth bridges to the land, and charged the stores upon the ship. the knights and the sergeants entered therein in their order, bearing pikes, and leading the fearful houses by the rein. you could watch them crying farewell, and waving their hands, to those remaining on the shore. when the last man had entered in the last ship the sailors raised the anchors, and worked the galleys from the haven. right diligently the mariners laboured, spreading the sails, and making fast the stays. they pulled stoutly upon the hoists and ropes, so that the ships ran swiftly out to sea. then they made the ropes secure, each in its wonted place. the captain who was charged with the safety of the ship set his course carefully, whilst pilot and steersman needfully observed his word. at his bidding they put the helm to port, to lee, as they might better fill their sails with the wind. as need arose the shipmen drew upon the cords and bowlines, or let the canvas fall upon the deck, that the vessel might be the less beaten of the waves. thus, loosing and making fast, letting go and bringing quickly to the deck, hauling and tugging at the ropes--so they proceeded on their way. when night was come, they steered their courses by the stars, furling the sails that the wind should not carry them from their path. very fearful were the mariners of the dark, and went as slowly as they were able. passing bold was he, that first courteous captain, who builded the first ship, and committing his body to the wind and waves, set forth to seek a land he might not see, and to find such haven as men had never known. now it came to pass that whilst the host voyaged in great content with a fair wind towards barfleur, that arthur slept, for he was passing heavy, and it was night. as the king slumbered he beheld a vision, and, lo, a bear flying high in air towards the east. right huge and hideous of body was the bear, and marvellously horrible to see. also the king saw a dragon flying over against him towards the west. the brightness of his eyes was such, that the whole land and sea were filled with the radiance of his glory. when these two beasts came together, the dragon fell upon the bear, and the bear defended himself valiantly against his adversary. but the dragon put his enemy beneath him, and tumbling him to the earth, crushed him utterly in the dust. when arthur had slept for awhile, his spirit came to him again, and he awoke and remembered his dream. the king called therefore for his wise clerks, and related to them and his household the vision that he had seen of the bear and; of the dragon. then certain of these clerks expounded to the king his dream, and the interpretation thereof. the dragon that was beholden of the king signified himself. by the bear was shown forth a certain horrible giant, come from a far land, whom he should slay. the giant desired greatly that the adventure should end in another fashion; nevertheless all would be to the king's profit. but arthur replied, "my interpretation of the dream is other than yours. to me it typifies rather the issue of the war between myself and the emperor. but let the creator's will be done." after these words no more was spoken until the rising of the sun. very early in the morning they came to haven at barfleur in normandy. presently the host issued from the ships, and spread themselves abroad, to await the coming of those who tarried on the way. now they had but dwelled for a little while in the land when tidings were brought to the king that a marvellously strong giant, newly come from spain, had ravished helen, the niece of his kinsman, hoel. this doleful lady the giant had carried to a high place known as st. michael's mount, though in that day there was neither church nor monastery on the cliff, but all was shut close by the waves of the sea. there was none in the country so hardy and strong, whether gentle or simple of birth, that dared to do battle with the giant, or even to come where he lay. often enough the folk of the land had gathered themselves together, and compassed about the rock both by land and sea, but little had they gained from their labour. for the giant had beaten their boats amongst the rocks, so that they were slain or drowned. therefore they left him to himself, since there was none to hinder his pleasure. the peasants of the realm were exceeding sorrowful. their enemy spoiled their houses, harried their cattle, bore away their wives and children, and returned to his fastness on the mount. the villeins lurked in the woods from his wrath. they perished of misery in secret places, so that the whole land was barren, because there was none to labour in the fields. this marvellous giant had to name dinabuc. not a soul but prayed that he might come to an evil end. when arthur heard these lamentable tidings he called to him kay the seneschal and bedevere his cupbearer, for he would open his counsel to no other man. he told them his purpose to depart from the camp that same night privily, taking none with him, save themselves alone. none but they would know of his errand, for he rode to the mount to be assured as to whether he or the giant was the stouter champion. all through the night the three rode together, sparing not the spur. at daybreak they came upon the ford that leads across the water to the mount. looking towards the mount they beheld a burning fire upon the hill, that might be seen from very far. over against the mount was set another hill, near by, and of lesser height, and upon this hill also a fire of coals. arthur gazed from hill to mountain. he doubted where the giant lodged, and in which of these two high places he should come upon him. there was no man to ask of his dwelling, nor to tell of his outgoings. arthur bade bedevere to go first to the one and then to the other hill, seeking news of the giant. when he had found that which he sought, he must return swiftly, bringing good tidings. bedevere set forth upon his quest. he entered into a little boat, and rowed over to that mount which was nearer. he could cross in no other manner, for the tide was very full, and all the sand was covered of the sea. bedevere got him from the boat, and began to climb the hill. as he climbed he stood still for a space, and hearkened. from above bedevere might hear a noise of sore weeping, and loud lamentation, and doleful sighs. the knight grew cold at the heart root by reason of his exceeding fear, since he deemed to have come upon the giant at his play. presently the courage returned to his breast, and drawing the sword from its sheath, he advanced stoutly up the hill. bedevere considered within himself that it were better for a knight to die, rather than know himself a coward. he reproached himself for his tearfulness, and in heart and hope desired only to bring the adventure to a good end. his wish proved but vain. when bedevere won the summit of the mountain, there was no giant, but only a flaming fire, and close by the fire a new-digged grave. the knight drew near this fire, with the sword yet naked in his hand. lying beside the grave he found an old woman, with rent raiment and streaming hair, lamenting her wretched case. she bewailed also the fate of helen, making great dole and sorrow, with many shrill cries. when this piteous woman beheld bedevere upon the mount, "oh, wretched man," she exclaimed, "what is thy name, and what misadventure leads you here! should the giant find thee in his haunt, this very day thy life will end in shame and grief and hurt. flee, poor wretch, upon thy road, before he spies thee. be pitiful to thyself, nor seek to die, for who art thou to deliver thyself from his wrath!" "good dame," made reply sir bedevere, "give over weeping and answer my words. tell me who you are, and why you shed these tears. for what reason do you abide in this isle, and crouch beside this tomb? answer me plainly concerning your adventure." "fair lord," replied the ancient lady, "i am a forsaken and a most unhappy woman. i make my lamentation for a damsel, named helen, whom i nourished at my breast, the niece of duke hoel of this realm. here lies her body in this tomb, that was given to me to cherish. alas, for her who was set upon my knees! alas, for her i cherished in my bosom! a certain devil ravished her away, and me also, bearing us both to this his lair. the giant would have had to do with the maiden, but she was so tender of her years that she might not endure him. passing young was the maid, whilst he, for his part, was so gross and weighty of bone and flesh, that her burden was more than she could bear. for this the soul departed from her body. alas, wretch that i am, i remain alive, and she, my joy and my love, my sweetness and my delight, was foully done to death by this giant. nothing was left for me to do, but to put her body in the earth." "for what reason do you abide in this hill," asked sir bedevere, "since helen is gone before?" "will thou learn of the reason," said the ancient damsel, "then it shall not be hidden; for easy it is to see that thou art a gentle and a courteous man. when helen had gone her way in shame and sorrow, the giant constrained me to abide that i might suffer his pleasure. this he did, although my heart was hot because i had seen my lady die in sore anguish. force keeps me in this haunt, force makes me his sport. you cannot think that i stay of my own free will on the mount. i but submit to the will of the lord. would to god that i were dead, as for a little more i should be slain of the giant. but if i am older of years, i am also stronger, and harder, and more firm in my purpose, than ever was my frail lady helen. nevertheless i am well-nigh gone, and have little longer to endure. perchance even this very day will be my last. friend, tarry here no further whomsoever thou mayst be. flee while you can, for behold the fire smokes upon the mountain, and the devil makes him ready to ascend, according to his custom. be not snared within his net. depart, and leave an old woman to her tears and sorrow; for i have no care to live, since helen and her love are spoiled with dust." when bedevere heard this adventure he was filled with pity. with his whole heart he comforted the damsel as gently as he might. he left her for a season, and hastening down the hill came straightway to the king. bedevere showed his lord of all that he had heard and seen. he told over the tale of that ancient nurse lamenting by a grave; of helen who was dead, and of the giant's haunt upon the higher of the hills which smoked. arthur was passing heavy at helen's fate. he wasted no time in tears, nor suffered himself to be fearful. arthur bade his companions get into their harness, and ride with him to the ford. the tide was now at the ebb, so that they crossed on their horses, and came speedily to the foot of the hill. there they dismounted, giving their mantles and destriers to the charge of the squires. arthur, bedevere, and kay, the three together, began briskly to climb the mount. after they had climbed for a while arthur spake to his fellows: "comrades, i go before to do battle with the giant. for your part you must follow a little after. but let neither of you be so bold as to aid me in my quarrel, so long as i have strength to strive. be the buffets what they may, stand you still, unless he beats me to the ground. it is not seemly that any, save one, should have lot in this business. nevertheless so you see me in utmost peril and fear, come swiftly to my succour, nor let me find death at his hands." sir kay and sir bedevere made this covenant with their lord, and the three knights together set forth again up the hill. now when arthur drew near to the summit of the mount, he beheld the giant crouched above his fire. he broiled a hog within the flame upon a spit. part of the flesh he had eaten already, and part of the meat was charred and burning in the fire. he was the more hideous to see because his beard and hair were foul with blood and coal. arthur trusted to take him thus unready, before he could get to his mace. but the giant spied his adversary, and all amarvelled leapt lightly on his feet. he raised the club above his shoulder, albeit so heavy that no two peasants of the country could lift it from the ground. arthur saw the giant afoot, and the blow about to fall. he gripped his sword, dressing the buckler high to guard his head. the giant struck with all his strength upon the shield, so that the mountain rang like an anvil. the stroke was stark, and arthur stood mazed at the blow, but he was hardy and strong, and did not reel. when the king came to himself, and marked the shield shattered on his arm, he was marvellously wroth. he raised his sword and struck full at the giant's brow. the blow was shrewd, and would have brought the combat to an end had not the giant parried with his mace. even so, his head was sorely hurt, and the blood ran down his face, that he might not see. when the giant knew that he was wounded to his hurt, he became in his rage as a beast possessed. he turned grimly on his adversary, even as the boar, torn of the hounds and mangled by the hunting knife, turns on the hunter. filled with ire and malice the giant rushed blindly on the king. heedless of the sword, he flung his arms about him, and putting forth the full measure of his might, bore arthur to his knees. arthur was ardent and swift and ready of wit. he remembered his manhood, and struggled upright on his feet. he was altogether angered, and fearful of what might hap. since strength could not help, he called subtlety to his aid. arthur made his body stiff like a rod, and held himself close, for he was passing strong. he feigned to spring on his foe, but turning aside, slipped quickly from under the giant's arms. when arthur knew his person free of these bands, he passed swiftly to and fro, eluding his enemy's clasp. now he was here, now there, ofttimes striking with the sword. the giant ran blindly about, groping with his hands, for his eyes were full of blood, and he knew not white from black. sometimes arthur was before him, sometimes behind, but never in his grip, till at the end the king smote him so fiercely with excalibur that the blade clove to his brain, and he fell. he cried out in his pain, and the noise of his fall and of this exceeding bitter cry was as fetters of iron tormented by the storm. arthur stood a little apart, and gazed upon his adversary. he laughed aloud in his mirth; for his anger was well-nigh gone. he commanded bedevere, his cupbearer, to strike off the giant's head, and deliver it to the squires, that they might bear it to the host, for the greater marvel. bedevere did after his lord's behest. he drew his sword, and divided the head from the shoulders. wonderfully huge and hideous to sight was the head of this giant. never, said arthur, had he known such fear; neither had met so perilous a giant, save only that riton, who had grieved so many fair kings. this riton in his day made war upon divers kings. of these some were slain in battle, and others remained captive in his hand. alive or dead, riton used them despitefully; for it was his wont to shave the beards of these kings, and purfle therewith a cloak of furs that he wore, very rich. vainglorious beyond measure was riton of his broidered cloak. now by reason of folly and lightness, riton sent messages to arthur, bidding him shave his beard, and commend it forthwith to the giant, in all good will. since arthur was a mightier lord and a more virtuous prince than his fellows, riton made covenant to prefer his beard before theirs, and hold it in honour as the most silken fringe of his mantle. should arthur refuse to grant riton the trophy, then nought was there to do, but that body to body they must fight out their quarrel, in single combat, alone. he who might slay his adversary, or force him to own himself vanquished, should have the beard for his guerdon, together with the mantle of furs, fringes and garniture and all. arthur accorded with the giant that this should be so. they met in battle on a high place, called mount aravius, in the far east, and there the king slew riton with the sword, spoiling him of that rich garment of furs, with its border of dead kings' beards. therefore, said arthur, that never since that day had he striven with so perilous a giant, nor with one of whom he was so sorely frighted. nevertheless dinabuc was bigger and mightier than was riton, even in the prime of his youth and strength. for a monster more loathly and horrible, a giant so hideous and misshapen, was never slain by man, than the devil arthur killed to himself that day, in mont st. michel, over against the sea. after arthur had slam the monster, and bedevere had taken his head, they went their way to the host in great mirth and content. they reached the camp, and showed the spoil to all who would, for their hearts were high with that which they had done. hoel was passing sorrowful for that fair lady, his niece, making great lamentation for a while over her who was lost in so fearsome a fashion. in token of his dolour he budded on the mount a chapel to our lady st. mary, that men call helen's tomb to this very day. although this fair chapel was raised above the grave of this piteous lady, and is yet hight tombelame, none gives a thought to the damsel after whom it is named. nothing more have i to relate concerning this adventure, and would tell you now of that which happened to the host. when the men of ireland, and those others for whom arthur tarried, had joined themselves to the host, the king set forth, a day's march every day, through normandy. without pause or rest he and his fellowship passed across france, tarrying neither at town nor castle, and came speedily into burgundy. the king would get to autun as swiftly as he might, for the romans were spoiling the land, and lucius their emperor, together with a great company, purposed to enter in the city. now when arthur drew to the ford, leading across the waters of the aube, his spies and certain peasants of those parts came near and warned him privily concerning the emperor, who lay but a little way thence, so that the king could seek him, if he would. the romans had sheltered them in tents, and in lodges of branches. they were as the sand of the shore for multitude, so that the peasants marvelled that the earth could bring forth for the footmen and horses. never might the king store and garner in that day, for where he reaped with one, lucius the emperor would reap with four. arthur was in no wise dismayed at their words. he had gone through many and divers perils, and was a valiant knight, having faith and affiance in god. on a little hill near this river aube, arthur builded earthworks for his host, making the place exceeding strong. he closed the doors fast, and put therein a great company of knights and men at arms to hold it close. in this fortress he set his harness and stores, so that he could repair thither to his camp in time of need. when all was done arthur summoned to his counsel two lords whom he esteemed for fair and ready speech. these two lords were of high peerage. guerin of chartres was one, and the other was that boso, earl of oxford, right learned in the law. to these two barons arthur added gawain, who had dwelt in rome for so long a space. this arthur did by reason that gawain was a good clerk, meetly schooled, and held in much praise and honour by his friends in rome. these three lords the king purposed to send as an embassy to the emperor. they were to bear his message, bidding the romans to turn again to their own land, nor seek to enter france, for it pertained to the king. should lucius persist in his purpose, refusing to return whence he came, then let him give battle on the earliest day, to determine whether arthur or he had the better right. this thing was certain. so long as arthur had breath he would maintain his claim to france, despite the roman power. he had gained it by the sword, and it was his by right of conquest. in ancient days rome, in her turn, held it by the same law. then let the god of battles decide whether britain or rome had the fairer right to france. the messengers of the king apparelled themselves richly for their master's honour. they mounted on their fairest destriers, vested in hauberks of steel, with laced helmets, and shields hung round their necks. they took their weapons in their hands, and rode forth from the camp. now when certain knights and divers bold and reckless varlets saw the embassy make ready to seek the emperor, they came to gawain and gave him freely of their counsel. these exhorted him that when he reached the court, to which he fared, he should act in such fashion, right or wrong, that a war would begin which had threatened overlong. yea, to use such speech that if no matter of dispute should be found at the meeting, there might yet be quarrel enough when they parted. the embassy accorded, therefore, that they would so do as to constrain the romans to give battle. gawain and his comrades crossed a mountain, and came through a wood upon a wide plain. at no great distance they beheld the tents and lodges of the host. when the romans saw the three knights issue from the wood, they drew near to look upon their faces and to inquire of their business. they asked of them concerning whom they sought, and if for peace they had come within the camp. but the three knights refused to answer, for good or evil, until they were led before the lord of rome. the embassy got from their horses before the emperor's pavilion. they gave their bridles to the hands of the pages, but as to their swords concealed them beneath their mantles. the three knights showed neither salutation nor courtesy when they stood in the emperor's presence. they rehearsed over arthur's message, whilst lucius hearkened attentively to their words. each of the ambassadors said that which pleased him to be said, and told over what he held proper to be told. the emperor listened to each and all without interruption. after he had considered at his leisure he purposed to reply. "we come from arthur, our lord," said gawain, "and bear to thee his message. he is our king, and we are his liegemen, so it becomes us to speak only the words he has put in our mouth. by us, his ambassadors, he bids you refrain from setting a foot in france. he forbids you to intermeddle with the realm, for it is his, and he will defend his right with such power, that very certainly you may not snatch it from his hand. arthur requires you to seek nothing that is his. if, however, you challenge his claim to france, then battle shall prove his title good, and by battle you shall be thrown back to your own land. once upon a time the romans conquered this realm by force, and by force they maintained their right. let battle decide again whether rome or britain has the power to keep. come forth to-morrow with thy host, so that it may be proven whether you or we shall hold france. if you fear this thing, then go your way in peace, as indeed is best, for what else is there to do! the game is played, and rome and you have lost." lucius the emperor made answer that he did not purpose to return to his realm. france was his fief, and he would visit his own. if he might not pursue his road to-day, why, then to-morrow. but in heart and hope he deemed himself mighty enough to conquer france, and to take all in his seisin. now quintilian, the nephew of the emperor, was seated by his side. he took the word suddenly from his uncle's mouth, for he was a passing proud youth, quick to quarrel, and very bitter in speech. "the britons," cried he, "are known to all as a vainglorious people. they threaten readily, and they boast and brag more readily still. we have listened to their menaces, but we remember they are of those who boast the more because they act the less." quintilian, as i deem, would have continued with yet other grievous words, but gawain, who was hot with anger, drew forth his sword, and springing forward, made the head fly from his shoulders. he cried to his comrades that they should get to their horses, and the earls won their way from the pavilion, gawain with them, and they with him. each seized his steed by the bridle, and climbed nimbly in the saddle. then they rode forth from the camp, shield on shoulder, and lance in hand, asking no leave of any. the patricians within the pavilion sat silent for a space after that bitter stroke. the emperor was the first to come from his amazement. "why sit you here?" cried lucius; "follow after those men who have set this shame upon us. ill fall the day, if they come not to my hand!" the bravest of his household ran from the tent crying for harness and horses. from every side arose the shouting, "swiftly, swiftly; bridle and spur; gallop, gallop." the whole host was mightily moved together. they set saddles on destriers, and led the steeds from the stable. they girt their baldrics about them, and taking their lances, spurred after the fugitives. the three barons pricked swiftly across the plain. they looked this way and that; often glancing behind them to mark how nearly they were followed. the romans pursued them pell-mell; some on the beaten road, and others upon the heavy fields. they came by two, or three, or five, or six, in little clumps of spears. now a certain roman rode in advance of his fellows, by reason of his good horse, which was right speedy. he followed closely after the britons, calling loudly, "lords, stay awhile. he knows himself guilty who flees the pursuer." at his word guerin of chartres turned him about. he set his buckler before him, and lowering the lance, hurtled upon his adversary. guerin rode but the one course. he smote the roman so fiercely, midmost the body, that he fell from his destrier, and died. guerin looked on the fallen man. he said, "a good horse is not always great riches. better for you had you lain coy in your chamber, than to have come to so shameful an end." when boso beheld this adventure of guerin, and heard his words, he was filled with desire of such honour. he turned his horse's head, and seeing before him a knight seeking advancement, ran upon him with the spear. boso smote his adversary in the throat, where the flesh is soft and tender. the roman fell straightway to the ground, for his hurt was very grievous. boso cried gaily to his stricken foe, "master roman, you must needs be fed with gobbets and dainties. take now your rest, till your comrades may tend you. then give them the message that i leave you in their care." among the pursuers spurred a certain patrician named marcellus, who was come of a very noble house. this marcellus was amongst the last to get in his saddle, but by reason of the strength and swiftness of his destrier he rode now with the foremost. he had forgotten his lance, in his haste to follow his fellows. marcellus strove hotly to overtake gawain. he rode furiously with bloody spur and loosened rein. his horse approached nearly to gawain's crupper, and the knight was persuaded that in no wise might he shake off his pursuer. already marcellus had stretched forth his hand, promising gawain his life if he would yield as his prisoner. gawain watched his hunter wanly. when marcellus was upon him, gawain drew his rein sharply, so that the roman overran the chace. as he passed, gawain plucked forth his sword, and smote marcellus terribly on the helmet. no coif could have hindered the stroke, for it divided the head down to the very shoulders. marcellus tumbled from his horse and went to his place. then said gawain, of his courtesy, "marcellus, when you greet quintilian deep in hell, tell him, i pray, that you have found the britons as bold as their boast. tell him that they plead the law with blows, and bite more fiercely than they bark." gawain called upon his companions, guerin and boso, by their names, to turn them about, and enter the lists with their pursuers. the two knights did cheerfully after his counsel, so that three romans were shocked from their saddles. then the messengers rode swiftly on their way, whilst the romans followed after, seeking in all things to do them a mischief. they thrust at the britons with lances, they struck mightily with the sword, yet never might wound nor hurt, neither bring them to the earth, nor make them their captives. there was a certain roman, a kinsman of marcellus, who bestrode a horse that was right speedy. this roman was very dolent, because of his cousin's death, for he had seen his body lying in the dust. he spurred his steed across the plain, and gaining upon the three knights, made ready to avenge his kinsman's blood. gawain watched him ride, with lifted sword, as one who deemed to smite the shield. when gawain perceived his purpose, he dropped the lance, for he had no need of a spear. he drew his sword, and as the roman, with brand raised high above his head, prepared to strike, gawain smote swiftly at the lifted limb. arm and sword alike flew far off in the field, the fist yet clasped about the hilt. gawain dressed his glaive again. he would have bestowed yet another buffet, but the romans hastened to the succour of their fellow, and he dared not stay. in this fashion the huntsmen followed after the quarry, till the chase drew near a wood, close by the entrance to that fortress arthur had newly built. now arthur had appointed six thousand horsemen of his host to follow after his messengers. he commanded these horsemen to go by hill and valley to guard against surprise. they were to watch diligently for the ambassadors, affording them succour, so they were beset. this great company of spears was hidden in the wood. they sat upon their horses, helmet on head, and lance in hand, scanning the road for the return of arthur's embassy. presently they were aware of many armed men riding swiftly across the plain, and in their midst three knights, in harness, fleeing for their lives. when the britons marked the quarry, and were assured of the hunters, they cried out with one voice, and burst from their ambush. the romans dared not abide their coming, but scattered on the plain. the britons rode hardly upon them, doing them all the mischief they might, for they were passing wroth to see their comrades handselled so despitefully. many a roman had reason to rue his hunting, for some were seized and made captive, others were sorely wounded, and divers slain. there was a certain rich baron named peredur. amongst the captains of rome not one was counted his peer. this captain had ten thousand armed men in his bailly, who marched at his bidding. tidings were carried to peredur of the snare the britons had limed. peredur moved promptly. he hastened with ten thousand shields to the plain, and by sheer force and numbers bore the britons back to the wood, for they were not mighty enough to contend against him in the field. the britons held the wood strongly, and defended it right manfully. peredur might not take it for all his cunning, and lost there largely of his company. the britons lured the romans within the covert, and slew them in the glooms. so hot and so perilous was the melley, fought between the valley and the wood. arthur took thought to the tarrying of his messengers, and remembered that those came not again whom he sent to their aid. the king summoned yder, the son of nut, to his counsel. he committed to his charge seven thousand horses and riders, and despatched them after the others, bidding him seek until he found. yder drew to the plain. gawain and boso yet strove like champions, and for the rest there was not one but did what he could. from afar yder heard the cry and the tumult as the hosts contended together. when the britons beheld yder's company, they were refreshed mightily in heart and hope. they assailed their adversaries so fiercely that they won back the ground which was lost. yder led his horsemen like a brave knight and a cunning captain. he charged so vigorously with his company, that many a saddle was emptied, many a good horse taken, and many a rider shocked. peredur sustained the battle stoutly, and wheeling about, returned to the field. he was a crafty captain, knowing well the hour to charge and to wheel, to press hard on the fugitive, or to wait. many a fair charge did he lead that day. he who was valiant, found peredur yet more bold. whoso was minded to tourney, found peredur yet more willing to break a spear. his bailly smote more terribly with the sword than ever they were stricken, so that three hundred horsemen and over lay dead upon the field. when the britons marked the deeds of peredur they could not be contained. they broke from their ranks and companies, and ran upon the foe. they were desirous beyond measure to joust with their adversaries, and to show forth their prowess. above all things they were covetous of honour, so that for chivalry they brought the battle to confusion. so only they strove hand to hand with the romans, they gave no thought to the end. peredur wished nothing better. he held his bailly closely together, pushing home and drawing off according to need. many a time he charged amongst the britons, and many a time he returned, bringing his wounded from their midst. boso of oxford regarded the battle. he saw his dead upon the ground. he marked the craft with which peredur--that great captain--sustained the romans, and knew well that all was lost, save that peredur were slain. how might the courage of a rash and foolish company prevail against the discipline of the roman host! boso called about him the best and bravest of his captains. "lords," he said, "give me your counsel. you, in whom arthur put his trust, have entered on this battle without any commandment of our lord. if well befalls, all will be well; if ill, he will require his sergeants at our hands. should we be vile and niddering enough to gain no honour on the field, very surely we shall receive yet more shame as our portion when we come into his presence. our one hope is to fight against none, great or small, save only with peredur. alive or dead he must be made captive, and delivered into arthur's power. until peredur be taken we shall never draw off in honour from the stour, but must suffer yet greater loss than before. if then you would make him prisoner, follow after where i will lead, and do that thing which you shall see me do." the captains, therefore, plighted faith to follow his ensample, and in no wise to depart from his command. boso brought together as many horsemen as he might, and ranged them in order of battle. he sent out spies to bring him tidings where that peredur should be met, who led the romans so craftily. the spies departed on their perilous errand, and returning presently, proclaimed that peredur rode with the host in that place where the press was thickest, and the battle drew never to an end, boso rode with his company straight to the heart of the stour. he hurtled upon the romans, and looking on peredur, fought his way to his side. when their horses stood together, boso flung his arms about his adversary, and dragged him amongst the britons. then of his will he hurled himself to the ground, and with him tumbled sir peredur. a very marvellous adventure was it to behold boso fall from his destrier in the hottest of the battle, clasping peredur closely in his arms. the two champions strove mightily, but boso was above, and for nothing would unloose his hold. the bailly of peredur hastened fiercely to the rescue of their captain. those whose lances were still unbroken charged till the staves were splintered; when their lances failed them at need, they laid on with their swords, working havoc amongst the britons. at any price the romans would rescue their captain, and the britons were in the same mind to succour boso in his jeopardy. never might heart desire to see battle arrayed more proudly. never was there a fairer strife of swords, never a more courteous contention of valiant men. plume and helmet were abased to the dust, shields were cloven, the hauberk rent asunder, ash staves knapped like reeds, girths were broken, saddles voided, and strong men thrown, and brave men wounded to the death. the thunder of the shouting filled the field. the britons cried as arthur had taught them, and the romans answered with the name of rome. the one party did all that valiant men were able to guard their captive in their midst, and the other to pluck their captain from amongst them. so confused was the contention, so disordered the combat, that men as they strove together hardly knew roman from briton, friend from foe, save only by the cry they shouted, and by the tongue they spoke in the stour. gawain flung himself in the press, hewing a path towards boso, with mighty strokes of the sword. with point and edge, thrust and cut, he beat down many, and put divers to flight. not a roman of them all could prevail against him, nor, so he might, would strive to hinder him in his road. from another side of the field yder set his face to the same end. a woodman was he, clearing a bloody path amongst the trees. guerin of chartres aided him like a loyal comrade, each covering his fellow with the shield. the three champions drew before peredur and boso, and dragged them to their feet. they brought a steed to boso, and gave a sword to his hand. as for peredur, the crafty captain who had done them so many and such great mischiefs, they held him strongly. they carried him from the press to their own lines for the greater surety. there they left him, bound, under the charge of trusty warders, and straightway returned to the battle. now the romans had lost their captain. they were as a ship upon the waters, without a rudder, that drifts here and there, having neither aim nor direction, at the bidding of the winds and waves. such was the plight of the bailly which was spoiled of its captain, for an army without a constable is less an army than a flock of sheep. the britons dealt mercilessly with their beaten foe. they pressed hardly upon the romans, smiting down and slaying many. they made captives of the fallen, stripping them of wealth and armour, and pursued hotly after the fugitives. these they bound with cords, and came again in triumph to their companions in the wood, together with their prisoners. the britons carried peredur, the wise captain, to the camp, and bestowed him upon arthur, their lord. they rendered also to his hand divers other prisoners of less value than he. arthur thanked them for their gift. he promised to recompense each for his goodwill, when he returned a victor to his realm. arthur set his captives fast in prison, whence they could in nowise break out. afterwards he took counsel with his barons to convey the prisoners to paris, and guard them close in his castle, until the king's pleasure concerning them was known. he feared to keep them with the host, lest--watch as he would--they should escape from his ward. arthur made ready a strong company to bring them to paris, and set governors over them. he gave peredur and his fellows into the charge of four earls of high lineage, namely, cador, borel, richier, and bedevere his butler. these barons rose very early in the morning, and brought the romans from their prison. like careful warders they put the captives in their midst, and set out on their journey, riding right warily. now lucius, the emperor, had learned from his spies that the earls purposed to start at daybreak on their road to paris. lucius prepared ten thousand riders on horses. he bade them travel the whole night through, outstripping the britons, and devise such ambush as would rescue their comrades from these barons. he committed this company to sertorius, lord of libya, and evander, the king of syria. with these princes were caritius and catellus vulteius, patricians of rome. each of these lords was a wealthy man of his lands, and a skilful captain in war. lucius had chosen them from all their fellows, and laid his charge straitly upon them, to succour their comrades in their need. these were the lords of the host. the ten thousand horsemen in mail set out at nightfall on their errand. certain peasants of the land went with them, to guide them by the surest way. they travelled throughout the night, sparing not the spur, till they came forth on the paris road. there they searched out a likely place where they might hide them in ambush, and held themselves close and coy until it was day. very early in the morning the prickers of the host sent tidings that the britons were near at hand. arthur's men rode in all surety, deeming they had nought to fear. they were ordered in two companies. cador and borel led the first company, and were the vanguard of the host. a little space after came richier, the earl, and bedevere, the king's cupbearer. these had peredur and his fellows in their care. six hundred horsemen in harness followed at the earls' backs, having the captives in their midst. they had tied their wrists behind them, and fastened their feet with ropes under the bellies of the horses. so they pricked, all unwitting, into the snare the romans had spread. when cador and borel were in the net, the romans sallied forth from their hiding. the hard ground trembled beneath the thunder of the destriers' hoofs. they charged home fiercely amongst their adversaries, but for all their amazement the britons sustained the shock like men. bedevere and richier gave ear to the tumult, and the noise of the shouting. their first thought was to the prisoners. these they set in a sure place, giving them to the charge of their squires, and commanding that they should be guarded strictly. then they hastened amain to the breaking of spears. the adversaries clashed together with all their strength. the romans drifted here and there, in little clumps of lances, for their mind was less to discomfit the britons than to release the captives from their bonds. for their part the britons kept their order, and fared boldly among the enemy. passing heavy were the romans because of the prisoners they might not find. very grievous was the count of their horsemen who perished in the search. now the captains divided the britons by companies into four strong columns of battle cador of cornwall commanded the folk of his earldom; bedevere the frenchmen of beauce, borel had with him the levies of le mans, and to richier was committed a company drawn from the men of his household. king evander perceived the loss and the peril caused to his host by reason of their divided mind since the captives could not be met with, he checked the hastiness of his meinie. he drew back his horsemen, and ranged them in order. then he returned to the battle. it befell, therefore, that the romans bore away the prize, and had the better of their adversaries. they wrought much damage to the britons, making many prisoners. they slew, moreover, four of the mightiest and most valiant lords of their enemies at that time perished yder, a faithful knight, courageous and passing strong. hirelgas of peritum died, too, this day, there was no hardier knight than he. ahduc of tintagel also, for whom his kin made wondrous sorrow. besides these was slain sir amaury of the islands, but whether he was welsh or briton i do not know. earl borel of le mans, a rich lord, and a right honoured and puissant prince amongst his own, did well and worshipfully. he checked the romans boldly, slaying of them more than one hundred men. evander hastened against him. he thrust his lance head through borel's throat, so that the point came out at his neck. borel fell from his horse, for he was sped. the britons were dismayed beyond measure. they fled before their adversaries, since many were killed, and where one briton stood, ten romans opposed themselves over against him. doubtless they had been utterly discomfited, and the captives wrested from their hand, had not guitard of poitiers drawn to their succour. earl guitard, that day, was warden of the marches. he learned from his prickers tidings that a company of romans was despatched to rescue the captives. guitard saddled his destrier. he took with him three thousand horsemen, without counting the spearmen and archers, and rode swiftly in aid. as they drew near to the battle they heard the shouts of the romans in praise of their victory. guitard and his company rode into the press with lowered lances and scarlet spurs. a hundred horsemen and more were hurled from their steeds in that shock, never to climb in the saddle again. the romans were altogether fearful and esmayed, making complaint of their pitiful plight. they deemed that arthur himself had fallen upon them with all his meinie at his back. their hearts turned to water, by reason of the number of their dead. the levies of poitou closed about them, and the britons failed not at need each company strove to outvie its fellow, contending earnestly for the greater glory. the romans could do no more. they turned about and fled the field, utterly discomfited and abased. their one thought was to get to shelter, or else they were all dead men. the britons pressed hardly on the fugitives, slaying many. in the flight king evander and catellus were taken, and of their fellowship six hundred and more were destroyed. of these divers were slain, and others made captive. the britons took spoil of prisoners according to their desire, and retained of these as they might. then they returned by the road, to the place where the combat was won. the britons went about the field searching amongst the dead for borel, the stout earl of le mans. they found him among the fallen, bebled with blood, and gashed with many a grisly wound. afterwards they carried the hurt to the surgeons, and the dead they laid in their graves. as for peredur and his companions they committed them afresh to those whom arthur had charged with their keeping, and sent them on their way to paris. the rest of the prisoners they bound straitly, and carrying them before arthur, delivered them to his hand. they rehearsed to the king the tale of this adventure, and not a man of them all but pledged his word that so the romans made offer of battle, without doubt they should be utterly destroyed. the tidings of this heavy discomfiture were brought to the emperor lucius learned of the capture of evander, and of the others who were slain. he saw his men had no more spirit in them, and that the beginning of the war went very ill. lucius considered the failure of his hopes, that in nothing was he conqueror. he was passing heavy, being altogether cast down and dismayed. he thought and thought and feared. he knew not whether to give arthur battle without delay, or to await the coming of the rearward of his host. he doubted sorely that which he should do, for wondrously affrighted was he of this battle, by reason of the losses he had known. lucius took counsel with his captains, and devised to bring his company to autun, passing by way of langres. he set forth with the host, and moving towards langres, entered the city when the day was far spent. now langres is builded on the summit of a mount, and the plain lies all about the city. so lucius and part of his people lodged within the town, and for the rest they sought shelter in the valley. arthur knew well where the emperor would draw, and of his aim and purpose. he was persuaded that the roman would not fight till the last man was with him. he cared neither to tarry in the city, nor to pacify the realm. arthur sounded his trumpets, and bade his men to their harness. as speedily as he might he marched out from camp. he left langres on the left hand, and passed beyond it bearing to the right. he had in mind to outstrip the emperor, and seize the road to autun. all the night through, without halt or stay, arthur fared by wood and plain, till he came to the valley of soissons. there arthur armed his host, and made him ready for battle. the highway from autun to langres led through this valley, and arthur would welcome the romans immediately they were come. the king put the gear and the camp followers from the host. he set them on a hill near by, arrayed in such fashion as to seem men-at-arms. he deemed that the romans would be the more fearful, when they marked this multitude of spears. arthur took six thousand six hundred and sixty six men, and ranged them by troops in a strong company. this company he hid within a wood upon a high place. mordup, earl of gloucester, was the constable of the meinie. "your part in the battle," said arthur, "is to be still. let nothing induce you to break from your post should evil befall, and the battle roll back to the wood, charge boldly on your adversaries, that you comrades may find rest if it chance that the romans turn their backs in the battle, then hurtle upon them without delay, sparing none in the flight". so these answered, promising to do after his word arthur straightway ordered another legion. it was formed of mighty men, chosen from amongst his vassals, with laced helmets, riding on their destriers. this fair company he arrayed in open ground, and it owned no other captain save the king. with this legion rode those of his privy household, whom he had cherished and nourished at his own table. in their midst was guarded the royal dragon, that was the king's own gonfalon. from the rest of his host the king made six companies, each company having ten captains. half of these companies were horsemen, and the others went on foot. on each and all arthur laid prayer and commandment, that rider and sergeant alike should bear them as men, and contend earnestly against the romans. not one of these legions but was numbered of five thousand five hundred and fifty-five horsemen, chosen soldiers, mighty men of valour, and mightily armed for war. of the eight legions, four companies were set over against their enemy, supported by four behind. every man was armed and clad according to the custom of his land. aguisel of scotland had the forefront of the first legion in his keeping, cador of cornwall being charged with the rear. boso and earl guerin of chartres were the constables of another company. the third company, formed of outland folk, and armed in divers manners, was delivered to echil, king of the danes, and to lot, the king of norway. the fourth had hoel for constable, and with him gawain, who, certes, was no faintheart. behind these four legions were arrayed and ordered yet four other companies. of one, kay the sewer and bedevere the cupbearer were the captains. with kay were the men of chinon and the angevins; whilst under bedevere were the levies of paris and of beauce. to holdin of flanders and guitard the poitivin were committed another company--right glad were they of their trust. earls jugein of leicester and jonathan of dorchester were lords and constables of the seventh legion. earl curfalain of chester and earl urgain of bath held the eighth legion as their bailly; for these were lords by whom arthur set great store. as for the spearmen, the archers, and the stout arbalestriers arthur separated them from the press. he divided them into two portions--one for either wing of his army. all these were about the king's person, and embattled near his body. when arthur had arrayed his legions, and set his battle in order, hearken now that which he spake to his lords, his household, and his vassals "lords," said arthur, "i take wondrous comfort when i remember your manhood and virtues, seeing you always so valiant and praiseworthy. in the past you have accomplished great things, but day by day your prowess grows to the full, abating the pride of all who set themselves against you. when i call to mind and consider that britain, in our day, is the lady of so many and so far lands by reason of you and your fellows, i rejoice mightily, mightily i boast thereof, and in my god and you right humbly do i put my trust. god grant that you may do more marvellous works than ever you have wrought, and that your orb has not yet reached its round. lords, your valiance and manhood have conquered these romans twice already. my heart divines the decree of fate that you will overthrow them once again. three times then have we discomfited these romans. you have smitten down the danes; you have abated norway, and vanquished the french. france we hold as our fief in the teeth of the roman power. right easily should you deal with the varlet, who have overborne so many and such perilous knights. the romans desire to make britain their province, to grow fat with our tribute, and to bring france once more to their allegiance for this cause they have ransacked the east, and carried hither these strange, outland people, who amaze christendom, to fight in their quarrel. be not fearful of their numbers. ten christened men are worth a hundred of such paynims. the battle will be less a battle, than a tournament of dames. have therefore good trust in god, and be confident of the issue. we shall deal with them lightly, so only we show a little courage. well i am assured what each of you will do this day, and how he will bear him in the melley. for my part i shall be in the four quarters of the field, and with every one of my legions. where the press is thickest, where the need most dire, my dragon shall raise his crest" when the proud words were ended which arthur rehearsed in the ears of his people, the host made answer with one loud voice. not a man of them all, who hearkened to his speech, but replied that he loved better to be stark upon the field, than to know himself vanquished at the end. the whole host was mightily moved together. they defied the foe, they promised with oaths to bear them like men, and there were those who wept. such tears were not shed by reason of fearfulness. it was the weeping of men who were utterly purposed never to fail their king. now lucius, the emperor, was born in spain, of a valiant and noble stock. he was in the most comely flower of his age, having more than thirty years, but less than forty. he was a proven knight, of high courage, who had done great deeds already. for such feats of arms the roman senate had chosen him to be their emperor. lucius rose early in the morning, purposing to set forth from langres to autun his host was now a great way upon the road, when tidings were brought of the stratagem arthur had practised against him. the emperor knew well that either he must fight or retreat. go back he would not, lest any deemed him fearful. moreover, should the britons follow after, their triumph was assured, for how may soldiers bear them with a stout heart, who flee already from the field! lucius called about him his kings, his princes, and his dukes. he drew together his wisest counsellors, and the most crafty captains of his host. to these he spake, and to the bravest of his legions, numbering one hundred thousand men and more besides. "hearken, gentle lords," cried lucius, "give ear, ye liege men, fair conquerors, honest sons of worthy sires, who bequeathed you so goodly an inheritance. by reason of your fathers' glorious deeds, rome became the empery of the world. that she will remain whilst one only roman breathes. great as is the glory of your fathers who subdued this empire, so great will be the shame of their sons in whose day it is destroyed. but a valiant father begets a valiant son. your ancestors were gentle knights, and you do them no wrong. not one of you but comes of hardy stock, and the sap rises in your blood like wine. let every man strive valiantly this day to be what his father was in his. remember the grief that will be his lot who loses his heritage, and whose cowardice gives to another what he holds of his father's courage. but i know, and am persuaded, that you will maintain your portions. bold as were the dead, so bold are the living, and i speak to knights who are mighty men of valour. lords, the road is shut which would lead us to autun. we cannot wend our way till we have forced the gate. i know not what silent thief, or picker, or sturdy knave, has closed the road by which we fared. he deems that i shall flee, and abandon the realm like a dropped pouch. he is wrong. if i went back it was but to lure him on. now that he has arrayed his battle against you, brace your harness and loosen your swords. if the briton awaits us, he shall not be disappointed of his hope. should he flee he shall find us on his track. the time is come to put bit and bridle in the jaws of this perilous beast, and to hinder him from further mischief." the romans hastened to get to their arms, for they were passing eager to fight. they arrayed and embattled the host, setting the sergeants in rank and company, and forming the columns in due order. the romans were a mingled fellowship. divers outland kings, and many paynim and saracens, were mixed with the christian folk, for all these people owned fealty to rome, and were in the service of the emperor. by thirties and forties, by fifties, by sixties, by hundreds and by legions, the captains apparelled the battle. in troops and in thousands the horsemen pricked to their appointed place. multitudes of spearmen, multitudes of riders, were ranged in close order, and by hill and valley were despatched against arthur's host. one mighty company, owning fealty to rome and employed in the service of the emperor, descended within the valley. another great company assaulted the britons where they lay. thereat broke forth a loud shrilling of clarions and sounding of trumpets, whilst the hosts drew together. as they approached, the archers shot so deftly, the spearmen launched their darts so briskly, that not a man dared to blink his eye or to show his face. the arrows flew like hail, and very quickly the melley became yet more contentious. there where the battle was set you might mark the lowered lance, the rent and pierced buckler. the ash staves knapped with a shriek, and flew in splinters about the field. when the spear was broken they turned to the sword, and plucked the brand from its sheath. right marvellous was the melley, and wondrously hideous and grim. never did men hew more mightily with the glaive. not a man who failed at need; not a man of them all who flinched in the press; not one who took thought for his life. the sword smote upon the buckler as on an anvil. the earth shuddered beneath the weight of the fighting men, and the valley rang and clanged like a smithy with the tumult. here a host rushed furiously against a legion which met it with unbroken front. there a great company of horsemen crashed with spears upon a company as valiant as itself. horse and rider went down before the adversary, arrows flew and darts were hurled; lances were splintered and the sword shattered upon the covering shield. the strong prevailed against the weak, and the living brought sorrow to the dead. horses ran madly about the field, with voided saddles, broken girths, and streaming mane. the wounded pitied their grievous hurts, choosing death before life; but the prayer of their anguish was lost in the tumult and the cries. thus for a great while the two hosts contended mightily together, doing marvellous damage, one to the other. neither roman nor briton could gain ground, so that no man knew who would triumph in the end. bedevere and kay considered the battle. they saw that the romans held themselves closely. they were filled with anger at the malice of the romans, and led their company to that place where the press was the most perilous. ah, god, but arthur had men for his seneschal and cupbearer. knights of a truth were these who sat at his table. kay and bedevere smote like paladins with their brands of steel. many fair deeds had they done, but none so fair as they did that day. they divided the forefront of the battle, and cleaving a passage with the sword, opened a road for their fellows. the britons followed after, taking and rendering many strokes, so that divers were wounded and many slain. blood ran in that place like water, and the dead they lay in heaps. bedevere adventured deeper into the melley, giving himself neither pause nor rest. kay came but a stride behind, beating down and laying low, that it was marvellous to see. the two companions halted for a breathing space, turning them about to encourage their men. great was the praise and worship they had won, but they were yet desirous of honour. they were over anxious for fame, and their courage led them to rashness. in their hope of destroying the romans, they took no heed to their own safety. they trusted beyond measure in their strength, and in the strength of their company. there was a certain pagan, named bocus, king of the medes. he was a rich lord in his land, and captain of a strong legion. bocus hastened his men to the battle, for he was fearful of none, however perilous the knight. when the two hosts clashed together the contention was very courteous, and the melley passing well sustained. pagan and saracen were set to prove their manhood against angevins and the folk of beauce. king bocus took a sword, and discomfited the two paladins. may his body rot for his pains. he thrust bedevere through the breast, so fiercely that the steel stood out beyond his back. bedevere fell, for his heart was cloven. his soul went its way. may jesus take it in his keeping! kay lighted upon bedevere lying dead. since he loved him more than any living man, he was determined the pagans should not triumph over his body. he called around him as many men as he might, and did such deeds that the medians fled before him, leaving the britons on the field. sertorius, king of libya, beheld this adventure, and was passing wroth. he had with him a great company of pagans whom he had carried from his realm. sertorius, hot with anger, drew near, and dealt much mischief to his adversaries. he wounded kay to the death, and slew the best of his men. mauled as he was with many grim strokes, kay guarded his comrade's body. he set it amidst his men, and carried the burthen from the press, fighting as they went. with him, also, he bore arthur's banner, the golden dragon, let the romans rage as they would. now hiresgas, the nephew of bedevere, loved his uncle passing well. he sought his kinsfolk and friends, and gathered to his fellowship some three hundred men. this company wore helmet and hauberk and brand, and rode fair destriers, fierce and right speedy. hiresgas ordered his house for the battle. "come now with me," said he to his friends, "and crave the price of blood." hiresgas drew near that place where bocus, king of the medians, displayed his banner. when hiresgas beheld his enemy he became as a man possessed. he cried the battle cry of arthur, and together with his company charged terribly upon bocus. he had but one only thought, to avenge his uncle's death. hiresgas and his fellows burst amongst the medians with lowered lances and covering shields. they slew many, and flung many others from their saddles. they rode over the fallen, trampling them beneath the hoofs of the horses, till they reached the very cohort of that king who had slain sir bedevere. mounted on strong destriers the bold vassals followed after hiresgas, wheeling to right or left, as he led, till they pierced to the gonfalon, showing the arms of the king. hiresgas spied his foe. he turned his horse, and pushing through the press, drew near, and smote bocus full on the helm. the baron was a mighty man; the stroke was fierce, and his blade was keen and strong. he struck well and craftily. the blow sheared through helmet and coif. it divided the head to the shoulders, so that the soul of king bocus sped away to the adversary. hiresgas stretched out his arm, seizing the body ere it might fall to the ground. he set his enemy before him on his horse, and held him fast, the limbs hanging on either side. then he made his way from the stour, the dead man uttering neither lamentation nor cry. the knight was grim, and his war-horse mighty. his kinsfolk gathered behind him, that the medians should do him no mischief. by the aid of his fellows he won out of the battle, and carried his burthen to the very place where his uncle lay. there, joint by joint, he hacked king bocus asunder. when his task was ended, sir hiresgas called his comrades about him. "come," said he, "come, true men's sons, to the slaying of these romans. romans! nay, cutpurses, rather, whoresons, paynims who have neither trust in god, nor faith in our true religion. rome has brought them from the east for the destruction of our lives and our kin. on then, friends, let us wipe out these pagans, the pagans, and such renegade christians as have joined them to slay christendom more surely. forward, to sharpen your manhood upon them." hiresgas led his household back to the battle. tumult and shouting filled the plain. helmet and brand glittered in the sun, but the steel often was dulled with blood, or was shattered on the shield. the fair duke, guitard of poitiers, bore him as a valiant man. he held his own stoutly against the king of afric. the two lords contended together, hand to hand, but it was the king of afric died that day. guitard passed across his body, smiting down many africans and moors. holdin, duke of the flemings, was a wise prince, circumspect and sober in counsel. he strove with the legion of aliphatma, a king of spain. the two princes fought one with the other, in so great anger, that aliphatma was wounded to the death, and holdin was in no better case. ligier, earl of boulogne, ran a course with the king of babylon. i know not who was the fairer knight, for both were shocked from their seats. dead upon the field lay earl and king alike. with ligier were slain three other earls, masters of many carles in their own lands. urgent, lord of bath, balluc, earl of guitsire, and earl cursa of chester, warden of the marches of wales, perished in a little space, so that their men were sorely grieved. the company which followed after their pennons flinched in the press. it gave back before the romans, and fled for shelter to the legion which had gawain for its captain, and with him hoel, his fair friend and companion. two such champions you would not find, search the whole world through. never had knighthood seen their peers for courtesy and kindliness, as for wisdom and chivalry. now hoel was captain of the men of brittany. his fellowship were proud and debonair. they were reckless of danger to such a degree that they neither cared nor feared to whom they were opposed. as one man they charged, and as one man they pierced through the foe. the men of brittany swept down on the romans, who were pursuing their comrades, and trampling them under in thousands. they put them speedily to the rightabout, and rode over many in their turn. ah!, for the griding of their swords, and, ah!, for the captives who were taken. the company hurtled on, till they drew to the golden eagle which was the gonfalon of the emperor. lucius, himself, was very near his pennon, and with him the flower of his meinie, the gentle men and gallant knights of rome. then angels and men witnessed so mortal an encounter, as never i deem was beheld of any, since time began. chinmark, earl of tigel, rode in hoel's cohort. he was a great baron, and wrought much mischief to his adversaries. his day was come, for a roman, mean of his station, and fighting on his feet, flung a javelin at his body, so that he died. with the earl perished two thousand of the britons, every man hardier than his fellows. there, too, were slain three other earls. jagus, to his loss, had come from boloan. the second was hight cecormanus, the third, earl boclonius. few indeed of arthur's barons might compare with these lords in valour and worth. had they been sons of kings, who were but earls, the story of their gestes would be sung by the minstrels, as i deem, about the world, so marvellous were their feats. these three fair lords raged wondrously amongst the romans. not one who came to their hands but gasped out his life, whether by lance-thrust or sword. they forced a path to the eagle of the emperor, but the bearers arrayed themselves against them, and cutting them off from their companions, slew them amidst their foes. hoel and gawain, his cousin, were distraught with anger when they regarded the mischief dealt them by the romans. to avenge their comrades, to wreak damage upon their adversaries, they entered amongst them as lions in the field. they smote down and did much havoc to their adversaries, cleaving a way with many terrible blows of their swords. the romans defended their bodies to the death. if strokes they received, strokes they rendered again. they opposed themselves stoutly to those who were over against them, and were as heroes contending with champions. gawain was a passing perilous knight. his force and manhood never failed, so that his strength was unabated, and his hand unwearied in battle. he showed his prowess so grimly that the romans quailed before him. gawain sought the emperor in every place, because of his desire to prove his valour. he went to and fro, seeking so tirelessly and diligently, that at the last he found. the captains looked on the other's face. the emperor knew again the knight, and gawain remembered lucius. the two hurtled together, but each was so mighty that he fell not from his horse. lucius, the emperor, was a good knight, strong and very valiant. he was skilled in all martial exercises and of much prowess. he rejoiced greatly to adventure himself against gawain, whose praise was so often in the mouths of men. should he return living from the battle, sweetly could he boast before the ladies of rome. the paladins strove with lifted arm and raised buckler. marvellous blows they dealt with the sword. they pained themselves greatly, doing all that craft might devise to bring the combat to an end. neither of them flinched, nor gave back before the other. pieces were hewn from the buckler, and sparks flew from the brands. they joined together, smiting above and thrusting under, two perfect knights, two gentle paladins, so fierce and so terrible, that had they been left to themselves very quickly must one have come to a fair end. the roman legions recovered from the panic into which they had fallen. they ranged themselves beneath the golden eagle, and brought succour to the emperor at the moment of his utmost need. the legions swept the britons before them, and won again the field from which they were driven. arthur watched the fortunes of the day. he marked the discomfiture of his host, and hearkened to the triumphant shouts of the legionaries. he could not, and dared not, wait longer. arthur hastened with his chosen company to the battle. he rallied the rout, crying to the fleeing sergeants, "whom seek you? turn about, for it were better to be slain of the romans than by your king. i am arthur, your captain, and mortal man shall not drive me from the field. follow me, for i will open a road, and beware lest the maidens of britain hold you as recreant. call to mind your ancient courage, by which you have overcome so many proud kings. for my part i will never go from this field alive, till i have avenged me on my adversaries." arthur did wondrously in the eyes of all the people. he struck many a roman to the ground. shield, and hauberk, and helmet he hewed asunder, heads, arms, and gauntlets were divided by his sword. excalibur waxed red that day, for whom arthur smote he slew. i cannot number the count of his blows, and every blow a death. for as the ravenous lion deals with his prey, so likewise did the fair king raven amongst his enemies. not one he spared, he turned aside from none. that man he wounded required no surgeon for his hurt. all the press gave back before so stark a champion, till in his path stood neither great nor small. the king of libya--sertorius to name--was a lord exceeding rich. arthur struck the head from his shoulders. "in an ill hour you drew from the east to bear arms in this quarrel, and to furnish drink for excalibur". but the dead man answered never a word. polybetes, king of bithyma, fought upon his feet. this was a pagan lord, and passing rich. arthur found the paynim before him. he smote but one marvellous blow, and divided his head to the shoulders. polybetes crashed to the earth. his soul rushed from his body, and his brains were spattered about the field. "roman, speed to your doom," cried arthur loudly, in the hearing of all. when the britons beheld arthur's deeds, and hearkened to his high words, they took courage and charged upon the romans. the romans met them boldly with sword and spear, doing them many and great mischiefs. when arthur saw that the battle was stayed, he increased in valour, and did yet more dreadfully with excalibur. he slew and cast down divers, so that the ground was cumbered with the fallen. lucius, the emperor, for his part, was not backward in the melley, and avenged himself grievously on the britons. emperor and king, for all their seeking, might not come together. this was heavy upon them, for each was a very courteous champion. the battle rolled this way and that, since the contention was passing perilous. the romans did well, nor might the britons do better. a thousand men came swiftly to their deaths, for the two hosts arrayed themselves proudly one against the other, and strove right scornfully. not a judge on earth could declare which host should be vanquished, nor what man of them all would come victor and quick from the tourney. now mordup, earl of gloucester, was constable of the bailly arthur had hidden on a high place within a wood. mordup remembered arthur's counsel that should evil befall, and the battle draw back to the wood, he must charge boldly on his adversaries. mordup rode from his hiding with a company of six thousand six hundred and sixty-six riders, clad in gleaming helmets and coats of mail, and carrying sharp lances and swords. these drew down the hillside, unnoticed of the romans, and coming out on their rear, charged hotly on the legion. the legion was altogether discomfited. its ranks were pierced, its order was broken, with the loss of more than one thousand men. the britons rode amongst the romans, parting each from his fellow, trampling the fallen beneath the horses' hoofs, and slaying with the sword. the romans could endure no longer, for the end of all was come. they broke from their companies, and fled fearfully down the broad road, climbing one upon the other in their haste. there lucius, the emperor, fell on death, being smitten in the body by a spear. i cannot tell who smote him down, nor of whose lance he was stricken. he was overtaken in the press, and amongst the dead he was found slain. beneath the thickest of the battle he was discovered, dead, and the hurt within his breast was dealt him by a spear. the romans and their fellows from the east fled before the pursuers, but the britons following after did them sore mischief. they waxed weary of slaying, so that they trod the romans underfoot. blood ran in runnels, and the slain they lay in heaps. fair palfreys and destriers ran masterless about the field, for the rider was dead, and had neither joy nor delight in the sun. arthur rejoiced and made merry over so noble a triumph, which had brought the pride of rome to the dust. he gave thanks to the king of glory, who alone had granted him the victory. arthur commanded search to be made about the country for the bodies of the slain, whether they were friend or foe. many he buried in the self-same place, but for the others he carried them to certain fair abbeys, and laid them together to rest. as for the body of lucius, the emperor, arthur bade it to be held in all honour, and tended with every high observance. he sealed it in a bier, and sent it worshipfully to rome. at the same time he wrote letters to the senate that no other truage would he pay them for britain, which he guarded as his realm. if truage they yet required, then truage they should receive coined in the very mint. kay, who was wounded to death in the battle, was carried to chinon, the castle he had builded, and called after his own name. there he was interred in a holy hermitage, standing in a little grove, near by the city. bedevere was brought to bayeux in normandy, a town of his lordship. he was lain in the ground beyond the gate, looking over towards the south. holdin was borne to flanders, and buried at tervanna. ligier was buried at boulogne. arthur, for his part, sojourned all through the winter in burgundy, giving peace and assurance to the land. he purposed when summer was come to pass the mountains, and get him to rome. he was hindered in his hope by mordred, of whose shame and vileness you shall now hear. this mordred was the king's kin, his sister's very son, and had britain in his charge. arthur had given the whole realm to his care, and committed all to his keeping. mordred did whatever was good in his own eyes, and would have seized the land to his use. he took homage and fealty from arthur's men, demanding of every castle a hostage. not content with this great sin he wrought yet fouler villainy. against the christian law he took to himself the wife of the king. his uncle's queen, the dame of his lord, he took as wife, and made of her his spouse. these tidings were carried to arthur. he was persuaded that mordred observed no faith towards him, but had betrayed the queen, stolen his wife, and done him no fair service. the king gave half his host to hoel, committing burgundy and france to his hand. he prayed him to keep the land shut from its foes till he came again in peace. for himself he would return to britain, to bring the kingdom back to its allegiance, and to avenge himself on mordred, who had served his wife and honour so despitefully. britain, at any cost, must be regained, for if that were lost all the rest would quickly fall a prey. better to defer for a season the conquest of rome, than to be spoiled of his own realm. in a little while he would come again, and then would go to rome. with these words arthur set forth towards wissant, making complaint of the falseness of mordred, who had turned him away from his conquest; for the warships lay at wissant ready for sea. mordred learned of arthur's purpose. he cared not though he came, for peace was not in his heart. he sent letters to cheldric of saxony, praying him to sail to his aid. the saxon came with seven hundred galleys, furnished with all manner of store, and laden with fighting men. mordred plighted faith that so cheldric would help him with all his power, he would grant him the land from beyond humber to the marches of scotland, besides all the land in kent that hengist held of vortigern's gift, when the king espoused rowena. mordred and cheldric gathered together a right fair company. counting saxon pagans and christened men there assembled sixty thousand riders on horses, in coats of mail. mordred numbered his army with a quiet mind. he considered he was so strong as to drive arthur from any haven. let come what might he would never abandon his spoil. for him there was no place for repentance, yea, so black was his sin that to proffer peace would be but a jest. arthur saw to the harness of his men. he got them on the ships, a multitude whom none could number, and set forth to romney, where he purposed to cast anchor. arthur and his people had scarcely issued from the galleys, when mordred hastened against him with his own men, and those folk from beyond the sea who had sworn to fight in his quarrel. the men in the boats strove to get them to shore; whilst those on the land contended to thrust them deeper in the water. arrows flew and spears were flung from one to the other, piercing heart and bowels and breast of those to whom they were addressed. the mariners pained themselves mightily to run their boats aground. they could neither defend themselves, nor climb from the ships, so that those were swiftly slain who struggled to land. often they staggered and fell, crying aloud; and in their rage they taunted those as traitors who hindered them from coming on shore. ere the ships could be unladen in that port, arthur suffered wondrous loss. many a bold sergeant paid the price with his head. there, too, was gawain, his nephew, slain, and arthur made over him marvellous sorrow; for the knight was dearer to his heart than any other man. aguisel was killed at gawain's side; a mighty lord, and very helpful at need. many others also were slain, for whom arthur, the courteous prince, felt sore dolour. so long as mordred kept the shipmen from the sand, he wrought them much mischief. but when arthur's sergeants won forth from the boats, and arrayed them in the open country, mordred's meinie might not endure against them. mordred and his men had fared richly and lain softly overlong. they were sickly with peace. they knew not how to order the battle, neither to seek shelter nor to wield arms, as these things were known to arthur's host, which was cradled and nourished in war. arthur and his own ravened amongst them, smiting and slaying with the sword. they slew them by scores and by hundreds, killing many and taking captive many more. the slaughter was very grievous, by reason of the greatness of the press. when daylight failed, and night closed on the field, arthur ceased from slaughter, and called his war hounds off. mordred's host continued their flight. they knew not how they went, nor whither; for there was none to lead them, and none took heed to his neighbour. each thought of himself, and was his own physician. mordred fled through the night to london, where he hoped to find succour. he leaned on a reed, for the citizens would not suffer him to enter in their gates. he turned from the city, and passing the fair water of the thames, rode to winchester without stay. mordred sought refuge at winchester, and tarrying awhile, summoned his friends to his side. he took hostages and sureties from the citizens, that peace and faith should be observed between them, and that they would maintain his right. arthur might find no rest by reason of the hatred he bore to mordred. great grief was his for aguisel and gawain, the friends whom he had lost. he sorrowed heavily above his nephew, and offered him seemly burial, though in what place i cannot tell. the chronicles are silent, and meseems there is not a man who knows where gawain was laid[ ], nor the name of him who slew him with the sword. when arthur had performed these fitting rites he gave himself over to his wrath, considering only in what way he could destroy mordred. [footnote : the grave of gawain was fabled to be in pembrokeshire.] he followed after the traitor to winchester, calling from every part his vassals as he went. arthur drew near the city, and lodged his host without the walls. mordred regarded the host which shut him fast. fight he must, and fight he would, for the army might never rise up till he was taken. once arthur had him in his grip well he knew he was but a dead man. mordred gathered his sergeants together, and bade them get quickly into their armour. he arrayed them in companies, and came out through the gates to give battle to the pursuers. immediately he issued from the barriers the host ran to meet him. the contention was very grievous, for many were smitten and many overthrown. it proved but an ill adventure to mordred, since his men were not able to stay against their adversaries. mordred was persuaded that for him there was only one hope of safety, for his trespass was beyond forgiveness, and much he feared the king. he assembled privily the folk of his household, his familiar friends, and those who cherished against arthur the deepest grudge. with these he fled over by-ways to southampton, leaving the rest of his people to endure as they could. at the port he sought pilots and mariners. these he persuaded by gifts and fair promises straightway to put out to sea, that he might escape from his uncle. with a favourable wind the shipmen carried him to cornwall. mordred feared exceedingly for his life, and rejoiced greatly to begone. king arthur besieged winchester strictly. at the end he took burgesses and castle. to yvain, son of urian, a baron beloved of the court, arthur granted scotland as a heritage. yvain paid homage for the gift. of old aguisel claimed lordship in the realm, but he was dead, leaving neither son nor dame to come before yvain. this yvain was a right worshipful knight, worthy, and of passing great valour. very sweetly was he praised of many. that queen, who was arthur's wife, knew and heard tell of the war that was waged by mordred in england. she learned also that mordred had fled from before the king, because he might not endure against him, and durst not abide him in the field. the queen was lodged at york, in doubt and sadness. she called to mind her sin, and remembered that for mordred her name was a hissing. her lord she had shamed, and set her love on her husband's sister's son. moreover, she had wedded mordred in defiance of right, since she was wife already, and so must suffer reproach in earth and hell. better were the dead than those who lived, in the eyes of arthur's queen. passing heavy was the lady in her thought. the queen fled to caerleon. there she entered in a convent of nuns, and took the veil. all her life's days were hidden in this abbey. never again was this fair lady heard or seen; never again was she found or known of men. this she did by reason of her exceeding sorrow for her trespass, and for the sin that she had wrought. mordred held cornwall in his keeping, but for the rest the realm had returned to its allegiance. he compassed sea and land to gather soldiers to his banner. saxon and dane, the folk of ireland and norway, saracen and pagan, each and all of them who hated arthur and loathed his bondage, mordred entreated to his aid. he promised everything they would, and gave what he could, like a man whom necessity drives hard. arthur was sick with wrath that he was not avenged of mordred. he had neither peace nor rest whilst the traitor abode in his land. arthur learned of mordred's strength in cornwall, and this was grievous to him. his spies brought tidings of the snares that mordred spread, and the king waxed heavier thereat. arthur sent after his men to the very humber. he gathered to himself so mighty a host that it was as the sand for multitude. with this he sought mordred where he knew he could be found. he purposed to slay and make an end of the traitor and his perjury alike. mordred had no desire to shrink from battle. he preferred to stake all on the cast, yea, though the throw meant death--rather than be harried from place to place. the battle was arrayed on the camel, over against the entrance to cornwall. a bitter hatred had drawn the hosts together, so that they strove to do each other sore mischief. their malice was wondrous great, and the murder passing grim. i cannot say who had the better part. i neither know who lost, nor who gained that day. no man wists the name of overthrower or of overthrown. all are alike forgotten, the victor with him who died. much people were slain on either side, so that the field was strewn with the dead, and crimson with the blood of dying men. there perished the brave and comely youth arthur had nourished and gathered from so many and far lands. there also the knights of his table round, whose praise was bruited about the whole world. there, too, was mordred slain in the press, together with the greater part of his folk, and in the selfsame day were destroyed the flower of arthur's host, the best and hardiest of his men. so the chronicle speaks sooth, arthur himself was wounded in his body to the death. he caused him to be borne to avalon for the searching of his hurts. he is yet in avalon, awaited of the britons; for as they say and deem he will return from whence he went and live again. master wace, the writer of this book, cannot add more to this matter of his end than was spoken by merlin the prophet. merlin said of arthur--if i read aright--that his end should be hidden in doubtfulness. the prophet spoke truly. men have ever doubted, and--as i am persuaded--will always doubt whether he liveth or is dead. arthur bade that he should be carried to avalon in this hope in the year of the incarnation. the sorer sorrow that he was a childless man. to constantine, cador's son, earl of cornwall, and his near kin, arthur committed the realm, commanding him to hold it as king until he returned to his own. the earl took the land to his keeping. he held it as bidden, but nevertheless arthur came never again. a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) part . chapter xvii a royal banquet madame, seeing me pacific and unresentful, no doubt judged that i was deceived by her excuse; for her fright dissolved away, and she was soon so importunate to have me give an exhibition and kill somebody, that the thing grew to be embarrassing. however, to my relief she was presently interrupted by the call to prayers. i will say this much for the nobility: that, tyrannical, murderous, rapacious, and morally rotten as they were, they were deeply and enthusiastically religious. nothing could divert them from the regular and faithful performance of the pieties enjoined by the church. more than once i had seen a noble who had gotten his enemy at a disadvantage, stop to pray before cutting his throat; more than once i had seen a noble, after ambushing and despatching his enemy, retire to the nearest wayside shrine and humbly give thanks, without even waiting to rob the body. there was to be nothing finer or sweeter in the life of even benvenuto cellini, that rough-hewn saint, ten centuries later. all the nobles of britain, with their families, attended divine service morning and night daily, in their private chapels, and even the worst of them had family worship five or six times a day besides. the credit of this belonged entirely to the church. although i was no friend to that catholic church, i was obliged to admit this. and often, in spite of me, i found myself saying, "what would this country be without the church?" after prayers we had dinner in a great banqueting hall which was lighted by hundreds of grease-jets, and everything was as fine and lavish and rudely splendid as might become the royal degree of the hosts. at the head of the hall, on a dais, was the table of the king, queen, and their son, prince uwaine. stretching down the hall from this, was the general table, on the floor. at this, above the salt, sat the visiting nobles and the grown members of their families, of both sexes,--the resident court, in effect--sixty-one persons; below the salt sat minor officers of the household, with their principal subordinates: altogether a hundred and eighteen persons sitting, and about as many liveried servants standing behind their chairs, or serving in one capacity or another. it was a very fine show. in a gallery a band with cymbals, horns, harps, and other horrors, opened the proceedings with what seemed to be the crude first-draft or original agony of the wail known to later centuries as "in the sweet bye and bye." it was new, and ought to have been rehearsed a little more. for some reason or other the queen had the composer hanged, after dinner. after this music, the priest who stood behind the royal table said a noble long grace in ostensible latin. then the battalion of waiters broke away from their posts, and darted, rushed, flew, fetched and carried, and the mighty feeding began; no words anywhere, but absorbing attention to business. the rows of chops opened and shut in vast unison, and the sound of it was like to the muffled burr of subterranean machinery. the havoc continued an hour and a half, and unimaginable was the destruction of substantials. of the chief feature of the feast --the huge wild boar that lay stretched out so portly and imposing at the start--nothing was left but the semblance of a hoop-skirt; and he was but the type and symbol of what had happened to all the other dishes. with the pastries and so on, the heavy drinking began--and the talk. gallon after gallon of wine and mead disappeared, and everybody got comfortable, then happy, then sparklingly joyous--both sexes, --and by and by pretty noisy. men told anecdotes that were terrific to hear, but nobody blushed; and when the nub was sprung, the assemblage let go with a horse-laugh that shook the fortress. ladies answered back with historiettes that would almost have made queen margaret of navarre or even the great elizabeth of england hide behind a handkerchief, but nobody hid here, but only laughed --howled, you may say. in pretty much all of these dreadful stories, ecclesiastics were the hardy heroes, but that didn't worry the chaplain any, he had his laugh with the rest; more than that, upon invitation he roared out a song which was of as daring a sort as any that was sung that night. by midnight everybody was fagged out, and sore with laughing; and, as a rule, drunk: some weepingly, some affectionately, some hilariously, some quarrelsomely, some dead and under the table. of the ladies, the worst spectacle was a lovely young duchess, whose wedding-eve this was; and indeed she was a spectacle, sure enough. just as she was she could have sat in advance for the portrait of the young daughter of the regent d'orleans, at the famous dinner whence she was carried, foul-mouthed, intoxicated, and helpless, to her bed, in the lost and lamented days of the ancient regime. suddenly, even while the priest was lifting his hands, and all conscious heads were bowed in reverent expectation of the coming blessing, there appeared under the arch of the far-off door at the bottom of the hall an old and bent and white-haired lady, leaning upon a crutch-stick; and she lifted the stick and pointed it toward the queen and cried out: "the wrath and curse of god fall upon you, woman without pity, who have slain mine innocent grandchild and made desolate this old heart that had nor chick, nor friend nor stay nor comfort in all this world but him!" everybody crossed himself in a grisly fright, for a curse was an awful thing to those people; but the queen rose up majestic, with the death-light in her eye, and flung back this ruthless command: "lay hands on her! to the stake with her!" the guards left their posts to obey. it was a shame; it was a cruel thing to see. what could be done? sandy gave me a look; i knew she had another inspiration. i said: "do what you choose." she was up and facing toward the queen in a moment. she indicated me, and said: "madame, _he_ saith this may not be. recall the commandment, or he will dissolve the castle and it shall vanish away like the instable fabric of a dream!" confound it, what a crazy contract to pledge a person to! what if the queen-- but my consternation subsided there, and my panic passed off; for the queen, all in a collapse, made no show of resistance but gave a countermanding sign and sunk into her seat. when she reached it she was sober. so were many of the others. the assemblage rose, whiffed ceremony to the winds, and rushed for the door like a mob; overturning chairs, smashing crockery, tugging, struggling, shouldering, crowding--anything to get out before i should change my mind and puff the castle into the measureless dim vacancies of space. well, well, well, they _were_ a superstitious lot. it is all a body can do to conceive of it. the poor queen was so scared and humbled that she was even afraid to hang the composer without first consulting me. i was very sorry for her--indeed, any one would have been, for she was really suffering; so i was willing to do anything that was reasonable, and had no desire to carry things to wanton extremities. i therefore considered the matter thoughtfully, and ended by having the musicians ordered into our presence to play that sweet bye and bye again, which they did. then i saw that she was right, and gave her permission to hang the whole band. this little relaxation of sternness had a good effect upon the queen. a statesman gains little by the arbitrary exercise of iron-clad authority upon all occasions that offer, for this wounds the just pride of his subordinates, and thus tends to undermine his strength. a little concession, now and then, where it can do no harm, is the wiser policy. now that the queen was at ease in her mind once more, and measurably happy, her wine naturally began to assert itself again, and it got a little the start of her. i mean it set her music going--her silver bell of a tongue. dear me, she was a master talker. it would not become me to suggest that it was pretty late and that i was a tired man and very sleepy. i wished i had gone off to bed when i had the chance. now i must stick it out; there was no other way. so she tinkled along and along, in the otherwise profound and ghostly hush of the sleeping castle, until by and by there came, as if from deep down under us, a far-away sound, as of a muffled shriek --with an expression of agony about it that made my flesh crawl. the queen stopped, and her eyes lighted with pleasure; she tilted her graceful head as a bird does when it listens. the sound bored its way up through the stillness again. "what is it?" i said. "it is truly a stubborn soul, and endureth long. it is many hours now." "endureth what?" "the rack. come--ye shall see a blithe sight. an he yield not his secret now, ye shall see him torn asunder." what a silky smooth hellion she was; and so composed and serene, when the cords all down my legs were hurting in sympathy with that man's pain. conducted by mailed guards bearing flaring torches, we tramped along echoing corridors, and down stone stairways dank and dripping, and smelling of mould and ages of imprisoned night --a chill, uncanny journey and a long one, and not made the shorter or the cheerier by the sorceress's talk, which was about this sufferer and his crime. he had been accused by an anonymous informer, of having killed a stag in the royal preserves. i said: "anonymous testimony isn't just the right thing, your highness. it were fairer to confront the accused with the accuser." "i had not thought of that, it being but of small consequence. but an i would, i could not, for that the accuser came masked by night, and told the forester, and straightway got him hence again, and so the forester knoweth him not." "then is this unknown the only person who saw the stag killed?" "marry, _no_ man _saw_ the killing, but this unknown saw this hardy wretch near to the spot where the stag lay, and came with right loyal zeal and betrayed him to the forester." "so the unknown was near the dead stag, too? isn't it just possible that he did the killing himself? his loyal zeal--in a mask--looks just a shade suspicious. but what is your highness's idea for racking the prisoner? where is the profit?" "he will not confess, else; and then were his soul lost. for his crime his life is forfeited by the law--and of a surety will i see that he payeth it!--but it were peril to my own soul to let him die unconfessed and unabsolved. nay, i were a fool to fling me into hell for _his_ accommodation." "but, your highness, suppose he has nothing to confess?" "as to that, we shall see, anon. an i rack him to death and he confess not, it will peradventure show that he had indeed naught to confess--ye will grant that that is sooth? then shall i not be damned for an unconfessed man that had naught to confess --wherefore, i shall be safe." it was the stubborn unreasoning of the time. it was useless to argue with her. arguments have no chance against petrified training; they wear it as little as the waves wear a cliff. and her training was everybody's. the brightest intellect in the land would not have been able to see that her position was defective. as we entered the rack-cell i caught a picture that will not go from me; i wish it would. a native young giant of thirty or thereabouts lay stretched upon the frame on his back, with his wrists and ankles tied to ropes which led over windlasses at either end. there was no color in him; his features were contorted and set, and sweat-drops stood upon his forehead. a priest bent over him on each side; the executioner stood by; guards were on duty; smoking torches stood in sockets along the walls; in a corner crouched a poor young creature, her face drawn with anguish, a half-wild and hunted look in her eyes, and in her lap lay a little child asleep. just as we stepped across the threshold the executioner gave his machine a slight turn, which wrung a cry from both the prisoner and the woman; but i shouted, and the executioner released the strain without waiting to see who spoke. i could not let this horror go on; it would have killed me to see it. i asked the queen to let me clear the place and speak to the prisoner privately; and when she was going to object i spoke in a low voice and said i did not want to make a scene before her servants, but i must have my way; for i was king arthur's representative, and was speaking in his name. she saw she had to yield. i asked her to indorse me to these people, and then leave me. it was not pleasant for her, but she took the pill; and even went further than i was meaning to require. i only wanted the backing of her own authority; but she said: "ye will do in all things as this lord shall command. it is the boss." it was certainly a good word to conjure with: you could see it by the squirming of these rats. the queen's guards fell into line, and she and they marched away, with their torch-bearers, and woke the echoes of the cavernous tunnels with the measured beat of their retreating footfalls. i had the prisoner taken from the rack and placed upon his bed, and medicaments applied to his hurts, and wine given him to drink. the woman crept near and looked on, eagerly, lovingly, but timorously,--like one who fears a repulse; indeed, she tried furtively to touch the man's forehead, and jumped back, the picture of fright, when i turned unconsciously toward her. it was pitiful to see. "lord," i said, "stroke him, lass, if you want to. do anything you're a mind to; don't mind me." why, her eyes were as grateful as an animal's, when you do it a kindness that it understands. the baby was out of her way and she had her cheek against the man's in a minute and her hands fondling his hair, and her happy tears running down. the man revived and caressed his wife with his eyes, which was all he could do. i judged i might clear the den, now, and i did; cleared it of all but the family and myself. then i said: "now, my friend, tell me your side of this matter; i know the other side." the man moved his head in sign of refusal. but the woman looked pleased--as it seemed to me--pleased with my suggestion. i went on-- "you know of me?" "yes. all do, in arthur's realms." "if my reputation has come to you right and straight, you should not be afraid to speak." the woman broke in, eagerly: "ah, fair my lord, do thou persuade him! thou canst an thou wilt. ah, he suffereth so; and it is for me--for _me_! and how can i bear it? i would i might see him die--a sweet, swift death; oh, my hugo, i cannot bear this one!" and she fell to sobbing and grovelling about my feet, and still imploring. imploring what? the man's death? i could not quite get the bearings of the thing. but hugo interrupted her and said: "peace! ye wit not what ye ask. shall i starve whom i love, to win a gentle death? i wend thou knewest me better." "well," i said, "i can't quite make this out. it is a puzzle. now--" "ah, dear my lord, an ye will but persuade him! consider how these his tortures wound me! oh, and he will not speak!--whereas, the healing, the solace that lie in a blessed swift death--" "what _are_ you maundering about? he's going out from here a free man and whole--he's not going to die." the man's white face lit up, and the woman flung herself at me in a most surprising explosion of joy, and cried out: "he is saved!--for it is the king's word by the mouth of the king's servant--arthur, the king whose word is gold!" "well, then you do believe i can be trusted, after all. why didn't you before?" "who doubted? not i, indeed; and not she." "well, why wouldn't you tell me your story, then?" "ye had made no promise; else had it been otherwise." "i see, i see.... and yet i believe i don't quite see, after all. you stood the torture and refused to confess; which shows plain enough to even the dullest understanding that you had nothing to confess--" "i, my lord? how so? it was i that killed the deer!" "you _did_? oh, dear, this is the most mixed-up business that ever--" "dear lord, i begged him on my knees to confess, but--" "you _did_! it gets thicker and thicker. what did you want him to do that for?" "sith it would bring him a quick death and save him all this cruel pain." "well--yes, there is reason in that. but _he_ didn't want the quick death." "he? why, of a surety he _did_." "well, then, why in the world _didn't_ he confess?" "ah, sweet sir, and leave my wife and chick without bread and shelter?" "oh, heart of gold, now i see it! the bitter law takes the convicted man's estate and beggars his widow and his orphans. they could torture you to death, but without conviction or confession they could not rob your wife and baby. you stood by them like a man; and _you_--true wife and the woman that you are--you would have bought him release from torture at cost to yourself of slow starvation and death--well, it humbles a body to think what your sex can do when it comes to self-sacrifice. i'll book you both for my colony; you'll like it there; it's a factory where i'm going to turn groping and grubbing automata into _men_." chapter xviii in the queen's dungeons well, i arranged all that; and i had the man sent to his home. i had a great desire to rack the executioner; not because he was a good, painstaking and paingiving official,--for surely it was not to his discredit that he performed his functions well--but to pay him back for wantonly cuffing and otherwise distressing that young woman. the priests told me about this, and were generously hot to have him punished. something of this disagreeable sort was turning up every now and then. i mean, episodes that showed that not all priests were frauds and self-seekers, but that many, even the great majority, of these that were down on the ground among the common people, were sincere and right-hearted, and devoted to the alleviation of human troubles and sufferings. well, it was a thing which could not be helped, so i seldom fretted about it, and never many minutes at a time; it has never been my way to bother much about things which you can't cure. but i did not like it, for it was just the sort of thing to keep people reconciled to an established church. we _must_ have a religion --it goes without saying--but my idea is, to have it cut up into forty free sects, so that they will police each other, as had been the case in the united states in my time. concentration of power in a political machine is bad; and and an established church is only a political machine; it was invented for that; it is nursed, cradled, preserved for that; it is an enemy to human liberty, and does no good which it could not better do in a split-up and scattered condition. that wasn't law; it wasn't gospel: it was only an opinion--my opinion, and i was only a man, one man: so it wasn't worth any more than the pope's--or any less, for that matter. well, i couldn't rack the executioner, neither would i overlook the just complaint of the priests. the man must be punished somehow or other, so i degraded him from his office and made him leader of the band--the new one that was to be started. he begged hard, and said he couldn't play--a plausible excuse, but too thin; there wasn't a musician in the country that could. the queen was a good deal outraged, next morning when she found she was going to have neither hugo's life nor his property. but i told her she must bear this cross; that while by law and custom she certainly was entitled to both the man's life and his property, there were extenuating circumstances, and so in arthur the king's name i had pardoned him. the deer was ravaging the man's fields, and he had killed it in sudden passion, and not for gain; and he had carried it into the royal forest in the hope that that might make detection of the misdoer impossible. confound her, i couldn't make her see that sudden passion is an extenuating circumstance in the killing of venison--or of a person--so i gave it up and let her sulk it out. i _did_ think i was going to make her see it by remarking that her own sudden passion in the case of the page modified that crime. "crime!" she exclaimed. "how thou talkest! crime, forsooth! man, i am going to _pay_ for him!" oh, it was no use to waste sense on her. training--training is everything; training is all there is _to_ a person. we speak of nature; it is folly; there is no such thing as nature; what we call by that misleading name is merely heredity and training. we have no thoughts of our own, no opinions of our own; they are transmitted to us, trained into us. all that is original in us, and therefore fairly creditable or discreditable to us, can be covered up and hidden by the point of a cambric needle, all the rest being atoms contributed by, and inherited from, a procession of ancestors that stretches back a billion years to the adam-clam or grasshopper or monkey from whom our race has been so tediously and ostentatiously and unprofitably developed. and as for me, all that i think about in this plodding sad pilgrimage, this pathetic drift between the eternities, is to look out and humbly live a pure and high and blameless life, and save that one microscopic atom in me that is truly _me_: the rest may land in sheol and welcome for all i care. no, confound her, her intellect was good, she had brains enough, but her training made her an ass--that is, from a many-centuries-later point of view. to kill the page was no crime--it was her right; and upon her right she stood, serenely and unconscious of offense. she was a result of generations of training in the unexamined and unassailed belief that the law which permitted her to kill a subject when she chose was a perfectly right and righteous one. well, we must give even satan his due. she deserved a compliment for one thing; and i tried to pay it, but the words stuck in my throat. she had a right to kill the boy, but she was in no wise obliged to pay for him. that was law for some other people, but not for her. she knew quite well that she was doing a large and generous thing to pay for that lad, and that i ought in common fairness to come out with something handsome about it, but i couldn't--my mouth refused. i couldn't help seeing, in my fancy, that poor old grandma with the broken heart, and that fair young creature lying butchered, his little silken pomps and vanities laced with his golden blood. how could she _pay_ for him! _whom_ could she pay? and so, well knowing that this woman, trained as she had been, deserved praise, even adulation, i was yet not able to utter it, trained as i had been. the best i could do was to fish up a compliment from outside, so to speak--and the pity of it was, that it was true: "madame, your people will adore you for this." quite true, but i meant to hang her for it some day if i lived. some of those laws were too bad, altogether too bad. a master might kill his slave for nothing--for mere spite, malice, or to pass the time--just as we have seen that the crowned head could do it with _his_ slave, that is to say, anybody. a gentleman could kill a free commoner, and pay for him--cash or garden-truck. a noble could kill a noble without expense, as far as the law was concerned, but reprisals in kind were to be expected. _any_body could kill _some_body, except the commoner and the slave; these had no privileges. if they killed, it was murder, and the law wouldn't stand murder. it made short work of the experimenter--and of his family, too, if he murdered somebody who belonged up among the ornamental ranks. if a commoner gave a noble even so much as a damiens-scratch which didn't kill or even hurt, he got damiens' dose for it just the same; they pulled him to rags and tatters with horses, and all the world came to see the show, and crack jokes, and have a good time; and some of the performances of the best people present were as tough, and as properly unprintable, as any that have been printed by the pleasant casanova in his chapter about the dismemberment of louis xv's poor awkward enemy. i had had enough of this grisly place by this time, and wanted to leave, but i couldn't, because i had something on my mind that my conscience kept prodding me about, and wouldn't let me forget. if i had the remaking of man, he wouldn't have any conscience. it is one of the most disagreeable things connected with a person; and although it certainly does a great deal of good, it cannot be said to pay, in the long run; it would be much better to have less good and more comfort. still, this is only my opinion, and i am only one man; others, with less experience, may think differently. they have a right to their view. i only stand to this: i have noticed my conscience for many years, and i know it is more trouble and bother to me than anything else i started with. i suppose that in the beginning i prized it, because we prize anything that is ours; and yet how foolish it was to think so. if we look at it in another way, we see how absurd it is: if i had an anvil in me would i prize it? of course not. and yet when you come to think, there is no real difference between a conscience and an anvil--i mean for comfort. i have noticed it a thousand times. and you could dissolve an anvil with acids, when you couldn't stand it any longer; but there isn't any way that you can work off a conscience--at least so it will stay worked off; not that i know of, anyway. there was something i wanted to do before leaving, but it was a disagreeable matter, and i hated to go at it. well, it bothered me all the morning. i could have mentioned it to the old king, but what would be the use?--he was but an extinct volcano; he had been active in his time, but his fire was out, this good while, he was only a stately ash-pile now; gentle enough, and kindly enough for my purpose, without doubt, but not usable. he was nothing, this so-called king: the queen was the only power there. and she was a vesuvius. as a favor, she might consent to warm a flock of sparrows for you, but then she might take that very opportunity to turn herself loose and bury a city. however, i reflected that as often as any other way, when you are expecting the worst, you get something that is not so bad, after all. so i braced up and placed my matter before her royal highness. i said i had been having a general jail-delivery at camelot and among neighboring castles, and with her permission i would like to examine her collection, her bric-a-brac--that is to say, her prisoners. she resisted; but i was expecting that. but she finally consented. i was expecting that, too, but not so soon. that about ended my discomfort. she called her guards and torches, and we went down into the dungeons. these were down under the castle's foundations, and mainly were small cells hollowed out of the living rock. some of these cells had no light at all. in one of them was a woman, in foul rags, who sat on the ground, and would not answer a question or speak a word, but only looked up at us once or twice, through a cobweb of tangled hair, as if to see what casual thing it might be that was disturbing with sound and light the meaningless dull dream that was become her life; after that, she sat bowed, with her dirt-caked fingers idly interlocked in her lap, and gave no further sign. this poor rack of bones was a woman of middle age, apparently; but only apparently; she had been there nine years, and was eighteen when she entered. she was a commoner, and had been sent here on her bridal night by sir breuse sance pite, a neighboring lord whose vassal her father was, and to which said lord she had refused what has since been called le droit du seigneur, and, moreover, had opposed violence to violence and spilt half a gill of his almost sacred blood. the young husband had interfered at that point, believing the bride's life in danger, and had flung the noble out into the midst of the humble and trembling wedding guests, in the parlor, and left him there astonished at this strange treatment, and implacably embittered against both bride and groom. the said lord being cramped for dungeon-room had asked the queen to accommodate his two criminals, and here in her bastile they had been ever since; hither, indeed, they had come before their crime was an hour old, and had never seen each other since. here they were, kenneled like toads in the same rock; they had passed nine pitch dark years within fifty feet of each other, yet neither knew whether the other was alive or not. all the first years, their only question had been--asked with beseechings and tears that might have moved stones, in time, perhaps, but hearts are not stones: "is he alive?" "is she alive?" but they had never got an answer; and at last that question was not asked any more--or any other. i wanted to see the man, after hearing all this. he was thirty-four years old, and looked sixty. he sat upon a squared block of stone, with his head bent down, his forearms resting on his knees, his long hair hanging like a fringe before his face, and he was muttering to himself. he raised his chin and looked us slowly over, in a listless dull way, blinking with the distress of the torchlight, then dropped his head and fell to muttering again and took no further notice of us. there were some pathetically suggestive dumb witnesses present. on his wrists and ankles were cicatrices, old smooth scars, and fastened to the stone on which he sat was a chain with manacles and fetters attached; but this apparatus lay idle on the ground, and was thick with rust. chains cease to be needed after the spirit has gone out of a prisoner. i could not rouse the man; so i said we would take him to her, and see--to the bride who was the fairest thing in the earth to him, once--roses, pearls, and dew made flesh, for him; a wonder-work, the master-work of nature: with eyes like no other eyes, and voice like no other voice, and a freshness, and lithe young grace, and beauty, that belonged properly to the creatures of dreams--as he thought--and to no other. the sight of her would set his stagnant blood leaping; the sight of her-- but it was a disappointment. they sat together on the ground and looked dimly wondering into each other's faces a while, with a sort of weak animal curiosity; then forgot each other's presence, and dropped their eyes, and you saw that they were away again and wandering in some far land of dreams and shadows that we know nothing about. i had them taken out and sent to their friends. the queen did not like it much. not that she felt any personal interest in the matter, but she thought it disrespectful to sir breuse sance pite. however, i assured her that if he found he couldn't stand it i would fix him so that he could. i set forty-seven prisoners loose out of those awful rat-holes, and left only one in captivity. he was a lord, and had killed another lord, a sort of kinsman of the queen. that other lord had ambushed him to assassinate him, but this fellow had got the best of him and cut his throat. however, it was not for that that i left him jailed, but for maliciously destroying the only public well in one of his wretched villages. the queen was bound to hang him for killing her kinsman, but i would not allow it: it was no crime to kill an assassin. but i said i was willing to let her hang him for destroying the well; so she concluded to put up with that, as it was better than nothing. dear me, for what trifling offenses the most of those forty-seven men and women were shut up there! indeed, some were there for no distinct offense at all, but only to gratify somebody's spite; and not always the queen's by any means, but a friend's. the newest prisoner's crime was a mere remark which he had made. he said he believed that men were about all alike, and one man as good as another, barring clothes. he said he believed that if you were to strip the nation naked and send a stranger through the crowd, he couldn't tell the king from a quack doctor, nor a duke from a hotel clerk. apparently here was a man whose brains had not been reduced to an ineffectual mush by idiotic training. i set him loose and sent him to the factory. some of the cells carved in the living rock were just behind the face of the precipice, and in each of these an arrow-slit had been pierced outward to the daylight, and so the captive had a thin ray from the blessed sun for his comfort. the case of one of these poor fellows was particularly hard. from his dusky swallow's hole high up in that vast wall of native rock he could peer out through the arrow-slit and see his own home off yonder in the valley; and for twenty-two years he had watched it, with heartache and longing, through that crack. he could see the lights shine there at night, and in the daytime he could see figures go in and come out--his wife and children, some of them, no doubt, though he could not make out at that distance. in the course of years he noted festivities there, and tried to rejoice, and wondered if they were weddings or what they might be. and he noted funerals; and they wrung his heart. he could make out the coffin, but he could not determine its size, and so could not tell whether it was wife or child. he could see the procession form, with priests and mourners, and move solemnly away, bearing the secret with them. he had left behind him five children and a wife; and in nineteen years he had seen five funerals issue, and none of them humble enough in pomp to denote a servant. so he had lost five of his treasures; there must still be one remaining--one now infinitely, unspeakably precious,--but _which_ one? wife, or child? that was the question that tortured him, by night and by day, asleep and awake. well, to have an interest, of some sort, and half a ray of light, when you are in a dungeon, is a great support to the body and preserver of the intellect. this man was in pretty good condition yet. by the time he had finished telling me his distressful tale, i was in the same state of mind that you would have been in yourself, if you have got average human curiosity; that is to say, i was as burning up as he was to find out which member of the family it was that was left. so i took him over home myself; and an amazing kind of a surprise party it was, too --typhoons and cyclones of frantic joy, and whole niagaras of happy tears; and by george! we found the aforetime young matron graying toward the imminent verge of her half century, and the babies all men and women, and some of them married and experimenting familywise themselves--for not a soul of the tribe was dead! conceive of the ingenious devilishness of that queen: she had a special hatred for this prisoner, and she had _invented_ all those funerals herself, to scorch his heart with; and the sublimest stroke of genius of the whole thing was leaving the family-invoice a funeral _short_, so as to let him wear his poor old soul out guessing. but for me, he never would have got out. morgan le fay hated him with her whole heart, and she never would have softened toward him. and yet his crime was committed more in thoughtlessness than deliberate depravity. he had said she had red hair. well, she had; but that was no way to speak of it. when red-headed people are above a certain social grade their hair is auburn. consider it: among these forty-seven captives there were five whose names, offenses, and dates of incarceration were no longer known! one woman and four men--all bent, and wrinkled, and mind-extinguished patriarchs. they themselves had long ago forgotten these details; at any rate they had mere vague theories about them, nothing definite and nothing that they repeated twice in the same way. the succession of priests whose office it had been to pray daily with the captives and remind them that god had put them there, for some wise purpose or other, and teach them that patience, humbleness, and submission to oppression was what he loved to see in parties of a subordinate rank, had traditions about these poor old human ruins, but nothing more. these traditions went but little way, for they concerned the length of the incarceration only, and not the names of the offenses. and even by the help of tradition the only thing that could be proven was that none of the five had seen daylight for thirty-five years: how much longer this privation has lasted was not guessable. the king and the queen knew nothing about these poor creatures, except that they were heirlooms, assets inherited, along with the throne, from the former firm. nothing of their history had been transmitted with their persons, and so the inheriting owners had considered them of no value, and had felt no interest in them. i said to the queen: "then why in the world didn't you set them free?" the question was a puzzler. she didn't know _why_ she hadn't, the thing had never come up in her mind. so here she was, forecasting the veritable history of future prisoners of the castle d'if, without knowing it. it seemed plain to me now, that with her training, those inherited prisoners were merely property--nothing more, nothing less. well, when we inherit property, it does not occur to us to throw it away, even when we do not value it. when i brought my procession of human bats up into the open world and the glare of the afternoon sun--previously blindfolding them, in charity for eyes so long untortured by light--they were a spectacle to look at. skeletons, scarecrows, goblins, pathetic frights, every one; legitimatest possible children of monarchy by the grace of god and the established church. i muttered absently: "i _wish_ i could photograph them!" you have seen that kind of people who will never let on that they don't know the meaning of a new big word. the more ignorant they are, the more pitifully certain they are to pretend you haven't shot over their heads. the queen was just one of that sort, and was always making the stupidest blunders by reason of it. she hesitated a moment; then her face brightened up with sudden comprehension, and she said she would do it for me. i thought to myself: she? why what can she know about photography? but it was a poor time to be thinking. when i looked around, she was moving on the procession with an axe! well, she certainly was a curious one, was morgan le fay. i have seen a good many kinds of women in my time, but she laid over them all for variety. and how sharply characteristic of her this episode was. she had no more idea than a horse of how to photograph a procession; but being in doubt, it was just like her to try to do it with an axe. chapter xix knight-errantry as a trade sandy and i were on the road again, next morning, bright and early. it was so good to open up one's lungs and take in whole luscious barrels-ful of the blessed god's untainted, dew-fashioned, woodland-scented air once more, after suffocating body and mind for two days and nights in the moral and physical stenches of that intolerable old buzzard-roost! i mean, for me: of course the place was all right and agreeable enough for sandy, for she had been used to high life all her days. poor girl, her jaws had had a wearisome rest now for a while, and i was expecting to get the consequences. i was right; but she had stood by me most helpfully in the castle, and had mightily supported and reinforced me with gigantic foolishnesses which were worth more for the occasion than wisdoms double their size; so i thought she had earned a right to work her mill for a while, if she wanted to, and i felt not a pang when she started it up: "now turn we unto sir marhaus that rode with the damsel of thirty winter of age southward--" "are you going to see if you can work up another half-stretch on the trail of the cowboys, sandy?" "even so, fair my lord." "go ahead, then. i won't interrupt this time, if i can help it. begin over again; start fair, and shake out all your reefs, and i will load my pipe and give good attention." "now turn we unto sir marhaus that rode with the damsel of thirty winter of age southward. and so they came into a deep forest, and by fortune they were nighted, and rode along in a deep way, and at the last they came into a courtelage where abode the duke of south marches, and there they asked harbour. and on the morn the duke sent unto sir marhaus, and bad him make him ready. and so sir marhaus arose and armed him, and there was a mass sung afore him, and he brake his fast, and so mounted on horseback in the court of the castle, there they should do the battle. so there was the duke already on horseback, clean armed, and his six sons by him, and every each had a spear in his hand, and so they encountered, whereas the duke and his two sons brake their spears upon him, but sir marhaus held up his spear and touched none of them. then came the four sons by couples, and two of them brake their spears, and so did the other two. and all this while sir marhaus touched them not. then sir marhaus ran to the duke, and smote him with his spear that horse and man fell to the earth. and so he served his sons. and then sir marhaus alight down, and bad the duke yield him or else he would slay him. and then some of his sons recovered, and would have set upon sir marhaus. then sir marhaus said to the duke, cease thy sons, or else i will do the uttermost to you all. when the duke saw he might not escape the death, he cried to his sons, and charged them to yield them to sir marhaus. and they kneeled all down and put the pommels of their swords to the knight, and so he received them. and then they holp up their father, and so by their common assent promised unto sir marhaus never to be foes unto king arthur, and thereupon at whitsuntide after, to come he and his sons, and put them in the king's grace.* [*footnote: the story is borrowed, language and all, from the morte d'arthur.--m.t.] "even so standeth the history, fair sir boss. now ye shall wit that that very duke and his six sons are they whom but few days past you also did overcome and send to arthur's court!" "why, sandy, you can't mean it!" "an i speak not sooth, let it be the worse for me." "well, well, well,--now who would ever have thought it? one whole duke and six dukelets; why, sandy, it was an elegant haul. knight-errantry is a most chuckle-headed trade, and it is tedious hard work, too, but i begin to see that there _is_ money in it, after all, if you have luck. not that i would ever engage in it as a business, for i wouldn't. no sound and legitimate business can be established on a basis of speculation. a successful whirl in the knight-errantry line--now what is it when you blow away the nonsense and come down to the cold facts? it's just a corner in pork, that's all, and you can't make anything else out of it. you're rich--yes,--suddenly rich--for about a day, maybe a week; then somebody corners the market on _you_, and down goes your bucket-shop; ain't that so, sandy?" "whethersoever it be that my mind miscarrieth, bewraying simple language in such sort that the words do seem to come endlong and overthwart--" "there's no use in beating about the bush and trying to get around it that way, sandy, it's _so_, just as i say. i _know_ it's so. and, moreover, when you come right down to the bedrock, knight-errantry is _worse_ than pork; for whatever happens, the pork's left, and so somebody's benefited anyway; but when the market breaks, in a knight-errantry whirl, and every knight in the pool passes in his checks, what have you got for assets? just a rubbish-pile of battered corpses and a barrel or two of busted hardware. can you call _those_ assets? give me pork, every time. am i right?" "ah, peradventure my head being distraught by the manifold matters whereunto the confusions of these but late adventured haps and fortunings whereby not i alone nor you alone, but every each of us, meseemeth--" "no, it's not your head, sandy. your head's all right, as far as it goes, but you don't know business; that's where the trouble is. it unfits you to argue about business, and you're wrong to be always trying. however, that aside, it was a good haul, anyway, and will breed a handsome crop of reputation in arthur's court. and speaking of the cowboys, what a curious country this is for women and men that never get old. now there's morgan le fay, as fresh and young as a vassar pullet, to all appearances, and here is this old duke of the south marches still slashing away with sword and lance at his time of life, after raising such a family as he has raised. as i understand it, sir gawaine killed seven of his sons, and still he had six left for sir marhaus and me to take into camp. and then there was that damsel of sixty winter of age still excursioning around in her frosty bloom--how old are you, sandy?" it was the first time i ever struck a still place in her. the mill had shut down for repairs, or something. chapter xx the ogre's castle between six and nine we made ten miles, which was plenty for a horse carrying triple--man, woman, and armor; then we stopped for a long nooning under some trees by a limpid brook. right so came by and by a knight riding; and as he drew near he made dolorous moan, and by the words of it i perceived that he was cursing and swearing; yet nevertheless was i glad of his coming, for that i saw he bore a bulletin-board whereon in letters all of shining gold was writ: "use peterson's prophylactic tooth-brush--all the go." i was glad of his coming, for even by this token i knew him for knight of mine. it was sir madok de la montaine, a burly great fellow whose chief distinction was that he had come within an ace of sending sir launcelot down over his horse-tail once. he was never long in a stranger's presence without finding some pretext or other to let out that great fact. but there was another fact of nearly the same size, which he never pushed upon anybody unasked, and yet never withheld when asked: that was, that the reason he didn't quite succeed was, that he was interrupted and sent down over horse-tail himself. this innocent vast lubber did not see any particular difference between the two facts. i liked him, for he was earnest in his work, and very valuable. and he was so fine to look at, with his broad mailed shoulders, and the grand leonine set of his plumed head, and his big shield with its quaint device of a gauntleted hand clutching a prophylactic tooth-brush, with motto: "try noyoudont." this was a tooth-wash that i was introducing. he was aweary, he said, and indeed he looked it; but he would not alight. he said he was after the stove-polish man; and with this he broke out cursing and swearing anew. the bulletin-boarder referred to was sir ossaise of surluse, a brave knight, and of considerable celebrity on account of his having tried conclusions in a tournament once, with no less a mogul than sir gaheris himself--although not successfully. he was of a light and laughing disposition, and to him nothing in this world was serious. it was for this reason that i had chosen him to work up a stove-polish sentiment. there were no stoves yet, and so there could be nothing serious about stove-polish. all that the agent needed to do was to deftly and by degrees prepare the public for the great change, and have them established in predilections toward neatness against the time when the stove should appear upon the stage. sir madok was very bitter, and brake out anew with cursings. he said he had cursed his soul to rags; and yet he would not get down from his horse, neither would he take any rest, or listen to any comfort, until he should have found sir ossaise and settled this account. it appeared, by what i could piece together of the unprofane fragments of his statement, that he had chanced upon sir ossaise at dawn of the morning, and been told that if he would make a short cut across the fields and swamps and broken hills and glades, he could head off a company of travelers who would be rare customers for prophylactics and tooth-wash. with characteristic zeal sir madok had plunged away at once upon this quest, and after three hours of awful crosslot riding had overhauled his game. and behold, it was the five patriarchs that had been released from the dungeons the evening before! poor old creatures, it was all of twenty years since any one of them had known what it was to be equipped with any remaining snag or remnant of a tooth. "blank-blank-blank him," said sir madok, "an i do not stove-polish him an i may find him, leave it to me; for never no knight that hight ossaise or aught else may do me this disservice and bide on live, an i may find him, the which i have thereunto sworn a great oath this day." and with these words and others, he lightly took his spear and gat him thence. in the middle of the afternoon we came upon one of those very patriarchs ourselves, in the edge of a poor village. he was basking in the love of relatives and friends whom he had not seen for fifty years; and about him and caressing him were also descendants of his own body whom he had never seen at all till now; but to him these were all strangers, his memory was gone, his mind was stagnant. it seemed incredible that a man could outlast half a century shut up in a dark hole like a rat, but here were his old wife and some old comrades to testify to it. they could remember him as he was in the freshness and strength of his young manhood, when he kissed his child and delivered it to its mother's hands and went away into that long oblivion. the people at the castle could not tell within half a generation the length of time the man had been shut up there for his unrecorded and forgotten offense; but this old wife knew; and so did her old child, who stood there among her married sons and daughters trying to realize a father who had been to her a name, a thought, a formless image, a tradition, all her life, and now was suddenly concreted into actual flesh and blood and set before her face. it was a curious situation; yet it is not on that account that i have made room for it here, but on account of a thing which seemed to me still more curious. to wit, that this dreadful matter brought from these downtrodden people no outburst of rage against these oppressors. they had been heritors and subjects of cruelty and outrage so long that nothing could have startled them but a kindness. yes, here was a curious revelation, indeed, of the depth to which this people had been sunk in slavery. their entire being was reduced to a monotonous dead level of patience, resignation, dumb uncomplaining acceptance of whatever might befall them in this life. their very imagination was dead. when you can say that of a man, he has struck bottom, i reckon; there is no lower deep for him. i rather wished i had gone some other road. this was not the sort of experience for a statesman to encounter who was planning out a peaceful revolution in his mind. for it could not help bringing up the unget-aroundable fact that, all gentle cant and philosophizing to the contrary notwithstanding, no people in the world ever did achieve their freedom by goody-goody talk and moral suasion: it being immutable law that all revolutions that will succeed must _begin_ in blood, whatever may answer afterward. if history teaches anything, it teaches that. what this folk needed, then, was a reign of terror and a guillotine, and i was the wrong man for them. two days later, toward noon, sandy began to show signs of excitement and feverish expectancy. she said we were approaching the ogre's castle. i was surprised into an uncomfortable shock. the object of our quest had gradually dropped out of my mind; this sudden resurrection of it made it seem quite a real and startling thing for a moment, and roused up in me a smart interest. sandy's excitement increased every moment; and so did mine, for that sort of thing is catching. my heart got to thumping. you can't reason with your heart; it has its own laws, and thumps about things which the intellect scorns. presently, when sandy slid from the horse, motioned me to stop, and went creeping stealthily, with her head bent nearly to her knees, toward a row of bushes that bordered a declivity, the thumpings grew stronger and quicker. and they kept it up while she was gaining her ambush and getting her glimpse over the declivity; and also while i was creeping to her side on my knees. her eyes were burning now, as she pointed with her finger, and said in a panting whisper: "the castle! the castle! lo, where it looms!" what a welcome disappointment i experienced! i said: "castle? it is nothing but a pigsty; a pigsty with a wattled fence around it." she looked surprised and distressed. the animation faded out of her face; and during many moments she was lost in thought and silent. then: "it was not enchanted aforetime," she said in a musing fashion, as if to herself. "and how strange is this marvel, and how awful --that to the one perception it is enchanted and dight in a base and shameful aspect; yet to the perception of the other it is not enchanted, hath suffered no change, but stands firm and stately still, girt with its moat and waving its banners in the blue air from its towers. and god shield us, how it pricks the heart to see again these gracious captives, and the sorrow deepened in their sweet faces! we have tarried along, and are to blame." i saw my cue. the castle was enchanted to _me_, not to her. it would be wasted time to try to argue her out of her delusion, it couldn't be done; i must just humor it. so i said: "this is a common case--the enchanting of a thing to one eye and leaving it in its proper form to another. you have heard of it before, sandy, though you haven't happened to experience it. but no harm is done. in fact, it is lucky the way it is. if these ladies were hogs to everybody and to themselves, it would be necessary to break the enchantment, and that might be impossible if one failed to find out the particular process of the enchantment. and hazardous, too; for in attempting a disenchantment without the true key, you are liable to err, and turn your hogs into dogs, and the dogs into cats, the cats into rats, and so on, and end by reducing your materials to nothing finally, or to an odorless gas which you can't follow--which, of course, amounts to the same thing. but here, by good luck, no one's eyes but mine are under the enchantment, and so it is of no consequence to dissolve it. these ladies remain ladies to you, and to themselves, and to everybody else; and at the same time they will suffer in no way from my delusion, for when i know that an ostensible hog is a lady, that is enough for me, i know how to treat her." "thanks, oh, sweet my lord, thou talkest like an angel. and i know that thou wilt deliver them, for that thou art minded to great deeds and art as strong a knight of your hands and as brave to will and to do, as any that is on live." "i will not leave a princess in the sty, sandy. are those three yonder that to my disordered eyes are starveling swine-herds--" "the ogres, are _they_ changed also? it is most wonderful. now am i fearful; for how canst thou strike with sure aim when five of their nine cubits of stature are to thee invisible? ah, go warily, fair sir; this is a mightier emprise than i wend." "you be easy, sandy. all i need to know is, how _much_ of an ogre is invisible; then i know how to locate his vitals. don't you be afraid, i will make short work of these bunco-steerers. stay where you are." i left sandy kneeling there, corpse-faced but plucky and hopeful, and rode down to the pigsty, and struck up a trade with the swine-herds. i won their gratitude by buying out all the hogs at the lump sum of sixteen pennies, which was rather above latest quotations. i was just in time; for the church, the lord of the manor, and the rest of the tax-gatherers would have been along next day and swept off pretty much all the stock, leaving the swine-herds very short of hogs and sandy out of princesses. but now the tax people could be paid in cash, and there would be a stake left besides. one of the men had ten children; and he said that last year when a priest came and of his ten pigs took the fattest one for tithes, the wife burst out upon him, and offered him a child and said: "thou beast without bowels of mercy, why leave me my child, yet rob me of the wherewithal to feed it?" how curious. the same thing had happened in the wales of my day, under this same old established church, which was supposed by many to have changed its nature when it changed its disguise. i sent the three men away, and then opened the sty gate and beckoned sandy to come--which she did; and not leisurely, but with the rush of a prairie fire. and when i saw her fling herself upon those hogs, with tears of joy running down her cheeks, and strain them to her heart, and kiss them, and caress them, and call them reverently by grand princely names, i was ashamed of her, ashamed of the human race. we had to drive those hogs home--ten miles; and no ladies were ever more fickle-minded or contrary. they would stay in no road, no path; they broke out through the brush on all sides, and flowed away in all directions, over rocks, and hills, and the roughest places they could find. and they must not be struck, or roughly accosted; sandy could not bear to see them treated in ways unbecoming their rank. the troublesomest old sow of the lot had to be called my lady, and your highness, like the rest. it is annoying and difficult to scour around after hogs, in armor. there was one small countess, with an iron ring in her snout and hardly any hair on her back, that was the devil for perversity. she gave me a race of an hour, over all sorts of country, and then we were right where we had started from, having made not a rod of real progress. i seized her at last by the tail, and brought her along squealing. when i overtook sandy she was horrified, and said it was in the last degree indelicate to drag a countess by her train. we got the hogs home just at dark--most of them. the princess nerovens de morganore was missing, and two of her ladies in waiting: namely, miss angela bohun, and the demoiselle elaine courtemains, the former of these two being a young black sow with a white star in her forehead, and the latter a brown one with thin legs and a slight limp in the forward shank on the starboard side--a couple of the tryingest blisters to drive that i ever saw. also among the missing were several mere baronesses--and i wanted them to stay missing; but no, all that sausage-meat had to be found; so servants were sent out with torches to scour the woods and hills to that end. of course, the whole drove was housed in the house, and, great guns!--well, i never saw anything like it. nor ever heard anything like it. and never smelt anything like it. it was like an insurrection in a gasometer. chapter xxi the pilgrims when i did get to bed at last i was unspeakably tired; the stretching out, and the relaxing of the long-tense muscles, how luxurious, how delicious! but that was as far as i could get--sleep was out of the question for the present. the ripping and tearing and squealing of the nobility up and down the halls and corridors was pandemonium come again, and kept me broad awake. being awake, my thoughts were busy, of course; and mainly they busied themselves with sandy's curious delusion. here she was, as sane a person as the kingdom could produce; and yet, from my point of view she was acting like a crazy woman. my land, the power of training! of influence! of education! it can bring a body up to believe anything. i had to put myself in sandy's place to realize that she was not a lunatic. yes, and put her in mine, to demonstrate how easy it is to seem a lunatic to a person who has not been taught as you have been taught. if i had told sandy i had seen a wagon, uninfluenced by enchantment, spin along fifty miles an hour; had seen a man, unequipped with magic powers, get into a basket and soar out of sight among the clouds; and had listened, without any necromancer's help, to the conversation of a person who was several hundred miles away, sandy would not merely have supposed me to be crazy, she would have thought she knew it. everybody around her believed in enchantments; nobody had any doubts; to doubt that a castle could be turned into a sty, and its occupants into hogs, would have been the same as my doubting among connecticut people the actuality of the telephone and its wonders,--and in both cases would be absolute proof of a diseased mind, an unsettled reason. yes, sandy was sane; that must be admitted. if i also would be sane--to sandy --i must keep my superstitions about unenchanted and unmiraculous locomotives, balloons, and telephones, to myself. also, i believed that the world was not flat, and hadn't pillars under it to support it, nor a canopy over it to turn off a universe of water that occupied all space above; but as i was the only person in the kingdom afflicted with such impious and criminal opinions, i recognized that it would be good wisdom to keep quiet about this matter, too, if i did not wish to be suddenly shunned and forsaken by everybody as a madman. the next morning sandy assembled the swine in the dining-room and gave them their breakfast, waiting upon them personally and manifesting in every way the deep reverence which the natives of her island, ancient and modern, have always felt for rank, let its outward casket and the mental and moral contents be what they may. i could have eaten with the hogs if i had had birth approaching my lofty official rank; but i hadn't, and so accepted the unavoidable slight and made no complaint. sandy and i had our breakfast at the second table. the family were not at home. i said: "how many are in the family, sandy, and where do they keep themselves?" "family?" "yes." "which family, good my lord?" "why, this family; your own family." "sooth to say, i understand you not. i have no family." "no family? why, sandy, isn't this your home?" "now how indeed might that be? i have no home." "well, then, whose house is this?" "ah, wit you well i would tell you an i knew myself." "come--you don't even know these people? then who invited us here?" "none invited us. we but came; that is all." "why, woman, this is a most extraordinary performance. the effrontery of it is beyond admiration. we blandly march into a man's house, and cram it full of the only really valuable nobility the sun has yet discovered in the earth, and then it turns out that we don't even know the man's name. how did you ever venture to take this extravagant liberty? i supposed, of course, it was your home. what will the man say?" "what will he say? forsooth what can he say but give thanks?" "thanks for what?" her face was filled with a puzzled surprise: "verily, thou troublest mine understanding with strange words. do ye dream that one of his estate is like to have the honor twice in his life to entertain company such as we have brought to grace his house withal?" "well, no--when you come to that. no, it's an even bet that this is the first time he has had a treat like this." "then let him be thankful, and manifest the same by grateful speech and due humility; he were a dog, else, and the heir and ancestor of dogs." to my mind, the situation was uncomfortable. it might become more so. it might be a good idea to muster the hogs and move on. so i said: "the day is wasting, sandy. it is time to get the nobility together and be moving." "wherefore, fair sir and boss?" "we want to take them to their home, don't we?" "la, but list to him! they be of all the regions of the earth! each must hie to her own home; wend you we might do all these journeys in one so brief life as he hath appointed that created life, and thereto death likewise with help of adam, who by sin done through persuasion of his helpmeet, she being wrought upon and bewrayed by the beguilements of the great enemy of man, that serpent hight satan, aforetime consecrated and set apart unto that evil work by overmastering spite and envy begotten in his heart through fell ambitions that did blight and mildew a nature erst so white and pure whenso it hove with the shining multitudes its brethren-born in glade and shade of that fair heaven wherein all such as native be to that rich estate and--" "great scott!" "my lord?" "well, you know we haven't got time for this sort of thing. don't you see, we could distribute these people around the earth in less time than it is going to take you to explain that we can't. we mustn't talk now, we must act. you want to be careful; you mustn't let your mill get the start of you that way, at a time like this. to business now--and sharp's the word. who is to take the aristocracy home?" "even their friends. these will come for them from the far parts of the earth." this was lightning from a clear sky, for unexpectedness; and the relief of it was like pardon to a prisoner. she would remain to deliver the goods, of course. "well, then, sandy, as our enterprise is handsomely and successfully ended, i will go home and report; and if ever another one--" "i also am ready; i will go with thee." this was recalling the pardon. "how? you will go with me? why should you?" "will i be traitor to my knight, dost think? that were dishonor. i may not part from thee until in knightly encounter in the field some overmatching champion shall fairly win and fairly wear me. i were to blame an i thought that that might ever hap." "elected for the long term," i sighed to myself. "i may as well make the best of it." so then i spoke up and said: "all right; let us make a start." while she was gone to cry her farewells over the pork, i gave that whole peerage away to the servants. and i asked them to take a duster and dust around a little where the nobilities had mainly lodged and promenaded; but they considered that that would be hardly worth while, and would moreover be a rather grave departure from custom, and therefore likely to make talk. a departure from custom--that settled it; it was a nation capable of committing any crime but that. the servants said they would follow the fashion, a fashion grown sacred through immemorial observance; they would scatter fresh rushes in all the rooms and halls, and then the evidence of the aristocratic visitation would be no longer visible. it was a kind of satire on nature: it was the scientific method, the geologic method; it deposited the history of the family in a stratified record; and the antiquary could dig through it and tell by the remains of each period what changes of diet the family had introduced successively for a hundred years. the first thing we struck that day was a procession of pilgrims. it was not going our way, but we joined it, nevertheless; for it was hourly being borne in upon me now, that if i would govern this country wisely, i must be posted in the details of its life, and not at second hand, but by personal observation and scrutiny. this company of pilgrims resembled chaucer's in this: that it had in it a sample of about all the upper occupations and professions the country could show, and a corresponding variety of costume. there were young men and old men, young women and old women, lively folk and grave folk. they rode upon mules and horses, and there was not a side-saddle in the party; for this specialty was to remain unknown in england for nine hundred years yet. it was a pleasant, friendly, sociable herd; pious, happy, merry and full of unconscious coarsenesses and innocent indecencies. what they regarded as the merry tale went the continual round and caused no more embarrassment than it would have caused in the best english society twelve centuries later. practical jokes worthy of the english wits of the first quarter of the far-off nineteenth century were sprung here and there and yonder along the line, and compelled the delightedest applause; and sometimes when a bright remark was made at one end of the procession and started on its travels toward the other, you could note its progress all the way by the sparkling spray of laughter it threw off from its bows as it plowed along; and also by the blushes of the mules in its wake. sandy knew the goal and purpose of this pilgrimage, and she posted me. she said: "they journey to the valley of holiness, for to be blessed of the godly hermits and drink of the miraculous waters and be cleansed from sin." "where is this watering place?" "it lieth a two-day journey hence, by the borders of the land that hight the cuckoo kingdom." "tell me about it. is it a celebrated place?" "oh, of a truth, yes. there be none more so. of old time there lived there an abbot and his monks. belike were none in the world more holy than these; for they gave themselves to study of pious books, and spoke not the one to the other, or indeed to any, and ate decayed herbs and naught thereto, and slept hard, and prayed much, and washed never; also they wore the same garment until it fell from their bodies through age and decay. right so came they to be known of all the world by reason of these holy austerities, and visited by rich and poor, and reverenced." "proceed." "but always there was lack of water there. whereas, upon a time, the holy abbot prayed, and for answer a great stream of clear water burst forth by miracle in a desert place. now were the fickle monks tempted of the fiend, and they wrought with their abbot unceasingly by beggings and beseechings that he would construct a bath; and when he was become aweary and might not resist more, he said have ye your will, then, and granted that they asked. now mark thou what 'tis to forsake the ways of purity the which he loveth, and wanton with such as be worldly and an offense. these monks did enter into the bath and come thence washed as white as snow; and lo, in that moment his sign appeared, in miraculous rebuke! for his insulted waters ceased to flow, and utterly vanished away." "they fared mildly, sandy, considering how that kind of crime is regarded in this country." "belike; but it was their first sin; and they had been of perfect life for long, and differing in naught from the angels. prayers, tears, torturings of the flesh, all was vain to beguile that water to flow again. even processions; even burnt-offerings; even votive candles to the virgin, did fail every each of them; and all in the land did marvel." "how odd to find that even this industry has its financial panics, and at times sees its assignats and greenbacks languish to zero, and everything come to a standstill. go on, sandy." "and so upon a time, after year and day, the good abbot made humble surrender and destroyed the bath. and behold, his anger was in that moment appeased, and the waters gushed richly forth again, and even unto this day they have not ceased to flow in that generous measure." "then i take it nobody has washed since." "he that would essay it could have his halter free; yes, and swiftly would he need it, too." "the community has prospered since?" "even from that very day. the fame of the miracle went abroad into all lands. from every land came monks to join; they came even as the fishes come, in shoals; and the monastery added building to building, and yet others to these, and so spread wide its arms and took them in. and nuns came, also; and more again, and yet more; and built over against the monastery on the yon side of the vale, and added building to building, until mighty was that nunnery. and these were friendly unto those, and they joined their loving labors together, and together they built a fair great foundling asylum midway of the valley between." "you spoke of some hermits, sandy." "these have gathered there from the ends of the earth. a hermit thriveth best where there be multitudes of pilgrims. ye shall not find no hermit of no sort wanting. if any shall mention a hermit of a kind he thinketh new and not to be found but in some far strange land, let him but scratch among the holes and caves and swamps that line that valley of holiness, and whatsoever be his breed, it skills not, he shall find a sample of it there." i closed up alongside of a burly fellow with a fat good-humored face, purposing to make myself agreeable and pick up some further crumbs of fact; but i had hardly more than scraped acquaintance with him when he began eagerly and awkwardly to lead up, in the immemorial way, to that same old anecdote--the one sir dinadan told me, what time i got into trouble with sir sagramor and was challenged of him on account of it. i excused myself and dropped to the rear of the procession, sad at heart, willing to go hence from this troubled life, this vale of tears, this brief day of broken rest, of cloud and storm, of weary struggle and monotonous defeat; and yet shrinking from the change, as remembering how long eternity is, and how many have wended thither who know that anecdote. early in the afternoon we overtook another procession of pilgrims; but in this one was no merriment, no jokes, no laughter, no playful ways, nor any happy giddiness, whether of youth or age. yet both were here, both age and youth; gray old men and women, strong men and women of middle age, young husbands, young wives, little boys and girls, and three babies at the breast. even the children were smileless; there was not a face among all these half a hundred people but was cast down, and bore that set expression of hopelessness which is bred of long and hard trials and old acquaintance with despair. they were slaves. chains led from their fettered feet and their manacled hands to a sole-leather belt about their waists; and all except the children were also linked together in a file six feet apart, by a single chain which led from collar to collar all down the line. they were on foot, and had tramped three hundred miles in eighteen days, upon the cheapest odds and ends of food, and stingy rations of that. they had slept in these chains every night, bundled together like swine. they had upon their bodies some poor rags, but they could not be said to be clothed. their irons had chafed the skin from their ankles and made sores which were ulcerated and wormy. their naked feet were torn, and none walked without a limp. originally there had been a hundred of these unfortunates, but about half had been sold on the trip. the trader in charge of them rode a horse and carried a whip with a short handle and a long heavy lash divided into several knotted tails at the end. with this whip he cut the shoulders of any that tottered from weariness and pain, and straightened them up. he did not speak; the whip conveyed his desire without that. none of these poor creatures looked up as we rode along by; they showed no consciousness of our presence. and they made no sound but one; that was the dull and awful clank of their chains from end to end of the long file, as forty-three burdened feet rose and fell in unison. the file moved in a cloud of its own making. all these faces were gray with a coating of dust. one has seen the like of this coating upon furniture in unoccupied houses, and has written his idle thought in it with his finger. i was reminded of this when i noticed the faces of some of those women, young mothers carrying babes that were near to death and freedom, how a something in their hearts was written in the dust upon their faces, plain to see, and lord, how plain to read! for it was the track of tears. one of these young mothers was but a girl, and it hurt me to the heart to read that writing, and reflect that it was come up out of the breast of such a child, a breast that ought not to know trouble yet, but only the gladness of the morning of life; and no doubt-- she reeled just then, giddy with fatigue, and down came the lash and flicked a flake of skin from her naked shoulder. it stung me as if i had been hit instead. the master halted the file and jumped from his horse. he stormed and swore at this girl, and said she had made annoyance enough with her laziness, and as this was the last chance he should have, he would settle the account now. she dropped on her knees and put up her hands and began to beg, and cry, and implore, in a passion of terror, but the master gave no attention. he snatched the child from her, and then made the men-slaves who were chained before and behind her throw her on the ground and hold her there and expose her body; and then he laid on with his lash like a madman till her back was flayed, she shrieking and struggling the while piteously. one of the men who was holding her turned away his face, and for this humanity he was reviled and flogged. all our pilgrims looked on and commented--on the expert way in which the whip was handled. they were too much hardened by lifelong everyday familiarity with slavery to notice that there was anything else in the exhibition that invited comment. this was what slavery could do, in the way of ossifying what one may call the superior lobe of human feeling; for these pilgrims were kind-hearted people, and they would not have allowed that man to treat a horse like that. i wanted to stop the whole thing and set the slaves free, but that would not do. i must not interfere too much and get myself a name for riding over the country's laws and the citizen's rights roughshod. if i lived and prospered i would be the death of slavery, that i was resolved upon; but i would try to fix it so that when i became its executioner it should be by command of the nation. just here was the wayside shop of a smith; and now arrived a landed proprietor who had bought this girl a few miles back, deliverable here where her irons could be taken off. they were removed; then there was a squabble between the gentleman and the dealer as to which should pay the blacksmith. the moment the girl was delivered from her irons, she flung herself, all tears and frantic sobbings, into the arms of the slave who had turned away his face when she was whipped. he strained her to his breast, and smothered her face and the child's with kisses, and washed them with the rain of his tears. i suspected. i inquired. yes, i was right; it was husband and wife. they had to be torn apart by force; the girl had to be dragged away, and she struggled and fought and shrieked like one gone mad till a turn of the road hid her from sight; and even after that, we could still make out the fading plaint of those receding shrieks. and the husband and father, with his wife and child gone, never to be seen by him again in life?--well, the look of him one might not bear at all, and so i turned away; but i knew i should never get his picture out of my mind again, and there it is to this day, to wring my heartstrings whenever i think of it. we put up at the inn in a village just at nightfall, and when i rose next morning and looked abroad, i was ware where a knight came riding in the golden glory of the new day, and recognized him for knight of mine--sir ozana le cure hardy. he was in the gentlemen's furnishing line, and his missionarying specialty was plug hats. he was clothed all in steel, in the beautifulest armor of the time--up to where his helmet ought to have been; but he hadn't any helmet, he wore a shiny stove-pipe hat, and was ridiculous a spectacle as one might want to see. it was another of my surreptitious schemes for extinguishing knighthood by making it grotesque and absurd. sir ozana's saddle was hung about with leather hat boxes, and every time he overcame a wandering knight he swore him into my service and fitted him with a plug and made him wear it. i dressed and ran down to welcome sir ozana and get his news. "how is trade?" i asked. "ye will note that i have but these four left; yet were they sixteen whenas i got me from camelot." "why, you have certainly done nobly, sir ozana. where have you been foraging of late?" "i am but now come from the valley of holiness, please you sir." "i am pointed for that place myself. is there anything stirring in the monkery, more than common?" "by the mass ye may not question it!.... give him good feed, boy, and stint it not, an thou valuest thy crown; so get ye lightly to the stable and do even as i bid.... sir, it is parlous news i bring, and--be these pilgrims? then ye may not do better, good folk, than gather and hear the tale i have to tell, sith it concerneth you, forasmuch as ye go to find that ye will not find, and seek that ye will seek in vain, my life being hostage for my word, and my word and message being these, namely: that a hap has happened whereof the like has not been seen no more but once this two hundred years, which was the first and last time that that said misfortune strake the holy valley in that form by commandment of the most high whereto by reasons just and causes thereunto contributing, wherein the matter--" "the miraculous fount hath ceased to flow!" this shout burst from twenty pilgrim mouths at once. "ye say well, good people. i was verging to it, even when ye spake." "has somebody been washing again?" "nay, it is suspected, but none believe it. it is thought to be some other sin, but none wit what." "how are they feeling about the calamity?" "none may describe it in words. the fount is these nine days dry. the prayers that did begin then, and the lamentations in sackcloth and ashes, and the holy processions, none of these have ceased nor night nor day; and so the monks and the nuns and the foundlings be all exhausted, and do hang up prayers writ upon parchment, sith that no strength is left in man to lift up voice. and at last they sent for thee, sir boss, to try magic and enchantment; and if you could not come, then was the messenger to fetch merlin, and he is there these three days now, and saith he will fetch that water though he burst the globe and wreck its kingdoms to accomplish it; and right bravely doth he work his magic and call upon his hellions to hie them hither and help, but not a whiff of moisture hath he started yet, even so much as might qualify as mist upon a copper mirror an ye count not the barrel of sweat he sweateth betwixt sun and sun over the dire labors of his task; and if ye--" breakfast was ready. as soon as it was over i showed to sir ozana these words which i had written on the inside of his hat: "chemical department, laboratory extension, section g. pxxp. send two of first size, two of no. , and six of no. , together with the proper complementary details--and two of my trained assistants." and i said: "now get you to camelot as fast as you can fly, brave knight, and show the writing to clarence, and tell him to have these required matters in the valley of holiness with all possible dispatch." "i will well, sir boss," and he was off. chapter xxii the holy fountain the pilgrims were human beings. otherwise they would have acted differently. they had come a long and difficult journey, and now when the journey was nearly finished, and they learned that the main thing they had come for had ceased to exist, they didn't do as horses or cats or angle-worms would probably have done--turn back and get at something profitable--no, anxious as they had before been to see the miraculous fountain, they were as much as forty times as anxious now to see the place where it had used to be. there is no accounting for human beings. we made good time; and a couple of hours before sunset we stood upon the high confines of the valley of holiness, and our eyes swept it from end to end and noted its features. that is, its large features. these were the three masses of buildings. they were distant and isolated temporalities shrunken to toy constructions in the lonely waste of what seemed a desert--and was. such a scene is always mournful, it is so impressively still, and looks so steeped in death. but there was a sound here which interrupted the stillness only to add to its mournfulness; this was the faint far sound of tolling bells which floated fitfully to us on the passing breeze, and so faintly, so softly, that we hardly knew whether we heard it with our ears or with our spirits. we reached the monastery before dark, and there the males were given lodging, but the women were sent over to the nunnery. the bells were close at hand now, and their solemn booming smote upon the ear like a message of doom. a superstitious despair possessed the heart of every monk and published itself in his ghastly face. everywhere, these black-robed, soft-sandaled, tallow-visaged specters appeared, flitted about and disappeared, noiseless as the creatures of a troubled dream, and as uncanny. the old abbot's joy to see me was pathetic. even to tears; but he did the shedding himself. he said: "delay not, son, but get to thy saving work. an we bring not the water back again, and soon, we are ruined, and the good work of two hundred years must end. and see thou do it with enchantments that be holy, for the church will not endure that work in her cause be done by devil's magic." "when i work, father, be sure there will be no devil's work connected with it. i shall use no arts that come of the devil, and no elements not created by the hand of god. but is merlin working strictly on pious lines?" "ah, he said he would, my son, he said he would, and took oath to make his promise good." "well, in that case, let him proceed." "but surely you will not sit idle by, but help?" "it will not answer to mix methods, father; neither would it be professional courtesy. two of a trade must not underbid each other. we might as well cut rates and be done with it; it would arrive at that in the end. merlin has the contract; no other magician can touch it till he throws it up." "but i will take it from him; it is a terrible emergency and the act is thereby justified. and if it were not so, who will give law to the church? the church giveth law to all; and what she wills to do, that she may do, hurt whom it may. i will take it from him; you shall begin upon the moment." "it may not be, father. no doubt, as you say, where power is supreme, one can do as one likes and suffer no injury; but we poor magicians are not so situated. merlin is a very good magician in a small way, and has quite a neat provincial reputation. he is struggling along, doing the best he can, and it would not be etiquette for me to take his job until he himself abandons it." the abbot's face lighted. "ah, that is simple. there are ways to persuade him to abandon it." "no-no, father, it skills not, as these people say. if he were persuaded against his will, he would load that well with a malicious enchantment which would balk me until i found out its secret. it might take a month. i could set up a little enchantment of mine which i call the telephone, and he could not find out its secret in a hundred years. yes, you perceive, he might block me for a month. would you like to risk a month in a dry time like this?" "a month! the mere thought of it maketh me to shudder. have it thy way, my son. but my heart is heavy with this disappointment. leave me, and let me wear my spirit with weariness and waiting, even as i have done these ten long days, counterfeiting thus the thing that is called rest, the prone body making outward sign of repose where inwardly is none." of course, it would have been best, all round, for merlin to waive etiquette and quit and call it half a day, since he would never be able to start that water, for he was a true magician of the time; which is to say, the big miracles, the ones that gave him his reputation, always had the luck to be performed when nobody but merlin was present; he couldn't start this well with all this crowd around to see; a crowd was as bad for a magician's miracle in that day as it was for a spiritualist's miracle in mine; there was sure to be some skeptic on hand to turn up the gas at the crucial moment and spoil everything. but i did not want merlin to retire from the job until i was ready to take hold of it effectively myself; and i could not do that until i got my things from camelot, and that would take two or three days. my presence gave the monks hope, and cheered them up a good deal; insomuch that they ate a square meal that night for the first time in ten days. as soon as their stomachs had been properly reinforced with food, their spirits began to rise fast; when the mead began to go round they rose faster. by the time everybody was half-seas over, the holy community was in good shape to make a night of it; so we stayed by the board and put it through on that line. matters got to be very jolly. good old questionable stories were told that made the tears run down and cavernous mouths stand wide and the round bellies shake with laughter; and questionable songs were bellowed out in a mighty chorus that drowned the boom of the tolling bells. at last i ventured a story myself; and vast was the success of it. not right off, of course, for the native of those islands does not, as a rule, dissolve upon the early applications of a humorous thing; but the fifth time i told it, they began to crack in places; the eight time i told it, they began to crumble; at the twelfth repetition they fell apart in chunks; and at the fifteenth they disintegrated, and i got a broom and swept them up. this language is figurative. those islanders--well, they are slow pay at first, in the matter of return for your investment of effort, but in the end they make the pay of all other nations poor and small by contrast. i was at the well next day betimes. merlin was there, enchanting away like a beaver, but not raising the moisture. he was not in a pleasant humor; and every time i hinted that perhaps this contract was a shade too hefty for a novice he unlimbered his tongue and cursed like a bishop--french bishop of the regency days, i mean. matters were about as i expected to find them. the "fountain" was an ordinary well, it had been dug in the ordinary way, and stoned up in the ordinary way. there was no miracle about it. even the lie that had created its reputation was not miraculous; i could have told it myself, with one hand tied behind me. the well was in a dark chamber which stood in the center of a cut-stone chapel, whose walls were hung with pious pictures of a workmanship that would have made a chromo feel good; pictures historically commemorative of curative miracles which had been achieved by the waters when nobody was looking. that is, nobody but angels; they are always on deck when there is a miracle to the fore--so as to get put in the picture, perhaps. angels are as fond of that as a fire company; look at the old masters. the well-chamber was dimly lighted by lamps; the water was drawn with a windlass and chain by monks, and poured into troughs which delivered it into stone reservoirs outside in the chapel--when there was water to draw, i mean--and none but monks could enter the well-chamber. i entered it, for i had temporary authority to do so, by courtesy of my professional brother and subordinate. but he hadn't entered it himself. he did everything by incantations; he never worked his intellect. if he had stepped in there and used his eyes, instead of his disordered mind, he could have cured the well by natural means, and then turned it into a miracle in the customary way; but no, he was an old numskull, a magician who believed in his own magic; and no magician can thrive who is handicapped with a superstition like that. i had an idea that the well had sprung a leak; that some of the wall stones near the bottom had fallen and exposed fissures that allowed the water to escape. i measured the chain-- feet. then i called in a couple of monks, locked the door, took a candle, and made them lower me in the bucket. when the chain was all paid out, the candle confirmed my suspicion; a considerable section of the wall was gone, exposing a good big fissure. i almost regretted that my theory about the well's trouble was correct, because i had another one that had a showy point or two about it for a miracle. i remembered that in america, many centuries later, when an oil well ceased to flow, they used to blast it out with a dynamite torpedo. if i should find this well dry and no explanation of it, i could astonish these people most nobly by having a person of no especial value drop a dynamite bomb into it. it was my idea to appoint merlin. however, it was plain that there was no occasion for the bomb. one cannot have everything the way he would like it. a man has no business to be depressed by a disappointment, anyway; he ought to make up his mind to get even. that is what i did. i said to myself, i am in no hurry, i can wait; that bomb will come good yet. and it did, too. when i was above ground again, i turned out the monks, and let down a fish-line; the well was a hundred and fifty feet deep, and there was forty-one feet of water in it. i called in a monk and asked: "how deep is the well?" "that, sir, i wit not, having never been told." "how does the water usually stand in it?" "near to the top, these two centuries, as the testimony goeth, brought down to us through our predecessors." it was true--as to recent times at least--for there was witness to it, and better witness than a monk; only about twenty or thirty feet of the chain showed wear and use, the rest of it was unworn and rusty. what had happened when the well gave out that other time? without doubt some practical person had come along and mended the leak, and then had come up and told the abbot he had discovered by divination that if the sinful bath were destroyed the well would flow again. the leak had befallen again now, and these children would have prayed, and processioned, and tolled their bells for heavenly succor till they all dried up and blew away, and no innocent of them all would ever have thought to drop a fish-line into the well or go down in it and find out what was really the matter. old habit of mind is one of the toughest things to get away from in the world. it transmits itself like physical form and feature; and for a man, in those days, to have had an idea that his ancestors hadn't had, would have brought him under suspicion of being illegitimate. i said to the monk: "it is a difficult miracle to restore water in a dry well, but we will try, if my brother merlin fails. brother merlin is a very passable artist, but only in the parlor-magic line, and he may not succeed; in fact, is not likely to succeed. but that should be nothing to his discredit; the man that can do _this_ kind of miracle knows enough to keep hotel." "hotel? i mind not to have heard--" "of hotel? it's what you call hostel. the man that can do this miracle can keep hostel. i can do this miracle; i shall do this miracle; yet i do not try to conceal from you that it is a miracle to tax the occult powers to the last strain." "none knoweth that truth better than the brotherhood, indeed; for it is of record that aforetime it was parlous difficult and took a year. natheless, god send you good success, and to that end will we pray." as a matter of business it was a good idea to get the notion around that the thing was difficult. many a small thing has been made large by the right kind of advertising. that monk was filled up with the difficulty of this enterprise; he would fill up the others. in two days the solicitude would be booming. on my way home at noon, i met sandy. she had been sampling the hermits. i said: "i would like to do that myself. this is wednesday. is there a matinee?" "a which, please you, sir?" "matinee. do they keep open afternoons?" "who?" "the hermits, of course." "keep open?" "yes, keep open. isn't that plain enough? do they knock off at noon?" "knock off?" "knock off?--yes, knock off. what is the matter with knock off? i never saw such a dunderhead; can't you understand anything at all? in plain terms, do they shut up shop, draw the game, bank the fires--" "shut up shop, draw--" "there, never mind, let it go; you make me tired. you can't seem to understand the simplest thing." "i would i might please thee, sir, and it is to me dole and sorrow that i fail, albeit sith i am but a simple damsel and taught of none, being from the cradle unbaptized in those deep waters of learning that do anoint with a sovereignty him that partaketh of that most noble sacrament, investing him with reverend state to the mental eye of the humble mortal who, by bar and lack of that great consecration seeth in his own unlearned estate but a symbol of that other sort of lack and loss which men do publish to the pitying eye with sackcloth trappings whereon the ashes of grief do lie bepowdered and bestrewn, and so, when such shall in the darkness of his mind encounter these golden phrases of high mystery, these shut-up-shops, and draw-the-game, and bank-the-fires, it is but by the grace of god that he burst not for envy of the mind that can beget, and tongue that can deliver so great and mellow-sounding miracles of speech, and if there do ensue confusion in that humbler mind, and failure to divine the meanings of these wonders, then if so be this miscomprehension is not vain but sooth and true, wit ye well it is the very substance of worshipful dear homage and may not lightly be misprized, nor had been, an ye had noted this complexion of mood and mind and understood that that i would i could not, and that i could not i might not, nor yet nor might _nor_ could, nor might-not nor could-not, might be by advantage turned to the desired _would_, and so i pray you mercy of my fault, and that ye will of your kindness and your charity forgive it, good my master and most dear lord." i couldn't make it all out--that is, the details--but i got the general idea; and enough of it, too, to be ashamed. it was not fair to spring those nineteenth century technicalities upon the untutored infant of the sixth and then rail at her because she couldn't get their drift; and when she was making the honest best drive at it she could, too, and no fault of hers that she couldn't fetch the home plate; and so i apologized. then we meandered pleasantly away toward the hermit holes in sociable converse together, and better friends than ever. i was gradually coming to have a mysterious and shuddery reverence for this girl; nowadays whenever she pulled out from the station and got her train fairly started on one of those horizonless transcontinental sentences of hers, it was borne in upon me that i was standing in the awful presence of the mother of the german language. i was so impressed with this, that sometimes when she began to empty one of these sentences on me i unconsciously took the very attitude of reverence, and stood uncovered; and if words had been water, i had been drowned, sure. she had exactly the german way; whatever was in her mind to be delivered, whether a mere remark, or a sermon, or a cyclopedia, or the history of a war, she would get it into a single sentence or die. whenever the literary german dives into a sentence, that is the last you are going to see of him till he emerges on the other side of his atlantic with his verb in his mouth. we drifted from hermit to hermit all the afternoon. it was a most strange menagerie. the chief emulation among them seemed to be, to see which could manage to be the uncleanest and most prosperous with vermin. their manner and attitudes were the last expression of complacent self-righteousness. it was one anchorite's pride to lie naked in the mud and let the insects bite him and blister him unmolested; it was another's to lean against a rock, all day long, conspicuous to the admiration of the throng of pilgrims and pray; it was another's to go naked and crawl around on all fours; it was another's to drag about with him, year in and year out, eighty pounds of iron; it was another's to never lie down when he slept, but to stand among the thorn-bushes and snore when there were pilgrims around to look; a woman, who had the white hair of age, and no other apparel, was black from crown to heel with forty-seven years of holy abstinence from water. groups of gazing pilgrims stood around all and every of these strange objects, lost in reverent wonder, and envious of the fleckless sanctity which these pious austerities had won for them from an exacting heaven. by and by we went to see one of the supremely great ones. he was a mighty celebrity; his fame had penetrated all christendom; the noble and the renowned journeyed from the remotest lands on the globe to pay him reverence. his stand was in the center of the widest part of the valley; and it took all that space to hold his crowds. his stand was a pillar sixty feet high, with a broad platform on the top of it. he was now doing what he had been doing every day for twenty years up there--bowing his body ceaselessly and rapidly almost to his feet. it was his way of praying. i timed him with a stop watch, and he made , revolutions in minutes and seconds. it seemed a pity to have all this power going to waste. it was one of the most useful motions in mechanics, the pedal movement; so i made a note in my memorandum book, purposing some day to apply a system of elastic cords to him and run a sewing machine with it. i afterward carried out that scheme, and got five years' good service out of him; in which time he turned out upward of eighteen thousand first-rate tow-linen shirts, which was ten a day. i worked him sundays and all; he was going, sundays, the same as week days, and it was no use to waste the power. these shirts cost me nothing but just the mere trifle for the materials--i furnished those myself, it would not have been right to make him do that--and they sold like smoke to pilgrims at a dollar and a half apiece, which was the price of fifty cows or a blooded race horse in arthurdom. they were regarded as a perfect protection against sin, and advertised as such by my knights everywhere, with the paint-pot and stencil-plate; insomuch that there was not a cliff or a bowlder or a dead wall in england but you could read on it at a mile distance: "buy the only genuine st. stylite; patronized by the nobility. patent applied for." there was more money in the business than one knew what to do with. as it extended, i brought out a line of goods suitable for kings, and a nobby thing for duchesses and that sort, with ruffles down the forehatch and the running-gear clewed up with a featherstitch to leeward and then hauled aft with a back-stay and triced up with a half-turn in the standing rigging forward of the weather-gaskets. yes, it was a daisy. but about that time i noticed that the motive power had taken to standing on one leg, and i found that there was something the matter with the other one; so i stocked the business and unloaded, taking sir bors de ganis into camp financially along with certain of his friends; for the works stopped within a year, and the good saint got him to his rest. but he had earned it. i can say that for him. when i saw him that first time--however, his personal condition will not quite bear description here. you can read it in the lives of the saints.* [*all the details concerning the hermits, in this chapter, are from lecky--but greatly modified. this book not being a history but only a tale, the majority of the historian's frank details were too strong for reproduction in it.--_editor_] a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) part . chapter vii merlin's tower inasmuch as i was now the second personage in the kingdom, as far as political power and authority were concerned, much was made of me. my raiment was of silks and velvets and cloth of gold, and by consequence was very showy, also uncomfortable. but habit would soon reconcile me to my clothes; i was aware of that. i was given the choicest suite of apartments in the castle, after the king's. they were aglow with loud-colored silken hangings, but the stone floors had nothing but rushes on them for a carpet, and they were misfit rushes at that, being not all of one breed. as for conveniences, properly speaking, there weren't any. i mean _little_ conveniences; it is the little conveniences that make the real comfort of life. the big oaken chairs, graced with rude carvings, were well enough, but that was the stopping place. there was no soap, no matches, no looking-glass--except a metal one, about as powerful as a pail of water. and not a chromo. i had been used to chromos for years, and i saw now that without my suspecting it a passion for art had got worked into the fabric of my being, and was become a part of me. it made me homesick to look around over this proud and gaudy but heartless barrenness and remember that in our house in east hartford, all unpretending as it was, you couldn't go into a room but you would find an insurance-chromo, or at least a three-color god-bless-our-home over the door; and in the parlor we had nine. but here, even in my grand room of state, there wasn't anything in the nature of a picture except a thing the size of a bedquilt, which was either woven or knitted (it had darned places in it), and nothing in it was the right color or the right shape; and as for proportions, even raphael himself couldn't have botched them more formidably, after all his practice on those nightmares they call his "celebrated hampton court cartoons." raphael was a bird. we had several of his chromos; one was his "miraculous draught of fishes," where he puts in a miracle of his own--puts three men into a canoe which wouldn't have held a dog without upsetting. i always admired to study r.'s art, it was so fresh and unconventional. there wasn't even a bell or a speaking-tube in the castle. i had a great many servants, and those that were on duty lolled in the anteroom; and when i wanted one of them i had to go and call for him. there was no gas, there were no candles; a bronze dish half full of boarding-house butter with a blazing rag floating in it was the thing that produced what was regarded as light. a lot of these hung along the walls and modified the dark, just toned it down enough to make it dismal. if you went out at night, your servants carried torches. there were no books, pens, paper or ink, and no glass in the openings they believed to be windows. it is a little thing--glass is--until it is absent, then it becomes a big thing. but perhaps the worst of all was, that there wasn't any sugar, coffee, tea, or tobacco. i saw that i was just another robinson crusoe cast away on an uninhabited island, with no society but some more or less tame animals, and if i wanted to make life bearable i must do as he did--invent, contrive, create, reorganize things; set brain and hand to work, and keep them busy. well, that was in my line. one thing troubled me along at first--the immense interest which people took in me. apparently the whole nation wanted a look at me. it soon transpired that the eclipse had scared the british world almost to death; that while it lasted the whole country, from one end to the other, was in a pitiable state of panic, and the churches, hermitages, and monkeries overflowed with praying and weeping poor creatures who thought the end of the world was come. then had followed the news that the producer of this awful event was a stranger, a mighty magician at arthur's court; that he could have blown out the sun like a candle, and was just going to do it when his mercy was purchased, and he then dissolved his enchantments, and was now recognized and honored as the man who had by his unaided might saved the globe from destruction and its peoples from extinction. now if you consider that everybody believed that, and not only believed it, but never even dreamed of doubting it, you will easily understand that there was not a person in all britain that would not have walked fifty miles to get a sight of me. of course i was all the talk--all other subjects were dropped; even the king became suddenly a person of minor interest and notoriety. within twenty-four hours the delegations began to arrive, and from that time onward for a fortnight they kept coming. the village was crowded, and all the countryside. i had to go out a dozen times a day and show myself to these reverent and awe-stricken multitudes. it came to be a great burden, as to time and trouble, but of course it was at the same time compensatingly agreeable to be so celebrated and such a center of homage. it turned brer merlin green with envy and spite, which was a great satisfaction to me. but there was one thing i couldn't understand--nobody had asked for an autograph. i spoke to clarence about it. by george! i had to explain to him what it was. then he said nobody in the country could read or write but a few dozen priests. land! think of that. there was another thing that troubled me a little. those multitudes presently began to agitate for another miracle. that was natural. to be able to carry back to their far homes the boast that they had seen the man who could command the sun, riding in the heavens, and be obeyed, would make them great in the eyes of their neighbors, and envied by them all; but to be able to also say they had seen him work a miracle themselves--why, people would come a distance to see _them_. the pressure got to be pretty strong. there was going to be an eclipse of the moon, and i knew the date and hour, but it was too far away. two years. i would have given a good deal for license to hurry it up and use it now when there was a big market for it. it seemed a great pity to have it wasted so, and come lagging along at a time when a body wouldn't have any use for it, as like as not. if it had been booked for only a month away, i could have sold it short; but, as matters stood, i couldn't seem to cipher out any way to make it do me any good, so i gave up trying. next, clarence found that old merlin was making himself busy on the sly among those people. he was spreading a report that i was a humbug, and that the reason i didn't accommodate the people with a miracle was because i couldn't. i saw that i must do something. i presently thought out a plan. by my authority as executive i threw merlin into prison--the same cell i had occupied myself. then i gave public notice by herald and trumpet that i should be busy with affairs of state for a fortnight, but about the end of that time i would take a moment's leisure and blow up merlin's stone tower by fires from heaven; in the meantime, whoso listened to evil reports about me, let him beware. furthermore, i would perform but this one miracle at this time, and no more; if it failed to satisfy and any murmured, i would turn the murmurers into horses, and make them useful. quiet ensued. i took clarence into my confidence, to a certain degree, and we went to work privately. i told him that this was a sort of miracle that required a trifle of preparation, and that it would be sudden death to ever talk about these preparations to anybody. that made his mouth safe enough. clandestinely we made a few bushels of first-rate blasting powder, and i superintended my armorers while they constructed a lightning-rod and some wires. this old stone tower was very massive--and rather ruinous, too, for it was roman, and four hundred years old. yes, and handsome, after a rude fashion, and clothed with ivy from base to summit, as with a shirt of scale mail. it stood on a lonely eminence, in good view from the castle, and about half a mile away. working by night, we stowed the powder in the tower--dug stones out, on the inside, and buried the powder in the walls themselves, which were fifteen feet thick at the base. we put in a peck at a time, in a dozen places. we could have blown up the tower of london with these charges. when the thirteenth night was come we put up our lightning-rod, bedded it in one of the batches of powder, and ran wires from it to the other batches. everybody had shunned that locality from the day of my proclamation, but on the morning of the fourteenth i thought best to warn the people, through the heralds, to keep clear away--a quarter of a mile away. then added, by command, that at some time during the twenty-four hours i would consummate the miracle, but would first give a brief notice; by flags on the castle towers if in the daytime, by torch-baskets in the same places if at night. thunder-showers had been tolerably frequent of late, and i was not much afraid of a failure; still, i shouldn't have cared for a delay of a day or two; i should have explained that i was busy with affairs of state yet, and the people must wait. of course, we had a blazing sunny day--almost the first one without a cloud for three weeks; things always happen so. i kept secluded, and watched the weather. clarence dropped in from time to time and said the public excitement was growing and growing all the time, and the whole country filling up with human masses as far as one could see from the battlements. at last the wind sprang up and a cloud appeared--in the right quarter, too, and just at nightfall. for a little while i watched that distant cloud spread and blacken, then i judged it was time for me to appear. i ordered the torch-baskets to be lit, and merlin liberated and sent to me. a quarter of an hour later i ascended the parapet and there found the king and the court assembled and gazing off in the darkness toward merlin's tower. already the darkness was so heavy that one could not see far; these people and the old turrets, being partly in deep shadow and partly in the red glow from the great torch-baskets overhead, made a good deal of a picture. merlin arrived in a gloomy mood. i said: "you wanted to burn me alive when i had not done you any harm, and latterly you have been trying to injure my professional reputation. therefore i am going to call down fire and blow up your tower, but it is only fair to give you a chance; now if you think you can break my enchantments and ward off the fires, step to the bat, it's your innings." "i can, fair sir, and i will. doubt it not." he drew an imaginary circle on the stones of the roof, and burnt a pinch of powder in it, which sent up a small cloud of aromatic smoke, whereat everybody fell back and began to cross themselves and get uncomfortable. then he began to mutter and make passes in the air with his hands. he worked himself up slowly and gradually into a sort of frenzy, and got to thrashing around with his arms like the sails of a windmill. by this time the storm had about reached us; the gusts of wind were flaring the torches and making the shadows swash about, the first heavy drops of rain were falling, the world abroad was black as pitch, the lightning began to wink fitfully. of course, my rod would be loading itself now. in fact, things were imminent. so i said: "you have had time enough. i have given you every advantage, and not interfered. it is plain your magic is weak. it is only fair that i begin now." i made about three passes in the air, and then there was an awful crash and that old tower leaped into the sky in chunks, along with a vast volcanic fountain of fire that turned night to noonday, and showed a thousand acres of human beings groveling on the ground in a general collapse of consternation. well, it rained mortar and masonry the rest of the week. this was the report; but probably the facts would have modified it. it was an effective miracle. the great bothersome temporary population vanished. there were a good many thousand tracks in the mud the next morning, but they were all outward bound. if i had advertised another miracle i couldn't have raised an audience with a sheriff. merlin's stock was flat. the king wanted to stop his wages; he even wanted to banish him, but i interfered. i said he would be useful to work the weather, and attend to small matters like that, and i would give him a lift now and then when his poor little parlor-magic soured on him. there wasn't a rag of his tower left, but i had the government rebuild it for him, and advised him to take boarders; but he was too high-toned for that. and as for being grateful, he never even said thank you. he was a rather hard lot, take him how you might; but then you couldn't fairly expect a man to be sweet that had been set back so. chapter viii the boss to be vested with enormous authority is a fine thing; but to have the on-looking world consent to it is a finer. the tower episode solidified my power, and made it impregnable. if any were perchance disposed to be jealous and critical before that, they experienced a change of heart, now. there was not any one in the kingdom who would have considered it good judgment to meddle with my matters. i was fast getting adjusted to my situation and circumstances. for a time, i used to wake up, mornings, and smile at my "dream," and listen for the colt's factory whistle; but that sort of thing played itself out, gradually, and at last i was fully able to realize that i was actually living in the sixth century, and in arthur's court, not a lunatic asylum. after that, i was just as much at home in that century as i could have been in any other; and as for preference, i wouldn't have traded it for the twentieth. look at the opportunities here for a man of knowledge, brains, pluck, and enterprise to sail in and grow up with the country. the grandest field that ever was; and all my own; not a competitor; not a man who wasn't a baby to me in acquirements and capacities; whereas, what would i amount to in the twentieth century? i should be foreman of a factory, that is about all; and could drag a seine down street any day and catch a hundred better men than myself. what a jump i had made! i couldn't keep from thinking about it, and contemplating it, just as one does who has struck oil. there was nothing back of me that could approach it, unless it might be joseph's case; and joseph's only approached it, it didn't equal it, quite. for it stands to reason that as joseph's splendid financial ingenuities advantaged nobody but the king, the general public must have regarded him with a good deal of disfavor, whereas i had done my entire public a kindness in sparing the sun, and was popular by reason of it. i was no shadow of a king; i was the substance; the king himself was the shadow. my power was colossal; and it was not a mere name, as such things have generally been, it was the genuine article. i stood here, at the very spring and source of the second great period of the world's history; and could see the trickling stream of that history gather and deepen and broaden, and roll its mighty tides down the far centuries; and i could note the upspringing of adventurers like myself in the shelter of its long array of thrones: de montforts, gavestons, mortimers, villierses; the war-making, campaign-directing wantons of france, and charles the second's scepter-wielding drabs; but nowhere in the procession was my full-sized fellow visible. i was a unique; and glad to know that that fact could not be dislodged or challenged for thirteen centuries and a half, for sure. yes, in power i was equal to the king. at the same time there was another power that was a trifle stronger than both of us put together. that was the church. i do not wish to disguise that fact. i couldn't, if i wanted to. but never mind about that, now; it will show up, in its proper place, later on. it didn't cause me any trouble in the beginning --at least any of consequence. well, it was a curious country, and full of interest. and the people! they were the quaintest and simplest and trustingest race; why, they were nothing but rabbits. it was pitiful for a person born in a wholesome free atmosphere to listen to their humble and hearty outpourings of loyalty toward their king and church and nobility; as if they had any more occasion to love and honor king and church and noble than a slave has to love and honor the lash, or a dog has to love and honor the stranger that kicks him! why, dear me, _any_ kind of royalty, howsoever modified, _any_ kind of aristocracy, howsoever pruned, is rightly an insult; but if you are born and brought up under that sort of arrangement you probably never find it out for yourself, and don't believe it when somebody else tells you. it is enough to make a body ashamed of his race to think of the sort of froth that has always occupied its thrones without shadow of right or reason, and the seventh-rate people that have always figured as its aristocracies--a company of monarchs and nobles who, as a rule, would have achieved only poverty and obscurity if left, like their betters, to their own exertions. the most of king arthur's british nation were slaves, pure and simple, and bore that name, and wore the iron collar on their necks; and the rest were slaves in fact, but without the name; they imagined themselves men and freemen, and called themselves so. the truth was, the nation as a body was in the world for one object, and one only: to grovel before king and church and noble; to slave for them, sweat blood for them, starve that they might be fed, work that they might play, drink misery to the dregs that they might be happy, go naked that they might wear silks and jewels, pay taxes that they might be spared from paying them, be familiar all their lives with the degrading language and postures of adulation that they might walk in pride and think themselves the gods of this world. and for all this, the thanks they got were cuffs and contempt; and so poor-spirited were they that they took even this sort of attention as an honor. inherited ideas are a curious thing, and interesting to observe and examine. i had mine, the king and his people had theirs. in both cases they flowed in ruts worn deep by time and habit, and the man who should have proposed to divert them by reason and argument would have had a long contract on his hands. for instance, those people had inherited the idea that all men without title and a long pedigree, whether they had great natural gifts and acquirements or hadn't, were creatures of no more consideration than so many animals, bugs, insects; whereas i had inherited the idea that human daws who can consent to masquerade in the peacock-shams of inherited dignities and unearned titles, are of no good but to be laughed at. the way i was looked upon was odd, but it was natural. you know how the keeper and the public regard the elephant in the menagerie: well, that is the idea. they are full of admiration of his vast bulk and his prodigious strength; they speak with pride of the fact that he can do a hundred marvels which are far and away beyond their own powers; and they speak with the same pride of the fact that in his wrath he is able to drive a thousand men before him. but does that make him one of _them_? no; the raggedest tramp in the pit would smile at the idea. he couldn't comprehend it; couldn't take it in; couldn't in any remote way conceive of it. well, to the king, the nobles, and all the nation, down to the very slaves and tramps, i was just that kind of an elephant, and nothing more. i was admired, also feared; but it was as an animal is admired and feared. the animal is not reverenced, neither was i; i was not even respected. i had no pedigree, no inherited title; so in the king's and nobles' eyes i was mere dirt; the people regarded me with wonder and awe, but there was no reverence mixed with it; through the force of inherited ideas they were not able to conceive of anything being entitled to that except pedigree and lordship. there you see the hand of that awful power, the roman catholic church. in two or three little centuries it had converted a nation of men to a nation of worms. before the day of the church's supremacy in the world, men were men, and held their heads up, and had a man's pride and spirit and independence; and what of greatness and position a person got, he got mainly by achievement, not by birth. but then the church came to the front, with an axe to grind; and she was wise, subtle, and knew more than one way to skin a cat--or a nation; she invented "divine right of kings," and propped it all around, brick by brick, with the beatitudes --wrenching them from their good purpose to make them fortify an evil one; she preached (to the commoner) humility, obedience to superiors, the beauty of self-sacrifice; she preached (to the commoner) meekness under insult; preached (still to the commoner, always to the commoner) patience, meanness of spirit, non-resistance under oppression; and she introduced heritable ranks and aristocracies, and taught all the christian populations of the earth to bow down to them and worship them. even down to my birth-century that poison was still in the blood of christendom, and the best of english commoners was still content to see his inferiors impudently continuing to hold a number of positions, such as lordships and the throne, to which the grotesque laws of his country did not allow him to aspire; in fact, he was not merely contented with this strange condition of things, he was even able to persuade himself that he was proud of it. it seems to show that there isn't anything you can't stand, if you are only born and bred to it. of course that taint, that reverence for rank and title, had been in our american blood, too--i know that; but when i left america it had disappeared--at least to all intents and purposes. the remnant of it was restricted to the dudes and dudesses. when a disease has worked its way down to that level, it may fairly be said to be out of the system. but to return to my anomalous position in king arthur's kingdom. here i was, a giant among pigmies, a man among children, a master intelligence among intellectual moles: by all rational measurement the one and only actually great man in that whole british world; and yet there and then, just as in the remote england of my birth-time, the sheep-witted earl who could claim long descent from a king's leman, acquired at second-hand from the slums of london, was a better man than i was. such a personage was fawned upon in arthur's realm and reverently looked up to by everybody, even though his dispositions were as mean as his intelligence, and his morals as base as his lineage. there were times when _he_ could sit down in the king's presence, but i couldn't. i could have got a title easily enough, and that would have raised me a large step in everybody's eyes; even in the king's, the giver of it. but i didn't ask for it; and i declined it when it was offered. i couldn't have enjoyed such a thing with my notions; and it wouldn't have been fair, anyway, because as far back as i could go, our tribe had always been short of the bar sinister. i couldn't have felt really and satisfactorily fine and proud and set-up over any title except one that should come from the nation itself, the only legitimate source; and such an one i hoped to win; and in the course of years of honest and honorable endeavor, i did win it and did wear it with a high and clean pride. this title fell casually from the lips of a blacksmith, one day, in a village, was caught up as a happy thought and tossed from mouth to mouth with a laugh and an affirmative vote; in ten days it had swept the kingdom, and was become as familiar as the king's name. i was never known by any other designation afterward, whether in the nation's talk or in grave debate upon matters of state at the council-board of the sovereign. this title, translated into modern speech, would be the boss. elected by the nation. that suited me. and it was a pretty high title. there were very few the's, and i was one of them. if you spoke of the duke, or the earl, or the bishop, how could anybody tell which one you meant? but if you spoke of the king or the queen or the boss, it was different. well, i liked the king, and as king i respected him--respected the office; at least respected it as much as i was capable of respecting any unearned supremacy; but as men i looked down upon him and his nobles--privately. and he and they liked me, and respected my office; but as an animal, without birth or sham title, they looked down upon me--and were not particularly private about it, either. i didn't charge for my opinion about them, and they didn't charge for their opinion about me: the account was square, the books balanced, everybody was satisfied. chapter ix the tournament they were always having grand tournaments there at camelot; and very stirring and picturesque and ridiculous human bull-fights they were, too, but just a little wearisome to the practical mind. however, i was generally on hand--for two reasons: a man must not hold himself aloof from the things which his friends and his community have at heart if he would be liked--especially as a statesman; and both as business man and statesman i wanted to study the tournament and see if i couldn't invent an improvement on it. that reminds me to remark, in passing, that the very first official thing i did, in my administration--and it was on the very first day of it, too--was to start a patent office; for i knew that a country without a patent office and good patent laws was just a crab, and couldn't travel any way but sideways or backways. things ran along, a tournament nearly every week; and now and then the boys used to want me to take a hand--i mean sir launcelot and the rest--but i said i would by and by; no hurry yet, and too much government machinery to oil up and set to rights and start a-going. we had one tournament which was continued from day to day during more than a week, and as many as five hundred knights took part in it, from first to last. they were weeks gathering. they came on horseback from everywhere; from the very ends of the country, and even from beyond the sea; and many brought ladies, and all brought squires and troops of servants. it was a most gaudy and gorgeous crowd, as to costumery, and very characteristic of the country and the time, in the way of high animal spirits, innocent indecencies of language, and happy-hearted indifference to morals. it was fight or look on, all day and every day; and sing, gamble, dance, carouse half the night every night. they had a most noble good time. you never saw such people. those banks of beautiful ladies, shining in their barbaric splendors, would see a knight sprawl from his horse in the lists with a lanceshaft the thickness of your ankle clean through him and the blood spouting, and instead of fainting they would clap their hands and crowd each other for a better view; only sometimes one would dive into her handkerchief, and look ostentatiously broken-hearted, and then you could lay two to one that there was a scandal there somewhere and she was afraid the public hadn't found it out. the noise at night would have been annoying to me ordinarily, but i didn't mind it in the present circumstances, because it kept me from hearing the quacks detaching legs and arms from the day's cripples. they ruined an uncommon good old cross-cut saw for me, and broke the saw-buck, too, but i let it pass. and as for my axe--well, i made up my mind that the next time i lent an axe to a surgeon i would pick my century. i not only watched this tournament from day to day, but detailed an intelligent priest from my department of public morals and agriculture, and ordered him to report it; for it was my purpose by and by, when i should have gotten the people along far enough, to start a newspaper. the first thing you want in a new country, is a patent office; then work up your school system; and after that, out with your paper. a newspaper has its faults, and plenty of them, but no matter, it's hark from the tomb for a dead nation, and don't you forget it. you can't resurrect a dead nation without it; there isn't any way. so i wanted to sample things, and be finding out what sort of reporter-material i might be able to rake together out of the sixth century when i should come to need it. well, the priest did very well, considering. he got in all the details, and that is a good thing in a local item: you see, he had kept books for the undertaker-department of his church when he was younger, and there, you know, the money's in the details; the more details, the more swag: bearers, mutes, candles, prayers --everything counts; and if the bereaved don't buy prayers enough you mark up your candles with a forked pencil, and your bill shows up all right. and he had a good knack at getting in the complimentary thing here and there about a knight that was likely to advertise--no, i mean a knight that had influence; and he also had a neat gift of exaggeration, for in his time he had kept door for a pious hermit who lived in a sty and worked miracles. of course this novice's report lacked whoop and crash and lurid description, and therefore wanted the true ring; but its antique wording was quaint and sweet and simple, and full of the fragrances and flavors of the time, and these little merits made up in a measure for its more important lacks. here is an extract from it: then sir brian de les isles and grummore grummorsum, knights of the castle, encountered with sir aglovale and sir tor, and sir tor smote down sir grummore grummorsum to the earth. then came sir carados of the dolorous tower, and sir turquine, knights of the castle, and there encountered with them sir percivale de galis and sir lamorak de galis, that were two brethren, and there encountered sir percivale with sir carados, and either brake their spears unto their hands, and then sir turquine with sir lamorak, and either of them smote down other, horse and all, to the earth, and either parties rescued other and horsed them again. and sir arnold, and sir gauter, knights of the castle, encountered with sir brandiles and sir kay, and these four knights encountered mightily, and brake their spears to their hands. then came sir pertolope from the castle, and there encountered with him sir lionel, and there sir pertolope the green knight smote down sir lionel, brother to sir launcelot. all this was marked by noble heralds, who bare him best, and their names. then sir bleobaris brake his spear upon sir gareth, but of that stroke sir bleobaris fell to the earth. when sir galihodin saw that, he bad sir gareth keep him, and sir gareth smote him to the earth. then sir galihud gat a spear to avenge his brother, and in the same wise sir gareth served him, and sir dinadan and his brother la cote male taile, and sir sagramore le disirous, and sir dodinas le savage; all these he bare down with one spear. when king aswisance of ireland saw sir gareth fare so he marvelled what he might be, that one time seemed green, and another time, at his again coming, he seemed blue. and thus at every course that he rode to and fro he changed his color, so that there might neither king nor knight have ready cognizance of him. then sir agwisance the king of ireland encountered with sir gareth, and there sir gareth smote him from his horse, saddle and all. and then came king carados of scotland, and sir gareth smote him down horse and man. and in the same wise he served king uriens of the land of gore. and then there came in sir bagdemagus, and sir gareth smote him down horse and man to the earth. and bagdemagus's son meliganus brake a spear upon sir gareth mightily and knightly. and then sir galahault the noble prince cried on high, knight with the many colors, well hast thou justed; now make thee ready that i may just with thee. sir gareth heard him, and he gat a great spear, and so they encountered together, and there the prince brake his spear; but sir gareth smote him upon the left side of the helm, that he reeled here and there, and he had fallen down had not his men recovered him. truly, said king arthur, that knight with the many colors is a good knight. wherefore the king called unto him sir launcelot, and prayed him to encounter with that knight. sir, said launcelot, i may as well find in my heart for to forbear him at this time, for he hath had travail enough this day, and when a good knight doth so well upon some day, it is no good knight's part to let him of his worship, and, namely, when he seeth a knight hath done so great labour; for peradventure, said sir launcelot, his quarrel is here this day, and peradventure he is best beloved with this lady of all that be here, for i see well he paineth himself and enforceth him to do great deeds, and therefore, said sir launcelot, as for me, this day he shall have the honour; though it lay in my power to put him from it, i would not. there was an unpleasant little episode that day, which for reasons of state i struck out of my priest's report. you will have noticed that garry was doing some great fighting in the engagement. when i say garry i mean sir gareth. garry was my private pet name for him; it suggests that i had a deep affection for him, and that was the case. but it was a private pet name only, and never spoken aloud to any one, much less to him; being a noble, he would not have endured a familiarity like that from me. well, to proceed: i sat in the private box set apart for me as the king's minister. while sir dinadan was waiting for his turn to enter the lists, he came in there and sat down and began to talk; for he was always making up to me, because i was a stranger and he liked to have a fresh market for his jokes, the most of them having reached that stage of wear where the teller has to do the laughing himself while the other person looks sick. i had always responded to his efforts as well as i could, and felt a very deep and real kindness for him, too, for the reason that if by malice of fate he knew the one particular anecdote which i had heard oftenest and had most hated and most loathed all my life, he had at least spared it me. it was one which i had heard attributed to every humorous person who had ever stood on american soil, from columbus down to artemus ward. it was about a humorous lecturer who flooded an ignorant audience with the killingest jokes for an hour and never got a laugh; and then when he was leaving, some gray simpletons wrung him gratefully by the hand and said it had been the funniest thing they had ever heard, and "it was all they could do to keep from laughin' right out in meetin'." that anecdote never saw the day that it was worth the telling; and yet i had sat under the telling of it hundreds and thousands and millions and billions of times, and cried and cursed all the way through. then who can hope to know what my feelings were, to hear this armor-plated ass start in on it again, in the murky twilight of tradition, before the dawn of history, while even lactantius might be referred to as "the late lactantius," and the crusades wouldn't be born for five hundred years yet? just as he finished, the call-boy came; so, haw-hawing like a demon, he went rattling and clanking out like a crate of loose castings, and i knew nothing more. it was some minutes before i came to, and then i opened my eyes just in time to see sir gareth fetch him an awful welt, and i unconsciously out with the prayer, "i hope to gracious he's killed!" but by ill-luck, before i had got half through with the words, sir gareth crashed into sir sagramor le desirous and sent him thundering over his horse's crupper, and sir sagramor caught my remark and thought i meant it for _him_. well, whenever one of those people got a thing into his head, there was no getting it out again. i knew that, so i saved my breath, and offered no explanations. as soon as sir sagramor got well, he notified me that there was a little account to settle between us, and he named a day three or four years in the future; place of settlement, the lists where the offense had been given. i said i would be ready when he got back. you see, he was going for the holy grail. the boys all took a flier at the holy grail now and then. it was a several years' cruise. they always put in the long absence snooping around, in the most conscientious way, though none of them had any idea where the holy grail really was, and i don't think any of them actually expected to find it, or would have known what to do with it if he _had_ run across it. you see, it was just the northwest passage of that day, as you may say; that was all. every year expeditions went out holy grailing, and next year relief expeditions went out to hunt for _them_. there was worlds of reputation in it, but no money. why, they actually wanted _me_ to put in! well, i should smile. chapter x beginnings of civilization the round table soon heard of the challenge, and of course it was a good deal discussed, for such things interested the boys. the king thought i ought now to set forth in quest of adventures, so that i might gain renown and be the more worthy to meet sir sagramor when the several years should have rolled away. i excused myself for the present; i said it would take me three or four years yet to get things well fixed up and going smoothly; then i should be ready; all the chances were that at the end of that time sir sagramor would still be out grailing, so no valuable time would be lost by the postponement; i should then have been in office six or seven years, and i believed my system and machinery would be so well developed that i could take a holiday without its working any harm. i was pretty well satisfied with what i had already accomplished. in various quiet nooks and corners i had the beginnings of all sorts of industries under way--nuclei of future vast factories, the iron and steel missionaries of my future civilization. in these were gathered together the brightest young minds i could find, and i kept agents out raking the country for more, all the time. i was training a crowd of ignorant folk into experts--experts in every sort of handiwork and scientific calling. these nurseries of mine went smoothly and privately along undisturbed in their obscure country retreats, for nobody was allowed to come into their precincts without a special permit--for i was afraid of the church. i had started a teacher-factory and a lot of sunday-schools the first thing; as a result, i now had an admirable system of graded schools in full blast in those places, and also a complete variety of protestant congregations all in a prosperous and growing condition. everybody could be any kind of a christian he wanted to; there was perfect freedom in that matter. but i confined public religious teaching to the churches and the sunday-schools, permitting nothing of it in my other educational buildings. i could have given my own sect the preference and made everybody a presbyterian without any trouble, but that would have been to affront a law of human nature: spiritual wants and instincts are as various in the human family as are physical appetites, complexions, and features, and a man is only at his best, morally, when he is equipped with the religious garment whose color and shape and size most nicely accommodate themselves to the spiritual complexion, angularities, and stature of the individual who wears it; and, besides, i was afraid of a united church; it makes a mighty power, the mightiest conceivable, and then when it by and by gets into selfish hands, as it is always bound to do, it means death to human liberty and paralysis to human thought. all mines were royal property, and there were a good many of them. they had formerly been worked as savages always work mines--holes grubbed in the earth and the mineral brought up in sacks of hide by hand, at the rate of a ton a day; but i had begun to put the mining on a scientific basis as early as i could. yes, i had made pretty handsome progress when sir sagramor's challenge struck me. four years rolled by--and then! well, you would never imagine it in the world. unlimited power is the ideal thing when it is in safe hands. the despotism of heaven is the one absolutely perfect government. an earthly despotism would be the absolutely perfect earthly government, if the conditions were the same, namely, the despot the perfectest individual of the human race, and his lease of life perpetual. but as a perishable perfect man must die, and leave his despotism in the hands of an imperfect successor, an earthly despotism is not merely a bad form of government, it is the worst form that is possible. my works showed what a despot could do with the resources of a kingdom at his command. unsuspected by this dark land, i had the civilization of the nineteenth century booming under its very nose! it was fenced away from the public view, but there it was, a gigantic and unassailable fact--and to be heard from, yet, if i lived and had luck. there it was, as sure a fact and as substantial a fact as any serene volcano, standing innocent with its smokeless summit in the blue sky and giving no sign of the rising hell in its bowels. my schools and churches were children four years before; they were grown-up now; my shops of that day were vast factories now; where i had a dozen trained men then, i had a thousand now; where i had one brilliant expert then, i had fifty now. i stood with my hand on the cock, so to speak, ready to turn it on and flood the midnight world with light at any moment. but i was not going to do the thing in that sudden way. it was not my policy. the people could not have stood it; and, moreover, i should have had the established roman catholic church on my back in a minute. no, i had been going cautiously all the while. i had had confidential agents trickling through the country some time, whose office was to undermine knighthood by imperceptible degrees, and to gnaw a little at this and that and the other superstition, and so prepare the way gradually for a better order of things. i was turning on my light one-candle-power at a time, and meant to continue to do so. i had scattered some branch schools secretly about the kingdom, and they were doing very well. i meant to work this racket more and more, as time wore on, if nothing occurred to frighten me. one of my deepest secrets was my west point--my military academy. i kept that most jealously out of sight; and i did the same with my naval academy which i had established at a remote seaport. both were prospering to my satisfaction. clarence was twenty-two now, and was my head executive, my right hand. he was a darling; he was equal to anything; there wasn't anything he couldn't turn his hand to. of late i had been training him for journalism, for the time seemed about right for a start in the newspaper line; nothing big, but just a small weekly for experimental circulation in my civilization-nurseries. he took to it like a duck; there was an editor concealed in him, sure. already he had doubled himself in one way; he talked sixth century and wrote nineteenth. his journalistic style was climbing, steadily; it was already up to the back settlement alabama mark, and couldn't be told from the editorial output of that region either by matter or flavor. we had another large departure on hand, too. this was a telegraph and a telephone; our first venture in this line. these wires were for private service only, as yet, and must be kept private until a riper day should come. we had a gang of men on the road, working mainly by night. they were stringing ground wires; we were afraid to put up poles, for they would attract too much inquiry. ground wires were good enough, in both instances, for my wires were protected by an insulation of my own invention which was perfect. my men had orders to strike across country, avoiding roads, and establishing connection with any considerable towns whose lights betrayed their presence, and leaving experts in charge. nobody could tell you how to find any place in the kingdom, for nobody ever went intentionally to any place, but only struck it by accident in his wanderings, and then generally left it without thinking to inquire what its name was. at one time and another we had sent out topographical expeditions to survey and map the kingdom, but the priests had always interfered and raised trouble. so we had given the thing up, for the present; it would be poor wisdom to antagonize the church. as for the general condition of the country, it was as it had been when i arrived in it, to all intents and purposes. i had made changes, but they were necessarily slight, and they were not noticeable. thus far, i had not even meddled with taxation, outside of the taxes which provided the royal revenues. i had systematized those, and put the service on an effective and righteous basis. as a result, these revenues were already quadrupled, and yet the burden was so much more equably distributed than before, that all the kingdom felt a sense of relief, and the praises of my administration were hearty and general. personally, i struck an interruption, now, but i did not mind it, it could not have happened at a better time. earlier it could have annoyed me, but now everything was in good hands and swimming right along. the king had reminded me several times, of late, that the postponement i had asked for, four years before, had about run out now. it was a hint that i ought to be starting out to seek adventures and get up a reputation of a size to make me worthy of the honor of breaking a lance with sir sagramor, who was still out grailing, but was being hunted for by various relief expeditions, and might be found any year, now. so you see i was expecting this interruption; it did not take me by surprise. chapter xi the yankee in search of adventures there never was such a country for wandering liars; and they were of both sexes. hardly a month went by without one of these tramps arriving; and generally loaded with a tale about some princess or other wanting help to get her out of some far-away castle where she was held in captivity by a lawless scoundrel, usually a giant. now you would think that the first thing the king would do after listening to such a novelette from an entire stranger, would be to ask for credentials--yes, and a pointer or two as to locality of castle, best route to it, and so on. but nobody ever thought of so simple and common-sense a thing at that. no, everybody swallowed these people's lies whole, and never asked a question of any sort or about anything. well, one day when i was not around, one of these people came along--it was a she one, this time--and told a tale of the usual pattern. her mistress was a captive in a vast and gloomy castle, along with forty-four other young and beautiful girls, pretty much all of them princesses; they had been languishing in that cruel captivity for twenty-six years; the masters of the castle were three stupendous brothers, each with four arms and one eye--the eye in the center of the forehead, and as big as a fruit. sort of fruit not mentioned; their usual slovenliness in statistics. would you believe it? the king and the whole round table were in raptures over this preposterous opportunity for adventure. every knight of the table jumped for the chance, and begged for it; but to their vexation and chagrin the king conferred it upon me, who had not asked for it at all. by an effort, i contained my joy when clarence brought me the news. but he--he could not contain his. his mouth gushed delight and gratitude in a steady discharge--delight in my good fortune, gratitude to the king for this splendid mark of his favor for me. he could keep neither his legs nor his body still, but pirouetted about the place in an airy ecstasy of happiness. on my side, i could have cursed the kindness that conferred upon me this benefaction, but i kept my vexation under the surface for policy's sake, and did what i could to let on to be glad. indeed, i _said_ i was glad. and in a way it was true; i was as glad as a person is when he is scalped. well, one must make the best of things, and not waste time with useless fretting, but get down to business and see what can be done. in all lies there is wheat among the chaff; i must get at the wheat in this case: so i sent for the girl and she came. she was a comely enough creature, and soft and modest, but, if signs went for anything, she didn't know as much as a lady's watch. i said: "my dear, have you been questioned as to particulars?" she said she hadn't. "well, i didn't expect you had, but i thought i would ask, to make sure; it's the way i've been raised. now you mustn't take it unkindly if i remind you that as we don't know you, we must go a little slow. you may be all right, of course, and we'll hope that you are; but to take it for granted isn't business. _you_ understand that. i'm obliged to ask you a few questions; just answer up fair and square, and don't be afraid. where do you live, when you are at home?" "in the land of moder, fair sir." "land of moder. i don't remember hearing of it before. parents living?" "as to that, i know not if they be yet on live, sith it is many years that i have lain shut up in the castle." "your name, please?" "i hight the demoiselle alisande la carteloise, an it please you." "do you know anybody here who can identify you?" "that were not likely, fair lord, i being come hither now for the first time." "have you brought any letters--any documents--any proofs that you are trustworthy and truthful?" "of a surety, no; and wherefore should i? have i not a tongue, and cannot i say all that myself?" "but _your_ saying it, you know, and somebody else's saying it, is different." "different? how might that be? i fear me i do not understand." "don't _understand_? land of--why, you see--you see--why, great scott, can't you understand a little thing like that? can't you understand the difference between your--_why_ do you look so innocent and idiotic!" "i? in truth i know not, but an it were the will of god." "yes, yes, i reckon that's about the size of it. don't mind my seeming excited; i'm not. let us change the subject. now as to this castle, with forty-five princesses in it, and three ogres at the head of it, tell me--where is this harem?" "harem?" "the _castle_, you understand; where is the castle?" "oh, as to that, it is great, and strong, and well beseen, and lieth in a far country. yes, it is many leagues." "_how_ many?" "ah, fair sir, it were woundily hard to tell, they are so many, and do so lap the one upon the other, and being made all in the same image and tincted with the same color, one may not know the one league from its fellow, nor how to count them except they be taken apart, and ye wit well it were god's work to do that, being not within man's capacity; for ye will note--" "hold on, hold on, never mind about the distance; _whereabouts_ does the castle lie? what's the direction from here?" "ah, please you sir, it hath no direction from here; by reason that the road lieth not straight, but turneth evermore; wherefore the direction of its place abideth not, but is some time under the one sky and anon under another, whereso if ye be minded that it is in the east, and wend thitherward, ye shall observe that the way of the road doth yet again turn upon itself by the space of half a circle, and this marvel happing again and yet again and still again, it will grieve you that you had thought by vanities of the mind to thwart and bring to naught the will of him that giveth not a castle a direction from a place except it pleaseth him, and if it please him not, will the rather that even all castles and all directions thereunto vanish out of the earth, leaving the places wherein they tarried desolate and vacant, so warning his creatures that where he will he will, and where he will not he--" "oh, that's all right, that's all right, give us a rest; never mind about the direction, _hang_ the direction--i beg pardon, i beg a thousand pardons, i am not well to-day; pay no attention when i soliloquize, it is an old habit, an old, bad habit, and hard to get rid of when one's digestion is all disordered with eating food that was raised forever and ever before he was born; good land! a man can't keep his functions regular on spring chickens thirteen hundred years old. but come--never mind about that; let's--have you got such a thing as a map of that region about you? now a good map--" "is it peradventure that manner of thing which of late the unbelievers have brought from over the great seas, which, being boiled in oil, and an onion and salt added thereto, doth--" "what, a map? what are you talking about? don't you know what a map is? there, there, never mind, don't explain, i hate explanations; they fog a thing up so that you can't tell anything about it. run along, dear; good-day; show her the way, clarence." oh, well, it was reasonably plain, now, why these donkeys didn't prospect these liars for details. it may be that this girl had a fact in her somewhere, but i don't believe you could have sluiced it out with a hydraulic; nor got it with the earlier forms of blasting, even; it was a case for dynamite. why, she was a perfect ass; and yet the king and his knights had listened to her as if she had been a leaf out of the gospel. it kind of sizes up the whole party. and think of the simple ways of this court: this wandering wench hadn't any more trouble to get access to the king in his palace than she would have had to get into the poorhouse in my day and country. in fact, he was glad to see her, glad to hear her tale; with that adventure of hers to offer, she was as welcome as a corpse is to a coroner. just as i was ending-up these reflections, clarence came back. i remarked upon the barren result of my efforts with the girl; hadn't got hold of a single point that could help me to find the castle. the youth looked a little surprised, or puzzled, or something, and intimated that he had been wondering to himself what i had wanted to ask the girl all those questions for. "why, great guns," i said, "don't i want to find the castle? and how else would i go about it?" "la, sweet your worship, one may lightly answer that, i ween. she will go with thee. they always do. she will ride with thee." "ride with me? nonsense!" "but of a truth she will. she will ride with thee. thou shalt see." "what? she browse around the hills and scour the woods with me --alone--and i as good as engaged to be married? why, it's scandalous. think how it would look." my, the dear face that rose before me! the boy was eager to know all about this tender matter. i swore him to secrecy and then whispered her name--"puss flanagan." he looked disappointed, and said he didn't remember the countess. how natural it was for the little courtier to give her a rank. he asked me where she lived. "in east har--" i came to myself and stopped, a little confused; then i said, "never mind, now; i'll tell you some time." and might he see her? would i let him see her some day? it was but a little thing to promise--thirteen hundred years or so--and he so eager; so i said yes. but i sighed; i couldn't help it. and yet there was no sense in sighing, for she wasn't born yet. but that is the way we are made: we don't reason, where we feel; we just feel. my expedition was all the talk that day and that night, and the boys were very good to me, and made much of me, and seemed to have forgotten their vexation and disappointment, and come to be as anxious for me to hive those ogres and set those ripe old virgins loose as if it were themselves that had the contract. well, they _were_ good children--but just children, that is all. and they gave me no end of points about how to scout for giants, and how to scoop them in; and they told me all sorts of charms against enchantments, and gave me salves and other rubbish to put on my wounds. but it never occurred to one of them to reflect that if i was such a wonderful necromancer as i was pretending to be, i ought not to need salves or instructions, or charms against enchantments, and, least of all, arms and armor, on a foray of any kind--even against fire-spouting dragons, and devils hot from perdition, let alone such poor adversaries as these i was after, these commonplace ogres of the back settlements. i was to have an early breakfast, and start at dawn, for that was the usual way; but i had the demon's own time with my armor, and this delayed me a little. it is troublesome to get into, and there is so much detail. first you wrap a layer or two of blanket around your body, for a sort of cushion and to keep off the cold iron; then you put on your sleeves and shirt of chain mail--these are made of small steel links woven together, and they form a fabric so flexible that if you toss your shirt onto the floor, it slumps into a pile like a peck of wet fish-net; it is very heavy and is nearly the uncomfortablest material in the world for a night shirt, yet plenty used it for that--tax collectors, and reformers, and one-horse kings with a defective title, and those sorts of people; then you put on your shoes--flat-boats roofed over with interleaving bands of steel--and screw your clumsy spurs into the heels. next you buckle your greaves on your legs, and your cuisses on your thighs; then come your backplate and your breastplate, and you begin to feel crowded; then you hitch onto the breastplate the half-petticoat of broad overlapping bands of steel which hangs down in front but is scolloped out behind so you can sit down, and isn't any real improvement on an inverted coal scuttle, either for looks or for wear, or to wipe your hands on; next you belt on your sword; then you put your stove-pipe joints onto your arms, your iron gauntlets onto your hands, your iron rat-trap onto your head, with a rag of steel web hitched onto it to hang over the back of your neck--and there you are, snug as a candle in a candle-mould. this is no time to dance. well, a man that is packed away like that is a nut that isn't worth the cracking, there is so little of the meat, when you get down to it, by comparison with the shell. the boys helped me, or i never could have got in. just as we finished, sir bedivere happened in, and i saw that as like as not i hadn't chosen the most convenient outfit for a long trip. how stately he looked; and tall and broad and grand. he had on his head a conical steel casque that only came down to his ears, and for visor had only a narrow steel bar that extended down to his upper lip and protected his nose; and all the rest of him, from neck to heel, was flexible chain mail, trousers and all. but pretty much all of him was hidden under his outside garment, which of course was of chain mail, as i said, and hung straight from his shoulders to his ankles; and from his middle to the bottom, both before and behind, was divided, so that he could ride and let the skirts hang down on each side. he was going grailing, and it was just the outfit for it, too. i would have given a good deal for that ulster, but it was too late now to be fooling around. the sun was just up, the king and the court were all on hand to see me off and wish me luck; so it wouldn't be etiquette for me to tarry. you don't get on your horse yourself; no, if you tried it you would get disappointed. they carry you out, just as they carry a sun-struck man to the drug store, and put you on, and help get you to rights, and fix your feet in the stirrups; and all the while you do feel so strange and stuffy and like somebody else--like somebody that has been married on a sudden, or struck by lightning, or something like that, and hasn't quite fetched around yet, and is sort of numb, and can't just get his bearings. then they stood up the mast they called a spear, in its socket by my left foot, and i gripped it with my hand; lastly they hung my shield around my neck, and i was all complete and ready to up anchor and get to sea. everybody was as good to me as they could be, and a maid of honor gave me the stirrup-cup her own self. there was nothing more to do now, but for that damsel to get up behind me on a pillion, which she did, and put an arm or so around me to hold on. and so we started, and everybody gave us a goodbye and waved their handkerchiefs or helmets. and everybody we met, going down the hill and through the village was respectful to us, except some shabby little boys on the outskirts. they said: "oh, what a guy!" and hove clods at us. in my experience boys are the same in all ages. they don't respect anything, they don't care for anything or anybody. they say "go up, baldhead" to the prophet going his unoffending way in the gray of antiquity; they sass me in the holy gloom of the middle ages; and i had seen them act the same way in buchanan's administration; i remember, because i was there and helped. the prophet had his bears and settled with his boys; and i wanted to get down and settle with mine, but it wouldn't answer, because i couldn't have got up again. i hate a country without a derrick. a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court by mark twain (samuel l. clemens) part . chapter xii slow torture straight off, we were in the country. it was most lovely and pleasant in those sylvan solitudes in the early cool morning in the first freshness of autumn. from hilltops we saw fair green valleys lying spread out below, with streams winding through them, and island groves of trees here and there, and huge lonely oaks scattered about and casting black blots of shade; and beyond the valleys we saw the ranges of hills, blue with haze, stretching away in billowy perspective to the horizon, with at wide intervals a dim fleck of white or gray on a wave-summit, which we knew was a castle. we crossed broad natural lawns sparkling with dew, and we moved like spirits, the cushioned turf giving out no sound of footfall; we dreamed along through glades in a mist of green light that got its tint from the sun-drenched roof of leaves overhead, and by our feet the clearest and coldest of runlets went frisking and gossiping over its reefs and making a sort of whispering music, comfortable to hear; and at times we left the world behind and entered into the solemn great deeps and rich gloom of the forest, where furtive wild things whisked and scurried by and were gone before you could even get your eye on the place where the noise was; and where only the earliest birds were turning out and getting to business with a song here and a quarrel yonder and a mysterious far-off hammering and drumming for worms on a tree trunk away somewhere in the impenetrable remotenesses of the woods. and by and by out we would swing again into the glare. about the third or fourth or fifth time that we swung out into the glare--it was along there somewhere, a couple of hours or so after sun-up--it wasn't as pleasant as it had been. it was beginning to get hot. this was quite noticeable. we had a very long pull, after that, without any shade. now it is curious how progressively little frets grow and multiply after they once get a start. things which i didn't mind at all, at first, i began to mind now--and more and more, too, all the time. the first ten or fifteen times i wanted my handkerchief i didn't seem to care; i got along, and said never mind, it isn't any matter, and dropped it out of my mind. but now it was different; i wanted it all the time; it was nag, nag, nag, right along, and no rest; i couldn't get it out of my mind; and so at last i lost my temper and said hang a man that would make a suit of armor without any pockets in it. you see i had my handkerchief in my helmet; and some other things; but it was that kind of a helmet that you can't take off by yourself. that hadn't occurred to me when i put it there; and in fact i didn't know it. i supposed it would be particularly convenient there. and so now, the thought of its being there, so handy and close by, and yet not get-at-able, made it all the worse and the harder to bear. yes, the thing that you can't get is the thing that you want, mainly; every one has noticed that. well, it took my mind off from everything else; took it clear off, and centered it in my helmet; and mile after mile, there it stayed, imagining the handkerchief, picturing the handkerchief; and it was bitter and aggravating to have the salt sweat keep trickling down into my eyes, and i couldn't get at it. it seems like a little thing, on paper, but it was not a little thing at all; it was the most real kind of misery. i would not say it if it was not so. i made up my mind that i would carry along a reticule next time, let it look how it might, and people say what they would. of course these iron dudes of the round table would think it was scandalous, and maybe raise sheol about it, but as for me, give me comfort first, and style afterwards. so we jogged along, and now and then we struck a stretch of dust, and it would tumble up in clouds and get into my nose and make me sneeze and cry; and of course i said things i oughtn't to have said, i don't deny that. i am not better than others. we couldn't seem to meet anybody in this lonesome britain, not even an ogre; and, in the mood i was in then, it was well for the ogre; that is, an ogre with a handkerchief. most knights would have thought of nothing but getting his armor; but so i got his bandanna, he could keep his hardware, for all of me. meantime, it was getting hotter and hotter in there. you see, the sun was beating down and warming up the iron more and more all the time. well, when you are hot, that way, every little thing irritates you. when i trotted, i rattled like a crate of dishes, and that annoyed me; and moreover i couldn't seem to stand that shield slatting and banging, now about my breast, now around my back; and if i dropped into a walk my joints creaked and screeched in that wearisome way that a wheelbarrow does, and as we didn't create any breeze at that gait, i was like to get fried in that stove; and besides, the quieter you went the heavier the iron settled down on you and the more and more tons you seemed to weigh every minute. and you had to be always changing hands, and passing your spear over to the other foot, it got so irksome for one hand to hold it long at a time. well, you know, when you perspire that way, in rivers, there comes a time when you--when you--well, when you itch. you are inside, your hands are outside; so there you are; nothing but iron between. it is not a light thing, let it sound as it may. first it is one place; then another; then some more; and it goes on spreading and spreading, and at last the territory is all occupied, and nobody can imagine what you feel like, nor how unpleasant it is. and when it had got to the worst, and it seemed to me that i could not stand anything more, a fly got in through the bars and settled on my nose, and the bars were stuck and wouldn't work, and i couldn't get the visor up; and i could only shake my head, which was baking hot by this time, and the fly--well, you know how a fly acts when he has got a certainty--he only minded the shaking enough to change from nose to lip, and lip to ear, and buzz and buzz all around in there, and keep on lighting and biting, in a way that a person, already so distressed as i was, simply could not stand. so i gave in, and got alisande to unship the helmet and relieve me of it. then she emptied the conveniences out of it and fetched it full of water, and i drank and then stood up, and she poured the rest down inside the armor. one cannot think how refreshing it was. she continued to fetch and pour until i was well soaked and thoroughly comfortable. it was good to have a rest--and peace. but nothing is quite perfect in this life, at any time. i had made a pipe a while back, and also some pretty fair tobacco; not the real thing, but what some of the indians use: the inside bark of the willow, dried. these comforts had been in the helmet, and now i had them again, but no matches. gradually, as the time wore along, one annoying fact was borne in upon my understanding--that we were weather-bound. an armed novice cannot mount his horse without help and plenty of it. sandy was not enough; not enough for me, anyway. we had to wait until somebody should come along. waiting, in silence, would have been agreeable enough, for i was full of matter for reflection, and wanted to give it a chance to work. i wanted to try and think out how it was that rational or even half-rational men could ever have learned to wear armor, considering its inconveniences; and how they had managed to keep up such a fashion for generations when it was plain that what i had suffered to-day they had had to suffer all the days of their lives. i wanted to think that out; and moreover i wanted to think out some way to reform this evil and persuade the people to let the foolish fashion die out; but thinking was out of the question in the circumstances. you couldn't think, where sandy was. she was a quite biddable creature and good-hearted, but she had a flow of talk that was as steady as a mill, and made your head sore like the drays and wagons in a city. if she had had a cork she would have been a comfort. but you can't cork that kind; they would die. her clack was going all day, and you would think something would surely happen to her works, by and by; but no, they never got out of order; and she never had to slack up for words. she could grind, and pump, and churn, and buzz by the week, and never stop to oil up or blow out. and yet the result was just nothing but wind. she never had any ideas, any more than a fog has. she was a perfect blatherskite; i mean for jaw, jaw, jaw, talk, talk, talk, jabber, jabber, jabber; but just as good as she could be. i hadn't minded her mill that morning, on account of having that hornets' nest of other troubles; but more than once in the afternoon i had to say: "take a rest, child; the way you are using up all the domestic air, the kingdom will have to go to importing it by to-morrow, and it's a low enough treasury without that." chapter xiii freemen yes, it is strange how little a while at a time a person can be contented. only a little while back, when i was riding and suffering, what a heaven this peace, this rest, this sweet serenity in this secluded shady nook by this purling stream would have seemed, where i could keep perfectly comfortable all the time by pouring a dipper of water into my armor now and then; yet already i was getting dissatisfied; partly because i could not light my pipe--for, although i had long ago started a match factory, i had forgotten to bring matches with me--and partly because we had nothing to eat. here was another illustration of the childlike improvidence of this age and people. a man in armor always trusted to chance for his food on a journey, and would have been scandalized at the idea of hanging a basket of sandwiches on his spear. there was probably not a knight of all the round table combination who would not rather have died than been caught carrying such a thing as that on his flagstaff. and yet there could not be anything more sensible. it had been my intention to smuggle a couple of sandwiches into my helmet, but i was interrupted in the act, and had to make an excuse and lay them aside, and a dog got them. night approached, and with it a storm. the darkness came on fast. we must camp, of course. i found a good shelter for the demoiselle under a rock, and went off and found another for myself. but i was obliged to remain in my armor, because i could not get it off by myself and yet could not allow alisande to help, because it would have seemed so like undressing before folk. it would not have amounted to that in reality, because i had clothes on underneath; but the prejudices of one's breeding are not gotten rid of just at a jump, and i knew that when it came to stripping off that bob-tailed iron petticoat i should be embarrassed. with the storm came a change of weather; and the stronger the wind blew, and the wilder the rain lashed around, the colder and colder it got. pretty soon, various kinds of bugs and ants and worms and things began to flock in out of the wet and crawl down inside my armor to get warm; and while some of them behaved well enough, and snuggled up amongst my clothes and got quiet, the majority were of a restless, uncomfortable sort, and never stayed still, but went on prowling and hunting for they did not know what; especially the ants, which went tickling along in wearisome procession from one end of me to the other by the hour, and are a kind of creatures which i never wish to sleep with again. it would be my advice to persons situated in this way, to not roll or thrash around, because this excites the interest of all the different sorts of animals and makes every last one of them want to turn out and see what is going on, and this makes things worse than they were before, and of course makes you objurgate harder, too, if you can. still, if one did not roll and thrash around he would die; so perhaps it is as well to do one way as the other; there is no real choice. even after i was frozen solid i could still distinguish that tickling, just as a corpse does when he is taking electric treatment. i said i would never wear armor after this trip. all those trying hours whilst i was frozen and yet was in a living fire, as you may say, on account of that swarm of crawlers, that same unanswerable question kept circling and circling through my tired head: how do people stand this miserable armor? how have they managed to stand it all these generations? how can they sleep at night for dreading the tortures of next day? when the morning came at last, i was in a bad enough plight: seedy, drowsy, fagged, from want of sleep; weary from thrashing around, famished from long fasting; pining for a bath, and to get rid of the animals; and crippled with rheumatism. and how had it fared with the nobly born, the titled aristocrat, the demoiselle alisande la carteloise? why, she was as fresh as a squirrel; she had slept like the dead; and as for a bath, probably neither she nor any other noble in the land had ever had one, and so she was not missing it. measured by modern standards, they were merely modified savages, those people. this noble lady showed no impatience to get to breakfast--and that smacks of the savage, too. on their journeys those britons were used to long fasts, and knew how to bear them; and also how to freight up against probable fasts before starting, after the style of the indian and the anaconda. as like as not, sandy was loaded for a three-day stretch. we were off before sunrise, sandy riding and i limping along behind. in half an hour we came upon a group of ragged poor creatures who had assembled to mend the thing which was regarded as a road. they were as humble as animals to me; and when i proposed to breakfast with them, they were so flattered, so overwhelmed by this extraordinary condescension of mine that at first they were not able to believe that i was in earnest. my lady put up her scornful lip and withdrew to one side; she said in their hearing that she would as soon think of eating with the other cattle--a remark which embarrassed these poor devils merely because it referred to them, and not because it insulted or offended them, for it didn't. and yet they were not slaves, not chattels. by a sarcasm of law and phrase they were freemen. seven-tenths of the free population of the country were of just their class and degree: small "independent" farmers, artisans, etc.; which is to say, they were the nation, the actual nation; they were about all of it that was useful, or worth saving, or really respect-worthy, and to subtract them would have been to subtract the nation and leave behind some dregs, some refuse, in the shape of a king, nobility and gentry, idle, unproductive, acquainted mainly with the arts of wasting and destroying, and of no sort of use or value in any rationally constructed world. and yet, by ingenious contrivance, this gilded minority, instead of being in the tail of the procession where it belonged, was marching head up and banners flying, at the other end of it; had elected itself to be the nation, and these innumerable clams had permitted it so long that they had come at last to accept it as a truth; and not only that, but to believe it right and as it should be. the priests had told their fathers and themselves that this ironical state of things was ordained of god; and so, not reflecting upon how unlike god it would be to amuse himself with sarcasms, and especially such poor transparent ones as this, they had dropped the matter there and become respectfully quiet. the talk of these meek people had a strange enough sound in a formerly american ear. they were freemen, but they could not leave the estates of their lord or their bishop without his permission; they could not prepare their own bread, but must have their corn ground and their bread baked at his mill and his bakery, and pay roundly for the same; they could not sell a piece of their own property without paying him a handsome percentage of the proceeds, nor buy a piece of somebody else's without remembering him in cash for the privilege; they had to harvest his grain for him gratis, and be ready to come at a moment's notice, leaving their own crop to destruction by the threatened storm; they had to let him plant fruit trees in their fields, and then keep their indignation to themselves when his heedless fruit-gatherers trampled the grain around the trees; they had to smother their anger when his hunting parties galloped through their fields laying waste the result of their patient toil; they were not allowed to keep doves themselves, and when the swarms from my lord's dovecote settled on their crops they must not lose their temper and kill a bird, for awful would the penalty be; when the harvest was at last gathered, then came the procession of robbers to levy their blackmail upon it: first the church carted off its fat tenth, then the king's commissioner took his twentieth, then my lord's people made a mighty inroad upon the remainder; after which, the skinned freeman had liberty to bestow the remnant in his barn, in case it was worth the trouble; there were taxes, and taxes, and taxes, and more taxes, and taxes again, and yet other taxes--upon this free and independent pauper, but none upon his lord the baron or the bishop, none upon the wasteful nobility or the all-devouring church; if the baron would sleep unvexed, the freeman must sit up all night after his day's work and whip the ponds to keep the frogs quiet; if the freeman's daughter--but no, that last infamy of monarchical government is unprintable; and finally, if the freeman, grown desperate with his tortures, found his life unendurable under such conditions, and sacrificed it and fled to death for mercy and refuge, the gentle church condemned him to eternal fire, the gentle law buried him at midnight at the cross-roads with a stake through his back, and his master the baron or the bishop confiscated all his property and turned his widow and his orphans out of doors. and here were these freemen assembled in the early morning to work on their lord the bishop's road three days each--gratis; every head of a family, and every son of a family, three days each, gratis, and a day or so added for their servants. why, it was like reading about france and the french, before the ever memorable and blessed revolution, which swept a thousand years of such villany away in one swift tidal-wave of blood--one: a settlement of that hoary debt in the proportion of half a drop of blood for each hogshead of it that had been pressed by slow tortures out of that people in the weary stretch of ten centuries of wrong and shame and misery the like of which was not to be mated but in hell. there were two "reigns of terror," if we would but remember it and consider it; the one wrought murder in hot passion, the other in heartless cold blood; the one lasted mere months, the other had lasted a thousand years; the one inflicted death upon ten thousand persons, the other upon a hundred millions; but our shudders are all for the "horrors" of the minor terror, the momentary terror, so to speak; whereas, what is the horror of swift death by the axe, compared with lifelong death from hunger, cold, insult, cruelty, and heart-break? what is swift death by lightning compared with death by slow fire at the stake? a city cemetery could contain the coffins filled by that brief terror which we have all been so diligently taught to shiver at and mourn over; but all france could hardly contain the coffins filled by that older and real terror --that unspeakably bitter and awful terror which none of us has been taught to see in its vastness or pity as it deserves. these poor ostensible freemen who were sharing their breakfast and their talk with me, were as full of humble reverence for their king and church and nobility as their worst enemy could desire. there was something pitifully ludicrous about it. i asked them if they supposed a nation of people ever existed, who, with a free vote in every man's hand, would elect that a single family and its descendants should reign over it forever, whether gifted or boobies, to the exclusion of all other families--including the voter's; and would also elect that a certain hundred families should be raised to dizzy summits of rank, and clothed on with offensive transmissible glories and privileges to the exclusion of the rest of the nation's families--_including his own_. they all looked unhit, and said they didn't know; that they had never thought about it before, and it hadn't ever occurred to them that a nation could be so situated that every man _could_ have a say in the government. i said i had seen one--and that it would last until it had an established church. again they were all unhit--at first. but presently one man looked up and asked me to state that proposition again; and state it slowly, so it could soak into his understanding. i did it; and after a little he had the idea, and he brought his fist down and said _he_ didn't believe a nation where every man had a vote would voluntarily get down in the mud and dirt in any such way; and that to steal from a nation its will and preference must be a crime and the first of all crimes. i said to myself: "this one's a man. if i were backed by enough of his sort, i would make a strike for the welfare of this country, and try to prove myself its loyalest citizen by making a wholesome change in its system of government." you see my kind of loyalty was loyalty to one's country, not to its institutions or its office-holders. the country is the real thing, the substantial thing, the eternal thing; it is the thing to watch over, and care for, and be loyal to; institutions are extraneous, they are its mere clothing, and clothing can wear out, become ragged, cease to be comfortable, cease to protect the body from winter, disease, and death. to be loyal to rags, to shout for rags, to worship rags, to die for rags--that is a loyalty of unreason, it is pure animal; it belongs to monarchy, was invented by monarchy; let monarchy keep it. i was from connecticut, whose constitution declares "that all political power is inherent in the people, and all free governments are founded on their authority and instituted for their benefit; and that they have _at all times_ an undeniable and indefeasible right to _alter their form of government_ in such a manner as they may think expedient." under that gospel, the citizen who thinks he sees that the commonwealth's political clothes are worn out, and yet holds his peace and does not agitate for a new suit, is disloyal; he is a traitor. that he may be the only one who thinks he sees this decay, does not excuse him; it is his duty to agitate anyway, and it is the duty of the others to vote him down if they do not see the matter as he does. and now here i was, in a country where a right to say how the country should be governed was restricted to six persons in each thousand of its population. for the nine hundred and ninety-four to express dissatisfaction with the regnant system and propose to change it, would have made the whole six shudder as one man, it would have been so disloyal, so dishonorable, such putrid black treason. so to speak, i was become a stockholder in a corporation where nine hundred and ninety-four of the members furnished all the money and did all the work, and the other six elected themselves a permanent board of direction and took all the dividends. it seemed to me that what the nine hundred and ninety-four dupes needed was a new deal. the thing that would have best suited the circus side of my nature would have been to resign the boss-ship and get up an insurrection and turn it into a revolution; but i knew that the jack cade or the wat tyler who tries such a thing without first educating his materials up to revolution grade is almost absolutely certain to get left. i had never been accustomed to getting left, even if i do say it myself. wherefore, the "deal" which had been for some time working into shape in my mind was of a quite different pattern from the cade-tyler sort. so i did not talk blood and insurrection to that man there who sat munching black bread with that abused and mistaught herd of human sheep, but took him aside and talked matter of another sort to him. after i had finished, i got him to lend me a little ink from his veins; and with this and a sliver i wrote on a piece of bark-- put him in the man-factory-- and gave it to him, and said: "take it to the palace at camelot and give it into the hands of amyas le poulet, whom i call clarence, and he will understand." "he is a priest, then," said the man, and some of the enthusiasm went out of his face. "how--a priest? didn't i tell you that no chattel of the church, no bond-slave of pope or bishop can enter my man-factory? didn't i tell you that _you_ couldn't enter unless your religion, whatever it might be, was your own free property?" "marry, it is so, and for that i was glad; wherefore it liked me not, and bred in me a cold doubt, to hear of this priest being there." "but he isn't a priest, i tell you." the man looked far from satisfied. he said: "he is not a priest, and yet can read?" "he is not a priest and yet can read--yes, and write, too, for that matter. i taught him myself." the man's face cleared. "and it is the first thing that you yourself will be taught in that factory--" "i? i would give blood out of my heart to know that art. why, i will be your slave, your--" "no you won't, you won't be anybody's slave. take your family and go along. your lord the bishop will confiscate your small property, but no matter. clarence will fix you all right." chapter xiv "defend thee, lord" i paid three pennies for my breakfast, and a most extravagant price it was, too, seeing that one could have breakfasted a dozen persons for that money; but i was feeling good by this time, and i had always been a kind of spendthrift anyway; and then these people had wanted to give me the food for nothing, scant as their provision was, and so it was a grateful pleasure to emphasize my appreciation and sincere thankfulness with a good big financial lift where the money would do so much more good than it would in my helmet, where, these pennies being made of iron and not stinted in weight, my half-dollar's worth was a good deal of a burden to me. i spent money rather too freely in those days, it is true; but one reason for it was that i hadn't got the proportions of things entirely adjusted, even yet, after so long a sojourn in britain--hadn't got along to where i was able to absolutely realize that a penny in arthur's land and a couple of dollars in connecticut were about one and the same thing: just twins, as you may say, in purchasing power. if my start from camelot could have been delayed a very few days i could have paid these people in beautiful new coins from our own mint, and that would have pleased me; and them, too, not less. i had adopted the american values exclusively. in a week or two now, cents, nickels, dimes, quarters, and half-dollars, and also a trifle of gold, would be trickling in thin but steady streams all through the commercial veins of the kingdom, and i looked to see this new blood freshen up its life. the farmers were bound to throw in something, to sort of offset my liberality, whether i would or no; so i let them give me a flint and steel; and as soon as they had comfortably bestowed sandy and me on our horse, i lit my pipe. when the first blast of smoke shot out through the bars of my helmet, all those people broke for the woods, and sandy went over backwards and struck the ground with a dull thud. they thought i was one of those fire-belching dragons they had heard so much about from knights and other professional liars. i had infinite trouble to persuade those people to venture back within explaining distance. then i told them that this was only a bit of enchantment which would work harm to none but my enemies. and i promised, with my hand on my heart, that if all who felt no enmity toward me would come forward and pass before me they should see that only those who remained behind would be struck dead. the procession moved with a good deal of promptness. there were no casualties to report, for nobody had curiosity enough to remain behind to see what would happen. i lost some time, now, for these big children, their fears gone, became so ravished with wonder over my awe-compelling fireworks that i had to stay there and smoke a couple of pipes out before they would let me go. still the delay was not wholly unproductive, for it took all that time to get sandy thoroughly wonted to the new thing, she being so close to it, you know. it plugged up her conversation mill, too, for a considerable while, and that was a gain. but above all other benefits accruing, i had learned something. i was ready for any giant or any ogre that might come along, now. we tarried with a holy hermit, that night, and my opportunity came about the middle of the next afternoon. we were crossing a vast meadow by way of short-cut, and i was musing absently, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, when sandy suddenly interrupted a remark which she had begun that morning, with the cry: "defend thee, lord!--peril of life is toward!" and she slipped down from the horse and ran a little way and stood. i looked up and saw, far off in the shade of a tree, half a dozen armed knights and their squires; and straightway there was bustle among them and tightening of saddle-girths for the mount. my pipe was ready and would have been lit, if i had not been lost in thinking about how to banish oppression from this land and restore to all its people their stolen rights and manhood without disobliging anybody. i lit up at once, and by the time i had got a good head of reserved steam on, here they came. all together, too; none of those chivalrous magnanimities which one reads so much about --one courtly rascal at a time, and the rest standing by to see fair play. no, they came in a body, they came with a whirr and a rush, they came like a volley from a battery; came with heads low down, plumes streaming out behind, lances advanced at a level. it was a handsome sight, a beautiful sight--for a man up a tree. i laid my lance in rest and waited, with my heart beating, till the iron wave was just ready to break over me, then spouted a column of white smoke through the bars of my helmet. you should have seen the wave go to pieces and scatter! this was a finer sight than the other one. but these people stopped, two or three hundred yards away, and this troubled me. my satisfaction collapsed, and fear came; i judged i was a lost man. but sandy was radiant; and was going to be eloquent--but i stopped her, and told her my magic had miscarried, somehow or other, and she must mount, with all despatch, and we must ride for life. no, she wouldn't. she said that my enchantment had disabled those knights; they were not riding on, because they couldn't; wait, they would drop out of their saddles presently, and we would get their horses and harness. i could not deceive such trusting simplicity, so i said it was a mistake; that when my fireworks killed at all, they killed instantly; no, the men would not die, there was something wrong about my apparatus, i couldn't tell what; but we must hurry and get away, for those people would attack us again, in a minute. sandy laughed, and said: "lack-a-day, sir, they be not of that breed! sir launcelot will give battle to dragons, and will abide by them, and will assail them again, and yet again, and still again, until he do conquer and destroy them; and so likewise will sir pellinore and sir aglovale and sir carados, and mayhap others, but there be none else that will venture it, let the idle say what the idle will. and, la, as to yonder base rufflers, think ye they have not their fill, but yet desire more?" "well, then, what are they waiting for? why don't they leave? nobody's hindering. good land, i'm willing to let bygones be bygones, i'm sure." "leave, is it? oh, give thyself easement as to that. they dream not of it, no, not they. they wait to yield them." "come--really, is that 'sooth'--as you people say? if they want to, why don't they?" "it would like them much; but an ye wot how dragons are esteemed, ye would not hold them blamable. they fear to come." "well, then, suppose i go to them instead, and--" "ah, wit ye well they would not abide your coming. i will go." and she did. she was a handy person to have along on a raid. i would have considered this a doubtful errand, myself. i presently saw the knights riding away, and sandy coming back. that was a relief. i judged she had somehow failed to get the first innings --i mean in the conversation; otherwise the interview wouldn't have been so short. but it turned out that she had managed the business well; in fact, admirably. she said that when she told those people i was the boss, it hit them where they lived: "smote them sore with fear and dread" was her word; and then they were ready to put up with anything she might require. so she swore them to appear at arthur's court within two days and yield them, with horse and harness, and be my knights henceforth, and subject to my command. how much better she managed that thing than i should have done it myself! she was a daisy. chapter xv sandy's tale "and so i'm proprietor of some knights," said i, as we rode off. "who would ever have supposed that i should live to list up assets of that sort. i shan't know what to do with them; unless i raffle them off. how many of them are there, sandy?" "seven, please you, sir, and their squires." "it is a good haul. who are they? where do they hang out?" "where do they hang out?" "yes, where do they live?" "ah, i understood thee not. that will i tell eftsoons." then she said musingly, and softly, turning the words daintily over her tongue: "hang they out--hang they out--where hang--where do they hang out; eh, right so; where do they hang out. of a truth the phrase hath a fair and winsome grace, and is prettily worded withal. i will repeat it anon and anon in mine idlesse, whereby i may peradventure learn it. where do they hang out. even so! already it falleth trippingly from my tongue, and forasmuch as--" "don't forget the cowboys, sandy." "cowboys?" "yes; the knights, you know: you were going to tell me about them. a while back, you remember. figuratively speaking, game's called." "game--" "yes, yes, yes! go to the bat. i mean, get to work on your statistics, and don't burn so much kindling getting your fire started. tell me about the knights." "i will well, and lightly will begin. so they two departed and rode into a great forest. and--" "great scott!" you see, i recognized my mistake at once. i had set her works a-going; it was my own fault; she would be thirty days getting down to those facts. and she generally began without a preface and finished without a result. if you interrupted her she would either go right along without noticing, or answer with a couple of words, and go back and say the sentence over again. so, interruptions only did harm; and yet i had to interrupt, and interrupt pretty frequently, too, in order to save my life; a person would die if he let her monotony drip on him right along all day. "great scott!" i said in my distress. she went right back and began over again: "so they two departed and rode into a great forest. and--" "_which_ two?" "sir gawaine and sir uwaine. and so they came to an abbey of monks, and there were well lodged. so on the morn they heard their masses in the abbey, and so they rode forth till they came to a great forest; then was sir gawaine ware in a valley by a turret, of twelve fair damsels, and two knights armed on great horses, and the damsels went to and fro by a tree. and then was sir gawaine ware how there hung a white shield on that tree, and ever as the damsels came by it they spit upon it, and some threw mire upon the shield--" "now, if i hadn't seen the like myself in this country, sandy, i wouldn't believe it. but i've seen it, and i can just see those creatures now, parading before that shield and acting like that. the women here do certainly act like all possessed. yes, and i mean your best, too, society's very choicest brands. the humblest hello-girl along ten thousand miles of wire could teach gentleness, patience, modesty, manners, to the highest duchess in arthur's land." "hello-girl?" "yes, but don't you ask me to explain; it's a new kind of a girl; they don't have them here; one often speaks sharply to them when they are not the least in fault, and he can't get over feeling sorry for it and ashamed of himself in thirteen hundred years, it's such shabby mean conduct and so unprovoked; the fact is, no gentleman ever does it--though i--well, i myself, if i've got to confess--" "peradventure she--" "never mind her; never mind her; i tell you i couldn't ever explain her so you would understand." "even so be it, sith ye are so minded. then sir gawaine and sir uwaine went and saluted them, and asked them why they did that despite to the shield. sirs, said the damsels, we shall tell you. there is a knight in this country that owneth this white shield, and he is a passing good man of his hands, but he hateth all ladies and gentlewomen, and therefore we do all this despite to the shield. i will say you, said sir gawaine, it beseemeth evil a good knight to despise all ladies and gentlewomen, and peradventure though he hate you he hath some cause, and peradventure he loveth in some other places ladies and gentlewomen, and to be loved again, and he such a man of prowess as ye speak of--" "man of prowess--yes, that is the man to please them, sandy. man of brains--that is a thing they never think of. tom sayers --john heenan--john l. sullivan--pity but you could be here. you would have your legs under the round table and a 'sir' in front of your names within the twenty-four hours; and you could bring about a new distribution of the married princesses and duchesses of the court in another twenty-four. the fact is, it is just a sort of polished-up court of comanches, and there isn't a squaw in it who doesn't stand ready at the dropping of a hat to desert to the buck with the biggest string of scalps at his belt." "--and he be such a man of prowess as ye speak of, said sir gawaine. now, what is his name? sir, said they, his name is marhaus the king's son of ireland." "son of the king of ireland, you mean; the other form doesn't mean anything. and look out and hold on tight, now, we must jump this gully.... there, we are all right now. this horse belongs in the circus; he is born before his time." "i know him well, said sir uwaine, he is a passing good knight as any is on live." "_on live_. if you've got a fault in the world, sandy, it is that you are a shade too archaic. but it isn't any matter." "--for i saw him once proved at a justs where many knights were gathered, and that time there might no man withstand him. ah, said sir gawaine, damsels, methinketh ye are to blame, for it is to suppose he that hung that shield there will not be long therefrom, and then may those knights match him on horseback, and that is more your worship than thus; for i will abide no longer to see a knight's shield dishonored. and therewith sir uwaine and sir gawaine departed a little from them, and then were they ware where sir marhaus came riding on a great horse straight toward them. and when the twelve damsels saw sir marhaus they fled into the turret as they were wild, so that some of them fell by the way. then the one of the knights of the tower dressed his shield, and said on high, sir marhaus defend thee. and so they ran together that the knight brake his spear on marhaus, and sir marhaus smote him so hard that he brake his neck and the horse's back--" "well, that is just the trouble about this state of things, it ruins so many horses." "that saw the other knight of the turret, and dressed him toward marhaus, and they went so eagerly together, that the knight of the turret was soon smitten down, horse and man, stark dead--" "_another_ horse gone; i tell you it is a custom that ought to be broken up. i don't see how people with any feeling can applaud and support it." . . . . "so these two knights came together with great random--" i saw that i had been asleep and missed a chapter, but i didn't say anything. i judged that the irish knight was in trouble with the visitors by this time, and this turned out to be the case. "--that sir uwaine smote sir marhaus that his spear brast in pieces on the shield, and sir marhaus smote him so sore that horse and man he bare to the earth, and hurt sir uwaine on the left side--" "the truth is, alisande, these archaics are a little _too_ simple; the vocabulary is too limited, and so, by consequence, descriptions suffer in the matter of variety; they run too much to level saharas of fact, and not enough to picturesque detail; this throws about them a certain air of the monotonous; in fact the fights are all alike: a couple of people come together with great random --random is a good word, and so is exegesis, for that matter, and so is holocaust, and defalcation, and usufruct and a hundred others, but land! a body ought to discriminate--they come together with great random, and a spear is brast, and one party brake his shield and the other one goes down, horse and man, over his horse-tail and brake his neck, and then the next candidate comes randoming in, and brast _his_ spear, and the other man brast his shield, and down _he_ goes, horse and man, over his horse-tail, and brake _his_ neck, and then there's another elected, and another and another and still another, till the material is all used up; and when you come to figure up results, you can't tell one fight from another, nor who whipped; and as a _picture_, of living, raging, roaring battle, sho! why, it's pale and noiseless--just ghosts scuffling in a fog. dear me, what would this barren vocabulary get out of the mightiest spectacle?--the burning of rome in nero's time, for instance? why, it would merely say, 'town burned down; no insurance; boy brast a window, fireman brake his neck!' why, _that_ ain't a picture!" it was a good deal of a lecture, i thought, but it didn't disturb sandy, didn't turn a feather; her steam soared steadily up again, the minute i took off the lid: "then sir marhaus turned his horse and rode toward gawaine with his spear. and when sir gawaine saw that, he dressed his shield, and they aventred their spears, and they came together with all the might of their horses, that either knight smote other so hard in the midst of their shields, but sir gawaine's spear brake--" "i knew it would." --"but sir marhaus's spear held; and therewith sir gawaine and his horse rushed down to the earth--" "just so--and brake his back." --"and lightly sir gawaine rose upon his feet and pulled out his sword, and dressed him toward sir marhaus on foot, and therewith either came unto other eagerly, and smote together with their swords, that their shields flew in cantels, and they bruised their helms and their hauberks, and wounded either other. but sir gawaine, fro it passed nine of the clock, waxed by the space of three hours ever stronger and stronger and thrice his might was increased. all this espied sir marhaus, and had great wonder how his might increased, and so they wounded other passing sore; and then when it was come noon--" the pelting sing-song of it carried me forward to scenes and sounds of my boyhood days: "n-e-e-ew haven! ten minutes for refreshments--knductr'll strike the gong-bell two minutes before train leaves--passengers for the shore-line please take seats in the rear k'yar, this k'yar don't go no furder--_ahh_-pls, _aw_-rnjz, b'_nan_ners, _s-a-n-d_'ches, p--_op_-corn!" --"and waxed past noon and drew toward evensong. sir gawaine's strength feebled and waxed passing faint, that unnethes he might dure any longer, and sir marhaus was then bigger and bigger--" "which strained his armor, of course; and yet little would one of these people mind a small thing like that." --"and so, sir knight, said sir marhaus, i have well felt that ye are a passing good knight, and a marvelous man of might as ever i felt any, while it lasteth, and our quarrels are not great, and therefore it were a pity to do you hurt, for i feel you are passing feeble. ah, said sir gawaine, gentle knight, ye say the word that i should say. and therewith they took off their helms and either kissed other, and there they swore together either to love other as brethren--" but i lost the thread there, and dozed off to slumber, thinking about what a pity it was that men with such superb strength --strength enabling them to stand up cased in cruelly burdensome iron and drenched with perspiration, and hack and batter and bang each other for six hours on a stretch--should not have been born at a time when they could put it to some useful purpose. take a jackass, for instance: a jackass has that kind of strength, and puts it to a useful purpose, and is valuable to this world because he is a jackass; but a nobleman is not valuable because he is a jackass. it is a mixture that is always ineffectual, and should never have been attempted in the first place. and yet, once you start a mistake, the trouble is done and you never know what is going to come of it. when i came to myself again and began to listen, i perceived that i had lost another chapter, and that alisande had wandered a long way off with her people. "and so they rode and came into a deep valley full of stones, and thereby they saw a fair stream of water; above thereby was the head of the stream, a fair fountain, and three damsels sitting thereby. in this country, said sir marhaus, came never knight since it was christened, but he found strange adventures--" "this is not good form, alisande. sir marhaus the king's son of ireland talks like all the rest; you ought to give him a brogue, or at least a characteristic expletive; by this means one would recognize him as soon as he spoke, without his ever being named. it is a common literary device with the great authors. you should make him say, 'in this country, be jabers, came never knight since it was christened, but he found strange adventures, be jabers.' you see how much better that sounds." --"came never knight but he found strange adventures, be jabers. of a truth it doth indeed, fair lord, albeit 'tis passing hard to say, though peradventure that will not tarry but better speed with usage. and then they rode to the damsels, and either saluted other, and the eldest had a garland of gold about her head, and she was threescore winter of age or more--" "the _damsel_ was?" "even so, dear lord--and her hair was white under the garland--" "celluloid teeth, nine dollars a set, as like as not--the loose-fit kind, that go up and down like a portcullis when you eat, and fall out when you laugh." "the second damsel was of thirty winter of age, with a circlet of gold about her head. the third damsel was but fifteen year of age--" billows of thought came rolling over my soul, and the voice faded out of my hearing! fifteen! break--my heart! oh, my lost darling! just her age who was so gentle, and lovely, and all the world to me, and whom i shall never see again! how the thought of her carries me back over wide seas of memory to a vague dim time, a happy time, so many, many centuries hence, when i used to wake in the soft summer mornings, out of sweet dreams of her, and say "hello, central!" just to hear her dear voice come melting back to me with a "hello, hank!" that was music of the spheres to my enchanted ear. she got three dollars a week, but she was worth it. i could not follow alisande's further explanation of who our captured knights were, now--i mean in case she should ever get to explaining who they were. my interest was gone, my thoughts were far away, and sad. by fitful glimpses of the drifting tale, caught here and there and now and then, i merely noted in a vague way that each of these three knights took one of these three damsels up behind him on his horse, and one rode north, another east, the other south, to seek adventures, and meet again and lie, after year and day. year and day--and without baggage. it was of a piece with the general simplicity of the country. the sun was now setting. it was about three in the afternoon when alisande had begun to tell me who the cowboys were; so she had made pretty good progress with it--for her. she would arrive some time or other, no doubt, but she was not a person who could be hurried. we were approaching a castle which stood on high ground; a huge, strong, venerable structure, whose gray towers and battlements were charmingly draped with ivy, and whose whole majestic mass was drenched with splendors flung from the sinking sun. it was the largest castle we had seen, and so i thought it might be the one we were after, but sandy said no. she did not know who owned it; she said she had passed it without calling, when she went down to camelot. chapter xvi morgan le fay if knights errant were to be believed, not all castles were desirable places to seek hospitality in. as a matter of fact, knights errant were _not_ persons to be believed--that is, measured by modern standards of veracity; yet, measured by the standards of their own time, and scaled accordingly, you got the truth. it was very simple: you discounted a statement ninety-seven per cent; the rest was fact. now after making this allowance, the truth remained that if i could find out something about a castle before ringing the door-bell--i mean hailing the warders--it was the sensible thing to do. so i was pleased when i saw in the distance a horseman making the bottom turn of the road that wound down from this castle. as we approached each other, i saw that he wore a plumed helmet, and seemed to be otherwise clothed in steel, but bore a curious addition also--a stiff square garment like a herald's tabard. however, i had to smile at my own forgetfulness when i got nearer and read this sign on his tabard: "persimmon's soap -- all the prime-donna use it." that was a little idea of my own, and had several wholesome purposes in view toward the civilizing and uplifting of this nation. in the first place, it was a furtive, underhand blow at this nonsense of knight errantry, though nobody suspected that but me. i had started a number of these people out--the bravest knights i could get--each sandwiched between bulletin-boards bearing one device or another, and i judged that by and by when they got to be numerous enough they would begin to look ridiculous; and then, even the steel-clad ass that _hadn't_ any board would himself begin to look ridiculous because he was out of the fashion. secondly, these missionaries would gradually, and without creating suspicion or exciting alarm, introduce a rudimentary cleanliness among the nobility, and from them it would work down to the people, if the priests could be kept quiet. this would undermine the church. i mean would be a step toward that. next, education--next, freedom --and then she would begin to crumble. it being my conviction that any established church is an established crime, an established slave-pen, i had no scruples, but was willing to assail it in any way or with any weapon that promised to hurt it. why, in my own former day--in remote centuries not yet stirring in the womb of time--there were old englishmen who imagined that they had been born in a free country: a "free" country with the corporation act and the test still in force in it--timbers propped against men's liberties and dishonored consciences to shore up an established anachronism with. my missionaries were taught to spell out the gilt signs on their tabards--the showy gilding was a neat idea, i could have got the king to wear a bulletin-board for the sake of that barbaric splendor--they were to spell out these signs and then explain to the lords and ladies what soap was; and if the lords and ladies were afraid of it, get them to try it on a dog. the missionary's next move was to get the family together and try it on himself; he was to stop at no experiment, however desperate, that could convince the nobility that soap was harmless; if any final doubt remained, he must catch a hermit--the woods were full of them; saints they called themselves, and saints they were believed to be. they were unspeakably holy, and worked miracles, and everybody stood in awe of them. if a hermit could survive a wash, and that failed to convince a duke, give him up, let him alone. whenever my missionaries overcame a knight errant on the road they washed him, and when he got well they swore him to go and get a bulletin-board and disseminate soap and civilization the rest of his days. as a consequence the workers in the field were increasing by degrees, and the reform was steadily spreading. my soap factory felt the strain early. at first i had only two hands; but before i had left home i was already employing fifteen, and running night and day; and the atmospheric result was getting so pronounced that the king went sort of fainting and gasping around and said he did not believe he could stand it much longer, and sir launcelot got so that he did hardly anything but walk up and down the roof and swear, although i told him it was worse up there than anywhere else, but he said he wanted plenty of air; and he was always complaining that a palace was no place for a soap factory anyway, and said if a man was to start one in his house he would be damned if he wouldn't strangle him. there were ladies present, too, but much these people ever cared for that; they would swear before children, if the wind was their way when the factory was going. this missionary knight's name was la cote male taile, and he said that this castle was the abode of morgan le fay, sister of king arthur, and wife of king uriens, monarch of a realm about as big as the district of columbia--you could stand in the middle of it and throw bricks into the next kingdom. "kings" and "kingdoms" were as thick in britain as they had been in little palestine in joshua's time, when people had to sleep with their knees pulled up because they couldn't stretch out without a passport. la cote was much depressed, for he had scored here the worst failure of his campaign. he had not worked off a cake; yet he had tried all the tricks of the trade, even to the washing of a hermit; but the hermit died. this was, indeed, a bad failure, for this animal would now be dubbed a martyr, and would take his place among the saints of the roman calendar. thus made he his moan, this poor sir la cote male taile, and sorrowed passing sore. and so my heart bled for him, and i was moved to comfort and stay him. wherefore i said: "forbear to grieve, fair knight, for this is not a defeat. we have brains, you and i; and for such as have brains there are no defeats, but only victories. observe how we will turn this seeming disaster into an advertisement; an advertisement for our soap; and the biggest one, to draw, that was ever thought of; an advertisement that will transform that mount washington defeat into a matterhorn victory. we will put on your bulletin-board, '_patronized by the elect_.' how does that strike you?" "verily, it is wonderly bethought!" "well, a body is bound to admit that for just a modest little one-line ad, it's a corker." so the poor colporteur's griefs vanished away. he was a brave fellow, and had done mighty feats of arms in his time. his chief celebrity rested upon the events of an excursion like this one of mine, which he had once made with a damsel named maledisant, who was as handy with her tongue as was sandy, though in a different way, for her tongue churned forth only railings and insult, whereas sandy's music was of a kindlier sort. i knew his story well, and so i knew how to interpret the compassion that was in his face when he bade me farewell. he supposed i was having a bitter hard time of it. sandy and i discussed his story, as we rode along, and she said that la cote's bad luck had begun with the very beginning of that trip; for the king's fool had overthrown him on the first day, and in such cases it was customary for the girl to desert to the conqueror, but maledisant didn't do it; and also persisted afterward in sticking to him, after all his defeats. but, said i, suppose the victor should decline to accept his spoil? she said that that wouldn't answer--he must. he couldn't decline; it wouldn't be regular. i made a note of that. if sandy's music got to be too burdensome, some time, i would let a knight defeat me, on the chance that she would desert to him. in due time we were challenged by the warders, from the castle walls, and after a parley admitted. i have nothing pleasant to tell about that visit. but it was not a disappointment, for i knew mrs. le fay by reputation, and was not expecting anything pleasant. she was held in awe by the whole realm, for she had made everybody believe she was a great sorceress. all her ways were wicked, all her instincts devilish. she was loaded to the eyelids with cold malice. all her history was black with crime; and among her crimes murder was common. i was most curious to see her; as curious as i could have been to see satan. to my surprise she was beautiful; black thoughts had failed to make her expression repulsive, age had failed to wrinkle her satin skin or mar its bloomy freshness. she could have passed for old uriens' granddaughter, she could have been mistaken for sister to her own son. as soon as we were fairly within the castle gates we were ordered into her presence. king uriens was there, a kind-faced old man with a subdued look; and also the son, sir uwaine le blanchemains, in whom i was, of course, interested on account of the tradition that he had once done battle with thirty knights, and also on account of his trip with sir gawaine and sir marhaus, which sandy had been aging me with. but morgan was the main attraction, the conspicuous personality here; she was head chief of this household, that was plain. she caused us to be seated, and then she began, with all manner of pretty graces and graciousnesses, to ask me questions. dear me, it was like a bird or a flute, or something, talking. i felt persuaded that this woman must have been misrepresented, lied about. she trilled along, and trilled along, and presently a handsome young page, clothed like the rainbow, and as easy and undulatory of movement as a wave, came with something on a golden salver, and, kneeling to present it to her, overdid his graces and lost his balance, and so fell lightly against her knee. she slipped a dirk into him in as matter-of-course a way as another person would have harpooned a rat! poor child! he slumped to the floor, twisted his silken limbs in one great straining contortion of pain, and was dead. out of the old king was wrung an involuntary "o-h!" of compassion. the look he got, made him cut it suddenly short and not put any more hyphens in it. sir uwaine, at a sign from his mother, went to the anteroom and called some servants, and meanwhile madame went rippling sweetly along with her talk. i saw that she was a good housekeeper, for while she talked she kept a corner of her eye on the servants to see that they made no balks in handling the body and getting it out; when they came with fresh clean towels, she sent back for the other kind; and when they had finished wiping the floor and were going, she indicated a crimson fleck the size of a tear which their duller eyes had overlooked. it was plain to me that la cote male taile had failed to see the mistress of the house. often, how louder and clearer than any tongue, does dumb circumstantial evidence speak. morgan le fay rippled along as musically as ever. marvelous woman. and what a glance she had: when it fell in reproof upon those servants, they shrunk and quailed as timid people do when the lightning flashes out of a cloud. i could have got the habit myself. it was the same with that poor old brer uriens; he was always on the ragged edge of apprehension; she could not even turn toward him but he winced. in the midst of the talk i let drop a complimentary word about king arthur, forgetting for the moment how this woman hated her brother. that one little compliment was enough. she clouded up like storm; she called for her guards, and said: "hale me these varlets to the dungeons." that struck cold on my ears, for her dungeons had a reputation. nothing occurred to me to say--or do. but not so with sandy. as the guard laid a hand upon me, she piped up with the tranquilest confidence, and said: "god's wounds, dost thou covet destruction, thou maniac? it is the boss!" now what a happy idea that was!--and so simple; yet it would never have occurred to me. i was born modest; not all over, but in spots; and this was one of the spots. the effect upon madame was electrical. it cleared her countenance and brought back her smiles and all her persuasive graces and blandishments; but nevertheless she was not able to entirely cover up with them the fact that she was in a ghastly fright. she said: "la, but do list to thine handmaid! as if one gifted with powers like to mine might say the thing which i have said unto one who has vanquished merlin, and not be jesting. by mine enchantments i foresaw your coming, and by them i knew you when you entered here. i did but play this little jest with hope to surprise you into some display of your art, as not doubting you would blast the guards with occult fires, consuming them to ashes on the spot, a marvel much beyond mine own ability, yet one which i have long been childishly curious to see." the guards were less curious, and got out as soon as they got permission. king arthur _and the knights of the round table_ edited by rupert s. holland grosset & dunlap _publishers_ new york _copyright, , by george w. jacobs & company_ _printed in the united states of america_ [illustration: "this girdle, lords," said she, "is made for the most part of mine own hair, which, while i was yet in the world, i loved full well."] introduction king arthur and the knights of the round table! what magic is in the words! how they carry us straight to the days of chivalry, to the witchcraft of merlin, to the wonderful deeds of lancelot and perceval and galahad, to the quest for the holy grail, to all that "glorious company, the flower of men," as tennyson has called the king and his companions! down through the ages the stories have come to us, one of the few great romances which, like the tales of homer, are as fresh and vivid to-day as when men first recited them in court and camp and cottage. other great kings and paladins are lost in the dim shadows of long-past centuries, but arthur still reigns in camelot and his knights still ride forth to seek the grail. "no little thing shall be the gentle music of the bygone years, long past to us with all their hopes and fears." so wrote the poet william morris in _the earthly paradise_. and surely it is no small debt of gratitude we owe the troubadours and chroniclers and poets who through many centuries have sung of arthur and his champions, each adding to the song the gifts of his own imagination, so building from simple folk-tales one of the most magnificent and moving stories in all literature. this debt perhaps we owe in greatest measure to three men; to chrétien de troies, a frenchman, who in the twelfth century put many of the old arthurian legends into verse; to sir thomas malory, who first wrote out most of the stories in english prose, and whose book, the _morte darthur_, was printed by william caxton, the first english printer, in ; and to alfred, lord tennyson, who in his series of poems entitled the _idylls of the king_ retold the legends in new and beautiful guise in the nineteenth century. the history of arthur is so shrouded in the mists of early england that it is difficult to tell exactly who and what he was. there probably was an actual arthur, who lived in the island of britain in the sixth century, but probably he was not a king nor even a prince. it seems most likely that he was a chieftain who led his countrymen to victory against the invading english about the year . so proud were his countrymen of his victories that they began to invent imaginary stories of his prowess to add to the fame of their hero, just as among all peoples legends soon spring up about the name of a great leader. as each man told the feats of arthur he contributed those details that appealed most to his own fancy and each was apt to think of the hero as a man of his own time, dressing and speaking and living as his own kings and princes did, with the result that when we come to the twelfth century we find geoffrey of monmouth, in his _history of the kings of britain_, describing arthur no longer as a half-barbarous briton, wearing rude armor, his arms and legs bare, but instead as a most christian king, the flower of mediæval chivalry, decked out in all the gorgeous trappings of a knight of the crusades. as the story of arthur grew it attracted to itself popular legends of all kinds. its roots were in britain and the chief threads in its fabric remained british-celtic. the next most important threads were those that were added by the celtic chroniclers of ireland. then stories that were not celtic at all were woven into the legend, some from germanic sources, which the saxons or the descendants of the franks may have contributed, and others that came from the orient, which may have been brought back from the east by men returning from the crusades. and if it was the celts who gave us the most of the material for the stories of arthur it was the french poets who first wrote out the stories and gave them enduring form. it was the frenchman, chrétien de troies, who lived at the courts of champagne and of flanders, who put the old legends into verse for the pleasure of the noble lords and ladies that were his patrons. he composed six arthurian poems. the first, which was written about or earlier, related the story of tristram. the next was called _Érec et Énide_, and told some of the adventures that were later used by tennyson in his _geraint and enid_. the third was _cligès_, a poem that has little to do with the stories of arthur and his knights as we have them. next came the _conte de la charrette_, or _le chevalier de la charrette_, which set forth the love of lancelot and guinevere. then followed _yvain_, or _le chevalier au lion_, and finally came _perceval_, or _le conte du graal_, which gives the first account of the holy grail. none of these stories are to be found in the work of geoffrey of monmouth, who had written earlier in latin, nor in any of the so-called chronicles. it was chrétien who took the old folk-tales that men had been telling each other for centuries and put them into sprightly verse for the entertainment of his lords and ladies. he fashioned the stories according to the taste of his own gay courts, and so arthur and his queen guinevere, lancelot, perceval and the other knights became far more like french people of the twelfth century than like britons of the sixth. and in introducing the holy grail, that sacred and mystic cup that was supposed to hold drops of the blood of christ and to have been carried to england by joseph of arimathea, chrétien added to the arthurian legends an old religious story that had had nothing to do with arthur originally. from this point in its history that sturdy ancient english oak, the original story of arthur and his knights, an account mainly of warlike adventures, sent forth four new branches that have now become part and parcel of the parent legend. these four branches are the story of merlin, the story of lancelot, the story of the holy grail, and the story of tristram and iseult. some of the writers who came after chrétien took one of these stories, some another, each enlarging his theme according to his own taste, until each story was the center of a large number of new and romantic offshoots. practically all of them, however, were bound together by the thread that led from the court of the great king arthur at camelot. the story of merlin, that man of magic, is the least important of the four branches, though merlin is still an intensely interesting figure in the story of arthur that we read to-day. the story of lancelot was to prove very important; starting as a romance that had very little connection with arthur, it became with malory and tennyson the real center of interest of the plot. the story of the holy grail proved almost equally important. in the earliest accounts of this perceval was the knight chosen above all others to reach the grail castle, but perceval was too rough and worldly a knight to suit the taste of the monks who wrote out the legends and so they created galahad to take his place as their own ideal of perfection. and into these adventures are woven some of the tales of sir gawain, among them the delightful story of gawain and the little maid with the narrow sleeves. to the legend of perceval, wolfram von eschenbach, a bavarian, added the story of the son of perceval, or parzival, as he calls him, the story of lohengrin, the famous swan-knight. tristram and iseult, the fourth of the branches, though less connected with arthur than either lancelot or the holy grail, became immensely popular with poets and remancers because of its great love story, and is to be found told again and again in widely varying forms all through the middle ages. so we have seen that a british chieftain, winning a great battle in the year , became in time celebrated throughout europe as the greatest king of romance. so far it was mainly the french who had made him famous. layamon, an english priest, had written a poem in english concerning arthur shortly after , and told of the founding of the round table, but it was to be a considerable time yet before any english writer was to attempt what the french had already done. chaucer told none of the arthurian stories, though he placed the scene of his _wife of bath's tale_ at king arthur's court. an unknown english poet wrote _sir gawaine and the green knight_ somewhere between and . it is not until we come to the _morte darthur_ of sir thomas malory, finished in or , that we reach the next great step in the history of the legends since the time of chrétien de troies. but in malory's story arthur steps forth resplendent, the kingly figure that we have to-day. little is known concerning sir thomas malory. he seems to have been a knight and country gentleman of warwickshire, a member of parliament in the reign of henry vi, and later a soldier on the side of lancaster in the wars of the roses. as a result of the victory of the party of york he had to retire from public life when edward iv came to the throne, and lived quietly at his warwickshire estate. he was familiar with life at court and with men-at-arms and he knew how popular the stories of king arthur were becoming in england. so, being a man of education, he set to work to make a collection of the legends, using as his chief sources the french romances. malory showed considerable originality in carrying out his plan. he made arthur the central figure, taking the story of merlin as an introduction to the birth of arthur, instead of as a separate legend, and ending his account soon after the death of the king. he omitted a number of the older legends that had little to do with arthur, many of them good stories, such as that of sir gawain and the green knight. he made the england of his arthur something like the england he knew, and his people became real and living instead of fanciful figures out of a far-distant past. his descriptions are vivid and lively and his style so engaging that his work of the fifteenth century is much read to-day. three characters stand out from all the rest, arthur, lancelot, and guinevere, and these three became in all stories and poems subsequent to malory's time the main figures of the legends. matthew arnold attributed to homer three great epic traits, swiftness, simplicity, and nobility. it is these three characteristics that have made the _morte darthur_ so deservedly famous. with the printing of malory's book by the first english printer, william caxton, in , we come to the end of the middle ages in literature. manuscripts written out laboriously by monks and clerks were now to give way to the printed page. the age of elizabeth was less than a century away, one of the golden ages of the poets. yet few of the elizabethans touched on the story of arthur. the main exception was edmund spenser, who made prince arthur the hero of his great poem _the faerie queene_, but spenser's arthur and his knights and ladies have little in common with the figures in the old romances. the succeeding centuries, great as they were in english writers of genius, paid little attention to arthur. milton and dryden made little use of the legends. stories of ancient chivalry lost their vogue, novels were becoming popular and the poets chose themes closer to their own times and point of view. not until the nineteenth century did arthur come into his own again. then the victorian poets turned to him for inspiration. william morris wrote _the defence of guenevere_, and a host of lesser poets tried their hands on similar themes. swinburne told the story of _tristram of lyonesse_ and the _tale of balen_, and james russell lowell composed his beautiful poem _the vision of sir launfal_. matthew arnold wrote _tristram and iseult_. in richard wagner, the great german composer, produced his opera _lohengrin_, and followed it with _tristan und isolde_ and _parsifal_. these tell the old stories in somewhat new form, and follow the early french romances rather than malory. but the true descendant of chrétien de troies and malory was alfred tennyson. the great work of this poet's life was his _idylls of the king_, one of the finest achievements of english literature. he owed his inspiration chiefly to malory. "the vision of arthur as i have drawn him," tennyson said to his son, "had come upon me when, little more than a boy, i first lighted upon malory." he covered almost the entire field of the legends. the _idylls of the king_ are _the coming of arthur_, _geraint and enid_, _merlin and vivien_, _lancelot and elaine_, _the holy grail_, _pelleas and ettarre_, _balin and balan_, _the last tournament_, _guinevere_, and _the passing of arthur_. tennyson gives to the stories far more allegory, far more philosophy than the early poets gave them. his age was interested in philosophy and so, as was the case with each of the earlier poets, tennyson handled the legends after the fashion of his own times. in his pages we see the characters as actual men and women, subtly drawn, concerned with right and wrong far more than with mere knightly adventures. arthur and lancelot and guinevere hold the center of the stage, and it is the fate of these three that provides the great moving motive of the poems. to tennyson we owe the most nearly perfect version of the story that dates back to a dim and legendary england. what verse more beautiful than his to tell of chivalry? "then, in the boyhood of the year, sir lancelot and queen guinevere rode thro' the coverts of the deer, with blissful treble ringing clear. she seem'd a part of joyous spring: a gown of grass-green silk she wore, buckled with golden clasps before; a light-green tuft of plumes she bore closed in a golden ring." in beauty and dignity and human interest tennyson gives us the great world of arthurian legend in its most perfect form. malory's _morte darthur_ was not tennyson's only source for the stories of his idylls. the adventures of geraint he took from the _mabinogion_, a collection of mediæval welsh tales translated with great charm and accuracy by lady charlotte guest, and published in . also, though to a very limited extent, he drew some of his incidents from the history of geoffrey of monmouth and the other early writers of chronicles. the great panorama of stories that we group together under the title of _king arthur and the knights of the round table_, when they are told in prose, are usually taken from malory's book, the _morte darthur_, condensed in size, for malory was frequently verbose, and related in more modern english. in this volume we have used as a basis the version prepared by sir james knowles, which is an abridgment of malory's work as it was printed by caxton, with a few additions from geoffrey of monmouth and other sources. to this we have added the story of sir gawain and the maid with the narrow sleeves, which comes originally from the poem of _perceval_ by chrétien de troies. the stories seem naturally to group themselves into four divisions, the coming of arthur and the founding of the round table, the adventures of the champions of the round table, sir galahad and the quest of the holy grail, and the passing of arthur. into these come all the great characters of the legends and all the surpassing adventures of the king and his knights. the story of how a half-barbarous british chieftain became the greatest king of mediæval chivalry is a romance in itself. to him poets and chroniclers of all lands added one valorous knight after another, one amazing adventure on top of another, until the result was the greatest collection of legends that have gathered about any king in history. the story of the origin and growth of these world-famous legends is told in a most delightful book, _the arthur of the english poets_, by howard maynadier, and those who wish to get the historical background of king arthur should turn to its pages. those who love brave and knightly deeds, those who love the gorgeous trappings of mediæval romance, come to the story of arthur and his round table, of lancelot and perceval and galahad and gawain, of guinevere and elaine, and of the quest for the holy grail, and there shall be found the glories that you seek. the king and his knights ride out from camelot. here shall you join them on their great adventures! rupert s. holland. contents introduction the coming of arthur and the founding of the round table i merlin foretells the birth of arthur ii the crowning of arthur and the sword excalibur iii arthur drives the saxons from his realm iv the king's many and great adventures v sir balin fights with his brother, sir balan vi the marriage of arthur and guinevere and the founding of the round table vii the adventure of arthur and sir accolon of gaul viii arthur is crowned emperor at rome ix sir gawain and the maid with the narrow sleeves the champions of the round table x the adventures of sir lancelot xi the adventures of sir beaumains or sir gareth xii the adventures of sir tristram sir galahad and the quest of the holy grail xiii the knights go to seek the grail the passing of arthur xiv sir lancelot and the fair elaine xv the war between arthur and lancelot and the passing of arthur king arthur and the knights of the round table the coming of arthur and the founding of the round table i merlin foretells the birth of arthur king vortigern the usurper sat upon his throne in london, when, suddenly, upon a certain day, ran in a breathless messenger, and cried aloud-- "arise, lord king, for the enemy is come; even ambrosius and uther, upon whose throne thou sittest--and full twenty thousand with them--and they have sworn by a great oath, lord, to slay thee, ere this year be done; and even now they march towards thee as the north wind of winter for bitterness and haste." at those words vortigern's face grew white as ashes, and, rising in confusion and disorder, he sent for all the best artificers and craftsmen and mechanics, and commanded them vehemently to go and build him straightway in the furthest west of his lands a great and strong castle, where he might fly for refuge and escape the vengeance of his master's sons--"and, moreover," cried he, "let the work be done within a hundred days from now, or i will surely spare no life amongst you all." then all the host of craftsmen, fearing for their lives, found out a proper site whereon to build the tower, and eagerly began to lay in the foundations. but no sooner were the walls raised up above the ground than all their work was overwhelmed and broken down by night invisibly, no man perceiving how, or by whom, or what. and the same thing happening again, and yet again, all the workmen, full of terror, sought out the king, and threw themselves upon their faces before him, beseeching him to interfere and help them or to deliver them from their dreadful work. filled with mixed rage and fear, the king called for the astrologers and wizards, and took counsel with them what these things might be, and how to overcome them. the wizards worked their spells and incantations, and in the end declared that nothing but the blood of a youth born without mortal father, smeared on the foundations of the castle, could avail to make it stand. messengers were therefore sent forthwith through all the land to find, if it were possible, such a child. and, as some of them went down a certain village street, they saw a band of lads fighting and quarreling, and heard them shout at one--"avaunt, thou imp!--avaunt! son of no mortal man! go, find thy father, and leave us in peace." at that the messengers looked steadfastly on the lad, and asked who he was. one said his name was merlin; another, that his birth and parentage were known by no man; a third, that the foul fiend alone was his father. hearing the things, the officers seized merlin, and carried him before the king by force. but no sooner was he brought to him than he asked in a loud voice, for what cause he was thus dragged there? "my magicians," answered vortigern, "told me to seek out a man that had no human father, and to sprinkle my castle with his blood, that it may stand." "order those magicians," said merlin, "to come before me, and i will convict them of a lie." the king was astonished at his words, but commanded the magicians to come and sit down before merlin, who cried to them-- "because ye know not what it is that hinders the foundation of the castle, ye have advised my blood for a cement to it, as if that would avail; but tell me now rather what there is below that ground, for something there is surely underneath that will not suffer the tower to stand?" the wizards at these words began to fear, and made no answer. then said merlin to the king-- "i pray, lord, that workmen may be ordered to dig deep down into the ground till they shall come to a great pool of water." this then was done, and the pool discovered far beneath the surface of the ground. then, turning again to the magicians, merlin said, "tell me now, false sycophants, what there is underneath that pool?"--but they were silent. then said he to the king, "command this pool to be drained, and at the bottom shall be found two dragons, great and huge, which now are sleeping, but which at night awake and fight and tear each other. at their great struggle all the ground shakes and trembles, and so casts down thy towers, which, therefore, never yet could find secure foundations." the king was amazed at these words, but commanded the pool to be forthwith drained; and surely at the bottom of it did they presently discover the two dragons, fast asleep, as merlin had declared. but vortigern sat upon the brink of the pool till night to see what else would happen. then those two dragons, one of which was white, the other red, rose up and came near one another, and began a sore fight, and cast forth fire with their breath. but the white dragon had the advantage, and chased the other to the end of the lake. and he, for grief at his flight, turned back upon his foe, and renewed the combat, and forced him to retire in turn. but in the end the red dragon was worsted, and the white dragon disappeared no man knew where. when their battle was done, the king desired merlin to tell him what it meant. whereat he, bursting into tears, cried out this prophecy, which first foretold the coming of king arthur. "woe to the red dragon, which figureth the british nation, for his banishment cometh quickly; his lurking-holes shall be seized by the white dragon--the saxon whom thou, o king, hast called to the land. the mountains shall be leveled as the valleys, and the rivers of the valleys shall run blood; cities shall be burned, and churches laid in ruins; till at length the oppressed shall turn for a season and prevail against the strangers. for a boar of cornwall shall arise and rend them, and trample their necks beneath his feet. the island shall be subject to his power, and he shall take the forests of gaul. the house of romulus shall dread him--all the world shall fear him--and his end shall no man know; he shall be immortal in the mouths of the people, and his works shall be food to those that tell them. "but as for thee, o vortigern, flee thou the sons of constantine, for they shall burn thee in thy tower. for thine own ruin wast thou traitor to their father, and didst bring the saxon heathens to the land. aurelius and uther are even now upon thee to revenge their father's murder; and the brood of the white dragon shall waste thy country, and shall lick thy blood. find out some refuge, if thou wilt! but who may escape the doom of god?" the king heard all this, trembling greatly; and, convicted of his sins, said nothing in reply. only he hasted the builders of his tower by day and night, and rested not till he had fled thereto. in the meantime, aurelius, the rightful king, was hailed with joy by the britons, who flocked to his standard, and prayed to be led against the saxons. but he, till he had first killed vortigern, would begin no other war. he marched therefore to cambria, and came before the tower which the usurper had built. then, crying out to all his knights, "avenge ye on him who hath ruined britain and slain my father and your king!" he rushed with many thousands at the castle walls. but, being driven back again and yet again, at length he thought of fire, and ordered blazing brands to be cast into the building from all sides. these, finding soon a proper fuel, ceased not to rage till, spreading to a mighty conflagration, they burned down the tower, and vortigern within it. then did aurelius turn his strength against hengist and the saxons, and, defeating them in many places, weakened their power for a long season, so that the land had peace. anon the king, making journeys to and fro, restoring ruined churches and, creating order, came to the monastery near salisbury, where all those british knights lay buried who had been slain there by the treachery of hengist. for when in former times hengist had made a solemn truce with vortigern, to meet in peace and settle terms, whereby himself and all his saxons should depart from britain, the saxon soldiers carried every one of them beneath his garment a long dagger, and, at a given signal, fell upon the britons, and slew them, to the number of nearly five hundred. the sight of the place where the dead lay moved aurelius to great sorrow, and he cast about in his mind how to make a worthy tomb over so many noble martyrs, who had died there for their country. when he had in vain consulted many craftsmen and builders, he sent, by the advice of the archbishop, for merlin, and asked him what to do. "if you would honor the burying-place of these men," said merlin, "with an everlasting monument, send for the giants' dance which is in killaraus, a mountain; in ireland; for there is a structure of stone there which none of this age could raise without a perfect knowledge of the arts. they are stones of a vast size and wondrous nature, and if they can be placed here as they are there, round this spot of ground, they will stand for ever." at these words of merlin, aurelius burst into laughter, and said, "how is it possible to remove such vast stones from so great a distance, as if britain, also, had no stones fit for the work?" "i pray the king," said merlin, "to forbear vain laughter; what i have said is true, for those stones are mystical and have healing virtues. the giants of old brought them from the furthest coast of africa, and placed them in ireland while they lived in that country: and their design was to make baths in them, for use in time of grievous illness. for if they washed the stones and put the sick into the water, it certainly healed them, as also it did them that were wounded in battle; and there is no stone among them but hath the same virtue still." when the britons heard this, they resolved to send for the stones, and to make war upon the people of ireland if they offered to withhold them. so, when they had chosen uther the king's brother for their chief, they set sail, to the number of , men, and came to ireland. there gillomanius, the king, withstood them fiercely, and not till after a great battle could they approach the giants' dance, the sight of which filled them with joy and admiration. but when they sought to move the stones, the strength of all the army was in vain, until merlin, laughing at their failures, contrived machines of wondrous cunning, which took them down with ease, and placed them in the ships. when they had brought the whole to salisbury, aurelius, with the crown upon his head, kept for four days the feast of pentecost with royal pomp; and in the midst of all the clergy and the people, merlin raised up the stones, and set them round the sepulcher of the knights and barons, as they stood in the mountains of ireland. then was the monument called "stonehenge," and stands, as all men know, upon the plain of salisbury to this very day. soon thereafter it befell that aurelius was slain by poison at winchester, and was himself buried within the giants' dance. at the same time came forth a comet of amazing size and brightness, darting out a beam, at the end whereof was a cloud of fire shaped like a dragon, from whose mouth went out two rays, one stretching over gaul, the other ending in seven lesser rays over the irish sea. at the appearance of this star a great dread fell upon the people, and uther, marching into cambria against the son of vortigern, himself was very troubled to learn what it might mean. then merlin, being called before him, cried with a loud voice: "o mighty loss! o stricken britain! alas! the great prince is gone from us. aurelius ambrosius is dead, whose death will be ours also, unless god help us. haste, therefore, noble uther, to destroy the enemy; the victory shall be thine, and thou shalt be king of all britain. for the star with the fiery dragon signifies thyself; and the ray over gaul portends that thou shalt have a son, most mighty, whom all those kingdoms shall obey which the ray covers." thus, for the second time, did merlin foretell the coming of king arthur. and uther, when he was made king, remembered merlin's words, and caused two dragons to be made in gold, in likeness of the dragon he had seen in the star. one of these he gave to winchester cathedral, and had the other carried into all his wars before him, whence he was ever after called uther pendragon, or the dragon's head. now, when uther pendragon had passed through all the land, and settled it--and even voyaged into all the countries of the scots, and tamed the fierceness of that rebel people--he came to london, and ministered justice there. and it befell at a certain great banquet and high feast which the king made at easter-tide, there came, with many other earls and barons, gorloïs, duke of cornwall, and his wife igerna, who was the most famous beauty in all britain. and soon thereafter, gorloïs being slain in battle, uther determined to make igerna his own wife. but in order to do this, and enable him to come to her--for she was shut up in the high castle of tintagil, on the furthest coast of cornwall--the king sent for merlin, to take counsel with him and to pray his help. this, therefore, merlin promised him on one condition--namely, that the king should give him up the first son born of the marriage. for merlin by his art foreknew that this firstborn should be the long-wished prince, king arthur. when uther, therefore, was at length happily wedded, merlin came to the castle on a certain day, and said, "sir, thou must now provide thee for the nourishing of thy child." and the king, nothing doubting, said, "be it as thou wilt." "i know a lord of thine in this land," said merlin, "who is a man both true and faithful; let him have the nourishing of the child. his name is sir ector, and he hath fair possessions both in england and in wales. when, therefore, the child is born, let him be delivered unto me, unchristened, at yonder postern-gate, and i will bestow him in the care of this good knight." so when the child was born, the king bid two knights and two ladies to take it, bound in rich cloth of gold, and deliver it to a poor man whom they should discover at the postern-gate. and the child being delivered thus to merlin, who himself took the guise of a poor man, was carried by him to a holy priest and christened by the name of arthur, and then was taken to sir ector's house, and nourished at sir ector's wife's own breasts. and in the same house he remained privily for many years, no man soever knowing where he was, save merlin and the king. anon it befell that the king was seized by a lingering distemper, and the saxon heathens, taking their occasion, came back from over sea, and swarmed upon the land, wasting it with fire and sword. when uther heard thereof, he fell into a greater rage than his weakness could bear, and commanded all his nobles to come before him, that he might upbraid them for their cowardice. and when he had sharply and hotly rebuked them, he swore that he himself, nigh unto death although he lay, would lead them forth against the enemy. then causing a horse-litter to be made, in which he might be carried--for he was too faint and weak to ride--he went up with all his army swiftly against the saxons. but they, when they heard that uther was coming in a litter, disdained to fight him, saying it would be shame for brave men to fight with one half dead. so they retired into their city; and, as it were in scorn of danger, left the gates wide open. but uther straightway commanding his men to assault the town, they did so without loss of time, and had already reached the gates, when the saxons, repenting too late of their haughty pride, rushed forth to the defense. the battle raged till night, and was begun again next day; but at last, their leaders, octa and eosa, being slain, the saxons turned their backs and fled, leaving the britons a full triumph. the king at this felt so great joy, that, whereas before he could scarce raise himself without help, he now sat upright in his litter by himself, and said, with a laughing and merry face, "they called me the half-dead king, and so indeed i was; but victory to me half dead is better than defeat and the best health. for to die with honor is far better than to live disgraced." but the saxons, although thus defeated, were ready still for war. uther would have pursued them; but his illness had by now so grown, that his knights and barons kept him from the adventure. whereat the enemy took courage, and left nothing undone to destroy the land; until, descending to the vilest treachery, they resolved to kill the king by poison. to this end, as he lay sick at verulum, they sent and poisoned stealthily a spring of clear water, whence he was wont to drink daily; and so, on the very next day, he was taken with the pains of death, as were also a hundred others after him, before the villainy was discovered, and heaps of earth thrown over the well. the knights and barons, full of sorrow, now took counsel together, and came to merlin for his help to learn the king's will before he died, for he was by this time speechless. "sirs, there is no remedy," said merlin, "and god's will must be done; but be ye all to-morrow before him, for god will make him speak before he die." so on the morrow all the barons, with merlin, stood round the bedside of the king; and merlin said aloud to uther, "lord, shall thy son arthur be the king of all this realm after thy days?" then uther pendragon turned him about, and said, in the hearing of them all, "god's blessing and mine be upon him. i bid him pray for my soul, and also that he claim my crown, or forfeit all my blessing;" and with those words he died. then came together all the bishops and the clergy, and great multitudes of people, and bewailed the king; and carrying his body to the convent of ambrius, they buried it close by his brother's grave, within the "giants' dance." ii the crowning of arthur and the sword excalibur now arthur the prince had all this time been nourished in sir ector's house as his own son, and was fair and tall and comely, being of the age of fifteen years, great in strength, gentle in manner, and accomplished in all exercises proper for the training of a knight. but as yet he knew not of his father; for merlin had so dealt, that none save uther and himself knew aught about him. wherefore it befell that many of the knights and barons who heard king uther speak before his death, and call his son arthur his successor, were in great amazement; and some doubted, and others were displeased. anon the chief lords and princes set forth each to his own land, and, raising armed men and multitudes of followers, determined every one to gain the crown for himself; for they said in their hearts, "if there be any such a son at all as he of whom this wizard forced the king to speak, who are we that a beardless boy should have rule over us?" so the land stood long in great peril, for every lord and baron sought but his own advantage; and the saxons, growing ever more adventurous, wasted and overran the towns and villages in every part. then merlin went to brice, the archbishop of canterbury, and advised him to require all the earls and barons of the realm and all knights and gentlemen-at-arms to come to him at london, before christmas, under pain of cursing, that they might learn the will of heaven who should be king. this, therefore, the archbishop did, and upon christmas eve were met together in london all the greatest princes, lords, and barons; and long before day they prayed in st. paul's church, and the archbishop besought heaven for a sign who should be lawful king of all the realm. and as they prayed, there was seen in the churchyard, set straight before the doorways of the church, a huge square stone having a naked sword stuck in the midst of it. and on the sword was written in letters of gold, "whoso pulleth out the sword from this stone is born the rightful king of england." at this all the people wondered greatly; and, when mass was over, the nobles, knights, and princes ran out eagerly from the church to see the stone and sword; and a law was forthwith made that whoso should pull out the sword should be acknowledged straightway king of britain. then many knights and barons pulled at the sword with all their might, and some of them tried many times, but none could stir or move it. when all had tried in vain, the archbishop declared the man whom heaven had chosen was not yet there. "but god," said he, "will doubtless make him known ere many days." so ten knights were chosen, being men of high renown, to watch and keep the sword; and there was proclamation made through all the land that whosoever would, had leave and liberty to try and pull it from the stone. but though great multitudes of people came, both gentle and simple, for many days, no man could ever move the sword a hair's breadth from its place. now, at the new year's eve a great tournament was to be held in london, which the archbishop had devised to keep together lords and commons, lest they should grow estranged in the troublous and unsettled times. to the which tournament there came, with many other knights, sir ector, arthur's foster-father, who had great possessions near to london; and with him came his son, sir key, but recently made knight, to take his part in the jousting, and young arthur also to witness all the sports and fighting. but as they rode towards the jousts, sir key found suddenly he had no sword, for he had left it at his father's house; and turning to young arthur, he prayed him to ride back and fetch it for him. "i will with a good will," said arthur; and rode fast back after the sword. but when he came to the house he found it locked and empty, for all were gone forth to see the tournament. whereat, being angry and impatient, he said within himself, "i will ride to the churchyard and take with me the sword that sticketh in the stone, for my brother shall not go without a sword this day." so he rode and came to the churchyard, and alighting from his horse he tied him to the gate, and went to the pavilion, which was pitched near the stone, wherein abode the ten knights who watched and kept it; but he found no knights there, for all were gone to see the jousting. then he took the sword by its handle, and lightly and fiercely he pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and rode until he came to sir key and delivered him the sword. but as soon as sir key saw it he knew well it was the sword of the stone, and, riding swiftly to his father, he cried out, "lo! here, sir, is the sword of the stone, wherefore it is i who must be king of all this land." when sir ector saw the sword, he turned back straight with arthur and sir key and came to the churchyard, and there alighting, they went all three into the church, and sir key was sworn to tell truly how he came by the sword. then he confessed it was his brother arthur who had brought it to him. whereat sir ector, turning to young arthur, asked him--"how gottest thou the sword?" "sir," said he, "i will tell you. when i went home to fetch my brother's sword, i found nobody to deliver it to me, for all were abroad to the jousts. yet was i loth to leave my brother swordless, and, bethinking me of this one, i came hither eagerly to fetch it for him, and pulled it out of the stone without any pain." then said sir ector, much amazed and looking steadfastly on arthur, "if this indeed be thus, 'tis thou who shalt be king of all this land--and god will have it so--for none but he who should be rightful lord of britain might ever draw this sword forth from that stone. but let me now with mine own eyes see thee put back the sword into its place and draw it forth again." "that is no mastery," said arthur; and straightway set it in the stone. and then sir ector pulled at it himself, and after him sir key, with all his might, but both of them in vain: then arthur, reaching forth his hand and grasping at the pommel, pulled it out easily, and at once. then fell sir ector down upon his knees upon the ground before young arthur, and sir key also with him, and straightway did him homage as their sovereign lord. but arthur cried aloud, "alas! mine own dear father and my brother, why kneel ye thus to me?" "nay, my lord arthur," answered then sir ector, "we are of no blood-kinship with thee, and little though i thought how high thy kin might be, yet wast thou never more than foster-child of mine." and then he told him all he knew about his infancy, and how a stranger had delivered him, with a great sum of gold, into his hands to be brought up and nourished as his own born child, and then had disappeared. but when young arthur heard of it, he fell upon sir ector's neck, and wept, and made great lamentation, "for now," said he, "i have in one day lost my father and my mother and my brother." "sir," said sir ector presently, "when thou shalt be made king be good and gracious unto me and mine." "if not," said arthur, "i were no true man's son at all, for thou art he in all the world to whom i owe the most; and my good lady and mother, thy wife, hath ever kept and fostered me as though i were her own; so if it be god's will that i be king hereafter as thou sayest, desire of me whatever thing thou wilt and i will do it; and god forbid that i should fail thee in it." "i will but pray," replied sir ector, "that thou wilt make my son sir key, thy foster-brother, seneschal of all the lands." "that shall he be," said arthur; "and never shall another hold that office, save thy son, while he and i do live." anon, they left the church and went to the archbishop to tell him that the sword had been achieved. and when he saw the sword in arthur's hand he set a day and summoned all the princes, knights, and barons to meet again at st. paul's church and see the will of heaven signified. so when they came together, the sword was put back in the stone, and all tried, from the greatest to the least, to move it; but there before them all not one could take it out save arthur only. but then befell a great confusion and dispute, for some cried out it was the will of heaven, and, "long live king arthur," but many more were full of wrath and said, "what! would ye give the ancient scepter of this land unto a boy born none know how?" and the contention growing greatly, till nothing could be done to pacify their rage, the meeting was at length broken up by the archbishop and adjourned till candlemas, when all should meet again. but when candlemas was come, arthur alone again pulled forth the sword, though more than ever came to win it; and the barons, sorely vexed and angry, put it in delay till easter. but as he had sped before so he did at easter, and the barons yet once more contrived delays till pentecost. but now the archbishop, fully seeing god's will, called together, by merlin's counsel, a band of knights and gentlemen-at-arms, and set them about arthur to keep him safely till the feast of pentecost. and when at the feast arthur still again alone prevailed to move the sword, the people all with one accord cried out, "long live king arthur! we will have no more delay, nor any other king, for so it is god's will; and we will slay whoso resisteth him and arthur;" and wherewithal they kneeled down all at once, and cried for arthur's grace and pardon that they had so long delayed him from his crown. then he full sweetly and majestically pardoned them; and taking in his hand the sword, he offered it upon the high altar of the church. anon was he solemnly knighted with great pomp by the most famous knight there present, and the crown was placed upon his head; and, having taken oath to all the people, lords and commons, to be true king and deal in justice only unto his life's end, he received homage and service from all the barons who held lands and castles from the crown. then he made sir key, high steward of england, and sir badewaine of britain, constable, and sir ulfius, chamberlain: and after this, with all his court and a great retinue of knights and armed men, he journeyed into wales, and was crowned again in the old city of caerleon-upon-usk. meanwhile those knights and barons who had so long delayed him from the crown, met together and went up to the coronation feast at caerleon, as if to do him homage; and there they ate and drank such things as were set before them at the royal banquet, sitting with the others in the great hall. but when after the banquet arthur began, according to the ancient royal custom, to bestow great boons and fiefs on whom he would, they all with one accord rose up, and scornfully refused his gifts, crying that they would take nothing from a beardless boy come of low or unknown birth, but would instead give him good gifts of hard sword-strokes between neck and shoulders. whereat arose a deadly tumult in the hall, and every man there made him ready to fight. but arthur leaped up as a flame of fire against them, and all his knights and barons drawing their swords, rushed after him upon them and began a full sore battle; and presently the king's party prevailed, and drave the rebels from the hall and from the city, closing the gates behind them; and king arthur brake his sword upon them in his eagerness and rage. but amongst them were six kings of great renown and might, who more than all raged against arthur and determined to destroy him, namely, king lot, king nanters, king urien, king carados, king yder, and king anguisant. these six, therefore, joining their armies together, laid close siege to the city of caerleon, wherefrom king arthur had so shamefully driven them. and after fifteen days merlin came suddenly into their camp and asked them what this treason meant. then he declared to them that arthur was no base adventurer, but king uther's son, whom they were bound to serve and honor even though heaven had not vouch-safed the wondrous miracle of the sword. some of the kings, when they heard merlin speak thus, marveled and believed him; but others, as king lot, laughed him and his words to scorn, and mocked him for a conjurer and wizard. but it was agreed with merlin that arthur should come forth and speak with the kings. so he went forth to them to the city gate, and with him the archbishop and merlin, and sir key, sir brastias, and a great company of others. and he spared them not in his speech, but spoke to them as king and chieftain, telling them plainly he would make them all bow to him if he lived, unless they choose to do him homage there and then; and so they parted in great wrath, and each side armed in haste. "what will ye do?" said merlin to the kings; "ye had best hold your hands, for were ye ten times as many ye should not prevail." "shall we be afraid of a dream-reader?" quoth king lot in scorn. with that merlin vanished away and came to king arthur. then arthur said to merlin, "i have need now of a sword that shall chastise these rebels terribly." "come then with me," said merlin, "for hard by there is a sword that i can gain for thee." so they rode out that night till they came to a fair and broad lake, and in the midst of it king arthur saw an arm thrust up, clothed in white samite, and holding a great sword in the hand. "lo! yonder is the sword i spoke of," said merlin. then saw they a damsel floating on the lake in the moonlight. "what damsel is that?" said the king. "the lady of the lake," said merlin; "for upon this lake there is a rock, and on the rock a noble palace, where she abideth, and she will come towards thee presently, when thou shalt ask her courteously for the sword." therewith the damsel came to king arthur, and saluted him, and he saluted her, and said, "lady, what sword is that the arm holdeth above the water? i would that it were mine, for i have no sword." "sir king," said the lady of the lake, "that sword is mine, and if thou wilt give me in return a gift whenever i shall ask it of thee, thou shalt have it." "by my faith," said he, "i will give thee any gift that thou shalt ask." "well," said the damsel, "go into yonder barge, and row thyself unto the sword, and take it and the scabbard with thee, and i will ask my gift of thee when i see my time." so king arthur and merlin alighted, and tied their horses to two trees, and went into the barge; and when they came to the sword that the hand held, king arthur took it by the handle and bore it with him, and the arm and hand went down under the water; and so they came back to land, and rode again to caerleon. on the morrow merlin bade king arthur to set fiercely on the enemy; and in the meanwhile three hundred good knights went over to king arthur from the rebels' side. then at the spring of day, when they had scarce left their tents, he fell on them with might and main, and sir badewaine, sir key, and sir brastias slew on the right and on the left marvelously; and ever in the thickest of the fight king arthur raged like a young lion, and laid on with his sword, and did wondrous deeds of arms, to the joy and admiration of the knights and barons who beheld him. then king lot, king carados, and the king of the hundred knights--who also was with them--going round to the rear, set on king arthur fiercely from behind; but king arthur, turning to his knights, fought ever in the foremost press until his horse was slain beneath him. at that, king lot rode furiously at him, and smote him down; but rising straightway, and being set again on horseback, he drew his sword excalibur that he had gained by merlin from the lady of the lake, which, shining brightly as the light of thirty torches, dazzled the eyes of his enemies. and therewith falling on them afresh with all his knights, he drove them back and slew them in great numbers, and merlin by his arts scattered among them fire and pitchy smoke, so that they broke and fled. then all the common people of caerleon, seeing them give way, rose up with one accord, and rushed at them with clubs and staves, and chased them far and wide, and slew many great knights and lords, and the remainder of them fled and were seen no more. thus won king arthur his first battle and put his enemies to shame. but the six kings, though sorely routed, prepared for a new war, and joining to themselves five others swore together that, whether for weal or woe, they would keep steadfast alliance till they had destroyed king arthur. then, with a host of , men-at-arms on horseback, and , foot, they were soon ready, and sent forth their fore-riders, and drew from the northern country towards king arthur, to the castle of bedgraine. but he by merlin's counsel had sent over sea to king ban of benwick and king bors of gaul, praying them to come and help him in his wars, and promising to help them in return against king claudas, their foe. to which those kings made answer that they would joyfully fulfil his wish, and shortly after came to london with knights, well arrayed for both peace and war, leaving behind them a great army on the other side of the sea till they had consulted with king arthur and his ministers how they might best dispose of it. and merlin being asked for his advice and help, agreed to go himself and fetch it over sea to england, which in one night he did; and brought with him , horsemen and led them northward privately to the forest of bedgraine, and there lodged them in a valley secretly. then, by the counsel of merlin, when they knew which way the eleven kings would ride and sleep, king arthur with kings ban and bors made themselves ready with their army for the fight, having yet but , men, counting the , who had come from gaul. "now shall ye do my advice," said merlin; "i would that king ban and king bors, with all their fellowship of , men, were led to ambush in this wood ere daylight, and stir not therefrom until the battle hath been long waged. and thou, lord arthur, at the spring of day draw forth thine army before the enemy, and dress the battle so that they may at once see all thy host, for they will be the more rash and hardy when they see you have but , men." to this the three knights and the barons heartily consented, and it was done as merlin had devised. so on the morrow when the hosts beheld each other, the host of the north was greatly cheered to find so few led out against them. then gave king arthur the command to sir ulfius and sir brastias to take men-at-arms, and to open battle. they therefore setting fiercely on the enemy slew them on the right hand and the left till it was wonderful to see their slaughter. when the eleven kings beheld so small a band doing such mighty deeds of arms they were ashamed, and charged them fiercely in return. then was sir ulfius' horse slain under him; but he fought well and marvelously on foot against duke eustace and king clarience, who set upon him grievously, till sir brastias, seeing his great peril, pricked towards them swiftly, and so smote the duke through with his spear that horse and man fell down and rolled over. whereat king clarience turned upon sir brastias, and rushing furiously together they each unhorsed the other and fell both to the ground, and there lay a long time stunned, their horses' knees being cut to the bone. then came sir key the seneschal with six companions, and did wondrous well, till the eleven kings went out against them and overthrew sir griflet and sir lucas the butler. and when sir key saw sir griflet unhorsed and on foot, he rode against king nanters hotly and smote him down, and led his horse to griflet and horsed him again; with the same spear did sir key smite down king lot and wounded him full sore. but seeing that, the king of the hundred knights rushed at sir key and overthrew him in return, and took his horse and gave it to king lot. and when sir griflet saw sir key's mischance, he set his spear in rest, and riding at a mighty man-at-arms, he cast him down headlong and caught his horse and led it straightway to sir key. by now the battle was growing perilous and hard, and both sides fought with rage and fury. and sir ulfius and sir brastias were both afoot and in great danger of their death, and foully stained and trampled under horses' feet. then king arthur, putting spurs to his horse, rushed forward like a lion into the midst of all the _mêlèe_, and singling out king cradlemont of north wales, smote him through the left side and overthrew him, and taking his horse by the rein he brought it to sir ulfius in haste and said, "take this horse, mine old friend, for thou hast great need of one, and charge by side of me." and even as he spoke he saw sir ector, sir key's father, smitten to the earth by the king of the hundred knights, and his horse taken to king cradlemont. but when king arthur saw him ride upon sir ector's horse his wrath was very great, and with his sword he smote king cradlemont upon the helm, and shore off the fourth part thereof and of the shield, and drave the sword onward to the horse's neck and slew the horse, and hurled the king upon the ground. and now the battle waxed so great and furious that all the noise and sound thereof rang out by water and by wood, so that kings ban and bors, with all their knights and men-at-arms in ambush, hearing the tumult and the cries, trembled and shook for eagerness, and scarce could stay in secret, but made them ready for the fray and dressed their shields and harness. but when king arthur saw the fury of the enemy, he raged like a mad lion, and stirred and drove his horse now here, now there, to the right hand and to the left and stayed not in his wrath till he had slain full twenty knights. he wounded also king lot so sorely in the shoulder that he left the field, and in great pain and dolor cried out to the other kings, "do ye as i devise, or we shall be destroyed. i, with the king of the hundred knights, king anguisant, king yder, and the duke of cambinet, will take fifteen thousand men and make a circuit, meanwhile that ye do hold the battle with twelve thousand. then coming suddenly we will fall fiercely on them from behind and put them to the rout, but else shall we never stand against them." so lot and four kings departed with their party to one side, and the six other kings dressed their ranks against king arthur and fought long and stoutly. but now kings ban and bors, with all their army fresh and eager, broke from their ambush and met face to face the five kings and their host as they came round behind, and then began a frantic struggle with breaking of spears and clashing of swords and slaying of men and horses. anon king lot, espying in the midst king bors, cried out in great dismay, "our lady now defend us from our death and fearful wounds; our peril groweth great, for yonder cometh one of the worshipfullest kings and best knights in all the world." "who is he?" said the king of the hundred knights. "it is king bors of gaul," replied king lot, "and much i marvel how he may have come with all his host into this land without our knowledge." "aha!" cried king carados, "i will encounter with this king if ye will rescue me when there is need." "ride on," said they. so king carados and all his host rode softly till they came within a bow-shot of king bors, and then both hosts, spurring their horses to their greatest swiftness, rushed at each other. and king bors encountered in the onset with a knight, and struck him through with a spear, so that he fell dead upon the earth; then drawing his sword, he did such mighty feats of arms that all who saw him gazed with wonder. anon king ban came also forth upon the field with all his knights, and added yet more fury, sound, and slaughter, till at length both hosts of the eleven kings began to quake, and drawing all together into one body, they prepared to meet the worst, while a great multitude already fled. then said king lot, "lords, we must take yet other means, or worse loss still awaits us. see ye not what people we have lost in waiting on the footmen, and that it costs ten horsemen to save one of them? therefore it is my counsel to put away our footmen from us, for it is almost night, and king arthur will not stay to slaughter them. so they can save their lives in this great wood hard by. then let us gather into one band all the horsemen that remain, and whoso breaketh rank or leaveth us, let him be straightway slain by him that seeth him, for it is better that we slay a coward than through a coward be all slain. how say ye?" said king lot; "answer me, all ye kings." "it is well said," replied they all. and swearing they would never fail each other, they mended and set right their armor and their shields, and took new spears and set them steadfastly against their thighs, waiting, and so stood still as a clump of trees stands on the plain; and no assaults could shake them, they held so hard together; which when king arthur saw he marveled greatly, and was very wroth. "yet," cried he, "i may not blame them, by my faith, for they do as brave men ought to do, and are the best fighting men and knights of most prowess that i ever saw or heard tell of." and so said also kings ban and bors, and praised them greatly for their noble chivalry. but now came forty noble knights out of king arthur's host, and prayed that he would suffer them to break the enemy. and when they were allowed, they rode forth with their spears upon their thighs, and spurred their horses to their hottest. then the eleven kings, with a party of their knights, rushed with set spears as fast and mightily to meet them; and when they were encountered, all the crash and splinter of their spears and armor rang with a mighty din, and so fierce and bloody was their onset that in all that day there had been no such cruel press, and rage, and smiting. at that same moment rode fiercely into the thickest of the struggle king arthur and kings ban and bors, and slew downright on both hands right and left, until their horses went in blood up to the fetlocks. and while the slaughter and the noise and shouting were at their greatest, suddenly there came down through the battle merlin the wizard, upon a great black horse, and riding to king arthur, he cried out, "alas, my lord! will ye have never done? of sixty thousand have ye left but fifteen thousand men alive. is it not time to stay this slaying? for god is ill pleased with ye that ye have never ended, and yonder kings shall not be altogether overthrown this time. but if ye fall upon them any more, the fortune of this day will turn, and go to them. withdraw, lord, therefore, to thy lodging, and there now take thy rest, for to-day thou hast won a great victory, and overcome the noblest chivalry of all the world. and now for many years those kings shall not disturb thee. therefore, i tell thee, fear them no more, for now they are sore beaten, and have nothing left them but their honor; and why shouldest thou slay them to take that?" then said king arthur, "thou sayest well, and i will take thy counsel." with that he cried out, "ho!" for the battle to cease, and sent forth heralds through the field to stay more fighting. and gathering all the spoil, he gave it not amongst his own host, but to kings ban and bors and all their knights and men-at-arms, that he might treat them with the greater courtesy as strangers. then merlin took his leave of arthur and the two other kings, and went to see his master, blaise, a holy hermit, dwelling in northumberland, who had nourished him through all his youth. and blaise was passing glad to see him, for there was a great love ever between them; and merlin told him how king arthur had sped in the battle, and how it had ended; and told him the names of every king and knight of worship who was there. so blaise wrote down the battle, word for word, as merlin told him; and in the same way ever after, all the battles of king arthur's days merlin caused blaise, his master, to record. iii arthur drives the saxons from his realm anon, thereafter, came word to king arthur that ryence, king of north wales, was making war upon king leodegrance of camelgard; whereat he was passing wroth, for he loved leodegrance well, and hated ryence. so he departed with kings ban and bors and twenty thousand men, and came to camelgard, and rescued leodegrance, and slew ten thousand of ryence's men and put him to flight. then leodegrance made a great festival to the three kings, and treated them with every manner of mirth and pleasure which could be devised. and there had king arthur the first sight of guinevere, daughter of leodegrance, whom in the end he married, as shall be told hereafter. then did kings ban and bors take leave, and went to their own country, where king claudas worked great mischief. and king arthur would have gone with them, but they refused him, saying, "nay, ye shall not at this time, for ye have yet much to do in these lands of your own; and we with the riches we have won here by your gifts shall hire many good knights, and, by the grace of god, withstand the malice of king claudas; and if we have need we will send to ye for succor; and likewise ye, if ye have need, send for us, and we will not tarry, by the faith of our bodies." when the two kings had left, king arthur rode to caerleon, and thither came to him his half-sister belisent, wife to king lot, sent as a messenger, but in truth to espy his power; and with her came a noble retinue, and also her four sons--gowain, gaheris, agravaine, and gareth. but when she saw king arthur and his nobleness, and all the splendor of his knights and service, she forebore to spy upon him as a foe, and told him of her husband's plots against him and his throne. and the king, not knowing that she was his half-sister, made great court to her; and being full of admiration for her beauty, loved her out of measure, and kept her a long season at caerleon. wherefore her husband, king lot, was more than ever king arthur's enemy, and hated him till death with a passing great hatred. at that time king arthur had a marvelous dream, which gave him great disquietness of heart. he dreamed that the whole land was full of many fiery griffins and serpents, which burnt and slew the people everywhere; and then that he himself fought with them, and that they did him mighty injuries, and wounded him nigh to death, but that at last he overcame and slew them all. when he woke, he sat in great heaviness of spirit and pensiveness, thinking what this dream might signify, but by-and-by, when he could by no means satisfy himself what it might mean, to rid himself of all his thoughts of it, he made ready with a great company to ride out hunting. as soon as he was in the forest, the king saw a great hart before him, and spurred his horse, and rode long eagerly after it, and chased until his horse lost breath and fell down dead from under him. then, seeing the hart escaped and his horse dead, he sat down by a fountain, and fell into deep thought again. and as he sat there alone, he thought he heard the noise of hounds, as it were some thirty couple in number, and looking up he saw coming towards him the strangest beast that ever he had seen or heard tell of, which ran towards the fountain and drank of the water. its head was like a serpent's, with a leopard's body and a lion's tail, and it was footed like a stag; and the noise was in its belly, as it were the baying or questing of thirty couple of hounds. while it drank there was no noise within it; but presently, having finished, it departed with a greater sound than ever. the king was amazed at all this; but being greatly wearied, he fell asleep, and was before long waked up by a knight on foot, who said, "knight, full of thought and sleepy, tell me if thou sawest a strange beast pass this way?" "such a one i saw," said king arthur to the knight, "but that is now two miles distant at the least. what would you with that beast?" "sir," said the knight, "i have followed it for a long time, and have killed my horse, and would to heaven i had another to pursue my quest withal." at that moment came a yeoman with another horse for the king, which, when the knight saw, he earnestly prayed to be given him. "for i have followed this quest," said he, "twelve months, and either i shall achieve him or bleed of the best blood of my body." it was king pellinore who at that time followed the questing beast, but neither he nor king arthur knew each other. "sir knight," said king arthur, "leave that quest and suffer me to have it, and i will follow it other twelve months." "ah, fool," said the knight, "thy desire is utterly in vain, for it shall never be achieved but by me, or by my next of kin." therewith he started to the king's horse, and mounted to the saddle, crying out, "gramercy, this horse is mine!" "well," said the king, "thou mayest take my horse by force, and i will not say nay; but till we prove whether thou or i be best on horseback, i shall not rest content." "seek me here," said the knight, "whenever thou wilt, and here by this fountain thou shalt find me;" and so he passed forth on his way. then sat king arthur in a deep fit of study, and bade his yeomen fetch him yet another horse as quickly as they could. and when they left him all alone came merlin, disguised as a child of fourteen years of age, and saluted the king, and asked him why he was so pensive and heavy. "i may well be pensive and heavy," he replied, "for here even now i have seen the strangest sight i ever saw." "that know i well," said merlin, "as well as thyself, and also all thy thoughts; but thou art foolish to take thought, for it will not amend thee. also i know what thou art, and know thy father and thy mother." "that is false," said king arthur; "how shouldst thou know? thy years are not enough." "yea," said merlin, "but i know better than thou how thou wast born, and better than any man living." "i will not believe thee," said king arthur, and was wroth with the child. so merlin departed, and came again in the likeness of an old man of fourscore years of age; and the king was glad at his coming, for he seemed wise and venerable. then said the old man, "why art thou so sad?" "for divers reasons," said king arthur; "for i have seen strange things to-day, and but this moment there was here a child who told me things beyond his years to know." "yea," said the old man, "but he told thee truth, and more he would have told thee hadst thou suffered him. but i will tell thee wherefore thou art sad, for thou hast done a thing of late for which god is displeased with thee, and what it is thou knowest in thy heart, though no man else may know." "what are thou," said king arthur, starting up all pale, "that tellest me these tidings?" "i am merlin," said he, "and i was he in the child's likeness, also." "ah," said king arthur, "thou art a marvelous and right fearful man, and i would ask and tell thee many things this day." as they talked came one with the king's horses, and so, king arthur mounting one, and merlin another, they rode together to caerleon; and merlin prophesied to arthur of his death, and also foretold his own end. and now king arthur, having utterly dispersed and overwhelmed those kings who had so long delayed his coronation, turned all his mind to overthrow the saxon heathens who yet in many places spoiled the land. calling together, therefore, his knights and men-at-arms, he rode with all his hosts to york, where colgrin, the saxon, lay with a great army; and there he fought a mighty battle, long and bloody, and drove him into the city, and besieged him. then baldulph, colgrin's brother, came secretly with six thousand men to assail king arthur and to raise the siege. but king arthur was aware of him, and sent six hundred horsemen and three thousand foot to meet and fall on him instead. this therefore they did, encountering them at midnight, and utterly defeated them, till they fled away for life. but baldulph, full of grief, resolved to share his brother's peril; wherefore he shaved his head and beard, and disguised himself as a jester, and so passed through king arthur's camp, singing and playing on a harp, till by degrees he drew near to the city walls, where presently he made himself known, and was drawn up by ropes into the town. anon, while arthur closely watched the city, came news that full six hundred ships had landed countless swarms of saxons, under cheldric, on the eastern coast. at that he raised the siege, and marched straight to london, and there increased his army, and took counsel with his barons how to drive the saxons from the land for evermore. then with his nephew, hoel, king of the armorican britons, who came with a great force to help him, king arthur, with a mighty multitude of barons, knights, and fighting men, went swiftly up to lincoln, which the saxons lay besieging. and there he fought a passing fierce battle, and made grievous slaughter, killing above six thousand men, till the main body of them turned and fled. but he pursued them hotly into the wood of celidon, where, sheltering themselves among the trees from his arrows, they made a stand, and for a long season bravely defended themselves. anon, he ordered all the trees in that part of the forest to be cut down, leaving no shelter or ambush; and with their trunks and branches made a mighty barricade, which shut them in and hindered their escape. after three days, brought nigh to death by famine, they offered to give up their wealth of gold and silver spoils, and to depart forthwith in their empty ships; moreover, to pay tribute to king arthur when they reached their home, and to leave him hostages till all was paid. this offer, therefore, he accepted, and suffered them to depart. but when they had been a few hours at sea, they repented of their shameful flight, and turned their ships back again, and landing at totnes, ravaged all the land as far as the severn, and, burning and slaying on all sides, bent their steps towards bath. when king arthur heard of their treachery and their return, he burned with anger till his eyes shone like two torches, and then he swore a mighty oath to rest no more until he had utterly destroyed those enemies of god and man, and had rooted them forever out of the land of britain. then marching hotly with his armies on to bath, he cried aloud to them, "since these detestable and impious heathens disdain to keep their faith with me, i, to keep faith with god, to whom i swear to cherish and defend this realm, will now this day avenge on them the blood of all that they have slain in britain!" in like manner after him spoke the archbishop, standing upon a hill, and crying that to-day they should fight both for their country and for paradise, "for whoso," he said, "shall in this holy war be slain, the angels shall forthwith receive him; for death in this cause shall be penance and absolution for all sins." at these words every man in the whole army raged with hatred, and pressed eagerly to rush upon those savages. anon king arthur, dressed in armor shining with gold and jewels, and wearing on his head a helmet with a golden dragon, took a shield painted with the likeness of the blessed mary. then girding on excalibur and taking in his right hand his great lance ron, he placed his men in order and led them out against the enemy, who stood for battle on the slope of badon hill, ranged in the form of a wedge, as their custom was. and they, resisting all the onslaughts of king arthur and his host, made that day a stout defense, and at night lay down upon the hill. but on the next day arthur led his army once again to the attack, and with wounds and slaughter such as no man had ever seen before, he drove the heathen step by step before him, backwards and upwards, till he stood with all his noblest knights upon the summit of the hill. and then men saw him, "red as the rising sun from spur to plume," lift up his sword, and, kneeling, kiss the cross of it; and after, rising to his feet, set might and main with all his fellowship upon the foe, till, as a troop of lions roaring for their prey, they drove them like a scattered herd along the plains, and cut them down till they could cut no more for weariness. that day king arthur by himself alone slew with his sword excalibur four hundred and seventy heathens. colgrin also, and his brother baldulph, were slain. then the king bade cador, duke of cornwall, follow cheldric, the chief leader, and the remnant of his hosts, unto the uttermost. he, therefore, when he had first seized their fleet, and filled it with chosen men, to beat them back when they should fly to it at last, chased them and slew them without mercy so long as he could overtake them. and though they crept with trembling hearts for shelter to the coverts of the woods and dens of mountains, yet even so they found no safety, for cador slew them, even one by one. last of all he caught and slew cheldric himself, and slaughtering a great multitude took hostages for the surrender of the rest. meanwhile, king arthur turned from badon hill, and freed his nephew hoel from the scots and picts, who besieged him in alculd. and when he had defeated them in three sore battles, he drove them before him to a lake, which was one of the most wondrous lakes in all the world, for it was fed by sixty rivers, and had sixty islands, and sixty rocks, and on every island sixty eagles' nests. but king arthur with a great fleet sailed round the rivers and besieged them in the lake for fifteen days, so that many thousands died of hunger. anon the king of ireland came with an army to relieve them; but arthur, turning on him fiercely, routed him, and compelled him to retreat in terror to his land. then he pursued his purpose, which was no less than to destroy the race of picts and scots, who, beyond memory, had been a ceaseless torment to the britons by their barbarous malice. so bitterly, therefore, did he treat them, giving quarter to none, that at length the bishops of that miserable country with the clergy met together, and, bearing all the holy relics, came barefooted to the king to pray his mercy for their people. as soon as they were led before him they fell down upon their knees, and piteously besought him to spare the few survivors of their countrymen, and grant them any corner of the land where they might live in peace. when he thus heard them, and knew that he had now fully punished them, he consented to their prayer, and withdrew his hosts from any further slaughter. then turned he back to his own realm, and came to york for christmas, and there with high solemnity observed that holy tide; and being passing grieved to see the ruin of the churches and houses, which the rage of the pagans had destroyed, he rebuilt them, and restored the city to its ancient happy state. and on a certain day, as the king sat with his barons, there came into the court a squire on horseback, carrying a knight before him wounded to the death, and told the king that hard by in the forest was a knight who had reared up a pavilion by the fountain, "and hath slain my master, a valiant knight, whose name was nirles; wherefore i beseech thee, lord, my master may be buried, and that some good knight may avenge his death." at that stepped forth a squire named griflet, who was very young, being of the same age with king arthur, and besought the king, for all the service he had done, to give him knighthood. "thou art full young and tender of age," said king arthur, "to take so high an order upon thee." "sir," said griflet, "i beseech thee make me a knight;" and merlin also advising the king to grant his request, "well," said arthur, "be it then so," and knighted him forthwith. then said he to him, "since i have granted thee this favor, thou must in turn grant me a gift." "whatsoever thou wilt, my lord," replied sir griflet. "promise me," said king arthur, "by the faith of thy body, that when thou hast jousted with this knight at the fountain, thou wilt return to me straightway, unless he slay thee." "i promise," said sir griflet; and taking his horse in haste, he dressed his shield, and took a spear in his hand and rode full gallop till he came to the fountain, by the side of which he saw a rich pavilion, and a great horse standing well saddled and bridled, and on a tree close by there hung a shield of many colors and a long lance. then sir griflet smote upon the shield with the butt of his spear until he cast it to the ground. at that a knight came out of the pavilion and said, "fair knight, why smote ye down my shield?" "because," said griflet, "i would joust with thee." "it were better not," replied the knight; "for thou art young and but lately made a knight, and thy strength is small compared to mine." "for all that," said sir griflet, "i will joust with ye." "i am full loth," replied the knight; "but if i must i must." then did they wheel their horses far apart, and running them together, the strange knight shivered sir griflet's spear to fragments, and smote him through the shield and the left side, and broke his own spear into sir griflet's body, so that the truncheon stuck there, and sir griflet and his horse fell down. but when the strange knight saw him overthrown, he was sore grieved, and hastily alighted, for he thought that he had slain him. then he unlaced his helm and gave him air, and tended him carefully till he come out of his swoon, and leaving the truncheon of his spear in his body, he set him upon horse, and commended him to god, and said he had a mighty heart, and if he lived would prove a passing good knight. and so sir griflet rode to the court, where, by aid of good physicians, he was healed in time and his life saved. at that same time there came before the king twelve old men, ambassadors from lucius tiberius, emperor of rome, and demanded of arthur tribute unto cæsar for his realm, or else, said they, the emperor would destroy both him and his land. to whom king arthur answered that he owed the emperor no tribute, nor would send him any; but said he, "on a fair field i will pay him his proper tribute--with a sharp spear and sword; and by my father's soul that tribute shall he take from me, whether he will or not." so the ambassadors departed passing wroth, and king arthur was as wroth as they. but on the morrow of sir griflet's hurt, the king commanded to take his horse and armor secretly outside the city walls before sunrise of the next morning, and, rising a long while before dawn, he mounted up and took his shield and spear, and bade his chamberlain tarry till he came again; but he forbore to take excalibur, for he had given it for safety into charge of his sister, queen morgan le fay. and as the king rode at a soft pace he saw suddenly three villains chasing merlin and making to attack and slay him. clapping spurs to his horse, he rushed towards them, and cried out in a terrible voice, "flee, churls, or take your deaths;" but they, as soon as they perceived a knight, fled away with the haste of hares. "o merlin," said the king; "here hadst thou been killed, despite thy many crafts, had i not chanced to pass." "not so," said merlin, "for when i would, i could have saved myself; but thou art nearer to thy death than i, for without special help from heaven thou ridest now towards thy grave." and as they were thus talking, they came to the fountain and the rich pavilion pitched beside it, and saw a knight sitting all armed on a chair in the opening of the tent. "sir knight," said king arthur, "for what cause abidest thou here? to joust with any knight that passeth by? if so, i caution thee to quit that custom." "that custom," said the knight, "have i followed and will follow, let whosoever will say nay, and if any is aggrieved at it, let him who will amend it." "i will amend it," said king arthur. "and i will defend it," answered the knight. then the knight mounted his horse and made himself ready, and charging at each other they met so hard that both their lances splintered into pieces. then king arthur drew his sword, but the knight cried out, "not so; but let us run another tilt together with sharp spears." "i would with a good will," said king arthur; "but i have no more spears." "i have enough of spears," replied the knight, and called a squire, who brought two good new lances. then spurring their horses, they rushed together with all their might, and broke each one his own spear short off in his hand. then the king again put his hand to his sword, but the knight once more cried out, "nay, yet abide awhile; ye are the best jouster that i ever met with; for the love of knighthood, let us joust yet once again." so once again they tilted with their fullest force, and this time king arthur's spear was shivered, but the knight's held whole, and drove so furiously against the king that both his horse and he were hurled to the ground. at that, king arthur was enraged and drew his sword and said, "i will attack thee now, sir knight, on foot, for on horseback i have lost the honor." "i will be on horseback," said the knight. but when he saw him come on foot, he lighted from his horse, thinking it shame to have so great advantage. and then began they a strong battle, with many great strokes and grievous blows, and so hewed with their swords that the fragments of their armor flew about the fields, and both so bled that all the ground around was like a marsh of blood. thus they fought long and mightily, and anon, after brief rest fell to again, and so hurtled together like two wild boars that they both rolled to the ground. at last their swords clashed furiously together, and the knight's sword shivered the king's in two. then said the knight, "now art thou in my power, to save thee or to slay. yield therefore as defeated, and a recreant knight, or thou shalt surely die." "as for death," replied king arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh; but as for yielding me to thee as a recreant because of this poor accident upon my sword, i had far liefer die than be so shamed." so saying, he sprang on the knight, and took him by the middle and threw him down, and tore off his helm. but the knight, being a huge man, wrestled and struggled in a frenzy with the king until he brought him under, and tore off his helm in turn, and would have smitten off his head. at that came merlin and said, "knight, hold thy hand, for if thou slayest yonder knight, thou puttest all this realm to greater loss and damage than ever realm was in; for he is a man of greater worship than thou dreamest of." "who then is he?" cried the knight. then would he have slain him for dread of his wrath, but merlin cast a spell upon the knight, so that he fell suddenly to the earth in a deep sleep. then raising up the king, he took the knight's horse for himself and rode away. "alas," said king arthur, "what hast thou done, merlin? hast thou slain this good knight by thy crafts? there never lived a better knight; i had rather lose my kingdom for a year than have him dead." "be not afraid," said merlin; "he is more whole and sound than thou art, and is but in a sleep, wherefrom in three hours' time he will awake. i told thee what a knight he was, and how near thou was to death. there liveth not a better knight than he in all the world, and hereafter he shall do thee good service. his name is king pellinore, and he shall have two sons, who shall be passing valiant men, and, save one another, shall have no equal in prowess and in purity of life. the one shall be named percival, and the other lamoracke of wales." so they rode on to caerleon, and all the knights grieved greatly when they heard of this adventure, that the king would jeopardize his person thus alone. yet could they not hide their joy at serving under such a noble chief, who adventured his own life as much as did the poorest knight among them all. iv the king's many and great adventures the land of britain being now in peace, and many great and valiant knights therein ready to take part in whatsoever battles or adventures might arise, king arthur resolved to follow all his enemies to their own coasts. anon he fitted out a great fleet, and sailing first to ireland, in one battle he miserably routed the people of the country. the king of ireland also he took prisoner, and forced all earls and barons to pay him homage. having conquered ireland, he went next to iceland and subdued it also, and the winter being then arrived, returned to britain. in the next year he set forth to norway, whence many times the heathen had descended on the british coasts; for he was determined to give so terrible a lesson to those savages as should be told through all their tribes both far and near, and make his name fearful to them. as soon as he was come, riculf, the king, with all the power of that country, met and gave him battle; but, after mighty slaughter, the britons had at length the advantage, and slew riculf and a countless multitude besides. having thus defeated them, they set the cities on fire, dispersed the country people, and pursued the victory till they had reduced all norway, as also dacia, under the dominion of king arthur. now, therefore, having thus chastised those pagans who so long had harassed britain, and put his yoke upon them, he voyaged on to gaul, being steadfastly set upon defeating the roman governor of that province, and so beginning to make good the threats which he had sent the emperor by his ambassadors. so soon as he was landed on the shores of gaul, there came to him a countryman who told him of a fearful giant in the land of brittany, who had slain, murdered, and devoured many people, and had lived for seven years upon young children only, "insomuch," said the man, "that all the children of the country are destroyed; and but the other day he seized upon our duchess, as she rode out with her men, and took her away to his lodging in a cave of a mountain, and though five hundred people followed her, yet could they give her no help or rescue, but left her shrieking and crying lamentably in the giant's hands; and, lord, she is thy cousin hoel's wife, who is of thy near kindred; wherefore, as thou art a rightful king, have pity on this lady; and as thou art a valiant conqueror, avenge us and deliver us." "alas!" said king arthur, "this is a great mischief that ye tell of. i had rather than the best realm i have, that i had rescued that lady ere the giant laid his hand on her; but tell me now, good fellow, canst thou bring me where this giant haunteth?" "yea, lord!" replied the man; "lo, yonder, where thou seest two great fires, there shalt thou find him, and more treasure also than is in all gaul besides." then the king returned to his tent, and, calling sir key and sir bedwin, desired them to get horses ready for himself and them, for that after evensong he would ride a pilgrimage with them alone to st. michael's mount. so in the evening they departed, and rode as fast as they could till they came near the mount, and there alighted; and the king commanded the two knights to await him at the hill foot, while he went up alone. then he ascended the mountain till he came to a great fire. and there he found a sorrowful widow wringing her hands and weeping miserably, sitting by a new-made grave. and saluting her, king arthur prayed her wherefore she made such heavy lamentations. "sir knight," she said, "speak softly, for yonder is a devil, who, if he hear thy voice, will come and straightway slay thee. alas! what dost thou here? fifty such men as thou were powerless to resist him. here lieth dead my lady, duchess of brittany, wife to sir hoel, who was the fairest lady in the world, foully and shamefully slaughtered by that fiend! beware that thou go not too nigh, for he hath overcome and vanquished fifteen kings, and hath made himself a coat of precious stones, embroidered with their beards; but if thou art so hardy, and wilt speak with him, at yonder great fire he is at supper." "well," said king arthur, "i will accomplish mine errand, for all thy fearful words;" and so went forth to the crest of the hill, and saw where the giant sat at supper, gnawing on a limb of a man, and baking his huge frame by the fire, while three damsels turned three spits, whereon were spitted, like larks, twelve young children lately born. when king arthur saw all that, his heart bled for sorrow, and he trembled for rage and indignation; then lifting up his voice he cried aloud--"god, that wieldeth all the world, give thee short life and shameful death, and may the devil have thy soul! why hast thou slain those children and that fair lady! wherefore arise, and prepare thee to perish, thou glutton and fiend, for this day thou shalt die by my hands." then the giant, mad with fury at these words, started up, and seizing a great club, smote the king, and struck his crown from off his head. but king arthur smote him with his sword so mightily in return, that all his blood gushed forth in streams. at that the giant, howling in great anguish, threw away his club of iron, and caught the king in both his arms and strove to crush his ribs together. but king arthur struggled and writhed, and twisted him about so that the giant could not hold him tightly; and as they fiercely wrestled, they both fell, and rolling over one another, tumbled--wrestling, and struggling, and fighting frantically--from rock to rock, till they came to the sea. and as they tore and strove and tumbled, the king ever and anon smote at the giant with his dagger, till his arms stiffened in death around king arthur's body, and groaning horribly, he died. so presently the two knights came and found the king locked fast in the giant's arms, and very faint and weary, and loosed him from their hold. then the king bade sir key to "smite off the giant's head, and set it on the truncheon of a spear, and bear it to sir hoel, and tell him that his enemy is slain; and afterwards let it be fastened to the castle gate, that all the people may behold it. and go ye two up on the mountain and fetch me my shield and sword, and also the great club of iron ye will see there; and as for the treasure, ye shall find there wealth beyond counting, but take as much as ye will, for i have his kirtle and the club, i desire no more." then the knights fetched the club and kirtle, as the king had ordered, and took the treasure to themselves, as much as they could carry, and returned to the army. but when this deed was noised abroad, all the people came in multitudes to thank the king, who told them "to give thanks to god, and to divide the giant's spoils amongst them equally." and king arthur desired sir hoel to build a church upon the mount, and dedicate it to the archangel michael. on the morrow, all the host moved onwards into the country of champagne, and flollo, the roman tribune, retired before them into paris. but while he was preparing to collect more forces from the neighboring countries, king arthur came upon him unawares; and besieged him in the town. and when a month had passed, flollo--full of grief at the starvation of his people, who died in hundreds day by day--sent to king arthur, and desired that they two might fight together; for he was a man of mighty stature and courage, and thought himself sure of the victory. this challenge, king arthur, full weary of the siege, accepted with great joy, and sent back word to flollo that he would meet him whensoever he appointed. and a truce being made on both sides, they met together the next day on the island without the city, where all the people also were gathered to see the issue. and as the king and flollo rode up to the lists, each was so nobly armed and horsed, and sat so mightily upon his saddle, that no man could tell which way the battle would end. when they had saluted one another, and presented themselves against each other with their lances aloft, they put spurs to their horses and began a fierce encounter. but king arthur, carrying his spear more warily, struck it on the upper part of flollo's breast, and flung him from his saddle to the earth. then drawing his sword, he cried to him to rise, and rushed upon him; but flollo, starting up, met him with his spear couched, and pierced the breast of king arthur's horse, and overthrew both horse and man. the britons, when they saw their king upon the ground, could scarcely keep themselves from breaking up the truce and falling on the gauls. but as they were about to burst the barriers, and rush upon the lists, king arthur hastily arose, and, guarding himself with his shield, ran with speed on flollo. and now they renewed the assault with great rage, being sorely bent upon each other's death. at length, flollo, seizing his advantage, gave king arthur a huge stroke upon the helm, which nigh overthrew him, and drew forth his blood in streams. but when king arthur saw his armor and shield all red with blood, he was inflamed with fury, and lifting up excalibur on high, with all his might, he struck straight through the helmet into flollo's head, and smote it into halves; and flollo falling backwards, and tearing up the ground with his spurs, expired. as soon as this news spread, the citizens all ran together, and, opening the gates, surrendered the city to the conqueror. and when he had overrun the whole province with his arms, and reduced it everywhere to subjection, he returned again to britain, and held his court at caerleon, with greater state than ever. anon he invited thereto all the kings, dukes, earls, and barons, who owed him homage, that he might treat them royally, and reconcile them to each other, and to his rule. and never was there a city more fit and pleasant for such festivals. for on one side it was washed by a noble river, so that the kings and princes from the countries beyond sea might conveniently sail up to it; and on the other side, the beauty of the groves and meadows, and the stateliness and magnificence of the royal palaces, with lofty gilded roofs, made it even rival the grandeur of rome. it was famous also for two great and noble churches, whereof one was built in honor of the martyr julius, and adorned with a choir of virgins who had devoted themselves wholly to the service of god; and the other, founded in memory of st. aaron, his companion, maintained a convent of canons, and was the third metropolitan church of britain. besides, there was a college of two hundred philosophers, learned in astronomy, and all the other sciences and arts. in this place, therefore, full of such delights, king arthur held his court, with many jousts and tournaments, and royal huntings, and rested for a season after all his wars. and on a certain day there came into the court a messenger from ryence, king of north wales, bearing this message from his master: that king ryence had discomfited eleven kings, and had compelled each one of them to cut off his beard; that he had trimmed a mantle with these beards, and lacked but one more beard to finish it; and that he therefore now sent for king arthur's beard, which he required of him forthwith, or else he would enter his lands and burn and slay, and never leave them till he had taken by force not his beard only, but his head also. when king arthur heard these words he flushed all scarlet, and rising in great anger said, "well it is for thee that thou speakest another man's words with thy lips, and not thine own. thou hast said thy message, which is the most insolent and villainous that ever man heard sent to any king: now hear my reply. my beard is yet too young to trim that mantle of thy master's with; yet, young although i be, i owe no homage either to him or any man--nor will ever owe. but, young although i be, i will have thy master's homage upon both his knees before this year be past, or else he shall lose his head, by the faith of my body, for this message is the shamefullest i ever heard speak of. i see well thy king hath never yet met with a worshipful man; but tell him that king arthur will have his head or his worship right soon." then the messenger departed, and arthur, looking round upon his knights, demanded of them if any there knew this king ryence. "yea," answered sir noran, "i know him well, and there be few better or stronger knights upon a field than he; and he is passing proud and haughty in his heart; wherefore i doubt not, lord, he will make war on thee with mighty power." "well," said king arthur, "i shall be ready for him, and that shall he find." while the king thus spoke, there came into the hall a damsel having on a mantle richly furred, which she let fall, and showed herself to be girded with a noble sword. the king being surprised at this, said, "damsel, wherefore art thou girt with that sword, for it beseemeth thee not?" "sir," said she, "i will tell thee. this sword wherewith i am thus girt gives me great sorrow and encumbrance, for i may not be delivered from it till i find a knight faithful and pure and true, strong of body and of valiant deeds, without guile or treachery, who shall be able to draw it from its scabbard, which no man else can do. and i have but just now come from the court of king ryence, for there they told me many great and good knights were to be ever found; but he and all his knights have tried to draw it forth in vain--for none of them can move it." "this is a great marvel," said king arthur; "i will myself try to draw forth this sword, not thinking in my heart that i am the best knight, but rather to begin and give example that all may try after me." saying this, he took the sword and pulled at it with all his might, but could not shake or move it. "thou needest not strive so hard, lord," said the damsel, "for whoever may be able to pull it forth shall do so very easily." "thou sayest well," replied the king, remembering how he had himself drawn forth the sword from the stone before st. paul's. "now try ye, all my barons; but beware ye be not stained with shame, or any treachery, or guile." and turning away his face from them, king arthur mused full heavily on sins within his breast he knew of, and which his failure brought to mind right sadly. then all the barons present tried each after other, but could none of them succeed; whereat the damsel greatly wept, and said, "alas, alas! i thought in this court to have found the best knight, without shame or treachery or treason." now by chance there was at that time a poor knight with king arthur, who had been prisoner at his court for half a year or more, charged with slaying unawares a knight who was a cousin of the king's. he was named balin le savage, and had been by the good offices of the barons delivered from prison, for he was of good and valiant address and gentle blood. he being secretly present at the court saw this advantage, and felt his heart rise high within him, and longed to try the sword as did the others; but being poor and poorly clad, he was ashamed to come forward in the press of knights and nobles. but in his heart he felt assured that he could do better--if heaven willed--than any knight among them all. so as the damsel left the king, he called to her and said, "damsel, i pray thee of thy courtesy, suffer me to try the sword as well as all these lords; for though i be but poorly clad, i feel assurance in my heart." the damsel looked at him, saw in him a likely and an honest man, but because of his poor garments could not think him to be any knight of worship, and said, "sir, there is no need to put me to any more pain or labor; why shouldst thou succeed where so many worthy ones have failed?" "ah, fair lady," answered balin, "worthiness and brave deeds are not shown by fair raiment but manhood and truth lie hid within the heart. there be many worshipful knights unknown to all the people." "by my faith, thou sayest truth," replied the damsel; "try therefore, if thou wilt, what thou canst do." so balin took the sword by the girdle and hilt, and drew it lightly out, and looking on its workmanship and brightness, it pleased him greatly. but the king and all the barons marveled at sir balin's fortune, and many knights were envious of him, for, "truly," said the damsel, "this is a passing good knight, and the best man i have ever found, and the most worshipfully free from treason, treachery, or villainy, and many wonders shall he achieve. "now, gentle and courteous knight," continued she, turning to balin, "give me the sword again." "nay," said sir balin, "save it be taken from me by force, i shall preserve this sword for evermore." "thou art not wise," replied the damsel, "to keep it from me; for if thou wilt do so, thou shall slay with it the best friend thou hast, and the sword shall be thine own destruction also." "i will take whatever adventure god may send," said balin; "but the sword will i keep, by the faith of my body." "thou will repent it shortly," said the damsel; "i would take the sword for thy sake rather than for mine, for i am passing grieved and heavy for thy sake, who wilt not believe the peril i foretell thee." with that she departed, making great lamentation. then balin sent for his horse and armor, and took his leave of king arthur, who urged him to stay at his court. "for," said he, "i believe that thou art displeased that i showed thee unkindness; blame me not overmuch, for i was misinformed against thee, and knew not truly what a knight of worship thou art. abide in this court with my good knights, and i will so advance thee that thou shalt be well pleased." "god thank thee, lord," said balin, "for no man can reward thy bounty and thy nobleness; but at this time i must needs depart, praying thee ever to hold me in thy favor." "truly," said king arthur, "i am grieved for thy departure; but tarry not long, and thou shalt be right welcome to me and all my knights when thou returnest, and i will repair my neglect and all that i have done amiss against thee." "god thank thee, lord," again said balin, and made ready to depart. but meanwhile came into the court a lady upon horseback, full richly dressed, and saluted king arthur, and asked him for the gift that he had promised her when she gave him his sword excalibur, "for," said she, "i am the lady of the lake." "ask what thou wilt," said the king, "and thou shalt have it, if i have power to give." "i ask," said she, "the head of that knight who hath just achieved the sword, or else the damsel's head who brought it, or else both; for the knight slew my brother, and the lady caused my father's death." "truly," said king arthur, "i cannot grant thee this desire; it were against my nature and against my name; but ask whatever else thou wilt, and i will do it." "i will demand no other thing," said she. and as she spake came balin, on his way to leave the court, and saw her where she stood, and knew her straightway for his mother's murderess, whom he had sought in vain three years. and when they told him that she had asked king arthur for his head, he went up straight to her and said, "may evil have thee! thou desirest my head, therefore shalt thou lose thine"; and with his sword he lightly smote her head off, in the presence of the king and all the court. "alas, for shame!" cried out king arthur, rising up in wrath; "why hast thou done this, shaming both me and my court? i am beholden greatly to this lady, and under my safe conduct came she here; thy deed is passing shameful; never shall i forgive thy villainy." "lord," cried sir balin, "hear me; this lady was the falsest living, and by her witchcraft hath destroyed many, and caused my mother also to be burnt to death by her false arts and treachery." "what cause soever thou mightest have had," said the king, "thou shouldst have forborne her in my presence. deceive not thyself, thou shalt repent this sin, for such a shame was never brought upon my court; depart now from my face with all the haste thou mayest." then balin took up the head of the lady and carried it to his lodgings, and rode forth with his squire from out the town. then said he, "now must we part; take ye this head and bear it to my friends in northumberland, and tell them how i speed, and that our worst foe is dead; also tell them that i am free from prison, and of the adventure of my sword." "alas!" said the squire, "ye are greatly to blame to have so displeased king arthur." "as for that," said sir balin, "i go now to find king ryence, and destroy him or lose my life; for should i take him prisoner, and lead him to the court, perchance king arthur would forgive me, and become my good and gracious lord." "where shall i meet thee again?" said the squire. "in king arthur's court," said balin. v sir balin fights with his brother, sir balan now there was a knight at the court more envious than the others of sir balin, for he counted himself one of the best knights in britain. his name was lancear; and going to the king, he begged leave to follow after sir balin and avenge the insult he had put upon the court. "do thy best," replied the king, "for i am passing wroth with balin." in the meantime came merlin, and was told of this adventure of the sword and lady of the lake. "now hear me," said he, "when i tell ye that this lady who hath brought the sword is the falsest damsel living." "say not so," they answered, "for she hath a brother a good knight, who slew another knight this damsel loved; so she, to be revenged upon her brother, went to the lady lile, of avilion, and besought her help. then lady lile gave her the sword, and told her that no man should draw it forth but one, a valiant knight and strong, who should avenge her on her brother. this, therefore, was the reason why the damsel came here." "i know it all as well as ye do," answered merlin; "and would to god she had never come hither, for never came she into any company but to do harm; and that good knight who hath achieved the sword shall be himself slain by it, which shall be great harm and loss, for a better knight there liveth not; and he shall do unto my lord the king great honor and service." then sir lancear, having armed himself at all points, mounted, and rode after sir balin, as fast as he could go, and overtaking him, he cried aloud, "abide, sir knight! wait yet awhile, or i shall make thee do so." hearing him cry, sir balin fiercely turned his horse, and said, "fair knight, what wilt thou with me? wilt thou joust?" "yea," said sir lancear, "it is for that i have pursued thee." "peradventure," answered balin, "thou hadst best have stayed at home, for many a man who thinketh himself already victor, endeth by his own downfall. of what court art thou?" "of king arthur's court," cried lancear, "and i am come to revenge the insult thou hast put on it this day." "well," said sir balin, "i see that i must fight thee, and i repent to be obliged to grieve king arthur or his knights; and thy quarrel seemeth full foolish to me, for the damsel that is dead worked endless evils through the land, or else i had been loth as any knight that liveth to have slain a lady." "make thee ready," shouted lancear, "for one of us shall rest forever in this field." but at their first encounter sir lancear's spear flew into splinters from sir balin's shield, and sir balin's lance pierced with such might through sir lancear's shield, that it rove the hauberk also, and passed through the knight's body and the horse's crupper. and sir balin turning fiercely round again, drew out his sword, and knew not that he had already slain him; and then he saw him lie a corpse upon the ground. at that same moment came a damsel riding towards him as fast as her horse could gallop, who, when she saw sir lancear dead, wept and sorrowed out of measure, crying, "o, sir balin, two bodies hast thou slain, and one heart; and two hearts in one body; and two souls also hast thou lost." therewith she took the sword from her dead lover's side--for she was sir lancear's lady-love--and setting the pommel of it on the ground, ran herself through the body with the blade. when sir balin saw her dead he was sorely hurt and grieved in spirit, and repented the death of lancear, which had also caused so fair a lady's death. and being unable to look on their bodies for sorrow, he turned aside into a forest, where presently as he rode, he saw the arms of his brother, sir balan. and when they were met they put off their helms, and embraced each other, kissing, and weeping for joy and pity. then sir balin told sir balan all his late adventures, and that he was on his way to king ryence, who at that time was besieging castle terrabil. "i will be with thee," answered sir balan, "and we will help each other, as brethren ought to do." anon by chance, as they were talking, came king mark, of cornwall, by that way, and when he saw the two dead bodies of sir lancear and his lady lying there, and heard the story of their death, he vowed to build a tomb to them before he left that place. so pitching his pavilion there, he sought through all the country round to find a monument, and found at last a rich and fair one in a church, which he took and raised above the dead knight and his damsel, writing on it--"here lieth lancear, son of the king of ireland, who, at his own request, was slain by balin; and here beside him also lieth his lady colombe, who slew herself with her lover's sword for grief and sorrow." then as sir balin and sir balan rode away, merlin met with them, and said to balin, "thou hast done thyself great harm not to have saved that lady's life who slew herself; and because of it, thou shalt strike the most dolorous stroke that ever man struck, save he that smote our lord. for thou shalt smite the truest and most worshipful of living knights, who shall not be recovered from his wounds for many years, and through that stroke three kingdoms shall be overwhelmed in poverty and misery." "if i believed," said balin, "what thou sayest, i would slay myself to make thee a liar." at that merlin vanished suddenly away; but afterwards he met them in disguise towards night, and told them he could lead them to king ryence, whom they sought. "for this night he is to ride with sixty lances only through a wood hard by." so sir balin and sir balan hid themselves within the wood, and at midnight came out from their ambush among the leaves by the highway, and waited for the king, whom presently they heard approaching with his company. then did they suddenly leap forth and smote at him and overthrew him and laid him on the ground, and turning on his company wounded and slew forty of them, and put the rest to flight. and returning to king ryence they would have slain him there, but he craved mercy, and yielded to their grace, crying, "knights full of prowess, slay me not; for by my life ye may win something--but my death can avail ye nought." "ye say truth," said the two knights, and put him in a horse-litter, and went swiftly through all the night, till at cock-crow they came to king arthur's palace. there they delivered him to the warders and porters, to be brought before the king, with this message--"that he was sent to king arthur by the knight of the two swords" (for so was balin known by name, since his adventure with the damsel) "and by his brother." and so they rode away again ere sunrise. within a month or two thereafter, king arthur being somewhat sick, went forth outside the town, and had his pavilion pitched in a meadow, and there abode, and laid him down on a pallet to sleep, but could get no rest. and as he lay he heard the sound of a great horse, and looking out of the tent door, saw a knight ride by, making great lamentation. "abide, fair sir," said king arthur, "and tell me wherefore thou makest this sorrow." "ye may little amend it," said the knight, and so passed on. presently after sir balin, rode, by chance, past that meadow, and when he saw the king he alighted and came to him on foot, and kneeled and saluted him. "by my head," said king arthur, "ye be welcome, sir balin;" and then he thanked him heartily for revenging him upon king ryence, and for sending him so speedily a prisoner to his castle, and told him how king nero, ryence's brother, had attacked him afterwards to deliver ryence from prison; and how he had defeated him and slain him, and also king lot, of orkney, who was joined with nero, and whom king pellinore had killed in the battle. then when they had thus talked, king arthur told sir balin of the sullen knight that had just passed his tent, and desired him to pursue him and to bring him back. so sir balin rode and overtook the knight in a forest with a damsel, and said, "sir knight, thou must come back with me unto my lord, king arthur, to tell him the cause of thy sorrow, which thou hast refused even now to do." "that will i not," replied the knight, "for it would harm me much, and do him no advantage." "sir," said sir balin, "i pray thee make ready, for thou must needs go with me--or else i must fight with thee and take thee by force." "wilt thou be warrant for safe conduct, if i go with thee?" inquired the knight. "yea, surely," answered balin, "i will die else." so the knight made ready to go with sir balin, and left the damsel in the wood. but as they went, there came one invisible, and smote the knight through the body with a spear. "alas," cried sir herleus (for so was he named), "i am slain under thy guard and conduct, by that traitor knight called garlon, who through magic and witchcraft rideth invisibly. take, therefore, my horse, which is better than thine, and ride to the damsel whom we left, and follow the quest i had in hand, as she will lead thee--and revenge my death when thou best mayest." "that will i do," said sir balin, "by my knighthood, and so i swear to thee." then went sir balin to the damsel, and rode forth with her; she carrying ever with her the truncheon of the spear wherewith sir herleus had been slain. and as they went, a good knight, perin de mountbelgard, joined their company, and vowed to take adventure with them wheresoever they might go. but presently as they passed a hermitage fast by a churchyard, came the knight garlon, again invisible, and smote sir perin through the body with a spear, and slew him as he had slain sir herleus. whereat, sir balin greatly raged, and swore to have sir garlon's life, whenever next he might encounter and behold him in his bodily shape. anon, he and the hermit buried the good knight sir perin, and rode on with the damsel till they came to a great castle, whereinto they were about to enter. but when sir balin had passed through the gateway, the portcullis fell behind him suddenly, leaving the damsel on the outer side, with men around her, drawing their swords as if to slay her. when he saw that, sir balin climbed with eager haste by wall and tower, and leaped into the castle moat, and rushed towards the damsel and her enemies, with his sword drawn, to fight and slay them. but they cried out, "put up thy sword, sir knight, we will not fight thee in this quarrel, for we do nothing but an ancient custom of this castle." then they told him that the lady of the castle was passing sick, and had lain ill for many years, and might never more be cured, unless she had a silver dish full of the blood of a pure maid and a king's daughter. wherefore the custom of the castle was, that never should a damsel pass that way but she must give a dish full of her blood. then sir balin suffered them to bleed the damsel with her own consent, but her blood helped not the lady of the castle. so on the morrow they departed, after right good cheer and rest. then they rode three or four days without adventure, and came at last to the abode of a rich man, who sumptuously lodged and fed them. and while they sat at supper sir balin heard a voice of some one groaning grievously. "what noise is this?" said he. "forsooth," said the host, "i will tell you. i was lately at a tournament, and there i fought a knight who is brother to king pelles, and overthrew him twice, for which he swore to be revenged on me through my best friend, and so he wounded my son, who cannot be recovered till i have that knight's blood, but he rideth through witchcraft always invisibly, and i know not his name." "ah," said sir balin, "but i know him; his name is garlon, and he hath slain two knights, companions of mine own, in the same fashion, and i would rather than all the riches in this realm that i might meet him face to face." "well," said his host, "let me now tell thee that king pelles hath proclaimed in all the country a great festival, to be held at listeniss, in twenty days from now, whereto no knight may come without a lady. at that great feast we might perchance find out this garlon, for many will be there; and if it please thee we will set forth together." so on the morrow they rode all three towards listeniss, and traveled fifteen days, and reached it on the day the feast began. then they alighted and stabled their horses, and went up to the castle, and sir balin's host was denied entrance, having no lady with him. but sir balin was right heartily received, and taken to a chamber, where they unarmed him, and dressed him in rich robes, of any color that he chose, and told him he must lay aside his sword. this, however, he refused, and said, "it is the custom of my country for a knight to keep his sword ever with him; and if i may not keep it here, i will forthwith depart." then they gave him leave to wear his sword. so he went to the great hall, and was set among knights of rank and worship, and his lady before him. soon he found means to ask one who sat near him, "is there not here a knight whose name is garlon?" "yonder he goeth," said his neighbor, "he with that black face; he is the most marvelous knight alive, for he rideth invisibly, and destroyeth whom he will." "ah, well," said balin, drawing a long breath, "is that indeed the man? i have aforetime heard of him." then he mused long within himself, and thought, "if i shall slay him here and now, i shall not escape myself; but if i leave him, peradventure i shall never meet with him again at such advantage; and if he live, how much more harm and mischief will he do!" but while he deeply thought, and cast his eyes from time to time upon sir garlon, that false knight saw that he watched him, and thinking that he could at such a time escape revenge, he came and smote sir balin on the face with the back of his hand, and said, "knight, why dost thou so watch me? be ashamed, and eat thy meat, and do that which thou camest for." "thou sayest well," cried sir balin, rising fiercely; "now will i straightway do that which i came to do, as thou shalt find." with that he whirled his sword aloft and struck him downright on the head, and clove his skull asunder to the shoulder. "give me the truncheon," cried out sir balin to his lady, "wherewith he slew thy knight." and when she gave it him--for she had always carried it about with her, wherever she had gone--he smote him through the body with it, and said, "with that truncheon didst thou treacherously murder a good knight, and now it sticketh in thy felon body." then he called to the father of the wounded son, who had come with him to listeniss, and said, "now take as much blood as thou wilt, to heal thy son withal." but now arose a terrible confusion, and all the knights leaped from the table to slay balin, king pelles himself the foremost, who cried out, "knight, thou hast slain my brother at my board; die, therefore, die, for thou shalt never leave this castle." "slay me, thyself, then," shouted balin. "yea," said the king, "that will i! for no other man shall touch thee, for the love i bear my brother." then king pelles caught in his hand a grim weapon and smote eagerly at balin, but balin put his sword between his head and the king's stroke, and saved himself but lost his sword, which fell down smashed and shivered into pieces by the blow. so being weaponless he ran to the next room to find a sword, and so from room to room, with king pelles after him, he in vain ever eagerly casting his eyes round every place to find some weapon. at last he ran into a chamber wondrous richly decked, where was a bed all dressed with cloth of gold, the richest that could be thought of, and one who lay quite still within the bed; and by the bedside stood a table of pure gold, borne on four silver pillars, and on the table stood a marvelous spear, strangely wrought. when sir balin saw the spear he seized it in his hand, and turned upon king pelles, and smote at him so fiercely and so sore that he dropped swooning to the ground. but at that dolorous and awful stroke the castle rocked and rove throughout, and all the walls fell crashed and breaking to the earth, and balin himself fell also in their midst, struck as it were to stone, and powerless to move a hand or foot. and so three days he lay amidst the ruins, until merlin came and raised him up and brought him a good horse, and bade him ride out of that land as swiftly as he could. "may i not take the damsel with me i brought hither?" said sir balin. "lo! where she lieth dead," said merlin. "ah, little knowest thou, sir balin, what thou hast done; for in this castle and that chamber which thou didst defile, was the blood of our lord christ! and also that most holy cup--the sangreal--wherefrom the wine was drunk at the last supper of our lord. joseph of arimathea brought it to this land, when first he came here to convert and save it. and on that bed of gold it was himself who lay, and the strange spear beside him was the spear wherewith the soldier longus smote our lord, which evermore had dripped with blood. king pelles is the nearest kin to joseph in direct descent, wherefore he held these holy things in trust; but now have they all gone at thy dolorous stroke, no man knoweth whither; and great is the damage to this land, which until now hath been the happiest of all lands, for by that stroke thou hast slain thousands, and by the loss and parting of the sangreal, the safety of this realm is put in peril, and its great happiness is gone for evermore." then balin departed from merlin, struck to his soul with grief and sorrow, and said, "in this world shall we meet never more." so he rode forth through the fair cities and the country, and found the people lying dead on every side. and all the living cried out on him as he passed, "o balin, all this misery hast thou done! for the dolorous stroke thou gavest king pelles, three countries are destroyed, and doubt not but revenge will fall on thee at last!" when he had passed the boundary of those countries, he was somewhat comforted, and rode eight days without adventure. anon he came to a cross, whereon was written in letters of gold, "it is not for a knight alone to ride towards this castle." looking up, he saw a hoary ancient man come towards him, who said, "sir balin le savage, thou passest thy bounds this way; therefore turn back again, it will be best for thee;" and with these words he vanished. then did he hear a horn blow as it were the death-note of some hunted beast. "that blast," said balin, "is blown for me, for i am the prey; though yet i be not dead." but as he spoke he saw a hundred ladies with a great troop of knights come forth to meet him with bright faces and great welcome, who led him to the castle and made a great feast, with dancing and minstrelsy and all manner of joy. then the chief lady of the castle said, "knight with the two swords, thou must encounter and fight with a knight hard by, who dwelleth on an island, for no man may pass this way without encountering him." "it is a grievous custom," answered sir balin. "there is but one knight to defeat," replied the lady. "well," said sir balin, "be it as thou wilt. i am ready and quite willing, and though my horse and my body be full weary, yet is my heart not weary, save of life. and truly i were glad if i might meet my death." "sir," said one standing by, "methinketh your shield is not good; i will lend you a bigger." "i thank thee, sir," said balin, and took the unknown shield and left his own, and so rode forth, and put himself and horse into a boat and came to the island. as soon as he had landed, he saw come riding towards him, a knight dressed all in red, upon a horse trapped in the same color. when the red knight saw sir balin, and the two swords he wore, he thought it must have been his brother (for the red knight was sir balan), but when he saw the strange arms on his shield, he forgot the thought, and came against him fiercely. at the first course they overthrew each other, and both lay swooning on the ground; but sir balin was the most hurt and bruised, for he was weary and spent with traveling. so sir balan rose up first to his feet and drew his sword, and sir balin painfully rose against him and raised his shield. then sir balan smote him through the shield and brake his helmet; and sir balin, in return, smote at him with his fated sword, and had wellnigh slain his brother. and so they fought till their breaths failed. then sir balin, looking up, saw all the castle towers stand full of ladies. so they went again to battle, and wounded each other full sore, and paused, and breathed again, and then again began the fight; and this for many times they did, till all the ground was red with blood. and by now, each had full grievously wounded the other with seven great wounds, the least of which might have destroyed the mightiest giant in the world. but still they rose against each other, although their hauberks now were all unnailed, and they smiting at each other's naked bodies with their sharp swords. at the last, sir balan, the younger brother, withdrew a little space and laid him down. then said sir balin le savage, "what knight art thou? for never before have i found a knight to match me thus." "my name," said he, all faintly, "is balan, brother to the good knight sir balin." "ah, god!" cried balin, "that ever i should see this day!" and therewith fell down backwards in a swoon. then sir balan crept with pain upon his feet and hands, and put his brother's helmet off his head, but could not know him by his face, it was so hewed and bloody. but presently, when sir balin came to, he said, "oh! balan, mine own brother, thou hast slain me, and i thee! all the wide world saw never greater grief!" "alas!" said sir balan, "that i ever saw this day; and through mishap alone i knew thee not, for when i saw thy two swords, if it had not been for thy strange shield, i should have known thee for my brother." "alas!" said balin, "all this sorrow lieth at the door of one unhappy knight within the castle, who made me change my shield. if i might live, i would destroy that castle and its evil customs." "it were well done," said balan, "for since i first came hither i have never been able to depart, for here they made me fight with one who kept this island, whom i slew, and by enchantment i might never quit it more; nor couldst thou, brother, hadst thou slain me, and escaped with thine own life." anon came the lady of the castle, and when she heard their talk, and saw their evil case, she wrung her hands and wept bitterly. so sir balan prayed the lady of her gentleness that, for his true service, she would bury them both together in that place. this she granted, weeping full sore, and said it should be done right solemnly and richly, and in the noblest manner possible. then did they send for a priest, and received the holy sacrament at his hands. and balin said, "write over us upon our tomb, that here two brethren slew each other; then shall never good knight or pilgrim pass this way but he will pray for both our souls." and anon sir balan died, but sir balin died not till the midnight after; and then they both were buried. on the morrow of their death came merlin, and took sir balin's sword and fixed on it a new pommel, and set it in a mighty stone, which then, by magic, he made float upon the water. and so, for many years, it floated to and fro around the island, till it swam down the river to camelot, where young sir galahad achieved it, as shall be told hereafter. vi the marriage of arthur and guinevere and the founding of the round table it befell upon a certain day, that king arthur said to merlin, "my lords and knights do daily pray me now to take a wife; but i will have none without thy counsel, for thou hast ever helped me since i came first to this crown." "it is well," said merlin, "that thou shouldst take a wife, for no man of bounteous and noble nature should live without one; but is there any lady whom thou lovest better than another?" "yea," said king arthur, "i love guinevere, the daughter of king leodegrance, of camelgard, who also holdeth in his house the round table that he had from my father uther; and as i think, that damsel is the gentlest and the fairest lady living." "sir," answered merlin, "as for her beauty, she is one of the fairest that do live; but if ye had not loved her as ye do, i would fain have had ye choose some other who was both fair and good. but where a man's heart is set, he will be loth to leave." this merlin said, knowing the misery that should hereafter happen from this marriage. then king arthur sent word to king leodegrance that he mightily desired to wed his daughter, and how that he had loved her since he saw her first, when with kings ban and bors he rescued leodegrance from king ryence of north wales. when king leodegrance heard the message, he cried out, "these be the best tidings i have heard in all my life--so great and worshipful a prince to seek my daughter for his wife! i would fain give him half my lands with her straightway, but that he needeth none--and better will it please him that i send him the round table of king uther, his father, with a hundred good knights towards the furnishing of it with guests, for he will soon find means to gather more, and make the table full." then king leodegrance delivered his daughter guinevere to the messengers of king arthur, and also the round table with the hundred knights. so they rode royally and freshly, sometimes by water and sometimes by land, towards camelot. and as they rode along in the spring weather, they made full many sports and pastimes. and, in all those sports and games, a young knight lately come to arthur's, court, sir lancelot by name, was passing strong, and won praise from all, being full of grace and hardihood; and guinevere also ever looked on him with joy. and always in the eventide, when the tents were set beside some stream or forest, many minstrels came and sang before the knights and ladies as they sat in the tent-doors, and many knights would tell adventures; and still sir lancelot was foremost, and told the knightliest tales, and sang the goodliest songs, of all the company. and when they came to camelot, king arthur made great joy, and all the city with him; and riding forth with a great retinue he met guinevere and her company, and led her through the streets all filled with people, and in the midst of all their shoutings and the ringing of church bells, to a palace hard by his own. then, in all haste, the king commanded to prepare the marriage and the coronation with the stateliest and most honorable pomp that could be made. and when the day was come, the archbishops led the king to the cathedral, whereto he walked, clad in his royal robes, and having four kings, bearing four golden swords, before him; a choir of passing sweet music going also with him. in another part, was the queen dressed in her richest ornaments, and led by archbishops and bishops to the chapel of the virgins, the four queens also of the four kings last mentioned walked before her, bearing four white doves, according to ancient custom; and after her there followed many damsels, singing and making every sign of joy. and when the two processions were come to the churches, so wondrous was the music and the singing, that all the knights and barons who were there pressed on each other, as in the crowd of battle, to hear and see the most they might. when the king was crowned, he called together all the knights that came with the round table from camelgard, and twenty-eight others, great and valiant men, chosen by merlin out of all the realm, towards making up the full number of the table. then the archbishop of canterbury blessed the seats of all the knights, and when they rose again therefrom to pay their homage to king arthur, there was found upon the back of each knight's seat his name, written in letters of gold. but upon one seat was found written, "this is the siege perilous, wherein if any man shall sit save him whom heaven hath chosen, he shall be devoured by fire." anon came young gawain, the king's nephew, praying to be made a knight, whom the king knighted then and there. soon after came a poor man, leading with him a tall fair lad of eighteen years of age, riding on a lean mare. and falling at the king's feet, the poor man said, "lord, it was told me, that at this time of thy marriage thou wouldst give to any man the gift he asked for, so it were not unreasonable." "that is the truth," replied king arthur, "and i will make it good." "thou sayest graciously and nobly," said the poor man. "lord, i ask nothing else but that thou wilt make my son here a knight." "it is a great thing that thou askest," said the king. "what is thy name?" "aries, the cowherd," answered he. "cometh this prayer from thee or from thy son?" inquired king arthur. "nay, lord, not from myself," said he, "but from him only, for i have thirteen other sons, and all of them will fall to any labor that i put them to. but this one will do no such work for anything that i or my wife may do, but is for ever shooting or fighting, and running to see knights and joustings, and torments me both night and day that he be made a knight." "what is thy name?" said the king to the young man. "my name is tor," said he. then the king, looking at him steadfastly, was well pleased with his face and figure, and with his look of nobleness and strength. "fetch all thy other sons before me," said the king to aries. but when he brought them, none of them resembled tor in size or shape or feature. then the king knighted tor, saying, "be thou to thy life's end a good knight and a true, as i pray god thou mayest be; and if thou provest worthy, and of prowess, one day thou shalt be counted in the round table." then turning to merlin, arthur said, "prophesy now, o merlin, shall sir tor become a worthy knight, or not?" "yea, lord," said merlin, "so he ought to be, for he is the son of that king pellinore whom thou hast met, and proved to be one of the best knights living. he is no cowherd's son." presently after came in king pellinore, and when he saw sir tor he knew him for his son, and was more pleased than words can tell to find him knighted by the king. and pellinore did homage to king arthur, and was gladly and graciously accepted of the king; and then was led by merlin to a high seat at the table round, near to the perilous seat. but sir gawain was full of anger at the honor done king pellinore, and said to his brother gaheris, "he slew our father, king lot, therefore will i slay him." "do it not yet," said he; "wait till i also be a knight, then will i help ye in it: it is best ye suffer him to go at this time, and not trouble this high feast with blood-shed." "as ye will, be it," said sir gawain. then rose the king and spake to all the table round, and charged them to be ever true and noble knights, to do neither outrage nor murder, nor any unjust violence, and always to flee treason; also by no means ever to be cruel, but give mercy unto him that asked for mercy, upon pain of forfeiting the liberty of his court forevermore. moreover, at all times, on pain of death, to give all succor unto ladies and young damsels; and lastly, never to take part in any wrongful quarrel, for reward or payment. and to all this he swore them knight by knight. then he ordained that, every year at pentecost, they should all come before him, wheresoever he might appoint a place, and give account of all their doings and adventures of the past twelve-month. and so, with prayer and blessing, and high words of cheer, he instituted the most noble order of the round table, whereto the best and bravest knights in all the world sought afterwards to find admission. then was the high feast made ready, and the king and queen sat side by side, before the whole assembly; and great and royal was the banquet and the pomp. and as they sat, each man in his place, merlin went round and said, "sit still awhile, for ye shall see a strange and marvelous adventure." so as they sat, there suddenly came running through the hall, a white hart, with a white hound next after him, and thirty couple of black running hounds, making full cry; and the hart made circuit of the table round, and past the other tables; and suddenly the white hound flew upon him and bit him fiercely, and tore out a piece from his haunch. whereat the hart sprang suddenly with a great leap, and overthrew a knight sitting at the table, who rose forthwith, and, taking up the hound, mounted, and rode fast away. but no sooner had he left, than there came in a lady, mounted on a white palfrey, who cried out to the king, "lord, suffer me not to have this injury!--the hound is mine which that knight taketh." and as she spake, a knight rode in all armed, on a great horse, and suddenly took up the lady and rode away with her by force, although she greatly cried and moaned. then the king desired sir gawain, sir tor, and king pellinore to mount and follow this adventure to the uttermost; and told sir gawain to bring back the hart, sir tor the hound and knight, and king pellinore the knight and the lady. so sir gawain rode forth at a swift pace, and with him gaheris, his brother, for a squire. and as they went, they saw two knights fighting on horseback, and when they reached them they divided them and asked the reason of their quarrel. "we fight for a foolish matter," one replied, "for we be brethren; but there came by a white hart this way, chased by many hounds, and thinking it was an adventure for the high feast of king arthur, i would have followed it to have gained worship; whereat my younger brother here declared he was the better knight and would go after it instead, and so we fight to prove which of us be the better knight." "this is a foolish thing," said sir gawain. "fight with all strangers, if ye will, but not brother with brother. take my advice, set on against me, and if ye yield to me, as i shall do my best to make ye, ye shall go to king arthur and yield ye to his grace." "sir knight," replied the brothers, "we are weary, and will do thy wish without encountering thee; but by whom shall we tell the king that we were sent?" "by the knight that followeth the quest of the white hart," said sir gawain. "and now tell me your names, and let us part." "sorlous and brian of the forest," they replied; and so they went their way to the king's court. then sir gawain, still following his quest by the distant baying of the hounds, came to a great river, and saw the hart swimming over and near to the further bank. and as he was about to plunge in and swim after, he saw a knight upon the other side, who cried, "come not over here, sir knight, after that hart, save thou wilt joust with me." "i will not fail for that," said sir gawain; and swam his horse across the stream. anon they got their spears, and ran against each other fiercely; and sir gawain smote the stranger off his horse, and turning, bade him yield. "nay," replied he, "not so; for though ye have the better of me on horseback, i pray thee, valiant knight, alight, and let us match together with our swords on foot." "what is thy name?" quoth gawain. "allardin of the isles," replied the stranger. then they fell on each other; but soon sir gawain struck him through the helm, so deeply and so hard, that all his brains were scattered, and sir allardin fell dead. "ah," said gaheris, "that was a mighty stroke for a young knight!" then did they turn again to follow the white hart, and let slip three couple of greyhounds after him; and at the last they chased him to a castle, and there they overtook and slew him, in the chief courtyard. at that there rushed a knight forth from a chamber, with a drawn sword in his hand, and slew two of the hounds before their eyes, and chased the others from the castle, crying, "oh, my white hart! alas, that thou art dead! for thee my sovereign lady gave to me, and evil have i kept thee; but if i live, thy death shall be dear bought." anon he went within and armed, and came out fiercely, and met sir gawain face to face. "why have ye slain my hounds?" said sir gawain; "they did but after their nature: and ye had better have taken vengeance on me than on the poor dumb beasts." "i will avenge me on thee, also," said the other, "ere thou depart this place." then did they fight with each other savagely and madly, till the blood ran down to their feet. but at last sir gawain had the better, and felled the knight of the castle to the ground. then he cried out for mercy, and yielded to sir gawain, and besought him as he was a knight and gentleman to save his life. "thou shalt die," said sir gawain, "for slaying my hounds." "i will make thee all amends within my power," replied the knight. but sir gawain would have no mercy, and unlaced his helm to strike his head off; and so blind was he with rage, that he saw not where a lady ran out from her chamber and fell down upon his enemy. and making a fierce blow at him, he smote off by mischance the lady's head. "alas!" cried gaheris, "foully and shamefully have ye done--the shame shall never leave ye! why give ye not your mercy unto them that ask it? a knight without mercy is without worship also." then sir gawain was sore amazed at that fair lady's death, and knew not what to do, and said to the fallen knight, "arise, for i will give thee mercy." "nay, nay," said he, "i care not for thy mercy now, for thou hast slain my lady and my love--that of all earthly things i loved the best." "i repent me sorely of it," said sir gawain, "for i meant to have struck thee: but now shalt thou go to king arthur and tell him this adventure, and how thou hast been overcome by the knight that followeth the quest of the white hart." "i care not whether i live or die, or where i go," replied the knight. so sir gawain sent him to the court to camelot, making him bear one dead greyhound before and one behind him on his horse. "tell me thy name before we part," said he. "my name is athmore of the marsh," he answered. then went sir gawain into the castle, and prepared to sleep there and began to unarm; but gaheris upbraided him, saying, "will ye disarm in this strange country? bethink ye, ye must needs have many enemies about." no sooner had he spoken than there came out suddenly four knights, well armed, and assailed them hard, saying to sir gawain, "thou new-made knight, how hast thou shamed thy knighthood! a knight without mercy is dishonored! slayer of fair ladies, shame to thee evermore! doubt not thou shalt thyself have need of mercy ere we leave thee." then were the brothers in great jeopardy, and feared for their lives, for they were but two to four, and weary with traveling; and one of the four knights shot sir gawain with a bolt, and hit him through the arm, so that he could fight no more. but when there was nothing left for them but death, there came four ladies forth and prayed the four knights' mercy for the strangers. so they gave sir gawain and gaheris their lives, and made them yield themselves prisoners. on the morrow, came one of the ladies to sir gawain, and talked with him, saying, "sir knight, what cheer?" "not good," said he. "it is your own default, sir," said the lady, "for ye have done a passing foul deed in slaying that fair damsel yesterday--and ever shall it be great shame to you. but ye be not of king arthur's kin." "yea, truly am i," said he; "my name is gawain, son of king lot of orkney, whom king pellinore slew--and my mother, belisent, is half-sister to the king." when the lady heard that, she went and presently got leave for him to quit the castle; and they gave him the head of the white hart to take with him, because it was in his quest; but made him also carry the dead lady with him--her head hung round his neck and her body lay before him on his horse's neck. so in that fashion he rode back to camelot; and when the king and queen saw him, and heard tell of his adventures, they were heavily displeased, and, by order of the queen, he was put upon his trial before a court of ladies--who judged him to be evermore, for all his life, the knight of ladies' quarrels, and to fight always on their side, and never against any, except he fought for one lady and his adversary for another; also they charged him never to refuse mercy to him that asked it, and swore him to it on the holy gospels. thus ended the adventure of the white hart. meanwhile, sir tor had made him ready, and followed the knight who rode away with the hound. and as he went, there suddenly met him in the road a dwarf, who struck his horse so viciously upon the head with a great staff, that he leaped backwards a spear's length. "wherefore so smitest thou my horse, foul dwarf?" shouted sir tor. "because thou shalt not pass this way," replied the dwarf, "unless thou fight for it with yonder knights in those pavilions," pointing to two tents, where two great spears stood out, and two shields hung upon two trees hard by. "i may not tarry, for i am on a quest i needs must follow," said sir tor. "thou shalt not pass," replied the dwarf, and therewith blew his horn. then rode out quickly at sir tor one armed on horseback, but sir tor was quick as he, and riding at him bore him from his horse, and made him yield. directly after came another still more fiercely, but with a few great strokes and buffets sir tor unhorsed him also, and sent them both to camelot to king arthur. then came the dwarf and begged sir tor to take him in his service, "for," said he, "i will serve no more recreant knights." "take then a horse, and come with me," said tor. "ride ye after the knight with the white hound?" said the dwarf; "i can soon bring ye where he is." so they rode through the forest till they came to two more tents. and sir tor alighting, went into the first, and saw three damsels lie there, sleeping. then went he to the other, and found another lady also sleeping, and at her feet the white hound he sought for, which instantly began to bay and bark so loudly, that the lady woke. but sir tor had seized the hound and given it to the dwarf's charge. "what will ye do, sir knight?" cried out the lady; "will ye take away my hound from me by force?" "yea, lady," said sir tor; "for so i must, having the king's command; and i have followed it from king arthur's court, at camelot, to this place." "well," said the lady, "ye will not go far before ye be ill handled, and will repent ye of the quest." "i shall cheerfully abide whatsoever adventure cometh, by the grace of god," said sir tor; and so mounted his horse and began to ride back on his way. but night coming on, he turned aside to a hermitage that was in the forest, and there abode till the next day, making but sorrowful cheer of such poor food as the hermit had to give him, and hearing a mass devoutly before he left on the morrow. and in the early morning, as he rode forth with the dwarf towards camelot, he heard a knight call loudly after him, "turn, turn! abide, sir knight, and yield me up the hound thou tookest from my lady." at which he turned, and saw a great and strong knight, armed full splendidly, riding down upon him fiercely through a glade of the forest. now sir tor was very ill provided, for he had but an old courser, which was as weak as himself, because of the hermit's scanty fare. he waited, nevertheless, for the strange knight to come, and at the first onset with their spears, each unhorsed the other, and then fell to with their swords like two mad lions. then did they smite through one another's shields and helmets till the fragments flew on all sides, and their blood ran out in streams; but yet they carved and rove through the thick armor of the hauberks, and gave each other great and ghastly wounds. but in the end, sir tor, finding the strange knight faint, doubled his strokes until he beat him to the earth. then did he bid him yield to his mercy. "that will i not," replied abellius, "while my life lasteth and my soul is in my body, unless thou give me first the hound." "i cannot," said sir tor, "and will not, for it was my quest to bring again that hound and thee unto king arthur, or otherwise to slay thee." with that there came a damsel riding on a palfrey, as fast as she could drive, and cried out to sir tor with a loud voice, "i pray thee, for king arthur's love, give me a gift." "ask," said sir tor, "and i will give thee." "gramercy," said the lady, "i ask the head of this false knight abellius, the most outrageous murderer that liveth." "i repent me of the gift i promised," said sir tor. "let him make thee amends for all his trespasses against thee." "he cannot make amends," replied the damsel, "for he hath slain my brother, a far better knight than he, and scorned to give him mercy, though i kneeled for half an hour before him in the mire, to beg it, and though it was but by a chance they fought, and for no former injury or quarrel. i require my gift of thee as a true knight, or else will i shame thee in king arthur's court; for this abellius is the falsest knight alive, and a murderer of many." when abellius heard this, he trembled greatly, and was sore afraid, and yielded to sir tor, and prayed his mercy. "i cannot now, sir knight," said he, "lest i be false to my promise. ye would not take my mercy when i offered it; and now it is too late." therewith he unlaced his helmet, and took it off; but abellius, in dismal fear, struggled to his feet, and fled, until sir tor overtook him, and smote off his head entirely with one blow. "now, sir," said the damsel, "it is near night, i pray ye come and lodge at my castle hard by." "i will, with a good will," said he, for both his horse and he had fared but poorly since they left camelot. so he went to the lady's castle and fared sumptuously, and saw her husband, an old knight, who greatly thanked him for his service, and urged him oftentimes to come again. on the morrow he departed, and reached camelot by noon, where the king and queen rejoiced to see him, and the king made him earl; and merlin prophesied that these adventures were but little to the things he should achieve hereafter. now while sir gawain and sir tor had fulfilled their quests, king pellinore pursued the lady whom the knight had seized away from the wedding-feast. and as he rode through the woods, he saw in a valley a fair young damsel sitting by a well-side, and a wounded knight lying in her arms, and king pellinore saluted her as he passed by. as soon as she perceived him she cried out, "help, help me, knight, for our lord's sake!" but pellinore was far too eager in his quest to stay or turn, although she cried a hundred times to him for help; at which she prayed to heaven he might have such sore need before he died as she had now. and presently thereafter her knight died in her arms; and she, for grief and love, slew herself with his sword. but king pellinore rode on till he met a poor man, and asked him had he seen a knight pass by that way, leading by force a lady with him. "yea, surely," said the man, "and greatly did she moan and cry; but even now another knight is fighting with him to deliver the lady; ride on and thou shalt find them fighting still." at that king pellinore rode swiftly on, and came to where he saw the two knights fighting, hard by where two pavilions stood. and when he looked in one of them, he saw the lady that was his quest, and with her the two squires of the two knights who fought. "fair lady," said he, "ye must come with me unto king arthur's court." "sir knight," said the two squires, "yonder be two knights fighting for this lady; go part them, and get their consent to take her, ere thou touch her." "ye say well," said king pellinore, and rode between the combatants, and asked them why they fought. "sir knight," said the one, "yon lady is my cousin, mine aunt's daughter, whom i met borne away against her will, by this knight here, with whom i therefore fight to free her." "sir knight," replied the other, whose name was hantzlake of wentland, "this lady got i, by my arms and prowess, at king arthur's court to-day." "that is false," said king pellinore; "ye stole the lady suddenly, and fled away with her, before any knight could arm to stay thee. but it is my service to take her back again. neither of ye shall therefore have her; but if ye will fight for her, fight with me now and here." "well," said the knights, "make ready, and we will assail thee with all our might." then sir hantzlake ran king pellinore's horse through with his sword, so that they might be all alike on foot. but king pellinore at that was passing wroth, and ran upon sir hantzlake, with a cry, "keep well thy head!" and gave him such a stroke upon the helm as clove him to the chin, so that he fell dead to the ground. when he saw that, the other knight refused to fight, and kneeling down said, "take my cousin the lady with thee, as thy quest is; but as thou art a true knight, suffer her to come to neither shame nor harm." so the next day king pellinore departed for camelot, and took the lady with him; and as they rode in a valley full of rough stones, the damsel's horse stumbled and threw her, so that her arms were sorely bruised and hurt. and as they rested in the forest for the pain to lessen, night came on, and there they were compelled to make their lodging. a little before midnight they heard the trotting of a horse. "be ye still," said king pellinore, "for now we may hear of some adventure," and therewith he armed her. then he heard two knights meet and salute each other, in the dark; one riding from camelot, the other from the north. "what tidings at camelot?" said one. "by my head," said the other, "i have but just left there, and have espied king arthur's court, and such a fellowship is there as never may be broke or overcome; for wellnigh all the chivalry of the world is there, and all full loyal to the king, and now i ride back homewards to the north to tell our chiefs, that they waste not their strength in wars against him." "as for all that," replied the other knight, "i am but now from the north, and bear with me a remedy, the deadliest poison that ever was heard tell of, and to camelot will i with it; for there we have a friend close to the king, and greatly cherished of him, who hath received gifts from us to poison him, as he hath promised soon to do." "beware," said the first knight, "of merlin, for he knoweth all things, by the devil's craft." "i will not fear for that," replied the other, and so rode on his way. anon king pellinore and the lady passed on again; and when they came to the well at which the lady with the wounded knight had sat, they found both knight and damsel utterly devoured by lions and wild beasts, all save the lady's head. when king pellinore saw that, he wept bitterly, saying, "alas! i might have saved her life had i but tarried a few moments in my quest." "wherefore make so much sorrow now?" said the lady. "i know not," answered he, "but my heart grieveth greatly for this poor lady's death, so fair she was and young." then he required a hermit to bury the remains of the bodies, and bare the lady's head with him to camelot, to the court. when he was arrived, he was sworn to tell the truth of his quest before the king and queen, and when he had entered the queen somewhat upbraided him, saying, "ye were much to blame that ye saved not that lady's life." "madam," said he, "i shall repent it all my life." "ay, king," quoth merlin, who suddenly came in, "and so ye ought to do, for that lady was your daughter, not seen since infancy by thee. and she was on her way to court, with a right good young knight, who would have been her husband, but was slain by treachery of a felon knight, lorraine le savage, as they came; and because thou wouldst not abide and help her, thy best friend shall fail thee in thine hour of greatest need, for such is the penance ordained thee for that deed." then did king pellinore tell merlin secretly of the treason he had heard in the forest, and merlin by his craft so ordered that the knight who bare the poison was himself soon after slain by it, and so king arthur's life was saved. vii the adventure of arthur and sir accolon of gaul being now happily married, king arthur for a season took his pleasure, with great tournaments, and jousts, and huntings. so once upon a time the king and many of his knights rode hunting in a forest, and arthur, king urience, and sir accolon of gaul, followed after a great hart, and being all three well mounted, they chased so fast that they outsped their company, and left them many miles behind; but riding still as rapidly as they could go, at length their horses fell dead under them. then being all three on foot, and seeing the stag not far before them, very weary and nigh spent--"what shall we do," said king arthur, "for we are hard bested?" "let us go on afoot," said king urience, "till we can find some lodging." at that they saw the stag lying upon the bank of a great lake, with a hound springing at his throat, and many other hounds trooping towards him. so, running forward, arthur blew the death-note on his horn, and slew the hart. then lifting up his eyes he saw before him on the lake a barge, all draped down to the water's edge, with silken folds and curtains, which swiftly came towards him, and touched upon the sands; but when he went up close and looked in, he saw no earthly creature. then he cried out to his companions, "sirs, come ye hither, and let us see what there is in this ship." so they all three went in, and found it everywhere throughout furnished, and hung with rich draperies of silk and gold. by this time eventide had come, when suddenly a hundred torches were set up on all sides of the barge, and gave a dazzling light, and at the same time came forth twelve fair damsels, and saluted king arthur by his name, kneeling on their knees, and telling him that he was welcome, and should have their noblest cheer, for which the king thanked them courteously. then did they lead him and his fellows to a splendid chamber, where was a table spread with all the richest furniture, and costliest wines and viands; and there they served them with all kinds of wines and meats, till arthur wondered at the splendor of the feast, declaring he had never in his life supped better, or more royally. after supper they led him to another chamber, than which he had never beheld a richer, where he was left to rest. king urience, also, and sir accolon were each conducted into rooms of like magnificence. and so they all three fell asleep, and being very weary slept deeply all that night. but when the morning broke, king urience found himself in his own house in camelot, he knew not how; and arthur awaking found himself in a dark dungeon, and heard around him nothing but the groans of woeful knights, prisoners like himself. then said king arthur, "who are ye, thus groaning and complaining?" and some one answered him, "alas, we be all prisoners, even twenty good knights, and some of us have lain here seven years--some more--nor seen the light of day for all that time." "for what cause?" said king arthur. "know ye not then yourself?" they answered--"we will soon tell you. the lord of this strong castle is sir damas, and is the falsest and most traitorous knight that liveth; and he hath a younger brother, a good and noble knight, whose name is outzlake. this traitor damas, although passing rich, will give his brother nothing of his wealth, and save what outzlake keepeth to himself by force, he hath no share of the inheritance. he owneth, nevertheless, one fair rich manor, whereupon he liveth, loved of all men far and near. but damas is as altogether hated as his brother is beloved, for he is merciless and cowardly: and now for many years there hath been war between these brothers, and sir outzlake evermore defieth damas to come forth and fight with him, body to body, for the inheritance; and if he be too cowardly, to find some champion knight that will fight for him. and damas hath agreed to find some champion, but never yet hath found a knight to take his evil cause in hand, or wager battle for him. so with a strong band of men-at-arms he lieth ever in ambush, and taketh captive every passing knight who may unwarily go near and bringeth him into this castle, and desireth him either to fight sir outzlake, or to lie for evermore indurance. and thus hath he dealt with all of us, for we all scorned to take up such a cause for such a false foul knight--but rather one by one came here, where many a good knight hath died of hunger and disease. but if one of us would fight, sir damas would deliver all the rest." "god of his mercy send you deliverance," said king arthur, and sat turning in his mind how all these things should end, and how he might himself gain freedom for so many noble hearts. anon there came a damsel to the king, saying, "sir, if thou wilt fight for my lord thou shalt be delivered out of prison, but else nevermore shalt thou escape with thy life." "nay," said king arthur, "that is but a hard choice, yet had i rather fight than die in prison, and if i may deliver not myself alone, but all these others, i will do the battle." "yea," said the damsel, "it shall be even so." "then," said king arthur, "i am ready now, if but i had a horse and armor." "fear not," said she, "that shalt thou have presently, and shalt lack nothing proper for the fight." "have i not seen thee," said the king, "at king arthur's court? for it seemeth that thy face is known to me." "nay," said the damsel, "i was never there; i am sir damas' daughter, and have never been but a day's journey from this castle." but she spoke falsely, for she was one of the damsels of morgan le fay, the great enchantress, who was king arthur's half-sister. when sir damas knew that there had been at length a knight found who would fight for him, he sent for arthur, and finding him a man so tall and strong, and straight of limb, he was passingly well pleased, and made a covenant with him, that he should fight unto the uttermost for his cause, and that all the other knights should be delivered. and when they were sworn to each other on the holy gospels, all those imprisoned knights were straightway led forth and delivered, but abode there one and all to see the battle. in the meanwhile there had happened to sir accolon of gaul a strange adventure; for when he awoke from his deep sleep upon the silken barge, he found himself upon the edge of a deep well, and in instant peril of falling thereinto. whereat, leaping up in great affright, he crossed himself and cried aloud, "may god preserve my lord king arthur and king urience, for those damsels in the ship have betrayed us, and were doubtless devils and no women; and if i may escape this misadventure, i will certainly destroy them wheresoever i may find them." with that there came to him a dwarf with a great mouth, and a flat nose, and saluted him, saying that he came from queen morgan le fay. "and she greeteth you well," said he, "and biddeth you be strong of heart, for to-morrow you shall do battle with a strange knight, and therefore she hath sent you here excalibur, king arthur's sword, and the scabbard likewise. and she desireth you as you do love her to fight this battle to the uttermost, and without any mercy, as you have promised her you would fight when she should require it of you; and she will make a rich queen forever of any damsel that shall bring her that knight's head with whom you are to fight." "well," said sir accolon, "tell you my lady queen morgan, that i shall hold to that i promised her, now that i have this sword--and," said he, "i suppose it was to bring about this battle that she made all these enchantments by her craft." "you have guessed rightly," said the dwarf, and therewithal he left him. then came a knight and lady, and six squires, to sir accolon, and took him to a manor house hard by, and gave him noble cheer; and the house belonged to sir outzlake, the brother of sir damas, for so had morgan le fay contrived with her enchantments. now sir outzlake himself was at that time sorely wounded and disabled, having been pierced through both his thighs by a spear-thrust. when, therefore, sir damas sent down messengers to his brother, bidding him make ready by to-morrow morning, and be in the field to fight with a good knight, for that he had found a champion ready to do battle at all points, sir outzlake was sorely annoyed and distressed, for he knew he had small chance of victory, while yet he was disabled by his wounds; notwithstanding, he determined to take the battle in hand, although he was so weak that he must needs be lifted to his saddle. but when sir accolon of gaul heard this, he sent a message to sir outzlake offering to take the battle in his stead, which cheered sir outzlake mightily, who thanked sir accolon with all his heart, and joyfully accepted him. so, on the morrow, king arthur was armed and well horsed, and asked sir damas, "when shall we go to the field?" "sir," said sir damas, "you shall first hear mass." and when mass was done, there came a squire on a great horse, and asked sir damas if his knight were ready, "for our knight is already in the field." then king arthur mounted on horseback, and there around were all the knights, and barons, and people of the country; and twelve of them were chosen to wait upon the two knights who were about to fight. and as king arthur sat on horseback, there came a damsel from morgan le fay, and brought to him a sword, made like excalibur, and a scabbard also, and said to him, "morgan le fay sendeth you here your sword for her great love's sake." and the king thanked her, and believed it to be as she said; but she traitorously deceived him, for both sword and scabbard were counterfeit, brittle, and false, and the true sword excalibur was in the hands of sir accolon. then, at the sound of a trumpet, the champions set themselves on opposite side of the field, and giving rein and spur to their horses urged them to so great a speed that each smiting the other in the middle of the shield, rolled his opponent to the ground, both horse and man. then starting up immediately, both drew their swords and rushed swiftly together. and so they fell to eagerly, and gave each other many great and mighty strokes. and as they were thus fighting, the damsel vivien, lady of the lake, who loved king arthur, came upon the ground, for she knew by her enchantments how morgan le fay had craftily devised to have king arthur slain by his own sword that day, and therefore came to save his life. and arthur and sir accolon were now grown hot against each other, and spared not strength nor fury in their fierce assaults; but the king's sword gave way continually before sir accolon's, so that at every stroke he was sore wounded, and his blood ran from him so fast that it was a marvel he could stand. when king arthur saw the ground so sore be-blooded, he bethought him in dismay that there was magic treason worked upon him, and that his own true sword was changed, for it seemed to him that the sword in sir accolon's hand was excalibur, for fearfully it drew his blood at every blow, while what he held himself kept no sharp edge, nor fell with any force upon his foe. "now, knight, look to thyself, and keep thee well from me," cried out sir accolon. but king arthur answered not, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as made him stagger and nigh fall upon the ground. then sir accolon withdrew a little, and came on with excalibur on high, and smote king arthur in return with such a mighty stroke as almost felled him; and both being now in hottest wrath, they gave each other grievous and savage blows. but arthur all the time was losing so much blood that scarcely could he keep upon his feet, yet so full was he of knighthood, that knightly he endured the pain, and still sustained himself, though now he was so feeble that he thought himself about to die. sir accolon, as yet, had lost no drop of blood, and being very bold and confident in excalibur, even grew more vigorous and hasty in his assaults. but all men who beheld them said they never saw a knight fight half so well as did king arthur, and all the people were so grieved for him that they besought sir damas and sir outzlake to make up their quarrel and so stay the fight; but they would not. so still the battle raged, till arthur drew a little back for breath and a few moments' rest; but accolon came on after him, following fiercely and crying loud, "it is no time for me to suffer thee to rest," and therewith set upon him. then arthur, full of scorn and rage, lifted up his sword and struck sir accolon upon the helm so mightily that he drove him to his knees; but with the force of that great stroke his brittle, treacherous sword broke short off at the hilt, and fell down in the grass among the blood, leaving the pommel only in his hand. at that, king arthur thought within himself that all was over, and secretly prepared his mind for death, yet kept himself so knightly sheltered by his shield that he lost no ground, and made as though he yet had hope and cheer. then said sir accolon, "sir knight, thou now art overcome and canst endure no longer, seeing thou art weaponless, and hast lost already so much blood. yet am i fully loth to slay thee; yield, then, therefore, to me as recreant." "nay," said king arthur, "that may i not, for i have promised to do battle to the uttermost by the faith of my body while my life lasteth; and i had rather die with honor than live with shame; and if it were possible for me to die an hundred times, i had rather die as often than yield me to thee, for though i lack weapons, i shall lack no worship, and it shall be to thy shame to slay me weaponless." "aha," shouted then sir accolon, "as for the shame, i will not spare; look to thyself, sir knight, for thou art even now but a dead man." therewith he drove at him with pitiless force, and struck him nearly down; but arthur evermore waxing in valor as he waned in blood, pressed on sir accolon with his shield, and hit at him so fiercely with the pommel in his hand, as hurled him three strides backward. this, therefore, so confused sir accolon, that rushing up, all dizzy, to deliver once again a furious blow, even as he struck, excalibur, by vivien's magic, fell from out his hands upon the earth. beholding which, king arthur lightly sprang to it, and grasped it, and forthwith felt it was his own good sword, and said to it, "thou hast been from me all too long, and done me too much damage." then spying the scabbard hanging by sir accolon's side, he sprang and pulled it from him, and cast it away as far as he could throw it; for so long as he had worn it, arthur knew his life would have been kept secure. "oh, knight!" then said the king, "thou hast this day wrought me much damage by this sword, but now art thou come to thy death, for i shall not warrant thee but that thou shalt suffer, ere we part, somewhat of that thou hast made me suffer." and therewithal king arthur flew at him with all his might, and pulled him to the earth, and then struck off his helm, and gave him on the head a fearful buffet, till the blood leaped forth. "now will i slay thee!" cried king arthur; for his heart was hardened, and his body all on fire with fever, till for a moment he forgot his knightly mercy. "slay me thou mayest," said sir accolon, "for thou art the best knight i ever found, and i see well that god is with thee; and i, as thou hast, have promised to fight this battle to the uttermost, and never to be recreant while i live; therefore shall i never yield me with my mouth, and god must do with my body what he will." and as sir accolon spoke, king arthur thought he knew his voice; and parting all his blood-stained hair from out his eyes, and leaning down towards him, saw, indeed, it was his friend and own true knight. then said he--keeping his own visor down--"i pray thee tell me of what country art thou, and what court?" "sir knight," he answered, "i am of king arthur's court, and my name is sir accolon of gaul." then said the king, "oh, sir knight! i pray thee tell me who gave thee this sword? and from whom thou hadst it?" then said sir accolon, "woe worth this sword, for by it i have gotten my death. this sword hath been in my keeping now for almost twelve months, and yesterday queen morgan le fay, wife of king urience, sent it to me by a dwarf, that therewith i might in some way slay her brother, king arthur; for thou must understand that king arthur is the man she hateth most in all the world, being full of envy and jealousy because he is of greater worship and renown than any other of her blood. she loveth me also as much as she doth hate him; and if she might contrive to slay king arthur by her craft and magic, then would she straightway kill her husband also, and make me the king of all this land, and herself my queen, to reign with me; but now," said he, "all that is over, for this day i am come to my death." "it would have been sore treason of thee to destroy thy lord," said arthur. "thou sayest truly," answered he; "but now that i have told thee, and openly confessed to thee all that foul treason whereof i now do bitterly repent, tell me, i pray thee, whence art thou, and of what court?" "o, sir accolon!" said king arthur, "learn that i am myself king arthur." when sir accolon heard this he cried aloud, "alas, my gracious lord! have mercy on me, for i knew thee not." "thou shalt have mercy," said he, "for thou knewest not my person at this time; and though by thine own confession thou art a traitor, yet do i blame thee less, because thou hast been blinded by the false crafts of my sister morgan le fay, whom i have trusted more than all others of my kin, and whom i now shall know well how to punish." then did sir accolon cry loudly, "o, lords, and all good people! this noble knight that i have fought with is the noblest and most worshipful in all the world; for it is king arthur, our liege lord and sovereign king; and full sorely i repent that i have ever lifted lance against him, though in ignorance i did it." then all the people fell down on their knees and prayed the pardon of the king for suffering him to come to such a strait. but he replied, "pardon ye cannot have, for, truly, ye have nothing sinned; but here ye see what ill adventure may ofttimes befall knights-errant, for to my own hurt, and his danger also, i have fought with one of my own knights." then the king commanded sir damas to surrender to his brother the whole manor, sir outzlake only yielding him a palfrey every year; "for," said he scornfully, "it would become thee better to ride on than a courser;" and ordered damas, upon pain of death, never again to touch or to distress knights-errant riding on their adventures; and also to make full compensation and satisfaction to the twenty knights whom he had held in prison. "and if any of them," said the king, "come to my court complaining that he hath not had full satisfaction of thee for his injuries, by my head, thou shalt die therefor." afterwards, king arthur asked sir outzlake to come with him to his court, where he should become a knight of his, and, if his deeds were noble, be advanced to all he might desire. so then he took his leave of all the people and mounted upon horseback, and sir accolon went with him to an abbey hard by, where both their wounds were dressed. but sir accolon died within four days after. and when he was dead, the king sent his body to queen morgan, to camelot, saying that he sent her a present in return for the sword excalibur which she had sent him by the damsel. so, on the morrow, there came a damsel from queen morgan to the king, and brought with her the richest mantle that ever was seen, for it was set as full of precious stones as they could stand against each other, and they were the richest stones that ever the king saw. and the damsel said, "your sister sendeth you this mantle, and prayeth you to take her gift, and in whatsoever thing she hath offended you, she will amend it at your pleasure." to this the king replied not, although the mantle pleased him much. with that came in the lady of the lake, and said, "sir, put not on this mantle till thou hast seen more; and in nowise let it be put upon thee, or any of thy knights, till ye have made the bringer of it first put it on her." "it shall be done as thou dost counsel," said the king. then said he to the damsel that came from his sister, "damsel, i would see this mantle ye have brought me upon yourself." "sir," said she, "it will not beseem me to wear a knight's garment." "by my head," said king arthur, "thou shalt wear it ere it go on any other person's back!" and so they put it on her by force, and forthwith the garment burst into a flame and burned the damsel into cinders. when the king saw that, he hated that false witch morgan le fay with all his heart, and evermore was deadly quarrel between her and arthur to their lives' end. viii arthur is crowned emperor at rome and now again the second time there came ambassadors from lucius tiberius, emperor of rome, demanding, under pain of war, tribute and homage from king arthur, and the restoration of all gaul, which he had conquered from the tribune flollo. when they had delivered their message, the king bade them withdraw while he consulted with his knights and barons what reply to send. then some of the younger knights would have slain the ambassadors, saying that their speech was a rebuke to all who heard the king insulted by it. but when king arthur heard that, he ordered none to touch them upon pain of death; and sending officers, he had them taken to a noble lodging, and there entertained with the best cheer. "and," said he, "let no dainty be spared, for the romans are great lords; and though their message please me not, yet must i remember mine honor." then the lords and knights of the round table were called on to declare their counsel--what should be done upon this matter; and sir cador of cornwall speaking first, said, "sir, this message is the best news i have heard for a long time, for we have been now idle and at rest for many days, and i trust that thou wilt make sharp war upon the romans, wherein, i doubt not, we shall all gain honor." "i believe well," said arthur, "that thou art pleased, sir cador; but that is scarce an answer to the emperor of rome, and his demand doth grieve me sorely, for truly i will never pay him tribute; wherefore, lords, i pray ye counsel me. now, i have understood that belinus and brennius, knights of britain, held the roman empire in their hands for many days, and also constantine, the son of helen, which is open evidence, not only that we owe rome no tribute, but that i, being descended from them, may, of right, myself claim the empire." then said king anguish of scotland, "sir, thou oughtest of right to be above all other kings, for in all christendom is there not thine equal; and i counsel thee never to obey the romans. for when they reigned here they grievously distressed us, and put the land to great and heavy burdens; and here, for my part, i swear to avenge me on them when i may, and will furnish thee with twenty thousand men-at-arms, whom i will pay and keep, and who shall wait on thee with me, when it shall please thee." then the king of little britain rose and promised king arthur thirty thousand men; and likewise many other kings, and dukes, and barons, promised aid--as the lord of west wales thirty thousand men, sir ewaine and his cousin thirty thousand men, and so forth; sir lancelot also, and every other knight of the round table, promised each man a great host. so the king, passing joyful at their courage and good will, thanked them all heartily, and sent for the ambassadors again, to hear his answer. "i will," said he, "that ye now go back straightway unto the emperor your master, and tell him that i give no heed to his words, for i have conquered all my kingdoms by the will of god and by my own right arm, and i am strong enough to keep them, without paying tribute to any earthly creature. but, on the other hand, i claim both tribute and submission from himself, and also claim the sovereignty of all his empire, whereto i am entitled by the right of my own ancestors--sometime kings of this land. and say to him that i will shortly come to rome, and by god's grace will take possession of my empire and subdue all rebels. wherefore, lastly, i command him and all the lords of rome that they forthwith pay me their homage, under pain of my chastisement and wrath." then he commanded his treasurers to give the ambassadors great gifts, and defray all their charges, and appointed sir cador to convey them worshipfully out of the land. so when they returned to rome and came before lucius, he was sore angry at their words, and said, "i thought this arthur would have instantly obeyed my orders and have served me as humbly as any other king; but because of his fortune in gaul, he hath grown insolent." "ah, lord," said one of the ambassadors, "refrain from such vain words, for truly i and all with me were fearful at his royal majesty and angry countenance. i fear me thou hast made a rod for thee more sharp than thou hast counted on. he meaneth to be master of this empire; and is another kind of man than thou supposest, and holdeth the most noble court of all the world. we saw him on the new year's day, served at his table by nine kings, and the noblest company of other princes, lords, and knights that ever was in all the world; and in his person he is the most manly-seeming man that liveth, and looketh like to conquer all the earth." then lucius sent messengers to all the subject countries of rome, and brought together a mighty army, and assembled sixteen kings, and many dukes, princes, lords, and admirals, and a wondrous great multitude of people. fifty giants also, born of fiends, were set around him for a body-guard. with all that host he straightway went from rome, and passed beyond the mountains into gaul, and burned the towns and ravaged all the country of that province, in rage for its submission to king arthur. then he moved on towards little britain. meanwhile, king arthur having held a parliament at york, left the realm in charge of sir badewine and sir constantine, and crossed the sea from sandwich to meet lucius. and so soon as he was landed, he sent sir gawain, sir bors, sir lionel, and sir bedivere to the emperor, commanding him "to move swiftly and in haste out of his land, and, if not, to make himself ready for battle, and not continue ravaging the country and slaying harmless people." anon, those noble knights attired themselves and set forth on horseback to where they saw, in a meadow, many silken tents of divers colors, and the emperor's pavilion in the midst, with a golden eagle set above it. then sir gawain and sir bors rode forward, leaving the other two behind in ambush, and gave king arthur's message. to which the emperor replied, "return, and tell your lord that i am come to conquer him and all his land." at this, sir gawain burned with anger, and cried out, "i had rather than all france that i might fight with thee alone!" "and i also," said sir bors. then a knight named ganius, a near cousin of the emperor, laughed out aloud, and said, "lo! how these britons boast and are full of pride, bragging as though they bare up all the world!" at these words, sir gawain could refrain no longer, but drew forth his sword and with one blow shore off ganius' head; then with sir bors, he turned his horse and rode over waters and through woods, back to the ambush, where sir lionel and sir bedivere were waiting. the romans followed fast behind them till the knights turned and stood, and then sir bors smote the foremost of them through the body with a spear, and slew him on the spot. then came on calibere, a huge pavian, but sir bors overthrew him also. and then the company of sir lionel and sir bedivere brake forth from their ambush and fell on the romans, and slew and hewed them down, and forced them to return and flee, chasing them to their tents. but as they neared the camp, a great host more rushed forth, and turned the battle backwards, and in the turmoil, sir bors and sir berel fell into the romans' hands. when sir gawain saw that, he drew his good sword galotine, and swore to see king arthur's face no more if those two knights were not delivered; and then, with good sir idrus, made so sore an onslaught that the romans fled and left sir bors and sir berel to their friends. so the britons returned in triumph to king arthur, having slain more than ten thousand romans, and lost no man of worship from amongst themselves. when the emperor lucius heard of that discomfiture he arose, with all his army, to crush king arthur, and met him in the vale of soissons. then speaking to all his host, he said, "sirs, i admonish you that this day ye fight and acquit yourselves as men; and remembering how rome is chief of all the earth, and mistress of the universal world, suffer not these barbarous and savage britons to abide our onset." at that, the trumpets blew so loud, that the ground trembled and shook. then did the rival hosts draw near each other with great shoutings; and when they closed, no tongue can tell the fury of their smiting, and the sore struggling, wounds, and slaughter. then king arthur, with his mightiest knights, rode down into the thickest of the fight, and drew excalibur, and slew as lightning slays for swiftness and for force. and in the midmost crowd he met a giant, galapas by name, and struck off both his legs at the knee-joints; then saying, "now art thou a better size to deal with!" smote his head off at a second blow: and the body killed six men in falling down. anon, king arthur spied where lucius fought and worked great deeds of prowess with his own hands. forthwith he rode at him, and each attacked the other passing fiercely; till at the last, lucius struck king arthur with a fearful wound across the face, and arthur, in return, lifting up excalibur on high, drove it with all his force upon the emperor's head, shivering his helmet, crashing his head in halves, and splitting his body to the breast. and when the romans saw their emperor dead, they fled in hosts of thousands; and king arthur and his knights, and all his army followed them, and slew one hundred thousand men. then returning to the field, king arthur rode to the place where lucius lay dead, and round him the kings of egypt and ethiopia, and seventeen other kings, with sixty roman senators, all noble men. all these he ordered to be carefully embalmed with aromatic gums, and laid in leaden coffins, covered with their shields and arms and banners. then calling for three senators who were taken prisoners, he said to them, "as the ransom of your lives, i will that ye take these dead bodies and carry them to rome, and there present them for me, with these letters saying i will myself be shortly there. and i suppose the romans will beware how they again ask tribute of me; for tell them, these dead bodies that i send them are for the tribute they have dared to ask of me; and if they wish for more, when i come i will pay them the rest." so, with that charge, the three senators departed with the dead bodies, and went to rome; the body of the emperor being carried in a chariot blazoned with the arms of the empire, all alone, and the bodies of the kings two and two in chariots following. after the battle, king arthur entered lorraine, brabant, and flanders, and thence, subduing all the countries as he went, passed into germany, and so beyond the mountains into lombardy and tuscany. at length he came before a city which refused to obey him, wherefore he sat down before it to besiege it. and after a long time thus spent, king arthur called sir florence, and told him they began to lack food for his hosts--"and not far from hence," said he, "are great forests full of cattle belonging to my enemies. go then, and bring by force all that thou canst find; and take with thee sir gawain, my nephew, and sir clegis, sir claremond, the captain of cardiff, and a strong band." anon, those knights made ready, and rode over holts and hills, and through forests and woods, till they came to a great meadow full of fair flowers and grass, and there they rested themselves and their horses that night. and at the dawn of the next day, sir gawain took his horse and rode away from his fellows to seek some adventure. soon he saw an armed knight walking his horse by a wood's side, with his shield laced to his shoulder, and no attendant with him save a page, bearing a mighty spear; and on his shield were blazoned three gold griffins. when sir gawain spied him, he put his spear in rest, and riding straight to him, asked who he was. "a tuscan," said he; "and thou mayest prove me when thou wilt, for thou shalt be my prisoner ere we part." then said sir gawain, "thou vauntest thee greatly, and speakest proud words; yet i counsel thee, for all thy boastings, look to thyself the best thou canst." at that they took their spears and ran at each other with all the might they had, and smote each other through their shields into their shoulders; and then drawing swords smote with great strokes, till the fire sprang out of their helms. then was sir gawain enraged, and with his good sword galotine struck his enemy through shield and hauberk, and splintered into piece all the precious stones of it, and made so huge a wound that men might see both lungs and liver. at that the tuscan, groaning loudly, rushed on to sir gawain, and gave him a deep slanting stroke, and made a mighty wound and cut a great vein asunder, so that he bled fast. then he cried out, "bind thy wound quickly up, sir knight, for thou be-bloodest all thy horse and thy fair armor, and all the surgeons of the world shall never staunch thy blood; for so shall it be to whomsoever is hurt with this good sword." then answered sir gawain, "it grieveth me but little, and thy boastful words give me no fear, for thou shalt suffer greater grief and sorrow ere we part; but tell me quickly who can staunch this blood." "that can i do," said the strange knight, "and will, if thou wilt aid and succor me to become christened, and to believe in god, which now i do require of thee upon thy manhood." "i am content," said sir gawain; "and may god help me to grant all thy wishes. but tell me first, what soughtest thou thus here alone, and of what land art thou?" "sir," said the knight, "my name is prianius, and my father is a great prince, who hath rebelled against rome. he is descended from alexander and hector, and of our lineage also were joshua and maccabæus. i am of right the king of alexandria, and africa, and all the outer isles, yet i would believe in the lord thou worshipest, and for thy labor i will give thee treasure enough. i was so proud in heart that i thought none my equal, but now have i encountered with thee, who hast given me my fill of fighting; wherefore, i pray thee, sir knight, tell me of thyself." "i am no knight," said sir gawain; "i have been brought up many years in the wardrobe of the noble prince king arthur, to mind his armor and array." "ah," said prianius, "if his varlets be so keen and fierce, his knights must be passing good! now, for the love of heaven, whether thou be knight or knave, tell me thy name." "by heaven!" said gawain, "now will i tell thee the truth. my name is sir gawain, and i am a knight of the round table." "now am i better pleased," said prianius, "than if thou hadst given me all the province of paris the rich. i had rather have been torn by wild horses than that any varlet should have won such victory over me as thou hast done. but now, sir knight, i warn thee that close by is the duke of lorraine, with sixty thousand good men of war; and we had both best flee at once, for he will find us else, and we be sorely wounded and never likely to recover. and let my page be careful that he blow no horn, for hard by are a hundred knights, my servants; and if they seize thee, no ransom of gold or silver would acquit thee." then sir gawain rode over a river to save himself, and sir prianius after him, and so they both fled till they came to his companions who were in the meadow, where they spent the night. when sir whishard saw sir gawain so hurt, he ran to him weeping, and asked him who it was had wounded him; and sir gawain told him how he had fought with that man--pointing to prianius--who had salves to heal them both. "but i can tell ye other tidings," said he--"that soon we must encounter many enemies, for a great army is close to us in our front." then prianius and sir gawain alighted and let their horses graze while they unarmed, and when they took this armor and their clothing off, the hot blood ran down freshly from their wounds till it was piteous to see. but prianius took from his page a vial filled from the four rivers that flow out of paradise, and anointed both their wounds with a certain balm, and washed them with that water, and within an hour afterwards they were both as sound and whole as ever they had been. then, at the sound of a trumpet, all the knights were assembled to council; and after much talking, prianius said, "cease your words, for i warn you in yonder wood ye shall find knights out of number, who will put out cattle for a decoy to lead you on; and ye are not seven hundred!" "nevertheless," said sir gawain, "let us at once encounter them, and see what they can do; and may the best have the victory." then they saw suddenly an earl named sir ethelwold, and the duke of duchmen come leaping out of ambush of the woods in front, with many a thousand after them, and all rode straight down to the battle. and sir gawain, full of ardor and courage, comforted his knights, saying, "they all are ours." then the seven hundred knights, in one close company, set spurs to their horses and began to gallop, and fiercely met their enemies. and then were men and horses slain and overthrown on every side, and in and out amidst them all, the knights of the round table pressed and thrust, and smote down to the earth all who withstood them, till at length the whole of them turned back and fled. "by heaven!" said sir gawain, "this gladdeneth well my heart, for now behold them as they flee! they are full seventy thousand less in number than they were an hour ago!" thus was the battle quickly ended, and a great host of high lords and knights of lombardy and saracens left dead upon the field. then sir gawain and his company collected a great plenty of cattle, and of gold and silver, and all kind of treasure, and returned to king arthur, where he still kept the siege. "now god be thanked," cried he; "but who is he that standeth yonder by himself, and seemeth not a prisoner?" "sir," said sir gawain, "he is a good man with his weapons, and hath matched me; but cometh hither to be made a christian. had it not been for his warnings, we none of us should have been here this day. i pray thee, therefore, let him be baptized, for there can be few nobler men, or better knights." so prianius was christened, and made a duke and knight of the round table. presently afterwards, they made a last attack upon the city, and entered by the walls on every side; and as the men were rushing to the pillage, came the duchess forth, with many ladies and damsels, and kneeled before king arthur; and besought him to receive their submission. to whom the king made answer, with a noble countenance, "madam, be well assured that none shall harm ye, or your ladies; neither shall any that belong to thee be hurt; but the duke must abide my judgment." then he commanded to stay the assault and took the keys from the duke's eldest son, who brought them kneeling. anon the duke was sent a prisoner to dover for his life, and rents and taxes were assigned for dowry of the duchess and her children. then went he on with all his hosts, winning all towns and castles, and wasting them that refused obedience, till he came to viterbo. from thence he sent to rome, to ask the senators whether they would receive him for their lord and governor. in answer, came out to him all the senate who remained alive, and the cardinals, with a majestic retinue and procession; and laying great treasures at his feet, they prayed him to come in at once to rome, and there be peaceably crowned as emperor. "at this next christmas," said king arthur, "will i be crowned, and hold my round table in your city." anon he entered rome, in mighty pomp and state; and after him came all his hosts, and his knights, and princes, and great lords, arrayed in gold and jewels, such as never were beheld before. and then was he crowned emperor by the pope's hands, with all the highest solemnity that could be made. then after his coronation, he abode in rome for a season, settling his lands and giving kingdoms to his knights and servants, to each one after his deserving, and in such wise fashion that no man among them all complained. also he made many dukes and earls, and loaded all his men-at-arms with riches and great treasures. when all this was done, the lords and knights, and all the men of great estate, came together before him, and said, "noble emperor! by the blessing of eternal god, thy mortal warfare is all finished, and thy conquests all achieved; for now in all the world is none so great and mighty as to dare make war with thee. wherefore we beseech and heartily pray thee of thy noble grace, to turn thee homeward, and give us also leave to see our wives and homes again, for now we have been from them a long season, and all thy journey is completed with great honor and worship." "ye say well," replied he, "and to tempt god is no wisdom; therefore make ready in all haste, and turn we home to england." so king arthur returned with his knights and lords and armies, in great triumph and joy, through all the countries he had conquered, and commanded that no man, upon pain of death, should rob or do any violence by the way. and crossing the sea, he came at length to sandwich, where queen guinevere received him, and made great joy at his arrival. and through all the realm of britain was there such rejoicing as no tongue can tell. ix sir gawain and the maid with the narrow sleeves now it happened that as sir gawain was riding one day through the country he encountered a troop of knights, followed by a squire, who led a spanish charger, and about whose neck was hung a shield. gawain rode up to the squire and said, "tell me, what is yonder troop that hath ridden by?" the squire answered, "sir, meliance of lis, a brave and hardy knight." "is it to him you belong?" sir gawain asked. "nay, sir," said the squire, "my master is teudaves, a knight as worthy as this one." "teudaves i know," said gawain. "whither fareth he? tell me the truth." "he proceedeth to a tourney, sir, which this meliance of lis hath undertaken against thiébault of tintagel. if you will take my advice you will throw yourself into the castle, and take part against the outsiders." "was it not," cried gawain, "in the house of this thiébault that meliance of lis was nurtured?" "aye, sir, so god save me!" said the squire. "his father loved thiébault and trusted him so much that on his death-bed he committed to his care his little son, whom thiébault cherished and protected, until the time came when the youth petitioned his daughter to give him her love; but she replied that she would never do that until he should be made a knight. the youth, being ardent, forthwith had himself knighted, and then returned to the maiden. 'nay,' answered the girl to his renewed suit, 'it shall never be, until in my presence you shall have achieved such feats of arms that i will know my love hath cost you somewhat; for those things which come suddenly are not so sweet as those we earn. if you wish my love, take a tournament of my father. i desire to be certain that my love would be well placed in case i were to grant it.' what she suggested he performed, for love hath such lordship over lovers that those who are under his power would never dare refuse whatever it pleased him to enjoin. and you, sir, sluggish will you be if you do not enter the castle, for they will need you greatly, if you might help them." to which sir gawain answered, "brother, go thy way, it would be wise of you, and let my affairs be." so the squire departed, and gawain rode towards tintagel, for there was no other way by which he could pass. now thiébault had summoned all his kith and kin, who had come, high and low, old and young; but he could not get the permission of his council to joust with his master, for the councillors feared lest he should utterly ruin their castle. therefore the gates had been walled up with stones and mortar, leaving as the only approach one small postern, which had a gate made of copper, as much as a cart could haul. sir gawain rode to the gate, behind the troop that bore his harness, for there was no other road within seven leagues. he found the postern shut and so he turned into a close below the tower, that was fenced with a palisade. he dismounted under an oak and hung up his shields. thither came the folk from the castle, most of them sorry that the tourney had been abandoned; in the fortress was an aged nobleman, great in land and lineage, whose word no one disputed. a long way off the troop had been pointed out to him, and before they rode into the close he went to thiébault, and said, "sir, so god save me, i have seen two companions of king arthur, worthy men, who ride this way; i advise you to tourney with good hope, for we have brave knights, and servants, and archers, who will slay their horses, and i am certain they will joust before this gate; if their pride shall bring them the gain will be ours, and theirs will be the loss and the shame." as a result of this counsel thiébault allowed those who wished to take their arms and sally forth. the knights were right glad, and their squires ran after their horses, while the dames and the damsels climbed high places to see the tourney. below, in the meadow, they saw the arms of sir gawain, and at first thought that there were two knights, because two shields hung from the tree. they cried out that they were fortunate to see two such knights arm. so some thought; but others exclaimed, "fair lord god, this knight hath arms and steeds sufficient for two; if he hath no companion, what will he do with two shields? never was seen a knight who carried two shields at one and the same time. it is very strange if one man means to bear two shields." while the ladies talked and the knights went forth from the castle the elder daughter of thiébault mounted to the tower, she on account of whom the tournament had been undertaken, and with her her younger sister, whose sleeves were so quaint that she was called the maid with the narrow sleeves, for she wore them tight. dames and damsels climbed the tower with them, and the tourney was joined in front of the castle. none bore himself so well as meliance of lis, by the testimony of his fair friend, who said to those about her, "ladies, never did i see a knight who delighted me as doth meliance of lis. is it not a pleasure to see such a knight? that man must have a good seat and be skillful in the use of lance and shield who beareth himself so excellently." thereupon her sister, who sat by her side, said that she saw a fairer knight. the elder maiden was angry and rose to strike her sister. but the ladies interfered, and held her back, so that she missed her blow, which greatly incensed her. in the tournament many lances were shivered, shields pierced, and knights unhorsed; and it went hard with the knight who met meliance of lis, for there was none he did not throw on the hard ground. if his lance broke, he dealt great blows with his sword; and he bore himself better than any other knight on either side, to the great joy of his fair friend, who could not resist exclaiming, "ladies, it is wonderful! behold the best bachelor knight of whom minstrel hath ever sung or whom eyes have ever seen, the fairest and bravest of all those in the tourney!" then the little girl cried, "i see a handsomer one, and 'tis like, a better!" the elder sister grew hot. "ha, girl, you were malapert when you were so unlucky as to blame one whom i praised! take that, to teach you better another time!" so saying, she slapped her sister, so hard that she left on the little girl's cheek the print of her five fingers. but the ladies who sat near scolded her and took her away. after that they fell to talking of sir gawain. one of the damsels said, "the knight beneath yonder tree, why doth he delay to take arms?" a second damsel, who was ruder, exclaimed, "he hath sworn to keep the peace." and a third added, "he is a merchant. don't tell me that he desireth to joust; he bringeth horses to market." "he is a money-changer," said a fourth. "the goods he hath he meaneth to sell to poor bachelors. trust me, he hath money or raiment in those chests." "you have wicked tongues!" cried the little girl. "and you lie! do you think a merchant would bear such huge lances? you tire me to death, talking such nonsense! by the faith that i owe the holy spirit, he seemeth to me a knight rather than a merchant or a money-changer. he is a knight, and he looketh like one!" the ladies all cried with one voice, "fair sweet friend, if he looketh so, it doth not follow that he is so. he putteth it on because he wisheth to cheat the tariff. but in spite of all his cleverness he is a fool, for he will be taken up and hung for a cheat." now gawain heard all that the ladies said about him, and he was ashamed and annoyed. but he thought, and thought rightly, that he lay under an accusation of treason, and that it was his duty to keep his pledge or forever disgrace himself and his line. it was for this reason that he took no part in the tourney, lest, if he fought, he should be wounded or taken prisoner. meliance of lis called for great lances, to strike harder blows. until night fell the tourney continued before the gate; the man who took any booty carried it to some place where he thought it would be safe. then the ladies saw a squire, tall and strong, who held a piece of a lance and bore on his neck a steel cap. one of the ladies, who was foolish, called to him, saying, "sir squire, so god help me, it is foolish of you to make prize of that tester, those arms and croup-piece. if you do a squire's duty you deserve a squire's wage. below, in yonder meadow, is a man who hath riches he cannot defend. unwise is he who misseth his gain while he hath the power to take it. he seemeth the most debonair of knights, and yet he would not stir if one plucked his beard. if you are wise, take the armor and the treasure, none will hinder you." the squire went into the meadow and struck one of gawain's horses, crying, "vassal, are you sick that all day long you gape here and have done nothing, neither pierced shield nor shivered lance?" sir gawain answered, "pray, what is it to you why i tarry? you shall know, but not now. get you gone about your business." the squire withdrew, for gawain was not the type of man to whom he would dare say anything unpleasant. the tourney ended, after many knights had been killed and many horses captured. the outsiders had had the best, and the people of the castle gained by the intermission. at parting they all agreed that on the morrow with songs they would meet again and continue the encounter. so for that night they separated and those who had sallied forth returned to the castle, followed by sir gawain. at the gate he met the nobleman who had advised his lord to engage in the tourney. this man accosted him pleasantly, and said, "fair sir, in this castle your hostel is ready. if it pleaseth you, remain here, for if you should go on it would be long before you arrived at a lodging; therefore i urge you to stay." "i will tarry, your mercy!" said gawain. "i have heard worse words." the man led the guest to his house, talking of this and that, and asked him why on that day he had not borne arms. sir gawain explained how he had been accused of treason and was bound to be on his guard against prison and wounds until he could free himself from the reproach that was cast upon him, for it would be to the dishonor of himself and his friends if he should fail to appear at the time appointed. the nobleman praised him, and said that if this was the reason he had done right. with that he led gawain to his house, where they dismounted. the people of the castle blamed him, wondering how his lord would take it; while the elder daughter of thiébault did her best to make trouble for gawain, on account of her sister, with whom she was angry. "sir," she said to her father, "on this day you have suffered no loss, but made a gain, greater than you think; you have only to go and take it. the man who hath brought it will not dare to defend it, for he is wily. lances and shields he bringeth, with palfreys and chargers, and maketh himself resemble a knight to cheat the customs, so that he may pass free when he cometh to sell his wares. render him his deserts. he is with garin, the son of bertan, who hath taken him to lodge at his house. i just saw him pass." thiébault took his horse, for he himself wished to go there. the little girl, who saw him leave, went out secretly by a back gate and straight down the hill to the house of garin, who had two fair daughters. when these saw their little lady they should have been glad, and glad they were, each took her by a hand and led her into the house, kissing her eyes and lips. in the meantime garin and his son herman had left the house and were going up to the castle to speak to their lord. midway there they met thiébault and saluted him. he asked whither garin was going and said he had intended to pay him a visit. "by my faith," said the nobleman, "that will not displease me, and at my house you shall see the fairest of knights." "it is even he whom i seek," said thiébault, "to arrest him. he is a merchant who selleth horses and pretendeth to be a knight." "alas," said garin, "'tis a churlish speech i hear you make! i am your man and you are my master, but on the spot i renounce your homage, and in the name of all my line now defy you, rather than suffer you to disgrace my house." "indeed," answered thiébault, "i have no wish to do any such thing. neither you nor your house shall ever receive aught but honor from me; not but what i have been counseled so to proceed." "your great mercy!" exclaimed the nobleman. "it will be my honor if you will visit my guest." so side by side they went on until they reached the house. when sir gawain saw them, he rose out of courtesy, and said, "welcome!" the two saluted him and took their seats beside him. then the nobleman, who was the lord of that country, asked why he had taken no part in the tourney, and gawain narrated how a knight had accused him of treason and how he was on his way to defend himself in a royal court. "doubtless," answered the lord, "that is sufficient excuse. but where is the battle to be held?" "sir, before the king of cavalon, whither i am journeying." "and i," said the nobleman, "will guide you. since you must needs pass through a poor country, i will provide you with food and packbeasts to carry it." gawain answered that he had no need to accept anything, for if it could be bought he would have food and lodging wherever he went. with these words thiébault took leave. as he departed, from the opposite direction he saw come his little daughter, who embraced gawain's leg, and said, "fair sir, listen! i have come to complain of my sister, who hath beaten me. so please you, do me justice!" gawain made no answer, for he did not know what she meant. he put his hand on her head, while the girl pulled him, saying, "to you, fair sir, i complain of my sister. i do not love her, since to-day she hath done me great shame for your sake." "fair one, what have i to do with that? how can i do you justice against your sister?" thiébault, who had taken leave, heard his child's entreaty, and said, "girl, who bade you come here and complain to this knight?" gawain asked, "fair sweet sir, is this maid your daughter?" "aye; but never mind what she says. a girl is a silly creature." "certes," said gawain, "i should be churlish if i did not do what she desires. tell me, my sweet child and fair, in what manner i can justify you against your sister." "if it pleaseth you, for love of me, bear arms in the tourney." "tell me, dear friend," said gawain, "have you ever before made petition to any knight?" "no, sir." "never mind her," exclaimed her father. "pay no heed to her folly." sir gawain answered, "sir, so aid me the lord god, for so little a girl, she hath spoken very well, and i will not refuse her. to-morrow, if she wisheth, i will be her knight." "your mercy, fair sweet sir!" cried the child, who was overjoyed, and bowed down to his feet. without more words they parted. thiébault carried his daughter back on the neck of his palfrey. as they rode up the hill be asked her what the quarrel had been about, and she told him the story from beginning to end, saying, "sir, i was vexed with my sister, who declared that meliance of lis was the best of all the knights; and i, who had seen this knight in the meadow, could not help saying that i had seen a fairer, whereupon my sister called me a silly girl and beat me. fie on me, if i take it from her! i would cut off both my braids close to my head, which would be a great loss, if to-morrow in the tourney this knight would conquer meliance of lis, and put an end to the fuss of madam, my sister! she talked so much that she tired all the ladies; but a little rain will hush a great wind." "fair child," said her father, "i command and allow you, in courtesy, to send him some love-token, a sleeve or a wimple." the child, who was simple, answered, "with pleasure since you bid me. but my sleeves are so small, i should not like to send them. most likely he would not care for them." "daughter, say no more," said thiébault. "i will think about it. i am very glad." so saying, he took her in his arms, and had great joy of embracing and kissing her, until he came in front of his palace. but when his elder daughter saw him approach, with the child before him, she was vexed, and exclaimed, "sir, whence cometh my sister, the maid with the narrow sleeves? she is full of her tricks; she hath been quick about it; where did you find her?" "and you," he answered, "what is it to you? hush, for she is better than you are. you pulled her hair and beat her, which grieveth me. you acted rudely; you were discourteous." when she heard her father's rebuke, the maid was greatly abashed. thiébault had brought from his chests a piece of red samite, and he bade his people cut out and make a sleeve, wide and long. then he called his daughter and said, "child, to-morrow rise betimes and visit the knight before he leaveth his hostel. for love's sake you will give him this new sleeve, which he will wear in the tourney when he goeth thither." the girl answered that so soon as ever she saw the clear dawn she would dress herself and go. with that her father went his way, while she, in great glee, charged her companions that they should not let her oversleep but should wake her when day broke, if they would have her love them. they did as she wished, and when it dawned caused her to wake and dress. all alone she went to the house where sir gawain lodged, but, early though it was, the knights had risen and gone to the monastery to hear mass sung. she waited until they had offered long orisons and listened to the service, as much as was right. when they returned the child rose to greet sir gawain, and cried, "sir, on this day may god save and honor you! for love of me, wear the sleeve which i carry in my hand." "with pleasure," he answered; "friend, your mercy!" after that the knights were not slow to take arms, and came pouring out of the town, while the damsels again went up to the walls and the dames of the castle saw the troops of brave and hardy knights approach. they rode with loose rein, and in front was meliance of lis, who went so fast that he left the rest in the rear, two rods and more. when his maiden saw her friend she could not keep quiet, but cried, "ladies, yonder comes the man who hath the lordship of chivalry!" as swiftly as his horse would carry him sir gawain charged meliance of lis, who did not evade the blow, but met it boldly, and shivered his lance. on his part sir gawain smote so hard that he grieved meliance, whom he flung on the field; the steed he grasped by the rein and gave to a varlet, bidding him take it to the lady on whose account he had entered the tourney, and say that his master had sent her the first spoil he had made that day. the youth took the charger, saddled as it was, and led it towards the girl, who was sitting at the window of the tower, whence she had watched the joust, and when she saw the encounter she cried to her sister, "sister, there lies meliance of lis, whom you praised so highly! a wise man ought to give praise where it is due. you see, i was right yesterday when i said i saw a better knight." thus she teased her sister, who grew angry, and cried, "child, hold your tongue! if you say another word, i will slap you so that you will not have a foot to stand on!" "oh, sister," answered the little girl, "remember god! you ought not to beat me because i told you the truth. i saw him tumble as well as you; i think he will not be able to get up. be as cross as you please, i must say that there is not a lady here who did not see him fall flat on the ground." her sister would have struck her, had she been able, but the ladies around would not allow it. with that came the squire, who held the rein in his right hand. he saw the girl sitting at the window and presented the steed. she thanked him a hundred times, and bade the steed be taken in charge. the squire returned to tell his master, who seemed the lord of the tournament, for there was no knight so gallant that he did not cast from the saddle, if he reached him with the lance. on that day he captured four steeds. the first he sent to the little girl, the second to the wife of the nobleman who had been so kind, and the third and fourth to his own daughters. the tourney was over and the knights entered the city. on both sides the honor belonged to sir gawain. it was not yet noon when he returned from the encounter; the city was full of knights, who ran after him, asking who he was and of what land. at the gate of his hostel he was met by the damsel, who did naught but grasp his stirrup, salute him, and cry, "a thousand mercies, fair sweet sir!" he answered frankly, "friend, before i am recreant to your service, may i be aged and bald! i shall never be so remote, but a message will bring me. if i know your need, i shall come at the first summons, whatever business be mine!" while they talked her father came and wished sir gawain to stay with him for that night; but first he begged, that if his guest pleased, he would tell his name. sir gawain answered, "sir, i am called gawain. my name was never concealed, nor have i ever told it before it hath been asked." when thiébault knew that the knight was sir gawain his heart was full of joy, and he exclaimed, "sir, be pleased to lodge with me, and accept my service. hitherto i have done you little worship, and never did i set eyes on a knight whom so much i longed to honor." in spite of urging, sir gawain refused to stay. the little girl, who was good and clever, clasped his foot and kissed it, commending him to god. sir gawain asked why she had done that, and the girl replied that she had kissed his foot in order that he should remember her wherever he went. he answered, "doubt it not, fair sweet friend! i shall never forget you, after i have parted hence." with that sir gawain took leave of his host and the others, who one and all commended him to god. that night he slept in an abbey, and had all that was necessary. the champions of the round table x the adventures of sir lancelot then, at the following pentecost, was held a feast of the round table at caerleon, with high splendor; and all the knights thereof resorted to the court, and held many games and jousts. and therein sir lancelot increased in fame and worship above all men, for he overthrew all comers, and never was unhorsed or worsted, save by treason and enchantment. when queen guinevere had seen his wondrous feats, she held him in great favor, and smiled more on him than on any other knight. and ever since he first had gone to bring her to king arthur, had lancelot thought on her as fairest of all ladies, and done his best to win her grace. so the queen often sent for him, and bade him tell of his birth and strange adventures: how he was only son of great king ban of brittany, and how, one night, his father, with his mother helen and himself, fled from his burning castle; how his father, groaning deeply, fell to the ground and died of grief and wounds, and how his mother, running to her husband, left himself alone; how, as he thus lay wailing, came the lady of the lake, and took him in her arms and went with him into the midst of the waters, where, with his cousins lionel and bors, he had been cherished all his childhood until he came to king arthur's court; and how this was the reason why men called him lancelot du lake. anon it was ordained by king arthur, that in every year at pentecost there should be held a festival of all the knights of the round table at caerleon, or such other place as he should choose. and at those festivals should be told publicly the most famous adventures of any knight during the past year. so, when sir lancelot saw queen guinevere rejoiced to hear his wanderings and adventures, he resolved to set forth yet again, and win more worship still, that he might more increase her favor. then he bade his cousin sir lionel make ready, "for," said he, "we two will seek adventure." so they mounted their horses--armed at all points--and rode into a vast forest; and when they had passed through it, they came to a great plain, and the weather being very hot about noontide, sir lancelot greatly longed to sleep. then sir lionel espied a great apple-tree standing by a hedge, and said, "brother, yonder is a fair shadow where we may rest ourselves and horses." "i am full glad of it," said sir lancelot, "for all these seven years i have not been so sleepy." so they alighted there, and tied their horses up to sundry trees; and sir lionel waked and watched while sir lancelot fell asleep, and slept passing fast. in the meanwhile came three knights, riding as fast flying as ever they could ride, and after them followed a single knight; but when sir lionel looked at him, he thought he had never seen so great and strong a man, or so well furnished and appareled. anon he saw him overtake the last of those who fled, and smite him to the ground; then came he to the second, and smote him such a stroke that horse and man went to the earth; then rode he to the third, likewise, and struck him off his horse more than a spear's length. with that he lighted from his horse, and bound all three knights fast with the reins of their own bridles. when sir lionel saw this he thought the time was come to prove himself against him, so quietly and cautiously, lest he should wake sir lancelot, he took his horse and mounted and rode after him. presently overtaking him, he cried aloud to him to turn, which instantly he did, and smote sir lionel so hard that horse and man went down forthwith. then took he up sir lionel, and threw him bound over his own horse's back; and so he served the three other knights, and rode them away to his own castle. there they were disarmed, stripped naked, and beaten with thorns, and afterwards thrust into a deep prison, where many more knights, also, made great moans and lamentations, saying, "alas, alas! there is no man can help us but sir lancelot, for no other knight can match this tyrant turquine, our conqueror." but all this while, sir lancelot lay sleeping soundly under the apple-tree. and, as it chanced, there passed that way four queens, of high estate, riding upon four white mules, under four canopies of green silk borne on spears, to keep them from the sun. as they rode thus, they heard a great horse grimly neigh, and, turning them about, soon saw a sleeping knight that lay all armed under an apple-tree; and when they saw his face, they knew it was sir lancelot of the lake. then they began to strive which of them should have the care of him. but queen morgan le fay, king arthur's half sister, the great sorceress, was one of them, and said, "we need not strive for him, i have enchanted him, so that for six hours more he shall not wake. let us take him to my castle, and, when he wakes, himself shall choose which one of us he would rather serve." so sir lancelot was laid upon his shield and borne on horseback between two knights, to the castle, and there laid in a cold chamber, till the spell should pass. anon, they sent him a fair damsel, bearing his supper, who asked him, "what cheer?" "i cannot tell, fair damsel," said he, "for i know not how i came into this castle, if it were not by enchantment." "sir," said she, "be of good heart, and to-morrow at dawn of day, ye shall know more." and so she left him alone, and there he lay all night. in the morning early came the four queens to him, passing richly dressed; and said, "sir knight, thou must understand that thou art our prisoner, and that we know thee well for king ban's son, sir lancelot du lake. and though we know full well there is one lady only in this world may have thy love, and she queen guinevere--king arthur's wife--yet now are we resolved to have thee to serve one of us; choose, therefore, of us four which thou wilt serve. i am queen morgan le fay, queen of the land of gore, and here also is the queen of northgales, and the queen of eastland, and the queen of the out isles. choose, then, at once, for else shalt thou abide here, in this prison, till thy death." "it is a hard case," said sir lancelot, "that either i must die, or choose one of you for my mistress! yet had i rather die in this prison than serve any living creature against my will. so take this for my answer. i will serve none of ye, for ye be false enchantresses. and as for my lady, queen guinevere, whom lightly ye have spoken of, were i at liberty i would prove it upon you or upon yours she is the truest lady living to her lord the king." "well," said the queen, "is this your answer, that ye refuse us all?" "yea, on my life," said lancelot, "refused ye be of me." so they departed from him in great wrath, and left him sorrowfully grieving in his dungeon. at noon the damsel came to him and brought his dinner, and asked him as before, "what cheer?" "truly, fair damsel," said sir lancelot, "in all my life never so ill." "sir," replied she, "i grieve to see ye so, but if ye do as i advise, i can help ye out of this distress, and will do so if you promise me a boon." "fair damsel," said sir lancelot, "right willingly will i grant it thee, for sorely do i dread these four witch-queens, who have destroyed and slain many a good knight with their enchantments." then said the damsel, "sir, wilt thou promise me to help my father on next tuesday, for he hath a tournament with the king of northgales, and last tuesday lost the field through three knights of king arthur's court, who came against him. and if next tuesday thou wilt aid him, to-morrow, before daylight, by god's grace, i will deliver thee." "fair maiden," said sir lancelot, "tell me thy father's name and i will answer thee." "my father is king bagdemagus," said she. "i know him well," replied sir lancelot, "for a noble king and a good knight; and by the faith of my body i will do him all the service i am able on that day." "gramercy to thee, sir knight," said the damsel. "to-morrow, when thou art delivered from this place, ride ten miles hence unto an abbey of white monks, and there abide until i bring my father to thee." "so be it," said sir lancelot, "as i am a true knight." so she departed, and on the morrow, early, came again, and let him out of twelve gates, differently locked, and brought him to his armor; and when he was all armed, she brought him his horse also, and lightly he saddled him, and took a great spear in his hand, and mounted and rode forth, saying, as he went, "fair damsel, i shall not fail thee, by the grace of god." and all that day he rode in a great forest, and could find no highway, and spent the night in the wood; but the next morning found his road, and came to the abbey of white monks. and there he saw king bagdemagus and his daughter waiting for him. so when they were together in a chamber, sir lancelot told the king how he had been betrayed by an enchantment, and how his brother lionel was gone he knew not where, and how the damsel had delivered him from the castle of queen morgan le fay. "wherefore while i live," said he, "i shall do service to herself and all her kindred." "then am i sure of thy aid," said the king, "on tuesday now next coming?" "yea, sir, i shall not fail thee," said sir lancelot; "but what knights were they who last week defeated thee, and took part with the king of northgales?" "sir mador de la port, sir modred, and sir gahalatine," replied the king. "sir," said sir lancelot, "as i understand, the tournament shall take place but three miles from this abbey; send then to me here, three knights of thine, the best thou hast, and let them all have plain white shields, such as i also will; then will we four come suddenly into the midst between both parties, and fall upon thy enemies, and grieve them all we can, and none will know us who we are." so, on the tuesday, sir lancelot and the three knights lodged themselves in a small grove hard by the lists. then came into the field the king of northgales, with one hundred and sixty helms, and the three knights of king arthur's court, who stood apart by themselves. and when king bagdemagus had arrived, with eighty helms, both companies set all their spears in rest and came together with a mighty clash, wherein were slain twelve knights of king bagdemagus, and six of the king of northgales; and the party of king bagdemagus was driven back. with that, came sir lancelot, and thrust into the thickest of the press, and smote down with one spear five knights, and brake the backs of four, and cast down the king of northgales, and brake his thigh by the fall. when the three knights of arthur's court saw this, they rode at sir lancelot, and each after other attacked him; but he overthrew them all, and smote them nigh to death. then, taking a new spear, he bore down to the ground sixteen more knights, and hurt them all so sorely, that they could carry arms no more that day. and when his spear at length was broken, he took yet another, and smote down twelve knights more, the most of whom he wounded mortally, till in the end the party of the king of northgales would joust no more, and the victory was cried to king bagdemagus. then sir lancelot rode forth with king bagdemagus to his castle, and there he feasted with great cheer and welcome, and received many royal gifts. and on the morrow he took leave and went to find his brother lionel. anon, by chance, he came to the same forest where the four queens had found him sleeping, and there he met a damsel riding on a white palfrey. when they had saluted each other, sir lancelot said, "fair damsel, knowest thou where any adventures may be had in this country?" "sir knight," said she, "there are adventures great enough close by if thou darest prove them." "why should i not," said he, "since for that cause i came here?" "sir," said the damsel, "hard by this place there dwelleth a knight that cannot be defeated by any man, so great and perilously strong he is. his name is sir turquine, and in the prisons of his castle lie three score knights and four, mostly from king arthur's court, whom he hath taken with his own hands. but promise me, ere thou undertakest their deliverance, to go and help me afterwards, and free me and many other ladies that are distressed by a false knight." "bring me but to this felon turquine," quoth sir lancelot, "and i will afterwards fulfill all your wishes." so the damsel went before, and brought him to a ford, and a tree whereon a great brass basin hung; and sir lancelot beat with his spear-end upon the basin, long and hard, until he beat the bottom of it out, but he saw nothing. then he rode to and fro before the castle gates for wellnigh half an hour, and anon saw a great knight riding from the distance, driving a horse before him, across which hung an armed man bound. and when they came near, sir lancelot knew the prisoner for a knight of the round table. by that time, the great knight who drove the prisoner saw sir lancelot, and each of them began to settle his spear, and to make ready. "fair sir," then said sir lancelot, "put off that wounded knight, i pray thee, from his horse, and let him rest while thou and i shall prove our strength upon each other; for, as i am told, thou doest, and hast done, great shame and injury to knights of the round table. wherefore, i warn thee now, defend thyself." "if thou mayest be of the round table," answered turquine, "i defy thee, and all thy fellows." "that is saying overmuch," said sir lancelot. then, setting their lances in rest, they spurred their horses towards each other, as fast as they could go, and smote so fearfully upon each other's shields, that both their horses' backs brake under them. as soon as they could clear their saddles, they took their shields before them, and drew their swords, and came together eagerly, and fought with great and grievous strokes; and soon they both had many grim and fearful wounds, and bled in streams. thus they fought two hours and more, thrusting and smiting at each other, wherever they could hit. anon, they both were breathless, and stood leaning on their swords. "now, comrade," said sir turquine, "let us wait awhile, and answer me what i shall ask thee." "say on," said lancelot. "thou art," said turquine, "the best man i ever met, and seemest like one that i hate above all other knights that live; but if thou be not he, i will make peace with thee, and for sake of thy great valor, will deliver all the three score prisoners and four who lie within my dungeons, and thou and i will be companions evermore. tell me, then, thy name." "thou sayest well," replied sir lancelot; "but who is he thou hatest so above all others?" "his name," said turquine, "is sir lancelot of the lake; and he slew my brother sir carados, at the dolorous tower; wherefore, if ever i shall meet with him, one of us two shall slay the other; and thereto i have sworn by a great oath. and to discover and destroy him i have slain a hundred knights, and crippled utterly as many more, and many have died in my prisons; and now, as i have told thee, i have many more therein, who all shall be delivered, if thou tell me thy name, and it be not sir lancelot." "well," said lancelot, "i am that knight, son of king ban of benwick, and knight of the round table; so now i defy thee to do thy best!" "aha!" said turquine, with a shout, "is it then so at last! thou art more welcome to my sword than ever knight or lady was to feast, for never shall we part till one of us be dead." then did they hurtle together like two wild bulls, slashing and lashing with their shields and swords, and sometimes falling both on to the ground. for two more hours they fought so, and at the last sir turquine grew very faint, and gave a little back, and bare his shield full low for weariness. when sir lancelot saw him thus, he leaped upon him fiercely as a lion, and took him by the crest of his helmet, and dragged him to his knees; and then he tore his helmet off and smote his neck asunder. then he arose, and went to the damsel who had brought him to sir turquine, and said, "i am ready, fair lady, to go with thee upon thy service, but i have no horse." "fair sir," said she, "take ye this horse of the wounded knight whom turquine but just now was carrying to his prisons, and send that knight on to deliver all the prisoners." so sir lancelot went to the knight and prayed him for the loan of his horse. "fair lord," said he, "ye are right welcome, for to-day ye have saved both me and my horse; and i see that ye are the best knight in all the world, for in my sight have ye slain the mightiest man and the best knight, except thyself, i ever saw." "sir," said sir lancelot, "i thank thee well; and now go into yonder castle, where thou shalt find many noble knights of the round table, for i have seen their shields hung on the trees around. on yonder tree alone there are sir key's, sir brandel's, sir marhaus', sir galind's, and sir aliduke's, and many more; and also my two kinsmen's shields, sir ector de maris' and sir lionel's. and i pray you greet them all from me, sir lancelot of the lake, and tell them that i bid them help themselves to any treasures they can find within the castle; and that i pray my brethren, lionel and ector, to go to king arthur's court and stay there till i come. and by the high feast at pentecost i must be there; but now i must ride forth with this damsel to fulfill my promise." so, as they went, the damsel told him, "sir, we are now near the place where the foul knight haunteth, who robbeth and distresseth all ladies and gentlewomen traveling past this way, against whom i have sought thy aid." then they arranged that she should ride on foremost, and sir lancelot should follow under cover of the trees by the roadside, and if he saw her come to any mishap, he should ride forth and deal with him that troubled her. and as the damsel rode on at a soft ambling pace, a knight and page burst forth from the roadside and forced the damsel from her horse, till she cried out for help. then came sir lancelot rushing through the wood as fast as he might fly, and all the branches of the trees crackled and waved around him. "o thou false knight and traitor to all knighthood!" shouted he, "who taught thee to distress fair ladies thus?" the foul knight answered nothing, but drew out his sword and rode at sir lancelot, who threw his spear away and drew his own sword likewise, and struck him such a mighty blow as clave his head down to the throat. "now hast thou the wages thou long hast earned!" said he; and so departed from the damsel. then for two days he rode in a great forest, and had but scanty food and lodging, and on the third day he rode over a long bridge, when suddenly there started up a passing foul churl, and smote his horse across the nose, so that he started and turned back, rearing with pain. "why ridest thou over here without my leave?" said he. "why should i not?" said sir lancelot; "there is no other way to ride." "thou shalt not pass by here," cried out the churl, and dashed at him with a great club full of iron spikes, till sir lancelot was fain to draw his sword and smite him dead upon the earth. at the end of the bridge was a fair village, and all the people came and cried, "ah, sir! a worse deed for thyself thou never didst, for thou hast slain the chief porter of the castle yonder!" but he let them talk as they pleased, and rode straight forward to the castle. there he alighted, and tied his horse to a ring in the wall; and going in, he saw a wide green court, and thought it seemed a noble place to fight in. and as he looked about, he saw many people watching him from doors and windows, making signs of warning, and saying, "fair knight, thou art unhappy." in the next moment came upon him two great giants, well armed save their heads, and with two horrible clubs in their hands. then he put his shield before him, and with it warded off one giant's stroke, and clove the other with his sword from the head downward to the chest. when the first giant saw that, he ran away mad with fear; but sir lancelot ran after him, and smote him through the shoulder, and shore him down his back, so that he fell dead. then he walked onward to the castle hall, and saw a band of sixty ladies and young damsels coming forth, who knelt to him, and thanked him for their freedom. "for, sir," said they, "the most of us have been prisoners here these seven years; and have been kept at all manner of work to earn our meat, though we be all great gentlewomen born. blessed be the time that thou wast born, for never did a knight a deed of greater worship than thou hast this day, and thereto will we all bear witness in all times and places! tell us, therefore, noble knight, thy name and court, that we may tell them to our friends!" and when they heard it, they all cried aloud, "well may it be so, for we knew that no knight save thou shouldst ever overcome those giants; and many a long day have we sighed for thee; for the giants feared no other name among all knights but thine." then he told them to take the treasures of the castle as a reward for their grievances; and to return to their homes, and so rode away into many strange and wild countries. and at last, after many days, by chance he came, near the night time, to a fair mansion, wherein he found an old gentlewoman, who gave him and his horse good cheer. and when bed time was come, his host brought him to a chamber over a gate, and there he unarmed, and went to bed and fell asleep. but soon thereafter came one riding in great haste, and knocking vehemently at the gate below, which when sir lancelot heard, he rose and looked out of the window, and, by the moonlight, saw three knights come riding fiercely after one man, and lashing on him all at once with their swords, while the one knight nobly fought them all. then sir lancelot quickly armed himself, and getting through the window, let himself down by a sheet into the midst of them, crying out, "turn ye on me, ye cowards, and leave fighting with that knight!" then they all left sir key, for the first knight was he, and began to fall upon sir lancelot furiously. and when sir key would have come forward to assist him, sir lancelot refused, and cried, "leave me alone to deal with them." and presently, with six great strokes, he felled them all. then they cried out, "sir knight, we yield us unto thee, as to a man of might!" "i will not take your yielding!" said he; "yield ye to sir key, the seneschal, or i will have your lives." "fair knight," said they, "excuse us in that thing, for we have chased sir key thus far, and should have overcome him but for thee." "well," said sir lancelot, "do as ye will, for ye may live or die; but, if ye live, ye shall be holden to sir key." then they yielded to him; and sir lancelot commanded them to go unto king arthur's court at the next pentecost, and say, sir key had sent them prisoners to queen guinevere. and this they sware to do upon their swords. then sir lancelot knocked at the gate with his sword-hilt till his hostess came and let him in again, and sir key also. and when the light came, sir key knew sir lancelot, and knelt and thanked him for his courtesy, and gentleness, and kindness. "sir," said he, "i have done no more than what i ought to do, and ye are welcome; therefore let us now take rest." so when sir key had supped, they went to sleep, and sir lancelot and he slept in the same bed. on the morrow, sir lancelot rose early, and took sir key's shield and armor and set forth. when sir key arose, he found sir lancelot's armor by his bedside, and his own arms gone. "now, by my faith," thought he, "i know that he will grieve some knights of our king's court; for those who meet him will be bold to joust with him, mistaking him for me, while i, dressed in his shield and armor, shall surely ride in peace." then sir lancelot, dressed in sir key's apparel, rode long in a great forest, and came at last to a low country, full of rivers and fair meadows, and saw a bridge before him, whereon were three silk tents of divers colors, and to each tent was hung a white shield, and by each shield stood a knight. so sir lancelot went by without speaking a word. and when he had passed, the three knights said it was the proud sir key, "who thinketh no knight equal to himself, although the contrary is full often proved upon him." "by my faith!" said one of them, named gaunter, "i will ride after and attack him for all his pride, and ye shall watch my speed." then, taking shield and spear, he mounted and rode after sir lancelot, and cried, "abide, proud knight, and turn, for thou shalt not pass free!" so sir lancelot turned, and each one put his spear in rest and came with all his might against the other. and sir gaunter's spear brake short, but sir lancelot smote him down, both horse and man. when the other knights saw this, they said, "yonder is not sir key, but a bigger man." "i dare wager my head," said sir gilmere, "yonder knight hath slain sir key, and taken his horse and harness." "be it so, or not," said sir reynold, the third brother; "let us now go to our brother gaunter's rescue; we shall have enough to do to match that knight, for, by his stature, i believe it is sir lancelot or sir tristram." anon, they took their horses and galloped after sir lancelot; and sir gilmere first assailed him, but was smitten down forthwith, and lay stunned on the earth. then said sir reynold, "sir knight, thou art a strong man, and, i believe, hast slain my two brothers, wherefore my heart is sore against thee; yet, if i might with honor, i would avoid thee. nevertheless, that cannot be, so keep thyself." and so they hurtled together with all their might, and each man shivered his spear to pieces; and then they drew their swords and lashed out eagerly. and as they fought, sir gaunter and sir gilmere presently arose and mounted once again, and came down at full tilt upon sir lancelot. but, when he saw them coming, he put forth all his strength, and struck sir reynold off his horse. then, with two other strokes, he served the others likewise. anon, sir reynold crept along the ground, with his head all bloody, and came towards sir lancelot. "it is enough," said lancelot, "i was not far from thee when thou wast made a knight, sir reynold, and know thee for a good and valiant man, and was full loth to slay thee." "gramercy for thy gentleness!" said sir reynold. "i and my brethren will straightway yield to thee when we know thy name, for well we know that thou art not sir key." "as for that," said sir lancelot, "be it as it may, but ye shall yield to queen guinevere at the next feast of pentecost as prisoners, and say that sir key sent ye." then they swore to him it should be done as he commanded. and so sir lancelot passed on, and the three brethren helped each other's wounds as best they might. then rode sir lancelot forward into a deep forest, and came upon four knights of king arthur's court, under an oak tree--sir sagramour, sir ector, sir gawain, and sir ewaine. and when they spied him, they thought he was sir key. "now by my faith," said sir sagramour, "i will prove sir key's might!" and taking his spear he rode towards sir lancelot. but sir lancelot was aware of him, and, setting his spear in rest, smote him so sorely, that horse and man fell to the earth. "lo!" cried sir ector, "i see by the buffet that knight hath given our fellow he is stronger than sir key. now will i try what i can do against him!" so sir ector took his spear, and galloped at sir lancelot; and sir lancelot met him as he came, and smote him through shield and shoulder, so that he fell, but his own spear was not broken. "by my faith," cried sir ewaine, "yonder is a strong knight, and must have slain sir key, and taken his armor! by his strength, i see it will be hard to match him." so saying he rode towards sir lancelot, who met him halfway and struck him so fiercely, that at one blow he overthrew him also. "now," said sir gawain, "will i encounter him." so he took a good spear in his hand, and guarded himself with his shield. and he and sir lancelot rode against each other, with their horses at full speed, and furiously smote each other on the middle of their shields; but sir gawain's spear broke short asunder, and sir lancelot charged so mightily upon him, that his horse and he both fell, and rolled upon the ground. "ah," said sir lancelot, smiling, as he rode away from the four knights, "heaven give joy to him who made this spear, for never held i better in my hand." but the four knights said to each other, "truly one spear hath felled us all." "i dare lay my life," said sir gawain, "it is sir lancelot. i know him by his riding." so they all departed for the court. and as sir lancelot rode still in the forest, he saw a black bloodhound, running with its head towards the ground, as if it tracked a deer. and following after it, he came to a great pool of blood. but the hound, ever and anon looking behind, ran through a great marsh, and over a bridge, towards an old manor house. so sir lancelot followed, and went into the hall, and saw a dead knight lying there, whose wounds the hound licked. and a lady stood behind him, weeping and wringing her hands, who cried, "o knight! too great is the sorrow which thou hast brought me!" "why say ye so?" replied sir lancelot; "for i never harmed this knight, and am full sorely grieved to see thy sorrow." "nay, sir," said the lady, "i see it is not thou hast slain my husband, for he that truly did that deed is deeply wounded, and shall never more recover." "what is thy husband's name?" said sir lancelot. "his name," she answered, "was sir gilbert--one of the best knights in all the world; but i know not his name who hath slain him." "god send thee comfort," said sir lancelot, and departed again into the forest. and as he rode, he met with a damsel who knew him, who cried out, "well found, my lord! i pray ye of your knighthood help my brother, who is sore wounded and ceases not to bleed, for he fought this day with sir gilbert, and slew him, but was himself well nigh slain. and there is a sorceress, who dwelleth in a castle hard by, and she this day hath told me that my brother's wound shall never be made whole until i find a knight to go into the chapel perilous, and bring from thence a sword and the bloody cloth in which the wounded knight was wrapped." "this is a marvelous thing!" said sir lancelot; "but what is your brother's name?" "his name, sir," she replied, "is sir meliot de logres." "he is a fellow of the round table," said sir lancelot, "and truly will i do my best to help him." "then, sir," said she, "follow this way, and it will bring ye to the chapel perilous. i will abide here till god send ye hither again; for if ye speed not, there is no living knight who may achieve that adventure." so sir lancelot departed, and when he came to the chapel perilous he alighted, and tied his horse to the gate. and as soon as he was within the churchyard, he saw on the front of the chapel many shields of knights whom he had known, turned upside down. then saw he in the pathway thirty mighty knights, taller than any men whom he had ever seen, all armed in black armor, with their swords drawn; and they gnashed their teeth upon him as he came. but he put his shield before him, and took his sword in hand, ready to do battle with them. and when he would have cut his way through them, they scattered on every side and let him pass. then he went into the chapel, and saw therein no light but of a dim lamp burning. then he was aware of a corpse in the midst of the chapel, covered with a silken cloth, and so stooped down and cut off a piece of the cloth, whereat the earth beneath him trembled. then saw he a sword lying by the dead knight, and taking it in his hand, he hied him from the chapel. as soon as he was in the churchyard again, all the thirty knights cried out to him with fierce voices, "sir lancelot! lay that sword from thee, or thou diest!" "whether i live or die," said he, "ye shall fight for it ere ye take it from me." with that they let him pass. and further on, beyond the chapel, he met a fair damsel, who said, "sir lancelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou diest." "i will not leave it," said sir lancelot, "for any asking." "then, gentle knight," said the damsel, "i pray thee kiss me once." "nay," said sir lancelot, "that god forbid!" "alas!" cried she, "i have lost all my labor! but hadst thou kissed me, thy life's days had been all done!" "heaven save me from thy subtle crafts!" said sir lancelot; and therewith took his horse and galloped forth. and when he was departed, the damsel sorrowed greatly, and died in fifteen days. her name was ellawes, the sorceress. then came sir lancelot to sir meliot's sister, who, when she saw him, clapped her hands and wept for joy, and took him to the castle hard by, where sir meliot was. and when sir lancelot saw sir meliot, he knew him, though he was pale as ashes for loss of blood. and sir meliot, when he saw sir lancelot, kneeled to him and cried aloud, "o lord, sir lancelot! help me!" and thereupon, sir lancelot went to him and touched his wounds with the sword, and wiped them with the piece of bloody cloth. and immediately he was as whole as though he had been never wounded. then was there great joy between him and sir meliot; and his sister made sir lancelot good cheer. so on the morrow, he took his leave, that he might go to king arthur's court, "for," said he, "it draweth nigh the feast of pentecost, and there, by god's grace, shall ye then find me." and riding through many strange countries, over marshes and valleys, he came at length before a castle. as he passed by he heard two little bells ringing, and looking up, he saw a falcon flying overhead, with bells tied to her feet, and long strings dangling from them. and as the falcon flew past an elm-tree, the strings caught in the boughs, so that she could fly no further. in the meanwhile, came a lady from the castle, and cried, "oh, sir lancelot! as thou art the flower of all knights in the world, help me to get my hawk, for she hath slipped away from me, and if she be lost, my lord my husband is so hasty, he will surely slay me!" "what is thy lord's name?" said sir lancelot. "his name," said she, "is sir phelot, a knight of the king of northgales." "fair lady," said sir lancelot, "since you know my name, and require me, on my knighthood, to help you, i will do what i can to get your hawk." and thereupon alighting, he tied his horse to the same tree, and prayed the lady to unarm him. so when he was unarmed, he climbed up and reached the falcon, and threw it to the lady. then suddenly came down, out of the wood, her husband, sir phelot, all armed, with a drawn sword in his hand, and said, "oh, sir lancelot! now have i found thee as i would have thee!" and stood at the trunk of the tree to slay him. "ah, lady!" cried sir lancelot, "why have ye betrayed me?" "she hath done as i commanded her," said sir phelot, "and thine hour is come that thou must die." "it were shame," said lancelot, "for an armed to slay an unarmed man." "thou hast no other favor from me," said sir phelot. "alas!" cried sir lancelot, "that ever any knight should die weaponless!" and looking overhead, he saw a great bough without leaves, and wrenched it off the tree, and suddenly leaped down. then sir phelot struck at him eagerly, thinking to have slain him, but sir lancelot put aside the stroke with the bough, and therewith smote him on the side of the head, till he fell swooning to the ground. and tearing his sword from out his hands, he shore his neck through from the body. then did the lady shriek dismally, and swooned as though she would die. but sir lancelot put on his armor, and with haste took his horse and departed thence, thanking god he had escaped that peril. and as he rode through a valley, among many wild ways, he saw a knight, with a drawn sword, chasing a lady to slay her. and seeing sir lancelot, she cried and prayed to him to come and rescue her. at that he went up, saying, "fie on thee, knight! why wilt thou slay this lady? thou doest shame to thyself and all knights." "what hast thou to do between me and my wife?" replied the knight. "i will slay her in spite of thee." "thou shalt not harm her," said lancelot, "till we have first fought together." "sir," answered the knight, "thou doest ill, for this lady hath betrayed me." "he speaketh falsely," said the lady, "for he is jealous of me without cause, as i shall answer before heaven; but as thou art named the most worshipful knight in the world, i pray thee of thy true knighthood to save me, for he is without mercy." "be of good cheer," said sir lancelot; "it shall not lie within his power to harm thee." "sir," said the knight, "i will be ruled as ye will have me." so sir lancelot rode between the knight and the lady. and when they had ridden awhile, the knight cried out suddenly to sir lancelot to turn and see what men they were who came riding after them; and while sir lancelot, thinking not of treason, turned to look, the knight, with one great stroke, smote off the lady's head. then was sir lancelot passing wroth, and cried, "thou traitor! thou hast shamed me forever!" and, alighting from his horse, he drew his sword to have slain him instantly; but the knight fell on the ground and clasped sir lancelot's knees, and cried out for mercy. "thou shameful knight," answered lancelot, "thou mayest have no mercy, for thou showedst none, therefore arise and fight with me." "nay," said the knight, "i will not rise till thou dost grant me mercy." "now will i deal fairly by thee," said sir lancelot; "i will unarm me to my shirt, and have my sword only in my hand, and if thou canst slay me thou shalt be quit forever." "that will i never do," said the knight. "then," answered sir lancelot, "take this lady and the head, and bear it with thee, and swear to me upon thy sword never to rest until thou comest to queen guinevere." "that will i do," said he. "now," said sir lancelot, "tell me thy name." "it is pedivere," answered the knight. "in a shameful hour wert thou born," said sir lancelot. so sir pedivere departed, bearing with him the dead lady and her head. and when he came to winchester, where the queen was with king arthur, he told them all the truth; and afterwards did great and heavy penance many years, and became an holy hermit. so, two days before the feast of pentecost, sir lancelot returned to the court, and king arthur was full glad of his coming. and when sir gawain, sir ewaine, sir sagramour, and sir ector, saw him in sir key's armor, they knew well it was he who had smitten them all down with one spear. anon, came all the knights sir turquine had taken prisoners, and gave worship and honor to sir lancelot. then sir key told the king how sir lancelot had rescued him when he was in near danger of his death; "and," said sir key, "he made the knights yield, not to himself, but me. and by heaven! because sir lancelot took my armor and left me his, i rode in peace, and no man would have aught to do with me." then came the knights who fought with sir lancelot at the long bridge and yielded themselves also to sir key, but he said nay, he had not fought with them. "it is sir lancelot," said he, "that overcame ye." next came sir meliot de logres, and told king arthur how sir lancelot had saved him from death. and so all sir lancelot's deeds and great adventures were made known; how the four sorceress-queens had him in prison; how he was delivered by the daughter of king bagdemagus, and what deeds of arms he did at the tournament between the king of north wales and king bagdemagus. and so, at that festival, sir lancelot had the greatest name of any knight in all the world, and by high and low was he the most honored of all men. xi the adventures of sir beaumains or sir gareth again king arthur held the feast of pentecost, with all the table round, and after his custom sat in the banquet hall, before beginning meat, waiting for some adventure. then came there to the king a squire and said, "lord, now may ye go to meat, for here a damsel cometh with some strange adventure." so the king was glad, and sat down to meat. anon the damsel came in and saluted him, praying him for succor. "what wilt thou?" said the king. "lord," answered she, "my mistress is a lady of great renown, but is at this time besieged by a tyrant, who will not suffer her to go out of her castle; and because here in thy court the knights are called the noblest in the world, i come to pray thee for thy succor." "where dwelleth your lady?" answered the king. "what is her name, and who is he that hath besieged her?" "for her name," replied the damsel, "as yet i may not tell it; but she is a lady of worship and great lands. the tyrant that besiegeth her and wasteth her lands is called the red knight of the redlands." "i know him not," said arthur. "but i know him, lord," said sir gawain, "and he is one of the most perilous knights in all the world. men say he hath the strength of seven; and from him i myself once hardly escaped with life." "fair damsel," said the king, "there be here many knights that would gladly do their uttermost to rescue your lady, but unless ye tell me her name, and where she dwelleth, none of my knights shall go with you by my leave." now, there was a stripling at the court called beaumains, who served in the king's kitchen, a fair youth and of great stature. twelve months before this time he had come to the king as he sat at meat, at whitsuntide, and prayed three gifts of him. and being asked what gifts, he answered, "as for the first gift i will ask it now, but the other two gifts i will ask on this day twelve months, wheresoever ye hold your high feast." then said king arthur, "what is thy first request?" "this, lord," said he, "that thou wilt give me meat and drink enough for twelve months from this time, and then will i ask my other two gifts." and the king seeing that he was a goodly youth, and deeming that he was come of honorable blood, had granted his desire, and given him into the charge of sir key, the steward. but sir key scorned and mocked the youth, calling beaumains, because his hands were large and fair, and putting him into the kitchen, where he had served for twelve months as a scullion, and, in spite of all his churlish treatment, had faithfully obeyed sir key. but sir lancelot and sir gawain were angered when they saw sir key so churlish to a youth that had so worshipful a bearing, and ofttimes had they given him gold and clothing. and now at this time came young beaumains to the king, while the damsel was there, and said, "lord, now i thank thee well and heartily that i have been twelve months kept in thy kitchen, and have had full sustenance. now will i ask my two remaining gifts." "ask," said king arthur, "on my good faith." "these, lord," said he, "shall be my two gifts--the one, that thou wilt grant me this adventure of the damsel, for to me of right it belongeth; and the other, that thou wilt bid sir lancelot make me a knight, for of him only will i have that honor; and i pray that he may ride after me and make me a knight when i require him." "be it as thou wilt," replied the king. but thereupon the damsel was full wroth, and said, "shall i have a kitchen page for this adventure?" and so she took horse and departed. then came one to beaumains, and told him that a dwarf with a horse and armor were waiting for him. and all men marveled whence these things came. but when he was on horseback and armed, scarce any one at the court was a goodlier man than he. and coming into the hall, he took his leave of the king and sir gawain, and prayed sir lancelot to follow him. so he rode after the damsel, and many of the court went out to see him, so richly arrayed and horsed; yet he had neither shield nor spear. then sir key cried, "i also will ride after the kitchen boy, and see whether he will obey me now." and taking his horse, he rode after him, and said, "know ye not me, beaumains?" "yea," said he, "i know thee for an ungentle knight, therefore beware of me." then sir key put his spear in rest and ran at him, but beaumains rushed upon him with his sword in his hand, and therewith, putting aside the spear, struck sir key so sorely in the side, that he fell down, as if dead. then he alighted, and took his shield and spear, and bade his dwarf ride upon sir key's horse. by this time, sir lancelot had come up, and beaumains offering to tilt with him, they both made ready. and their horses came together so fiercely that both fell to the earth, full sorely bruised. then they arose, and beaumains, putting up his shield before him, offered to fight sir lancelot, on foot. so they rushed upon each other, striking, and thrusting, and parrying, for the space of an hour. and lancelot marveled at the strength of beaumains, for he fought more like a giant than a man, and his fighting was passing fierce and terrible. so, at the last, he said, "fight not so sorely, beaumains; our quarrel is not such that we may not now cease." "true," answered beaumains; "yet it doth me good to feel thy might, though i have not yet proved my uttermost." "by my faith," said lancelot, "i had as much as i could do to save myself from you unshamed, therefore be in no doubt of any earthly knight." "may i, then, stand as a proved knight?" said beaumains. "for that will i be thy warrant," answered lancelot. "then, i pray thee," said he, "give me the order of knighthood." "first, then, must thou tell me of thy name and kindred," said sir lancelot. "if thou wilt tell them to no other, i will tell thee," answered he. "my name is gareth of orkney, and i am own brother to sir gawain." "ah!" said sir lancelot, "at that am i full glad; for, truly, i deemed thee to be of gentle blood." so then he knighted beaumains, and, after that, they parted company, and sir lancelot, returning to the court, took up sir key on his shield. and hardly did sir key escape with his life, from the wound beaumains had given him; but all men blamed him for his ungentle treatment of so brave a knight. then sir beaumains rode forward, and soon overtook the damsel; but she said to him, in scorn, "return again, base kitchen page! what art thou, but a washer-up of dishes!" "damsel," said he, "say to me what thou wilt, i will not leave thee; for i have undertaken to king arthur to relieve thy adventure, and i will finish it to the end, or die." "thou finish my adventure!" said she--"anon, thou shalt meet one, whose face thou wilt not even dare to look at." "i shall attempt it," answered he. so, as they rode thus, into a wood, there met them a man, fleeing, as for his life. "whither fleest thou?" said sir beaumains. "o lord!" he answered, "help me; for, in a valley hard by, there are six thieves, who have taken my lord, and bound him, and i fear will slay him." "bring me thither," said sir beaumains. so they rode to the place, and sir beaumains rushed after the thieves, and smote one, at the first stroke, so that he died; and then, with two other blows, slew a second and third. then fled the other three, and sir beaumains rode after them, and overtook and slew them all. then he returned and unbound the knight. and the knight thanked him, and prayed him to ride to his castle, where he would reward him. "sir," answered sir beaumains, "i will have no reward of thee, for but this day was i made knight by the most noble sir lancelot; and besides, i must go with this damsel." then the knight begged the damsel to rest that night at his castle. so they all rode thither, and ever the damsel scoffed at sir beaumains as a kitchen boy, and laughed at him before the knight their host, so that he set his meat before him at a lower table, as though he were not of their company. and on the morrow, the damsel and sir beaumains took their leave of the knight, and thanking him departed. then they rode on their way till they came to a great forest, through which flowed a river, and there was but one passage over it, whereat stood two knights armed to hinder the way. "wilt thou match those two knights," said the damsel to sir beaumains, "or return again?" "i would not return," said he, "though they were six." therewith he galloped into the water, and swam his horse into the middle of the stream. and there, in the river, one of the knights met him, and they brake their spears together, and then drew their swords, and smote fiercely at each other. and at the last, sir beaumains struck the other mightily upon the helm, so that he fell down stunned into the water, and was drowned. then sir beaumains spurred his horse on to the land, where instantly the other knight fell on him. and they also brake their spears upon each other, and then drew their swords, and fought savagely and long together. and after many blows, sir beaumains clove through the knight's skull down to the shoulders. then rode sir beaumains to the damsel, but ever she still scoffed at him, and said, "alas! that a kitchen page should chance to slay two such brave knights! thou deemest now that thou hast done a mighty deed, but it is not so; for the first knight's horse stumbled, and thus was he drowned--not by thy strength; and as for the second knight, thou wentest by chance behind him, and didst kill him shamefully." "damsel," said sir beaumains, "say what ye list, i care not so i may win your lady; and wouldst thou give me but fair language, all my care were past; for whatsoever knights i meet, i fear them not." "thou shalt see knights that shall abate thy boast, base kitchen knave," replied she; "yet say i this for thine advantage, for if thou followest me thou wilt be surely slain, since i see all thou doest is but by chance, and not by thy own prowess." "well, damsel," said he, "say what ye will, wherever ye go i will follow." so they rode on until the eventide, and still the damsel evermore kept chiding sir beaumains. then came they to a black space of land, whereon was a black hawthorn tree, and on the tree there hung a black banner, and on the other side was a black shield and spear, and by them a great black horse, covered with silk; and hard by sat a knight armed in black armor, whose name was the knight of the blacklands. when the damsel saw him, she cried out to beaumains, "flee down the valley, for thy horse is not saddled!" "wilt thou forever deem me coward?" answered he. with that came the black knight to the damsel, and said, "fair damsel, hast thou brought this knight from arthur's court to be thy champion?" "not so, fair knight," said she; "he is but a kitchen knave." "then wherefore cometh he in such array?" said he; "it is a shame that he should bear thee company." "i cannot be delivered from him," answered she: "for in spite of me he rideth with me; and would to heaven you would put him from me, or now slay him, for he hath slain two knights at the river passage yonder, and done many marvelous deeds through pure mischance." "i marvel," said the black knight, "that any man of worship will fight with him." "they know him not," said the damsel, "and think, because he rideth with me, that he is well born." "truly, he hath a goodly person, and is likely to be a strong man," replied the knight; "but since he is no man of worship, he shall leave his horse and armor with me, for it were a shame for me to do him more harm." when sir beaumains heard him speak thus, he said, "horse or armor gettest thou none of me, sir knight, save thou winnest them with thy hands; therefore defend thyself, and let me see what thou canst do." "how sayest thou?" answered the black knight. "now quit this lady also, for it beseemeth not a kitchen knave like thee to ride with such a lady." "i am of higher lineage than thou," said sir beaumains, "and will straightway prove it on thy body." then furiously they drove their horses at each other, and came together as it had been thunder. but the black knight's spear brake short, and sir beaumains thrust him through the side, and his spear breaking at the head, left its point sticking fast in the black knight's body. yet did the black knight draw his sword, and smite at sir beaumains with many fierce and bitter blows; but after they had fought an hour and more, he fell down from his horse in a swoon, and forthwith died. then sir beaumains lighted down and armed himself in the black knight's armor, and rode on after the damsel. but notwithstanding all his valor, still she scoffed at him, and said, "away! for thou savorest ever of the kitchen. alas! that such a knave should by mishap destroy so good a knight; yet once again i counsel thee to flee, for hard by is a knight who shall repay thee!" "it may chance that i am beaten or slain," answered sir beaumains, "but i warn thee, fair damsel, that i will not flee away, nor leave thy company, or my quest, for all that ye can say." anon, as they rode, they saw a knight come swiftly towards them, dressed all in green, who, calling to the damsel said, "is that my brother, the black knight, that ye have brought with you?" "nay, and alas!" said she, "this kitchen knave hath slain thy brother through mischance." "alas!" said the green knight, "that such a noble knight as he was should be slain by a knave's hand. traitor!" cried he to sir beaumains, "thou shalt die for this! sir pereard was my brother, and a full noble knight." "i defy thee," said sir beaumains, "for i slew him knightly and not shamefully." then the green knight rode to a thorn whereon hung a green horn, and, when he blew three notes, there came three damsels forth, who quickly armed him, and brought him a great horse and a green shield and spear. then did they run at one another with their fullest might, and break their spears asunder; and, drawing their swords, they closed in fight, and sorely smote and wounded each other with many grievous blows. at last, sir beaumains' horse jostled against the green knight's horse, and overthrew him. then both alighted, and, hurtling together like mad lions, fought a great while on foot. but the damsel cheered the green knight, and said, "my lord, why wilt thou let a kitchen knave so long stand up against thee?" hearing these words, he was ashamed, and gave sir beaumains such a mighty stroke as clave his shield asunder. when sir beaumains heard the damsel's words, and felt that blow, he waxed passing wroth, and gave the green knight such a buffet on the helm that he fell on his knees, and with another blow sir beaumains threw him on the ground. then the green knight yielded, and prayed him to spare his life. "all thy prayers are vain," said he, "unless this damsel who came with me pray for thee." "that will i never do, base kitchen knave," said she. "then shall he die," said beaumains. "alas! fair lady," said the green knight, "suffer me not to die for a word! o, sir knight," cried he to beaumains, "give me my life, and i will ever do thee homage; and thirty knights, who owe me service, shall give allegiance to thee." "all availeth not," answered sir beaumains, "unless the damsel ask me for thy life"; and thereupon he made as though he would have slain him. then cried the damsel, "slay him not; for if thou do thou shalt repent it." "damsel," said sir beaumains, "at thy command, he shall obtain his life. arise, sir knight of the green armor, i release thee!" then the green knight knelt at his feet, and did him homage with his words. "lodge with me this night," said he, "and to-morrow will i guide ye through the forest." so, taking their horses, they rode to his castle, which was hard by. yet still did the damsel rebuke and scoff at sir beaumains, and would not suffer him to sit at her table. "i marvel," said the green knight to her, "that ye thus chide so noble a knight, for truly i know none to match him; and be sure, that whatsoever he appeareth now, he will prove, at the end, of noble blood and royal lineage." but of all this would the damsel take no heed, and ceased not to mock at sir beaumains. on the morrow, they arose and heard mass; and when they had broken their fast, took their horses and rode on their way, the green knight conveying them through the forest. then, when he had led them for a while, he said to sir beaumains, "my lord, my thirty knights and i shall always be at thy command whensoever thou shalt send for us." "it is well said," replied he; "and when i call upon you, you shall yield yourself and all your knights unto king arthur." "that will we gladly do," said the green knight, and so departed. and the damsel rode on before sir beaumains, and said to him, "why dost thou follow me, thou kitchen boy? i counsel thee to throw aside thy spear and shield, and flee betimes, for wert thou as mighty as sir lancelot or sir tristram, thou shouldest not pass a valley near this place, called the pass perilous." "damsel," answered he, "let him that feareth flee; as for me, it were indeed a shameful thing to turn after so long a journey." as he spake, they came upon a tower as white as snow, with mighty battlements, and double moats round it, and over the tower-gate hung fifty shields of divers colors. before the tower walls, they saw a fair meadow, wherein were many knights and squires in pavilions, for on the morrow there was a tournament at that castle. then the lord of the castle, seeing a knight armed at all points, with a damsel and a page, riding towards the tower, came forth to meet them; and his horse and harness, with his shield and spear, were all of a red color. when he came near sir beaumains, and saw his armor all of black, he thought him his own brother, the black knight, and so cried aloud, "brother! what do ye here, within these borders?" "nay!" said the damsel, "it is not thy brother, but a kitchen knave of arthur's court, who hath slain thy brother, and overcome thy other brother also, the green knight." "now do i defy thee!" cried the red knight to sir beaumains, and put his spear in rest and spurred his horse. then both knights turned back a little space, and ran together with all their might, till their horses fell to the earth. then, with their swords, they fought fiercely for the space of three hours. and at last, sir beaumains overcame his foe, and smote him to the ground. then the red knight prayed his mercy, and said, "slay me not, noble knight, and i will yield to thee with sixty knights that do my bidding." "all avails not," answered sir beaumains, "save this damsel pray me to release thee." then did he lift his sword to slay him; but the damsel cried aloud, "slay him not, beaumains, for he is a noble knight." then sir beaumains bade him rise up and thank the damsel, which straightway he did, and afterwards invited them to his castle, and made them goodly cheer. but notwithstanding all sir beaumains' mighty deeds, the damsel ceased not to revile and chide him, at which the red knight marveled much; and caused his sixty knights to watch sir beaumains, that no villainy might happen to him. and on the morrow, they heard mass and broke their fast, and the red knight came before sir beaumains, with his sixty knights, and proffered him homage and fealty. "i thank thee," answered he; "and when i call upon thee thou shalt come before my lord king arthur at his court, and yield yourselves to him." "that will we surely do," said the red knight. so sir beaumains and the damsel departed. and as she constantly reviled him and tormented him, he said to her, "damsel, ye are discourteous thus always to rebuke me, for i have done you service; and for all your threats of knights that shall destroy me, all they who come lie in the dust before me. now, therefore, i pray you rebuke me no more till you see me beaten or a recreant, and then bid me go from you." "there shall soon meet thee a knight who shall repay thee all thy deeds, thou boaster," answered she, "for, save king arthur, he is the man of most worship in the world." "it will be the greater honor to encounter him," said sir beaumains. soon after, they saw before them a city passing fair, and between them and the city was a meadow newly mown, wherein were many goodly tents. "seest thou yonder blue pavilion?" said the damsel to sir beaumains; "it is sir perseant's, the lord of that great city, whose custom is, in all fair weather, to lie in this meadow, and joust with his knights." and as she spake, sir perseant, who had espied them coming, sent a messenger to meet sir beaumains, and to ask him if he came in war or peace. "say to thy lord," he answered, "that i care not whether of the twain it be." so when the messenger gave this reply, sir perseant came out to fight with sir beaumains. and making ready, they rode their steeds against each other; and when their spears were shivered asunder, they fought with their swords. and for more than two hours did they hack and hew at each other, till their shields and hauberks were all dented with many blows, and they themselves were sorely wounded. and at the last, sir beaumains smote sir perseant on the helm, so that he fell groveling on the earth. and when he unlaced his helm to slay him, the damsel prayed for his life. "that will i grant gladly," answered sir beaumains, "for it were pity such a noble knight should die." "gramercy!" said sir perseant, "for now i certainly know that it was thou who slewest my brother, the black knight, sir pereard; and overcame my brothers, the green knight, sir pertolope, and the red knight, sir perimones; and since thou hast overcome me also, i will do thee homage and fealty, and place at thy command one hundred knights to do thy bidding." but when the damsel saw sir perseant overthrown, she marveled greatly at the might of sir beaumains, and said, "what manner of man may ye be, for now am i sure that ye be come of noble blood? and truly, never did woman revile knight as i have done thee, and yet ye have ever courteously borne with me, which surely never had been were ye not of gentle blood and lineage." "lady," replied sir beaumains, "a knight is little worth who may not bear with a damsel; and so whatsoever ye said to me i took no heed, save only that at times when your scorn angered me, it made me all the stronger against those with whom i fought, and thus have ye furthered me in my battles. but whether i be born of gentle blood or no, i have done you gentle service, and peradventure will do better still, ere i depart from you." "alas!" said she, weeping at his courtesy, "forgive me, fair sir beaumains, all that i have missaid and misdone against you." "with all my heart," said he; "and since you now speak fairly to me, i am passing glad of heart, and methinks i have the strength to overcome whatever knights i shall henceforth encounter." then sir perseant prayed them to come to his pavilion, and set before them wines and spices, and made them great cheer. so they rested that night; and on the morrow, the damsel and sir beaumains rose, and heard mass. and when they had broken their fast, they took their leave of sir perseant. "fair damsel," said he, "whither lead ye this knight?" "sir," answered she, "to the castle dangerous, where my sister is besieged by the knight of the redlands." "i know him well," said sir perseant, "for the most perilous knight alive--a man without mercy, and with the strength of seven men. god save thee, sir beaumains, from him! and enable thee to overcome him, for the lady lyones, whom he besiegeth, is as fair a lady as there liveth in this world." "thou sayest truth, sir," said the damsel; "for i am her sister; and men call me linet, or the wild maiden." "now, i would have thee know," said sir perseant to sir beaumains, "that the knight of the redlands hath kept that siege more than two years, and prolongeth the time hoping that sir lancelot, or sir tristram, or sir lamoracke, may come and battle with him; for these three knights divide between them all knighthood; and thou if thou mayest match the knight of the redlands, shalt well be called the fourth knight of the world." "sir," said sir beaumains, "i would fain have that good fame; and truly, i am come of great and honorable lineage. and so that you and this fair damsel will conceal it, i will tell ye my descent." and when they swore to keep it secret, he told them, "my name is sir gareth of orkney, my father was king lot, and my mother the lady belisent, king arthur's sister. sir gawain, sir agravain, and sir gaheris, are my brethren, and i am the youngest of them all. but, as yet king arthur and the court know me not, who i am." when he had thus told them, they both wondered greatly. and the damsel linet sent the dwarf forward to her sister, to tell her of their coming. then did dame lyones inquire what manner of man the knight was who was coming to her rescue. and the dwarf told her of all sir beaumains' deeds by the way: how he had overthrown sir key, and left him for dead; how he had battled with sir lancelot, and was knighted of him; how he had fought with, and slain, the thieves; how he had overcome the two knights who kept the river passage; how he had fought with, and slain, the black knight; and how he had overcome the green knight, the red knight, and last of all, the blue knight, sir perseant. then was dame lyones passing glad, and sent the dwarf back to sir beaumains with great gifts, thanking him for his courtesy, in taking such a labor on him for her sake, and praying him to be of good heart and courage. and as the dwarf returned, he met the knight of the redlands, who asked him whence he came. "i came here with the sister of my lady of the castle," said the dwarf, "who hath been now to king arthur's court and brought a knight with her to take her battle on him." "then is her travail lost," replied the knight; "for, though she had brought sir lancelot, sir tristram, sir lamoracke, or sir gawain, i count myself their equal, and who besides shall be so called?" then the dwarf told the knight what deeds sir beaumains had done; but he answered, "i care not for him, whosoever he be, for i shall shortly overcome him, and give him shameful death, as to so many others i have done." then the damsel linet and sir beaumains left sir perseant, and rode on through a forest to a large plain, where they saw many pavilions, and hard by, a castle passing fair. but as they came near sir beaumains saw upon the branches of some trees which grew there, the dead bodies of forty knights hanging, with rich armor on them, their shields and swords about their necks, and golden spurs upon their heels. "what meaneth this?" said he, amazed. "lose not thy courage, fair sir," replied the damsel, "at this shameful sight, for all these knights came hither to rescue my sister; and when the knight of the redlands had overcome them, he put them to this piteous death, without mercy; and in such wise will he treat thee also unless thou bearest thee more valiantly than they." "truly he useth shameful customs," said sir beaumains; "and it is a marvel that he hath endured so long." so they rode onward to the castle walls, and found them double-moated, and heard the sea waves dashing on one side the walls. then said the damsel, "see you that ivory horn hanging upon the sycamore-tree? the knight of the redlands hath hung it there, that any knight may blow thereon, and then will he himself come out and fight with him. but i pray thee sound it not till high noontide, for now it is but daybreak, and till noon his strength increases to the might of seven men." "let that be as it may, fair damsel," answered he, "for were he stronger knight than ever lived, i would not fail him. either will i defeat him at his mightiest, or die knightly in the field." with that he spurred his horse unto the sycamore, and blew the ivory horn so eagerly, that all the castle rang its echoes. instantly, all the knights who were in the pavilions ran forth, and those within the castle looked out from the windows, or above the walls. and the knight of the redlands, arming himself quickly in blood-red armor, with spear, and shield, and horse's trappings of like color, rode forth into a little valley by the castle walls, so that all in the castle, and at the siege, might see the battle. "be of good cheer," said the damsel linet to sir beaumains, "for thy deadly enemy now cometh; and at yonder window is my lady and sister, dame lyones." "in good sooth," said sir beaumains, "she is the fairest lady i have ever seen, and i would wish no better quarrel than to fight for her." with that, he looked up to the window, and saw the lady lyones, who waved her handkerchief to her sister and to him to cheer them. then called the knight of the redlands to sir beaumains, "leave now thy gazing, sir knight, and turn to me, for i warn thee that lady is mine." "she loveth none of thy fellowship," he answered; "but know this, that i love her, and will rescue her from thee, or die." "say ye so!" said the red knight. "take ye no warning from those knights that hang on yonder trees?" "for shame that thou so boastest!" said sir beaumains. "be sure that sight hath raised a hatred for thee that will not lightly be put out, and given me not fear, but rage." "sir knight, defend thyself," said the knight of the redlands, "for we will talk no longer." then did they put their spears in rest, and came together at the fullest speed of their horses, and smote each other in the midst of their shields, so that their horses' harness sundered by the shock, and they fell to the ground. and both lay there so long time, stunned, that many deemed their necks were broken. and all men said the strange knight was a strong man, and a noble jouster, for none had ever yet so matched the knight of the redlands. then, in a while, they rose, and putting up their shields before them, drew their swords, and fought with fury, running at each other like wild beasts--now striking such buffets that both reeled backwards, now hewing at each other till they shore the harness off in pieces, and left their bodies naked and unarmed. and thus they fought till noon was past, when, for a time, they rested to get breath, so sorely staggering and bleeding, that many who beheld them wept for pity. then they renewed the battle--sometimes rushing so furiously together, that both fell to the ground, and anon changing swords in their confusion. thus they endured, and lashed, and struggled, until eventide, and none who saw knew which was the likeliest to win; for though the knight of the redlands was a wily and subtle warrior, his subtlety made sir beaumains wilier and wiser too. so once again they rested for a little space, and took their helms off to find breath. but when sir beaumains' helm was off, he looked up to dame lyones, where she leaned, gazing and weeping, from her window. and when he saw the sweetness of her smiling, all his heart was light and joyful, and starting up, he bade the knight of the redlands make ready. then did they lace their helms and fight together yet afresh, as though they had never fought before. and at the last, the knight of the redlands with a sudden stroke smote sir beaumains on the hand, so that his sword fell from it, and with a second stroke upon the helm he drove him to the earth. then cried aloud the damsel linet, "alas! sir beaumains, see how my sister weepeth to behold thee fallen!" and when sir beaumains heard her words, he sprang upon his feet with strength, and leaping to his sword, he caught it; and with many heavy blows pressed so sorely on the knight of the redlands, that in the end he smote his sword from out his hand, and, with a mighty blow upon the head, hurled him upon the ground. then sir beaumains unlaced his helm, and would have straightway slain him, but the knight of the redlands yielded, and prayed for mercy. "i may not spare thee," answered he, "because of the shameful death which thou hast given to so many noble knights." "yet hold thy hand, sir knight," said he, "and hear the cause. i loved once a fair damsel, whose brother was slain, as she told me, by a knight of arthur's court, either sir lancelot, or sir gawain; and she prayed me, as i truly loved her, and by the faith of my knighthood, to labor daily in deeds of arms, till i should meet with him; and to put all knights of the round table whom i should overcome to a villainous death. and this i swore to her." then prayed the earls, and knights, and barons, who stood round sir beaumains, to spare the red knight's life. "truly," replied he, "i am loth to slay him, notwithstanding he hath done such shameful deeds. and inasmuch as what he did was done to please his lady and to gain her love, i blame him less, and for your sakes i will release him. but on this agreement only shall he hold his life--that straightway he depart into the castle, and yield him to the lady there, and make her such amends as she shall ask, for all the trespass he hath done upon her lands; and afterwards, that he shall go unto king arthur's court, and ask the pardon of sir lancelot and sir gawain for all the evil he hath done against them." "all this, sir knight, i swear to do," said the knight of the redlands; and therewith he did him homage and fealty. then came the damsel linet to sir beaumains and the knight of the redlands, and disarmed them, and staunched their wounds. and when the knight of the redlands had made amends for all his trespasses, he departed for the court. then sir beaumains, being healed of his wounds, armed himself, and took his horse and spear and rode straight to the castle of dame lyones, for greatly he desired to see her. but when he came to the gate they closed it fast, and pulled the drawbridge up. and as he marveled thereat, he saw the lady lyones standing at a window, who said, "go thy way as yet, sir beaumains, for thou shalt not wholly have my love until thou be among the worthiest knights of all the world. go, therefore, and labor yet in arms for twelve months more, and then return to me." "alas! fair lady," said sir beaumains, "i have scarce deserved this of thee, for sure i am that i have bought thy love with all the best blood in my body." "be not aggrieved, fair knight," said she, "for none of thy service is forgot or lost. twelve months will soon be passed in noble deeds; and trust that to my death i shall love thee and not another." with that she turned and left the window. so sir beaumains rode away from the castle very sorrowful at heart, and rode he knew not whither, and lay that night in a poor man's cottage. on the morrow he went forward, and came at noon to a broad lake, and thereby he alighted, being very sad and weary, and rested his head upon his shield, and told his dwarf to keep watch while he slept. now, as soon as he had departed, the lady lyones repented, and greatly longed to see him back, and asked her sister many times of what lineage he was; but the damsel would not tell her, being bound by her oath to sir beaumains, and said his dwarf best knew. so she called sir gringamors, her brother, who dwelt with her, and prayed him to ride after sir beaumains till he found him sleeping, and then to take his dwarf away and bring him back to her. anon sir gringamors departed, and rode till he came to sir beaumains, and found him as he lay sleeping by the water-side. then stepping stealthily behind the dwarf he caught him in his arms and rode off in haste. and though the dwarf cried loudly to his lord for help, and woke sir beaumains, yet, though he rode full quickly after him, he could not overtake sir gringamors. when dame lyones saw her brother come back, she was passing glad of heart, and forthwith asked the dwarf his master's lineage. "he is a king's son," said the dwarf, "and his mother is king arthur's sister. his name is sir gareth of orkney, and he is brother to the good knight, sir gawain. but i pray you suffer me to go back to my lord, for truly he will never leave this country till he have me again." but when the lady lyones knew her deliverer was come of such a kingly stock, she longed more than ever to see him again. now as sir beaumains rode in vain to rescue his dwarf, he came to a fair green road and met a poor man of the country, and asked him had he seen a knight on a black horse, riding with a dwarf of a sad countenance behind him. "yea," said the man, "i met with such a knight an hour agone, and his name is sir gringamors. he liveth at a castle two miles from hence; but he is a perilous knight, and i counsel ye not to follow him save ye bear him goodwill." then sir beaumains followed the path which the poor man showed him, and came to the castle. and riding to the gate in great anger, he drew his sword, and cried aloud, "sir gringamors, thou traitor! deliver me my dwarf again, or by my knighthood it shall be ill for thee!" then sir gringamors looked out of a window and said, "sir gareth of orkney, leave thy boasting words, for thou wilt not get thy dwarf again." but the lady lyones said to her brother, "nay, brother, but i will that he have his dwarf, for he hath done much for me, and delivered me from the knight of the redlands, and well do i love him above all other knights." so sir gringamors went down to sir gareth and cried him mercy, and prayed him to alight and take good cheer. then he alighted, and his dwarf ran to him. and when he was in the hall came the lady lyones dressed royally like a princess. and sir gareth was right glad of heart when he saw her. then she told him how she had made her brother take away his dwarf and bring him back to her. and then she promised him her love, and faithfully to cleave to him and none other all the days of her life. and so they plighted their troth to each other. then sir gringamors prayed him to sojourn at the castle, which willing he did. "for," said he, "i have promised to quit the court for twelve months, though sure i am that in the meanwhile i shall be sought and found by my lord king arthur and many others." so he sojourned long at the castle. anon the knights, sir perseant, sir perimones, and sir pertolope, whom sir gareth had overthrown, went to king arthur's court with all the knights who did them service, and told the king they had been conquered by a knight of his named beaumains. and as they yet were talking, it was told the king there came another great lord with five hundred knights, who, entering in, did homage, and declared himself to be the knight of the redlands. "but my true name," said he, "is ironside, and i am hither sent by one sir beaumains, who conquered me, and charged me to yield unto your grace." "thou art welcome," said king arthur, "for thou hast been long a foe to me and mine, and truly i am much beholden to the knight who sent thee. and now, sir ironside, if thou wilt amend thy life and hold of me, i will entreat thee as a friend, and make thee knight of the round table; but thou mayst no more be a murderer of noble knights." then the knight of the redlands knelt to the king, and told him of his promise to sir beaumains to use never more such shameful customs; and how he had so done but at the prayer of a lady whom he loved. then knelt he to sir lancelot and sir gawain, and prayed their pardon for the hatred he had borne them. but the king and all the court marveled greatly who sir beaumains was. "for," said the king, "he is a full noble knight." then said sir lancelot, "truly he is come of honorable blood, else had i not given him the order of knighthood; but he charged me that i should conceal his secret." now as they talked thus it was told king arthur that his sister, the queen of orkney, was come to the court with a great retinue of knights and ladies. then was there great rejoicing, and the king rose and saluted his sister. and her sons, sir gawain, sir agravain, and sir gaheris knelt before her and asked her blessing, for during fifteen years last past they had not seen her. anon she said, "where is my youngest son, sir gareth? for i know that he was here a twelve-month with you, and that ye made a kitchen knave of him." then the king and all the knights knew that sir beaumains and sir gareth were the same. "truly," said the king, "i knew him not." "nor i," said sir gawain and both his brothers. then said the king, "god be thanked, fair sister, that he is proved as worshipful a knight as any now alive, and by the grace of heaven he shall be found forthwith if he be anywhere within these seven realms." then said sir gawain and his brethren, "lord, if ye will give us leave we will go seek him." but sir lancelot said, "it were better that the king should send a messenger to dame lyones and pray her to come hither with all speed, and she will counsel where ye shall find him." "it is well said," replied the king; and sent a messenger quickly unto dame lyones. when she heard the message she promised she would come forthwith, and told sir gareth what the messenger had said, and asked him what to do. "i pray you," said he, "tell them not where i am, but when my lord king arthur asketh for me, advise him thus--that he proclaim a tournament before this castle on assumption day, and that the knight who proveth best shall win yourself and all your lands." so the lady lyones departed and came to king arthur's court, and there was right nobly welcomed. and when they asked her where sir gareth was, she said she could not tell. "but, lord," said she, "with thy goodwill i will proclaim a tournament before my castle on the feast of the assumption, whereof the prize shall be myself and all my lands. then if it be proclaimed that you, lord, and your knights will be there, i will find knights on my side to fight you and yours, and thus am i sure ye will hear tidings of sir gareth." "be it so done," replied the king. so sir gareth sent messengers privily to sir perseant and sir ironside, and charged them to be ready on the day appointed, with their companies of knights to aid him and his party against the king. and when they were arrived he said, "now be ye well assured that we shall be matched with the best knights of the world, and therefore must we gather all the good knights we can find." so proclamation was made throughout all england, wales, scotland, ireland, and cornwall, and in the out isles and other countries, that at the feast of the assumption of our lady, next coming, all knights who came to joust at castle perilous should make choice whether they would side with the king or with the castle. then came many good knights on the side of the castle. sir epinogris, the son of the king of northumberland, and sir palomedes the saracen, and sir grummore grummorsum, a good knight of scotland, and sir brian des iles, a noble knight, and sir carados of the tower dolorous, and sir tristram, who as yet was not a knight of the round table, and many others. but none among them knew sir gareth, for he took no more upon him than any mean person. and on king arthur's side there came the king of ireland and the king of scotland, the noble prince sir galahaut, sir gawain and his brothers sir agravain and sir gaheris, sir ewaine, sir tor, sir perceval, and sir lamoracke, sir lancelot also and his kindred, sir lionel, sir ector, sir bors and sir bedivere, likewise sir key and the most part of the table round. the two queens also, queen guinevere and the queen of orkney, sir gareth's mother, came with the king. so there was a great array both within and without the castle, with all manner of feasting and minstrelsy. now before the tournament began, sir gareth privily prayed dame lyones, sir gringamors, sir ironside, and sir perseant, that they would in nowise disclose his name, nor make more of him than of any common knight. then said dame lyones, "dear lord, i pray thee take this ring, which hath the power to change the wearer's clothing into any color he may will, and guardeth him from any loss of blood. but give it me again, i pray thee, when the tournament is done, for it greatly increaseth my beauty whensoever i wear it." "gramercy, mine own lady," said sir gareth, "i wished for nothing better, for now i may be certainly disguised as long as i will." then sir gringamors gave sir gareth a bay courser that was a passing good horse, with sure armor, and a noble sword, won by his father from a heathen tyrant. and then every knight made him ready for the tournament. so on the day of the assumption, when mass and matins were said, the heralds blew their trumpets and sounded for the tourney. anon came out the knights of the castle and the knights of king arthur, and matched themselves together. then sir epinogris, son of the king of northumberland, a knight of the castle, encountered sir ewaine, and both broke off their spears short to their hands. then came sir palomedes from the castle, and met sir gawain, and they so hardly smote each other, that both knights and horses fell to the earth. then sir tristram, from the castle, encountered with sir bedivere, and smote him to the earth, horse and man. then the knight of the redlands and sir gareth met with sir bors and sir bleoberis; and the knight of the redlands and sir bors smote together so hard that their spears burst, and their horses fell groveling to the ground. and sir bleoberis brake his spear upon sir gareth, but himself was hurled upon the ground. when sir galihodin saw that, he bade sir gareth keep him, but sir gareth lightly smote him to the earth. then sir galihud got a spear to avenge his brother, but was served in like manner. and sir dinadam, and his brother la-cote-male-taile, and sir sagramour le desirous, and dodinas le savage, he bore down all with one spear. when king anguish of ireland saw this, he marveled what that knight could be who seemed at one time green and at another blue; for so at every course he changed his color that none might know him. then he ran towards him and encountered him, and sir gareth smote the king from his horse, saddle and all. and in like manner he served the king of scotland, and king urience of gore, and king bagdemagus. then sir galahaut, the noble prince, cried out, "knight of the many colors! thou hast jousted well; now make thee ready to joust with me." when sir gareth heard him, he took a great spear and met him swiftly. and the prince's spear broke off, but sir gareth smote him on the left side of the helm, so that he reeled here and there, and had fallen down had not his men recovered him. "by my faith," said king arthur, "that knight of the many colors is a good knight. i pray thee, sir lancelot du lake, encounter with him." "lord," said sir lancelot, "by thy leave i will forbear. i find it in my heart to spare him at this time, for he hath done enough work for one day; and when a good knight doth so well it is no knightly part to hinder him from this honor. and peradventure his quarrel is here to-day, and he may be the best beloved of the lady lyones of all that be here; for i see well he paineth and forceth himself to do great deeds. therefore, as for me, this day he shall have the honor; for though i were able to put him from it, i would not." "you speak well and truly," said the king. then after the tilting, they drew swords, and there began a great tournament, and there sir lancelot did marvelous deeds of arms, for first he fought with both sir tristram and sir carados, albeit they were the most perilous in all the world. then came sir gareth and put them asunder, but would not smite a stroke against sir lancelot, for by him he had been knighted. anon sir gareth's helm had need of mending, and he rode aside to see to it and to drink water, for he was sore athirst with all his mighty feats of strength. and while he drank, his dwarf said to him, "give me your ring, lest ye lose it while ye drink." so sir gareth took it off. and when he had finished drinking, he rode back eagerly to the field, and in his haste forgot to take the ring again. then all the people saw that he wore yellow armor. and king arthur told a herald, "ride and espy the cognizance of that brave knight, for i have asked many who he is, and none can tell me." then the herald rode near, and saw written round about his helmet in letters of gold, "sir gareth of orkney." and instantly the herald cried his name aloud, and all men pressed to see him. but when he saw he was discovered, he pushed with haste through all the crowd, and cried to his dwarf, "boy, thou hast beguiled me foully in keeping my ring; give it me again, that i may be hidden." and as soon as he had put it on, his armor changed again, and no man knew where he had gone. then he passed forth from the field; but sir gawain, his brother, rode after him. and when sir gareth had ridden far into the forest, he took off his ring, and sent it back by the dwarf to the lady lyones, praying her to be true and faithful to him while he was away. then rode sir gareth long through the forest, till night fell, and coming to a castle he went up to the gate, and prayed the porter to let him in. but churlishly he answered "that he should not lodge there." then said sir gareth, "tell thy lord and lady that i am a knight of king arthur's court, and for his sake i pray their shelter." with that the porter went to the duchess who owned the castle. "let him in straightway," cried she; "for the king's sake he shall not be harborless!" and went down to receive him. when sir gareth saw her coming, he saluted her, and said, "fair lady, i pray you give me shelter for this night, and if there be here any champion or giant with whom i must needs fight, spare me till to-morrow, when i and my horse shall have rested, for we are full weary." "sir knight," she said, "thou speakest boldly; for the lord of this castle is a foe to king arthur and his court, and if thou wilt rest here to-night thou must agree, that wheresoever thou mayest meet my lord, thou must yield to him as a prisoner." "what is thy lord's name, lady?" said sir gareth. "the duke de la rowse," said she. "i will promise thee," said he, "to yield to him, if he promise to do me no harm; but if he refuse, i will release myself with my sword and spear." "it is well," said the duchess; and commanded the drawbridge to be let down. so he rode into the hall and alighted. and when he had taken off his armor, the duchess and her ladies made him passing good cheer. and after supper his bed was made in the hall, and there he rested that night. on the morrow he rose and heard mass, and having broken his fast, took his leave and departed. and as he rode past a certain mountain there met him a knight named sir bendelaine, and cried unto him, "thou shalt not pass unless thou joust with me or be my prisoner!" "then will we joust," replied sir gareth. so they let their horses run at full speed, and sir gareth smote sir bendelaine through his body so sorely that he scarcely reached his castle ere he fell dead. and as sir gareth presently came by the castle, sir bendelaine's knights and servants rode out to revenge their lord. and twenty of them fell on him at once, although his spear was broken. but drawing his sword he put his shield before him. and though they brake their spears upon him, one and all, and sorely pressed on him, yet ever he defended himself like a noble knight. anon, finding they could not overcome him, they agreed to slay his horse; and having killed it with their spears, they set upon sir gareth as he fought on foot. but every one he struck he slew, and drave at them with fearful blows, till he had slain them all but four, who fled. then taking the horse of one of those that lay there dead, he rode upon his way. anon he came to another castle and heard from within a sound as of many women moaning and weeping. then said he to a page who stood without, "what noise is this i hear?" "sir knight," said he, "there be within thirty ladies, the widows of thirty knights who have been slain by the lord of this castle. he is called the brown knight without pity, and is the most perilous knight living, wherefore i warn thee to flee." "that will i never do," said sir gareth, "for i fear him not." then the page saw the brown knight coming and said to gareth, "lo! my lord is near." so both knights made them ready and galloped their horses towards each other, and the brown knight brake his spear upon sir gareth's shield; but sir gareth smote him through the body so that he fell dead. at that he rode into the castle and told the ladies he had slain their foe. then were they right glad of heart and made him all the cheer they could, and thanked him out of measure. but on the morrow as he went to mass he found the ladies weeping in the chapel upon divers tombs that were there. and he knew that in those tombs their husbands lay. then he bade them be comforted, and with noble and high words he desired and prayed them all to be at arthur's court on the next feast of pentecost. so he departed and rode past a mountain where was a goodly knight waiting, who said to him, "abide, sir knight, and joust with me!" "how are ye named?" said sir gareth. "i am the duke de la rowse," answered he. "in good sooth," then said sir gareth, "not long ago i lodged within your castle, and there promised i would yield to you whenever we might meet." "art thou that proud knight," said the duke, "who was ready to fight with me? guard thyself therefore and make ready." so they ran together, and sir gareth smote the duke from his horse. then they alighted and drew their swords, and fought full sorely for the space of an hour; and at the last sir gareth smote the duke to the earth and would have slain him, but he yielded. "then must ye go," said sir gareth, "to my lord king arthur at the next feast of pentecost and say that i, sir gareth, sent ye." "as ye will be it," said the duke; and gave him up his shield for pledge. and as sir gareth rode alone he saw an armed knight coming towards him. and putting the duke's shield before him he rode fast to tilt with him; and so they ran together as it had been thunder, and brake their spears upon each other. then fought they fiercely with their swords, and lashed together with such mighty strokes that blood ran to the ground on every side. and after they had fought together for two hours and more, it chanced the damsel linet passed that way; and when she saw them, she cried out, "sir gawain and sir gareth, leave your fighting, for ye are brethren!" at that they threw away their shields and swords, and took each other in their arms, and wept a great while ere they could speak. and each gave to the other the honor of the battle, and there was many a kind word between them. then said sir gawain, "o my brother, for your sake have i had great sorrow and labor! but truly i would honor you though ye were not my brother, for ye have done great worship to king arthur and his court, and sent more knights to him than any of the table round, except sir lancelot." then the damsel linet staunched their wounds, and their horses being weary she rode her palfrey to king arthur and told him of this strange adventure. when she had told her tidings, the king himself mounted his horse and bade all come with him to meet them. so a great company of lords and ladies went forth to meet the brothers. and when king arthur saw them he would have spoken hearty words, but for gladness he could not. and both sir gawain and sir gareth fell down at their uncle's knees and did him homage, and there was passing great joy and gladness among them all. then said the king to the damsel linet, "why cometh not the lady lyones to visit her knight, sir gareth, who hath had such travail for her love?" "she knoweth not, my lord, that he is here," replied the damsel, "for truly she desireth greatly to see him." "go ye and bring her hither," said the king. so the damsel rode to tell her sister where sir gareth was, and when she heard it she rejoiced full heartily and came with all the speed she could. and when sir gareth saw her, there was great joy and comfort between them. then the king asked sir gareth whether he would have that lady for his wife? "my lord," replied sir gareth, "know well that i love her above all ladies living." "now, fair lady," said king arthur, "what say ye?" "most noble king," she answered, "my lord, sir gareth, is my first love and shall be my last, and if i may not have him for my husband i will have none." then said the king to them, "be well assured that for my crown i would not be the cause of parting your two hearts." then was high preparation made for the marriage, for the king desired it should be at the michaelmas next following, at kinkenadon-by-the-sea. so sir gareth sent out messages to all the knights whom he had overcome in battle that they should be there upon his marriage-day. therefore, at the next michaelmas, came a goodly company to kinkenadon-by-the-sea. and there did the archbishop of canterbury marry sir gareth and the lady lyones with all solemnity. and all the knights whom sir gareth had overcome were at the feast; and every manner of revels and games was held with music and minstrelsy. and there was a great jousting for three days. but because of his bride the king would not suffer sir gareth to joust. then did king arthur give great lands and fair, with store of gold, to sir gareth and his wife, that so they might live royally together to their lives' end. xii the adventures of sir tristram again king arthur held high festival at caerleon, at pentecost, and gathered round him all the fellowship of the round table, and so, according to his custom, sat and waited till some adventure should arise, or some knight return to court whose deeds and perils might be told. anon he saw sir lancelot and a crowd of knights coming through the doors and leading in their midst the mighty knight, sir tristram. as soon as king arthur saw him, he rose up and went through half the hall, and held out both his hands and cried, "right welcome to thee, good sir tristram, as welcome art thou as any knight that ever came before into this court. a long time have i wished for thee amongst my fellowship." then all the knights and barons rose up with one accord and came around, and cried out, "welcome." queen guinevere came also, and many ladies with her, and all with one voice said the same. then the king took sir tristram by the hand and led him to the round table and said, "welcome again for one of the best and gentlest knights in all the world; a chief in war, a chief in peace, a chief in field and forest, a chief in the ladies' chamber--right heartily welcome to this court, and mayest thou long abide in it." when he had so said he looked at every empty seat until he came to what had been sir marhaus', and there he found written in gold letters, "this is the seat of the noble knight, sir tristram." whereat they made him, with great cheer and gladness, a fellow of the round table. now the story of sir tristram was as follows:-- there was a king of lyonesse, named meliodas, married to the sister of king mark of cornwall, a right fair lady and a good. and so it happened that king meliodas hunting in the woods was taken by enchantment and made prisoner in a castle. when his wife elizabeth heard it she was nigh mad with grief, and ran into the forest to seek out her lord. but after many days of wandering and sorrow she found no trace of him, and laid her down in a deep valley and prayed to meet her death. and so indeed she did, but ere she died she gave birth in the midst of all her sorrow to child, a boy, and called him with her latest breath tristram; for she said, "his name shall show how sadly he hath come into this world." therewith she gave up her ghost, and the gentlewoman who was with her took the child and wrapped it from the cold as well as she was able, and lay down with it in her arms beneath the shadow of a tree hard by, expecting death to come to her in turn. but shortly after came a company of lords and barons seeking for the queen, and found the lady and the child and took them home. and on the next day came king meliodas, whom merlin had delivered, and when he heard of the queen's death his sorrow was greater than tongue can tell. and anon he buried her solemnly and nobly, and called the child tristram as she had desired. then for seven years king meliodas mourned and took no comfort, and all that time young tristram was well nourished; but in a while he wedded with the daughter of howell, king of brittany, who, that her own children might enjoy the kingdom, cast about in her mind how she might destroy tristram. so on a certain day she put poison in a silver cup, where tristram and her children were together playing, that when he was athirst he might drink of it and die. but so it happened that her own son saw the cup, and, thinking it must hold good drink, he climbed and took it, and drank deeply of it, and suddenly thereafter burst and fell down dead. when the queen heard that, her grief was very great, but her anger and envy were fiercer than before, and soon again she put more poison in the cup. and by chance one day her husband finding it when thirsty, took it up and was about to drink therefrom, when, seeing him, she sprang up with a mighty cry and dashed it from his hands. at that king meliodas, wondering greatly, called to mind the sudden death of his young child, and taking her fiercely by the hand he cried: "traitress, tell me what drink is in this cup or i will slay thee in a moment;" and therewith pulling out his sword he swore by a great oath to slay her if she straightway told him not the truth. "ah, mercy, lord," said she, and fell down at his feet; "mercy, and i will tell thee all." and then she told him of her plot to murder tristram, so that her own sons might enjoy the kingdom. "the law shall judge thee," said the king. and so anon she was tried before the barons, and condemned to be burnt to death. but when the fire was made, and she brought out, came tristram kneeling at his father's feet and besought of him a favor. "whatsoever thou desirest i will give thee," said the king. "give me the life, then, of the queen, my step-mother," said he. "thou doest wrong to ask it," said meliodas; "for she would have slain thee with her poisons if she could, and chiefly for thy sake she ought to die." "sir," said he, "as for that, i beseech thee of thy mercy to forgive it her, and for my part may god pardon her as i do; and so i pray thee grant me my boon, and for god's sake hold thee to thy promise." "if it must be so," said the king, "take thou her life, for to thee i give it, and go and do with her as thou wilt." then went young tristram to the fire and loosed the queen from all her bonds and delivered her from death. and after a great while by his good means the king again forgave and lived in peace with her, though never more in the same lodgings. anon was tristram sent abroad to france in care of one named governale. and there for seven years he learned the language of the land, and all knightly exercises and gentle crafts, and especially was he foremost in music and in hunting, and was a harper beyond all others. and when at nineteen years of age he came back to his father, he was as lusty and strong of body and as noble of heart as ever man was seen. now shortly after his return it befell that king anguish of ireland sent to king mark of cornwall for the tribute due to ireland, but which was now seven years behindhand. to whom king mark sent answer, if he would have it he must send and fight for it, and they would find a champion to fight against it. so king anguish called for sir marhaus, his wife's brother, a good knight of the round table, who lived then at his court, and sent him with a knightly retinue in six great ships to cornwall. and, casting anchor by the castle of tintagil, he sent up daily to king mark for the tribute or the champion. but no knight there would venture to assail him, for his fame was very high in all the realm for strength and hardihood. then made king mark a proclamation throughout cornwall, that if any knight would fight sir marhaus he should stand at the king's right hand forevermore, and have great honor and riches all the rest of his days. anon this news came to the land of lyonesse, and when young tristram heard it he was angry and ashamed to think no knight of cornwall durst assail the irish champion. "alas," said he, "that i am not a knight, that i might match this marhaus! i pray you give me leave, sir, to depart to king mark's court and beg him of his grace to make me knight." "be ruled by thy own courage," said his father. so tristram rode away forthwith to tintagil to king mark, and went up boldly to him and said, "sir, give me the order of knighthood and i will fight to the uttermost with sir marhaus of ireland." "what are ye, and whence come ye?" said the king, seeing he was but a young man, though strong and well made both in body and limb. "my name is tristram," said he, "and i was born in the country of lyonesse." "but know ye," said the king, "this irish knight will fight with none who be not come of royal blood and near of kin to kings or queens, as he himself is, for his sister is the queen of ireland." then said tristram, "let him know that i am come both on my father's and my mother's side of blood as good as his, for my father is king meliodas and my mother was that queen elizabeth, thy sister, who died in the forest at my birth." when king mark heard that he welcomed him with all his heart, and knighted him forthwith, and made him ready to go forth as soon as he would choose, and armed him royally in armor covered with gold and silver. then he sent sir marhaus word, "that a better man than he should fight with him, sir tristram of lyonesse, son of king meliodas and of king mark's own sister." so the battle was ordained to be fought in an island near sir marhaus' ships, and there sir tristram landed on the morrow, with governale alone attending him for squire, and him he sent back to the land when he had made himself ready. when sir marhaus and sir tristram were thus left alone, sir marhaus said, "young knight sir tristram, what doest thou here? i am full sorry for thy rashness, for ofttimes have i been assailed in vain, and by the best knights of the world. be warned in time, return to them that sent thee." "fair knight, and well-proved knight," replied sir tristram, "be sure that i shall never quit this quarrel till one of us be overcome. for this cause have i been made knight, and thou shalt know before we part that though as yet unproved, i am a king's son and firstborn of a queen. moreover i have promised to deliver cornwall from this ancient burden, or to die. also, thou shouldst have known, sir marhaus, that thy valor and thy might are but the better reasons why i should assail thee; for whether i win or lose i shall gain honor to have met so great a knight as thou art." then they began the battle, and tilted at their hardest against each other, so that both knights and horses fell to the earth. but sir marhaus' spear smote sir tristram a great wound in the side. then, springing up from their horses, they lashed together with their swords like two wild boars. and when they had stricken together a great while they left off strokes and lunged at one another's breasts and visors; but seeing this availed not they hurtled together again to bear each other down. thus fought they more than half the day, till both were sorely spent and blood ran from them to the ground on every side. but by this time sir tristram remained fresher than sir marhaus and better winded, and with a mighty stroke he smote him such a buffet as cut through his helm into his brain-pan, and there his sword stuck in so fast that thrice sir tristram pulled ere he could get it from his head. then fell sir marhaus down upon his knees, and the edge of sir tristram's sword broke off into his brain-pan. and suddenly when he seemed dead, sir marhaus rose and threw his sword and shield away from him and ran and fled into his ship. and tristram cried out after him, "aha! sir knight of the round table, dost thou withdraw thee from so young a knight? it is a shame to thee and all thy kin; i would rather have been hewn into a hundred pieces than have fled from thee." but sir marhaus answered nothing, and sorely groaning fled away. "farewell, sir knight, farewell," laughed tristram, whose own voice now was hoarse and faint with loss of blood; "i have thy sword and shield in my safe keeping, and will wear them in all places where i ride on my adventures, and before king arthur and the table round." then was sir marhaus taken back to ireland by his company; and as soon as he arrived his wounds were searched, and when they searched his head they found therein a piece of tristram's sword; but all the skill of surgeons was in vain to move it out. so anon sir marhaus died. but the queen, his sister, took the piece of sword-blade and put it safely by, for she thought that some day it might help her to revenge her brother's death. meanwhile, sir tristram, being sorely wounded, sat down softly on a little mound and bled passing fast; and in that evil case was found anon by governale and king mark's knights. then they gently took him up and brought him in a barge back to the land, and lifted him into a bed within the castle, and had his wounds dressed carefully. but for a great while he lay sick, and was likely to have died of the first stroke sir marhaus had given him with the spear, for the point of it was poisoned. and, though the wisest surgeons and leeches--both men and women--came from every part, yet could he be by no means cured. at last came a wise lady, and said plainly that sir tristram never should be healed, until he went and stayed in that same country when the poison came. when this was understood, the king sent sir tristram in a fair and goodly ship to ireland, and by fortune he arrived fast by a castle where the king and queen were. and as the ship was being anchored, he sat upon his bed and harped a merry lay, and made so sweet a music as was never equaled. when the king heard that the sweet harper was a wounded knight, he sent for him, and asked his name. "i am of the country of lyonesse," he answered, "and my name is tramtrist;" for he dared not tell his true name lest the vengeance of the queen should fall upon him for her brother's death. "well," said king anguish, "thou art right welcome here, and shalt have all the help this land can give thee; but be not anxious if i am at times cast down and sad, for but lately in cornwall the best knight in the world, fighting for my cause, was slain; his name was sir marhaus, a knight of king arthur's round table." and then he told sir tristram all the story of sir marhaus' battle, and sir tristram made pretense of great surprise and sorrow, though he knew all far better than the king himself. then was he put in charge of the king's daughter, la belle isault, to be healed of his wound, and she was as fair and noble a lady as men's eyes might see. and so marvelously was she skilled in medicine, that in a few days she fully cured him; and in return sir tramtrist taught her the harp; so, before long, they two began to love each other greatly. but at that time a heathen knight, sir palomedes, was in ireland, and much cherished by the king and queen. he also loved mightily la belle isault, and never wearied of making her great gifts, and seeking for her favor, and was ready even to be christened for her sake. sir tramtrist therefore hated him out of measure, and sir palomedes was full of rage and envy against tramtrist. and so it befell that king anguish proclaimed a great tournament to be held, the prize whereof should be a lady called the lady of the launds, of near kindred to the king: and her the winner of the tournament should wed in three days afterwards, and possess all her lands. when la belle isault told sir tramtrist of this tournament, he said, "fair lady! i am yet a feeble knight, and but for thee had been a dead man now: what wouldest thou i should do? thou knowest well i may not joust." "ah, tramtrist," said she, "why wilt thou not fight in this tournament? sir palomedes will be there, and will do his mightiest; and therefore be thou there, i pray thee, or else he will be winner of the prize." "madam," said tramtrist, "i will go, and for thy sake will do my best; but let me go unknown to all men; and do thou, i pray thee, keep my counsel, and help me to a disguise." so on the day of jousting came sir palomedes, with a black shield, and overthrew many knights. and all the people wondered at his prowess; for on the first day he put to the worse sir gawain, sir gaheris, sir agravaine, sir key, and many more from far and near. and on the morrow he was conqueror again, and overthrew the king with a hundred knights and the king of scotland. but presently sir tramtrist rode up to the lists, having been let out at a privy postern of the castle, where none could see. la belle isault had dressed him in white armor and given him a white horse and shield, and so he came suddenly into the field as it had been a bright angel. as soon as sir palomedes saw him he ran at him with a great spear in rest, but sir tramtrist was ready, and at the first encounter hurled him to the ground. then there arose a great cry that the knight with the black shield was overthrown. and palomedes, sorely hurt and shamed, sought out a secret way and would have left the field; but tramtrist watched him, and rode after him, and bade him stay, for he had not yet done with him. then did sir palomedes turn with fury, and lash at sir tramtrist with his sword; but at the first stroke sir tramtrist smote him to the earth, and cried, "do now all my commands, or take thy death." then he yielded to sir tristram's mercy, and promised to forsake la belle isault, and for twelve months to wear no arms or armor. and rising up, he cut his armor off him into shreds with rage and madness, and turned and left the field: and sir tramtrist also left the lists, and rode back to the castle through the postern gate. then was sir tramtrist long cherished by the king and queen of ireland, and ever with la belle isault. but on a certain day, while he was bathing, came the queen with la belle isault by chance into his chamber, and saw his sword lie naked on the bed: anon she drew it from the scabbard and looked at it a long while, and both thought it a passing fair sword; but within a foot and a half of the end there was a great piece broken out, and while the queen was looking at the gap, she suddenly remembered the piece of sword-blade that was found in the brain-pan of her brother sir marhaus. therewith she turned and cried, "by my faith, this is the felon knight who slew thy uncle!" and running to her chamber she sought in her casket for the piece of iron from sir marhaus' head and brought it back, and fitted it in tristram's sword; and surely did it fit therein as closely as it had been but yesterday broke out. then the queen caught the sword up fiercely in her hand, and ran into the room where sir tristram was yet in his bath, and making straight for him, had run him through the body, had not his squire, sir hebes, got her in his arms, and pulled the sword away from her. then ran she to the king, and fell upon her knees before him, saying, "lord and husband, thou hast here in thy house that felon knight who slew my brother marhaus!" "who is it?" said the king. "it is sir tramtrist!" said she, "whom isault hath healed." "alas!" replied the king, "i am full grieved thereat, for he is a good knight as ever i have seen in any field; but i charge thee leave thou him, and let me deal with him." then the king went to sir tramtrist's chamber and found him all armed and ready to mount his horse, and said to him, "sir tramtrist, it is not to prove me against thee i come, for it were shameful of thy host to seek thy life. depart in peace, but tell me first thy name, and whether thou slewest my brother, sir marhaus." then sir tristram told him all the truth, and how he had hid his name, to be unknown in ireland; and when he had ended, the king declared he held him in no blame. "howbeit, i cannot for mine honor's sake retain thee at this court, for so i should displease my barons, and my wife, and all her kin." "sir," said sir tristram, "i thank thee for the goodness thou hast shown me here, and for the great goodness my lady, thy daughter, hath shown me; and it may chance to be more for thy advantage if i live than if i die; for wheresoever i may be, i shall ever seek thy service, and shall be my lady thy daughter's servant in all places, and her knight in right and wrong, and shall never fail to do for her as much as knight can do." then sir tristram went to la belle isault, and took his leave of her. "o gentle knight," said she, "full of grief am i at your departing, for never yet i saw a man to love so well." "madam," said he, "i promise faithfully that all my life i shall be your knight." then sir tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and after that he left her, weeping and lamenting, and went among the barons, and openly took his leave of them all, saying, "fair lords, it so befalleth that i now must depart hence; therefore, if there be any here whom i have offended or who is grieved with me, let him now say it, and before i go i will amend it to the utmost of my power. and if there be but one who would speak shame of me behind my back, let him say it now or never, and here is my body to prove it on--body against body." and all stood still and said no word, though some there were of the queen's kindred who would have assailed him had they dared. so sir tristram departed from ireland and took the sea and came with a fair wind to tintagil. and when the news came to king mark that sir tristram was returned, healed of his wound, he was passing glad, and so were all his barons. and when he had visited the king his uncle, he rode to his father, king meliodas, and there had all the heartiest welcome that could be made him. and both the king and queen gave largely to him of their lands and goods. anon he came again to king mark's court, and there lived in great joy and pleasure, till within a while the king grew jealous of his fame, and of the love and favor shown him by all damsels. and as long as king mark lived, he never after loved sir tristram, though there was much fair speech between them. then it befell upon a certain day that the good knight sir bleoberis de ganis, brother to sir blamor de ganis, and nigh cousin to sir lancelot of the lake, came to king mark's court and asked of him a favor. and though the king marveled, seeing he was a man of great renown, and a knight of the round table, he granted him all his asking. then said sir bleoberis, "i will have the fairest lady in your court, at my own choosing." "i may not say thee nay," replied the king; "choose therefore, but take all the issues of thy choice." so when he had looked around, he chose the wife of earl segwarides, and took her by the hand, and set her upon horseback behind his squire, and rode forth on his way. presently thereafter came in the earl, and rode out straightway after him in rage. but all the ladies cried out shame upon sir tristram that he had not gone, and one rebuked him foully and called him coward knight, that he would stand and see a lady forced away from his uncle's court. but sir tristram answered her, "fair lady, it is not my place to take part in this quarrel while her lord and husband is here to do it. had he not been at this court, peradventure i had been her champion. and if it so befall that he speed ill, then may it happen that i speak with that foul knight before he pass out of this realm." anon ran in one of sir segwarides' squires, and told that his master was sore wounded, and at the point of death. when sir tristram heard that, he was soon armed and on his horse, and governale, his servant, followed him with shield and spear. and as he rode, he met his cousin sir andret, who had been commanded by king mark to bring home to him two knights of king arthur's court who roamed the country thereabouts seeking adventures. "what tidings?" said sir tristram. "god help me, never worse," replied his cousin; "for those i went to bring have beaten and defeated me, and set my message at naught." "fair cousin," said sir tristram, "ride ye on your way, perchance if i should meet them ye may be revenged." so sir andret rode into cornwall, but sir tristram rode after the two knights who had misused him, namely, sir sagramour le desirous, and sir dodinas le savage. and before long he saw them but a little way before him. "sir," said governale, "by my advice thou wilt leave them alone, for they be two well-proved knights of arthur's court." "shall i not therefore rather meet them!" said sir tristram, and, riding swiftly after them, he called to them to stop, and asked them whence they came, and whither they were going, and what they were doing in those marches. sir sagramour looked haughtily at sir tristram, and made mocking of his words, and said, "fair knight, be ye a knight of cornwall?" "wherefore askest thou that?" said tristram. "truly, because it is full seldom seen," replied sir sagramour, "that cornish knights are valiant with their arms as with their tongues. it is but two hours since there met us such a cornish knight, who spoke great words with might and prowess, but anon, with little mastery, he was laid on earth, as i trow wilt thou be also." "fair lords," said sir tristram, "it may chance i be a better man than he; but, be that as it may, he was my cousin, and for his sake i will assail ye both; one cornish knight against ye two." when sir dodinas le savage heard this speech, he caught at his spear and said, "sir knight, keep well thyself;" and then they parted and came together as it had been thunder, and sir dodinas' spear split asunder; but sir tristram smote him with so full a stroke as hurled him over his horse's crupper, and nearly brake his neck. sir sagramour, seeing his fellow's fall, marveled who this new knight be, and dressed his spear, and came against sir tristram as a whirlwind; but sir tristram smote him a mighty buffet, and rolled him with his horse down on the ground; and in the falling he brake his thigh. then, looking at them both as they lay groveling on the grass, sir tristram said, "fair knights, will ye joust any more? are there no bigger knights in king arthur's court? will ye soon again speak shame of cornish knights?" "thou hast defeated us, in truth," replied sir sagramour, "and on the faith of knighthood i require thee tell us thy right name?" "ye charge me by a great thing," said sir tristram, "and i will answer ye." and when they heard his name the two knights were right glad that they had met sir tristram, for his deeds were known through all the land, and they prayed him to abide in their company. "nay," said he, "i must find a fellow-knight of yours, sir bleoberis de ganis, whom i seek." "god speed you well," said the two knights; and sir tristram rode away. soon he saw before him in a valley sir bleoberis with sir segwarides' wife riding behind his squire upon a palfrey. at that he cried out aloud, "abide, sir knight of king arthur's court, bring back again that lady or deliver her to me." "i will not," said bleoberis, "for i dread no cornish knight." "why," said sir tristram, "may not a cornish knight do well as any other? this day, but three miles back, two knights of thy own court met me, and found one cornish knight enough for both before we parted." "what were their names?" said sir bleoberis. "sir sagramour le desirous and sir dodinas le savage," said sir tristram. "ah," said sir bleoberis, amazed; "hast thou then met with them? by my faith, they were two good knights and men of worship, and if thou hast beat both thou must needs be a good knight; but for all that, thou shalt beat me also ere thou hast this lady." "defend thee, then," cried out sir tristram, and came upon him swiftly with his spear in rest. but sir bleoberis was as swift as he, and each bore down the other, horse and all, on to the earth. then they sprang clear of their horses, and lashed together full eagerly and mightily with their swords, tracing and traversing on the right hand and on the left more than two hours, and sometimes rushing together with such fury that they both lay groveling on the ground. at last sir bleoberis started back and said, "now, gentle knight, hold hard awhile, and let us speak together." "say on," said sir tristram, "and i will answer thee." "sir," said sir bleoberis, "i would know thy name, and court, and country." "i have no shame to tell them," said sir tristram. "i am king meliodas' son, and my mother was sister to king mark, from whose court i now come. my name is sir tristram de lyonesse." "truly," said sir bleoberis, "i am right glad to hear it, for thou art he that slew sir marhaus hand-to-hand, fighting for the cornish tribute; and overcame sir palomedes at the great irish tournament, where also thou didst overthrow sir gawain and his nine companions." "i am that knight," said sir tristram, "and now i pray thee tell me thy name." "i am sir bleoberis de ganis, cousin of sir lancelot of the lake, one of the best knights in all the world," he answered. "thou sayest truth," said sir tristram; "for sir lancelot, as all men know, is peerless in courtesy and knighthood, and for the great love i bear to his name i will not willingly fight more with thee his kinsman." "in good faith, sir," said sir bleoberis, "i am as loth to fight thee more; but since thou hast followed me to win this lady, i proffer thee kindness, courtesy, and gentleness; this lady shall be free to go with which of us she pleaseth best." "i am content," said sir tristram, "for i doubt not she will come to me." "that shalt thou shortly prove," said he, and called his squire, and set the lady in the midst between them, who forthwith walked to sir bleoberis and elected to abide with him. which, when sir tristram saw, he was in wondrous anger with her, and felt that he could scarce for shame return to king mark's court. but sir bleoberis said, "hearken to me, good knight, sir tristram, because king mark gave me free choice of any gift, and because this lady chose to go with me, i took her; but now i have fulfilled my quest and my adventure, and for thy sake she shall be sent back to her husband at the abbey where he lieth." so sir tristram rode back to tintagil, and sir bleoberis to the abbey where sir segwarides lay wounded, and there delivered up his lady, and departed as a noble knight. after this adventure sir tristram abode still at his uncle's court, till in the envy of his heart king mark devised a plan to be rid of him. so on a certain day he desired him to depart again for ireland, and there demand la belle isault on his behalf, to be his queen--forever had sir tristram praised her beauty and her goodness, till king mark desired to wed her for himself. moreover, he believed his nephew surely would be slain by the queen's kindred if he once were found again in ireland. but sir tristram, scorning fear, made ready to depart, and took with him the noblest knights that could be found, arrayed in the richest fashion. and when they were come to ireland, upon a certain day sir tristram gave his uncle's message, and king anguish consented thereto. but when la belle isault was told the tidings she was very sorrowful and loth--yet made she ready to set forth with sir tristram, and took with her dame bragwaine, her chief gentlewoman. then the queen gave dame bragwaine, and governale, sir tristram's servant, a little flask, and charged them that la belle isault and king mark should both drink of it on their marriage day, and then should they surely love each other all their lives. anon, sir tristram and isault, with a great company, took the sea and departed. and so it chanced that one day sitting in their cabin they were athirst, and saw a little flask of gold which seemed to hold good wine. so sir tristram took it up, and said, "fair lady, this looketh to be the best of wines, and your maid, dame bragwaine, and my servant, governale, have kept it for themselves." thereat they both laughed merrily, and drank each after other from the flask, and never before had they tasted any wine which seemed so good and sweet. but by the time they had finished drinking they loved each other so well that their love nevermore might leave them for weal or woe. and thus it came to pass that though sir tristram might never wed la belle isault, he did the mightiest deeds of arms for her sake only all his life. then they sailed onwards till they came to a castle called pluere, where they would have rested. but anon there ran forth a great company and took them prisoners. and when they were in prison, sir tristram asked a knight and lady whom they found therein wherefore they were so shamefully dealt with; "for," said he, "it was never the custom of any place of honor that i ever came unto to seize a knight and lady asking shelter and thrust them into prison, and a full evil and discourteous custom is it." "sir," said the knight, "know ye not that this is called the castle pluere, or the weeping castle, and that it is an ancient custom here that whatsoever knight abideth in it must needs fight the lord of it, sir brewnor, and he that is the weakest shall lose his head. and if the lady he hath with him be less fair than the lord's wife, she shall lose her head; but if she be fairer, then must the lady of the castle lose her head." "now heaven help me," said sir tristram, "but this is a foul and shameful custom. yet have i one advantage, for my lady is the fairest that doth live in all the world, so that i nothing fear for her; and as for me, i will full gladly fight for my own head in a fair field." then said the knight, "look ye be up betimes to-morrow, and make you ready and your lady." and on the morrow came sir brewnor to sir tristram, and put him and isault forth out of prison, and brought him a horse and armor, and bade him make ready, for all the commons and estates of that lordship waited in the field to see and judge the battle. then sir brewnor, holding his lady by the hand, all muffled, came forth, and sir tristram went to meet him with la belle isault beside him, muffled also. then said sir brewnor, "sir knight, if thy lady be fairer than mine, with thy sword smite off my lady's head; but if my lady be fairer than thine, with my sword i will smite off thy lady's head. and if i overcome thee thy lady shall be mine, and thou shalt lose thy head." "sir knight," replied sir tristram, "this is a right foul and felon custom, and rather than my lady shall lose her head will i lose my own." "nay," said sir brewnor, "but the ladies shall be now compared together and judgment shall be had." "i consent not," cried sir tristram, "for who is here that will give rightful judgment? yet doubt not that my lady is far fairer than thine own, and that will i prove and make good." therewith sir tristram lifted up the veil from off la belle isault, and stood beside her with his naked sword drawn in his hand. then sir brewnor unmuffled his lady and did in like manner. but when he saw la belle isault he knew that none could be so fair, and all there present gave their judgment so. then said sir tristram, "because thou and thy lady have long used this evil custom, and have slain many good knights and ladies, it were a just thing to destroy thee both." "in good sooth," said sir brewnor, "thy lady is fairer than mine, and of all women i never saw any so fair. therefore, slay my lady if thou wilt, and i doubt not but i shall slay thee and have thine." "thou shalt win her," said sir tristram, "as dearly as ever knight won lady; and because of thy own judgment and of the evil custom that thy lady hath consented to, i will slay her as thou sayest." and therewithal sir tristram went to him and took his lady from him, and smote off her head at a stroke. "now take thy horse," cried out sir brewnor, "for since i have lost my lady i will win thine and have thy life." so they took their horses and came together as fast as they could fly, and sir tristram lightly smote sir brewnor from his horse. but he rose right quickly, and when sir tristram came again he thrust his horse through both the shoulders, so that it reeled and fell. but sir tristram was light and nimble, and voided his horse, and rose up and dressed his shield before him, though meanwhile, ere he could draw out his sword, sir brewnor gave him three or four grievous strokes. then they rushed furiously together like two wild boars, and fought hurtling and hewing here and there for nigh two hours, and wounded each other full sorely. then at the last sir brewnor rushed upon sir tristram and took him in his arms to throw him, for he trusted greatly in his strength. but sir tristram was at that time called the strongest and biggest knight of the world; for he was bigger than sir lancelot, though sir lancelot was better breathed. so anon he thrust sir brewnor groveling to the earth, and then unlaced his helm and struck off his head. then all they that belonged to the castle came and did him homage and fealty, and prayed him to abide there for a season and put an end to that foul custom. but within a while he departed and came to cornwall, and there king mark was forthwith wedded to la belle isault with great joy and splendor. and sir tristram had high honor, and ever lodged at the king's court. but for all he had done him such services king mark hated him, and on a certain day he set two knights to fall upon him as he rode in the forest. but sir tristram lightly smote one's head off, and sorely wounded the other, and made him bear his fellow's body to the king. at that the king dissembled and hid from sir tristram that the knights were sent by him; yet more than ever he hated him in secret, and sought to slay him. so on a certain day, by the assent of sir andret, a false knight, and forty other knights, sir tristram was taken prisoner in his sleep and carried to a chapel on the rocks above the sea to be cast down. but as they were about to cast him in, suddenly he brake his bonds asunder, and rushing at sir andret, took his sword and smote him down therewith. then, leaping down the rocks where none could follow, he escaped them. but one shot after him and wounded him full sorely with a poisoned arrow in the arm. anon, his servant governale, with sir lambegus, sought him and found him safe among the rocks, and told him that king mark had banished him and all his followers to avenge sir andret's death. so they took ship and came to brittany. now sir tristram, suffering great anguish from his wound, was told to seek isoude, the daughter of the king of brittany, for she alone could cure such wounds. wherefore he went to king howell's court, and said, "lord, i am come into this country to have help from thy daughter, for men tell me none but she may help me." and isoude gladly offering to do her best, within a month he was made whole. while he abode still at that court, an earl named grip made war upon king howell, and besieged him; and sir kay hedius, the king's son, went forth against him, but was beaten in battle and sore wounded. then the king praying sir tristram for his help, he took with him such knights as he could find, and on the morrow, in another battle, did such deeds of arms that all the land spake of him. for there he slew the earl with his own hands, and more than a hundred knights besides. when he came back king howell met him, and saluted him with every honor and rejoicing that could be thought of, and took him in his arms, and said, "sir tristram, all my kingdom will i resign to thee." "nay," answered he, "god forbid, for truly am i beholden to you forever for your daughter's sake." then the king prayed him to take isoude in marriage, with a great dower of lands and castles. to this sir tristram presently consenting anon they were wedded at the court. but within a while sir tristram greatly longed to see cornwall, and sir kay hedius desired to go with him. so they took ship; but as soon as they were at sea the wind blew them upon the coast of north wales, nigh to castle perilous, hard by a forest wherein were many strange adventures ofttimes to be met. then said sir tristram to sir kay hedius, "let us prove some of them ere we depart." so they took their horses and rode forth. when they had ridden a mile or more, sir tristram spied a goodly knight before him well armed, who sat by a clear fountain with a strong horse near him, tied to an oak-tree. "fair sir," said he, when they came near, "ye seem to be a knight errant by your arms and harness, therefore make ready now to joust with one of us, or both." thereat the knight spake not, but took his shield and buckled it round his neck, and leaping on his horse caught a spear from his squire's hand. then said sir kay hedius to sir tristram, "let me assay him." "do thy best," said he. so the two knights met, and sir kay hedius fell sorely wounded in the breast. "thou hast well jousted," cried sir tristram to the knight; "now make ready for me!" "i am ready," answered he, and encountered him, and smote him so heavily that he fell down from his horse. whereat, being ashamed, he put his shield before him, and drew his sword, crying to the strange knight to do likewise. then they fought on foot for well nigh two hours, till they were both weary. at last sir tristram said, "in all my life i never met a knight so strong and well-breathed as ye be. it were a pity we should further hurt each other. hold thy hand, fair knight, and tell me thy name." "that will i," answered he, "if thou wilt tell me thine." "my name," said he, "is sir tristram of lyonesse." "and mine, sir lamoracke of gaul." then both cried out together, "well met;" and sir lamoracke said, "sir for your great renown, i will that ye have all the worship of this battle, and therefore will i yield me unto you." and therewith he took his sword by the point to yield him. "nay," said sir tristram, "ye shall not do so, for well i know ye do it of courtesy, and not of dread." and therewith he offered his sword to sir lamoracke, saying, "sir, as an overcome knight, i yield me unto you as unto the man of noblest powers i have ever met with." "hold," said sir lamoracke, "let us now swear together nevermore to fight against each other." then did they swear as he said. then sir tristram returned to sir kay hedius, and when he was whole of his wounds, they departed together in a ship, and landed on the coast of cornwall. and when they came ashore, sir tristram eagerly sought news of la belle isault. and one told him in mistake that she was dead. whereat, for sore and grievous sorrow, he fell down in a swoon, and so lay for three days and nights. when he awoke therefrom he was crazed, and ran into the forest and abode there like a wild man many days; whereby he waxed lean and weak of body, and would have died, but that a hermit laid some meat beside him as he slept. now in that forest was a giant named tauleas, who, for fear of tristram, had hid himself within a castle, but when they told him he was mad, came forth and went at large again. and on a certain day he saw a knight of cornwall, named sir dinaunt, pass by with a lady, and when he had alighted by a well to rest, the giant leaped out from his ambush, and took him by the throat to slay him. but sir tristram, as he wandered through the forest, came upon them as they struggled; and when the knight cried out for help, he rushed upon the giant, and taking up sir dinaunt's sword, struck off therewith the giant's head, and straightway disappeared among the trees. anon, sir dinaunt took the head of tauleas, and bare it with him to the court of king mark, whither he was bound, and told of his adventures. "where had ye this adventure?" said king mark. "at a fair fountain in thy forest," answered he. "i would fain see that wild man," said the king. so within a day or two he commanded his knights to a great hunting in the forest. and when the king came to the well, he saw a wild man lying there asleep, having a sword beside him; but he knew not that it was sir tristram. then he blew his horn, and summoned all his knights to take him gently up and bear him to the court. and when they came thereto they bathed and washed him, and brought him somewhat to his right mind. now la belle isault knew not that sir tristram was in cornwall; but when she heard that a wild man had been found in the forest, she came to see him. and so sorely was he changed, she knew him not. "yet," said she to dame bragwaine, "in good faith i seem to have beheld him ofttimes before." as she thus spoke a little hound, which sir tristram had given her when she first came to cornwall, and which was ever with her, saw sir tristram lying there, and leapt upon him, licking his hands and face, and whined and barked for joy. "alas," cried out la belle isault, "it is my own true knight, sir tristram." and at her voice sir tristram's senses wholly came again, and wellnigh he wept for joy to see his lady living. but never would the hound depart from tristram; and when king mark and other knights came up to see him, it sat upon his body and bayed at all who came too near. then one of the knights said, "surely this is sir tristram; i see it by the hound." "nay," said the king, "it cannot be," and asked sir tristram on his faith who he was. "my name," said he, "is sir tristram of lyonesse, and now ye may do what ye list with me." then the king said, "it repents me that ye are recovered," and sought to make his barons slay him. but most of them would not assent thereto, and counseled him instead to banish tristram for ten years again from cornwall, for returning without orders from the king. so he was sworn to depart forthwith. and as he went towards the ship a knight of king arthur, named sir dinadan, who sought him, came and said, "fair knight, ere that you pass out of this country, i pray you joust with me!" "with a good will," said he. then they ran together, and sir tristram lightly smote him from his horse. anon he prayed sir tristram's leave to bear him company, and when he had consented they rode together to the ship. then was sir tristram full of bitterness of heart, and said to all the knights who took him to the shore, "greet well king mark and all mine enemies from me, and tell them i will come again when i may. well am i now rewarded for slaying sir marhaus, and delivering this kingdom from its bondage, and for the perils wherewithal i brought la belle isault from ireland to the king, and rescued her at the castle pluere, and for the slaying of the giant tauleas, and all the other deeds that i have done for cornwall and king mark." thus angrily and passing bitterly he spake, and went his way. and after sailing awhile the ship stayed at a landing-place upon the coast of wales; and there sir tristram and sir dinadan alighted, and on the shore they met two knights, sir ector and sir bors. and sir ector encountered with sir dinadan and smote him to the ground; but sir bors would not encounter with sir tristram, "for," said he, "no cornish knights are men of worship." thereat sir tristram was full wroth, but presently there met them two more knights, sir bleoberis and sir driant; and sir bleoberis proffered to joust with sir tristram, who shortly smote him down. "i had not thought," cried out sir bors, "that any cornish knight could do so valiantly." then sir tristram and sir dinadan departed, and rode into a forest, and as they rode a damsel met them, who for sir lancelot's sake was seeking any noble knights to rescue him. for queen morgan le fay, who hated him, had ordered thirty men-at-arms to lie in ambush for him as he passed, with the intent to kill him. so the damsel prayed them to rescue him. then said sir tristram, "bring me to that place, fair damsel." but sir dinadan cried out, "it is not possible for us to meet with thirty knights! i will take no part in such a hardihood, for to match one or two or three knights is enough; but to match fifteen i will never assay." "for shame," replied sir tristram, "do but your part." "that will i not," said he; "wherefore, i pray ye, lend me your shield, for it is of cornwall, and because men of that country are deemed cowards, ye are but little troubled as ye ride with knights to joust with." "nay," said sir tristram, "i will never give my shield up for her sake who gave it me; but if thou wilt not stand by me to-day i will surely slay thee; for i ask no more of thee than to fight one knight, and if thy heart will not serve thee that much, thou shalt stand by and look on me and them." "would god that i had never met with ye!" cried sir dinadan; "but i promise to look on and do all that i may to save myself." anon they came to where the thirty knights lay waiting, and sir tristram rushed upon them, saying, "here is one who fights for love of lancelot!" then slew he two of them at the first onset with his spear, and ten more swiftly after with his sword. at that sir dinadan took courage, and assailed the others with him, till they turned and fled. but sir tristram and sir dinadan rode on till nightfall, and meeting with a shepherd, asked him if he knew of any lodging thereabouts. "truly, fair lords," said he, "there is good lodging in a castle hard by, but it is a custom there that none shall lodge therein save ye first joust with two knights, and as soon as ye be within, ye shall find your match." "that is an evil lodging," said sir dinadan; "lodge where ye will, i will not lodge there." "shame on thee!" said sir tristram; "art thou a knight at all?" then he required him on his knighthood to go with him, and they rode together to the castle. as soon as they were near, two knights came out and ran full speed against them; but both of them they overthrew, and went within the castle, and had noble cheer. now, when they were unarmed and ready to take rest, there came to the castle-gate two knights, sir palomedes and sir gaheris, and desired the custom of the castle. "i would far rather rest than fight," said sir dinadan. "that may not be," replied sir tristram, "for we must needs defend the custom of the castle, seeing we have overcome its lords; therefore, make ready." "alas that i ever came into your company," said sir dinadan. so they made ready, and sir gaheris encountered sir tristram and fell before him; but sir palomedes overthrew sir dinadan. then would all fight on foot save sir dinadan, for he was sorely bruised and frighted by his fall. and when sir tristram prayed him to fight, "i will not," answered he, "for i was wounded by those thirty knights with whom we fought this morning; and as to you, ye are in truth like one gone mad, and who would cast himself away! there be but two knights in the world so mad, and the other is sir lancelot, with whom i once rode forth, who kept me evermore at battling so that for a quarter of a year thereafter i lay in my bed. heaven defend me again from either of your fellowships!" "well," said sir tristram, "if it must be, i will fight them both." therewith he drew his sword and assailed sir palomedes and sir gaheris together; but sir palomedes said, "nay, but it is a shame for two to fight with one." so he bade sir gaheris stand by, and he and sir tristram fought long together; but in the end sir tristram drave him backward, whereat sir gaheris and sir dinadan with one accord sundered them. then sir tristram prayed the two knights to lodge there; but dinadan departed and rode away into a priory hard by, and there he lodged that night. and on the morrow came sir tristram to the priory to find him, and seeing him so weary that he could not ride, he left him, and departed. at that same priory was lodged sir pellinore, who asked sir dinadan sir tristram's name, but could not learn it, for sir tristram had charged that he should remain unknown. then said sir pellinore, "since ye will not tell it me, i will ride after him and find it myself." "beware, sir knight," said sir dinadan, "ye will repent it if ye follow him." but sir pellinore straightway mounted and overtook him, and cried to him to joust; whereat sir tristram forthwith turned and smote him down; and wounded him full sorely in the shoulder. on the day after, sir tristram met a herald, who told him of a tournament proclaimed between king carados of scotland, and the king of north wales, to be held at the maiden's castle. now king carados sought sir lancelot to fight there on his side, and the king of north wales sought sir tristram. and sir tristram purposed to be there. so as he rode, he met sir key, the seneschal, and sir sagramour, and sir key proffered to joust with him. but he refused, desiring to keep himself unwearied for the tourney. then sir key cried, "sir knight of cornwall, joust with me, or yield as recreant." when sir tristram heard that, he fiercely turned and set his spear in rest, and spurred his horse towards him. but when sir key saw him so madly coming on, he in his turn refused, whereat sir tristram called him coward, till for shame he was compelled to meet him. then sir tristram lightly smote him down, and rode away. but sir sagramour pursued him, crying loudly to joust with him also. so sir tristram turned and quickly overthrew him likewise, and departed. anon a damsel met him as he rode, and told him of a knight adventurous who did great harm thereby, and prayed him for his help. but as he went with her he met sir gawain, who knew the damsel for a maiden of queen morgan le fay. knowing, therefore, that she needs must have evil plots against sir tristram, sir gawain demanded of him courteously whither he went. "i know not whither," said he, "save as this damsel leadeth me." "sir," said sir gawain, "ye shall not ride with her, for she and her lady never yet did good to any;" and, drawing his sword, he said to the damsel, "tell me now straightway for what cause thou leadest this knight, or else shalt thou die; for i know of old thy lady's treason." "mercy, sir gawain," cried the damsel, "and i will tell thee all." then she told him that queen morgan had ordained thirty fair damsels to seek out sir lancelot and sir tristram, and by their wiles persuade them to her castle, where she had thirty knights in wait to slay them. "oh shame!" cried sir gawain, "that ever such foul treason should be wrought by a queen, and a king's sister." then said he to sir tristram, "sir knight, if ye will stand with me, we will together prove the malice of these thirty knights." "i will not fail you," answered he, "for but few days since i had to do with thirty knights of that same queen, and trust we may win honor as lightly now as then." so they rode together, and when they came to the castle, sir gawain cried aloud, "queen morgan le fay, send out thy knights that we may fight with them." then the queen urged her knights to issue forth, but they durst not, for they well knew sir tristram, and feared him greatly. so sir tristram and sir gawain went on their way, and as they rode they saw a knight, named sir brewse-without-pity, chasing a lady, with intent to slay her. then sir gawain prayed sir tristram to hold still and let him assail that knight. so he rode up between sir brewse and the lady, and cried, "false knight, turn thee to me and leave that lady." then sir brewse turned and set his spear in rest, and rushed against sir gawain and overthrew him, and rode his horse upon him as he lay, which when sir tristram saw, he cried, "forbear that villainy," and galloped at him. but when sir brewse saw by the shield it was sir tristram, he turned and fled. and though sir tristram followed swiftly after him, yet he was so well horsed that he escaped. anon sir tristram and sir gawain came nigh the maiden's castle, and there an old knight named sir pellonnes gave them lodging. and sir persides, the son of sir pellonnes, a good knight, came out to welcome them. and, as they stood talking at a bay window of the castle, they saw a goodly knight ride by on a black horse, and carrying a black shield. "what knight is that?" asked tristram. "one of the best knights in all the world," said sir persides. "is he sir lancelot?" said sir tristram. "nay," answered sir persides, "it is sir palomedes, who is yet unchristened." within a while one came and told them that a knight with a black shield had smitten down thirteen knights. "let us go and see this jousting," said sir tristram. so they armed themselves and went down. and when sir palomedes saw sir persides, he sent a squire to him and proffered him to joust. so they jousted, and sir persides was overthrown. then sir tristram made ready to joust, but ere he had his spear in rest, sir palomedes took him at advantage, and struck him on the shield so that he fell. at that sir tristram was wroth out of measure and sore ashamed, wherefore he sent a squire and prayed sir palomedes to joust once again. but he would not, saying, "tell thy master to revenge himself to-morrow at the maiden's castle, where he shall see me again." so on the morrow sir tristram commanded his servant to give him a black shield with no cognizance thereon, and he and sir persides rode into the tournament and joined king carados' side. then the knights of the king of north wales came forth, and there was a great fighting and breaking of spears, and overthrow of men and horses. now king arthur sat above in a high gallery to see the tourney and give the judgment, and sir lancelot sat beside him. then came against sir tristram and sir persides, two knights with them of north wales, sir bleoberis and sir gaheris; and sir persides was smitten down and nigh slain, for four horsemen rode over him. but sir tristram rode against sir gaheris and smote him from his horse, and when sir bleoberis next encountered him, he overthrew him also. anon they horsed themselves again, and with them came sir dinadan, whom sir tristram forthwith smote so sorely, that he reeled off his saddle. then cried he, "ah! sir knight, i know ye better than ye deem, and promise nevermore to come against ye." then rode sir bleoberis at him the second time, and had a buffet that felled him to the earth. and soon thereafter the king commanded to cease for that day, and all men marveled who sir tristram was, for the prize of the first day was given him in the name of the knight of the black shield. now sir palomedes was on the side of the king of north wales, but knew not sir tristram again. and, when he saw his marvelous deeds, he sent to ask his name. "as to that," said sir tristram, "he shall not know at this time, but tell him he shall know when i have broken two spears upon him, for i am the knight he smote down yesterday, and whatever side he taketh, i will take the other." so when they told him that sir palomedes would be on king carados' side--for he was kindred to king arthur--"then will i be on the king of north wales' side," said he, "but else would i be on my lord king arthur's." then on the morrow, when king arthur was come, the heralds blew unto the tourney. and king carados jousted with the king of a hundred knights and fell before him, and then came in king arthur's knights and bare back those of north wales. but anon sir tristram came to aid them and bare back the battle, and fought so mightily that none could stand against him, for he smote down on the right and on the left, so that all the knights and common people shouted his praise. "since i bare arms," said king arthur, "never saw i a knight do more marvelous deeds." then the king of the hundred knights and those of north wales set upon twenty knights who were of sir lancelot's kin, who fought all together, none failing the others. when sir tristram beheld their nobleness and valor, he marveled much. "well may he be valiant and full of prowess," said he, "who hath such noble knights for kindred." so, when he had looked on them awhile, he thought it shame to see two hundred men assailing twenty, and riding to the king of a hundred knights, he said, "i pray thee, sir king, leave your fighting with those twenty knights, for ye be too many and they be too few. for ye shall gain no honor if ye win, and that i see verily ye will not do unless ye slay them; but if ye will not stay, i will ride with them and help them." "nay," said the king, "ye shall not do so; for full gladly i will do your courtesy," and with that he withdrew his knights. then sir tristram rode his way into the forest, that no man might know him. and king arthur caused the heralds to blow that the tourney should end that day, and he gave the king of north wales the prize, because sir tristram was on his side. and in all the field there was such a cry that the sound thereof was heard two miles away--"the knight with the black shield hath won the field." "alas!" said king arthur, "where is that knight? it is shame to let him thus escape us." then he comforted his knights, and said, "be not dismayed, my friends, howbeit ye have lost the day; be of good cheer; to-morrow i myself will be in the field, and fare with you." so they all rested that night. and on the morrow the heralds blew unto the field. so the king of north wales and the king of a hundred knights encountered with king carados and the king of ireland, and overthrew them. with that came king arthur, and did mighty deeds of arms, and overthrew the king of north wales and his fellows, and put twenty valiant knights to the worse. anon came in sir palomedes, and made great fight upon king arthur's side. but sir tristram rode furiously against him, and sir palomedes was thrown from his horse. then cried king arthur, "knight of the black shield, keep thyself." and as he spake he came upon him, and smote him from his saddle to the ground, and so passed on to other knights. then sir palomedes having now another horse rushed at sir tristram, as he was on foot, thinking to run over him. but he was aware of him, and stepped aside, and grasped sir palomedes by the arms, and pulled him off his horse. then they rushed together with their swords, and many stood still to gaze on them. and sir tristram smote sir palomedes with three mighty strokes upon the helm, crying at each stroke, "take this for sir tristram's sake," and with that sir palomedes fell to the earth. anon the king of north wales brought sir tristram another horse, and sir palomedes found one also. then did they joust again with passing rage, for both by now were like mad lions. but sir tristram avoided his spear, and seized sir palomedes by the neck, and pulled him from his saddle, and bore him onward ten spears' length, and so let him fall. then king arthur drew forth his sword and smote the spear asunder, and gave sir tristram two or three sore strokes ere he could get at his own sword. but when he had it in his hand he mightily assailed the king. with that eleven knights of lancelot's kin went forth against him, but he smote them all down to the earth, so that men marveled at his deeds. and the cry was now so great that sir lancelot got a spear in his hand, and came down to assay sir tristram, saying, "knight with the black shield, make ready." when sir tristram heard him he leveled his spear, and both stooping their heads, they ran together mightily, as it had been thunder. and sir tristram's spear brake short, but sir lancelot struck him with a deep wound in the side and broke his spear, yet overthrew him not. therewith sir tristram, smarting at his wound, drew forth his sword, and rushing at sir lancelot, gave him mighty strokes upon the helm, so that the sparks flew from it, and sir lancelot stooped his head down to the saddle-bow. but then sir tristram turned and left the field, for he felt his wound so grievous that he deemed he should soon die. then did sir lancelot hold the field against all comers, and put the king of north wales and his party to the worse. and because he was the last knight in the field the prize was given him. but he refused to take it, and when the cry was raised, "sir lancelot hath won the day," he cried out, "nay, but sir tristram is the victor, for he first began and last endured, and so hath he done each day." and all men honored lancelot more for his knightly words than if he had taken the prize. this was the tournament ended, and king arthur departed to caerleon, for the whitsun feast was now nigh come, and all the knights adventurous went their ways. and many sought sir tristram in the forest whither he had gone, and at last sir lancelot found him, and brought him to king arthur's court, as hath been told already. sir galahad and the quest of the holy grail xiii the knights go to seek the grail after these things merlin fell into a dotage of love for a damsel of the lady of the lake, and would let her have no rest, but followed her in every place. and ever she encouraged him, and made him welcome till she had learned all his crafts that she desired to know. then upon a time she went with him beyond the sea to the land of benwicke, and as they went he showed her many wonders, till at length she was afraid, and would fain have been delivered from him. and as they were in the forest of broceliande, they sat together under an oak-tree, and the damsel prayed to see all that charm whereby men might be shut up yet alive in rocks or trees. but he refused her a long time, fearing to let her know, yet in the end, her prayers and kisses overcame him, and he told her all. then did she make him great cheer, but anon, as he lay down to sleep, she softly rose, and walked about him waving her hands and muttering the charm, and presently enclosed him fast within the tree whereby he slept. and therefrom nevermore he could by any means come out for all the crafts that he could do. and so she departed and left merlin. at the vigil of the next feast of pentecost, when all the knights of the round table were met together at camelot, and had heard mass, and were about to sit down to meat, there rode into the hall a fair lady on horseback, who went straight up to king arthur where he sat upon his throne, and reverently saluted him. "god be with thee, fair damsel," quoth the king; "what desirest thou of me?" "i pray thee tell me, lord," she answered, "where sir lancelot is." "yonder may ye see him," said king arthur. then went she to sir lancelot and said, "sir, i salute thee in king pelles' name, and require thee to come with me into the forest hereby." then asked he her with whom she dwelt, and what she wished of him. "i dwell with king pelles," said she, "whom balin erst so sorely wounded when he smote the dolorous stroke. it is he who hath sent me to call thee." "i will go with thee gladly," said sir lancelot, and bade his squire straightway saddle his horse and bring his armor. then came the queen to him and said, "sir lancelot, will ye leave me thus at this high feast?" "madam," replied the damsel, "by dinner-time to-morrow he shall be with you." "if i thought not," said the queen, "he should not go with thee by my goodwill." then sir lancelot and the lady rode forth till they came to the forest, and in a valley thereof found an abbey of nuns, whereby a squire stood ready to open the gates. when they had entered, and descended from their horses, a joyful crowd pressed round sir lancelot and heartily saluted him, and led him to the abbess's chamber, and unarmed him. anon he saw his cousins likewise there, sir bors and sir lionel, who also made great joy at seeing him, and said, "by what adventure art thou here, for we thought to have seen thee at camelot to-morrow?" "a damsel brought me here," said he, "but as yet i know not for what service." as they thus talked twelve nuns came in, who brought with them a youth so passing fair and well made, that in all the world his match could not be found. his name was galahad, and though he knew him not, nor lancelot him, sir lancelot was his father. "sir," said the nuns, "we bring thee here this child whom we have nourished from his youth, and pray thee to make him a knight, for from no worthier hand can he receive that order." then sir lancelot, looking on the youth, saw that he was seemly and demure as a dove, with every feature good and noble, and thought he never had beheld a better fashioned man of his years. "cometh this desire from himself?" said he. "yea," answered galahad and all the nuns. "to-morrow, then, in reverence for the feast, he shall have his wish," said sir lancelot. and the next day at the hour of prime, he knighted him, and said, "god make of thee as good a man as he hath made thee beautiful." then with sir lionel and sir bors he returned to the court, and found all gone to the minster to hear service. when they came into the banquet-hall each knight and baron found his name written in some seat in letters of gold, as "here ought to sit sir lionel," "here ought to sit sir gawain,"--and so forth. and in the perilous seat, at the high center of the table, a name was also written, whereat they marveled greatly, for no living man had ever yet dared sit upon that seat, save one, and him a flame leaped forth and drew down under earth, so that he was no more seen. then came sir lancelot and read the letters in that seat, and said, "my counsel is that this inscription be now covered up until the knight be come who shall achieve this great adventure." so they made a veil of silk and put it over the letters. in the meanwhile came sir gawain to the court and told the king he had a message to him from beyond the sea, from merlin. "for," said he, "as i rode through the forest of broceliande but five days since, i heard the voice of merlin speaking to me from the midst of an oak-tree, whereat, in great amazement, i besought him to come forth. but he, with many groans, replied he never more might do so, for that none could free him, save the damsel of the lake, who had enclosed him there by his own spells which he had taught her. 'but go,' said he, 'to king arthur, and tell him, that he now prepare his knights and all his table round to seek the sangreal, for the time is come when it shall be achieved.'" when sir gawain had spoken thus, king arthur sat pensive in spirit, and mused deeply of the holy grail and what saintly knight should come who might achieve it. anon he bade them hasten to set on the banquet. "sir," said sir key, the seneschal, "if we go now to meat ye will break the ancient custom of your court, for never have ye dined at this high feast till ye have seen some strange adventure." "thou sayest truly," said the king, "but my mind was full of wonders and musings, till i bethought me not of mine old custom." as they stood speaking thus, a squire ran in and cried, "lord, i bring thee marvelous tidings." "what be they?" said king arthur. "lord," said he, "hereby at the river is a marvelous great stone, which i myself saw swim down hither-wards upon the water, and in it there is set a sword, and ever the stone heaveth and swayeth on the water, but floateth down no further with the stream." "i will go and see it," said the king. so all the knights went with him, and when they came to the river, there surely found they a mighty stone of red marble floating on the water, as the squire had said, and therein stuck a fair and rich sword, on the pommel whereof were precious stones wrought skillfully with gold into these words: "no man shall take me hence but he by whose side i should hang, and he shall be the best knight in the world." when the king read this, he turned round to sir lancelot, and said, "fair sir, this sword ought surely to be thine, for thou art the best knight in all the world." but lancelot answered soberly, "certainly, sir, it is not for me; nor will i have the hardihood to set my hand upon it. for he that toucheth it and faileth to achieve it shall one day be wounded by it mortally. but i doubt not, lord, this day will show the greatest marvels that we yet have seen, for now the time is fully come, as merlin hath forewarned us, when all the prophecies about the sangreal shall be fulfilled." then stepped sir gawain forward and pulled at the sword, but could not move it, and after him sir percival, to keep him fellowship in any peril he might suffer. but no other knight durst be so hardy as to try. "now may ye go to your dinner," said sir key, "for a marvelous adventure ye have had." so all returned from the river, and every knight sat down in his own place, and the high feast and banquet then was sumptuously begun, and all the hall was full of laughter and loud talk and jests, and running to and fro of squires who served their knights, and noise of jollity and mirth. then suddenly befell a wondrous thing, for all the doors and windows of the hall shut violently of themselves, and made thick darkness; and presently there came a fair and gentle light from out the perilous seat, and filled the palace with its beams. then a dead silence fell on all the knights, and each man anxiously beheld his neighbor. but king arthur rose and said, "lords and fair knights, have ye no fear, but rejoice; we have seen strange things to-day, but stranger yet remain. for now i know we shall to-day see him who may sit in the siege perilous, and shall achieve the sangreal. for as ye all well know, that holy vessel, wherefrom at the supper of our lord before his death he drank the wine with his disciples, hath been held ever since the holiest treasure of the world, and wheresoever it hath rested peace and prosperity have rested with it on the land. but since the dolorous stroke which balin gave king pelles none have seen it, for heaven, wroth with that presumptuous blow, hath hid it none know where. yet somewhere in the world it still may be, and may be it is left to us, and to this noble order of the table round, to find and bring it home, and make of this our realm the happiest in the earth. many great quests and perilous adventures have ye all taken and achieved, but this high quest he only shall attain who hath clean hands and a pure heart, and valor and hardihood beyond all other men." while the king spoke there came in softly an old man robed all in white, leading with him a young knight clad in red from top to toe, but without armor or shield, and having by his side an empty scabbard. the old man went up to the king, and said, "lord, here i bring thee this young knight of royal lineage, and of the blood of joseph of arimathea, by whom the marvels of thy court shall fully be accomplished." the king was right glad at his words, and said, "sir, ye be right heartily welcome, and the young knight also." then the old man put on sir galahad (for it was he) a crimson robe trimmed with fine ermine, and took him by the hand and led him to the perilous seat, and lifting up the silken cloth which hung upon it, read these words written in gold letters, "this is the seat of sir galahad, the good knight." "sir," said the old man, "this place is thine." then sat sir galahad down firmly and surely, and said to the old man, "sir, ye may now go your way, for ye have done well and truly all ye were commanded, and commend me to my grandsire, king pelles, and say that i shall see him soon." so the old man departed with a retinue of twenty noble squires. but all the knights of the round table marveled at sir galahad, and at his tender age, and at his sitting there so surely in the perilous seat. then the king led sir galahad forth from the palace, to show him the adventure of the floating stone. "here," said he, "is as great a marvel as i ever saw, and right good knights have tried and failed to gain that sword." "i marvel not thereat," said galahad, "for this adventure is not theirs, but mine; and for the certainty i had thereof, i brought no sword with me, as thou mayst see here by this empty scabbard." anon he laid his hand upon the sword, and lightly drew it from the stone, and put it in his sheath, and said, "this sword was that enchanted one which erst belonged to the good knight, sir balin, wherewith he slew through piteous mistake his brother balan; who also slew him at the same time: all which great woe befell him through the dolorous stroke he gave my grandsire, king pelles, the wound whereof is not yet whole, nor shall be till i heal him." as he stood speaking thus, they saw a lady riding swiftly down the river's bank towards them, on a white palfrey, who, saluting the king and queen, said, "lord king, nacien the hermit sendeth thee word that to thee shall come to-day the greatest honor and worship that hath yet ever befallen a king of britain; for this day shall the sangreal appear in thy house." with that the damsel took her leave, and departed the same way she came. "now," said the king, "i know that from to-day the quest of the sangreal shall begin, and all ye of the round table will be scattered so that nevermore shall i see ye again together as ye are now; let me then see a joust and tournament amongst ye for the last time before ye go." so they all took their harness and met together in the meadows by camelot, and the queen and all her ladies sat in a tower to see. then sir galahad, at the prayer of the king and queen, put on a coat of light armor, and a helmet, but shield he would take none, and grasping a lance, he drove into the middle of the press of knights, and began to break spears marvelously, so that all men were full of wonder. and in so short a time he had surmounted and exceeded the rest, save sir lancelot and sir percival, that he took the chief worship of the field. then the king and all the court and fellowship of knights went back to the palace, and so to evensong in the great minster, a royal and goodly company, and after that sat down to supper in the hall, every knight in his own seat, as they had been before. anon suddenly burst overhead the cracking and crying of great peals of thunder, till the palace walls were shaken sorely, and they thought to see them riven all to pieces. and in the midst of the blast there entered in a sunbeam, clearer by seven times than ever they saw day, and a marvelous great glory fell upon them all. then each knight, looking on his neighbor, found his face fairer than he had ever seen, and so--all standing on their feet--they gazed as dumb men on each other, not knowing what to say. then entered into the hall the sangreal, borne aloft without hands through the midst of the sunbeam, and covered with white samite, so that none might see it. and all the hall was filled with perfume and incense, and every knight was fed with the food he best loved. and when the holy vessel had been thus borne through the hall, it suddenly departed, no man saw whither. when they recovered breath to speak, king arthur first rose up, and yielded thanks to god and to our lord. then sir gawain sprang up and said, "now have we all been fed by miracle with whatsoever food we thought of or desired; but with our eyes we have not seen the blessed vessel whence it came, so carefully and preciously it was concealed. therefore, i make a vow, that from to-morrow i shall labor twelve months and a day in quest of the sangreal, and longer if need be; nor will i come again into this court until mine eyes have seen it evidently." when he had spoken thus, knight after knight rose up and vowed himself to the same quest, till the most part of the round table had thus sworn. but when king arthur heard them all, he could not refrain his eyes from tears, and said, "sir gawain, sir gawain, thou hast set me in great sorrow, for i fear me my true fellowship shall never meet together here again; and surely never christian king had such a company of worthy knights around his table at one time." and when the queen and her ladies and gentlewomen heard the vows, they had such grief and sorrow as no tongue could tell; and queen guinevere cried out, "i marvel that my lord will suffer them to depart from him." and many of the ladies who loved knights would have gone with them, but were forbidden by the hermit nacien, who sent this message to all who had sworn themselves to the quest: "take with ye no lady nor gentlewoman, for into so high a service as ye go in, no thought but of our lord and heaven may enter." on the morrow morning all the knights rose early, and when they were fully armed, save shields and helms, they went in with the king and queen to service in the minster. then the king counted all who had taken the adventure on themselves, and found them a hundred and fifty knights of the round table; and so they all put on their helms, and rode away together in the midst of cries and lamentations from the court, and from the ladies, and from all the town. but the queen went alone to her chamber, that no man might see her sorrow; and sir lancelot followed her to say farewell. when she saw him she cried out, "oh, sir lancelot, thou hast betrayed me; thou hast put me to death thus to depart and leave my lord the king." "ah, madam," said he, "be not displeased or angry, for i shall come again as soon as i can with honor." "alas!" said she, "that ever i saw thee; but he that suffered death upon the cross for all mankind be to thee safety and good conduct, and to all thy company." then sir lancelot saluted her and the king, and went forth with the rest, and came with them that night to castle vagon, where they abode, and on the morrow they departed from each other on their separate ways, every knight taking the way that pleased him best. now sir galahad went forth without a shield, and rode so four days without adventure; and on the fourth day, after evensong, he came to an abbey of white monks, where he was received in the house, and led into a chamber. and there he was unarmed, and met two knights of the round table, king bagdemagus, and sir uwaine. "sirs," said sir galahad, "what adventure hath brought ye here?" "within this place, as we are told," they answered, "there is a shield no man may bear around his neck without receiving sore mischance, or death within three days." "to-morrow," said king bagdemagus, "i shall attempt the adventure; and if i fail, do thou, sir galahad, take it up after me." "i will willingly," said he; "for as ye see i have no shield as yet." so on the morrow they arose and heard mass, and afterwards king bagdemagus asked where the shield was kept. then a monk led him behind the altar, where the shield hung, as white as any snow, and with a blood-red cross in the midst of it. "sir," said the monk, "this shield should hang from no knight's neck unless he be the worthiest in the world. i warn ye, therefore, knights; consider well before ye dare to touch it." "well," said king bagdemagus, "i know well that i am far from the best knight in all the world, yet shall i make the trial"; and so he took the shield, and bore it from the monastery. "if it please thee," said he to sir galahad, "abide here till thou hearest how i speed." "i will abide thee," said he. then taking with him a squire who might return with any tidings to sir galahad, the king rode forth; and before he had gone two miles, he saw in a fair valley a hermitage, and a knight who came forth dressed in white armor, horse and all, who rode fast against him. when they encountered, bagdemagus brake his spear upon the white knight's shield, but was himself struck through the shoulder with a sore wound, and hurled down from his horse. then the white knight alighting, came and took the white shield from the king, and said, "thou hast done great folly, for this shield ought never to be borne but by one who hath no living peer." and turning to the squire, he said, "bear thou this shield to the good knight, sir galahad, and greet him well from me." "in whose name shall i greet him?" said the squire. "take thou no heed of that," he answered; "it is not for thee or any earthly man to know." "now tell me, fair sir, at the least," said the squire, "why may this shield be never borne except its wearer come to injury or death?" "because it shall belong to no man save its rightful owner, galahad," replied the knight. then the squire went to his master, and found him wounded nigh to death, wherefore he fetched his horse, and bore him back with him to the abbey. and there they laid him in a bed, and looked to his wounds; and when he had lain many days grievously sick, he at the last barely escaped with his life. "sir galahad," said the squire, "the knight who overthrew king bagdemagus sent you greeting, and bade you bear this shield." "now blessed be god and fortune," said sir galahad, and hung the shield about his neck, and armed him, and rode forth. anon he met the white knight by the hermitage, and each saluted courteously the other. "sir," said sir galahad, "this shield i bear hath surely a full marvelous history." "thou sayest rightly," answered he. "that shield was made in the days of joseph of arimathea, the gentle knight who took our lord down from the cross. he, when he left jerusalem with his kindred, came to the country of king evelake, who warred continually with one tollome; and when, by the teaching of joseph, king evelake became a christian, this shield was made for him in our lord's name; and through its aid king tollome was defeated. for when king evelake met him next in battle, he hid it in a veil, and suddenly uncovering it, he showed his enemies the figure of a bleeding man nailed to a cross, at sight of which they were discomfited and fled. presently after that, a man whose hand was smitten off touched the cross upon the shield, and had his hand restored to him; and many other miracles it worked. but suddenly the cross that was upon it vanished away. anon both joseph and king evelake came to britain, and by the preaching of joseph the people were made christians. and when at length he lay upon his death-bed, king evelake begged of him some token ere he died. then, calling for his shield, he dipped his finger in his own blood, for he was bleeding fast, and none could staunch the wound, and marked that cross upon it, saying, 'this cross shall ever show as bright as now, and the last of my lineage shall wear this shield about his neck, and go forth to all the marvelous deeds he will achieve.'" when the white knight had thus spoken he vanished suddenly away, and sir galahad returned to the abbey. as he alighted, came a monk, and prayed him to go see a tomb in the churchyard, wherefrom came such a great and hideous noise, that none could hear it but they went nigh mad, or lost all strength. "and, sir," said he, "i deem it is a fiend." "lead me thither," said sir galahad. when they were come near the place, "now," said the monk, "go thou to the tomb, and lift it up." and galahad, nothing afraid, quickly lifted up the stone, and forthwith came out a foul smoke, and from the midst thereof leaped up the loathliest figure that ever he had seen in the likeness of man; and galahad blessed himself, for he knew it was a fiend of hell. then he heard a voice crying out, "oh, galahad, i cannot tear thee as i would; i see so many angels round thee, that i may not come at thee." then the fiend suddenly disappeared with a marvelous great cry; and sir galahad, looking in the tomb, saw there a body all armed, with a sword beside it. "now, fair brother," said he to the monk, "let us remove this cursed body, which is not fit to lie in a churchyard, for when it lived, a false and perjured christian man dwelt in it. cast it away, and there shall come no more hideous noises from the tomb." "and now must i depart," he added, "for i have much in hand, and am upon the holy quest of the sangreal, with many more good knights." so he took his leave, and rode many journeys backwards and forwards as adventure would lead him; and at last one day he departed from a castle without first hearing mass, which was it ever his custom to hear before he left his lodging. anon he found a ruined chapel on a mountain, and went in and kneeled before the altar, and prayed for wholesome counsel what to do; and as he prayed he heard a voice, which said, "depart, adventurous knight, unto the maiden's castle, and redress the violence and wrongs there done!" hearing these words he cheerfully arose, and mounted his horse, and rode but half a mile, when he saw before him a strong castle, with deep ditches round it, and a fair river running past. and seeing an old churl hard by, he asked him what men called that castle. "fair sir," said he, "it is the maiden's castle." "it is a cursed place," said galahad, "and all its masters are but felons, full of mischief and hardness and shame." "for that good reason," said the old man, "thou wert well-advised to turn thee back." "for that same reason," quoth sir galahad, "will i the more certainly ride on." then, looking at his armor carefully, to see that nothing failed him, he went forward, and presently there met him seven damsels, who cried out, "sir knight, thou ridest in great peril, for thou hast two waters to pass over." "why should i not pass over them?" said he, and rode straight on. anon he met a squire, who said, "sir knight, the masters of this castle defy thee, and bid thee go no further, till thou showest them thy business here." "fair fellow," said sir galahad, "i am come here to destroy their wicked customs." "if that be thy purpose," answered he, "thou wilt have much to do." "go thou," said galahad, "and hasten with my message." in a few minutes after rode forth furiously from the gateways of the castle seven knights, all brothers, and crying out, "knight, keep thee," bore down all at once upon sir galahad. but thrusting forth his spear, he smote the foremost to the earth, so that his neck was almost broken, and warded with his shield the spears of all the others, which every one brake off from it, and shivered into pieces. then he drew out his sword, and set upon them hard and fiercely, and by his wondrous force drave them before him, and chased them to the castle gate, and there he slew them. at that came out to him an ancient man, in priest's vestments, saying, "behold, sir, here, the keys of this castle." then he unlocked the gates, and found within a multitude of people, who cried out, "sir knight, ye be welcome, for long have we waited thy deliverance," and told him that the seven felons he had slain had long enslaved the people round about, and killed all knights who passed that way, because the maiden whom they had robbed of the castle had foretold that by one knight they should themselves be overthrown. "where is the maiden?" asked sir galahad. "she lingereth below in a dungeon," said they. so sir galahad went down and released her, and restored her her inheritance; and when he had summoned the barons of the country to do her homage, he took his leave, and departed. presently thereafter, as he rode, he entered a great forest, and in a glade thereof met two knights, disguised, who proffered him to joust. these were sir lancelot, his father, and sir percival, but neither knew the other. so he and sir lancelot encountered first, and sir galahad smote down his father. then drawing his sword, for his spear was broken, he fought with sir percival, and struck so mightily that he clave sir percival's helm, and smote him from his horse. now hard by where they fought there was a hermitage, where dwelt a pious woman, a recluse, who, when she heard the sound, came forth, and seeing sir galahad ride, she cried, "god be with thee, the best knight in the world; had yonder knights known thee as well as i do, they would not have encountered with thee." when sir galahad heard that, fearing to be made known, he forthwith smote his horse with his spurs, and departed at a great pace. sir lancelot and sir percival heard her words also, and rode fast after him, but within a while he was out of their sight. then sir percival rode back to ask his name of the recluse; but sir lancelot went forward on his quest, and following any path his horse would take, he came by-and-by after nightfall to a stone cross hard by an ancient chapel. when he had alighted and tied his horse up to a tree, he went and looked in through the chapel door, which was all ruinous and wasted, and there within he saw an altar, richly decked with silk, whereon there stood a fair candlestick of silver, bearing six great lights. and when sir lancelot saw the light, he tried to get within the chapel, but could find no place. so, being passing weary and heavy, he came again to his horse, and when he had unsaddled him, and set him free to pasture, he unlaced his helm, and ungirded his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon his shield before the cross. and while he lay between waking and sleeping, he saw come by him two white palfreys bearing a litter, wherein a sick knight lay, and the palfreys stood still by the cross. then sir lancelot heard the sick man say, "o sweet lord, when shall this sorrow leave me, and the holy vessel pass by me, wherethrough i shall be blessed? for i have long endured." with that sir lancelot saw the chapel open, and the candlestick with the six tapers come before the cross, but he could see none who bare it. then came there also a table of silver, and thereon the holy vessel of the sangreal. and when the sick knight saw that, he sat up, and lifting both his hands, said, "fair lord, sweet lord, who art here within this holy vessel, have mercy on me, that i may be whole"; and therewith he crept upon his hands and knees so nigh, that he might touch the vessel; and when he had kissed it, he leaped up, and stood and cried aloud, "lord god, i thank thee, for i am made whole." then the holy grail departed with the table and the silver candlestick into the chapel, so that sir lancelot saw it no more, nor for his sins' sake could he follow it. and the knight who was healed went on his way. then sir lancelot awake, and marveled whether he had seen aught but a dream. and as he marveled, he heard a voice saying, "sir lancelot, thou art unworthy, go thou hence, and withdraw thee from this holy place." and when he heard that, he was passing heavy, for he bethought him of his sins. so he departed weeping, and cursed the day of his birth, for the words went into his heart, and he knew wherefore he was thus driven forth. then he went to seek his arms and horse, but could not find them; and then he called himself the wretchedest and most unhappy of all knights, and said, "my sin hath brought me unto great dishonor: for when i sought earthly honors, i achieved them ever; but now i take upon me holy things, my guilt doth hinder me, and shameth me; therefore had i no power to stir or speak when the holy blood appeared before me." so thus he sorrowed till it was day, and he heard the birds sing; then was he somewhat comforted, and departing from the cross on foot, he came into a wild forest, and to a high mountain, and there he found a hermitage; and, kneeling before the hermit down upon both his knees, he cried for mercy for his wicked works, and prayed him to hear his confession. but when he told his name, the hermit marveled to see him in so sore a case, and said, "sir, ye ought to thank god more than any knight living, for he hath given thee more honor than any; yet for thy presumption, while in deadly sin to come into the presence of his flesh and blood, he suffered thee neither to see nor follow it. wherefore, believe that all thy strength and manhood will avail thee little, when god is against thee." then sir lancelot wept and said, "now know i well ye tell me truth." then he confessed to him, and told him all his sins, and how he had for fourteen years served but queen guinevere only, and forgotten god, and done great deeds of arms for her, and not for heaven, and had little or nothing thanked god for the honor that he won. and then sir lancelot said, "i pray you counsel me." "i will counsel thee," said he: "never more enter into that queen's company when ye can avoid it." so sir lancelot promised him. "look that your heart and your mouth accord," said the good man, "and ye shall have more honor and more nobleness than ever ye have had." then were his arms and horse restored to him, and so he took his leave, and rode forth, repenting greatly. now sir percival had ridden back to the recluse, to learn who that knight was whom she had called the best in the world. and when he had told her that he was sir percival, she made passing great joy of him, for she was his mother's sister, wherefore she opened her door to him, and made him good cheer. and on the morrow she told him of her kindred to him, and they both made great rejoicing. then he asked her who that knight was, and she told him, "he it is who on whit sunday last was clad in the red robe, and bare the red arms; and he hath no peer, for he worketh all by miracle, and shall be never overcome by any earthly hands." "by my goodwill," said sir percival, "i will never after these tidings have to do with sir galahad but in the way of kindness; and i would fain learn where i may find him." "fair nephew," said she, "ye must ride to the castle of goth, where he hath a cousin; by him ye may be lodged, and he will teach you the way to go; but if he can tell you no tidings, ride straight to the castle of carbonek, where the wounded king is lying, for there shall ye surely hear true tidings of him." so sir percival departed from his aunt, and rode till evensong time, when he was ware of a monastery closed round with walls and deep ditches, where he knocked at the gate, and anon was let in. and there he had good cheer that night, and on the morrow heard mass. and beside the altar where the priest stood, was a rich bed of silk and cloth of gold; and on the bed there lay a man passing old, having a crown of gold upon his head, and all his body was full of great wounds, and his eyes almost wholly blind; and ever he held up his hands and said, "sweet lord, forget not me!" then sir percival asked one of the brethren who he was. "sir," said the good man, "ye have heard of joseph of arimathea, how he was sent of jesus christ into this land to preach and teach the christian faith. now, in the city of sarras he converted a king named evelake, and this is he. he came with joseph to this land, and ever desired greatly to see the sangreal; so on a time he came nigh thereto, and was struck almost blind. then he cried out for mercy, and said, 'fair lord, i pray thee let me never die until a good knight of my blood achieve the sangreal, and i may see and kiss him.' when he had thus prayed, he heard a voice that said, 'thy prayers be heard and answered, for thou shalt not die till that knight kiss thee; and when he cometh shall thine eyes be opened and thy wounds be healed.' and now hath he lived here for three hundred winters in a holy life, and men say a certain knight of king arthur's court shall shortly heal him." thereat sir percival marveled greatly, for he well knew who that knight should be; and so, taking his leave of the monk, departed. then he rode on till noon, and came into a valley where he met twenty men-at-arms bearing a dead knight on a bier. and they cried to him, "whence comest thou?" "from king arthur's court," he answered. then they all cried together, "slay him," and set upon him. but he smote down the first man to the ground, and his horse upon him; whereat seven of them all at once assailed him, and others slew his horse. thus he had been either taken or slain, but by good chance sir galahad was passing by that way, who, seeing twenty men attacking one, cried, "slay him not," and rushed upon them; and, as fast as his horse could drive, he encountered with the foremost man, and smote him down. then, his spear being broken, he drew forth his sword and struck out on the right hand and on the left, at each blow smiting down a man, till the remainder fled, and he pursued them. then sir percival, knowing that it was sir galahad, would fain have overtaken him, but could not, for his horse was slain. yet followed he on foot as fast as he could go; and as he went there met him a yeoman riding on a palfrey, and leading in his hand a great black steed. so sir percival prayed him to lend him the steed, that he might overtake sir galahad. but he replied, "that can i not do, fair sir, for the horse is my master's, and should i lend it he would slay me." so he departed, and sir percival sat down beneath a tree in heaviness of heart. and as he sat, anon a knight went riding past on the black steed which the yeoman had led. and presently after came the yeoman back in haste, and asked sir percival if he had seen a knight riding his horse. "yea," said sir percival. "alas," said the yeoman, "he hath reft him from me by strength, and my master will slay me." then he besought sir percival to take his hackney and follow, and get back his steed. so he rode quickly, and overtook the knight, and cried, "knight, turn again." whereat he turned and set his spear, and smote sir percival's hackney in the breast, so that it fell dead, and then went on his way. then cried sir percival after him, "turn now, false knight, and fight with me on foot"; but he would not, and rode out of sight. then was sir percival passing wroth and heavy of heart, and lay down to rest beneath a tree, and slept till midnight. when he awoke he saw a woman standing by him, who said to him right fiercely, "sir percival, what doest thou here?" "i do neither good nor evil," said he. "if thou wilt promise me," said she, "to do my will whenever i shall ask thee, i will bring thee here a horse that will bear thee wheresoever thou desirest." at that he was full glad, and promised as she asked. then anon she came again, with a great black steed, strong and well appareled. so sir percival mounted, and rode through the clear moonlight, and within less than an hour had gone a four days' journey, till he came to a rough water that roared; and his horse would have borne him into it, but sir percival would not suffer him, yet could he scarce restrain him. and seeing the water so furious, he made the sign of the cross upon his forehead, whereat the horse suddenly shook him off, and with a terrible sound leaped into the water and disappeared, the waves all burning up in flames around him. then sir percival knew it was a fiend which had brought him the horse; so he commended himself to god, and prayed that he might escape temptations, and continued in prayer till it was day. then he saw that he was on a wild mountain, nigh surrounded on all sides by the sea, and filled with wild beasts; and going on into a valley, he saw a serpent carrying a young lion by the neck. with that came another lion, crying and roaring after the serpent, and anon overtook him, and began to battle with him. and sir percival helped the lion, and drew his sword, and gave the serpent such a stroke that it fell dead. thereat the lion fawned upon him like a dog, licking his hands, and crouching at his feet, and at night lay down by him and slept at his side. and at noon the next day sir percival saw a ship come sailing before a strong wind upon the sea towards him, and he rose and went towards it. and when it came to shore, he found it covered with white samite, and on the deck there stood an old man dressed in priest's robes, who said, "god be with you, fair sir; whence come ye?" "i am a knight of king arthur's court," said he, "and follow the quest of the sangreal; but here have i lost myself in this wilderness." "fear nothing," said the old man, "for i have come from a strange country to comfort thee." then he told sir percival it was a fiend of hell upon which he had ridden to the sea, and that the lion, whom he had delivered from the serpent, meant the church. and sir percival rejoiced at these tidings, and entered into the ship, which presently sailed from the shore into the sea. now when sir bors rode forth from camelot to seek the sangreal, anon he met a holy man riding on an ass, and courteously saluted him. "who are ye, son?" said the good man. "i am a knight," said he, "in quest of the sangreal, and would fain have thy counsel, for he shall have much earthly honor who may bring it to a favorable end." "that is truth," said the good man, "for he shall be the best knight of the world; yet know that none shall gain it save by sinless living." so they rode to his hermitage together, and there he prayed sir bors to abide that night, and anon they went into the chapel, and sir bors was confessed. and they eat bread and drank water together. "now," said the hermit, "i pray thee eat no other food till thou sit at the table where the sangreal shall be." thereto sir bors agreed. "also," said the hermit, "it were wise that ye should wear a sackcloth garment next your skin, for penance"; and in this also did sir bors as he was counseled. and afterwards he armed himself and took his leave. then rode he onwards all that day, and as he rode he saw a passing great bird sit in an old dry tree, whereon no leaves were left; and many little birds lay round the great one, nigh dead with hunger. then did the big bird smite himself with his own bill, and bled till he died amongst his little ones, and they recovered life in drinking up his blood. when sir bors saw this he knew it was a token, and rode on full of thought. and about eventide he came to a tower, whereto he prayed admission, and he was received gladly by the lady of the castle. but when a supper of many meats and dainties was set before him, he remembered his vow, and bade a squire to bring him water, and therein he dipped his bread, and ate. then said the lady, "sir bors, i fear ye like not my meat." "yea, truly," said he; "god thank thee, madam; but i may eat no other meat this day." after supper came a squire, and said, "madam, bethink thee to provide a champion for thee to-morrow for the tourney, or else shall thy sister have thy castle." at that the lady wept, and made great sorrow. but sir bors prayed her to be comforted, and asked her why the tournament was held. then she told him how she and her sister were the daughters of king anianse, who left them all his lands between them; and how her sister was the wife of a strong knight, named sir pridan le noir, who had taken from herself all her lands, save the one tower wherein she dwelt. "and now," said she, "this also will they take, unless i find a champion by to-morrow." then said sir bors, "be comforted; to-morrow i will fight for thee"; whereat she rejoiced not a little, and sent word to sir pridan that she was provided and ready. and sir bors lay on the floor, and in no bed, nor ever would do otherwise till he had achieved his quest. on the morrow he arose and clothed himself, and went into the chapel, where the lady met him, and they heard mass together. anon he called for his armor, and went with a goodly company of knights to the battle. and the lady prayed him to refresh himself ere he should fight, but he refused to break his fast until the tournament were done. so they all rode together to the lists, and there they saw the lady's eldest sister, and her husband, sir pridan le noir. and a cry was made by the heralds that, whichever should win, his lady should have all the other's lands. then the two knights departed asunder a little space, and came together with such force, that both their spears were shivered, and their shields and hauberks pierced through; and both fell to the ground sorely wounded, with their horses under them. but swiftly they arose, and drew their swords, and smote each other on the head with many great and heavy blows, till the blood ran down their bodies; and sir pridan was a full good knight, so that sir bors had more ado than he had thought for to overcome him. but at last sir pridan grew a little faint; that instantly perceived sir bors, and rushed upon him the more vehemently, and smote him fiercely, till he rent off his helm, and then gave him great strokes upon his visage with the flat of his sword, and bade him yield or be slain. and then sir pridan cried him mercy, and said, "for god's sake slay me not, and i will never war against thy lady more." so sir bors let him go, and his wife fled away with all her knights. then all those who had held lands of the lady of the tower came and did homage to her again, and swore fealty. and when the country was at peace sir bors departed, and rode forth into a forest until it was midday, and there befell him a marvelous adventure. for at a place where two ways parted, there met him two knights, bearing sir lionel, his brother, all naked, bound on a horse, and as they rode, they beat him sorely with thorns, so that the blood trailed down in more than a hundred places from his body; but for all this he uttered no word or groan, so great he was of heart. as soon as sir bors knew his brother, he put his spear in rest to run and rescue him; but in the same moment heard a woman's voice cry close beside him in the wood, "st. mary, succor thy maid"; and, looking round, he saw a damsel whom a felon knight dragged after him into the thickets; and she, perceiving him, cried piteously for help, and adjured him to deliver her as he was a sworn knight. then was sir bors sore troubled, and knew not what to do, for he thought within himself, "if i let my brother be, he will be murdered; but if i help not the maid, she is shamed forever, and my vow compelleth me to set her free; wherefore must i first help her, and trust my brother unto god." so, riding to the knight who held the damsel, he cried out, "sir knight, lay your hand off that maid, or else ye be but dead." at that the knight set down the maid, and dropped his shield, and drew forth his sword against sir bors, who ran at him, and smote him through both shield and shoulder, and threw him to the earth; and when he pulled his spear forth, the knight swooned. then the maid thanked sir bors heartily, and he set her on the knight's horse, and brought her to her men-at-arms, who presently came riding after her. and they made much joy, and besought him to come to her father, a great lord, and he should be right welcome. but "truly," said he, "i may not at this time, for i have a great adventure yet to do"; and commending them to god, he departed in great haste to find his brother. so he rode, seeking him by the track of the horses a great while. anon he met a seeming holy man riding upon a strong black horse, and asked him, had he seen pass by that way a knight led bound and beaten with thorns by two others. "yea, truly, such an one i saw," said the man; "but he is dead, and lo! his body is hard by in a bush." then he showed him a newly slain body lying in a thick bush, which seemed indeed to be sir lionel. then made sir bors such mourning and sorrow that by-and-by he fell into a swoon upon the ground. and when he came to himself again, he took the body in his arms and put it on his horse's saddle, and bore it to a chapel hard by, and would have buried it. but when he made the sign of the cross, he heard a full great noise and cry as though all the fiends of hell had been about him, and suddenly the body and the chapel and the old man vanished all away. then he knew that it was the devil who had thus beguiled him, and that his brother yet lived. then held he up his hands to heaven, and thanked god for his own escape from hurt, and rode onwards; and anon, as he passed by an hermitage in a forest, he saw his brother sitting armed by the door. and when he saw him he was filled with joy, and lighted from his horse, and ran to him and said, "fair brother, when came ye hither?" but sir lionel answered, with an angry face, "what vain words be these, when for you i might have been slain? did ye not see me bound and led away to death, and left me in that peril to go succoring a gentlewoman, the like whereof no brother ever yet hath done? now, for thy false misdeed, i do defy thee, and ensure thee speedy death." then sir bors prayed his brother to abate his anger, and said, "fair brother, remember the love that should be between us twain." but sir lionel would not hear, and prepared to fight, and mounted his horse and came before him, crying, "sir bors, keep thee from me, for i shall do to thee as a felon and a traitor; therefore, start upon thy horse, for if thou wilt not, i will run upon thee as thou standest." but for all his words sir bors would not defend himself against his brother. and anon the fiend stirred up sir lionel to such rage, that he rushed over him and overthrew him with his horse's hoofs, so that he lay swooning on the ground. then would he have rent off his helm and slain him, but the hermit of that place ran out, and prayed him to forbear, and shielded sir bors with his body. then sir lionel cried out, "now, god so help me, sir priest, but i shall slay thee else thou depart, and him too after thee." and when the good man utterly refused to leave sir bors, he smote him on the head until he died, and then he took his brother by the helm and unlaced it, to have stricken off his head, and so he would have done, but suddenly was pulled off backwards by a knight of the round table, who, by the will of heaven, was passing by that place--sir colgrevance by name. "sir lionel," he cried, "will ye slay your brother, one of the best knights of all the world? that ought no man to suffer." "why," said sir lionel, "will ye hinder me and meddle in this strife? beware, lest i shall slay both thee and him." and when sir colgrevance refused to let them be, sir lionel defied him, and gave him a great stroke through the helmet, whereat sir colgrevance drew his sword, and smote again right manfully. and so long they fought together that sir bors awoke from his swoon, and tried to rise and part them, but had no strength to stand upon his feet. anon sir colgrevance saw him, and cried out to him for help, for now sir lionel had nigh defeated him. when sir bors heard that, he struggled to his feet, and put his helmet on, and took his sword. but before he could come to him, sir lionel had smitten off sir colgrevance's helm, and thrown him to the earth and slain him. then turned he to his brother as a man possessed by fiends, and gave him such a stroke as bent him nearly double. but sir bors prayed him for god's sake to quit that battle, "for if it befell us that we either slew the other we should die for care of that sin." "never will i spare thee if i master thee," cried out sir lionel. then sir bors drew his sword all weeping, and said, "now, god have mercy on me, though i defend my life against my brother"; with that he lifted up his sword to strike, but suddenly he heard a mighty voice, "put up thy sword, sir bors, and flee, or thou shalt surely slay him." and then there fell upon them both a fiery cloud, which flamed and burned their shields, and they fell to the earth in sore dread. anon sir bors rose to his feet, and saw that sir lionel had taken no harm. then came the voice again, and said, "sir bors, go hence and leave thy brother, and ride thou forward to the sea, for there sir percival abideth thee." then he said to his brother, "brother, forgive me all my trespass against thee." and sir lionel answered, "god forgive it thee, as i do." then he departed and rode to the sea, and on the strand he found a ship all covered with white samite, and as soon as he had entered thereinto, it put forth from the shore. and in the midst of the ship there stood an armed knight, whom he knew to be sir percival. then they rejoiced greatly over each other, and said, "we lack nothing now but the good knight sir galahad." now when sir galahad had rescued sir percival from the twenty knights he rode into a vast forest. and after many days it befell that he came to a castle whereat was a tournament. and the knights of the castle were put to the worse; which when he saw, he set his spear in rest and ran to help them, and smote down many of their adversaries. and as it chanced, sir gawain was amongst the stranger knights, and when he saw the white shield with the red cross, he knew it was sir galahad, and proffered to joust with him. so they encountered, and having broken their spears, they drew their swords, and sir galahad smote sir gawain so sorely on the helm that he clove it through, and struck on slanting to the earth, carving the horse's shoulder in twain, and sir gawain fell to the earth. then sir galahad beat back all who warred against the castle, yet would he not wait for thanks, but rode away that no man might know him. and he rested that night at a hermitage, and when he was asleep, he heard a knocking at the door. so he rose, and found a damsel there, who said, "sir galahad, i will that ye arm you, and mount upon your horse and follow me, for i will show you within these three days the highest adventure that ever any knight saw." anon sir galahad armed him, and took his horse, and commended himself to god, and bade the gentlewoman go, and he would follow where she liked. so they rode onwards to the sea as fast as their horses might gallop, and at night they came to a castle in a valley, inclosed by running water, and by strong and high walls, whereinto they entered and had great cheer, for the lady of the castle was the damsel's mistress. and when he was unarmed, the damsel said to her lady, "madam, shall we abide here this night?" "nay," said she, "but only till he hath dined and slept a little." so he ate and slept a while, till the maid called him, and armed him by torchlight; and when he had saluted the lady of the castle, the damsel and sir galahad rode on. anon they came to the seaside, and lo! the ship, wherein were sir percival and sir bors, abode by the shore. then they cried, "welcome, sir galahad, for we have awaited thee long." then they rejoiced to see each other, and told of all their adventures and temptations. and the damsel went into the ship with them, and spake to sir percival: "sir percival, know ye not who i am?" and he replied, "nay, certainly, i know thee not." then said she, "i am thy sister, the daughter of king pellinore, and am sent to help thee and these knights, thy fellows, to achieve the quest which ye all follow." so sir percival rejoiced to see his sister, and they departed from the shore. and after a while they came upon a whirlpool, where their ship could not live. then saw they another greater ship hard by and went towards it, but saw neither man nor woman therein. and on the end of it these words were written, "thou who shalt enter me, beware that thou be in steadfast belief, for i am faith; and if thou doubtest, i cannot help thee." then were they all adread, but, commending themselves to god, they entered in. as soon as they were on board they saw a fair bed, whereon lay a crown of silk, and at the foot was a fair and rich sword drawn from its scabbard half a foot and more. the pommel was of precious stones of many colors, every color having a different virtue, and the scales of the haft were of two ribs of different beasts. the one was bone of a serpent from calidone forest, named the serpent of the fiend; and its virtue saveth all men who hold it from weariness. the other was of a fish that haunteth the floods of euphrates, named ertanax; and its virtue causeth whoever holdeth it to forget all other things, whether of joy or pain, save the thing he seeth before him. "in the name of god," said sir percival, "i shall assay to handle this sword"; and set his hand to it, but could not grasp it. "by my faith," said he, "now have i failed." sir bors set his hand to it, and failed also. then came sir galahad, and saw these letters written red as blood, "none shall draw me forth save the hardiest of all men; but he that draweth me shall never be shamed or wounded to death." "by my faith," said sir galahad, "i would draw it forth, but dare not try." "ye may try safely," said the gentlewoman, sir percival's sister, "for be ye well assured the drawing of this sword is forbid to all but you. for this was the sword of david, king of israel, and solomon his son made for it this marvelous pommel and this wondrous sheath, and laid it on this bed till thou shouldest come and take it up; and though before thee some have dared to raise it, yet have they all been maimed or wounded for their daring." "where," said sir galahad, "shall we find a girdle for it?" "fair sir," said she, "dismay you not"; and therewith took from out a box a girdle, nobly wrought with golden thread, set full of precious stones and with a rich gold buckle. "this girdle, lords," said she, "is made for the most part of mine own hair, which, while i was yet in the world, i loved full well; but when i knew that this adventure was ordained me, i cut off and wove as ye now see." then they all prayed sir galahad to take the sword, and so anon he gripped it in his fingers; and the maiden girt it round his waist, saying, "now reck i not though i die, for i have made thee the worthiest knight of all the world." "fair damsel," said sir galahad, "ye have done so much that i shall be your knight all the days of my life." then the ship sailed a great way on the sea, and brought them to land near the castle of carteloise. when they were landed came a squire and asked them, "be ye of king arthur's court?" "we are," said they. "in an evil hour are ye come," said he, and went back swiftly to the castle. within a while they heard a great horn blow, and saw a multitude of well-armed knights come forth, who bade them yield or die. at that they ran together, and sir percival smote one to the earth and mounted his horse, and so likewise did sir bors and sir galahad, and soon had they routed all their enemies and alighted on foot, and with their swords slew them downright, and entered into the castle. then came there forth a priest, to whom sir galahad kneeled and said, "in sooth, good father, i repent me of this slaughter; but we were first assailed, or else it had not been." "repent ye not," said the good man, "for if ye lived as long as the world lasted ye could do no better deed, for these were all the felon sons of a good knight, earl hernox, whom they have thrown into a dungeon, and in his name have slain priests and clerks, and beat down chapels far and near." then sir galahad prayed the priest to bring him to the earl; who, when he saw sir galahad, cried out, "long have i waited for thy coming, and now i pray thee hold me in thine arms that i may die in peace." and therewith, when sir galahad had taken him in his arms, his soul departed from his body. then came a voice in the hearing of them all, "depart now, sir galahad, and go quickly to the maimed king, for he hath long abided to receive health from thy hand." so the three knights departed, and sir percival's sister with them, and came to a vast forest, and saw before them a white hart, exceeding fair, led by four lions; and marveling greatly at that sight, they followed. anon they came to a hermitage and a chapel, whereunto the hart entered, and the lions with it. then a priest offered mass, and presently they saw the hart change into the figure of a man, most sweet and comely to behold; and the four lions also changed and became a man, an eagle, a lion, and an ox. and suddenly all those five figures vanished without sound. then the knights marveled greatly, and fell upon their knees, and when they rose they prayed the priest to tell them what that sight might mean. "what saw ye, sirs?" said he, "for i saw nothing." then they told him. "ah, lords!" said he, "ye are full welcome; now know i well ye be the knights who shall achieve the sangreal, for unto them alone such mysteries are revealed. the hart ye saw is one above all men, white and without blemish, and the four lions with him are the four evangelists." when they heard that they heartily rejoiced, and thanking the priest, departed. anon, as they passed by a certain castle, an armed knight suddenly came after them, and cried out to the damsel, "by the holy cross, ye shall not go till ye have yielded to the custom of the castle." "let her go," said sir percival, "for a maiden, wheresoever she cometh, is free." "whatever maiden passeth here," replied the knight, "must give a dishful of her blood from her right arm." "it is a foul and shameful custom," cried sir galahad and both his fellows, "and sooner will we die than let this maiden yield thereto." "then shall ye die," replied the knight, and as he spake there came out from a gate hard by, ten or twelve more, and encountered with them, running upon them vehemently with a great cry. but the three knights withstood them, and set their hands to their swords, and beat them down and slew them. at that came forth a company of threescore knights, all armed. "fair lords," said sir galahad, "have mercy on yourselves and keep from us." "nay, fair lords," they answered, "rather be advised by us, and yield ye to our custom." "it is an idle word," said galahad, "in vain ye speak it." "well," said they, "will ye die?" "we be not come thereto as yet," replied sir galahad. then did they fall upon each other, and sir galahad drew forth his sword, and smote on the right hand and on the left, and slew so mightily that all who saw him thought he was a monster and no earthly man. and both his comrades helped him well, and so they held the field against that multitude till it was night. then came a good knight forward from the enemy and said, "fair knights, abide with us to-night and be right welcome; by the faith of our bodies as we are true knights, to-morrow ye shall rise unharmed, and meanwhile maybe ye will, of your own accord, accept the custom of the castle when ye know it better." so they entered and alighted and made great cheer. anon, they asked them whence that custom came. "the lady of this castle is a leper," said they, "and can be no way cured save by the blood of a pure virgin and a king's daughter; therefore to save her life are we her servants bound to stay every maid that passeth by, and try if her blood may not cure our mistress." then said the damsel, "take ye of my blood as much as ye will, if it may avail your lady." and though the three knights urged her not to put her life in that great peril, she replied, "if i die to heal another's body, i shall get health to my soul," and would not be persuaded to refuse. so on the morrow she was brought to the sick lady, and her arm was bared, and a vein thereof was opened, and the dish filled with her blood. then the sick lady was anointed therewith, and anon she was whole of her malady. with that sir percival's sister lifted up her hand and blessed her, saying, "madam, i am come to my death to make you whole; for god's love pray for me"; and thus saying she fell down in a swoon. then sir galahad, sir percival, and sir bors started to lift her up and staunch her blood, but she had lost too much to live. so when she came to herself she said to sir percival, "fair brother, i must die for the healing of this lady, and now, i pray thee, bury me not here, but when i am dead put me in a boat at the next haven and let me float at venture on the sea. and when ye come to the city of sarras, to achieve the sangreal, shall ye find me waiting by a tower, and there i pray thee bury me, for there shall sir galahad and ye also be laid." thus having said, she died. then sir percival wrote all the story of her life and put it in her right hand, and so laid her in a barge and covered it with silk. and the wind arising drove the barge from land, and all the knights stood watching it till it was out of sight. anon they returned to the castle, and forthwith fell a sudden tempest of thunder and lightning and rain, as if the earth were broken up: and half the castle was thrown down. then came a voice to the three knights which said, "depart ye now asunder till ye meet again where the maimed king is lying." so they parted and rode divers ways. now after sir lancelot had left the hermit, he rode a long while till he knew not whither to turn, and so he lay down to sleep, if haply he might dream whither to go. and in his sleep a vision came to him saying, "lancelot, rise up and take thine armor, and enter the first ship that thou shalt find." when he awoke he obeyed the vision, and rode till he came to the sea-shore, and found there a ship without sails or oars, and as soon as he was in it he smelt the sweetest savor he had ever known, and seemed filled with all things he could think of or desire. and looking round he saw a fair bed, and thereon a gentlewoman lying dead, who was sir percival's sister. and as sir lancelot looked on her he spied the writing in her right hand, and, taking it, he read therein her story. and more than a month thereafter he abode in that ship and was nourished by the grace of heaven, as israel was fed with manna in the desert. and on a certain night he went ashore to pass the time, for he was somewhat weary, and, listening, he heard a horse come towards him, from which a knight alighted and went up into the ship; who, when he saw sir lancelot, said, "fair sir, ye be right welcome to mine eyes, for i am thy son galahad, and long time i have sought for thee." with that he kneeled and asked his blessing, and took off his helm and kissed him, and the great joy there was between them no tongue can tell. then for half a year they dwelt together in the ship, and served god night and day with all their powers, and went to many unknown islands, where none but wild beasts haunted, and there found many strange and perilous adventures. and upon a time they came to the edge of a forest, before a cross of stone, and saw a knight armed all in white, leading a white horse. then the knight saluted them, and said to galahad, "ye have been long time enough with your father; now, therefore, leave him and ride this horse till ye achieve the holy quest." then went sir galahad to his father and kissed him full courteously, and said, "fair father, i know not when i shall see thee again." and as he took his horse a voice spake in their hearing, "ye shall meet no more in this life." "now, my son, sir galahad," said sir lancelot, "since we must so part and see each other never more, i pray the high father of heaven to preserve both you and me." then they bade farewell, and sir galahad entered the forest, and sir lancelot returned to the ship, and the wind rose and drove him more than a month through the sea, whereby he slept but little, yet ever prayed that he might see the sangreal. so it befell upon a certain midnight, the moon shining clear, he came before a fair and rich castle, whereof the postern gate was open towards the sea, having no keeper save two lions in the entry. anon sir lancelot heard a voice: "leave now thy ship and go within the castle, and thou shalt see a part of thy desire." then he armed and went towards the gate, and coming to the lions he drew out his sword, but suddenly a dwarf rushed out and smote him on the arm, so that he dropt his sword, and heard again the voice, "oh, man of evil faith, and poor belief, wherefore trustest thou thine arms above thy maker?" then he put up his sword and signed the cross upon his forehead, and so passed by the lions without hurt. and going in, he found a chamber with the door shut, which in vain he tried to open. and listening thereat he heard a voice within, which sang so sweetly that it seemed no earthly thing, "joy and honor be to the father of heaven!" then he kneeled down at the door, for he knew well the sangreal was there within. anon the door was opened without hands, and forthwith came thereout so great a splendor as if all the torches of the world had been alight together. but when he would have entered in, a voice forbade him; wherefore he drew back, and looked, standing upon the threshold of the door. and there he saw a table of silver, and the holy vessel covered with red samite, and many angels round it holding burning candles and a cross and all the ornaments of the altar. then a priest stood up and offered mass, and when he took the vessel up, he seemed to sink beneath that burden. at that sir lancelot cried, "o father, take it not for sin that i go in to help the priest, who hath much need thereof." so saying, he went in, but when he came towards the table he felt a breath of fire which issued out therefrom and smote him to the ground, so that he had no power to rise. then felt he many hands about him, which took him up and laid him down outside the chapel door. there lay he in a swoon all through that night, and on the morrow certain people found him senseless, and bore him to an inner chamber and laid him on a bed. and there he rested, living, but moving no limbs, twenty-four days and nights. on the twenty-fifth day he opened his eyes and saw those standing round, and said, "why have ye waked me? for i have seen marvels that no tongue can tell, and more than any heart can think." then he asked where he was, and they told him, "in the castle of carbonek." "tell your lord, king pelles," said he, "that i am sir lancelot." at that they marveled greatly, and told their lord it was sir lancelot who had lain there so long. then was king pelles wondrous glad and went to see him, and prayed him to abide there for a season. but sir lancelot said, "i know well that i have now seen as much as mine eyes may behold of the sangreal; wherefore i will return to my own country." so he took leave of king pelles, and departed towards logris. now after sir galahad had parted from sir lancelot, he rode many days, till he came to the monastery where the blind king evelake lay, whom sir percival had seen. and on the morrow, when he had heard mass, sir galahad desired to see the king, who cried out, "welcome, sir galahad, servant of the lord! long have i abided thy coming. take me now in thine arms, that i may die in peace." at that sir galahad embraced him; and when he had so done the king's eyes were opened, and he said, "fair lord jesus, suffer me now to come to thee"; and anon his soul departed. then they buried him royally, as a king should be; and sir galahad went on his way. within a while he came to a chapel in a forest, in the crypt whereof he saw a tomb which always blazed and burnt. and asking the brethren what that might mean, they told him, "joseph of arimathea's son did found this monastery, and one who wronged him hath lain here these three hundred and fifty years and burneth evermore, until that perfect knight who shall achieve the sangreal doth quench the fire." then said he, "i pray ye bring me to the tomb." and when he touched the place immediately the fire was quenched, and a voice came from the grave and cried, "thanks be to god, who now hath purged me of my sin, and draweth me from earthly pains into the joys of paradise." then sir galahad took the body in his arms and bore it to the abbey, and on the morrow put it in the earth before the high altar. anon he departed from thence and rode five days in a great forest; and after that he met sir percival, and a little further on sir bors. when they had told each other their adventures, they rode together to the castle of carbonek: and there king pelles gave them hearty welcome, for he knew they should achieve the holy quest. as soon as they were come into the castle, a voice cried in the midst of the chamber, "let them who ought not now to sit at the table of the lord rise and depart hence!" then all, save those three knights, departed. anon they saw other knights come in with haste at the hall doors and take their harness off, who said to sir galahad, "sir, we have tried sore to be with you at this table." "ye be welcome," said he, "but whence are ye?" so three of them said they were from gaul; and three from ireland; and three from denmark. then came forth the likeness of a bishop, with a cross in his hand, and four angels stood by him, and a table of silver was before them, whereon was set the vessel of the sangreal. then came forth other angels also--two bearing burning candles, and the third a towel, and the fourth a spear which bled marvelously, the drops wherefrom fell into a box he held in his left hand. anon the bishop took the wafer up to consecrate it, and at the lifting up, they saw the figure of a child, whose visage was as bright as any fire, which smote itself into the midst of the wafer and vanished, so that all saw the flesh made bread. thereat the bishop went to galahad and kissed him, and bade him go and kiss his fellows; and said, "now, servants of the lord, prepare for food such as none ever yet were fed with since the world began." with that he vanished, and the knights were filled with a great dread and prayed devoutly. then saw they come forth from the holy vessel the vision of a man bleeding all openly, whom they knew well by the tokens of his passion for the lord himself. at that they fell upon their faces and were dumb. anon he brought the holy grail to them and spake high words of comfort, and, when they drank therefrom, the taste thereof was sweeter than any tongue could tell or heart desire. then a voice said to galahad, "son, with this blood which drippeth from the spear anoint thou the maimed king and heal him. and when thou hast this done, depart hence with thy brethren in a ship that ye shall find, and go to the city of sarras. and bear with thee the holy vessel, for it shall no more be seen in the realm of logris." at that sir galahad walked to the bleeding spear, and therefrom anointing his fingers went out straightway to the maimed king pelles, and touched his wound. then suddenly he uprose from his bed as whole a man as ever he was, and praised god passing thankfully with all his heart. then sir galahad, sir bors, and sir percival departed as they had been told; and when they had ridden three days they came to the sea-shore, and found the ship awaiting them. therein they entered, and saw in the midst the silver table and the vessel of the sangreal, covered with red samite. then were they passing glad, and made great reverence thereto. and sir galahad prayed that now he might leave the world and pass to god. and presently, the while he prayed, a voice said to him, "galahad, thy prayer is heard, and when thou asketh the death of the body thou shalt have it, and find the life of thy soul." but while they prayed and slept the ship sailed on, and when they woke they saw the city of sarras before them, and the other ship wherein was sir percival's sister. then the three knights took up the holy table and the sangreal and went into the city; and there, in a chapel, they buried sir percival's sister right solemnly. now at the gate of the town they saw an old cripple sitting, whom sir galahad called to help them bear their weight. "truly," said the old man, "it is ten years since i have gone a step without these crutches." "care ye not," said sir galahad, "rise now and show goodwill." so he assayed to move, and found his limbs as strong as any man's might be, and running to the table helped to carry it. anon there rose a rumor in the city that a cripple had been healed by certain marvelous strange knights. but the king, named estouranse, who was a heathen tyrant, when he heard thereof took sir galahad and his fellows, and put them in prison in a deep hole. therein they abode a great while, but ever the sangreal was with them and fed them with marvelous sweet food, so that they fainted not, but had all joy and comfort they could wish. at the year's end the king fell sick and felt that he should die. then sent he for the three knights, and when they came before him prayed their mercy for his trespasses against them. so they forgave him gladly, and anon he died. then the chief men of the city took counsel together who should be king in his stead, and as they talked, a voice cried in their midst, "choose ye the youngest of the three knights king estouranse cast into prison for your king." at that they sought sir galahad and made him king with the assent of all the city, and else they would have slain him. but within a twelve-month came to him, upon a certain day, as he prayed before the sangreal, a man in likeness of a bishop, with a great company of angels round about him, who offered mass, and afterwards called to sir galahad, "come forth, thou servant of the lord, for the time hath come thou hast desired so long." then sir galahad lifted up his hands and prayed, "now, blessed lord! would i no longer live if it might please thee." anon the bishop gave him the sacrament, and when he had received it with unspeakable gladness, he said, "who art thou, father?" "i am joseph of arimathea," answered he, "whom our lord hath sent to bear thee fellowship." when he heard that, sir galahad went to sir percival and sir bors and kissed them and commended them to god, saying, "salute for me sir lancelot, my father, and bid them remember this unstable world." therewith he kneeled down and prayed, and suddenly his soul departed, and a multitude of angels bare it up to heaven. then came a hand from heaven and took the vessel and the spear and bare them out of sight. since then was never man so hardy as to say that he had seen the sangreal. and after all these things, sir percival put off his armor and betook him to an hermitage, and within a little while passed out of this world. and sir bors, when he had buried him beside his sister, returned, weeping sore for the loss of his two brethren, to king arthur, at camelot. the passing of arthur xiv sir lancelot and the fair elaine now after the quest of the sangreal was fulfilled and all the knights who were left alive were come again to the round table, there was great joy in the court. and passing glad were king arthur and queen guinevere to see sir lancelot and sir bors, for they had been long absent in that quest. and so greatly was sir lancelot's fame now spread abroad that many ladies and damsels daily resorted to him and besought him for their champion; and all right quarrels did he gladly undertake for the pleasure of our lord christ. and always as much as he might he withdrew him from the queen. wherefore queen guinevere, who counted him for her own knight, grew wroth with him, and on a certain day she called him to her chamber, and said thus: "sir lancelot, i daily see thy loyalty to me doth slack, for ever thou art absent from this court, and takest other ladies' quarrels on thee more than ever thou wert wont. now do i understand thee, false knight, and therefore shall i never trust thee more. depart now from my sight, and come no more within this court upon pain of thy head." with that she turned from him and would hear no excuses. so sir lancelot departed in heaviness of heart, and calling sir bors, sir ector, and sir lionel, he told them how the queen had dealt with him. "fair sir," replied sir bors, "remember what honor ye have in this country, and how ye are called the noblest knight in the world; wherefore go not, for women are hasty, and do often what they sore repent of afterwards. be ruled by my advice. take horse and ride to the hermitage beside windsor, and there abide till i send ye better tidings." to that sir lancelot consented, and departed with a sorrowful countenance. now when the queen heard of his leaving she was inwardly sorry, but made no show of grief, bearing a proud visage outwardly. and on a certain day she made a costly banquet to all the knights of the round table, to show she had as great joy in all others as in sir lancelot. and at the banquet were sir gawain, and his brothers sir agravaine, sir gaheris, and sir gareth; also sir modred, sir bors, sir blamor, sir bleoberis, sir ector, sir lionel, sir palomedes, sir mador de la port, and his cousin sir patrice--a knight of ireland, sir pinell le savage, and many more. now sir pinell hated sir gawain because he had slain one of his kinsmen by treason; and sir gawain had a great love for all kinds of fruit, which, when sir pinell knew, he poisoned certain apples that were set upon the table, with intent to slay him. and so it chanced as they ate and made merry, sir patrice, who sat next to sir gawain, took one of the poisoned apples and eat it, and when he had eaten he suddenly swelled up and fell down dead. at that every knight leapt from the board ashamed and enraged nigh out of their wits, for they knew not what to say, yet seeing that the queen had made the banquet they all had suspicion of her. "my lady the queen," said sir gawain, "i wit well this fruit was meant for me, for all men know my love for it, and now had i been nearly slain; wherefore, i fear me, ye will be ashamed." "this shall not end so," cried sir mador de la port; "now have i lost a noble knight of my own blood, and for this despite and shame i will be revenged to the uttermost." then he challenged queen guinevere concerning the death of his cousin, but she stood still, sore abashed, and anon with her sorrow and dread, she swooned. at the noise and sudden cry came in king arthur, and to him appealed sir mador, and impeached the queen. "fair lords," said he, "full sorely am i troubled at this matter, for i must be rightful judge, and therein it repenteth me i may not do battle for my wife, for, as i deem, this deed was none of hers. but i suppose she will not lack a champion, and some good knight surely will put his body in jeopardy to save her." but all who had been bidden to the banquet said they could not hold the queen excused, or be her champions, for she had made the feast, and either by herself or servants must it have come. "alas!" said the queen, "i made this dinner for a good intent, and no evil, so god help me in my need." "my lord the king," said sir mador, "i require you heartily as you be a righteous king give me a day when i may have justice." "well," said the king, "i give ye this day fifteen days, when ye shall be ready and armed in the meadow beside westminster, and if there be a knight to fight with you, god speed the right, and if not, then must my queen be burnt." when the king and queen were alone together he asked her how this case befell. "i wot not how or in what manner," answered she. "where is sir lancelot?" said king arthur, "for he would not grudge to do battle for thee." "sir," said she, "i cannot tell you, but all his kinsmen deem he is not in this realm." "these be sad tidings," said the king; "i counsel ye to find sir bors, and pray him for sir lancelot's sake to do this battle for you." so the queen departed and sent for sir bors to her chamber, and besought his succor. "madam," said he, "what would you have me do? for i may not with my honor take this matter on me, for i was at that same dinner, and all the other knights would have me ever in suspicion. now do ye miss sir lancelot, for he would not have failed you in right nor yet in wrong, as ye have often proved, but now ye have driven him from the country." "alas! fair knight," said the queen, "i put me wholly at your mercy, and all that is done amiss i will amend as ye will counsel me." and therewith she kneeled down upon both her knees before sir bors, and besought him to have mercy on her. anon came in king arthur also, and prayed him of his courtesy to help her, saying, "i require you for the love of lancelot." "my lord," said he, "ye require the greatest thing of me that any man can ask, for if i do this battle for the queen i shall anger all my fellows of the table round; nevertheless, for my lord sir lancelot's sake, and for yours, i will that day be the queen's champion, unless there chance to come a better knight than i am to do battle for her." and this he promised on his faith. then were the king and queen passing glad, and thanked him heartily, and so departed. but sir bors rode in secret to the hermitage where sir lancelot was, and told him all these tidings. "it has chanced as i would have it," said sir lancelot; "yet make ye ready for the battle, but tarry till ye see me come." "sir," said sir bors, "doubt not but ye shall have your will." but many of the knights were greatly wroth with him when they heard he was to be the queen's champion, for there were few in the court but deemed her guilty. then said sir bors, "wit ye will, fair lords, it were a shame to us all to suffer so fair and noble a lady to be burnt for lack of a champion, for ever hath she proved herself a lover of good knights; wherefore i doubt not she is guiltless of this treason." at that were some well pleased, but others rested passing wroth. and when the day was come, the king and queen and all the knights went to the meadow beside westminster, where the battle should be fought. then the queen was put in ward, and a great fire was made round the iron stake, where she must be burnt if sir mador won the day. so when the heralds blew, sir mador rode forth, and took oath that queen guinevere was guilty of sir patrice's death, and his oath he would prove with his body against any who would say the contrary. then came forth sir bors, and said, "queen guinevere is in the right, and that will i prove with my hands." with that they both departed to their tents to make ready for the battle. but sir bors tarried long, hoping sir lancelot would come, till sir mador cried out to king arthur, "bid thy champion come forth, unless he dare not." then was sir bors ashamed, and took his horse and rode to the end of the lists. but ere he could meet sir mador he was aware of a knight upon a white horse, armed at all points, and with a strange shield, who rode to him and said, "i pray you withdraw from this quarrel, for it is mine, and i have ridden far to fight in it." thereat sir bors rode to king arthur, and told him that another knight was come who would do battle for the queen. "who is he?" said king arthur. "i may not tell you," said sir bors; "but he made a covenant with me to be here to-day, wherefore i am discharged." then the king called that knight, and asked him if he would fight for the queen. "therefore came i hither, sir king," answered he; "but let us tarry no longer, for anon i have other matters to do. but wit ye well," said he to the knights of the round table, "it is shame to ye for such a courteous queen to suffer this dishonor." and all men marveled who this knight might be, for none knew him save sir bors. then sir mador and the knight rode to either end of the lists, and couching their spears, ran one against the other with all their might; and sir mador's spear broke short, but the strange knight bore both him and his horse down to the ground. then lightly they leaped from their saddles and drew their swords, and so came eagerly to the battle, and either gave the other many sad strokes and sore and deep wounds. thus they fought nigh an hour, for sir mador was a full strong and valiant knight. but at last the strange knight smote him to the earth, and gave him such a buffet on the helm as wellnigh killed him. then did sir mador yield, and prayed his life. "i will but grant it thee," said the strange knight, "if thou wilt release the queen from this quarrel forever, and promise that no mention shall be made upon sir patrice's tomb that ever she consented to that treason." "all this shall be done," said sir mador. then the knights parters took up sir mador and led him to his tent, and the other knight went straight to the stair foot of king arthur's throne; and by that time was the queen come to the king again, and kissed him lovingly. then both the king and she stooped down, and thanked the knight, and prayed him to put off his helm and rest him, and to take a cup of wine. and when he put his helmet off to drink, all people saw it was sir lancelot. but when the queen beheld him she sank almost to the ground weeping for sorrow and for joy, that he had done her such great goodness when she had showed him such unkindness. then the knights of his blood gathered round him, and there was great joy and mirth in the court. and sir mador and sir lancelot were soon healed of their wounds; and not long after came the lady of the lake to the court, and told all there by her enchantments how sir pinell, and not the queen, was guilty of sir patrice's death. whereat the queen was held excused of all men, and sir pinell fled the country. so sir patrice was buried in the church of winchester, and it was written on his tomb that sir pinell slew him with a poisoned apple, in error for sir gawain. then, through sir lancelot's favor, the queen was reconciled to sir mador, and all was forgiven. now fifteen days before the feast of the assumption of our lady, the king proclaimed a tourney to be held that feast-day at camelot, whereat himself and the king of scotland would joust with all who should come against them. so thither went the king of north wales, and king anguish of ireland, and sir galahaut the noble prince, and many other nobles of divers countries. and king arthur made ready to go, and would have had the queen go with him, but she said that she was sick. sir lancelot, also, made excuses, saying he was not yet whole of his wounds. at that the king was passing heavy and grieved, and so departed alone towards camelot. and by the way he lodged in a town called astolat, and lay that night in the castle. as soon as he had gone, sir lancelot said to the queen, "this night i will rest, and to-morrow betimes will i take my way to camelot; for at these jousts i will be against the king and his fellowship." "ye may do as ye list," said queen guinevere; "but by my counsel ye will not be against the king, for in his company are many hardy knights, as ye well know." "madam," said sir lancelot, "i pray ye be not displeased with me, for i will take the adventure that god may send me." and on the morrow he went to the church and heard mass, and took his leave of the queen, and so departed. then he rode long till he came to astolat, and there lodged at the castle of an old baron called sir bernard of astolat, which was near the castle where king arthur lodged. and as sir lancelot entered the king espied him, and knew him. then said he to the knights, "i have just seen a knight who will fight full well at the joust toward which we go." "who is it?" asked they. "as yet ye shall not know," he answered smiling. when sir lancelot was in his chamber unarming the old baron came to him, saluting him, though as yet he knew not who he was. now sir bernard had a daughter passing beautiful, called the fair maid of astolat, and when she saw sir lancelot she loved him from that instant with her whole heart, and could not stay from gazing on him. on the morrow, sir lancelot asked the old baron to lend him a strange shield. "for," said he, "i would be unknown." "sir," said his host, "ye shall have your desire, for here is the shield of my eldest son, sir torre, who was hurt the day he was made knight, so that he cannot ride; and his shield, therefore, is not known. and, if it please you, my youngest son, sir lavaine, shall ride with you to the jousts, for he is of his age full strong and mighty; and i deem ye be a noble knight, wherefore i pray ye tell me your name." "as to that," said sir lancelot, "ye must hold me excused at this time, but if i speed well at the jousts, i will come again and tell you; but in anywise let me have your son, sir lavaine, with me, and lend me his brother's shield." then, ere they departed, came elaine, the baron's daughter, and said to sir lancelot, "i pray thee, gentle knight, to wear my token at to-morrow's tourney." "if i should grant you that, fair damsel," said he, "ye might say that i did more for you than ever i have done for lady or damsel." then he bethought him that if he granted her request he would be the more disguised, for never before had he worn any lady's token. so anon he said, "fair damsel, i will wear thy token on my helmet if thou wilt show it me." thereat was she passing glad, and brought him a scarlet sleeve broidered with pearls, which sir lancelot took, and put upon his helm. then he prayed her to keep his shield for him until he came again, and taking sir torre's shield instead, rode forth with sir lavaine towards camelot. on the morrow the trumpets blew for the tourney, and there was a great press of dukes and earls and barons and many noble knights; and king arthur sat in a gallery to behold who did the best. so the king of scotland and his knights, and king anguish of ireland rode forth on king arthur's side; and against them came the king of north wales, the king of a hundred knights, the king of northumberland, and the noble prince sir galahaut. but sir lancelot and sir lavaine rode into a little wood behind the party which was against king arthur, to watch which side should prove the weakest. then was there a strong fight between the two parties, for the king of a hundred knights smote down the king of scotland; and sir palomedes, who was on king arthur's side, overthrew sir galahaut. then came fifteen knights of the round table and beat back the kings of northumberland and north wales with their knights. "now," said sir lancelot to sir lavaine, "if ye will help me, ye shall see yonder fellowship go back as fast as they came." "sir," said sir lavaine, "i will do what i can." then they rode together into the thickest of the press, and there, with one spear, sir lancelot smote down five knights of the round table, one after other, and sir lavaine overthrew two. and taking another spear, for his own was broken, sir lancelot smote down four more knights, and sir lavaine a fifth. then, drawing his sword, sir lancelot fought fiercely on the right hand and the left, and unhorsed sir safire, sir epinogris, and sir galleron. at that the knights of the round table withdrew themselves as well as they were able. "now, mercy," said sir gawain, who sat by king arthur; "what knight is that who doth such marvelous deeds of arms? i should deem him by his force to be sir lancelot, but that he wears a lady's token on his helm as never lancelot doth." "let him be," said king arthur; "he will be better known, and do more ere he depart." thus the party against king arthur prospered at this time, and his knights were sore ashamed. then sir bors, sir ector, and sir lionel called together the knights of their blood, nine in number, and agreed to join together in one band against the two strange knights. so they encountered sir lancelot all at once, and by main force smote his horse to the ground; and by misfortune sir bors struck sir lancelot through the shield into the side, and the spear broke off and left the head in the wound. when sir lavaine saw that, he ran to the king of scotland and struck him off his horse, and brought it to sir lancelot, and helped him to mount. then sir lancelot bore sir bors and his horse to the ground, and in like manner served sir ector and sir lionel; and turning upon three other knights he smote them down also; while sir lavaine did many gallant deeds. but feeling himself now sorely wounded sir lancelot drew his sword, and proffered to fight with sir bors, who, by this time, was mounted anew. and as they met, sir ector and sir lionel came also, and the swords of all three drave fiercely against him. when he felt their buffets, and his wound that was so grievous, he determined to do all his best while he could yet endure, and smote sir bors a blow that bent his head down nearly to the ground and razed his helmet off and pulled him from his horse. then rushing at sir ector and sir lionel, he smote them down, and might have slain all three, but when he saw their faces his heart forbade him. leaving them, therefore, on the field, he hurled into the thickest of the press, and did such feats of arms as never were beheld before. and sir lavaine was with him through it all, and overthrew ten knights; but sir lancelot smote down more than thirty, and most of them knights of the round table. then the king ordered the trumpets to blow for the end of the tourney, and the prize to be given by the heralds to the knight with the white shield who bore the red sleeve. but ere sir lancelot was found by the heralds, came the king of the hundred knights, the king of north wales, the king of northumberland, and sir galahaut, and said to him, "fair knight, god bless thee, for much have ye done this day for us; wherefore we pray ye come with us and receive the honor and the prize as ye have worshipfully deserved it." "my fair lords," said sir lancelot, "wit ye well if i have deserved thanks, i have sore bought them, for i am like never to escape with my life; therefore pray ye let me depart, for i am sore hurt. i take no thought of honor, for i had rather rest me than be lord of all the world." and therewith he groaned piteously, and rode a great gallop away from them. and sir lavaine rode after him, sad at heart, for the broken spear still stuck fast in sir lancelot's side, and the blood streamed sorely from the wound. anon they came near a wood more than a mile from the lists, where he knew he could be hidden. then said he to sir lavaine, "o gentle knight, help me to pull out this spear-head from my side, for the pain thereof nigh killeth me." "dear lord," said he, "i fain would help ye; but i dread to draw it forth, lest ye should die for loss of blood." "i charge you as you love me," said sir lancelot, "draw it out." so they dismounted, and with a mighty wrench sir lavaine drew the spear forth from sir lancelot's side; whereat he gave a marvelous great shriek and ghastly groan, and all his blood leaped forth in a full stream. then he sank swooning to the earth, with a visage pale as death. "alas!" cried sir lavaine, "what shall i do now?" and then he turned his master's face towards the wind, and sat by him nigh half an hour while he lay quiet as one dead. but at the last he lifted up his eyes, and said, "i pray ye bear me on my horse again, and lead me to a hermit who dwelleth within two miles hence, for he was formerly a knight of arthur's court, and now hath mighty skill in medicine and herbs." so with great pain sir lavaine got him to his horse, and led him to the hermitage within the wood, beside a stream. then knocked he with his spear upon the door, and prayed to enter. at that a child came out, to whom he said, "fair child, pray the good man thy master to come hither and let in a knight who is sore wounded." anon came out the knight-hermit, whose name was sir baldwin, and asked, "who is this wounded knight?" "i know not," said sir lavaine, "save that he is the noblest knight i ever met with, and hath done this day such marvelous deeds of arms against king arthur that he hath won the prize of the tourney." then the hermit gazed long on sir lancelot, and hardly knew him, so pale he was with bleeding, yet said he at the last, "who art thou, lord?" sir lancelot answered feebly, "i am a stranger knight adventurous, who laboreth through many realms to win worship." "why hidest thou thy name, dear lord, from me?" cried sir baldwin; "for in sooth i know thee now to be the noblest knight in all the world--my lord sir lancelot du lake, with whom i long had fellowship at the round table." "since ye know me, fair sir," said he, "i pray ye, for christ's sake, to help me if ye may." "doubt not," replied he, "that ye shall live and fare right well." then he staunched his wound, and gave him strong medicines and cordials till he was refreshed from his faintness and came to himself again. now after the jousting was done king arthur held a feast, and asked to see the knight with the red sleeve that he might take the prize. so they told him how that knight had ridden from the field wounded nigh to death. "these be the worst tidings i have heard for many years," cried out the king; "i would not for my kingdom he were slain." then all men asked, "know ye him, lord?" "i may not tell ye at this time," said he; "but would to god we had good tidings of him." then sir gawain prayed leave to go and seek that knight, which the king gladly gave him. so forthwith he mounted and rode many leagues round camelot, but could hear no tidings. within two days thereafter king arthur and his knights returned from camelot, and sir gawain chanced to lodge at astolat, in the house of sir bernard. and there came in the fair elaine to him, and prayed him news of the tournament, and who won the prize. "a knight with a white shield," said he, "who bare a red sleeve in his helm, smote down all comers and won the day." at that the visage of elaine changed suddenly from white to red, and heartily she thanked our lady. then said sir gawain, "know ye that knight?" and urged her till she told him that it was her sleeve he wore. so sir gawain knew it was for love that she had given it; and when he heard she kept his proper shield he prayed to see it. as soon as it was brought he saw sir lancelot's arms thereon, and cried, "alas! now am i heavier of heart than ever yet." "wherefore?" said fair elaine. "fair damsel," answered he, "know ye not that the knight ye love is of all knights the noblest in the world, sir lancelot du lake? with all my heart i pray ye may have joy of each other, but hardly dare i think that ye shall see him in this world again, for he is so sore wounded he may scarcely live, and is gone out of sight where none can find him." then was elaine nigh mad with grief and sorrow, and with piteous words she prayed her father that she might go seek sir lancelot and her brother. so in the end her father gave her leave, and she departed. and on the morrow came sir gawain to the court, and told how he had found sir lancelot's shield in elaine's keeping, and how it was her sleeve which he had worn; whereat all marveled, for sir lancelot had done for her more than he had ever done for any woman. but when queen guinevere heard it she was beside herself with wrath, and sending privily for sir bors, who sorrowed sorely that through him sir lancelot had been hurt--"have ye now heard," said she, "how falsely sir lancelot hath betrayed me?" "i beseech thee, madam," said he, "speak not so, for else i may not hear thee." "shall i not call him traitor," cried she, "who hath worn another lady's token at the jousting?" "be sure he did it, madam, for no ill intent," replied sir bors, "but that he might be better hidden, for never did he in that wise before." "now shame on him, and thee who wouldest help him," cried the queen. "madam, say what ye will," said he; "but i must haste to seek him, and god send me soon good tidings of him." so with that he departed to find sir lancelot. now elaine had ridden with full haste from astolat, and come to camelot, and there she sought throughout the country for any news of lancelot. and so it chanced that sir lavaine was riding near the hermitage to exercise his horse, and when she saw him she ran up and cried aloud, "how doth my lord sir lancelot fare?" then said sir lavaine, marveling greatly, "how know ye my lord's name, fair sister?" so she told him how sir gawain had lodged with sir bernard, and knew sir lancelot's shield. then prayed she to see his lord forthwith, and when she came to the hermitage and found him lying there sore sick and bleeding, she swooned for sorrow. anon, as she revived, sir lancelot kissed her, and said, "fair maid, i pray ye take comfort, for, by god's grace, i shall be shortly whole of this wound, and if ye be come to tend me, i am heartily bounden to your great kindness." yet was he sore vexed to hear sir gawain had discovered him, for he knew queen guinevere would be full wroth because of the red sleeve. so elaine rested in the hermitage, and ever night and day she watched and waited on sir lancelot, and would let none other tend him. and as she saw him more, the more she set her love upon him, and could by no means withdraw it. then said sir lancelot to sir lavaine, "i pray thee set some to watch for the good knight sir bors, for as he hurt me, so will he surely seek for me." now sir bors by this time had come to camelot, and was seeking for sir lancelot everywhere, so sir lavaine soon found him, and brought him to the hermitage. and when he saw sir lancelot pale and feeble, he wept for pity and sorrow that he had given him that grievous wound. "god send thee a right speedy cure, dear lord," said he; "for i am of all men most unhappy to have wounded thee, who art our leader, and the noblest knight in all the world." "fair cousin," said sir lancelot, "be comforted, for i have but gained what i sought, and it was through pride that i was hurt, for had i warned ye of my coming it had not been; wherefore let us speak of other things." so they talked long together, and sir bors told him of the queen's anger. then he asked sir lancelot, "was it from this maid who tendeth you so lovingly ye had the token?" "yea," said sir lancelot; "and would i could persuade her to withdraw her love from me." "why should ye do so?" said sir bors; "for she is passing fair and loving. i would to heaven ye could love her." "that may not be," replied he; "but it repenteth me in sooth to grieve her." then they talked of other matters, and of the great jousting at allhallowtide next coming, between king arthur and the king of north wales. "abide with me till then," said sir lancelot, "for by that time i trust to be all whole again, and we will go together." so elaine daily and nightly tending him, within a month he felt so strong he deemed himself full cured. then on a day, when sir bors and sir lavaine were from the hermitage, and the knight-hermit also was gone forth, sir lancelot prayed elaine to bring him some herbs from the forest. when she was gone he rose and made haste to arm himself, and try if he were whole enough to joust, and mounted on his horse, which was fresh with lack of labor for so long a time. but when he set his spear in the rest and tried his armor, the horse bounded and leapt beneath him, so that sir lancelot strained to keep him back. and therewith his wound, which was not wholly healed, burst forth again, and with a mighty groan he sank down swooning on the ground. at that came fair elaine and wept and piteously moaned to see him lying so. and when sir bors and sir lavaine came back, she called them traitors to let him rise, or to know any rumor of the tournament. anon the hermit returned and was wroth to see sir lancelot risen, but within a while he recovered him from his swoon and staunched the wound. then sir lancelot told him how he had risen of his own will to assay his strength for the tournament. but the hermit bade him rest and let sir bors go alone, for else would he sorely peril his life. and elaine, with tears, prayed him in the same wise, so that sir lancelot in the end consented. so sir bors departed to the tournament, and there he did such feats of arms that the prize was given between him and sir gawain, who did like valiantly. and when all was over he came back and told sir lancelot, and found him so nigh well that he could rise and walk. and within a while thereafter he departed from the hermitage and went with sir bors, sir lavaine, and fair elaine to astolat, where sir bernard joyfully received them. but after they had lodged there a few days sir lancelot and sir bors must needs depart and return to king arthur's court. so when elaine knew sir lancelot must go, she came to him and said, "have mercy on me, fair knight, and let me not die for your love." then said sir lancelot, very sad at heart, "fair maid, what would ye that i should do for you?" "if i may not be your wife, dear lord," she answered, "i must die." "alas!" said he, "i pray heaven that may not be; for in sooth i may not be your husband. but fain would i show ye what thankfulness i can for all your love and kindness to me. and ever will i be your knight, fair maiden; and if it chance that ye shall ever wed some noble knight, right heartily will i give ye such a dower as half my lands will bring." "alas! what shall that aid me?" answered she; "for i must die," and therewith she fell to the earth in a deep swoon. then was sir lancelot passing heavy of heart, and said to sir bernard and sir lavaine, "what shall i do for her?" "alas!" said sir bernard, "i know well that she will die for your sake." and sir lavaine said, "i marvel not that she so sorely mourneth your departure, for truly i do as she doth, and since i once have seen you, lord, i cannot leave you." so anon, with a full sorrowful heart, sir lancelot took his leave, and sir lavaine rode with him to the court. and king arthur and the knights of the round table joyed greatly to see him whole of his wound, but queen guinevere was sorely wroth, and neither spake with him nor greeted him. now when sir lancelot had departed, the maid of astolat could neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep for sorrow; and having thus endured ten days, she felt within herself that she must die. then sent she for a holy man, and was shriven and received the sacrament. but when he told her she must leave her earthly thoughts, she answered, "am i not an earthly woman? what sin is it to love the noblest knight of all the world? and, by my truth, i am not able to withstand the love whereof i die; wherefore, i pray the high father of heaven to have mercy on my soul." then she besought sir bernard to indite a letter as she should devise, and said, "when i am dead put this within my hand, and dress me in my fairest clothes, and lay me in a barge all covered with black samite, and steer it down the river till it reach the court. thus, father, i beseech thee let it be." then, full of grief, he promised her it should be so. and anon she died, and all the household made a bitter lamentation over her. then did they as she had desired, and laid her body, richly dressed, upon a bed within the barge, and a trusty servant steered it down the river towards the court. now king arthur and queen guinevere sat at a window of the palace, and saw the barge come floating with the tide, and marveled what was laid therein, and sent a messenger to see, who, soon returning, prayed them to come forth. when they came to the shore they marveled greatly, and the king asked of the serving-man who steered the barge what this might mean. but he made signs that he was dumb, and pointed to the letter in the damsel's hands. so king arthur took the letter from the hand of the corpse, and found thereon written, "to the noble knight, sir lancelot du lake." then was sir lancelot sent for, and the letter read aloud by a clerk, and thus it was written:-- "most noble knight, my lord sir lancelot, now hath death forever parted us. i, whom men call the maid of astolat, set my love upon you, and have died for your sake. this is my last request, that ye pray for my soul and give me burial. grant me this, sir lancelot, as thou art a peerless knight." at these words the queen and all the knights wept sore for pity. then said sir lancelot, "my lord, i am right heavy for the death of this fair damsel; and god knoweth that right unwillingly i caused it, for she was good as she was fair, and much was i beholden to her; but she loved me beyond measure, and asked me that i could not give her." "ye might have shown her gentleness enough to save her life," answered the queen. "madam," said he, "she would but be repaid by my taking her to wife, and that i could not grant her, for love cometh of the heart and not by constraint." "that is true," said the king; "for love is free." "i pray you," said sir lancelot, "let me now grant her last asking, to be buried by me." so on the morrow, he caused her body to be buried richly and solemnly, and ordained masses for her soul, and made great sorrow over her. then the queen sent for sir lancelot, and prayed his pardon for her wrath against him without cause. "this is not the first time it hath been so," answered he; "yet must i ever bear with ye, and so do i now forgive you." so queen guinevere and sir lancelot were made friends again; but anon such favor did she show him, as in the end brought many evils on them both and all the realm. xv the war between arthur and lancelot and the passing of arthur within a while thereafter was a jousting at the court, wherein sir lancelot won the prize. and two of those he smote down were sir agravaine, the brother of sir gawain, and sir modred, his false brother--king arthur's son by belisent. and because of his victory they hated sir lancelot, and sought how they might injure him. so on a night, when king arthur was hunting in the forest, and the queen sent for sir lancelot to her chamber, they two espied him; and thinking now to make a scandal and a quarrel between lancelot and the king, they found twelve others, and said sir lancelot was ever now in the queen's chamber, and king arthur was dishonored. then, all armed, they came suddenly round the queen's door, and cried, "traitor! now art thou taken." "madam, we be betrayed," said sir lancelot; "yet shall my life cost these men dear." then did the queen weep sore, and dismally she cried, "alas! there is no armor here whereby ye might withstand so many; wherefore ye will be slain, and i be burnt for the dread crime they will charge on me." but while she spake the shouting of the knights was heard without, "traitor, come forth, for now thou art snared!" "better were twenty deaths at once than this vile outcry," said sir lancelot. then he kissed her and said, "most noble lady, i beseech ye, as i have ever been your own true knight, take courage; pray for my soul if i be now slain, and trust my faithful friends, sir bors and sir lavaine, to save you from the fire." but ever bitterly she wept and moaned, and cried, "would god that they would take and slay me, and that thou couldest escape." "that shall never be," said he. and wrapping his mantle round his arm he unbarred the door a little space, so that but one could enter. then first rushed in sir chalaunce, a full strong knight, and lifted up his sword to smite sir lancelot; but lightly he avoided him, and struck sir chalaunce, with his hand, such a sore buffet on the head as felled him dead upon the floor. then sir lancelot pulled in his body and barred the door again, and dressed himself in his armor, and took his drawn sword in his hand. but still the knights cried mightily without the door, "traitor, come forth!" "be silent and depart," replied sir lancelot; "for be ye sure ye will not take me, and to-morrow will i meet ye face to face before the king." "ye shall have no such grace," they cried; "but we will slay thee, or take thee as we list." "then save yourselves who may," he thundered, and therewith suddenly unbarred the door and rushed forth at them. and at the first blow he slew sir agravaine, and after him twelve other knights, with twelve more mighty buffets. and none of all escaped him save sir modred, who, sorely wounded, flew away for life. then returned he to the queen, and said, "now, madam, will i depart, and if ye be in any danger i pray ye come to me." "surely will i stay here, for i am queen," she answered; "yet if to-morrow any harm come to me i trust to thee for rescue." "have ye no doubt of me," said he, "for ever while i live am i your own true knight." therewith he took his leave, and went and told sir bors and all his kindred of this adventure. "we will be with thee in this quarrel," said they all; "and if the queen be sentenced to the fire, we certainly will save her." meanwhile sir modred, in great fear and pain, fled from the court, and rode until he found king arthur, and told him all that had befallen. but the king would scarce believe him till he came and saw the bodies of sir agravaine and all the other knights. then felt he in himself that all was true, and with his passing grief his heart nigh broke. "alas!" cried he, "now is the fellowship of the round table forever broken: yea, woe is me! i may not with my honor spare my queen." anon it was ordained that queen guinevere should be burned to death, because she had dishonored king arthur. but when sir gawain heard thereof, he came before the king, and said, "my lord, i counsel thee be not too hasty in this matter, but stay the judgment of the queen a season, for it may well be that sir lancelot was in her chamber for no evil, seeing she is greatly beholden to him for so many deeds done for her sake, and peradventure she had sent to him to thank him, and did it secretly that she might avoid slander." but king arthur answered, full of grief, "alas! i may not help her; she is judged as any other woman." then he required sir gawain and his brethren, sir gaheris and sir gareth, to be ready to bear the queen to-morrow to the place of execution. "nay, noble lord," replied sir gawain, "that can i never do; for neither will my heart suffer me to see the queen die, nor shall men ever say i was of your counsel in this matter." then said his brother, "ye may command us to be there, but since it is against our will, we will be without arms, that we may do no battle against her." so on the morrow was queen guinevere led forth to die by fire, and a mighty crowd was there, of knights and nobles, armed and unarmed. and all the lords and ladies wept sore at that piteous sight. then was she shriven by a priest, and the men came nigh to bind her to the stake and light the fire. at that sir lancelot's spies rode hastily and told him and his kindred, who lay hidden in a wood hard by; and suddenly, with twenty knights, he rushed into the midst of all the throng to rescue her. but certain of king arthur's knights rose up and fought with them, and there was a full great battle and confusion. and sir lancelot drave fiercely here and there among the press, and smote on every side, and at every blow struck down a knight, so that many were slain by him and his fellows. then was the queen set free, and caught up on sir lancelot's saddle and fled away with him and all his company to the castle of la joyous garde. now so it chanced that, in the turmoil of the fighting, sir lancelot had unawares struck down and slain the two good knights sir gareth and sir gaheris, knowing it not, for he fought wildly, and saw not that they were unarmed. when king arthur heard thereof, and of all that battle, and the rescue of the queen, he sorrowed heavily for those good knights, and was passing wroth with lancelot and the queen. but when sir gawain heard of his brethren's death he swooned for sorrow and wrath, for he wist that sir lancelot had killed them in malice. and as soon as he recovered he ran in to the king, and said, "lord king and uncle, hear this oath which now i swear, that from this day i will not fail sir lancelot till one of us hath slain the other. and now, unless ye haste to war with him, that we may be avenged, will i myself alone go after him." then the king, full of wrath and grief, agreed thereto, and sent letters throughout the realm to summon all his knights, and went with a vast army to besiege the castle of la joyous garde. and sir lancelot, with his knights, mightily defended it; but never would he suffer any to go forth and attack one of the king's army, for he was right loth to fight against him. so when fifteen weeks were passed, and king arthur's army wasted itself in vain against the castle, for it was passing strong, it chanced upon a day sir lancelot was looking from the walls and espied king arthur and sir gawain close beside. "come forth, sir lancelot," said king arthur right fiercely, "and let us two meet in the midst of the field." "god forbid that i should encounter with thee, lord, for thou didst make me a knight," replied sir lancelot. then cried sir gawain, "shame on thee, traitor and false knight, yet be ye well assured we will regain the queen and slay thee and thy company; yea, double shame on ye to slay my brother gaheris unarmed, sir gareth also, who loved ye so well. for that treachery, be sure i am thine enemy till death." "alas!" cried sir lancelot, "that i hear such tidings, for i knew not i had slain those noble knights, and right sorely now do i repent it with a heavy heart. yet abate thy wrath, sir gawain, for ye know full well i did it by mischance, for i loved them ever as my own brothers." "thou liest, false recreant," cried sir gawain, fiercely. at that sir lancelot was wroth, and said, "i well see thou art now mine enemy, and that there can be no more peace with thee, or with my lord the king, else would i gladly give back the queen." then the king would fain have listened to sir lancelot, for more than all his own wrong did he grieve at the sore waste and damage of the realm, but sir gawain persuaded him against it, and ever cried out foully on sir lancelot. when sir bors and the other knights of lancelot's party heard the fierce words of sir gawain, they were passing wroth, and prayed to ride forth and be avenged on him, for they were weary of so long waiting to no good. and in the end sir lancelot, with a heavy heart, consented. so on the morrow the hosts on either side met in the field, and there was a great battle. and sir gawain prayed his knights chiefly to set upon sir lancelot; but sir lancelot commanded his company to forbear king arthur and sir gawain. so the two armies jousted together right fiercely, and sir gawain proffered to encounter with sir lionel, and overthrew him. but sir bors and sir blamor, and sir palomedes, who were on sir lancelot's side, did great feats of arms, and overthrew many of king arthur's knights. then the king came forth against sir lancelot, but sir lancelot forbore him and would not strike again. at that sir bors rode up against the king and smote him down. but sir lancelot cried, "touch him not on pain of thy head," and going to king arthur he alighted and gave him his own horse, saying, "my lord, i pray thee forbear this strife, for it can bring to neither of us any honor." and when king arthur looked on him the tears came to his eyes as he thought of his noble courtesy, and he said within himself, "alas! that ever this war began." but on the morrow sir gawain led forth the army again, and sir bors commanded on sir lancelot's side. and they two struck together so fiercely that both fell to the ground sorely wounded; and all the day they fought till night fell, and many were slain on both sides, yet in the end neither gained the victory. but by now the fame of this fierce war spread through all christendom, and when the pope heard thereof he sent a bull, and charged king arthur to make peace with lancelot, and receive back queen guinevere; and for the offense imputed to her absolution should be given by the pope. thereto would king arthur straightway have obeyed, but sir gawain ever urged him to refuse. when sir lancelot heard thereof, he wrote thus to the king: "it was never in my thought, lord, to withhold thy queen from thee; but since she was condemned for my sake to death, i deemed it but a just and knightly part to rescue her therefrom; wherefore i recommend me to your grace, and within eight days will i come to thee and bring the queen in safety." then, within eight days, as he had said, sir lancelot rode from out the castle with queen guinevere, and a hundred knights for company, each carrying an olive branch, in sign of peace. and so they came to the court, and found king arthur sitting on his throne, with sir gawain and many other knights around him. and when sir lancelot entered with the queen, they both kneeled down before the king. anon sir lancelot rose and said, "my lord, i have brought hither my lady the queen again, as right requireth, and by commandment of the pope and you. i pray ye take her to your heart again and forget the past. for myself i may ask nothing, and for my sin i shall have sorrow and sore punishment; yet i would to heaven i might have your grace." but ere the king could answer, for he was moved with pity at his words, sir gawain cried aloud, "let the king do as he will, but be sure, sir lancelot, thou and i shall never be accorded while we live, for thou has slain my brethren traitorously and unarmed." "as heaven is my help," replied sir lancelot, "i did it ignorantly, for i loved them well, and while i live i shall bewail their death; but to make war with me were no avail, for i must needs fight with thee if thou assailest, and peradventure i might kill thee also, which i were right loth to do." "i will forgive thee never," cried sir gawain, "and if the king accordeth with thee he shall lose my service." then the knights who stood near tried to reconcile sir gawain to sir lancelot, but he would not hear them. so, at the last, sir lancelot said, "since peace is vain, i will depart, lest i bring more evil on my fellowship." and as he turned to go, the tears fell from him, and he said, "alas, most noble christian realm, which i have loved above all others, now shall i see thee never more!" then said he to the queen, "madam, now must i leave ye and this noble fellowship forever. and, i beseech ye, pray for me, and if ye ever be defamed of any, let me hear thereof, and as i have been ever thy true knight in right and wrong, so will i be again." with that he kneeled and kissed king arthur's hands, and departed on his way. and there was none in all that court, save sir gawain alone, but wept to see him go. so he returned with all his knights to the castle of la joyous garde, and, for his sorrow's sake, he named it dolorous garde thenceforth. anon he left the realm, and went with many of his fellowship beyond the sea to france, and there divided all his lands among them equally, he sharing but as the rest. and from that time forward peace had been between him and king arthur, but for sir gawain, who left the king no rest, but constantly persuaded him that lancelot was raising mighty hosts against him. so in the end his malice overcame the king, who left the government in charge of modred, and made him guardian of the queen, and went with a great army to invade sir lancelot's lands. yet sir lancelot would make no war upon the king, and sent a message to gain peace on any terms king arthur chose. but sir gawain met the herald ere he reached the king, and sent him back with taunting and bitter words. whereat sir lancelot sorrowfully called his knights together and fortified the castle of benwicke, and there was shortly besieged by the army of king arthur. and every day sir gawain rode up to the walls, and cried out foully on sir lancelot, till, upon a time, sir lancelot answered him that he would meet him in the field and put his boasting to the proof. so it was agreed on both sides that there should none come nigh them or separate them till one had fallen or yielded; and they two rode forth. then did they wheel their horses apart, and turning, came together as it had been thunder, so that both horses fell, and both their lances broke. at that they drew their swords and set upon each other fiercely, with passing grievous strokes. now sir gawain had through magic a marvelous great gift. for every day, from morning till noon, his strength waxed to the might of seven men, but after that waned to his natural force. therefore till noon he gave sir lancelot many mighty buffets, which scarcely he endured. yet greatly he forbore sir gawain, for he was aware of his enchantment, and smote him slightly till his own knights marveled. but after noon sir gawain's strength sank fast, and then, with one full blow, sir lancelot laid him on the earth. then sir gawain cried out, "turn not away, thou traitor knight, but slay me if thou wilt, or else i will arise and fight with thee again some other time." "sir knight," replied sir lancelot, "i never yet smote a fallen man." at that they bore sir gawain sorely wounded to his tent, and king arthur withdrew his men, for he was loth to shed the blood of so many knights of his own fellowship. but now came tidings to king arthur from across the sea, which caused him to return in haste. for thus the news ran, that no sooner was sir modred set up in his regency, than he had forged false tidings from abroad that the king had fallen in a battle with sir lancelot. whereat he had proclaimed himself the king, and had been crowned at canterbury, where he had held a coronation feast for fifteen days. then he had gone to winchester, where queen guinevere abode, and had commanded her to be his wife; whereto, for fear and sore perplexity, she had feigned consent, but, under pretext of preparing for the marriage, had fled in haste to london and taken shelter in the tower, fortifying it and providing it with all manner of victuals, and defending it against sir modred, and answering to all his threats that she would rather slay herself than be his queen. thus was it written to king arthur. then, in passing great wrath and haste, he came with all his army swiftly back from france and sailed to england. but when sir modred heard thereof, he left the tower and marched with all his host to meet the king at dover. then fled queen guinevere to amesbury to a nunnery, and there she clothed herself in sackcloth, and spent her time in praying for the king and in good deeds and fasting. and in that nunnery evermore she lived, sorely repenting and mourning for her sin, and for the ruin she had brought on all the realm. and there anon she died. and when sir lancelot heard thereof, he put his knightly armor off, and bade farewell to all his kin, and went a mighty pilgrimage for many years, and after lived a hermit till his death. when sir modred came to dover, he found king arthur and his army but just landed; and there they fought a fierce and bloody battle, and many great and noble knights fell on both sides. but the king's side had the victory, for he was beyond himself with might and passion, and all his knights so fiercely followed him, that, in spite of all their multitude, they drove sir modred's army back with fearful wounds and slaughter, and slept that night upon the battle-field. but sir gawain was smitten by an arrow in the wound sir lancelot gave him, and wounded to the death. then was he borne to the king's tent, and king arthur sorrowed over him as it had been his own son. "alas!" said he; "in sir lancelot and in you i had my greatest earthly joy, and now is all gone from me." and sir gawain answered, with a feeble voice, "my lord and king, i know well my death is come, and through my own wilfulness, for i am smitten in the wound sir lancelot gave me. alas! that i have been the cause of all this war, for but for me thou hadst been now at peace with lancelot, and then had modred never done this treason. i pray ye, therefore, my dear lord, be now agreed with lancelot, and tell him, that although he gave me my death-wound, it was through my own seeking; wherefore i beseech him to come back to england, and here to visit my tomb, and pray for my soul." when he had thus spoken, sir gawain gave up his ghost, and the king grievously mourned for him. then they told him that the enemy had camped on barham downs, whereat, with all his hosts, he straightway marched there, and fought again a bloody battle, and overthrew sir modred utterly. howbeit, he raised yet another army, and retreating ever from before the king, increased his numbers as he went, till at the farthest west in lyonesse, he once more made a stand. now, on the night of trinity sunday, being the eve of the battle, king arthur had a vision, and saw sir gawain in a dream, who warned him not to fight with modred on the morrow, else he would be surely slain; and prayed him to delay till lancelot and his knights should come to aid him. so when king arthur woke he told his lords and knights that vision, and all agreed to wait the coming of sir lancelot. then a herald was sent with a message of truce to sir modred, and a treaty was made that neither army should assail the other. but when the treaty was agreed upon, and the heralds returned, king arthur said to his knights, "beware, lest sir modred deceive us, for i in no wise trust him, and if swords be drawn be ready to encounter!" and sir modred likewise gave an order, that if any man of the king's army drew his sword, they should begin to fight. and as it chanced, a knight of the king's side was bitten by an adder in the foot, and hastily drew forth his sword to slay it. that saw sir modred, and forthwith commanded all his army to assail the king's. so both sides rushed to battle, and fought passing fiercely. and when the king saw there was no hope to stay them, he did right mightily and nobly as a king should do, and ever, like a lion, raged in the thickest of the press, and slew on the right hand and on the left, till his horse went fetlock deep in blood. so all day long they fought, and stinted not till many a noble knight was slain. but the king was passing sorrowful to see his trusty knights lie dead on every side. and at the last but two remained beside him, sir lucan, and his brother, sir bedivere, and both were sorely wounded. "now am i come to mine end," said king arthur; "but, lo! that traitor modred liveth yet, and i may not die till i have slain him. now, give me my spear, sir lucan." "lord, let him be," replied sir lucan; "for if ye pass through this unhappy day, ye shall be right well revenged upon him. my good lord, remember well your dream, and what the spirit of sir gawain did fore-warn ye." "betide me life, betide me death," said the king; "now i see him yonder alone, he shall never escape my hands, for at a better vantage shall i never have him." "god speed you well," said sir bedivere. then king arthur got his spear in both his hands, and ran towards sir modred, crying, "traitor, now is thy death-day come!" and when sir modred heard his words, and saw him come, he drew his sword and stood to meet him. then king arthur smote sir modred through the body more than a fathom. and when sir modred felt he had his death wound, he thrust himself with all his might up to the end of king arthur's spear, and smote his father, arthur, with his sword upon the head, so that it pierced both helm and brain-pan. and therewith sir modred fell down stark dead to the earth, and king arthur fell down also in a swoon, and swooned many times. then sir lucan and sir bedivere came and bare him away to a little chapel by the sea-shore. and there sir lucan sank down with the bleeding of his own wounds, and fell dead. and king arthur lay long in a swoon, and when he came to himself, he found sir lucan lying dead beside him, and sir bedivere weeping over the body of his brother. then said the king to sir bedivere, "weeping will avail no longer, else would i grieve forevermore. alas! now is the fellowship of the round table dissolved forever, and all my realm i have so loved is wasted with war. but my time hieth fast, wherefore take thou excalibur, my good sword, and go therewith to yonder water-side and throw it in, and bring me word what thing thou seest." so sir bedivere departed; but as he went he looked upon the sword, the hilt whereof was all inlaid with precious stones exceeding rich. and presently he said within himself, "if i now throw this sword into the water, what good should come of it?" so he hid the sword among the reeds, and came again to the king. "what sawest thou?" said he to sir bedivere. "lord," said he, "i saw nothing else but wind and waves." "thou hast untruly spoken," said the king; "wherefore go lightly back and throw it in, and spare not." then sir bedivere returned again, and took the sword up in his hand; but when he looked on it, he thought it sin and shame to throw away a thing so noble. wherefore he hid it yet again, and went back to the king. "what saw ye?" said king arthur. "lord," answered he, "i saw nothing but the water ebbing and flowing." "oh, traitor and untrue!" cried out the king; "twice hast thou now betrayed me. art thou called of men a noble knight, and wouldest betray me for a jewelled sword? now, therefore, go again for the last time, for thy tarrying hath put me in sore peril of my life, and i fear my wound hath taken cold; and if thou do it not this time, by my faith i will arise and slay thee with my hands." then sir bedivere ran quickly and took up the sword, and went down to the water's edge, and bound the girdle round the hilt and threw it far into the water. and lo! an arm and hand came forth above the water, and caught the sword, and brandished it three times, and vanished. so sir bedivere came again to the king and told him what he had seen. "help me from hence," said king arthur; "for i dread me i have tarried over long." then sir bedivere took the king up in his arms, and bore him to the water's edge. and by the shore they saw a barge with three fair queens therein, all dressed in black, and when they saw king arthur they wept and wailed. "now put me in the barge," said he to sir bedivere, and tenderly he did so. then the three queens received him, and he laid his head upon the lap of one of them, who cried, "alas! dear brother, why have ye tarried so long, for your wound hath taken cold?" with that the barge put from the land, and when sir bedivere saw it departing, he cried with a bitter cry, "alas! my lord king arthur, what shall become of me now ye have gone from me?" "comfort ye," said king arthur, "and be strong, for i may no more help ye. i go to the vale of avilion to heal me of my grievous wound, and if ye see me no more, pray for my soul." then the three queens kneeled down around the king and sorely wept and wailed, and the barge went forth to sea, and departed slowly out of sir bedivere's sight. the end transcriber's notes: . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . minor punctuation errors have been corrected. . a complete list of spelling corrections and notations is located at the end of this text. _Édition d'Élite_ historical tales the romance of reality by charles morris _author of "half-hours with the best american authors," "tales from the dramatists," etc._ in fifteen volumes volume xiv king arthur j. b. lippincott company philadelphia and london copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. [illustration: conway castle.] contents to volume ii. book viii. tristram and isolde at joyous gard. chapter. page. i.--the treachery of king mark ii.--how tristram befooled dinadan iii.--on the road to lonazep iv.--how palamides fared at the red city v.--the tournament at lonazep vi.--the second day of the tournament vii.--the woes of two lovers viii.--the rivalry of tristram and palamides book ix. the quest of the holy grail. i.--the enchanted castle of king pellam ii.--the marvel of the floating sword iii.--how galahad got his shield iv.--the temptation of sir percivale v.--the strange adventures of sir bors vi.--the adventure of the magic ship vii.--how lancelot saw the sangreal viii.--the deeds of the three chosen knights book x. the love of lancelot and guenever. i.--the poisoning of sir patrise ii.--the lily maid of astolat iii.--how elaine died for love iv.--the chevalier of the cart book xi. the hand of destiny. i.--the trapping of the lion ii.--the rescue of the queen iii.--the return of guenever iv.--the war between arthur and lancelot v.--the sting of the viper vi.--the passing of arthur vii.--the death of lancelot and guenever list of illustrations. king arthur. vol. ii. page conway castle _frontispiece._ st. michael's mount, cornwall the round table of king arthur marriage of sir tristram the assault of sir tristram sir tristram at joyous gard the departure on the quest of the holy grail joseph of arimathea oath of knighthood sir galahad fighting the seven sins an old and half-ruined chapel the magic ship sir galahad's quest of the holy grail salisbury cathedral "you are welcome, both," said sir bernard elaine sir lancelot in the queen's chamber the tower of london the old kitchen of glastonbury abbey * * * * * king arthur and the knights of the round table. book viii. tristram and isolde at joyous gard chapter i. the treachery of king mark. the story of tristram's valorous deeds, and of the high honor in which he was held at camelot, in good time came to cornwall, where it filled king mark's soul with revengeful fury, and stirred the heart of la belle isolde to the warmest love. the coward king, indeed, in his jealous hatred of his nephew, set out in disguise for england, with murderous designs against tristram should an opportunity occur. many things happened to him there, and he was brought into deep disgrace, but the story of his adventures may be passed over in brief review, lest the reader should find it wearisome. not far had he ridden on english soil before he met with dinadan, who, in his jesting humor, soon played him a merry trick. for he arrayed dagonet, the king's fool, in a suit of armor, which he made mark believe was lancelot's. thus prepared, dagonet rode to meet him and challenged him to a joust. but king mark, on seeing what he fancied was lancelot's shield, turned and fled at headlong speed, followed by the fool and his comrades with hunting cries and laughter till the forest rang with the noise. escaping at length from this merry chase, the trembling dastard made his way to camelot, where he hoped some chance would arise to aid him in his murderous designs on tristram. but a knight of his own train, named sir amant, had arrived there before him, and accused him of treason to the king, without telling who he was. "this is a charge that must be settled by wager of battle," said king arthur. "the quarrel is between you; you must decide it with sword and spear." in the battle that followed, sir amant, by unlucky fortune, was run through, and fell from his horse with a mortal wound. "heaven has decided in my favor," cried king mark. "but here i shall no longer stay, for it does not seem a safe harbor for honest knights." he thereupon rode away, fearing that dinadan would reveal his name. yet not far had he gone before lancelot came in furious haste after him. [illustration: st. michael's mount, cornwall.] "turn again, thou recreant king and knight," he loudly called. "to arthur's court you must return, whether it is your will or not. we know you, villain. sir amant has told your name and purpose; and, by my faith, i am strongly moved to kill you on the spot." "fair sir," asked king mark, "what is your name?" "my name is lancelot du lake. defend yourself, dog and dastard." on hearing this dreaded name, and seeing lancelot riding upon him with spear in rest, king mark tumbled like a sack of grain from his saddle to the earth, crying in terror, "i yield me, sir lancelot! i yield me!" and begging piteously for mercy. "thou villain!" thundered lancelot, "i would give much to deal thee one buffet for the love of tristram and isolde. mount, dog, and follow me." mark hastened to obey, and was thus brought like a slave back to arthur's court, where he made such prayers and promises that in the end the king forgave him, but only on condition that he would enter into accord with tristram, and remove from him the sentence of banishment. all this king mark volubly promised and swore to abide by, though a false heart underlay his fair words. but tristram gladly accepted the proffered truce with his old enemy, for his heart burned with desire to see his lady love again. soon afterwards dinadan, with dagonet and his companions, came to court, and great was the laughter and jesting at king mark when they told the story of his flight from arthur's fool. "this is all very well for you stay-at-homes," cried mark; "but even a fool in lancelot's armor is not to be played with. as it was, dagonet paid for his masquerade, for he met a knight who brought him like a log to the ground, and all these laughing fellows with him." "who was that?" asked king arthur. "i can tell you," said dinadan. "it was sir palamides. i followed him through the forest, and a lively time we had in company." "aha! then you have had adventures." "rare ones. we met a knight before morgan le fay's castle. you know the custom there, to let no knight pass without a hard fight for it. this stranger made havoc with the custom, for he overthrew ten of your sister's knights, and killed some of them. he afterwards tilted with palamides for offering to help him, and gave that doughty fellow a sore wound." "who was this mighty champion? not lancelot or tristram?" asked the king, looking around. "on our faith we had no hand in it," they both answered. "it was the knight next to them in renown," answered dinadan. "lamorak of wales?" "no less. and, my faith, a sturdy fellow he is. i left him and palamides the best of friends." "i hope, then, to see the pair of them at next week's tournament," said the king. alas for lamorak! better for him far had he kept away from that tournament. his gallant career was near its end, for treachery and hatred were soon to seal his fate. this sorrowful story it is now our sad duty to tell. lamorak had long loved margause, the queen of orkney, arthur's sister and the mother of gawaine and his brethren. for this they hated him, and with treacherous intent invited their mother to a castle near camelot, as a lure to her lover. soon after the tournament, at which lamorak won the prize of valor, and redoubled the hatred of gawaine and his brothers by overcoming them in the fray, word was brought to the victorious knight that margause was near at hand and wished to see him. with a lover's ardor, he hastened to the castle where she was, but, as they sat in the queen's apartment in conversation, the door was suddenly flung open, and gaheris, one of the murderous brethren, burst in, full armed and with a naked sword in his hand. rushing in fury on the unsuspecting lovers, with one dreadful blow he struck off his mother's head, crimsoning lamorak with her blood. he next assailed lamorak, who, being unarmed, was forced to fly for his life, and barely escaped. the tidings of this dread affair filled the land with dismay, and many of the good knights of arthur's court threatened reprisal. arthur himself was full of wrath at the death of his sister. yet those were days when law ruled not, but force was master, and retribution only came from the strong hand and the ready sword. this was lamorak's quarrel, and the king, though he vowed to protect him from his foes, declared that the good knight of wales must seek retribution with his own hand. he gained death, alas! instead of revenge, for his foes proved too vigilant for him, and overcame him by vile treachery. watching his movements, they lay in ambush for him at a difficult place, and as he was passing, unsuspicious of danger, they set suddenly upon him, slew his horse, and assailed him on foot. gawaine, mordred, and gaheris formed this ambush, for the noble-minded gareth had refused to take part in their murderous plot; and with desperate fury they assaulted the noble welsh knight, who, for three hours, defended himself against their utmost strength. but at the last mordred dealt him a death-blow from behind, and when he fell in death the three murders hewed him with their swords till scarce a trace of the human form was left. thus perished one of the noblest of arthur's knights, and thus was done one of the most villanous deeds of blood ever known in those days of chivalrous war. before the death of lamorak another event happened at arthur's court which must here be told, for it was marvellous in itself, and had in it the promise of wondrous future deeds. one day there came to the court at camelot a knight attended by a young squire. when he had disarmed he went to the king and asked him to give the honor of knighthood to his squire. "what claim has he to it?" asked the king. "of what lineage is he?" "he is the youngest son of king pellinore, and brother to sir lamorak. he is my brother also; for my name is aglavale, and i am of the same descent." "what is his name?" "percivale." "then for my love of lamorak, and the love i bore your father, he shall be made a knight to-morrow." so when the morrow dawned, the king ordered that the youth should be brought into the great hall, and there he knighted him, dealing him the accolade with his good sword excalibur. and so the day passed on till the dinner-hour, when the king seated himself at the head of the table, while down its sides were many knights of prowess and renown. percivale, the new-made knight, was given a seat among the squires and the untried knights, who sat at the lower end of the great dining-table. but in the midst of their dinner an event of great strangeness occurred. for there came into the hall one of the queen's maidens, who was of high birth, but who had been born dumb, and in all her life had spoken no word. straight across the hall she walked, while all gazed at her in mute surprise, till she came to where percivale sat. then she took him by the hand, and spoke in a voice that rang through the hall with the clearness of a trumpet,-- "arise, sir percivale, thou noble knight and warrior of god's own choosing. arise and come with me." he rose in deep surprise, while all the others sat in dumb wonder at this miracle. to the round table she led him, and to the right side of the seat perilous, in which no knight had hitherto dared to sit. "fair knight, take here your seat;" she said. "this seat belongs to you, and to none other, and shall be yours until a greater than you shall come." this said, she departed and asked for a priest. then was she confessed and given the sacrament, and forthwith died. but the king and all his court gazed with wonder on sir percivale, and asked themselves what all this meant, and for what great career god had picked out this youthful knight, for such a miracle no man there had ever seen before. meanwhile, king mark had gone back to cornwall, and with him went sir tristram, at king arthur's request, though not till arthur had made the cornish king swear on holy scripture to do his guest no harm, but hold him in honor and esteem. lancelot, however, was full of dread and anger when he heard what had occurred, and he told king mark plainly that if he did mischief to sir tristram he would slay him with his own hands. "bear this well in mind, sir king," he said, "for i have a way of keeping my word." "i have sworn before king arthur to treat him honorably," answered mark. "i, too, have a way of keeping my word." "a way, i doubt not," said lancelot, scornfully; "but not my way. your reputation for truth needs mending. and all men know for what you came into this country. therefore, take heed what you do." [illustration: copyright by e. a. abbey; from a copely print copyright by curtis and cameron. the round table of king arthur.] then mark and tristram departed, and soon after they reached cornwall a damsel was sent to camelot with news of their safe arrival, and bearing letters from tristram to arthur and lancelot. these they answered and sent the damsel back, the burden of lancelot's letter being, "beware of king fox, for his ways are ways of wiles." they also sent letters to king mark, threatening him if he should do aught to tristram's injury. these letters worked harm only, for they roused the evil spirit in the cornish king's soul, stirring him up to anger and thirst for revenge. he thereupon wrote to arthur, bidding him to meddle with his own concerns, and to take heed to his wife and his knights, which would give him work enough to do. as for sir tristram, he said that he held him to be his mortal enemy. he wrote also to queen guenever, his letter being full of shameful charges of illicit relations with sir lancelot, and dishonor to her lord, the king. full of wrath at these vile charges, guenever took the letter to lancelot, who was half beside himself with anger on reading it. "you cannot get at him to make him eat his words," said dinadan, whom lancelot took into his confidence. "and if you seek to bring him to terms with pen and ink, you will find that his villany will get the better of your honesty. yet there are other ways of dealing with cowardly curs. leave him to me; i will make him wince. i will write a mocking lay of king mark and his doings, and will send a harper to sing it before him at his court. when this noble king has heard my song i fancy he will admit that there are other ways of gaining revenge besides writing scurrilous letters." a stinging lay, indeed, was that which dinadan composed. when done he taught it to a harper named eliot, who in his turn taught it to other harpers, and these, by the orders of arthur and lancelot, went into wales and cornwall to sing it everywhere. meanwhile king mark's crown had been in great danger. for his country had been invaded by an army from session, led by a noted warrior named elias, who drove the forces of cornwall from the field and besieged the king in his castle of tintagil. and now tristram came nobly to the rescue. at the head of the cornish forces he drove back the besiegers with heavy loss, and challenged elias to a single combat to end the war. the challenge was accepted, and a long and furious combat followed, but in the end elias was slain, and the remnant of his army forced to surrender. this great service added to the seeming accord between tristram and the king, but in his heart mark nursed all his old bitterness, and hated him the more that he had helped him. his secret fury soon found occasion to flame to the surface. for at the feast which was given in honor of the victory, eliot, the harper, appeared, and sang before the king and his lords the lay that dinadan had made. this was so full of ridicule and scorn of king mark that he leaped from his seat in a fury of wrath before the harper had half finished. "thou villanous twanger of strings!" he cried. "what hound sent you into this land to insult me with your scurrilous songs?" "i am a minstrel," said eliot, "and must obey the orders of my lord. sir dinadan made this song, if you would know, and bade me sing it here." "that jesting fool!" cried mark, in wrath. "as for you, fellow, you shall go free through minstrels' license. but if you lose any time in getting out of this country you may find that cornish air is not good for you." the harper took this advice and hastened away, bearing letters from tristram to lancelot and dinadan. but king mark turned the weight of his anger against tristram, whom he believed had instigated this insult, with the design to set all the nobles of his own court laughing at him. and well he knew that the villanous lay would be sung throughout the land, and that he would be made the jest of all the kingdom. "they have their sport now," he said. "mine will come. tristram of lyonesse shall pay dearly for this insult. and all that hold with him shall learn that king mark of cornwall is no child's bauble to be played with." the evil-minded king was not long in putting his project in execution. at a tournament which was held soon afterwards tristram was badly wounded, and king mark, with great show of sorrow, had him borne to a castle near by, where he took him under his own care as nurse and leech. here he gave him a sleeping draught, and had him borne while slumbering to another castle, where he was placed in a strong prison cell, under the charge of stern keepers. the disappearance of tristram made a great stir in the kingdom. la belle isolde, fearing treachery, went to a faithful knight named sir sadok, and begged him to try and discover what had become of the missing knight. sadok set himself diligently to work; and soon learned that tristram was held captive in the castle of lyonesse. then he went to dinas, the seneschal, and others, and told them what had been done, at which they broke into open rebellion against king mark, and took possession of all the towns and castles in the country of lyonesse, filling them with their followers. but while the rebellious army was preparing to march on tintagil, and force king mark to set free his prisoner, tristram was delivered by the young knight sir percivale, who had come thither in search of adventures, and had heard of king mark's base deed. great was the joy between these noble knights, and tristram said,-- "will you abide in these marches, sir percivale? if so, i will keep you company." "nay, dear friend, i cannot tarry here. duty calls me into wales." but before leaving cornwall he went to king mark, told him what he had done, and threatened him with the revenge of all honorable knights if he sought again to injure his noble nephew. "what would you have me do?" asked the king. "shall i harbor a man who openly makes love to my wife and queen?" "is there any shame in a nephew showing an open affection for his uncle's wife?" asked percivale. "no man will dare say that so noble a warrior as sir tristram would go beyond the borders of sinless love, or will dare accuse the virtuous lady la belle isolde of lack of chastity. you have let jealousy run away with your wisdom, king mark." so saying, he departed; but his words had little effect on king mark's mind. no sooner had percivale gone than he began new devices to gratify his hatred of his nephew. he sent word to dinas, the seneschal, under oath, that he intended to go to the pope and join the war against the infidel saracens, which he looked upon as a nobler service than that of raising the people against their lawful king. so earnest were his professions that dinas believed him and dismissed his forces, but no sooner was this done than king mark set aside his oath and had tristram again privately seized and imprisoned. this new outrage filled the whole realm with tumult and rebellious feeling. la belle isolde was at first thrown into the deepest grief, and then her heart swelled high with resolution to live no longer with the dastard who called her wife. tristram at the same time privately sent her a letter, advising her to leave the court of her villanous lord, and offering to go with her to arthur's realm, if she would have a vessel privately made ready. the queen thereupon had an interview with dinas and sadok, and begged them to seize and imprison the king, since she was resolved to escape from his power. furious at the fox-like treachery of the king, these knights did as requested, for they formed a plot by which mark was privately seized, and they imprisoned him secretly in a strong dungeon. at the same time tristram was delivered, and soon sailed openly away from cornwall with la belle isolde, gladly shaking the dust of that realm of treachery from his feet. in due time the vessel touched shore in king arthur's dominions, and gladly throbbed the heart of the long-unhappy queen as her feet touched that free and friendly soil. as for tristram, never was lover fuller of joy, and life seemed to him to have just begun. not long had they landed when a knightly chance brought lancelot into their company. warm indeed was the greeting of those two noble companions, and glad the welcome which lancelot gave isolde to english soil. "you have done well," he said, "to fly from that wolf's den. there is no noble knight in the world but hates king mark and will honor you for leaving his palace of vile devices. come with me, you shall be housed at my expense." then he rode with them to his own castle of joyous gard, a noble stronghold which he had won with his own hands. a royal castle it was, garnished and provided with a richness which no king or queen could surpass. here lancelot bade them use everything as their own, and charged all his people to love and honor them as they would himself. "joyous gard is yours as long as you will honor it by making it your home," he said. "as for me, i can have no greater joy than to know that my castle is so nobly tenanted, and that tristram of lyonesse and queen isolde are my honored guests." leaving them, lancelot rode to camelot, where he told arthur and guenever of what had happened, much to their joy and delight. "by my crown," cried arthur, joyfully, "the coming of tristram and isolde to my realm is no everyday event, and is worthy of the highest honor. we must signalize it with a noble tournament." then he gave orders that a stately passage-at-arms should be held on may-day at the castle of lonazep, which was near joyous gard. and word was sent far and near that the knights of his own realm of logris, with those of cornwall and north wales, would be pitted against those of the rest of england, of ireland and scotland, and of lands beyond the seas. chapter ii. how tristram befooled dinadan. never were two happier lovers than tristram and isolde at joyous gard. their days were spent in feasting and merriment, isolde's heart overflowing with joy to be free from the jealousy of her ill-tempered spouse, and tristram's to have his lady love to himself, far from treacherous plots and murderous devices. every day tristram went hunting, for at that time men say he was the best courser at the chase in the world, and the rarest blower of the horn among all lovers of sport. from him, it is said, came all the terms of hunting and hawking, the distinction between beasts of the chase and vermin, all methods of dealing with hounds and with game, and all the blasts of the chase and the recall, so that they who delight in huntsmen's sport will have cause to the world's end to love sir tristram and pray for his soul's repose. yet isolde at length grew anxious for his welfare, and said,-- "i marvel that you ride so much to the chase unarmed. this is a country not well known to you, and one that contains many false knights, while king mark may lay some plot for your destruction. i pray you, my dear love, to take more heed to your safety." this advice seemed timely, and thereafter tristram rode in armor to the chase, and followed by men who bore his shield and spear. one day, a little before the month of may, he followed a hart eagerly, but as the animal led him by a cool woodland spring, he alighted to quench his thirst in the gurgling waters. here, by chance, he met with dinadan, who had come into that country in search of him. some words of greeting passed between them, after which dinadan asked him his name, telling his own. this confidence tristram declined to return, whereupon dinadan burst out in anger. [illustration: marriage of sir tristram.] "you value your name highly, sir knight," he said. "do you design to ride everywhere under a mask? such a foolish knight as you i saw but lately lying by a well. he seemed like one asleep, and no word could be got from him, yet all the time he grinned like a fool. the fellow was either an idiot or a lover, i know not which." "and are not you a lover?" asked tristram. "marry, my wit has saved me from that craft." "that is not well said," answered tristram. "a knight who disdains love is but half a man, and not half a warrior." "i am ready to stand by my creed," retorted dinadan. "as for you, sirrah, you shall tell me your name, or do battle with me." "you will not get my name by a threat, i promise you that," said tristram. "i shall not fight till i am in the mood; and when i do, you may get more than you bargain for." "i fear you not, coward," said dinadan. "if you are so full of valor, here is your man," said tristram, pointing to a knight who rode along the forest aisle towards them. "he looks ready for a joust." "on my life, it is the same dull-plate knave i saw lying by the well, neither sleeping nor waking," said dinadan. "this is not the first time i have seen that covered shield of azure," said tristram. "this knight is sir epinegris, the son of the king of northumberland, than whom the land holds no more ardent lover, for his heart is gone utterly out to the fair daughter of the king of wales. now, if you care to find whether a lover or a non-lover is the better knight, here is your opportunity." "i shall teach him to grin to more purpose," said dinadan. "stand by and you shall see." then, as the lover approached, he cried,-- "halt, sir knight, and make ready to joust, as is the custom with errant knights." "let it be so, if you will," answered epinegris. "since it is the custom of you knight-errant to make a man joust whether he will or no, i am your man." "make ready, then, for here is for you." then they spurred their horses and rode together at full speed, dinadan breaking his spear, while epinegris struck him so shrewd a blow that he rolled upon the earth. "how now?" cried tristram. "it seems to me that the lover has best sped." "will you play the coward?" queried dinadan. "or will you, like a good knight, revenge me?" "i am not in the mood," answered tristram. "take your horse, sir dinadan, and let us get away from here, where hard blows are more plentiful than soft beds." "defend me from such fellowship as yours!" roared dinadan. "take your way and i will take mine. we fit not well together." "i might give you news of sir tristram." "sir tristram, if he be wise, will seek better company. i can do without your news, as i have had to do without your help," and he rode on in high dudgeon. "farewell, then," cried tristram, laughing. "it may happen we shall soon meet again." tristram rode back in much amusement to joyous gard, but on coming near he heard in the neighboring town a great outcry. "what means this noise?" he asked. "sir," he was told, "a knight of the castle has just been slain by two strangers, and for no other cause than saying that sir lancelot was a better knight than sir gawaine." "who would dispute that?" said tristram. "it is a small cause for the death of a good man, that he stands for his lord's fame." "but what remedy have we?" said the towns-men. "if lancelot had been here, these fellows would soon have been called to a reckoning. but, alas, he is away." "i may do something in his service," answered tristram. "if i take his place, i must defend his followers." thereupon he sent for his shield and spear, and rode in pursuit of the two knights, whom he overtook before they had gone far. "turn, sir dastards," he cried, "and amend your misdeeds." "what amends wish you?" asked one of the knights. "we are ready with spear and sword to make good whatever we have done." he rode against tristram, but was met so sturdily in mid career that he was thrust over his horse's tail. then the other rode against him, and was served in the same rough manner. they rose as quickly as they could, drew their swords, and challenged him to battle on foot. "you shall tell me your names," he said, sternly. "i warn you that if it comes to sword-play you will find more than your match. yet you may have that in your lineage which will keep you from my hands, however much you deserve punishment for your evil deeds." "as for our names, we dread not to tell them. we are agravaine and gaheris, brothers to the good knight gawaine, and nephews of king arthur." "for arthur's sake, then, i must let you pass unscathed. yet it is a crying shame that men of such good blood as you should play the part of murderers. you slew among you a better knight than the best of your kin, lamorak de galis, and i would to god i had been by at that time." "you would have gone the same road," said gaheris. "not without more knights to do it than you had in your murderous crew." with these words he turned from them and rode back towards joyous gard. when he had gone they regained their horses, and feeling themselves safe in the saddle their courage returned. "let us pursue this boaster," they said, "and see if he fares so much better than lamorak." they did so, and when they came near tristram, who was jogging slowly along, agravaine cried,-- "turn, traitor knight!" "traitor in your teeth!" cried tristram, in a rage. "i let you off too cheaply, it seems." and drawing his sword, he turned upon agravaine and smote him so fiercely on the helm that he fell swooning from his horse, with a dangerous wound. then he turned to gaheris and dealt him a blow that in like manner tumbled him from his saddle to the earth. this done, tristram turned and rode into the castle, leaving them like dead men in the road. here he told la belle isolde of his several adventures. when he spoke of dinadan, she asked,-- "was it not he that made the song about king mark?" "the same," answered tristram. "he is the greatest jester at arthur's court, but a good knight withal, and i know no man whom i like better as a comrade." "why did you not bring him with you?" "no need of that. he is seeking me through this country, and there is no fear that he will give up the search lightly." as they spoke, a servant came and told tristram that a knight-errant had entered the town, and described the device on his shield. "that is our man now," said tristram. "that is dinadan. send for him, isolde, and you shall hear the merriest knight and the maddest talker that you ever spoke with. i pray you to make him heartily welcome, for he is a cherished friend of mine." then isolde sent into the town with a message to dinadan, begging that he would come to the castle and rest a while there, at a lady's wish. "that will i, with a good will," answered dinadan. "i were but a churl else." he hastened to mount and ride to the castle, and here he was shown to a chamber where he laid aside his armor. then he was brought into the presence of la belle isolde, who courteously bade him welcome. "whence, come you, and what name do you bear?" she asked. "madam," he answered, "i am from king arthur's court, and am one of the small fry of round table knights. my name is dinadan." "and why came you hither?" "i am seeking my old friend and comrade, sir tristram, who i am told has made his way to this country." "that i cannot answer for," said isolde. "he may and he may not be here. sir tristram will be found where love leads him." "i warrant me that. your true lover has no will of his own, but is led like an ox, with a ring in his nose. i marvel what juice of folly gets into the pates of these lovers to make them so mad about the women." "why, sir," said isolde, "can it be that you are a knight and no lover? i fancy that there can be no true man-of-arms who seeks not by his deeds to win the smiles of the fair." "they who care to be fed on smiles are welcome to them, but i am not made of that fashion," answered dinadan. "the joy of love is too short, and the sorrow thereof too long, to please my fancy." "say you so? yet near here but to-day was the good knight sir bleoberis, he who fought with three knights at once for a maiden's sake, and won her before the king of northumberland." "i know him for a worthy fellow," said dinadan, "as are all of lancelot's kindred. yet he has crotchets in his head, like all that crew." "now, i pray you," said isolde, "will you not do me the grace to fight for my love with three knights that have done me great wrong? as you are a knight of king arthur's, you can never say me nay in such a duty." "can i not?" cried dinadan. "this much i will say, madam, that you are as fair a sample of womankind as ever i saw, and much more beautiful than is my lady queen guenever. and yet, heaven defend me, i will not fight for you against three knights; and would not, were you helen of troy herself." at these words, and the odd grimace which he made, la belle isolde burst into a merry peal of laughter, and broke out with,-- "i know you better than you fancy, sir dinadan. and well you keep up your credit of being a merry fellow. you are very welcome to my castle, good sir." they had much more of gameful conversation together, and dinadan was treated with all honor, and slept serenely at the castle that night. but tristram took good care to keep out of his sight. early the next day tristram armed himself and prepared to ride away, saying to the lady isolde that he would contrive to meet with dinadan, and would ride with him to lonazep, where the tournament was to be held. he promised also to make arrangements to provide her with a good place from which to see the passage-at-arms. then he departed, accompanied by two squires, who bore his shield and a brace of great and long spears. shortly afterwards dinadan left the castle, bidding a merry adieu to the lady, and rode so briskly forward that he soon overtook tristram. he knew him at sight for his yesterday's comrade, and made a sour grimace at beholding him. "so," he said, "here again is my easy-going friend, who wears his armor for a holiday parade. you shall not get off so lightly to-day, fellow. you shall joust with me, despite your head." "faith, i am not eager," said tristram, "but a wilful man will have his way; so let us have it over, if fight we must." then they rode at each other, and dinadan broke a spear on tristram's shield, but tristram purposely missed him. dinadan now bade him draw his sword. "not i," he answered. "what makes you so warlike? i am not in the humor to fight." "you shame all knights by your cowardice." "so far as that goes, it troubles me little," said tristram. "suppose, my good sir, you take me under your protection. though i bear arms i shall gladly accept the patronage of so worthy a knight as you." "the devil deliver me of you!" cried dinadan. "you are a fellow of goodly build, and sit your horse like a warrior; but heaven knows if you have blood or water in your veins. what do you propose to do with those great spears that your squire carries?" "i shall give them to some good knight at the tournament. if you prove the best there, you are welcome to them." as they thus conversed they saw a knight-errant in the road before them, who sat with spear in rest as if eager to joust. "come," said tristram, "since you are so anxious for a fight, yonder is your man." "shame betide you for a dastard," cried dinadan. "fight him yourself. you can't get more than a fall." "not so. that knight seems a shrewish fellow. it will need a stronger hand than mine to manage him." "good faith, then, here's to teach you a lesson," said dinadan, and he rode fiercely against the other knight, with the unlucky result that he was thrust from his horse, and fell headlong to the earth. "what did i tell you?" said tristram. "you had better have taken a lesson from my prudence, and let that good fellow alone." "the fiends take you, coward!" cried dinadan, as he started to his feet and drew his sword. "come, sir knight, you are my better on horseback, let us have it out on foot." "shall it be in love or in anger?" said the other. "let it be in love. i am saving all my anger for this do-nothing who came with me." "then i pray you to tell me your name." "folks call me dinadan." "ah, and i am your comrade gareth. i will not fight with an old friend like dinadan." "nor i with you, by my faith!" cried dinadan, seizing gareth's hand and giving it a warm pressure. "beaumains is safe from my spear. here is a chap now, if you want to try your skill; but if you can get him to fight you must first learn the art of converting a coward into a man of valor." tristram laughed quietly at this, and bided his time. nor was there long to wait, for just then a well-armed knight rode up, on a sturdy horse, and put his spear in rest as he approached. "now, my good sirs," said tristram, "choose between yourselves which will joust with yonder knight; for i warn you that i will keep clear of him." "faith, you had better," said gareth. "leave him to me." and he rode against the knight but with such ill-fortune that he was thrust over his horse's croup. "it is your turn now," said tristram to dinadan. "honor requires that you should avenge your comrade gareth." "honor does, eh? then reason does not, and i always weigh reason against honor. he has overturned a much bigger fellow than i, and with your kind permission i will not stir up that hornet." "aha, friend dinadan, your heart fails you after all your boasting. very well, you shall see what the coward can do. make ready, sir knight." then tristram rode against the victorious knight, and dealt him so shrewd a buffet that he was thrust from his horse. dinadan looked at this in amazement. was this the fellow that professed cowardice and begged protection? "the cunning rogue," he said to himself, "has been making game of me. the rascal! where has he learned the art of turning my weapons on myself?" the dismounted knight rose to his feet in anger, and drawing his sword, challenged tristram to a fight on foot. "first, tell me your name?" asked tristram. "my name is palamides." "and what knight hate you most?" "i hate sir tristram to the death. if we meet, one of us must die." "you need not go far to seek him. i am tristram de lyonesse. now do your worst." at this dinadan started, and struck his hand sturdily on his knee, like one who has had a shock of surprise. nor was palamides less astonished, and he stood before tristram like one in a sudden revulsion of feeling. "i pray you, sir tristram," he said, "to forgive my ill-will and my unkind words. you are a noble knight and worthy of the love of all honorable warriors. i repent my truculent temper towards you, and, if i live, will rather do you service than assail you." "i know your valor well," answered tristram, "and that it is anything but fear makes you speak so. therefore i thank you much for your kind words. but if you have any shreds of ill-will towards me i am ready to give you satisfaction." "my wits have been astray," answered palamides. "there is no just reason why we should be at odds, and i am ready to do you knightly service in all things you may command." "i take you at your word," cried tristram, as he grasped palamides by the hand. "i have never been your enemy, and know none whom i would rather have as a friend." "would you?" cried dinadan. "and would have me as your fool, mayhap? by my knightly faith, you have made a sweet butt of me! i came into this country for your sake, and by the advice of sir lancelot, though he would not tell me where to find you. by jove's ears, i never thought to find you masquerading as a milk-brained coward." "he could have told you," said tristram, "for i abode within his own castle. as for my little sport, friend dinadan, i cry you mercy." "faith, it is but one of my own jests, turned against me," said dinadan, with a merry laugh. "i am pinked with my own dart. i forgive you, old comrade; but i vow i did not know you had such a jolly humor." "it comes to one in your company," said tristram, laughing. "the disease is catching." and so the four knights rode gayly onward, conversing much as they went, and laying their plans for the tournament. chapter iii. on the road to lonazep. the four knights rode onward in company until they came in sight of the castle of lonazep, where they saw striking preparations for the tournament. for not less than four hundred tents and pavilions covered the plain outside the great circle of the lists, and war-horses and knights in armor were there in hundreds. "truly," said tristram, "this is the royalest show that i ever saw." "you forget," answered palamides. "it had its equal at the castle of maidens, where you won the prize." "and in that tournament which galahalt of the long isles held in surluse there was as great a gathering," said dinadan. "i was not there; who won the prize?" asked tristram. "lancelot du lake, and the next after him was the noble knight lamorak de galis." "a noble fellow, indeed, i never met his better, save sir lancelot. his murder was shameful, and were they not the nephews of my lord arthur that slew him, by my faith they should die the death. and this without prejudice to you, sir gareth." "say what you will on that point; i am with you," answered gareth. "though my own brothers did that bloody work, i hold not with them. none of them love me, as you well know, and i have left their company as murderers. had i been by when lamorak was killed there might have been another tale to tell." "truly that is well said of you," rejoined tristram. "i would rather have been there than to have all the gold between here and rome." "and i also," said palamides. "it is a burning disgrace to the round table fellowship that such a knight should have been ambushed and slain on his way from a passage-at-arms where he had won the prize of valor." "out on such treason!" cried tristram. "the tale of it makes my blood run cold." "and mine as well," said gareth. "i can never love or respect my brothers again for that ruthless deed." "yet to speak of it is useless," said palamides. "his life is gone; we cannot bring it back again." "there lies the pity," said dinadan. "no matter how good and noble a man may be, when he stops breathing all else stops with him. by good luck, though, the same rule holds with villains and cowards. as for gawaine and his brothers, except you, sir gareth, they hate the best knights of the round table, and lancelot and his kindred above all. only that lancelot is well aware of this, they might draw him into as deadly a trap as they drew poor lamorak." "come, come, remember that gareth is their brother," said palamides. "let us change the subject. here is this tournament,--what part shall we play here? my advice is that we four hold together against all that may assail us." "that is not my counsel," said tristram. "by their pavilions we may count on some four hundred knights, and doubtless many of them worthy ones. if we play the game of four against all comers we are likely to find ourselves borne down by numbers. many good knights have lost the game by taking too great odds. manhood is of little avail if it be not tempered by wisdom. if you think it best we may try it, and see what we can do in company, but, as a rule, i prefer to fight for my own hand." as they thus talked they rode away from lonazep, and in due time came to the banks of the humber, where they were surprised by a loud and grievous cry that seemed full of doleful meaning. looking over the waters they saw approaching before the wind a vessel richly draped with red silk. not long had they waited when it came to the shore, at a point close by where they stood. seeing this strange thing and hearing the doleful cries which came from the vessel, the knights gave their horses in care of their squires, and approached on foot, tristram boarding the vessel. when he reached the deck he saw there a bed with rich silken coverings, on which lay a dead knight, armed save the head, which was crimsoned with blood. and through great gaps in his armor deadly wounds could be seen. "what means this?" said tristram. "how came this knight by his death?" as he spoke he saw that a letter lay in the dead knight's hand. "master mariners," he asked of those on board the vessel, "what does this strange thing signify?" "sir knight," they answered, "by the letter which the dead knight bears you may learn how and for what cause he was slain, and what name he bore. yet first heed well this warning: no man must take and read that letter unless he be a knight of proved valor, and faithfully promises to revenge the murder of this good warrior." "there be those among us able to revenge him," answered tristram. "and if he shall prove to have been foully treated his death shall not go unredressed." therewith he took the letter from the knight's hand and opened it. thus it read,-- "i, hermance, king and lord of the red city, request of all knights-errant and all noble knights of arthur's court, that they find one knight who will fight for my sake with two false brethren, whom i brought up from nothingness and who have feloniously and treacherously slain me. and it is my will and desire that the valiant knight who avenges my death shall become lord of my red city and all my castles." "sir," said the mariners, "the king and knight that lies here dead was a man of great virtue and noble prowess, and one who loved all knights-errant, and, above all, those of king arthur's court." "it is a piteous case, truly," said tristram. "i would fain take the enterprise in hand myself, but that i have made a solemn promise to take part in this great tournament. it was for my sake in especial that my lord arthur made it, and i cannot in honor and courtesy fail to attend it. therefore i am not free to undertake any adventure which may keep me from the lists." "i pray you, dear sir," said palamides, who had followed tristram into the vessel, "to put this enterprise into my hands. i promise to achieve it worthily or to die in the effort." "be it so," said tristram. "you may go if you will. but first i wish your promise to return so as to be with me at the tournament this day week, if possible." "that promise i freely give. if i be alive and unhurt, and my task be not too arduous and long, i shall be with you by that day." this said, tristram left the vessel, leaving palamides in it, and he, with gareth and dinadan, stood watching it as the mariners hoisted its sails and it glided swiftly away over long humber. not till it was out of sight did they return to their horses, and look about them. as they did so they beheld near them a knight, who came up unarmed save a sword, and saluted them with all courtesy. "fair sirs," he said, "i pray you, as knights-errant, to come and see my castle, and take such fare as you may find there. this i heartily request." "that shall we willingly do, and thank you for your courtesy," they answered, and rode with him to his castle, which was near by. here they entered a richly-furnished hall, and, having laid off their armor, took their seats at a well-laden table. but when the host saw tristram's face, he knew him, and first grew pale and then angry of countenance. "sir, mine host," said tristram, on seeing this threatening aspect, "what is wrong with you, i pray?" "i know you, tristram de lyonesse," answered the knight, hotly. "you slew my brother. honor demands that i shall not seek revenge here, but i give you warning that i will kill you when i meet you outside my castle." "i have no knowledge of you or your brother," answered tristram. "but no man can say that i ever killed any one except in fair and open fight. if i have done as you say i stand ready to make what amends are in my power." "i desire no amends," rejoined the knight. "but i warn you to keep from me." tristram at this rose from the table and asked for his arms, his companions following him. seeking their horses they rode away, but they had not gone far from the castle when dinadan saw a knight following them, who was well armed, but bore no shield. "take care of yourself, sir tristram," he said. "yonder comes our host to call you to account." "then i must abide him as i may," answered tristram. soon the knight came up, and, loudly bidding tristram to be on his guard, he rode furiously upon him with couched spear. but his valor went beyond his strength, for he was hurled over his horse's croup. not content with this, he rose, mounted again, and driving his horse at full speed upon tristram, struck him two hard blows on the helm. "sir knight," said tristram, "i pray you leave off this sport. i do not care to harm you after having just eaten at your table, but beg you not to try my patience too far." the furious assailant would not cease, however, and continued his assaults until tristram was provoked to anger. in the end he returned the knight a blow with the full strength of his mighty arm, so fierce a buffet, indeed, that the blood burst out from the breathing holes of his helm, and he fell to the earth and lay there like one dead. [illustration: the assault of sir tristram.] "i hope i have not killed him," said tristram. "i did not think to strike the man so hard a blow, but i am not a log to stand at rest and let him whet his sword on." leaving the fallen knight to the care of his squire, they rode on; but not far had they gone when they saw coming towards them two well-armed and well-horsed knights, each with a good following of servants. one of these was berrant le apres, he who was called the king with the hundred knights, and the other sir segwarides, both men of might and renown. when they came up the king looked at dinadan, who, through sport, had put on tristram's helmet. this he recognized as one he had seen before with the queen of northgalis, whom he loved. she had given it to la belle isolde, and she to tristram. "sir knight," asked berrant, "whence had you that helm?" "not from you, i fancy. what have you to say to it?" "that i will have a tilt with you, for the love of her who once owned it. therefore, defend yourself." so they drew asunder, and rode at each other with all the speed of their horses. but dinadan, good knight as he was, was no match for the tough and hardy warrior before him, and was sent, horse and all, to the ground. "i fancy i have something to say about the helmet now," said berrant, grimly. "go take it off him, and keep it," he ordered his servant. "what will you do?" cried tristram. "hands off, fellow. touch not that helm." "to what intent do you meddle, sir knight?" demanded berrant. "to this intent, that the helm is mine. nor will you get it from me till you buy it at a dearer price." "do you mean that as a challenge?" asked berrant. "be it so, then; make ready." together they rode with all speed, but with a change of fortune, for berrant found himself thrust over the tail of his horse. in a moment he was on his feet, sprang briskly to his saddle, and, riding in anger upon tristram, struck at him fiercely with his sword. tristram was not taken unawares, but in an instant had his sword in hand. a fierce combat followed, for the king with the hundred knights was a warrior of tough sinews and tried valor, but at the last he received such a buffet on the helm that he fell forward on his horse's neck, stunned and helpless. "by my faith, that helmet has proved unlucky for two of us," said dinadan. "it brought me a tumble, and now, sir king, you owe it a buzzing head-piece." "who will joust with me?" asked segwarides. "it is your right," said gareth to dinadan, "but i pray you let me have it." "you are heartily welcome to it. one tumble a day is enough for my weak appetite," answered dinadan. "i make you a free present of the opportunity." "that is no fair exchange," said tristram. "the joust is yours by right." "but not by choice," rejoined dinadan. "good faith, sir bruiser, i have lived long enough to know when i have had my share, and that is a lesson it would pay many of you battle-hungry knights to learn." then gareth and segwarides rode together, the result being that gareth and his horse went in a heap to the earth. "now," said tristram, "the joust is yours." "but the appetite is lacking," said dinadan. "i have even less stomach for it than before." "then will i try him." with these words tristram challenged segwarides, who received a sore fall in the joust that followed. then the three knights rode on, leaving their late antagonists the worse in heart and limb for the encounter. they continued their ride till they reached joyous gard. here gareth courteously declined to enter the castle, but tristram would not hear of his departure, and made him alight and enter as his guest. so they disarmed and had good cheer, with la belle isolde as their hostess. but dinadan, when he came into the presence of isolde, roundly cursed the hour that he had been persuaded to wear tristram's helm, and told her of how he had been mocked by his comrade knight. much laughing and jesting at dinadan followed, but this was a game in which he was quite able to hold his own, however he might lack with sword and spear. for arthur's court held no other so witty of tongue and merry of heart. and thus in jest and feast they passed the hours happily away. chapter iv. how palamides fared at the red city. leaving tristram and his companions to their merry talk in joyous gard, we must now return to palamides. the ship into which he had entered sailed far along the humber, until in time it reached the open sea. it continued its course through the sea-waves till it came to a part of the coast where stood a stately castle. all day and night they had sailed, and it was now early in the morning, before day-dawn. palamides was sound asleep in the vessel's cabin when the mariners came to call him. "sir knight," they said, "you must arise. we have reached a castle, which you must enter." "i am at your command," he replied. rising, he armed himself quickly, and then blew a loud call upon a horn which the mariners gave him. at the ringing music of that bugle-blast the sleeping castle seemed to stir into life. soon many eyes could be seen looking from the windows, and ere long the walls were crowded with knights, who called to palamides as with one voice, "welcome, fair sir, to this castle." the day had now fully dawned, and palamides entered the castle, where a crowd of knights came to greet him, and led him to a stately dining-hall, where an abundant breakfast awaited him. but as he ate he heard much lamentation, and saw many whose eyes were wet with tears. "what means this?" he asked. "i love not such sorrow, and would fain know what gives rise to it." "we mourn here daily," answered a knight named sir ebel, "and for this cause. we had a king named hermance, who was lord of the red city, and in every way a noble and generous monarch. and he loved nothing in the world so much as the knights-errant of king arthur's court, together with the sports of jousting, hunting, and all knightly diversions. a king so kind of heart as he was never before known in this country, and we shall ever be filled with sorrow for his loss. yet he acted unwisely, and is himself at fault for his death." "tell me how he was slain and by whom," asked palamides. "in this wise it came to pass," answered ebel. "he brought up, in pure charity, two children, who are now strong knights. and to them he gave all his trust and confidence, in default of those of his own blood. these two men governed him completely, and, through him, his lands and people, for they took the best of care that none of his kindred should come into power. he was so free and trustful, and they so politic and deceitful, that they ruled him as though they were the kings and he the subject. when the lords of our king's blood saw that he had fallen into this dotage they left the court in disgust, and sought their livelihood elsewhere. this it proved not wise to do, for when these villains found that all the king's kindred had left the realm they schemed to have more power still; for, as the old saw says, 'give a churl rule in part, and he will not be content till he has it all.' it is the instinct of the base-born to destroy gentlemen-born, if the power be put in their hands, and all rulers should take warning by the fate of king hermance. in the end our king, by the advice of these traitors, rode into the forest here by, to chase the red deer. when he had become warm from the hunt he alighted to drink at a woodland spring, and, while he was bent over the water, one of these villains thrust him through the body with a spear. they then fled from the spot, thinking he was dead. shortly after they had gone, fortune brought me to the spot, where i found my lord still alive, but mortally hurt, and learned from him his story. knowing that we had no knights able to revenge him on his murderers, i had him brought to the water, and put into the ship alive, and the letter which he bore in his hand i wrote from his own words. then he died, and, as he had ordered, the ship set sail up the humber, bound for the realm of logris, where it was hoped that some valiant knight of the round table would take this adventure on himself." "truly your doleful tale grieves me sorely," said palamides. "i saw the letter you speak of. it was read to me by one of the best knights upon the earth, and it is by his command i am here. i came to revenge your king, and i shall never be at ease till i meet with and punish his murderers." "you have my hearty thanks and best wishes," said ebel. "since you accept this adventure, you must enter the ship again, and sail forward till you reach the delectable isle, which is near by the red city. we shall await here your return. if you speed well this castle is yours. king hermance built it for the two traitors, but we hold it against them, and they threaten us sorely unless we yield it." "look that you keep it, whatsoever may come to me," said palamides. "for if fortune decides that i am to be slain in this quest, i trust that one of the best knights in the world will come to revenge me; either tristram de lyonesse or lancelot du lake." then palamides entered the ship and sailed away towards the red city. but as he came near it, and landed on the coast, another ship touched shore near by, from which came a goodly knight, with his shield on his shoulder and his hand on his sword. "sir knight, what seek you here?" he asked palamides. "if you have come to revenge king hermance you must yield this quest to me, for it was mine before it was yours, and i shall yield it to no man." "you speak like a true knight," said palamides. "but when the letter was taken from the dead king's hand there was nothing known of any champion for him, and so i promised to revenge him. and this i must and shall do, lest i win shame instead of honor." "you have right on your side," said the knight. "what i propose is this. i will fight with you; and he who proves the better knight shall have the quest." "that fits with my fancy," said palamides; "for from what i hear no second-rate champion can watch this pair of villains." with this they advanced their shields and drew their swords, and began a stern and well-contested combat. for more than an hour the fight between them continued, but at the end of this time palamides seemed stronger and better-winded than at the beginning, and he finally dealt his opponent a blow that brought him to his knees. then the discomfited combatant cried out,-- "knight, hold your hand." palamides let fall his sword at this request. "you are the better of us two, and more worthy of this battle," said the knight. "but fain would i know your name." "my name is palamides. i am a knight of the round table, and one well known in arthur's realm." "in good faith it is, and much beyond that realm," answered the knight. "i know only three living men besides yourself who are fitted for this task, and they are lancelot, tristram, and my cousin lamorak. as for me, my name is hermind, and i am brother to the murdered king hermance." "i shall do my best to revenge your brother," said palamides. "if i am slain, i commend you to lancelot or tristram. as for lamorak, he will never strike blow again." "alas, what mean you?" "that he has been murdered--waylaid and slain treacherously by gawaine and his brothers, except sir gareth, the best of them all." and he told the story of the death of lamorak, much to the grief and indignation of his hearer. then palamides took ship again, and sailed on till he came to the delectable isle. meanwhile hermind made all haste to the red city, where he told of the arrival of the famous knight palamides and of his combat with him. the people were filled with joy at these tidings, and quickly sent a messenger to the two brethren, bidding them to make ready, as a knight had come who would fight them both. the messenger found them at a castle near by, and delivered his message. "who is this champion?" they asked. "is it lancelot or any of his blood?" "no." "if it were, we would not fight. but we care for no one else." "it is a good knight though, sir palamides, a saracen by birth, and still unchristened." "he had best have been christened before he came here, for it will be too late when we have done with him. let him know that we will be at the red city in two days, and will give him all the fighting he is likely to want for the rest of his life." when palamides came to the city he was received with the greatest joy, and the more so when the people saw what a handsome and well-built man he was, neither too young nor too old, with clean and powerful limbs, and no defect of body. at the time appointed there came to the city the two brethren, helius and helake by name, both of them strong and valiant men, of great prowess in war, false as they were at heart. and with them they brought forty knights, to guard them against any treachery from the red city, for they knew well that it was filled with their enemies. the lists had already been prepared, and at the appointed hour palamides entered full armed, and confronted his antagonists boldly. "are you the two brethren helius and helake, who slew your king by treason?" he asked. "we are the men who slew king hermance," they replied. "and bear in mind, sir saracen, we are able to stand by our deeds, and will handle you so before you depart that you will wish you had been christened before you came so far." "i trust to god i shall die a better christian than either of you," palamides replied. "and you had best kill me if you get the chance, for i vow not to spare you." as he spoke the trumpet sounded, and, reining back their horses, they rode against each other with terrific speed. palamides directed his spear against helake, and struck him so mighty a blow that the spear pierced through his shield and hauberk, and for a fathom's length through his breast, hurling him dead to the earth. as for helius, he held up his spear in pride and presumption, and rode by palamides without touching him. but when he saw his brother stretched in death on the earth his assurance changed to doubt, and rage drove the pride from his heart. "help thyself, villain!" he cried, and rushed upon palamides before he could prepare to encounter him, striking him a blow with his spear that bore him from his saddle to the earth. then he forced his horse over him backward and forward before the dismounted champion could regain his feet. as he came again, the fallen knight reached up and caught the horse by the bridle, dragging himself by its aid to his feet. then, as the animal reared, he pressed so strongly upon it that it toppled backward to the ground, the rider barely saving himself from being crushed beneath his fallen horse. but he was on his feet in an instant, and, sword in hand, struck palamides a blow on the helm that brought him down to one knee. before he could repeat the blow the gallant saracen was on his feet and had drawn his trenchant blade, with which he attacked his antagonist in turn. a fierce and deadly combat succeeded, the two knights hurtling together like two wild boars, now both hurled grovelling to the earth, now on foot again and hewing at each other with the strength of giants. thus for two hours they fought, without time for rest or a moment's space to recover breath. at the end of that time palamides grew faint and weary from the violence of his efforts, but helius seemed as strong as ever, and redoubling his strokes he drove back the saracen knight step by step, over all the field. at this the people of the city were filled with fear, while the party of helius shouted with triumph. "alas!" cried the citizens, "that this noble knight should be slain for our king's sake." while they thus bewailed his threatened fate and the seeming victory of their tyrant, helius showered so many vigorous blows on his weakened foe that it was a wonder he kept his feet. but when he saw how the common people wept for him his heart was filled with a sense of shame, while a glow of fury burned like fire in his veins. "fie on you for a dastard, palamides!" he said to himself. "why hang you your head so like a whipped hound?" then, with a new spirit burning hotly within him, and fresh strength animating his limbs, he lifted his drooping shield and turned on helius with lion-like fury, smiting him a vigorous blow on the helm, which he followed quickly by others. this violent onset was too much for the strained strength of the false knight, and he retreated in dismay, while the sword of palamides fell with ever more and more might. at length came so mighty a blow that he was hurled like a log to the earth. the victorious saracen gave him no time to recover, but sprang upon him like a fury, tore the helm from his head, and with a final stroke smote the head from his body. then he rose and stood leaning upon his sword, hardly able to bear himself on his feet, while from all the people of the city went up loud shouts of joy and congratulation. "palamides, the conqueror! palamides, our deliverer! palamides, our king!" they shouted, while one adorned his brows with a wreath of laurel, and others tore off his armor and applied ointments to his bleeding limbs. "fair friends, your crown is not for me," he said. "i have delivered you from your tyrants, but you must choose some other king, as i am under promise to return with all speed to my lord king arthur at the castle of lonazep." this decision filled them with grief, but they brought him to the city and treated him with all the honor which they could bestow upon him. and as he persisted in his refusal of the crown, they proffered him a third part of their goods if he would remain with them. all this he declined, and in a short time departed, bearing with him a thousand good wishes and prayers for success and fortune. he was received with like joy and congratulation at the castle, sir ebel warmly pressing him to change his decision and remain as their king. to this palamides would by no means consent, and after a day's stay he took ship again, and sailed up the humber to the castle of lonazep. [illustration: sir tristram at joyous gard.] chapter v. the tournament at lonazep. when palamides learned that tristram was not at lonazep, he tarried not there, but crossed the humber, and sought him at joyous gard. here he found lodgings in the town, and word was quickly brought to tristram that a knight-errant had come. "what manner of man is he? and what sign does he bear?" he asked. the messenger described his armor and appearance. "that is palamides," said dinadan. "the brave fellow is already back, and victorious, i doubt not." "it looks that way, indeed. go and bid him welcome to joyous gard," said tristram. so dinadan went to palamides, and joyfully greeted him, listening eagerly to the story of his exploits, and congratulating him on his signal success. he remained with him that night, and in the morning they were visited by tristram and gareth before they had arisen. many were the warm congratulations which tristram gave palamides on his noble achievement, and after they had breakfasted he invited him to ride into the fields and woods, that they might repose under the cool shelter of the forest. here they alighted by a refreshing spring, and as they sat conversing an armed knight came riding towards them. "who are those knights that are lodged in joyous gard?" he asked. "that i cannot say," answered tristram. "at any rate you can tell me who you are. you are not knights-errant, i fancy, since you ride unarmed." "whether we be or no, we prefer not to tell our names." "you are not courteous, sir knight, and this is the way i pay discourtesy," said the stranger. "guard yourself, or you shall die by my hands." then, spear in hand, he rode on sir tristram, with brutal intent to run him through. but palamides sprang up hastily, and smote the knight's horse so fierce a blow with his clinched fist that horse and man fell together to the earth. he then drew his sword to slay him. "let the dog go," said tristram. "he is but a fool, and it were a shame to slay him for his folly. take the fellow's spear from him, though. it is a weapon he has not learned the use of." the knight rose groaning, and when he had regained his saddle he again requested their names. "my name is tristram de lyonesse, and this knight's name is palamides. would you know more?" "no, by my faith!" cried the other, and, hastily putting spurs to his horse, he rode away as fast as the animal would carry him. hardly had he gone when a knight, who bore a bended shield of azure, came riding up at a furious gallop. "my fair sirs," he asked, "has a knight passed here bearing a shield with a case of red over it?" "yes. we but now had some trouble with such a fellow. who is he?" "and you let him escape? that was ill-advised, fair sirs. he is the falsest rogue and the greatest foe to knights-errant living. his name is breuse sans pité." "and i had him under my sword!" cried palamides. "fool i was to let him go." "if i overtake him there will be another story to tell," answered the knight, as he spurred onward on the track of the fugitive. then the four friends mounted and rode leisurely back towards joyous gard, much conversing as they went. when they reached the castle palamides wished not to enter, but tristram insisted on it, and, taking him by the hand, led him in. when palamides saw la belle isolde, whom he had not met for years, but for whom his love burned as warmly as ever, he was so ravished with joy that he could scarcely speak. and when they were at dinner he could not eat a morsel, but sat like a dumb man, scarcely venturing to raise his eyes to isolde's lovely countenance. poorly he slept that night, and with many dreams of her he loved. when morning broke they all prepared to ride to lonazep. tristram took with him three squires, and queen isolde had three gentlewomen, all attired with great richness. these, with the other knights and their squires, and valets to bear their shields and spears, formed their train. not far had they gone before they saw on the road before them a group of knights. chief of these was the knight galihodin, who was attended by twenty companions. "fair fellows," said galihodin, "yonder come four knights escorting a richly-attired lady. what say you? shall we take her from them?" "that is not the best counsel," said one. "at any rate, it is my counsel," answered galihodin. "we shall show them that we have the right of the road." and he sent a squire to them, asking them if they would joust, or else lose their lady. "we are but four," said tristram. "tell your lord to come with three of his comrades, and win her if he can." "let me have this joust," said palamides. "i will undertake them all four." "as you will," said tristram. "go tell your lord that this one knight will encounter him and any three of his fellows." the squire departed with his challenge, and in a trice galihodin came riding forward spear in rest. palamides encountered him in mid career, and smote him so hard a blow that he had a terrible fall to the earth, and his horse with him. his three comrades were served in the same summary manner, while palamides still bore an unbroken spear. at this unlooked-for result six knights rode out from the opposite party with purpose of revenge on the victor. "hold your hands," cried galihodin. "let not one of you touch this noble knight, who has proved himself a man of worth. and i doubt if the whole of you could handle him." when palamides saw that the field was yielded to him he rode back to sir tristram. "well and worshipfully have you done," said tristram. "no man could have surpassed you." onward they rode again, and in a little while after met four knights in the highway, with spears in rest. these were gawaine and three companions. this joust also tristram gave to palamides, and he served these four as he had served the others, leaving them all unhorsed in the road. for the presence of la belle isolde gave the strength of ten men to the arm of her lover, the saracen. they now continued their route without molestation, and in good time reached the spot where tristram had ordered his pavilions to be set up. here were now many more pavilions than they had seen on their previous visit, and a great array of knights, who had been gathering for many days, for far and wide had spread the news of the great tournament. leaving palamides and gareth at the pavilions with queen isolde, tristram and dinadan rode to lonazep to learn what was afoot, tristram riding on the saracen knight's white horse. as they came into the castle the sound of a great bugle-blast met their ears, and many knights crowded forward. "what means the blast?" asked tristram. "sir," answered a knight, "it comes from the party who hold against king arthur at this tournament. these are the kings of ireland, of surluse, of listinoise, of northumberland, of north wales, and of other countries. they are calling a council to decide how they shall be governed in the lists." tristram thereupon followed them to their council, and listened to the debate. he then sought his horse again, and rode by where king arthur stood surrounded by a press of knights. among those were galihodin and gawaine, who said to the king: "that knight in the green harness, with the white horse, is a man of might, whoever he be. to-day he overthrew us both, with six of our fellows." "who can he be?" said the king, and he called tristram to him, and requested to know his name. "i beg pardon, my liege lord," answered tristram, "and pray that you will hold me excused from revealing my name at this time," and he turned his horse and rode away. "go after him, sir griflet," said the king. "tell him that i wish to speak with him apart." griflet rode to tristram and told him the king's wish, and the two returned in company. "fair sir," said the king, "what is the cause that you withhold your name?" "i have an excellent reason, but beg that you will not press me for it." "with which party do you hold?" "truly, my lord, that i cannot say. where my heart draws or my fancy bids i will go. to-morrow you shall see which side i take. to-day i know not myself." leaving the king, he rode back to where his pavilions were set. when the morning dawned he and his three companions armed themselves all in green and rode to the lists. here young knights had begun to joust, and, seeing this, gareth asked leave of tristram to break a spear. "go in and do your best if you care to play with beginners," said tristram, laughing. but gareth found himself encountered by a nephew of the king with the hundred knights, who had some of his uncle's tough fibre, and both got ugly falls, and lay on the ground till they were helped up by their friends. then tristram and palamides rode with gareth back to the pavilions, where they removed their helmets. when isolde saw gareth all bruised in the face, she asked him what ailed him. "madam, i had a hard buffet, and gave another, but none of my fellows would rescue me." "only unproved knights are yet in the field," said palamides. "the man that met you, though, was a strong and well-trained knight, sir selises by name, so you have no dishonor. rest here and get yourself in condition for to-morrow's work." "i shall not fail you if i can bestride my horse," said gareth. "what party is it best for us to join to-morrow?" asked tristram. "against king arthur, is my advice," said palamides. "lancelot and many other good men will be on his side, and the more men of prowess we meet the more honor we will win." "well and knightly spoken," said tristram. "hard blows is what we court. your counsel is well given." "so think we all," said the others. on the morrow, when day had broken, they arrayed themselves in green trappings, with shields and spears of green, while isolde and her three damsels wore dresses of the same color. for the ladies tristram found seats in a bay window of a priory which overlooked the field, and from which they could see all that took place. this done, they rode straight to the party of the king of scots. when arthur saw this he asked lancelot who were these knights and the queenly lady who came with them. "that i cannot say for certain. yet if tristram and palamides be in this country then it is they and la belle isolde." then arthur turned to kay and said,-- "go to the hall and see how many knights of the round table are missing, and bring me word." kay did so, and found by the roll of knights that ten were wanting,--tristram, dinadan, and eight others. "then i dare say," remarked arthur, "that some of these are here to-day against us." the tournament began with a combat in which two knights, cousins to gawaine, named sir edward and sir sadok, rode against the king of scots and the king of north wales and overthrew them both. this palamides saw, and in return he spurred upon these victorious knights and hurled both of them from their saddles. "what knight is that in green?" asked arthur. "he is a mighty jouster." "you will see him do better yet," said gawaine. "it was he that unhorsed me and seven others two days ago." as they stood talking tristram rode into the lists on a black horse, and within a few minutes he smote down four knights of orkney, while gareth and dinadan each unhorsed a good knight. "yonder is another fellow of marvellous arm," said arthur; "that green knight on the black horse." "he has not begun his work yet," said gawaine. "it is plain that he is no common man." and so it proved, for sir tristram pushed fiercely into the press, rescued the two kings who had been unhorsed, and did such mighty work among the opposing party that all who saw him marvelled to behold one man do so many valiant deeds. nor was the career of palamides less marvellous to the spectators. king arthur, who watched them both with admiring eyes, likened tristram to a furious lion, and palamides to a maddened leopard, and gareth and dinadan, who seconded them strongly, to eager wolves. so fiercely did tristram rage, indeed, among the knights of orkney that at length they withdrew from the field, as no longer able to face him. then loud went up the cry of the heralds and the common people,-- "the green knight has beaten all orkney!" and the heralds took account that not less than fifty knights had been smitten down by the four champions in green. "this will not do," said arthur. "our party will be overmatched if these fellows rage on at such a rate. come, lancelot, you and hector and bleoberis must try your hands, and i will make a fourth." "let it be so," answered lancelot. "let me take him on the black horse, and bleoberis him on the white. hector shall match him on the gray horse" (sir gareth). "and i," said arthur, "will face the knight on the grizzled steed" (sir dinadan). with this conversation they armed and rode to the lists. here lancelot rode against tristram and smote him so hard a blow that horse and man went to the earth, while his three companions met with the same ill fortune from their new antagonists. this disaster raised a cry throughout the lists: "the green knights are down! rescue the green knights! let them not be held prisoners!" for the understanding was that any unhorsed knight not rescued by his own strength or by his fellows should be held as prisoner. then the king of north wales rode straight to tristram, and sprang from his horse, crying,-- "noble knight, i know not of what country you are, but beg you to take my horse, for you have proved yourself worthier to bestride it than i am." "many thanks," said tristram. "i shall try and do you as welcome a turn. keep near us, and i may soon win you another horse." then he sprang to the saddle, and meeting with king arthur struck him so fierce a sword-blow on the helm that he had no power to keep his saddle. "here is the horse promised you," cried tristram to the king of north wales, who was quickly remounted on king arthur's horse. then came a hot contest around the king, one party seeking to mount him again and the other to hold him prisoner. palamides thrust himself, on foot, into the press, striking such mighty blows to the right and left that the whole throng were borne back before him. at the same time tristram rode into the thickest of the throng of knights and cut a way through them, hurling many of them to the earth. this done, he left the lists and rode to his pavilion, where he changed his horse and armor; he who had gone forth as a green knight coming back to the fray as a red one. when queen isolde saw that tristram was unhorsed, and lost sight of him in the press, she wept greatly, fearing that some harm had come to him. but when he rode back she knew him in an instant, despite his red disguise, and her heart swelled anew with joy as she saw him with one spear smite down five knights. lancelot, too, now knew him, and withdrew from the lists lest he should encounter him again. all this time tristram's three friends had not been able to regain their saddles, but now he drove back the press and helped them again to horse, and, though they knew him not in his new array, they aided him with all their knightly prowess. when isolde, at her window, saw what havoc her chosen knight was making, she leaned eagerly forth and laughed and smiled in delight. this palamides saw, and the vision of her lovely and smiling countenance filled his soul so deeply with love's rejoicing that there seemed to flow into him the strength and spirit of ten men, and, with a shout of knightly challenge, he pressed forward, smiting down with spear and sword every man he encountered. for his heart was so enamoured by the vision of that charming face that tristram or lancelot would then have had much ado to stand before him. "truly palamides is a noble warrior," said tristram, when he beheld this. "i never saw him do such deeds as he has done this day, nor heard of his showing such prowess." "it is his day," said dinadan, simply. but to himself he said, "if you knew for whose love he does these valorous deeds, you would soon be in the field against him." "it is a crying pity that so brave a knight should be a pagan," said tristram. "it is my fancy," said dinadan to himself, "that you may thank queen isolde for what you have seen; if she had not been here to-day that shouting throng would not be giving palamides the palm of the tourney." at this juncture lancelot came again into the field, and hearing the outcry in favor of palamides he set his spear in rest and spurred upon him. palamides, seeing this, and having no spear, coolly awaited lancelot, and as he came up smote his spear in two with a sword-stroke. then he rushed upon him and struck his horse so hard a blow in the neck that the animal fell, bearing his rider to the ground. loud and fierce was the outcry then: "palamides the saracen has smitten sir lancelot's horse! it is an unknightly deed!" and hector de maris, seeing his brother lancelot thus unfairly dismounted, rushed upon palamides in a rage, and bore him from his horse with a mighty spear-thrust. "take heed to yourself, sirrah," cried lancelot, springing towards him sword in hand. "you have done me a sorry deed, and by my knightly honor i will repay you for it." "i humbly beg your pardon, noble sir," answered palamides. "i have done so much this day that i have no power or strength left to withstand you. forgive me my hasty and uncourteous deed, and i promise to be your knight while i live." "you have done marvellously well indeed," said lancelot. "i understand well what power moves you. love is a mighty mistress, and if she i love were here to-day you should not bear away the honor of the field, though you have nobly won it. beware that tristram discovers not your love, or you may repent it. but i have no quarrel with you, and will not seek to take from you the honor of the day." so lancelot suffered palamides to depart, and mounted his own horse again, despite twenty knights who sought to hinder him. lancelot, tristram, and palamides did many more noble deeds before that day's end, and so great became the medley at length that the field seemed a dense mass of rearing and plunging horses and struggling knights. at length arthur bade the heralds to blow to lodging and the fray ended. and since palamides had been in the field from first to last, without once withdrawing, and had done so many, noble and valiant deeds, the honor and the prize for the day were unanimously voted him, a judgment which arthur and the kings of his counsel unanimously confirmed. but when palamides came to understand that the red knight who had rescued him was sir tristram his heart was glad, for all but dinadan fancied he had been taken prisoner. much was the talk upon the events of the day, and great the wonder of king and knights at the remarkable valor of the saracen knight. "and yet i well know," said lancelot, "that there was a better knight there than he. and take my word for it, this will be proved before the tournament ends." this also thought dinadan, and he rallied his friend tristram with satirical tongue. "what the fiend has ailed you to-day?" he asked. "palamides grew in strength from first to last, but you have been like a man asleep, or a coward knight." "i was never called coward before," said tristram, hotly. "the only fall i got was from lancelot, and him i hold as my better, and for that matter the better of any man alive." but dinadan kept up his railing accusations till the growing anger of tristram warned him to desist. yet this was all from friendship, not from spite, for he wished to stir up his friend to do his best in the lists the coming day, and not permit the saracen again to carry off the prize. chapter vi. the second day of the tournament. when the next morning dawned, tristram, palamides, and gareth, with la belle isolde and her ladies, all arrayed as before in green, took horse at an early hour, and rode into the fresh forest. but dinadan was left still asleep in bed. as they passed the castle at a little distance, it chanced that king arthur and lancelot saw them from an upper window. "yonder rideth the fairest lady of the world," said lancelot, "always excepting your queen, guenever." "who is it?" asked arthur. "it is la belle isolde, cornwall's queen and tristram's lady-love." "by my troth, i should like to see her closer," said the king. "let us arm and mount, and ride after them." this they did, and in a short time were on the track of the gay cavalcade they had seen. "let us not be too hasty," warned lancelot. "there are some knights who resent being intruded on abruptly; particularly if in the company of ladies." "as for that, we must take our chances," said arthur. "if they feel aggrieved i cannot help it, for i am bent on seeing queen isolde." seeing tristram and his companions just in advance, arthur rode briskly up and saluted isolde courteously, saying, "god save you, fair lady." "thanks for your courtesy, sir knight," she replied. then arthur looked upon her charming countenance, freshened by the morning air, and thought in his mind that lancelot had spoken but the truth, and that no more beautiful lady lived. but at this moment palamides rode up. "sir knight, what seek you here?" he asked. "it is uncourteous to come on a lady so suddenly. your intrusion is not to our liking, and i bid you to withdraw." arthur paid no heed to these words, but continued to gaze upon isolde, as one stricken with admiration. seeing this, palamides flamed into anger, and spurred fiercely upon the king, with spear in rest, smiting him from his horse. "here is an awkward business," said lancelot to himself. "if i ride down palamides i shall have tristram on me; and the pair of them would be too much for me. this comes from too head-strong a will. but whether i live or die i must stand by my lord and king." then riding forward, he called to palamides, "keep thee from me!" fierce was the onset with which they met, but it ended in lancelot's favor, for palamides was flung from his saddle and had a hard fall. when tristram saw this he called to lancelot, "be on your guard, sir knight. you have unhorsed my comrade, and must joust with me." "i have no dread of that," said lancelot; "and yet i did but avenge my lord, who was unhorsed unwarily and unknightly. you have no cause for displeasure; for no honorable knight could stand by and see his friend ill-treated." tristram now felt sure that it was lancelot who spoke, and that it was king arthur whom palamides had unhorsed. he therefore laid aside his spear and helped palamides again to his saddle, while lancelot did the same for the king. "that deed of thine was not knightly nor courteous," said tristram, sternly to palamides, after the others had departed. "i cannot see any harm in a knight accosting a lady gently and courteously; nor am i pleased to have you play such masteries before my lady. if i deem her insulted, i am quite able myself to protect her. and if i am not mistaken, it was king arthur you assailed so rudely, and the other was lancelot du lake. you may yet have to pay for your violence." "i cannot think," said palamides, "that the great arthur would ride thus secretly arrayed as a poor knight-errant." "then you know him not," said tristram. "no knight living is fonder of adventure. king arthur is always ready to take his part as an errant knight, nor does he bear malice against those who may overthrow him when in disguise. i tell you, palamides, that our king is the true model of knightly honor, and that the best of us might learn from him." "if it were he i am sorry," said palamides. "i may have been over-hasty. but a thing that is done cannot be undone, and i must abide the consequences." then tristram sent isolde to her lodging in the priory, from which she might behold the tournament, and made ready to enter the lists. fierce was the shock of the first encounter of the knights, and the three champions in green began the day with many deeds of might. "how feel you?" asked tristram of palamides. "are you able to repeat yesterday's work?" "hardly," was the reply. "i am weary and sore yet from my hard labors." "i am sorry for that, as i shall miss your aid." "trust not to me," answered palamides. "i have not much work left in me." "then i must depend on you," said tristram to gareth. "we two should be able to make our mark. keep near me and rescue me if i get in trouble, and i will do the same for you." "i shall not fail you," was the reply. leaving them, palamides rode off by himself, and, pushing into the thickest press of the men of orkney, did such deeds of arms that tristram looked on in amazement. "is that his soreness and weariness?" he asked. "i fancy he is weary of my company, and wishes to win all the honor to his own hand." "that is what dinadan meant yesterday when he called you coward," said gareth. "he but wished to stir you to anger so that palamides should not rob you of credit." "by my faith, if palamides bears me ill will and envy i shall show him what a knight of cornwall can do. he has gained the acclamations of the crowd already. he has left our company and we owe him no courtesy. you shall see me rob him of his honors." then tristram rode into the thickest of the press, and laid about him with such might that all eyes were turned upon him, and men began to say, "there is a greater than palamides come into the field." "is it not as i told you?" said lancelot to arthur. "i said you would this day see the saracen distanced." "it is true enough," answered arthur. "palamides has not such strength of arm." "it is tristram himself you look upon." "that i can well believe," said arthur. "such knights as he do not grow like mushrooms in every field." the noise from the other part of the lists now drew the attention of palamides, and when he saw what puissant deeds his late comrade was doing he wept for spite, for he saw that the honor of that day was not for him. seeing to what straits their party was put, arthur and lancelot and many other knights now armed and rode into the field, and by their aid so changed the tide of victory that the other side was driven quite back, until tristram and gareth stood alone, bravely abiding all who came upon them. but lancelot and his kinsmen kept purposely away from them. "see," said lancelot to arthur, "how palamides hovers yonder like one in a dream, sick, i fancy, from envy of tristram." "then he is but a fool," said the king. "he is not and never was the match of tristram. i am glad to see the fellow repaid for the way he served me this morning." as they stood thus conversing, tristram withdrew quietly from the lists, his going noted only by isolde and palamides, who kept their eyes upon him. he rode back to his pavilions, where he found dinadan still asleep, his slumbers not broken by all the uproar of the tournament. "as i am a living man, here is a lusty sleeper," cried tristram. "wake, dinadan. the day is half spent and the field half won, and here you are still a-bed." at this dinadan sprang hastily up and rubbed his eyes. "i dreamt of wars and jousts," he said. "and, i' faith, i like that way the best, for one gets all the good of the fight and is safe from sore limbs and aching bones. but what's to do?" "get on your harness and ride with me to the field. you will find something there to waken you up." dinadan, as he armed, noted tristram's battered shield, and remarked,-- "i slept both well and wisely, it seems. if i had been there i must have followed you, from shame if not from courage. and by the looks of your shield i would have been worse battered than i was yesterday. why did you not let me sleep out the balance of it, friend tristram?" "a truce with your jests. come, we must to the field again." "how now, is there a new deal in the game? yesterday you did but dream; to-day you seem awake." meanwhile tristram had changed his armor, and now was attired all in black. "you have more fight in you than you had yesterday, that is sure," said dinadan. "did i stir up your sleeping spirit?" "it may be so," said tristram, smiling. "keep well up to me, and i shall make you a highway through the press. if you see me overmatched, do what you can to aid me." when ready they took their horses and rode back to the lists, where isolde and palamides noted their entrance. when the saracen saw that tristram was disguised, a new fancy came into his scheming brain. leaving the lists, he rode to where a knight sat sorely wounded under a tree outside. him he prayed for an exchange of armor, saying that his own was too well known in the field, and that he wished for a disguise. "that is very true," said the knight, as he recognized the green armor. "you have made your array somewhat too well known. you are welcome to my arms, if they will be of use to you. they will gain more credit in your hands than they have won in mine." palamides thereupon exchanged armor with him, and, taking his shield, which shone like silver, rode into the field. he now joined the party of king arthur, and rode spitefully against tristram, who had just struck down three knights. they met with such force that both spears splintered to their hands, though neither lost his seat. then they dashed eagerly together with drawn swords and fought with the courage and fury of two lions. but tristram wondered much what knight this was that faced him so valiantly, and grew angry as he felt that he was wasting in this single combat the strength he wished to treasure up for the day's work. la belle isolde, who had watched palamides from her window, had seen him change his armor with the wounded knight. and when his treacherous purpose came to her mind she wept so heartily and was so deeply disturbed that she swooned away. at this juncture in the fray lancelot rode again into the field, and when the knights of arthur's party saw him the cry went up. "return, return, here comes sir lancelot du lake!" and some said to him, "sir lancelot, yonder knight in the black harness is your man. he is the best of our opponents, and has nearly overcome the good knight with the silver shield." at this lancelot rode between the combatants, and cried to palamides,-- "let me have this battle; you need repose." palamides knew lancelot, and readily gave way, hoping through his mighty aid to gain revenge upon his rival. then lancelot fell upon tristram, and, unknowing who he was, dealt him blows that would have stunned a less hardy fighter. tristram returned them but feebly, for he knew well with whom he fought. and isolde, who saw it all, was half out of her mind with grief. dinadan now told gareth who the knight in black armor was, and said, "lancelot will get the better of him, for one is weary and the other fresh, and tristram is not fighting with his old vim. let us to his aid." "i am with you," said gareth. "yonder fellow with the silver shield is waiting to fall on tristram, if he can to advantage. it is our business to give our friend what help we can." then they rode in, and gareth struck lancelot a sword-blow that made his head swim, while dinadan followed with a spear-thrust that bore horse and man together to the earth. "why do you this?" cried tristram, angrily. "it is not a knightly act, and does not that good knight any dishonor. i was quite his match without you." then palamides came to lancelot's aid, and a close medley of fighting began, in which dinadan was unhorsed and tristram pulled palamides from his saddle, and fell with him. dinadan now sprang up and caught tristram's horse by the bridle, calling out, with purpose to end the fight,-- "my lord sir tristram, take your horse." "what is this?" cried lancelot. "what have i done? sir tristram, why came you here disguised? surely i would not have drawn sword on you, had i known you." "sir," said tristram, "this is not the first honor you have done me." then they mounted their horses again, while the people on one side gave lancelot the honor of the fray, and those on the other side gave it to tristram. "the honor is not mine," said lancelot. "he has been longer in the field, and has smitten down many more knights; so i give my voice for sir tristram, and pray to all my lords and fellows to do the same." this was the verdict of the judges, and the prize of that day's tourney was by all voted to the noble sir tristram. then the trumpets blew to lodging, and the knights left the field, while queen isolde was conducted to her pavilion. but her heart burned hot with wrath against palamides, all whose treachery she had seen. as tristram rode forward with gareth and dinadan, palamides joined them, still disguised. "sir knight," said tristram, "you are not of our party, and your company is not welcome. so begone." "not i," he answered. "one of the best knights in the world bade me keep fellowship with you, and till he relieve me from that service i must obey him." "ha, palamides, i know you now!" said tristram. "but, by my faith, i did not know you before, for i deemed you a worthy knight and not a traitor. i could have handled you well enough, but you brought lancelot to your aid against me." "are you my lord, sir tristram?" said palamides, in a tone of surprise. "that you know, well enough." "how should i know it any more than you knew me? i deemed you the king of ireland, for you bear his arms." "i won them in battle, from his champion sir marhaus," said tristram. "sir," answered palamides, "i fancied you had joined lancelot's party, and that caused me to turn to the same side." "if that be so, i forgive you," said tristram. but when they reached the pavilion and had disarmed and washed, and were come to table, isolde grew red with wrath on seeing palamides. "you traitor and felon!" she cried, "how dare you thrust yourself into this goodly company? you know not how falsely he has treated you, my lord tristram. i saw it all. he watched you when you rode to your tent and donned the black armor. then he changed armor with a wounded knight and rode back and wilfully changed sides, and drew sword upon you. i saw it all, my lord, and i impeach him of treason." "madam," said palamides, calmly, "you may say what you will. i cannot in courtesy deny you. yet by my knighthood i declare i knew not sir tristram." "i will take your excuse," said tristram, "though it seems a lame one. you spared me little in the field, but all that i have pardoned." at this, isolde held down her head in despite and said no more. while they were still at table two knights rode to the pavilions, and entered in full armor. "fair sirs," said tristram, "is this courtesy, to come upon us thus armed at our meal?" "we come with no ill intent," said one, "but as your friends, sir tristram." "i am come," said the other, "to greet you as a friend and comrade, and my companion is eager to see and welcome la belle isolde." "then remove your helms, that i may see what guests i have." "that we do, willingly." no sooner were their helmets off than tristram sprang hastily to his feet. "madam, arise," he cried; "this is none less than my lord king arthur; and this my very dear friend sir lancelot." then the king and queen kissed, and lancelot and tristram warmly embraced, while deep joy filled all hearts there. at the request of isolde the visitors removed their armor and joined them at their meal. "many is the day that i have longed to see you," said arthur to isolde, "for much praise have i heard of you, and not without warrant. for a nobler match for beauty and valor than you and sir tristram the world does not hold." "we thank you heartily," replied tristram and isolde. "such praise from king arthur is the highest honor that men's lips could give." then they talked of other things, but mainly of the tournament. "why were you against us?" asked arthur. "you are a knight of the round table, and have fought to-day against your own." "here is dinadan, and your own nephew gareth. you must blame them for that," said tristram, smiling. "you may lay all the blame on my shoulders, if tristram wishes it," said gareth. "not on mine, then," said dinadan. "mine are only broad enough to carry my own sins. it was this unhappy tristram brought us to the tournament, and i owe to him a whole body full of aches and pains as it is, without taking any of his sins in my sack, to boot." at this the king and lancelot laughed heartily, and the more so at the sour grimace with which dinadan ended. "what knight was he with the shield of silver that held you so short?" asked arthur. "here he sits," said tristram. "what! was it palamides?" "none less than he," said isolde. "that was not a courteous action." "sir," said palamides, "tristram was so disguised that i knew him not." "that may well be," said lancelot, "for i knew him no better." "however it be, we are friends again," said tristram, "and i hope will continue so." and so the evening passed, till the time came for arthur and lancelot to take their leave. that night palamides slept not for the pain and envy that burned in his heart. but when his friends entered his chamber in the morning they found him fast asleep, with his cheeks stained with tears. "say nothing," said tristram. "the poor fellow has been deeply wounded by the rebuke that i and isolde gave him. lay no heavier load upon his heart." chapter vii. the woes of two lovers. early on the third morning of the tournament the knights of tristram's party were up and armed, they now being all arrayed in red, as was also isolde and her maidens. and rare was the show they made as they rode gayly to the priory, where they left isolde and her maidens to occupy their proper seats. as the knights turned thence towards the field they heard three loud bugle-blasts, and saw the throng of armed knights press eagerly forward, while already from the listed space came the thunder of hoofs and the cries of combatants. into the field they rode, palamides in advance, and such havoc did he make in the opposing ranks that shouts of approval went up from all the seats. but tristram now rode forward at the full speed of his great war-horse, hurled kay the seneschal from his saddle, smote down three other knights with the same spear, and then, drawing his sword, laid about him like a roused giant. quickly changed the cry from palamides. "o tristram! o tristram!" shouted the throng of spectators, and the deeds of this new champion threw those of the former victor into the shade. gareth and dinadan also nobly aided the two champions, rousing the admiration of arthur and lancelot by their gallantry, and the four knightly comrades soon cleared a wide space in the ranks before them. "come," said arthur, "we must to the rescue, or our side will be driven from the field before the day is an hour old. see how the others crowd in on tristram's steps, like wolves to the prey." then he and lancelot hastily armed and sought the field, where they quickly fought their way into the thickest press of the tumult. tristram, not knowing them, rode upon them and thrust king arthur from his horse, and when lancelot rushed to his rescue he was surrounded with such an eager host that he was pulled from his saddle to the ground. seeing this, the kings of ireland and scotland, with their knights, rushed forward to take lancelot and arthur prisoners. but they counted without their host, for the dismounted knights laid about them like angry lions, driving back all who came near them. of all that passed in that hot turmoil it were too much to say. many a knight there did deeds of great prowess, and arthur and lancelot being mounted again, strewed the earth with fallen knights, lancelot that day unhorsing thirty warriors. yet the other side held so firmly together that, with all their ardent labor, arthur and his party were overmatched. at this juncture, tristram turned to his companions and said,-- "my good comrades, i begin to fancy that we are to-day on the wrong side. king arthur's party is overborne more by numbers than valor, for i must say i never saw so few men do so well. it would be a shame for us, who are knights of the round table, to see our lord arthur and our good comrade lancelot dishonored. i am in the humor to change sides, and help our king and liege lord." "we are with you in that," cried gareth and dinadan. "we have been fighting against the grain these three days." "do as you will," said palamides. "i shall not change my hand in the midst of the fray." "as you will," said tristram. "you are your own master. speed well in your way, and we will do our best in ours." then he, gareth, and dinadan drew out of the press and rode round to arthur's side, where they lent such noble aid that the fortune of the field quickly changed, and the opposing party began to give ground. as for palamides, king arthur struck him so fierce a blow that he was hurled from his horse, while tristram and lancelot unhorsed all before them. such havoc did they make, indeed, that the party of the opposing kings was soon in full flight from the field, bearing palamides, who wept for rage and grief, with them. then rarely sounded the trumpets, and loudly shouted the spectators, while the names of tristram and lancelot were in every mouth, some voting one the prize, some the other. but neither of these good comrades would have it alone, so that in the end it was divided between them. when evening drew near, and the knights had all withdrawn to their pavilions, palamides rode up to that of sir tristram, in company with the kings of wales and scotland. here he drew up his horse, praying his companions to wait a while while he spoke to the knight within. then he cried loudly at the entrance,-- "where are you, tristram of lyonesse?" "is that you, palamides?" answered the knight. "will you not dismount and join us?" "i seek better company, sir traitor," cried palamides, in tones that trembled with fury. "i hate you now as much as i once esteemed you, and bear this in mind, if it were daylight as it is night, i would slay you with my own hands. you shall die yet for this day's deeds." "you blame me wrongly, palamides," said tristram, mildly. "if you had done as i advised you would have won honor instead of disgrace. why come you here seeking to lay your own fault on me? since you give me such broad warning, i shall be well on my guard against you." "well you may, sir dastard, for i love you not," and, fiercely spurring his horse, the hot-blooded saracen joined his kingly companions. when the next day dawned the festive array which had long spread bustle and splendor round lonazep broke up, and knights and ladies rode off in all directions through the land, to carry far and wide the story of the wondrous deeds of valor that had been performed at the great tournament. tristram and his two comrades, with hector de maris and bleoberis, escorted la belle isolde to joyous gard, where for seven days the guests were nobly entertained, with all the sports and mirthfulness that could be devised. king arthur and his knights drew back to camelot, and palamides rode onward with the two kings, his heart torn with mingled sorrow and despair. not alone was he in grief for his disgrace in the field, under the eyes of her he loved, but was full as sorrowful for the hot words he had spoken in his wrath to tristram, who had been so kind and gentle to him that his heart was torn to think how falsely and treacherously he had requited him. his kingly companions would have had him stay with them, but he could not be persuaded, so the king of ireland presented him with a noble courser, and the king of scotland with valuable gifts, and he rode his way, still plunged in a grief that was almost despair. noon brought him to a forest fountain, beside which lay a wounded knight, who sighed so mournfully that the very leaves on the trees seemed to sigh in echo. "why mourn you so, fair knight?" asked palamides, mildly. "or if you care not to tell, at least let me lie beside you and join my moans to yours, for i dare say i have a hundredfold deeper cause for grief, and we may ease our hearts by mutual complaints." "what is your name, gentle sir?" "such as i am, for better or worse, men call me palamides, son to king astlabor." "noble sir, it solaces me much to meet you. i am epinegris, son to the king of northumberland. now repose you on this mossy bank and let us tell our woes, and so ease somewhat our sad hearts." then palamides dismounted and laid himself beside the wounded knight. "this is my source of woe," he said. "i love the fairest queen that ever drew breath, la belle isolde, cornwall's queen." "that is sheer folly," said epinegris, "for she loves none but tristram de lyonesse." "know i it not? i have been in their company this month, daily reaping sorrow. and now i have lost the fellowship of tristram and the love of isolde forever, through my envy and jealousy, and never more shall a glad thought enter my sorrowful heart." "did she ever show you signs of love?" "never. she hated me, i fear. and the last day we met she gave me such a rebuke that i will never recover from it:--yet well i deserved it by my unknightly acts. many great deeds have i done for her love, yet never shall i win a smile from her eyes." "deep is your grief, indeed," said epinegris, with a heart-breaking sigh, "yet it is but a jest to my sorrow. for my lady loved me, and i won her with my hands. but, alas! this day i have lost her and am left here to moan. i took her from an earl and two knights that were with her; but as we sat here this day, telling each other of our loves, there came an errant knight, named helior de preuse, and challenged me to fight for my lady. you see what followed. he wounded me so that he left me for dead and took my lady with him. so my sorrow is deepest, for i have rejoiced in my love, and you never have. to have and lose is far worse than never to own." "that is true," said palamides. "but yet i have the deepest cause for grief, for your love is not hopeless, like mine. and i shall prove this, for if i can find this helior he shall be made to yield you your lady, unless he prove able to deal with me as he has with you." then he helped epinegris on his horse and led him to a hermitage near by, where he left him under the care of the holy hermit. here palamides stayed not long, but walked out under the shadow of the green leaves, to be a while alone with his woes. but not far had he gone before he saw near him a knight, who bore a shield that he had seen hector de maris wear. with him were ten other knights, who sheltered themselves from the noontide heat under the green leaves. as they stood there another knight came by whose shield was green, with a white lion in its midst, and who led a lady on a palfrey. as he came up, the knight who bore sir hector's shield rode fiercely after him, and bade him turn and defend his lady. "that i must, in knightly duty," cried the other. then the two knights rode together with such might that horses and men together were hurled to the earth. drawing their swords, they now fought sturdily for the space of an hour. in the end the knight of the white lion was stricken to the earth and forced to beg for his life. palamides stood under the leaves, watching this combat till it came to its end. then he went to the lady, whom he believed to be her whom he had promised to rescue. taking her gently by the hand, he asked her if she knew a knight named epinegris. "alas! that ever i did," she sadly replied. "for his sake i have lost my liberty, and for mine he has lost his life." "not so badly as that," said palamides. "he is at yonder hermitage. i will take you to him." "then he lives!" she cried in joy. "you fill my heart with gladness." but not many steps had palamides led her before the victorious knight cried out in tones of fierce anger,-- "loose the lady, sirrah! whither take you her?" "whither i will?" answered palamides. "you speak largely, sir knave," cried the knight. "do you fancy you can rob me of my prize so lightly? think it not, sirrah; were you as good a knight as lancelot or tristram or palamides, you should not have that lady without winning her at a dearer rate than i did." "if fight it is, i am ready for you," answered palamides. "i promised to bring this lady to her lover from whom yonder knight stole her, and it will need more swords than one to make me break my word." "we shall see if that be so," said the other, attacking him so fiercely that palamides had much ado to protect himself. they fought for so long a time that palamides marvelled much who this knight could be that withstood him so sturdily after his late hard battle. "knight," he said, at length, "you fight like a hero. i would know your name." "you shall have it for yours in return." "i agree to that." "then, sir, my name is safere. i am son of king astlobar, and brother to palamides and segwarides." "then heaven defend me for having fought you, for i am your brother palamides." at these words safere fell upon his knees and begged his brother's pardon; and then they unlaced their helms and kissed each other with tears of joy. as they stood thus, epinegris advanced towards them, for he had heard the sounds of fighting, and, wounded as he was, he came to help palamides if he should stand in need. palamides, seeing him approach, took the lady by the hand and led her to him, and they embraced so tenderly that all hearts there were touched. "fair knight and lady," said safere, "it would be a cruel pity to part you, and i pray heaven to send you joy of each other." "you have my sincere thanks," said epinegris. "and deeper thanks has sir palamides for what he has done for me this day. my castle is near by; will you not ride there with me as a safeguard?" "that we gladly will," they said, and when epinegris had got his horse they rode with him and the lady to the castle, where they were nobly received and treated with the highest honor. they had such good cheer and such enjoyment as they had rarely before known. and never burned the flame of love more warmly than that between epinegris and his rescued lady. chapter viii. the rivalry of tristram and palamides. when morning again dawned over the forest and the smiling fields that surrounded the castle of epinegris, the two brothers rode out, taking with them the blessings and prayers for good fortune of those they left behind. but had they known into what deadly peril they ventured they would not for days have left those hospitable gates. for they rode on hour by hour, until afternoon came, and then found themselves in front of a noble manor-house from which came to their ears doleful sounds of woe and lamentation. "what means this woful noise? shall we enter and see?" said safere. "willingly," answered palamides. leaving their horses at the gates, they entered the court-yard, where they saw an old man tremblingly fumbling his beads. but when they came within the hall they beheld many men weeping and lamenting. "fair sirs, why make you such a moaning?" asked palamides. "we weep for our lord, who is slain," they dolefully replied. but one of the knights observed the new-comers closely, and said secretly to his fellows,-- "know you not this man? fortune has thrown into our hands the knight who slew our lord at lonazep. that tall fellow is palamides. let him not go as easily as he came." hearing this, most of them quietly withdrew and armed themselves, and then came suddenly upon their visitors to the number of threescore, crying,-- "defend yourself, if you can, sir palamides. we know you for the murderer of our lord, and it is our duty to revenge him. die you shall, though you had the might of a giant." palamides and his brother, finding themselves in this desperate strait, set themselves back to back in the midst of their assailants, and fought like very giants, keeping their ground for two hours, though they were attacked by twenty knights and forty gentlemen and yeomen. but strength cannot hold out forever against odds, and at the end they were forced to yield, and were locked up in a strong prison. within three days thereafter a court of twelve knights sat upon the charge against them, and found sir palamides guilty of their lord's death. sir safere, who was adjudged not guilty, was given his liberty, and bidden to depart from the castle. he parted with his brother in the deepest woe. "dear brother, grieve not so greatly," said palamides. "if die i must, i shall meet death bravely. but had i dreamed of such a doom as this, they should never have taken me alive." [illustration: copyright by e. a. abbey; from a copely print copyright by curtis and cameron. the departure.] then safere departed in untold sorrow, though not without hope of rescue if he could raise a force to storm the castle. this he had no chance to do, for on the next morning palamides was sent under an escort of twelve knights to the father of the dead knight, who dwelt in a strong castle by the sea-side, named pelownes, where it had been decided that the sentence should be put into execution. palamides was placed on a sorry old steed with his feet bound beneath it, and, surrounded by the guard of twelve armed knights, was taken towards the place of death. but through the favor of fortune their route lay by the castle of joyous gard, and here they were seen by one who knew palamides, and who asked him whither he was borne. "to my death," he answered, "for the slaying of a knight at the tournament. had i not left sir tristram this would not have happened to me. i pray you, recommended me to your lord and to my lady isolde, and beg them to forgive me my trespasses against them. and also to my lord king arthur, and to all my fellows of the round table." when the yeoman heard this he rode in all haste to joyous gard, where he told tristram of what he had seen and heard. "to his death, you say?" cried tristram. "and for an accident of the tournament? why, i and twenty others might be served in the same manner. i have reason to be angry with palamides, but he shall not die the death of a dog if i can rescue him." this said, he armed in all haste, and taking two squires with him, he rode at a fast gallop towards the castle of pelownes, hoping to overtake the party before they could pass its gates. but fortune had decreed that the prisoner should be otherwise rescued. for as the guard of knights rode on their way they passed by a well where lancelot had alighted to drink of the refreshing waters. when he saw the cavalcade approach he put on his helmet and stood watching them as they passed. but his heart swelled with anger when he saw palamides disarmed and bound in their midst, and seemingly led to his death. "what means this?" he cried. "what has this knight done that deserves a shameful death? whatever it be, i cannot suffer him to be foully dealt with." then he mounted and rode after the twelve knights, soon overtaking them. "sir knights," he said, "whither take you that gentleman? to ride thus bound is not befitting for a man of his metal." at this the guard of knights turned their horses and faced lancelot. "we counsel you not to meddle with us," they said, sternly. "this man has deserved death, and to death he is adjudged." "i tell you, sirs, it shall not be. he is too good a knight to die a shameful death. defend yourselves, then, for i will try my one hand against your twelve, and rescue him or die in the effort." the knights of the guard now put their spears in rest, and lancelot rode upon them with such fury that the foremost and three of those behind him were hurled to the ground before his spear broke. then he drew his sword and laid about him so shrewdly that in a little time the whole twelve of them were stretched upon the earth, most of them being sorely wounded. lancelot now cut the bonds of palamides, mounted him upon the best of their horses, and rode back with him towards joyous gard. as they went forward they saw sir tristram approaching. lancelot knew him at sight, but was himself unknown, because he bore a golden shield which neither tristram nor palamides recognized. he therefore mystified them for a time, and declined to enter joyous gard on the plea that he had other pressing business on hand. but when strongly entreated, he at length consented, and entered the castle with them. great was their surprise and joy when he had unhelmed, to find that they had their host for guest. tristram took him in his arms, and so did isolde, while palamides kneeled before him and thanked him for his life. when lancelot saw this he took him by the hand and made him rise. "good sirs," he said, "could i, or any knight of worship in this land, hesitate to rescue from an ignoble death such a knight as palamides? had there been fifty instead of twelve, i fear i should have braved them all." much joy was there in joyous gard at the visit of the lord of the castle, but lancelot stayed there but four days. palamides, however, remained for two months and more, his love and grief growing deeper, till he faded away to a shadow of himself. one day, at the end of this time, he wandered far into the neighboring forest, and here by chance saw the reflection of his face in a clear pool. the wasted visage disturbed and affrighted him. "what does this mean?" he asked himself. "am i, who was called one of the handsomest knights in the world, wasted to such a frightful figure? i must leave this life, for it is idle to grieve myself to death for that which i can never possess." then he threw himself beside the well, and from the fulness of his heart began to make a song about la belle isolde and himself, a rhyme made up of music, love, and grief. as chance would have it, tristram had ridden into the forest that day in chase of the hart. and as he rode up and down under the green leaves the summer air brought to his ears the sound of a voice singing loud and clear. he rode softly towards the sound, for he deemed that some knight-errant lay there solacing himself with song. when he came nigh he tied his horse to a tree and advanced on foot. then he became aware that the singer was his guest palamides, and that his song was about la belle isolde, a doleful and piteous, yet marvellously well-made song, which the singer sang loudly and in a clear voice. tristram stood listening till he had heard it from beginning to end. but at the last his anger grew so high that he needed to restrain himself from slaying the singer where he lay. remembering that palamides was unarmed, he resisted this impulse, and advanced slowly towards him. "sir palamides," he said, in a gentle voice, "i have heard your song, and learned your treason to your host. if it were not for the shame of an unknightly act i would deal you here the meed you have earned. how will you acquit yourself of treachery?" "thus will i," said palamides, springing to his feet in his surprise. "as for queen isolde, you may know well that i love her above all other ladies in the world. i loved her before you ever saw her, as you know, and have never ceased nor shall ever cease to love her. what honor i have won is due for the most part to my love of her. yet never for a moment has she returned my love, and i have been her knight without guerdon. therefore i dread not death, for i had as lief die as live." "well have you uttered your treason," said tristram. "no treason is it," said palamides. "love is free to all men, and i have a right to love any lady i will. if she return it not, no man is harmed. such wrong as is done i have suffered, not you, for your love is returned and mine has brought me but pain. yet i shall continue to love la belle isolde to the end of my days as deeply as you can." that there was reason in these words tristram could not but have seen, had not anger blinded his wisdom. "none shall love my lady but myself," he cried, in passion. "and for what you have said i challenge you to battle to the uttermost." "i can never fight in a better quarrel," said palamides. "and if you slay me i can never die by a nobler hand. since i cannot hope for favor from la belle isolde, i have as good will to die as to live." "then set a day in which we shall do battle in this cause." "let it be fifteen days hence. and let the place be in the meadow under joyous gard." "why so long a time?" demanded tristram. "to-morrow will suit me better." "it is because i am meagre and weak, and have fallen away to a shadow through hopeless love. i must rest until i get my strength again before i can face so doughty a knight." "so let it be, then," said tristram. "yet once before you broke a promise to meet me in battle at the grave near camelot." "what could i do?" rejoined palamides. "i was in prison, and could not keep my word." "if you had done so, there would have been no need of a fight now," said tristram, as he strode haughtily away. then palamides took his horse and rode to arthur's court, where he did his utmost to rest and regain strength. when the appointed time approached he returned, attended by four knights and four sergeant-at-arms. meanwhile tristram spent his time at the chase. and by evil fortune, about three days before the time of battle, a wild arrow shot by an archer at a hart struck him in the thigh and wounded him so deeply that he could scarcely return to joyous gard. great was his heaviness of heart, and neither man nor woman could bring him cheer, for it was now impossible to keep his word with his rival; and his heart grew full of the fancy that palamides himself had shot that arrow, so as to prevent him doing battle on the appointed day. but this no knight about tristram would believe. when the fifteenth day came palamides appeared at the place fixed, with the knights and sergeants whom he had brought with him to bear record of the battle. one sergeant bore his helm, a second his spear, and a third his shield. and for two hours he rested in the field, awaiting the approach of his antagonist. then, seeing that tristram failed to come, he sent a squire to joyous gard to remind him of his challenge. when tristram heard of this message he had the squire brought to his chamber, and showed him his wound. "tell sir palamides," he said, "that were i able to come he would not need to send for me, and that i had rather be whole to-day than have all king arthur's gold. tell him, moreover, that as soon as i am able i shall seek him throughout the land, as i am a true knight; and when i find him he shall have his fill of battle." this message the squire brought to his master, who heard it with much secret satisfaction. "i would have had hard handling of him, and very likely have been vanquished," he said, "for he has not his equal in battle, unless it be sir lancelot. so i am well content to give up the fight." a month passed before tristram was well. then he took his horse and rode from country to country in search of palamides, having many strange adventures by the way, but nowhere could he meet or hear of his rival in love. but during his search tristram did so many valiant deeds that his fame for the time quite overtopped that of lancelot, so much so that lancelot's kinsmen in their anger would have waylaid and slain the valiant warrior. for this jealousy lancelot sternly rebuked them, saying,-- "bear it well in mind, that if any of you does any harm to sir tristram, that man shall i slay with my own hands. to murder a man like this for his noble deeds! out upon such base designs! far rather should you worship him for his valor and royal prowess." and so time went on for the space of two years, during which tristram sought in vain for his rival. at the end of that time he came home to joyous gard from one of his journeys of adventure, and there was told by la belle isolde of a great feast to be held at the court on the coming day of pentecost, which she counselled him strongly to attend. much debate passed between him and his lady-love on this subject, for he was loth to go without her, and she cared not to go. in the end he declared that he would obey her wishes, but would ride thither unarmed, save for his sword and spear. this he did, and though she in her loving anxiety sent after him four knights, he sent them back within half a mile. yet he soon had reason to repent his rashness. for hardly had he gone a mile farther when he came upon a wounded knight, who told him he owed his hurt to sir palamides. what to do now, tristram knew not. near by was the foe he had so long sought in vain, and he was unarmed. should he ride back for his armor, or go on as he was? while he stood thinking, palamides appeared, and knew him at sight. "well met, sir tristram!" he cried. "i have heard much of your search for me. you have found me now, and we shall not part till we have settled our old scores." "as for that," answered tristram, "no christian can boast that i ever fled from him, nor shall a saracen make this boast, even if i be unarmed." then he put his horse to the gallop and rode on palamides with such fury that his spear broke into a hundred pieces. throwing it away, he drew his sword and struck palamides six great strokes upon the helm, while the saracen stood unresisting, and wondering at the folly and madness of his foe. then tristram cried out in fury,-- "coward knight, why stand you thus idly? you dare not do battle with me, for doubt not but i can endure all your strength and malice." "you know well, sir tristram," answered palamides, "that i cannot in honor strike at your unarmed head. if i should slay you thus, shame would be my lot. as for your valor and hardiness, those i shall never question." "you speak well," answered tristram. "tell me this," continued palamides. "were i here naked of armor, and you full armed as i am, what would you do?" "i shall not answer from fear, but from truthfulness. i would bid you depart, as i could not have ado with you." "no more can i with you," said palamides, "therefore ride on your way." "i shall ride or abide as i may choose," said tristram. "but tell me this, palamides: how is it that so good a knight as you refuses to be christened, as your brothers have long been?" "i cannot become a christian till a vow i made years ago is fulfilled. i believe fully in jesus christ and his mild mother mary; but there is one battle yet i must fight, and when that is done i will be baptized with a good will." "if that is the battle with me," said tristram, "you shall not long wait for it. for god defend that through my fault you should continue a saracen. yonder is a knight whom you have hurt. help me to put on his armor and i will aid you to fulfil your vow." so they rode together to the wounded knight, who was seated on a bank. tristram saluted him, and he weakly returned the salute. "will you tell me your name, sir knight?" asked tristram. "i am sir galleron of galway, and a knight of the round table." "i am sorry for your hurts, and beg you to lend me your armor, for i am unarmed, and would do battle with this knight who wounded you." "you shall have it with a good will. but you must beware, for this is no common knight." "i know him well," answered tristram, "and have an old quarrel with him." "will you kindly tell me your name?" "my name is tristram de lyonesse." "then it was idle to warn you. well i know your renown and worship; and sir palamides is likely to have no light task." tristram now took off the armor of the wounded knight, who, as well as he could, helped him to put it on himself. this accomplished, tristram mounted his horse and took in his hand sir galleron's spear. riding to where palamides stood waiting, he bade him make ready. in a minute more the two strong knights came hurtling together like two lions. each smote the other in the centre of the shield, but palamides's spear broke, while that of tristram overturned the horse of palamides. in a moment the unhorsed knight had sprung to his feet and drawn his sword, while tristram alighted, tied his horse to a tree, and advanced to the fray. the combat that succeeded was a hard and well-fought one, as only it could be between two such knights. for more than two hours it continued, tristram often bringing palamides to his knees by his mighty strokes, while palamides cut through tristram's shield and wounded him. then, in a fury of anger, tristram rushed upon his rival and hurled him to the earth. but in an instant the agile saracen was on his feet again, fighting with all his old strength and skill. and so the combat went on, hour by hour, and, hard as tristram fought, palamides stood as nobly to his work, and gave him stroke for stroke. but, as fortune willed, in the end a fierce blow struck the sword from palamides's hand, nor dare he stoop for it, for fear of being slain. so he stood moveless, regarding it with a sorrowful heart. "now," said tristram, "i have you at advantage, as you had me this day. but it shall never be said that tristram de lyonesse killed a weaponless knight. therefore take your sword, and let us make an end of this battle." "as for that, i am willing to end it now," said palamides. "i have no wish to fight longer. nor can i think that my offence is such that we may not be friends. all i have done is to love la belle isolde. you will not say that i have done her aught of dishonor by holding that she is peerless among ladies, or by the valor which love for her has given me. as for such offence as i have given you, i have atoned for it this day, and no one can say that i have not held my own like a man. but this i will affirm, that i never before fought with a man of your might. therefore i beg you to forgive me for all wrongs which i have done you, and as my vow is now fulfilled, i stand ready to go with you to the nearest church, there to be confessed, and to receive baptism as a true and earnest christian knight." "i gladly forgive you all you have done against me," said tristram; "the more so that you have done it rather from love than from hatred. it fills my heart with joy to be the means of bringing the valiant palamides into the church of christ, and hereafter i shall hold you among my best friends. within a mile from here is the suffragan of carlisle, who will gladly give you the sacrament of baptism; and all christendom must rejoice to gain so noble a convert." then they took their horses and helped galleron to his, and rode to the church, where tristram told the suffragan the purpose of their coming. proud to bring into the fold of the church so notable a convert, the suffragan filled a great vessel with water, and hallowed it. this done, he confessed and baptized sir palamides, while tristram and galleron stood as his godfathers. afterwards the three knights rode to camelot, much to the joy of the king and queen, who gladly welcomed tristram to their court, and were no less glad to learn that the valiant palamides had become a christian, and that the long rivalry between him and tristram was at an end. the great feast of pentecost that followed was the merriest that had ever been held at arthur's court, and the merriest that ever would be, for the breath of coming woe and trouble was in the air, and the time was near at hand in which that worthy fellowship of noble knights was destined to break up in dire disaster. but first of all the tide of disaster came upon tristram the brave and isolde the fair, as we must now relate. the chronicles tell the story at length, but the record of treachery and crime had always best be short, and so we shall make that of king mark, the murderer. many years before the time to which we have now come, king mark's treachery had filled cornwall with mischief and all the land with horror, through a deed of frightful crime. and in thus wise it came about. cornwall had been invaded by a host of saracens, but before they could do any mischief, prince baldwin, king mark's brother, attacked them, burned their ships, and utterly destroyed them. furious at heart that his brother should win such honor, while he lay cowering with fear in his castle, mark invited him to tintagil, with his wife and child. there suddenly charging him with treason for attacking the saracens without orders, he stabbed him to the heart, and would have slain his wife and child as well had not the lady anglides fled for life with her child. mark sent after them an old knight named sir sadok, with orders to bring them back to tintagil. but he suffered them to escape, and brought back to the king a false tale that he had drowned the boy. many years now passed by, during which baldwin's son, alexander the orphan, grew up to be a youth large of limb and strong of arm. in due time he was made a knight, whereupon anglides produced the bloody doublet and shirt of her murdered husband, which she had carefully preserved, and laid upon the young knight the duty of revenging his father's death. the story of the crime had been diligently kept from him, but he now accepted this heavy charge with alacrity, and vowed solemnly to devote his life to the duty of revenging his murdered father. news of all this was quickly brought to king mark, by a false knight who hoped to win favor by turning informer. "by my halidom," cried mark, "whom can i trust? i fancied the young viper was dead years ago. that false hound, sadok, let him escape. as i am a living man, he shall pay the penalty of his treason." seizing a sword, he burst furiously from the chamber, and rushed madly through the castle in search of the knight who had deceived him. when sadok saw him coming, with fury in his face, he guessed what had happened, and drew his own sword in haste. "king mark," he cried, "beware how you come nigh me. i saved the life of alexander, and glory in it, for you slew his father cowardly and treacherously. and it is my hope and prayer that the youth may have the strength and spirit to revenge the good prince baldwin on his murderer." "what, traitor! what, dog! do you dare rail thus at me?" cried the king, and in a voice of fury he bade four knights of his following to slay the traitor. these knights drew their swords and advanced in a body on sadok; but he got the wall of them, and fought so shrewdly that he killed the whole four in king mark's presence. then, shaking his clinched fist at the king, he said,-- "i would add your false body to the heap, but that i leave you for alexander's revenge." this said, he took horse and rode briskly away, and in all his court mark could not find a knight willing to pursue him, for all that held with the king feared the old knight's sturdy arm. king mark now finding his wrath of no avail, set himself to devising some scheme of treachery by which the danger that threatened him might be removed. in the end he made a compact with morgan le fay and the queen of northgalis, both false sorceresses, in which they agreed to fill the land with ladies that were enchantresses, and with false knights like malgrim and breuse sans pité, so that the young knight alexander le orphelin should be surrounded with magic and treachery, and without doubt be taken prisoner or slain. soon after his knighting, alexander set out for king arthur's court, and on the way there had many adventures, in which he proved himself a knight of great valor and skill. among these was a mighty battle with the false knight malgrim, whom in the end he killed. but now morgan le fay sought to entrap him by her false devices. she gave him a sleeping draught, and had him taken in a horse-litter to a castle of hers named la belle regard. here she cured him of his wounds by healing salves, but not until he had promised that he would not set foot beyond the boundaries of that castle for a twelvemonth and a day. when he had recovered, alexander chafed bitterly at his confinement, for he felt sure that the pledge had been exacted from him to save king mark from his vow of revenge. yet his word held him close prisoner. as one day he wandered through the halls of the castle, like a young lion in a cage,--now heavy and sad, now burning with desire for action,--there came to him a damsel who was cousin to morgan le fay, and to whom the castle of la belle regard by right belonged. "sir knight," she said to him, "i find you doleful of aspect; yet i bear tidings that should make you merry!" "i pray you tell them to me," he answered. "i am here now a prisoner by promise, but must say that time hangs very heavy on my hands." "you are more of a prisoner than you deem," she replied. "my cousin, morgan le fay, keeps you here for purposes of her own which you will scarcely find to your liking." "i fancy she keeps me here through an understanding with king mark," he rejoined. "i have no faith in her, but i cannot break my word of honor." "truly, fair sir," she said, "i pity your unhappy lot, and have a plan in mind through which you may escape from this durance without loss of honor." "do that and i shall owe you my life's service," he answered, warmly. "tell me, dear lady, by what means i can be freed." "this i may justly say, that this castle of right belongs to me. i have been unjustly deprived of it, and in right and honor you are my prisoner, not morgan's. i have an uncle who is a powerful nobleman, the earl of pase, and who hates morgan le fay above all persons. i shall send to him, and pray him for my sake to destroy this castle, which harbors only evil customs. he will come at my wish and set fire to the building throughout. as for you, i shall get you out at a private postern, and there have your horse and armor ready." "truly, fair maiden, you are as wise as you are beautiful," he answered, in eager accents. "release me from imprisonment to morgan and i will hold myself your prisoner for life." then she sent to her uncle the earl, and bade him come and burn that haunt of mischief,--a design which he already had in mind. when the appointed day came the earl of pase sought the castle with four hundred knights, and set fire to it in all parts, ceasing not his efforts till there was not a stone left standing of the once proud stronghold. but alexander was not willing to take this as a release from his vow, but stationed himself within the limits of the space where had stood the castle of la belle regard, and made it known far and wide that he would hold that ground against all comers for a twelvemonth and a day. word of this knightly challenge soon came to arthur's court, where was then a lady of famous beauty and great estate, known as alice la belle pilgrim, daughter of duke ansirus, called the pilgrim, since he went on a pilgrimage to jerusalem every third year. when this fair maiden heard of alexander's challenge, she went into the great hall of camelot and proclaimed in the hearing of all the knights that whoever should overcome the champion of la belle regard should wed her and be lord of all her lands. this done, she went to la belle regard, where she set up her pavilion beside the piece of earth held by the young knight. and as the weeks passed by there came from all directions knights who had heard of alexander's challenge and alice's offer, and many a hard battle was fought. yet from them all alexander came as victor. but the more he triumphed over his knightly foes the deeper he fell captive to his fair neighbor, for whom he grew to feel so deep a love that it almost robbed him of his wits. nor was his love unrequited, for his valor and youthful beauty had filled her heart with as ardent a passion for him in return, and she prayed as warmly for his victory in every combat as though he had been her chosen champion. and so time passed on, varied by fighting and love-making, till one day, after alexander had unhorsed two knights, there came to him the lady to whom he owed the burning of the castle, who told alice the whole story of what had then occurred. "you worked wisely and well," answered alice. "sir alexander, indeed, has not gained much more freedom, except it be freedom to fight. but that is more his fault than yours." "have i not?" exclaimed the young knight. "i have gained freedom to love also; for which i am ever beholden to this fair damsel." at this alice turned away with a rosy blush, while the maiden stood regarding them with merry smiles. "i have, by right, the first claim on you, sir alexander," she said. "but if this fair lady wants you, i should be sorry to stand in love's light. i yield my claim in her favor." as they thus conversed in merry mood, three knights rode up, who challenged alexander to joust for the proffered prize of the hand and estate of alice la belle pilgrim. but the three of them got such falls that they lost all desire to wed the lady, and, like all knights whom alexander overcame, they were made to swear to wear no arms for a twelvemonth and a day. yet love may bring weakness as well as strength, as the young lover was to find to his cost. for there came a day in which, as he stood looking from his pavilion, he saw the lady alice on horseback outside, and so charming did she appear in his eyes that his love for her became almost a frenzy. so enamoured was he that all thought of life and its doings fled from his brain, and he grew like one demented. while he was in this state of love-lorn blindness the false-hearted knight sir mordred rode up with purpose to joust. but when he saw that the youthful champion was besotted with admiration of his lady, and had no eyes or mind for aught beside, he thought to make a jest of him, and, taking his horse by the bridle, led him here and there, designing to bring the lover to shame by withdrawing him from the place he had sworn to defend. when the damsel of the castle saw this, and found that no words of hers would rouse alexander from his blind folly, she burned with indignation, and bethought her of a sharper means of bringing him back to his lost senses. so she put on her armor and took a sword in her hand, and, mounting a horse, rode upon him with the fury of a knight, giving him such a buffet on the helm that he thought that fire flew from his eyes. when the besotted lover felt this stroke he came of a sudden to his wits, and felt for his sword. but the damsel fled to the pavilion and mordred to the forest, so that alexander was left raging there, with no foe to repay for that stinging blow. when he came to understand how the false knight would have shamed him, his heart burned with wrath that sir mordred had escaped his hands. but the two ladies had many a jest upon him for the knightly stroke which the damsel had given him on the helm. "good faith," she said, "i knew not how else to bring back his strayed wits. i fancy i would have given him some shrewd work to do if i had chosen to stand against him. these men think that none but they can wear armor and wield swords. i took pity on your champion, alice, or it might have gone hard with him," and she laughed so merrily that they could not but join her in her mirth. after that nearly every day alexander jousted with knights of honor and renown, but of them all not one was able to put him to the worse, and he held his ground to the twelvemonth's end, proving himself a knight of the noblest prowess. when the year had reached its end and his pledge was fully kept, he departed from that place with alice la belle pilgrim, who afterwards became his loving wife, and they lived together with great joy and happiness in her country of benoye. but though he let love set aside for the time his vow of revenge on king mark, he did not forget the duty that lay before him, nor did that evil-minded king rest at ease under the knowledge that an avenger was in the land. many a false scheme he devised to keep alexander from his court, and in the end his treacherous plots proved successful, for the young knight was murdered by some of king mark's emissaries, with his father's death still unrevenged. but vengeance sleeps not, and destiny had decided that the false-hearted king should yet die in retribution for the murder of prince baldwin. alexander left a son, who was named bellengerus le beuse, and who grew up to become a valiant and renowned knight. he it was who avenged the slaughter of prince baldwin, and also of sir tristram, for this noble knight was also slain by the felonious king, as we must now tell. through the good services of king arthur and queen guenever, after tristram and isolde had long dwelt at joyous gard, peace was made between them and king mark, and they returned to tintagil, where for a long time all went on in seeming friendship and harmony. but the false king nursed the demon of jealousy deep within his breast, and bided his time for revenge. at length, on a day when tristram, dreaming not of danger, sat harping before la belle isolde, the treacherous king rushed suddenly upon him with a naked sword in his hand and struck him dead at her feet. retribution for this vile deed came quickly, for bellengerus was at tintagil castle at the time, brought there by thirst of vengeance, and with a heart filled with double fury by the news of this dastardly deed, he rushed upon king mark as he stood in the midst of his knights and courtiers, and struck him to the heart with his father's avenging blade. then, aided by dinas, fergus, and others of tristram's friends, he turned upon andred and the remainder of king mark's satellites, and when the work of blood was done not one of these false-hearted knights remained alive, and the court of cornwall was purged of the villany which had long reigned there supreme. but la belle isolde loved tristram with too deep a love to survive his death, and she fell swooning upon the cross above his tomb and there sobbed out her life; and she was buried by his side, that those who had been so united in life should not be parted in death. great was the grief and pity aroused throughout england, and through all lands where knighthood was held in honor, by this distressful event, for never before had two such faithful lovers breathed mortal air. and long thereafter lovers made pilgrimages to their tomb, where many prayed fervently for a draught from that magic goblet from which tristram and isolde drank, and whose wine of love forever after ran so warmly in their veins. book ix. the quest of the holy grail. chapter i. the enchanted castle of king pellam. after many years had come and gone, and all at the court of arthur the king had grown older and wiser, there came to pass a series of adventures more marvellous than had ever been known upon the earth before, and of a nobler kind than mere tourneyings and joustings, being no less than the quest of the holy vessel named the sangreal, in which was kept a portion of the blood of our blessed saviour, jesus christ. and through this quest much disaster came upon the land, and the noble fellowship of the round table was broken up and destroyed, for many went in search of the holy vessel who had lived evil lives, and of these few came back, but most of them died deaths of violence. this sacred talisman--the sangreal--had been brought to england centuries before by joseph of arimathea, a follower of our saviour, and had passed down from him to his descendant, king pellam, of listengeise, him whom balin struck the dolorous stroke, and who was destined to lie in misery and pain until he should be healed of his wound by the winner of the holy vessel. but to tell how this perilous quest began we must go long years back and relate a story of strange adventures and marvellous deliverances. for it had happened that during a feast of whitsuntide lancelot du lake left arthur's court at camelot and rode afar in search of adventures. and after a long journey, in which many strange things came to pass, he arrived at listengeise, the land of king pellam. here he rescued the king's fair daughter, elaine, from a dismal enchantment, under which she had long lain through the wiles of morgan le fay and the queen of northgalis, who hated her bitterly from her renown for beauty. after the rescue of the lady, lancelot fought with and killed a mighty serpent that haunted a tomb near by, and had done much harm in the land. then there came to him a dignified and noble baron, who thanked him heartily in the name of the king, and invited him to a repast in the castle hall. but as they sat at table a wonderful thing took place. for in at the open window of the hall there flew a dove, which bore in its mouth what seemed a little censer of gold. and from this censer came such a rich and penetrating perfume as if all the spicery of the world had been there, while upon the table suddenly appeared the most delicious of meats and drinks. then came in a damsel, young and beautiful, who bore in her hands a vessel of gold, before which all who were there kneeled and prayed devoutly. [illustration: on the quest of the holy grail.] "what may all this mean?" asked lancelot in deep surprise. "it has been granted you to see the most precious and wonderful thing in the world," answered the noble baron. "for you have been permitted to gaze upon the holy sangreal. in the time to come all arthur's knights shall take part in a quest for this precious talisman, and great shall be the woe therefrom, for through that quest the round table fellowship shall be broken up and many of its noble knights destroyed." but all that passed in that land is too much for us to tell. we shall say only that the fair elaine came to love lancelot dearly, but he gave her no love in return, for all the affection of his heart was centred upon queen guenever. yet king pellam so desired that lancelot should wed his fair daughter that in the end he used enchantment, and brought him to make her his wife when under a magic spell, the deluded knight fancying that it was guenever whom he had wedded. this delusion last not long, and when the deceived spouse came to his senses and learned how he had been dealt with, he broke away like a madman, and, gaining his horse, rode wildly through the land. and every knight-errant who dared to joust with him was made to suffer from the fury that burned in his blood. long afterwards, as chance and adventure brought about, there came to king pellam's castle sir bors de ganis, lancelot's nephew. he was gladly received, and treated with all the good cheer and honor which the castle could afford. and as he sat at his repast with, the castle lords, there came in, as it had come to lancelot, the dove with the censer, at which the air was filled with the richest perfume, and the table covered with the most delicious viands. then entered the maiden with the holy grail, and all fell to their prayers. "truly," said bors, "this is a strange place, and a land full of marvels." "this i will say," answered the noble baron who sat in the king's chair, "that of the knights who come here few see the holy vessel, and fewer go away with any honor. gawaine, the good knight, was here but lately; but he saw not what your eyes have beheld, and he left here in shame. none but those of a worshipful life and who love god devoutly can behold this marvel, or sleep in this castle without coming to harm." "i am in quest of adventures," said bors, "and shall lie in your castle this night, come what will. men call me honest and virtuous, and i stand ready to dare all perils the castle may hold." "i counsel you not," said the baron. "you will hardly escape without harm and shame." "let come what will come, i am ready." "then i advise you to confess, and go to your chamber with a clean soul, for you will be sorely tried." "let it be so. your counsel is wise." after sir bors had been confessed and received absolution, he was led into a fair large chamber, around which were many doors, while a bed of royal richness stood in the middle of the floor. here he was left alone, and threw himself on the bed in his armor, deeming it wise to be prepared for all that might come. not long had he lain there with open eyes and alert wits, when the room was all at once brilliantly lighted up, though whence the light came he could not tell. and suddenly a great and long spear, whose point burnt like a taper, shot across the chamber without hand to guide it, and struck him in the shoulder so fierce a blow that his armor was pierced, and he received a wound, a hand's-breadth in depth, which pained him bitterly. quickly afterwards an armed knight strode in, with shield on shoulder and sword in hand, who cried in a harsh voice,-- "arise, sir knight, and fight with me." "i shall not fail you," said bors, hot with the pain of his wound. "i am sorely hurt, but i have vowed boldly to dare aught that might come to me. if that burning spear came from your hand you shall pay dearly for it." with these words he sprang from the bed and attacked the intruder, and a hard and stern battle began, which lasted long. at the end the intruding knight was driven backward to a chamber door, through which he passed, leaving bors master of the floor. but hardly had he rested a minute when the defeated knight returned, as fresh as at the start, and attacked bors with renewed strength. again the battle went on fiercely. but when bors saw his antagonist once more retreating towards the chamber door, he cried out,-- "not so, my good fellow. you played that trick on me once; you shall not again. back and defend yourself. if you defeat me it shall be by strength, not by magic." and he stationed himself before the door, and drove back his opponent with such fury, that in a moment more he hurled him to the floor. "yield, or you die!" he cried, setting his foot on the fallen knight's head. "i yield," came the answer. "what is your name?" "i am sir pedivere of the straight marches." "then, sir pedivere of the straight marches, take yourself away. and if you have any of your fellows behind yonder door, bid them to keep out of this room, for i came here to sleep, not to fight. at whitsunday next, present yourself at king arthur's court, and tell him that you have come thither as a prisoner of sir bors of the sharp sword." this, sir pedivere swore to do, and left his conqueror to what rest he could get. but this was little, for enchantment surrounded the daring knight. the room suddenly became full of frightful noises and alive with peril. whence they came he knew not, whether through doors or windows, but a flight of arrows and of crossbow bolts filled the air, whistling shrewdly past his ears, while many of them fell upon him and pierced his flesh through the open places in his armor. "who can sleep in such a den of witchcraft as this?" he cried, in a rage, springing from the bed. as he did so one of the doors opened, and a great lion leaped fiercely in, with a hideous roar. "it is better to fight a lion that one can see, than arrows which nobody shoots," cried bors, and he rushed without hesitation on the dangerous animal. sharp was the fight that followed, but of short duration. the lion sprang wildly upon him, and tore the shield from his arm, while the sharp claws rent his flesh. but the knight retorted with a sweeping stroke that cut off the frightful beast's head, and stretched its tawny body lifeless on the floor. then bors walked to the window to see whither the arrows had come, and as he looked into the castle court he beheld a wondrous sight. for before his eyes stood a dragon, huge and horrible of aspect, in whose forehead were letters of gold which seemed to him to form king arthur's emblem. and as he gazed there leaped into the court an old and mighty leopard, which sprang upon the dragon and engaged in desperate battle with the huge monster. at last the dragon spit out of its mouth a hundred of what seemed small dragons, and these quickly leaped upon the frightful beast and rent it to fragments. then all the animals disappeared, and an old man came into the court, around whose neck two adders wreathed their folds. in his hand was a harp, upon which he played, while he sang an old song telling how joseph of arimathea came to that land. when his song was ended he said to sir bors,-- "go from this land, sir knight, for you shall have no more adventures here. you have played your part well and nobly, and shall do still better hereafter, for wondrous things are reserved for you." then bors saw a dove of whitest plumage fly across the court with a golden censer in its mouth, from which seemed to stream the most delicious perfumes. and the tempest which had raged in the sky suddenly ceased, while from the rent clouds the full moon poured down its white light to the earth. next there came into the court four children who bore four tapers, and an old man in their midst with a censer in one hand a spear in the other, and that spear was called the spear of vengeance. "go to your cousin, sir lancelot," said the old man, "and tell him what you have seen, and that if he had been as clean of sin as he should be, the adventure which all this signifies would have been his. tell him, moreover, that though in worldly adventures he passes all others in manhood and prowess, there are many his betters in spiritual worth, and that what you have seen and done this night he was not deemed worthy of." then bors saw four meanly-dressed gentlewomen pass through his chamber, and enter an apartment beyond which was lit up with a light like that of midsummer. here they knelt before an altar of silver with four pillars, where also kneeled a man in the dress of a bishop. and as the knight looked upward he beheld a naked sword hovering over his head, whose blade shone like silver, yielding a flashing light that blinded him as he gazed. as he stood thus sightless, he heard a voice which said,-- "go hence, sir bors, for as yet thou art not worthy to be in this place." then the door of that chamber closed, and he went backward to his bed, where he lay and slept undisturbed till morning dawned. but when the regent of king pellam learned what had happened to his guest in the night, and how he had escaped the perils of the enchanted chamber, he greeted him joyfully, and said,-- "you are the first that ever endured so well that chamber's mysteries. and more has been shown to your eyes than any others have seen. go home, worthy knight. you are chosen for great deeds in the time to come." sir bors thereupon took his horse and rode away, thinking long and deeply on all that had happened to him. chapter ii. the marvel of the floating sword. many and strange were the events that followed those we have just related, and great trouble and woe came therefrom. for when sir bors returned to camelot and told the story of the wedding of lancelot and elaine, much was the secret talk and great the scandal. and when the news came to guenever's ears she flamed with wrath. not long afterwards, lancelot returned, still half frenzied with the deception that had been practised upon him. when guenever saw him she accused him bitterly of being a traitor to love, and harshly bade him leave the court, and never come again within her sight. this bitter reviling turned lancelot's frenzy to a sudden madness. with distracted brain he leaped from a window into a garden, and ran like a wild man through wood and brake, heedless that his clothes were torn and his flesh rent with thorns and briers. thus hotly burns despised love in the human heart and brain, and thus it may turn the strongest senses away and bring madness to the clearest mind. on learning what had passed, bors and hector went to the queen, and accused her harshly of the great wrong she had done to the noble lancelot. but she was already torn with remorse, and she knelt before these noble knights, begging their forgiveness, and praying them pitifully to seek lancelot and bring him back to the court. months passed and lancelot returned not, nor could he be found, though he was sought through many lands. for he kept afar from cities and courts, and roamed through wilds and wastes, where he had many adventures in his madness, and did strange and wild things. for two years he wandered hither and thither in frenzy, until at length he came to king pellam's city of corbin, and to the castle where dwelt the fair elaine. here he was given shelter in a little outhouse, with straw to sleep on, while every day they threw him meat and set him drink, for none would venture near a madman of such savage aspect. but one day as he slept, elaine chanced to behold him, and knew him at once for lancelot. telling a trusty baron of her discovery, she had the distracted knight borne still sleeping into a tower chamber in which was kept the holy vessel, the sangreal, concealed from all eyes save those of persons of saintly life. lancelot was laid near this, and when all had left the chamber a man of sanctity entered and uncovered the vessel. such was its holy influence that it wrought marvellously upon the distracted knight as he lay there asleep and the madness passed away from his brain. when he woke he was himself again, as whole a man in mind and body as any that stood upon the earth. for so healing was the virtue of that precious vessel that it not only drove the cloud of madness from his mind, but gave him back all his old might and comeliness of body. then, ashamed of his frenzy, and anxious not to be known, lancelot assumed the name of the chevalier mal fet, or the knight who has trespassed, and took up his abode with elaine and many knights and ladies at a castle given him by king pellam. this stood on an island in the midst of a deep and clear lake, which lancelot named the joyous isle. and now, filled again with martial fervor, he made it known far and wide that he would joust with any knights that came that way, and that any one who should put him to the worst would receive as a prize a jewel of worth and a jerfalcon. but none won the prize, though very many noble knights jousted with the chevalier mal fet. last of all came percivale and hector, who had been long in search of lancelot. learning the challenge, percivale jousted with lancelot, and afterwards they fought with swords. so long and even was their combat, that a length both paused for breath. and now percivale, wondering who this sturdy knight could be, told his name, and asked for his in return. at this, lancelot threw away his weapon, and took his late opponent in his arms, crying out that he was lancelot du lake. glad was the meeting between these old friends and comrades, and richly were the new-comers entertained in the castle. but in the end they persuaded lancelot to go with them to camelot, and the disconsolate elaine was left to return, with her knights and ladies, to her father's castle. after these events years came and went, until many summers and winters had passed over england's fair isle, and age had begun to lay its hand on those who had been young, while those who had been children grew up and became knights and ladies. then came at length the time fixed by destiny for the adventure of the sangreal. and thus this adventure began. when again approached the vigil of pentecost, and all the fellowship of the round table had come to camelot, and the tables were set to dine, there rode into the great hall a gentlewoman of noble aspect, whose horse was white with sweat and foam. she saluted lancelot and begged him to go with her, though whither and for what purpose she would not say. stirred by his love of adventure, he armed and rode with her, and before the day's end reached an abbey of nuns in a secluded valley. here, as he stood conversing with the abbess, there came in to him twelve nuns, bringing with them a youth who had not yet reached manhood, but was large and powerful of frame, and as handsome of face as any man he had ever seen. "sir," said the ladies, with weeping eyes, "we bring you this child, whom we have long nourished, and pray you to make him a knight; for there is no worthier man from whom he can receive the order of knighthood, and we hold him worthy of your sword." lancelot looked long at the young squire, and saw that he was seemly, and demure as a dove, and of wonderful beauty of form and features, and his heart went out with great love for the beautiful youth. "what is his name?" asked lancelot. "we call him galahad." "comes this desire from himself?" "it does," said they all. "from whom has he sprung?" "his mother is dead. his father is a full noble knight, as you shall soon learn." "then he shall be knighted by my hand to-morrow at the morning services, for truly he seems worthy of it." that night, lancelot's cousins, bors and lionel, stopped at the abbey, and spent there a cheery evening with their noble kinsman. at early morn of the next day he gave the accolade to the youth, pronouncing him knight, and bidding bors and lionel to stand as his godfathers in the order of knighthood. "and may god make you a good man and a noble knight," he said. "beauty you have now, equal to any i have ever seen, and strength and courage i doubt not; if you bear with these a noble heart and an earnest mind you have the best treasures that god can confer or man possess." then, when they had broken their fast, lancelot said to the demure and modest young knight,-- "fair sir, will you come with me to the court of king arthur?" "i humbly beg your pardon," said galahad, "but i cannot come at this time. trust me to follow soon." then lancelot and his cousins left the abbey and rode to camelot, where they arrived before the hour of the feast. in the great hall were many noble knights, some of them strangers, who walked about the round table, reading the names in letters of gold in the several seats, and saying,-- "here sits gawaine, here lancelot, here percivale," and so with the others. at length they came to the seat perilous, in which no man but percivale had hitherto dared to sit, and which he no longer occupied. to their deep surprise they found there newly written in letters of gold these words,-- "four hundred and fifty-four winters after the passion of our lord jesus christ, the knight shall come for whom this seat is held by destiny." "what marvellous thing is this?" cried all who saw it. "here is a miracle." "in the name of god, what means it?" cried lancelot. "percivale long since had warning to leave that seat. who shall fill it to-day, for this is the feast of pentecost of the four hundred and fifty-fourth year. the year and day have come, but where and who is the man? i advise that these letters be hidden, till he come for whom this seat is pre-ordained." then it was ordered that the writing should be covered with a cloth of silk; and the king bade his guests to hasten to dinner, and forget for the time being what they had seen. "sir," said kay, the steward, "if you go to table now you will break your old custom, not to sit at dinner on this day till you have seen or heard of some adventure." "very true," said the king. "i had forgotten my custom through this strange event." as they stood thus speaking, there came hastily into the court a squire, whose eyes were big with wonder. "sire, i bring you marvellous tidings," he cried to the king. "what are they?" demanded arthur. "as i stood but now by the river, i saw floating on its waters a great square stone, and above this stood the hilt of a sword, whose blade was thrust deeply into the stone." "a stone that floats!" said the king. "that is strange, indeed. i must see this marvel." then he, followed by all the knights, went to the river, and saw there that the squire had spoken truly; for a great stone that seemed of red marble floated like wood on the water, and thrust deeply into it was a rich sword, in whose pommel were many jewels of price. as they looked in wonder the stone whirled inward on an eddy and came aground at their feet. and now they saw that the precious stones were set in letters of gold, which none there could read. but there was a man at the court learned in strange tongues, and he being sent for, read these with ease, and thus interpreted them,-- "never shall the hand of man draw me from this stone until he comes by whose side i am to hang; and he shall be the best knight in the world." "lay your hand on this sword and draw it," said the king to lancelot. "to you it surely belongs; for you are the best knight in the world." "best of hand, mayhap, but not of heart and life," said lancelot, soberly. "certes, sir, that sword is not for me, nor have i the hardiness to set hand thereto. i had a vision in my last night's sleep, and this it told me: that he who seeks to draw that sword, and fails therein, shall in time receive from it a wound which shall be very long in healing. and this more i learned, that this same day, and with the drawing of that sword, shall begin the marvellous quest of the holy vessel, the sangreal. for fate has destined that this precious amulet shall be sought throughout the world; and to him who finds it the greatest of earth's honors shall come." the king and all the knights heard these words with wonder, for lancelot spoke like one inspired. then arthur turned to gawaine. "fair nephew," he said, "try you this task for my love." "saving your good grace," said gawaine, "that i shall not do." "then, sir, seek to draw the sword at my command." "your command i must obey," said gawaine, "yet i dread to meddle with magic." then he took the sword by the handle, and pulled with all his might, but he could not stir it. "i thank you," said the king, "for the trial, even if you have failed." "my lord gawaine," said lancelot, "bear well in mind, this sword shall touch you so sore that you would give the best castle in this kingdom not to have set your hand thereto." "it may be," answered gawaine. "yet i could not disobey the command of the king." then the king turned to percivale, and asked him for his love to try the task. "gladly will i," he said, "if only to bear gawaine fellowship." but pull as strongly as he would, the sword yielded not to his hand. and there were more there so hardy as to disregard lancelot's warning and seek to draw the sword, but to no hand would it yield. "try no more," said kay to the king. "you have seen your marvel, and now may, with a good appetite, go to your dinner." this advice seemed timely to the king, and all went to the court, where the knights took their seats at the round table, and were served by young men lately made knights. when they had been fully served, every seat being filled save the seat perilous, another marvellous thing happened. for suddenly all the doors and windows of the hall shut of themselves. yet the room was not greatly darkened, and men looked into one another's faces with abashed and frightened visages. "fair fellows and lords," said the king, "this is a day of strange events. and i doubt if we shall not see greater before night comes, for it seems a day set aside by the fates." as he spoke, there came into the hall an ancient man, clothed all in white, but no knight knew through which door he had entered. by the hand he led a young knight, clad in red armor, but without sword or shield, an empty scabbard hanging by his side. "peace be with you, fair lords," said the old man. then he turned to king arthur, and said,-- "sir, i bring with me a young knight who is of kingly lineage, and of the kindred of joseph of arimathea. by his hand many strange marvels are destined to be accomplished." the king heard these words with close attention, and answered graciously,-- "sir, you are right welcome here, and the young knight you bring." then the old man removed the youth's armor, and put upon him a coat of red sendal and a mantle that was furred with ermine. and lancelot saw that the young man was he whom he had knighted that morning at the abbey. [illustration: joseph of arimathea.] but the chief wonder of the day was now to appear. for the old man said to his young companion,-- "sir, follow me." he led him around the table till they came to the seat perilous, beside which sat lancelot. here the old man lifted up the silken cloth, and lo! the letters which had been covered were gone, and new letters of gold were visible, which read,-- "this is the seat of galahad, the high prince." "sir," said the old man, "this seat is yours. long has it waited your coming." and he seated him therein, while all the circle of knights looked on in wonder. now for the first time the young knight spoke. "dear sir," he said, "you may now depart, for you have done well what you were commanded to do. recommend me to my grandsire, king pellam, and say to him that i will come and see him as soon as i may." with this the old man departed. outside there waited twenty noble squires, who mounted when he came, and rode away with him. the knights of the round table marvelled greatly at all this, and the more so on seeing that he who occupied that chair of peril was one so tender of age, and a youth whom no one knew, nor whence he came; but to one another they privately said,-- "this is he by whom the sangreal shall be achieved; for none ever sat there before but percivale, and he was not long deemed worthy to occupy that seat." the talk of this strange event quickly passed through the palace, and came to the queen, who heard it with wonder. those who brought word said that the youth resembled sir lancelot. "i must see this strange thing," she said, and, followed by her ladies, she entered the hall. "it is sir lancelot in youth again," she cried, on looking the young knight in the face. "fair sir, tell me truly, what father had you, and what mother." "king pellam is my grandsire," answered galahad, "and elaine was my mother. as for my father, i know him not." "then do i," cried the queen, "for he sits beside you. sir lancelot is your father. you are son unto the noblest knight that ever wore sword." at these words lancelot rose up in haste, for he had not dreamed of what was to come; and he clasped the youth in his arms and kissed his fair young face with a love that overflowed his heart. "my son!" he said. "can it be? greatly, indeed, have i felt drawn unto you." "and my heart went out to you, dear father," said galahad, "from the moment i looked upon your noble face." the sight of this affecting meeting filled all hearts there with joy, and the king warmly congratulated lancelot on having found so worthy a son; "for to him, i dare avow," he said, "is destined that great achievement of the sangreal of which you have this day told us." then arthur took galahad by the hand, and said,-- "come with me, young sir," and led him from the palace to the river to show him the marvel of the stone. after them followed the knights, and the queen and ladies of the court, all full of hope of greater wonders yet to come. "sir," said the king, "that sword floated hither this day. many knights of great prowess have tried to draw it and failed." "that is no marvel," said galahad. "the sword is not theirs, but mine. and since i knew it awaited me i have brought no sword; but its scabbard, as you may see, hangs by my side." then he laid his hand upon the sword, and, while all eyes opened wide with wonder, drew it from the stone as easily as if it came from the water only, and thrust it into the scabbard, saying to the king,-- "it fits there better than in a floating stone." "god has sent it you," said the king. "and i doubt not he will send you a shield in as marvellous a manner." "this is the sword that at one time belonged to balin le savage," said galahad, "and with which he killed his brother balan, in that terrible joust which happened many years ago. the scabbard i wear was balin's scabbard, and it was merlin who put the sword into that stone, saying that no hand should draw it but that of lancelot, or his son galahad. nor can any man have forgotten the dolorous stroke which balin dealt my grandfather king pellam, of which he is not yet healed, nor shall be till i heal him. so has merlin prophesied." as they talked thus a lady on a white palfrey was seen riding down the river side to where they stood. reaching the group, she saluted the king and queen, and asked if sir lancelot were there. "i am here, fair lady," he answered. "sad is it," she said, while tears flowed from her eyes, "that all your great renown is changed since this day's dawn." "damsel, why say you this?" "until to-day you were the best knight in the world," she answered. "but he who should say this now would speak falsely, for there has come a better than you. and this is proved by the adventure of the sword to which you dared not set your hand. remember well what i have said." "as touches that," rejoined lancelot, "i never had the pride of being the best knight in the world, nor do i envy my son if any worship has passed from me to him." "yet you were the greatest; and still are among sinful men," she persisted. "and, sir king," she said to arthur, "this more i am bid to say, from the holy lips of nancien the hermit, that to you shall fall to-day the greatest of honors; for this day the sangreal shall appear in your palace, and feed you and all your fellowship of the round table!" with these words she turned her palfrey and rode away as she had come, leaving all who had heard her lost in wonder and admiration. when they had a little got over their wonder at what they had seen, the king gave orders that the stone should be taken from the water, saying that he would have it set up as a monument of those strange events. "and as it may be long before you all come together here again, i should like to have you joust in the meadow of camelot, by way of honor to this day." thus he spoke; but his real purpose was to see galahad proved, for he feared that if he once left the court it might be long before he should see him again. then the knights put on their armor and rode to the meadow in a gallant cavalcade. galahad also, at the earnest request of the king, put on armor, but he would take no shield, though the king and lancelot prayed him to do so. the most he would consent to do was to take a spear. but noble work he did that day, meeting all men who cared to break spears with him, so that by the end of the joust he had thrown down many good knights of the round table. only two of them, lancelot and percivale, were able to keep their seats against the vigorous onset of the strong young knight. when the jousting was at an end, the king and knights went back to camelot, where they attended even-song at the great minster. thence they proceeded to the palace hall, where all took their seats at the table for supper. but as they sat eating, there came outside a terrible crash of thunder, and a wind arose that seemed as if it would rend the great hall from its foundations. in the midst of this blast the hall was lighted by a sudden gleam seven times brighter than the midday light, in whose glare the knights sat dumb, none daring to speak. but each looked at the others, and it seemed to each that his fellows were fairer of visage than he had ever seen them before. then the storm and the glare passed away as suddenly as they had come, and there entered the hall the holy grail. none there saw it, for it was covered with white samite, but the hall was filled with the rarest odors, and each knight saw on the table before him the meats and drinks that he loved best in the world. when the holy vessel had passed through the hall, it suddenly vanished, none knew how. and not till then dared any man speak. "certes," said the king, "we ought to thank god devoutly for what he has shown us this day." "we have enjoyed the richest of perfumes, and have before us the rarest of food," said gawaine; "and we have but one thing to regret, that the sacred vessel was so preciously covered that no eye might behold it. but this miracle has filled my soul with the warmest desire to see this holy thing, and i therefore vow that to-morrow, without delay, i shall set out in quest of the sangreal, and shall not return hither till i have seen it more openly, if it take me a twelvemonth or more. if i fail in the end, i shall return as one who is not worthy to behold the holy vessel." on hearing these words the other knights arose as one man, and repeated the vow which gawaine had made. upon this, king arthur sprang to his feet in deep displeasure, for there came to his mind like a vision a host of evil consequences from this inconsiderate vow. "you are over-hasty, gawaine," he said, sharply, "and have done me a lifelong evil with your vow. for you have bereft me of the fairest fellowship that ever came together in this world. when my knights depart hence on that difficult search, well i know that they will never all meet again in this world, for many shall die in the quest. therefore it distresses me deeply, for i have loved them as i loved my life, and i would rather have my soul depart from my body than to lose their noble fellowship. long have we dwelt together in sorrow and in joy, but i fear our happy days are at an end, and that trouble and suffering await us in the time to come. what god wills must be, but my heart is sore at the thought of it." and men who looked upon the king could see tears of distress and grief flowing from his eyes. chapter iii. how galahad got his shield. when morning came the knights made ready for their departure, amid the tears and lamentations of ladies, and with the deep sorrow of the king and queen. for there were a hundred and fifty of them in all, comprising the whole fellowship of the table round, and king arthur had deep reason for his fear that he would never gather all these gallant knights round his festal board again. and so they mounted and rode through the streets of camelot, where was weeping of rich and poor, and the king turned away and could not speak for grief, while queen guenever hid herself in her chamber, to be alone with her bitter sorrow at the going of lancelot. onward they rode in company until they came to a castle and town that were named vagon. there they stopped and were well entertained by the lord of the castle, who was a man of great hospitality. but when morning came it was decided between them that they should separate, each taking his own course, so that the sangreal might be sought in all quarters. this they did with much sorrow and many fervent farewells, each knight taking the way that he liked the best, and riding alone and afar on his perilous quest. first must we follow the young knight galahad, who still rode without a shield, and who passed onward for four days without an adventure. near eventide of the fourth day he came to a white abbey, where he was received with great respect, and led to a chamber that he might lay off his armor. and here, to his surprise, he met with two of the goodly company from which he had lately parted, sir uwaine and king bagdemagus. "sirs," said galahad, "what adventure brought you hither?" "we are told," they replied, "that within this place is a shield of perilous significance. for he who bears it about his neck runs deep risk of being slain within three days, or maimed forever. yet," said bagdemagus, "i shall bear it to-morrow and try my fortune." "in the name of god, try it," said galahad. "yet truly you take a great risk." "if i fail therein, you shall take the adventure. i am sure you will not fail." "i agree to that," said galahad. "i have ridden far enough without a shield." then they went to supper, and afterwards to sleep. when morning came bagdemagus asked of the abbot where the magic shield was, and a monk led him behind an altar where hung a shield as white as snow, but with a red cross in its centre. "i hope you are well advised of what you do," said the monk. "no knight, unless he be the worthiest in the world, can safely bear this shield." "i know well that i am not the best of knights," said bagdemagus; "and yet i shall wear it and dare the danger." then he took it out of the monastery, and said to galahad,-- "if it please you, await me here till you learn how i shall speed." "i shall await tidings," said galahad. bagdemagus now rode forward with a squire, that he might send back tidings of his good or ill fortune, and passed onward for two miles, when he found himself in a valley before a hermitage. here he saw a stalwart knight in white armor, horse and all, who, in seeing the red-cross shield, rode upon him at the full speed of his charger. bagdemagus put his spear in rest and rode to meet him, but his spear broke on the white knight, while he was wounded in the right shoulder and borne from his horse, the treacherous shield refusing to cover him. then the victor knight alighted and took the white shield from him, saying,-- "sir knight, you have acted with more folly than wisdom, for you should have known that only he who has no peer living can safely bear this shield." then he went to the squire who had come with king bagdemagus, and said,-- "bear this shield to the good knight sir galahad, whom you left in the abbey, and greet him from me." "what shall i tell him is your name?" "take no heed of my name. that is not for you to know, nor for any earthly man. content yourself with telling sir galahad that this shield is for him, and for no other man to wear. and may god aid him to bear it worthily and worshipfully." but the squire went first to bagdemagus and asked him if he were seriously wounded. "forsooth, i am," he said. "i shall scarce escape from death." the squire then conveyed him in great pain to the hermitage, and left him in care of the hermit. and as the chronicle tells, he lay there long, and barely escaped with life. [illustration: copyright by e. a. abbey; from a copely print copyright by curtis and cameron. oath of knighthood.] "sir galahad," said the squire, when he had returned to the abbey, "king bagdemagus has paid dearly for his venture. he lies at a hermitage sorely wounded. as for you, the knight that overthrew him sends you greeting, and bids you to bear this shield, through which marvellous adventures shall come to you." "then blessed be god and fortune," said galahad. he now resumed his arms and mounted his horse, hanging the white shield about his neck and commending himself to god. uwaine offered to bear him company, but this was not to be. "sir knight," said galahad, "i thank you for your offer, but i must go alone, save that this squire shall bear me fellowship." with these words the youthful knight rode away, and soon came to where the white knight abode by the hermitage. they saluted each other courteously, and fell into a conversation in which the white knight told galahad the story of the magical shield. "in the far past time," he said, "soon after joseph of arimathea took down the body of our lord from the holy cross, and bore it from jerusalem to a city named sarras, there was a king of sarras named evelake, who was then at war with the saracens. this king, through the teachings of joseph, was converted from the old law to the new, and for him this shield was made, in the name of him who died on the cross. afterwards, when evelake was in battle, the shield was covered with a cloth, which was only removed in times of deadly peril, and then his enemies saw the figure of a man on the cross, before which they fell back discomfited. at times the cross of the shield would vanish away, and at times stand out clear and bright; and such was its virtue that a soldier whose hand was stricken off was made whole again by touching the cross. the time came at length when joseph left palestine and journeyed westward, and king evelake with him, till they came to great britain, where all the people had been pagans, but were then converted to the christian faith. soon afterwards joseph sickened and came near to death, and while he lay in his bed he bade evelake bring him the shield, and on it he traced a red cross with his own blood. then he said to evelake, 'no man hereafter shall bear this shield but he shall repent it, until galahad, the last of my lineage, shall come to seek it, and with it he shall do marvellous deeds.' 'where shall the shield await his coming?' asked evelake. 'you shall leave it in the abbey where nancien the hermit shall lie after his death, and thither the knight galahad shall come for it soon after he receives the order of knighthood.' this is the story of the shield, and this day has the prediction been fulfilled. wear the shield worthily and well, young knight, for much glory and renown shall come to you through it. you are in god's hands; to god commend yourself." with these words the white knight vanished away, and in the place where he had stood was seen but empty air. then the squire, who had heard these words, alighted and kneeled at galahad's feet, praying that he would make him a knight. "that i shall consider," said galahad. "but now let us return to the abbey." here galahad drove away a fiend that had long dwelt in a tomb near by, where it made such noise that none could venture near it. but the virtue of the shield protected him from all harm from this evil shape, which was forced to depart. when morning came, he asked the young squire his name. "sir," he answered, "men call me melias de lile, and i am the son of the king of denmark." "then, fair sir, since you come of kings and queens, i shall make you a knight; and look you that knighthood sit well on you, for you should be a mirror of chivalry." "that shall i seek to be," said melias. then galahad gave him the accolade as he kneeled before him, and bade him rise a knight. "now, dear sir," said melias, "since you have done me this high honor, it is but right that you grant me my first request, so that it be in reason." "you speak justly," said galahad. "i beg, then, that you let me ride with you in the quest of the sangreal till some adventure shall part us." "that i grant willingly." armor was now brought to melias, and when it had been girded upon him he and galahad rode away, and passed onward all that week without an adventure. but on the monday next, as they set out from an abbey, they came to where a cross marked a parting of the road. on the cross was written,-- "ye knights-errant, that ride in quest of adventures, here lie two ways. he that takes the right-hand road shall not leave it again, if he be a good man and a worthy knight. he that takes the left-hand shall not lightly win fortune, for his strength and endurance will be soon tried." "if you will suffer me to take the left-hand road i should like it greatly," said melias. "my strength and skill need trial." "it were better not. i fancy that i only should face the danger that there confronts us." "nay, my lord, i pray you let me have this adventure." "take it, then, in god's name," said galahad; "and do your duty worthily." so melias rode forward and soon found himself in a forest, through which he passed for two days, seeing there neither man, woman, nor child. then he came from the forest into a broad meadow, where stood a lodge built of green boughs. and in that lodge was a chair, on which lay a crown of gold wrought with rich and subtle skill. also there were cloths spread upon the earth, upon which delicious meats were laid. melias beheld all this and thought it marvellous. he felt no hunger, but the crown of gold roused his covetousness, and he took it up and rode away with it. but not far had he ridden when a knight came after him, who said,-- "sir knight, why have you taken that crown? it is not yours; therefore defend yourself." then melias blessed himself, and said,-- "fair lord of heaven, help and save thy new made knight." then they rode together at full speed, but melias's prayer availed him naught, for the spear-head of the other went through his hauberk, and wounded him so deeply in the left side that he fell to the earth like a dead man. then the victor knight took the crown and rode away. but with wise forethought galahad had followed melias, and now rode into the valley, where he found him in peril of death. "ah, melias!" he cried, "better for you had you taken the other way. who has done you this harm?" "for god's love, let me not die in this place!" said melias in reply. "bear me to some abbey near by, where i may be confessed and have the rites of the church." "it shall be done," said galahad. "but where is he who has wounded you?" the reply came from the edge of the forest, where galahad heard a voice cry in stirring tones,-- "knight, defend yourself from me." "beware, sir," warned melias. "he it is that has left me thus." "sir knight," said galahad, "come on at your peril." then they rode together as fast as their horses could run, and galahad drove his spear through the shoulder of his opponent, hurling him from his horse. but in his fall the spear broke. then, before the young knight could turn, another knight rode from under the leaves and broke his spear upon him. at this treacherous act galahad drew his sword in wrath, and with a keen blow smote off the left arm of his antagonist, whom he pursued into the forest. he soon returned, however, and took up melias gently, for the truncheon of the spear was in his body, and bore him on his horse in his arms to an abbey near at hand. here the wounded knight was unarmed and laid upon a bed, where the rites of the church were administered to him. "sir galahad," he then said, "let death come when it will, i am at peace with god." and he drew the truncheon of the spear from his body, and swooned away. but an old monk who stood there, and who was a skilful leech, examined the wound, and said, "he need not die. by the grace of god i hope to heal him of this wound within seven weeks." this gladdened galahad, and he remained at the abbey three days to see how melias should fare. then he asked him how it stood with him. "i feel now as if i may live," he answered. "god be thanked for that," said galahad. "now must i depart, for i have much to do, and the quest of the sangreal will not permit long leisure and delay." "sir," said the monk, "it is for his sin this knight is so bitterly wounded. he took on him the high order of knighthood without clean confession, which was a sinful thing to do. as for the two ways to which you came, the way on the right betokens the highway of righteousness, and the way on the left, which he chose, betokens that of sinners and infidels. and when the devil saw his presumption in taking the quest of the sangreal without being worthy of it, he caused his overthrow. and when he took the crown of gold he sinned in covetousness and theft. as for you, sir galahad, the two knights with whom you fought signify the two deadly sins which abide in sir melias. but they could not withstand you, for you are without deadly sin." "god send i may keep so," said galahad. "now must i depart. i pray you do your utmost for this knight." "my lord galahad," said melias, "i shall get well, and shall seek you as soon as i can ride." "god grant you speedy health," said galahad, and he left the room and sought his horse, and rode away alone. after he had ridden for days in various directions, it chanced that he departed from a place called abblasoure, where he had heard no mass, as was his daily custom. but ere the day was old, he came to a mountain, on which he found a ruined chapel, and here he kneeled before the altar, and besought god's counsel. and as he prayed he heard a voice that said, "go now, thou adventurous knight, to the castle of maidens, and do away with the wicked customs which there are kept." when galahad heard this he took his horse and rode away, full of gladness that he might thus serve god. and not long nor far had he ridden before he saw in a valley before him a strong castle, with high towers and battlements and deep ditches; and beside it ran a broad river, named the severn. here he met an aged man, whom he saluted, and asked the castle's name. "it is the castle of maidens," said the old man. "then it is a cursed castle, and an abode of sin," said galahad. "all pity is wanting within those walls, and evil and hardness of heart there have their abode." "then, sir knight, you would do well to turn and leave it." "that shall i not," said galahad. "i have come here to punish the evil-doers that there abide." leaving the old man, he rode forward, and soon met with seven fair maidens, who said to him,-- "sir knight, you ride in folly, for you have the water to pass." "and why should i not pass the water?" asked galahad. he continued his ride, and next met a squire, who said,-- "sir knight, i bring you defiance from the knights in the castle, who forbid you to go farther till they learn your purpose." "you may tell it to them, if you will. i come to destroy the wicked customs of this castle." "sir, if you abide by that, you will have enough to do." "go now and bear them my answer." then the squire returned to the castle, from which there soon after rode seven knights, in full armor. when they saw galahad they cried,-- "knight, be on your guard, for you have come to your death." "what!" asked galahad, "will you all assail me at once?" "that shall we; so defend yourself." then galahad rode against them and smote the foremost such a blow that he nearly broke his neck. the others rode on him together, each striking his shield with might. but their spears broke and he still held his seat. he now drew his sword, and set upon them with such energy that, many as they were, he put them all to flight, chasing them until they entered the castle, and following them within its walls till they fled from the castle by another gate. galahad was now met by an old man, clad in religious costume, who said to him,-- "sir, here are the keys of the castle." then the victor ordered that all the gates should be thrown open, and in the streets of the neighboring town were crowds of people, crying gladly,-- "sir knight, you are heartily welcome. long have we waited for the deliverance which you bring us." and a gentlewoman came, who said to him,-- "these knights are fled, but they will come again. therefore, sir, i counsel you to send for all the knights that hold their lands of this castle, and make them swear to restore the old customs, and do away with the evil practices which these villanous knights have fostered." "that is good counsel," said galahad. then she brought him a horn of ivory, richly adorned with gold, and said,-- "blow this horn loudly. it will be heard two miles and more from the castle, and all that hear it will come." [illustration: copyright by e. a. abbey; from a copely print copyright by curtis and cameron. sir galahad fighting the seven sins.] galahad took the horn, and blew so loud a blast that the very trees shook therewith. then he seated himself and waited to see what would come from the summons. as he sat there a priest came to him and said,-- "sir knight, for seven years these brethren have held the castle, whose lord, duke lianor, they killed, and held his daughter prisoner; and by force they have kept all the knights of the castle under their power, and have acted as tyrants, robbing the common people of all they had, and taking tribute and demanding service from all the country round. seven years ago the duke's daughter said to them, 'you shall not hold this castle for many years, for by one knight you shall be overcome.' 'say you so,' they replied. 'then shall never knight or lady pass this castle, but all that come shall stay or lose their heads, till comes that knight of whom you prophesy.' therefore this is called the maidens' castle, since its tyrants have so long made war upon maidens." "is the duke's daughter still here?" "no; she died three days after the castle was taken. but her younger sister and many other ladies are held prisoners." soon afterwards the knights of the country began to flock in, in response to the bugle-call, and glad were they to find what had occurred. galahad made them do homage and fealty to the duke's daughter, which they did with great willingness of heart. and when the next day dawned great news was brought in, for a messenger came to galahad and told him that the seven felon brothers had been met by gawaine, gareth, and uwaine, and all slain. "so ends their rule and power," said galahad, fervently. "it is well done, and well are all here delivered." then he commended them to god, and took his armor and horse, and rode away amid the prayers of those he had delivered. chapter iv. the temptation of sir percivale. many adventures had the other knights that set out in search of the sangreal, and much reproof did many of them receive for the evil lives they had led; but all this we cannot stop to tell, but must confine ourselves to the deeds of a few only. as for sir gawaine, he parted from gareth and uwaine after they had slain the seven wicked knights of the castle of maidens, and rode from whitsuntide to michaelmas without an adventure. then came a day in which he met sir hector de maris, and glad were both at the meeting. "truly," said gawaine, "i am growing weary of this quest." "and i as well," said hector. "and of the twenty knights i have met from time to time, they all complain as we do." "have you met with lancelot?" "no, nor with percivale, bors, or galahad. i can learn nothing of these four." "they are well able to take care of themselves," said gawaine. "and if they fail to find the sangreal, it is waste of time for the rest of us to seek it, for outside of them there is little virtue in the round table fellowship." afterwards these two knights went far in company, and had strange dreams and visions, the meaning of which was expounded to them by the hermit nancien. this holy man also reproved gawaine severely for his evil life, and bade both him and his companion to give up the search for the sangreal, as that high achievement was not for hands like theirs. soon after they met an armed knight in the road, who proffered to joust with them. gawaine accepted the challenge, and rode against this unknown opponent, dealing him so severe a blow that he was hurled from his horse with a mortal wound. but when they had removed his helmet, what was their horror to find that it was their friend and comrade, uwaine. "alas!" cried gawaine, "that such a fatal misadventure should have befallen me! i would sooner have died myself." "thus ends my quest of the sangreal," said uwaine. "and thus will end that of many a noble knight. dear friends, commend me to king arthur, and to my fellows of the round table, and sometimes think of me for old brotherhood's sake." and he died in their arms, leaving them plunged in the deepest grief, from which they were long in recovering. meanwhile lancelot and percivale rode far in company, and many things happened to them. while journeying through a strange region they met an unknown knight, whom they challenged to joust. but the event turned out little to their satisfaction, for lancelot was hurled to the ground, horse and man, and percivale received so fierce a sword-blow that he would have been slain had not the sword swerved. then the victor knight rode rapidly away, leaving them to recover as they best could. but a recluse near whose hut this encounter had taken place told them that the victor was sir galahad. on learning this they pursued him at all speed, but in vain. percivale now turned back to question the recluse further, but lancelot kept on, passing through waste and forest till he came to a stone cross at the parting of two ways. near by was a ruined chapel, with broken door, and other signs of waste and decay, if it had been long deserted. but when he looked within he saw to his great surprise a high altar richly dressed with cloth of white silk, on which stood a lofty candelabra of silver which bore six great candles, all lighted. lancelot sought to enter the chapel, but try as he would he could not pass the broken door, nor find entrance elsewhere. some invisible power seemed to stand between him and admission to that sacred place. then, out of heart at this ill success, he took off his helm and sword, relieved his horse of saddle and bridle, and lay down to sleep before the cross. night came upon him as he lay there, and with the night came strange visions. for as he lay but half asleep he saw a sick knight brought thither in a litter. this knight prayed earnestly for aid in his affliction, and as he did so lancelot saw the silver candlestick come from the chapel to the cross, and after it a table of silver on which was the holy grail. the sick knight crawled painfully to it on his hands and knees, and raised himself so as to touch and kiss the sacred vessel. no sooner had he done so than he grew whole and sound, with all his pain and sickness gone, and rose to his feet with his former strength and vigor. "lord, i thank thee deeply," he said; "for through thy infinite grace i am healed of my affliction." then the holy vessel returned to the chapel, and lancelot strove hard to rise and follow it. but his limbs were powerless, and he lay like one chained to the ground. he now fell into deep slumber, and waked not till near morning. and as he raised himself and sat on the ground he heard a voice in the air, that seemed to come from no earthly lips. "sir lancelot," it said, "more hard than is the stone, more bitter than the wood, more bare than the barren fig-tree, arise and go from hence, and withdraw thyself from this holy place." lancelot arose with a heavy heart, for the sense of these words sank deeply within him. but when he sought his horse and helm and sword he found they were gone, for they had been taken by the knight whose healing he had seen. deeply depressed and unhappy at this misfortune, he left the cross on foot, and wandered onward till he came to a hermitage on a high hill. here he told the hermit what had happened to him, and confessed all the evil deeds of his life, saying that he had resolved to be a different man from what he had been, and to live a higher life than that of doing deeds of arms that men might applaud. then the holy man gave him absolution, with injunctions of penance, and prayed that he would abide with him all that day. this lancelot did, talking much with him upon his sins, and repenting sincerely the worldly life he had led. meanwhile percivale had returned to the recluse, and questioned her as to how he should find galahad. "that i cannot surely tell," she said. "ride hence to a castle which is called goothe, where he has a cousin-german. if he can give you no tidings, then ride straight to the castle carbonek, where the maimed king lies, and there you shall hear sure tidings of him." percivale, leaving her, rode onward till eventide, and as he looked around him for shelter he heard a clock strike loud and clear. he now perceived before him a mansion, with lofty walls and deep ditches. here he knocked loudly, and was let in without delay. after laying off his armor, he was led to the supper hall, where he was well served, and afterwards spent the night in comfort. when morning dawned he entered the chapel for the mass, and found there a priest ready at the altar. on the right side was a pew closed with iron, and behind the altar a rich bed, covered with cloth of silk and gold. on this bed lay a person with covered visage, so that he could not tell if it were man or woman. after the service was over the occupant of the bed sat up and threw back the covering, and then percivale saw that it was a man of very great age, on whose head was a crown of gold. but his shoulders and body to the middle were unclad, and were covered with wounds, as were also his arms and face. to all seeming he might have been three hundred years of age, for so venerable a face percivale had never gazed upon, and as he sat up he prayed fervently, with joined hands. when the mass was over the priest bore the sacrament to the sick king. and when he had used it, he took off his crown and commanded it to be set on the altar. then he lay down again. percivale now asked one of the attendants who this venerable man was. "you have heard of joseph of arimathea," was the reply, "and how he came into this land to convert the heathen. with him came a king named evelake, whom he had converted in the city of sarras, in palestine. this king afterwards had an earnest desire to be where the sangreal was, and on one occasion he ventured so nigh it that god was displeased with him, and struck him almost blind. then king evelake prayed for mercy and pardon, and begged that he might not die until he who was to achieve the sangreal should come, that he might see him and kiss him. there answered him a voice that said: 'thy prayers are heard; thou shalt not die till he has kissed thee. and when he comes thy eyes shall be opened to see clearly, and thy wounds shall be healed; but not until then.' so king evelake has lived in this mansion for three hundred winters, waiting for the coming of the knight who shall heal him. now, sir, will you tell me what knight you are, and if you are of the round table fellowship?" "that am i, and my name is percivale de galis." on hearing this the good man welcomed percivale warmly, and pressed him to remain. but the knight replied that he could not, for his duty led him onward. percivale now left the chapel, and, arming himself, he took his horse and rode onward. and that day more strange things happened to him than we have space to tell. not far had he ridden when he met twenty men-at-arms, who bore on a bier a dead knight. on learning that he was from king arthur's court, they assailed him fiercely, killed his horse, and would have slain him; but when he was at the worst strait a knight in red armor came hastily to his rescue, and rode fiercely on the assailants. he attacked these, indeed, with such fury that many of them were soon stretched on the ground; while the others fled into a thick forest, whither they were hotly pursued by their assailant. on seeing him thus ride away, percivale was deeply grieved, for he well knew his rescuer was galahad, and he had no horse to follow him. he went forward as fast as he could on foot, and had not gone far when he met a yeoman riding on a hackney, and leading a great war-horse, blacker than any bear. percivale begged that he would lend him this horse, that he might overtake a knight before him. but this the yeoman refused, saying that the owner of the horse would slay him if he should do so. not long afterwards, as percivale sat woebegone beneath a tree, an armed knight came riding past on the black horse, pursued by the yeoman, who called him robber, and moaned bitterly that his master would kill him for the loss of his charge. "lend me your hackney," said percivale; "i may get you your horse again." this the yeoman gladly did, and percivale pursued the robber knight, loudly bidding him to stand and deliver. the knight at this turned and rode fiercely upon him, but directed his spear against the horse instead of the rider, striking it in the breast, so that it fell to the earth. he now rode away, without heeding percivale's angry demand that he should stop and fight it out on foot. when the dismounted knight found that his antagonist would not turn, he was so filled with chagrin that he threw away his helm and sword, and raved like one out of his wits. thus he continued till night came on, when he lay down exhausted and fell into a deep slumber. near the midnight hour he suddenly awakened, and saw in the road before him a woman, who said,-- "sir percivale, what do you here?" "i do neither good nor ill," he replied. "you need a horse," she said. "if you will promise to do my will when i shall summon you, i will lend you mine. you will find him no common one." "i promise that," cried percivale. "i would do much for a horse just now." "wait, then; i shall fetch you the noblest animal you ever bestrode." she departed, but quickly came again, leading a horse of midnight blackness, and richly apparelled for knightly service. percivale looked at it with admiration. he had not hoped for so great and noble a steed as this. thanking her warmly, he sprang to his feet, leaped to the saddle, and put spurs to the horse, from whose nostrils fire seemed to glare. away went the black horse under the moonlight, making such marvellous strides that it seemed to leave the earth behind it in its magical progress. with such wondrous speed did it go that in an hour it had made a four days' journey. then it came to the brink of a great body of water, whose waves foamed and leaped boisterously against the shore. when percivale saw the heaving waves, which stretched far away under the moonlight, he drew with all his force upon the rein; but the fiendish brute which he rode heeded not his hand, but bore him madly to the brink. fear and doubt now filled the knight's mind, and with a hasty impulse he made the sign of the cross. at this the beast roared loudly in rage, while flame a foot long poured from its nostrils, and with a wild rear it shook off its rider, and plunged madly into the wild billows. and the showering drops which fell upon percivale from the plunge burnt like sparks of fire. "god be thanked that i am here alive," cried the knight, fervently. "i have ridden the foul fiend in the image of a horse, and barely have i escaped perdition." then he commended himself to god, and prayed earnestly to the lord to save him from all such perils and temptations. he continued in prayer all the remainder of that night until the next day dawned upon the earth. when sunrise came he looked needfully about him, anxious to learn whither he had been borne by the unholy brute. to his surprise and alarm he found himself in a wild waste, which was closed in on one side by the sea, and on the other by a range of rough and high mountains, impassable to human feet; a land that seemed without food or shelter, and the lurking-place of wild beasts. he trembled with fear on seeing this, and went forward with doubtful steps. not far had he gone before he saw a strange thing, for a great serpent passed near him, bearing a young lion by the neck. fiercely after it came a great lion, roaring with rage, and fell upon the serpent, which turned in defence, so that a mighty battle was waged before the knight. "by my faith," he cried, "the lion is the most natural beast of the two, and it fights for its young. the lion it is my duty to help." he drew his sword with these words and struck the serpent so fierce a stroke that it fell dead. then he turned his shield against the lion, but as the latter made no show of fighting him, but fawned upon him with every mark of joy and gratitude, he cast down his shield and removed his helm, and sat there stroking the neck and shoulders of the beast. until noon he comforted himself with the fellowship of the lion. then it took up its whelp and bore it away, leaving percivale alone. but he was not unhappy, for he believed fervently in god, and prayed with all earnestness that he might be saved from unholy things, and chosen as a champion of right and truth. when night came, percivale, to his joy, saw the lion coming towards him. it crouched at his feet like a spaniel, and all that night the lion and the knight slept in company, his head being pillowed on the shoulder of the beast. but during the night a strange dream came to him. he seemed to see two women, one of whom was young, and rode upon a lion, and the other was old, and sat upon a gliding serpent. and the younger spoke to him as follows,-- "sir percivale," she said, "my lord salutes you, and sends a warning to you to make ready, for to-morrow you will have to fight with the strongest champion in the world. and if overcome you will be shamed to the world's end." "who is your lord?" he asked. "the greatest lord in all the world," she said; and then suddenly vanished. then came the lady upon the serpent, and said,-- "sir percivale, i have done you no harm, and yet you have worked me injury." "what have i done? i have been always heedful to offend no lady." "i have long nourished here a great serpent, and yesterday you killed it for seeking its prey. why did you this? the lion was not in your care." "i aided the lion because it was a nobler beast than the serpent. in that i did nothing against you." "you did me a great wrong, and in return for this injury i demand that you become my man." "that shall i never be," he answered. "beware, then, proud knight, who pride yourself on your piety. you have robbed me of that which i loved; take heed that i catch you not unawares, or mine you shall be, body and soul." with these words she departed, and percivale finished his sleep without further vision. in the morning, when he awoke, he felt feeble. and as he rose and blessed himself he saw not far off in the sea a ship that sailed towards him. as it came near he perceived it to be covered within and without with white samite, while on the deck stood an old man dressed in a surplice like a priest. "sir," said percivale, "you are welcome." "god keep you," said the old man; "whence come you?" "i am of king arthur's court, and a knight of the round table, and am in quest of the sangreal. but here i find myself in a wilderness, with no hope of escape." "doubt not, if you be a true knight." "who are you?" asked percivale. "i have come hither from a strange country to comfort you," said the old man. "then, sir, can you tell me what my dream signifies?" and percivale related what had befallen him. "that can i," said the old man. "she that rode on the lion betokens the new law of holy church, and she came through love, to warn you of the great battle that is before you." "with whom shall i fight?" asked percivale. "with the strongest champion of the world, and if you fail in the fight you shall not escape with the loss of a limb, but shall be shamed to the world's end. as for her that rode on the serpent, she betokens the old law. heed her not. the serpent you slew betokens the devil that you rode hither, and whom you overcame by the sign of the cross. yield not to her or any of her kindred, or worse will befall you." then the ship turned and sailed away, leaving percivale again alone. but when he went up the rocks he found there the lion, which he stroked and made joyful fellowship with. and thus time went on till midday. then percivale saw a ship approaching with such speed as if all the winds in the world had driven it. on it kept till it reached land at the beach below him. he hurried hopefully to meet it, and saw that it was covered with black silk, while on the deck stood a lady of great beauty, who was dressed in the richest apparel. "what brought you into this wilderness?" she cried to the knight. "here you are likely to die of hunger, for no man may cross yonder rocks and escape." "i serve the best master in the world," said percivale. "he will not suffer harm to come to me." "sir percivale," said she, "know you who i am?" "who taught you my name?" he answered. "i know you better than you deem," she replied, laughing. "this much i may tell you, that not long since i was in the waste forest, where i saw the red knight with the white shield." "ah! is that so? fain would i meet with him." "i shall bring you to him; but only on covenant that you will come to my aid when i summon you." "if it be in reason and uprightness, you may trust me," he replied. "i saw him," she continued, "chase two knights into the stream that is called mortaise, and follow them into the water. but they passed over, and his horse was drowned, and only by his great strength he got safe to land again." "that i am very glad to hear. it would have been a sad day had that good knight been drowned." "you look pale and thin," she remarked. "have you eaten lately?" "not these three days," he answered. "yet i spoke of late with a good man, whose words refreshed me as if i had partaken of rich viands." "ah, sir knight," she said, "beware of that old man. i know him better than you. he is a false enchanter, who seeks your harm. if you heed his words shame will be your lot, and you will die on this rock and be devoured by wild beasts. i am here to help you in your need, for i am not content to see so good a knight come to harm and disgrace." "who are you," asked percivale, "that proffer me so great a kindness?" "once i was the richest woman in the world," she answered. "now i am disinherited and in want." "then i pity you greatly. who is it that has disinherited you?" "i dwelt with the greatest man in the world," she answered, "and to him i owe my beauty,--a beauty of which i was, alas! too proud. then i said that which offended him deeply, and he drove me away from him, and robbed me of my heritage, and has never since had pity for me nor for my friends. since this has happened i have done my best to wean his men from him, and many of them now cling to me, and i and they war against him day and night. i know no good knight, nor good man, but that i strive to win him to my side, and all such i repay well for their services. for he against whom i wage war is strong, and i need all the aid to be had. therefore, since i know you for a valiant knight, i beseech you to help me. a fellow of the round table cannot, under his vow, fail any woman that is disinherited, and that seeks his aid." "that is true, indeed," said percivale, "and i shall do all i can for you." "you have my earnest thanks," she said. then, as the weather was hot, she called some of her attendants, and bade them bring a pavilion and set it up on the gravel near the sea-line. "sir knight," she said, "i pray you to rest here in the heat of the day, while my attendants prepare food for you." he thanked her and laid aside his helm and shield, and fell asleep within the pavilion, where he slumbered long. when he awoke he asked her if the food was ready. "yes," she answered; "i have worked while you slumbered." then a table was set within the pavilion, and covered with a rich array of meats and drinks, of which percivale ate with great appetite, while the lady sat opposite him with a very gracious aspect. the wine he drank was the strongest that had ever passed his lips, and its strength soon got into his veins and heated his brain. the lady now smiled graciously upon him, and it seemed to him that he had never beheld so fair a creature. her beauty so worked upon his heated blood, indeed, that he proffered her his love, and prayed earnestly for hers in return. when she saw his loving ardor, and that the wine worked like fire in his blood, she said, with a smile of witchery,-- "sir percivale, if i become yours, you must become mine. i shall not grant you my love unless you swear that henceforth you will be my true servant, and do nothing but what i shall command. will you thus bind yourself, as you are a true knight?" "that will i, fair lady, by the faith of my body." "then this i will say, that of all the knights in the world you are he whom i most love. and you may seal upon my lips the compact we have made." but when percivale came towards her, to claim the proffered kiss, which she offered with such bewitching grace, by chance or through god's aid he saw his sword, which lay on the ground at his feet, and in its pommel a red cross, with the sign of the crucifix therein. then came to his mind the promise he had made to the old man, and his knightly vows, and with a pious impulse he raised his hand and made the sign of the cross on his forehead, the while his eyes were fixed on the lovely face of the tempter before him. as he did so her smile changed to a look of deadly hate, and the loveliness of her face to a hideous aspect, while in the same moment the pavilion fell as before a great wind, and then vanished in smoke and cloud. over the sea the wind rose and roared, and as he looked he saw the ship battling with heaving waves, while the water seemed to burn behind it. on the deck stood the lady, who cried,-- "sir percivale, you have betrayed me! beware, proud knight, i shall have my revenge." then the ship drove out to sea, and vanished from his sight. but in a passion of remorse percivale snatched up the sword that lay before him, and crying, "since my flesh has been my master i will punish it," he drove the naked blade through his thigh, till the blood spouted out like a fountain. "wretch that i am, how nearly was i lost!" he cried, in a torment of conscience. "fair sweet father, jesus christ my lord, let me not be shamed, as i would now have been but for thy good grace. take this wound in recompense for what i have done against thee, and forgive me my deep transgression, i humbly pray thee." but as he lay moaning and bleeding the wild winds went down and the sea grew smooth, while he saw coming from the orient the ship with the good man, on board, on beholding whom he fell into a swoon. when he awoke he found that his wound had been dressed and the bleeding stopped. beside him sat the good man, who asked him,-- "how hast thou done since i departed?" "weakly and wickedly enough," he answered. "a witch beguiled me, and i nearly fell a victim to her wiles." "knew you her not?" "only that i deem the foul fiend sent her here to shame me." "worse than that, good knight. your victory is greater than you deem. that seeming woman who deceived you was no less an adversary than the master-fiend of hell, who has power over all the lesser devils, and, had you yielded you had been lost forever. for this is the mighty champion against whom you were forwarned; he who was once the brightest angel of heaven, and was driven out by our lord christ for his sins, and thus lost his heritage. but that the grace of god was on your side you would have fallen before this champion of evil. take this, sir percivale, as a warning and an example." with these words the good man vanished away. then the mariners carried the wounded knight on board their ship, and set sail, bearing him rapidly away from that scene of temptation and victory. chapter v. the strange adventures of sir bors. when sir bors parted from his companions, on the quest of the sangreal, not far had he gone when he met a religious man riding on an ass, whom he courteously saluted. "who are you?" asked the good man. "i am one of those knights who have set out in quest of the sangreal," said bors. "i would fain have your counsel in this high duty, for great honor shall come to him who succeeds therein." "that is true," said the good man. "he that wins the sangreal will be counted the best knight and the purest soul among men. none can hope to attain it except through cleanness of spirit." then they rode together till they came to a hermitage. here bors went into the chapel with his companion, and confessed to him, and ate bread and drank water with him. "now," said the good man, "i charge you that you take no other food than bread and water till you sit at the table where the sangreal shall be." "to that i agree. but how know you that i shall ever sit there?" "i know it, let that suffice; but few of your comrades shall have that honor." "all that god sends me will be welcome," said bors. "also, instead of a shirt, and in token of chastisement, you shall wear this garment," and the good man produced a scarlet coat, which bors promised to wear next his skin till the sangreal should be won. then, after further wholesome advice, he resumed his armor and departed. he had gone but a little way from the hermitage when he passed a tree that was little more than an old and leafless trunk, and on one of its boughs he saw a great bird, surrounded by young that were nearly dead with hunger. as, he continued to look at this strange sight, the bird smote itself in the breast with its sharp beak, and bled till it died among its young. then the young birds fed on their mother's blood, and were revived thereby. this to bors seemed full of deep significance, and he pondered deeply upon it as he rode onward. by even-song he found himself near a strong and high tower, where he asked shelter for the night, and was hospitably welcomed. when he had disarmed he was led to a richly furnished apartment, where he found a young and fair lady, who welcomed him gladly to her tower, and invited him to take supper with her. the table was set with rich meats and many dainties, but bors forgot not the hermit's charge, and bade an attendant to bring him water. in this he sopped bread and ate it. "how is this?" asked the lady in surprise. "like you not my meat?" "truly i do, madam; yet i may eat no other food this day." then the lady was silent, for she feared to displease him by questioning. after supper, while they sat talking, a squire came, who said,-- "madam, you know well what is set for to-morrow. you must provide a champion to fight in your quarrel against pridam le noire, or your sister will have this castle and all your lands." "i know that," she said, with a deep sigh. "may god save me from being robbed, for i see no earthly aid." her sorrow touched bors, who asked,-- "what means this, madam?" "sir," she said, "i shall tell you. there was formerly a king named aniause, who owned all these lands. by chance he loved my sister, who is much older than i,--and much wickeder also, i fear. he gave her this land to govern; but she brought into it many evil customs, and caused the death of many of his kinsmen. when the king saw how vilely she governed, he drove her away, and put me over this district. but he is now dead, and she is making war on me, and has destroyed many of my men, and turned others from me, so that i have little left but this tower, and the few men that guard it. even this she now threatens to take from me, unless i can find a knight to fight her champion, who will appear before my gates to-morrow." "is it so?" said bors. "who is this pridam le noire?" "he is the most stalwart knight in this country, and has no equal among us." "madam," said bors, "you have given me shelter; in return i shall aid you as far as i can in your trouble. you may send word that you have found a knight who will fight with this pridam the black, in god's quarrel and yours." "then may god's blessing rest upon you," she cried, gladly. and word was sent out that she had found a champion who would take on himself her quarrel. that evening she did what lay in her power to make bors welcome, and sent him at bedtime to a chamber whose bed was soft as down, and spread with silken coverings. but in no bed would he rest, but laid himself on the floor, as he had vowed to do till he found the sangreal. as he lay there asleep there came to him a vision. he seemed to see two birds, one white as a swan, the other of smaller size, and shaped like a raven, with plumage of inky blackness. the white bird came to him and said, "if thou wilt give me meat and serve me, i shall give thee all the riches of the world, and make thee as fair and white as i am." then the white bird departed, and the black bird came and said, "i beg that you will serve me to-morrow, and hold me in no despite; for this i tell you, that my blackness will avail you more than the other's whiteness." and this bird, too, departed. but his dream continued, and he seemed to come to a great place, that looked like a chapel. here he saw on the left side a chair, which was worm-eaten and feeble. and on the right hand were two flowers of the shape of a lily, and one would have taken the whiteness from the other but that a good man separated them, and would not let them touch. and out of each came many flowers and plentiful fruit. then the good man said, "would not he act with great folly that should let these two flowers perish to succor the rotten tree, and keep it from falling?" "sir," said the dreamer, "it seems to me that the flower is of more value than the wood." "then take heed that you never choose the false for the true." with this bors awoke, and made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and then rose and dressed. when he had come to the lady she saluted him, and led him to a chapel, where they heard the morning service. quickly afterwards there came a company of knights that the lady had sent for, to lead her champion to battle. after he had armed, she begged him to take some strengthening food. "nay, madam," he answered, "that i shall not do till i have fought this battle, in which i ask but god's grace to aid me." this said, he sprang upon his horse, and set out with the knights and men, closely followed by the lady and her train. they soon came to where the other party were encamped, and with them the lady of their choice. "madam," said the lady of the tower, "you have done me great wrong to take from me the lands which king aniause gave me. and i am sorry that there should be any battle." "you shall not choose," said the other, "unless you withdraw your knight and yield the tower." "that i shall not do. you have robbed me enough already." then was the trumpet sounded, and proclamation was made that whichever champion won the battle, the lady for whom he fought should enjoy all the land. this done, the two champions drew aside, and faced each other grimly in their armor of proof. but when the sound for the onset was blown they put spurs to their steeds, which rushed together like two lions, and the knights struck each other with such force that their spears flew to pieces and both fell to the earth. they quickly rose and drew their swords, and hewed at each other like two woodmen, so that soon each was sorely wounded and bleeding profusely. bors quickly found that he had a sturdier antagonist than he expected, for pridam was a strong and hardy fighter, who stood up lustily to his work, and gave his opponent many a sturdy blow. bors, perceiving this, took a new course, and played with his antagonist till he saw that he was growing weary with his hard work. then he advanced upon him fiercely, and drove him step by step backward, till in the end pridam fell. bors now leaped upon him and pulled so strongly upon his helm as to rend it from his head. then he struck him with the flat of his sword upon the cheek, and bade him yield, or he would kill him. "for god's love, slay me not!" cried the knight. "i yield me to thy mercy. i shall swear never to war against thy lady, but be henceforth her friend and protector." with this assurance, bors let him live; while the covetous old lady fled in fear, followed by all her knights. the victorious champion now called to him all those who held lands in that estate, and threatened to destroy them unless they would do the lady such service as belonged to their holdings. this they swore to do, and there and then paid homage to the lady, who thus came to her own again through the mighty prowess of sir bors de ganis. not until the country was well in peace did he take his leave, refusing the offers of wealth which the grateful lady pressed upon him, and receiving her warm thanks with a humility that well became him. hardly would she let him go; but at length he bade her farewell, and rode away from her tears and thanks. on he journeyed for all that day, and till midday of the next, when he found himself in a forest, where a strange adventure befell him. for at the parting of two ways he met two knights who had taken prisoner his brother lionel, whom they had bound all naked upon a hackney, while they beat him with thorns till the blood flowed from every part of his body. yet so great of heart was he that no word came from his lips, and he made no sign of pain. bors, seeing this, was on the point of rushing to his rescue, when he beheld on the other side a knight who held as prisoner a fair lady, whom he was taking into the thickest part of the forest to hide her from those who sought her. and as they went she cried in a lamentable voice,-- "saint mary, rescue me! holy mother, succor your maid!" when she saw bors she cried out to him grievously for aid and rescue. "by the faith you owe to the high order of knighthood, and for the noble king arthur's sake, who i suppose made you knight, help me, gracious sir, and suffer me not to come to shame through this felon knight!" on hearing this appeal the distracted knight knew not what to do. on one side his brother in danger of his life; on the other a maiden in peril of her honor. "if i rescue not my brother he will be slain; and that i would not have for the earth. yet if i help not the maiden, i am recreant to my vows of knighthood, and to my duty to the high order of chivalry." tears ran from his eyes as he stood in cruel perplexity. then, with a knightly resolution, he cried,-- "fair sweet lord jesus, whose liegeman i am, keep lionel my brother that these knights slay him not; since for your service, and for mary's sake, i must succor this maid." then he turned to the knight who had the damsel, and loudly cried,-- "sir knight, take your hands from that maiden and set her free, or you are a dead man." on hearing this the knight released the maiden as bidden, but drew his sword, as he had no spear, and rode fiercely at the rescuer. bors met him with couched spear, and struck him so hard a blow as to pierce his shield and his hauberk on the left shoulder, beating him down to the earth. on pulling out the spear the wounded knight swooned. "you are delivered from this felon. can i help you further?" said bors to the maiden. "i beg you to take me to the place whence he carried me away." "that shall i do as my duty." then he seated her on the knight's horse, and conducted her back towards her home. "you have done nobly, sir knight," she said. "if you had not rescued me, five hundred men might have died for this. the knight you wounded is my cousin, who yesterday stole me away from my father's house, no one mistrusting him. but if you had not overcome him, there would soon have been others on his track." even as she spoke there came a troop of twelve knights riding briskly forward in search of her. when they found her delivered their joy was great, and they thanked bors profusely, begging him to accompany them to her father, who was a great lord, and would welcome him with gladness. "that i cannot do," said bors, "much as i should like to; for i have another matter of high importance before me. i can but say, then, farewell, and god be with you and this fair maiden." so saying, he turned and rode briskly away, followed by their earnest thanks. reaching the point where he had seen lionel in custody, he took the trail of the horses, and followed them far by their hoof-marks in the road. then he overtook a religious man, who was mounted on a strong horse, blacker than a berry. "sir knight," he asked, "what seek you?" "i seek my brother," he replied, "who came this way beaten by two knights." "then seek no further, but be strong of heart, for i have sad tidings for you. your brother is dead." he then led bors to a clump of bushes, in which lay a newly slain body, which seemed to be that of lionel. seeing this, bors broke into such grief that he fell to the earth in a swoon, and long lay there. when he recovered he said, sadly,-- "dear brother, i would have rescued you had not a higher duty called me. but since we are thus parted, joy shall never again enter my desolate heart. i can now but say, be he whom i have taken for my master my help and comfort." thus grieving, he took up the body in his arms, and put it upon his saddle-bow. then he said to his companion,-- "can you tell me of some chapel, where i may bury this body?" "come with me. there is one near by." [illustration: an old and half-ruined chapel.] they rode forward till they came in sight of a tower, beside which was an old and half-ruined chapel. here they alighted, and placed the corpse in a tomb of marble. "we will leave him here," said the good man, "and seek shelter for the night. to-morrow we will return and perform the services for the dead." "are you a priest?" asked bors. "yes," he answered. "then you may be able to interpret a dream that came to me last night." thereupon he told his dream of the birds, and that of the flowers. "i can interpret the vision of the birds now," said the priest. "the rest must wait till later. the white bird is the emblem of a rich and fair lady, who loves you deeply, and will die for love if you pity her not. i counsel you, therefore, not to refuse her, for this i shall tell you, that if you return not her love, your cousin lancelot, the best of knights, shall die. men will call you a man-slayer, both of your brother lionel and your cousin lancelot, since you might have saved them both easily if you would. you rescued a maiden who was naught to you, and let your brother perish. which, think you, was your greater duty?" "i did what i thought my duty," said bors. "at any rate, bear this in mind, you will be in sad fault if you suffer your cousin lancelot to die for an idle scruple." "i should be sad, indeed," said bors. "rather would i die ten times over than see my cousin lancelot perish through fault of mine." "the choice lies in your hand," said the priest. "it is for you to decide." as he spoke they came in front of a fair-showing tower and manor-house, where were knights and ladies, who welcomed bors warmly. when he was disarmed there was brought him a mantle furred with ermine. then he was led to the company of knights and ladies, who received him so gladly, and did so much to make his stay pleasant, that all thoughts of his brother lionel and of the danger of lancelot were driven from his mind. as they stood in gay converse there came out of a chamber a lady whom bors had not before seen, and whose beauty was such that he felt he had never beheld so lovely a face, while her dress was richer than queen guenever had ever worn. "here, sir bors," said those present, "is the lady to whom we all owe service. richer and fairer lady the world holds not, and she loves you above all other knights, and will have no knight but you." on hearing this, bors stood abashed. this, then, he thought, was the white bird of his dream. her love he must return or lose lancelot,--so fate had spoken. as he stood deeply thinking, the lady came up and saluted him, taking his hand in hers, and bidding him sit beside her, while her deep eyes rested upon him with looks that made his soul tremble. never had he gazed into such eyes before. then she spoke of many things, luring him into pleasant conversation, in which he forgot his fears, and began to take delight in her presence. at the end she told him how deeply and how long she had loved him, and begged him to return her love, saying that she could make him richer than ever was man of his age. these words brought back all his trouble of soul. how to answer the lady he knew not, for his vow of chastity was too deep to be lightly broken. "alas!" she said, "must i plead for your love in vain?" "madam," said bors, "i cannot think of earthly ties and delights while my brother lies dead, and awaits the rites of the church." "i have loved you long," she repeated, "both for your beauty of body and soul, and the high renown you have achieved. now that chance has brought you to my home, think not ill of me if i let you not go without telling my love, and beseeching you to return it." "that i cannot do," said bors. at these words she fell into the deepest sorrow, while tears flowed from her beautiful eyes. "you will kill me by your coldness," she bewailed. then she took him by the hand and bade him look upon her. "am i not fair and lovely, and worthy the love of the best of knights? alas! since you will not love me, you shall see me die of despair before your eyes." "that i do not fear to see," he replied. "you shall see it within this hour," she said, sadly. then she left him, and, taking with her twelve of her ladies, mounted to the highest battlement of the tower, while bors was led to the court-yard below. "ah, sir bors, gentle knight, have pity on us!" cried one of the ladies. "we shall all die if you are cruel to our lady, for she vows that she and all of us shall fall from this tower if you disdain her proffered love." bors looked up, and his heart melted with pity, to see so many fair faces looking beseechingly down upon him, while tears seemed to rain from their eyes. yet he was steadfast of heart, for he felt that he could not lose his soul to save their lives, and his vow of chastity in the quest of the sangreal was not to be broken for the delights of earthly love. as he stood, some of the maidens flung themselves from the tower, and lay dead and bleeding at his feet, while above he saw the fair face of the lady looking down, as she stood balanced on the battlement, like a fair leaf that the next wind would sweep to certain death. "god help me and guide me!" cried bors in horror. "what shall i do? here earthly endurance is too weak; i must put my trust in heaven." and he made the sign of the cross on his forehead and his breast. then came a marvel indeed. a roar was heard as if thunder had rent the sky, and a cry as if all the fiends of hell were about him. for the moment he closed his eyes, stunned by the uproar. when he opened them again all had gone,--the tower, the lady, the knights, and the chapel where he had placed his brother's body,--and he stood in the road, armed and mounted, while only a broad, empty plain spread before him. then he held up his hands to heaven and cried fervently: "father and creator, from what have i escaped! it is the foul fiend in the likeness of a beautiful woman who has tempted me. only the sign of the holy cross has saved me from perdition." putting spurs to his horse he rode furiously away, burning with anxiety to get from that accursed place, and deeply glad at his escape. as he proceeded a loud clock-bell sounded to the right, and turning thither he came to a high wall, over which he saw the pinnacles of an abbey. here he asked shelter for the night, and was received with a warm welcome, for those within deemed he was one of the knights that sought the sangreal. when morning came he heard mass, and then the abbot came and bade him good-morning. a conversation followed, in which he told the abbot all that had happened to him, and begged his interpretation thereof. "truly you are strong in the service of the lord," said the abbot, "and are held for great deeds. thus i interpret your adventures and visions. the great fowl that fed its young with its own blood is an emblem of christ, who shed his blood for the good of mankind. and the bare tree on which it sat signifies the world, which of itself is barren and without fruit. also king aniause betokens jesus christ, and the lady for whom you took the battle the new law of holy church; while the older lady is the emblem of the old law and the fiend, which forever war against the church. "by the black bird also was emblemed the holy church, which saith, 'i am black but he is fair.' the white bird represented the fiend, which, like hypocrisy, is white without and foul within. as for the rotten chair and the white lilies, the first was thy brother lionel, who is a murderer and an untrue knight; while the lilies were the knight and the lady. the one drew near to the other to dishonor her, but you forced them to part. and you would have been in great peril had you, for the rescue of a rotten tree, suffered those two flowers to perish; for if they had sinned together they had both been damned. "the seeming man of religion, who blamed you for leaving your brother to rescue a lady, was the foul fiend himself. your brother was not slain, as he made it appear, but is still alive. for the corpse, and the chapel, and the tower were all devices of the evil one, and the lady who offered her love was the fiend himself in that showing. he knew you were tender-hearted, and he did all. much you may thank god that you withstood his temptation, and that until now you have come through all your adventures pure and unblemished." this gladdened the heart of the virtuous knight, and a warm hope of winning the sangreal arose in his soul. much more passed between them, and when bors rode forth it was with the fervent blessing of the holy abbot. on the morning of the second day bors saw before him a castle that rose in a green valley, and met with a yeoman, whom he stopped and asked what was going on in that country. "sir knight," he answered, "there is to be held a great tournament before that castle." "by what people?" asked bors. "the earl of plains," was the answer, "leads one party, and the nephew of the lady of hervin the other." with this the yeoman rode on, and bors kept on his course, thinking he might meet lionel or some other of his old comrades at the tournament. at length he turned aside to a hermitage that stood at the entrance to the forest. and to his surprise and joy he saw his brother lionel sitting armed at the chapel door, waiting there to take part in the tournament the next morning. springing from his horse, bors ran up gladly, crying, "dear brother, happy is this meeting!" "come not near me!" cried lionel, leaping to his feet in a burst of fury. "false recreant, you left me in peril of death to help a yelping woman, and by my knightly vow you shall pay dearly for it. keep from me, traitor, and defend yourself. you or i shall die for this." on seeing his brother in such wrath bors kneeled beseechingly before him, holding up his hands, and praying for pardon and forgiveness. "never!" said lionel. "i vow to god to punish you for your treachery. you have lived long enough for a dog and traitor." then he strode wrathfully away, and came back soon, mounted and with spear in hand. "bors de ganis," he cried, "defend yourself, for i hold you as a felon and traitor, and the untruest knight that ever came from so worthy a house as ours. mount and fight. if you will not, i will run on you as you stand there on foot. the shame shall be mine and the harm yours; but of that shame i reck naught." when bors saw that he must fight with his brother or die he knew not what to do. again he kneeled and begged forgiveness, in view of the love that ought to be between brothers. but the fiend that sought his overthrow had put such fury into lionel's heart that nothing could turn him from his wrathful purpose. and when he saw that bors would not mount, he spurred his horse upon him and rode over him, hurting him so with his horse's hoofs that he swooned with the pain. then lionel sprang from his horse and rushed upon him sword in hand to strike off his head. at this critical moment the hermit, who was a man of great age, came running out, and threw himself protectingly on the fallen knight. "gentle sir," he cried to lionel, "have mercy on me and on thy brother, who is one of the worthiest knights in the world. if you slay him, you will lose your soul." "sir priest," said lionel, sternly, "if you leave not i shall slay you, and him after you." "slay me if you will, but spare your brother, for my death would not do half so much harm as his." "have it, then, meddler, if you will!" cried lionel, and he struck the hermit a blow with his sword that stretched him dead on the ground. then, with unquenched anger, he tore loose the lacings of his brother's helmet, and would have killed him on the spot but for a fortunate chance. as it happened, colgrevance, a fellow of the round table, rode up at that moment, and wondered when he saw the hermit dead, and lionel about to slay his brother, whom he greatly loved. leaping hastily to the ground, he caught the furious knight by the shoulders and drew him strongly backward. "what would you do?" he cried. "madman, would you kill your brother, the worthiest knight of our brotherhood? and are you so lost to honor as to slay any knight thus lying insensible?" "will you hinder me?" asked lionel, turning in rage. "back, sirrah, or i shall slay you first and him afterwards." "why seek you to slay him?" "he has richly deserved it, and die he shall, whoever says the contrary." then he ran upon bors and raised his sword to strike him on the head. but colgrevance pushed between them and thrust him fiercely backward. "off, you murderer!" he cried. "if you are so hot for blood you must have mine first." "who are you?" demanded lionel. "i am colgrevance, one of your fellows. round table knights should be brothers, not foes, but i would challenge king arthur himself in this quarrel." "defend yourself, meddler," cried lionel, rushing upon him and striking him fiercely on the helm with his sword. "that shall i," rejoined colgrevance, attacking him in turn. then a hot battle began, for colgrevance was a good knight, and defended himself manfully. while the fight went on bors recovered his senses, and saw with a sad heart colgrevance defending him against his brother. he strove to rise and part them, but his hurts were such that he could not stand on his feet. and thus he sat watching the combat till he saw that colgrevance had the worst, for lionel had wounded him sorely, and he had lost so much blood that he could barely stand. at this juncture he saw bors, who sat watching them in deep anguish. "bors," he cried, "i am fighting to succor you. will you sit there and see me perish?" "you both shall die," cried lionel, furiously. "you shall pay the penalty of your meddling, and he of his treason." hearing this, bors rose with aching limbs, and painfully put on his helm. colgrevance again called to him in anguish,-- "help me, bors! i can stand no longer. will you let me die without lifting your hand?" at this moment lionel smote the helm from his head, and then with another fierce blow stretched him dead and bleeding upon the earth. this murderous deed done, he ran on bors with the passion of a fiend, and dealt him a blow that made him stoop. "for god's love leave me!" cried bors. "if i slay you or you me, we will both be dead of that sin." "may god never help me if i take mercy on you, if i have the better hand," cried lionel, in reply. then bors drew his sword, though his eyes were wet with tears. "fair brother," he said, "god knows my heart. you have done evil enough this day, in slaying a holy priest and one of our own brotherhood of knights. i fear you not, but i dread the wrath of god, for this is an unnatural battle which you force upon me. may god have mercy upon me, since i must defend my life against my brother." saying this, bors raised his sword and advanced upon lionel, who stood before him with the wrath of a fury. then would have been a most unholy battle, had not god come to the rescue. for as they thus stood defiant a voice came to them from the air, which said,-- "flee, bors, and touch him not, for if you do, you will surely slay him." and between them descended a cloud that gleamed like fire, and from which issued a marvellous flame that burned both their shields to a cinder. they were both so affrighted that they fell to the earth, and lay there long in a swoon. when they came to themselves bors saw that his brother had received no harm. for this he thanked god, for he feared that heaven's vengeance had fallen upon him. then came the voice again. "bors," it said, "go hence, and bear thy brother company no longer. take thy way to the sea where percivale awaiteth thee." "forgive me, brother," said bors, "for what i have done against you." "god has forgiven you, and i must," said lionel. "it was the foul fiend that filled my soul with fury, and much harm has come of it." then bors rode away, leaving lionel in the company of those whom he had slain, and took the most direct road towards the sea. at length he came to an abbey that was near the water-side. and at midnight as he rested there he was roused from his sleep by a voice, that bade him leave his bed and ride onward. he started up at this, and made the sign of the cross on his forehead; then took his harness and horse, and rode out at a broken place in the abbey wall. an hour or so brought him to the water-side, and on the strand there lay awaiting him a ship all covered with white samite. bors alighted, and leaving his horse on the stand entered the ship, commending himself to christ's fostering care. hardly had he done so before the sails spread, as of themselves, and the vessel set out to sea so fast that it seemed to fly. but it was still dark night, and he saw no one about him. so he lay down and slept till day. when he awaked he saw a knight lying in the middle of the deck, all armed but the helm. a glance told him that it was percivale de galis, and he sprang towards him with joy. but percivale drew back, asking him who he was. "know you me not?" asked bors. "i do not. but i marvel how you came hither, unless brought by our lord himself." then bors took off his helm and smiled. great was percivale's joy when he recognized him, and long did they converse in gladness, telling each other their adventures and temptations. and so they went far over the sea, the ship taking them they knew not whither, yet each comforted the other, and daily they prayed for god's grace. "now, that we two are together," said percivale, "we lack nothing but galahad, the best of knights." chapter vi. the adventure of the magic ship. after galahad had rescued percivale from the twenty knights, he rode into a vast forest, through which he journeyed for many days, meeting there many strange adventures. then fortune took him past a castle where a tournament was in progress, and where the men of the castle had so much the worse of it that they were driven back to their gates, and some of them slain. seeing this, galahad rode to the aid of the weaker party, and did marvellous deeds of arms, soon aiding them to drive back their foes. as it happened, gawaine and hector de maris were with the outer party, and when they beheld the white shield with the red cross, they said to one another,-- "that hewer of helms and shields is galahad, none less. we should be fools to meet him face to face." yet gawaine did not escape, for galahad came at full career upon him, and gave him such a blow that his helm was cleft, and so would his head have been but that the sword slanted, and cut the shoulder of his horse deeply. seeing gawaine thus dealt with, hector drew back, not deeming it wise to meet such a champion, nor the part of nature to fight with his nephew. galahad continued his onset till he had beaten down all the knights opposed to him. then, seeing that none would face him, he turned and rode away as he had come, none knowing whither he, who had come upon them with the suddenness of a thunder-clap, had gone. "lancelot du lake told no less than the truth," declared gawaine, bitterly, "when he said that, for seeking to draw the sword from the stone, i would get a sore wound from that same blade. in faith, i would not for the best castle in the world have had such a buffet." "your quest is done, it seems," said hector. "as for that, it was done before. you can still seek the sangreal if you will, but i shall seek my bed; and i fear i shall stay there much longer than i care to." then he was borne into the castle, where a leech was found for him, while hector remained with him, vowing he would not leave till his comrade was well. meanwhile galahad rode on, leaving many a groan and more than one sore head behind him, and at night reached a hermitage near the castle of carbonek. here he was welcomed by the hermit; but late at night, when they were asleep, a loud knock came on the door, which roused the host. going to see who knocked at that untimely hour, he found a lady at the door, who said,-- "ulfin, rouse the knight who is with you. i must speak with him." this he did, and galahad went to the door, and asked her what she wished. "galahad," she replied, "i am sent here to seek you. you must arm and mount your horse at once, and follow me. within three days i shall bring you to the greatest adventure that ever knight met." without further question galahad obeyed, and, having commended himself to god, he bade his fair guide to lead, and he would follow wherever she wished. onward they rode during the remainder of the night and the next day, till they came to a castle not far from the sea, where galahad was warmly welcomed, for the damsel who guided him had been sent by the lady of that castle. "madam," said the damsel, "shall he stay here all night?" "no," she replied; "only until he has dined, and has slept a little. he must ride on until destiny is accomplished." so at early nightfall galahad was called and helped to arm by torchlight. then he and the damsel again took horse, and rode on at speed till they suddenly found themselves at the ocean's brink, with the waves breaking at their feet. and here lay a ship covered with white samite, from which manly voices cried,-- "welcome, sir galahad. we have long awaited you. come on board." "what means this?" asked galahad of the damsel. "who are they that call?" "no others than your friends and comrades, sir bors and sir percivale. here you must leave your horse, and i mine, and both of us enter the ship, for so god commands." this they did, taking their saddles and bridles with them, and making on them the sign of the cross. when they had entered the ship the two knights received them with great joy. and as they stood greeting each other the wind suddenly rose and drove the ship from the land, forcing it through the waves at a marvellous speed. "whence comes this ship?" asked galahad. then bors and percivale told him of their adventures and temptations, and by what miracles they had been brought on board that vessel. "truly," said galahad, "god has aided you marvellously. as for me, had it not been for the lady who led me, i should never have found you." "if lancelot, your father, were but here," said bors, "then it would seem to me that we had all that heart could wish." "that may not be," answered galahad, "unless by the pleasure of our lord." as they conversed the ship suddenly ran between two rocks, where it held fast, but where they could not land for the raging of the sea. but just before them lay another ship, which they could reach without danger. [illustration: copyright by e. a. abbey; from a copely print copyright by curtis and cameron. the magic ship.] "thither we must go," said the lady, "and there we shall find strange things, for such is the lord's will." at this they approached the ship, and saw that it was richly provided, but without man or woman on board. and on its bow there was written in large letters,-- "you who shall enter this ship, take heed of your belief: for i am faith, and bid you beware. if you fail i shall not help you. he who enters here must be of pure heart and earnest trust." they stood looking earnestly at one another after having read these words. "percivale," said the lady, "know you who i am?" "i do not," he replied. "have i ever seen you before?" "know, then, that i am your sister, the daughter of king pellinore. i love no man on earth as i do you. i warn you, therefore, not to enter this ship unless you have perfect belief in our lord jesus christ, for if your faith fails you aught here you shall perish." "fair sister," he replied, "happy am i, indeed, to know you. as for the ship, i shall not fail to enter it. if i prove an untrue knight or a misbeliever, then let me perish." as they spoke, galahad blessed himself and entered the ship, and after him came the lady, and then bors and percivale. on reaching the deck they found it so marvellously fair and rich that they stood in wonder. in the midst of the ship was a noble bed; and when galahad went thither he found on it a crown of silk. below this lay a sword, half drawn from its scabbard, the pommel being of stone of many colors. the scales of the haft were of the ribs of two beasts. one beast was a serpent, known in calidone as the serpent of the fiend; and its bone had the magic virtue that the hand which touched it should never be weary or hurt. the other beast was a fish, that haunted the flood of euphrates, its name ertanax; its bone had the virtue that he who handled it should not think on the joys and sorrows of his past life, but only of that which he then beheld. and no man could grasp this sword but the one who passed all others in might and virtue. "in the name of god," said percivale, "i shall seek to handle it." but in vain he tried, he could not grasp the magic hilt. no more could bors, who attempted it in his turn. then galahad approached, and as he did so saw written on the sword in letters like blood, "he who draweth me has peril to endure. his body shall meet with shame, for he shall be wounded to the death." "by my faith, the risk is too great," said galahad. "i shall not set my hand to so fatal a blade." "that you must," said the lady. "the drawing of this sword is forbidden to all men, save you. no one can draw back from that which destiny commands." then she told a marvellous story of that strange blade. "when this ship arrived in the realm of england," she said, "there was deadly war between king labor and king hurlame, who was a christened saracen. here they fought one day by the sea-side, and hurlame was defeated and his men slain. then he fled into this ship, drew the sword which he saw here, and with one stroke smote king labor and his horse in twain. but a fatal stroke it proved, for with it there came harm and pestilence to all this realm. neither corn nor grass would grow, fruit failed to ripen, the waters held no fish, and men named this the waste land of the two marches. nor did king hurlame escape. when he saw the strange carving of the sword, a craving came into his mind to possess the scabbard. entering the ship for that purpose, he thrust the sword into the sheath; but no sooner had he done so than he fell dead beside the bed. and there his body lay till a maiden entered the ship and cast it out, for no man could be found hardy enough to set foot on that fatal deck." the three knights on hearing this looked earnestly at the scabbard, which seemed to them made of serpent's skin, while on it was writing in letters of gold and silver. but the girdle was poor and mean, and ill suited to so rich a sword. the writing was to this effect: "he who shall wield me must be hardy of nature. nor shall he ever be shamed while he is girt with this girdle; which must never be put away except by the hands of a maiden and a king's daughter. and she, if she shall ever cease to be a maid, shall die the most villanous death that woman ever endured." "turn the sword," said percivale, "that we may see what is on the other side." on doing so they found it red as blood, with coal-black letters, which said: "he that shall praise me most shall find me most to fail him in time of great need; and to whom i should be most fair shall i prove most foul. thus is it ordained." then percivale's sister told them the history of the sword, which was a very strange and admirable thing to hear. more than once had it been drawn in modern times; once by nancien, who afterwards became a hermit, and in whose hands the sword fell in half, and sorely wounded him in the foot. afterwards it was drawn by king pellam, and it was for this boldness that he was destined to be deeply wounded by the spear with which balin afterwards struck him. the knights now observed the bed more closely, and saw that above its head there hung two swords. with them were three strange spindles, one of which was white as snow, one red as blood, and one as green as emerald. as they gazed at them with curious wonder, the damsel told a strange story of the surprising things they had gazed upon. and thus her story ran. when mother eve gathered the fruit for which adam and she were put out of paradise, she took with her the bough on which the apple grew. as it kept fair and green, and she had no coffer in which to keep it, she thrust it in the earth, where, by god's will, it took root, and soon grew to a great tree, whose branches and leaves were as white as milk. but afterwards, at the time of abel's birth, it became grass-green. it was under this tree that cain slew abel, and then it quickly lost its green color, and grew red as blood. so it lived and thrived, and was in full life when solomon, the wise king, came to the throne. it came to pass that, as solomon studied over many things, and, above all, despised women in his heart and in his writings, a voice came which told him that of his line would be born the virgin mary, the purest and noblest of human kind, and that afterwards would come a man, the last of his blood, as pure in mind as a young maiden, and as good a knight as joshua of israel. this revelation he told to his wife, who had questioned him as to the reason of his deep study. "sir," she said, "since this knight is to come, it is our duty to prepare for him. therefore, i shall first have made a ship of the best and most durable wood that man may find." this was done by solomon's command. when the ship was built and ready to sail, she made a covering for it of cloth of silk, of such quality that no weather could rot it. and in the midst she placed a great bed, of marvellously rich workmanship, and covered with silk of the finest texture. "now, my dear lord," she said to solomon, "since this last knight of your lineage is to pass in valor and renown all other knights that have been before or shall come after him, therefore i counsel you to go into the temple of the lord, where is the sword of the great king david, your father, which is of magic temper and virtue. take off the pommel of this sword and make one of precious stones, skilfully wrought. and make a hilt and sheath of great richness and beauty. as for the girdle, leave that to me to provide." solomon did as she advised, and she took the sword and laid it in the bed; but when he looked at it he grew angry, for the girdle was meanly made of hemp. "i have nothing," she said, "fit to make a girdle worthy of such a sword. but when the time comes a maiden will change this for a girdle worthy of him that is to wear it." this done, she went with a carpenter to the tree under which abel was slain. "carve me from this tree as much wood as will make me a spindle," she said. "ah, madam," said he, "i dare not cut the tree which our first mother planted." "do as you are bidden," she ordered. "dare not disobey me." but as he began to cut the tree drops of blood flowed out. then he would have fled, but she made him cut sufficient to form a spindle. next she went to the green and the white trees, which had grown from the roots of the other, and bade him cut as much from each of these. from this wood were three spindles wrought, which she hung up at the head of the bed. "you have done marvellously well," said solomon, on seeing this. "wonderful things, i deem, shall come of all this, more than you yourself dream of." "some of these things you shall soon know," she answered. that night solomon lay near the ship, and as he slept he dreamed. there came from heaven, as it seemed to him, a great company of angels, who alighted in the ship, and took water that was brought by an angel in a vessel of silver, and sprinkled it everywhere. then the angel came to the sword and drew letters on the hilt, and on the ship's bow he wrote, "you who shall enter this ship take heed of your belief," and further as the knights had read. when solomon had read these words he drew back, and dared not enter, and there soon arose a wind which drove the ship far to sea, so that it was quickly lost to sight. then a low voice said, "solomon, the last knight of thy lineage shall rest in this bed." with this solomon waked, and lo! the ship was gone. this was the story that the fair damsel, percivale's sister, told to the knights, as they stood curiously surveying the bed and the spindles. then one of them lifted a cloth that lay on the deck, and under it found a purse, in which was a written paper, telling the same strange story they had just heard. "the sword is here," said galahad; "but where shall be found the maiden who is to make the new girdle?" "you need not seek far," said percivale's sister. "by god's leave, i have been chosen to make that girdle, and have it here." then she opened a box which she had brought with her, and took from it a girdle that was richly wrought with golden threads and studded with precious stones, while its buckle was of polished gold. "lo, lords and knights," she said, "here is the destined girdle. the greater part of it was made of my hair, which i loved dearly when i was a woman of the world. when i knew that i was set aside for this high purpose, i cut off my hair and wrought this girdle in god's name." "well have you done!" cried bors. "without you we would have learned nothing of this high emprise." then the noble maiden removed the mean girdle from the sword, and put upon it the rich one she had brought, which became it wonderfully. "by what name shall we call this sword?" they now asked her. "its name is," she answered, "the sword with the strange girdle; and that of the sheath is, mover of blood. but no man with blood in him shall ever see the part of the sheath that was made of the tree of life." then she took the sword and girded it about galahad, fastening the golden buckle about his waist. "now reck i not though i die," she said, "for i hold that i am one of the world's blessed maidens, since it has been given to me to arm the worthiest knight in the world." after this they left the magic ship at her bidding, and entered the one in which they had come. and immediately there rose a great wind which blew their vessel from between the rocks, and carried it afar over the sea. chapter vii. how lancelot saw the sangreal. the ship that bore the three knights and the maiden came ashore at length near a castle in scotland, where they landed. from here they journeyed far, while many were their adventures, all of which tried their virtue and belonged to the quest of the sangreal. in them all the sword with the strange girdle proved of such marvellous worth that no men, were they a hundred in number, could stand before it. finally they came to a castle which had the strange custom that every maiden who passed that way should yield a dish full of blood. when they asked the reason of this dreadful custom, they were told,-- "there is in this castle a lady to whom the domain belongs, and who has lain for years sick of a malady which no leech can cure. and a wise man has said that she can only be cured if she have a dish full of blood from a pure virgin and a king's daughter, with which to anoint her." "fair knights," said percivale's sister, "i alone can aid the sick lady, who must die otherwise." "if you bleed as they demand, you may die," said galahad. "is not your life worth more than hers?" "this i answer," said she. "if i yield not my blood there will be mortal war between you and the knights of the castle to-morrow, and many men must die that one woman may not bleed. if i die to heal the sick lady i shall gain renown and do god's will, and surely one harm is better than many. that you will fight for me to the death, i know, but wherefore should you?" say what they would, she held to her will, and the next morning bade the people of the castle bring forth the sick lady. she lay in great pain and suffering, and bent her eyes pleadingly on the devoted maiden. then percivale's sister bared her arm, and bade them bleed her. this they did till a silver dish was filled with her life blood. then she blessed the lady, and said,-- "madam, i have given my life for yours; for god's love, pray for me!" and she fell in a swoon. galahad and his fellows hastened to stanch the blood, but it was too late, her life was ebbing fast. "fair brother percivale," she said, "death is upon me. but before i die i have this to tell you. it is written that i shall not be buried in this country. when i am dead, seek you the sea-shore near by, and put my body in a boat, and let it go where fortune bears it. but when you three arrive at the city of sarras, in palestine, which you will in god's good time, you shall find me arrived there before you. there bury me in consecrated soil. this further i may say, that there the holy grail shall be achieved, and there shall galahad die and be buried in the same place." and as they stood there weeping beside her a voice came to them, saying,-- "lords and comrades, to-morrow at sunrise you three must depart, each taking his own way, and you shall not meet again till adventure bring you to the maimed king." after that all was done as had been foreseen and desired. the maiden died, and the same day the sick lady was healed, through the virtue of her blood. then percivale wrote a letter telling who she was and what things she had done. this he put in her right hand, and laid her body in a vessel that was covered with black silk. the wind now arose and drove it far from the land, while all stood watching it till it was out of sight. then they returned towards the castle. but suddenly a tempest of wind, thunder, and rain broke from the sky, so furious that the very earth seemed to be torn up. and as they looked they saw the turrets of the castle and part of its walls totter and fall, and in a moment come crashing in ruin to the earth. that night they slept in a chapel, and in the morning rode to the castle, to see how it had fared in the storm. but when they reached it they found it in ruins, while of all that had dwelt there not one was left alive. all of them, man and woman alike, had fallen victims to the vengeance of god. and they heard a voice that said,-- "this vengeance is for the shedding of maidens' blood." but at the end of the chapel was a church-yard in which were threescore tombs, over which it seemed no tempest had passed. and in these lay all the maidens who had shed their blood and died martyrs for the sick lady's sake. on these were their names and lineage, and all were of royal blood, and twelve of them kings' daughters. the knights turned away, marvelling much at what they had seen and heard. "here we must part," said galahad. "let us pray that we may soon meet again." then they kissed each other, and wept at the parting, and each rode his own way into the forest before them. but we must now leave them and return to lancelot, whom we left sorely repentant of his sins. after he departed from the hermitage he rode through many lands and had divers adventures, and in the end came to the sea-shore, beside which he lay down and slept. in his slumber, words came to his ear, saying, "lancelot, rise and take thine armor, and enter into the first ship that thou shalt find." on hearing these words he started up, and saw that all about him was strangely clear, the skies giving out a light like that of midday. then he blessed himself, and took his arms, and advanced to the strand, where he saw a ship without sails or oars. this he entered, as he had been bidden, and when he was within it his heart was filled with such joy as he had never before known. naught had he ever thought of or desired but what seemed come to him now, and in his gladness he returned thanks fervently to the lord. "i know not what has happened to me," he said, "but such joy as i feel i never dreamed the human heart could hold." then he lay down and slept on the ship's deck, and when he woke the night had passed and it was broad day. and in the ship he found a bed, whereon lay a dead lady, with a letter in her right hand which lancelot read. from this he learned that the fair corpse was that of percivale's sister, together with many of the strange things that had happened to her and the chosen knights. for a month or more lancelot abode in this ship, driven about the seas, and sustained by no food, but by the grace of the holy ghost, for he prayed fervently for god's aid night and morning. at length came a night when the ship touched the shore. here he landed, being somewhat weary of the deck. and as he stood on the strand he heard a horse approach, and soon one rode by that seemed a knight. when he came to the ship he checked his horse and alighted. then, taking the saddle and bridle from the horse, he turned it free and entered the ship. lancelot, in surprise, drew near. "fair knight," he said, "i know not who you are or why you come. but since you seek passage on my ship you are welcome." the other saluted him in turn, and asked,-- "what is your name? i pray you, tell me, for my heart warms strangely towards you." "my name is lancelot du lake." "then are we well met indeed. you are my father." "ah! then you are galahad?" "yes, truly," and as he spoke he took off his helm, and kneeled, and asked his blessing. joyful indeed was that meeting, and gladly there father and son communed, telling each other all that had happened to them since they left the court. when galahad saw the dead maiden he knew her well, and told his father the story of the sword, at which he marvelled greatly. "truly, galahad," he said, "i never heard of aught so strange, and can well believe you were born for wondrous deeds." afterwards for nearly half a year the father and son dwelt together within that ship, serving god day and night with prayer and praise. now they touched on peopled shores, and now on desert islands where only wild beasts abode, and perilous and strange adventures they met. but these we shall not tell, since they had naught to do with the sangreal. but at length came a monday morning when the ship touched shore at the edge of a forest, before a cross, where they saw a knight armed all in white, and leading a white horse. he saluted them courteously, and said,-- "galahad, you have been long enough with your father. you must now leave the ship, and take this horse, and ride whither destiny shall lead you in the quest of the sangreal." hearing this command, galahad kissed his father, and bade him farewell, saying,-- "dear father, i know not if we shall ever meet again." "then i bid you," said lancelot, "to pray to the great father that he hold me in his service." there came in answer a mysterious voice that spoke these words,-- "think each to do well; for you shall never see each other till the dreadful day of doom." this voice of destiny affected them greatly, and they bade each other a tearful farewell, lancelot begging again the prayers of his son in his behalf. then galahad mounted the white horse and rode into the forest, while a wind arose which blew the ship from shore, and for a month drove it up and down the seas. but at length came a night when it touched shore on the rear side of a fair and stately castle. brightly shone the moon, and lancelot saw an open postern in which stood on guard two great lions. as he looked he heard a voice. "lancelot," it said, "leave this ship and enter the castle. there shalt thou see a part of that which thou desirest." lancelot at this armed himself and went to the gate, where the lions rose rampant against him. with an instinct of fear he drew his sword, but at that instant appeared a dwarf, who struck him on the arm so sharply that the sword fell from his hand. "oh, man of evil hope and weak belief," came the mysterious voice, "trust you more in your armor than in your maker? does he who brought you here need a sword for your protection?" "truly am i reproved," said lancelot. "happy am i to be held the lord's ward and servant." he took up his sword and put it in the sheath, then made a cross on his forehead, and advanced to the lions, which raged and showed their teeth as if ready to rend him in pieces. yet with a bold step and tranquil mien he passed between them unhurt, and entered the castle. through it he went, room by room, passage by passage, for every door stood wide and no living being met him as he advanced. finally he came to a chamber whose door was closed, and which yielded not to his hand when he sought to open it. he tried again with all his force, but the door resisted his strength. then he listened, and heard a voice that sang more sweetly than he had ever heard. and the words seemed to him to be, "joy and honor be to the father of heaven!" lancelot no longer sought to open the door, but kneeled before it, feeling in his heart that the sangreal was within that chamber. "sweet father jesus," he prayed, "if ever i did aught in thy service, in pity forgive me my sins, and show me something of that which i seek." as he prayed the door opened without hands, and from the room came a light brighter than if all the torches of the world had been there. he rose in joy to enter, but the voice spoke sternly in his ear,-- "forbear, lancelot, and seek not to enter here. if you enter, you shall repent it dearly." then he drew back hastily, and looked into the chamber, where he saw a table of silver, on which was the holy vessel covered with red samite, with angels about it, one of which held a burning candle of wax, and one a cross. and before the holy vessel stood a priest, who seemed to be serving the mass. in front of the priest appeared to be three men, two of whom put the youngest between the priest's hands, who held him up high as if to show him. yet so heavy seemed the figure that the priest appeared ready to fall with weakness, and with a sudden impulse lancelot rushed into the room, crying, "fair lord jesus, hold it no sin that i help the good man, who seems in utmost need." but as he rashly entered and came towards the table of silver, a breath that seemed half fire smote him so hotly in the face that he fell heavily to the earth, and lay like one bereft of all his senses. then many hands seemed to take him up, and bear him without the door, where he lay to all seeming dead. when morning dawned he was found there by the people of the castle, who marvelled how he got there, and could not be sure if he were dead or alive. but they laid him in a bed, and watched him closely, for days passed without signs of life or death. at length, on the twenty-fifth day, he gave a deep sigh, and opened his eyes, and gazed in wonder on the people about him. "why have you wakened me?" he cried. "why left you me not to my blessed visions?" "what have you seen?" they asked, eagerly. "such marvels as no tongue can tell nor ear understand," he said. "and more had i seen but that my son was here before me. for god's love, gentlemen, tell me where i am." "sir, you are in the castle of carbonek." "i thank god of his great mercy for what i have seen," he said. "now may i leave the quest of the sangreal, for more of it shall i never see, and few men living shall see so much." these words said, he arose and dressed in new clothing that they brought him, and stood in his old strength and beauty before the people. "sir lancelot!" they cried, "is it you?" "truly so," he answered. then word was brought to king pellam, the maimed king, who now dwelt in that castle, that the knight who had lain so long between death and life was lancelot. glad was the king to hear this, and he bade them bring lancelot to him. "long has my daughter elaine been dead," he said. "but happy she lived in having been loved by you, and in the grace of her noble son galahad." "i was but cold to her," answered lancelot, "for she was a lovable lady. but in truth i have been held from love and life's delights, for my fate has not been my own to control." for four days he abode at the castle, and then took his armor and horse, saying that now his quest of the sangreal was done, and duty bade him return to camelot. back through many realms he rode, and in time came to the abbey where galahad had won the white shield. here he spent the night, and the next day rode into camelot, where he was received with untold joy by arthur and the queen. for of the knights of the round table who had set out on that perilous quest more than half had perished, and small was the tale of that gallant fellowship that could now be mustered. so the coming of lancelot filled all hearts with joy. great was the marvel of the king when lancelot told him of what he had seen and done, and of the adventures of galahad, percivale, and bors. "god send that they were all here again," said the king. "that shall never be," said lancelot. "one of them shall come again, but two you shall never see." [illustration: from the painting by george frederick watts. sir galahad's quest of the holy grail.] chapter viii. the deeds of the three chosen knights. after galahad left the ship and his father lancelot, he rode far and had many adventures, righting many wrongs and achieving many marvels. among these he came to the abbey where was the ancient king evelake, who had laid blind three hundred years, as we have elsewhere told. the old king knew well that his deliverance had come, and begged to be embraced by the pious youth. no sooner had he been clasped in his arms than his sight returned, and his flesh grew whole and young. "now, sweet saviour, my destiny is fulfilled; receive thou my soul," he prayed. as he said these words the soul left his body, and the miracle of his fate was achieved. many days after this galahad met percivale, and soon the two came upon bors, as he rode out of a great forest, that extended many days' journey through the land. and so they rode in glad companionship, with many a tale of marvel to tell, till in time they came to the castle of carbonek, where they were gladly received, for those in the castle knew that the quest of the sangreal was now wellnigh achieved. when evening approached, and the table for supper was set, the mysterious voice that so often had guided these knights spoke again. "they that are not worthy to sit at the table of jesus christ arise," it said; "for now shall the worthiest be fed." then all arose save eliazar, the son of king pellam, and a maid who was his niece, and the three knights. but as they sat at supper nine other knights, in full armor, entered at the hall door, and took off their helmets and armor, and said to galahad,-- "sir, we have come far and in haste to be with you at this table, where the holy meat shall be served." "if you are worthy, you are welcome," said galahad. "whence come you?" three of them answered that they were from gaul, three from ireland, and three from denmark, and that they had come thither at the bidding of the strange voice. so they all sat at table. but ere they began to eat, four gentlewomen bore into the hall a bed, whereon lay a man sick, with a crown of gold on his head. setting him down, they went away. "galahad, holy knight, you are welcome," said he who lay in the bed, raising his head feebly. "long have i waited your coming, in pain and anguish, since balin, the good knight, struck me the dolorous stroke. to you i look for aid and release from my long suffering." then spoke the voice again: "there be those here who are not in the quest of the sangreal; let them depart." and the son and niece of the king rose and left the room. then there came suddenly four angels, and a man who bore a cross and wore the dress of a bishop, whom the angels placed in a chair before the silver table of the sangreal. in his forehead were letters which said, "this is joseph, the first bishop of christendom." next opened the chamber door, and angels entered, two bearing wax candles, the third a towel, and the fourth a spear that bled, the blood drops falling into a silver vessel which he held in his other hand. the candles were set on the table, the towel spread upon the vessel, and the spear set upright on this. the bishop then said mass, at which other strange signs were seen; for a figure like a child, with a face that shone like flame, entered into the bread of the sacrament. then the bishop kissed galahad, and bade him kiss his fellows. this done, he said,-- "servants of jesus christ, ye shall here be fed on such meats as never knights tasted;" and with these words he vanished. but as they knelt in prayer before the table, they saw come out of the holy vessel a man who bore all the signs of the passion of jesus christ. and he took up the vessel and bore it to galahad and to the other knights, who kneeled to receive the sacrament; and so sweet was it that their hearts marvelled and were filled with joy. "now have you tasted of christ's own food," he said, "and seen what you highly and holily desired. but more openly shall you see it in the city of sarras, in the spiritual place. therefore you must go hence, for this night the holy vessel will leave this realm, and will never more be seen here. to-morrow you three shall go to the sea, where a ship awaits you; and you must take with you the sword with the strange girdle." "shall not these good knights go also?" asked galahad. "not so. they have seen all that is fitting to them. as for you, two of you shall die in my service, and the third shall return and tell what he has seen." then he gave them his blessing, and vanished from out their midst. when they had somewhat recovered from the weight of these marvels, galahad went to the spear that lay on the table, and touched the blood with his fingers, and with it anointed the wounds of the maimed king. and at this touch he started up whole and strong, thanking god fervently for his healing. but he went not into the world again, but to a monastery of white monks, where he became a man of holy renown. at midnight came a voice to the nine knights, which said,-- "my sons, and not my chieftains; my friends, and not my warriors; go ye hence, and do well what comes to you, in my service." "lord," they replied, "wilt thou vouchsafe also to call us thy sinners? thy servants we shall be henceforth." and they arose, armed, and departed, bidding a solemn adieu to the three knights. when morning dawned these three rose also, and rode till they came to the sea. here awaited them the ship wherein they had found the sword and the three magic spindles, and to their wonder and delight they beheld in its midst the table of silver and the sangreal, which was covered with red samite. it was a joyous company that sailed over the sea in that magical ship, and at the wish of his comrades galahad slept in the bed where the sword had lain, and bors and percivale on the deck beside him. and so they went by day and by night, and at length came to the city of sarras. here, as they would have landed, they saw beside them, just come to shore, the ship that bore the corpse of percivale's sister, and this as fair and as fresh as when first placed within it. then they took up the silver table and bore it to the city, at whose gate sat an old and crooked cripple. "come hither, and help us carry this heavy thing," said galahad. "how shall i do that? i have not gone for ten years without crutches." "no matter for that. show your good will by trying." then the cripple rose and took hold, and in that instant he was whole and strong, and helped them bear the table to the palace. this done, they returned, and bore to the palace the corpse of percivale's sister, which they placed in a rich tomb, suited to a king's daughter. meanwhile the report had spread through the city that a cripple had been made whole by three strange knights, and people flocked to see them. when the king of the city saw and heard all this, he came to the knights and asked them who they were, and what it was they had brought into his realm. galahad answered him, telling of the marvel of the sangreal, and of god's power and grace therein. but the king, estorause, a tyrant in will and a pagan in faith, heard this with wrath and unbelief, and ordered the knights to be put in prison as spies and felons. for a whole year they lay thus in prison, yet were always kept whole and in good spirits; for the holy sangreal came to them in their dungeons, and filled their souls with joy. when the year ended, estorause grew sick unto death, and in remorse sent for the imprisoned knights, whose pardon and forgiveness he fervently begged. this they gave him, and he straightway died. his death threw the city into dismay, for he had left no successor to the throne. but as the lords sat in council there came a voice that bade them choose the youngest of the three knights for their king. this mysterious behest was told to the citizens, and with one acclaim they hailed it as god's will, and demanded galahad as their king. thereupon he became king of sarras, though it was not his wish; but he felt it to be god's command. and when he came to the throne he had constructed a chest of gold and precious stones, in which was placed the table of silver with the holy vessel, and before this the three knights kneeled and prayed daily with fervent zeal. and so time rolled on till came the day that was the anniversary of that in which galahad had taken the crown. on this morning he rose betimes, and before the holy vessel he saw a man dressed like a bishop, while round about him was a great fellowship of angels. "come forth, thou servant of jesus christ, and thou shalt see what thou hast so much desired," said the bishop. then galahad began to tremble, his flesh quaking in the presence of things spiritual. and he held his hands up towards heaven, saying,-- "lord, i thank thee, for now my desire is fulfilled. and if it be thy will that i should come to thee, i wish no longer to live." "i am joseph of arimathea," said the strange presence, "and am sent by the lord to bear thee fellowship. thou resemblest me in two things; for thou hast seen the highest marvel of the sangreal, and are pure of heart and of body. now say farewell to thy comrades, for thy time is come to depart." galahad thereupon went to percivale and bors, and kissed them, and commended them to god, saying to bors,-- "fair friend, who art destined to return to our native realm, salute for me my lord and father lancelot, and bid him remember the evils of this unstable world, and bear in mind the duty he has been taught." then he kneeled before the table and prayed fervently, and suddenly his soul departed from his body, a multitude of angels bearing it visibly upward toward heaven, in full view of his late comrades. also they saw come from heaven a hand, with no body visible, and take up the holy vessel and the spear, and bear them to heaven. and from that moment no man ever saw on earth again the blessed sangreal. afterwards galahad's body was buried with great honor, and with many tears from his two fellows and from the people whom he had governed. then percivale betook him to a hermitage, and entered upon a religious life; while bors stayed with him, but in secular clothing, for it was his purpose to return to england. for a year and two months percivale lived thus the holy life of a hermit, and then he passed out of this world, and was buried by bors--who mourned him as deeply as ever man was mourned--beside his sister and galahad. this pious office performed, sir bors, the last of the three chosen knights, felt that his duty in that land was at an end, and thereupon took ship at the city of sarras and sailed for the realm of england, where he in good season arrived. here he took horse and rode in all haste to camelot, where king arthur and the court then were, and where he was received with the greatest joy and wonder, for so long had it been since any man there had set eyes on him, that all believed him to be dead. but greater than their wonder was their admiration when the returned knight told the story of miracle and adventure which had befallen him and his two comrades, and the pious maid, percivale's sister, and of the holy life and death of galahad and percivale. this marvellous narrative the king had told again to skilled clerks, that they might put upon record the wonderful deeds of these good knights. and it was all written down in great books, which were put in safe keeping at salisbury. bors then gave to lancelot the message which his son had sent him, and lancelot took him in his arms, saying, "gentle cousin, gladly do i welcome you again. never while we live shall we part, but shall ever be true friends and brothers while life may last to us." and thus came to an end the marvellous and unparalleled adventure of the holy grail. [illustration: salisbury cathedral.] book x. the love of lancelot and guenever. chapter i. the poisoning of sir patrise. after the quest of the sangreal was ended, and all the knights who were left alive had come again to camelot, there was great joy in the court, with feasts and merrymakings, that this fortunate remnant might find a glad welcome. above all, king arthur and queen guenever were full of joy in the return of lancelot and bors, both from the love they bore them and the special honor they had gained in the quest. but, as is man's way, holy thoughts vanished with the holy task that gave them rise, the knights went back to their old fashions and frailties, and in lancelot's heart his earthly love for the queen soon rose again, and his love of heaven and holy thoughts grew dim as the days went by. alas that it should have been so! for such an unholy passion could but lead to harm. to fatal ills, indeed, it led, and to the end of arthur's reign and of the worshipful fellowship of the table round, as it is our sorrowful duty now to tell. all this began in the scandal that was raised in the court by the close companionship between lancelot and the queen. whisper of this secret talk at length came to that good knight's ears, and he withdrew from queen guenever as much as he could, giving himself to the society of other ladies of the court, with design to overcome the evil activity of slanderous tongues. this withdrawal filled the queen with jealous anger, and she accused him bitterly of coldness in his love. "madam," said lancelot, "only that love for you clung desperately to my heart, and drove out heavenly thoughts, i should have gained as great honor in the quest of the sangreal as even my son galahad. my love is still yours, but i fear to show it, for there are those of the court who love me not, such as agravaine and mordred, and these evil-thinking knights are spreading vile reports wherever they may. it is for this i make show of delight in other ladies' society, to cheat the bitter tongue of slander." to this the queen listened with heaving breast and burning cheek. but at the end she burst into bitter tears and sobs, and wept so long that lancelot stood in dismay. when she could speak, she called him recreant and false, declared she should never love him more, and bade him leave the court, and on pain of his head never come near her again. this filled the faithful lover with the deepest grief and pain; yet there was anger, too, for he felt that the queen had shut her ears to reason, and had let causeless jealousy blind her. so, without further words, he turned and sought his room, prepared to leave the court. he sent for hector, bors, and lionel, and told them what had happened, and that he intended to leave england and return to his native land. "if you take my advice you will do nothing so rash," said bors. "know you not that women are hasty to act, and quick to repent? this is not the first time the queen has been angry with you; nor will her repentance be a new experience." "you speak truly," said lancelot. "i will ride, therefore, to the hermitage of brasias, near windsor, and wait there till i hear from you if my lady guenever changes her mood. i pray you do your best to get me her love again." "that needs no prayer. well you know i will do my utmost in your behalf." then lancelot departed in haste, none but bors knowing whither he had gone. but the queen showed no sign of sorrow at his going, however deeply she may have felt it in her heart. in countenance she remained serene and proud, as though the world went well with her, and her heart was free from care. her desire, indeed, to show that she took as much joy in the society of other knights as in that of lancelot led to a woful and perilous event, which we have next to describe. for she gave a private dinner, to which she invited gawaine and his brethren and other knights, to the number of twenty-four in all. a rich feast it was, with all manner of dainties and rare devices. much was the joy and merriment of the feasting knights. as it happened, gawaine had a great love for fruits, especially apples and pears, which he ate daily at dinner and supper; and all who invited him to dine took care to provide his favorite fruits. this the queen failed not to do. but there was at the feast an enemy of gawaine's, named pinel le savage, who was a cousin of lamorak de galis, and had long hated gawaine for the murder of that noble knight. to obtain revenge on him, pinel poisoned some of the apples, feeling sure that only gawaine would eat them. but by unlucky chance a knight named patrise, cousin to mador de la porte, eat one of the poisoned apples. so deadly was the venom that in a moment he was in agony, and very soon it so filled his veins that he fell dead from his seat. then was terror and wrath, as the knights sprang in haste and turmoil from their seats. for they saw that patrise had been poisoned, and suspicion naturally fell upon the queen, the giver of the feast. "my lady, the queen," cried gawaine in anger, "what thing is this we see? this fate, i deem, was meant for me, since the fruit was provided for my taste. madam, what shall i think? has this good knight taken on himself the death that was intended to be mine?" the queen made no answer, being so confused and terrified that she knew not what to say. "this affair shall not end here," cried mador de la porte in great wrath. "here lies a noble knight of my near kindred, slain by poison and treason. for this i shall have revenge to the utterance. queen guenever, i hold you guilty of the murder of my cousin, sir patrise. i demand from the laws of the realm and the justice of our lord the king redress for this deed. a knight like this shall not fall unrevenged, while i can wield spear or hold sword." the queen, at this hot accusation, looked appealingly from face to face; but all stood grave and silent, for greatly they suspected her of the crime. then, seeing that she had not a friend in the room, she burst into a passion of tears, and at length fell to the floor in a swoon. the story of this sad business soon spread through the court, and quickly came to the ears of the king, who hastened to the banqueting hall full of trouble at what he had heard. when mador saw him, he again bitterly accused the queen of treason,--as murder of all kinds was then called. "this is a serious affair," said the king, gravely. "i, as a rightful judge, cannot take the matter into my own hands, or i would do battle in this cause myself, for i know well that my wife is wrongly accused. to burn a queen on a hasty accusation of crime is no light matter, though you may deem it so, sir mador; and if you demand the combat, fear not but a knight will be found to meet you in the lists." "my gracious lord," said mador, "you must hold me excused, for though you are our king, you are a knight also, and held by knightly rules. therefore, be not displeased with me, for all the knights here suspect the queen of this crime. what say you, my lords?" "the dinner was made by the queen," they answered. "she or her servants must be held guilty of the crime." "i gave this dinner with a good will, and with no thought of evil," said the queen, sadly. "may god help me as an innocent woman, and visit this murder on the base head of him who committed it. my king and husband, to god i appeal for right and justice." "and justice i demand," said mador, "and require the king to name a day in which this wrong can be righted." "be it so, then," said the king. "fifteen days hence be thou ready armed on horseback in the meadow beside winchester. if there be a knight there to meet you, then god speed the right. if none meet you, then my queen must suffer the penalty of the law." when arthur and the queen had departed, he asked her how this case befell. "god help me if i know," she answered. "where is lancelot?" asked the king. "if he were here, he would do battle for you." "i know not," she replied. "his kinsmen say he has left the land." "how cometh it," said the king, "that you cannot keep lancelot by your side? if he were here your case would be won. sir bors will do battle in his place, i am sure. go seek him and demand his aid." this the queen did, begging bors to act as her champion; but he, as one of the knights who had been at the dinner, demurred, and accused her of having driven lancelot from the country by her scorn and jealousy. then she knelt and begged his aid, and the king, coming in, also requested his assistance, for he was now sure the queen had been unjustly defamed. "my lord," answered bors, "it is a great thing you require of me, for if i grant your request i will affront many of my round table comrades. yet for your and lancelot's sake i will be the queen's champion on the day appointed, unless it may happen that a better knight than i come to do battle for her." "will you promise me this, on your faith?" asked the king. "i shall not fail you," said bors. "if a better knight than i come, the battle shall be his. if not, i will do what i can." this promise gladdened the king and queen, who thanked bors heartily, and were filled with hope, for they trusted greatly in this good knight's prowess and skill. bors, however, had other thoughts than they dreamed of, and left the court secretly, riding to the hermitage of brasias, where he found lancelot and told him of what had occurred. "this happens well," said lancelot. "the queen shall not suffer. do you make ready for the battle, but tarry and delay, if i am not there, as much as you may, till i arrive. mador is a hot knight, and will be hasty to battle. bid him cool his haste." "leave that to me," said bors. "doubt not that it will go as you wish." meanwhile the news spread throughout the court that bors had taken on himself the queen's championship. this displeased the most of the knights, for suspicion of the queen was general. on his return many of his fellows accused him hotly of taking on himself a wrongful quarrel. "shall we see the queen of our great lord king arthur brought to shame?" he demanded. "to whom in the world do we owe more?" "we love and honor our king as much as you do," they answered. "but we cannot love a destroyer of knights, as queen guenever has proved herself." "fair sirs," said bors, "you speak hastily, methinks. at all times, so far as i know, she has been a maintainer, not a destroyer, of knights, and has been free with gifts and open-handed in bounty to all of knightly fame. this you cannot gainsay, nor will i suffer the wife of our noble king to be shamefully slain. she is not guilty of sir patrise's death, for she never bore him ill will, nor any other at that dinner. it was for good will she invited us there, and i doubt not her innocence will be proved; for howsoever the game goeth, take my word for it, some other than she is guilty of that murder." this some began to believe, convinced by his words, but others still held their displeasure, believing the queen guilty. when at length the day that had been fixed for the battle came, there was a great gathering of knights and people in the meadow beside winchester, where the combat was to take place. but many shuddered when they saw another thing, for an iron stake was erected, and fagots heaped round it, for the burning of the queen should mador win the fight. such, indeed, was the custom of those days. neither for favor, for love, nor for kindred could any but righteous judgment be given, as well upon a king as upon a knight, upon a queen as upon a poor lady, and death at the stake was the penalty for those convicted of murder. now there rode into the lists sir mador de la porte, and took oath before the king that he held the queen to be guilty of the death of sir patrise, and would prove it with his body against any one who should say to the contrary. sir bors followed, and made oath as the queen's champion that he held her guiltless, and would prove it with his body, unless a better knight came to take the battle on him. "make ready then," said mador, "and we shall prove which is in the right, you or i." "you are a good knight, sir mador," said bors, "but i trust that god will give this battle to justice, not to prowess." he continued to talk and to make delay till mador called out impatiently,-- "it seems to me that we waste time and weather. either come and do battle at once, or else say nay." "i am not much given to say nay," answered bors. "take your horse and make ready. i shall not tarry long, i promise you." then each departed to his tent, and in a little while mador came into the field with his shield on his shoulder and his spear in his hand. but he waited in vain for bors. "where is your champion?" cried mador to the king. "bid him come forth if he dare!" when this was told to bors he was ashamed to delay longer, and mounted his horse and rode to his appointed place. but as he did so he saw a knight, mounted on a white horse, and bearing a shield of strange device, emerge from a neighboring wood, and come up at all speed. he continued his course till he came to sir bors. "be not displeased, fair knight," he said, "if i claim this battle. i have ridden far this day to have it, as i promised you when we spoke last. and for what you have done i thank you." then bors rode to the king and told him that a knight had come who would do battle for the queen and relieve him from the championship. "what knight is this?" asked the king. "all i may say is that he covenanted to be here to-day. he has kept his word, and i am discharged." "how is this?" demanded arthur. "sir knight, do you truly desire to do battle for the queen?" "for that, and that alone, came i hither," answered the knight. "and i beg that there be no delay, for when this battle is ended i must depart in haste on other duties. i hold it a dishonor to all those knights of the round table that they can stand and see so noble a lady and courteous a queen as queen guenever rebuked and shamed among them all. therefore i stand as her champion." then all marvelled what knight this could be, for none suspected him. but mador cried impatiently to the king,-- "we lose time here. if this knight, whoever he be, will have ado with me, it is time to end words and begin deeds." "you are hot, sir mador. take care that your valor be not cooled," said the other. they now moved to their appointed stations, and there couched their spears and rode together with all the speed of their chargers. mador's spear broke, but the spear of his opponent held, and bore him and his horse backward to the earth. but he sprang lightly from the saddle, and drew his sword, challenging the victor to do battle with him on foot. this the other knight did, springing quickly to the ground, and drawing his sword. then they came eagerly to the combat, and for the space of near an hour fought with the fury of wild beasts, for mador was a strong knight, proved in many battles. but at last the strange champion struck his opponent a blow that brought him to the earth. he stepped near him to hurl him flat, but at that instant mador suddenly rose. as he did so he struck upward with his sword, and ran the other through the thick of the thigh, so that the blood flowed freely. when he felt himself wounded he stepped back in a rage, and grasping his sword struck mador a two-handed blow that hurled him flat to the earth. then he sprang upon him to pull off his helm. "i yield me!" cried mador. "spare my life, and i release the queen." "i shall not grant your life," said the other, "only on condition that you freely withdraw this accusation from the queen, and that no charge against her be made on sir patrise's tomb." "all this shall be done. i have lost, and adjudge her innocent." the knights-parters of the lists now took up sir mador and bore him to his tent. the other knight went to the foot of king arthur's seat. by that time the queen had come thither also, and was heartily kissed by her overjoyed lord. then king and queen alike thanked the victor knight, and prayed him to take off his helmet, and drink some wine for refreshment. this he did, and on the instant a loud shout went up from all present, for they recognized the noble face of lancelot du lake. "sir lancelot!" cried the king. "never were you more heartily welcome. deep thanks i and queen guenever owe you for your noble labor this day in our behalf." "my lord arthur," said lancelot, "i would shame myself should i ever fail to do battle for you both. it was you who gave me the high honor of knighthood. and on the day you made me knight i lost my sword through haste, and the lady your queen found it and gave it me when i had need of it, and so saved me from disgrace among the knights. on that day i promised her to be ever her knight in right or wrong." "your goodness merits reward," said the king, "and therein i shall not fail you." but as the queen gazed on lancelot, tears came to her eyes, and she wept so tenderly that she almost sank to the ground from sorrow and remorse at her unkindness to him who had done her such noble service. now the knights of his blood came around lancelot in the greatest joy, and all the knights of the round table after them, glad to welcome him. and in the days that followed lancelot was cured of his wound, and mador put under the care of skilful leeches, while great joy and gladness reigned in the court for the happy issue of that combat which had promised so fatal an ending. about this time it befell that nimue, the damsel of the lake, came to the court, she who knew so many things by her power of enchantment, and had such great love for arthur and his knights. when the story of the death of sir patrise and the peril of the queen was told her, she answered openly that the queen had been falsely accused, and that the real murderer was sir pinel, who had poisoned the apples to destroy gawaine, in revenge for the murder of lamorak. this story was confirmed when pinel fled hastily from the court, for then all saw clearly that guenever was innocent of the crime. the slain knight was buried in the church of westminster, and on his tomb was written,-- "here lieth sir patrise of ireland, slain by sir pinel le savage, through poisoned apples intended for sir gawaine." and to this was added the story of how guenever the queen had been charged with that crime, and had been cleared in the combat by sir lancelot du lake, her champion. all this was written on the tomb, to clear the queen's good fame. and daily and long sir mador sued the queen to have her good grace again. at length, by means of lancelot, he was forgiven, and entered again into the grace of king and queen. thus once more peace and good-will were restored to camelot. chapter ii. the lily maid of astolat. it came to pass that, within fifteen days of the feast of the assumption, king arthur announced that a great tournament would be held on that day at camelot, where he and the king of scots would hold the lists against all who should come. this tidings went far, and there came to camelot many noble knights, among them the king of north wales, king anguish of ireland, the king with the hundred knights, sir galahalt the high prince, and other kings, dukes, and earls. but when arthur was ready to ride from london, where he then was, to camelot, the queen begged to be excused from going with him, saying that she was not well. lancelot, too, would not go, on the plea that he was not well of the wound which sir mador had given him. so the king set out in grief and anger, for the absence of his wife and lancelot tried him sorely. on his way to camelot he lodged in a town named astolat, which is now known as gilford, and here he remained for several days. but hardly had he departed before the queen sought lancelot, and blamed him severely for not going with the king, saying that he thus exposed her to slander. "madam, your wisdom comes somewhat late. why gave you not this advice sooner?" said lancelot. "i will go, since you command it; but i warn you that at the jousts i will fight against the king and his party." "fight as you will, but go," said guenever. "if you take my counsel, however, you will keep with your king and your kindred." "be not displeased with me, madam," said lancelot. "i will do as god wills, and that, i fear, will be to fight against the king's party." so the knight took horse and rode to astolat, and here in the evening he obtained quarters in the mansion of an old baron, named sir bernard of astolat. it happened that this mansion was near the quarters of the king, who, as in the dusk he walked in the castle garden, saw lancelot draw near to sir bernard's door, and recognized him. "aha!" said the king, "is that the game? that gives me comfort. i shall have one knight in the lists who will do his duty nobly." "who is that?" asked those with him. "ask me not now," said the king, smiling. "you may learn later." meanwhile lancelot was hospitably received by the old baron, though the latter knew not his guest. "dear sir," said lancelot to his host, "i thank you for your kindness, and i shall owe you deeper thanks if you will lend me a shield. mine is too well known, and i wish to fight in disguise." "that shall i willingly," answered his host. "i have two sons who were lately knighted, and the elder, sir tirre, has been hurt. his shield you shall have, for it is yet unknown in list or field. as for my younger son, sir lavaine, he is a strong and likely youth, whom i beg you will take with you. i feel that you must be a champion of renown, and hope you will tell me your name." "not at present, if you will excuse me," said lancelot. "if i speed well at the tournament i will return and tell you. but i shall be glad to have sir lavaine with me, and to use his brother's shield." "you are welcome to both," said sir bernard. this old baron had a daughter of great beauty, and in the freshness of youth, who was known in that region as the fair maid of astolat, by name elaine le blank. and when she saw lancelot her whole heart went out to him in love,--a love of that ardent nature that never dies while she who wears it lives. lancelot, too, was strongly attracted by her fresh young face, of lily-like charm; but he had no love to give. yet he spoke in tender kindness to the maiden, and so emboldened her that she begged him to wear her token at the tournament. "you ask more than i have ever yet granted to lady or damsel," said lancelot. "if i yield to your wish i shall do more for your love than any woman born can claim." [illustration: "you are welcome, both!" said sir bernard.] she besought him now with still more earnestness, and it came to his mind that if he wished to go to the lists disguised he could take no better method, for no one would recognise lancelot under a damsel's token. "show me what you would have me wear, fair maiden," he said. "it is a red sleeve of mine," she answered, "a sleeve of scarlet, embroidered with great pearls," and she brought it to him. "i have never done this for damsel before," said lancelot. "in return i will leave my shield in your keeping. pray keep it safe till we meet again." then the evening was spent in merry cheer; but that night elaine slept but lightly, for her slumber was full of dreams of lancelot, and her heart burned with fears that he might come to harm in the lists. on the next day king arthur and his knights set out for camelot. soon afterwards lancelot and lavaine took leave of sir bernard and his fair daughter, while the eyes of elaine followed the noble form of lancelot fondly and far, as he rode. both the knights had white shields, and lancelot bore with him elaine's red embroidered sleeve. when they reached camelot they took lodging privately with a rich burgess of the town, that none might know them. when came assumption day, the lists were set, the trumpets blew to the field, the two parties of knights gathered promptly to the fray, and fierce was the encounter between them. in the end, after hard fighting, the party of arthur bore back their opponents, who were headed by the kings of northumberland and north wales. all this was seen by lancelot and lavaine, who sat their horses at a distance looking on. "come," said lancelot, "let us help these good fellows, who seem to be overpowered." "lead on," said lavaine. "i shall follow and do my best." then lancelot, with the red sleeve fastened upon his helmet, rode into the thickest of the press, and smote down such numbers of knights with spear and sword that the party of the round table were forced to give back, and their opponents came on with fresh heart. and close upon lancelot's track lavaine smote down several good knights. "who can this wonderful fighter be?" asked gawaine of the king. "i know him well," said arthur, "but will not name him since he is in disguise." "i could believe it was lancelot," said gawaine, "but for that red sleeve. no man ever saw lancelot wear a woman's token." "let him be," said arthur. "he will be better known before he is done." then nine knights of lancelot's kindred, angry at seeing this one champion beat down all before him, joined together and pressed hotly into the din, smiting down all that opposed them. three of them--bors, hector, and lionel--spurred together on lancelot, all striking him at once with their spears. so great was their force that lancelot's horse was hurled to the ground, and his shield pierced by bors, whose spear wounded him in the side, breaking and leaving its head deep in the flesh. seeing this misfortune, lavaine spurred fiercely on the king of the scots, thrust him from his horse, and, in despite of them all, brought that horse to lancelot, and helped him to mount. then, though so sorely hurt, lancelot drew his sword, and, aided by lavaine, did such deeds of arms as he had never surpassed in his hours of greatest strength. as the chronicles say, that day he unhorsed more than thirty knights; and lavaine followed his example well, for he smote down ten knights of the round table in this his first tournament. so does a noble example stir young hearts. "i would give much to know who this valiant knight can be," said gawaine. "he will be known before he departs," answered arthur. "trust me for that." then the king blew to lodging, and the prize was given by the heralds to the knight with the white shield who bore the red sleeve. around lancelot gathered the leaders on his side, and thanked him warmly for gaining them the victory. "if i have deserved thanks i have sorely paid for them," said lancelot, "for i doubt if i escape with my life. dear sirs, permit me to depart, for just now i would rather have repose than be lord of all the world." then he broke from them and galloped away, though his wound forced piteous groans from his steadfast heart. when out of sight of them all he checked his horse, and begged lavaine to help him dismount and to draw the spear-head from his side. "my lord," said lavaine, "i would fain help you; yet i fear that to draw the spear will be your death." "it will be my death if it remains," said lancelot. "i charge you to draw it." this lavaine did, the pain being so deadly that lancelot shrieked and fell into a death-like swoon, while a full pint of blood gushed from the wound. lavaine stopped the bleeding as well as he could, and with great trouble got the wounded knight to a neighboring hermitage, that stood in front of a great cliff, with a clear stream running by its foot. here lavaine beat on the door with the butt of his spear, and cried loudly,-- "open, for jesus' sake! open, for a noble knight lies bleeding to death at your gate!" this loud appeal quickly brought out the hermit, who was named baldwin of brittany, and had once been a round table knight. he gazed with pity and alarm on the pale face and bleeding form before him. "i should know this knight," he said. "who is he?" "fair sir," said lancelot, feebly, "i am a stranger and a knight-errant, who have sought renown through many realms, and have come here to my deadly peril." as he spoke the hermit recognized him, by a wound on his pallid cheek. "ah, my lord lancelot," he said, "you cannot deceive me thus." "then, if you know me, help me for heaven's sake. relieve me from this pain, whether it be by life or death." "i shall do my best," said the hermit. "fear not that you will die." then he had him borne into the hermitage, and laid in bed, his armor being removed. this done, the hermit stanched the bleeding, anointed the wound with healing ointments, and gave lancelot a refreshing and healing draught. meanwhile king arthur invited the knights of both parties to a great evening feast, and there asked the king of north wales to bring forward the knight of the red sleeve, that he might receive the prize he had won. "that i cannot do," was the answer. "he was badly, if not fatally, wounded, and left us so hastily that we know not whither he went." "that is the worst news i have heard these seven years," said arthur. "i would rather lose my throne than have that noble knight slain." "do you know him?" they all asked. "i have a shrewd suspicion who he is; and i pray god for good tidings of him." "by my head," said gawaine, "i should be sorry enough to see harm come to one that can handle spear and sword like him. he cannot be far away, and if he is to be found i shall find him." "fortune aid you in the quest," said the king. then gawaine took a squire, and they rode in all directions for six or seven miles around camelot, but could learn nothing of the missing knight. two days afterwards arthur and his fellowship set out on their return to london. on their way they passed through astolat, and here it happened that gawaine lodged with sir bernard, lancelot's former host. he was well received, and the old baron and his fair daughter begged him earnestly for tidings of the tournament, being specially eager to know who had done best there. "two knights bore all before them," said gawaine. "both carried white shields, and one wore on his helmet a red sleeve, as some fair lady's token. never saw i a man before do such mighty deeds, and his fellow seconded him nobly." "blessed be god that that knight did so well," broke out elaine, "for he is the first man i ever loved, and shall be the last." "you know him then?" said gawaine. "pray tell me his name." "that i know not, nor whence he came; but this i truly know, that i love him, and that the token he wore was mine. this, and this only, i can justly affirm." "this is a strange story," said gawaine. "what knowledge have you of him? and how came you to know him?" in response, she told him how the knight had left his shield with her, and taken that of her brother, with what else she knew. "i would thank you much for a sight of that shield," said gawaine. "i have it in my chamber, covered with a case, and will send for it," said elaine. when the shield was brought gawaine removed the case, and at sight he knew it to be lancelot's shield. "ah, mercy!" said gawaine, "the sight of this makes my heart heavy." "why so?" she demanded. "for good cause," he answered. "is the owner of this shield your love?" "truly so," she replied. "i love him dearly; would to god he loved me as dearly." "then must i say that you have given your love to the noblest and most renowned knight in the world." "so it seemed to me; for he carries a noble soul in his face." "this i may say," said gawaine. "i have known this knight for more than twenty years, and never knew him before to wear a woman's token at joust or tournament. you owe him thanks, indeed, that he wore yours. yet i dread greatly that you will never see him again, and it is for this that my heart is heavy." "why say you so?" she cried, starting up with pallid face. "is he hurt? is he slain?" "not slain; but sadly hurt. this more it is my duty to tell you: he is the noble knight, sir lancelot du lake. i know him by his shield." "lancelot! can this be so? and his hurt--who gave it? is it really perilous?" "had the knight who wounded him known him, he would have been grieved almost to death. as for sir lancelot, i can tell you nothing more. on receiving his hurt he left the lists with his comrade, and cannot be found. he is somewhere concealed." "then shall i go seek him!" cried elaine. "give me leave to do so, dear father, if you would not have me lose my mind. i shall never rest till i find him and my brother, and nurse him back to health." "go, daughter, if you will," said her father, "for i am sick at heart to hear such tidings of that noble knight." in the morning gawaine rejoined king arthur, and told him of what he had learned. "i knew already it was lancelot," said the king; "but never before knew i him to wear woman's token." "by my faith, this lily maiden of astolat loves him deeply," said gawaine. "what it means i cannot say, but she has set out to seek him, and will break her heart if she fail to find him." and so they rode on to london, where gawaine made known to the court that it was lancelot who wore the red sleeve and won the prize at the tournament. this tidings made no small trouble in the court. bors and his kinsmen were heavy at heart when they learned that it was lancelot whom they had so hotly assailed. and queen guenever was beside herself with anger on learning that it was lancelot who had worn the red sleeve at the tournament. meanwhile elaine journeyed to camelot in search of the wounded knight, and as she sought far and near about the town, sick at heart, it chanced that she espied her brother lavaine, as he rode out to give his horse air. she called loudly to him, and when he came up asked him,-- "how does my lord, sir lancelot?" "who told you, sister, that my lord's name was lancelot?" she told him how she had learned this, and they rode together to the hermitage, where lavaine brought her in to see the wounded knight. but when she saw him lying there so sick and pale, and with a death-like hue upon his face, she stood gazing upon him with dilated eyes and whitening face, and then suddenly fell to the floor in a deep swoon. "i pray you, lavaine, take her up and bring her to me," said lancelot. when she was brought near him he kissed her pale face, and at the touch of his lips her cheeks flamed out with red, and life came back to her. "fair maiden," said lancelot, "it pains me to see you so deeply afflicted. comfort yourself, i pray you. if you come here to my aid you are truly welcome; but let not this little hurt trouble you; i shall soon be well of it." then they fell into discourse, and elaine told lancelot how gawaine had seen and known his shield. this gave him no small trouble, for he knew well that the story of the red scarf would get to queen guenever's ears, and he feared its effect on her hasty and jealous temper. but elaine never left lancelot, but watched him day and night, nursing him back to health. chapter iii. how elaine died for love. when sir bors learned that his unlucky blow had brought lancelot nearly to death's door, he became sore indeed at heart, and hastened to camelot in search of his noble kinsman. here he met lavaine, who knew him and conducted him to the bedside of the wounded knight. when he saw the pale and haggard countenance of lancelot, he fell into a passion of tears, and accused himself bitterly. but lancelot consoled him as well as he could, declaring that the fault was his own, and that he would bear the blame. then bors told him of the anger of the queen, and of his earnest but vain endeavor to overcome it. "i deserve it not," said lancelot. "i wore the sleeve only by way of disguise. as for gawaine, he would have shown more wisdom and friendship had he been less free of speech." "i told her all this," said bors, "but she was past listening to reason. is this maiden, who is so busy about you, she whom they call the lily of astolat?" "she it is," said lancelot. "i cannot by any means put her from me." "why should you?" asked bors. "she is a beautiful and tender-hearted damsel. would to god, fair cousin, you could love her, for i see well, by her gentle and close care of you, that she loves you devoutedly." "that i am sorry for," said lancelot. "she will not be the first that has loved you in vain," said bors; "the more the pity." many other things they talked of, and lancelot found such comfort in the presence of sir bors that in a few days he showed great signs of improvement. then bors told him of another tournament that king arthur had ordered, to be held at camelot on all-hallowmas day, between his party and that of the king of north wales. this filled lancelot with an earnest desire to grow strong, and during the following month, under the kind care of his cousin, and the gentle ministrations of elaine, he improved greatly in health. for elaine waited upon him with loving diligence night and day, and never was child or wife more gentle and heedful to father or husband than this fair maid of astolat to the wounded knight. at length came a day when lancelot felt so much stronger, through the healing influence of a bath of herbs which the hermit had gathered in the woods, that he determined to try if he could wear his armor and sit in his saddle. he thereupon armed and had his horse brought out. mounting the mettled charger, in the high spirit of new health he spurred it to full speed. but the courser's long rest in the stable had made it fresh and fierce, and on feeling the spurs it leaped forward so violently that lancelot's wound burst open in the strain, and the blood gushed out again. "bors! lavaine! help!" he feebly cried. "i am come to my end." as he spoke he fell from his horse to the earth, and lay there like a corpse. the two knights hurried up, full of fearful concern, and when elaine, who had heard the pitiful call, came flying to the spot, she threw herself on the prostrate form, weeping like one beside herself with grief, and kissing the insensible knight as if she hoped thus to recall him to life. "traitors you are!" she cried wildly to her brother and sir bors. "why did you let him leave his bed? i hold you guilty of his death." at this moment the hermit baldwin appeared. when he saw lancelot in that plight he grew angry at heart, though he checked the reproachful words that rose to his lips. "let us have him in," he said, briefly. lancelot was thereupon carried to the hermitage, his armor removed, and the bleeding stanched, but it was long before he could be brought out of his death-like swoon. "why did you put your life thus in jeopardy?" asked the hermit, reproachfully, when the knight was again in his senses. "i was too eager to attend the tournament, now near at hand," he said. "ah, sir lancelot, you have more courage than wisdom, i fear. as for the tournament, let sir bors attend it and do what he may. by the time it is over and he returned, i hope that you may be well once more, if you will but be governed by my advice." this advice was taken and bors went to the tournament, where he bore himself so valorously that the prize was divided between him and gawaine. gareth and palamides also did noble deeds, but they departed suddenly before the prize was declared, as if called away by some adventure. all this lancelot heard with great pleasure from bors on his return, his only regret being that he had not been able to take part in that knightly sport. but the remedies of the hermit and the care of elaine had meanwhile done him wonderful service, and he was soon able again to mount his horse and wear his armor in safety. a day, therefore, quickly came when the knight felt himself in condition for a journey, and when he and his companions took the road to astolat, escorting the fair elaine back to her father's home. here they were gladly received by the old baron bernard, and his son tirre, who had now recovered. but when the time approached which lancelot had set for his departure, elaine grew pale and drooping. at length, with the boldness of speech of that period, she came to him and said,-- "my lord sir lancelot, clear and courteous sir, will you then depart, and leave me alone with my love and sorrow? have mercy on me, i pray you, and suffer me not to die of grief." "what would you have me do?" asked lancelot. "i brought you back to life; give me your love in return; make me your wedded wife, and i will love you as never woman loved." "that can i never do," said lancelot, gravely. "i shall never wed." "then shall i die for your love." "think not of death, elaine. if i could marry woman it would be you, for i could love you dearly were my heart free. for your gentleness and kindness thus only can i repay you. if you can set your heart upon some worthy knight who is free to wed you, i shall give to you and your heirs a thousand pounds yearly, as some small payment of the debt i owe you." "you speak idly and coldly, sir lancelot. your money i will have none of; and as for wedding, i have but the choice to wed you or wed my death." "you rend my heart, fair elaine. would that it could be as you wish. alas! that can never be." at this, with a cry of heart-pain, the distressed maiden fell swooning at his feet. thence she was borne by women to her chamber, where she lay, lamenting like one whose heart is broken. sir bernard now came to lancelot, who was preparing to depart, and said,-- "dear sir, it grieves me to find my daughter elaine in such a distressful state. i fear she may die for your sake." "it grieves me as deeply," said lancelot. "but what can i do? that she loves me so deeply i am sorry to learn, for i have done nothing to encourage it, as your son can testify. i know that she is a true and noble maiden, and will do all that i can for her as an honest knight; but love her as she loves me i cannot, and to wed i am forbidden. yet her distress wounds me sorely." "father," said lavaine, "i dare avow that she is as pure and good as my lord sir lancelot has said. in loving him she does but what i do, for since i first saw him i could never depart from him; nor shall i leave him so long as he will bear my company." then lancelot took his leave, and he and lavaine rode together to camelot, where arthur and the whole court received the errant knight with the utmost joy and warmest welcome. queen guenever alone failed to greet him kindly, her jealous anger continuing so bitter that she would not give him a word or a look, seek as he would. but the joy and brightness at camelot were replaced by darkness at astolat, for the fair elaine was in such sorrow day and night that she neither ate, drank, nor slept; and ever she sadly moaned and bewailed the cruelty of sir lancelot. ten days of this brought her so near her end, that her old father, with sad heart, sent for the priest to give her the last sacraments. but even then she made her plaints of lancelot's coldness so mournfully, that the ghostly father bade her cease such thoughts. "why should i?" she cried. "am i not a woman, with a woman's heart and feelings? while the breath is in my body i must lament my fate; for i hold it no offence to love, and take god to witness that i never have and never can love other than lancelot du lake. since it is god's will that i must die from unrequited love of so noble a knight, i pray for his mercy and forgiveness of all my sins. never did i offend deeply against god's laws; but it was not in my nature to withstand the fervent love that is bringing me to my death." then she sent for her father and brother, and prayed them to write a letter as she might dictate. this they did, writing down the mournful words which she spoke. "now," she said, "this more i command you to do. when i am dead, put this letter in my right hand before my body grows cold. then see that i be richly dressed and laid in a fair bed, and take me in a chariot to the river thames. there lay my body in a barge, covered with black samite, and with but one man to steer the barge down the river to camelot." all this they, weeping sadly, agreed to do, and soon afterwards the maiden died, slain by her love. her sad old father then had all done as she had requested. meanwhile, in camelot the world moved merrily. but one morning, by fortune, as king arthur and queen guenever stood talking at a window, they espied a black barge drifting slowly down the river. wondering much what it meant, the king called sir kay and two other knights, and sent them to the river, bidding them to bring him speedy word of what the barge contained. this they did. on reaching the river-side they found that the barge had been turned inward, and lay beside the bank, and to their surprise they saw in it a rich bed, on which lay the corpse of as fair a woman as they had ever beheld. in the stern of the barge sat, with oar in hand, a poor man who seemed dumb, for no word would he speak. "that corpse must i see," said the king, when word of this event was brought him. "surely this betokens something strange." he took the queen by the hand and went to the river-side with her. here the barge had been made fast, and they stepped from the shore to its deck. there they saw the corpse of a beautiful maiden, dressed in costly attire, and lying in a bed which was richly covered with cloth of gold. and as she lay she seemed to smile. the queen now espied a letter clasped closely in her right hand, and showed it to the king. "that will surely tell us who she is, and why she has come hither," he said. he thereupon took the letter and returned with the queen to the palace. here, surrounded by many knights, he broke the seal, and gave the epistle to a clerk to read. this was its purport,-- "most noble knight, sir lancelot, now hath death made us two at debate for your love. i was your lover, she whom men called the fair maid of astolat; therefore unto all ladies i make my moan, and i beg you to pray for my soul, and at the least to bury me, and offer my mass-penny. this is my last request. god is my witness that i die a pure maiden. pray for my soul, sir lancelot, as thou art peerless." when this pitiful letter had been read, all who heard it shed tears, for never had they heard aught so moving. then lancelot was sent for and the letter read to him. "a sorrowful thing is this," he said, in grievous tones. "then she is dead, the fair elaine, and thus, with silent lips, makes her last prayer. truly it wounds me to the heart. yet, my lord arthur, god knows i had no just share in the death of this maiden, as her brother here, sir lavaine, can testify. she was fair and good, and i owed her much, but she loved me beyond measure, and her love i could not return." "you might have shown her," said the queen, reprovingly, "some bounty and gentleness, and thus have preserved her life." "madam," said lancelot, "naught would she have but my love, and my hand in marriage. i offered to endow her with a thousand pounds yearly, if she should love and wed any other, but to this she would not listen. as for me, i had no other comfort to give her, for love cannot be constrained, but must rise of itself from the heart." "truly must it," said the king. "love is free in itself, and will not be bound, for if bonds be placed upon it, it looseth itself perforce. as for this unhappy maiden, nothing is left for you but to obey her last pitiful request." "that shall i to the utmost of my power," said lancelot. then many knights and ladies went to behold the fair maiden, who had come thither in such moving wise. and in the morning she was richly interred, and with all due honor, at lancelot's command; and he offered her mass-penny, as did all the knights who were there present. then the poor dumb servitor returned again with the barge, rowing it slowly and sadly back to astolat. afterwards the queen sent for lancelot, and begged his pardon humbly for her causeless anger. [illustration: elaine.] "this is not the first time," said lancelot, "that you have been displeased with me without cause. what you will, i must bear, and keep my sorrow within my heart; yet i would that your love were less tainted by hasty jealousy. as for forgiving you, what else can i do, my queen? love cannot live without forgiveness." after these events the winter and spring passed on, with hunting and hawking, and jousts and tournaments, and the fate of the fair elaine was wellnigh forgotten in the joy of the court. but her brother lavaine gained great honor, and at a tournament that was given on candlemas day did so nobly that the king promised he should be made a knight of the round table at the next feast of pentecost. and at this tournament lancelot again fought in disguise, wearing a sleeve of gold of the queen's, and did such deeds that the prize was adjudged to him. thus a second time did he wear a woman's token in the lists. chapter iv. the chevalier of the cart. the year passed on from candlemas till after easter, and then came the month of may, when every lusty heart begins to blossom and to bear fruit; for as herbs and trees flourish in may, so does the heart of a lover, since in this lusty month all lovers gain courage, calling to their minds old vows and deeds of gentleness, and much that was forgotten in the winter's chill. as winter always defaces and erases green summer, so fares it with unstable love in man and woman. but as may flowers and flourishes in many gardens, so flowers the lover's heart in the joy of her to whom he has promised his faith. yet nowadays men cannot love seven days without their love cooling; for where love warms in haste it cools as hastily; thus fareth it in our days,--soon hot, soon cold. the old love was not so. men and women could love together seven years in truth and faithfulness. such was the way of love in king arthur's days; but love nowadays i liken unto summer and winter; now hot, now cold, like the changing seasons. therefore all ye who are lovers call to your remembrance the month of may, like as did queen guenever, who while she lived was a true lover, and therefore she had a good end. so it befell in the month of may that queen guenever called unto her certain knights of the round table, inviting them to ride with her in the early morn a-maying in the woods and fields beside camelot. "and see that you all be well horsed," she said, "and clad in green, either in silk or cloth. i shall bring with me ten ladies, and every knight shall have a lady behind him, and bring with him a squire and two yeomen." and so, when morning came, the ten knights invited put on their gayest robes of green, and rode with the queen and her ladies, a-maying in the woods and fields, to their great joy and delight. yet this pleasure party led to sad results, as we have now to tell. for there was a knight named meliagrance, son of king bagdemagus, who had a castle, the gift of king arthur, within seven miles of camelot. this knight loved the queen, and had done so for many years, and it had long been in his heart to steal her away; but he had never been able to find her without many knights about her, and, chief of all, sir lancelot. when he heard of this maying party, and that the queen would be attended by only ten knights, and these in green robes, he resolved to carry out his base design, and therefore placed in ambush twenty men-at-arms and a hundred archers. so it happened that while the queen and her knights were merrily arraying one another in flowers and mosses, and with wreaths made of sprays of fresh green, this false knight rode suddenly from a wood near by, followed by a throng of armed men, and bade them stand, and yield up the queen on peril of their lives. "traitor knight," cried guenever, "what seek you to do? wouldst thou, a king's son, and a knight of the round table, seek to dishonor the noble king who made you what you are? you shame yourself and all knighthood; but me you shall never shame, for i had rather cut my throat than be dishonored by you." "madam, this language will avail you nothing," said meliagrance. "i have loved you many a year, and now that i have you at advantage will take you as i find you." "you must kill us first, unarmed as we are," cried the queen's knights. "you have taken us at a foul disadvantage; but you shall not have the queen so lightly as you deem." "fight, will you? then fight it, if you will have it so," said meliagrance. then the ten knights drew their swords, and the others spurred upon them with couched spears. but so skilfully did the queen's defenders use their blades that the spears did them no harm. the battle then went on with swords, and the ten knights did noble deeds, slaying many of their assailants; yet they were so overmatched that they soon were all stretched upon the earth with bleeding wounds. "sir meliagrance," cried the queen, in deep distress, "kill not my noble knights, i pray you. if you do them no more harm i will go with you, if you will take them with me. otherwise i will slay myself before you shall take me." "madam, since you wish it, they shall be taken to my castle, whither you must come with me." then at the queen's command the battle ceased, and the knights had their wounds dressed. but meliagrance watched keenly that none of the company should escape, for greatly he feared that news of this outrage might be borne to lancelot du lake. but there was with the queen a little page who rode a swift horse, and to him she privily spoke. "slip away, when you see the chance," she said, "and bear this ring to lancelot du lake. tell him what has happened, and pray him as he loves me to come in haste to my rescue. spare not your horse, and stay not for land or water." the page took the ring, and rode carelessly to the edge of the circle. then, seeing his opportunity, he put spurs to his horse and rode away at full speed. when meliagrance saw this he ordered instant pursuit, and the boy was hotly chased and fired at with arrows and javelins; yet the speed of his horse soon carried him beyond danger. "madam," cried meliagrance, fiercely, to the queen, "you are plotting to betray me. but if you have sent for lancelot du lake, he shall find the road to you a perilous one, i warrant him." and as they rode to the castle he placed an ambush of thirty archers by the road-side, charging them if they saw a knight come that way on a white horse to slay the horse. but he warned them not to assail him in person, as they would find him hard to overcome. this done, the party proceeded to the castle; but here the queen would not let her ladies and knights out of her presence, and meliagrance stood in such dread of lancelot that he dared not use force. in the mean time the page found lancelot, and gave him the queen's ring and message, telling him the whole story of the treacherous assault. "i would give all france to have been there well armed," cried lancelot. "the queen shall be saved, or i will die in the effort. haste you to sir lavaine and tell him where i have gone, and bid him follow me to meliagrance's castle. tell him to come quickly, if he wishes to have a hand in the rescue of the queen and her knights." lancelot was hastily arming as he spoke, and mounting, he rode with all speed, forcing his horse to swim the thames in his haste. in no great time he reached the spot where the fight had taken place, and where he found the garlands the knights had worn, rent with sword-strokes and reddened with their blood. then he followed the tracks of the party till he entered a narrow passage, bordered by a wood. here were the archers stationed, and when lancelot came by they bade him return, for that way was closed. "why should i turn?" he demanded. "whence get you the right to close the way?" "if you go forward it will be on foot, for we shall kill your horse." "go forward i shall, if there were five hundred more of you," said lancelot. then a cloud of arrows whistled through the air, and the noble horse, struck by a dozen shafts, fell to the earth. lancelot leaped lightly from the falling animal, and rushed in a rage into the wood; but there were so many hedges and ditches that he found it impossible to reach his light-armed assailants. "shame on this meliagrance for a dastard!" he cried in anger. "it is a true old saw that a good man is never in danger but from a coward." the angry knight, finding that his assailants were beyond his reach, set out on foot for meliagrance's castle, but found himself so encumbered with his armor, shield, and spear, that his progress was but slow. yet he dared not leave any of his arms, for fear of giving his foe an advantage. at length, by good fortune, there appeared on the road a cart, that was used for hauling wood. "tell me, friend carter," said lancelot, when the vehicle came near, "what shall i give you for a ride in your cart to a castle that lies a few miles away?" "you can give me nothing," said the carter. "i am sent to bring wood for my lord, sir meliagrance, and it is not my fashion to work for two at once." "it is sir meliagrance i seek." "then go on foot," said the carter, surlily. "my cart is for other work." incensed at this, lancelot dealt the fellow a blow with his mailed fist that stretched him senseless on the ground. then he turned to the carter's comrade. "strike me not, fair sir," pleaded this fellow. "i will bring you where you wish." "then drive me and this cart to the gate of meliagrance's castle." "leap into the cart, and you shall be there before the day grows old." this lancelot did, and the carter lashed his horse forward with all speed, for he was in mortal fear of the knight's hard fist. an hour and a half afterwards, as guenever and her ladies stood in a window of the castle, they saw a cart approaching, in which stood upright an armed knight, resting on his spear. even at that distance they knew him by his shield to be lancelot du lake. "a noble and trusty friend he is, indeed, to come in such a fashion," said the queen. "hard bested he must have been, to be forced to ride hither in a woodman's cart." as they looked, the cart came to the castle gates, and lancelot sprang from it to the ground, his heart full of rage and passion. "where art thou, traitor?" he cried, in a voice that rang throughout the castle. "come forth, thou disgrace to the round table fellowship! come, with all your men; for here am i, lancelot du lake, who will fight you all single-handed on this question." as he spoke he thrust the gates open with such force that the porter, who sought to hold them shut, was hurled like a dead man to the earth. when meliagrance in the castle heard this loud defiance his cowardly soul sank within him, for well he knew from whom it came, and he ran in haste to the queen and fell on his knees before her, begging her to forgive him and to cool the wrath of lancelot. so pitifully did he implore, that in the end guenever was moved to compassion, and went with her ladies to the castle court, where lancelot stood furiously bidding the traitor knight to come down and do battle. "why are you so moved, lancelot?" asked the queen. "why should i not be?" he cried, in a rage. "the hound has killed my horse and stolen my queen. is this the thing to bear like a lamb?" "he sorely repents his fault, and has moved me to forgive him," said the queen. "come in, then, peaceably, i beg you, for i have passed my word." "you accord easily with this dog of a kidnapper," said lancelot, sourly. "had i looked for this i might have spared my haste and saved my horse." "it is not through love or favor i have forgiven him," said the queen, "but to check the voice of scandal." "i am no fonder of scandal than yourself," said lancelot. "yet if i had my will i would make this fellow's heart full cold before i left this castle." "i know that well, but beg that you will be ruled by me in this affair." "let it be so, if you have passed your word. but you are too soft of heart queen guenever." then she took his hand, for he had taken off his gauntlet, and led him into the castle, and to the chamber in which lay the ten wounded knights, whose hearts warmed at his coming. from them he learned in full what had occurred, a story which stirred his blood again into such a flame, that only the soft hand of the queen hindered him from seeking meliagrance through the castle to slay him. as they stood talking, sir lavaine rode furiously in at the gate, crying,-- "where is my lord, sir lancelot du lake?" "here i am," cried lancelot from a window. "all is well, lavaine." "i found your horse slain with arrows, and judged you were hard pushed." "as for that, lavaine, soft words have turned hard blows. come in. we shall right this matter at another time, when we best may." for many a day thereafter, as the french book says, lancelot was called the chevalier of the cart, and many an adventure he had under that homely name. all went peacefully that night at the castle, but the next morning there was new trouble. for one of the castle maidens brought word to meliagrance that she had found what seemed to be the print of a bloody hand on the coverings of the queen's bed. thither he hurried, full of jealous anger, and found what appeared, indeed, to be the crimson print of a man's hand. on seeing this he made a loud outcry, declaring that it was the blood of one of the wounded knights, and fiercely accused guenever of having been false to her lord king arthur. when word of this accusation came to the wounded knights they were filled with indignation, and cried that they would meet meliagrance or any man in the lists in defence of the queen's honor. "ye speak proudly," said meliagrance. "yet look here, and see if i have not warrant for what i say." when he showed them the red witness of his words they were abashed, and knew not what to answer. all this was told to lancelot, and he came in haste and anger to the queen's chamber. "what is this?" he demanded. "it is that the queen has proved false to her lord and husband, and this i stand ready to prove with my body," said meliagrance. "beware what you say, sir knight," cried lancelot, "or you will find your challenge taken." "my lord lancelot," answered meliagrance, "good knight as you are, take heed how you do battle in a wrong quarrel, for god will have a hand in such a cause." "this i say," answered lancelot, hotly, "that you accuse the queen wrongly, and these noble knights as falsely. this is the work of treason or magic." "hold," said meliagrance; "here is my glove, in proof that she is traitress to the king, and that one of these wounded knights is her leman." "i accept your challenge," said lancelot, "and will fight you to the death in this cause. when shall we do battle?" "let it be in eight days from this," said meliagrance, "in the field beside camelot." "i am agreed," said lancelot. "then let us go to dinner," said meliagrance, "and afterwards you and the queen and her knights may ride to camelot." yet fairly as he spoke his heart was full of treachery, and before going to the table he asked lancelot if he would care to see the rooms and passages of the castle. "if you wish to show them," said lancelot. then they went from chamber to chamber, lancelot having no fear of peril or thought of treason. but as they traversed a long and dark passage the false-hearted host trod on a spring, and down fell a trap-door, giving lancelot a fall of more than ten fathoms into a dark cell, whose floor was covered deeply with straw. this done, meliagrance hastened away, after replacing the trap, and ordered one of his men to remove lavaine's horse from the stable. when the knights came to dinner all were surprised that lancelot was not present. "is this one of his old tricks?" asked the queen. "he has a fashion of thus departing suddenly, without warning." "but not on foot," said lavaine, and left the room. when he returned, it was to say that his horse had vanished from the stable, and that doubtless lancelot had taken it and ridden off. so they sat quietly at dinner, and afterwards set out for the court, the wounded knights being carried under care of lavaine, in easily litters. when the court was reached, and arthur was told of what had occurred, he was full of wrath. "so this traitor meliagrance chooses first to kidnap my queen, and then to accuse her of treason?" he cried. "by my crown, i would deal with him in another fashion only that lancelot has taken the challenge. i fancy the fellow will have his hands full, without my care. but where is lancelot?" "that we know not," said the knights. "it is like him to go off in this hasty way. he took sir lavaine's horse, and left us without a word of parting." "let him he," said the king. "he will come in good time,--unless he be trapped by some treachery." little dreamed they of lancelot's true situation at that moment. he had been sorely bruised by his fall, and lay in great pain in the cave, visited only by a lady, who came to him daily with food. yet it happened, as had occurred so often to lancelot, that the lady fell in love with his handsome face. meliagrance had made a foolish choice in sending a woman with a soft heart to his prisoner, and was likely to pay dearly for his folly. yet days passed on, and lancelot continued deaf to her sighs and blind to her languishing looks. "sir lancelot," she at length said, "do you not know that your lady, queen guenever, will be burnt at the stake unless you be there at the day of battle?" "god forbid that such a disaster should come to pass!" cried lancelot. "yet if i should not be there, all men of worship will know that i am dead, sick, or in prison, for men know me well enough to know that nothing less would keep me away. therefore, some knight of my blood or of my fellowship will take up this battle, and fight bravely in the queen's cause." "i shall set you free, sir lancelot, to fight your own battle, if you will but give me your love; for truly i love you with my whole heart." "i am sorry that i cannot return it," said lancelot. "but i cannot lie to you in such a cause, even for life or honor." "take heed what you say, sir lancelot. shame will be your lot if any but you fight this battle." "as for the world's shame, may christ defend me. as for my distress of heart, it is welcome, if god sends it." the lady went away full of sorrowful thoughts. but on the morning of the day fixed for the battle she came to him again, and said, gently,-- "sir lancelot, i deem you hard-hearted and cruel; yet i love you too truly to see you disgraced. if you will solace my heart-pain with but one kiss, i will set you free, and deliver to you your armor, and the best horse in the castle stables." "surely there is no dishonor in a kiss; and well will you earn it by such service," said lancelot. "you offer me new life, fair lady." then he kissed her; and with a face half glad, half gloomy, she led him from the prison by a secret passage to the chamber where his armor had been left. and when he was armed she conducted him privily to a stable where stood twelve good horses, and bade him make his choice. lancelot chose a white courser, whose size and spirit pleased him most, and this he deftly saddled and bridled. then, with spear in hand and sword by side, he commended the lady to god, saying,-- "lady, for this good deed i shall do you ample service if ever it be in my power. if not, may god reward you." this said, he rode with proud mien from the castle, and galloped at headlong speed away, while she, with sad eyes and sighing lips, stood looking with loving regard on his departing form. sadly was his coming needed, for imminent was the peril of the queen. at the place fixed for the combat knights and lords had early gathered, and meliagrance, feeling sure that lancelot could not appear to do battle, put on a haughty mien, and loudly demanded justice, or the combat. yet the hour appointed came and passed, and the queen's champion had not appeared; while the king and all the court grew full of pain and dread as the fatal moments went by. the laws were strict, and could not be set aside for queen or commoner. guenever must perish at the stake, or be saved by a champion's sword and spear. therefore, as the minutes slowly grew into hours, and nothing of lancelot was seen, while meliagrance more loudly demanded justice or a champion, all hearts sank deep in despair. "my lord the king," cried lavaine, at length, "some sad misfortune has happened to sir lancelot. never did he fail to appear to do battle unless he were sick or in prison. i beseech you, therefore, give me leave this day to do battle for him, and to strike a knightly blow for my lady the queen." "thanks, gentle knight," said the king. "i dare avow that the charge which meliagrance lays upon the queen is a false one, for of these ten wounded knights who were present, there is not one but would gladly do battle to prove its falsity were he able to wear armor." "that shall i do in the service of my lord lancelot," said lavaine, "if you will give me leave." "full leave you have," answered the king. "i pray you do your best; for it seems sure that some treachery has been done to the noble lancelot." lavaine now armed in all haste, and, mounting his war-courser, rode into the lists, where he faced meliagrance, challenging him to do battle to the death. "lesses les aller!" cried the heralds. the two champions couched their spears, clutched their bridles, and were about to plunge the spurs into their horses' flanks, when the sound of hoofs was heard without, and an armed knight came galloping at furious speed into the lists. "ho! and abide!" cried king arthur. "raise your spears, sir knights, this quarrel is mine," said the new-comer. "you have my thanks, lavaine, but only i must fight in this cause." then he rode to the king, lifted his visor, and showed the noble face of lancelot, now hot with indignation. "i am here to fight this villain and traitor," he called, loudly. "my lord the king, i have lain these eight days in a prison cell, into which the base hound entrapped me. by fortune i escaped, and here i am, ready to pay him in fitting coin for his foul treachery." "the dog! has he done this thing?" cried the king, in anger. "then, by my crown, whether he win or not guenever shall not suffer from the charge which he has dared bring. but god's justice will not let him win." that meliagrance quaked at heart on seeing this seeming apparition from the grave need not be said. but he had dared the hazard of the die, and sat his horse in grim silence while his foul treachery was thus made known to the court. lancelot now rode to his place in the lists, and faced his adversary. "lesses les aller!" cried the heralds again. then, spear in rest, the warriors spurred their horses, and met with a shock like thunder in the centre of the field. lancelot kept his saddle, but meliagrance was hurled over his horse's croup. seeing this, lancelot lightly sprang from his saddle, drew his sword, and advanced upon his foe, who was on his feet ready to meet him. hot and fierce was the combat that succeeded, many great strokes being given and returned; but at length lancelot struck so fierce a blow that meliagrance was felled to the ground. then the dastard cried aloud in an agony of fear,-- "noble knight, noble sir lancelot, spare my life, i humbly pray you! i yield me as overcome and recreant and beseech you, as a knight and fellow of the round table, not to slay me helpless. alive or dead, i put myself in your hands and the king's." lancelot stood looking grimly down upon him, at a loss what to do. to slay him was the wish of his heart; yet it looked like murder to kill a praying wretch. in his doubt he turned towards the queen, and she nodded her head as if to bid him kill the villain. "rise, sir hound," cried lancelot. "you shall fight this battle to the utterance." "i will never rise," said meliagrance, "till you grant me mercy as a yielding and recreant knight." "coward!" cried lancelot. "if you fear to fight me as i am, i will give you odds in the combat. i will take off my armor from my head and the left side of my body, and let them bind my left hand behind me, and fight you with my right hand alone." at this perilous offer meliagrance started hastily to his feet, and loudly cried,-- "my lord arthur, you have heard this offer! i accept it. let him be disarmed and bound as he says." "you do not mean to keep this foolish promise, lancelot?" demanded the king. "that do i," said lancelot. "i shall not go back on my word, be it wise or foolish." "then so let it be; but you invite death by such a reckless compact." the attendant knights thereupon removed lancelot's helmet, and took from him his shield and the armor from his left side. they then bound his left arm behind him, and thus arrayed he was placed before his antagonist, whose heart burned with hope and with murderous designs. all those who looked on were full of fear for lancelot, deeming it the height of folly that he should take such a frightful risk, while many ladies closed their eyes, in dread to see him slain. with the inspiration of hope, meliagrance came up, bearing his sword uplifted, while lancelot stood with his head and side fully open to his stroke. down came the blade with a deadly sweep that caused many men to close their eyes, sure that the knights head would be cleft in twain. but lancelot had no such thought. with a light swing to the right he avoided the stroke, which cut idly through the air; then, stepping forward to give effect to the blow, he swung his own blade upward with giant strength, and brought it down on meliagrance's helmet with such mighty force that the hard steel and the head it covered were shorn in twain, and the traitor knight fell dead upon the field. wild were the shouts of joy and triumph at this unlooked-for end to the combat. the king sprang from his seat and rushed into the lists, where he warmly clasped lancelot in his arms; while guenever, in joy at her deliverance, kissed him on both cheeks; and all the knights crowded around them with glad cries and warm congratulations. as for meliagrance, he was given the burial of a recreant and traitor, the cause of his death being inscribed on his tomb, that all might read his dishonor. but for sir lancelot, the king and queen made more of him, and felt more love for him in their hearts, than ever before. after this time many events of interest took place of which we have little space to speak. among them, lancelot healed the wounds of a knight of hungary, named sir urre, who had been held in pain, through sorcery, for seven years, till his wounds should be touched by the best knight in the world. this knight had a lovely sister, named felelolie, whom lavaine married, whereupon king arthur made him a knight of the round table, and gave him a barony of land. as for lancelot, he gained great fame as the chevalier of the cart. for as many lords and ladies made sport of him as the knight who had ridden in a cart, like one sentenced to the gallows, for a whole twelvemonth he never mounted horse, but rode only in a cart, during which time he had many adventures and fought forty battles, in all of which he came off victor. and so the days grew into years, and all went happily at arthur's court, though each passing day brought the coming time of woe and disaster nearer to hand. book xi. the hand of destiny. chapter i. the trapping of the lion. in may, when every lusty heart flourisheth and bourgeoneth,--for as winter, with its rough winds and blasts, causes man and woman to cover and sit fast by the fire, this fresh and joyous season brings them forth to gladden in the coming of the flowery summer,--in this rare month of may, when only merry thoughts and gentle deeds should be known, there began a great and unhappy season of wrath, which ended not till the flower of chivalry of all the world was destroyed. and this all came about through the hate and jealousy of two unhappy knights, sir agravaine and sir mordred, brothers unto sir gawaine. for much in their secret souls they hated the queen and lancelot, and they fell to watching this good knight daily and nightly, with the hope of bringing him in some way to shame. failing in this base endeavor, they no longer concealed their enmity, but began to talk openly of the love of lancelot for the queen, and to hint that shameful relations existed between them. the report of this slanderous talk coming to gawaine's ears, he reproved them sharply for indulging in such base and unworthy scandal, in which he was joined by his brothers gareth and gaheris. "you forget what lancelot has done for you," said gawaine. "who but he rescued you both when held in prison by sir turquine? and many other things he has done in your favor. methinks such kind deeds merit better return than this." "think as you will," said agravaine, "i have my opinions and shall hide them no longer." as they thus debated king arthur approached. "now, brothers, stint your noise," said gawaine. "that will we not," they replied. "then the devil speed the pair of you, if you are bent on mischief! i will listen to no more of your slanderous talk." "nor will we," said gareth and gaheris. "we owe too much to lancelot to listen to the false tales of evil tongues." with this they turned and walked away in anger and grief, as arthur came up. "what is this?" asked the king. "is there bad blood between you brethren?" "they do not care to hear the truth," said agravaine, "but to my fancy it has been kept too long from your knowledge. we are your sister's sons, king arthur, and it is our duty to be honest and open with you." "what would you say?" asked the king. "simply what we and all your court know well, that there are such doings between lancelot and your queen as are a disgrace to this realm of england. he is a traitor to your person and your honor, and this we stand ready to prove." "this is a perilous charge you make," said arthur, deeply moved. "nor am i ready to believe such a tale on your mere word. you have gone far, gentlemen; too far, i deem, without abundant proof." "my lord," said mordred, "we speak not without due warrant, and proof you shall have. what we advise is, that you ride out to the hunt to-morrow. lancelot, you will find, will have some excuse to hold back. then, when night draws near, send word to the queen that you will lie out all that night. let this be done, and we promise you we shall take him with the queen. if we do it will go hard with lancelot; for we shall not lightly see our king brought to shame." "be it so," said the king, after deep thought, for he was little inclined to believe ill of lancelot. "i will do as you say. understand, sir knights, i have heard all this before; yet i believe it not, and i consent to your scheme only to put an end to the vile voice of scandal." on the next morning, as agreed upon, arthur rode to the hunt; but lancelot excused himself, as his enemies had predicted, on the plea that he was in no mood for the chase. when night came near a messenger from the king brought word to guenever that the hunting party had been drawn far away, and would not return that night. meanwhile mordred and agravaine selected twelve knights, all of them enemies of lancelot, to whom they told their purpose, and set them on guard in the castle of carlisle, where the court then was. of lancelot's friends few were in the court, for nearly all had gone with the king to the hunt. when night came, lancelot told bors, who dwelt with him, that he had a fancy to go and speak with the queen. "do not go to-night, i pray you," said bors. "why not to-night?" "i fear some plot of that rogue, agravaine, who has it in his heart to work you ill. i have heard a whisper, and fear that the king's absence to-night is part of a plot, and that an ambush is laid to do you harm." "have no dread of that," said lancelot. "i wish only some minutes' conversation with the queen, and will quickly return again." "i should rather you would not go. i am in doubt that some evil may come of it." "why say you this nephew? do you deem that i am a coward, or that the queen is my mistress, as the evil-tongued say? i go because she has sent for me, desiring to see me. am i the man to deny her request because there are foul-mouthed slanderers abroad?" "go, then, since i see you will. god speed you, and send you back safe and sound." lancelot thereupon wrapped himself in his mantle, and taking his sword under his arm made his way to the castle, which was some distance from his residence. here he sought and entered the queen's chamber, where she awaited him with her ladies. but no sooner had he done so, and scarcely had he spoken a word to his royal lady, than mordred, agravaine, and their followers burst in tumult from the chamber in which they had been concealed, and loudly exclaimed,-- "traitor knight! lancelot du lake, false and caitiff wretch, now art thou taken in thy treason!" so loud they cried that their voices rang throughout the court, and they crowded round the door of the queen's chamber, bent on taking lancelot unarmed, and slaying him at the feet of guenever. fortunately the door was of solid oak, and a damsel of the queen had hastily shot the bolts. "alas!" cried the queen, "what vile plot is this? mischief is around us, lancelot!" "is there any armor in your chamber?" asked lancelot. "if so, give it to me, and i will face this malicious crew." "there is none," said the queen. "i see no hope, and fear our love has come to a fatal end. there seems to be a host of armed knights without. they will kill you, lancelot, and death will come to me through their vile charge of unchastity." "why did i not even wear as much of my armor as i fought meliagrance with!" cried lancelot, in distress. "if i had but listened to sir bors! never was i caught in such a trap before." as they spoke the tumult without increased, and mordred and agravaine cried together,-- "come out, thou traitor knight! think not to escape, for we have you like a rat in a trap. come out and meet your just deserts." "shall i bear this?" cried lancelot, flaming into anger. "the dogs! a dozen of them in armor against one man in his mantle! i would rather meet death at once than stand and hear their reviling tongues." then he took the queen in his arms and kissed her, saying,-- "most noble christian queen, i beseech you, as you have ever been my special good lady, and i your poor knight, and as i never failed you in right or wrong since the day that king arthur made me knight, that you will pray for my soul if i be here slain. for you may be sure that sir bors and my other kindred, with lavaine and others of my friends, will rescue you from harm, and i beg you to go with them and live like a queen on my lands." "that will i not, lancelot," said the queen. "if you are slain for me, then death may come when it will, for i shall not live long to mourn you." "then, since my last hour seems to have come, and our love and life must cease together, so let it be; but some of those barking curs shall go with me to the shades. i am heavier at heart for you than for myself. ah, that i had but a knight's armor!" "i would that god would be content with my death, and suffer you to escape," said the queen. "that shall never be," said lancelot. "god defend me from such a shame. and now may the lord jesus be my shield and my armor." this said, he wrapped his mantle around his arm, and approached the door. as he did so the strong oaken portal trembled under their blows, for they had got a great form out of the hall, and were using it as a battering-ram. "save your trouble, you crew of mischief," said lancelot. "think you that lancelot du lake needs to be come at like a rabbit in its hutch? i fear you not, and dread not to face an army of such hounds." "come out, then, or let us into that chamber. it avails you nothing to strive against us all; but we will promise to spare your life till we have brought you to king arthur." "will you?" said lancelot, "or do you think to slay me where i stand? i trust you not, liars." then he unbarred the door and with his left hand held it open a little, so that but one man could enter at a time. as he did so, colgrevance of gore, who stood nearest, pressed forcibly through the opening, and struck a spiteful blow at lancelot with his sword. this lancelot parried, and returned so fierce a stroke with his own good blade, that he cut through the helmet and skull of the knight, and stretched him dead upon the floor. then, with all his great strength, he dragged the bleeding corpse within the chamber, closed the door against the pressure of all who bore upon it, and replaced the bars. "so much for this daring fool," he cried. "thank heaven, i have an armor now! i shall not be quite a sheep at the shambles." as he spoke he was hastily stripping the armor from the body of the dead knight. this done, he quickly arrayed himself in it, with the aid of the queen and her ladies. meanwhile the assault on the door continued, and mordred and agravaine kept up their cry,-- "traitor knight! come out of the queen's chamber!" "hold your peace," cried lancelot. "you shall not prison me here, i promise you that, and if you take my counsel, you will depart. i am ready to agree on my knighthood to appear to-morrow before the king, and answer there that i came not to the queen with any evil purpose; and this i stand ready to prove by word or deed." "out on you, traitor!" cried mordred. "have you, we will, and slay you if we wish, for the king has given us the choice to save you or slay you." "is that your last word, sirrahs? then keep yourselves, for i am not of the breed that die easily." as he spoke, he flung down the bars and threw the door wide open. then he strode proudly and mightily among them, sword in hand and clad in full armor, and at the first blow from his mighty hand stretched agravaine dead upon the floor. like a maddened lion that charges upon a herd of sheep, he now rushed upon them, striking fiercely to right and left, and felling men with every blow, till in a little while twelve more of his assailants lay cold in death, for there was not a man of them all could stand one blow from his powerful arm. of the whole party only mordred remained alive, and he fled wounded with craven haste. then lancelot, leaning on his blood-dripping sword, turned to the queen, who stood looking at his deeds of might, with white lips and starting eyes. [illustration: copyright by frederick hollyer, london, england. sir lancelot in the queen's chamber.] "all is at an end now," he said. "henceforth king arthur is my foe, and i am like a wolf at bay. yet i fear your enemies will work you fatal harm, and would have you go with me, and let me be your knight-protector." "that i dread to do," said the queen, "for vile slander would follow my footsteps. i had better face my foes. if they devise to put me to death, then you may come to my rescue, and no one then can blame me for going with you." "that shall i do," said lancelot. "and i promise to make such havoc among all men who mean you harm as i have done among those who lie here." then he kissed her, and each gave the other a ring; and so he left the queen and went to his lodgings. chapter ii. the rescue of the queen. little sleep came that night to lancelot and his friends. for when he came again to bors, he had found him, with others of his kindred, armed and ready to come to his rescue. they listened with concern and indignation to lancelot's story of how he had been entrapped, and heard with knightly joy the story of his bold discomfiture of his foes. but it was evident to them all that the event was one of the greatest moment; that enmity would exist between lancelot and the king, and that guenever might be adjudged to the stake on the charge of infidelity to her lord. therefore bors took it upon himself to gather in lancelot's defence all his kindred and friends; and by seven o'clock of the next morning he had gained the word of twenty-two knights of the round table. to these were added knights of north wales and cornwall, who joined lancelot for lamorak's and tristram's sake, to the number of fourscore. to these lancelot told all that had occurred, and expressed his fear of arthur's hostility. "i am sure of mortal war," he said, "for these knights claimed to have been sent and ordained by king arthur to betray me, and i fear the king may, in his heat and malice, condemn the queen to the fire. trust me, that i will not suffer her to be burnt for my sake. she is and has been ever a true lady to her lord, and while i live she shall not become a victim to the malice of her enemies." the assembled knights agreed with him in this decision, and promised their utmost aid in his purpose of rescue. "rescue her i shall, whoever may be hurt; and i trust to heaven that no friend of mine will aid the king to her injury. but if i rescue her, where shall i keep her?" "did not the noble sir tristram, with your good will, keep la belle isolde three years in joyous gard, against the malice of king mark?" said bors. "that place is your own; and there, if the king adjudge the queen to the stake, you may keep her till his heat shall cool. then you may bring her home with worship, and gain arthur's thanks." "that may not work so well as you fancy," said lancelot. "you remember what a return tristram got from king mark." "that is another story," replied bors. "you know well that arthur and mark are men of different mould. mark could smile and play the traitor; but no man living can say that king arthur was ever untrue to his word." their conference over, by the advice of lancelot the knights put themselves in ambush in a wood as near carlisle as they could secretly approach. and there they remained on guard, waiting to learn what the king might do. meantime mordred, though wounded by lancelot's sword, had managed to mount his horse, and rode in all haste to tell the king of the bloody end of the ambush. on hearing the story, arthur's mind was divided between anger and pain. "it grieves me sorely that lancelot should be against me," he said; "and much i fear that the glorious fellowship of the round table is broken, for many of our noblest knights will hold with him. but dishonor must not rest upon england's crown. the queen has played me false, and shall suffer death for her treason to her wifely duty." for the law was such in those days, that all, of whatever estate or degree, found guilty of treason, should suffer death. and so it was ordained in queen guenever's case--since thirteen knights had been slain, and one escaped sore wounded, in defending the king's honor--that she should be taken to the stake, and there be burnt to death as a traitress. "my lord arthur," said gawaine, "let me counsel you not to be over hasty in this severe judgment, for as i take it the guilt of the queen is not proved. that lancelot was found in the queen's chamber i admit; but he might have come there with no evil purpose. you know how he has been for years her chosen knight, and how much he has done for her. she may have sent for him privily, to avoid scandal, for conference on some innocent subject. what we do for the best often turns to the worst, and i dare affirm that my lady the queen is, and has always been, faithful and true to her lord. as for lancelot, i doubt me not he will make good what i have said with word and body, against any and all that question or oppose." "that i believe," said the king. "i know lancelot's way. but his boldness does not prove the queen's innocence. for her he shall never fight again, for she shall suffer the penalty of the law. and if i can lay my hands on him, he shall die the shameful death he richly merits." "then may christ save me from ever seeing it," said gawaine. "why say you this?" demanded the king, angrily. "you have no cause to love him. last night he killed your brother agravaine, and here is mordred sorely wounded. he also slew two of your sons, sir florence and sir lovel." "i know all that. but i gave them warning beforehand of what would happen if they meddled in this affair. they brought this fate on themselves. as for agravaine, he stirred up this scandalous business, and has got his deserts." "say no more," cried the king, in hot indignation. "i am resolved. the honor of arthur's wife must be above suspicion. she has fallen from chastity and shall die the death. as for you, gawaine, i bid you arm in your best armor, with your brethren gareth and gaheris, and bring her to the fire, that she may there hear her judgment, and receive the death she merits." "no, my most noble lord, that shall i never do," said gawaine. "no man shall say that i had aught to do with the death of this worthy lady, or gave my word in favor of her death." "then bid your brothers, gareth and gaheris, attend." "they are young, and may not withstand your will; but they shall not be there by my counsel," said gawaine, stoutly. "we must attend, if you command us," said gareth and gaheris to the king. "but it will be sorely against our wills. if come we must, it shall be in peaceful guise, and without warlike array." "come as you will," said the king. "this i say, she shall have judgment this day." "alas! that i have ever lived to see this woful day!" said gawaine, sadly, and as he turned away the tears ran hotly from his eyes. but the king was bitterly set in his deadly purpose, and no sooner had he reached carlisle than he gave command that the queen should at once be led to the place of execution, there to be burned as a traitress. when this fatal decision was known in the castle there was weeping and wailing and wringing of hands from many lords and ladies, while of the knights there present, few would consent to wear armor to compass the queen's death. but arthur's commands none dared question, and the unhappy lady was shriven by her ghostly father, and bound to the fatal stake. in a circle around her stood a guard of armed knights, while others were present without armor. but the king was not there; nor would gawaine show himself at that shameful scene. then fire was set to the fagots that surrounded the stake. but as the flames began to curl upwards there came a shrill bugle-blast from a neighboring wood, and of a sudden lancelot and his knights broke from their ambush, and rode upon those about the fire, striking right and left at all who bore arms and withstood them. down went the guard of knights before this fierce onset, till full twenty of them lay dead on the field. but by sad fortune, as lancelot, in his warlike fury pressed hither and thither, cutting and slashing with the hot rage of the berserker, he by mishap struck the two unarmed knights, gareth and gaheris, and stretched them dead upon the field. this was in the thick of the fray, and he knew not what he had done, for rather would he have slain himself than harmed these, his faithful friends. a few minutes sufficed to kill or disperse all the guard. then lancelot sprang from his horse, scattered the blazing fagots with his foot, and with a blow of his sword severed the bonds that fastened guenever to the stake. the unhappy lady fell, weeping, into his arms, thanking him in broken accents. with all due haste he mounted her on a horse that had been provided, and rode off with her and his following of gallant knights to joyous gard, strong of heart and stout of frame, and resolved to fight for her to the death, for more than ever he felt himself her chosen knight. and when word went through the country round that arthur and lancelot were at odds, many a good knight rode in all haste to his castle, bent on taking his side in the coming war. but when the news was brought to arthur of how lancelot had rescued the queen, and slain many of his knights, and in particular gareth and gaheris, his anger turned to such bitter sorrow and regret that he swooned from pure grief. and when he came to his senses again he deeply moaned, and reproached himself for the evil that had befallen. "alas! that i ever wore the crown!" he bewailed. "within these two days i have lost forty knights, and, above all, the noble fellowship of lancelot and his kindred, and all because i listened to the tongue of foul detraction. alas! that ever this fatal thing began! fair friends, see that none of you tell gawaine of what has happened, for he loves gareth so deeply that i fear, when he hears of his death, he will go out of his mind. how came lancelot to slay these knights, who both loved him devotedly?" "he would never have harmed them had he known them," said a knight. "it was in the midst of the hurtling and fierce struggling, when swords strike they know not where. sad he will be when he learns what he has done." "i am heavier for the loss of my knights than of my queen," said arthur, sadly. "other queens may be had, but such a fellowship of knights can never be brought together again. and this i know, that when gawaine learns of gareth's death, he will never rest, nor suffer me to rest, till i have destroyed lancelot and his kindred, or they have destroyed me. ah, agravaine, agravaine, jesus forgive thy soul for thy evil will, for thou and thy brother mordred have caused all this bitter sorrow." while the king thus complained, a tale-bearer, unheeding his injunctions, came to gawaine big with his story, and told him of the rescue of the queen, and the death of a knightly host. "what else could lancelot do?" said gawaine. "i should have done as much myself had i stood in his place. but where are my brothers? why hear i not of them?" "truly," said the man; "they are both killed." "now, jesus forbid! what! both? is gareth slain? dare you tell me so?" "alas! the pity of it!" "killed! who killed him?" "sir lancelot slew them both." "that is false. gareth loved him better than he did me or the king. he would have joined him against us all, had lancelot desired. and he was unarmed. dare you repeat this story?" and he caught the man fiercely by the shoulders and glared wildly in his face. "sir, it is so noised abroad," said the man. "then is all joy gone from my life," moaned gawaine, and he fell to the floor in a deep swoon, in which he lay long like one dead. but when gawaine recovered, and had sought the king, and learned that his two brothers had been killed, unarmed and defenceless, his sorrow changed to bitter and revengeful anger. "my king, my lord, and my uncle," he sternly said, "i vow by my knighthood that i shall never forgive lancelot for this murderous deed, but from this day forth shall remain his deadly foe, till one of us has slain the other. war to the death it shall be, and if you aid me not i shall seek sir lancelot alone, if it be through seven kings' realms, till i hold him to answer for this deed of blood." "you shall not need to seek him so far," said the king. "they say that lancelot awaits us in joyous gard, and that many knights have joined him." "well is it so," said gawaine fiercely. "then my lord arthur, gather your friends, and i will gather mine. say not that deeds like this shall go unpunished in england's realm. your justice defied! my unarmed brothers murdered! shall this be done, and we basely submit?" "you speak to the point," said the king. "we must strike for honor and revenge. strong as lancelot's castle is, and bold as are his friends, i fancy i can gain strength enough to draw him out of the strongest tower in it." then king arthur sent orders far and wide through the land, and in brief time there came to carlisle many knights, dukes, and earls, so that he had a great host. these the king informed of what had happened, and of his purpose to force lancelot to yield up his queen, and to punish him for his trespass. lancelot meanwhile, was not idle, but drew to himself, many more knights, and provisioned his castle fully, for he well knew that he must abide behind walls, as he was far too weak to meet the king's host in the field. not many days had elapsed when king arthur and gawaine with a great host of men, laid siege about joyous gard, both the town and the castle, and war replaced the peace that had reigned so long in the land. but lancelot lay secure in his castle, and for a long time would not go out himself, nor suffer any of his knights to pass the gates of town or castle. and so fifteen weeks of the siege passed away. chapter iii. the return of guenever. it befell upon a day in harvest-time that lancelot looked over the walls of joyous gard, and seeing below him the king and gawaine, thus spoke to them,-- "my lords both, you besiege this castle in vain. you will gain more dishonor than worship here. if i chose to come out, with my knights, i should soon bring this war to an end." "come forth, if thou darest!" cried the king, in anger. "i promise to meet thee in the midst of the field." "god defend that i should face on the field of battle the noble king who made me knight." "a truce to your fair language," answered the king. "trust me, that i am your mortal foe, and will be so till the day of my death. you have slain my knights and dishonored my queen, and hold her from me by force, like a traitor. think you i shall lightly forgive this?" "you may say what you will, my lord and king," answered lancelot. "with you i will not fight; but as for your lady guenever, i am ready to stand for her innocence against any knight under heaven. those who have slandered me and her lie in their teeth, and i hold myself ready to prove to the death that she is as true and chaste a lady as ever lived. more than once, my lord, you have consented that she should be burnt, from the voice of slander, and more than once have i rescued her, and forced the lie down the throats of her slanderers. then you thanked me for saving her from the fire. now, for doing you the same high service again, you bring war upon me. your queen is honest and true, and if you will receive her to your good grace again i stand ready to deliver her." "recreant knight!" cried gawaine, in wrath, "i warrant you my lord the king shall have his queen and you too, despite your fair words and proud defiance, and shall slay you both if it please him." "that may be, gawaine," said lancelot. "yet if i chose to come out of the castle you would not find it quite child's play to win me and the queen." "save your boastful words," said gawaine. "as for my lady, the queen, i shall say naught to her dishonor. but, recreant knight, what cause had you to slay my brother gareth, who loved you with his whole soul?" "i shall not seek an excuse for that deed," said lancelot. "i would with as good will have slain my nephew sir bors. all i may say is that it was done in the heat of battle, and i knew not they were slain till word was brought me here." "you lie in your teeth!" cried gawaine. "you killed them in despite of me; and for this foul deed i shall make war on you while i live." "if you are so hotly set, there is no use for me to seek accord; yet i am truly sorry for their deaths and your enmity. only for this i would soon have the good grace of my lord arthur." "that may be, traitor, but you will wait long for peace. you have lorded it over me, and the whole of us, too long, and slain knights at your will. now our turn has come." "no one dare say that i ever killed a knight through treachery, as you, gawaine, have done." "you mean sir lamorak. him i slew, man to man." "who lies now? you know well that you and the crew that set upon him dared not meet him face to face. you struck him treacherously from behind." "a truce to lamorak. this you may know, that i will never leave you till i deal with you as i did with him." "murder me, you mean! i fancy you might if you caught me in such a strait, which you will not easily do." then others took the cue from gawaine, and the cry went up from many voices: "false and recreant knight! how long will you hide behind your castle walls, like a rat in his hole?" "how long is this to last?" said bors and others to lancelot. "we pray you to keep us no longer within these walls, but let us out to do battle with them. men will say next that you are afraid. as for fair speech, it is thrown away. gawaine will never forgive you, nor suffer you to make accord with the king. therefore fight for your right, for to that it must come." "i am loath to do so," said lancelot. then he called from the wall to the king,-- "my knights demand that i let them sally from the castle. i therefore pray that neither you nor sir gawaine come into the field, for to you two i wish no harm." "what then? shall we cower in our tents while others fight our battles?" cried gawaine. "this quarrel is mine and the king's. shall we not fight in it?" "if you will, you will; but i seek not battle with either of you." then they drew back, and both sides made ready for battle. and gawaine, with deadly intent, set aside a strong body of knights, bidding them to attack lancelot in force, and slay him if they could. when the next morning came, king arthur drew up his host against the castle in three great bands. and lancelot's fellowship issued from the castle at three gates, the three bands being led by lancelot, bors, and lionel. but lancelot had given strict charge to his knights to avoid harming king arthur and sir gawaine. fierce was the battle that followed, and many good knights were slain. it began with a challenge from gawaine, who came out before the king's host and dared any knight of lancelot's to joust with him. this challenge lionel accepted, but gawaine thrust him through the body, and dashed him to the earth like a dead man. then his friends rushed to his rescue and drove back his foes, bearing him from the field into the castle. this affray brought on a hot and fiery battle, and soon the air was filled with shouts, and the earth strewn with dead and wounded men. in the midst of this fray the king hotly attacked lancelot; but that faithful knight patiently endured his assault, and lifted not a hand in defence. but bors, seeing his danger, rushed in, and, with a spear thrust, hurled king arthur to the ground. quickly leaping from his horse, he drew his sword, and said,-- "shall i make an end of this war?" "on pain of your head, no! harm not the king! i shall not stand by and see him slain." then lancelot sprang to the ground and helped the king to his horse again, saying,-- "my lord arthur, for god's sake, end this strife! i will not fight you, though you kill me, nor have i the heart to fight your men. my lord, remember what i have done for you. is not this an evil reward?" when arthur heard these words tears flowed from his eyes, for lancelot's courtesy had overcome his anger. he turned and rode away, saying sadly,-- "alas! that this war ever began." then both sides drew off, and parties of each began the sad duty of burying the dead, while the wounded were borne away, and healing salves applied to their wounds. the next day the battle was renewed, and fought with the same deadly energy as before. on this day bors led the foremost party, and met gawaine as lionel had done the day before. fiercely together they rode, and both were hurled to the ground with deep and dangerous wounds. around them the battle raged with double fierceness, but lancelot broke in and rescued bors, and had him borne to the castle, while the other party bore off gawaine. then, as the battle continued, lavaine and others begged lancelot to put forth his strength and fight with his full might, for he imperilled them all by his forbearance. "why should you spare your foes?" they said. "you do but harm thereby. your enemies spare not you." "i have no heart to fight against the king," said lancelot. "if you spare them all this day they will never thank you," said palamides. "and if they get the better of you they will slay you without mercy." lancelot saw that this was but the truth, and stirred by this and the wound of sir bors, he rushed into the fray with his old might and fury, forcing back all before him. glad to see the old lancelot, his followers pressed forward, driving back the foe, so that by eventide they had the best of the fray, and their horses went fetlock deep in the blood of the slain. then, in pity for arthur, lancelot blew the recall, and suffered the king's party to withdraw without further slaughter. after this there was peace between the parties for many days, for gawaine had been so sorely hurt that he could not stir the king to active war, and arthur after awhile returned to carlisle, leaving the castle closely besieged. but the story of this war had now passed through christendom, and had reached the pope, who, feeling that war between king arthur and lancelot was like battle between brothers, sent a letter to the king, commanding him, under pain of an interdict upon all england, to take his queen guenever into favor again, and to make peace and accord with sir lancelot. this papal bull was brought to arthur by the bishop of rochester, who was then at rome. when the king had heard it read he knew not what to do. he agreed to take back the queen, and in his heart desired to make friends with lancelot; but to this gawaine, who had then the greatest influence over him, would not consent. in the end it was agreed that if lancelot would bring back the queen he should come and go in safety, and that no word should be spoken to guenever, by the king or other person, of aught that had happened in the past. then the bishop had from the king his assurance, under the great seal of the realm, as he was a true anointed knight, that sir lancelot should come and return in safety, and that the queen should not be spoken to by the king, or any other, concerning what had passed. with this safe-conduct, written at length and signed by king arthur, the holy prelate rode in state to joyous gard, where he made lancelot acquainted with all that had happened, telling him of the pope's action, and of the peril he would encounter if he withheld the queen from the king. "it was never in my thought," said lancelot, "to withhold queen guenever from my lord arthur. all men know why i have her in charge. she would have suffered a shameful death through the king's unjust anger had i not been on hand to save her life; and i hold her only from peril of that vile sentence, which has never until now been remitted. i thank the pope heartily that he has made peace between guenever and the king, and god knows that i will be a thousand-fold gladder to take her back than i ever was to bring her away. all i demand is, that i shall come and go in safety, and that the queen shall have her liberty as before, and stand in no peril from this or any former charge against her. for else i dare venture to keep her from a harder shower than ever yet has fallen upon her or me." "you need dread nothing either for yourself or the queen," replied the bishop. "you know full well that the pope must be obeyed, by the king as well as by you. it were not to the pope's worship nor my poor honor that you should be distressed, or the queen put to shame or peril. and as for king arthur, here is his promise, under his own writing and seal." then he showed lancelot all the written documents he had brought, both from the pope and the king. "that suffices," said lancelot. "i would trust king arthur's bare word as i would the oath of half christendom. no man can say that he ever broke his plighted faith. therefore, i beg you to ride before me to the king, and recommend me to his good grace, letting him know that in eight days from to-day, by the grace of god, i shall bring to him his lady queen guenever. and say this further to him, that i stand ready to meet any one in the lists for the queen's fair fame except himself and sir gawaine, and the latter more from the king's love for him than from aught of his own deserts." with this agreement the bishop departed to carlisle, and when he had told the king how nobly lancelot had spoken, the tears started from arthur's eyes, and much he deplored in his heart the cruel chance that had aroused war between him and his dearest friend. lancelot now made ready a hundred knights, who were all dressed in green velvet, with their horses trapped to their heels, while each knight held in his hand an olive branch, in token of peace. for the queen there were provided four and twenty gentlewomen, who followed her in the same guise; while lancelot was followed by twelve coursers, on each of which sat a young gentleman, and these were arrayed in green velvet with golden girdles, and the horses trapped to the heels with rich cloths, set with pearls and stones in gold, to the number of a thousand. as for lancelot and guenever, they were clothed in white cloth-of-gold tissue. and in this array they rode from joyous gard to carlisle, and through carlisle to the castle, while many an eye shed tears on seeing them. then lancelot alighted and took the queen, and led her to where arthur sat, with gawaine and many great lords before him. then he kneeled, and the queen with him. many of the assembled knights wept bitterly on seeing this, but the king sat in haughty silence, looking steadily upon the pair who knelt before him. seeing his countenance, lancelot rose and forced the queen to rise also. then thus he spoke in knightly pride,-- "my lord the king, by the pope's command and yours i have brought you my lady, the queen, as right requireth. if there be any knight, whatever his degree, except your sacred self, who shall dare say she has been untrue to you, i, lancelot du lake, stand ready to make her honor good with my body. to liars you have listened, and that has caused all the trouble between you and me. time has been, my lord arthur, when you have been greatly pleased with me in that i did battle for my lady your queen. full well you know, my most royal sir, that she has been put to great wrong before this time; and since it pleased you then that i should fight for her, it seems to me that i had still more cause this last time to rescue her from the fire, since she was to have been burnt for my sake. had not the might of god been with me, think you that i could, unarmed, have prevailed over fourteen armed knights? i was sent for by the queen, who wished to confer with me, but had barely stepped within her chamber, when out burst mordred and agravaine, calling me traitor and recreant knight." "they called you truly," said gawaine. "did they so, gawaine? by heaven, in their quarrel they failed to prove themselves in the right." "i have given you no cause to do evil to me, lancelot," said the king. "for i have loved you and yours more than all my other knights." "my good lord and liege," answered lancelot, "i beg it may not displease you if i answer that you have better cause to love me and mine than most knights, for none have done you such service as we have at many times and in many places. often have i myself rescued you from deadly peril, when you were hard pressed by your foes; and it has ever been my joy to please you, and my lord gawaine as well, in jousts and tournaments, and in set battles, both on horse and on foot. i wish not to boast of my deeds, yet you all know well that i never met a knight but that i was able to stand against him, and have always done my duty like a man. i have been matched with good knights, such as sir tristram and sir lamorak, whom i loved for their valor and honesty. and i take god to witness, that i was never angry with or jealous of any good knight whom i saw active to win honor, and was ever glad at heart when i found a knight who was able to endure me on horseback or on foot. sir carados of the dolorous tower was a noble knight and a man of mighty strength, and this you know full well, sir gawaine, since he pulled you from your horse, and bound you before him on his saddle. yet i rescued you from him, and slew him before your eyes. in like manner i found his brother, sir turquine, leading your brother, sir gaheris, bound on his saddle, and slew him, and rescued your brother, as also three-score and four of king arthur's knights whom he held in prison. never met i with as strong and hard-fighting knights as sir carados and sir turquine, and i fought with them to the uttermost for the sake of you and your brother. it seems to me, sir gawaine, that you ought to bear in mind this good service i did for you in the past. if i might but have your good will in return, i would trust to god to have my lord arthur's kindly grace." "the king may do as he will," said gawaine; "but while i live i shall never be in accord with you. i cannot forget that you have killed three of my brothers, two of them treacherously and pitilessly, for they wore no armor against you, and refused to bear any." "would to heaven they had been armed, for then they would now be alive," said lancelot. "i tell you this, sir gawaine, that i love none of my own kinsmen as i did your brother, sir gareth, and would far rather have slain myself than him. never while i live shall i cease to mourn his death, not alone for your bitter sorrow and anger, but for other causes which concern myself. one is, that it was i who made him a knight; another is, that he loved me above all other knights; a third is, that he was ever noble, true, courteous, and gentle. i never would have slain, or even hurt, either gareth or gaheris by my will; and sad at heart am i that this fatal chance has robbed me of your love and made undying war between us, and has caused my noble lord and king to be my mortal foe. may jesus forgive me for this cruel chance, which the fates have laid upon me. in reparation for this sad misfortune, i shall freely offer, if it will please the king's good grace, and yours, my lord gawaine, to do penance in this wise. i shall start from sandwich, and go in my shirt, barefoot, and at every ten miles' end i shall found a religious house, of what order you wish, where shall be sung and read day and night psalms and masses for the repose of sir gareth and sir gaheris. this i shall perform from sandwich to carlisle. this, sir gawaine, seems to me fairer, holier, and better for their souls than that you and the king should make war upon me; for little good to any is likely to come from it." then the knights and ladies there wept as though they were distracted, and the tears fell hot on king arthur's cheeks. but no shadow of softness came to gawaine's stern face. "the king, as i have said, may do as it pleases him," he answered, "but i shall never forgive you for the murder of my brothers. if my uncle, king arthur, accords with you, he shall lose my service, for i hold you false both to the king and me." "the man lives not that can make that good," cried lancelot. "if you charge me thus, i am ready to answer you with spear and sword since words you disdain." "that cannot be at this time," said gawaine. "you are here under the king's safe-conduct, and so must depart. if it were not for the pope's command and the king's given word, i should do battle with you, body to body, and prove upon you that you have been false both to the king and to me. in this land you shall not abide more than fifteen days, for i give you open warning that your safe-conduct lasts only for that time. in this the king and we all were agreed before you came hither. only for this you would now find that my words are ready to be backed up with deeds. and this you shall find wheresoever i shall meet you hereafter." then lancelot sighed, and tears fell upon his cheeks. "alas, most christian realm," he said, "that i have loved above all other realms, and most christian king, whom i have worshipped next to my god. from both i am banished, without cause or warrant. truly i am sorry that i ever came into this land, to be thus causelessly and shamefully treated, after my long service here. so is it ever with fortune, whose wheel is so changeable that there is no constant abiding; and this may be proved by the old chronicles of noble hector of troy, and troilus, and alexander the mighty conqueror, and many more. when they were highest they quickly became lowest; and thus has it fared with me. no living men have brought more honor and glory to the round table than i and my kindred, and yet we stand banished from the land which owes us such worthy service. as for you, gawaine, i can live upon my native lands as well as any knight here. and if you, redoubted king, shall seek me there in hostile array, i must endure you as well as i may. if you come thither, gawaine, see that you charge me not with treason or felony, for if you do, it will scarcely end with words." "do your worst," cried gawaine, hotly. "and get you gone from here as fast as you can. we shall soon come after, and tumble your strongest castle upon your head." "that shall not need," said lancelot. "you may find me ready to meet you in open field." "there have been words enough," said gawaine. "deliver the queen and take yourself away." "if i had looked for so short a reception i would have thought twice before coming," answered lancelot, proudly. "if the queen had been as dear to me as you would make her, i durst have kept her from the best fellowship of knights under heaven." then he turned to guenever and said, in full hearing of the king and all there,-- "madam, now i must depart from you and this noble fellowship forever. since it is so, i beseech you to pray for me. and if you be slandered by any false tongues, send me word, my lady, and if one knight's hands may deliver you by battle, i shall deliver you." then lancelot kissed the queen, and said openly to all present,-- "now let me see who there is in this place that dare say queen guenever is not true unto my lord king arthur! let him speak who dare speak." he looked proudly around the hall, from right to left, but no voice came in answer. then he took the queen by the hand and led her to the king, and delivered her to his royal hand. this done, lancelot turned and walked from the hall with haughty stride; and there was neither duke, earl, nor king, baron nor knight, lady or maiden, that wept not at the sorrowful parting, except sir gawaine. and when lancelot took his horse to ride out of carlisle there was sobbing and weeping from all the people who had gathered in the streets to see him depart. and so he took his way to joyous gard, which ever after he called dolorous gard. and thus departed sir lancelot du lake from the court of king arthur forever. he now called his fellowship about him, and asked them what they would do. "whatever you will," they answered with one voice. "then, my brave and faithful friends, we must leave this realm. it is sore to me to be banished, and had i not dreaded shame, the lady guenever should never have left me." "if you stay in this land we shall not fail you," said his knights. "if you depart hence we shall go with you." "my fair lords, i thank you heartily," answered lancelot, with much feeling. "if you come with me to my realm beyond the sea, i shall divide my lands among you, till i have as little as any of you. i care for only enough to live upon, and trust to maintain you in knightly honor." "so let it be," they rejoined. "here, now that the fellowship of the round table is broken, there will be no more peace, but only strife and turmoil. you were the stay of arthur's court, sir lancelot. with you gone, all quiet and harmony will depart." "you praise me too highly, gentlemen. i did my duty; but not i alone. yet i fear, when we are gone, we will soon hear of wars and rebellions, from those who dared not raise their heads when we were all together. mordred i fear above all. he is envious and ambitious, and if king arthur shall trust him i dread me greatly he will find him a stinging serpent." then, soon after, they left joyous gard, and shipped at cardiff to pass beyond the seas to lancelot's realm of benwick. some men, indeed, call it bayonne, and some call it beume, the land whence comes the wine of beume. yet to say sooth, lancelot and his nephews were lords of all france, and had there a host of towns and castles, and many people at their command. there went with him a hundred proven knights, whom he rewarded as he had promised. for he shortly called a parliament, where he crowned lionel king of france. bors he made king of the realm of king claudas; and hector de maris, king of benwick and guienne; while his other knights were made dukes and earls, till all were nobly provided for. thus lancelot rewarded his faithful friends. and he furnished and provisioned his towns and castles, and gathered the men of war of the realm, for he felt well assured that gawaine would not rest till he had brought king arthur against him in martial array. chapter iv. the war between arthur and lancelot. what lancelot had feared came quickly to pass. for so unrelenting was gawaine's enmity, and so strong his influence over the king, that arthur, at his persistent instigation, got together a great army, to the number of sixty thousand, and had shipping made ready to carry them over the sea. then he made sir mordred chief ruler of all england during his absence, and put queen guenever under his care, little dreaming of what fatal results would follow this unwise choice. these preparations made, arthur passed the sea with his host, and landed in lancelot's realm, where, through the revengeful spirit of gawaine, they burnt and wasted all that they overran. when word of this was brought to lancelot and his knights, sir bors thus broke out in anger,-- "my lord sir lancelot, it is a shame to let them thus destroy this fair realm of france. you may well be assured that, however long you forbear your foes, they will do you no favor if you fall into their hands." then said sir lionel, who was wary and wise, "my lord sir lancelot, this is my counsel. let us keep to our strong-walled towns till the invaders suffer from hunger and cold, and blow upon their nails for warmth. then we may freshly set upon them, and shred them down like sheep in a field." "such a course would disgrace us all," said king bagdemagus to lancelot. "your over-courtesy has caused all the trouble we now have. if we let gawaine work his will, he will bring our power to naught, while we hide like rabbits in our holes." "so say i," broke in sir galihud. "there are knights here who come of kings' blood, and that will not long be content to droop behind walls. give us leave to meet them in the field, and we shall deal with them in such fashion that they will curse the time they came into this country." then spoke seven brethren of north wales, men of such prowess that one might seek through seven lands before he could find seven such knights,-- "sir lancelot," they said together, "let us ride out with sir galihud, for it has never been our wont to cower in towns and castles." "my fair lords," replied lancelot to them all, "i am loath to ride out with my knights and shed christian blood. and my lands, after all the wars they have endured, are too bare long to sustain this invading host. it is the part of wisdom, therefore, for the time to keep to our walls, and meanwhile i will send a messenger to king arthur and offer him a treaty of peace." then he sent a damsel to the king, and a dwarf with her, with a message, bidding arthur to quit making war upon his lands, and offering him fair terms of accommodation. the damsel rode to the hostile camp on a palfry, while the dwarf ran by her side. when she came near to king arthur's pavilion she alighted, and there was met by a gentle knight, sir lucan the butler, who said,-- "fair damsel, come you from sir lancelot du lake?" "yes, sir," she replied, "i am come hither with a message from him to my lord the king." "alas, that it should be needed!" said sir lucan. "my lord arthur would soon be in accord with lancelot but for gawaine, who has more influence over him than all his knights besides, and will not suffer him to think of peace and friendship. i pray to god, damsel, that you speed well in your errand, for all that are about the king, except sir gawaine, wish well to lancelot above all knights living." with these words he led the damsel to the king's pavilion. there arthur, who had been advised of her coming, sat with gawaine to hear her message. when she had told her errand the king was so moved that tears ran from his eyes, and all the lords were ready to advise him to make peace with lancelot. but gawaine, who sat with lowering brow, now broke out in hot speech,-- "my lord, my uncle, what will you do? will you turn again after having come so far? all the world will speak villany of you." "i do not deem it wise to refuse his fair proffers," said the king. "yet since i am come so far on this journey, i leave it to you to give the damsel her answer." "then tell sir lancelot," said gawaine to the damsel, "that he wastes his labor now to sue to my uncle. if he wished peace he should have sought it sooner. now it is too late. tell him, also, that i, sir gawaine, promise him, by the faith i owe to god and to knighthood, never to leave him in peace till he have slain me or i him." this word the damsel brought back to lancelot, where he stood among his knights, and sad of heart he was to hear it. "why do you grieve?" said the knights. "if war they want, let them have it to their fill. let us meet them in the field." "never before was i so loath to do battle," said lancelot. "i would rather flee from king arthur than fight him. be ruled by me, noble sirs. when i must defend myself, then i will; but haste will make fresh sorrow." then the knights held their peace, and that night took their rest. but in the morning, when they looked abroad, they saw a hostile host around the city of benwick, pressing it so closely that ladders were already set up against the walls. the defenders of the town flocked in haste to the walls and threw down the ladders, and hot strife began. forth now rode sir gawaine on a strong steed, and with a great spear in his hand, and when he came before the chief gate he called out loudly,-- "sir lancelot, where art thou? or what proud knight is here that dare break a spear with me?" hearing this challenge, sir bors hastily made ready, and rode from the city to the encounter. but gawaine smote him from his horse, and would have slain him had he not been rescued. then lionel, his brother, rode out to revenge him; but he, too, was sorely wounded, and so borne into the town. and thus, day after day, came gawaine with his challenge, and not a day passed but some knight fell before his spear. and for half a year the siege continued, and there was much slaughter on both sides. at length came a day when gawaine again appeared before the gates, armed at all points, and loudly cried,-- "where art thou now, thou false traitor, sir lancelot? why hidest thou within walls and holes like a coward? come forth, traitor, that i may revenge on thy body the death of my three brothers?" then said lancelot's knights to their leader,-- "now, sir lancelot, you must fight, or you are shamed forever. it is time for you to stir, for you have slept over long and we suffered over much." "defend myself i must, since he charges me with treason," said lancelot. "his words cut deeply, and i must fight or be held recreant," and with stern countenance he bade the attendants to saddle his strongest horse and bring his arms to the gate tower. then from this tower he called to the king, who stood below,-- "my lord arthur," he said, "sad am i, for your sake, that thus you press upon me. had i been revengeful i might have met you in open field, and there made your boldest knights full tame; but i have forborne you half a year, and given you and gawaine free way. it is much against my will to fight with any of your blood, but since he accuses me of treason i am driven to it like a beast brought to bay." "if you dare do battle," cried gawaine, "leave your babbling and come out. nothing will give deeper joy to my heart, for i have waited long for this hour." at this lancelot mounted and rode out, and a host of knights followed him from the city, while from the king's army a throng of knights pressed to the front. but covenant was made that none should come near the two warriors till one was dead or had yielded, and the knights drew back, leaving a broad open space for the combatants. gawaine and lancelot now rode far apart, and wheeled their horses till they faced each other. thus they stood in grim silence and energy till the signal for the onset was given, when, like iron statues come to life, they plunged their spurs in the flanks of their chargers and dashed at furious speed across the plain. a minute passed, and they met in the middle with a shock like thunder, but the knights were so strong and their spears so great, that the horses could not endure the buffets, and fell to the earth. in a moment both knights had leaped clear of their saddles, drawn their swords, and brought their shields before them. and now began a fierce and terrible affray, for they stood and hewed at each other with might and main, till blood burst in many places through the joints of their armor. but gawaine had a gift that a holy man had given him, that every day in the year, from nine o'clock till noon, his strength should increase till it became threefold. and he took good care to fight all his battles during these hours, whereby he gained great honor. none knew of this gift but king arthur, and as lancelot felt the strength of his antagonist constantly increasing, he wondered greatly, and began to fear that he would be overcome. it seemed to him that he had a fiend, and no earthly man, before him, and for three hours he traced and traversed, and covered himself with his shield, scarcely able to stand against the brunt of gawaine's mighty blows. at this all men marvelled, for never before had they beheld lancelot so sorely driven to defence. but when the hour of noon had passed, the magic might of gawaine suddenly left him, and he had now only his own strength. this lancelot felt, and he drew himself up and pressed on his foe, saying,-- "you have had your day, gawaine; now it is my turn. defend yourself, for i have many a grievous buffet to repay." then he redoubled his strokes, and at length gave gawaine such a blow on the helmet that he fell to the earth. lancelot now withdrew a step. "why do you withdraw?" cried gawaine, bitterly. "turn, thou traitor, and slay me; for if i recover you shall fight with me again." "it is not my way, sir gawaine, to strike a fallen knight. when you want to fight again you shall not find me lacking." then he turned and went with his knights into the city, while gawaine was borne from the field to one of the king's pavilions, where leeches were brought to attend him. "alas!" said the king, "that ever this unhappy war began, for sir lancelot ever forbeareth me, and my kin also, and that is well seen in his sparing my nephew gawaine this day." then arthur fell sick from sorrow for the hurt of his nephew and regret for the war. the siege was kept up, but with little energy, and both sides rested from their toils. three weeks passed before gawaine regained his strength; but as soon as he was able to ride he armed again, mounted his horse, and rode to the gate of benwick, where he loudly repeated his challenge to lancelot as a traitor and recreant knight. "you got the best of me by mischance at our last battle," he said, "but if you dare come into the field this day i will make amends, and lay you as low as you laid me." "defend me from such a fate," said lancelot, "for if you should get me into such a strait my days were done. but since you in this unknightly fashion charge me with treason, i warrant you shall have both hands full before you gain your end." then lancelot armed and rode out, and the battle began as before, with a circle of armed knights surrounding. but in this onset gawaine's spear broke into a hundred pieces in his hand, while lancelot struck him with such might that his horse's feet were raised, and horse and rider toppled to the earth. "alight, traitor knight!" cried gawaine, drawing his sword. "if a horse has failed me, think not that a king and queen's son shall fail thee." then lancelot sprang to the ground and the battle went on as before, gawaine's strength increasing hour by hour. but lancelot, feeling this, warily kept his strength and his wind, keeping under cover of his shield, and tracing and traversing back and forth, to break the strength and courage of his foe. as for gawaine, he put forth all his might and power to destroy lancelot, and for three hours pressed him so fiercely that he could barely defend himself. but when noon passed, and lancelot felt gawaine's strength again decline, he said,-- "i have proved you twice, sir gawaine. by this magic trick of your strength increasing you have deceived many a valiant knight. you have done your worst; now you shall see of what metal i am made." then he attacked him fiercely, and gawaine defended himself with all his power; but at length there fell such a heavy blow on his helmet and on the old wound, that he sank to the earth in a swoon. when he came to himself again, he struck feebly at lancelot as he lay, and cried spitefully,-- "thou false traitor, i am not yet slain. come near me, and do this battle to the uttermost." "i shall do no more than i have done," said lancelot. "when i see you on your feet again i shall stand ready to fight you to the bitter end. but to smite a wounded and prostrate man!--god defend me from such a shame." and he turned and went towards the city, while gawaine with spiteful malice called him traitor, and vowed he would never cease to fight with him till one of them was dead. a month now passed away, during which gawaine lay sick of his wound. as he slowly recovered, the old battle-hunger for lancelot's blood returned to his heart, and he impatiently awaited the day when he could again take the field. but before this day arrived, news came from england that put a sudden end to the war; tidings of such threatening aspect that king arthur was forced to return in all haste to his own realm. chapter v. the sting of the viper. disastrous, indeed, were the news from england. king arthur had made the fatal mistake of placing a villain and dastard in charge of his realm, for mordred had taken advantage of his absence to turn traitor, and seek to seize the crown and sceptre of england as his own. news moved but slowly from over seas in those days, and mordred, with treasonable craft, had letters written as though they came from abroad, which said that king arthur had been slain in battle with sir lancelot. having spread this lie far and wide, he called the lords together to london in parliament, and so managed that they voted him king. then he was crowned at canterbury, and held a feast for fifteen days, after which he went to winchester, where guenever was, and publicly declared that he would wed his uncle's widow. when word of this came to guenever she grew heavy at heart, for she hated the traitor to her soul's depth. but she was in his power, and was forced to hide her secret hate. she therefore seemed to consent to his will, and desired permission to go to london, where she might buy all things that were necessary for the wedding. she spoke so fairly that he trusted her, and gave her leave to make the journey. but no sooner had she reached london than she took possession of the tower, and with all haste supplied it with provisions and garrisoned it with men, and so held it as a fortress, many knights holding with her against the usurper. mordred soon learned that he had been beguiled by the queen, and, moved to fury, he hastened to london, where he besieged the tower, assailing it vigorously with great engines of war. but guenever held out stoutly against him, and neither by fair speech nor foul could he induce her to trust herself into his hands again. [illustration: the tower of london.] there now came to mordred the bishop of canterbury, who said,-- "sir, what would you do? would you displease god and shame knighthood by wedding the wife of your uncle, who has been to you as a father? cease this vile purpose, i command you, or i shall curse you with book, and bell, and candle, and bring upon your head the vengeance of the church." "do your worst, sir priest," said mordred, angrily. "i defy you." "i shall do what i ought; be sure of that. you noise about that the lord arthur is slain, no word of which i believe. you seek with a lie to make mischief in this land. beware, lest your vile work recoil upon yourself." "peace, thou false priest," cried mordred. "chafe me no more, or i shall order that thy head be stricken off." finding that words were useless, the bishop departed, and, as he had threatened, laid the curse of the church on mordred. roused to rage by this, the usurper sought him to slay him, and he fled in all haste to glastonbury, where he took refuge as a hermit in a chapel. but well he knew that war was at hand, and that the rightful king would soon strike for the throne. despite the anathema of the church, mordred continued his efforts to get guenever into his power; but she held firmly to the tower, repelling all his assaults, and declaring openly that she would rather kill herself than marry such a wretch. soon afterwards he was forced to raise the siege, for word came to him by secret messengers that arthur had heard of his treason, and was coming home with his whole host to revenge himself on the usurper of his crown. when mordred heard this he made strenuous efforts to gather a large army, and many lords joined him with their people, saying that with arthur there had been nothing but war and strife, but that with mordred they hoped for peace and a quiet life. thus was evil said of the good king arthur when he was away from the land, and that by many who owed to him their honors and estates. mordred was thus quickly able to draw with a great host to dover, where he had heard that arthur would land, for he hoped to defeat and slay him before he could get firm footing on england's soil. not long had he been there when a great fleet of ships, galleys, and carracks appeared upon the sea, bearing the king's army back to their native realm. on the beach stood mordred's host, drawn up to prevent the landing of the king's army. as the boats came to the shore, laden with noble men-of-arms, a fierce struggle ensued, in which many a knight was slain, while full many a bold baron was laid low on both sides. but so courageous was the king, and so fierce the onset of his knights, that the opposing host could not hinder the landing of his army. and when they had gained a footing on the land, they set on mordred with such fury that he and all his host were driven back and forced to fly, leaving arthur master of the field. after the battle, the king ordered that the dead should be buried and the wounded cared for. among the latter sir gawaine was found lying in a great boat, where he had been felled with a deadly wound in the bitter strife. on hearing this direful news, arthur hastened to him and took him in his arms, with great show of grief and pain. "in you and in lancelot i had my highest joy," moaned the king. "now i have lost you both, and all my earthly happiness is gone." "my death is at hand," said gawaine, "and i owe it all to my own hate and bitterness for i am smitten on the old wound that lancelot gave me, and feel that i must die. had he but been with you this unhappy war would never have begun. of all this i am the cause, and have but received my deserts. therefore i pray you, dear uncle, let me have paper, pen, and ink, that i may write to sir lancelot with my own hand." these were brought him, and gawaine wrote a moving and tender letter to lancelot, blaming himself severely for his hardness of heart. in this wise it ran,-- "unto sir lancelot, flower of all noble knights, i, sir gawaine, son of king lot of orkney, and sister's son unto the noble king arthur, send greeting; and also these sad tidings, that on the tenth day of may i was smitten on the old wound which you gave me at benwick, and thus through this wound have i come to my death. and i would have all the world know that i, sir gawaine, knight of the round table, have met with death not through your ill-will, but from my own seeking; therefore i beseech you to come in all haste to this realm, to which you have heretofore done such honor. i earnestly pray you, sir lancelot, for all the love that ever was betwixt us, make no tarrying, but come over the sea in all haste, that thou mayest with thy noble knights rescue that royal king who made thee knight, for he is hard bested with a false traitor, my own half-brother, sir mordred, who has had himself crowned king, and would have wedded queen guenever had she not taken refuge in the tower of london. we put him to flight on our landing, on the tenth day of may, but he still holds against us with a great host. therefore, i pray you to come, for i am within two hours of my death; and i beg that you will visit my tomb, and pray some prayer, more or less, for my soul." when sir gawaine had finished this letter he wept bitter tears of sorrow and remorse, and arthur wept beside him till they both swooned, the one from grief, the other from pain. when they recovered, the king had the rites of the church administered to the dying knight, who then prayed him to send in haste for lancelot, and to cherish him above all other knights, as his best friend and ally. afterwards, at the hour of noon, gawaine yielded up his spirit. and the king had him interred in dover castle, where men to this day may see his skull, with the wound thereon that lancelot gave him in battle. word was now brought to king arthur that mordred had pitched a new camp on barham down. thither in all haste he led his army, and there a second great battle was fought, with much loss on both sides. but at the end arthur's party stood best, and mordred fled, with all his host, to canterbury. this second victory changed the feeling of the country, and many people who had held aloof joined the king's army, saying that mordred was a traitor and usurper. when the dead had been buried and the wounded cared for, arthur marched with his host to the sea-shore, westward towards salisbury. here a challenge passed between him and mordred, in which they agreed to meet on a down beside salisbury, on the day after trinity sunday, and there fight out their quarrel. mordred now made haste to recruit his army, raising many men about london, for the people of that section of the country held largely with him, and particularly those who were friendly to lancelot. when the time fixed came near, the two armies drew together and camped on salisbury down. and so the days passed till came the night of trinity sunday, when the king dreamed a strange dream, for it seemed to him that he sat in a chair that was fastened to a wheel, and was covered with the richest cloth of gold that could be made. but far beneath him he beheld a hideous black pool, in which were all manner of serpents, and vile worms, foul and horrible. suddenly the wheel seemed to turn, and he fell among the serpents, which seized upon his limbs. awakening in fright, he loudly cried, "help!" and knights and squires came crowding in alarm into his chamber; but he was so amazed that he knew not where he was nor what he said. then he fell again into a half slumber, in which gawaine seemed to come to him attended by a number of fair ladies. "fair nephew," asked the king, "who are these ladies?" "they are those for whom i did battle during my life," answered gawaine. "god has sent them and me to warn you of your coming death, for if you fight with mordred to-morrow as you have agreed, you will both be slain, and most of your people. therefore i am here to warn you not to fight to-morrow, but to treat with the traitor, and make him large and fair promises, so as to gain a month's delay. within that time lancelot and his knights will come, and mordred the usurper cannot hold against you both." this said, gawaine and the ladies vanished. then arthur waked, and sent messengers in haste to bring his lords and bishops to council. when they had come he told them his dream, and they counselled him by all means to be guided by it. lucan the butler, and his brother sir bevidere, with two bishops, were therefore sent to treat with mordred, and make him large promises for a month's truce. the commissioners sought mordred's camp and held a long conference with him. at the end he agreed to meet king arthur on the plain between the hosts, each to bring but fourteen persons with him, and there consult on the treaty. "i am glad that this is accomplished," said the king, when word of the compact was brought him. but when he was ready to start for the place of conference, with the fourteen chosen men, he said to his knights,-- "be wary and watchful, for i trust not mordred. if you see any sword drawn, come fiercely forward, and slay the villain and his guard." mordred gave the same warning to his lords, for he had equal mistrust of arthur, whom he feared and doubted. the two leaders, with their chosen followers, now advanced and met between the hosts. but by a fatal chance, as the king and his opponent were in consultation, an adder came from a heath bush and stung a knight on the foot. feeling the wound he drew his sword in thoughtless haste to kill the venomous serpent. but the instant the hosts on both sides saw that sword flash in the air all was uproar and tumult. on both sides trumpets and horns were blown, harness rattled and clanked, and the flash of spear-heads and sword-blades gleamed in the sunlight, while like two mighty waves of war the great hosts broke from their stations and rushed together across the plain. then arthur sprang to his horse, exclaiming, "alas! this unhappy day!" and rode to his party; and mordred did likewise. no hand nor voice could stay the advancing hosts, and in a moment there began the most doleful battle ever seen in christian land. for there was rushing and riding, foining and striking, and deadly clamor, and fearful strife. many a grim word was there spoken, and many a deadly stroke dealt. many times king arthur rode through mordred's host, and knightly were the deeds of his hands. and mordred fought with knightly valor and zeal. thus went on the deadly fray all day long, without pause or stint, till noble knights lay like fallen leaves upon the bloody ground. and when nightfall was at hand they still fought with desperate valor, though by that time full a hundred thousand men lay dead upon the down. then the heart of arthur grew full of warlike fury, to see so many of his people slain. and when the sun was near its setting, he leaned upon his crimson sword, and looked about him with eyes that seemed to weep blood. for of all his mighty host of knights but two remained alive, sir lucan the butler, and his brother sir bevidere; and both of these were sorely wounded. "god's mercy!" cried the king, "where are all my noble knights? alas! that i have lived to see this doleful day! now, indeed, am i come to my end. but would to god i knew where to find that traitor, mordred, who has caused all this mischief." as he spoke, his eyes fell on mordred, who stood leaning upon his sword amid a great heap of slain, for his host had been slaughtered to a man. "give me my spear," cried arthur, wrathfully, to sir lucan. "yonder stands the traitor who has wrought this dire woe." "let him be," said lucan. "he is unhappy enough. remember, my good lord, your last night's dream, and what the spirit of sir gawaine told you. for god's sake make an end of this fray. blessed be god, we have won the field; for here are three of us alive, while mordred stands alone among his dead. if you leave off now, the wicked day of destiny will pass and life remain to you. your time for revenge will come hereafter." "betide me life, betide me death," cried the king, "this fray must end here. now that i see him yonder alone, he shall never escape my hands. one or both of us shall die." "then god speed the just cause," said bevidere. with no word more arthur took his spear in both hands, and ran furiously at mordred, crying,-- "traitor, now has thy day of death come!" when mordred heard him, he raised his dripping sword and ran to meet the king. thus they met in mid-field, and king arthur smote mordred under the shield, the spear piercing his body more than a fathom. mordred felt that he had his death-wound, but with a last impulse of fury in his felon soul he thrust himself, with all his strength, up to the bur of king arthur's spear. then wielding his sword with both hands, he struck the king so dread a blow on the side of the head that the trenchant blade cut through the helmet and deep into the skull. with this last and fatal stroke mordred fell stark dead to the ground. and arthur sank in a swoon to the earth, where he lay like one dead. thus sadly and direfully ended that dreadful war, with which came to a close the flower of the days of chivalry, and the glorious and never-to-be equalled fellowship of the round table, with all the mighty deeds of prowess and marvels of adventure that to it belonged. for of those noble knights, except sir lancelot and his kindred, only two lived, sir lucan the butler, and sir bevidere his brother, and of these two sir lucan was wounded unto death; and with them the illustrious king arthur, whose chivalrous soul had so long sustained this noble order of knighthood, lay bleeding piteously upon that direful field of blood. sir lucan and bevidere, with bitter tears of sorrow, lifted their helpless king between them, and with great labor led him from that place of slaughter till they reached a small chapel near the sea-shore. here, as the night drew on, the sound of many voices came to them, as if the dead had risen and were astir on the blood-stained field. "what noise is this, sir lucan?" said the king. "go, gentle friend, and tell me what it means." lucan went, and by the moonlight saw a throng of pillagers, who robbed the dead bodies of money and jewels, killing for their riches those knights who were not quite dead. when he brought this news back to arthur, the king's sad heart came near to breaking. "alas! lancelot," he said, "how have i missed you this day. alas! that i ever turned against you, for had you been here this fatal end could never have been, nor those noble warriors left to be the prey of the wolves and jackals of the battle-field. sorely have i erred and sadly have i been repaid for my error. but now, alas, it is too late for regret or amendment, for the fellowship of the round table is at an end, and arthur the king shall reign no more." chapter vi. the passing of arthur. when morning dawned, after that day of fate, lucan and bevidere took up the king between them, and sought to bear him to the sea-shore, as he bade them do. but in the lifting the king swooned, and lucan fell prostrate, the blood gushing anew from his wound. arthur lay long like one dead, and when he came to himself again he saw lucan lifeless at his feet, with foam upon his lips, and the ground around him deeply stained with his blood. "alas! this is a heavy sight to see," he said. "he sought to help me when he stood most in need of help. he would not complain though his heart broke, and has given his life for mine. may jesus have mercy on his soul." bevidere stood beside him, weeping bitterly for the death of his brother. "weep and mourn no more," said the king. "it will not now avail. could i live, the death of sir lucan would grieve me evermore. but my time goeth fast, and there is that to do for which but few moments remain." then he closed his eyes for a time, like one who sees visions; and when he looked again there was that in his face which bevidere could not fathom and his eyes were deep with meaning unrevealed. "now, my lord bevidere," said the king, "the end is at hand. take thou my good sword excalibur, and go with it to yonder water-side. when thou comest there, i charge thee throw it as far as thou canst into the water; then come again and tell me what thing thou seest." "trust me, my lord and king, your command shall be obeyed," said bevidere. so he took the sword and departed to the water-side. but as his eyes fell upon the noble weapon, whose pommel and haft were all of precious stones, a feeling of greed came upon him and he said to himself,-- "if i throw this rich sword into the water, no good can come of it, but only harm and loss. had i not better keep it for myself?" moved by this thought, he hid excalibur under a tree, and returned to the king, whom he told that he had thrown the sword into the water. "what saw you there?" asked the king. "sir, i saw nothing but the rippling waves." "then you speak untruly," said the king. "you have not thrown the sword as i bade you. go again, and obey my command, as you are to me dear and true. spare not, but throw it in afar." bevidere thereupon went again, and took the sword in his hand. but the rich jewels so glittered in the sun that his greed came back more strongly than before, and he deemed it a sin to throw into the sea that noble blade. so he hid the sword again, and returned to the king with his former tale. "what sawest thou there?" asked the king. "sir, i saw nothing but the waves that broke on the beach, and heard only the roar of the surf." "ah, traitor! false and untrue art thou!" cried the king. "thou hast betrayed me twice. who would have thought that thou, whom i held dear, and who art named a noble knight, would betray his king for the jewels of a sword? go again, for thy long delay puts me in a great jeopardy of my life. if now you do not as i have bidden, beware of me hereafter, for dead or alive i will have revenge upon you. would you, sir bevidere, for a shining blade, bring death and ruin to your king?" then bevidere, heart-full of shame, hastened away, and took the sword, turning his eyes manfully away from its jewelled hilt. binding the girdle around it, with all the might of his arm he hurled the blade far out over the waves. then came a marvel. for as he followed the sword with his eyes, he saw a hand and arm rise above the waves to meet the blade. the hand caught it by the hilt, and brandished it thrice in the air, and then vanished with it into the water. bevidere, much wondering, hurried back to the king, and told him what he had seen. "now, sir bevidere, you have done as i bade you," said arthur. "but much precious time have you lost. help me hence, in god's name, for i fear that i have tarried over-long." then bevidere took the king on his back and bore him to the water-side, and lo! there he saw another strange thing. for close by the shore lay a little barge, which he had not seen before, and in it sat many fair ladies, among whom were three queens, who wore black hoods, and wept with bitter sorrow when they saw king arthur. "now help me into the barge," said the king. this sir bevidere did as gently as he could. and the three queens received the dying monarch with deep mourning, and had him laid between them, with his head on the lap of her who sat in the centre. "alas! dear brother, why have you tarried so long from me?" said this queen. "much harm i fear from this sad wound." and so they rowed from the land, while bevidere stood on the shore sadly watching the barge go from him. "ah, my lord arthur," he cried, "what shall become of me, now that you go from me and leave me here alone among my enemies?" "comfort thyself," said the king, "and do what thou mayest, for in me can no man henceforth put his trust. i go into the vale of avilion, to a happy summer island far over the sea, where i shall be healed of my grievous wound. but when i shall come again no voice may tell. mayhap i shall never come, but dwell forever in that sunny vale. if you never hear more of me, pray for my soul." then again the queens and the ladies wept and moaned, and the barge moved swiftly over the long waves and afar to sea, while bevidere stood and watched it till it became a black speck on the waters. then it vanished and was seen no more, and the lonely watcher cast himself upon the beach, weeping like one who has lost all life's happiness. but when night came near he turned and went wearily away, heavy with the weight of death that lay upon his soul, for he alone remained of yesterday's mighty hosts. all that night he journeyed through a great forest, and in the morning he found himself between two hoary cliffs, with a chapel and a hermitage in the glen that lay between. in this hermitage he found the holy man who had been archbishop of canterbury, and who had come hither to escape mordred's rage. with him bevidere stayed till he was cured of his wounds, and afterwards he put on poor clothes, and served the hermit full lowly in fasting and prayers. but as for the three queens who went with arthur to the island of avilion, the chronicles say that they were morgan le fay his sister, the queen of northgalis, and the queen of the waste lands. and with them was nimue, the lady of the lake. all were skilled in magic, but whither they bore king arthur, or where lies the magical isle of avilion, or if he shall come again, all this no man can say. these are of the secrets that time alone can tell, and we only know that his coming is not yet. chapter vii. the death of lancelot and guenever. when word was brought to lancelot du lake that mordred had usurped the throne of england, had besieged guenever in the tower of london, and had sought to prevent arthur from landing at dover, his soul was moved to wrath and sorrow. and still more was he moved by the letter of sir gawaine, with its pitiful self-reproach and earnest wistfulness. "is it a time for mourning?" said sir bors to lancelot. "my counsel is that you cross at once to england, visit gawaine's tomb, as he requests, and then revenge my lord arthur and my lady guenever on this base traitor, mordred." "it is well advised," said lancelot. "to england we must go in all haste." then ships and galleys were made ready with the greatest despatch, for lancelot and his host to pass over to england. and in good time he landed at dover, having with him seven kings and a mighty host of men. but when he asked the people of dover the news of the country, his heart was filled with dismay to hear of the great battle on salisbury downs, where a hundred thousand men had died in a day, and of the death of arthur the king. "alas!" said lancelot, "this is the heaviest tidings that ever mortal ears heard. would that i had been advised in good time. nothing now remains to do. i have come too late. fair sirs, i pray you to show me the tomb of sir gawaine." then they brought him into the castle of dover, and showed him the tomb. lancelot fell on his knees before it, and wept, and prayed heartily for the soul of him that lay within. and that night he made a funeral feast, to which all who came had flesh, fish, wine, and ale, and every man and woman was given twelve pence. with his own hand he dealt them money in a mourning gown; and ever he wept, and prayed for the soul of sir gawaine. in the morning, all the priests and clerks of the country round gathered, at his request, and sang a requiem mass before the tomb. and lancelot offered a hundred pounds, and each of the seven kings forty pounds, and a thousand knights offered one pound each, this going on from morning till night. and lancelot lay two nights on the tomb in prayer and weeping. on the third day he called about him the kings, dukes, earls, barons, and knights of his train, and said to them,-- "my fair lords, i thank you all for coming into this country with me; but we have come too late, and that i shall mourn while i live. but since it is so, i shall myself ride and seek my lady queen guenever, for men say that she has fled from london, and become a nun, and that she lives in deep penance, and in fasting, prayers, and almsgiving, and is sick almost unto death. therefore, i pray you, await me here, and if i come not again within fifteen days, then take ship and return to your own country." "is it wise for you to ride in this realm?" said sir bors. "few friends will you find here now." "be that as it may," said lancelot, "i shall go on my journey. keep you still here, for no man nor child shall go with me." no boot was it to strive with him, and he departed and rode westerly, on a seven or eight days' journey, asking of all people as he went. at last he came to the nunnery where was queen guenever, who saw him as she walked in the cloister, and swooned away, so that her ladies had work enough to keep her from falling. when she could speak, she said,-- "ye marvel why i am so held. truly, it is for the sight of yonder knight. bid him come hither, i pray you." and when sir lancelot had come, she said to him with sweet and sad visage,-- "sir lancelot, through our love has all this happened, and through it my noble lord has come to his death. as for me, i am in a way to get my soul's health. therefore, i pray you heartily, for all the love that ever was between us, that you see me no more in the visage; but turn to thy kingdom again, and keep well thy realm from war and wrack. so well have i loved you that my heart will not serve me to see you, for through you and me is the flower of kings and knights destroyed. therefore, sir lancelot, go to thy realm, and take there a wife, and live with her in joy and bliss; and i beseech you heartily to pray to god for me, that i may amend my mis-living." "nay, madam, i shall never take a wife," said lancelot. "never shall i be false to you; but the same lot you have chosen that shall i choose." "if you will do so, i pray that you may," said the queen. "yet i cannot believe but that you will turn to the world again." "madam," he earnestly replied, "in the quest of the sangreal i would have forsaken the world but for the service of your lord. if i had done so then with all my heart, i had passed all the knights on the quest except galahad, my son. and had i now found you disposed to earthly joys, i would have begged you to come into my realm. but since i find you turned to heavenly hopes, i, too, shall take to penance, and pray while my life lasts, if i can find any hermit, either gray or white, who will receive me. wherefore, madam, i pray you kiss me, and never more shall my lips touch woman's." "nay," said the queen, "that shall i never do. but take you my blessing, and leave me." then they parted. but hard of heart would he have been who had not wept to see their grief; for there was lamentation as deep as though they had been wounded with spears. the ladies bore the queen to her chamber, and lancelot took his horse and rode all that day and all that night in a forest, weeping. at last he became aware of a hermitage and a chapel that stood between two cliffs, and then he heard a little bell ring to mass, so he rode thither and alighted, and heard mass. he that sang mass was the archbishop of canterbury, and with him was sir bevidere. after the mass they conversed together, and when bevidere had told all his lamentable tale, lancelot's heart almost broke with sorrow. he flung his arms abroad, crying,-- "alas! who may trust this world?" then he kneeled, and prayed the bishop to shrive and absolve him, beseeching that he might accept him as his brother in the faith. to this the bishop gladly consented, and he put a religious habit on lancelot, who served god there night and day with prayers and fastings. meanwhile the army remained at dover. but lionel with fifteen lords rode to london to seek lancelot. there he was assailed by mordred's friends, and slain with many of his lords. then sir bors bade the kings, with their followers, to return to france. but he, with others of lancelot's kindred, set out to ride over all england in search of their lost leader. at length bors came by chance to the chapel where lancelot was. as he rode by he heard the sound of a little bell that rang to mass, and thereupon alighted and entered the chapel. but when he saw lancelot and bevidere in hermits' clothing his surprise was great, and he prayed for the privilege to put on the same suit. afterwards other knights joined them, so that there were seven in all. there they remained in penance for six years, and afterwards sir lancelot took the habit of a priest, and for a twelvemonth he sang mass. but at length came a night when he had a vision that bade him to seek almesbury, where he would find guenever dead. thrice that night was the vision repeated, and lancelot rose before day and told the hermit of what he had dreamed. "it is from god," said the hermit. "see that you make ready, and disobey not the warning." so, in the early morn, lancelot and his fellows set out on foot from glastonbury to almesbury, which is little more than thirty miles. but they were two days on the road, for they were weak and feeble with long penance. and when they reached the nunnery they found that guenever had died but half an hour before. the ladies told lancelot that the queen had said,-- "hither cometh lancelot as fast as he may to fetch my corpse. but i beseech almighty god that i may never behold him again with my mortal eyes." this, said the ladies, was her prayer for two days, till she died. when lancelot looked upon her dead face he wept not greatly, but sighed. and he said all the service for the dead himself, and in the morning he sang mass. then was the corpse placed in a horse-bier, and so taken to glastonbury with a hundred torches ever burning about it, and lancelot and his fellows on foot beside it, singing and reading many a holy orison, and burning frankincense about the corpse. when the chapel had been reached, and services said by the hermit archbishop, the queen's corpse was wrapped in cered cloth of raines, thirty-fold, and afterwards was put in a web of lead, and then in a coffin of marble. but when the corpse of her whom he had so long loved was put in the earth, lancelot swooned with grief, and lay long like one dead, till the hermit came and aroused him, and said,-- "you are to blame for such unmeasured grief. you displease god thereby." [illustration: copyright by f. frith and co. ltd., london, england. the old kitchen of glastonbury abbey.] "i trust not," lancelot replied, "for my sorrow is too deep ever to cease. when i remember how greatly i am to blame for the death of this noble king arthur and queen guenever, my heart sinks within me, and i feel that i shall never know a moment's joy again." thereafter he sickened and pined away, for the bishop nor any of his fellows could make him eat nor drink but very little, but day and night he prayed, and wasted away, and ever lay grovelling on the tomb of the queen. so, within six weeks afterwards, lancelot fell sick and lay in his bed. then he sent for the bishop and all his fellows, and said with sad voice: "sir bishop, i pray you give me all the rites that belong to a christian man, for my end is at hand." "this is but heaviness of your blood," replied the bishop. "you shall be well amended, i hope, through god's grace, by to-morrow morning." "in heaven, mayhap, but not on earth," said lancelot. "so give me the rites of the church, and after my death, i beg you to take my body to joyous gard, for there i have vowed that i would be buried." when they had heard this, and saw that he was indeed near his end, there was such weeping and wringing of hands among his fellows that they could hardly help the bishop in the holy offices of the church. but that night, after the midnight hour, as the bishop lay asleep, he fell into such a hearty laugh of joy that they all came to him in haste, and asked him what ailed him. "why did you wake me?" he cried. "i was never in my life so happy and merry." "wherefore?" asked sir bors. "truly, here was sir lancelot with me, with more angels than i ever saw men together; and i saw the angels bear him to heaven, and the gates of heaven opened to him." "this is but the vexation of a dream," said sir bors. "lancelot may yet mend." "go to his bed," said the hermit, "and you shall find if my dream has meaning." this they hastened to do, and there lay lancelot dead, but with a smile on his lips, and the sweetest savor about him they ever had known. great was the grief that followed, for never earthly man was mourned as was lancelot. in the morning, after the bishop had made a requiem mass, he and his fellows put the corpse of the noble knight into the same horse-bier that had borne guenever, and the queen's corpse with it, and they were taken together to joyous gard, with such state and ceremony as befitted those of royal blood. and there all the services of the church were sung and read, while the face of lancelot lay open for people to see; for such was then the custom of the land. when the services were over they were buried in one tomb, for so great had been their love during life that all men said they should not be divided in death. during these events, sir constantine, the noble son of sir cador of cornwall, had been chosen king of england in arthur's place, and a worthy monarch he proved, ruling the realm worshipfully and long. after lancelot's death the new king sent for the bishop of canterbury, and restored him to his archbishopric; but sir bevidere remained a hermit at glastonbury to his life's end. king constantine also desired the kindred of lancelot to remain in his realm; but this they would not do, but returned to their own country. four of them, sir bors, sir hector, sir blamor, and sir bleoberis, went to the holy land, where they fought long and stoutly against the saracens. and there they died upon a good friday, for god's sake. and so ends the book of the life and death of king arthur and his noble knights of the round table, who were an hundred and fifty when they were all together. let us pray that god was merciful to them all. the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: . minor punctuation errors have been corrected as follows; pg. - added missing punctuation "?" (might champion?) pg. - added missing punctuation "." (and he did all.) pg. - added missing endquote ("this i say,") pg. - removed extra enquote (what will you do?) . spelling corrections based upon correct spelling of the word elsewhere in the text: pg. - "grevious" to "grievous" ( ) (grievous cry that) pg. - "you" to "your" ("knight, hold your hand.") pg. - "dinaden" to "dinadan" ( ) (gareth and dinadan also) pg. - "seaside" to "sea-side" ( ) (castle by the sea-side,) pg. - "law" to "lay" (as he lay there asleep) pg. - "badgemagus" to "bagdemagus" ( ) (said bagdemagus) pg. - "percival" to "percivale" ( ) (percivale had returned) pg. - "dressel" to "dressed" (old man dressed in a) pg. - "this" to "his" (to his surprise and joy) pg. - "nacien" to "nancien" ( ) (once by nancien) pg. - "seem" to "seen" (and seen what you highly) pg. - "befel" to "befell" ( ) (it befell that nimue) pg. - "turquin" to "turquine" ( ) (by sir turquine?) pg. - "tristam's" to "tristram's" ( ) (and tristram's sake) pg. - "wil" to "will" ( ) (if you will receive) pg. - "dishoner" to "dishonor" ( ) (naught to her dishonor.) . words where both versions appear in this text and have been retained. "threescore" ( ) and "three-score" "king astlabor" (p. ) and "king astlobar" (p. ) . known english archaic words used in this text: "emprise" (prowess/daring) "guerdon" (reward) "halidom" (a thing considered holy) "leman" (sweetheart) "lief" (dear) "woful" ( ) (now woeful) "villanous" ( ) and villany ( ) (now var. of villian* ( )) morien a metrical romance rendered into english prose from the mediæval dutch arthurian romances no. iv. by jessie l. weston, with designs by caroline watts. additional arthurian romances: i. sir gawain and the green knight. a middle-english romance retold in modern prose, with introduction and notes, by jessie l. weston. with designs by m. m. crawford. . s. net. ii. tristan and iseult. rendered into english from the german of gottfried of strassburg by jessie l. weston. with designs by caroline watts. two vols. . s. net. iii. guingamor, lanval, tyolet, le bisclaveret. four lays rendered into english prose from the french of marie de france and others by jessie l. weston. with designs by caroline watts. . s. net. [illustration: they deemed they had seen the foul fiend himself] preface the metrical romance of which the following pages offer a prose translation is contained in the mediæval dutch version of the _lancelot_, where it occupies upwards of five thousand lines, forming the conclusion of the first existing volume of that compilation. so far as our present knowledge extends, it is found nowhere else. nor do we know the date of the original poem, or the name of the author. the dutch ms. is of the commencement of the fourteenth century, and appears to represent a compilation similar to that with which sir thomas malory has made us familiar, _i.e._, a condensed rendering of a number of arthurian romances which in their original form were independent of each other. thus, in the dutch _lancelot_ we have not only the latter portion of the _lancelot_ proper, the _queste_, and the _morte arthur_, the ordinary component parts of the prose _lancelot_ in its most fully developed form, but also a portion of a _perceval_ romance, having for its basis a version near akin to, if not identical with, the poem of chrétien de troyes, and a group of episodic romances, some of considerable length, the majority of which have not yet been discovered elsewhere. [footnote: _cf_. my _legend of sir lancelot du lac_; grimm library, vol. xii., chapter ix., where a brief summary of the contents of the dutch _lancelot_ is given.] unfortunately, the first volume of this compilation, which was originally in four parts, has been lost; consequently we are without any of the indications, so often to be found in the opening lines of similar compositions, as to the personality of the compiler, or the material at his disposal; but judging from those sections in which comparison is possible, the _lancelot_, _queste_, and _morte arthur_, the entire work is a translation, and a very faithful translation, of a french original. it is quite clear that the dutch compiler understood his text well, and though possibly somewhat hampered by the necessity of turning prose into verse (this version, contrary to the otherwise invariable rule of the later _lancelot_ romances, being rhymed), he renders it with remarkable fidelity. the natural inference, and that drawn by m. gaston paris, who, so far, appears to be the only scholar who has seriously occupied himself with this interesting version, is that those episodic romances, of which we possess no other copy, are also derived from a french source. most probably, so far as these shorter romances are concerned, the originals would be metrical, not prose versions, as in the case of the _lancelot_ sections. it is true that with regard to the romance here translated, _morien_, the dutch scholars responsible for the two editions in which it has appeared, mm. jonckbloet and te winkel, the former the editor of the whole compilation, the latter of this section only, are both inclined to regard the poem as an original dutch composition; but m. gaston paris, in his summary of the romance (_histoire litteraire_, vol. xxx. p. ) rejects this theory as based on inadequate grounds. it must be admitted that an original arthurian romance of the twelfth or thirteenth century, when at latest such a poem would be written, in a language other than french, is so far unknown to us; and although as a matter of fact the central _motif_ of the poem, the representation of a moor as near akin to the grail winner, sir perceval, has not been preserved in any known french text, while it does exist in a famous german version, i for one find no difficulty in believing that the tradition existed in french, and that the original version of our poem was a metrical romance in that tongue. so far as the story of _morien_ is concerned, the form is probably later than the tradition it embodies. in its present shape it is certainly posterior to the appearance of the galahad _queste_, to which it contains several direct references; such are the hermit's allusion to the predicted circumstances of his death, which are related in full in the _queste_; the prophecy that perceval shall "aid" in the winning of the holy grail, a quest of which in the earlier version he is sole achiever; and the explicit statements of the closing lines as to galahad's arrival at court, his filling the siege perilous, and achieving the adventures of the round table. as the romance now stands it is an introduction to the _queste_, with which volume iii. (volume ii. of the extant version) of the dutch _lancelot_ opens. but the opening lines of the present version show clearly that in one important point, at least, the story has undergone a radical modification. was it the dutch translator or his source who substituted agloval, perceval's brother, for the tradition which made perceval himself the father of the hero? m. gaston paris takes the former view; but i am inclined to think that the alteration was already in the french source. the grail of sir agloval's vision is the grail of castle corbenic and the _queste_; unless we are to consider this vision as the addition of the dutch compiler (who, when we are in a position to test his work does not interpolate such additions), we must, i think, admit that the romance in the form in which it reached him was already at a stage in which perceval could not, without violence to the then existing conception of his character, be considered as the father, or the brother, of morien. to reconstruct the original story it would be necessary not merely to eliminate all mention of agloval, as suggested by m. gaston paris, but the grail references would also require modification. as it stands, the poem is a curious mixture of conflicting traditions. in this connection it appears to me that the evidence of the _parzival_ is of primary importance; the circumstances attending the birth of feirefis are exactly parallel with those of morien--in both a christian knight wins the love of a moorish princess; in both he leaves her before the birth of her son, in the one case with a direct, in the other with a conditional, promise to return, which promise is in neither instance kept; in both the lad, when grown to manhood, sets out to seek his father; in both he apparently makes a practice of fighting with every one whom he meets; in the one version he is brother, in the other son or nephew, to perceval. the points of difference are that whereas morien is black all over, save his teeth, feirefis is parti-coloured, black and white--a curious conception, which seems to point to an earlier stage of thought; morien is a christian, feirefis a heathen--the more probable version. it is easy to understand why the hero ceased to be considered perceval's son--the opening lines of the poem describe the situation perfectly; but i do not think it has been sufficiently realised that precisely the same causes which would operate to the suppression of this relationship would equally operate to the suppression of that of the _parzival_. perceval, the virgin winner of the grail, could not have a _liaison_ with a moorish princess, but neither could perceval's father, the direct descendant of joseph of arimathea, and hereditary holder of the grail. the _early history_ of that talisman, as related by robert de borron, once generally accepted, the relationship of _brother_ was as impossible as that of _son_. it seems clear that if a genuine tradition of a moor as near kinsman to perceval really existed--and i see no reason to doubt that it did--it must have belonged to the perceval story prior to the development of the grail tradition, _e.g._, to such a stage as that hinted at by the chess-board adventure of the "didot" _perceval_ and gautier's poem, when the hero was as ready to take advantage of his _bonnes fortunes_ as other heroes of popular folk tales. further, judging from these stories it would seem probable that the requisite modification began with the earlier generation, _i.e._, perceval himself still retaining traces of his secular and folk-tale origin, while his father and mother have already been brought under the influence of the ecclesiasticised grail tradition. that this would be the case appears only probable when we recall the vague and conflicting traditions as to the hero's parentage; it was perceval himself, and not his father or his mother, who was the important factor in the tale; hence the change in his character was a matter of gradual evolution. thus i am of opinion that the moor as perceval's brother is likely to be an earlier conception than the moor as perceval's son. it is, i think, noticeable that the romance containing this feature, the _parzival_, also, contrary to the _early history_ versions, connects him with the grail through his mother, instead of through his father. the _morien_ is for me a welcome piece of evidence in support of the theory that sees in the poem of wolfram von eschenbach the survival of a genuine variant of the _perceval_ story, differing in important particulars from that preserved by chrétien de troyes, and based upon a french original, now, unfortunately, lost. for this, if for no other reason, the poem would, it seems to me, be worth introducing to a wider circle of readers than that to which in its present form it can appeal. the students of old dutch are few in number, and the bewildering extent of the _lancelot_ compilation, amounting as it does, even in its incomplete state, to upwards of , lines, is sufficient in itself to deter many from its examination. _morien_ in its original form is, and can be, known to but few. but not only does it represent a tradition curious and interesting in itself, it has other claims to attention; even in a translation it is by no means ill written; it is simple, direct, and the adventures are not drawn out to wearisome length by the introduction of unnecessary details. the characterisation too, is good; the hero is well realised, and gawain, in particular, appears in a most favourable light, one far more in accordance with the earlier than with the later stage of arthurian tradition; the contrast between his courteous self-restraint and the impetuous ardour of the young savage is well conceived, and the manner in which he and gareth contrive to check and manage the turbulent youth without giving him cause for offence is very cleverly indicated. lancelot is a much more shadowy personage; if, as suggested above, the original story took shape at a period before he had attained to his full popularity, and references to his valour were added later we can understand this. it is noticeable that the adventure assigned to him is much less original in character, and told with far less detail than that ascribed to gawain. the romance as we have it presents, as remarked before, a curious mixture of earlier and later elements. none of the adventures it relates are preserved in any english text. alike as a representative of a lost tradition, and for its own intrinsic merit it has seemed to me, though perhaps inferior in literary charm to the romances previously published in this series, to be yet not unworthy of inclusion among them. bournemouth, _july_ morien _herein doth the adventure tell of a knight who was named morien. some of the books give us to wit that he was perceval's son, and some say that he was son to agloval, who was perceval's brother, so that he was nephew unto that good knight. now we find it written for a truth that perceval and galahad alike died virgin knights in the quest of the holy grail; and for that cause i say of perceval that in sooth he was not morien's father, but that rather was morien his brother's son. and of a moorish princess was he begotten at that time when agloval sought far and wide for lancelot, who was lost, as ye have read here afore._ _i ween that he who made the tale of lancelot and set it in rhyme forgot, and was heedless of, the fair adventure of morien. i marvel much that they who were skilled in verse and the making of rhymes did not bring the story to its rightful ending._ now as at this time king arthur abode in britain, and held high court, that his fame might wax the greater; and as the noble folk sat at the board and ate, there came riding a knight; for 'twas the custom in arthur's days that while the king held court no door, small nor great, should be shut, but all men were free to come and go as they willed. thus the knight came riding where the high folk sat, and would fain have dismounted, but so sorely was he wounded that he might not do so. in sooth he was in evil case, for he had more than ten wounds, and from the least of them a man might scarce recover; he came in such guise that his weapons and his vesture and his steed, which was fair and tall, were all dyed red with his own blood. the knight was sad at heart and sorely wounded, yet he greeted, as best he might, all the lords then in the hall; but more he might not speak, for the pain of his wounds. then my lord, sir gawain, who did full many a courtesy (for such was his wont all his life long), so soon as he saw the knight, sprang up with no delay, and lifted him from the saddle and set him upon the ground, but he might neither sit, nor walk, nor so much as stand upon his feet, but fell upon the earth. then sir gawain bade them carry him softly on a couch to the side of the hall in the sight of the chief guests, that they might hear his tale. but since he might scarce speak he made him to be disarmed, and stripped to the skin, and wrapped in warm coverings and gave him a sop steeped in clear wine. then sir gawain began to search his wounds, for in those days, so far as god suffered the sun to shine might no man find one so skilled in leech-craft, for that man whom he took in his care, were the life but left in him, would neither lack healing nor die of any wound. then spake the knight who lay there: "woe is me, for i may neither eat nor drink; my heart beginneth to sink, mine eyes fail me, methinks i am about to die! yet might i live, and would god grant to me that all ye who sit here beside me might hear my words, i had fain spoken with the king, whom i sought as best i might, in that i would not be forsworn; needs must i come hither!" then quoth sir gawain the good: "sir knight, have ye no dread of death as at this time, for i shall help you to a respite." he drew forth from his pouch a root that had this virtue, that it stayed the flow of blood and strengthened the feeble; he placed it in the knight's mouth, and bade him eat a little; therewith was his heart lightened, and he began to eat and to drink, and forgat somewhat of his pain. erst when the service was ended came king arthur to the knight as he lay, and said: "god give ye good-day, dear sir knight; tell me who hath wounded ye so sorely, and how came ye by your hurt? did the knight who wrought such harm depart from ye unscathed?" then spake the knight to the king, who stood before him: "that will i tell ye, for i am sworn and pledged thereto. 'tis seven years past that i lost all my goods, and poverty pressed me so sorely that i knew not what i might do. thus would i keep myself by robbery. my tithes had i sold, i had spent all my goods, and pledged all my heritage, so that of all that my father left when he departed from this world there remained to me nothing. naught, not a straw, had i left. yet had i given much in largesse, for i had frequented many a tourney and table round where i had scattered my goods; whosoever craved aught of me, whether for want or for reward, were he page, were he messenger, never did he depart empty-handed. never did i fail any who besought aid of me. thus i spent all my goods. then must i fare through the land; and did i meet folk (though at first i shamed me) whomsoever i met, whether pilgrim or merchant, did he bear goods or money with him, so did i deal with him that i won it for myself. but little might escape me. i have done many an evil deed! now is it three days past since, as i fared on my way, a knight met me, and i deemed his steed so good that i coveted it above all things, but when i laid hands upon the bridle and bade the knight dismount then was he ready with his sword and repaid me with such a blow that i forgot who i was and all that had befallen me; so fierce was the stroke he dealt me! and though i betook me to arms they profited me not a jot; his blows were so heavy, they weighed even as lead. he pierced through my harness, as ye may see in many places, smiting through flesh and bone. but from me did he receive no blow that might turn to his loss. therefore must i yield myself to him, and swear by my troth, would i save my life, to come hither to ye as swiftly as i might, and delay no whit, but yield me your prisoner. and this have i now done, and i yield myself to your grace, sir king, avowing my misdeeds that i have wrought in this world, whether in thought or deed." then quoth the king: "wit ye well who he was, and how he was hight, who sent ye hither? of what fashion was his steed, and what tokens did he bear?" and the knight answered: "of that ye would ask me may i tell ye naught, save only that the knight's steed and armour were red as blood, and he seemed to me of wales by his speech, and by all i might discern of him. thereto is he of such might that i ween his equal may scarce be found in christendom; that may i also say in truth, since such ill chance befell me that i met with him when my intent was evil, and not good." then king arthur cried aloud that all might hear him, that the knight was surely none other than sir perceval. he tore his hair, and demeaned himself as one sorely vexed, and spake: "though i be lord of riches yet may i say that i am friendless! this may i say forsooth; since i lost perceval, and the ill chance befell me that he had the will and the desire to seek the grail and the spear (which he may not find) many a wounded knight hath he sent as captive to my court, whom, for their misdoing, he hath vanquished by his might. ever shall he be thanked therefor. now have i no knight so valiant of mind that for my sake will seek perceval and bring him to court. yet i and my court and my country alike are shamed and dishonoured in that we have so long lacked his presence, and for this am i above measure sorrowful." then spake sir kay the seneschal: "god-wot i shall fetch perceval, whether he will or no, and bring hither to court him whom ye praise so highly, and believe me well, were he wrought of iron, by the god who made me i will bring him living or dead! does this content ye, my lord king?" then stood arthur and laughed aloud, and likewise did all the knights who heard sir kay speak. and the king said: "sir kay, let this talk be; ye should of right be shamed when ye hear the welshman's name! have ye altogether forgot how ye boasted yourself aforetime, even as ye have now done, and then how ye met perceval, whom ye had scarce sought? there were ye ill-counselled; ye thought to bring him without his will, but the knight was not so feeble, he gave ye a blow that brake your collar-bone and thrust ye from your steed, feet upward, with little honour! had he so willed he had slain ye. idle boasting is great shame. an i hear ye make further boast of seeking knights i shall owe ye small thanks. little would he heed your compelling! in such quest must another ride would i be comforted by the coming of this knight!" quoth sir gawain, "ye mind me of an old saying, sir kay, how if some men grow old, and god should spare them even to an hundred years, then would they be but the more foolish--such an one, methinks, are ye! now believe ye my tale; did ye once find perceval, an ye thought to say to him other than he chose to hear, by the lord above us ye dare not do it for the king's crown, who is lord of this land, he would put ye to such great shame! of long time, and full well, do i know his ways! when he is well entreated, and men do naught to vex him, then is he gentle as a lamb, but an ye rouse him to wrath then is he the fiercest wight of god's making--in such wise is he fashioned. gentle and courteous is he to all the world, rich and poor, so long as men do him no wrong, but let his temper be changed, and nowhere shall ye find his fellow!" after this manner also spake sir lancelot, and all who were in the hall took up the word of sir gawain, and praised perceval. but there were many in the court heavy at heart, and sore vexed with the king their lord for that he held them so cheap. quoth the father of adventure, "by the might of our lord, and by his name, who ruleth in heaven, henceforth i will not rest in one place more than one night or two, but will ride ever till i have found perceval, or learnt certain tidings of his doings; and i will bring him to court an he be minded to ride with me--further will i not vaunt myself." then spake arthur, "god wot, here have i both joy and sorrow. fain am i to behold perceval, an such fortune befall me, and ill may i spare thee. thus have i joy and sorrow. yet, nephew, trow me well, i were loth to bid thee break thine oath; now, therefore, make ready as befits thee, and depart as swiftly as may be, and seek me perceval." with these words up sprang sir lancelot of the lake, and stepped forward, and spake, and said he would adventure himself and take what fortune should send, and go seek perceval hither and thither through all lands; "and may i but find that proud knight, an it lieth in my power, hither will i bring him! now will i make me ready, and ride hence without longer tarrying; methinks, from the king's word, an he have perceval he shall be freed from care--so will i ride hence for his honour." quoth arthur the king: "sir lancelot, of this thing it behoves ye take better rede; lightly might it turn to my shame if all my knights rode forth, and i thereafter were beset with strife and warfare, as full oft hath chanced aforetime! so might it in sooth be mine undoing. it hath chanced afore this that i had lost crown and lands, save for my knights; by them have i been victorious!" quoth sir lancelot: "by the lord who made me, and who shall be doom's-man at the last day, come what may thereof, since sir gawain rideth hence 'tis not i will bide behind! rather will i try what may chance, and adventure all that god hath given me, for he sought me with all his power when i was in secret case, and brought me once more to court--for that do i owe him faith and fellowship." then they all wept, wives and maidens, knights and squires, when they knew sir lancelot would ride thence. sir gawain, who forgat not the wounded knight and his need of healing, went to him as he lay, and bound up his wounds, and so tended him at that time that he was healed ere long--needs must he be healed, even against his will, on whom sir gawain laid hands. all they of the court were sad and sorry at their departing; that eve they ate but little, for thinking of the knights who should ride forth with the morning. but now will we be silent on their lamentations, and tell henceforth of sir gawain and sir lancelot, who rode both on their way. * * * * * the adventure doeth us to wit that in the morning, so soon as it was day, they rode forth together through many a waste land, over many a heath and high hill, adown many a valley to seek sir perceval, but little did it profit them, for of him might they learn naught. thus were they sorely vexed. on the ninth day there came riding towards them a knight on a goodly steed, and well armed withal. he was all black, even as i tell ye: his head, his body, and his hands were all black, saving only his teeth. his shield and his armour were even those of a moor, and black as a raven. he rode his steed at full gallop, with many a forward bound. when he beheld the knights, and drew nigh to them, and the one had greeted the other, he cried aloud to sir lancelot: "knight, now give me to wit of one thing which i desire, or guard ye against my spear. the truth will i know. i shall tell ye herewith my custom; what knight soever i may meet, were he stronger than five men, and i knew it well, yet would i not hold my hand for fear or favour, but he should answer me, or i should fight against him. now, sir knight, give me answer, by your troth, so truly as ye know, to that which i shall ask ye, and delay not, otherwise may ye well rue it!" quoth sir lancelot: "i were liefer dead than that a knight should force me to do that to which i had no mind--so were the shame equal. hold to your custom an ye will; i were more fain to fight than to let ye be, if but to fell your pride. i ask naught but peace, yet will i chastise your discourtesy, or die in that will!" the moor, who was wroth with sir lancelot, abode not still, but reined back his steed, and laid his spear in rest as one who was keen to fight. sir gawain drew on one side, since the twain would fight, and thought in himself, as was right and courteous, that it were folly, and the custom of no good knight, for twain to fall on one man, since life stood not at stake. 'twere time enough for him to take hand therein, and stand by his comrade, did he see him hard pressed. therefore stood sir gawain still, as one who had no mind to fight, nor to break the laws of courtesy. nevertheless he deemed that this was a devil rather than a man whom they had come upon! had they not heard him call upon god no man had dared face him, deeming that he was the devil or one of his fellows out of hell, for that his steed was so great, and he was taller even than sir lancelot, and black withal, as i said afore. thus came the two together, the moor and sir lancelot; each had a great spear and brake it in two, as a reed, yet neither felled the other, but each abode upon his steed. then each drew his sword from its sheath, and set to work therewith, and of a sooth, had not god himself so willed it both had died there; so mighty were their strokes that by right no man should escape alive. had it been midnight, and dark as night is wont to be, yet had ye seen the grass and the flowers by the light of the sparks that flew so thick from helmet and sword and fell upon the earth. the smith that wrought their weapons i say he wrought them not amiss, he merited a fairer reward than arthur ever gave to any man for such desert. the knight and sir lancelot, neither would yield to the other till sir gawain parted them by his prayer, and made them withdraw each from the other, for great pity he deemed it should either there be slain; yet so fell were the blows that they smote, and so great their wrath withal, that he saw well did the strife endure but short while longer they had received such wounds as should be the death of one, or it might well be of both. when sir gawain had parted the twain, whom he saw to be weary enow, he spake to the moor: "'tis an ill custom this to which ye are given; ye shall here renounce it. had ye but asked in courteous wise that which ye have a mind to know, this knight had hearkened, and had answered ye of right goodwill; he had not refused, that do i know well. ye be both rash and foolish, and one of the twain, ye, or he, shall lose by it, and from that do i dissent, an ye show me not better reason therefore." quoth the moor: "how come ye to speak thus to me? wot ye that i be afraid to fight against the twain of ye; or that i have held my hand through fear of death? were the one of ye sir lancelot, and the other king arthur's sister's son (these twain are wont to be praised above all in arthur's court as i have ofttimes heard, though never have i seen them), yet would i not yield a foot to them!" then thought sir gawain with himself, "we were foolish and unwise an we failed to show courtesy to one who praises us so highly." but sir lancelot had great lust either to win the fight or to play it to a loss, and sir gawain, who was well ware of this, prayed him straitly, by the love he bare to him, and to king arthur his lord, that for their honour he should hold his peace awhile, and let him say his will: "and this i charge ye, by the faith ye owe to my lady, my uncle's wife." sir lancelot spake: "of a sooth, an ye had not thus charged me i should have avenged myself or here been slain, in that this knight forced the strife upon me without cause, and loaded me with blows; but in that ye so conjure me, i am he that will harm no man for profit to myself save that he first attack me. and since it seemeth good to ye i will e'en lay the strife in respite. god grant me good counsel therein, since i do it not for cowardice, but for love of ye and for your prayer." thus stood the three in the open, and sir gawain spake to the moor: "ye be foolish in that ye do such things--now, neither we nor ye are harmed, yet might ye lightly do that which should cost ye your life. tell me what ye seek, and i will give ye good counsel withal. if i may i shall tell ye that which ye should courteously have asked of this knight, who never yet was so hardly bestead by any man that he fell from his steed." quoth the moor: "ye say well. now i pray ye by all who own the laws of knighthood, and by sir gawain afore all, since he is reckoned the best, he and sir lancelot, wherever it may be, in whatever need, far and wide throughout the world, of all men are these twain most praised (i myself know naught save that which i have heard tell), know ye aught of sir agloval, brother to sir perceval of wales? of him have i asked many, this long while past; i have ridden hither and thither this half year, and here and there have i sought him. for this have i dared many a peril, and here will i lie dead save that ye twain tell me, in friendship or in fight, if ye know aught of sir agloval. now have we had enow of this talk; 'tis full time ye answer, or we take up our strife once again, and see the which of us hath the sooner his full." sir gawain hearkened, and smiled at the black knight's speech, and spake soothfastly: "now tell me what ye will of sir agloval that ye thus seek him, and thereafter will i tell ye that which i know." and the moor answered straightway: "so will i tell ye all. sir agloval is my father, 'twas he begat me. and more will i tell ye; it chanced aforetime as ye may now learn, when he came into the land of the moors; there through his valiant deeds he won the heart of a maiden, she was my mother, by my troth. so far went the matter between them through their words and through his courtesy, and because he was so fair to look upon, that she gave him all his will--the which brought her small reward, and great sorrow. each plighted their troth to the other ere she granted him her favours. therein was she ill-counselled, for he forsook her thereafter--'tis more than fourteen years past; and when he parted from her she bare me, though he knew it not. he told her his quest, whereof he was sore troubled, and how it came about that he must needs leave her, and that will i now tell ye. my father was seeking a noble knight, who was lost as at that time, and who was hight sir lancelot. still more may i tell ye; he told my mother that he and many of his fellows had sworn a great oath to seek sir lancelot, and their quest should endure two years or more an they found him not, or could learn no tidings of him. nor should they tarry in any land more than one night or two. this vexed my father sorely, that for this cause, and to keep his oath, he must needs leave my mother. but ere he departed he sware to her that he would return when he had achieved his quest; but he kept not his oath. thus have i sought him in many a court. all this did my lady mother tell me, and also of the troth-plight. little good hath it done me that he be my father, and that he sware to my mother, ere he departed, that for her honour, and for her profit, he would return to her without fail. doth he live, god send him mocking (this i pray in all humility), but an he be already dead, then may god forgive him his sins. i and my mother are disinherited, since that he hath deserted us, of great goods and of a fair heritage, that which fell to her from her father have we lost altogether. it hath been denied us by the law of the land. thereto was i greatly shamed, for they called me fatherless, and i could shew naught against it, nor tell them who it was that begat me, since my father had thus fled. so did i cause myself to be dubbed knight, and sware a great oath (i were loth to break it) that never should i meet a knight but i would fight him, or he should tell me if he perchance knew any tidings of my father, that i might learn somewhat concerning him. did i meet mine own brother, i would not break mine oath, nor my vow; and till now have i kept it well, nor broken it by my default. and here would i bid ye twain, if ye would part from me in friendship, that ye tell me what ye may know thereof, out and out, by your troth, and therewith end this talk. otherwise let us end this matter even as we began it, for there liveth no knight under the sun for whom i would break mine oath, were it for my hurt, or for my profit." then was there neither of the twain, sir gawain nor sir lancelot, but the tears fell from their eyes when they heard the knight's tale. such pity had they for him, they waxed pale, and red, and discovered their faces, when they heard his plaint. quoth sir lancelot: "by my good days, nevermore will i be wrathful, nor bear rancour against ye for any lack of courtesy; ye need no longer stand on guard against me, my heart is not evil towards ye, and we will counsel ye well." then was the black knight blithe, and drew near to sir lancelot, and bared his head, which was black as pitch; that was the fashion of his land--moors are black as burnt brands. but in all that men would praise in a knight was he fair; after his kind. though he were black, what was he the worse? in him was naught unsightly; he was taller by half a foot than any knight who stood beside him, and as yet was he scarce more than a child! it pleased him so well when he heard them speak thus of sir agloval that he knelt him straightway on the earth; but sir gawain raised him up, and told him their tidings, how they were but as messengers, and belonged to the court of king arthur, which was of high renown, and that they rode at that time seeking sir perceval and sir agloval, since the king desired them both. "and his mind is to see and speak with them; may we by any means persuade those noble knights we shall return straightway to the king's court, an it be so that they will ride with us (further will we not vaunt ourselves, 'tis of our good will, and their pleasure), thereby shall the king be the more honoured. they belong to the round table, and have done so of long time; both are of the king's court, and knights of high renown. now an ye will work wisely, and shun your own harm, ye will mount, and ride to king arthur's court, and delay not. i hope in god that sir agloval shall come thither within short space, or that ye shall hear tidings of him; for there come full oft tidings from afar. go ye to court without tarrying, the king will receive ye well. tell him, and give him to wit who ye be, and whence ye come, and the quest upon which ye ride; he will not let ye depart ere we come and bring with us your father, an god prosper us. should ye ride thus through the land, and fight with every knight whom ye may meet, ye will need great good fortune to win every conflict without mischance or ill-hap! they who will be ever fighting, and ne'er avoid a combat, an they hold such custom for long, though at whiles they escape, yet shall they find their master, who will perforce change their mood! now sir knight do our bidding, for your own honour's sake, and ride ye to court; grant us this grace, for ere ye have abode long time there i hope that ye shall behold your father or receive tidings of him. but till that time abide ye at the court, there shall ye be well at ease in many ways. now promise us this; we shall seek your father, and may we find him, and god give us honour in our quest, then will we return as swiftly as may be, and rejoice ye and the king!" when the moor heard these words he laughed with heart and mouth (his teeth were white as chalk, otherwise was he altogether black), and he spake, "god our father reward ye, noble knights, for the good will and the honour ye have done me, and also for the great comfort wherewith ye have lightened mine heart that long hath been all too heavy. an my steed fail me not i shall ride whither ye bid me to this king whom ye praise so highly." with that he pledged to the knights hand and knighthood, and called god to witness that he would do their bidding, faithfully, and without dispute, so long as he might live. then quoth sir lancelot: "knight, an ye be in any need, when ye come into arthur's land,--i ween 'tis all unknown to ye,--speak but of us twain whom ye see here and men shall do ye naught but honour and courtesy, where'er ye come, in any place. and when ye come to the king, ere ye tell him aught beside, say that ye have seen and have spoken with us; and trow me, without fail, ye shall be well received!" the moor spake: "'tis well said--god reward ye for this courtesy; but were it your will and pleasing to ye that i knew the names of ye two then i'sooth were i the blither withal!" then straightway sir gawain did him to wit who they were, and how they were hight; and the moor made no delay, but fell on his knees before them. sir gawain raised him up, but the moor laid his hands together and spake, "god the father of all, and ruler of the world, grant that i may amend my misdoing to your honour. sir lancelot, very dear lord, i own myself right guilty, for i did evil, and naught else!" sir gawain spake: "take ye not to heart that which has here chanced, it shall be naught the worse for ye." sir gawain and sir lancelot were both mounted upon their steeds. the moor spake: "'tis labour lost. such good knights as ye be, since ye at this time fare to seek my father, by the power of our lord i will not stay behind; 'twere shame an i did. i shall ride with ye twain!" quoth sir gawain: "then must ye lay aside all outrageousness, and ride peaceably on your way, and whatever knight shall meet ye, and greet ye courteously, him shall ye greet and let pass on his way without strife or contention; and be his friend an he hath done ye no wrong--this do i counsel ye straitly. but he that is fierce and fell towards ye or towards another, on him shall ye prove your prowess, and humble his pride, if ye may. and honour all women, and keep them from shame, first and last, as best ye may. be courteous and of gentle bearing to all ye meet who be well-mannered toward ye, and he who hath no love for virtue against him spare neither sword, nor spear, nor shield!" the moor spake: "since that ye will it so, i will at your bidding forbear, otherwise might i rue it! may god be gracious to me." so rode they all three together till they came to a parting of the ways where stood a fair cross, and thereon letters red as blood. sir gawain was learned in clerkly lore, he read the letters wherein was writ that here was the border of arthur's land, and let any man who came to the cross, and who bare the name of knight, bethink him well, since he might not ride far without strife and conflict, and the finding of such adventures as might lightly turn to his harm, or even to his death--the land was of such customs. this did sir gawain tell to the twain. then they saw, by the parting of the ways, a hermit's cell, fairly builded, and the knights bethought them that they would turn them thither that they might hear and see, and know what the words boded. there saw they the hermit, who seemed to them a right good man; and they dismounted at his little window, and asked his tidings, if perchance a knight in red armour had passed that way? and the good man answered and said 'twas but the other day, afore noon, that he had seen two knights who were wondrous like unto each other. "of a truth it seemed to me, by their features and by their gestures, that they should be brothers. their steeds seemed beyond measure weary. they came that self-same road that cometh from that land that men here call britain; they were both in seeming men of might, and the one had steed and armour that were even red as blood. they dismounted, both of them, at the foot of that cross ye see there. there many a judgment is given. there did a knight lose his life, he and his wife with him; well did they deserve that their memory should be held in honour by the friends of our lord, for they made a right good ending! they had sought the shrine of a saint, with them they had money and steeds, beside other goods, as befitted folk of high degree. here did they fall in with a company of robbers, who slew the good knight, and took his steed and his money, and all that he had. of this was his wife so sorrowful that for grief and woe her heart brake, and so did they die here, the twain of them, even at the cross roads, where ye see the fair cross, where now many a judgment is spoken. 'twas made through the knight's will. hither come folk stripped and bare-foot, doing penance for their sins; and they who pass ahorse or afoot have here had many a prayer granted. the knights of whom ye ask did there their orisons, as well became them, but i may not tell ye whither they went at their departing; in sooth i know naught, for i said my prayers here within and forgat them. but they were tall and strong, and the one wore red armour, and the other bare the badge of king arthur." then were the knights sorely grieved, and kindled as a coal for sorrow, in that they might not know, by any craft, whitherward they rode. then they asked the manner of the land, and whither led the roads which they saw before them. then answered the good hermit, "i will tell ye as best i may. the road by which ye came, that do ye know; and the road that runneth straight therefrom that will ye shun, an ye heed my counsel. 'tis a land of ill-fame, where men follow evil customs; their best, 'tis but others' worst! he who will keep his horse, his weapons and his life will shun that road. and the right-hand way goeth to a wild waste land, wherein no man dwelleth; an i bethink me well 'tis over a year and a day since i saw man or woman come from thence. an it so befall that ye fare thitherward ye shall find such a marvel that would ye dare the venture, and amend the wrong it shall cost ye life and limb, that do i tell ye here. for there shall ye find the most fell beast ever man heard or read of; take ye good heed thereof, 'tis the foul fiend himself, that know i well, that roameth in the guise of a beast. against him may no weapon serve, there was never spear so sharp nor sword so well tempered, as i know of a truth, that may harm that devil, but it will break or bend as hath full oft been proven in time past. now hath the beast chosen his dwelling in a little forest, there will he abide all night, but the day he prowleth by straight and winding ways. he devoureth man and beast alike, nor may i tell ye the marvels i have heard concerning him. he hath laid waste a broad land, and driven thereout all the country-folk, so that none remain. now have i told ye the truth concerning these two roads, and what may befall ye therein; for the third, it leadeth hereby to the sea coast; i know not what i may say more." quoth sir lancelot: "by the lord who made me, sir gawain, we must needs depart from each other here and now, would we find these knights. and i will dare that which i deem the most perilous venture. ye shall ride straightway whichever road ye will, otherwise shall we lose the knights who were lately here, they shall not have ridden far as yet. and if it be that ye find them, then i charge and conjure ye, by my will and your valour, that if ye may, ye shall bring them with ye and return hither to this place. do this, sir knight, for my prayer. and do the hermit to wit how matters have gone with ye, that he may tell me the truth thereof if peradventure i too come hither, and the knight shall go with ye, and god keep ye both since we be now come to this point. do him honour as a good man and true, in whatsoever place ye may be, this i pray ye of your valour." sir gawain gave him answer: "dear comrade, i am fain to do your bidding, and may god keep us in life and limb, and in worldly honour. now choose ye first which road ye will take, for here will we abide no longer." then said sir lancelot: "i ween that 'tis the most pressing need to go fight against the beast whereof the good man telleth us; methinks 'twere well that i ride thither." and the hermit answered: "alas, sir knight, ye be so fair that i deem below the throne one might scarce find your equal, and will ye brave a venture which no man may achieve! the folk hath fled out of the land, none may withstand that beast, no shaft is so fell as the venom which he shooteth on all who near him; and the man whom it reacheth, and upon whom it shall light (i am he who lieth not), he dieth ere the third day be past, had he never a wound upon him. this hath been the worse for many. then is the beast greater than a horse, and runneth more swiftly than any horse may. ye are wise an ye shun the fiend. this do i tell ye beforehand. had he not chosen his lair, and did he wander from the land, as well might be, by the lord who made us he had laid the world waste! ye would do well to turn back." but 'twas labour lost; not for all the riches that belonged to king arthur would he have taken back his word and his covenant, for any prayer that might be made him, nor have yielded aught through fear. then would the knights take leave of each other that they might depart. the moor spake to the twain: "for what do ye take me? am i a lesser or a weaker man than either of ye that sir gawain must needs ride with me? i will not have it so. there is no knight so bold but i dare well withstand him. i know well what is unfitting. now say whither ye will betake ye, and send me what road ye will; i will dare the venture, be it never so perilous. by my knighthood, and by all who follow christendom, i shall adventure alone, and take that which may chance." then said sir gawain: "it liketh me ill that ye sware such an oath, yet since such is your will, take ye the road that leadeth to the sea (this seemeth to me the best), ride swiftly and spare not, but seek your father. and do in all things after my counsel; if any man meet ye, when ye have given him courteous greeting, ask him if he saw riding, or otherwise met with, two knights, the one of whom ware red armour, and the other bare king arthur's badge. this shall ye first beseech of them. when ye come to the crossing, pray that men tell ye the truth, and ask for the sea-coast withal, wherever ye come. and if so be that men understand ye not then return straightway to this place, and follow the road which i shall take, swiftly, and with no delay. we might lightly depart so far from each other that we met not again. but follow me soon, and not too late; and do according as i counsel ye, and i tell ye truly, no harm shall befall ye." the moor spake: "god reward ye." then took they leave each of the other, and departed asunder. now will i tell ye how it fared with sir gawain. the adventure telleth us forthwith that when prime was now already past sir gawain came to a wide and deep river. 'twas a great stream, and deep, and the current ran swift and strong. then sir gawain marked well, and took heed, how on the further side, in a land of which he knew naught, there came a knight riding on a fair steed, and armed as if for combat. before him he drave captive a maiden. sir gawain beheld how he smote her, many a time and oft, blow upon blow, with his fist that weighed heavily for the mailed gauntlet that he ware. pain enough did he make her bear for that she desired not to ride with him. he smote her many a time and oft with his shield as he would revenge himself upon her in unseemly fashion. the maiden ware a robe of green silk, that was rent in many places, 'twas the cruel knight had wrought the mischief. she rode a sorry hack, bare backed, and her matchless hair, which was yellow as silk, hung even to the horse's croup--but in sooth she had lost well nigh the half thereof, which that fell knight had afore torn out. 'twas past belief, the maiden's sorrow and shame; how she scarce might bear to be smitten by the cruel knight; she wept and wrung her hands. this sir gawain beheld, and he deemed 'twere shame an he avenged not her wrong. he looked before and behind and saw no bridge, great or small, by which he might cross over, nor saw he living soul of whom he might ask, then did he delay no longer, but turned his bridle, and set his horse toward the river bank; he struck his spurs sharply and sprang into the midst of the stream. the good steed breasted the current, swimming as best it might and brought its master to the further side. 'twas great marvel that they were not drowned, horse and man, for the river was deep, and the stream ran swiftly. when sir gawain came to the other side of the river, which was both wide and deep, then saw he a great company of folk riding after the knight who bare away the maiden by force, and thus misused her, but he wist not if it was to aid the knight that they thus followed him, or to wreak vengeance on him. he saw many men clad in hauberks, but they were as yet a good mile distant. sir gawain rode swiftly after the maiden who went afore, whom the knight thus mishandled, to avenge her wrong; and as he drew near so that she might see him, she smote her hands together more than before, and cried to gawain, "noble knight, for the honour of womanhood, save me! this knight doeth me undeserved shame. did there come hither any friend of god who would help me in this my need, an he had slain his own father it should be forgiven him!" her prayers and entreaties, her tears and lamentations, would have stirred any man to pity; she cried upon sir gawain as he came riding into the plain, to come to her aid and fell the knight's pride. as sir gawain heard her his heart was rent with sorrow and compassion and he spake to that evil knight: "sir knight, 'tis folly and discourtesy that which ye do to this maiden; were ye wise ye would forbear; even had the maiden wronged ye, ye should deal courteously; he hath small honour who thus smiteth a maiden." then said the cruel knight: "for ye, fool and meddler, whether ye be knight or no, will i not stay my hand, nay, rather for your shame, will i chastise her the more; and should ye but speak another word to her i shall thrust ye straightway from your steed with my spear!" quoth sir gawain: "then were i but afoot sir knight! natheless i counsel ye, an ye be wise, that ye spare the maiden. ye will find me not so craven this day as to let ye harm her; i shall defend her and avenge her wrong if my life be risked upon it. but, sir knight, hearken to my prayer, for god and for your honour, and the sake of knighthood!" but that evil knight answered and said he would in no wise do this: "an ye get not hence, and fly, by heaven it shall be your doomsday! i have no need of your sermons." quoth sir gawain: "an ye be so bold, lay but your hand again upon her, and i shall take so stern a pledge as, wist ye, shall dismay your heart, an it cost me my life. let the maiden go in peace, or be on your guard against my spear, for i defy ye!" the other was high and scornful that sir gawain so threatened him. he thought to quell his pride, and rode against him straightway, and sir gawain, on his side, did even the same. they came together so keenly that both spears brake, and the crash might be heard afar; they came together so swiftly that the knight was thrust from his saddle, and fell to the ground, and he fell so heavily that he felt the smart in every limb, and lay in anguish from the fall--so stayed he prone upon the ground. sir gawain took the horse whereon the knight had ridden. he forgat not his courtesy, but gave it into the hand of the maiden, and drew forth his good sword. therewith was the knight come to himself, and had taken his sword, and stood up as best he might. evil was his thought, and he cried: "vassal, how were ye so bold as to do me this hurt and this shame? my father is lord of this land, and after him shall it be mine. think not to escape, 'tis folly that which ye do. even to day shall ye be repaid by those who follow me, and chastised in such wise as ye would not have for all the riches king arthur holds or ne'er may hold! my men will be here anon and ye shall not escape, for in this land hath no man power or might to withstand me." sir gawain spake: "that may i well believe, and therefore are ye so cruel and so outrageous. that one who is noble of birth, and rich withal, should be false of heart, by my troth, 'tis great pity and bringeth many to shame. now ye are not yet at such a pass but that i may teach ye moderation ere ye part from me. methinks that to-day ye shall rue the evil ye have done. i counsel ye, an ye be wise, that ye make known to me wherein this lady hath wronged ye. hath she indeed deserved that ye be thus cruel, then 'tis a matter 'twixt ye twain, i meddle no further. but hath the maiden not deserved this, then hold your hand, and make peace with me, otherwise is your life forfeit were ye never so highly born. i take the maiden with me when i ride hence." the knight would not hearken, and the maiden spake: "noble knight i will tell ye wherefore he doeth me this wrong. he would have me for his love, why should i deny the truth? 'tis many a day since he first spake to me, but i would not hearken to him, other sorrows vexed me; poverty grieveth me sore; thereto have i griefs that i may not lightly tell. my father was a knight, and a good man, and of high birth in this land. dear sir knight, i will tell thee openly, though it be shame. my father hath lain sick, seven year long, and hath lost his goods, and now lieth in sore straits; he may neither ride nor walk nor stand upon his feet, he suffereth much. now have i nursed and tended and otherwise served my father--friends hath he few save myself, and i had fain stayed by him and kept him all my life, doing for him all that within me lay. to-day came this knight within our hold, which is sore broken down and ruined, and hath done me sore wrong. he took me thence by force, ere i was well aware, nor stayed his hand for god or man. thus did he carry me away, and now he doeth me this shame. he hath left his folk behind that they may hinder my friends, lest they follow him to his hurt. i fear lest they be here anon. and should they find ye here ye may scarce escape. would ye save your life, then, sir knight, make a swift end of this combat. i fear it dureth over long an ye will aid me, by our lord's grace. so bethink ye, sir knight, what ye may do." quoth sir gawain: "an ye be wise, sir knight, ye will now speak; here will i tarry no longer. will ye right this maiden of the wrong ye have done her, or fight with me? the one or the other must ye do. an ye will, i will alight and meet ye afoot, or ye may mount your steed again, by covenant that ye flee not, nor escape, but abide your fortune." the knight made answer: "now do ye hold me over feeble, an ye think i shall thus yield. ye will do well to dismount straightway, an ye have lust to fight." he covered himself with his shield, and drew forth his sword from the scabbard. sir gawain dismounted, whether he liked it well or ill, and let his horse that men call the gringalet, stand beside him; never a foot would that steed stir till its lord came, and once more laid hand on it. forthwith they betook them to fight, and dealt each other fierce thrusts, with mighty and strong strokes, so that one saw their blood stream out through the mails of their hauberk, and the sparks sprang out when the helmets were smitten till they seemed to glow even as doth hot iron when it be thrust into the furnace, and waxeth red from the fire; so fierce were the blows which each dealt to the other. that which most sorely vexed sir gawain was that his sword scarce seemed worth a groat, the knight's armour was so good that sir gawain's weapon was stayed upon it. though one saw the blood well through, yet had the hauberk never a score. this sir gawain deemed a great marvel. he fetched a mighty blow upward and smote the knight above the hauberk, in the neck, to the very middle of the throat. therewith was the matter ended for him; his head fell forward upon his breast, and he fell dead beneath the blow. his friends and kinsmen had beheld from afar and came therewith, sore distressed and very wrath when they saw their lord thus lying dead upon the field. sir gawain, the good and the valiant, was once more mounted upon gringalet. there might he fear no foe; the steed was so strong and so great, and even as his lord had need would the horse watch and follow every sign that he might give. those who had come thither, and had, as it were, found sir gawain in the very act of slaying, were of one mind that they should beset him, behind and afore, on horse and afoot, and if it might be take his life. and sir gawain who saw that he was sore bestead, commended himself to the grace of god with a good heart and received his foes with drawn sword. with each blow that he smote he wounded one, or two, and wrought them much harm. none might withstand him, and he that wrought the most valiantly he abode there dead, or went hence so sorely wounded that he might never more find healing. thus gawain, the father of adventure, so daunted them with the blows that he smote that many drew aside and turned from the strife with deep wounds and wide. 'twas a good cause for which sir gawain fought, and for which he desired vengeance, and for that did it fall to his profit. he brought many of them in sore stress, some of life, some of limb. with that there came riding a company of the maiden's folk, who were fain to avenge her shame. so soon as she beheld them, and they drew nigh, was she glad and blithe and drew aside from the strife where sir gawain did right manfully. the maiden turned to her own folk, and betook her with that company again to her father. they were right joyful that she was once more in their power, and they left sir gawain on the field where he was sore bestead--they durst not take part with him against their overlord, so greatly did they fear his kin. but sir gawain, who marked this not, went smiting blow after blow on all that came nigh him, and so blinded and drave them backward with his strokes that he was left alone on the field. so weary and so weak were they that they lay all along the road, discomfited, prone on the earth, as those who have sore need of rest. but few of them were whole, for sir gawain had so wounded them that men may well tell the tale from now even unto doomsday! then thought sir gawain within himself, since he had so long wielded his weapons and no man durst withstand him further he might find no better counsel than to fare on his way. he thanked god of true heart that he had thus won honour on this evil folk, and that he had escaped with his life, and free from mortal wound, he and his steed, and that god had thus protected them. men say oft, and 'tis true, as was here well proven, that he who recks not of his ways, but doeth that which is displeasing alike to god and to the world, he was born in an evil hour. now when sir gawain had won the fight, and god had shown him favour by granting him good knighthood and the discomfiting of his foes, the day was well past nones, and sir gawain, the bold, had neither eaten nor drunk, nor done aught save fight that day and receive great blows. he rode on his way sore perplexed and unknowing where he might seek for lodging. so long did he ride that he was ware how it drew towards evening, and therewith did he behold a castle. never was a man more oppressed with hunger and thirst and weariness; and he thought in his heart that he could do naught better than ride thither, and see if by hap he might find lodging for the night. he found by the castle moat the lord of that burg and many of his folk with him; when he had dismounted on the turf he greeted them courteously, and the lord answered "god reward ye." quoth sir gawain, "were it your command, and your will and pleasure, right gladly would i abide here within this night! i know not otherwise how i may win shelter. i have ridden all this day, and have seen naught save wilderness and waste land, and there found i no man with whom i might abide the night." and the host spake, "so may good befall me in soul and body as i shall give to you in friendship, even to the uttermost, all that belongeth unto this even; lodging will i give ye, and food, ham and venison. my lodging is ever free, and ne'er refused to any knight who would fain be my guest. he hath safe conduct, good and sure, against all whom he may meet in this land, were it against mine own son, whom i love above all who own the laws of knighthood. my safe conduct is so well assured that whosoe'er should wrong my guest it should cost him his life and all that he had, had he not more than good fortune! this on my knighthood and by the blessed maid, our lady!" but sir gawain, the father of adventure, who was wont to be received with honour, wist not that the knight whom he had slain was son to the lord of the castle. now first shall ye hear of marvellous adventures whereof some be good and some evil. sir gawain had come to that point that he deemed he was well assured of shelter for the night, nor was he on guard against his heavy mischance. the host, who would do his guest all honour, took the knight by the hand, and led him through three portals into a fair hall where he was received with courteous words. they disarmed him straightway, and stabled his steed right well. the host bade them take in ward sir gawain's armour and his sword; too far did they carry them! for that was he vexed and wrathful, and he would not it had so chanced for all his host's halls, were they of wroughten gold! for as they sat at table and ate and drank and had enow of all the earth might bear for the sustenance of man, and forgat thereby all sorrow, they heard sore wailing and lamentation, and the smiting together of hands, and knew not what it might mean. they heard folk who stood without the walls, at the master gate, who cried with loud voice, "alas, alas! undo and let us in!" then sir gawain's mood was changed, and his heart forbade him that sorrow and mischief drew near. he changed colour and grew red. the lord gave command from within that they should ask what company stood without, and what tidings they bare. then they sprang to the gate, and opened it, even as their lord bade. then came they in, who stood without, bearing a bier, and making so great cry and lamentation that men heard it far and near through the open doorways. so came they into the hall, a great company of folk, and cried with a loud voice to the lord of the castle, "alas, master, here lieth dead the best knight that one might find in the wide world, even your dear son. there liveth not his like on earth, so strong, so bold, so skilled in valiant deeds!" then was all the burg aghast; and the host, the father of the knight who lay dead upon the bier, felt his heart die within him. scarce might he find words; and he cried, "who hath robbed him of life, mine own dear son, whom i loved above all the world? how came he by his death? i fear me 'twas by his own deed, for well i know that he was fierce of heart, and spared neither foe nor friend. i fear lest he have merited his death. now do i conjure ye all here present, by god, our righteous father (so spake the lord of the castle) that ye speak, and make known to me the whole truth; fain would i hear how he came by his death, my dear son, who lieth here, and for whom my heart doth sorely grieve." then said they all who brought the dead man thither, that forsooth 'twas a stranger knight who did this by his great valour; "though we saw it not with our eyes, yet may we well bear witness to the death of many of our folk; and others are so sorely wounded that they may never more be healed. man may scarce tell all the mischief wrought by that stranger knight who slew your son, the best knight on earth; nor may we tell who he might be." but sir gawain, who was there within, and knew well that he was guilty, saw that he might scarce escape either by will or by valour, since he had laid aside his weapons and stood all unarmed in his robes; thereof was he grieved at heart. as they stood and spake thus, sudden they saw the blood of the knight who lay there dead, and which afore was stanched, leap forth afresh, and run crimson down the hall. with this were they ware of sir gawain, their lord's guest, and all they who were there present said, the one taking up the tale of the other, that forsooth he who had slain the knight was within that hall, as might be seen of men, for the blood had ceased to flow a little after midday, nor had any man seen the wounds bleed since. now was it open and manifest to all that he was there who had done the deed. herein were they all of one mind who were there present, and they drew together and looked upon sir gawain the father of adventure, with fierce and cruel eyes. sir gawain saw many an unfriendly countenance turned towards him. they straitly prayed their lord that he would make the knight known to them; how he came thither; who he was, whence he came, and whither he went, and what might be his name? then spake the host: "he is my guest, and he hath my safe conduct, good and fast, the while he is within; and be ye sure of this, that if any wrong him by word or deed, he shall rue it in such wise that it shall cost him goods and life. nor will i change for prayer of man or woman. my surety that i will hold to every guest standeth so fast that no word i have spoken shall be broken with my knowledge or my will. have patience and hold ye still, on peril of your lives and goods. i know so good counsel withal that i may speedily be ware of him who hath wrought this deed." then he called together his folk to one side of the hall, and said that his oath and his safe conduct might in no wise be broken, for his son were thereby but ill-avenged, valiant knight though he was. he might well rue it if he slew his guest, for thereof should he have great shame wherever men told the tale. "i shall avenge him more discreetly, if i be well-assured of the truth that my guest hath indeed wrought this murder and this great outrage." he spake further to his folk: "now do ye all my bidding. ye shall abide here within this hall; no man shall follow me a foot, but do ye even as i command. i will lead my guest without, and ye shall close the door behind us. doth the dead man cease to bleed, then shall we all be well-assured that he hath done the deed; and thereafter shall i take counsel how i may avenge my son, fittingly, and without shame." then all agreed to his counsel, and held their peace. thus came the host to where sir gawain stood, and spake: "sir knight, be not wroth that my folk entreat ye not better. we are in grief, as ye see, and therefore are ye the worse served. now shall ye come with me, and i shall amend what hath here been lacking. my folk and my household make great lamentation, as ye see, and i with them. now come with me, and tarry not; i will lead ye hence where ye may be at ease, and sleep softly till the daylight. here would we make our moan." sir gawain thought within himself he was sorely over-matched within those (to be bare of weapons 'tis a heavy blow at need), and he knew well that the folk looked on him with unfriendly eyes, and that none were on his side, that might be seen from their mien; and therefore he thought within himself that there was no better counsel save to put himself in his host's grace, and do that which he bade him. he had no weapon upon him, and there were within of his host's folk full five hundred men whom he saw to be armed. thus he went his way with his host, whether the adventure should turn to his harm or to his helping. the lord of the castle led him through the doorway, and his men locked it as they went forth. then quoth the lord of those within: "sir knight and dear guest, i will that ye be right well entreated here within this night." he led him to a strong tower, wherein were fair beds. he bade them bear tapers before them, and all that he knew or could in any wise deem needful for sir gawain, his guest. the host, sorely mourning, bade them pour out clear wine, and make ready a fair couch whereon he might sleep even as he had the will thereto. he left with him squires enow, and turned him again to the castle. then did they bear the dead man from where he lay, his wounds were stanched, and bled no whit. then said all who saw it it booted not to seek another man, they were well assured 'twas their guest had slain him. the word ran through the hall; and the host turned him again to where he had left his guest, as if he marked naught. he made no sign to his folk, but locked the door of the tower so fast that none might come therein to sir gawain to do him harm, nor overpower him, so safely was he in his keeping. also, i tell ye, he himself kept the keys of the strong tower wherein he had locked his guest. he would bethink him what 'twere best to do ere he let him be slain or maimed; thus did he hold him within his fortress. what might sir gawain do? he must even abide his fate; he had come thither as guest, and now was he locked in a strong tower, within many doors, and in a strange place withal. he was bare of arms, and had he revealed himself and demanded his weapons they had scarce given them to him; rather had they slain him, and drawn blood-guiltiness upon themselves had not god protected him. thus was sir gawain a captive, and knew not what he might do. 'twixt constraint and ill-fortune the night seemed to him over long; though he feared him no whit yet he deemed his end was come. he knew well that the folk were evil-disposed and bare malice and rancour towards him for the sake of the dead man who lay there, in that they had seen his wounds bleed afresh, and had thereby known his slayer. thus was his heart sorely troubled. now leave we speaking of sir gawain. the host was within the hall, with his folk until daylight; with sorrow and lamentation did they pass the night, bemoaning their bitter loss. for though the knight had well deserved his death yet had he there many friends who lamented the loss that they had thereby suffered. they were loth to own that he was evil and cruel of heart. so soon as they saw the fair day light the host took counsel with his folk that they might advise him well by what means, and in what way, they might avenge themselves for their heavy loss. said the host, their lord, did he let the guest, whom he held there captive, and who had smitten his son to death, depart in safety, "men would say i were but a coward, and durst not avenge myself, and would speak scorn of me; so many have seen how the matter fell out that it may not well remain hidden. yet should i slay my guest then from henceforward would they cry shame upon me in every land where the tale be told." thus was he of two minds, and thought in his heart that to save himself from shame 'twere best to let his guest depart so soon as he arose, armed in all points as he came thither, and harm him in no wise, but bring him, unhurt by any man, without the borders of his land and his safe conduct, and there bid him farewell and return hither; while that his friends, who would fain see him avenged, waylaid sir gawain, and wrought their will upon him, and, if they would, slew him. or if they took him captive they might deal with him as they thought best, either by burning him in the fire, to cool their rage, or by breaking him upon the wheel--as might seem best to them at the time. "thus shall i put the shame from me, that neither near nor afar, now or henceforward, men make scorn of me. this seemeth to me the wisest rede in this matter, howsoe'er it stand!" this did he tell to his folk, and it pleased them well, and they spake with one mouth that he had found the best counsel. they made no further questioning, but armed themselves, and rode forth, as they who would waylay sir gawain, when his host had sent him on his way. thus they went forth from thence a great company, and well armed. very wrathful were they, and they went right willingly. the host who would follow them called to him his seneschal, who was cruel and cunning, and bade him carry his armour to their guest straightway, and deliver it to him as if he should ride thence as soon as he had arisen, and delay no whit. straightway the seneschal betook him to a fair chamber (hearken ye to an evil tale!) where he found sir gawain's weapons and his good armour. he stole from sir gawain his good sword, that which he placed in its sheath was not worth twopence; he cut the straps of the harness well nigh in twain in the midst, and made a great score in the stirrup leathers so cunningly that no man might see or know aught thereof beneath the covering of the harness. and the saddle-girths did the traitor so handle that sir gawain was sore grieved there-for ere he had ridden a mile; he would not that it had so chanced for all king arthur's kingdom--that shall ye hear anon. when the seneschal who had wrought this treason had brought sir gawain's weapons and his horse that had been well cared for that night--they deemed it should be theirs ere long, 'twas a strong steed and well standing, and since they thought to have their pleasure of it they gave it provender enow--the host bade them undo the door and hold sir gawain's steed there without. the harness was in place, whereof i have told ye that it was so traitorously handled; then came forth the knight, who had arisen, and clad himself in fair robes, and descended the stairway. little thought had he of the treason which in short while befell him. the seneschal held in his hand the false sword, well hidden in its sheath, and the while sir gawain made him ready did he gird it at his side--for that was the knight thereafter unblithe. the while they thus made ready came the lord of the castle to sir gawain, and said: "ye are early astir sir knight; how comes it that ye be thus hurried at this time? scarce have ye slept, and arisen, ere ye would ride hence. have ye heard mass, and broken your fast ere ye depart?" quoth sir gawain: "dear mine host, i grieve that ye yet sorrow; so may god guard me and bring me to his grace when i die as i truly mourn for your mischance. i will it were yet to do!" quoth sir gawain the bold: "though 'twere hard and painful to me yet would i for seven years long wear haircloth next my body, wherever i fared, for this that ye have received me so well. nevertheless be ye sure of a truth--i may not deny it this day for any man, how strong soever he might be, nor through fear of any that may hear me, foe or friend--but i must needs say in sooth your son had merited his death many a time and oft ere the day came that he died! now may god have mercy upon him! and god reward ye for the great good, and the honour, that ye do to me, all ye here, in that i have been at your charges." then was the host sore vexed, and he said: "i will do ye no harm for aught that hath chanced by ye; nevertheless, there be here many a man who had fain fallen upon ye, but i tell ye i will not that aught befall ye here; nor that my peace be broken, nor vengeance taken upon ye. i shall go with ye as ye ride hence, and ride with ye so far that ye be not led astray by any who remain behind. i were loth that harm befell ye." sir gawain spake: "for that may god, who ruleth over all, reward ye." he took the bridle in his hand and rode forth, the host nigh to him; and at his side went he who had betrayed him aforehand. now cometh great sorrow upon sir gawain. he deemed that he had safe conduct, but he had lost from its sheath his sword, which had been stolen from him; and that which the seneschal had put in its place when he drew forth the good brand was more brittle than glass. thereto had he cunningly handled the harness, girths and stirrup-leather, whereof sir gawain knew naught, and the lord of the castle had sent afore the strongest and most valiant of his folk, to waylay sir gawain, and to take his life, a man's heart might well fail him for doubt, and great fear, did he come in such a pass, and know no wile whereby he might escape. sir gawain, who knew naught of these tricks and snares rode on his way, discoursing of many things with his host, until they drew nigh to the place where his foes lay, ambushed in the thicket, who would fain slay him. when he came nigh to the place the host took leave of the knight, and turned him again towards the castle. sir gawain sat upon his steed and deemed that he should ride thence without strife or combat. as he laid his hand on the saddle-bow, and thrust his feet into the stirrups and thought to rise in the saddle, the girths brake asunder, the saddle turned over the left stirrup beneath the horse, and left him standing. then sir gawain saw a great company of folk spring forth and come towards him with all their might. some came from the ditches where they had lain hidden, some out of bushes, some out of thickets, and some came forth from the hollow ways. god confound traitors, since he may not mend them! sir gawain abode not still; he saw well that he was betrayed, and over-matched. he drew forth from its sheath the sword, which was little worth to him, and deemed he would defend himself, as he oft had done aforetime, against those who would harm him. but ere he might smite three blows that sword brake, as it were tin--this was an ill beginning would a man defend his life. this sir gawain saw, and was dismayed, he wist well that he was betrayed. they who would harm him came upon him from every side, a great company and fierce, all thirsting for his life; there was a great clash of swords; they thrust at him with their spears. his sword protected him not a whit--he who gave it to him god give him woe! it brake in twain at the hilt, and fell into the sand. sir gawain stood empty-handed, small chance had he of escape, and they who beset him were chosen men, over-strong and over-fierce, as was there well proven. like as a wild boar defends himself against the hounds that pursue him, even so did sir gawain defend himself, but it helped him naught. they harmed him most who stood afar, and thrust at him with spears to sate their rage. there was among them no sword so good but had sir gawain held it, and smote with it three such blows as he was oft wont to deal with his own, it had broken, or bent, and profited them no whit. but of those things which had stood him in good stead many a time before, when he was hard beset, his good steed, and his sword, the which was a very haven, of these was he now robbed. thus was sir gawain overcome, and me thinks 'twas little marvel! there lives no man so strong or so valiant but he may some time be vanquished by force, or by fraud. sir gawain must needs yield him; he was felled to the ground, yet were there some to whom it cost their life ere he was captive, and some it cost a limb, or twain, that might never more be healed; and he himself was so sore mis-handled that all he ware, whether it were armour or other clothing, was rent in many a place, so that the flesh might be seen. there lived on earth no man so wise that he might aid him in this stress, nor leech who might heal him; yet, an god will, he shall be healed of his smart and of his shame. they bound sir gawain's hands, and set him on a sorry hack, and to anger him they led beside him gringalet, his steed. this they did that he might be the more sorrowful when he beheld his horse, which he had now lost, and his own life withal! for of this would they deprive him, and make him to die a shameful death; burn him they would, or break him upon the wheel, that they might wreak their vengeance upon him. there were among them knights and squires, the richest, and the most nobly born after the lord of the land; and all had sworn an oath that they would lead sir gawain to the cross-roads, at the entering in of their land for the greater shaming of king arthur's court. to this had they pledged themselves, that they would there slay him without respite or delay; and were it not that 'twere shame to themselves, and too great dishonour to one who bare the name of knight, they had hung him by the neck, on the border of the two lands, to shame king arthur; so that all his folk who were of the knightly order, and dwelt at his court, and sought for adventure, should shun their land when they heard the tidings of the vengeance wrought by them upon knights-errant who would prove their fate within those borders. thus it fell out that they brought sir gawain on the horse, sorely wounded and mishandled, within the nearness of half a mile, so that the knight knew he was nigh to the cell of the hermit of whom at that self-same cross-road he had asked tidings of king arthur's knights, and of that bad and evil land where many were brought to shame. and they who had brought him thither were of one mind that they should make a wheel, and break the knight upon it at the cross by the parting of the ways whereof i have told ye afore. now shall i leave speaking of this matter till i come again thereto, and will forthwith tell ye how it fared with morien when the three had parted asunder, as i told ye afore (sir gawain, morien, and sir lancelot, he was the third), since they would fain make proof of that which the hermit had told them. now will i tell ye of morien ere that i end the tale of sir gawain. now doth the adventure tell that morien, that bold knight, rode the seaward way, and came safely to the passage of the ford nigh unto the open sea. and all the day he met no man of whom he might ask concerning his father; 'twas labour wasted, for all who saw him fled from him. little good might his asking do him, since none who might walk or ride would abide his coming. but he saw there the hoof-prints of horses, which lay before him and were but newly made; by this he deemed that his father had passed that way but a short while before. thus he followed the hoof-tracks to the passage of the sea. that night had he neither rest nor slumber, nor found he place where he might shelter, or where it seemed to him he might ask for food or lodging beneath a roof. the morning early, even as it dawned and men might see clearly and well (which comforted him much), he came safely ahorse to where one might make the crossing, but he saw never a soul; no man dwelt thereabout, for the robbers had laid waste the land, and driven away the folk so that none remained. 'twas all heath and sand, and no land beside; there grew neither barley nor wheat. he saw and heard no man, nor did folk come and go there, but he saw ships at anchor, and shipmen therein, who were wont to take over those folk who would cross into ireland. morien came riding over the sea-sand, and cried with a loud voice shipward: "ye who be within tell me that which i ask lest it be to your own loss, as also i would fain know for my own profit and rejoicing. know ye if any within these few days past have carried a knight over the water?" but all they who lay in the ships, when they beheld morien who had doffed his helm, were so afeard for him that they might neither hear nor understand question nor answer. they were altogether in fear of him, since he was so tall, and black withal. each man turned his boat seaward, and put off from the shore, for morien was to look upon even as if he were come out of hell. they deemed they had seen the foul fiend himself, who would fain deçeive them, so they departed as swiftly as they might and would in no wise abide his coming. then must morien turn him again, for none would hearken to his speech nor tell him that which he fain would know; all were of one mind that 'twas the devil, and none else, who rode there upon the sand, so they fled with one consent from the shore. morien saw well that his labour was in vain, for would he make the crossing there was no man would abide his coming or receive him into his boat. thus must he needs turn him back, and great lamentation did he make thereof. he saw the footprints where two horses had ridden afore him, and ever he hoped that 'twas his father who rode there, and that he had crossed the water, but he thought within himself: "what doth it profit a man to labour if he know it to be in vain? none will take me over the water since i am a moor, and of other countenance than the dwellers in this land; this my journey is for naught. i may not do better than return to the hermit, that good man, there where i parted from my comrades." he had neither eaten nor drunk since that he rode thence; his head was dazed with hunger and with grief. he looked behind and afore, and saw nowhere where food was in preparing, nor saw he man nor woman, nor creature that had life, upon the seashore. then he rode swiftly upon the backward trail till he came once more to the parting of the ways; there found he carpenter-folk hewing and shaping timber, whereof they had made a great wheel. he saw a knight sitting upon the ground, in sore distress, naked and covered with blood; he had been brought thither to be broken upon the wheel, so soon as it might be made ready. well might his heart misgive him! morien who came thither saw the gleam of many a hauberk; there were armed folk enow! others there were who were but in evil case, unarmed, and unclad, who were scarce whole. their limbs were bandaged, some the arm, some the leg, some the head, and stained with blood. and sir gawain, who sat there sore mishandled, knew that well, and as morien came nigh, he cried, so that all might hear: "dear my comrade, ye be welcome. god give me joy of your coming hither! i am gawain, your comrade; little did i foresee this mischance when we parted, you and i, at this cross-way! have pity upon the sore stress in which ye see me. may god who hath power over us all strengthen ye well; would that he might here show forth his power!" when morien who was hard beset by them who stood there heard this, never might one hear in book or song that any man smote such fierce blows as he smote with the sword which he drew forth. do what he might with that sword it suffered neither dint nor scar; he smote straight to the mid-ward; nor was their harness so good that it might withstand him. thereto helped his great strength, that he fought so fiercely against them who withstood him, and smote such ghastly wounds that nevermore might they be healed, nor salved by the hand of any leech. he clave many to the teeth, through helm and coif, so that they fell to the ground. and ever as he cast his eyes around and they lighted upon sir gawain, who was in such evil case, his courage waxed so great that were the devil himself against him he had slain him even as a man; might he die, he had there lost his life. sir gawain sat by the wayside in sorry plight, with his hands bound; but the good knight morien so drave aback the folk who had brought him thither that they had little thought for him. he defended him so well with his mighty blows that none might come at him to harm him; he felled them by twos and by threes, some under their horses, some beside them. the space began to widen round sir gawain and morien; for all there deemed that he came forth from hell, and was hight devil, in that he so quelled them and felled them underfoot that many hereafter spake thereof. that men thrust and smote at him troubled him little, therein was he like to his father, the noble knight sir agloval; he held parley with no man, but smote ever, blow after blow, on all who came nigh him. his blows were so mighty; did a spear fly towards him, to harm him, it troubled him no whit, but he smote it in twain as it were a reed; naught might endure before him. he ware a hauberk that bold overstrong hero, wherewith he was none too heavy laden, yet none might harm him with any weapon they brought thither. then might ye see the blood run red upon the ground for the good knight's sword spared neither horse nor man. there might ye see lying heads and hands, arms and legs; some hewn from the body, some smitten in twain. they who might escape death fared little better, for good fortune had departed from them--thus many chose their end. he who came betimes to the conflict, and fled without waiting to see what might chance further, he was blithe! thus were they put to rout, and either slain or driven from the field, or helpless of limb; some who came thither ahorse had lost their steeds, and must rue their journey. they might no longer ride, but must go hence afoot. then morien dismounted, and took sir gawain in his arms, and said full oft, "alas, my comrade, how were ye thus betrayed? i fear physician may aid ye never more, ye have wounds so many and so sore." with that he had unbound his hands; and sir gawain said: "of physician have i no need." he thanked god and morien a hundredfold, that he was thus delivered from peril, and comforted in his need; his heart was light within him, and he said he should speedily mend might he but have repose for two days, and neither walk nor ride; by the help of god, and by leechcraft and the aid of certain herbs the virtue of which he knew well, so might he regain all his strength. now had they left upon the field gringalet and certain other steeds, the masters whereof were slain or had fled afar. gringalet was bare of harness, he had lost his saddle as ye heard afore, and therefore no man had mounted him. he who had brought him thither had forgat him upon that field, his journey had been dearly bought and he lay there dead in the green grass. and sir gawain when he was ware of that was fain to forget all his pain. he arose from where he sat, and went towards his steed, and as he looked upon him his heart rose high within him, and he deemed that he was well-nigh healed. and even as he came gringalet knew his lord, nor would flee from him, but came towards him, and for very friendship seized him with his teeth. then did they abide no longer, but betook them to the hermit who had been sore afeard for all that he heard and saw through the window of his cell. he knew the two knights well, when he heard their tale, and how that they were even the same who had but lately passed his way, and he spake to the father of adventure: "even so did i foretell ye when ye would ride toward that land, and i prayed ye to refrain. but that would ye not do, and so have ye come to harm therein! they who are fain to despise counsel ofttimes do so to their own mischief. but since it hath so befallen, think ye what may best profit ye, and abide overnight with me, here within; for an ye depart hence i know not where ye may find shelter. that evil beast whereof i spake when ye were here afore hath so laid waste the land that no man dwelleth herein. if i still dwell here 'tis that i have no need to flee nor to fear death ere my day come, when as it hath been foretold and declared i shall break the rule of my order. a long tale is ill to hear, i will weary ye not, but see that naught be lacking to your ease. ye shall stable your steeds, and abide this night within my chapel. that which i have will i give ye, for the love of god and the honour of knighthood." then sir gawain and morien his comrade thanked him much, and went their way to the chapel, where they abode throughout the day; each told to the other his adventures as they had befallen, neither more nor less. the hermit tended the horses well with all that was needful to them; he bade the lad who served him, as a good man doth his friend, bring forth all the store that he had within, and fetch water from the spring, and warm it to sir gawain's liking that he might therewith wash his limbs, and cleanse them from the blood. he had upon him no mortal wound, so good was his hauberk, otherwise had he lost his life from the blows he had received. with that came the hermit into the chapel, and spake, and told them how he had heard tidings from pilgrims who had come thither that the red knight and his companions had but late ridden the road that led toward the sea coast, though he had marked it not; 'twas but yesterday he had been told thereof. then spake the knight morien and said by his troth he had even followed the hoof prints of horses that were but newly made till he came to where one must needs cross over the water; "and then did i lose all sign of their further track; but howsoever i might pray, or call upon those who lay there in their ships, when they saw me they were terrified as hares, and would tell me nought, the fools, of that i asked them! one and all fled, and put them out to sea. methinks they were afraid of me. but by the faith that i owe to god and our lady, and the honour of knighthood, it shall avail them naught that they thus refuse me; i shall turn again from here, and otherwise take my way; may i but find on shore one of those who were there, and who belongeth to the ships, in sooth he were born in an evil hour! an he carry me not over the water i will thrust him through with my spear, or deal him such a stroke with my sword, that he shall fall dead upon the earth. my heart forbode me that he who went before me was my father! but in all my journey i met no living soul of whom i might ask aught. then i began to wax fearful, for hunger beset me, and therein i found neither man nor woman, nor aught but heather and waste land wherein i was a stranger. no man might i see or hear, no wheat or barley grew there; 'tis the truth i tell ye, thither cometh no man save that he desire to cross the wide water in the ships that there lie ready. thus had i my pain for naught. but whatsoe'er befall me since that i have heard from our host, that good man, that my father in sooth rode that way i shall follow hard after, if so be that i may but cross over, and will but await tomorrow's dawn. since that i have heard he rideth not so far ahead i may well overtake him, an my steed, which is so swift, and strong, and good, foil me not!" "god speed ye!" quoth sir gawain. such was indeed his counsel, and he sore lamented his own evil plight. but ill had it chanced with him; within the castle had they stolen from him his good sword wherewith he should defend himself. god give him shame who stole it! his saddle-girth, his stirrup-leathers, were cut midway through; as he thought to sit upon his steed they brake clean in twain, and left him standing upon his feet. this did sir gawain tell them there, even as ye have heard aforetime. if his heart were heavy when he took count of this, 'twas small marvel! then did they wash sir gawain's limbs, and he himself searched his wounds. so good a leech might no man find since the day of mother eve as was sir gawain; whatever wound he tended, 'twas healed even as ye looked upon it! that night had they all the comfort that the hermit might prepare till that they saw the fair day dawn and the sun begin to rise. sir gawain was somewhat troubled, since he lacked alike arms and clothing: also his wounds, which were sore, pained him the more. nor did there live any near at hand whom he knew, and who might give them what was lacking. neither bread, meat, nor wine had they; naught remained to the hermit, he had given the knights all his store. morien's heart was set upon following his father, and sir gawain was of a mind to ride in quest of sir lancelot, and learn how it had fared with him. he was loth to delay or abide there, for he would fain, so soon as he might ride, fare in search of his comrade. yet must he tarry a day ere he might mount his steed, such was his stress from the wounds he had received--sooth, it was a marvel that he escaped! and now food had failed them, and that was a sore lack. even had they money or pledge to offer there dwelt none that side of the border, as they too well knew, but their bitter foes, who had fain wrought them woe. 'twas seven miles and more hard riding, ere they might find village or fort in king arthur's land. hereof was sir gawain troubled. he might neither ride nor walk for his own aid. thus both were ill at ease and sore oppressed. morien was loth to remain, yet he thought it shame to forsake his comrade, sir gawain, and thus he abode with him in the chapel. then as morien stood by the window, it seemed to him that he saw a knight come riding in great haste, on a horse tall and swift; he was well armed, and seemed a goodly knight withal. morien spake to sir gawain as he lay there. "what may this be? here cometh a knight, and i know not whither he goeth!" sir gawain abode not still, but went as best he might to the window; he looked upon the knight, and deemed by his armour and the tokens whereby a man may be known of men, that 'twas his own brother, sir gariët, the son alike of his father and of his mother. he came riding, as one sore pressed, on that self-same road that led from britain. the more sir gawain looked upon him the more he deemed he knew him; and when he came nigh to the hermitage he knew well the arms that he bare. then was sir gawain gladder at heart than i may tell ye, for sir gariët his brother, that strong and valiant knight, brought with him that of which they were sorely in need, bread and meat, and wine fresh and clear. 'twas sore need brought him hither, as ye shall now hear: they of britain had lost king arthur their lord, and were in sore danger of losing all their land, therefore had they sent sir gariët to seek sir gawain, and sir lancelot, since they twain were without peer, the most valiant knights of the court. sir perceval might well be accounted the third, but 'twas not for long that he practised knighthood; nevertheless he brought many into sore stress, even as ye have heard. when sir gariët had come before the hermitage, sir gawain came forth with haste from the chapel on to the road, as one who was blithe beyond measure when he beheld his brother; and he said, "god give ye good day, that ye come, brother, and that i see ye! never was i so joyful of aught, since that i was born." sir gariët alighted on the turf when he saw his brother; and as he came nigh to him he took him in his arms saying: "alas, brother, woe is me! how hath this so chanced? methinks ye have suffered harm, and been in such sore strife that 'tis a marvel an ye be healed, and escape with life, ye seem to me in such evil case." thus spake sir gariët. and sir gawain said, "i have never a limb but feeleth the smart of wounds, yet am i whole of heart, and shall heal myself right well. but let that tale be, and make known to me the errand upon which ye ride that ye be now come hither. fain would i know the truth." quoth sir gariët, "that will i tell ye." thus went the twain into the chapel, where they found that good man, the hermit, and morien, who was black of face and of limb. then was sir gariët somewhat in fear, when he saw him so great of limb and of such countenance. this marked well his brother, sir gawain, and he gave him to wit of the knight, and of his name, who he was, and whence he came, ere he asked him aught; for he saw well that he somewhat misdoubted him when he saw the good knight morien of such countenance. so sat they down together, and each bade the other welcome, and made much joy of their meeting. but sir gawain was more desirous than i may tell ye of knowing wherefore sir gariët, his brother, came thither, till he brought him to that point that he spake the truth concerning what had chanced to king arthur, and told how the worst had befallen him. "king arthur is taken captive! as he fared on a day to hunt in a great forest, as he was wont to do, there came upon him the greatest company of armed men that i may tell ye of, in these few words, who were all the king of the saxons' men. they were in such force that they took king arthur, who foresaw naught of this, and had but few folk with him, as he but went a-hunting. thereof are his people sore troubled, and the queen above all--she is well nigh distraught in that the king is captive. she knows not whither the folk who took him in the forest have led him, or what may since have befallen him. thereof is many a heart sorrowful. the forest standeth by the sea shore, whence came the folk who took the king by force, and led him whither they would. they who rode with king arthur were unarmed, and defenceless; their strength was not worth a groat. thereto have we another woe; the irish king hath come into the land, and made war; one town hath he already won, and layeth siege to another. he hath made his boast that he will win all arthur's land, hill and vale, castle and town (this is his intent), and bring all under his hand ere he quit our land. of this is the queen sore afraid, and they who be with her, they look not to escape. had ye, brother, been in the land, and perceval, and lancelot, then had we never come to such a pass, for there liveth no man so bold that he durst withstand ye three in any venture that might chance. now hath my lady the queen taken counsel, and sent messengers far and near into every land to seek ye and lancelot in this her sore need. and i be one of these messengers, and have ridden as swiftly as my steed might bear me from arthur's court hitherward, and ever have i sought tidings of ye, till at length men told me, and i knew that ye twain had come over to this cross, to this parting of the ways. and beyond the border did men tell me that would i ride hither i must fare for long upon the road ere i found a soul, man or woman, who lived, and was of the faith of christendom. against this did i prepare myself, and brought with me food, meat and bread, lest i had need thereof, and cool clear wine in two flasks that hang here by my saddle, that i might lay my hand on them when i had need thereto." then laughed sir gawain the bold when he heard him speak of food, and said that he had come thither in a good hour since they had no victuals, much or little, nor drink there within, nor knew they where they might find any had he brought none with him. but god had thought upon them betimes, and mary, his blessed mother. then quoth sir gariët his brother, "let us eat and drink, and begin our meal, as we have need to do--but where is sir lancelot, that i see him not here? sir gawain, brother, tell me, for fain would i know the truth?" and sir gawain spake, "he rode hence a while ago to seek sir perceval." sir gariët answered and said, "that ye vex yourselves thus to seek him, 'tis labour lost, for tidings have come to court that perceval hath become hermit, and doeth penance for his sins. he hath learnt the truth; did he seek till doomsday that which he went forth to seek, the spear and the grail, he would find them not; that cometh altogether from his sin against his mother whereas he left her in the forest, and would no more remain with women--then did she die for sorrow. that sin hath hindered him, did he otherwise come upon them, of winning the spear and the grail. he must be pure and clean from all stain, from all sin (so is it now declared for truth) who would have the spear at his will, and the grail. for sorrow at this hath perceval betaken himself to a hermitage, thereof have tidings come to court, even as he willed that it should be made known. and concerning his brother sir agloval, of him did they tell that he lay sick, with his uncle, sorely wounded; but the messenger did us to wit that he was like to be healed, that do i tell ye, sir gawain. now let us eat, and go on our way to the queen with honour, that doth my lady require of ye and of sir lancelot, upon your faith to her. but i am sore vexed that he hath thus escaped me!" when morien, the son of sir agloval, had heard and understood this tale, he asked forthwith if any there within could give him true tidings and make known to him the road to the hermitage whither his uncle had betaken himself, and where his father lay wounded; since he would fain know thereof. their host quoth straightway, "he that had a boat at his will and a favouring wind might be there ere even." he said that he knew the hermit; "and 'twixt water and land 'tis a good fifteen mile thither, that do i know for a truth, for oft-times have i heard men speak thereof since i came hither. now hearken to what i tell ye," (thus he spake to morien) "over the arm of the sea, there where ye cross, neither more nor less, on the further shore is there a forest, to all seeming the greatest men may wot of, and the wildest--'tis long withal and wide. but as ye come thither, to one side, at the entering in of the forest, they who would seek it may find the hermitage within but a short distance, even as it were the mountance of a mile. of this be ye sure, with never a doubt." "so help me god," quoth morien, "an it fall out according to my will there shall i be ere even. and may i but see my father, an good luck befall me, i turn not from that goal, e'en if i find the man who gave me life, but ere i depart he shall keep the vow that he sware to my mother when he aforetime parted from her, and left her sorrowing sore, even that he would wed her, and make her his wife. rather would i, ere even, be flayed with a sharp knife than refrain from this. were he twofold my father he might well be in fear of death, should he fail to keep his oath, and ride with me to the moorish land." he began to make ready as one who would straightway ride thence. then spake sir gariët, "an god will, it shall fall out better than ye say, 'twixt ye and your father; we will eat and drink, and i rede ye, an ye be wise, ye shall bethink ye well ere ye do aught save good to your father. i conjure ye by the faith that ye owe to our lady, and by the honour of knighthood, that ye do my bidding, and let your thoughts be of good, and not of evil, and hearken sir gawain's rede, thereof shall never harm befall ye--he shall give ye the best counsel." and morien answered that were he fain to do. herewith they left speaking of this matter, and sir gariët brought forth a napkin, white and clean, and spread it before the knights, as is meet for noble folk, and those worthy of honour. then he brought forth more than seven loaves, white as snow, that he had with him, and laid them upon the napkin before the knights. he brought forth ham and venison that he had bidden make ready, there, where he had lain over night, since that men told him he drew near to the wilderness whither had gone the knights whom he sought, and who rode before him. since he was upon their track he had risen long ere 'twas day, and now came thither with the sun-rising. he brought forth also clear wine, two good bottles full. he was not altogether dull in that he had so well bethought him, and brought food with him lest peradventure he have need thereof. 'twas right welcome to them who now partook of it; and through these good victuals forgat they all their tribulation, as they ate and drank. they were above measure joyful, those three knights, at that time, and with them the hermit, for they would in no wise forget him, but he must eat and drink with them. when the meal was ended then morien thought to ride on his way. but the good knight sir gariët said, "sir knight ye will do better to abide than to depart in this haste, in short while shall ye have trouble an ye seek your father. follow ye our counsel; 'tis now high day, did ye come in safety to the ships it would be o'er late ere ye came to the other side." quoth sir gawain his brother, as one wise in counsel, "knight i will tell ye what ye shall do; from haste cometh seldom good that abideth to honour. therefore tarry over night with us, since ye may not achieve your goal this day; and i will make ready my weapons as best i may; i must needs be better healed ere i have strength to ride whither i would. tomorrow shall it fare better with me. then will we ride, without delay, so soon as it be daylight. if god will i shall be more at ease in limbs and at heart, and i shall have less pain than i have as at this while. i have no mind to abide here behind ye, nor to hinder ye and cause ye to delay when ye would fain ride hence, as i know right well! here have i foes nigh at hand, who have wrought me harm, and were ready to do yet more did they know me to be here, in this place." then did morien after his counsel, and abode there throughout the night, and told all the adventures that had befallen him. and sir gawain made ready his harness and his weapons, and scoured and polished them, and tested them where they were mishandled. but that which grieved him the most was his sorrow for his good sword which he had thus lost, for it was a sword of choice. what boots it to make long my tale? the morrow as the day dawned, and shed beauty over hill and vale, they rode forth together, and sir gawain the father of adventure with them. they would not spare themselves. then said sir gawain he would fare in quest of sir lancelot who departed with him from court when he left king arthur, since he might not well, for his honour, return without him. he wist not how it had gone with him; and would fain learn how his venture had fallen out and return in short space, would god prosper him, and bring sir lancelot with him to the aid of the queen. on this was his mind set, nor would he do otherwise, for any man's prayer. with this was sir gariët but ill-pleased; he said sir gawain would do better to return, and take the place of his uncle, and care for the land and comfort the folk. but this he would not do, howsoe'er he prayed him, but said he must first seek sir lancelot, and learn if harm had befallen him. sir gariët gave him his sword, which was good and bright; then took they leave, each of the other, for sir gawain would not return ere he had spoken with sir lancelot, saying that the good fellowship betwixt them twain should not be broken by his default; but that he would bring him again to the court of king arthur, and keep his covenant. when they were thus made ready, armed and fittingly clad, they mounted their steeds as they who would ride on their way. they took leave of the good man, their host, and departed thence. sir gawain had chosen his road, and sir gariët and sir morien bare him company for a space, as it were the mountance of a mile. each spake his mind to the other. sir gawain said he would return with sir lancelot as swiftly as he might, and put to shame the folk who had led his uncle captive; and he quoth, "brother, tell this to my lady the queen, and bear her greeting in all good faith and loyalty. 'tis not my will that ye ride further, nor tarry longer with me, since 'twill profit ye naught!" then sir gariët and sir morien turned their bridle. they commended sir gawain to the care of god and all his saints, and so did he them. each saw the other's tears spring from their eyes and run down even to their beards when they parted asunder. i may not tell ye how oft and how warmly sir gawain thanked morien, that he had saved his life that day on the field, where he had of a surety been slain had not god and that good knight come to his aid. now will i here cease speaking of sir gawain and tell of sir morien. the adventure doeth us to wit that when sir morien and sir gariët had parted from sir gawain, they rode once more to the crossways, for they had made a compact that they should not part before that they had found his father, sir agloval. thus they rode both together, for morien sware an oath that, would sir gariët ride with him, he would e'en pray his uncle and his father to come to the aid of the queen, king arthur's wife, and help her to win back her land. on this covenant and on this behest would sir gariët ride with him and bear morien company. as they came to the ships, morien told him how it had fared with him before when he thought to make the crossing, and he said that he found no living soul among all that he saw there who would let him into his ship, since he seemed to them so huge, and black withal. "they counted themselves for lost, deeming that i were the devil, and were sore afeard, and put out to sea. now see, sir gariët, what counsel ye may find, and how we may so contrive that we cross the water; doubt ye not that an they once behold me and know me they will straightway set sail again and put to sea. i fear me we may not cross over!" quoth sir gariët: "by what ye tell me, methinks 'twere better that i ride on ahead, and hire me a ship. ye shall follow on softly; and let me once come therein, and have my steed aboard and the boatman in my power, he shall not depart hence ere that ye be come thither. may my soul be lost if he do!" further spake the knight sir gariët: "even should he be beside himself when he first see ye, i shall not let him free ere he have taken us to the further shore, or i shall have from him such forfeit 'twere better for him to be sunken and drowned in the depths of the sea!" then answered morien: "ye have found the best counsel that may be devised. now ride ye without delay, and hire us a boat, good and strong, that may well carry us over the water. i shall abide behind, and wait till ye have done your part. i will do even as ye shall counsel!" thus they agreed together, and sir gariët rode alone till he came to the ships, where he found a boat that pleased him well. he offered the boatman money enow to take him to the further side with no delay. he gave him the gold in his hand, and he made him ready and hoisted sail and rigging. of this did he swiftly repent. even as the steed was aboard and all was ready for the crossing came morien riding, blacker than any son of man whom christian eyes had e'er beheld. and the boatman was fain to flee when he beheld him and he drew nigh to him, for he had seen him aforetime. he deemed that he should surely die of fear, and scarce might move a limb. then sir gariët asked him: "sir boatman, what aileth thee? by heaven, it availeth thee naught; thou shall ferry us over swiftly. now make us no ado, or this shall be thy last day. by the lord who made us, of what art thou afraid? this is not the devil! hell hath he never seen! 'tis but my comrade; let him in. i counsel thee straitly!" then must the boatman obey, though he liked it but ill. he saw that better might not be: he might neither leap out of the boat nor otherwise escape. so soon as he had in his boat morien, of whom he was sore afraid, in that he was so huge, and had shipped his steed, which was in seeming over-strong, he pushed the boat from shore and put out to sea. he feared him greatly, even as one who deems that he is lost. when morien had sat himself down he did off his helmet of steel. then the boatman deemed that he was a dead man, and prayed for mercy, beholding his face, for he though he might scarce be a christian. sir gariët asked of him tidings, if there had passed that way two knights, of whom the one bestrode a red horse and wore red armour, and the other bare the badge of king arthur. if he might tell him aught of them he besought him to do so; an he knew where they yet abode he would give him great thanks. the boatman said: "'tis not long since that they were even in my boat; the one knight ware red armour and had with him a red steed, and the other was wounded and bare king arthur's badge; and i know full well," quoth the boatman, "the knights who bear that badge, by that same token shall ye yourself be one of king arthur's knights. they would both cross over, and i ferried them to the further side. 'twas to them an unknown land; that did i hear well from their speech. methought that they were ill at ease, i wist not wherefore. i saw that the one wept so that the tears fell thick adown his face. and when i had brought them to the other side the knight, who was glad thereof, asked me if i knew where stood a hermitage wherein a hermit dwelt. that did i shew him--no more and no less." thus fared they, having heard the tale and speaking of the twain, till that they touched the sand. then did the boatman shew them the way they should ride thence to where the hermitage stood, and declared to them the road. thus left they the boatman, who was much rejoiced to be safely quit of them. but the knights went on their way till they knew that they drew near to the hermitage, and came even unto it. then they dismounted, and made fast their steeds before the door, and cried with a loud voice to those within: "let us in! open of your goodwill!" a lad came to the door and asked them what they desired, and if aught ailed them that they required aid. then sir gariët spake, and said that an it were pleasing to them, they would fain have speech with the hermit and with sir agloval. and the messenger went his way to the twain, and told them how two knights stood without the gate. "the one is a goodly man to look upon and well armed, and so, forsooth, is the other, but his armour and his limbs, so far as i might see, were blacker than soot or pitch. i wot not if ye know aught of them or of their errand. they said that they would fain speak with ye, and they prayed me straitly, the twain of them, that i should come hither and tell ye this." sir agloval, who deemed this passing strange, went, as best he might, to the gate, and his uncle the hermit followed him with no delay. sir agloval looked through the wicket, and was ware of sir gariët, sir gawain's brother, and bethought him how that he belonged to king arthur's court and was worthy of great honour, for though he were not so well known throughout the land as was his brother sir gawain, yet was he a strong knight and bold, and a doer of valiant deeds. when they beheld each other they gave fair and courteous greeting, the one to the other, and sir gariët spake. "may he who can do all things shew favour and honour to ye sir knight, and to all who be with ye there within!" sir agloval looked upon morien, and marked right well the fashion of him, and marvelled within himself what manner of knight he might well be who bare such guise. and morien stood before him and asked him if he yet remembered how, seeking for sir lancelot, he came into the land of the moors, and how he there loved a maiden, and plighted to her his troth, and how she granted to him her favours ere he departed from her upon his quest. he asked him if he yet thought thereupon, how, when he departed from the land he pledged his word to her that he would return, so soon as might be, to the country of the moors, for her profit and for her honour? did he yet think upon this? sir agloval made answer: "sir knight, i make no denial, yet have i but seldom been at rest. i rode in quest of sir lancelot awhile; and thereafter had i but little respite, since i brought my brother to court, where he was held in high honour, and so soon as he was made knight must i ride forth with him upon a journey which he would in no wise delay; for he was fain to avenge the harm done to our father many a year agone--that must ye understand. my brother knew well that our foes had taken to themselves the heritage that should have been ours, when they drave my father forth. this would he avenge, and spare not, and herein had we much strife ere we might regain it; but now have we done so much that we have won back our heritage and slain all those who had possessed themselves of our land. that so many years have fled since i sware to the maiden that i would return to her, that came of necessity. now have i failed to keep mine oath, and needs must that i bethink me well, and seek counsel in the matter. i know not, and have no true tidings, whether that lady of whom ye speak be living or dead; naught do i know thereof!" quoth morien: "but i shall tell ye more thereof! she to whom ye gave your troth yet liveth and is my mother, and ye, sir knight, are my father! if ye will come with me, at her prayer and mine, then will ye do well and courteously. ye begat me upon her who should be your wife, had ye kept your oath. now bethink ye well, and say if ye will come or no. when ye parted from my mother she bare me though she knew it not. thus, sir knight, did the matter fall out." sir agloval made answer: "by heaven sir knight, i believe ye, every whit. that which the lady claimeth from me, in that i have thus betrayed her and foresworn mine oath, that will i make good, by the help of god. i will yet win her grace. come ye to me here within to mine uncle and my brother, they shall counsel us well when they hear our tale--so shall we be more at ease." with that he undid the wicket. 'twould have done any heart good, who understood their speech, to see how sir agloval and morien embraced and kissed each other. any heart would have been the gladder who had seen and heard their gestures and their words, and in what love and friendship they betook themselves within, where they were right well received. sir agloval forthwith made known to his uncle and to sir perceval the true tale of his doings, and how that his son had come hither. when sir perceval heard this, never did knight receive so glad a welcome as that which he gave unto his nephew; so likewise did the hermit. 'twas bliss and fair speech there betwixt those knights, and in their honour did they bring forth such food and drink as was there within, and did all they might for their comfort. that even was there naught but gladness; each made great joy of the other, and erst as the knights were weary did they get them to sleep, as men are wont to do, till the day brake, and the sun shone forth. the knights lay longer abed than did the hermit, who had said and sung his orisons and his mass ere day had dawned, or that the knights had arisen and done on their garments. then spake morien to his father, even as ye shall hear, and said he would ride thence, and was fain to know, without contention, if he would come with him to his mother, and do that which he promised when he departed from her, for the sake of god and of his own honour, and for their profit. he told how they had been deprived of their rightful heritage which had fallen to his mother from her father. "'twas altogether denied her by the law of the land; yet 'twas the shame rather than the loss that grieved her, in that men called her son fatherless, and she might bring no proof of her word, nor shew them to their face the man who had begotten me!" then said sir agloval, his father: "i will tell ye out and out how the thing stands with me, and tell ye all my counsel. believe me well, i will not lie to ye in one word." and morien hearkened and answered that he believed him fully. thus they abode that day with the hermit, and were better served, in all that men might prepare for them, than i may well tell ye; and morien prayed his father straitly that he would delay not, but would tell him what was in his thought and in his intent. thus did he urge his father, till sir agloval told him all his mind. he said that he beheld a vision in a dream; it seemed to him that he rode throughout the day in a land where he saw naught but wilderness and wood, and trees, many and fair. by whiles he rode through hail and snow, by whiles through noontide heat, so that he was sore vexed. whiles he saw the sun shine bright, whiles it was as if the twilight fell. he saw all kinds of beasts run through the forest, and folk, young and old, go up and down the woods. all this did he see in his dream, but nowhere in all this land did he come to where he might find shelter. but as it drew towards evening, and the light failed, did he think to see a tower, so strongly builded that none by force might lightly win their way within; but no doorway might he see, only, as it were, another tower that stood there. within this he beheld a stairway, that wound upward to a doorway at the end. the door seemed to him high as a church, and of wrought ironwork. were a man sick he might well be healed by the light that streamed forth from within, for, as he saw and looked upon it, it seemed as it might well be heaven. and every step of the stairway was of good red gold. and he thought within himself that since those steps were so fair he might well set foot thereon, and tell the tale of them, how many they might be, that hereafter he might speak of the great marvel he had seen. but as he had counted sixty, and would set foot upon the next, lo! he saw none of all those he had left below him, save that upon which he stood, and on which his foot was set, and above him he saw naught. and it seemed to him that the door was distant from the step as high as one might shoot with a bow. thus might he go neither forward nor backward. then he beheld, and on the ground beneath were serpents and wild bears, even as if they would tear him; they gnashed their teeth as if they would seize him, and gaped with their jaws as they would swallow him. it seemed to him as if they were even at his heels, and he saw the snakes and dragons all twist themselves upwards. "and as i was thus fearful the step brake beneath me, and i fell downwards." from his great discomfort and his fear of the dragons he awoke, and slept no more. the dream vexed him sorely whenever he thought thereon; he was angry and wroth, and wist not what the portent of the vision might be. but his heart forbode him that pain and mischief, and sore labour withal, drew nigh to him. then it fell out that he met with a learned clerk, to whom he told the vision even as it had appeared to him; and when he had hearkened to his tale, and understood it well, he interpreted it in this wise: "concerning our lands, great and small, that we thereof should be in great stress and fear ere we might win to them again; for strong were the castles and mighty the armies, therefore did the vision foretell ill to my brother and myself each and singly. and further he spake concerning my brother perceval, and the spear, and the grail; for that golden stairway betokened the holy grail, and that perceval should aid in the winning thereof, and in that service should he die. thus did he foretell me. and the door that stood above and the stairway itself both alike betokened the heavenly kingdom, as might well be known by the light that shone within; and the steps that lay before it they betokened the days of perceval's life. 'this i tell ye of a truth, each betokeneth a day, or a week, or it may be a month; but of this be ye sure, and doubt not, so long shall he live, and then shall he yield up his life. and that the steps brake beneath ye, 'twas for your sins; ye had well-nigh climbed them had not sin laid hold on ye. the bears, and the dragons, and the serpents that there lay in wait, know ye well that they gave sure and certain sign that the fiends deemed they had ye for their own in that hour, and would carry ye to hell.'" thus did the wise master make known to him his dream, and bade him thereof take warning and order his ways with wisdom, and that speedily, and delay not, for here should he abide no long time, but drew nigh to his end. "dear son," quoth sir agloval, "then did my brother cease his quest for the spear and the grail, and the adventure on which he was bound, and came hither as swiftly as he might to mine uncle the hermit, and clothed himself in this habit, through that which the clerk foretold me. thus are we here together, and my brother would fain amend his life. nor am i yet whole; for i was wounded wellnigh to death, and bruised and mishandled, so that i had no power left, and am yet scarce healed. thus would i abide here awhile with my brother and mine uncle, that my wounds might be tended, and that with them i might save my soul. now ye will that i journey with ye to your mother in the moorish land, and i were fain to ride thither were i but healed. yet is there another matter. i would gladly go with ye, that may ye know of a truth, for your honour, and to do away your shame, were it not that i thus brought about my death; nevertheless, i have trust in mine uncle, who is so wise, that he shall make my peace with god, and bring me to eternal bliss. now, son, bethink ye of our profit, yours and mine, according to that which has befallen me, and that ye have now heard even as i tell ye. counsel me as it seemeth ye best; since that i be your father, according as matters went afore 'twixt me and your mother, it behoves ye well so to do." then quoth morien: "were ye better healed i would ride gladly, but it becometh me well to shun aught that might do ye harm or mischief. i can give ye none other counsel than that ye abide here till ye be once more whole. king arthur is captive and his land is beset and in sore stress. here is his nephew sir gariët, who hath come hither with me, and now that i have learnt the truth i shall ride with him to court, to do him honour, and there abide till that ye be whole and healed; and i will return hither in the hour that i know ye be cured of your wounds and may keep the oath that ye sware to my mother, that ye be praised of men and in favour with god. so shall my mother once more be possessed of the lands of which she hath been disinherited, and which she hath this long time lacked. i shall depart and ye shall abide here, where may all good befall ye! i will aid the queen, and god grant that i may win such fame as shall be for the bettering of her cause and mine own honour and profit. i shall return, be ye sure of it, when the time is ripe, and shall ever think of ye as my father." then all thanked morien, deeming that as at that time no better counsel might be found; and sir gariët and morien alike besought of sir perceval that he would ride with them, to aid the queen and release king arthur, and bring comfort to his land. this he sware to do would his uncle grant him leave thereto. then did they all, and sir agloval with them, so straitly pray the uncle that he granted their request, and never might ye see at any time folk so blithe as were these knights in that sir perceval would ride with them. thus did they take their leave and wend on their way. but now will i leave speaking of them and tell how it fared with sir lancelot, who would slay the evil beast. now doth the adventure tell us that when sir lancelot departed from sir gawain at the cross-roads he delayed not, but rode that same hour till he came to the waste land wherein the beast had wrought havoc. now in that land there dwelt a maiden who had caused it to be made known far and wide that whosoever might slay that beast him would she take for her husband. never might man behold a fairer maiden, and the land was all in her own power. now there dwelt also therein a traitor, a knight who loved the maiden, but had little mind to risk his life for her; he kept close watch upon that beast if so be that any man should slay it that he might play the traitor, so should the slayer pay with his life for the deed, and he should spread abroad that he himself had, of a verity, slain the monster. thus sir lancelot rode so far into the land that he came nigh to the place where he had heard that the fearful beast had made its lair. there did he see many a helm, and spear, and weapon of the knights it had slain, whose bones lay there stripped of flesh, which the monster had devoured; he might well be afraid! so soon as lancelot might know where the beast was wont to lie, he made haste thitherward, and so soon as it was ware of his coming it came flying in such guise as it had been the devil, and set upon sir lancelot straightway. it feared neither sword nor spear, nor armour, nor might of man. and lancelot smote at the monster so that his spear brake in twain, yet had he not bruised it a whit, or pierced its hide; then he drew forth his sword and smote with great force, but he harmed it not, and it seized lancelot by the throat and scored him in such wise that the knight was wroth thereof, for it tare a great rent through the hauberk even to the flesh, and wounded him sore. many a time did sir lancelot strike and smite at the beast, but never a groat might he harm it; but the monster fell upon sir lancelot and scored him even to the feet, and dealt him many a wound, and breathed out venom upon him; had it not been for a ring which sir lancelot ware upon his finger he had fallen dead where he stood from the poison. then the monster sprang towards him with gaping jaws, as it were fain to swallow him, and lancelot watched his chance, and thrust his sword into its mouth, and clave the heart in sunder, and the beast gave a cry so terrible that 'twas heard a good two mile off. then the traitor who spied all from afar, when he heard the cry delayed not, but rode swiftly towards the lair, for he knew well from the cry that the monster was slain. when he came to the place he found sir lancelot sitting, binding up his wounds, which were many and deep. the knight began to bemoan his plight, and went towards him saying that he would bind his wounds for him. that cowardly and wicked knight, he came even to sir lancelot's side, and snatched stealthily at his sword, and sprang backward and smote at him, wounding him so that he fell as one dead. when the false traitor saw this he deemed that he was dead, and left him lying, and went there, where the monster lay, and smote off the right foot, thinking to take it to the maiden of whom i have told ye, that he might therewith win her to wife. but in this while had sir gawain ridden so far that he had learned the truth how that sir lancelot had found the beast, and at this time he had followed upon his tracks and came unto the lair even as the traitor had wounded sir lancelot, and cut off the foot, and was mounted upon sir lancelot's steed, which that good knight, sir gawain, knew right well. so soon as he saw the stranger upon the steed, and lancelot, who lay there wounded, he rode fast towards him, and drew out his good sword, and cried, "abide ye still, sir murderer, for this beast have ye slain my comrade, that do i see right well." that false and cruel knight had fain ridden thence, but sir gawain was so nigh to him that he could not avoid, and smote at him so fiercely that he must needs abide, and draw bridle, and pray for mercy. sir gawain was of a mind to bring him to sir lancelot ere he made terms with him. thus they came together, and lancelot, who was now recovered from the swoon in which he had lain, and was ware of sir gawain, cried to him concerning the traitor who had smitten him all unarmed, "dear comrade, slay him. i shall die the easier, knowing that he be already dead." as he spake thus, sir gawain made no more ado but smote off the traitor's head. then did he forthwith go to bemoan his comrade, and quoth, "sir knight, may ye not be healed? tell me now the truth; i will aid ye as i may." then sir lancelot did him to wit how he had fared with the beast, and how the traitor had thereafter wounded him. "and this hath wrought me the greater harm; yet might i but find a place wherein to rest methinks i might well be healed." then was sir gawain glad at heart, and he bound up his wounds forthwith with herbs of such virtue as should stay the bleeding; and he took sir lancelot and set him upon his steed, and turned him again towards the hermit's cell as best he might, for 'twas in both their minds that might they but come thither sir gawain should surely heal him. thus did they ride until they had found the hermitage, and scarce had they come thither when they were ware of morien with sir gariët and sir perceval, who came thither as at that time. then was there joy and gladness manifold. the hermit made ready food for his guests, and prepared a couch for sir lancelot as best he might. each told the other how matters had fallen out with them, and morien gave them to wit how it had fared with his father. that night were they well entreated by the hermit, but the morrow so soon as sir lancelot heard how it went with the queen, even should he gain the world thereby he had remained no longer, neither for wounds nor for weariness, for, he said, he was surely healed, and was fain to be at strife. thus must they all ride forth, whether they would or no, with the early morning, for they might not lose a day. sir gawain would tend sir lancelot's wounds even as they rode on their way. thus they journeyed till they heard true tidings of their lady, the queen; how that she was beset on all sides by the king of ireland. he had burnt and laid waste so much men scarce knew the tale thereof, and the queen had he beset in a castle to which he himself laid siege. for he had sworn a great oath, nor would he lightly break it, that might he win the castle he should spare no man of all that were within, but should put such shame upon them, and on the queen, that men should speak thereof for all time. thus had the king sworn by his crown, and by all that may bind a king, that he would do them bitter shame. when the knights of whom i tell ye came into arthur's land they saw there a castle, around which ran a swift water, broad and deep. he who builded that burg was well counselled. the castle was of grey hewn stone. king arthur had never a stronghold in the losing of which he had lost so much, and this was not yet lost. but the folk that were within had no more than a day's grace left to them, on the morrow must they fare forth, for would they defend it no quarter should be shown them, but they should be seethed or roasted alive. this had the king sworn and on the morrow would he come thither; he had laid waste the country and destroyed the churches, and made many widows and orphans; all the land was in terror for the harm thus wrought upon them. the knights who came thither saw the folk as they fled with all their goods and their foodstuff, they deemed theirs was a lost cause. they met many folk, men women and children who would flee the land; they drave their cattle before them and were laden with their goods; some were ahorse, some afoot, 'twas the best they might do to their thinking. then sir gariët gave courteous greeting to one whom he met, and asked who were this folk, and wherefore they fled thus in haste? and the goodman answered straight-way: "they deem that all is lost; the king cometh hither to this castle that standeth here, and the people of the land know not what they may do, they must lose their goods and all they possess. here hath a great misfortune chanced, the ordeal hath gone over us; king arthur hath been taken captive and we know not where he may be, he was waylaid and betrayed in a forest, whither he went to hunt, and we saw him never more. the king of ireland hath seized upon all this land, he who would save his life must perforce yield to him, for he hath with him a mighty army and our folk are defenceless. we lack leaders--sir gawain and sir lancelot have both of them left the land, and thereof hath great shame come to us--we are without king, or leaders, or counsel." quoth morien: "this castle that standeth here, is there yet any man within?" the goodman said: "i tell ye there are ten knights within (and they have naught but death before them), and a great company of foot soldiers. now must they reap that mischance which hath fallen upon the land. they might well have held the castle for a year to come, so strong is it, and they have within weapons and victuals, and men enough for the defence--it might scarce be taken by force so long as they had food, nor might any man lightly make his way therein. but methinks god hath forsaken us. the king hath sworn an oath that if need be he will besiege the castle seven years, and all they who withstand him, and whom he shall find within at his coming thither, shall lose their lives; this hath he made known to them. and their wives and their children, though their lives be spared, shall be deprived of their goods and their heritage. thus, since we may not hope for aid, we are forsaking the castle and taking to flight." quoth sir gawain: "good friend, god reward ye for your tidings." then sir gawain bethought him that 'twere best they rode within the castle which was a fair burg, and strong; and that they should there greet the knights and strangers who might be within, bidding them trust in god that he would bring their matter to a good ending. the knights were right well received, for all knew them well, and made great rejoicing over the coming of sir gawain and sir lancelot. then did sir gawain give them to wit of the good knight sir morien, what he had done for them, and how he was one of the best knights the sun ever shone upon. thus spake sir gawain. then said sir morien: "'tis good that we abide here within, and brave the venture for the sake of the king our lord. 'twere a sin and a disgrace to yield up the castle, we should better adventure our lives and see the matter to an end." sir gawain and sir lancelot took up the word and said: "he who faileth his king 'tis right that men speak shame of him thereafter throughout the world. would ye have good fortune ye must await what cometh, and i have good hope that heaven shall shortly send us help. here may we well win fame for ourselves and uphold the honour of our lord king arthur. though he be now a captive yet, an god will, he shall escape. my heart and my mind fore-tell me that will we but hold out here within it shall be to our honour!" thus did sir gawain and sir lancelot admonish them, even as i tell ye, and when they had hearkened to their words those who were within, and had thought to depart, when they knew what was the mind of those knights, sware that never a knight nor squire, nor man-at-arms would give himself up, or forsake that good castle. morien's counsel seemed to them good, and although he were not fair to look upon yet when he stood upon his feet it seemed to them that had he the chance he might put to the rout a whole army! each man there gave his surety to abide with them at that time, nor to surrender through fear of death, but to hearken to other counsel. when all had sworn the oath, and given surety, then did they shut fast the portals upon all their food and all the aid they might win against the king and his army who were nigh at hand. ere the day darkened came the king himself, in great wrath, and with him many knights who belonged to his household, and many other folk, warlike to behold, and came even to the castle. then the king demanded of those who were within if they would yield up the burg, and thus save their lives. and they within answered that so long as life remained to them they would not give up the castle, or betray their rightful lord. then swore the king an oath that an they yielded them not up straight-way they should in no wise escape the uttermost that he might do unto them. but for that they cared little, and made them ready for the defence. they thought to remain upon the battlements, and throw from the castle stones so great and so heavy that the king should be driven from the walls out on to the open field where he had pitched his tents. with that had the night fallen, and they who had come into the land set up tents and pavilions, and would lodge in the green-wood. when they of within saw that they took counsel together, and said did they leave them in peace that night the king would, doubtless, send for a greater force of knights and other folk, and assemble a mighty army, and it were better that they should now adventure themselves, and ride forth from the castle ere they were yet more outnumbered. hereof had they bethought them ere yet they came to counsel. sir lancelot spake thus: "flee we may not, nor dare we hope for aid, nor may we surrender the castle; in this way shall we profit better." thus were they that night within the castle, neither with game nor with revel, but they held together as true knights and good comrades. they ate and drank of such victuals as they had, and never a man of them wavered as it drew nigh to the dawning; they were fain to do great deeds; each looked to his armour as one who will fight for his life, and gave his steed a feed of corn. what boots it to make long my tale? with the dawning of the day were they of within ready, each man well armed and mounted on a good steed. they rode out betimes, and bade undo the gates. thus did they ride forth in all their strength. they who kept shield-watch without were ware of them, and led their company against them, but it harmed them naught. morien's weapons were so strong; 'twas he led the vanguard, nor would he yield an inch when he began the strife. never might one behold mortal man who smote such strokes. they fought their way through that camp. sir gawain, sir perceval, and sir lancelot smote many to death, and came even to the king's tents, and seized their weapons, shields, and spears, ere his folk might come at their arms. they knew not what had befallen them. no quarter would the knights give. they who were with the king slept sound in their ranks, and were sore afeard when they awoke and beheld the armed men who beset them with stern intent; they had many a sore wound ere they fled from the field. they took the king by main force; there was no man at his side but was glad and blithe might he escape with his life. the king must yield himself a prisoner, thereto did need compel him, otherwise had he been slain and all his folk with him. they led the king within the castle, and shut him fast in a tower. never had they so welcome a guest, nor one at whose coming they were so blithe. they on the field must escape as best they might. little did they reck of all they brought with them; he might win it who had a mind thereto. when the fight was ended king arthur's men had taken captive much folk and the king of ireland. matters had gone well for them. they held there within that which they deemed many would buy dearly, nor count the gold therefor, nor might they well tell how they had lost it. but 'twas their dread of morien's mighty blows, and of sir lancelot, sir gawain, and sir perceval, who, on the field, had brought many in sore terror and dread of death. so brought they their guests within the walls, and shut fast their gates, and hung out their shields, as men who might well defend themselves. then when men beheld sir gawain's badge, and sir lancelot's pennon beside it, tidings of the combat ran far and wide through the land. the king's folk who lay there were sore vexed thereat. so soon as they who had besieged the queen heard what had chanced they drew off their forces; and all they who served the king, and who came with him into the lands, were greatly shamed, and desired of sir gawain in what wise they might make peace. sir gawain took counsel with his comrades, and this was their rede, that they must bring king arthur there before their eyes ere they might make terms for their lord, the king. "then shall we have such good counsel on all points that peace may thereby be made." wherefore should i make my tale over long? little as they liked it they must needs bring king arthur thither, and thereby make terms for the king, their lord. when the tidings ran through the land that the king of ireland was captive, and that king arthur was brought thither to treat with him, then was there so great a gathering of britons that they surrounded arthur, and took him from the men of ireland, and brought him with armed hand into the castle despite them all. thus did it fall out well for king arthur, since he thus escaped, and held captive the king who had erstwhile made him a prisoner. now shall ye hear of the king of ireland, who lay thus in the prison of the knights. when he heard and beheld with his eyes that king arthur was in very deed free, then did he betake himself to him straight-way, and offered him goods and gold that he might be set at liberty, and he sware that he would be the king's man, and hold all his lands henceforward from him, and would depart from the kingdom with all his folk. thus must the king, being captive, stand at king arthur's pleasure to pay him such ransom as he might think good. of him will i speak no more. now was king arthur so blithe thereof that he bid hold a great court, that he might give largesse to all who desired. thither came many, but none were there of such renown, or who had wrought such valiant deeds, as sir perceval and morien. the reward that arthur gave them was exceeding great. sir gawain told the king all the matter of morien and of his father, and the chance that had parted them. all this did he tell afore the folk, wherefore was morien much gazed upon. now will i leave this tale and tell ye how morien rode again to his father, whom he had left sick with his uncle, as i gave ye to wit afore. the adventure maketh known that when the strife was ended, and arthur's land once more at peace, morien bethought him that he would make his father be wedded to the lady, his mother; and he prayed his uncle to journey with him if he would, and sir perceval was right willing thereto. further, said sir gawain and sir lancelot, that they twain would ride with them for honour and for good fellowship. for this did morien thank them much. thus they departed and went their way towards the hermitage. they rode blithely in company, telling of many things that had chanced here and elsewhere, until they came to the seashore, where they took ship and crossed over; and when they had passed the water they came straightway to perceval's uncle, who received them with right goodwill. by this was sir agloval whole, who had been wounded, and morien asked him straightway if he were rightly healed, and would now keep the oath which he had aforetime sworn unto his mother. sir agloval answered that he was whole and sound, and ready thereto. "the troth that i swear to your mother will i keep what time as it shall please ye. as god is my witness i be altogether ready to do this." quoth sir perceval, "then wherefore delay? your son is so good a knight, and stout a warrior, that ye may well thank heaven that ye begat him. make you ready straightway, and we will fare with ye. sir gawain and sir lancelot be come hither in faith and good fellowship, and with us will they journey to the moorish land." then was there no longer delaying, but they made them ready for the journey, and went their way with sir morien, who knew the road better than any man of them all. they rode so long that they came thither; and when they of the land heard tell how that morien had brought his father with him they assembled themselves together, and some were for refusing them entry into the kingdom, since they would fain keep the heritage for themselves. but when morien heard this he waxed so wrathful that he drew his sword and rode among them where there was the greatest press, and slew there fifteen of the nobles who were fain to deny him his inheritance. when the others knew of this they came to him and besought his grace, and yielded to him all his heritage, and gave it into the hand of his mother, and became her men, to hold their lands henceforward from her. when this was done, and they had proclaimed her queen over all the kingdom of the moors, then did they hold the bridal feast of sir agloval and the queen, and thus were they wedded to each other. there was bliss and great rejoicing fourteen days, even till nightfall did they hold high feast with open doors; never a portal was shut. there was feasting and great merriment; there were all well served with everything on earth that they might desire. many rich gifts were given, good steeds, raiment of fair colours, many shillings, many pounds, great plenty of all things by which men may the more blithely live. the minstrels and the heralds received great largesse, for there was gold enow; each had that which he desired. there would sir gawain and sir lancelot abide till that the feast was ended; be ye sure that sir perceval and sir agloval the bridegroom prayed them thus to honour the bridal, and this they did, in right courteous wise. no man of them all, were he poor or rich, but had enough and to spare. what more shall i say hereof? when the feast was ended, and all the nobles departed, and all had taken leave, then was it in the mind of sir gawain, sir lancelot, and sir perceval to betake them straightway to king arthur's court, for 'twas nigh to pentecost, and the king (thus do i read the tale) would hold high court (greater was never held) on behalf of galahad, sir lancelot's son, for that this hero should then come to court, and receive the honour of knighthood. and thereof did the tale wax great; how that he should achieve the quest of the grail, and all the adventures, small and great, which appertained to the round table, for 'twas said that he should sit in the perilous seat, wherein durst never man sit. to behold these marvels would many a man come to court, for the king had bidden all the great folk of the land thither, and many a knight of praise had obeyed his command. and for this cause would not sir lancelot and sir gawain and sir perceval remain afar, but took their leave of sir agloval and of morien and of his mother, and rode on their way till they came to king arthur at camelot, where he abode, as it pleased him well to do when he would fain be at peace. and when the king heard of the coming of these three knights, then was he right joyful at that time; and when he learnt concerning sir agloval, how his wedding feast had been held, and of the valiant deeds that morien had done in his own land, then were king and queen alike glad at heart. here will i leave this tale and speak further concerning the grail, and the winning thereof. that shall ye find set forth in the book that followeth hereafter; the other part, that which concerneth lancelot, here cometh to an end. now do i pray god in words straitly, that he have mercy upon me when my life shall come to an end, and bring my soul to his heavenly kingdom. may he grant this my prayer! amen. notes . introduction.--in the preface i have dwelt with some fulness on the interesting questions connected with these opening lines; here it will be sufficient to point out that in the earlier versions of the _perceval_ story the hero is either the only, or the sole surviving, son of his parents. the introduction of a brother, as a definite character, belongs to the later stages of arthurian tradition. the brothers vary in number and name, but the most noted are sir agloval and sir lamorak, who appear to belong to distinct lines of development, sir agloval belonging mainly to the _lancelot_, sir lamorak to the _tristan_ tradition. so far i have not met with the latter in any version of the prose _lancelot_, though dr. sommer in his _studies on the sources of malory_, refers to him as mentioned in that romance; in the _tristan_, on the contrary, he is a leading figure. the _morien_ story, as i have remarked in the preface, has obviously been modified by the influence of the later _lancelot_ legend, hence, probably, the _rôle_ assigned to agloval. . page .--_gawain as physician_. the representation of gawain as an expert in medical skill is an interesting feature which appears to belong to early tradition. the references in the poem before us are the most copious and explicit, but we also find the same accomplishment referred to in the romance of _lancelot et le cerf au pied blanc_ (d. l. vol. ii. . ) where gawain instructs the physician as to the proper treatment of lancelot's wounds; and the _parzival_ of wolfram von eschenbach (book x. . ) also refers to this tradition. it is noticeable that chrétien de troyes in the parallel passage of his poem has no such allusion, nor can i recall any passage in the works of that poet which indicates any knowledge, on his part, of this characteristic of gawain. this is one of the points of variance between chrétien and wolfram which, slight in itself, offers when examined valuable evidence as to a difference of sources. . page .--_the boast of sir kay._ arthur's reproof to kay is a reference to the well-known adventure related both by chrétien and wolfram and found moreover in the _peredur_. the hero, thrown into a love-trance by the sight of blood-drops on the snow, gives no answer to the challenge addressed to him successively by segramore and kay, and being rudely attacked by these knights overthrows them both. the allusion to this incident, which is not related in the prose _lancelot_, shows clearly that while, on the whole, he is harmonising his romance with the indications of the later traditions, the writer is yet quite conversant with the earlier forms. . page .--_the father of adventure._ "der aventuren fader." the middle english poem of _sir gawain and the green knight_ (no. of this series) speaks of the knight in somewhat similar terms as "the fine father of courtesy." gawain was from the first the adventurous hero, _par excellence_ of the cycle, but i know no other instance in which this characteristic is so quaintly and forcibly expressed. . page .--_in secret case_. the original words are "in hemeliker stede." to which particular adventure of lancelot this refers it is not easy to decide; on more than one occasion he disappears from court, and the knights headed by gawain, ride in quest of him. perhaps this refers to his imprisonment by morgain le fay (_cf_. summary of _d.l._ in _legend of sir lancelot du lac_. grimm's library xii. pp. - ). . page .--_sir agloval, he is my father._ this should be compared with the account of gamuret's wooing and desertion of the moorish queen, belakane, in book i. of the _parzival_; also with the meeting of the unknown brothers in book xv. of the same poem. it is perhaps worth noticing as indicative of the source of the tradition that wolfram distinctly states that his moor speaks in _french_. . page ,--_the slain and the slayer_. the belief that the blood of a corpse would flow afresh, did the murderer approach it, was very prevalent in the middle ages. in chretien de troyes' _chevalier au lion_ (ll. et seq.) we find a similar situation, complicated by the fact that yvain (the slayer) protected by a magic ring is invisible to the bystanders. the best known instance, however, is probably that of the _nibelungenlied_ where kriemhild's suspicions that hagen is siegfred's murderer are in this manner verified. . page .--_i have no call to flee, nor to fear death_. this is evidently the hermit whom lancelot in the _queste_ finds dead under circumstances agreeing with those here hinted at. the story will be found in malory book xv. . page .--_that cometh altogether from his sin against his mother_. the reason here alleged for perceval's failure to find the grail is that given by chrétien and wolfram, and is another indication of the writer's familiarity with the early _perceval_ story. . page .--_sir agloval's explanation, (a) the lancelot quest_. the special quest here referred to is that undertaken in search of lancelot when he fled from court in a frenzy, induced by guinevere's jealousy of king pelles' daughter. during this quest agloval visits his mother, sees perceval, and brings him to court (_cf. legend of sir lancelot_ pp. - ). _(b) the lost heritage_. the fact that perceval regains possession of the heritage of which he has, before his birth, been deprived is recorded in certain of the _perceval_ romances; the _parzival_ of wolfram von eschenbach, the prose _perceval li gallois_, and the english _sir percyvelle of galles_, but it is not found in chrétien. it is clear, to a close observer, that the compiler of the dutch _lancelot_ knew the early _perceval_ tradition in a form closer to the version of the german, than that of the french poet. later on, in the _queste_ section, he introduces a reference to this inheritance, where none exists in the french versions i have examined (_cf. legend of sir lancelot_ p. ). . page .--_lancelot's adventure with the beast._ this is a condensed account of the well known story of _the fahe claimant_. two versions of this story have already been given in this series, the dragon adventure in _tristan_ (no. ii) and that of the stag in _tyolet_ (no. iii.); this is inferior to either, but appears to combine characteristics of both. i have discussed it fully in chapter iii. of the _lancelot_ studies, before referred to, and have there compared it with the similar adventure also attributed to that knight in the dutch compilation. . page .--_had it not been for a ring which lancelot wore._ this is evidently the ring given him by the lady of the lake, and referred to in _the charrette_ (ll. et seq). it had the power of detecting enchantments. . page .--_king arthur--held captive the king, who had erst made him a prisoner._ there seems to be a confusion here; from gariet's account it was the king of the saxons who captured arthur; here he has disappeared and everything is attributed to the king of ireland. probably they were allies; but it is also possible that confusion may have arisen from the fact that the king of dublin was at one time, as in the tristan legend, a viking, and the poet has not distinguished clearly between the nationalities of these sea-robbers. if so, it would seem to indicate an early date for this particular story. [illustration: the lady elaine the fair.] [illustration] the story of sir launcelot and his companions _by_ howard pyle. new york: dover publications, inc. published in canada by general publishing company, ltd., lesmill road, don mills, toronto, ontario. published in the united kingdom by constable and company, ltd., the lanchesters, - fulham palace road, london w er. this dover edition, first published in , is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by charles scribner's sons, new york, in . manufactured in the united states of america. dover publications, inc., east nd street, mineola, n. y. _library of congress cataloging-in-publication data_ pyle, howard, - . the story of sir launcelot and his companions / by howard pyle. p. cm. reprint. originally published: new york: scribner, . summary: follows sir launcelot of the round table as he rescues queen guinevere, fights in the tournament at astolat, and pursues other adventures. isbn - - - . lancelot (legendary character)--romances. . arthurian romances. [ . lancelot (legendary character) . knights and knighthood--folklore. . arthur, king. . folklore--england.] . title. pz . .p sr '. --dc [ . ] - cip ac [illustration] =foreword.= _with this begins the third of those books which i have set myself to write concerning the history of king arthur of britain and of those puissant knights who were of his court and of his round table. in the book which was written before this book you may there read the story of that very noble and worthy knight, sir launcelot of the lake; of how he dwelt within a magic lake which was the enchanted habitation of the lady nymue of the lake; of how he was there trained in all the most excellent arts of chivalry by sir pellias, the gentle knight--whilom a companion of the round table, but afterward the lord of the lake; of how he came forth out of the lake and became after that the chiefest knight of the round table of king arthur. all of this was told in that book and many other things concerning sir launcelot and several other worthies who were companions of the round table and who were very noble and excellent knights both in battle and in court. so here followeth a further history of sir launcelot of the lake and the narrative of several of the notable adventures that he performed at this time of his life. wherefore if it will please you to read that which is hereinafter set forth, you will be told of how sir launcelot slew the great worm of corbin; of the madness that afterward fell upon him, and of how a most noble, gentle, and beautiful lady, hight the lady elaine the fair, lent him aid and succor at a time of utmost affliction to him, and so brought him back to health again. and you may herein further find it told how sir launcelot was afterward wedded to that fair and gentle dame, and of how was born of that couple a child of whom it was prophesied by merlin (in a certain miraculous manner fully set forth in this book) that he should become the most perfect knight that ever lived and he who should bring back the holy grail to the earth. for that child was galahad whom the world knoweth to be the flower of all chivalry; a knight altogether without fear or reproach of any kind, yet, withal, the most glorious and puissant knight-champion who ever lived. so if the perusal of these things may give you pleasure, i pray you to read that which followeth, for in this book all these and several other histories are set forth in full._ [illustration] [illustration] =contents= part i the chevalier of the cart chapter first _how denneys found sir launcelot, and how sir launcelot rode forth for to rescue queen guinevere from the castle of sir mellegrans, and of what befell him upon the assaying of that adventure_ chapter second _how sir launcelot rode in a cart to rescue queen guinevere and how he came in that way to the castle of sir mellegrans_ chapter third _how sir launcelot was rescued from the pit and how he overcame sir mellegrans and set free the queen and her court from the duress they were in_ part ii the story of sir gareth of orkney chapter first _how gareth of orkney came to the castle of kynkennedon where king arthur was holding court, and how it fared with him at that place_ chapter second _how gareth set forth upon an adventure with a young damsel hight lynette; how he fought with sir kay, and how sir launcelot made him a knight. also in this it is told of several other happenings that befell gareth, called beaumains, at this time_ chapter third _how sir gareth and lynette travelled farther upon their way; how sir gareth won the pass of the river against two strong knights, and how he overcame the black knight of the black lands. also how he saved a good worthy knight from six thieves who held him in duress_ chapter fourth _how sir gareth met sir percevant of hind, and how he came to castle dangerous and had speech with the lady layonnesse. also how the lady layonnesse accepted him for her champion_ chapter fifth _how sir gareth fought with the red knight of the red lands and how it fared with him in that battle. also how his dwarf was stolen, and how his name and estate became known and were made manifest_ part iii the story of sir launcelot and elaine the fair chapter first _how sir launcelot rode errant and how he assumed to undertake the adventure of the worm of corbin_ chapter second _how sir launcelot slew the worm of corbin, and how he was carried thereafter to the castle of corbin and to king pelles and to the lady elaine the fair_ chapter third _how king arthur proclaimed a tournament at astolat, and how king pelles of corbin went with his court thither to that place. also how sir launcelot and sir lavaine had encounter with two knights in the highway thitherward_ chapter fourth _how sir launcelot and sir lavaine fought in the tournament at astolat. how sir launcelot was wounded in that affair, and how sir lavaine brought him unto a place of safety_ chapter fifth _how sir launcelot escaped wounded into the forest, and how sir gawaine discovered to the court of king pelles who was le chevalier malfait_ chapter sixth _how the lady elaine went to seek sir launcelot and how sir launcelot afterwards returned to the court of king arthur_ part iv the madness of sir launcelot chapter first _how sir launcelot became a madman of the forest and how he was brought to the castle of sir blyant_ chapter second _how sir launcelot saved the life of sir blyant. how he escaped from the castle of sir blyant, and how he slew the great wild boar of lystenesse and saved the life of king arthur, his liege lord_ chapter third _how sir launcelot returned to corbin again and how the lady elaine the fair cherished him and brought him back to health. also how sir launcelot with the lady elaine withdrew to joyous isle_ part v the story of sir ewaine and the lady of the fountain chapter first _how sir ewaine and sir percival departed together in quest of sir launcelot, and how they met sir sagramore, who had failed in a certain adventure. also how sir sagramore told his story concerning that adventure_ chapter second _how sir ewaine undertook that adventure in which sir sagramore had failed, and how it sped with him thereafter_ chapter third _how a damsel, hight elose, who was in service with the lady lesolie of the fountain, brought succor to sir ewaine in his captivity_ chapter fourth _how sir ewaine returned to the court of king arthur, and how he forgot the lady lesolie and his duty to the fountain_ chapter fifth _how sir ewaine was succored and brought back to life by a certain noble lady, how he brought aid to that lady in a time of great trouble, and how he returned once again to the lady lesolie of the fountain_ part vi the return of sir launcelot chapter first _how sir percival met his brother, and how they two journeyed to the priory where their mother dwelt and what befell them thereafter_ chapter second _how sir percival and sir ector de maris came to a very wonderful place where was a castle in the midst of a lake_ chapter third _how sir launcelot and sir percival and sir ector and the lady elaine progressed to the court of king arthur, and how a very good adventure befell them upon their way_ part vii the nativity of galahad chapter first _how sir bors de ganis and sir gawaine went forth in search of sir launcelot. how they parted company, and what befell sir gawaine thereafter_ chapter second _how sir bors and sir gawaine came to a priory in the forest, and how galahad was born at that place_ [illustration] [illustration] list of illustrations _the lady elaine the fair_ _frontispiece_ _page_ _head piece--table of contents_ v _tail piece--table of contents_ x _head piece--list of illustrations_ xi _tail piece--list of illustrations_ xii _sir mellegrans interrupts the sport of the queen_ _head piece--prologue_ _tail piece--prologue_ _denneys and the hermit help sir launcelot to his armor_ _head piece_ _how sir launcelot rode errant in a cart_ _the damsel elouise the fair rescues sir launcelot_ _sir gareth of orkney_ _head piece_ _the damsel lynette_ _sir gareth doeth battle with the knight of the river ford_ _the lady layonnesse_ _the lady layonnesse cometh to the pavilion of sir gareth_ _tail piece_ _how sir launcelot held discourse with ye merry minstrels_ _head piece_ _sir launcelot slayeth the worm of corbin_ _sir launcelot confideth his shield to elaine the fair_ _sir launcelot and sir lavaine overlook the field of astolat_ _sir gawaine knoweth the shield of sir launcelot_ _sir launcelot leapeth from the window_ _tail piece_ _the madman of the forest who was sir launcelot_ _head piece_ _the forest madman saveth ye life of king arthur_ _tail piece_ _the lady elaine the fair knoweth sir launcelot_ _sir gawaine, knight of the fountain_ _head piece_ _sir ewaine poureth water on the slab_ _the damsel elose giveth a ring to sir ewaine_ _the lady of the fountain_ _a damsel bringeth aid unto sir ewaine_ _sir lamorack and sir percival receive their mother's blessing_ _head piece_ _sir percival and sir ector look upon the isle of joy_ _sir lavaine the son of pelles_ _merlin prophesieth from a cloud of mist_ _head piece_ _tail piece_ _sir bors de ganis, the good_ _the barge of the dead_ [illustration] _the story of_ sir launcelot and his _companions_ [illustration: sir mellegrans interrupts the sport of the queen.] [illustration] prologue. it befel upon a very joyous season in the month of may that queen guinevere was of a mind to take gentle sport as folk do at that time of the year; wherefore on a day she ordained it in a court of pleasure that on the next morning certain knights and ladies of the court at camelot should ride with her a-maying into the woods and fields, there to disport themselves amid the flowers and blossoms that grew in great multitudes beside the river. [sidenote: _how the lady guinevere rode a-maying._] of this may-party it stands recorded several times in the various histories of chivalry that the knights she chose were ten in all and that they were all knights of the round table, to wit, as followeth: there was sir kay the seneschal, and sir agravaine, and sir brandiles, and sir sagramour the desirous, and sir dodinas, and sir osanna, and sir ladynas of the forest sauvage, and sir persavant of india, and sir ironside and sir percydes, who was cousin to sir percival of gales. these were the ten (so sayeth those histories aforesaid) whom the lady guinevere called upon for to ride a-maying with her all bright and early upon the morning of the day as aforesaid. and the queen further ordained that each of these knights should choose him a lady for the day. and she ordained that each lady should ride behind the knight upon the horse which he rode. and she ordained that all those knights and ladies and all such attendants as might be of that party should be clad entirely in green, as was fitting for that pleasant festival. such were the commands that the queen ordained, and when those who were chosen were acquainted with their good fortune they took great joy therein; for all they wist there would be great sport at that maying-party. so when the next morning was come they all rode forth in the freshness of dewy springtide; what time the birds were singing so joyously, so joyously, from every hedge and coppice; what time the soft wind was blowing great white clouds, slow sailing across the canopy of heaven, each cloud casting a soft and darkling shadow that moved across the hills and uplands as it swam the light blue heaven above; what time all the trees and hedgerows were abloom with fragrant and dewy blossoms, and fields and meadow-lands, all shining bright with dew, were spread over with a wonderful carpet of pretty flowers, gladdening the eye with their charm and making fragrant the breeze that blew across the smooth and grassy plain. for in those days the world was young and gay (as it is nowadays with little children who are abroad when the sun shines bright and things are a-growing) and the people who dwelt therein had not yet grown aweary of its freshness of delight. wherefore that fair queen and her court took great pleasure in all the merry world that lay spread about them, as they rode two by two, each knight with his lady, gathering the blossoms of the may, chattering the while like merry birds and now and then bursting into song because of the pure pleasure of living. [sidenote: _they feast very joyously._] so they disported themselves among the blossoms for all that morning, and when noontide had come they took their rest at a fair spot in a flowery meadow that lay spread out beside the smooth-flowing river about three miles from the town. for from where they sat they might look down across the glassy stream and behold the distant roofs and spires of camelot, trembling in the thin warm air, very bright and clear, against the blue and radiant sky beyond. and after they were all thus seated in the grass, sundry attendants came and spread out a fair white table-cloth and laid upon the cloth a goodly feast for their refreshment--cold pasties of venison, roasted fowls, manchets of white bread, and flagons of golden wine and ruby wine. and all they took great pleasure when they gazed upon that feast, for they were anhungered with their sporting. so they ate and drank and made them merry; and whilst they ate certain minstrels sang songs, and certain others recited goodly contes and tales for their entertainment. and meanwhile each fair lady wove wreaths of herbs and flowers and therewith bedecked her knight, until all those noble gentlemen were entirely bedight with blossoms--whereat was much merriment and pleasant jesting. thus it was that queen guinevere went a-maying, and so have i told you all about it so that you might know how it was. [sidenote: _a knight cometh forth from the forest._] now whilst the queen and her party were thus sporting together like to children in the grass, there suddenly came the sound of a bugle-horn winded in the woodlands that there were not a very great distance away from where they sat, and whilst they looked with some surprise to see who blew that horn in the forest, there suddenly appeared at the edge of the woodland an armed knight clad cap-a-pie. and the bright sunlight smote down upon that armed knight so that he shone with wonderful brightness at the edge of the shadows of the trees. and after that knight there presently followed an array of men-at-arms--fourscore and more in all--and these also were clad at all points in armor as though prepared for battle. this knight and those who were with him stopped for a little while at the edge of the wood and stood regarding that may-party from a distance; then after a little they rode forward across the meadow to where the queen and her court sat looking at them. now at first queen guinevere and those that were with her wist not who that knight could be, but when he and his armed men had come nigh enough, they were aware that he was a knight hight sir mellegrans, who was the son of king bagdemagus, and they wist that his visit was not likely to bode any very great good to them. for sir mellegrans was not like his father, who (as hath been already told of both in the book of king arthur and in the story of the champions of the round table) was a good and worthy king, and a friend of king arthur's. for, contrariwise, sir mellegrans was malcontented and held bitter enmity toward king arthur, and that for this reason: a part of the estate of sir mellegrans marched upon the borders of wales, and there had at one time arisen great contention between sir mellegrans and the king of north wales concerning a certain strip of forest land, as to the ownership thereof. this contention had been submitted to king arthur and he had decided against sir mellegrans and in favor of the king of north wales; wherefore from that time sir mellegrans had great hatred toward king arthur and sware that some time he would be revenged upon him if the opportunity should offer. wherefore it was that when the lady guinevere beheld that it was sir mellegrans who appeared before her thus armed in full, she was ill at ease, and wist that that visit maybe boded no good to herself and to her gentle may-court. [sidenote: _sir mellegrans affronts the may-party._] so sir mellegrans and his armed party rode up pretty close to where the queen and her party sat in the grass. and when he had come very near he drew rein to his horse and sat regarding that gay company both bitterly and scornfully (albeit at the moment he knew not the queen who she was). then after a little he said: "what party of jesters are ye, and what is this foolish sport ye are at?" then sir kay the seneschal spake up very sternly and said: "sir knight, it behooves you to be more civil in your address. do you not perceive that this is the queen and her court before whom you stand and unto whom you are speaking?" then sir mellegrans knew the queen and was filled with great triumph to find her thus, surrounded only with a court of knights altogether unarmed. wherefore he cried out in a great voice: "hah! lady, now i do know thee! is it thus that i find thee and thy court? now it appears to me that heaven hath surely delivered you into my hands!" to this sir percydes replied, speaking very fiercely: "what mean you, sir knight, by those words? do you dare to make threats to your queen?" quoth sir mellegrans: "i make no threats, but i tell you this, i do not mean to throw aside the good fortune that hath thus been placed in my hands. for here i find you all undefended and in my power, wherefore i forthwith seize upon you for to take you to my castle and hold you there as hostages until such time as king arthur shall make right the great wrong which he hath done me aforetime and shall return to me those forest lands which he hath taken from me to give unto another. so if you go with me in peace, it shall be well for you, but if you go not in peace it shall be ill for you." then all the ladies that were of the queen's court were seized with great terror, for sir mellegrans's tones and the aspect of his face were very fierce and baleful; but queen guinevere, albeit her face was like to wax for whiteness, spake with a great deal of courage and much anger, saying: "wilt thou be a traitor to thy king, sir knight? wilt thou dare to do violence to me and my court within the very sight of the roofs of king arthur's town?" "lady," said sir mellegrans, "thou hast said what i will to do." at this sir percydes drew his sword and said: "sir knight, this shall not be! thou shalt not have thy will in this while i have any life in my body!" then all those other gentlemen drew their swords also, and one and all spake to the same purpose, saying: "sir percydes hath spoken; sooner would we die than suffer that affront to the queen." "well," said sir mellegrans, speaking very bitterly, "if ye will it that ye who are naked shall do battle with us who are armed, then let it be even as ye elect. so keep this lady from me if ye are able, for i will herewith seize upon you all, maugre anything that you may do to stay me." then those ten unarmed knights of the queen and their attendants made them ready for battle. and when sir mellegrans beheld what was their will, he gave command that his men should make them ready for battle upon their part, and they did so. then in a moment all that pleasant may-party was changed to dreadful and bloody uproar; for men lashed fiercely at men with sword and glaive, and the queen and her ladies shrieked and clung in terror together in the midst of that party of knights who were fighting for them. [sidenote: _of the battle with the party of sir mellegrans._] and for a long time those ten unarmed worthies fought against the armed men as one to ten, and for a long time no one could tell how that battle would end. for the ten men smote the others down from their horses upon all sides, wherefore, for a while, it looked as though the victory should be with them. but they could not shield themselves from the blows of their enemies, being unarmed, wherefore they were soon wounded in many places, and what with loss of blood and what with stress of fighting a few against many without any rest, they presently began to wax weak and faint. then at last sir kay fell down to the earth and then sir sagramour and then sir agravaine and sir dodinas and then sir ladynas and sir osanna and sir persavant, so that all who were left standing upon their feet were sir brandiles and sir ironside and sir percydes. but still these three set themselves back to back and thus fought on in that woful battle. and still they lashed about them so fiercely with their swords that the terror of this battle filled their enemies with fear, insomuch that those who were near them fell back after a while to escape the dreadful strokes they gave. so came a pause in the battle and all stood at rest. meantime all around on the ground were men groaning dolorously, for in that battle those ten unarmed knights of the round table had smitten down thirty of their enemies. so for a while those three stood back to back resting from their battle and panting for breath. as for their gay attire of green, lo! it was all ensanguined with the red that streamed from many sore and grimly wounds. and as for those gay blossoms that had bedecked them, lo! they were all gone, and instead there hung about them the dread and terror of a deadly battle. then when queen guinevere beheld her knights how they stood bleeding from many wounds and panting for breath, her heart was filled with pity, and she cried out in a great shrill voice: "sir mellegrans, have pity! slay not my noble knights! but spare them and i will go with thee as thou wouldst have me do. only this covenant i make with thee: suffer these lords and ladies of my court and all of those attendant upon us, to go with me into captivity." then sir mellegrans said: "well, lady, it shall be as you wish, for these men of yours fight not like men but like devils, wherefore i am glad to end this battle for the sake of all. so bid your knights put away their swords, and i will do likewise with my men, and so there shall be peace between us." [sidenote: _the queen putteth an end to the battle._] then, in obedience to the request of sir mellegrans, the lady guinevere gave command that those three knights should put away their swords, and though they all three besought her that she should suffer them to fight still a little longer for her, she would not; so they were obliged to sheath their swords as she ordered. after that these three knights went to their fallen companions, and found that they were all alive, though sorely hurt. and they searched their wounds as they lay upon the ground, and they dressed them in such ways as might be. after that they helped lift the wounded knights up to their horses, supporting them there in such wise that they should not fall because of faintness from their wounds. so they all departed, a doleful company, from that place, which was now no longer a meadow of pleasure, but a field of bloody battle and of death. * * * * * thus beginneth this history. and now you shall hear that part of this story which is called in many books of chivalry, "the story of the knight of the cart." for the further history hath now to do with sir launcelot of the lake, and of how he came to achieve the rescue of queen guinevere, brought thither in a cart. [illustration] part i the chevalier of the cart _here followeth the story of sir launcelot of the lake, how he went forth to rescue queen guinevere from that peril in which she lay at the castle of sir mellegrans. likewise it is told how he met with a very untoward adventure, so that he was obliged to ride to his undertaking in a cart as aforesaid._ [illustration: denneys and the hermit help sir launcelot to his armor.] [illustration] chapter first _how denneys found sir launcelot, and how sir launcelot rode forth for to rescue queen guinevere from the castle of sir mellegrans, and of what befell him upon the assaying of that adventure._ now after that sad and sorrowful company of the queen had thus been led away captive by sir mellegrans as aforetold of, they rode forward upon their way for all that day. and they continued to ride after the night had fallen, and at that time they were passing through a deep dark forest. from this forest, about midnight, they came out into an open stony place whence before them they beheld where was built high up upon a steep hill a grim and forbidding castle, standing very dark against the star-lit sky. and behind the castle there was a town with a number of lights and a bell was tolling for midnight in the town. and this town and castle were the town and the castle of sir mellegrans. [sidenote: _how denneys escaped._] now the queen had riding near to her throughout that doleful journey a young page named denneys, and as they had ridden upon their way, she had taken occasion at one place to whisper to him: "denneys, if thou canst find a chance of escape, do so, and take news of our plight to some one who may rescue us." so it befel that just as they came out thus into that stony place, and in the confusion that arose when they reached the steep road that led up to the castle, denneys drew rein a little to one side. then, seeing that he was unobserved, he suddenly set spurs to his horse and rode away with might and main down the stony path and into the forest whence they had all come, and so was gone before anybody had gathered thought to stay him. then sir mellegrans was very angry, and he rode up to the queen and he said: "lady, thou hast sought to betray me! but it matters not, for thy page shall not escape from these parts with his life, for i shall send a party after him with command to slay him with arrows." so sir mellegrans did as he said; he sent several parties of armed men to hunt the forest for the page denneys; but denneys escaped them all and got safe away into the cover of the night. and after that he wandered through the dark and gloomy woodland, not knowing whither he went, for there was no ray of light. moreover, the gloom was full of strange terrors, for on every side of him he heard the movement of night creatures stirring in the darkness, and he wist not whether they were great or little or whether they were of a sort to harm him or not to harm him. [sidenote: _how denneys rideth through the forest._] yet ever he went onward until, at last, the dawn of the day came shining very faint and dim through the tops of the trees. and then, by and by, and after a little, he began to see the things about him, very faint, as though they were ghosts growing out of the darkness. then the small fowl awoke, and first one began to chirp and then another, until a multitude of the little feathered creatures fell to singing upon all sides so that the silence of the forest was filled full of their multitudinous chanting. and all the while the light grew stronger and stronger and more clear and sharp until, by and by, the great and splendid sun leaped up into the sky and shot his shafts of gold aslant through the trembling leaves of the trees; and so all the joyous world was awake once more to the fresh and dewy miracle of a new-born day. so cometh the breaking of the day in the woodlands as i have told you, and all this denneys saw, albeit he thought but little of what he beheld. for all he cared for at that time was to escape out of the thick mazes of the forest in which he knew himself to be entangled. moreover, he was faint with weariness and hunger, and wist not where he might break his fast or where he could find a place to tarry and to repose himself for a little. but god had care of little denneys and found him food, for by and by he came to an open space in the forest, where there was a neatherd's hut, and that was a very pleasant place. for here a brook as clear as crystal came brawling out of the forest and ran smoothly across an open lawn of bright green grass; and there was a hedgerow and several apple-trees, and both the hedge and the apple-trees were abloom with fragrant blossoms. and the thatched hut of the neatherd stood back under two great oak-trees at the edge of the forest, where the sunlight played in spots of gold all over the face of the dwelling. [sidenote: _how denneys findeth food._] so the queen's page beheld the hut and he rode forward with intent to beg for bread, and at his coming there appeared a comely woman of the forest at the door and asked him what he would have. to her denneys told how he was lost in the forest and how he was anhungered. and whilst he talked there came a slim brown girl, also of the woodland, and very wild, and she stood behind the woman and listened to what he said. this woman and this girl pitied denneys, and the woman gave command that the girl should give him a draught of fresh milk, and the maiden did so, bringing it to him in a great wooden bowl. meanwhile, the woman herself fetched sweet brown bread spread with butter as yellow as gold, and denneys took it and gave them both thanks beyond measure. so he ate and drank with great appetite, the whiles those two outland folk stood gazing at him, wondering at his fair young face and his yellow hair. after that, denneys journeyed on for the entire day, until the light began to wane once more. the sun set; the day faded into the silence of the gloaming and then the gloaming darkened, deeper and more deep, until denneys was engulfed once more in the blackness of the night-time. then lo! god succored him again, for as the darkness fell, he heard the sound of a little bell ringing through the gathering night. thitherward he turned his horse whence he heard the sound to come, and so in a little he perceived a light shining from afar, and when he had come nigh enough to that light he was aware that he had come to the chapel of a hermit of the forest and that the light that he beheld came from within the hermit's dwelling-place. as denneys drew nigh to the chapel and the hut a great horse neighed from a cabin close by, and therewith he was aware that some other wayfarer was there, and that he should have comradeship--and at that his heart was elated with gladness. [sidenote: _denneys cometh to the chapel of the hermit._] so he rode up to the door of the hut and knocked, and in answer to his knocking there came one and opened to him, and that one was a most reverend hermit with a long beard as white as snow and a face very calm and gentle and covered all over with a great multitude of wrinkles. (and this was the hermit of the forest several times spoken of aforetime in these histories.) when the hermit beheld before him that young lad, all haggard and worn and faint and sick with weariness and travel and hunger, he took great pity and ran to him and catched him in his arms and lifted him down from his horse and bare him into the hermitage, and sat him down upon a bench that was there. denneys said: "give me to eat and to drink, for i am faint to death." and the hermit said, "you shall have food upon the moment," and he went to fetch it. then denneys gazed about him with heavy eyes, and was aware that there was another in the hut besides himself. and then he heard a voice speak his name with great wonderment, saying: "denneys, is it then thou who hast come here at this time? what ails thee? lo! i knew thee not when i first beheld thee enter." then denneys lifted up his eyes, and he beheld that it was sir launcelot of the lake who spoke to him thus in the hut of the hermit. [sidenote: _denneys findeth sir launcelot._] at that, and seeing who it was who spake to him, denneys leaped up and ran to sir launcelot and fell down upon his knees before him. and he embraced sir launcelot about the knees, weeping beyond measure because of the many troubles through which he had passed. sir launcelot said: "denneys, what is it ails thee? where is the queen, and how came you here at this place and at this hour? why look you so distraught, and why are you so stained with blood?" then denneys, still weeping, told sir launcelot all that had befallen, and how that the lady guinevere was prisoner in the castle of sir mellegrans somewhere in the midst of that forest. [sidenote: _sir launcelot rides forth to save the queen._] but when sir launcelot heard what denneys said, he arose very hastily and he cried out, "how is this! how is this!" and he cried out again very vehemently: "help me to mine armor and let me go hence!" (for sir launcelot had laid aside his armor whilst he rested in the hut of the hermit). at that moment the hermit came in, bringing food for denneys to eat, and hearing what sir launcelot said, he would have persuaded him to abide there until the morrow and until he could see his way. but sir launcelot would listen to nothing that might stay him. so denneys and the hermit helped him don his armor, and after that sir launcelot mounted his war-horse and rode away into the blackness of the night. * * * * * so sir launcelot rode as best he might through the darkness of the forest, and he rode all night, and shortly after the dawning of the day he heard the sound of rushing water. so he followed a path that led to this water and by and by he came to an open space very stony and rough. and he saw that here was a great torrent of water that came roaring down from the hills very violent and turbid and covered all over with foam like to cream. and he beheld that there was a bridge of stone that spanned the torrent and that upon the farther side of the bridge was a considerable body of men-at-arms all in full armor. and he beheld that there were at least five-and-twenty of these men, and that chief among them was a man clad in green armor. then sir launcelot rode out upon the bridge and he called to those armed men: "can you tell me whether this way leads to the castle of sir mellegrans?" they say to him: "who are you, sir knight?" "i am one," quoth sir launcelot, "who seeks the castle of sir mellegrans. for that knight hath violently seized upon the person of the lady guinevere and of certain of her court, and he now holds her and them captive and in duress. i am one who hath come to rescue that lady and her court from their distress and anxiety." upon this the green knight, who was the chief of that party, came a little nearer to sir launcelot, and said: "messire, are you sir launcelot of the lake?" sir launcelot said: "yea, i am he." "then," said the green knight, "you can go no farther upon this pass, for you are to know that we are the people of sir mellegrans, and that we are here to stay you or any of your fellows from going forward upon this way." then sir launcelot laughed, and he said: "messire, how will you stay me against my will?" the green knight said: "we will stay you by force of our numbers." "well," quoth sir launcelot, "for the matter of that, i have made my way against greater odds than those i now see before me. so your peril will be of your own devising, if you seek to stay me." [sidenote: _how sir launcelot assailed his enemies._ ] therewith he cast aside his spear and drew his sword, and set spurs to his horse and rode forward against them. and he rode straight in amongst them with great violence, lashing right and left with his sword, so that at every stroke a man fell down from out of his saddle. so fierce and direful were the blows that sir launcelot delivered that the terror of his rage fell upon them, wherefore, after a while, they fell away from before him, and left him standing alone in the centre of the way. [sidenote: _sir launcelot, his horse is slain._] now there were a number of the archers of sir mellegrans lying hidden in the rocks at the sides of that pass. these, seeing how that battle was going and that sir launcelot had driven back their companions, straightway fitted arrows to their bows and began shooting at the horse of sir launcelot. against these archers sir launcelot could in no wise defend his horse, wherefore the steed was presently sorely wounded and began plunging and snorting in pain so that sir launcelot could hardly hold him in check. and still the archers shot arrow after arrow until by and by the life began to go out of the horse. then after a while the good steed fell down upon his knees and rolled over into the dust; for he was so sorely wounded that he could no longer stand. but sir launcelot did not fall, but voided his saddle with great skill and address, so that he kept his feet, wherefore his enemies were not able to take him at such disadvantage as they would have over a fallen knight who lay upon the ground. so sir launcelot stood there in the midst of the way at the end of the bridge, and he waved his sword this way and that way before him so that not one of those, his enemies, dared to come nigh to him. for the terror of him still lay upon them all and they dreaded those buffets he had given them in the battle they had just fought with him. wherefore they stood at a considerable distance regarding sir launcelot and not daring to come nigh to him; and they stood so for a long time. and although the green knight commanded them to fight, they would not fight any more against sir launcelot, so the green knight had to give orders for them to cease that battle and to depart from that place. this they did, leaving sir launcelot standing where he was. thus sir launcelot with his single arm won a battle against all that multitude of enemies as i have told. but though sir launcelot had thus won that pass with great credit and honor to himself, fighting as a single man against so many, yet he was still in a very sorry plight. for there he stood, a full-armed man with such a great weight of armor upon him that he could hardly hope to walk a league, far less to reach the castle of sir mellegrans afoot. nor knew he what to do in this extremity, for where could he hope to find a horse in that thick forest, where was hardly a man or a beast of any sort? wherefore, although he had won his battle, he was yet in no ease or satisfaction of spirit. * * * * * thus it was that sir launcelot went upon that adventure; and now you shall hear how it sped with him further, if so be you are pleased to read that which followeth. [illustration] [illustration: how sir launcelot rode errant in a cart.] [illustration] chapter second _how sir launcelot rode in a cart to rescue queen guinevere and how he came in that way to the castle of sir mellegrans._ now after sir launcelot was thus left by his enemies standing alone in the road as aforetold of, he knew not for a while what to do, nor how he should be able to get him away from that place. as he stood there adoubt as to what to do in this sorry case, he by and by heard upon one side from out of the forest the sound of an axe at a distance away, and thereat he was very glad, for he wist that help was nigh. so he took up his shield on his shoulder and his spear in his hand and thereupon directed his steps toward where he heard that sound of the axe, in hopes that there he might find some one who could aid in his extremity. so after a while, he came forth into a little open glade of the forest where he beheld a fagotmaker chopping fagots. and he beheld the fagotmaker had there a cart and a horse for to fetch his fagots from the forest. but when the fagotmaker saw an armed knight come thus like a shining vision out of the forest, walking afoot, bearing his shield upon his shoulder, and his spear in his hand, he knew not what to think of such a sight, but stood staring with his mouth agape for wonders. sir launcelot said to him, "good fellow, is that thy cart?" the fagotmaker said, "yea, messire." "i would," quoth sir launcelot, "have thee do me a service with that cart," and the fagotmaker asked, "what is the service that thou wouldst have of me, messire?" sir launcelot said: "this is the service i would have: it is that you take me into yonder cart and hale me to somewhere i may get a horse for to ride; for mine own horse hath just now been slain in battle, and i know not how i may go forward upon the adventure i have undertaken unless i get me another horse." now you must know that in those days it was not thought worthy of any one of degree to ride in a cart in that wise as sir launcelot said, for they would take law-breakers to the gallows in just such carts as that one in which sir launcelot made demand to ride. wherefore it was that that poor fagotmaker knew not what to think when he heard sir launcelot give command that he should be taken to ride in that cart. "messire," quoth he, "this cart is no fit thing for one of your quality to ride in. now i beseech you let me serve you in some other way than that." but sir launcelot made reply as follows: "sirrah, i would have thee know that there is no shame in riding in a cart for a worthy purpose, but there is great shame if one rides therein unworthily. and contrariwise, a man doth not gain credit merely for riding on horseback, for his credit appertains to his conduct, and not to what manner he rideth. so as my purpose is worthy, i shall, certes, be unworthy if i go not to fulfil that purpose, even if in so going i travel in thy poor cart. so do as i bid thee and make thy cart ready, and if thou wilt bring me in it to where i may get a fresh horse, i will give thee five pieces of gold money for thy service." now when the fagotmaker heard what sir launcelot said about the five pieces of gold money, he was very joyful, wherefore he ran to make ready his cart with all speed. and when the cart was made ready, sir launcelot entered into it with his shield and his spear. [sidenote: _sir launcelot rideth in a cart._] so it was that sir launcelot of the lake came to ride errant in a cart, wherefore, for a long time after, he was called the chevalier of the cart. and many ballads and songs were made concerning that matter, which same were sung in several courts of chivalry by minstrels and jongleurs, and these same stories and ballads have come down from afar to us of this very day. meantime sir launcelot rode forward at a slow pass and in that way for a great distance. so, at last, still riding in the cart, they came of a sudden out of the forest and into a little fertile valley in the midst of which lay a small town and a fair castle with seven towers that overlooked the town. and this was a very fair pretty valley, for on all sides of the town and of the castle were fields of growing corn, all green and lush, and there were many hedgerows and orchards of fruit-trees all abloom with fragrant blossoms. and the sound of cocks crowing came to sir launcelot upon a soft breeze that blew up the valley, and on the same breeze came the fragrance of apple blossoms, wherefore it seemed to sir launcelot that this valley was like a fair jewel of heaven set in the rough perlieus of the forest that lay round about. so the fagotmaker drove sir launcelot in the cart down into that valley toward the castle, and as they drew near thereunto sir launcelot was aware of a party of lords and ladies who were disporting themselves in a smooth meadow of green grass that lay spread out beneath the castle walls. and some of these lords and ladies tossed a ball from one to another, and others lay in the grass in the shade of a lime-tree and watched those that played at ball. then sir launcelot was glad to see those gentle folk, for he thought that here he might get him a fresh horse to take him upon his way. so he gave command to the fagotmaker to drive to where those people were. but as sir launcelot, riding in the fagotmaker's cart, drew near to those castle-folk, they ceased their play and stood and looked at him with great astonishment, for they had never beheld an armed knight riding in a cart in that wise. then, in a little, they all fell to laughing beyond measure, and at that sir launcelot was greatly abashed with shame. then the lord of that castle came forward to meet sir launcelot. he was a man of great dignity of demeanor--gray-haired, and clad in velvet trimmed with fur. when he came nigh to where sir launcelot was, he said, speaking as with great indignation: "sir knight, why do you ride in this wise in a cart, like to a law-breaker going to the gallows?" "sir," quoth sir launcelot, "i ride thus because my horse was slain by treachery. for i have an adventure which i have undertaken to perform, and i have no other way to go forward upon that quest than this." [sidenote: _the lord of a castle chideth sir launcelot._] then all those who heard what sir launcelot said laughed again with great mirth. only the old lord of the castle did not laugh, but said, still speaking as with indignation: "sir knight, it is altogether unworthy of one of your degree to ride thus in a cart to be made a mock of. wherefore come down, and if you prove yourself worthy i myself will purvey you a horse." but by this time sir launcelot had become greatly affronted at the laughter of those who jeered at him, and he was furthermore affronted that the lord of the castle should deem him to be unworthy because he came thither in a cart; wherefore he said: "sir, without boasting, methinks i may say that i am altogether as worthy as any one hereabouts. nor do i think that any one of you all has done more worthily in his degree than i have done in my degree. as for any lack of worship that may befall me for riding thus, i may say that the adventure which i have undertaken just now to perform is in itself so worthy that it will make worthy any man who may undertake it, no matter how he may ride to that adventure. now i had thought to ask of you a fresh horse, but since your people mock at me and since you rebuke me so discourteously, i will ask you for nothing. wherefore, to show you that knightly worthiness does not depend upon the way a knight may ride, i herewith make my vow that i will not mount upon horseback until my quest is achieved; nor will i ride to that adventure in any other way than in this poor cart wherein i now stand." so sir launcelot rode away in his cart from those castle-folk. and he rode thus down into the valley and through the town that was in the valley in the fagotmaker's cart, and all who beheld him laughed at him and mocked him. for, as he passed along the way, many came and looked down upon him from out of the windows of the houses; and others ran along beside the cart and all laughed and jeered at him to see him thus riding in a cart as though to a hanging. but all this sir launcelot bore with great calmness of demeanor, both because of his pride and because of the vow that he had made. wherefore he continued to ride in that cart although he might easily have got him a fresh horse from the lord of the castle. * * * * * now turn we to the castle of sir mellegrans, where queen guinevere and her court were held prisoners. first of all you are to know that that part of the castle wherein she and her court were held overlooked the road which led up to the gate of the castle. wherefore it came about that one of the damsels of the queen, looking out of the window of the chamber wherein the queen was held prisoner, beheld a knight armed at all points, coming riding thitherward in a cart. beholding this sight, she fell to laughing, whereat the queen said, "what is it you laugh at?" that damsel cried out: "lady, lady, look, see! what a strange sight! yonder is a knight riding in a cart as though he were upon his way to a hanging!" [sidenote: _the queen beholds sir launcelot riding in a cart._] then queen guinevere came to the window and looked out, and several came and looked out also. at first none of them wist who it was that rode in that cart. but when the cart had come a little nearer to where they were, the queen knew who he was, for she beheld the device upon the shield, even from afar, and she knew that the knight was sir launcelot. then the queen turned to the damsel and said to her: "you laugh without knowing what it is you laugh at. yonder gentleman is no subject for a jest, for he is without any doubt the worthiest knight of any who ever wore golden spurs." [sidenote: _sir percydes is offended with sir launcelot._] now amongst those who stood there looking out of the window were sir percydes and sir brandiles and sir ironside, and in a little sir percydes also saw the device of sir launcelot and therewith knew who it was who rode in the cart. but when sir percydes knew that that knight was sir launcelot, he was greatly offended that he, who was the chiefest knight of the round table, should ride in a cart in that wise. so sir percydes said to the queen: "lady, i believe yonder knight is none other than sir launcelot of the lake." and queen guinevere said, "it is assuredly he." sir percydes said: "then i take it to be a great shame that the chiefest knight of the round table should ride so in a cart as though he were a felon law-breaker. for the world will assuredly hear of this and it will be made a jest in every court of chivalry. and all we who are his companions in arms and who are his brethren of the round table will be made a jest and a laughing-stock along with him." thus spake sir percydes, and the other knights who were there and all the ladies who were there agreed with him that it was great shame for sir launcelot to come thus to save the queen, riding in a cart. but the queen said: "messires and ladies, i take no care for the manner in which sir launcelot cometh, for i believe he cometh for to rescue us from this captivity, and if so be he is successful in that undertaking, then it will not matter how he cometh to perform so worthy a deed of knighthood as that." thus all they were put to silence by the queen's words; but nevertheless and afterward those knights who were there still held amongst themselves that it was great shame for sir launcelot to come thus in a cart to rescue the queen, instead of first getting for himself a horse whereon to ride as became a knight-errant of worthiness and respect. * * * * * now you are to know that the green knight, who was the head of that party that tried to stand against sir launcelot at the bridge as aforesaid, when he beheld that the horse of sir launcelot was shot, rode away from the place of battle with his men, and that he never stopped nor stayed until he had reached the castle of sir mellegrans. there coming, he went straightway to where sir mellegrans was and told sir mellegrans all that had befallen, and how that sir launcelot had overcome them all with his single hand at the bridge of the torrent. and he told sir mellegrans that haply sir launcelot would be coming to that place before a very great while had passed, although he had been delayed because his horse had been slain. [sidenote: _sir mellegrans feareth sir launcelot._] at that sir mellegrans was put to great anxiety, for he also knew that sir launcelot would be likely to be at that place before a very great while, and he wist that there would be great trouble for him when that should come to pass. so he began to cast about very busily in his mind for some scheme whereby he might destroy sir launcelot. and at last he hit upon a scheme; and that scheme was unworthy of him both as a knight and as a gentleman. so when news was brought to sir mellegrans that sir launcelot was there in front of the castle in a cart, sir mellegrans went down to the barbican of the castle and looked out of a window of the barbican and beheld sir launcelot where he stood in the cart before the gate of the castle. and sir mellegrans said, "sir launcelot, is it thou who art there in the cart?" sir launcelot replied: "yea, thou traitor knight, it is i, and i come to tell thee thou shalt not escape my vengeance either now or at some other time unless thou set free the queen and all her court and make due reparation to her and to them and to me for all the harm you have wrought upon us." [sidenote: _sir mellegrans speaketh to sir launcelot._] to this sir mellegrans spake in a very soft and humble tone of voice, saying: "messire, i have taken much thought, and i now much repent me of all that i have done. for though my provocation hath been great, yet i have done extremely ill in all this that hath happened, so i am of a mind to make reparation for what i have done. yet i know not how to make such reparation without bringing ruin upon myself. if thou wilt intercede with me before the queen in this matter, i will let thee into this castle and i myself will take thee to her where she is. and after i have been forgiven what i have done, then ye shall all go free, and i will undertake to deliver myself unto the mercy of king arthur and will render all duty unto him." at this repentance of sir mellegrans sir launcelot was very greatly astonished. but yet he was much adoubt as to the true faith of that knight; wherefore he said: "sir knight, how may i know that that which thou art telling me is the truth?" "well," said sir mellegrans, "it is small wonder, i dare say, that thou hast doubt of my word. but i will prove my faith to thee in this: i will come to thee unarmed as i am at this present, and i will admit thee into my castle, and i will lead thee to the queen. and as thou art armed and i am unarmed, thou mayest easily slay me if so be thou seest that i make any sign of betraying thee." but still sir launcelot was greatly adoubt, and wist not what to think of that which sir mellegrans said. but after a while, and after he had considered the matter for a space, he said: "if all this that thou tellest me is true, sir knight, then come down and let me into this castle as thou hast promised to do, for i will venture that much upon thy faith. but if i see that thou hast a mind to deal falsely by me, then i will indeed slay thee as thou hast given me leave to do." and sir mellegrans said, "i am content." [sidenote: _sir mellegrans kneels to sir launcelot._] so sir mellegrans went down from where he was and he gave command that the gates of the castle should be opened. and when the gates were opened he went forth to where sir launcelot was. and sir launcelot descended from the fagotmaker's cart, and sir mellegrans kneeled down before him, and he set his palms together and he said, "sir launcelot, i crave thy pardon for what i have done." sir launcelot said: "sir knight, if indeed thou meanest no further treachery, thou hast my pardon and i will also intercede with the queen to pardon thee as well. so take me straightway to her, for until i behold her with mine own eyes i cannot believe altogether in thy repentance." then sir mellegrans arose and said, "come, and i will take thee to her." so sir mellegrans led the way into the castle and sir launcelot followed after him with his naked sword in his hand. and sir mellegrans led the way deep into the castle and along several passageways and still sir launcelot followed after him with his drawn sword, ready for to slay him if he should show sign of treason. [sidenote: _sir launcelot falleth into the pit._] now there was in a certain part of that castle and in the midst of a long passageway a trap-door that opened through the floor of the passageway and so into a deep and gloomy pit beneath. and this trap-door was controlled by a cunning latch of which sir mellegrans alone knew the secret; for when sir mellegrans would touch the latch with his finger, the trap-door would immediately fall open into the pit beneath. so thitherward to that place sir mellegrans led the way and sir launcelot followed. and sir mellegrans passed over that trap-door in safety, but when sir launcelot had stepped upon the trap-door, sir mellegrans touched the spring that controlled the latch with his finger, and the trap-door immediately opened beneath sir launcelot and sir launcelot fell down into the pit beneath. and the pit was very deep indeed and the floor thereof was of stone, so that when sir launcelot fell he smote the stone floor so violently that he was altogether bereft of his senses and lay there in the pit like to one who was dead. then sir mellegrans came back to the open space of the trap-door and he looked down into the pit beneath and beheld sir launcelot where he lay. thereupon sir mellegrans laughed and he cried out, "sir launcelot, what cheer have you now?" but sir launcelot answered not. then sir mellegrans laughed again, and he closed the trap-door and went away, and he said to himself: "now indeed have i such hostages in my keeping that king arthur must needs set right this wrong he hath aforetime done me. for i now have in my keeping not only his queen, but also the foremost knight of his round table; wherefore king arthur must needs come to me to make such terms with me as i shall determine." * * * * * as for queen guinevere, she waited with her court for a long time for news of sir launcelot, for she wist that now sir launcelot was there at that place she must needs have news of him sooner or later. but no news came to her; wherefore, as time passed by, she took great trouble because she had no news, and she said: "alas, if ill should have befallen that good worthy knight at the hands of the treacherous lord of this castle!" but she knew not how great at that very time was the ill into which sir launcelot had fallen, nor of how he was even then lying like as one dead in the pit beneath the floor of the passageway. [illustration] [illustration: the damsel elouise the fair rescues sir launcelot] [illustration] chapter third _how sir launcelot was rescued from the pit and how he overcame sir mellegrans and set free the queen and her court from the duress they were in._ now when sir launcelot awoke from that swoon into which he was cast by falling so violently into the pit, he found himself to be in a very sad, miserable case. for he lay there upon the hard stones of the floor and all about him there was a darkness so great that there was not a single ray of light that penetrated into it. [sidenote: _sir launcelot lyeth in the pit._] so for a while sir launcelot knew not where he was; but by and by he remembered that he was in the castle of sir mellegrans, and he remembered all that had befallen him, and therewith, when he knew himself to be a prisoner in so miserable a condition, he groaned with dolor and distress, for he was at that time in great pain both of mind and body. then he cried out in a very mournful voice: "woe is me that i should have placed any faith in a traitor such as this knight hath from the very beginning shown himself to be! for here am i now cast into this dismal prison, and know not how i shall escape from it to bring succor to those who so greatly need my aid at this moment." so sir launcelot bemoaned and lamented himself, but no one heard him, for he was there all alone in that miserable dungeon and in a darkness into which no ray of light could penetrate. then sir launcelot bent his mind to think of how he might escape from that place, but though he thought much, yet he could not devise any way in which he might mend the evil case in which he found himself; wherefore he was altogether overwhelmed with despair. and by that time it had grown to be about the dead of the night. now as sir launcelot lay there in such despair of spirit as aforetold of, he was suddenly aware that there came a gleam of light shining in a certain place, and he was aware the light grew ever brighter and brighter and he beheld that it came through the cracks of a door. and by and by he heard the sound of keys from without and immediately afterward the door opened and there entered into that place a damsel bearing a lighted lamp in her hand. [sidenote: _the lady elouise findeth sir launcelot._] at first sir launcelot knew not who she was, and then he knew her and lo! that damsel was the lady elouise the fair, the daughter of king bagdemagus and sister unto sir mellegrans; and she was the same who had aforetime rescued him when he had been prisoner to queen morgana le fay, as hath been told you in a former book of this history. so elouise the fair came into that dismal place, bringing with her the lighted lamp, and sir launcelot beheld that her eyes were red with weeping. then sir launcelot, beholding that she had been thus weeping, said: "lady, what is it that ails you? is there aught that i can do for to comfort you?" to this she said naught, but came to where sir launcelot was and looked at him for a long while. by and by she said: "woe is me to find thee thus, sir launcelot! and woe is me that it should have been mine own brother that should have brought thee to this pass!" sir launcelot was much moved to see her so mournful and he said: "lady, take comfort to thyself, for whatever evil thing sir mellegrans may have done to me, naught of reproach or blame can fall thereby upon thee, for i shall never cease to remember how thou didst one time save me from a very grievous captivity." the lady elouise said: "launcelot, i cannot bear to see so noble a knight as thou art lying thus in duress. so it is that i come hither to aid thee. now if i set thee free wilt thou upon thy part show mercy unto my brother for my sake?" "lady," said sir launcelot, "this is a hard case thou puttest to me, for i would do much for thy sake. but i would have thee wist that it is my endeavor to help in my small way to punish evil-doers so that the world may be made better by that punishment. wherefore because this knight hath dealt so treacherously with my lady the queen, so it must needs be that i must seek to punish him if ever i can escape from this place. but if it so befalls that i do escape, this much mercy will i show to sir mellegrans for thy sake: i will meet him in fair field, as one knight may meet another knight in that wise. and i will show him such courtesy as one knight may show another in time of battle. such mercy will i show thy brother and meseems that is all that may rightly be asked of me." then elouise the fair began weeping afresh, and she said: "alas, launcelot! i fear me that my brother will perish at thy hands if so be that it cometh to a battle betwixt you twain. and how could i bear it to have my brother perish in that way and at thy hands?" "lady," said sir launcelot, "the fate of battle lyeth ever in god his hands and not in the hands of men. it may befall any man to die who doeth battle, and such a fate may be mine as well as thy brother's. so do thou take courage, for whilst i may not pledge myself to avoid an ordeal of battle with sir mellegrans, yet it may be his good hap that he may live and that i may die." "alas, launcelot," quoth the fair elouise, "and dost thou think that it would be any comfort to me to have thee die at the hands of mine own brother? that is but poor comfort to me who am the sister of this miserable man. yet let it be as it may hap, i cannot find it in my heart to let thee lie here in this place, for thou wilt assuredly die in this dark and miserable dungeon if i do not aid thee. so once more will i set thee free as i did aforetime when thou wast captive to queen morgana le fay, and i will do my duty by thee as the daughter of a king and the daughter of a true knight may do. as to that which shall afterward befall, that will i trust to the mercy of god to see that it shall all happen as he shall deem best." [sidenote: _the lady elouise bringeth sir launcelot out of a pit._] so saying, the damsel elouise the fair bade sir launcelot to arise and to follow her, and he did so. and she led him out from that place and up a long flight of steps and so to a fair large chamber that was high up in a tower of the castle and under the eaves of the roof. and sir launcelot beheld that everything was here prepared for his coming; for there was a table at that place set with bread and meat and with several flagons of wine for his refreshment. and there was in that place a silver ewer full of cold, clear water, and that there was a basin of silver, and that there were several napkins of fine linen such as are prepared for knights to dry their hands upon. all these had been prepared for him against his coming, and at that sight he was greatly uplifted with satisfaction. so sir launcelot bathed his face and his hands in the water and he dried them upon the napkins. and he sat him down at the table and he ate and drank with great appetite and the lady elouise the fair served him. and so sir launcelot was greatly comforted in body and in spirit by that refreshment which she had prepared for him. then after sir launcelot had thus satisfied the needs of his hunger, the lady elouise led him to another room and there showed him where was a soft couch spread with flame-colored linen and she said, "here shalt thou rest at ease to-night, and in the morning i shall bring thy sword and thy shield to thee." therewith she left sir launcelot to his repose and he laid him down upon the couch and slept with great content. so he slept very soundly all that night and until the next morning, what time, the lady elouise came to him as she promised and fetched unto him his sword and his shield. these she gave unto him, saying: "sir knight, i know not whether i be doing evil or good in the sight of heaven in thus purveying thee with thy weapons; ne'theless, i cannot find it in my heart to leave thee unprotected in this place without the wherewithal for to defend thyself against thine enemies; for that would be indeed to compass thy death for certain." [sidenote: _sir launcelot hath his weapons again._] then sir launcelot was altogether filled with joy to have his weapons again, and he gave thanks to the lady elouise without measure. and after that he hung his sword at his side and set his shield upon his shoulder and thereupon felt fear of no man in all of that world, whomsoever that one might be. after that, and after he had broken his fast, sir launcelot went forth from out of the chamber where he had abided that night, and he went down into the castle and into the courtyard of the castle, and every one was greatly astonished at his coming, for they deemed him to be still a prisoner in that dungeon into which he had fallen. [sidenote: _sir launcelot challenges the castle._] so all these, when they beheld him coming, full armed and with his sword in his hand, fled away from before the face of sir launcelot, and no one undertook to stay him in his going. so sir launcelot reached the courtyard of the castle, and when he was come there he set his horn to his lips, and blew a blast that sounded terribly loud and shrill throughout the entire place. meantime, there was great hurrying hither and thither in the castle and a loud outcry of many voices, and many came to the windows and looked down into the courtyard and there beheld sir launcelot standing clad in full armor, glistening very bright in the morning light of the sun. meantime several messengers had run to where sir mellegrans was and told him that sir launcelot had escaped out of that pit wherein he had fallen and that he was there in the courtyard of the castle in full armor. at that sir mellegrans was overwhelmed with amazement, and a great fear seized upon him and gripped at his vitals. and after a while he too went by, to a certain place whence he could look down into the courtyard, and there he also beheld sir launcelot where he stood shining in the sunlight. now at that moment sir launcelot lifted up his eyes and espied sir mellegrans where he was at the window of that place, and immediately he knew sir mellegrans. thereupon he cried out in a loud voice: "sir mellegrans, thou traitor knight! come down and do battle, for here i await thee to come and meet me." but when sir mellegrans heard those words he withdrew very hastily from the window where he was, and he went away in great terror to a certain room where he might be alone. for beholding sir launcelot thus free of that dungeon from which he had escaped he knew not what to do to flee from his wrath. wherefore he said to himself: "fool that i was, to bring this knight into my castle, when i might have kept him outside as long as i chose to do so! what now shall i do to escape from his vengeance?" [sidenote: _sir mellegrans taketh counsel._] so after a while sir mellegrans sent for several of his knights and he took counsel of them as to what he should do in this pass. these say to him: "messire, you yourself to fulfil your schemes have brought yonder knight into this place, when god knows he could not have come in of his own free will. so now that he is here, it behooves you to go and arm yourself at all points and to go down to the courtyard, there to meet him and to do battle with him. for only by overcoming him can you hope to escape his vengeance." but sir mellegrans feared sir launcelot with all his heart, wherefore he said: "nay, i will not go down to yonder knight. for wit ye he is the greatest knight alive, and if i go to do battle with him, it will be of a surety that i go to my death. wherefore, i will not go." then sir mellegrans called a messenger to him and he said: "go down to yonder knight in the courtyard and tell him that i will not do battle with him." so the messenger went to sir launcelot and delivered that message to him. but when sir launcelot heard what it was that the messenger said to him from sir mellegrans, he laughed with great scorn. then he said to the messenger, "doth the knight of this castle fear to meet me?" the messenger said, "yea, messire." sir launcelot said: "then take thou this message to him: that i will lay aside my shield and my helm and that i will unarm all the left side of my body, and thus, half naked, will i fight him if only he will come down and do battle with me." so saying, the messenger departed as sir launcelot bade, and came to sir mellegrans and delivered that message to him as sir launcelot had said. [sidenote: _sir launcelot offers to fight sir mellegrans in half-armor._] then sir mellegrans said to those who were with him: "now i will go down and do battle with this knight, for never will i have a better chance of overcoming him than this." therewith he turned to that messenger, and he said: "go! hasten back to yonder knight, and tell him that i will do battle with him upon those conditions he offers, to wit: that he shall unarm his left side, and that he shall lay aside his shield and his helm. and tell him that by the time he hath made him ready in that wise, i will be down to give him what satisfaction i am able." so the messenger departed upon that command, and sir mellegrans departed to arm himself for battle. then, after the messenger had delivered the message that sir mellegrans had given him, sir launcelot laid aside his shield and his helm as he had agreed to do, and he removed his armor from his left side so that he was altogether unarmed upon that side. after a while sir mellegrans appeared, clad all in armor from top to toe, and baring himself with great confidence, for he felt well assured of victory in that encounter. thus he came very proudly nigh to where sir launcelot was, and he said: "here am i, sir knight, come to do you service since you will have it so." sir launcelot said: "i am ready to meet thee thus or in any other way, so that i may come at thee at all." after that each knight dressed himself for combat, and all those who were in the castle gathered at the windows and the galleries above, and looked down upon the two knights. then they two came slowly together, and when they were pretty nigh to one another sir launcelot offered his left side so as to allow sir mellegrans to strike at him. and when sir mellegrans perceived this chance, he straightway lashed a great blow at sir launcelot's unarmed side with all his might and main, and with full intent to put an end to the battle with that one blow. but sir launcelot was well prepared for that stroke, wherefore he very dexterously and quickly turned himself to one side so that he received the blow upon the side which was armed, and at the same time he put aside a part of the blow with his sword. so that blow came to naught. [sidenote: _sir launcelot slayeth sir mellegrans._] but so violent was the stroke that sir mellegrans had lashed that he overreached himself, and ere he could recover himself, sir launcelot lashed at him a great buffet that struck him fairly upon the helm. and then again he lashed at him ere he fell and both this stroke of the sword and the other cut deep through the helm and into the brain pan of sir mellegrans, so that he fell down upon the ground and lay there without motion of any sort. then sir launcelot stood over him, and called to those who were near to come and look to their lord, and thereat there came several running. these lifted sir mellegrans up and removed his helmet so as to give him air to breathe. and they looked upon his face, and lo! even then the spirit was passing from him, for he never opened his eyes to look upon the splendor of the sun again. then when those of the castle saw how it was with sir mellegrans and that even then he was dead, they lifted up their voices with great lamentation so that the entire castle rang presently with their outcries and wailings. but sir launcelot cried out: "this knight hath brought this upon himself because of the treason he hath done; wherefore the blame is his own." and then he said: "where is the porter of this castle? go, fetch him hither!" so in a little while the porter came, and sir launcelot made demand of him: "where is it that the queen and her court are held prisoners? bring me to them, sirrah?" then the porter of the castle bowed down before sir launcelot and he said, "messire, i will do whatever you command me to do," for he was overwhelmed with the terror of sir launcelot's wrath as he had displayed it that day. and the porter said, "messire, have mercy on us all and i will take you to the queen." [sidenote: _sir launcelot rescueth the queen._] so the porter brought sir launcelot to where the queen was, and where were those others with her. then all these gave great joy and loud acclaim that sir launcelot had rescued them out of their captivity. and queen guinevere said: "what said i to you awhile since? did i not say that it mattered not how sir launcelot came hither even if it were in a cart? for lo! though he came thus humbly and in lowly wise, yet he hath done marvellous deeds of knightly prowess, and hath liberated us all from our captivity." after that sir launcelot commanded them that they should make ready such horses as might be needed. and he commanded that they should fetch litters for those knights of the queen's court who had been wounded, and all that was done as he commanded. after that they all departed from that place and turned their way toward camelot and the court of the king. but sir launcelot did not again see that damsel elouise the fair, for she kept herself close shut in her own bower and would see naught of any one because of the grief and the shame of all that had passed. at that sir launcelot took much sorrow, for he was greatly grieved that he should have brought any trouble upon one who had been so friendly with him as she had been. yet he wist not how he could otherwise have done than as he did do, and he could think of naught to comfort her. * * * * * so ends this adventure of the knight of the cart with only this to say: that after that time there was much offence taken that sir launcelot had gone upon that adventure riding in a cart. for many jests were made of it as i have said, and many of the king's court were greatly grieved that so unworthy a thing should have happened. [sidenote: _his kinsmen chide sir launcelot._] more especially were the kinsmen of sir launcelot offended at what he had done. wherefore sir lionel and sir ector came to sir launcelot and sir ector said to him: "that was a very ill thing you did to ride to that adventure in a cart. now prythee tell us why you did such a thing as that when you might easily have got a fresh horse for to ride upon if you had chosen to do so." to this sir launcelot made reply with much heat: "i know not why you should take it upon you to meddle in this affair. for that which i did, i did of mine own free will, and it matters not to any other man. moreover, i deem that it matters not how i went upon that quest so that i achieved my purpose in a knightly fashion. for i have yet to hear any one say that i behaved in any way such as a true knight should not behave." "for the matter of that," said sir ector, "thy knighthood is sufficiently attested, not only in this, but in many other affairs. but that which shames us who are of thy blood, and they who are thy companions at arms, is that thou shouldst have achieved thy quest in so unknightly a fashion instead of with that dignity befitting a very worthy undertaking. for dost thou not know that thou art now called everywhere 'the chevalier of the cart' and that songs are made of this adventure and that jests are made concerning it?" [sidenote: _sir launcelot covereth his shield._] then sir launcelot was filled with great anger, and he went to his inn and took his shield and laced a sheet of leather over the face thereof. thereafter he painted the leather covering of the shield a pure white so that it might not be known what was the device thereon, nor who was the knight who bare that shield. then after he had done this he armed himself and took horse and rode forth errant and alone, betaking his way he knew not whither but suffering his horse to wander upon whatsoever path it choose. thus sir launcelot departed in anger from the court of king arthur, and after that, excepting one time, he was not seen in the court of the king again for the space of two years, during which time there was much sorrow at the court, because he was no longer there. part ii the story of sir gareth of orkney _and now followeth the history of sir gareth of orkney, who came unknown to the court of his uncle, king arthur; who was there treated with great indignity by sir kay the seneschal; who was befriended by his brother, sir gawaine, and who afterward went errant with a damsel hight lynette, meeting whilst with her several bel-adventures which shall hereinafter be duly told of. so if you would know how it fared with that young knight, you must cease to consider the further adventures of sir launcelot at this place, and must now read of those other adventures of this youth, who was the youngest son of king lot and queen margaise of orkney. but after they are ended, then shall the further history of the adventures of sir launcelot be considered once more._ [illustration: sir gareth of orkney] [illustration] chapter first _how sir gareth of orkney came to the castle of kynkennedon where king arthur was holding court, and how it fared with him at that place._ [sidenote: _of gareth of orkney._] the youngest son of king lot of orkney and of his queen, who was the lady margaise, sister of king arthur, was a youth hight gareth of orkney. this young, noble, high-born prince was the most beautiful of all his royal race, for not only was he exceedingly tall and stalwart of frame--standing a full head bigger than the biggest of any at his father's court--and not only was he the strongest and the most agile and the most skilful at all knightly sports, and not only was he gentle in speech and exceedingly courteous in demeanor to all with whom he held discourse, but he was so beautiful of countenance that i do not believe that an angel of paradise could be more fair to look upon than he. for his hair was bright and ruddy, shining like to pure gold, his cheeks were red and they and his chin were covered over with a soft and budding bloom of beard like to a dust of gold upon his face; his eyes were blue and shining and his neck and throat were round and white like to a pillar of alabaster. [sidenote: _how they of the court praise gareth._] now king lot and queen margaise loved gareth above any of their other children, and so it befell that all those who dwelt at the king's court took every occasion to praise young gareth, both to his face and before the faces of the king and queen, his father and mother. for these would sometimes say: "lo! this youth sendeth forth such a glory of royal beauty and grace and dignity from him that even were he clad in fustian instead of cloth of gold yet would all the world know him to be of royal strain as plainly as though he were clothed in royal attire fitting for such a princely youth to wear. for, behold! the splendor of his royalty lieth in his spirit and not in his raiment, and so it is that it shineth forth from his countenance." [sidenote: _queen margaise bespeaketh gareth._] now it came to pass that when gareth was twenty years of age, his mother, queen margaise, called him to her in her bower where she was with her maidens, and she bade him to sit down beside her and he did as she commanded, taking his place upon a couch spread with purple cloth embroidered with silver lions whereon the queen was sitting at that time. then queen margaise gazed long upon her beautiful son, and her heart yearned over him with pride and glory because of his strength and grace. and by and by she said: "my son, now that thou hast reached to the fulness of thy stature and girth and art come to the threshold of thy manhood, it is time for thee to win for thyself the glory of knighthood such as shall become thee, earning it by such deeds as shall be worthy of the royal race from which thou hast sprung. accordingly, i would now have it that thou shouldst go to the court of my brother, king arthur, and that thou shouldst there take thy stand with that noble and worthy companionship of the champions of the round table, of whom thy brothers shine forth like bright planets in the midst of a galaxy of stars. so i would have it that thou shouldst go to the court of the great king, my brother, a week from to-day, and to that end i would have it that thou shouldst go in charge of three of the noblest lords of this court and in such a state of pomp and circumstance as may befit one who is, as thou art, the son of a royal father and mother and the nephew of that great king who is the overlord of this entire realm." [sidenote: _gareth departeth for the court of king arthur._] thus spake queen margaise, and in accordance with that saying gareth set forth a sennight from that time for the court of king arthur. with him there rode three very noble haughty lords of the court as the queen had ordained, and with these went esquires and attendants to the number of threescore ten and four. in the midst of that company young gareth rode upon a cream white horse, and all the harness and furnishings of the horse upon which he rode were of gold, and the saddle upon which he sat was stamped with gold and riveted with rivets of gold, and gareth himself was clad all in cloth of gold, so, what with all of these and his fair beautiful face in the bright sunlight (the day being wonderfully clear and fair) the royal youth appeared to shine with such a glistering splendor that it was as though a star of remarkable glory had fallen from the heavens and had found lodgment in his person upon the earth. so it was that the young gareth rode forth upon his way to the court of his uncle, the king. that evening, he and his company rested for the night in a glade of the forest and there the attendants set up a pavilion of purple silk for him. around about this pavilion were other pavilions for those three lords who accompanied him as his companions in the journey and for their esquires and attendants. now that night gareth lodged alone in his pavilion saving only that his dwarf, axatalese, lay within the tent nigh to the door thereof. and it came to pass that gareth could not sleep that night but lay awake, looking into the darkness and thinking of many things. and he said to himself: "why is it that i should go thus in state to the court of the king and in that wise to win his especial favor? lo! it were better that i should go as any other youth of birth and breeding rather than in this royal estate. for, if i am worthy, as men say of me, then my worth shall be made manifest by my deeds and not because of the state in which i travel." thus gareth communed within himself and he said: "i will go to the court of mine uncle the king as a simple traveller and not as a prince travelling in state." so somewhat before the dawning of the day, he arose very softly and went to where the dwarf lay, and he touched axatalese upon the shoulder, and he said, "axatalese, awake." thereupon the dwarf awoke and sat up and looked about him in the darkness of the dawning, bewildered by the sleep that still beclouded his brain. then gareth said, still speaking in a whisper: "listen to what i say, but make no noise lest you arouse those who lay around about us." and axatalese said, "lord, i listen, and i will be silent." then gareth said: "axatalese, arise and fetch me hither some garments of plain green cloth, and aid me to clothe myself in those garments. then thou and i will go forward alone and without attendants to king arthur's court. for so i would come before the king in that guise and not travelling in the estate of a prince who may claim his favor because of the chance of birth. for i would have it that whatsoever good fortune i win, that fortune should come to me by mine own endeavor, and not because of the accident of birth." then axatalese was greatly troubled, and he said: "lord, think well of what you do, for, lo! your mother, the queen, hath provided this escort for you; wherefore, haply, she will be very angry if you should do as you say, and should depart from those whom she appointed to accompany you." "no matter," quoth gareth; "let that be as it may, but do you as i tell you and go you straightway, very quietly, and carry out my commands. and see to it that no one shall be disturbed in your going or coming, for it is my purpose that we two shall go privily away from this place and that no one shall be aware of our going." [sidenote: _gareth escapeth from his companions._] so spake gareth, and axatalese was aware that his command must be obeyed. so the dwarf went very quietly to do gareth's bidding, and anon he returned with the clothes of a certain one of the attendants, and the clothes were of plain green cloth, and gareth clad himself in that simple raiment. then he and the dwarf went forth from the pavilion and they went to where the horses were, and they chose two of the horses and saddled them and bridled them with saddles and harness and trappings of plain leather, such as the least of the attendants might use--and in all of that time no one of those in attendance upon gareth was aware of what he had done. then gareth and the dwarf rode away from that place and still all the others slept, and they slept for a long while after. and be it here said that when those three lords who were in charge of gareth awoke and found that he and axatalese were gone, they were filled with terror and dismay, for they wist not why he was gone nor whither, and they dreaded the anger of the queen, gareth's mother. then the chief of those lords said: "lo! here are we betrayed by this young prince and his dwarf. for he hath left us and taken himself away, we know not whither, and so we dare not return to the court of orkney again. for should we return without him they will assuredly punish us for suffering him to depart, and that punishment may come even to the taking of our lives." then another of those lords said: "messire, those words are very true, so let us not return unto the court of orkney, but let us escape unto some other part of the realm where the wrath of the king and queen may not reach us." so it was as that lord said, for straightway they departed from that place and went to a part of the realm where neither the king and queen of orkney nor king arthur might hear of them, and there they abode for that time and for some time afterward. [sidenote: _how king arthur sat at feast._] now at this time king arthur was celebrating the feast of pentecost at the castle of kynkennedon. with him sat all the great lords of his court and all the knights-companion of the round table who were not upon adventure in some other part of the realm. as they so sat at high feast, filling the hall with a great sound of merriment and good cheer, commingled with the chanting of minstrels and the music of harps and viols, there came one to where the king sat, and he said to him: "lord, there is a fellow without who demandeth to have speech with you, face to face. nor know we what to do in this case, for he will not be gainsaid, but ever maketh that demand aforesaid." then king arthur said: "hah! say you so? now what manner of man is he? is he a king or a duke or a high prince that he maketh such a demand as that?" "lord," said the messenger, "he is none of these, but only a youth of twenty years, tall and very large of frame and beautiful of face, and very proud and haughty in bearing. and he is clad like to a yeoman in cloth of plain green, wherefore we know not what to think of that demand he maketh to have speech with you." king arthur said, "what attendants hath he with him?" and the messenger said, "he hath no attendants of any kind, saving only a dwarf who followeth after him." quoth the king: "well, at this feast of pentecost far be it from me to deny any man speech with me. so fetch this one hither that we may see what manner of man he is." [sidenote: _gareth cometh before the king._] therewith in obedience to the king's command, that attendant went forth and anon he returned, bringing gareth and the dwarf axatalese with him. and gareth walked very proudly and haughtily up the hall and all who looked upon him marvelled at his height and his girth and at the beauty of his countenance. and many said: "certes, that is a very noble-appearing man to be clad in such plain raiment of green, for, from his manner and his bearing, he would otherwise appear to be some nobleman's son, or some one of other high degree." so gareth walked up the length of the hall with all gazing upon him, and so he came and stood before the king and looked the king in the face, regarding him very steadfastly and without any fear or awe--and few there were who could so regard king arthur. now sir kay the seneschal stood behind the king's seat and when he beheld how young gareth fronted the king, look for look, he was very wroth at the demeanor of that youth who stood thus before that royal majesty. so he spoke aloud before all those who sat there in hall, saying, to gareth: "sirrah, who are you who darest thus to stand with such assurance in the presence of the great king? wit you it is not for such as you to stand before such majesty, and have speech with it. rather you should veil your face and hang your head in that awful presence." then gareth looked at sir kay very calmly and he said, "who are you who speak such words to me?" and all were amazed at the haughtiness of his tones and voice. and king arthur was also much astonished that a youth, clad thus like a yeoman, should thus speak to a great lord of the court such as sir kay. wherefore the king wist not what to think of such a bearing. then anon he said: "fair youth, whence come you and who are you who speaketh thus so boldly to a great lord of our court and before our very face?" and gareth said: "lord, i am one who hath come hither from a great distance to crave two boons of you." quoth the king: "at this time, and at this feast of pentecost i may not refuse any one a boon who asketh it of me. so, if these two boons are fit for one of your condition to have, they shall be granted unto you." [sidenote: _gareth asketh his boon._] then gareth said: "lord, this is the first boon that i would ask of thee. i ask not for knighthood nor for courtly favor. all that i ask is that thou wilt permit me to dwell here at court for a year and that thou wilt provide me with lodging and with clothing and with meat and with drink for that time. then at the end of a year, if i have proved myself patient to wait, i shall crave a second boon of thee." now many who were there heard what it was that strange youth asked as a boon, and that he besought not knighthood or honor at the king's hands, but bread and meat and drink and lodging, wherefore several of them laughed a great deal at the nature of that boon. as for the king, he smiled not, but he inclined his head very calmly and said: "fair youth if that is all the boon thou hast to ask of us at this time, then thou shalt have thy will with all welcome." and he said: "kay, see to it that this youth hath his desires in these things, and that he hath lodging and clothing and food and drink for an entire year from this time." then sir kay looked very scornfully upon gareth and said: "it shall be as you will. as for thee, fellow, i will see to it that thou art fed until thou art as fat as any porker." so spake sir kay, and when young gareth heard the words his face flamed red with wrath and the veins stood out upon his forehead like cords. but he controlled his anger to calmness and anon he said: "messire, you do but hear my words, knowing nothing of the purpose that lyeth within my mind. wherefore then do you scorn me since you know naught of my purpose?" then sir kay looked upon the youth with anger and he said: "sirrah, thou speaketh very saucily to those who are thy betters. learn to bridle thy tongue or otherwise it may be very ill with thee." so spake sir kay, but gareth answered him not. otherwise he turned to the king and bowed low, as though he had not heard the speech that sir kay had uttered. then he turned and went away from the king's presence with the dwarf axatalese following close after him. [sidenote: _sir gawaine loveth gareth._] now sir gawaine sat not far distant from the king and so he had heard all that had passed. and he beheld the indignation of gareth against sir kay, and the heart of sir gawaine went out very strongly toward this haughty and beautiful youth--albeit he wist not why it was that he felt love for him, nor that gareth was his own brother. so it befell that after gareth had departed from the king's presence in that wise, sir gawaine arose and followed after him; and when he had come up with gareth he touched him upon the arm and said, "come with me, fair youth." and gareth did so. so after that sir gawaine led gareth to another place, and when they were come thither he said to him: "fair youth, i prythee tell me who you are and whence you come, and why it is that you asked such a boon as that from the king's majesty." then gareth looked upon sir gawaine and knowing that it was his brother whom he gazed upon he loved him a very great deal. ne'theless he contained his love and said: "messire, why ask you me that? see you not from the raiment i wear who i am and what is my degree? as for the boon which i asked, wit you that i asked it because i needed a roof to shelter me and meat and drink to sustain my life." then sir gawaine was astonished at the pride and haughtiness of the youth's reply, wherefore he said: "fair youth, i know not what to think; yet i well believe it was not for the sake of the food and drink and lodging that thou didst so beseech that boon of the king, for methinks that thou art very different from what thou appearest to be. now i find that my heart goeth out to thee with a very singular degree of love, wherefore i am of a mind to take thee into my favor and to have thee dwell near me at mine inn." and gareth said to his brother, "sir, thou art very good to me." [sidenote: _sir gawaine traineth gareth in knightly skill._] so it was that after that time sir gawaine took gareth into his favor and did many acts of kindness unto the youth. and so gareth dwelt nigh to sir gawaine, and sir gawaine instructed him in the use of arms. and ever sir gawaine was astonished that the youth should learn so quickly and so well the arts of chivalry and of knighthood. for sir gawaine wist not that gareth had been taught many of these things, and that others came easily to him by nature, because of the royal and knightly blood from which he had sprung. [sidenote: _sir kay scorneth gareth._] and ever in the same measure that sir gawaine bestowed his favor upon gareth, in that degree sir kay scorned him. so it came to pass that when sir kay would meet gareth he would say to whomsoever was present at that time, some such words as these: "lo! you! this is our kitchen knave who had no spirit to ask of the king's majesty any higher boon than this, that he be allowed to sup fat broth in the kitchen." so sir kay ever called gareth a kitchen knave, and so calling him he would maybe say, "sirrah, get thee upon the other side of me, for the wind bloweth toward me and thou smellest vilely of the kitchen." and because sir kay perceived that the hands of gareth were soft and very white he named the youth "beaumains," saying, "look you at this kitchen knave, how fat and white are his hands from dwelling in lazy idleness." so gareth was known as "beaumains" by all those who were of the king's court. but when sir gawaine heard this talk of sir kay he remembered him of how sir percival had been one time scorned by sir kay in such a manner as this. and sir gawaine said: "messire, let be, and torment not this youth, lest evil befall thee. remember how thou didst hold sir percival in scorn when he was a youth, and how he struck thee such a buffet that he nigh broke thy neck." then sir kay looked very sourly upon sir gawaine, and said, "this beaumains is not such as sir percival was when he was young." and sir gawaine laughed and said, "nevertheless, be thou warned in season." * * * * * so it was that gareth dwelt for a year at the king's court, eating the meat of idleness. and many laughed at him and made sport of him who would have paid him court and honor had they known who he was and what was his estate. yet ever gareth contained himself in patience, biding his time until it should have come, and making no complaint of the manner in which he was treated. and now if you would hear how young gareth won him honor and knighthood, i pray you read that which followeth, for therein are those things told of at some length. [illustration: the damsel lynette] [illustration] chapter second _how gareth set forth upon an adventure with a young damsel hight lynette; how he fought with sir kay, and how sir launcelot made him a knight. also in this it is told of several other happenings that befell gareth, called beaumains, at this time._ so passed a year as aforetold, and gareth lodged with the household of king arthur and had food and drink as much as he desired. and in all that time gareth ate his food and drank his drink at a side table, for sir kay would not permit him to sit at the same table with the lords and knights and ladies of the king's court. for sir kay would say, "this kitchen knave shall not eat at table with gentle folk but at a side table by himself," and so gareth fed at a table by himself. and ever sir kay called gareth "beaumains" in scornful jest and all the court called him "beaumains" because sir kay did so. [sidenote: _king arthur sitteth again at feast._] now at the end of that year when the feast of pentecost had come again, king arthur was holding his court at caerleon-upon-usk, and at the high feast of pentecost there sat, as usual at the king's table, the lords and the ladies of the court and all the knights of the round table who were not upon adventure that took them elsewhither. [sidenote: _a damsel appeareth before the king._] as they so sat eating and drinking there came into the hall a slender maiden of not more than sixteen years old. and the maiden was exceedingly beautiful, for her hair was as black as ebony and was like to threads of fine black silk for softness and brightness. and her eyes were as black as jet and very bright and shining, and her face was like ivory for clearness and whiteness and her lips were red like to coral for redness. she was clad all in flame-colored satin, embroidered with threads of gold and she wore a bright shining chaplet of gold about her brows so that what with her raiment of flame-color and with her embroidery and ornaments of shining gold, the maiden came up the hall like to a fiery vision of beauty, insomuch that all turned to behold her in passing, and many stood in their places that they might see her the better. [sidenote: _the damsel asketh for a champion._] thus the damsel came up the hall until she had reached to that place where king arthur sat at the head of the feast, and when she had come there she kneeled down and set her hands together as in prayer, palm to palm. and king arthur looked upon her and was pleased with her beauty, and he said, "damsel, what is it thou wouldst have of us?" the damsel said: "lord, i would have the aid of some good worthy knight of thy court who should act as champion in behalf of my sister." and the king said, "what ails thy sister?" quoth the damsel: "lord, my sister is tormented by a very evil disposed knight who maketh demand of her for wife. but my sister hateth this knight and will have naught to do with him, wherefore he sitteth ever before her castle and challengeth whomsoever cometh thitherward, and will not suffer any one to go in to the castle or come out thence without his permission. now i come hither upon my sister's behalf to seek a champion who shall liberate her from this duress." then said the king, "who is thy sister and who is this knight who tormenteth her?" to the which the damsel made reply: "i may not tell you my sister's name, for she is very proud and haughty, and is very much ashamed that she should be held in duress by that knight against her will. but as for the knight who tormenteth her, i may tell you that he is hight the red knight of the red lands." then king arthur said: "i know not any such knight as that. is there any one of you hereabouts who knoweth him?" and sir gawaine said: "lord, i know him very well, for i met him one time in battle and it was such hard ado for me to hold mine own against him that even to this day i know not rightly whether he was better than i or whether i was better than he." then king arthur said: "fair damsel, that must be a very strong and powerful knight, since sir gawaine speaketh of him in this wise. but touching this affair of thy sister, know you not that it is not likely that any knight of renown will be found to champion a lady of whose name or degree he knoweth naught? if thou wilt tell the name of thy sister and wilt declare her degree i doubt not there are many good worthy knights of this court any one of whom would gladly champion her cause." so spake the king, but the damsel only shook her head and said, "lord, i may not tell my sister's name, for i am forbidden to do so." then the king said: "that is a pity for i fear me thou wilt not easily find thee a champion in that case." and he said, "damsel, what is thy name?" and she said, "sir, it is lynette." the king said, "that is a fair name and thou art very fair of face." then the king looked about him and he said: "is there any knight in this court who will undertake this adventure in behalf of that fair lady, even though she will not declare her name and degree? if such there be, he hath my free will and consent for to do so." so spake the king, but no one immediately answered, for no one cared to take up such a quarrel against so strong a knight, not knowing for whom it was that that quarrel was to be taken up. now he whom all called beaumains was at that time sitting at his side table a little distance away, and he heard all that passed. likewise he observed how that no one arose to assume that adventure and at that he was very indignant. for he said to himself: "this damsel is very fair, and the case of her sister is a very hard case, and i wonder that no good and well-approved knight will take that adventure upon him." but still no one appeared to assume that quarrel of the unknown lady and so, at last, beaumains himself arose from where he sat, and came forward before them all to where the king was and at that time the damsel was still kneeling before the king. [sidenote: _gareth asketh his second boon._] then the king beholding beaumains standing there said, "beaumains, what is it thou wouldst have?" and beaumains said: "lord, i have now dwelt in this court for a year from the time that i first came hither. that time when i first stood before thee i besought two boons of thee and one of them thou didst grant me and the other thou didst promise to grant me. according to that first boon, i had since that time had lodging beneath thy roof and food and drink from thy table, as much as ever i desired. but now hath come the time when i would fain ask that other boon of thee." then king arthur wondered a very great deal, and he said, "speak, beaumains, and ask what thou wilt and the boon is thine." "lord," said beaumains, "this is the boon i would ask. i beseech thee that thou wilt suffer me to assume this adventure upon behalf of that lady who will not tell her name." now when they of the court who sat near to the king heard what boon it was that the kitchen knave, beaumains, besought of the king, a great deal of laughter arose upon all sides, for it seemed to all to be a very good jest that beaumains should assume such an undertaking as that, which no knight of the court chose to undertake. only king arthur did not laugh. otherwise he spake with great dignity saying: "beaumains, methinks thou knowest not what boon it is thou hast asked. ne'theless, be the peril thine. for since thou hast asked that boon, and since i have passed my promise, i cannot refrain from granting that which thou hast besought of me." then sir kay came forward and he spake to the damsel, saying, "fair damsel, know you who this fellow is who asketh to be appointed champion for to defend your lady sister?" and lynette said, "nay, i know not; but i pray you tell me who he is." "i will do so," quoth sir kay. "wit you that this fellow is a kitchen knave who came hither a year ago and besought as a royal boon from the king that he should have meat and drink and lodging. since then he hath been well fed every day at a table i have set aside for him. so he hath grown fat and proud and high of spirit and thinketh himself haply to be a champion worthy to undertake such an adventure as that which he hath besought leave to assume." [sidenote: _the damsel lynette is angry._] so said sir kay, and when the damsel lynette heard his words her face flamed all as red as fire and she turned to king arthur and said: "my lord king, what shame and indignity is this that you would put upon me and my sister? i came hither beseeching you for a champion to defend my sister against her oppressor and instead of a champion you give me a kitchen knave for that service." "lady," quoth king arthur very calmly, "this beaumains hath besought a boon of me and i have promised him that favor. accordingly, i must needs fulfil my promise to him. but this i tell thee, that i believe him to be very different from what he appeareth to be; and i tell thee that if he faileth in this adventure which he hath assumed, then will i give thee another champion that shall haply be more to thy liking than he." but lynette was very exceedingly wroth and she would not be appeased by the king's words; yet she dared say no word of her indignation to the king's majesty. accordingly she turned and went away from that place very haughtily, looking neither to the one side nor to the other, but gazing straight before her as she went out from that hall. then after she was gone sir gawaine came and stood before the king and said: "messire and lord, i have faith that greater things shall come of this adventure than any one hereabouts supposeth it possible to happen. for beaumains is no such kitchen knave as sir kay proclaimeth him to be, but something very different from that, as sir kay himself shall mayhap discover some day. for a year this beaumains hath dwelt nigh me and i have seen him do much that ye know not of. now i pray you, lord, to suffer me to purvey him with armor fit for this undertaking and i believe he will some time bring honor both to you and to me--to you because you granted him this boon, to me because i provided him with armor." then king arthur said to sir gawaine, "messire, let it be as you say." [sidenote: _sir gawaine armeth beaumains._] so sir gawaine took beaumains away with him to his own lodging-place and here he provided the youth with armor. and he provided him with a shield and a sword and a good stout spear. and he provided him with a fine horse, such as a knight who was to go errant might well care to ride upon. then when beaumains was provided in all this way, sir gawaine wished him god-speed and beaumains took horse and departed after the maiden lynette. and axatalese the dwarf rode with beaumains upon a gray mule, as his esquire. now by the time all this had been accomplished--to wit, the arming and horsing of beaumains--lynette had gone so far upon her way that beaumains and axatalese were compelled to ride for two leagues and more at a very fast pace ere they could overtake her. [sidenote: _lynette scorneth beaumains._] and when they did overtake her she was more angry than ever to behold that misshapen dwarf accompanying the kitchen knave who was her appointed champion. wherefore when beaumains had come nigh to her, she cried out, "sirrah, art thou beaumains, the kitchen knave?" and gareth said, "aye, i am he whom they call beaumains." then she cried out upon him, "return thee whence thou hast come for i will have none of thee!" to this angry address beaumains replied, speaking very mildly and with great dignity: "lady, the king hath appointed me to ride with you upon this adventure, wherefore, with you, i must now do as i have been commanded. for having embarked in this affair, i must needs give my service to you, even if you should order me to do otherwise." "well," quoth she, "if you will not do as i bid you, then i tell you this; that i will straightway take a path that will lead you into such dangers as you have no thought of, and from which you will be not at all likely to escape with your life." to this beaumains replied, speaking still very calmly and with great courtesy: "lady, that shall be altogether as you ordain. and i venture to say to you that no matter into what dangers you may bring me, still i have great hope that i shall bring you out thence with safety and so be of service to you and your lady sister. wherefore, whithersoever you lead, thither will i follow you." then lynette was still more angry that beaumains should be so calm and courteous to her who was so angry and uncourteous to him, wherefore she hardened her heart toward him and said: "sirrah, since i cannot rid me of you, i bid you ride upon the other side of the way, for methinks you smell very strongly of the kitchen in which you have dwelt." to these words beaumains bowed his head with great dignity and said, "lady, it shall be as you command." and therewith he drew rein to the other side of the highway to that upon which she rode. then lynette laughed, and she said: "ride a little farther behind me, for still methinks i smell the savor of the kitchen." and beaumains did as she commanded and withdrew him still farther away from her. * * * * * [sidenote: _sir kay followeth beaumains._] now some while after beaumains had ridden after lynette as aforetold, sir kay said to certain of those who were nigh him: "i am of a mind to ride after our kitchen knave and to have a fall of him, for it would be a very good thing to teach him such a lesson as he needs." so according to that saying, sir kay went to his inn and donned his armor. and he chose him a good stout spear and he took horse and rode away after beaumains with intent to do as he had said. so he rode at a good pace and for a long time and by and by he beheld lynette and beaumains and the dwarf where they rode along the highway at some distance before him. then sir kay called out in a great voice, saying: "stay, beaumains, turn thou thitherward. for i am come to overthrow thee and to take that damsel away from thee." then lynette turned her head and beheld sir kay where he came, and with that she pointed and said: "look, thou kitchen knave, yonder cometh a right knight in pursuit of thee. now haply thou hadst best flee away ere harm befall thee." but to this address beaumains paid no heed, otherwise he turned about his horse and straightway put himself into array for defence. and as sir kay drew nigh, beaumains beheld the device upon his shield and knew who was the knight who came thitherward and that it was sir kay who followed after him and called upon him to stay. then beaumains remembered him of all the many affronts that sir kay had put upon him for all that year past and with that his anger grew very hot within him. and he said to himself: "this is well met; for now my time hath come. for either this is the day of satisfaction for me or else it is the day in which i shall lay my dead body down beside the highroad." meantime sir kay had come nigh, and finding that beaumains had prepared himself, he also made himself straightway ready for battle. then lynette drew her palfrey to one side of the way and to a place whence she might behold all that befell. [sidenote: _sir kay doeth battle with beaumains._] so when beaumains and sir kay were in all ways prepared, each gave shout and drave forward very violently to the assault. and they met in the midst of that course and in that encounter the spear of sir kay held and the spear of beaumains, because it was not very well directed, was broken into several pieces, so that he would have fallen only for the address of horsemanship that sir gawaine had taught him in the year that had passed. but when lynette beheld how that the spear of beaumains was broken in that wise, and how that he was nearly cast out of the saddle in that encounter, she laughed very high and shrill. and she cried out in a loud voice: "hah! thou kitchen knave, if thou showest not better address than that, thou wilt not be likely to succeed in this adventure that thou hast undertaken." now beaumains heard the high laughter of lynette and the words that she called out to him and with that he was more angry than ever. so therewith he ground his teeth together, and, casting aside the stump of his spear which he still held in his hand, he drew his sword and made at sir kay with all his might and main. and he put aside sir kay's defence with great violence, and having done so he rose up in his stirrups and lashed a blow at sir kay that fell upon his helm like to a bolt of lightning. for in that one blow beaumains lashed forth all his rage and the indignation of a whole year of the scorn of sir kay. and he launched forth all the anger that he felt against the damsel lynette who had also scorned him. [sidenote: _beaumains smiteth down sir kay._] so fierce and terrible was that blow he struck that i misdoubt that any knight in all the world could have stood against it, far less could sir kay stand against it. for straightway upon receiving that stroke the senses of sir kay scattered all abroad and darkness fell roaring upon his sight and he fell down from off his horse and lay there upon the ground as though he was dead. then beaumains stood above him smiling very grimly. and he said, "well, sir kay, how like you that blow from the hands of the kitchen knave?" but sir kay answered him not one word as you may suppose. therewith, having so spoken, beaumains dismounted from his horse and he called the dwarf axatalese to him and he said: "axatalese, dismount from thy mule and tie it to yonder bush and take thou the horse of this knight and mount upon it instead." and axatalese did as his master commanded. and beaumains said to sir kay when he still lay in his swoon, "sir knight, i will borrow of you your spear, since i now have none of mine own," and therewith he took the spear of sir kay into his hand. and he took the shield of sir kay and hung it upon the pommel of the saddle of the horse of sir kay that he had given to axatalese, and after that he mounted his own horse and rode away from that place, leaving sir kay lying where he was in the middle of the way. and lynette also rode away and ever beaumains followed her in silence. so they rode for a while and then at last and by and by the damsel fell alaughing in great measure. and she turned her to beaumains, and said, "sirrah, thou kitchen knave, dost thou take pride to thyself?" and beaumains said, "nay, lady." she said: "see that thou takest no pride, for thou didst but overcome that knight by the force of thy youth and strength, whilst he broke thy spear and wellnigh cast thee out of thy saddle because of his greater skill." then beaumains bowed his head and said, "lady, that may very well be." at that lynette laughed again, and she said, "sirrah, thou art forgetting thyself and thou ridest too near to me. now i bid thee ride farther away so that i may not smell the savor of the kitchen," and beaumains said, "as you command, so it shall be," and therewith he drew rein to a little greater distance. * * * * * and here it may be told of sir kay that some while after beaumains had gone he bestirred himself and arose and looked about him, and for some while he knew not what had befallen him nor where he was. then anon he remembered and he wist that he had suffered great shame and humiliation at the hands of beaumains the kitchen knave. and he saw that in that encounter he had lost his shield and his spear and his horse and that naught was left for him to ride upon saving only that poor gray mule upon which the dwarf of beaumains had been riding. [sidenote: _sir kay returneth to court, ashamed._] then sir kay wist not what to do, but there was naught else left for him but to mount that mule and ride back again whence he had come. so he did and when he reached the king's court there was such laughing and jesting concerning his adventure that he scarce dared to lift his voice in speech or to raise his face in the court for a week from that time. but sir gawaine made no speech nor jest of the mishap that sir kay had suffered, only he smiled very grimly and said, "sir, you would have done well to have hearkened to what i said to you," and sir kay, though at most times he had bitter speech enough and to spare, had naught whatever to say to sir gawaine in reply. * * * * * and now we turn again to beaumains and lynette as they rode onward upon their way as aforetold. [sidenote: _they behold a white knight._] for after that last speech of lynette's, they went onward in silence, and ever lynette looked this way and that as though she wist not that any such man as beaumains was within the space of a league of that place. so travelling they came, toward the sloping of the afternoon, to a place nigh to the edge of a woodland where was a smooth and level space of grass surrounded on all sides but one by the trees of the forest. here they beheld a knight who was just come out of the forest, and he was clad all in white armor and he rode upon a white horse. and the sun was shining so far aslant at that time that the light thereof was very red, like to pure gold. and the beams of the sun fell upon the skirts of the forest so that all the thick foliage of the woodland was entirely bathed in that golden light. and the same light flashed upon the polished armor of the knight and shone here and there very gloriously as though several stars of singular radiance had fallen from heaven and had catched upon that lonely knight-rider, who drew rein at their approach and so sat watching their coming. then lynette turned to beaumains and she said: "sir kitchen knave, look you! yonder is a right knight with whom you may hardly hope to have ado. now turn you about and get you gone while there is yet time, otherwise you may suffer harm at his hands." to this beaumains made no reply; otherwise, he rode forward very calmly and when he had come pretty nigh he bespoke that single knight in a loud clear voice, saying, "sir knight, i pray you do me battle." at this address that knight aforesaid was very much astonished, and he said: "sir, what offence have i done to you that you should claim battle of me in so curt a fashion? gladly will i give you your will, but wit you not that all courtesy is due from one knight to another upon such an occasion?" to this beaumains made no reply, but turning his horse about he rode to a little distance and there made him ready for the encounter that was about to befall. for at that time his heart was so full of anger at the scorn of lynette that he could not trust himself with speech, and indeed i verily believe that he knew not very well where he was or what he did. meantime the white knight had also put himself into array for battle and when all was prepared they immediately launched the one against the other with such violence that the ground trembled and shook beneath their charge. so they met with great crashing and uproar in the midst of the course and in that meeting the spear of beaumains was broken into a great many pieces and he himself was cast out of his saddle and down to the ground with such violence that he was for a little while altogether stunned by the force of his fall. then lynette laughed so high and so shrill that beaumains heard her even in the midst of his swoon, and with that his spirit came back to him again and straightway he leaped up to his feet and drew his sword. and he cried out to the white knight: "sir knight, come down from off thy horse and do battle with me afoot, for never will i be satisfied with this mischance that i have suffered." then the white knight said: "messire, how is this? i have no such cause of battle with you as that." but all the more beaumains cried out with great vehemence, "descend, sir knight, descend and fight me afoot." "well," quoth the white knight, "since you will have it so, so it shall be." [sidenote: _beaumains doeth battle with the white knight._] thereupon he voided his horse and drew his sword and straightway setting his shield before him, he came forward to the assault of beaumains. then immediately they met together, each lashing very fiercely at the other, and so that battle began. and so it continued, each foining and tracing this way and that like two wild bulls at battle, but ever lashing stroke upon stroke at one another. soon the armor of each was stained in places with red, for each had suffered some wound or hurt at this place or at that. yet ever beaumains fought with might and main, for he was so strengthened by his passion of rage that rather would he have died than yield in that battle. so they fought with astounding fierceness for a considerable while, and then, at last, the white knight called out, "sir, i pray you stay this battle for a little," and with that beaumains ceased his lashing and stood leaning upon his sword, panting for breath. and the white champion also leaned upon his sword and panted, and anon he said, "sir, i pray you tell me your name. for i make my vow to you that never have i met any knight who hath fought a greater battle than you have fought this day--and yet i may tell you that i have fought with a great many of the very best knights of this realm." "messire," quoth beaumains, "i may not declare my name at this present, for there are several good reasons why i will not do so. but though i may not do as you demand of me, nevertheless i beseech you that you will extend that favor unto me and will declare to me your name and your degree." "well," said the white knight, "never yet have i refused that courtesy to any one who hath asked it of me. wit ye then that i am called sir launcelot of the lake." [sidenote: _beaumains knoweth sir launcelot._] now when beaumains heard this that the white knight said and when he wist that it was none other than sir launcelot against whom he had been fighting for that while, he was filled with great wonder and astonishment and a sort of fear. so straightway he flung aside his sword and he kneeled down before sir launcelot and set his palms together. and he said: "messire, what have i done, to do battle against you? rather would i have done battle against mine own brother than against you. know you that you are the man of all others whom i most revere and admire. now i pray you, messire, if i have done well in your sight in this battle which i have fought, that you grant me a boon that i have to ask of you and of no other man." quoth sir launcelot: "what boon is it thou wouldst have? ask it and if it is meet that i grant it to thee, then assuredly it shall be thine. as for that battle which thou hast done, let me tell thee of a truth that i believe that i have never before met a stronger or a more worthy champion than thou art. so now i prithee ask thy boon that i may have the pleasure of granting it to thee." then beaumains said: "sir, it is this. wit you that i am not yet made knight, but am no more than a bachelor at arms. so if you think that i am not unworthy of that honor, i pray you make me a knight at this present and with your own hand." "sir," said sir launcelot, "that may not be until i know thy name and of what degree and worthiness thou art. for it is not allowed for a knight to make a knight of another man until first he is well assured of that other's degree and estate, no matter what deed of arms that other may have done. but if thou wilt tell me thy name and thy degree, then i doubt not that i shall be rejoiced to make a knight of thee." unto this beaumains said, "sir, i will tell you my name and degree if so be i may whisper it in your ear." and sir launcelot said, "tell it to me as you list and in such manner as may be pleasing to you." so beaumains set his lips to sir launcelot's ear and he told him his name and his degree. and he told sir launcelot many things that had befallen him of late, and sir launcelot was astonished beyond measure at all that he heard. then when beaumains had told all these several things, sir launcelot said: "messire, i wonder no more that you should have done so great battle as you did against me, seeing what blood you have in your veins and of what royal race you are sprung. gladly will i make you knight, for i believe in time you will surpass even your own brothers in glory of knighthood, wherefore i shall have great credit in having made you a knight." [sidenote: _sir launcelot maketh sir gareth a knight._] therewith sir launcelot took his sword in his hand, and beaumains kneeled. and sir launcelot laid the blade thereof upon the shoulder of beaumains and so made him knight by accolade. and he said, "rise, sir gareth!" and sir gareth arose and stood upon his feet, and his heart was so expanded with joy that it appeared to him that he had the strength of ten men rather than one man in his single body. now the damsel lynette had been observing all this from afar, and from that distance she could hear naught of what one champion said to the other, and she beheld what they did with very great wonderment and perplexity. anon came sir launcelot and sir gareth to where she was, and when they were come near she said to sir launcelot, "know you, messire, who is this with whom you walk?" and sir launcelot said, "yea, damsel, methinks i should know him." lynette said: "i believe that you do not know him, for i am well assured that he is a kitchen knave of king arthur's court. he hath followed me hither against my will, clad in armor which i believe he hath no entitlement to wear, and i cannot drive him from me." then sir launcelot laughed and he said: "damsel, you know not what you say. peace! be still, or else you will bring shame upon yourself." then lynette regarded sir launcelot for a while very seriously and anon she said, "messire, i pray you tell me who you are who take me thus to task." and at that sir launcelot laughed again and said: "damsel, i will not tell you my name, but mayhap if you ask my name of this worthy gentleman who is with you, he will tell you what it is." [sidenote: _sir launcelot leaveth sir gareth._] then sir launcelot turned him to sir gareth and he said: "friend, here i must leave you, for i have business that taketh me in another direction. so god save you and fare you well until we shall meet again. and if you will keep upon yonder path and follow it, it will bring you by and by to a fair priory of the forest, and there you and your damsel may have lodging for the night." thereupon sir launcelot bowed in courtesy both to sir gareth and to the damsel lynette and so took his departure, wending his way whither he was minded to go and so in a little was lost to sight. then lynette and sir gareth and the dwarf also went their way, taking that path that led to the priory of which sir launcelot had spoken; and there they found lodgment for the night--the damsel at one place, sir gareth at another. * * * * * and now if you would hear more concerning sir gareth and lynette and of what befell them, i pray you read further, for these things shall there be duly set forth for your entertainment. [illustration: sir gareth doeth battle with the knight of the river ford.] [illustration] chapter third _how sir gareth and lynette travelled farther upon their way; how sir gareth won the pass of the river against two strong knights, and how he overcame the black knight of the black lands. also how he saved a good worthy knight from six thieves who held him in duress._ now when the next morning had come, all bright and dewy and very clear like to crystal, lynette arose and departed from that forest priory where she had lodged over-night, giving no news to sir gareth of her going. and at that time the birds were singing everywhere with might and main. everywhere the may was abloom, the apple orchards were fragrant with blossoms, and field and meadow-land were spread thick with a variegated carpet of pretty wild flowers of divers colors, very fair to see. so lynette rode alone, all through the dewy morn, amid these fair meadow-lands and orchards belonging to the priory, making her way toward the dark and shady belt of forest that surrounded those smooth and verdant fields upon all sides. and ever she gazed behind her very slyly, but beheld no one immediately following after her. for it was some while ere sir gareth arose from his couch to find the damsel gone. and when he did arise he was vexed beyond measure that she had departed. so he donned his armor in all haste and as soon as might be he followed hard after her, galloping his horse very violently through those fair and blooming meadows aforesaid, with the dwarf axatalese following fast after him upon sir kay's war-horse. [sidenote: _sir gareth followeth lynette again._] so sir gareth made all speed, and by and by he perceived the damsel where she was, and at that time she was just entering into the forest shades. so he drove forward still more rapidly and anon he came up with her and thereupon he saluted and said, "save you, lady!" upon that salutation lynette looked about, as though in surprise, and said, "hah, thou kitchen knave, art thou there?" and sir gareth said, "yea, lady." and lynette said: "methought thou hadst enough of adventure yestereve when that same white knight rolled thee down into the dust and beat thee in a fair fight afterward." sir gareth said, "lady, thou speakest bitter words to me!" and lynette laughed, and she said: "well, sir knave, it seems that i cannot speak words that are so bitter as to prevent thee from following after me for i see that i am not to be free from thee in spite of my will to that end." and then she said: "now i bid thee to ride a little farther away from me, for even yet thou savorest very strongly of the kitchen, and the savor thereof spoileth the fair savor of the morning." so spake lynette, and thereupon sir gareth drew rein a little farther, and so followed after her some distance away as he had done the day before. [sidenote: _lynette telleth sir gareth of the robber knights._] after that they went a considerable ways in silence, and then by and by lynette turned her head toward sir gareth and spake, saying: "sirrah, knowest thou whither this path upon which we travel will lead us?" and sir gareth said, "nay, lady, i know not." "alas for thee," quoth lynette, "for i am to tell thee that this path leadeth toward a certain ford of a river, which same ford is guarded by two strong and powerful knights who are brothers. of these two knights i heard yesternight at the priory that they are very savage robbers, and that, of those who would pass the ford of the river, some they slay and others they rob or else make captive for the sake of ransom. now i am making my way toward that place where are these two knights in the belief that they may rid me of thee. so be thou advised whilst there is yet time; withdraw thee from this adventure and return whither thou hast come, or else, mayhap, a very great deal of harm may befall thee." "lady," quoth sir gareth, "were there twenty knights instead of two at that ford and were each of those twenty ten times as strong as either of the two are likely to be, yet would i follow after thee to the end of this adventure. mayhap it may be my good fortune to rid the world of these two evil knights." then lynette lifted up her eyes toward heaven. "alas," quoth she, "i see that never will i be rid of this kitchen knave until all the pride is beaten out of his body." and after that they rode their way without saying anything more at that time. anon, and when the sun had risen pretty high toward the middle of the morning, they came out of the forest and into a fair open plain of considerable extent. here sir gareth perceived that there was a smooth wide river that flowed down through the midst of the plain. and he perceived that the road ran toward the river and crossed it by a shallow gravelly ford. and he perceived that upon the other side of the river was a tall, grim, and very forbidding castle that stood on high and overlooked the ford, and so he wist that this must be the ford guarded by those two knights of whom lynette had spoken. so as they drew nearer to the ford, sir gareth beheld a pillar of stone beside the way, and he saw that a great bugle horn of brass was chained fast to this pillar. then lynette pointed to the bugle horn and she said: "sir kitchen knave, seest thou yon bugle horn? thou had best not blow upon that horn for if thou dost thou will arouse those two knights who guard this ford and they will come forth from the castle and it will certes fare very ill with thee." [sidenote: _sir gareth challengeth the robber knights._] then sir gareth said, "say you so, lady?" therewith he went straight to where the horn hung by its chain, and he seized it in both hands and blew upon it so violently that it was as though the brazen horn would be burst with his blowing. for the sound thereof flew far and wide, and came echoing back from the distant walls of the castle as though the trump of doom had been sounded in those parts. therewith, and after a little while, the portcullis of the castle was uplifted and the drawbridge let fall and there issued forth two knights very large and stout of frame and very forbidding of appearance. these two knights rode down toward the ford and when they had come nigh to it he who was the bigger of the two drave down to the edge of the water and called across to sir gareth, "who are you who dareth to blow so loudly upon our bugle horn?" and to him sir gareth replied: "sir, i blew upon that horn to let you know that i was here and that i come with intent to rid the world of you, if so be god shall be with me in mine endeavor." at that the knight upon the other bank was so enraged that he cast aside his spear and drew his sword and drave straightway into the waters of the ford, splashing with a noise like to thunder. and sir gareth also cast aside his spear and drew his sword and drave into the ford with great violence. [sidenote: _sir gareth overthroweth the knight of the ford._] so they met in the midst of the river and the knight of the ford lashed at sir gareth a most terrible and vehement blow, which stroke sir gareth put aside with great skill so that it harmed him not. then sir gareth upon his part lifted himself on high and lashed at the knight so woful and terrible a blow that his horse tottered under the stroke and the knight himself catched at the pommel of his saddle to save himself from falling. then sir gareth lashed at him another stroke and with that the knight swooned away into darkness and fell out of his saddle and into the water. and the river where he fell was very deep so that when he sank beneath the water he did not rise again, although sir gareth waited some while for him to do so. [sidenote: _sir gareth overthroweth the second knight._] then sir gareth, perceiving how that he had finished this enemy, drave his horse very violently across the ford, and to the farther bank, and the knight who was there upon that side of the river drave down against sir gareth with his spear in rest with intent to thrust him through the body. but sir gareth was aware of his coming and so when the knight of the river was immediately upon him, he put aside the point of the spear with his shield with great skill and address. then he rode up the length of the spear and when he had come nigh enough he rose up in his stirrup and lashed at the knight of the river so dreadful deadly a blow that nor shield nor helm could withstand that stroke. for the sword of sir gareth clave through the shield of the knight, and it clave through the helm and deep into his brain-pan. and with that the knight of the river fell headlong from his saddle and lay upon the ground without life or motion wherewith to rise again. then sir gareth leaped very nimbly out of his saddle and ran to him to finish the work that he had begun. and sir gareth plucked away the helm of the knight and looked into his face and therewith beheld that his work was very well done, for already that fallen knight was in the act of yielding up the ghost. then sir gareth wiped his sword and drave it back again into its sheath; and he remounted his horse and rode very quietly back to where the damsel waited for him upon the farther bank. and the damsel looked at sir gareth very strangely but sir gareth regarded her not at all. so sir gareth brought lynette safely across the ford and afterward they rode on their way as they had aforetime done--the damsel in the lead and sir gareth and axatalese following after at a distance. [sidenote: _lynette mocketh at sir gareth._] so after they had ridden a long while the damsel turned her about in the saddle and looked at sir gareth and she said, "hah, beaumains, dost thou take pride in what thou hast done?" and sir gareth said, "nay, lady; god forbid that i should take pride in any such thing as that." quoth lynette: "i am glad that thou dost not take pride in it; for i beheld thy battle from afar and i saw how fortune favored thee. for the first of those two knights, his horse stumbled in the river and so he fell into the water and was drowned; and thou didst strike the second knight with thy sword ere he was well prepared for his defence and so thou wert able to slay him." "lady," quoth sir gareth very calmly, "that which thou sayest doth not in anywise change the circumstances of what i did. for now my work is done and so i leave it to god his mercy to judge whether i did that thing well or whether i did it ill." "hah," said lynette, "meseemeth you speak very saucily for a kitchen knave." and sir gareth said, still speaking very calmly, "think you so, lady?" and lynette said, "yea," and she said, "i see that thou still ever forgettest my commands, for thou art riding so nigh to me that methinks i smell the kitchen. now i prythee draw a little farther away." and sir gareth said, "damsel, it shall be as you command." and therewith he drew rein so as to ride at a little greater distance, and lynette laughed to see him do so. now some little while about the prime of the day they came to a certain grassy place of considerable extent, and at that place was a black hawthorn bush, very aged and gnarled and full of thorns that stood alone beside the highroad, and as they drew nigh to it they perceived that there was hung upon the thorn bush a great black shield bearing the device of the red gryphon, and they saw that a great black spear, bearing a black pennon with the device of a red gryphon leaned beside the shield. and they beheld that near by the bush was a noble black horse with trappings and housings all of black, and the horse cropped the grass that grew at that place. [sidenote: _they behold the black knight at his meal._] all this they beheld, and as they came still nearer they perceived that upon the other side of the hawthorn bush there was a knight clad all in black armor, and they saw that the knight sat beside a great flat stone and ate his midday meal that lay spread out upon the stone. and the knight was unaware of their coming but ever ate with great appetite of the food that was spread before him. then lynette drew rein while they were yet at some distance and she laughed and pointed toward the hawthorn bush, behind which sat the knight, and she said: "sir kitchen knave, look you yonder and behold that knight. seest thou the device upon his shield? i know that device very well and so i may tell thee that that knight is hight sir perard and that he is brother of sir percevant of hind, and that he is a very strong, worthy, noble knight and one of great renown in deeds of arms. this is a very different sort of knight from those thou didst overcome at the ford of the river, wherefore be thou advised by me and turn thee about and get thee gone ere yonder knight seest thee, or else harm will certainly befall thee." quoth sir gareth: "damsel, having followed you so far and through several dangers it is not very likely that i shall turn back at this, even if there be as much peril in it as you say." "very well," said lynette, "then if ill befall thee thou art to blame thyself therefor and not blame me." therewith speaking, she tightened the rein of her palfrey and so rode forward toward that hawthorn bush aforesaid. now when they had come a little more close to that place, the black knight, sir perard, was aware of their coming and looked up and beheld them. then, seeing that it was an armed knight and a damsel that were coming thitherward, sir perard arose very slowly and with great dignity and set his helm upon his head, and so he made him ready for whatsoever might befall. then when he had so prepared himself he came out into the road for to meet them. then when sir gareth and the damsel were come pretty nigh, sir perard bespake sir gareth, saying: "sir knight, i pray you of your courtesy for to tell me who you are and whither you go?" quoth sir gareth: "i may not tell you who i am, but ask you this damsel and she will tell you." then sir perard was greatly surprised at that reply and he said, "is this a jest?" and he said: "damsel, since i am directed to you, i pray of you tell to me the name and the degree of this knight." upon this lynette fell alaughing in great measure and she said: "messire, since you ask me that thing, i have to tell you that this fellow is a certain kitchen knave, hight beaumains, who hath followed me hither from the court of king arthur, and i have to tell you further that many times i have bid him begone and leave me, but he will not do so, but continually followeth after me." "fair damsel," quoth the black knight, speaking with great dignity, "you are pleased to jest with me, for this is no kitchen knave i trow but a very good worshipful knight of whom you are pleased to say such things." then sir gareth spake very sternly, saying, "messire, i will not have you or any man gainsay what this lady sayeth." and the black knight, still speaking with great dignity, said: "how may i do otherwise than gainsay her, seeing that you wear armor that is indented with the marks of battle? for who ever heard of a kitchen knave wearing such armor?" "ne'theless," quoth sir gareth, "either you must acknowledge what this lady sayeth of me, or else you must do battle with me so that i may defend what she sayeth." "sir," said the black knight, "in that case i will do battle with you, for i cannot accept the saying of this lady." [sidenote: _sir gareth doeth battle with the black knight._] so therewith sir perard took down his shield from off the blackthorn bush and he took his spear into his hand and whistled his horse to him. and he mounted his horse and made him in all ways ready for battle. meanwhile sir gareth waited very composedly and with great calmness of bearing until the other was in all wise prepared. then sir perard said, "i am ready, messire." and therewith each knight drew rein and withdrew to such a distance as was fitting for a course to an assault. then when this was accomplished, each knight shouted to his steed and each charged forward against the other with a terrible speed and violence. so they met in the midst of the course with a crash that might have been heard for two furlongs. in that meeting the spear of each knight was broken into many pieces, even to the hand that held it, and the horse of each staggered back and would haply have fallen had not the knight rider brought him to foot again with shout and prick of spur and with great address of horsemanship. then each knight voided his horse and each drew his sword and therewith rushed to an assault at arms. and each smote the other again and again and yet again, lashing such blows that it sounded as though several blacksmiths were smiting amain upon their anvils, and for a while neither knight had any advantage over the other, but each fought for that time a well-matched battle. then of a sudden lynette cried out very shrilly: "sir perard! sir perard! noble, worthy knight! wilt thou suffer a kitchen knave to have his will of thee?" so she cried out very loud and shrill and sir gareth heard the words she uttered. then a great anger came upon him so that he was uplifted by it, as though the strength of several had entered into his body. so straightway he redoubled his battle to twice what it had been before, giving stroke upon stroke, so that the black knight was forced to bear back before the fierceness and violence of his assault. then sir gareth perceived that sir perard began to weary a very great deal in that fight and to bear his defences full low, and therewith he redoubled his blows and smote sir perard upon the helm so fiercely that his brains swam like water and his head hung low upon his breast. then, perceiving how that sir perard fainted, sir gareth ran to him and catched him by the helm and dragged him down upon his knees, and he rushed off the helm of sir perard, and catched him by the hair and dragged down his neck so that he might have slain him had he chosen to do so. then sir perard, perceiving how near death was to him, catched sir gareth about the knees, and cried out on high, "messire, spare my life, for so thou hast it at thy mercy." quoth sir gareth, "sir knight, i will not spare thy life unless this lady beseech it of me." then lynette cried out: "fie upon thee, thou saucy varlet! who art thou that i should ask a favor of thee?" [sidenote: _lynette asketh the life of the black knight._] then sir perard cried out, "fair lady, i beseech thee that thou beg my life at the hands of this knight," and thereupon lynette said: "fie upon it that it must needs be so. but indeed i cannot suffer so worshipful a knight as thou art, sir perard, to be slain by the hand of a kitchen knave. so, sirrah beaumains, i bid thee stay thy hand and spare this knight his life." upon this speech, sir gareth released his hold upon sir perard and said, "arise, sir knight, for i will spare thy life upon this lady's behest." and therewith sir perard arose and stood upon his feet. and sir perard said: "sir, thou hast conquered me in fair battle and for that reason i have yielded me to thee. now, i prythee tell me, hast thou any commands that thou wouldst lay upon me?" quoth sir gareth: "yea, messire, i have a command to lay upon you and this is that command: it is that you straightway go to the court of king arthur and pay your duty unto him. and you are to say unto king arthur that beaumains, the kitchen knave, hath sent you unto him. and i pray you give him news of me and tell him it fareth well with me." and sir perard said, "messire, it shall be done according to your bidding." and sir gareth said, "see that it is so." now in all these things that sir gareth did and said he ever bore himself with such dignity and haughtiness that a knight of ten years' standing would not have acted with more dignity than he. and after he had settled those affairs in that wise, he turned to lynette and addressed himself to her, saying, "lady, if so be thou art now ready to depart i am ready to accompany thee," and with that the damsel took her departure and sir gareth and axatalese followed after her. so they left that place of battle and soon after they had gone sir perard departed upon his way to the court of king arthur as he had been commanded to do by sir gareth as aforesaid. now after lynette and sir gareth had ridden some while in silence, lynette turned her face and looked upon sir gareth. and she said, "sir kitchen knave, i would i knew who thou really art." to the which sir gareth answered very calmly, "thou hast declared several times who i am and that i am a kitchen knave from king arthur's court." then lynette laughed and she said, "true, i had nigh forgot." and she said, "ride not so near to me for still, i believe, thou savorest of the kitchen." and thereupon sir gareth withdrew to that same distance he had assumed before. [sidenote: _they behold one fleeing from the forest._] now somewhile toward the approach of eventide, sir gareth and lynette and axatalese came away from that part of the country and to where the forest began again. and it befell that as they approached the forest they beheld of a sudden one who came spurring out of the woodlands riding upon a white horse, driving very furiously and at full speed. this rider when he was come nigh suddenly drew rein, and flinging himself from the saddle he ran to sir gareth and catched him by the stirrup, crying out: "sir knight! sir knight! i crave you of your worship that you will lend your aid in a case of woful need!" then sir gareth beheld that this one who had come to him in this wise was an esquire, clad in green and yellow and that he was one of good appearance and of quality. and sir gareth said: "fair friend, i prythee tell me what service it is that thou wouldst have of me?" "sir," cried that esquire, "my master, who is a knight of these marches, is beset within the forest yonder by several thieves and i fear they will slay him unless help cometh to him in short order." sir gareth said, "where is your master?" and the esquire said, "follow me and i will bring you to him." [sidenote: _sir gareth driveth to rescue the wounded knight._] so the esquire mounted his horse again and drave away with all speed and sir gareth set spurs to his horse and also drave away at speed, and lynette and the dwarf followed with speed after sir gareth. so anon they entered the forest and coursed therethrough for a little ways and then sir gareth perceived where at a short distance there was a knight set with his back against a tree defending himself against six great and brawny villains clad in full armor. and sir gareth beheld that there were three other villains who lay dead upon the ground, but that the knight was in a sorry case, bleeding from several wounds and very weary with his battle. thereupon, beholding this, sir gareth drew his sword and cried out in a very loud voice: "have at ye, villains! have at ye!" and therewith drave into the midst of that contest. and the thieves were astonished at the violence of his coming so that they knew not what to do, for sir gareth drave into their midst without let or pause of any sort. and ere they recovered from their astonishment, sir gareth struck one of the villains to the earth at a single blow and then he smote down another. and a third would have defended himself, but sir gareth rose up in his stirrups and he smote him so full and terrible a buffet that he clave through his morion and through his head to the very teeth of his head. [sidenote: _sir gareth slayeth the thieves._] then beholding that dreadful terrible blow that sir gareth had struck their companion, the other three villains were adread for their lives, and fled shrieking away into the forest. but sir gareth would not let them escape but charged after them with great fury. and the three thieves found that they could not escape, and that there was naught else for them to do but to turn and stand at bay and so they did. but sir gareth would not be stayed by this, but he drave straightway into their midst and struck upon this side and upon that, so that maugre their defence all three of those villains were presently stretched, all bathed in their blood, upon the ground. then sir gareth rode back again, wiping his sword very calmly ere he put it back into its sheath. so anon he came to where was that knight whom he had saved and at that time lynette and axatalese and the esquire were lending such aid to the wounded man as his case demanded. but when that knight beheld sir gareth returning from his battle, he broke away from the others and came to sir gareth and embraced him about the knee and said, "messire, you have certes saved my life." and he said: "i pray you tell me what great and worshipful knight you are who doeth such wonderful battle as i beheld. never would i have supposed it possible that any single knight could have overthrown six armed men with such ease as i have beheld you do this day." [sidenote: _lynette mocketh sir gareth._] now lynette was standing by at that time and her eyes were wonderfully bright and shining and she looked very strangely upon sir gareth. then hearing what that knight said whom sir gareth had rescued she burst out laughing very shrilly and piercingly and she cried out, "sir knight, wit you who this is who hath saved your life?" the knight said, "nay, damsel, i know not." she said: "wit you then that this is a kitchen knave of king arthur's court hight beaumains, so hight because of the whiteness of his hands. he hath followed me hither against my will, and i cannot drive him from me." then that knight was very much astonished and he said: "fair damsel, certes you jest with me, for indeed this is some very noble and well-approved knight of great worship. for no one but such a knight as that could have done such deeds of arms as i beheld this day." [sidenote: _sir gareth rebuketh the knight._] now at that time sir gareth was very weary with the battles he had fought during the day, and his body was sore with several wounds that he had suffered, and his spirit was very greatly vexed with the scorn with which lynette had ever treated him for all this while, wherefore he had but little patience to deal to any man. so straightway he turned him toward that knight and he spake very sternly to him, saying: "messire, do you intend to gainsay that which this lady sayeth to you concerning me? wit you that i will not suffer her word to be put in question in any wise. wherefore, if she is pleased to say that i am a scullion lad, so for her sake you must believe it to be." at this that knight was more astonished than before, and he wist not what to think. so anon he said: "messire, certes i meant no offence to you, for how should i mean offence to one who hath done me such service as you have rendered to me this day?" "well," quoth sir gareth, "in this i am greatly offended that you should gainsay that which this lady is pleased to say. wit you that for this while i am this lady's champion, and so i will suffer no one to gainsay her." so said sir gareth, and when he had ended that saying, lynette laughed and laughed again with all her might and main. and she cried out, "well said, thou kitchen knave!" unto the which speech sir gareth made no reply. then that knight said to sir gareth and to lynette: "messire, and thou, fair damsel, i know not what all this meaneth but haply you know. but i see, sir knight, that thou art wounded in several places, and i doubt not that you are both aweary with your travels, wherefore i pray you that you will come with me to my castle which is not a very great distance away from this, and i beseech you there to lodge and to refresh you for this night." to this lynette said: "that which thou sayest pleases me very greatly, messire, for indeed i am aweary and would fain rest me a little. so let us go forward to your castle. but this beaumains must ride not so close to us for indeed i cannot abide the odor of the kitchen." so after that they all departed from that place, and ever sir gareth rode at a distance as the damsel had commanded him to do. [sidenote: _they come to the castle of the knight._] now after they had gone a considerable way they came out of the forest and into a valley wherein stood the castle of that knight. and it was a very fair and noble castle and the valley was exceedingly fertile with many rich fields and meadows and with several plantations of trees, both of fruit trees and otherwise. through this fruitful valley they came to the castle and they rode into the castle courtyard with a great noise of horses' hoofs upon the cobblestones, and at that coming many of the attendants of the castle came running for to take their horses and to serve them. then lynette gazed about her and she said to the knight of the castle, "messire, who are these?" he said: "fair damsel, these are they who would take your horse and the horse of that noble knight your companion, and others are they who would wait upon you and upon him to serve you both." then lynette said: "not so, sir knight, my horse they may take and me they may serve, but it is not meet that a kitchen knave such as beaumains should be waited upon in that wise, wherefore i bid you to suffer him to wait upon himself." [sidenote: _sir gareth serveth himself._] upon this speech sir gareth turned him to the knight of the castle and his face was very calm, albeit his eyes shone like sparks of fire and he said, speaking very haughtily: "messire, whitherward is the stable? i pray you to tell me so that i may house my good horse and wait upon myself as this lady, whom i have undertaken to serve, hath commanded me to do." then the knight of the castle was much troubled and knew not what to reply; yet anon he said, "messire, i know not what to say in this case but an you ask me i must say the stable lieth yonderways." so spake the knight, and thereupon sir gareth turned him without another word and rode away, still very calmly, leaving them alone. so after that the knight and lynette entered the castle. but the knight, when he was alone, called to him the steward of the castle and he said to him: "go you and search out that noble and worthy knight, for assuredly he is some great and famous champion. see you that he is served in all wise that such an one should be served, and spare naught to comfort him and put him at his ease, for this day he hath certes saved my life." so the steward did as he was bidden and that evening sir gareth was served in all wise befitting for a knight royal such as he really was. now when the next day was come, and when it was time for lynette and sir gareth and axatalese the dwarf to depart from that place, the knight of the castle came to sir gareth where he sat upon his horse. and he laid his hand upon the stirrup of sir gareth and he said: "messire, i pray you tell me, is there any service that i may do you that you would have of me?" [sidenote: _sir gareth biddeth the knight to do service._] then sir gareth looked down upon that knight and he said: "sir, there is a service you could render me an you chose to do so, and this is that service: it is that you should go to the court of king arthur with all the estate that is befitting for one of your degree. and when you have come to the court i would fain have you tell king arthur that beaumains, the kitchen knave, hath sent you to him for to pay your court unto him. and i would have you tell the king and sir gawaine how it hath fared with me so far as you are aware of." thus said sir gareth, and to him the knight of the castle made reply: "sir, it shall be done as you ordain; for all those things i will do exactly as you commanded me." so after that they three departed upon their way, the damsel lynette riding ahead and sir gareth and the dwarf riding some distance behind. * * * * * and now if you would hear what other adventures befell sir gareth and lynette at this time i pray you to read further, for there these several things are told of in due order. [illustration: the lady layonnesse.] [illustration] chapter fourth _how sir gareth met sir percevant of hind, and how he came to castle dangerous and had speech with the lady layonnesse. also how the lady layonnesse accepted him for her champion._ so the damsel lynette followed by sir gareth and the dwarf travelled for all that morning and a part of the afternoon without let or stay of any sort and without meeting with any adventure whatsoever, and in all that time the damsel said no word to sir gareth whether of good or ill, but ever kept her eyes fixed straight before her as though very much occupied with thought. [sidenote: _they behold a fair pavilion in a valley._] so about two hours or three after the prime of the day they came to the top of a very long steep hill, and there beneath them in the valley that lay below the hill, sir gareth perceived that a considerable company and one that appeared to be of great estate were foregathered. for at that place there were a number of pavilions of divers colored silk and above each pavilion there flew a silken banner bearing the device of the owner of that pavilion. and in the midst of all those other pavilions there was one that was manifestly the pavilion of the knight-champion or of the overlord of all the others. for that pavilion was of crimson silk embroidered with figures in threads of silver and black, and above the pavilion there flew a banner of very great size, which same was also of crimson silk embroidered in silver and black with the figure of a leopard couchant. and from where he stood upon the heights, sir gareth saw that all these pavilions were spread in a fair level meadow with grass well mown, as smooth as a cloth of green velvet, and all bright with gay and pretty flowers. and this meadow and other meadows beyond it stretched away to a great distance and at the extremity of the distance was a fair tall castle and a goodly town of many towers, all shining very bright in the clear transparent daylight. all this sir gareth beheld very plain, as it were upon the palm of his hand, and he beheld how above all that level, fruitful valley the sky arched like to a roof of crystal--warm and perfectly blue, and filled full of a very great many clouds. then lynette said: "hah, beaumains, see you yonder pavilions and see you that pavilion which is in their midst?" and sir gareth said, "yea, damsel, i behold them all." [sidenote: _lynette telleth sir gareth of sir percevant._] quoth lynette: "wit you that that central pavilion belongeth to sir percevant of hind, for well do i know the device embroidered upon his banner. and i have to tell you that sir percevant is one of the very greatest of the knights champion of this realm and that he hath fought many battles with some of the chiefest knights of the round table and hath come forth with great credit in all those encounters. now, beaumains, this is a very different sort of knight from any of those with whom you have hitherto had to do, wherefore be you advised that it is not meet for a kitchen knave to have to do in such an adventure as this. so turn you about and get you gone or else of a surety some great ill will befall you in this affair." then sir gareth looked very calmly upon lynette and he said: "lady, it may well be that a man who assumeth to have credit and honor may fail in an undertaking of this sort, but when have you ever heard that such a man of credit or of honor hath withdrawn him from an adventure because there is great danger in it?" then lynette laughed and she said: "hah, beaumains, thou speakest with a very high spirit for one who is but a kitchen knave. now if harm befalleth thee because of this undertaking, blame thyself therefor." and sir gareth said: "so will i do, and rest you well assured, fair damsel, that never shall i blame you for that or for anything else that may befall me." and at that lynette laughed again. then sir gareth drew rein and turned downhill to where were those pavilions aforesaid, and so they all three descended from the height into the valley and so came toward that fair meadow wherein the silken tents had been erected. now as they drew near to the pavilions, they beheld several esquires who were sitting at a bench playing at dice. these, beholding sir gareth coming in that wise with the fair damsel and the dwarf, they all arose, and he that was chief among them said: "sir, what knight are you, and what is your degree, and why come you hitherward?" him answered sir gareth, saying: "friend, it matters not who i am saving only that i am of sufficient worth. as for my business, it is to have speech with sir percevant of hind, the lord of this company." quoth the esquire: "sir, you cannot come past this way nor may you have speech with sir percevant of hind without first making known your name and your degree, for otherwise you come upon him at your peril." then sir gareth laughed, and said, "say you so?" and therewith he drave past all those esquires and lynette and the dwarf went with him and no one dared to stay him. so they came to the pavilion of sir percevant and sir percevant was within his pavilion at that time. now before the pavilion there was a tall painted post set into the ground, and upon the post there hung a great shield, bearing upon it the device of a leopard couchant in black and white, and so sir gareth perceived that this was the shield of sir percevant. then sir gareth drew his sword and he went forward and smote the shield such a blow that it rang like thunder beneath the stroke that he gave it. therewith came sir percevant of hind out of his pavilion and his countenance was all aflame with anger and he cried out very fiercely: "messire, who are you who dare to smite my shield in that wise?" [sidenote: _sir gareth challengeth sir percevant._] but sir gareth sat his horse very calmly, and he said: "messire, i struck your shield for to call you forth so that i might have speech with you. as for my name, i will not tell you that nor my degree. but if you would know these things, i bid you for to ask them of this lady who is my companion." then sir percevant turned him to lynette, and he said, "damsel, who is this knight?" and lynette said: "sir, i know not otherwise than that he is a kitchen knave of king arthur's court who hath clothed himself in armor. he is called beaumains, and fain would i have been rid of him several times, but could not; for ever he followeth me, and, maugre my wishes, will ever serve as my champion." then sir percevant turned unto sir gareth with great anger and he said: "sir, i know not what is this jest that you and your damsel seek to put upon me, but this i do know, that since you have appointed her to speak for you, and since she declareth you to be a kitchen knave, so must i believe you to be. wherefore, unless you straightway declare your name and your degree to me upon your own account, and unless you prove to me that you are otherwise than this damsel sayeth, i shall straightway have you stripped of your armor and shall have you bound and beaten with cords for this affront that you have put upon my shield." then sir gareth spake very calmly, saying: "sir, that would be a pity for you to do, for i have to tell you that, whether i be a kitchen knave or no, nevertheless i have had to do with several good and worthy knights of fair repute. for i have to tell you that one of these knights was sir launcelot of the lake and that he made me knight. and i have to tell you that another one of these was your own brother, sir perard, whom i overcame yesterday in battle and whom i would have slain only that this damsel besought his life at my hands. and i have to tell you that sir perard is even now upon his way to the court of king arthur, there to pay his duty to the king upon my demand upon him to that end." then sir percevant cleared his brow of its anger, and he said: "sir, i perceive from all that you tell me that you are some knight of very good quality and merit. wherefore i will withdraw that which i said and will do you battle because you have struck my shield. and it will go hard with me but i shall serve you in such a way as shall well wipe out that affront in your warm red blood. for i promise you that i shall not let or stay in the battle against you." so spake sir percevant and straightway he withdrew him into his tent and several of the knights who were his companions and several esquires who had gathered about in this while of talk, went into his pavilion with him and there aided him to don his armor and to fit himself for battle. [sidenote: _of the meadow of battle._] so anon sir percevant came forth again in all wise prepared for that battle. and his esquires brought to him a noble horse as white as milk and they assisted him to mount thereon. and sir percevant took a great spear into his hand and so turned and led the way toward a fair smooth level lawn of grass whereon two knights might well run atilt against one another. and all they who were of that company followed sir percevant and sir gareth to that lawn of grass, and the damsel lynette and the dwarf axatalese went thither along with the others. so coming to that place a marshal of the lists was appointed, and thereafter each knight was assigned a certain station by that marshal. then, everything being duly prepared, the word for the assault was given, and each knight launched forth against the other with all the speed with which he was able to drive. so they met in the midst of the course with a great roar and crashing of wood and metal and in that encounter the spear of each knight was broken into small pieces and the horse of each staggered back from beneath the blow and would have fallen had not the knight rider recovered him with rein and spur and voice. [sidenote: _sir gareth doeth battle with sir percevant._] then each knight leaped down from his horse and drew his sword and rushed to the assault afoot with all the fierceness of two wild boars engaged in battle. and thereupon they fell to lashing such blows at one another that even they who looked on from a distance were affrighted at the violence and the uproar of that assault. for the two champions fought very fiercely, and the longer they fought the more fiercely they did battle. and in a little while the armor of each was all stained red, and the ground upon which they fought was all besprinkled with red, yet neither knight had any thought of yielding to the other in any whit or degree, but still each fought on with ever-increasing fury against the other. now at this time neither knight had aught of advantage against the other, and no man might have told how that battle would have gone, but at the moment of the greatest doubt, lynette uplifted her voice aloud, as it were in terror, crying out very shrilly and vehemently: "good worthy knight sir percevant, will you then let a kitchen knave and a scullion stay you thus in your battle?" [sidenote: _sir gareth overcometh sir percevant._] then it befell as it had befallen before when sir gareth fought with the black knight, sir percevant's brother, for sir gareth heard the words that lynette cried out, and straightway it was as though the new strength of several men had entered into his body because of his anger at those words. and that anger consumed all else that was before it, whether that other were of prudence or of temper. for straightway sir gareth flung aside his shield and seized his sword in both hands and rushed upon sir percevant and struck blow upon blow so fiercely and so violently that nor skill nor strength might withstand his assault. then sir percevant fell back before that assault and could not do otherwise, and he bore his shield full low; but ever sir gareth followed him and smote him more and more violently so that sir percevant could no longer hold up his shield against the assault of his enemy. and sir gareth perceived that sir percevant waxed feeble in his defence and with that he rushed in and smote sir percevant upon the helm so woeful a blow that sir percevant could no longer stand upon his feet but sank slowly down upon his knees before sir gareth. then sir gareth ran to sir percevant and catched him by the helm and rushed the helm off from his head and with that sir percevant wist that death overshadowed him. then sir percevant catched sir gareth about the thighs and, embracing him, cried out: "messire, spare my life and do not slay me!" and all those knights and esquires who were in attendance upon sir percevant pressed about sir gareth where he stood, and lifted up their voices, also crying out: "sir knight, do not slay that good worthy knight our champion, but spare his life to him." then sir gareth, all wet with the blood and sweat of battle and panting for breath said in a very hoarse voice: "ask ye not for this knight's life for i will not spare his life to him except upon one condition, and that condition is that the damsel whose champion i am shall ask his life at my hands." now at that time lynette was weeping amain, though whether with dread of that fierce battle or because of something else, who may tell? yet ever she wept, and ever she laughed and wept again. and she cried out: "thou saucy knave, beaumains, who art thou to make such a demand as that?" but sir gareth said: "if i be saucy, let it pass, yet so it is as i have said, and i will not spare this knight his life unless thou ask it of me," and therewith he catched sir percevant by the hair and lifted his sword on high as though to separate the head of sir percevant from off his body. [sidenote: _lynette beseecheth sir percevant's life._] then all those knights and esquires crowded around lynette and besought her that she would ask for the life of sir percevant. and lynette said: "stay thy hand, beaumains, and slay him not, for it would be a pity for so good and worthy a knight as sir percevant of hind to lose his life at the hands of a kitchen knave such as thou art." then sir gareth said: "arise, sir knight, and stand up, for the word of this lady hath saved thy life." and therewith sir gareth released his hold of sir percevant and sir percevant arose and stood up. [sidenote: _sir gareth commandeth service of sir percevant._] then sir percevant said: "sir, thou hast beaten me in a very fair and bitter battle and so i yield myself to thee. now i pray thee tell me what are thy commands upon me?" and sir gareth said: "sir, thou sayest well, and these are my commands: that thou, together with all this thy company of knights and esquires, do take your departure from this field and that ye all go to the court of king arthur. and it is my desire that when thou hast come to the court of the king thou shalt pay thy duty to him and say to him that beaumains, the kitchen knave, hath sent thee to pay that duty." then sir percevant bowed his head before sir gareth and said: "sir, it shall be as you command." and after that he said, "sir, i pray you that you will do me this favor; i pray you that you will come with me to yonder castle at that town which you see afar off. for that is my castle and my town and i am fain that you should rest you ere you go farther upon your way, and that you should refresh yourself at my castle. i perceive that you are wounded in several places, and i would fain that you should have your wounds searched and dressed and that you should have rest and ease ere you go forward, so that your wounds may be healed and that you may be made hale when you undertake your further adventures." to this sir gareth said: "sir, i thank you well for your courtesy and it will pleasure me greatly to go to your castle with you and there to rest me awhile. for indeed it hath been a sore battle that i have fought with you this day and i suffer a very great deal of pain. moreover i have fought other battles of late and am aweary and in no fit case to go farther at this present." so after sir gareth and sir percevant had rested them a little, they and all of their companies departed thence and betook their way to the castle of sir percevant. there sir gareth was bathed and his wounds were searched and dressed and he was put in all ease that was possible. [sidenote: _sir gareth rests him in the castle of sir percevant._] and sir percevant gave command that ever a company of knights should stand guard over sir gareth where he lay so that no harm should befall him, and it was done according to that command. so sir gareth abided at the castle of sir percevant for five days and in all that time he saw nothing whatsoever of the damsel lynette; for he lay in one part of the castle and she dwelt in another part. then at the end of five days, sir gareth was well healed of his wounds and was in all ways hale and strong to carry out his further adventures. * * * * * [sidenote: _lynette maketh peace with sir gareth._] now when those five days aforesaid were past, sir gareth made him ready to depart, and lynette also made herself ready to depart, and so they took their leave of the castle of sir percevant. and they rode out through the gateway of the castle and into the sunlight that lay beyond, and it was a wonderfully bright cheerful pleasant day with all the little birds singing amain and the blossoms falling like snow whensoever that the wind blew through the branches of the apple-trees. thus they departed and after that they rode for a long while. so they came two or three leagues upon their way, and in that time neither said anything to the other but both rode in silence. then at last lynette turned her about and sir gareth perceived that her eyes shone very bright. and lynette said, "sir, have you anger against me?" then sir gareth, who was riding some little distance away, as he had aforetime done upon her bidding, came nearer to her and said: "nay, fair damsel; why think you that i should anger have against you? have i shown you any anger, that you should say those words to me?" she said: "nay, messire, never at any time have you shown anger toward me, but you have ever been to me all that it was possible for any noble and worthy knight to be to a lady who had treated him with all consideration and regard, and this you have done in spite of the scornful way in which i have treated you. and also i have very well perceived the manner in which you have borne yourself in these several contests at arms which you have fought, and i have beheld you to be as brave and haughty toward those knights who were strong and valiant, as you have been gentle and kind to me who am a woman." then sir gareth smiled and he said: "lady, you make much of that which is very little. know you not that it behooves all true knights to be gentle and patient with all such as are not so strong as they? so it is that in being courteous to you i have done naught except that which i have been taught to do in such a case. as for those bitter words you spake to me, i may tell you that any anger which i might have felt therefor i visited upon those knights against whom i fought. for when you gave me those bitter words, then i gave them bitter blows therefor, and the more you scorned me the more strongly and vehemently did i fight." then lynette said: "sir, you are certes a very high, noble, and worthy knight, and she unto whom you vouchsafe to give your belle regard that lady will be as fortunate as any of whom i ever heard tell. for i believe that it is not possible for any knight ever to have been so tried as i have tried you for all this while that we have journeyed together; wherefore, if you have proved yourself so worthy in this thing, how much more will you prove yourself worthy in those greater things that shall in time come unto you?" so spake lynette and thereat sir gareth laughed a little and said: "fair damsel, have i now leave to ride beside you, and is there now peace betwixt us?" and lynette said, "yea, messire." so therewith sir gareth rode forward until he was come beside lynette, and from that time forward there was peace and concord betwixt them; for lynette was now as kind and humble to him as she had been saucy and uncivil before. [sidenote: _they journey together in concord._] and so as they journeyed together lynette told sir gareth many things concerning the adventure which he was entered upon that he had not known before. for she told him that this lady who was her sister was hight the lady layonnesse and that she was but eighteen years of age. and she told him that the lady layonnesse was one of the most beautiful ladies in the world, and she told him that the lady was the countess of a very great and rich town, hight granderegard, and of a noble castle appertaining to the town, which same was called the castle dangerous. and she told him that the marches over which the lady layonnesse was countess extended for several leagues upon this side and upon that side of the town and the castle, and she told him that the knight of the red lands, who opposed her sister, was so strong and so doughty a knight that she believed it would be hard to find in any part of the realm so powerful a knight as he. and she said to sir gareth: "in good sooth, messire, i have great fear that you will have sad ado to hold your own against this red knight of the red lands, for as sir perard was greater and bigger than those two knights at the ford whom you overthrew so easily, and as sir percevant of hind was greater and bigger than sir perard, so i believe is this red knight of the red lands greater and bigger than sir percevant." "well, lynette," quoth sir gareth, "so far it hath been that i have had success in all my battles but one, and in that one i suffered no dishonor. so i believe i may hope to have a fair fortune with this knight also, for wit you that the fortunes of any knight lie in the hands of god and not in man's hands, wherefore if it is his will that i fare well in this undertaking, then shall i assuredly do so." thus they talked in great amity of many things, and so they travelled for all that day and the next day and for a part of the day after that. and somewhat early in the morning of the third day they came to the summit of a certain highland whence sir gareth beheld a great plain, well tilled and very fertile, spread out beneath that high place where he stood. and he beheld that the plain was very broad and very long and that in the midst thereof there was a hill and that upon the hill there stood a castle and that behind the castle was a town of many fair and well-built houses. [sidenote: _they behold the pavilions of the red knight._] then lynette pointed, and she said to sir gareth: "see you that castle and that town? that castle is my sister's castle and that town is her town. and, yonder, beneath the walls of the town and of the castle, you may see a number of pavilions spread upon a considerable meadow. those are the pavilions of the red knight of the red lands and of the knights and esquires attendant upon him. for there he keepeth continual watch and ward over the castle of my sister, so that no one may either come out thereof or enter thereinto without his leave for to do so." and sir gareth said, "let us go down unto yonder place." so straightway they descended from the highland into the plain, and so went forward upon their way toward the town and the castle of the lady layonnesse. now as they drew more nigh to that place where the pavilions of the red knight of the red lands and of his companions at arms had been spread, they went past a great many pollard willow-trees standing all in a row. and sir gareth beheld that upon each tree there hung either one shield or two or three shields and that each shield bore some device of knighthood. at that sight he was greatly astonished, and he said: "fair damsel, i prythee tell me what is the meaning of this sight and why those shields are hung to yonder pollard willow-trees?" quoth lynette: "sir, each one of those shields is the shield of some knight whom the red knight of the red lands hath overthrown. and some of these knights have been slain in battle by the knight of the red lands, and some have not been slain, but all those who were not slain have been disgraced in the encounter which they have fought. for from each knight which he hath overthrown the red knight of the red lands hath taken his shield and his horse and hath sent him away afoot, unarmed and horseless, wherefore it is thought by some that it were better to have been slain in battle than to have suffered such disgrace as that." then sir gareth said: "certes, lynette, that must have been a very doughty champion to have overcome so many knights as these. now, if it is my fortune to overthrow him in that battle which i am come to fight with him, then do i believe i shall win for myself more honor and credit than ever fell to any young knight of my age since first sir percival of gales assumed his knighthood." so said sir gareth, and after that he and lynette rode onward a little farther until they had come to that meadow where were the pavilions of the red knight of the red lands and of his knights companion. and sir gareth and the damsel rode straight through the midst of those pavilions and many knights and esquires came out thence to see who they were who came thitherward. but ever sir gareth and lynette and the dwarf rode onward until they had come to the center pavilion of all and that was the pavilion of the red knight aforesaid. here at this place were several pages and of one of them sir gareth demanded where was that red knight. they say, "sir, he is within his pavilion resting after his midday meal." sir gareth said, "go ye and tell him that there is one come who would have speech with him." [sidenote: _sir gareth beholdeth the red knight._] so those esquires departed, and anon there came forth the red knight from his pavilion, and he was clad all in a loose robe of scarlet silk trimmed with miniver. and sir gareth looked upon him and beheld that he was very big of bone and thew and that the hair of his head and his beard was exceedingly red and that his countenance was terribly lowering and forbidding. then the red knight when he saw sir gareth, said, "who art thou, sir knight, and what is thy business here?" and sir gareth said: "messire, i am one come from king arthur's court to take up the quarrel of the lady layonnesse of this place and to serve as her champion therein." then the knight of the red lands said: "who are you? are you a knight of repute and fame at arms?" and sir gareth said: "nay, sir, not so; for i have only been made knight fortnight, and i have but little service at arms." then the red knight laughed very boisterously and said: "how is this, and what sort of a green knight are you, who dares to come against me! know that i have laid more than twoscore better knights than you very low in the dust." quoth sir gareth: "that may very well be, sir knight. yet is the fate of every one in the hands of god and so mayhap he will cause me to overthrow you upon this occasion." and sir gareth said: "now, i pray you that you will let me go up to yonder castle and have speech with the lady thereof and if so be she will accept me for her champion, then will i return hitherward immediately to do battle with you." and the red knight said, "go and speak with her." so sir gareth went up toward the castle dangerous and lynette went with him. and when they had come pretty nigh to the castle, the lady thereof appeared at an upper window and called down to sir gareth, saying, "sir, who are you and whence come you?" [sidenote: _sir gareth beholdeth the lady layonnesse._] then sir gareth looked up and beheld the lady where she stood at the window, and he beheld her face that it was very exceedingly beautiful. for, though she had dark hair like to lynette's, and though she had cheeks resembling in their clear whiteness the cheeks of lynette, and though her lips were red as coral like to lynette's, yet was she ten times more beautiful than ever was lynette. so, beholding how beautiful she was, the heart of sir gareth leaped straightway up to her, even as a bird flyeth upward, and there it rested within her bosom. then sir gareth said to her: "lady, you ask me who i am, and i am to tell you that i am one come from king arthur's court to serve you as your champion if so be you will accept me as such." then the lady layonnesse said, "sir, are you a knight of good fame and service?" and sir gareth said, "nay, lady, but only a green knight very little used to arms. for i have but been a knight for these few days and though i have fought several battles with good fortune in that time, yet i know not as yet what may be my fate when i meet such a knight as the red knight of the red lands. yet this is true, lady, that though i be but very young and untried at arms, yet is my spirit very great for this undertaking." then the lady layonnesse said: "sir, what is your name and what is your degree?" and sir gareth said: "i may not tell you that at this present, for i will not declare my name until that my kindred (who yet do not know me) shall have acknowledged me." to this the lady layonnesse said: "this is very strange, and i am much affronted that king arthur should have sent to me from his court a knight without a name and without any credit at arms for to serve as my champion." and sir gareth said, "lady, there was reason for it." then the lady layonnesse said, "is not that my sister lynette whom i behold with thee?" and sir gareth said, "yea, lady." the lady said, "who is this knight, lynette?" and lynette replied, "i know not, my sister, saving only that i have good reason to believe that he is the noblest and the haughtiest and the most worthy of all knights whom i have ever beheld." "well," quoth the lady layonnesse, "if thou dost thus vouch for him, then upon thee be the peril of my choosing." and lynette said, "let it be so." [sidenote: _the lady layonnesse giveth sir gareth her scarf._] then the lady layonnesse said, "sir knight, i take thee for my champion." and therewith she let fall from the window where she stood a fair scarf of green samite embroidered with threads of gold. and sir gareth catched the scarf with such joy that it was as though his heart would burst for happiness. and he wrapped the scarf about his arm, and immediately it was as though the virtue of his strength had been increased threefold. * * * * * now if so be you would know how sir gareth sped in his business with the red knight of the red lands, i beg of you for to read that which followeth, for therein withal it shall be immediately declared. [illustration] [illustration: the lady layonnesse cometh to the pavilion of sir gareth] [illustration] chapter fifth _how sir gareth fought with the red knight of the red lands and how it fared with him in that battle. also how his dwarf was stolen, and how his name and estate became known and were made manifest._ now after sir gareth had received the scarf of the lady layonnesse as aforetold, he and lynette and the dwarf returned to a certain meadow nigh to the pavilions where it had been ordained that the battle should be held. there they found that the red knight of the red lands had made himself in all ways ready for that battle. for he was now clad all in armor as red as blood, and in his hand he bore a great spear that was also altogether red; and on the tip of the spear was a red banneret that was likewise as red as blood. at that field that had been prepared for battle, there was a great concourse of people assembled and there also the damsel lynette took her stand at a place that had been assigned unto her; and the dwarf axatalese was near by in attendance upon her. and there had been a marshal of the field appointed to judge of the battle that was to be fought, and as each knight came to the field, the marshal led him to where he was to take his stand--which stand was in such a place as should offer a fair course and so that the sun should not shine into the eyes of either of the knights contestant. so when everything was duly prepared for battle and when the knights had taken each his place and when each knight was in all ways ready for the course to be run, the marshal cried out the call to the assault. thereupon each knight immediately leaped his horse away from where it stood and hurtled the one against the other like a whirlwind with a great thunder of galloping hoofs. so they came together in a cloud of dust and with a terrible crashing of splintered wood. for in that encounter each knight shattered his lance into pieces, even to the hand that held it, and so violent was the blow that each gave the other that both horses staggered back as though they had struck each against a solid rock instead of against an armed rider. then each knight voided his tottering horse, and each drew his sword, and immediately they rushed together with such eagerness that it was as though the lust of battle was the greatest joy that the world could have for them. so they fell to fighting with the utmost and most terrible fury, lashing such blows that the sound of the strokes of iron upon iron resembled the continual roaring of thunder. [sidenote: _of the battle of sir gareth with the red knight._] so they fought for so long a while that it was a wonder that any man of flesh and blood could withstand the blows that each gave and received. for ever and anon the sword would find its place and upon such a blow some cantel of armor would maybe be hewn from the body of that knight who received the stroke. and the book that telleth of this battle sayeth that the side of each knight was in a while made naked in places because that the armor had been hewn away from it. and it sayeth the armor of sir gareth was wellnigh as red as was the armor of his enemy because of the blood that dyed it that ensanguine color. and the same history says that they were somewhile so bemazed by the blows that they endured that either would at times seize the sword of the other for his own, for it is recorded in that history that they fought in that wise for more than two hours at a stretch without taking any rest from battle. but although the battle continued for that long time, yet by and by their blows waxed somewhat faint and feeble compared to what they had at first been, and each knight tottered upon his feet at times because of his weakness and loss of blood. so at last the red knight of the red lands cried out to sir gareth: "sir knight, stay thy hand and let us rest, for i see that neither of us can fight this battle to its end as we are now fighting." so said the red knight, and at that saying sir gareth held his hand and said, "so be it, sir knight, as you ordain." so they stinted their fighting for that while and they sat them down to rest, each upon a bank of earth. and a page came to the red knight of the red lands and unlaced his helm and the dwarf axatalese did the same for sir gareth, and the page and the dwarf took each the helm from off the head of his master, and so they two sat where the wind might blow cold upon their faces. then anon sir gareth lifted up his eyes and he beheld where that the lady layonnesse stood at the high window of the castle aforesaid, and several of the chief folk of the castle stood with her at that time. then sir gareth saluted the lady layonnesse and when she beheld him salute her she cried out, in a very shrill and piercing voice: "alas, sir knight! fail me not! for whom have i to depend upon but thee?" so she cried out in that very shrill voice, and sir gareth heard her words even from that distance. then when he heard those words his heart grew big within him once more and his spirit waxed light and he called out, "sir red knight, let us at our battle again!" therewith each knight resumed his helm and when each helm was laced into place, axatalese and the page of the red knight leaped aside, and the two came together once more, greatly refreshed by that rest which they had enjoyed. so they fought for a great while longer, and then they had pause again for a little. then sir gareth perceived that the red knight was panting as though his bosom would burst and therewith he rushed at his enemy with intent for to smite him one last blow and so to end the battle. but the red knight was very wary and he was expecting that assault, wherefore he quickly avoided sir gareth's stroke, and thereupon he himself launched an overthwart blow that smote sir gareth upon the hand, and upon that blow the sword of sir gareth fell down out of his hand into the grass of the field. [sidenote: _sir gareth falleth and is in great danger._] then the red knight leaped upon sir gareth and he struck him again and yet again and he struck him a third time a blow upon the helm and at that third blow the brains of sir gareth melted within him and he fell down upon his knees and then down to the ground for he had not power to stand. then the red knight leaped upon sir gareth and fell upon him with intent to hold him down so that he might finish with him and sir gareth could not put him away. but when the damsel lynette beheld how that sir gareth was beneath his enemy and was in danger of being slain, she shrieked out aloud in a very shrill penetrating voice, crying, "alas, beaumains! do you fail your lady, and are you but a kitchen knave after all?" [sidenote: _sir gareth overcometh the red knight._] now sir gareth heard those words, even through the swooning of his senses, and therewith it was with him as it had been twice before; for as he heard the words there came new strength into his body, and with that he heaved himself up and cast the red knight from him. and he leaped to his feet and rushed to where his sword lay in the grass. and he catched up his sword and sprang upon the red knight and smote him a very terrible blow. and sir gareth so smote him again and yet again. and he smote him a fourth time so woeful a blow upon the helm that the red knight fell down to the earth and could not rise again. then sir gareth fell upon the red knight and held him where he was upon the ground. and he drew his miseracordia and cut the thongs of the helm of the red knight and plucked the helm from off the red knight's head. and he set his miseracordia to the throat of the red knight and with that the red knight beheld death, as it were, looking him in the face. then all they who were thereabouts came running to where the two knights lay, and they cried out aloud to sir gareth, saying, "sir knight! sir knight! spare the knight our champion and slay him not!" and the red knight said in a voice very faint and weak, "sir knight, spare me my life!" then sir gareth cried out, "i will not spare this knight unless he yield him altogether to my will." and the knight said, "i yield me." and sir gareth said, "still i will not spare this knight his life unless yonder damsel crave his life at my hands." [sidenote: _lynette asketh for the life of the red knight._] then lynette came forward to where sir gareth still held his enemy to earth and she was weeping a very great deal. and she said: "brave sir beaumains, be ye merciful as well as powerful and spare this good worshipful knight his life." and sir gareth said, "so will i do at thy demand." [sidenote: _sir gareth layeth his commands upon the red knight._] therewith sir gareth got him up upon his feet and the red knight arose also, and so sore had been their battle that both knights had to be held upon their feet by those who stood near by. then the red knight said, speaking in a very weak and fainting voice, "fair sir knight, what are thy commands upon me?" and sir gareth said: "these are my commands: that so soon as you shall be sufficiently healed of your hurts you and all these your people shall depart hence and take your way to the court of king arthur. and my command is that you shall tell king arthur that beaumains, the kitchen knave, hath sent you thither for to pay your homage unto him. and because you have dishonored other knights as you have done by taking away their shields and horses, it is my will that you shall also be dishonored; for i ordain that your shield shall be taken away from you and that it shall be hung upon one of these willow-trees where you have hung the shields of those knights whom you have overcome in battle as i have overcome you. and i ordain that your horse shall be taken away from you and that your armor shall be taken away from you and that you shall travel to the court of king arthur afoot; for so you have made other knights walk afoot whom you have beaten in battle as i have beaten you." then the red knight bowed his head full low for shame and he said: "this is a very hard case, but as i have measured to others so it is meted unto me, wherefore, messire, it shall be done in all ways as you command." then lynette came to sir gareth and took him by the hand and set his hand to her lips and she was still weeping at that time. then sir gareth smiled upon her and said, "hah! lynette, have i done well?" and lynette still wept, and she said, with all her weeping, "yea, messire." and anon she said: "i pray you, messire, that you will go with me up to the castle of my sister so that you may there be cherished and that your wounds may be looked to and searched and dressed." but to this sir gareth said: "not so, lynette; for behold i am sorely wounded and i am all foul with the blood and dust and sweat of battle and so i will be refreshed and made clean ere i appear before that most fair lady your sister. so this night i will lie in the pavilion of this red knight, there to be cleansed of my hurts and to be refreshed. then to-morrow i will come up unto my lady your sister." [sidenote: _sir gareth abideth in the pavilion of the red knight._] and so it was done as sir gareth would have it, for that night he lay in the pavilion of the red knight and he was bathed and refreshed, and a skillful leech came and dressed his hurts. and the red knight of the red lands had a guard of several knights set around about the pavilion so that the repose of sir gareth should not be disturbed. * * * * * now after that battle aforetold the damsel lynette betook her way to the castle of her sister, and she entered into the castle and there was great rejoicing at her return. then they who first met her said to her: "thy sister awaiteth thee and she is in that room in a turret where she keeps her bower." and lynette said, "i will go thither." so she went to that place and there she found the lady layonnesse, and her brother (who was sir gringamore) was with her. and lynette ran to her sister and embraced her and kissed her. and she said: "save you, my sister and give you joy that the champion whom i brought hither hath freed you from your enemy." the lady layonnesse said: "where is that knight and why hast thou not brought him hither with thee so that i may render to him my thanks?" to this lynette made reply: "sister, he hath been sore wounded in his fight and he is moreover so befouled with the blood and dust of battle that he would not come hither at this present but lyeth in the pavilion of the red knight until the morrow." [sidenote: _lynette telleth her sister of sir gareth._] then the lady layonnesse said: "i pray you tell us who is this champion who hath thus set me free from my oppressor?" and lynette said: "that i know not, only this i may tell you: that at the court of king arthur there would no knight undertake the adventure because i would not declare your name and your degree before the king's court there assembled. then there arose a youth of whom sir kay made great scorn and said that he was a kitchen knave hight beaumains and the youth did not deny that saying. and king arthur gave him leave to go with me and undertake this quest, and the youth did so. so we travelled together. and i was very angry because i thought that king arthur had given me a kitchen knave for my champion instead of a good worthy knight, and so i treated beaumains with great scorn, but ever he repaid all my scorn with very patient and courteous speeches. so he followed me hither and now he is that champion who hath just now overthrown thine enemy." then the lady layonnesse cried out, "what matters it if this young knight is a kitchen knave? lo! he is my champion and hath risked his life for my sake. so because he hath fought that battle for me i will even raise him up to sit beside me, so that whatsoever honors are mine, they shall be his honors also. for if so be he is now lowly, then by me shall he be exalted above the heads of all you that are hereabouts." [sidenote: _lynette defendeth beaumains._] so said the lady layonnesse, and thereat lynette laughed with great heartiness. and when she had ended her laughter, she said, "my sister, i believe that it shall not be necessary for you to lift up this young knight. for if we should come to know who he really is, it might well be that we should discover that it is he who would exalt you rather than you would exalt him. for this champion can be no such kitchen knave as he pretends to be, but rather is he some one of great worth and of high degree. for several days i have so tried the patience of this knight that i do not believe that any one was ever so tried before. but although i so tried him very sorely he was always passing patient and gentle with me. think you that any kitchen knave would be so patient as that? moreover, i have beheld this knight in this short while fight six battles, and always he bore himself with such haughtiness and courage that were he an old and well-seasoned knight of the round table of the king he could not have proved himself to be more noble or more worthy. you yourself have beheld to-day how he did battle against the red knight who is certes one of the greatest knights in the world, seeing that he hath never before been overcome; you have beheld how he hath suffered wounds and the danger of death; think you then that any kitchen knave could have fought such a battle as you beheld him fight? nay, my sister, rather this young knight is someone of a very great and high estate." then sir gringamore spake, saying: "lynette speaketh very truly, my sister, and in good sooth i believe that this is no kitchen knave, but one who is sprung from the blood of right champions. now tell me, lynette, i pray thee, is there no one who knoweth this knight who he really is?" and lynette replied: "yea, there is one who knoweth and that is the dwarf axatalese. he could tell us who this knight really is, for he hath followed him for a long time every where he hath gone." then sir gringamore bethought him for a little while, and anon he said: "meseemeth it is needful that we have this dwarf for so only shall we come to know who that knight is. now thou and i and lynette will go down to the place of those pavilions. and thou shalt go to the pavilion of the knight and bring the dwarf out thence, for i doubt not he will come at thy bidding. meantime, whilst thou are finding that dwarf i shall be hidden in some secret place, and when thou hast brought him near enough to me i will leap out upon him and will catch him. then we will fetch him hither, and it will go hard but we learn who this knight is." so it was done as sir gringamore said; for he and the damsel lynette went to a place nigh to the place of pavilions where there was a hedge. and sir gringamore hid him behind the hedge and so after he was hidden lynette went alone to the pavilion of the red knight where sir gareth lay. now at that time they all slept, even to the guard that surrounded the tent. and so lynette passed through their midst and none heard her. and lynette came to the pavilion where sir gareth lay and she lifted the curtain of the door of the tent and looked within and beheld sir gareth where he lay sleeping upon a couch with a night-light burning very faintly near by him. and she beheld where the dwarf axatalese lay sleeping near to the door of the tent. then lynette entered the pavilion very softly and she reached out and touched axatalese upon the shoulder and therewith he immediately awoke. and axatalese was astonished at beholding the damsel at that place, but lynette laid her finger upon her lips and whispered very low to him, "say naught, axatalese, but follow me." and axatalese did so. so the maiden brought axatalese out of the pavilion and he followed her in silence. and she brought him through the other pavilions and still ever he followed her in silence and no one stayed them in their going. so axatalese followed lynette and she led him by a path that brought them out of the field where the pavilions were and to that place near by where sir gringamore lay hidden behind the hawthorn hedge. then when axatalese was come very close to that place sir gringamore leaped out of a sudden from the thicket and catched him. and axatalese lifted up his voice and fell to yelling very loud and shrill, but anon sir gringamore clapped his hand upon the mouth of the creature and silenced him. and sir gringamore drew his miseracordia and set it at the throat of axatalese and said to him, "sirrah, be silent, if you would live." and at that axatalese ceased to struggle and was perfectly silent. then sir gringamore released his hand from the mouth of axatalese and axatalese was afraid to utter any further outcry. [sidenote: _they bring axatalese to the castle._] so after that sir gringamore and lynette brought axatalese to the castle and into the castle. and they brought him to that place where the lady layonnesse awaited their coming. then, when they were safely come to that place, sir gringamore said to axatalese, "sirrah dwarf, tell us who is that knight, thy master, and what is his degree?" and axatalese cried out, "alas, messire, harm me not." quoth sir gringamore, "no harm shall befall thee, only speak as i bid thee and tell us who thy master is." [sidenote: _axatalese telleth of sir gareth._] then axatalese trembling with fear, said: "fair messire, the knight my master is hight sir gareth and he is the son of king lot of orkney and the queen margaise, the sister of king arthur, and so it is that he is right brother of those noble worthy champions, sir gawaine and sir gaheris, and he is the brother of sir mordred of orkney." now when lynette heard the words that axatalese spoke she smote her hands very violently together and she cried out in a loud and piercing voice: "said i not so? well did i know that this was no kitchen knave, but otherwise that he was some very noble and worthy knight. so he is, for there is none better in all the world than he. rejoice, my sister, for here indeed is a great honor that hath befallen thee. for this is a very worthy champion to have saved thee from thy distresses." and the lady layonnesse said: "sister, i do indeed rejoice and that beyond all measure." and she turned her to sir gringamore and said: "my brother, let us straightway hasten and go to this worthy knight so that we may give him such thanks as is fitting for one of his degree to receive." "nay," quoth sir gringamore, "not so. rather let us wait until to-morrow and until he has altogether rested himself from this day of battle. meantime, i will take this dwarf back whence we brought him and to-morrow we will pay sir gareth all due honor." [sidenote: _sir gringamore payeth court to sir gareth._] so it was as sir gringamore ordained. for first he took axatalese back to the place of the pavilions, and after that they waited until the morn. and when the morn was come sir gringamore and the lady layonnesse and lynette went down to that place of the pavilions and to the pavilion of sir gareth, and the lady layonnesse and the damsel lynette waited outside of the tent and sir gringamore entered thereinto. and sir gringamore came to where sir gareth lay and he saluted sir gareth saying, "save you, sir gareth of orkney." then sir gareth was greatly astonished and he said: "how know you my name and my degree, messire?" and sir gringamore said: "sir, my sister the damsel lynette, and i, catched thy dwarf last night and took him away to my sister's castle. there we compelled him to tell us who you were, and so we had knowledge of your name and your condition." and sir gringamore said: "sir gareth, we are rejoiced beyond measure that you have so greatly honored us as to come hither and to serve as the champion of my sister, the lady layonnesse. now if you will suffer her to have speech with you, she standeth without the door of the pavilion." and sir gareth said, "let her come in for i would fain see her near at hand." [sidenote: _the lady layonnesse cometh to sir gareth._] so sir gringamore went out of the pavilion and immediately he returned, bringing the lady layonnesse and lynette with him. and the lady layonnesse came and kneeled down beside the couch whereon sir gareth lay. and sir gareth saw her face near by and he saw that it was ten times more beautiful than he had supposed it to be when he saw it from a distance at the upper window of the castle dangerous as aforetold of. and sir gareth loved her from that moment with all his heart and from that time forth his love never wavered from her. that day they brought sir gareth to the castle in a litter and sir gareth abided at the castle for a fortnight and in that time he was altogether healed of his hurts that he had got in his battle with the red knight. and ever sir gareth loved the lady layonnesse more and more and ever she loved him in like manner. so they were continually together and it was said of all that heaven had never sent to the earth two more beautiful young creatures than they. then at the end of that fortnight aforesaid, sir gareth said: "now it behooves me to return to the court of the king to proclaim myself to my brothers. for since i have succeeded in overthrowing the red knight of the red lands and so of achieving this adventure, i believe i am not unworthy to proclaim myself even unto my brothers." so spake sir gareth, and to this the lady layonnesse replied: "sir, it is indeed well that you return to the court of the king. but when you go i beseech you that you will permit my brother, sir gringamore, and my sister lynette, and i myself for to go with you. for so you who departed alone will return with a company of those who love and honor you." thus said the lady layonnesse for it had come to pass by this time that she could not bear to be parted from sir gareth even for so short a while as a few days. [sidenote: _they all depart for the court of the king._] accordingly, it was done as she said and straightway preparation was made for their departure. so the next day they took leave of the castle dangerous for a while, betaking their way with a considerable court of knights, esquires, and attendants to the king's court at carleon where the king was at that time still abiding. * * * * * now return we to the court of king arthur ere those others shall come thither, so that we may see how it befell at that place after the departure of the kitchen knave beaumains. now it hath been told how that sir kay departed to follow after beaumains for to have a fall of him; and it hath been told how that sir kay returned to court upon a gray mule; and it hath been told how that sir kay was made the mock and laughing-stock, all because of the misadventure that had befallen him. after that there passed five days, and at the end of that time there came sir perard to the court with the word that sir gareth had bidden him for to carry thither; to wit, that the kitchen knave, beaumains, hath beaten him in battle and had sent him thither for to pay his duty unto the king. [sidenote: _how the several knights do homage._] then king arthur said: "'fore heaven! what sort of a kitchen knave is this to overcome so brave and well-seasoned a knight as sir perard? this can be no kitchen knave, but rather is he some youth of very heroic race who hath been dwelling for all this while unknown in our midst, in the guise of a kitchen knave." so said the king. and sir gawaine said, "lord, i may well believe that what you say is indeed the case." then two days after sir perard had come to carleon in that wise, there came thither that knight whom sir gareth had saved from the six thieves. and he brought a very considerable court of esquires and attendants with him; and he also told of the further doings of sir gareth. and when they at carleon heard those things, both the king and the court made loud marvel and acclaim that beaumains should have become so wonderful a champion as to do those things that were told of him. after that there passed a week and at the end of that time there came sir percevant of hind with a great court of knights and esquires accompanying him; and he also brought the same word that sir perard had done; to wit, that beaumains, the kitchen knave, had overcome him in battle and had sent him to the king's court for to pay his duty to the king. and at that king arthur and all of his court knew not what to think of a kitchen knave who should do such wonderful works. so passed a fortnight and at the end of that time there came the red knight of the red lands, walking afoot and without shield or armor but surrounded by even a greater court of knights and esquires than sir percevant had brought with him. and he also brought the same word to the king--that the kitchen knave, beaumains, had overcome him and had sent him thither to pay his duty to the king. and besides this he told the king many things concerning this same beaumains that the others had not told; to wit, how beaumains had carried his adventure of the castle dangerous through to a worthy ending and how that he was even then lodging at the castle of the lady layonnesse of granderegard. so when king arthur and his court heard all these things, he and they wist not what to think, but marvelled as to who this extraordinary young champion was. [sidenote: _queen margaise cometh to court._] now the day after the red knight of the red lands had come to carleon as aforetold, it befell that there came to the court of the king an herald; and the herald brought news that queen margaise of orkney was even then upon her way for to visit the king. then king arthur was very glad that his sister was coming thither for he loved her above all others of his kin. so it came to pass that when the day after the next day had come, queen margaise reached the court of the king as she had promised to do, and the king and the court gave her royal greeting. then queen margaise looked all about and by and by she said, "where is my son gareth whom i sent thitherward a year ago?" at that king arthur was very much astonished, and for a little he wist not what to think; then he said, "i know of no such one as gareth." [sidenote: _queen margaise grieveth for sir gareth._] upon this queen margaise was filled with anxiety, for she wist not what to believe had happened to her son. so her color changed several times and several times she tried to speak and could not. then at last she did speak, saying: "woe is me if harm should have befallen him, for certes he is the very flower of all my children." then king arthur took suddenly thought of beaumains and he said: "sister, take heart and look up, for i believe that no harm but rather great honor hath befallen thy son. now tell me, did he come hither about the time of the feast of pentecost a year ago?" and the queen said, "yea." then king arthur said: "tell me, was thy son fair of face and had he ruddy hair and was he tall and broad of girth and had he a dwarf named axatalese with him?" and the queen said, "yea, that was he!" then king arthur said: "he hath been here, but we knew him not." and the queen said, "what hath befallen him?" then king arthur told the queen his sister all that had befallen. for he told her how that gareth had come thither and in what guise; and he told her how gareth had dwelt all that year unknown at the court under the name of beaumains because of the whiteness of his hands; and he told her how that beaumains had gone forth upon that adventure to the castle dangerous; and he told her how he had succeeded in that adventure; and he told her of the several other things that are herein told, and ever queen margaise listened to him. but when king arthur had finished his telling the queen was very angry and she said: "methinks, my brother, that you should have known my son for one of high and noble degree, even though he were clad in green as you tell me and even though he did beseech no greater boon of you than food and drink and lodging. for certes there was ever that in his bearing that bespake better things than these." [sidenote: _king arthur placates queen margaise._] then king arthur, speaking very mildly, said: "my sister, how may one know another, his name and his degree, only by looking in his face? yet wit you that had i not thought there was somewhat high and noble about this youth i had not given him leave to undertake this adventure in which he hath succeeded so very gloriously." so spake king arthur, but queen margaise was hardly yet appeased, nor was she pacified for a long time afterward. then, at last, she was pacified. now a day or two after this time the king called sir gawaine and sir gaheris to him and he said to these two: "take you a noble court of knights and gentlemen and go you forth and find your brother and bring him hither to our court in all such royal estate as is befitting for such a knight to enjoy. for of a surety it will be a great honor for to have such a knight amongst us." then sir gawaine and sir gaheris were much pleased that the king should so favor their brother, wherefore they fulfilled that command to the full, for they chose them such a court as was as noble as possible, and they set forth upon that journey as the king had commanded. [sidenote: _sir gawaine and sir gaheris depart to find sir gareth._] so they travelled for one whole day and for a part of another day, and toward the afternoon of that second day they beheld a great company of knights and lords and ladies ahorseback coming toward them. and many esquires and attendants accompanied that fair company, and they so shone with cloth of gold and with many jewels and with bright shining armor that it bedazzled the eyes to look upon them. and sir gawaine and sir gaheris wondered what lordly company that could be. and when that company had come nearer, they two perceived that at the head thereof there rode two knights in armor and two ladies upon ambling palfreys and they saw that the two ladies were very beautiful. and when that company had come still nearer sir gawaine and sir gaheris perceived that one of those knights who rode with the ladies was none other than him whom they had aforetime called "beaumains"; and that one of the damsels was the damsel lynette who had come to court a short time before. [sidenote: _they meet sir gareth upon the way._] then when sir gawaine and sir gaheris perceived their brother at the head of that company they immediately set spurs to horse and raced forward to meet him with all speed they could command. and when they had come to where sir gareth was, they leaped down from off their horses and ran to him, crying aloud, "brother, brother!" and sir gareth leaped down from his horse and ran to them and so they kissed and embraced each other upon the highroad, weeping for joy. thus it was that sir gareth was acknowledged by those two noble and worthy knights-champion, his brothers, and so his kindred met him and gave him welcome. * * * * * [sidenote: _sir gareth becometh a knight of the round table._] and now it remains but few things to say; for there remaineth only to be said that sir gareth was received at the court with such rejoicings as you may well suppose. and it remaineth to be said that at that same time there suddenly appeared upon one of the seats of the round table near to the seat of sir launcelot of the lake a name in letters of gold, and the name was this: gareth of orkney. for from that time sir gareth became a knight of the round table, being elected thereto in that miraculous way that was usual in the case of those who were chosen for that high and worshipful companionship. and it remaineth to be told that in a little while sir gareth was wedded to the lady layonnesse with great pomp and ceremony and that thereafter he returned with her to the castle dangerous of which he was now the lord. and in after times sir gareth became one of the most famous of all the knights of the table round, so that much is told of him in divers books of chivalry. yet there shall be no more told of his adventures at this place, albeit there may be more said concerning him in another book which shall follow this book. yet it is to be said that these are the most famous adventures that befel him, and that the history of gareth and lynette is the one which is most often told of in stories and sung in ballads and poems. * * * * * so endeth the story of gareth of orkney, which same was told at this place in part because it is a good worthy history to tell at any place, and in part because that time in which he did battle with and was knighted by sir launcelot, as aforetold, was the only time that sir launcelot was seen by any of the court of king arthur until after he had accomplished the adventure of the worm of corbin. for that which followeth dealeth of the adventure of the worm of corbin and with how that sir launcelot overcame that dragon and became acquainted with the lady elaine the fair, who was the mother of sir galahad, who was the flower of all chivalry. wherefore, if you would know that part of the history of sir launcelot that relates to those things, you must needs read that which is written hereinafter. [illustration] part iii the story of sir launcelot and elaine the fair _here followeth the history of sir launcelot's wanderings and of how he came to the town of corbin, and of how he slew the great worm of corbin that for somewhiles brought sorrow and death to the folk of corbin. here you shall also read the history of elaine the fair, the king's daughter of corbin, and of how for her sake sir launcelot fought in the tournament at astolat. all these and several other things are herein duly set forth, so that, should you please to read that which is hereafter written, i believe you shall find a great deal of pleasure and entertainment in that history._ [illustration: how sir launcelot held discourse with ye merry minstrels.] [illustration] chapter first _how sir launcelot rode errant and how he assumed to undertake the adventure of the worm of corbin._ and now you shall be told how it befell sir launcelot after that he had fought with sir gareth and had made him knight as told in the history of sir gareth. * * * * * you are to know that after sir launcelot left sir gareth he went his way very cheerfully, and many times he bethought him of how the damsel lynette had taken sir gareth to be a kitchen knave, and at that thought he would laugh with great joy of so excellent a jest. [sidenote: _sir launcelot rideth errant._] so with great cheerfulness of spirit he rode ever onward upon his way, whilst the daylight slanted farther and farther toward sunset. and, after awhile, the sun sunk in the west, and the silence of the twilight fell like to a soft mantle of silence upon the entire earth. the darkness fell, the earth melted here and there into shadow and every sound came very clear and loud as though the bright and luminous sky that arched overhead was a great hollow bell of crystal that echoed back every sudden noise with extraordinary clearness. then sir launcelot was both hungry and athirst and he wist not where he might find refreshment to satisfy the needs of his body. [sidenote: _sir launcelot meeteth the strolling minstrels._] so, thinking of food and drink, he was presently aware of the light of a fire shining in the gray of the falling twilight and thitherward he directed his way, and in a little pass, he came to where there was a merry party of strolling minstrels gathered around about that bright and cheerful fire. some of these fellows were clad in blue and some in yellow and some in red and some in green and some in raiment pied of many colors. and all they were eating with great appetite a savory stew of mutton and lentils seasoned with onions and washed down with lusty draughts of ale and wine which they poured forth, ever and anon, from big round-bellied skins into horns and cups that were held to catch it. these jolly fellows, beholding sir launcelot coming to them through the dusk, gave him welcome with loud voices of acclaim and besought him to descend from horseback and to eat with them, and sir launcelot was right glad to do so. so he dismounted from his horse and eased it of its saddle and turned it loose to browse as it listed upon the grass of the wayside. and he laid aside his shield and his spear and his sword and his helmet and he sat him down with those minstrels and fell to eating and drinking with might and main. and the minstrels bade him to take good cheer and to eat and drink all that he desired and sir launcelot did so. [sidenote: _the minstrels chaunt._] then, after sir launcelot and the minstrels had supped their fill, those lusty fellows brought forth other skins of wine and filling again the several cups and flagons they all fell to drinking and making merry. and several of the minstrels brought forth lutes and others brought forth viols, and anon he who was the chief minstrel called upon one to stand forth and sing, and that fellow did so, chaunting a rondel in praise of his sweetheart's eyes. after that, another sang of battle and still another sang in praise of pleasant living; meantime the others accompanied, with lute and viol, those who sang, and sir launcelot listened to their music with great pleasure of heart. all about them lay the deep silence of the moonlit night with only that one red spot of fire and of cheerful mirth in the midst of it, and the fire shone very bright upon the armor of the knight and lit up all those quaint fellows in red and green and yellow and blue and pied so that they stood forth against the blackness behind them as though they had been carved out from it with a sharp knife. then he who was chief among the minstrels said to sir launcelot, "messire, will ye not also sing?" at this sir launcelot laughed, and quoth he: "nay, good fellows, i cannot sing as ye do, but i will tell ye a story an ye list to hear me." [sidenote: _sir launcelot telleth a conte._] at that they all cried out to tell them that story and thereupon he did so, telling them a certain goodly conte of two knights who loved a lady, but she loved neither of them, having set her heart upon an esquire of low degree. so of these two knights the one became an hermit and the other by force of his knighthood brought it to pass that the esquire was exalted from his squirehood to become a king. but when the esquire became a king the lady would have none of him, but turned her love to the knight who had exalted him to his high estate. so the lady left the esquire who was king and married the noble knight who had made him king, and so, having made choice of the greatest and the noblest of all the three, she dwelt happily with him to the end of her life. to this the minstrels listed in silence and when sir launcelot had finished they gave him great applause without measure. after that the minstrels sang again and sir launcelot told them another tale of chivalry; and so with good cheer the night passed pleasantly away until the great round moon, bright and full like to a bubble of shining silver, floated high in the sky above their heads, very bright and as glorious as day and bathing all the world in a flood of still white light, most wonderful to behold. [sidenote: _sir launcelot would leave the minstrels._] then perceiving it to be midnight, sir launcelot bestirred himself, and he said: "good fellows, i thank ye with all my heart for the entertainment ye have given me, but now i am refreshed i must go again upon my way." to this he who was chief among the minstrels said: "sir knight, we would fain that you would remain with us to-night and would travel with us upon our way to-morrow, for indeed you are the pleasantest and cheerfulest knight that ever we met in all of our lives." [sidenote: _he asketh of some adventure._] at this sir launcelot laughed with great good will, and he said: "good fellows, i give you gramercy for your fair regard. ye are indeed a merry company and were i not a knight methinks i would rather be one of your party than one of any other company that ever i fell in with. but it may not be, for, lo! i am a knight and i must e'en go about my business as becometh one who weareth spurs of gold. so here and now we part. ne'theless you may haply do me one service, and that is to tell me whether anywhere hereabout is to be found an adventure such as may beseem a knight of good credit to undertake." upon this one of those minstrels spake saying: "messire, i know where there is an adventure, which, if you achieve it, will bring you such great credit that i believe sir launcelot of the lake himself would not have greater credit than you." at this sir launcelot laughed with great good will. "well," quoth he, "i would not be overbold, yet this i may say, that anything sir launcelot of the lake might not fear to undertake, that also i shall not fear to assume, and whatever he might find strength to do that also i may hope to accomplish. for indeed i may tell ye that i hold myself to be altogether as good and worthy a knight as ever is sir launcelot of the lake." "ha!" quoth the chief minstrel, "i perceive, sir knight, that thou hast a very good opinion of thyself. now, were sir launcelot here, haply thou wouldst not venture to reckon thyself so high as thou now dost." at that all those minstrels laughed in great measure, and sir launcelot laughed with them as loud as any. "good fellows," said he, "i believe i reckon myself to be no better than another man born of woman, yet this i have to say: oftentimes have i beheld sir launcelot and sometimes have i contended against his will, but never at any time have i found him to be stronger or worthier than am i myself. but let us not debate so small a matter as this. let us instead learn what is that adventure concerning which yonder good fellow hath to advise us." "messire," quoth the minstrel, "have ye ever heard tell of the worm of corbin?" "nay," said sir launcelot, "but tell thou me of it." [sidenote: _the minstrel telleth of the worm of corbin._] "sir," said the minstrel, "i will do so. you are to know that some ways to a considerable distance to the eastward of this place there is a very large fair noble town hight corbin; and the king of that country is king pelles. now one time it chanced that queen morgana le fay and the queen of north wales were upon a visit to corbin, and whilst they were there there was given in that place a great jousting and feast in their honor. [sidenote: _of the damsel who came to the feast of the king._] "whilst king pelles sat at table with the two queens (all of his court and his daughter elaine the fair being with him) there came into the pavilion where the feast was held a wonderfully fair damsel, tall and straight and clad from top to toe in flame-colored satin. in her hand she bare a paten of silver and upon the paten was a napkin, and on the napkin there was a wonderful ring of gold set with a clear blue stone. and the damsel spoke in a voice both high and clear, saying: 'lords and ladies, here have i a ring that may only be worn by the fairest and worthiest lady in this room.' "at these words, as you may suppose, there was a great deal of wonder and much expectation, and a great deal of talk. for some said that one lady should by rights have that ring and some said that another lady should have it. [sidenote: _of how queen morgana tryeth the ring._] "now the first to essay that ring was queen morgana le fay, for she supposed that this was a masque devised by king pelles in honor of her. so she took the ring in her hand and essayed to pass it upon her finger, but lo! it would not pass the first joint thereof. "at that queen morgana was filled with wrath, but still she dissembled her anger and sat, waiting to see what would next befall. [sidenote: _of how the queen of north wales tryeth the ring._] "so after queen morgana le fay had thus failed to wear that ring, the queen of north wales said unto herself, 'haply king pelles may intend this ring for me.' so she also took the ring and would have placed it upon her finger, but lo! it grew so large that it would not stay where it was placed, but fell off upon the table before the whole court of the king. "at this many who were there laughed aloud, and thereat the queen of north wales was filled with anger and mortification as much as queen morgana le fay had been. but she also dissembled her anger before the court and sat to watch what would befall. "so after these two queens had so essayed, several others of the ladies who were there each tried to put the ring upon her finger, but no one could do so, for either it was too large, or else it was too small. then last of all the lady elaine the fair, the king's daughter, essayed the adventure of the ring, and lo! it fitted her as exactly as though it had been made for her. "at this both of those two queens aforesaid were more angered than ever, for each said to herself, 'certes, this king hath done this to put affront upon us.' so that night they communed together what they should do to punish king pelles of corbin and the town of corbin for that affront which they deemed themselves to have suffered. [sidenote: _of how queen morgana layeth a curse upon the town._] "now the next morning those two queens quitted the court, and as they and their attendants passed by the market-place of the town they perceived where there lay a great flat stone that marked the centre of the town. then queen morgana le fay cried out: 'see ye yonder stone! beneath that slab there shall breed a great worm and that worm shall bring sorrow and dole to this place ten thousand times more than the shame which i suffered here yesterday. for that stone shall be enchanted so that no man may lift it. and beneath that stone the worm shall live; and ever and anon it shall come forth and seize some fair young virgin of this town and shall bear her away to its hiding-place and shall there devour her for its food.' "so it was as the queen said, and now that worm dwelleth at corbin beneath the stone, and ever bringeth sorrow and death to that place. and it cometh out only at night, so that the terror of the worm of corbin is greater than it would otherwise be, for no eye hath ever beheld it in its comings and its goings. so if any champion shall achieve the death of that worm, he shall be held to have done a deed worthy of sir launcelot of the lake himself." "friend," said sir launcelot, "thou sayest true and that were indeed a most worthy quest for any knight to undertake. as for me, i am so eager to enter upon that quest that i can hardly stay my patience." with this saying, sir launcelot rose from where he sat; and he whistled his horse to him and when his horse had come to where he was he put the saddle upon its back. and he took his shield and spear in his hand and mounted upon his charger and made him ready to leave that place. but ere he departed, the chief minstrel and several others came to him, and the chief minstrel laid his hand upon the horse's neck and he said: "i pray you, messire, tell us who you are who have seen sir launcelot of the lake so often and who declare yourself to be as good a knight as he." [sidenote: _sir launcelot revealeth himself to the minstrels._] then sir launcelot laughed and he said: "good friend, i am riding errant as you behold. in these my travels i would fain withhold my name from the knowledge of men. nevertheless, since we have eaten and drunk together, and since we have cohabited in good fellowship together, i will tell you that i myself am that very sir launcelot whom ye appear to hold in such high regard. wherefore it is that i am, certes, as good as he could possibly be, let that be saying much or saying little." so saying, sir launcelot set spurs to his horse and rode away and left them astonished at his words. and long after he had left those merry fellows he could hear their voices in the distance babbling together very loud with wonder that sir launcelot of the lake had been amongst them for all that time without any one of them suspecting him who he was. for by this time all the world knew sir launcelot of the lake to be the greatest champion that ever the world had seen from the very beginning unto that time. * * * * * after that, sir launcelot rode forward upon his way toward the eastward through the moonlit night, and by and by he entered a great space of forest land. and somewhile after he had entered that woodland the summer day began to dawn and all the birds began at first to chirp and then to sing very blithely and with a great multitude of happy voices from out of every leafy thicket. then up leapt the jolly sun and touched all the upper leafage of the trees and turned them into gold. [sidenote: _sir launcelot beholdeth corbin._] and anon the sun rose high and higher and when it was very high in the heavens sir launcelot came out of the forest into an open country of level meadows and of pasture-lands. and in the midst of that place, a great way off, he beheld where there was a fair walled town set upon a hill with a smooth shining river at its foot, and he wist that this must be the town of corbin of which the strolling minstrels had told him the night before. so sir launcelot rode forward and drew near the town. and as he drew closer to it he thought that this was one of the fairest towns that ever he had beheld in all of his life. for the castle of the town and the houses of the town were all built else of stone or else of brick, and a thousand windows sparkled in the brightness of the day, shining like to stars in heaven. and the river that flowed beside the town wound down between fair green meadows which lay upon either side, and betwixt banks of reeds and rushes and pollard willows, and it was like to a great serpent of pure silver lying in the grass. the walls of the castle and the walls of the town came down to the river, and stood with their feet, as it were, in the clear and crystal-bright water, and there were trees that overhung the water upon this side and upon that, and there was a bridge with three arches that crossed over the river and led to the town. all these things sir launcelot beheld and so it was that the town appeared exceedingly pleasant to his eyes. [sidenote: _sir launcelot bespeaks the town's folk._] now when sir launcelot had come pretty close to the town he met a party of town-folk with several pack-mules hung with bells and laden with parcels of goods. these sir launcelot bespoke, saying, "i pray ye, fair folk, tell me, is this the town of corbin?" thereunto they replied, "yea, sir knight, this is that town." sir launcelot said, "why are ye so sad and downcast?" whereunto the chief of that party--a right reverend man with a long white beard--made reply: "sir knight, wherefore do you ask us why we are sad? whence come you that you have not heard how we are cursed in this town by a worm that torments us very grievously; and how is it that you have not heard tell how that worm devoureth every now and then a tender virgin from our midst?" "sir," quoth sir launcelot, "i have indeed heard of this worm that bringeth you so much woe and dole. know ye that it is because of this very worm that i have come hither. for i purpose, if god's grace be with me, to destroy that vile thing and so to set ye all free from the curse that lies upon you!" "alas, sir knight," quoth the old man, speaking very sorrowfully, "i do not doubt that you are possessed of all the courage necessary for this undertaking, yet for all that you may not hope to succeed in your quest. for even if you were able to slay the worm, yet you could not come at it. for you are to know that it lyeth beneath a great stone and that the stone is sealed by magic which queen morgana le fay set upon it so that no man may raise it from where it lyeth." [sidenote: _sir launcelot speaketh words of cheer._] then sir launcelot spoke words of good cheer to that old man and to his companions, saying: "let that be as it may, yet for all that ye need not despair of succor. know ye not that naught can be achieved until it first be essayed? as for that enchantment that lyeth upon the stone, i tell ye this: behold this ring which i wear upon my finger! it is sovereign against all magic whatsoever, wherefore i know that the spells which bind this stone into its place cannot prevail against the counter magic of this ring. so ye shall be well assured that i shall lift that stone, and after that, when it shall be lifted and when it shall come to battle betwixt me and that worm, then shall the issue lie altogether with god, his grace and mercy." [sidenote: _how sir launcelot entered corbin._] now when those who were there heard what sir launcelot said, their hearts were filled with hope and joy, for it seemed to them that here indeed might be a champion who should deliver them out of their distresses. wherefore when they heard his words they presently lifted up their voices in loud acclaim, some crying, "god be with you!" and some crying, "god save you from destruction!" some crying this, and some crying that. then sir launcelot smiled upon them and said, "save you good people," and therewith set spurs to flank and rode away. but many of those who were there went with him, running beside his horse, seeking to touch him and even to touch the horse which he rode. and all the time they gave him loud acclaim without measure and without stint. for the virtue of sir launcelot went forth from him like a shining light wherefore it seemed to them that here was one who should certainly free them from the curse that lay upon them. * * * * * and thus it was that sir launcelot of the lake rode across that three-spanned bridge and into the town of corbin and so to his adventure with the worm of corbin. [illustration: sir launcelot slayeth the worm of corbin:] [illustration] chapter second _how sir launcelot slew the worm of corbin, and how he was carried thereafter to the castle of corbin and to king pelles and to the lady elaine the fair._ [sidenote: _the folk of the town welcome sir launcelot._] so thus it was that sir launcelot entered the town of corbin to slay the dragon that lay beneath the stone. and with his coming a great multitude gathered very quickly, hurrying from all sides, crying out and blessing him as he rode forward upon his way. and ever a great roar of voices sounded all about him like to the noise of many waters. [sidenote: _sir launcelot cometh to the place of the dragon._] so, upborn by that multitude, sir launcelot went forward very steadfastly toward the market-place of the town, in the midst of which lay that great stone, aforetold of, with the worm beneath it. and when he had reached the place, he bade the multitude abide where they were. so, upon that command, the people stood afar off, and sir launcelot went forward alone to where was the slab of stone. and he looked down upon the slab and beheld that it was very flat and wide and so big that three men might hardly hope to lift it. besides this, he beheld that it had been sealed by magic as had been reported to him, for many strange letters and figures had been engraved into the face of the stone. now you are to remember that it was aforetold of in the "book of the champions of the round table" that sir launcelot wore upon his finger a ring which the lady of the lake had given him when he quitted the lake; and you all remember that that ring was of such a sort that he who wore it might dissolve all evil magic or enchantment against which he should direct his efforts. wherefore it was that sir launcelot was aware, as he had already told the people outside of the walls of the town, that he might lift that stone even if another, because of the magic that was upon it, should not be able to stir it where it lay. so sir launcelot put aside his sword and his shield and he went forward to the slab and he seized the slab in both of his hands. and he bent his back and lifted, and lo! the bands of enchantment that lay upon the stone were snapped and the slab moved and stirred in the bed wherein it lay. [sidenote: _sir launcelot lifteth the stone._] then when the multitude of the people who gazed upon him beheld the slab how it moved and stirred in its bed, a great shout went up from several thousand lips like to one mighty voice of outcry. therewith sir launcelot bent again to the stone and heaved with all his might. and lo! he lifted the stone and he raised it and he rolled it over upon the earth. then he looked down into the hole that was beneath the stone and he was aware that there lay something in the hole that moved. and anon he beheld two green and glassy eyes that opened upon him and looked up at him from out of the hole; and he beheld that those eyes were covered over as with a thin film to shelter them from the dazzling light of the daytime. and as sir launcelot gazed he beheld that that thing which lay within the hole began to crawl out of the hole, and sir launcelot beheld that it was a huge worm, covered all over with livid scales as hard as flint. and the worm lifted the fore part of its body to the height of a tall man and gaped very dreadfully with a great mouth an ell wide, and all glistening with three rows of white and shining teeth. and sir launcelot beheld that the worm had as many as a thousand feet, and that each foot was armed with a great claw like the claw of a lion, as hard as flint, and very venomous with poison. and the worm hissed at sir launcelot. and its breath was like the odor of death. [sidenote: _the worm of corbin cometh forth._] such was that dreadful terrible worm that lay beneath the stone at corbin. and when the people of the town saw it thus appear before them in the broad light of day, they shrieked aloud with the terror of that which they beheld. for it was like to something that had come to life out of a dreadful dream, and it did not seem possible that such a thing should ever have been beheld by the living eyes of man. but sir launcelot beholding the worm in all its terror leaped to where was his sword and he seized his sword in both hands and he ran at the worm and lashed at it a blow so mighty that it might easily have split an oak tree. but the scales of the worm were like adamant for hardness wherefore the stroke of the sword pierced them not but glanced aside without harming the creature. then when the worm felt itself thus smitten, it hissed again in a manner very terrible and loud, and it reached out toward sir launcelot and strove to catch him into the embrace of a hundred of its sharp claws. but sir launcelot sprang aside from the embraces of the worm and he smote it again and again, yet could not in any wise cut through the scales that covered its body. and at every blow the worm hissed more terribly and sought to catch sir launcelot into its embraces. [sidenote: _sir launcelot doeth battle with the worm._] thus for a long time sir launcelot avoided the worm, but, by and by it came to pass that he began to wax faint and weary with leaping from side to side, weighed down as he was with his armor. so, at last, it befell that the worm catched sir launcelot in the hook of one of its claws, and thereupon they who looked on at that battle beheld how in a moment it had embraced sir launcelot in several hundred of its claws so that his body was wellnigh hidden in that embrace. and the worm, when it so held sir launcelot in its embrace, tore at him with its claws and strove to bite him with its shining teeth. and anon it catched its claws in the armor of sir launcelot and it tore away the epaulier upon the left side of sir launcelot's shoulder, and it tore away the iron boot that covered his left thigh, and it cut with its claws through the flesh of the left shoulder of sir launcelot and through the flesh of his thigh to the very bone, so that the blood gushed out in a crimson stream and ran down over his armor and over the claws of the worm. then sir launcelot, finding himself as it were thus in the very embrace of death, put forth all his strength and tore away free from the clutches of the worm ere it was able to do him further harm. and seeing how that the case was now so ill with him, he catched the haft of his sword in both of his hands, and he rushed at the creature and he stabbed with his sword into the gaping mouth of the creature and down into its gullet so that the cross-piece of the sword smote against the teeth of the creature's mouth. then when the worm felt that dreadful terrible stroke driven thus into its very vitals, it roared like a bull in its torments, and it straightway rolled over upon the ground writhing and lashing the entire length of its body, bellowing so that those who heard it felt the marrow in their bones melt for terror. [sidenote: _sir launcelot slayeth the worm._] but sir launcelot, looking down upon the lashings of the worm, beheld where there appeared to be a soft place nigh to the belly and beneath the scales of the back and sides, and therewith he rushed at the worm and plunged his sword twice and thrice into that soft spot, whereupon, lo! thick blood, as black as ink, gushed forth after those strokes. then again sir launcelot pierced the worm twice and thrice in such another place and thereafter it presently ceased to bellow in that wise and lay shuddering and writhing in death, rustling its dry scales upon the earth in its last throes of life. then sir launcelot beheld that his work was done and he stood leaning upon his sword, panting and covered all over with the blood and slime of that dreadful battle. and the people beholding how that the worm was now slain, fell to shouting aloud beyond measure. and they came running from all sides to that place like to a flood so that they filled the entire market-place. and they crowded around and gazed upon the worm with horror, and they gazed upon sir launcelot in wonder that heaven should have sent so wonderful a champion to save them out of their distresses. and ever sir launcelot stood there leaning upon his sword panting and with the blood flowing down from his shoulder and his thigh so that all that side of his body was ensanguined with shining red. [sidenote: _the knights of corbin do honor to sir launcelot._] so as he stood there, there came a party of knights riding into that place. these thrust their way through the multitude to where sir launcelot was in the midst of the crowd as aforesaid. when they had come to sir launcelot the chief of those knights said, "sir, art thou he who hath slain the worm?" sir launcelot said, "thou seest that i am he." then he who spoke to sir launcelot said, "messire, i fear me you are sorely hurt in this battle." quoth sir launcelot: "i am hurt indeed, but not more hurt than i have been several times before and yet live as you behold me." then those knights went and looked upon the worm where it lay and they gazed upon it with wonder and with loathing. and they gave great praise beyond measure to the knight who had slain it. after that they sent for a litter and they laid sir launcelot upon the litter and bare him away into the castle of corbin where king pelles of corbin was then holding his court in royal pomp of circumstance. and they brought sir launcelot to a fair chamber of the castle where a number of attendants came to him and eased him of his armor and led him to a bath of tepid water steeped with healing herbs. and there came a skilful leech and searched the wounds of sir launcelot and spread soothing unguents upon them and bound them up with swathings of linen. and after that they bare sir launcelot to a fair soft couch spread with snow-white linen and laid him thereon, and he was greatly at ease and much comforted in body. [sidenote: _king pelles of corbin doeth honor to sir launcelot._] then after all this was done in that wise, there came king pelles of corbin to that place for to visit sir launcelot, and with him came his son, sir lavaine, and his daughter, the lady elaine the fair. and sir launcelot beheld that king pelles was a very noble haughty lord, for his beard and his hair were long and amplelike to the mane of a lion, and resembled threads of gold sprinkled with threads of silver. and he was clad all in a robe of purple studded over with shining jewels and he wore a fillet of gold about his head set with several gems of great price. upon the right hand of king pelles there came his son, sir lavaine--a very noble young knight, newly created by the bath--and upon his left hand there came his daughter, the lady elaine the fair. [sidenote: _of the lady elaine the fair._] then sir launcelot looked upon the lady elaine the fair and it seemed to him that she was the most beautiful maiden that ever he had beheld in all of his life. for he saw that her hair was soft and yellow and shining like to the finest silk; that her eyebrows were curved and very fine, as though they had been marked with a sharp and delicate pencil; that her eyes were very large and perfectly blue and very lustrous, and as bright as precious jewels; that her forehead was like cream for whiteness; that her cheeks were like roses for softness of blush; that her lips were like coral for redness, and that betwixt her lips her teeth were white, like to pearls for whiteness. such was the lady elaine, as sir launcelot beheld her, and he was amazed at her surpassing beauty, and at the tender grace of her virgin youth. then king pelles and sir lavaine and the fair elaine came close to where sir launcelot lay upon his couch, and there they kneeled them down upon the ground. and king pelles spake, saying: "messire, what thanks shall we find fit to give to you who have freed this entire land from the dreadful curse that lay upon it?" "lord," said sir launcelot, "thank not me but give your thanks to god whose tool and instrument i was in this undertaking." "messire," quoth king pelles, "i have not forgot to give thanks to god. nevertheless seeing the instrument which he hath fitted to his hand is so perfect an instrument, one may praise that also. so we do praise you and give thanks from our heart to you for the deliverance which you have brought to us. now i pray you tell me who you are who have brought this great succor to our state, for methinks you must be some famous hero, and i would fain thank you in your own name for what you have done to benefit us." "lord," said sir launcelot, "this you must forgive me if i tell you not my name. for there is supposed to be shame upon my name, wherefore i am now known as le chevalier malfait, because in the eyes of those to whom i am accountable i have done amiss." "well," quoth king pelles, "i dare be sworn you have not at any time done greatly amiss in that which you have done. nevertheless an you will have it so, so it shall be as you will, and with us all of this place you shall be known as le chevalier malfait until such time as it pleases you to assume your proper name and title." * * * * * [sidenote: _sir launcelot lyeth sick in corbin._ ] thus i have told you all the circumstances of that famous adventure of the worm of corbin and there remaineth now only this to say: that sir launcelot did not recover from his hurt as soon as he had supposed he would. for the venom of the dragon had got into his blood, wherefore even after a twelvemonth had gone by, he still remained in the castle of king pelles at corbin, albeit he was by that time quite healed in his body. and also there is this to tell--that at the end of the twelvemonth aforesaid, king pelles came to sir launcelot and said to him: "messire, i would that you would henceforth dwell with us at this court. for not only would you be a great credit to any court in which you live, but here we all love you as one loveth the apple of his eye." [sidenote: _sir launcelot remaineth at corbin._] "lord," said sir launcelot, "ye cannot love me more than i love ye all who have been so good to me in the days of my sickness and disease. so i will be exceedingly rejoiced to remain with ye yet a while longer; for this is indeed a pleasant haven in which to rest in the long and toilsome journey of life, and i have nowhere else to go." then king pelles took sir launcelot into his arms and kissed him upon the brow and so they became plighted in friendship unto one another. so sir launcelot remained at corbin and went not any farther errant at that time. but meantime, and for all that while, there was great wonder at the court of king arthur whither sir launcelot had gone and what had become of him that no one in all of the world heard tell aught of him. [illustration: sir launcelot confideth his shield to elaine the fair] [illustration] chapter third _how king arthur proclaimed a tournament at astolat, and how king pelles of corbin went with his court thither to that place. also how sir launcelot and sir lavaine had encounter with two knights in the highway thitherward._ [sidenote: _king arthur proclaimeth a tournament._] now it fell upon a time that king arthur proclaimed a great tournament to be held at astolat, upon lady's day assumption. and the king sent word of this tournament throughout all the land, both east and west and north and south. so it came about that word of the tournament was brought one day by herald to king pelles at corbin, and when this news came to him he ordained that his court should make them ready to go to astolat to that passage of arms, in pursuance of the word that the herald of king arthur had brought to corbin. [sidenote: _sir launcelot is troubled._] then sir launcelot was much troubled in his mind for he said to himself, "i fear me that if i go unto astolat with this court there may be some one there who will know me." for sir launcelot was still very bitterly affronted at his kinsmen because that they had chid him so greatly for the manner in which he had ridden in a cart upon that adventure to rescue queen guinevere as aforetold of. for the pride of sir launcelot was stiff and stubborn and he could not bring himself to bend it or to break it. neither could he bring himself to overlook such an affront as that which he had suffered from the words that sir lionel and sir ector de marishad said to him. wherefore, until full justification had been rendered unto him, he was unwilling that any of his former companions should behold him or know him who he was. yet did he not see how he could refuse to obey the behest of king pelles, for as he was now become a knight of the court of the king of corbin he was bound to obey whatsoever that king should command him to do. wherefore he wist not what to do in this case, and so was much troubled in mind. [sidenote: _king pelles talketh with sir launcelot._] now king pelles was aware how it was with le chevalier malfait and that he was unwilling to go to the tournament at astolat. so one day the king took sir launcelot aside and he said to him: "messire, will you not also go with our court to this tournament that king arthur hath proclaimed?" to this sir launcelot said, "lord, i would rather that i did not go." king pelles said: "sir knight, far be it from me to urge you to go if it be greatly against your wishes; yet you are to know that it will be a very sad thing for all of us if you do not go with us. for it is the truth that you are, beyond all others, the foremost of our court, and its most bright and shining light; wherefore it will be sad for us if we go thither without you." then sir launcelot looked very steadfastly at king pelles and his heart went out toward the king and he said, "do you then desire my company so very greatly?" king pelles said, "yea." "well," said sir launcelot, "let it be so and i will go with you." and at that saying king pelles was glad beyond measure. so when the time came sir launcelot made him ready to go with the others to astolat, and when the day of departure arrived he went with them. [sidenote: _king pelles and his court journey to astolat._] thereafter they travelled by easy stages toward astolat, and upon the third day after their departure from corbin they came to the castle of a certain earl, which castle stood about three leagues or a little more from the town. this earl was a kinsman of king pelles and in great amity with him, wherefore he was glad to have the king and his court to lodge with him at that time. and they of corbin were also glad, for this was a very noble excellent place in which to lodge and all the other castles and inns nigh to astolat were at that time very full of folk. so it came about that king pelles and his court remained several days at that place, and in all that time sir launcelot kept himself ever in retreat, lest some one with whom he was acquainted should chance to see him and know him who he was. to this end, and that he might conceal himself, sir launcelot was most often with the court of the lady elaine the fair and not often with the court of the king. [sidenote: _the lady elaine and sir launcelot talk together._] now the lady elaine was not very well pleased with this, for she held sir launcelot in great admiration above all other men, and she would fain have had him stand forth with the other knights who were there, so that his nobility might be manifested amongst them. so one day whilst they two sat together in the garden of the castle of that earl (the court of the lady elaine and several lords of the king's court being near by playing at ball) the lady elaine spake her mind to sir launcelot upon this point saying: "fair sir, will you not take part in this noble and knightly tournament the day after to-morrow?" to this sir launcelot replied, "nay, lady." she said to him: "why will you not so, messire? methinks with your prowess you might win yourself very great credit thereat." then for a little sir launcelot was silent, and after a little he said to her: "lady, do you disremember that i call myself le chevalier malfait? that name i have assumed because my friends and my kinsmen deem that i have done amiss in a certain thing. now, since they are of that opinion i am very greatly displeased with them, and would fain avoid them until i am justified in their sight. at this tournament there will be many of those who knew me aforetime and i would fain avoid them if i am able to do so. wherefore it is that i am disinclined to take part in the battle which the king hath ordained." after this they were silent for a little, and then by and by the lady elaine said: "sir knight malfait, i would i knew who you really are and who are your fellows of whom you speak." at that sir launcelot smiled and said: "lady, i may not tell you at this present who i am nor who they are, but only that they are very good worthy knights and gentlemen." "aye," quoth the lady elaine, "that i may very well believe." so at that time no more was said concerning this matter but ever the mind of the lady elaine rested upon that thing--to wit, that sir launcelot should take part in that tournament aforesaid. so at another time when they were alone together, she said: "sir knight malfait, i would that thou wouldst do me a great favor." sir launcelot said: "lady, ask whatsoever thou wilt, and if it is in my power to do that thing, and if it is according to the honor of my knighthood, then i shall assuredly do whatsoever thou dost ask of me." "sir," quoth the lady elaine, "this is what i would fain ask of thee if i might have it. it is that thou wouldst suffer me to purvey thee a suit of strange armor so that thy friends might not know thee therein, and that thou wouldst go to the tournament disguised in that wise. and i would that thou wouldst wear my favor at that tournament so that i might have glory in that battle because of thee." [sidenote: _sir launcelot will take part in the tournament._] then sir launcelot sighed very deeply, and he looked steadfastly at the lady elaine, and he said: "lady, you know not how great a thing it is you ask of my pride, for i would fain remain unknown as i am at this present. and you know not what it is you ask of my knighthood, for wit ye it must be against my one-time friends and companions-in-arms that you would have me contend. so it is that if i should have success in such an affair as this, whatsoever credit i should win therein shall bring discredit unto them. moreover, i must tell you that never in all of my life have i worn the favor of any lady, having vowed my knighthood to one who is a queen and the wife of a king. natheless, though all this is so, yet far be it from me to refuse a boon when it is you who ask it of me. for i speak the truth, lady, when i say that i would freely lay down my life at your bidding. so in this case, maugre all that i have said, i will even do as you ask me, wherefore, if you will purvey me that armor of which you speak, i will do your will in all ways that i am able." so spake sir launcelot, and thereat the lady elaine smiled upon him in such wise and with such great loving-kindness that it was as though both her joy and her great love stood revealed in the midst of that smile. quoth she: "assuredly i shall gain great honor and glory at thy hands. for i believe that thou art indeed one of the very greatest and foremost knights in all of the world, as well as the perfect peer of all noble gentlemen." now the earl, the lord of that castle, had a son hight sir tyre, who was then lying abed, ill of a flux, and the armor of sir tyre was at that place. so the lady elaine went to the earl and she besought him to lend her that armor for the use of sir launcelot, and the earl listened to her and gave it to her. so she had the armor of sir tyre brought to sir launcelot and thus the lady elaine purveyed him in all wise for that tournament so that no one might know him who he was. [sidenote: _the lady elaine giveth her sleeve to sir launcelot._] then, after all this had been accomplished, the lady elaine came to the chamber where sir launcelot was, and her brother sir lavaine was with her. and the lady bore in her hand a sleeve of flame-colored satin very richly bedight with many pearls of great price. and she said to sir launcelot: "i beseech you to take this sleeve, sir knight, and i beseech you that you wear it as a favor for my sake." then sir launcelot smiled very kindly upon the lady elaine and he said, "will this give you pleasure?" and she said, "yea." then sir launcelot smiled again and he said, "it shall be in all things as you will have it." so he took the sleeve, and he wound it about the crest of the helmet he was to wear at the tournament, and the sleeve formed a wreath of satin about the helmet like to a wreath of fire. and the pearls upon the wreath were like to drops of dew as you behold them of an early morning. wherefore because of the brightness of that wreath and because of the pearls upon it, the favor of the lady elaine was of such a sort that all the world could not but see it what it was. and so sir launcelot accepted the favor of the lady elaine the fair. then after sir launcelot had thus accepted that favor, sir lavaine spake and said: "sir knight malfait, i beseech you that you will take me with you unto this tournament as your knight-companion. for i believe that in your company i shall assuredly gain me great honor and much glory and renown, wherefore i ask of you that you will grant me this great courtesy." [sidenote: _sir launcelot accepteth sir lavaine as his companion._] then sir launcelot looked upon sir lavaine and smiled upon him and loved him exceedingly, and he said to sir lavaine: "friend, i will gladly accept thee as my companion-in-arms, and i believe in very sooth that it would be hard for me to find any one whom i would be better pleased to have with me at such a time." and so it was that sir lavaine also had his will with sir launcelot. then sir launcelot turned him to the lady elaine and said, "lady, see you this shield and this armor of mine?" and she said, "yea, i see them." sir launcelot said: "lady, this shield is a very precious thing to me, for it and all mine armor was given to me by a very wonderful lady who is not of this world in which we mortals dwell. since that time she gave mine armor to me i have sought ever and in all wise to use those defences as became a gentleman so that whatever mark of battle there should be upon them there should be no mark of dishonor to mar their brightness. now i beseech you for to take this shield and that armor to your maiden bower and to hold them there in trust for me and that as sacredly as though they were your very life." therewith sir launcelot gave the lady elaine his shield and he said: "i charge you, lady, for to let no one touch this shield or to meddle with it until i return hither to reclaim it and mine armor of you." and the lady elaine said: "it shall be as you say, and i shall hold this shield and this armor as sacred as my life." [sidenote: _sir launcelot and sir lavaine depart for astolat._] so these matters were all brought to settlement and the next day sir launcelot in the armor of sir tyre, and sir lavaine in his own armor, rode out from the castle of that earl and away from that place and so betook their way toward astolat. now it chanced that same day that two very worthy knights of king arthur's court were upon that road on which sir launcelot and sir lavaine travelled to astolat, and these two knights were sir gawaine and sir mador de la porte. with these were several lords who paid homage and respect to them, and all that party stood beneath the shade of several trees nigh to a water-mill where it was very cool and pleasant. and some of those who were there sat upon their horses, and some had dismounted therefrom and were lying in the cool and pleasant grass beneath the shade. then sir gawaine perceived where sir launcelot and sir lavaine came riding and he said to those who were with him: "behold yonder two knights coming hitherward. now i am of a mind that sir mador de la porte and i shall try a fall with them, so stand ye by and see what happeneth." [sidenote: _sir gawaine and sir mador bespeak sir launcelot and sir lavaine._] so sir gawaine and sir mador took horse and rode a little forward and met the two and saluted them very courteously, and sir launcelot and sir lavaine saluted those others in like manner. then sir gawaine said: "messires, i pray ye tell me who ye are and whither ye go upon this pass." now sir launcelot knew very well who those two knights were because of the devices upon their shields. wherefore he changed his voice a little when he answered sir gawaine so that sir gawaine should not know him. and he said: "messire, i know not by what right ye demand such knowledge of us, nevertheless i may tell you that i am called le chevalier malfait, and this, my comrade, is hight sir lavaine of corbin. as for our journey and its purpose, i may furthermore tell you that we intend, god willing, to enter the tournament at astolat to-morrow, in which friendly battle you also, doubtless, intend to take a part." then sir gawaine said: "tell me, sir knight malfait, will you and your companion try a fall with me and my companions-in-arms?" now sir launcelot had no very great relish for such an encounter as that for he feared by some hap he should betray himself who he was. yet he wist that he must accept the challenge of sir gawaine, wherefore after a little while of silence he said: "sir knight, we two would fain go our way in peace, but an it cannot be otherwise we must needs accept your challenge. but will you not let be and suffer us to pass onward?" "well," said sir gawaine, "this is a strange thing that you should pretend to aspire to that tournament of to-morrow and yet have no heart to meet in friendly tilt two knights whom you encounter upon the way." "sir," quoth sir launcelot, "we fear you not in any wise, wherefore, make yourselves ready in god's name, and we upon our side will do our endeavor." [sidenote: _the four knights run a tilt._] [sidenote: _sir gawaine is overthrown._] so sir gawaine and sir mador de la porte made themselves ready as sir launcelot had advised, and when they were in all ways prepared they withdrew to a little distance so as to have a good course to run. then when all were ready for that encounter, each knight shouted and set spurs to his horse, and all four thundered together with such violence that the ground trembled beneath them. so they met in the middle of the course and so furious was the meeting of those four good knights that you might have heard the roar of that encounter for half a mile away or more. in that encounter both sir lavaine and sir mador broke each his spear upon his enemy and neither of them suffered a fall. but sir gawaine had no such fortune for his spear broke into splinters unto the very truncheon thereof, and the spear of sir launcelot held, so that sir gawaine was lifted out from his saddle and flung upon the ground with such violence that he rolled thrice or four times over and over before he ceased to fall. now those who looked upon that encounter were well assured that sir gawaine would easily overthrow his opponent into the dust, for sir gawaine was held to be one of the very greatest knights in all of the world. wherefore it was that when they beheld how violently he had been flung to earth by that unknown knight against whom he had tilted, they were astonished beyond all bounds of wonderment. but sir mador de la porte, when he beheld how sir gawaine lay there in the dust as though dead, voided his horse and ran to the fallen knight where he lay. and he raised the umbril of sir gawaine's helmet, and lo! the face of sir gawaine was like to the face of one who was dead. and at first sir mador thought that he was dead, but after a while sir gawaine sighed and then sighed again, and thereupon sir mador knew that he was not dead, but in a swoon from the violence of the fall. and sir mador rejoiced very greatly that no more ill had come of that encounter. then sir mador turned to sir launcelot, and cried out: "sir knight malfait, go thy way in the fiend's name. for indeed thou art well named malfait, seeing what an evil thing it is that thou hast done to this worshipful knight. for wit you that this is none other than sir gawaine, the nephew of king arthur himself, whom you have overthrown; and had you slain him, as at first i believed you had, it would have been a very ill thing for you. moreover, you are to know that this knight was to have been the leader of all those upon king arthur's side in the battle to-morrow-day, but now god knows if he will be able to wear armor again for many days to come. wherefore go thy way and trouble us no more." quoth sir launcelot: "well, sir knight, this quarrel was altogether of your own seeking, and not of ours. wherefore, if ill hath befallen this worshipful knight, it is of his own devising and not of mine." but sir mador only cried out the more vehemently: "go your way! go your way, and leave us in peace!" and thereupon sir launcelot and sir lavaine drew their bridle reins and set heel to horse and rode away from that place, leaving sir mador and those others who were there to cherish sir gawaine and to revive him from his swoon as best they might. [sidenote: _sir bernard of astolat followeth sir launcelot and sir lavaine._] now there was among those knights who were with sir gawaine and sir mador a certain old and very worthy knight of astolat, hight sir bernard, surnamed of astolat. seeing sir launcelot and sir lavaine departing in that wise, sir bernard hied him after them and when he had come up with them he saluted them, and said, "messires, i pray ye tell me where it is ye lodge this night." sir launcelot said: "fair sir, we know not where we lodge for we go to seek such lodging as we may find in astolat." sir bernard said: "you will find no lodging in astolat this night, for all places are full. now i pray ye that you will lodge with me, for i have a very good and comely house and i shall be greatly honored for to have you lodge with me. for i make my vow, sir knight malfait, that never saw i such a buffet as that which you gave to sir gawaine anon. nor do i believe that ever sir launcelot of the lake himself could have done more doughtily than you did in that encounter. wherefore, i think that you will win you great glory to-morrow-day, and that i shall have due worship if so be that ye two shall have lodged with me over this night." then sir launcelot laughed, and he said to sir bernard: "well, sir knight, i give you gramercy for your courtesy, and so we will gladly take up our inn with you until the time of the tournament. only this i demand, that we shall be privily lodged apart from any one else, for we wish it that we shall not be known until to-morrow and after this tournament shall have transpired." "messire," quoth sir bernard, "it shall all be as you desire." so those three rode on their way together until they had come to astolat and to the habitation of sir bernard of astolat. [sidenote: _sir launcelot lodgeth with sir bernard._] [sidenote: _king arthur knoweth sir launcelot._] now the habitation of sir bernard was a very fair house over against the castle of astolat where king arthur and his court had taken up their inn. and there was a high terraced garden belonging to the castle of astolat, and the garden overlooked the garden of the house of sir bernard. that day it chanced that king arthur was walking back and forth in that terraced garden where the air blew cool over the plats of flowers and grass. as the king so walked he chanced to look down over the edge of the terrace into the garden of sir bernard's house, and at that time sir launcelot was walking privily in the garden for to refresh himself, and no one was with him. at that time sir launcelot had laid aside his armor for the sake of coolness and was walking in light raiment and bareheaded to the air, wherefore it befell that king arthur immediately knew him who he was. then the king was much astonished to see sir launcelot in that place, and he said to himself, "what does sir launcelot here?" and at first the king was of a mind to send word to sir launcelot, bidding him to come to where he was. but afterward he bethought him that mayhap sir launcelot would be displeased at being thus summoned to declare himself. for the king perceived that sir launcelot did not choose to be known to any one at that time. so king arthur said to himself: "well, let be! to-morrow, i dare say, sir launcelot will declare himself in such a wise as shall astonish a great many knights who shall do battle against him upon yonder meadow-of-battle. wherefore, let him e'en declare himself in his own fashion." thus it was that king arthur communed within himself. wherefore he did not betray the presence of sir launcelot to anybody at that time, but kept that matter shut in his own bosom. nevertheless, when he had come again to where was his court, he said to the knights there assembled: "messires, i have this day beheld a certain knight who hath come hither who will i believe play his play with the best of you all at the jousts to-morrow." the knights who were there said to the king: "we pray you, lord, tell us who that knight is, so that we may pay him such regard as he is worthy of." "nay," quoth king arthur, "i will not tell you at this time who is that knight, but haply you will know to-morrow who he is." then one of the knights who was there said: "mayhap that was the knight who overthrew sir gawaine this day in the highroad over against the town a little distance away. he calleth himself le chevalier malfait, and hath for his companion a youthful knight hight sir lavaine, the king's son of corbin." then king arthur laughed, and said, "like enough that was he." and so the king departed into his lodging, leaving all those knights much wondering who that knight could be of whom the king spoke to them. * * * * * thus it was that sir launcelot and sir lavaine came to astolat, and now followeth the history of that famous bout at arms so far as it affected sir launcelot of the lake and his companion-at-arms, sir lavaine of corbin. for in that affair at arms, as you shall presently hear tell, sir lavaine gained him such great glory and renown that thereafter he was regarded as one of the great heroes of chivalry, and by and by received that crowning honor of becoming a knight-companion of the round table. [illustration] [illustration: sir launcelot and sir lavaine overlook the field of astolat:] [illustration] chapter fourth _how sir launcelot and sir lavaine fought in the tournament at astolat. how sir launcelot was wounded in that affair, and how sir lavaine brought him unto a place of safety._ [sidenote: _of the lists at astolat._] so it is true that in these days one may not hope ever to behold a sight like to the field-of-battle at astolat upon lady's day assumption, when that tournament proclaimed by king arthur was about to be fought before the eyes of the king. for upon that morning--which was wonderfully bright and clear and warm--the entire green meadow was altogether covered over with a moving throng of people of all degrees--lords and ladies, knights and dames, esquires, burghers, yeomen and tradesfolk--all moving, each toward some stand from whence he might view the battle that was about to take place. and here were gay attires and bright colors and the fluttering of silk and the flash and sparkle of shining baubles, and because of the sheen and sparkle of all these the whole world appeared to be quick with life and motion. yet ever by little and little this confusion of many people pushing themselves hither and thither resolved itself to order as one by one that multitude took seat and brought itself to quietness. and so it came to pass at last that the field prepared for battle was cleared of all save a few who lingered and whom the guardians of the lists pushed back into their places. [sidenote: _the knights-contestant enter the field-of-battle._] then, all being thus brought to order, the marshal of the tourney blew his trumpet, and straightway there entered upon this side of that wide meadow and upon that side thereof the two companies of knights who were to contend the one against the other. then, lo! how the sunlight flashed upon shining armor! how it catched the pens and bannerets so that they twinkled at tips of lances like to sparks of fire! how war-horses neighed for love of battle! how armor clashed and shield plates rang as those goodly companies of knights brought themselves by degrees into array for battle! upon the one end of the meadow there gathered the knights-champion who were of the party of king arthur, and the chiefs of that party were the king of scots and the king of ireland, and with them were many knights of the round table, much renowned both in song and battle. and the number of knights of that company were two hundred and ten in all. [sidenote: _of the two parties-contestant._] upon the other end of the meadow of battle there assembled the party of those who were to withstand the party of king arthur; and the chiefs of that company were the king of north wales and the king of an hundred knights, and the king of northumberland and galahaut the high prince. and though there were no knights of the round table in that company, yet there were many champions of very great renown and high credit in courts of chivalry. and the number of that party were two hundred thirty and two. [sidenote: _sir launcelot and sir lavaine overlook the field of astolat._] now near to a certain part of the field-of-battle the trees of the forest came down close to the meadow, and made, as it were, a green wall of foliage circumjacent to that part of the field. here, beneath the shade of the green trees of the forest where it was cool and shady and very still, sir launcelot and sir lavaine had taken stand at a certain place whence they could look out upon those two parties of knights there gathered in battle array. and, that while, the eyes of sir lavaine shone like sparks of light and his cheeks were flaming red, like as though they were on fire, and his breath was thick and stifled when he breathed it. for this was the first great battle in which he had ever taken a part and he wist not what was to befall him in that affair at arms. but that same while sir launcelot neither moved nor spake but sat his horse like to a statue made of iron; calm and steadfast and gazing very steadily out upon that plain before him. then sir lavaine spake in a voice wonderfully high and clear. "messire," said he, "upon what side do you will that we take part in this battle?" quoth sir launcelot: "to neither party do i yet will that we shall join us. rather let us wait a while and observe the issue of this battle, and when we behold that one side is about to lose in the battle then will we join with that side. for if so be we aid to bring victory out of defeat for that party, then shall our credit and our glory be magnified in that same degree." and sir lavaine said, "sir, thou speakest with great wisdom." then, as those two watched in that wise, they beheld that three knights-champion came forth from one side and that three champions came forth from the other side and they wist that these six champions were to engage man to man and so to test the strength of this side and of that ere the two arrays should join in battle-royal. and sir launcelot knew these six champions very well and he declared to sir lavaine who they were. to wit, he declared that the champions upon king arthur's side were the king of scots and the king of ireland and sir palamydes, and that the knights of the other party were the king of northumberland, and the king of an hundred knights, and galahaut the high prince. [sidenote: _how the battle openeth._] then, even as sir launcelot was telling sir lavaine who were these six champions who thus stood forth to undertake battle against one another, the herald blew his trumpet very loud and shrill. and therewith, in an instant of time, each knight had set spurs to his horse, and each horse leaped forward from his station and rushed forward, and so they came, three knights against three, like to thunderbolts launched against one another. so they met together in the midst of the course with a crash of splintering wood and a roar of armor that might easily have been heard a mile away. in that meeting sir palamydes and sir galahaut the high prince smote down one another into the dust. and the king of an hundred knights smote down king angus of ireland with such terrible violence that he lay like dead upon the ground and had to be borne away out of the field by his esquires and could not again do battle that day. as to the king of northumberland and the king of scots, they broke each his lance upon the other without suffering a fall. so that first encounter was somewhat to the advantage of the party against king arthur. [sidenote: _of the grand assault at arms._] then all who beheld that noble encounter of knight against knight shouted aloud in acclaim, and the shout of that vast acclaim was like the multitudinous roaring of a strong wind in the forest. thereupon in the midst of all that roaring the herald blew his trump again and therewith the two parties contestant rushed the one upon the other, the earth shaking and trembling beneath that charge like to an earthquake. so in another moment they met together in such an uproar of iron and cracking of splintered wood that the ears of those who heard that meeting were stunned with the crash thereof. then all the air was full of dust and splinters of wood and scraps and shreds of silk and of plumes. anon, out of a thick red cloud of dust there arose the roar of a mighty battle; the shouts of men, the neighing of horses, the crash of blows and the groans of those who fell. at times, some knight would come forth out of the press reeling in the saddle and all red from some wound he had got. at other times, a party of esquires would run into that cloud, presently to come forth again bearing with them a wounded knight whom they had rescued. at other parts of the field there were knights armed with spears who ran tilt against one another, and ever and anon a knight would be flung from the saddle or else horse and knight would roll together upon the earth all in a smother of dust. so for a while the battle was toward and yet no one could see how it went. for what with all that dust and the contending of single champions, no one could tell whether it inclined to this side or to that. but after a while the dust lifted a little, and those who contended became fewer upon one side than upon the other and so stinted the fierceness of their battle. then it was that those who looked down upon that battle beheld that the party of king arthur was pushing their opponents back, little by little, toward the barriers upon their side of the field (and if so be they were pushed altogether against that barrier then was their battle lost for good). then sir launcelot said to sir lavaine: "behold yonder company of noble knights, how that they hold together and stand against their enemies in spite of that defeat which must certainly fall upon them in the end." "i see it," said sir lavaine, "and have great pity for them." "hast thou so?" said sir launcelot. "then let us take side with that side which is so sore bestead, for i believe that if you will help me a little we may well aid them and maybe stay the ill-fortune that seems like to overwhelm them." "sir," quoth sir lavaine, "spare not, and i upon my side will do the best that i am able for to help you." [sidenote: _sir launcelot and sir lavaine take part in the battle._] so with that sir launcelot and sir lavaine rode out from the forest wherein they had sheltered themselves, and they set their spears in rest and they drove forward to where those knights were doing combat. and they drove faster and faster forward until they drove full tilt into the thickest of the press. the history of these things saith that in this charge and in other charges that he made in that onset, sir launcelot smote down sir brandiles, and sir sagramore, and sir dodinas, and sir kay, and sir griflet, and the history saith that he smote down all those good knights of the round table with one spear ere that spear burst asunder. and the same history saith that sir lavaine smote down sir lucian the botteler and sir bedivere with one spear in that charge and that then that spear also was burst into pieces. and the history saith that sir launcelot got him another spear and that sir lavaine did likewise and that thereafter they two charged again as they had done before. and it saith that in this second assault sir launcelot smote down sir agravaine, and sir gaheris and sir modred and sir melyot of logres, and that sir lavaine smote down sir hozanna le cure hardy, and that after that those second spears were burst in assault as the first had been. then sir lavaine withdrew a little to get another spear, but by that time the madness of battle was upon sir launcelot so that he drew his sword and he ran into the thickest of the press and smote upon the right hand and the left hand with all his might and main so that in a wonderfully short pass he had smitten down sir safir and sir epynogris and sir galleron. and so terrible were the buffets he gave that all who were nigh to him drew away from him from fear of the terrible blows which he bestowed upon whomsoever came within his reach. [sidenote: _the lady elaine taketh joy in the battle._] by now all who looked upon that field were aware of how terrible a battle it was that the knight of the red sleeve fought against his enemies, wherefore they shouted aloud with a great voice of outcry and loud acclaim. and the lady elaine the fair beheld how her champion did battle, and seeing him she could not contain the passion of her joy, but laughed and wept and trembled for that joy. and she catched king pelles ever by the arm and cried out to him, "lord! lord! see what our champion doeth and what my brother doeth!" and king pelles said, "i see! i see!" and held tight hold of the rail of the dais before him. then king arthur where he sat said to those about him: "behold yonder champion, what battle it is he doeth. saw ye ever a better battle than that?" and they say, "nay, never so great a battle!" but when sir gawaine beheld the flame-colored sleeve that the champion wore about his helmet, he said to king arthur, "yonder knight is he who cast me down yesterday into the dust of the highway over against the town," and sir gawaine said, "because of that and because of the battle he now doeth, i would deem yonder knight to be none other than sir launcelot of the lake. and yet it cannot be sir launcelot, for this knight weareth the sleeve of some lady as a favor upon his helmet, and all the world knoweth that sir launcelot would never wear the favor of any lady in such a wise as that." [sidenote: _of the pause in battle._] meantime the battle was stayed for a little while, for at that time it seemed as though neither horse nor man could do any more for that while. yet though the battle was stayed, nevertheless each knight braced himself for a greater battle than that which had gone before. for all knew that now indeed the time had come when either one party or the other must win that battle. so in that pause of battle sir launcelot and sir lavaine each chose him a good strong new spear of ash wood, and each drank a cup of lusty spiced wine for to refresh his strength. and, ere they began to battle afresh, sir bors de ganis and sir ector de maris and sir lionel upon the other side called together such kindred of their blood as were upon that field: to wit, sir blamor de ganis, sir bleoberis and sir aliduke, sir galihadan, and sir bellanger--all these knights being of sir launcelot's kin. these say to one another: "if we do not overthrow yonder single knight who fights so wonderfully against us we shall certes lose this battle. for never knight fought so unless it was sir launcelot. for lo! he himself is the single bulwark against us in this battle." so it was that these kinsmen of sir launcelot ordained it that they should join themselves together for to overthrow that knight by main strength if need be. [sidenote: _his kinsmen take battle against sir launcelot._] [sidenote: _sir launcelot is wounded._] then anon the battle was called again and anon each side hurled itself against the other side, well knowing that at this time it must be else to conquer or else to lose. and in that charge the kinsmen of sir launcelot hurled themselves against that knight of the red sleeve and against those who were by him. and sir bors and sir ector and sir lionel drave three at once at sir launcelot and he drave against them--one against three. but so heavy was the might of the assault of those three, that they overthrew the horse of sir launcelot by the weight of their three horses so that the horse of sir launcelot and sir launcelot himself were cast down upon the earth beneath the feet of the horses of those who charged against him. and in that charge the spear of sir bors smote sir launcelot in the side, and the point of the spear burst through the armor of sir launcelot and pierced deep into his side. therewith the head of the spear brake from the truncheon and remained thrust deep into the side of sir launcelot, and sir launcelot groaned aloud, deeming that he had got his death wound. so sir launcelot lay upon the ground and could not rise and he would maybe have been beaten to death beneath the feet of the horses. but sir lavaine beheld how it was with him, whereat he shouted aloud with a great voice and he and all that party rushed to the aid of sir launcelot. and sir lavaine smote down the king of scots at one blow from out of his saddle. and he turned the horse of the king of scots to where sir launcelot lay. and he stood above sir launcelot and defended him against the assault of all those others who were around about, and so, maugre their vehement assaults, he brought sir launcelot to horse again. then sir launcelot was clean wode because of the passion of agony he suffered from that grievous wound he had got. wherefore he drew his sword and he stood up in his stirrups and he smote right and left like a madman. and he smote down one after the other sir lionel and sir bors de ganis, and he smote sir bleoberis such a buffet that he fell down to the earth in a swoon as if he had been dead. and in that time sir lavaine smote down sir bellanger, and two other knights of worship and renown. then sir launcelot turned him about and smote sir blamor down from off his horse and with that sir ector made at him. but sir launcelot was blind with his passion of battle and of pain, and he wist not who that was who came against him. wherefore he turned upon sir ector and he smote him so dreadful terrible a buffet, that the head of sir ector hung down low upon the neck of his horse. then sir launcelot catched sir ector and rushed off the helm from the head of sir ector with intent to slay him, for at that time he was so mad that he wist not where he was or what he did. [sidenote: _sir launcelot spareth sir ector._] then he beheld the face of his brother sir ector, and he beheld that face all white and wan from the blow he himself had struck, and he beheld his brother's cheeks all white and streaked with blood, and therewith his senses returned to him, and in that instant he wist where he was and what he did. thereupon he cried out in a great and terrible voice: "woe! woe! woe is me! what is it that i do!" and therewith he rushed away from that place where sir ector was, and he rushed into the thickest of the press, striking right and left like a madman in fury. and it stands recorded that all in all in that battle sir launcelot struck down thirty knights with his own hand, and that sixteen of those thirty were knights of the round table. and it is recorded that sir lavaine struck down fourteen knights and that six of those knights were knights of the round table. and it was because of sir launcelot and sir lavaine that their party prevailed in that battle. for, because beholding how they fought, their party took great heart and added strength to strength and so drave their enemies back across the meadow-of-battle until they were pushed back against the barriers of their side of the meadow and so the battle was won. and thus that was achieved that else had been lost had not sir launcelot and sir lavaine lent their aid to that party with whom they joined in battle against the party of king arthur. * * * * * but sir launcelot sat wounded nigh to death. yea, he deemed that the sickness and the sweat of death was even then upon him, for an exceeding faintness overclouded his spirit. to him where he sat came the king of north wales and the king of northumberland and the king of an hundred knights and these say to him: "sir, may god bless you, for without your aid, and that of your companion this day had certes been lost to us." and then they said: "now we pray you that you will come with us to king arthur so that you may receive at his hands the prize you have so worshipfully deserved." thus they spake very cheerfully, for not one of those worthies knew that sir launcelot had been so sorely wounded in the battle he had fought. [sidenote: _sir launcelot would fain depart._] then sir launcelot spake in a very weak voice, so that it sounded like to one speaking from a very great distance away. and he said: "fair lords, if i have won credit in this i have paid a fair price for it, for i am sore hurt and wist not what to do. now this i pray of you that you will suffer me to depart from this place, for i am in great pain and would fain go away from here to somewhere i may have aid and comforts." then those three kings would have had him go to a fair pavilion for to have his wound searched and dressed, but ever he besought them to suffer him to depart. so they suffered him, and he rode very slowly away from that place, and sir lavaine rode with him. * * * * * so it was that sir launcelot and sir lavaine did battle at that famous tournament at astolat as i have told you. and now if you would know how it fared with sir launcelot after he rode away from that place, wounded as aforesaid, you shall immediately hear of it in that which followeth. [illustration: sir gawaine knoweth the shield of sir launcelot] [illustration] chapter fifth _how sir launcelot escaped wounded into the forest, and how sir gawaine discovered to the court of king pelles who was le chevalier malfait._ so sir launcelot and sir lavaine rode away from that field of battle. and they rode together into the forest, and all that while sir launcelot contained his suffering to himself so that sir lavaine wist not how grievous was his wound nor how great was the passion of agony that he then endured because of that hurt. but after they had ridden a mile or two or three into the woodland, sir launcelot could no longer thus contain himself, wherefore he let droop his head very low and he groaned with great dolor. then sir lavaine was aware that some grievous hurt must have befallen sir launcelot. wherefore he cried out: "messire, i fear me ye are sore hurt. now tell me, i beseech you, how is it with you?" [sidenote: _sir launcelot declareth his wound._] then sir launcelot groaned again and he said: "woe is me! i suffer much pain." and therewith he made to dismount from his horse and would have fallen had not sir lavaine catched him and upheld him. after that sir lavaine aided sir launcelot down from his horse, and sir launcelot leaned against a tree of the forest, groaning as from the bottom of his soul, and sir lavaine wist not what to do to help him. then sir launcelot turned his eyes, all faint and dim, upon sir lavaine, and he said: "oh, gentle knight, sir lavaine, for the mercy of god i beseech you to pluck forth the blade of a spear that has pierced into my side, for i suffer a great pang of torment." then sir lavaine was aware of what sort was that wound and he made haste to strip off the body armor from sir launcelot. so, when that body armor was thus removed, sir lavaine beheld a grievous wound where the blade of the spear had pierced deep into the side of sir launcelot a little above the midriff. and sir lavaine perceived that the blade of the spear was yet in the wound and that the hurt was very deep. so beholding that wound sir lavaine wept, and cried out: "dear my lord! woe is me! i dare not pull out that blade; for an i do so, i dread me sore that you will die here in the forest ere aid can be brought to you and so it shall be i who killed you." "no matter," said sir launcelot, speaking very faint and with failing breath. "do as i bid you, for the point of that blade lieth near to my heart and i suffer a great deal of pain from it." [sidenote: _sir lavaine draweth for the steel._] then sir lavaine laid hold of the shaft of the spear, and he strove to draw forth the blade from out sir launcelot's side, yet he could not do so. and thereupon sir launcelot cried aloud in a very piercing voice, "spare not! spare not! but pull forth that steel!" so with that sir lavaine plucked again with all his might and he drew the steel forth from out of the wound. and as the blade came forth from out of the flesh, sir launcelot cried out again in a voice very loud and shrill, saying, "god! god! that this should be!" and with that a great issue of blood gushed out of the wound like a crimson fountain and sir launcelot sank down upon the ground in a swoon that was like the swoon of death. then sir lavaine believed that he had assuredly slain sir launcelot, wherefore he wept aloud with a great passion of grief, smiting his hands together and crying, "woe is me! for i have slain my dear lord!" thereupon he kneeled down beside sir launcelot and fell to feeling his heart. and he perceived that the heart still beat but very faintly, and so he wist that sir launcelot was not dead but only in a deadly swoon. so sir lavaine turned sir launcelot where that the wind blew upon him and after a while sir launcelot opened his eyes again. then with his sight all swimming he beheld sir lavaine kneeling beside him weeping, and he said, speaking in a voice very weak and faint, "lavaine, am i yet alive?" and sir lavaine said, "yea, lord." sir launcelot said, "then bear me away from this place." and sir lavaine said, "whither shall i take you?" sir launcelot said: "listen, friend, bear me away into the forest to the westward of here. for after a while to the westward of this place you shall find a forest path that runs across your way. and you shall take that path toward the right hand and so you will come after another while to the hut of an hermit of the forest. bring me to that holy man; for if any one can cure me of this hurt he alone can do so." sir lavaine said: "lord, how shall i take you such a journey as that, so that you shall not die?" sir launcelot replied: "i know not how you shall take me, but this i know: that if you take me not to that place i shall certes die here before your eyes in this forest." [sidenote: _sir lavaine beareth sir launcelot thence._] so sir lavaine, weeping, made a litter of straight young trees and he laid his cloak upon the litter and he bound the litter to the horses. then he lifted sir launcelot and laid him upon the litter as though it were a little child whom he laid there. thereafter he took the foremost horse by the bridle, and so, led away into the forest whither sir launcelot had bidden him to go. so in that wise they travelled in the forest for a great while and by and by night descended and the full moon arose all white and shining into the sky. and it rose ever higher and higher and it shone down upon the forest woodlands so that here it was all bright and there it was all agloom with shadow; and anon sir lavaine, as he led the horses in that wise, would walk in that silver silent light and anon he would be lost in those shadows. and all that while sir launcelot lay so still that several times sir lavaine thought haply he was dead. then he would say, "sir, art thou dead?" and ever sir launcelot would answer, "not yet." thus they travelled for a great while in that still forest (all so silent and wonderful) and beneath the clear pale moonlight that caused everything to appear like to an enchantment of stillness. so, somewhat after the middle watch of the night, sir lavaine beheld before him a little chapel built up against the rocks of a cliff of stone and beneath the black and umbrageous foliage of a large oak tree. and the moonlight shone down past the oak tree and bathed all the front of that little chapel with pure white silvery light, so still and silent that the chapel appeared as in a strange and singular picture as it were seen in a dream. [sidenote: _they come to the forest chapel._] thither sir lavaine led the horses bearing between them the wounded knight, whose face, as white as the moon above, was turned upward against the sky. and when sir lavaine had come to the door of the chapel he smote upon it with the butt of his lance; and he smote again, and therewith the door was opened and there appeared in the doorway the figure of an aged man with a long white beard like to snow for whiteness. and that man was the hermit of the forest afore spoken of several times in these histories. then when that reverend hermit beheld where sir launcelot lay in the litter, so sorely wounded, he came to him and felt of his heart. so, perceiving him to be alive, he aided sir lavaine to lift the wounded man from the litter and to bear him into the hut and to lay him upon a soft and fragrant couch of leaves and moss. at that time sir launcelot was in a deep swoon like as though he were dead; yet he was not dead, for after the hermit had bathed his face with strong wine, and after he had set pungent herbs to his nostrils, by and by sir launcelot revived so as to sigh very deep and to open his eyes. and sir launcelot said, "where am i? am i still alive?" the hermit said, "yea, messire." sir launcelot said, "i wist that maybe i was dead." then the hermit searched sir launcelot's wound and bathed it and put unguents upon it and bound it about with bandages of linen and so sir launcelot was put at ease. and after that sir launcelot fell into a deep sleep so still and profound that it was like to the slumber of a little child. * * * * * now whilst sir launcelot thus slept, sir lavaine and the hermit walked in the moonlight upon a little lawn of grass before the door of the hermitage. by and by the hermit said to sir lavaine: "sir knight, know you who yonder knight is whom you brought hither to-night?" and sir lavaine said, "nay, i know not, save that he calleth himself le chevalier malfait." [sidenote: _the hermit declareth sir launcelot's name._] "well," quoth the hermit, "god knows that all we who live upon his earth may easily do ill in his sight; yet i dare to say that that yonder knight hath done as little ill as any of us. sir, you must know that he is none other than sir launcelot of the lake." at this sir lavaine cried out aloud in great wonder, saying: "what is it that you tell me! lo! this knight hath dwelt at the court of my father, king pelles of corbin, for more than a year yet no one there wist that it was sir launcelot of the lake whom we entertained in our midst." "and yet," quoth the hermit, "that wounded man is none other than he." * * * * * [sidenote: _king arthur sits at feast._] now that same night whilst sir launcelot lay thus wounded in the hermit's cell in the forest, a great feast was held at astolat in the presence of king arthur. there were set fourteen tables in the great hall of the castle of astolat, and at those tables there sat down seven hundred in all of the lords and knights and ladies of that land--kings, earls, dukes, barons, knights, and esquires with their dames--fifty at each table. then king arthur looked all about but he beheld no sign of sir launcelot, wherefore he said to the king of north wales who sat nigh to him: "where is that worthy knight who was with you to-day--he who wore about his helmet a flame-colored sleeve embroidered with fair pearls of price?" to this the king of north wales replied: "lord, we know not where that worshipful champion now is. for although we besought him to come hither with us, and although we besought him to come to you so that you might award unto him the prize of battle, yet he would not. for he proclaimed himself to be wounded and craved our leave to withdraw himself--wherefore we gave him that leave and he hied him away and we know not whither he hath gone." "now i am right sorry for that," quoth king arthur, "for i would rather have that knight to feast with us than any one of all those who wear spurs in this hall. and i am still more sorry to hear that so worshipful a champion as that should have met with mishap in this battle of to-day. yet do i hope that wound which he suffered is not so sore but that he will soon be well again." "lord," quoth the king of north wales, "mefeareth that that noble knight, whomsoever he may be, hath been very grievously hurt; for when he spake to us his voice was passing weak and he appeared to suffer a great deal of pain." then king arthur was much grieved at what he heard and he said: "that is sad news for me, for rather would i lose half of my kingdom than that death should befall that noble champion." so said king arthur, yet he would not say who was that champion of the red sleeve, for he perceived that sir launcelot would fain conceal his name, wherefore neither would he betray it. [sidenote: _the lady elaine grieveth._] now king pelles sat not far from king arthur's high seat at the table, and the lady elaine the fair sat with him and several lords of their court were there also. these heard what was said between king arthur and the king of north wales, and when the lady elaine the fair heard how that her champion was so sorely wounded that he was like to die, it was as though a sword of terror had been thrust into her bosom; for hearing those words she turned all as white as ashes and sank back into her chair as though she would swoon. seeing her thus, all white and stricken, king pelles said, "daughter, what ails thee?" and she said: "my father, did you not hear how that the chevalier malfait hath been sorely wounded and mayhap may be even now lying nigh to death?" "yea, i did hear that," said king pelles, "but such is the chance of battle that every good knight is called upon to face." then the lady elaine cried out: "father! father! i am sorely afraid that great ill hath befallen that noble knight. now i pray thee, let us go hence." king pelles said, "whither shall we go?" she said: "haply, my brother, sir lavaine, will bring him to the castle of the earl our kinsman, wherefore i pray you, sir, let us make haste thither and see if that be so." and king pelles said, "it shall be as you will have it." so king pelles besought leave of king arthur to quit that feast, and king arthur gave him leave and king pelles withdrew with the lady elaine and all of his court from that company. yet when they returned to the castle of the earl, sir launcelot was not there, for, as hath been told, he lay at that time in the hermit's cell in the forest with his soul hanging in the scales betwixt life and death. [sidenote: _king arthur speaketh to sir gawaine._] but king arthur ever bore in mind how it was sir launcelot had been wounded, wherefore, when that feast was over, he took sir gawaine aside, and he said to him: "sir, i would that you would seek out that knight of the red sleeve where he is and bring him aid and succor." sir gawaine said: "lord, i pray you tell me; know you who is that knight? methinks he should be sir launcelot of the lake, for i know of no other than he who could do so nobly in battle as that champion did to-day. and yet, he cannot be sir launcelot, for you wist very well that sir launcelot would not wear the favor of any lady in such a wise as he wore the sleeve about his helm to-day. so i know not who that knight can be." "well," said king arthur, "when you have succored him then you will know who he is." [sidenote: _sir gawaine departs in search of sir launcelot._] so sir gawaine withdrew from the court to seek that wounded champion. and he remembered him that the knight had called himself le chevalier malfait and that his companion-in-arms was sir lavaine, the son of king pelles of corbin. so sir gawaine went to where were a number of knights who knew of king pelles, and he asked of these and of several others: "know ye, messires, where i shall find king pelles of corbin?" they say to him, "king pelles is lodging at such and such a place." so sir gawaine took horse and rode forth to the castle of the earl with whom king pelles had taken up his lodging, and king pelles and his court were still at that place. then sir gawaine made demand to have speech with king pelles and therewith he was brought before the king where he was. and the lady elaine the fair was with king pelles at that time, and sir gawaine, when he beheld her, was amazed at her beauty. then sir gawaine said to king pelles: "fair lord, can you tell me where i shall find that wounded knight who called himself le chevalier malfait?" king pelles said, "alas! i know not where he is." sir gawaine said, "lord, i pray you tell me who he is and what is his name." to this king pelles made reply: "messire, i know not who that knight is saving only that he came to us somewhat more than a year ago and that he slew the great dragon of corbin; and that he was sorely wounded in his encounter with the dragon. since that he hath abided at our court but never have we known him by any other name than le chevalier malfait." then sir gawaine said: "now i pray you tell me who was the lady who gave her sleeve as a favor unto that knight, for no doubt she may know who he is." then the lady elaine said: "messire, it was i who gave my sleeve to him, yet neither do i know who he is nor whence he came." sir gawaine said: "have you naught that you may know him by?" whereunto the lady elaine made reply: "sir, by leave of our cousin, the earl of this castle, i purveyed armor in which le chavalier malfait might do battle in this tournament. now when he quitted us he confided his armor and his shield to me that i might hold them in safe keeping for him until his return hither. perhaps you can tell from his shield who is that worshipful knight." sir gawaine said: "i prithee, fair lady, tell me what device was painted upon the shield?" and the lady elaine said: "i know not what was that device for the shield was all encased in leather laced upon it and painted white so that no one might see the device which it beareth." [sidenote: _sir gawaine knoweth sir launcelot's shield._] then sir gawaine said, "let me see that shield." and thereupon the lady elaine sent her attendants to fetch the shield and they brought it to her where they were. then sir gawaine unlaced the leather from the shield and drew the shield forth from its case, and lo! the shield shone all dazzling bright, like to the sun in his glory. and sir gawaine beheld the device upon the shield that it was a knight kneeling to a lady upon a field of silver, and by that he knew (and several others who were there knew) that it was the shield of sir launcelot. thereupon sir gawaine turned him to the lady elaine the fair and he said: "lady, it is no wonder that this knight who hath worn thy favor should have done so well in battle yesterday. for wit ye that this is the shield of sir launcelot of the lake and wit ye that it is to none other than he to whom you gave your sleeve. so i wish you much joy of that great honor that hath come to you through him; for you are to know that never hath it ever been heard tell of before this that sir launcelot hath worn the favor of any lady when he hath gone to battle." but as for the lady elaine, when she knew that it was sir launcelot of the lake to whom she had given her sleeve, she was filled full of a great joy and also with a sort of terror. for she had much joy that she should have been so wonderfully honored by that noble knight sir launcelot of the lake, and yet when she bethought herself how she had set her regard upon him who regarded no lady in the light of love she was filled with a sort of terror because she forecast that nothing but sorrow could come to her who had placed her heart and all her happiness in the keeping of this knight, who had no heart or happiness to bestow upon any lady in return. but king pelles was unaware of what thoughts lay within the heart of his daughter. his spirit was greatly uplifted with the thought that sir launcelot should have been a knight of his court for so long a while and he said: "messire, this is a very wonderful thing that you tell us, for who would have thought that he was sir launcelot who has been with us all this time? now i know not any glory that could come to us that should be greater than that; to wit, to have had that noble, worthy, and glorious champion for to serve as a knight of our court. for now, because of him, this court hath become famous for all time, that otherwise would not have been known very far or for a very long while." "lord," said sir gawaine, "i do indeed give you great joy of this honor that you have had through him; for i must tell you that yours is the only court in all the world in which sir launcelot has ever served as champion, saving only in the court of king arthur. wherefore this is a very singular honor that hath been visited upon you." so spake king pelles and so spake sir gawaine; but all that while the lady elaine the fair sat in silence saying naught to any one for her soul was so deeply disturbed with joy and pride that sir launcelot should have been her champion, and with fear and anxiety upon behalf of her knight--that she wist not very well what was being done or said by any of those who sat around about her. that night sir gawaine abided at the court of corbin, and there was a great feast prepared for his entertainment and all honor and regard was paid to him that was possible to pay any man, even were that man a king. and at that feast sir gawaine sat at the right hand of king pelles and the lady elaine sat upon the left hand of the king. and sir gawaine and the king talked a very great deal together, yet ever the lady elaine sat wrapped in silence, very distraught, passing by her food without tasting of it. for always her thoughts dwelt upon sir launcelot as aforesaid, and ever her heart was filled with anxiety as to what had befallen him and where he was, and how it fared with him and who was cherishing him in his sickness and his pain. yea, even, she wondered whether he was living or whether he was dead. wherefore it was she knew not what passed about her, but sat silent with her spirit remote and afar off from all those who made merry and laughed and talked and jested so nigh to her. for the soul in such times of trouble and anxiety is oftentimes very solitary and silent; ever wrapped in its own broody thoughts like to a spirit wrapped in a cloud of darkness that shutteth out from its sight all the bright world of gayety and rejoicing that lieth around about it. and so it was with the lady elaine at this season. * * * * * now, when the morning had come, sir gawaine departed from that place to return to the king's court which was still at astolat, there to bring them news that it was sir launcelot who had fought in that battle and that it was he who had been wounded. [sidenote: _queen guinevere is angered._] but when that news came to queen guinevere she was filled full of a great passion of anger and of indignation against sir launcelot and against the lady elaine. for it is to be remembered that sir launcelot had vowed his vows of service unto queen guinevere, and she upon her part had accepted those vows and acknowledged him as her knight-champion. wherefore it was that finding he had worn the favor of another lady in that wise, she was filled with a most consuming passion of anger. at first she would not believe that it was true that sir launcelot had worn the sleeve, and when she was convinced that it was true she withdrew herself from the sight of all, and went and locked herself into her chamber--and how it was with her in that place no one could tell. [sidenote: _queen guinevere bespeaketh sir bors._] then, after a while, she sent for sir bors de ganis, who was the nighest of kin to sir launcelot of all those then at court. and the queen said to sir bors: "what is this your kinsman hath done, messire? he hath forsworn himself and is shamed of his knighthood in my sight and in the sight of all. for who ever heard of any knight of worship who would swear his faith to one lady and yet wear the favor of another? so i say this knight is forsworn and is no true knight." quoth sir bors: "lady, there is no man in all the world who would dare to say to me that sir launcelot is shamed of his knighthood, but you may say that because you are a lady. now i pray you tell me why should not sir launcelot wear the favor of so kind and so beautiful a lady as that of the lady elaine, the king's daughter of corbin? such service cannot injure you, who have always to your service so high and noble a knight as king arthur himself!" so spake sir bors very sternly, and therewith queen guinevere's cheeks flamed like fire and she stamped her foot upon the ground in wrath and cried out in a very loud voice: "do you dare to speak thus to me who am your queen? i say this unworthy knight is forsworn in that he sware his faith to me, and that he came not to me to relieve him of that vow ere he accepted the favor of another lady. now i bid you go, find sir launcelot and bring him straightway hither that he may answer me to my face and that he may clear himself if he is able of that unknightly faithlessness." then sir bors was filled with indignation against the queen and at the same time he was filled with great pity for her. for many things came into his mind at that time, wherefore he did not choose to look into the queen's face, but only bowed low before her and said: "lady, it shall be as you command. i shall straightway go seek my kinsman and will bring your commands to him that he shall come and present himself before you." [sidenote: _sir bors departeth in search of sir launcelot._] so forthwith sir bors departed from the court to seek sir launcelot. but after he had left her the queen went into her privy closet and fast locked herself in. and she wept amain; and as she wept she communed in solitude with her soul, saying: "my soul! my soul! is it anger thou feelest or is it aught else than anger?" [illustration: sir launcelot leapeth from the window:] [illustration] chapter sixth _how the lady elaine went to seek sir launcelot and how sir launcelot afterwards returned to the court of king arthur._ now ever the lady elaine the fair, as aforesaid, took great grief beyond all measure concerning the fate of sir launcelot. for he lay wounded she knew not where and she knew not whether he were healing or dying. so upon a day she came to her father, king pelles, where he was, and she had been weeping a great deal--yea, even whilst she spoke to her father she began weeping afresh. so, still weeping, she said: "sire, i pray thee let me go and seek for this noble champion, sir launcelot of the lake, where he lieth wounded, for mefeareth he hath been so grievously hurt that he may even now be upon the edge of death." then king pelles said: "my daughter, what is this thou wouldst do? wouldst thou, a young damsel, go thyself errant in search of this wounded knight?" and the lady elaine said, "yea." the king, her father said, "this may not be." then the lady elaine wept all the more and with such passion that it was as though her heart would break. and therewith she kneeled down before her father and cried most vehemently: "sire, let me go! else i believe i shall become distracted with my fears lest he be dying of his wounds." then king pelles was very sorry for the lady elaine and he lifted her up and embraced her in his arms and kissed her upon the face. and king pelles sought to comfort her, wiping away the tears from her face. and he said, "my daughter, weep not so." she said, "lord, i cannot help it." then he said: "my daughter, weep no more, for it shall be as thou wouldst have it. go now in god's name upon this quest, if so be it will ease thy heart to do so, and i will send safe escort with thee." [sidenote: _the lady elaine departeth in search of sir launcelot._] so it was that the lady elaine the fair went upon that quest in search of sir launcelot, and her father purveyed for her such an escort as he had said. for he sent with her a company of seven worthy and noble knights with their esquires and attendants; and seven damsels of her court also went with her. these betook their way to astolat, for it seemed to the lady elaine that there they might best hope to have news of the wounded knight. and when they had come to astolat she took up her inn at that place, and sent forth several to make diligent inquiry if any news might be heard of the wounded knight. so those whom she sent made inquiry upon all sides, and upon a certain day, they found a woodchopper who had come out of the forest with a cart load of wooden fagots. this woodman brought news of sir launcelot and of sir lavaine; for he declared that he had seen them when they had entered the forest after the tournament. so her agents brought the woodchopper to where the lady elaine was, and she said to him, "what knowest thou, good fellow?" [sidenote: _the woodman telleth of sir launcelot._] to this the woodman made reply: "lady, i will tell you all. one day whiles i was in the forest i heard the sound of voices talking together, and greatly wondering what those voices were, i made my way privily to that place where i heard them speaking. there i beheld a half-armed knight who lay upon the ground all bathed in his own blood, and another knight, armed at all points, stood beside this knight, and the hands of the second knight were all red with blood. so methought that the armed knight had haply slain his fellow there in the woodlands in foul wise, for so it appeared to be. so whilst i stood there i heard that knight who lay on the ground complaining very grievously that he was hurt nigh to death, and i heard him entreat that knight who was armed that he should bear him to the westward and so by a forest path to the cabin of a certain hermit that dwelleth in those parts. therewith i went away from that place as privily as i had come thither, for methought that maybe some ill deed had been done at that place and that so i should be punished if i meddled in it; wherefore i went away and left those two knights in that wise." then the lady elaine the fair asked that woodman if one of those horses was white and the other piebald and he said: "yea, as white as milk and piebald with white and black." and the lady said, "then that must be they." [sidenote: _the lady elaine cometh to the forest chapel._] so that same day she and her company made them ready and they rode away from astolat and so came into the forest toward the westward. and after a while they came to a path that went across the way and they took that path to the right hand. so they travelled that path for a great while, and by and by they beheld before them the hut of the hermit where it was all built up against a great rock of the forest and overshadowed by the thick foliage of the aged oak tree that grew above it. then as they drew near they heard the neighing of horses and they wist that they must be the horses of sir launcelot and of sir lavaine. then, as the horses neighed in that wise, and as the horses of the lady elaine's party answered their neighing, there came one and opened the door of the hut and stood gazing at the lady elaine and her party as they drew near, shading his eyes from the slanting sun. and the lady elaine beheld who it was who stood there and she knew that it was sir lavaine, wherefore she cried out in a loud and piercing voice, "my brother! my brother!" then sir lavaine, when he heard her, cried out upon his part as in great amazement, "my sister, is it thou?" and therewith he ran to her and he took her hand and she stooped from her horse and kissed his lips. then she said to sir lavaine, "how is it with him, doth he live?" whereunto sir lavaine said, "yea, he liveth and will live, albeit he is weak like to a little child." she said, "where is he?" and sir lavaine said, "come and you shall see." [sidenote: _the lady elaine beholdeth sir launcelot._] so he lifted the lady elaine down from her horse and he took her by the hand and led her into the hut of the hermit and there she beheld sir launcelot where he lay upon a pallet and lo! his face was white like to white wax and his eyes were closed as though in slumber and it seemed to the lady elaine that he rather resembled a white and sleeping spirit than a living man. so the lady elaine went silently forward to where sir launcelot lay and she kneeled down beside the pallet and the tears ran down her face like to sparks of fire. therewith sir launcelot opened his eyes and he beheld her who she was and he smiled upon her. and sir launcelot said, "is it thou?" she said: "yea, messire." he said, "whence cometh thou?" she said, "i come from my father's house." he said, "and have you come hitherward from thence only for to find me?" whereunto she said, "yea." sir launcelot said, "why have you taken so great trouble as that upon my account?" and at that she bowed her head low and said, "certes, thou knowest why." and this she spake not above a whisper, and so that i believe they two alone heard her words. then sir launcelot said no more but lay gazing upon her albeit he could see naught but her head, for her face was hidden from him. so after a while he sighed very deep and said: "lady, god knows i am no happy man. for even though i may see happiness within my reach yet i cannot reach out my hand to take it. for my faith lieth pledged in the keeping of one with whom i have placed it and that one can never be aught to me but what she now is. and it is my unhappy lot that whether it be wrong or whether it be right i would not have it otherwise, and so my faith remaineth pledged as aforesaid." [sidenote: _sir launcelot and the lady elaine commune together._] now the lady elaine wist what sir launcelot meant and that he spoke of the lady queen guinevere unto whom he had vowed his faith of knighthood. and elaine wept and she said, "alas, launcelot, i have great pity both for thee and for me." and at that sir launcelot sighed again as from the bottom of his heart and said, "yea, it is great pity." then after a while the lady elaine came out from where sir launcelot lay, and she gave command that they should abide at that place until the wounded knight was healed of his hurt. so the lady elaine established her court there in the forest nigh to where sir launcelot lay. and they set up pavilions around about that place so that all that erstwhile lonely and silent woodland was presently gay with bright colors and cheerful with the sound of many voices. and methinks that these days, whilst the lady elaine dwelt there in the forest nigh to the chapel of the good old hermit of the forest, and whilst she abided ever close to sir launcelot in that time of his grievous sickness, were the happiest days of all her life unto that time. for it was as though sir launcelot were all her own and as though there was none in the world but they two. for ever she was nigh to him and cherished him in all ways, the whiles the voices of those others who were there sounded remote and afar off as though they were of a different world than hers. so ever the lady elaine drank deep draughts of love and joy, and thought not of the morrow, but only of the day and of the joys that the day set to the lips of her soul, as it were, in a bright, shining chalice of pure gold. for so it is, oftentimes, that the soul drinketh deep from that chalice and reckoneth not that at the bottom of the cup there lyeth the dregs of sorrow or of despair that must by and by likewise be quaffed, and which, when drunk, must turn all the life thereafter to bitterness, as though those dregs were compounded of the gall and of the wormwood of death. [sidenote: _they return to corbin._] thus the lady elaine the fair abided with her court there in the forest for nigh a month and by the end of that time sir launcelot was healed of his infirmities, though like to a little child for weakness. and after he was healed she then had a fair litter prepared with several soft cushions of down. and she had that litter hung with hangings of flame-colored satin; and she had them lay sir launcelot therein and so they bore him thence. thus they bore him in that litter by easy stages until they had brought him to corbin and there he was received with great rejoicing and high honor. * * * * * now it hath been told how that queen guinevere bade sir bors for to go seek sir launcelot and to bear him a command for to return to the court of the king. so sir bors did as the queen bade him, but he did not find sir launcelot until after he had been brought back to corbin as aforetold of. [sidenote: _sir bors cometh to corbin._] thereafter it happened that one day sir bors had news that sir launcelot was lying at the court of king pelles. so he went thither and there he beheld sir launcelot who was then wellnigh entirely recovered from his wound. but when sir launcelot beheld sir bors, such joy seized upon him that it was as though his heart would break, wherefore he ran to sir bors and he catched him in his arms, and embraced him with great passion and kissed him many times upon the face. and they of the court of king pelles were very glad that so famous a knight had come thither, wherefore they paid him great honor. only the lady elaine was troubled in spirit, for she wist that now sir bors was come sir launcelot would not stay with them for long, but that he would in a little while desire to return again to the court of king arthur. [sidenote: _sir bors speaketh to sir launcelot._] and so she had reason for her fears, for the next day after he had arrived at corbin, sir bors took sir launcelot aside and he said to him, "sir knight, i am a messenger." sir launcelot said, "what message have you, and from whom?" sir bors said: "i bear a message from queen guinevere and it is that you return immediately to the court of king arthur and that you present yourself to her and pay your duty to her as of old." then after sir bors had thus spoken, sir launcelot turned him away and stood at a window with his back to sir bors. and then after a considerable while he said, "sir, do you not know that my duty lieth here?" sir bors said: "that i believe full well. nor can i find fault with you if you remain here in spite of the message i bring you. that which i am here for is not to command you to come to camelot, but only to give you the commands of another." then sir launcelot said: "would you return to camelot if you were me and i were you?" sir bors said, "that i cannot tell." then after another while sir launcelot cried out: "nay, i will not go; for though my heart lieth there and not here, yet i hold the happiness of another in my hand and i cannot cast it away." "then," quoth sir bors, "i will return and tell them at the court of the king that your honor binds you here." and sir launcelot said, "do so." and then he said, "there is but one favor i beseech of you, messire." sir bors said, "what is that?" sir launcelot said: "it is this: i pray you of your courtesy that you will depart immediately from this place, for the sight of you bringeth to me such great desire to behold my kinsmen and my friends once more that i believe that i shall not be able to contain myself because of that desire if you remain here any longer." and sir bors said, "i will go within the hour." so that very hour sir bors betook himself away from corbin and returned to the court of king arthur, and when he had come there he delivered his message to the queen and thereat she was like one whose heart had been broken. for when she received that news from sir launcelot she withdrew into her bower and no one saw her for a long time thereafter. now after sir bors had departed from corbin in that wise, sir launcelot was very heavy and sad, and though several days went by, yet was he not less sad at the end of that time, but still walked like one in a dream with his thoughts a great way off. [sidenote: _the lady elaine biddeth sir launcelot to return._] and all this the lady elaine observed and her spirit was troubled because of the sadness of sir launcelot. so one day she sent for sir launcelot to come to her bower and when sir launcelot had come thither she said to him, "launcelot, i know what is in thy heart." sir launcelot said, "what is there in my heart?" she said, "it is in thy heart that thou wouldst fain return to the court of king arthur." "lady," said sir launcelot, "it matters not what may be my inclination at this present, for above all those inclinations it is my will that i remain at this place." then elaine looked very steadfastly at him and she smiled, but there was as it were despair in her face even though she smiled. and after a little she said: "not so, messire, for i cannot bear to see you dwell with us thus in sadness. wherefore, this command i lay upon you that you leave this court and that you return to the court of king arthur, which same is the place where you do rightly belong." then sir launcelot turned away from her, for he wist that there was joy in his face at the thought of returning to his kinsmen and his friends once more, and he would not have her see that joy. then after a while, and with his back turned, he said, speaking as with a smothered voice: "lady, if that be your command i must needs obey, but if i do obey you it shall be only to go for a little while and then to return after that while." so for a little no more was said, but the lady elaine ever gazed upon sir launcelot where he stood with his back to her, and after a while she said, "ah, launcelot! launcelot!" upon that sir launcelot turned him about and cried out, "elaine, bid me stay and i will stay!" but she said, "nay, i bid thee not, i bid thee go." then sir launcelot went from that place with his head bowed down upon his bosom, and after he had gone she wept in great measure, for it was as though she had cut off her hope of happiness with her own hand, as though it had been a part of her body. [sidenote: _sir launcelot returneth to court._] so the next day sir launcelot took horse and departed from corbin, betaking his way toward camelot, where was the court of king arthur, and though he thought a very great deal of the lady elaine, yet he could not but look forward with joy in coming back again to the court of the king and of beholding the queen and his knights companions once more. * * * * * [sidenote: _sir launcelot cometh to the queen._] now when sir launcelot reached camelot the news of his coming spread like fire throughout the entire place and everywhere was heard the noise of loud rejoicing and acclaim. but sir launcelot spake to nobody but came straight to where queen guinevere was and he stood before the queen and his face was very gloomy and he said to her, "lady, here am i." then queen guinevere gazed at him with great coldness and she said to him, "sir knight, what brings thee hither?" sir launcelot said: "lady, it is thy command that brings me. for alas! i find it to be thus with me that thy word hath power to bring me to thee whether it be from glory or from happiness or from peace or from prosperity. yea; all these things would i sacrifice at thy behest." then queen guinevere gazed upon sir launcelot for a long while and her soul was tossed and troubled with a great ferment of passion, and yet she wist not whether that passion was of indignation or of grief or of anger or of something else that was not like any of these. and first her face had been very white when he stood before her, and anon it flamed red like to fire, and she said: "sir knight, one time i sent my word to thee by a messenger and thou heeded him not. now it matters not that thou comest, for thy coming and thy going are henceforth of no moment to me." then sir launcelot's heart was filled to bursting with bitterness and despair, and he cried out aloud: "lady, thou beholdest me a miserable man. for i have left all my duty and all my service and all my hope of peace and happiness and have come to thee. hast thou not then some word of kindness for me?" but the queen only hardened her heart and would not answer. then sir launcelot cried out in great despair: "alas! what is there then left for me? lo! i have cast away from me all my hope of peace and now even thy friendship is withdrawn from me. nothing then is left to me and my life is dead." [sidenote: _the queen is angry._] then queen guinevere's eyes flashed like fire, and she cried out: "sir knight, you speak i know not what. now i bid you tell me this--is it true that you wore as a favor the sleeve of the lady elaine the fair at the tournament of astolat?" sir launcelot said, "yes, it is true." then the lady queen guinevere laughed with flaming cheeks and she said: "well, sir knight i see that you are not very well learned in knighthood not to know that it is both unknightly and dishonorable for a knight to sware faith to one lady and to wear the favor of another. yet what else than that may be expected of one who knoweth so little of the duties and of the obligations of knighthood that he will ride errant in a hangman's cart?" so spake queen guinevere in haste not knowing what she said, her words being driven onwards by her passion as feathers are blown by a tempest over which they have no control. but when she had spoken those words she was terrified at what she had said and would have recalled them. but she could not do that, for who can recall the spoken word after it is uttered? wherefore, after she had spoken those words she could do nothing but gaze into sir launcelot's face in a sort of terror. and as she thus gazed she beheld that his face became red and redder until it became all empurpled as though the veins of his head would burst. and she beheld that his eyes started as though from his head and that they became shot with blood. and she beheld that he clutched at his throat as though he were choking. and he strove to speak but at first he could not and then he cried out in a harsh and choking voice, "say you so!" and then again in the same voice he cried, "say you so!" [sidenote: _sir launcelot leapeth from the window._] therewith he turned, staggering like a drunken man. and there was a tall window open behind him, and straightway he leaped out of that window into the courtyard beneath, where he fell with a loud and dreadful crash. but yet it was as though he had not fallen for he immediately leaped up to his feet and ran away all bruised and bloody from that place like one gone wode. then queen guinevere shrieked aloud with a great passion of terror and remorse. and she cried out she knew not what and smote her hands very violently together. thereat several came running to her and to them she cried out in a voice of vehement passion: "go you, run with might and main and fetch sir launcelot hither to me again!" so those ran with all despatch but they could not find sir launcelot. for immediately after leaving the queen as aforesaid, he had leaped upon his horse and had thundered away with all speed, and no one knew whither he had betaken himself. [sidenote: _sir bors is indignant._] now the word of all this was talked about the court of the king almost as soon as it had happened, for all the court was loud with the noise of it. thereat, when the kinsmen of sir launcelot had heard what had passed, they were filled with great indignation at the manner in which he had been treated; and most of all sir bors was indignant, for he said to himself: "lo! this lady first sends me to seek my kinsman and to bring him to her and when he cometh at her bidding then she treats him with contumely altogether unworthy for a knight to endure. what then must sir launcelot think of me who was her foolish messenger to fetch him hither?" [sidenote: _queen guinevere bespeaketh the kinsmen of sir launcelot._] but queen guinevere, not knowing of the indignation of the kinsmen of sir launcelot, sent for three of them to come to her, and these three were sir ector and sir lionel and sir bors de ganis. when these three had come to her they found her weeping and when they stood before her she said, "messires, i have done amiss." to this they said nothing lest from anger they should say too much. yet the queen beheld their anger, wherefore she dried her tears and spake with pride, saying: "messires, i ask you not to forgive me who am your queen, but i would fain ask sir launcelot to forgive me and i know that out of his gentleness he will do so. now as your queen and sovereign i lay this command upon you, that you straightway go in quest of sir launcelot and that you find him and that you bring him hither to me so that i may beseech his forgiveness for all that i have said amiss to him." so spake queen guinevere, and those knights who were there, though they were very angry with her yet they could not but obey the command which she laid upon them. * * * * * [sidenote: _of the quest of sir launcelot._] so began the quest of sir launcelot concerning which a very great deal hath been both written and said. for upon that quest there went forth those three knights as aforesaid, to wit; sir ector, sir lionel, and sir bors de ganis, and after that there went forth sir gawaine and sir ewaine and sir sagramore the desirous and sir agravaine and sir percival of gales. all these undertook the quest of sir launcelot and in that quest several adventures happened to them. yet of all those adventures little of anything shall here be said saving only that which shall concern those adventures that befell sir ewaine and sir percival and sir gawaine; of which more anon. * * * * * and now there followeth the story of the madness of sir launcelot, and of how he returned in a very strange manner to the lady elaine the fair--and of how she was made happy by that return. [illustration] part iv the madness of sir launcelot _here follows the story of how sir launcelot went mad from grief and of how he roamed the woods as a wild man of the woods. also many other adventures that befell him are herein told, wherefore i hope that you may have pleasure in reading that which is here written for your entertainment._ [illustration: the madman of the forest who was sir launcelot:] [illustration] chapter first _how sir launcelot became a madman of the forest and how he was brought to the castle of sir blyant._ [sidenote: _sir launcelot driveth through the forest._] [sidenote: _sir launcelot falleth in a fit._] now when sir launcelot had quitted the presence of queen guinevere as aforetold, and having leaped to horse as aforetold, he rode very furiously away, he wist not whither and cared not. and he raced like a whirlwind, striving, as it were, to escape from himself and his own despair. thus he drove onward until he reached the shades of the forest, and he rode through the forest, rending the branches with his body, until his horse was all a lather of sweat. so he pursued his way till night descended upon him, and still he drove ever forward, he knew not whitherward. and he travelled in that wise all that night until about the dawning of the day, what time he came to that part of the woodland where was the hut of the hermit of the forest, and there he beheld the chapel and the cell of the hermit. here sir launcelot leaped down from his horse, and he burst very violently into the dwelling-place of that good man so that the hermit was amazed at his coming. and sir launcelot cried out in a loud and violent voice, "god save you!" and therewith he fell forward and lay with his face upon the floor. then the hermit ran to him and he lifted up his head and looked in his face and he beheld that sir launcelot was in a fit. so the hermit eased sir launcelot of his armor and he loosed the jerkin and the shirt at his throat so that his throat was bare. and he lifted sir launcelot and brought him to his own cot and he laid him down thereon and there sir launcelot lay for the entire day. but toward the sloping of the afternoon the sick man opened his eyes and he aroused and sat up and gazed about him, and he said, "where am i?" the hermit said, "thou art with me," and he further said, "what aileth thee, sir launcelot?" but to this sir launcelot answered naught but ever looked about him as though not knowing who he was or where he was; for he was like to one who is bedazed by a heavy blow he hath received. then by and by sir launcelot said, "i know not what it is that hath happened." thus he spake because his brains were bewildered by the passion through which he had passed, for even at that time the madness which afterward gat hold of him had begun to ferment in his brains so that he wist not very well what he said or did. then the hermit knew that some great trouble had befallen sir launcelot, and he thought that maybe if sir launcelot would eat he would perhaps be refreshed and might maybe recover his mind once more. so the good man said, "messire, will you not eat?" and sir launcelot said, "yea, give me to eat." [sidenote: _the hermit cherisheth sir launcelot._] so the hermit brought bread and milk and honey and fruit and he set those things before sir launcelot. and sir launcelot fell upon those things and ate of them very fiercely and voraciously, devouring them more like a savage than a worshipful and worthy knight. then after sir launcelot had thus eaten he said, "i am aweary," and therewith he arose and ungirded his armor, and laid it aside, piece by piece, even to the very last piece thereof. then when he was thus eased of his armor, he flung himself down in his jerkin and hose upon the hermit's pallet and therewith in a moment had fallen into a slumber so deep that it was like the sleep of death. and as he slept thus the hermit sat beside the pallet whereon sir launcelot lay. and he gazed very steadfastly upon sir launcelot, and was greatly grieved to see him in that condition. now it happened that about the middle of the night the hermit fell asleep where he sat and shortly after that sir launcelot awoke and was aware how the old man slept. and sir launcelot took of a sudden a great fear of the hermit he wist not wherefore, so that the only thought in his mind was to escape from the hermit. wherefore he arose and went very softly and in his bare feet out from that place, doing this so silently that he did not awaken the hermit from his sleep. [sidenote: _sir launcelot escapeth from the hermitage._] thus sir launcelot came outside the hermit's hut, and after he had thus escaped therefrom, he took of a sudden great fear lest the hermit should awake and pursue him for to bring him back to the hut again. so straightway he turned him and sped away into the forest with great speed, like as though he were a wild animal pursued by the hunter. and he fled away for all the rest of that night. and when the dawn had come he ceased to fly and he crouched down and hid himself in the thickets of the forest. for in his madness he was ever pursued by the fear that the hermit would follow him and that he was even then hunting for him for to bring him back to the hut again. thus it was that sir launcelot escaped from the hut of the hermit, and after that he abided in the forest for a long while. what time he gathered the wild fruit of the forest for his food. and he drank of the forest fountains and that was all the food and drink that he had. and after a while the clothes of sir launcelot were all torn into shreds by the thorns and briars, and his hair grew down into his eyes and his beard grew down upon his breast so that he became in all appearance a wild man of the forest, all naked, and shaggy, and gaunt like to a hungry wolf. [sidenote: _sir launcelot becometh the forest madman._] and now and again it chanced that some one who travelled in the forest would see him as he ran through the thickets of the woodland like to a wild creature, and hence it was that much talk of that wild man of the forest went about the countryside, and folk were afraid of all that part of the woodlands because of him. now one pleasant morning in the autumn season when the early frosts were come, and when all the trees had taken on their clothing of crimson and russet and gold, sir launcelot, in his mad wanderings, came to the edge of the woodland and there before him he beheld a little open plain all yellow and bright in the broad beams of the shining sunlight. and sir launcelot beheld that in the midst of that small plain was a fair pavilion of blue silk. and he beheld that near by the pavilion there were three horses tethered browsing upon the autumn grass. and he beheld that a bright shield hung to a tree that grew near the pavilion, and that a fair sword hung nigh the shield, and that a spear leaned against the tree beside the shield and sword. then sir launcelot was pleased with the bright color of the pavilion and something of knighthood awoke within him at the sight of the shield and the sword and the spear, wherefore he desired to handle the sword and the spear and to touch the shield. [sidenote: _sir launcelot beateth upon the shield of sir blyant._] so sir launcelot went forward into that plain and he came to the tree where were the sword and the shield and the spear. and he took the pommel of the sword into his hand. thereupon a great desire for battle came upon him, and he straightway catched the pommel of the sword in both his hands and he drew the blade forth from the sheath. and he whirled the sword about his head and he smote the shield; and he smote it again and again, striking great dents into it with the blade of the sword; and the sound of those blows made such a din and uproar that it was as though ten men were fighting in that place. therewith, at all that sudden din and uproar, there came running out of that pavilion a misshapen dwarf very broad of shoulder and strong of limb. and when that dwarf beheld a madman smiting the shield in that wise, he ran at him with intent to take the sword away from him. but sir launcelot beheld the dwarf coming in that wise, and straightway he dropped the sword which he held, and he catched the dwarf by the shoulders and he flung him so violently down upon the earth that the neck of the dwarf was wellnigh broken by that fall. then the dwarf was overwhelmed with the terror of sir launcelot, wherefore he did not dare to arise from the ground whereon he had fallen, but lay there calling out for help in a loud voice of outcry. thereupon, there immediately came forth from out of the pavilion a noble knight clad all in scarlet and wrapped in a scarlet cloak trimmed with miniver. and that knight was sir blyant whose castle stood not more than four or five leagues from that place. for at such pleasant season of the year, sir blyant was wont to ride forth with his lady, and ever when he chose he would have a pavilion set up in some such pleasant place as this little glade. and sometimes sir blyant and his lady would lodge in that pavilion over-night, as was the case at this time. [sidenote: _sir blyant pitieth the madman._] so sir blyant came forth out of the pavilion as aforesaid, and he beheld the dwarf lying upon the ground. and he beheld that sir launcelot had catched up the sword again, and that he stood above the dwarf, making play with his sword as though there were many enemies thereabouts; and sir blyant wist that he whom he beheld must be the madman of the forest of whom folk talked so much. then sir blyant pitied that madman a very great deal, and he spake very mildly to him, saying: "good man, put down that sword, for meseems thou art in greater need of food and of warm clothes and of nourishing and comforting than of playing with a sharp sword in that wise." but ever sir launcelot waved the sword this way and that, crying out in a great loud voice, "keep thou away or i will slay thee." then sir blyant perceived that there was great danger in having to do unarmed with that madman, wherefore he called upon his dwarf to arise and come to him, and therewith he withdrew into the pavilion with intent to arm himself and so to take away that sword from sir launcelot by force. [sidenote: _sir blyant armeth himself._] so the dwarf, who by that time had arisen from where he lay, went into the pavilion to where sir blyant was, and he aided sir blyant to don his armor, and so sir blyant armed himself from head to foot. when he was thus armed he took sword in hand and went forth from out of the pavilion prepared to deal with the madman in such wise as was necessary to take that dangerous sword from him. for even if it must be that he had to slay that madman, sir blyant wist that he must not leave him thus with a sharp sword in his hand. so sir blyant came out of the pavilion armed at all points. but when sir launcelot beheld him coming forth thus armed as for battle, the love of battle awoke to full life in his heart, wherefore he shouted aloud. and he rushed at sir blyant and he struck sir blyant upon the helm so fierce and terrible a buffet that nor guard nor armor could withstand that stroke. and had the sword not turned a little in the hands of sir launcelot that had been sir blyant's last day upon earth. [sidenote: _the madman overthroweth sir blyant._] natheless, the sword, though turned, fell with full force upon the crest of sir blyant, and at that dreadful, terrible stroke the brains of sir blyant flashed fire into his eyeballs. then blackness came roaring upon him and therewith he fell down in a deathly swoon, the blood running out from his nose and ears from the force of that woeful stroke he had suffered. so when sir launcelot beheld sir blyant fall thus beneath the blow, he shouted aloud for joy. and straightway with the naked sword in his hand he ran into the pavilion with intent to find what other enemies there might be in that place. now the lady of sir blyant was alone in that pavilion, so when she beheld that half-naked madman rush therein with the shining sword in his hand, and a terrible fierce look of madness upon his face, she shrieked with terror and straightway ran forth from the tent upon the other side thereof. so sir launcelot stood and gazed all about him, waving his sword from side to side, but could behold no enemies such as he might assault. and then he saw where there was a fine soft couch spread with a covering of flame-colored linen in that place, and therewith he ran to that bed and leaped into it and straightway covered himself all over with the coverlet. [sidenote: _the lady is adread._] when the lady of sir blyant ran in that wise out of the pavilion as aforesaid, she beheld where her lord, sir blyant, lay stretched out upon the ground, and she beheld the dwarf bending over him, removing the helm from his head. and beholding that sight she shrieked more than ever and ran frantically to where that stricken knight lay. therewith, beholding his face all white as milk and streaked with blood, she thought that he had certes been killed by that madman, whereupon she flung herself down upon his body, crying aloud in a most piercing voice, "my lord! my lord! assuredly thou art dead!" "not so, lady," said the dwarf, "he is not dead, but aswoon." and even as the dwarf spoke, sir blyant sighed very deeply and opened his eyes. and he said: "where is that madman who struck me anon? never in all my life felt i such a buffet as that which he gave me." the dwarf said, "lord, that madman ran but now into the pavilion and drove your lady out thence." "go, sirrah," said sir blyant, "and see what he is at in the pavilion." so the dwarf went very fearfully to the door of the pavilion and peeped within, and he beheld where sir launcelot lay sleeping upon the couch. thereupon the dwarf returned to sir blyant and he said: "sir, that madman hath taken to your bed, and he lyeth there now very soundly asleep as he were in a swoon." and then the dwarf said: "give me leave to take this sword and go thither and i will slay him where he lieth. for only so may we hope to save ourselves from the madness of his phrenzy when he shall awake." [sidenote: _sir blyant looketh upon the madman._] but sir blyant pitied the madman and he said: "let be and harm him not, for i misdoubt this madman is not what he seemeth to be." and he said, "help me to arise, for my head swimmeth." so the lady and the dwarf helped sir blyant to his feet and in a little while he was able to stand and to walk. and anon sir blyant went into the pavilion, and he went to where sir launcelot lay and he stood and looked down upon him. and he beheld that sir launcelot wore a rich ring upon his finger (and that was the ring of magic which the lady of the lake had given him) and he beheld that sir launcelot's body was covered with many scars of wounds such as a knight might receive in battle. so seeing these things, sir blyant said: "this is no common madman, but some great champion who has fallen into misfortune, for i behold that he weareth a ring such as only a knight of great credit might wear, and i behold that he beareth many honorable scars of battle." and sir blyant said to the dwarf: "take thou thy horse and ride with all speed to my castle. when thou art come there, bid my brother sir selivant to make haste hither with several men. and bid him to fetch a horse litter with him so that we may be able to bring this mad knight to where he may have succor and where he may haply be cured of his infirmities." so the dwarf did as sir blyant commanded him; he took horse and rode with all speed to the castle of sir blyant, and there he gave sir blyant's word to sir selivant. and straightway sir selivant came to that place with those men and a horse litter for to bring sir launcelot away; and he reached that place within three hours after the messenger had been sent to him. [sidenote: _they bear the madman thence._] so sir selivant and sir blyant and those men lifted sir launcelot as he lay in his bed, and they laid him on the litter and sir launcelot did not awake. and they took him away from that place and still he did not awake; for all that while he lay in a deep slumber that was like to a swoon. thus they brought him to the castle of sir blyant without his ever arousing from that swoonlike sleep. after that they fetched the barber of the castle and the barber trimmed the hair and the beard of sir launcelot and they put fresh decent clothes upon him, and all that time sir launcelot did not awake but lay ever in that swoonlike sleep. now when they of that castle beheld sir launcelot as he lay after he had been thus clothed and clipped; and when they beheld how noble and comely was his appearance, they said, "certes, this is indeed some noble and haughty champion of high estate, though who he may be we know not." so they all took great pity for sir launcelot, but yet they feared his phrenzy when he should awake. so they sent for the smith of the castle, and the smith fastened light strong chains of steel to the wrists of sir launcelot and to his ankles; so that he might do no harm to any one. [sidenote: _the madman is made prisoner._] so when sir launcelot awoke he was a prisoner in chains in the castle of sir blyant. and sir launcelot remained dwelling in the castle of sir blyant for a year and a half, and ever he remained bound with those light strong chains of steel. for still his wits flitted and he wist not where he was or who he was, wherefore they feared he might at any moment break forth into a phrenzy. but ever the folk of the castle treated sir launcelot with great kindness and gentleness. and especially sir blyant was kind to him, wherefore sir launcelot loved sir blyant as some dumb creature loveth its master, and he would follow sir blyant about whithersoever he went. thus it was that sir launcelot went mad and thus he came to be chained in the castle of sir blyant. and now remaineth other adventures to be told that befell at this time. [illustration] [illustration: the forest madman saveth ye life of king arthur:] [illustration] chapter second _how sir launcelot saved the life of sir blyant. how he escaped from the castle of sir blyant, and how he slew the great wild boar of lystenesse and saved the life of king arthur, his liege lord._ [sidenote: _sir blyant rideth in the woodland._] now it happened upon a day that sir blyant rode in a little wood nigh to his castle, and whilst he was thus alone he beheld two knights riding side by side all in the clear bright springtime. as these drew nigh to him sir blyant was aware from the devices upon their shields that one of them was sir breuce sans pitie and that the other was sir bertolet his brother, which same, you are to know, were sir blyant's bitter enemies. for in the tournament at astolat sir blyant had very grievously hurt a young knight who was their brother, and afterward that knight (whose name was sir gelotius) had died of those hurts. yet though sir blyant wist that this meeting boded ill for him yet would he not withdraw therefrom but went forward. so it came about that when he was pretty close to those two knights, the foremost of them (who was sir breuce sans pitie) rode forth and bespoke him, saying, "sir knight, who are you and whither go you?" sir blyant said: "messires, i am a knight of these marches, riding errant in search of adventure." sir breuce said, "art thou not sir blyant of the white castle?" sir blyant said, "thou sayest it and i am he." then sir breuce sans pitie spoke very savagely, saying: "sir knight, this is well that we meet you here who are the slayer of our brother sir gelotius at the tournament of astolat." to this sir blyant said: "messires, what do you have against me for that? certes, it is that i overthrew sir gelotius and that he died thereafter, yet it was by chance of battle that this happened and with no evil intent of mine. moreover, your brother, sir gelotius, took his chances of battle as did all those who entered that tournament." "say no more!" said sir breuce. "say no more! but prepare you straight for battle with us who have every day sought you from that time till now, and so have found you here to our hand." "messires," cried sir blyant, "would you fall upon me thus, two against one?" they say, "aye," and thereupon they drew sword and prepared themselves for battle. [sidenote: _sir blyant is assailed in the woodland._] then sir blyant perceiving how it was, and that there was no other way for him to do than to fight this battle against odds, straightway drew his sword and put himself into posture of defence. then in a moment they three came to battle together in the woods, two of them against the one. yet, for a while, although he stood one to two, sir blyant defended himself with great courage and address, striking now upon this side and now upon that, anon wheeling his horse away from a stroke, anon lashing a stroke at his enemies. and so great was the defence he made that it was a long time ere that those two knights had their will of him. but one knight could not hope to fight thus a continued battle against two who were his equals, wherefore it befell that in a little while sir blyant was wounded here and there, and in another place; and then, in a little while longer it came about that, what with weariness and what from the loss of blood, he was aware that he must die in that battle alone in the woodlands unless he saved himself from his enemies. [sidenote: _sir blyant fleeth._] therewith a great despair fell upon him and with that he put his horse straight at sir breuce as though to strike him a buffet. then as sir breuce drew aside to avoid that stroke, sir blyant drave his horse very fiercely against sir breuce's horse, so that sir breuce's horse wellnigh fell to the ground with his rider upon his back. therewith sir blyant thrust past his enemy and quickly fled away toward his castle with all the speed that he could drive his horse to make. now at first those two knights were astonished at the sudden escape of their enemy. but immediately they awoke to his going and so set spurs to horse upon their part and chased after sir blyant; and if he sped fast, they sped as fast after him. and ever and anon they lashed furiously at him, yet because of his speed they could do him no great harm. so sir blyant raced for his castle and he rushed forward beneath the walls of the castle with those two knights thundering after him amain. and because they were so close upon him, sir blyant could not draw rein to turn his steed into the drawbridge of the castle, but must needs rush past the drawbridge, calling for aid to those who were within the walls. [sidenote: _the madman beholdeth sir blyant's danger._] now at that time sir launcelot lay (chained as was aforetold) in a certain window of the castle where the sun shone down strong and warm upon him, and sir launcelot slumbered there in the sunlight. and as sir launcelot so slumbered he was aroused by the sound of galloping horses and a loud noise of shouting and the din of lashing of blows. so, looking forth from that window, he beheld the three knights as they came thundering past the walls of the castle. and sir launcelot beheld that the one knight who was pursued by the two knights was his master, sir blyant; and he beheld that sir blyant was much put to it to save his life; for he was all covered over with blood and, whilst anon he would wheel his horse and strike right and left, yet anon he would wheel again and flee for his life; and sir launcelot beheld that sir blyant reeled in his saddle under every blow that his enemies lashed at him. meanwhile, in the castle was a great shouting and calling to arms, wherefore it came to sir launcelot to know that sir blyant was being slain. [sidenote: _the madman breaketh his bonds._] then a great rage of battle awoke in sir launcelot's heart against those who pressed his beloved master, sir blyant, in that wise, wherefore he would have hastened to the aid of sir blyant, but could not because of the chains that bound him. then, in his madness, and being driven furious at being thus bound, sir launcelot catched those strong steel chains in his hands and wrestled with them. and the chains bit deep into his flesh in his wrestlings so that he was sore wounded by the iron. but in spite of that sir launcelot put forth his entire strength, and even though the blood flowed from his arms and hands yet he snapped the chains that bound his arms. after that he catched up a great stone in his hands and he beat upon the chains that bound his legs and brake those also, and so he was free again. then sir launcelot leaped upon the window-ledge, and he leaped out of the window of the castle and into the moat below and he swam the moat and so came out upon the other side thereof. right there came sir blyant striving to defend himself against those who followed him, and at that time he was very nigh falling from his horse at every blow he received. this sir launcelot beheld and when he saw how those two knights ever smote sir blyant and how that sir blyant reeled in his saddle beneath those blows, he roared aloud in pity and in rage. [sidenote: _the madman doeth battle for sir blyant._] therewith, thus roaring, he straightway rushed upon sir bertolet, who was nighest to him, and he leaped up and catched that knight about the body and dragged him down upon the pommel of his saddle with great force of strength, and sir launcelot catched the sword of sir bertolet and he wrestled with sir bertolet and so plucked the sword out of sir bertolet's hand. then sir bertolet cried out to sir breuce: "help! help! my brother! for this madman slayeth me." therewith sir breuce turned from sir blyant for to succor his brother, and upon that sir launcelot quitted sir bertolet and rushed at sir breuce. and sir launcelot gave sir breuce such a buffet upon the helm with the sword of sir bertolet that he smote sir breuce with that one blow clean over the crupper of his horse. then sir bertolet took his spear in hand and therewith rushed his horse upon sir launcelot with intent to pierce him through the body. but from that assault sir launcelot leaped nimbly aside. thereupon he rushed in and catched the spear of sir bertolet in his hand; and he ran up the length of the spear, and reached forward, and smote sir bertolet such a blow that he cut through the epaulier of the shoulder and deep into the shoulder to the very bone thereof, so that the arm of sir bertolet was half cut away from the body at that blow. then sir launcelot would have struck again only that sir bertolet let go his spear from his hand, shrieking aloud, and wheeled his horse to escape. now by that time sir breuce sans pitie had got him to horse again wherefore, beholding that terrible blow and beholding how his brother sir bertolet fled away from that madman, he also drove spurs to flank and fled away with might and main. so it was that sir launcelot, unarmed, save for the sword in his naked hand, defeated two strong and doughty knights and so saved his master's life. [sidenote: _sir blyant cherisheth the madman._] but by now the castle folk had come running to where were sir blyant and him whom they called the mad fool of the castle, and they beheld them both panting and bleeding. and sir blyant looked upon sir launcelot and beheld how his arms and hands were torn and bleeding from breaking those chains, and he said, "poor fool! and hast thou suffered all that for my sake?" and at that sir launcelot laughed and nodded. then sir blyant said to the folk of the castle: "never let those chains be put upon his body again, for he is gentle and kind, and meaneth harm to no one." so they did not chain sir launcelot again, but suffered him to go free, and after that he wandered whithersoever he willed to go, and no one stayed him in his going or his coming. and ever he was kind and gentle to all so that no one in all that place had any fear of him but all were pleased and merry with him. yet ever there lay within the heart of sir launcelot some remembrance that told him that he was too worthy to content himself with being a mad fool in a lord's castle, wherefore it was always in his will to escape from the castle of sir blyant if he was able to do so. [sidenote: _the madman escapeth from the castle of sir blyant._] so now, being unchained, it happened one night when none observed him, that he dropped privily from the wall of the castle into the moat thereof, and swam the moat to the other side. and after he had thus escaped into the night he ran on without stopping until he had reached the forest, and there he roamed once more altogether wild as he had been aforetime. for the remnant of his knighthood said to him that it would be better for him to die alone there in the woodlands than to dwell in shame in a lord's castle. * * * * * now at that time there was a great wild boar in those parts that was the terror of all men, and this boar was called the boar of lystenesse--taking its name from that part of the forest which was called the forest of lystenesse. [sidenote: _king arthur hunts the boar of lystenesse._] so word of this great wild boar, and news of its ravages came to the ears of king arthur, whereupon the king ordained that a day should be set apart for a hunt in which the beast should be slain and the countryside set free from the ravages thereof. [sidenote: _the madman chases the boar._] thus it befell that upon a time sir launcelot, where he lived in his madness alone in the forest, was aware of the baying of hounds and the shouting of voices sounding ever nearer and nearer to where he was. anon the baying of the hounds approached him very near indeed, and presently there came a great cracking and rending of the bushes and the small trees. thereupon as he gazed, there burst out of the forest that great savage wild boar of lystenesse. and lo! the jowl of that boar was all white with the foam that was churned by his tusks, and the huge tusks of the boar gleamed white in the midst of the foam. and the bristles of that great beast were like sharp wires of steel, and they too were all flecked with the foam that had fallen from the jowl of the beast. and the eyes of the wild boar gleamed like to two coals of fire, and it roared like to a devil as it fled, rending, through the forest. and ever the hounds pursued the boar, hanging upon its flanks but not daring to grapple with it in its flight, because of the terror that surrounded it. then when sir launcelot beheld that sight the love of the chase flamed up within his heart and thereupon he shouted aloud and fell to running beside the dogs after the boar, tearing his way through the briars and thorns and thickets, even as the boar and the hounds burst through them. and so sir launcelot and the dogs chased the boar for a great while, until at last the beast came to bay, with his back set against a great crag of stone, and there the dogs surrounded it, yelling and baying. and ever sir launcelot shouted them on to the assault, yet not one of the hounds dared to grapple with the wild beast because of the terror of its appearance. so as sir launcelot and the dogs joined in assault about the boar, there came the sound of a horseman riding with speed and winding his horn. then in a moment there came king arthur himself, bursting out of the forest alone; for he had outridden all his court and was the first of all upon the field. then king arthur, beholding the boar where he stood at bay, set his lance in rest with intent to charge the beast and to pierce him through the body. but the boar, all fierce and mad with the chase it had suffered, did not wait that charge of the king but himself charged the horseman. and at that charge king arthur's horse was affrighted, with the terror of the beast and flung suddenly aside so that the lance of king arthur failed of its aim. [sidenote: _the boar overthroweth king arthur._] therewith the boar ran up under the point of the lance and he catched the horse of the king with his tusks and ripped the horse so that both horse and rider fell to the ground; king arthur beneath the wounded animal, so that he could not free his leg to rise from his fall. then it would have been ill indeed with king arthur but for that forest madman. for beholding the fall of the king, sir launcelot ran straightway to him. and he seized the sword of the king and plucked it forth from its sheath. therewith he leaped at the boar and lashed at it a mighty buffet, and as he did so his foot slipped in the blood of the horse which there lay upon the ground, and he fell flat with the force of that blow which he purposed should destroy the boar. thereupon the boar, finding himself thus attacked by another, turned upon that other and ere sir launcelot could arise from his fall it was upon him. and the boar ripped sir launcelot with its tusks through the flesh of the thigh, even to the hip bone. [sidenote: _the madman slayeth the boar._] now, when sir launcelot felt the pang of that dreadful wound which the boar gave him he yelled aloud. at the same time his soul was filled with a great passion of rage and madness so that, ere the boar could charge him again, he leaped to his feet and rushed upon the boar. and sir launcelot smote the boar such a terrible dreadful stroke that he cut through the bristles of the neck and through the spine of the neck and half-way through the neck itself, so that the head of the boar was wellnigh cut away from its body. therewith the boar fell down dead and sir launcelot staggered and stood leaning upon the sword, groaning amain with the bitter pangs of pain that racked him. right so, as sir launcelot stood thus, the other huntsmen of the king's party came bursting out of the forest with the sound of horses and of shouting voices. then when sir launcelot beheld them he thought, because of his madness and the raging of his torments, that these were they who had hurt him. so therewith he roared like to a wild beast and he ran at those newcomers, whirling the sword of king arthur like lightning around his head. then several of those set their lances in rest with intent to run the madman through the body ere he could do a harm to any one, but king arthur cried out: "beware what you do! do him no harm, for he hath saved my life." so those who would else have charged sir launcelot held their hands and drew away in retreat before him. but already sir launcelot's strength was failing him, for his brains were even then swimming with faintness. so in a little he sank down in a swoon and lay all of a heap upon the ground. then the king, and the others who were there came to where he lay bleeding and swooning, and all looked down upon him, and because he was all naked and unkempt they knew him not. but nevertheless, they beheld that he was of great girth and that he was covered over with a great many scars of battle, and they all felt deep pity for him as he lay there. then king arthur said: "this is the framework of a mighty champion. pity indeed that he should have come to this as we behold him." and he said: "lift him up tenderly and bear him hence to where he may have comfort and nourishment." so they lifted sir launcelot with great gentleness, and they bare him away from that place, and they brought him to the hut of that hermit where he had been healed aforetime when he had received that grievous wound in the tournament at astolat. * * * * * so the hermit received sir launcelot and wist not who he was. for though he beheld that here was a man of mighty girth and stature, yet was the great champion so changed by his madness and by his continued fasting in the forest that even his nearest friends might not know him. nevertheless, though the hermit knew him not, yet he had them lay that forest madman upon a cot in his cell, and he searched that wound in the madman's thigh and bathed it with tepid water, and anointed it with balm and bound it up with bands of smooth white linen, so that that wound was in all ways well searched and dressed. [sidenote: _the madman lyeth in the hermit's cell._] and the hermit looked upon sir launcelot and beheld that he was all gaunt and hollow with hunger and he said: "if this poor mad creature is not fed, he will die in a little while." so when sir launcelot had revived him from that swoon, the good old man fetched milk and white bread and offered them to the sick man. but he would not touch that food. for, though he was dying of hunger, yet he loathed that food because of his madness. so sir launcelot lay there wounded and famishing and the hermit wist not what to do to make him eat. and he lay in that wise for three days and ever the hermit watched him and tried to make him partake of food, and ever the madman would fling away from the food that was offered him. [sidenote: _the madman escapeth from the cell of the hermit._] now upon the fourth day, the hermit being at his orisons in the chapel, sir launcelot made assay to rise, and in spite of his weakness, he did arise. and having thus arisen, he found strength in some wise for to crawl out of the hut of the hermit, and the hermit at his prayers wist not that the wounded man was gone. and after that sir launcelot crept away into the forest and so hid himself, very cunningly, like to a wild creature, so that, though the hermit searched for him ever so closely, yet he was not able to find him. and the hermit said: "alas for this! for certes this poor madman will die of his wound and of starvation all alone here in the forest, and no one can bring him succor." * * * * * so it was that sir launcelot escaped from the cell of the hermit a second time. and now it remaineth to be told how he returned to corbin and to the lady elaine the fair, and how the lady elaine cherished him and brought him back to health and strength and comeliness again. so i pray you to read that which followeth if you would fain learn concerning those things. [illustration] [illustration: the lady elaine the fair knoweth sir launcelot:] [illustration] chapter third _how sir launcelot returned to corbin again and how the lady elaine the fair cherished him and brought him back to health. also how sir launcelot with the lady elaine withdrew to joyous isle._ so sir launcelot escaped from the cell of the hermit as aforetold. and he lay hidden in the thickets all that day till the night had come. and when the night had come he arose and turned his face toward the eastward and thitherward he made his way. [sidenote: _how sir launcelot returneth to corbin._] for death was very close to sir launcelot and there was but one thought in his mind and that thought was to return to corbin. for even through his clouds of madness, sir launcelot wist that there at corbin a great love awaited him and that if he might reach that place he might there have rest and peace; wherefore in this time of weakness and of pain, he willed to return to that place once more. so sir launcelot made his way toward corbin, and he travelled thitherward several days and god alone knows how he did so. and one morning at the breaking of the day he came to the town of corbin, and he entered the town by a postern gate he knew of old. and after he had entered the town he made his way slowly and with great pain up through the streets of the town and the town was still asleep. so he came unseen to the market-place of corbin where he had aforetime slain the worm of corbin as aforetold, and there sat him down upon that slab of stone beneath which the worm had made its habitation. and why he came there who shall say except that maybe there lay very dimly within his mind some remembrance that here he had one time had great honor and glory of knighthood. [sidenote: _the people behold the madman._] so there he sat, and when the people of the town awoke they beheld sitting there in the midst of that market-place one all naked and famished who gazed about him with wild and terrified looks like to a starving wolf who had come out of the forest driven by hunger. and many gathered and stared at sir launcelot from a distance, and these laughed and jeered at him as he sat there in his nakedness, and not one of those wist that this was he who had aforetime slain the worm of corbin and so saved them in a time of their direst need. so they laughed and mocked him and anon some of those who were there began to cast stones at him with intent to drive him away from that place. so, at last, one of those stones struck sir launcelot where he sat, and at that his rage flamed up and took possession of him, whereupon he leaped up and ran at those who were tormenting him. and he catched a young man of the town and heaved him up and cast him down so violently upon the earth that he broke the bone of his thigh. [sidenote: _the people assail the madman._] upon that all those who were there shouted and screamed and fled away. and anon they returned and began stoning sir launcelot where he stood glaring and gnashing his teeth with the man whom he had hurt lying upon the ground at his feet. and many stones struck sir launcelot, some wounding him upon the head and some upon the body. and now and then sir launcelot would charge the mob in his rage, and the mob would scatter before him like chaff before a gust of wind; but ever they would return and begin stoning him again. so stoning sir launcelot and so sir launcelot charging the mob, the people drove him out of the market-place. and they drave him through the town and sir launcelot retreated before them toward the castle; for he wist even in his madness that there were friends there who should help him. so he ever retreated until he had come to a postern gate of the castle, and there he took stand with his back set against a wall. so at that place he maintained his stand, facing the mob and glaring upon them, until at last a stone smote him upon the head and he fell to the earth. [sidenote: _they of the castle save sir launcelot._] then it would have fared very hard with sir launcelot, even to his death, had not they within the castle, hearing the uproar of the multitude, flung open the postern gate of a sudden and so come charging out upon the mob. thereupon the multitude, being thus charged by the armed folk of the castle, scattered upon all sides and ran away, leaving sir launcelot lying where he was. then they of the castle came and gazed upon sir launcelot where he lay, and they beheld what a great and noble frame of man it was that lay there, and thereupon they took great pity that such a man should be in that condition. so the captain of the guard said: "alas, that such a man as this has been should come to such a pass. now let us lift him up and bear him away into the castle where he may have care and nourishment." so they did as that captain said, and they brought sir launcelot into the castle of corbin and to safety. [sidenote: _the lady elaine knoweth sir launcelot._] now it chanced that the lady elaine the fair happened to be at her window, and looking down therefrom and into the courtyard she beheld where several men at arms bore a wounded man into the castle from that postern gate. as they passed beneath where she was, the lady elaine looked down upon the countenance of the wounded man. then she beheld his face with the sun shining bright upon it, and at that a thought struck through her like to the stroke of a keen, sharp knife, whereat the lady elaine clasped her hands and cried out aloud: "my soul! my soul! what is this? can it be he?" now there was in attendance upon the lady elaine at that time a certain very old and sedate lady of the court who had been her nurse and caretaker ever since her mother had died, leaving her a little helpless babe cast adrift upon the world. and the name of that lady was dame brysen. so elaine ran to where dame brysen was and she cast herself upon her knees before dame brysen and buried her face in dame brysen's lap even as though it were her mother who sat there. and she cried out from where she lay with her face in that lady's lap, "alas! alas! alas! methinks i have beheld a most terrible sight!" dame brysen, speaking as in affright, said, "what hast thou seen, my child?" the lady elaine said: "methinks i have beheld sir launcelot all starved with famine, and bruised and bleeding, and lying so nigh to death that i know not whether he is dead or not." dame brysen said: "what is this thou sayst, my child? where sawst thou such a sight as that? hast thou been dreaming?" the lady elaine said: "nay, i have not been dreaming, for, certes, as i stood at the window a little while ago i saw sir launcelot, and several men bore him into the castle courtyard through the postern gate, and he was all naked and starved and wounded and bruised." the dame brysen said: "nay, child, calm thyself; what ails thee to think so strange a thing as that? that man whom thou didst see was not sir launcelot, but was a poor madman whom the townsfolk were stoning at the postern gate." but the lady elaine cried out all the more vehemently: "i fear! i fear! certes that was sir launcelot! now take me to him so that i may be assured whether it was he or not, for otherwise meseems i shall go mad!" then dame brysen perceived how it was with the lady elaine and that she was like one gone distracted, and she wist that there was naught to do but to let her have her will of this matter. wherefore she said, "it shall be as thou wilt have it." [sidenote: _the lady elaine cometh to sir launcelot._] so dame brysen arose and she took the lady elaine by the hand and she led her to that place where the madman lay, and they beheld that he lay in a little cell of stone, very gloomy and dark. for the only light that came into that place was through a small window, barred with iron, and the window was not more than two hands' breadth in width. yet by the dim light of this small window they beheld the wounded man where he lay upon a hard pallet of straw. and they beheld that he was in a sleep as though it were a swoon of death and they beheld that his face was like death for whiteness. then in that gloomy light the lady elaine came and kneeled down beside the couch whereon he lay and looked down into sir launcelot's face and she studied his face as though it were a book written very fine and small; and ever her breath came more and more quickly as it would suffocate her, for she felt assured that this was indeed sir launcelot. and anon she took sir launcelot's hand, all thin with famine and as cold as ice, and she looked at it and she beheld a ring upon the finger and the ring was set with a clear blue stone, and thereupon the lady elaine knew that this was the ring which the lady of the lake had given sir launcelot aforetime. [sidenote: _the lady elaine weepeth._] thereupon she knew that this was indeed sir launcelot and she cried out in a very loud and piercing voice, "it is he! it is he!" and so crying she fell to weeping with great passion. and she kissed sir launcelot's hand and pressed it to her throat and kissed it again and yet again. then dame brysen leaned over the lady elaine and catched her beneath the arm and said: "lady, lady! restrain your passion! remember yourself, and that people are here who will see you." therewith dame brysen lifted the lady elaine up from where she kneeled, and she brought her out of that gloomy place, still weeping with a great passion of love and pity. but yet the lady elaine had so much thought for herself that she drew her veil across her face so that none might behold her passion, and she said to dame brysen, "take me to my father," and so, dame brysen, embracing her with one arm, led her to where king pelles was. [sidenote: _the lady elaine telleth her father of sir launcelot._] then, when the lady elaine beheld her father standing before her, she flung herself upon her knees and embraced him about the thighs, crying: "father! father! i have seen him and he is in this castle!" at this passion of sorrow king pelles was much amazed and he said, "whom hast thou seen, my daughter?" she said: "i have seen sir launcelot, and it was he whom they fetched into the castle but now to save him from the townsfolk who were stoning him to death at the postern gate." then king pelles was amazed beyond measure and he said: "can such a thing be true? how knowest thou it was he?" she said: "i know him by many signs, for i knew him by my love for him and i knew him by his face, and i knew him by the ring set with a blue stone which he weareth upon his finger." then king pelles lifted up the lady elaine where she kneeled at his feet and he said: "daughter, stay thy weeping and i will go and examine into this." so he did as he said and he went to the cell and he looked long upon sir launcelot as he lay there. and he looked at the ring which the wounded man wore upon his finger. so after a while king pelles knew that that was indeed sir launcelot who lay there, albeit he would not have known him, had not the lady elaine first declared that it was he. so immediately king pelles bade those who were in attendance to lift sir launcelot up and to bear him very tenderly away from that place and to bring him to a fair large room. so they did as king pelles commanded and they laid sir launcelot upon a couch of down spread with a coverlet of wadded satin. and king pelles sent for a skilful leech to come and to search sir launcelot's hurts and he bade the physician for to take all heed to save his life. and all that while sir launcelot lay in that deep swoon like to death and awoke not. and sir launcelot slept in that wise for three full days and when he awoke the lady elaine and her father and dame brysen and the leech alone were present. and lo! when sir launcelot awoke his brain was clear of madness and he was himself again, though weak, like to a little child who hath been ill abed. [sidenote: _how sir launcelot awoke from his madness._] that time the lady elaine was kneeling beside sir launcelot's couch and hers was the face he first beheld. then sir launcelot said, speaking very faint and weak, "where am i?" and the lady elaine wept and said, "lord, you are safe with those who hold you very dear." sir launcelot said, "what has befallen me?" she said: "lord, thou hast been bedazed in thy mind and hast been sorely hurt with grievous wounds, wherefore thou hast been upon the very edge of death. but now thou art safe with those who love thee." he said, "have i then been mad?" and to that they who were there said naught. then sir launcelot said again, "have i been mad?" and thereupon king pelles said, "yea, messire." then sir launcelot groaned as from his soul, and he covered his face with one hand (for the lady elaine held the other hand in hers) and he said, "what shame! what shame!" and therewith he groaned again. [sidenote: _how sir launcelot was cherished._] then, ever weeping, the lady elaine said, "no shame, lord, but only very great pity!" and she kissed his hand and washed it with her tears. and sir launcelot wept also because of his great weakness, and by and by he said, "elaine, meseems i have no hope or honor save in thee," and she said, "take peace, sir, for in my heart there is indeed both honor for you and hope for your great happiness." and so sir launcelot did take peace. then after a while sir launcelot said, "who here knoweth of my madness?" and king pelles said, "only a very few in this castle, messire." then sir launcelot said: "i pray you that this be all as secret as possible, and that no word concerning me goes beyond these walls." and king pelles said, "it shall be as you would have it, messire." so it was that the news of sir launcelot's madness and of his recovery was not carried beyond those walls. [sidenote: _sir launcelot and elaine commune together._] now after a fortnight had passed, sir launcelot was fast becoming cured in body and mind. and one day he and the lady elaine were alone in that room where he lay and he said, "lady, meseems you have had great cause to hate me." at this she looked upon him and smiled, and she said, "how could i hate thee, launcelot?" sir launcelot said, "elaine, i have done thee great and grievous wrong in times gone by." she said, "say naught of that." "yea," he said, "i must say much of that, for i have this to say of it, that i would that i could undo that wrong which i did thee by my neglect. but what have i aught to offer thee in compensation? naught but mine own broken and beggared life. yet that poor life and all that it holds dearest i would fain offer thee if only it might be a compensation to thee." then the lady elaine looked very long and intently at sir launcelot and she said: "sir launcelot, thy lips speak of duty, but that which boots is that thy heart should speak of duty. for if so be that thou hast ever done me wrong, thou canst not hope to remove that wrong by the words of thy mouth. but if from thy heart thou sayst, 'i have wronged this one and i would fain make amends,' then indeed may that wrong be very quickly amended." then sir launcelot smiled and he said: "and so i have looked well into my heart ere i spake to thee, and so it is my heart that speaks and not my lips. for in my heart meseems i find great love for thee and certes i find all honor and reverence for thee lying therein, and moving me to everything that i now hope to do or to perform. now tell me, lady, what can any heart hold more than that?" and elaine said, "meseems it can hold no more." then sir launcelot took her by the hand and drew her to him and she went to him, and he kissed her upon the lips and she forbade him not. so they two were reconciled in peace and happiness. [sidenote: _sir launcelot and the lady elaine are wedded._] so when sir launcelot was altogether healed of his sickness, they two were married. and after they were married, king pelles gave to them a very noble castle for to be their dwelling-place and that castle was called the castle of blayne. that castle stood upon a very beautiful island in the midst of a lake of pure water as clear as crystal. and the island was covered over with many plantations and orchards of beautiful trees of various foliages. and there were gardens and meadows upon that island and there was a town about the castle so fair that when one stood upon the margin of that lake and gazed across the lake to the town and the castle he beheld such a place as one may see in a shining dream. so sir launcelot, because of the great peace of that island and because of the peace which he hoped to find there, called it the joyous isle, and so it was known of all men from that time forth. * * * * * so endeth this part of the history of sir launcelot with only this to say. that he dwelt there in joyous isle in seeming peace and contentment. [sidenote: _how sir launcelot dwelt in joyous isle._] yet was it indeed peace and contentment that he felt? alas, that it should be so, but so it was that ever and anon he would remember him of other days of doughty deeds of glory and renown, and ever and anon he would bethink him of that beautiful queen to whom he had one time uplifted his eyes, and of whom he had now no right to think of in that wise. then his soul would up in arms and would cry out aloud: "let us go hence and seek that glory and that other's love once more! are not all thy comrades waiting for thee to return, and doth not she also look for thee?" then sir launcelot would ever say to his soul, "down, proud spirit, and think not of these things, but of duty." but ever and anon that spirit would arise again within him and would struggle with the bonds of honor that held it in check. and ever sir launcelot would say, "that which remaineth for me is my duty and my peace of soul." for indeed it is so that the will of a man is but a poor weak defence against the thoughts that arise within a stubborn heart. for, though a man may will to do that which is right, yet may his thoughts ever turn to that which is wrong; and though he may refrain from doing wrong, yet it is in spite of his desirings that he thus refraineth. yea; there is no help for a man to contain himself within the bounds of duty, save only that he hath the love of god within his heart. for only when his feet are planted upon that rock may he hope to withstand the powerful thoughts that urge him to do that which is wrong. so it was with sir launcelot at that time; for though he ever willed to do that which was right, yet his desires ever called to him to depart from the paths of honor and truth in which he walked, and so he was oftentimes much troubled in his spirit. [illustration] part v the story of sir ewaine and the lady of the fountain _here beginneth the story of sir ewaine; of how he went forth to search for sir launcelot in company with sir percival of gales; of how they two met sir sagramore in a condition of great disrepute; and of how sir ewaine undertook a very strange adventure, in which he succeeded, after great danger to his life, in winning the most fair lady of the fountain for his wife._ [illustration: sir gawaine, knight of the fountain:] [illustration] chapter first _how sir ewaine and sir percival departed together in quest of sir launcelot, and how they met sir sagramore, who had failed in a certain adventure. also how sir sagramore told his story concerning that adventure._ it hath already been told in this book how certain knights of king arthur's court--to wit, sir ector de maris, sir lionel, sir bors de ganis, sir gawaine, sir ewaine, sir percival, sir sagramore the desirous and sir agravaine went forth upon queen guinevere's command to search for sir launcelot and to bring him back to the court of the king. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir ewaine ride forth together._] upon that quest, sir percival and sir ewaine rode together for the sake of companionship. and they made agreement to travel together in that wise until the fortunes of adventure should separate them. so they rode side by side in very pleasant companionship, taking the way that chance led them, yet everywhere seeking for news of sir launcelot, of whom they could find no word of any sort. in those days the world was very fresh and young, so that it was great pleasure to journey in that wise, for anon they two rode beneath blue skies and anon through gentle showers, anon up hill and anon down dale, anon through countryside, anon through town, anon through forest and anon through wold. yea; in those days, when the world was young, all things of life were so gay and joyous that it was little wonder that good knights like those twain took delight in being abroad in that wise, for so they might breathe more freely, out in the wider expanses of god's world, and so the spirit within them might expand to a greater joy of life than would be possible in court or in lady's bower. so those two worthy gentlemen travelled as aforesaid in good-fellowship together, journeying hither or yon for a fortnight, neither hearing aught of sir launcelot, or meeting with any adventure whatsoever, and lodging them at night at what place chance might happen to bring them. [sidenote: _they perceive a castle in a valley._] at the end of that time--to wit, a fortnight--they came to a certain high hill and from the summit thereof they beheld a valley that lay stretched out beneath them. and they beheld a fair tall castle that stood in the midst of that valley, and the castle was surrounded by a little town and the town was surrounded by many fair fields and plantations and orchards of fruit-trees. and at that time evening was coming on apace, and all the golden sky was fading into a pale silver, wonderfully clear and fine, with a single star, like a jewel, shining in the midst of the bright yet fading firmament. then sir ewaine said: "sir, let us go down to yonder place and seek lodging at that fair castle, for meseems that must be a very pleasant place to abide for the coming night." to the which sir percival replied, "let it be so, brother," and therewith they rode down into that valley and to that castle. and when they had reached the castle, sir percival blew his bugle horn very loud and clear, and straightway there came several of the attendants of the castle who bade them welcome and led them within the gateway thereof. there, when they had arrived, came the major of the castle, and requested them that they would tell what was their name and their degree, and when the two knights had announced these there was great rejoicing that two such famous champions had come thitherward. so several ran and took their horses in charge and others came and assisted them to dismount and others again led them into the castle and thence brought them each to a fair chamber, well bedight and with a very cheerful outlook. then came other attendants and assisted each knight to disarm and to disrobe, and after that they brought each to a bath of tepid water. thereafter, when they had bathed and dried themselves with fair linen towels, very soft and fragrant with lavender, these same attendants brought them rich robes of silk and garments of silk, and they dressed them and were at great ease and comfort. for thus it was that good knights of old were received in such castles and halls wheresoever they chose to abide in that adventurous wise. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir ewaine refresh themselves at the castle._] now after sir ewaine and sir percival had refreshed themselves and bathed themselves and had clad themselves as aforetold, there came to them a certain dignitary of the castle, who brought them word that the lord of the castle desired to have speech with them. so they two went down with that attendant, and he brought them to the great hall of the castle where was the lord thereof, standing to give them welcome. he was a haughty and noble worthy with a long gray beard and he was clad in a dark purple robe embroidered with silver. when he beheld sir ewaine and sir percival coming into that place, he hastened to meet them and give them greeting and welcome beyond stint. and he said: "welcome, welcome, fair lords! thrice welcome to this castle! for certes it is a great glory to us all to have you with us. moreover, i may tell you that already there is one of your fellows here at this place, and i believe you will be very glad to see him." quoth sir ewaine, "sir, who is it that is here?" [sidenote: _they hear news of sir sagramore._] "it is sir sagramore who hath come hither," said the lord of the castle, and at that sir ewaine and sir percival cried out with amazement. and sir ewaine said, "how came sir sagramore hither, fair lord?" "i will tell you," said the lord of the castle. "a little before you came hitherward, there arrived at this place a knight riding without a shield and seated upon a white mule. this knight requested rest and refreshment for the night, and upon our asking him his name and degree, he at first refused to tell, for shame of his condition; yet afterward he declared that he was sir sagramore of king arthur's court, and a knight of the round table. he also declared that he had met with a sad mischance and had lost his shield and his war-horse, wherefore he was travelling in that wise as i have told you." "sir," quoth sir ewaine, "this is a very strange thing i hear, that sir sagramore should be travelling in that unknightly wise. wit you that as sir sagramore is a knight of the round table, this matter concerns both sir percival and myself very closely. now i pray you for to let me have speech with him, so that i may know why it is that he hath travelled in that wise and without his knightly shield." "it shall be as you command, messire," said the lord of the castle, "and so i will straightway send a messenger to sir sagramore with word that you would have speech with him." [sidenote: _sir sagramore appeareth._] so the lord of the castle sent the messenger as he said, and anon there came sir sagramore to where they were. but when sir sagramore stood before sir ewaine and sir percival, he hung his head full low, as though not wishing to look those knights in the face because of shame that they should find him there in such a condition. then sir ewaine said to him: "sir, i pray you tell me how you came by such a mischance as this, so that you ride without your shield and upon a white mule like to a strolling demoiselle?" "messire," said sir sagramore, "i will tell you the whole story, for i would have you know that it was through no disgrace but by mishap of battle that i am come to this pass." quoth sir ewaine, "i may well believe that." then the lord of the castle said: "messires, ere you talk of these things i pray you to come to table and eat and drink and refresh yourselves. after that we may listen with a better spirit to what this knight has to tell us." [sidenote: _they all sit at feast together._] so that which the lord of the castle said seemed very good to those knights, wherefore they straightway went in to table in the hall and sat down thereat. and the table was spread with all manner of meats, and there was wine of divers sorts, both red and white, and they ate and drank with much appetite and great good-will. then when they were satisfied as to their hunger, sir ewaine said to sir sagramore: "now, messire, i pray you to tell us concerning that adventure which hath befallen you." sir sagramore said, "i will do so." then he said: [sidenote: _sir sagramore telleth of his adventures._] [sidenote: _how sir sagramore came to a wonderful valley of enchantment._] "you must know that when i travelled forth errant in search of sir launcelot, as several of my fellows did, i went forward upon my way, making diligent inquiries concerning him, but still could get no news of him. so i travelled onward in that wise, ever making inquiries as aforesaid, until two days ago, what time in the evening i came to a certain place a considerable distance to the east of this. there i found myself in a valley that i verily believe must be the fairest valley in the world. for in that valley i beheld a very pleasant expanse of meadow-lands all abloom with flowers, and i beheld many glades of trees of an even size, some abloom with blossoms and some full of fruit. and there was a river of very clear water that flowed down through the centre of the valley, and everywhere there were birds of curious plumage that sang very bewitchingly, so from these things i wist that this valley was very likely a place of enchantment. in the midst of that valley i beheld a very noble castle that was of as wonderful an appearance as the valley itself, so i rode forward into the valley and approached the castle. "as i drew near thereunto i beheld two youths clad in flame-colored satin who shot at a mark with bows and arrows. and the hair of the youths was yellow and curling, and each bore a frontlet of gold upon his head, and they wore upon their feet shoes of embossed leather with latchets of gold upon the insteps. "these two youths, as i drew near, gave me very courteous greeting, and besought me that i would declare to them my name and degree, and i did so. then they besought me that i would come with them to the castle, and i went with them with great content of spirit; for it seemed to me that this was likely to be a very fair and cheerful place to lodge over-night. so i entered with those two youths into the castle, and there came attendants and took my horse and there came others who unarmed me and led me to a bath of tepid water. after that i descended to the hall of that castle, and there i beheld that it was all hung with tapestries and fabrics of divers sorts and of very rich and beautiful designs. [sidenote: _sir sagramore meets the lady vivien._] "in that hall there were twelve ladies who sat embroidering cloth of satin at a window, and i think i have hardly ever seen any ladies who were so beautiful as they. immediately i entered that room these twelve ladies arose, and she who was the fairest amongst them came forward and gave me greeting. and immediately i knew that lady that she was the lady vivien who beguiled the enchanter merlin to his undoing and his ruin. yet in this time, i do assure you, she has grown more beautiful than ever she was before; for her hair, which was ruddy, is now like to pure gold for brightness, and it was enmeshed in a golden net, and yet one could not tell whether the net or the hair shone the more brightly. and her eyes, which are perfectly black are as bright as jewels, and her lips are like red corals and very fragrant, and her teeth are like to rich pearls. moreover, she was clad in garments of flame-colored satin, and her neck and arms were adorned with ornaments of gold set with jewels of a great many kinds and colors. and well ye wist, messires, that it was very difficult not to be altogether enchanted by her beauty of face and appearance. [sidenote: _sir sagramore feasteth with the lady vivien._] "yet well knowing how this lady loved mischief, i was for a time very ill at ease, not knowing whether or not she might be minded to cast some evil spell upon me. yet she made no sign of such intent, but spake me very fair and gave me courteous greeting. and she took my hand and led me into an adjoining apartment where there was a feast set with all sorts of meats and wines, and we two took our places at the board side by side. and as we feasted so together, there came some who sang and others who made sweet music and i felt such great pleasure as i have hardly ever felt in all of my life before. meanwhile, as we sat at the table, the lady vivien conversed with me upon such matters as she deemed would be of entertainment to me. and she inquired of many lords and ladies at the court of the king and spake well of them all. then after a considerable while she inquired of me whether it would be pleasant to me to tell her upon what errand i was bound, and so i told her i was errant in search of sir launcelot. "'ha!' quoth she, 'if thou wert in search of adventure, i could bring you to one that would be well worth undertaking.' "i said to her: 'lady, though i am errant upon a certain business, yet i am very ready to stay my affairs for a while if so be i may meet with an adventure that may bring me any credit.' [sidenote: _the lady vivien telleth sir sagramore of an adventure._] "at that the lady vivien laughed, and she said: 'sir sagramore, i know not what credit you may obtain in this adventure, but i will tell you what you are to do to enter into it. to-morrow i will ordain that one of the youths who brought you hither shall conduct you to a certain path that leads through the forest that lies beyond this valley. if you will follow that path, you will by and by come to a mound of earth, and on that mound you will very likely behold a man of gigantic stature who is herdsman to a herd of cattle thereabouts. ask him where is the enchanted fountain, and he will direct you still farther upon the way.' "i said to her: 'lady, i am very much beholden to you for the information you give me, and i will very gladly take up with this adventure.' upon this she laughed a very great deal and said: 'sir knight, it may be that after you have passed through this adventure, you will not be so pleased either with me or with yourself. now i have this to ask of you in return for my entertainment of to-night. my request is that you will return hitherward to me after you have finished this adventure so that i may see how it hath happened with you.' i said to the lady, 'it shall be as you ask.' [sidenote: _sir sagramore departs upon the adventure._] "so when the next morning had come i arose very early and donned mine armor. and there came to me one of those youths aforetold of, and he aided me to my horse and afterward guided me through that valley. so he brought me to the borders of a woodland that lay beyond the valley and there he showed me a path and bade me take that path and it would bring me to that adventure i sought. "thereafter i followed that path, and after i had gone upon the way a considerable distance i came, some time before midday, to that mound whereof the lady had spoken. "on the top of the mound there sat a man of gigantic size and so hideously ugly that i never beheld his like in all of my life before that time. this being called to me in a voice exceedingly loud and rough, demanding of me whither i went and upon what business. thereupon i told him that i sought a certain magic fountain and that i would be much beholden to him if he would direct me upon my way. upon this he laughed very boisterously, and after a while he said: 'take that path yonder through the glade. follow that path until you come to a hill. from the hilltop you will find before you a valley, and you will see in the valley a fountain of water that flows into a small lake with many lilies about the margin. at the fountain is a tall tree with wide-spreading branches, and beneath the tree is a marble slab, and upon the slab is a silver bowl attached to it by a chain of silver. take some of the water of that fountain into the silver bowl and fling it upon the marble slab, and i believe you will find an adventure that will satisfy your desires for a very long time to come.' [sidenote: _sir sagramore cometh to the valley of the fountain._] [sidenote: _sir sagramore poureth water upon the slab._] "so spake that gigantic oaf. i took the path to which he directed me, and i followed the path until i came to the hill, and i climbed the hill and there i beheld the valley of which he spake. and i beheld the lake of lilies of which he spake and i beheld the fountain that flowed into the lake and i beheld the tree that overshadowed the fountain, so i straightway rode down into the valley thereunto. and when i had come to the tree i beheld the slab of stone and the bowl of silver just as that gigantic herdsman had said that i would find them. then i dipped the silver bowl into the water as he had told me to do and i flung the water of the fountain upon the marble slab. "then immediately a very singular thing happened, for lo! the earth began to tremble and to shake, and the skies began, as it were, to thunder, and all over the sky there spread a cloud of very great blackness and density so that whilst it was still midday, it began to grow dark like night-time. then there came a great wind of such strength that i thought it would blow me away, and after that there fell a rain in such quantities and with such deluge that methought i would be drowned by that rain. and the rain roared down in torrents everywhere through that valley as it were a deluge. and, as the rain fell and the thunder burst forth from the sky and the lightning flamed like living fire, i heard, as from a very great distance, the sound of many voices raised in lamentation. "then, by and by, the storm passed and the clouds disappeared and the sun came forth with extraordinary brightness. then lo! there happened another singular thing, for presently there came a great multitude of birds flying through the air, and they lodged in that tree above the fountain, and they sang with such exquisite melody that methought that my heart would break with the joy of their singing. "now whilst i sat there listening to those birds, i beheld where, a great way off, there came a horseman riding with extraordinary rapidity across the plain, and as he drew nigh i beheld that he was a knight seated upon a black horse and clad all in black armor. this knight came riding very violently toward where i was, and he called out in a very fierce loud voice: 'sir knight, wherefore did you meddle with my fountain. know that you have brought a great deluge upon this land, and for that i am come hither to punish you. now defend yourself from my anger, for it is very great.' [sidenote: _sir sagramore is overthrown by the knight of the fountain._] "therewith he made ready to assail me, and i upon my part immediately put myself into a posture of defence, and dressed my shield and my spear, and took post upon the meadow close to the fountain. after that i ran a tilt against that knight and he ran against me, and he cast me out of my saddle with such violence that methinks i have never before felt a buffet like to that which i then received. "having thus cast me down, he paid no more heed to me than if i had been a billet of wood, but he took from me my shield and he laid it upon the saddle of my horse and he took my horse by the rein and rode away from that place, leaving me still lying upon the ground. and in departing he said not one single word to me. and indeed i do think, messires, that i was never so abashed in all my life before. [sidenote: _the lady vivien mocketh sir sagramore._] "then i remembered how that i had pledged myself to return to the lady vivien, and at that i was more ashamed than ever. so, in obedience to that promise, i had to make my way back whence i came on foot. when i passed by where was that mound, the gigantic creature who sat thereon made great mock of me. and when i reached the castle, the lady vivien looked at me out of a window and laughed at me beyond measure. and when i requested admission to the castle, she denied me entrance thereunto, and when i besought her for to lend me a horse to ride upon my way, she gave me instead a white mule for to bear me thence. so i returned hitherward upon a white mule without any shield, and thus i have confessed everything to you to the last word." such was the story of sir sagramore, and thereunto all those who were there listened with great attention and with much amazement. then sir ewaine spake, saying: "that was a very great shame that was put upon you, messire; and i take it so greatly to heart that had i suffered it in my own person methinks i could not feel much greater shame than i do. for that which hath befallen you is, as it were, a despite put upon all of us who are knights of the round table. wherefore, being a fellow of that company, your despite is my despite also. as for that mischievous lady vivien, methinks that she is at the bottom of all this coil, and i am much misled if this hath not all been devised by her to bring shame upon you who are a knight of king arthur's court and of the round table." quoth sir percival, "that may very well be so, messire." then sir ewaine said: "well, messires, as for me, i am of no mind to sit down quietly under this affront." "sir," said sir sagramore, "what would you do?" "i would do this," said sir ewaine. "i would go upon that same quest in which you have failed, and if i succeed therein, then will the shame of your mischance be wiped away from us all." thus spake sir ewaine with great feeling; for you are to know that those noble knights of the round table were so closely knit into brotherly fellowship that whatsoever ill thing befell to the injury of one was in that same measure an injury to all, and that whatsoever quarrel was taken up by one of that company, was a quarrel appertaining to all. wherefore it was the injury that had been done to sir sagramore was also an injury done to sir ewaine, and so it was that sir ewaine felt himself called upon to undertake that adventure in which sir sagramore had failed as aforesaid. then sir ewaine said: "now i prithee tell me where that path is that may bring me to this adventure and to-morrow i will part from you and will myself enter upon it. meantime, do you both resume your quest of sir launcelot, and if i should not prosper in this undertaking, i will return hither and leave report of my happenings. wherefore at this place you may, at any time, easily hear what hath befallen me if you will come hither." [sidenote: _sir ewaine departeth upon the adventure of the fountain._] so sir sagramore gave sir ewaine such directions for that adventure as were necessary and after that they all went to bed to rest them after their travails of the day. and when the next morning had come and while the dew still lay upon the grass, shining like to a thin veil of fine, bright silver spread over the level meadow-lands, sir ewaine arose all in the freshness of the early daytime and busked him whilst the rest of the castle still lay fast asleep. and he donned his armor and went down and aroused the sleeping groom and gave command that his horse should be brought to him; and after the groom had apparelled his horse he mounted and rode forth upon that way which sir sagramore had advised him would lead him toward the castle of the lady vivien. * * * * * and now if you would know how sir ewaine prospered in that undertaking which he had assumed, i pray you to read further in this history and you shall hear how it befell with him. [illustration: sir ewaine poureth water on the slab:] [illustration] chapter second _how sir ewaine undertook that adventure in which sir sagramore had failed, and how it sped with him thereafter._ thus it was that sir ewaine departed upon that adventure whilst sir percival and sir sagramore were still asleep, and no one wist of his going saving only the groom. after he wended his way from that place until he had come to the woodlands, and he entered the woodlands and travelled therein for a long while, breaking his fast with the charcoal burners whom he found there at a curious place. about the middle of the morning he came to a high hill, and when he had climbed this hill he beheld before him a very strangely beautiful valley, and he beheld that in the midst of the valley there stood a wonderful castle, and he wist that this must be the castle of the lady vivien of which sir sagramore had aforetold of. [sidenote: _sir ewaine cometh to the castle of the lady vivien._] and sir ewaine was astonished at the wonderful appearance of that castle and the valley in which it stood. for this castle was bright and shining as though of polished stone, and the roofs thereof were of bright red tile variegated with dark green tiles and black tiles, laid in sundry figures and patterns very strange to behold. and the valley in which the castle stood was spread out with fair lawns and gardens and meadow-lands and plantations of comely trees. and everywhere there were flowers abloom in incredible quantities, and there were thousands of birds of bright plumage that sang in the trees throughout the valley, so that the multitudinous sounds of their singing came even to sir ewaine where he sat so far distant. and ever those birds flitted like bright sparks of color hither and thither through the foliage of the trees, and sir ewaine had never beheld their like before in all of his life. so because of the wonderfulness of all that he beheld, sir ewaine wist that this must be a land of faery and enchantment with which the lady vivien had surrounded her castle and herself and her court. so for a while sir ewaine sat there observing all these things, and after a while he set spurs to horse and rode down into that valley and toward the castle. now when sir ewaine had come pretty near to the castle, he beheld two youths with golden hair, clad in garments of flame-colored satin, and he knew that these must be the two fair youths of whom sir sagramore had spoken. and he saw that those two youths were playing at ball under the walls of the castle just as sir sagramore had beheld them when he had visited that place. these, when sir ewaine drew nigh, ceased their play, and he who was the chief of the twain came forward and greeted that noble knight with great courtesy, saying: "sir knight, you are very welcome to these parts where not many ever come. for she who is the lady of this castle ever takes pleasure in giving welcome to such as you who come thitherward. now i pray you of your courtesy to tell me who you are and upon what quest you are bound and what is your degree, for i would fain announce you with all dignity to the lady of the castle." quoth sir ewaine: "fair youth, you are to know that i am a knight of king arthur's court, and that i am a fellow of the round table. my name is sir ewaine, and i am king uriens' son of gore, my mother being queen morgana le fay. as for your lady, i know very well who she is, and that she is none other than the enchantress vivien. moreover, i know that she is not at all above devising mischief against me because i am a knight of king arthur and of his round table. yet i will that you bring me before this lady, for i would fain have speech with her." upon this, so boldly said by sir ewaine, those two fair youths were adoubt, wherefore they withdrew a little to one side and held consultation together. then he who had before spoken to sir ewaine spake again, saying: "messire, i trust you have it not in your mind to do any ill to the lady of this castle, for unless we are well assured upon that point we will not bring you to her." "rest ye easy," quoth sir ewaine; "i am a true knight, and mean no ill to any lady, be she evil or good. only i would have speech with her as presently as may be." then the youth who was the speaker for the two said, "sir, i will take you to her." [sidenote: _sir ewaine cometh to the lady vivien._] so forthwith that youth led the way into the enchanted castle and sir ewaine followed closely after him. and after they had come unto the castle and after sir ewaine had dismounted from his horse and after they had traversed various spaces, the youth brought sir ewaine to where the lady vivien was. and she was in her own fair bower with her eleven damsels gathered about her. [sidenote: _the lady vivien giveth welcome to sir ewaine._] now the news of the coming of sir ewaine had gone before him, so that when he came to the lady vivien she arose from her seat and went forward to meet him and received him with her face all wreathed with smiles. and she said: "welcome! welcome! thrice welcome, sir ewaine! now i pray you to let my attendants conduct you to a fair room where you may bathe and refresh yourself, for we would fain have you stay with us at this place for a day or two or three if so be you will favor us so greatly." but sir ewaine neither smiled nor made acknowledgment of any sort; otherwise he spake with great sternness, saying: "fair lady, i know you well, and i know that you have no very good will toward us who are of king arthur's court. i know that you continually devise mischief and enchantments against all who come near you, and i well believe that could you do so without danger to yourself, you would this moment practise mischiefs against me. nevertheless, i am not come hither to chide you because of your shortcomings, for though all those things are well known to me and to others, yet i leave it to god to judge you in his own wisdom and am not come hither to be myself your judge. what i have come for is this: not long since you sent my fellow, sir sagramore, upon an adventure that brought great shame upon him. now i pray you that you will direct me to that same adventure so that i may undertake it, for, if so be i have that good fortune, i would fain punish that discourteous knight who so shamed my companion at arms." then the lady vivien laughed very high and shrill. "sir," quoth she, "you are very brave for to undertake that adventure wherein so good a knight as sir sagramore failed so signally. gladly will i direct you upon your way, and all that i ask in return is that when you have sped in that adventure, you will also return hither as did sir sagramore, so that i may bestow a white mule upon you as i bestowed one to him." to this sir ewaine bowed his head very gravely and said: "be it so. show me the way to that adventure, and if i fail therein, then i will submit myself to you so that you may humiliate me as you humiliated sir sagramore." [sidenote: _sir ewaine entereth into the adventure of the fountain._] then the lady vivien called to her that youth who had afore spoken to sir ewaine, and she bade him set sir ewaine upon the path that should lead him to that adventure he sought. and after that sir ewaine left the lady vivien without any further word and he took horse and departed thence. and that fair youth with the golden hair went before sir ewaine to the skirts of the forest that lay upon the other side of the valley from that side upon which sir ewaine had entered it. then the youth showed sir ewaine a certain path that led into the forest and he said: "take that path, fair lord, and it will bring you to your adventure." so sir ewaine took the path as the youth directed and he travelled upon it for an hour or two and by and by he came to an open place in the woodland. and in the midst of that open place there was a high mound of earth covered with fair green grass and many sheep browsed upon the slopes of the mound and coadjacent thereunto. and on the mound there sat the being of whom sir sagramore had spoken, and sir ewaine was amazed at his hideous aspect. for he was of giant stature and swarthy black, and his hair was red as brick. his mouth gaped wide like a cavern and the teeth within were sharp like the teeth of a wild beast. to this creature sir ewaine spake, saying, "sirrah, whither shall i go to find that adventure of the fountain?" upon this that giant being laughed like the pealing of thunder and he said: "ho! little man, have you come also to that adventure? the day before yesterday one came hither and sped but ill, and so also, i doubt not, it will fare with you. take you yonder path, and i believe you will come to that adventure all too soon for your own good." [sidenote: _sir ewaine cometh to the valley of the fountain._] so sir ewaine took the path that that being directed, and so entering the woodlands again he rode for a long while through the thick forests. then after a while he came to a hill and he ascended the hill, and when he had reached the top thereof he found that the forest ceased and that the open country lay spread out before him and he beheld a fair and level valley lying beneath the hill. and he beheld that the valley was very fertile with many fields and plantations of fair trees. and sir ewaine beheld in that valley a lake and a fountain that flowed into the lake and a tree that overshadowed the fountain, and he wist that this was the place where sir sagramore had met with that adventure aforetold of. so straightway he rode down into that valley and toward that place where was the enchanted fountain overshadowed by the tree. and when he reached that place he beheld the slab of stone and the silver bowl chained to the slab by a silver chain just as sir sagramore had beheld those things. [sidenote: _sir ewaine casteth water upon the slab._] then sir ewaine took the silver bowl into his hand and he dipped up water therein from the fountain, and he flung the water upon the marble slab as sir sagramore had done. then straightway it befell as it had with sir sagramore, for first the earth began to tremble and to quake and then the sky began to thunder, and then there arose a great cloud that overspread the sky, so that it became all black like unto night time, although it was still the middle of the day. then there came the great wind, the like of which sir ewaine had never before known in all his life, for it blew with such strength of fury that he was afraid it would blow him away from that place. then there fell such a deluge of rain that he feared he would be drowned therewith. and whilst the rain fell in that wise he heard a multitude of voices in lamentation as though a great way off, just as sir sagramore had heard these voices. anon the rain ceased and the clouds passed away, and the sun came forth and shone with wonderful warmth and brightness, and thereupon a great flock of small birds came flying to that tree and perched in the branches thereof so that the tree was entirely filled with the multitude of feathered creatures gathered there. and that multitude of birds began to sing in such a wise, that when sir ewaine listened to that singing he wist not whether he were in paradise or upon earth, so sweet and piercing was the melody of their singing. and all these things befell with sir ewaine as they had befallen aforetime with sir sagramore. now, whilst sir ewaine stood listening in that wise, all bewitched by the singing of those birds, he was aware of one who came riding very rapidly toward him across the plain. and as that rider drew nigh unto sir ewaine, he beheld that he was a knight clad all in black armor and seated upon a great charger which was entirely black and which was hung with trappings as black as any raven. and the knight bore a shield which was altogether black and without any device whatsoever. and he was of a very terrible appearance, being huge of form and violent and fierce in his advance. this black knight, when he had come close to that place where sir ewaine awaited him, cried out in a great voice: "sir knight, why didst thou come hither to meddle with my fountain? know thou that thou hast brought a great deluge upon all this land so that thou hast wrought great damage to us who are the people thereof. but now thou shalt pay very dearly for the injury thou hast done. prepare thyself straightway for battle!" unto this sir ewaine made reply: "sir knight, i wist not that in throwing water upon yonder slab i was doing injury to thee or to any one. nevertheless, i am ready to meet thee in battle as thou dost make demand." therewith sir ewaine dressed his shield and his spear and took his station in the meadow near the fountain and beside the lake, and put himself in such array for defence as he was able. [sidenote: _sir ewaine doeth battle with the knight of the fountain._] so when they both had prepared themselves in all ways they let go their horses the one against the other, in very violent assault, rushing together like a whirlwind. and so they met together in the midst of the course with an uproar as of thunder; the one smiting against the other with such violence that the spear of each was burst all into pieces unto the very truncheon thereof. and in that assault both knights would assuredly have been overthrown excepting for the wonderful address of each. for each drave spur into steed and shouted aloud so that each charger recovered his feet and fell not. then each knight threw away the truncheon of his spear and each drew his sword and straightway fell to battle with might and main. and in that combat each knight gave the other many sore buffets and, for a long while, no one could have told how that encounter was like to go. but at last sir ewaine waxed very furious with the opposition of that other knight, wherefore he arose in his stirrups and lashed at that black knight such a buffet that nor guard nor shield nor helm could withstand the stroke. for under that blow the black knight of the fountain reeled in his saddle as though he would fall from his horse. then he drooped his shield and hung his head full low and catched at the horn of his saddle as though to stay himself from falling. herewith sir ewaine lashed another buffet at him, and with that blow the sword of sir ewaine pierced through the helmet of the black knight and deep into his brain pan and with that stroke the black knight received his mortal hurt. then sir ewaine, perceiving that the black knight was so sorely hurt, repented him of what he had done in the heat of his battle and stayed his hand, though all too late. and he cried out: "sir knight, i fear me that i have given thee a very woeful hurt. i repent me of that, so yield thou thyself to me, and forthwith i will look to thy wound and will give thee such ease as i may." [sidenote: _the knight of the fountain fleeth from sir ewaine._] but to this the black knight of the fountain made no reply. otherwise he immediately wheeled his horse about, and set spurs to flank, and drove away with all speed from that place. and so rapidly did he race away from the field of battle that he appeared to fly, as it were, like to the shadow of a bird across the plain. [sidenote: _sir ewaine pursueth the black knight._] at first sir ewaine was altogether amazed at the suddenness of the flight of the black knight, but presently he awoke and set spurs to his horse and sped away in pursuit as fast as he could race his horse forward. and ever sir ewaine pursued the black knight in that wise and called upon him to stay, and ever the black knight fled all the more rapidly away as though he heard not the voice of sir ewaine. and ever though he strove, sir ewaine could not reach the black knight in his flight. thus they sped as swift as the wind across the plain, the black knight fleeing and sir ewaine pursuing, and by and by sir ewaine was aware that they were approaching a walled town and a very tall and noble castle with many high towers, and steep roofs that overlooked the houses of the town. and sir ewaine perceived that many people were running hither and thither about the castle as though in great disturbance, and that many people were upon the walls of the town, watching the black knight and him as they drew nigh. and ever the knight rode toward the gate of the town and of the castle, speeding like the wind, and ever sir ewaine pursued him without being able to overtake him. so, in a little while, the black knight reached the drawbridge of the gate and he thundered across the drawbridge and sir ewaine thundered after him. now as the knight had approached the gateway of the town the portcullis had been lifted for to admit him, and so he rode through the gateway with all speed. but when sir ewaine would have followed, the portcullis was let fall for to keep him without. [sidenote: _sir ewaine is caught within the portcullis of the town._] yet so great was the fury of sir ewaine's chase and so closely did he follow the black knight in pursuit that he was within the portcullis as it fell. and the portcullis fell upon the horse of sir ewaine and smote him just behind the saddle and cut him in twain, so that the half of the horse fell within the portcullis and the other half of the horse fell without the castle. and so violent was the blow of the falling of the portcullis, and so sudden the fall of the horse, that sir ewaine was flung down to the ground with so dreadful and terrible a shock that he lay in a swoon as though he had been killed. so as sir ewaine lay there, there came a number of those who were in attendance at that part of the castle. these looked in through a wicket of iron and beheld sir ewaine where he lay in that swoon in the space between the portcullis and the inner gate. so when they beheld him lying thus with the half of his dead horse, they said: "behold! yonder is the man who wounded our champion and who pursued him hither. let him lie where he is until that our champion tells us what we shall do unto him. for lo! he is a prisoner here and cannot escape from our hands, and so we have it in our power to do with him whatsoever we please." thus they said, not knowing that even at that time their champion was lying very nigh to death because of the wound he had received at the hands of sir ewaine. so these went away from that place, leaving sir ewaine lying as though dead in the swoon that his violent fall had caused him. but after a while life came back to him and he opened his eyes and gazed about him, and after that he made shift to arise, though with great pain. then he beheld that he was a prisoner at that place, and that he lay with the half of his dead horse betwixt the portcullis and the inner gate of the castle so that he could neither get into the castle nor out but was there a prisoner like to a creature caught in a trap. then sir ewaine went to the wicket of the inner gate and he looked forth through the iron bars of the wicket for to see what sort of a place it was into which he had come. and he beheld that within the gate was the street of the town. and he perceived that the street was very steep and that it was cobbled with stones. and he beheld that the houses of the town that stood upon either side of the street were built either of brick or else of stone, and that they were fair and tall with overhanging gables and with shining windows of glass and roofs of bright red tiles. and he beheld that there were many booths and stores with fair fabrics and merchandise displayed for sale. and he saw that there were many people in the street but that all they were moving in one direction as though in great agitation. and as he stood, so gazing, he was aware of a great sound of lamentation that arose from all parts of the town, wherefore he thought that maybe the knight whom he had chased thither must now be lying nigh to death. at that he was much grieved, for not only was that a very noble and valorous knight, but his death would certes put sir ewaine himself into great jeopardy as soon as the people of the castle should come to deal with him in that place where he was now a prisoner. * * * * * and now followeth the history of the further adventures of sir ewaine as it is told in the books of chivalry that relate to these happenings, so i pray you to read that which followeth if that other which hath gone before hath been pleasing to you. [illustration] [illustration: the damsel elose giveth a ring to sir ewaine:] [illustration] chapter third _how a damsel, hight elose, who was in service with the lady lesolie of the fountain, brought succor to sir ewaine in his captivity._ so sir ewaine stood gazing out of the wicket of the gate as aforetold; and he wist not what to do to save his life; for he knew he could do naught but wait there until those who had to deal with him might come to slay him. now, as he stood thuswise in great trouble of spirit, he was aware of a damsel who came thitherward. and as that damsel approached, sir ewaine perceived that she was very comely of appearance, and that she had yellow curling hair and it seemed to sir ewaine that he had hardly ever beheld a damsel more fair than she who approached his place of captivity. this damsel came close to the wicket where sir ewaine stood, and she gazed upon his face and her own face was pitiful and kind, and neither angry nor scornful. then sir ewaine, beholding that her face was kind, said to her: "damsel, why do you come to gaze thus upon a poor captive who is waiting for his death?" [sidenote: _the damsel of the fountain pitieth sir ewaine._] to this the damsel made reply: "alas, sir knight, i come hither because i take great pity that a noble champion such as you appear to be should be in so sad a case as this. for certes the people of this castle will come to slay you in a very little while." "damsel," said sir ewaine, "thy pity is a great comfort to me, but it would be a still greater comfort if thou couldst help me to escape from this place." to this the damsel made no reply. but presently she said: "tell me, sir knight, why did you do so grievous a hurt to our knight-champion who was the defender of this land against those who would meddle with the fountain to bring a deluge upon our land. wit you that because of the woeful buffets you gave him he lieth so near to death that he is like to die in a few hours." "damsel," said sir ewaine, "to tell you the very truth, i meant not to bring an injury upon this land, neither did i mean to visit so grievous a hurt as i did upon that good worthy knight your champion. but first i entered upon this adventure because a fellow of mine failed in it and because i deemed that it behooved me to redeem with mine own hand the honor he had lost to your champion. as for the hurts which he suffered at my hand--wit you that when a knight fights in battle with another knight, as i fought of late with your champion, that one knoweth not how hard he smites until the mischief is done. so it was with me, and when i smote i smote in the heat and the passion of battle. then, when i perceived that i had hurt him so sorely i pursued your knight with intent to help him whom i had so sadly hurt. but ever your knight-champion fled away from me, so that at last i pursued him in anger; wherefore i rushed into this place without thinking, and so am caught here a helpless prisoner." then the damsel said, "sir knight, i pray you tell me what is your name and your degree?" to the which sir ewaine made reply: "my name is sir ewaine and i am king uriens' son of gore, and my mother is queen morgana, surnamed le fay." now when the damsel heard this announcement of the name and the degree of sir ewaine, she made great admiration, crying out: "is it then possible that so famous a knight as thou art, and one so renowned in all the world both of chivalry and of common history, shouldst be caught a prisoner in this wise?" and she regarded sir ewaine through the aperture of the gate with very great wonder, and by and by she regarded him with still greater pity. then after a little, she said: "sir knight ewaine, i take great sorrow that so worthy a knight as thou art shouldst suffer harm. now i am of a great mind for to help thee if thou wilt do my bidding in all things that i shall ordain for thee to do. for if i release thee from thy captivity, there are several things i would have thee do upon my commandment." "lady," said sir ewaine, "i believe that you mean me well, and i believe that you would not lay any command upon me that would be contrary to my knightly honor or my integrity as a right knight of royal blood to fulfill." and the damsel said: "take no thought that i intend ill faith against thee, sir ewaine, for instead i am of a mind to be thy friend in this affair if so be thou wilt put thy trust in me." then sir ewaine said: "lady, i yield myself to your will, and if you will set me free from this captivity i will do whatsoever you ordain for me to perform. but tell me, how mean ye for to bring me forth from this peril unless you may get the keys of this gate from the porter thereof?" [sidenote: _the damsel giveth succor to sir ewaine._] "sir," said the damsel, "i cannot get those keys but i have another way than that to set you free. for wit you that though locks and bars be strong, yet the power of enchantment is still stronger than they." with this the damsel drew from her bosom a locket that hung there by a chain of gold, and she opened the locket and she brought forth therefrom a ring set with a clear red stone like to a pure ruby--bright--shining and very brilliant. and she said, "see you this ring?" and sir ewaine said, "yea." "well, messire," said she, "this is a very wonderful ring, for it hath had many potent spells set upon it by the magician merlin, who gave it in days gone by to my father, king magnus of leograns. so my father gave it to me and it is the most precious thing of all my possessions. for the property of this ring is of such a sort that if you turn the stone inward upon your hand so as to hide it within your palm, then you shall become invisible; and if you turn the stone out upon your hand again, then you shall become visible as you were before. take this ring, sir ewaine, and when you have made yourself invisible by means of it, then you shall escape from your enemies. after you have so escaped, come you to the garden of this castle and i will be there. do you come and lay your hand upon my shoulder, and then i will know you are there. after that i will then conduct you to a certain apartment where you shall be privily lodged until this present danger hath passed." therewith speaking, the damsel gave the ring to sir ewaine and he took it, giving her thanks beyond measure for her kindness to him. and immediately he set the ring upon his finger and turned the stone inward so as to hide it in his palm. then lo! as soon as he had done that he became immediately invisible to the eyes. then the damsel elose fled away from that place, lest those who would come to slay sir ewaine should find her there talking to him. so, shortly after she had gone, there came a great party of armed men with intent to slay sir ewaine, and some of these were armed and all bore swords and guisarms. these came to the gate and flung it open, and rushed into the space between it and the portcullis with a great tumult, for they expected to find sir ewaine there and to slay him. but lo! he was gone and they beheld nothing there but the half of his dead horse and the saddle and the bridle and the trappings thereof. for there was neither sight nor sign of him anywhere to be seen. at that they were all amazed beyond measure to find their prisoner gone, for they wist not how he could have escaped from that place. so they raised a great tumult and some cried out to hurry hither and others to hurry thither, and in the tumult and confusion sir ewaine passed out from their midst and none of them were aware of his going. [sidenote: _sir ewaine escapeth from the gateway._] after that sir ewaine went away from that place and into the town within the walls. and he came to the castle of the town and no one saw him in his going. and he entered the castle and the people of the castle saw him not. [sidenote: _how sir ewaine entereth the garden of the castle._] so, invisible to all, sir ewaine went to the privy garden of the castle, and he perceived that that was a very pleasant place, with many shady trees and with plats of flowers and with fountains and long straight walks where the lady of the castle might take her pleasure when she chose to be out of doors. and sir ewaine entered that garden and he perceived that there were several damsels therein and that all they were very sorrowful and downcast because that the knight-champion of that place had been slain, and several of them wept. but amongst these damsels was the damsel elose, and she alone of all who were there was cheerful and bore a smiling countenance. then sir ewaine went to her and laid his hand upon her shoulder as she had bidden him to do, and thereupon she knew that he was there though she could not see him. so straightway she arose and went forth from out of the garden and sir ewaine followed her. after that the damsel led sir ewaine to a certain part of the castle and up a long flight of steps and so brought him to an apartment that was immediately beneath the eaves of a certain part of the tower of the castle. and sir ewaine beheld that here was a large and noble apartment hung with woven hangings representing pictures of battle and of court, and he beheld that the floor was spread with finely woven fabrics of divers sorts. and he saw that there were several large windows that overlooked the streets of the town and a fair prospect beyond. and the breeze blew into those windows very softly and pleasantly, and great flocks of pigeons flew about in the air with noisy and clapping flight, and numbers of other pigeons strutted on the tiles of the roof and bridled and cooed to each other in the red sunlight of the waning day. so this was a very pleasant place in which to dwell. and the damsel said to sir ewaine, "here shall you abide until my further purpose is ripe." [sidenote: _the damsel serveth sir ewaine._] then the damsel elose brought an ewer full of tepid water and she poured the water into a basin, and the ewer and the basin were both of them of silver. and the damsel held the basin and sir ewaine bathed his hands and his face, and after that she gave him a large napkin of fine white linen and he dried his hands and his face thereon. so, when he was thus refreshed she brought him food and drink, and sir ewaine ate and drank with much appetite and was greatly uplifted in spirit. and by that time the evening was come. now all this while sir ewaine was greatly astonished that the damsel should be so kind to him, wherefore he said, "damsel, why art thou so kind to me?" to this she made reply: "messire, i have a purpose in all this, that by and by and in good season i will unfold to thee." then sir ewaine said to her: "i pray you, fair damsel, tell me now the mystery of that fountain and of the knight who guarded it? for i am very curious to know why there came that quaking of the earth and that thundering and rain when i cast water upon the slab beside the fountain." "sir," said elose, "i will tell you that mystery." and so she did, as followeth: [sidenote: _the damsel telleth sir ewaine of the enchantment of the fountain._] "you are to know," quoth she, "that somewhile ago there was appointed a joust at a place not very distant from this. and to that joust there went the lady of this castle who is hight the lady lesolie. thither also went the lady vivien, of whom thou either knowest or hast heard tell, for she is one of the greatest and most mischievous enchantresses in all of the world. "at that jousting there was one knight who distinguished himself above all others, and he was sir sagron surnamed coeur de fer. for that noble knight won the battle of the joust, overthrowing all who came against him without once suffering defeat himself. so to him was awarded the prize of battle, which prize was a fillet of gold. this fillet the victor had the right to bestow upon the lady whom he deemed the fairest of all who were there. "now the lady vivien thought that she would be chosen by whomsoever won that prize, for that day she had put on all the enchantments of beauty that she possessed. nevertheless, and in spite of these charms, sir sagron bestowed the prize of beauty, not upon the lady vivien, but upon the lady lesolie, who is the countess of this castle where we are. "now when the lady vivien saw that she was passed over by sir sagron, she took great affront with lady lesolie who had been chosen, and vowed vengeance upon her. "so afterward by her enchantments she had that slab of stone laid by the fountain and she ordained that whensoever any one should cast the water of the fountain upon the slab then there would come a great deluge to this land. thereafter she established herself not very far distant from this valley of the fountain, and whenever a knight cometh by her castle, that knight she sets upon the adventure of the fountain. [sidenote: _of sir sagron of the fountain._] "meantime sir sagron had offered himself as champion of the fountain, undertaking to defend it if the lady lesolie would upon her part consent to wed him and make him lord of this domain. to this the lady was constrained to say yea. so it was ordained that if sir sagron would defend the fountain without fail or default for the space of a year and a day, after that time she would give herself and all her domain to him as the lord thereof. so sir sagron hath ever since defended the fountain with great honor until to-day, when you overcame him in battle, and pursued him hither wounded unto death. had he defended a fortnight longer, he had won his suit with the lady lesolie and would have been lord of this land. but now he will to-morrow awake in paradise. "this, sir ewaine, is the story of the mystery of the fountain, and now i tell thee i know not who will defend it unless haply it is thou who wilt do so." "fair damsel," quoth sir ewaine, "how may i look to defend the fountain who will immediately be slain if it be known that i am here?" to this the damsel laughed and said: "sir ewaine, all that may come about if fortune be with me in these matters i am about to undertake." now by this time the darkness being come, the damsel lit two tapers of perfumed wax, and thereafter she conducted sir ewaine into another apartment. there he beheld a couch, very soft and comfortable and spread with a coverlet of crimson satin. and the damsel elose said: "sir ewaine, doubtless thou art aweary. if that be so, here thou mayst rest thyself and be at ease." and therewith she set down the candles of wax upon a table and quitted the room and sir ewaine was left alone. and sir ewaine was very weary, wherefore he laid aside his armor and disrobed himself and laid himself down upon that fair soft bed with great joy of comfort. and straightway thereafter he fell asleep as though he were a little weary child. now about the twelfth hour of the night and whilst sir ewaine lay thus asleep, he became aware of a great disturbance--the sound of weeping and a great outcry of lamentation that filled the entire silence of the night. [sidenote: _sir ewaine beholdeth the funeral at night._] anon came the damsel elose, and she said: "sir ewaine, the knight sir sagron is dead whom thou wounded yesterday, and now they are bearing him to the church. come and see!" so sir ewaine arose quickly and covered himself with a cloak, and he went with the damsel to a certain window that overlooked a street of the town. from that window and beneath him he beheld a great concourse of people that filled the entire street. many of those were clad in armor of proof and others bare torches so that the entire night was aflame with the light thereof. and there were many women who rode upon horseback beside the armed knights. and all of this great assembly of people were crying out in lamentation so that it was as though all the hollow beneath the space of heaven were full of the voice of their sorrow. with this lamentation of many voices were mingled the sound of trumpets and the chaunting of priests and acolytes who recited the services for the dead. in the midst of all the press there was a bier, and over the bier there had been spread a veil of white linen and upon the bier there lay stretched the knight-champion of that place with his hands crossed upon his sword. all about the bier were many people carrying long candles of wax, and these also added their lamentation to the voices of those others who lamented. then when sir ewaine beheld this spectacle he said: "woe is me, elose, this is surely a very sorry sight to behold! now i grieve me greatly that i am the cause of this, for i meant not to slay that knight. yet in the heat of battle who may stay the hand for to measure the stroke that one giveth to his enemy?" [sidenote: _sir ewaine beholdeth the lady lesolie of the fountain._] then anon as sir ewaine still gazed upon that scene, he beheld that a lady followed after the bier, and he saw that her hair was hanging loose and that she was in great disarray. but maugre that, it appeared to him that she was the most beautiful lady his eyes had ever looked upon. then sir ewaine said to elose, who was looking out of the window beside him, "what fair lady is that who followeth the bier of the dead knight?" to the which she made answer: "that is the lady of this castle, and she is making sorrow for the knight her champion who is slain." then sir ewaine gazed and gazed at that lady for as long as he could see her, and when she had gone by, he said: "elose, certes that lady is the most beautiful dame that ever mine eyes looked upon. now i tell thee truly that i do not wonder that your knight-champion was willing for to serve her for a whole year with faithfulness; for i would willingly serve for even a longer time than that to win her good regard." at this elose laughed with great good will. "is it so with you, sir knight?" quoth she, "and do you then find that your heart is inclined toward this lady?" and sir ewaine said, "yea, it is even so with me." elose said: "and wouldst thou be pleased, sir ewaine, if i could devise it in such wise that the lady of this castle should look kindly upon thee?" and again sir ewaine said, "yea." then elose smiled very cheerfully upon sir ewaine and she said: "well, messire, let be till to-morrow and then we shall see what that day shall bring forth." [sidenote: _the damsel elose serveth sir ewaine in the morning._] so when the next morning had come, sir ewaine arose greatly refreshed, and by and by elose came to him with food with which to break his fast. and after he had broken his fast she brought a bowl of ivory with tepid water, and she brought a razor with a heft of ivory studded with gold, and she hung a fine linen towel upon her shoulder and she shaved sir ewaine so that his face was both fresh and clean. after that she brought him fine raiment--an undervest of soft cambric linen and a surcoat and hose of azure silk embroidered with silver, and a cloak with a clasp of gold, and with pears of silver hanging from the corners thereof. and she brought a circlet of gold for his head, such as became the son of a king. then she looked upon sir ewaine and he was very comely. after all this had been done in that wise, elose left sir ewaine and went to where was the lady lesolie, and the lady sat alone in her bower in great sorrow that her knight-champion was dead. but elose entered that place with a very cheerful countenance, and she said, "lady, what cheer?" [sidenote: _the lady lesolie rebuketh the damsel._] then the lady lesolie looked upon elose with great indignation because of her cheerful aspect, and she said: "damsel, i am much displeased that thou shouldst appear so cheerful and gay of spirit when thou beholdest me in such sorrow. and i think very ill of thee that thou who art the best beloved of all my damsels hast not come nigh me in all this time for to offer me cheer or comfort in mine affliction." now elose was greatly in favor with the lady lesolie so that she feared her not, wherefore she still bore a very cheerful aspect. and she said: "lady, i know not wherefore i should take such sorrow as i see the sorrow to be that you assume for sir sagron. i did not love him so much that i should take more than reasonable grief when he suffered such misfortune of battle as may befall any knight." then the lady lesolie's eyes sparkled very brightly with anger, and she said: "ha! damsel! thou goest beyond all measure of the liberty of speech which i allow to thee. mayhap i loved not sir sagron as he would have had me, yet i honored him a very great deal, and now that he is gone i know not who may defend the fountain in his stead. so, because thou dost smile and take cheer in this time of trouble, thy presence is displeasing to me, wherefore i would have thee gone from hence." then elose said: "very well, lady, i will go as thou hast bidden me, but i think thou wilt be sorry that thou didst not talk more with me and that thou dost not inquire of me why i appear so cheerful as i do." therewith elose turned as though to go forth from that place. but after she had gone a little distance, the lady lesolie arose and followed her to the door of the chamber and began coughing very softly. then when elose turned, the lady beckoned to her and said, "come hither!" and elose laughed and came. then the lady said: "thou art very saucy of disposition, but nevertheless i love thee more than thou deservest. now tell me what it is that thou hast upon thy mind." then elose said, "i will tell thee, but it must be where none may hear." the lady said, "come hither, then," and therewith she led elose into a place where they were altogether by themselves, and when they were come there the lady lesolie said, "what is it, elose?" [sidenote: _the damsel bespeaketh the lady lesolie._] then elose said: "lady, there is in this castle a knight who loveth thee a very great deal, and this knight is exceedingly noble and of very great skill at arms, and he is a king's son, and he is a knight of king arthur's court, and he is a knight of the round table. so great is the love of this knight for thee that thou mightest demand anything of him. now it appeareth to me that since thou hast lost the knight who was our champion, thou wouldst do well to call upon this knight to defend thee. and if in good time thou shouldest choose him for thy lord, then it would be much to thy pride and greatly to the joy of this land." now all this while the lady had been regarding elose very steadfastly, and when the maiden ended she said: "who is this knight, and what is his name and his degree?" elose said: "lady, thou hast heard of him a great many times, for he is sir ewaine, the son of king uriens of gore and of queen morgana le fay." then the lady said in a very strange voice: "elose, it is wonderful that a knight so famous as this should have been in our castle and yet we knew nothing thereof. now tell me, when was it he came hither?" then elose was confused and said: "lady, he hath only been here a little while, for he did but come this morning." then the lady lesolie smiled very curiously, and she said: "bring that knight hither, that i may see him and speak with him." then straightway elose went to where sir ewaine was. and elose said: "sir ewaine, arise and come with me, for my lady would have speech with thee." so sir ewaine arose and went forth with elose, and elose brought him to where the lady lesolie was. and elose introduced sir ewaine to the lady lesolie, and sir ewaine paid great homage to her for he beheld that she was very wonderfully beautiful. the lady looked at sir ewaine very steadily, and by and by she said, "elose, this knight hath not the appearance of one who is a traveller new arrived from a journey; rather he appeareth like one who is fresh and well-bedight." then at first elose was confused and wist not where to look. then presently the lady said: "elose, i believe this was the knight who slew sir sagron." then elose looked very steadily into the lady's face, and anon she spake boldly and without fear, and she said: "well, lady, what then? so much the better for thee if this knight overcame sir sagron, who was the best knight in all this land. for if this knight overcame sir sagron, then is he better than sir sagron, and so he is better to be the defender of the fountain." then the lady said: "say no more, but go ye both away until i meditate upon this for a while." and thereupon elose and sir ewaine quitted the apartment of the lady and went away to another part of the castle. [sidenote: _the damsel bringeth sir ewaine to the lady of the fountain._] after that they waited for word to come to them from the lady of the castle, yet no word came for a long while. but when the evening had come, the chatelaine sent a very courteous message to sir ewaine that it would pleasure her to have him sup with her. so sir ewaine went upon that command, and the lady received him very graciously and made place for him beside her at the table, and they sat and ate and drank together and talked of many things of court and field. and ever as they talked together the lady lesolie regarded sir ewaine very closely, and she perceived that he was very noble and haughty of appearance, and she wist that he was greater champion than she had ever beheld before. then, by and by, she said of a sudden to sir ewaine: "messire, dost thou not think thou didst very ill to come hitherward to the destruction of our peace?" [sidenote: _sir ewaine promiseth to defend the fountain._] then sir ewaine spake very boldly, saying: "lady, i am very sorry to have caused thee grief, but i did only as any knight-adventurer would do, taking my chance of battle and of death with him as he took his chance with me. yet now that the chance of war hath brought me hither, i cannot repent me of anything that hath befallen me. for that chance hath brought me into thy presence and hath made me acquainted with thee." then the lady said: "well, messire, what am i to do now that thou hast slain the knight-champion of this place?" to the which sir ewaine made reply: "lady, if thou wilt take me for thy champion, i will serve thee very faithfully and will ask no guerdon from thee. for i know of no greater joy that could befall me than to be thy chosen champion." then the lady lesolie smiled and said: "sir ewaine, thou speakest very well, and i believe that thy deeds are every whit as trustworthy as thy words. so i will accept thee as my champion to do combat in my behalf and to protect my fountain and myself for a year and a day. if by the end of that time thou hast proved thyself to be entirely faithful, then i will consider anything else that thou mayst have to say to me." * * * * * so sir ewaine abided at that place and he defended the fountain so well that no one came thither to assail it who was not overthrown, and from all whom he thus overthrew, sir ewaine took horse and shield and sent them away from that place afoot. and sir ewaine dwelt in the valley of the fountain for nigh a year, and in that time he and the lady lesolie of the fountain were betrothed to one another with intent to be wedded when the year was ended. and ever sir ewaine loved the lady of the fountain more and more, and ever she loved him more and more. yet oftentimes sir ewaine bethought him of the king's court and of his friends thereat and at those times he would long for them with a very great passion of desire. so it befell upon a day that sir ewaine and the lady lesolie were in the garden of the castle and sir ewaine sat sunk in deep and silent thought concerning those friends and that court. and meanwhile the lady watched him askance. then by and by she said: "what is it that lieth upon thy mind, messire, that causeth thee to take so much thought to thyself?" [sidenote: _sir ewaine longeth for the court of the king._] then sir ewaine aroused himself and said: "lady, it is that i think much of my friends and companions of the court of king arthur. for now nigh to a year hath passed and in all of that time i have heard no single word of any of them." then the lady lesolie said, "ewaine, art thou discontent with us at this place?" he said: "nay, lady, thou knowest i am very well content and more than well content to be thus forever with thee. yet ne'theless i would that i might have word of my companions, for i know not how it fareth with them. and furthermore, i would fain know whether they who went in quest of sir launcelot with me have yet heard anything of that noble and worthy champion." then the lady lesolie said: "ah, ewaine, i fear me that thou thinkest so much of thy friends that thou wilt, in a little while, be discontent to remain with us any longer." to which sir ewaine said: "lady, thou knowest very well that that could never be." and she said, "art thou sure of that?" "yea," quoth sir ewaine, "i am well assured of it." then the lady of the fountain said: "ewaine, i have it in my mind that thou shalt go and visit thy friends at the court of the great king. for after thou hast seen them and hast satisfied thyself, i believe that thou wilt be better content to be here. so i lay it as my command upon thee that thou shalt go to camelot, and have converse once again with thy friends and companions. yet i would not have thee remain too long away from us, wherefore i lay it as a further injunction upon thee that thou shalt return hither as soon as possible, for we can ill spare our champion who is so dear to us." [illustration] [illustration: the lady of the fountain:] [illustration] chapter fourth _how sir ewaine returned to the court of king arthur, and how he forgot the lady lesolie and his duty to the fountain._ so it came about that the day after that day, sir ewaine took horse and departed from the valley of the fountain as the lady lesolie had commanded him to do; and he travelled alone, going from that place in the same manner that he had come thither. now as he went upon his way in return to camelot he must needs travel upon that same road by which he came thitherward. so by and by he again beheld that huge herdsman oaf who sat upon the mound as aforetold of, guarding his cattle. when this being beheld sir ewaine he shouted to him aloud in a great voice, "hello, little man! whither goest thou?" but to him sir ewaine made no reply, but rode steadfastly upon his way. anon, and about the hour of noon, he came to within sight of that wonderful valley wherein stood the enchanted castle of the lady vivien. and sir ewaine rode down into the valley and toward the castle, and as he drew nigh they of the castle were aware of his coming from afar. so it was that as sir ewaine came nigh to the castle there issued forth a multitude of people, who approached him singing and making joy and giving him great voice of welcome. for ever they cried aloud: "welcome, o noble champion! welcome! and welcome still again!" [sidenote: _sir ewaine cometh to the castle of vivien._] so they met him and brought him as it were in triumph to the castle, and when he had come nigh thereunto the lady vivien herself came forth to add her welcome to his coming. and she wore a very smiling and cheerful countenance, and she also cried, as did the others, "welcome, sir ewaine! welcome! thrice welcome!" and she said: "messire, i well know that thou didst come forth victorious from that adventure which thou didst undertake against the knight of the fountain, wherefore it is that i am rejoiced to see thee. for, as thou already must know, i bore no very high regard for that knight whom thou didst overthrow." now sir ewaine was very well pleased with the welcome he found at that place, for he did not suspect that the lady vivien, who smiled so kindly upon him, nourished any thought of mischief against him. wherefore he suffered them all to bear him into the castle in triumph and to relieve him of his armor and to bring him to a bath and to fit him with fine soft raiment wherewith he might with a good appearance come before the lady vivien in her bower. after that sir ewaine went to where that lady was, and he sat with her and talked in great amity with her. yet he knew not that all that while he talked with her she was planning mischief against him. so by and by, still in great amity, they went to a place where a noble feast was prepared, and there sir ewaine sat beside the lady vivien with great pleasure in being thus near to her. then, after a while, having in mind those several mischiefs she had planned against the knights of king arthur and of the round table, he said to her: "lady, you who are so kind and fair to me, i know not why you do mischief against those others, my companions, who are of king arthur's court; and i know not why you do mischief against the lady lesolie of the fountain so as to bring trouble upon that land. she hath done you no ill that you should so practise evil against her." then the lady vivien assumed an appearance of great meekness and contrition, and she said: "messire, what you say is true, and i repent me of all those evil things which i have done." and she said: "would it pleasure you if all enchantment should be removed from that fountain, and if the land of the fountain should be left at peace?" sir ewaine said, "lady, it would pleasure me beyond measure." then the lady vivien said: "so it shall be, and i promise you very faithfully that that enchantment shall be entirely removed from that land this very day forward unto all time." then she looked upon sir ewaine and smiled upon him in such wise that he was bewitched with her smiling, and she said, "sir ewaine, let there be peace betwixt us from this time forth for aye!" and he said, "lady, god knows i bear you no ill will and so there is peace betwixt us." then the lady vivien said, "sir, i would that thou wouldst accept a pledge of peace from me." and he said, "what is that pledge?" quoth she, "i will show thee." [sidenote: _the lady vivien giveth sir ewaine the ring of forgetfulness._] thereupon saying, she smote her hands together, and in answer there came a fair young page clad in cloth of gold and with long, curling ringlets of golden hair hanging down upon his shoulders. to this youth the lady gave sundry commands, and he departed, returning anon bearing in his hands a patten of gold and upon the patten was a fair white napkin of fine linen, and upon the napkin a ring of gold very cunningly wrought, and inset with a bright shining yellow stone. these the fair young page brought to the lady vivien, kneeling upon one knee, and she took the ring from the patten and gave it to sir ewaine, saying: "sir, behold this ring! this i give to thee to wear as a pledge of the amity that lieth betwixt us." therewith sir ewaine took the ring and set it upon his finger. now that ring was enchanted with very potent spells. for it was a ring of forgetfulness, so that whosoever wore it, that person would forget whatever the lady vivien would have him disremember. [sidenote: _sir ewaine forgetteth the lady lesolie._] so when sir ewaine set the ring upon his finger, that moment he forgot all about the lady of the fountain. and he forgot all the pledges that had passed betwixt himself and that lady, and he forgot all the other things that belonged to that part of his life. but all else he remembered: to wit, how he had undertaken that adventure of the fountain, and how he had overthrown the knight-champion of the fountain and all other parts of his life. then sir ewaine looked at the lady vivien very strangely, like to one who is newly awakened from a sleep, and he said, "what is it we were speaking of anon?" and at that the lady vivien laughed and said, "sir, it matters not." sir ewaine said, "meseems i have had a dream, but i cannot remember what it was"; and then the lady vivien laughed again and said, "neither does it matter what was thy dream." and she said: "it only matters that we are friends, and that thou wearest my pledge of amity upon thy hand. now i prithee never remove that ring from thy finger, for from that moment the friendship that now exists shall cease betwixt us." sir ewaine said: "this ring shall remain upon my finger for aye, and i shall never take it from my finger even for a single moment." so sir ewaine rested with great pleasure for that night at the castle of the lady vivien, and, when the next morning was come, he departed from the castle, betaking his way to the court of king arthur. for he said to himself: "haply by this time they have some news of sir launcelot. so i will straightway return to the court of the king and learn if that be so." [sidenote: _sir ewaine returneth to the court of the king._] now sir ewaine, because he had forgotten all about his life at the valley of the fountain, had no thought that he had been gone from that court for a longer time than a fortnight, wherefore when he was come amongst his friends again and when he found that wellnigh a year had passed, he knew not what to think. "how is this," he said, "and what hath befallen me? surely there was something that was like to a dream that i cannot remember. what is it that hath happened to me? i know not what it is." so sir ewaine was ashamed that he should not be able to remember what had happened to him for the year that had passed, wherefore he held his peace and said nothing concerning the matter. but ever sir ewaine feared lest he should betray to his friends that he had forgotten a whole year of his life. so it was he said to himself: "after that i have rested a little here at the court of the king i will set forth again in quest of news of sir launcelot. for maybe by and by i may be able to remember what i have forgotten of this year that hath passed." [sidenote: _king arthur rideth afield._] but sir ewaine did not immediately depart from the court, and so it chanced upon a certain day, the weather being very pleasant, king arthur went afield with certain of his court and sir ewaine was one of those. that time it was early summer weather, and the breezes were soft and balmy, and full of the odor of growing things. so when the heat of the day was come the king ordained that a pavilion should be erected at a certain spot that pleased him very well, and he and the queen and their courts sat in that pavilion at a fair feast which the attendants of the court had prepared for them. [sidenote: _there cometh a damsel to the king's pavilion._] now whilst they so sat, there came of a sudden a bustle and a sound of several voices talking without, and anon there came into the pavilion a damsel very fair of face and with curling yellow hair. and the damsel was clad in garments of yellow silk and she wore a frontlet of gold upon her head, and she wore shoes of variegated leather with latchets of gold upon her feet. and she was further adorned with necklaces of gold and with armlets of gold, wherefore they who sat there were astonished at the beauty of the damsel and at the suddenness of her coming. (now you are to know that maiden was the damsel elose, and yet sir ewaine knew her not because of the ring of forgetfulness which he wore.) then king arthur arose where he sat, and he said: "fair demoiselle, whence come you and what would you here? tell us, i pray, who are you who cometh hither like to a fair vision from a dream." yet ever the damsel stood within the door of the pavilion, and because of the dazzling brightness of the sunlight whence she had come she could not at first see very well within the shadow of the tent. so she said, "i pray you tell me, is sir ewaine at this place?" to that king arthur, much wondering, said, "yea, lady, yonder he sits," and thereupon the damsel elose beheld sir ewaine where he was. [sidenote: _the damsel elose accuseth sir ewaine of treason._] then elose entered farther into the pavilion and came to where sir ewaine sat. her eyes shone very bright with anger, and she said: "sir ewaine, i denounce thee as a false knight and a traitor!" then sir ewaine looked upon the damsel with great astonishment, and said, "who art thou, lady, who dost accuse me of being false?" upon that the damsel cried out in a very shrill voice, "thou knowest very well who i am!" but ever sir ewaine looked very steadily at her and almost he remembered her, but he could not quite remember her because of that ring which he wore. wherefore he said, "nay, i know thee not." then elose smiled upon sir ewaine very bitterly, and she said: "thou didst not forget me when thou didst lay in peril of thy life in the castle of the fountain; but now that thou art enjoying thyself with thy fellows, it pleases thee to forget so poor an one as i, who preserved thy life for thee. but that i could forgive thee if the need were to forgive it; yet i cannot forgive thee that thou hast also forgotten that dear lady, my mistress, unto whom thou didst pledge thy faith, and unto whom thou art bound in fealty. messire, thou hast a very short memory." then sir ewaine cried out in an exceedingly bitter voice like one in great pain: "lady, why say ye these things to me? i know you not." then elose came very close to sir ewaine and she took his hand, and she said, "do you not know me now?" he said, "nay, i know thee not." upon that the damsel raised her right hand with her glove in it, and she smote sir ewaine upon the face with the glove so that the mark of her glove lay upon his cheek. and sir ewaine made no defence against her assault, but ever he gazed very steadfastly at her, and he said very bitterly: "lady, if thou wert a knight, thou wouldst not dare to do that to me, for either thou wouldst pay for that blow with thy life, or else i would wipe out the disgrace thereof with mine own blood." but elose laughed, and she went out from that pavilion and mounted her horse and rode away, leaving sir ewaine with his head bowed full low upon his breast as though he had been struck a mortal blow. then after the damsel had gone, king arthur said, "ewaine, who was that lady?" and at that sir ewaine lifted his head and cried out with great vehemence: "sire, i know her not; nor can i remember that i have ever seen her before." at that king arthur was silent and all those who were there looked askance at sir ewaine and whispered together concerning those things that had happened. and sir ewaine was aware of how they regarded him and how they whispered together, yet he heeded them not, but ever sat with his head bowed low with shame and humiliation. and ever he strove to remember who that damsel was, but could not remember. [sidenote: _the king's court is adoubt concerning sir ewaine._] so after that time there was much talk amongst those at the court concerning that which had befallen in the king's pavilion. and many of them said to one another: "how is it possible for a knight of honor and of repute thus to forget one who had saved his life? and if he did indeed remember her, what of honor hath he who would deny her before those who know him?" so those of the court spake together, and sir ewaine was aware that they regarded him with disfavor and he was hurt to the quick by that knowledge. so one day he came to king arthur where he was, and he said: "lord, i am aware that i am held in disrepute in this court. now i crave thy leave to depart from hence at least for a season." and king arthur said: "messire, i will not deny that many things displeasing to me are said concerning thee. so if it be that thou art of a mind to quit us for a while until thou art able to approve thy truth and thy honor, and until thou hast disproved these things which thy calumniators say against thee, thou hast my fair leave to depart according to thy request." [sidenote: _sir ewaine departeth from the court._] so sir ewaine took his departure from court, and his heart was filled with bitterness and anger toward those who were one time his friends. for he ever said to himself: "why is it that they should contemn me because i cannot remember that which i have forgot? for i cannot remember me of that damsel." thus he rode upon his way in great bitterness of spirit and with anger toward all the world, because that all the world appeared to be set against him. * * * * * now sir ewaine journeyed for a long time he knew not whither, for he travelled somewhiles like to one in a dream. [sidenote: _sir ewaine cometh to a lonely hut._] so it befell one day that he came to a thick woodland of great extent, and there night overtook him and he wist not where he was nor how he should be able to come out of that wilderness. and whilst he was travelling thus in darkness and perplexity, he was suddenly aware of a light shining at a distance, and he followed that light until he came to a rude hut of the forest, which same stood in an open glade of no very great extent. to this forest habitation came sir ewaine, and he smote upon the door thereof with the butt of his spear and anon came one and opened the door, and that one was an ancient and grisly beldame of a most repulsive and forbidding appearance. when she beheld sir ewaine before her at the door of the hut she would have shut the door again, but he would not let her do so, but thrust his spear into the opening of the door so that she could not close it. then that beldame, finding that he would not be denied, spake to him very harshly, saying, "what would you here, sir knight?" sir ewaine said, "i would have lodging for the night." then the hag laughed very loud and shrill, and she said: "well, since thou wilt not be denied, thou shalt have thy desire. enter, and may thy lodging be for long." so sir ewaine dismounted from his horse, and turned it loose to graze upon the grass by night. meantime he himself entered the hut. here he beheld a great fire burning, with loud roaring in the chimney, and over the fire he beheld a great cauldron, in which was seething a stew of venison, the flavor of which filled the hut with a very savory odor. and sir ewaine beheld a great table, whereon were many platters of wood, and beholding these things spread as for a feast, he said, "good dame, i pray thee tell me who dwells here in this hut with thee?" the beldame said, "my husband and my sons dwell here with me." sir ewaine said, "certes, thou hast a great family." and at that the beldame laughed very violently and said, "yea, that is true." after that the hag ladled forth a mess of the stew into a wooden bowl, and she poured forth a great flagon of strong ale and she set these things upon the board with a hunch of black bread, and sir ewaine sat him down and ate and drank with great appetite. then, after he had thus satisfied his hunger and his thirst he was very drowsy, wherefore he laid aside his armor and stretched himself upon a wooden bench that stood to one side and placed his helmet beneath his head and presently was enwrapped in a sound sleep. [sidenote: _the thieves return to the hut._] now that hut was a den of thieves and that old hag was their housekeeper and there were twenty and seven in all of those thieves. so about the middle watch of the night that band of robbers returned with a considerable booty which they had seized from a party of townsfolk who were traversing a part of the forest that was not very far distant from that place. these beholding sir ewaine where he was sleeping, withdrew a little to one side and whispered together. and they whispered to the old beldame, saying, "who is yonder man, and what doth he here?" she said: "he is an errant knight, who demanded housing awhile since. so here he lieth now asleep and at your mercy to dispose of as you see fit." then the captain of the thieves came softly to where sir ewaine lay, and he looked closely at him and he beheld the rich chain of gold about his neck and he beheld the ring upon his finger that the lady vivien had given him. after that he withdrew a little and whispered to his fellow: "here is a rich booty upon this sleeping knight. now fetch hither cords and let us bind him. after that we may rob him at our ease, and after that again we may either slay him or else keep him here for a great ransom." [sidenote: _the thieves bind sir ewaine._] so some of the thieves brought a strong cord and they made a noose thereof, and first they privily took away all sir ewaine's weapons from him, and then they slipped the noose over his arms and in a trice and ere he was fully awake they had bound him several times about the body so that as to his hands and arms he was altogether helpless. thus sir ewaine was rudely awakened to find himself a captive in that place. but when he saw who it was had made him captive, he assumed all the majesty of his high estate and he said: "know ye what ye do? wit ye that he whom you have thus bound is a king's son and a knight of the round table so that you have through me committed a very grievous offence." then several of those thieves were abashed at his words and at the great nobility of his bearing, but the captain of the band who was a hardened wretch, spake very boldly, saying: "it matters not who you are, only if you be truly a king's son and a knight of such worship, then will your ransom be all the greater." and he said: "first of all we will take this rich golden bawble from about your neck, and then we will take the fair golden ring from off your finger." [sidenote: _the thieves rob sir ewaine of the ring of forgetfulness._] so the chief robber first took the chain from about sir ewaine's neck, as he said, and then he drew the ring from his finger, and because sir ewaine was bound he could in no wise prevent the robber chief from taking those jewels from him in that way. [sidenote: _sir ewaine remembereth all._] but lo! when the robber had plucked the ring from the finger of sir ewaine, then in an instant the magic of forgetfulness departed from him, and he remembered upon that instant all that had befallen him in the valley of the fountain. and he remembered the lady lesolie of the fountain, and he remembered him of all the vows of faith he had plighted to her. and he knew now of why elose had come to him at the king's court and had struck him in the face before them all; for he wist that the damsel had come because she thought he had proved himself unfaithful and false to her lady. so it was as though a sword of remembrance had been struck through the heart of sir ewaine, wherefore he cried out in a loud and piercing voice, "betrayed! betrayed! betrayed!" saying that word three times over. and the thieves wist not what he meant by those words, but thought that he meant that he had been betrayed by the beldame, not knowing that he meant that he had been betrayed by the lady vivien. then of a sudden in the fury of that remembrance of his own dishonor, it was as though the strength of ten descended upon sir ewaine. wherefore, putting forth all his strength, he strained at his bonds so that they cut into his flesh. and he strained even more and more violently at his bonds until, of a sudden, they were burst and immediately he was free. [sidenote: _sir ewaine doeth battle with the thieves._] after that sir ewaine looked about him, but could find no weapon to his hand, wherefore he catched up the solid wooden bench whereon he had been lying awhile since. and he whirled that bench about his head and he smote with it upon the right hand and the left and he smote the thieves down upon the one side and the other. and so great was his fury that they bore back from before him in terror of his madness. [sidenote: _sir ewaine is wounded._] so sir ewaine might have slain all those thieves (though there were a score and seven of them in all) only for the captain of the band. he, beholding the fury of sir ewaine, ran to where there was a javelin that stood in a corner of that place. and he catched up the javelin and threw it at sir ewaine; and the javelin pierced through the shoulder of sir ewaine and pinned him fast to the wall of the hut. then sir ewaine wist that he was very sorely wounded, wherefore he roared aloud. and he strove with the javelin and anon he wrenched himself loose from the wall to which he had been pinned. then he rushed at the thieves with the javelin still pinned through his shoulder and they made way before the terror of his onset. now as the robbers parted from before his onset, sir ewaine perceived that there was a way for him to the door. thereupon he cast himself upon the door and he burst it open and fled away into the forest with the javelin still transfixed in his shoulder. [sidenote: _sir ewaine escapeth._] therewith, perceiving that their captive was escaping from them, the thieves rushed after sir ewaine and pursued him with great outcry. but ever they were afraid of the violence of his anger (for he had slain or broken the bones of eleven of them) wherefore they followed him not with as good a will as they would else have done. hence it befell that sir ewaine made his escape from them and so got safe away into the cover of the night and of the forest, though sorely and woefully wounded. after he had thus escaped from that danger, sir ewaine knew not what to do. for he was faint and bedizzied because of his wound and the agony thereof. but he wist that he must free himself from that javelin, wherefore he catched the haft of the weapon and he broke it in twain. after that he plucked out the javelin by the point which had transfixed his shoulder and with that a great issue of blood burst forth from the wound so that sir ewaine was nigh to swooning therewith. but he did not swoon, but bare up under the passion of pain that lay upon him and from the issue of blood that followed what he had done. wherefore, after he had rested him for a while, he went forward through the forest, tottering like a drunken man, now and then falling, and ever anon arising again and betaking his way he knew not whither. [illustration] [illustration: a damsel bringeth aid unto sir ewaine:] [illustration] chapter fifth _how sir ewaine was succored and brought back to life by a certain noble lady, how he brought aid to that lady in a time of great trouble, and how he returned once again to the lady lesolie of the fountain._ thus sir ewaine wandered for all that night he knew not whither, and sometimes he fell and anon he would arise and go onward again. so against the dawn of day, he began to approach the outskirts of the forest and there, as he wandered painfully onward, he met a fagot-maker who had a cart and who was coming, all early in the morning, into the forest to chop fagots. this fellow, beholding that figure of misery with a face like to wax and a body all covered with blood, wist not whether it was ghost or mortal man whom he beheld, wherefore he fell to crossing himself and pattering prayers for fear. but sir ewaine spake, though in a very weak and plaintive voice, saying: "alas, good fellow! i pray you, for the sake of god's mercy to take pity upon me and to bear me hence in your cart to where i may secure aid and succor, else i must assuredly die all alone in the forest." then the woodchopper was aware that sir ewaine was no ghost or spirit left behind by the night, but that he was mortal man, and when he looked upon that sad woeful figure, he was moved to great pity, and said: "alas, poor mortal, thou art in a sad plight indeed and so i will be glad to aid thee as thou desirest." [sidenote: _the woodchopper giveth aid to sir ewaine._] so after that the fagot-maker spread a soft thick bed of leaves in his cart and laid the wounded knight thereon. and so he bore sir ewaine out of the forest, with intent to take him to some place where he might be cherished with care and attention. thus it was that a poor woodchopper of the forest lent aid and assistance to one of the most noble knights of the round table and nephew to king arthur. as for that fellow, he wist not who it was to whom he was giving aid, but only thought that it was some poor wretch who had fallen amongst thieves, for sir ewaine had neither armor nor weapons of any sort that might indicate how exalted was his estate, and even his golden chain of knighthood had been stolen from him by those thieves of the forest. wherefore it was not possible for any one to know that he was other than a poor wayfarer of the forest. so the fagot-maker, unknowing who he was, bare that good knight out of the forest, and sir ewaine lay fainting, and all covered with blood and nigh to death, upon a bed of leaves in a poor woodchopper's cart. now when the fagot-maker had brought the wounded knight out of the woodlands and into the open country, he turned to find how it fared with him, for it seemed to the honest fellow that his burden was lying wonderful still and quiet. so the fagot-maker called out, "friend, what cheer have you?" to this sir ewaine answered him not, for in the meantime as they travelled onward he had fallen into a swoon and now he lay like one who was dying or was dead. then the woodchopper came and looked upon the face of sir ewaine, and he beheld that it was white like to death. and he could not see that sir ewaine breathed, wherefore he thought that the wounded man was dead. thereat the poor knave was filled with great fear, for he said to himself: "of a surety if they find me thus with a dead man lying in my cart, they will believe that i have committed a murder and they will hale me before the judge and they will hang me." wherefore, reasoning in that wise, he began to cast about him how he might rid himself of that which was within his cart so that he should not thus be found in company with a dead man. [sidenote: _the woodchopper layeth sir ewaine beside a lake._] now at that time the cart chanced to be passing through a park coadjacent to a castle, the towers and the roofs and the chimneys of which might be seen through the leaves of the intervening trees. and at that place there was a little lake of water with many flags and sweet rushes growing around about the margin thereof, and this was a very secret, quiet place, for no one was nigh at that still early hour of day. so here perceiving that no one could see what he would do, the fagot-maker stopped his cart and lifted sir ewaine out thereof and still he thought that the wounded man was dead. after that the woodchopper laid sir ewaine down very gently upon a soft bed of moss under the shadow of an oak tree and beside the margin of the lake. having thus got rid of his burden in that wise he then went away and left the wounded knight lying alone in that place. [sidenote: _the lady of the castle perceiveth sir ewaine._] now that part of the park where sir ewaine lay was a very favorite spot of the lady of the castle, who was wont to take the air and to walk with her court of damsels beside the lake. so it befell that morning, it being a very pleasant and cheerful day, that she walked thither with those maidens in attendance upon her. so coming to that place, she perceived from afar where sir ewaine lay beneath the oak tree in the centre of the park. and when she saw him she said, "who is yonder man and what does he do here?" then one of the damsels went more near to where sir ewaine lay, and she looked closely upon him and anon she said: "lady, i believe this man is dead, for he is all covered with blood, and i do not see him move or breathe." the lady said, "see if that be so," and therewith the damsel went closer to sir ewaine and reached forth and she laid her hand upon his bosom. then she was aware that his heart beat, but only a little, and she knew that there was life in him. so she said: "nay, he is not dead, but in a swoon that is like to death." then the lady came and also looked upon sir ewaine, and she was moved with pity to behold that great and noble frame of a man lying there in that way. wherefore she said, "i am of a mind to save this man." so after that she and her court retired to her castle, and when she was come there she took a very precious casket of ointment from a cabinet and gave it to that damsel who had touched sir ewaine. to her she said: "take this ointment, damsel, to where that man lieth in a swoon. for wit you, this is a very potent oil to heal all manner of sickness and weakness even if one be upon the edge of death. pour a little of this ointment upon the bosom of that man above his heart. then rub it well with thy hand, and by and by he will revive. take thou also yonder horse and some decent raiment fit for such a well-appearing man to wear, and let the horse be nigh to him when he awakens. then do thou observe him from secret place, and bring me word of what he doeth." [sidenote: _a damsel of the castle bringeth succor to sir ewaine._] so the damsel did all as the lady had commanded her to do; she took the horse, and the raiment and the precious balm and went to where sir ewaine lay in that deathly swoon. but when she came to anoint him with the ointment, she poured not a little upon him, nor did she rub with her hand the bosom of him who lay there; otherwise she poured the whole of the balm upon sir ewaine's bosom, and then she went away to a little distance and hid herself to observe what he would do. so in a little she saw that the wounded man began to bestir himself and move his arms this way and that. anon he uplifted himself from where he lay and gazed all about him, and so, being revived, remembered all that he had aforetime forgotten. then he groaned with great travail of soul, for the memory of his dishonor came upon him and he still suffered a grievous pain from that sore wound in his shoulder. then anon he beheld the horse near by and the garments that were beside the horse, and he thought that maybe those things had been placed there for his use, though who had been so kind to him he knew not. so he arose with great pain and he took the clothes from the horse and he went to the lake and bathed himself. after that he put on the clothes and mounted upon the horse with intent to depart from that place. then the maiden, who had beheld all that he did, came forth from the thicket where she had been hidden and whence she had observed him, and when sir ewaine saw her he said, "maiden, was it thou who purveyed me with this horse and with these garments?" she said, "nay, it was the lady to whom this place belongs." sir ewaine said, "who is that lady?" and the maiden replied: "she is the widow of a very powerful lord, and she hath saved thy life this day. for she sent me with an ointment with which i bathed thee, and which gave thee strength to arise again. and she sent thee that horse and those clothes which thou hast put on." sir ewaine said: "certes, she is most kind and charitable in her heart. perhaps some time i may do her a service that will be equal to this service which she hath rendered to me." now the maiden did not suspect who it was with whom she spake, for his face was white like milk, and very haggard and wild with pain and weakness, so that his countenance showed none of that nobility that belonged to him. and, as aforesaid, he had no armor, for the thieves had taken away his armor and he had left it behind him in the hut whence he had escaped. so the maiden had no cause to think that he was one of great worship whom she beheld, so she said: "good fellow, my lady hath need enough of aid, but i do not believe that thou art one who may help her in her trouble." "why dost thou think that?" quoth sir ewaine. "thou shouldst not judge of my ability from what thou seest, for i may be other than what i appear to be." [sidenote: _sir ewaine declareth himself to the maiden._] then the damsel was greatly astonished at the dignity of manner with which he spoke, for he spoke as one having authority and very calmly and haughtily. so she began to misdoubt that this was some one else than she had first thought him to be, wherefore she said, "i pray you, sir, tell me who you are?" to the which he replied: "i am sir ewaine of king arthur's court and of his round table, son to king uriens of gore and of the lady queen morgana surnamed le fay." at this proclamation the damsel was greatly astonished, wherefore she cried out aloud: "is it indeed possible that this is so, and that so famous and so remarkable a knight should have come to such a pass as that in which you were found?" and the damsel said: "now the lady of this castle will be very highly honored when she comes to know that she hath lent succor to so noble and haughty a champion as you proclaim yourself to be. let us go to her so that you may tell her the story of your misfortunes." and sir ewaine said: "so be it, and let us go." so they both departed from that place and as they wended their way thence sir ewaine said: "now tell me, damsel, what is the need of help that thy lady hath and concerning which thou didst speak to me anon?" [sidenote: _the damsel telleth sir ewaine concerning the lady of the castle._] the damsel said: "i will tell thee. the lady of this castle is a widow, and at the death of her husband she had two very noble castles and two great estates belonging to those castles. those castles and that land her lord bequeathed to her to have and to hold for her own. now after she was thus left a widow, it befell that a certain very proud and haughty lord who was her neighbor, desired to make her his wife; but she would not listen to his suit, having great love for that worthy knight her husband who was dead. so she refused the knight who desired to wed her and at that he was very angry. after that he came with a great array of armed men, and he despoiled her of one of her estates by force. and now, unless she should yield to him, he threatens to take away this other estate whereon she dwelleth and which is all that she hath in the world. "so my lady is in a great pass and knoweth not what to do, having no knight for to defend her; for all those who should defend her, fall away from her in this time of trouble for fear of the anger of that lord who seeks her hand." "certes, this is a sad story which thou tellest me," said sir ewaine, "and indeed i will do what i may to help thy lady, who hath been so kind to me." thus talking together, they two approached the castle, and the lady of the castle, beholding them coming from a distance, was greatly surprised to see the damsel conversing in that wise with the wounded man whom she had been sent to succor. then when they were come to her the lady said to the damsel, "didst thou use that balm as i told thee to do?" and the damsel said, "yea." the lady said, "how much didst thou use thereof?" and the damsel said, "i used it all." [sidenote: _the lady of the castle is affronted at the maiden._] then the lady when she heard how that the damsel had poured all of that balm at one time upon sir ewaine, was much affronted and very angry with her, and she said: "what is this that thou hast done? i cannot easily forgive thee this, for thou hast wasted several score pounds worth of the precious ointment upon a stranger whom we know not and who hath no appearance of worship." unto her the maiden made reply: "lady, be not offended at this, for wit you that this stranger is of far greater worth than all the balm you could pour upon him." at these words the lady was much surprised, wherefore she said, "who is he that is of such great worth as thou sayst?" and the damsel replied: "lady, this is none other than sir ewaine, knight of the round table and nephew of king arthur." [sidenote: _the lady giveth welcome to sir ewaine._] then the lady of the castle cried out with astonishment and said, "is this true that i hear?" and sir ewaine said, "yea, lady." then the lady of the castle came to sir ewaine and took him by the hand, and said: "welcome, welcome, sir ewaine! now this is a great honor that hath befallen us at this place to have given aid and succor to a knight so famous in chivalry as thou art." "lady," quoth sir ewaine, "you do me honor beyond my worth, and so you put me under still greater obligations than i rested under afore this. now i am most desirous of repaying you in some measure for all the kindness that you have visited upon me, wherefore, if it be sooth as i have been informed by this maiden that you have need of such a knight-champion at this place, then do i offer myself as such a champion, trusting that i may be of aid to you and so repay to you in some measure those favors which you have bestowed upon me." at this the lady was rejoiced beyond all measure, and she said: "messire, i accept thy offer of championship with all gratitude and with much pride, for indeed i believe it would not be possible to find in all of the world a champion as haughty and as puissant as thou art." so it came about that sir ewaine abided at the castle of that widowed chatelaine for a long time, and until he was altogether healed of his wound. and every day he grew more strong and sturdy of body and more noble of appearance, so that all they of the castle took great pride in having him there as their champion. now it befell upon a day that there came to this castle that evil-minded lord of whom the damsel had spoken to sir ewaine, and this lord brought with him six other knights, and all these seven knights pitched their pavilions before the castle gates. and they mocked at those in the castle and dared any one to come forth therefrom, for they knew not, as you may believe, that sir ewaine was there as the champion of the castle. so when sir ewaine heard how that knight mocked at the people of the castle, he was very wroth, wherefore he quickly made him ready, and donned a suit of rich armor that the lady had provided for him. and he mounted upon his horse, and so being in all wise prepared, he gave command to uplift the portcullis and to let fall the drawbridge. then he rode forth from the castle, his horse's hoofs smiting the planks of the drawbridge with a noise like to thunder as he rode. and all of the people of the castle crowded out upon the walls, and when they beheld him ride past in that wise, they shouted with a loud voice because that such a champion was to defend the rights of their lady chatelaine. [sidenote: _sir ewaine doeth battle for the lady of the castle._] but when the knight and his companions who had come against the lady of the castle beheld that one champion ride forth in defence thereof, he was greatly surprised, and wist not what to think. so presently he rode forward to meet sir ewaine, and he said to him, "sir, what knight art thou?" sir ewaine said: "i am the champion of the lady of this castle, and i come forth with intent to do battle in her behalf." then that lord said, "what is thy estate?" to the which, sir ewaine, speaking with great pride and haughtiness, made reply: "it matters not that i tell thee at this present, but i may assure thee of this, that mine is a higher estate and a greater credit than thine own." then the knight said, "wouldst thou fight against us who are seven?" and sir ewaine said, "yea, verily." and the knight said, "thou art very foolish, but be it so." so sir ewaine withdrew himself a little, and made himself ready in all wise for battle. meantime that knight who had bespoken him withdrew to his party and he said to a knight who was the champion of his party, "go thou forth against yon fellow." and the champion of that party did so. now that knight was the greatest and most powerful knight in all the country in which he dwelt. and he was very huge of girth and thick of limb, and so great had been his success at arms that he made sure that he could easily be able to overthrow his opponent. wherefore he made him ready very proudly and took his station with great confidence. and when he was in all wise prepared, he shouted aloud and launched his horse against the horse of sir ewaine with full expectation that he would overthrow his enemy. so they two rushed together like thunder and so met in the very middle of the course with such a crash of encounter that those who heard it stood appalled at the sound. but in that encounter the spear of the champion of that wicked lord's party broke all into splinters, but the spear of sir ewaine held so that the other was cast to earth with such force that he lay stunned and altogether devoid of life and motion. [sidenote: _how sir ewaine overthrew the enemies of the lady._] then when the other knights of that party beheld how their champion had been overthrown so violently to earth, all they were greatly amazed at the result of that encounter; for as was said, there was no knight in all of that region who was so strong as that champion. then they were filled with rage, and dropping their lances in rest, they all rushed upon sir ewaine together, with intent to overthrow him by force of numbers and might of metal, and afterward to slay him when he was unhorsed. but sir ewaine did not give them their will, but wheeled his horse with great address and dexterity and in such a wise as to separate those who thus came upon him in a body. then suddenly he wheeled about again, and ere they were prepared for attack, he smote down one knight and then another and another, so that only three of those who assailed him were left. with that the others were filled with a great terror of the woeful buffets that sir ewaine struck, wherefore, without further combat, they all three turned and fled. but ever sir ewaine pursued them with great fury and he came nigh to one who was fleeing and smote him down from his horse. and he came nigh to another and smote him down also. then last of all he overtook that lord who was the enemy of that lady, and he smote him so sorely with his sword that he would have fallen from his horse had not sir ewaine catched him ere he fell. then sir ewaine plucked that knight out of his saddle and he laid him across the bow of his own saddle. so after having overthrown all those seven knights in that wise, he rode back again into the castle bearing that wicked lord lying across his saddle bow. now when those who stood upon the castle walls beheld what wonderful battle their champion did, they were amazed beyond measure at his prowess and they shouted aloud for joy at the victory of their champion over their enemies. so sir ewaine rode into the castle, in the midst of all that shouting and loud acclaim. and he came to where the lady was standing in a balcony that overlooked the courtyard of the castle, and he looked up to where she stood and he said: "lady, lo! i have brought you back your enemy in payment for that blessed balm with which you brought me back to life." [sidenote: _the lady of the castle giveth praise to sir ewaine._] then the lady of the castle knew not what to do for joy. wherefore she came down from where she was and catched sir ewaine by the hand and kissed it repeatedly. and she called upon sir ewaine as her savior, but sir ewaine withdrew his hand in great confusion, and said: "lady, do not do so, for wit you i am a man who hath done a dishonorable thing. and though i did that ill thing unwittingly, yet i am attainted because of that which i did." then the lady said: "sir, i will not believe that you were ever dishonorable, and i would that you would remain always in this castle." then sir ewaine smiled and said: "i thank you for that wish. but it may not be, for now that i have done my service in your behalf and have brought your enemy to you to deal with at your pleasure, to-morrow i must depart upon my way once more." then sir ewaine delivered the captive knight from the pommel of his saddle into the hands of the lady, and afterward that wicked knight was bound with many securities and hostages to good behavior, and so he tormented that lady no more from that time forth unto the end of her life. * * * * * [sidenote: _sir ewaine departeth from the castle as a pilgrim._] now when the next day was come sir ewaine appeared before the lady of the castle and besought her that she would take back the armor she had given him and that in place of that armor she would purvey him the dress of a pilgrim. so that lady did as she was asked, and when she had done so sir ewaine clad himself as a pilgrim and departed from the castle of that chatelaine. and sir ewaine wandered hither and thither as a pilgrim for several weeks; and after much journeying he came at last to that valley where dwelt the lady of the fountain. for ever his will led him thitherward, and so it came about that at last he beheld that town and castle once more. and when he beheld that place and when he brought to mind all that had befallen him of good and of ill thereat the tears arose into his eyes so that all things that he beheld swam as in a flood of water. [sidenote: _sir ewaine returneth to the castle of the fountain._] then by and by he went toward that castle of the fountain and when he had come thereunto, he knocked upon the postern door and besought those who opened to him that he might have speech with the lady of the castle. so anon he was shown into the apartment where the lady was, and elose was with her, and several others of the damsels of her court. now the hood of the cloak that sir ewaine wore, and the pilgrim's hat, so concealed his face that no one who was there knew who he was. wherefore the lady lesolie, speaking as to a stranger, said, "sir, what wouldst thou have of me?" and sir ewaine answered saying: "lady, i come hither to bear to you a message from one who has unwittingly done you a great injury." upon this the lady cried out very vehemently: "sir, if you come from that recreant knight, sir ewaine, then you may return unto him again who hath sent you hither." to which sir ewaine said, "lady, i cannot return unto him, for it would be impossible." at these words the lady lesolie's countenance fell, and for a while she spake not. then after a while she said, "dost thou bring ill news of him?" and sir ewaine said: "i know not whether the news be ill unto thee or not, but some while ago i beheld that unfortunate knight where he lay dying in a park beside a lake of water." then the lady of the fountain pressed her handkerchief to her lips as though to check an outcry, and after a little while she said, "good sir, tell me what you know." sir ewaine said, "i will do so." and he said: "you are to know that when sir ewaine left this court to return to the court of king arthur, he fell in with the enchantress vivien, who gave him a ring of forgetfulness so that he disremembered all that had happened to him at your court. afterward there came a young damsel from this place who put him to shame before all those who were his companions at the court of king arthur. this that damsel did because she thought that sir ewaine was unfaithful to you. but he was not unfaithful and so he was shamed for no good reason. now after being thus shamed before all the court of king arthur in that wise, this woeful knight departed from his friends because he could not bear to dwell in his humiliation before them. so he left all those his friends and journeyed afar, and in his journeyings he fell among thieves, and these finding him unarmed, bound him whilst he slept, and robbed him and wounded him to death. so it was that i beheld him lying by the wayside, pierced through with a javelin and dying of that wound, and so have i come thither to tell you of this story." now when the lady of the fountain heard what that pilgrim had to say, she shrieked with great violence and immediately swooned away and fell upon the ground. then several of her maidens ran to her and these served her until by and by she revived from her swoon. yet when she was thus recovered she straightway fell to smiting her hands together and crying aloud in a very bitter agony of spirit: "woe is me that i should have disbelieved in the honor of that noble and worthy knight, for now because of my disbelief in him i perceive that i have lost him forever. for so hath died the best and truest knight that ever lived in all of the world." saying this, she fell to weeping in great measure, and elose strove to comfort her, also weeping, but the lady would not be comforted. then sir ewaine said, "lady, hast thou yet such a kind regard for the knight as this?" and the lady lesolie said with great passion: "yea, truly, and so i always shall have, for methinks that never such another knight as he lived in this world." [sidenote: _sir ewaine declareth himself to the lady of the fountain._] then sir ewaine said: "lady, you understood not my words. sir ewaine is not dead, and if you will you may easily have him here again." she said, "how know you that?" then sir ewaine cast off his hood and laid aside his hat and said: "lady, i am that man; and if i have deceived thee in this, it is that i may again behold thy face that is so dear to me--yea, that is dearer than all the world besides." so saying, sir ewaine kneeled before the lady and embraced her about the knees, and she stooped and embraced his head and both of them wept with a great passion of love and joy. and so they were reconciled to one another. and in that reconciliation there was much rejoicing, for all the town was bedraped with silken scarves and banners by day and illuminated by night because of joy for the return of the champion-defender of the fountain. and there was feasting and drinking at the castle of the fountain, and there was jousting from day to day for seven days, and in those joustings the knights of the court of the fountain under the lead of sir ewaine defended their chivalry with such skill and valor that none of those that came against them were able to withstand them, but all those companies of knights-contestant were defeated, to the great glory of the lady lesolie of the fountain. then after seven days of this rejoicing, sir ewaine was wedded with great pomp of circumstance to the lady of the fountain. and of that wedding it is to be recorded in the history of these things that sir ewaine and the lady lesolie rode to the minster upon milk-white horses, and that they were all clad in white samite embroidered with silver and inset with so many precious stones of all sorts and kinds that they glistened in the sunlight as though they were two figures of living fire. and it is recorded that tenscore damsels of wonderful beauty, clad all in white, preceded them upon the way, and spread the way with flowers, chaunting the while in voices of great rejoicing. thus sir ewaine was wedded at the castle of the fountain, and after that he dwelt in the land of the fountain with great peace and good content. and sir ewaine ever defended the fountain as he had aforetime, so that the fame of the knight of the fountain was known throughout the length and breadth of the land and in every court of chivalry. and many knights undertook the adventure of the fountain but in every case such errant knights were overthrown by the valor and the skill of the knight of the fountain. and in every case where that knight adventurer was thus overthrown, the knight of the fountain would take from him his horse and his shield and would send him away upon foot, disarmed and ashamed. so, because of the valor of the knight of the fountain, it came about in course of time that a very noble and worthy court of chivalry became established at the castle of the city of the fountain, insomuch that the renown of that court of the fountain hath been handed down in the histories of chivalry even to this day, when knighthood no longer dwelleth upon the earth. * * * * * such is the history of sir ewaine when he undertook the adventure of the fountain whilst upon the quest of sir launcelot. and now if you choose to read further you shall hear how sir percival and sir sagramore found sir launcelot in the island of joy and of how sir launcelot returned to his friends once more. [illustration] part vi the return of sir launcelot _here followeth the further history of sir launcelot of the lake; of how sir percival and sir ector de maris found sir launcelot where he was dwelling very peacefully and happily (albeit not with perfect content) in the island of joy, of which you have heard mention in that which hath gone before; of the notable affair-at-arms betwixt sir launcelot and sir percival, and of how sir launcelot, with elaine the fair, returned with sir percival and sir ector de maris to the court of king arthur. likewise you shall there read of what befell that noble company in the valley of the fountain aforetold of. all this history is of such a sort that it hath given me great pleasure to write it; wherefore if so be it may give you a like sort of pleasure to read it, then shall i be very well content with that which i have done in my endeavor to set forth these several events aforesaid._ [illustration: sir lamorack and sir percival receive their mother's blessing:] [illustration] chapter first _how sir percival met his brother, and how they two journeyed to the priory where their mother dwelt and what befell them thereafter._ now return we to sir percival and sir sagramore whom sir ewaine left (as aforetold of) still sleeping in that castle whence we departed so early in the morning--even before the break of day--to undertake the adventure of the fountain. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir sagramore depart together._] when those two good knights awoke and founds that sir ewaine had departed, they communed together in the bedchamber of sir percival. and they agreed that thereafter they two should join company and that in their further search for sir launcelot they should travel together as companions. so when they had broken their fast, they bade farewell to the lord of the castle, and departed upon their way, travelling very cheerfully together, side by side, and taking great joy in the gay and jocund weather, and in all the sweet freshness and the warmth of the springtide that embalmed them around about. so they travelled as companions in arms for more than a year, and in that time they met with several bel-adventures, some of which are told of in books of chivalry and some of which are not told of. and i would that i could recount those adventures that befell them, but i cannot, for it would take another book as great as this to tell all of the things that happened to them in their journeyings. yet it shall here be said that in those adventurings they fell in with a great many sorts of folk of different condition, both gentle and simple, and that several times they met certain knights-companion of the round table. and it shall here be said that they met in that wise with sir gawaine and sir bors de ganis, concerning which meeting there shall be more said anon. [sidenote: _of the manner in which they journey._] and if you would ask how they lodged them during their travels i would say that they lodged them in divers sorts and ways. for if it happened that at one time they would lodge them in such a noble castle as that where sir gawaine and sir percival met sir sagramore, then it would happen at another time that they would find shelter in the hut of some lonely shepherd upon the moorlands, and then it would happen at still another time that they would even have no shelter at all, but would maybe wrap themselves each in his cloak with nothing beneath him for a bed but the cold honest earth, and nothing above him for a coverlet but the silent company of god's own sky, all sprinkled over with a countless multitude of brightly shining stars. for so those good knights of old travelled errant in those days, taking whatever befell them in good part, and accepting all that came to them with a cheerful spirit. if you would ask me in what sort of weather they travelled, i would tell you that they were content with whatsoever weather god sent to them; for if the weather were pleasant, as upon that first day of their journey, then they would travel very cheerfully up hill and down dale, in sunshine or shadow as the case might be; and if the weather were foul, then they would abide wheresoever heaven sent them shelter wherein to stay until the storm would pass by and be gone. for this is true, that even wintry weather cannot chill a cheerful heart; wherefore, when the north wind would bluster loud and boisterously, and when the falling snow would be covering all the earth with frozen white, then those two worthy champions would be well content to lodge them at some wayside inn. for there they might warm them beside the roaring fire, whereof the blaze would shine in red sparks of light at several places upon the polished plates of their armor, and whilst they took cheer in the heat of the fire, and whilst they listened to the storm, how it beat and drummed upon the windows, and whilst they harkened at the wind, how it roared and thundered about the gables of the house, that while they would take great pleasure in the company of the good folk of the neighborhood, who would be gathered around a merry bowl of hot mulled ale, with roasted crab-apples bobbing afloat in it, singing merry songs the while and telling jolly contes, and laughing and making rude and homely sport in several ways that afforded good entertainment to those two belted knights who listened thereunto. thus you may know how in several ways it was that those two good worthy knights travelled during that considerable time when they were journeying together as companions in arms, for in this wise i have taken great pleasure in telling you thereof. * * * * * [sidenote: _sir percival and sir sagramore come to a fair valley._] now after those two had thus been companions in amity together for the space of a year or a little more than a year, it chanced upon a certain day that they found themselves at a place where a woodland ceased and where there began a very fair valley with a smooth shining river winding like a ribbon down the length thereof. and they sat at the head of that valley and they gazed down for some while thereinto, and they beheld that valley with great joy because it was so fair and fruitful. for in it were several meadow-lands, all smiling with verdure, and there were many fields of growing corn, and these fields and meadows rose ever upward until they cut against the sky, as smooth with fertility as though carved out with the edge of a sharp keen knife. and beside the river were banks of reeds and rushes and pollard willows and thickets of alder and aspen. and the broad highroad followed the course of the stream and there were several mills in the valley and broad ponds of water with bosky trees and with houses clustered upon the banks thereof. and ever the breeze blew mild and steady, and very balmy and warm, and great round white clouds moved slowly across the high arch of the bright blue sky. all this sir percival and sir sagramore beheld and they took such joy in it that so i cannot forbear to tell you of it as i have done because of the joy that i also take in what they beheld. wherefore i pray you to forgive me if i have recounted more of those things than need be, who am writing a history of chivalry and of knightly daring. so those two worthies sat there where were the highlands at the edge of the forest, and gazed their fill down upon that valley, all spread out, as it were, upon a table beneath them, and when they had thus gazed their fill they aroused themselves from their pleasant contemplations and descended down into that valley, riding along beside the shining river. so they followed the highway, and by and by came to where the road crossed the river by a high-arched bridge of stone. at that place were several houses of stone with white walls that stood sheltered with great, umbrageous trees and the walls of the houses touched the edge of the smooth and gently flowing river. coadjacent to this place was a mill and a sheet of wide-spreading bright water where were so many swifts, flitting hither and thither above the smooth surface, that they resembled bees flying about a hive upon a warm day in june. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir sagramore meet a knight at the bridge._] now as sir sagramore and sir percival approached that bridge aforesaid with intent to cross it, they were presently aware of another knight who came toward them from the other end thereof. and as they went forward he also came forward so that it was likely that they three would meet in the midst of the bridge. and they beheld that the knight rode upon a great flemish charger as black as a coal, and that he was of a very noble, haughty appearance, showing no fear at their advance, though they were two and he was but one. for ever he rode forward very boldly, and with great spirit, even though it would bring him to meet them in the middle of the way. there was no device of any sort upon the shield or the armor of that knight, for it appeared that he was minded to travel unknown; so they wist not who he was, but in his appearance they beheld that he was strong and big and very lusty. [sidenote: _sir sagramore exchanges words with the knight on the bridge._] then as they approached one another sir sagramore bespake that knight, saying: "sir, what mean you, coming so boldly thus against us? would you who are one against two dispute the passage of this bridge with us?" to this the other said: "messire, i have no mind to assume any dispute with you; yet you must be aware that it would ill beseem any one of true knightly courage to draw aside and to give you way. for, as you say, you are two and i am but one; wherefore, if i should withdraw me from this meeting it might be that you would impute a lack of courage to me. so, meseems, it would be better for you to give way for me, for you could do so without any impeachment of fear, whilst i would do an injury to the pure nobility of my knighthood if i should give way to you." then sir sagramore said: "sir knight, it need not be that there should be two of us against one. let my companion withdraw to the farther side of the bridge and let us two try a fall together. so it shall be decided which of us shall of a verity have the right first to cross this bridge." "well," said the stranger knight, "that falleth in with my will in the matter; therefore let it be as you say." so, it being thus decided, sir percival drew away from the bridge upon his side, and those two knights-contestant made each himself ready for combat. each chose his station, and when they were in all wise prepared, each set spur to horse and shouted to the assault and so dashed together across the space of bridge, each in a cloud of dust and with a noise like to thunder of horses' hoof beats upon the roadway of the bridge. [sidenote: _the strange knight overthrows sir sagramore._] so they met in the very centre of the bridge with a crash one might have heard a furlong or more away. in that encounter the spear of sir sagramore broke into many pieces but the spear of the other knight held so that sir sagramore was hurtled with great violence over the crupper of his horse, and, striking the ground with a roar of falling armor, he lay there like one who had been struck dead. now sir percival was greatly astonished to see so potent a knight as sir sagramore thus overthrown, wherefore he hurried forward with all speed to where his companion lay upon the ground. and sir percival leaped from his horse and went to his friend and found that he was not dead but only stunned by the violence of the fall he had suffered. for anon sir sagramore began to move and to bestir himself and so, after another while, sir percival was able to raise him up and set him upon his feet again, albeit sir sagramore's head was as light as a feather and swam like to running water. now all this while that other knight had been sitting very steadfastly observing sir percival what he was about. so when he beheld that no great harm had befallen that knight whom he had overthrown, he spake to sir percival, saying: "sir knight, are you satisfied upon your part, or will you also have to do with me in disputing the pass of this bridge?" "sir," quoth sir percival, "i would fain have had you go in peace, but since you have thus offered me the chance of battle or no battle, lo! i have no such choice, but must needs take this knight's quarrel upon myself. so make you ready that i may avenge his fall upon you." therewith sir percival gat sir sagramore to horse and cleared the bridge of him. then he mounted upon his own horse and made him ready for that assault which he had undertaken. so when he was in all wise prepared and perceiving that his enemy was also ready, he shouted to the charge and therewith drave forward in the assault. [sidenote: _sir percival and the strange knight do battle together._] then again those two knights-contestant met in the centre of the bridge with such a violence of meeting that the spear of each was broken into splinters to the very truncheon thereof. and each would have fallen before the assault of the other except that, with spur and bridle-rein, each uplifted his charger to foot again. thereupon, having no spear wherewith to do further battle, each knight voided his saddle and each drew his sword and made him ready for further battle. so they came together to assault afoot, and presently each fell to lashing at the other such violent buffets that the sound thereof could be heard in echo both far and near. so they fought for a long time and in that while neither gained any advantage whatsoever over the other. but ever sir percival was more and more astonished at the valor and the prowess of his enemy, for, unless it were sir launcelot of the lake, he knew not of any one in that land who might withstand his assault unless it were his own brother, sir lamorack. so by and by sir percival stinted his battle, and he cried out, "hold, sir knight!" and therewith upon that demand the other also stayed his assault, and stood leaning upon his sword, panting from the violence of the battle he had done. then sir percival said: "sir, you assuredly fight a very wonderful battle, for i knew not there was any knight in this realm could withstand my assault, unless it were sir launcelot of the lake or mine own brother who is sir lamorack of gales. wherefore i much marvel who you can be. now i pray you tell me, are you sir launcelot, or are you my brother, sir lamorack?" [sidenote: _sir lamorack and sir percival declare themselves._] so spake sir percival, and at those words that other knight cried out in a loud voice: "what say you! what say you! who are you who layeth claim to be brother to sir lamorack of gales? know i myself am sir lamorack of gales, so that if you are my brother, then you can be none other than that good worthy knight sir percival." then sir percival cried out in a loud voice, "i am indeed sir percival!" and with that he uplifted the umbril of his helmet and showed his face. so also sir lamorack (for that other knight was indeed he) uplifted the umbril of his helmet and showed his face. then when sir percival beheld his brother's face and wist that it was indeed he against whom he had been doing battle, he cried out aloud: "my brother! my brother! is it indeed thou with whom i have fought!" and sir lamorack also cried out, "my brother! my brother!" and thereupon each ran to the other and embraced him in his arms. and each kissed the other upon his cheek in great affection of spirit. then sir lamorack said: "my brother, i prithee tell me who was that knight whom i chanced to overthrow but now?" and sir percival said, "that was sir sagramore." sir lamorack said: "that is a great pity that i should have assaulted him and done him a hurt. let us now go see how he doeth." [sidenote: _sir lamorack knoweth sir sagramore._] so they two went together to where sir sagramore was, and they found that he was now altogether recovered from his fall. and when sir sagramore heard that it was sir lamorack against whom he had run atilt, he made great exclamation of astonishment and he said: "hah! i am not at all surprised that i should have met with such a mishap as that fall which i suffered, seeing that it was thou, sir lamorack, against whom i ran atilt." after that there was much amicable talk betwixt the three. and after they had so talked for a considerable while, sir percival said to sir lamorack, "my brother, whither goest thou?" to this sir lamorack said: "i go to visit our mother at the priory of saint bridget's. for wit you it hath now been three years since either of us hath seen her." quoth sir percival: "brother, what thou sayst is true, and i am greatly ashamed that it should be so long a time since i have beheld our mother. now i am of a mind to go with thee upon this errand, and i will do so if my companion, sir sagramore, is willing to part company with me." and sir lamorack said, "i pray you do so." then sir sagramore said to sir percival: "sir, i would not stay you from your duty. go you with your brother in god's name and think naught of me." and sir percival said, "i will do so." [sidenote: _sir percival and sir lamorack depart together._] so after a little while longer of friendly talk, sir percival and sir lamorack bade adieu to sir sagramore, and after that the two brothers betook their way toward the priory of st. bridget's as aforesaid and sir sagramore went his way alone. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir lamorack behold their mother._] so sir percival and sir lamorack travelled upon their way for all that day, and upon the afternoon of the second day they came to that place where was the priory of st. bridget. then you may suppose what joy that noble lady prioress, their mother, had in beholding her two knightly sons side by side before her once more. for it is recorded that when she beheld those two noble lords kneeling upon the ground so that she might bestow her blessing upon them, she wept very tenderly and said: "ah, my dear sons! when your father was slain he left me four sons, of whom twain were slain by treachery so that now but you two are alive." and she said: "i pray god he may take you into his keeping and cherish you in all ways that be for your good, so that you may be spared your lives and not perish by violence as did your father and your two brothers." after that they three sat together talking very tenderly to one another; and they sat together far into the night, so that it was past midnight when they parted company to seek their repose. and as they said good night to their mother, sir percival said: "before the dawn of day cometh, dear mother, i must depart upon my journey once more." and sir lamorack said: "is it so? then i must depart with thee, my brother, for to keep thee company." at that the lady prioress fell to weeping, and still weeping she kissed them both and prayed that god might shield them both from sin and sorrow; and so they parted for the night. so it befell that upon the first breaking of the morn, they two took horse and departed from that place. and when the lady prioress awoke, they were far upon their way. then when the lady, their mother, found them gone, she cried out, "alas! who would be a mother to suffer such partings as these!" [sidenote: _sir percival and sir lamorack depart from the priory._] now after sir lamorack and sir percival had left the priory of st. bridget's in that wise, they rode side by side through the dawning of the day, what time a thin, cool mist like to a veil of silver lay all about the meadow-lands; what time everywhere the birds were singing their pretty matins with great joy; what time the leaves of the trees rustled with the first breath of the coming day. anon the sky grew bright like to shining silver, very clear and remote, and then anon uprose the glorious sun and sent his beams across the meadow-land and wold. then sir percival and sir lamorack drew rein and dismounted each from his steed. each turned his horse to grass and then each opened his wallet and broke his fast, quenching his thirst at a forest fountain that burst out of a cleft rock near by, as clear as crystal and as cold as ice. after that they had thus refreshed themselves they took horse again and once more travelled onward as before. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir lamorack hear a voice lamenting._] now about the middle of the day, they being then journeying in a leafy woodland, they became aware of a sound of lamentation in a part of the forest and they wist that there was in that place some one who was in distress. so with one accord they followed that sound of lamentation a little to one side, and away from the path, and so, by and by, they came to a certain open glade of the woodlands where they perceived the figure of a knight stretched out upon the ground. and that knight was covered with blood and his armor was cleft and broken as with battle. beside the knight there knelt an esquire clad all in garments pied of red and white. and as the esquire thus kneeled beside the knight he wiped the face of the knight continually with a napkin, and ever made that outcry of sorrow which they two had heard from a distance. then sir percival and sir lamorack rode forward into that glade and when the esquire perceived those two strange knights coming toward him, he arose and stood as though not rightly knowing whether to flee away or to remain where he was. this sir lamorack perceived and so called out: "fair youth, be not afraid, but stay and tell us what is this sad sight which we behold, for we are knights errant and we mean ye well and not ill." so the esquire, perceiving their intention to be friendly, remained where he was, and thereupon they two rode up to him and to where that figure of misfortune lay stretched in his blood upon the ground. then sir lamorack said: "is this noble knight living, or is he dead?" and the esquire said, "alas, messire! he is not dead, but mefeareth he is dying." [sidenote: _sir percival and sir lamorack succor a wounded knight._] then sir lamorack and sir percival dismounted from their horses and they went to where lay the unfortunate knight aforesaid. and they examined him to see whether he were alive; and for a while they thought that he was dead, but after a while they perceived that he was not dead, but that he was grievously wounded and very nigh to death. then sir lamorack lifted up his face and looked at that esquire, and he said, "who is this knight, and how came he here?" "messire," quoth the esquire, "i will tell you all. this is a very worthy knight hight sir tarn. he and his lady with only myself in attendance were riding this morning through this part of the forest with intent to go to the castle of a brother of sir tarn's. right as we rode thus, there met us a very cruel and savage knight of these marches hight sir godwin. this sir godwin had with him several armed men and these fell upon my lord and his lady, and him they struck down with many dolorous blows and left for dead and her they have led captive away with them. as for me, i escaped from their hands into the thick woodlands and after they had gone i returned hither to lend such aid as i might to my sad, unfortunate lord." "ha!" said sir lamorack, "this is a very sorry story and that is indeed a wicked and unkindly knight who treated thy lord in this wise. well do i know this sir godwin, for i slew his brother, sir gaudelin, for such another piece of mischief as this of which thou complainest." and sir lamorack said to sir percival: "brother, let us put this good knight to such ease and comfort as we may, and then let us go to the castle of sir godwin and succor that lady of sir tarn whom he hath taken away captive." and sir percival also said, "let us do so." so they two dismounted from their horses and, with the help of that esquire they eased sir tarn of his armor. after that they searched his wounds and bathed them from the waters of a near-by fountain of the forest. and they bound up those wounds with such bandages as they had at hand and so brought all the ease and comfort they were able to the wounded man. so anon sir tarn opened his eyes and sighed, and anon he moved and upraised himself upon his elbow. then sir lamorack said: "lie still, sir tarn, and move not for this while and until thou art better than thou now art. and take comfort to thyself, for i am sir lamorack of gales and this is my brother, sir percival of gales, and presently we go to the castle of sir godwin for to succor thy lady and to bring her to thee again. for indeed i have great faith that god will be with us in that undertaking, and that we shall bring you peace of soul as we have brought you comfort of body." so sir lamorack comforted sir tarn, and after that they bade the wounded man adieu for the time and so left him and departed thence, betaking their way to the castle of sir godwin. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir lamorack come to the castle of sir godwin._] so after a while they perceived the castle of sir godwin where it was in the midst of the woodland. and they came close to the castle and when they were very near they dismounted from their horses and tied the bridles each to a sapling. after that they two went up to the gate of the castle and demanded admission. then presently the porter came to the gate and looked forth at them through the wicket, and he said: "who are ye that demand admission, and what is your business?" sir lamorack said: "we be two knights who come to demand of sir godwin full satisfaction for the wounding of sir tarn and to demand that the lady of sir tarn be set free from durance." so spake sir lamorack, and thereat the porter laughed and said: "certes, ye be mad, or else ye be two fearless men to come thus upon such an errand." therewith he shut the wicket and went away. and he went to where sir godwin was and told him how those two knights had come thither and what was their business. when sir godwin heard that message he also laughed and he said to the porter: "go thou and admit these two knights, and when they have entered the courtyard do thou shut to the gate after them. so we will have them catched as in a trap. after that we may deal with them as we please." [sidenote: _sir percival and sir lamorack enter the castle of sir godwin._] so the porter did as sir godwin commanded; he went and opened the gates to sir lamorack and sir percival and he said, "come in!" and when they were within the castle he shut to the gate again so that they might not go forth until they of the castle chose to let them out again. and at that time sir percival and sir lamorack were in a courtyard of the castle and there was no way whereby they might escape from that place upon any side, for all the doors and passes were closed against them. anon came sir godwin, the lord of the castle, clad all in full armor. and he appeared at a balcony that overlooked the courtyard beneath, and he said: "who are ye who come hither, meddling with that which concerns you not?" him answered sir lamorack very boldly: "thou wicked and unworthy knight! know thou that i am sir lamorack of gales, and that i am he who slew thy brother, sir gaudelin, for such an offence as this that thou hast this morning committed. i and my brother, sir percival, are come hither with intent to punish thee for the evil thing which thou hast done this morning, for we will not suffer that such things shall be done as thou doest. for those were like the deeds that thy brother did and for them he died. so repent thee or his fate shall presently be thy fate also unless thou dost presently repent and make amends for the injury thou hast done." so spake sir lamorack, and at that speech sir godwin was so filled with rage that it was as though all the light of heaven turned red before his eyes. for a while he could not speak because of that rage, and then by and by he cried out: "hah! hah! art thou indeed sir lamorack who slew my brother? now i am right glad of that. make thine orisons, for this night thou shalt assuredly sup in paradise with thy brother for company." [sidenote: _sir godwin attacks sir percival and sir lamorack in force._] therewith he departed and was gone, and sir percival and sir lamorack knew not what was to happen next. then, after a while, a door of the castle was suddenly opened upon the courtyard and a score or more of full-armed men rushed very violently into the space where sir lamorack and sir percival were. at that same time another door was opened upon the other side of the courtyard and thereupon there rushed in sir godwin and other armed men. all of these ran forward and flung themselves upon sir lamorack and sir percival with intent to overthrow them by dint of numbers. but when sir percival and sir lamorack were aware of their coming, they straightway set themselves back to back and each whirled his bright shining sword about his head so that it flashed like lightning. then there befell a great battle in that narrow courtyard, many against two. yet ever those two bare themselves very valiantly so that in a little space of time there were six or ten men lying groaning upon the ground, and the pavement of the courtyard was become all slippery with blood. yea; so great was the terror that those two spread about them that in a little while they who assaulted them drew away from the death that was measured out to those who were nearest to the two. [sidenote: _sir lamorack slayeth sir godwin._] so, for a while, there came a pause in that battle, and in that pause sir lamorack perceived where sir godwin stood in the midst of the castle folk, urging them to the attack. thereat of a sudden the madness of battle fell upon sir lamorack, so that he waited not for another assault, but, shouting aloud, he ran at his enemy, whirling his sword about his head. at that fierce attack the castle folk scattered from before him like to chaff before the wind, and so sir lamorack and sir godwin stood face to face with no one to stay sir lamorack in his assault. then sir lamorack whirled his sword and smote such a buffet that though sir godwin took that buffet upon his shield, yet his wits melted away from him because of the blow he had received. then his defences fell low before him, his head hung upon his breast, he staggered, and his thighs trembled with weakness. then he cried out, "mercy! mercy!" saying those words twice over. but sir lamorack would not hear him, but lifting up his sword he smote sir godwin again, and with that second stroke sir godwin fell down upon his knees to the ground. then sir lamorack rushed off the helmet of sir godwin and he catched sir godwin's head by the hair and drew his neck forward. and he whirled up his sword and he smote sir godwin's head from his body so that it rolled down upon the stones of the courtyard. now when the followers of sir godwin beheld how their master was slain they were seized with a great terror of death insomuch that they crowded away to the extremities of the courtyard like to rats caught in a pit. and they held up their hands and cried aloud, "mercy! mercy!" then sir lamorack, panting for breath from his fight and leaning upon his sword, said, "take your mercy." and he said, "where is the major of this castle?" they say, "we will get him for you, lord," and therewith several ran upon that errand. anon they came bringing a fat old man all trembling and quaking with fear. this fat old man kneeled down before sir lamorack, and sir lamorack said, "art thou the major of this place?" and he said, "yea, messire." sir lamorack said, "what captives have ye here?" to the which the major replied, "there be seven captives, and four of those seven are ladies." sir lamorack said, "take us to them." so upon the command of sir lamorack the major arose from his knees, trembling with fear. and he conducted sir lamorack and sir percival to the keep of the castle and to the secret dungeons that were within the keep. there they found and liberated those seven poor and miserable creatures who were held prisoners in that place. [sidenote: _sir lamorack liberates the castle captives._] amongst those ladies who were captive was the lady of sir tarn, and amongst the knights who were captive was sir percevant of hind. all these seven captives sir lamorack and sir percival liberated and they gave great praise and loud acclaim to those two most worthy champions who had set them free from their piteous and miserable durance. then sir lamorack said, "where is the treasure of this castle?" and in obedience to that command, the major conducted sir lamorack and sir percival to the treasure-house. there they found twelve great chests full of treasure, which same sir godwin had gathered by murder and robbery and rapine. then sir lamorack said: "let this treasure be divided equally amongst these captives so that they may be recompensed for all the misery they have suffered." so it was done as he commanded and thus it was that those who had been so sad in captivity were made glad in their liberation. nor would sir lamorack take any of that treasure for himself; otherwise he gave it all to those who had suffered so much at the hands of sir godwin. then after all this was accomplished, it being then come eventide, sir lamorack said: "let every living soul quit this place, for it is a den of thieves, and shall no longer be permitted to stand stone upon stone." [sidenote: _sir lamorack setteth fire to the castle._] so all they of the castle came and stood without the walls, both young and old, strong and weak, man and woman, the sick and the well. and when all had thus come forth, sir lamorack gave command that torches should be set here and there to the castle. so it was done according to that command, and in a little while all that castle was in a flame of fire, so that the falling night was made bright with the illumination thereof. in the light of that illumination sir lamorack and sir percival rode away with the lady of sir tarn. and they brought the lady to where the wounded man lay--and he had then recovered his strength in a great measure and was in a way of regaining his life and his health once more. so a pavilion was set up over sir tarn and after he was in all wise made comfortable, sir percival and sir lamorack departed from that place and went upon their way, riding through the night and all enwrapped around about by the darkness of the night and of the woodlands. * * * * * thus it was that sir lamorack and sir percival met at that bridge in the valley; thus they visited together their mother, the prioress of st. bridget's priory; thus they destroyed that nest of thieves, and thus they departed once more upon their way. and now followeth the story of how sir percival met sir ector de maris; of how sir percival joined company with sir ector; of how they discovered a certain very wonderful isle in a lake of clear water, and of how sir ector had to do with a certain knight who was the champion of that island aforesaid. [illustration] [illustration: sir percival and sir ector look upon the isle of joy:] [illustration] chapter second _how sir percival and sir ector de maris came to a very wonderful place where was a castle in the midst of a lake._ that night sir lamorack and sir percival lay in the woodlands, each wrapped in his cloak, and each sleeping very soundly after all the travails of the day. and when the next morning had come sir percival awoke a little before the dawning of the day and sir lamorack still slept. [sidenote: _sir percival leaveth sir lamorack asleep._] then sir percival bethought him that he must again depart in quest of sir launcelot and that his brother, sir lamorack, was not upon that quest. so he rose very softly and he went aside and donned his armor so quietly that he did not disturb his brother's slumbers. after he had thus donned his armor, he took horse and rode alone into the forest, leaving sir lamorack still asleep where he lay. and sir percival traversed that woodland for a long while, not knowing whither he went, but trusting ever to god to bring him out thence all in good time. so as he journeyed he came about the prime of day to a certain open place where there was a crossroad and a wayside shrine and a little chapel. and as sir percival drew nigh to this place, he beheld that a knight in shining armor was kneeling at that wayside shrine, reciting his orisons. [sidenote: _sir percival meets with sir ector de maris._] beside the kneeling knight there stood a noble dapple-gray war-horse, and the spear of the knight leaned against the bole of a near-by oak tree, and the shield of the knight hung suspended to the spear. and the knight wore neither helm nor bascinet, wherefore sir percival could see his face and so could know who he was. and sir percival knew that the knight who kneeled there was sir ector de maris, the brother of sir launcelot of the lake. now though sir ector heard the sound of the footsteps of the horse as sir percival drew nigh, yet he neither ceased his orisons nor turned his head, but ever continued very steadfastly to recite his prayers. and so sir percival drew rein at a little distance and waited until sir ector was done his prayers, nor did he disturb the kneeling knight in any wise until he had crossed himself and arisen to his feet. then sir percival said, "this is well met, sir ector," and because the umbril of sir percival's helmet was uplifted, sir ector knew him and so he said, giving him greeting, "well met indeed, sir percival." therewith sir percival dismounted from his horse, and he came to sir ector and clasped sir ector in his arms, and each kissed the other upon the cheek as though they had been brothers. after that they went a little to one side and sat them down in the soft long grass of the wayside and beneath the shadow of a wide-spreading tree. then sir percival said to sir ector: "sir, hast thou any news of thy brother, sir launcelot?" and sir ector said: "nay, i have no news of him, but i had hoped that you might have news." sir percival said, "i have no news," and he said, "do you still go in quest of that noble and gentle knight your brother?" and sir ector said, "yea." sir percival said: "so do i go upon that quest, and i would fain that we might travel somewhile together for the sake of companionship." and sir ector said: "so also would i wish it to be." now as they thus talked there came the hermit of that chapel to them where they sat, and he said to them: "messires, will ye not break bread with me ere ye depart from this place?" whereunto they said: "yea; gladly will we do so." so they all went together to the hermit's cell, and therewith he prepared for them such food as he had at his dwelling-place; to wit, sweet brown bread, with honey of the forest and berries freshly gathered from the thickets. so those two noble knights ate with great appetite and were fully refreshed and their hunger stayed. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir ector ride together._] then, after they had thus eaten their fill, they gave many thanks to the good man for their refreshment and so departed from that pleasant place, riding side by side together, talking in pleasant discourse, and now and then chanting a bit of song, either one alone or both together. meantime the warm sun shone very brightly, flickering ever and anon through the leaves and blazing of a sudden with a quick and wonderful glory as it catched upon the polished plates of their armor. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir ector behold a fair valley._] in this wise sir percival and sir ector travelled and by and by they came out of that forest. and they travelled for several days, until at last they one day came to a certain place whence they overlooked a valley. here they drew rein upon the heights and looked down into that valley, and they beheld that it was a very fair place. and in the midst thereof they beheld that there was a lake of water, wonderfully clear and very blue and tranquil, as it were a part of the bright shining sky that lay within the cup of that valley. and they beheld that in the midst of the lake there was an island, and that upon the island there stood a castle, very tall and stately, and with many tall roofs of tile that shone all red like to several separate flames of fire against the mild blue sky behind. and they beheld that there was a little town of houses of stone and brick not far away from that castle, and they beheld that the rest of the island was very fertile and green, like to a pure emerald of bright fertility. and they beheld that there were several groves and plantations of trees and of fruit-trees at several places upon the island, so that, what with this and what with that, it was like a fragment of paradise planted in that place. all these they beheld, as it were, upon the palm of the hand. and after they had gazed for a while, sir ector said: "methinks that yonder is as fair a place as ever i saw in all of my life. now let us descend thitherward and let us seek to discover to what noble lord yonder island castle belongeth." to the which sir percival said, "that meeteth altogether my wishes." so thereupon those two rode down into that valley and so came to the margin of the lake. and they beheld that the waters of the lake were as clear as crystal and that all around the lake was a strand of yellow pebbles that appeared like pebbles of gold in the sunlight, wherefore it was as though that lake was altogether surrounded with the ring of gold. and beyond this strand of pebbles were meadows of long grass and of flowers, and chiefly these flowers were daffodils. [sidenote: _sir percival and sir ector ride beside the lake._] so those two knights proceeded along that golden strand, all in the shining sunlight, until, by and by, they came to a certain part of the lake that was nighest to the castle. and the island at that point sloped very gently down to the water, and as these two knights gazed across the waters they saw how that a wide, smooth meadow lay betwixt the castle and the waters of the lake, and that the meadow was besprinkled with an incredible number of bright daffodil flowers like to the meadows upon the other side of that strand of pebbles. and they perceived that there was a lady standing deep in the long grass of the meadow and in the midst of the flowers, and they saw that she wore many ornaments of gold set with jewels and that she carried a sparrow-hawk upon her wrist. [sidenote: _sir percival bespeaketh a lady of joyous isle._] [sidenote: _of the champion of joyous isle._] then sir percival called to that lady across the water, saying, "lady, what is this castle and who is the lord thereof?" to this the lady also called out in reply (speaking in a voice that was wonderfully high and clear), saying: "this is hight the joyous isle and yonder is the castle of joyous isle, and the lord of the castle is a very noble knight hight, le chevalier malfait. we of this castle are exceedingly proud of that knight, holding him to be the most noble champion in all of the world. for there have been several tournaments and jousts held in these marches, and in none of them hath any one been able to stand against our knight. and many knights have come hither at different times to try an adventure against our knight, but all these hath he overthrown with wonderful skill and strength." thus spake that lady; and to her sir percival said: "certes, lady, this must be a very noble knight according to your accounting. now i pray you tell me how came so puissant a knight as that into this remote place?" quoth she: "i cannot rightly tell you that, only i know that he came hither as a madman and that he was healed of his madness, and that he was wedded to the daughter of the king of this country, who is one of the most beautiful ladies in the world, and that since then he hath been living here at joyous isle." then sir percival said: "lady, we came not hither upon any such adventure as that of trying the skill of your champion, but what you inform us concerning him giveth me a great appetite to try of what mettle he is. now i pray you tell me, how may i come at this knight so as to adventure myself against him." at this the lady laughed, and she said: "messire, if such be your wish, you will find yourself very welcome at this place. if you would come at this adventure, you must travel by the margin of the lake a little farther upon the way you are going and until you have come to that part of the lake that is back of the castle. there you will find a ferryman and his two sons. make your want known to this ferryman and he will take you into his boat and will ferry both you and your two horses across the water of the lake so that you may come to the other side." so spake the lady; and after that sir percival gave her gramercy and therewith he and sir ector took their departure. and so they travelled some little while by the margin of the lake as the lady with the sparrow-hawk had directed, and by and by they came to that part of the lake that was back of the castle. here they beheld a vessel such as the lady had described, and they beheld a hut beside the margin of the lake; and when they called there came forth out of the hut the ferryman and two others who were his sons. of these sir percival made demand that they should transport him across the lake to the island and thereupon the ferryman immediately prepared to do so. then sir percival said to sir ector: "sir, i pray you of your courtesy for one thing," and sir ector said, "what is that?" sir percival said: "i pray you that you will abide here and let me undertake this adventure alone. for i would not have it that two of us together should go forth against this one knight. and indeed i have great hope that i may be successful in this, even though i go thus alone, wherefore it is that i pray you of your courtesy that you will abide here, and patiently await my return." so spake sir percival, and sir ector said: "messire, let it be as you say and i will even abide here at this place and await your return. and if you should fail in that which you undertake, then will i also essay this adventure to discover if i may meet with better success." [sidenote: _sir percival passeth to joyous isle._] so therewith sir percival entered the boat, and the ferryman and his two sons also entered it, and they bent to their oars and in a little while they had rowed sir percival across the water to the island that lay upon the farther side. then when sir percival had safely come to the island in that wise, he rode up toward the castle through that very pleasant meadow aforetold of, and so came to the castle gateway. here he beheld a bugle horn hanging by a chain. then he took that bugle horn into his hands and blew upon it until the walls of the castle rang with the sound thereof. anon, in answer to that blast, there came the porter of that castle and looked at sir percival through the wicket of the gate. and the porter said: "messire, what would you have of us of this castle?" quoth sir percival: "good man, i have heard news of the great prowess of the knight-champion of this castle, and so i have come hither to make a better acquaintance of that prowess. now i, pray you to go to him and to tell him that there hath come an errant knight who would fain do battle with him in a friendly tilt if so be he will come forth hither without the castle and meet me in the meadow that lieth beneath the walls. for that meadow is a pleasant place, smooth and level, where two knights may have great joy in running atilt in friendly contest." "messire," quoth the porter, "it needs not that the knight of this castle should come forth out of the castle to meet you. for inside of this castle is a very pleasant tilt yard, and there is a gallery around about the tilt yard whence the lords and ladies of this place may view the contest between you and our knight. wherefore, i pray you enter and take no fear, for you will be very well received at this place." "i give you gramercy," said sir percival, "and i find that this is indeed a very gentle and kindly place whereunto i have come. so i pray you give me way and i will enter as you desire me to do." [sidenote: _sir percival entereth the castle of joyous isle._] so anon the portcullis of the castle was raised and the drawbridge was let fall and thereupon sir percival rode forward across the drawbridge and entered the castle and the courtyard thereof, the iron hoofs of his horse sounding very loud and noisy upon the stones of the pavement. then immediately there came several esquires running to him and asked of him what was his will and why he had come to that place. sir percival told them what he would have, and that he would have a friendly contest of arms with the knight of that place; whereunto the esquires said, "it shall be as you desire." so two of those esquires ran to find the knight of the castle to tell him how that a challenger was come to run atilt against him, and meantime several other esquires led sir percival's horse to the tilt yard of the castle and others still again brought him a cup of fair spiced wine for his refreshment. anon the folk of the castle began to gather in the balcony that overlooked the tilt yard, and sir percival, casting upward his eyes toward those who gathered there, beheld that that was as fair a court of chivalry as ever had looked down upon any battle that he had fought in all of his life. after that, and by and by, there came the knight-champion of the castle, riding into the farther extremity of the tilt yard, and when sir percival looked upon him it seemed to him that he had hardly ever seen so noble and haughty a figure as that castle champion presented. [sidenote: _sir percival doeth battle with the champion of joyous isle._] then straightway those two knights prepared each himself for the encounter, and when they were in all ways made ready the marshal of the lists came forward and proclaimed the conditions of battle--that it was to be ahorseback or afoot as the knights-contestant chose. after that proclamation the marshal withdrew a little to one side. then he called upon those knights to make them ready. then in another little while, and beholding that they were both ready in all wise, he blew a loud blast upon his trumpet, whereupon in an instant they quitted each his post and launched the one against the other like to two bulls rushing together in a charge. so they two met in the midst of the course with such an uproar of encounter that the ears of those who stood near by were stunned with the noise thereof. in that encounter each knight splintered his lance to the very butt thereof, and at the violence of the blow that each gave the other, the horse of each tottered back upon his haunches and would have fallen but for the address of the knight rider, who quickly recovered him with spur and voice and rein. then each knight voided his saddle and leaped to the ground, and each drew his sword from its sheath for an encounter afoot. then flashed their swords like lightning in the sunlight, and blow followed blow with such great spirit and good will that the sound thereof deafened the ears of those who looked down upon that encounter from the balcony. and ever these two champions lashed at the other such buffets that it was a wonder that any skill and address at arms could have turned aside such strokes as fell in that friendly battle. so they two fought for so long a time that those who onlooked were astonished at the strength and the courage and the endurance of those two champions, and in all that while neither knight had suffered aught of harm and neither had had aught of advantage over the other. [sidenote: _sir percival and the champion stint their battle._] then at last the champion of the castle cried out, "sir knight, hold thy hand!" and thereupon sir percival ceased his battle and stood leaning upon the pommel of his sword, panting because of the great endeavor which he had put forth during that conflict. then the knight-champion of the castle said: "messire, i have met many knights in my day and amongst them i have encountered those who were regarded to be the best knights in the world, yet i make my vow that never until this time have ever i met any knight who hath proved himself to be so strong and so powerful as you have shown yourself to be in this battle. now i pray you, messire, that you of your courtesy will declare your name and degree, for i doubt me not that you are one whom we shall find to have conferred great honor upon us by coming to this place." [sidenote: _sir percival declareth himself._] to this sir percival said: "messire, your civility of words is equal to your address at arms. gladly will i declare my name and degree, and happy will i be if it hath aught of significance to you, for i do not think that even sir launcelot of the lake himself was ever a better knight than you have shown yourself to be. know you that i am sir percival of gales and that i am son to king pellinore and brother unto sir lamorack of gales. and now i beseech you upon your part to declare your name and title to me." but to this speech the champion of the castle made no reply. otherwise, when he heard what sir percival said, and when he heard the name and degree of sir percival, he gave forth a great cry, either of joy or of something different from joy. therewith, and thus crying out, he flung away his sword and he flung away his shield, and he ran to sir percival and threw himself down upon his knees before sir percival and embraced him about the thighs. and he cried out: "what have i done! what have i done to do battle with thee in this wise!" at this sir percival was very greatly astonished and he said: "sir, what is this thou doest to kneel to me? who art thou who sayst such words as these i hear? now i pray thee that thou wilt immediately declare thyself to me who thou art!" [sidenote: _sir launcelot declareth himself._] then that knight, still kneeling, said: "sir percival, i am he whom men one time called sir launcelot of the lake." therewith saying, that knight of the castle lifted up the umbril of his helmet and sir percival beheld that it was indeed sir launcelot. then sir percival cried out even as sir launcelot had done, and thus crying out he said: "at last, at last i have found thee!" therewith he lifted up sir launcelot into his arms, and he embraced sir launcelot and kissed him upon the cheek and they wept over one another with a great joy of meeting, and all those in the balcony who beheld that sight wondered what was its occasion. [sidenote: _sir percival beholdeth elaine the fair._] then sir launcelot said to sir percival: "sir, let me bring you to my lady." and therewith he took sir percival by the hand and led him up into the gallery and to where the lady elaine sat in the midst of her court. and sir percival looked with a very earnest regard upon that lady, and it appeared to him that he had never before beheld so sweet and gentle and beautiful a countenance as that which he then looked upon. and sir percival said: "lady, now that i see thee i wonder not that sir launcelot hath remained thus hidden away from the sight of all of us for these two years past. for if this island wherein ye dwell is a fair paradise then certes art thou a very fitting queen to that dwelling-place." so spake sir percival, and after he had spoken the lady elaine smiled very kindly upon him and she said: "messire, your words are very fair and they flatter me far beyond my deserving. great is your renown amongst us and i declare that you are very welcome to this place. now i pray you put aside your armor and bathe and refresh yourself, and after that we shall all take gentle sport together." sir percival said: "lady, gladly would i stay with you at this present. but there is awaiting me at another place not far distant from this one whom sir launcelot will be even more glad to behold than he was glad to behold me. now i pray you, suffer me first to go and bring that one hither and then will we both remain with you in greater joy of your company." quoth sir launcelot, "who is it that could give me more pleasure to see than you, sir percival?" "sir," said sir percival, "it is your own brother, sir ector. for i left him upon the other side of the water of this lake whilst i came hither alone to try my fortune with you. now i pray you let me go to him and bring him hitherward so that we may all rejoice together." then sir launcelot cried out: "this is indeed joy upon joy. now i pray you, sir percival, go and bring him!" therewith sir percival departed to fetch sir ector thither in accordance with that saying. so sir percival rode down through the meadow of the island to the margin of the lake, and when he had come there the ferryman ferried him across the water as they had brought him across before. and sir percival found sir ector waiting for him, who, when he beheld sir percival coming, said: "sir, what fortune had you in your adventure?" quoth sir percival: "oh, friend! that fortune which i had was greater than you or i could have deemed to be possible." at these words sir ector was greatly astonished, and he said: "what great fortune is this of which thou speakest?" and sir percival said: "i will tell thee. whom thinkest thou i have found upon this adventure? none other than thine own brother, sir launcelot, for he it is who is the lord of this castle." then sir ector cried out with astonishment, and he said: "can this be so indeed?" and then he said: "let us make haste and go to him upon the wings of the wind." [sidenote: _sir percival bringeth sir ector to joyous isle._] so again they entered the ferry and were ferried across the water. and after they were upon the farther side they rode together through that meadow of flowers and up to the castle. now as they drew nigh to the castle in that wise they beheld a great concourse of the castle folk coming forth to meet them and giving great sound of jubilation and rejoicing. at the head of these who approached to meet them came sir launcelot and the lady elaine, they two riding side by side, sir launcelot upon a great black horse, and she upon a white palfrey. and she was clad all in garments of white sarsanet embellished with pearls and embroidered with threads of silver, and she was adorned with ornaments of shining gold and she wore a golden crown upon her head such as was befitting the daughter of a king to wear. her fair hair was enmeshed in a network of golden threads so that what with this and that her beauty shone from afar with exceeding lustre. and though sir ector had beheld her aforetime yet it was as though he had never beheld her until that day, for her joy and her pride of sir launcelot and in his meeting sir ector and sir percival again so illuminated her countenance that it was as though her beauty shone with a singular brightness from within; yea, it was as though her soul itself had illuminated her body of flesh with a pure and shining beauty that was other than of this world. [sidenote: _sir ector and sir launcelot meet one another._] so as they met, sir launcelot and sir ector each leaped from his horse and they ran together and embraced and kissed each other and wept one upon another in such a wise that all of those who looked on wept also for joy of their joy. and then sir ector came to the lady and took her by the hand and kissed her hand and kissed it again and yet again. after that they all went up to the castle of the joyous isle together, and they entered into the castle with sounds of rejoicing and loud acclaim so that the very walls of the castle seemed, as it were, to cry out with joy. so after they had thus entered the castle, a number of attendants took sir percival and sir ector and made them comfortable in all wise. and they were given rich robes of royal make for to wear and after that there was feasting and rejoicing beyond measure. thereafter day followed day in great cheer and mirth and there were many joustings and tournaments held in honor of these two royal knights who had come thither. * * * * * [sidenote: _sir ector bespeaketh sir launcelot._] now one day sir launcelot and sir ector were walking together in the garden of that fair castle and they were alone, no attendants being with them at that time. anon sir ector said to sir launcelot, "my brother, i pray ye read me a riddle." quoth sir launcelot, "what is your riddle?" "it is this," said sir ector: "what should one do if a messenger came to him with command from a queen to whom he had sworn duty--that command being that he should show himself at court? should that one neglect the command that his queen had transmitted to him, or should he obey that command." then sir launcelot turned his face aside so that sir ector might not read his eyes, and after a little he said, "i will not return to court." "why will ye not do so?" said sir ector, and sir launcelot made reply: "because a duty that is greater than any queen's command keeps me here with this lady unto whom i have pledged all my truth and all my faith." after that sir ector was silent for a little, and then after a little while he said: "sir, you know very well that i would do naught to advise you against that which i believe to be your duty and your honor. but are you so doubtful of yourself that you fear to perform one duty lest you should fail in another duty? now we are commanded by that queen whom you swore to serve to search you out and to find you and to tell you that it is her command unto you that you return to the court of the great king and make your peace with her. are you then so doubtful of your truth to the lady elaine that you fear to obey the command of the queen?" then sir launcelot cried out, "say no more to me of this!" and so sir ector said no more. so, shortly afterward they parted company. after that they had so parted sir launcelot went to a certain chamber of the castle where he was alone and there he communed with his spirit, and these communings were very bitter and sad. anon came the lady elaine to that place and knocked upon the door and demanded entrance, but for a while sir launcelot denied her. but ever she knocked, and so after a while he opened the door a little and admitted her into that place where he was. then the lady elaine came close to sir launcelot and looked very deeply into his eyes, and by and by she said, "launcelot, what ails thee?" he said, "my brother hath been talking to me concerning certain matters." she said, "what was it he said to thee?" and sir launcelot replied, "i will not tell thee." [sidenote: _the lady elaine bespeaketh sir launcelot._] then the lady elaine smiled into sir launcelot's face and she said: "it needs not that thou shouldst tell me what thy brother said, for i can guess very well what it was." then she took sir launcelot's head into her embrace and she said, "launcelot! launcelot!" and he said, "elaine! elaine!" and the lady elaine said: "alas, love, thou must return with these good knights unto the court of the king, for it is thy duty to do so. after that thou mayst return hither, and i pray god that thy staying away from this place may not be for very long." then sir launcelot said: "elaine, i will not go away from this place unless it be that thou also goest with me. wherefore, if thou wilt have me go to king arthur's court, then go thou along with me. otherwise, if thou wilt not do that, then i will disobey the queen's commands and will stay forever here with thee." then the lady elaine smiled again though somewhat sadly and she said: "ah, launcelot, i am sorry for thee and for thy doubts. but as thou wilt have it so, so let it be and i will go with thee to the court of the king." therewith she kissed sir launcelot upon the face and he kissed her as with a great passion. [sidenote: _they all depart from joyous isle._] so three days after that time all they departed from joyous isle--to wit, sir launcelot and sir percival and sir ector and the lady elaine--and in the court who went along with them there also travelled sir lavaine, the lady elaine's brother, who had aforetime been sir launcelot's companion at arms in that tournament at astolat as aforetold of. these with their courts of esquires and ladies and demoiselles wended their way from that place with great state of departure and with all the pomp and circumstance that befitted the high estate of those who travelled. * * * * * so it was that sir launcelot was found, and now if you will read this history further you shall hear of a very pleasant adventure that befell them upon their way to the castle of king arthur and of how sir ewaine and the lady of the fountain joined them and went with them to the court of the king. [illustration] [illustration: sir lavaine the son of pelles:] [illustration] chapter third _how sir launcelot and sir percival and sir ector and the lady elaine progressed to the court of king arthur, and how a very good adventure befell them upon their way._ now, as was said, sir launcelot and the lady elaine departed for camelot, together with sir percival and sir ector and sir lavaine, for their intent was to return to king arthur's court. with them went a very noble court of knights and ladies, and of many attendants of all degrees in waiting upon them. so it was that whensoever their cavalcade would make a halt, that place where they would rest would suddenly bloom forth, as it were, with the glory of their coming. for upon such a halt there would immediately be spread a number of pavilions of all sorts and colors for the accommodation of those lords and ladies, wherefore the green fields and meadow-lands would presently be covered all over with a great multitude of gay colors of all sorts, bedazzling the eye with their brightness and their variety. then all the air would be aflutter with silken pennants and banners, and all would be bright with the shining of armor and the movement of gaily clad figures, and all would be merry with the chatter and music of many voices talking together, and all would be alive with movement and bustle--some running hither and some running thither--and everywhere pages and esquires would be busy polishing pieces of armor, and damsels would be busy in gentle attendance upon the lady. [sidenote: _how they rest within the forest._] so it was that they made progression in that wise, all gay and debonnaire, and so one day they made halt toward the sloping of the afternoon in a certain very pleasant woodland where a fair fountain of water, as clear as crystal and as cold as ice, came gushing forth from a mossy rock of the woodland. here was a very pleasant meadow of lush green grass all besprinkled with pretty flowers and around about stood the trees of the forest, ever rustling and murmuring their leaves in the soft and balmy breezes that caused their ancient heads to move, very slowly this way and that, as though they were whispering to one another concerning the doings of those gay travellers aforesaid. now as those knights and ladies who had been travelling all that day were anhungered with journeying, a repast had been spread in the open air, and all they sat at table with only the blue sky and the bright floating clouds above their heads for a canopy, and only the soft green grass and the pretty flowers beneath their feet for a carpet. and so as they sat, pages and attendants ran hither and thither with plates and dishes and pattens of silver and of gold full of meats of all kinds, and with beakers and pitchers and goblets of silver and of gold full of wines of various sorts; and with these foods the attendants served that noble company as they sat at table. and all the stillness of the forest was filled full of the noise of the chanting of many voices, and of laughter and of snatches of song. what time there stood near by several minstrels who played upon harps for the entertainment of those who ate at the table. [sidenote: _a strange damsel appeareth in the forest._] so, as they sat, all enjoying themselves with feasting and good cheer, there came forth of a sudden from the forest a very beautiful damsel riding upon a milk-white horse with two esquires in attendance upon her--the one walking upon the one side of her horse, and the other upon the other. this damsel and the esquires were all clad in flame-colored satin and all these were adorned with many ornaments of gold. and the damsel wore about her neck several shining necklaces of gold inset with jewels of divers sorts, and she wore armlets of gold also inset with jewels upon her arms, and her hair was gathered into a net of gold. so it was, what with that flaming raiment and the shining of those several ornaments of gold, that she who came thither was all one living flame of fire. so she drew nigh to them who sat at table, and they beheld that the face of that damsel was of a very singularly beautiful appearance, being like to ivory for whiteness; and they beheld that her lips were like to coral for redness, and that her eyes were like two jewels, very bright and shining. and they beheld that her hands were long and slender, and were adorned with many rings of wrought gold, so that each finger shone, as it were, with pure brightness because of those several hoops of gold that encircled them. such was the appearance of that damsel and all they who sat there at feast were astonished with wonderment when they beheld her, for they all wist that without doubt she was fay. [sidenote: _the damsel bespeaketh them._] now when that damsel had come pretty close to where they sat at their feast, she drew rein and cried out: "god save you, gentles! now i pray you tell me if there is any knight here who hath a mind for an adventure that would doubtless be very pleasant for him to undertake?" to this sir launcelot made reply: "i dare say, fair maiden, that there are several knights here who would take pleasure in assuming any adventure that one so beautiful as you are might call upon him to perform. speaking for myself, i shall be very glad to assume such an adventure; wherefore, i pray thee, tell me what that adventure is." "i will tell you," said the damsel. "the adventure which i would have you undertake is hight the adventure of the fountain, and if you would assume it, you have only to take yonder path that leads through the woodlands in that direction and you shall come to it anon. for if you go in that way you will come, by and by, to a high mound, where you will find a huge black man sitting, watching a herd of cattle. tell him that you are come to assume the adventure of the fountain, and he will direct you farther upon your way." then sir launcelot said: "this is a very strange thing that thou hast set me to undertake. now i prithee tell me further concerning this adventure, and what will befall after i have bespoken that black herdsman of whom thou tellest." but at this the maiden only laughed and said: "the black man who sits upon the mound, he will tell you all that is necessary for you to know." thereupon she turned her horse about and immediately departed with those two esquires who attended her. and so presently she reached the edge of the woodland and disappeared into the forest whence she had emerged not a very long while before. and all that court of knights and ladies were equally amazed at her coming and at her going. then after she had thus gone sir launcelot said: "i know not what it is that this damsel has set me to do, but let us abide here to-night as we had purposed, and when to-morrow comes then we will all depart together in quest of this adventure which she calleth the 'adventure of the fountain.' for i doubt not that it is some very excellent undertaking that will afford us extraordinary entertainment." [sidenote: _they depart upon the adventure of the fountain._] accordingly, that night they abided where they were, and when the early breaking of the day had come they departed thence upon the way that the damsel had pointed out. after they had thus departed, they travelled for a considerable distance through the forest in that direction and anon they came to that mound of which the damsel had spoken. and they beheld that the mound stood in a wide open space of the woodland. and they beheld that there were many cattle grazing around about this mound and upon the mound, and they beheld that upon the mound there sat a gigantic being of such a hideous aspect that they were astonished at his appearance. for his skin was wellnigh black, and his half naked body was covered all over with hairs like to the hairs upon the body of an ape. then, when this being beheld them where they came, he roared at them in a great voice, saying, "where go ye, little people, and what is your business?" to him sir launcelot made reply: "fellow, i came hither to assay that adventure of the fountain and these are my companions who come with me. now tell me what that adventure is and what i shall do to fulfill it." then that gigantic oaf bellowed with loud laughter and he cried out: "seekest thou that adventure? now i warrant thee, thou wilt be well satisfied when thou hast found it. for so all have been satisfied who have come this way. take thou yonder path and by and by thou wilt come to a certain valley that is very fair and beautiful. in that valley is a lake and there is a fountain nigh to the lake, and thou mayst know the fountain because a great tree stands beside it and shelters the waters thereof. beside the fountain is a slab of stone and upon the slab is a silver bowl attached to the slab by a chain of silver. dip up some water from the fountain into the silver bowl and cast the water upon the slab of stone, and thou shalt straightway meet with an adventure that will, i doubt not, satisfy all thy desires for a long time to come." so spake that gigantic being in a voice like to thunder, and after he had spoken they presently all departed upon further quest of that adventure. [sidenote: _they behold the valley of the fountain._] so they travelled a very long distance until by and by they came to that steep hill aforetold of in this history. thereafter they climbed to the top of this hill and found themselves at a place where the forest ceased and whence beneath them lay a very fair valley. and they perceived from a distance the lake and the fountain of which they had been told, and after that they all rode down in that valley and to the place of the fountain. here, finding a fair level meadow, they pitched their pavilions around about the place of the fountain and sir launcelot and sir percival and sir ector and their knights armed themselves in all wise so as to be ready for any sort of adventure that might befall. [sidenote: _sir launcelot poureth water upon the slab._] thus being in all ways prepared, sir launcelot approached the fountain, and when he had come to it he found the silver cup chained to the slab of stone as the gigantic herdsman had said that he would find it. so he took the silver cup into his hand, and he dipped up the water of the fountain therein, and he cast that water upon the slab of stone. then it befell just as it had aforetime befallen with sir sagramore and sir ewaine. for the earth trembled and shook so that all those who were there were filled with a great terror at the earthquake. then there arose a mighty wind, so violent that all the pavilions that had been erected were overthrown and blown away before the blast. then the skies thundered and thick dark clouds gathered over the heavens so that the light was presently altogether obscured, although it was hardly yet come to the prime of the day. after that the rain fell in such a deluge that all they who were there feared for some while that they would be drowned in that rainfall. and ever, as it rained, they heard, as from a distance, the voices of many raised, as it were in lamentation. for all this was just as it had been when sir sagramore and sir ewaine had come to that place. then after a while it ceased raining and the clouds cleared away from the sky, and the sun shone forth once more with an extraordinary brilliancy. and anon there came that multitude of birds flying, as aforetold of in this history, and these, descending upon the tree by the fountain, straightway fell to singing with such a piercing rapture of melody that the hearts of those who listened were altogether ravished with the charm of their song. then, whilst those who were there stood listening to that singing of the birds, they perceived a great distance away the form of a knight who came riding toward that place with great speed. and that knight was clad altogether in black armor and he rode upon a great black horse, and all the trappings and the furniture of that horse were as black as all the other things that belonged to that knight. so that knight came violently riding to where they were, and perceiving that great court of knights and ladies who stood there all drenched and wet with the rain, he cried out in a proud and menacing voice, "who are ye, and which of ye was it who meddled with this fountain?" to this sir launcelot replied, "sir, it was i." then the black knight, speaking very fiercely, said: "know ye that ye have done a very woeful mischief, for, because you have meddled with this fountain, ye have brought a deluge upon this land that hath done great damage to all they that dwell therein. now make you straightway ready for battle, for i have great hopes of punishing you for the mischief you have done to this land by thus meddling with the fountain." then sir launcelot answered, speaking both with great pride and with dignity of demeanor. "messire," quoth he, "never yet have i refused any call to battle, nor shall i do so at this present. as for that mischief of which you speak, wit you that i knew not i was making any mischief in what i did. ne'theless, now that that mischief is done, i am ready to defend mine act since you have called upon me to do so." so saying, sir launcelot withdrew to one side in that meadow near to the fountain as aforetold of; and the knight of the fountain likewise withdrew himself to that same place, and when they had come there each chose such ground as seemed to him to be best fitted for the encounter. meantime, all they who were there gathered in a good place whence they might onlook that encounter and behold the upshot of the adventure. so when all was ready for the encounter, as aforesaid, each knight shouted aloud and drave spur to horse and each charged against the other with all the fury of two wild bulls. [sidenote: _sir launcelot doeth battle with the knight of the fountain._] so they met in the midst of the course with such a roar of encountering spears and armor that the ears of those who heard it were stunned with the noise thereof. in that encounter the spear of each knight was shattered to splinters up to the hand that held it, and the horse of each sunk back upon his haunches as though he had encountered a stone wall. but each knight recovered his horse with spur and voice and with wonderful skill and dexterity, so that neither horse nor man suffered a fall from that encounter. then each knight voided his horse and leaped to the earth and each straightway drew his shining sword, all flashing in the bright sunlight. and each rushed upon the other with a great rage for battle, smiting and slashing with their swords, and dealing such dreadful buffets that those who beheld that battle were affrighted at the vehemence with which those two champions fought. so they did combat for a great while and in all that time neither suffered any great harm from the buffets of the other. then, at last, that knight who did battle against sir launcelot cried out, "stay thy hand for a little, sir knight, while i hold speech with thee!" so sir launcelot ceased his battle and each knight-champion stood panting, leaning the while upon his sword. then the knight of the fountain said: "i pray thee, sir knight, if so be thou wilt do me that courtesy for to tell me thy name. for i declare unto thee that never before this day have i ever met so great a champion in battle." [sidenote: _sir launcelot declareth himself._] then said sir launcelot: "sir, wit you that i am sir launcelot of the lake. as for you, i know not who you are, only know i for a certainty that you must be some very puissant champion, for never did i encounter a more worthy battle than this that i have met with to-day." now when the knight of the fountain heard the name that sir launcelot declared, and when he wist who it was against whom he had been doing battle, he cried out in a loud and piercing voice, "what say you?" and again he cried out, saying: "art thou indeed sir launcelot of the lake? then have i been fighting against him whom i love very dearly and whom i have sought for both long and far." so crying out, he threw aside his sword and his shield and ran to sir launcelot where he was. and he cast his arms around the body of sir launcelot and embraced him as with a great passion of joy. then sir launcelot was greatly astonished to find himself embraced by that strange knight, wherefore he said: "messire, who art thou, and why dost thou embrace me in this wise?" [sidenote: _sir ewaine declareth himself._] upon this the knight of the fountain uplifted the umbril of his helmet and he said: "behold me! i am thy one-time companion in arms. i am ewaine, the son of king uriens of gore." therewith sir launcelot beheld the face of sir ewaine and knew him, and thus knowing him, he cried out with astonishment even as sir ewaine had cried out, saying: "ewaine, is it thou against whom i have contended? alas, what have i been doing to fight against thee in this wise!" therewith he also cast aside his sword and shield and took sir ewaine into his arms and embraced him before them all, even as sir ewaine had embraced him. then either kissed the other upon the face, and after that all the others of those who were one-time companions of sir ewaine came forth and also gave him greeting, rejoicing beyond measure to see him again. then sir launcelot brought sir ewaine to where was the lady elaine and he made the one acquainted with the other, and sir ewaine took the lady elaine's hand into his and kissed it with a great ardor of love. after that they all sat down together in full amity of discourse. then sir launcelot said to sir ewaine: "messire, i prithee tell me how it is that you have come hither and are now dwelling here as the champion of this fountain. for certes, it is a very strange thing to find you thus engaged." [sidenote: _sir ewaine telleth his story._] to this sir ewaine made reply, "i will tell thee." and thereupon he told them all that had befallen him since he had left sir percival to go upon that adventure of the fountain in the which sir sagramore had failed to achieve success as aforetold. meantime all they listened to him with great attention and with close regard. and when he had ended, all said that that was as wonderful an adventure as ever they had heard tell of in all of their lives. then sir ewaine said: "gentles all, i pray you of your courtesy that you will wend with me to the castle where dwelleth my fair beloved lady, for certes it would be a great honor to her and to me to have you become acquainted with her." [sidenote: _they come to the castle of the fountain._] so said sir ewaine, and all agreed with great joy to what he said, so shortly afterward they departed from that place and betook their way down that valley of the fountain to the castle of the fountain as sir ewaine asked them to do, and they arrived at that place somewhat past the noon of the day. there they were received with great joy and rejoicing, and after that for several days there was feasting and merrymaking and pleasant sports of all sorts at the castle of the fountain. * * * * * now after several days had passed thus joyously at the castle of the fountain, it chanced that sir ewaine and his lady and sir launcelot and the lady elaine were together in the garden of the castle, and no one else was there but they. so as they sat in discourse sir launcelot said to sir ewaine: "messire, as we are going to the court of the king, will you not join our company with your fair lady of the fountain to accompany us? certes it is that there would be great joy at court if so be we would all return together in that wise." to this sir ewaine said: "sir, that would indeed be a very good thing for us to do, and we will be glad to go with you as you ask us." [sidenote: _they all depart from the castle of the fountain._] so straightway they of that place of the fountain began to prepare themselves for journey, and three days after all the court of sir launcelot and his lady and all the court of sir ewaine and his lady made their departure from the valley of the fountain and betook their way toward camelot. now the way they took led them toward that mound whereon sat that gigantic black man herding his cattle. and when this being perceived all those people passing that way, he sat there and laughed like to the pealing of thunder, though why he laughed not one of them wist, for there was naught of mirth to be seen in their progression. yet ever that great black creature laughed and laughed until they had passed by and gone, still leaving him laughing in that wise. [sidenote: _the lady vivien hath vanished._] and as they went still farther along that way they came by and by to where was the valley of the lady vivien. and they looked for that castle of the lady vivien whereunto sir ewaine had twice come as aforetold and, lo! it had entirely disappeared. yea, there was not to be seen nor stick nor stone nor sign of it anywhere, and at that they all greatly marvelled, much wondering what had become of that enchanted place. nor was it ever known what had become of it, nor was it ever known whether the enchantress had wearied of her mischiefs, or whether she feared the anger of so many who had now been raised up against her. only this was known to be true, that she had betaken herself and her court and her castle altogether away from that place, nor was she seen there any more again. moreover, it is to be said at this place that from that time forth the enchantment of the fountain was removed and the cup and the slab of stone disappeared from where they lay, and thenceforward they of the valley were at peace. so endeth that part of the story of the fountain. [sidenote: _they behold camelot again._] now when that noble concourse of knights and ladies who were in attendance upon sir launcelot and sir ewaine and their ladies drew nigh to the neighborhood of camelot (which same was upon the fourth day after they had left the valley of the lady vivien) sir launcelot sent an herald messenger before them to announce their coming. so it befell that when they came within sight of the town, they beheld a great concourse of knights and esquires of the court who had come forth to meet them. these gave loud acclaim to sir launcelot and his companions, crying, "welcome, ye glorious champions who are returning to us again!" this welcome they gave on behalf of king arthur, by whom they had been sent, for the king was glad beyond measure to have those champions who were so dear to his heart return to him once more. so it was that those who came to meet them cried out, "welcome, welcome, ye glorious champions," in that wise. so rejoicing and giving welcome all they progressed toward the king's town--sir launcelot and his lady and sir ewaine and his lady, and their companions and all their courts, surrounded with great pomp of circumstance by those knights and esquires of the court of king arthur, who had been sent to meet them. and all they who had thus come forth from the town looked with great curiosity upon the lady elaine and the lady lesolie and all were astonished at the beauty and the grace of these two high dames. but more especially were they astonished at the beauty of the lady elaine, for her loveliness shone like to a star in the midst of her court, wherefore they who looked upon her said to one another: "certes, even queen guinevere herself is not more beautiful than yonder lady." [sidenote: _they kneel before the king and the queen._] so they came to the king's town and they entered the town and they entered the castle of the king, and there they found king arthur and queen guinevere sitting in state to receive them. both the king and the queen were crowned with golden crowns, and each sat upon a throne to receive those who came in fitting pomp and with sufficient ceremony. so sir launcelot and the lady elaine and all those who were with them came before the king and queen and kneeled down before them as they sat high aloft in royal state. then as they kneeled there the king arose and descended from his throne and came forward and gave great welcome to them all; for his heart was filled with gladness and joy to behold them kneeling before him in that wise. and all that while the queen's face was smiling like to a beautiful mask. and ever she gazed very steadily at the lady elaine, beholding how that the countenance of that lady was exceedingly beautiful and very noble and gentle. and as the queen gazed thus upon the lady elaine she hated her with great bitterness, yet ever she hid that hatred beneath a smiling countenance. that day there was great feasting and rejoicing at the court of the king because of the return of sir launcelot and sir ewaine and sir percival and sir ector. and ever the lady guinevere took part in that rejoicing, albeit her heart was full of great bitterness and of a sort of despair. * * * * * [sidenote: _the queen withdraweth the lady elaine from sir launcelot._] now the next day after that day, the lady guinevere sent for the lady elaine to come to her, and when she was come the queen said to her: "lady, i have it in mind to do thee a singular honor that i would bestow upon thee, and this is that thou shouldst be in personal attendance upon me. to this end i have purveyed thee a room next to mine own chamber in mine own part of this castle, and there thou and thy attendants may lodge so that ye shall ever be near to my person. and ever thou shalt be in close attendance upon me and never shalt thou be parted from me for all the time that thou remainest at this place." thus spake the lady guinevere, for so, under the mask of friendliness and pretence of doing honor to the lady elaine, she purposed to separate sir launcelot from his lady and after that to keep them separate from one another. this she did, though why she should do it she could not rightly tell even to her own heart. * * * * * so it was that sir launcelot returned to the court of the king; so it was that they were received at camelot, and so it was that the lady elaine the fair was separated from sir launcelot as i have recounted above. [illustration] conclusion now at this time the lady elaine was in very tender health, wherefore, after a day or two or three, she began to repine at being thus separated from sir launcelot as aforesaid; wherefore it befell that she grew lonely in that strange place and wept a great deal and ate little and slept little. now there was at this time with the lady elaine that lady hight dame brysen before spoken of--she who went with the lady elaine to sir launcelot when he lay so nigh to death in the castle of corbin. this lady saw how it was with the lady elaine and how that she pined in that wise for sir launcelot, and she wist that the lady elaine was like to fall sick unless she had sight of her lord. so dame brysen went to sir launcelot one day and she said to him: "sir, if you find not some opportunity to see your lady, she will fall ill and maybe wane away to death because of her longing for you." sir launcelot said: "how may i see her?" dame brysen said: "come to me this night in a certain passage of the castle during the mid-watch of the night and i will bring you to her. so you may cherish and comfort her for that while and so she will take good cheer once more." [sidenote: _how sir launcelot visiteth the lady elaine._] so that night sir launcelot came to the place where dame brysen had appointed and dame brysen took him to where was the lady elaine. and when the lady elaine beheld sir launcelot she could scarce control the transports of her joy in having him with her once more, for she catched him in her arms and held to him like as one sinking in deep waters holds to another who comes to save him. and ever she cried in her transport, "thou art here! thou art here!" and ever sir launcelot soothed her and spake words of comfort to her. so at last she took good cheer and smiled and laughed as she was wont to do aforetime. so sir launcelot remained with the lady elaine for a long while, and dame brysen was with them for all that while, and the damsels of the court of the lady elaine were with them, for sir launcelot did not quit that place until the early watches of the morning were come, what time the lady elaine had fallen asleep like to a child who slumbers. then ere it was come the dawning of the day, sir launcelot took his departure and dame brysen conducted him thence as she had brought him thither. [sidenote: _the queen is angered._] now there was a fair young damsel of the court of the queen who acted as a spy upon sir launcelot. so when the next morning had come this damsel went to the queen and told her how dame brysen had brought sir launcelot to the apartments of the lady elaine the night before, and when the queen heard that news she was wroth as though she were gone wode, yet what she did and what she said and how she behaved hath never been told, for no one beheld her in the madness of her wrath but that damsel who was the spy and one other. only it is known that after a while the queen cried out in a voice very harsh and loud: "where is that false traitor knight, sir launcelot! bring him hither!" and then she said: "let no one else come in to me but him, and when he comes let us be alone together!" [sidenote: _sir launcelot standeth before the queen._] so anon came sir launcelot conducted to that place where the queen was, and then all those who were there withdrew, and no one was left in that apartment but sir launcelot and the queen herself. so sir launcelot stood before the queen and he said, "here am i." then the lady guinevere looked for a long time upon sir launcelot, and her eyes were very wide as she stared upon him and her face was white like to wax. anon she said, speaking in a voice that was very harsh but not loud: "is it true that thou camest to this part of the castle last night?" and sir launcelot said, "yea, lady." then the queen ground her white teeth together, and she said, still speaking in that same voice that was not loud: "traitor! traitor! how didst thou dare to come hither without my permission?" then sir launcelot looked very long into the queen's face, and at last he said, "i am betrayed, it seems." "yea," said the queen, "thou art betrayed indeed, but it is thou who hast betrayed thyself." sir launcelot said: "in what way have i betrayed myself, and in what way am i a traitor to thee or to anyone? is not my duty first of all toward that lady to whom i have sworn my duty? what treason did i then do in cherishing her who is sick and weak and sad and helpless in this place where thou keepest her prisoner?" so said sir launcelot and after that those two, to wit, the queen and the knight champion, stared very fiercely at one another for a while. then by and by the queen's eyes fell before his eyes, and anon she fell to trembling. then, of a sudden, she cried out in a very bitter voice: "ah, launcelot, launcelot! may god have pity upon me for i am most unhappy!" therewith she lifted her handkerchief to her eyes and so covered her face with it. and that while her face was altogether hidden excepting her lips which were all writhed and twisted with her passion. and yet she wept not, but ever her bosom rose and fell very violently as with a convulsion. [sidenote: _sir launcelot pitieth the queen._] then sir launcelot wist not what to do, albeit his heart was rent with love and pity. then by and by he came close to her and he said: "lady, lady! what is this you do! may god have pity on us both, for you tear my heart strings with your grief." therewith, they two being alone, he sank down upon his knees before her, and he took her hands into his and strove to draw them away from her face. and for a while she would not let him withdraw her hands and then after a while she did let him, and so he held them imprisoned very tight in his own. yet ever she kept her face turned away from him so that he could see but little of it. so with her face turned away she said after a while, "launcelot! launcelot! art thou not sorry for me?" he said: "yea, lady, i am sorry for thee and i am sorry for myself, and for which of the two i am more sorry i cannot tell. for god knoweth i would abide by my duty and my faith, and mefeareth thou wouldst have me do otherwise." then the queen said: "launcelot, what is duty and what is faith when we measure these things with the measurement of happiness and unhappiness?" and sir launcelot said, "lady, for god's sake, forbear." [sidenote: _the lady elaine appeareth at that place._] now as sir launcelot said those words he became of a sudden aware that some one was in that room. so he looked up and behold! not far away from them there stood the lady elaine, and she was regarding them both and her face was as white as death, for she had entered that place without their knowing and she had heard much of that which had passed. then sir launcelot was aware that she had overheard his words to the queen and with that he was overwhelmed with confusion and with pity. so he arose from his knees, though not quickly, and stood there before the lady elaine with folded arms and with his gaze downcast upon the floor. then the queen also looked up and likewise beheld the lady elaine where she stood, and therewith her face flamed all red like to fire. then the queen arose very haughtily and she said: "lady, this is well met, for i was about to send for you. now tell me, was it by your will that this knight came last night to this part of the castle?" and the lady elaine said: "yea, lady, it was by my will he came, for i was sad, and no one but he could comfort me." then the queen's eyes sparkled with anger and she said: "then you have broken an ordinance of the king's court, for well you know that such a thing as that is not permitted. for this i might punish you even unto death an i chose to do so. yet i will not so punish you, but will have mercy upon you and will spare you. nevertheless i command you that you quit this place with all expedition that is possible." [sidenote: _the lady elaine chideth the queen._] so spake the angry queen. but ever the lady elaine looked very proudly upon her. and when the queen had ended that speech she said: "lady, it shall be as you ordain, and to-morrow i shall be glad to depart from this place, for it is a place of great unhappiness to me. but tell me this, lady, ere i go: what would you say of one who took from another who harmed her not, all the happiness and joy that that other had in her life? and what would you say if that one who would so rob the other had for herself a lord who was the most noble and the most worthy knight of any in all of the world?" at this speech the eyes of the queen shone very wild like to the eyes of a hawk. and first she strove to speak and could not, and then she did speak, yet it was as though the words strangled her. and she said, "go! leave me! you know not what you say!" and other than that she could not say, but only strove to speak without any sound issuing out from her throat. then the lady elaine turned with great dignity and went away leaving those two alone together, and she neither turned her head nor paused at any time in her going. then the queen, turning to sir launcelot, said: "messire, i lay this command upon you, that though your lady shall depart, yet that you shall remain here at this court until such time as i give you leave to depart hence." then she also turned and went away, and for a while sir launcelot remained, standing alone like to a statue of stone. [sidenote: _the lady elaine quitteth the court._] so the next day the lady elaine quitted the court of the king but sir launcelot remained. and he said not to any one that the queen had commanded him to stay, for he would not betray her, so it was that all who were of the king's court thought that he stayed of his own will. but ere the court of the lady elaine departed from that place sir lavaine, the brother of the lady elaine, came to sir launcelot and no one was present but they two. and sir lavaine said to sir launcelot: "messire, do you not go hence with your lady?" and sir launcelot said: "nay, but maybe i shall follow her anon." [sidenote: _sir lavaine accuseth sir launcelot of treason._] then sir lavaine said: "sir, see you not that your lady, my sister, is in exceeding tender health?" and sir launcelot said, "yea, i see it." then sir lavaine said, speaking very fiercely: "what honor hath a man who will leave his own lady for the smiles of another woman? if you do such a thing you are dishonored as a knight and are a traitor to your troth." then sir launcelot looked very steadily at sir lavaine and his face was exceedingly white and his eyes were like to coals of fire. anon he said: "messire, you speak bitter words, but you are safe from mine anger." then sir lavaine laughed, though not with mirth, and immediately he went away from sir launcelot and left him where he was. that same hour the lady elaine quitted the court of king arthur, riding thence in a closed litter so that few, saving those immediately in attendance upon her, could know aught of what she thought or said or did. and yet the whole world might have seen her countenance, for it was very calm and steadfast and without any mark of passion. and all the world might have heard her words for those words were also without passion of any sort. yea, i believe that at that time her soul itself was altogether cheerful and well-content and without any shadow of sorrow upon it. for once, when sir lavaine spoke with great anger and indignation, she chid him for his heat, saying: "my brother, let be. what matters it? could you but see into the future as i gaze thereinto, you would know that it mattereth but very little indeed that such things as this befall a poor wayfarer in this brief valley of tears." and at another time she said: "my poor lord, sir launcelot! him do i pity indeed, for god is like to chasten him before long, and to bend him and to bruise him as though he were a reed that was bent and bruised so that it may never be able to stand fully erect again. yet even this mattereth but little; for the span of life is but very short, and all is in the hands of god." so spake the lady elaine, very calmly and without passion or sorrow of any sort! for, as aforesaid, i believe that even at that time her eyes penetrated into the future and that she beheld therein what was to befall all of them. thus they journeyed by easy stages for two days, what time they came out from the mazes of the forest and into an open plain where they beheld a fair priory of the forest set in the midst of fair and fertile fields of corn and of rye. and the walls of the priory gleamed as white as snow in the sunlight, and the red roofs thereof shone like flames of fire against the deep blue sky against which they stood. and the road whereon they travelled went down beside the banks of a smooth and placid river, very bright and shining like to polished silver; and there were willows and aspens upon the one hand and smooth fields of ripening grain upon the other. now at that time the lady elaine was suffering great pangs of sickness, wherefore she said to those in attendance upon her: "dear friends, it is well that we have come hither to this place. for this is a house of peace, and i am very sick. wherefore i pray you let me rest here till god shall have dealt with me in my travails in such a manner as he shall see fit." so spake the lady elaine, and upon that command they bare her to the gates of the priory. and they bare her into the priory and laid her upon a soft couch and there she had such ease in her sickness as they could bring to her at that time. * * * * * meantime sir launcelot abided at the court of the king, very heavy of heart and very sorrowful of spirit. for his soul was dragged this way and that way. and whether he had gone away from the court or whether he had stayed as he did, in either case he would have been most unhappy. yet to his present unhappiness was added many pangs like to the pangs of remorse. for he could not tell whether he did altogether ill or somewhat well in remaining at the king's court as he did. yet ever his thoughts went out after the lady elaine and he said to himself: "so soon as i can escape from this place with courtesy to the queen, i will follow after her." wherefore had he wist that even then she was lying so sick at the priory in the forest, it may well be believed that he would not have tarried a single moment longer, but would have flown to her upon the wings of the wind. but sir launcelot knew not how it was with his lady, and so god was even then preparing a great punishment for him for which he might never hope to escape for as long as he should live. part vii the nativity of galahad _here followeth the story of the nativity of sir galahad and of how sir gawaine heard a miraculous prophecy concerning the achievement of the holy grail, and of how it was prophesied that sir galahad should achieve that holy chalice. also it shall be told how the infant galahad was confided to the care of sir bors de ganis, who alone knew what then became of him, until in due time he was manifested to the world as the greatest and the most puissant knight who ever lived._ [illustration: merlin prophesieth from a cloud of mist:] [illustration] chapter first _how sir bors de ganis and sir gawaine went forth in search of sir launcelot. how they parted company, and what befell sir gawaine thereafter._ now the history hath been told of those things that happened to several of the knights who went forth in quest of sir launcelot after that he went mad as aforetold; to wit, the history hath been told of sir percival and of sir ewaine and of sir sagramore and of sir ector de maris. here followeth an account of that which befell sir gawaine, when he, together with sir bors de ganis, also went forth in search of sir launcelot. after they two had left the court of king arthur they joined company for a while. thus travelling together as companions in arms, they met with several adventures, some of which are told in histories of chivalry and some of which are not. in such companionship there passed the spring and the summer and by and by it was the fall of the year. [sidenote: _how sir gawaine and sir bors rode forth together._] now some there be who love the summer time the best and some there be that love the spring; yet others still there be who love the autumn the best of all. and certes each season hath its beauties, so that one cannot wonder that there are some who love the beauties of the fall above the beauties of all other seasons. for in that time of the year there comes the nutting season, when country folk take joy in being abroad in the hazel thickets, gathering the bright brown fruits of the hazel bushes. then are days so clear and frosty, all early in the morning, that it is as though the whole vault of heaven were made of clear crystal. then, when you look into the cold blue shadows of the wayside bank, there you behold everywhere the sparkling of many myriads of bright points of light where the thin frosts catch the shining of the early and yet slanting sun. then do the birds cry with a wilder note as though heralding the approach of dreary winter. then do the squirrels gambol in the dry, dead foliage in search of their winter store of food. then is all the world clad very gloriously in russet and gold, and when the bright and jolly sun shines down through the thin yellow leaves of the woodland, all the earth appears to be illuminated with a wonderful splendor of golden light, so that it may be that even the glory of paradise is not more wonderful than that unusual radiance. such was the world of autumn in which in the latter part of their journeyings in company those two noble knights made progress together. for anon they would ride along the smooth and dusty highways, where were hedgerows, growing thin of leaves but all bright with red and purple berries; and anon they would be riding through some thin woodland where the dry and fallen leaves rustled under foot with a sound like to a faint thunder of multitudinous rustlings; and anon they would be journeying along the wolds where the wind blew strong and free and the great white clouds sailed very smoothly and solemnly across the sky above their heads. [sidenote: _they meet sir percival and sir sagramore._] so travelling ever in that wise--sometimes here, sometimes there--they came one day in the early morning to where there was a smooth and shining lake, the chill waters whereof were all asmoke in the gentle warmth of the newly risen sun. and here were sedge and reeds, all fading brown and yellow, and at many places, wild fowl, disturbed at their coming, would spring up with loud and noisy splashings from the entangled water. so as they went beside that lake they beheld two knights coming toward them, riding side by side in the sunlight. and when they four had met together and had saluted one another and had bespoken one another, they found that those two knights were sir percival and sir sagramore, and that they also were journeying as armed companions, as aforetold of in this history. so they four went a little farther to where there was a pleasant thatched farmhouse not far distant from the roadside, and there they broke their fast with bread and milk and fresh laid eggs and honey, which the farmer's wife served to them. [sidenote: _sir sagramore telleth of the adventure of the fountain._] then sir gawaine and sir bors besought sir percival and sir sagramore for news, and therewith they two told sir gawaine and sir bors how they had parted with sir ewaine and how that he had gone upon that adventure of the fountain. then sir sagramore told them how it had befallen with him upon that same adventure, and to all this sir gawaine and sir bors listened very intently. and after sir sagramore had ended his story, sir bors and sir gawaine asked him many questions concerning those happenings, and he answered all that they asked him. then sir gawaine said: "well, messire, i wot that all this mischief of which thou tellest us was brewed by that sorceress the lady vivien. well i know her, and often have i had reason to chide her in times gone by for the mischiefs she was continually plotting against innocent folk. now i have a mind to turn aside from my present quest and to find that lady and to bring her to repentance. and if i may not bring her to repentance then i shall compel her to undo all these mischiefs she hath done in this matter of the fountain." then sir sagramore said: "sir, hearken to me and let be, or else thou wilt entangle thyself in those mischiefs also." [sidenote: _sir gawaine seeketh the lady vivien._] so spake sir sagramore very wisely, but sir gawaine would not listen to what he said; otherwise he declared and affirmed that he would go and find the lady vivien and have speech with her so that he would either persuade or else compel her to better conduct. so ere sir percival and sir sagramore had departed from that farmhouse, sir gawaine had diligently inquired the way in which he should go so as to be likely to find the lady vivien, and after that he bade sir sagramore and sir percival farewell, and he bade sir bors farewell, and so took horse and rode away in quest of the lady vivien. now after sir gawaine had thus parted company with those other knights, he travelled all alone upon his way for the entire day, and that night he lodged in the woodland, near to where there was a fountain of clear pure water. and as he had no other shelter he wrapped himself in his cloak and laid his head upon his helmet and so fell asleep with great comfort and peace of mind. so also he awoke very cheerfully in the dawning of the day, and laying aside his armor he went to the fountain of water near to which he had reposed and bathed himself therein and so was refreshed. [sidenote: _sir gawaine findeth the lady vivien._] now after that and while sir gawaine was still unarmed, he was suddenly aware that several people were coming thitherward toward him through the yellow woodlands, and when they had come pretty near he beheld that those who approached were a company in attendance upon a lady. and he beheld that the company and the lady who rode in the midst of that company were clad all in flame-colored satin, so that the entire woodland was illuminated, as it were, by a great shining, flaming fire. and when that lady had come pretty nigh to sir gawaine, he knew who she was and wist that she was the lady vivien. then sir gawaine went to meet that lady, and he laid his hand upon the bridle rein of her palfrey and he said: "lady, if i mistake not, thou art the lady vivien." quoth she: "yea, i am that one, and thou, i perceive, art sir gawaine." to the which sir gawaine said, "yea, i am he," and he said, "i have come hither with the especial purpose of having speech with thee." upon this the lady vivien looked at sir gawaine very strangely, and by and by she said, "what is it thou wouldst have of me, messire?" [sidenote: _sir gawaine rebuketh the lady vivien._] sir gawaine said: "lady, i am informed that thou hast done much mischief to a certain valley called the valley of the fountain, and i know that through this mischief thou hast brought mischance upon many good worthy knights. now what i would have to say to thee is this: i would beseech thee to remove all of those mischievous enchantments from that valley of the fountain and so set that valley free from the ills that happen to it. this i beseech thee of thy gentleness to do, but if thou wilt not do it because i so beseech thee, then i will compel thee here and now to remove those enchantments." then the lady vivien's brows drew together into a frown and her cheeks grew very red and her eyes shown like sparks of fire, and she said: "hah, messire, methinks thou art very saucy in thy speech. what is it to thee what mischiefs i may do to others? lo! i do no mischiefs to thee, wherefore this is none of thy affairs. now i bid thee straightway to take thy hand from off my bridle rein or else a greater ill than thou hast any thought of will speedily befall thee." sir gawaine said: "i will not take away my hand until thou hast promised me to do that thing which i have demanded of thee and to remove the enchantments of the valley of the fountain." the lady vivien said, "take away thy hand, messire!" sir gawaine said, "i will not." then the lady vivien cried out: "thou fool! then thank thyself for what thou shalt suffer." now the lady vivien had in her hand a long white wand and as she spake she lifted this wand and smote sir gawaine with it upon the shoulder. and as she smote him she cried out: "quit the shape that thou now hast and take instead the shape of a misshapen dwarf." [sidenote: _the lady vivien bewitcheth sir gawaine._] then as she cried in that shrill and piercing voice, there befell a very wonderful thing, for, upon the instant, it happened in that wise as she commanded. for sir gawaine immediately began to shrink and to shrivel so that in the space one might count five he had ceased to be what he was and became instead a misshapen and diminutive dwarf. then all they of the lady vivien's party laughed and laughed until all the woods echoed with their mirth. and thus laughing, they took their departure, and rode away from that place, leaving sir gawaine standing there all bewildered and astonished with terror at what had befallen him. so he stood for a little, like one in a maze, but after those others had entirely gone, he suddenly awoke, as it were, to his woful case. then straightway he began running hither and thither, as though he had gone mad. and he ran in this direction and in that direction, seeking for the lady vivien, but nowhere could he discover any sign of her or her court. and ever as he ran he cried aloud in a voice of exceeding agony, "have mercy! have mercy!" but, as aforesaid, the lady and those who were with her had disappeared, and only the lonely woodlands surrounded him. yet it appeared to him that he heard the sound of mocking laughter echoing through the forest, though whether that was really so or whether he was cheated by his fancy he could not certainly tell. so after a while sir gawaine flung himself down upon the earth and wept with despair. then after another while he bestirred himself and prayed god for help and wiped his eyes. and after that he gathered together the pieces of his armor which he could not now wear upon his shrunken and misshapen body, and he carried these pieces of armor away and hid them in a cave which he had observed not far distant from that place. then he mounted upon his horse and rode away, not knowing whither to turn or what to do in the direful trouble that had fallen upon him. now after he had ridden for a while in that way, perched high upon his horse like some diminutive and withered ape, being still in the woodlands, he was aware of the sound of voices and of horses' hoofs coming toward him and then he was further aware of a company approaching from a distance through the half-naked forest. [sidenote: _the forest company behold sir gawaine as a dwarf._] then sir gawaine was filled with a great panic of shame, and he thought of naught but how he might hide himself and his misshapen body from those who were coming. but ere he was able to hide himself, those others had catched sight of him. and they saw how singularly small and deformed and withered was his shape, wherefore they shouted aloud and gave chase to him as though he had been a wild creature. so they pursued him for a long distance and at last they came up with him and surrounded him. then, finding that he could not escape, sir gawaine leaped down from his horse's back, and flinging himself upon the ground he covered his face with his hands and sought to bury it, as it were, under the earth, so that they who had caught him might not behold the shame of his misshapen countenance. but they dragged him to his feet and they pulled his hands away from his face and beheld it what it was. then, when they beheld that his face was like the face of an ape they all shouted aloud again and again with laughter. then he who was the chief of that party said: "who are you and how is it that a misshapen dwarf such as you should be riding about here in the forest upon a noble and knightly war-horse?" to the which sir gawaine said: "sir, a great misfortune hath befallen me, and i am not he whom i was a little while ago." so said sir gawaine, and when they heard his speech they thought he jested wherefore they laughed again and again with a great uproar of laughter. [sidenote: _they mock at sir gawaine._] then he who had spoken to sir gawaine turned to those others and said, "this poor creature is mad," but sir gawaine cried out: "nay, i am not mad, but very miserable and unfortunate. for this morning i was a noble knight of royal lineage and now i am what you behold me." at this speech they who heard laughed more than ever, for they thought no otherwise than that this poor dwarf was mad and was making sport for them. then he who had before spoken to sir gawaine spake still again, saying: "sirrah, you are to know that the pet dwarf of the lady of the castle at which we dwell hath died only a few days ago. now i will that you shall go with us to her, and that you shall serve her instead of the other creature who is dead. for certes you are the smallest and the most misshapen elf that ever i beheld in all of my life. what think you of this? if you go with us you shall have meat and drink in plenty and you shall have good clothes and lodging and fifty bright silver pennies a year for your hire." then sir gawaine cried out in a voice of great anguish: "i will not go with you for such a service. for if you did but know who i am and what it is that hath befallen me, you would know that such as i are not they to take such service upon them, nor am i one to make sport for a lady by exhibiting the miserable condition into which i have fallen from an one time high estate." thus said sir gawaine in a great agony of spirit, but still those that heard him did but laugh. then seeing that he was of no mind to go with them, they bound his hands and his feet together so that he could not escape and so they constrained him to go whether he would or not. after that they departed out of that forest and away therefrom, and by and by sir gawaine beheld that they were approaching a castle and that the castle was a very noble, stately, and lordly dwelling place. [sidenote: _they bring sir gawaine to the castle of a lady._] so they came to the castle and entered into the courtyard thereof, and after they had so arrived, he who was the leader of that party took sir gawaine up to a certain place where the lady of the castle was, and he said to her: "lady, behold this dwarf; we have caught him in the woodlands and have brought him to you to serve you instead of that creature who died a while since. saw ye ever such a wonderful dwarf as this?" then the lady of the castle looked upon sir gawaine and beheld how exceedingly diminutive he was and how exceedingly misshapen. and she was astonished at his appearance, and she said to him, "who art thou, and whence comest thou?" she spake with such kindness and gentleness that sir gawaine was emboldened to tell her of his misfortune wherefore he cried out: "lady, if i would tell you you would not believe me, for i am not what i appear to be, but am something altogether different. this morning i was a noble knight, but i have been enchanted and now i am what you behold me." [sidenote: _the lady pitieth sir gawaine._] at this the lady of the castle also thought that sir gawaine was certainly mad, wherefore she said: "this poor creature is not in his senses. take him hence and treat him very kindly. let him be fed and clothed and then chain him with a very light chain of silver so that he may not escape until he hath become used to this place, and yet so that he may not be burdened with these chains." so spoke the lady very kindly and gently, but sir gawaine was filled full of an utter despair at her words. so he was taken away and fed like to some pet creature and he was chained as the lady had said and ever he wept for pure despair. now the lady of that castle was very tender of heart, wherefore she pitied sir gawaine because he appeared to be so misshapen and deformed. so ever she spoke kindly and gently to him and she would not suffer that any of the people of the castle should torment him. thus it was that though at first sir gawaine was minded to escape from the castle, yet afterward he would not escape, for he said to himself: "why should i leave this place; and where can i, poor wretch that i be, find a better and kinder shelter in my misfortunes than i have at this castle?" so he became gentle and tractable and would not have quitted that place even if he could have done so. [sidenote: _how sir gawaine dwelleth at the castle._] and sir gawaine abode in that castle for more than a year, and ever the lady treated him with kindness and with gentle tenderness and ever he treated her with such courtliness as a knight royal might bestow upon a lady. so great was his courtliness of demeanor that the lady marvelled much thereat, yea, insomuch that she said to herself: "certes this poor creature must have been reared in a noble court or else he must have dwelt a long time in such a place, for to have learned such courtliness of manner as he showeth." and sometimes it befell that the lady would question sir gawaine as to what had happened to him in times gone by; but sir gawaine had taught himself wisdom upon that point and now he would tell her nothing; for he was aware that whenever he had been moved to speak about himself and what had befallen him, then they who heard him would think him to be mad, and would laugh at him and mock him, wherefore he would no longer give any one the chance to declare that he was mad. so ever he held his peace and ever the lady of the castle wondered how it was that he had come to have so much of gentleness and dignity of demeanor. so that winter and another winter passed, and during all that time sir gawaine abode at the castle of the gentle lady as aforesaid. then came the springtime and the summertime again, and the season when all the trees were green and bosky and when the days were warm and balmy once more. now it befell about the middle of that summer that the lord and the lady of the castle whereof sir gawaine was now the dwarf went forth ahawking, and a very gay court of the castle folk went with them. with these the lady took her dwarf, for it was now come that she could hardly ever bear to be parted from him. and it befell that when the heat of the day had come the lord of the castle gave orders that a pavilion should be pitched in a pleasant shady place, and there he and his lady took their midday meal and rested until the sun should shed a less fervid heat. [sidenote: _sir gawaine beholdeth the golden bird._] that time sir gawaine was wandering very sadly about the skirts of the forest, making great moan of that enchantment that lay upon him. so as he wandered he was suddenly aware of a bird with plumage of gold that sat upon the ground at a little distance, regarding him with eyes that were very bright and shining. now when sir gawaine beheld that bird, his heart leaped very strangely in his breast, for he bethought him that this was that same golden bird of the lady nymue of the lake which she had sent to him one time before to guide him to the valley where sir pellias was abiding. for it hath been aforetime told in that book of king arthur (which hath been written before this book) how that same golden bird had conducted sir gawaine and sir ewaine and sir marhaus of ireland through the forest to where sir pellias was at that time in great trouble and anxiety of soul. so sir gawaine, beholding that bird there in the forest, wist that it was the lady nymue's bird, and he thought that if he should follow it now, maybe it might bring him to the lady of the lake, and that she would release him from his deformity. so sir gawaine went back to that pavilion whence he had come, and he took a palfrey that he found there, and no one stayed him, for the dwarf was now permitted to go whithersoever he pleased. so sir gawaine mounted the palfrey and departed without saying a single word to any one, and no one stayed him in his going. so sir gawaine came again to where he had seen the bird and the bird was still sitting upon the ground where he had first beheld it. [sidenote: _sir gawaine followeth the golden bird into the forest._] then as sir gawaine approached the bird it took wing and flew with shrill chirping to a little distance and then settled again upon the ground. and when sir gawaine approached it again, again it took wing and flew chirping to a little distance. so ever it flew and so ever sir gawaine followed, and thus it conducted him into the forest and away from that place where was the pavilion of the lord and lady. thus ever the golden bird led the way and ever sir gawaine followed, until, at last, the bird brought sir gawaine out of the forest and to a strange place which he had never beheld before. for beyond the edge of the woodland he beheld a dreary valley, naked and bare, and covered all over with a great multitude of stones and rocks. and in that valley could be seen no sign of vegetation or of herbage of any sort, but only those naked and desolate rocks and stones all shining bright in the heat of the sun as though they were ribs of stones shining in a furnace of fire. [sidenote: _sir gawaine beholdeth the cloudy mist._] and sir gawaine beheld that in the centre of the valley there was a cloud of thick mist in the shape of a solid pillar of smoke. and he beheld that that cloud of mist moved not in any way but remained fixed in its place as it were a pillar of stone. then sir gawaine looked for that golden bird and he beheld it perched upon the high branches of a tree near by. and he saw that the bird had folded its wings as though to rest, wherefore he knew that there must be somewhat at this place for him to undertake, and that the bird must have conducted him to this place for that purpose. so sir gawaine, in that enchanted appearance of a dwarf, went down into the valley and drew near to that pillar of mist. and he came close to the cloud and he stood and looked upon it. then as he so stood, a voice issued of a sudden out of the midst of the cloud saying, "gawaine! gawaine! is it thou who art there?" and sir gawaine was astonished beyond all measure that a voice should thus address him from out of the midst of the pillar of cloud, for he had long since ceased to think that any creature, mortal or otherwise, would know him in the guise into which the lady vivien had bewitched him. but though he was so astonished, yet he answered in the voice of the dwarf, saying, "who art thou who callest upon the name of gawaine, the son of lot of orkney?" [sidenote: _sir gawaine heareth the voice of merlin._] then the voice replied: "i who speak to thee am merlin. here for twelve years have i been lying asleep, enclosed in a coffer of stone, yet once in every six years i awake for one hour of life and at the end of that hour i relapse into sleep again. this is my time for waking, and so hast thou been brought hither that thou mightest hear that prophecy that i have to utter. "and this is my prophecy: [sidenote: _of the prophecy of merlin._] "the sacred grail that has been lost to the earth for so long shall be brought back to that earth again. yea, the time draweth nigh and now is when he who shall achieve the quest of that holy chalice is about to be born into the world." and the voice from out of the cloud continued, saying: "when that babe is born into the world he shall be taken away by that knight who is most worthy to handle him, and after he hath been taken away he shall be hidden by that knight from the eyes of man until his time hath come. "you, who are a sinful man, may not have that babe in your keeping, but there is one who hath but little of sin and he may do so. so do you according to the ordination of this command: "follow that golden-winged thing that hath conducted you hither and it will lead you to where you may become purified of your enchantment. after that you shall follow that golden bird still farther and it will lead you to where you shall find sir bors de ganis. he it is who is most worthy in all of the world at this present for to handle that babe, and so he shall care for him and shall hide him in a place of safety until his time shall be come. "bid sir bors to follow that golden bird along with you and it shall bring you both to where you shall find that wonderful infant aforesaid. "thereafter, when that babe shall have been taken away by sir bors, go you forth and proclaim to all men that when eighteen years have passed, then shall the knights of the round table depart in quest of the holy grail. and do you proclaim this prophecy: that when that grail hath been recovered, then soon after shall come the end of the round table, and so shall end the days of all this chivalry that shall forever be remembered to all the world. "and this is the prophecy of the grail which you have been brought hither to hear, so go you forth and declare it abroad so that all good worthy knights may know that this prophecy hath been uttered." so spake that voice, and then it ceased and sir gawaine listened for a while, but still it spake no more. then sir gawaine cried out aloud: "merlin, what may i do to free thee from the enchantment that lieth upon thee?" and he waited for a reply, but no reply was vouchsafed him. and he cried out again, "merlin, what may i do to free thee from where thou liest?" but still no answer was given to him. [sidenote: _sir gawaine striveth to enter the cloud of mist._] then sir gawaine went forward with intent to enter that cloud of mist, but lo! it was like to a wall of adamant and he could nowhere enter into it. and he strove at several places but still there was no place where he might penetrate it. for the enchantment that lay upon that pillar of mist was so potent that it was not possible for any one to enter it saving only the enchantress vivien, who herself had created that cloud by her powerful enchantments. and ever sir gawaine called repeatedly upon the name of merlin, but at no time did merlin answer him. then by and by sir gawaine was aware that the golden bird that had brought him to that place was flitting hither and thither near by, as though it were very restless to depart. so sir gawaine was aware that it behooved him presently to quit that place whither he might never return again. so once more he called aloud upon merlin, saying, "farewell, merlin," and it appeared to him that he heard a voice, very faint and distant as though sounding from a dream that is fading, and he seemed that voice said, "farewell." thereafter sir gawaine mounted his palfrey and turned him about and departed from that place, still in the guise of a dwarf, and so that prophecy of merlin was completed. * * * * * [sidenote: _of the sleep of merlin._] and never more after that time was the voice of merlin heard again, for no one saving sir gawaine ever found that valley with its pillar of cloud. yet it may be that merlin did but sleep, for it was prophesied of him that at the ending of the age he should come forth again into the world, but whether he should come forth in the spirit or in the flesh, no one knew. yea, there be many who opine that merlin hath awakened again and is alive this very day, for such miracles are performed in these times that it is hardly possible to suppose otherwise than that the spirit of merlin is in the world once more. wherefore it is that many suppose that he is now again alive, though haply in the spirit. * * * * * now followeth the story of the birth of galahad, who was the most famous knight who ever lived in the world and who achieved the quest of the grail as was foretold by merlin in that prophecy herein recounted. so i pray you to read that story as it shall presently be told. [illustration] [illustration: sir bors de ganis, the good:] [illustration] chapter second _how sir bors and sir gawaine came to a priory in the forest, and how galahad was born at that place._ [sidenote: _sir gawaine cometh to the magic lake._] so sir gawaine followed the golden bird away from that valley of enchantment where merlin lay bound in sleep in the stone coffer (and concerning that stone coffer and the enchantment of merlin it was aforetold of at length in the book of king arthur). and ever he followed that winged golden creature both long and far, and ever the bird ceased not to flit before him, but led him onward in a certain direction. so thus it befell that toward the evening of that same day sir gawaine, still following the golden bird, came out of the forest again and to a wonderful place, lit by a strange golden light that was not like the light of the moon nor like the light of the sun nor like any other kind of light that was to be found in the world of mortal man. for though it was toward evening when sir gawaine came to that place, yet everywhere there was that golden radiance both upon earth and in the sky. and in this light sir gawaine beheld a wide and circular lake, very still and shining, and without any ripple upon the face thereof, so that it was rather like to a lake of crystal than to a lake of water. and all about the margin of the lake there bloomed an incredible number of tall flowers, both lily flowers and asphodels. then, as sir gawaine drave his horse forward through those flowers, he became aware that this was that magic lake where dwelt the lady nymue of the lake and where dwelt sir pellias who was her lord and the knight-champion of the lake--for he had beheld that lake aforetime by moonlight when he had followed sir pellias to that place. now as sir gawaine thus advanced amidst the flowers, he was aware that a little distance away there stood a pavilion of green satin adorned with golden figures of cherubim and so he went forward toward that pavilion, for ever the golden bird led him thitherward. so as he came toward that pavilion there issued forth therefrom a lady who came to meet him. and that lady was clad all in a garment of shining green; and she wore about her neck many bright and glistering ornaments of gold inset with stones about her wrists and arms. and her hair was perfectly black and her face was white like to ivory for whiteness and her eyes were black and shining like to two jewels set in ivory. and sir gawaine immediately knew that lady who she was and that she was the lady of the lake herself; for so she appeared to king arthur and so she appeared to several others, as you may read of if it should please you in those volumes of this history that were written before this volume. so the lady of the lake came forward to meet sir gawaine, and she beheld sir gawaine how that he was bewitched into the guise of a dwarf as aforetold. and the lady said: "certes, messire, this is a great misfortune that hath befallen thee. now i prithee come with me until i make an end of thy enchantment." so the lady of the lake took the horse of sir gawaine by the bridle, and she led the horse through those flowers for some little distance, and so brought him to the margin of the waters of the lake. and when they had come there the lady of the lake stooped and dipped up some of the water of the lake into her hand; and she flung the water upon sir gawaine, crying out in a high and piercing voice: "cease from thy present shape, and assume that shape that is thine own!" [sidenote: _the lady of the lake healeth sir gawaine of his enchantment._] therewith, upon an instant, the enchantment that had rested upon sir gawaine was released from him and he became himself again, resuming his own knightly appearance instead of that semblance of a misshapen dwarf into which the enchantment of the lady vivien had cast him. then sir gawaine leaped down from off the back of that poor palfrey upon which he had been riding, and he kneeled down before that fair and gentle lady of the lake, and he set the palms of his hands together and gave her words of pure gratitude beyond stint that she had removed that enchantment from him. and ever the lady of the lake looked down upon sir gawaine and smiled very kindly upon him. and she said: "messire, abide this night in yonder pavilion, for it hath been prepared for thee to rest in. to-morrow, after thou hast thus rested and refreshed thyself, then thou shalt go forward upon thy way again." [sidenote: _the lady of the lake departeth._] then the lady of the lake gave her hand to sir gawaine and he took it and kissed it. and after that she turned and approached the lake, and at that time the sky was all golden both with the glory of the fading day and with that other glory, the strange magic light that embalmed that wonderful lake as aforetold. and sir gawaine, still kneeling upon the strand of the lake, beheld that the lady of the lake reached the water, and stretched forth her foot and set it upon the surface of the lake as though the water had been a sheet of clear glass. and as soon as that lady thus touched the water of the lake, she immediately disappeared from sight, and thenceforth was seen no more at that time. after that sir gawaine arose from where he kneeled, and he went toward the pavilion and as he approached it there came forth two esquires to meet him. and those esquires were people of the lake, for they also were clad in garments of green like the garments of the lady of the lake, and those garments also shone with a singular lustre as did her garments. and their hair was perfectly black and each wore a fillet of gold about his head. [sidenote: _sir gawaine is served by the people of the lake._] these came to sir gawaine and conducted him to the pavilion and into the pavilion. in the pavilion was a couch and sir gawaine seated himself thereon, and after he had done so the two esquires brought a table of gold and placed it before him. then they spread a napkin of white linen upon the table and anon they set before sir gawaine a very bounteous feast of various meats, and of manchets of white bread and of divers wines both red and white. so sir gawaine ate and drank and refreshed himself, and meantime the two esquires of the lake served him in all ways. after that sir gawaine laid him down to sleep, and he slept very peacefully and gently and without any anxiety whatsoever. and when the morning had come he bestirred himself and presently there came to him those two esquires and aided him to arise. and they brought new rich garments for him to wear, and they brought him food wherewith to refresh himself, and after that they brought him a suit of splendid armor, polished like a mirror and inlaid with various singular devices in gold. then those esquires of the lake armed sir gawaine and brought him forth from the pavilion, and sir gawaine beheld a noble and lordly war-horse caparisoned in all ways, and in all ways fitting for a knight royal to ride upon. and the esquire said to him: "sir, this is your horse, and it hath been purveyed expressly for you." so sir gawaine viewed the war-horse and saw how noble it was, and he mounted upon it with great joy of possession and he gave thanks without measure to those two esquires who had served him. after that he rode away from that place with such lightness of heart and with such peace and happiness of spirit as doth not often come to any man in this life. [sidenote: _sir gawaine followeth the golden bird once more._] then presently there came that golden bird once more and flitted before sir gawaine as it had aforetime done, chirping very shrilly the while. and sir gawaine followed the bird once more as aforetime, and it led him as it had before done ever in a certain direction. so it brought him onward in that wise until about the middle of the day, what time he came forth into an open place of the forest and there beheld before him the forest hermitage several times mentioned in these histories. and sir gawaine saw that a noble black war-horse stood beside that forest sanctuary, and he saw that a great spear leaned against a tree beside the hermitage and that a shield hung from the spear. and when sir gawaine had come close enough he knew by the device upon that shield that it was sir bors de ganis who was there at the hermitage. now as sir gawaine approached the cell of the hermit of the forest, the horse of sir bors neighed aloud, and the horse of sir gawaine neighed in answer. therewith, as though that neighing had been a summons, the door of the hut opened and the hermit appeared in the doorway, shading his eyes with his hand from the glare of the sun. so when he perceived that it was sir gawaine who approached that lonely place he cried out aloud: "welcome sir gawaine! welcome to this place! sir bors is here and awaiting thee. for it hath been told him in a dream that thou wouldst meet him here at this time to-day, and so he is here awaiting thy coming in fulfillment of that dream." [sidenote: _sir gawaine meets sir bors again._] so sir gawaine dismounted from his horse and he entered the cell of the hermit and there he beheld sir bors kneeling at prayer at a little altar, and sir gawaine stood and waited until sir bors had finished his orisons. and when sir bors had crossed himself and had arisen to his feet, he turned with great joy and took sir gawaine into his arms; and either embraced the other and either kissed the other upon the cheek. after that they sat down and the hermit brought them food and they ate of the simple fare of the hermit's cell, and meantime sir gawaine told sir bors all that had happened to him since they had parted company. to all that was said sir bors listened with deep attention, for he was much, astonished at that which had befallen sir gawaine and at the enchantment he had suffered at the hands of the lady vivien. and indeed it was, of a surety, a very wonderful adventure, such as any one might well have marvelled to hear tell of. but when sir gawaine told sir bors concerning the prophecy of merlin, then sir bors became all enwrapped as with a certain exaltation of spirit. wherefore, when sir gawaine had finished that part of his story, sir bors cried out: "how wonderful is this miracle that thou tellest me! know ye that certain things of this sort have been presented before me of late in several dreams, but lo! now they have been manifested to thee in reality." and he said: "let us straightway arise and go forth hence, for methinks that even now we have tarried too long in performing the bidding of this prophecy." accordingly they arose and they gave thanks in full measure to that good old hermit and they bade him farewell. thereafter they went forth and mounted their horses and took shield and spear in hand and departed thence, and after they had so departed, straightway the golden bird appeared once more and flew chirping before them. then sir bors, beholding the bird, said: "lo! is not yonder the bird that has been sent to lead us upon our way?" and sir gawaine said, "yea; that is it." and then sir bors said, "let us follow it apace." [sidenote: _sir gawaine and sir bors follow the golden bird._] [sidenote: _they come to the priory of the valley._] so they followed the bird, and ever it flew before them, leading them upon the way. thus they travelled for a long while, until at last, toward the sloping of the afternoon, they became aware that the forest wherein they rode was becoming thinner. and anon they were aware of the ringing of a bell somewhere not a great distance away. and the bird led them toward where that bell was ringing, and so in a little pass they came forth out of the forest and into a very fertile valley. and there was a smooth river, not very broad, that flowed down through the valley, and beside the river there was a fair priory, not large in size but very comely, with white walls and red roofs and many shining windows, very bright in the sun. and all about the priory were fair fields and orchards and gardens, all illuminated very bright and warm, in the full light of the slanting sun that was now turning all the world to gold by its bright, yellow and very glorious shining. so when sir bors and sir gawaine entered this pleasant plain, the golden bird that had led them thitherward suddenly chirped very loud and shrill, and straightway flew high aloft into the air and immediately disappeared over the tree tops. thereupon those two champions knew with certainty that this must be the place whither they were to come, and they wist that here they should doubtless find that young child of which the prophecy of merlin had spoken. so they went forward toward the priory with a certain awe, as not knowing what next of mystery was to happen to them. [sidenote: _they meet sir lavaine._] so as they approached that holy place, the gateway of the priory was suddenly opened, and there came forth a young knight of a very noble and haughty appearance, and both sir gawaine and sir bors knew that one, that he was sir lavaine, the brother of the lady elaine, and whilom the companion in arms of sir launcelot of the lake. and as they drew more near they beheld that the face of sir lavaine was very sad and that he smiled not at all as he gave them greeting, saying: "ye are welcome, messires, and ye come none too soon, for we have been waiting for you since the morning." and he said, "dismount and come with me." so sir bors and sir gawaine dismounted from their horses and straightway there came several attendants and took the steeds and led them away to stable. then sir lavaine turned, and he beckoned with his hand, and sir bors and sir gawaine followed after as he had commanded them to do. so sir lavaine brought them through several passageways and from place to place until at last he brought them to a small cell of the priory, very cold and bare and white as snow. [sidenote: _they behold the lady elaine._] in the centre of the cell there lay a couch and upon the couch there lay a figure as still as death and sir bors and sir gawaine beheld that it was the lady elaine who lay there. her hair lay spread out all over the pillow of the couch, shining like to pure gold, and in the midst of the hair her face shone very white, like to pure clear wax for whiteness. her eyes looked, as it were, from out of a faint shadow and gazed ever straight before her and she never stirred nor moved her gaze as sir bors and sir gawaine and sir lavaine entered her cell; for it was as though her looks were fixed upon something very strange that she beheld a great distance away. [sidenote: _they behold the young child._] then sir lavaine, speaking in a whisper, said, "come near and behold," and thereupon sir bors and sir gawaine came close to the couch upon which the lady elaine lay. so when they had come nigh, sir lavaine lifted the coverlet very softly and they beheld that a new-born babe lay beside the lady upon that couch. then they wist that that babe was the child of sir launcelot of the lake and the lady elaine; and they wist that this was the babe of whom merlin had spoken in his prophecy. for the child was very wonderfully beautiful, and it was as though a certain clear radiance of light shone forth from its face; and it lay so perfectly still that it was like as though it did not live. so sir bors and sir gawaine knew because of these and several other things that this must indeed be that very child whom they had come to find. yea, it was as though a voice from a distance said: "behold! this is that one who shall achieve the quest of the holy grail according to the prophecy of merlin." so sir bors and sir gawaine kneeled down beside the bed and set their palms together, and sir lavaine stood near them, and for a while all was very silent in that place. then suddenly the lady elaine spake in that silence in a voice very faint and remote but very clear, and as she spake she turned not her eyes toward any one of them, but gazed ever straight before her. and she said, "sir bors, art thou there?" and sir bors said, "yea, lady." [sidenote: _the lady elaine bespeaketh sir bors._] then she said: "behold this child and look you upon him, for this is he who shall achieve the quest of the holy grail and shall bring it back to the earth again. so he shall become the greatest knight that ever the world beheld. but though he shall be the greatest champion at arms that ever lived, yet also he shall be gentle and meek and without sin, innocent like to a little child. and because he is to be so high in chivalry and so pure of life, therefore his name shall be called galahad." and she said again, "sir bors, art thou there?" and he said, "yea, lady." she said: "my time draweth near, for even now i behold the shining gates of paradise, though it yet is that i behold them faintly, as through a vapor of mist. yet anon that mist shall pass, and i shall behold those gates very near by and shining in glory; for soon i shall quit this troubled world for that bright and beautiful country. nevertheless, i shall leave behind me this child who lieth beside me, and his life shall enlighten that world from which i am withdrawing." then she said for the third time, "sir bors, art thou there?" and sir bors wept, and he said, "yea, lady, i am here." then the lady elaine said: "take thou this child and bear him hence unto a certain place that thou shalt find. thou shalt know that place because there shall go before thee a bird with golden plumage, and it shall show thee where thou art to take this child. leave the child at that place whither the bird shall lead thee, and tell no man where that place is. for this child must hide in secret until the time shall come when he shall be manifested to the world." and she said, "hearest thou me, sir bors?" and sir bors, still weeping, said, "yea, lady." then she said: "go and tarry not in thy going, for the ending is very near. wait not until that end cometh, but go immediately and do as i have asked thee to do." [sidenote: _sir bors departeth with the young child._] then, still weeping, sir bors arose from where he kneeled, and he took the young child and he wrapped it in his cloak and he went out thence and was gone, taking the babe with him. and this while sir gawaine and sir lavaine also wept, and ever sir gawaine still kneeled and sir lavaine stood beside him. such is the story of the nativity of sir galahad, who afterward achieved the quest of the holy grail as was prophesied in the prophecy of merlin. * * * * * [sidenote: _the passing of elaine the fair._] that same day the lady elaine died about the middle watch of the night, departing from this world in great peace and good content, and sir gawaine and sir lavaine were with her at the time of her passing. then sir gawaine said, weeping, "let me go and fetch sir launcelot of the lake hither." but sir lavaine, speaking very sternly, said: "let be and bring him not, for he is not worthy to be brought hither. but as for you, do you depart, for i have yet that to do i would do alone. so go you immediately and return unto the court of the king. but when you have come to the king's court, i charge you to say nothing unto any one concerning the birth of the child galahad, nor of how this sweet, fair lady is no more, for i have a certain thing to do that i would fain perform before those things are declared. so when you have come to court say nothing of these matters of which i have spoken." to the which sir gawaine said, "messire, it shall be as you desire in all things." [sidenote: _sir gawaine departeth from the priory._] so immediately sir gawaine went forth and called for his horse, and they brought his horse to him and he mounted and departed from that place, leaving sir lavaine alone with his dead. and it remaineth here to be said that sir gawaine went directly from that place to the court of the king, and when he had come there he told only of those adventures that had happened to him when the lady vivien had bewitched him. but of those other matters: to wit, of the nativity of galahad and of the death of the lady elaine, he said naught to any one but concealed those things for the time being in his own heart. yet ever he pondered those things and meditated upon them in the silent watches of the night. for the thought of those things filled him at once with joy and with a sort of terror; with hope and with a manner of despair; wherefore his spirit was troubled because of those things which he had beheld, for he knew not what their portent might be. [illustration: the barge of the dead] [illustration] conclusion now after sir bors had departed and after sir gawaine had departed as aforesaid--the one at the one time and the other at the other--there came several of those of the priory to that cell of death. and they lifted up that still and peaceful figure and bare it away to the chapel of the priory. and they laid it upon a bier in the chapel and lit candles around about the bier, and they chanted all night in the chapel a requiem to the repose of the gentle soul that was gone. and when the morning light had dawned sir lavaine came to that chapel when the candles were still alight in the dull gray of the early day and he kneeled for a long time in prayer beside the bier. thereafter and when he had ended his prayers, he arose and departed from that place, and he went to the people of the priory, and he said to them, "whither is it that this river floweth?" they say: "it floweth down from this place past the king's town of camelot, and thence it floweth onward until it floweth into the sea to the southward." [sidenote: _sir lavaine findeth a boat._] sir lavaine said, "is there ere a boat at this place that may float upon the river?" and they say to him: "yea, messire, there is a barge and there is a man that saileth that barge and that man is deaf and dumb from birth." at that sir lavaine said: "i pray you to bring me to where that deaf and dumb bargeman is." so one of those to whom he spake took him to a certain place where was that barge, and the deaf and dumb bargeman. and the bargeman was a very old man with a long beard as white as snow and he gazed very steadfastly upon sir lavaine as he drew near thitherward. so sir lavaine came close to the bargeman and he made signs to him, asking him if he would ferry him down the stream to the king's town, and the dumb bargeman understood what sir lavaine would have and he made signs in answer that it should be as sir lavaine desired. [sidenote: _sir lavaine with the dead lady departeth in the barge._] after that sir lavaine gave command that the barge should be hung and draped all with white samite embroidered with silver and he gave command that a couch of white samite should be established upon the barge, and the covering of the couch was also embroidered with silver. so when all was in readiness there came forth a procession from the chapel, bearing that still and silent figure, and they brought it to the barge and laid it upon the couch of white samite that had been prepared for it. thereafter sir lavaine entered the barge and took his station in the bow of the boat and the deaf and dumb man took his station in the stern thereof. then the bargeman trimmed the sail and so the barge drew slowly away from that place, many standing upon the landing-stage and watching its departure. [sidenote: _so they descend the flood._] and after that the barge floated gently down the smooth stream of the river, and ever the deaf and dumb man guided it upon its way. and anon they floated down betwixt banks of rushes, with here and there a row of pollard willow-trees and thickets of alder. and all about them was the pleasant weather of the summertime, with everything abloom with grace and beauty. then anon, departing from those marshy stretches with their rushes and their willows and their alders, they drifted past some open meadow-lands, with fields and uplands all trembling in the still hot sunlight. and after that they came to a more populous country where were several small towns and villages with here and there a stone bridge crossing the river. and at those places of habitation many came and stood upon a bridge beneath which they passed, and others stood upon the smooth and grassy banks of the stream and gazed in awe at that wonderful barge as it drifted by adown the flood. and they who thus gazed would whisper and marvel at what they beheld and would cross themselves for awe and terror. so ever they floated onward until at last they came to within sight of the town of camelot. after that, in a little they came to the town and as they passed by the town walls, lo! a great multitude of people came and stood upon the walls and gazed down upon that white bedraped barge and those who were within. and all the people whispered to one another in awe, saying: "what is this and what doth it portend? is this real or is it a vision that we behold?" [sidenote: _so they come to camelot._] but ever that barge drifted onward past the walls and past those who stood thereon, and so, at last, it came to a landing-place of stone steps not far distant from the castle of the king. there the dumb bargeman made fast the barge to the iron rings of the landing-stage, and so that strange voyage was ended. now at that time king arthur and many of the lords and some of the ladies of his court sat at feast in the royal hall of the castle, and amongst those was sir launcelot and queen guinevere. so as they sat thus, there came one of a sudden running into the hall as in affright, and thereat all looked upon him and wondered wherefore he came into the hall in that way. then king arthur said, "what ails thee that thou comest hither to us thus?" [sidenote: _king arthur heareth news of the barge._] then he who came kneeled before king arthur, and he said: "lord, here is a wonderful thing. for down by the river there hath come a barge to the landing-stairs of the castle, and that barge is hung all with white samite embroidered with silver. and in the barge and upon a couch of white samite there lieth a dead lady so beautiful that i do not think her like is to be found in all of the earth. and a dumb man sits in the stern of the boat, and a noble young knight sits in the bow of the boat with his face shrouded in his mantle as though for grief. and that knight sits there as silent and as motionless as the dead lady, and the dumb man sits there also, like to an image of a man rather than a man of flesh and blood. wherefore it is that i have come hither to bring you word of this wonderful thing." then king arthur said: "this is indeed a most singular story that thou tellest us. now let us all straightway go and see what this portendeth." so the king arose from where he sat, and he descended therefrom, and he went forth out of the hall, and all who were there went with him. [sidenote: _king arthur and his court go to where is the barge._] now first of all there went king arthur, and among those who were last there went sir launcelot of the lake. for when he had heard of that dead lady he bethought him of the lady elaine and of how she was even then in tender health, wherefore he repented him with great bitterness of heart that he was not with her at that time instead of lingering at court as he did. and he said to himself: "suppose that she should die like to this dead lady in the barge--what would i do if that should have happened unto me?" so it was that his feet lagged because of his heavy thoughts, and so it was that he was near the last who came to the riverside where was that barge as aforesaid. now, there were many of the towns folk standing there, but upon king arthur's coming all those made way for him, and so he came and stood upon the upper step of the landing-stairs and looked down into the boat. and he beheld that figure that was lying there and knew it that it was the lady elaine who lay there dead. then the king looked for a little upon that dead figure as it were in a sort of terror, and then he said, "where is sir launcelot?" [sidenote: _sir launcelot beholdeth the dead._] now when the king so spake, they who stood there made way, and sir launcelot came through the press and stood also at the head of the stairs and looked down into the barge. then of a sudden--as it were in an instant of time--he beheld with his very eyes that thing which he had been thinking of anon; for there before him and beneath him lay in very truth the dead image of that dear lady of whom he had been thinking only a moment before. then it was as though sir launcelot had suddenly been struck with a shaft of death, for he neither moved nor stirred. nay, it was not to be perceived that he even so much as breathed. but ever he stood there gazing down into that boat as though he had forgotten for that while that there was anybody else in all of the world saving only himself and that dead lady. and many of those who were there looked upon the face of sir launcelot, and they beheld that his countenance was altogether as white as the face of that dead figure who lay in the barge beneath them. [sidenote: _sir lavaine accuseth sir launcelot._] then a great hush of silence fell over all and every voice was stilled, and at that hush of silence sir lavaine lifted the hood from his face and looked up from where he sat in the boat at the feet of the dead lady, and so beheld sir launcelot where he stood. then upon the instant sir lavaine stood up in the barge and he cried out in a great loud harsh voice: "hah! art thou there, thou traitor knight? behold the work that thou hast done; for this that thou beholdest is thy handiwork. thou hast betrayed this lady's love for the love of another, and so thou hast brought her to her death!" so said sir lavaine before all those who were there, but it was as though sir launcelot heard him not, for ever he stood as though he were a dead man and not a living man of flesh and blood. then of a sudden he awoke, as it were, to life, and he clasped the back of his hands across his eyes, and cried out in a voice as though that voice tore his heart asunder, "remorse! remorse! remorse!" saying those words three times over in that wise. then he shut his lips tight as though to say no more, and thereupon turned and went away from that place. [sidenote: _sir launcelot departeth._] and he turned neither to this side nor to that, but went straight to the castle of the king, and there ordered that his horse should be brought forth to him upon the instant. so when his horse was brought he mounted it and rode away; and he bade farewell to no one, and no one was there when he thus departed. so for a long while sir launcelot rode he knew not whither, but after a while he found himself in the forest not far away from the cell of the hermit of the forest. and he beheld the hermit of the forest, that he stood in an open plat of grass in front of his cell and that he was feeding the wild birds of the woodland; for the little feathered creatures were gathered in great multitudes about him, some resting upon his head and some upon his shoulders and some upon his hands. and a wild doe and a fawn of the forest browsed near by and all was full of peace and good content. but at the coming of sir launcelot, all those wild creatures took alarm; the birds they flew chirping away, and the doe and the fawn they fled away into the thickets of the forest. for they wist, by some instinct, that a man of sin and sorrow was coming thitherward; wherefore they were afeared and fled away in that wise. but sir launcelot thought nothing of this, but leaped from his horse, and ran to the hermit and flung himself down upon the ground before him and embraced him about the feet. and the hermit was greatly astonished and said, "what ails thee, sir launcelot?" whereunto sir launcelot cried out: "woe is me! woe is me! i have sinned very grievously and have been grievously punished and now my heart is broken!" then the hermit perceived that some great misfortune had befallen sir launcelot, wherefore he lifted sir launcelot to his feet and after that he brought him into his cell. and after they were in the cell together, he said: "now tell me what ails thee, sir launcelot. for i believe that in telling me thou shalt find a great deal of ease." so sir launcelot confessed everything to the hermit--yea, everything to the very bottom of his soul, and the good, holy man hearkened to him. then after sir launcelot had said all that lay upon his heart, the hermit sat for a while in silence, communing with his spirit. and after a while he said: "messire, god telleth me that if thy sin hath been grievous, so also hath thy punishment been full sore. wherefore meseemeth i speak what god would have me say when i tell thee that though neither thou nor any man may undo that which is done, nor recommit that which is committed, yet there is this which thou or any man mayest do. thou mayst bathe thy soul in repentance as in a bath of clear water (for repentance is not remorse but something very different from remorse), and that having so bathed thyself thou mayst clothe thyself as in a fresh raiment of new resolve. so bathed and so clad, thou mayst stand once more upon thy feet and mayst look up to god and say: 'lo, god! i am thy handiwork. i have sinned and have done great evil, yet i am still thy handiwork, who hath made me what i am. so, though i may not undo that which i have done, yet i may, with thy aid, do better hereafter than i have done heretofore.' "for every man may sin, and yet again may sin; yet still is he god's handiwork, and still god is near by his handiwork to aid him ever to a fresh endeavor to righteousness. "so, though thou hast sinned, thou art still the creation of god and may yet do his will in the world who hath sent thee hither." then sir launcelot wept, and he said, "there is much comfort in thy words." after that he abode for three days in the cell of the hermit and at the end of that time he went forth again into the world, a broken yet a contrite man, and one full of a strong resolve to make good the life that god thenceforth intended him to live. so by and by you shall hear of further adventures that befell him; yet not at this place. so it was with sir launcelot, and now it only remaineth to be said that, after his departure from the king's court as aforesaid, they brought the dead figure of the lady elaine to the minster at camelot and there high mass was said for the peace of her pure and gentle soul. so for two days (what time sir launcelot was bathing himself in the waters of repentance as aforetold) that figure lay in state in the minster and with many candles burning about it, and then it was buried in the minster and a monument of marble was erected to the memory of that kind and loving spirit that had gone. * * * * * so endeth the history of the nativity of galahad and so therewith this book also cometh to an end. yet after a while, if god giveth me life to finish that work which i have undertaken in writing these histories (and i pray he may give me to finish that and several other things), then i shall tell you many things more than these. for i shall tell you how sir launcelot came back again into the world, and i shall tell you of the history of the quest of the grail, and i shall tell you of other knights who came in later days to make the court of king arthur even more glorious than it was before. already two histories have been written concerning these things and this makes the third, and another, i believe, will complete that work which i have assigned myself to do; wherefore, as was said, i pray that god may grant that i shall be able to finish that fourth book and so end my work that i have here undertaken. amen. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: punctuation has been standardised. spelling inconsistencies occur throughout this text. page , "befel" changed to "befell" (what befell him) page , "ne'ertheless" changed to "ne'theless" (ne'theless, i cannot find) page , "shie d" changed to "shield" (bare that shield.) page , "lynnette" changed to "lynette" (lynette telleth sir) page , "grandregarde" changed to "grandregard" (hight granderegard) page , "axaltalese" changed to "axatalese" (gringamore said to axatalese) page , "layonesse" changed to "layonnesse" (layonnesse and the damsel) page , "layonesse" changed to "layonnesse" (my sister, the lady layonnesse) page , "the" changed to "then" (even then upon her way) page , "geharis" changed to "gaheris" (sir gaheris wondered) page , "palamedes" changed to "palamydes" (meeting sir palamydes) page , "thust" changed to "thrust" (thrust into her bosom) page , "chavelier" changed to "chevalier" (in which le chevalier) page , "adred" changed to "adread" (the lady is adread) page , "than" changed to "that" (that the other was) page , "knowst" changed to "knowest" (how knowest thou) page , "travered" changed to "traversed" (had traversed various) page , "percivant" changed to "percevant" (captive was sir percevant) page , "le" changed to "le" (hight, le chevalier) page , "ne'ertheless" changed to "ne'theless" (ne'theless, now that) the last tournament by alfred tennyson, d.c.l., poet-laureate author's edition from advance sheets this poem forms one of the "idyls of the king." its place is between "pelleas" and "guinevere." by alfred tennyson, poet laureate dagonet, the fool, whom gawain in his moods had made mock-knight of arthur's table round, at camelot, high above the yellowing woods, danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. and toward him from the hall, with harp in hand, and from the crown thereof a carcanet of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize of tristram in the jousts of yesterday, came tristram, saying, "why skip ye so, sir fool?" for arthur and sir lancelot riding once far down beneath a winding wall of rock heard a child wail. a stump of oak half-dead, from roots like some black coil of carven snakes clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree scaling, sir lancelot from the perilous nest, this ruby necklace thrice around her neck, and all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought a maiden babe; which arthur pitying took, then gave it to his queen to rear: the queen but coldly acquiescing, in her white arms received, and after loved it tenderly, and named it nestling; so forgot herself a moment, and her cares; till that young life being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal cold past from her; and in time the carcanet vext her with plaintive memories of the child: so she, delivering it to arthur, said, "take thou the jewels of this dead innocence, and make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize." to whom the king, "peace to thine eagle-borne dead nestling, and this honor after death, following thy will! but, o my queen, i muse why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone, those diamonds that i rescued from the tarn, and lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear." "would rather ye had let them fall," she cried, "plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were, a bitterness to me!--ye look amazed, not knowing they were lost as soon as given-- slid from my hands, when i was leaning out above the river--that unhappy child past in her barge: but rosier luck will go with these rich jewels, seeing that they came not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer, but the sweet body of a maiden babe. perchance--who knows?--the purest of thy knights may win them for the purest of my maids." she ended, and the cry of a great jousts with trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways from camelot in among the faded fields to furthest towers; and everywhere the knights arm'd for a day of glory before the king. but on the hither side of that loud morn into the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd from ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, and one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame, a churl, to whom indignantly the king, "my churl, for whom christ died, what evil beast hath drawn his claws athwart thy face? or fiend? man was it who marr'd heaven's image in thee thus?" then, sputtering thro' the hedge of splinter'd teeth, yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump pitch-blacken'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl, "he took them and he drave them to his tower-- some hold he was a table-knight of thine-- a hundred goodly ones--the red knight, he-- "lord, i was tending swine, and the red knight brake in upon me and drave them to his tower; and when i call'd upon thy name as one that doest right by gentle and by churl, maim'd me and maul'd, and would outright have slain, save that he sware me to a message, saying-- 'tell thou the king and all his liars, that i have founded my round table in the north, and whatsoever his own knights have sworn my knights have sworn the counter to it--and say my tower is full of harlots, like his court, but mine are worthier, seeing they profess to be none other than themselves--and say my knights are all adulterers like his own, but mine are truer, seeing they profess to be none other; and say his hour is come, the heathen are upon him, his long lance broken, and his excalibur a straw.'" then arthur turn'd to kay the seneschal, "take thou my churl, and tend him curiously like a king's heir, till all his hurts be whole. the heathen--but that ever-climbing wave, hurl'd back again so often in empty foam, hath lain for years at rest--and renegades, thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom the wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere,-- friends, thro' your manhood and your fealty,--now make their last head like satan in the north. my younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds, move with me toward their quelling, which achieved, the loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. but thou, sir lancelot, sitting in my place enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field; for wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it, only to yield my queen her own again? speak, lancelot, thou art silent: is it well?" * * * * * thereto sir lancelot answer'd, "it is well: yet better if the king abide, and leave the leading of his younger knights to me. else, for the king has will'd it, it is well." * * * * * then arthur rose and lancelot follow'd him, and while they stood without the doors, the king turn'd to him saying, "is it then so well? or mine the blame that oft i seem as he of whom was written, 'a sound is in his ears'-- the foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance that only seems half-loyal to command,-- a manner somewhat fall'n from reverence-- or have i dream'd the bearing of our knights tells of a manhood ever less and lower? or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd, by noble deeds at one with noble vows, from flat confusion and brute violences, reel back into the beast, and be no more?" * * * * * he spoke, and taking all his younger knights, down the slope city rode, and sharply turn'd north by the gate. in her high bower the queen, working a tapestry, lifted up her head, watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigh'd. then ran across her memory the strange rhyme of bygone merlin, "where is he who knows? from the great deep to the great deep he goes." * * * * * but when the morning of a tournament, by these in earnest those in mockery call'd the tournament of the dead innocence, brake with a wet wind blowing, lancelot, round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, the words of arthur flying shriek'd, arose, and down a streetway hung with folds of pure white samite, and by fountains running wine, where children sat in white with cups of gold, moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps ascending, fill'd his double-dragon'd chair. * * * * * he glanced and saw the stately galleries, dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their queen white-robed in honor of the stainless child, and some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire. he lookt but once, and veil'd his eyes again. * * * * * the sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream to ears but half-awaked, then one low roll of autumn thunder, and the jousts began: and ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf and gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume went down it. sighing weariedly, as one who sits and gazes on a faded fire, when all the goodlier guests are past away, sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. he saw the laws that ruled the tournament broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down before his throne of arbitration cursed the dead babe and the follies of the king; and once the laces of a helmet crack'd, and show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, modred, a narrow face: anon he heard the voice that billow'd round the barriers roar an ocean-sounding welcome to one knight, but newly-enter'd, taller than the rest, and armor'd all in forest green, whereon there tript a hundred tiny silver deer, and wearing but a holly-spray for crest, with ever-scattering berries, and on shield a spear, a harp, a bugle--tristram--late from overseas in brittany return'd, and marriage with a princess of that realm, isolt the white--sir tristram of the woods-- whom lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain his own against him, and now yearn'd to shake the burthen off his heart in one full shock with tristram ev'n to death: his strong hands gript and dinted the gilt dragons right and left, until he groan'd for wrath--so many of those, that ware their ladies' colors on the casque, drew from before sir tristram to the bounds, and there with gibes and nickering mockeries stood, while he mutter'd, "craven chests! o shame! what faith have these in whom they sware to love? the glory of our round table is no more." * * * * * so tristram won, and lancelot gave, the gems, not speaking other word than "hast thou won? art thou the purest, brother? see, the hand wherewith thou takest this is red!" to whom tristram, half plagued by lancelot's languorous mood, made answer, "ay, but wherefore toss me this like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? let be thy fair queen's fantasy. strength of heart and might of limb, but mainly use and skill, are winners in this pastime of our king. my hand--belike the lance hath dript upon it-- no blood of mine, i trow; but o chief knight, right arm of arthur in the battlefield, great brother, thou nor i have made the world; be happy in thy fair queen as i in mine." and tristram round the gallery made his horse caracole; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying, "fair damsels, each to him who worships each sole queen of beauty and of love, behold this day my queen of beauty is not here." then most of these were mute, some anger'd, one murmuring "all courtesy is dead," and one, "the glory of our round table is no more." then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, and pettish cries awoke, and the wan day went glooming down in wet and weariness: but under her black brows a swarthy dame laught shrilly, crying "praise the patient saints, our one white day of innocence hath past, tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. so be it. the snowdrop only, flow'ring thro' the year, would make the world as blank as wintertide. come--let us comfort their sad eyes, our queen's and lancelot's, at this night's solemnity with all the kindlier colors of the field." * * * * * so dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast variously gay: for he that tells the tale liken'd them, saying "as when an hour of cold falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, and all the purple slopes of mountain flowers pass under white, till the warm hour returns with veer of wind, and all are flowers again;" so dame and damsel cast the simple white, and glowing in all colors, the live grass, rose-campion, bluebell, kingcup, poppy, glanced about the revels, and with mirth so loud beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the queen, and wroth at tristram and the lawless jousts, brake up their sports, then slowly to her bower parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. * * * * * and little dagonet on the morrow morn, high over all the yellowing autumn-tide, danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. then tristram saying, "why skip ye so, sir fool?" wheel'd round on either heel, dagonet replied, "belike for lack of wiser company; or being fool, and seeing too much wit makes the world rotten, why, belike i skip to know myself the wisest knight of all." "ay, fool," said tristram, "but 'tis eating dry to dance without a catch, a roundelay to dance to." then he twangled on his harp, and while he twangled little dagonet stood, quiet as any water-sodden log stay'd in the wandering warble of a brook; but when the twangling ended, skipt again; then being ask'd, "why skipt ye not, sir fool?" made answer, "i had liefer twenty years skip to the broken music of my brains than any broken music ye can make." then tristram, waiting for the quip to come, "good now, what music have i broken, fool?" and little dagonet, skipping, "arthur, the king's; for when thou playest that air with queen isolt, thou makest broken music with thy bride, her daintier namesake down in brittany-- and so thou breakest arthur's music too." "save for that broken music in thy brains, sir fool," said tristram, "i would break thy head. fool, i came late, the heathen wars were o'er, the life had flown, we sware but by the shell-- i am but a fool to reason with a fool come, thou art crabb'd and sour: but lean me down, sir dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, and hearken if my music be not true. "'free love--free field--we love but while we may: the woods are hush'd, their music is no more: the leaf is dead, the yearning past away: new leaf, new life--the days of frost are o'er: new life, new love to suit the newer day: new loves are sweet as those that went before: free love,--free field--we love but while we may.' "ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, not stood stockstill. i made it in the woods, and found it ring as true as tested gold." but dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, "friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday made to run wine?--but this had run itself all out like a long life to a sour end-- and them that round it sat with golden cups to hand the wine to whomsoever came-- the twelve small damosels white as innocence, "in honor of poor innocence the babe, who left the gems which innocence the queen lent to the king, and innocence the king gave for a prize--and one of those white slips handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 'drink, drink, sir fool,' and thereupon i drank, spat--pish--the cup was gold, the draught was mud." and tristram, "was it muddier than thy gibes? is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?-- not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool-- 'fear god: honor the king--his one true knight-- sole follower of the vows'--for here be they who knew thee swine enow before i came, smuttier than blasted grain: but when the king had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up it frighted all free fool from out thy heart; which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, a naked aught--yet swine i hold thee still, for i have flung thee pearls, and find thee swine." and little dagonet mincing with his feet, "knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck in lieu of hers, i'll hold thou hast some touch of music, since i care not for thy pearls. swine? i have wallow'd, i have wash'd--the world is flesh and shadow--i have had my day. the dirty nurse, experience, in her kind hath foul'd me--an i wallow'd, then i wash'd-- i have had my day and my philosophies-- and thank the lord i am king arthur's fool. swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese troop'd round a paynim harper once, who thrumm'd on such a wire as musically as thou some such fine song--but never a king's fool." and tristram, "then were swine, goats, asses, geese the wiser fools, seeing thy paynim bard had such a mastery of his mystery that he could harp his wife up out of hell." then dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, "and whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thyself down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, that harpest downward! dost thou know the star we call the harp of arthur up in heaven?" and tristram, "ay, sir fool, for when our king was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, glorying in each new glory, set his name high on all hills, and in the signs of heaven." and dagonet answer'd, "ay, and when the land was freed, and the queen false, ye set yourself to babble about him, all to show your wit-- and whether he were king by courtesy, or king by right--and so went harping down the black king's highway, got so far, and grew so witty, that ye play'd at ducks and drakes with arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. tuwhoo! do ye see it? do ye see the star?" "nay, fool," said tristram, "not in open day." and dagonet, "nay, nor will: i see it and hear. it makes a silent music up in heaven, and i, and arthur and the angels hear, and then we skip." "lo, fool," he said, "ye talk fool's treason: is the king thy brother fool?" then little dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd, "ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools*! conceits himself as god that he can make figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk from burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs, and men from beasts.--long live the king of fools!" and down the city dagonet danced away. but thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues and solitary passes of the wood rode tristram toward lyonesse and the west. before him fled the face of queen isolt with ruby-circled neck, but evermore past, as a rustle or twitter in the wood made dull his inner, keen his outer eye for all that walk'd, or crept, or perched, or flew. anon the face, as, when a gust hath blown, unruffling waters re-collect the shape of one that in them sees himself, return'd; but at the slot or fewmets of a deer, or ev'n a fall'n feather, vanish'd again. so on for all that day from lawn to lawn thro' many a league-long bower he rode. at length a lodge of intertwisted beechen-boughs furze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself built for a summer day with queen isolt against a shower, dark in the golden grove appearing, sent his fancy back to where she lived a moon in that low lodge with him: till mark her lord had past, the cornish king, with six or seven, when tristram was away, and snatch'd her thence; yet dreading worse than shame her warrior tristram, spake not any word, but bode his hour, devising wretchedness. and now that desert lodge to tristram lookt so sweet, that, halting, in he past, and sank down on a drift of foliage random-blown; but could not rest for musing how to smooth and sleek his marriage over to the queen. perchance in lone tintagil far from all the tonguesters of the court she had not heard. but then what folly had sent him overseas after she left him lonely here? a name? was it the name of one in brittany, isolt, the daughter of the king? "isolt of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name allured him first, and then the maid herself, who served him well with those white hands of hers, and loved him well, until himself had thought he loved her also, wedded easily, but left her all as easily, and return'd. the black-blue irish hair and irish eyes had drawn him home--what marvel? then he laid his brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd. he seem'd to pace the strand of brittany between isolt of britain and his bride, and show'd them both the ruby-chain, and both began to struggle for it, till his queen graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. then cried the breton, "look, her hand is red! these be no rubies, this is frozen blood, and melts within her hand--her hand is hot with ill desires, but this i gave thee, look, is all as cool and white as any flower." follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then a whimpering of the spirit of the child, because the twain had spoil'd her carcanet. he dream'd; but arthur with a hundred spears rode far, till o'er the illimitable reed, and many a glancing plash and sallowy isle, the wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh glared on a huge machicolated tower that stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd a roar of riot, as from men secure amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease among their harlot-brides, an evil song. "lo there," said one of arthur's youth, for there, high on a grim dead tree before the tower, a goodly brother of the table round swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield showing a shower of blood in a field noir, and therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights at that dishonor done the gilded spur, till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. but arthur waved them back: alone he rode. then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, that sent the face of all the marsh aloft an ever upward-rushing storm and cloud of shriek and plume, the red knight heard, and all, even to tipmost lance and topmost helm, in blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to the king, "the teeth of hell flay bare and gnash thee flat!-- lo! art thou not that eunuch-hearted king who fain had clipt free manhood from the world-- the woman-worshipper? yea, god's curse, and i! slain was the brother of my paramour by a knight of thine, and i that heard her whine and snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell, and stings itself to everlasting death, to hang whatever knight of thine i fought and tumbled. art thou king?--look to thy life!" he ended: arthur knew the voice; the face wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name went wandering somewhere darkling in his mind. and arthur deign'd not use of word or sword, but let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse to strike him, overbalancing his bulk, down from the causeway heavily to the swamp fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave heard in dead night along that table-shore drops flat, and after the great waters break whitening for half a league, and thin themselves far over sands marbled with moon and cloud. from less and less to nothing; thus he fell head-heavy, while the knights, who watch'd him, roar'd and shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n; there trampled out his face from being known, and sank his head in mire, and slimed themselves: nor heard the king for their own cries, but sprang thro' open doors, and swording right and left men, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd the tables over and the wines, and slew till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, and all the pavement stream'd with massacre: then, yell with yell echoing, they fired the tower, which half that autumn night, like the live north, red-pulsing up thro' alioth and alcor, made all above it, and a hundred meres about it, as the water moab saw come round by the east, and out beyond them flush'd the long low dune, and lazy-plunging sea. so all the ways were safe from shore to shore, but in the heart of arthur pain was lord. then out of tristram waking the red dream fled with a shout, and that low lodge return'd, mid-forest, and the wind among the boughs. he whistled his good warhorse left to graze among the forest greens, vaulted upon him, and rode beneath an ever-showering leaf, till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, stay'd him, "why weep ye?" "lord," she said, "my man hath left me or is dead;" whereon he thought-- "what an she hate me now? i would not this. what an she love me still? i would not that. i know not what i would"--but said to her,-- "yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return, he find thy favor changed and love thee not"-- then pressing day by day thro' lyonesse last in a roky hollow, belling, heard the hounds of mark, and felt the goodly hounds yelp at his heart, but, turning, past and gain'd tintagil, half in sea, and high on land, a crown of towers. down in a casement sat, a low sea-sunset glorying round her hair and glossy-throated grace, isolt the queen. and when she heard the feet of tristram grind the spiring stone that scaled about her tower, flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there belted his body with her white embrace, crying aloud, "not mark--not mark, my soul! the footstep flutter'd me at first: not he: catlike thro' his own castle steals my mark, but warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls who hates thee, as i him--ev'n to the death. my soul, i felt my hatred for my mark quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." to whom sir tristram smiling, "i am here. let be thy mark, seeing he is not thine." and drawing somewhat backward she replied, "can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, but save for dread of thee had beaten me, scratch'd, bitten, blinded, marr'd me somehow--mark? what rights are his that dare not strike for them? not lift a hand--not, tho' he found me thus! but hearken, have ye met him? hence he went to-day for three days' hunting--as he said-- and so returns belike within an hour. mark's way, my soul!--but eat not thou with him, because he hates thee even more than fears; nor drink: and when thou passest any wood close visor, lest an arrow from the bush should leave me all alone with mark and hell. my god, the measure of my hate for mark is as the measure of my love for thee." so, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, drain'd of her force, again she sat, and spake to tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, "o hunter, and o blower of the horn, harper, and thou hast been a rover too, for, ere i mated with my shambling king, ye twain had fallen out about the bride of one--his name is out of me--the prize, if prize she were--(what marvel--she could see)-- thine, friend; and ever since my craven seeks to wreck thee villanously: but, o sir knight, what dame or damsel have ye kneeled to last?" and tristram, "last to my queen paramount, here now to my queen paramount of love, and loveliness, ay, lovelier than when first her light feet fell on our rough lyonesse, sailing from ireland." softly laugh'd isolt, "flatter me not, for hath not our great queen my dole of beauty trebled?" and he said, "her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, and thine is more to me--soft, gracious, kind-- save when thy mark is kindled on thy lips most gracious; but she, haughty, ev'n to him, lancelot; for i have seen him wan enow to make one doubt if ever the great queen have yielded him her love." to whom isolt, "ah then, false hunter and false harper, thou who brakest thro' the scruple of my bond, calling me thy white hind, and saying to me that guinevere had sinned against the highest, and i--misyoked with such a want of man-- that i could hardly sin against the lowest." he answer'd, "o my soul, be comforted! if this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings, if here be comfort, and if ours be sin, crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin that made us happy: but how ye greet me--fear and fault and doubt--no word of that fond tale-- thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories of tristram in that year he was away." and, saddening on the sudden, spake isolt, "i had forgotten all in my strong joy to see thee--yearnings?--ay! for, hour by hour, here in the never-ended afternoon, o sweeter than all memories of thee, deeper than any yearnings after thee seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, watched from this tower. isolt of britain dash'd before isolt of brittany on the strand, would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? wedded her? fought in her father's battles? wounded there? the king was all fulfill'd with gratefulness, and she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress-- well--can i wish her any huger wrong than having known thee? her too hast thou left to pine and waste in those sweet memories? o were i not my mark's, by whom all men are noble, i should hate thee more than love." and tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, "grace, queen, for being loved: she loved me well. did i love her? the name at least i loved. isolt?--i fought his battles, for isolt! the night was dark; the true star set. isolt! the name was ruler of the dark----isolt? care not for her! patient, and prayerful, meek, pale-blooded, she will yield herself to god." and isolt answer'd, "yea, and why not i? mine is the larger need, who am not meek, pale-blooded, prayerful. let me tell thee now. here one black, mute midsummer night i sat lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where, murmuring a light song i had heard thee sing, and once or twice i spake thy name aloud. then flash'd a levin-brand; and near me stood, in fuming sulphur blue and green, a fiend-- mark's way to steal behind one in the dark-- for there was mark: 'he has wedded her,' he said, not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers so shook to such a roar of all the sky, that here in utter dark i swoon'd away, and woke again in utter dark, and cried, 'i will flee hence and give myself to god'-- and thou wert lying in thy new leman's arms." then tristram, ever dallying with her hand, "may god be with thee, sweet, when old and gray, and past desire!" a saying that anger'd her. "'may god be with thee, sweet, when thou art old, and sweet no more to me!' i need him now. for when had lancelot utter'd aught so gross ev'n to the swineherd's malkin in the mast? the greater man, the greater courtesy. but thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts-- save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance becomes thee well--art grown wild beast thyself. how darest thou, if lover, push me even in fancy from thy side, and set me far in the gray distance, half a life away, her to be loved no more? unsay it, unswear! flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, broken with mark and hate and solitude, thy marriage and mine own, that i should suck lies like sweet wines: lie to me: i believe. will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel, and solemnly as when ye sware to him, the man of men, our king--my god, the power was once in vows when men believed the king! they lied not then, who sware, and thro' their vows the king prevailing made his realm:--i say, swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, gray-haired, and past desire, and in despair." then tristram, pacing moodily up and down, "vows! did ye keep the vow ye made to mark more than i mine? lied, say ye? nay, but learnt, the vow that binds too strictly snaps itself-- my knighthood taught me this--ay, being snapt-- we run more counter to the soul thereof than had we never sworn. i swear no more. i swore to the great king, and am forsworn. for once--ev'n to the height--i honor'd him. 'man, is he man at all?' methought, when first i rode from our rough lyonesse, and beheld that victor of the pagan throned in hall-- his hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, the golden beard that clothed his lips with light-- moreover, that weird legend of his birth, with merlin's mystic babble about his end, amazed me; then, his foot was on a stool shaped as a dragon; he seem'd to me no man, but michael trampling satan; so i sware, being amazed: but this went by--the vows! o ay--the wholesome madness of an hour-- they served their use, their time; for every knight believed himself a greater than himself, and every follower eyed him as a god; till he, being lifted up beyond himself, did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, and so the realm was made; but then their vows-- first mainly thro' that sullying of our queen-- began to gall the knighthood, asking whence had arthur right to bind them to himself? dropt down from heaven? wash'd up from out the deep? they fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood of our old kings: whence then? a doubtful lord to bind them by inviolable vows, which flesh and blood perforce would violate: for feel this arm of mine--the tide within red with free chase and heather-scented air, pulsing full man; can arthur make me pure as any maiden child? lock up my tongue from uttering freely what i freely hear? bind me to one? the great world laughs at it. and worldling of the world am i, and know the ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour wooes his own end; we are not angels here nor shall be: vows--i am woodman of the woods, and hear the garnet-headed yaffingale mock them: my soul, we love but while we may; and therefore is my love so large for thee, seeing it is not bounded save by love." here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, "good: an i turn'd away my love for thee to some one thrice as courteous as thyself-- for courtesy wins woman all as well as valor may--but he that closes both is perfect, he is lancelot--taller indeed, rosier, and comelier, thou--but say i loved this knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back thine own small saw 'we love but while we may,' well then, what answer?" he that while she spake, mindful of what he brought to adorn her with, the jewels, had let one finger lightly touch the warm white apple of her throat, replied, "press this a little closer, sweet, until-- come, i am hunger'd and half-anger'd--meat, wine, wine--and i will love thee to the death, and out beyond into the dream to come." so then, when both were brought to full accord, she rose, and set before him all he will'd; and after these had comforted the blood with meats and wines, and satiated their hearts-- now talking of their woodland paradise, the deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; now mocking at the much ungainliness, and craven shifts, and long crane legs of mark-- then tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: "ay, ay, o ay--the winds that bend the brier! a star in heaven, a star within the mere! ay, ay, o ay--a star was my desire, and one was far apart, and one was near: ay, ay, o ay--the winds that bow the grass! and one was water and one star was fire, and one will ever shine and one will pass. ay, ay, o ay--the winds that move the mere." then in the light's last glimmer tristram show'd and swung the ruby carcanet. she cried, "the collar of some order, which our king hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, for thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers." "not so, my queen," he said, "but the red fruit grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven, and won by tristram as a tourney-prize, and hither brought by tristram for his last love-offering and peace-offering unto thee." he rose, he turn'd, and flinging round her neck, claspt it; but while he bow'd himself to lay warm kisses in the hollow of her throat, out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd, behind him rose a shadow and a shriek-- "mark's way," said mark, and clove him thro' the brain. that night came arthur home, and while he climb'd, all in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom, the stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw the great queen's bower was dark,--about his feet a voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, "what art thou?" and the voice about his feet sent up an answer, sobbing, "i am thy fool, and i shall never make thee smile again." arthurian romances unrepresented in malory's "morte d'arthur" _no. iii_ guingamor, lanval, tyolet, le bisclaveret. arthurian romances unrepresented in malory's "morte d'arthur" i. sir gawain and the green knight. a middle-english romance retold in modern prose, with introduction and notes, by jessie l. weston. with designs by m. m. crawford. nd edition, . s. net. ii. tristan and iseult. rendered into english from the german of gottfried of strassburg by jessie l. weston. with designs by caroline watts. two vols. th edition, . s. net. iii. guingamor, lanval, tyolet, le bisclaveret. four lays rendered into english prose from the french of marie de france and others by jessie l. weston. with designs by caroline watts. nd edition, . s. net. iv. morien. translated for the first time from the original dutch by jessie l. weston. with frontispiece and designed title-page by caroline watts. . s. net. v. le beaus desconnus. cligÈs. two old english metrical romances rendered into prose by jessie l. weston. with designs by caroline m. watts. . s. net. vi. sir gawain at the grail castle. three versions from the conte del graal, diu crône, and the prose lancelot. by jessie l. weston. . s. net. vii. sir gawain and the lady of lys. translated for the first time from wauchier de denain's section of the conte del graal by jessie l. weston. with designs by morris m. williams. . s. net. [illustration] guingamor lanval tyolet bisclaveret [illustration] four lais rendered into english prose from the french of marie de france and others by jessie l. weston. with designs by caroline watts [illustration] published by david nutt at the sign of the phoenix, long acre, london. mcmx _second impression, _ preface the previous volumes which have been published in this series have contained versions belonging to what we may call the _conscious_ period of romantic literature; the writers had not only a story to tell, but had also a very distinct feeling for the literary form of that story and the characterisation of the actors in it. in this present volume we go behind the work of these masters of their craft to that great mass of floating popular tradition from which the arthurian epic gradually shaped itself, and of which fragments remain to throw here and there an unexpected light on certain features of the story, and to tantalise us with hints of all that has been lost past recovery. all who have any real knowledge of the arthurian cycle are well aware that the breton _lais_, representing as they do the popular tradition and folk-lore of the people among whom they were current, are of value as affording indications of the original form and meaning of much of the completed legend, but of how much or how little value has not yet been exactly determined. an earlier generation of scholars regarded them as of great, perhaps too great, importance. they were inclined indiscriminately to regard the arthurian romances as being but a series of connected _lais_. a later school practically ignores them, and sees in the arthurian romances the conscious production of literary invention, dealing with materials gathered from all sources, and remodelled by the genius of a northern french poet. i believe, myself, that the eventual result of criticism will be to establish a position midway between these two points, and to show that though certain of the early celticists exaggerated somewhat, they were, in the main, correct--their theory did not account for all the varied problems of the arthurian story, but it was not for that to be lightly dismissed. the true note of the arthurian legend is evolution _not_ invention; the roots of that goodly growth spring alike from history, myth, and faëry; whether the two latter were not, so far as the distinctively _celtic_ elements of the legend are concerned, originally _one_, is a question which need not here be debated.[ ] [ ] in this connection, _cf._ mr. nutt's "fairy mythology of shakespeare"--popular studies, no. . this much is quite certain; while the mythic element in the arthurian story is yet a matter for discussion, while we are as yet undecided whether arthur was, or was not, identical with the _mercurius artusius_ of the gauls; whether he was, or was not, a _culture hero_; whether gawain does, or does not, represent the same hero as cuchullin, and both alike find origin in a solar myth; we at least know that both arthur and gawain are closely connected with, and as their final destination found rest in, fairyland. it is, therefore, no matter for surprise if we find such definitely fairy stories as the _lais_ of _guingamor_ and _lanval_ (which, be it noted, represent a whole family of kindred tales) connected with the arthurian cycle, and their heroes figuring as knights of arthur's court.[ ] [ ] _cf._ dr. schofield's studies of the _lais_ of _guingamor_, _graalent_, and _lanval_, referred to in the notes. at that court the fairy, whether she be morgain, the lady of the lake, or the mistress of graalent, lanval, or gawain, is at home, to be distinguished by nothing, save her superior beauty and wisdom, from the mortals who surround her. (it is scarcely necessary to remark that the fairies of the mediæval french romance writers are not the pigmies of the teutonic sagas and of shakespeare.) the rôle of these maidens is, generally speaking, a clearly defined one: they are immortals in search of a mortal love,[ ] and in this character the parallels carry us far back to the earliest stages of celtic tradition as preserved in ancient irish romance. [ ] to this rule _nimue_, = the lady of the lake, appears to be the only exception. a special feature of these breton _lais_, to be noted in this connection, is that they often combine two features which are more generally found apart, and which, as represented by their most famous mediæval forms, are wont to be considered by us as belonging to two different families of tradition, _i.e._, the _tannhäuser_ legend (the carrying off of a knight by the queen of the other world), and the _lohengrin_ legend (the rupture of a union between a mortal and an immortal, and the penalties incurred by the former by the transgression of a prohibition imposed by the latter). two of the stories given in this volume, _guingamor_ and _lanval_, in common with others which will be found noted in dr. schofield's studies, combine both _motifs_. now that such tales as these, in themselves independent popular folk-tales, sometimes became incorporated with, at other times by the loan of incident and feature strongly influenced, the arthurian story, cannot i think be denied. fairies such as the mistresses of _guingamor_ and _lanval_ were, as i have said above, residents or visitors at arthur's court. arthur himself is, like those knights, carried to avalon; even as _guingamor_ in the extremity of mortal weakness. that like guingamor he was thought of as recovering, and reigning with undiminished vigour over his fairy kingdom, is clear from numerous references in mediæval romance. the authors of _la bataille de loquifer_ and _ogier le danois_ knew him as king of avalon; in _huon de bordeaux_ he has been promised the reversion of oberon's kingdom; in _lohengrin_ he reigns with parzival, in a mysterious other-world realm; he is as completely lord of fairyland as any knight beloved of fairy queen. the boyhood of _tyolet_ is the boyhood of perceval; the mysterious stag guarded by lions wanders in and out of the mazes of arthurian romance. some might, of course, suggest that these stories are really fragmentary borrowings from the arthurian legend; but such a view is scarcely compatible with the fact that in their earlier forms they are entirely unconnected with that story. thus we see that the _lai_ of _guingamor_ in the solitary version we possess knows nothing of arthur; neither the king or the queen, the fairy or her kingdom is named; chrétien de troyes knew the lady as morgain, and her land as avalon, and brings guingamor to arthur's court. the same remark applies to _graalent_, while _lanval_ is in an arthurian setting. if the stories had originally formed part of the cycle it is difficult to see why they should have been separated from it; while we can well understand that already existing folk-tales would be swept into the vortex of an increasingly popular tradition. the story of _tyolet_ as preserved in the _lai_ is certainly not in its earliest form; it is in some points incomprehensible, and as i have suggested in the notes, the real meaning of the tale has been already forgotten. but _tyolet_ is never elsewhere mentioned as one of arthur's knights, and the adventure achieved by him when transferred to lancelot loses even the measure of coherence and plausibility it had preserved. thus lancelot, though knowing what is to be the guerdon of the successful knight, and voluntarily undertaking the adventure, when achieved, leaves the lady under the pretext of summoning his kinsmen and never returns; on no account would he be faithless to guinevere. in the _were-wolf_, again, the characters are anonymous; but malory's reference leaves no room for doubt that the hero later on figured as one of arthur's knights. it is, i think, impossible to avoid the conclusion that the arthurian legend, in the process of evolution, borrowed with both hands from already existing stores of popular folk-lore and tradition; and an examination of the parallels with this folk-lore element makes it equally clear that it was largely of celtic origin. but in what form was this popular tradition when the literary masterpieces of the arthurian cycle, the poems of chrétien de troyes and his german rivals, were composed? we know that many of these tales were told as breton _lais_, and in this original form they have practically disappeared. those we possess are french translations, and of these the best and largest collection we owe to the skill and industry of marie de france, an anglo-norman poetess who lived in the reign of henry ii. and was therefore a contemporary of chrétien de troyes. of the four _lais_ here given, two, _lanval_ and _were-wolf_ (_bisclaveret_), are undoubtedly by her, and _guingamor_ is very generally considered to be also her work. the metre in which she wrote was the eight-syllable verse, in rhymed pairs, adopted also by chrétien in common with most of the poets of his time. as we see, marie, like chrétien, connected some of these _lais_ with arthur. they are breton _lais_; arthur is a breton king; his legend certainly came to the northern french poets partly, if not entirely, from breton sources; the probability, therefore, is that the connection took place, in the first instance, on breton rather than on french ground--_i.e._, it is due neither to marie nor to chrétien, but to the sources they used. setting hypothesis aside, however, this may be stated as an absolute matter of fact: at the time that the longer arthurian romances took shape there were also current a number of short poems, both in breton and in french, the latter in the precise metre adopted for the longer poems, connecting the arthurian story with a great mass of floating popular folk-tale, which short poems were known to the writers of the longer and more elaborate romances. are we seriously called upon to believe that they made absolutely _no_ use of them? that they left all this wealth of material rigidly on one side, and combined for themselves out of their inventive faculties and classical knowledge the romances that won such deserved repute? such a solution of the arthurian problem i can scarcely think likely in the long run to be accepted by serious students; certainly not by those whom the study of comparative religion and folk-lore has taught how widely diffused in extension, and how persistent in character, are the tales which belong to the childhood of the race. that a large and important body of genuine existing tradition should be, not merely superseded, but practically beaten out of the field and destroyed by the power of mere literary invention, would be a curious phenomenon at any date; in the twelfth century it is absolutely inconceivable. the arthurian legend has its roots in folk-tradition, and the abiding charm of its literary presentment is in reality due to the persistent vitality and pervasive quality of that folk-lore element. children of a land of eternal youth, arthur and his knights are ever young; it is true that some of the romances tell us that in the last great war with lancelot arthur was over ninety years old and gawain above seventy, but one feels that even for the writer such figures had no significance; their words and actions are the words and actions of youth--we have here no charlemagne and his veterans _à la barbe fleurie_. but this is an element which in our rightful appreciation of the literary masterpieces of the cycle we are apt to ignore, nor is it other than scantily represented in english literature; it has therefore been thought well, in such a series as this to include a volume which shall direct attention less to the completed arthurian epic than to the materials from which that epic was formed, since if we mistake not, it is to the nature of that material even more than to the skill of its fashioners, that the unexampled popularity of the arthurian legend is due. bournemouth, _may _. guingamor [illustration] "_graislemiers de fine posterne i amena conpeignons vint, et guigomars ses frere i vint; de l'isle d'avalon fu sire. de cestui avons oi dire qu'il fu amis morgain la fee, et ce fu veritez, provee._" chretien de troyes.--_erec._ vv. - . i will tell ye here a fair adventure, nor think ye that 'tis but mine own invention, for 'tis truth, this tale i tell ye, and men call the lay wherein 'tis writ the lay of guingamor. * * * * * in brittany of old time there reigned a king who held all the land in his sway, and was lord of many noble barons--his name i cannot tell ye. this king had a nephew who was both wise and courteous, a very brave and skilful knight, and guingamor was he called. for his bravery and his beauty the king held him passing dear, and thought to make him his heir since he had no son. all men loved guingamor; he knew how to promise, and how to give; knights and squires alike honoured him for his frankness and his courtesy; and his praises went abroad throughout all that land. one day the king went forth to hunt and to disport himself in the forest. his nephew had that morn been bled and was still feeble, so might not go forth into the woodland, but would abide in his hostel, and with him were many of the king's companions. at prime guingamor arose and went forth to the castle to seek solace. the seneschal met him and threw his arm around his neck, and they spake together awhile, and then sat them down to play at chess. and as they sat there the queen came even to the door of the chamber, on her way to the chapel. she was tall and fair and graceful; and there she stood awhile to gaze on the knight whom she saw playing chess, and stayed her still and moved not. very fair did he seem to her in form and face and feature; he sat over against a window, and a ray of sunlight fell upon his face and illumined it with a fair colour. and the queen looked upon him till her thoughts were changed within her, and she was seized with love for him, for his beauty and his courtesy. then the queen turned her back, and called a maiden, and said: "go thou to the knight who sitteth within playing chess, guingamor, the king's nephew, and bid him come to me straightway." so the maiden went her way to the knight, and bare him her lady's greeting, and her prayer that he come forthwith and speak with her; and guingamor let his game be, and went with the maiden. the queen greeted him courteously, and bade him sit beside her; but little did he think wherefore she made such fair semblance to him. the queen spake first: "guingamor, thou art very valiant, brave and courteous and winning--a fair adventure awaits thee--thou canst set thy love in high places! thou hast a fair and courteous friend, i know neither dame nor damsel in the kingdom her equal! she loveth thee dearly, and thou canst have her for thy love." the knight answered: "lady, i know not how i can dearly love one whom i have never seen nor known; never have i heard speak of this aforetime, nor have i besought love from any." and the queen spake: "friend, be not so shamefaced; _me_ canst thou very well love, for of a sooth i am not to be refused; i love thee well and will love thee all my days." then guingamor was much abashed, and answered discreetly: "well do i know, lady, that i ought to love thee; thou art wife to my lord the king, and i am bound to honour thee as my liege lady." but the queen answered: "i say not that thou shalt love me thus, but i would love thee as my lover, and be thy lady. thou art fair, and i am gracious; if it be thy will to love me very joyful shall we both be," and she drew him towards her and kissed him. guingamor understood well what she said, and what love she desired of him, and thereof had he great shame, and blushed rosy-red, and sprang up thinking to go forth from the chamber. the queen would fain keep him with her, and laid hold on his mantle, so that the clasp broke and he came forth without it. then guingamor went back to the chessboard, and seated himself, much troubled at heart; so startled had he been that he had no thought for his mantle, but turned to his game without it. the queen was much terrified when she thought of the king, for when guingamor had so spoken, and showed her his mind she feared lest he should accuse her to his uncle. then she called a maiden whom she trusted much, and gave her the mantle, and bade her bear it to the knight; and she laid it around his shoulders, but so troubled in mind was he that he knew not when she brought it to him; and the maiden returned to the queen. so were the two in great fear till vesper-tide, when the king returned from the chase and sat him down to meat. they had had good sport that day, and he and his comrades were very joyful. after meat they laughed and made sport, and told their adventures, each spake of his deeds, who had missed, who had hit fair. guingamor had not been with them, whereof he was sorrowful. so he held his peace, and spake no word. but the queen watched him, and thinking to make him wrathful, she devised words of which each one should weigh heavily. she turned herself to the knights and spake: "much do i hear ye boast, and tell of your adventures, yet of all whom i see here is none brave enough (were one to give him a thousand pounds of gold) to dare hunt or wind horn in the forest here without, where the white boar wanders. marvellous praise would he win who should take that boar!" then all the knights held their peace, for none would assay that venture. guingamor knew well that it was for him she spake thus. throughout the hall all were silent, there was nor sound nor strife. the king answered her first: "lady, thou hast often heard of the adventure of the forest, and this thou knowest; it displeaseth me much when in any place i hear it spoken of. no man may go thither to hunt the boar who may return therefrom, so adventurous is the land, and so perilous the river. much mischief have i already suffered; ten knights, the best of the land, have i lost; they set forth to seek the boar and came never again." then he said no more, but the company departed from each other, the knights went to their hostel to slumber and the king betook himself to his couch. guingamor did not forget the word which he had heard, but went his way to the king's chamber and knelt before him. "sire," he said, "i ask of thee somewhat whereof i have great need, and which i pray thee to grant me, nor in any wise to refuse the gift." the king said: "fair nephew, i grant thee what thou prayest from me, ask securely, for in naught would i deny thy will." the knight thanked him, and said: "this is that which i demanded, and the gift which thou hast given me. i go to hunt in the forest." then he prayed him to lend him his horse, his bloodhound, his brachet, and his pack of hounds. when the king heard what his nephew said, and knew the gift he had given, he was very sorrowful and knew not what to do. fain would he have taken back his word and bade him let the matter be, for such a gift should he not have asked; never would he suffer him, even for his weight in gold, to go chase the white boar, for never might he return. and if he lent him his good brachet and his steed then would he lose them both and never see them again, and naught had he that he valued so highly; there was nothing on earth he would have taken for them--"an i lose them i shall grieve all the days of my life." and guingamor answered the king: "sire, by the faith i owe thee, for naught that thou could'st give me, were it the wide world, would i do other than i have said and chase the boar to-morrow. if thou wilt not lend me thy steed, and the brachet thou dost hold dear, thy hound and thine other dogs, then must i e'en take my own, such as they are." with that came the queen who had heard what guingamor desired (and know ye that it pleased her well), and she prayed the king that he would do as the knight required, for she thought thus to be delivered from him, and never, in all her life, to see him again. so earnestly did she make her prayer that at length the king granted all she might ask. then guingamor prayed leave, and went joyful to his dwelling; naught might he sleep that night, but when he saw dawn he arose in haste and made ready, and called to him all his companions, the king's household, who were in much fear for him, and would gladly have hindered his going an they might. he bade them bring him the king's steed which he had lent him the night before, and his brachet, and his good horn, which he would not have given for its weight in gold. two packs of the king's good dogs did guingamor take with him, and forgat not the bloodhound. the king himself would accompany him forth from the town, and with him came the burghers and the courtiers, rich and poor, making great cry and lamentation, and with them too were many ladies sorrowing sorely. to the thicket nearest the city went all the huntsmen, taking with them the bloodhound, and seeking for the track of the wild boar, for they knew well where he was wont to haunt. they found the track and knew it, for many a time had they seen it, and traced the beast to his lair in the thick bushes and loosed the bloodhound, and by force drove forth the boar. then guingamor sounded his horn and bade them uncouple one pack of dogs and the other lead forward to await him near the forest, but they should not enter therein. thus guingamor began the chase and the boar fled before him, leaving his lair unwillingly. the dogs followed, giving tongue, and hunted him to the verge of the forest, but further might they not go, since they were weary, wherefore they uncoupled the others. guingamor rode on winding his horn, and the pack ran yelping on the boar's track; return to his lair he might not, but plunged into the forest, and the knight followed after, carrying the brachet which he had borrowed from the king. they who had borne him company, the king and his fellowship and the men of the city, stayed without the wood, nor would go further. there they abode so long as they might hear the blast of the horn and the barking of the dogs, and then they commended the knight to god and turned them back to the town. the boar ran further and further till he had wearied out the dogs, then guingamor took the brachet and loosened the leash, and set it on the track, which it followed of right good will, while the knight did what he might to aid and encourage his uncle's dog by blowing gaily on his horn. much did the sounds of the chase please him, but ere long he had lost both brachet and boar, he heard neither yelp nor cry and became sorrowful and much displeased; he deemed he had lost the brachet through the thickness of the forest, and he was passing sorrowful for the sake of his uncle who loved the dog so well. so he went still forward into the forest, and coming to a high hill he stayed awhile, very sorrowful and much at a loss. the sky was clear and the day fair, all around him sang the birds but he hearkened not to their song. ere long he heard the brachet give tongue afar off and he began to wind his horn, troubled at heart till he saw the dog. through a little plantation towards the open ground he saw the brachet and the boar come swiftly, and thought to reach them easily. he spurred his steed to a gallop, nor would delay, rejoicing much at heart and saying to himself that might he take the boar, and return whole and unharmed to court, he would win much fame, and his deed would be spoken of for all time. in the joy of his heart he set the horn to his lips and blew a marvellous great blast. afore him passed the boar with the brachet close upon its track. guingamor rode after swiftly, through the adventurous land, across the perilous river, over the meadowland where the turf was green and flowery; well nigh had he overtaken his prey when he looked ahead and saw the walls of a great palace, well built, yet without mortar. 'twas all enclosed of green marble, and above the entry was a tower which seemed to him of silver, so great was the clearness it gave. the doors were of fine ivory, inlaid with golden trefoils, nor was there bar nor lock. guingamor came on swiftly, and when he saw the door stand wide and the entrance free, he thought him he would go within and find the goodman who kept the gate, for fain would he know who was lord of the palace, since 'twas the fairest he had ever seen. much it pleased him to look upon its beauties, for he thought he might lightly overtake the boar ere it had run far, since it was wearied by the chase. so he rode within and drew bridle in the palace, and looked all around, but no man might he see, naught was there about him but fine gold; and the chambers which opened from the hall seemed of stones of paradise. that he found neither man nor woman there pleased him not, else was he glad that he had found so fair an adventure to tell again in his own land. then he turned him back, and rode quickly through the meadows by the river, but naught did he see of his boar, quarry and dog were alike lost. then was guingamor wrathful. "of a truth," he said, "i am betrayed, men may well hold me for a fool. methinks that to look upon a house have i lost all my labour. if i find not my dog and my boar little joy or pleasure shall i have henceforward, and never more may i return to my own land." much troubled, he betook himself to the high ground of the forest, and began to listen if he might hear the cry of the dog. then he heard the brachet give tongue afar off to his right hand, and he waited and hearkened till he surely heard both dog and boar. then he began again to wind his horn, and rode towards them. the boar passed before him, and guingamor rode after, encouraging the brachet with hue and cry. thus he came into the open country, and found a spring beneath an olive tree, wide-spreading, and covered with leaves. the water of the spring was clear and fair, and the gravel thereof gold and silver. in the water a maiden was bathing herself while another combed her hair and washed her feet and hands. fair was she, long-limbed and softly rounded, in all the world was there nothing so fair, neither lily nor rose, as that naked maiden. as soon as guingamor beheld her he was stirred by her beauty. he saw her garments on a bush, and turned his horse's bridle thither; he stayed not, but taking her robes, set them high in the fork of a great oak. when he had taken the boar, he thought to return and speak with the maiden, for he knew well that she would not go thence naked. but the maiden saw his deed, and called the knight to her, and spake proudly: "guingamor, let be my robes; an god will, never shall it be told among knights that thou didst so discourteous a deed as to hide the garments of a maiden in the fork of a tree! come hither, and fear not. to-day shalt thou abide with me, thou hast laboured all day and hast had but ill success." then guingamor went towards her, and proffered her robe, and thanked her for her courtesy, and said he might not lodge with her, since he must seek the boar and the brachet which he had lost. the maiden answered him: "friend, all the knights in the world let them labour as they might should not find those two, an i gave them not mine aid. let that folly be, and make this covenant with me; come with me and i pledge thee loyally that i will give thee the boar as a prize, and the brachet shalt thou have again to take with thee into thine own land, on the third day hence." "fair lady," said the knight, "by this covenant will i gladly abide even as thou hast spoken." then he dismounted, and the maiden clad herself in a short space, and she who was with her brought her a mule well and richly harnessed, and a palfrey, better had never count nor king. guingamor lifted the maiden to her saddle, and rode beside her, holding her bridle in his hand. often did he look upon her, and seeing her so fair and tall and graceful of good will would he become her lover. he looked upon her gently, and prayed her earnestly that she would grant him her love; never aforetime had his heart been troubled for any woman he had looked upon, nor had he thought of love. the maiden, who was wise and courteous, answered guingamor that she would willingly grant him her love, whereof the knight was joyful, and since she had pledged herself to be his lady, he laid his arm around her and kissed her. the waiting maiden had ridden on quickly to the palace wherein guingamor had entered, and they had decked it richly, and bidden the knights mount and ride out to meet their lady, to do honour to the lover whom she brought with her. three hundred or more of them there were, nor was there one but was clad in vest of silk wrought with gold thread. each knight led with him his lady. 'twas a passing fair company. there were squires with hawks, and fair falcons that had passed their moulting. in the palace were there as many playing at chess and other games. when guingamor dismounted he beheld the ten knights who had gone forth to chase the boar, and been lost from his land. they rose from their seats to meet him, and greeted him right joyfully, and guingamor kissed them each one. a fair lodging was his that night, great plenty of rich meats, with much rejoicing, and great state; there was the sound of harps and viols, the song of youths and maidens. much did he marvel at the noble fare, the beauty and the richness of all around. he bethought him that he would abide there two days, and on the third would take his way homeward; the dog and the boar would he take, and make known to his uncle the adventure which had befallen him, then would he return again to his lady. yet otherwise than he deemed had it chanced to him; not three days but three hundred years had he been in that palace; dead was the king, and dead his household and the men of his lineage, and the cities he had known had fallen into destruction and ruin. on the third day guingamor prayed leave of his love that he might go to his own land, and that she would give him the brachet and the boar, according to her covenant; and the maiden answered: "friend, thou shalt have them, but know that thou wilt go hence for naught; 'tis three hundred years past since thou camest hither, thine uncle and his folk are dead; neither friends nor kinsmen shalt thou find. one thing i tell thee, ask where thou wilt, nowhere shalt thou find a man so old that he may tell thee aught of those thou seekest." "lady," quoth guingamor, "i may not believe that thou sayest sooth, but if the thing be so then i swear to thee that i will straightway return hither." and she answered, "i charge thee when thou hast passed the river to return to thine own land, that thou neither eat nor drink, however great may be thy need, till thou return once more to this land, otherwise art thou undone." then she bade them bring his steed, and the great boar, and the brachet which she gave him in leash, and guingamor took the boar's head, more might he not carry, and mounted his steed and went forth. his lady rode with him to the river, and had him put across in a boat, then she commended him to god and left him. the knight rode forward and wandered till midday in the forest, nor might he find a way out. 'twas all so ill-looking and overgrown that he might know the way no longer. then afar to the left he heard the axe of a wood-cutter, who had made a fire and burnt charcoal, and he spurred towards the sound, and gave the man greeting, and asked where his uncle the king abode, and at what castle he should seek for him. but the charcoal-burner answered: "of a faith, sire, i know naught; the king of whom thou speakest 'tis over three hundred years since he died, he and all his folk, and the castles of which thou askest have long been in ruins. there are certain of the old folk who full oft tell tales of that king, and of his nephew who was a wondrous valiant knight, how he went one day to hunt within this forest and was seen no more." guingamor heard what he said, and a great pity seized him for the king his uncle, whom he had thus lost, and he spake to the charcoal-burner: "hearken what i say to thee, for i will tell thee what has befallen me. _i_ am he who went hunting in this forest, and i thought to return and bring with me the white boar." then he began to tell of the palace he had found, and the maiden whom he had met, how she had lodged him royally for two days; "and on the third did i depart, and she gave me my dog and the boar." then he gave him the boar's head and bade him keep it well till he returned to his home, and might tell the folk of the land how he had seen and spoken with guingamor the king's nephew. the poor man thanked him, and guingamor bade him farewell, and turned him back and left him. 'twas already past nones and the day drew towards vesper-tide; so great a hunger seized the knight that he became well-nigh ravening; by the roadside as he went there grew a wild apple tree, the boughs well laden with fruit; he drew near and plucked three and ate them. he did ill in that he forgat his lady's command, for even as he tasted the fruit he was aged and undone, so feeble of limb that he fell from his steed, and might move neither hand nor foot; when he might speak he began in a feeble voice to bemoan himself. the charcoal-burner had followed him and seen what had chanced, and it seemed to him that he might scarce live till the evening. but as he would go to his aid there came riding two fair maidens, well and richly dressed, who dismounted beside guingamor, and blamed him much, and reproached him for that he had so ill kept his lady's command. gently they lifted the knight and set him on his horse, and led him to the river, where they placed him, his steed, and his dog, in a boat and rowed them over. the peasant turned him back, and that night he sought his home bearing with him the boar's head; far and wide he told the tale, and affirmed it by his oath. the head he gave unto the king, who caused it to be shown at many a feast; and that none might forget the adventure the king bade make a lay which bare the name of guingamor--and so do the breton call it. sir launfal [illustration] _this is the adventure of the rich and noble knight sir launfal, even as the breton lay recounts it._ the valiant and courteous king, arthur, was sojourning at carduel, because of the picts and the scots who had greatly destroyed the land, for they were in the kingdom of logres and often wrought mischief therein. in carduel, at pentecost, the king held his summer court, and gave rich gifts to the counts, the barons, and all the knights of the round table. never before in all the world were such gifts given. honours and lands he shared forth to all, save to one alone, of those who served him. this was sir launfal; of him and his the king thought not; and yet all men loved him, for worthy he was, free of hand, very valiant, and fair to look upon. had any ill happened to this knight, his fellows would have been but ill-pleased. launfal was son to a king of high descent, but his heritage was far hence in a distant land; he was of the household of king arthur, but all his money was spent, for the king gave him nothing, and nothing would launfal ask from him. but now sir launfal was much perplexed, very sorrowful, and heavy of heart. nor need ye wonder at it, for one who is a stranger and without counsel is but sorrowful in a foreign land when he knows not where to seek for aid. this knight of whom i tell ye, who had served the king so well, one day mounted his horse and rode forth for diversion. he left the city behind him, and came all alone into a fair meadow through which ran a swift water. as he rode downwards to the stream, his horse shivered beneath him. then the knight dismounted, and loosening the girth let the steed go free to feed at its will on the grass of the meadow. then folding his mantle beneath his head he laid himself down; but his thoughts were troubled by his ill fortune, and as he lay on the grass he knew nothing that might pleasure him. suddenly, as he looked downward towards the bank of the river, he saw two maidens coming towards him; never before had he seen maidens so fair. they were richly clad in robes of purple grey, and their faces were wondrous beautiful. the elder bore in her hands a basin of gold finely wrought (indeed it is but truth i tell you); the other held a snow-white towel. they came straight to where the knight was lying, and launfal, who was well taught in courteous ways, sprang to his feet in their presence. then they saluted him, and delivered to him their message. "sir launfal," said the elder, "my lady, who is most fair and courteous, has sent us to you, for she wills that you shall return with us. see, her pavilion is near at hand, we will lead you thither in all safety." then launfal went with them, taking no thought for his steed, which was grazing beside him in the meadow. the maidens led him to the tent, rich it was and well placed. not even the queen semiramis in the days of her greatest wealth and power and wisdom, nor the emperor octavian, could have equalled from their treasures the drapery alone. above the tent was an eagle of gold, its worth i know not how to tell you; neither can i tell that of the silken cords and shining lances which upheld the tent; there is no king under heaven who could purchase its equal, let him offer what he would for it. within this pavilion was a maiden, of beauty surpassing even that of the lily and the new-blown rose, when they flower in the fair summer-tide. she lay upon a rich couch, the covering of which was worth the price of a castle, her fair and gracious body clothed only in a simple vest. her costly mantle of white ermine, covered with purple of alexandria, had she cast from her for the heat, and face and throat and neck were whiter than flower of the thorn. then the maiden called the knight to her, and he came near and seated himself beside the couch. "launfal," she said, "fair friend, for you have i come forth from my own land; even from lains have i come to seek you. if you be of very truth valiant and courteous then neither emperor, count nor king have known such joy as shall be yours, for i love you above all things." then love smote him swiftly, and seized and kindled his heart, and he answered: "fair lady, if it so please you, and such joy may be my portion that you deign to love me, then be the thing folly or wisdom you can command nothing that i will not do to the utmost of my power. all your wishes will i fulfil, for you i will renounce my folk and my land, nor will i ever ask to leave you, if that be what you most desire of me." when the maiden heard him whom she could love well speak thus she granted him all her heart and her love. and now was launfal in the way to good fortune. a gift the lady bestowed upon him: there should be nothing so costly but that it might be his if he so willed it. let him give or spend as freely as he would he should always have enough for his need. happy indeed was launfal, for the more largely he spent the more gold and silver should he have. "friend," said the maiden, "of one thing must i now warn you, nay more, i command and pray you, reveal this your adventure to no man. the reason will i tell you; if this our love be known you would lose me for ever, never again might you look upon me, never again embrace me." then he answered that he would keep faithfully all that she should command him. thus were the two together even till the vesper-tide, and if his lady would have consented fain would launfal have remained longer. "friend," said she, "rise up, no longer may you linger here, you must go and i must remain. but one thing will i tell you, when you wish to speak with me (and i would that may ever be when a knight may meet his lady without shame and without reproach) i shall be ever there at your will, but no man save you shall see me, or hear me speak." when the knight heard that he was joyful, and he kissed his lady and rose up, and the maidens who had led him to the tent brought him new and rich garments, and when he was clad in them there was no fairer knight under heaven. then they brought him water for his hands, and a towel whereon to dry them, and laid food before him, and he supped with his lady. courteously were they served, and great was the joy of sir launfal, for ever and again his love kissed him and he embraced her tenderly. when they were risen from supper his horse was brought to him, saddled and bridled; right well had they tended it. then the knight took leave of his lady, and mounted and rode towards the city; but often he looked behind him, for he marvelled greatly at all that had befallen him, and he rode ever thinking of his adventure, amazed and half-doubting, for he scarcely knew what the end thereof should be. then he entered his hostel and found all his men well clad, and he held great state but knew not whence the money came to him. in all the city there was no knight that had need of lodging but launfal made him come unto him and gave him rich service. launfal gave costly, gifts; launfal ransomed prisoners; launfal clothed the minstrels; launfal lavished wealth and honours; there was neither friend nor stranger to whom he gave not gifts. great were his joy and gladness, for whether by day or by night he might full often look upon his lady, and all things were at his commandment. now in the self-same year, after the feast of st. john, thirty of the knights went forth to disport themselves in a meadow, below the tower wherein the queen had her lodging. with them went sir gawain and his cousin, the gallant iwein. then said gawain, the fair and courteous, who was loved of all: "pardieu, my lords, we do ill in that we have not brought with us our companion, sir launfal, who is so free-handed and courteous, and son to so rich a king." then they turned back to his hostelry, and by their prayers persuaded launfal to come with them. it so chanced that the queen leant forth from an open casement, and three of her chosen ladies with her. she looked upon sir launfal and knew him. then she called one of her ladies, and bade her command the fairest and most graceful of her maidens to make ready and come forth with her to the meadow. thirty or more she took with her, and descended the stairway of the tower. the knights were joyful at their coming, and hastened to meet them, and took them by the hand with all courtesy. but sir launfal went apart from the others, for the time seemed long to him ere he could see his lady, kiss her, and hold her in his arms. all other joys were but small to him if he had not that one delight of his heart. when the queen saw him alone she went straight towards him, and seated herself beside him; then, calling him by his name, she opened her heart to him. "launfal," she said, "greatly have i honoured, cherished and loved you. all my love is yours if you will have it, and if i thus grant you my favour, then ought you to be joyful indeed." "lady," said the knight, "let me be; i have small desire of your love. long have i served king arthur; i will not now deny my faith. neither for you nor for your love will i betray my liege lord." the queen was angry, and in her wrath she spoke scoffingly. "they but spake the truth," she said, "who told me that you knew not how to love. coward and traitor, false knight, my lord has done ill to suffer you so long about him; he loses much by it, to my thinking." when sir launfal heard that he was wroth, and answered her swiftly, and by misfortune he said that of which he afterwards repented sorely. "lady," he said, "you have been ill-advised. i love and i am loved by one who deserves the prize of beauty above all whom i know. one thing i will tell you, hear and mark it well; one of her serving maidens, even the meanest among them, is worth more than you, my lady queen, in face and figure, in beauty, wisdom, and goodness." then the queen rose up and went weeping to her chamber, shamed and angered that launfal should have thus insulted her. she laid herself down on her bed as if sick; never, she said, would she arise off it till the king did justice on the plaint she would lay before him. king arthur came back from the woods after a fair day's hunting and sought the queen's chamber. when she saw him she cried out, and fell at his feet, beseeching his favour, and saying that sir launfal had shamed her, for he had asked her love, and when she refused him had mocked and insulted her, for he had boasted of his lady that she was so fair, so noble, and so proud that even the lowest of her waiting women was worth more than the queen. at this king arthur fell into a rage, and swore a solemn oath that unless the knight could defend himself well and fully in open court, he should be hanged or burnt. forth from the chamber went the king, and called three of his barons to him, and bade them fetch sir launfal, who indeed was now sad and sorry enough. he had returned to his hostelry, but alas! he learnt all too soon that he had lost his lady, since he had revealed the secret of their love. he was all alone in his chamber, full of anguish. again and again he called upon his love, but it availed him nothing. he wept and sighed, and once and again fell on the ground in his despair. a hundred times he besought her to have mercy on him, and to speak once more to her true knight. he cursed his heart and his mouth that had betrayed him; 'twas a marvel he did not slay himself. but neither cries nor blows nor lamentations sufficed to awaken her pity, and make her show herself to his eyes. alas, what comfort might there be for the unhappy knight who had thus made an enemy of his king? the barons came and bade him follow them to court without delay, for the queen had accused him, and the king, by their mouth, commanded his presence. launfal followed them, sorrowing greatly; had they slain him it would have pleased him well. he stood before the king, mute and speechless, his countenance changed for sorrow. the king spoke in anger: "vassal," he said, "you have greatly wronged me; an evil excuse have you found to shame and injure me, and insult the queen. foolish was your boast, and foolish must be your lady to hold that her maid-servant is fairer than my queen." sir launfal denied that he had dishonoured himself or insulted his liege lord. word by word he repeated what the queen had said to him; but of the words he himself had spoken, and the boast he had made concerning his love, he owned the truth; sorrowful enough he was, since by so doing he had lost her. and for this speech he would make amends, as the court might require. the king was sorely enraged against him, and conjured his knights to say what might rightfully be done in such a case, and how launfal should be punished. and the knights did as he bade them, and some spake fair, and some spake ill. then they all took counsel together and decreed that judgment should be given on a fixed day; and that sir launfal should give pledges to his lord that he would return to his hostelry and await the verdict. otherwise, he should be held a prisoner till the day came. the barons returned to the king, and told him what they had agreed upon; and king arthur demanded pledges, but launfal was alone, a stranger in a strange land, without friend or kindred. then sir gawain came near, with all his companions, and said to the king: "take pledges of all ye hold of mine and these my friends, fiefs or lands, each for himself." and when they had thus given pledges for him who had nothing of his own, he was free to go to his hostelry. the knights bore sir launfal company, chiding him as they went for his grief, and cursing the mad love that had brought him to this pass. every day they visited him that they might see if he ate and drank, for they feared much that he would go mad for sorrow. at the day they had named the barons were all assembled, the king was there, and the queen, and the sureties delivered up launfal. very sorrowful they were for him. i think there were even three hundred of them who had done all in their power without being able to deliver him from peril. of a great offence did they accuse him, and the king demanded that sentence should be given according to the accusation and the defence. then the barons went forth to consider their judgment, heavy at heart, many of them, for the gallant stranger who was in such stress among them. others, indeed, were ready to sacrifice launfal to the will of their seigneur. then spoke the duke of cornwall, for the right was his, whoever might weep or rage, to him it pertained to have the first word, and he said: "the king lays his plea against a vassal, launfal ye call him, of felony and misdeed he accuses him in the matter of a love of which he boasted himself, thus making my lady, the queen, wrathful. none, save the king, has aught against him; therefore do ye as i say, for he who would speak the truth must have respect unto no man, save only such honour as shall be due to his liege lord. let launfal be put upon his oath (the king will surely have naught against it) and if he can prove his words, and bring forward his lady, and that which he said and which so angered the queen be true, then he shall be pardoned; 'twas no villainy that he spake. but if he cannot bring proof of his word, then shall we make him to know that the king no longer desires his service and gives him dismissal from his court." then they sent messengers to the knight, and spake, and made clear to him that he must bring forth his lady that his word might be proved, and he held guiltless. but he told them that was beyond his power, never through her might succour come to him. then the messengers returned to the judges, who saw there was no chance of aid, for the king pressed them hard, urged thereto by the queen, who was weary of awaiting their judgment. but as they arose to seek the king they saw two maidens come riding on white palfreys. very fair they were to look upon, clad in green sendal over their white skin. the knights beheld them gladly, and gawain, with three others, hastened to sir launfal and told him what had chanced, and bade him look upon the maidens; and they prayed him eagerly to say whether one of the twain were his lady, but he answered them nay. the two, so fair to look upon, had gone forward to the palace, and dismounted before the daïs whereon king arthur was seated. if their beauty was great, so also was their speech courteous. "king," they said, "command that chambers be assigned to us, fair with silken hangings, wherein our mistress can fitly lodge, for with you will she sojourn awhile." they said no more, and the king called two knights, and bade them lead the maidens to the upper chambers. then the king demanded from his barons their judgment and their verdict, and said he was greatly wroth with them for their long delay. "sire," they answered, "we were stayed by the coming of the damsels. our decision is not yet made, we go but now to take counsel together." then they reassembled, sad and thoughtful, and great was the clamour and strife among them. while they were yet in perplexity, they saw, descending the street, two maidens of noble aspect, clad in robes broidered with gold, and mounted on spanish mules. then all the knights were very joyful, and said each to the other: "surely now shall sir launfal, the valiant and courteous, be safe." gawain and six companions went to seek the knight. "sir," they said, "be of good courage, for the love of god speak to us. hither come two damsels, most beautiful, and richly clad, one of them must of a truth be your lady!" but launfal answered simply; "never before to-day have i looked upon, or known, or loved them." meantime, the maidens had come to the palace and stood before the king. many praised them for their beauty and bright colour, and some deemed them fairer even than the queen. the elder was wise and courteous, and she delivered her message gracefully. "king," she said, "bid your folk give us chambers wherein we may lodge with our lady; she comes hither to speak with you." then the king commanded that they should be led to their companions who had come before them. nor as yet was the judgment spoken. so when the maidens had left the hall, he commanded his barons to deliver their verdict, their judgment already tarried too long, and the queen waxed wrathful for their delay. but even as they sought the king, through the city came riding a maiden, in all the world was none so fair. she rode a white palfrey, that bore her well and easily. well shaped were its head and neck, no better trained steed was there in all the world. costly were the trappings of that palfrey, under heaven was there no king rich enough to purchase the like, save that he sold or pledged his land. and thus was the lady clad: her raiment was all of white, laced on either side. slender was her shape, and her neck whiter than snow on the bough. her eyes were blue, her skin fair. straight was her nose, and lovely her mouth. her eyebrows were brown, her forehead white, and her hair fair and curling. her mantle was of purple, and the skirts were folded about her; on her hand she bare a hawk, and a hound followed behind her. in all the burg there was no one, small nor great, young nor old, but was eager to look upon her as she passed. she came riding swiftly, and her beauty was no mere empty boast, but all men who looked upon her held her for a marvel, and not one of those who beheld her but felt his heart verily kindled with love. then those who loved sir launfal went to him, and told him of the maiden who came, if by the will of heaven she might deliver him. "sir knight and comrade, hither comes one, no nutbrown maid is she, but the fairest of all fair women in this world." and launfal heard, and sighed, for well he knew her. he raised his head and the blood flew to his cheek as he made swift answer: "of a faith," he said, "_this_ is my lady! now let them slay me if they will and she has no mercy on me. i am whole if i do but see her." the maiden reached the palace; fairer was she than any who had entered there. she dismounted before the king that all might behold her; she had let her mantle fall that they might the better see her beauty. king arthur, in his courtesy, had risen to meet her, and all around him sprang to their feet, and were eager to offer their service. when they had looked well upon her, and praised her beauty, she spoke in these words, for no will had she to delay: "king arthur, i have loved one of your knights, behold him there, seigneur, sir launfal. he hath been accused at your court, but it is not my will that harm shall befall him. concerning that which he said, know that the queen was in the wrong; never on any day did he pray her for her love. of the boast that he hath made, if he may by me be acquitted, then shall your barons speak him free, as they have rightfully engaged to do." the king granted that so it might be, nor was there a single voice but declared that launfal was guiltless of wrong, for their own eyes had acquitted him. and the maiden departed; in vain did the king pray her to remain; and many there were who would fain have served her. without the hall was there a great block of grey marble, from which the chief knights of the king's court were wont to mount their steeds; on this launfal took his stand, and when the maiden rode forth from the palace he sprang swiftly upon the palfrey behind her. thus, as the bretons tell us, he departed with her for that most fair island, avalon; thither the fairy maiden had carried her knight, and none hath heard man speak further of sir launfal. nor know i more of his story. tyolet [illustration] _this is the lay of tyolet_ aforetime when king arthur reigned over the country of britain, which is now called england, there were, i think me, far fewer folk in the land than there are to-day. but arthur, whose valour men highly praise, had in his company many brave and noble knights. of a sooth there are even now knights of high fame and renown, yet are they not such manner of men as they were of old time. for then the best and bravest knights were wont to wander through the land seeking adventures by day and by night, with never a squire for company, and it might well be that in the day's journey they found neither house nor tower, or again perchance they would find two or three such. or by dusky night they might find fair adventures, the which they would tell again at court, even as they had befallen. and the clerks of the court would write them fairly on parchment in the latin tongue, so that in days to come, men, an they would, might hearken to them. and these tales were turned from latin into romance, and from them, as our ancestors tell us, did the britons make many a lay. and one lay they made will i tell ye, even as i myself heard the tale. 'twas of a lad, fair and skilful, proud and brave and valiant. tyolet was he called, and he knew strange wiles, for by whistling could he call the beasts of the woodland to him and trap them, even as many as he would. a fairy had taught him this skill, and never a beast that god had made but would come to him at his whistle. a lady had he for mother, who dwelt in the wide woodland where her lord had made his abode by day and by night, and the spot was passing lonely, for ten leagues round was there no other dwelling. now the knight, his father, had been dead fifteen years, and tyolet had grown fair and tall, but never an armed knight had he seen in all his days, and but rarely other folk in that wide woodland where his mother dwelt. never had he gone forth into the world beyond, for his mother held him passing dear, but in the forest might he wander as it pleased him, and no other pastime had he ever known. when he whistled as the fay had taught him, and the beasts heard him, then they came to him swiftly and he slew what he would and bore them home to his mother, and on this they lived, they twain alone, for neither brother nor sister had he, and his mother was a noble and courteous lady of good and loyal life. one day she called her son unto her and prayed him gently (for she loved him much) to go into the wood and slay her a stag; and the lad at her command went straightway into the forest and wandered the groves till noontide, but neither stag nor beast of any kind might he see. then he was sorely vexed at heart and bethought him to turn again homewards, since nothing might he find in the woodland, when under a tree he saw a stag which was both great and fair, and at once he whistled to it. the stag heard his whistle and looked towards him, but it came not at his call nor awaited his coming, but at a gentle pace issued forth from the wood, and tyolet followed it till it came to a water and passed over. the stream was deep and swift-flowing, wide-reaching and perilous to pass, and the stag stood safe upon the further shore. tyolet looked up and down, and saw a roebuck fat and well-grown coming towards him, then he stayed his steps and whistled, and as the deer came closer he put forth his hand and drew his knife and plunged it into its body, and so slew it straightway. but even as he did so he looked across the river, and lo! the stag which had passed the water changed its shape and became a knight, fully armed as a knight should be, and mounted on a gallant warhorse. thus he stood on the river bank, and the lad, who never in his life had seen the like, deemed it a great marvel and stood silent, gazing long upon him, and wondering what might be the meaning of this strange gear. then the knight spake to him across the water with gentle words, courteously asking his name, and who he was and what he sought. and tyolet answered him: "son am i to the widow lady who dwelleth in the great forest, and tyolet do they call me who would name my name. now tell me who thou art, and what may be thy name?" then he who stood on the bank of the river spake: "_knight_ do men call me." "what manner of beast may _knight_ be," quoth tyolet; "where doth it dwell and whence doth it come?" "of a faith that will i tell thee, truly and with no lie. 'tis a beast that is greatly feared for it taketh and eateth other beasts. oft-times doth it abide in the wood and oft-times in the open lands." "of a faith," said tyolet, "'tis a marvel--for never since i might wander in the wilderness have i seen such a beast; yet know i bears and lions, and every sort of venison. nor is there a beast in all the forest that i know not, but i take them all without pain or trouble; thou alone i may not know. yet thou seemest a brave beast. tell me, thou knight-beast, what dost thou bear on thy head? and what is it that hangeth at thy neck, and is red and shining?" "of a truth i will tell thee, and lie not. that which i bear on my head is a coif, which men call helmet, with steel all around; and this is a mantle in which i am wrapped, and this at my neck a shield, banded with gold." "and with what hast thou clad thyself, it seemeth me pierced through with little holes?" "'tis a coat of wrought mail, men call it a hauberk." "and with what art thou shod? tell me of thy friendship." "shoes and greaves of iron have i, right well wrought." "and what hast thou girt at thy side? tell me an thou wilt." "men call it a sword, 'tis fair to look upon, and the blade is hard and keen." "and that long wood thou holdest? tell me, and hide it not from me." "dost wish to know?" "yea, of a truth." "'tis a lance, this that i bear with me. now have i told thee the truth of all thou hast required of me." "sir," quoth tyolet, "i thank thee, and i would to god that i had also such vesture as thou hast, so fair and so comely; a coat and a coif and mantle even as thou wearest. tell me, knight-beast, for the love of god and his fair feast, if there be other beasts such as thou and as fair to look upon?" "of a truth," spake the knight, "i will shew thee more than a hundred such." for as the tale telleth in a little space there came through the meadow two hundred armed knights, all of the king's court; they had even taken a stronghold at his command, and set it in fire and flames, and now they went their way homeward riding in three ranged squadrons. the knight-beast spake to tyolet and bade him come forward a little step and look beyond the river; and the lad did as he bade him, and saw the knights ride armed on their chargers; and cried aloud, "now see the beasts who all bear coifs on their heads! ne'er have i seen such a sight! if it please god and his fair feast i too will be a knight-beast!" then the knight who stood on the bank of the river spake again and said: "wilt thou be brave and valiant?" "yea, of a truth, i swear it to thee." "then go thy way, and when thy mother seeth thee, she will say, 'fair son, tell me, what aileth thee, and of what art thou thinking?' and thou shalt answer that thou hast much to think on, for thou would'st fain be like a knight-beast which thou hast seen in the forest, and for that art thou thoughtful; and she will tell thee that it grieveth her much that thou hast seen such a beast which deceiveth and devoureth others. then shalt thou say, of a faith little joy shall she have of thee if thou may'st not be even such a beast, and wear such a coif on thy head; and when she heareth that, swiftly will she bring thee other raiment, coat and mantle, helm and sword, greaves, and a long lance, even as thou hast seen here." then tyolet departed, for it seemed to him long ere he might be at home, and he gave his mother the roebuck he had brought, and told her all his adventures even as they had chanced. and his mother answered that it grieved her much that he had seen such a beast, "for it taketh and devoureth many another." "of a truth," said tyolet, "now is it thus: if i may not be even such a beast as i saw, little joy shalt thou have of me henceforward." when his mother heard that she answered straightway that all the arms she had would she bring him, and she brought those which had belonged to her lord, and armed her son therewith, and when he was mounted on his horse he seemed indeed to be a knight-beast. "now," said she, "fair son, dost know what thou must do? thou shalt go straight to king arthur, and take good heed to my words, company not with man or woman save with those of gentle birth and breeding." then she embraced and kissed him, and the lad went on his way, and journeyed for many days over hills and plains and valley, till he came to the court of king arthur, that valiant and courteous monarch. the king was seated at meat, for he was wont to be richly served, but tyolet waited not at the hall entrance; clad even as he was in his armour and mounted on his steed, he rode up to the daïs, whereon sat arthur the king, and spake no word, nor gave greeting to any man. "friend," quoth the king, "dismount, and come, eat with us. then shalt thou tell me what thou seekest, and who thou art, and what men call thee." "of a truth," said the lad, "i will tell thee that ere ever i eat. king, my name is knight-beast; many a beast have i slain, and men call me tyolet. well do i know how to catch venison, for, an it please thee, sire, i am son to the widow of the forest, and of a surety she hath sent me to thee to learn skill and wisdom and courtesy. i would learn of knighthood, of tourney, and jousting, how i may spend, and how i may give, for never aforetime came i in a king's court, and i think me well that never again shall i come where i may learn such fair nurture and courtesy. now have i told thee what i seek. what is thy mind thereon, sir king?" and arthur said, "sir knight, thou shalt be my man, come now and eat." "sire," he said, "i thank thee well." then tyolet dismounted, and they disarmed him and clothed him in a surcoat and light mantle, and brought water for his hands and he sat down to meat. with that there entered a maiden, a proud and noble lady; of her beauty i may not speak, but i deem well that neither dido nor helen herself was so fair. she was daughter unto the king of logres, and came riding upon a snow-white palfrey, bearing with her a white brachet of smooth and shining hair, at whose neck hung a little golden bell. thus she rode up before the king, and gave him greeting: "king arthur, god the all powerful who reigneth on high have thee in his keeping." "fair friend, may he who counteth the faithful for his own guard thee." "sire, i am a maiden, daughter unto king and queen, and my father ruleth over logres. i ask of thee for love, as of a right valiant monarch, if there be one among thy knights who is of such prowess that for me he will smite off the white foot of a certain stag. if there be give him to me, i pray thee, sire, and i will take him for my lord; for indeed, none other will i have. for no man may win my favour if he bring me not the white foot of that great and fair stag, the hair of which shineth like gold, and which is guarded by seven lions." "of a faith," said the king, "such covenant will i make with thee that he who bringeth hither the stag's foot shall have thee for wife." "and i, sir king, swear to thee that such shall be the covenant." so they made the pact fast between them, and never a knight in the hall who was of any praise or renown but said he would go and seek the stag, did he but know where it might be found. the maiden spake: "this brachet shall guide ye where the stag is wont to have his dwelling-place." then lodoer, who desired greatly to be the first to seek the stag, prayed the boon from arthur, and the king would not say him nay. so he took the brachet, and mounted and set forth to seek the stag's foot. but the dog which went with him led him straight to a water which was great and wide, black, swollen, and hideous to look upon, four hundred fathoms was it wide, and well on a hundred deep, and the brachet sprang straightway into the flood, deeming perchance, as a dog may, that the knight was following it closely. but follow it would lodoer in no wise: he had no mind to enter the stream, for he had little desire of death, and he said within himself: "he who hath not himself hath naught; he keepeth a castle well, i think me, who taketh heed that it be not mishandled." then the dog came forth out of the water, and returned to lodoer, and lodoer turned himself again and took the brachet, and went swiftly on his way to the court, where was a great company assembled, and gave back her brachet to the maiden, the king's daughter of logres. then king arthur asked him if he had brought the foot; and lodoer answered that an another would risk his life, the venture yet awaited him. then they mocked at him throughout the hall, but he wagged his head at them and bade them go seek the foot, if by hap they might bring it back. then many set forth to seek the stag, and to win the damsel, but never a one might sing another song than that which lodoer of need must sing (for he was indeed a valiant knight) save one only, who was brave and swift-footed, and whom men called _knight-beast_, though his name, as ye know well, was tyolet. for this knight went his way to king arthur, and prayed him straitly that the maiden be held at the court for him, since he would go forth to conquer the adventure of the stag's foot; never, he said, would he return till he had smitten off the white right foot of the stag. the king gave him leave, and tyolet armed himself right well, and went to the maiden and prayed of her the loan of her white brachet, which she granted him freely, and he took leave of her. when he had ridden and roved long enough he came to the ford of that great and rushing water which was deep and deadly to look upon; the brachet sprang into the stream, and swam straightway, and tyolet plunged in after it and thus mounted on his steed he followed the dog till he came forth on dry land. and the brachet ran ever before him and guided him till he came to where he might see the stag; seven lions they were that guarded it, and loved it with a great love. then tyolet looked, and saw the stag where it fed alone in a meadow, and none of the lions were near at hand; and he set spurs to his horse, and passed before it whistling as he went. the stag came swiftly towards him, and when tyolet had whistled seven times it stood still. then tyolet drew his sword, and taking the white right foot in his hand smote it off at the joint, and hid it within his robe. the stag at this gave a loud cry, and the lions, who were none too far off, came swiftly to its aid and beheld the knight. one of the lions sprang upon the steed tyolet bestrode, and wounded it so sorely that it tore away all the skin and flesh from the right shoulder, and when tyolet saw it he smote the lion a mighty blow in the chest, cleaving asunder nerve and sinew--and with that lion had he no more ado. the steed fell to the ground, and even as the knight sprang clear the lions were upon him on all sides. they tore the good hauberk from his back, and the flesh from his arms and ribs, and wounded him so sorely that they went nigh to devour him altogether. sorely was he torn, but at last he slew them, though scarce might he be delivered from their claws. then he fell senseless beside the lions, for so torn and mauled was he that he might not stand upright. now as he lay senseless there came thither a knight mounted upon an iron-grey steed, and drew his bridle, and looked upon the young knight, and lamented over him. then tyolet opened his eyes, and told him all that had chanced, and bade him take the foot from out his breast. this the knight did, rejoicing greatly within himself, for much had he longed to win that foot. but as he turned his bridle to ride away, he bethought him that by chance the young knight might even yet live, and if he did, then ill would it be for him; so he turned himself back thinking to slay the knight there and then lest he challenge him later. so he drew his sword, and thrust tyolet through the body, and went his way, thinking that he had slain him. then came that traitor knight to the court of king arthur, and shewed the white foot, and demanded the hand of the maiden. but the white brachet, which had led tyolet to the stag had he not brought--of that knew he naught. then he claimed by covenant that fair maiden, since, he said, he had smitten off the white foot of the stag and brought it to court. but the king, who was wise enow, demanded eight days' grace to await tyolet's return, ere he would assemble his court, for he had with him but those of his household--good knights all, frank and courteous. so the knight must needs grant that respite--and abide at court till the eight days were ended. but he knew not that that good and courteous knight, sir gawain, had set forth secretly to seek tyolet, for the brachet had come back to court alone, and gawain deemed surely it would guide him to the knight. and indeed it led him truly to the meadow where he found tyolet lying lifeless among the lions. when gawain saw the knight and the slaughter he had wrought, he mourned the ill-chance greatly, and dismounting spake softly to his friend, and tyolet answered him feebly, telling him what had brought him to this pass; and as he spake there rode up a maiden, fair to look upon, mounted upon a mule, and greeted gawain courteously. then gawain returned her greeting, and called her to him, and embraced her, praying her very gently and very courteously that she would bear this knight, who was indeed a right valiant knight, to the leech of the black mountain; and the maiden did even as he besought her, and bare tyolet to the leech, praying him to care for him for the sake of sir gawain. the leech willingly received the knight, and did off his armour, laying him on a table. then he washed his wounds, and freed them from the clotted blood which was all around them, and saw that he would do well, and would be whole again within the month. but sir gawain went his way back to court and dismounted within the hall. and he found there the knight who had brought the white foot; he had dwelt at court till the eight days were passed, and now he came to the king, saluting him, and praying him to keep the covenant which the maiden of logres had herself devised, and to which king arthur had given consent--to wit, that whosoever should bring her the white foot, him would she take for lord; and king arthur said, "'tis the truth." but when gawain heard this he sprang forward swiftly, and said to the king: "sire, 'tis not so; were it not that here before thee who art the king i may not give the lie to any man, be he knight or squire, i would say that he doth lie, and never won the white foot or the stag in the manner of which he vaunteth himself. great shame doth he do to knights who would boast himself of another's deeds and clothe himself with another's mantle; who would steal the goods from another's store, and deck himself with that which belongeth to another; who by the hand of another would joust, and draw forth from the thicket the fearsome serpent. nor shall it thus be seen in this court; what thou sayest is worth naught, make thine assault elsewhere, seek elsewhere for what thou desirest, this maiden is not for thee!" "of a faith," quoth the knight, "sir gawain, now dost thou hold me for a coward and a villain, since thou sayest that i dare not lay lance in rest for jousting, and know how to steal goods from another's store, and draw the serpent from the thicket by another's hand. but thou speakest falsely as thou wilt find, if thou thinkest to prove thy words by force of arms, and deemest that thou wilt not find me in the field!" while they thus strove together behold tyolet, who had come thither in haste and had dismounted without the hall. the king rose from his seat to meet him, and threw his arms around his neck, and kissed him for the great love which he bare to him; and tyolet bowed before him as fitting before his lord. then gawain embraced him, and urian, and kay, and yvain the son of morgain, and the good knight lodoer, and all the other knights. but the knight who would fain win the maiden through the foot which tyolet had given to him, and which he had brought thither, spake again to arthur, and again made request. but tyolet, when he knew that he demanded the maiden, spake courteously to him, and asked him gently: "sir knight, tell me here in the presence of the king, by what right dost thou claim this maiden?" "of a faith," he said, "i will tell thee. it is because i brought her the white foot of the stag; the king and she herself had so pledged it." "didst thou then smite off the foot? if it be true, it may not be denied." "yea, i smote it off, and brought it hither with me." "and who then slew the seven lions?" the knight looked upon him and said never a word, but reddened, and waxed wrathful. then tyolet spake again: "sir knight, who was he who was smitten with the sword, and who was he who smote him? tell me, i pray thee, for of a truth i think me that last wast thou!" and the knight frowned, as one ashamed. "but that was, methinks, to return evil for good when thou didst that deed. in all good faith i gave thee the foot which i had smitten from off the stag, and for that didst thou give me such guerdon as went nigh to slay me; dead ought i to be in very truth. i gave thee a gift: of that do i now repent me. with the sword thou didst carry didst thou smite me through the body, thinking to have slain me. if thou would'st deny it, here will i tend to king arthur my gage that i will prove it before this noble company." but when the knight heard that, since he feared death more than shame, he cried him mercy, knowing that he spake truth. nothing dared he gainsay, but yielded himself to king arthur to do his commandment. then tyolet, taking counsel with the king and his barons, pardoned him, and the knight fell on his knees and kissed his feet. then tyolet raised him up and kissed him, and from that day forward they spake no more of that matter. the knight gave back the stag's foot, and tyolet gave it to the damsel. the lily and the new-blown rose, when it bloometh first in the fair summer-time, are less fair than was that maiden. then tyolet prayed her hand in marriage, and with her consent did king arthur give her to him. she led him back with her to her land, there was he king, and she queen--and here the lay of tyolet findeth ending. the were-wolf [illustration] "_sir marrok, the good knight that was betrayed with his wife, for she made him seven year a werwolf._"--morte d'arthur, book xix. chap. . in the days of king arthur there lived in brittany a valiant knight of noble birth and fair to look upon; in high favour with his lord and much loved by all his fellows. this knight was wedded to a fair and gracious lady whom he loved tenderly, and she too loved her lord, but one thing vexed her sorely--three days in every week would her husband leave her, and none knew whither he went, or what he did while thus absent. and every time the lady vexed herself more and more, till at last she could no longer keep silence, and when her husband came back, joyful and glad at heart after one of these journeys, she said to him: "my dear lord, there is somewhat i would fain ask thee, and yet i scarce dare, for i fear lest thou be angry with me." then her lord drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly. "lady," he said, "fear not to ask me, there is nothing i would not gladly tell thee, if it be in my power." "i' faith," she said, "now is my heart at rest. my lord, didst thou but know how terrified i am in the days i am left alone; i rise in the morning affrighted, and lie down at night in such dread of losing thee that if i be not soon reassured i think me i shall die of it. tell me, i pray thee, where thou goest, and on what errand, that i who love thee may be at rest during thine absence." "lady," he answered, "for the love of god ask me no more, for indeed if i told thee evil would surely come of it; thou would'st cease to love me, and i should be lost." when the lady heard this she was but ill-pleased, nor would she let her lord be at peace, but day by day she besought him with prayers and caresses, till at length he yielded and told her all the truth. "lady," he said, "there is a spell cast upon me: three days in the week am i forced to become a were-wolf; and when i feel the change coming upon me i hide me in the thickest part of the forest, and there i live on prey and roots till the time has expired." when he had told her this his wife asked him what of his garments? did he still wear them in his wolf's shape? "nay," he said, "i must needs lay them aside." "and what dost thou do with them?" "ah, that i may not tell thee, for if i were to lose them, or they should be stolen from me, then must i needs be a wolf all my days, nothing could aid me save that the garments be brought to me again. so for my own safety i must needs keep the matter secret." "ah, my dear lord, why hide it from _me_? surely thou hast no fear of me who love thee above all else in the world? little love canst thou have for me! what have i done? what sin have i committed that thou should'st withdraw thy confidence? thou wilt do well to tell me." thus she wept and entreated till at length the knight yielded, and told her all. "wife," he said, "without the forest on the highway, at a cross road, is an old chapel wherein i have often found help and succour. close to it, under a thick shrub, is a large stone with a hollow beneath it; under that stone i hide my garments till the enchantment hath lost its power, and i may turn me homewards." now when the lady had heard this story it fell out even as her husband had foretold, for her love was changed to loathing, and she was seized with a great dread and fear of him. she was terrified to be in his presence, yet he was her lord, and she knew not how she might escape from him. then she bethought her of a certain knight of that country, who had loved her long, and wooed her in vain ere she wedded her lord; and one time when her husband went forth, she sent for him in secret, and bade him come and give her counsel on a matter that troubled her much. when he came she bade him swear an oath to keep secret what she might tell him, and when he had sworn she told him all the story, and prayed him for the sake of the love he once bore her to free her from one who was neither beast nor man, and yet was both. the knight, who loved her still, was ready to do all she might desire, and she said, "'tis but to steal his clothes, for then he can no more become a man, but must dwell in the forest as a wolf all his days, and some one will assuredly slay him." so he went forth, and did after her bidding and brought her the garments, and she hid them away saying, "now am i safe, and that monster can return no more to terrify me." when the time went on, and her husband came not, the lady feigned to be anxious for his welfare, and she sent his men forth to seek him; they went through all the country but could find no trace of their lord, so at length they gave up the search, and all deemed he had been slain on one of his mysterious journeys. and when a year had passed, and the lady thought the wolf had surely been killed, she wedded the knight who had aided her and thought no more of the husband she had betrayed. but the poor were-wolf roamed the forest in suffering and sorrow, for though a beast outwardly yet he had the heart and brain of a man, and knew well what had happened, and he grieved bitterly, for he had loved his wife truly and well. * * * * * now it chanced one day that the king of that land rode a-hunting in that very forest, and the hounds came on the track of the were-wolf and roused him from his lair and gave chase to him. all day he fled before them through the woodland, and at last when they were close upon him and he was in sore peril of being overtaken and torn in pieces the king came riding after the hounds, and the wolf swerved aside and fled to him, seizing him by the stirrup, and licking his foot in sign of submission. the king was much astonished, and called to his companions to come swiftly. "see here, my lords," he said, "what think ye of this marvel? see how this beast entreats mercy of me; he hath the sense of a man! drive off the dogs, for i will not have him injured. turn we homewards, i take this beast in my peace, and will hunt no more in this forest lest by chance he be slain." with that they turned their bridles and rode homewards; but the wolf followed behind, and would not be driven back, even when they came to the royal castle. the king was greatly pleased, for he thought the matter strange and marvellous; no such tale had he ever heard before; and since he had taken a great liking for the beast he bade his knights not merely to do the wolf no harm, but to treat him with all care and kindness, on pain of losing the royal favour. so all day the wolf roamed the court, free among the knights, and at night he slept in the king's own chamber. wherever the king went, there he would have his wolf go too, and all the courtiers made much of the beast, seeing that it pleased their lord, and finding that he did no harm to any man among them. now when a long time had passed the king had occasion to hold a solemn court; he summoned all his barons from far and near, and among them came the knight who had betrayed the were-wolf, and wedded his lady; he had little thought that his rival was yet in life, still less that he was so near at hand. but as soon as the wolf beheld him he sprang upon him savagely, tearing him with his teeth, and would have slain him if the king had not called him off, and even then twice again he would have seized him. every one in the castle was astonished at the rage shown by the beast, which had always been so tame and gentle, and a whisper went round that surely there must be something which no one knew against the knight, for the wolf would scarce have attacked him without cause. all the time the court lasted the wolf had to be kept in close guard. when at length it broke up the knight who had been attacked was one of the first to leave--and small marvel it he were. but when the knight had gone the wolf was once more as tame and friendly as he had been from the first, and all the courtiers made a pet of him as they had done aforetime, and forgot, as time went on, that he had ever shown himself so savage. * * * * * at length the king bethought him that he would make a progress through his kingdom, and at the same time hunt for a while in the forest where he had found the wolf. as his custom was he took the beast with him. now the lady, the were-wolf's treacherous wife, hearing that the king would abide some time in that part of the country, prayed for an audience that she might win the royal favour by presenting rich gifts, for she knew well that the king loved not her second husband as he had loved the first. the king appointed a day and hour for the audience, but when the lady entered the presence chamber suddenly the wolf flew upon her, and before any could hinder had bitten the nose from off her face. the courtiers drew out their weapons and would have slain the beast, when a wise man, one of the king's councillors, stayed them. "sire," he said, "hearken to me--this wolf has been long with us, there is not one of us here who has not been near to him, and caressed him, over and over again; yet not a man of us has he ever touched, or even shown ill-will to any. but two has he ever attacked, this lady here and the lord, her husband. now, sire, bethink thee well--this lady was the wife of the knight thou didst hold dear aforetime, and who was lost long since, no man knowing what came to him. take my counsel, put this lady in guard, and question her closely as to whether she can give any reason why the wolf should hate her. many a marvel hath come to pass in brittany, and methinks there is something stranger than we wot of here." the king thought the old lord's counsel good; he caused the lady and her husband to be put in prison apart, and questioned separately with threats if they kept silence; till at length the lady, terrified, confessed how she had betrayed her first husband, by causing his garments to be stolen from him when he was in a wolf's shape. since that time he had disappeared; she knew not whether he were alive or dead, but she thought that perchance this wolf was he. when the king heard this he commanded them to fetch the garments belonging to the lost knight, whether it were pleasing to the lady or no; and when they were brought he laid them before the wolf and waited to see what would chance. but the wolf made as if he saw them not, and the wise councillor said, "sire, if this beast be indeed a were-wolf he will not change shapes while there are any to behold him; since it is only with great pain and difficulty he can do so. bid them take wolf and garments into thine own chamber, and fasten the doors upon him; then leave him for a while, and we shall see if he become man." the king thought this counsel good, and he himself took the beast into his chamber and made the doors fast. then they waited for a space that seemed long enough to the king, and when the old lord told him he might well do so, he took two nobles with him, and unlocked the doors, and entered, and lo, on the king's couch lay the long lost knight in a deep slumber! the king ran to him and embraced him warmly; and when the first wonder had somewhat passed, he bade him take back all the lands of which he had been robbed, and over and above he bestowed upon him many rich gifts. the treacherous wife and her second husband were banished from the country; many years they lived in a strange land, and had children and grand-children--but all their descendants might be known by this, that the maidens were born without noses, so that they won the surname of _énasées_. and the old books say that this adventure was verily true, and that it was in order that the memory of it should be preserved to all time that the bretons put it in verse, and called it "the lai of the were-wolf." notes guingamor. this charming lay was first published by m. gaston paris (romania viii.) from the same ms. collection as the _lay of tyolet_. the author is unnamed, but the general consensus of critical opinion has attributed it to marie de france, the famous anglo-norman poetess. certainly both in manner and matter it is a remarkably favourable specimen of the breton lay. the story of guingamor evidently represents a very favourite class of tales; setting aside the numerous parallels cited by dr. schofield in his study of the lay (_the lay of guingamor_, "harvard studies and notes in philology and literature," vol. v.), we have among the french translations of breton lays which have descended to us no fewer than three which closely correspond in subject and treatment, the lays of _guingamor_, _graalent_, and _lanval_. in each of these the hero is tempted by a queen; rejects her proffered love; wins a fairy bride, and departs to dwell with her in her own land. guingamor and graalent agree in the circumstances under which the knight meets the fairy maiden (a feature in which dr. schofield sees the influence of the _wayland_ story--_cf._ _the lays of graalent and lanval, and the story of wayland_, w. h. schofield); while lanval and graalent agree in the subsequent development of the story. of the three, guingamor is distinctly the most tragic. the knight who after two days spent in the delights of love and the festivities of the wondrous palace returns on the third day to his own land to find that kinsmen and friends have passed away, and his own name and fate but a folk-tale centuries old, is a really pathetic figure. we need not wonder that the story was a popular one; not only does chrétien de troyes in the quotation prefixed to my translation mention it, but it is again referred to as a well-known tale by gautier de doulens, one of the continuators of chrétien's unfinished _conte del graal_. the knight who is coupled with guingamor in our extract, _graislemiers de fine posterne_, is by prof. foerster and other scholars identified with _graalent mor_, and it seems probable that it was the close resemblance between their stories, noted above, which led the french poet to represent them as brothers. page .--_he knew how to promise and how to give._ "bien sot promestre et bien doner." this should be compared with wace's description of gawain, "plus volt faire que il ne dist, et plus doner qu'il ne promist." it is impossible not to feel that arthur's gallant nephew, who had a fairy for his love, and who according to chaucer found his final home in fairy-land, stands in very close connection with these heroes of the earlier stratum of arthurian legend. page .--_taking her robes set them high in the fork of a great oak._ this apparently unknightly proceeding on the part of the hero was doubtless originally connected with the supernatural character of the lady, and seems to have taken its rise in a confusion between a fay and a swan-maiden. as we know from northern tradition (brynhild's _hell-reid_ and the _wieland-saga_) to steal the "swan-shift" of such a maiden was the recognised means of effecting her capture. this has been well discussed by dr. schofield in the study quoted above. page .--_i charge thee--that thou neither eat nor drink._ this is evidently a somewhat confused introduction of the well-known feature that partaking of food in any land brings the eater under the operation of the laws of that land, but we generally find the incident of reverse application, as in the case of persephone, who having tasted of the pomegranate seeds must needs continue an inhabitant of the other world. guingamor having already eaten of the food of faëry, would, one would think, be incapable of returning to the other world. such a fate as befalls him is, however, often brought about by coming in contact with the _earth_; thus in the _voyage of bran_, when the hero and his companions return from the magic isles, they are warned not to set foot on the shore of ireland; one of the company disobeys the injunction and immediately falls to ashes, as one many years dead. mr. hartland, in his work on _the science of fairy-tales_, gives other instances of this belief. from the references made to the story by later writers, however, it is quite clear that guingamor was supposed to have regained his youth on his return to fairyland, and to enjoy practical immortality as the lord of its queen. sir launfal. this is a translation of the _lai de lanval_, by marie de france, the _original_ source being, as in the case of all the other stories, a breton _lai_ which the anglo-norman poetess translated into french. the english poem of the same name, by thomas of chester, is not, strictly speaking, a _translation_ of marie's _lai_, but an adaptation, into which features borrowed from other sources have been worked. thus the author evidently knew the lay of _graalent_, which, as i have stated in the note to guingamor, recites precisely the same story as _lanval_, only with certain variations in the incidents. dr. schofield, in the study to which i have previously referred, decides that the original hero is _lanval_. the _graalent_ version contains a weirdly pathetic feature which was either unknown to marie or disregarded by her. the hero rides off, not on the lady's steed, but on his own; crossing the river he is swept from the saddle, and only saved from drowning by his mistress, who takes him up behind her on her palfrey. the knight's charger, reaching the shore, vainly seeks for his master, and the bretons tell how yearly, on the anniversary of graalent's disappearance, the horse may be heard neighing loudly for the vanished knight. thomas of chester refers to this story evidently, but appears to think that the steed had rejoined its master, as after telling how "_every yer, upon a certayn day, men may here launfale's stede nay_," he goes on to tell how any who desires a joust to keep his arms from rusting "_may fynde justes anow wyth syr launfal the knyght_." tyolet. this lay is the translation of one published by m. gaston paris (romania viii. ) from a ms. in the bibliothèque nationale, and previously unknown. it will be seen that it really consists of two distinct stories: (_a_) tyolet's _enfances_; (_b_) his achieving of the adventure of the white-footed stag. whether these two stories originally related to the same hero is doubtful, but both are of considerable importance for the criticism of the arthurian legend. (_a_) tyolet's _enfances_.--this story certainly bears a strong resemblance to the "perceval" story as related by chrétien de troyes and wolfram von eschenbach; but while in some points it seems to have preserved more archaic features, in others it is distinctly more modern. thus the lad's confusion of the knight with a beast seems a primitive trait, as does also his fairy gift of attracting beasts by whistling, and the curious transformation of the stag, while his behaviour on arriving at court, on the other hand, is far more civilised than that of perceval. one naturally asks where had he learnt of tourneys and joustings and the knightly duty of "largesse"? the probability is that we have here a revised, and independent, version of the popular folk-tale which under the hands of certain twelfth-century poets developed into the perceval romance. (_b_) _le cerf au pied blanc._ this story is also found in the vast compilation of arthurian romance known as the dutch _lancelot_. there the adventure is attributed to lancelot, but with certain variants--_e.g._, kay, and not lodoer, is the first to attempt the adventure, and to fail through cowardice (a trait entirely in accord with the rôle played by kay in the later arthurian story); lancelot slays the lions _before_ cutting off the foot of the stag; and he does not marry the lady, who in this version has not herself visited arthur's court but has sent a messenger. this at once points to a later redaction of the story; the hero certainly ought to marry the maiden at whose instigation he undertakes the adventure. the part played by the traitor knight did not, i venture to think, originally belong to the story; it is part of a very widely spread aryan folk-tale, generally relating to the slaying of a dragon or similar monster. mr. hartland has given a long list of the variants of this in _the legend of perseus_, vol. iii. a very fine specimen is contained in the early _tristan_ poems, notably that of gottfried von strassburg, and another version, that contained in the poem of _morien_ ascribes the adventure to _lancelot_. it may be remarked that in both the "lancelot" versions, as in this _lai_ of tyolet, it is gawain who seeks the hero, and chivalrously defends his claim against that of the traitor. the story certainly must have become connected with the arthurian legend at a time when gawain was still the _beau-ideal_ of knightly courtesy. the original tale at the root of the _cerf au pied blanc_ was, i believe, a transformation tale; the stag was the enchanted relative of the lady who instigated the adventure, and the spell could only be broken by smiting off the animal's foot (as in many instances it is necessary to cut off the head of the victim of magic spells); this seems to me the only explanation of what is here a pointless act of cruelty. probably the connecting link with the tale of tyolet is the mysterious stag-knight of the first part, not the fairy gift of whistling as m. gaston paris suggested. i believe the story to be the origin of the white stag guarded by _six_ lions in the prose lancelot, which in the "queste" changes with its _four_ attendant lions into our lord and the four evangelists. the real meaning of the story has here been preserved. this solution is also indicated by the fact that one of the shapes assumed by merlin in his numerous transformations is that of a stag _with one white foot_ (_cf._ "merlin," sommer's edition, xxiii. p. ). in connection with this it may be noted that a story published in the _scottish celtic review_, vol. i., "macphie's black dog," contains a striking parallel to _tyolet_. the hero goes forth to shoot and sees a royal stag, but whenever he raises his gun to fire the animal changes into a woman. i think it is clear that in _tyolet_ we have the perceval enfances plus a transformation tale. the were-wolf. the source of this is the _lai du bisclavaret_, by marie de france. she was evidently relating a popular tradition, and there can be little doubt that it is the story referred to by malory in the passage quoted at the heading of the tale. in marie's _lai_ none of the characters are named. the same story appears to be at the root of a celtic folk-tale, _morraha_, published by mr. jacobs in his collection entitled, "more celtic fairy tales," here, however, being only subsidiary, a story within a story. elsewhere i have found no trace of it, but the reference in malory appeared to justify its inclusion among arthurian tales. since writing this note mr. nutt has drawn my attention to a tale published in the _scottish celtic review_, referred to above, "how the great tuairisgeul was put to death." this tale strongly resembles _morraha_, only the transformation is brought about by the spells of a witch employed by the stepmother, and is not the deed of the wife. _morraha_ seems to occupy a position between our tale and this. it may be suggested that there is a certain resemblance between the name morraha, and that given by malory for the hero of the story _marrok_. it is worth noting that in both these tales the sympathy of the reader is invited for the wolf. as a rule a were-wolf is an object of dread and abhorrence. printed by ballantyne & co. limited tavistock street, covent garden, london transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. generously made available by the internet archive.) the folk-lore society, for collecting and printing relics of popular antiquities, &c. established in the year mdccclxxviii. [illustration: alter et idem.] publications of the folk-lore society. . xxiii. list of officers of the society. - . president. the right hon. the earl of strafford. vice-presidents. andrew lang, m.a. w. r. s. ralston, m.a. edward b. tylor, ll.d., f.r.s. director. g. l. gomme, f.s.a., , beverley villas, barnes common, s.w. council. the hon. j. abercromby. a. machado y alvarez. the earl beauchamp, f.s.a. edward brabrook, f.s.a. dr. g. b. brinton. james britten, f.l.s. loys brueyre. miss c. s. burne. edward clodd. professor d. comparetti. g. laurence gomme, f.s.a. a. granger hutt, f.s.a. sir john lubbock, bt., f.r.s. rev. dr. richard morris. alfred nutt. edward peacock, f.s.a. z. d. pedroso. professor a. h. sayce, m.a. captain r. c. temple. henry b. wheatley, f.s.a. auditors. g. l. apperson. john tolhurst, f.s.a. local secretaries. ireland: g. h. kinahan, r.i.a. south scotland: william george black, esq. north scotland: rev. walter gregor. india: captain r. c. temple. china: j. stewart lockhart. honorary secretaries. a. granger hutt, f.s.a., , oxford road, kilburn, n.w. j. j. foster, , alma square, st. john's wood, n.w. studies on the legend of the holy grail. _works by the same author._ =the aryan expulsion and return formula among the celts.=--_folk-lore record_, vol. iv. _s._ _d._ "interessante étude de mythographie comparée."--_revue celtique._ =mabinogion studies, i. the mabinogi of branwen, daughter of llyr.=--_folk-lore record_, vol. v. _s._ _d._ "eingehendes und sehr beachtenswerthes studium."--prof. ernst windisch, in _ersch und gruber_. "these careful and searching studies deserve to be honourably mentioned."--mons. henri gaidoz, in the _academy_. studies on the legend of the holy grail _with especial reference to the hypothesis_ of its celtic origin. by alfred nutt. "welchem volke das märchen (von parzival's jugendgeschichte) angehörte, welches die schriftliche oder mündliche ueberlieferung mit der gralsage in verbindung brachte, ist schwer zu bestimmen, doch würde dasjenige volk den meisten anspruch darauf haben, bei welchem sich dies märchen ausserhalb jenes zusammenhangs nachweisen liesse."--k. simrock. "the celtic hero who in the twelfth century became perceval le chercheur du basin ... in the end became possessed of that sacred basin le saint graal, and the holy lance which, though christian in the story, are the same as the talismans which appear so often in gaelic tales ... the glittering weapon which destroys, and the sacred medicinal cup which cures."--j. f. campbell. "in all the fenian stories mention is made of fionn's healing cup ... it is the same as the holy grail of course."--j. f. campbell. london: david nutt, - , strand. . harrison and sons, printers in ordinary to her majesty, st. martin's lane, london. dedication. to the memory of j. f. campbell, from whom i first learnt to love celtic tradition. contents. chapter i. description of the leading forms of the romance: conte del graal--joseph d'arimathie--didot-perceval--queste del saint graal--grand saint graal--parzival--perceval le gallois-- mabinogi of peredur--sir perceval--diu crône--information respecting date and authorship of these works in the mss. page chapter ii. summaries--conte du graal: pseudo-chrestien, chrestien, gautier de doulens, manessier, gerbert--wolfram--heinrich von dem türlin--didot-perceval--mabinogi of peredur--thornton ms. sir perceval--queste del saint graal--grand saint graal-- robert de borron's poem, joseph of arimathea page chapter iii. the legend formed of two portions: early history of grail, quest--two forms of each portion distinguished--grouping of the various versions--alternative hypotheses of development-- their bearing upon the alleged celtic origin of the grail-- closer examination of the various accounts of the grail: the first use made of it and its first possessor; its solace of joseph; its properties and the effect produced by it; its name; its arrival in england; the grail-keeper and his relationship to the promised knight--three different stages in the development of the queste--the work and the qualification of the promised knight--conclusions: priority over early history of quest--chronological arrangement of the versions page chapter iv. sketch of the literature connected with the grail cycle. villemarqué--halliwell--san marte (a. schulz)--simrock-- rochat--furnivall's reprint of the grand st. graal and of borron--j. f. campbell--furnivall's queste--paulin paris-- potvin's conte du graal--bergmann--skeat's joseph of arimathea--hucher: grail celtic, date of borron--zarncke, zur geschichte der gralsage; grail belongs to christian legend--birch-hirschfeld develops zarncke's views: grand st. graal younger than queste, both presuppose chrestien and an earlier queste, the didot-perceval, which forms integral part of borron's trilogy; mabinogi later than chrestien; various members of the cycle dated--martin combats birch-hirschfeld: borron later than chrestien, whose poem represents oldest stage of the romance, which has its roots in celtic tradition--hertz--criticism of birch-hirschfeld page chapter v. relationship of the didot-perceval to the conte du graal--the former not the source of the latter--relationship of the conte du graal and the mabinogi--instances in which the mabinogi has copied chrestien--examples of its independence-- the incident of the blood drops in the snow--differences between the two works--the machinery of the mabinogi and the traces of it in the conte du graal--the stag hunt--the mabinogi and manessier--the sources of the conte du graal and the relation of the various parts to a common original--sir perceval--steinbach's theory--objections to it--the counsels in the conte du graal--wolfram and the mabinogi--absence of the grail from the apparently oldest celtic form page chapter vi. the lay of the great fool--summary of the prose opening--the aryan expulsion and return formula--comparison with the mabinogi, sir perceval, and the conte du graal--comparison with various gaelic märchen, the knight of the red shield, the rider of grianaig--originality of the highland tale-- comparison with the fionn legend--summary of the lay of the great fool--comparison with the stag hunt incident in the conte du graal and the mabinogi--the folk-tale of the twin brethren--the fight against the witch who brings the dead to life in gerbert and the similar incident in the folk-tale of the knight of the red shield--comparison with the original form of the mabinogi--originality of gerbert page chapter vii. the various forms of the visit to the grail castle in the romances--conte du graal: chrestien; gautier-manessier; gautier-gerbert--didot-perceval--mabinogi--conte du graal; gawain's visit to the grail castle--heinrich von dem türlin--conte du graal: perceval's visit to the castle of maidens--inconsistency of these varying accounts; their testimony to stories of different nature and origin being embodied in the romances--two main types: feud quest and unspelling quest--reasons for the confusion of the two types--evidence of the confusion in older celtic literature-- the grail in celtic literature: the gear of the tuatha de danann; the cauldron in the ultonian cycle; the mabinogi of branwen; vessel of balsam and glaive of light in the contemporary folk-tale--the sword in celtic literature: tethra; fionn; manus--parallels to the bespelled castle; the brug of oengus, the brug of lug, the brug of manannan mac lir, bran's visit to the island of women, cormac mac art, and the fairy branch; diarmaid and the daughter of king under the waves--unspelling stories: the three soldiers; the waiting of arthur; arthur in etna; the kyffhäuser legend, objections to martin's views concerning it--gawain's visit to the magic castle and celtic parallels; the son of bad counsel; fionn in giant land; fionn in the house of cuana; fionn and the yellow face--the vanishing of the bespelled castle--comparison with the sleeping beauty cycle--the "haunted castle" form and its influence on heinrich's version--the loathly grail messenger page chapter viii. the fisher king in the conte du graal, in the queste, and in borron and the grand st. graal--the accounts of latter complete each other--the fish is the salmon of wisdom-- parallel with the fionn saga--the nature of the unspelling quest--the mabinogi of taliesin and its mythological affinities--brons, bran, cernunnos--perceval's silence: conte du graal explanation late; explanation from the fionn saga-- comparison of incident with _geasa_; nature of latter; references to it in celtic folk-tales and in old irish literature, book of rights, diarmaid, cuchulainn--_geasa_ and _taboo_ page chapter ix. summing up of the elements of the older portion of the cycle--parallelism with celtic tradition--the christian element in the cycle: the two forms of the early history; brons form older--brons and bran--the bran conversion legend--the joseph conversion legend, joseph in apocryphal literature, the evangelium nicodemi--the bran legend the starting point of the christian transformation of the legend--substitution of joseph for bran--objection to this hypothesis--hypothetical sketch of the growth of the legend page chapter x. the moral and spiritual import of the grail-legend universally recognised--popularity of the arthurian romance-- reasons for that popularity--affinities of the mediæval romances with early celtic literature; importance of the individual hero; knighthood; the _rôle_ of woman; the celtic fairy and the mediæval lady; the supernatural--m. renan's views--the quest in english literature, malory--the earliest form of the legend, chrestien, his continuators--the queste and its ideal--the sex-relations in the middle ages-- criticism of mr. furnivall's estimate of the moral import of the queste--the merits of the queste--the chastity ideal in the later versions--modern english treatments: tennyson, hawker--possible source of the chastity ideal in popular tradition--the perceval quest in wolfram; his moral conception; the question; parzival and conduiramur--the parzival quest and faust--wagner's parsifal--the christian element in the legend--ethical ideas in the folk-tale originals of the grail romances: the great fool; the sleeping beauty--conclusion page appendix a.: the relationship of wolfram to chrestien page appendix b.: the grand st. graal prologue and the brandan legend page index i. the dramatis personæ of the legend page index ii. page introduction. the present work is, as its title states, a collection of "studies." it does not profess to give an exhaustive or orderly account of the grail romance cycle; it deals with particular aspects of the legend, and makes no pretence of exhausting even these. it may be urged that as this is the case the basis of the work is too broad for the superstructure, and that there was no need to give full summaries of the leading forms of the legend, or to discuss at such length their relation one to another, when it was only intended to follow up one of the many problems which this romance cycle presents. had there existed any work in english which did in any measure what the writer has here attempted to do, he would only too gladly have given more space and more time to the elaboration of the special subject of these studies. but the only work of the kind is in german, _birch-hirschfeld's die gralsage_. many interested in the arthurian romances do not know german; and some who profess an interest in them, and who do know german, are not, to judge by their writings, acquainted with birch-hirschfeld's work. it seemed worth while, therefore, to present the facts about the cycle with greater fulness than would have been necessary had those facts been generally accessible. the writer felt, too, that whatever judgment might be passed upon his own speculations, his statements of fact might give his book some value in the eyes of students. he also wished to give all who felt an interest in the line of investigation he opened up the opportunity of pursuing it further, or the means of checking his assertions and conjectures. the writer has taken his texts as he found them. he has studied the subject matter of the romances, not the words in which they have been handed down. those who seek for philological disquisitions are, therefore, warned that they will find nothing to interest them; and those scholars who are well acquainted with the printed texts, but who are on the search for fresh ms. evidence, must not look here for such. on the other hand, as the printed texts are for the most of such rarity and price as to be practically inaccessible to anyone not within reach of a large library, the writer trusts that his abstract of them will be welcome to many. he has striven to take note of all works of real value bearing upon the subject. he endeavoured, though unsuccessfully, to obtain a copy of m. gaston paris' account of the arthurian romances which, though it has been for some months in print, is not yet published. the writer has done his best to separate the certain from the conjectural. like m. renan, in a similar case, he begs the reader to supply the "perhaps" and the "possibly's" that may sometimes have dropt out. the whole subject is fraught with difficulty, and there are special reasons why all results must for some time to come be looked upon as conjectural. these are glanced at here and there in the course of these studies, but it may be well to put them together in this place. firstly, whatever opinions be held as to which are the older forms of the legend, it is certain that in no one case do we possess a primary form. all the versions that have come down to us presuppose, even where they do not actually testify to, a model. two of the forms which there is substantial agreement in reckoning among the oldest, the poems of chrestien de troyes and robert de borron, were never finished by the authors; sequels exist to both, of a later date and obviously affected by other forms of the legend. a reconstruction of the original story is under these circumstances a task of great uncertainty. so much for the difficulty inherent in the nature of the evidence, a difficulty which it is to be feared will always beset the student of this literature, as no new texts are likely to be found. secondly, this evidence, such as it is, is not accessible in a form of which the most can be made. the most important member of the group, the conte du graal, only exists in one text, and that from a late and poor ms. it is certain that a critical edition, based upon a survey of the entire ms. evidence, will throw great light upon all the questions here treated of. the mabinogi of peredur has not yet been critically edited, nor have the mss. of the other romances yielded up all that can be learnt from them. thirdly, whatever opinion be held respecting the connection of the north french romances and celtic tradition, connection of some kind must be admitted. now the study of celtic tradition is only beginning to be placed upon a firm basis, and the stores of celtic myth and legend are only beginning to be thrown open to the non-celtic scholar. were there in existence a celtic parallel to grimm's great work on german mythology, the views for which the writer contends would have been, in all likelihood, admitted ere now, and there would have been no necessity for this work at all. whilst some of the reasons which render the study of the grail legends so fascinating, because so problematic, will probably always remain in force, others will vanish before the increase of knowledge. when the diplomatic evidence is accessible in a trustworthy form; when the romances have received all the light that can be shed upon them from celtic history, philology, and mythology, the future student will have a comparatively easy task. one of the writer's chief objects has been to excite an interest in these romances among those who are able to examine the celtic elements in them far more efficiently than he could do. welsh philologists can do much to explain the _onomasticon arthurianum_; cymric history generally may elucidate the subject matter. but as a whole welsh literature is late, meagre, and has kept little that is archaic. the study of irish promises far better results. of all the races of modern europe the irish have the most considerable and the most archaic mass of pre-christian traditions. by the side of their heroic traditional literature that of cymry or teuton (high and low), or slav is recent, scanty, and unoriginal. a few words must be said in defence of the free use made of conjecture in the course of these studies. this is well nigh unavoidable from the way in which the texts we have to deal with have come down to us. what m. renan has said about the hebrew historical scriptures is excellently exemplified in the grail romances. there was no fixed text, no definite or rounded sequence of incidents, of which scribes respected the integrity. on the contrary, each successive transcriber was only anxious to add some fresh adventure to the interminable tale, and those mss. were most thought of which contained the greatest number of lines. the earlier mss. have, therefore, almost entirely disappeared, and we are dealing with works which we know to have been composed in the twelfth century, but of which we have only thirteenth or fourteenth century transcripts. inconsistencies in the conduct of the story are the inevitable consequence in most cases, but sometimes the latest arranger had an eye for unity of effect, and attained this by the simple process of altering the old account so as to make it fit with the new. in dealing with the text of an _individual_ author, whether ancient or modern, it would be in the last degree uncritical to explain difficulties by such hypotheses as the loss of an earlier draft, or the foisting into the work of later and incongruous incidents and conceptions. not so in the case of the romances; this method of explanation is natural and legitimate, but none the less is it largely conjectural. the writer may be blamed for not having presented his subject in a more engaging and more lucid form. he would plead in excuse the circumstances under which his work has been carried on. when the only hours of study are those which remain after the claims, neither few nor light, of business and other duties have been met, it is hard to give an appearance of unity to a number of minute detail studies, and to weld them together into one harmonious whole. the fact that the work has been written, and printed, at considerable intervals of time may, it is hoped, be accepted as some excuse for inconsistency in the terminology. the writer has many acknowledgments to make. first and chief to dr. birch-hirschfeld, but for whose labours, covering well nigh the whole field of the grail cycle, he would not have been able to take in hand his work at all; then to dr. furnivall, to whose enthusiasm and spirit the publication of some of the most important texts are due. in these two cases the writer acknowledges his gratitude with the more readiness that he has felt compelled to come to an opposite conclusion from that arrived at by dr. birch-hirschfeld respecting the genesis and growth of the legend, and because he has had to differ from dr. furnivall's estimate of the moral value of the galahad romances. to m. hucher, to mons. ch. potvin, the editor, single-handed, of the conte du graal, to m. d'arbois de jubainville, to professor ernst martin, to the veteran san-marte, to herr otto küpp, and to herr paul steinbach, these studies owe much. professor rhys' hibbert lectures came into the writer's hands as he was preparing the latter portion of the book for the press; they were of great service to him, and he was especially gratified to find opinions at which he had arrived confirmed on altogether independent grounds by professor rhys' high authority. the writer is also indebted to him, to mr. h. l. d. ward, of the british museum, and to his friend mr. egerton phillimore for help given while the sheets were passing through the press. lastly, the writer desires to pay an especial tribute of gratitude and respect to that admirable scholar, j. f. campbell. of all the masters in folk-lore, jacob grimm not excepted, none had a keener eye or surer, more instinctively right judgment. although the writer admits, nay, insists upon the conjectural character of his results, he believes he is on the right track, and that if the grail romances be worked out from any other point of view than the one here taken, the same goal will be reached. it should be said that some of the conclusions, which he can claim as his own by right of first mention, were stated by him in a paper he read before the folk-lore society in (afterwards reprinted, celtic magazine, , august-october); and in a paper he read before the honourable society of cymmrodorion, in . these studies have been a delight and a solace to the writer; had it been otherwise, he would still feel himself amply repaid for his work by the thought that he had made a contribution, however slight, to the criticism of the legend of the holy grail. errata. [the reader is kindly begged to mark in these corrections before using the book.] page , line , _for_ corbièrc _read_ corbière. " , line , _insert_ passion _before_ week. " , lines from bottom, _for_ avallon _read_ avalon. " , line , _for_ percival _read_ perceval. " , line , _for_ percival _read_ perceval. " , lines from bottom, _for_ pelleur _read_ pelleans. " , line , _for_ seems _read_ seem. " , line , _for_ _read_ . " , line , _for_ bron _read_ brons. " , line , _insert_ comma _after_ specially. " , line , _for_ henessey _read_ hennessy. " , note, _i.e._, _for_ graal _read_ gaal. " , line , _insert_ comma _after_ more. " , line , _for_ euphemerised _read_ euhemerised. " , line , _for_ invasion _read_ invasions. " , line , _for_ mystic _read_ mythic. " , line , _for_ lxxvii _read_ lxxxii. " , note, _for_ carl the great _read_ karl the great. " , line , _insert_ comma _after_ plight; _dele_ comma _after_ love. " , line from bottom, _insert_ late _before_ mediæval. " , note, _for_ percival _read_ perceval. " , line , _for_ mystic _read_ mythic. studies on the legend of the holy grail. chapter i. description of the leading forms of the romance: conte del graal--joseph d'arimathie--didot-perceval--queste del saint graal--grand saint graal--parzival--perceval le gallois--mabinogi of peredur--sir perceval--diu crône--information respecting date and authorship of these works in the mss. the following are the forms in which the legend of the holy grail has come down to us:-- a.--=le conte del graal=, a poem of over , verses, the major part of which ( , verses) was printed for the first time by potvin: le conte del graal, six volumes, vo. (vols. ii.-vi. containing our poem), mons, - , from a ms. preserved in the mons library.[ ] the portion of the poem which is not printed in full is summarised by potvin in the sixth volume of his edition. the poem, so far as at present known, is the work of four men: a i. chrestien de troyes, who carried the work down to verse , . a ii. gautier de doulens, who continued it to verse , . a iii. manessier, who finished it in , verses. a iv. gerbert, to whom are due over , verses, mostly found interpolated between gautier de doulens and manessier. a ms. preserved in the library of montpellier[ ] differs in important respects from the mons one as far as gautier de doulens and manessier are concerned. it intercalates verses between verses , and , of the mons ms., and gives a different redaction of verses , - , in agreement with the aforesaid intercalation. it likewise mentions two visits of gawain to the grail castle. the intercalation in gautier may be called a ii_a_, and the variant in manessier a iii_a_. b.--=joseph d'arimathie, merlin=, exists in two forms: ( ) a fragmentary metrical version entitled in the sole existing ms. (bibliothèque nationale, no. , . fonds st. germain, no. , ) li r(o)manz de l'est (o)ire dou graal, and consisting of , verses, , for the joseph, the remainder, for about one-fifth of the merlin. first printed by francisque michel: le roman du st. graal. bordeaux, . secondly by furnivall: seynt graal or the sank ryal. printed for the roxburghe club, two volumes, to., london, - , where it is found in an appendix at the end of vol i. ( ) a prose version of which several mss. exist, all of which are fully described by e. hucher: le saint-graal, ou le joseph d'arimathie, three volumes, mo., le mans, - , vol. i., pp. - . the chief are: the cangé ms. (_circa_ ) of which hucher prints the joseph, vol. i., pp. - , and the didot ms., written in , of which hucher prints the joseph, vol. i., pp. - . hucher likewise gives, vol. i., pp. - , variants from the huth ms. (_circa_ ). these different versions may be numbered as follows:-- b i. the metrical version, which i shall always quote as metr. jos., from furnivall's edition. b ii. the prose versions: b ii_a_, cangé jos.; b ii_b_, didot jos.; b ii_c_, huth jos., all quoted from hucher, vol. i. c.--=perceval=, prose romance found in the already-mentioned didot ms. at the end of the merlin, printed by hucher, vol. i., pp. - , from which it will be quoted as didot-perceval. d.--=queste del saint graal=, prose romance commonly found in the mss. in combination with lancelot and the mort artur. edited by furnivall: la queste del st. graal. printed for the roxburghe club, to., london, . the introduction contains a full account of the existing mss. a different redaction from that of any of the known french mss. is preserved in a welsh translation, printed, with a modern english version by the editor, from a fifteenth century hengwrt ms., by the rev. robert williams: y seint graal, london, vo., . i shall quote-- d i. queste, from furnivall's edition. d ii. welsh quest, from williams' edition. e.--the so-called =grand saint graal=, prose romance found in the mss., both preceding the merlin and the queste, and preceding the queste and the mort artur. printed by furnivall from cambridge and brit. mus. mss., together with a metrical english adaptation by henry lonelich, of about the time of henry the vith, in the already-mentioned seynt graal; and by hucher, vols. ii. and iii., from a le mans ms.; will be quoted as grand st. graal, from furnivall's edition. f.--=parzival=, by wolfram von eschenbach, german metrical romance, critically edited from the mss. by karl lachmann, wolfram von eschenbach, vierte ausgabe, vo., berlin, , from which it will be quoted as wolfram. g.--=perceval le gallois=, prose romance, first printed by potvin, vol. i. of his conte del graal, from a mons ms., with variants from a fragmentary berne ms. (as to both of which see pp. , etc.). a welsh translation, with modern english version by the editor, made from a ms. closely allied to the berne fragments, and representing a superior text to that printed by potvin, in williams' already-mentioned y seint graal. besides these works there exist two versions of the perceval legend in which the holy grail, as such, does not appear. these are:-- h.--=the mabinogi of peredur, the son of evrawc=, welsh prose romance found in the red book of hergest, a ms. of the end of the fourteenth century, and in mss. a hundred years older. i shall quote it as peredur, from lady guest's english translation of the mabinogion, vo., london, . i.--=sir perceval of galles=, english metrical romance, printed for the first time from the thornton ms., of _circa_ , by halliwell: the thornton romances, printed for the camden society, small to., london, ; from which i shall quote it as sir perceval. finally there exists an independent german version of certain adventures, the hero of which in the conte du graal, in wolfram, and in the mabinogi, is gawain. this is-- k.--=heinrich von dem türlin.= diu crône. edited by g. h. f. scholl. bibliothek des litterarischen vereins, vol. xxvii., stuttgart, . the positive information which the different mss. of the above mentioned works afford respecting their authors, date of composition, sources, etc., is as follows:--in the prologue to his poem, chrestien (potvin i., pp. - ) dedicates his work to "li quens felippes de flandres," who as he states (verse ), "li bailla le livre," which served him as model, and whom he praises at great length as surpassing alexander. we know that count philip of flanders took the cross in , set out for the holy land in , and died on the st of june, , before akkon.[ ] as chrestien says not a word about the crusading intentions of philip, it may be inferred that he wrote his prologue before , and began the poem in at the latest. gautier de doulens (probably of that ilk, in picardy, some miles from amiens)[ ] has only left his name, verse , , gautiers de dons qui l'estore, etc. manessier the next continuator has been more explicit; he describes himself as completing the work at the command of ... jehanne la comtesse qu'est de flandre dame et mestresse. (potvin, vi., p. .) this joan, daughter of baldwin the vith, ruled flanders _alone_ during the imprisonment of her husband after the battle of bouvines ( - ), and manessier's words can only apply to her during this period, so that his continuation must have been written between - .[ ] the third continuator, gerbers, only mentions his name (potvin, vi., p. ). the author of version b, names himself, b i, verse , , messires roberz de beron; verses , - state that no mortal man had told the story, until he had it from mon seigneur gautier en peis qui de mont belyal estoit. verse , gives the name somewhat differently, meistres robers dist de bouron. the prose versions follow the poem with additions, thus cangé jos. (p. ); messires roberz de borron lou restrait à mon seigneur gautier, lou preu conte de mobéliart. walter of montbeliard, brother to count richard of montbeliard, went to the holy land in , became constable of jerusalem, regent of cyprus, and died in . the date of his birth is uncertain, but as his elder brother died in , walter could hardly have been born before . his father, amadeus, died in , in which year he received the countship of montfaucon. it may only have been after he thus became independent that robert entered his service. in any case robert could not have spoken of him as "mon seigneur," before . that year may, therefore, be taken as a _terminus a quo_, and the year as a _terminus ad quem_ for dating these versions. the grand st. graal is likewise ascribed in the mss. to robert de borron, and it is further stated that he translated from latin into french--et ensi le temoigne me sires robiers de borron qui a translatee de latin en franchois cheste estoire (ii. p. ). the queste ascribed in the mss. to walter mapes, is said to have been compiled by him for the love of his lord, king henry--maistre gautiers map les extrait pour l'amor del roy henri son seignor, qui fist l'estore translater du latin en francois[ ]--walter mapes, born before (he presided at the assizes of gloucester in ), died in . if we may believe the mss., the queste would probably fall within the last twenty-five years of the twelfth century. the author of perceval le gallois describes himself (potvin, i., ) as writing the book for the "seignor de neele," whose christian name, "johan," is given four lines lower down, at the command of the "seingnor de cambresis," _i.e._, the bishop of cambray. this john of nesle is probably the one who in the year sold the lordship of bruges to countess joan of flanders.[ ] wolfram von eschenbach, of that ilk, in north bavaria, born in the last thirty years of the twelfth century, died about . he knew chrestien's poem well, and repeatedly refers to it, but with great contempt, as being the wrong version of the story, whereas he holds the true version from kyot, the singer, a "provenzal," who found the tale of parzival written in heathen tongue at dôlet (toledo), by flegetanis, a heathen who first taught concerning the grail, put it into french, and after searching the chronicles of britain, france, and ireland in vain, at length found information in the chronicles of anjou (pp. and ). nothing is stated in the works themselves respecting the authors of the mabinogi and the thornton sir perceval. heinrich von dem türlin frequently quotes chrestien as his authority, _e.g._, verses , , , , , . if these various statements are to be accepted, it follows that in the course of fifty years ( - ) a great body of romance came into existence, partly in france, chrestien, his continuators, and robert de borron; partly in england, walter mapes; and partly in germany, wolfram von eschenbach, and heinrich von dem türlin. of this body of romance only a portion has come down to us, the work of kyot and the latin originals of the queste and the grand st. graal having disappeared. furthermore, it is only possible to date with any accuracy three or four of the works, viz., chrestien, manessier, wolfram (whose poem falls certainly within the first ten years of the thirteenth century), though it may also be taken as certain that r. de borron wrote after , and the anonymous author of perceval le gallois before . of the dated works chrestien's is the oldest, - , and it postulates the existence of previous versions. the object of the present investigation being to determine, as far as possible, the age and relationship to one another of the different versions which have come down to us, to exhibit the oldest form of the story as we have it, and to connect it with celtic traditional belief and literature, it will be well, before proceeding to further discuss the various points left doubtful by the evidence gathered from the mss., to give clear and detailed summaries of the most important versions. chapter ii. summaries--conte du graal: pseudo-chrestien, chrestien, gautier de doulens, manessier, gerbert--wolfram--heinrich von dem türlin--didot-perceval--mabinogi of peredur--thornton ms. sir perceval--queste del saint graal--grand saint graal--robert de borron's poem, joseph of arimathea. =the conte du graal.=--pseudo-chrestien.[ ]--the story tells of the "graal," whose mysteries, if master blihis lie not, none may reveal; it falls into seven parts, and shows how the rich land of logres was destroyed. ( ) in the wells and springs of that land harboured damsels who fed the wayfarer with meat and pasties and bread. but king amangons did wrong to one and carried off her golden cup, so that never more came damsels out of the springs to comfort the wanderer. and the men of king amangons followed his evil example. thereafter the springs dried up, and the grass withered, and the land became waste, and no more might be found the court of the rich fisher, which had filled the land with plenty and splendour. ( ) the knights of the table round, learning the ill done to the damsels, set forth to protect them; they found them not, but fair damsels wandering in the woods, each with her knight; with the latter they strove, and when they overcame them sent them to arthur. thus came blihos bliheris to arthur's court conquered by gauvain; he knew goodly tales and he told how the wandering damsels were sprung from those ravished by king amangons. so long would they wander till god gave them to find the court, whence joy and splendour would come to the land. ( ) arthur's knights resolved to seek the court of the rich fisher--much knew he of black art, more than an hundred times changed he his semblance, that no man seeing him again recognised him. gauvain found it, and had great joy therefrom; but before him a young knight, small of age, but none bolder of courage--percevaus li galois was he--he asked whereto the grail served, but nought of the lance why it dripped blood, nor of the sword one half of which was away whilst the other lay in the bier. but he asked surely concerning the rich cross of silver. now in the room three times there arose such great sorrow that no man who heard it, so bold he might be but feared. afterwards the room filled and the king came in, full richly dressed, so that he might hardly be known of them that had seen him the day before, fishing. and when all were sat down the grail came in, and without serjeant nor seneschal served all present, and 'twas wonder what food it gave them. and then came the great marvel which has not its like. but perceval will tell of this, so i must say no more; it is a great shame to tell beforehand what is in a good tale. when the good knight shall come who found the court three times you shall hear me tell of grail and lance, and of him who lay in the bier, of the sword, of the grief and swooning of all beholders. ( ) now the court was found seven times, and each time shall have a fresh tale:-- the seventh (the most pleasing) tells of the lance wherewith longis pierced the side of the king of holy majesty; the sixth of warlike feats; the fifth of the anger and loss of huden; the fourth of heaven, for he was no coward, the knight mors del calan, who first came to glamorgan; the third of the hawk whereof castrars had such fear--pecorins, the son of amangons, bore all his days the wound on his forehead; the second has not yet been told; it tells of the great sorrows lancelot of the lake had there where he lost his virtue; and the last is the adventure of the shield, never a better one was there. ( ) after this adventure the land was repeopled; court and grail were found; the streams ran again; the meadows were green, the forests thick and leafy; so that all folk marvelled. but there came back a folk, the same that came out of the springs (save they were not cooks), a caitiff set, and built for their damsels the rich maidens' castel, and the bridge perillous, and castel orguellous, and warred against the table round. in the castle were , each sire of knights. and not till after four years did arthur overcome them and was there peace. _(here beginneth the story of the grail.)_ ( ) there were in the land of wales twelve knights, of whom bliocadrans alone survived, so eager were they in seeking tournament and combats. after living for two years with his wife, childless, bliocadrans set forth to a tournament given by the king of wales and cornwall against them of the waste fountain. at first successful, he is at length slain. a few days after his departure his wife has borne a son. when at length she learns her husband's death, she takes counsel with her chamberlain, and pretending a pilgrimage to st. brandan, in scotland, withdraws to the waste forest far removed from all men. here she brings up her son, and though she allows him to hunt in the forest, warns him against men covered with iron--they are devils. he promises to follow her counsel, and thenceforth he goes into the forest alone. =the conte du graal.=--(_a_) chrestien.--( ) when as trees and meadows deck themselves with green, and birds sing, the son of the widow lady goes out into the wood. he meets five knights, and, as their weapons shine in the sun, takes them for angels, after having first thought them to be the devils his mother had warned him against. he prays to them as his mother has taught him. one of the knights asks if he has seen five knights and three maidens who had passed that way, but he can but reply with questions concerning the arms and trappings of the knights. he learns of arthur the king who makes knights, and when he returns to his mother tells her he has beheld a more beautiful thing than god and his angels, knights namely, and he too will become one. in vain his mother tells him of his father's and his two elder brothers' fates, slain in battle. nothing will serve, so the mother makes him a dress of coarse linen and leather, and before he leaves counsels him as follows: if dame or damsel seek his aid he is to give it, he is to do naught displeasing to them, but to kiss the maiden who is willing, and to take ring and girdle of her if he can; to go for long with no fellow-traveller whose name he knows not, to speak with and consort with worthy men, to pray to our lord when he comes to church or convent. she then tells him of jesus christ, the holy prophet. he departs clad and armed in welsh fashion, and his mother swoons as though dead. ( ) perceval comes to a tent in the wood, and, taking it for a convent, goes in and finds sleeping on a bed a damsel, whom the neighing of his horse wakes. in pursuance of his mother's counsel he kisses her more than twenty times, takes her ring from her, and eats and drinks of her provisions. thereafter he rides forth, and her lover returning and hearing what has taken place, swears to avenge himself upon the intruder, and until such time the damsel, whose tale he disbelieves, is to follow him barefoot and not to change her raiment. ( ) perceval learns the way to carduel from a charcoal-burner; arrived there, he sees a knight coming forth from the castle and bearing a golden cup in his hand, clad in red armour, who complains of arthur as having robbed him of his land. perceval rides into the castle hall and finds the court at meat. arthur, lost in thought, pays no attention to the first two salutations of perceval, who then turns his horse to depart, and in so doing knocks off the king's hat. arthur then tells him how the red knight has carried off his cup, spilling its contents over the queen. perceval cares not a rap for all this, but asks to be made knight, whereat all laugh. perceval insists, and claims the red knight's armour. kex bids him fetch them, whereat the king is displeased. perceval greets a damsel, who laughs and foretells he shall be the best knight in the world. for this saying kex strikes her, and kicks into the fire a fool who had been wont to repeat that the damsel would not laugh till she beheld the best of knights. ( ) perceval tarries no longer, but follows the red knight, and bids him give up his arms and armour. they fight, and perceval slays his adversary with a cast of his dart. yonès, who has followed him, finds him put to it to remove the knight's armour--he will burn him out of it if need be--and shows him how to disarm the dead man and to arm himself. perceval then mounts the knight's steed and rides off, leaving the cup to yonés to be given to the king, with this message: he, perceval, would come back to avenge the damsel of the blow kex struck her. ( ) perceval comes to a castle, in front of which he finds an old knight, to whom he relates what has befallen him, and of whom he asks counsel as his mother bade him. the knight, gonemans of gelbort, takes him into his castle, teaches him the use of arms, and all knightly practices. in especial he is to avoid over-readiness in speaking and in asking questions, and to give over his habit of always quoting his mother's counsels. he then dubs him knight, and sends him forth to return to his mother. ( ) after a day's journey perceval comes to a town defended by a castle, and, being allowed entrance therein, finds all waste and deserted, even the very convents. the lady of the castle, a damsel of surpassing beauty, welcomes him and bids him to table. mindful of gonemans' counsels he remains silent, and she must speak to him first. she turns out to be gonemans' niece. at night the young stranger is shown to his chamber, but the damsel cannot sleep for thought. weeping she comes to perceval's bedside, and in reply to his wondering questions tells him how the forces of king clamadex encompass the castle, and how that on the morrow she must yield, but rather than be clamadex's she will slay herself. he promises to help her, and bids her to him in the bed, which she does, and they pass the night in each other's arms, mouth to mouth. on the morrow he begs for her love in return for his promised aid, which she half refuses, the more to urge him on. he fights with and overcomes aguigrenons, clamadex's marshal, and sends him to arthur's court. clamadex hearing of this tries afresh to starve out the castle, but a storm luckily throws a passing ship ashore, and thereby reprovisions the besieged ones. clamadex then challenges perceval, is overcome, and sent to arthur's court, where he arrives shortly after his marshal. they relate wonders concerning the red knight, and the king is more than ever displeased with kex for having offended such a valiant warrior. after remaining for a while with blanchefleur, perceval takes leave of her, as he longs to see his mother again. ( ) he comes to a river, upon which is a boat, and therein two men fishing. one of them, in reply to his questions, directs him for a night's shelter to his own castle hard by. perceval starts for it, and at first unable to find it reproaches the fisher. suddenly he perceives the castle before him, enters therein, is disarmed, clad in a scarlet mantle, and led into a great hall. therein is a couch upon which lies an old man; near him is a fire, around which some four hundred men are sitting. perceval tells his host he had come from biau-repaire. a squire enters, bearing a sword, and on it is written that it will never break save in one peril, and that known only to the maker of it. 'tis a present from the host's niece to be bestowed where it will be well employed. the host gives it to perceval, "to whom it was adjudged and destined." hereupon enters another squire, bearing in his hand a lance, from the head of which a drop of blood runs down on the squire's hand. perceval would have asked concerning this wonder, but he minds him of gonemans' counsel not to speak or inquire too much. two more squires enter, holding each a ten-branched candlestick, and with them a damsel, a "graal" in her hands. the graal shines so that it puts out the light of the candles as the sun does that of the stars. thereafter follows a damsel holding a (silver) plate. all defile past between the fire and the couch, but perceval does not venture to ask wherefore the graal is used. supper follows, and the graal is again brought, and perceval, knowing not its use, had fain asked, but always refrains when he thinks of gonemans, and finally puts off his questions till the morrow. after supper the guest is led to his chamber, and on the morrow, awakening, finds the castle deserted. no one answers his calls. issuing forth he finds his horse saddled and the drawbridge down. thinking to find the castle dwellers in the forest he rides forth, but the drawbridge closes so suddenly behind him that had not the horse leapt quickly forward it had gone hard with steed and rider. in vain perceval calls: none answer. ( ) he pricks on and comes to an oak, beneath which sits a maid holding a dead knight in her arms and lamenting over him. she asks him where he has passed the night, and on learning it tells him the fisher who had directed him to the castle and his host were one and the same; wounded by a spear thrust through both thighs his only solace is in fishing, whence he is called the fisher king. she asks, had perceval seen the bleeding lance, the graal, and the silver dish? had he asked their meaning? no; then what is his name? he does not know it, but she guesses it: perceval le gallois; but it should be perceval the caitiff, for had he asked concerning what he saw, the good king would have been made whole again, and great good have sprung therefrom. he has also a heavy sin on his conscience in that his mother died of grief when he left her. she herself is his cousin. perceval asks concerning the dead knight, and learning it is her lover offers to revenge her upon his slayer. in return she tells him about the sword, how it will fly in pieces if he have not care of it, and how it may be made whole again by dipping it in a lake, near which dwells its maker, the smith trebucet. ( ) perceval leaves his cousin and meets, riding on a wretched horse, a scantily and shabbily clad woman of miserable appearance, lamenting her hard fate and unjust treatment. she is the lady of the tent whose ring perceval had carried off. she bids him fly her husband, the orgellous de la lande. the latter appears, challenges perceval, but is overcome by him, convinced of his wife's innocence, compelled to take her into favour again, and both must go to arthur's court, relate the whole story, and renew perceval's promise to the damsel whom kex had struck, to avenge her. arthur, when he hears of the deeds of the young hero, sets forth with his whole court to seek him. ( ) snow has fallen, and a flock of wild geese, blinded by the snow, has had one of its number wounded by a falcon. three blood drops have fallen on the snow, and perceval beholding them falls into deep thought on the red and white in his love's face. arthur and his knights come up with him. saigremors sees him first, bids him come, and, when he answers no word, tilts against him, but is overthrown. kex then trys his luck, but is unhorsed so rudely that arm and leg are broken. gauvain declares that love must be mastering the strange knight's thoughts, approaches him courteously, tells his own name and learns perceval's, and brings the latter to arthur, by whom he is received with all honour. perceval then learns it is kex he has overthrown, thus fulfilling his promise to the damsel whom kex had smitten, and whose knight he offers himself to be. ( ) perceval returns on the morrow with the court to carlion, and the next day at noon there comes riding on a yellow mule a damsel more hideous than could be pictured outside hell. she curses perceval for having omitted to ask concerning the lance and graal; had he done so the king would have been healed of his wound and ruled his land in peace; now maidens will be put to shame, orphans and widows made, and many knights slain. turning to the king she tells of the adventures to be achieved at the castel orgellous, where dwell five hundred and seventy knights, each with his lady love. he, though, who would win the highest renown must to montesclaire to free the damsel held captive there. she then departs. gauvain will forth to the imprisoned damsel, giflès to the castel orgellous, and perceval swears to rest no two nights in the same place till he have learnt concerning graal and lance. ( ) a knight, guigambresil, enters and accuses gauvain of having slain his lord. the latter sets forth at once to the king of cavalon to clear himself of this accusation. ( ) on his way he meets the host of melians, who is preparing to take part in a tournament to approve himself worthy the love of the daughter of tiebaut of tingaguel, who had hitherto refused his suit. gauvain rides on to tingaguel to help its lord. on arriving at the castle the eldest daughter jeers at him, whilst the youngest takes his part, declaring him a better knight than melians, whereat her sister is very indignant. on the first day of the tournament melians shows himself the best knight, but the younger sister still declares her faith in gauvain, and has her ears boxed in consequence. she appeals to gauvain to be her knight and avenge the injury done her. he consents, overcomes melians, whose horse he sends to his little lady, and all other knights; then, after telling his name, rides forth. ( ) he meets two knights, the younger of whom offers him hospitality, and sends him to his sister, bidding her welcome him. she receives him kindly, and when, struck with her beauty, he asks her favours, grants them at once. they are interrupted by a steward, who reproaches her with giving her love to her father's murderer, and calls upon the castle folk to attack gauvain. the latter defends himself until the return of guigambresil, who reproaches the lord of the castle for letting gauvain be attacked, as he had expressed his readiness to do single combat. gauvain is then allowed to go, and is excused the combat if within a year he can bring back the bleeding lance. he sets off in search of it. ( ) the tale returns to perceval, who has wandered about for five years without thinking of god, yet performing many feats. he meets three knights accompanied by ladies, all clad in penitents' dress. 'twas a good friday, and the eldest knight rebukes perceval for riding fully armed on such a day. he must confess him to a holy hermit who lives hard by. perceval goes thither, accuses himself of having forgotten god through his great grief at not learning the use of the graal. the hermit reveals himself as his uncle, tells perceval that he is in sin as having caused his mother's death, and for that reason he could not ask concerning lance and graal; but for her prayers he had not lived till now. perceval remains two days with his uncle, receives absolution, and rides forth. ( ) the story turns to gauvain, who, after escalavon, finds beneath an oak a damsel lamenting over a wounded knight; the latter advises gauvain to push on, which he does, and comes upon a damsel who receives him discourteously, and when at her bidding he has fetched her horse from a garden hard by, mocks at him and rides off. he follows, and culls on the way herbs with which he heals the wounded knight. a squire rides up very hideous of aspect, mounted on a wretched hack. gauvain chastises him for discourteous answers; meanwhile the wounded knight makes off with gauvain's steed, making himself known as griogoras, whom gauvain had once punished for ill-doing, gauvain has to follow the damsel upon the squire's hack, comes to a river, on the other side of which is a castle, overcomes a knight who attacks him, during which the damsel vanishes, is ferried across the stream, giving the vanquished knight to the ferryman as toll; ( ) comes on the morrow to the magic castle, wherein damsels are held fast, awaiting a knight full of all knightly virtues to restore their lands to the ladies, marry the damsels, and put an end to the enchantments of the palace. upon entering, gauvain sees a magnificent bed, seats himself therein, is assailed by magic art, overcomes a lion, and is then acclaimed lord of the castle. he would then leave the castle, but the ferryman says he may not, whereat gauvain is moved to anger. on the morrow, looking forth, gauvain beholds the ( ) damsel who led him to the ford, accompanied by a knight. he hastens forth, overcomes the knight, seeks again the damsel's love, but is sent by her to the ford perillous. here he meets guiromelant, who loves gauvain's sister, clarissant, a dweller in the magic castle. a combat is arranged to take place after seven days. upon his return to the damsel, named orgellouse de logres, he is now well received by her. she hates guiromelant for having slain her lover, and has long sought a good knight to avenge her. guiromelant on his side hates gauvain for having, as he says, treacherously killed his father. gauvain and orgellouse return to the magic castle. one of the queens who dwells there is mother to arthur; the second one, his daughter, mother to gauvain. the latter gives his sister clarissant a ring guiromelant had begged him, unknowing who he was, to bring to her. he then sends a knight to arthur to bid him and his whole train come witness the fight 'twixt him and guiromelant. the messenger finds arthur plunged in grief at gauvain's absence.... * * * * * here chrestien's share breaks off abruptly in the middle of a sentence, and the poem is taken up by (_b_) gautier de doulens.[ ]--( ) arthur and his court accept gauvain's invitation and make for the castle of wonders, the queen whereof has meantime made herself known to gauvain as ygène, arthur's mother. the duel between gauvain and guiromelant is hindered, and the latter weds gauvain's sister. (montp. ms. here inserts a first visit of gawain to grail castle, which is substantially the same as the one it repeats afterwards in the same place as the mons ms.) adventures of arthur and gauvain against brun de branlant follow, of gauvain with a maiden in a tent and her brother brandalis, of carduel of nantes, whose wife is beloved of the magician garahiet, and of their son carados, and the magic horn (verses , - , ). ( ) (a fresh series of adventures begins) arthur sets forth to seek giflet, son of dos; gauvain meets again with brandalis, whose sister has meanwhile borne him a son; castel orgellous, where giflet is imprisoned, is captured; gauvain's son by brandalis' sister is lost. ( ) an unknown knight comes to arthur's court; keie, who demands his name, is unhorsed; gauvain brings the unknown to the court, but the latter is slain by a javelin cast by invisible hands. gauvain equips himself in the unknown's armour and starts forth to learn the latter's name. after praying in a chapel, in which he beholds a light on the altar quenched by a black hand, he rides through brittany and normandy, and comes to a castle where, owing to his armour, he is at first hailed as lord. in one of the rooms stands a bier, whereon lies a knight, cross and broken sword upon his body, his left hand bleeding. a crowned knight enters and goes to battle with gauvain; canons and clerks come and perform the vigil of the dead; whilst at table gauvain sees the rich grail serving out bread and wine to the knights. gauvain remains alone after the meal; he sees a lance which bleeds into a silver cup. the crowned knight again enters, bearing in his hand a broken sword which had belonged to the unknown knight, over whom he mourns. he hands the sword to gauvain and asks him to put the pieces together. gauvain cannot, whereupon the knight declares him unfit to fulfil the quest (_li besoin_) on which he came. later he may try again. gauvain asks concerning lance, sword, and bier. the lance, he is told, is the one wherewith the son of god was pierced in the side, 'twill bleed till doomsday. the tale of the broken sword which brought so much woe upon the kingdom of logres will also be told, but here gauvain falls fast asleep.[ ] on the morrow he wakes, and finds himself on the sea strand. he rides off, and behold the country has burst into green leaf, and the reason thereof is his having asked concerning the lance. the countryfolk both bless and curse him for having so far delivered them and for not having completed the deliverance by asking concerning the grail. ( ) he meets a young knight who turns out to be his son. ( ) (adventures in which carahiès, gauvain's brother, is chief actor.) ( ) the story returns to perceval, who, after leaving the hermit, rides for three days and comes to a castle, over the door of which hangs a horn. perceval blows therein, overcomes the knight who answers the challenge, and sends him to arthur's court. ( ) on his way to the castle of mont orgellous, to the pillar of which only an accomplished knight might tie his horse, he comes to the stream on whose banks he had previously met the fisher king. seeking for a bridge he meets a damsel on a mule, who, under pretence of showing a way across the river, tries to drown him. he then comes to a castle, which entering he finds untenanted. in the hall stands a chessboard. perceval plays, is beaten, seizes the board and makes as if to throw it in the moat. hereupon a damsel rises from the water to stay his hand, and coming into the room reproaches him. overcome by her beauty he asks her favours. she will grant them if he bring the head of the stag which roams in the castle park. thereto she lends him her hound, bidding him be sure he return it. the hunt follows; perceval overtakes the stag, slays it, and cutting off its head prepares to bring it back, when a maid of ill-chance (_pucelle de malaire_) takes and carries it off. perceval claiming it is reproached by her for having slain her stag, but told he may win again the hound if he go to a mound whereon a knight is painted and say, "vassal, what doest thou here?" the combat with the knight of the tomb follows, during which hound and stag's head are carried off by another knight, whom perceval can only follow when he has overcome the knight of the tomb and driven him back therein. now this knight, hight the black knight, had dwelt there summer and winter five years, striving with all-comers for the sake of his love. perceval, following up the robber knight, meets the damsel who had carried off the hound, but she only mocks him for answer to his questions. ( ) after an adventure with a discourteous knight, perceval meets at length a brother of the red knight whom he had formerly slain, who tells him he had seen the daughter of the fisher king, and she had told him of a knight who had carried off a hound and stag's head belonging to a good knight who had been at her court, and had omitted to ask concerning the grail, for which reason she had taken his hound and refused him help to follow the robber knight. ( ) perceval is directed by the red knight's brother to the fisher king's castle, but misses his way, and after an adventure at a castle, where he slays a lion, overcomes abrioris and sends him to arthur; finds a damsel mourning over a knight slain by a giant, whom he kills, achieves the feat of the ford amorous, meets and fights with gauvain's son until they learn who each other is, and at length comes to belrepaire. ( ) at first unrecognised by blanchefleur he makes himself known, stays with her three days, and then rides off, in spite of her entreaties. ( ) he meets rosette (the loathly damsel) and le biaus mauvais, laughs at the former, is challenged by the latter, whom he overcomes and sends to arthur. ( ) he comes to his mother's house, enters without making himself known, learns from his sister that his mother died at his departure ten years before, tells her who he is, and both set forth to their uncle, the hermit. on the way perceval slays a knight who offers violence to his sister. they come to their uncle, sleep there, and on the morrow perceval reveals himself, confesses, is reproved for having slain the knight the day before. perceval, after mentioning his desire to learn more concerning lance, grail, and sword, and receiving good advice from the hermit, leaves with his sister, with whom he stays three days and then quits her, despite her piteous entreaties. ( _a_) perceval comes to the castle of maidens, where he falls untimely asleep, and on the morrow finds himself in the forest, far from any castle. ( ) perceval finds the damsel who had carried off the hound, fights with her knight, garalas, overcomes him, learns that the knight of the tomb is his brother, who had lived for ten years with a fay in a magic invisible castle, and had met no one to overcome him until perceval came. perceval sends both knight and damsel to arthur. ( ) perceval meets with a white mule led by a damsel; he joins her, although she entreats him not to do so. suddenly struck by a great light in the forest, he turns to ask his companion what it might mean, but finds her gone. a violent storm comes on. the morrow he meets the damsel with the mule, who had felt no storm. she tells him about the great light: it came from the "gréaus," which was given by the king of kings as he hung on the cross; the devil may not lead astray any man on the same day he sees it, therefore the king has it carried about. perceval asks further, but is told only a holy man may speak of these mysteries. perceval relates his adventure with the lady of the chessboard, and the damsel gives him the white mule, which will lead to her castle, together with a ring giving the possessor power over the mule. he is to give both back when he meets her. ( ) the mule brings perceval across a river, over a glass bridge, on the other side of which he meets with brios, who persuades him to join in a tournament held by arthur at the castel orguellous, as he must win the prize of knighthood before coming to the castle of the fisher king. perceval leaves stag's head and hound at brios' castle, carries off the prize at the tournament, remaining unknown. ( ) proceeding thence he frees a knight imprisoned beneath a tombstone, who, in return, shuts him up in the tomb, but, being unable to make the mule go forward, is obliged to release him, and returns to his prison, telling perceval he knows him for the best knight in the world. ( ) perceval meets the damsel of the mule, to whom he returns ring and mule, and who asks him if he has been at the fisher king's court; on his saying, no, she hurries off. perceval prays god to direct him to the castle of the chessboard. a voice tells him to follow the hound; he does so, reaches the castle, is greeted by the maiden, to whom he gives stag's head and hound, and who in return tells him concerning the chessboard which _morghe la fée_ had had made at london, on the thames, and grants him her favours as she had promised. on the morrow perceval rides forth, accompanied awhile by the damsel, who will show him his onward way. ( ) they come to a river, on which is a boat tied to an oak tree. perceval is to enter it, cross the river, and on the other side he will find a road leading to the fisher king. on his way perceval releases a knight whom he finds hanging by his feet from a tree; 'tis bagommedes whom keie had treated thus, and who returns to arthur's court, challenges keie, and is only hindered by arthur from slaying him. all arthur's knights then start forth for the mont dolorous and in search of perceval. the adventures of gauvain alone are related in detail until the tale returns to perceval. ( ) after freeing bagommedes, perceval, wandering in the woods, comes to a tree, in whose branches sits a child, who can tell nothing of the fisher king, but tells perceval he will come on the morrow to the mont dolorous. this he does, and binds his horse to the pillar. a damsel on a white mule tells him of arthur's birth, and how merlin had made castle and pillar to prove who should be the best of knights. she was merlin's daughter. ( ) perceval rides on, and towards evening sees afar off a tree upon which burn many lights; as he draws near he finds only a chapel, upon the altar of which lies a dead knight. a great and sudden light is followed by the appearance of a black hand, which puts out the candle on the altar. on the morrow he meets first a huntsman, who tells him he is near the castle, then a damsel, who explains the child in the tree, the chapel, and the black hand as having connection with the holy grail and the lance. ( ) perceval comes at last to the castle of the fisher king, whom he finds on a couch as heretofore. he tells him his adventures, and asks concerning the child on the tree, the tree full of lights, and the chapel with the dead knight. meanwhile a damsel enters a hall bearing the grail, another follows with the bleeding lance, then comes a squire with a sword broken in two. again perceval puts his questions, and will not eat until they are answered. first, he is told of the child which would not speak to him on account of his many sins, and which climbed ever upwards to show man's thoughts should be raised to the creator. before learning aught further perceval is to try and weld the broken sword together; none but a true knight lover of god, and of god's spouse, holy church, may accomplish it. perceval succeeds, save that a little crack still remains. the fisher king embraces him and hails him as lord of his house. here the section which goes under the name of gautier ends. [a portion of gautier's section of the conte du graal is found in the berne ms., partly edited, partly summarised, by rochat in his work, _ein unbekannter percheval li gallois_ (_vide_ _infra_ p. ). this version offers some remarkable peculiarities. it has a short introduction of thirteen lines; then follows line , of gautier in potvin's text (mons ms.). an incident follows, omitted in the mons ms., but found in montpellier and in paris, : perceval meets a huntsman who upbraids him for having been at the fisher king's court, and failed to ask about grail and bleeding lance. then follow incidents , ( is absent so far as one can judge from rochat's summary), to (in which perceval does not apparently send garalas and his love to arthur), and to end, the following finish being then tacked on: the fisher king is father to alain le gros, husband to enigeus, sister to that joseph who, when christ's body was taken down from the cross, had it from pilate as a reward for his services. joseph had the vessel prepared to catch in it the blood from the body; it was the same jesus had made the sacrament in on the thursday before. the fisher king dies on the third day and perceval reigns in his stead.][ ] the conte du graal is continued by-- (_c_) manessier.--( ) perceval, full of joy, sits down to table; after the meal, lance, grail, and a goodly silver dish pass before the royal table away into the next room. perceval, sighing, asks concerning these objects and the maidens bearing them. ( ) the king tells as follows: the lance is that wherewith longis pierced god's side that day he hung on the cross (montpellier ms.: when longis withdrew the spear the blood ran down to feet, so that joseph of barimacie turned black from sorrow, and he collected the blood in the holy vessel). on perceval's asking further, the grail is the vessel wherein the holy precious blood of our lord was received. then perceval asks how it came thither; ( ) joseph brought it when he departed from the prison whence he was freed by vespasian. he baptized forty of his friends, and wandered forth with them till they came to sarras, where, as the tale tells, they found the king in the temple of the sun. joseph helped the king against his enemies by means of a red cross which he fixed on the king's shield. evelac, such was the king's name, won the battle thereby, was baptized, and renamed noodrans. it went so likewise with his brother-in-law, salafrès, renamed natiien. joseph departed thence, ever bearing the grail with him, till at length he came hither, converted the land, and i, of his seed, am keeping manor and grail, the which shall never dwell elsewhere, god willing. (montpellier ms. merely says, how joseph was put into a dark prison, and kept there forty years, but the lord sent him the sweetness of the grail twice or thrice a day. tiberius and vespasian deliver him and bring him to rome, whence he carries away the lance.) ( ) to perceval's questions concerning the damsels: the grail-bearer is of royal blood, and pure maid, or god might not let her hold it, she is my child; the dish-bearer is also of high lineage, daughter to king goon desert. ( ) the king would then go to sleep, but perceval would know about the broken sword: in quiquagrant dwelt goon desert, the king's brother. besieged by espinogre he made a sally and slew him. espinogre's nephew swore revenge; donning the armour of a knight of goon desert, he slew him, but the sword broke when the traitrous blow was struck. goon desert's body was brought to his brother's castle, whither came, too, his daughter with the broken sword, foretelling that a knight should come, rejoin the pieces, and avenge the foul blow. the fisher king taking up the fragments incautiously was pierced through the thigh, and the wound might not be healed until his brother's death was avenged. the murderer's name is partiniaus, lord of the red tower. perceval vows to avenge this wrong, but first, despite the king's strong hints that it is bed-time, must learn ( ) about the candles on the trees, how they are fay trees, and the lights deceiving ones, but they might not deceive perceval, he being destined to achieve the wonders of the earth, and he has put an end to this illusion; ( ) how the black hand haunted a chapel wherein pinogres had slain his mother, and over four thousand knights had been slain by it. ( ) perceval starting on the morrow in search of partinal meets with saigremors, and with him delivers a damsel from ten robber knights. perceval, wounded, stays a month at the damsel's castle, and ( ) the story tells for some fifteen hundred verses ( , - , ) of saigremors; how he pursues the robber knights, comes to the castle of maidens, delivers the dame thereof from a knight, calides, who wars upon her, and afterwards delivers another maiden, to whom two knights were offering violence; ( ) then, for over two thousand verses of gauvain; how he prepares to set forth again in search of the fisher king; how a maiden comes to him whose brother had been slain in his service, reproaches gauvain for his conduct at the fisher king's castle, and carries him off; how he saves a maid going to be burnt; how after other adventures he slays king margon, returns to arthur's court, fights with kex to avenge the brother of the damsel, etc. ( ) meanwhile perceval, leaving the damsel who has tended him right well, rides forth into a wood, where he is overtaken by a great storm of thunder and hail, after which he comes to the chapel where lies the body of the knight slain by the black hand. perceval strives with the devil to whom this belongs, overcomes, and with the help of a hermit who tells him the tale of all the knights who had fallen there, buries the body. he then confesses to the hermit, who warns him not to think of acquiring fame, but rather to save his soul. ( ) perceval, riding forth on the morrow, is met by the devil, who throws him from his horse; he finds another, mounts it, but coming to a stream luckily crosses himself, when it disappears; it was the devil. ( ) a damsel passes by with a bark, wherein perceval mounts; she minds him of blanchefleur, and desire masters him, but again he crosses himself in time, and ship and damsel vanish. ( ) a hermit comes who instructs him concerning all these things, brings him where he finds a fresh steed, and to a fair castle. perceval overcomes a knight who would bar his passing, delivers the lady love of dodinel from a felon knight; is appealed to for help by a damsel of blanchefleur's, oppressed by arides of cavalon. ( ) setting off to the succour of his lady love, his horse falls lame, he comes to a smith who tells him his name is tribuet, the forger of the broken sword. tribuet makes the sword whole, and bids perceval guard it well, never had king or conqueror a better one. ( ) perceval reaches bel repaire, overcomes arides, whom he sends to arthur's court, bidding him announce his own arrival for whitsuntide. he then quits blanchefleur, and ( ) meets with the coward knight, who will not fight even when he sees two damsels carried off by ten knights. perceval attacks the ravishers, the coward knight is drawn into the struggle, and quits himself valiantly. the rescued damsels bring the knights to their castle, where perceval, sore wounded, remains for two months. ( ) meanwhile saigremors has announced perceval's arrival at camelot. whitsuntide passing, all the knights set forth in search of him, and, amongst others, boort; he meets his brother lyonel led, bound and naked, by six knights, who scourge him, and at the same moment he hears the plaint of a maid to whom a knight is doing violence. her he succours, then hurries after his brother, whom, meanwhile, gauvain has rescued. lyonel bitterly reproaches his brother for abandoning him, and falls upon him, sword in hand; boort offers no defence, and would be slain but for a passing knight, calogrinant, who pays for his interference with his life. finally, heavenly intervention appeases lyonel. calogrinant is buried by a hermit. ( ) perceval, healed, leaves the castle together with the coward knight, is present with him at a tournament, at which he distinguishes himself above all others, leaves his companion, to whom he gives the name le hardis, and ( ) meets hector, who challenges him. the two fight, and well-nigh kill each other. to them, lying on the field of combat, appears an angel with the grail, and makes them whole. ( ) perceval rides on to partinal's castle, before which stands a fir tree whereon hangs a shield. perceval throws this down, whereupon partinal appears and a desperate combat ensues, ended by the overthrow of partinal, and, as he will submit to no conditions, his death. perceval cuts off his head and makes for the grail castle, but only after a summer's seeking, lights upon it chancewise. ( ) as he nears the castle, the warders come to the king, telling him a knight is coming with a head hanging at his saddle-bow; hereupon the king leaps to his feet and is straightway made whole. partinal's head is stuck on a pike on the highest tower of the castle. after supper, at which the same mystic procession of talismans takes place as heretofore, the king learns perceval's name, and thereby finds that he is his own sister's son. he would hand him his crown, but perceval has vowed not to take it, his uncle living. ( ) he returns to arthur's court, overcoming on the way seven knights, and tells his adventures, which arthur has written down and kept in a box at salisbury. the grail damsel appears and tells perceval his uncle is dead. perceval goes to corbière accompanied by all the court, who assist at his crowning and remain with him a month, during which time the grail feeds all with the costliest foods. he marries his cousins, the two grail-bearers, to two valiant kings, and reigns in peace for seven years. ( ) after which time he follows a hermit into the wilderness, accompanied by grail, lance, and holy dish. he serves the lord for ten years, and, when he dies, grail, lance, and dish were doubtless carried up to heaven, for since that day no man saw them. (_d_) gerbert.--(according to birch hirschfeld interpolated between gautier and manessier, and joining on therefore to the last incident in gautier.)[ ] ( ) perceval's sin in having indirectly caused the death of his mother disables him from making whole the broken sword, and he must set forth again in search of the grail. in the night he dreams a danger threatens his sister, and on the morrow he wakes up in open field, the grail castle having vanished. ( ) he comes to a fair castle in the midst of a meadow, and, finding the door shut, knocks at it with his sword till the latter breaks. an old man appears, and tells him the broken sword will cost him seven years more wanderings until he come again to the grail castle. all he can do for perceval is to give him a letter which heals the wounded and makes the wearer invincible. ( ) perceval riding thence through country that the day before was waste and folkless, finds it now well cultivated and peopled; all press round him and bless him for the change wrought by his asking concerning the grail. ( ) he comes to a castle wherein is a forge guarded by two serpents, and on it was a sword forged for a year, and it might not be broken, save in a certain danger, or mended save at the same forge. perceval, after resisting the devil in the shape of a fair maid, attacks and overcomes the two serpents, and has his sword mended by the blacksmith, who tells him how he broke it at the gate of paradise. ( ) after making whole by his letter two knights of the round table who had lost their wits in castle dolorous, perceval comes to carlion, to arthur's court, and accomplishes the adventure of the perillous seat which a fairy had sent to arthur. only the destined grail-finder might sit in it. six knights who had previously essayed the feat had been swallowed up by the earth; they reappear when perceval is successful. ( ) perceval is called away from the court by a forsaken damsel, whose false lover he compels to marry her; then, after overcoming fresh temptation in damsel-shape, he comes to his sister's castle, overcomes her adversary, who turns out to be mordret, and reaches the castle of maidens, where he is healed of his wounds by the lady of the castle, his cousin. she tells him of his mother, philosofine, and how the grail was taken from the ken of man owing to the sinfulness of the world. perceval leaves his sister in this castle where dames are chaste and damsels maids. ( ) returning to court, whither mordret had preceded him in sorry plight, perceval is mocked at by kex, whom he overcomes, and afterwards meets gauvain and tristan. ( ) leaving the court, he meets with four knights carrying their father, mortally wounded, accompanies them to their castle, recognises in the wounded knight, gornumant, who had knighted him, swears to avenge him, tells all that has befallen himself, and learns that the cause of his successive failures is his forsaking his betrothed, blanchefleur, whom he knows to be gornumant's niece. he is told that if he listen heedfully to mass and marry the damsel all will be well, and he will learn the secrets of lance and grail. but first perceval overcomes a hideous hag, who by night brings to life gornumant's enemies slain during the day. she has a potion, whereof christ made use in the sepulchre, and with it she quickens the dead. she recognizes perceval and acknowledges him as her conqueror, yet while she lives he shall know nought of the grail; she works by order of the king of the waste city, who hates all christian folk. perceval tries the virtue of the potion on the most valiant of his enemies, with whom he engages in a fresh and desperate struggle, heals gornumant with it, and sets off to marry blanchefleur, as he is wishful to live cleanly and fly deadly sin. ( ) she is overjoyed at his arrival; preparations are made for the marriage; the night before, she comes to his bedside in smock and mantle, and they pass the night side by side, but with the sheet between them. the wedding follows, and then, fearful of losing the heavenly joy for sake of carnal longing, they resolve to resist the devil and live virgin-wise, for virginity surpasseth aught else, even as the topaz does crystal. perceval, in a dream, is assured that of his seed shall be the swan knight and the deliverer of the holy sepulchre. meanwhile he is still to search after lance and grail. ( ) on the morrow he quits blanchefleur, "maid she laid her to bed, maid she arose;" frees a maiden pursued by a brutal knight; ( ) comes to a castle where the wayfarer must first fight against four knights and then against the lord of the castle; does away with this custom; ( ) comes to cross roads, whereof one is safe and easy, the other adventurous and full of danger; meets a knight all on fire; sees two hermits, one kneeling at a cross, the other scourging it; then a wonderful beast, a doe followed by fawns, which assail and devour her; ( ) is presented at a hermit's with a shield none but the grail-winner may wear, after which the table heretofore meanly spread is covered with rich fare, and learns the meaning of the mystic scenes he has witnessed. ( ) he is summoned by a damsel, who tells him of the dragon king, lord of a heathen folk dwelling in mid-sea, possessor of a shield whereon is painted a dragon that belches forth flame. perceval sets forth to attack him, resists the devil who dwells in the dragon head, thanks to his miraculous shield whereon the cross is painted, and forces him to flee; continues the fight against the dragon knight without his shield, and slays him, but not till he has repented him of his sins. ( ) meanwhile a thief has made off with the shield, in pursuing whom perceval comes to an abbey, where he learns the story of joseph of arimathea. some forty years after the crucifixion lived a heathen king, evelac, in sarras, wherefrom the saracens have their name, sore pressed by tholomes, king of syria. but joseph of barimaschie, who had been five years in pilate's service, comes to him, and with him his brother-in-law, seraphe; he promised the king victory if he would let himself be baptized. the king consented, and received the name of mordrach. joseph then came to this land, and with him sixty folk and two fair ladies, whereof the one, philosophine, bore a plate, the other an ever-bleeding lance, whilst joseph had a vessel, never saw man a fairer one. but king crudel flung joseph and his companions into prison, where they dwelt forty days, but it harmed them not, as through the holy grail they were filled with great plenty and had every wish fulfilled. now, mordrains, learning this, brought together a great host, invaded king crudel's lands, attacked and slew him. mordrains, disarming, was found to be covered with wounds, none of which he had felt. on the morrow joseph put up a table, altar-wise, and thereon laid the grail, which mordrains seeing, pressed near to. but an angel with a fiery sword kept him back, and a voice assured him he had laid such a burden on his shoulders as he might not pass away, nor would his wounds be healed until should come the true knight, loved of christ, sinless, and in his arms he, mordrains, should die. and till then the host should be his only food. since then three hundred years have passed, and the monks have heard that the knight is in the land who shall ask concerning lance and grail, and thereby heal the king. ( ) perceval leaves on the morrow and comes to a castle wherein is a coffin, brought thereto in a boat drawn by a swan; none save the best knight in the world may open it. all have tried, even gauvain, and failed. perceval succeeds, and finds in the coffin the body of a knight, former lord of the castle, and a letter setting forth that he who should open the coffin was his murderer. perceval, attacked in consequence by the dead man's sons, defends himself by making a buttress of the youngest son's body. afterwards he overcomes the folk of the castle, and delivers gauvain, held prisoner therein. ( ) perceval, after confessing his sins to a hermit, has an adventure with the devil, who comes out of a tomb, but whom he forces back therein. ( ) he then succours a maiden whom her jealous lover has thrown into a fountain; ( ) punishes a damsel who tempts him in traitrous-wise; ( ) meets with and is sore pressed by a giant, whom he overcomes; ( ) has a fresh and victorious encounter with kex, and, finally, ( ) arrives at crossways, is directed by the cross to the fisher king's court, reaches it, asks straightway for the grail, is questioned by the king and relates his allegorical adventures. at table the grail appears, followed by lance and sword. perceval pieces together the sword, and the king, full of joy, embraces him. =wolfram von eschenbach's parzival.=--gahmuret, parzival's father, goes to the east, takes service with baruc, wins the love of the heathen queen belakane, but after remaining with her a short time forsakes her, promising to return if she become christian. she bears a son, and names him feirefiz. gahmuret by his prowess at a tournament wins the love of herzeloyde, whom he marries on condition he may go a tourneying every month. hearing his old lord baruc is in danger, he hastens to his aid, and is slain. herzeloyde on receipt of the news resolves to withdraw to the wilderness, and bring up her son in ignorance of knighthood. [from this point up to and including the adventure with orgeuilleuse, where chrestien's share of the conte du graal breaks off, wolfram agrees very closely with chrestien. it has been much debated in germany whether he really had any other model but chrestien, and whether his alleged model kyot be not a feigned source to justify his departure from the story as found in the conte du graal. a brief outline of the arguments for and against this view will be found in appendix a. the chief points of difference in the portion common to the two poets are: the more important position in the narrative assigned to perceval's cousin, whom wolfram names sigune, who is fed from the grail by the grail messenger, the loathly damsel, and about whose loves with schianatulander wolfram has left fragments of another poem, titurel. parzival meets her immediately after his adventure with the lady of the tent. parzival's love is named condwiramur. on the first night of their marriage he leaves her maid (as in gerbert's version). but the most important peculiarity of wolfram's poem is his account of the grail itself, a stone which yields all manner of food and drink, the power of which is sustained by a dove, which every week lays a host upon it, given, after the fall of the rebel angels, in charge to titurel and his dynasty, by them preserved in the grail castle, montsalvatch, guarded by a sacred order of knighthood whom it chooses itself. the knights are vowed to virginity, the king alone being allowed marriage. the cause of the maimed king's (amfortas) hurt is his having taken up arms in the cause of worldly and unlawful love. when parzival leaves the grail castle after the first visit, he is mocked at by the inmates for having omitted the question. more stress is laid on the broken sword, connected with which is a magic spell parzival must master before he can become lord of the grail castle. the "loathly damsel," kundrie, is also a much more important person with wolfram than with chrestien, and she is brought into contact with parzival's cousin, sigune. parzival's love for his wife is dwelt upon at length, and he is urged by the hermit rather to rejoin her than to seek the grail.] after the adventure with orgueilleuse, wolfram continues as follows:--the lord of the magic castle, wherein are kept prisoners arthur's mother and the other queens, is clinschor, nephew of virgilius of naples, who took to magic after his unmanning at the hands of king ibert, whose wife, iblis, he loved. gawain overcomes the magician, and, both unknowing, fights with parzival. the latter, after many lesser adventures, meets his half-brother feirefiz, and sustains with him the hardest of all his fights. at length recognition is brought about, the two embrace, and repair to arthur's court. cundrie nears once more, tells parzival he has been chosen grail king, that his wife and twin sons, loherangrin and kardeiz, have been summoned to the grail castle, and that the question will now free amfortas and his land. with cundrie and feirefiz, parzival rides to the grail castle, meets his wife, together they all behold the talismans, save feirefiz, to whom as a heathen the sight of the grail is denied. but he is baptised, weds repanse de schoie, the grail damsel, the two return to india, and from them is born prester john. parzival rules over his grail kingdom. of his son loherangrin it is told how he is led to the aid of the duchess of brabant by a swan, how he marries her on condition she inquire not as to his origin, and how, on her breaking the command, the swan carries him away from her. =heinrich von dem türlin.=--_the gawain episodes of diu crône._--the parallelism of heinrich's poem with those of wolfram and chrestien begins about verse , with an adventure of gawain's corresponding to inc. in chrestien (tournament for the hand of tiebaut of tingaguel's daughter, episode of the two sisters, combat with melians de lis). in heinrich the father is named leigamar, the eldest daughter fursensephin, (fleur sans epine ?), the youngest quebelepluz, where heinrich has taken a french phrase setting forth the greater fairness of the damsel for a proper name. inc. in chrestien then follows with these differences: the name of the castle is karamphi; gawain and the facile damsel are surprised by the latter's brother, and it is her father who, to avenge the wrong done his house, makes gawain swear that within a year he will either seek out the grail or return as prisoner to karamphi. chrestien's inc. is of course missing, the story going straight on to inc. , meeting with the wounded knight (here lohenis) and his lady love emblie, who by treachery deprive gawain of his steed; then the arrival at the castle of wonders, and the night passed in the enchanted bed, where the hero is overwhelmed with crossbolts shot at him by invisible foes. the plucking of the flower from the enchanted garden at the bidding of a damsel (orgueilleuse in chrestien and wolfram, here mancipicelle), and the meeting with and challenge by giremelanz follow. arthur's court comes to the castle of wonders to witness the combat. gawain and giremelanz are reconciled, the latter marries gawain's sister, and gawain himself sets off to search for the grail. [adventures then follow which correspond to nothing in chrestien or wolfram, in which gawain wins talismans destined to aid him in his search.] gawain sets forth on his quest accompanied by kay, lancelot, and calocreant. they part at crossways. gawain comes to the sister of the magician (anonymous in chrestien, klinschor in wolfram, here gansguoter) of the castle of wonders. she bids him take heed, if he wish to see the grail, he be not overcome by sleep, and for this that he drink not overmuch; as soon as he saw it and its accompanying damsels, he was to ask about it. if he neglected this, all his past and any future toil would be useless. on his way to the grail castle, the hero meets with all sorts of dangers, and obstacles, and wonders; amongst others, passing the night in a castle where he is tended by invisible hands. after month-long wanderings he meets with lancelot and calocreant, and learns that kay, in a vain attempt to penetrate to the grail, has been flung into prison. the three comrades then come to the grail castle. they are led into a hall which passes in splendour aught earthly eye ever saw. the floor is strewn with roses, on a bed lies an old man in gold-embroidered garments, and watches two youths playing at chess. towards night the hall fills with knights and dames, a youth enters bearing a sword which he lays before the old man. gawain is pressed to drink; but refuses, not so his two companions, who straightway fall asleep. then enter two damsels bearing lights, followed by two knights with a spear, and two more damsels with a "toblier" (? tailleor, plate) of gold and jewels. after them comes the fairest woman ever god created, and with her a maiden weeping. the spear is laid on the table, by it the "toblier" wherein are three drops of blood. in the box borne by the fair lady is a piece of bread, one third part of which she breaks off and gives to the old man. gawain recognising in her gansguoter's sister, stays no longer, but asks what these wonders mean. straightway knights and dames all with mighty shout leap from table, and great joy arises. the old man says what he has seen is the grail; none saw it before save parzival, and he asked not. by his question gawain has delivered from long waiting and suffering both those which are dead and those which live. the old man himself and his companions are really dead, though they seem it not, but the lady and her damsels are living; for their unstained womanhood god has granted them to have the grail, and therewith yearly to feed the old man. all gawain's adventures latterly have come from the grail. now he has ended all, he is to take as prize of his knighthood the sword which will help him in every danger. after him no man shall see the grail; further concerning it he must not ask, nor may know more. at daybreak the old man's tale ends, and he with his whole court vanish, leaving only the lady with her five damsels. [after releasing kay, and undergoing other adventures, gawain returns to arthur's court.] =the petit saint graal or didot-perceval.=[ ]--_prologue._--after the choosing of arthur to be king, merlin comes to the court, and tells how arthur is uther-pendragon's son, brought up by antor as his son. all rejoice at this, especially gauvain, son of lot. after dinner the barons bring merlin to arthur, and tell him how he was the prophet of uther-pendragon, and had made the round table. arthur promises to honour merlin. the latter calls him apart with gauvain and key, and tells him how, in the time of uther-pendragon, the round table was made after the pattern of one joseph constructed when he separated the good from the evil. two kings of britain before had been kings of france, and conquered rome; queen sibyl and solomon had prophesied arthur should be third, and he, merlin, was the third to assure him of it. but this could only be if arthur established the round table as merlin directed. now the grail had been given joseph by our lord himself, and at his command joseph led a great folk into the desert. and when evil befell them joseph, at our lord's command, made a table; whereat one place was left empty in remembrance of judas. but moyses, a false disciple, sat therein, but sank into the abyss, whereout he shall not come until the time of antichrist. our lord made the first table; joseph, the second; he, merlin, the third. the grail was given into the keeping of the rich fisher king; but he was old, full of sickness, and should not win health till a knight came, having sat at the round table, true man of god and of holy church, and the best knight in the world for feats of arms. he must ask the rich fisher of what use is the grail; then the king would be cured of his infirmity, the enchantments of britain would cease, and the prophecy be fulfilled. should arthur do this, great good would come of it; he, merlin, must go, as he could not often show himself to the people. whereupon he departs to ortoberland, to blaise, his master, who writes down these things, and by his writings we know them. the son of alein le gros is a child named percevaux, and as alein is dying he hears the voice of the holy ghost saying, know thou art near thy end, and wilt soon come into the fellowship of jesus christ. brons, thy father, dwells in these isles of ireland, and with him is the grail. and he may not die until thy son finds him, to whom he shall commend the grace of the vessel, and teach the secret words joseph taught him, then shall he be cured of his infirmities. and i command thy son that he go to the court of arthur, where he shall be taught how he may find the house of his grandfather. alein dies, and percevaux mounts his horse and comes to arthur's court, and asks arms from him, and stays there and is much loved. ( ) arthur proposes holding a tournament at easter, the greatest the world had seen, to honour the round table. perceval at first takes no part in the tournament; but afterwards, for love of aleine, niece of gauvain, who incites him thereto, and sends him a suit of red armour, he enters the lists unknown, and overbears all opponents, so that all say he should fill the empty place at the round table. perceval claims the empty place from the king, and when refused threatens to return to his land and never visit the court again. arthur yields, and perceval seats himself. then the rocks and the earth groan dolorously, and a voice reproaches arthur with having disobeyed merlin's command. were it not the goodness of alein le gros perceval had died the death of moys. now should arthur know the vessel our lord gave joseph was in the keeping of the rich fisher, and he was ill and infirm, and until the best knight in the world should come might not die. and when that knight should come to the rich fisher and ask concerning the vessel, then should he be cured, but die within three days after giving the vessel to that knight, and teaching him the secret words handed down by joseph. thus the enchantments of britain should cease. ( ) perceval swears not to lie one night where he had lain the night before till he find the rich fisher. gauvain, sagremors, beduers, hurgains, and erec swear the same. the knights set forth amid general lamentation. they part at a chapel, and the story follows perceval. ( ) he comes, after two days, upon a damsel weeping over a knight, hurganet, one of the round table, who had gone forth on the grail quest. he had delivered her from a giant, and ridden with her into a tent where they found knights and ladies, who warned them not to await the owner, the "orgoillos delandes," who would kill him. and whilst speaking a dwarf entered, scourge in hand, who threw down the tent. the lord of the tent then appeared, clad in red armour, and slew hurganet. perceval determines to avenge his death; rides to the tent with the damsel; is warned of its inmates; is surprised by the dwarf, who smites the damsel with his scourge, whereupon perceval fells him to the ground. the knight of the tent appears; after a desperate struggle perceval overcomes him and sends him with the damsel to arthur's court. she had fain stayed with him, but he thought of other things. ( ) perceval comes to the finest castle in the world, enters, and finds no inhabitant. only a chessboard he finds. he begins to move the pieces, and they play against him, and he is checkmated three times running. full of anger he prepares to throw the chessmen into the castle moat--suddenly a damsel shows herself and reproaches him. he will abstain if she comes to him. she consents, and after her squires and maidens have disarmed perceval he joins her. overcome by her beauty he requests her love. she will grant it him if he capture the white stag of the wood. she lends him her hound, and recommends him to take the utmost care of it. perceval chases the stag, captures it, and, having cut off its head, starts back. but meanwhile an old woman has carried off the hound. she will only give it up if perceval will go to a grave whereunder is a knight painted, and say: "felon, he that put you there." perceval complies; whereupon appears a knight on a black horse armed in black. they strive, and perceval overcomes him. but meantime a second knight has carried off both the stag's head and the hound from the old woman. perceval's adversary flees to the tomb, which closes upon him, and perceval follows the second knight after a vain attempt to get help from the old woman. ( ) him he found not; but after feats longer than i can tell, comes to his father's house, where he was born. he only finds his sister and a niece. the former tells him concerning her brother, who went to arthur's court; whereupon their mother died of grief. perceval reveals himself, and is amazed at what she relates concerning the grail and its guardian, and asks if he may come to behold it. she answers, yes; whereupon he vows not to rest till he have found it. she attempts to dissuade him, but he remains firm. she then urges him to go to their uncle, who is a hermit, to whom he may confess the sin of his mother's death, and who will advise him concerning the quest. ( ) both proceed thither. he rejoices to see them, and asks if perceval has been to the house of his father, guardian of the vessel named grail, and, on hearing that he has not, tells him how at the table which joseph and himself had made, the voice of the holy ghost had come to them, telling them to go westward, and ordering the rich fisher, his father, to come to that land where the sun goes down (_avaloit_), telling him he should not die till the son of alein had become the best knight in the world. perceval had been chosen to do his lord's service; he is to slay no knight nor to lie with any woman, that being luxurious sin. his sins have prevented his reaching brons. he is to be careful to keep himself from sin and felony, being of a race our lord so loved that he committed his blood to their keeping. much else he says, and on the morrow perceval and his sister ride forth. ( ) they meet a knight who challenges them. perceval, thinking of the damsel who had given him the hound, at first pays no attention, but then overcomes and slays him. perceval is much grieved at having so soon broken his uncle's injunction. on the morrow he leaves his sister, promising to return so soon as he may. ( ) he meets a knight, accompanied by a damsel the most wonderfully ugly nature ever made, whereat he signs himself and laughs. the knight, indignant, challenges him, but is overcome and sent with the damsel to arthur's court. kay makes mock of them; but arthur reproves him and receives them courteously. they remain at the court, and know that she was the most beautiful woman in the world! ( ) perceval comes to a ford and is challenged by its guardian, whom he overcomes. his name is urban of the black thorn; his lady had set him to guard the ford. her castle vanishes with a great noise, and she comes to her lover's aid with her maidens in shape of birds. perceval slays one who becomes a woman, and is carried off by the others to avallon. ( ) perceval comes to a tree at the crossing of four roads, among its branches he sees two naked children of seven years old. they speak to him concerning the grail, and direct him to take the road to the right. they vanish, and a voice tells him to heed their counsel. ( ) perceval comes to a river whereon are three men in a boat, and the master of the boat bids him go down the stream till he should come to his house. perceval rides a whole day without finding it, and curses the fisher. at last he comes to a castle with lowered drawbridge, enters, and is robed in scarlet by two squires. meanwhile four attendants have carried the fisher king, father of alein, and grandfather of perceval, into the hall. the king wished to do perceval what honour he might. they eat, and whilst at table a squire comes out of a chamber, and brings in both hands a lance, whence flows a drop of blood. him follows a damsel bearing two silver plates and clothes; then a squire with a vessel in which was our lord's blood. all bow as he passes, and perceval had fain asked, but he fears to displease the king, minding him of the worthy man to whom he had confessed, and who forbade his speaking too much and enquiring overmuch--for a man of idle words is displeasing to our lord. all night perceval thinks of the lance and of the grail, and in the morning, on waking, finds neither man nor woman. he sets forth to seek some one, but in vain, and is greatly distressed. ( ) he finds a damsel weeping bitterly, who, seeing him, cries out: "percevaux le gallois, be accursed, unhappier art thou than ever, having been in the house of the rich fisher king, and not having asked concerning the grail. thy lord hates thee; and 'tis wonder the earth do not open beneath thee." had he not seen grail and lance pass? had he asked what one did with them, the king, cured of his infirmity, would have returned to his youth; our lord's prophecy to joseph been fulfilled, and the enchantments of britain undone. but perceval is neither wise, valiant, nor true man enough to have charge of the blood. but he shall come again and ask concerning the grail, and his grandfather shall be cured. ( ) the damsel departs, and perceval, unable to find his grandfather's house, rides on and comes to a tree under which a damsel is sitting, and in whose branches the stag's head, which had been carried off from him, is hanging. perceval takes it, and when his hound following a stag comes up, takes possession of it likewise. but the knight who had taken them appears. perceval fights with and overcomes him; learns that he is the brother of the knight of the tomb, who lives therein with his love, sister of the damsel for whose sake perceval had hunted the stag. to her perceval now returns, gives her hound and stag's head, and then departs refusing the offer of her love, even to stop one night with her. ( ) perceval wanders for seven years achieving many feats, and sending more than one hundred knights prisoners to arthur; but, not being able to find his grandfather's house, he falls into such melancholy as to lose his memory, so that he minds him no more of god, and never enters church. one good friday, fully armed, he meets a knight and ladies in penitents' dress, who reproach him for going armed on a day that our lord was crucified. perceval repents; returns to his uncle, the hermit; learns that his sister is dead, and does penitence. the songmen, in their pleasing rhymes, say nothing of this; but we tell you of it as we find it in the tale merlin made blaise write down. ( ) perceval rides forth and meets seven squires of melianz de liz, who is going to a tournament at the white castle, the damsel of which is to be the victor's prize. all the knights of the round table will be there, having returned that whitsuntide from the quest of the grail without achieving aught. perceval leaves the squires and come to a castle where he puts up. his host urges him to take part in the tournament. the morrow they ride forth and look on; melianz wears the scarf of the lady of the castle; he and gauvain prove themselves the best knights, the onlooking ladies know not to whom to award the prize. the next day, perceval, having resolved upon taking part, accepts the scarf of his host's daughter, overcomes all adversaries, and sends steeds to the lady in return for her scarf. being asked by his host if he will not woo the damsel of the white castle, perceval answers he may not take wife. then appears an old man who reproaches perceval for going to a tournament, and with forgetting his vow to sleep no two nights in the same house till the quest be accomplished. he is merlin, come from hortoblande, to say that owing to the prayers of perceval's uncle, our lord wills that the latter may have his blood to keep. he is to go to his grandfather. perceval asks when he shall get there. "before a year," is the answer. "'tis a long time." "not so," says merlin, who leaves him, and tells all to blaise, from whose writing we know of it. ( ) that same night perceval comes to his grandfather's house, is received by the fisher king, and as they sit at table the grail appears, and the relics with it, and when perceval sees it he asks to what use is the vessel put? forthwith the king is cured, and his being changed. perceval must say first who he is before learning such holy things. upon learning it is his grandson before him, the king leads him to the grail, and tells him with this lance longis pierced the side of jesus christ, whom he knew in the flesh. in this vessel is the blood, joseph caught as it ran to the ground. it is called grail because it is agreeable to worthy men; none may sin in its presence. then brons, kneeling, prays, and the voice of the holy ghost tells him the prophecy will be fulfilled; and he is to teach perceval the secret words our lord on the cross told joseph, and joseph told him. he does, but i cannot and may not say what these words were. then angels carry him off; and perceval remains, and the enchantments of britain and of the whole world cease. and that same day arthur and his knights sitting at the round table are aware of a great noise, and the seat is made whole again which had broken under perceval. merlin appears to blaise, tells him his work is ended, and takes him to perceval, who was right glad of his company. _epilogue._--merlin comes to arthur's court and relates all that had taken place. the knights, finding the quest of the grail is over, and mindful of merlin's former words, urge arthur to invade the continent. he does so, overcomes frollo, king of france; refuses tribute to the emperor of rome, overcomes him, but is recalled to england on learning mordret's treachery. the latter is slain; but arthur, wounded mortally, is carried to avallon to be healed of morguen, his sister. lastly, merlin tells perceval how he will withdraw from the world, and be no more seen of men. and the tale says no more of merlin and the grail. =the mabinogi of peredur ab evrawc.=--evrawc, earl of the north, has seven sons, six of whom, like himself, fall in tournaments and combats. his wife carries off her youngest son, peredur, to the desert, and forbids horses or arms being shown to him. he grows up strong and active, and can outrun his mother's goats and hinds. ( ) one day he sees three knights passing--gwalchmai, the son of gwyar, and geneir gwystyl, and owain, the son of urien. his mother declares them to be angels; whereupon he determines to join them. he questions owain concerning his accoutrements and the use of his weapons. his mother swoons away at the thought of his leaving her; but he picks out a horse and saddles it. before leaving, his mother counsels him to repeat his paternoster wherever he sees a church; to take food and drink if none offer them; to aid when any outcry is, especially a woman's; if he sees a fair jewel to take it and give it to another; to pay his court to fair women whether they will or no. ( ) after two days and nights peredur comes to a tent, where he finds a damsel. half of the food and drink she has he takes, half leaves to her; asks her for her ring at leaving, which she gives him. her lord returning, is jealous, and sets forth to avenge his supposed wrong. ( ) peredur journeys on to arthur's court. a knight has been there before him, and grievously insulted gwenhwyvar by dashing a goblet of wine in her face, and carrying the goblet out, and has dared any to avenge the insult; but all hang their heads. peredur enters the hall and demands knighthood. on kai's protesting he is too meanly equipped, a dwarf, who, with his female companion has been a year at arthur's court without speaking, salutes him as the flower of knighthood. kai strikes him for this, and kicks the female dwarf, who repeats the salutation. kai bids peredur seek the knight and win back the goblet, then shall he have knighthood. peredur does so, and slays the knight. owain, who has followed, shows him how to undo the armour and to clad himself in it, and bids him back to arthur. but peredur refuses, he will not come back to the court till he have avenged the injury done by kai to the dwarf and dwarfess. ( ) peredur overcomes sixteen knights and sends them to arthur with the same message. ( ) peredur comes to a castle by a lake, and sees a venerable man sitting by the lake and his attendant fishing, and the old man is lame. and peredur enters the castle, and is practised in the use of weapons, and learns courtesy and noble bearing; and the old man is his uncle--his mother's brother. he is to leave his mother's habits and discourse, and if he sees aught to wonder at, not to ask the meaning of it. ( ) peredur leaves his uncle and comes to a castle where dwells a second uncle of his--brother likewise of his mother. his strength is tested by his having to cut through an iron staple with a sword. twice he does it and the broken pieces re-unite, but the third time neither would unite as before. he has arrived at two-thirds of his strength, and when he attains his full power none will be able to contend with him. whilst talking, two youths enter the hall bearing a mighty spear with three streams of blood flowing from the point to the ground. all wail and lament; but as peredur is not vouchsafed the meaning of what he sees he forbears to ask concerning it. then enter two maidens with a salver in which a man's head swims in blood. the outcry redoubles. peredur retires to sleep. ( ) on the morrow, with his uncle's permission, he rides forth, finds a beautiful woman lamenting over the corpse of a knight. she reveals herself as his foster-sister; calls him accursed for causing his mother's death by leaving her; and tells him it is her husband she mourns for, slain by the knight of the glade. peredur meets the latter, overcomes him, and makes him take his foster-sister in marriage. ( ) peredur comes to a castle where are eighteen youths and five maidens, and he had never seen one of so fair an aspect as the chief of the maidens. a flask of wine and six loaves are brought by two nuns, and that must suffice for all. the youths press the maiden to offer herself to peredur as his wife or lady love. she refuses; but consents when they threaten leaving her to her enemies. she comes weeping to peredur and relates how she is besieged by an earl who seeks her hand. she implores his aid, and offers to place herself in his hands. peredur bids her go sleep, he will assist her, the next day he overthrows the master of the household of the earl. to save his life the latter must deliver up one-third of the besieged maiden's lands. the second day it fares the same with the earl's steward; the third with the earl himself. peredur thus wins back all his hostess' lands, and tarries with her three weeks; but for her love he would not have stayed so long. ( ) peredur next meets the lady of the tent, ill-entreated of her husband concerning him. him he overcomes, compels to acknowledge her innocence, and sends both to arthur. ( ) peredur comes to the castle of a tall and stately lady, who bids him escape from the sorceresses of gloucester, who will attack the castle that night; but he resolves to remain, and defends one of the watch when overtaken by a sorceress. the latter hails him by his name. she foreknows she is to suffer harm from him. if he will go with her he shall learn chivalry and the use of arms. peredur consents on her promising to refrain from injuring the countess, and stays with her three weeks. ( ) peredur comes to a hermit's cell. in the morning it has snowed. a hawk has killed a fowl in front of the cell, but is scared away by peredur's horse; a raven has alighted on the bird. peredur likens the blackness of the raven and the whiteness of the snow and the redness of the blood to the hair and the skin and the two red spots on the cheeks of the lady he loves best. whilst thus lost in thought, arthur and his household come up with him, but fail to recognise him. a youth accosts him, but receives no answer; whereupon he thrusts at peredur but is struck to the ground. twenty-four youths essay the same, and are repulsed in like manner. kai then comes and speaks angrily, but peredur breaks his arms for him. gwalchmai then approaches him courteously, learns his name, and brings him to arthur, who does him honour. thus all return to caerlleon. ( ) peredur solicits the love of angharad law eurawc, and when she denies him, vows to speak to no christian till she loves him. ( ) peredur comes to the castle of a huge grey man, a heathen, after slaying a lion, his porter. the grey man's daughter warns him of her father, and at his request brings his horse and arms to his lodging. peredur overcomes the vassals, and slays the sons of the grey man, and sends the whole household to arthur to be baptized. ( ) peredur slays a serpent lying upon a gold ring, and wins the ring. for a long time he speaks to no christian, and loses colour and aspect through longing for arthur and his lady love. he returns to arthur's court, but none know him, and he suffers kai to thrust him through the thigh without his saying a word. he overcomes many knights, and at length angharad law eurawc confesses her love for him. he remains at arthur's court. ( ) peredur comes to the castle of a huge, black, one-eyed man. the latter's daughter warns him against her father. but peredur stays, overcomes the latter, and learns how he lost his eye. on the mound of mourning is a cairn, in the cairn a serpent with a stone in its tail, the virtue whereof is to give as much gold to the possessor as he may desire. in fighting the serpent he had lost his eye. he directs peredur to the serpent, and is slain by him. peredur refuses the love of the maidens of the castle, and rides forth. ( ) he comes to the palace of the son of the king of the tortures. every day the addanc of the lake slays them. whilst at discourse a charger enters the hall with a corpse in the saddle. they anoint the corpse with warm water and balsam, and it comes to life. the same happens with two other youths. the morrow they ride forth anew against the addanc, refusing peredur, who would go with them; but he follows and finds seated on a mound the fairest lady, who, if he will pledge her his love, will give him a stone by which he may see the addanc and be unseen of it. he promises, and she gives him the stone, telling him to seek her in india. peredur passes through a valley wherein is a flock of white sheep, and one of black, and when they cross the river flowing through the valley they change colour. he learns of their shepherd the way to the addanc's cave, slays it, meets his three companions of the night before, who tell him it was predicted that he should slay the monster, offers them its head, refuses their sister whom they proffer him in marriage; accepts the services of a youth, etlym gleddyv coch, who wishes to become his attendant, and rides forth. ( ) he comes to the court of the countess of achievements, overthrows her three hundred knights; but learning she loves etlym resigns her to him. ( ) peredur, accompanied by etlym, comes to the mound of mourning, slays two out of the three hundred knights he finds guarding the serpent, slays the latter, repays the remaining hundred knights all they have spent, gives etlym the stone and sends him back to his love. ( ) peredur comes to a valley wherein are many coloured tents, lodges with a miller, from whom he borrows food and lodging, and learns that a tournament is forward. he overcomes all the knights present, and sends their horses and arms to the miller as repayment. the empress of the tournament sends for him, he repels her messengers thrice, the fourth time he yields. she reveals herself as the lady who had helped him against the addanc, and she entertains him for fourteen years. ( ) arthur is at caerlleon-upon-usk, with him his knights, and among them peredur. there enters, riding upon a yellow mule, a maiden of hideous aspect. she greets all save peredur, to whom she reproaches his silence at the court of the lame king; had he asked the meaning of the streaming spear and of the other wonders the king would have regained health and the dominions peace--all his misfortunes are due to peredur. she then tells of a castle where are five hundred and seventy knights, each with the lady he loves best--there may fame be acquired; and of a castle on a lofty mountain where a maiden is detained prisoner, whoso should deliver her should attain the summit of the fame of the world. gwalchmai sets forth to release the imprisoned maiden, peredur to enquire the meaning of the bleeding lance. before they leave a knight enters and defies gwalchmai to single combat, for that he had slain his lord by treachery. ( ) gwalchmai meets a knight who directs him to his own castle, where he is welcomed by his sister. the steward of the castle accuses him to the knight of being the slayer of his, the knight's, father. gwalchmai demands a year to acknowledge or deny the accusation. ( ) peredur, who, seeking tidings of the black maiden, but finding none, has wandered over the whole island, meets a priest who chides him for being in armour on good friday. peredur dismounts, asks the priest's blessing, and learns of a castle where he may gain tidings of the castle of wonders. ( ) peredur proceeds thither, and meets the king of the castle, who commends him to his daughter, by whom he is well received. a little yellow page accuses him to the king of winning his daughter's love, and advises that he should be thrown into prison. but the damsel befriends him, and assists him to take part in a tournament, where, for three days, he overthrows all opponents. the king at last recognises him, and offers him his daughter; but he refuses and sets forth for the castle of wonders. ( ) on arriving there he finds the door open, and in the hall a chessboard and chessmen playing by themselves. he favours one side which loses, whereupon he casts the chessboard in the lake. the black maiden comes in and reproaches him--he may find the chessboard again at the castle of ysbidinongyl, where a black man lays waste the dominions of the empress. him peredur overcomes, but spares his life; this the black maiden chides him for, and he slays him; but the black maiden still refuses him access to the empress unless he can slay a stag, swift as the swiftest bird, with one sharp horn in his forehead. she gives him a little dog belonging to the empress which will rouse the stag. with its aid he slays the latter, but a lady, riding by, carries off the dog, and chides him for slaying the stag. he can only win her friendship by going to a cromlech which is in a grove, and challenging to fight three times a man who dwells there. peredur complies, and fights with a black man clad in rusty armour; but when he dismounts his adversary disappears. ( ) peredur, riding on, comes to a castle where sits a lame grey-headed man, and gwalchmai by him. a youth enters the hall and beseeches peredur's friendship--he had been the black maiden who came to arthur's court, and who had chid peredur concerning the chessboard; he was the youth who came with the bloody head in the salver, and the head was that of peredur's cousin slain by the sorceresses of gloucester, who also lamed peredur's uncle, and he, the speaker, was peredur's cousin. peredur seeks aid of arthur, and they start against the sorceresses. one of the latter slays three of arthur's men; whereupon peredur smites her, and she flees, exclaiming this was peredur, who had learnt chivalry of them, their destined slayer. she and all her companions are slain. thus is it related concerning the castle of wonders. =the thornton ms. sir perceval.=--( ) percyvelle is son of percyvelle and acheflour, arthur's sister. his father is slain in a tournament by the red knight whom he had previously overcome in a former tournament. his mother takes to the woods, brings up her son without instruction till he is fifteen years, when she teaches him to pray to god. ( ) he then meets with three knights of arthur's court--ewayne, gawayne, and kay. he takes them for gods. learning that they are knights, he determines to go to arthur's court and become a knight himself, catches a wild horse, and, returning to his mother, announces his attention. she counsels him to be always of measure, to salute knights when he meets them, and at his departure gives him a ring for token. ( ) he sets forth, and finding on his way a house makes himself free of it, eats, drinks, and finding a lady sleeping on a bed takes from her her ring, leaving his mother's in its place. ( ) coming to arthur's hall he rides into it and up to the king so that his mare kisses arthur's forehead. he demands knighthood at arthur's hands, threatening to slay him if refused. arthur sees the likeness to his father, laments over the latter's untimely fate, and recalls that books say the son should avenge the father's bane. percyvelle bids him let be his jangling and dub him knight. whilst sitting down to table the red knight comes in, carries off arthur's cup (five years long had he done so) none daring to hinder him. at the king's lament percyvelle engages to slay the red knight, and bring the cup back if knighthood be granted him. the king promises, percyvelle follows the ravisher, who scorns him, but is slain by a dart flung at him. he captures the knight's steed, and not being able otherwise to remove his armour, and recalling his mother's injunction "out of the iron burn the tree" kindles a fire to burn the body. gawayne, who has followed him, shows him how to unlace the armour; when that is removed percyvelle casts the body into the fire to roast. he refuses to return to arthur, looking upon himself as great a lord as the king, but sends the cup back through gawayne and rides on. ( ) he meets an old witch, mother to the red knight, who addresses him as her son; her he spears and casts into the fire. ( ) he meets ten knights, who flee, taking him for the red knight, but on his raising his vizor the oldest knight, reassured, relates how the red knight bore him and his sons enmity, and how, fifteen years before, he had slain his brother. learning that percyvelle had burnt his enemy, he invites him to his castle. ( ) whilst at meat a messenger comes in from the maiden-land begging help from the lady lufamour against a "sowdane," who would have her to wife. percyvelle starts forth with three of the old knight's sons, whom, however, he sends back each after a mile. meanwhile, the king at carebedd, mourning for percyvelle, receives lufamour's messages, gains from him tidings of percyvelle, and sets forth with his court to follow him. percyvelle, coming to the sowdane's camp, is set upon by the guard, but slays them all, and then lays him down to rest under the castle wall. in the morning lufamour's men make her aware of the slaughter wrought upon her enemies. she perceives percyvelle and sends her chamberlain, hatlayne, to bid him to her chamber. whilst at table together tidings are brought that the enemy have nearly taken the town. percyvelle sallies forth alone and soon leaves not one alive. he is then ware of four knights--arthur, ewayne, gawayne, kay. he pricks against them and gawayne receives his onslaught. they recognise each other, and all proceed to lufamour's castle. the next day the sowdane challenges all comers; percyvelle, dubbed knight by arthur, slays him, and thereafter weds lufamour. ( ) after a year he thinks on his mother's loneliness, and sets forth to seek her. hearing a damsel lamenting in the wood, he finds her bound to a tree, for that a year before, while sleeping, a stranger had robbed her of a ring leaving his own in its stead. now her ring was of a stone of such virtue that neither death nor hurt could come to the wearer. he releases her, overcomes the black knight who had bound her, reconciles them and claims his own ring for the ring he had taken. but the black knight has given it to the lord of the land--a giant. ( ) percyvelle slays the giant, and claims the ring of the porter. the latter tells him how his master, loving a fair lady, had offered her that same ring, but she, exclaiming that he had killed her son, rushed into the forest and was since then bereft of her senses. percyvelle puts on a goat's skin, and after nine days search finds her. a magic drink of the giant's throws her into a three days' sleep, after which, restored to her right mind, she goes home with her son. he afterwards goes to the holy land, and is there slain. =the queste del saint graal.=--[_furnivall's text (f.) has been taken as the basis of the present summary. words and passages not found in the welsh translation (w) are italicised; words or passages found in the welsh translation instead of those in furnivall are in parentheses. the variants from birch-hirschfeld's summary (b. h.) are given in the notes._] ( ) on whitsun eve the companions of the round table being assembled at camelot, a _damsel_ (youth) comes in great haste, asks for lancelot and bids him _from king pelles_ (for the sake of whatever he loved most) accompany her to the forest. notwithstanding guinevere's opposition he does so, and comes to a nunnery where he finds his two cousins, boort and lionel. three nuns then bring galahad, a child the like of whom might scarce be found in the world; one asks lancelot to knight him, he consents, and on the morrow lancelot and his companions return to camelot; his cousins think the child must be lancelot's son, but lancelot answers no word. ( ) at the round table the seat of each knight is marked, but on the seat perillous it is written that _four hundred and fifty-four_ (four hundred and fifty) years have passed since the lord's passion, and that on this whitsun day the seat shall find its master. lancelot covers these words, and, whilst at kay's reminding, the court awaits an adventure before sitting down to meat, a youth tells them of a stone floating on the water. it is a block of red marble, in which sticks a sword, and upon it written that none may draw the sword save the best knight in the world. lancelot declares that the wonders of the holy grail are about to begin, and refuses to essay the adventure; gawain, perceval, and others try, but fail; they then sit down to table served by twelve kings; an old man enters, leading a knight in vermeil armour, whom he proclaims the desired knight, of the seed of david and kin of joseph of arimathea, who shall achieve the adventures of the holy grail. he draws near the seat perillous, on which is now written, "this is galahad's seat," sits himself therein, dismisses the old man, _and bids him greet_, "_my uncle, king pelles, and my grandfather, the rich fisher_."[ ] ( ) great honour is done to the new knight, whom lancelot recognises as his son, and bors and lionel as the youth begot by lancelot upon the daughter _of the fisher king_ (king pelles). the queen is told that the knight is come, and her ladies say he _shall end the wonders of great britain, and through him the maimed king shall be healed_. galahad is then urged by arthur to essay the adventure of the sword, consents, easily draws out the sword, and asks for a shield. ( ) a damsel appears, weeps for lancelot as having lost his place as the best knight in the world, and tells the king from nasciens, the hermit, that on that day he would send the holy grail to feed the companions of the round table. a tournament is ordered, in which galahad is held the best, as he overthrows all save lancelot and perceval. after vespers the court sits down to table, a clap of thunder is heard, followed by the brightest of sunbeams, so that all are as if lighted by the holy ghost. none know whence the light comes, and none has power to say a word. the holy grail enters, covered with white samite, but none may see who carries it; the hall is filled with sweet odours, and as the grail passes along the tables each seat is filled with such meat as each one longs for. then it departs, none may say how, and those can now speak who before could say no word. ( ) all return thanks to god for the grace vouchsafed them, and gawain tells them that heretofore no man had been served with whatever he might desire save _at the maimed king's_ (at the court of king peleur). but they could not behold the grail openly, and gawain declares he will go on quest of it for a year and a day. the knights of the round table make a like vow. arthur is much distressed, as he knows many will die on the quest. the queen and her ladies weep likewise, and propose to join their knights, but an old priest tells them from nasciens, the hermit, that no knight entering on the quest of the holy grail is to have with him his lady or damsel--the quest is no earthly one. on the morrow, at king bandamagus' suggestion, all the questers, galahad first, swear to maintain the quest for a year and a day and longer if need be. after the queen has taken leave of lancelot, and arthur has vainly tried to force a shield on galahad, the questers set off together and pass the first night at vagan's castle. on the morrow they ride forth and separate. ( ) after five days galahad comes to an abbey where he finds king bandamagus and ywain "li aoutres." the abbey contains a shield which no knight save the destined one may take and go unslain or unhurt. king bandamagus would take it, but is overthrown by a white knight; galahad then takes it, and his right to do so is admitted by the white knight, who tells him as follows concerning it:--forty-three years after our lord's passion, joseph of arimathea, who took our lord's body down from the cross,[ ] came to the city sarras, where dwelt king evelac, then a saracen, who was at war with his neighbour, tholomes. josephes, joseph's son, warned evelac against going forth to battle unprepared, and, in answer to the king's questions what he should do, told him of the new law and gospel truth and the saviour's death, and fixed on his shield a cross of sandal. he was to uncover this on the fourth day's fighting, and to call on the lord. when he did so he beheld a bleeding, crucified figure. he won the battle, and on his telling the story his brother-in-law, nasciens, received baptism. the shield then restored to a man his lost hand. evelac was baptized, and guarded the shield in lordly fashion. josephes came with his father to great britain, where king crudel threw them with many other christians into prison. mordrains[ ] and nasciens then invaded great britain, released josephes and remained with him in the land. when josephes was on his deathbed, and evelac asked him for a remembrance, then he bade king mordrains bring his shield, and with the blood streaming from his nose marked on it a cross; this would always remain red, and no knight should with impunity unhang the shield till galahad should come, last of nasciens' line. where nasciens lay buried, there the shield was to be kept. ( ) galahad draws near a tomb in the abbey graveyard, whence issues a voice telling him not to approach and drive it out. but he does so, and a smoke in man's form comes out; on opening the tomb a dead knight's body is found lying therein, this is cast out. these things are a symbol: the hard tombstone signifies the _hard-heartedness of the world_ (the hardship which jesus christ had in this world);[ ] the dead body those dead in sin, and as in christ's time when they slew him and were harried out of their land by vespasian as a punishment; the smoke was a devil who fled from galahad because he was a virgin. ( ) on the morrow galahad rides forth accompanied by melians, a youth who had begged to be allowed to serve him, and whom he had knighted. they separate at a cross road, melians takes the left hand road in spite of warning, comes to a tent where hangs a golden crown, seizes it, meets a strange knight who overthrows and had slain him but for galahad coming to the rescue and overcoming first one, then a second assailant. melians is taken to an abbey to be tended, and learns that the two knights who almost overpowered him were his pride in taking the left hand path, his covetousness in carrying off the crown of gold. ( ) galahad enters a hermitage to pray there, and hears a voice bidding him proceed to the castle of maidens and rid it of its bad customs. he encounters on the way seven knights whom he must overcome, such was the custom of the castle. he forces them to flight, and an old priest brings him the keys of the castle. he finds therein numberless maidens, and learns that the former lord of the castle had been, with his son, slain by the seven knights, who had striven beforehand to carry off his daughter. she foretold that as they had gained the castle for a maiden's sake, they would lose it through a maiden, and be overcome by a single knight, whereupon they determined to make prisoner every maiden passing that way. galahad delivers the captives, and puts a daughter of the former duke in possession of the castle. he learns then that the seven brothers have been slain by gawain, gheriot, and ywain. ( ) the story now returns to gawain. he passes by the abbey where galahad found the shield, then that where melians lay ill, is reproached by a friar with being too sinful to be with galahad, meets gheheries, his brother, meets ywain on the morrow, meets the seven brothers who attack them and are slain; then gawain comes alone to a hermitage, confesses for the first time since fourteen years, is admonished by the hermit, learns that the castle of maidens signifies hell, the captives the good souls wrongfully therein confined before christ's coming, the seven knights the seven sins. gawain is pressed, but vainly, to make penitence. ( ) the story returns to galahad. after wandering for awhile without adventures he meets lancelot and perceval. they do not recognise him, not knowing his _arms_ (shield),[ ] and attack him. he overcomes them, but learning from the words of a recluse, who sees the combat, that she really knows him, and, fearing recognition, he hurries off.[ ] ( ) perceval stays with the recluse, and lancelot starts in pursuit of the unknown knight. he comes in the night to a stone cross near which stands (an old)[ ] chapel. he dismounts and enters, but an iron rail hinders his progress; through it he sees an altar whereon _burn seven candles_ (a silver candlestick, a wax taper).[ ] he leaves the chapel, unsaddles his horse, and lies down to sleep by the cross. then comes a sick knight on a bier drawn by two horses, dolourously lamenting. he looks at lancelot, but says no word, thinking him asleep, nor does lancelot say aught, but remains half asleep. and the sick knight laments, "_when may i have solace from the holy vessel for the pain i suffer for such a small fault_ (was ever so much pain as is upon me who have done no evil at all)?"[ ] but lancelot says no word, nor when the candlestick comes towards the cross and the holy grail approaches the sick knight, who prays he may be made whole to join likewise the quest. then crawling to the table whereon the vessel stands, and _touching his eyes with_ (kissing) it, feels relief and slumbers. the grail disappears and lancelot still says never a word, for which aftertimes much mischance was his. the sick knight arises well, a squire appears and _arms_ him (with lancelot's sword and helm),[ ] and brings him lancelot's steed, and the knight swears never to rest till he knows why the holy grail appears in so many places of the kingdom of logres, and by whom it was brought to england. so he departs, and _his squire carries off lancelot's armour_. lancelot awakes wondering whether what he has seen be dream or truth. and he hears a voice saying--harder than stone, bitterer than wood, more despised than the fig tree--he must away, not pollute the spot where is the holy grail. he wanders forth weeping, comes to a hermit, confesses his great sin, his love for guinevere, is admonished to tear it from his heart, when there may still be hope for him. lancelot promises, and has the adventure at the chapel explained to him, and stays with the hermit for penance and instruction. ( ) the story now returns to perceval. the recluse orders he be well taken care of, she loves him well, he is her nephew. she dissuades him from fighting galahad as he wishes, does he wish to die and be killed as his brothers _for their outrages_ (in their combats and tournaments)? he and galahad and bors will achieve the quest. she is his aunt, formerly queen of the waste land. _he asks about his mother whom he fears he has badly treated, and learns she died when he went to arthur's court._[ ] he asks further concerning the knight with the red arms, and is told as follows:--since christ's coming were three chief tables; first, the table at which christ often ate with his apostles; second, the table of the holy grail, established in semblance and remembrance of the first, by which so many miracles were wrought in this land in the time of joseph of arimathea, in the beginning when christianity was brought to this country. he came with four thousand poor companions. one day, wandering in a forest, they had nothing to eat, but an old woman brought _twelve_ (ten) loaves, these they bought and they were wroth with one another when they came to divide them. joseph angry, took the twelve loaves, made the people sit, and by virtue of the holy grail multiplied the loaves to their need. at that table was a seat where josephes, son of joseph, might sit, but none other, for, as the history tells, the place was blessed by our lord himself. now two brothers, relatives of josephes, envied him his leadership, saying they were of as good seed as he, and one sat in josephes' seat, and was straightway swallowed up by the earth, whence the seat was called the dreaded seat. last came the round table, made by merlin's counsel, to show the roundness of the world and of the firmament. and merlin foretold that by companions of this table should the truth of the grail be known, and that three should achieve it, two virgins and one chaste, and the one should surpass his father as man surpasses wolf, and he should be master, and for him merlin made a great and wonderful seat, wherein none might sit unharmed save he, and it was known as the seat perillous. and as at whitsuntide the holy spirit came to the apostles in guise of fire, so at whitsuntide galahad came clad in red armour. and on the day he came the questing for the grail began, which might not cease till the truth concerning it _and the lance_ was known. to find galahad, perceval must first try castle _gher_ (goth) where dwells a cousin of galahad, _and then castle corbenic where dwells the maimed king_. ( ) his aunt then tells how after that her husband fell in war against king laban she withdrew into that wild place. and her son went to serve king pelles, their relative, and since two years she only knows of him that he is following tournaments throughout great britain. ( ) on the morrow perceval comes to a monastery, and seeing mass being performed would enter but cannot, and sees a sick bed with a man or woman lying on it, whom, as he rises when the body of our lord is raised, he sees to be an old man crowned, with his body full of wounds and crying out, "father, forget me not." he seems as if he were over _four hundred_ (one hundred and four) years old. perceval asks concerning these wonders, and is told as follows:--when joseph of arimathea came to this land, the saracen, king crudel, hearing of the grail by which he lived, threw him and his son josephes and some hundred others into prison for forty days, and forbade food to be given them. but they had the holy vessel with them. when mordrains and his brother-in-law, seraphe, heard these things, they assembled their host, landed in britain, overcame crudel, and freed joseph. on the morrow evelac, as he was called before he became christian, desired to see the holy grail plainly, and though warned to desist pressed forward to do so, and was struck blind and helpless. he accepted his punishment submissively, but only prayed to christ that he might survive till _the good knight should come, the best[ ] of his seed_ (the knight who is to achieve the adventures of the holy grail). a voice answered his prayer should be granted, and then he should receive the light of his eyes and his wounds should be made whole. this happened _four hundred_ (one hundred and four) years before, and it was that king evelac whom perceval had seen, and during that while he had fed on nought else save the lord's body. ( ) perceval riding forth on the morrow is attacked by twenty knights, sore pressed, and only rescued by the red knight's help, who then disappears. ( ) perceval, having lost his horse, asks one vainly from a passing squire, from whom it is shortly afterwards carried off by another knight, whom perceval, mounted on the squire's cob, attacks but is overthrown. ( ) at night a woman appears and offers him a horse if he will do her will--she is, in truth, the enemy. he agrees, she mounts him, he comes to a river, and, before essaying to ford it, makes the sign of the cross, whereupon the horse rushes howling into the water. ( ) perceval, rescued from this peril, finds himself on a wild island mountain, full of savage beasts; he helps a lion against a snake and wins its service. he is ill at ease on his island, but he trusts god, and is not like those men of wales where sons pull their fathers out of bed and kill them to save the disgrace of their dying in bed. ( ) that night, sleeping by the lion's side, perceval dreams of two women visiting him, one mounted on a lion, the second on a serpent; this one reproaches him for killing the serpent. on the morrow an old man comes ship-borne, comforts perceval with good counsel, and interprets his dream: the dame on the lion was christ's new law, she on the serpent the old law. ( ) a damsel then appears, warns perceval against the old man, prepares for him a rich banquet with good wine, not british, as in great britain they only drink cervoise and other home-made drinks, and excites his passion. he is on the point of yielding, but seeing the cross-handled pommel of his sword crosses himself, and the damsel disappears in flames. perceval pierces his thigh with his sword in his contrition. the old man reappears, exhorts, explains the various features of his temptation, and finally takes him away with him in his ship. ( ) the story now returns to lancelot. after three exhortations from the hermit he sets forth, and first meets a servant, who assails him bitterly as an unfaithful traitorous knight, in that having openly seen the holy grail doing its wonders before him, he yet moved not from his seat. ( ) he comes to a hermit's hut and finds the hermit lamenting over the dead body of his companion, who, at his nephew, agaran's, request, had left the hermitage to aid him against his enemies, and had been treacherously slain by the latter. these things are told by a devil, which had entered into the dead hermit's body. lancelot is admonished at great length, receives stripes, puts on the dead hermit's hair shirt, and finally leaves with the advice that he should confess every week. ( ) he meets a damsel who encourages him, but tells him he will find no lodging for the night. _he dismounts at the foot of a cross at the cross-ways, and has a vision of a man surrounded with stars, crowned and accompanied by seven kings and two knights, who pray to be taken to heaven; a man descending from heaven orders one of the knights away, whilst to the other he gives the shape of a winged lion, so that he flies up to heaven and is admitted._[ ] ( ) lancelot meets the knight who had carried off his arms, and who attacks, but is overthrown by him. ( ) _he comes to a hermitage, confesses, tells his vision, and learns that it has a great meaning in respect of his lineage, which must be expounded at much length: forty-two years after the passion of christ, joseph of arimathea left jerusalem, came to sarras, helped evelac, who received baptism at the hands of josephes, together with his brother-in-law, seraphe (who took the name nasciens), and who became a pillar of the holy faith, so that the great secrets of the holy grail were opened to him, which none but joseph had beheld before, and no knight after save in dream. now evelac dreamed that out of his nephew, son of nasciens, came forth a great lake, whence issued nine streams, eight of the same size, and the last greater than all the rest put together; our lord came and washed in the lake which king mordrains thus saw flowing from celidoine's belly. this celidoine was the man surrounded by stars in lancelot's vision, and this because he knew the course of the stars and the manner of the planets, and he was first king of scotland, and the nine streams were his nine descendants, of whom seven kings and two knights:--first, warpus; second, chrestiens;[ ] third, alain li gros; fourth, helyas; fifth, jonaans, who went to wales and there took to wife king moroneus' daughter; sixth, lancelot, who had the king of ireland's daughter to wife; seventh, bans. these were the seven kings who appeared to lancelot. the eighth stream was lancelot himself, the elder of the knights of the vision. the ninth stream was galahad, begot by lancelot upon the fisher king's daughter, lion-like in power, deepest of all the streams._[ ] ( ) lancelot comes to a castle with a meadow before it, whereon a throng of black armoured knights is tourneying against knights in white armour. lancelot goes to the help of the former,[ ] but is captured, and on being released rides off lamenting. at night, as he sleeps, a man comes from heaven and reproaches him with his ill faith. a hermitess expounds the allegorical meaning of the adventure. the white knights are those of eliezer, son of king pelles, the black those of argastes, son of king helain; this symbolised the quest, which was a tournament between the heavenly knights and the earthly ones, and in that quest none might enter who was black with sin; and lancelot though sinful, having entered thereon had joined the black knights, and his capture by the others was his overthrow by galahad, and his lamentation his return to sin, and it was our lord who reproached him in his vision; let him not depart from truth. ( ) lancelot comes to lake marchoise, is attacked by a knight in black armour, who kills his horse and rides off; he lays down on the shore and awaits trustfully god's help. ( ) the story returns to gawain. after journeying many days adventureless, he meets hector de mares. neither has heard aught of lancelot, galahad, or bohors. travelling together they come to a deserted chapel, where, passing the night, gawain dreams he sees in a meadow one hundred and fifty bulls all spotted, save three, one being dingy, the two others being pure white. of the one hundred and forty-seven who set off to find better pasture many die and some return, of the three one returns, but two remain between whom strife arises and they separate. hector dreams that he and lancelot, being companions, are attacked by a man who knocks lancelot off his horse and sits him on an ass, after which lancelot, coming to a fair fountain, would drink of it, but it vanishes; he, hector, keeping his horse comes to a castle, the lord of which refuses him admission for that he is too high mounted. whilst telling one another their dreams, a hand with a taper appears and vanishes, and a voice tells them that, poor of belief as they are, they cannot attain the holy grail. on their way to find a hermit who may explain these wonders, gawain is attacked by and kills a knight, ywains the adulterer, son of king urien. they then come to the hermit, nasciens, who explains the bulls as the companions of the round table, the spotted ones those stained by sin, the three unspotted ones are the achievers, two white, virgins--galahad and perceval--one dingy, having once sinned carnally, bors. the last part of the dream may not be explained, as evil might come of it. in hector's dream the two horses are pride and ostentation. lancelot's being seated on an ass signifies the putting off of pride, the fountain is the holy grail. both knights are too full of sin to continue in the quest of the grail. they ride forth and meet with no adventure worth notice. ( ) the story returns to bors. after first coming to a hermit, who exhorts him to abandon the quest if he do not feel himself free from sin, to whom he confesses, from whom he receives absolution, and to whom he vows to eat nought save bread and water till the quest be achieved, he comes to a castle whose mistress is sore oppressed by her sister, against whose champion, priadam the black, she has vainly sought a defender. bors promises to come to help. he passes the night at the castle and will not sleep in the rich bed she offers him, though in the morning he tumbles it as if he had lain in it. he overcomes priadam, and reinstates the lady in her lordship. ( ) on the morrow he meets his brother, naked, bound on a hack, being beaten with thorns by two knights. at the same moment passes a very fair maiden being carried off by a knight, and she cries to him for help. he is in anguish, but goes to the maiden's help, wounds her would-be ravisher, and restores her to her friends. ( ) he then hurries after his brother, but meets a seeming monk who makes him believe his brother is dead, and gives him an explanation of dreams he has had. he then comes to a tower and is welcomed by its inmates. a damsel offers him her love, and when he refuses threatens with twelve other damsels to throw herself from the tower. bors is full of pity, but thinks they had better lose their souls than he his. they fall from the tower, bors crosses himself, and the whole vanishes, being a deceit of the devil. his brother's corpse that had been shown him is also gone. ( ) on the morrow he comes to an abbey, where he learns that his brother lives, and where all his dreams and adventures are allegorically explained. he then meets lionel, his brother, who reproaches him bitterly for his conduct, and falls upon him with intent to kill. first a hermit, then a passing knight, calogrenant, would stop him, but he slays both. bors is at length, in spite of prayers and entreaties, compelled to draw in self defence, but a voice tells him to flee, and a fiery brand comes from heaven between them. bors follows the command of the voice directing him towards the sea, where perceval awaits him. he comes to a ship covered with white samite, and finds therein perceval, who at first does not know him again, and who tells him all that he has passed through. ( ) the story returns to galahad. after countless adventures he finds himself one day opposed to gawain and hector de mares in a tournament; he deals the former such a blow as knocks him out of his saddle. ( ) he is brought to the ship wherein are perceval and bors by a damsel, who accompanies them until, fourteen days' sail from logres, they come to a desert isle off which is another ship, on which is written[ ] that those who would enter should see they were full of faith. the damsel then tells perceval she is his sister, _daughter of king pellehem_. they enter the ship and find a rich bed with a crown at its head, and at its foot a sword six inches out of the scabbard, its tip a stone of all the colours in the world, its handle of the bones of two beasts, the serpent papagast, the fish orteniaus; it is covered with a cloth whereon is written that only the first of his line would grasp the sword. perceval and bors both essay vainly. galahad, on being asked, sees written on the blade that he only should draw who could strike better than others. the damsel tells the story of the sword as follows:--when the ship came to the kingdom of logres there was war between king lambar, father to the maimed king, and king urlain, heretofore saracen, but newly baptised. once urlain, discomfited, fled to the ship, and, finding therein the sword, drew it and slew king laban[ ] with it, and that was the first blow struck with the sword in the kingdom of logres, and there came from it such pestilence and destruction in the land of the two kingdoms that it was afterwards called the waste land. when urlain re-entered the ship he fell down dead. ( ) galahad, further examining the sword, finds the scabbard of serpent's skin, but the hangings of poor stuff. on the scabbard is written that the wearer must surpass his fellows, and the hangings be changed only by a king's daughter and she a maid; on turning the sword over, the other side is found black as pitch, and bearing words that he who should praise it most should blame it most in his greatest need. perceval's sister explains this as follows: forty years after our lord's passion, nasciens, mordrains' brother-in-law, came to the turning isle, and found this ship, and therein bed and sword, this last he coveted, but had not the hardihood to draw it, though he stayed eight days food and drinkless longing for it; on the ninth day a tempest drove him to another island, where, assailed by a giant, he drew the sword, and though it snapped in two and thus fulfilled the inscription, yet he overcame the giant. he afterwards met mordrains and told him of these wonders; mordrains reunited the fragments, then, in obedience to a voice, they left the ship, but in going nasciens was wounded for having dared to draw a sword of which he was not worthy, thus he who praised it most had most reason to blame it. as for the other words, _king pelles,[ ] called the maimed king_ (a lame king who was my, _i.e._, the damsel's, uncle) once came to this ship on the shore of the sea over against ireland, and entering it found the sword, drew but was wounded through the thighs by a lance, _and might not be healed till galahad come_.[ ] ( ) they then examine the bed and find it has three spindles; that in front, snow white; that behind, blood red; that above, emerald green, and lest this be thought a lie the story turns from its straight path to explain about these spindles. after eve, yielding to the devil's advice, had caused adam to sin, and both knew themselves carnal and were ashamed, and were driven forth from paradise, eve kept the branch of the tree of life which she had plucked, and planted it and it grew to a tree with branches and leaves white in token that eve was a virgin when she planted it. sitting one day beneath the tree, god commanded them to know one another carnally, and when they were ashamed to set about such foul work sent darkness over them. abel was thus begotten, and the tree of life turned green. afterwards cain slew abel underneath that same tree and it turned red. at the deluge it remained unharmed and lasted till solomon's time. whilst the wise king was pondering over the malice of his wife and of all women, a voice told him a woman of his line should bring men more joy than her sex had caused sorrow, and that a virgin knight should be the last of his lineage. his wife, whom he consults as to how he shall let this knight know he had foreknowledge of his coming, advised the building of the ship, and the taking of david's sword to be fitted with a new hilt of precious stones, and a new pommel and scabbard, and placed in the ship together with solomon's crown on a rich bed; she furthermore had three spindles made from the tree of life and from trees grown from it. and when all was ready solomon saw in dreams angels coming from heaven and putting the different inscriptions on the sword and ship. ( ) the story speaks now of other things. new hangings had not been put on the sword, this was to be done by a damsel. perceval's sister supplies hangings made of her own hair, and names the sword "the sword of strange hangings," and the scabbard "memory of blood," and galahad girds on the sword. ( ) on the morrow they set sail and come to castle carchelois, in the march of scotland, the inmates whereof attack them but are all slain. galahad is sorry for those he has killed, but a priest tells him they are heathens, and he has done the best work in the world, as the three knights who held the castle had ravished their own sister and wounded their father, count ernous, to death. before the latter dies he urges galahad _to go to the assistance of the maimed king_ (to undertake other adventures).[ ] ( ) on the morrow they meet a white stag led by four lions; these come to a hermitage, hear mass, the stag becomes a man and sits on the altar, the lions a man, an eagle, a lion, and an ox, all winged. ( ) on the morrow perceval takes galahad's sword, which he will wear from henceforth. they come to a castle, the inmates of which demand that perceval's sister should pay the custom of the castle, which is to give a dishful of blood from her right arm. the three companions protect perceval's sister against overwhelming odds till nightfall, when, learning that the blood is asked to heal the lady of the castle suffering from leprosy, perceval's sister sacrifices herself. before dying she gives directions that her body is to be put in a ship and buried in the palace spiritual in sarras. bors then leaves his two companions to succour a wounded knight pursued by a knight and a dwarf;[ ] and perceval and galahad, after seeing the castle they had thus left destroyed by fire from heaven in vengeance of the blood of the good maidens which had there been shed, likewise separate. ( ) the story returns to lancelot. he is at the water of marcoise, surrounded by the forest and high rocks, but he does not lose faith in god; in obedience to a voice he goes on board a passing ship and finds therein perceval's sister, whose story he learns from the letter at her head. after a month's journeying a knight joins them who proves to be galahad, and they pass together half a year achieving marvellous adventures. after easter, at the new time when the birds sing their sweet and varied songs, they come to land, and a knight in white arms bids galahad leave his father, which he does. ( ) after a month's further wandering on the sea, lancelot comes to a castle guarded by two lions,[ ] against whom he would at first defend himself, but is reproved for trusting his strength rather than his creator. entering, he comes to a room wherein are the holy vessel, and a priest celebrating mass; lancelot is warned not to enter, but when he sees that the priest about to raise the body of god has a man put into his hands, he cannot refrain from pressing forward to his aid, but is struck down by a fiery wind and remains fourteen days dumb, food- and drinkless. he finds he is in castle corbenic, and a damsel tells him his quest is ended. king pelles rejoices to see him, at dinner the holy grail fills the tables so that living man could not think of greater plenty; whilst at dinner hector de mares comes to the castle door, but is ashamed to enter, hearing that lancelot is within, and rides off pursued by the reproaches and taunts of those of the castle. lancelot returns to arthur's court, passing on the way the tomb of bandamagus, whom gawain had slain. ( ) the story returns to galahad. he comes to an abbey wherein is king mordrains, who knows his approach, and asks that he may die in his arms; galahad takes him on his breast, mordrains dies and all his wounds are found healed. ( ) galahad cools the boiling fountain by putting his hand in it. ( ) galahad delivers from the tomb where he had been burning three hundred and fifty-four years his relative, symeu, who thus expiated his sin against joseph of arimathea. ( ) galahad rides five years before he comes to the _house of the maimed king_ (the court of king peleur), and during all the five years perceval bears him company, and within that time they _achieve the great adventures of the kingdom of logres_ (cast out the evil adventures of the island of britain). ( ) one day they met bors, who in the five years had not been in bed four times. the three come to _castle corbenic_[ ] (the court of king peleur) _where they are greeted by king pelles, and where eliezer, king pelles' son, brings the broken sword with which joseph had been pierced through the thighs; bors cannot rejoin the pieces, perceval can only adjust them together, galahad alone can make the sword whole, and it is then given to bors_. ( ) at vesper-time a hot wind strikes the palace, and a voice orders all unfit to sit at christ's table to depart, as the true knights were to be fed with heaven's food. all leave save _king pelles, eliezer, his son, and his niece, the most religious maid on the earth_ (a young maiden); to them enter nine knights[ ] and salute galahad: three are from _gaul_ (wales), three from ireland, three from denmark. _then four damsels bring in on a wooden bed a man, crowned, in evil plight, who greets galahad as his long-expected deliverer._ a voice orders out of the room him who has not been a companion of the quest, and straightway _king pelles and eliezer and_ the damsel depart. from heaven comes a man clad like a bishop and borne in a chair by four[ ] angels, who place him before the table upon which stands the holy grail. upon his forehead is written that he was _joseph_ (son of joseph of arimathea) first bishop of christendom, whereat they wonder, as they know that man lived three hundred years before. he kneels before the altar and opens the door of the _ark_ (chamber), and four angels[ ] issue, _two bearing burning lights, the third a cloth of red samite, the fourth a lance bleeding so hard that the drops run into a box he holds in his other hand_ (two with torches, the third with the lance, the fourth holding the box into which the blood drops); the candles are placed on the table, the cloth is placed on the holy vessel so that the blood fell into it. joseph then celebrates the sacrament, and on his raising the wafer, as it were a child descends from heaven and strikes itself into the wafer, so that it takes man's form. joseph then kisses galahad and bids him be fed by the saviour's own hand, and vanishes. but there comes out of the holy vessel, a man with hands bleeding and feet and body, and says he will reveal his secrets, and give the high food so long desired and toiled for. he gives the sacrament to galahad and his companions, and explains that the grail is the dish of the last supper, and galahad shall see it more fully in the city of sarras, whither it is going, britain being unworthy of it, and whither he is to follow it with perceval and bors; _but as he must not leave the land without healing the maimed king he is to take some of the blood of the lance and therewith anoint his legs_.[ ] galahad asks why all may not come with him; but christ says they are twelve who have eaten as the apostles were twelve, and they must separate as the apostles separated. _galahad then heals the maimed king, who goes into an abbey of white monks._ ( ) the three companions, after sending messages to arthur's court _through estrois de gariles and claudius, son of king claudas_,[ ] coming to solomon's ship, herein they find the holy grail, set sail; on landing bury perceval's sister, heal a cripple to help them carry the grail-table, are cast in prison by king _escorant_ for a year, are fed by the holy grail; at _escorant's_ death galahad is made king, fashions a tree of gold and precious stones over the grail and prays before it every morning as do his companions. ( ) on the anniversary of galahad's crowning the three see before the holy vessel a man clad like a bishop, who begins mass and calls galahad to see what he has so longed to see, and at the sight galahad trembles very greatly, and he thanks god for letting him see that which tongue may not describe nor heart think, and he begs that he may pass away from this earthly life to the heavenly one. the bishop then gives him the body of god, and reveals himself as josephus, son of joseph of arimathea. galahad kisses perceval and bors, and sends greetings to lancelot through bors, his soul then leaves his body and angels take it away. a hand from heaven then comes to the vessel and takes it and the lance, and bears it heavenwards, so that since there was no man bold enough to say he has seen the holy grail (except gwalchmai once). ( ) _galahad's body is buried. perceval goes into a hermitage, where bors stays with him for a year and two months; perceval dies, and is buried by bors in galahad's tomb; bors left alone in a place as strange as babylon, sets sail for britain, and comes to camelot, when all are greatly joyed to see him; he tells the adventures of the holy grail; they are written down and kept in the abbey of salisbury, and from these master walter map drew to make his book of the holy grail for the love of king henry his lord, who had the story translated from latin into french. the story now is silent and tells no more concerning the adventures of the holy grail._[ ] =grand st. graal.=--( ) the writer salutes all who have faith in the holy trinity. he does not name himself for three reasons: lest his declaration that he received the story from god himself be a stumbling block; lest his friends pay less honour to the book if they know the author; lest if he have made any blunder all the blame fall upon him. ( ) in the year after the passion of christ, as the writer lies in his hut in one of the wildest parts of white britain, on good friday eve and doubts of the trinity, christ appears to him and gives him a little book not larger than a man's palm, and this book will resolve all his doubts; he himself has written it, and only he who is purified by confession and fasting may read it. on the morrow the writer opens it and finds therein four sections, headed each as follows: this is the book of thy lineage; here begins the book of the holy grail; here is the beginning of the terrors; here begin the marvels. as he reads lightning and thunder come and other wonders. on good friday, as he is celebrating the service, an angel raises him in spirit to the third heaven, and his doubts concerning the trinity are set at rest. when his spirit returns to his body he locks up the book; but on easter sunday, when he would read further, finds it gone; a voice says he must suffer to have the book back again, must go to the plains of walescog, follow a wonderful beast to norway, and there find what he seeks. he obeys, the beast leads him first to a hermit's, then past the pine of adventures to a knight's castle, on the third day to the queen's lake and a nunnery. after exorcising a hermit possessed of the devil, he finds the book, and on his return christ commands him to make a fair copy before ascension day. he sets to work at once, on the fifteenth day after easter.[ ] the book begins as follows: few believe on christ at his crucifixion, among whom is joseph of arimathea, as the holy scripture of the grail testifies. he is in all things a good man. he lives in jerusalem with his wife and a son, josephes (not the same josephes who so often quotes the scripture, but not less learned than he), he it was who passed his father's kin across sea to white britain, since called england, without rudder or sail, but in the fold of this shirt. joseph, having much loved the lord, longs after his death to possess somewhat having belonged to him; goes to the house of the last supper, and carries off the dish wherein he had eaten. having been a knight of pilate's for seven years, he craves a boon of him, which is christ's body. pilate grants it; joseph descends the body from the cross, places it in a sepulchre, and, fetching the dish from his house, collects in it the blood flowing from the body,[ ] and finishes laying the body in the tomb. the jews hear of this, are angered, seize joseph, throw him into prison in the most hideous and dirtiest dungeon ever seen, feed him at first on bread and water, but when christ is found to have arisen, caiaphas, joseph's jailor, lets him starve. but christ brings the holy dish that joseph had sent back to his house with all the blood in it. joseph is overjoyed. christ comforts him, and assures him he shall live and carry his name to foreign parts. joseph thus remains in prison. meanwhile his wife, though often pressed to marry, refuses until she shall have had sure tidings of her husband; as for his son he will only marry holy church. ( ) forty years go by; after christ's death tiberius cæsar reigned ten years, then caius, one year; then claudius, fourteen years; then noirons, in whose reign s.s. peter and paul were crucified, fourteen years; then titus, and vespasian, his son, a leper. the freeing of joseph befalls in the third year of titus' reign and in this wise: titus has vainly sought a leech to heal vespasian. at last a strange knight from capernaum promises his help and tells how he in his youth had been healed of the leprosy by a prophet. the emperor on hearing this sent to judea to seek out that prophet; his messenger comes to felix, and orders him to have proclamation made for aught christ has touched; hereupon an old woman, marie la venissienne, brings the cloth upon which the saviour's likeness had painted itself when she wiped his face. the messenger returns to rome with this cloth and the mere sight of it heals vespasian, who straightway resolves to avenge christ's death. he goes to jerusalem, joseph's wife appears before him, accuses the jews of having made away with her husband; none of the jews know where he is save caiaphas, who reveals the secret on condition that he is to be neither burnt or slain. vespasian himself goes down into the prison and finds it as light as though one hundred candles had burnt in it. he tells joseph who he is, whereat the latter wondered, not thinking he had been longer than from friday to sunday, not once had it been dark. a voice tells joseph not to fear, and that he will find the holy vessel at his home. joseph returns to jerusalem with vespasian, and points out to him the abettors of christ's death, whom vespasian has burnt. caiaphas is set adrift in a boat. ( ) the night before vespasian returns to rome, christ appears to joseph and commands him to go forth and fill foreign lands with his seed; he must be baptised, and must go forth without money or aught but the dish; all heart can want or wish he shall have, all who accompany him must be baptised likewise. joseph is baptised by st. philip, then bishop of jerusalem, as is also vespasian, concerning whom the story is now silent. ( ) joseph preaches to his friends and relatives and converts seventy-five of them. they leave jerusalem and come to bethany, where the lord appears to joseph, promises him aid as once to the jews in the wilderness, commands him to make a wooden ark for the dish, which he is to open when he wants to speak to him, but no one is to touch it save joseph and his son josephes; joseph does as commanded, his troop is miraculously fed, and on the eleventh day they come to the town of sarras, between babilone and salavandre, whence the saracens have their name, and not from sara. ( ) joseph and his seventy-five companions enter the city and go to the temple of the sun, to the seat of judgment, where the saracens are assembled with their lord, evalach the unknown: he had been a man of prowess in his youth, but was now old; seven days before, the egyptians had beaten his army, and the council is now devising how vengeance may be taken therefor. joseph is greatly joyed at these events, and when the council advises peace assures the king of victory, but he must destroy his images and believe on him who died on the cross. evalach asks how one who could not save himself could save another. joseph, in answer, tells of christ's birth, life, death, descent into hell, resurrection, ascension, and of the sending of the holy ghost. evalach cannot understand either the incarnation or the trinity, and although joseph explains that the virgin conceived by the overshadowing of the holy ghost through her ear, and that her virginity was no more hurt than is water when a sunbeam enters it, remains stubborn and calls his learned men to his aid, but joseph confounds these, and evalach lodges the christians for the night and gives them good beds. ( ) evalach dreams of a tree-stock whence spring three equal trunks and though three yet are truly one, also of a room with a secret door of marble, through which a child passes without opening it; a voice tells him this is a type of the miraculous conception of christ. ( ) meanwhile, joseph, unable to sleep, prays for comfort and adjures the lord by all his mercies to help evalach; he is told by a voice he shall be sent for to explain the king's dream. joseph then goes to sleep with his wife, helyab, but not as lustful folk do, for there was nothing between them till the lord commanded the begetting of galahad, and then, so full of love to the saviour were they that they had no desire. from galahad came the high race which honoured the land of white britain, now called england. ( ) the morrow morning joseph and his company worship before the ark (now the place wherein they were had been called the spiritual palace by daniel) when a soft sweet wind comes and the holy ghost descends and christ speaks and urges all to love him; he tells josephes to draw near and take charge of his flesh and blood; josephes opens the door of the ark and sees a man all in red, and with him five angels, each six winged, all in red, each with a bloody sword in his left, and in their rights severally, a cross, nails, lance, sponge, and scourge; josephes sees christ nailed to the cross, and the blood running down from his side and feet into the dish; he would enter the ark but angels restrain him. joseph, wondering at his son's state, kneels before the ark and sees therein an altar covered with white cloths, under which is a red samite one, covering three nails, a lance head all bloody, and the dish he had brought, and in the middle of the altar an exceeding rich vessel of gold and precious stones; seven angels issue from the ark with water and watering pot ( ), gold basins and towels ( ), and gold censers ( ), an eighth carrying the holy dish, a ninth a head so rich and beautiful as never mortal eye saw, a tenth a sword, three more with tapers, lastly jesus. the company of angels go over the house sprinkling it with holy water, because it had heretofore been dwelt in by devils. christ tells josephes he is to receive the sacrament of his flesh and blood, and be made sovran shepherd over his new sheep; bishop's vestments are brought out of the ark. josephes is seated in a chair, which afterwards made a saracen king's eyes fly out of his head, is consecrated, an angel keeps the holy oil wherewith all kings of britain were anointed till the time of uther pendragon, of whom none of the many that have told his history have rightly known why he was so called; the meaning of the episcopal vestments is explained to josephes, and his duties set forth. ( ) josephes then goes into the ark and celebrates the sacrament using christ's words only, whereat bread and wine become flesh and blood, and in place of the bread a child, which, though as bidden, he divides into three parts yet is eaten as one whole; an angel puts patina and chalice into the dish; joseph and his company receive the sacrament in the form of a child; christ bids josephes celebrate the sacrament daily; tells him that he and joseph are to go with evalach's messengers now nigh at hand. leucans, josephes' cousin, is appointed guardian of the ark. ( ) joseph and his son go before the king and overcome all the heathen clerk's objections; josephes tells evalach he will be given over to his enemies for three days, and shall only escape by believing on christ; the heathen idols are smashed by a devil at the compelling of josephes' two angels. a messenger brings the news that king tholomes has entered and is capturing the land, and he will not rest till he be crowned at sarras. josephes tells the king this ill-hap is to mind him of his lowly origin, he is son of a shoemaker in an old city of france, meaux, and was one of a tribute of one hundred youths and one hundred maidens claimed by augustus cæsar from france, as here dwelt a prouder folk than elsewhere, and the two daughters of the count of the town, sevain, were among the tribute, and evalach was among their servants. when felix was named governor of syria by tiberius he had taken evalach with him, and held him in high honour until one day, angry with felix's son, evalach slew him and had to fly, after which he entered the service of tholome cerastre, king of babylon, who had given him the land he now ruled. josephes further explains the king's dreams, and when the latter declares himself willing to believe, asks for his shield, upon which he fixes a red cross and tells him to look on it in his need and pray to god and he shall be saved. ( ) evalach marches with his army against tholomes, is joined by his brother-in-law, seraphe (whom he thought hated him most of any man in the world) at the queen's entreaty; numerous combats ensue between the two armies; seraphe performs prodigies of valour; evalach is taken prisoner, and in his need looks on the shield, sees thereon christ crucified, prays to god for help, a white knight appears, overcomes tholomes, who is taken prisoner, and evalach's army is victorous. ( ) meanwhile josephes, remaining in sarras, has been counselling queen sarraquite, secretly a christian, since her mother was cured of a bloody flux, and since christ appeared to her when she was afraid of the hermit her mother had led her to for baptism because he had such a long beard; she dares not avow her faith for fear of her husband. josephes tells her of the battle which has taken place and of the white knight. ( ) evalach and seraphe return; the king asks at once after the christians, and learns that he owes his victory to the lord to whom also seraphe owed his strength in battle; the shield is uncovered, a man with a wounded arm is healed by it, and then the cross vanishes; seraphe turns christian, is baptised and receives the name nasciens, he is straightway healed of his wounds, exhorts evalach to believe, and tells of tholomes' death. evalach is baptised, and re-christened mordrains, or slow-of-belief. after baptising the town and destroying all images, josephes leaves three of his companions in charge of the grail ark, and goes with the rest to orcanz, turns out of an image a devil who had slain tholomes, and converts more of the heathen folk. ( ) meanwhile mordrains has ordered his people to be baptised or to leave his land; many take the latter course and are met outside the town by a devil who wounds them grievously, whereupon josephes hurries to their aid, but is met by an angel with a lance and smitten through the thigh for having left his baptising work to trouble himself about contemners of god's law, and the mark of the wound should stay with him all his life, and the iron spear head remain in the wound so that ever after he limped, and he had later to smart for it, as the tale will show in due season. many more people are converted, bishops are left in the land and holy relics at sarras. ( ) josephes brings mordrains, sarraquite, and nasciens to the holy shrine, and shows them the vessel wherein is christ's blood. nasciens thinks he has never seen aught to match it, and he gives it a name that since it has never lost. for, says he, nothing he had seen before but somewhat displeased him (li degraast), but this pleases him (li grée) entirely; he further tells how once when a young man, hunting, as he stood deep in thought a voice made itself heard, saying "thou shall't never accomplish what thou thinkest on until the wonders of the grail are disclosed," and he knows now this must be the grail as every wish of his heart is accomplished. and he draws nearer and lifts the vessel's lid and looks therein, but straightway falls to trembling, feeling he can no longer see. and he knew that the blindness was to punish his curiosity, and turning to josephes tells him that the iron shall not be drawn out of that wound inflicted by the angel at orcanz, nor he himself recover his sight until josephes, wounded, himself comes to draw out the iron. so they stand lost in thought, till a voice is heard, "after my vengeance my healing" and an angel appears, touches josephes' thigh with the lance shaft, whereupon the head comes out, and from it drop great drops of blood which the angel collects in a vessel, and wherewith he anoints josephes' wound, making it whole, and nasciens' eyes, restoring to him his sight. and the angel tells them that the meaning of the lance is that of the beginning of the wonderful adventures which shall befall in lands whither god purposes leading them; when the true knights should be separated from the false ones, and the earthly knighthood become a heavenly one. and at the beginning of those adventures the lance would drop blood as then, but beforehand none; and then wonders would happen all over the world where the lance was, great and terrible wonders, in recognition of the holy grail and of the lance; and the marvels of the grail should never be seen save by one man alone; and by the lance wherewith josephes was struck should but one other man be struck, and he a king of josephes' kin, and the last of the good men; he should be struck through the two thighs, and only healed when the grail wonders were disclosed to the good knight, and that one should be last of nasciens' kin. thus, as nasciens was the first to behold the wonders of the grail, that one should be the last; so saith the true crucified one, adding, "upon the first and last of my new ministers will i spend the vengeance of the adventurous lance in token of myself having received the lance stroke whilst on the cross." and so many days as josephes had born the lance head in his wound so many days should the marvellous adventures last. now these days (_years_)[ ] were twenty-two. ( ) josephes explains mordrains' vision, and makes him destroy the image of a woman he had kept in a secret chamber, known, so he thought, only to himself. ( ) josephes and his company go forth from sarras, but the tale tells nothing of them in this place, but keeps straight on. on the following night mordrains dreams that, sitting in sarras at table, of a sudden a thunderbolt strikes crown from his head and the first mouthful from his lips; a great wind carries him up into a far land where he is fed by a lion and lioness, and after a while an eagle carries off nasciens' son to a land whereof the inhabitants bow down before him, and out of this nephew's belly comes a great lake giving rise to nine streams, eight of equal breadth and depth, the ninth as wide and deep as the remainder put together, and rushing and turbulent, and at first foul and muddy, but afterwards clear and pure as a precious stone; then comes down from heaven a man in likeness of one crucified, who bathes hands and feet in the lake and eight streams, but in the ninth his whole body. ( ) mordrains tells his vision to nasciens and confesses to former treacherous and jealous feelings he had against him; they seek counsel of the priests, but none can expound the vision, and as they sit together a great tumult is heard and the sound of a horn announcing "the beginning of dread," and they fall senseless to the ground; but mordrains is caught up by the holy ghost and borne off. ( ) meanwhile nasciens is accused by kalafier, a christian-hater, of having made away with mordrains, and is cast into prison with kalafier for gaoler. ( ) meanwhile mordrains has been carried off by the holy ghost to an island lying between babylon, scotland, and ireland, a high land from which the western sea can be looked over as far as spain; it was once a pirates' lair, but pompey drove them thence. to mordrains comes a noble man who gives his name as tout-entour, comforts him, and exhorts him to steadfastness in the faith; when he leaves a fair woman appears and tempts the king, who luckily does not pay heed to her, and well for him, as he learns from the noble man that she is lucifer in disguise. he is assailed by many temptations; storm, thunder, and lightning affright him; the wonderful bird phoenix attacks him and snatches the bread from his lips; lucifer again visits him and shows him nasciens' dead body, but it is only an invention; finally, all these trials withstood, the noble man comes again and expounds the dream of the nine streams: the lake is a son of nasciens, from whom descend nine kings, all good men and true, but the ninth surpassing all in every virtue; he is the knight to whom the wonders of the grail shall be shown, and christ shall bathe himself wholly in him. ( ) meanwhile nasciens has been kept in prison together with his son, celidoine (heaven-given) by kalafier. but a miraculous hand appearing from out a cloud strikes off nasciens' fetters, and carries him out of the dungeon; kalafier pursues but is struck down by the hand; on his death bed he orders that celidoine be cast from the battlements, but nine hands bear him up in mid air, whilst kalafier, slain by fire from heaven, goes to eternal death. sarraquite, overjoyed to hear of her brother's escape, sends out messengers to meet them. meanwhile nasciens' wife, flegentyne, has set out in search of her husband accompanied by the old knight, corsapias, and his son, helicoras. ( ) now nasciens has been carried fourteen days journey off to the turning isle (concerning which many wonders are told); all of these things are true, as christ himself has written the book of the holy grail, and he never wrote aught else save the lord's prayer for the disciples and the judgment upon the woman taken in adultery. and no man is bold enough to say that since the resurrection christ wrote aught else save this "haute escripture del s. graal." ( ) a ship comes to nasciens' isle which he would enter but for words warning him against it unless he be full of faith. however, crossing himself he enters [and finds therein the same wonders as those described in queste, inc. , , , viz.:--the sword and the three spindles, precisely the same story about which is told as in the queste]. ( ) nasciens deeming there must be magic in this, the ship splits in twain, and had well nigh drowned him, but he regains the isle swimming, and on the morrow an old man comes in a ship and gives him an allegorical explanation of what has befallen him. ( ) meanwhile celidoine, carried off by the hands to the land of the heathen king label, wins his favour by expounding a dream, converts him, but at his death is cast adrift by the heathen barons in a boat with a lion, and after three days comes to nasciens' island. ( ) the two rejoice on their meeting, and leave the island together in solomon's ship, come after four days to another island, where nasciens, attacked by a giant, seizes solomon's sword but it breaks in his hand, nevertheless, with another sword he overcomes the giant. he chides solomon's sword, but celidoine says it is some sin of his made it break. thereafter they see a ship approaching wherein is mordrains. there is rejoicing between the three, and much telling of past adventures. nasciens shows the broken sword to mordrains, who, taking it in his hands, joins it together, whereupon a voice bids them leave the ship; nasciens, not obeying fast enough, is wounded in the shoulder by a fiery sword in punishment of his having drawn solomon's sword. ( ) the messengers sent out by sarraquite in search of nasciens have, meantime, had many adventures, have come across the daughter of king label, suffered shipwreck, and been thrown upon a desert isle formerly the home of the great physician, ypocras (of whom a long story is told how he was tricked by a roman lady), been tempted in divers fashions, but at last they are led to mordrains, nasciens, and celidoine. ( ) on the third night a priest clad in white comes walking on the sea, heals nasciens' wound, and sends off celidoine in another ship. the remainder come to land, mordrains and sarraquite are reunited; nasciens' wife, flegentyne, is sent for; and label's daughter is christened by petrone, a holy man and kinsman of joseph. she was after celidoine's wife, as my lord robert of borron testifies, who translated this history from latin into french after the holy hermit to whom our lord first gave it. ( ) nasciens sets forth in search of his son, his knights follow on his track, and two are struck dead for their sins. nasciens comes again to solomon's ship, is tempted by the devil in the shape of a fair damsel, goes on board the ship and dreams as follows:--celidoine is in the promised land with all those who had left sarras; he, nasciens, shall go thence likewise and never depart thence, nor shall the ship until it take back the last of his line to sarras, together with the holy grail, and that shall be after three hundred years; and thereafter celidoine leads before him nine persons, all in guise of kings, save the eighth who was like a dog, and the ninth turns into a lion, and at his death the whole world mourns over him. and the names of these, nasciens' descendants, are: celidoine, marpus, nasciens, alains li gros, ysaies, jonans, lancelot, bans, lancelot, like unto a dog until his end, galahad, foul at the source, but afterwards clear, in whom christ shall bathe himself wholly, and who shall end all the adventures. on the morrow it is explained to nasciens that the eighth of his descendants likens a dog on account of his sins, and the ninth is foul at the beginning as engendered in fornication and not as holy church wills. ( ) the story, after touching on flegentyne, who retires to her own land, returns to joseph, who, with his son, josephes, and his companions, has been wandering about. joseph is ordered by a voice from heaven to beget a son, whose name shall be galaad. at length the company comes to the sea shore and laments that it has no ships; joseph rebukes them, and says those may pass who have kept chaste, whereupon four hundred and sixty come forward to confess their lechery. josephes is told to put forward the grail-bearers, to take the shirt off his back, and having spread it on the water, all the pure companions shall find place on it. this happens, and all find place save symeu and his son, who are not as they should be, and who sink and are well nigh drowned. the chosen company arrive on the morrow in great britain, then full of saracens and infidels. josephes then prays for the remainder of the company; a heavenly voice says they shall come in good time, and that this is the promised land in which they shall multiply and become the worthiest race anywhere. ( ) meantime nasciens has been led in solomon's ship to those of joseph's followers who had been left behind, as the history of the holy grail testifies. after being warned against fresh falling into sin they are brought over to joseph, and are fed with as much meat as they could want. but the fifth day the company, not having eaten for a day, come to the tent of a poor woman, wherein are twelve loaves about which they dispute. josephes, referred to, breaks each loaf in three, and having placed the holy grail at the head of the table by its power the bread suffices for more than five hundred people. ( ) hereafter the company comes to castle galafort, where celidoine is found disputing with the saracen wise men. the christians are well received by ganort, and shortly afterwards he and his people are baptised, one hundred and fifty who refuse being drowned. over their bodies a tower is built, the tower of marvels, and thereafter, it is prophesied, a king named arthur should reign, and from one blow of a sword adventures should arise, lasting twelve years, until the last descendant of nasciens should end them, and till that time no knight of arthur's house should enter the tower without having to fight as good a man as himself; thus should it be till he who was to end the adventures appeared. so they build the tower, and it lasts until lancelot destroys it, as the "tale of arthur's death" relates. ( ) joseph's wife bears a son, who receives the name of galahad, of the castle of galafort. ( ) the king of northumberland, hearing of ganort's conversion, summons him to the court, and on his refusal attacks him, but is defeated and slain by the christians. ( ) josephes, his father, and one hundred and fifty of the christians, leaving galafort, come to norgales, and are thrown into prison by king crudel, who says, "let them be for forty days, and see if their vessel will feed them." our lord comes to comfort them, and bids them be of good cheer, he will send an avenger to slay these dogs. ( ) our lord, in the likeness of one crucified, then appears to mordrains, bids him set forth with wife and children and king label's daughter and nasciens' wife and go to great britain, there to avenge him on king crudel. mordrains hearkens, and shortly after sets forth with all his household, leaving his land in charge of duke ganor. on the way a devil carries off the captain of the ship, who had lusted after queen flegentyne. they arrive in britain and rejoin their friends; great is the joy; nasciens' queen is like to have died of joy, and swoons twelve times. ( ) mordrains sends word to crudel to set the christians free, and on his refusal marches against, overthrows, and slays him, but is grievously wounded, though he suffers no pain. josephes and his companions are freed, and thanksgivings are made before the grail. on the morrow, as josephes is officiating before the holy vessel, mordains presses near to see it, in spite of a warning voice; he loses his sight and the power of his body; he confesses his folly, but prays he may not die till the good knight's coming, the ninth of nasciens' descendants. a voice promises him this, and that when the good knight comes he shall recover his sight and his wounds be healed; but three hear this promise beside mordrains himself, joseph, josephes, and nasciens. ( ) mordrains is brought to galafort, where celidoine marries king label's daughter and begets a son, nasciens. mordrains then, after giving his wife and shield into nasciens' keeping, retires to a hermitage, and builds a monastery of the white monks, and stays there till perceval sees him and galahad, too, as the "tale of the holy grail" tells. ( ) josephes leaves galafort, and, coming to camelot, converts many of the people, whereat king agrestes, being grieved, is baptised with false intent, and after josephes' departure persecutes the christians, and is punished by madness and death. josephes returning, buries the martyrs, whose blood had blackened a cross, which keeps the name of the "black cross," till the good knight, lancelot of the lake's son comes. ( ) josephes comes to a hill called hill of the giant; 'tis a friday, and brons is sitting next him at the grail-table, but between the two is space for a man to sit, and brons, josephes' kinsman, asks him why he does not invite some one to fill it. josephes answers, only he who is a holier man than any present can fill that place, as it typifies christ's seat at the last supper, and is empty waiting his coming, or whom he shall send. such of the company as are in mortal sin take this saying as presumption and fable, and moys declares his willingness to sit in it if his companions will ask josephes' leave. they do so, and though josephes minds them how moys might hardly come to britain, and though he solemnly warns moys himself, he gives his leave. moys takes the seat, and at once seven flaming bands from heaven seize upon him and carry him off to a far place burning like a dry bush. the people repent, and, in answer to their enquiries, josephes tells them the day shall come when they shall know where moys is. ( ) after the meal josephes, at brons' request, has the latter's twelve sons up before him, and asks them whether they will be wedded or not. eleven choose wedding, but the twelfth virginity and the service of the holy grail. josephes, overjoyed, having married the other eleven, appoints him guardian of the grail at his death, and he might leave the guardianship afterwards to whom he would. ( ) josephes and his companions pass through britain converting the heathen. now the grail only gives food to such as are not in sin, and once as the troop is encamped by a lake, peter, a kinsman of josephes', bears it through the ranks, and all are fed with the best food, save the sinners; these complain, and beg josephes to pray for them, whereupon he bids brons' youngest son, the same he had chosen as grail-keeper, alains le gros (not that alains, celidoine's son, _he_ was king and wore a crown, but this one never) take the net from the grail-table and fish with it in the pond. alains does so and catches one fish, a big one, but say they, 'twill not be enough; however, alains, having shared it in three, and having prayed it might suffice, all are fed. alains is called in consequence the rich fisher, and all the grail-keepers after him bear this name, but they were more blessed than he, being crowned kings whereas he never wore crown. ( ) joseph, leaving his companions, comes into the forest of broceliande, meets a saracen who would lead him to his sick brother, but is himself slain by a lion. joseph is thrown in prison and wounded in the thigh by the men of the sick knight's castle, but, obtaining leave to visit the sick knight, heals him, and brings back to life the saracen slain by the lion; both brothers are baptised; a fragment of the sword remaining in the wound, joseph draws it out, and laying it with the remainder of the sword prophecies it shall not be made whole till he come who shall achieve the adventures of the holy grail. ( ) joseph, returning to his companions, finds them in doubt as to how they shall cross a great water, they pray for guidance, and a white hart appears, followed by four stags, and leads them across, all save chanaan, who crosses later in a fisherman's boat. josephes, in answer to alain and pierron, explains the hart and lions as christ and the evangelists, and christ would appear in that wise afterwards to arthur, mordred, and lancelot. ( ) the christians come to a house where burns a great fire, out of which is heard a lamentable voice; it is that of moys; at josephes' prayer rain falls from heaven and quenches half the flames, but he may not be wholly delivered until the good knight, galahad, come. ( ) the christians come into the land of king escos, whence scotland has its name. the holy grail refuses meat to chanaan and to symeu, moys' father, whereat enraged, symeu attacks pierre and wounds him, and chanaan slays his twelve brethren. symeu is carried off by devils, whilst chanaan's grave bursts out in flames, which may not quench till lancelot come. ( ) meanwhile pierre's wound having become worse, he is left behind with a priest, who leads him to the sea shore, and, at his request, places him in a boat; this carries him to the isle of the heathen king, orcanz, whose daughter finding him on the sea shore dying, has pity on him and tends him secretly till he is healed. her father requires a champion, pierre offers himself, conquers, converts, and baptises orcanz, who takes the name lamer, and marries his daughter, and king luces comes to the wedding and is overjoyed. from him came gauvain, son of king lot of orcanie. mordred was no true son of lot's, but of arthur's. gauvain is thus of the seed of joseph of arimathea. ( ) josephes after fifteen years' wanderings comes back to galafort, and finds his brother galahad grown up; by josephes' advice the men of hocelice take galahad for their king, and he became the ancestor of ywain, son of urien. once whilst riding he comes to symeu's fiery grave, which may not be quenched till galahad, the good knight, comes. at galahad's death he is buried in an abbey he founds to allay symeu's pains, and the tombstone of his grave may not be lifted until by lancelot. ( ) joseph dies shortly after galahad's crowning, and josephes, feeling death near, pays a last visit to mordrains, who begs for a token from him. josephes asks for the king's shield, and with blood gushing from his nose marks on it a red cross, gives it to mordrains, and says no one shall hang it on his neck without rue till galahad do so; the shield is placed on nasciens' tomb. on the morrow josephes dies; his body is carried afterwards into scotland to still a famine, and is buried in the abbey of glays. ( ) before his death he has confided the grail to alain. the latter comes with his brethren, one of whom, josue, is unmarried, to the terre foraine, converts the king and people, and marries josue to his daughter. here is the resting-place of the holy grail; a lordly castle is built for it, hight corbenic, which is chaldee, and signifies "holy vessel." at josue's wedding, such is the power of the holy grail, that all present are as filled as if they had eaten the finest meats they could think of. and that night the king, baptized alfasem, sleeping in the castle, beholds the holy vessel covered with crimson samite, and a man all flaming tells him no mortal may sleep where the holy grail rests, and wounds him through both thighs, and bids others beware of sleeping in the palace adventurous. and afterwards many a knight essayed the adventure, but lost his life, till gauvain came, and he, though he kept his life, had such shame and mischance as he had not had for the kingdom of logres' sake. ( ) alain and alfasem die; josue becomes king and grail-keeper, and after him aminadap, catheloys, manaal, lambor, all kings and known as the fisher, and lambor fighting with his enemy, bruillant, pursues him to the sea shore, and bruillant finds there solomon's ship and enters it, and finds the sword with which he slays lambor, and this was the first blow struck with that sword in great britain, and such great woes sprang therefrom that no labourers worked, nor wheat grew, nor fruit trees bore, nor fish was found in the waters, so that the land was known as the waste land. but bruillant falls dead for drawing the sword. after lambor, pelleans, wounded in the two thighs in a battle of rome, whence he was always called the maimed king, and he might not heal till galahad the good knight come; and from him descends pelles, and on his daughter does lancelot of the lake beget galahad. ( ) nasciens, flegentyne, and sarraquite die on the self-same day. celidoine reigns, and is followed by marpus, he by nasciens, alain li gros, ysaies, jonas, lancelot, bans, lancelot of the lake. here the story ends of all the seed of celidoine, and returns to speak of merlin, which my lord robert of borron thus begins.[ ] in making up the slips, the summary of borron's poem dropped out. in order not to disturb the page form, which was fixed before the omission was noticed, it has been inserted after the grand st. graal with a subpagination. =robert de borron's poem: joseph of arimathea.=--( ) before christ's coming all folk went to hell, but he came born of a virgin that he might bring them out of hell. he took flesh what time judæa was under rome and pilate governed it. now a soldier of pilate's loved christ but dared not show it. of christ's few disciples one was bad, his chamberlain, and he betrayed him to the jews. ( ) on thursday jesus gathers his disciples; judas' question, the washing of the feet, the kiss of betrayal follow. when the jews carry off jesus, one of them takes the very fair vessel wherein he made his sacrament, and gave it to pilate, who keeps it till he learns jesus' death. ( ) joseph is angry hereat, and claims pay for his and his five knights five years' free service, and his pay is christ's body. pilate grants it him, and joseph hastens to the cross, but the guards deny him, whereon he complains to pilate, who sends nicodemus to see he obtain it, and also gives joseph the vessel. ( ) joseph and nicodemus descend the body, and wash it, which makes the blood flow afresh. joseph puts the blood in the vessel, wraps the body in a fine cloth and entombs it. the descent into hell and the resurrection follow. ( ) the jews are incensed against joseph and nicodemus; the latter escapes, but joseph is thrust into a horrible and dark prison. to him christ appears with his vessel, in a great light, and instructs joseph, telling him for his love to him he shall have the symbol of his death and give it to keep to whom he would; he then gives joseph the great, precious vessel wherein is his holiest blood. joseph wonders, having hidden it in his house. joseph is to yield the vessel to three persons only, who are to take it in the name of the trinity. no sacrament shall ever be celebrated but joseph shall be remembered. but joseph must be taught concerning the sacrament; the bread and wine are christ's flesh and blood, the tomb is the altar; the grave-cloth the corporal, the vessel wherein the blood was put shall be called chalice, the cup-platten signifies the tombstone. all who see joseph's vessel shall be of christ's company, have fulfilment of their heart's wish and joy eternal. (_the author adds_: i dare not, nor could not, tell this but that i had the great book wherein the histories are written by the great clerks, therein are the great secrets written which are called the graal.) christ leaves joseph, who remains in prison, no man heeding him ( ) until, when vespasian, the emperor's son, was a leper, a pilgrim comes to rome and tells of christ's cures, and lays his head vespasian could be cured could anything of christ's be brought to rome. the emperor sends messengers, who hear pilate's story of the crucifixion and about joseph. the jews are called together, and one tells of verrine, who is brought before the messengers, and she relates how she wiped christ's face and thus got the likeness of him. they take her to rome, vespasian is healed, and sets forth to revenge christ's death. he kills many jews, burning some. one jew offers to find joseph, and tells the story of his imprisonment. vespasian is let down into the prison and finds joseph alive, who, to his amazement, welcomes him by name, and reads him a lecture on biblical history and christian faith. vespasian is converted, and sells the jews at the rate of thirty for a penny. ( ) joseph exhorts his kin, among them his sister, enygeus, and brother-in-law, hebron. they agree to believe, and to follow him. he sets off with them and they dwell for long in far-off lands. for awhile things go well, but then all the host does turns to naught; 'tis on account of carnal sin. the host complains to hebron that they and their children die of hunger. ( ) hebron reports this to joseph, who goes weeping and kneels before the vessel and asks why his followers suffer? a voice from the holy ghost answers he is not in fault, but he is to set the vessel before the people, and to mind him how he, christ, had eaten with his disciples, and how the false disciple was detected. in the name of that table whereat christ last ate, joseph is to prepare another, and then to call his brother-in-law, brons, and make him go into the water to catch a fish, and the first he catches joseph is to put it on the table, and then to take the vessel, put it on the table, cover it with a towel, and then place hebron's fish opposite it. the people are then to be called, who will soon see wherein they have sinned. and joseph is to sit where christ sat at the last sacrament, with brons at his right. and brons is to draw back one seat, to signify the seat of judas, and the seat thus left empty is not to be filled until enygeus have a child by brons, her husband, and when that child is born there shall be his seat. the people is then to be bidden sit down to the grace of our lord. joseph does all this; part of the people sit, part do not, the sitters are filled with sweetness and the desire of their heart, the others feel nought. one of the sitters, named petrus, asks if they feel nothing, and tells them it is because they are defiled with sin. the sinners then depart, but joseph bids them come back day by day. thus joseph detects the sinners, and thus is the vessel first proved. ( ) joseph tells the sinners it severs them from the others, as it holds no company with nor has love towards any sinner. the sinners ask the name of the vessel: it is called _graal_, as it is agreeable to all who see it. now all this is verity, hence we call this the story of the grail, and it shall be henceforth known as the grail. ( ) one sinner remains, moyses, a hypocrite (here a gap which can be filled up from the prose versions: moyses seats himself in the empty seat, whereupon the earth opens and swallows him). ( ) joseph prays to christ that as he came to him in prison, and promised he would come to his aid when in trouble, so now he would show him what has become of moyses. the voice tells joseph again about the empty seat, and how that the one at joseph's table was not to be filled until the third man come, whom hebron should beget and enygeus bear, and _his_ son should fill the seat. moyses had stayed behind only to deceive, he had his deserts, no more should be heard of him in fable or song until _he_ come who should fill the empty seat. ( ) in course of time brons and enygeus have twelve sons and are greatly bothered with them, and ask joseph what is to be done with them. joseph prays before the vessel; eleven will marry, one remain single; this one is alain. joseph is told by the voice when he consults the vessel about this nephew, to relate all about christ's death and about the vessel, to tell alain that from him shall issue an heir who is to keep the vessel; alain is to take charge of his brethren and sisters and go westwards. an angel will bring a letter for petrus to read, telling him to go whither he lists; he will say: the vale of avaron; thither shall he go and wait for the son of alain, and shall not pass away until that one come, and to him shall petrus teach the power of the vessel, and say what has become of moyses, and then may he die. ( ) all happens as foretold by the voice; the letter comes for petrus, who declares his intention of departing for the vale of avaron, bidding the host pray god he may never go against his will. alain leaves with his brethren, and, as joseph taught him, preaches the name of jesus christ. ( ) petrus stays one day more; it is, says an angel, the lord sends to joseph, that he may see and hear the things of the vessel. the angel continues: the lord knows brons for a worthy man, and 'twas, therefore his will he should go fishing; he is to keep the vessel after joseph, who must instruct him properly especially concerning the holy words which god spake to joseph in the prison, which are properly called the secrets of the grail; brons is to be called the rich fisher from the fish he caught; all the people are to go westwards; brons is to wait for the son of his son, and to give him the vessel, then shall the meaning of the blessed trinity be made known; after the vessel has been given to brons, petrus is to go, as he may then truly say he has seen hebron, the rich fisher, put in possession of the vessel; when all this is done, joseph is to go to perfect joy and life pardurable. ( ) on the morrow joseph tells them the angel's message, save the words of christ in the prison, which he tells to the rich fisher alone. the latter is then put in possession of grail and headship; joseph stays three days with him, then the good fisher goes away--in the land where he was born--and joseph remains.[ ] master robert de borron should doubtless tell where alain went, hebron's son, and what became of him; what life petrus led, and what became of him; what became of the long-lost moyses; where the rich fisher went, and where he stayed. it were well to assemble these four things, but this no man could do save he had first heard tell the greatest history of the grail, which is all true; and in this time i tell it to my lord walter, never had the great history of the grail been told by mortal man. if god gives me strength i will assemble these four parts if i can find them in a book, meanwhile i must go on to the fifth and forget the four. (then follows the merlin). =robert de borron's poem: merlin.=--(in order to give all the materials for the discussion of birch-hirschfeld's theory of the grail legend in the next chapter, a brief summary of the merlin is added. a full one may be found in birch-hirschfeld, pp. , _et seq._) the devil, incensed at christ's victory over him, in revenge begets by fraudful malice upon a virgin, a son, who is to be the wisest of mankind, and to oppose christ's teaching. this is merlin, who at eighteen months is able to save his mother, threatened with the doom of unchastity. afterwards he is brought to king vortigern, to whom he expounds the mystery of the unfinished tower. vortigern is driven from his throne by pendragon, with whom merlin stands in high honour; equally so with his successor, uter pendragon, for whom he builds the round table, leaving one place empty to be filled in the time of uter's successor. he then helps the king to satisfy his passion for yguerne, and takes charge of arthur, their son. when the latter grows up to be a youth he fulfils the adventure of the sword in the anvil, and is proclaimed king. "and i, robert of borron, writer of this book, may not speak longer of arthur till i have told of alain, son of brons, and how the woes of britain were caused; and as the book tells so must i what man alain was, and what life he led, and of his seed and their life. and when i have spoken of these things i will tell again of arthur." (then follows in one solitary ms., the didot-perceval summarised above, p. . as will be seen, it does not tell what man alain was, nor does it refer to him at all save in the most passing way). chapter iii. the legend formed of two portions: early history of grail, quest--two forms of each portion distinguished--grouping of the various versions--alternative hypotheses of development--their bearing upon the alleged celtic origin of the grail--closer examination of the various accounts of the grail: the first use made of it and its first possessor; its solace of joseph; its properties and the effect produced by it; its name; its arrival in england; the grail-keeper and his relationship to the promised knight--three different stages in the development of the queste--the work and the qualification of the promised knight--conclusions: priority over early history of quest--chronological arrangement of the versions. the information afforded by the summaries enables us to take a general view of the legend as a whole, and to attempt a more accurate chronological classification of its varying forms. it will have been seen that the legend is formed of two distinct portions: the one dealing with the origin and wanderings (early history) of the grail, the other with its quest. the two portions are found combined in the joseph and didot-perceval and in the grand st. graal and queste considered each as one organic whole. versions a, chrestien and his continuators; c, didot-perceval taken by itself; d, queste; f, wolfram, and g, perceval le gallois, treat only of the quest. versions b, metrical joseph, and e, grand st. graal, only of the early history. but in nearly all the versions, no matter of which portion, references are to be found to the other, and when the versions are carefully examined, it is found that of each portion there exist two entirely different forms. taking the early history first, versions a, b, c, d, e, and g, in so far as they deal with it at all, relate much as follows: the grail is the vessel which our lord used at the last supper, which, given by pilate to joseph, served the latter to receive the blood flowing from the body of the dead christ, sustained him miraculously during his captivity, was, after his release, used by him to test the faith of his followers, and was brought to england by joseph (a, d, e), by brons (b, c), and was finally confided by joseph to his brother-in-law, brons, to be kept until the coming of the latter's grandson (versions b and c), or was left in charge of alain, son of brons, from whom it passed to his brother josue, in whose line it remained until the good knight should come (version e). but f, wolfram makes the grail a vessel of "lapsit exillit" (_i.e._, lapis herilis, or lapsus ex coelis, or lapis electrix), which, after the fall of the rebel angels, was given in charge to titurel and his dynasty, and by them preserved in the grail castle, montsalvatch, guarded by a sacred order of knighthood whom it chooses itself. so far, therefore, as the early history is concerned all the versions, save one, are in the main of the same class, the differences between them being, apparently, ones of development and not of origin. turning now to the quest, two classes are likewise to be distinguished: in the first the hero is perceval, in the second there are three heroes, galahad, perceval, and bors, chief of whom is galahad. to the first class belong versions a, chrestien, etc., c, didot-perceval; f, wolfram; and g, perceval le gallois; whilst d, queste, alone of the versions which recount the quest only, belongs to the other class. it is followed, however, by e, grand st. graal, in so far as the latter has any reference to the quest. in the other early history version, namely b, metrical joseph, the name of the hero who is to achieve the quest is not mentioned, but the indications concerning him agree more closely with the march of the story in c, didot-perceval, than with those of d, queste; it must therefore be ranged in the first class. the main incident in the versions of this class is the hero's visit to the castle of a sick king, his beholding there the grail in company with other relics, his neglect on the first visit to ask the meaning of what he sees, his punishment, second visit to the grail castle, and attainment of his end, whether healing of the sick king or winning of the grail kingship. the two versions, h, peredur, and i, sir perceval, which belong to the grail cycle, though they do not mention the grail, and although i, sir perceval, does not contain the above-mentioned incident, must likewise be placed in this class, as must also the gawain episodes of diu crone. in the second class this main incident is missing, though several of its less important features are present in altogether different connection. the story in d, queste, is largely made up of adventures tallying often detail for detail with those in the early history version, e, grand st. graal, with which it shares similarity in the quest form. whilst each portion of the legend exists in two forms, the great majority of versions in both cases belong to one form. looking for the moment upon d and e as one whole, there is in both cases only one minority-version, viz., for the early history, f, wolfram, for the quest d-e, queste, grand st. graal. and each of these is only in a minority as far as one portion of the legend is concerned, d-e, agreeing with the majority in the early history, and f in the quest. taking the average of all the versions there results what may be called the _joseph of arimathea form_ as the type of the early history; the _perceval form_ as the type of the quest. as a rule, it may be confidently assumed that the larger number of versions represent an older form, an assumption strengthened so far as the early history is concerned by the fact that the minority version, f, wolfram, can historically be proved to be one of the latest in date of all the versions, and, so far as the quest is concerned, by the following considerations:--the minority version, d-e, has three heroes, of whom perceval is second in importance only to the chief hero, galahad, indeed he occupies as large a space in the narrative. this position can be due only to his being the original achiever of the quest. it is obviously inadmissible that seven or eight versions should have conspired to pick out one only, and that one the second, of the three heroes of the queste, and should have made him the sole hero, whilst it is easy to understand that the author of d, queste, dissatisfied for certain reasons with the older forms of the story, yet not daring to alter it so far as to entirely burke the original hero, should have taken the course he did. two alternative hypotheses now naturally suggest themselves. the two parts of the legend may really form one organic whole, although more frequently found asunder than combined, or the one part may be an explanatory and supplementary after-thought. if the first hypothesis be accepted, it is natural to look upon the metrical joseph and the didot-perceval as the first and last parts of a trilogy, which, as presenting the legend in its fullest and most orderly shape, has a claim to being the oldest form of the story, and the main, if not the only, source of all other versions. if, on the other hand, the second hypothesis be exact, if one part of the legend be later than the other, and has been artificially welded into one with it, that version in which this fusion is most perfect, instead of being the earliest is, with greater likelihood, one of the latest forms. how do these alternative hypotheses affect the special object of these studies--the investigation of the alleged celtic element in the grail romances? in this way. if the early history be an integral part of the romance, the probabilities in favour of a purely christian legendary origin for the grail itself are immensely increased, and the utmost the celtic partisan could hope to show was that a christian legend had somehow or other been strongly influenced by celtic popular traditions. but if the reverse be true the probabilities are at once in favour of the christian legendary element being the intruding one, and the chief aim of the celtic partisan will be to disengage the present versions of the quest from the traces left upon them by the early history, and to accumulate as many parallels as possible between the residuum and admittedly genuine celtic tradition. it by no means follows, however, that the acceptance of the second hypothesis involves the acceptance of the celtic origin of the grail. the romance as we have it--quest, early history--may be the fusion of two elements, one of which, the christian legendary, may claim _all_ that is connected with the mystic vessel. were it otherwise our task would be greatly simplified. for the mere fact that what may be called the non-grail members of the cycle, _i.e._, h, peredur, and i, sir perceval, know nothing of the early history, gives no uncertain hint as to which portion of the romance is the original, and which the accretion. two points have then to be investigated--the relationship one to the other of early history and quest; and, if the quest is found to be the older portion, whether the grail really belongs to it, or whether its presence in the various forms of the story as we now have them may not be due to the early history. an examination of the various passages in which the grail is mentioned will furnish material towards settling the first point. such an examination may profitably omit all reference to wolfram, to the prose perceval le gallois, from which little is apparently to be gained respecting the oldest forms of the legend, and to heinrich von dem türlin's version of the gawain episodes. it must also neglect for the nonce the two non-grail members of the cycle (the mabinogi and sir perceval) as their testimony is either of little or of the highest value according as the quest is or is not found to be the oldest portion of the romance. with these exceptions all the versions furnish elements of comparison, though little is to be got, as far as the point under discussion is concerned, from what is apparently the latest section of the conte du graal, gerbert's poem. the consideration of the second point will necessitate comparison of the various quest forms among themselves, and the examination of numerous celtic stories which present analogies with them. _the grail: the first use made of it and its first possessor._ we learn nothing from chrestien respecting the early history of the grail, nor is gautier more communicative if the mons ms. version be followed. the intercalation, a iia, however, and manessier give full details. according to the former: ... c'est icel graal por voir que nostre sires tant ama que de son saint sanc l'anora au jor que il fu en croix mis. ( - ) according to the latter: c'est li vassiaus, ce saciés-vous, Ù ens li sains sans présious nostre segnor fu recéus quant de la lance fu férus. ( , - ) we learn from the former that "josep le fist fère" (v. ), and that he used it to collect the blood that flowed from each foot of our lord as he hung on the cross (verses - ), whilst the latter leaves it uncertain who the first possessor was, and who held the grail to receive our lord's blood. the information given in versions b, is as might be expected, much fuller. b i, metr. jos., which calls it "un veissel mout gent," tells how christ used it, he "feisoit son sacrement" in it; how it was found by a jew, who delivered it up to pilate, by whom it was given to joseph, and by him used to receive the blood which bursts forth again from christ's wounds when the body has been taken down from the cross.--c, didot-perceval: brons, after relating how longis pierced the lord's body as it hung on the cross, says of the grail, "en cest vessel gist le sanc que joseph recueilli qui decoroit par terre" (p. ).--e, grand st. graal: joseph himself finds the vessel out of which christ had eaten, takes it home, and when he has received the body from pilate, fetches the vessel and collects in it all the blood flowing from the wound he can (i, pp. , ). curiously enough, the very ms. which gives this version has an illustration of joseph sitting under the cross and collecting the blood as it drops from the wounds in side and feet. three different accounts of how the grail came into joseph's possession and to what use he put it thus exist:-- ( ) the grail is the vessel in which christ's blood was received as he hung upon the cross (pseudo-gautier, manessier, didot-perceval, and an illustration in a ms. of the grand st. graal); joseph had had it made (pseudo-gautier). ( ) the grail is the vessel which had been used by christ at the last supper. it is used as a receptacle for the blood of christ after his body has been taken down from the cross (metr. jos.). ( ) same as no. , with minor alterations, such as that it was joseph who found the holy vessel himself (grand st. graal). _the grail: its solace of joseph._ chrestien and gautier are again silent, but from a iia, pseudo-gautier, we learn that joseph was wont to pray before the grail, that he was, in consequence, imprisoned in a high tower by the jews, delivered thence by the lord, whereupon the jews resolve to exile him with nicodemus, and that sister of his who had a likeness of christ (verses - ). manessier, in the mons ms. version, passes this over, but a iiia, has the following important passage:-- en une charte orrible et lède fu mis joseph sanz nul arreste; * * * * xl ans ilecques estut c'onques ne menja ne ne but; mais damediex li envoioit le saint graal que il véoit ii foiées ou iii le jor; (v. pp. - .) in the b versions this episode is one of capital importance. b i., joseph is put into prison, because the jews suspect him of having stolen away christ's body. to him in the dungeon, "qui estoit horrible et obscure" (v. ), appears christ, who hands him the grail, whereat he is surprised, as he had hidden it in a house where none knew of it (v. ), and addresses him as follows:-- en ten povoir l'enseigne aras de ma mort et la garderas et cil l'averunt à garder a cui tu la voudras donner. ( - ) these will be three-- joseph, bien ce saras garder, que tu ne le doiz commander qu'a trois persones qui l'arunt. ou non dou père le penrunt et dou fil et dou saint-esprit ( - ) the offices joseph rendered to christ's body were symbolical of the sacrament: the sepulchre is the altar; the sheet in which the body was wrapped the corporal; the vessel in which the blood was received shall be called chalice; and by the patina upon which it rests is signified the tombstone (v. - ). finally christ promises joseph that:-- tout cil qui ten veissel verrunt, en ma compeignie serunt; de cuer arunt emplissement et joie pardurablement. ( - ) the prose versions repeat this account in the main, but with some important additions, thus: b ii, cangé ms., adds after christ's last words, "lors li aprant jhésu christ tex paroles que jà nus conter ne retraire ne porroit," etc. (i, ); when christ hands the vessel to joseph, "tu tiens lou sanc as trois personnes en une déité, qui degota des plaies de la char au fil," etc. (i, - ); after the description of the grail, "lou graal c'est à dire sor lou caalice."... in c, didot-perceval, the holy ghost, speaking to brons, commands him to reveal to perceval, "icelles paroles segroies qu'il (_i.e._, christ) aprist à joseph en la prison," which, adds the narrator, "je ne vous puis dire ne ne doi" (i, ). e, grand st. graal: the jews, angry at joseph's having taken christ's body down from the cross, throw him into "la plu hideuse chartre qui onques fust veue" and when they hear of the lord's resurrection propose to starve him; but christ comes to him, brings him for comfort "la sainte esceuele que ostoie en sa maison a tot le sanc qu'il auoit requelli," and comforted him much, and assured him that he should not die in prison but come out safe and sound, and his name be glorified. and joseph "fu en la prison ... tant qu'il demoura xlii ans" (pp. - ).[ ] here again are three distinct accounts:-- ( ) that of pseudo-gautier, which merely mentions joseph's devotions to the grail, and does not connect that devotion with any solace during his captivity. ( ) that of the b versions, in which christ himself brings the holy vessel to the captive, and connects it with certain promises and recommendations which he makes to him; the vessel shall remain with his seed, but it is to be in charge of three persons, a symbol of the trinity. the services rendered by joseph to christ's body are connected with the mass. the late (prose) drafts of this version insist still more upon the sacramental nature of the grail. ( ) the grand st. graal and pseudo-manessier introduce a fresh element--the grail is the material means by which joseph is sustained (forty years according to the one, forty-two years according to the other version) without food or drink. the great importance of the incident in the b versions is most remarkable when contrasted with the comparative indifference displayed by the other versions, and notably by the grand st. graal, which, at the first blush, looks so like a mere amplification of b, still more remarkable the agreement between the prose versions of b, with c, didot-perceval, respecting christ's words to joseph against b i, metr. jos. it is difficult to decide which of the two versions is the older; b i, after christ's words, has the following important passage:-- ge n'ose conter ne retreire, ne je ne le pourroie feire, neis, se je feire le voloie, se je le grant livre n'avoie où les estoires sunt escrites, par les granz clers feites et dites: lá sunt li grant secré escrit qu'en numme le graal et dit. which may either have been the reason why the prose versions, followed by the didot-perceval, speak as they do about the secret words, or may be the versifier's excuse for giving those secret words themselves, _i.e._, the explanation of the mysteries of the grail in its relation to the sacrament, in which case the verse would be later than the prose forms.[ ] finally, it would seem that pseudo-manessier, a iiia, and the grand st. graal drew their information one from the other or from a common source. _properties and effect of the grail._ in chrestien these seem to be of a purely physical nature; the grail is borne uncovered through the hall at every meal ( , - ), it feeds the fisher king's father-- d'une seule oiste li sains hom quant en ce greal li aporte sa vie sostient et conforte tant sainte cose est li graaus. ( , - ) the most direct testimony in chrestien to its sacred nature. in gautier, likewise, the physical properties are insisted upon in the following passages:-- lors vit parmi la sale aler la rice gréail ki servoit et mist le pain a grant esploit. ( , - ) moult mangièrent à grant loisir; adonques véissiés servir le gréail moult honestement. ( , - ) but in verses , - a remarkable spiritual effect is attributed to it-- car li diables ne deçoit nul homme ki le jor le voie, ne ne le met en male voie por faire pécié creminal. in a iia, pseudo-gautier, the physical side alone is insisted upon-- et de quanqu'il lor ert mestiers les fornissoit à tel plenté com s'il n'eust néant cousté; ( - ) et li graaux par tot aloit et pain et vin par tot portoit et autres mès a grant planté. ( - ) manessier makes no special reference to the properties of the grail. in the b versions it is the spiritual power of the grail which is dwelt upon. christ's words to joseph have already been quoted (_supra_, p. ), and the use which the latter puts the grail to, and which is specially indicated to joseph by the holy ghost, is in accordance with them. the grail is to serve him as a touchstone to distinguish the sinners of his company-- car il n'a à nul pecheour ne compaignie ne amour; ( , - ) whereas to those who have not defiled themselves with sin it brings la douceur, l'accomplissement de leur cueurs tout entièrement; ( , - ) so that according to them-- ... cuers ne pourroit, a pourpenser ne soufiroit le grant delit que nous avuns ne la grant joie en quoi nous suns. ( , - ) this testing power of the grail is especially brought into play when the vessel is placed on the table in connection with the fish which brons caught, and which won him the name of the rich fisher. c, didot-perceval, has only one reference, "ne il ne covient mie en sa compagnie pechier" (i, ), agreeing with b and with gautier's lines , - . in d, queste, we revert to the physical gifts of the grail. "and as soon as it entered the door of the hall the whole court was filled with perfumes ... and it proceeded to every place in the hall. and as it came before the tables it filled them with every kind of meat that a man would wish to have." when it comes in, "every one looked at each other, and there was not one that could say a single word;" when it goes out, "every one recovered his speech" (d ii, pp. - ). there is no allusion to a gathering at which the grail is used to test the state of grace of its devotees. e, grand st. graal, shows a curious mixture of the two ideas; the grail feeds its worshippers, but only those who are "de sainte vie," to them it bring "toutes le boines viandes ke cuers d'omme pourroit penser," but "li pecheour n'auoient ke mangier." this version shows itself here, as in so many other passages, one of the latest in date, embodying and reconciling as it does the conceptions of the older versions--conceptions which it is difficult to derive, either from a common source or from one another. if it were not for the solitary phrase of gautier's, lines , , etc. (a passage which affords the strongest proof against the homogeneity of that part of the conte du graal which goes under gautier's name), there would be an unbroken chain of testimony as to the food-giving power of the grail on the part of the earlier a versions, supported by the queste in opposition to the spiritual gifts insisted on by the b and e, grand st. graal, forms. it is in any case difficult to believe that if the writer of the queste, with his strong tendency to mystic allegory, had had before him the highly spiritual presentment of the grail-power found in b, he would have neglected it in favour of the materialistic description he uses. in one point this version differs from all others, the dumbness with which the grail strikes those to whom it appears.[ ] _name of grail._ whilst the majority of versions afford no explanation of the name of the grail, b and c attach a curious punning meaning to it, thus b i, metr. jos.: par droit graal l'apelera; car nus le graal ne verra, ce croi-je, qu'il ne li agrée; ( , - ) and c, didot-perceval, "et por ce l'anpelon-nos graal, qu'il agrée as prodes homes" (p. ). e, grand st. graal, seems to follow these versions in nasciens' words, "car tout mi pense sont accompli, puis ke ie voi chou qui en toutes choses me plaist et m'agrée" (i, ). is such a punning explanation more consonant with the earliness or the lateness of the versions in which it is found? if the meaning of "gréal" as cup or vessel was a perfectly well-established one, it is difficult to see why in the first treatment of the subject it should have been necessary to explain the word at all. _arrival of the grail in england._ neither a i, chrestien, nor a ii, gautier, give any indication how the grail came to england; not until we come to a iia, pseudo-gautier, do we learn anything on the subject. it is there related (v. - ) how joseph and his companions take ship and sail till they come to the land promised joseph by god--the white isle, namely, a part of england; and how (v. - ) joseph, finding that "sa vitaille li falloit," prays god to lend him that grail in which he had collected the holy blood. the prayer is granted and the grail appears and feeds the company. a iii, manessier, simply says that joseph, after leaving sarras, carried the grail about with him, then in a singularly enigmatic passage (the fisher king is speaking):-- et, quant il furent départis, il s'en ala en son païs, et tout partout ù il aloit la loi jhésucrist essauçoit. puis vint en cest païs manoir, od lui le saint gréal, por voir. josep qui en dieu se fia icest païs édéfia. ( , - ) the b versions account is much more elaborate, and demands the most careful analysis. in b i, metr. jos., the first mention of the west is found in christ's words to joseph concerning his nephew, alain, who is to keep the grail, to take charge of his brothers and sisters, and puis s'en ira vers occident es plus loiteins lius que pourra; ( , - ) further that petrus is likewise to go "ès vaus d'avaron" ( , ), it being added that-- ces terres trestout vraiement se treient devers occident. ( , - ) effectively we learn (v. , , etc.) that alain leads his brothers into strange lands. but the grail remains behind, and in v. , , etc., an angel declares it necessary that all the people should go to the west, that brons should have the vessel, that he should go straight to the west, and that petrus, after seeing the grail safe in brons' keeping, is to go likewise. joseph follows the angel's command, and three days after he has committed the grail to brons' hands. ainsi joseph se demoura. li boens pescherres s'en ala (dont furent puis meintes paroles contées, ki ne sunt pas foles) en la terre lau il fu nez, et joseph si est demourez. ( , - ) a puzzling passage, as it is difficult to be sure whether line , refers to the fisher or to joseph, a point of obvious importance, as in the latter case it would indicate that joseph in this version does not go west. on turning to the prose versions, some remarkable variations are found in the corresponding passages; thus b ii, cangé ms. (i, ) after relating how brons finds wives for his children, adds, "mais ancor estoit la crestientez moult tenue et moult novele en ce païs que l'an apeloit la bloe bretaigne que joseph avoit novellement convertie à la créance de jhésu-christ," words which would seem to indicate that the writer imagined joseph and his company _already_ in england. the corresponding passage to v. , - runs thus: ensinc se departirent, si s'en ala li riches peschierres dont maintes paroles furent puis, en la grant bretaigne et ensinc remest joseph et fina en la terre et ou païs où il fu envoiez de par jhésu-crist ( ). b iii, didot ms, accentuates the punning reference to avalon in the angel's message to joseph, "come li monde ... va en avalant covient-il que toute ceste gent se retraie en occident" (p. ). the final passage runs thus: "eynsi se despartirent joseph et bron: et joseph s'en ala en la terre et el pais où il fust nez et ampris la terre" (p. ). thus the testimony of these versions favours the application of v, , in metr. jos. to joseph. from c, didot-perceval, we obtain an account similar in parts to that of the b versions, the most direct reference being in the speech of the hermit, perceval's uncle, "biaus niès, sachès que à la table là où joseph fist et je meismes oïmes la voiz de saint esperit qui nos comenda venir en loingteines terres en occident, et comenda le riche péchéor mon père que il venist en cestes parties, là ou li soleil avaloit" ( - ), where the punning reference to avalon is again prominent, and where, apparently, the passage of joseph himself to england is not indicated. an entirely different form of the legend is found in d and e. in the former (d ii, ) it is briefly stated, "and afterwards it happened to joseph, and joseph his father, and a number of his family with them, to set out from the city of sarras, and they came as far as great britain"; again, p. , perceval's aunt relates how when joseph of arimathea came, and his son joseph with him, to great britain, there came with them about , people, all of whom are fed by ten loaves, placed on the table, on the head of which is the grail. e, grand st. graal, dwells specially upon josephe; he is referred to in i, p. , as having passed "le lignage ioseph son père outre mer iusqu'en la bloie bertaigne qui ore a nom engleterre," and ii, , etc., gives a full account of how the passage is effected; how the grail-bearers are sent first, and supported through the water by its power; how, when josephe takes off his shirt, and his father joseph puts his foot upon it, it swells until it holds persons. these two accounts agree better with that of a iia, pseudo-gautier, than with any of the others; indeed, a passage in the latter (v. - ), which tells how joseph committed the portrait of our lord, made by verrine, to the mercy of the sea, may have given the hint for the miraculous shirt story of the grand st. graal. in this version, too, as in d, queste, we first hear of the passage to england, and then the grail appears at the miraculous feeding of the travellers. the versions thus fall into two clearly-defined groups, joseph being the grail-bearer in the one, brons in the latter. the latter class is represented by the metrical joseph and the didot-perceval alone, if we except the berne ms. form of a portion of the conte du graal, which, in its finish, has obviously copied the metrical joseph. to the former class belong all the other versions. nay, more, one of the prose forms of borron's poems is interpolated, so as to countenance the joseph-account of the bringing of the grail to england. moreover, borron's account of the whole transaction is ambiguous and obscure; at first alain is the destined hero, long passages being devoted to him, and the keeping of the mystic vessel being expressly reserved to him. yet he leaves, quite quietly, nothing more being heard of him, and the same machinery of angelic messages is set in motion for brons, to whom, henceforth, the chief _rôle_ is assigned. does not this show that there were from the outset two accounts of the evangelisation of britain, one, attributing it to joseph, of wider popularity, and followed solely by the majority of the romances, whilst borron, who gave greater prominence to the other account, has maladroitly tried to fuse the two into one? in any case it would be remarkable were the legend of purely christian origin, and were the metrical joseph its earliest form, and source of the other forms, that its testimony on such an important point should be contradicted by nearly every other version. do the foregoing facts throw any light upon the question whether the two sections of the romance are originally independent, and which is the earlier? it is the later forms of the quest alone which mention joseph. but if he be really the older of the two personages to whom, in the early history, the evangelisation of britain is attributed, this would of itself go a long way to proving that the two portions of the romance only came into contact at a late stage of their development, and that the quest is the older. it is otherwise if brons be looked upon as the original grail-bringer; the same causes which led to his exclusion from the other versions of the early history might have kept him out of most versions of the quest, and his presence in one quest version could be claimed as a proof of the homogeneity of the romance. for the present, it is sufficient to mark the fact that what may be called the brons form of the early history is in a minority. _the grail-keeper and his relationship to the promised knight._ in the a versions the grail-keeper is the fisher king, uncle to the hero of the quest, perceval. the relationship is first plainly put in chrestien, where the hermit, speaking to perceval of the grail, says-- cil qui l'en sert, il est mes frere ma soeur et soie fu ta mère, et del rice pescéour croi que il est fius à celui roi qui del graal servir se fait. ( , - ) the origin of his name is fully explained in the passage (v. , - ), which tells of his being wounded in battle by a lance-thrust through his two thighs, of his sufferings, and of his only solace being fishing from a boat. how the grail came into his possession c does not say. gautier has no occasion to mention these facts, but from manessier we learn that joseph, having converted the land, died therein; that the fisher king is of his seed, and that if god wills the grail will never have its dwelling elsewhere than with him ( , - ); that he, the fisher king, had a brother, goon desert, treacherously slain by partinal, who broke his sword in the murderous act. goon's body and the fragments of the sword being brought by his niece to the fisher king, he wounds himself with them, "parmi les gambes en traviers," and may not be healed until a knight should come to weld the fragments together and avenge his brother's death. pseudo-gautier tells how joseph, dying, prays that the grail may remain with his descendants-- si fist il, c'est verité fine, qu' après sa mort n'en ot sésine nus hom, tant fust de son lignage se il ne fu del haut parage. li riches peschéor, por voir, en fu estret et tuit si oir et des suens fu greloguevaus ausi en réfu percevaus. ( - ) manessier disagrees, it will have been noticed, with chrestien respecting the cause of the fisher king's wound, and neither he nor the other continuators of chrestien make any mention of that enigmatic personage the fisher king's father, so casually alluded to by chrestien (v. , - ). perceval according to them is a direct descendant of joseph, brons being as entirely ignored here as in the transport of the grail to england. in the b versions the grail-keeper is brons, and the promised knight is his son or grandson, for a close examination again shows that two varying accounts have been embodied in one narrative. in the passage where the holy ghost, speaking to joseph, tells him of the empty place to be left at the table he is to make, the following lines occur:-- cil lius estre empliz ne pourra devant qu' enygeus avera un enfant de bron sen mari, que tu et ta suer amez si; et quant li enfès sera nez, la sera ses lius assenez; ( , - ) followed closely by the prose versions: b ii, cangé mss., "ne icil leux ne pourra estre ampliz tant que le filz bron et anysgeus ne l'accomplisse" (i, ); b iii, didot ms., "cist leus ne porra mie estre ampliz devant ce que li fist bron l'ampleisse" (i, ). but afterwards a fresh account appears; in the second message of the holy ghost, joseph is told: que cist luis empliz ne sera devant que li tierz hons venra qui descendra de ten lignage et istera de ten parage, et hebruns le doit engenrer et enygeus ta sueur porter; et cil qui de sen fil istra, cest liu méismes emplira. ( , - ) in the corresponding passages both b ii and iii have the following significant addition, "et i. autre (_i.e._, place) avoc cestui qui el nom de cestui sera fondé" (i, ), "raemplira ce leu et i. autre qui en leu decestu isera fondez" (i, ), which effectually disposes of m. hucher's attempt (i, , note) to harmonise the two accounts by the remark that in the first one "il ne s'agit pas de la table ronde où c'est perceval qui remplit le lieu vide." henceforth the legend follows the second account. to alain, son of brons, is revealed that ... de lui doit oissir un oir malle, qui doit venir. ( , - ) petrus is to wait for "le fil alein," brons is to wait for "le fil sen fil," and when he is come to give him the vessel and grail ( , - ). b ii, cangé ms., again makes a characteristic addition to the promise to alain "et si li di que de lui doit issir un oirs masles, à cui la grace de mon veissel doit repairier" (i, ). c, didot-perceval, follows the second account of b. perceval is son to alain li gros, grandson to brons, the rich fisher king, "et cil rois péchéors est en grant enfermetez, quar il est vieil home et plains de maladies" (i, ), and nephew to the hermit, "un des fiz bron et frère alein" (i, ), though curiously enough when he tells brons that he knows him to be father of his father, the latter addresses him as "bieaux niès" (i, ). in any case whether b and c do or do not afford proof of a nearer relationship than that of grandson and grandfather between the grail-keeper and the achiever of the quest, the chronology which bridges over years in two generations is equally fantastic. in d, queste, no less than three different accounts are to be distinguished, corresponding certainly to three stages in the development of this version due to the influence of other versions of the legend. the earliest is that preserved in d ii, the welsh translation of a now lost french original. the promised knight is galahad, son of lancelot, grandson, on the mother's side, of king pelles (ch. iv). the grail is kept at the court of king peleur (ch. lxvii), the name of which is apparently corbenic (ch. lxiv). the lame king is mentioned by perceval's sister (ch. xlix), as a son of king lambar, who fought with king urlain and slew him, and in consequence of that blow the country was wasted; afterwards (ch. l.) his lameness is set down to his folly in attempting to draw the magic sword, for which, though there was not in christendom a better man than he, he was wounded with a spear through the thigh. she also speaks of him here as her uncle. the grail quest is not connected in any way with the healing of this lame king. in the text printed by furnivall, galahad is first introduced as lancelot's son and pelles' grandson, but when he comes to arthur's court he bids his returning companion, "salues moi tous chiaus del saint hostel et mon _oncle le roi pelles_ et mon _aioul le riche peschéour_." guinevere's ladies, according to this version, prophesy that galahad will heal the lame king. a long account, missing in d i, is given by the hermit to lancelot of his ancestry as follows (p. ):--celidoine, son of nasciens, had nine descendants, warpus, crestiens, alain li gros, helyas, jonaans, lancelot, ban, lancelot himself, galahad, in whom christ will bathe himself entirely. perceval is son of a king pellehem (p. ). the lame king is pelles, "que l'on apièle lo roi mehaignié" (p. ); he is at corbenic when lancelot comes there. when galahad and his companions arrive at his court a sick man wearing a crown is brought in, who blesses galahad as his deliverer. after the appearance of the grail, galahad heals him by touching his wound with the spear. the third account, from the version of the queste printed with the lancelot and the mort artur in , at rouen, by gaillard le bourgeois,[ ] makes galahad send greetings to the fisher king and to his _grandfather, king pelles_; it adds to perceval's sister's account of how pelles was wounded, the words, "he was galahad's grandfather;"[ ] it adds to the account of lancelot's visit to the grail castle, the words, "this was castle corbenic, where the holy grail was kept." before discussing these differences it is advisable to see what the grand st. graal says on these points. here alain, the fisher king, son of brons, is a virgin, and when josephe commits the grail to his care he empowers him to leave it to whom he likes (ii, -- .) in accordance with this alain leaves the grail to his brother josue, with the title of fisher king. josue's descendants are aminadap, catheloys, manaal, lambor (who was wounded by bruillans with solomon's sword, whence arose such a fierce war that the whole land was laid desert).[ ] pelleans, wounded in battle in the ankle, whence he had the name lame king, pelles, upon whose daughter lancelot begets galahad, who is thus, on the mother's side, ninth in descent from brons, brother to joseph. galahad's descent is likewise given from celidoine, son of nasciens, as follows: marpus, nasciens, alains li gros, ysaies, jonans, lancelot, bans, lancelot, galahad, who in thus counting celidoine is tenth in descent from nasciens, joseph's companion, (vol. ii, ch. xxxix.) so far the story is fairly consistent, although there is a difference of one generation between father's and mother's genealogy. but ch. , in a very important passage, introduces a different account. the angel is expounding to josephe and nasciens the marvels of the lance; to josephe he says, "de cheste lance dont tu as este ferus; ne sera iamis ferus ke vns seus hom. et chil sera rois, et descendra de ton lignaige, si serra li daerrains des boins. chil en sera ferus parmi les cuisses ambedeus," and will not be healed till the good knight come, "et chil ... serra li daerrains hom del lignaige nascien. et tout ausi com nasciens a este li premiers hom qui les meruelles du graal a veues; autresi sera chil li daerrains qui les verra.[ ] car che dist li urais crucefis. 'au premier home du precieus lignaige, et au daerrain, ai iou deuise à demonstrer mes meruelles.' et si dist enchore après. 'sour le premier et sour le daerrain de mes menistres nouuiaus qui sont enoint et sacre a mon plaisir, espanderai iou la venianche de la lanche auentureuse'" (i, - ), _i.e._, the last of josephe's line shall be the only man wounded by the lance, the last of nasciens' line shall be the deliverer. but according to galahad's genealogy, given above, it is _not_ the last of josephe's line (represented by his cousin josue) who is the wounded king, for galahad himself is as much the last in descent from josephe as from nasciens, and even if we take the words to apply only to the direct male descendants of josue, there is still a discrepancy, as not pelles, but pelleant, his father, is the "roi mehaigniés." if the wounded king were really the last of josephe's line, _i.e._, pelles, galahad would be his grandson, as percival is to brons. taking the two versions d. and e. together, some idea may be gathered from them of the way in which the legend has grown, and of the shifts to which the later harmonisers were put in their attempts to reconcile divergent accounts. in the first draft of the queste, galahad has nothing to do with the lame king, the latter remains perceval's uncle, the very relationship obtaining in chrestien. galahad has supplanted perceval, but has not stepped into the place entirely. the second draft of the queste endeavours to remedy this by clumsily introducing the lame king and his healing, missing in the first draft, into the great grail scene at the end, an idea foreign to the original author of the queste, who, having broken with perceval as chief hero, also broke with the distinctive quest incident as far as the chief hero is concerned. but a strange blunder is committed; the second draft, anxious to make galahad's grandfather both fisher and lame king, actually speaks of pelles as galahad's uncle, in direct contradiction to its own indication. the third draft corrects this mistake, and tries by different explanatory interpolations to confirm the relationship of galahad to the lame king, and the identity of his castle with the grail castle. the author of the grand st. graal now appears on the scene, appropriates the story about king lambar, father to the lame king, percival's uncle, makes him an ancestor of galahad, and gives a name to his son, pelleant (which name creeps back into the second draft of the queste as that of perceval's father), and thus derives galahad on the mother's side from brons, although it escapes him that he thus gives the lie to the prophecy which he puts in the angel's mouth, that it is the last of josephe's seed who is to be lamed by the lance, and that he has not given his lambor fictitious ancestors enough to equalize the genealogies. we are thus led back to the relationship of uncle and nephew as the earliest subsisting between the grail king and the achiever of the quest, and we find in those versions which supplant perceval by galahad a story told of the former's great uncle, king lambar, by no means unlike that told of his uncle in the a versions, and that there, as here, the cause of the woe brought upon the hero's family is one of the magic talismans which the hero is in quest of and by means of which he is to achieve his quest. we further notice that in so far as the early history influences the quest forms, it is the later versions in which its influence is apparent, and it is the joseph, not the brons form, which exercises this influence. not until we come to the grand st. graal, an obvious and bold attempt to embody previous versions in one harmonious whole, does the brons form make itself felt. _work of the promised knight._ in chrestien we can only guess at what the results of the successful achievement of the quest would have been by the reproaches addressed to the hero upon the failure of his first visits to the grail castle; he would have mended all things, and-- le bon roi ki est mehaigniés; que tous eust regaengniés ses membres, et tière tenist, et si grans bien en avenist; ( , - ) many evils will flow from his failure, and the cause of it is the sin he has committed in leaving his mother, who thereupon died of grief ( , - ); again the loathly damsel reproaches him that the rich king would have been healed of his wound, he would have kept in peace his land, which he never may again, for now dames en perdront lor maris tières en seront essilies, et pucièles deconsellies; orfenes, veves en remanront et maint chevalier en morront. ( , - ) gautier de doulens gives a vivid description of the effect of gawain's partially successful visit to the grail king; the character of the landscape changes at once-- n'estoit pas plus que mienuis, le soir devant, que dex avoit rendu issi com il devoit as aiges lor cors el païs; et tout li bos, ce m'est avis, refurent en verdor trové, si tos com il ot demandé por coi si sainnoit en l'anstier la lance; si devoit puplier li règnes; mais plus ne pupla por tant que plus ne demanda. ( , - ) all the country folk both bless and curse gawain. sire, mors nous as et garis, tu dois estre liés et maris; car grant aise nos as doné, s'en devons tout mercier dé; et si te devons moult hair pour con que nel vosis öir le greail, por coi il servoit, ne de la joie ki devoit là venir ne poroit nus dire, si en doit avoir duel et ire. ( , - ) in manessier, when perceval has finally accomplished the quest by the slaying of partinal, and has come for the third time to the grail castle (though even then he only reaches it after long wanderings and lights upon it by chance), news whereof is brought to the king;-- li rois, à grant joie et grant feste est maintenant salis en piés et se senti sain et haitiés. ( , - ) perceval is crowned king after his uncle's death, and reigns for seven years. thus, in the a versions, the healing of the maimed king, and the consequent restoration to fertility and prosperity of his land, such are the tasks to be achieved by the hero of the quest. in the b versions an entirely different series of conceptions is met with. brons, the fisher king, is to wait for his grandson, and to hand him the vessel which he received from joseph. when this is done the meaning of the trinity is to be known--[ ] lors sera la senefiance accomplie et la demonstrance de la benoite trinité, qu'avons en trois parz devisée. ( , - ) besides this, the promised knight is to visit petrus, who may not pass away till he comes, and from whom he is to learn the power of the vessel, and the fate of moys (v. , - ). finally, when he comes he is to fill the empty seat, and to find moys, of whom it is said-- de lui plus ne pallera-on ne en fable ne en chançon, devant que cil revenra qui li liu vuit raemplira: cil-méismes le doit trouver. ( , - ) here the only indication which can possibly be tortured into a hint of the waiting of a sick king for his deliverer is the reference to petrus. it is not a little remarkable that when the latter is leaving for england, he asks for the prayers of the company that he may not fall into sin, and lose the love of god (v. - ) does this presuppose a version in which he _does_ sin, and is consequently punished by disease, from which only the promised knight may heal him? on turning to c, a totally distinct account of what the quest achiever is to do presents itself. he seats himself, it is true, in the empty seat, but it goes nigh with him that he suffers the fate of moys, from which he is only preserved by the great goodness of his father, alain (p. ). he does not find moys; petrus is not once mentioned by name, nor does perceval visit anyone who may not die till he come, and from whom he learns the power of the vessel, saving always the fisher king, for the references to whom see _supra_, p. . this fisher king is "veil home et plains de maladies, ne il n'aura james santé devant un chevalier que yà à la table ronde aserra, sera prodons vers deu et vers sainte eglise et ait fait tant d'armes que il soit le plus alosez del monde. et lors vendra à la maison au riche roi péchéor et quant il aura demandé de quoi li graus sert, tantost sera li roi gariz de de sa'nfermeté et cherront li enchentement de bretaigne et sera la prophétic accomplie" (p. ). again, p. "li riches rois péchéors est chéuz en grant maladie et en grant enfermeté, ne il peust morir devant que uns de xxx chevalier, qui ci sunt asis, ait tant fait d'armes et de chevalerie qu'il soit li mieudres chevalier del monde." again, p. , "et quant il (_i.e._, the fisher king) sera gariz, si ira, dedanz li iii jorz, de vie à mort, et baillera à celui chevalier, le vesseau et li aprendra le segroites paroles qui li aprist joseph; et lors ampliz de la grace du sainct esprit et cherront li enchentement de la bretaigne et les afaires." again, when perceval has come for the second time to the fisher king's, and has asked the question and learnt the secret words, he remained there "et moult fust prodons et chéirent les enchentement de la terre de bretaigne et par tout le monde." here, then, are the sick king, the mysterious question, the healing, and the effect upon the land (note how the enchantments of britain are insisted upon), as in the a versions. the only points of contact with b are that brons is like petrus in not being able to die till perceval come, and that his infirmity seems to be ascribed mainly to his age, and not to a wound, which at first sight seems to agree better with the vague indications of b than with the positive statement of a. two accounts, each fairly definite and consistent, are thus forthcoming respecting the object of the quest, the one represented by a and c, the other by b. what light is thrown upon the matter by the remaining versions, and which of these two accounts do they support? neither from the queste, d, nor from the grand st. graal, e, can any clear conception of the quest be gathered. both have a great deal to say about the adventures and the wonders of the grail, but absolutely nothing comes of the achievement so far as the grail itself, or as galahad and his two companions are concerned. it goes to the east, they with it, they become hermits and die. but in proportion as the main object of the quest becomes less definite, the number of secondary objects increases. in d, queste, galahad is to achieve the adventure of the seat perillous (ch. iii, iv); he is to wear the shield left by joseph to mordrains (ch. x); he is to release from life mordrains himself, struck with blindness for approaching too near the grail (ch. xxiii); he (according to the second draft of the queste), is to release king pelles (his grandfather, according to draft ), wounded through both ankles for trying to draw the sword; he is to release simei, burning in a fiery grave for that he once sinned against joseph of arimathea (ch. lxvi). to this sufficiently long list the grand st. graal adds the resoldering of the sword broken by joseph--"ha espée, iamais ne sera resaudée deuant ke chil te tenra qui les hautes auentures del saint graal devra asoumir" (ii, ); the delivery of moys from out the furnace where he burns, not for always "ains trouuera enchore merchi et pardon. mais che qu'il a mesfait, espanira il en tel manière qu'il en sera en fu iusc' a tant ke li boines chiualiers uenra" (ii, ). moys likewise speaks of galahad as one who "achieura les auentures de la grant bertaigne" (ii, - ). finally, pelleur wounded (mehaigniés de ii cuisses) "en vne bataille de rome" is to be released, "il ne peut garir de la plaie deuant ke galaad, li tres boins chiualers, le vint visiter. mais lors sans faille gari il" (ii, p. ). the queste knows nothing of petrus, but in the grand st. graal he turns up at the end in the same casual way as brons, and converts king luces (ii, - ), _i.e._ is thus brought into connection with geoffrey of monmouth's form of the conversion of britain legend. the foregoing statement confirms all that has previously been urged as to the lateness of both queste and grand st. graal. the author of the former again shows himself a daring, but not over skilful, adapter of older legends, the author of the latter an unintelligent compiler, whose sole aim it is to lengthen out his story by the introduction of every incident he can lay his hands upon. but although late, they may nevertheless throw light upon the question which, of the two strongly differentiated accounts of the object of the grail quest which have been noted, has the better claim to be looked upon as the older one. the conte du graal and the didot-perceval agree, as has been seen, against the metrical joseph, in making the main object of the grail-seeker the healing of a maimed or the release from life of a supernaturally old king. this _motif_, it is not too much to say, is the pivot upon which in the conte du graal all turns; in the metrical joseph it is barely hinted at. the queste, if looked at closely, is found to bear witness to the conte du graal form. as is seen from the summary (_supra_, p. , inc. ) it has the very incident upon which so much stress is laid in chrestien's poem, the visit to the sick king, the omitted question, the consequent misfortune. true, all this has been transferred from the original hero, perceval, to the father of the new hero galahad, and, true, the final object which the queste proposes, in so far as it proposes any definite object, to its grail-seeker is of a different character. but the fact that this object is not stated in the same way as in the metrical joseph, whilst that found in the conte du graal _is_ embodied though in a different connexion, points unmistakably to what may be called the healing _motif_ as the older one. here, again, the metrical joseph is in a minority, and it is not even followed by that very version, the didot-perceval, which has been ascribed to the same author, and claimed as an integral portion of the same trilogy.[ ] _qualifications of the promised knight._ neither chrestien, gautier, nor manessier lay any stress upon special qualifications in the quest-hero for the achievement of his task. in chrestien, as already stated, (_supra_, p. ), it is exclusively the sin of which perceval has been guilty in leaving his mother which prevents his achieving the quest at his first visit to the grail castle (v. , - and , - ), whilst the continuator makes no attempt at any explanation of the hero's repeated failures. not until gerbert does a fresh _motif_ show itself in the poem, but then it is a remarkable one; if perceval has been hitherto unable to attain the goal he has so long striven for, it is because he has been unfaithful to his first love, blanchefleur (vi, p. ); he must return and wed her before he is fit to learn the full secret of the grail.[ ] the other quest versions are on this point in striking contrast to chrestien. the words of c, didot-perceval, have already been noted, (_supra_, p. ). again the damsel, reproaching the hero after his first failure, addresses him thus:--"mès je sai bien por quoi tu l' ás perdu, por ceque tu ni es pas si sage ne si vaillant, ne n'as pas fet tant d'armes; ne n'ies si prodons que tu doies avoir le sanc nostre (sire) en guarde" (p. ). it is significant to note in this connection that it is only after perceval has overcome all the best knights of the round table, including gawain (the companion hero, as will be shown later, of the oldest form of the story), and thereby approved himself the best knight of the world, that merlin appears and directs him to the grail castle.[ ] the talk about holy church would seem to be an addition, and the original ideal a purely physical one. in the queste the qualification of the hero has become the main feature of the legend, the pivot upon which everything turns. the one thing necessary is that the hero should be a virgin, and the story is one long glorification of the supreme virtue of chastity. yet even here the warlike deeds of galahad are dwelt upon in a way that points to a different ideal. traces, though slight ones, may be found in c, didot-perceval, of the importance attached to the chastity of the hero; thus his hermit uncle admonishes him, "ne vous chaille de gésir aveuc fame, quar cest un peché luxurious et bien sachiez, que la pichié que vous avez fait, vous ont neu à trover la maison bron," and in the adventure with the damsel of the hound, although he had (p. ) solicited her favours, and she had promised them if he brought her the head of the white stag, yet (p. ) when he returns to her and she offers herself to him, he pleads his quest as a reason for not even passing one night with her. in gautier de doulens, on the contrary, everything passes in accordance with the orthodox custom of the day--when knights were as punctual in demanding as ladies scrupulous in granting the fulfilment of such bargains. but here, again, references to chastity seem to be additions, and rather unskilful ones, whilst in the queste they are the vital spirit of the story. what results from the foregoing is much as follows:-- the perceval form of the quest is certainly the older of the two, and underlies in reality the galahad form. when cleared from the admixture of christian mystic elements it appears as a coherent and straightforward story, in which nothing necessarily presupposes the early history. the influence of the latter is, however, distinctly traceable. as far as chrestien himself is concerned, nothing can be asserted with certainty as to the origin, extent, and nature of that influence; in the case of his continuators it can be definitely referred to that form of the early history which is represented by the queste and the grand st. graal (save in the solitary instance of the berne fragment of gautier de doulens). the later in date the sections of the conte du graal, the more strongly marked is the influence of the early history, and _pari passu_ the increasing prominence given to the christian mystic side of the grail. of the early history two forms can be distinguished. in the one, joseph and the group of persons whom he converts in the east are made the means of bringing christianity to britain. the grail is dwelt upon almost solely in its most material aspect. this form is closely connected with the galahad quest, and its chronology has been elaborately framed to correctly bridge over the difference in time between the apostolic and arthurian ages. it has also affected, as remarked above, the later versions of the perceval quest. the second or brons form knows nothing of the companions of joseph, who is only indirectly the means of the conversion of britain, the real evangelists being kinsmen of his who bear decided celtic names. these kinsmen are related as grandfather and father (or simply father or uncle), to a hero whose exploits are to be dealt with in a sequel. there is strong insistence upon the spiritual character of the grail, which is obviously intended to play an important part in the promised sequel. no traces of this form are to be found in any version (saving always the above-mentioned fragment of gautier), until we come to the grand st. graal, with which such portions as do not conflict with the joseph form are embodied. the didot-perceval, although formally in contact with the brons early history, is not really the sequel announced in that work. it differs profoundly from it in the most essential feature of the story, the nature of the task laid upon the hero. upon examination this appears to be of the same nature as that of the conte du graal, with a seasoning of the christian mystic element. it was, however, _intended_ for a sequel to the metrical joseph, a fact which may be taken as a proof that borron never completed his plan of a joseph-merlin-grail trilogy of which we possess the first two parts. the first of the two points marked for investigation at the outset of this chapter may thus be considered settled. the quest is originally independent of and older than the early history. and although in no instance can the versions of the former be said to be entirely free from the influence of the latter, yet in the older forms the traces are such as to be easily separated from the primitive elements of the story. the versions which have been examined may now be arranged in the following order:-- ( ) chrestien's portion of the conte du graal. the oldest form of the perceval quest, but presupposing an early history. ( ) gautier de doulens followed chrestien, in all probability, almost immediately. even less can be gathered from him than from chrestien respecting the earliest form of the early history, but this is probably represented by ( ) pseudo-gautier, which in all likelihood gives the outline of the work made use of by queste and grand st. graal. pseudo-gautier is almost certainly some years later than gautier, as the berne ms. scribe found it necessary to seek for information in ( ) borron's poem, probably written towards the end of the twelfth century, but which for some reason remained unknown for a time, although it afterwards, as evidenced by the number of mss., became popular. there is every reason to believe that borron knew nothing of any other early history. his work, as we have it, is abridged and arranged. meanwhile ( ) queste had appeared. the author probably used the same early history as pseudo-gautier. he knew the conte du graal, and wrote in opposition to it with a view to edification. he certainly knew nothing of borron's poem, or he could not have failed, with his strong mystical tendencies, to dwell upon the spiritual and symbolic character of the grail. ( ) the grand st. graal, an earlier draft of the work, now known under that title. probably an enlarged version of the hypothetical original early history; wanting all the latter portions relating to brons and his group, which were added to it when borron's poem became known. this work must have appeared before (in which year it is referred to by helinandus), and, as chrestien wrote his poem about - , it follows that at least half-a-dozen works belonging to the grail cycle came out in the last twelve years of the twelfth century. ( ) manessier and ( ) gerbert brought out independent endings to the conte du graal from to . it was probably shortly after this time that borron's poem became known, and that it was incorporated with the grand st. graal, which assumed the shape under which it has come down to us. ( ) the didot-perceval is probably the latest in date of all the members of the cycle. before proceeding to examine our second point, which is whether the grail itself really belongs to the original form of the quest, or has been introduced into the quest versions from the early history, it will be advisable to summarise the opinions and researches of previous investigators. light will thus be thrown upon many points of interest which have not received special examination in these pages. a theory of the origin and development of the cycle, which is in many respects directly opposed to the conclusions we have reached, will also be fully set forth, and an opportunity will thus be given for testing by adverse criticism the soundness of our method of investigation, and of the results to which it has led us. chapter iv. sketch of the literature connected with the grail cycle. villemarqué--halliwell--san marte (a. schulz)--simrock--rochat-- furnivall's reprint of the grand st. graal and of borron--j. f. campbell--furnivall's queste--paulin paris--potvin's conte du graal--bergmann--skeat's joseph of arimathea--hucher: grail celtic, date of borron--zarncke, zur geschichte der gralsage; grail belongs to christian legend--birch-hirschfeld develops zarncke's views: grand st. graal younger than queste, both presuppose chrestien and an earlier queste, the didot-perceval, which forms integral part of borron's trilogy; mabinogi later than chrestien; various members of the cycle dated--martin combats birch-hirschfeld: borron later than chrestien, whose poem represents oldest stage of the romance, which has its roots in celtic tradition--hertz--criticism of birch-hirschfeld. monsieur th. de la villemarqué's researches form a convenient starting point, both on account of the influence they exercised upon later investigation, and because he was the first to state with fulness and method the arguments for the celtic origin of the legend. they appeared originally in the volume entitled "contes populaires des anciens bretons précédés d'un essai sur l'origine des épopées chevaleresques de la table ronde" (paris, ), and comprising a french translation of the mabinogion of geraint and peredur, with introductory essays and detailed explanatory notes. the translation of peredur is preceded by a study of chrestien's poem, in which the following conclusions are stated: the grail is celtic in origin, the french term being equivalent to the welsh _per_, and having a like meaning, basin. it is the druidic basin alluded to by taliessin, the same which figures in the mabinogi of branwen, which appears in the oldest folk-tales of brittany, and which is sought for in the twelfth century mabinogi by peredur, _i.e._, the basin-seeker. the original occult character of the druidic basin, and of the lance, the bardic symbol of undying hatred to the saxon, disappears in the mabinogi, the tone and character of which are purely romantic. composed among a people comparatively unused to the chivalrous ideal, it breathes, however, a rude and harsh spirit. but such as it is, it forms the groundwork of chrestien's poem. comparison between the two demonstrates the simple character of the welsh romance, and shows how the french poet sought to transform it by an infusion of feudal courtliness and religious mysticism. in its last stage of development the story reverts to its pristine, occult, and mystic character. much of what m. de la villemarqué says is sound and telling; but, unfortunately, although well aware that the french poem is the work of three men and not of one, he yet treats it as an organic whole, and thus deprives the larger part of his comparison of all value. moreover, he supports his thesis by arguments based upon a breton poem (the story of which is similar to that of perceval's youth), ascribed without the shadow of evidence to the end of the tenth century. in m. de la villemarqué reprinted his work with extensive additions, under the title of "les romans de la table ronde et les contes des anciens bretons." the section summarised above remained substantially unaltered, but considerable extension was given to the author's views concerning the mode of development of the romances. the points chiefly insisted upon are: the similarity of metre between the welsh poem and the french metrical romances; the delight of the plantagenet kings in the welsh traditions and the favour showed them; and the early popularity of the welsh and breton singers. villemarqué's last word upon the subject is that the welsh storytellers received from the ancient bards a pagan tradition, which, changed in character and confounded with the mystery of the sacrament, they handed on to the romance writers of northern france and germany, who gave it a fresh and undying life. villemarqué's views were worked up by mr. baring gould in his essay on the sangreal ("curious myths of the middle ages," ) and in this form or in their original presentment won wide acceptance as the authoritative exposition of the celtic origin of the cycle. in england, mr. halliwell, when editing, in , the thornton sir perceval, derived it from chrestien and his continuators, in spite of the omission of lance and grail, on account of the sequence of incidents being the same. the mabinogi is alluded to as an adaptation of chrestien. the supposition that perceval's nick-name, "le gallois," implies the welsh origin of the story is rejected as absurd. in germany the grail-cycle formed the subject of careful investigation on the part of san marte (a. schulz) for some years prior to . from to he brought out a modern german translation of wolfram von eschenbach's parzival, accompanied by an elaborate essay on the genesis of the legend, and in , "die arthur-sage und die mährchen des rothen buchs von hergest." in the latter work a careful analysis of the mabinogi leads to the following conclusions:--locale and persons are purely welsh; tone and character are older than the age of the crusades and knighthood; it may be looked upon with confidence as the oldest known source of the perceval _sage_. in comparing the mabinogi with kiot's (_i.e._, wolfram's) version, stress is laid upon the task imposed upon peredur, which is held to be different in character and independent in origin from the grail quest in kiot. the thornton sir perceval is claimed as the representative of an early breton _jongleur_ poem which knew nothing of the grail story. in the former work wolfram von eschenbach's poem is accepted, so far as its framework is concerned, as a faithful echo of kiot's, the provencal origin of which is proved by its oriental and southern allusions. the provencals may have obtained the peredur _sage_ direct from brittany, they at any rate fused it with the grail legend. their version is an artistic whole, whereas the north french one is a confused string of adventures. chrestien's share in the latter is rightly distinguished from that of his continuators, and these are dated with fair accuracy. robert de borron is mentioned, but as a thirteenth century adapter of earlier prose versions; the grand st. graal is placed towards the middle of the thirteenth century. in analysing the joseph of arimathea form of the legend, the silence of the earlier british historians concerning joseph's evangelisation of britain is noted, and is given as the earliest date of this part of the legend. the captivity of joseph arises probably from a confusion between him and josephus. there is no real connection between the joseph legend and that of the grail. wolfram's templeisen agree closely with the templars, one of the main charges against whom was their alleged worship of a head from which they expected riches and victuals, and to which they ascribed the power of making trees and flowers to bloom.[ ] san marte's translation of wolfram was immediately ( ) followed by simrock's, whose notes are mainly directed against his predecessor's views on the origin and development of the grail legend. the existence of kiot is contested; the _differentia_ between wolfram and chrestien are unknown to provençal, but familiar to german, poetry. the grail myth in its oldest form is connected with john the baptist. thus in the mabinogi the grail is represented by a head in a platter; the head the templars were accused of worshipping has probably the same origin; the genoese preserved the sacro catino, identified by them with the grail, in the chapel of st. john the baptist; chrestien mentions with especial significance, st. john's eve (midsummer eve). the head of st. john the baptist, found, according to the legend, in the fourth century, was carried later to constantinople, where in the eleventh century it is apparently used to keep an emperor from dying (even as of the grail, it is told, no one could die the day he saw it). if wolfram cuts out the references to the baptist, _en revanche_ he brings prester john into the story. the essential element in the grail is the blood in the bowl, symbol of creative power as is the baptist's head, both being referable to the summer equinox. associated with john the baptist is herodias, who takes the place of an old germanic goddess, abundia, as john does of odin or baldur.[ ] the essence of the myth is the reproductive power of the blood of the slain god (odin-hackelberend, baldur, adonis, osiris). as the grail may only be seen by those to whom god's grace is granted, so in the german folk-tale the entrance to the hollow mounds wherein lies treasure or live elves is only visible to sunday children or pure youths. thus, too, no man may find the grave of hackelberg (odin). such caves, when entered, close upon the outgoing mortal as the grail castle portcullis closes upon parzival. many of gauvain's adventures appear in german folk-tradition. as to parzival's youth "it cannot be doubted that we have here a variation of the great fool folk-tale (dummling's märchen) found among all people. it is hard to say what people possessing this tale brought it into contact, either by tradition or in writing, with the grail story, but that people would have the first claim among whom it is found in an independent form." the mabinogi explanation of the grail incident is unacceptable, and the mabinogi itself is later than chrestien, as is shown by its foolish invention of the witches of gloucester, and by its misrendering the incident of the dwarves greeting peredur. in the original folk-tale the ungainly hero was _laughed at_, not greeted. the thornton sir perceval may possibly contain an older version of perceval's youth than any found elsewhere. wolfram's poem represents, however, the oldest and purest form of the grail myth, which, originally pagan, only became fully christianised in the hands of the later north french poets. simrock's speculations, though marred by his standing tendency to claim over much for german tradition, are full of his usual acute and ingenious, if somewhat fanciful, learning. his ignorance of celtic tradition unfortunately prevented his following up the hint given in the passage quoted above which i have adopted as one of the mottoes of the present work. in rochat published ("ueber einen bisher unbekannten percheval li gallois," zurich) selections from a berne ms. containing part of gautier de doulens' continuation of chrestien (v. , to end, with thirteen introductory and fifty-six concluding original lines, _cf._ p. ), and entered at some length into the question of the origin and development of the grail legend. the mabinogi, contrary to san marte's opinion, is placed after chrestien. villemarqué's ballad of morvan le breiz is the oldest form of the perceval _sage_, then comes the thornton sir perceval, a genuine popular production derived probably from a welsh original. in spite of what san marte says, the grail incident is found in the mabinogi, and it might seem as if chrestien had simply amplified the latter. on san marte's theory of the (southern) origin of the grail myth, this, however, is impossible, and the fact that the mabinogi contains this incident is a proof of its lateness. up to all writers upon the grail legend were under this disadvantage, that they had no complete text of any part of the cycle before them,[ ] and were obliged to trust largely to extracts and to more or less carefully compiled summaries. in that year mr. furnivall, by the issue for the roxburghe club of the grand st. graal, together with a reprint of robert de borron's poem (first edited in by m. franc. michel), provided students with materials of first-rate importance. his introductory words are strongly against the celtic origin of the story, and are backed up by a quotation from mr. d. w. nash, in which that "authority who really knows his subject" gives the measure of his critical acumen by the statement that the mabinogi of peredur can have nothing to do with the earliest form of the legend, because "in sir t. malory, perceval occupies the second place to galahad." in fact, neither the editor nor mr. nash seems to have tried to place the different versions, and their assertions are thus of little value, though they contributed, nevertheless, to discredit the celtic hypothesis. san marte, in an essay prefixed to the first volume, repeated his well-known views respecting the source of wolfram's poems, and, incidentally, protested against the idea that the mabinogi is but a welshified french romance. in the accomplished editor of the "popular tales of the west highlands," mr. j. f. campbell, published in his second volume (p. ) some remarks on the story of the lay of the great fool, which ended thus, "i am inclined ... to consider this 'lay' as one episode in the adventures of a celtic hero, who, in the twelfth century became perceval le chercheur du basin. he too, was poor, and the son of a widow, and half starved, and kept in ignorance by his mother, but, nevertheless ... in the end he became possessed of that sacred basin, le saint graal, and the holy lance, which, though christian in the story, are manifestly the same as the gaelic talismans which appear so often in gaelic tales, and which have relations in all popular lore--the glittering weapon which destroys, and the sacred medicinal cup which cures." i have taken these words as a motto for my studies, which are, indeed, but an amplification of mr. campbell's statement. had the latter received the attention it deserved, had it, for instance, fallen into the hands of a scholar to whom simrock's words quoted on p. were familiar, there would, in all probability, have been no occasion for the present work. the publication of texts was continued by mr. furnivall's issue, in , for the roxburghe club, of the quête del saint graal from a british museum ms. the opening of twelve mss. from the bibliothèque nationale is likewise given, and shows substantial unity between them and mr. furnivall's text. in mons. paulin paris published, in the first volume of his "romans de la table ronde," a general introduction to the round table cycle, and a special study upon the metrical joseph and the grand st. graal. a large share of influence is assigned to celtic traditions through the medium of breton _lais_. the early history of the grail is a british legend, and embodies the national and schismatic aspirations of the british church. the date given in the prologue to the grand st. graal, and repeated by helinandus, is accepted as the genuine date of a redaction of the legend substantially the same as that found later in the grand st. graal. the word "grail" is connected with the latin _gradale_, modern gradual, and designated the book in which the tradition was first written down. the grand st. graal is anterior to chrestien's poem, and robert de borron's poem in the first draft preceded the grand st. graal, and was written between and , but he subsequently revised it towards , as is shown by his alluding, l. , , "o mon seigneur, gauter _en peis_" (where the underlined words are equivalent to the latin _in pace_) to gautier of montbeliard in the past tense. from to m. potvin brought out his edition of the conte du graal, and of the prose perceval le gallois from mons mss. in the after-words priority is claimed for the latter romance over all other members of the cycle, and three stages are distinguished in the development of the legend--welsh national--militant christian--knightly--the prose romance belonging to the second stage, and dating substantially from the eleventh century. the lance and basin are originally pagan british symbols, and between the lines of the grail legend may be read a long struggle between heretic britain and orthodox rome. the perceval form of the quest is older than the galahad one. the joseph of arimathea forms are the latest, and among these the grand st. graal the earliest. conclusions as paradoxical as some of these appear in dr. bergmann's "the san grëal, an enquiry into the origin and signification of the romance of the s. g.," edinburgh, . the idea of the grail is due entirely to guyot, as also its connection with the arthurian cycle. chrestien followed guyot, but alters the character of the work, for which he is reproved by wolfram, who may be looked upon as a faithful representative of the earlier poet. chrestien's alterations are intended to render the poem more acceptable in knightly circles. on the other hand walter map found guyot too secular and heretical, and wrote from a purely ecclesiastical standpoint the latin version of the legend in which the grail is associated with joseph of arimathea. this version forms the basis of robert de borron, author of the grand st. graal and of the continuators of chrestien. although bergmann denies the celtic origin of the grail itself, he incidentally accepts the authenticity of the mabinogi of peredur, and admits that the whole framework of the story is celtic. in the endeavour to prove the paradox that one of the latest, most highly developed, and most mystic of all the versions of the legend (viz., wolfram's) really represents the common source of them all, bergmann is compelled to make the most gratuitous assumptions, as a specimen of which may be quoted the statement that the _roi-pecheur_ is originally the _sinner_ king, and that it is by mistake that the north french _trouvères_ represent him as a _fisher_. bergmann's views passed comparatively unnoticed. they are, indeed, alluded to with approval in professor skeat's edition of joseph of arimathea, a fourteenth century alliterative abridgement of the grand st. graal (e. e. text soc., ). in the editor's preface the glastonbury traditions concerning the evangelisation of britain by joseph are taken as a starting point, two parts being distinguished in them, the one _legendary_, tallying with william of malmesbury's account, and, perhaps, of considerable antiquity, the other _fabulous_, introducing the personages and incidents of the romances and undoubtedly derived from them. some twenty years after the publication of the "historia britonum" walter map probably wrote a latin poem, from which robert de borron, the grand st. graal, and, perhaps, the other works of the cycle were derived. "grail" is a bowl or dish. chrestien may have borrowed his conte du graal from map; the "quest" is probably an after-thought of the romance writers. speculations such as these were little calculated to further the true criticism of the grail cycle. some few years later, in , the then existing texts were supplemented by m. hucher's work, so often quoted in these pages. in an introduction and notes displaying great research and ingenuity, the following propositions are laid down:--the grail is celtic in origin, and may be seen figured upon pre-christian gaulish coins. robert de borron's poem may be called the petit st. graal, and its author was a lord of like-named territory near fontainebleau, who between and made large gifts to the abbey of barbeaux, which gifts are confirmed in by simon, son of said robert. about robert came to england, met walter map, and was initiated by him into the knowledge of the arthurian romance, and of the legend of the holy grail. between and he entered the service of walter of montbeliard and wrote (in prose) the joseph of arimathea and the merlin. at a later period he returned to england, and wrote, in conjunction with map, the grand st. graal. this is shown by ms. , bibl. nat. (of the grand st. graal): "or dist li contes qui est estrais de toutes les ystoires, sî come robers de borons le translatait de latin en romans, à l'ayde de maistre gautier map." but hélie de borron, author of the tristan and of guiron le courtois, calls robert his friend and kinsman. hélie has been placed under henry iii, who has been assumed to be the henry to whom he dedicates his work; if so can he be the friend of robert, who wrote some fifty years earlier? hélie should, however, be placed really under henry ii. robert wrote originally in prose; the poem contains later etymological and grammatical forms, though it has occasionally preserved older ones; besides in v. , etc. (_supra_, p. ) it refers to the deliverance of moys by the promised knight, and thus implies knowledge of the grand st. graal; this passage is omitted by most of the prose versions, thus obviously older. then the poem is silent as to the christianising of britain mentioned by one prose version (c.). we may accept borron's statement as to his having dealt later with the histories of moys and petrus, and as to his drawing his information from a latin original. merlin is the pivot of borron's conception. in comparing the third part of his trilogy (joseph of arimathea, merlin, perceval) with chrestien it must be born in mind that chrestien reproduces rather the english (joseph--galahad), than the french (brons--perceval) form of the quest, and this, although the framework of chrestien and robert's perceval is substantially the same. chrestien's work was probably preceded by one in which the peredur story as found in the mabinogi was already adapted to the christianised grail legend. there are frequent verbal resemblances between robert and chrestien (_i.e._, gautier, hucher never distinguishing between chrestien and his continuators) which show a common original for both. it is remarkable that chrestien should never mention brons, and that there should be such a difference in the stories of the ford perillous and the ford amorous. it is also remarkable that robert, in his perceval, should complain that the _trouvères_ had not spoken of the good friday incident which is to be found in chrestien. m. hucher failed in many cases to see the full significance of the facts he brought to light, owing to his incorrect conception of the development of the cycle as a whole, and of the relation of its component parts one to the other. he made, however, an accurate survey of the cycle possible. the merit of first essaying such a survey belongs to zarncke in his admittedly rough sketch, "zur geschichte der gralsage," published in the third volume ( ) of paul and braune's beitraege.--the various forms may be grouped as follows: ( ) borron's poem, ( ) grand st. graal, ( ) quête, ( ) chrestien, ( and ) chrestien's continuators, ( ) didot ms. perceval, ( ) prose perceval li gallois. neither the spanish-provencal nor the celtic origin of the legend is admissible; it has its source wholly in the apocryphal legends of joseph of arimathea, in which two stages may be distinguished; the first represented by the gesta pilati and the narratio josephi, which tell how christ appeared to joseph in prison and released him therefrom; the second by the vindicta salvatoris, which combines the legends of the healing of tiberius with that of titus or vespasian. joseph being thus brought into contact with titus, the space of time between the two is accounted for by the forty years captivity, and the first hint was given of a miraculous sustaining power of the grail. borron's poem is still purely legendary in character; the fish caught by the rich fisher is the symbol of christ; the incident of the waiting for the promised knight belongs, however, not to the original tradition but to a later style of christian mysticism. the grand st. graal and the quête extend and develop the _donnée_ of the poem, whilst in chrestien tone, atmosphere, and framework are profoundly modified, yet there is no reason to postulate for chrestien any other sources than nos. - , the differences being such as he was quite capable of deliberately introducing. as for no. (the didot-perceval) it is later than chrestien and his continuators, and has used both. wolfram von eschenbach had only chrestien for his model, kiot's poem being a feigned source. the legend of the conversion of britain by joseph is no genuine british tradition; william of malmesbury's account of glastonbury is a pamphlet written to order of the norman kings, and incapable of serving as a representative of celtic tradition. the passages therein relating to joseph are late interpolations, disagreeing with the remainder of his work and disproved by the silence of all contemporary writers. zarncke's acute article was a praiseworthy attempt to construct a working hypothesis of the growth of the cycle. but it is full of grave misconceptions, as was, perhaps, inevitable in a hasty survey of such an immense body of literature. the versions are "placed" most incorrectly. the argumentation is frequently marred by _a priori_ reasoning, such as that chrestien, the acknowledged leading poet of the day, could not have copied kiot, and by untenable assertions, such as that bran, in the mabinogi of branwen, the daughter of llyr, is perhaps a distant echo of hebron in robert de borron's poem. he had, however, the great merit of clearing the ground for his pupil, a. birch-hirschfeld, and urging him to undertake what still remains the most searching and exhaustive survey of the whole cycle: "die sage vom gral," etc. as birch-hirschfeld's analysis is at present the only basis for sound criticism, i shall give his views fully:--the grand st. graal, as the fullest of the versions dealing with the early history of the grail, is the best starting-point for investigation. from its pronounced religious tone monkish authorship may be inferred. its treatment of the subject is not original as is shown by ( ) the repetition _ad nauseam_ of the same motive (_e.g._, that of the lance wound four times), ( ) the pedigrees, ( ) the allusions to adventures not dealt with in the book, and in especial to the promised knight. the testimony of helinand (see _supra_, p. ), which is of first-rate importance, does not allow of a later date for the grand st. graal than . on turning to the queste it is remarkable that though sometimes found in the mss. in conjunction with the grand st. graal it is also found with the lancelot, and, when the hero's parentage is considered, it seems more likely that it was written to supplement the latter than the former work. this supposition is adverse to any claim it may lay to being held the earliest treatment of the subject, as it is highly improbable that the grail legend occupied at the outset such an important place in the arthurian romance as is thus accorded to it. such a claim is further negatived by the fact that the queste has three heroes, the second of whom is obviously the original one of an older version. in estimating the relationship between the grand st. graal and the queste it should be borne in mind that the latter, in so far as it deals with the early history, mentions only joseph, josephe, evelach (mordrain) and seraphe (nascien), from whom descends galahad; that it brings joseph to england, and that it does not give any explanation of the nature of the grail itself. it omits brons, alain, the explanation of the name "rich fisherman," the name of moys, although his story is found in substantially the same shape as in the grand st. graal, and is silent as to the origin of the bleeding lance. if it were younger than and derived from the grand st. graal alone, these points, all more important for the early history than the mordrain episodes would surely have been dwelt upon. but then if the grand st. graal is the younger work, whence does it derive brons, alain, and petrus, all of whom are introduced in such a casual way? there was obviously a previous early history which knew nothing of josephe or of mordrain and his group, the invention of the author of the queste, whence they passed into the grand st. graal, and were fused in with the older form of the legend. there is, moreover, a positive reference on the part of the grand st. graal to the queste (vol. ii., p. ). the author of the queste introduced his new personages for the following reasons: he had already substituted galahad for the original hero, and to enhance his importance gives him a fictitious descent from a companion of joseph. from his model he learnt of joseph's wanderings in the east, hence the eastern origin of the mordrain group. in the older form the grail had passed into the keeping of joseph's nephew, in the queste the promised knight descends from the nephew of mordrain; brons, as the ancestor of the original quest hero necessarily disappears in the queste, and his place is in large measure taken by josephe. the priority of the queste over the grand st. graal, and the use of the former by the latter may thus be looked upon as certain. but if mordrain is the invention of the queste, what is the meaning of his illness, of his waiting for the promised knight, of the bleeding lance, and of the lame king whom it heals? these seem to have no real connection with the grail, and are apparently derived from an older work, namely, chrestien's conte du graal. chrestien's work, which ended at v. , , may be dated as having been begun not later than (_vide_ _supra_, p. ). its unfinished state accounts for its having so little positive information about the grail, as chrestien evidently meant to reserve this information for the end of the story. but this very freedom with which the subject is handled is a proof that he had before him a work whence he could extract and adapt as he saw fit; moreover we have (prologue, v. , etc.) his own words to that effect. with chrestien's account of the grail--a bowl bejewelled, of wondrous properties, borne by a maiden, preceded by a bleeding lance, accompanied by a silver plate, guarded by a king wounded through both ankles (whose only solace is fishing, whence his surname), ministering to the king's father, sought for by perceval, nephew to the fisher king, its fate bound up with a question which the seeker must put concerning it--may be compared that of the queste, in which nothing is known of a question by which the grail kingship may be obtained (although it relates the same incident of lancelot), which knows not of one wounded king, centre of the action, but of two, both of secondary importance (though possibly chrestien's fisher king's father may have given the hint for mordrain), in which the lance is of minor importance instead of being on the same level as the grail. is it not evident that the queste took over these features from chrestien, compelled thereto by the celebrity of the latter's presentment? the queste thus presupposes the following works: a lancelot, an early history, a quest other than that of chrestien's, and finally chrestien as the lame king and lance features show. it thus falls between (chrestien begun) and (grand st. graal ended). with respect to the three continuators of chrestien it would seem that gautier de doulens' account of the grail, as found in the montpellier ms., knowing as it does only of joseph, and making the fisher king and perceval descendants of his, belongs to an older stage of development than that of manessier and gerbert, both of whom are familiar with the mordrain group, and follows that of the original version upon which both the queste and the grand st. graal are based. there is nothing to show that gautier knew of the queste, whilst from gautier the queste may have possibly have taken perceval's sister and the broken sword. gautier would thus seem to have written immediately after chrestien, and before the queste, _i.e._, about . as for the date of the other two continuators, the fact of their having used the queste is only one proof of the lateness of their composition (as to the date of which see _supra_, p. ). it must be noted that whilst in their account of the grail chrestien's continuators are in substantial accord with the queste versions, and yet do not contradict chrestien himself, they add considerably to his account of the lance. this is readily explained by the fact that as chrestien gave no information respecting the origin of either of the relics, they, the continuators, had to seek such information elsewhere; they found all they could wish respecting the grail, but nothing as to the lance, the latter having been first introduced by chrestien, and the queste versions knowing nothing respecting it beyond what he told. thus, thrown upon their own resources, they hit upon the device of identifying the lance with the spear with which jesus was pierced as he hung on the cross. this idea, a most natural one, may possibly have been in chrestien's intent, and _may_ have been suggested to him by the story of the discovery of the holy lance in antioch half a century before. it must, however, be admitted that the connection of the lance with the grail legend in its earliest form is very doubtful, and that celtic legends may possibly have furnished it to chrestien, and indicated the use to which he intended putting it. the analysis, so far, of the romances has resulted in the presupposition of an earlier form; this earlier form, the source or basis of all the later versions of the legend, exists in the so-called petit st. graal of robert de borron. of this work, found in two forms, a prose and a poetic one, the poetic form, _pace_ hucher, is obviously the older, hucher's proofs of lateness going merely to show that the sole existing ms. is a recent one, and has admitted new speech-forms;[ ] moreover the prose versions derive evidently from one original. the greater simplicity of the poem as compared with the grand st. graal proves its anteriority in that case; paulin paris' hypothesis that the poem in its present state is a second draft, composed after the author had made acquaintance with the grand st. graal, is untenable, the poem's reference (v. etc.) to the "grant livre" and to the "grant estoire dou graal," written by "nul home qui fust mortal" (v. , - ) not being to the grand st. graal, but having, on the contrary, probably suggested to the writer of the latter his fiction of christ's being the real author of his work. the grand st. graal used the poem conjointly with the queste, piecing out the one version by help of the other, and thereby entirely missing the sequence of ideas in the poem, which is as follows: sin, the cause of want among the people; the separation of the pure from the impure by means of the fish (symbol of christ) caught by brons, which fish does not feed the people, but, in conjunction with the grail, severs the true from the false disciples; punishment of the self-willed false disciple; reward of brons by charge of the grail. in the grand st. graal, on the contrary, the fish is no symbol, but actual food, a variation which must be laid to the account of the queste. in a similar way the two alains in the grand st. graal may be accounted for, the one as derived from the poem, the second from the queste. as far as conception is concerned, the later work is no advance upon the earlier one. to return to borron's work, which consists of three sections; there is no reason to doubt his authorship of the second, merlin, or of the third, perceval, although one ms. only of the former mentions the fact, and it is, moreover, frequently found in connection with other romances, in especial with the lancelot; as for perceval, the silence of the unique ms. as to borron is no argument, as it is equally silent in the joseph of arimathea section. all outward circumstances go to show that borron divided his work into three parts, joseph, merlin, perceval. but, if so, the last part must correspond in a fair measure to the first one; recollect, however, that we are dealing with a poet of but little invention or power of giving unity to discordant themes, and must not expect to find a clearly traced plan carried out in every detail. thus the author's promise in joseph to speak later of moses and petrus seems not to be fulfilled, but this is due to borron's timidity in the invention of new details. what _is_ said of moses does not disagree with the joseph, whereas a later writer would probably follow the grand st. graal account; as for petrus he is to be recognised in the hermit perceval's uncle. there may be some inconsistency here, but borron _can_ be inconsistent, as is shown by his treatment of alain, who at first vows to remain virgin, and afterwards marries. but a graver argument remains to be met; the lance occurs in perceval--now _ex hypothesi_ the first introduction of the lance is due to chrestien. the lance, however, only occurs in two passages, both obviously interpolated. the identity of authorship is evident when the style and phraseology of the two works are compared; in both the grail is always _li graaux_ or else _li veissel_, not as with the later versions, _li saint graaux_; both speak of _la grace dou graal_; in both the grail is _bailli_ to its keeper, who has it _en guarde_; the empty seat is _li liu vit_, not the _siège perilleux_. the central conception, too, is the same--the trinity of grail-keepers symbolising the divine trinity. the secret words given by christ with the grail to joseph in prison, by him handed on to brons, are confided at the end of the perceval by brons to the hero--and there is no trace of the galahad form of the quest, as would inevitably have been the case had the perceval been posterior in date to the queste. as the perceval is connected with the joseph, so it is equally with the merlin; it is remarkable that neither merlin nor blaise play a prominent part in the queste versions, but in borron's poem merlin is the necessary binding link between the apostolic and arthurian ages. again the whole character of the perceval speaks for its being one of the earliest works of the cycle; either it must have used chrestien and gautier or they it; if the former, is it credible that just those adventures which were necessary to supply the ending to the joseph could have been picked out? but it is easy to follow the way in which chrestien used the perceval; having the three-part poem before him he took the third only for his canvas, left out all that in it related to the first two parts, all, moreover, that related to the origin and early history of the grail; the story of the childhood is half indicated in the perceval, and chrestien may have had breton lays with which to help himself out; all relating to the empty seat is left out as reaching back into the early history; the visit to gurnemanz is introduced to supply a motive for the hero's conduct at the grail castle; the wound of the fisher king is again only an attempt of chrestien's to supply a more telling motive; as for the sword chrestien invented it; as he also did the grail-messenger, whose portrait he copied from that of rosette la blonde. the order of the last episodes is altered by chrestien sensibly for the better, as, with him, perceval's doubt comes first, then the good friday reproof, then the confession to and absolution by the hermit; whereas in the perceval the hero after doubt, reproof, and absolution rides off again a-tourneying, and requires a second reproof at merlin's hands. it is easy to see here which is the original, which the copy. chrestien thus took with clear insight just what he wanted in the perceval to fit out his two heroes with adventures.[ ] as for borron's guiding conception, his resolve to have nothing to do with the early history made him neglect it entirely; he only cared to produce a knightly poem, and we find, in consequence, that he has materialised all the spiritual elements of his model. gautier de doulens' method of proceeding was much simpler: he took over all those adventures that chrestien purposely left out, and they may be found brought together (verses , - , ) with but few episodes (perceval's visit to blanchefleur, etc.) entirely foreign to the model amongst them.[ ] the perceval cannot be later than gautier, as otherwise it could not stand in such close relationship to the joseph and merlin; it must, therefore, be the source of the conte du graal, and a necessary part of borron's poem, which in its entirety is the first attempt to bring the joseph of arimathea legend into connection with the arthur _sage_. the question as to the origin of the grail would thus seem answered, the christian legendary character of borron's conception being evident; but there still remains the possibility that that conception is but the christianised form of an older folk-myth. such a one has been sought for in celtic tradition. the part played by merlin in the trilogy might seem to lend colour to such an hypothesis, but his connection with the legend is a purely artificial one. nor is the theory of a celtic origin strengthened by reference to the mabinogi of peredur. this knows nought of merlin, and is nearer to chrestien than to the didot-perceval, and may, indeed, be looked upon as simply a clumsy retelling of the conte du graal with numerous additions. a knowledge of the didot-perceval on chrestien's part must be presupposed, as where could he have got the fisher king and grail castle save from a poem which dealt with the early history of the grail, a thing the mabinogi does not do. but, it may be said, chrestien used the mabinogi conjointly with borron's poem. that the welsh tale is, on the contrary, only a copy is apparent from the following considerations:--it mixes up gurnemanz and the fisher king; it puts in the mouth of peredur's _mother_ an exclamation about the knights, "angels they are my son," obviously misread from perceval's exclamation to the same effect in chrestien's poem; _perceval's_ love-trance over the three blood drops in the snow is explained in chrestien by the hero's passion for blanchefleur, but is quite inexplicable in the mabinogi; again, in the welsh tale, the lance and basin episode is quite a secondary one, a fact easily explained if it is looked upon as a vague reminiscence of chrestien's unfinished work; moreover the mabinogi lays great stress upon the lance, which has already been shown to belong to a secondary stage in the development of the legend. again the word graal occurs frequently in old welsh literature, and invariably in its french form, never translated by any equivalent welsh term. as for the name peredur, it is understandable that the welsh storyteller should choose the name of a national hero, instead of the foreign name perceval; the etymology basin-seeker is untenable. there is no real analogy between the grail and the magic cauldron of celtic fable, which is essentially one of renovation, whereas the grail in the second stage only acquires miraculous feeding, and in the third stage healing powers. it is of course not impossible that such adventures in the mabinogi, as cannot be referred directly to chrestien, may belong to a genuine peredur _sage_. the question then arises--was robert de borron a simple copyist, or is the legend in its present form due to him, _i.e._, did _he_ first join the joseph of arimathea and grail legends, or had he a predecessor? now the older joseph legends know nothing of his wandering in company of a miraculous vessel, zarncke having shown the lateness of the one commonly ascribed to william of malmesbury. nor is it likely borron had before him a local french legend as paulin paris (romania, vol. i.) had supposed; would he in that case have brought the grail to england, and left joseph's fate in uncertainty? the bringing the grail to england is simply the logical consequence of his conception of the three grail-keepers (the third of british blood), symbolising the trinity, and of the relation of the arthurian group to this central conception; where the third grail-keeper and the third of the three wondrous tables were, there the grail must also be. what then led borron to connect the sacramental vessel with the joseph legend? in answering this question the later miraculous properties of the grail must be forgotten, and it must be remembered that with borron it is only a vessel of "grace;" this is shown in the history of (moys) the false disciple, which obviously follows in its details the account of the last supper, and of the detection of judas by means of the dish into which jesus dips a sop, bidding the betrayer take and eat. borron's first table being an exact copy of the last supper one, _his_ holy vessel has the property of that used by christ. in so far borron was led to his conception by the story as told in the canonical books; what help did he get from the apocrypha? his mention of the veronica legend and certain details in his presentment of vespasian's vengeance on the jews (_e.g._, his selling thirty for a penny) show him to have known the vindicta salvatoris, in which joseph of arimathea appears telling of his former captivity from which christ himself had delivered him. thus borron knew of joseph's living when vespasian came to jerusalem. from the gesta pilati he had full information respecting the imprisonment of joseph; he combined the accounts of these two apocryphal works, substituting a simple visit of christ to joseph for the deliverance as told in the gesta pilati, and making vespasian the deliverer, whereto he may have been urged by suetonius' account of the freeing of _josephus_ by vespasian (vesp. ch. v.). but why should joseph become the grail-keeper? because the fortunes of the vessel used by the saviour symbolise those of the saviour's body; as _that_ was present at the last supper, was brought to pilate, handed over to joseph, was buried, and after three days arose, so with the grail. compare, too, christ's words to joseph ( , etc.) in which the symbolical connection of the laying in the grave and the mass is fully worked out. thus joseph who laid christ's body in the grave is the natural guardian of the symbol which commemorates that event, thus, too, the grail is the natural centre point of all the symbolism of mass and sacrament, and thus the grail found its place in the joseph legend, ultimately becoming its most important feature. need perceval's question detain us? may it not be explained by the fact that as joseph had to apply twice for christ's body, so his representative, the grail-seeker, had to apply twice for the symbol of christ's body, the grail? but it is, perhaps, best to consider the question and the fisher king's weakness as inventions of borron's, possibly derived from breton sources, the ease with which the hero fulfils a task explained to him beforehand favouring such a view. borron, it must be noticed, had no great inventive power; in the joseph he is all right so long as he has the legend to follow; in the merlin and the perceval he clings with equal helplessness to the breton sagas, confining himself to weaving clumsily the adventures of the grail into the regular arthur legend. the question as to the authorship of the grand st. graal and the queste, the latter so confidently attributed to w. map, may now profitably be investigated. map, who we know flourished - (see _supra_, p. ), took part in all the political and social movements of his time. if we believe the testimony of the mss. which ascribe to him the authorship of the following romances: ( ) the lancelot, in three parts; ( ) the queste; ( ) the mort artur; ( ) the grand st. graal, he would seem to have shown a literary activity quite incompatible with his busy life, when it is remembered how slow literary composition was in those days. nor can it be reconciled with the words of giraldus cambrensis,[ ] although paulin paris (rom. i. ) has attempted such a reconciliation by the theory that the words _dicere_ and _verba dare_ referred to composition in the vernacular, and that map was opposing not his _oratorical_ to gerald's _literary_ activity, but his _french_ to gerald's _latin_ works. against this initial improbability and gerald's positive testimony must be set, it is true, the witness of writers of the time and of the mss. the most important is that of hélie de borron in his prologue to guiron le courtois.[ ] after telling how luces de gast was the first to translate from the latin book into french, and he did part of the story of tristan, he goes on: "apriés s'en entremist maistre gautiers map qui fu clers au roi henry et devisa cil l'estoire de monseigneur lancelot du lac, que d'autre chose ne parla il mie gramment en son livre. messiers robers de borron s'en entremist après. je helis de borron, par la prière monseigneur de borron, et pour ce que compaignon d'armes fusmes longement, en commençai mon livre du bret." again in the epilogue to the bret,[ ] "je croi bien touchier sor les livres que maistres gautiers maup fist, qui fit lou propre livre de monsoingnour lancelot dou lac; et des autres granz livres que messires robert de berron fit, voudrai-je prendre aucune flor de la matière ... en tel meniere que li livres de monsoingnour luces de gant et de maistre gautier maapp et ciz de monsoingnour robert de berron qui est mes amis et mes paranz charnex s'acourderont au miens livres--et je qui sui appelex helyes de berron qui fui engendrez dou sanc des gentix paladins des barres qui de tous tens ont été commendeour et soingnor d'outres en roménie qui ores est appelée france." now hélie cannot possibly belong to the reign of henry ii (+ ) as asserted by hucher (p. ), as he speaks of map in the past tense (_fu_ clers), and map outlived henry, moreover the mention of romenie proves the passage to have been written after the foundation of the latin empire in . hélie's testimony is thus not that of an immediate contemporary, and it only shows that shortly after map's death the lancelot was ascribed to him. it is, moreover, in so far tainted, that he speaks with equal assurance respecting the great latin book which of course never existed; nor can we believe him when he says that he was the comrade of robert de borron, as this latter wrote before chrestien, and must have been at least thirty years older than hélie, who in the guiron (written about ) calls himself a young man. how is it with the testimony of the mss.? those of the lancelot have unfortunately lost their colophon, owing to the queste being almost invariably added; those of the queste show as a rule a colophon such as the one quoted by paulin paris from the bibl. nat., ms. , (mss. franç ii., p. ): "maistre gautiers map les estrait pour son livre faire dou saint-graal, pour l'amor del roy henri son seignor, qui fist l'estore translater dou latin en françois." a similar statement occurs in a ms. of the mort artur (bib. nat. , .). both are equally credible. now as the king can only be henry ii (+ ) and as the queste preceded the mort artur it must be put about , and chrestien's conte du graal about , an improbably early date when it is recollected that the conte du graal is chrestien's last work. the form, too, of these colophons, expressed as they are in the third person, so different from the garrulous first person complacency with which luces de gast and hélie de borron announce their authorship, excites the suspicion that we have here not the author's own statement, but that of a copyist following a traditional ascription. whether or no map wrote the lancelot, it may safely be assumed that he did not write the queste, or _a fortiori_ the grand st. graal. the tradition as to his authorship of these romances may have originated in geoffrey's mention of the gualterus archidiaconus oxenfordensis, to whom he owed his ms. of the historia regum britanniae. a similar instance of traditional ascription on the part of the copyist may be noted in the mss. of the grand st. graal, the author of which is declared to be robert de borron. the ordinary formulæ (quoted _supra_, p. ) should be compared with borron's own words in the joseph (_supra_, p. ) and the difference in form noted. what proves these passages to be interpolations is that the author of the grand st. graal especially declares in his prologue that his name must remain a secret. the colophons in question are simply to be looked upon as taken over from the genuine ascription of borron's poem, and there is no positive evidence as to the authorship of either the queste or the grand st. graal; both works are probably french in origin, as is shown by the mention of meaux in the grand st. graal. as for the date of borron's poem, a _terminus ad quem_ is fixed by that of the conte du graal ( ); and as the poem is dedicated to gautier of montbeliard, who can hardly have been born before , and who must have attained a certain age before he could become robert's patron, it must fall between the years and . the results of the investigation may be summed up as follows: the origin of the grail romances must be sought for in a christian legend based partly upon the canonical, partly upon the uncanonical, writings. this christian legend was woven into the breton sagas by the author of the oldest grail romance; the theories of provençal spanish, or celtic origin are equally untenable, nor is there any need to countenance the fable of a latin original. chronologically, the versions arrange themselves thus:-- ( ) between and (probably about ) robert de borron wrote his trilogy: joseph of arimathea--merlin--perceval. sources: christian legend (acta, pilati, descensus christi, vindicta salvatoris) and breton sagas (brut?). here the grail is simply a vessel of grace. ( ) about chrestien began his conte du graal, the main source of which was the third part of borron's poem. marvellous food properties attributed to the grail; introduction of the bleeding lance, silver dish, and magic sword. ( ) between and gautier de doulens continued chrestien's poem. main sources, third part of ( ) and first part of same for early history--introduction of broken sword. ( ) between and (but after gautier?) the queste du st. graal written as continuation to the lancelot. sources ( ) and ( ) (for lance) and perhaps ( ). new personages, mordrain, nascien, etc., introduced into early history. ( ) before grand st. graal written, mainly resting upon ( ) but with use also of first part of ( ). ( ) between and . manessier's continuation of the conte du graal. for the early history ( ) made use of. ( ) before gerbert of montreuil's additions to manessier. both ( ) and ( ) used. ( ) about perceval li gallois; compiled from all the previous versions.[ ] that part of birch-hirschfeld's theory which excited the most attention in germany bore upon the relationship of wolfram to chrestien (see _infra_, appendix a). in other respects his theory won very general acceptance. the commendatory notices were, however, of a slight character, and no new facts were adduced in support of his thesis. one opponent, however, he found who did more than rest his opposition upon the view of wolfram's relationship to chrestien. this was e. martin, who ("zeitschrift für d. alterthumskunde," , pp. etc.) traversed most of birch-hirschfeld's conclusions. whilst accepting the priority of queste over grand st. graal he did not see the necessity of fixing as a _terminus ad quem_ for the latter work as we now have it, as helinandus' statement might have referred to an older version; if the grand st. graal could not be dated neither could the queste. as for the didot-perceval there was nothing to prove that it was either borron's work or the source of chrestien and gautier. birch-hirschfeld's arguments to show the interpolation of the lance passages were unsound; it was highly improbable either that chrestien should have used the perceval as alleged, or that borron, the purely religious writer of the joseph, should have changed his style so entirely in the perceval. moreover, birch-hirschfeld made borron dedicate a work to gautier of montbeliard before when the latter must have been quite a young man, nor was there any reason to discredit hélie de borron's testimony that he and robert had been companions in arms, a fact incredible had the one written forty years before the other. the work of chrestien and his continuators must be looked upon as the oldest we had of the grail cycle. it was likely that older versions had been lost. a latin version might well have existed, forms such as joseph de barimaschie (_i.e._, ab arimathea) pointed to it. martin followed up this attack in his "zur gralsage, untersuchungen," strasburg, . a first section is devoted to showing that wolfram must have had other sources than chrestien, and that in consequence such portions of his presentment as differ from chrestien's must be taken into account in reconstructing the original form of the romance. the second and third sections deal with heinrich von dem türlin's "die crone," and with the earliest form of the tradition. gawain's second visit to the grail castle, as told of by heinrich (_supra_, p. ) has features in common with the widely-spread traditions of aged men slumbering in caves or ruined castles, unable to die until the right word is uttered which breaks their spell. this conception differs from the one found in all the other versions inasmuch as in them the wonder-working question releases, not from unnaturally prolonged life, but from sore disease. can a parallel be found in celtic tradition to this sufferer awaiting deliverance? does not arthur, wounded well nigh to death by his nephew modred, pass a charmed life in avalon, whither morgan la fay carried him for his healing, and shall he not return thence to free his folk? the original conception is mythic--the summer god banished by the winter powers, but destined to come back again. the _sage_ of arthur's waiting, often in some subterranean castle, is widely spread, two of the earliest notices (those of gervasius of tilbury, in the "otia imperialia," p. of liebrecht's edition, and of caesarius of heisterbach) connect it with etna--the tradition had followed the norman conquerors of sicily thither--and from sicily it would seem to have penetrated to germany, being first found in german tradition as told of frederick ii. again gerald (a.d. ) in the "itinerarium cambriae" (frankfort, , p. , l. ) tells of a mountain chain in the south-east of wales: "quorum principalis cadair arthur dicitur i. cathedra arthuri, propter gemina promontorii cacumina in cathedrae modum se praeferentia. et quoniam in alto cathedra et in ardua sita est, summo et maximo britonum regi arthuro vulgari nuncupatione est assignata." the eildon hills may be noted in the same connection, "in which all the arthurian chivalry await, in an enchanted sleep, the bugle blast of the adventurer who will call them at length to a new life" (stuart glennie, "arthurian localities," p. ). if the grail king is arthur, the bleeding lance is evidently the weapon wherewith he was so sorely wounded. and the grail? this is originally a symbol of plenty, of a joyous and bountiful life, hence of avalon, that land of everlasting summer beyond the waves, wherein, as the vita merlini has it, they that visit arthur find "planitiem omnibus deliciis plenam." of those versions of the romance in which the christian conception of the grail is predominant, robert de borron's poem (composed about ) is the earliest, and in it, _maugre_ the christianising of the story, the celtic basis is apparent: the grail host go a questing avalonwards; the first keepers are brons and alain, purely celtic names, the former of which may be compared with bran; the empty seat calls to mind the _eren stein_ in ulrich von zatzikhoven's lanzelot, whereof (verse , ) _ist gesaget daz er den man niht vertruoc an dem was valsch oder haz_. admitting the purely christian origin of the grail leads to this difficulty: the vessel in which christ's blood was received was a bowl, not an open or flat dish like that used in commemoration of the last supper. evidently the identification of the grail with the last supper cup is the latest of a series of transformations. nor can the christian origin of the legend be held proved by the surname of fisher given to the grail-keeper. true, neither chrestien nor wolfram explains this surname, whilst in borron's poem there is at least a fish caught. but if the fish had really the symbolic meaning ascribed to it would not a far greater stress be laid upon it? in any case this one point is insufficient to prove the priority of borron, and it is simpler to believe that the surname of fisher had in the original celtic tradition a significance now lost. birch-hirschfeld's theory supposes, too, a development contrary to that observed elsewhere in mediæval tradition. the invariable course is from the racial-heathen to the christian legendary stage. is it likely that in the twelfth century, a period of such highly developed mystic fancy, an originally christian legend should lose its mystic character and become a subject for minstrels to exercise their fancy upon? in the earlier form of the romance there is an obvious contrast between the task laid upon the grail quester and that laid upon gawain at castle marvellous. the first has suffered change by its association with christian legend; but the second, even in those versions influenced by the legend, has retained its primitive celtic character. the trials which gawain has to undergo may be compared with those imposed on him who seeks to penetrate into the underworld, as pictured in the purgatorium s. patricii, in the visio tnugdali, etc. this agrees well with the presentment of castle marvellous, an underworld realm where dwell four queens long since vanished from arthur's court, and which, according to chrestien (verse , ), gawain, having once found, may no longer leave. one of these queens is arthur's mother, whom a magician had carried off, a variant it would seem of the tradition which makes arthur's father, uther, win igerne from her husband by merlin's magic aid. many other reminiscences of celtic tradition may be found in the romances--orgeleuse, whom gawain finds sitting under a tree by a spring, is just such a water fairy as may be met with throughout the whole range of celtic folk-lore, and differs profoundly from the germanic conception of such beings. w. hertz, in his "sage vom parzival und dem gral" (breslau, ) following, in the main, birch-hirschfeld, lays stress upon the two elements, "_legend_" and "_sage_" out of which the romance cycle has sprung. he does not overlook many of the weak points in birch-hirschfeld's theory, _e.g._, whilst fully accepting the fish caught by bron as the symbol of christ, he notices that the incident as found in robert de borron, whom he accepts as the first in date of the cycle writers, is not of such importance as to justify the stress laid upon the nickname "rich fisher," by all the _ex hypothesi_ later writers. the word "rich" must, he thinks, have originally referred to the abundant power of conversion of heathen vouchsafed to the grail-keeper, but even robert failed to grasp the full force of the allusion. against birch-hirschfeld he maintains that the connection of joseph with the conversion of britain in all the versions shows that the legend must have assumed definite shape first on british soil, and he looks upon the separatist and anti-papal tendencies of the british church as supplying the original impulse to such a legend. the grail belongs originally wholly to the "legend;" only in the later versions and in wolfram, owing to the latter's ignorance of its real nature, does it assume a magic and popular character. the lance, on the other hand, is partly derived from the celtic _sage_. the boyhood of perceval is a genuine folk-story, a great-fool tale, and had originally nothing to do with the grail, as may plainly be seen by reference to the thornton sir perceval, the most primitive form of the story remaining, the mabinogi, and the modern breton tale of peronnik, deriving directly or indirectly from chrestien. as for the question, although it presented much that seemed to refer it to folk-tradition, as for instance in heinrich von dem türlin's version, where gawain's putting the question releases the lord of the castle and his retainers from the enchantment of life-in-death, yet the form of the question, "je vos prie que vous me diez que l'en sert de cest vessel," shows its original connection with the grail cultus, and necessitates its reference to the "legend." existing versions fail, however, to give any satisfactory account of the question. it is a matter of conjecture whether in the earliest form of the legend (which hertz assumes to have been lost) it was found in the same shape as in the didot-perceval. birch-hirschfeld's theory has already been implicitly criticised in chapter iii. the considerations adduced therein, as well as martin's criticisms and hertz's admissions, preclude the necessity of examining it in further detail. formally speaking, the theory rests upon the assumption that we have borron's work substantially as he wrote it, an assumption which, as shown by the difference in _motif_ between the metrical joseph and the didot-perceval, is inaccurate. again, the theory does not account for the silence of all the other versions respecting brons and that special conception of the grail found in borron's poem. nor does it offer any satisfactory explanation of the mysterious question which birch-hirschfeld can only conjecture to have been a meaningless invention, _eine harmlose erfindung_, of borron's. in fact, only such, portions of the cycle are exhaustively examined as admit of reference to the alleged originating idea, and a show of rigorous deduction is thus made, the emptiness of which becomes apparent when the entire legend, and not one portion only, is taken into account. despite the learning and acuteness with which it is urged, birch-hirschfeld's theory must be rejected, if it were only because, as martin points out, it postulates a development of the legend which is the very opposite of the normal one. we cannot admit that this vast body of romance sprang from a simple but lofty spiritual conception, the full significance of which, unperceived even by its author, was totally ignored, not only, were that possible, by chrestien and his continuators, but by the theologising mystics who wrote the grand st. graal and the queste--aye, and even by the latest and in some respects the most theologically minded of all the writers of the cycle, the author of the prose perceval le gallois and gerbert. we must say, with otto küpp (zacher's zeitschrift, xvii, , p. ), "die jetzt versuchte christliche motivierung ist ganz unglücklich geraten und kann in keiner weise befriedigen." the field is thus clear for an examination of the quest with a view to determining whether the grail really belongs to it or not. the first step is to see what relationship exists between the oldest form of the quest and what have been called the non-grail members of the cycle--_i.e._, the mabinogi of peredur ab evrawc and the thornton ms. sir perceval. as preliminary to this inquiry, an attempt must be made to determine more closely the relationship of the didot-perceval to the conte du graal--whether it be wholly derived from the latter, or whether it may have preserved through other sources traces of a different form of the story than that found in chrestien.[ ] chapter v. relationship of the didot-perceval to the conte du graal--the former not the source of the latter--relationship of the conte du graal and the mabinogi--instances in which the mabinogi has copied chrestien--examples of its independence--the incident of the blood drops in the snow--differences between the two works--the machinery of the mabinogi and the traces of it in the conte du graal--the stag-hunt--the mabinogi and manessier--the sources of the conte du graal and the relation of the various parts to a common original--sir perceval--steinbach's theory--objections to it--the counsels in the conte du graal--wolfram and the mabinogi--absence of the grail from the apparently oldest celtic form. in examining the relationship of the didot-perceval to the conte du graal, the sequence of the incidents is of importance. this is shown in the subjoined table (where the numbers given are those of the incidents as summarized, chapter ii), in which the didot-perceval sequence is taken as the standard. --------------------------------------------------------------- didot-perceval. | chrestien. | --------------------------------|-----------------------------| inc. |inc. | . perceval sets forth in | . only after the reproaches| quest of the rich fisher. | of the loathly damsel | | does perceval first set | | forth in quest of the | | grail. | | | . finds a damsel weeping over | . in so far as finding a | a knight. adventure with | damsel weeping over a | dwarf and the orgellos | dead knight, and ( ) for | delande. | overcoming the orgellous | | de la lande. | | | . arrival at the chessboard | ... ... ... ... | castle. adventure of the | | stag hunt and loss of the | | hound. | | | | . meeting with sister; | ... ... ... ... | instruction concerning the | | grail; vow to seek it. | | | | . meeting with, confession | . _after_ the good friday | to, and exhortation from | incident. | hermit uncle. | | | | . disregard of uncle's | ... ... ... ... | exhortations (slaying a | | knight), through thinking | | of damsel of the | | chessboard. | | | | . meeting with rosette and | ... ... ... ... | le beau mauvais (the | | loathly damsel). | | | | . adventure at the ford with | ... ... ... ... | urbains. | | | | . the two children in the | ... ... ... ... | tree. | | | | . first arrival at grail | . ... ... ... ... | castle. | | | | . reproaches of the wayside | . in so far as in both the | damsel. | hero is reproached by a | | wayside damsel. | | | . meeting with the damsel who | ... ... ... ... | had carried off the stag's | | head and hound, and second | | visit to castle of the | | chessboard. | | | | . period ( years) of despair | . ... ... ... ... | ended by the good friday | | incident. | | | | . tournament at melianz de | . but told of gawain not | lis. merlin's reproaches. | of perceval. | | | . second arrival at grail | ... ... ... ... | castle achievement of quest.| | --------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------- gautier de doulens. --------------------------- inc. ... ... ... ... . in so far as a damsel is foundlamenting over a knight. and . . . . in so far as a knight is slain, but _before_ the meeting with the hermit. . . ford amorous; _entirely different adventure_. . _one_ child. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... and . many adventures being intercalated. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... . --------------------------- the different sequence in the didot-perceval and chrestien may be explained, as birch-hirschfeld explains it, by the freedom which chrestien allowed himself in re-casting the work; but why should gautier, who, _ex hypothesi_, simply took up from chrestien's model such adventures as his predecessor had omitted, have acted in precisely the same way? if the theory were correct we should expect to find the non-chrestien incidents of the didot-perceval brought together in at least fairly the same order in gautier. a glance at the table shows that this is not the case. in one incident, moreover, the didot-perceval is obviously right and gautier obviously wrong, namely, in his incident , where the slaying of the knight before the hero's meeting the hermit takes away all point from the incident. an absolutely decisive proof that that portion of the conte du graal which goes under gautier's name (though it is by no means clear that all of it is of the same age or due to one man), cannot be based upon the didot-perceval as we now possess it, is afforded by the adventure of the ford amorous or perillous, which in the two versions is quite dissimilar. this incident stands out pre-eminent in the didot-perceval for its wild and fantastic character. it is a genuine celtic _märchen_, with much of the weird charm still clinging to it that is the birthright of the celtic folk-tale. it is inadmissible that gautier could have substituted for this fine incident the commonplace one which he gives. if, then, it is out of the question that gautier borrowed directly from the didot-perceval, how are the strong resemblances which exist in part between the two versions to be accounted for? some of these resemblances have already been quoted (_supra_, p. ), the remainder may be usefully brought together here.[ ] first arrival at the castle of the chessboard-- didot-perceval. gautier. li plus biaux chasteaux del monde le bel castiel que je vos dis et vit le pont abeissié et la . . . . . porte deffermé (p. ). et vit si bièles les entrées et les grans portes desfremées ( , , etc.); the damsel exhorts him not to throw the chessman into the water-- votre cors est esmeuz à grant car çou serait grans vilonie ( , ). vilainie faire (p. ). perceval having slain the stag, sees its head carried off-- si vint une veille sor un palestoi une pucièle de malaire grant aléure et prist le brachet vint cevauçant parmi la lande et s'en ala or tot (p. ). voit le braket, plus ne demande par le coler d'orfrois le prist . . . . . . si s'en aloit grant aléure ( , , etc.). on perceval threatening to take it away from her by force she answers-- sire chevalier, force n'est mie force à faire n'est mie drois droit et force me poez bien et force me poés vos faire ( , ). faire (p. ). in the subsequent fight with the knight of the tomb, he, overcome-- se torna vers le tonbel grant que fuiant vait grant aléure aléure et li tombeaux s'enleva vers l'arket et la sepouture contre moultet chevalier s'en si est entrés plus tost qu'il pot feri enz (p. ). ( , , etc.). in the description of rosette (the loathly damsel)-- ele avoit le col et les mains plus le col avoit plus noir que fer noires et le vier, que fer... ( , ). (p. ). when the loathly damsel and her knight come to arthur's court, kay jests as follows:-- lors pria (_i.e._, kay) le chevalier biaus sire, par la foi que il devoit, le roi, dites moi, si dex le vos mire, qui li déist où il l'avoit prise et si plus en a en vostre terre, si en porroit une autre tele avoir, une autèle en iroie querre si il l'aloit querre (p. ). si jou le quidoie trover ( , etc.). these similarities are too great to be accidental. it will be noticed, however, that they bear chiefly upon two adventures: that of the chessboard and stag hunt, and that of the loathly maiden. as to the latter, it is only necessary to allude to birch-hirschfeld's idea that rosette is the original of the damsel who reproaches perceval before the court with his conduct at the grail castle, a theory to state which is to refute it. the former adventure will be closely examined in the following section. there is no need to suppose direct borrowing on the part of one or the other versions to account for the parallel in these two incidents; a common original closely followed at times by both would meet the requirements of the case. it is difficult to admit that the author of the didot-perceval used gautier's continuation and not chrestien's original, especially when the following fact, strangely overlooked by both birch-hirschfeld and hucher, is taken into account: perceval on his first arrival at the grail castle keeps silence (as will be seen by a reference to the summary, _supra_, p. ), because, "li souvenoit du prodome qui li avoit deffandu que ne fust trop pallier," etc. as a matter of fact, the "prodome" had forbidden nothing of the sort, and this casual sentence is the first allusion to the motive upon which chrestien lays so much stress as explaining his hero's mysterious conduct at the grail castle. evidently the didot-perceval, which, to whoever considers it impartially, is an obvious abridgment and piecing together of material from different sources, found in one of its sources an episode corresponding to that of gonemans in chrestien. but its author, influenced probably by the galahad version of the quest, substituted for the "childhood" opening of this hypothetical source the one now found in his version, and the gonemans episode went with the remainder of that part of the story. when the hero comes to the grail castle, the author is puzzled; his hero knows beforehand what he has to do, sets out with the distinct purpose of doing it, and yet remains silent. to account for this silence the author uses the motive belonging to a discarded episode, but applies the words to his hermit, forgetting that he had put no such words into his mouth, and that, attributed to him, the injunction to keep silence became simply meaningless. is the model treated in this way by the didot-perceval chrestien's poem? hardly, for this reason. after the good friday incident occurs the remarkable passage, quoted (_supra_, p. ), as to the silence of the _trouvères_ respecting it. chrestien gives the incident in full, and the author of the perceval could have had no reason for his stricture, or could not have ventured it had he been using chrestien's work. two hypotheses then remain; the unknown source may have been a version akin to that used by chrestien and gautier, or it may have been a summary abridgment of the conte du graal, in which, _inter alia_, the good friday incident was left out. in either case the presence of the passage in the perceval is equally hard of explanation; but the first hypothesis is favoured by the primitive character of the incident of the ford perillous, and several other features which will be touched upon in their place. the didot-perceval would thus be an attempt to provide an ending for borron's poem by adapting to its central _donnée_ a version of the perceval _sage_ akin to that which forms the groundwork of the conte du graal, its author being largely influenced by the galahad form of the quest as found in the _queste_. if this view be correct, the testimony of perceval (wherever not influenced by borron's poem or the _queste_) is of value in determining the original form of the story, the more so from the author's evident want of skill in piecing together his materials. it will, therefore, be used in the following section, which deals with the relationship of the conte du graal and the mabinogi of peredur ab evrawc. _relationship of the conte du graal and the mabinogi._--as was seen in chapter iv, opinion began with monsieur de villemarqué by accepting the mabinogi as the direct source of the conte du graal, and has ended with zarncke and birch-hirschfeld in looking upon it as a more or less direct copy. the most competent of living scholars in this matter, m. gaston paris, has expressed himself in favour of this opinion in his recent article on the lancelot story (romania, ).[ ] before dealing with the question as presented in this form, simrock's view, differing as it does from that of all other investigators, deserves notice. he, too, looks upon the mabinogi as derived from chrestien, and yet bases his interpretation of the myth underlying the romance upon a feature, the bleeding head in the dish, found only in it. but if the mabinogi have really preserved here the genuine form of the myth, it must represent an older version than chrestien's, and if, on the other hand, chrestien be its only source, the feature in question cannot belong to the earliest form of the story. simrock's theory stands then or falls in this respect by the view taken of the relationship between the two versions, and need not be discussed until that view has been stated. to facilitate comparison, the incidents common to the two stories are tabulated as under, those of the mabinogi being taken as the standard:-- mabinogi. conte du graal. inc. inc. _chrestien._ . encounter with the knights. . . adventure with the damsel of . the tent. . avenging of the insult to and . guinevere; incident of the dwarves; departure from court. . arrival at house of first uncle . gonemans. (found fishing); instruction in arms. . arrival at house of second uncle . uncle found fishing; (grail castle). first sight of talismans, grail and lance. the talismans (head in basin and lance). . reproaches of foster-sister whom . reproached by his cousin; also he finds lamenting over a dead instructed by her about the knight. magic sword. . adventure with the damsel of the . blanchefleur, gonemant's besieged castle who offers niece. herself to hero. . second meeting with the lady of . the tent. . first encounter with the sorceresses of gloucester, who are forced to desist from assailing hero's hostess. . adventure of the drops of blood . in the snow. . reproaching of peredur before . the court by the loathly damsel. . gwalchmai's adventure with the . lady whose father he had slain. . peredur's meeting the knight on . hermit, hero's uncle. good friday, and confession to priest. _gautier._ . arrival at the castle of wonders inc. , , and partly and . (chessboard castle); stag hunt; loss of dog; fight with the black man of the cromlech. . second arrival at the (grail) . in so far as gautier ends his castle; achievement of the quest part of the story here with by destruction of sorceresses of the hero's second arrival at gloucester. "thus it is related the grail castle, but no concerning the castle of similarity in the incidents. wonders." the sequence is thus exactly the same in the mabinogi and in chrestien, with the single exception of the blanchefleur incident, which, in the french poem precedes, in the welsh tale follows, the first visit to the grail castle. the similarity of order is sufficient of itself to warrant the surmise of a relation such as that of copy to original. if the mabinogi be examined closely, much will be found to strengthen this surmise. thus, birch-hirschfeld has pointed out that when peredur first sees the knights, and on asking his mother what they may be, receives the answer, "angels, my son"; this can only be a distorted reminiscence of perceval's own exclamation, ... ha! sire dex, merchi! ce sont angle que je voi ci! ( , - ). as the hero's mother would be the last person to describe thus the knights whom she has done her best to guard her son from knowledge of. again, simrock has criticised, and with reason, the incident of peredur's being acclaimed by the dwarf on his arrival at arthur's court as the chief of warriors and flower of knighthood. in the corresponding incident in chrestien, the hero is told laughingly by a damsel that he should become the best knight in the world, and she had not laughed for ten years, as a fool had been wont to declare. this is an earlier form than that of the mabinogi, and closer to the folk-tale account. thus, to take one instance only, in mr. kennedy's giolla na chroicean gobhar (fellow with the goat-skin) [fictions of the irish celts, p. ], the hero comes to the king of dublin, as peredur to arthur, clad in skins and armed with a club. "now, the king's daughter was so melancholy that she didn't laugh for seven years, but when she saw tom of the goat-skin knock over all her father's best champions, then she let a great sweet laugh out of her," and of course tom marries her, but not until he has been through all sorts of trials, aye, even to hell itself and back. in chrestien, the primitive form is already overlaid; we hear nothing further of the damsel moved to laughter nor of the prophetic fool; and in the mabinogi it seems obvious that the hailing of the hero, added in chrestien to the older laughter, has alone subsisted. birch-hirschfeld takes exception likewise to the way in which peredur's two uncles are brought upon the scene, the first one, corresponding to gonemans in chrestien, being found fishing instead of the real fisher king, the lord of the castle of the magic talismans, whilst at the latter's, peredur has to undergo trials of his strength belonging properly to his stay at the first uncle's. evidently, says birch-hirschfeld, there has been a confusion of the two personages. again, when peredur leaves his second uncle on the morrow of seeing the bleeding head and spear, it is said, "he rode forth with his uncle's permission." can these words be a reminiscence of chrestien's? et trueve le pont abaiscié, con li avoit ensi laissié por ce que rien nel detenist, de quele eure qu'il venist que il ne passat sans arriest ( , - ). we shall see later on that in the most primitive form of the unsuccessful visit to the castle of the talismans the hero finds himself on the morrow on the bare earth, the castle itself having vanished utterly. the idea of permission being given to leave is diametrically opposed to this earliest conception, and its presence in the mabinogi seems only capable of explanation by some misunderstanding of the story-teller's model. the blanchefleur incident shows some verbal parallels, "the maiden welcomed peredur and put her arms around his neck." et la damosele le prent par le main débonnairement ( , - ) et voit celi ajenouillie devant son lit qui le tenoit par le col embraciet estroit ( , - ). can, too, the "two nuns," who bring in bread and wine, be due to the "il abéies," which perceval sees on entering blanchefleur's town? it may be noticed that in this scene the welsh story-teller is not only more chaste, but shows much greater delicacy of feeling than the french poet. peredur's conduct is that of a gentleman according to nineteenth century standards. chrestien, however, is probably nearer the historical reality, and the conduct of his pair-- s'il l'a sor le covertoir mise * * * * ensi giurent tote la nuit. is so singularly like that of a welsh _bundling_ couple, that it seems admissible to refer the colouring given to this incident to welsh sources. another scene presenting marked similarities in the two works is that in which the hero is upbraided before the court by the loathly damsel. in the mabinogi she enters riding upon a _yellow_ mule with _jagged thongs_: in chrestien-- sor une _fauve mule_ et tint en sa main destre une escorgie ( , - ). "blacker were her face and her two hands than the blackest iron covered with pitch." ains ne véistes si noir fer come ele ot les mains et le cor ( , - ). "and she greeted arthur and all his household except peredur." le roi et ses barons salue tout ensamble comunalment fors ke perceval seulement ( , - ). in the mabinogi, peredur is reproached for not having asked about the streaming spear; in chrestien "la lance qui saine" is mentioned first although the grail is added. had peredur asked the meaning and cause of the wonders, the "king would have been restored to health, and his dominions to peace." li rices rois qui moult s'esmaie fust or tos garis de sa plaie et si tenist sa tière en pais ( , - ). whereas now "his knights will perish, and wives will be widowed, and maidens will be left portionless"-- dames en perdront lor maris, tières en seront essilies, et pucièles desconsellies; orfenes, veves en remanront et maint chevalier en morront ( , , etc.). in the "stately castle" where dwells the loathly damsel, are five hundred and sixty-six knights, and "the lady whom he loves best with each," in "castle orguellos" five hundred and seventy, and not one "qui n'ait s'amie avoeques lui." "and whoever would acquire fame in arms and encounters and conflicts, he will gain it there if he desire it." que la ne faut nus ki i alle, qui la ne truist joste u batalle; qui viout faire chevalerie, si là le quiert, n'i faura mie ( , , etc.). "and whoso would reach the summit of fame and honour, i know where he may find it. there is a castle on a lofty mountain, and there is a maiden therein, and she is detained a prisoner there, and whoever shall set her free will attain the summit of the fame of the world." mais ki vorroit le pris avoir de tout le mont, je quie savoir le liu et la pièce de terre u on le porroit mius conquerre; * * * * a une damoisièle assise; moult grant honor aroit conquise, qui le siège en poroit oster et la pucièle délivrer ( , , etc.). in this last case certainly, in the other cases probably, a direct influence, to the extent at least of the passages quoted, must be admitted. but before concluding hastily that the welsh story-teller is the copyist, some facts must be mentioned on the other side. thus the incident of the blood drops in the snow, which birch-hirschfeld sets down as one of those taken over by the mabinogi, with the remark that the welsh story contains no trace of a passion as strong as perceval's for blanchefleur, has been dealt with by professor h. zimmer in his "keltische studien," vol. ii, pp. . he refers to the awakening of deirdre's love to noisi by similar means, as found in the irish saga of the sons of usnech (oldest ms. authority, book of leinster, copied before from older mss.) as evidence of the early importance of this _motif_ in celtic tradition. the passage runs thus in english: "as her foster-father was busy in winter time skinning a calf out in the snow, she beheld a raven which drank up the blood in the snow; and she exclaimed, 'such a man could i love, and him only, having the three colours, his hair like the raven, his cheeks like the blood, his body like the snow.'" now the mabinogi says, almost in the same words--the blackness of the raven and the whiteness of the snow, and the redness of the blood he compared to the hair and the skin and the two red spots upon the cheek of the lady that best he loved. in chrestien there is no raven, and the whole stress is laid upon the _three_ drops of blood on the snow, which put the hero in mind of the red and white of his lady's face. as zimmer justly points out, the version of the mabinogi is decidedly the more primitive of the two; and that, moreover, as the incident does not figure at all in what birch-hirschfeld presumes to be chrestien's source, the didot-perceval, the following development of this incident must, _ex hypothesi_, have taken place. in the didot-perceval the hero is once upon a time lost in thought. to explain this, chrestien invents the incident of the three drops of blood in the snow; the mabinogi, copying chrestien, presents the incident in almost as primitive a form as the oldest known one! here, then, the mabinogi has preserved an older form than chrestien, alleged to have been its source in all those parts common to both. nor is it certain that the fact of peredur's undergoing the sword-test in the talisman castle _does_ show, as birch-hirschfeld maintains, that the welsh story-teller confused the two personages whom he took over from chrestien, gonemans and the fisher king. the sword incident will be examined later on; suffice here to say that no explanation is given in the conte du graal of the broken weapon; whereas the mabinogi does give a simple and natural one. but these two instances cannot weaken the force of the parallels adduced above. in determining, however, whether these may not be due to chrestien's being the borrower, the differences between the two versions are of even more importance than the similarities. what are these? the french romances belonging to the perceval type of the grail quest give two versions of the search for the magic talismans, that of the conte du graal and that of the didot-perceval. the latter pre-supposes an early history which, as already shown, cannot be looked upon as the starting point of the legend without postulating such a development of the latter as is inadmissible on _a priori_ grounds, and as runs counter to many well-ascertained facts. the former is not consistent with itself, manessier's finish contradicting chrestien's opening on such an essential point as the cause of the maimed king's suffering. still the following outline of a story, much overlaid by apparently disconnected adventures, may be gathered from it. a hero has to seek for magic talismans wherewith to heal an uncle wounded by his brother, and at the same time to avenge him on that brother. what, on the other hand, is the story as told in the mabinogi? a hero is minded by talismans to avenge the death of a cousin (and the harming of an uncle); it is not stated that the talismans pass into his possession. it is difficult to admit that either of these forms can have served as direct model to the other. if the mabinogi be a simple copy of the conte du graal, whence the altered significance of the talismans? whence also the machinery by means of which the hero is at last brought to his goal, and which is, briefly, as follows? the woe which has befallen peredur's kindred is caused by supernatural beings, the sorceresses of gloucester; his ultimate achievement of the task is brought about by his cousin, who, to urge him on, assumes the form ( ) of the black and loathly damsel; ( ) of the damsel of the chessboard, who incites him to the ysbydinongyl adventure, reproves him for not slaying the black man at once, and then urges him into the stag hunt; ( ) of the lady who carries off the hound and sends him to fight against the black man of the cromlech; "and the cousin it was who came in the hall with the bloody head in the salver and the lance dripping blood." the whole of the incidents connected with the castle of the chessboard, which appear at such length in both the conte du graal and the didot-perceval, but without being in any way connected with the main thread of the story, thus form in the mabinogi an integral portion of that main thread. would the authors of the conte du graal have neglected the straight-forward version of the welsh tale had they known it, or could, on the other hand, the author of the mabinogi have worked up the disconnected incidents of his alleged model into an organic whole? neither hypothesis is likely. moreover the conte du graal and the didot-perceval, if examined with care, show distinct traces of a machinery similar to that of the welsh story. thus in chrestien, perceval, on arriving at the fisher king's, sees a squire bringing into the room a sword of such good steel that it might break in but one peril, and this the king's niece (_i.e._, perceval's cousin) had sent her uncle to bestow it as he pleased; and the king gives it to the hero for-- ... biaus frère ceste espée vous fu jugie et destineé ( , - ). after perceval's first adventure at the grail castle it is his "germaine cousine" ( , ) who assails him with her reproaches; she knows all about the sword ( , - ) and tells him, how, if it be broken he may have it mended ( , - ). so far chrestien, who furthermore, be it noted, makes blanchefleur perceval's lady-love, likewise his cousin, she being niece to gonemans ( , - ). a cousin is thus beloved of him, a cousin procures for him the magic sword, a cousin, as in the mabinogi, incites him to the fulfilment of the quest, and gives him advice which we cannot doubt would have been turned to account by chrestien had he finished his poem. turning now to gautier, in whose section of the poem are to be found the various adventures growing out of the chessboard incident, this difference between the mabinogi and himself may be noted. in the former, these adventures caused by peredur's cousin serve apparently as tests of the hero's strength and courage. the loss of the chessboard is the starting-point of the task, and the cousin reappears as the black maiden. nothing of the sort is found in gautier. true, the damsel who reproaches perceval is in so far supernatural, as she is a kind of water-nix, but it is love for her which induces the hero to perform the task; she it is, too, who lends him the dog, and she is not identified with the "pucelle de malaire" who carries it off ( , , etc.). but later on perceval meets a knight who tells him that a daughter of the fisher king's (thus also a cousin of perceval) had related to him how a knight had carried off a stag's head and hound to anger another good knight who had been at her father's court, and had not asked as he should concerning the grail, for which reason she had taken his hound and had refused him help to follow the robber knight ( , , etc.). this makes the "pucelle de malaire" to be perceval's cousin, and she plays the same _rôle_ as in the mabinogi. true, when later on (incident ) perceval finds the damsel, nothing is said as to her being the fisher king's daughter; on the contrary, as will be seen by the summary, a long story is told about the knight of the tomb, brother to her knight, garalas, and how he lived ten years with a fay. she is here quite distinct from the lady of the chessboard to whom perceval returns later. the version found in the didot-perceval agrees with the mabinogi as against gautier in so far that the hero is in love with the mistress of the castle, and not with the damsel who reproaches him for throwing away the chessmen. this reproaching damsel is not in any way identified with the lady who carries off the hound, who is described as "une vieille," and of whom it is afterwards told "elle estoit quand elle voloit une des plus belles damoiselles du monde. et est cele meismes que mon frère (the brother of the knight of the tomb, who here, as in gautier, is the lover of a fay) amena à la forest," _i.e._, she is the fay herself, sister to the lady of the chessboard castle, who hated her and wished to diminish her and her knight's pride (p. ). here, again, a connection can be pieced out between the various personages of the adventure; and it appears that the hero is driven to his fight against the knight of the tomb by a fair damsel transformed into a mysterious hag.[ ] the mabinogi thus gives one consistently worked-out conception--transformed hag = peredur's cousin--which may be recovered partly from that one of the two discordant versions found in gautier which makes the pucelle de malaire to be the fisher king's daughter, hence perceval's cousin, and connects the stag hunt with the grail incident, partly from the didot-perceval, which tells how the same pucelle de malaire is but playing a part, being when she wills one of the fairest maids of the world. now we have seen that the stag hunt is just one of those portions of the story in which are found the closest verbal similarities between gautier de doulens and the didot-perceval. it is, therefore, perplexing to find that there is not more likeness in the details of the incident. but the similarities pointed out concern chiefly the first part of the incident, and are less prominent in the latter part (the hero's encounter with the knight of the tomb). this, taken together with the difference in the details of the incident just pointed out, strengthens the opinion expressed above, that the didot-perceval and gautier are not connected directly but through the medium of a common source, the influence of which can be seen distinctly in certain portions of either story, and that when this source fails they go widely asunder in their accounts. that such an hypothesis is not unreasonable is shown by the fact that gautier has two contradictory forms of this very story, one of which, that which makes the hound-stealing damsel a daughter of the fisher king, is on all fours with the mabinogi, whilst the other is more akin to, though differing in important respects from, that of the didot-perceval. in this case, at least, gautier must have had two sources, and if two why not more? it may be urged in explanation of the similarities between gautier and the mabinogi, that the author of the latter used gautier in the same free way that he did chrestien, but that getting tired towards the close of his work he abridged in a much more summary fashion than at first. if the comparison of the versions of the stag hunt found in either work be not sufficient to refute this theory, the following consideration may be advanced against it: if the mabinogi derives entirely from the conte du graal, how can the different form given to the grail episode be accounted for?--if it only knew chrestien, where did it get the chessboard adventure from, and if it knew gautier as well as chrestien why did it not finish the grail adventure upon the same lines as it began, _i.e._, partly in conformity with its alleged model? is manessier any nearer than gautier to the mabinogi in the later portion of the tale? the chief points of the story told by him may be recapitulated thus:--the grail damsel is daughter of the fisher king, the damsel of the salver, daughter of king goon desert, his brother (_i.e._, both are cousins to perceval); goon desert, besieged by espinogre, defeats him, but is treacherously slain by his nephew partinal, the latter's sword breaking in the blow. goon's body is brought to the fisher king's castle, whither the broken sword is likewise brought by goon's daughter to be kept until a knight should come, join together the pieces, and avenge goon's death. in receiving the sword the fisher king wounds himself through the thighs, and may not be healed until he be avenged on partinal. perceval asks how he may find the murderer, the blood vengeance (faide = o.h.g. fehde) being on him. perceval fights with partinal, slays him, cuts off his head as token of his victory, returns to the fisher king's castle, lighting upon it by chance, heals the fisher king by the mere sight of the head, which is fixed on a pike on the highest battlements. at the death of his uncle perceval succeeds him as king of the grail castle. here, then, as in the mabinogi, the story turns definitely upon a blood feud; the same act which brings about the death of one relative of the hero, also causes, indirectly, it is true, the laming of another, even as in the mabinogi the same supernatural beings kill peredur's cousin and lame his uncle; the cousin reappears again, bringing the magic sword by whose aid alone the hero can accomplish the vengeance, and uttering the prediction the fulfilment of which will point out the destined avenger. finally, if the mabinogi seems to lay special stress upon the head of the murdered man, manessier lays special stress upon the head of the murderer. now it is quite evident that the mabinogi cannot have copied manessier. it has been alleged that the welsh story-teller, adapting chrestien to the taste of his fellow countrymen, substituted a blood feud for the grail quest, but what reason would he have had for thus dealing with manessier? he had simply to leave out the christian legendary details, which in manessier are, one can hardly say, adapted to the older form of the story, to find in that older form a clear and straightforward account with no admixture of mystical elements. it is impossible to explain the strong general similarity of outline with the equally marked divergences of detail (sorceresses of gloucester instead of partinal, etc.,) except by saying that both, though going back to a common legendary source, are unconnected one with another. the facts thus dealt with may be recapitulated as follows:--there is marked similarity in general outline between the mabinogi and the conte du graal in the adventures common to both; in that portion of the conte du graal due to chrestien there occur, moreover, many and close verbal parallels, and the corresponding part of the mabinogi is told at greater length than the remainder of the incidents common to both works. that which answers in the mabinogi to the grail quest forms a clear and straightforward whole, the main features of which may be recovered from the conte du graal, but in varying proportions from the various sections of that work. thus the indications of this mabinogi talisman quest, the central intrigue, as it may be called, of the tale, are in chrestien of the slightest nature, being confined to passing hints; in gautier they are fuller and more precise, though pointing to a version of the central intrigue different, not only in details but in conception, from that of the mabinogi; in manessier alone is there agreement of conception, although the details still vary. finally, those portions of the mabinogi which are in closest verbal agreement with chrestien contain statements which cannot easily be reconciled with this central intrigue. these facts seem to warrant some such deductions as these. bearing in mind that the mabinogi is an obvious piecing together of all sorts of incidents relating to its hero, the only connecting link being that of his personality, its author may be supposed, when compiling his work, to have stretched out his hand in all directions for material. now a portion of the peredur _sage_ consisted of adventures often found elsewhere in the folk-tale cycles of the great fool and the avenging kinsman--cycles which, in celtic tradition, at least, cover almost the same ground as the one described by j. g. von hahn under the title, "die arische aussetzung und rückkehr-formel." in the original of the mabinogi this portion probably comprised the childhood and forest up-bringing, the visit to arthur with the accompanying incidents, the training by the uncle (who _may_ have been the fisher king), the arrival at the (bespelled) castle, where the hero is to be minded of his task by the sight of certain talismans and of his cousin's head, the reproaches of the loathly damsel, her subsequent testing of the hero by the adventures of the chessboard, stag hunt, etc., the hero's final accomplishment of the task, vengeance on his kindred's enemies, and removal of the spells. there would seem to have been no such love story as that frequently found in stories of the great fool class, _e.g._, in the irish one (_supra_, p. ). this original was probably some steps removed from being a genuine popular version; the incidents were presented in a way at once over-concise and confused, and some which, as will be seen in the next chapter, the living folk-tale has preserved were left out or their significance was not recognized. what more natural than that the author of the mabinogi in its present form, knowing chrestien, should piece out his bare, bald narrative with shreds and patches from the frenchman's poem? the moment chrestien fails him, he falls back into the hurried concision of his original. his adaptation of chrestien is done with singularly little skill, and at times he seems to have misunderstood his model. he confines his borrowing to matters of detail, not allowing, for instance, chrestien's presentment of the grail incident to supersede that of his welsh original. in one point he may, following chrestien, have made a vital change. it seems doubtful whether the welsh source of the mabinogi knew of a maimed king, an uncle to be healed through the hero's agency; the sole task may have been the avenging the cousin's death. true the "lame uncle" appears at the end, but this may be due to some sudden desire for consistency on the arranger's part. but whether or no he was found in the welsh story preserved in the mabinogi, he certainly played no such leading part as in the conte du graal. the two stories deal with the same cycle of adventures, but the object of the hero is not the same in both, and, consequently, the machinery employed is not quite the same. the present mabinogi is an unskilful fusion of these two variations upon the one theme.[ ] light is also thrown by this investigation upon the question of chrestien's relationship to his continuators. birch-hirschfeld's theory that the didot-perceval was the source of chrestien and gautier has already been set aside. apart from the reasons already adduced, the fact that it does not explain from whence manessier got his ending of the story would alone condemn it. it must now be evident that chrestien and two of his continuators drew from one source, and this a poem of no great length probably, the main outlines of which were nearly the same as those of the welsh proto-mabinogi given above, with this difference, that the story turned upon the healing of the uncle and not the avenging the cousin's death. this poem, which seems also to have served, directly or indirectly, as one of the sources of the didot-perceval, had probably departed from popular lines in many respects, and _may_, though this would be an exceedingly difficult question to determine, have begun the incorporation of the joseph of arimathea legend with its consequent wresting to purposes of christian symbolisms of the objects and incidents of the old folk-tale. such an incorporation had almost certainly begun before chrestien's time, and was continued by him. there can be little doubt that he dealt with his model in a free and daring spirit, altering and adding as seemed best to him. this alone explains how manessier, slavishly following the common original, tells differently the cause of the lame king's wound. gautier, who lacked chrestien's creative power, though he often equals him in the grace and vivacity of his narrative, seems to have had no conception of a plan; the section of conte du graal which goes under his name is a mere disorderly heap of disconnected adventures brought together without care for consistency. but for this very reason he is of more value in restoring the original form of the story than chrestien, who, striving after consistency, harmony, and artistic development of his tale, alters, adds to, or retrenches from the older version. gautier had doubtless other sources besides the one made use of by chrestien. this does not seem to be the case with manessier, who, for this portion of the story, confined himself to chrestien's original, without taking note of the differences in _motif_ introduced by his predecessor. what is foreign to it he drew from sources familiar to us, the queste and grand s. graal, from which more than two-thirds of his section are derived. in working back to the earliest form of the perceval-_sage_, mabinogi and conte du graal are thus of equal value and mutually complementary. both are second-hand sources, and their testimony is at times sadly corrupt, but it is from them chiefly that information must be sought as to the earlier stages of development of this legendary cycle. they do not by themselves give any satisfactory explanation of the more mysterious features of the full-blown legend, but they do present the facts in such a way as to put out of court the hypothesis of a solely christian legendary origin. before proceeding further it will be well to see if the english sir perceval has likewise claims to be considered one of the versions which yield trustworthy indications as to the older form of the story. this poem, described by halliwell as simply an abridged english version of the conte du graal, has, as may be seen by reference to ch. iv, been treated with more respect by other investigators, several of whom, struck by its archaic look, have pronounced it one of the earliest versions of the perceval _sage_. it has quite lately been the object of elaborate study by paul steinbach in his dissertation: "uber dem einfluss des crestien de troies auf die altenglische literatur," leipzig, . the results of his researches may be stated somewhat as follows: the two works correspond incident for incident down to the death of the red knight, the chief differences being that perceval is made a nephew of king arthur, that the death of his father at the hands of the red knight is explained as an act of revenge on the part of the latter, that arthur recognizes his nephew at once, and tells him concerning the red knight, and that the burning of the red knight, only hinted at in chrestien's lines-- ains auroie par carbonees. trestout escarbellié le mort, etc. ( , - ). is fully told in the english poem. after the red knight incident the parallelism is much less close. the english poem has incidents to itself: the slaying of the witch, the meeting with the uncle and nine cousins, the fight with the giant for the ring, the meeting with and restoring to health the mother. of the remaining incidents, those connected with lufamour are more or less parallel to what chrestien relates of his hero's adventure with blanchefleur, and that of the black knight, with that of the orgellous de la lande in chrestien. of the , verses of the english poem the greater part may be paralleled from chrestien, thus:-- p. of g. cr. - - - - , - , - - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , { , - - { , - { , - , - , - , - , - , , - , , - , , - , , - , - , , - , - , } , - , } { , - , , - , } { , - , - , , - , , - , , - , the incidents comprised v. - and , - , , being the only one entirely unconnected with chrestien. this general agreement between the two works shows the dependence of the one on the other. but while evidently dependent, the english poem, as is shown by the differences between it and its french original, belongs at once to a less and to a more highly developed stage of the perceval _sage_. the differences are thus of two kinds, those testifying to the writer's adherence to older, probably breton, popular traditions and those due to himself, and testifying to the skill with which he has worked up his materials and fitted portions of chrestien's poem into an older framework. of the first kind are: the statement that perceval meets with three knights instead of five as in chrestien, the english poem agreeing here with the mabinogi; the mention of his riding on a _mare_ and of his being clad in goat-skins, the english poem again agreeing rather with the mabinogi than with chrestien, and showing likewise points of contact with the breton ballads about morvan lez breiz, printed by villemarqué in the barzaz breiz. the combat with the giant may likewise be paralleled from the lez breiz cycle in that hero's fight with the moorish giant. these points would seem to indicate knowledge on the author's part of popular traditions concerning perceval forming a small cycle, of which the departure from, and return to the mother were the opening and closing incidents respectively. this form of the story must have been widely spread and popular to induce the author to leave out as much as he has done of chrestien's poem in order to bring it within the traditional framework. he accomplished his task with much skill, removing every trace of whatever did not bear directly upon the march of the story as he told it. in view of this skill differences which tend to make the story more consequent and logical may fairly be ascribed to him. such are: the making perceval a nephew of arthur, the mention of a feud between the red knight and perceval's father, the combat with the witch arising out of perceval's wearing the red knight's armour, and the other adventures which follow eventually from the same cause, the feature that the ring taken by perceval from the lady in the tent is a magic one, endowing its wearer with supernatural strength, the change made between this ring and his mother's which prepares the final recognition, etc. the original poem probably ended with the reunion of mother and son, the last verse, briefly mentioning the hero's death, being a later addition. to sum up, sir perceval may be looked upon as the work of a folk-singer who fitted into the old breton framework a series of adventures taken partly from chrestien, partly from the same breton traditions which were chrestien's main source, and with remarkable skill avoided all such incidents as would not have accorded with the limits he had imposed upon himself. against this view of steinbach's it might be urged that a writer as skilful as the author of sir perceval is assumed to be could easily have worked chrestien's grail episode into his traditional framework. a more plausible explanation, assuming the theory to be in the main correct, might be found in the great popularity in this country of the galahad form of the quest, and the consequent unwillingness on the author's part to bring in what may have seemed to him like a rival version. steinbach has not noticed one curious bit of testimony to the poem's being an abridgment of an older work, more archaic in some respects than chrestien. when the hero has slain the red knight he knows not how to rid him of his armour, but he bethinks him-- ... "my moder bad me whenne my dart solde brokene be, owte of the irene brenne the tree, now es me fyre gnede" ( - ). now the mother's counsel, given in verses xxv-vi are solely that he should be "of mesure," and be courteous to knights; nothing is said about burning the tree out of the iron, nor does any such counsel figure either in chrestien or in the mabinogi, which in this passage has copied, with misunderstandings, the french poet.[ ] the use of chrestien by the author of sir perceval seems, however, uncontestable; and, such being the case, steinbach's views meet the difficulties of the case fairly well. it will be shown farther on, however, that several of the points in which the german critic detects a post-chrestien development, are, on the contrary, remains of as old and popular a form of the story as we can work back to. accepting, then, the hypothesis that sir perceval, like the mabinogi, has been influenced by chrestien, what is the apparent conclusion to be drawn from the fact that the former omits the grail episode altogether, whilst the latter joins chrestien's version to its own, presumably older one, so clumsily as to betray the join at once? may it not be urged that chrestien's account is obviously at variance with the older story as he found it? may not the fact be accounted for by the introduction of a strange element into the thread of the romance? this element would, according to birch-hirschfeld, be the christian holy-vessel legend, and it would thus appear that the grail is really foreign to the celtic tradition. let me recapitulate briefly the reasons already urged against such a view. the early history of the grail, that part in which the christian element prevails, must certainly be regarded as later than the quest, to which it could not have given rise without assuming such a development of the romance as is well nigh incredible--the quest versions, moreover, all hang together in certain respects, and point unmistakably to celtic traditions as their source. these traditions must then be examined further to see if they contain such traces of the mystic vessel as are wanting in the mabinogi and the english poem, and as may have given rise to the episode as found in the french romances. as perceval is the oldest hero of the quest, and as the boyhood of perceval, forming an integral part of all the oldest quest versions presents the strongest analogies with the folk-tale of the great fool, it is this tale which must now be examined. chapter vi. the lay of the great fool--summary of the prose opening--the aryan expulsion and return formula--comparison with the mabinogi, sir perceval, and the conte du graal--originality of the highland tale--comparison with the fionn legend--summary of the lay of the great fool--comparison with the stag hunt incident in the conte du graal and the mabinogi--the folk-tale of the twin brethren--the fight against the witch who brings the dead to life in gerbert and the similar incident in the folk-tale of the knight of the red shield--comparison with the original form of the mabinogi--originality of gerbert. one of the most popular of the poetic narratives in the old heroic quatrain measure still surviving in the highlands is the "lay of the great fool" (laoidh an amadain mhoir), concerning which, according to campbell, vol. iii., p. , the following saying is current:--"each poem to the poem of the red; each lay to the lay of the great fool; each history to the history of connal" (is to be referred as a standard). this lay, as will be shown presently, offers some remarkable similarities with the central grail episode of the quest romances, but before it is investigated a prose opening often found with it must be noticed. this prose opening may be summarised thus from campbell, vol. iii., pp. , _et seq._ there were once two brothers, the one king over erin, the other a mere knight. the latter had sons, the former none. strife broke out between the two brothers, and the knight and his sons were slain. word was sent to the wife, then pregnant, that if she bore a son it must be put to death. it was a lad she had, and she sent him into the wilderness in charge of a kitchen wench who had a love son. the two boys grew up together, the knight's son strong and wilful. one day they saw three deer coming towards them; the knight's son asked what creatures were these--creatures on which were meat and clothing 'twas answered--it were the better he would catch them, and he did so, and his foster-mother made him a dress of the deer's hide. afterwards he slew his foster-brother for laughing at him, caught a wild horse, and came to his father's brother's palace. he had never been called other than "great fool," and when asked his name by his cousin, playing shinty, answered, "great fool." his cousin mocked at him, and was forthwith slain. on going into the king's (his uncle's) presence, he answered in the same way. his uncle recognised him, and reproaching himself for his folly in not having slain the mother with the father, went with him, as did all the people. in my article on the aryan expulsion and return formula among the celts ("folk-lore record," vol. iv.), i have shown that this tale is widely distributed in the celtic heldensage as well as in the celtic folk-tale. before noticing the variants, a word of explanation may be necessary. the term, arische aussetzungs-und rückkehr-formel, was first employed by j. g. v. hahn in his sagwissenschaftliche studien (jena, ), to describe a tale which figured in the heroic literature of every aryan race known to him. he examined fourteen stories, seven belonging to the hellenic mythology, perseus, herakles, oedipus, amphion and zethos, pelias and neleus, leukastos and parrhasius, theseus; one to roman mythic history, romulus and remus; two to the teutonic heldensage, wittich-siegfried, wolfdietrich; two to iranian mythic history, cyrus, key chosrew; two to the hindu mythology, karna, krishna. i was able to recover from celtic literature eight well-defined variants, belonging to the fenian and ultonian cycles of irish heldensage (heroes, fionn and cu-chulaind); to irish mythic history, labraidh maen; to the folk-tale still living in the highlands, conall and the great fool; to the kymric heldensage, peredur-perceval, arthur, and taliesin. an examination of all these tales resulted in the establishing of the following standard formula, to the entirety of which it will of course be understood none of the tales answer:-- i. hero born-- (_a_) out of wedlock. (_b_) posthumously. (_c_) supernaturally. (_d_) one of twins. ii. mother, princess residing in her own country. iii. father-- (_a_) god } (_b_) hero } from afar. iv. tokens and warning of hero's future greatness. v. he is in consequence driven forth from home. vi. is suckled by wild beasts. vii. is brought up by a (childless couple), or shepherd, or widow. viii. is of passionate and violent disposition. ix. seeks service in foreign lands. ixa. attacks and slays monsters. ixb. acquires supernatural knowledge through eating a fish, or other magic animal. x. returns to his own country, retreats, and again returns. xi. overcomes his enemies, frees his mother, seats himself on the throne. i must refer to my article for a full discussion of the various celtic forms of this widely-spread tale, and for a tabular comparison with the remaining indo-european forms analysed by j. g. von hahn. suffice to say here that the fullest celtic presentment of the _motif_ is to be found in the ossianic heldensage, the expelled prince being no other than fionn himself. the celtic form most closely related to it is that of the great fool summarised above, the relationship of peredur-perceval with which is evident. in both, the father being slain, the mother withdraws or sends her son into the wilderness; in both he grows up strong, hardy, ignorant of the world. almost the same instances of his surpassing strength and swiftness are given; in the mabinogi by celerity and swiftness of foot he drives the goats and hinds into the goat-house; in the highland folk-tale he catches the wild deer, and seeing a horse, and learning it is a beast upon which sport is done, stretches out after it, catches and mounts it; in sir perceval he sees-- ... a fulle faire stode offe coltes and meres gude, bot never one was tame (v. xxi.). and "smertly overrynnes" one.--the great fool then comes to his uncle, in whom he finds the man who has killed his father. sir perceval likewise comes to his uncle, and gets knowledge from him of his father's slayer; in chrestien and the mabinogi no relationship is stated to exist between arthur and the hero. the manner of the coming deserves notice. in the conte du graal, entering the hall the hero salutes the king twice, receives no answer, and, turning round his horse in dudgeon, knocks off the king's cap. in the english poem-- at his first in comynge, his mere withowtenne faylynge, kiste the forehevede of the kynge, so nerehande he rade (v. xxxi.). he then demands knighthood or-- bot (unless) the kyng make me knyghte, i shall him here slaa (v. xxxiii.). in the great fool the horse incident is wanting, but the hero's address to his uncle is equally curt: "i am the great fool ... and if need were it is that i could make a fool of thee also." the incident then follows of the insult offered to arthur by the red knight. here, be it noted, the mabinogi version is much the ruder of the three, "the knight dashed the liquor that was in the goblet upon her (gwenhwyvar's) face, and upon her stomacher, and gave her a violent blow in the face, and said," &c.; in chrestien the incident is not directly presented, but related at second-hand, and merely that the discourteous knight took away the goblet so suddenly that he spilt somewhat of its contents upon the queen, and that she was so filled with grief and anger that well nigh she had not escaped alive; in sir perceval the knight takes up the cup and carries it off. now it is a _lieu commun_ of celtic folk-tales that as a king is sitting at meat, an enemy comes in mounted, and offers him an insult, the avenging of which forms the staple of the tale. a good instance may be found in campbell's lii., "the knight of the red shield." as the king is with his people and his warriors and his nobles and his great gentles, one of them says, "who now in the four brown quarters of the universe would have the heart to put an affront on the king?"--then comes the rider on a black filly, and, "before there was any more talk between them, he put over the fist and he struck the king between the mouth and the nose." it is noteworthy that this tale shows further likeness to the mabinogi-great fool series, generally, in so far as it is the despised youngest who out of the three warriors that set off to avenge the insult succeeds, even as it is the despised peredur who slays the red knight, and specially in what may be called the prophecy incident. with the exception of the opening incidents, this is the one by which the "formula" nature of the perceval _sage_ is most clearly shown. in the mabinogi it is placed immediately after the hero's first encounter with the sorceresses of gloucester: "by destiny and foreknowledge knew i that i should suffer harm of thee," says the worsted witch. the conte du graal has only a trace of it in the fisher king's words as he hands the magic sword to perceval-- ... biaus frère, ceste espée vous fu jugie et destinée ( - ), whilst in sir perceval a very archaic turn is given to the incident by arthur's words concerning his unknown nephew-- the bokes say that he mone venge his fader bane (v. xxxvi.). this comparison is instructive as showing how impossible it is that chrestien's poem can be the only source of the mabinogi and sir perceval. it cannot be maintained that the meagre hint of the french poet is the sole origin of the incident as found in the welsh and english versions, whilst a glance at my tabulation of the various forms of the aryan expulsion and return formula ("folk-lore record," vol. iv.) shows that the foretelling of the hero's greatness is an important feature in eight of the celtic and five of the non-celtic versions, _i.e._, in more than one-third of all the stories built up on the lines of the formula. it is evident that here at least mabinogi and sir perceval have preserved a trait almost effaced in the romance. in the above-mentioned highland tale the incident is as follows: the hero finds "a treasure of a woman sitting on a hill, and a great youth with his head on her knee asleep"; he tries to wake the sleeper, even cuts off his finger, but in vain, until he learns how it was in the prophecies that none should rouse the sleeping youth save the knight of the red shield, and he, coming to the island, should do it by striking a crag of stone upon his breast. this tale, as already remarked, shows affinity to the perceval saga in two incidents, and is also, as i have pointed out ("folk-lore record," vol. v., mabinogion studies), closely allied to a cycle of german hero and folk-tales, of which siegfried is the hero. now siegfried is in german that which fionn is in celtic folk-lore, the hero whose story is modelled most closely upon the lines of the expulsion and return formula. we thus find not only, as might be expected, affinity between the german and celtic hero-tales which embody the formula, but the derived or allied groups of folk-tales present likewise frequent and striking similarities.[ ] another highland tale (campbell, lviii., the rider of grianaig) furnishes a fresh example of this fact. here, also, the deeds to be done of the hero were prophesied of him. but these deeds he would never accomplish, save he were incited thereto and aided therein by a raven, who in the end comes out as a be-spelled youth, and a steed, a maiden under spells, and the spells will not go off till her head be off. even so peredur is urged on and helped by the bewitched youth. in other respects, there is no likeness of plan and little of detail[ ] to the mabinogi, certainly no trace of direct influence of the welsh story upon the highland one. it may, however, be asserted that all of these tales are derived more or less directly from the french romance. this has been confidently stated of the breton ballad cycle of morvan le breiz (barzaz breiz) and of the breton märchen, peronik l'idiot (souvestre, foyer breton), and i have preferred making no use of either. in the matter of the scotch and irish tales a stand must be made. the romance, it is said, may have filtered down into the celtic population, through the medium of adaptations such as the mabinogi or sir perceval. granted, for argument sake, that these two works are mere adaptations, it must yet follow that the stories derived from them will be more or less on the same lines as themselves. is this so? can it be reasonably argued that the folk-tale of the great fool is a weakened copy of certain features of the mabinogi, which itself is a weakened copy of certain features of the french poem? is it not the fact that the folk-tale omits much that is in the mabinogi, and on the other hand preserves details which are wanting not alone in the welsh tale but in chrestien. if other proof of the independent nature of these tales were needed it would be supplied by the close similarity existing between the great fool opening and the fionn legend. this is extant in several forms, one of which, still told in the highlands (campbell's lxxxii.), tells how cumhall's son is reared in the wilderness, how he drowns the youth of a neighbouring hamlet, how he slays his father's slayer, and wins the magic trout the taste of which gives knowledge of past and to come, how he gets back his father's sword and regains his father's lands, all as had been prophesied of him. another descendant of the french romance it will be said. but a very similar tale is found in a fifteenth century irish ms. (the boyish exploits of finn mac cumhall, translated by dr. j. o'donovan in the transactions of the ossianic society, vol. iv.); cumhall, slain by goll, leaves his wife big with a son, who when born is reared by two druidesses. he grows up fierce and stalwart, overcomes all his age-mates, overtakes wild deer he running, slays a boar, and catches the magic salmon of knowledge. an eighteenth century version given by kennedy ("legendary fictions," p. ) makes cumhall offer violence to muirrean, daughter of the druid tadg, and his death to be chiefly due to the magic arts of the incensed father. it will hardly be contended that these stories owe their origin to adaptations of chrestien's poem. but in any case no such contention could apply to the oldest presentment of fionn as a formula hero, that found in the great irish vellum, the leabhar na h'uidhre, written down from older materials at the beginning of the twelfth century. the tract entitled "the cause of the battle of cnucha" has been translated by mr. henessey ("revue celtique," vol. ii., pp. , _et seq._). in it we find cumhall and tadhg, the violence done to the latter's daughter, the consequent defeat and death of cumhall, the lonely rearing of fionn by his mother, and the youth's avenging of his father. i must refer to my paper in the "folk-lore record" for a detailed argument in favour of the l.n.h. account being an euhemerised version of the popular tradition, represented by the boyish exploits, and for a comparison of the fionn _sage_ as a whole with the greek, iranian, latin, and germanic hero tales, which like it are modelled upon the lines of the expulsion and return formula. i have said enough, i trust, to show that the fionn _sage_ is a variant (a far richer one) of the theme treated in the boyhood of perceval, but that it, and _a fortiori_ the allied folk-tales are quite independent of the french poem. it then follows that this portion of chrestien's poem must itself be looked upon as one of many treatments of a theme even more popular among the celts than among any other aryan race, and that its ultimate source is a breton or welsh folk-tale. the genuine and independent nature of the great fool prose opening being thus established, it is in the highest degree suggestive to find in the accompanying lay points of contact with the grail legend as given in chrestien. three versions of this lay have been printed in english, that edited by mr. john o'daly (transactions of the ossianic society, vol. vi., pp. , _et seq._); mr. campbell's (west highland tales, vol. iii. pp. , _et seq._) and mr. kennedy's prose version (bardic stories of ireland, pp. , _et seq._). o'daly's, as the most complete and coherent, forms the staple of the following summary, passages found in it alone being italicised.[ ] _summary of the lay of the great fool._--( ) there was a great fool who subdued the world by strength of body; ( ) _he comes to the king of lochlin to win a fair woman, learns she is guarded by seven score heroes, overthrows them, and carries her off_; (c. and k. plunging at once _in medias res_, introduce the great fool and his lady love out walking); ( ) the two enter a valley, are meet by a "gruagach" (champion, sorcerer), in his hand a goblet with drink; ( ) the great fool thirsts, and though warned by his lady love drinks deep of the proffered cup; the "gruagach" departs and the great fool finds himself minus his two legs; ( ) the two go onward, and ("swifter was he at his two knees than six at their swiftness of foot;" c.) a deer nears them followed by a white hound, the great fool slays the deer and seizes the hound; ( ) whose owner coming up claims but finally yields it, and offers the great fool food and drink during life; ( ) the three fare together (the glen they had passed through had ever been full of glamour) till they come to a fair city filled with the glitter of gold, dwelt in solely by the owner of the white hound and his wife, "whiter than very snow her form, gentle her eye, and her teeth like a flower"; ( ) she asks concerning her husband's guests, and, learning the great fool's prowess, marvels he should have let himself be deprived of his legs; ( ) the host departs, leaving his house, wife, and store of gold in the great fool's keeping, he is to let no man in, no one out should any come in, nor is he to sleep; ( ) spite his lady love's urgings the great fool yields to slumber, when in comes a young champion and snatches a kiss from the host's wife, ("she was not ill pleased that he came," c.); ( ) the great fool's love awakening him reproaches him for having slept--he arises to guard the door, in vain does the intruder offer gold, three cauldrons full and seven hundred townlands, he shall not get out; ( ) _at the instigation of the host's wife_ the intruder restores the great fool's legs, but not then even will the hero let him go--pay for the kiss he must when the host returns; threats to deprive him of his legs are in vain, as are likewise the entreaties of the host's wife (all this is developed with great prolixity in o'daly, but there is nothing substantial added to the account in c.); ( ) finally the intruder discloses that he himself is the host, and he was the gruagach, whose magic cup deprived the great fool of his legs, and he is, "_his own gentle brother long in search of him, now that he has found him he is released from sorcery_." the two kiss (c. and k. end here). ( ) the two brothers fare forth, encounter a giant with an eye larger than a moon and an iron club, wherewith he hits the great fool a crack that brings him to his knees, but the latter arising closes with the giant, kills him and takes his club, the two then attack four other giants, three of whom the great fool slays with his club, and the fourth yields to him. the brothers take possession of the giant's castle and all its wealth. there are obvious similarities between the lay and the story found in the mabinogi and the conte du graal. a stag hunt is prominent in both, and whilst engaged in it the hero falls under "illusion," in both too the incident of the seizure of the hound appears, though in a different connection. finally in the lay, as in the mabinogi, the mover in the enchantment is a kinsman whose own release from spells depends upon the hero's coming successfully out of the trials to which he exposes him. but while the general idea is the same, the way in which it is worked out is so different that it is impossible to conceive of the one story having been borrowed from the other. what can safely be claimed is that the great fool, counterpart of peredur-perceval in the adventures of his youth and up-bringing, is also, to a certain extent, his counterpart in the most prominent of his later adventures, that of the stag hunt. it is thus fairly certain that all this part of the conte du graal is, like the _enfances_, a working up of celtic folk-tales. the giant fight which concludes the lay may be compared with that in sir perceval and in morvan le breiz, and such a comparison makes it extremely likely that the incident thus preserved by independent and widely differing offshoots from the same folk-tale stem, belongs to the oldest form of the story. the analogies of the lay with the perceval _sage_ are not yet exhausted. in virtue of the relationship between the two chief characters, the lay belongs to the "twin-brother cycle." this group of folk-tales, some account of which is given below,[ ] is closely related on the one hand to the "dragon slayer" group of _märchen_, on the other hand to the expulsion and return formula tales. in many versions of the latter (the most famous being that of romulus and remus) the hero is one of twins, and, after sharing for a while with his brother, strife breaks out between them. in the folk-tale this strife leads to final reconciliation, or is indeed a means of unravelling the plot. in the hero-tale on the other hand the strife mostly ends with the death or defeat of the one brother. it would seem that when the folk-tale got associated with a definite hero (generally the founder and patron of a race) and became in brief a hero-tale, the necessity of exalting the race hero brought about a modification of the plot. if this is so the folk-tale group of the "two brothers" must be looked upon as older than the corresponding portion of the expulsion and return hero-tales, and not as a mere weakened echo of the latter. to return to the twin-brother features. the peredur-perceval _sage_ has a twin-sister, and is parallel herein to the fionn _sage_ in one of its forms ("how the een was set up"), though curiously enough not to the great fool folk-tale (otherwise so similar to "how the een was set up"), which, as in the lay, has a brother. but beyond this formal recognition of the incident in the perceval _sage_, i am inclined to look upon the perceval-gawain dualism as another form of it. this dualism has been somewhat obscured by the literary form in which the _sage_ has been preserved and the tendency to exalt and idealise _one_ hero. in the present case this tendency has not developed so far as to seriously diminish the importance of gawain; _his_ adventures are, however, left in a much more primitive and _märchenhaft_ shape, and hence, as will be shown later on, are extremely valuable in any attempt to reach the early form of the story.[ ] if simrock's words quoted on the title page were indeed conclusive--"if that race among whom the 'great fool' folk-tale was found independent of the grail story had the best claim to be regarded as having wrought into one these two elements"--then my task might be considered at an end. i have shown that this race was that of the celtic dwellers in these islands, among whom this tale is found not only in a fuller and more significant form than elsewhere, but in a form that connects it with the french grail romance. but the conclusion that the conte du graal is in the main a working up of celtic popular traditions, which had clustered round a hero, whose fortunes bore, in part, a striking resemblance to those of fionn, the typical representative of the expulsion and return formula cycle among the celts, though hardly to be gainsaid, does not seem to help much towards settling the question of the origin of the grail itself. the story would appear to be celtic except just the central incident upon which the whole turns. for the english sir perceval, which undoubtedly follows older models, breathes no word of search for any magic talisman, let alone the grail, whilst the mabinogi, which is also older in parts than the conte du graal, gives a different turn to and assigns a different _motif_ for the hero's conduct. the avenging of a kinsman's harm upon certain supernatural beings, and the consequent release from enchantment of another kinsman, supply the elements of a clear and consistent action to which parallels may easily be adduced from folk-tales, but one quite distinct from the release of a kinsman through the medium of certain talismans and certain magic formulæ. numerous as have been the points of contact hitherto established between celtic folk belief and the french romance, the parallel would seem to break down at its most essential point, and the contention that the grail is a foreign element in the celtic legend would still seem to be justified. before, however, this can be asserted, what i have called the central episode of the romance requires more searching and detailed examination than it has had, and some accessory features, which, on the hypothesis of the christian legendary origin of the grail, remain impenetrable puzzles must be commented upon. and another instructive point of contact between romance and folk-tale must be previously noticed, connected as it is with stories already dealt with in this chapter. in the latest portion of the conte du graal, the interpolation of gerbert, the following incident occurs:--the hero meets four knights carrying their wounded father, who turns out to be gonemans, the same who armed him knight. he vows vengeance upon gonemans' enemies, but his efforts are at first of no avail. as fast as in the daytime he slays them, at night they are brought back to life by "une vieille" who is thus described:-- la poitrine ot agüe et sèche; ele arsist ausi come une esche si on boutast en li le fu.[ ] * * * * la bouche avoit grant à merveilles et fendue dusqu'as oreilles, qu'ele avoit longues et tendans; lons et lez et gausnes les dans avoit. (potvin vi., , .) she carries with her ii. barisiax d'ivoire gent; containing a "poison," the same whereof christ made use in the sepulchre, and which serves here to bring the dead back to life and to rejoin heads cut off from bodies. she goes to work thus:-- a la teste maintenant prise, si l'a desor le bu assise; then taking the balm puis en froie celui la bouche À cui la teste avoit rajointe; sor celui n'ot vaine ne jointe qui lues ne fust de vie plaine. perceval stops her when she has brought back three of her men to life; she recognises in him her conqueror: bien vous connois et bien savoie que de nului garde n'avoie fors que de vous; car, par mon chief nus n'en péust venir à chief se vous non ... so long as she lives, perceval shall be powerless to achieve his quest. she wars against gonemant by order of the king of the waste city, who ever strives against all who uphold the christian faith, and whose chief aim it is to hinder perceval from attaining knowledge of the grail. perceval gets possession of somewhat of the wonder-working balm, brings to life the most valiant of his adversaries, slays him afresh after a hard struggle, in which he himself is wounded, heals his own hurt, and likewise gonemant's, with the balsam. compare now campbell's above-cited tale, the knight of the red shield. the hero, left alone upon the island by his two treacherous companions, sees coming towards him "three youths, heavily, wearily, tired." they are his foster-brothers, and from the end of a day and a year they hold battle against the son of darkness, son of dimness, and a hundred of his people, and every one they kill to-day will be alive to-morrow, and spells are upon them they may not leave this (island) for ever until they kill them. the hero starts out on the morrow alone against these enemies, and he did not leave a head on a trunk of theirs, and he overcame the son of darkness himself. but he is so spoilt and torn he cannot leave the battle-field, and he lays himself down amongst the dead the length of the day. "there was a great strand under him below; and what should he hear but the sea coming as a blazing brand of fire, as a destroying serpent, as a bellowing bull; he looked from him, and what saw he coming on the shore of the strand, but a great toothy carlin ... there was the tooth that was longer than a staff in her fist, and the one that was shorter than a stocking wire in her lap." she puts her finger in the mouth of the dead, and brings them alive. she does this to the hero, and he bites off the finger at the joint, and then slays her. she is the mother of the son of darkness, and she has a vessel of balsam wherewith the hero's foster-brothers anoint and make him whole, and her death frees them from her spells for ever.[ ] this "toothy carlin" is a favourite figure in celtic tradition. she re-appears in the ballad of the muilearteach (probably muir iarteach, _i.e._, western sea), campbell, iii., pp. , _et seq._, and is there described as "the bald russet one," "her face blue black, of the lustre of coal, her bone tufted tooth like rusted bone, one deep pool-like eye in her head, gnarled brushwood on her head like the clawed-up wood of the aspen root." in another version of the ballad, printed in the scottish celtic review, no. , pp. , _et seq._, the monster is "bald red, white maned, her face dark grey, of the hue of coal, the teeth of her jaw slanting red, one flabby eye in her head, her head bristled dark and grey, like scrubwood before hoar."[ ] the editor of this version, the rev. j. g. campbell, interprets the ballad, and correctly, no doubt, "as an inroad of the personified sea." there is no connection, save in the personage of the "toothy carlin," between the ballad and the folk-tale.[ ] it is impossible, i think, to compare gerbert's description of the witch with that of the highland "carlin" without coming to the conclusion that the french poet drew from traditional, popular celtic sources. the wild fantasy of the whole is foreign in the extreme to the french temperament, and is essentially celtic in tone. but the incident, as well as one particular feature of it, admits of comparison: the three foster-brothers of the highland tale correspond to the four sons of gonemant, who be it recollected, represents in the conte du graal, peredur-perceval's uncle in the mabinogi; in both, the hero goes forth alone to do battle with the mysterious enemy; the son of darkness answers to the king of the waste city; the dead men are brought back to life in the same way; the release of the kinsman, from spells, or from danger of death, follows upon the witch's discomfiture. and yet greater value attaches to the incident as connected with the mabinogi form of the story; in gerbert, as in the mabinogi, the hero's uncle is sick to death, his chief enemy is a monstrous witch (or witches), who foreknows that she must succumb at the hero's hands.[ ] something has obviously dropped out from the mabinogi. may it not be those very magic talismans, the winning of which is the chief element of the french romances, and may not one of the talismans have been the vessel of life-restoring balsam which figures in gerbert and the highland tales?[ ] the study of subsidiary versions and incidents may thus throw upon the connection of the grail with the perceval romance a light which the main celtic forms of the latter have not hitherto yielded. the thornton ms. sir perceval differs in this incident from both manessier and gerbert. as in gerbert and the highland tale the hero meets his uncle and cousins; there is the same fight with the mother of the enemy of his kin, the hideous carlin, but it precedes, as does also the slaying of that enemy, the meeting of uncle and nephews. there is thus no room for the healing _motif_ for which the unconscious avenging of the father's death is substituted. these differences bear witness both to the popular and shifting nature of the traditions upon which the romances are based, and to the fact that the avenging of a blood feud was the leading incident of its earliest form. chapter vii. the various forms of the visit to the grail castle in the romances--conte du graal: chrestien; gautier-manessier; gautier-gerbert--didot-perceval--mabinogi--conte du graal: gawain's visit to the grail castle--heinrich von dem türlin--conte du graal: perceval's visit to the castle of maidens--inconsistency of these varying accounts; their testimony to stories of different nature and origin being embodied in the romances--two main types: feud quest and unspelling quest--reasons for the confusion of the two types--evidence of the confusion in older celtic literature--the grail in celtic literature: the gear of the tuatha de danann; the cauldron in the ultonian cycle; the mabinogi of branwen; vessel of balsam and glaive of light in the contemporary folk-tale--the sword in celtic literature: tethra; fionn; manus--parallels to the bespelled castle; the brug of oengus, the brug of lug, the brug of manannan mac lir, bran's visit to the island of women, cormac mac art, and the fairy branch; diarmaid and the daughter of king under the waves--unspelling stories: the three soldiers; the waiting of arthur; arthur in etna; the kyffhäuser legend, objections to martin's views concerning it--gawain's visit to the magic castle and celtic parallels; the son of bad counsel; fionn in giant land; fionn in the house of cuana; fionn and the yellow face--the vanishing of the bespelled castle--comparison with the sleeping beauty cycle--the "haunted castle" form and its influence on heinrich's version--the loathly grail messenger. the analysis of the various versions has shown that the conte du graal is the oldest portion of the vast body of french romance which deals with the grail, and that it presents the earliest form of the story. the examination of the theories put forward to explain the genesis and growth of the legend has shown how untenable is that hypothesis which makes the christian legend the starting point of the cycle. the comparison of the conte du graal with celtic legends and folk-tales has shown that the former is in the main a north french retelling of tales current then, as now, among the celtic peoples of britain, and probably of brittany. one thing alone remains unexplained, the mysterious grail itself. nor has any light been thrown from celtic sources upon the incident of the hero's visit to the castle of talismans, his silence, and the ensuing misfortune which overtakes him. where this incident does appear in a celtic version, the mabinogi, it is not brought in connection with the grail, and it bears obvious traces of interpolation. the utmost we have been able to do is to reconstruct from scattered indications in different celtic tales a sequence of incidents similar to that of the french romance. let us, then, return to what may be called the central incident of the grail legend in its older and purer form. and let us recall the fact that the hypothesis which finds a christian origin for the whole legend has no explanation to offer of this incident. birch-hirschfeld can merely suggest that perceval's question upon which all hinges is "eine harmlose erfindung borron's," a meaningless invention of borron's. it is, indeed, his failure to account for such an essential element of the story that forms one of the strongest arguments against his hypothesis. in the first place it must be noticed that the incident of a hero's visit to a magic castle, of his omission whilst there to do certain things, and of the loss or suffering thereby caused, occurs not once, but many times; not in one, but in many forms in the vast body of grail romance, as is seen by the following list, which likewise comprises all the occasions on which one or other of the questers has come near to or succeeded in seeing the grail:-- ( ) chrestien: (inc. ). perceval's first visit to the grail castle. question omitted. ( ) gautier: (inc. ). perceval's second visit to the grail castle. question put-- _incident breaks off in middle, and is continued in one version by_:-- ( a) manessier, who sends off the hero on a fresh quest, which is finished in ( ) manessier: (inc. ). perceval's third visit to grail castle. the question is not mentioned. hero's final success. _in another version by_:-- ( ) gerbert: (inc. - ). perceval is sent forth anew upon quest. he has half put the question and been partially successful. ( ) gerbert: (inc. ). perceval's third visit to grail castle. question not mentioned. hero's success. _besides these forms of the episode in the conte du graal of which perceval is the hero, we have_:-- ( ) gautier: (inc. ). gauvain's first visit according to one, second visit according to another version. question half put, partial success. _and finally a somewhat similar incident of which perceval is the hero in_:-- ( ) gautier: (inc. ). visit to the castle of maidens. untimely sleep of hero. so far the conte du graal. of the versions closely connected with it we have: ( & ) wolfram von eschenbach: two visits of perceval to grail castle. question omitted at first, put in second, and crowned with success. ( & ) mabinogi of peredur: (inc. - ). two visits of hero to grail castle. question omitted at first. second visit successful. no mention of question. ( & ) didot-perceval: (inc. - ). two visits of perceval to grail castle. question omitted at first, put at second, and crowned with success. in a german romance, which presents many analogies with that portion of the conte du graal which goes under gautier's name: ( ) heinrich von dem tÜrlin: gawain's first visit to grail castle. question put. success. allusion to previous unsuccessful visit of perceval. finally in the queste versions we have four variants of the incident-- ( ) queste: (inc. ). lancelot at the cross-road, omission to ask concerning the grail. ( ) queste: (inc. ). perceval heals mordrains. " (inc. ). lancelot comes to grail castle. partial fulfilment of his quest. " (inc. ). the three questers come to the grail castle. on looking at the list we notice that the conte du graal knows of three visits on the part of the principal hero to the castle of talismans: , , , or , - , , and of one visit (or two) of the secondary hero; whilst wolfram, the mabinogi, and the didot-perceval know of two only. heinrich von dem türlin gives only one visit to _his_ chief hero, though he mentions a former one by the secondary hero. in wolfram, and the didot-perceval, the incident may be compared in the conte du graal with and ; in the mabinogi with and ; in heinrich with . the queste forms of the incident are obviously dependent upon those of the conte du graal, although they have been strongly modified. as for , it would seem to be a form of the incident which has been entirely unaffected by the christian symbolism which has influenced all the others. it will be advisable to recapitulate the leading features of the incident as found in the different versions. where the summaries in chapter ii afford detailed information about it, the recapitulation will be brief, but it will be necessary to give at least one version at much greater length than heretofore. in the conte du graal ( ) the hero finds a king fishing, who directs him to his castle. just as he deems the fisher has deceived him the castle bursts upon his sight. he enters, is led into a square room wherein is a bed sitting on which is an old man wrapped in sables; before him is a great fire of dry wood; men might sit in the hall. the king rises to greet him; as they sit, a squire enters with a sword which had but two fellows, sent by the king's niece for the hero to whom it was destined. the hall is light as it may be. a squire enters holding a lance by the middle; all can behold the drop of blood which flows from the point upon the holder's hand. there follow him two squires with candlesticks, each with ten candles, in either hand; a damsel holding a grail, which gives out a light as greater than that of the candles as the sun outshines the stars; and another damsel with a plate of fine gold. the procession passes from one into the other room. the hero refrains from asking who is served by the grail. after playing at chess with the king they dine, and again the grail passes, uncovered, at each dish. the hero would fain ask what was done with it, and is about to do so, but puts off the question. on the morrow he sees no one in the castle, the doors of the rooms he had been in the eve before are shut, no one answers; and, mounting his horse, which he finds ready saddled, he sets forth over the drawbridge, which closes of itself behind him, without learning why lance bleeds or whither the grail is borne. ( ) at the second visit the hero comes into a magnificent room, ornamented with fine gold and stars of silver, wherein on a vermeil couch the rich king is sitting. the hero is fain forthwith to ask about grail and bleeding lance, but must sit him down by the rich king and tell of his adventures, about the chapel in which lay the dead knight, and the black hand, the child in the tree and the tree full of candles. the king makes him eat before answering his questions. whilst at meat a damsel, fairer than flowers in april, enters with the holy grail, another with the lance, a squire with the broken sword. the hero asks about these talismans. but first the king answers the questions about the earlier wonders; the talismans he will tell of after meat. the hero insists to know about the sword. the king bids him put it together--can he do so he will learn about the knight in the chapel, and after that about the talismans. save for one flaw the hero succeeds, whereupon the king says he knows no one in the world better than he, embraces him, and yields him up all in his house. the squire who brought the sword returns, wraps it in a cendal, and carries it off. a. the king bids the hero eat. . the hero would hold it sin if lance and grail, and a fair silver he did not ask concerning the dish pass before them, the latter grail. the king first submits him held by a damsel. the hero sighs to the sword test.[ ] the and begs to learn about these existence of the flaw is three. he is told about lance, apparently held to constitute grail, grail-bearing damsel, failure, due to the hero's sin in dish-bearing damsel, and in quitting his mother so abruptly. answer to further questions, in the night the hero has a learns the history of the broken vision, which warns him to hasten sword, and of the chapel haunted to his sister's aid. on the morrow by the black hand. after sleeping the grail castle has vanished. in a splendid bed[ ] he sets mounting his horse, which stands forth on the morrow on the sword ready saddled, he rides forth. quest (the slaying of partinal). after a vain essay to gain entrance to a magnificent castle, . having accomplished which, and in which he breaks his sword, and lighted chancewise upon the grail thereby loads upon himself seven castle, the king, apprised by a further years of adventure, but squire and forthwith healed, meets learns how the sword may be made the hero who shows him head and whole again, he finds the land shield. at table lance and grail which the day before was waste pass, borne by two maidens; fertile and peopled. the peasants delectable meats fill the dishes-- hail him: the townsmen come forth all are filled and satisfied who in his honour--for through him the behold the holy grail and the lance folk have won back lands and that bleeds. thereafter enters a riches. a damsel tells him how: at squire holding a silver dish the court of the fisher king he covered with red samite; the had asked about the grail. at her talismans pass thrice; the king castle he has his sword mended. thanks the hero for having slain (later the hero learns that his his enemy and thereby rid him of failure to win the grail comes great torment. asks his name, from his not having wedded his learns that he is his nephew, and lady-love). offers him his kingdom. . hero is directed by a cross to the court of the fisher king. the latter makes him sit by his side and tell his adventures, when he would fain learn about the grail. the same procession then passes as in ( ), save that sword instead of being broken is simply described as not resoldered. the hero says he has been twice before with the king, and reproaches him for not having answered his questions, although he had resoldered the sword to the king's great joy. the king then bids him shake the sword, which he does, and the flaw disappears. the king is overjoyed, and the hero is now worthy of knowing everything.[ ] in comparing with these versions of the incident that found in the didot-perceval, we find that the hero at his first visit is welcomed by the squires of the castle, clad in a scarlet cloak, and placed upon a rich bed, whilst four sergeants apprise brons of his arrival, and the latter is carried into the hall where sits the hero, who rises to greet him. brons questions him before they sit down to meat. the mystic procession is formed by squire with lance bleeding, damsel with silver dish, squire with the vessel holding our lord's blood. on the morrow the hero sees no one, and finds all the doors open. at his second visit there is no mention of difficulty in finding the castle. this time the king rises to greet him; they talk of many things and then sit down to meat. grail and worthy relics pass, and the hero asks who is served by the vessel which the squire holds in his hands. straightway the king is healed and changed; overjoyed he first asks the hero who he is, and, on learning it, tells him concerning lance and grail, and afterwards, at the bidding of a heavenly voice, the secret words which joseph taught him, brons. in the mabinogi the castle lies on the other side of a meadow. at his first visit the hero finds the gates open, and in the hall a hoary-headed man sits, around whom are pages who rise to receive the hero. host and guest discourse and eat, seated beside one another. the sword trial follows, and the hero is declared to have arrived at two-thirds of his strength. the two youths with the dripping spear enter, amid the lamentation of the company, are followed by the two maidens with the salver wherein is a man's head, and the outcry redoubles. on the morrow the hero rides forth unmolested. at the second visit the castle is described as being in a valley through which runs a river. the grey-headed man found sitting in the hall with gwalchmai is described as lame. so far we have recapitulated the leading features of perceval's dealings at the talismans castle in the conte du graal and in the most closely allied versions. but perceval, the chief hero, has, as we have already seen, an under-study in gauvain. and the gauvain form of the incident deserves as close examination as the perceval form. ( ) gauvain has met a knight, stranger to him, with whom he travels to caerleon. whilst in his company the stranger is slain by a dart cast by whom no one knows. before dying he bids gauvain take his arms and his horse; he knows not why he has been slain, he never harmed anyone. gauvain suspects and accuses kex, upon whom he vows to prove the murder, and sets forth to learn the unknown's name. after affronting the adventure of the black hand[ ] in the chapel and long wanderings, he finds himself one evening at the opening of a dark, tree-covered road at whose further end he spies a light. tired and fasting he lets his horse go at its will, and is led to a castle where he is received with great honour as though he were expected. but when he has changed his dress the castle folk see it is not he whom they thought. in the hall is a bier whereupon lie cross and sword and a dead knight. canons and priests raise a great lamentation over the body. a crowned knight enters and bids gauvain sit by his side. then the grail goes through the room, serving out meats in plenty, and acting the part of a steward, whereat gauvain is astounded. he next sees a lance which drips blood into a silver cup. from out the same room whence come the talismans, the king issues, a sword in his hand, the sword of the dead knight, over whom he laments--on his account the land languishes. he bids gauvain essay to make the sword whole, but gauvain cannot, and is told his quest may not be accomplished. after his toils and wanderings gauvain is sleepy, but he struggles against sleep, and asks about bleeding lance and sword and bier. whilst the king is answering him he goes to sleep. on awakening he is on the sea shore, arms and steed by his side.[ ] he then meets with the peasantry, and is told of the changed condition of the land in a passage already quoted (p. ). had he asked about the grail "por coi il servoit," the land had been wholly freed. heinrich von dem türlin's account of gauvain's visit to the grail castle differs, as will be seen by the summary, p. , which it is unnecessary to repeat, more from that of gautier than from the perceval visit of the conte de graal, with which it has the common feature, that the person benefitted by the transaction is the lord of the magic castle. as will already have been noticed it stands alone in the conception that the inmates of the castle are under the enchantment of death-in-life from which the question frees them. there still remains to be noticed ( ) the incident of perceval's visit to the castle of maidens, so closely analogous in certain details to the grail castle visit, and yet wholly disassociated from it in the conduct of the story. perceval, wandering, sees across a river in fair meadow land a rich castle built of marble, yellow and vermeil. crossing a bridge he enters, and the door at once closes behind him. no one is in the hall, in the centre of which is a table, and hanging to it by a steel chain a hammer. searching the castle he still finds no one, and no one answers to his call. at length he strikes upon the table three blows with the hammer. a maiden appears, reproaches him, and disappears. again he waits, and again he strikes three blows. a second damsel appears, and tells him if he strike afresh the tower will fall, and he be slain in its fall. but as he threatens to go on, the damsel offers to open the door and let him forth. he declares he will stay till morning, whereupon the damsel says she will call her mistress. the hero bids her haste as he is not minded to wait long, and warns her that he still holds the hammer. other damsels then show themselves, disarm and tend the hero, and lead him through a splendid hall into a still more splendid one, wherein a hundred fair and courteous maidens, all of like age and mien, and richly dressed, rise at his approach and hail him as lord. the hero deems himself in paradise, and "sooth 'tis to be in paradise to be with dames and maids; so sweet they are, the devil can make naught of them, and 'tis better to follow them than to hearken to sermons preached in church for money." the dame of the castle bids the hero sit him down by her. "white she is as a lily, rosier than on a may morn a fresh blown rose when the dew has washed it." she asks him his name, and on hearing how he had wandered lonely three days ere meeting with the castle, tells him he might have wandered seven ere finding where to partake of bread and meat. he is well feasted. in reply to his questions about the castle, and how is it no man may be seen in it, he learns he is in the maidens' castle, all the inmates of one kin and land, of gentle birth; no mason put his hand to the castle, no serf toiled at it. four maids built it, and in this wise: whatever knight passed, and entering, beheld the door closed, and no man meeting him--if craven he struck no blow with the hammer, and on the morrow he went forth unheeded; but if wise and courteous he struck the table, and was richly entertained. as the lady tells this tale the hero, overcome with much journeying, falls asleep and is laid to bed by the maidens. on the morrow he wakes beneath a leafy oak, and never a house in sight. it is surely superfluous to point out that the foregoing recapitulation of the various forms under which this incident has come down to us gives the last blow to the theory which makes christian symbolism the starting point, and the didot-perceval the purest representative of the legend. we should have to admit not only that the later romance writers entirely misunderstood the sense of their model, but that, whilst anxiously casting about in every direction for details with which to overlay it, they neglected one of its most fertile hints--that of the secret words handed down through joseph from christ himself to the successful grail quester. what a mine of adventures would not gautier, gerbert, and all the other unknown versifiers, who added each his quota to the conte, have found in those "secret words?" nay, more, we must admit that so much in love were they with this incident they misunderstood, that they repeated it in half-a-dozen varying forms, and finally eliminated from it every trace of its original element. there are theories which ask too much and which must be set on one side, even if one has nothing equally ingenious and symmetrical to set in their place. three things strike one in considering this incident apart from the other adventures with which it is associated; the want of consistency in those versions which, formally, are closely related, an inconsistency which we have already noted in dealing with the legend as a whole; the repetition of the same incident with almost similar details, but with a different animating conception; and the fact that some of the secondary forms testify to that same thread of story which we have already extracted from the comparison of the mabinogi and the conte du graal in their entirety. not only is the conception of the quest different in chrestien and manessier or chrestien-gerbert, but the details are different, the centre of interest being shifted from the omitted question to the broken sword. in manessier the _dénoûment_ is brought about without any reference to the question, in gerbert the reference is of the most perfunctory kind. again we find the same machinery of grail, lance, and other talismans, which in chrestien-manessier serves to bring about the hero's vengeance on his uncle's murderer, in chrestien-gerbert the re-union of the lovers and the winning of the grail kingship, used in the gawain quest with the evident object of compassing vengeance upon the slayer of the unknown knight. and, thirdly, this secondary form is in close agreement with the mabinogi--here, as there, the sword test takes place at the fisher king's; here, as there, it immediately precedes the passing of the talismans; here, as there, it is only partially successful; here, as there, is a tangible reminder of the object of the quest, in the dead body of the unknown knight in the one case, in the head swimming in blood in the other. and here we may note that of the two forms in which the _queste_ reproduces this incident, the one which holds the more prominent position in the narrative, the one of which lancelot is the hero, closely resembles that secondary form in the conte du graal which is connected with gawain. the wounded knight whom lancelot beholds at the crossways borne into the chapel upon a bier, and clamouring for the succour of the grail, recalls forcibly the dead knight of the gawain quest. it is, perhaps, still more significant that when the queste does reproduce the perceval form, it is only in its externals, and the mystic vessel, which in the older version is obviously a means of achieving the quest, has, in the later one, become the end of that quest. it seems impossible to resist the following conclusions:--the many forms of the incident found in the grail romances are not variants of one, and that an orderly and logical original; they testify to the fact that in the body of popular tradition which forms the basis of these romances the incident of the visit to a magic castle was a common one, that it entered into the thread of stories, somewhat similar in outline and frequently centered in the same hero, but differing essentially in conception, and that the forms in the romances which are most likely to keep close to the traditional model are those secondary ones with which the innovating spirit, whether due to the genius of the individual artist, or to intruding christian symbolism, has least concerned itself. there is apparently but one case in the conte du graal, that of perceval's visit to the castle of maidens, which has been modified by neither of these influences. to accept these conclusions is to clear the ground. if we rid our minds of the idea that there is _a grail legend_, a definite fixed sequence of incidents, we need not be discouraged if we fail to find a prototype for it in celtic tradition or elsewhere. we shall be prepared to examine every incident of which the grail is a feature upon its own merits, and satisfied if we can find analogies to this or that one. and by so doing we are more likely to discover the how and why of the development of the legends as we find them in the romances. leaving subsidiary details out of account, we may bring all the instances in which the grail appears under two formulas: that of the kinsman avenging a blood feud by the means of the three magic talismans, sword and lance and vessel; and that of the visit to the bespelled castle, the inmates of which enjoy, thanks to the magic vessel, a supernaturally prolonged life, from which they are released by the hero's question concerning that vessel. the one we may call the feud quest, the other the unspelling quest. the proto-mabinogi belonged, as we have already seen (_supra_, p. ), to the first class, and accordingly we find that all relating to the question is obviously interpolated from chrestien. chrestien's model belonged, in all probability if not wholly, chiefly to the first class, and accordingly we find that manessier, certainly more faithful than chrestien to that original, lays no stress upon the question. but in chrestien himself there is a mixture of the two formulas; the question and the food-producing qualities of the magic vessel have been incorporated in the feud formula. once started upon this track the legend continues to mingle the formulas. the mystic procession, which probably owes its form to chrestien, is repeated with monotonous sameness by his continuators; the machinery of the feud quest almost invariably doubles that of the visit to the bespelled castle, and _vice versâ_. thus heinrich von dem türlin, along with the most archaic presentment of the unspelling quest, has that procession of the talismans which properly belongs to the feud quest; and, to complete his conception, we must turn to incidents at present set in the framework of the other formula. for the effect upon the land produced by the hero's action at the castle of talismans is obviously analagous to, though of directly contrary nature to, that produced upon the inmates of the bespelled castle. they are dead though they seem quick, the land is full of life though it seems waste. the question which frees the one from the spell of life-in-death, frees the other from the spell of death-in-life.[ ] the didot-perceval has the complete conception. perceval's question not only releases brons, who may not die until then, but it also ends the enchantment of britain. the identity of hero in stories originally dissimilar was one reason for the confusion between the two formulas; the nature of the grail was another. its attributes were in all probability not very clearly defined in the immediate models of the french romance writers; these found it enveloped in mysterious haze, which simple story-tellers, such as gautier, did not try to clear up, and which gave free play to the mystic imaginings of those writers who used romance as a vehicle for edification. the one tangible thing about it in stories of the one class, its food producing-power, has left its trace upon every one of the romances. but we shall also find in our survey of celtic literature that this attribute, as well as that of healing or restoring to life, is found indifferently in stories of both the classes, to the fusion of which we refer the grail legends in their present form. another link between the two formulas is formed by the sword. it is almost invariably found associated with the healing vessel of balsam in task stories connected with the feud quest of the mabinogi and the conte du graal; it is also a frequent feature in the legend of the unsuccessful visit to the bespelled castle.[ ] finally, the most important reason for running into one the stories derived from these two formulas, and the one which could hardly fail to lead to the fusion, is to be found in the identity of the myth which underlies both conceptions. the castle to which the avenger must penetrate to win the talismans, and that to which the hero comes with the intent of freeing its lord, are both symbols of the otherworld. bearing in mind this double origin of the grail, and reviewing once more the entire cycle, we note that, whilst it is that presentment of the magic vessel due to the second formula which is most prominent in the romances, the feud quest has furnished more and more varied sequences of incident, and is the staple of the oldest literary celtic form (the proto-mabinogi) and of those north french forms which are most closely akin to it. here the magic vessel is at best one of three equally potent treasures; as a matter of fact its _rôle_ in this section of the romances is, as we have seen, inferior to that of the sword. obviously intended to be the immediate cause of restoration to life or health of the hero's kinsman, its functions have been minimised until they have been forgotten. if this is so already in the proto-mabinogi and in the model of the conte du graal, we may expect to find that elsewhere in celtic tradition the magic vessel is of less account than sword or lance. we should likewise misconceive the character of popular tradition if we expected to find certain attributes rigidly ascribed to the mystic vessel in this or that set of stories. the confusion we have noted in the romances may be itself derived from older traditions. certain it is that in what maybe looked upon as the oldest account of the vessel[ ] in celtic literature (although the form in which it has reached us is comparatively modern), there is a vessel of abundance associated with three other talismans, two of them being sword and lance. the tuatha de danann (the race of fairies and wizards which plays a part in irish tradition analogous to that of gwydion ap don, gwynn ap nudd, and their kin in welsh) so runs the tradition preserved by keating in his history of ireland (book i, ed. by joyce, dublin, , p. ), had four treasures: the lia fail, the stone of fate or virtue ("now in the throne upon which is proclaimed the king of the saxons," _i.e._, the stone brought by edward i., from scone); the sword that lug[ ] lamhfhada (lug the longhanded) was wont to use; the spear the same lug used in battle; the cauldron of the dagda, "_a company used not ever go away from it unsatisfied_." keating followed old and good sources, and although the passage i have underlined is not to be found in all mss. of his work (_e.g._, it is missing in that translated by halliday), and although the verse which he quotes, and which probably goes back to the eleventh century, whilst the traditions which it embodies may be regarded as a couple of centuries older, does not mention this property of the dagda's[ ] cauldron, it may, i think, be assumed that the tradition here noticed is genuine, and that a vessel akin to the grail, as well as talismans akin to those that accompany the grail, formed part of the gear of the oldest celtic divinities.[ ] this conclusion appears no rash one when we consider the further references to the cauldron in middle irish literature. the battle of magh rath, a semi-historical romance relating to events which took place in the seventh century, is ascribed by its editor, dr. j. o'donovan, to the latter half of the twelfth century. it relates (pp. , _et seq._) how the sons of the king of alba sought to obtain from their father the "caire ainsicen" so called, because "it was the caire or cauldron which was used to return his own proper share to each, and no party ever went away from it unsatisfied, for whatever quantity was put into it there was never boiled of it but what was sufficient for the company according to their grade or rank." the mediæval story-teller then goes on to instance similar cauldrons to be met with in the older history of ireland. these may nearly all be referred to the oldest heroic irish cycle, the ultonian, of which cuchulainn is the most prominent figure. this cycle, in its origin almost if not wholly mythic, was at an early date (probably as early as the eighth century) euhemerised, and its gods and demi-gods made to do duty as historical personages living at the beginning of the christian era. it is, indeed, not improbable that actual historical events and personages of that period may have coloured and distorted the presentment of the myth; and it is highly probable that the substance of these stories does go back to that age, as they are almost entirely free from any admixture of christian elements, and such admixture as there is can be readily detected as the handiwork of the tenth and eleventh century monks by whom these tales were written in mss. which have for the most part come down to us. the cauldron is found with the same properties as those set forth in the battle of magh rath, in two of the most celebrated tales of this cycle, the toghail bruighne da derga, and the tale of mac datho's pig. turning from irish to welsh literature we may note that the grail has frequently been compared with the cauldron of bran in the mabinogi of branwen, the daughter of llyr. i have dealt with this tale fully (folk-lore record, vol. v.), and see no reason to depart from the conclusion i then arrived at; namely, that it goes back in the main to the eleventh or tenth century. here, the revivifying power of the vessel is dwelt upon, "the property of it is that if one of thy men be slain to-day, and be cast therein, the morrow he will be as well as ever he was at his best, except that he will not regain his speech." we cannot fail to recall that in the queste which, as far as the grail itself is concerned, must be referred on the whole to the feud quest formula, when the sacred vessel appears the assembled company is struck dumb.[ ] later celtic folk-literature has followed the mabinogi rather than the older irish legend in its account of the mystic vessel. where it appears in the folk-tale its function is to heal or to bring back to life. we may leave out of account for the present the references in the welsh "bardic" literature to the cauldron of ceridwen, chief among which is that in the mabinogi of taliesin. i am far from thinking that this literature deserves the wholesale condemnation that has been passed upon it, but it has been too little and too uncritically studied to afford, as yet, a firm basis for investigation. we are on surer ground in dealing with the living folk-tale. thus the tale of fionn's enchantment, although belonging more properly to the other formula, may be noticed here as containing a cup of balsam, the washings of which restore the maimed fionn to complete health. mr. campbell, who has noted the tale, remarks that the cup of healing is common in all the fenian stories, which is what we should naturally expect, seeing the close connection between fionn and peredur (rev. celt. i., p. ). other instances have already been given in chapter vi. of the appearance of the vessel of balsam in connection with the glaive of light, and of its use in bringing back to life the hero's enemies. and here it maybe noted that almost the very mode in which it is introduced in the folk-tales may be paralleled from the romances. the grail appears to perceval and hector, lying well nigh dead upon the field of battle, and makes them whole, even as the vessel of balsam revivifies the dead warriors whom conall gulban has just slain, and heals the latter. it is, perhaps, only a coincidence that the angel in the one, the carlin in the other case, appear in a great flashing of light. but, as a rule, in those task-stories which otherwise present such close similarities to the feud quest of the proto-mabinogi and the conte du graal, the mystic vessel has dropped out altogether, and the sword is the chief if not the only talisman. this is the case in campbell, i., the young king of easaidh ruadh, and in xlvi. mac iain direach. in one instance the glaive of light is met with outside the task group, in campbell xli., the widow and her daughters, variant ii (a bluebeard story), and here it is found associated with the vessel of balsam. in the folk-tales, then, as in one section of the conte du graal, the healing vessel is decidedly of less account than the avenging or destroying weapon. this, as the sword, plays such an important part in the french romances that an examination of its _rôle_ in celtic literature will repay examination. besides the already quoted instances in which the sword of light accompanies the vessel of balsam as one of the treasures which reward the hero's quest, but in which it does not otherwise affect the march of the story, we find others in which the sword is either that weapon which causes the woe, the subject of the story, or else is the one means of testing the hero's fitness for his quest. in either case it is parallel to the sword of the grail romances. apart from these special instances there are general references in the oldest irish literature to the quasi-supernatural nature attributed to the sword. thus the leabhar gabhala, or book of invasions, the tenth and eleventh century tract in which irish mythology was euphemerised into an historical relation of the pre-christian invasion of ireland, has a passage relating to the sword of tethra, king of the fomori,[ ] which spake, and, adds the christian scribe, the ancient irish adored swords.[ ] this is borne out by a passage in the seirglige conculainn, a story belonging to the ultonian cycle, which mr. whitley stokes has translated (rev. celt. i., ). the men of ulster, when showing their trophies, had their swords upon their thighs, "for their swords used to turn against them where they made a false trophy." the christian transcriber notes that it was reasonable for the pagan irish to trust their swords "because demons used to speak from out them." to return to the sword of tethra. the most famous battle of irish mystic history is that of mag-tured, in which the tuatha de danann, the gods of light and life, overcome their enemies the fomori. ogma, the champion of the tuatha de danann, wins the sword of tethra, and as he cleans it it tells him the many and great feats it had wrought. it is, however, in the second of the great heroic cycles of the ancient irish, the fenian or ossianic, that we find the sword put to a use which strongly recalls that of the romances. not until the hero is able to wield the weapon so that it break not in his hand, or to weld it together so that no flaw appears,[ ] is he fit to set forth on the quest. in campbell's lxxvii., "how the een was set up," fionn applies for his sword to ullamh lamhfhada[ ] (ullamh the longhanded), who gives him the most likely sword and the best he found. the hero takes it, shakes it, casts it out of the wooden handle and discards it. thrice is this repeated, and when the right weapon is in fionn's hand, he quells utterly all he sees.[ ] now how had fionn obtained this sword originally? by slaying black arcan, his father's slayer. it may, i think, be looked upon as certain that in an earlier form of the story, the weapon in question would turn out to be the one with which the treacherous deed was done, and fionn, a counterpart of peredur in his bringing up, would also be his counterpart in this incident.[ ] for the sword with which partinal slew goon desert is treasured up for the use of perceval, but only after a repeated essay is he held worthy of it.[ ] the sword incident reappears in a tale of campbell's, manus (vol. iii.), which presents some very remarkable analogies with the romances. manus is driven into various adventures by his aunt; an armourer of his grandfather offers to get him a sword; but all given to him he breaks save the armourer's old sword, and it beat him to break that. the armourer then gives him a cloth, "when thou spreadest it to seek food or drink, thou wilt get as thou usest." subsequently, helped by a lion, he achieves many feats. he comes to the help of the white gruagach by fetching the blood of a venemous horned creature belonging to the king over the great world, by which alone the white gruagach could be restored to life when the magic trout with which his life was bound up had been slain. afterwards he accompanies him against his enemy the red gruagach, who is slain, and his head stuck on a stake. this red gruagach is apparently the father of the aunt who so persecutes manus.[ ] this examination of the sword incident shows that the mabinogi has preserved the original form of the story, and links afresh this portion of the conte du graal with the other celtic stories belonging to the expulsion and return formula group, with which it has so much else in common. in all the formula-stories, except those of the conte du graal and the proto-mabinogi, the hero has to avenge his father, not his uncle; and it is highly suggestive that at least one version of the perceval cycle (the thornton romance) follows suit. with this remark we may take leave of the feud quest. many and interesting as have been the parallels from the older celtic literature to the feud quest, they are far outweighed by those which that literature affords to the second formula--the visit to the bespelled castle--which we have noted in the romances. from the recapitulation (_supra_, pp. , _et. seq._) we may learn several things. the castle lies, as a rule, on the other side of a river; the visitor to it is under a definite obligation; he must either do a certain thing, as, _e.g._, in perceval's visit to the castle of maidens, strike on the table three blows with the hammer, or he must put a certain question, or again he must abstain from certain acts, as that of falling asleep (perceval and gawain) or drinking[ ] (gawain, in heinrich von dem türlin). disregard of the obligation is punished in various ways. in the case of the castle of maidens the craven visitor is allowed to fare forth unheeded without beholding the marvels of the castle; but, as a rule, the hero of the adventure finds himself on the morrow far away from the castle, which has vanished completely. the inmates of this castle fall into two classes--they are supernatural beings like the maidens, who have apparently no object to gain from their mortal visitor, but who love heroism for its own sake, and are as kindly disposed towards the mortal hero in the folk-lore and mythology of the celts as gods, and especially goddesses, are in the mythic lore of all other races; or they suffer from an over-lengthened life, from which the hero alone can release them. this latter feature, seen to perfection only in heinrich von dem türlin, is apparent in the didot-perceval, and has, in the conte du graal, supplied the figure of the old man, father to the fisher king, nourished by the grail. these features sufficiently indicate that the magic castle is the realm of the other world. the dividing water is that across which lies tír-na n-og, the irish avalon, or that engelland dwelt in by the shades which the inhabitants of the belgian coast figured in the west.[ ] in celtic lore the earliest trace of this realm is found, as is the earliest trace of grail and sword, in connection with the tuatha de danann, that race of dispossessed immortals which lives on in the hollow hill sides, and is ever ready to aid and cherish the irish mythic heroes. the most famous embodiment of this conception in irish myth is the brug na boine, the dwelling place of oengus,[ ] son of the dagda, and the earliest account of it is that contained in the book of leinster, the second of the two great irish vellums written down in the twelfth century. it is a land of cockayne; in it are fruit trees ever loaded with fruit, on the board a pig ready roasted which may not be eaten up, vessels of beer which may not be emptied, and therein no man dies.[ ] but oengus is not the only one of the tuatha de danann who has such a fairy palace. the dwelling place of lug is of the same kind, and in the story of the conception of cuchulainn,[ ] which tells how the god carried off dechtire, sister of conchobor, and re-incarnated himself in her as the great ulster hero, we learn that when conchobor and his men go in search of dechtire and her fifty maidens, they first come to a small house wherein are a man and woman; the house suddenly becomes a splendid mansion,[ ] therein are the vanished maidens in the shape of birds (and all sorts of goods, and dishes of divers sorts, known and unknown; never did they have a better night, in the morning they found themselves houseless, birdless in the east of the land, and they went back to emain macha).[ ] although no prohibition is mentioned the similarity in parts of this story, which, it must be repeated, is older than the introduction of christianity in ireland, to the romances is evident. another famous brug of the tuatha de danann is that of manannan mac lir. among the visitors was bran, the son of febal, whose story may be found in the leabhar na h' uidhre, the oldest of the great irish vellums.[ ] one day as he was alone in his palace there came to him soft, sweet music, and he fell asleep. when he awoke a silver branch, covered with flowers, was at his side. a short while after, as he was in the midst of his kinsfolk, his chiefs, and his nobles, an unknown damsel appeared, and bid him to her in the land of _sidhe_, and then vanished, and with her the branch. bran set sail, and with him thirty men. after two days' wandering they met manannan mac lir. they continued their journey until they came to an island dwelt in solely by women; their queen it was who had sent for bran. he stayed with her a while, and then came back to ireland. but the most famous of the visits to the brug of manannan is that of cormac mac art, whom the irish legendary annals place in the third century of our era, and bring into connection with fionn. the story, though only known to us from later mss., can be traced back to the tenth century at least, as the title of it figures in a list preserved in the book of leinster, and as it is apparently alluded to by the eleventh century annalist, tighernach.[ ] the following summary is from a version, with english translation by mr. standish hayes o'grady, in the third volume of the ossianic society's publications. of a time that cormac was in liathdruim he saw a youth having in his hand a glittering fairy branch, with nine apples of red gold upon it.[ ] and this was the manner of that branch, that when any one shook it, men wounded and women with child would be lulled to sleep by the sound of the very sweet fairy music which those apples uttered, and no one on earth would bear in mind any want, woe, or weariness of soul when that branch was shaken for him. cormac exchanged for this branch his wife and son and daughter, overcoming their grief by shaking the branch. but after a year, cormac went in search of them. and he chanced upon a land where many marvels were wrought before his eyes, and he understood them not. at length he came to a house wherein was a very tall couple, clothed in clothes of many colours, and they bade him stay. and the man of the house brought a log and a wild boar, and if a quarter of the boar was put under a quarter of the log, and a true story was told, the meat would be cooked. at cormac's request the host told the first story, how that he had seven swine with which he could feed the world, for if the swine were slain, and their bones put in the sty, on the morrow they would be whole again; and the hostess the second, how that the milk of her seven white kine would satisfy the men of the world. cormac knew them for manannan and his wife, and then told his story how he had lost and was seeking for wife and children. manannan brought in the latter, and told cormac it was he who gave him the branch, that he might bring him to that house. then they sat down to meat, and the table-cloth was such that no food, however delicate, might be demanded of it, but it should be had without doubt; and the drinking cup was such that if a false story was told before it, it went in four pieces, and if a true one, it came whole again, and therewith was the faith of cormac's wife made evident. and manannan gave branch and cloth and goblet to cormac, and thereafter they went to slumber and sweet sleep. where they rose upon the morrow was in the pleasant liathdruim. the foregoing examples have been akin to the incident of the maiden castle. we have seen the race of immortals caring for the sons of men, signalling out and alluring to themselves the brave and wise hero. in the tales we are now about to examine the benefit conferred by the visitor upon the inmates of the magic castle is insisted upon. but we must first notice a tale which presents many of the incidents of the grail romances, without actually belonging to the same story group as they. in campbell's no. lxxxvi, the daughter of king under the waves, diarmaid, the fairest and bravest of the fenian heroes, weds a fay who, as her description indicates, belongs to the same order of beings as the damsels who lure away connla and bran, the son of febal. she comes to him in loathly guise, and the other heroes shrink from her; but diarmaid, courteous as he is brave, gives her the shelter of tent and bed and has his reward. she builds for him such a castle as the fay mistress of the knight of the black tomb (_supra_, p. ) builds for her lover. but she warns him that after a threefold reproach as to how he found her she would have to leave him. through the cunning of fionn he is led to break the taboo and "it was in a mosshole he awoke on the morrow. there was no castle, or a stone left of it on another." diarmaid sets forth to seek his wife, he finds her ailing to death, and to be cured she must have three draughts from the cup of the king of the plain of wonder. helped by a little russet man, he gets the talisman, as was prophesied of him; but, advised by the little russet man, he gives the maiden to drink out of a certain well, which changes their love into aversion, and he returns to the light of day. this last feature should be noted as characteristic. the mortal lover always tires sooner than the fay mistress. oisin cannot stay in tír-na n-og. perceval gives but one night to the lady of the chessboard. we now come to the "unspelling" stories, and i will cite in the first place one which is the most striking testimony i know of to the influence of this formula upon celtic mythic lore. there is a widely spread folk-tale of a hero robbed of three magic gifts and getting them back thus; by chance he eats some fruit or herb which changes him into an ass, causes his nose to grow, sets horns upon his head, or produces some equally unpleasant result. another herb he finds heals him. armed with specimens of either, he wins back his talismans. in grimm it is no. , der krautesel, and in vol. iii., p. , variants are given. in one the hero is one of three soldiers, and he receives the gifts from a little grey man. but neither here nor in the variants given by dr. r. köhler (orient und occident, ii., p. ) is the opening the same as in campbell's no. x.--the three soldiers. the three come to a house in the wilderness dwelt in by three girls who keep them company at night, but disappear during the day. in the house is a table, overnight they eat off it, and when they rise the board is covered, and it would not be known that a bit had ever come off it. at the first night's close one soldier gets a purse never empty; at the second, the next one a cloth always filled with meat; and the third, the youngest (the hero), a transporting whistle. but as they leave he must needs ask them who they are, and they burst out crying, "they were under charms till they could find three lads who would spend three nights with them without putting a question--had he refrained they were free." in one variant the time of probation lasts a year, and the talismans are: a cup that empties not, and a lamp of light, the table-cloth of meat, and a bed for rest. in another the damsels are swanmaids,[ ] and the visitors are bidden "not to think nor order one of us to be with you in lying down or rising up."[ ] there can, i think, be little doubt that this last variant represents the oldest form of the story, and that the swanmaid damsels belong to the otherworld, as do the daughter of king under the waves and the maiden who fetches connla. there is nothing surprising in swanmaids being the object of a taboo, this is so invariably the case in myth and folk-lore that it is needless to accumulate instances; what is unique to my knowledge, i speak under correction, is the fact of these damsels being in possession of the talismans, one of which is so obviously connected with the grail. it may be noted that the obligation laid upon the hero is the direct opposite of that in the grail romances, in the one case a question must not be asked, in the other it must. in this respect campbell's tale of course falls into line with all the widely spread and varying versions of the melusine legend. the supernatural wife always forbids her husband some special act which, as is perhaps natural, he can never refrain from doing. the next form of the bespelled castle legend is one which has attained far greater celebrity than any other on account of its traditional association with historical personages. it pictures the inmate of the castle as a king, with his warriors around him, sunk into magic sleep, and awaiting a signal to come forth and free his folk. to many english readers this legend will be more familiar in connection with frederick barbarossa[ ] or with holger the dane than with any celtic worthy. yet the oldest historic instance is that of arthur.[ ] i have quoted (_supra_, p. ) gerald's words relating to the mountain seat of arthur. a more definite tradition, and one closely resembling the episode in the grail romances, is the one noted by gervasius of tilbury[ ] (c. a.d.). a groom of the bishop of catania, following a runaway horse even to the summit of mount etna, found himself in a far reaching plain, full of all things delightful. a marvellous castle rose before him, wherein lay arthur on a royal bed, suffering from the wound inflicted upon him by modred his nephew, and childeric the saxon, and this wound broke out afresh each year. the king caused the horse to be given to the groom, and made him many rich presents.[ ] this tradition of arthur in sicily raises some very interesting questions. for one thing it is a fresh example of the tremendous and immediate popularity of the arthurian legend. it also shows with what rapidity a tradition, however remote in its origin from a particular spot, may associate itself with that. of more immediate interest to us is the question whether this tradition has any direct connection with the grail romances, whether it has shaped or been shaped by them. martin refers the maimed king of the romances to the same myth-root as the wounded arthur waiting in etna or in avalon till his wound be healed and he come forth. it seems to me more likely that in so far as the wound is concerned there is a coincidence merely between the two stories, and that the wounded king belongs properly to the feud quest. i do not, however, deny that the fact of the lord of the bespelled castle, of the otherworld, being sometimes pictured as suffering from an incurable wound, may have aided that fusion of the two strains of legend which we find in the romances. it is not my purpose to examine here in detail the innumerable versions of this widely-spread tradition[ ], the more so as i have been able to trace no exact parallel to that presentment of the story found in heinrich von dem türlin and in the didot-perceval. no other version of this form of the legend, to my knowledge, pictures the bespelled king as awaiting the deliverance of death at the hands of his visitor. before endeavouring to find a reason for the singularity of heinrich's account, i will first quote one variant of the common form of the legend which has not been printed before save by myself in the folk-lore journal, vol. i., p. .[ ] king arthur sleeps bespelled in the ruins of (richmond) castle. many have tried to find him but failed. one man only, potter thompson by name, wandering one night among the ruins chanced upon the hall wherein sat the king and his men around a table upon which lay a horn and a sword. terrified, he turned and fled, and as he did so a voice sounded in his ears-- "potter thompson, potter thompson, had'st thou blown the horn, thou had'st been the greatest man that ever was born." for then he would have freed arthur from his magic sleep. never again could he reach that hall. this version, besides being practically inedited has the merit of exemplifying that association of the sword with the lord of the bespelled castle to which i have already alluded. the instances of the visit to the otherworld which have thus far been collected from celtic mythic literature, and which have been used as parallels to the unspelling quest of the romances, are more closely akin to one example of this incident, perceval's visit to the castle of maidens, than to that found in heinrich and the didot-perceval. none, indeed, throw any light upon that death-in-life which is the special feature in these two works. all are of one kind in so far as the disposition of the inmates towards the visitor is concerned; he is received with courtesy when he is not actually allured into the castle, and the trials to which he is subjected are neither painful nor humiliating. but it will not have escaped attention that the conte du graal contains another form of the visit, one which i have hitherto left unnoticed, in gawain's visit to the magic castle. a new conception is here introduced: the lord of the castle[ ] is an evil being, who holds captive fair dames and damsels; they it is, and not he, whom the hero must deliver, and the act of deliverance subjects him to trial and peril (_supra_, p. , chr. inc. ). let us see if this form affords any explanation of the mysterious features of heinrich's version. this incident may, it is easily conceivable, be treated in two ways; the hero may be a worthy knight and succeed, or a caitiff and fail. a story of this latter kind may throw some light upon gawain's adventures at the magic castle. the story in question (the son of bad counsel) is ascribed by kennedy, legendary fictions, pp. , _et seq._, to an author of the early eighteenth century, brian dhu o'reilly, and traced back to an older ossianic legend--conan's delusions in ceash, of which kennedy prints a version, pp. , _et seq._ the hero of the story comes to the castle of a gruagach, named the giant of the unfrequented land, and his wife, daughter to the king of the lonesome land. the name of the castle is the uncertain castle. very fair is their daughter, and she is proffered to the hero for his promised aid against other fairy chieftains. after playing at backgammon with the gruagach, the hero lays himself to bed. he is assailed, as he fancies, by great dangers from which he hastens to flee, and, waking, finds himself in a ridiculous plight with his lady-love, and the other folk of the castle laughing at him. in the morning he awakes, "and his bed was the dry grass of a moat." the names of the personages in the story at once recall those of the romances--the waste land or forest, the castle perillous, and the like--and one of the trials, the being shot at with fairy darts, is the same as that to which gawain is exposed in the conte du graal. but it is interesting chiefly as being a version of a wide-spread tale of how gods or heroes penetrating to the other world are made mock of by its inmates. in scandinavian mythology the story is well-known as thor's visit to utgarth loki. it is equally well-known in the fionn saga, and, considering the many points of contact we have hitherto found between fionn and the grail hero, the fenian form claims our notice. the oldest preserved form of the story, that in the book of leinster, has been printed with translation by mr. whitley stokes, revue celt., vol. vii., pp. , _et seq._--fionn comes at nightfall with cailte and oisin to a house he had never heard of in that glen, knowing though he was. a grey giant greets them; within are a hag with three heads on her thin neck, and a headless man with one eye protruding from his breast. nine bodies rise out of a recess, and the hideous crew sing a strain to the guests; "not melodious was that concert." the giant slays their horses; raw meat is offered them, which they refuse; the inmates of the house attack them; they had been dead had it not been for fionn alone. they struggle until the sun lights up the house, then a mist falls into every one's head, so that he was dead upon the spot. the champions rise up whole, and the house is hidden from them, and every one of the household is hidden.--in the later fenian saga (later that is as far as the form in which it has come down to us is concerned) the story closely resembles thor's visit. kennedy (bardic stories, pp. , _et seq._) has a good version.[ ]--fionn and his comrades follow a giant, on his shoulders an iron fork with a pig screeching between the prongs, behind him a damsel scourging him. they follow them to a house wherein is an aged hoary-headed man and a beautiful maid, a rough giant cooking the hog, and an old man having twelve eyes in his head, a white-haired ram, and a hag clad in dark ash coloured garment. two fountains are before the house: fionn drinks of one which at first tastes sweet, but afterwards bitter to death; from the other, and though he never suffered as much as while drinking, when he puts the vessel from his lips he is as whole as ever he was. the hog is then shared; the ram left out of count revenges itself by carrying out the guest's share, and smite it with their swords as they may, they cannot hurt it. the hag then throws her mantle over the guests, and they become four withered drooping-headed old men; on the mantle being removed they resume their first shape. these wonders are explained. the giant is _sloth_, urged on by _energy_; the twelve-eyed old man is the _world_; and the ram the _guilt of man_; the wells are _truth_ and _falsehood_; the hag _old age_. the warriors sleep and in the morning find themselves on the summit of cairn feargaill with their hounds and their arms by them. this tale betrays its semi-literary origin at once; and, though there is no reason to doubt that the irish celts had a counterpart to thor's journey to giantland, i am inclined to look upon the version just summarised as influenced by the norse saga. certain it is that the popular version of fionn's visit to giantland is much more like the eleventh century poem, preserved in the book of leinster, than it is like the mediæval, "how fionn fared in the house of cuana." i have already alluded (_supra_, p. ) to one feature of the tale of fionn's enchantment, but the whole tale is of interest to us.--as fionn and his men are sitting round the fire boasting of their prowess in comes a slender brown hare and tosses up the ashes, and out she goes. they follow her, a dozen, to the house of the yellow face, a giant that lived upon the flesh of men. a woman greets them, and bids them begone before the face returns, but fionn will not flee. in comes the face and smells out the strangers. six of the fenians he strikes with a magic rod, "and they are pillars of stone to stop the sleety wind." he then cooks and devours a boar, and the bones he throws to the fenians. they play at ball with a golden apple, and the face puts an end to fionn's other comrades. hereafter he wrestles with fionn, and the griddle is put on the fire till it is red hot, and they all get about fionn and set him on the griddle till his legs are burnt to the hips ('twas then he said, "a man is no man alone"), and stick a flesh-stake through both his hams, so that he could neither rise nor sit, and cast him into a corner. but he manages to crawl out and sound his horn, and diarmaid hears it and comes to his aid, and does to the face as the face did to fionn, and with the cup of balsam which he wins from him makes fionn whole.--it is not necessary to dwell on the parallel between diarmaid healing his uncle fionn, wounded with a stake through the two thighs, by winning the cup of balsam, and perceval healing his uncle (mehaignié des ii cuisses) by the question as to the grail. this, alone, would be sufficient to show us what _rôle_ the grail played in the oldest form of the feud quest before the latter was influenced by the visit to the bespelled castle. if we look at the stories we have just summarised, we shall easily understand the meaning of the magic castle vanishing at dawn. as sleep is brother to death, so are night and its realm akin to the otherworld; many phantoms haunt them and seem quick and strive with and often terribly oppress the mortal wanderer through this domain, but with the first gleam of sunlight they vanish, leaving no trace behind them, and the awakening hero find himself in his own place. the conditions of the visit to the otherworld are thus partly determined by man's nightly experience in that dreamland which he figures to himself as akin to, if not an actual portion of the land of shades. this visit, as we have seen, is conceived of in several ways. its object is almost invariably to win precious talismans; all we have comes to us from our forefathers, and it is natural to suppose that in the world whence they came, and whither they go back, is to be found all that man seeks here, only in a form as more wonderful than earthly objects as the dwellers in the otherworld are mightier and cleverer than man. at times the talismans are held by beneficent beings, who either gladly yield them to the mortal visitor, or from whom they may be won by the exhibition of valour and magnanimity; at times by evil monsters with whom the mortal must strive. in either case the visitor arrives at nightfall and in the morning awakes to the life of this earth. the secondary or gawain form of the myth, as found in the conte de graal, may help us to understand heinrich's version. it is to free imprisoned damsels that gauvain undergoes the trials of the magic castle. now the effect of his visit in the german poem is to free the sister of gansguoter, who, with her maidens, remains when the other inmates of the castle, released by the question, have utterly vanished.[ ] but what means the death-in-life condition of the king and his men? is it merely an expedient to account for their sudden vanishing at daylight? i rather see here the influence of another form of the unspelling myth, one that mixed with christian elements has powerfully impressed the popular imagination, and is in many european countries the only one in which this old myth still lives on.[ ] the inmates of the magic castle or house are in this form figured as men doomed for some evil deed to haunt that particular spot, until some mortal is bold enough to win their secret and bring them rest. one would think that under the circumstances they would be as amiable as possible to any visitor. but the older form of the story persists, and they have not terrors or trials enough for the man who is to be their deliverer. i will only quote one version, from irish sources.[ ] a youth engages to sleep in a haunted castle. if he is alive in the morning he will get ten guineas and the farmer's daughter to wife. at nightfall he goes thither, and presently three men in old-fashioned dress come down in pieces through a hole in the ceiling, put themselves together, and begin playing at football. jack joins them, and towards daybreak he judges they wish him to speak, so he asks them how he can give them rest if rest they want. "them is the wisest words you ever spoke," is answered to him. they had ground the poor and heaped up wealth evilly. they show him their treasure, and tell him how to make restitution. as they finish, "jack could see the wall through their body, and when he winked to clear his sight the kitchen was as empty as a noggin turned upside down." of course jack does as he is told, and has the daughter to wife, and they live comfortably in the old castle.[ ] we have here, it seems to me, the last echo of such a story as one of those which enter into the grail romances. in heinrich's version, as elsewhere in these romances, different story types can be distinguished, different conceptions are harmonised. many, indeed, are both the early conceptions and the varying shapes in which they embodied themselves, to be traced in the complex mass of the romances. that a kinsman is bound to avenge a blood feud, and that until he does so his kin may suffer from ailment or enchantment and their land be under a curse; that the otherworld is a land of feasting and joyousness and all fair things; that it contains magic treasures which he who is bold may win; that it is peopled with beings whom he may free by his courage; that it is fashioned like dreamland--all these ideas find expression. if the foregoing exposition be accepted we have a valuable criterion for the age of the immediate originals of the romances. that famous version of the legend which pictured the dwellers in the otherworld as kings, spell bound, awaiting the releasing word to come forth and aid their folk, to which special circumstances gave such wide popularity in the later middle ages, causing it to supplant older tales of gods dwelling in the hollow hills, this version has left no trace upon the romances. these must, therefore, be older than the full-blown arthurian legend. one or two minor points may be briefly noticed. the ship in which is found the magic sword which wounds all bold enough to handle it save the destined knight may be thought to have taken the place of an older island. the loathly grail messenger shows the influence of the two formulas: as coming from the bespelled castle,[ ] type of the otherworld, she should be radiantly fair; as the kinswoman of the destined avenger, under spells until the vengeance be accomplished, she is hideous in the last degree. but before we take leave of this incident we must examine two features upon which, as yet, no light has been thrown, the meaning of the epithet the _fisher_ king, and the hero's silence upon his first visit to the castle of talismans. chapter viii. the fisher king in the conte du graal, in the queste, and in borron and the grand st. graal--the accounts of latter complete each other--the fish is the salmon of wisdom--parallel with the fionn saga--the nature of the unspelling quest--the mabinogi of taliesin and its mythological affinities--brons, bran, cernunnos--perceval's silence: conte du graal explanation late; explanation from the fionn saga--comparison of incident with _geasa_; nature of latter; references to it in celtic folk-tales and in old irish literature, book of rights, diarmaid, cuchulainn--_geasa_ and _taboo_. the conte du graal, as we have seen, offers no satisfactory explanation of the fisher king. by chrestien he is represented on perceval's first meeting with him as angling from a boat steered by his companion (v. , ); he directs perceval to his castle. perceval is afterwards informed that, being wounded and consequently unable to mount on horseback, fishing is his only solace, whence the name applied to him (vv. , , _et seq._). this is practically all the conte du graal has to say about him, as the continuators, whilst repeating the epithet, add no fresh details. indeed in none of the after-visits of perceval is the king represented as fishing, or is there the slightest reference to, let alone insistence upon, this favourite occupation of his. it is another proof of the inadequacy of birch-hirschfeld's theory of the development of the legend, that it represents chrestien, who, _ex hypothesi_, divested borron's poem of its religious character, as retaining this feature due wholly to religious symbolism, whilst the continuators with their obvious fondness for such symbolism entirely neglected it. the queste, which in so far as the quest portion is concerned is formally connected with the conte du graal, says nothing about the fisher, nor does that section of the grand st. graal which presents the same early history as the queste. in borron's poem, on the other hand, and in that later section of the grand st. graal which agrees with it, an explanation is given of the epithet. according to borron, brons catches a fish at joseph's bidding; joseph, having placed the vessel on the table and covered it with a towel, takes the fish and lays it opposite the vessel; the people are then called together, and it is possible to distinguish the sinners from the righteous (vv. , - , ). joseph is afterwards told by an angel, that, as brons was a good man, it was the lord's will he should catch the fish (vv. , , _et seq._), and he is to be called the rich fisher (v. , ). in the grand st. graal (vol. ii., pp. , _et seq._) not brons but his son alain is bidden by joseph to fish, and this with a view to providing food for the sinners of the company whom the holy vessel leaves unsatisfied. alain fishes from a boat with a net. he catches but one fish, and there are at first murmurs, but joseph, by virtue of alain's prayers, multiplies the fish so that it feeds the host, and thus alain wins the name of rich fisher. these accounts complete each other. chrestien dwells upon the continued act of fishing which, for aught to the contrary we learn from him or his continuators, is always fruitless. borron and the grand st. graal dwell upon the one successful haul, and especially upon the miraculous properties of the one fish caught. reading the two accounts together, we find that the fisher king passes his life seeking for a fish which, when caught, confers upon him the power of distinguishing good from evil, or enables him to furnish an inexhaustible meal to his men. the conte du graal has been shown to derive more of its substance from the feud quest--the didot-perceval from the unspelling quest. borron's poem, as far as its primitive celtic elements are concerned, is probably to be ranged with the didot-perceval, to which many links unite it. we may, therefore, turn to celtic stories belonging to either of these formulas for parallel features. the inexhaustible nature of the fish at once recalls the pigs of manannan mac lir (_supra_, p. ); they, too, can feed a multitude. but it is in stories formally connected with the feud quest that we find what i venture to suggest is an adequate explanation of the nature of the fisher king and of the fish. the latter is, i think, the salmon of wisdom,[ ] which appears so often and so prominently in irish mythic lore; and the former is that being who passes his life in vain endeavours to catch the wonderful fish, and who, in the moment of success, is robbed of the fruit of all his long toils and watchings. i am prepared to admit that the incident as found in borron's poem has been recast in the mould of mediæval christian symbolism, but i think the older myth can still be clearly discerned and is wholly responsible for the incident as found in the conte du graal.[ ] let us first look at the irish story. this is found in an account, to which allusion has already been made, of the boyish exploits of finn mac cumhail.[ ] it is there told how finn seeks his namesake, finn-eges, to learn poetry from him, as until then he durst not stay in ireland for fear of his foes. now finn-eges had remained seven years by the boyne, watching the salmon of linn-feic, which it had been foretold finn (himself as he thought) should catch and know all things afterwards. finn, who conceals his name, takes service with him and the salmon is caught. finn is set to watch it while it roasts, but warned not to eat of it. inadvertently he touches it with his thumb, which he burns, and carries to his mouth to cool. immediately he becomes possessed of all knowledge, and thereafter he had only to chew his thumb to obtain wisdom. finn-eges recognises that the prophecy has been fulfilled, and hails his pupil as finn. it is needless to dwell upon the archaic features of this tale, which represents the hero seeking service of a powerful magician, from whom he hopes to learn the spells and charms that may guard him against his foes. here, as in many other portions of the ossianic saga, fionn is strikingly like a red indian medicine man, or the corresponding wizard among other savage tribes. it is more to our purpose to note that this tale contains the fullest presentment of fionn as hero of the expulsion and return formula, and that a similar incident is to be found in the lives of other heroes of the formula (notably siegfried: the adventure with mimir.) now, as we have already seen that peredur-perceval is a formula hero, there is nothing remarkable in finding an analogous incident in his _sage_. a formal connection is thus at once made out. but we must look into the matter a little closer, as the incident found in the romances is but a faint echo, and that in part distorted by alien conceptions, of the original story. the unspelling quest in one form resolves itself ultimately into the hero's search for riches, power, or knowledge, in prosecution of which he penetrates to the otherworld. this is figured in the grail romances both by brons' or alain's (who here answers to fionn) catching the wonderful fish, and by peredur-perceval coming to the house of brons, the fisher king (who here answers to finn-eges), winning from him the mysterious vessel of increase, and learning the secret words which put an end to the enchantments of britain. in the grail romances the idea of wisdom is not associated with the grail, the vessel, at all; it is either bound up with the fish, as in the irish tale, or is the possession of the fisher king as the wonder-working spells are the possession of finn-eges. but in the welsh tradition which corresponds to that of fionn and the salmon, it is the vessel, the cauldron, or rather the drink which it holds, which communicates the gift of wisdom and knowledge. i allude, of course, to the story of gwion, set by ceridwen to watch the cauldron of inspiration, inadvertently tasting its contents, becoming thereby filled with knowledge, pursued by ceridwen, who swallows him, and in whom he re-incarnates himself as taliesin, the allwise bard. campbell had already (vol. iv., p. ) drawn attention to the similarity of the two stories, and equated fionn, father of oisin, with gwion, father of taliesin; and, as professor rhys has now (hibbert lectures, p. ) given the equation his sanction, it may be accepted as philologically sound. i have hitherto refrained in the course of these studies from making any use of the mabinogi of taliesin, or of references to the cauldron of ceridwen of a like nature with those contained in that tale; but it will, i think, be admitted now that the welsh mabinogi, however late in form, and however overlaid it may be with pseudo-archaic bardic rubbish, does go back to a primitive stratum of celtic mythology. in connection with this myth the name brons is of high import. this catcher of the fish, this lord of the grail, at once suggests bran, who is also a guardian of the magic cauldron. professor rhys (pp. - ) shows reason for looking upon bran (as he is presented in the mabinogi of branwen) as the representative of an old celtic god, cernunnos, that celtic dis from whom, as cæsar reports, the gauls claimed descent, and who, as god of the otherworld and the shades was also god of knowledge and riches. we are thus brought back again to the fundamental conception of the grail quest. it is to this tale that i would turn for one of the possible explanations of perceval's silence at the court of the fisher king. that the romance writers did not understand this incident is evident from the explanation they give. gonemans' moral advice to his nephew on the evil of curiosity may have its foundation in a possible feature of the original, about which i shall speak presently; or it may simply be an expedient of chrestien's or of his immediate model. in either case its present form is obviously neither old nor genuine. the silence of perceval may, perhaps, be referred to the same myth-root as fionn's concealment of his name whilst in the service of finn-eges.[ ] this prohibition might extend not only to the disclosing of his name by the mortal visitor to the realm of the shades, but to the utterance of any words at all. as he might not eat or drink in the underworld, so he might not speak lest he lose the power to return to the land of the living. one tale we have seen (_supra_, p. ) does contain this very injunction to say no word whilst in company of the dwellers in the bespelled castle. in this case we should have to assume that two varying redactions of the theme have been maladroitly fused into one in the romances--that, namely, which bids the visitor to the otherworld abstain from a certain act, and that which, on the contrary, bids him perform a certain act, failure of compliance with the injunction being punished in either case. the positive injunction of one form of the story is used as an explanation of the hero's failure in another. an alternative hypothesis is that whilst the hero's unreadiness of speech, the cause of his want of success at his first visit, comes wholly from the unspelling quest, the motive by which the romances seek to account for that unreadiness comes from the feud quest. the latter, as has been shown, is closely akin to many task-stories; and it is a frequent feature in such stories, especially in the celtic ones, that the hero has to accomplish his quest in spite of all sorts of odd restrictions which are laid upon him by an enemy, generally by a step-mother or some other evil-disposed relative. in the language of irish mythic tradition perceval would be under _geasa_ to ask no questions, and gonemans' advice would be the last faint echo of such an incident. the form which such prohibitions take in celtic folk-tales is very curious. the _gess_ is generally embodied in a magical formula, the language of which is very old and frequently unintelligible to the narrators themselves. as a rule, the hero, by advice of a friendly supernatural being, lays a counterspell upon his enemy. thus, in "how the great tuairsgeul was put to death" (scot. celt. rev. i., p. ) the magician "lays it as crosses and charms that water leave not your shoe until you found out how the great tuairsgeul was put to death." the hero retorts by laying the same charms that the magician leave not the hillock until he return. in campbell, no. xlvii., mac iain direach, the stepmother, "sets it as crosses, and as spells, and as the decay of the year upon thee; that thou be not without a pool of water in thy shoe, and that thou be wet, cold, and soiled until, etc.;" and the hero bespells her, "that thou be standing with the one foot on the great house and the other foot on the castle: and that thy face be to the tempest whatever wind blows, until i return back." the formula in campbell, no. li, the fair gruagach is very archaic. "i lay thee under spells, and under crosses, under holy herdsmen of quiet travelling, wandering woman, the little calf, most feeble and powerless, to take thy head and thine ear and thy wearing of life from off thee if thou takest rest by night or day; where thou takest thy breakfast that thou take not thy dinner, and where thou takest thy dinner that thou take not thy supper, in whatsoever place thou be, until thou findest out in what place i may be under the four brown quarters of the globe." these instances will suffice to show the nature of the _gess_ in celtic folk-lore, but some references to older irish literature are necessary to show its great importance in the social and religious life of the race. o'donovan (book of rights, p. xlv.) explains the word _geasa_ as "any thing or act forbidden because of the ill luck that would result from its doing;" also "a spell, a charm, a prohibition, an interdiction or hindrance." this explanation occurs in the introduction to a poem on the restrictions (_geasa_) and prerogatives (_buada_) of the kings of eire, found in the book of ballymote (late fourteenth century) and book of lecan (early fifteenth century). the poem is ascribed to cuan o'lochain (a.d. ), and, from the historical allusions contained in it, o'donovan looks upon it as in substance due to that poet, and as embodying much older traditions. some of these _geasa_ may be quoted. for the king of eire, "that the sun should rise upon him on his bed in magh teamhrach;" for the king of leinster, "to go round tuath laighean left hand-wise on wednesday;" for the king of munster, "to remain, to enjoy the feast of loch lein from one monday to another;" for the king of connaught, "to go in a speckled garment on a grey speckled steed to the heath of luchaid;" for the king of ulster, "to listen to the fluttering of the flocks of birds of luin saileach after sunset."[ ] even these instances do not exhaust the force or adequately connote the nature of this curious institution. in the irish hero-tales _geasa_ attach themselves to the hero from his birth up, and are the means by which fate compasses the downfall of the otherwise invincible champion; thus it is a _gess_ of diarmaid that he never hunt a swine, and when he is artfully trapped into doing it by fionn he meets his death; it is a _gess_ of cuchulainn's that he never refuse food offered him by women, and as he goes to his last fight he accepts the poisoned meal of the witches though he full well knows it will be fatal to him.[ ] but, besides this, _geasa_ may also be an appeal to the hero's honour as well as a magic charm laid upon him, and it is sometimes difficult to see by which of the two motives the hero is moved. thus graine, wife of fionn, lays _geasa_ upon diarmaid that he carry her off from her husband, and though he is in the last degree unwilling he must comply.[ ] enough has been said to show that we have in the _geasa_ a cause quite sufficient to explain the mysterious prohibition to ask questions laid upon perceval, if the first explanation i have offered of this prohibition be thought inadequate. chapter ix. summing up of the elements of the older portion of the cycle--parallelism with celtic tradition--the christian element in the cycle: the two forms of the early history; brons form older--brons and bran--the bran conversion legend--the joseph conversion legend: joseph in apocryphal literature--glastonbury--the head in the platter and the veronica portrait--the bran legend the starting point of the christian transformation of the legend--substitution of joseph for bran--objections to this hypothesis--hypothetical sketch of the growth of the legend. i have now finished the examination of all those incidents in the grail quest romances which are obviously derived from some other sources than christian legend, and which are, indeed, referred by pronounced adherents of the christian-origin hypothesis to celtic tradition. i have also claimed a celtic origin for features hitherto referred to christian legend. this examination will, i trust, convince many that nearly all the incidents connected with the quest of the grail are celtic in their origin, and that thus alone can we account for the way in which they appear in the romances. the latter are, as we have seen, in the highest degree inconsistent in their account of the mystic vessel and its fortunes; the most cursory examination shows the legend to be composed of two parts, which have no real connection with each other; the older of these parts, the quest, can easily be freed from the traces of christian symbolism; this older part is itself no homogeneous or consistent tale, but a complex of incidents diverse in origin and character. these incidents are: the rearing of the hero in ignorance of the world and of men; his visit to the court of the king, his uncle; his slaying of his father's murderer, the trial made of him by means of the broken sword; his service with the fisher king; his quest in search of the sword and of the vessel by means of which he is to avenge the death or wounding of his kinsman; his accomplishment of this task by the aid of a kinsman who is under spells from which he will not be loosed until the quest be ended; the adventure of the stag-hunt, in which the bespelled kinsman tests the hero's skill and courage; the hero's visit to the castle of talismans; the prohibition under which he labours; his failure to accomplish certain acts; the effects of his failure; his visit to the magic castle, the lord of which is under the enchantment of death-in-life; his visit to the castle of maidens; his visit to the castle perillous; and his deliverance of the captive damsels by means of the trials which he successfully undergoes. to one and all of these incidents celtic parallels have been adduced; these have in each case been drawn from stories which present a general similarity of outline with the grail romances, or share with them similar guiding conceptions, whilst at the same time they are so far disconnected with them that no hypothesis of borrowing can account for the features they have in common. the inconsistencies of the romances have been explained by the fusion into one of two originally distinct groups of stories, and this explanation is confirmed by the fact that traces of this fusion may readily be found in the parallel celtic tales. these latter, when studied by scholars who never thought of comparing them with the grail romances, have been found to contain mythical elements which other scholars had detected independently in the romances. those features of the romances which have perplexed previous students, the fisher king and the omitted question, have been explained from the same group of celtic traditions, and in accordance with the same scheme of mythical interpretation which have been used to throw light upon the remainder of the cycle. finally, the one celtic version of the grail quest, the mabinogi, which presents no admixture of christian symbolism, has been shown, when cleared of certain easily distinguishable interpolations, to be genuine in character, and to present the oldest form of one of the stories which enters into the romances. i have tried not to force these parallels, nor to go one step beyond what the facts warrant. i have also tried to bear in mind that a parallel is of no real value unless it throws light upon the puzzling features in the development of the romances. i thus rest my case, not so much upon the accumulative effect of the similarities which i have pointed out between the romances and celtic tradition, as upon the fact that this reference of the romances to certain definite cycles of celtic myth and legend makes us understand, what otherwise we cannot do, how they came by their present shape. it now remains to be seen if this reference, can in any way explain the christian element in the legend, which i have hitherto left almost entirely out of account. birch-hirschfeld's hypothesis is condemned, in my opinion, by its failure to account for the celtic element; although i do not think an explanation of a late and intruding feature is as incumbent upon me as that of the original celtic basis of the legend is upon him, i yet feel that an hypothesis which has nothing to say on such a vital point can hardly be considered satisfactory. it is the christian transformation of the old celtic myths and folk-tales which gave them their wide vogue in the middle ages, which endowed the theme with such fascination for the preachers and philosophers who used it as a vehicle for their teaching, and which has endeared it to all lovers of mystic symbolism. the question how and why the celtic tales which i have tried, not unsuccessfully i trust, to disentangle from the romances were ever brought into contact with christ and his disciples, and how the old mystic vessel of healing, increase, and knowledge became at last the sacramental cup, must, therefore, be faced. the hypotheses set forth in the preceding page might be accepted in their entirety, and the merit of this transformation still be claimed, as birch-hirschfeld claims it, for the north french poets, to whom we owe the present versions of the romances. on first reading birch-hirschfeld's book, i thought this claim one of the flaws in his argument, and, as will be seen by reference to chapter iv., other investigators, who accept the christian origin of the larger part of the legend, hold that it has been shaped in these islands, or in accordance with celtic traditions now lost. i think we can go a step farther. a number of myths and tales have been used to illustrate the romances. in them may be found the personages through whom probably took place the first contact between celtic mythic tradition and christian legend. we must revert for one moment to the results obtained in chapter iii. by an examination of the way in which the grail and its fortunes are mentioned in the romances. we there distinguished two forms of the distinctively christian portion of the legend, the early history. in both joseph is the first possessor and user of the holy vessel, but in one its farther fortunes are likewise bound up with him or with his seed. he, or his son, it is who leads the grail host to britain, who converts the island, and by whom the precious vessel is handed down through a chosen line of kings in anticipation of the promised knight's coming. in the other form, on the contrary, joseph has nothing to do with britain, which is converted by brons and his son, alain; brons is the guardian of the holy vessel, and, in one version, the fisher of the mystic fish, whilst in another his son takes this part. there is repeated insistence upon the connection between the grail host and avalon. finally brons is the possessor of "secret words," and may not die until he has revealed them to his grandson. this account is, we saw, later in form than the joseph one. as we have it, it was written after the greater portion of the conte du graal, after that redaction of the early history made use of by the author of the queste and of the first draft of the grand st. graal. its influence only makes itself felt in the later stages of development of the legend. but none the less it clearly represents an older and purer form of the early history than that of the queste and of chrestien's continuators. it has not been doctored into harmony with the full-blown arthurian legend as the joseph early history has. it is still chiefly, if not wholly, a legend, the main purport of which is to recount the conversion of britain. such a legend is surely more likely to have been shaped by welsh or breton monks than by north french _trouvères_. and when we notice the celtic names of the personages, and their connection with the celtic paradise, avalon, there can remain little, if any, doubt respecting the first home of the story. we may thus look upon brons, owner of a mystic vessel, fisher of a mystic fish, as the hero of an early conversion legend. but the name brons has at once suggested to most students of the cycle that of bran. the latter is, as we saw in the last chapter, the representative of an old celtic god of the otherworld. he is the owner of the cauldron of renovation. he is also the hero in welsh tradition of a conversion legend, and is commonly known as bran the blessed. unfortunately the only explanation we have of this epithet occurs in a late triad, to which it is not safe to assign an earlier date than the fourteenth century. he is described therein as son of llyr llediath, "as one of the three blissful rulers of the island of britain, who first brought the faith of christ to the nation of the cymry from rome, where he was seven years a hostage for his son caradawc."[ ] but if late in form this triad may well embody an old tradition. it gives the significant descent of bran from llyr, and thereby equates him with mannanan mac lir, with whom he presents otherwise so many points of contact. it is quite true that the bran legend, as is pointed out to me by professor rhys, is mentioned neither in the earliest genealogies nor in geoffrey. but it should be noted that the grand st. graal does bring one member of the brons group, petrus, into contact with king luces, the lucius to whom geoffrey ascribes the conversion. again, the epithet "blessed" is applied to bran in the mabinogi of branwen, daughter of llyr. i have placed this tale as a whole as far back as the eleventh-tenth centuries, and my arguments have met with no opposition, and have won the approval of such authorities as professor windisch and monsieur gaidoz. but the mabinogi, as we have it, was written down in the fourteenth century; the last transcriber abridged it, and at times did not apparently understand what he was transcribing. by his time the full-blown bran legend of the triad was in existence, and it may be contended that the epithet was due to him and did not figure in his model. on the other hand, stephens (lit. of the cymry, p. ) quotes a triad of kynddelw, a poet of the twelfth century, referring to the three blessed families of the isle of britain, one of which is declared by a later tradition to be that of bran.[ ] again, the triads of arthur and his warriors, printed by mr. skene, four ancient books, vol. ii., p. , from ms. hengwrt, , of the beginning of the fourteenth century, and probably at least fifty years older, mentions the "blessed head of bran."[ ] on the whole, in spite of the silence of older sources, i look upon the epithet and the legend which it presupposes as old, and i see in a confusion between bran, lord of the cauldron, and bran the blessed, the first step of the transformation of the peredur _sage_ into the quest of the holy grail. in the first capacity bran corresponds to the lord of the castle of talismans. from the way in which the fish is dwelt upon in his legend, it may, indeed, be conjectured that he stood to peredur in some such relation as finn-eges to fionn. as hero of a conversion legend he came into contact with joseph. we do not know how or at what date the legend of the conversion of britain by joseph originated. it is found enjoying wide popularity in the latter half of the twelfth century, the very time in which the romances were assuming their present shape. wülcker (das evangelium nicodemi in der abendländischen literatur, paderborn, ) shows that the legend is not met with before william of malmesbury; and zarncke, as already stated (_supra_, p. ), has argued that the passage in william is a late interpolation due to the popularity of the romances.[ ] but to accept zarncke's contention merely shifts back the difficulty. if william did not first note and give currency to the tradition, the unknown predecessor of robert de borron and of the authors of the queste and grand st. graal did so; and the question still remains how did he come by the tradition, and what led him to associate it with glastonbury. birch-hirschfeld, it is true, makes short work of this difficulty. the fact that there is no earlier legend in which joseph figures as the apostle of britain is to him proof that borron evolved the conception of the grail out of the canonical and apocryphal writings in which joseph appears, and then devised the passage to britain in order to incorporate the arthurian romances with the legend he had invented. it is needless to repeat that this theory, unacceptable on _a priori_ grounds, is still more so when tested by facts. but joseph under other aspects than that of apostle of britain is worthy of notice. the main source whence the legend writers drew their knowledge of him was the evangelium nicodemi, the history of which has been investigated by wülcker. the earliest allusion in western literature to this apocryphal gospel is that of gregory of tours (wülcker, p. ), but no other trace of its influence is to be met with in france until we come to the grail romances, and to mystery-plays which relate christ's harrowing of hell. in provence, italy, and germany the thirteenth and twelfth centuries are the earliest to which this gospel can be traced. in england, on the contrary, it was known as far back as the latter quarter of the eighth century; cynewulf based upon it a poem on the harrowing of hell, and alludes to it in the crist; the ninth century poem, "christ and satan," likewise shows knowledge of it, and there is a west-saxon translation dating from the early eleventh century. whence this knowledge and popularity of the gospel in england several centuries before it entered prominently into the literature of any other european people? wülcker can only point by way of answer to the early spread of christianity in these islands, and to the possibility of this gospel having reached england before it did france or germany. he also insists upon the early development of anglo-saxon literature. whether the fact that the apocryphal writings which told of joseph were known here when they were unknown on the continent be held to warrant or no the existence of a specifically british joseph legend, they at all events prove that he was a familiar and favourite legendary figure on british soil. it would be rash to go any farther, and to argue from the inadequacy of the reasons by which wülcker seeks to account for the early knowledge of the evangelium nicodemi in england, that joseph enjoyed particular favour among the british christians, and that it was from them the tidings of him spread among their saxon conquerors. the legendary popularity of joseph in these islands, though not in any special capacity of apostle of britain, is thus attested. let us admit for argument's sake that the conversion legend did first take shape in the twelfth century, is it not more likely to have done so here, where the apocryphal writings about him were widely spread, than in france, where they were practically unknown? and why if borron, or any other french poet, wanted to connect the holy vessel legend which he had imagined with arthur, should he go out of his way to invent the personages of brons and alain? the story as found in the queste would surely have been a far more natural one for him. and why the insistence upon avalon? we have plain proof that borron did not understand the word, as he explains it by a ridiculous pun (_supra_, p. ).[ ] these difficulties are met in a large measure if we look upon bran (brons) as the starting point of the christian transformation of the legend. in any case we may say that a conversion legend, whether associated with joseph or anyone else, would almost inevitably have gravitated towards glastonbury, but there are special reasons why this should be the case with a bran legend. avalon is certainly the welsh equivalent of the irish tír na n-og, the land of youth, the land beyond the waves, the celtic paradise. when or how this cymric myth was localised at glastonbury we know not.[ ] we only know that glastonbury was one of the first places in the island to be devoted to christian worship. is it too rash a conjecture that the christian church may have taken the place of some celtic temple or holy spot specially dedicated to the cult of the dead, and of that lord of the shades from which the celts feigned their descent? the position of glastonbury, not far from that western sea beyond which lie the happy isles of the dead, would favour such an hypothesis. although direct proof is wanting, i believe that the localisation is old and genuine: bran, ruler of the otherworld, of avalon, would thus come into natural contact with glastonbury; and if, as i assume, joseph took his place in the conversion legend the association would extend to him. the after development of the legend would then be almost a matter of course. bran, the ruler in avalon, would pass on his magic gear (cauldron, spear, and sword, as in the case of the tuatha de dannan) to bran the blessed, who would in his turn transfer them to joseph. and once the latter had entered into the legend, he would not fail to recall that last scene of the lord's life with which he was so closely associated, not by any pseudo-gospel but by the canonical writings themselves, and thus the gear of the old celtic gods became transformed into such objects as were most prominent in the story of the passion and of the scene that immediately preceded it. the spear became that one wherewith christ's side was pierced. as for the vessel, the sacramental nature is the last stage of its christian development; its original object was merely to explain the sustenance of joseph in prison, and to provide a miraculous refreshment for the grail host, as is shown by the early history portion of the conte du graal and by the queste. in a dim and confused way the circumstances of the resurrection helped to effect the change of the pagan resuscitation-cauldron into a symbol of the risen lord. and some now lost feature of the original legend--some insistence upon the _contents_ of the vessel, some assimilation of them to blood--may have suggested the use to which the vessel was first put. this hypothesis assumes many things. it assumes a bran conversion legend, of which the only evidence of anything like the same date as the romances is a single epithet; it assumes that the hero of this legend was originally an old celtic divinity; it assumes a joseph conversion legend, for which there is really no other evidence than that of the romances; it assumes the amalgamation of the two legends, and that joseph took over in a large measure the _rôle_ and characteristics of brons. and when it is recollected that the primary assumption, the identification of the two brans, rests in a large measure upon the appearance of the fish in the brons legend, that this fish is nowhere in celtic tradition associated with bran, that it is associated on the other hand with a being, fionn, whom we have compared with peredur, but that it is absent from the peredur-saga, the hypothesis must be admitted to be of a tentative nature. i fully appreciate the force of the objections that can be urged against it; at the same time it has the merit of accounting for many puzzling features in the legend. when in the same story two personages can be distinguished whose _rôle_ is more or less of the same nature, when the one personage is subordinated in one version and has disappeared altogether from the other, it is quite legitimate to conclude that two originally independent accounts have become blended, and that one has absorbed the other. the hypothesis is on safe ground so far. it thus explains the presence of brons in the legend, as well as his absence from some versions of it; it has something to say in explanation of the connection with glastonbury; it explains in what way the celtic traditions were started on their path of transformation; and it provides for that transformation taking the very course it did. there is nothing to be urged against it on _a priori_ grounds; once admit the premisses, and the rest follows easily and naturally. its conjectural character (the main objection to it) is shared in an even higher degree by the other hypotheses, which have essayed to account for the growth and origin of the legend, and _they_ have the disadvantage of being inherently impossible. in the light of the foregoing investigations and hypotheses we may now amplify the sketch history of the whole cycle given in chapter iii. the peredur-saga probably came into existence in much its later form at an early date in the middle ages. a number of older mythical tales centered in a, perhaps, historical personage. the circumstances of his life and adventures may have given them not only cohesion, but may also have coloured and distorted them; nevertheless they remained, in the main, mythical tales of the same kind as those found all over the world. one of these tales was undoubtedly a cymric variant of the celtic form of the expulsion and return formula; another dealt with the hero's journey to the land of shades; traces of many others are to be found in the mabinogi. another celtic worthy, gwalchmai, was early associated with peredur, and the two stood in some such relation to each other as the twin brethren of a widely spread folk-tale group. curiously enough, whilst comparatively few incidents in the peredur-saga were worked up into the version which served as immediate model to the north french romances, that version contained many adventures of gwalchmai's which have not been preserved in welsh. we can trace three main crystallizations of the original saga-mass; one represented by the proto-mabinogi contained the feud quest, and, probably, some only of the other adventures found in the present mabinogi; the second, based more on the lines of the expulsion and return formula, is represented by the thornton ms. romance; in the third the feud quest was mixed up with the hero's visit to the bespelled castle, and those portions of the gwalchmai-saga which told of his visit to castle perillous as well as to the bespelled castle. whilst the proto-mabinogi was probably in prose, the proto-conte du graal was probably in verse, a collection of short _lais_ like those of marie de france. meanwhile, one of the chief personages of the older mythic world which appear in the peredur-saga, bran, the lord of the land of shades, of the bespelled castle, of the cauldron of healing, increase and wisdom, and of the knowledge-giving salmon, had become the apostle of britain, his pagan attributes thus suffering a christian change, which was perfected when joseph took the place of brons, bringing with him his gospel associations and the apocryphal legends that had clustered round his name. thus a portion of the saga was christianised, whilst the other portion lost its old, fixed popular character, owing to the fusion of originally distinct elements, and the consequent unsettling both of the outlines and of the details of the story. incidents and features which in the earlier folk-tale stage were sharply defined and intelligible became vague and mysterious. in this state, and bearing upon it the peculiarly weird and fantastic impress of celtic mythic tradition, the story, or story-mass rather, lay ready to the hand of courtly poet or of clerical mystic. at first christian symbolism was introduced in a slight and meagre way--the brons-joseph legend supplied the christian meaning of the talismans, and that was all. but the joseph legend was soon vigorously developed by the author of the work which underlies the queste and the grand st. graal. he may either not have known or have deliberately discarded brons, the old celtic hero of the conversion, as he certainly deliberately thrust down from his place of pre-eminence perceval, the celtic hero of the quest, substituting for him a new hero, galahad, and for the adventures of the conte du graal, based as they were upon no guiding conceptions, fresh adventures intended to glorify physical chastity. with all his mystic fervour he failed to see the full capacities of the theme, his presentment of the grail itself being in especial either over-material or over-spiritual. but his work exercised a profound influence, as is seen in the case of chrestien's continuators. robert de borron, on the other hand, if to him the merit must be assigned, if he was not simply transcribing an older, forgotten version, was a more original thinker, if a less gifted writer. although he was not able to entirely harmonise the conflicting accounts of which he made use, he yet succeeded in keeping close to the old lines of the legend whilst giving a consistent symbolical meaning to all its details. his work came too late, however, to exercise the influence it should have done upon the development of the legend; the writers who knew it were mere heapers together of adventures, and the very man who composed a sequel to it abandoned robert's main conception. the history of the legend of the holy grail is, thus, the history of the gradual transformation of old celtic folk-tales into a poem charged with christian symbolism and mysticism. this transformation, at first the inevitable outcome of its pre-christian development, was hastened later by the perception that it was a fitting vehicle for certain moral and spiritual ideas. these have been touched upon incidentally in the course of these studies, but they and their manifestation in modern as well as in mediæval literature deserve fuller notice. chapter x. popularity of the arthurian romance--reasons for that popularity--affinities of the mediæval romances with early celtic literature; importance of the individual hero; knighthood; the _rôle_ of woman; the celtic fairy and the mediæval lady; the supernatural--m. renan's views--the quest in english literature, malory--the earliest form of the legend, chrestien, his continuators--the queste and its ideal--the sex-relations in the middle ages--criticism of mr. furnivall's estimate of the moral import of the queste--the merits of the queste--the chastity ideal in the later versions--modern english treatments: tennyson, hawker--possible source of the chastity ideal in popular tradition--the perceval quest in wolfram; his moral conception; the question; parzival and conduiramur--the parzival quest and faust--wagner's parsifal--the christian element in the legend--ethical ideas in the folk-tale originals of the grail romances: the great fool, the sleeping beauty--conclusion. few legends have attained such wide celebrity, or been accepted as so thoroughly symbolical of one master conception, as that of the holy grail. poets and thinkers from mediæval times to our own days have used it as a type of the loftiest goal of man's effort. there must be something in the romances which first embodied this conception to account for the enduring favour it has enjoyed. nor is it that we read into the old legend meanings and teachings undreamt of before our day. at a comparatively early stage in the legend's existence its capacities were perceived, and the works which were the outcome of that perception became the breviary and the exemplar of their age. there are reasons, both general and special, why the celtic mythic tales grew as they did, and had such overwhelming vogue in their new shapes. in no portion of the vast arthurian cycle is it more needful or more instructive to see what these reasons were than in that which recounts the fortunes of the grail. the tales of peredur and gwalchmai, bound up with the arthurian romance, shared its success, than which nothing in all literary history is more marvellous. it was in the year that geoffrey of monmouth first made the legendary history of britain accessible to the lettered class of england and continent. he thereby opened up to the world at large a new continent of romantic story, and exercised upon the development of literature an influence comparable in its kind to that of columbus' achievement upon the course of geographical discovery and political effort. twenty years had not passed before the british heroes were household names throughout europe, and by the close of the century nearly every existing literature had assimilated and reproduced the story of arthur and his knights. charlemagne and alexander, the sagas of teutonic tribes, the tale of imperial rome itself, though still affording subject matter to the wandering jongleur or monkish annalist, paled before the fame of the british king. the instinct which led the twelfth and thirteenth centuries thus to place the arthurian story above all others was a true one. it was charged with the spirit of romance, and they were pre-eminently the ages of the romantic temper. the west had turned back towards the east, and, although the intent was hostile, the minds of the western men had been fecundated, their imagination fired by contact with the mother of all religions and all cultures. the achievements of the crusaders became the standard of attainment to the loftiest and boldest minds of western christendom. for these men alexander himself lacked courage and roland daring. the fathers had stormed jerusalem, and the sons' youth had been nourished on tales of araby the blest and ophir the golden of strife with the paynim, of the sorceries and devilries of the east. nothing seemed impossible to a generation which knew of toils and quests greater than any minstrel had sung, which had beheld in the east sights as wondrous and fearful as any the jongleur could tell of. moreover, the age was that of knight errantry, and of that phase of love in which every knight must qualify himself for the reception of his lady's favours by the performance of some feat of skill and daring. such an age and such men demanded a special literature, and they found it in adaptations of celtic tales. the mythic heroic literature of all races is in many respects alike. the sagas not only of greek or persian, of celt or hindu, of slav or teuton, but also of algonquin or japanese, are largely made up of the same incidents set in the same framework. but each race shapes this common material in its own way, sets upon it its own stamp. and no race has done this more unmistakably than the celtic. stories which go back to the first century, stories taken down from the lips of living peasants, have a kinship of tone and style, a common ring which no one who has studied this literature can fail to recognise. what stamps the whole of it is the prevailing and abiding spirit of romance. to rightly urge the celtic character of the arthurian romances would require the minute analysis of many hundred passages, and it would only be proving a case admitted by everyone who knows all the facts. it will be more to the point to dwell briefly upon those outward features which early (_i.e._, pre-eleventh century) celtic heroic literature has in common with the north french romances of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, especially as we thus gain a clue to much that is problematic in the formal and moral growth of the arthurian cycle in general and of the grail cycle in particular. in celtic tradition, as little as in mediæval romance, do we find a record of race-struggles such as meets us in the nibelungenlied, in the dietrich saga, or the carolingian cycle.[ ] in its place we have a glorification of the individual hero. the reason is not far to seek. the celtic tribes, whether of ireland or britain, were surrounded by men of their own speech, of like institutions and manners. the shock of opposing nations, of rival civilisations, could not enter into their race-tradition. the story-teller had as his chief theme the prowess and skill of the individual "brave," the part he took in the conflicts which clan incessantly waged with clan, or his encounters with those powers of an older mythic world which lived on in the folk-fancy. to borrow mr. fitzgerald's convenient terminology, the "constants" of this tradition may be the same as in that of other aryan races, the "resultants" are not. to give one instance: the conception of a chief surrounded by a picked band of warriors is common to all heroic tradition, but nowhere is it of such marked importance, nowhere does it so mould and shape the story as in the cycles of conchobor and the knights of the red branch, of fionn and the fianna, and of arthur and his knights. the careers of any of the early irish heroes, the single-handed raids of cét mac magach or conall cearnach, above all the fortunes of cuchullain, his hero's training in the amazon-isle, his strife with curoi mac daire, his expeditions to fairy-land, his final holding of the ford against all the warriors of erinn, breathe the same spirit of adventure for its own sake, manifest the same subordination of all else in the story to the one hero, that are such marked characteristics of the arthurian romance. again, in the bands of picked braves who surround conchobor or fionn, in the rules by which they are governed, the trials which precede and determine admission into them, the duties and privileges which attach to them, we have, it seems to me, a far closer analogue to the knighthood of mediæval romance than may be found either in the peers of carolingian saga or in the chosen warriors who throng the halls of walhalla. in the present connection the part played by woman in celtic tradition is perhaps of most import to us. in no respect is the difference more marked than in this between the twelfth century romances, whether french or german, and the earlier heroic literature of either nation. the absence of feminine interest in the earlier _chansons de geste_ has often been noted. the case is different with teutonic heroic literature, in which woman's _rôle_ is always great, sometimes pre-eminently so. but a comparison of the two strains of traditions, celtic and teutonic, one with the other, and again with the romances, may help to account for much that is otherwise inexplicable to us in the mediæval presentment of the sex-feelings and sex-relations. the love of man, and immortal, or, if mortal, semi-divine maid is a "constant" of heroic tradition. teuton and celt have handled this theme, however, in a very different spirit. in the legends of the former the man plays the chief part; he woos, sometimes he forces the fairy maiden to become the mistress of his hearth. as a rule, overmastered by the prowess and beauty of the hero, she is nothing loth. but sometimes, as does brunhild, she feels the change a degradation and resents it. it is otherwise with the fairy mistresses of the celtic hero; they abide in their own place, and they allure or compel the mortal lover to resort to them. connla and bran and oisin must all leave this earth and sail across ocean or lake before they can rejoin their lady love; even cuchullain, mightiest of all the heroes, is constrained, struggle as he may, to go and dwell with the fairy queen fand, who has woed him. throughout, the immortal mistress retains her superiority; when the mortal tires and returns to earth she remains, ever wise and fair, ready to welcome and enchant a new generation of heroes. she chooses whom she will, and is no man's slave; herself she offers freely, but she abandons neither her liberty nor her divine nature. this type of womanhood, capricious, independent, severed from ordinary domestic life, is assuredly the original of the vivians, the orgueilleuses, the ladies of the fountain of the romances; it is also one which must have commended itself to the knightly devotees of mediæval romantic love. their "_dame d'amour_" was, as a rule, another man's wife; she raised in their minds no thought of home or child. in the tone of their feelings towards her, in the character of their intercourse with her, they were closer akin to oisin and neave, to cuchullain and fand, than to siegfried and brunhild, or to roland and aude. even where the love-story passes wholly among mortals, the woman's _rôle_ is more accentuated than in the teutonic sagas. she is no mere lay-figure upon a fire-bound rock like brunhild or menglad, ready, when the destined hero appears, to fall straightway into his arms. emer, the one maiden of erinn whom cuchullain condescends to woo, is eager to show herself in all things worthy of him; she tests his wit as well as his courage, she makes him accept her conditions.[ ] in the great tragic tale of ancient ireland, the fate of the sons of usnech, deirdre--born like helen or gudrun, to be a cause of strife among men, of sorrow and ruin to whomsoever she loves--deirdre takes her fate into her own hands, and woos noisi with outspoken passionate frankness. the whole story is conceived and told in a far more "romantic" strain than is the case with parallel stories from norse tradition, the loves of helgi and sigrun, or those of sigurd and brunhild-gudrun. and if the lament of deirdre over her slain love lacks the grandeur and the intensity with which the norse heroines bewail their dead lords, it has, on the other hand, an intimate, a personal touch we should hardly have looked for in an eleventh century irish epic.[ ] another link between the celtic sagas and the romances is their treatment of the supernatural. heroic-traditional literature is made up of mythical elements, of scenes, incidents, and formulas which have done service in that account of man's dealings with and conceptions of the visible world which we call mythology. all such literature derives ultimately from an early, wholly animistic stage of culture. small marvel, then, if in the hero-tales of every race there figure wonder-working talismans and bespelled weapons, if almost every great saga has, as part of its _dramatis personæ_, objects belonging to what we should now call the inanimate world. upon these a species of life is conferred, most often by power of magic, but at times, it would seem, in virtue of the older conception which held all things to be endowed with like life. all heroic literatures do not, however, accentuate equally and similarly this magic side of their common stock. celtic tradition is not only rich and varied beyond all others in this respect, it often thus secures its chief artistic effects. the talismans of celtic romance, the fairy branch of cormac, the ga-bulg of cuchullain, the sounding-hammer of fionn, the treasures of the boar trwyth after which prince kilhwch sought, the glaives of light of the living folk-tale, have one and all a weird, fantastic, half-human existence, which haunts and thrills the imagination. no celtic story-teller could have "mulled" the nibelung-hoard as the poet of the nibelungenlied has done. how different in this respect the twelfth century romances are from the earlier german or french sagas, how close to the irish tales is apparent to whomsoever reads them with attention.[ ] i do not for one moment imply that the romantic literature of the middle ages was what it was, wholly or even mainly in virtue of its celtic affinities. that literature was the outcome of the age, and something akin to it would have sprung up had celtic tradition remained unknown to the continent. the conception of feudal knighthood as a favoured class, in which men of different nations met on a common footing; the conception of knightly love as something altogether disassociated from domestic life, must in any case have led to the constitution of such a society as we find portrayed in the romances. what is claimed is that the spirit of the age, akin to the celtic, recognised in celtic tales the food it was hungering for. it transformed them to suit its own needs and ideas, but it carried out the transformation on the whole in essential agreement with tradition. in some cases a radical change is made; such a one is presented to us in the grail cycle. the legend thus started with the advantages of belonging to the popular literature of the time, and of association through brons with christian tradition. its incidents were varied, and owing to the blending of diverse strains of story vague enough to be plastic. the formal development of the cycle has been traced in the earlier chapters of these studies; that of its ideal conceptions will be found to follow similar lines. various ethical intentions can be distinguished, and there is not more difference between the versions in the conduct of the story than in the ideals they set forth. to some readers it may have seemed well nigh sacrilegious to trace that ... vanished vase of heaven that held like christ's own heart an hin of blood, to the magic vessels of pagan deities. in england the grail-legend is hardly known save in that form which it has assumed in the queste. this french romance was one of those which malory embodied in his _rifacimento_ of the arthurian cycle, and, thanks to malory, it has become a portion of english speech and thought.[ ] in our own days our greatest poet has expressed the quintessence of what is best and purest in the old romance in lines of imperishable beauty. as we follow sir galahad by secret shrine and lonely mountain mere until ah, blessed vision! blood of god, the spirit beats her mortal bars, as down dark tides the glory slides, and star-like mingles with the stars. we are under a spell that may not be resisted. and yet of the two main paths which the legend has trodden that of galahad is the least fruitful and the least beautiful. compared with the perceval quest in its highest literary embodiment the galahad quest is false and antiquated on the ethical side, lifeless on the æsthetic side. as it first meets us in literature the legend has barely emerged from its pure and simple narrative stage. there is a temptation to exaggerate chrestien's skill of conception when speculating how he would have finished his work, but we know enough, probably, to correctly gauge his intentions. it has been said he meant to portray the ideal knight in perceval. as was formerly the wont of authors he presents his hero in a good light, and he may be credited with a perception of the opportunity afforded him by his subject for placing that hero in positions wherein a knight could best distinguish himself. in so far his work may be accepted as his picture of a worthy knight. but i can discover in it no scheme of a quest after the highest good to be set forth by means of the incidents at his command. perceval is brave as a matter of course, punctual in obeying the counsels of his mother and of his teachers, gonemans and the hermit-uncle, unaffectedly repentant when he is convicted of having neglected his religious duties. but it cannot be said that the hermit's exhortations or the hero's repentance, confession, and absolution mark, or are intended to mark, a definite stage in a progress towards spiritual perfection. the explanation of the hero's silence as a consequence of his sin in leaving his mother, shows how little real thought has been bestowed upon the subject. this explanation, whether wholly chrestien's, as i am tempted to think, or complacently reproduced from his model, gives the measure of his skill in constructing an allegory. beyond insistence upon such points (the hero's docility) as were indicated to him by his model, or, as in the case of his religious opinions, were a matter of course in a work of the time, chrestien gives perceval no higher morality, no loftier aims than those of the day. the ideal of chastity, soon to become of such importance in the development of the legend, is nowhere set forth. perceval, like gawain, takes full advantage of what _bonnes fortunes_ come in his way. and if the quest connotes no spiritual ideal, still less does it one of temporal sovereignty. had chrestien finished his story he would have made perceval heal the maimed king and win his kingdom, but that kingdom would not have been a type of the highest earthly magnificence. we have seen reason to hold that chrestien made one great change in the story as he found it in his model; he assigns the fisher-king's illness to a wound received in battle. this he did, i think, simply with a view to shortening the story by leaving out the whole of the partinal episode. no mystical conception was floating in his mind. yet, as we shall see, the shape which he gave to this incident strongly influenced some of the later versions, and gave the hint for the most philosophical _motif_ to be found in the whole cycle. the immediate continuators of chrestien lift the legend to no higher level. i incline to think that gautier, with less skill of narrative and far greater prolixity, yet trod closely in chrestien's footsteps. in the love episodes he is as full of charm as the more celebrated poet. the second meeting of perceval and blanchefleur is told with that graceful laughing _naïveté_ of which french literature of the period has the secret. but of a plan, an animating conception even such slight traces as chrestien had introduced into the story are lacking. here, as in chrestien, the mysterious talismans themselves in no way help forward the story. chrestien certainly had the christian signification of them in his mind, but makes no use of it. the vessel of the last supper, the spear that pierced christ's side might be any magic spear or vessel as far as he is concerned. the original pagan essence is retained; the name alone is changed. thus far had the legend grown when it came into the hands of the author of the queste. the subject matter had been partly shaped and trimmed by a master of narrative, the connection with christian tradition had been somewhat accentuated. it was open to the author of the queste to take the story as it stood, and to read into its incidents a deep symbolical meaning based upon the christian character of the holy talismans. he preferred to act otherwise. he broke entirely with the traditional framework, dispossessed the original hero, and left not an incident of his model untouched. but his method of proceeding may be likened to a shuffle rather than to a transformation. the incidents reappear in other connection, but do not reveal the author's plan any more than is the case in the conte du graal. the christian character of the talismans is dwelt upon with almost wearisome iteration, the sacramental act supplies the matter of many and of the finest scenes, and yet the essence of the talismans is unchanged. the holy grail, the cup of the last supper, the sacramental chalice is still when it appears the magic food-producing vessel of the old pagan sagas. what is the author's idea? undoubtedly to show that the attainment of the highest spiritual good is not a thing of this world; only by renouncing every human desire, only by passing into a land intermediary between this earth and heaven, is the quest achieved. in the story of the prosecution of that quest some attempt may be traced at portraying the cardinal virtues and deadly sins by means of the adventures of the questers, and of the innumerable exhortations addressed to them. but no skill is shown in the conduct of this plan, which is carried out chiefly by the introduction of numerous allegorical scenes which are made a peg for lengthy dogmatic and moral expositions. in this respect the author compares unfavourably with robert de borron, who shapes his story in full accord with his conception of the grail itself, a conception deriving directly from the symbolic christian nature he attributed to it, and who makes even such unpromising incidents as that of the magic fisher subserve his guiding idea.[ ] if the author's way of carrying out his conception cannot be praised, how does it stand with the conception itself? the fact that the quest is wholly disassociated from this earth at once indicates the standpoint of the romance. the first effect of the quest's proclamation is to break up the table round, that type of the noblest human society of the day, and its final achievement brings cheer or strengthening to no living man. the successful questers alone in their unhuman realm have any joy of the grail. the spirit in which they prosecute their quest is best exemplified by sir bors. when he comes to the magic tower and is tempted of the maidens, who threaten to cast themselves down and be dashed to pieces unless he yield them his love, he is sorry for them, but unmoved, thinking it better "they lose their souls than he his." so little had the christian writer apprehended the signification of christ's most profound saying. the character of the principal hero is in consonancy with this aim, wholly remote from the life of man on earth. a shadowy perfection at the outset, he remains a shadowy perfection throughout, a bloodless and unreal creature, as fit when he first appears upon the scene as when he quits it, to accomplish a quest, purposeless, inasmuch as it only removes him from a world in which he has neither part nor share. such human interest as there is in the story is supplied by lancelot, who takes over many of the adventures of perceval or gawain in the conte du graal. in him we note contrition for past sin, strivings after a higher life with which we can sympathise. in fine, such moral teaching as the queste affords is given us rather by sinful lancelot than by sinless galahad. but the aversion to this world takes a stronger form in the queste, and one which is the vital conception of the work, in the insistence upon the need for physical chastity. to rightly understand the author's position we must glance at the state of manners revealed by the romances, and in especial at the sex-relations as they were conceived of by the most refined and civilised men and women of the day. the french romances are, as a rule, too entirely narrative to enable a clear realisation of what these were. wolfram, with his keener and more sympathetic eye for individual character--wolfram, who loves to analyse the sentiments and to depict the outward manifestations of feeling of his personages--is our best guide here. the manners and customs of the day can be found in the french romances; the feelings which underlie them must be sought for in the german poet. the marked feature of the sex-relations in the days of chivalry was the institution of _minnedienst_ (love-service). the knight bound himself to serve a particular lady, matron or maid. to approve himself brave, hardy, daring, patient, and discreet was his part of the bargain, and when fulfilled the lady must fulfil hers and pay her servant. the relation must not for one moment be looked upon as platonic; the last favours were in every case exacted, or rather were freely granted, as the lady, whether maid or wedded wife, thought it no wrong thus to reward her knight. it would have been "bad form" to deny payment when the service had been rendered, and the offender guilty of such conduct would have been scouted by her fellow-women as well as by all men. nothing is more instructive in this connection than the delightfully told episode of gawain and orgueilleuse. the latter is unwedded, a great and noble lady, but she has already had several favoured lovers, as indeed she frankly tells gawain. he proffers his service, which she hardly accepts, but heaps upon him all manner of indignity and insult, which he bears with the patient and resourceful courtesy, his characteristic in mediæval romance. whilst the time of probation lasts, no harsh word, no impatient gesture, escapes him. but when he has accomplished the feat of the ford perillous he feels that he has done enough, and taking his lady-love to task he lectures her, as a grave middle-aged man might some headstrong girl, upon the duties of a well-bred woman and upon the wrong she has done knighthood in his person. to point the moral he winds up, at mid-day in the open forest, with a proposition which the repentant scornful one can only parry by the naïve remark, "seldom she had found it warm in the embrace of a mail-clad arm." not only was it the lady's duty to yield after a proper delay, but at times she might even make the first advances and be none the worse thought of. blanchefleur comes to perceval's bed with scarce an apology.[ ] orgueilleuse, overcome with admiration at the red knight's prowess, offers him her love. true, she has doubts as to the propriety of her conduct, but when she submits them to gawain, the favoured lover for the time being, he unhesitatingly approves her--perceval's fame was such that had he accepted her proffered love she could have suffered naught in honour. customs such as these, and a state of feelings such as they imply, are so remote from us, that it is difficult to realise them, particularly in view of the many false statements respecting the nature of chivalrous love which have obtained currency. but we must bear in mind that the age was pre-eminently one of individual prowess. the warlike virtues were all in all. that a man should be brave, hardy, and skilful in the use of his weapons was the essential in a time when the single hero was almost of as much account as in the days of achilles, siegfried, or cuchullain. that _minnedienst_ tended to this end, as did other institutions of the day which we find equally blamable, is its historical excuse. even then many felt its evils and perceived its anti-social character. some, too, there were who saw how deeply it degraded the ideal of love. a protest against this morality was indeed desirable. such a one the queste does supply. but it is not enough to protest in a matter so profoundly affecting mankind as the moral ideas which govern the sex-relations. not only must the protest be made in a right spirit, and on the right lines, but a truer and loftier ideal must be set up in place of the one attacked. in how far the queste fulfils these conditions we shall see. meanwhile, as a sample of the feelings with which many englishmen have regarded it, and as an attempt to explain its historical and ethical _raison d'être_, i cannot do better than quote mr. furnivall's enthusiastic words: "what is the lesson of it all? is the example of galahad and his unwavering pursuit of the highest spiritual object set before him, nothing to us? is that of perceval, pure and tempted, on the point of yielding, yet saved by the sight of the symbol of his faith, to be of no avail to us? is the tale of bohors, who has once sinned, but by a faithful life ... at last tasting spiritual food, and returning to devote his days to god and good--is this no lesson to us?... on another point, too, this whole arthur story may teach us. monkish, to some extent, the exaltation of bodily chastity above almost every other earthly virtue is; but the feeling is a true one; it is founded on a deep reverence for woman, which is the most refining and one of the noblest sentiments of man's nature, one which no man can break through without suffering harm to his spiritual life." it would be hard to find a more striking instance of how the "editorial idol" may override perception and judgment. he who draws such lofty and noble teachings from the queste del saint graal, must first bring them himself. he must read modern religion, modern morality into the mediæval allegory, and on one point he must entirely falsify the mediæval conception. whether this is desirable is a question we can have no hesitation in deciding negatively. it is better to find out what the author really meant than to interpret his symbolism in our own fashion. the author of the queste places the object and conditions of his mystic quest wholly outside the sphere of human action or interest; in a similar spirit he insists, as an indispensable requirement in the successful quester, upon a qualification necessarily denied to the vast majority of mankind. his work is a glorification of physical chastity. "blessed are the pure--in body--for they shall inherit the kingdom of heaven," is the text upon which he preaches. in such a case everything depends upon the spirit of the preacher, and good intent is not enough to win praise. his conception, says mr. furnivall, is founded upon a deep reverence for woman. this is, indeed, such a precious thing that had the mediæval ascetic really felt it we could have forgiven the stupidity which ignores all that constitutes the special dignity and pathos of womanhood. but he felt nothing of the kind. woman is for him the means whereby sin came into the world, the arch stumbling-block, the tool the devil finds readiest to his hands when he would overcome man. only in favour of the virgin mother, and of those who like her are vowed to mystical maidenhood, does the author pardon woman at all. one single instance will suffice to characterize the mediæval standpoint. when the quest of the holy grail was first proclaimed in arthur's court there was great commotion, and the ladies would fain have joined therein, "car cascune dame ou damoiselle (qui) fust espousée ou amie, dist à son chiualer qu'ele yroit od lui en la queste." but a hermit comes forward to forbid this; "no dame or damsel is to accompany her knight lest he fall into deadly sin." wife or leman, it was all one for the author of the queste; woman could not but be an occasion for deadly sin, and the sin, though in the one case less in degree (and even this is uncertain), was the same in kind. fully one-half of the romance is one long exemplification of the essential vileness of the sex-relation, worked out with the minute and ingenious nastiness of a jesuit moral theologian. the author was of his time; it was natural he should think and write as he did, and it would be uncritical to blame him for his degrading view of womanhood or for his narrow and sickly view of life. but when we are bidden to seek example of him, it is well to state the facts as they are.[ ] if his transformation of the story has been rudely effected without regard to its inherent possibilities, if the spirit of his ideal proves to be miserably ascetic and narrow, what then remains to the queste, and how may we account for its popularity in its own day, and for the abiding influence which its version of the legend has exercised over posterity. its literary qualities are at times great; certain scenes, especially such as set forth the sacramental nature of the grail, are touched with a mystical fervour which haunts the imagination. it has given some of the most picturesque features to this most picturesque of legends. but i see in the idea of the mystic quest proclaimed to and shared in by the whole table round the real secret of the writer's success. this has struck the imagination of so many generations and given the queste an undeserved fame. in truth the conception of arthur's court, laying aside ordinary cares and joys, given wholly up to one overmastering spiritual aim, is a noble one. it is, i think, only in a slight degree the outcome of definite thought and intent but was dictated to the writer by the form into which he had recast the story. galahad had supplanted perceval, but the latter could not be suppressed entirely. the achievement of the quest involved the passing away out of this world of the chief heroes, hence a third less perfect one is joined to them to bring back tidings to earth of the marvels he had witnessed. lancelot, to whom are assigned so many of perceval's adventures, cannot be denied a share in the quest; it is the same with gawain, whose character in the older romance fits him, moreover, excellently for the _rôle_ of "dreadful example." by this time the arthurian legend was fully grown, and the mention of these knights called up the names of others with whom they were invariably connected by the romance writers. well nigh every hero of importance was thus drawn into the magic circle, and the mystic quest assumed, almost inevitably, the shape it did. this conception, to which, if i am right, the author of the queste was led half unconsciously, seems to us the most admirable thing in his work. it was, however, his ideal of virginity which struck the idea of his contemporaries, and which left its mark upon after versions. an age with such a gross ideal of love may have needed an equally gross ideal of purity. physical chastity plays henceforth the leading part in the moral development of the cycle. with robert de borron it is the sin of the flesh which brings down upon the grail host the wrath of heaven, and necessitates the display of the grail's wondrous power. here may be noted the struggle of the new conception with the older form of the story. alain, the virgin knight, would rather be flayed than marry, and yet he does marry in obedience to the original model. robert is consistent in all that relates to the symbolism of the grail, but in other respects, as we have already seen, he is easily thrown off his guard. in the didot-perceval, written as a sequel to robert's poem, the same struggle between old and new continues, and the reconciling spirit goes to work in naïve and unskilful style. the incidents of the conte du graal are kept, although they accord but ill with the hero's ascetic spirit. in the portion of the conte du graal itself which goes under manessier's name, along with adventures taken direct from chrestien's model, and far less christianised than in the earlier poet's work, many occur which are simply transferred from the queste. no attempt is made at reconciling these jarring elements, and the effect of the contrast is at times almost comic. in two of the later romances of the cycle the fusion has been more complete, and the result is, in consequence, more interesting. the prose perceval le gallois keeps the original hero of the quest as far as name and kinship are concerned, but it gives him the aggressive virginity and the proselytising zeal of galahad. gerbert's finish to the conte du graal is, perhaps, the strangest outcome of the double set of influences to which the later writers were exposed. without doubt his model differed from the version used by gautier and manessier. it is more celtic in tone, and is curiously akin to the hypothetical lost source of wolfram von eschenbach. the hero's absence from his lady-love is insisted upon, and the need of returning to her before he can find peace. the genuineness of this feature admits of little doubt. many folk-tales tell of the severance of lover and beloved, and of their toilful wanderings until they meet again; such a tale easily lends itself to the idea that separation is caused by guilt, and that, whilst severed, one or other lover must suffer misfortune. often, as in the case of diarmaid and the daughter of king under the waves (_supra_, p. ), definite mention is made of the guilt, as a rule an infringed taboo. such an incident could scarcely fail to assume the ethical shape gerbert has given it. thus he had only to listen to his model, to take his incidents as he found them, and he had the matter for a moral conception wholly in harmony with them. the chastity ideal has been too strong for him. his lovers do come together, but only to exemplify the virtue of continence in the repulsive story of their bridal night. after gerbert the cycle lengthens, but does not develop. the queste retains its supremacy, and through malory its dominant conception entered deeply into the consciousness of the english race. how far the author of the queste must be credited with the new ideal he brought into the legend is worth enquiry. like so much else therein, it may have its roots in the folk and hero tales which underlie the romances. the castle of talismans visited by perceval is the land of shades. in popular tradition the incident takes the form of entry into the hollow hill-side where the fairy king holds his court and hoards untold riches. poverty and simplicity are the frequent qualifications of the successful quester; oftener still some mystic birthright, the being a sunday's child for instance, or a seventh son; or again freedom from sin is required, and, perhaps, most frequently maidenhood.[ ] the stress which so many peoples lay upon virginity in the holy prophetic maidens, who can transport themselves into the otherworld and bring thence the commands of the god, may be noted in the same connection. no celtic tale i have examined with a view to throwing light upon the grail romances insists upon this idea, but some version, now lost, may possibly have done so. celtic tradition gave the romance writers of the middle ages material and form for the picture of human love; it may also have given them a hint of the opposing ideal of chastity.[ ] all this time it should be noted that no real progress is made in the symbolical machinery of the legend. the holy grail becomes superlatively sacrosanct, but it retains its pristine pagan essence, even in the only version, the grand st. graal, which knew of borron and of his mystical conception. such, then, had been the growth of the legend in one direction. the original incidents were either transformed, mutilated, or, where they kept their first shape, underwent no ethical deepening or widening. the talismans themselves had been transferred from celtic to christian mythology, but their fate was still bound up with the otherworld. he who would seek them must turn his back upon this earth from which the palace spiritual and the city of sarras were even more remote than avalon or tir-na n-og. was no other course open? could not framework and incidents of the celtic tales be retained, and yet, raised to a loftier, wider level, become a fit vehicle for philosophic thought and moral exhortation? one side of popular tradition figured the hero as wresting the talismans from the otherworld powers for the benefit of his fellow men. could not this form of the myth be made to yield a human, practical conception of the quest and winning of the holy grail? we are luckily not reduced to conjecture in this matter. a work largely fulfilling these hypothetical requirements exists in the parzival of wolfram von eschenbach. on the whole it is the most interesting individual work of modern european literature prior to the divina commedia, and its author has a better claim than any other mediæval poet to be called a man of genius. he must, of course, be measured by the standard of his time. it would be useless to expect from him that homogeneity of narrative, that artistic proportion of style first met with years later in italy, and which from italy passed into all european literatures. compared with the unknown poets who gave their present shape to the nibelungenlied or to the chanson de roland he is an individual writer, but he is far from deserving this epithet even in the sense that chaucer deserves it. his subject dominates him. even when his philosophic mind is conceiving it under a new aspect he anxiously holds to the traditional form. hence great inconsistencies in his treatment of the theme, hence, too, the frequent difficulty in interpreting his meaning, the frequent doubt as to how far the interpretation is correct. here, as in the discussion respecting the _origines_ of the grail legend, resort must often be had to conjecture, and any solution of the fascinating problems involved is necessarily and largely subjective. wolfram's relation to his predecessors must be taken into account in estimating the value of the parzival. the earlier portion of his work differs entirely, as we have seen, from any existing french romance; so does the finish in so far as it agrees with the opening. the greater part of the story is closely parallel to chrestien; there are points of contact, peculiar to these two writers, with gerbert. little invention, properly so called, of incident can be traced in the parzival. the part common to it and chrestien is incomparably fuller and more interesting in the german poet, but the main outlines are the same. wolfram has, however, been at some pains to let us know what was his conception of the legend. that much is allowed to remain at variance therewith is a clear proof of his timidity of invention. doubt, he says, is the most potent corrupter of the soul. whoso gives himself over to unfaith and unsteadfastness treadeth in truth the downward path. god himself is very faithfulness. strife against him, doubt of him, is the highest sin. but humility and repentance may expiate it, and he who thus repents may be chosen by god for the grail kingship, the summit of earthly holiness. peace of soul and all earthly power are the chosen one's; alone, unlawful desire and the company of sinners are denied him by the grail. how is this leading conception worked out? the framework and the march of incidents are the same as in the conte du graal. one capital change at once, however, lifts the story to a higher level. the fisher king suffers from a wound received in the cause of unlawful love, in disobedience to those heavenly commands which govern the grail community. the healing question can be put only by one worthy to take up the high office amfortas has dishonoured, in virtue of having passed through the strife of doubt, and become reconciled to god by repentance and humble trust. if parzival neglected to put the question on his first arrival at the grail castle, it was that in the conceit of youth he fancied all wisdom was his. childish insistence upon his mother's counsels had brought down reproof upon him; he had learnt the world's wisdom from gurnemanz, he had shown himself in defence of conduiramur a valiant knight, worthy of power and woman's love. when brought into contact with the torturing sorrow of amfortas, he is too full of himself, of his teacher's wisdom, to rightly use the opportunity. the profound significance of the question which at once releases the sinner, and announces the one way in which the sin may be cancelled, namely, by the coming of a worthier successor, is due, if we may credit birch-hirschfeld, to an accident. wolfram only knew chrestien. the latter never explains the real nature of the grail, and the german poet's knowledge of french was too slight to put him on the right track. the question, "whom serve they with the grail?" which he found in chrestien, was necessarily meaningless to him, and he replaced it by his, "uncle, what is it tortures thee?" the change _may_ be the result of accident as is so much else in this marvellous legend, but it required a man of genius to turn the accident to such account. it is the insistence upon charity as the herald and token of spiritual perfection that makes the grandeur of wolfram's poem, and raises it so immeasureably above the queste. the same human spirit is visible in the delineation of the grail kingship as the type of the highest good. wolfram's theology is distinctively antinomian--no man may win the grail in his own strength; it choseth whom it will--and has been claimed on the one hand[ ] as a reflex of orthodox catholic belief, on the other as a herald of the lutheran doctrine of grace.[ ] theological experts may be left to fight out this question among themselves. apart from this, wolfram has a practical sense of the value of human effort. with him the quest is not to be achieved by utter isolation from this earth and its struggles. the chief function of the grail kingdom is to supply an abiding type of a divinely ordered society; it also trains up leaders for those communities which lack them. it is a civilising power as well as a palace spiritual. in the relation of man to heaven, wolfram, whilst fully accepting the doctrines of his age, appeals to the modern spirit with far greater power and directness than the queste. in the other great question of the legend, the relation of man to woman, he is likewise nearer to us, although it must be confessed that he builds better than he knows. to the love ideal of his day, based wholly upon passion and vanity and severed from all family feeling, he opposes the wedded love of parzival and conduiramur. the hero's recollection of the mother of his children is the one saving influence throughout the years of doubt and discouragement which follow kundrie's reproaches. whilst still staggering under this blow, so cruelly undeserved as it seems to him, he can wish his friend and comrade, gawain, a woman chaste and good, whom he may love and who shall be his guardian angel. the thought of conduiramur holds him aloof from the offered love of orgeluse. in his last and bitterest fight, with his unknown brother, when it had nigh gone with him to his death, he recalls her and renews the combat with fresh strength. she it is for whom he wins the highest earthly crown, of which her pure, womanly heart makes her worthy. reunion with her and with his children is parzival's first taste of the joy that is henceforth to be his. passages may easily be multiplied that tally ill with the ideas of the poem as here briefly set forth. but the existence of these ideas is patent to the unprejudiced reader. despite its many shortcomings, the poem which contains them is the noblest and most human outcome of that mingled strain of celtic fancy and christian symbolism whose history we have traced.[ ] in wolfram, equally with the majority of the french romance writers, there is little consistency in the formal use of the mystic talismans. be the reason what it may, wolfram certainly never thought of associating the grail with the last supper. but its religious character is, at times, as marked with him as with robert de borron or the author of the queste. it is the actual vehicle of the deity's commands; it restrains from sin; it suffers no unchaste servant; it may be seen of no heathen; the simple beholding of it preserves men from death. this last characteristic would be thought in modern times a sufficient tribute to the original nature of the old pagan cauldron of increase and rejuvenescence. but wolfram was of his time, and followed his models faithfully. along with the lofty spiritual attributes of his grail, he pictures in drastic fashion its food-dispensing powers. the mystic stone, fallen from heaven itself, renewed each good friday by direct action of the spirit, becomes all at once a mere victual producing machine. we can see how little wolfram liked this feature of his model, and how he felt the contrast between it and his own more spiritual conception. but here, as elsewhere in the poem, he allowed much to stand against which his better judgment protested. his own share in the development of the legend must be gauged by what is distinctively his, not by what he has in common with others. judged thus, he must be said to have developed the christian symbolic side of the legend as much as the human philosophic side. if in robert de borron the grail touches its highest symbolic level through its identification with the body of the dead and risen lord, we can trace in wolfram the germ of that approximation of the grail-quester to the earthly career of the saviour which wagner was to develop more than years later.[ ] what influence wolfram's poem, with its practical, human enthusiasm, its true and noble sexual morality, might have had on english literature is an interesting speculation. it would have appealed, one would think, to our race with its utilitarian ethical instinct, with its lofty ideal of wedded love. the true man, parzival, should, in the fitness of things, be the english hero of the quest, rather than the visionary ascetic galahad. mediæval england was dominated by france and knew nothing of germany, and when in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries we can trace german influence on english thought and writ, taste had changed, and the parzival was well-nigh forgotten in its own land. it remained so almost until our own days. the quest after perfection still haunted the german mind, but it was conceived of on altogether different lines from those of the twelfth century poet. the nation of scholars pictured the quester as a student, not as a knight. when it took shape in the dreary period of protestant scholasticism the quest is wholly cursed. faust's pursuit of knowledge is unlawful, a rebellion against god, which dooms him irrevocably. not until goethe's day is the full significance of the legend perceived, is the theme widened to embrace the totality of human striving. thus the last glimpse we have of faust is of one devoted to the service of man; the last words of the poem are a recognition of the divine element in the love of man and woman.[ ] in germany, as in england, the old legend has appealed afresh to poets and thinkers, and then, as was natural, they turned to germany's greatest mediæval poet. wagner's parsifal would, in any case, be interesting as an expression of one of the strongest dramatic geniuses of the century. considered purely as a work of literature, apart from the music, it has rare beauty and profound significance. the essentially dramatic bent of wagner's mind, the stage destination of the poem, must be borne in mind when considering it. wolfram's conception--youthful folly and inexperience chastised by reproof, followed by doubt and strife, cancelled by the faithful steadfastness of the full-grown man--is obviously unsuited for dramatic purposes. at no one point of wolfram's poem do we find that clash of motives and of characters which the stage requires. in building up _his_ conception wagner has utilised every hint of his predecessor with wonderful ingenuity. klinschor, the magician, becomes with him the active opponent of the grail king, amfortas, from whom he has wrested the holy spear by the aid of kundry's unholy beauty. kundry is wagner's great contribution to the legend. she is the herodias whom christ for her laughter doomed to wander till he come again. subject to the powers of evil, she must tempt and lure to their destruction the grail warriors. and yet she would find release and salvation could a man resist her love spell.[ ] she knows this. the scene between the unwilling temptress, whose success would but doom her afresh, and the virgin parsifal thus becomes tragic in the extreme. how does this affect amfortas and the grail? in this way. parsifal is the "pure fool," knowing nought of sin or suffering. it had been foretold of him he should become "wise by fellow-suffering," and so it proves. the overmastering rush of desire unseals his eyes, clears his mind. heart-wounded by the shaft of passion, he feels amfortas' torture thrill through him. the pain of the physical wound is his, but far more, the agony of the sinner who has been unworthy his high trust, and who, soiled by carnal sin, must yet daily come in contact with the grail, symbol of the highest purity and holiness. the strength which comes of the new-born knowledge enables him to resist sensual longing, and thereby to release both kundry and amfortas. in the latest version of the perceval quest, as in the galahad quest, the ideal of chastity is thus paramount. this result is due to wagner's dramatic treatment of the theme. the conception that knowledge of sin and fellowship in suffering are requisite to enable man to resist temptation, and that thus alone does he acquire the needful strength to assist his fellows, however true and profound, can obviously only be worked out on the stage through the medium of one form of sin and suffering. the long psychological process of wolfram's poem, the slow growth of the unthinking youth into the steadfast, faithful man, is replaced by a mystic, transcendental conversion. from out a world of human endeavour, human motive, we have stepped into one wholly ascetic and symbolical. the love of man for woman only appears in the guise of forbidden desire; the aims and needs of this world are not even thought of. every incident has been remoulded in accord with christian tradition. wagner fully accepts the sacramental nature of the grail, and the grail feast is with him a faithful reproduction of the last supper. holiness and purity are the essence of the grail, which is cleared from every taint of its pagan origin. and whilst wagner, following the french models, identifies the grail with the most sacred object of christian worship, he also, developing hints of wolfram's, reshapes the career of his grail-seeker in accord with that of christ. parsifal, the releaser of sin-stricken kundry, of sin-stricken amfortas--parsifal, the restorer of peace and holiness to the grail kingdom--becomes a symbol of the saviour. in the reasoned, artistic growth of the legend, the plastic, living element is that supplied by christian tradition. from the moment that the celtic lord of the underworld is identified with the evangelist of britain we see the older complex of tales acquire consistency, life, and meaning. even where the direct influence of the intruding element is slightest, as in the conte du graal, we can still perceive that it is responsible for the germs of after development. sometimes violently and unintelligently, sometimes with a keen feeling for the possibilities of the original romance, sometimes with the boldest introduction of new matter, sometimes with slavish adherence to pre-christian conceptions, the transformation of the celtic tales goes on. the cauldron of increase and renovation, the glaive of light, the magic fish, the visit to the otherworld, all are gradually metamorphosed until at last the talisman of the irish gods becomes the symbol of the risen lord, its seeker a type of christ in his divinest attributes. the ethical teaching of the legend becomes also purely christian as the middle ages conceived christianity. renunciation of the world and of the flesh is its key-note. once only in wolfram do we find an ideal human in its essence, though dogmatic in form; the path thus opened is not trodden further, and the legend remains as a whole, on the moral side, a monument of christian asceticism. we have seen reason to surmise that the folk-tales which underlie the romances themselves gave the hint for the most characteristic manifestation of this ascetic ideal. it is worth enquiry if these tales have developed themselves independently from the christianised legend, and if such development shows any trace of ethical conceptions comparable with those of the legend. can we gather from the tales as fashioned by the folk teaching similar to that of the preachers, philosophers, and artists by whom the legend has been shaped? few enquiries can be more interesting than one which traces such a conception as the quest after the highest good as pictured by the rudest and most primitive members of the race. many of the tales which formed a part of the (hypothetical) welsh original of the earliest grail romances have been shown to come under the aryan expulsion and return formula (_supra_, ch. vi). among most races this formula has connected itself with the national heroes, and has given rise to hero-tales in which the historical element outweighs the ethical. sometimes, as in the tale of perseus, the incidents are so related as to bring out an ethical _motif_; perseus is certainly thought of as avenging his mother's undeserved wrongs. i cannot trace anything of the kind among the celts. all the incidents of the formula in celtic tradition which i know of are purely historical in character. this element of the old saga-mass thus yields nothing for the present enquiry. others are more fruitful. perceval is akin not only to fionn, but also to the great fool. the lay of the great fool was found to tally closely with adventures in the mabinogi and in the conte du graal (_supra_, ch. vi). it also sets forth a moral conception that admits of profitable comparison with that of the grail romances. ultimately, the lay is, i have little doubt, one of the many forms in which a mortal's visit to the otherworld was related. wandering into the glen of glamour, the hero and his love encounter a magician; the hero drinks of the proffered cup, despite his love's remonstrances, and forthwith loses his two legs. this is obviously a form of the widely-spread myth which forbids the visitant to the otherworld to partake of aught there under penalty of never returning to earth. but this mythical _motif_ has taken an ethical shape in popular fancy. according to kennedy's version, it is the hero's excess in draining the cup to the dregs which calls for punishment. this change is of the same nature as that noted with regard to a similar incident in the grail romances. there, the old mythic taboo of sleeping or speaking in the otherworld called at last for an explanation, and found one in wolfram's philosophic conception. the parallel does not end here. perceval may retrieve his fault, and so may the great fool; wolfram makes his hero win salvation by steadfast faith, the folk-tale makes its hero in the face of every form of temptation a pattern of steadfast loyalty to the absent friend and to the pledged word. it may, or may not, be considered to the advantage of the folk-tale that, unlike the mediæval romance, it deals neither in mysticism nor in asceticism. the sin and atonement of the great fool are such as the popular mind can grasp; he is an example of human weakness and human strength. the woman he loves is no temptress, no representative of the evil principle--on the contrary, she is ever by his side to counsel and to cheer him. when it is remembered that the two off-shoots, romantic-legendary and popular, from the one traditional stem have grown up in perfect independence of each other, the kinship of moral idea is startling. the folk-lorist has often cause to wonder at the spontaneous flower-like character of the object of his study; folk-tradition seems to obey fixed laws of growth and to be no product of man's free thought and speech. the few partisans of the theory that folk-tradition is only a later and weakened echo of the higher culture of the race are invited to study the present case. a celtic tale, after supplying an important element to the christianised grail legend, has gone on its way entirely unaffected by the new shape which that legend assumed, and yet it has worked out a moral conception of fundamental likeness to one set forth in the legend. it would be difficult to find a more perfect instance of the spontaneous, evolutional character of tradition contended for by what, in default of a better name, must be called the anthropological school of folk-lorists. we must quit celtic ground to find another example of an element in the originals of the grail romances, embodying a popular ethical idea. this instance is such an interesting one that i cannot pass it by in silence. as was shown in chapter vii, one of the many forms of the hero's visit to the otherworld has for object the release of maidens held captive by an evil power. a formal connection was established between this section of the romance and the folk-tale of the sleeping beauty. as a whole, too, this tale admits of comparison with the legend. its origin is mythic without a doubt. whether it be regarded as a day or as a year myth, as the rescue of the dawn from night, or of the incarnate spring from the bonds of winter, it equally pictures a victory of the lord of light and heat and life over the powers of darkness, cold, and death. with admirable fidelity folk-tradition has preserved the myth, so that its true nature can be recognised without fail. it would be wrong, though, to conclude that retention of the mythic framework implied any recognition of its mythic character on the part of those who told or listened to the story. some investigators, indeed, hold it idle to consider it otherwise than as a tale told merely for amusement. but a story, to live, must appeal to moral as well as to æsthetic emotions. in the folk-mind this story sets forth, dimly though it may be, that search for the highest human felicity which is likewise a theme of the grail romances. what better picture of this quest could be found than the old mythic symbol of the awakening of life and increase beneath the kiss of the sun-god. the hero of the folk-tale makes his way through the briars and tangle of the forest that he may restore to the deserted castle life and plenty; so much has the tale retained of the original mythic signification. as regards the quester himself, the maiden he thus woos is his reward and the noblest prize earth has to offer him. where the romance writers made power, or riches, or learning, or personal salvation the goal of man's effort, the folk-tale bids him seek happiness in the common human affections. such, all too briefly sketched, has been the fate and story of these tales, first shaped in a period of culture wellnigh pre-historic, gifted by reason of their celtic setting with a charm that commended them to the romantic spirit of the middle ages, and made them fit vehicles for the embodiment of mediæval ideas. quickened by christian symbolism they came to express and typify the noblest and the most mystic longings of man. the legend, as the poets and thinkers of the twelfth century fashioned it, has still a lesson and a meaning for us. it may be likened to one of the divine maidens of irish tradition. she lives across the western sea. ever and again heroes, filled with mysterious yearning for the truth and beauty of the infinite and undying, make sail to join her if they may. they pass away and others succeed them, but she remains ever young and fair. so long as the thirst of man for the ideal endures, her spell will not be weakened, her charm will not be lessened. but each generation works out this quest in its own spirit. this much may be predicted with some confidence: henceforth, whosoever would do full justice to the legend must take pattern by wolfram von eschenbach rather than by any of his rivals; he must deal with human needs and human longings; his ideal must be the widening of human good and human joy. above all, he must give reverent yet full expression to all the aspirations, all the energies of man and of woman. finis. appendix a. the relationship of wolfram von eschenbach and chrestien. the various arguments for and against the use of any other french source than chrestien by wolfram have been clearly summed up by g. bötticher, die wolfram literatur seit lachmann, berlin, . the chief representative of the negative opinion is birch-hirschfeld, who first gives, chapter viii. of his work, a useful collection of passages relating to the grail, the castle, and the quest, from both authors. his chief argument is this:--the grail in all the romances except in wolfram is a cup or vessel, but in wolfram a stone, a peculiarity only to be explained by wolfram's ignorance of any source than chrestien, and by the fact that the latter, in accordance with his usual practice of leaving objects and persons in as mysterious an atmosphere as possible, nowhere gives a clear description of the grail. he undoubtedly would have done so if he had finished his work. such indications as he gave led wolfram, who did not understand the word _graal_, to think it was a stone. it is inconceivable that kyot, if such a personage existed, should have so far departed from all other versions as not to picture the grail as a vessel, inconceivable, again, that his account of it should have been just as vague as chrestien's, that he should have afforded wolfram no hint of the real nature of the object. in chrestien perceval's question refers to the grail, but wolfram, missing the significance of the holy vessel owing to the meagreness of the information respecting it given to him by chrestien, was compelled to transform the whole incident, and to refer it solely to the sufferings of the wounded king. again, chrestien meant to utilise the sword, and to bring gawain to the grail castle; but his unfinished work did not carry out his intention, and in wolfram gawain also fails to come to the grail castle; the sword is passed over in silence in the latter part of the poem.--simrock, jealous for the credit of wolfram, claimed for him the invention of all that could not be traced to chrestien, resting the claim chiefly upon consideration of a sentimental patriotic nature.--in opposition to these views, although the fact is not denied that wolfram followed chrestien closely for the parts common to both, it is urged to be incredible that he, a german poet, should invent a prologue to chrestien's unfinished work connecting with an angevin princely genealogical legend. it was also pointed out, with greatest fulness by bartsch, die eigennamen im parcival und titurel, germanist. studien, ii., , _et seq._, that the german poet gives a vast number of proper names which are not to be found in chrestien, and that these are nearly all of french, and especially southern french and provençal origin.--simrock endeavoured to meet this argument in the fifth edition of his translation, but with little success.--bötticher, whilst admitting the weight of birch-hirschfeld's arguments, points out the difficulties which his theory involves. if wolfram simply misunderstood chrestien and did not differ from him personally, why should he be at the trouble of inventing an elaborately feigned source to justify a simple addition to the original story? if he only knew of the grail from chrestien, what gave him the idea of endowing it, as he did, with mystic properties? martin points out in addition (zs. f. d. a., v. ) that wolfram has the same connection of the grail and swan knight story as gerbert, whom, _ex hypothesi_, he could not have known, and who certainly did not know him.--in his zur gralsage, martin returned to the question of proper names, and showed that a varying redaction of a large part of the romance is vouched for by the different names which heinrich von dem türlin applies to personages met with both in chrestien and in wolfram. if, then, one french version, that followed by heinrich, who is obviously a translator, is lost, why not another? the first thorough comparison of chrestien and wolfram is to be found in otto küpp's unmittelbaren quellen des parzival, (zs. f. d. ph. xvii., l). he argues for kyot's existence. some of the points he mentions in which the two poems differ, and in which wolfram's account has a more archaic character, may be cited: the mention of gurnemanz's sons; the food producing properties of the grail on parzival's first visit; the reproaches of the varlet to parzival on his leaving the grail castle, "you are a goose, had you but moved your lips and asked the host! now you have lost great praise;"[ ] the statement that the broken sword is to be made whole by dipping in the lake lac, and the mention of a sword charm by virtue of which parzival can become lord of the grail castle; the mention that no one seeing the grail could die within eight days. in addition küpp finds that many of the names in wolfram are more archaic than those of chrestien. on the other hand, küpp has not noticed that chrestien has preserved a more archaic feature in the prohibition laid upon gauvain not to leave for seven days the castle after he had undergone the adventure of the bed. küpp has not noticed that some of the special points he singles out in wolfram are likewise to be found in chrestien's continuators, _e.g._, the mention of the sons of gurnemanz, by gerbert. i believe i have the first pointed out the insistence by both wolfram and gerbert upon the hero's love to and duty towards his wife. the name of parzival's uncle in wolfram, gurnemanz, is nearer to the form in gerbert, gornumant, than to that in chrestien, gonemant. the matter may be summed up thus: it is very improbable that wolfram should have invented those parts of the story found in him alone; the parts common to him and chrestien are frequently more archaic in his case; there are numerous points of contact between him and gerbert. all this speaks for another french source than chrestien. on the other hand, it is almost inconceivable that such a source should have presented the grail as wolfram presents it. i cannot affect to consider the question decidedly settled one way or the other, and have, therefore, preferred to make no use of wolfram. i would only point out that if the contentions of the foregoing studies be admitted, they strongly favour the genuineness of the non-chrestien section of wolfram's poem,[ ] though i admit they throw no light upon his special presentment of the grail itself. appendix b. the prologue to the grand st. graal and the brandan legend. i believe the only parallel to this prologue to be the one furnished by that form of the brandan legend of which schröder has printed a german version (sanct brandan) at erlangen, in , from a ms. of the fourteenth century, but the first composition of which he places (p. ) in the last quarter of the twelfth century. the text in question will be found pp. , _et seq._: brandan, a servant of god, seeks out marvels in rare books, he finds that two paradises were on earth, that another world was situated under this one, so that when it is here night it is day there, and of a fish so big that forests grew on his back, also that the grace of god allowed some respite every saturday night to the torments of judas. angry at all these things he burnt the book. but the voice of god spake to him, "dear friend brandan thou hast done wrong, and through thy wrath i see my wonders lost." the holy christ bade him fare nine years on the ocean, until he see whether these marvels were real or a lie. thereafter brandan makes ready a ship to set forth on his travels. this version was very popular in germany. schröder prints a low german adaptation, and a chap book one, frequently reprinted during the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. but besides this form there was another, now lost, which can be partially recovered from the allusions to it in the wartburg krieg, a german poem of the thirteenth and early fourteenth century, and which is as follows:--an angel brings brandan a book from heaven: brandan finds so many incredible things in it that he taxes book and angel with lying, and burns the book. for his unfaith he must wander till he find it. god's grace grants him this at last; an angel gives him the sign of two fires burning, which are the eyes of an ox, upon whose tongue he shall find the book. he hands it to uranias, who brings it to _scotland_ (_i.e._, of course ireland) schröder, p. . the closeness of the parallel cannot be denied, and it raises many interesting questions, which i can here only allude to. the isle of brandan has always been recognized as a christian variant of the celtic tír-na n-og, the land of the shades, avalon. schröder has some instructive remarks on this subject, p. . the voyage of brandan may thus be compared with that of bran, the son of febal (_supra_, p. ), both being versions of the wide-spread myth of a mortal's visit to the otherworld. it is not a little remarkable that in the latin legend, which differs from the german form by the absence of the above-cited prologue, there is an account (missing in the german), of a "conopeus" ("cover" or "canopy,") _cf._ ducange and diez, _sub voce_; the old french version translates it by "pavillon of the colour of silver but harder than marble, and a column therein of clearest crystal." and on the fourth day they find a window and therein a "calix" of the same nature as the "conopeus" and a "patena" of the colour of the column (schröder, p. , and note ). thus there is a formal connection between the brandan legend and the grail romances in the prologue common to two works of each cycle, and there is a likeness of subject-matter between the brandan legend and the older celtic traditions which i have assumed to be the basis of the romances. but german literature likewise supplies evidence of a connection between brandan and bran. professor karl pearson has referred me to a passage in the pfaffe amis, a thirteenth century south german poem, composed by der stricker, the hero of which, a prototype of eulenspiegel, goes through the world gulling and tricking his contemporaries. in a certain town he persuades the good people to entrust to him their money, by telling them that he has in his possession a very precious relic, the head of st. brandan, which has commanded him to build a cathedral (lambl's edition, leipzig, , p. ). the preservation of the head of bran is a special feature in the mabinogi. i have instanced parallels from celtic tradition (branwen, p. ), and professor rhys has since (hibb. lect., p. ) connected the whole with celtic mythological beliefs. this chance reference in a german poem is the only trace to my knowledge of an earlier legend in which, it may be, bran and brandan, the visitor to and the lord of the otherworld, were one and the same person. it is highly desirable that every form of or allusion to the brandan legend should be examined afresh, as, perhaps, able to throw fresh light upon the origin and growth of the grail legend. in pseudo-chrestien perceval's mother goes on a pilgrimage to the shrine of st. brandan. index i. dramatis personÆ. [this index is to the summaries contained in chapter ii, and the references are not to page and line, but to version and incident. the versions are distinguished by the following abbreviations:-- conte du graal =co=, pseudo-chrestien =pc=, chrestien =c=, gautier =g=, manessier =ma=, gerbert =ge=, wolfram =w=, heinrich von dem türlin =h=, mabinogi of peredur =m=, thornton ms. sir perceval =t=, didot-perceval =d=, borron's poem =b=, queste =q= (=q={ } and =q={ } refer to the different drafts of the romance distinguished p. ) grand st. graal =gg=. with the less important entries, or when the entries are confined to one version, a simple number reference is given. but in the case of the more important personages, notably perceval, gawain, and galahad, an attempt has been made to show the life history, by grouping together references to the same incident from different versions; in this case each incident group is separated from other groups by a long dash ----. any speciality in the incident presented by a version is bracketed _before_ the reference initial, and, when deemed advisable, reference has been made to allied as well as to similar incidents. this detail, to save space, is, as a rule, given only once, as under perceval, and not duplicated under other headings, the number reference alone being given in the latter cases. the fullest entry is perceval, which practically comprises such entries as fisher king, grail, sword, lance, etc.] =abel= =q= , =gg= . =abrioris= =g= . =acheflour= =t= . =adam= =q= , =gg= . =addanc of lake= =m= , . =agaran= =q= . =agrestes= =gg= . =aguigrenons= =co=, _kingrun_ =w=, anonymous =m=, =c= , =w=, =m= . =alains=, celidoine's son =gg= . =alains= or =alein= (=li gros= =d=, =q=, =gg=) =b= ----=dprol=, , , , =q= , =gg= , , , , , . =aleine=, gawain's niece, =d= . =alfasem= =gg= , . =amangons= =pc= , , . =amfortas=, see fisher king. =aminadap= =gg= . =angharad= law eurawc, =m= , . =antikonie=, see facile damsel. =argastes= =q= . =arides= of cavalon =ma= , (a king of cavalon mentioned =c= corresponds to _vergulat_ of askalon in =w=). =arthur= =pc= , , , =c= , =dprol=----arrival of perceval at his court =c= , =w=, =m= , =t= , =dprol=----=c= , , , =w=, =m= , , ----=m= , ----=c= , =w=, =m= ----=t= ----=c= , =w=----=g= , =w=----=g= , , , , , , , , , =ma= , , , =ge= , =h=, =d= , , , , , , =m= , =q= , , , =gg= , , . =augustus cÆsar= =gg= . =avalon= or =avaron= =b= , , =d= . =bagommedes= =g= , . =bandamagus= =q= , , . =bans= =q= , =gg= , . =beau mauvais=, le, =g= , =d= . =beduers= =d= . =blaise= =dprol=, . =blanchefleur= =co=, conduiramur =w=, anonymous =m=, _cf._ lufamour =t=----perceval's cousin =co=, =w=----first meeting with perceval =c= , =w=, =m= ----second meeting with perceval =g= ----third meeting =ma= - ----third meeting and marriage with perceval =ge= - , _cf._ =w=. =blihis= =pc= = blaise? =blihos bliheris= =pc= . =bliocadrans= (of wales, perceval's father), =pc= . =bors, bohors, boort= =q= , , , , , , , , =ma= ----=q= , - . =brandalis= =g= , . =brios= =g= . =brons, bron=, or =hebron=. =b= , , , , =dprol=, , , =gg= , , _cf._ p. . =bruillant= =gg= = urlain =q= . =brun de branlant= =g= . =cain= =q= , =gg= . =caiphas= =gg= , . =caius= =gg= . =calides= =ma= . =calogrenant= =q= . =calogrinant= =ma= ----_calocreant_ in =h=, one of the three grail-seekers. =carahies= =g= . =carchelois= =q= . =carduel= =c= ----_carduel_ of nantes =g= . =castrars= =pc= . =catheloys= =gg= . =cavalon= =c= ----=ma= , . =celidoine= =gg= , , , , , , , , , =q= . =chanaan= =gg= , . =chessboard castle= =g= , =d= , =m= ----=g= ----=g= , =d= . =christ= =b= - , , , , , =q= , , , , , , , =dprol=, , =ge= , =gg= - , , , , , , , , , , , , , . =clamadex= =c= , clamide =w=, the earl =m= = the sowdane =t= . =clarisse= =co= mons ms. or _clarissant_ montpellier ms., itonje =w=----=c= , =g= , =w=. =claudius= =gg= . =claudius=, son of claudas =q={ } . =corbenic= =q=, =gg=, =corbiÈre= =ma= , =q= , , , =gg= . =corsapias= =gg= . =coward knight= =ma= , . =crudel= =q= , , =ge= , =gg= - . =david= =q= . =dodinel= =ma= . =eliezer= =q= . =empty seat=, see seat perillous. =enygeus=, =enysgeus=, or =anysgeus= =b= , , , . =erec= =d= . =ernous= =q= . =escorant= =q={ } . =escos= =gg= . =espinogre= =ma= . =estrois de gariles= =q={ } . =etlym gleddyv coch= =m= - . =evalach.= evalach li mescouncus =gg=, eualac =q= (anelac ), evelac =ma=, =ge=. overcoming tholomes =gg= , , , , , , =q= , , , =ma= , =ge= , name changed to _mordrains_, which see. =eve= =q= , =gg= . =facile damsel=, anonymous =co=, =h=, =m=, _antikonie_ =w=, =c= , =w=, =h=, =m= . =feirefiz= =w=. =felix= =gg= , . =fisher king.= anonymous =co=, amfortas =w=, brons =b=, =d=, alain =gg=. anonymous (?), =q={ }, pelles =q={ }. in =m= the fisher corresponds to gonemans. in all the french works of the cycle the adjective rich is commonly applied to the fisher. splendour of court =pc= ----learned in black art =pc= ----old and sick =dprol=, first meeting with perceval =c= , =w=, =d= , _cf._ =pc= , =m= ----=c= , =w=, _cf._ =d= , ----=c= , =w=, _cf._ =d= , =m= ----=g= , , , , , , ----second meeting with perceval =g= , =ma= - or =ge= - , =d= , _cf._ =m= ----=ma= ----third meeting with perceval =ma= , =ge= , =w=----grandfather of galahad =q={ } , . see also maimed king. surname given to brons =b= , to alain =gg= . vessel given to him =d= ----commanded to go to the west =d= . =flegentyne= =gg= , , , , . =gahmuret= =w=. =galahad= (galaad). _father_: lancelot =q=, =gg=----_mother_: daughter of king pelles =q={ }, =gg=, or fisher king =q={ }----seat perillous =q= ----sword =q= ----quest proclaimed =q= ----evelac's shield =q= , =gg= ----devil-inhabited tomb =q= , _cf._ =ge= ----melians' discomforture =q= ----castle of maidens =q= ----overcoming of lancelot and perceval =q= ----destined achiever of quest =q= ----rescue of perceval =q= ----genealogy =q= , =gg= , , ----likening to a spotless bull =q= ----overcoming of gawain =q= ----stay on ship =q= , ----sword =q= ----maimed king =q={ } ----capture of castle carchelois =q= ----stag and lions =q= , _cf._ =gg= ----castle of the evil custom =q= ----stay with father =q= ----healing of mordrains =q= , _cf._ =gg= ----cooling of fountain =q= ----making white the cross =gg= ----release of symeu =q= , =gg= ----making whole sword =gg= ----release of moys =gg= ----five years' wanderings =q= ----arrival at king peleur's =q={ }, maimed king's =q={ }, witnessing of grail and healing of maimed king =q= - ----sarras, crowning, death =q= , . =galahad= (galaad) son of joseph =gg= , , ----king of hocelice and ancestor of urien =gg= ----founding of abbey for symeu =gg= . =gansguoter= =h=. =ganort= =gg= , . =garalas= =g= . =gawain.= gauvain =co=, =q=, =gg=, gwalchmai =m=, gawan =w=, gawein =h=, gawayne or wawayne =t=----of the seed of joseph of arimathea =gg= , arthur's nephew =co=, =q=----conquers blihos bliheris =pc= ----allusion to his finding the grail =pc= ----one of the knights met by perceval in wood =m= , =t= ----helps perceval to disarm red knight =t= ----meeting with perceval after blood-drops incident =c= , =w=, =m= ----vow to release imprisoned maiden =c= , =m= ----reproached by guigambresil =c= , (kingrimur) =w=, (anonymous) =m= ----tournament at tiebaut's =c= , (lippaot) =w=, (leigamar) =h=, _cf._ =d= , where perceval is hero but gawain best knight after him----adventure with the facile damsel =c= , (antikonie) =w=, =h=, =m= ----injunction to seek bleeding lance =c= , =w=, (grail) =h=----adventure with griogoras =c= , (urjan) =w=, (lohenis) =h=----meeting with scornful damsel, orgeuilleuse, arrival at ferryman's =c= , =w=----magic castle =c= , =w=, _cf._ =gg= ----may not leave castle =c= ----second meeting with orgueilleuse =c= , =w=, (mancipicelle) =h=----ford perillous, guiromelant =c= , (gramoflanz) =w=, (giremelanz) =h=----marriage with orgueilleuse =w=, (?) =c= ----arrival of arthur to witness combat with guiromelant =c= continued by =g= , =w=, =h=----fight with perceval =w=, _cf._ =t= ----reconciliation with guiromelant =g= , =w=, =h=----departure on grail quest and winning various talismans =h=----[first arrival at grail castle according to montpellier ms. of =co=]----brun de branlant, brandalis =g= and ----slaying of unknown knight and quest to avenge him =g= ----chapel of black hand =g= ----arrival at grail castle (first according to mons ms. of =co=), half successful =g= , wholly successful =h=, _cf._ =m= found by peredur at castle of talismans, and reference in =q= welsh version----greetings of country folk =g= , _cf._ =ge= ----meeting with his son =g= ----mount dolorous quest =g= ----renewed grail quest, reproached for conduct at fisher king's, slaying of margon =ma= ----rescue of lyonel =ma= ----rescue by perceval =ge= . joins in search for grail with remainder of table round =d={ }, =q=, betraying knowledge of maimed king =q= . meeting with ywain, gheheris and confession to hermit =q= . meeting with hector de mares =q= . overcoming at galahad's hand =q= . =gheheries= =q= . =giflÈs= =c= , =g= . =gonemans= or =gonemant= =co=, gornumant =ge=, gurnemanz =w=, fisher uncle =m=, =c= , =w=, =m= , uncle to blanchefleur =c= , =c= , =w=, second meeting with perceval =ge= - , _cf._ =t= . =goon desert= =ma= . =grail=, early history of. last supper cup given to joseph =b= , , , =gg= , =q= , =ma= ----solace of joseph =b= , , =gg= , =d= , =ma= (montpellier ms.)----grail and fish =b= , _cf._ =gg= ----directs joseph what to do with alain =b= , _cf._ =gg= , confided to brons =b= , , =dprol= , (alain) =gg= ----=d= , ----feeds host =gg= , =q= , also =gg= ----blinding of nasciens =gg= , , , , passage to england , =d= , =q= , , ----crudel =gg= , =q= , =ge= ----blinding of mordrains =gg= , , , only feeds the sinless , , refuses meat to chanaan and symeu , resting-place, castle corbenic =gg= . book of, revealed to hermit =gg= . =grail=, quest of _by perceval_: first seen at fisher king's =pc= , =c= , =w=, =d= ----properties of =c= , =w=, =d= ----=c= , =w=----=c= , =w=----lights up forest =g= ----=g= ----seen for second time =g= -=ma= - or =ge= - , =d= ----heals hector and perceval =ma= ----taken from earth =ge= , _cf._ =w=----opposed by witch, =ge= , ----connection with shield =ge= ----seen for third time =ma= , , =ge= ; _by gawain_: =h= and =g= ; _by lancelot_: =q= , , ; _by galahad_: =q= , feeds arthur's court =q= , quest proclaimed =q= , feeds host =q= , =gg= , denied to gawain and hector =q= , , accomplished =q= - . =grail-messenger=, see loathly damsel. =gramoflanz= see guiromelant. =griogoras= =c= = lohenis =h=. =guiromelant= =co=, gramoflanz =w=, giremelanz =h=, =c= -=g= , =w=, =h=. =hector= (de =mares= =q=) =q= , , , =ma= . =helain= =q= . =helicoras= =gg= . =helyab= =gg= , , . =helyas= =q= = ysaies =gg= , . =herzeloyde= =w=. =huden= =pc= . =hurgains= or =hurganet= =d= , . =jonaans= =q= , =jonans= =gg= , =jonas= =gg= . =joseph of arimathea.= d'arymathye =b=, de arimathie =gg=, d'abarimathie or d'arimathie =q=, de barimacie =g=, and =ma= (montpellier ms.), josep (without mention of town =ma=, mons ms.), de barismachie =ge=----care of christ's body, captivity, solace, release =b= - , =gg= , , =d= , _cf._ =q= , =ma= ----stay in sarras =gg= - , =q= , , =ge= , =ma= ----=b= ----passage to england =gg= , =q= ----feeding by grail =gg= , =q= , _cf._ =b= , ----moys =b= , , =dprol=, _cf._ =gg= ----=b= - ----=gg= , , =q= , =ge= ----=gg= , , , , --=d= , , . =josephes=, =josephe=, =josephus=, or =josaphes=, son of joseph of arimathea, =gg= , , , , =q= , , , , , =q= , and , =q= , =q= and , , =q= _cf._ =d= , , , , , , =q= , =q= , . =josue= =gg= , . =kalafier= =gg= , . =kardeiz= =w=. =kay.= kex =co=----=t= ----=c= , =w=, =m= ----=c= , =w=, =m= ----=c= , =c= ----=c= , =w=, =m= ----=m= ----=t= ----=g= , , =ma= , =ge= , =d= ----one of the three grail-questers =h=. =klinschor= =w.= =laban= =q= (query variant of lambar?). =label= =gg= . =label's daughter= =gg= , , , . =lambar= or =labran= =q= , =lambor= =gg= . =lance= (spear) =pc= , , =c= , , =m= , =c= , , , =g= , , =ma= , , , =ge= , =h=, =d= , , , =q= , , =gg= , , . =lancelot=, lancelot of lake's grandfather =q= , =gg= , . =lancelot.= galahad's father =q=, =gg=, =q= , , (_cf._ =c= ), , , (_cf._ =c= and =g= ), , , , , (_cf._ =gg= ) , , , , , =gg= , , , , , , =pc= . =leucans= =gg= . =lionel q= , , attacks bors =q= , =ma= . =loathly damsel.= anonymous =co=, kundrie =w=, perceval's cousin =m=, reproaches perceval =c= , =w=, =m= ----announces end of quest, =ma= , =m= . =logres= =pc= , =g= , =q= , , . =lohenis= =h= = griogoras =c= . =loherangrin= =w=. =longis= =pc= , =ma= , =d= . =lot= =gg= . =luces= =gg= . =lufamour= =t= , _cf._ blanchefleur. =maidens' castle= =pc= , =g= =a=, =ge= ----=q= . =maimed= or =lame king=. same personage as fisher king. designated in this way _only_ =m=, almost entirely so =q={ } ( , , also =q={ } , , , ), never so =b=, =d=. =gg= applies the designation to pelleans. =manaal= =gg= . =mancipicelle=, see orgueilleuse. =margon= =ma= . =marie la venissienne= =gg= = verrine, =b= , =w=. =marpus= (=warpus= =q= ) =gg= , . =meaux= =gg= . =melians=, galahad's companion =q= , . =melians de lis= =c= , =d= . =merlin= (see p. d) =g= , =dprol=, , , =q= . =mordrains= =gg=, mordains =q=, _once_ noodrans =ma=, _once_ mordrach =ge=----baptism =gg= , , =q= , , =ma= =ge= ----=gg= , , vision of descendants , =q= ----=gg= , , stay on island , _cf._ =q= ----=gg= , =q= ----=gg= crudel, and blinding by grail , , =q= , =ge= ----retires to hermitage =gg= , =q= ----his shield =gg= , =q= . =mordred= =gg= . =mordret= =ge= , . =morghe la fÉe= =g= . =moroneus= =q={ } . =mors del calan= =pc= . =mount dolorous= =g= , , =ge= . =moys=, =moyses= (=b=). seat perillous =b= , , , =dprol=, , =gg= , . =nasciens= =gg=, =q=, natiien =ma=----baptism =gg= , =q= , , =ma= ----blinded by grail =gg= ----=gg= , , , , , turning isle and solomon's ship, - , =q= - ----=gg= , , , , , crudel , , (called seraphe) =q= ----=gg= ----his tomb =gg= ----death =gg= ----appears as hermit in arthur's time =q= , , , . =nasciens=, son of celidoine, =gg= . =nasciens=, grandson of celidoine =gg= , . =nicodemus= =b= , , . =noirons=, _i.e._, nero =gg= . =orcanz= =gg= . =orgueilleuse.= orguellouse =c=, orgeluse =w= = mancipicelle =h=, =c= ----=g= , =w=, =h=. =owain= =m=, =ewayne= =t=, =yones= =c= , =ywain= "li aoutres" =q= , , , , =gg= ----meets perceval =m= , =t= ----helps him =m= , =c= . =partinal= =ma= , , , . =pecorins= =pc= . =peleur= =q={ } , , . =pelleans= =gg= . =pellehem= =q={ } . =pelles= =q={ } - , , , , , , , =gg= . =perceval= =co=, =d=, =q=, =gg=; parzival =w=, =h=; peredur =m=; percyvelle =t=.--_father_: bliocadrans =pc=; anonymous =co=, =q=; alain =d=; gahmuret =w=; evrawe =m=; percyvelle =t=; pellehem =q={ }. _mother_: anonymous =co=, =d=, =q=, =m=; herzeloyde =w=; acheflour (arthur's sister) =t=----brought up in wood =c= , =w=, =m=, =t= ----meets knights ( ) =c= , =w=, ( ) =m= , =t= ----leaves mother =c= , =w=, =d=, =m= , =t= ----first meeting with lady of tent =c= , (ieschute) =w=, =m= , =t= ----arrival at arthur's court =c= , =w=, =d=, =m= , =t= ----laughing prophetic damsel =c= , =w=, dwarves =m= ----slays _red_ knight =c= , (ither of gaheviez) =w=, (colour not specified) =m= , =t= ----overcomes knights =m= ----burns witch =t= ----arrival at house of first uncle, gonemans =c= , gurnemanz =w=, anonymous =m= , and (different adventure partly corresponding to =ge= ) =t= ----first arrival at castle of lady love, blanchefleur =c= , conduiramur =w=, anonymous =m= , lufamour =t= ----first arrival at fisher king's =c= , =w=, =d= , =m= ----is reproached by wayside damsel, cousin: (anonymous) =c= , (sigune) =w=, =d= , foster sister =m= ----second meeting with lady of tent =c= , =w=, =m= ----overcoming of sorceresses of gloucester =m= ----blood drops in the snow =c= , =w=, =m= ----adventures with angharad law eurawc; at the castle of the huge grey man; serpent on the gold ring; mound of mourning; addanc of the lake; countess of achievements =m= - ----reproaches of the loathly damsel =c= , (kundrie) =w=, =m= ----good friday incident and confession to uncle =c= , (trevrezent) =w=, =d= , =m= ----the castle of the horn =g= ----the castle of the chessboard =g= , =d= , =m= ----meeting with brother of red knight =g= ----ford _amorous_ =g= , _perillous_ =d= ----second meeting with blanchefleur =g= ----meeting with rosette and le beau mauvais =g= , =d= ----meeting with sister and visit to hermit =g= , =d= and ----the castle of maidens =g= =a=----meeting with the hound-stealing damsel =g= , =d= , =m= ----meeting with the damsel of the white mule =g= ----tournament at castle orguellous =g= = =d= (melianz de lis) and =m= (?)----deliverance of knight in tomb =g= ----second visit to the castle of the chessboard =g= , =d= ----delivery of bagommedes =g= ----arrival at mount dolorous =g= ----the black hand in the chapel =g= ----second arrival at grail castle =g= -=ma= - and =ge= , =d= , (with final overcoming of sorceresses of gloucester) =m= . puts on red armour for love of aleine, accomplishes the feat of the seat perillous, and sets forth on quest =d= and . slays the red knight, orgoillous delandes, =d= . overcomes black knight, slays giant and finds mother =t= . perceval and saigremors =ma= ----second visit to chapel of the black hand =ma= ----the demon horse =ma= , =q= ----stay on the island =q= , and , and temptation by damsel , =ma= ----delivery of dodinel's lady love =ma= ----tribuet =ma= ----third meeting with blanchefleur =ma= ----meeting with coward knight =ma= ----combat with hector =ma= ----slaying of partinal =ma= ----third arrival at grail castle =ma= ----learns death of his uncle the fisher king from loathly damsel =ma= , =w=----retires into wilderness =q= , =ma= ----dies =q= , goes to palestine and dies (?) =t=. encounter, unknown to either, with galahad =q= . meeting with recluse aunt =q= . assistance at the hands of the red knight =q= . adventure of the ship =q= , essay to draw sword =q= . receives galahad's sword =q= , bears galahad company for five years =q= ----adjusts the sword at the court of pelles =q={ } . breaking of sword at the gate of paradise =ge= ----blessings of the country folk for putting question =ge= ----mending of sword at forge of the serpent =ge= ----accomplishment of the feat of the perillous seat =ge= ----adventures at sister's castle, with mordret, and at cousin's, castle of maidens =ge= ----encounter with kex, gauvain, and tristan =ge= , _cf._ =t= ----meeting with gornumant =ge= (_cf._ =t= ) and fight with the resuscitating hag----third arrival at blanchefleur's castle, marriage =ge= ----deliverance of maiden, abolition of evil custom, knight on fire =ge= - ----obtains the promised shield =g= ----combat with the dragon king =ge= ----arrival at abbey and story of mordrains =ge= , =q= ----the swan-drawn coffin =ge= ----devil in tomb =ge= , _cf._ =q= ----deliverance of maiden from fountain =ge= ----punishment of traitress damsel =ge= ----combat with giant =ge= , _cf._ =t= ----encounters kex =ge= ----third arrival at grail castle =ge= . =perceval's aunt= =q= , . =perceval's sister=, daughter to pellehem =q={ }, =g= , =d= - , =q= , , , , ----_cf._ =m= . =perceval's uncle=, see gonemans, fisher king. =petrone= =gg= . =petrus= =b= , , , , =peter= =gg= , =pierron= =gg= , , . =philosophine= =ge= , . =pilate= =b= , =gg= , =b= , . =priadam the black= =q= . =quiquagrant= =ma= . =red knight.= slain by perceval =c= , , =t= , , who takes his arms, and is mistaken for him =c= , =t= , transferred to galahad when latter takes perceval's place =q= , ----=g= , . =rosette=, loathly maiden, =g= , =d= . =saigremors= =c= , =ma= , , , =d= . =sarraquite= =gg= , , , , , . =sarras= =gg= , , , , , =ma= , =q= , , , =gg= . =seat perillous= (empty) =b= , =dprol=, ----=q= , =gg= , =ge= , =q= . =seraphe= =gg=, =q=, =ge=, _once_ salafrès =ma=----battle with tholomes =gg= , , =q= , , =ma= , =ge= , renamed _nasciens_, which see. =sevain of meaux= =gg= . =solomon's ship= =q= - , =gg= , , , . =solomon's sword= =q= , , =gg= , _cf._ =q= . =sorceresses of gloucester= =m= , . =stag hunt= =g= , , , , =d= , , =m= . =sword= =pc= , =c= , , =m= , =g= , , , =ma= , , =ge= , , , , , =h=, =q= , , , =gg= , , . see also solomon's sword. =symeu= =q= , =gg= , , . =tholomes= =q= , =ge= , =gg= , , . =tholome cerastre= =gg= . =tiberius cÆsar= =gg= , , =ma= . =titus= =gg= . =trebucet= or =tribuet= =c= , =w=, =ma= . =urban of the black thorn= =d= , =co=. =urlain= or =urban= =q= = bruillant =gg= . =uther pendragon= =gg= , _cf._ p. d. =verrine= =b= = marie la venissienne =gg= . =vespasian= =b= , =gg= , , =ma= , =q= . =waste city=, king of the, =ge= . =waste land= =pc= , (forest) , =q= , , =gg= . =ysaies= =gg= , = helyas, =q= . =ywain=, see owain. index ii. [this index comprises the whole of the work with exception of the summaries, for which see index i. the references are to the pages. the entries apply solely to the page number or page group-number which they immediately precede, and not to all the pages between themselves and the next entry. in the majority of cases a simple number reference is given, and the fuller entries are to those points which the author wishes specially to emphasise.] abundia and herodias, . adonis, . alain (son of brons), , , , , , , , , , , as fisher king, , , , , . amfortas, fisher king in wolfram, , in wagner's parsifal, - , . aminadap, . arbois de jubainville, - , , - . arthur, arthur saga, arthurian romance or legend, , , , , martin's interpretation of, - , , , , , , , , , , , a's waiting, - , a and potter thompson, , , , , , , popularity of, - , celtic character of, , , , , , . avalon (avaron), , punning explanation of, , parallel to the grail, - and , with the magic castle, , , , , connection with glastonbury, , , parallel with brandan's isle, . baldur, . ban, , . baring-gould, . bartsch, . battle of magh rath, , . bergmann's san grëal, . bespelled castle in celtic tradition, - . birch-hirschfeld, , , , , , _d_, , full analysis of his work, - , martin's criticism, - , , objections to his hypothesis, - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , wolfram and chrestien, - . blaise, . blanchefleur, , , , , comparison of chrestien and mabinogi, , , , , , example of sex-relations of the time, . blood-drops in the snow, - . books of rights and geasa, . borron, robert de, author of the joseph d'arimathie, bibliographical details, , ms. statements respecting, - , , passage of grail to england, - , , , , hucher's views, - , relation to other versions according to birch-hirschfeld, - , , - , martin's views, - , , , , secret words, , , fisher king in, - , , , , his conception, , chastity ideal in, , , , . bors, , exemplification of spirit of queste, . bötticher, wolfram and chrestien, . bran (the blessed), , and cernunnos, , connection with conversion of britain, - , , connection with brandan legend, . bran the son of febal, , , , . brandan legend, - . branwen (mabinogi of), , , , , , cauldron, , , , . britain, evangelisation of, , , , - , , , , connection with the brons and joseph legends, - . brons, , , , , , special form of early history, - , , , two accounts respecting, - , , , , , in the didot-perceval, , , , , , , , , , , , , , as fisher king, - , as apostle of britain, - , . bruillans, . brunhild, . bundling, . caesarius of heisterbach, . campbell, j. f., - , , - , cup of healing, , . campbell, no. young king of easaidh ruadh, ; no. the three soldiers, - ; no. the widow and her daughters, ; no. mac iain direach, , ; no. the fair gruagach, ; no. the knight of the red shield, - , the resuscitating carlin, - ; no. the rider of grianaig, , ; no. conall gulban, , ; no. how the een was set up, , ; no. manus, - ; no. the daughter of king under the waves, - , . campbell, j. g., muilearteach, . catheloys, . celidoine, , . celtic tradition, origin of or elements in grail legend, , how affected by placing of versions, - , opinions of previous investigators, - , birch-hirschfeld, - - - - - , martin, - , hertz, , grail apparently foreign to, , - , carlin in, - , - , , - , vessel in, - , sword in, - , , , , , , origin of legend, - , - , relation to mediæval romance, , individualism in, , woman in, - , the supernatural in, , , chastity ideal, , , , transformation of, , . ceridwen, , - . cernunnos, . cét mac magach, . chanson de roland, . charlemagne, carolingian saga, , , , . chastity ideal in the queste, - , in later versions, - , in popular and celtic tradition, - . chessboard castle, - , - . chrestien, bibliographical description, , , statements of mss. respecting, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , views of previous investigators, - , birch-hirschfeld, - , , , , , relation to didot-perceval, - , to mabinogi, - , nature of model, - , relation to sir perceval, - , relation to great fool, - - - , , , visit to grail castle in, - , , represents mainly feud quest, - , , , , , , his ideal, - , , , , relation to wolfram, - . christian origin of or elements in grail legend, christian tradition, legend, etc.; as affected by placing of versions, , , , , , , - , , , , , as affected by my hypothesis, - , , , - , relation to the talismans, - , - , influence on the legend as a whole, . chronological arrangement of versions, , author's, - , zarncke's, , birch-hirschfelds', - . conall cearnach, . conan's delusions, . conchobor, , , . conduiramur, , and parzival, - . connla, , , , . constituent elements in the romances, - . corbenic, , . cormac's visit to the otherworld, - , . counsels, the, in the romances, . crestiens, p. = nasciens, p. . cuchulainn, , , , , conception of, , _gess_ of, , parallel of legend to mediæval romances, - . cumhall, father of fionn, - . curoi mac daire, . cynewulf, . dagda, the, and the cauldron, - , . deirdre, , and the sons of usnech, . diarmaid, , _gess_ of, . didot-perceval, prose sequel to borron's poem, numbered as c , , , , , , , , , , , , the quest in, - , , , , , zarncke's opinion of, , authorship of according to birch-hirschfeld, - , , , , , , relationship to conte du graal, - , origin of, , , , stag hunt in, - , - , - , , , , - , , . dietrich saga, . domanig, parzival-studien, . duvau, . dwarves incident in chrestien and mabinogi, . elton, . emer, wooing of, - . encyclopædia britannica, . england, arrival of grail in - , birch-hirschfeld , joseph legend in - . enygeus (brons' wife), , . evangelium nicodemi, - . espinogre, . expulsion and return formula (aryan), , - , , , - , , , , . fand, . faust, . fenian saga or cycle, sword in, - , . feud-quest in the romances and in celtic tradition, - . finn-eges, - , . fionn (finn), fionn-saga, - , , connection with great fool and boyhood of peredur, - , - , fionn's enchantment, - , and sword, - , , in the otherworld, - , and salmon, - , , , , , , . fish, according to birch-hirschfeld, , martin, - , . see also salmon. fisher king, fisher or rich fisher, , , as grail-keeper, - , relation the promised knight, - , , , , , accounted for by birch-hirschfeld, , , , , , , , , , , , , author's explanation of, - , , in wolfram, . fisher king's daughter, - . fisher king's father, , , , . fitzgerald, , . fomori, , . förster on peredur, . frederick ii, , in the kyffhäuser, - . frederick i (barbarossa), - . furnivall, , , - , estimate of queste criticised, - . gaelic talismans = grail and lance, . gaidoz, . galahad, galahad quest, , , - , as promised knight, - , , , , , , , , , , comparison with perceval quest, , morality of, , - , , . gaston paris on relation between chrestien and mabinogi, . gautier (de doulens), pseudo-gautier, numbered a ii., - , statements respecting in ms., , berne ms. of, , - , , - , - , , , - , , , , , , - , relation to didot-perceval, - , to mabinogi , and - , , , visit to grail castle in, - , gawain quest in, and - , , , , , . gautier (walter) de montbeliart and borron, , , , , . gawain (gauvain), , , , visit to grail king, , , , martin's view of, and , , , , special form of quest, - , , , , visit to magic castle, - , in heinrich, - , , and orgueilleuse, - , , , - . geasa, - . geoffrey of monmouth, , , , . gerald (giraldus cambrensis), testimony respecting map's authorship, - , . gerbert, numbered a iv., , , , love _motif_ in, , , , , , the witch who brings the dead to life in, - , , - , , , , chastity ideal in, , , relation to wolfram, - . gervasius of tilbury, , . glastonbury, skeat's view, , zarncke, , , and avalon, - . goethe, . gonemans, - , and fisher king, , , and the witch, - , advice to perceval, - . see also gurnemanz. goon desert, , . grail, , hypothetical christian origin of, , first possessor of, - , solace of joseph, - , connection with sacrament, and , and trinity, , properties and effect of, - , name, , arrival in england, - , - , - , , , , - , phraseology used by romances in mentioning it, , - , symbol of christ's body, , , symbol of avalon, , - , , - , absence of from mabinogi and thornton sir p., , apparently foreign to celtic legend, , , various forms of visit to castle of, - , double nature of, - , parallel to magic vessel of celtic tradition, - , and fionn, , , , mode of transformation, , , , in wolfram, - , in wagner, - , - . grail (early history of), two forms, - , joseph form, , relation to christian origin hypothesis, , , brons form, , , two forms in french romances, - , later than queste, , - , , according to birch-hirschfeld, - , , , origin of, and . grail (quest of), two forms, - , perceval form, , relation to celtic origin hypothesis, , , , , , object of according to different versions, - , original form of, , , perceval form older, - , - , - , - , , , mabinogi form of, - , , inconsistency of accounts respecting, - , two formulas fused in, , constituent elements in, - , mode of transformation, , - , , , , , . grail legend, romance or cycle, origin of according to birch-hirschfeld, , , christian element in, , genesis and growth of, - , popularity of, , , development of ethical ideas in, _et seq._, , future of, , . grail-keeper and promised knight, - . grail-messenger and rosette, . see also loathly damsel. graine, . gramoflanz, . grand st. graal, numbered e , authorship ascribed to borron, , helinandus' testimony, , - , , - , - , , conflicting accounts respecting promised knight in, - , , , , - , , - , , authorship of, - , , , , - , , , , prologue of and brandan legend, - . great fool, lay or tale of the, - , , prose opening, - , comparison with romances, - , originality of, , relation to fionn legend, , lay, - , , , ethical import of, - . gregory of tours and evangelium nicodemi, . greloguevaus, . grimm, no. , der krautesel, , , , - , . gudrun, . guinevere, . gurnemanz, , , , - . see also gonemans. guyot = kiot, . gwalchmai, - , . see gawain. gwion and fionn, . hahn, j. g. von, - . halliwell, , . haunted castle, - . hawker, . hebron, = brons, which see. hector, . heinrich von dem türlin, numbered k, , citation of chrestien, , , , martin's view of, , , visit to grail castle in, - and , double origin, , , special form of quest, - and , parallel with sleeping beauty, . hélie de borron, - , testimony of, - , . helinandus, , , , . helyas, = ysaics, . hennessy, . henry ii, - . herodias, , . hertz' views, - . how the great tuairsgeul etc., . hucher, , attempt to harmonise conflicting accounts in borron, , statement of views, - , criticised by birch-hirschfeld, and , , and cauldron, . iduna, apples of, . john the baptist, . jonaans, , . joseph of arimathea, joseph legend, - , , , and grail, - , , , and england, - , , , , , , , , , , , - , - , , , and the fisher, , , apocryphal legend of, - , . joseph, metrical, poem by robert de borron, numbered b , author of, , - , , - , - , - , two accounts in, - , , , - , - , relation to didot-perceval according to birch-hirschfeld, - , . josephes (son of joseph), and veronica, , - , . josue, , , . kay, . keating and the treasures of the tuatha de danann, . kennedy's fellow with the goat-skin, , castle knock, , great fool, - , son of bad counsel, - , fionn's visit to cuana, , haunted castle tale, , . kiot, , san marte's view, - , - , , and wolfram, - . klinschor, , . knight errantry, . knighthood, prototype of in celtic tradition, . knights of the red branch, . knowles' said and saiyid, . koch, kyffhäuser sage, . köhler, . kundry in wagner, - , . see loathly damsel. küpp on pseudo-chrestien, , , and the branch, , . kynddelw, . lambar, - , , . lame king, see maimed king. lance, , and grail legend according to birch-hirschfeld, , , . lancelot, , , , , , , , , - , , , . latin original of french romances probable, . liebrecht, - . llyr llediath, - . loathly damsel, , and rosette, , in mabinogi and chrestien, , hero's cousin, - , double origin of in romances, - , and wagner, . longis, . luces de gast, - . luces (lucius), , . lufamour, . lug lamhfhada, , , . mabinogi of peredur (generally mabinogi sometimes peredur) numbered h , , , , , villemarqué on, - , , simrock on, , , nash, , , hucher, , lateness of according to birch-hirschfeld, - , - , relation to conte du graal, - , dwarves incident in, , greater delicacy in blanchefleur incident, , blood drops incident, - , differences with chrestien, - , machinery of quest in, - , relation to manessier, - , origin and development of, - , special indebtedness to chrestien, , , relation to sir perceval, - , counsels in, , apparent absence of grail from, , comparison with great fool tale, - , with great fool lay, - , , with gerbert's witch incident, - , , visit to talismans castle in, - and , , , , , , , fusion of numerous celtic tales in, - , sex-relations in, , . maidens' castle, parallels to in celtic tradition, - . maimed or lame or sick king, , - , , , , parallel with arthur, , probable absence from proto mabinogi, , belongs to feud quest, , parallel to fionn, , . malory, . manaal, . manannan mac lir, - , , and bran, . manessier, numbered a iii, - , date etc., - , - , - , , , , , , , , , relation to the mabinogi, - , - , , , disregard of question, - , , - . manus, - . mapes or map, , , , not author of queste or grand st. graal according to birch-hirschfeld, - . martin's views, - , kyffhäuser hypothesis criticised, , , wolfram and gerbert, . meaux, . menglad, . merlin, , , . merlin, borron's poem, , d, , , - , . meyer, kuno, , . minnedienst, - . modred, . montsalvatch, . mordrains, , - , , . morgan la fay, . morvan lez breiz, , , . moys or moses, - , , , , . mythic conceptions in the romances, . nasciens, , , , . nash, . nibelungenlied, , , . nicodemus, . noisi, , . o'daly, - , . odin, - . o'donovan, , , . oengus of the brug, - , and swanmaid, . o'flanagan, . ogma, . oisin, , , and gwion, , . o'kearney, . orgueilleuse, celtic character of, and , illustrates mediæval morality, - , . osiris, . pagan essence of grail etc. in the christianised romances, . partinal, , , - . parzival, , - . see perceval and wolfram. paulin-paris, , explanation of word grail, , , - , . pearson on the veronica legend, , and st. brandan, . peleur, . pelleans or pellehem, - , . pelles, - , . perceval, perceval-quest, type hero of quest, - , , , relation to the grail-keeper, - , - , - , oldest hero of quest, , , , , - , according to birch-hirschfeld, - , , in didot-perceval and conte du graal, - , in mabinogi and conte du graal, - , relation to (bespelled) cousin, - , relation of existing versions to earliest form, , in the thornton ms. romance, - , hero of expulsion and return formula, - , parallel with highland folk-tales, - , relation to twin brethren folk-tale and dualism in, - , , versions of quest, - , visit to the maidens' castle, - , , , significance of didot-perceval form, , , and sword, , castle of maidens, , , , parallel with diarmaid, , possible hero of haunted castle form, - , relation to fisher, , his silence, - , , superiority to galahad quest, , - , - , , , , , - . see also parzival and peredur. perceval's aunt, . perceval's sister, - , . perceval's uncle, . perceval le gallois, numbered g , authorship, , - , , , , , . peredur (hero of mabinogi = perceval), peredur-saga, , mother of, , - , parallel to tom of the goat-skin, , the sword test, , hero of the stag hunt, - , , original form of saga, - , - , , , , , - , and fionn, and , , fish absent from, , genesis and growth of, - , , blanchefleur incident in, . see perceval. peronnik l'idiot, , . perseus, . petrus, , , - , , , , connection with geoffrey conversion legend, . pfaffe amis, . pilate, , . potter thompson and arthur, , . potvin, , , , his views, , , . prester john, . procopius, . promised or good knight, and grail keeper, - , galahad as, - work of, - , qualifications of, - , , . prophecy incident in grail romances, . pseudo-chrestien, , . pseudo-gautier, numbered aii_a_, , - , , , , , , , . pseudo-manessier, numbered aiii_a_, , , - . queste del st. graal, numbered d - , varying redactions distinguished typographically, , - , , - , , three drafts of, - , - , glorification of virginity in, , , , , relation to grand st. graal, - , to conte du graal, - , , , authorship of, - , , , , , visit to grail castle in, - , , , , , , , , , , , ideal of, - and - , ideal criticised, - , merits of, - , , inferiority to wolfram, , . question, birch-hirschfeld's opinion, , , belongs to unspelling quest, - , , , , wolfram's presentment, - . red knight, - , - , , . renan on celtic poetry, - . rhys, , , , bran legend, - , . rich fisher or king. see fisher king. riseut, . robert de borron. see borron. rochat, , his views, - . roland, , . roménie, . rosette, , . see loathly damsel. salmon of wisdom, - . san marte, views, - , - , and wolfram, - . sarras, , , . schröder, brandan legend, - . seat, empty or perillous, - , - . secret words, , , . seraphe, . sex-relations in middle ages, - . siegfried, , , , , - . simei, . simrock, views, - , , , , , , - . skeat, . skene, - . sleep and the magic castle myth, - . sleeping beauty, parallel with heinrich's version, , ethical import of, . solomon's sword, . see sword. sons of usnech, , . sorceresses of gloucester, , , . spontaneity of folk tradition, , - . stag hunt in conte du graal and mabinogi, - , in didot-perceval, , parallel with lay of great fool, . steinbach on sir perceval, - . stephens, - . stokes, , , . suetonius, . sword, , , belongs more to feud quest, - , found also in unspelling quest, , of lug, , in celtic myth, - , - . taboo and geasa, . taliesin, , , and oisin, - . templars, . tennyson, , . tethra, . thor, irish parallels to, - . thornton ms. sir perceval (often simply sir perceval), numbered i , , - , - , , , steinbach's theory of, - , criticised, , absence of grail from, , connection with great fool tale, - , , - , witch incident, , , . tír-na n-og, , , , , . titurel, . titus, . trinity, symbolizing of, . tuatha de danann, treasures of, - , - , , . two brothers tale, , - . ultonian cycle, . unspelling quest, , celtic parallels to, - , . urban (urlain), , , . van santen, . vanishing of bespelled castle, - . veronica (verrine), , , ward's theory, . vespasian, , . vessel in celtic myth, , in ultonian cycle, , in welsh myth, , in celtic folk-tales, . see grail. villemarqué, views - , , , . virginity, . wagner, - . ward, , . wartburg krieg and brandan legend, . william of malmesbury, , zarncke's opinion of, , , ward's opinion of, . windisch, , . witch who brings the dead to life, - . wolfram von eschenbach, numbered f , sources, , - , - , , and gerbert, , - , , , - , , , brother incident in, , - , branch in, , magician lord, , account of mediæval morality, - , , ideal of, - , , , , pattern for future growth of legend, , relation to chrestien, - . woman in celtic tradition, - . wülcker, evangelium nicodemi, - . zarncke, views, - , , , . harrison and sons, printers in ordinary to her majesty, st. martin's lane, london. footnotes: [ ] fully described by potvin, vi, lxix, etc. [ ] potvin, vi, lxxv, etc. [ ] birch-hirschfeld: die sage vom gral, vo., leipzig, , p. . [ ] birch-hirschfeld, p. . [ ] birch-hirschfeld, p. . [ ] birch-hirschfeld, p. , quoting the colophon of a paris ms., after paulin paris, cat. des mss. français, vol. ii, pp. , etc. [ ] birch-hirschfeld, p. . [ ] this prologue is certainly not chrestien's work; but there is no reason to doubt that it embodies a genuine tradition, and affords valuable hints for a reconstruction of the original form of the story. _cf._ otto küpp in zeitschrift für deutsche philologie, vol. xvii., no. . [ ] potvin's text, from the mons ms., is taken as basis. [ ] several mss. here intercalate the history of joseph of arimathea: joseph of barimacie had the dish made; with it he caught the blood running from the saviour's body as it hung on the cross, he afterwards begged the body of pilate; for the devotion showed the grail he was denounced to the jews, thrown into prison, delivered thence by the lord, exiled together with the sister of nicodemus, who had an image of the lord. joseph and his companions came to the promised land, the white isle, a part of england. there they warred against them of the land. when joseph was short of food he prayed to the creator to send him the grail wherein he had gathered the holy blood, after which to them that sat at table the grail brought bread and wine and meat in plenty. at his death, joseph begged the grail might remain with his seed, and thus it was that no one, of however high condition, might see it save he was of joseph's blood. the rich fisher was of that kin, and so was greloguevaus, from whom came perceval. it is hardly necessary to point out that this must be an interpolation, as if gauvain had really learnt all there was to be told concerning the grail, there would have been no point in the reproaches addressed him by the countryfolk. the gist of the episode is that he falls asleep before the tale is all told. [ ] the existence of this fragment shows the necessity of collating all the mss. of the conte du graal and the impossibility of arriving at definite conclusions respecting the growth of the work before this is done. the writer of this version evidently knew nothing of queste or grand st. graal, whilst he had knowledge of borron's poem, a fact the more remarkable since none of the other poets engaged upon the conte du graal knew of borron, so far, at least, as can be gathered from printed sources. it is hopeless in the present state of knowledge to do more than map out approximately the leading sections of the work. [ ] it is by no means clear to me that gerbert's portion of the conte du graal is an interpolation. i am rather inclined to look upon it as an independent finish. as will be shown later on, it has several features in common with both mabinogi and wolfram, features pointing to a common prototype. [ ] in the solitary ms. which gives this version, it follows, as has already been stated, prose versions of robert de borron's undoubted poems, "joseph of arimathea" and "merlin." [ ] birch-hirschfeld, in his summary (p. , l. ) or his ms. authority, b.m., xix, e. iii., has transposed the relationships. [ ] and buried it, adds b. h. in his summary, whether on ms. authority or not i cannot say, but the welsh translation has--"there was a period of years" (an obvious mistake on the part of the translator) "after the passion of j. c. when jos. of a. came; he who buried j. c. and drew him down from the cross." [ ] thus was evelach called as a christian, adds b. h. here w. agrees with furnivall. [ ] here birch-hirschfeld's summary agrees with w. [ ] b. h. agrees with w. [ ] according to b. h., the recluse tells him he has fought with his friends, whereupon, ashamed, he hurries off. [ ] b. h. here agrees with w. [ ] b. h. has _five_ candles. [ ] b. h.: "when will the holy vessel come to still the pain i feel? never suffered man as i." [ ] b. h. agrees with w. [ ] b. h. agrees with furnivall. [ ] b. h., the _ninth_. [ ] b. h., the vision is that of a crowned old man, who with two knights worships the cross. [ ] b. h., nasciens. [ ] b. h. has all this passage, save that the references to the vision at the cross-ways seem omitted. [ ] b. h., the latter. [ ] b. h., in chaldee. [ ] b. h., labran slays urban. [ ] the text has urban. [ ] b. h., thus was the king wounded, and he was galahad's grandfather. [ ] it does not appear from b. h.'s summary whether his text agrees with f. or w. [ ] b. h., seven knights. [ ] b. h., that was the castle of corbenic where the holy grail was kept. [ ] b. h., the castle of the maimed king. [ ] b. h., ten. obviously a mistake on the part of his text, as the nine with the three grail questers make up twelve, the number of christ's disciples. [ ] b. h., three. [ ] b. h. agrees with f. [ ] one cannot see from b. h. whether his text agrees with f. or w. [ ] b. h. agrees with f. [ ] it will be advisable to give here the well-known passage from the chronicle of helinandus, which has been held by most investigators to be of first-rate importance in determining the date of the grand st. graal. the chronicle ends in the year , and must therefore have been finished in that or the following year, and as the passage in question occurs in the earlier portion of the work it may be dated about two years earlier (birch-hirschfeld, p. ). "hoc tempore ( - ) in britannia cuidam heremitae demonstrata fuit mirabilis quaedam visio per angelum de joseph decurione nobili, qui corpus domini deposuit de cruce et de catino illo vel paropside, in quo dominus caenavit cum discipulis suis, de quo ab eodem heremita descripta est historia quae dicitur gradale. gradalis autem vel gradale gallice dicitur scutella lata et aliquantulum profunda, in qua preciosae dapes divitibus solent apponi gradatim, unus morsellus post alium in diversis ordinibus. dicitur et vulgari nomine greal, quia grata et acceptabilis est in ea comedenti, tum propter continens, quia forte argentea est vel de alia preciosa materia, tum propter contentum .i. ordinem multiplicem dapium preciosarum. hanc historiam latine scriptam invenire non potui sed tantum gallice scripta habetur a quibusdem proceribus, nec facile, ut aiunt, tota inveniri potest." the grand st. graal is the only work of the cycle now existing to which helinandus' words could refer; but it is a question whether he may not have had in view a work from which the grand st. graal took over its introduction. helinandus mentions the punning origin of the word "greal" (_infra_, p. ), which is only hinted at in the grand st. graal, but fully developed elsewhere, _e.g._, in the didot-perceval and in borron's poem. another point of great interest raised by this introduction will be found dealt with in appendix b. [ ] the ms. followed by furnivall has an illustration, in which joseph is represented as sitting under the cross and collecting the blood from the sides and feet in the basin. [ ] ms. reading. [ ] i have not thought it necessary to give a summary of the prose romance perceval le gallois. one will be found in birch-hirschfeld, pp. - . the version, though offering many interesting features, is too late and unoriginal to be of use in the present investigation. [ ] _cf._ p. as to this passage. [ ] it is forty-two years, according to d. queste (p. ), after the passion that joseph comes to sarras. [ ] it is plain that b i is abridged in the passage dealt with, from the following fact: joseph (v. , , etc.) praying to christ for help, reminds him of his command, that when he (joseph) wanted help he should come "devant ce veissel precieus où est votre sans glorieus." now christ's words to joseph in the prison say nothing whatever about any such recommendation; but e, grand st. graal, does contain a scene between our lord and joseph, in which the latter is bidden, "et quant tu vauras à moi parler si ouuerras l'arche en quel lieu que tu soies" (i, - ) from which the conclusion may be drawn that b i represents an abridged and garbled form of the prototype of e. [ ] in the mabinogi of branwen, the daughter of llyr, the warriors cast into the cauldron of renovation come forth on the morrow fighting men as good as they were before, except that they are not able to speak (mab., p. ). [ ] the version summarised by birch-hirschfeld. [ ] curiously enough this very text here prints urban as the name of the maimed king; urban is the antagonist of lambar, the father of the maimed king in the original draft of the queste, and his mention in this place in the text seems due to a misprint. in the episode there is a direct conflict of testimony between the first and second drafts, lambar slaving urlain in the former, urlain lambar in the latter. [ ] this account agrees with that of the second draft of the queste, in which urlain slays lambar. [ ] only _one_ beholder of the quest is alluded to, although in the queste, from which the grand st. graal drew its account, _three_ behold the wonders of the grail. [ ] this, of course, belongs to the second of the two accounts we have found in the poem respecting the promised knight, the one which makes him the grandson and not the son merely of brons. [ ] the object of the quest according to heinrich von dem türlin will be found dealt with in chapter vii. [ ] this is one of a remarkable series of points of contact between gerbert and wolfram von eschenbach. [ ] it almost looks as if the author of c were following here a version in which the hero only has to go once to the grail castle; nothing is said about perceval's first unsuccessful visit, and merlin addresses perceval as if he were telling him for the first time about matters concerning which he must be already fully instructed. [ ] it is remarkable, considering the scanty material at his disposal, how accurate schulz' analysis is, and how correct much of his argumentation. [ ] wagner has admirably utilised this hint of simrock's in his parsifal, when his kundry (the loathly damsel of chrestien and the mabinogi) is herodias. _cf._ _infra_, ch. x. [ ] excepting, of course, the late fifteenth and early sixteenth century paris imprints, which represented as a rule, however, the latest and most interpolated forms, and mons. fr. michel's edition of borron's poem. [ ] hucher's argument from v. (_supra_ p. ) that the poem knew of the grand st. graal is, however, not met. [ ] _vide_ p. , for birch-hirschfeld's summary comparison of the two works, and _cf._ _infra_ p. . [ ] _cf._ _infra_ p. , for a criticism of this statement. [ ] opera v. : unde et vir ille eloquio clarus w. mapus, oxoniensis archidiaconus (cujus animae propitietur deus) solita verborum facetia et urbanitate praecipua dicere pluris et nos in hunc modum convenire solebat: "multa, magister geralde, scripsistis et multum adhue scribitis, et nos multa diximus. vos scripta dedistis et nos verba." [ ] printed in full, hucher, i. , etc. [ ] printed by hucher, i. p. , etc. [ ] the remainder of birch-hirschfeld's work is devoted to proving that chrestien was the only source of wolfram von eschenbach, the latter's kiot being imagined by him to justify his departure from chrestien's version; departures occasioned by his dissatisfaction with the french poet's treatment of the subject on its moral and spiritual side. this element in the grail problem will be found briefly dealt with, appendix a. [ ] i have not thought it necessary, or even advisable, to notice what the "encyclopædia britannica" (part xli, pp. , ) and some other english "authorities" say about the grail legends. [ ] they are brought together by hucher, vol. i, p. , etc. [ ] in the preface to the second volume of his edition of chrestien's works (halle, ), w. förster distinguishes peredur from the lady of the fountain and from geraint, which he looks upon as simple copies of chrestien's poems dealing with the same subjects. peredur has, he thinks, some welsh features. [ ] it is perhaps only a coincidence that in gautier the "pucelle de malaire" is named riseut la bloie, and that rosette la blonde is the name of the loathly damsel whom perceval meets in company of the beau mauvais, and whom birch-hirschfeld supposes to have suggested to chrestien _his_ loathly damsel, the grail messenger. but from the three versions one gets the following:--riseut (gautier), loathly damsel (didot-perceval), grail messenger (chrestien), = peredur's cousin, who in the mabinogi is the loathly grail messenger, and the protagonist in the stag-hunt. [ ] i have not thought it necessary to discuss seriously the hypothesis that chrestien may have used the mabinogi as we now have it. the foregoing statement of the facts is sufficient to negative it. [ ] the counsels. _chrestien_ (v. , , etc.): aid dames and damsels, for he who honoureth them not, his honour is dead; serve them likewise; displease them not in aught; one has much from kissing a maid if she will to lie with you, but if she forbid, leave it alone; if she have ring, or wristband, and for love or at your prayer give it, 'tis well you take it. never have comradeship with one for long without seeking his name; speak ever to worthy men and go with them; ever pray in churches and monasteries (then follows a dissertation on churches and places of worship generally). _mabinogi_ (p. ): wherever a church, repeat there thy paternoster; if thou see meat and drink, and none offer, take; if thou hear an outcry, especially of a woman, go towards it; if thou see a jewel, take and give to another to obtain praise thereby; pay thy court to a fair woman, _whether she will or no_, thus shalt thou render thyself a better man than before. (in the italicised passage the mabinogi gives the direct opposite of chrestien, whom he has evidently misunderstood.) _sir perceval_ (p. ): "luke thou be of mesure bothe in haulle and boure, and fonde to be fre." "there thou meteste with a knyghte, do thi hode off, i highte, and haylse hym in hy" (he interprets the counsel to be of measure by only taking half the food and drink he finds at the board of the lady of the tent. the kissing of the lady of the tent which follows is in no way connected with his mother's counsel.) _wolfram_: "follow not untrodden paths; bear thyself ever becomingly; deny no man thy greeting; accept the teaching of a greybeard; if ring and greeting of a fair woman are to be won strive thereafter, kiss her and embrace her dear body, for that gives luck and courage, if so she be chaste and worthy." beside the mother's counsels perceval is admonished by gonemans or the personage corresponding to him. in _chrestien_ ( , , _et seq._) he is to deny mercy to no knight pleading for it; to take heed he be not over-talkful; to aid and counsel dames and damsels and all others needing his counsel; to go often to church; not to quote his mother's advice, rather to refer to him (gonemans). in the _mabinogi_ he is to leave the habits and discourse of his mother; if he see aught to cause him wonder not to ask its meaning. in _wolfram_ he is not to have his mother always on his lips; to keep a modest bearing; to help all in need, but to give wisely, not heedlessly; and in especial not to ask too much; to deny no man asking mercy; when he has laid by his arms to let no traces thereof be seen, but to wash hands and face from stain of rust, thereby shall ladies be pleased; to hold women in love and honour; never to seek to deceive them (as he might do many), for false love is fleeting and men and women are one as are sun and daylight.--there seems to me an evident progression in the ethical character of these counsels. originally they were doubtless purely practical and somewhat primitive of their nature. as it is, chrestien's words sound very strange to modern ears. [ ] in the notes to my two articles in the "folk-lore record" will be found a number of references establishing this fact. [ ] the hero renews his strength after his various combats by rubbing himself with the contents of a vessel of balsam. he has moreover to enter a house the door of which closes to of itself (like the grail castle portcullis in wolfram), and which kills him. he is brought to life by the friendly raven. the mysterious carlin also appears, "there was a turn of her nails about her elbows, and a twist of her hoary hair about her toes, and she was not joyous to look upon." she turns the hero's companions into stone, and to unspell them he must seek a bottle of living water and rub it upon them, when they will come out alive. this is like the final incident in many stories of the two brothers class. _cf._ note, p. . [ ] o'daly's version consists of quatrains; campbell's of . the correspondence between them, generally very close (frequently verbal), is shown by the following table:-- o'd., , . c., , . -- c., . o'd., . c., . o'd., - . -- o'd., . c., . o'd., - . c., - . o'd., . -- -- c., - . o'd., - . c., - . o'd., - . -- o'd., - . c., - . o'd., . -- o'd., - . c., - . o'd., . c., . o'd., . c., . o'd., , . c., , . o'd., . c., . o'd., . c., . -- c., . o'd., . c., . o'd., . -- o'd., . c., . o'd., . c., . o'd., - . c., - . o'd., - . -- o'd., , . c., , . -- c., . o'd., . -- o'd., . c., . o'd., - . -- [ ] of this widely spread group, grimm's no. , die zwei brüder, may be taken as a type. the brethren eat heart and liver of the gold bird and thereby get infinite riches, are schemed against by a goldsmith, who would have kept the gold bird for himself, seek their fortunes throughout the world accompanied by helping beasts, part at crossways, leaving a life token to tell each one how the other fares; the one delivers a princess from a dragon, is cheated of the fruit of the exploit by the red knight, whom after a year he confounds, wins the princess, and, after a while, hunting a magic hind, falls victim to a witch. his brother, learning his fate through the life token, comes to the same town, is taken for the young king even by the princess, but keeps faith to his brother by laying a bare sword twixt them twain at night. he then delivers from the witch's spells his brother, who, learning the error caused by the likeness, and thinking advantage had been taken of it, in a fit of passion slays him, but afterwards, hearing the truth, brings him back to life again. grimm has pointed out in his notes the likeness between this story and that of siegfried (adventures with mimir, fafnir, brunhilde, and gunnar). in india the tale figures in somadeva's katha sarit sagara (brockhaus' translation, ii., , _et seq._). the one brother is transformed into a demon through accidental sprinkling from a body burning on a bier. he is in the end released from this condition by his brother's performing certain exploits, but there is no similarity of detail. other variants are _zingerle_ (p. ) where the incident occurs of the hero's winning the king's favour by making his bear dance before him; this i am inclined to look upon as a weakened recollection of the incident of a hero's making a princess _laugh_, either by playing antics himself or making an animal of his play them (_see_ _supra_, p. , kennedy's irish tale). grimm also quotes _meier_ and , but these are only variants of the dragon-killing incident. in the variant of , given p. , the hero makes the king laugh, and in both stories occurs the familiar incident of the hero coming unknown into a tournament and overcoming all enemies, as in peredur (inc. ). _wolf._, p. , is closer, and here the hero is counselled by a grey mannikin whom he will unspell if he succeeds. _stier_, no. i. (not p. , as grimm erroneously indicates) follows almost precisely the same course as grimm's , save that there are three brothers. _graal_, p. , has the magic gold bird opening, but none of the subsequent adventures tally. _schott_, no. , is also cited by grimm, but mistakenly; it belongs to the faithful-servant group. very close variants come from sweden (cavallius-oberleitner, v_a_, v_b_) and italy (pentamerone, i. and i. ). the swedish tales have the miraculous conception opening, which is a prominent feature in tales belonging to the expulsion and return group (_e.g._, perseus, cu-chulaind, and taliesin), but present otherwise very nearly the same incidents as grimm. the second of the italian versions has the miraculous conception opening so characteristic of this group of folk-tales, and of the allied formula group, the attainment of riches consequent upon eating the heart of a sea dragon, the tournament incident (though without the disguise of the hero), the stag hunt, wherein the stag, an inimical wizard haunting the wood, is a cannibal and keeps the captured hero for eating. in the story of the delivery by the second brother, the separating sword incident occurs. the first version opens with what is apparently a distorted and weakened form of the hero's clearing a haunted house of its diabolical inmates (_see_ _infra_ ch. vii., gawain) and then follows very closely grimm's two brothers, save that the alluring witch is young and fair, the whole tale being made to point the moral, "more luck than wit." straparola, _a_ , is a variant of the dragon fight incident alone. it is impossible not to be struck by the fact that in this widely spread group of tales are to be found some of the most characteristic incidents of the perceval and allied great fool group. the only version, however, which brings the two groups into formal contact is o'daly's form of the great fool. [ ] the brother feature appears likewise in wolfram von eschenbach, where parzival's final and hardest struggle is against the unknown brother, as the great fool's is against the gruagach. this may be added to other indications that wolfram _did_ have some other version before him besides chrestien's. [ ] i cannot but think that these words have connection with the incident in the english sir perceval of the hero's throwing into the flames and thus destroying his witch enemy. [ ] i must refer to my mabinogion studies, i. branwen for a discussion of the relation of this tale with branwen and with the teutonic heldensage. [ ] another parallel is afforded by the tale of conall gulban (campbell, iii., ). conall, stretched wounded on the field, sees "when night grew dark a great turkish carlin, and she had a white glaive of light with which she could see seven miles behind her and seven miles before her; and she had a flask of balsam carrying it." the dead men are brought to life by having three drops of balsam put into their mouths. the hero wins both flask and glaive. [ ] _cf._ my branwen for remarks on the mythological aspect of the ballad. it should be noted that most of the ballads traditionally current in the highlands are of semi-literary origin, _i.e._, would seem to go back to the compositions of mediæval irish bards, who often sprinkled over the native tradition a profusion of classical and historical names. i do not think the foreign influence went farther than the "names" of some personages, and such as it is is more at work in the ballads than in the tales. [ ] this may seem to conflict with the statement made above (p. ), that the mabinogi probably took over the maimed uncle from chrestien. but there were in all probability several forms of the story; that hinted at in chrestien and found in manessier had its probable counterpart in celtic tradition as well as that found in gerbert. it is hardly possible to determine what was the form found in the proto-mabinogi, the possibility of its having been exactly the same as that of gerbert is in no way affected by the fact that the mabinogi, as we now have it, has in this respect been influenced by chrestien. meanwhile birch-hirschfeld's hypothesis that gerbert's section of the conte du graal is an interpolation between gautier and manessier is laid open to grave doubt. it is far more likely that gerbert's work was an independent and original attempt to provide an ending for chrestien's unfinished poem, and that he had before him a different version of the original from that used by gautier and manessier. [ ] it occurs also in peredur (inc. ), where the hero comes to the castle of the youths, who, fighting every day against the addanc of the cave, are each day slain, and each day brought to life by being anointed in a vessel of warm water and with precious balsam. [ ] for the second time, if gerbert's continuation be really intended for our present text of gautier, and if potvin's summary of gerbert is to be relied upon; birch-hirschfeld seemingly differs from him here, and makes the king at once mention the flaw. [ ] it may be worth notice that v. , is the same as chrestien, v. , . [ ] it is evident that, although in the ms. in which this version is found it is followed by manessier's section, the poem was intended by gerbert to end here. [ ] told at other times, and notably by gautier himself (inc. ), of perceval, where the feature of a dead knight lying on the altar is added. [ ] according to the montpellier ms., which here agrees substantially with potvin's text (the mons ms.), this is gauvain's second visit to the grail castle. at his first visit he had been subjected to the sword test and had slept. the mystic procession is made up as follows:--squire with lance; maidens with plate; two squires with candlesticks; fair maiden weeping, in her hands a "graal;" four squires with the bier, on which lies the knight and the broken sword. gauvain would fain learn about these things, but is bidden first to make the sword whole. on his failure he is told vous n'avez par encore tant fet d'armes, que vous doiez savoir, etc., and then goes to sleep. his awakening finds him in a marsh. [ ] it may be conjectured that the magic vessel which preserves to this enchanted folk the semblance of life passes into the hero's possession when he asks about it, and that deprived of it their existence comes to an end, as would that of the anses without the apples of iduna. i put this into a note, as i have no evidence in support of the theory. but read in the light of this conjecture some hitherto unnoticed legend may supply the necessary link of testimony. [ ] nearly all the objections to the view suggested in the text may be put aside as due to insufficient recognition of the extent to which the two formulas have been mingled, but there is one which seems to me of real moment. the wasting of the land which i have looked upon as belonging to the unspelling formula, is traced by the queste to the blow struck by king lambar against king urlain, a story which, as we have seen, is very similar to that which forms the groundwork of one at least of the models followed by the conte du graal in its version of the feud quest. it does not seem likely that the queste story is a mere echo of that found in the conte du graal, nor that the fusion existed so far back as in a model common to both. but the second alternative is possible. [ ] i do not follow m. hucher upon the (as it seems to me) very insecure ground of gaulish numismatic art. the object which he finds figured in pre-christian coins may be a cauldron--and it may not--and even if it is a cauldron it may have no such significance as he ascribes to it. [ ] _cf._ as to lug d'arbois de jubainville, cycle mythologique irlandais; paris, , p. . he was revered by all celtic races, and has left his trace in the name of several towns, chief among them lug-dunum = lyons. in so far as the celts had departmental gods, he was the god of handicraft and trade; but _cf._ as to this rhys, hibb. lect., p. - . [ ] _cf._ d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._, p. - . the dagda--the good god--seems to have been head of the irish olympus. a legend anterior to the eleventh century, and belonging probably to the oldest stratum of celtic myth, ascribes to him power over the earth: without his aid the sons of miledh could get neither corn nor milk. it is, therefore, no wonder to find him possessor of the magic cauldron, which may be looked upon as a symbol of fertility, and, as such, akin to similar symbols in the mythology of nearly every people. [ ] _cf._ as to the mythic character of the tuatha de danann, d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._, and my review of his work, folk-lore journal, june, . [ ] i at one time thought that the prohibition to reveal the "secret words," which is such an important element in robert de borron's version, might be referred to the same myth-root as the instances in the text. there is little or no evidence to sustain such a hazardous hypothesis. nevertheless it is worth while drawing attention in this place to that prohibition, for which i can offer no adequate explanation. [ ] powers of darkness and death. tethra their king reigns in an island home. it is from thence that the maiden comes to lure away connla of the golden hair, as is told in the leabhar na-h-uidhre, even as the grail messenger comes to seek perceval--"'tis a land in which is neither death nor old age--a plain of never ending pleasure," the counterpart, in fact, of that avalon to which arthur is carried off across the lake by the fay maiden, that avalon which, as we see in robert de borron, was the earliest home of the grail-host. [ ] _cf._ d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._ p. . [ ] when cuchulainn was opposing the warriors of ireland in their invasion of ulster one of his feats is to make smooth chariot-poles out of rough branches of trees by passing them through his clenched hand, so that however bent and knotted they were they came from his hands even, straight, and smooth. _tain bo cualgne_, quoted by windisch, rev. celt., vol. v. [ ] this epithet recalls lug, of whom it is the stock designation. now lug was _par excellence_ the craftsman's god; he, too, at the battle of mag tured acted as a sort of armourer-general to the tuatha de danann. a dim reminiscence of this may be traced in the words which the folk-tale applies to ullamh l.f., "he was the one special man for taking their arms." [ ] _cf._ my aryan expulsion and return formula, pp. , , for variants of these incidents in other stories belonging to this cycle and in the allied folk-tales. [ ] this incident is only found in the living fionn-_sage_, being absent from all the older versions, and yet, as the comparison with the allied perceval sage shows, it is an original and essential feature. how do the advocates of the theory that the ossianic cycle is a recent mass of legend, growing out of the lives and circumstances of historical men, account for this development along the lines of a formula with which, _ex hypothesi_, the legend has nothing to do? the fionn-_sage_, it is said, has been doctored in imitation of the cuchulainn-_sage_, but the assertion (which though boldly made has next to no real foundation) cannot be made in the case of the conte du graal. mediæval irish bards and unlettered highland peasants did not conspire together to make fionn's adventures agree with those of perceval. [ ] in the gawain form of the feud quest found in gautier, the knight whose death he sets forth to avenge is slain by the cast of a dart. can this be brought into connection with the fact that perceval slays with a cast of his dart the red knight, who, according to the thornton romance, is his father's slayer. [ ] this prose tale precedes an oral version of one of the commonest fenian poems, which in its present shape obviously goes back to the days when the irish were fighting against norse invaders. the poem, which still lives in ireland as well as in the highlands, belongs to that later stage of development of the fenian cycle, in which fionn and his men are depicted as warring against the norsemen. it is totally dissimilar from the prose story summarised above, and i am inclined to look upon the prose as belonging to a far earlier stage in the growth of the cycle, a stage in which the heroes were purely mythical and their exploits those of mythical heroes generally. [ ] the prohibition seems to be an echo of the widely-spread one which forbids the visitor to the otherworld tasting the food of the dead, which, if he break, he is forfeit to the shades. the most famous instance of this myth is that of persephone. [ ] _cf._ procopius quoted by elton, origins of english history, p. . [ ] prof. rhys, hibbert lectures for , looks upon him as a celtic zeus. he dispossessed his father of the brug by fraud, as zeus dispossessed kronos by force. [ ] d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._, p. . rhys, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] m. duvau, revue celtique, vol. ix., no. , has translated the varying versions of the story. [ ] like many of the older irish tales the present form is confused and obscure, but it is easy to arrive at the original. [ ] the part in brackets is found in one version only of the story. of the two versions each has retained certain archaic features not to be found in the other. [ ] summarised by d'arbois de jubainville, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] d'arbois de jubainville, p. . [ ] otto küpp, z.f.d. phil. xvii, i, , examining wolfram's version sees in the branch guarded by gramoflanz and broken by parzival a trace of the original myth underlying the story. gramoflanz is connected with the magic castle (one of the inmates of which is his sister), or with the otherworld. küpp's conjecture derives much force from the importance given to the branch in the irish tales as part of the gear of the otherworld. [ ] this recalls the fact that oengus of the brug fell in love with a swanmaid. see text and translation revue celtique, vol. iii., pp. , _et. seq._ the story is alluded to in the catalogue of epic tales (dating from the tenth century) found in the book of leinster. [ ] in a variant from kashmir (knowles' folk-tales of kashmir, london, , p. , _et. seq._), saiyid and said, this tale is found embedded in a twin-brethren one. [ ] frederick (i.) barbarossa is a mistake, as old as the seventeenth century (_cf._ koch, sage vom kaiser friedrich in kyffhäuser, leipzig, ), for frederick ii., the first german emperor of whom the legend was told. the mistake was caused by the fact that frederick took the place of a german red-bearded god, probably thor, hence the later identification with the _red-bearded_ frederick, instead of with that great opponent of the papacy whose death away in italy the german party refused for many years to credit. [ ] unless the passage relating to carl the great quoted by grimm (d.m., iii., ) from mon. germ. hist., vol. viii., , "inde fabulosum illud confictum de carolo magno, quasi de mortuis in id ipsum resuscitato, et alio nescio quo nihilominus redivivo," be older. [ ] liebrecht's edition of the otia imperialia, hanover, , p. , and note p. . [ ] martin zur gralsage, p. , arguing from the historical connection of frederick ii. with sicily, thinks that the localisation of this arthurian legend in that isle was the reason of its being associated with the hohenstauffen; in other words, the famous german legend would be an indirect offshot of the arthurian cycle. i cannot follow martin here. i see no reason for doubting the genuineness of the traditions collected by kuhn and schwartz, or for disbelieving that teutons had this myth as well as celts. it is no part of my thesis to exalt celtic tradition at the expense of german; almost all the parallels i have adduced between the romances and celtic mythology and folk-lore could be matched from those of germany. but the romances are historically associated with celtic tradition, and the parallels found in the latter are closer and more numerous than those which could be recovered from german tradition. it is, therefore, the most simple course to refer the romances to the former instead of to the latter. [ ] see grimm, d.m., ch. xxxii.; fitzgerald, rev. celt., iv., ; and the references in liebrecht, _op. cit._ [ ] personally communicated by the rev. mr. sorby, of sheffield. [ ] in chrestien the part of the magician lord is little insisted upon. but in wolfram he is a very important personage. it may here be noted that the effects which are to follow in chrestien the doing away with the enchantments of this castle, answer far more accurately to the description given by the loathly grail-maiden of the benefits which would have accrued had perceval put the question at the court of the fisher king than to anything actually described as the effect of that question being put, either by gautier, manessier, or gerbert. this castle seems, too, to be the one in which lodge the knights, each having his lady love with him, which the loathly maiden announces to be her home. [ ] kennedy follows in the main oss. soc., vol. ii, pp. , _et. seq._, an eighteenth century version translated by mr. o'kearney. this particular episode is found, pp. , _et. seq._ i follow the oss. soc. version in preference to kennedy's where they differ. [ ] the story as found in heinrich may be compared with the folk-tale of the sleeping beauty. she is a maiden sunk in a death-in-life sleep together with all her belongings until she be awakened by the kiss of the destined prince. may we not conjecture that in an older form of the story than any we now possess, the court of the princess vanished when the releasing kiss restored her to real life and left her alone with the prince? the comparison has this further interest, that the folk-tale is a variant of an old myth which figures prominently in the hero-tales of the teutonic race (lay of skirni, lay of swipday and menglad, saga of sigurd and brunhild), and that in its most famous form siegfried, answering in teutonic myth to fionn, is its hero. but peredur is a cymric fionn, so that the parallel between the two heroes, celtic and teutonic, is closer than at first appears when siegfried is compared only to his gaelic counterpart. [ ] i have not examined gawain's visit to the magic castle in detail, in the first place because it only bears indirectly upon the grail-quest, and then because i hope before very long to study the personality of gawain in the romances, and to throw light upon it from celtic mythic tradition in the same way that i have tried in the foregoing pages to do in the case of perceval. [ ] kennedy, legendary fictions, p. , _et. seq._ [ ] grimm, vol. iii., p. (note to märchen von einem der auszog das fürchten zu lernen), gives a number of variants. it should be noted that in this story there is the same mixture of incidents of the magic castle and haunted castle forms as in the romances. moreover, one of the trials to which the hero's courage is subjected is the bringing into the room of a coffin in which lies a dead man, just as in gawain's visit to the grail castle. again, as grimm notes, but mistakenly refers to perceval instead of to gawain, the hero has to undergo the adventures of the magic bed, which, when he lays himself down in it, dashes violently about through the castle and finally turns topsy turvy. in connection with this story, and with the whole series of mythical conceptions noted in the grail romances, chapter xxxii. of the deutsche mythologie deserves careful study. grimm compares conduiramur's (blanchefleur's) nightly visit to percival's chamber to the appearance at the bedside of the delivering hero of that white maiden, who is so frequently figured as the inmate of the haunted castle. as niece of the lord of the grail castle, blanchefleur is also a denizen of the otherworld, but i hardly think that the episode of perceval's delivering her from her enemies can be looked upon as a version of the removal of the spells of the haunted castle. in a recent number of the revue des traditions populaires (iii., p. ), there is a good breton version of the bespelled castle sunk under the waves. a fair princess is therein held captive; once a year the waves part and permit access, and he who is bold enough to seize the right moment wins princess and castle, which are restored to earth. [ ] whether it be the castle of the fisher king, _i.e._, the castle of the perceval quest; or the magic castle, _i.e._, the castle of the gawain quest. [ ] for fuller information about this mysterious fish, see rhys, hibbert lectures, pp. - . [ ] in an already quoted tale of campbell's (lviii., the rider of grianaig) allusion is made to the "black fisherman working at his tricks." campbell remarks that a similar character appears in other tales. can this wizard fisher be brought into contact with the rich fisher of pseudo-chrestien (_supra_, p. ), who knew much of black art, and could change his semblance a hundred times? [ ] complete text, edited by kuno meyer, revue celt., vol. v. major portion of text with english translation by dr. j. o'donovan, oss. soc., vol. iv. the tract as a whole is only known to us from a fifteenth century ms.; but the earlier portion of it appears in the l.n.h., in a strongly euhemerised form, only such incidents being admitted as could be presented historically, and these being divested of all supernatural character. see my paper, "folk-lore record," vol. iv., for a discussion of the genuine and early character of the tract. [ ] a reason for this concealment may be found in the idea, so frequently met with in a certain stage of human development, that the name is an essential portion of the personality, and must not be mentioned, especially to possible enemies or to beings possessed of magical powers, lest they should make hurtful use of it. [ ] _cf._ the whole of the book of rights for an exemplification of the way in which the pre-christian irishman was hedged and bound and fettered by this amazingly complicated system of what he might and what he might not do. [ ] they offer him dog's-flesh cooked on rowan spits, and, it has been conjectured that the _gess_ has a totemistic basis, culann's hound (cuchulainn) being forbidden to partake of the flesh of his totem. [ ] it is only within the last years that our knowledge of savage and semi-savage races has furnished us with a parallel to the "geasa" in the "taboo" of the polynesian. i am not advancing too much in the statement that this institution, although traces of it exist among all aryan races, had not the same importance among any as among the irish gael. it is another proof of the primitive character of irish social life, a character which may, perhaps, be ascribed to the assimilation by the invading celts of the beliefs and practices of much ruder races. [ ] mr. elton (origins, pp. , ) looks upon bran and caradoc as original war gods. caradoc, he thinks, was confounded with caractacus, bran with brennus, and hence the two personages were sent to rome in imitation of the presumed historical prototypes. [ ] kynddelw's triad does not really refer to the "blessed" families at all, but to the "faithful" or "loyal" families. stephen's mistake arose from the fact of the name madawc occurring in two sets of triads, one relating to the "lordly" families of britain in which the family of llyr llediath also figures, and one to the faithful families. in both triads the name is probably a mistake for mabon. (note communicated by professor rhys.) i let the statement in the text stand, to exhort myself and others to that fear of trusting authorities which in scholarship is the beginning of wisdom. [ ] professor rhys tells me this passage can only mean "blessed bran's head." [ ] mr. ward endorses zarncke's contention. according to him there is no trace of any connection between joseph and the evangelisation of britain which can be said to be older than the romances. the statements of the "de ant. eccl. glast." are, he thinks, no guide to the knowledge or opinions of william of malmesbury. [ ] i may here notice a theory to which my attention has only just been called. it is found cited in a work of great research, _die fronica_, by professor karl pearson, strassburg, . the author quotes an opinion of mr. jenner, of the british museum, that the head in the platter of the mabinogi may be derived from a veronica portrait. professor pearson expresses doubt, because such a procession of the veronica portrait and the passion instruments as the scene in the mabinogi would, _ex hypothesi_, imply is not known to him before the fourteenth century, whereas the mabinogi must be attributed, at latest, to the middle of the thirteenth century. mr. h. l. d. ward informs me that the suggestion was his. noting the connection of the veronica and grail legends, testified to by borron, it occurred to him that the whole scene at the wounded king's might be derived from the former legends. the wounded king, healed by the grail, would thus be a counterpart of the leprous vespasian healed by the veronica portrait, which some wandering "jongleur" turned boldly into an actual head. but it must be noted that in borron, our authority for the connection of the two legends, there is no wounded king at all; in the conte du graal the maimed king is not healed by any special talisman, but by the death of his enemy, the visible sign of which is that enemy's head, whilst in the "procession" (which mr. ward thinks to have been intended as a vision), the grail is certainly a vessel, and has no connection whatever with any head or portrait. the theory thus requires that the version which gives the oldest form of the hypothetical remodelled veronica legend omitted the very feature which was its sole _raison d'être_. [ ] mr. ward thinks the localisation a late one, and that practically there is no authority for it of an older date than the romances. he points out in especial that geoffrey's vita merlini, which has so much to say about the "insula pomorum" in no way connects it with glastonbury. there is considerable doubt as the etymology of glastonbury, but there is substantial unanimity of opinion among celtic scholars of the present day in referring it to a celtic rather than to a saxon source. be this as it may, the fact remains that at sometime in the course of the twelfth century the old christian site of glastonbury took, as it were, the place of the celtic paradise, and it seems far more likely that the transformation was effected in virtue of some local tradition than wholly through the medium of foreign romances. [ ] the pre-christian irish annals, which are for the most part euhemerised mythology, contain also a certain amount of race history; thus the struggle between the powers of light and darkness typified by the antagonism between tuatha de danann and fomori, is doubled by that between the fair invading celts and the short dark aborigines. but the latter has only left the barest trace of its existence in the national sagas. not until we come to that secondary stage of the fenian saga, which must have been shaped in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and which represents the fenians as warring against the harrying northmen, does the foreign element reappear in irish tradition. [ ] the tochmarc emer, or the wooing of emer by cuchullain, has been translated by professor kuno meyer in the archæological review, nos. - (london, ). the original text is found partly in the leabhar na h-uidhre, partly in later mss. [ ] the fate of the sons of usnech is known to us in two main redactions, one found in the book of leinster (compiled in the middle of the twelfth century from older ms.) printed by windisch, irische texte (first series) pp. - , and translated by m. poinsignon, revue des traditions populaires, iii, pp. - . a text printed and translated by j. o'flanagan (transactions of the gaelic society of dublin, , pp. - ), agrees substantially with this. the second redaction has only been found in later mss. mr. whitley stokes has given text and translation from a fifteenth century ms. (irische texte, ii. , pp. - ), and o'flanagan has edited a very similar version (_loc. cit._ pp. - ). this second version is fuller and more romantic; in it alone is to be found deirdre's lament on leaving scotland, one of the earliest instances in post-classic literature of personal sympathy with nature. but the earlier version, though it bear like so much else in the oldest irish ms. obvious traces of abridgment and euhemerism, is also full of the most delicate romantic touches. part of deirdre's lament over the slain noisi may be paraphrased thus:--"fair one, loved one, flower of beauty; beloved, upright and strong; beloved, noble and modest warrior. when we wandered through the woods of ireland, sweet with thee was the night's sleep! fair one, blue-eyed, beloved of thy wife, lovely to me at the trysting place came thy clear voice through the woods. i cannot sleep; half the night my spirit wanders far among throngs of men. i cannot eat or smile. break not to-day my heart; soon enough shall i lie within my grave. strong are the waves of the sea, but stronger is sorrow, conchobor." [ ] m. renan's article "de la poésie des races celtiques" (revue des deux mondes, , pp. - ) only came into my hands after the bulk of this chapter was printed, or i should hardly have dared to state in my own words those conclusions in which we agree. it may be useful to indicate those points in which i think this suggestive essay no longer represents the present state of knowledge. when m. renan wrote, the nature of popular tradition had been little investigated in france--hence a tendency to attribute solely to the celtic genius what is common to all popular tradition. little or nothing was then known in france of early irish history or literature--hence the wild, primitive character of celtic civilization is ignored. the "bardic" literature of wales was still assigned wholesale to the age of its alleged authors--hence a false estimate of the relations between the profane and ecclesiastical writings of the welsh. finally the three mabinogion (the lady of the fountain, geraint, peredur), which correspond to poems of chrestien's, are unhesitatingly accepted as their originals. the influence of welsh fiction in determining the courtly and refined nature of mediæval romance is, in consequence, greatly exaggerated. it is much to be wished that m. renan would give us another review of celtic literature based on the work of the last thirty years. his lucid and sympathetic criticism would be most welcome in a department of study which has been rather too exclusively left to the specialist. [ ] malory is a wonderful example of the power of style. he is a most unintelligent compiler. he frequently chooses out of the many versions of the legend, the longest, most wearisome, and least beautiful; his own contributions to the story are beneath contempt as a rule. but his language is exactly what it ought to be, and his has remained in consequence the classic english version of the arthur story. [ ] see p. for a brief summary of borron's conception; sin the cause of want among the people; the separation of the pure from the impure by means of the fish (symbol of christ); punishment of the self-willed false disciple; reward of brons by charge of the grail; symbolising of the trinity by the three tables and three grail keepers. [ ] the greater delicacy of the welsh tale has already been noted. "to make him such a offer before i am wooed by him, that, truly, can i not do," says the counterpart of blanchefleur in the mabinogi. "go my sister and sleep," answers peredur, "nor will i depart from thee until i do that which thou requirest." i cannot help looking upon the prominence which the welsh story-teller has given to this scene as his protest against the strange and to him repulsive ways of knightly love. the older, mythic nature of peredur's beloved, who might woo without forfeiting womanly modesty, in virtue of her goddesshood, had died away in the narrator's mind, the new ideal of courtly passion had not won acceptance from him. [ ] the perplexities which beset the modern reader of the queste are reflected in the laureate's retelling of the legend. nowhere else in the idylls has he departed so widely from his model. much of the incident is due to him, and replaces with advantage the nauseous disquisitions upon chastity which occupy so large a space in the queste. the artist's instinct, rather than the scholar's respect for the oldest form of the story, led him to practically restore perceval to his rightful place as hero of the quest. _his_ fortunes we can follow with an interest that passing shadow, galahad, wholly fails to evoke. nor, as may easily be seen, is the fundamental conception of the twelfth century romance to the laureate's taste. arthur is his ideal of manhood, and arthur's energies are practical and human in aim and in execution. what the "blameless king" speaks when he first learns of the quest represents, we may guess, the author's real attitude towards the whole fantastic business. it is much to be regretted by all lovers of english poetry that hawker's quest of the sangraal was never completed. the first and only chant is a magnificent fragment; with the exception of the laureate's sir galahad, the finest piece of pure literature in the cycle. hawker, alone, perhaps of moderns, could have kept the mediæval tone and spirit, and yet brought the quest into contact with the needs and ideas of to-day. [ ] _cf._ grimm, deutsche mythologie, ii, , and his references. [ ] the ideas held by many peoples in a primitive stage of culture respecting virginity are worthy careful study. some physiological basis may be found for them in the phenomena of hysteria, which must necessarily have appeared to such peoples evidences of divine or demoniac possession, and at that stage are hardly likely to have been met with save among unmarried women. in the french witch trials these phenomena are often presented by nuns, in whose case they were probably the outcome of a life at once celibate and inactive. on the other hand the persons accused of witchcraft were as a rule of the most abandoned character, and it is a, morally speaking, degraded class which has furnished professor charcot and his pupils with the subjects in whom they have identified all the phenomena that confront the student of witch trials. [ ] domanig, parzival-studien, i, ii, - . [ ] san-marte, parzival-studien, i-iii, - . [ ] some readers may be anxious to read wolfram's work to whom twelfth-century german would offer great difficulties. a few words on the translation into modern german may, therefore, not be out of place. san-marte's original translation ( - ) is full of gross blunders and mistranslations, and, what is worse, of passages foisted into the text to support the translator's own interpretation of the poem as a whole. simrock's, which followed, is extremely close, but difficult and unpleasing. san marte's second edition, corrected from simrock, is a great advance upon the first; but even here the translator has too often allowed his own gloss to replace wolfram's statement. a thoroughly faithful yet pleasing rendering is a desideratum. [ ] j. van santen, zur beurtheilung wolfram von eschenbach, wesel, , has attacked wolfram for his acceptance of the morality of the day, and has, on that ground, denied him any ethical or philosophic merit. the pamphlet is useful for its references, but otherwise worthless. the fact that wolfram does accept _minnedienst_ only gives greater value to his picture of a nobler and purer ideal of love, whilst to refuse recognition of his other qualities on this account is much as who should deny dante's claim to be regarded as a teacher and thinker because of his acceptance of the hideous mediæval hell. [ ] in the geheimnisse goethe shows some slight trace of the parzival legend, and the words in which the teaching of the poem are summed up: "von der gewalt, die alle wesen bindet, befreit _der_ mensch sich der sich überwindet," may be looked upon as an eighteenth century rendering of wolfram's conception. [ ] we may here note an admirable example of the inevitable, spontaneous character of the growth of certain conceptions, especially of such as have been partly shaped by the folk-mind. there is nothing in wolfram or in the french romances to show that the fortunes of the loathly damsel (wagner's kundry) are in any way bound up with the success of the quest. but we have seen that the celtic folk-tales represent the loathly damsel as the real protagonist of the story. she cannot be freed unless the hero do his task. precisely the same situation as in wagner, who was thus led back to the primitive _donnée_, although he can only have known intermediary stages in which its signification had been quite lost. [ ] _cf._ the reproaches addressed to potter thompson (_supra_, p. ). that the visitor to the bespelled castle should be reproached, at once, for his failure to do as he ought, seems to be a feature of the earliest forms of the story. _cf._ campbell's three soldiers (_supra_, p. ). if wolfram had another source than chrestien it was one which partook more of the unspelling than of the feud quest formula. hence the presence of the feature here. [ ] in wolfram's work there is a much closer connection between the gawain quest and the remainder of the poem than in chrestien. orgueilleuse, to win whose love gawain accomplishes his feats, is a former love of amfortas, the grail king, who won for her a rich treasure and was wounded in her service. klinschor, too, the lord of the magic castle, is brought into contact with orgueilleuse, whom he helps against gramoflanz. it is difficult to say whether this testifies to an earlier or later stage of growth of the legend. the winning of orgueilleuse as the consequence of accomplishing the feat of the ford perillous and plucking the branch is strongly insisted upon by wolfram and not mentioned by chrestien, though it is possible he might have intended to wed the two had he finished his poem. in this respect, however, and taking these two works as they stand, wolfram's account seems decidedly the earlier. in another point, too, he seems to have preserved the older form. besides his kundrie la sorcière (the loathly damsel) he has a kundrie la belle, whom i take to be the loathly damsel released from the transforming spell. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. passages in bold are indicated by =bold=. superscripted characters are indicated by {superscript}. =grimm library= no. the legend of sir lancelot du lac =the grimm library.= i. georgian folk-tales. translated by marjory wardrop. _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ xii+ . _s._ _net_. ii., iii., v. the legend of perseus. by edwin sidney hartland, f.s.a. vols. £ , _s._ _d._ _net_. vol. i. the supernatural birth. _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ xxxiv+ (_not sold separately_). vol. ii. the life-token. _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ viii+ . _s._ _d._ _net_. vol. iii. andromeda. medusa. _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ xxxvii+ . _s._ _d._ _net_. iv., vi. the voyage of bran, son of febal. an eighth-century irish saga, now first edited and translated by kuno meyer. vol. i. with an essay upon the happy otherworld in irish myth, by alfred nutt. _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ xvii+ . _s._ _d._ _net_. vol. ii. with an essay on the celtic doctrine of rebirth, by alfred nutt. _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ xii+ . _s._ _d._ _net_. vii. the legend of sir gawain. studies upon its original scope and significance. by jessie l. weston, translator of wolfram von eschenbach's 'parzival.' _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ xiv+ . _s._ _net_. viii. the cuchullin saga in irish literature. being a collection of stories relating to the hero cuchullin, translated from the irish by various scholars. compiled and edited, with introduction and notes, by eleanor hull. _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ lxxix+ . _s._ _d._ _net_. ix., x. the pre-and proto-historic finns, both eastern and western, with the magic songs of the west finns. by the hon. john abercromby. vol. i., _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ xxiv+ . vol. ii., _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ xiii+ . £ , _s._ _net_. xi. the home of the eddic poems. with especial reference to the 'helgi lays,' by sophus bugge, professor in the university of christiania. revised edition, with a new introduction concerning old norse mythology, by the author, translated from the norwegian by william henry schofield, instructor in harvard university. _cr._ _ vo_, _pp._ lxxix+ . _s._ _net_. _all rights reserved_ the legend of sir lancelot du lac studies upon its origin, development, and position in the arthurian romantic cycle by jessie l. weston london published by david nutt at the sign of the phoenix long acre edinburgh: t. and a. constable, (late) printers to her majesty preface the studies contained in the following pages were, in the first instance, undertaken some four or five years ago. from time to time the exigencies of other literary work have compelled me to lay them aside, but the subject has never been lost sight of, and, not infrequently, studies in appearance wholly unconnected with the _lancelot_ legend have thrown an unexpected and welcome light on certain points of the story. undertaken, in the first instance, with an absolutely open mind (even after i had been working at it for two or three years i should have been sorely at a loss if asked to state a theory of the origin of the story), it was only by slow degrees that the real bearing of the evidence became clear, and i felt that i had at last grasped a guiding thread through the perplexing maze. the results, which perhaps to some readers may appear startlingly subversive of opinions formally expressed by certain distinguished scholars, were wholly unforeseen. they are the outcome of genuine study of original texts; whether, in the long-run they be, or be not generally accepted, i would at least plead that they be judged _on the evidence of those texts_. in certain cases i have little doubt as to the verdict. so far as the evidence concerning the sources of malory, and the differing versions of the prose _lancelot_, is concerned, the facts, now brought forward for the first time, are beyond dispute. they may, i hope they will, be hereafter added to, and confirmed. as they stand they encourage us to hope that further study of the material already available may yield welcome, and perhaps unsuspected results. we are, so far, only on the threshold of a satisfactory and scientific criticism of the arthurian cycle, and i doubt whether all who are engaged in this study recognise sufficiently either the extent and complexity of the questions involved, or the absolute futility of, at this early stage, enunciating dogmatic decisions on any of the various points at issue. is there any one living scholar who is perfectly aware of _all_ the evidence at our disposal for any of the great stories of the cycle? if there be, he will know, better than any other, that till critical editions place us in a position to determine the characteristic readings of the mss. representing not one alone, but _all_ those stories, their inter-relation, their points of contact with, and variance from each other, the very best work that can be done will be liable to bear the impress of a temporary character--it will not, it cannot be, final. elsewhere, i have urged that this fact be recognised and acted upon, and i cannot but hope that the evidence collected in these studies may help to convince others of the real necessity for a determined effort to edit and render accessible the principal arthurian texts, and the certain and permanent profit likely to result from such a work. bournemouth, _february _. contents chapter i page introductory remarks - lancelot not a character of primitive arthurian tradition first recorded mention by chrétien de troyes and sudden growth in popularity - chapter ii the 'lanzelet' of ulrich von zatzikhoven lancelot--theories as to origin of name--m. de la villemarqué-- professor rhys--m. gaston paris--professor zimmer--professor foerster--proposed celtic derivation unsatisfactory - summary of poem - discussion of poem--contradictory character of contents; not necessarily proof of late origin - process of evolution sketched - connection between _lanzelet_ and _parzival_ of wolfram von eschenbach--not merely a superficial borrowing of names-- necessity for critical edition of the _lanzelet_, and careful comparison of the two poems - chapter iii lancelot et le cerf au pied blanc summary of poem - _lai de tyolet_--older variant, but real nature of story even then obscured - 'false claimant' _motif_ foreign to original _lai_ - influence of _tristan_ noticeable in the _morien_ variant-- possible connection with _lai_ - reasons for omission of adventure in later versions - chapter iv le chevalier de la charrette summary of poem - structure of poem confused and unsatisfactory--probable reasons for this - versions of guinevere's imprisonment--comparison with siegfried-brynhild story--legend primitive and in earliest form unlocalised--localisation points to an insular redaction - relation between chrétien's poem and other versions--malory's version cannot be proved to be drawn from prose _lancelot_-- _iwein_ certainly independent of _charrette_--_parzival_ doubtful--two latter possibly represent earlier version, imperfectly known by chrétien - chapter v the position of chrÉtien de troyes in the arthurian cycle source of chrétien's poems an important problem professor foerster's views summarised--the arthurian legend partly historic, partly romantic--latter of exclusively continental origin - reply to professor foerster--arthurian tradition of greater extent and of wider diffusion than supposed--evidence for early diffusion of _romantic_ tradition necessity of distinguishing between _mythic_ and _romantic_ tradition--former of strongly marked celtic-irish character, and mainly preserved in _insular_ tradition - condition of arthurian tradition when chrétien wrote--no longer purely oral--necessity for understanding what is involved in oral transmission--mr. hartland's evidence on this point--the breton _lais_ folk-lore in character-- gradual process of arthurisation--evidence of _yvain_-- the process well advanced at the time chrétien wrote - necessity for determining original character of story before criticising, _i.e._ tales of folk-lore origin demand a different method of criticism from that applicable to tales of purely literary invention--professor foerster's theory of origin of _yvain_ examined and rejected as not consonant with archaic character of tale - proposed origin of _perceval_ also unsatisfactory, not in harmony with statements made elsewhere by chrétien--strong probability that the tale, in its completed form, is older than has hitherto been supposed - folk-lore character of _erec_, _yvain_, and _perceval_ probably an important element in their popularity the varying geography of chrétien's poems evidence of varying source - probable relation between chrétien's poems and the welsh versions--resemblance does not necessarily postulate dependence general summary of principles resulting from present investigation, and their bearing upon position ultimately to be assigned to chrétien - chapter vi the prose lancelot--the 'enfances' of the hero necessity of examining _all_ the existing mss. before a critical study of the legend can be attempted--present studies concerned only with leading points of story, and certain variants in printed texts - arthurian cycle in present form redacted under influence of completed _lancelot_ story - _enfances_ of hero in prose _lancelot_ a modified form of story related by ulrich von zatzikhoven--points of contact between prose _lancelot_ and _parzival_ of wolfram von eschenbach - ms. evidence of contact with _perceval_ story - parallel with _bel inconnu_ poems--the _lancelot_ later than either _perceval_ or _bel inconnu_--connection with lady of the lake alone of the essence of the story--necessity for studying character of fairy protectress before deciding original form of _enfances_ - chapter vii the prose lancelot--the loves of lancelot and guinevere short notice of incidents of frequent repetition in the romance--impossibility of deciding, with our present knowledge, which belong to original redaction - do the mutual relations of lancelot and guinevere represent an original feature of the arthurian story, or are we to consider them a later addition? early evidence of guinevere's infidelity--testimony of the chroniclers--wace--layamon - mordred not the original lover, but his representative - original lover possibly gawain - lancelot story a later development and independent of earlier tradition--influence of the _tristan_ legend-- motive determining choice of lover - suggested evolution of lancelot--guinevere story - chapter viii the prose lancelot--lancelot and the grail intricacy of questions involved--grail problem, so far, has not been solved--possibility that mutual relation between _lancelot_ and _grail_ romances may yield us the key to both problems - necessity of distinguishing three distinct _questes_--later grail _queste_ combination of _grail_ (perceval) and _château merveil_ (gawain) adventures dr. wechssler's theory of _grail-lancelot_ cycle examined-- results as deduced by author unsatisfactory - evidence of ms. key to truth--original borron _queste_ a perceval, not a galahad, _queste_--didot _perceval_ represents an early, _perceval li gallois_ a later, form of perceval-lancelot--grail _queste_ evidence for this discussed - origin of the galahad _queste_--dependent upon the _lancelot_, but by another hand--contradiction between presentment of characters and essential _motif_ of story - motives determining evolution of galahad _queste_--necessity of connecting two main branches of tradition, _lancelot_ and the _grail_--this only possible under certain conditions which we find fulfilled in the _queste_ - chapter ix the dutch lancelot importance of this text as a faithful translation of an excellent original - contents summarised - close connection with edition , philippe lenoire--importance of these two versions for criticism of malory's compilation detailed comparison of texts with dr. sommer's summary of prose _lancelot_ and with original text of malory - chapter x the queste versions comparison of texts continued--dutch _lancelot_--french --malory--welsh _queste_--dr. furnivall's _queste_--dr. sommer's summary - conclusion--general agreement of the first four against the last two--the former representing a superior family of texts--malory's source an _agravain-queste_ ms. belonging to same family as and dutch translation--no proof that malory knew earlier section of _lancelot_ - variations of _queste_ mss. apparently due to copyist rather than to compiler--the romance a _lancelot_, rather than a _grail_, romance - chapter xi the mort artur comparison of texts continued - results confirm previous conclusion, showing continued agreement of and dutch translation, and strengthen theory that text used by malory belonged to same family chapter xii conclusion summary of investigation--results arrived at - the mutual relations of _perceval_ and _lancelot_ stories of primary importance in evolution of arthurian romantic cycle--necessity for critical editions of these texts - appendix the _lancelot_ section of d.l. - index the legend of sir lancelot du lac chapter i introductory to the great majority of english readers, those who are familiar with the arthurian legend through the pages of malory and tennyson, the name which occurs most readily to their minds in connection with the court and table of king arthur is that of lancelot du lac, at once the most gallant servant of the king, and the secret lover of the queen. to many the story of lancelot and guinevere is the most famous of all stories of unlawful love. true, of late years the popularity of wagner's music has made their ears, at least, familiar with the names of tristan and iseult. still, that tristan and iseult were ever as famous as lancelot and guinevere, few outside the ranks of professed students of mediæval literature would believe; still fewer admit that the loves of arthur's queen and arthur's knight were suggested by, if not imitated from, the older, more poetic, and infinitely more convincing, celtic love-tale; that lancelot, as arthur's knight and guinevere's lover, is a comparatively late addition to the arthurian legend. yet so it is. i doubt if any scholar of standing would now argue that lancelot and his relation to the queen formed an integral portion of the early tradition; if any, conversant with the literature of the cycle, would reckon lancelot among the original band of heroes who gathered round the british king. in the introduction to my studies on the gawain legend, i remarked that, if we desired to arrive at an elucidation of the arthurian problem as a whole, we must first begin with the elucidation of its component parts--we must severally disentangle the legends connected with the leading knights of the cycle before we can hope to understand the growth and development of that cycle. when we have arrived at some clear idea concerning the stories originally told of the arthurian heroes, and their relation to each other and to the king, we shall then be in a better position to judge of the nature of the original legend--whether it be mainly the product of literary invention, or in its more important features, the work of mythical tradition. it is not a matter of slight importance to ascertain to which of these two categories the leading heroes of arthurian romance belong. in the case of sir gawain we were able to detect certain features which, by their persistent recurrence in the great mass of tradition connected with this knight, seemed to indicate a general recognition on the part of the romance writers that they belonged to an early form of his story, and as such were to be preserved even when but incompletely understood. further i pointed out the parallels existing between certain of his most famous adventures and those recorded in early irish tradition, parallels which went far to prove, not merely the antiquity of the feats ascribed to him, but their source in celtic myth. in the following studies i shall endeavour, in the same way, to trace to its origin the legend of lancelot du lac, to discover what was the tale originally connected with him, and, if possible, follow the steps which led to the immense development of his popularity. i do not for a moment suggest, any more than in the case of gawain, the finality of the results arrived at; but i hope at least to present the reader with a sorely needed summary of the lancelot legend, and to clear the ground for further researches into his story. in some ways the task before us is less difficult than that involved in the examination of the gawain legend; the literature connected with lancelot, if extensive, is not diffuse; by far the greater portion is covered by the prose _lancelot_ and the grail romances. on the other hand the story, as compared with that of gawain, is extraordinarily deficient in characteristic features. the adventures ascribed to lancelot might just as well be placed to the credit of any other knight: they are the ordinary stock-in-trade of the mediæval romancer. guinevere's lover he is, but the love-story is of the most conventional character: the more it is studied the more clearly do the records in which it is shrined appear the offspring of conscious literary invention, and that invention of by no means a high order. he is certainly no hero of prehistoric myth, solar or otherwise, as gawain or perceval may well be; nor does he by force of sheer humanity lay hold on our imagination, as does tristan. how then did lancelot come into the arthurian cycle? in the earliest records of arthurian legend he holds no place. wace's _brut_, the french metrical version of the history of geoffrey of monmouth, written about the middle of the twelfth century, gives the names of certain of arthur's knights, gawain, kay, bedivere, iwein, but never mentions lancelot. we have an account of arthur's expedition to france, in the course of which he slew frollo outside the walls of paris, an adventure which the compiler of the prose _lancelot_ places during the war against claudas to recover lancelot's patrimony, but in the _brut_ this expedition takes place at an early stage in arthur's reign, and knows nothing of lancelot or claudas.[ ] dating apparently from the same period, the middle of the twelfth century, is a bas-relief of the cathedral of modena, representing a female figure standing on the summit of a tower, towards which several armed knights are approaching. each knight is named, and we find represented arthur himself, gawain, kay, ider, carados, and a certain galuariun, who has not been identified. lancelot is not among them.[ ] the welsh arthurian stories again know nothing of lancelot, though certain of them contain long lists of heroes of arthur's court.[ ] so far as we can at present tell, the earliest mention of the knight is that contained in the _erec_ of chrétien de troyes, where in a long list of the heroes of the round table, ranged according to merit (at least in the case of the earlier names), lanceloz del lac is reckoned third, the first two being gawain and erec.[ ] in the german version by hartmann von aue, he occupies the same place, but is called lanzelot von arlac. nothing more is related of him: he plays no rôle in the story, he is a name, and nought else. in a later poem by chrétien, _cligés_, the same position, third on the roll of heroes, is ascribed to lancelot, but here it is perceval, and not erec, who ranks second. the hero of the poem, cligés, appears at a tournament four successive days, in different armour, and overthrows segramor, lancelot, and perceval, finally fighting an undecided combat with gawain.[ ] the _cligés_ reference is particularly noticeable, as the _motif_ of the story is the love of the hero for the young wife of his uncle and sovereign. in this connection the loves of tristan and iseult are often referred to, but lancelot and guinevere never. it seems clear that when chrétien wrote this poem he did not know lancelot as the lover of arthur's queen and the chief of arthur's knights. but in the poem which followed the _cligés_, _le chevalier de la charrette_, lancelot suddenly appears in both these characters, gawain's superior and the lover of guinevere: no explanation of the changed position is offered, but chrétien takes for granted the familiarity of his audience with the relations between the knight and the queen. to add to the confusion, in the succeeding poem _le chevalier au lion_, lancelot is only once referred to, in connection with the _charrette_ adventure, and is never mentioned as one of the knights of arthurs household; while in chrétien's last poem, the _perceval_, he is altogether ignored.[ ] it is very difficult, indeed impossible, to date chrétien's poems with exactness. the only two which afford clear internal evidence on the point, _le chevalier de la charrette_ and _le chevalier au lion_, fall within the years - . _erec_ was the first of his arthurian poems, and between _erec_ and the _charrette_, certainly one work, _cligés_, and it may be several, intervened.[ ] very probably the _erec_ was written early in the decade, - , and taken in conjunction with the negative evidence afforded by the _brut_ and the italian bas-relief, it goes to prove that whereas the name of gawain, as connected with arthur, was known by the end of the eleventh century,[ ] arthurian tradition knew nothing of lancelot till the latter half of the twelfth; and that no mention of his relations with guinevere is found till between - , that is, a decade after the first mention of his name. it is, of course, a well-recognised fact in the study of romance, that the date of a manuscript does not fix the date of the story contained in it; a younger manuscript may contain the same story under an older form. as a rule, the versions contained in chrétien's poems appear to present a fairly old form of the stories they relate, saving in the case of lancelot. about this knight, chrétien either knows nothing or he knows too much. the earlier stages of his story he leaves unrecorded; yet an allusion in the _charrette_ poem[ ] shows that he was not unacquainted with the legend concerning his youth and upbringing. two versions of this legend have been preserved to us, one in verse and one in prose. in the following chapter we will examine the older of these versions, and inquire into the origin of our hero's name. chapter ii the 'lanzelet' of ulrich von zatzikhoven the origin of the name _lancelot_ has been a subject of considerable debate among scholars, and has given rise to the most widely differing explanations. m. de la villemarqué, who was a warm advocate of the welsh origin of the arthurian stories, derived the name from the french _l'ancelot_, a youth or servant, which he held to be a translation of the welsh melwas, or maelwas. this solution was rejected by m. gaston paris, in his study on the lancelot poems,[ ] in which he showed that _ancelot_ was not a french common name, and that maelwas did not bear the signification attributed to it. professor rhys,[ ] adopting the theory of the welsh origin of the name, which in its present form he admitted only exists in welsh literature as borrowed from french or english sources, decided that it represented a welsh variant of peredur, the root of this latter name being _pâr_=_a spear or lance_. 'the characters,' says professor rhys, 'were originally the same, though their respective developments eventually differed very widely.' i doubt if this solution ever found any adherents except its author: it is sufficient to remark that the derivation of peredur, on which it rests, is by no means universally accepted, and that lancelot is in no special way connected with a spear or lance.[ ] it is certainly true that the lancelot story shows signs of having been affected by the perceval legend, but as we shall see the borrowings are restricted to one special and purely continental form of the story. m. gaston paris, in the study referred to above, suggested that lancelot might be either a celtic name altered, or, more probably, the substitution, by french poets, of a name of germanic origin for one of breton form strange to the ears of their french audiences, _e.g._ it might be a diminutive form of _lanzo_. this is also the conclusion of professor zimmer.[ ] the prefix _lant_ is often found in names of frankish origin transferred to breton ground: such names are lando, landolin; lanzo, lanzolin, etc. in the introduction to his edition of the _charrette_, recently published,[ ] professor foerster announces his complete adhesion to this view. it certainly seems that the evidence points strongly to this conclusion. the fact that lancelot's name does not appear in the earliest obtainable arthurian documents shows that he did not belong to the original 'stoff' of the cycle; the entire silence of welsh literature, and the practical silence of english vernacular romances,[ ] seem to show that he formed no part of the _insular_ arthurian tradition. for my own part i unhesitatingly accept professor foerster's dictum, '_lancelot ist den kymren gänzlich unbekannt, und ist unter allen umständen kontinentaler[ ] herkunft_.'[ ] a weak point in the proposed celtic solutions appears to me to be that both entirely ignore the qualifying title _du lac_, by which lancelot is invariably known. neither m. de la villemarqué nor professor rhys appear to consider it of any special importance, yet if i mistake not this is just the significant point of the lancelot story, and that which from the very outset differentiates it from the legends connected with peredur or maelwas. from the moment of his appearance in chrétien's list of arthur's knights to that in which the prose _lancelot_ records his death in the odour of sanctity, lancelot is lancelot _du lac_, and the earliest version of his story which we possess amply justifies his claim to the title. the poem of ulrich von zatzikhoven[ ] is certainly later than either the _erec_ or the _charrette_ of chrétien, but the tradition it embodies is anterior to the poem itself. written in the opening years of the thirteenth century, it is, as explicitly stated in the text, the translation of '_daz welsche buoch von lanzelete_,' brought to germany by hugo de morville, one of the hostages who in replaced richard of england in the prison of leopold of austria.[ ] the date of the original french version cannot, of course, be fixed. in any case it must have preceded its introduction into germany; judging from internal evidence it represented an early and immature version of the lancelot legend. the story as related in the _lanzelet_ is as follows: lanzelet was son to king pant of genewîs and his wife clarine. by a revolt of his people pant was driven from his kingdom with his wife and child. in his flight he came to a stream, and there, overcome by his wounds, sank down and died. the queen had laid her child under a tree while she tended her husband, and before she could reach it again a water-fairy (_mer-feine_) came in a cloud of mist and carried off the infant. the fairy was a queen, ruling over ten thousand maidens, who knew no man. her kingdom was called _meide-lant_; there it was ever may-tide, and her palace had such virtue that whoso abode one day within it might never know sorrow till the day of his death. there the little lanzelet was brought up, in ignorance of his name and rank, till he reached the age of fifteen, knowing nothing of knighthood, nor even how to bestride a horse. then eager to try his lot in the world outside he demanded leave to ride forth. this the fairy granted, but refused to tell him his name and parentage; he must first conquer the strongest knight in the world, iweret, of the fair wood beforet. she gave him rich armour, white as a swan, the best that might be, a surcoat (_wafen-roc_) decked with golden bells; sword and shield, and a goodly horse. but the lad did not know how to ride, so let the bridle hang loose and held on by the saddle-bow. in this fashion he rode till he met a knight, johfrit de liez, who rebuked him for his childish bearing, and took him to his castle, where he was kindly welcomed by the host's mother and her maidens, and instructed in riding and the use of knightly weapons. his next adventure is to ride with two knights to the castle of one galagandreiz. in the night the daughter of the host, condemned by her father to perpetual virginity, offers her love to the three knights in turn; is accepted by lanzelet, who fights a duel with her father, slays him, and weds the maiden. one day he rode forth seeking adventures, and found a road which led him to the castle of limors. the folk attacked, and would have slain him, but for the intervention of ade, niece to the lord of the castle. lanzelet is thrown into prison, and only escapes by fighting single-handed, first with a giant, then with two lions, and finally with the lord of the castle himself. having slain this last, he becomes the '_ami_' of the maiden ade. (whether he marries her or not is not clearly stated. in any case we hear no more of his first wife, the daughter of galagandreiz.) meanwhile the fame of lanzelet's exploits has penetrated to arthur's ears, and gawain is sent to find the unnamed hero, and bring him to arthur's court. they meet, and fight an undecided combat, terminated by the arrival of a messenger with tidings of a tournament between king lot of johenîs and gurnemanz, _den fürsten wîs_. lanzelet betakes himself hither, wearing each day a different suit of armour, green, red and white, overthrows many knights, including king lot, whom he set free out of friendship for gawain, and without revealing himself, rides away with ade and her brother. they come to a castle, schâtel le mort, the master of which, mâbûz, is a magician, and son to the fairy who had brought lanzelet up. lanzelet rides to the castle, which has this property, that whoever crosses its drawbridge at once loses all courage and hardihood. lanzelet falls under the spell, and is taken prisoner in the most ignominious manner, much to the dismay of ade, who rides off with her brother and disappears from the story. the land of mâbûz adjoins that of iweret of beforet, who is in the habit of raiding his neighbour's territory. mâbûz, who is by nature a coward, determines that lanzelet, whose fame is well known to him, shall be his champion. he has him carried by his men without the walls of the castle, when his natural courage at once returns. he rides to a fountain, beside which hangs a brazen cymbal on which he must strike three times with a hammer to summon his foe. in the meantime iblîs, the fair daughter of iweret, has had a dream of an unknown knight whom she meets beside the fountain; she rises early to seek the scene of her dream, and finds the original of her vision in lanzelet. she beseeches him to carry her off without waiting for the conflict, but lanzelet refuses. iweret arrives and a fierce fight ensues, in which he is slain. lanzelet weds iblîs and becomes master of beforet. a messenger now arrives from the fairy of the lake, revealing lanzelet's name and parentage (his mother, clarine, was sister to arthur). the object of her theft of the child is now accomplished: she desired to secure a champion who would free her son mâbûz from his too powerful enemy. lanzelet decides to seek gawain, whom he now knows to be his kinsman. on their way they meet a squire who informs them that the king valerîn (or falerîn, the spelling varies), has appeared at arthur's court and laid claim to guinevere, on the ground that she had been betrothed to him previous to her marriage with arthur. if valerîn cannot find a champion to oppose him he will carry off the queen. lanzelet undertakes the combat, and defeats valerîn. (we must note here that lanzelet's service to the queen is of a _preventive_ character, _i.e._ he saves her from the possibility of abduction, he does not rescue her after the abduction has taken place.) lanzelet then leaves his wife at court, and goes forth to seek the castle of plurîs, which he had passed on his journey from _meide-land_ and the adventure of which he desires to test. there he is challenged by one hundred knights, whom he successively overthrows, and weds the queen (ulrich says quaintly, '_ich enweiz ob erz ungerne tet, wan diu königîn was ein schoene maget_, - ). iblîs remains at arthur's court, grieving for the disappearance of her husband, during whose absence she successfully withstands the _mantle_ test, an incident of not infrequent occurrence in arthurian romance. hearing that lanzelet is a prisoner at plurîs, gawain, karjet (gaheriet?), erec, and tristan go in search of him, and, by means of a ruse, succeed in freeing him. the queen of plurîs disappears from the story. _on their way to court they learn that, while engaged in hunting the white stag, guinevere has been carried off by valerîn, and imprisoned in a magic castle, surrounded by a dense thicket peopled with all kinds of serpents. tristan, 'der listige tristan'[ ] suggests that they should seek the aid of malduz[ ] or malduc, the magician, the lord of the misty lake (genibeleten se), who will enable them to penetrate valerîn's stronghold. erec announces that neither he nor gawain should take part in the expedition as they have respectively slain malduc's father and brother. arthur therefore sets forth accompanied by karjet (gaheriet), tristan and lanzelet (this is the order), and are later joined by dodine le sauvage. by the good offices of the enchanter's daughter, to whom arthur appeals, malduc consents to aid them on condition that erec and gawain are delivered up to him, to which these heroes willingly consent. malduc then, by means of spells, disperses the serpents guarding valerîn's castle, slays him and his men, and wakens guinevere from the magic slumber into which valerîn has cast her._ i have italicised this passage as extremely important for the criticism of the story. it will be seen that so far from lanzelet being the means of guinevere's escape, he plays practically no part in the story, all he does is to accompany the king. the rescuer is malduc; recourse to him is suggested by tristan and made possible by the self-sacrifice of gawain and erec; but saving in the discussion as to whether malduc's terms shall or shall not be accepted, lanzelet's name is not even mentioned.[ ] erec and gawain are cast into prison by malduc and nearly starved to death, but are rescued by one hundred of arthur's knights, headed by lanzelet and aided by a giant, esealt der lange. they all return to arthur's court, where great feasts are held. iblîs tells her husband of a curious adventure which had befallen one of the knights: how he had met in a forest a terrible dragon which, speaking with a human voice, besought a kiss from the knight; he refused and the dragon flew away lamenting. lanzelet resolves to test the adventure, rides to the forest, finds the dragon, and gives the desired kiss. the monster bathes in a stream at hand, and becomes a fair maiden, elidiâ, daughter to the king of thile; she has been transformed into a dragon for transgressing the rules of _minne_, and condemned to remain in that form till kissed by the best knight on earth. she remains at arthur's court, where she is made judge of all disputed questions relating to _minne_. here the story of lanzelet practically ends. he wins back his lands of genewîs without difficulty, promising to treat his subjects better than his father did. he and iblîs betake themselves to the heritage of the latter, beforet, where they receive arthur and guinevere with great pomp. the poem concludes by telling us that they have four children, three sons and one daughter, that they live to see their children's children, and die both on the same day. the poem of ulrich von zatzikhoven has scarcely received the attention which, as a factor in the criticism of the legend, it undoubtedly demands. the questions arising out of it are not only interesting, but, as i shall presently show, in one instance at least, of the very highest importance. the questions may be grouped as (_a_) those relating to the structure and sources of the poem itself; (_b_) those which affect its relation to the other lancelot romances. for the first it is obvious that we are dealing with a poem of very loose construction; the various parts do not harmonise with each other, and no attempt has been made to make them do so. thus we have no fewer than four love affairs attributed to lanzelet, and in three out of the four he weds the lady; yet these amours, one of which is subsequent to his marriage with iblîs, are dropped as of no account. professor foerster[ ] considers that this looseness of construction points to a late date, and that the source of the _lanzelet_ was a biographical romance of the weakest order. according to professor foerster the clearer the composition, the better knit the incidents, the older the romance. now it seems to me that there are two orders of ill-constructed romances, and that we shall do well to differentiate between them. in one case we have a number of incidents of secondary character, obviously borrowed or imitated from those occurring elsewhere, strung together more or less cleverly on the thread of a hero's individuality. the incidents are all to be found in other romances, and as a rule none of them have any suggestion of celtic or mythic origin. the literary style is superior to the matter. such romances are _e.g._ _rigomer_, _torec_, _le chevalier à la manche_. a very favourable example is _méraugis de portlesguez_. these are all certainly late romances. in the other case we have a romance even more ill-constructed, but consisting not of incidents but of whole short tales, manifestly independent of each other, and some of them of distinctly antique and mythic character: the literary style is poor and the whole is less a romance, properly speaking, than the material out of which a romance can be evolved. this, i believe, marks an early stage of development, and of this we have naturally but few specimens. the _lanzelet_ is, i believe, one. if i mistake not, the groundwork is a series of _lais_, each complete in itself, and having no connection with what precedes or what follows it. it is in no real sense a biographical romance, though perhaps it might be called a tentative effort in that direction. the _mantle_ episode certainly formed a single _lai_; the _fier baiser_, now found with other adventures, probably originally did so.[ ] certain of the episodes, too, possess a distinctly archaic character, _e.g._ the description of the fairy's kingdom as a isle of women where no man penetrates, a conception much older than the _fata morgana_ of the prose _lancelot_; and the description of guinevere's prison, the magic slumber in a fair dwelling, _ein wünneclichez haus_, surrounded by a dense thicket infested with serpents, is the sleeping beauty story in its oldest 'other world' form.[ ] the position of gawain in the story is that held by him in the earlier, pre-lancelot romances. i cannot accept the suggestion of a biographical _lancelot_ from which both the _lanzelet_ and the _charrette_ were drawn. if we remember that the first mention of lancelot in arthurian romance can only be traced to the second half of the twelfth century, it does not seem probable that by (when, or about when, chrétien wrote his poem) he could have become the hero of a fixed biographical romance. nor, the _motif_ of his _liaison_ with guinevere once introduced into the story, is the compilation of such a version as the _lanzelet_ subsequently probable. professor foerster feels this difficulty, and suggests a solution, which a little more consideration would have shown him to be untenable. on page xlvi. of his introduction to the _karrenritter_, he says, '_wenn wirklich kristian zuerst den ehebruch eingeführt hat, so ist doch die annahme zulässig dass verehrer arturs und seiner frau diese neue ehrenrührische erfindung zwar gekannt, aber mit entrüstung abgewiesen haben, um ja nicht des idealen königs ehrenschild zu beschmutzen_.' but a few pages further on the writer himself refers to the story of guinevere and mordred as told by geoffrey[ ] and wace. he must therefore be well aware that there can be no possible question of chrétien's having _introduced_ the _motif_ of guinevere's faithlessness; that is one of the oldest and most original features of the arthurian story. the question is _not_, 'did the queen have a lover?'--that was answered in the affirmative long before chrétien's day--but, 'when did lancelot become her lover? was it through the version of the _charrette_?' a very different matter.[ ] taking into consideration the construction of the poem, and the character of the contents, i think we are justified in considering the composition of ulrich von zatzikhoven as a collection of _lais_ which have not yet been worked over or taken final literary shape. when the scattered lancelot stories did this, it was under the influence of a _motif_ foreign to the original legend, his love for guinevere. how that came to be introduced into the legend is a matter for separate consideration, but i do not think there is room for doubt that it was this introduction which determined the final and literary form of the lancelot story. all conflicting elements, such as the various love affairs, were rejected and only the original germ retained. and what was this germ? authorities will no doubt differ. some perhaps will say it was the story of guinevere's imprisonment and rescue, but they must remember that in the _lanzelet_ this is _not_ the work of the hero. i think myself that the root of the lancelot tale was simply a breton _lai_, relating the theft of a king's son by a water fairy: this seems to be the one abiding and persistent element in the tale, all else is uncertain and shifting. here the hero is arthur's nephew; elsewhere he is but the son of an old ally; at one time his father is a tyrant, '_chassé_' by his own people; again he is a noble king, the victim of treachery and a foreign foe. sometimes lancelot's mother lives to see him restored to his kingdom; sometimes she dies while he is yet in the care of the fairy, and never sees her son again. he has two cousins on the father's side, bohort and lionel, and a bastard half-brother hector; he has no relations on his father's side, but is cousin to gawain through his mother. he is guinevere's lover; he is not guinevere's lover. he is unmarried; he is very much married--three times at least! he has four children born in wedlock; he has but one son, the offspring of a _liaison_. he is the most valiant knight of arthur's court; he is scarce worthy of mention. among all this shifting tangle and contradiction, there is but one thing, and one only, fixed and certain, he is lancelot _du lac_. i do not see how we can avoid the conclusion that in this record of his youth we have the one fixed point of departure for all the subsequent unfoldings of romance. not that this story was always unvarying in its details, on the contrary we find in it marked divergences. thus in the _lanzelet_ the motive of the theft is clear, the fairy desires a champion and protector for her cowardly son; the motive in the prose _lancelot_ is not apparent; probably it was a mere capricious fancy for a beautiful child. and if the motive was not always clearly understood, still less so was the character of the fairy. in fact she seems to have considerably puzzled the mediæval romancers. in the first instance the story would be excessively simple, she would probably be such a water-fairy as we find in _tidorel_, and ulrich seems to have retained this idea when he calls her a _merfeine_ or _merminne_, but as the _lai_ gained popularity, and it became necessary to supply details as to her kingdom, etc., it would be supplemented from other legendary sources. ulrich's own description, the land of ten thousand maidens where no man penetrates, is manifestly the _meide-land_ which in _diu krône_ gawain visits, and which is universally admitted to be a remembrance of the 'isle of women' of old celtic tradition. it may have touched the lancelot _lai_ through the medium of the gawain's story, but as a 'property' of old celtic belief it may well have been known independently. i think it probable that this identification may explain a very curious passage in _diu krône_, where kei reproaches lancelot who has failed in the glove test in the following terms: '_er hât daz vil rehte erspeht, daz iz di gotinne verkurt an ir minne, diu iu zôch in dem sê_.'--ll. - . certain it is that while the queen of the 'isle of women' does not appear to be addicted to child-stealing, she does entice, or abduct, earthly knights to be her lovers. it is not impossible that a version of the _lancelot_ story, redacted by some one familiar with the real character of the kingdom, may have represented him as the queen's lover. it is also not impossible, were this the case, that the story of the imprisonment of guinevere in the other world, a story which, as we shall presently see, must have existed at a very early date, may have led to her being confused with the queen of that kingdom, and to the transfer of lancelot's affections from the one to the other. the prose _lancelot_ version is entirely different, and far less archaic: there is no real lake, the appearance is but a _mirage_; men are admitted; lancelot has not only his cousins for companions, but other knights as well. the lady herself is conceived of more as a mortal versed in enchantment than as a fairy proper. in the _suite de merlin_ she is identified with the demoiselle chaceresse, daughter of the king of northumberland;[ ] and in both these romances, the _lancelot_ and the _merlin suite_, she is the lover and the betrayer of merlin. it may not be out of place to remark here that the tendency of later romances, as exhibited in the _suite_ and notably in malory, is to connect the lady of the lake rather with arthur than with lancelot. it may be asked, how did so simple a _lai_ as we here postulate attain so great a popularity? the incidents would be few, and the characters at first probably anonymous.[ ] here, i think, we may take into account a factor hitherto practically ignored, the music of the _lais_. as we know they were intended to be sung, and each was connected with its own melody. it would be a truism nowadays to say that the success of a song depends less upon the words than upon the music to which the words are set, and though less true of an age in which the songs of the people were also its folk-tales, yet the influence of music upon the development of popular legends is a point we do ill to ignore. it may help us to solve certain puzzles. certain heroes of course represent what we may call the general stock-in-trade of aryan tradition: their names vary with the lands in which their tales are told, but whether cuchullain or gawain, siegfried or perceval, the hero represents a traditional tale which antedates any special form of recital; such a tale would be assured of welcome, and practically independent of musical aid. but in the case of lancelot we have no such prehistoric tradition, no striking parallels in early legends. previously unknown, he leaps into popularity, as it were, at a bound. even the most ardent adherent of chrétien de troyes cannot appeal to the popularity of that writer to help us with a solution, for his lancelot poem, the _charrette_, is but seldom referred to in contemporary literature. much of lancelot's later popularity is doubtless due to his rôle as the queen's lover; but how account for the initial popularity which caused him to be chosen for that rôle? i can only explain the phenomenon of a knight, whose very name is unknown before the middle of the twelfth century, becoming before the end of that century the leading hero of a cycle to which he was originally a stranger, by supposing that there was some special charm in the _lai_ originally connected with him, by means of which his story took hold of the public fancy. had that charm been in the _lai_ itself, in word or form, then i think it would have been preserved to us. we possess more than one beautiful _lai_, the hero of which, originally independent of the arthurian cycle, became by virtue of his story admitted within the magic precincts. failing that, i think the charm must have lain in the air to which it was wedded, and which so pleased the ears of the hearers that they demanded its repetition, and lengthening, by the addition of episodes foreign to the original tale. thus other _lais_, whose fate had been less happy, might for a time at least win a spurious popularity, till the 'survival of the fittest,' which operates in literature as elsewhere, discarded the weaker portions, and fixed the outline of the story in the form we know. this theory may or may not be correct, but i can suggest none other that will meet the problems of the case; and at least it has the advantage of offering an hypothesis which may be of use in other stories besides the one under discussion. but there is another point in the discussion of ulrich's poem which urgently demands attention. what is the connection between the _lanzelet_ and the _parzival_ of wolfram von eschenbach? a connection of some sort there is, and that a fairly close one. take for instance the passage describing the hero's departure from his magic home for the world of men, a passage extending over two hundred lines (ll. - ). he does not know how to sit his horse, how to hold the bridle,[ ] or use his weapons; is ignorant of his name and birth; is called _der kindische man_ (l. ), _der namenlôse tumbe_ (l. ), all features which irresistibly recall perceval to our mind, but are in no way characteristic of lancelot.[ ] the tourney at which lancelot makes his first appearance at arthur's court has been undertaken between king lot von johenis and _gurnemanz den fürsten wîs_ (l. ). it commences with a vesper play: '_engegen der vespereide riten über jene heide, dort zwêne, dâ her drî_.'--ll. - . in the _parzival_, book ii., we read of the tourney before kanvoleis that it began with a vesper play: '_von póytóuwe schyolarz und gurnemanz de grâhárz, die tjostierten ûf dem plân. sich huop diu vesperîe sân, hie riten sehse, dort wol drî._'--ll. - . in connection with which we may note that both chrétien and hartmann von aue spell the name of gurnemanz with _o_, not with _u_, as does wolfram. other names, some of them peculiar to wolfram's version, occur in the _lanzelet_, such as galagandreiss (galogandres), also found in hartmann's _erec_ though not in chrétien; iwân de nonel, l. (_parzival_, v. ); iblîs, l. (_parzival_, xiii. ). ulrich's iblîs is connected with the cloister _jaemerlichen urbor_, wolfram's with _terra de lâbur_; kailet, l. (_parzival_, ii. ); maurîn, whose name in each case is similarly qualified, _mit den lichten schenkeln her maurîn_, l. , _mit den schoenen schenkeln maurîn_ (_parzival_, xiii. ).[ ] in the description of iweret we read, _einen wâfen roc fuort er und guldîn schellen dran er schein ein engel niht ein man_, ll. - , which should be compared with the description of karnachkarnanz. '_den dûhte er als ein got getân: er'n het ê 'so lichtes niht erkant. úfem tówe, der wâpenroc erwant. mit guldîn schellen kleine_.'--_parzival_, iii. _et seq._ now how are all these points of contact to be explained? scholars are agreed in placing the date of ulrich's poem in the opening years of the thirteenth century, therefore anterior to the _parzival_. did wolfram borrow from ulrich? if it were a mere question of a name here and there we might think so, but the points of contact amount to more than this. we have the characteristics of perceval postulated of lancelot; we have correspondence in details, even verbal identity; further, the prose _lancelot_, as we shall see, presents other points of contact with wolfram's poem in details where he differs notably from chrétien. it is not probable that wolfram, who never alludes to any adventures related in the _lanzelet_, and to all appearance knows nothing of the hero save the _charrette_ adventure, should have borrowed from two such widely different versions of his story. the fact that where lancelot appears to have borrowed from the _perceval_ legend, the borrowed matter is marked by characteristics special to one version of the story is, to say the least, curious. if the _lanzelet_ _really_ preceded the _parzival_--a philological question upon which i am not qualified to pronounce an opinion--and ulrich, as is generally supposed, closely followed his source, only one conclusion seems possible, _i.e._ that that source knew, and quoted, the poem of kiot. it is significant that in the mention of gurnemanz he is spoken of as _den fürsten wîs_, which shows that to the writer he was not a mere name, but a well-known character, distinguished by the qualities which mark him in the _parzival_. my own impression is, however, that ulrich knew wolfram's poem, or at least part of it (between the _lanzelet_ and the last three books of the _parzival_ there do not appear to be any points of contact). there are numberless small coincidences in language and phrase, trifling in themselves, but which as a whole seem to argue a familiarity with the words of the _parzival_. such a correspondence is more likely on the part of ulrich than on that of wolfram, who by his own confession could not read or write, and must have become orally familiar with his source. but it is quite clear that a critical comparison of the two works is urgently needed, both in the interests of arthurian tradition and of german literature. the popular impression, _i.e._ that wolfram merely borrowed a few names from the _lanzelet_, will not stand the test of investigation. two conclusions alone are open, from which we must make our choice: either to admit the existence, beyond any doubt, of the french poem, other than chrétien's, which wolfram declared to be his source;[ ] or to place the date of ulrich von zatzikhoven some few years later than that usually assigned to him. we await the aid of some one of the many competent scholars germany possesses to solve this puzzle for us. chapter iii lancelot et le cerf au pied blanc before examining chrétien's poem of the _charrette_, which, whatever the date of composition, belongs by the nature of its contents to the later stages of arthurian tradition, it will be well to direct our attention to a short episodic poem, undoubtedly french in origin, but, so far as we at present know, only to be found in a translation incorporated in the vast compilation known as the dutch _lancelot_.[ ] the contents of the poem are as follows: a maiden arrives at arthur's court, attended by a brachet. she is the messenger of a queen who demands a champion to accomplish the following feat: in her land is a stag with one white foot, guarded by seven lions; she promises her hand to whoever will slay the lions, and present her with the white foot of the stag. the brachet will be guide to any knight who may undertake the adventure. kay announces his intention of being the first to try his fortune, and sets out, guided by the dog. after riding some distance he comes to a deep and swiftly flowing river, which the dog promptly swims. kay's courage, however, fails him at the sight of the water, and he turns back, feigning a sudden illness, which had prevented him from pursuing the quest. lancelot then determines to try his fortune: he sets out, passes the river in safety, and is attacked by the seven lions. after a fierce conflict, in which he is desperately wounded, he succeeds in slaying them, and secures the white foot. at this moment a stranger knight appears, and lancelot, exhausted by the fight, gives him the foot, bidding him carry it to the queen, and say that the knight who has achieved the adventure lies sorely wounded, and prays her aid. the knight promises this, but having received the foot, deals lancelot a treacherous blow with his sword, and leaving him for dead rides off to the castle, and claims the reward due to the slayer of the lions. the queen is much distressed, as the knight is both ugly and cowardly, and summons her lords and vassals to ask their advice. they recommend that the marriage be postponed for fifteen days, greatly to the disappointment of the knight. meanwhile gawain has become anxious at the non-return of lancelot, and sets forth to seek him. he finds him apparently dead, revives him, and conveys him to the dwelling of a physician, whom he instructs as to the proper treatment,[ ] and then rides himself to the court to punish the treacherous knight. he arrives on the eve of the marriage, accuses the knight of his treachery, challenges him to single combat and slays him. the queen is much rejoiced at the news. gawain brings lancelot to the queen, who regards him as her future husband; but, on the excuse of calling together his kinsmen for the marriage, lancelot contrives to leave the country, 'not for anything in the world would he have been faithless to guinevere.' he and gawain return to arthur's court, and the queen is left vainly awaiting her bridegroom. this conclusion is of course obviously lame and ineffective. the hero should wed the maiden, whose hand was the previously announced reward of successful accomplishment of the feat. that lancelot undertakes the adventure at all can only be explained by supposing that the tale was connected with him previous to his being generally recognised as the queen's lover. that he was not the original hero of the tale is proved by the fact that we possess a breton _lai_ which relates the story in a better and more coherent form, ascribing it to a certain _tyolet_, whom we do not meet in any of the later arthurian romances.[ ] the main points in which the versions differ are: (_a_) the maiden who comes to arthur's court is herself the prize of the victor. this is a better version, as it simplifies the action, and accounts for the anxiety felt at the absence of the knight, who should have returned to court at once on achieving the venture. (_b_) gawain's action (which is the same in both poems, with the exception that instead of his slaying the traitor, tyolet arrives in time to prevent a combat) is clearly explained; the brachet, which has acted as guide, returns alone to court, and leads gawain to the scene of the combat. in the _lancelot_ version it is difficult to understand how gawain, who had no guide, finds his friend so quickly. (_c_) tyolet weds the maiden, and returns with her to her own land, where he becomes king. here we have an unmistakable instance of a _lai_ originally told of another hero being transferred to lancelot. the story itself, however, seems to be older than its connection with either hero; even in the _tyolet_ version, superior as it is to the _lancelot_, the real meaning of the tale appears to have been overlooked or misunderstood. in its original form i think it was clearly a transformation tale. the stag was the enchanted relative of the princess who sought the hero's aid, and the spell which detained him in animal form could only be broken by the cutting off of the foot. we know that the smiting off of a member of the body (generally the head) is a well-recognised form of terminating an enchantment, and in this case the proposed solution would explain what, in the tale as it stands, appears a piece of unredeemed brutality. a peculiarity of the _tyolet_ version is that it falls into two well-marked divisions, the first recounting the upbringing of the hero, and his arrival at arthur's court, a tale bearing a marked affinity to the perceval _enfances_; the second being the 'white-foot' adventure. now in this first part the hero, going into the woods in search of game, sees and follows a stag, which is transformed into a man before his astonished eyes. i suspect that this episode formed the connecting link between the two sections of the _lai_, the real meaning of the latter stag not having been lost when the two were united. a confirmation of this theory is found in the fact that one of the numerous 'shape-shifting' changes of merlin was into the form of a stag with a white fore-foot.[ ] i also think this may well be the origin of the mysterious white stag guarded by lions which meets us so often in later arthurian story. in the _queste_ stag and lions change into our lord and the four evangelists, thus preserving the transformation character. but whatever the original character of the story, it has, in the form in which we now possess it, become affected by _a motif_ extremely popular in mediæval times, that of the _false claimant_. the leading characteristics of this widely spread tale may be summed up as follows. the hero at great risk to himself performs a feat, and possesses himself of a proof (previously agreed upon) that he has done so. the traitor comes on the scene, possesses himself of the proof (either attempting to slay the hero himself or believing him to be already dead), and claims the reward; not knowing that the hero has possessed himself of a further proof of his deed. the hero, left for dead, recovers, and appearing at the critical moment, confutes the traitor by the production of the second and decisive proof. of this story practically countless variants exist; mr. e. s. hartland, in his _legend of perseus_, vol. iii., has tabulated a large number gathered from all parts of the world. the most general version appears to be that in which the feat consists in the slaying of a dragon, to be testified by the production of the head. the hero, not content with cutting off the head, also cuts out the tongue, and is thus enabled to confute the traitor, who has omitted to look within the monster's jaws. it will be noted that neither in the _tyolet_ or _lancelot_ versions does the hero possess such a proof: in the first instance the impostor is put to shame by tyolet's inquiry as to who slew the lions; in the second gawain settles the matter by slaying the traitor. this lack of an important feature of the original tale seems to indicate that the _lai_ in its primitive form did not belong to this group of stories, though from the character of the feat related the borrowing of features from so widely known a folk-tale was almost natural development. a very good example of the _false claimant_ is found in some versions of the _tristan_ legend, notably the poems of gottfried von strassburg, and his source, thomas of brittany: very few of the prose versions have retained it.[ ] m. gaston paris seems inclined to connect the 'white-foot' adventure with this. ultimately, of course, the stories must go back to a common source; but the _cerf au pied blanc_ presents the adventure in so general a form, that one can hardly connect it with any special variant of this very widespread folk-tale. the _tristan_ variant is, as i have said above, an especially good example, with many well-marked features, none of the more characteristic of which are reproduced in the _lai_. but we have in the same vast compilation the account of another adventure of the same character, also ascribed to lancelot, which does appear to be directly drawn from the tristan story. in _morien_[ ] we learn that morien, gawain, and lancelot, seeking for perceval and agloval, come to a hermit's cell at four cross-roads. they ask whither the roads lead, and learn that that on the right hand leads to a waste land devastated by the ravages of a devil in the form of a beast. lancelot determines to brave the adventure and, in spite of the remonstrances of the hermit, chooses this road. the writer of the tale informs us (but it should be kept in mind that the hermit _does not_ tell lancelot) that the lady of the country has promised her hand to whoever will slay the monster. a knight who has long loved her, but is too cowardly to dare the venture, keeps a watch upon all those who may attack the beast, with the secret intention of, if possible, slaying the victor and taking the credit of the deed to himself. lancelot arrives at the monster's lair, which is surrounded by the bones of men and animals slain by the fiend. no description of the creature is given, but it is quite clear from the incidental details that the writer conceived of it as a dragon; lancelot's sword and spear can make no impression on its skin; its claws pierce through shield and hauberk and score deep wounds on the knight's body; it breathes forth venom, which would have slain lancelot but for the ring he wore (no doubt the ring given him by the lady of the lake); finally, as it opens its jaws to devour him, the knight thrusts his spear down its throat and pierces the heart. the monster utters a loud cry, which is heard over two miles off, and expires. the traitor knight, hearing the cry, knows that the monster is slain and rides to the spot. lancelot is binding up his wounds; the traitor approaches, making feint to aid him, deals him a treacherous blow and leaves him for dead; then he cuts off the foot and is riding away when gawain appears upon the scene and challenges him. lancelot recovers from his swoon in time to bid gawain slay the traitor, which he does. before lancelot can recover from his wounds news comes that the king of ireland has invaded arthur's kingdom, and is besieging the queen in one of her castles. lancelot and gawain go at once to her aid, and nothing is heard of the lady whose hand was to have been the reward of the venture. but, as i have noted above, there is no sign that lancelot knew anything of the promised guerdon; his conduct is therefore more intelligible and less unchivalrous than in the _lai_. the special points of contact with the _tristan_ story are these: (_a_) the nature of the animal, which is undoubtedly in both cases a dragon. (_b_) the hero undertakes the adventure unsolicited. tristan lands in ireland, hears of the dragon's ravages and goes off secretly to slay it. he has no thought of winning iseult for himself. in both versions of the _lai_ the lady herself invites the adventure. (_c_) the character of the traitor: in both _tristan_ and _morien_ he is represented as being too cowardly to dare the feat himself but as watching his opportunity to rob a brave man of the fruit of his valour. in the _lai_ variants 'opportunity makes the traitor'; in these two versions the traitor is on the watch for his opportunity. (_d_) in both cases he is attracted to the spot by the death-cry of the monster. the appearance of gawain, on the other hand, the death of the traitor, and the fact that it is the _foot_ and not, as it should be, the _head_, which is cut off, clearly show the influence of the _lai_. the ending is, of course, unsatisfactory, and it is curious that the writer, who in the details noted above clearly shows a knowledge of the excellent and complete version of the _tristan_ legend, should not have finished his story more in accordance with that tale. it is not impossible that the original adventure as contained in the _morien_ poem _was_ the stag adventure, and that the compiler of the dutch _lancelot_, who evidently possessed an extensive collection of arthurian documents, knowing that he was going to relate the story later on, purposely altered the earlier portion more in accordance with the dragon adventure of the tristan tale, retaining the later portion for the sake of the rôle played by gawain, who is one of his heroes, and who, it is scarcely necessary to say, does not appear in the _tristan_ legend. unfortunately we have no other version of the _morien_ save that of the dutch _lancelot_, so the question must remain undetermined; all we can say with certainty is that the adventure as there related is combined from two distinct variants of the same original _motif_. an interesting feature of the _morien_ story is that it shows the _lancelot_ legend influenced by the _tristan_ at a point practically unconnected with the central _motif_ of that story, the loves of tristan and iseult. the story of the _cerf au pied blanc_ as attributed to lancelot does not appear to have obtained any popularity. in no variant of the prose _lancelot_ is it related, or even alluded to; the version preserved by the dutch compiler is, so far, the only one that has been discovered. but existing as it does, it clearly points to a date at which the lancelot story was still told in isolated _lais_, and before the introduction into the legend of his love for guinevere. once fixed as guinevere's lover, we can understand how the tale dropped out of the completed legend: alter the ending as they might the obstinate fact would remain that lancelot voluntarily undertook an adventure the successful achievement of which would necessitate him becoming the husband of a stranger maiden; it was an _impasse_ from which he could only escape at the cost of an insult to one or the other queen, and very wisely the compilers of his legend ignored the story. it also seems probable that the original character of the tale itself was not properly understood by its compilers: an evidence, if evidence were really needed, of the extreme antiquity and, if i may use the word, 'unlocalised' character of the elements which went to compose the arthurian cycle. chapter iv le chevalier de la charrette with the poem, the title of which heads this chapter, we reach a fresh stage in the lancelot tradition, and one which, though it has already been the subject of acute and scholarly discussion, still presents many points of difficulty.[ ] the story related in the poem is so well known, and the poem itself so accessible, that it is unnecessary to do more than summarise the leading features. it is, as we all know, the story of guinevere's abduction by meleagant, and her rescue by sir lancelot. a knight (meleagant) appears at arthur's court, and boasts of the breton subjects he holds in captivity. arthur can free them if he will commit guinevere to the care of a knight who will fight a single combat with him; if he (meleagant) be defeated, all the prisoners shall be freed; if he be victor, guinevere, too, is his captive. kay, by demanding from arthur a boon, the nature of which is unspecified, and which the king grants before hearing, obtains permission to escort the queen. gawain follows, meets kay's horse, riderless and covered with blood, and is then confronted by an unnamed knight (lancelot), who begs the loan of a steed. gawain gives him his, and follows on a spare steed as quickly as possible, only to find traces of a sanguinary conflict, and his own horse slain. he overtakes lancelot, who, meeting a dwarf driving a cart, mounts after a momentary hesitation, and the two continue the pursuit together. meleagant's land (or rather that of his father baudemagus) is surrounded by deep water, crossed by two bridges, one of a sword-blade, the other under the water. lancelot chooses the first, crosses in safety, fights with meleagant, and frees guinevere, who, however, receives him coldly, being offended at his momentary hesitation before mounting the cart. lancelot, in despair, tries to commit suicide; guinevere, hearing a rumour of his death, is overwhelmed with grief, and on his next appearance receives him with the greatest favour. they pass the night together, lancelot gaining access to the queen's chamber by means of a heavily barred window, and severely wounding his hands in wrenching asunder the bars. the traces of blood on the bed-clothes cause the queen to be accused of a _liaison_ with kay, who, severely wounded, is sleeping in the ante-chamber. lancelot undertakes to prove guinevere's innocence by a combat with meleagant, which shall take place at arthur's court; but, having set out to seek gawain, is treacherously decoyed into prison by his foe. meleagant, by means of forged letters, persuades the queen that lancelot has returned to court, whither guinevere repairs, escorted by gawain, who has meanwhile arrived on the scene. lancelot, who has been released on parole by his jailor's wife, to attend a tourney, is subsequently walled up in a tower by meleagant, from which prison he is released by his rival's sister, and reaching court at the last moment, overcomes and slays meleagant.[ ] the capital importance of this poem lies in the fact that here, for the first time, so far as our present knowledge goes, we meet with those relations between lancelot and the queen which form so important a part of the completed arthurian legend. are these relations, then, an invention of chrétien, or were they already familiar to the public for whom he wrote? here i shall only treat this question incidentally, deferring a full study of the point to a subsequent chapter; the questions which mainly concern us relate rather to the nature (_a_) of the story itself, (_b_) of chrétien's share in its development. in the introductory lines we learn that the poem was written at the instance of the countess marie de champagne, who supplied '_matiere et san_.' i take this to mean that she only supplied a verbal outline of the story, and left it to chrétien to fill in details. thus, as regards source, chrétien stands in a different position in this poem than in his other romances. in every other instance he had either in _livre_ or _conte_[ ] (which latter i take to be the recital of a professional story-teller) a fixed source from which he drew his tale. the internal evidence agrees with these indications: the _charrette_ is far inferior to chrétien's other work; the construction is feeble in the extreme, and bristles with contradictions and obscurities. why, for instance, does meleagant suggest that guinevere shall be put in charge of a knight and follow him? why not challenge a single combat at the court, where there would be a public to see that the rules of such combat were observed? it may be that the original scene of abduction was a wood, and this is an awkward attempt to combine a later version, _i.e._ arthur's court, with a primitive feature; but in any case it starts the story on wrong lines. gawain (who is also mounted) follows _directly_ on lancelot's track, but before he comes up with him there has been time for a fierce conflict to take place. these conflicts with a valiant knight do not as a rule terminate so quickly, even though the odds be unequal! gawain, who of course knows lancelot well, apparently fails to recognise him, even when he unhelms for supper. the maiden of the castle warns them against sleeping in a certain bed; whoever does so will scarce escape with his life. lancelot braves the adventure, but the next morning when he is found safe and well, the lady expresses no surprise. we are told that the maiden whom lancelot frees from the knight at the ford knows him and _is afraid he will know her_, but no explanation of this is vouchsafed, and her identity is not revealed. we are expressly told that the kingdom of gorres is surrounded by a water which none may pass, but before lancelot even arrives at the water and bridge he is in the kingdom of gorres, peopled by captive bretons. no explanation is given of how guinevere knew of lancelot's hesitation to mount the cart; there was no witness but the dwarf, and if he noted so momentary an indecision he must have had a curiously keen appreciation of the rules of _minne_; and how did he come to see guinevere? but perhaps it was a case of telepathy. in the same manner kay becomes mysteriously aware of what has passed between lancelot and the queen. and these instances might be indefinitely multiplied. chrétien's _lancelot_ is scarcely less incoherent than ulrich von zatzikhoven's; and we begin to wonder if there were not some inherent weakness in the legend itself, which rendered it impossible for any one to give an intelligible account of the hero's proceedings.[ ] i think it is clear that the decided inferiority of the _charrette_ as compared with chrétien's other poems is due to the deficiencies of his source. he was left in the lurch, and his genius was not of a nature to extricate him from his difficulties. when he had before him a story the form of which was already practically fixed, and which required polishing rather than rearrangement, chrétien could put it into charming language, and make a finished and artistic piece of work out of a simple original. i should express the charm of his work as being that he clad the folk-tale in the garments of the court, and taught it to move easily in its foreign trappings. but when his materials were scanty, and he was called upon to supplement them from his own imagination, he was unequal to the task; and he was artist enough to know it, and to leave unfinished a work which did him little credit, while he turned to one the nature of which precisely suited his special talent. it is not, i think, without significance that the best of chrétien's poems follows immediately on his worst. he had a reputation to retrieve, and he did it gallantly in the _yvain_. nor is chrétien really successful in depicting lovers as lovers: they are little more than lay figures; they talk at great length, and indulge in analysis of their feelings, expressed in the most graceful and ingenious language; but one '_iseut ma drue, iseut m'amie, en vous ma mort, en vous ma vie!_' is worth all chrétien ever wrote on the subject; the breath of the god is not in it. yet, so far as the _charrette_ goes, this is scarcely to be laid to his blame. nowhere, save perhaps in one chapter of malory, is there the least ring of reality in the loves of lancelot and guinevere. they go through all the prescribed gestures of their rôle with admirable precision. guinevere is by turns gracious, disdainful, frantically jealous, and repentant of her jealousy; lancelot is courteous, humble, despairing, hopeful: their relation to each other is all that _minne dienst_ can require between a knight and his lady, but nowhere in the whole wearily drawn-out story does the real, pent-up human feeling break through. we can never imagine these two taking one another by the hand and wandering off into the wilderness, content, and more than content, with each other's presence. the story of lancelot and guinevere is artificial, not natural; it demands the setting of the court, not of the woodlands. only in the passage where malory describes their parting do they, for a moment, become real; and the effect produced is probably due to the simplicity of the old knight's language, and the virile force of the english tongue. nor do i think that these relations are due to chrétien. he treats them as an already established fact, well known to his readers, and needing no explanation. certain episodes of the poem, the finding of the comb, the testing of the knight's fidelity to the queen by the lady in whose castle he passes the night, presuppose a state of things generally familiar. every one knows who lancelot is; every one will know why he, and no other knight, shall rescue the queen. that there was a previous story of guinevere's rescue from imprisonment under analogous circumstances is quite clear: the references found in the arthurian romance are too numerous, and too archaic in form to be derived from a poem so late in date, so artificial in character, and so restricted in popularity as the _charrette_. of this story we have at least three distinct accounts: (_a_) that given by ulrich von zatzikhoven, where the 'other-world' character of the imprisonment is strongly marked, but the rescue is the work of an enchanter, and not of arthur or any of his knights; (_b_) that given in the _vita gildæ_, when the abductor is melwas, king of _Æstiva regis_ (somerset), the place of imprisonment glastonbury, and there is again no special rescuer, arthur marches at the head of his armies to her relief, but it is the intervention of st. gildas and the abbot of glastonbury which brings about the desired result; (_c_) the account given in the poem under discussion.[ ] of these three variants the version of the lanzelet stands by itself; it represents the 'other-world' under an entirely different, and probably more primitive, aspect, and makes no effort at localisation.[ ] the other two variants fall together, melwas, the king of _Æstiva regis_, which is admittedly somerset=meleagant of gorres, whose chief city is _bade_=bath, also in somerset. these later versions have been localised, and i think it is clear that the localisation took place on english soil, _i.e._ it is an insular and not a continental variant. now, from the very nature of the story it is clear that in its _earliest_ forms it would not be attributed to any special locality, and therein the _lanzelet_ version again appears to be the elder; further, the variants must have arisen at a time when it was clearly understood that, however they might apparently differ, valerîn's thorn-girt dwelling and meleagant's water-circled castle meant one and the same thing, _i.e._ that both were recognised methods of describing the 'other-world.' in this connection it is instructive to recall the versions of brynhild's wooing by siegfried; her residence is universally admitted to be an 'other-world' dwelling, and we find it depicted under forms closely corresponding with the variants of the guinevere story; _e.g._ waberlohe (_volsunga saga_)=valerîn's hedged magic slumber; castle surrounded by water (_thidrek saga_) = meleagant's stronghold; glasberg (_folk-songs_)=glastonbury. the parallelism is significant.[ ] it is quite clear, i think, that such a story can be in no way ascribed to the invention of a poet living towards the end of the twelfth century, but must be of very much earlier date. chrétien was dealing with a late variant of a primitive and very widely known theme. but could this variant, which, as seems probable, only reached him through the medium of a tale related by the countess marie of champagne, have come from england, to which country the localisation of glastonbury, somersetshire, and bath point? it is quite possible. we must remember who marie de champagne was: she was a princess of france, the daughter of king louis vii. and eleanor of aquitaine, who, on her divorce from the french king, married henry of normandy, afterwards henry ii. of england. that is, at the time chrétien wrote, the mother of his protectress was queen of england and wedded to a sovereign who took a keen and personal interest in all that concerned king arthur. the _possibility_ of transmission is as clear as daylight; the question of course is, would marie be inclined to take advantage of it? the relations between her father and his divorced wife were certainly curious, as louis made no objection to the marriage of the eldest son of henry and eleanor with his daughter by his second marriage, but whether there was intercourse between mother and daughter i have not been able to discover. but the question ought to be easily solved by some historical specialist who has made a study of that period. the point is interesting and important, and it is to be hoped some one will clear it up for us. a question of secondary interest is whether chrétien's poem is the source of contemporary and later allusions to the story. of such allusions, or rather versions, we have two of special importance, that contained in malory's compilation, and that given by hartmann von aue, in his _iwein_. with regard to the former, i can only say that though i am in a position to offer new and important evidence with regard to the manuscript malory used, and his method of composition, yet that evidence leaves the _charrette_ question unsolved. of _direct_ evidence there is none; the _indirect_ and _inferential_ evidence tends to show that malory's source was _not_ the poem of chrétien de troyes. the two points on which we can be certain are, (_a_) that malory did not know the earlier part of the prose _lancelot_ at all, that his manuscript began at a point subsequent to the _charrette_ adventure; and (_b_) that he does not invent adventures, and but rarely details. dr. sommer's conclusions, as set forth in his _study on the sources of malory_, are founded on very insufficient premises, and will need to be thoroughly revised to bring them into accordance with our present knowledge. this question i shall discuss fully in a later section. the _iwein_ version is of great importance, and though i have previously referred to it,[ ] yet in the light of professor foerster's strongly repeated assertion that hartmann knew no other version of the story than that given by chrétien, i think it is worth while going over the evidence again. it must be remembered that hartmann's _iwein_ is a translation of chrétien's _chevalier au lion_, and though rather more diffuse, follows its source closely. in the french poem which, as we have noted above, immediately succeeded the _charrette_, chrétien deftly introduces more than one allusion to guinevere's abduction. he says that guinevere has been carried off by a knight _d'estrange terre_, who went to the court to demand her; but he would not have succeeded in carrying her off had it not been for kay, who deceived or deluded (_anbricona_) the king into putting the queen in his charge (ll. - ). in another place, he says that the king, '_fist que fors del san quant aprés lui l'an anvoia. je cuit que keus la convoia jusqu'au chevalier qui l'an mainne_' (ll. - ). now, let us suppose that, as professor foerster insists, hartmann had not read the _charrette_ and knew no other version of the story, what would he, who knew french well, and translates without blunders and confusion, understand by this? we must note particularly what chrétien tells and what he omits. he distinctly says that the knight came to the court and demanded the queen (the real version of the poem is less blunt, as we have seen); that arthur, deluded, put the queen in kay's charge to lead her to the knight, and that they followed him. he does _not_ say that the whole catastrophe came about through arthur's granting a boon before he knew in what it consisted; he implies that the folly lay in arthur's sending the queen after the knight, not in the circumstances which forced him to do so. now what does hartmann say? in his version a knight appeared before arthur and demanded a boon, the nature of which he refused to specify beforehand. arthur granted it. it was that he should carry off the queen. this he did. the knights armed and followed. kay was the first to overtake him, and was struck from his horse with such violence that his helmet caught in a tree and he hung suspended. he was not carried off captive. one after another all the knights are vanquished, and the queen carried off. gawain is not at court; he returns the next day, and goes in search of the queen. lancelot is not mentioned throughout; and the inference is that gawain frees her. what is specially noticeable in this account is that hartmann agrees with chrétien in the very feature which the french poet does _not_ specify, _i.e._ the cause of the queen's abduction--a boon rashly granted, though he transfers the asking from kay to the knight; while he differs from chrétien in the feature which he _does_ specify, _i.e._ that kay takes guinevere _after_ the knight. further, he adds details which would clear up some of the inconsistencies in chrétien's own account: _i.e._ if gawain were not present at the time, and all the knights followed one after the other and were defeated by meleagant, we can quite understand that when gawain returned the next day and followed on the trail, he _would_ find traces of the severe and bloody conflict for which chrétien's version leaves no room. on the face of it, hartmann's version is much the more logical and coherent of the two. i have remarked above on the extreme awkwardness of the action at the outset of the story; that meleagant should carry off guinevere by a ruse similar to that employed by gandîn in the _tristan_ poems is far more in accordance with mediæval tradition. if hartmann's divergence is a mere 'invention,' he not only deserves praise for his sagacious skill in constructing a story,[ ] but excites admiration for the acuteness which enabled him to detect the leading _motif_ of the adventure to which his source afforded absolutely no clue. wolfram von eschenbach's references to the _charrette_ adventure are curious; at first sight it seems certain that he is referring to chrétien's poem, but on closer examination the matter is not so clear. thus he says that lancelot crossed the sword-bridge, fought with meljakanz (meleagant), and freed guinevere--all of which agree with chrétien.[ ] but, on the other hand, he mentions kay's suspension on the tree (hartmann's version), and does not know that meleagant was slain by lancelot, or that the captive bretons were freed by his coming--both meleagant and the breton knights are fighting at the tournament of beaurösch.[ ] indeed, wolfram appears to know far more of these latter than can be gathered from chrétien's poem. of course, we cannot here say whether these references are due to wolfram or to his source, which, as recent research has clearly shown, was certainly the work of a man of varied and extensive learning.[ ] nor is it at all clear that wolfram knew lancelot as guinevere's lover; he simply says that her imprisonment grieved him '_im was gevancnisse leit, die frou ginòvêr dolte_,' which might be postulated of any loyal servant of arthur's. again when, at the beginning of book xii., the poet recites gawain's love-sorrows, he compares his pains first to those suffered by various heroes in the achievement of knightly deeds in general, and then rehearses the parallel cases of sundry lovers. in the first list lancelot and the sword-bridge appear in company with iwein and the fountain, and erec and the '_schoie de la kurt_' adventure, neither of which were undertaken for the sake of love (why garel slew the lion and fetched the knife, we do not know), but among the lovers he and guinevere are not mentioned. taking into consideration the fact that the story is, by its very nature, far older than any literary form we possess; that there was certainly in existence one version at least other than chrétien's (proved by the _lanzelet_); and that chrétien's source was avowedly an _informal_ one, i do not think it impossible that in the poems of hartmann and wolfram we have references to the original form of the story of which chrétien had only an incomplete knowledge. hartmann's version is certainly not drawn from the _charrette_; in wolfram's case we can only give the verdict '_not proven_.' in the whole investigation i think we can only consider two points as satisfactorily settled: the original character of the story, and the fact that lancelot was not at first the hero of the adventure. chapter v the position of chrÉtien de troyes in the arthurian cycle at the stage which we have now reached in our examination of the _lancelot_ legend, it is, i think, imperative to form a clear idea of the position which, in the great body of arthurian literature, shall be assigned to the author of the romance we have last studied. on the question of the literary excellence of chrétien's handling of his material all are more or less agreed, but the problem of his relation to his sources, the question whence he drew the stories he told with such inimitable grace and felicity, is one which has long provoked a lively interchange of argument. the romances of chrétien de troyes form one of the chosen battlegrounds of widely differing schools of arthurian criticism. inasmuch as during the varying fortunes of a long-continued conflict the elementary principles underlying the views respectively advocated have a tendency to become obscured, and gradually misunderstood, it is well that from time to time they should be clearly and formally re-stated, in the light of such knowledge as recent investigation may have cast upon them. we are then in a better position to judge whether they retain, unimpaired, the force and cogency their adherents have ascribed to them. professor foerster has apparently felt this necessity, and, impelled by it, has, in the introduction to his edition of the _charrette_, given to the world what he evidently intends us to regard as his matured and final conclusion on the question of the source of arthurian dramatic tradition. doubtless a similar statement from some leading scholar among the many who hold views differing from professor foerster will be forthcoming; in the meantime the present study appears to me to offer an excellent opportunity for the re-statement of certain principles, and the reiteration of certain facts, which cannot safely be left out of consideration in such a study, and which professor foerster's argument practically ignores. to understand the position of chrétien de troyes to his sources, whatever they may have been, we must, in the first place, have possessed ourselves of the answer to two leading questions. (_a_) what is the nature of the arthurian tradition itself? (_b_) what was the popular form assumed by that tradition at the time chrétien wrote? these are the main points, but they, of course, involve subsidiary issues. generally speaking, the tendency of the school represented by professor foerster is to regard the arthurian tradition as divided into two branches, historic and romantic. the former branch being _primarily_ represented by the _historia_ of geoffrey of monmouth, the popularity of which practically introduced arthur to the literary world, and _secondarily_ by certain passages in the earlier prose romances. this branch contains features of _insular_ origin, reminiscences of the historic arthur and his fights with the saxons; but the second and far more important branch, the romantic, is of purely _continental_ origin. arthur, as a romantic hero, is the product of breton tradition and folk-lore; armorica, and not wales, is the cradle of arthurian (romantic) legend; and it was geoffrey's _historia_ which gave the requisite impulse to the formation of this tradition. so much for theory, what now are the facts? without in any way minimising the popularity and influence of geoffrey's work, either in its original form or in the translation of wace, it is quite clear (_a_) that it did not represent _all_ the historic tradition current concerning arthur; (_b_) that his popularity was of considerably earlier date. a comparison with the _brut_ of layamon[ ] will prove the first point; for the second, we have already noted professor rajna's discovery of arthurian names in italian documents as proving that such names must have been popular in italy at the end of the eleventh century. further, from the testimony of the bas-relief at modena we see that the traditions associated with the british king were not purely historic, but that he and his knights were already the heroes of tales which have not descended to us. we cannot, therefore, fix with any approach to certainty the date at which arthur became a romantic hero, but evidence points to a period anterior to that generally admitted. then ought we not to distinguish between _romantic_ and _mythic_? professor foerster's arguments appear to me to ignore arthur as a _mythic_ hero. romance and myth are not the same thing; though their final developments are apt to overlap, their root origins are distinctly different. the mythic element in arthurian legend cannot be ignored--in fact, it is practically admitted; but some scholars appear to lose sight of its character. yet if that character be rightly apprehended it will, i think, be recognised that the distinguishing features are not due to any demonstrable armorican element; that the connection of arthur with celtic myth must have taken place on _insular_ rather than on _continental_ ground. thus while arthur may, or may not, represent the _mercurius artusius_ of the gauls, it is not possible to deny that he, and at least one of his knights, gawain, stand in very close relation to early irish mythic tradition. the persistence of irish elements in the arthurian story is not a theory but an established _fact_. where would these stories, arthurian and irish, be most likely to meet and mingle, in great britain, or in armorica? the first is _a priori_ the more probable; not only is the distance less, but we know that during the centuries between the life of the historic arthur and the appearance of arthurian story a constant interchange of population went on between ireland and the northern parts of the british isles. the conclusion at which we should naturally arrive would be that stories in which the celtic element was presented under a form identical with early irish tradition would reach brittany _viâ_ great britain, and would not be of armorican origin. and this conclusion is strongly supported by the facts. we have two remarkable stories told of gawain, both of which find striking parallels in early irish legend, both are excellently preserved in insular versions, neither is adequately represented by any known continental text. i allude of course to _sir gawain and the green knight_ and _the marriage of sir gawain_.[ ] of the first the existing french versions are, one and all, poor; immensely inferior to the english poem, and showing in certain cases, notably in _perceval li gallois_, a manifest lack of comprehension of the story. the german version, _diu krône_, is preferable to any of the french, but in no case is the story so well and fully told as in the english poem, which cannot possibly be derived from any known continental source. of the main point of the second story, the wedding of a young knight to a 'loathly lady,' the french poems have no trace, though some seem to have retained a confused remembrance of the transformation of a hideous hag into a maiden of surpassing beauty. mr. maynadier, in his study of all the known variants, pronounces unhesitatingly for the direct dependence of the english upon the irish tradition.[ ] in the first story, the green knight, the original hero of the beheading challenge, is cuchulinn, who, if he does not himself represent a god, is certainly the son of a god. in the second the lady is 'the sovereignty,' and through granting her request the hero obtains the sovereignty of ireland. both are thus distinctly mythical in character; and though the english versions, as we now possess them, are of comparatively late date, in neither case can the irish version be later than the eleventh century, while the internal evidence points a period anterior to the introduction of christianity. let us take another instance, the story of guinevere's abduction and rescue. of purely mythical origin, the story was at first unlocalised, but when localised it is on insular and not on continental ground. to say, as professor foerster does,[ ] that the mention of bath is no proof of an insular source simply shows that the writer has not grasped the real facts of the case. the mention of bath does not cover the whole ground, it must be taken in connection with _Æstiva regis_ (somerset) and glastonbury. the latter is, if i mistake not, the real point of identification. a confusion between glastonbury, avalon, and the abode of the departed had taken place previous to william of malmesbury: the exact date cannot be ascertained, but m. ferd. lot considers the author of the identification to have been an irish monk writing in the tenth century. in a subsequent note m. lot further identified melwas=meleagant, whom all scholars admit to be a king of the other-world, with the irish 'king of the dead,' _tigern-mas_, of which name he considers mael-was to be the welsh translation.[ ] now it seems to me quite obvious that the connection of the king of the other-world with the place looked upon as the special dwelling of the departed must have _preceded_ his being considered as lord also of the surrounding lands, _i.e._ tigern-mas=maelwas must have been connected with glastonbury=avalon _before_ he was thought of in connection with bath and _Æstiva regis_. it is most probable that such a connection would take place on _insular_ not on _continental_ ground, and as a matter of fact the only text which connects melwas with glastonbury, the _vita gildæ_, is an insular text, as is that which connects glastonbury with avalon. here, too, again, if m. lot be right, we find irish influence at work. it is probable that we may be able to add to this list the story of arthur's fight with the demon cat. the story is certainly told in a continental text (_merlin_), and located on continental ground, but the identification of the monster with the _cath palug_ of welsh tradition and that again with the mysterious _chapalu_ of french romance depends on insular evidence.[ ] in his notice of herr freymond's monograph[ ] m. gaston paris suggests that the source will be found to be 'un trait sans doute fort ancien, de mythologie celtique, que gaufrei de monmouth n'a pas accueilli'; while m. loth, in a note appended to this critique, remarks that the original vanquisher of the cat was certainly not arthur but kay. the localisation of the story in savoy, herr freymond considers to have been due to the narration of pilgrims, and discusses the relations of the houses of savoy and flanders with our anglo-norman kings. here then we have a group of stories, possessing a distinctive (celto-mythic) character, all of which are either better preserved, solely retained, or originally localised in these islands; _i.e._ the evidence of facts is here in favour of an insular rather than a continental origin. nor do i think we shall be wrong if we ascribe a decided importance to the fact that the tales told in these islands appear to have been of a mythic rather than of a romantic character. granting then, that at chrétien's time, and long previous, there was current a body of tradition, historic, mythic, romantic, dealing with the british king, how was it handed down, and in what shape did he find it? of course it will generally be admitted that for a long time the transmission of such stories would be entirely--in chrétien's days it would still be partially--oral.[ ] but in saying this we must have a clear idea of what, in the case of traditional stories, oral transmission implies. it does _not_ mean a game of 'russian scandal,' where the point is to see how much a story told from mouth to mouth can be made to vary from its original form in the process; professional story-_tellers_ were, and are, more conservative than story-_writers_. the tales crystallise into certain formulæ of incident and expression which survive often after the real signification has been forgotten.[ ] in the words of a recognised authority on folk-lore: 'among many peoples the _ipsissima verba_ of traditional tales are insisted upon; the form, and even the details of the form, are often as much a part of the tradition as the substance of the tale.'[ ] therefore when we find two stories of marked traditional and folk-lore character agreeing with each other in sequence of incident, detail, and even words, we do not necessarily conclude that the versions are connected by borrowing: they may be, but it is at least equally possible that they represent independent versions of the same oral original. this is, of course, well understood by the folk-lore student; but unfortunately it is too often ignored by the literary critic, who is too prone to devote attention to the literary form, while he ignores the essential character of the story. yet in solving the problem of sources it is this latter which is the determining factor. in examining into the sources of chrétien de troyes it is well to remember that it is easy to exaggerate the necessity for a literary source; it is difficult to exaggerate the conservative tendencies of a professional story-teller of that date. but besides the arthurian legend proper, there was also current in chrétien's time a great mass of popular folk-lore, which, certainly on the continent, probably also on our island,[ ] was told, or rather sung, in the form of mythical tales or _lais_. these _lais_, in the first instance in the breton tongue, and independent of the arthurian cycle, were later translated into french eight-syllabic verse, and largely arthurised--if i may use the word. the process in vogue appears to have consisted of two stages: in the first, the king at whose court the events took place (himself generally anonymous) was identified with arthur; in the second stage, the original hero was replaced by one of arthur's knights. among the specimens which have been preserved we have examples of all the stages: _lais_ entirely independent of arthur; _lais_, the scene of which is laid at arthur's court; _lais_ in which the hero is one of arthur's knights; but one and all are in the same metre, that of chrétien's poems. of an intermediate french form we have no trace. the _lai_ of _tyolet_, to which we have previously referred, is an excellent example of this gradual 'arthurisation.' as we have it, the court at which the events take place is that of arthur, the loyal friend of the hero is gawain, but nowhere else do we meet with tyolet as one of arthur's knights: the inference is that we have here a _lai_ in the first stage of assimilation. the _lai_ consists of two parts; the latter half, the stag adventure, is found in a separate form, but here the hero is one of arthur's most famous knights, lancelot--the process of assimilation is complete. the first part of the _lai_ has many features which recall the more famous 'perceval' _enfances_. that _tyolet_ is anterior to the evolution of the lancelot story we have shown above[ ]; the probability is that it is also anterior to the great popularity of the _perceval_ story. when perceval was once universally recognised as the son of the widowed lady of the forest, there would be little probability of the tale being told of a hero practically unknown to arthurian story. his adventures taken over by more famous knights, tyolet disappeared from the roll of heroes. again, among the _lais_ we have an important group dealing with the main idea of a knight beloved by the wife of his lord, rejecting her advances, incurring her displeasure, and finally departing to fairyland with a fairy bride. of this story we have three important variants, agreeing in their main features but differing in detail: the _lais_ of _graalent_, _guingamor_, and _lanval_. of these three, the scene of the two first is laid at the court of an anonymous king; the action of the third, translated by a contemporary of chrétien, passes at the court of arthur. but, though the _lai_ of _guingamor_ has only reached us in its earlier and independent form, chrétien himself refers to it in an arthurised version. he brings guingamor to arthur's court, and says of him, '_de l'isle d'avalon fu sire. de cestui avons oï dire qu'il fu amis morgain la fee, et ce fu veritez provee._'--_erec_, ll. - . m. ferd. lot[ ] suggests that the identification is probably due to chrétien himself, but if we examine the passage closely i do not think we shall find it to be so. it occurs in a list of knights who visit arthur's court for the marriage of erec. the passage immediately preceding deals with a certain maheloas of l'ile de voirre.[ ] he then names two brothers, graislemier de fine posterne and guingamor. the first named is generally identified as graalent-mor, the hero of the _lai_ to which i have referred above. the fact that chrétien makes the two knights brothers clearly indicates that he knew the close kinship existing between their stories; but why, if dealing with a free hand, he should have made guingamor, and not graalent, the lord of avalon it is difficult to say. if free to choose we should have expected the latter; the _lai_ of _graalent_ stands in far closer connection with that of _lanval_ (being a variant of the same story) than with that of guingamor; and lanval weds the mistress of avalon. or, since both were brothers, both might have been represented as dwelling in that mystic island which had not one queen alone as its denizen but nine. the real explanation alike of the connection and the separation of the two knights appears to me to be that chrétien knew the one _lai_, and not the other, in an arthurised form. certainly it seems more probable that the gradual assimilation by the _lais_ of an arthurian character would, so far as the continent is concerned, take place on breton rather than on french grounds. they are originally breton _lais_; arthur is a breton,[ ] not a french, hero; where would breton folk-lore and breton traditionary romance be more likely to coalesce than in the home of both? i do not myself believe that such coalition was the work either of marie de france or chrétien de troyes. in any case it is beyond the shadow of a doubt that when chrétien wrote his first arthurian poem there was already afloat a vast body of popular folk-lore connected with the arthurian legend, and existing under the form of short poems in rhymed, eight-syllabic verse, the same metre, in fact, as that adopted by chrétien himself. it is also certain that he knew these _lais_; highly probable that he knew some of them, as his contemporary marie de france did, in their arthurised form. as we shall see presently, there is strong ground for the presumption that for the main incident of his most famous poem, _yvain_, he was indebted to such a _lai_. now, without accepting the mechanical theory of herr brugger,[ ] which would make the first arthurian romances consist of _continental lais_ automatically strung together, i certainly think that the _lais_ played a more important part in the evolution of these romances than we generally realise. in a previous chapter[ ] i have indicated what would probably be the method of procedure. the original _lai_ would be expanded by the introduction of isolated adventures; other _lais_, which through demerit of style or music had failed to win popularity, would be drawn upon for incident, or incorporated bodily; one or more popular _lais_ would be added, and the whole worked over and polished up into a complete and finished romance. at first the parts would hang but loosely together, and there would be a good deal of re-selection and discarding of incident before the work crystallised into shape, though the form of the _original_ tale, which was the kernel of the subsequent romance, would not be likely to vary much. the _lanzelet_ of ulrich von zatzikhoven is, as i suggested above, an example of a romance arrested in development: the kernel of the whole can be detected, but the parts fit badly, and it has never been really worked up into shape. but, unless i am much mistaken, we have in the welsh tale of _the lady of the fountain_ a specimen of the same process at work, of capital importance for critical purposes, since we also possess the completed work, _i.e._ the mabinogi has preserved chrétien's _yvain_ _in process of making_. the adventures are practically identical, sequence and incident agree in the main, but in the welsh version they are much more loosely connected, and there are significant breaks which seem to show where the successive redactions ended. if we follow the indications of the version we shall conclude that _as first told_ the story ended with yvain's achievement of the 'spring' adventure and his marriage with the lady. this would, i think, represent the original _lai_, which in its primitive form might well be unconnected with arthur's court: the king was probably anonymous. the next step would be to arthurise the story; yvain must start from arthur's court, and naturally the court must learn of his success: this was arranged by bringing arthur and his knights to the spring where they are themselves witnesses, and victims, of yvain's prowess. it is significant that in _all_ the versions extant yvain is influenced in his secret departure from court by the conviction that _gawain_ will demand the adventure of the spring, and thus forestall him; but in the welsh variant alone is this forecast literally fulfilled and the undecided conflict between yvain and gawain fought at the spring. and here the welsh version breaks again. this was evidently the end of the arthurised _lai_, and the point where the conflict between the friends was _originally_ placed. all the variants bear the trace of this second redaction; the welsh tale alone indicates clearly what was the primitive form. yvain's transgression of his lady's command (probably first introduced for this purpose), a transgression much more serious in the welsh, where he stays away for three years, than in the other versions, offered an elastic framework for the introduction of isolated adventures; finally, when the whole was worked over in romance form, his combat with king arthur's invincible nephew was transferred to the end of the poem, where it formed an appropriate and fitting climax to his feats. the theory suggested above is based upon certain recognised peculiarities in the evolution of the breton _lais_; but the question whether we are justified in making such use of ascertained facts naturally depends upon whether the story related in the romance in question was in its origin one that we might expect to find related in a _lai_; if it were _not_, then, however rational the hypothesis may otherwise appear, we should regard it with suspicion as lacking solid foundation. granting then that a considerable share in the completion of arthurian romantic tradition was due to the influence of _lais_ originally independent of that tradition, that the process of fusion had already commenced when chrétien wrote his poems, and that he was himself familiar with such _lais_, each of the above points having been already proved, our next step must be to examine the _character_ of the stories related by chrétien. two of the five works we possess (i do not count the _guillaume_, which whether it be by chrétien or not lies outside the scope of our inquiry) must at once be put on one side. neither _cligés_ nor the _charrette_ story (in the form chrétien tells it) can be based upon _lais_. but the character of the three more famous poems, _erec_, _yvain_, and _perceval_, is precisely that of a romance composed of traditional and folk-lore themes. in the case of _erec_ and _perceval_ this is partially admitted even by the most thoroughgoing advocate of chrétien's originality, though professor foerster would limit the element to the _sparrow-hawk_ and _joie de la court_ adventures in the first, and to perceval's _enfances_ as representing a _dümmling_ folk-tale in the second.[ ] on this subject i shall have more to say later on; for the present i will confine my remarks to _yvain_, on the construction of which professor foerster holds a theory, highly complicated in itself, and excluding, as a necessary consequence, any genuine folk-lore element.[ ] according to this view the main idea of the poem is borrowed from the story of _the widow of ephesus_, a tale of world-wide popularity, the oldest version of which appears to be oriental (grisebach considered it to be chinese), and which in latin form, as told first by phædrus and then at greater length in the compilation of _the seven sages of rome_, was well known in mediæval times.[ ] with this is combined other elements: a breton local tradition, classical stories (the ring of gyges and the lion of androcles), and other stories of unspecified origin. on the face of it, this theory postulates a highly artificial source, and one calling for great powers of invention and combination; and when we examine it, we find the main idea wholly inadequate to sustain the elaborate fabric reared upon it. i have carefully studied _the widow of ephesus_, both in earlier and later variants, and can only see the slightest possible resemblance to the _yvain_ story; true, in both a widow, overcome with grief for the loss of her husband, speedily forms a fresh attachment, but situation, details, _motif_, all are radically different. in every variant of the first story the lady's action is prompted by mere sensual caprice; in the second, it is the outcome of a sound instinct of self-preservation. true, laudine does eventually fall in love with _yvain_, but she contemplates marriage with him before she has ever beheld him, influenced by the advice of her servant, who paints in strong colours the defenceless condition of the land, and who is aware of yvain's passion for her lady. in _no_ variant of the earlier tale does the lady marry the slayer of her husband (a point, i believe, essential to the _yvain_ story). indeed, in many her advances are rejected by the object of her passion; in _all_ she is represented as refusing to leave the grave, and none are free from the repulsive details accompanying her new-fledged passion, though these are amplified in the later versions. in insisting on the fact that the lady's re-marriage (often entirely lacking in the earlier story), '_unter hässlichen unser gefühl schwer verletzenden bedingungen_,' is the central point of both stories,[ ] professor foerster overshoots his mark. the conduct of the lady of ephesus is certainly offensive in the highest degree, not so that of laudine. for a woman, especially if she were an heiress, in mediæval times marriage was an absolute necessity. the true parallel to laudine is here _not_ the widow of many wanderings, but the duchess of burgundy, in _girard de viane_, who, on the death of her husband, promptly appeals to charlemagne. '_a quoi sert le deuil?--donnez-moi un autre mari. donnez moi donc un mari qui soit bien puissant._'[ ] _un mari bien puissant_ was a necessity of those days. the real truth is, that the situation was already in the story, and mediæval compilers explained it in accordance with the social conditions of the time, and the parallel situations in contemporary stories. a minor objection to the theory is, that it would make, not the hero, but the lady, the real centre of the story, which is certainly not the case. but, as we shall see, the tale in its original form is far older than chrétien, _and could by no possibility have been invented at so late a date as professor foerster suggests_. _yvain_, as one of arthur's knights, is of a date considerably anterior to chrétien. we find him in wace's _brut_, as a valiant hero, on whom arthur, after the death of aguisel, bestows the crown of scotland.[ ] now, professor foerster himself states, and i think the great majority of scholars will fully agree with him, that neither _erec_, _yvain_, nor _perceval_ were _originally_ arthurian heroes, and undoubtedly their connection with arthur's court was of the slightest. if their connection with arthur marks a secondary stage in the story, and _yvain_ in the _brut_ is already an arthurian knight, it is pretty obvious that the original tale connected with him, by virtue of which he was admitted into the magic circle of arthurian romance, must be older even than wace; in other words, he must have been the hero of a popular adventure upwards of thirty years, at least, before chrétien wrote his poem. and if that original story was not the fountain-story, what was it? but if we look at the tale aright, i think we shall discover that its essential character is so archaic that it may well be as old as the most exacting criticism can require. what is it but the variant of a _motif_ coeval with the earliest stages of human thought and religious practice--the tale of him '_who slew the slayer, and shall himself be slain_'? the champion who must needs defend his charge single-handed against all comers, and whose victor must perforce take his place; and how old this tale may be, mr. frazer has taught us.[ ] this surmise is strengthened by the nature of the challenge; yvain's pouring the water, which is followed by a storm, is a simple piece of sympathetic magic--of rain-making, and, as such, is practised even to-day by savages in different parts of the world. such a story must, by its very nature, have been originally _un_localised, even as it cannot be dated; it could be postulated of _any_ place, it might be practised everywhere--it belongs just as much, and just as little, to south africa in the present day as to the wood of broceliande in the twelfth century. to treat such a story as a local tradition is a grave error. it may have recalled in its details certain stories told of the fountain of barenton, and, therefore, when transported to the continent from wales (to which country the earlier redaction certainly belongs), the continental story-tellers, finding the fountain unlocalised, as it naturally was in the original tale, connected it with the breton forest. but it is obvious that such connection is purely arbitrary, and has no critical value. it is at variance with all the geography of the story, which is located in wales or on the welsh border; and neither the compiler of the welsh version nor the english translator of chrétien's poem admit it, but adhere to the earlier and unlocalised form. i may here quote a remark of the distinguished folk-lore authority to whom i have previously referred. mr. e. s. hartland says: 'the rain-making incident has always seemed to me a very good evidence of the traditional origin of the (_yvain_) story. at all events it is an incident very closely connected with savage magic.' i do not suppose it would very much astonish any competent student of these questions if some missionary in africa, or traveller in the south sea islands, was to publish a savage variant of our romance: the substitution of the slayer for the slain, and the practice of rain-making by the pouring out of water, are customs alive in certain parts of the world to this day. but what would professor foerster say? would he still maintain that his '_meister_' invented the story, and credit the savage folk, whoever they might be, with the remains of a vanished civilisation and literary culture? i think it also highly probable that in the _balaan and balaain_ story, and in _meraugis de portlesguez_, we have variants of the same theme. in each of these cases the hero must take the place of the champion he defeats, and hold the post till in his turn he be defeated and slain; while at the same time he succeeds to his predecessor's relations with the lady of the castle, whose _ami_ he becomes.[ ] it will be observed that herr ahlström's suggestion that the lady may originally have been a fairy--a suggestion contemptuously scouted by professor foerster[ ]--might be accepted without any detriment to the original signification of the story, whereas professor foerster's theory excludes any possible archaic origin, and is demonstrably out of harmony with the very primitive rain-making incident. it is obvious that such a tale as i have indicated above, belonging as it does to the family of folk-lore and traditional tales, is precisely the kind of story that might be related in a _lai_; and this was, i believe, its original form. it is significant that chrétien records the fact that there was a _lai_ more or less closely connected with the lady who became yvain's wife; and, according to the reading of one ms., that connection was very close indeed, being nothing less than the relation of how yvain won her to wife. i print here the reading to which i refer, together with that of professor foerster's edition:-- ms. , _bib. nat._ (anç. fr. ), fol. , recto nd col. _veanz touz les barons se done la dame a mon seignor 'y.' par la main de son chapelain einsint la dame de lenduc la dame qui fu fille au duc lan () donez dont len note_·|·_lai_.[ ] professor foerster's critical edition. _veant toz ses barons se done la dame a mon seignor yvain. par la main d'un suen chapelain prise a laudine de landuc la dame qui fu fille au duc laudunet don an note un lai._ --_yvain_, ed. , ll. - . (translation.) _all the barons beholding, gives herself the lady to my lord yvain. by the hand of her chaplain thus the lady of lenduc, the lady who was daughter to the duke, they have given to him of which (whom) one notes a lay._ _all her barons beholding, gives herself the lady to my lord yvain. by the hand of one her chaplain he has taken laudine de landuc, the lady who was daughter to the duke, laudunet of whom (which) one notes a lay._ it will be observed that, grammatically, the phrase 'don an note un lai' may refer to the wedding quite as well as to the supposed laudunet, while _in no other passage in the entire poem_ is the lady's name or that of her father mentioned. the ms. which offers the interesting variant quoted above is, professor foerster tells us, in the dialect of champagne (chrétien was a champenois) of the thirteenth century, and stands in close relation to the source of hartmann von aue's translation.[ ] for many reasons it appears to me that this reading deserves more attention than it has yet received. it is, to say the least, curious that chrétien should go out of his way to remark upon a _lai_ dealing with an absolutely unknown personage and one to whom he never refers again. chrétien's poems stand, _not_ at the commencement of the arthurian tradition, but at a very advanced stage of its evolution: had there been current at that date, the end of the twelfth century, a _lai_ important enough to be chronicled in this unusual manner (i can recall no other instance in chrétien's poems), some trace of the hero of the _lai_, if not the poem itself, would surely have been preserved to us. on the other hand, the version given in the welsh tale has a break precisely at this point, showing where the primary redaction ended, and the character of the tale is, as we have seen, such as might well be preserved in a _lai_. i believe that chrétien is here indicating the original source of this section of his poem. the passage, moreover, has a curious affinity with one to which i shall have occasion to refer later on, where the carelessness of a copyist in running together two or three words has created what the editor of the text read as a proper name, a reading adopted by his critics. but here the text had not been worked over, and the result was a confused reading which has baffled more than one commentator. the mere chance that the right reading (here undoubted) has been preserved in a text hitherto unaccountably neglected has enabled me to detect the error; but had the copyists of the _queste_ been as careful to preserve the grammatical sense as those of the _yvain_, we should have been much puzzled to decide whether _d'estrois de gariles_ was or was not originally _des trois de gaule_![ ] it is a question for experts in palæography which is the more likely error to be made, the running of two or three words into one, eventually read as a proper name, or the separation of the letters composing a proper name into two or three words. it appears to me that the arguments advanced for the above view are, as compared with professor foerster's arguments, _objective_ versus _subjective_. professor foerster sees in the story of yvain and his lady a resemblance to the tale of the _widow of ephesus_, _therefore_ he concludes that chrétien based his romance on that story; but in support of his theory he offers no _proof_ whatever: there is no evidence that chrétien knew the tale, no reference to a book in which it might be contained, no correspondence of name or phrase, and the most characteristic incidents, the dwelling by the grave, and the insult to the corpse, have no parallel in the romance.[ ] the evidence is purely subjective; satisfactory to the framer of the theory, but not satisfactory to others. the evidence for the theory advanced above is, on the contrary, purely objective. the story must be of such a character that it might be told as a _lai_--it is of such a character, _i.e._ folk-lore and traditional; _proof_--the rain-making incident, and correspondence with the _motif_ of 'slayer and slain.' we must have proof that chrétien knew the _lais_ current in his day--he refers to one of the most famous, _guingamor_, and couples the hero with that of another, _graalent_. we should like a reference to a _lai_ connected with the story--we have the reference, at the very point where, according to our theory, we might expect to find it. further, the reading of one ms., and that neither a late nor a poor one, gives a remarkable indication of the contents of the _lai_. if on these grounds we decline to accept the _widow of ephesus_ theory we are surely neither prejudiced nor oblivious of facts.[ ] nor is professor foerster more fortunate in his theory of the origin of _perceval_. he states it at great length in the introduction to the _charrette_,[ ] but the main points may be summarised thus. the book given to chrétien by count philip of flanders was a _grail_ as distinct from a _perceval_ romance. the two were independent stories and their combination was the work of chrétien de troyes. 'dieser original gralroman enthielt natürlich keinen perceval und auch nicht dessen sagen-motiv, sondern wird den uns sonst bekannten gral-texten ähnlich gewesen sein.'[ ] 'sollte das _livre_ aber, aller unwahrscheinlichkeit zu trotz, dennoch ein perceval (d. h. dümmlings-) roman gewesen sein, so erklärt sich ebenfalls warum das _livre_ nicht gefunden worden ist: _der name perceval stand natürlich nicht in demselben sondern ist durch kristian von einem schon in erec genannten ritter auf den helden übertragen worden_.'[ ] into such pitfalls can the obstinate adherence to a preconceived idea lead the most distinguished scholar! what are the facts? in _erec_, chrétien mentions perceval by his full title, perceval li galois, as at arthur's court, but does not include him in the list of knights of the round table;[ ] but in _cligés_, written some years later than _erec_, and according to professor foerster himself _between twenty and thirty years before the perceval_, the whole position is changed: perceval is not merely one of arthur's knights, but second in rank, inferior only to gawain, thus displacing _erec_, whose praises chrétien had sung at length, and superior to lancelot, whom the poet also celebrated before he wrote of perceval. this is the position. cligés has come to a tournament at ossenefort, and has on the first two days overthrown successively segramore and lancelot; on the third day: '_del ranc devers ossenefort part uns vassaus de grant renon, percevaus li galois ot non. lués que cligés le vit movoir et de son non oï le voir, que perceval l'oï nomer, mout desirre a lui asanbler._'--_cligés_, - . this is the perceval who was only a name to chrétien! but chrétien's hero knows him! can we avoid the conclusion that, at the time _cligés_ was written, perceval was already the hero of a well-known and highly popular tale; so popular that the author felt justified in displacing in his favour the hero (erec) whose deeds he had already sung with such marked success? if the story of perceval li galois be due to chrétien, then we must believe that, having conceived the tale in his mind, and paved the way for its reception by the above reference, he yet abstained from presenting it to the public for nearly thirty years! or could perceval have been the hero of some other tale, the popularity of which has waned before that of chrétien's poem? of any story connected with him save the _enfances-grail_ adventure there is no trace, and of these we have variants of the former _minus_ the grail tradition (_peredur_ and the english _sir percyvelle_); but all the grail stories know the _enfances_. it is also significant that chrétien in the _erec_ mentions both gurnemanz (gornemant) and l'orguelleus de la lande, both of them noted characters of the _perceval_ story; in fact, but for that story the former would be nothing more than a name to us. i have remarked in a note to chap. ii. that chrétien apparently also knew the enchanter of the _lanzelet_. i had not noted this till i had completed my study of the poem, and, as a footnote is apt to be overlooked, i draw attention to it here. in the list of the knights of the round table given in _erec_, chrétien ranks as eighth mauduiz li sages; in hartmann's translation the name is given as malduiz li sages; _diu krône_ has malduz der weise; the _lanzelet_ spells the enchanter's name malduz or malduc, and qualifies him as der wîse.[ ] i do not think there can be the least doubt that it is one and the same individual who is referred to in these quotations, and the only adventure known of him, and one which would fully account for his sobriquet _li sages_, is one which is preserved in a poem bristling with _perceval_ allusions,[ ] the _lanzelet_ of ulrich von zatzikhoven. i have said above that a critical edition of the _lanzelet_ is urgently needed, and i should not be surprised if the result of a close examination of that poem were to show good reasons for fixing the date of the _perceval_ story (as a _perceval_ and not a mere _dümmling_ story) at a much earlier period than we have hitherto been inclined to admit.[ ] is it not the fact that story-tellers in mediæval times depended for their popularity less upon the _manner_ in which they told their stories than on the stories themselves? _i.e._, if they wished to write a really popular poem they took a subject already popular, and which they knew would be secure of a favourable hearing. are we really so unreasonable when we contend that it was the traditional, folk-lore, popular character of the stories told in _erec_, _yvain_, and _perceval_, which made them so much more popular than _cligés_? the _charrette_ is so manifestly inferior to chrétien's other works that we will not call it as evidence; it was, and deserved to be, little known. but _cligés_ stands on a different footing. the story is interesting, it is well written, and the love-tale of alexander and soredamors contains some of the poet's most characteristic writing; yet, compared with the other poems, it took little hold on the popular fancy. was it not because the story was unknown to the general public with whom the tale itself counted for more than the skill with which it was told? i cannot but think that to treat such stories as the three named above, solely as _arthurian_ stories, is to base our criticism of them on an entirely false foundation: they are only arthurian in a secondary sense, and criticism of them, to be accurate and scientific, must be founded as much on folk-lore as on literary data. nor, i submit, are arguments, which may be sound enough as applied to the rise of the arthurian romantic legend, of necessity equally sound when applied to stories of independent origin incorporated in that legend. i do not say for a moment that arthur as a _romantic_ hero is a continental creation, personally i very much doubt it; but of this i am quite certain, were that continental origin proved up to the hilt, it would still leave unsolved the problem of the origin of these stories. before closing this chapter i would touch for a moment on the geographical questions involved; for it seems to me that not sufficient account has been taken of the marked difference between the geography of these three and that of chrétien's remaining two poems. the first three have a common character. yvain's adventures pass in and on the borders of wales. he starts from carduel en galles (kardyf in the english version), and after one night's rest reaches the fountain. it is at chester, not otherwise an arthurian town, but one well within the bounds of the story, that his wife's messenger finds him. erec is '_d'estregalles_'; the towns are caradigan, carduel, cærnant, nantes. so with perceval, who is _li galois_, we have carduel, dinasdron, the forest of broceliande--exactly the geography we might expect in stories of welsh origin redacted on armorican ground. many of the names here, as in certain of the _lais_, may be either insular or continental, inasmuch as they are common to the celtic race on both sides of the channel. but in _cligés_, and in a minor degree in the _charrette_, we are on different ground: the geography is that neither of wales nor of brittany. here we have dover, wallingford, winchester, windsor, southampton, oxford, shoreham, bath, london; while we note a marked omission of the distinctively _arthurian_ localities. the _charrette_ opens at _carlion_, which it, however, apparently confuses with _camelot_. now this is surely significant. if chrétien had a free hand in the arrangement of his stories, if they were really compounded of elements drawn from all sources and thus combined for the first time, why did he shift his _mise-en-scène_ backwards and forwards in this curious manner? why turn from the geography of _erec_ to that of _cligés_ and the _charrette_, only to revert to his first love in _yvain_ and _perceval_? is it not most probable that in those three stories, at least, he was dealing with traditional matter, the localising of which had already been effected? in the case of _cligés_ and the _charrette_ it seems not improbable that closer investigation may find grounds to support the theory of a possible anglo-norman transmission, which would account for the southern england geography.[ ] a point on which we may well lay stress is, that the independence of chrétien as a story-teller does not stand or fall with the existence or non-existence of anglo-norman arthurian poems. their importance, in relation to chrétien, may easily be exaggerated by those unfamiliar with the character of oral tales. if we once accept as a principle the well-ascertained fact that such stories have a tendency to fall into a set form, a fixed sequence of incident and detail, would always be related in practically the same words, and, moreover, could well contain more than one _sagen motif_, we shall realise that the necessity of postulating a written source as explanation for the agreement in sequence, incident, and phrase, becomes infinitely less pressing.[ ] to my mind, the correspondences between the welsh arthurian tales and chrétien's three poems in question offer no proof that the former repose directly on these poems as basis; but i consider it extremely probable that many of the perplexing features of the question--_e.g._ the occurrence in the welsh stories, and in translations of chrétien's poems, of details not to be found in the best mss. of those poems--may be accounted for by copyists and translators familiar with an oral version of the tale, filling in details which chrétien had either never heard, or had purposely omitted. if we postulate, as from the character of the stories we are justified in doing, a very widespread knowledge of those tales, apart from any written source, we shall not be surprised at the existence of a large number of minor variants; the impossibility of explaining which on purely literary grounds drives professor foerster and those who share his views to the unsatisfactory expedient of multiplying ms. 'families.'[ ] to sum up the considerations advanced in the preceding pages, i think we are justified in saying that the real _crux_ of arthurian romance is the period _before_ and not _after_ chrétien de troyes. not that the latter period does not offer us puzzles: it does, many and great, but when we arrive at some definite and _proven_ conclusion as to the materials with which the earliest compilers of metrical romance were dealing, we shall have made a great step towards unravelling the problem of their successors. so far, i do not think we have arrived at such a conclusion; many theories are in the field, but none seem entirely to meet the conditions of the question. my own conviction is that, whether oral or written, arthurian romantic tradition is of much older date than we have hitherto been inclined to believe. to arrive at any solid result in our investigations there are certain principles which we must always keep in view, _e.g._, if the arthurian tradition consists (as it admittedly does) largely of folk-lore and mythic elements, it must, so far as these elements are concerned, be examined and criticised on methods recognised and adopted by experts in those branches of knowledge--and not treated on literary lines and literary evidence alone. thus it is essential to determine the original _character_ of a story before proceeding to criticise its literary _form_. to treat stories of folk-lore origin from an exclusively literary point of view is to render a false conclusion not merely probable but _certain_. in every case where an oral source appears probable, or even possible, we must ascertain, from the evidence of experts in story-transmission, what are the characteristics of tales so told, and what is the nature of the correspondence existing between tales of common origin but of independent development. the evidence of proper names is valuable only in a secondary degree, as testifying to the place or places of redaction. but the older the story the less valuable they are as indications of original _source_, the oldest tales having a strong tendency to anonymity. so we find that in the _lais_ the older versions only speak of 'a king,' the later identify that king with arthur.[ ] if we take these elementary tests, and apply them to those of the poems of chrétien de troyes for which a traditional origin may safely be postulated, we shall i think arrive at the conclusion that there is little ground for ascribing _inventive_ genius to the poet, whose superiority over his contemporaries was _quantitative_ rather than _qualitative_. he differed from them in degree, not in kind; he had a keener sense of artistic composition, a more excellent literary style. given the same material as his contemporaries he produced a superior result; when the material was deficient, as in the _charrette_, the result was proportionately inferior. there is no necessity to belittle him as '_ein sklavischer Übersetzer_'; there is no ground that i can see for crediting him with an inventive genius foreign to his age. the truth lies, as it so often does, midway between the two extremes. in this connection i may well quote dr. schofield's sober and carefully reasoned conclusion to his _study of the lays of graalent and lanval_: 'the process of combining separate episodes to make an extended poem, we may well believe, had begun before the time of marie's contemporary, chrétien de troyes. he simply carried it one step farther, and devoted his great literary talent to presenting in more attractive form, with more modern courtly flourishes, the stories already existing. doubtless he himself made new combinations, and in so doing was guided by a poet's sense of appropriateness, choosing such general and subordinate episodes as would contribute best to the development of his hero's character.[ ] to him we must certainly ascribe the interesting psychological discussions so numerous in his works. but still his power of invention is not great. his art is shown above all in the way in which he combines and arranges separate stories, or embellishes those already told at considerable length.'[ ] these words, i believe, state in generous terms the position which scientific criticism will ultimately assign to chrétien de troyes: they represent the very utmost that can reasonably be claimed for him. * * * * * herr brugger's article, referred to on p. , did not come into my hands until these studies were in proof. inasmuch as the theory regarding the arthurisation of the _lais_ stated in this chapter and in chapter ii. might lead some readers to the conclusion that my views are identical with those set forth in the article in question, i think it well to state (_a_) that i only postulate of certain early metrical romances an origin which herr brugger apparently attributes to _all_ arthurian romances, prose or verse; (_b_) that when herr brugger speaks of _origin_ he uses the word loosely, and in a _secondary_ sense, whereas i use it in a _primary_; _e.g._ to say that a story which reached french writers through a breton source may therefore be accurately described as of breton origin is, in my opinion, both inaccurate and misleading, especially in the face of professor foerster's strongly reiterated denials of an insular arthurian _romantic_ tradition. the immediate source of the french writers does not solve for us the problem of the origins of arthurian tradition; it is a mistake to employ an argument, or use terminology, confounding two distinct questions. chapter vi the prose lancelot--the 'enfances' of the hero in the preceding chapters we have examined certain romances of the _lancelot_ cycle lying outside the great prose compilation which represents its final form. the _popular_ 'lancelot' legend was the legend as told in the prose _lancelot_, and the _grail_ romances therewith incorporated. it is with these romances we must now deal. the elements composing this vast compilation (which in its completed form appears to have aimed at embracing the entire arthurian cycle in all its ramifications) are so diverse that it would, under any circumstances, be a matter of great difficulty to decide how best to analyse and examine the composite structure; and this initial difficulty is much increased by the fact that so far the material at our disposal, abundant though it be, is in an inchoate and unorganised condition. there is no critical edition of the prose _lancelot_; and as we shall see in the following studies, not merely the mss., but the numerous printed editions derived from the mss., differ so widely from each other that until a critical text based on a comparison of _all_ the available versions is in our hands, it will be quite impossible to do more than form a tentative hypothesis, or advance a guarded suggestion as to the gradual growth and formation of the completed legend. i would therefore entreat any readers of this and the subsequent chapters to bear in mind that i am not attempting any critical study of the prose _lancelot_, as a whole--the time for such a study has not yet come--but rather i am examining (_a_) certain points of the prose legend which are of capital importance in themselves, or must have existed in some form even in a shorter version of the story, _e.g._, such as lancelot's youth, and first appearance at court, his relations with guinevere, and connection with the grail story; (_b_) certain interesting variants in the texts we possess, variants which are of the greatest importance to english scholars as clearing up many of the difficulties connected with the character of the source used by malory in his compilation.[ ] my aim is to prepare the way for a critical examination of the prose _lancelot_ rather than to myself offer such a critical examination. in a previous chapter i hazarded the suggestion that the original germ of the whole story might prove to be a _lai_ recounting the theft of a child by a water-fairy, and in spite of the unwieldy dimensions to which the tale has grown, i think this suggestion will be found to hold good. as i hinted above, the _lancelot_ legend is not confined to the prose _lancelot_, but it has affected romances originally entirely unconnected with our hero, such as the _merlin_ and the _tristan_. in the earliest forms of the story neither of these tales have anything whatever to do with lancelot; in the latest versions _tristan_ has been practically incorporated into the _lancelot_, while _merlin_ forms an elaborate introduction to it. though it has undergone a certain amount of modification, the tradition at the base of the _merlin_ and prose _lancelot_ appears to be identical with that related by the _lanzelet_. the names ban of benoic and pant of genewîs are quite near enough to represent the same original, probably modified in the _lanzelet_ by translation into another tongue. the story of the king driven from his kingdom and dying of a broken heart is the same, _au fond_, though the _motif_ has been varied, and in the prose _lancelot_ the king's misfortunes are caused by treachery, and not by his own misgovernment. this is a very natural modification, and one likely to be caused by the growing popularity of the son, which would have a tendency to react favourably on the character of the father.[ ] it is clear that both versions of the _merlin_ story know the _lancelot_ legend in its completed form. thus the vulgate _merlin_ knows of his two cousins, lionel and bohort, whose introduction into the legend marks that secondary stage, when not merely the hero, but the hero's race in its entirety, is selected for special honour.[ ] in the ordinary, or vulgate, _merlin_, the enchanter is never brought into direct contact with lancelot, but is betrayed to his doom before the birth of that hero takes place. in the _suite de merlin_, however, he and his treacherous love visit the castle of king ban, and see the child, whose future fame merlin prophesies; while the lady is identified with the fairy who brings up lancelot.[ ] the _suite_ also refers in a prophetic manner to certain subsequent feats of lancelot, and introduces the personages of the _tristan_ story, such as morholt (le morhout),[ ] a clear proof that it is posterior to the incorporation of this legend with the arthurian cycle. of the two _merlin_ versions, the _suite_ therefore appears to be the later, but the vulgate _merlin_ also refers to the grail romances,[ ] so that it seems clear that both have been redacted subsequent to the completion of the _lancelot_ story. to return to the prose _lancelot_. the story of the hero's youth, while agreeing in the main with that told by ulrich von zatzikhoven, is yet marked by important modifications and additions. the brothers lionel and bohort appear on the scene, and become lancelot's companions, while the whole conception of the kingdom of the lady of the lake is radically modified. it is no longer a _meide-lant_; lancelot has knight-attendants as well as cousin-playfellows, indeed, save for the _mirage_, which counterfeits a lake and thus keeps off unwelcome intruders, the country is to all intents and purposes an ordinary earthly kingdom.[ ] when the lad (who is always called by his protectress _fils du roi_, and has a more than adequate idea of his own importance) leaves the kingdom, which he does in order to seek knighthood at arthur's hands, he goes gorgeously equipped, with armour, steed, and retinue of servants. but his arrival at arthur's court is most interesting and suggestive. arthur meets him without the town, and consigns him to the care of _ywain_, who, the next day, leads him to the palace through a crowd of spectators eager to look upon his beauty. in a previous chapter i have commented upon the strong resemblance between the account of lanzelet's entry into the world, as described by ulrich von zatzikhoven, and that of parzival, as related by wolfram von eschenbach. both alike are ignorant of knightly skill and customs; both are unable to control their steeds, they cannot even hold the bridle; both are alike fair to look upon, but apparently foolish (_tumbe_); both are ignorant of their name and parentage. different as the account of the prose _lancelot_ is from this, and no difference could well be wider, yet here again the _lancelot_ falls into line with the _perceval_ story, and again in the form peculiar to wolfram von eschenbach; for there, too, parzival makes his entry on foot, through a crowd eager to behold his beauty, and his guide is the squire _iwanet_.[ ] it will be remembered that in chrétien's version of the story perceval's entry is made under quite different circumstances. he rides into the hall, and advances so close to the king that his horse's head touches him, and subsequently he refuses to dismount. the correspondence of the name ywain=iwanet is also significant. in the case of wolfram's poem it has been generally concluded that the name was a diminutive of _iwein_ or _iwan_, and therefore distinct from the name chrétien gives to gawain's squire who aids perceval to disarm his fallen foe--_yonet_. hertz, in his recent translation of the _parzival_,[ ] takes this view, though he would differentiate the ywain referred to from king urien's famous son, and in my translation of the poem i adopted the same view. but further study has led me to doubt this solution. i now think it more probable that the name is in both cases the same, _i.e._ a form of the breton _yonec_, which we find with the varying spelling, _iwenec_ and _yonet_.[ ] thus both chrétien and wolfram refer to the same character; and the compiler of the prose _lancelot_ probably knew the _perceval_ story under a form analogous rather to wolfram than to chrétien. whether the form _ywain_ was adopted through a mistake, or from a desire to substitute a well-known hero for an obscure squire, it is impossible to say, in any case the correspondence, though less striking than the similar passages of the _lanzelet_, is worth noting.[ ] again we find that guinevere, failing to obtain an answer from the youth, who is struck dumb by her beauty, makes some contemptuous remarks as to his lack of sense, and leaves the hall. this may be compared with _parzival_, book iii. ll. - .[ ] a further indication of contact with the _perceval_ romances is afforded by the love-trances which overtake the hero at the most inconvenient moment, and are repeated _ad nauseam_ in the most clumsy and inartistic manner. it is noticeable that on the occasion of the first attack (in the case of lancelot one can only regard these trances as an intermittent malady) the knight is clad in red armour and leans on his spear--as does perceval when he sees the blood-drops on the snow. in the prose _lancelot_ it is invariably the sight, and not the memory, of guinevere which causes the trance, a far less poetical conception than that of the _perceval_. but in face of the passage quoted by m. paulin paris, in his translation of the prose _lancelot_, probably few will contend that the story of _perceval_ was not anterior to, and well-known by the compiler of, the first mentioned romance. _et le grant conte de lancelot convient repairier en la fin à perceval qui est chiés et la fin de tos les contes ès autres chevaliers. et tout sont branches de lui, qu'il acheva la grant queste. et li contes perceval meismes est une branche del haut conte del graal qui est chiés de tos les contes._[ ] we should note here that when this particular passage was written the writer evidently knew nothing of galahad as the grail winner, though he knew the _lancelot_ story in an advanced stage. we shall have occasion to refer to this later on. in the account of lancelot's first appearance at court we find an incident which appears to connect the story with a cycle of poems bearing a curious resemblance to the _perceval_ cycle--the _bel inconnu_ poems. immediately after the hero has received knighthood, as they sit at meat in the hall, a messenger arrives, sent by the 'dame de nohan,'[ ] asking for a champion to aid her against the king of northumberland. lancelot (whose name we must remember is not yet revealed, and who is referred to by the compiler as _le beau varlet_) at once requests that the adventure be given to him, and, though arthur demurs on account of his youth and inexperience, insists that he has a right to it, as the first boon he has claimed since he was knighted. it is under precisely similar circumstances that the hero of the _bel inconnu_ stories undertakes his first adventure. others have been struck by this resemblance, and m. philipot, in his review of dr. schofield's _studies on the libeaus desconus_,[ ] maintains that the _lancelot_ story (more particularly in the version known to ulrich von zatzikhoven) is the elder of the two, and the source of the parallel adventure of the _bel inconnu_ group. with this view i cannot agree. i have elsewhere[ ] given reasons for holding the true order of the _enfances_ to be as follows, _perceval_, _le bel inconnu_, _lancelot_, and to this view i adhere. we must remember that the french original of the _lanzelet_ must in any case be prior to ; how much earlier we have no means of deciding, but the _lanzelet_ has points of contact with both the _perceval_ (enfances) and the _bel inconnu_ (fier baiser) story. further, the prose _lancelot_, though differing very widely from ulrich von zatzikhoven's poem, yet, as we see, also offers parallels both to _perceval_ and _le bel inconnu_; such parallels being entirely different from those of the _lanzelet_. to assert that these stories borrowed from the _lancelot_ would involve the existence, at an early date, of a fully developed and widely diffused _lancelot_ legend, a conclusion which the absence of all reference to the hero in the earlier arthurian romances forbids. to my mind, when we have three separate cycles of romance closely connected with each other, if we desire to discover which is the oldest of the stories we should ask in the first instance, in which of the stories are the incidents common to all the essence, in which are they the accidents, of the tale. it is quite clear that they are not essential to the _lancelot_ story. the characteristics of ignorance, simplicity, and headlong impulsiveness attributed to him by ulrich von zatzikhoven, are entirely foreign to his character as elsewhere represented; even in the _lanzelet_ they are promptly discarded: but they _are_ the very essence of perceval's character, he, and no other, is the _schöne tumbe_ of romance. again, the adventure of the _fier baiser_ has absolutely nothing to do with lancelot; it is manifestly dragged into the _lanzelet_ version 'by the head and shoulders,' and has no connection with the context, but it is the crown and completion of the adventures of gawain's nameless son.[ ] whatever be the connection between the _perceval_ and _bel inconnu_ stories, i think it is clear that both were well known before the development of the _lancelot_ legend took place, and that in the process of development this latter borrowed from both. a close examination of the variants of the _lancelot_ 'enfances' will, i think, strengthen the hypothesis advanced in a previous chapter, _i.e._ that the connection of the hero with a water-fairy _alone_ is of the essence of the tale, all the rest is comparatively late in development, and markedly _non_-original and secondary in character.[ ] chapter vii the prose lancelot--the loves of lancelot and guinevere in the previous chapter i remarked that the time, and the material, for a really critical study of the prose _lancelot_ were not yet ripe, and that i should, therefore, confine myself to the discussion of the more striking features of the story, _i.e._ the _enfances_, the _liaison_ with guinevere, and the connection with the grail quest. these form what we may call the persistent element in the completed _lancelot_ legend; the great mass of adventures filling in the framework, varying (as we shall presently see) so considerably, that till we have some idea of the growth and various redactions of the story it is hopeless to attempt to criticise them. certain remarks, however, we can safely make. the story as we have it at present is marked by a constant repetition of similar incidents. i have already alluded to one, the love-trance. what we may perhaps consider an exaggeration of this _motif_, the love-madness, also occurs more than once and has affected the _tristan_ story. this is certainly not an original feature, but i think it is a question whether the source be the _chevalier au lion_ or the _prophecies of merlin_; personally i incline to the latter solution, and think the name of merlin's wife, guendolen, may have suggested its introduction into the _lancelot_ story.[ ] another incident of frequent repetition is the release of the hero from prison in order that he may attend a tournament. of this we have at least three instances: the version of the _charrette_, where it is the wife of the seneschal, his jailor, who assists him; and two belonging specially to the prose _lancelot_. in one instance it is from the prison of the dame de malehault that he attends the tournament and returns, as in the _charrette_; in the other he is freed from the prison of the three queens by the daughter of the duc de rochedon, and does not return. this latter also corresponds with his being freed from the prison of meleagant by the daughter of king baudemagus, whom malory, doubtless under the influence of the _charrette_ story, substitutes in his translation for the heiress of rochedon. again we find that certain adventures, some of considerable importance, are related in some versions of the story while they are omitted in others, but in the absence of a critical and comparative edition it is impossible to say which of the great mass of adventures now composing the prose _lancelot_ belonged to the original redaction. nor can this again be satisfactorily settled till we have determined the mutual relation between the _grand s. graal_, the _queste_, and the _lancelot_. in short, the _lancelot_ problem involves a number of minor problems of extreme intricacy, and till these be solved we only stand on the threshold of arthurian criticism.[ ] a point in which it appears to me that we have a suggestion of the original tale, expanded from a source foreign to that tale, is in the account of the expedition undertaken to recover lancelot's ancestral kingdom from the hands of king claudas. there is no doubt that the hero should, as a matter of poetical justice, regain his inheritance, and in the _lanzelet_ we find it summarily recorded that he does so,[ ] but under entirely different circumstances from those recorded in the prose _lancelot_. the latter account is of extreme length, and apparently a free imitation of the arthurian expeditions of the _chronicles_; the incident of frollo's defeat before paris is certainly borrowed from geoffrey or his translators. as it now stands the incident is lacking in point and practically unnecessary to the story, since lancelot prefers to continue arthur's knight rather than become a sovereign in his own right, and therefore bestows the lands on his cousins and bastard half-brother. the retention of a feature which evolution has thus robbed of its significance appears to afford evidence both of the original independence of the tale and also of the priority of ulrich von zatzikhoven's version. leaving on one side then the minor adventures into which the successive redactions have introduced considerable variation, we will turn to that feature of the story which, practically unvarying in form, appears to offer us a fairer prospect of arriving at some real and definite conclusion--the love of lancelot for the wife of his liege lord. setting aside the many minor questions to which the subject gives rise, it seems to me that the main problem of the amours of lancelot and guinevere is, do they represent the latest form of an original feature of the story, or are we to consider them as an addition to the tale, an element imported into it under the influence of the popular _tristan_ legend? this much is certain, there is no literary evidence of growth in the story; either it is non-existent, as in the _lanzelet_, or complete, fully developed, and decked out in all the artificialities and refinements of _minne-dienst_, as in the _charrette_. as we noted in our discussion of the latter poem, chrétien evidently credits his audience with a previous knowledge of the relations between the queen and his hero; he nowhere hints that he is about to tell them something new, nor does he offer any explanation why lancelot rather than gawain, who, as the _merlin_ informs us, was 'the queen's knight,' should achieve the rescue of his liege lady. there can be no doubt that he was dealing with a situation thoroughly familiar to, and understood by, his hearers. a point which we are much tempted to overlook in the criticism of arthurian romance is the length of time intervening between the period at which the events recorded are supposed to have happened, and the earliest known literary record of those events. if we estimate this intervening period as five centuries, we are speaking well within the mark. it is obvious that we have here ample time for forgetfulness, dislocation, or rearrangement of the original legend. yet that that legend survived i hold for certain. had arthur been completely forgotten, the immense popularity achieved by the romances of his cycle would constitute a literary phenomenon practically unique; the seed that in the twelfth century burst into such glorious flower had been germinating for ages. the question is, what was the nature of that seed--what the relation of the original arthurian legend to the completed arthurian romance? on this point it behoves us to tread warily, and to avoid dogmatising. i have suggested elsewhere that probably the historic germ of the arthurian legend is to be found in his fights with the saxons, his betrayal by his wife and nephew, and his death in battle with the latter. certainly there is a genuine historic element in the account of his wars; and it is significant that the older arthurian chroniclers--geoffrey of monmouth and his translators--all agree in relating at considerable length the story of guinevere's betrayal of her husband; while the welsh tradition, which does not know lancelot, is even more emphatic on the subject of her infidelity.[ ] we must remember that, alike in geoffrey, wace, and layamon, the account of guinevere's relations with mordred is totally different to that familiar to us through malory, and borrowed by him from the _mort artur_. in the latter, the queen is no accomplice in mordred's treason, but resists his advances _vi et armis_, barricading herself in the tower of london, where the traitor vainly besieges her. in the chronicles the whole position is different: they shall speak for themselves. this is wace's account: '_que mordret fist en engleterre la roine sot et oï_, * * * * * _a evroïc ert à sejor, en pensé fu et en tristor. membra lui de la vilenie que por mordret se fu honie; le roi avoit deshonoré et son neveu mordret amé, contre loi l'avoit esposée, s'in estoit honie et dampnée; mius vausist morte estre que vive, mult en estoit morne et pensive. a karlion s'en est fuie, s'in entra en une abaïe, iloc devint none velée; tote sa vie i fu celée. ne fu oïe, ne véue, ne fu trovée, ne séue. por la vergogne del mesfait et del pécié qu'ele avoit fait._'--_brut_, ii. ll. - . in the corresponding passage, geoffrey of monmouth gives as his authorities 'breton' tradition and the clerk walter of oxford (cf. note to above passage). layamon in his account is even more severe towards the guilty pair: '_arður bi-tahte al þat he ahte. moddrade and þere quene þat heom was iquene. þat was ufele idon þat heo iboren weoren. þis lond heo for-radden mid ræuðen uniuo[gh]en. and a þan ænden heom seolven þe wurse gon iscenden. þat heo þer for-leoseden lif and heore saulen. and ædder seoððe laðen nauer ælche londe. þat nauer na m[=a] nalde. sel bede beoden for heore saule._' _brut_, layamon, madden's ed., ll. - .[ ] in the passage corresponding to that quoted above from wace, layamon adds the detail, that none knew the manner of the queen's death, _whether she had drowned herself_: '_nuste hit mon to soðe. whaðer heo weore on deðe (and ou [gh]eo hinne ende)[ ] þa heo seolf weore isunken in þe watere._'--ll. - . from these passages it is abundantly clear that guinevere was no victim of treachery, but a willing sinner; and that the tradition of her infidelity to her husband existed prior to the formation of the arthurian romantic cycle. granting, then, that the feature formed part of the early arthurian legend, are we to consider that the version given by the chronicles faithfully represents the original tradition, and that it was mordred who was guinevere's original lover? i think not. it is an extremely curious feature of the problem, that though in each of the pseudo-historic versions guinevere, as we have seen, is genuinely in love with mordred, and is roundly condemned by the chroniclers for her conduct, in no single one of the arthurian _romances_ is there any trace of the slightest affection existing between them. mordred, save as traitor in the final scenes, plays no rôle in the story; he is never represented as a _persona grata_ at court; in one important version, as we shall see, the queen dislikes him because she suspects his true relation to arthur. guinevere's moral character is held to be untarnished, even by her _liaison_ with lancelot. i suspect that we have here to deal with a lapse of tradition. mordred is not the original lover, but he represents him; and between that original lover and lancelot there intervenes a period in which guinevere's lapse from virtue was smoothed over, and partially forgotten. it is certainly remarkable that in each of the three great prose branches, the _merlin_,[ ] the _tristan_, and the _lancelot_, guinevere's moral character is apparently unaffected by her conduct with lancelot. the compilers all agree in extolling her as the noblest of queens and best of women. even so aggressively virtuous and clerical a romance as the prose _perceval li gallois_, though quite aware of the connection, regards guinevere in a favourable light--indeed, as morally superior to arthur! nor can we quote the _queste_ as representing the opposite view; true, lancelot is blamed for his relations with the queen, but guinevere, when she appears upon the scene, is treated with marked respect, and the reader has an uncomfortable suspicion that the writer objected to her rather as woman than as wife,--he objects to the sex as a whole, only forgiving perceval's sister on account of her virginity. it seems clear that if the character of guinevere has, among the welsh, been handed down to posterity under the unfavourable light in which professor rhys tells us she is popularly regarded, this must be due _either_ to a tradition emanating from an earlier and healthier state of society, when conjugal infidelity was not regarded with complacency, _or_ to a later and more enlightened verdict on her relations with lancelot, but in no case can it be due to the influence of those who told the story of these relations. the second cause will, i think, account for the nineteenth-century presentment of guinevere's character; we judge her on the grounds of her relations with lancelot, which we regard as blameworthy, though not undeserving of sympathy--in fact, we do but emphasise malory's verdict. but this does not account for the welsh tradition, which, as i have before pointed out, knows practically nothing of lancelot; that must rest upon other grounds, and i believe it rests upon the tradition preserved to us in the mordred story. what this original tradition was, we can now only surmise; it belonged to a period of which but few and fragmentary traces survive, but i think that most probably the primitive story ascribed the rôle of lover to gawain. i made this suggestion some four years ago,[ ] and subsequent study has shown me nothing to induce me to alter my opinion, though it has suggested sundry important modifications. i think now that gawain and mordred really represent the two sides of one original personality; and that a personality very closely connected with early celtic tradition. what the exact nature of the relation between gawain and early irish mythic tradition may be we cannot yet say: that such a relation exists is practically beyond doubt.[ ] among the characteristic features of the early irish heroes with whom gawain is connected, we find the following: adventurous hero and nephew on the female side to royal centre of cycle (cuchulinn and diarmid[ ]); son to that uncle (cuchulinn); lover of uncle's wife, eloping with her (diarmid); deadly combat between father and son (cuchulinn and conlaoch). this latter incident i believe to be of greater importance in heroic-mythic tradition than has yet been realised. as i interpret it, the father and son combat in heroic tradition really represents the 'slayer who shall himself be slain,' the prehistoric combat of the '_golden bough_' (to which i have referred in chap. v.) influenced by the doctrine of re-birth, as set forth by mr. nutt in vol. ii. of the _voyage of bran_, _i.e._ it is a conflict of the god with his re-born and re-juvenated self, and as such has a very real place in celtic tradition. as we see above, we do not at present possess a version in which all these characteristics are united in one hero, but they might very well be so united. i think that the earlier gawain was at once arthur's nephew and son by his sister,[ ] adventurous hero of the court, lover of the queen, and eventually slayer of his father-uncle.[ ] very probably in the original story there was some such device as the beauty-spot of diarmid, which aroused involuntary passion in every woman who beheld him; or the love-potion of the tristan story; a device whereby the earlier tellers of these tales secured sympathy for the lovers, without lowering the character of the husband, so that gawain, no less than diarmid and tristan, would be regarded as a gallant and sympathetic figure. but the peculiar line of evolution followed by the arthurian story, the strongly ethical and christian character which it early assumed (due probably to the heathen belief of the historic arthur's genuine antagonists, the saxons), made a change necessary, if gawain was to preserve his position as leading hero of the legend, and i now think it most probable that that change was effected by divesting gawain of the characteristics incompatible with his later position, and bestowing them on another personality, created for the purpose, since they could not altogether be dropped out of the story. it is significant that, as i remarked above, the earliest tradition gives gawain no brother save mordred, and layamon remarks emphatically, '_he never had any other_.' further, i suspect, that exactly the same process took place with regard to guinevere, and that we have a survival of it in the person of that mysterious lady, the false guinevere. i would therefore modify my original views on the subject, by saying that i now think that though gawain was guinevere's original lover, lancelot did not succeed him in that rôle, in fact that lancelot does not represent the original lover at all, that that tradition is now represented by the mordred story, and that there was a period in the evolution of the legend, preceding the introduction of lancelot into the cycle, during which the tradition of guinevere's voluntary betrayal of her husband was dropped, and she was regarded in an altogether favourable light. the invention of the lancelot love-story, which i think we must regard as in its origin an invention, was probably brought about by two causes, the growth of _minne-dienst_, and the popularity of the _tristan_ story. to be absolutely accurate, i think we ought to consider it as _invented_ to satisfy the demands of the first, and _developed_ under the influence of the second. that it is, as some writers have held, a mere imitation of the _tristan_ story, i do not think, rather it is marked by certain complex characteristics which cannot be explained on the hypothesis of other than a dual source. thus it is impossible not to feel that the relations of the lovers are dictated by the rules of a conventional etiquette rather than by the impulse of an overmastering passion. even in the scene in which lancelot first reveals his love to the queen, there is no touch of genuine passion or self-abandonment; the confession has been foreseen and expected, and you feel that guinevere has carefully regulated her conduct in accordance with the etiquette prescribed for such an occasion. in the _charrette_, this artificial character is strongly marked; lancelot's bearing becomes absolutely grovelling in its humility. the fact that he has been guilty of a momentary hesitation before mounting the cart is regarded by his capricious lady as a deadly offence against the rules of love, and resented accordingly, while lancelot is so overcome by the assumed indifference of the queen that he promptly attempts suicide. compare this with the story of gawain and orgeluse in the _parzival_. gawain is heartily in love with the lady, who treats him, not merely with indifference, but with absolute insolence--insolence to which gawain opposes the most serene and unruffled courtesy, till the lady comes to her senses, when he reads her a well-deserved lecture on the correct behaviour due to a knight from a well-bred lady. gawain is quite as well aware of the rules of the game as lancelot, but understands how to play it with becoming dignity, and remain master of the situation. there are moments in the lancelot-guinevere story when one wonders whether the whole business be not as platonic and artificial as the love-rhapsodies of the would-be poets of mediæval italy, or of certain of the troubadours; but the night interview in the _charrette_, the story of lancelot's relations with king pelles's daughter, and guinevere's frantic jealousy, together with the final scene of discovery, forbid this charitable assumption. again, as i remarked above, the problem is complicated by the high character ascribed to guinevere, and the absolute lack of any real condemnation of her relations with lancelot. this is carried so far that even after the final discovery the kingdom of britain is threatened by the pope with an interdict unless arthur will consent to take back his faithless wife; while throughout the war with lancelot the sympathies of the reader are asked for the knight, not for the king. nothing could well be lower than the morality of the _lancelot_ story as it now stands: the cynical indifference of what we may call the 'secular' sections, on the one hand, coupled with the false and wholly sickly pseudo-morality of the grail sections on the other, cannot but be utterly distasteful to any healthy mind. for my own part, i must needs think the immense popularity of the _lancelot-grail_ romances wholly undeserved. another point which is often overlooked is the discrepancy of age between lancelot and the queen; the hero's birth takes place some considerable time after the marriage of arthur and guinevere. in the final war with arthur we are told that lancelot is twenty-one years gawain's junior, this latter being seventy,[ ] while arthur is ninety years old! it is quite clear that we have here no tale of the genuine spontaneous love of youth and maiden such as we find in tristan and iseult, but rather the account of the _liaison_ between a young knight and a lady, his superior in years and station. all these discrepancies and difficulties in the _lancelot_ story can, i believe, be best explained on the lines above suggested. the original story of guinevere's infidelity had been dropped out of the legend, a reminiscence only surviving in the account of mordred's treachery. shortly after the middle of the twelfth century the tone given to courtly society by certain influential princesses, among them eleanor of aquitaine and england, and her daughter, marie de champagne, demanded the introduction into the popular arthurian story of a love element, conceived after the conventions of the day. doubtless the popularity of the older _tristan_ story was an element in the matter, but we must, i think, guard carefully against regarding the one as an imitation of the other; in colouring and characteristics the tales are, as i said above, diametrically opposed.[ ] why lancelot was selected as the queen's lover is a question which it is extremely difficult to answer with any certainty. when i treated the subject in my _legend of sir gawain_, i suggested that he simply took the place of gawain here, as elsewhere. that may have been the case, but the fact that, as i now think, we have distinct evidence of an intervening period, or rather of intervening stages, between the stories, somewhat militates against this idea. the choice may have been determined by quite simple considerations. it is noticeable that in each of the poems in which chrétien mentions lancelot previous to the _charrette_ he places him third in the list of arthur's knights; in _erec_ the two first are gawain and erec; in _cligés_ they are gawain and perceval. none of the three here named would be available: gawain from his relationship alike to arthur and to mordred, besides the fact that the character he early acquired as 'the maidens' knight' rather militated against the exclusive fidelity requisite for the post; erec was already provided with a lady-love; perceval was impracticable, not so much from the ascetic character ascribed to him, which was probably[ ] a later accretion, as from his essentially uncourtly manners, and very slight connection with arthur's household. it may very well be that at the 'psychological moment' lancelot, by his new-won position in the cycle, was the one hero who approved himself fitted for the rôle, and thus reached in the character of the queen's lover his final evolution as an arthurian knight. again, as i suggested in discussing the _lanzelet_, it may be that some peculiarity in his relations with his mysterious protectress gave the required suggestion. with the knowledge at our disposal the question cannot be definitely answered. but the central idea once conceived, the process of evolution proceeded merrily: doubts, hesitation, despondency, on the part of the hero, gracious advances on that of the queen; advances on the part of other ladies, jealousy on the part of guinevere; despair and madness of lancelot; reconciliation, suspicion, detection, danger, deliverance, all the well-known formulæ of such a love-tale are employed, well interspersed with the knightly adventures of lancelot and other companions of the round table. such a story could be expanded, _ad infinitum_, and there is no doubt that it was expanded to an inordinate length, as we shall find when the day comes for a critical edition of the various redactions of the prose _lancelot_. meanwhile, what of the romance which had given the initial impulse to the formation of the lancelot story, the _tristan_? as a matter of fact the _tristan_ was in the unenviable position of a frankenstein. it had created, or rather helped to create, a monster which was its eventual destruction. so far as incidents go, the _lancelot_ has borrowed but little from the _tristan_; the episode of the blood-drops, which betray the nocturnal meeting of guinevere and lancelot in the _charrette_, is generally admitted to be borrowed from the similar episode in the _tristan_ poems, while the version given by hartmann von aue of the abduction of guinevere shows points of contact with that of iseult by gandîn, but the incidental parallels between the stories are in reality very slight. turn, however, to the prose _tristan_, and you find the influence of the _lancelot_ absolutely dominant. following the example of lancelot, tristan believes himself to have lost the favour of his adored queen, flies to the woodland, where he goes mad; attempts suicide; iseult pours out her woes in letters to guinevere, who is regarded as the noblest of queens, and a recognised authority on love! guinevere invites the lovers to arthur's court; lancelot places his castle of joyous garde at their disposal. the details of the beautiful old love poem, the poignant tragedy of tristan and iseult, are lost sight of. in a fragmentary form they still exist, but are buried out of sight underneath the great mass of arthurian accretion. it is no longer the love of tristan for iseult which is the central interest of the story, but the rivalry between tristan and lancelot, which of the two shall be reckoned 'the best knight in the world.' dr. wechssler, in his study on the various redactions of the lancelot-grail cycle, points out the manner in which the two versions of the _tristan_ have been worked over and modified so as to bring them more into harmony with the _lancelot_.[ ] but how thoroughgoing was this modification, and how disastrous to the older story, can only be understood by a first-hand study of the texts. an interesting point for future criticism to determine will be whether there was ever an earlier, and independent, prose _tristan_, or whether the prose versions of this tale are not all posterior to and dependent upon the _lancelot_. i do not think that any question can here arise as to the priority of the poetical relative to the prose form. to sum up the conclusions arrived at in these pages, i would suggest that the order of guinevere's lovers, so far as can be determined from the surviving arthurian tradition, was as follows: . gawain.--this being indicated by gawain's close connection with kindred celtic legends; traces of the relation surviving in the accounts given in the _merlin_ of gawain as the 'queen's knight,' and in passages of chrétien's _perceval_, wolfram's _parzival_, and early english romances.[ ] . mordred.--representing a period when such a relationship was held incompatible with gawain's character as chivalrous hero, and the more unamiable features of the primitive conception were transferred to another character who was regarded as gawain's only brother. the later stages of this period are preserved in the _chronicles_. . intervening period wherein guinevere undergoes same process as gawain, and false guinevere is evolved. the queen's character is regarded as irreproachable and mordred as an unwelcome suitor. strong traces of this period remain, both in the earlier metrical and prose romances, and complicate the subsequent presentment. . lancelot.--his introduction in this character being due (_a_) to social conditions in courtly circles, (_b_) to desire to create within the arthurian cycle a love-tale which should rival in popularity the well-known and independent _tristan_ story. mordred, however, remains in the story, and he, rather than lancelot, should be considered as representing the original 'infidelity-motif.'[ ] chapter viii the prose lancelot--lancelot and the grail we now approach the most difficult and complicated part of an exceptionally difficult and complicated question; rather, to be more accurate, we are now confronted with the union of two questions, each of them, in a high degree, intricate and obscure. we have not yet succeeded in solving the problems connected with the evolution of the grail romances; we can scarcely be said to have begun the examination of the _lancelot_ legend; the union of the two might well appear to present such insuperable difficulties that the critic might shrink from grappling at close quarters with so formidable a task. and yet it may well be that this union of the two legends, which at the first glance appears so seriously to increase our difficulties, is precisely that factor which shall play the most important part in their final solution; that inasmuch as the _lancelot_ legend was the dominant factor in the later cyclic development of arthurian romances, the disentangling of this particular thread will be the clue which sets free the other members of the cycle, and enables them to fall once more into their original and relative positions. the elements composing the grail problem are so well known that here i need do no more than briefly recapitulate them. the grail romances are practically divided into two families: that dealing with the history of the relic--the _early history_ romances as they are very generally called; and that dealing with the search for the relic, the _queste_, which latter family is again sharply divided into two sections differentiated from each other by the personality of the hero--the perceval and galahad _questes_. i am not sure whether we ought not to go a step further and recognise a third clearly defined family, that of the gawain _queste_. mr. nutt in his _studies on the legend of the holy grail_[ ] partly recognises this, but does not, i think, attribute sufficient importance to the matter, regarding gawain as an understudy of perceval. i incline to think that before the question is finally solved we shall require to study very closely the variants which regard gawain as grail hero, and compare them with the _perceval_ versions. i am not sure that we shall find the result quite what we expect! so far criticism has confined itself to the question of the relation existing between the _early history_ and _queste_ versions, and that between the two main families of the _queste_. in this latter case the general consensus of opinion is to regard perceval, whose story is marked by certain definite and widely spread folk-lore features, as an earlier grail hero than galahad, whose _queste_ is strongly allegorising and mystical in character. it is this latter _queste_ which here mainly concerns us, but we shall find that before we are in a position to examine it closely we must deal with certain features both of the gawain and perceval variants. the _gawain_ versions will not detain us long. there is, correctly speaking, no definite _gawain-grail_ romance, but we find records of gawain's visits to the grail castle scattered throughout the latter part of the _conte del graal_, _diu krône_ (where he is really the grail hero), prose _lancelot_, and dutch _lancelot_ (this latter, as we shall see, differing in very important particulars from the prose _lancelot_). in each case these adventures are marked by peculiarly wild and fantastic features, sometimes apparently borrowed from the hero's feats at the _château merveil_, as recorded by chrétien and wolfram, sometimes entirely independent of those feats, but strongly reminiscent of perceval's experiences in the grail castle. in the distinctively _lancelot_ romances, where gawain, lancelot, and bohort all attempt the adventures of corbenic, gawain is the first to do so, and his experiences are repeated, with a more fortunate result, in the case of the other two. the _grand s. graal_, which gives an account of the founding of corbenic, and the establishment of its marvels, states that none are to escape with their lives till _gawain_ shall come, and he shall receive shame and dishonour.[ ] this same romance makes gawain a descendant of joseph of arimathea. i think it is quite clear that the grail castle as depicted in the later romances is really a combination of the features of two originally distinct accounts, the grail castle of the earlier perceval story, and the _château merveil_ of gawain legend. the marvellous features which the galahad-lancelot _queste_ emphasises have clearly been borrowed from the gawain romances, and are therefore to be considered as younger than these. dr. wechssler's study, _Über die verschiedenen redaktionen des robert von borron zugeschriebenen graal-lancelot-cyklus_, to which i have previously referred, is of value in helping us to the next stage of our investigation. the writer points out that the redactors of the prose romances we possess were familiar with two compilations, practically covering the entire ground of arthurian romance, one of which, the earlier, was ascribed to robert de borron, the other, the later, to walter map; or rather, as the author is careful to write throughout, _pseudo_-borron and _pseudo_-map.[ ] the original cycle, which the writer designates _a._, consisted of _livre del graal_,[ ] _merlin_, _suite merlin_, _lancelot_, _queste_, and _mort artur_, but only traces of the _borron_ cycle remain, the romances as we have them belonging to the pseudo-_map_ redaction.[ ] further, dr. wechssler claims to have detected clear traces of two subsidiary cycles formed by selections from the original; redaction _b._ consisting of the _livre del graal_, the _merlin_, and _suite merlin_, and the _queste_ and _mort artur_. the redaction _b._ he considers the earlier shortened version of the pseudo-borron cycle.[ ] a still later and shortened redaction was composed of the _merlin_ and _suite merlin_, _queste_ and _mort artur_; this also being attributed to the pseudo-borron.[ ] according to dr. wechssler the distinguishing mark which separates the pseudo-borron from the pseudo-map cycle is the introduction into the former of the personages of the _tristan_ legend absent from the map cycle. this is very clear, and very interesting, but let us wait a minute before we examine it, and see how, in the hands of its own author, the theory works out. the study to which i have just referred was published in ; in another study appeared from the same pen, this time dealing exclusively with the grail romances,[ ] in which dr. wechssler practically adopted the standpoint of professor birch-hirschfeld, that the grail is _ab initio_ a christian symbol, but at the same time endeavoured to harmonise this view with that which regards the grail as originally a heathen talisman, while, in the same way, he claimed to discover a _viâ media_ between the conflicting variants of the _queste_, presenting us, as the result, with a curious composite hero, who was named galahad, but whose story was the story of perceval. i do not know if the author was himself really satisfied with the result of his ingenuity; i am convinced no other student of the grail romances was; but the interest of the study for us lies in this, how did a scholar who three years before had published a really sound, solid, and valuable piece of criticism, such as that on the grail-lancelot cycle, come to wander so far astray in the quagmire of pure hypothesis and unfounded assumption? simply and solely, i believe, because it had never occurred to dr. wechssler that the _lancelot_ romances _could_ be associated with any _queste_ other than the galahad _queste_. he saw, and saw rightly, that the _lancelot_ story played a very important rôle in the cyclic evolution of the arthurian romance; he saw that it was closely connected with a grail _queste_, and never suspecting that the hero of that _queste_ could be other than galahad, while at the same time he recognised the priority of certain elements of the perceval story, he endeavoured, with a fatal result, to combine the two, and evolve such a _queste_ as would suit the earlier redaction of the _lancelot_ story. and yet the key to the truth was in his hand all the time, had he but known it. he knew m. paulin paris's '_romans de la table ronde_'; on p. of vol. iv. the writer quotes a passage from a ms. of the _bibliothèque nationale_, to which i have previously referred, but which is of such paramount importance for the question before us that i make no apology for repeating it here: '_et le grant conte de lancelot convient repairier en la fin à perceval qui est chiés et la fin de tos les contes ès autres chevaliers. et tout sont branches de lui_ (c'est-à-dire se rapportent à perceval[ ]) _qu'il acheva li grant queste. et li contes perceval meismes est une branche del haut conte del graal qui est chiés de tos les contes_' (ms. , fol. - ). to this quotation m. paulin paris added the remark, 'mais dans la _quête du saint graal_, perceval n'est plus le héros qui découvre le graal et accomplit les dernières aventures. galaad, le chevalier vierge, fils naturel de lancelot, est substitué au _perceval_ des dernières laisses de lancelot. la manie des prolongements aura conduit à ces modifications des premières conceptions. et c'est la difficulté de distinguer ces retouches successives qui a donné à la critique tant de fils à retordre.' the position could scarcely be more clearly stated to-day; one can only regret that this luminous hint of the great french scholar should have remained so long unfruitful. when the passage first attracted my attention, which it did some years ago, i made a note of it as important for the theory of the early evolution of the _perceval_ story, but not till i had read dr. wechssler's study of the _grail-lancelot_ cycles did its immense importance as evidence for the evolution of the arthurian cycle, as a whole, dawn upon me. yet here we have a piece of evidence of the very highest value, a direct and categorical statement that at one period, and that an advanced one (otherwise it would not be termed 'le _grant_ conte'), of its evolution, the _lancelot_ legend was connected with and subordinate to the _perceval_ story, and that in its full and complete grail-queste form. in other words, the distinction between the cycles respectively attributed to borron and to map is not only the presence or absence of the personages of the _tristan_ story (as dr. wechssler supposes), but the much more important and radical distinction that, in the first the _queste_ was originally a perceval, in the second always a galahad _queste_. it is surprising that this distinction had not occurred to the original framer of the thesis, any one familiar with the genuine borron romances must be aware that the _queste_ they presuppose _is_ a perceval _queste_. probably the disinclination, to which i have referred above, to connect lancelot with any grail hero save his own son had very much to do with the matter; further, i do not think that dr. wechssler had formed a clear idea of the process of evolution of the cycle he postulated, which he represents as progressing by contraction, _i.e._ the earliest form being the fullest, or why that cycle should have been connected with the name of robert de borron. in fact, he reserves the discussion of the questions concerning original formation for another study. now i would submit that the rational progress of evolution is by expansion, not by contraction, and that the name of robert de borron became associated with a cycle representing the _ensemble_ of arthurian romance because there was a smaller cycle which was really the work of the genuine robert de borron, which smaller cycle formed the germ of the later and more extended body of romance.[ ] scholars have long ago recognised that the three works attributed to robert de borron, and which, as we possess them, probably represent prose versions of that writer's original poems, are closely connected with each other, and have every appearance of having been intended to form one consecutive work. these three are the _joseph of arimathea_, _merlin_, and _perceval_, which latter is only represented by one ms. and is what we generally call the 'didot' _perceval_.[ ] now if we examine the didot _perceval_, as printed by mr. hucher in vol. i. of _le saint graal_, we shall find that the last twenty pages, succeeding perceval's achievement of the grail quest, are devoted to arthur's expedition to france, his conquest of frollo and war with rome, succeeded by mordred's treachery, the final battle and arthur's departure for avalon--in fact, precisely the contents of the _mort artur_, which, as we know, generally follows the _queste_, only related in a more concise and summary manner;[ ] and one more in accordance with the _chronicles_ than is the case with the other prose romances. i think it is quite clear that the _perceval_, whether in the original form in which borron wrote it or not, as we possess it, shows distinct traces of having formed the concluding portion of a cycle. it is quite obvious that a genuine borron cycle, such as suggested above, would contain the germ of later expansion. thus the _joseph of arimathea_ certainly appears to represent what we may perhaps call the first draft of the _grand s. graal_. _merlin_ was certainly expanded into the _merlin_ vulgate and _suite_. _perceval_ represents _queste_ and _mort artur_. only the _lancelot_ is unrepresented, and with that i do not think the original 'borron' cycle had anything to do. the introduction of the _lancelot_ probably belongs, as dr. wechssler suggests, to a subsequent writer, who borrowed the more famous name, to the pseudo-borron; and from the quotation given by m. paulin paris, i should think it likely that, at first, the juxtaposition of the _lancelot_ and _perceval-grail_ stories was purely external, and that they did not affect each other by contamination. the didot _perceval_ may well have been the _queste_ of the earliest pseudo-borron, whether or not it represents the _queste_ of the genuine borron cycle.[ ] but the growing popularity of the _lancelot_ story would render such a contamination inevitable, and i am strongly tempted to believe that in that perplexing romance, the prose _perceval li gallois_, we have the _queste_ of a later pseudo-borron cyclic redaction. the perplexing features of this version are well known: the whole tone is highly ecclesiastic, there are numerous references to an earlier perceval story, lancelot plays an important rôle, yet galahad is unknown, and there are certain mysterious folk-lore features not met with elsewhere. hitherto no one has succeeded in satisfactorily placing this romance. i would suggest that it represents the _queste_ of a late pseudo-borron _lancelot-perceval-grail_ cycle; and i am encouraged in this supposition by the fact that this romance knows the questing-beast, a mysterious creation only found in the _suite merlin_ and the _tristan palamedes_ romances. now the _suite merlin_ claims to be by robert de borron, and the introduction of the _tristan_ figures into the arthurian story is, as we saw above, held by dr. wechssler to be the distinctive 'note' of the borron-cycle.[ ] this conclusion is further strengthened when we examine the rôle assigned to lancelot in these two romances. in each case he is one of the most distinguished knights at arthur's court, but he is much less _en évidence_ in the didot _perceval_ than in the _perceval li gallois_. in the first-named romance he is represented as overthrowing all the knights of the round table, till the appearance of perceval, by whom he is himself overthrown. he would thus appear to rank next to the hero of the tale and to be the superior of gawain. so far as we can gather, the order of superiority runs thus: perceval, lancelot, gawain, yvain. but he is, apparently, not of those who start on the grail quest; nor is there any indication of his _liaison_ with guinevere. but the author mentions among the knights '_le fiz à la fille à la femme de malehot_.'[ ] we do not know the lady of malehault save through the medium of the prose _lancelot_. in the _perceval li gallois_ (_perlesvaus_ professor heinzel prefers to call it), lancelot is one of the three best knights in the world, the other two being perceval and gawain; he takes part in the grail quest, but on account of his sinful relations with guinevere is not worthy to behold the sacred talisman, which does not appear, even in a veiled form, during his stay at the fisher king's castle, whereas it appears clearly to gawain. the position, so far as lancelot is concerned, is thus nearer to the presentment of the galahad _queste_ than is the didot _perceval_. this last-named, we have seen above, shows clear indications of betraying a cyclic redaction; these indications, though differing in form, are not less clear in the _perceval li gallois_. the concluding passage runs thus: '_après iceste estoire commence li contes si comme brians des illes guerpi le roi artus por lancelot que il n'aimoit mie et comme il aséura le roi claudas qui le roi ban de bénoic toli sa terre. si parole cis contes comment il le conquist et par quel manière, et si com galobrus de la vermeille lande vint à la cort le roi artus por aidier lancelot, quas il estoit de son lignage cist contes est mout lons et mout aventreus et poisanz._'[ ] in quoting this passage, professor heinzel remarks: 'auch der _perlesvaus_ ist einem grösseren romanwerk einverleibt, aus dem die handschrift von mons den _perlesvaus_ ausgeschrieben hat. was ihm folgte muss eine art _lancelot_ gewesen sein.'[ ] there is a further and interesting possibility before us. the compilers may--in one instance, i think, we can show reason to believe that they did--have incorporated the chrétien _perceval_ (or a version closely akin to it) into their cycles as representing the _queste_. in the work of preparing these studies i felt that i ought to leave no available version of the _lancelot_ unexplored, and therefore undertook to read carefully the immense compilation generally known as the dutch _lancelot_. well was it for me that i did not shrink from the task! i had not read far before i began to suspect that the text represented by this translation was, in every respect, a fuller and a better text than that used by dr. sommer in his malory collation; in the _queste_ section in particular was this the case. in the succeeding chapters i intend to go fully into what is, i believe, in the interests of arthurian criticism, a very important discovery. here i will only say that i eventually found that the text of the dutch _lancelot_, of the printed version of the prose _lancelot_ lenoire, (which, as i have remarked before, dr. sommer does not chronicle), and malory's _lancelot_ and _queste_ sections all stand together as representing a much fuller and more accurate text than that of the prose _lancelot_ , or the _queste_ mss. consulted by dr. furnivall for his edition of that romance. whether we have not here an important part of the _un_shortened pseudo-borron-_lancelot_ into which the map _queste_ has been introduced is a matter for careful investigation. the point to which at the present moment i would draw attention is, that the dutch _lancelot_ incorporates a very considerable section of a _perceval_ romance, which bears a very close resemblance to chrétien's poem, with this curious difference, that it gives an account of the achieving of the adventures named by the grail messenger, which, so far as i know, is found nowhere else. this section, which occupies over two thousand lines, demands a special study, but for us its significance lies in this that it seems to point to the conclusion that in the evolution of a _lancelot-perceval_ cycle (the existence of which i think we may hold for proven) the compilers allowed themselves considerable latitude in the _queste_ section. there were several perceval _questes_ to select from, and they took which they preferred, even pressing the original, manifestly independent, _perceval_ romances into their service. i suspect that this variation in the perceval _queste_ helped towards its suppression in favour of the galahad variant, which had the advantage of existing only in one form, though the cause mainly operating was an entirely different one.[ ] so far then we have traced the evolution of the _lancelot_ story, and found that at one period of its development, and that an advanced period, it was connected with a grail story, which regarded perceval as its hero and knew nothing of lancelot's son, galahad. how then did the latter appear upon the scene, and in what light are we to regard the romances dealing with him? i have studied the galahad _queste_ closely, and have compared versions gathered from widely different sources, french originals, and translations, and i am distinctly of the opinion that we possess the romance practically in its original form. it is a homogeneous composition, it is not a compilation from different sources and by different hands. there is no trace of an earlier and later redaction, save only in the directly edifying passages, which in some cases appear to have undergone amplification. the difference between the versions is not that of incident or sequence, scarcely even of detail, but rather of the superior clearness and coherence with which the incidents are related in some of the versions as compared with others. i am strongly inclined to think that there is no peculiarity in any of the _queste_ mss. which cannot quite well be ascribed to the greater or less accuracy of the copyist, or his greater or less taste for discourses of edification. nor is the _queste_ by the same hand as was responsible for the final moulding of the _lancelot_ story; though so closely connected with, indeed dependent upon, that story, it yet in many points stands in flagrant contradiction with it, and there is little doubt that the _lancelot_ would gain greatly in coherence if the _queste_ were omitted, and the passages preparatory to it eliminated from the original romance. these remarks apply also to the _grand s. graal_ in its present form, though, as we shall see, this last named romance does not stand on precisely the same footing as the _queste_ with which it is now closely connected. the following facts seem to stand out clearly. both these grail romances, the _queste_ especially, depend _entirely_ for their interest on lancelot. they are the glorification of his race as that from which the grail winner is predestined to spring. the genealogies, however they may vary (as they do in the different versions), are all devoted to this object. they are most closely connected with, and practically presuppose each other; yet admitting, as i think we must admit, that they do not represent the original form of the grail story, they do not produce the impression of romances which have been worked over with the view of substituting a new hero for the one in whose honour the tale was originally constructed. nevertheless in the case of the _grand s. graal_ we must, i think, admit imitation; even as in the original borron cycle the _joseph of arimathea_ was designed as an introduction to the life and deeds of the grail winner, perceval, so in this, the latest form of the cycle, the introduction to the _queste_ is built upon and expanded from the _joseph_. the introduction is based upon and follows the lines of the old introduction, but the _queste_ is a new _queste_. let us be quite clear on this point. galahad may have in a measure supplanted perceval, but he has neither dispossessed nor robbed him. he has taken over no one of his characteristics, no one of his feats. such traces of the perceval story as remain are found in connection with perceval himself; he, too, achieves the grail _queste_. he has undergone a change, and a change for the worse, but that was quite as much due to the evolution of the grail as a christian talisman as to the invention of galahad. the hero of the didot _perceval_ and _perceval li gallois_ is as inferior to the hero of chrétien and wolfram as is the perceval of the galahad _queste_. the truth is that perceval is still the grail hero, but he shares that character with another whose invention is due to special and easily discernible causes.[ ] the point of view of the writer of the _queste_ is not that of the compilers of the _lancelot_. as i remarked in the previous chapter, the view taken by the _lancelot_ of the relations between the hero and the queen is frankly unmoral. neither is blamed for his or her action, neither is apparently conscious of wrong-doing. in the _queste_ lancelot's conscience is sorely vexed, and his sin insisted upon. the compilers of the _lancelot_ have a very courtly respect for women--the author of the _queste_ despises them utterly. the interest of the _lancelot_ lies in the relation between the sexes--the respective duties of knight and lady--the theme which inspires the _queste_ is their abiding separation. again, compare the treatment of the various characters of the story in the two respective sections. next to galahad and perceval, the hero of the _queste_ is bohort (bors). but for a single youthful lapse he yields in nothing to those doughty champions of celibacy: his purity, alike of body and soul, is emphatically insisted upon; his confession fills the priest who receives it with a fervour of admiration; yet it is precisely this saintly youth who, in the section preceding and following the _queste_ (the _lancelot_ and the _mort artur_), is the confidant and go-between of lancelot and guinevere. it is bohort who seeks lancelot at the secret bidding of the queen, bohort who carries love-tokens between them, who arranges meetings. it is he and lionel who consult the queen as to the delicate question of lancelot's future relations with the lady who has cured him from the illness caused by drinking the poisoned spring; he who is the confidant of guinevere's indignation at the supposed love-affair between lancelot and the maiden of escarloet; and if he tries to prevent the last fatal meeting between them it is with no view of hindering a wrong to his lord arthur, but solely because he has reason to suspect the trap laid for the lovers. the two presentments not simply fail to agree, but stand in flat contradiction with each other. lionel, again, is throughout the _lancelot_ a valiant knight, warmly attached alike to his brother and to his cousin. like bohort he takes lancelot's part on every occasion, with him he quits the court when the queen, in an access of jealousy, banishes lancelot. when he is finally slain both bohort and lancelot are overcome with grief. but the _queste_ paints him in the most repulsive colours: violent, brutal, and unreasoning to a degree. he is so indignant with his brother for going to the rescue of a maiden rather than of himself (when both are equally in danger) that he does his best to kill him in revenge. he does kill an unoffending hermit, and a fellow knight of the round table who would intervene, and finally it needs a special interposition of providence to part the two brothers before a fatal issue to the conflict forced on by lionel has taken place. hector, lancelot's half-brother, who in the later _lancelot_ story is one of the bravest and most distinguished knights of the court, is in the _queste_ held up to scorn and rebuke; while the author of this romance has no colours too black in which to paint the character of gawain, who, though deposed from his position of chief hero, is, throughout the _lancelot_ proper, treated with the greatest respect. he is entirely loved and trusted by king and queen, and if his valour is in the long-run surpassed by that of lancelot, the compiler is careful to preserve his honour intact by pointing out, first, that he never recovered from the severe wounds received in the war with galehault, second, that he was over twenty years lancelot's senior. the final conflict between them, the most deadly in which lancelot was ever engaged, was fought when gawain was seventy-two and arthur ninety-two years of age; further, as we shall see presently, in some versions the conclusion is more of the character of a drawn battle than of a defeat for gawain.[ ] it is, i think, quite clear that the galahad-grail romances are the work of another hand than that responsible for the main body of the _lancelot_ cycle; and the work of one who was at small pains to harmonise his story with the branches already existing. it is indeed doubtful whether the writer had any thorough acquaintance with the legend as a whole. it is noteworthy that the points of contact with what we may perhaps call the 'secular' section are all restricted to the _later_ part of the story, that commencing with what m. paulin paris called the _agravain_ section. between the _grand s. graal_, the galahad _queste_, and the later part of the _lancelot_ there are a number of what we may call cross-references, the precise value of which will be very difficult to determine. but they do not stray outside a certain limit--they are restricted to lancelot, the knight of the round table, the queen's lover, and father of the grail winner--they do not appear to know lancelot the _protégé_ of the lady of the lake. in this character the grail romances ignore him, nor do they appear to know anything of his most famous adventure, the freeing of guinevere from meleagant.[ ] it is the later and not the earlier _lancelot_ story which is known to the writer of the _queste_; and the more we study the romance the plainer this becomes. the _lancelot_ romance may really be divided into two great divisions, the _enfances_, _charrette_, and _galehault_ section, which is practically unaffected by the _grail_ tradition, though it shows evident signs of contact with the _perceval_ story; and the latter portion which (saving the _mort artur_, unaffected except by the addition of the concluding _queste_ paragraph, easily removed) has been redacted under the influence of the galahad-grail accretion. till the versions concerned have been critically examined we cannot determine the value or gauge the evidence of the matter common to the _lancelot_, _grand s. graal_, and _queste_. the most noticeable instances are the following: the keeping of the grail at castle corbenic, the founding of which is related in the _grand s. graal_; the characters of king pelles and his father, with regard to whom the evidence varies,--as a rule, the character of the fisher king appears to be confined to the former, that of the maimed king to the latter (the author of the _queste_ appears to have no idea that the two characters are one and the same);--the daughter of king pelles, and his son eliezer. this latter is, i think, peculiar to the lancelot-galahad story, the perceval versions do not know him. the adventure of the broken sword borne by eliezer, told both in _lancelot_ and _grand s. graal_, and achieved, though without satisfactory explanation, in _queste_.[ ] the boiling fountain and bleeding tomb adventures, also told in the two first, partly achieved in the _lancelot_, and achievement summarily announced in _queste_. the perilous cemetery, origin stated in _grand s. graal_, vainly attempted by gawain and hector in _lancelot_, final achievement barely recorded in _queste_. in these last instances the story may well have been in the _lancelot_, and taken over by the compiler of _grand s. graal_; the _queste_ makes very little of them; they only serve to keep up the connection between the 'secular' and 'religious' sections. with regard to the corbenic-grail adventures, i am inclined, as i said before, to look upon them as due to the influence of the gawain story, and as already existing, in a purely adventurous form, in the _lancelot_, before it was formally united to the grail quest. on the whole, i decidedly lean to the opinion that _grand s. graal_ and _queste_ are by one and the same hand--the one based upon and expanded from an older poem, the other a practically new invention, the two being designed to replace the _joseph of arimathea_ and _perceval_ of the earlier grail cycle. as i said above, the author was very little concerned about the harmony of his work. so long as by a superficial rearrangement and interpolation of incidental adventures he could produce an appearance of harmony, he cared nothing at all about the more important questions of continuity of treatment, and preservation of tone and character. the result is that his work, which stands practically as he left it, is in flagrant contradiction with the story it is designed to complete. but what was the motive which led to the setting aside of the earlier perceval _queste_, and what the causes which determined the particular form assumed by its successor? i do not think they are difficult to detect. during the later years of the twelfth and earlier years of the thirteenth century we see two stories in process of gradual evolution--the perceval-grail story and the lancelot legend. one early took a decidedly mystical and ecclesiastical bent, the other became more and more worldly and secular. the two appear to have had an equal hold on popular imagination, they early came into touch with each other, but they never really blended. the _lancelot_, as the younger, borrowed at the outset certain features from the _perceval_, but it retained its own distinctive character; while the elder story slowly changed, the grail, at first a subordinate element in the story, gradually but surely dominating the tale, which became more and more ecclesiastical, while the hero became more and more conventional.[ ] but at a certain point it became evident that these lines of tradition could no longer remain parallel, they must coalesce, or the one must yield to the other. the grail quest had become the most popular adventure of arthur's court, one after another the knights were being drawn into the mystic circle; how could the most popular and most valiant of the knights of the round table, for this lancelot had now become, remain outside the chosen group? it was plain that lancelot must take part in the grail quest; it was equally plain that the first knight of the court could not be allowed to come out of the ordeal with any detriment to his prestige; yet the grail demanded purity of life, and lancelot was the queen's lover. more, the queen's lover he must remain or forfeit his hold on popular sympathy. how was it possible to preserve intact at once lancelot's superiority and the purity of the christian talisman? only in one way: by giving him a son who should achieve the quest and then vanish, leaving lancelot still _facile princeps_ among the knights of the round table, with the added glory of having been the father of the grail winner. but this son could not be the child of guinevere. the offspring of a guilty _liaison_ could not be the winner of the sacrosanct talisman; yet lancelot must be faithful to his queen--how solve this problem? the story in its primitive form gave the hint for the required development. who more fitted to become the mother of the grail winner than the fair maiden who filled the office of grail-bearer?[ ] the obvious propriety of such a relationship was bound sooner or later to strike the imagination of some redactor. the arthurian story already possessed the machinery by which lancelot could become father of the elect child, while remaining guinevere's lover; brisane had but to do for elaine what merlin did for uther, and the difficulty was overcome. moreover, _helaine_ was, in the old story, the name of the grail winner's father, nothing more easy than to bestow the same name on the new hero's mother. all this was only a question of clever adjustment of already existing factors. perceval, of course, was in possession, but the later development of his story, which had converted him from a genuine, faulty, but loving and lovable human being, true man and faithful husband, into an aggressively proselytising and persecuting celibate, had made it possible for him still to retain a place in the romance; he could act as second to galahad, and, like him, disappear, the quest once achieved. but having thus disposed in lancelot's interest of the two who might have seriously challenged his fame as a knight, perceval, the real, galahad, the vicarious (for i think we can only regard him as his father's representative), achiever of the quest, it became necessary to add a third, who should bring back to court the tidings of their success. it is quite obvious, from the point of view of the _lancelot_ story, that perceval and galahad _could not_ be permitted to return. the third was easily found in the person of lancelot's nearest relative, the knight who, his shield unstained by the bar-sinister which marked that of hector, had been gradually rising in popular favour; bohort owes his position in the _queste_ to his position in the _lancelot_ proper. the evolution of this character has not, i believe, attracted much attention hitherto, but it is one of the most remarkable features of the _lancelot_ story. in the earliest versions, represented by the _lanzelet_, etc., he is not known at all.[ ] when he first appears he plays but a small part, gradually his rôle becomes more and more prominent, till in the later portion of the prose _lancelot_ he has become a very efficient understudy to the hero, even surpassing in valour gawain himself. thus, on the return of the knights from one of their numerous quests in search of lancelot, when they are called upon to rehearse their adventures, in order that a record of them may be made, it is decided that their rank, in order of merit, is bohort, gawain, hector, gaheriet, lionel, and baudemagus. gawain and his brother, the representatives of the older stratum of arthurian tradition, are the only two who can compete with the all-conquering race of ban, and the bosom friend of that race, baudemagus. finally he is represented as the father of a son who bids fair to rival his ancestors in valour. when a critical study of the lancelot mss. is seriously undertaken, i think we shall find that the position occupied by bohort in the story will afford a valuable indication of the relative age of the redaction. i am quite prepared to find that among the objections which will doubtless be advanced against the theory here advocated one will be that it is too complete in detail, too 'cut and dried,' if i may use the term, to be free from suspicion. to this i would answer that i believe in examining the later stages of arthurian romance we must follow a somewhat different process from that which we employ for the earlier. the arthurian poems, being in a large measure independent, and never having formed part of a 'cyclic' whole, may well be studied separately, in, and for, themselves, though of course we would not leave out of sight variants of the same story. but the later prose romances, those which have avowedly formed parts of a cycle, must be studied, not separately, but in conjunction with the other romances with which they were connected. they are in the position of the parts of a dissected puzzle, the study of one part by itself will never really help us to understand the whole, it is only by studying collective sections, and trying continually new combinations, that we can hope to find the original disposition of the parts. it is no use to study the _queste_ romance by itself. if we wish to know how it stands with regard to the _lancelot_, we must study it _with_ the _lancelot_, and if we do this certain points become absolutely clear. the _queste_ pre-supposes a very advanced stage of the _lancelot_ story; one at which the family of the hero, quite as much as the hero himself, is the subject of glorification.[ ] the galahad _queste_ is absolutely unthinkable without a previous knowledge of the _lancelot_ romances; as a matter of fact, it stands in closer relation to these than it does to any earlier grail quest. the _lancelot_ romances, on the contrary, would be quite complete and far more coherent without the _queste_. i have commented already on the striking discrepancies between the sections, but i have not so far dwelt at any length on the extraordinary lack of grail references in the _mort artur_, the section immediately following the _queste_. if we set on one side the introductory passage, which i have no shadow of doubt does not belong to the _mort artur_ at all, but is the concluding passage of the _queste_, there is no evidence of the influence of the latter throughout the whole of this last section of the cycle. galahad is never mentioned; he was--and is not--as completely as if he had never been. lancelot never thinks of, never refers to, his valiant son; his whole thought and care is for the queen, whom we were previously told he had renounced. i do not think it possible for any one to read the _mort artur_ and believe that the _queste_ forms an integral part of the _lancelot_ story. on the other hand, cut out the _queste_, suppress the few passages in the immediately preceding section of the _lancelot_ story which relate to it, and you have a tale as complete and coherent as is possible for any legend which has been the fruit of long growth and evolution, and has not possessed from the outset a clear and definite purpose and outline. admit, as i think we must needs admit, that the _lancelot_ and the _grail_ stories form two independent streams of tradition; recognise, as we must recognise, their diverse character,--one strongly secular, the other strongly ecclesiastical,--and i think we must own that if in their completed form they were to coalesce, that coalition could only be carried out under the conditions suggested above, which conditions we find fulfilled in the galahad _queste_. for me this romance is the last word of the _lancelot_ evolution, the final blending of two separate and important streams of tradition, the _grant conte_ of lancelot and the _grant conte_ of perceval and the grail, the which is _chiés et fin de tous les contes_. chapter ix the dutch lancelot in the previous chapters we have examined, so far as the material at our disposal permitted, the _lancelot_ legend in its gradual evolution from a collection of scattered tales, or _lais_, to the vast body of cyclic romance which was its final form. in this task we have restricted ourselves to those features which more intimately concern the personal character and fortunes of our hero; a choice which leaves untouched a large section of his adventures, such as his friendship with galehault, and his winning of the _dolorous garde_. these are features which, affecting no romance or chronicle outside the _lancelot_ proper, cannot well be examined till more versions of this latter are available. in this, the concluding section of these studies, i propose, leaving the question of the nature and origin of the legend, to discuss the relation subsisting between those different versions of the text, on an examination of which i have based the three preceding chapters dealing with the prose _lancelot_. the texts in question are ( ) the so-called dutch _lancelot_; ( ) the printed edition of (lenoire, paris); ( ) dr. sommer's summary of the prose _lancelot_, based upon the printed edition of , and compared by him with malory's text; ( ) dr. furnivall's edition of the _queste_; and ( ) malory's _morte arthur_.[ ] this gives us practically four different texts for each section (dr. sommer having also used the _queste_), two of which, the dutch _lancelot_ and the edition, appear to me to be of far greater importance than has hitherto been suspected. i propose to publish in an appendix a detailed summary of the contents of the distinctively _lancelot_ portion of the =d. l.=, but the compilation covers such an extent of ground, and contains texts of such value to the student of arthurian literature, that i think it will not be superfluous to give here a brief outline of its general character. a noticeable peculiarity of the version is, that, contrary to all other known versions of the _lancelot-galahad-grail_ story, it is in verse and not in prose. the ms. containing it appears to be of the beginning of the fourteenth century;[ ] but dr. jonckbloet gives reason to think that the version contained in it was decidedly older than this date, and there are certainly references to the _lancelot_ story in much earlier dutch mss. probably it is a compilation similar to that of sir thomas malory, intended to combine the various romances of the arthurian cycle with which the compiler was familiar, or of which mss. were at his disposal. in the first instance it was a translation, and i think we must hold a very faithful translation, from the french. even as we have it we shall find that it agrees closely with parallel french versions. in its original form it consisted of four books, the first of which has unfortunately been lost. book ii. begins with what m. paulin paris called the _agravain_ section of the prose _lancelot_, _i.e._ the _enfances_, _galehault_, and _charrette_ portions are not included.[ ] the first , lines follow the course of the _lancelot_; at line , it takes up the _perceval_ at the point of the arrival of the grail messenger, and for about two thousand lines goes on to give an account of the achieving of the adventures mentioned by her. in some points the compiler agrees closely with chrétien and seems to have followed his version, in others he departs entirely from any known version of the _perceval_. sometimes his names agree rather with wolfram than with chrétien; _e.g._ the lady is orgeloise simply, not l'orguelleuse de logres; and gawain's challenger is ginganbrisil, a form which professor yorke powell pointed out some years ago as the probable source of wolfram's kingrimursel. l. , , we have a visit of gawain to the grail castle, agreeing closely with that found in the montpelier _perceval_, and also, dr. jonckbloet informs us, with that contained in a german version of the _perceval_ preserved at rome (cf. jonckbloet, vol. i. p. xxiv.), adventures of gariette and griflette, and the fight between gawain and ginganbrisil, which ends in the victory of the former, and the king of scavalon becoming arthur's 'man.' this again is not recounted elsewhere.[ ] ll. , - , contain the romance of _morien_, son of agloval, the hero of which bears a curious resemblance to wolfram's feirefis. in this romance occurs the episode of lancelot's conflict with a monster, which i have examined in chap. iii. this concludes book ii. book iii. opens with the _queste_, the text of which i shall examine in detail further on; it extends to over , ll. the remainder of the book is occupied by a group of important episodic romances, some of which are found nowhere else. they are as follows: , . _la vengeance de raguidel._[ ] , . an adventure of lancelot, bohort, and dodinel, when the latter rescues a maiden tied up in a tree. , . _le chevalier à la manche_ (van den riddere metter mouwen). , . _gauvain et kei_ (hoe keye waleweine verriet). , . _lancelot et le cerf au pied blanc_ (van der jonc frouwen metten hondekine). , - , . _torec._[ ] book iv. _mort artur_, , ll. the united three books thus comprising a total of over , lines. it will be seen from the above brief summary that the =d. l.= presents many features of great interest for the student of the arthurian story, but so far, with the exception of the studies published by m. gaston paris, to which i have just referred, it does not appear to have attracted much attention from scholars. it is especially to be regretted that dr. sommer did not use it for the purpose of his 'malory' collation; had he done so, he would certainly have come, on many points, to a very different conclusion from that at which he ultimately arrived. in the following comparison i shall confine my remarks chiefly to such decided variants as cannot possibly be ascribed to the mistakes or emendations of copyists; nor shall i include those minor verbal differences which, however important for a critical edition of the text, do not in themselves definitely prove a divergence of sources. the point i desire to prove is that the versions =d. l.= and = = represent a text radically different from that consulted by dr. sommer; and that, in conjunction with malory, they may be held to represent a family of mss. hitherto unregarded, or unsuspected. as readers of malory are aware, he gives no account of the birth or early adventures of lancelot; the section dealing with that hero begins with book vi., and takes up his adventures at a point well advanced in what, following m. paulin paris, i have called the _agravain_ section (l. , in =d. l.=). that malory had before him any version of the earlier section of the _lancelot_ i very much doubt. it must be apparent to any careful reader that, in his view, the lady of the lake is connected rather with arthur than with lancelot; whenever she intervenes in the story it is to aid the former, rather than the latter. i incline to the belief that malory's ms. only began at an advanced point of the story, and that he knew little, or nothing, of what had preceded it. at the commencement of the terriquen (=d. l.= gives the name as tarquijn) adventure, =d. l.=, = =, and =m.= all represent lancelot and lionel as sleeping under the shadow of a '_pomier_' instead of a _perron_ as in =s.=[ ] when hector comes to the fountain he finds =d. l.= lx. shields and helmets, and xl. swords (the first letters have evidently been transposed and should read xl.). = .= forty-five helmets, forty-five swords, and 'more than' forty-five shields. =s.= forty swords, forty-five shields, and five spears: helmets are not mentioned. here =s.= appears to have a confused version of the two preceding accounts. in the account of the queens who carry off lancelot =d. l.= and = = agree with =s.= in naming the ladies (the queen in =d. l.= is of foreestan, _not_ sorestan); otherwise the accounts seem to vary. =d. l.= and = = do not say, as does =s.=, that the first-named is on her way to norgales through 'sorelois,' but that her land 'borders on' these kingdoms. it is not the _three_ but only the two last-named, morgain le fay and sibile (cybele) l'enchanteresse, who are learned in enchantments; and neither =d. l.= nor = = give any indication of their being the 'queen's ladies' as =s.= represents; they are simply travelling with her.[ ] the lands of the heiress of rochedon were not seized by the _king_ of sorestan, as =s.= states, but by the _queen_ who had been left her guardian (=d. l.= and = =). this is much more in accordance with the rest of the story. otherwise these three versions agree against =m.= later on both =d. l.= and = = agree in speaking of galehodyn as the _neveu_, not the _filz_ of gallehault, as in =s.= they are of course right. in the account of the tournament there are a number of small variants. judging from =s.=, who gives a very condensed summary, =d. l.= and = = are again more correct in details. on p. of =s.= the summary departs widely from =d. l.= and = =. thus, according to =s.=, lancelot, seeking for hector and lionel, has met with bohort, yvain, and four other knights at the 'chastel du trespas.' lancelot proposes that each of the _six_ knights (_sic_) (there were of course seven) shall each ride forth separately and return to the castle 'a la feste de toussainz.' in =d. l.= and = = lancelot has started _accompanied_ by bohort, baudemagus, and gaheret. _en route_ they meet mordred, naked, and being thrashed with thorns by 'mathoeus die felle' (marchant li felon), rescue him, and ride to chastel du trespas, where yvain is imprisoned, whom they also free. it is yvain, not lancelot, who suggests the separation and quest. again, in the fight between lancelot and 'terriquen,' both =d. l.= and = = agree against =s.= and =m.= in failing to mention gaheret's (they have the correct spelling) horse, and saying that lancelot rides off on his own. whereas, later on, =s.= and = = agree in giving 'three varlets and three sommiers' and =d. l.= and =m.= agree in a 'foster' with four horses. in the question of the final disposal of the castle =d. l.= and = = again fall into line against =s.= the latter says that the knights exchange terriquen's castle for horses, though not very good ones. i suspect this of being a hasty summary which does not represent the text; =d. l.= and = = are so much more detailed. =d. l.= says that 'die grave van den _pale_ (later on _parke_, which is i think the correct reading) is rejoiced at the event as his '_neve_' was one of the prisoners. he gives all arthur's knights very good horses. that he receives the castle is not told, though he afterwards appears as the owner. = = says that 'keux[ ] du parc' has a 'brother' prisoner: delighted at his safety he gives them all horses, very good to arthur's knights, not so good to the others. out of gratitude they offer him the castle. if =s.= correctly represents the text of , it is clear, i think, that = = gives the original reading, which has been condensed, but rightly understood, by =d. l.=, and confused in =s.= in the account of the adventures at the castle =d. l.=, agreeing in the main with =s.= and = =, as against =m.=, yet in one point falls into line with this latter against the other two. both =s.= and = = agree in saying that lancelot ties his horse to a _tree_, =m.= says 'to a ringe on the walle'; in =d. l.= he ties his horse, when he comes to the '_meester torre, vor die porte al te hant_,' which seems to imply =m.='s 'ringe.'[ ] i now come to a most extraordinary oversight on the part of dr. sommer. on p. and again on p. of his _sources of malory_ he commits himself to the statement that =m.= is the only known source for certain adventures of lancelot, his rescue of kay, his riding off in kay's armour, etc., and proceeds from this supposed peculiarity to postulate a lost '_suite de lancelot_,' of which this is a precious fragment. now, not only are these adventures recorded both in =d. l.= and = =, but they are found in the summary given by m. paulin paris on p. of vol. v. of the _romans de la table ronde_.[ ] the adventure with kay does not, in the original, occur at this point, but follows after lancelot's long imprisonment by morgain; his freeing lionel from the dungeon of the king of estrangeloet; winning the hill guarded by bohort; and discovering the tomb of his grandfather;--a sequence of incident in which =d. l.= and = = agree perfectly. of the following adventures contained in book vi. =s.= consequently gives no summary. throughout =m.= very closely agrees with =d. l.= and = =, but he omits to state, as do both these versions, that lancelot's arraying himself in kay's armour was due to the dim light of early morning. he believed himself to be donning his own, and was unaware of the error till his host detected it, when he refused to change, foreseeing the amusing complications which would result. this, having no bearing on the story, which is concerned with the _fact_, not with the motive, was probably omitted by =m.= another slight variation in =m.='s version is that he gives three knights and three pavilions, whereas the other two agree in giving two knights and four pavilions. nor are the knights named as in =m.=, but this is most probably due to the english writer, who hardly ever fails to name his characters. the four knights of the round table are the same in all three cases, and =m.= and =d. l.= agree in the order, while = = makes yvain the last to joust. the two first are probably correct, as gawain, being the most noted of the four, would probably be the last to try his fate. both =d. l.= and = = agree in a feature omitted by =m.=, that mordred was originally in the company of these four, but being severely wounded on a previous occasion cannot joust (=d. l.=); has been left at a castle that morning (= =). =m.= also omits to say that segramore reveals their names to lancelot, who, overcome with grief at having so ill-treated his friends, throws away his shield, and rides off weeping. this causes the four knights to suspect his identity, and they take the shield and carry it with them to court. i suspect that this was in =m.='s original, as he makes gawain say 'whan we come to the courte than (s)hal we wete,' which is the reason they give in the other versions for taking the shield; accordingly, they hang it on a pillar in the middle of the hall until it is recognised. immediately after this adventure =d. l.= and = = record one of which =m.= gives no hint, but which is important in view of a remark made by dr. sommer on p. of his study. lancelot, having overthrown these four knights, comes to two pavilions, in one of which is the lady who cured him from his illness at the poisoned spring;[ ] as they talk a party of knights and ladies ride up, with them a fair child three years old (=d. l.=); two years old (= =). this is bohort's son, hélie le blank, whom lancelot is delighted to see. now, dr. sommer tells us that, saving in the record of this infant's birth, the allusion to it in the _queste_, and the mention of hélie being at arthur's court when lancelot, hector, and perceval return from l'Île de joie, there is no mention of him in the prose _lancelot_. it seems clear that a large section of the _agravain_ must have been omitted in the versions consulted by dr. sommer. of the three subsequent adventures in book vi., the final one, that of the knight who smites off his lady's head, and is compelled by lancelot to do penance for his crime by carrying the dead body from one court to another, is also in our two versions, but occurs at an earlier point in the story. in both he is to go first to arthur's court, then to that of baudemagus, and lastly to the king of norgales. if all spare his life he may live. =m.= departs from this by only directing him in the first instance to go to arthur's court: it is guinevere who sends him on to the pope. the variant is probably malory's own. the other two adventures are not in either =d. l.= or = =. the perilous chapel, i suspect, was taken over from a perceval section. meliot de logres, and the fetching of a piece of cloth from the chapel of a 'perilous cemetery' are both in _perceval li gallois_ though not connected with each other. it is noticeable that =m.= never refers to the 'perilous cemetery' of the _lancelot_ proper, that of the upright swords, but drops out the reference to galahad's achieving of it, which must certainly have been in his copy of the _queste_. i think there may have been two perilous cemeteries, one of the borron _lancelot-perceval_, the other of the map _lancelot-galahad_ cycles, and that this is the first and older. the adventure of the lady and the hawk in chap. xvi. i have not been able to trace. the events of =m.=, book vii., are not recorded in either =d. l.= or = =, with this possible exception, that when the knights return to court after the adventures recorded above, and are called upon for an account of their doings, gawain relates how he fought with gariette, _not knowing that he was his brother_; which looks as if the story (not related in detail) might represent a version of the similar encounter in book vii. it seems clear that, full as is the account given in both these versions, the compilers still knew a great deal more than they included.[ ] books viii., ix., and x. of =m.= follow the prose _tristan_, and not till book xi. do we return to the _lancelot_. this book opens with the adventures at corbenic (=d. l.=, cambenoyc, cambenoyt, or cabenoyt). =d. l.= fails to mention that the lady of the bath is naked, and consistently calls the serpent of the tomb a serpent, never a dragon, in this differing from the other versions. = =, at this point, after relating the achievement of their adventures, has a curious remark: '_ainsi prend fin le premier volume des vertus et glorieulx fais et gestes du noble et puissant chevalier lancelot du lac et des compaignons de la table ronde_,' and then continues, without any break of chapter, to relate the succeeding adventure with the grail and king pelles' daughter. so far from this passage occurring at the end of vol. i., the _agravain_ section does not begin till fol. xxxix. of the second volume of this edition. it is possible that when a critical edition of the _lancelot_ is prepared the above remark may be a guide to an earlier redaction, in which lancelot was not the father of the grail winner. =d. l.= has nothing corresponding to this. in the account given by =d. l.= of bohort's visit to corbenic, the fight with the knight who keeps the bridge for love of elaine is omitted, but it was evidently in the source, as later on the knight arrives at court as vanquished, and his name is then given as _brimol van pleiche_, thus agreeing with =m.=, _bromel la pleche_, against the _brunet du plaissis_ or _plessis_ of = = and =s.= = = records the combat. on page of the _studies_ we read that dr. sommer's source contained no passage to the effect of =m.=, p. , - : 'mervelle not said sir bors / for this half yere he (lancelot) hath ben in pryson with morgan le fay, kyng arthurs syster /.' but = = gives it: 'il a este en la prison ou il y a une dame plus dung an entier,' which is nearer the real duration of lancelot's imprisonment. this seems to indicate that =m.= had a fairly full ms. source, from which he selected at pleasure. dr. sommer gives no summary of bohort's grail adventures, so i cannot tell if there be any interesting variants between the french versions, but both = = and =d. l.= contain two features, not reproduced in =m.=, which seem to indicate a knowledge of an older grail tradition. in both the old man tells bohort that he has seen '_la lance vengeresse_' the '_wrake spere_,' he who sits in the siege perilous shall know the truth of adventure.'[ ] (this, of course, might be perceval equally as well as galahad.) galahad and lancelot are not mentioned throughout.[ ] the maimed king and the fisher king are one and the same person. all these points confirm my suspicion that the corbenic adventure was originally taken over from an earlier, probably a gawain, _queste_. in the events relating elayne's visit to the court and lancelot's madness, = = and =d. l.= in the main agree with =s.=, but with small variants. in both elayne leaves the court of her own free will, but arthur does not escort her; she speaks to bohort before leaving. the knight encountered by bohort is alone in =d. l.=, thus agreeing with =m.=; while in = = he does not meet him till after he has rejoined lionel and hector. the knights who go in search of lancelot are in =d. l.= thirty-two in number, and as later on we are told that twenty-five have returned, this does not seem to be a mistake for twenty-three, as we might otherwise think. = = does not give the original number as thirty-two, but agrees with =d. l.= as to those who return, which confirms this supposition. in all that relates to perceval and his first appearance at court, =d. l.= and = = agree on the whole with =s.= rather than with =m.=, but neither of them give any names of perceval's brothers (save agloval, who fetches him from his home), nor say how many there were. lamorak is never mentioned (i believe this character belongs to quite a late redaction). in this and in the reference to gawain's having slain perceval's father, i think we have the influence of the _tristan_. in the account of perceval's being driven from court by the mockery of kay and mordred, =d. l.= has a remark which again shows the influence of an earlier tradition: perceval is described as '_eene harde jonge creature, ende die wel simpel sceen te dien_.' nowhere else is there any sign of the simplicity which is a primitive trait of perceval's character. later on, after the 'patrides' adventure (which appears to be differently related from =s.= as it is from =m.=, patrides and the lady having fled together, been overtaken, and imprisoned), both = = and =d. l.= agree in the words spoken by patrides (=d. l.=) or the king (= =), _i.e._ that kay and mordred have driven from court one who should be a better knight _than all save gawain_. '_ghi hebt entrouwen, dat secgic u, uter herbergen verdreven nu den besten ridder dier in was sonder walewein sijt seker das._'--ll. - . (= = says 'when he is grown to manhood' he shall be as good, etc.) this certainly points to an earlier stage of tradition, when perceval and gawain are the leading knights and lancelot subordinate to both. in view of what we now know, i think it is not an unreasonable hypothesis that these two versions, which agree so closely, represent an earlier pseudo-borron _lancelot-perceval_ redaction, which has been worked over in the interest of the later pseudo-map _galahad_ version.[ ] book xii. =m.= gives the account of lancelot's frenzy and subsequent cure. here =d. l.= agrees with =m.= in saying that lancelot strikes the shield as if x. knights did it, whereas both =s.= and = = give xii. later on =d. l.= is alone against the other three in saying that lancelot has only his ankles fettered, whereas the other three versions give ankles and wrists. nevertheless here i think =d. l.= is right, as when lancelot rushes after the boar both =s.= and = = agree in saying that he breaks the rings on his ankles, and make no mention of those on the wrist. again =d. l.= makes no mention of hunters, the horse lancelot takes he finds tied at the castle gate. as later on, when he comes up with the quarry no hunters are mentioned in any version, i think it probable that they were not in the original, but introduced later by some copyist to account for the boar. at this point =d. l.= departs abruptly from the other versions, taking up the perceval story. it is impossible to say whether this be due to a _lacuna_ in the source, which the compiler filled up as he pleased, or whether this really represents an important (and apparently lost) _lancelot_ redaction. in the remainder of the incidents represented by this book = = agrees on the whole with =s.=, with this important difference, that it makes it quite clear throughout that there is a period of some years involved. the reader quite understands all the details of galahad's arrival at the abbey, his age, etc. very probably the compiler of = = (dr. sommer's source) condensed here, as elsewhere, thus causing the confusion noted on p. of the _studies_. chapter x the queste versions we now reach a very important point in our investigation. the _lancelot_ section of malory is not only so much condensed, but also so fragmentary in character, and, apparently, so capricious in choice of incident that a critical comparison between the version there offered and other forms of the _lancelot_ story can never be productive of a completely satisfactory result. it is one of those cases in which we must be content with probability, and renounce the hope of arriving at certainty. we have evidence enough to enable us to form an hypothesis as to the _original_ character of the ms. used by malory; of its actual condition, whether complete or incomplete, and, if the former, of the reasons which determined the compiler in his choice of incident, we cannot yet speak positively. i doubt if we shall ever be able to do so. but with the _queste_ section it is different. as i remarked before, this part of the _lancelot_ cycle is far more homogeneous in structure than the sections preceding or following it: it is a romance within a romance, complete and rounded off in itself. malory appears to have felt this; he condenses still, it is true, but it is condensation, not omission; he follows the sequence of incident accurately, begins with the beginning, ends with the end, consequently we are in a far better position for comparing his version with that of the other texts, and can hope to arrive at a really satisfactory result. the first noticeable variant is in the passage 'for of a more worthyer mans hande may he not receive the order of knyghthode,' words spoken by the abbess to lancelot. these are not in =q.= but are in =d. l.=: '_ende ic soude gerne sien dathi van uwer hant ridder werde, wildi; bedie van beteren man, sonder waen, en mocht i ridderscap niet ontfaen._'--book iii. - . also in = =: 'car de plus preudhomme que de vous ne pourrait il recevoir l'ordre de chevalerie sicomme il nous est advis,' vol. iii. fo. . here then =m.=, =d. l.= and = = agree together against =q.= =w.= has 'for we think that a better than he could not receive that dignity,' thus referring the phrase to galahad--a probable misreading of the original french. in the account of the arming of galahad, omitted in =m.=, =q.= and =d. l.= agree in saying that _lancelot_ buckles on one spur, _bohort_ the other, whereas = = gives _lionel_ and _bohort_. this latter is, i think, the right version, otherwise lionel, though present, would have no share in the ceremony. =w.= also omits lionel, and makes bohort only bestow a kiss on the youth, lancelot buckling on the spur, in this case one only. in the adventure of the sword in the stone we again find =m.=, =d. l.= and = = in accord against =q.= all three relate that gawain attempts to draw the sword and fails. this must be correct, as =q.=, though not saying that he makes the attempt, represents arthur as telling him to _laissies ester_ the moment he touches the hilt, words which both =d. l.= and = = place in arthur's mouth after the attempt: '_nu laet staen gi hebet wel min bevelen gedaen._'--ll. - . this latter phrase is evidently represented by =m.=: 'i thanke yow (s)aid the kynge to (s)yre gawayne /' =w.= records gawain's (gwalchmei's) attempt, but not the king's speech. according to = = no other knight makes the attempt. =d. l.= records perceval's failure, and says that after that none would essay the venture. '_soe datmen vord daer niemanne vant, die daer an wilde doen die hant._'--ll. - . i suspect that =m.=, 'thenne were there _moo_ that dur(s)te be (s)oo hardy to (s)ette theire handes thereto /,' should be corrected by the substitution or insertion of a negative (_no_ before _moo_ or _none_), it would read more coherently. =w.= relates no attempt after perceval, but does not say definitely that no one essays the feat. the result here is clearly, =m.=, =d. l.=, = = against =q.=, with special agreement of =m.= and =d. l.=, = = and =w.=[ ] in the case of galahad's message to his relations at corbenic, every one of the versions gives a different rendering. =m.= my graunt sir kynge pelles / and my lord petchere / (a manifest error). =q.= mon oncle le roi pelles / mon aioul le riche pescheoure. =d. l.= min here den coninc pelles--enten coninc vischere min ouder vader. = .= mon oncle le roy pescheur--et mon aieul le roi pelles. the greeting is omitted in =w.= it is difficult to know what to make of such confusion, but of the four variants i prefer the last as possessing a certain _raison d'être_. the fisher king was certainly the uncle of the original grail winner, and king pelles is as certainly the grandfather of galahad. it looks to me as if the compiler of this version had made an effort to combine the perceval and galahad stories, though his version as it stands is in contradiction to his text.[ ] =d. l.= text should be noted as compared with the statement of the earlier section, that the maimed king and fisher king are one, and that the personage thus named is _not_ king pelles but his father. the manifest uncertainty of the galahad _queste_ as to the identity of this personage, and his relationship to the grail winner, as compared with the much clearer statements of the early perceval story appear to me a proof of the lateness of the former. as to which of the four versions given represents the real view of the author of the _queste_, i should not like to hazard an opinion--probably copyists altered according to their own particular view of the matter! after the appearance of the grail there is an interesting passage, omitted in =m.=, where gawain remarks that each has been served with whatever food or drink he desired, which had never happened before save in the court of the _roi mehaignet_ (=q.=); _roi perles_ (= =, which generally adopts this spelling), _coninc vischer_ (=d. l.=). here =q.= stops, but =d. l.= and = = continue gawain's speech, _nom-pourtant ils ne peuvent onques veoir le sainct vaisseau ainsi comme nous l'avons veu, ainsi leur a este la semblance couverte_ (vol. iii. fo. ). _maer si waren bedrogen in dien, dat sijt niet oppenbare mochten sien_ ( - ). nevertheless, since he has not seen it as clearly as he might, he will go in quest till it be wholly revealed to him. i think the above passage is the source of =m.= '/ one thynge begyled vs we myght not (s)ee the holy grayle / it was (s)oo precyou(s)ly couered /.' the compiler omits, as i said above, gawain's reference to the previous appearance, but adapts the latter part of his speech to the circumstances he is narrating. =w.= gives the passage practically in its entirety, but so freely rendered that we cannot use it for textual comparison. the king is called king peleur. here again i think we may postulate an agreement between =m.=, =d. l.=, = = and =w.= in a feature omitted by =q.=[ ] =d. l.= is alone against the other three in not giving the owner of the castle 'vagan' the same name as his castle, but simply says: 'nu was een goet man te vagan' (l. ), which i suspect is the right version. =w.=, on the contrary, does not name the castle, but says it belonged to _bagan_, 'a good and religious man.' in the account of the adventure with the shield, both =d. l.= and = = give galahad's remarks to his companions more fully than do =q.= or =m.=, though the general bearing of the passage is well represented in this latter. in both the first galahad tells his companions that if they fail in the adventure then he will attempt it; = =, 'et se vous ne le pouez emporter ie l'emporteray, aussi n'ay ie point d'escu'; they then offer to leave him the adventure, but he tells them they must essay it first. =d. l.=: '_elst nu dat gi falgiert daer an, ic sal daventure proven dan-- in' brachte genen scilt met mi._'--ll. - . with this =w.= agrees. here, again, =d. l.=, = =, and =w.= give a much clearer text than =q.=; and =m.=, though condensing, agrees closely in substance with the two first.[ ] in the adventure with melians de lile, =d. l.= and = = again all agree against =q.= in stating that he is son to the king of denmark (=w.= king of mars), thus motiving galahad's lecture on the duties of his high station. it was certainly in =q.='s original, as he says: '_puis ke vous estes--de si haute lignie comme de roy_,' though melians has not told him his parentage. =m.=, =d. l.=, = =, and =w.= are here superior to =q.= in avenging melians on the knight who has overthrown him, =m.= and =d. l.= agree in saying that galahad smites off the whole left _arm_, as against the '_poing_ senestre' of =q.= and = =. =w.= says he cuts off his _nose_! in the symbolic interpretation of melians' adventure, = = gives the fullest and clearest version. the right-hand road represents the way of our lord, wherein his knights 'cheminent de iour et de nuyt la nuyt selon l'arme et le iour selon le corps,' = = (vol. iii. fo. ), which is intelligible. =q.= exactly reverses this: 'entrent de jours selon l'arme, et de nuis selon le corps.' =m.= gives, 'for the way on the ry[gh]t hand betokeneth the hyghe way of our lord jhe(s)u cry(s)te / and the way of a true good lyver /'; =w.=, 'on that road go the souls of the innocent,' thus evading the difficulty. =d. l.= is here very confused, and does not seem to have understood the passage. in the adventure of the castle of maidens, =m.=, =d. l.=, and = = again agree in saying that galahad meets seven maidens, against one in =q.= =m.='s '/ soo moche peple in the stretes that he myghte not nombre them /' is evidently a rendering of = =: 'tant de gens que il estoit impossible de les scavoir nombrer.' =d. l.= has exactly the same phrase, but gives '_joncfrouwen_' instead of '_gens_,' thus for once agreeing with =q.=, which gives _puceles_, against the other two. =w.= here gives 'maidens,' but in the first instance has 'a youth.' a little later, = = and =d. l.= throw light upon an apparent contradiction between =m.= and =q.=, noted by dr. sommer.[ ] the old man of whom galahad inquires the meaning of the adventure is, as dr. sommer remarks, the same who has given him the keys; but =m.= says he asks a '_preest_.' both = = and =d. l.= agree in saying that galahad asks the old man who brought him the keys, when he comes to him the second time, if he be a priest, and is answered in the affirmative. again, the three agree in giving seven years as the time the customs have been established, against the two in =q.= =w.= here agrees in both points with = = and =d. l.= it is plain that we must reckon this entire adventure among the agreements of =m.=, =d. l.=, = =, and =w.=, though in one particular =d. l.= and =w.= agree with =q.= in the account of the fight of gawayne, gareth, and uwayne, with the seven brethren, both =d. l.= and = = give gariët (gaheriet) as the equivalent of gareth.[ ] when lancelot is sleeping before the grail chapel, = = clearly states that the servant of the knight who has been healed takes lancelot's sword and helmet, as well as his horse, whereas =q.= only mentions the horse; but says later that lancelot finds himself 'tot desgarnis de ses armes et de son cheval.' =d. l.= also only mentions the horse at the moment, but a little later on states that lancelot is 'sonder scilt ende helm ende part,' thus practically agreeing with = =. =m.= differs from both in saying that it is _sword_, helm, and horse of which the squire deprives him. =w.= here agrees with =m.= =m.= and =d. l.= agree in omitting the parallel between lancelot and the bad servant, in the parable of the talents, which is given by = = and =w.= but it is a noticeable feature of both =d. l.= and = = that though they give as a rule a fuller account than =m.=, both of them shorten very considerably the improving and 'sermonising' sections which are such a feature of =q.= on the other hand, both give the adventurous sections in a more accurate and detailed manner. perceval's interview with the recluse, in book xiv., is clearer in =d. l.= than in either of the french versions, and has some special features of interest.[ ] thus in =q.= perceval asks, who was the knight who overthrew him. he does not know 'ne se ch'est chil qui vint en armes vermeilles a court' (_when_ he does not say); the recluse answers, 'yes,' and she will tell him the 'senefianche.' in =d. l.= the passage runs thus: perceval asks, '"_oft gi wet wie die riddere es dien ic soeke berecht mi des," si gaf hem antwerde daer of; "hets die gene die quam int hof in sinxen dage, ende die dan die rode wapine hadde an." "nu seldi mi wel berichten des, wat betokenessen dat was?_"'--ll. - . this seems to me a preferable rendering. =w.= here hovers between the two versions. the aunt tells perceval who galahad is in answer to his question, as in =d. l.=, but volunteers the explanation as in = =. later on perceval tells her: '_hoe hi gevonnen hadde sijn lant, ende sijn broder daer in es bleven met sinen liden, mit sinen neven. "dat wet ic wel," seit si saen, "die heilegeest deet mi verstaen, dies ic harde blide was."_'--ll. - . there is no parallel to this in the other versions, but it agrees with what we find in _morien_; and i think it probable that the dutch compiler, who seems to have been very familiar with the _perceval_ story, may have introduced it.[ ] the castle at which perceval is to seek a kinsman is not named in =d. l.=, but =m.= goothe, =w.= goth, and = = got, agree against =q.= there. in perceval's adventure with the fiend horse, the text of = = is again preferable, being clear and detailed throughout, _e.g._ whereas when the lady asks perceval what he does under the tree, =q.= makes him answer, 'qu'il ne _sent_ ni bien ne mal mais s'il eust cheval il se leva d'illuec.' = = gives 'qu'il ne _faisoit_ ne bien ne mal' mais si j'avoye ung cheval ie m'en iroye d'icy.' =w.= here agrees with = =. after the fight with the dragon, =m.= tells us that perceval 'ca(s)te donne his (s)held / _whiche was broken_ /.' =q.=, agreeing in the first part, omits this feature; but both =d. l.= and = = say the shield was not broken, but _burnt_: 'der verbernt was wech ende wede' ( ); 'qui estoit tout brulé' (iii. fo. ). as we have previously been told that the dragon was breathing forth flame, this is manifestly correct. =w.=, describing the fight, says, 'his shield and breastplate were burnt all in front of him,' and that he 'threw the shield from him burning.' =m.=, who is condensing here, omits the fiery breath, hence, i suspect, the _broken_ instead of _burnt_ shield. i think we may take this again as agreement of =m.=, =d. l.=, =w.=, and = = against =q.= the 'drois enchanteres vns multeplieres de paroles' of the french versions, with which =m.= closely agrees, is in =d. l.=: '_hets een toverare sijt seker des die can dinen van vele spraken ende van enen worde hondert maken._'--ll. - . an amplification probably due to the exigencies of rhyme;[ ] though as =w.= gives, 'he was a necromancer, who of one word would make twelve without ever saying a word of truth,' the original source may have had something similar. =m.=, =d. l.=, and =w.= again agree against =q.= and = = in giving a shorter version of perceval's prayer, and omitting all new testament references. the adventure of the dead hermit, in book xv., is, again, better told in =d. l.= and = = than in =m.= or =q.= thus =q.= omits to state the nature of the supposed transgression, which is clearly set forth in the other three: '_maer hine es niet, donket mi, na sire ordinen gebode, noch na onsen herre gode; want hi niet heden den dach in sulken abite sterven ne mach, hine hebbe bi enegen onmaten sine ordine nu gelaten._'--ll. - . this is evidently the source of =m.='s 'this man that is dede oughte not to be in suche clothynge as ye see hym in / for in that he brake the othe of his ordre /.' =w.= gives the same reason at greater length. later on =m.= seems to have had before him a reading nearer to =q.=: in the morning, 'il trouverent sans faille le preudhomme _de vie_,' which =m.= understood as _alive_, since he says, 'he laye all that nygt tyl hit was daye in that fyre and was not dede /,' though immediately afterwards he says that the hermit came and found him dead. =d. l.= and = = say, 'ende alse dat vier utginc si vonden den goeden man doet tien stonden,' ll. - ; 'ilz trouverent sans nulle faulte le preudhomme mort.' the miracle consisting in the fact that his garments (_e.g._ the linen shirt) were untouched by fire, so that he evidently had died from the previous ill-usage, not from the burning--a result which he had predicted. =w.=, on the contrary, says that 'when the fire was extinguished the man was as lively as he was before. and then he prayed jesus christ to take his soul to him, and he received him, without injury to the shirt or himself.' the whole adventure should be carefully compared, and the superiority of these three versions will be clearly seen. the two first are, i think, the correct version of the incident, but =w.=, though rendering freely, gives a fuller account than is often the case. the list of celidoine's descendants agrees in =d. l.= and = =, while =m.=, though varying from the other three, leans rather to these two than to =q.=: =d. l.= = .= =m.= =q.= marpus. narpus. nappus. warpus. nasciens. nasciens. nacyen. chrestiens. cham. ch'm le gros. hellyas le gro(s)e. alain li gros. helyas. helyas. ly(s)ays. elias. jonas. jonas. jonas. jonaaus. lancelot. lancelot. lancelot. lancelot. bans. ban. ban. ban. i think here the second name is certainly nasciens, and that the mysterious _cham_ of =d. l.= and = = (a personage whom we do not know) ought probably to be _alain_. such a mistake might easily be made by a copyist, if the ms. before him were not clear and he was unfamiliar with grail traditions. i think it very likely that =m.='s source was much the same as that of =d. l.= and = =, and that he dropped out _cham_, but the comparison of the four versions is interesting. the list is omitted in =w.= the black and white knights are treated by =d. l.= as purely visionary and symbolic, and no names are given. the incident of the black knight, who issues from the lake and kills lancelot's horse, differs in = = from the other four versions. instead of striking the horse at once he rides past lancelot without touching him, then returns, striking the horse _en route_ and disappearing in the lake. i suspect that this is the right version; the knight is evidently a water-demon, and having his dwelling in the lake should return there. at the commencement of book xvi., when gawain and hector meet, they ask if any tidings have been heard of the principal questers. here there are some interesting variants: =q.= mentions lancelot, galahad, and bohort, but says these _four_ are the best of the questers; =d. l.= only mentions these, but says rightly these _three_; = = first mentions lancelot alone, then galahad, perceval, and bohort, and reckoning all together, says these _four_, and with this =m.= and =w.= agree. there are but few interesting variants in the account of bohort's adventures; the symbolic interpretations are, as usual, much less insisted upon, indeed = = gives no such explanation either of the disinherited lady, or of the 'lily and dry wood' vision, though bohort is assured of lionel's safety. the fight between the two brothers is also more briefly told: we do not hear that they lie long unconscious after the flame descends, but bohort is told at once to join perceval. here =w.= agrees with =d. l.= and = =. =d. l.= differs from all the other versions in naming the damsel who warns bohort of her mistress' suicidal intention. she is called pallada. in book xvii., in all concerning the mysterious ship, the text of =d. l.= and = = is far superior to that of =q.= the inscription in =d. l.= runs thus: '_hort man, die wils gaen hier in, besie di wel, ende oec merc dattu sijs geloves vol ende sterc. want ic els niet dan gelove ben hier bi hoede elkerlijc hem: falgiert hem eneger maniren van gelove, ic sal hem falgiren._'--ll. - . = = says the inscription is in 'langaige dit _caldeu_,' and says 'si tost q tu guerpiras ta creance ie te guerpiray en telle maniere que tu ne auras de moi ne conseil ne ayde,' and proceeds to explain (which no other text i have consulted does) that if he who enters fail in faith he will fall into the water. this should be compared with the passage in hucher,[ ] where the inscription on the ship agrees closely and is also said to be in caldiu. the warning as to the nature of the penalty is omitted here, but the penalty is incurred exactly as = = foretells. =m.= evidently had the warning of =d. l.= and = = before him when he wrote 'for and thou faile i shal not helpe the /.' =w.= gives the warning in more general terms, due perhaps to the translator. perceval's speech on entering the ship is again best given by = =. here, he says, he will enter 'pour ce que se ie suis desloyal que ie y perisse comme desloyal, et se ie suis plain de foy et tel comme bon chevalier doit estre que ie soye sauvé,' _i.e._ he submits to the test in all humility. =q.= says: 'car iou sui plain de foi et teus comme chivalers doit estre,' thus omitting the qualifying phrases, and giving the speech quite a different meaning. =w.= closely agrees with =q.= =d. l.= also, though less abrupt, practically agrees with =q.=; while =m.= must have had the version of = = before him: 'for yf i be a nys creature or an untrue knyghte there shalle i perysshe'--a reading he could not possibly have derived from either of the other two. in the account of the scabbard of the sword we have a most interesting variety of readings, but, comparing one with the other, it appears certain that here again = = is in the right. one side of the scabbard is said by =d. l.=, = = and =m.= to be red as blood, with an inscription in letters black as a coal; while =q.= says the scabbard is 'black as pitch'--an evident confusion with the inscription. =w.= says the sheath is 'rose-red,' with letters of gold and silver. the name is given differently in each instance: =q.=, memoire de _sens_; =d. l.=, gedinkenesse van _sinne_; =m.=, meuer of _blood_; , memoire de _sang_. =d. l.= and = = go on to say that 'none shall look upon that part of the scabbard which is made of the tree of life but they shall be reminded of the blood of abel.' =m.= omits the latter part of this sentence, thus making great confusion. now, comparing these versions together, the right reading becomes perfectly clear. the scabbard is red, for it was made (at least one half of it was) of the wood of the tree of life, which, as we are distinctly told, turned red at the death of abel; and the inscription '_memoire de sang_' was intended to keep this event in mind. the confusion, in the case of =q.= and =d. l.=, clearly arose from the ms. at the root of the first having had the reading san_s_ for san_c_ or san_g_ (a reading often met with); a careless copyist, heedless of the sense of his transcription, wrote _se_ns and this was correctly translated by the compiler of =d. l.= as _sinne_; a reading which, however unintelligible in itself, would probably not strike the compiler (who was certainly an intelligent writer with a very good knowledge of french) as absolute nonsense, inasmuch as it was connected with the 'calling to mind' of the death of abel. =q.=, who omits this qualifying passage, does make nonsense of it. in =m.='s case the mistake was in the first word, and probably arose from a confusion between _m_ and _uv_, which may very well be due to caxton; otherwise =m.= appears to have had the same version as = =, which, alone, has preserved it free from error. =w.= omits the inscription altogether. the 'erle hernox' in =m.=, ernous in =q.=, is in =d. l.= and = = arnou_t_ and arnou_l_. ernoulf in =w.= both =d. l.= and = = state that the maiden who shall cure the lady by her blood must be not only a virgin and a king's daughter but _perceval's sister_. this is neither in =q.= nor in =m.=, and may perhaps indicate that, as i have suggested, these two versions belonged to an original _perceval-lancelot_ redaction, from which they introduced occasional additions to perceval's share of the _queste_, as in the previous allusion to his having recovered his kingdom in =d. l.=[ ] in the account of lancelot's visit to corbenic, after being struck down at the sight of the grail, =q.= says he is discovered seated (seant) before the door, while the other three all represent him as lying (lyinge--licgende--gisant), which is certainly more in harmony with the general situation. =d. l.= says that when lancelot recovers and knows he has lain unconscious fourteen days he bethinks him: '_hoe hi hadde gedient den viant .xiiij. jaer, ende pensede te hant, dat hem onse here daerti dede die macht verlisen in sine lede .xiiij. dage._'--ll. - . whereas =q.= only says 'qu'il avoit servi l'anemi.' a meaningless phrase, as it stands. =m.= agrees with =d. l.= with the exception that he says _twenty-four_ instead of _fourteen_, in which he is certainly correct, as lancelot's _liaison_ with guinevere had begun long before the birth of galahad. the number may have been altered by the compiler of =d. l.= for the exigencies of the rhyme, which would not admit the original form. = = omits the passage altogether, condensing considerably at this point.[ ] =w.= does not specify whether he were lying or seated, but agrees with =d. l.= in giving fourteen years, which rather looks as if that number may have been in the source of this latter. in the account of the questers at castle corbenic =d. l.= and = = alike clear up a passage which, as it stands, is obscure in =m.= and utterly unintelligible in =q.= nine stranger knights arrive at the castle,[ ] three being of gaul, three of ireland, and three of denmark. when they separate the next day, =q.= has this unintelligible passage--galahad has asked the strangers' names--'et tant qu'il trouuerent estrois de gariles, que claudins li fieus le roi claudas, en ert li uns et li autre de quel terre qu'il fuissent, erent asses gentile homme et de haut lignage.'[ ] =m.= renders, without any mention of names being asked, 'but the thre knyghtes of gaule, one of them hyghte claudyne, kynge claudas sone / and the other two were grete gentylmen' (which should surely have given dr. sommer a clue to the right rendering of the passage). =d. l.= runs thus: '_ende alsi buten den castele quamen vragede elc oms sanders namen, soedat si worden geware das, dat van den drien van gaule was claudijn claudas sone die een, ende si vonden van den anderen tween dat si waren van groter machte ridders, ende van groten geslachte_'--ll. - . = = has, 'si trouverent que des trois de gaulle claudius le filz au roy claudas en estoit ung et les autres estoiet assez vaillans.' it seems clear that =m.='s text is that of =d. l.= carelessly abridged.[ ] both =d. l.= and = = conclude the _queste_ section with the passage relating the death of the twenty-two (twenty-four) questers, eighteen of whom fell by the hand of gawain; the writing out of the knights' adventures, and the preservation of the record in the abbey of salisbury where map found them, this latter item being omitted by = =. this passage is, as a rule, now found at the beginning of the _mort artur_ section, but, i think, it is clear that its proper place is at the end of the _queste_; as i have pointed out already, the light in which it represents gawain is entirely in keeping with that romance, while it does not agree with either the _mort artur_ or the _lancelot_, both of which regard arthur's gallant nephew with genuine respect. further, the drawing up of a record of adventures is better placed at the end of the section dealing with the adventures to be recorded than at the beginning of another. =m.='s words, 'alle this was made in grete bookes / and put up in almeryes at salysbury /' coupled with his total omission of any corresponding passage at the commencement of the next book, seem to prove that in his source, too, it stood at the end of the _queste_.[ ] what now are the results we may deduce from this examination of four versions of the galahad _queste_? first, i think it is clear that the verse translation in =d. l.= and the prose = = both offer a text very decidedly superior to that edited by dr. furnivall, and, if dr. sommer's extracts are to be relied on, that represented by the majority of the printed editions of the _lancelot_. second, it is equally clear that the text used by malory stood in close relation to these two versions. many variants attributed by dr. sommer to the english compiler, are, it is now certain, due to his source, in the treatment of which he shows little sign of intelligence or invention, but rather a tendency to compression at all hazards, sometimes omitting the very part of a phrase which was required to make the whole intelligible. the general tendency of our examination, therefore, goes to establish the practical agreement of =d. l.=, = = and =m.=, as against =q.= and =s.= the version given by =w.= is so free a rendering, and omits so many details, that it is scarcely possible to place it. it seems clear that the _original_ source must have belonged to the same ms. family as the former three, but whether the agreement was with = =, rather than with =d. l.= and =m.=, or _vice versa_, it is impossible to say. but how do these three stand as regards each other? on the whole = = appears to represent the better text, and it also appears to have preserved signs of an earlier redaction, yet i do not think it is the direct source of the other two. we often find =d. l.= and =m.= agreeing in details of numbers and names, as against the other version; certainly in the case of such a name as brimol van pleîche, bromel la pleche, the agreement must be due to a french source common to both. i should be inclined to postulate some such scheme as this. =a.= (original french version). | +-----------+---------------+ | | = .= =b.= french. | / \ / \ =d. l.= =m.= as will be seen from the summary of =d. l.= appended to these studies, both this version and =m.= show, in the _lancelot_ section, a certain _plus_ of incident as against = =, though these incidents vary in each case. the relation cannot, therefore, be exactly determined, but i think there can be no reasonable doubt that for the _lancelot-queste_ section of his compilation malory used an _agravain-queste_ ms. that he had _two_ mss., one for the _lancelot_, another for the _queste_, as dr. sommer[ ] suggests, is highly unlikely. it would be too curious a chance that he should in each case hit on a version so closely corresponding to that of the two with which we have compared his reading. this appears to me practically to dispose of the argument, that malory had before him a number of episodic romances, an argument often brought forward;[ ] the 'turquine' episode in book vi., the whole of book vii., and the adventure with the damsel of escalot being instances in point. turquine certainly came out of the _lancelot_, as did the lady of escalot; book vii. may have been an episodic romance, as also the handling of urre of hungary; though this latter, as we shall see, may equally well be an amplification of an adventure found in the prose _lancelot_.[ ] again, it very greatly limits the probability of malory's having elsewhere worked with a free hand, inventing and rearranging, when we find, as we have done, that numerous small details, hitherto ascribed to him, are faithful reproductions of his source. we are justified in cherishing very serious doubts as to the originality of any marked deviation from the traditional version of an adventure which we may find in his compilation. these arguments, of course, apply most strongly to his version of the _charrette_ adventure, the problem of source of which, so far as malory is concerned, is absolutely unaffected by the evidence we have collected. this alone is certain, there is _no proof whatever_ that he knew anything of the first part of the _lancelot_ romance, his treatment of the lady of the lake seems to show that he was absolutely ignorant of it. he was _not_ in the habit of departing unnecessarily from his source, his variations as a rule are slight, and their motive can generally be detected; when, therefore, we find him giving an entirely different account of the abduction of guinevere from that given elsewhere, the probabilities are all in favour of his reproducing a separate source, and all against his original invention. so far as the matter stands in the light of the latest evidence, the question remains unsolved, with a decided balance in favour of the theory advanced by m. gaston paris, and against that advocated by professor foerster.[ ] leaving the question of malory, what may we hold to be the result of this examination on the problem of the _queste_ itself? is the form in which we possess it practically the original form, or are we to postulate a series of successive redactions? i think that every one who has carefully studied the variants given above must have been struck by the fact that in no case is the question one involving a variety of incident or even an alteration in sequence. it is the same story in every case, told in the same order, in the same words, only certain copies give a fuller and more coherent version than others. in fact, as i said above, the variations are the variations of the copyist, not of the compiler. the one point in which we may postulate either omission or addition, _i.e._ the greater or less fulness, the presence or absence, of the 'improving' sections, is precisely a point in which we might expect a copyist of a more or less didactic turn of mind to assert himself; it was so easy to expand or to contract such passages. and it is a curious feature that precisely in those versions in which the _story_, as a whole, is the best told (=d. l.=, = =, and in a minor degree =m.=), we find the edifying passages in their shortest forms; while =q.=, the text of which as compared with the others is decidedly poor, gives them at the greatest length. of any previous redaction of galahad's adventures there is no trace; there are no lengthy interpolations as in the _conte del graal_ mss.; there is no conflict, such as we find in other romances, between an earlier and later form; in sundry passages we have allusions to unrelated adventures: we are told that the heroes ride so many days, weeks, or years, and meet with many and strange adventures, but in no copy do we find any hint of what these adventures may have been; yet had there existed an earlier and fuller form, some fragments of it must surely have been preserved. and this argument becomes more convincing the more closely we look into it. above we have compared _four_ versions of the _queste_ (_five_ if we include =w.=), but one of these, dr. furnivall's edition, does not represent one ms. only, but is founded on a critical collation of two, and contains a specimen of the opening columns of twelve mss. of the _bibliothèque nationale_; while dr. sommer states that he has examined four other versions and found that, saving details of style, all agree in incident and sequence. we may therefore take it as certain that one of the four variants represents at least _five_ mss., while scholars of standing assure us of the practical identity of sixteen more! now, side by side with these _queste_ versions, we have compared four versions of the prose _lancelot_, and of these four no two agree perfectly throughout, and all differ from the summary given by m. paulin paris. =d. l.= and = =, which on the whole correspond well with each other, yet have their distinctive differences, _i.e._ =d. l.= contains adventures not related by = =; =m.=, while on one side condensing arbitrarily, on the other gives two adventures known to neither of the first; and =s.= omits an important section altogether. the summary in _romans de la table ronde_, while agreeing on the whole with the two first, deviates from both in the later sections.[ ] the practical identity of _all_ the versions of a romance transmitted in so large a number of mss. as the _queste_ is, i believe, unique in the arthurian cycle. such a phenomenon, for it is nothing less, can, i think, only be explained in one way: there was but one version of the story, and that version took shape, _not_ at a period when _oral_ transmission was the rule, but at a later date, when the story could at once find expression in literary form. i do not believe that any story, the earlier stages of which were developed _orally_, is ever, when committed to writing, found so entirely free from variants.[ ] can we decide what special form of the perceval _queste_ the galahad variant was intended to supersede? i think not: it is noticeable that the writer never gives any adventure which finds an exact parallel in the older romances, yet he not only knew the perceval story, but knew it in various forms. the allusions in book xiv., though slight, are remarkably instructive: he knew that perceval was the son of a widow, and that his mother died of grief at his departure (chrétien, wolfram, didot _perceval_); that in his wanderings in search of the grail he came to the dwelling of a female recluse, who proved to be a near relative (only related by wolfram); that he has a sister (didot _perceval_, and _perceval li gallois_). thus in these few allusions he is in touch with the whole cycle of perceval romance! when, therefore, we find that he never elsewhere assigns to perceval any of the adventures traditionally connected with him, but gives him a new series which are duplicated elsewhere, one can only conclude that it is done of set purpose. of the parallels given above, the existence of the sister appears to me to be the most important, judging from the prominence of the rôle here assigned to her. she only appears in the two forms of the perceval _queste_ which show traces of having formed part of a cycle; and inasmuch as _perceval li gallois_ represents the mother as living to see her son return, and regain his kingdom, the correspondence is closer with the didot _perceval_, but the question can hardly be settled. as a _grail_ romance the _queste_ is extremely poor. the utter confusion of the writer as to the identity of the fisher king and maimed king; the inter-relation of grail winner, owner of grail castle, fisher king and maimed king; the neglect of the most obvious conditions of the quest, such as ignorance on the part of the predestined grail winner; his giving proof of identity by fulfilment of a test; the inaccessibility of the grail castle to all but the elect knight--all show a most extraordinary carelessness on his part, were he intending to write a grail romance pure and simple. ignorance we cannot postulate. he knows too much about perceval not to know more about the grail! it is evident throughout that the main anxiety of the author is to keep himself in touch with the _lancelot_ rather than with the _grail_ tradition. he is extremely careful to introduce references to that portion of the _lancelot_ story with which he is familiar; to explain that the adventures foreshadowed in _grand s. graal_ and _lancelot_ have been really fulfilled, and so long as he can demonstrate his hero to be a worthy upholder of the glories of the race of king ban, he cares very little if he fails to fulfil the necessary conditions of the original grail winner. this latter may know from the first what the grail is, where it is, his own predestined relation to it, his final winning it may be reduced to an absurdity by the presence of eleven or twelve others all equally worthy of beholding the sacred talisman, but that matters nothing to the author; he has contrived to bring the grail into more or less harmony with the _lancelot_ legend; he has crowned the most popular of arthur's knights with reflected glory as father of the grail winner, he has put the last touch to the evolution of the _lancelot_ legend, and in so doing he has achieved the task which he set himself to perform. the _queste_ is in all essential features not a _grail_ but a _lancelot_ romance, and as such primarily it should be judged. chapter xi the mort artur this, the final section of the _lancelot_ cycle, offers less opportunity for criticism. the versions of =d. l.= and = =, though still closely in accord with each other, differ much less from the summary given by dr. sommer, and show less affinity with malory.[ ] so far as malory is concerned i differ from dr. sommer, who says that 'he cannot have derived his account from the prose _lancelot_.'[ ] on the contrary i think there is little doubt that malory had the latter portion of the _lancelot_ before him, but dislocated it by the introduction of the _charrette_ and _urre of hungary_[ ] episodes, which he most probably knew in an independent form; though of course, as i have suggested above, it is quite possible that some _lancelot_ mss. may have included the latter. but considering the clear proof that the english compiler was following an _agravain_ ms. for the earlier part of his _lancelot_ adventures, and that he includes the astolat and patryse stories, which are a part of the ordinary _mort artur_[ ] section, i see no reason to doubt that his _lancelot_ ms. represented _all_ the latter part of the cycle (as we know he had, and followed, an alternative version of the =m. a.= proper). i have carefully compared both =d. l.= and = = with the abstract given in the _studies_, and give the following as the most important of the variants, but i should like to make it clearly understood, both as regards this and the previous sections, that the instances i quote by no means represent _all_ the points of contact and departure to be noted between the different versions. i have many others in my notes, and a critical edition will certainly very much strengthen the case i have here stated in outline. as we have before noted, =d. l.= and = = agree against =s.= in incorporating with the _queste_ the passage generally given as the opening of =m. a.= otherwise all three versions are in practical agreement as regards the events leading up to the tournament at winchester. =d. l.= does not mention hector when lancelot inquires on which side his kinsmen are fighting, but only bohort and lionel. = = agrees here with =s.= according to =d. l.= and = = gawain and gaheriet take no part in the fighting at arthur's desire: he fears they may fight with lancelot, and ill-will arise from it. =s.= does not mention this, so i cannot say if it be in the = = edition or not. =s.= says, 'the people think the two knights' (lancelot and his comrade) 'cannot be the sons of the lord of the castle of escalot.' this does not agree with the other versions: the people think they _are_ the lord's sons at first; then _gawain_ says, one of them cannot be. =d. l.=: '_ende man waende daer wel dat lanceloet ware een vanden broderen van scaerloet._'--ll. - . and gawain proceeds to say, 'this knight with the red sleeve is not he whom i thought, no one ever saw such valour by one of the "kinder van scaerloet."' arthur asks what knight he may be. =d. l.= makes gawain say simply he does not know, 'but he is certainly a good knight'; while = = goes on to add 'if lancelot had not been left at kamalot he would have said that this was he.' this does not at all agree with =s.= both = = and =d. l.= agree against =s.= in saying lancelot's wounds will take six (not seven) weeks to heal. when gawain and gaheriet follow lancelot, =s.= says they meet a _wounded_ knight; in = = the knight is dead. =d. l.= omits the incident. when gawain returns to arthur, =s.= represents the king as saying 'it was not the first time he took trouble without results, nor will it be the last.' = = and =d. l.= here add '_through that knight_,' which is evidently correct. =s.= simply says the second tourney is fixed at tanebor, 'du lundi dapres en ung moys'; whereas the other versions carefully specify the wherabouts of this place, 'dat een casteel es, staende in den inganc van nortgales.' =d. l.= spells it 'caneborch.' again, according to =s.=, lancelot, unable to go to the tourney, sends greeting to the queen and gawain, 'from the knight who wore the red sleeve'; whereas =d. l.= and = = say 'the knight who won the tournament at winchester' and make no mention of the sleeve, which, considering the relations between lancelot and guinevere, seems to me the better version. neither do these mention that guinevere tries to persuade bohort to return to camelot. when gawain comes to escalot =s.= represents him as admiring the maiden's beauty and envying the knight 'with the red sleeve.' = = says, more correctly, 'the knight who wins her love'; he has not yet learned to whom the sleeve belonged. in the account of what happens after gawain's return to court, and guinevere's learning the truth, all the versions agree on the whole, and it is noticeable that =m.=, though making bohort a more energetic defender of his cousin's good faith, yet correctly reproduces all the main features of incident and speech. i think any one comparing his version closely with two or three others can hardly fail to come to the conclusion that it is the prose _lancelot_ and no other account he is reproducing. according to =s.= lancelot's kinsmen only remain for a week at court; according to = = and =d. l.= it is 'that week and the next.' when they leave the court on the second occasion after the tournament of tanebor, neither =d. l.= nor = = say (as =s.= does) that the queen tries to persuade bohort to remain, though they agree in making her regret his departure. after lancelot's return to court when bohort lectures guinevere on the mischief done by women, with reference to david, solomon, etc., =d. l.= omits the reference to tristan, while = = amplifies it by saying 'it is not five years since tristan died for love of iseult.' =d. l.= omits all reference to lancelot's being wounded in the wood, condensing considerably at this point, and gives no account of the arrival of the dead body of the maiden of escalot. in the account of how lancelot learns of the queen's danger from madoc de la porte, all three versions differ. according to =s.= he meets a knight from kamalot who tells him of the queen's plight, and at once resolves to rescue her. _the next day_ he meets hector and reveals his intentions; and a few days after both meet bohort, who asks if they know the news. = = says that as the first knight rides off, hector appears from a cross-road; he is on his way to defend guinevere. in =d. l.= it is not said how lancelot first learns the news, but he meets hector and bohort together, and on their asking him if he has heard, replies in the affirmative. i suspect =m.= had a version akin to this last before him as he makes _bohort_ lancelot's informant. in the account of the final detection of lancelot and guinevere, =s.=, as i have before pointed out, goes wrong, by substituting _guerreshes_ for _gariët_. all the texts i have consulted agree in stating that it is this latter who sides with gawain, and refuses to be a party to the betrayal.[ ] =d. l.= omits the fact that arthur hears of lancelot's victory at the tournament of cahere; and also the remark of bohort that only morgain or agravain can have betrayed him. in the details of the detection all three versions agree closely. in the account of guinevere's trial =s.= again diverges from the others. we read[ ] 'arthur decides to punish guinevere with death. he will have her tried at once. =p. l.= introduces here, and a little later, a certain "roy yon" who counsels moderation. the trial takes place; arthur, with gaheriet, mordred, and agravain, doom the queen to the stake.' i do not know if this accurately represents the text = =, it certainly differs widely from the reading of =d. l.= and = =. =d. l.= does not mention yon; = = simply introduces him as telling arthur that the trial cannot take place that evening, while both agree in saying that _gawain_ (whom =s.= does not mention at all) warns the king not to proceed to extremities, threatening to give up all his lands if the queen be burnt. mordred and agravain doom the queen to death, arthur _alone_ specifies the nature of that death.[ ] in the account of the fatal fight at the stake, =d. l.= represents lancelot as slaying both gawain's brothers, while = = agrees with =s.= in saying that bohort kills guerresches and lancelot gaheriet. =m.=, it will be remembered, agrees in this with =d. l.= it may be noted that all three, = =, =d. l.=, and =m.=, while making no remark about guerresches, especially lament gaheriet: the two first say that lancelot knows gawain will never forgive him for this, and =m.= speaks of him as 'the noble knyghte,' making the identity with gareth quite clear. the castle at which the queen and lancelot stay _en route_ for joyous garde, called _scalee_ by =s.=, _scalle_ in = =, and _calet_ in =d. l.= does not, i think, belong to keux the seneschal, as =s.= supposes; =d. l.= does not mention him, and = = speaks of '_ung keux_,' a friend of lancelot's, which cannot be _kay_. both here, and in the '_keux_ du parc' of the turquine adventure, i suspect that we have not a proper name at all, but a misreading of 'queus'=_count_. in the latter instance =d. l.= renders _keux_ by _grave_. on p. , =s.= must surely have misread his source, as he says that lancelot sends messengers to _king ban of benoyc_, asking his aid. king ban was of course dead long before; =d. l.= and = = say to _the barons_ of benoyc, which must be the right reading. again, the summary of the battle, =s.=, p. , differs very materially from =d. l.= and = =. =s.= says gawain fights like a madman and kills thirty of lancelot's men with his own hand, wounding others, lionel among them. the next day there is another battle, in which occurs the incident of arthur being unhorsed by bohort, and remounted by lancelot. now in the other two versions bohort and gawain wound each other so desperately at the first onslaught that they are carried off the field half dead, and it is _hector_ who overthrows arthur. later on, after the return of guinevere, when =s.= represents _hector_ as challenging gawain, the other two versions give _bohort_. after the kinsmen return to benoyc we find =d. l.= in apparent contradiction with the other versions. =s.= says that he makes bohort king of benoic and lionel of gannes, while he himself keeps the crown of gaule, _because arthur gave it to him_. = = seems to agree with this latter phrase, as it says, 'et pour ce que le roy artus me donna le royaulme de gaule ie le tiendray.[ ] =d. l.= on the contrary says: '_ende vanden conincrike, dat secgic u, van gaule sone doe ic niet nu, ende ne houder gene tale af, om dat mi die coninc artur gaf; want al haddi mi gegeven vor nu al die werelt, dat secgic u, ic gavese hem al weder te hant, bedie ic ne soude en geen lant nu ter tijt van hem willen houden._'--ll. - . now in the earlier portion of =d. l.=, after the war with claudas, we are told that lancelot has made bohort king of gannes, hector of benoyc, and lionel of gaul, an arrangement which exactly agrees with that which =m.= takes from the english =m. a.= in this earlier passage lancelot gives as reason for not taking the crown that he prefers to remain a simple knight, and = = represents bohort and hector as following his example and declining the offered kingdoms. i think the lesson of this discrepancy is that the _lancelot_ and the =m. a.= were fundamentally independent of each other, and each contained an account of the crowning of the race of ban. when brought into close contact this caused a contradiction of statement which =d. l.= and = = evaded each in their own way. =s.= gives no clue to what happened on the earlier occasion. the number of knights arthur takes with him on his last expedition agrees in =d. l.= and =m.=, sixty thousand, against forty thousand in the two french versions.[ ] in both = = and =d. l.=, guinevere does not, as in =s.=, ask for a _week's_ respite, but for a _day_, and mordred himself suggests she shall have the week. _labor_, whom =s.= calls simply 'a faithful knight,' is in both these versions a near kinsman--_neve_, _cousin_. =d. l.= gives as a reason for guinevere's rejection of mordred's offer that she suspects his true relation to arthur. this is not in = =. in the account of the fight between lancelot and gawain, all three versions apparently differ at the outset. gawain will send the challenge by a squire. =s.=, squire refuses, fearing lancelot's wrath; = =, refuses, fearing to bring about gawain's death; =d. l.=, goes at once. the issue of the fight too is different in =d. l.= and = =. in =s.=, gawain receives a mortal wound in the head and retreats. in = =, lancelot appeals to the king: it is vesper-tide, and a fight for treason must be concluded by nightfall. arthur, seeing gawain is getting the worst of the battle, stops it at once. =d. l.= apparently condenses a similar version, but makes arthur appeal to lancelot, who says that he will be dishonoured if he leave his foe in possession of the field, but arthur entreats him to do so for his sake, and lancelot retires. both agree in saying that gawain is over twenty years lancelot's senior, and is now eighty-two years old![ ] =d. l.= represents the war with rome as lasting twenty years, which would make both arthur and gawain well over a hundred at the time of their death! after the news of mordred's treachery =d. l.= makes no mention of gawain being carried in a litter on the return journey, or of his desire for lancelot's forgiveness; nor does he warn arthur against fighting with mordred. this is, i suspect, due to the compiler's desire to condense, as = = agrees in the main with =s.= the warning against mordred appears, however, to be fuller in the former, _e.g._ _studies_, p. . gawain is represented as saying briefly, 'avoid, if possible, fighting with mordred, for it will cause your death,' which is in = =, 'car ie vous dy vrayement que se vous mourez par une homme [=q] vive vous mourrez par lui et madame la royne,' p. , which certainly seems to point to an earlier redaction of the =m. a.=, where guinevere was a partner in mordred's treason.[ ] in the description of arthur's death there are some interesting variants. both = = and =d. l.= account for lucan's death by the weight of arthur's armour; it is that, and not the vehemence of the king's embrace, which really kills the sorely wounded knight. they again differ in the details of the final scene. =s.= says 'a boat full of ladies arrives; they land, go ashore, put arthur, his horse, and armour into the boat, and row off.' =d. l.= says they call arthur, who rises, takes his horse and armour, and goes into the ship. = = says the mistress of the party is morgain; she calls arthur, who rises at sight of her, she takes him by the hand (which would seem to imply her landing), and bids him bring horse and arms and enter the boat, which he does. dr. sommer evidently regards the entire account as absurd, but i not only accept it, but regard the versions of =d. l.= and = =, which would merit his strictures more fully than that in which he finds such difficulty, as representing the earlier and more primitive form of the story. there is no doubt that arthur was conceived of as living and ruling in avalon. this account of his practically voluntary departure for the mysterious island is much more in accord with that idea than the version which represents him in the extremity of mortal weakness, and subsequently dead and buried. arthur's tomb is _not_ compatible with arthur in avalon, and i strongly suspect that the earlier redaction of the =m. a.= made no mention of it; it is certainly omitted in the corresponding section of the didot _perceval_, which only says he departed to have his wounds healed in avalon, and has not since been seen; but bretons claim to have heard his horn, and seen his armour, and believe he will return. there is a curious discrepancy in the accounts of lancelot's death, which seems to point to two distinct versions of that event. =s.= says he died august th, but does not say how long he was ill. =d. l.= says he fell ill on may th, and died after four days. = = says he fell ill may th, was ill four days, and died august th! evidently a combination by some unintelligent compiler of the two previous accounts, but it is unusual to find such an obvious _bévue_ in so otherwise admirable a version as that of = =. all three agree that lancelot is buried in galehault's tomb, and that bohort becomes a hermit in his stead. from the above comparison it seems clear that though offering less striking and interesting variants, the dutch version and that of = = yet maintain, on the whole, their previous agreement as against =s.=; while =m.=, which here possesses an alternative source the english =m. a.=, yet occasionally betrays the same curious agreement with =d. l.= which we have noted before. the result appears to confirm the conclusion previously arrived at, that =d. l.= and = = represent a common french original, and that =m.='s source, whether complete or incomplete, was a ms. belonging to the same family. chapter xii conclusion we have now reached the final stage of our _lancelot_ studies, and it only remains for us to gather up the threads of the previous investigation, and to endeavour to formulate the results at which we have arrived. we have seen that the _lancelot_ legend was one of remarkably speedy growth. we find no mention of the hero's name before the latter half of the twelfth century, yet within ten years of that first mention he is the most famous of arthur's knights, and the lover of the queen.[ ] we have examined the legend (_a_) in the form of a loosely constructed biographical romance, composed of episodes originally foreign to each other; (_b_) in detached episodic poems; (_c_) in its final form as the most important member of a great prose cycle; and we have found that in all this mass of literature the only really distinctive and individual trait on which we could lay our finger was the story of the hero being stolen as a child and brought up by the mistress of a water kingdom.[ ] into the question of the character of the lady of the lake we have not entered deeply; we have seen that she touches on the one side the mysterious queen of the other world, on the other the scarcely less enigmatic morgain le fay, king arthur's sister. the subject was too wide in extent to be adequately treated in this series; it demands separate study, but the result, so far as the _lancelot_ legend is concerned, was to lead us to believe that the root of that legend was a _lai_, presumably breton, dealing with the theft of a king's son by a water fairy; a theme which afterwards underwent considerable expansion, in the course of which the characters of the hero and of his patroness alike became greatly modified from the original conception. the final and best known form of the story was mainly influenced by the introduction of a _motif_ foreign to the earlier and tentative development, _i.e._ that of lancelot's love for the wife of his lord. this _motif_, however, we saw reason to believe, did not really represent the earlier tradition of guinevere's infidelity, but was a practically new development introduced under the dual influences of a special social condition and the high popularity of the earlier _tristan_ story. as to the reasons which determined the choice of lancelot as the queen's lover, we found ourselves unable to express any decided opinion.[ ] but from its very earliest stages the _lancelot_ story came into contact with another and highly popular tale, the legend of _perceval_. the earlier and later biographical forms (_lanzelet_ and the prose _lancelot_) and the episodic romances (_le cerf au pied blanc_ and _morien_) show traces of contact, direct or indirect, with this story; while the precise statements of certain mss.[ ] make it quite clear that even at an advanced stage of its evolution the _lancelot_ legend formed part of a cycle of which the most important member was the story of _perceval and the grail_. this continued contact with the _perceval_ story, with the resulting developments, appears to be the most important factor in the evolution of the _lancelot_ legend, and one which has hitherto been overlooked. so far as the evidence at our disposal permits us to trace it, the course of development seems to have been the following. gradually the legend of the _grail_,[ ] originally foreign to the _perceval_ story, completely dominated that story and changed the character of the hero, who became transformed into an ascetic celibate; while, on the other hand, the growing popularity of the _lancelot_ story had reacted prejudicially on the position alike of perceval and the still earlier hero gawain as knights of king arthur's court. eventually the two competing centres of romantic interest were _lancelot_ and the _grail_, and it became necessary to combine them in such a manner that the latter, while still retaining its sacrosanct character, should yet contribute to heighten the fame of the popular 'secular' hero. such a combination was possible, under certain conditions, and an ingenious writer, perceiving this possibility, turned it to account by inventing the galahad _queste_, which, poor and inadequate as a _grail_ romance, yet as a contribution to the _lancelot_ cycle had a very certain and decided value. it put the final touch to the evolution of the hero by enabling him to take part, under circumstances which should vicariously increase his fame, in the great adventure of the arthurian cycle, the grail quest; it also restored superficially the unity of the cycle, which had been injured by the cleavage between the _grail_ and the other sections, caused by the growing popularity of lancelot as compared with perceval. while gawain and perceval were the leading heroes of the arthurian cycle, a perceval _queste_ was natural; but as soon as these two were supplanted in the popular favour by lancelot, the perceval _queste_, as an integral part of the cycle, became more and more inharmonious. a change in the interest of the _later_ lancelot development was inevitable, and that the change took place precisely at the psychological moment is, i think, proved by the practically universal welcome accorded to the galahad _queste_. with unanimous consent the perceval _queste_ appears to have been discarded _as a part of the cycle_, although in its _independent_ form it still retained its popularity. naturally all the branches of the cycle into which the new _queste_ had been adopted were more or less affected by it; in some cases the references to the coming grail winner were more or less vague, and would apply as well to the later as to the earlier hero; in other instances they were amplified but not altered, thus introducing confusion into the text (this is, i suspect, the case with the _merlin suite_). the romances that represented the _early history_, as introduction to the _queste_, were naturally the most affected, and at the present moment it is extremely difficult to decide whether the _grand s. graal_ be a _direct_ amplification of the _joseph of arimathea_, constructed with a view to the galahad _queste_, or whether, in its existing form, it depends upon an intermediate version the _données_ of which would agree with the cyclic _perceval_. in any case the 'net' result was, i believe, the substitution of the name of the supposed author of the _queste_, walter map, for that of the traditional author of the earlier _perceval-grail_ story, robert de borron; and to ascribe to map that cyclic redaction of the arthurian romances which had previously been ascribed to de borron. i think that much of the difficulty hitherto experienced in determining the order and date of the various grail romances has arisen from our very natural tendency to regard these romances as a group apart, and to compare them exclusively with each other; whereas they should be treated as members of the cycle, and compared with the other branches of the cycle. more especially is this the case with the galahad _queste_; treated as a _grail_ romance proper, it is inexplicable, and appears to represent no possible step that can be postulated in the _natural_ evolution of the grail legend. we could imagine the honour transferred from father to son (as a matter of fact it is _lohengrin_ and not galahad who should be the successor to perceval); but this sudden break in the tradition by which the honour passes to the race of king ban, no relationship between perceval and lancelot being previously hinted at, is, considered in itself, most perplexing. on the other hand, treat the _queste_ as an integral part of the _lancelot_ cycle, and it not only explains itself, but gives us valuable assistance in 'placing' the earlier versions. at the same time it is obvious that the theory here advanced only applies to the _later_ stages of the grail tradition; it does not touch the problem of the origin of the grail itself, or its first connection with perceval. in the course of our investigation we found it necessary to devote especial attention to the work of chrétien de troyes, endeavouring to ascertain the exact position which, in the evolution of the arthurian romantic cycle, should be ascribed to this famous poet. it became clear that a very considerable portion of the matter with which he dealt belonged by its nature to the domain of what we call folk-lore; and by reason of that nature could not have been _invented_ by the poet, but must have ante-dated, in some instances by many centuries, any possible _literary_ rendering. judged by the rules laid down by scientific authorities on comparative religion, and story-transmission, chrétien could not have been an _inventor_, but only a brilliantly successful re-teller of stories long known and popular. instead of standing at the _source_ of arthurian romantic tradition, he was swept into the current at a comparatively late period of its evolution. to solve the complex problems of arthurian romance we must go behind chrétien: it is the period preceding, not following, his work in which the solution of our puzzles must be sought. to this chrétien himself bears witness. the position claimed for him by certain modern scholars is not that which he claimed for himself; he never professed to be telling a story no one had ever heard before, though he may have flattered himself, not without reason, that he was telling it better than it had ever previously been told. he was dealing with heroes and adventures already well known to his public. the manner in which he introduces, or refers to, incidental characters makes it abundantly clear that he expected his readers to understand his allusions. especially is this noticeable in the case of perceval, who has been claimed, with more zeal than discretion, as one of his most famous creations. he alludes to the hero in a manner that makes it quite evident that this story was well known, and the name familiar, to the public, some decades before chrétien himself undertook to tell it. as practical results arising from these studies i would claim: _a_ that we, in future, place the evolution of the _perceval_ story at a much earlier date than we have hitherto been willing to assign to it. _b_ that we admit the possibility of very important variations in the tale, some of them being anterior to chrétien's version. _c_ that we recognise that this story of perceval was of capital importance in the general evolution of the arthurian cycle. _d_ that in the mutual relations between the _perceval-grail_ and _lancelot_ stories we have the key to the final shaping of the entire cycle. these principles admitted, and i think the evidence adduced goes far to prove their soundness, it is obvious that in order to establish and appraise the above relations at their full value, we must have complete and critical editions of _all_ the principal texts. as matters stand at present, the only texts which can be said to have been in any sense critically treated are the didot _perceval_, and the _parzival_ of wolfram von eschenbach for the older story, and the _charrette_ for the younger. we have been waiting for years for a critical edition of the _conte del graal_, and when we get it will the editor have taken into consideration the various additions to chrétien's text, and the version of the dutch compiler, or will it be chrétien's portion of the poem alone? in that case it will not help us very far. we need sorely a critical edition of the curious _perceval li gallois_, with its blending of wild, folk-lore features with late proselytising and allegorising tendency, its baffling parallels to the german _parzival_. and if we are at a loss for material to adequately criticise the earlier story, what of the later? considering the highly mythic, prehistoric character of so much of the arthurian tradition, the disappearance of so many of the intermediate stages, and the consequent difficulty in fixing the _earliest_ form of any characteristic feature, it would seem that our best plan would be to start from the _final_ form assumed by the cycle and work gradually backward, since for a certain period, at least, we might hope to find solid ground beneath our feet. but the most important text for this final form of the arthurian cycle, the prose _lancelot_, remains unedited. and indeed it might well seem to be a work beyond the powers of any one scholar; the number alike of mss. and of printed editions is so large; they are so scattered, no important library but can show one or more _lancelot_ texts, and we cannot afford to leave even _one_ of all this mass unexamined. the great discrepancy between the printed texts which the foregoing comparison has shown us; the pregnant hints as to earlier redactions, which the passages i have quoted from m. paulin paris and professor heinzel assure us may be found in the mss., are all indications of the vast extent of the task which confronts us. yet this much is certain, until it is boldly grappled with, and scholars are in possession of a complete critical edition of the _lancelot_ in which all the varying adventures shall be carefully chronicled, and all the traces of earlier redactions duly noted, any studies such as these in the preceding pages, be they the work of scholars of the very first rank, will always be liable to the necessity of revision, or the risk of subversion, by the accidental discovery of some hitherto unknown factor.[ ] this appears to me to be the great and pressing question which confronts arthurian scholars; we desire our work to have a permanent value, yet we are leaving undone that which, to all appearance, is the surest means of securing such permanence. a work of such magnitude can, i think, only be grappled with by a body of scholars, a chief editor, assisted by a group of sub-editors. the great extent and diffusion of the material (the _lancelot_ mss. are, as i said before, practically scattered all over europe), render it impossible for any one man to hope to complete the task within a reasonable term of years. i do not know what may be the principles regarding the choice of publications by the _sociétié des anciens textes français_, whether their aim be the introduction to the public of mss. of which unique copies alone exist, rather than to publish critical editions of more easily accessible texts; but if the latter should lie within their province, i cannot imagine any publication that would be more warmly welcomed by arthurian scholars, or that would be of greater interest and more enduring benefit to the students of mediæval literature, than a full and complete edition of the prose _lancelot_. appendix the dutch lancelot[ ] (opens with short introduction alluding to meleagant, thus pre-supposing the _charrette_ adventure.) line . eight days after whitsuntide a., his knights, and twelve tributary kings are hunting in a forest. guinevere and her maidens ride to see hunt escorted by kay, segramore, dodinel, and lancelot. knight rides up and seizes queen's bridle. her knights resent this. k., s., and d. are overthrown. l. is about to joust when maiden rides up and demands his aid, he is pledged to her. l. asks permission to fight first; overthrows and badly wounds knight, and follows maiden. wounded knight is tended by queen's people. line . queen sends k. after l., whom he finds fighting with two knights; k. gives him his horse; returns to queen. line . queen is hungry. dodinel and segramore go to find food. come to a pavilion with knight, he and s. fight, d. looks on. maid on mule rides up, calls d. to go with her. knight flies and s. is left alone. line . segramore meets one of a's horsemen pursued by two (= =, _three_) knights, rescues him and overthrows knights. comes to a pavilion; dwarf stands at door, strikes s.'s horse with stick. s. chastises him. lady appears and reproaches s., he is struck with her beauty. enters pavilion and finds calogrenant prisoner. he had come there and blown horn at maid's request, two armed knights appeared and overthrew him. s. blows horn. red knight appears; they fight, well-matched. a knight arrives, carries off maiden. r. k. begs truce that he may pursue them. s. will do so too. cal. is released (= =, _r. k. remains to guard c._). s. pursues ravisher, comes to hill and fair meadow, ten pavilions by a fountain. knight with thirty companions appears and demands joust. s. overthrows him and asks news of maiden. knight will tell him if s. will grant first request asked. leads him to pavilion with maid and four knights. maid will return with s.; has been brought against her will. a knight throws knife at s. who cleaves his head with sword. others attack s., who slays first, and others fly. rides off with maid to ten pavilions, ten knights ride out, s. must go with them to their lord or joust; chooses latter. they ask his name, he is _segramore die wonderlike_. another knight appears, s. must leave maiden or joust. he is brandalis, rejoiced to meet s., would entertain him. s. says he must return to queen who waits by 'elfin spring.' b. will escort maiden to her _ami_. s. rides off to house of mathamas (his original destination), finds him and knights in hall, and demands provisions for queen. m. and his men treacherously attack s., finally overpower and throw him into dungeon, where he is wellnigh starved, but m.'s daughter takes pity upon him, and brings him food. line . dodinel and maid meet knight and lady richly dressed, with dwarf. d. greets dwarf, who makes no answer but tries to kiss maiden, who throws him to the ground. knight tries to kill maiden, but is unhorsed by d. and sent prisoner to queen. he is maroc van den ynsen roken, 'twixt ireland and scotland. (= =, _marruc le roux, no island named_.[ ]) line . lancelot meets a black rider unarmed with knight's head on saddle-bow, asks l.'s name, bids him give him his armour, l. has pledged himself so to do (reference to adv. in earlier part of prose =l.=). l. does so. knight is 'griffoen van den quaden passe.' he rides thus past the elfin spring. queen sees him in l.'s armour with head at saddle-bow and thinks l. is slain. kay and other knights pursue him, and are overthrown, kay taken prisoner. queen and maidens remain at spring weeping. line . lancelot meets maiden, who hails him as best knight in the world, thinks he is gawain[ ] (= =, _knows him for l._), whose presence in land of strangore is much desired. leaves him, and l. and attendant maiden come to house, where they are well received. line . dodinel comes to a deep river crossed by narrow plank. maiden crosses safely, plank will not bear weight of an armed man. d. falls into water and is nearly drowned. when he reaches bank maid has disappeared. castle near at hand, knight comes out and challenges d., who is too exhausted to answer and is taken prisoner. line . queen and maidens return to court in great grief, tell a. what has chanced. (= =, _queen's account does not agree with facts of story. she says 'prisoner has gone after knight.' what prisoner? probably segramore's, but she says they have heard nothing of s._) ten knights will go in quest of l. gawain chooses his companions: ywein, garhies (_gariët_ general spelling), gurrehes, mordrec, hestor van maris, acgloval ('twas he brought perceval to court), etc. (_neither_ =d. l.= _nor_ = = _give ten names, the latter adds to those mentioned les hardi [le laid hardi?] and brandalis_.) they take an oath to seek a year and a day. they ride to the 'swerte cruce' (here we have story of joseph of arimathea and king agestes [agrestes] from _g. s. graal_). gawain harangues them, they will separate, and search forest for a week. hear loud cries, maiden meets them, and says best knight on earth is being slain. leads them to a valley where one knight fights against ten. gawain and companions rescue him and put others to flight. knight has two swords. gawain asks reason. knight explains. he is eliezer (= =, _helye_), son of the rich fisher who holds the grail. one sword is that with which joseph of arimathea was wounded (here adventures of joseph as in _g. s. graal_); it is broken and can only be mended by him who achieves adventures of the grail. ywein begs e. to accompany them in their search for lancelot, he would doubtless fulfil the test. e. refuses, must return to his father. they separate, agreeing if they find l. to send him to e. (which they do not do). line . _agloval_ rides five days without special adventure. meets wounded knight who prays his aid. a. jousts with and overthrows pursuer. makes him ask pardon of first. spends night in castle of second, who is griffoen van den quaden passe. a. tells him name and quest. g. conceals share in adventure, tells a. he will find kay at a hermitage. when a. has ridden away sets k. free, and tells him to go to hermitage, not saying whence he came. k. does this, meets a., hears of quest and follows him. line . gawain rides three days without adventure. comes to castle of mathamas where segramore is imprisoned. being weary rides past without greeting. m. pursues him, they joust, m. is overthrown. s. is released and m. sent prisoner to court. line . hector[ ] seeks in forest up and down for eight days; ninth, comes to where dodinel fell into water, crosses safely and rides to castle. knight attacks him and is overthrown, makes feint to yield and tries treacherously to stab h. h. smites off his head. folk of castle receive him gladly, tell him of d. who is freed. maiden explains knight was her _ami_ and hated d. who had overthrown him at a tourney, she had been forced to fetch him hither on pain of death. h. tells d. of quest; he will join. leave castle and ride to trysting-place. all meet, have heard nothing of l. part in great grief, knowing it will be long before they meet again. line . gawain rides fifteen (= =, _twelve_) days without adventures. comes to an abbey where he leaves his arms and takes others. spends sunday there. on monday rides forth, comes to a spring, unhelms to drink, maid rides up, knows him, and takes him to castle. lord of the castle arrives with thirty knights. a great tourney to be held on the morrow two miles hence. mabonars (= =, _marbortas_), the king of galehout's race (= =, _galehout's cousin_), has summoned it at castle 'van der molen,' will give hawk to best knight and circlet to his lady. maiden prays g. to help her lover taganas (= =, _tanaguis le blanc_). on the morrow go to tourney. argument between maiden and 'a king's niece' as to whose knight is the best. at first g. overthrows all adversaries. then red knight appears, prolonged struggle, g. is unhorsed, r. k. rides away, g. follows, overtakes him at forester's house. it is hector, who is much grieved at what he has done. g. forgives him, and they continue quest together. third day (= =, _time not mentioned_), come to ruined chapel and churchyard wherein is marble tomb with inscription to effect that only the 'keytive' knight who has failed through 'luxurien' to achieve adventure of the grail can fulfil this. enter churchyard, find burning tomb with twelve others round it, upright sword on each. g. will test adventure, enters enclosure, is attacked by swords, beaten to the ground, when he recovers consciousness is outside. tries again, with even worse result. h. also tries, fails; letters appear on the door that none shall dare adventure till the 'son of the dolorous queen' come.[ ] they leave chapel and ride till they come to two roads by a cross on which is written 'whoso takes left-hand road shall not escape without much dishonour; of right-hand nothing shall be said save that there is much danger.' h. insists on going to left though g. would dissuade him. they separate. line . gawain comes to pavilion where six knights are at meat, he greets them, they make no response. g. seats himself and begins to eat, they order him to stop, and on his refusing attack him with swords and axes. g. slays one, cuts off arm of another, rest flee. rides away, comes to a valley where he sees castle surrounded by deep water, goes towards it. hears cries from a tower, enters and finds maiden in bath of boiling water (= =, _does not say water is boiling, and states that she only expects aid from lancelot_), prays him to lift her out; he fails, she tells him he will not go hence without shame, and that only 'the best knight in the world' can help her. g. goes to castle, is well received. as they sit in the hall out of the chamber whence the king came (= =, _he sees 'entrer parmi une verriere'_) there comes a dove with censer in beak.[ ] all are silent and kneel till dove has passed through hall and entered a chamber. then tables are prepared and all sit down in silence. g. wonders much. out of chamber where dove entered comes the fairest maiden g. has ever seen, holding above her head a vessel in the shape of a cup. the vessel 'ne was van houte ne van stene, ne van metale negene.' all kneel as she passes, save g., and the tables are filled with the best food on earth. when she has passed all but g. have been provided with food; he doubts if he has done amiss. after the meal all leave the hall, doors are closed, and g. is left alone. he lies down beneath a window. a man (dwarf?) appears and tells g. to go into a chamber where none shall see him, would strike him, but g. takes staff out of his hand, warns him he shall not depart without dishonour. (= =, _g. is only told 'fuyez vous en d'icy, vous n'y devez m'y estre, car en vous a trop villaine chose.' g. sees bed through open door, and enters chamber of own accord._) g. goes into the chamber, sees a fair bed and sits down upon it. hears a voice warning him if he sit unarmed on 't bedde van aventuren' he will surely die. arms himself; a sword (= =, _lance_) with fiery blade enters room, smites him so sorely he cannot defend himself: becomes unconscious, on recovery feels that blade is being drawn out of his wound. lies till daylight. (= =, _quant il fut ennuyte si que l'en y veoit mauvaisement fors que de la lune qui luysoit a plus de quarante fenestres qui tout estoient ouvertes; lors regarde monseigneur g. en une chambre qui estoit pres de lui._) sees a great serpent enter the hall, making fearful noise, out of its mouth come small serpents. leopard attacks serpent, fierce battle. when serpent finds it cannot slay leopard returns to hall (chamber?), where the small serpents attack it. they slay each other. a great wind rises, which sweeps hall clean. g. hears women weeping, rises and sees twelve maidens come weeping and kneel before door where dove went in. they depart, and an armed knight comes and bids g. go and rest on a bed in another chamber, he may no longer stay here. g. refuses, they fight fiercely all day, at last fall exhausted. it begins to thunder, the whole palace trembles, g. is deafened by the sound, knows not if it be day or night (= =, _if he be living or dead_). a great wind rises (= =, _soft and sweet_), and he hears voices, two hundred at least, singing so sweetly, nothing on earth can be like to it. he cannot understand all the words, only 'glorie ende lof moete hebben ewelike die coninc van hemelrike.' the palace is filled with a sweet smoke. opens his eyes and sees the maiden of evening before with vessel, preceded by two censers (= =, _and two cierges_), places vessel on silver table, ten censers give sweet smell around it. voices sing 'ere, bliscap, ende lof moete hebben ewelike, die soete here van hemelrike.' maiden carries vessel back to chamber. hall grows dark and windows fly open (= =, _and close again_). g. can see nothing, but feels he is healed of his wounds, rises and looks for knight with whom he had fought, but can find nothing. hears people enter and feels himself taken by hands and feet, bound, carried out of hall, and laid on a cart. daylight comes, he is still in the cart, to which a wretched horse is harnessed; feels himself shamed. a maiden (= =, _une vieille_) comes and drives the horse out, as they pass the gateway the people mock at and pelt g. when bridge is passed maiden looses his bonds and tells him to leave the cart, he has been there long enough. g. asks name of castle, it is cambonoyc.[ ] he curses the day he was born and made knight to be thus shamed. rides all day, at evening comes to hermitage, where he is kindly received. hermit asks his name, and is rejoiced at hearing it. where has he spent the night? g. will not say at first. (= =, _g. shows shame at being praised. h. comforts him; no man but knows misfortune. g. says no man has had such ill-luck as he for fifteen days. h. asks how, and g. tells all._) when he does tell, h. keeps silence for a long time, then tells him he has seen the holy grail, his own sin prevented him from being fed by it. (= =, _quant vous ne luy feistes honeur bien vous deistes mesadvenir_.)[ ] g. asks meaning of serpent; it is a. his uncle. he shall leave his kingdom in charge of his kinsmen and go to fight a knight whom he cannot overcome; on his return his own kinsmen shall fight against, and slay him. it shall come about through g. himself. he must swear not to reveal what h. has told him to any one. g. spends night there, and in morning rides forth to seek hector. line . hector rides till eventide, meets a dwarf, who warns him, but will give no explanation. h. rides on and comes to a stone on which it is written, that no one enters this land save to his shame. then meets two maidens who lament over him. comes to a castle surrounded by water, over which is a bridge. a maiden sitting under a tree greets him kindly, and tells him there is a knight at the bridge who jousts with all comers, and throws the vanquished into the water. h. overthrows knight and crosses bridge. the gates are closed, none may enter save by swearing to put an end to the evil customs of the castle. h. swears and enters. asks what are the customs. there is an evil knight there who fights with all who come; if victorious he drives them naked through the streets; also he has dishonoured more than one hundred (= =, _forty_) noble maidens. h. bids them lead him to knight. they take him to a fair garden, well planted with trees, in the midst of which is an open space. they show him an ivory horn hanging on a tree, if he sound it the knight will come.[ ] he does so and a 'hunch-backed and ugly' (= =, _grant_) knight, on a white horse, appears unarmed, and asks h. his name. if he will swear to renounce evil customs h. will tell him, not otherwise; knight prefers to fight. folk tell h. it was a ruse coming to him unarmed, had he made terms and disarmed, he would have been overpowered at once. knight returns in red armour. after fierce fight h. slays him and learns he must now deliver lady of the castle, who is in a cave guarded by two leopards (= =, _lyons_). this he does; slays leopards and releases lady, who is joyfully received by the people. she is argale van grakenlant (= =, _grindelain_), and lancelot's cousin. the knight was margarij (= =, _maugart le roux_); she is concerned to hear of l.'s disappearance. line . ywein rides three (= =, _four_) days without adventure. fourth meets a maiden who laughs as she sees him. y. asks reason, she will tell him if he will promise her a gift that will cost him little. y. promises. a knight has threatened to take her horse, because his _amie_ reproached him with having done little for her honour. will y. give her the knight's horse? she knows y. and his fame, and therefore laughed for joy on meeting him. he consents and they ride together. knight comes out from his pavilion and demands y.'s horse. y. will fight for it. they do so and the knight is slain (= =, _apparently not, the lady only thinks he is dead_), and his horse is given to maiden, who goes her way rejoicing. y. rides till evening, when he meets a maiden lamenting loudly; a knight has taken from her the hawk her _ami_ gave her, _he_ will think she gave it willingly and slay her for jealousy. y. bids her lead him to tent of knight who stole hawk; she does so, and y. bids her go in and take it. knight objects, they fight. both are wounded, knight mortally; prays for hermit that he may receive last sacraments. y. sends maiden, and himself finally returns with hermit, who tends him for fifteen days till wounds are healed. line . mordret, gawain's youngest brother, rode all day with nothing to eat, weary, because he was young, only twenty; fair-haired and good to look upon, but evil at heart. description of brothers: gawain fairest, courteous to all, especially the poor[ ] (= =, _fist voluntiers bien aux meseaulx plus que a autres gens_.) his strength doubles, at certain times, as he fights (not specified, = = says, _toutes heures du iour_), so that none can overcome him, he will either conquer or be slain. a good knight in all things, and faithful to his lord. courteous to all women, and not given to boast of his deeds. agravain, handsome and valiant, but of bitter tongue; 'lancelot slew him as ye shall hear' (_omitted in_ = =), garhiës (later on gariëtte) (_gaheriet_, = =) more courteous than any of the others 'save gawain' (_omitted in_ = =). his right arm was longer than his left, so that he did great deeds of knighthood (= = adds, _most gentle of all, and most relentless when wrathful_). gurrehies (= =, _gueresches_) very valiant, fond of deeds of knighthood, never took any rest. handsome in face and more fastidious in dress than the others. much loved of ladies. gawain's favourite, and youngest save mordret.[ ] mordret was valiant, but an evil knight, save for first two years of his knighthood. 'he did more harm in his life than all his brethren did good, for fifteen thousand[ ] valiant knights were slain in one day because of him, and he himself died there too' (= = _omits this_). line . mordret spends night at castle of a lady (= =, _widow_), who treats him well. next morning he rides on his way, comes to two pavilions; at door of one is a horse ready saddled, and armour. dwarf comes out with bow and arrow, and shoots m.'s horse dead. m. would chastise dwarf, but owner arrives and challenges m. they fight, and knight is slain. m. takes horse and goes on his way. comes to a tent where is a fair maiden; she will lodge m. if her lover does not object; if he does, m. must go. they fall in love; m. prays her favours and is not refused. lover arrives; m. may stay when he tells his name; would do anything for gariëtte's brother. two knights come, with squire bearing venison. m. is well treated. he prays maiden to come to him when her lover is asleep. after some demur, she does so. lover awakes, finds m. and maiden together, reproaches him; he cannot be g.'s brother, or he would not have acted thus. they fight; m. being the younger and stronger, makes him swear to pardon lady. next morning he rides away. line . agravain comes to a fair tent, where there is a dead knight on a bier, a maiden and wounded knight beside him. a. asks explanation. dead knight was brother to the other. on their way to a.'s court they came to the 'keytiven berch.' a knight, dryas (= =, _druas_), attacked them, they were unarmed; one was slain, the other fled. dryas sent the body after him. he slays all who come to this place. a. says he will avenge him; is warned if he slay d. not to sound ivory horn dwarf will proffer, or d.'s brother, twice as fierce as he, will come from the other side of the mountain. a. goes forth, comes to a fountain; is challenged by d., slays him and gives head to knight, who is much rejoiced, even more when he knows a.'s name. a. returns; finds dwarf and maiden lamenting over d.'s body. dwarf offers a. horn, which he blows loudly, all know d. is slain. his brother sornahan (= =, _sornehault_) arms and comes to avenge him. they fight, both are thrown. a. is unconscious. s. is about to slay him, when maid rides up, demands a boon, which s. grants: it is a.'s life. s. will keep him in prison though maid warns him gawain is in the land, and will avenge his brother. s. has a wall built all round the mount, with notice that whoever would enter must first fight with him. line . gurrËes (= =, _gueresches_) rides through thicket forty miles long, ten (= =, _forty_) wide; finds knights ill-treating old knight, rescues him. his son had accidentally slain his cousin, his sister's son (= =, _a maiden_); in revenge the brothers have slain son, and would have slain him, but for g. g. goes with him to castle, most kindly received. offers his love to daughter; she asks who he is, when she hears, says he is too rich and well-born for her. asks him name of knight who bears certain arms; it is lancelot. g. would fain know what has become of him. peasant comes lamenting, he had fled from armed knight and wolves had slain his ass in forest, has lost means of living. g. was the knight; prays his host to give peasant horse for his sake, which he does. during night nephews attack castle, are repulsed; pray for peace. g. advises host to make peace as they are such near kinsmen; he consents. g. leaves castle, comes to fountain in plain, where three ladies are seated, one sixty years old, one forty, one less than twenty; youngest very poorly dressed. g. asks cause of her grief; her husband is very jealous because she had praised lancelot unduly, has taken away her rich clothes, and forced her to eat with the servants. oldest lady is in woe because she has been forced to promise her daughter to knight of low birth, who has murdered one wife already. asks g.'s advice. he tells her to keep her word, and he will free the daughter. they go to castle together; knight arrives and claims maiden, mother gives her up. as they ride off g. says _he_ loves maiden, will fight for her, follows and slays knight. beseeches maiden's love, but she refuses; she loves another, and g. restores her to her mother in safety. will not stay, but will at once seek castle of lady with jealous husband. she receives him well; her husband is away, but returns shortly, and though angry, allows g. to stay. meanwhile another knight arrives, segramore. husband, very wroth, plots to slay them; but page overhears and tells lady, who warns them. they prepare, and when host would pick quarrel with s., slay him to joy of lady and her relatives. next morning g. and s. depart, come to thirteen pavilions, must joust ere they go farther. each unhorses his adversary; may depart with honour. owner of pavilions is count wigans (= =, _gimas_), hearing gawain was in the land, has come out to seek jousts. ride on, meet sister of agloval, seeking her brother; s. will escort her. g. goes on alone. line . gurrËes comes to four tents, in first a meal spread; second, four coffers, and a dwarf sleeping; third, two maidens; fourth, maid and knight. g. eats, and goes to sleep in last tent by maiden. knight awakes, drags g. out of bed; g. seizes sword and smites off knight's head (= =, _cleaves him in two_); lady much grieved, it was her husband. g., smitten with her, forces her to ride with him. come to a forest; knight challenges g. and is slain. next day four brothers of lady overtake them, but are overthrown by g. come to abbey of white nuns. lady takes veil, she is of high birth; lancelot, lionel, and bohort are her kinsmen. g. rides on, comes to sornahan's mount, is overthrown, and shares fate of agravain. s.'s niece treats the prisoners well. line . gariËtte meets a maiden seeking lancelot, and they ride together. her brother-in-law has seized her lands, and she seeks one of a.'s knights to fight with him. g. promises to do so. come to an abbey, see maid's uncle, who encourages g. reach pavilions of count glimas (cf. _supra_), joust, and g. overthrows count himself, whom he sends prisoner to gawain. count treats them well. next morning they go on; meet six knights, with knight and maiden, whom they are treating very cruelly. knight is brandalis of the r. t.; by his oath of fellowship g. must aid him first. gosennes van strangeloet comes up and frees maiden, who is so much hurt she lives but six days. g. returns to maid he is escorting. they ride on and come to tent where is a dwarf (= =, _three pavilions, dwarf in first_), he will lodge them if his master permits; g. promises to leave if he objects. knight comes with two maidens; ill-treats dwarf. g. interferes, overcomes knight, and makes him ask pardon of dwarf. g. has already slain his nephews (= =, _he was one of the knights who had taken brandalis_.)[ ] next morning they ride on, and come to land of lady of roestoc, where fight is to be fought. rejoiced to see g. for sake of gawain, who had fought for her against segurades, 'alse hier voren gescreven es,' l. . (this evidently refers to the earlier part of the _lancelot_, and makes it probable that the dutch compiler had also translated the first part of the work.) fierce fight between g. and gindan, the brother-in-law. latter, seeing he is over-matched, jumps into river and is drowned; maiden regains her land. g. departs; meets a maid who reproaches him with cowardice: he did not free captive maiden, and has allowed his two brothers to be in prison. g. explains conditions of his vow, and asks about brothers. she tells him, and he rides to sornahan's mount, overthrows him, and frees agravain and gurries. s. _did not know who they were_. (this is a contradiction of previous statement, that maiden tells him a.'s name and threatens him with gawain's anger.) brothers stay three days till wounds are healed, then ride forth. first night lodge with hermit; second, with rich man, who warns them not to seek lancelot in that land; there is civil war, the duke's six sons have rebelled against him because he made his daughter and her husband his heirs; they have slain these two. the three agree to help duke, ride to castle, overthrowing two knights on their way. duke accepts their aid, but does not know who they are. great battle, agravain is taken prisoner, but exchanged for two of the sons. line . arthur and court are much distressed; do not know how adventure of the grail is to be achieved if lancelot be dead. (it is not explained how they know of the grail, nor is it clear whether l. is to achieve it personally, or through agency of galahad.) lionel returns, and is much distressed at news. questions wounded knight, who proves to be bohort. (the reason for b.'s attempt to lead away the queen is given in the earlier section of the _lancelot_, so far as =d. l.= is concerned it is not explained.) maiden comes from lady van galvoye to beg aid, wants lancelot or gawain, if both absent, will have b. b. and l. go with messenger. queen gives b. a ring for lancelot; if any one find him it will be b. line . queen has dream l. is faithless to her. very ill. when better sends her niece to 'moustier royale' to find lady of the lake, and bid her come to guinevere. line . lancelot, six weeks before wounds are healed, then sets forth, and finds maiden lamenting, her sister had been carried off, and her lover slain in defending her. she has been to a.'s court, but they are too sorrowful to give aid. l. will help her if she will go errand for him. she leads him to tower, knight too wounded to resist, frees damsel. maiden must now go to court, say she has seen a knight who had eaten with l. 'and slept in same bed' (_not in_ = =). all greatly rejoiced. a. gives maid a castle. line . lancelot rides with sister, comes to a fountain, where two knights and two ladies are at a meal. they ask l. to join them. one maiden falls in love with l. l. drinks from spring, two vipers have poisoned it, is very ill, and is nursed by maiden. while still ill, bohort and lionel find him, and he sends his hair, which has fallen out, to queen, who is much rejoiced. (love complications between maiden and l. lionel again sent to queen, this time for advice. maid swears to remain virgin for l.'s sake; l. will be her knight.) when cured l. and maiden ride on, come to castle of the six brothers, who make up false tale as to their cause. l. believes them, and fights for them. duke is killed, and the three sons of king lot taken prisoners. l. is much distressed, bids them be well treated, and rides off, hiding his name. (here follows his slumber in forest with lionel, when latter is carried off by tarquin; l.'s being taken by the queens; released by daughter of duke of rochedon, and attending tourney. all this has been commented upon in chap. ix.) line . lancelot at the grail castle. this has also been previously noticed. line . lancelot leaves castle, and comes to another 'surrounded by water' (_detail omitted in_ = =). knight challenges him; lost in thought, l. does not hear, but rides over bridge, and is thrust from horse into water; gates closed, must spend night in wood. sits by spring, three (= =, _four_) knights ride up, with maid who cured l. of poison; have carried her off against her will. she says were l. there they would not have dared. knights say l.'s father was a coward, he must be one too; would do violence to lady. l. appears and rescues her, slaying one knight. they ride to castle of lady's kinswoman, where they spend the night. next day l. will go to castle where he lost his horse. host would dissuade him; failing, rides with him. asks does he know hector. tells him h. is his brother (as h. is previously represented as one of a.'s most valiant knights, it is difficult to understand how l. comes to be ignorant on this point). the knight at castle is h.'s uncle. would not joust with l., but thinks this is not he. is overthrown. l. is welcomed by lady of the castle, who tells him h. is her son and his brother. l. next comes to forest, with hermit's cell and chapel at entrance, with notice warning knights to go no further. hermit begs l. not to attempt the adventure; it is 'der verlorenen forest'; has seen a hundred knights (= =, _two hundred within half-year_) enter, but none have ever returned. l. insists on going on (= =, _stays night with h._). meets maiden, who warns him he goes to his death. comes to a clearing where is a company of knights and maidens dancing and singing; feels compelled to join them. squire leaves him and returns. line . ywein stays at hermitage till wounds are healed, then rides forth. meets dwarf, maiden has stolen his brachet; will y. get it back for him? promises to do so. maid and knight ride up. y. bids dwarf take dog; does so. y. and knight fight fiercely; finally find it is bohort, rejoiced to meet each other. dwarf tells them l. is well, was at tourney lately (= =, _also gives news of intended tourney at kamalot_). they separate. y. goes to an abbey of white nuns, is healed of his wounds. rides forth. meets lady thrashing a dwarf, bids her stop; she will, if y. will do what she wants; promises. he must kiss her; so ugly he hesitates. she reproaches him; he is certainly not y., she will go to court and complain of him. y. calls her back. she will let him off if he will fetch sword, shield, and helmet from tent near by. dwarf warns y. she is most treacherous lady in land. y. will go. rides with her, takes arms, leaving his own in their place. maidens rush out of tent weeping and tearing their hair. he has dishonoured all maidens in the land, will come to shame. y. asks explanation. they will not answer; he waits till evening, and as no one comes rides on to a hermitage, where he is well received. h. asks if custom still maintains that no man may sit at r. t. unless he be wounded. custom given up since lancelot, galehaut, and hector were admitted unwounded. now each knight must vanquish one at least in week following, or forfeit seat (= =, _must have done so in preceding week_), (ll. - ). y. asks of shield; belongs to a giant who had wasted the land, but for love of a maiden had promised to remain in castle unless one did him shame. after a year (= =, _longuement y avoit été_), becoming weary, had sought chance of release, so had hung up shield, setting twelve maidens to watch it (= =, _the people of the land had set the watch_). now he will be free, land wasted and maids dishonoured. y. rides on, bearing shield; all flee from him (= =, _two maidens only_). finds two maids by spring; they bid him eat with them, does so. knight comes up, would fight with y. for having released giant. is overcome. y. sends him to giant to tell him who it is who has taken the shield. knight goes, giant strikes off his hand for tidings (= =, _giant gives him his choice: he may lose his hand for the shield or his head for the helmet_),[ ] and rides through land destroying and slaying wherever he goes. y. rides on, seeking shelter; no one will have him. at one castle fights with father and son. sleeps under tree. is wakened by sound of giant, who makes more noise than twenty (= =, _twelve_) knights. y. calls him, but he is too angry to hear. y. mounts and rides after him. comes to 'castel van den trepasse'; five (= =, _fifteen_) knights fall upon him, kill his horse, and make him prisoner; will deliver him to giant. line . bohort comes to lady of galvoye. she has been deprived of a castle by a knight, and needs champion; fight to be fought at king pelles's court. come to corbenic. king and daughter rejoiced to see b.; tell him of l.'s great deeds. fights with and overcomes knight. sees grail. does not sleep in 'palace of adventures.' next morning comes to a hermit, who knew his father and king ban. tells him how his father had built this chapel in memory of a victory gained over king cerces, and given it a golden (= =, _silver_) crown won from king's steward. b. leaves, meets maiden, who reproaches him for having left grail castle without testing adventures, should have slept in hall. (_here_ = = _gives adventure of a lady whose brother has been taken prisoner while seeking a sparrow-hawk. b. frees him._) returns to kamalot. line . gawain meets the maid who cured l. of poison, and was rescued by him. assures him l. is well. they ride together to court. line . lancelot at the '_caroles_' sits on throne in centre of ring, and has crown placed on head. enchantment ceases. maid explains it has lasted ever since king ban came there on his way from a.'s wedding. with him was a youth, his nephew, learned in necromancy. fell in love with maiden sitting on throne, and for her sake wove spell that dance should continue till fairest and bravest knight on earth came.[ ] also made chessboard of gold and silver, which plays of itself against all men. at last clerk and maiden died, but spell was not broken. l. plays with chessboard and wins; enchantment ceases for ever. chessboard is sent as present to guinevere. l. leaves castle, meets knight, who threatens him, but flies when l. would fight. comes to a high tower where party of knights lie in wait for him. they attack him, overthrow and bind him, and cast him into pit infested with serpents. maid releases him. her father was nephew to duke karles whom l. has slain. squire warns his lord of l.'s escape; he arms his knights and attacks l., who takes refuge in maiden's room. l. slays nineteen (= =, _more than twenty-four_). father jumps out of the window, and breaks his neck. l. tells maiden all are slain. she seeks father's body, cannot find it, so thinks he has escaped. l. throws corpses out of windows. they go to rest, and maiden has dream which terrifies her much. next morning they ride out together; hear cries for help, find knight ill-treating lady, and bids him stop, when he strikes off her head and throws it in l.'s face. (this is the adventure in =m.=, book vi., and has been commented upon earlier.) line . lancelot rides back to maiden, finds her gone. meets knight, who asks if he has seen knight and maiden (= =, _two knights and maid_), asks for his maiden. she has been carried off by four knights. l. pursues. finds them about to burn her. l. slays twenty (?), rescues maid: this was meaning of her dream. knights were her brother and three of his followers. come to house of lady, where they stay fourteen days, till l. is cured from bites of serpents in the pit. ride together. come to 'castle of the charrette.' lad meets them; rejoiced at l.'s coming. daughter of duke of rochedon, who freed l. from prison of queen, is to be married against her will to brother of queen of foreestan; it was he who slew her betrothed, his own nephew. l. enters church, challenges knight, who flies; lady receives her lands again. morgain le fay is there, bids l. unhelm, 'in the name of her whom he loves best.' they reproach each other, and m. threatens l. with punishment. l. and maid depart as quickly as possible, fearing m.'s spells. line . how knight with dead maiden fulfils l.'s commands, and body is buried. line . lancelot comes to kamalot; lodges with hermit for tourney. sends maiden with letter to queen. she receives heritage for the one lost. king ider, jealous of l. king and queen say he could overthrow all r. t. knights very angry at this, except gawain (= =, _and bohort_). queen sends message to l. to come secretly and discomfit knights. l. is recognised by king bagdemagus, who will aid him. l. comes in red armour, does great deeds till he beholds queen, when he nearly swoons, and is carried off the field by k. b. r. t. knights get best of it. queen sends message by bohort to tell l. to come secretly that evening (maid of poison cure is there; queen is at first jealous, then satisfied). ider praises red knight, says l. would not have done so well. queen makes king b. challenge a. to another tourney in three days. l. spends each night with queen. third day she arms him in white, bohort in red. l. not to enter field till after tierce. he overthrows and wounds gawain and gariëtte, and scatters knights of r. t. a. bids him unhelm, is joyful at recognising l. sunday, great feast made in his honour. chessboard is brought, all play and are beaten save l. clerk writes down on oath all l.'s adventures in book, which was found after king's death. all others tell their story. a. says l. has done more for honour of r. t. than all the rest put together; they are very jealous. decide to go forth and seek all who have not returned from quest. gawain will seek his three (= =, _four_) brothers. (confusion here; when we last heard of agravain, gurrëes, and gariëtte they were prisoners. how did latter return for tourney? =d. l.= probably saw this, and only mentions three brothers, including mordred, while = = says four, which is certainly wrong.) bohort will seek hector and lionel. (= =, _will join quest; they shall not go without him. h. and l. are not mentioned._) queen and l. talk over adventure of churchyard as told by gawain. she is sure l. is knight meant to achieve it, and is very sad; he will fail through his sinful love for her. l. says he has more bliss from her love than from any feats of arms, all he has done has been inspired by her. king bagdemagus is made knight of r. t. line . lancelot, bagdemagus, gariëtte, and bohort set forth; gawain will follow when wounds are healed. come to castle of 'witten dorne,' meet knight on horseback, naked, beaten, and ill-used by one hundred men; it is mordret. lord of the castle is matheus die felle (= =, _marchant li felon_). g. releases m., attack castle, slay lord and scatter his people. ride fifteen days till they come to castle where y. is in prison. host refuses lodging; hates a.; has one of his knights in prison. they attack castle, and release y. are told of the giant, he will come on the morrow, host had meant to give y. up to him. b. asks boon of l., that he may fight giant. l. unwilling, but consents. great fight, giant is slain. next morning all ride forth (seven). y. suggests they should separate. all ride different ways, meet again at castle on all saints day.[ ] line . lancelot rides fifteen days, meets maiden, asks her of lionel. she tells him, and promises to lead him to tarquin's castle, if he will promise to go with her wherever she pleases afterwards. he agrees. (adventure with tarquin has been commented upon in chap. ix. p. .) line . lancelot. maiden leads him to knight who steals horses; maid rides first, l. after; knight attacks maid and is slain by l. rests eight days till wounds are healed. then would find hector. (= =, _meets old man who tells him h. had slain knight there previous day, shows him road_.) adventures at castle (cf. chap. ix. p. ). finds at castle squire from a.'s court, bids him lead his horses into 'ten verlorene foreeste' and wait for him at cross. comes with two knights whom he dismisses, rides into forest, meets maiden who says she is seeking him to achieve an adventure. emissary of morgain's leads him to tower; drugs him. m. comes, blows powder up his nostrils, which deprives him of his senses; when he recovers he is in prison. sees man in outer hall illuminating, begs brush and colours, and paints on walls of prison history of his love for queen. m. sees this, and resolves to show it to a. line . gawain comes first to tarquin's castle, now owned by 'grave van den parke,' who tells him of l.'s feat. then to hermitage, finds king b. sick, has heard of l. slaying owners of castle vaguel. tells him of _rendezvous_ for all saints. l. will surely be there. b. had helped gurrëes against four knights and been badly wounded. g. offers to stay with him, but b. will not allow it. line . tryst at castle. all meet save l. and bohort. gawain says 'twould be great shame to return to court without them, will seek till s. mary magdalene's day, then quest will have lasted a year and a day. all separate, agreeing to meet again at castle. 'some ride all year, some are taken prisoners' (_omitted by_ = =), finally only mordret, agloval (= =, _agravain_) and bagdemagus return. much perplexed. decide to send messenger secretly to court, to know if anything has been heard of questers. finding nothing is known, swear to ride till they find their comrades. line . lancelot lies all winter a prisoner, when summer comes (= =, _two winters, one summer, second spring_), scent of flowers and sight of roses remind him of guinevere. tears out bars of window and escapes, leaving insulting message with porter for m. meets maiden, who tells him lionel is prisoner in castle of king vagor of estrangeloet. challenged by king's son; unless he can find someone to take his place will be overcome. l. will go. meets wounded knight on litter, if l. will lodge in his castle will meet one of a.'s knights who lies sick there. he himself has been wounded by shot from maiden's bow, and iron cannot be pulled out till best knight in world comes. has been to a's court, but useless till l. returns. a. is much distressed at absence of gawain and l.[ ] go to castle, l. asks to be allowed to try to pull out shaft. knight says it is no use to try unless he be l. does not reveal name. would see sick knight, it is king b., wounded in a tourney. rejoiced to see l., tells him of quest. l. leaves next day, and b. tells knight who he was. knight follows in litter. l. comes to the castle 'dat fremde eylant,' meets squire, who tells him lionel is there, l. says he is one of a.'s knights. will fight instead of lionel. king receives him well; lionel is joyful. a lady had accused him falsely to her husband, they fought, and husband was slain, he was king's son. brother challenged lionel, who being too badly wounded to fight at once had been imprisoned lest he escape. l. fights and is victorious, peace is made, and the two cousins ride off together. knight in litter follows on their tracks. they come to an abbey, 'celice' or 'die cleine aelmoesene' in die 'mersce van scollant.' (here follows long story as to origin of abbey.) line . lancelot hears at abbey of castle near by,[ ] 'die verbodene berch,' a knight had built it for love of his lady, only a narrow footpath leads to it. at abbey shields of knights of r. t. overthrown by knight of castle; them he keeps in prison, all others he slays. l. sees shields of gawain, ywein, and others (= =, _does not mention ywein_), and decides to rescue them. at foot of hills finds hermit, who foretells his success. finds cross with inscription, for forty (= =, _twenty_) years all who came have been vanquished, 'save one, and he doubtless was of david's line' (_omitted in_ = =). goes on, finds pavilion with dwarf, who warns him not to fight, shows him a horn he must blow. prisoners in castle warn him; sees gawain, wounded in the head. knight appears. fierce fight, finally l. gets the better of his foe, who is bohort (= =, _names b. in middle of fight, apparently forgetting that no one knows who he is_), he had overcome knight of castle two years (= =, _one year_) ago, and been forced to take his place (by whom?). he may imprison his comrades but must slay all others; did not know their names, would not ask them. (how, then, did he know they _were_ his comrades?) he is much ashamed and apologises to knights; all are rejoiced to see l. stay there that night. l. has wonderful dream. old man appears, and bids him ride without delay to 'ten vreschlichen woude,' where he will find a wondrous adventure. he is his grandfather. l. rises, arms, and rides away at once. 'comrades depart together' (_omitted in_ = =). line . lancelot meets dwarf, who warns him of great adventures. comes to hermitage by a fountain, where is a bleeding tomb guarded by two leopards (= =, _lyons_), whom l. slays. sees head in fountain, water is boiling, but takes head out and lays it in tomb; it is his grandfather's body, treacherously slain by a kinsman on a good friday. fountain will not cease boiling till one comes who can bring adventure to end, which he cannot, on account of his sin with guinevere.[ ] l. rides on, comes to forest full of wild beasts. rescues boy from bear. rides in search of lodging. moon rises. sees white hart with gold chain round neck, guarded by six leopards (= =, _lyons_), marvels much; swears not to leave forest till he has learnt meaning. comes to two pavilions, asks lodging. must joust with owner; does so, and slays him; twelve maidens make great lamentations, carry off body on bier; he was a great king. l. is much distressed. knight comes and asks lodging. had kept easter at a.'s court. all sorrowful because of absence of l. and g.; but joyful news has come that he who shall achieve adventure of grail is born of fisher king's daughter.[ ] he seeks fountain of sycamores, where a valiant knight has overthrown gawain and ywein; twelve have made a vow to seek it. boy knows road, will lead knight to it. on the morrow they separate; knight, sarras van logres, comes to fountain, fights with belyas the black, and is overthrown. l., who has followed secretly, comes up, overthrows b., gives s. his horse; tells him his name, and bids him return to court, saying he and all questers are well, and will be at court for pentecost. s. rides off, meets wounded knight seeking l.; directs him. comes to court on a sunday; all are rejoiced at news. a. will hold great feast in their honour. line . maid sent by queen to lady of the lake comes to court of king claudas; who asks tidings of l. and kinsmen. maid says they are best and bravest knights alive, and will certainly come and slay him, and take back their lands. claudas imprisons maiden, and sends messengers to court to see if her tale be true. one is so impressed that he becomes a.'s man; other returns and tells c. what he has seen. first tells queen fate of maiden; she writes to c. bidding him free her. c. returns insulting answer. queen, much distressed, longs for l.'s return. line . lancelot. when sarras has left him, another knight appears, like belyas. they fight; knight flies, pursued by l. to castle near at hand. l.'s horse is slain; but he slays all who attack him, and reaches garden, where in tent, guarded by four knights, he finds mordret chained. l. releases him, and they escape together. belyas and bryadas had wished to be knights of r. t. a. refused, not knowing them. they had sworn to keep fountain against all comers; l. has mortally wounded both. l. meets wounded knight, whom he heals at last, sending message to king b. that questers are found; also to those released at 'verbodene berch,' bidding them meet him at court. gawain is ready, but ywein demurs, all are not found yet. g. says duration of quest should be year and day, they have been away three years. all agree to go. (this seems to indicate that = = was correct in not noting their departure earlier, as =d. l.= does, thus contradicting itself. probably an earlier redaction did make them leave at once, while a later introduced more of l.'s adventures. this points to the later interpolation of 'tomb' adventures.) b. knights one of the squires, 'axille die blonde,' and gives him the castle. line . gawain and comrades come to a castle by a deep water, where men are erecting lodges for a tourney. it is the castle of galehoudijn, 'neve' of _gawain_ (obvious mistake for gallehault), (= =, _son of gallehault and la belle géande_, but she was gallehault's mother). conceal their names, are well received and lodged outside castle. hear a tumult, and see agloval pursued by forty armed men. go to his aid, and slay many. their host is much distressed; they tell him they are of a.'s court. galehoudijn arrives; is angry at first, but when gawain reveals their names, is much rejoiced, does them great honour, and knights their host. (= = _is very confused here, persistently calling galehoudijn, gallehault; correcting mistake, and then relapsing again._) line . lancelot[ ] and mordret ride till nightfall. see white hart and leopards; decide to follow them. two knights ride suddenly out of side road, unhorse them and take their steeds. dwarf appears, will lead them to horses, if they will give him a gift. promise; he leads them to two pavilions where they find their horses, and go off with them. come to a hermitage, where they spend the night. l. asks h. of white hart; mystery may not be revealed till 'the good knight' come. asks of king whom he slew, and who was mourned by maidens (cf. _supra_, p. ), he was named merlan, from 'die marchen van scollant,' a wicked man; l. did well to slay him. next morning they ride away; are attacked by knights who stole their horses. m. overthrows them, and gives knights' horses to l. spend this night with 'vavasseur,' who tells them of galehoudijn's tourney. they will go, host with four sons (_no number in_ = =) to attend them. next morning they ride to hear mass. meet an old man who prophesies m. shall be ruin of kingdom and death of his father, 'who is a mightier king than k. lot.' m., angry, smites off his head. l. finds letter on dead man saying who m. really is. would slay him and avert mischief, but for love of gawain, whose brother he is. come to tourney. kings of norgales and of a hundred knights there. l. discomfits all comers. then rides out of press followed by bohort, who suspects his identity. meet, and agree to ride to court together. line . gawain and his companions are much annoyed when they find they have missed l. again. agree to return to court, each going his own way. line . lancelot and bohort see a fire, hear cries for help. b. goes to see, and finds maiden and brother being ill-treated by eight knights; slays three, rest fly. b. returns to l. who has disappeared; spends night in forest. (= =, _goes with maid, who is daughter of king of a hundred knights, to lodging, then with brother to find l.; not doing so, returns and spends night with them. departs next morning, and hears l. has been seen chasing a knight._) line . bohort, second visit to grail castle. tempts its adventures. cf. _supra_, pp. , . line . lancelot comes to two tents, light, and a maiden and dwarf in one, asks for lodging. her lover will not allow her to give it. knight and brother ride up, throw l.'s armour out of tent. fight. l. slays one and wounds the other. rides to a hermitage where he passes night. next day meets two maidens sitting by spring, would eat with them. maiden pursued by black knight runs up asking for aid, before l. can reach his sword she is slain. l. very angry smites off knight's head. fourth night comes to forester's house in moon light. line . lancelot and kay. cf. _supra_, p. . line . lancelot after overthrowing knight of r. t. comes to two pavilions, in one of which is maiden who cured him of poison. sees bohort's son. cf. _supra_, p. . line . gawain and his comrades return to court and hang up shield l. has thrown down in middle of hall; telling how they were overthrown. queen much distressed that l. has not come, gives them rich garments in order of valour. bohort is best, then gawain, hector, gariëtte, lionel, bagdemagus (= = _omits hector but gives others in same order_). kay arrives in l.'s armour. other knights overthrown by l. come and recognise shield. next morning l. is seen coming, go out to meet him, joust, and gawain overthrows him, l.'s horse being weary. great feast, a.d. (= =, a.d. ). a knight in white armour comes weeping, he is probably going to his death. gives l. a letter--if he dies he is to read it aloud, if he survives return it. sits in perilous seat, fire descends and consumes him. he was brumal (= =, _brumant_), nephew of king claudas, who had vowed to prove himself a better knight than l. who dare not sit there. queen and l. talk apart, and she tells him of claudas's insult; he vows to avenge her, c. has taken gannes, benoyc and _aquitaine_. (= =, _gaule and benoyc_--[but gaule was not yet l.'s].) l. takes counsel with his friends and resolves on war. brimol van pleiche comes, was conquered by b. at bridge of corbenyc (not recorded previously). line . claudas prepares to resist a., gives all his nobles leave to go, richly rewards those who remain; is promised help from rome. line . recital of knights' adventures, recorded above. line . war with claudas told at great length. valiant deeds of gawain, hector, and bohort. king and l. join army later. a.'s fight with frollo and winning of gaul is placed here. claudas finally conquered, l. makes hector king of benoyc, bohort of gannes, lionel of gaule (cf. _supra_, p. ). line . feast at camalot. arrival of elaine, l.'s madness. cf. chap. ix. pp. - . line . perceval. his arrival at court. adventure with patrides; fight with hector. grail is vessel out of which our lord ate paschal lamb in house of simon the leper. line . perceval and hector come to house of a hermit who is priest to the fisher-folk, who provide him with fish, etc. after riding some time they come to house of a man, who had lodged l. six months before, knows h. for his brother by likeness, l. was mad then. (this is not in = =, which says, _or dit le compte que grant piece chevaucherent p. et h. ensemble per mainte terre estrange pour scavoir se adventure les meneroit en lieu ou ilz peu(s)(s)ent trouver l. ains chevaucherent maint yver et maint este ensemble._) line . lancelot. adventure at pavilion, imprisonment, and fight with boar (cf. p. ). breaks off short here, as if ms. came to an end and returns to line . perceval returns to court. they do him great honour. damsel arrives (grail messenger, but _grail_ is not mentioned). castle orguelous and montesclaire ventures. (from this point source is analogous to chrétien.) gawain will go to montesclaire, ywein to castle orguelous, kay and griflet to 'tere dolorous' (not previously mentioned), perceval will ride through land, jousting with all whom he may meet. ginganbresil arrives, challenges gawain. all ride forth, gawain, agravain, gariëtte, ywein, perceval, griflet, kay and mordret ride together for four miles, then separate. line . gawain adventure against melias de lis, and tournament as in _conte del graal_. line . kay and agravain go to seek dolorous castle. meet maiden, she will guide them thither if they dare to go there. meet two knights who will joust, k. and a. overthrow them, are attacked by eight and finally taken prisoners, though a. defends himself stoutly. will take them to castle d., before they have gone half a mile p. rides out of side road. they attack him, but he puts them to flight, rescues k. and a., the three take castle and sent lord prisoner to a.'s court. line . ywein and gariËtte meet a dwarf, who leads them to the castle orguelous. there they must joust against all comers. ladies watch from battlements, and as each knight is overthrown his lady sends wreath of roses to victor. thus they vanquish twenty. at last sixty at once attack and overpower them, and they are led to castle, where ladies insist on their being well treated. line . mordret and griflet are warned by hermit of danger they run in going to montesclaire. ride on and are taken prisoners by tyrant who will wed the lady of the castle. line . perceval hears how y. and g. have been vanquished at castle orguelous. rides thither with kay and agravain. p. overthrows ten knights; k. and a. fifteen between them; when all attack them slay twenty, wound fifteen, and take castle, setting y. and g. and the maidens free. line . gawain. adventure with lady and chessmen in tower as in _conte del graal_. g. is sent to find the bleeding 'white' spear. comes to hermitage, hermit tells him how mordret and griflet have been made prisoners at montesclaire, and are to be hanged in the morning. g. will rescue them. rises early, rides to hill where gallows already set up; frees m. and g. tyrant appears, fight fiercely, g.'s strength increases at midday, overthrows tyrant, is fiercely attacked by his men. line . perceval hears of m.'s danger; rides with y., g., k., and a. to aid. comes up in time to help gawain against four hundred men. slay tyrant and free maiden. gawain wins sword 'metten vremden ringen,' which will break if an unworthy knight handles it. next morning separate; g. goes to seek _grail_ (which had not been mentioned before), others return to court. line . gawain. adventure with wounded knight and château merveil. (here we are told that _merlin_ made the _lit merveil_. here too g. is warned he may not leave castle, but queen permits him to do so on condition he returns in evening.) line . adventure with guiromelant. lady is orgeloise. the queens came into the land after the death of uther pendragon, and _king lot_ (who in other romances is contemporary with arthur), when there was civil war in logres. g. is girded for the fight by tristram (who has not previously appeared in the story). at prayer of clareant a truce is declared, and a. says guir. shall wed his niece. kay bears tidings to g., who is so angry he vows he will not return to court. a. much distressed. twenty-four knights vow to seek g. for a year and a day. line . questers come third day into wood. voice from thicket bids them stand; they may go no further unless they joust for it. kay and dodinel overthrown. knight asks tristram's name; he will not tell it unless knight tells his. he refuses; they fight fiercely till midday, when they rest. knight sees others coming and fears to be known; flies into wood. squire comes to seek t.; his wife is ill, must see him. t., k., and d. return. on way k. says he was overthrown unfairly. knight is in wood, overhears, comes out and challenges k. and d.; puts them to the worse. t. and he fight again, lasts long, and t. is becoming exhausted, when maiden appears seeking knight; it is lancelot. they go off together, and the three reach court safely. line . perceval, who has separated from the others, comes to the castle of orgeloise, who is besieged by old lover whom she left when she rode off with gawain. p. fights with and slays him. o. is hereafter known as '_die goede joncfrouwe_.' line . agloval (who is seeking p.) meets knight, who will not reply to his greeting, but enters castle, arms himself, and attacks a. it is gregorias, who stole gawain's horse. a. slays him. comes to castle, where old man receives him kindly. greg. was his foe; his sons are out seeking him. all rejoiced to hear of his death. line . gawain. visit to grail castle as in montpelier ms. of _conte del graal_. next day meets knight and maiden; former, hearing g.'s name, challenges him--he has slain his father. they fight, and desist, since it is no honour to fight with none to behold. will fight it out before court. he is dyandras. g. goes to scavaleon to report ill-success of quest. line . gariËtte and griflet come to a tower where hector is imprisoned; find two knights ill-treating maiden for advising h.'s release. free her. h. appears to aid her (has escaped). lord of castle pursues them with twenty men. perceval and agloval arrive; slay eleven, rest flee. all return to court. line . gawain goes to scavaleon to fulfil compact with ginganbresil. dyandras comes and claims his fight. king consults counsellors; they judge that g. must fight _with both at once_. squire goes to warn king a., who comes with court to witness fight. after a time would stop it, with king's consent, but ginganbresil refuses. gawain's strength doubles, and he conquers both. king and one hundred knights become a.'s men. next day, rides homeward, stopping at castle of tibaut of tintavel, where g. is warmly welcomed. then all go to carlion. line . then follows _morien_. cf. _supra_, p. . index abel, . ade, , . agloval, , , . agravain, , , , , , , , , . aguisel, . alexander, . arimathea (joseph of), , , , , , , . armorica, , . arnoul, . arnout, _v._ arnoul. arthur, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . astolat (_v._ escarloet), . avalon, , , , , , , , . bagan, _v._ vagan. balaan and balaain, , . ban of benoyc, , , , , , , , , , . barenton, . bath, , , , , . baudemagus, , , , , , , , , , , . beaurösch, . bedivere, . beforet, , , , . bel inconnu, , . birch-hirschfeld (professor), . bleeding tomb, . bohort, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . boiling fountain, . borron (robert de), , , , , , , , , , . ---- pseudo _v._ above. bors, _v._ bohort. briant des illes, , . brimol van pleiche, , . brisane, . broceliande, , . bromel le plêche _v._ brimol v. p. brunel du plessis _v._ brimol v. p. brut (_v._ also layamon and wace), , , , , , . brynhild, . cærnant, . cahere, . camalot, , , , . caradigan, . caradoc, , . carduel, . carlion, . cath palug, . celidoine, . champagne (marie de), , , . chapalu, _v._ cath palug. charrette (chevalier de la), , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . charrette (summary of poem), chap. iv. - . chastel du trespas, , . château merveil, . chester, . chevalier au lion (_v._ also yvain), , , , . chevalier à la manche, , . chrétien de troyes, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . ---- position in arthurian cycle, chap. v. pp. - . clarine, , . claudas (king), , , , , . claudins, , . cligés, , , , , , , , . conlaoch, . corbenic, , , , , , , , , , , , . cuchullain, , , . cybele, _v._ sibile. diarmid, , . dinasdron, . dodine le sauvage, . dodinel, . dover, . elaine, , , . elayne, _v._ above. eleanor of aquitaine, , . elidiâ, . eliezer, . erec, , , , , , , , . ---- (poem), , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . ernoulf, _v._ arnoul. escalot, _v._ escarloet. escarloet, , , , , . esealt der lange, . falerîn, _v._ valerîn. false claimant (story of), , . fata morgana, . fier baiser, , , , . fisher king, , , , , , . foerster (professor), , , , , , , , , , , , . ---- ---- theory of arthurian evolution examined, chap v. pp. - . frazer (professor j. g.), . frollo, , , . furnivall (dr.), _v._ queste. gaheret, _v._ below. gaheriet, , , , , , , , , , , . galagandreiz, , . galahad, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . galehault, , , , , , . galehodyn, . galobrus de la vermeille lande, . gandîn, , . garel, . gareth, _v._ gaheriet. gariëtte, _v._ gaheriet. gawain, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . genewîs, , . geoffrey of monmouth, , , , , . gildas, . ginganbrisil, , . giraldus cambrensis, . girard de viane, . glastonbury, , , . godefroy de leigni, , . goothe, _v._ goth. gorres, , . got, . goth, _v._ got. graal, conte del, , , . graalent, , , , . grail (holy), , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . grail castle (_v._ also corbenic), , , , . grail quest, _v._ queste. graislemier de fine posterne, , . grand s. graal, , , , , , , , , , , , . griflette, . guendolen, . guerresches, , , . guinevere, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . guingamor, , , . guinglain, . gurnemanz, , , , . hagen (herr p.), theory of grail origin, , , . hartland (mr. e. s.), , , , . hartmann von aue, , , , , , , , , , , , . hector, , , , , , , , , , , , , , . heinzel (professor), , , . hélie le blank, , . henry ii., . hertz (professor), , . iblîs, , , , , . ider, . idylls of the king, . iseult, , , , , , , , , . isle of women, . iwân de nonel, . iwanet, . iwein (_v._ also yvain), , , , , , . ---- (_v._ hartmann von aue). iweret, , , . johfrit de liez, , . kailet, . kamalot, _v._ camalot. karados, . karnachkarnanz, . kay, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . kei, _v._ kay. ker (professor), , . kiot, , . krône (diu), , , , , . lady of the lake, , , , , , , . lady of the fountain, . lamorak, . lancelot, not a character of early arthurian tradition, chap. i. pp. - . ---- origin of name, , , . ---- rescuer of guinevere, , , , . ---- origin of legend, - . ---- _et le cerf au pied blanc_, chap. iii., - , , - . ---- (prose), chaps, vi., vii., viii., - . ---- (dutch), , , , , . ---- comparison of text, chaps, ix., x., xi., - . lanval, , . lanzelet, _v._ zatzikhoven (ulrich von). laudine, , , . laudunet, , , . layamon, , , , , , , , . limors, . lionel, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . lohengrin, . lohot, . london, . lot (m. ferdinand), , , , . lot (king), , , , . loth (m.), . louis vii., . lucan, . mabûz, , . maelwas, , (_v._ also melwas). maheloas, . maimed king, , , , . malduc, , , . malduz, _v._ malduc. malehault (dame de), , . malmesbury (william of), . malory, , , , , , , , , , , , . ---- comparison of text, chaps. ix., x., xi., pp. - . mantle (lai), , . map (walter), , , , , , . ---- (pseudo), as above. marie de france, , , . mathoeus die felle, . mauduiz li sages (cf. malduc). maurîn, . meide-lant, , , , . meleagant, , , , , , , , , , , , , , . melians de lile, . meliot de logres, . melwas, , , , , , . méraugis de portlesguez, , . merlin, , , , , , , , , , , , , . ---- (prophecies of), . ---- (suite de), , , , , , , , , . modena (bas-relief at), , . mordred, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . morgain la fee, , , , , , , , . morholt, . morien, , , , , , . mort artur, , , , , , , , , , , , , . mort artur, comparison of text, chaps, xi. - . nohan (dame de), . norgales, , . nutt (mr. alfred, _studies_), . orguelleus de la lande, . orgeluse, , . orgeloise, _v._ orgeluse. ossenefort, . oxford, . pallada, . pant of genewîs, , . paris (m. gaston), , , , , , , , , , , , . ---- (m. paulin), , , , , , , , , . parzival (wolfram von eschenbach's), , , , , , , , , , , , , . patrides, . patryse, . pelles, king, , , , , , , , . perceval, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . ---- didot, , , , , , , , , . ---- li gallois, , , , , , , , , . peredur, , , . perilous cemetery, , . perlesvaus (_v._ p. li gallois), . perseus (legend of), . philip of flanders (count), . plurîs, , . queste, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . queste, comparison of text, chap. x. - . ---- welsh, . raguidel (vengeance de), . rajna (professor), . rochedon (duc de), , . rhys (professor), , , , . rigomer, . scarloet, _v._ escarloet. schofield (dr.), , , . schrîenden mose (den), . segramore, . shoreham, . sibile (l'enchanteresse), . siegfried, , , . sommer (dr., _sources of malory_), , , , , . ---- summary compared, chaps. ix., x., xi., pp. - . soredamors, . sorelois, . sorestan, , . southampton, . tanebor, , . tarquijn, _v._ terriquen. terriquen, , , , . torec, , . tristan, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . turquin, _v._ terriquen. tyolet, , , , . urre of hungary, , . uther pendragon, . uwayne, . vagan, . valerîn, , , , . villemarqué (m. de la), , , . vivienne, . wace, , , , , , . wallingford, . walter of oxford, . wechssler (dr.), , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . widow of ephesus, , , , . winchester, , , . windsor, . wolff (lais), . wolfram von eschenbach, , , , , , , , , , , . ---- _v._ also parzival. yonet, . yvain, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . ---- _v._ also iwein and chevalier au lion. zatzikhoven (ulrich von), , , , , , , , . ---- lanzelet of u. _v._ chap. ii., , , , , , , , , , . zimmer (professor), . appendix, pp. - , not included in above index. printed by t. and a. constable, (late) printers to her majesty at the edinburgh university press footnotes: [ ] _brut_, ed. leroux de lincy, vol. ii. ll. - . these remarks also apply to layamon. [ ] described and illustrated by zimmerman in _oberitalische plastik im frühen und hohen mittelalter_: leipzig, . cf. also _romania_, xxvii. p. . [ ] it is difficult to resist the conclusion that if the welsh stories were as late in date and as dependent upon french tradition as some scholars maintain, lancelot would certainly be mentioned in them. [ ] cf. _erec_, foerster's ed., l. ; hartmann's _erec_, l. . [ ] _cligés_, foerster's ed., ll. - . [ ] the advocates of chrétien as an independent and original genius would do well carefully to consider the meaning of such curious inconsistency. if chrétien were dealing with matter either of his own invention, or of his own free adaptation, he would surely have been more careful of the unities. if, on the other hand, he simply retold tales belonging to different stages of arthurian tradition, this is exactly what we might expect to find. [ ] in the opening lines of _cligés_, chrétien gives a list of his works. this includes a version of the story of _tristan_, and several translations from ovid. _tristan_ probably preceded _erec_, but there is nothing to indicate the relative order of the other works. [ ] signor rajna has found the names of arthur and gawain in italian deeds of the first quarter of the twelfth century, and from the nature of some of these deeds it is clear that the persons named therein cannot have been born later than . [ ] _charrette_, ll. - . [ ] _romania_, vol. x. p. . [ ] _studies in the arthurian legend_, chap. vi. [ ] the only adventure of the kind i can recall is that of the fiery lance of the _charrette_ and prose _lancelot_, an adventure which is the common property of several knights, and by no means confined to lancelot. [ ] _zeitschrift für französische sprache und litteratur_, vol. xii. heft i. [ ] _der karrenritter_, herausgegeben von wendelin foerster: halle, . [ ] cf. _anturs of arthur_, where the ghost foretells to gawain the treason of mordred, the destruction of the round table, and his own death. lancelot is not mentioned. nor does he appear in _syr gawayne and the grene knyghte_ or in _the avowynge of arthur_. in some of the other poems, _galogres and gawayne_, _the carle of carlile_, _the marriage of sir gawain_, and _sir libeaus desconus_ he is mentioned, but plays no important part. the ballad of _sir lancelot du lake_ in the percy collection is a version of an adventure related in the prose _lancelot_. [ ] cf. _karrenritter_, introduction, p. xxxix. [ ] the materials for this study had been collected, and my conclusion as to the origin of the lancelot story arrived at, before the publication of professor foerster's book. i am glad to find myself supported in any point by such an authority, but think it well to avoid misconception by stating that my results have been arrived at through independent study. [ ] _lanzelet_ von ulrich von zatzikhoven, ed. hahn: frankfurt, . out of print and difficult to procure. [ ] this account, and the mention of england, l. , seem to render it possible that the original poem may have been written in this island. [ ] this is entirely in accordance with tristan's character as represented in the poems. he is in the highest degree _rusé_ and resourceful. [ ] is it not possible that this _malduz_ the magician may be the original of _mauduiz li sages_ whom chrétien ranks as eighth of arthur's knights? cf. _erec_, . hartmann's version gives malduiz; _diu krône_, , malduz der weise. the identification seems clear. [ ] i am quite at a loss to account for the mistake into which such authorities as m. gaston paris and professor foerster have apparently fallen. in m. paris's study the idea that lanzelet is the rescuer is perhaps rather implied than stated, but when i wrote the _charrette_ chapter (viii.) in my _studies on the legend of sir gawain_, in which i followed the article in _romania_, i was certainly under the impression that the latter was the case. in the introduction to the _karrenritter_, p. xliv., professor foerster distinctly says that lanzelet frees the queen. i have read and re-read the text carefully and made my final summary direct from it, and there is no doubt that lanzelet has nothing to do with the matter. the passage in question is contained in ll. - . how too did professor foerster come to ignore the real character of guinevere's imprisonment? cf. _charrette_, lxxi. [ ] _karrenritter_, introduction, p. xliv. [ ] i think it is worthy of note that though lanzelet is the hero of the tale here and not guinglain, gawain's son, as elsewhere, yet in this poem lanzelet is arthur's nephew, and of gawain's kin, which he is not in any other version. the _fier baiser_ is thus still restricted to the family of gawain. [ ] cf. my _legends of the wagner drama_, _siegfried_. [ ] i say especially 'as told by geoffrey and wace,' for these writers give us clearly to understand that the queen was a consenting party, and no victim to mordred's treachery. it is quite a different version from that of the prose _lancelot_. [ ] i shall have occasion to refer very frequently to professor foerster's introduction. it is a full and powerful statement of views which so far as they affect the origin and evolution of the arthurian legend i believe to be radically unsound. it is most useful to have at hand a summary so clear and concise. [ ] _merlin_, g. paris and ulrich's ed., vol. ii. pp. - . [ ] in the prose _lancelot_ the hero is always addressed as 'king's son.' cf. in this connection professor ker's review of my _legend of sir gawain_, folk-lore, vol. ix. p. . i incline to think that the question of a hero's possessing from the first a name and a well-marked story depends upon whether he has or has not an existence in _myth_. if of mythical origin he probably would have both, if an actor in folk-tale very likely neither; thus while i should reject professor ker's correction as regards _gawain_, i would certainly hold it true of _lancelot_. in the case of this latter hero, i think his name may well have been determined by his title du lac. the tendency of early verse is towards alliteration, probably mere chance determined the _lancelot_, the one essential was that it should begin with an _l_. it should, i think, also be noted that while in the _lanzelet_ the hero's ignorance of his name and birth are genuine, in the prose _lancelot_ he knows who he is, and the wrong done to his father and uncle by claudas. the pseudonyms '_filz du roi_,' '_beau varlet_' are here unnecessary; a meaningless survival from the original tale. [ ] this feature is, i think, peculiar to wolfram; chrétien does not mention it. [ ] professor hertz, in his edition of the _parzival_, p. , records these points of contact, but does not discuss the question of the relation of the two poems. professor foerster in his introduction simply notes that the instruction by johfrit de liez recalls the _perceval_ story. [ ] layamon '_brut_' knows maurin of winchester as a kinsman of arthur's, ll. and . i have not found the name elsewhere. [ ] it appears to me that, in view of herr p. hagen's excellent demonstration of the correctness of the many curious oriental references with which the _parzival_ abounds, and his remarkable identification of wolfram's grail with a sacred _bætylus_ stone, it is impossible any longer to deny the possession, by wolfram, of a source other than chrétien's poem. but whether the _lanzelet_ offers another proof or not i should hesitate to say. if it does, the evidence, extending as it does over so much of the _parzival_, is of the greatest value as an indication of the extent of kiot's work. [ ] _lancelot_, ed. jonckbloet, vol. ii. ll. - . the summaries in this chapter, and all subsequent references to the dutch _lancelot_, are taken direct from the text. a summary of the romance here discussed is given by m. gaston paris, _histoire littéraire de la france_, vol. xxx. p. . [ ] throughout the dutch _lancelot_ we have constant references to gawain's skill in healing. cf. _parzival_, x. . chrétien does not appear to know this trait in gawain's character. [ ] the _lai_ of _tyolet_ was published by m. gaston paris in vol. viii. of _romania_, '_lais inédits_.' i have given a prose translation in vol. iii. of _arthurian romances unrepresented in malory_. [ ] cf. _merlin_, sommer's ed. chap. xxiv. p. . [ ] _tristan_, vol. i. book xiii., ed. bechstein, _deutsche classiker des mittelalters_; also my translation of same, _arthurian romances_, no. ii. vol. i. [ ] dutch _lancelot_, vol. i. l. , to end. the portion dealing with the adventure begins l. , ; the adventure itself, l. , ; also summarised in _hist. litt._ vol. xxx. [ ] the poem itself has been discussed by m. gaston paris in _romania_, vol. xii., and by professor foerster in the introduction to his edition. the question of guinevere's rescuer has been treated by professor rhys in his _studies in the arthurian legend_, and in m. gaston paris's article just referred to, and that on ulrich von zatzikhoven's _lanzelet_ in _romania_, vol. x. i have also devoted a chapter in my _legend of sir gawain_ to the subject. [ ] the concluding portion of the poem is by godefroy de leigni, who, however, worked with chrétien's knowledge and approval, so that practically the work may be held to be chrétien's throughout. [ ] livre, _cligés_ and _perceval_; conte, _erec_ and _chevalier au lion_. the concluding lines of the latter, 'qu'onques plus conter n'an oï,' clearly indicate this. i shall return to this subject in the next chapter. [ ] the manifold discrepancies of chrétien's version were long ago remarked upon by m. gaston paris, and even professor foerster, with all his enthusiasm for the poet, is constrained to admit their existence, but he considers some of the puzzles were of chrétien's own making, and he intended later to clear them up. why then did he not explain them to godefroy de leigni, who finished the poem with chrétien's approval? [ ] i do not here include either the mediæval welsh fragments or malory's account. the meaning of the former cannot be accurately ascertained, and the latter practically represents the same version as that of the _charrette_ poem, though the question of _source_ cannot, as i shall prove later on, be held to be definitely settled. [ ] cf. simrock, _handbuch der deutschen mythologie_, _dornröschen_. some of the details of arthur's journey to valerîn's stronghold are worth the attention of folk-lore experts, _e.g._ the curious account of the _schrîenden mose_, that at certain times utters loud cries, _drî tage vor sunegihten sô schrît daz mos und selten mêr_, and the curious fish in its stream, which are '_ebenlanc und ebenkurz_,' and of which '_die engellende_' have many. cf. _lanzelet_, ll. _et seq._ [ ] on these varying forms of the '_other-world_' dwelling, cf. _rassmann heldensage_, vol. i. p. . [ ] _legend of sir gawain_, chap. viii. [ ] as a rule, whenever in the _iwein_ hartmann does depart from his source, it is with the effect of making the story more coherent and probable. i have noted several instances of this in my study on the _yvain_ poems, _modern quarterly for language and literature_, july and november, . [ ] cf. _parzival_, book vii. . [ ] cf. _parzival_, book vii., as above; also _et seq._ and _et seq._ [ ] cf. _der gral_, p. hagen: strassburg, . i am unable to accept the author's contention that the _bætylus_-grail represents the original form of the talisman; but he certainly proves the correctness of the many curious references to oriental literature which are peculiar to wolfram's version of the story, and cannot possibly have been within that writer's own knowledge. [ ] in this connection, cf. dr. brown's study on _the round table before wace_, vol. vii. of _harvard studies_: boston, ; and the incidental demonstration that layamon had access to welsh traditions unknown to wace. [ ] for the first, cf. _legend of sir gawain_, chap. ix., where i have discussed the variants of the poem. for _the marriage of sir gawain_, cf. mr. maynadier's exhaustive study of _the wife of bath's tale_, vol. xiii. of the present series. in the case of the _green knight_ there are certain peculiarities of names which point to an intermediate french stage, which, in this instance at least, cannot well have been other than an anglo-norman poem. [ ] the french variant which seems to have most affinity with the tale referred to is that of the didot _perceval_, printed by m. hucher in vol. i. of his _saint graal_, p. . [ ] introduction, _charrette_, p. cxxvii. [ ] cf. 'nouvelles etudes sur la provenance du cycle arthurien,' _romania_, vols. xxvii. and xxviii. [ ] cf. _artus kampf mit dem katzenungetum_, e. freymond, halle: . [ ] _romania_, vol. xxix. p. _et seq._ [ ] the evidence of the _lais_, and the fact that marie de france was chrétien's contemporary, forbids us to postulate an entirely oral transmission. [ ] of this the '_runs_' of celtic and gaelic story-tellers form a good example. cf. hyde's _beside the fire_, p. xxv. [ ] mr. e. s. hartland, to whom i submitted the question. [ ] cf. m. ferd. lot 'la patrie des lais bretons,' _romania_, vol. xxviii. [ ] chap. iii. [ ] 'morgue la fée et morgan tud,' _romania_, vol. xxviii. p. . [ ] professor foerster's references to this character (_charrette_, lxxiii.) are perplexing. he prints chrétien's description of the 'ile' side by side with a parallel passage from giraldus cambrensis, _topographia hiberniæ_, informing us that both are 'ganz einfach eine naturgetreue beschreibung von irland.' he cannot mean us to understand that the one description is borrowed from the other; the work of giraldus is at least thirty years later than the _erec_ (_circa_ ), and that chronicler would hardly go to a romancer like chrétien for the description of a country he knew personally. but _is_ it a '_naturgetreue_' description of ireland at all? professor foerster is compelled himself to admit naïvely, '_gewitter und stürme fehlen nicht ganz_!' is this not rather a description of the fabled irish paradise which chrétien and giraldus alike have borrowed from a source common to both? [ ] of course i here use the word _breton_ in a general sense as opposed to _french_. i do not intend to imply that arthur is of _continental_ origin. [ ] _ueber die bedeutung von bretagne, breton_, zeitschrift für französische sprache, xx. - . [ ] cf. chap. ii. [ ] cf. _charrette_, lxxxi. and cxli. [ ] cf. on this point professor foerster's introductions to his editions of the _yvain_, (large ed.), (small ed.). [ ] cf. grisebach, _die treulose witwe_: wien, . [ ] cf. review of _the legend of sir gawain_. zeitschrift für französische sprache, no. , p. . [ ] cf. gautier, _epopées françaises_, vol. ii. p. ff.; also helisant, in _garin le loherain_. [ ] cf. _brut_, ed. leroux de lincy, vol. ii. ll. - . [ ] cf. _the golden bough_, j. g. frazer. [ ] cf. _merlin_, ed. paris and ulrich, vol. ii. pp. - ; _meraugis de portlesguez_, ll. _et seq._ [ ] _vide supra_, _legend of sir gawain_, zeitschrift für franz. spr. [ ] m. ferd. lot, to whom i am indebted for the verification of this passage, writes: 'le () répresente un léger blanc occasionné par un défaut du parchemin, en sorte qu'on pourrait lire en deux mots _lan donez_ (d'où _l'ont donez_); on peut lire la_n_-donez aussi bien que la_u_donez.' [ ] cf. introduction to _yvain_, large edition, where it is referred to as g. [ ] cf. chap. x. p. , where the passage referred to is given in full. [ ] to say, as professor foerster does, that the spring=grave is to misrepresent the incidents; the castle in which the lady dwells is some distance from the spring, as we see in yvain's chase of his flying foe. [ ] i do not know that it is has any real bearing on the question, but the passage from _flamenca_ quoted by wolff (_lais_), p. , is curious: '_l'uns viola lais del cabrefoil, e' l'autre cel de tintagoil; l'uns cantet cels des fis amanz, e l'autre cel que fes ivans._' [ ] p. cxli. _et seq._ [ ] it should be noted that professor foerster offers no arguments; he only makes assertions. there may, or there may not, have been a grail romance which knew nothing of perceval, certainly we have no traces of such, but how _can_ we tell what would be the character of such a story? there are any amount of theories on the subject. wechssler has his, hagen his, diametrically opposed to each other. theories unsupported by proof are useless as argument. professor foerster is very fond of telling us this; but the moment we get on to the question of chrétien de troyes and his sources, _adieu_ proof. we are wrapped in the mists of subjectivity. [ ] the italics are mine. [ ] cf. _erec_, l. ; list of knights, l. _et seq._ [ ] cf. _erec_, l. ; hartmann, _erec_, l. ; _diu krône_, l. (adventure of the cup); _lanzelet_, ll. - . [ ] if malduz, or malduc, were a well-known enchanter, and connected with the arthurian story, as he appears to have been, how did he vanish from it? was it the greater popularity of _merlin_ which displaced him? what is the origin of his name? it sounds as if it might be celtic, or can he be in any way connected with maugis, the resourceful cousin of '_les quatre fils aginon_'? [ ] so far as the _perceval_ story is concerned, there is certainly evidence of varying forms, _e.g._, whence did the continuators of chrétien, notably gerbert, draw their versions? and what of the _perceval_ embodied in the dutch _lancelot_, which appears to be independent, so far as the working out of the adventures suggested by the grail messenger are concerned, of any known version? [ ] professor foerster's attempt to base an argument on the source of _cligés_ cannot for a moment be accepted, cf. introduction, _charrette_, cxxxviii. we only know that the source was a book; but what that book contained, no one can say. we can never argue from the _un_known to the known. we do not know much of chrétien's sources for the other poems, but the grounds for an investigation _do_ exist in the above instances, they do _not_ in _cligés_. we must find out how chrétien dealt with _erec_, _yvain_, and _perceval_ before we are in a position to offer the slightest hypothesis as to his treatment of _cligés_. the fact that mark of rome gives a short summary of the story is interesting, but so brief a _résumé_ is of little critical value. it is certainly not a _book_, therefore cannot possibly be identical with chrétien's source. [ ] on this subject, cf. any scientific collection of folk-tales, _e.g._, _the science of fairy tales_, by mr. e. s. hartland, or in the same author's _legend of perseus_, the tabulated variants of the dragon story in vol. iii. these would help the reader to realise the number of _motifs_ often combined in a single story. the _lais_ of _lanval_, _graalent_, and _guingamor_, comparatively short though they be, yet combine at least three distinct story-_motifs_, _i.e._ what we may call the joseph and potiphar's wife, tannhäuser, and lohengrin themes. any one of these _lais_ would be capable of considerable expansion. [ ] i have studied the _yvain_ versions carefully, and have read those of _erec_, but not compared them critically; but i should not be surprised if it were ultimately found that in _the lady of the fountain_ we have the story at a stage anterior to chrétien, and probably that at which it came into his hands, _redacted by the welsh scribe under the influence of chrétien's poem_; while in _geraint_ we have the process reversed, _i.e._ a rendering of _chrétien's poem modified by the earlier version_. in the statement, '_gwiffert petit he is called by the franks, but the cymry call him the little king_,' we have, i think, a hint of this. the writer must have been too good a french scholar to think the one term a translation of the other; it rather implies that the welsh knew the character only by a sobriquet borrowed from his diminutive size, which is exactly what we should expect, the earlier stages of story-telling being anonymous. so far as the correspondence in word and dialogue is concerned, the conclusion to be drawn depends entirely on the nature of the parallel passages; if they be merely such ordinary dialogue (question and response) as would naturally spring from the incidents of the story, both may well be reminiscences of the oral version. analytic, self-communing passages would, of course, point to a later stage in evolution; but the welsh version dialogue is of the simplest description. [ ] professor foerster recognises this argument in a measure, but does not appear to realise its full bearing. [ ] i should myself be inclined to limit chrétien's share in the work to the rearrangement of existing combinations. i do not think he ever made any new combination, unless it were in the case of _cligés_, and that is only a 'perhaps.' [ ] cf. _lays of graalent and lanval_, p. . [ ] the printed editions of the prose _lancelot_ chronicled by dr. sommer, _sources of malory_, p. , note, are , ant. verard; , philippe lenoire; , jehan petit. there was also an edition , _philippe lenoire_, which represents a very important text, and one which dr. sommer does not appear to know. a copy is in the bodleian (douce collection). [ ] it is difficult to know exactly what value to place on the traditional relationship of uncle and nephew as postulated of arthur and lancelot in the poem of ulrich von zatzikhoven. this is so completely a _lieu commun_ of heroic romance. except in the case of a hero of distinctly mythical origin such as gawain, i am inclined to consider it as marking a secondary stage in the evolution of a hero, he would have attained to a certain degree of popularity before it was postulated of him--thus perceval and caradoc are each, in turn, arthur's nephews. in the case of lancelot it probably represented an intermediate stage between entire independence of arthur (the original) and son of a faithful ally (the final) form. [ ] _merlin_, sommer's ed., chap. xxxiii. the _lancelot_ legend appears to me to offer a very interesting parallel to the methods employed by the compilers of the _chansons de geste_, which are so ably pointed out by m. leon gautier in his _epopées françaises_. the original story of the hero forms a nucleus from which other romances depart in a downward direction--dealing with sons and, perhaps, grandsons;--in an upward, dealing with father and grandfather--till a complete cycle is thus formed. we have exactly this process in _lancelot_--the _queste_ extols the deeds of his son, the _merlin_ those of his father; and we have indications that the story was well on the way to the evolution of a secondary branch, that of bohort and his son. none of the other arthurian heroes has undergone a parallel development. [ ] cf. _merlin_, ed. paris and ulrich, vol. ii. pp. , . [ ] _ibid._ pp. _et seq._ [ ] cf. _merlin_, ed. sommer, chap. xxvii. it may be as well here to remark that professor foerster apparently attributes considerable importance to the pseudo-historical account of arthur's wars with the saxons contained in the prose romances, notably the vulgate _merlin_ (cf. _charrette_, p. xcvi., and review of _legend of sir gawain_, zeitschrift für franz. sp., band , p. ), asserting that the prose romances contain, side by side with the later, the remains of the oldest stages of arthurian tradition. to me it seems patent that these romances have simply borrowed from the _chronicles_. there is nothing in them which cannot be found in geoffrey or his translators, and the fact that they represent the _romantic_ legend in a demonstrably late form, and not in one consonant with the pseudo-historic indications, while there is no trace of any fundamental revision of the story, such as might be expected, seems to make it quite clear that they are of comparatively late invention. they by no means stand on the same footing as do wace and layamon, which are of distinct value in determining earlier forms of the legend. to take one instance alone, the _merlin_ gives a long account of the sons of king lot, who play a most important part in the action of the story, but the genuine early tradition gives gawain no brother save mordred, and layamon distinctly says, 'he wes walwainnes broðer, næs þer nan oðer' (ll. - ). the existence of these sons marks a secondary stage in the story; but they are in all the _prose_ romances. an exception should perhaps be made in favour of the didot _perceval_, which gives the _mort artur_ section in a form differing from the other prose romances and much more closely in accord with the _chronicles_. i shall return to this point later on. [ ] the two accounts should be carefully compared. [ ] cf. _parzival_, book iii. l. _et seq._ i unfortunately omitted to note the reference in the prose _lancelot_. the passage is on p. , vol. iii. of m. paulin paris's abridged edition. [ ] cf. _parzival_, hertz, n. , p. . [ ] cf. _lais inédits_, m. gaston paris, _romania_, vol. viii. [ ] lancelot's eagerness to receive knighthood should be compared with that of parzival. thus lancelot says to yvain, 'dictes a monseigneur le roy qu'il me face chevalier comme il a promis--car ie le veuil estres sans attendre plus,'--and again, 'ie ne seray plus escuyer.' prose _lancelot_, ed. , vol. i. cf. this with _parzival_, book iii. ll. - , 'nune sûmet mich nicht mêre phleg mîn nâch riters êre,' and - , 'i'ne wil niht langer sîn ein kneht, ich sol schildes ambet hân.' the correspondence is striking. [ ] 'en verité ce varlet n'est mye bien sage, ou il a este mal enseigné.' yvain suggests that a woman has forbidden him to tell his name (which might be compared with _parzival_, book iii. l. ). by his speech he must be _de gaulle_. ed. , vol. i. (the edition has in each volume a summary of chapter contents, thus reference is easy.) [ ] ms. , fol. vo., quoted by m. paulin paris in vol. iv. of _romans de la table ronde_, p. . [ ] this _dame de nohan_ is probably the same as the _dame de noauz_ mentioned in the _charrette_, l. . [ ] cf. _romania_, vol. xxvi. p. . [ ] _legend of sir gawain_, p. . [ ] m. marillier in a review of the _voyage of bran_ and _legend of sir gawain_, contained in _revue des religions_ (july-august ), is inclined to connect the adventure of the _fier baiser_ ascribed to the son with the adventure of the _marriage of sir gawain_ ascribed to the father. both are disenchantment stories, and both appear to belong to the class of disenchantment by personal contact. the point is an interesting and a suggestive one. [ ] the character of the fairy and the nature of lancelot's upbringing demand a special study, for which, so far, the materials are not available. the lady of the lake touches on the one hand the queen of the other-world, on the other, morgain la fee. i understand that a study on the characters of lady of the lake, vivienne, and morgain, is being prepared under the direction of dr. schofield. for the details of lancelot's childhood, we must wait till a critical edition of the prose _lancelot_ shows us whether we have any variants or traces of early redactions, to bridge the gulf between the poem of ulrich van zatzikhoven and the final prose romance. [ ] cf. introduction to m. paulin paris's _romans de la table ronde_, p. _et seq._, also m. de villemarqué's _merlin_, p. . [ ] dr. wechssler's interesting study on '_die verschiedenen redaktionen des graal-lancelot cyklus_' will be referred to later on. it is an excellent statement of certain aspects of the problem, but further research shows some of his conclusions to be very doubtful. his judgment with regard to the _queste_ variants is certainly at fault. [ ] l. _et seq._ [ ] cf. rhys, _studies in the arthurian legend_, chap. iii. the author remarks that to this day in some parts of wales it is held an insult, as implying a reflection on her moral character, to call a girl guinevere. [ ] 'arthur gave in charge all that he had to mordred and the queen. that was evil done that they were born, for the land they destroyed with sorrows enow. and at the end themselves the worse (devil) began to destroy that they there forfeited (lost) their lives and their souls, and ever since are loathed in every land, that never a man will offer prayer for their souls.' [ ] this line is lacking in the oldest ms., but can be supplied from the later recension: 'man knew not, in sooth, whether she were dead (and how she hence departed), whether she herself were sunk in the water.' [ ] the _merlin_ of course deals with a period anterior to this _liaison_, but as we possess it, it has been, as we saw above, redacted under the influence of a tradition of which the amours of lancelot and guinevere formed an integral part. [ ] cf. _legend of sir gawain_, p. _et seq._ [ ] on this point, cf. my _legend of sir gawain_, mr. maynadier's _wife of bath's tale_ (both in grimm library), and m. marillier's article in _revue des religions_ (july-august, ), already referred to. [ ] i have purposely omitted tristan, as, though a celtic hero, he is only indirectly connected with irish tradition. [ ] i am glad to find that m. gaston paris evidently holds this view, as in a note to his discussion of the tradition that roland was charlemagne's son as well as his nephew, in the _histoire poétique de charlemagne_, he refers to gawain as holding the same position. [ ] the above remarks of course refer to gawain as connected with arthur; originally he was probably independent. as our knowledge stands at present, the parallels between gawain and early irish tradition appear to belong mainly to the _ultonian_ cycle; while in the case of arthur the parallels are rather to the _ossianic_. [ ] in some versions eighty. [ ] as far as english opinion goes, the popularity of tennyson's version of the arthurian tales has operated disastrously in confusing the question. not long ago a writer contributed to a review an article on the subject, in which he contended for the essential identity of the _tristan_ and _lancelot_ stories, naming among other parallels the fact that in both cases the hero is sent to fetch home his lord's bride--an addition due to tennyson; lancelot in the genuine story being unborn at the date of the marriage. as regards the _idylls_, it can only be said that whereas malory's juxtaposition of half a dozen different compilations made confusion of a subject already more than sufficiently complex, tennyson's edifying rearrangement of malory made that confusion 'worse confounded.' malory is highly valuable for the arthurian legend in his proper place, when critically compared with other versions; and has a separate and independent position as an english classic. the _idylls of the king_ may perhaps also be considered an english classic, but is _entirely_ outside the range of critical arthurian scholarship, and should _never_ be quoted as evidence for the smallest tittle of arthurian romance. [ ] i am not quite certain on this point. certainly the _perceval_ story is earlier than we commonly suppose, and i think we may find that it had reached the ecclesiastical ascetic stage at quite an early point in the evolution of the _lancelot_ story. [ ] cf. wechssler, _Über die verschiedenen redaktionen des graal-lancelot-cyklus_, p. . [ ] _merlin_, sommer's ed., chap. xxvi. p. ; _perceval_, l. _et seq._; _parzival_, xii. ll. - , xiii. l. _et seq._; also my _legend of sir gawain_, p. _et seq._ [ ] i have purposely excluded the melwas-meleagant story from this comparison. i am not clear that it was, in its origin, a tale of conjugal infidelity; it rather appears to me to be a _pluto-proserpine_ abduction tale. the abductor _may_ at one period have been guinevere's lover; but, as we now have it, the queen is the innocent victim of violence. further, it is evident that the abductor had ceased to be the lover _before_ the introduction of lancelot into the story (cf. _lanzelet_). therefore, if originally an infidelity story, we are met by the same perplexing gap in the tradition as we find in the mordred version. [ ] cf. references under heading 'gawain.' they are scattered throughout the book. [ ] cf. _grand s. graal_, ed. hucher, pp. and - . [ ] dr. wechssler's caution is quite right, nevertheless i think we may eventually find that borron was really the author of some sort of a cycle. [ ] dr. wechssler contends for this, as the correct title, rather than _grand s. graal_. [ ] cf. _supra_, p. . [ ] cf. _supra_, p. . [ ] cf. _supra_, p. . [ ] _die sage vom heiligen gral, in ihrer entwicklung bis auf richard wagner's parsifal_: halle, . [ ] obviously added by m. paulin paris. [ ] on this point i need only refer to m. gaston paris, introduction to the huth _merlin_, p. viii. [ ] i do not discuss here how far this romance represents the original borron-perceval poem. as it stands, it is certainly not borron's work. the question is, are we to consider it the work of a later writer, or does it represent an early _perceval_ romance, worked over for cyclic purposes? [ ] some years ago, when preparing my translation of the _parzival_, i found in the _gesta comites andegavorum_ a summary of the closing events of arthur's life closely agreeing with that of the didot _perceval_. the connection between perceval and angevin tradition has not, in my opinion, received sufficient attention. [ ] we have seen reason to believe that the original _perceval_ story did early affect the _lancelot_, and this argument, which we used at first of the independent, becomes strengthened when we examine the cyclic form. [ ] if this be true, it would throw an interesting light on the conjunction of the _queste_ and _perceval li gallois_ in the well-known welsh ms. translated by the rev. r. williams. the compiler of the ms. may have had versions of the two _lancelot_ cycles before him and have taken the _queste_ from each, perhaps doubtful which was the right version. [ ] hucher, vol. i. p. . [ ] quoted by professor heinzel: '_Über die französischen gralromane_,' p. . the parallel passage is on p. , vol. ii. of dr. evans' translation, _the high history of the holy grail_; but it is not included in the welsh translation. [ ] professor heinzel's study did not come into my hands till the ms. of this chapter had been sent to the press. the support afforded to my theory by the above expression of opinion was most welcome to me. a point which deserves notice in connection with this romance is the appearance in it of the above-named _briant des illes_, and the story of the death of _lohot_, king arthur's son. so far as i know, no other prose romance knows either of these characters, but chrétien refers to both in his _erec_, ll. and . i think it is possible that the name given by wolfram von eschenbach to arthur's son, _ilinot_, may rest upon a misreading of _lohot_; the story connected with the latter is certainly curiously archaic in detail. [ ] i cannot at all agree with dr. wechssler's view that the galahad _queste_ has been largely worked over; on the contrary it has been the least tampered with of all the arthurian romances. i shall show this presently by comparison of texts. [ ] the worst fault of dr. wechssler's grail study is that he predicates the distinctive traits of perceval as being of galahad--to whom they never in any sense belonged. galahad is not perceval's understudy, much less is he his original: he is an absolutely and entirely independent creation. the only quality they have in common is that of virginity, which is not of them, but of the monkish redactors of the legend. it is certainly no part of the primitive _perceval_ tale. [ ] the passage which represents gawain as admitting himself to be the slayer of eighteen out of the twenty-two knights who have lost their lives in the _queste_, baudemagus, his dearest friend according to the _merlin suite_, among them, should, i think, be printed at the end of the _queste_, not at the beginning of the _mort artur_, where it is now generally found. it is entirely in accordance with the tone of the first named romance, and out of keeping with the latter. moreover, both the dutch _lancelot_ and the version print it in the former position. the compiler of the _tristan_ has generally been supposed to be the first to introduce the vilification of gawain's character; in the light of dr. wechssler's suggestion it would be interesting to examine whether this presentment is to be found in the _tristan before_ its contamination with the later _lancelot-map_ cycle. i think there were peculiarities in the original gawain story, which, misunderstood by later compilers, helped to cast a false light on his character, but it is open to question whether it was the _tristan_ compiler or the author of the galahad _queste_ who was the original propagator of calumny. [ ] the _queste_ writer dwells upon instances of heroes betrayed through their love of women--samson, solomon, etc. if he had known the earlier _lancelot-borron_ story, with the instance of merlin's betrayal by the lady who brought up lancelot, he would surely have made use of so very _à propos_ an illustration. [ ] i suspect this sword of being the sword of the original perceval story, for which an edifying legend has been invented. it probably belongs to a very early stage of the tradition. i hope some day to make it the subject of special study. [ ] cf. the perceval of chrétien, and more especially the parzival of wolfram, with the hero of the didot _perceval_ or _perceval li gallois_. i consider the two first represent the independent, the two latter the cyclic form. [ ] it may be noted here that in wolfram's version of the _perceval_ story--a version which, as we have seen, has certainly influenced the _lancelot_ legend--the grail-bearer, repanse-de-schoie eventually becomes the mother of prester john. the circumstance that the details of the begetting of galahad are found in the _lancelot_, and not in the _queste_, suggests the consideration that the author of this latter romance may have worked over the section of the _lancelot_ in question, so as to bring it into superficial accord with his story. or he _may_ have worked in conjunction with one of the later redactors. [ ] chrétien does not appear to know anything about him: in the _charrette_, for instance, had he known bohort as represented in later legend, he would certainly have made him, and not gawain, undertake the conflict with meleagant, for which lancelot threatens to be too late. the role of 'helpful friend,' played by gawain in the earlier versions of the legend, is passed over to bohort in the later. [ ] on this point cf. what i have said before as to the development of the _chansons de geste_; p. note. [ ] . edited by dr. jonckbloet, vols., , will be referred to as =d. l.= . edition in vols., a complete copy is contained in the douce collection in the bodleian library, referred to as = =. . _morte arthur_, edited by dr. sommer, vol. iii., _sources of malory_, the sections entitled _the lancelot proper_, _the quest of the holy grail_, and _la morte au arthur_; all three are referred to as =s.= . _queste del saint graal_, ed. furnivall--=q.= . _morte arthur_, sommer (vol. i. text)--=m.= . the welsh _queste_ (ed. rev. r. williams, ), which i have also consulted, being, in its available form, the translation of a translation, scarcely affords reliable ground for comparison; it is, moreover, a very free rendering of the text. nevertheless, as it is well to make use of all available versions, i have, in the cases where the original text appears to be fairly represented, added this reading under the heading =w.= [ ] cf. jonckbloet, _roman van lancelot_, vol. i. p. lvii. [ ] to speak quite correctly it really begins rather before the _agravain_ proper. i have noted this further on. m. paulin paris remarks (_romans de la table ronde_, vol. v. p. ), with regard to the _agravain_, that we find it 'le plus souvent copié isolément, ou bien complétement séparé des autres parties.' one of the useful hints of this scholar which might have earlier been taken into consideration. [ ] in this connection it is amusing to find dr. wechssler (_sage vom heiligen gral_, pp. - ) remarking complacently that the achievement of the adventures announced by the grail messenger '_wird nirgends erzählt_.' the dutch _lancelot_ has been edited and available for _fifty_ years. i must own that the result of my examination of this, and of the version of , equally available, has been to seriously shake my belief in the soundness and reliability of foreign criticisms of the arthurian cycle. it is quite clear that the material at our disposal, limited as it is, has not yet been properly examined. [ ] the romances not being named in the =d. l.=, i have adopted for convenience' sake the names given to them by m. gaston paris. [ ] abstracts of these episodic romances are given by m. gaston paris, in vol. xxx. of _hist. litt. de la france_. [ ] dr. sommer says, and correctly, that the '_pomier_' must be the older version. [ ] this account of lancelot being found asleep and carried off by three queens should be compared with that of renouart found sleeping and carried off to avalon by three 'fays.' i assume throughout that dr. sommer's summary correctly represents his text, but i admit that i have my doubts on this point; certainly in the _queste_ section he gives some most mistaken readings; indeed, apart from the evidence of =d. l.= and = = the whole _lancelot-queste_ section needs revision. it is unfortunate that some foreign scholars have been so ready to accept dr. sommer's statements without taking the trouble to verify them. [ ] i do not think this is a proper name, but the equivalent of _grave_=count. [ ] no other version mentions, as does =m.=, that the ladies won their living by 'al maner of sylke werkes,' but the whole story looks so like a copy of yvain's adventure at the château de pesme aventure that i think it may have been in his source. [ ] of course m. paulin paris's book, being greatly condensed and modernised, cannot be used for textual criticism; but the compiler was a scholar of very wide learning, and there are numerous notes and hints, which we, of a later generation, make a great mistake in disregarding. [ ] this lady, never mentioned by =m.=, plays an important rôle in the prose _lancelot_. [ ] here i take the opportunity of saying that i entirely dissent from dr. sommer's assertion that gareth is the equivalent of the french _guerresches_ rather than _gaheret_. it is this latter (in the =d. l.= _gariëtte_) which =m.= renders by gareth. i have paid a good deal of attention to this question, and have come to the conclusion that, although in the descriptive summary of king lot's sons, found in the _lancelot_, guerresches (gurrehes) is said to be the youngest, save mordred, and gawain's favourite, yet the adventures ascribed to gaheret (variants, gaheriet, gariëtte, garhiës) throughout mark him as the original of gareth; a point which etymology alone would, i think, decide in his favour! this much is certain, wherever =m.= and the french versions can be compared we find gaheret and _not_ guerresches. when dr. sommer takes it upon himself, as he does in the quotations from the french contained in the _mort artur_ section, to arbitrarily change the _gaheret_ of all the foreign versions into _guerresches_, because the latter agrees with his preconceived ideas, he is setting what i must consider as a most undesirable precedent; we cannot take these liberties with the texts and hope to arrive at a satisfactory and scientific conclusion. as pointed out in my review of dr. wechssler's grail study, once allow such a substitution, and what is to prevent us from a series of editions emendated to suit the personal views of each editor? i think myself that gaheret and guerresches may originally have been one, but that confusion arose from mordred being sometimes considered as lot's, sometimes as arthur's, son, and that a tradition of _four_ sons of king lot having been established early in the evolution of the romantic story, the personality of the third was doubled to make up the correct number. this is only a suggestion, but there is certainly a confusion as to identity in the french versions, though there is no confusion as to the original of =m.= [ ] it seems likely that this was in =m.='s source, as we read that the old man has a spear in his hand, 'and that spere was called the spere of vengeaunce.' but the old man never speaks of it to bors. [ ] as regards the mention of galahad and lancelot in = =, i find i have no special note. they are certainly not in =d. l.= and the two versions are in such habitual accord that i think i must have noted it had they differed here. still, i think it only fair to point out my omission. [ ] on p. of the _studies_ there is a mistake. dr. sommer speaks of the fight between _bors_ and perceval and their healing by the grail. it should, of course, be _hector_, not _bors_. we may note here that in this instance the grail is stated to be the dish out of which our lord ate the paschal lamb in the house of simon the leper; there is no mention of its containing the blood of christ, or of its being borne by a maiden as in =m.= [ ] there is no mention of balyn's sword: this is clearly an interpolation of =m.= [ ] this passage throws into strong relief the absolute unreality of the galahad _queste_. the hero knows all about the grail, its keeper, where it is to be found, his own relation to it. he has grown up under its shadow as it were. nor need he fulfil any test to gain it: in all the records of his adventures there is no temptation such as that undergone by perceval or bohort; he is as fit to become keeper of the grail (for this and not grail-_king_ he practically becomes) when he leaves arthur's court as when he finally, after a series of aimless adventures, arrives at corbenic. contrast this with the earlier versions: the hero knows nothing of the grail; not till after he has beheld the talisman and failed to accomplish the necessary test does he even hear the name; when he would make amends for his negligence he can no longer find the castle, and not till he has proved himself worthy through long-continued trial is the opportunity once lost again offered to him. neither do the inhabitants of the grail castle know their deliverer; they hope that it may be he, since they believe none other might find the way, but they do not know him, whereas galahad is well known to the dwellers in corbenic. [ ] dr. sommer's description of the swearing of the questers, on p. of the _studies_, is utterly wrong. in every version arthur calls on gawain to swear first, when baudemagus interposes, saying that he who is to achieve the quest should be the first to swear. consequently galahad swears first, and is followed by lancelot, gawain, perceval, bohort, lionel and hélie le blank. baudemagus is in no instance the first to swear. [ ] dr. sommer's summary is again misleading, and entirely misrepresents the general character of the incident. [ ] _studies_, p. . [ ] cf. dr. sommer's remark on p. . i cannot recall a single instance in which the equivalents to =m.= give any other reading. [ ] on p. , dr. sommer states that =q.= does not, at this point of the story, say what becomes of perceval. this is wrong; =q.= distinctly says he leaves lancelot _to return to the recluse_. [ ] in his summary of the conversation on p. , dr. sommer again misrepresents his text--_all_ agree in saying that perceval asks his aunt about his mother and 'parens,' not that the aunt asks perceval! [ ] the adventure of perceval on the rock agrees closely with that of mordrain in the _grand s. graal_. there also are two ships--in one a man who encourages, in the other a woman who tempts, him. in both cases the woman accuses the man of being an enchanter; in both her ship is covered with black silk, and she departs in a tempest. cf. hucher, _le s. graal_, vol. ii. pp. , _et seq._ [ ] _s. graal_, ii. p. . [ ] as i said before, this _may_ be due to the influence of _morien_, but we must not overlook the fact that this poem certainly has some curious points of contact with the _parzival_ of wolfram von eschenbach, which also knows of the hero (or more accurately here, his son) regaining his kingdom, which he also does in _perceval li gallois_. [ ] the scribe of the original ms. may have had to condense on account of space here, which is contrary to the usual practice of = =; but in a printed edition it is not easy to decide the real value and significance of such omissions. [ ] = = _ten_, representing the number as thirteen, galahad taking the place of our lord. this is a point on which we might expect to find different readings, according as the compiler held, or did _not_ hold, judas to have been present at the institution--a question on which a difference of opinion has always existed. [ ] this is the passage to which i referred in connection with the yvain sources, p. . this son of king claudas is, no doubt, the same who played such a valiant part in the war between lancelot and his father, related at great length in the _lancelot_. [ ] this arrival of the nine knights at the grail castle, and their share in the grail revelation, is a striking proof of the unreality of the galahad _queste_ quâ _quest_, on which i have remarked elsewhere. who are these knights? what claim have they to be admitted to a feast so holy that even king pelles and his son are excluded? practically they are as much achievers of the quest as galahad himself. the fact is the writer is so taken up with the religious symbolism of the relic that in exaggerating and insisting on symbolic details he loses sight of the real point of his story. i very much doubt whether any one but the grail winner himself ought to reach, or was ever contemplated as reaching, the grail castle, much less be witness of the full explanation of the relic. to this it may be objected that gawain reaches it; but gawain was certainly at one time looked upon as the grail winner, and i believe it is only in this character that he ever found the castle. the accessibility of corbenic is a _very_ weak point of the galahad _queste_. [ ] i cannot agree with m. gaston paris's suggestion that this passage, which he takes as part of the _mort artur_, refers to an earlier _queste_ redaction. a _queste_ giving a full account of the fate of so many of the knights engaged would be of portentous length, and there is absolutely no sign of this galahad _queste_ having existed in another form. i regard it as a summing up, by the author, of the general results of the expedition, a _postscriptum_ which enabled him to have a final fling at his _bête-noire_ gawain. the addition of baudemagus's name may have been his work, or that of a copyist, and designed to give point to his accusation. whether the tradition that he should be killed by gawain arose from this passage, or was incorporated in the _merlin_ from another source we cannot say. the baudemagus tradition demands study. in the _merlin_ he is represented as but six years older than gawain, whose dearest friend he is, but in the _charrette_ he appears as quite an old man, whose son, meleagant, is the contemporary of gawain and lancelot; while in the prose _lancelot_ and _queste_ he appears as the devoted friend of the family of king ban, sharing the adventures of these young knights on an equal footing. the whole presentment is hopelessly confused. the frequent reference to the arthurian records, as kept in the 'almeryes' at salisbury, appears to me to be a parallel case to the allusions in the charlemagne romances to the records at s. denys. i suspect there is as much, or as little, truth in the one ascription as in the other. [ ] cf. _studies_, p. . dr. sommer uses as an argument for this the difference of spelling in the name of _corbenic_, but this proves nothing. =d. l.= has at least four ways of spelling this word, and sometimes a variant occurs in the space of a few lines. the general character of the name is always preserved, and in mss. that have been frequently copied, to say nothing of printed, the substitution of one letter for another is too frequent to call for remark. [ ] dr. wechssler in his _lancelot_ study announces solemnly, '_so viel aber steht für uns fest, dass malorys quelle für sein sechstes buch nicht die branche eines cyklus, sondern ein selbständiges originalwerk gewesen ist_' (_gral-lancelot_, p. ). but we now see it was beyond any doubt part of a cyclic work. [ ] cf. appendix, p. . [ ] i take this opportunity of strongly protesting against the tone assumed by professor foerster on the question of malory. he has not himself examined the question of the sources, but has simply accepted all dr. sommer's far too hasty and inadequately founded conclusions. when he says, on p. lxv. of the _charrette_, '_der überall seine quellen und zwar nur seine quellen und obendrein noch treu wiedergebende malory ist ein phantasiegeschöpf der walliser und engländer_,' he is simply dogmatising in an unwarrantable manner on a question with regard to which he has no _locus standi_. exaggerated as the statement is, and is meant to be, it is infinitely nearer the truth than are many of professor foerster's own hypotheses. [ ] cf. appendix, p. . [ ] the passage quoted by dr. wechssler (_gral-lancelot_, p. , _et seq._), and which he considers belongs to an earlier version of the _queste_, is manifestly only a condensed variant of the ordinary _queste_ into which an allusion to tristan and pallamedes has been clumsily introduced. [ ] this seems to point to the fact that the _agravain_ section of the _lancelot_ is that which offers the most important variants, and is the most likely to reward the careful critic. the final section is practically based upon a romance foreign to the original _lancelot_ story, and which has been incorporated into it; consequently we may expect to find all the versions in pretty general agreement as regards the _mort artur_ proper. [ ] cf. _studies_, p. . [ ] cf. appendix, p. . [ ] referred to in future as =m. a.= [ ] as i have said before, there can be no doubt which of the two is the prototype of gareth; also, subsequent study has shown me that, outside the _lancelot_ proper and the romances which have been modified for cyclic purposes, we rarely find any mention of guerresches, whereas we often meet with gariët. i am strongly of opinion that originally the two characters were one, and that in that earlier form the knight was gaheriet or gariët. [ ] _studies_, p. . [ ] throughout this section it must be borne in mind that =s.= systematically replaces the _guerresches_ of his text by _gaheriet_. this latter sides throughout with gawain. [ ] it is of course possible that a negative may have dropped out here. [ ] on p. , dr. sommer makes a strange mistake. we are told that bohort fights against ywain; to this dr. sommer appends a note of exclamation, and a footnote to the effect that ywain has already been killed by gawain, as related in the _queste_. of course it was not the '_chevalier au lion_,' but his bastard half-brother, '_yvain li avoutres_,' who was slain on that occasion. the text of =q.= is quite clear. [ ] on p. , dr. sommer again falls into a curious error of identity. we are told that king karados assists at the council between arthur, lancelot, and gawain, when the fight is determined upon. dr. sommer reminds us in a note that karados had been previously slain by lancelot! that was, of course, the giant of that name, brother to turquine; _this_ is the famous karados '_brief-bras_,' sometimes regarded as arthur's nephew. dr. sommer's apparent lack of familiarity with the minor characters of the arthurian cycle is inexplicable. [ ] on p. the parallel passages quoted from =m.= and the english =m. a.= make mention of _baudemagus_ as one of lancelot's councillors, whereas at the end of the _queste_ his death at the hand of gawain is recorded. cf. this with my remarks on the baudemagus legend, p. . i do not think this story of his death was a genuine part of the cyclic _lancelot_, but belonged to another line of tradition known to the author of =q.= from the merlin _suite_, and unintelligently quoted by him. this, which is a real discrepancy, as there is but one baudemagus, dr. sommer does not remark upon! [ ] cf. chap. i. p. . [ ] (_a_) chap. ii., the _lanzelet_ of ulrich von zatzikhoven; (_b_) chaps. iii. and iv., _le cerf au pied blanc, le chevalier de la charrette_; (_c_) chaps. vi., vii., and viii., the prose _lancelot_. [ ] cf. chap. vii., _the loves of lancelot and guinevere_. [ ] cf. pp. , , . [ ] i do not here intend to imply any opinion as to the _original_ nature of the grail, only to refer to the undoubted fact that _as connected with perceval_ it is more or less religious in character. [ ] dr. sommer's study on malory is a case in point. it is a work of great extent, carried out with the most painstaking perseverance, yet because he omitted to consult such accessible texts as the dutch translation and the bodleian _lancelot_, and assumed the general unanimity of the printed versions, a very important section of his work is largely deprived of value, and urgently requires revision. [ ] the parallel with the edition of begins vol. ii. fo. xxxix.; with the abstract of m. paulin paris, vol. v. chap. cxxii. that is, somewhat earlier than the beginning of the _agravain_ section proper. [ ] is this perhaps the sir marrok of the were-wolf story?--=m.=, book xix. chap. ix.; also vol. iii. of _arthurian romances unrepresented in malory_. [ ] =d. l.= always has the form _walewein_. [ ] this name is spelt _hestore_ throughout. on the whole the spelling of proper names in =d. l.= is very erratic, and varies greatly. [ ] this adventure of the perilous cemetery is one of the 'cross-references' to which i have referred earlier. it is mentioned both in _g. s. graal_ and _queste_. the wording here is not very clear, but it does not, i think, mean that lancelot has already failed in the grail adventure, but that he shall come to the cemetery after he _has_ failed; which is fulfilled in _queste_. at the same time we must remember that in _perceval li gallois_, which knows nothing of galahad or the _queste_, lancelot fails for the same reason, and more completely, as the grail does not appear at all in his presence, so this _may_ refer to the earlier story. [ ] it may be noted that chrétien knows nothing of a dove connected with the grail, whereas wolfram does. [ ] i have before remarked on the uncertain spelling of this name in =d. l.=, the above is the more usual form. [ ] from this it appears that gawain's failure at the grail castle was in no way due to any defect of _character_, but to his omission of the reverence due to the grail, of the sacrosanct nature of which he was ignorant. this explanation appears to me to be peculiar to the _lancelot_ version, which otherwise, as i have pointed out, regards gawain with great respect. [ ] certain details in this adventure recall that of the 'joie de la court' in _erec_. [ ] i think this is probably the explanation of a.'s vision, when he sees g. after death surrounded by the souls of poor men 'who have helped g. to conquer the heavenly kingdom.' cf. sommer, _studies_, p. . [ ] these passages illustrate the difficulty previously referred to, of identifying the original of gareth. i believe it can only be done by comparing the parallel adventures in =m=. and his source. [ ] in the account of the final battle all versions i have consulted give one hundred thousand on each side killed; the above is much more reasonable. [ ] there is a _lacuna_ of a few lines here in =d. l.=, so this may well have been in the text. [ ] this adventure of ywein and the giant's shield should be compared with _meraugis de portlesguez_, ll. _et seq._ there lady has taken dwarf's horse; and it is the eye, not the hand, which the messenger loses. i believe the above to be the older version, as, though l'outredotez is always spoken of as a knight simply, meraugis once refers to him as a _giant_, which must have come from another version. [ ] this appears to be a reminiscence of merlin and vivienne. cf. _merlin_, sommer's ed., chap. xix. [ ] cf. this with _studies_, p. ; also remarks, _supra_, p. . [ ] it is quite possible that we have here the story of urre of hungary, which may well have been given at greater length in one of the _lancelot_ mss. also the source of malory's version of lancelot being wounded by a maiden, book xviii. chap. xxii., where the prose _lancelot_ gives one of his squires. [ ] m. paulin paris omits this adventure in his summary, which only records the _lancelot_ sections. it is thus apparently lacking in the ms. used. [ ] this is one of the adventures referred to previously, cf. pp. - , _grand s. graal_, vol. iii. p. _et seq._ it is worth noting that it is only in the passages parallel to _grand s. graal_ that l.'s relations with queen are spoken of as sinful. [ ] this does not fit in with indications of story, which would place galahad's birth considerably earlier, l.'s visit to corbenic being some two or three years previous. [ ] all this section of lancelot's adventures, from his meeting with sarras of logres, differs very much from m. paulin paris's summary. cf. _romans de la table ronde_, v. p. _seq._ * * * * * transcriber's notes obvious typographical errors have been corrected, but other variations in spelling, punctuation, and the use of accents have been retained, except where in conflict with the index. italics are shown thus _italic_ and bold thus =bold=. the long s is represented by (s). the old english letter yogh is represented by [gh]. a vertical elliptical symbol on page (chapter ) is represented thus (). a missing "the" was added in chapter : "in these last instances the story may well have been in the _lancelot_, and taken over by "the" compiler of _grand s. graal_; the _queste_ makes very little of them; they only serve to keep up the connection between the 'secular' and 'religious' sections." sir gawain and the lady of lys translated by jessie l. weston. illustrated by morris m. williams. published by david nutt at the sign of the phoenix arthurian romances unrepresented in malory's "morte d'arthur" _no. vii_ sir gawain and the lady of lys arthurian romances unrepresented in malory's "morte d'arthur" i. sir gawain and the green knight. a middle-english romance retold in modern prose, with introduction and notes, by jessie l. weston. with designs by m. m. crawford. . s. net. ii. tristan and iseult. rendered into english from the german of gottfried of strassburg by jessie l. weston. with designs by caroline watts. two vols. . s. net. iii. guingamor, lanval, tyolet, le bisclaveret. four lays rendered into english prose from the french of marie de france and others by jessie l. weston. with designs by caroline watts. . s. net. iv. morien. translated for the first time from the original dutch by jessie l. weston. with frontispiece and designed title-page by caroline watts. . s. net. v. le beaus desconnus. cligÈs. two old english metrical romances rendered into prose by jessie l. weston. with designs by caroline m. watts. . s. net. vi. sir gawain at the grail castle. three versions from the conte del graal, diu crône, and the prose lancelot, by jessie l. weston. . s. net. vii. sir gawain and the lady of lys. translated for the first time from wauchier de denain's section of the conte del graal by jessie l. weston. with designs by morris m. williams. . s. net. [illustration: but the child spake no words, but looked up at the glancing sword blades and laughed blithely.] contents page introduction ix sir gawain and the lady of lys castle orguellous notes introduction the stories contained in the present volume of _arthurian romances_ are drawn from the same collection of tales as that from which the first visit of gawain to the grail castle, in the preceding volume of the series, is derived. indeed, the stories follow in close sequence, and a glance at the introductory lines of the grail visit will show that that adventure is placed immediately after the successful termination of the expedition against chastel orguellous, which forms the subject of this volume. these stories practically form three separate tales, and are translated almost entirely from the same ms. as that used for the grail visit, the fine _perceval_ codex b.n. . with regard to the second adventure a few words of explanation are necessary. the relations of gawain with the lady of lys, recorded in all the _perceval_-wauchier texts, are as a rule related twice over; in the first instance in the section which, in my _perceval_ studies, i have called the _brun de branlant_ section, as it is devoted to arthur's expedition against that recalcitrant noble. gawain's meeting with the lady takes place, as he here explains, during the siege. later on, on the expedition against chastel orguellous, related in these pages, arthur and his knights come all unwittingly to the castle of the lady's brother, bran de lis, and gawain, realising the position, relates the story of the first meeting. now in the best and fullest texts the two versions do not agree--they are, in fact, incapable of being harmonised--and the curious point is that this second version, related by gawain himself, and included in a collection of tales of which he is the hero, represents his conduct in a distinctly less favourable light. in the _studies_ above referred to i have entered at length into the question, and have expressed my opinion that this second form is really the older, and owes its somewhat repellent character to the fact that it is a survival of a very early, pre-chivalric stage of tradition. it is worthy of note that the subsequent conduct of both brother and sister is precisely the same in both versions; whether gawain accepts favours freely proffered, or takes them by force, bran de lis is neither more nor less his enemy; whether she wins her heart's desire, or is the victim of _force majeure_, his sister is equally gawain's devoted _amie_. but for purposes of translation the versions do not stand on an equal footing; and, these volumes being intended for the general public, i have preferred to follow the later and, undoubtedly, more sympathetic form. nor is this to take an undue liberty with the text; we are but following the example set by certain early copyists. two mss., b.n. and british museum add. , give the story on each occasion in an identical form. their text, however, is on the whole far less detailed and interesting than that of b.n. . i have therefore, for the terms of gawain's recital, and for that only, adopted the version of ; for the rest the stories are as close a rendering as may be of the text of . the first story, _kay and the spit_, and the taking of _chastel orguellous_, all part of one and the same expedition, possess a special interest for us, in that we have in our english _gawayne and golagros_ another version of the same tales. sir frederick madden, in his _syr gawayne_, drew attention to this, and gave a brief summary of the french text. it seemed to me that the interest of the story itself, and its connection with our vernacular literature, were sufficient to warrant a full translation being placed at the disposal of english readers. for indeed the interest of these stories is great, and if i be not mistaken, their importance as yet scarcely realised. since the publication of the last volume of this series we have become aware of certain facts, small in themselves, but weighty in their connection and _ensemble_, which go to prove that there existed at an early date a collection of poems dealing with the feats of gawain and his kin, which may be styled _the geste of syr gawayne_, the authorship of which was ascribed to a certain bleheris. of this collection the story in vol. i., _sir gawain and the green knight_; the first visit of sir gawain to the grail castle, in vol. vi.; and the stories here given all formed part, while our english _gawain_ poems are a late and fragmentary survival of the same collection. judging also from the appearance on the scene of gawain's son, guinglain, and the numerous allusions in wauchier's text to the length and importance of the _grande conte_ of which these tales formed a part, it seems most probable that the original collection included a version of the adventures of the hero we know as _sir libeaus desconus_, whose feats will be found recorded in vol. v. of this series. the english poem there modernised says that the hero was _begotten by a forest side_, thus apparently identifying him with the child of the picturesque adventure related in these pages. at the same time the adventures summarised by wauchier--for he gives but little detail concerning guinglain--do not agree with the english tradition. at a considerably later point of the collection, however, we find the young knight giving his name in terms which accord completely with our poem; on meeting his father, sire, fait il, 'ie sui giglain votre fis, qui le roi artus mist nom le biax desconeus. which may well refer to the tale we know. this is not the place to enter into a discussion of the varying tradition connected with sir guinglain; the point of interest is rather the character of the stories with which we are immediately dealing. there can, i think, be little doubt that whoever was responsible for the _geste of syr gawayne_, and whether bleheris, whose name is more than once connected with it, composed, or merely arranged, the poems, they represent a tradition of great poetical force and vitality. the adventure with the sister of bran de lis is an admirable story, picturesque, vivid, and full of human interest. our _syr gawayne and the grene knyghte_ is notoriously one of the finest of our mediæval poems. the visit of sir gawain to the grail castle, related in our last volume, yields in dramatic detail and picturesque directness of narration to no other version of that mysterious story. we can well understand that, in its original form, the collection must have been one that appealed forcibly to the imagination of the hearers. if any one will glance through these stories consecutively, he cannot fail to realise that the character of the hero is the same throughout. gawain is unfailingly valiant, generous, and courteous, even, as we see in our final story, to excess. we realise as we read that, as professor maynadier, in his _wife of bath's tale_, has well pointed out, it is in truth gawain and not arthur who was the typical english hero. is it too much to ask of the students of malory, fascinated by the noble style in which he has clothed and disguised the real poverty of his _réchauffée_, that they should for a short time lay him aside, and turning back to the true arthurian legend, learn at last to do justice to one of the most gracious and picturesque figures in literature--a figure to which gross injustice has been done--that, rejecting malory's libel, they do tardy justice to our own insular hero--for not the most fanatical partisan of the continental school has ever ventured to claim him--to the true sir gawain? then, perhaps, we may have a demand for his real story, and it may be possible once more to rejoice the hearts of our english folk with a restored and modern rendering of the _geste of syr gawayne_, even as bleheris told it well nigh a thousand years ago. if that day ever come neither author nor hero will need any apology on the part of the translator! paris, _february _. sir gawain and the lady of lys hearken to me and ye shall hear how the good king arthur and his knights went forth to the wood for archery, and how at vesper-tide they gat them homeward right joyfully. the knights rode gaily ahead, holding converse the one with the other, and behind them came the king, on a tall and prancing steed. he ware no robe of state, but a short coat, which became him right well. behind all his men he rode, pensive and frowning, as one lost in thought. and as he thus lagged behind sir gawain looked back, and saw the king riding alone and pensive, and he bade his comrades draw rein and wait for their lord. and as the king came anigh he drew his steed beside him, and stretched out his hand, laughing, and laid hold on the bridle, and said, "sire, tell us, for the love of god, of what ye may now be thinking? sire, your thoughts should be of naught but good, for there is no prince in this world equal to ye in valour or in honour, therefore should ye be very joyful!" the king made answer courteously, "fair nephew, an i may be joyful i will tell ye truly that whereon i thought. there is no king living on earth who hath had such good and such great service from his men as i; it seemeth to me now right and fitting that i should give to them that which they have deserved for the toil they have suffered for me, whereby i be come to such high estate. fair nephew, i bethought me that my riches would avail little if through sloth i failed to reward the good service of these my knights, who have made me everywhere to be obeyed and honoured. now without delay will i tell ye that i am minded to hold, at pentecost, a far greater court than is my wont, and to give to each and all such gifts as shall be well pleasing to them, so that each may be glad and joyful, and ever hereafter of good will towards me." swiftly, and before all the others, sir gawain made answer, "fair sire, blessed be the thought into which ye have fallen, for 'tis so fair and so good that neither kaiser nor king nor count might think a better." and the king asked, "nephew, tell me straightway where do ye counsel that this my court be held?" "sire, at carnarvon; there let all your knighthood assemble, for there is not in all your kingdom a fairer place, nor nobler halls, and it lieth in the marches of wales, and of the land of britain." the king and all his company rode back joyfully, and that selfsame night did the king arthur give command that all the knights and all the barons throughout the land should be summoned by letter to come to him at pentecost. that great knighthood came thither, that famous knighthood came thither, even so have i heard, and assembled for this court at carnarvon. ah god! from what far-off lands did they come. thither were come the men of ireland, and of scotland, of iceland, of wales, and of galvoie (a land where many a man goeth astray). from logres they came, and from escavalon; men of norway, bretons, danes, and they of orcanie. never was so great a knighthood assembled at any court as that which the good king arthur summoned to him. the day of the holy feast, when he had worn his crown at the high procession, knights and barons conducted him with joy to his palace; and therewith kay, the seneschal, bade them sound the trumpets and bring water. first the king washed, and thereafter sat down aloft, on the high daïs, so that all who sat there at meat might see him. four hundred knights, save three, sat themselves down at the round table; at the second were seated the thirty peers. crowded were the ranks of the other knights who were seated throughout the hall, as was fitting, on daïs, and at tables on the ground. then quickly kay the seneschal bare the first meat, and the service was made throughout the hall, in joyful wise, as befitted such high festivity. now as the king ate, he looked towards the round table, even as one who would take knowledge of all, and by hap his eye fell on the seat of a knight good and true, which was void and lacking its rightful lord. then so great a pity and tenderness took him that the tears rose from his heart to his eyes, and thence welled forth, and he sighed a great and piteous sigh when he remembered him of that knight. he took a knife which yones held (nephew was he to king ydier, and carved before arthur), and, frowning and thoughtful, smote the blade through the bread which lay on the board. then he rested his head on the one hand, even as one whose thoughts are troubled by anger or grief, and unheeding, ran the palm of the other adown the sharp knife, so that he was somewhat wounded. at sight of the blood he bethought himself, and left hold of the knife and taking the napkin, wrapped it swiftly around his hand, so that they who ate in the hall below might not see. and with that he fell once more into thought and bowed down his head, and as he mused the tears came again to his eyes. when sir gawain beheld this he marvelled much, and therein was he right, for to all who were in the hall it seemed but folly. then he rose up straightway, and passed between the ranks till that he came before the daïs, and saw that the king was again lost in thought. he hasted not to speak till that he saw him raise his head, but so soon as he lifted up his face sir gawain spake right courteously; "sire, sire, 'tis neither right nor fitting that ye should have such wrath or displeasure as should make ye thus moody in the sight of so many high and noble barons as ye may see here around ye; rather should their solace and their company please and rejoice ye." "gawain, will ye that i tell ye whence came the thought which has made me thus sad and silent?" "yea, sire, that do i pray of ye." "fair nephew, know of a truth that i will tell ye willingly, in the hearing of all these good knights. my thoughts were of ye, and of many another whom i see here, of the wickedness of which ye are full, and of the envy and the treason long time hid, and now made manifest." with that the king held his peace, and said no more. sir gawain grew crimson with anger and shame, and throughout the palace all held their peace, for much they marvelled that the king spake thus evilly to his nephew, calling him in the hearing of all a traitor proven, and all were wroth therefor. then he to whom the ill words were said answered as best he might, "sire, that was an ugly word; for your honour bethink ye of what ye have said in the hearing of all who be here within." "gawain," answered the king, "'tis no empty word, thus of a truth do i repeat it, and ywain may well take heed and know that i thought of him but now, when i sat silent and pensive, here within have i not one single comrade whom i do not accuse of treason and too great felony!" with that i know not how many sprang to their feet, and a great clamour filled the hall. "lords," cried tor fis ares, "i conjure ye by the oath which ye and i alike sware to king arthur that ye restrain yourselves, and act as is befitting; he accuses ye all of treason--these be right evil tidings!" in like wise also spake sir ywain. "ah god," quoth sir gawain, "with what joy was all this great court summoned and assembled, and in what grief shall it be broken up!" the king heard, and, sighing, spake, "gawain, i have spoken but the truth!" "fair sire, for the love of god, and for honesty, tell us after what manner and in what fashion we be felon and traitorous?" quoth the king, "an ye will i will tell ye; now hearken. ye know of a truth that aforetime there reigned in this land a folk who built castles and cities, strong towers and fortresses, and the great chastel orguellous did they fortify against us. when we heard tell thereof ye, my knights, delayed not to go thither, not with my will! there did i lose so many of my folk that the thought thereof yet grieveth my heart; the greater part were slain, but some among them were made captive. they took one of my companions, three years long have they held him in prison, and thereof have i great grief at heart. here within do i see no better knight; he was beyond measure valiant, fair of face and form, and very wise was he in counsel. but now, when all this great lordship was set down here to meat, i beheld that knight's seat void and lacking its lord, and for sorrow and grief was my heart heavy and troubled when i saw him not in his place in your ranks; it lacked but little that i were distraught. therefore, my lords, do i arraign ye all of treason; giflet fis do is he named that good and gentle knight, three whole years have gone by since he was imprisoned in that tower, and ye be all traitors who have left your comrade three years and have not sought for or freed him! yea, and i who have blamed ye, i be even more the traitor in that i ever ware crown, or made joy, or held high feast before i knew if he might be restored to me, or where he now may be, whether dead or living! now on this have i set my heart,--by the faith i owe to that heavenly lord who hath bestowed on me earthly honour, and kingdom, and lands, that for no hap that may befall me will i delay to set forth in search of him, be it in never so distant a land. for verily i tell ye all that the king who loseth so good a knight by wrongful deed or by sloth, he hath right neither to lands nor to honour, nor should he live a day longer, an he deliver not that knight who for his honour suffered toil and was made captive. in the ears of ye all do i make a vow that i will lie not more than one night in any place till that i know whether he be dead, or may be freed." then all cried with one voice, "shame upon him, sire, who will not plead guilty to this treason, for ye speak with right and reason; by overmuch sloth have we delayed to ride forth and seek him far hence, even at the chastel orguellous." "lords," quoth the king, "i tell ye here and at once that i shall set forth to-morrow, but by the faith that i owe to saint germain i must needs proceed with wisdom, for here is force of no avail." "true, fair sire," answered sir gawain. "know for sooth that the roads 'twixt here and the chastel orguellous be passing hard and difficult; 'tis a good fifteen days ere ye be come thither; longer days have ye never ridden! 'tis best that one tell ye the truth! and when ye be come thither, fair sire, then shall ye have each day battle, as i know right well, one knight against the other, a hundred against a hundred, that shall ye find truly. now take good counsel for the journey, what folk ye may best take with ye." "lords," said the king, "now let us to meat, and afterward will i see by aid of your counsel whom i take with me, and whom i leave to guard my land and my folk." with that all in the palace, great and small, ate as quickly as might be; and so soon as the king saw that 'twas time and place to speak he bade remove the cloths, which they did without delay. thereafter they brought water, and bare round the wine in cups of fine gold. then, it seemeth me, there sprang to their feet at once more than three thousand knights, who cried the king mercy, and prayed that he would take them with him on this adventure, for right willingly would they go. "lords," quoth the king, "they whom my barons elect, those will i take, and the others shall remain to keep my kingdom in peace." then first, before all others, spake king urien, a very wise knight was he. "my lord king, ye have no need to take with ye too great a force; take with ye rather a few, but good, men, so to my thinking will ye more swiftly free giflet, our good comrade, from his prison. take with ye the best of your knights, 'twill be for your greater honour, and your foes will be the more speedily vanquished; knight against knight must ye fight there, and i think me that such of their men shall there be worsted that they shall that same day yield ye giflet the good and valiant knight. have no doubt for the when or how, but bid them make ready. i can but praise the folk who shall go with ye." then quoth the king, "what say ye, lords? i await your counsel!" king ydier spake. "sire, none of us should give ye praise, or speak other than the best he knoweth. shamed be he who should give ye counsel wherein ye may find no honour. i know full well that the more part of your folk would gladly go with ye, but if ye take them, sire, 'twill not be for your honour, but believe king urien, for he hath given good counsel so i tell ye of a truth." "certes," saith sir gawain, "he would be false and foolish who should give other rede!" and all said, "let it be as the king will; let him take those whom he please, and leave the others in the land." "ye have said well," said the king; "now go ye to your lodging, and prepare to depart, and i will cause to be made ready a pennon of silk for each of those whom i shall lead with me." as he said, so it was done, and all betook them to their lodging. the king forthwith sent the pennons, and bade them without fail be armed and ahorse at dawn. what more shall i tell ye? at sunrise were all the knights armed, even as the king commanded, all they who had received the pennons came together ahorse before the hall. now will i tell ye their names: there were sir gawain, king ydier, guengasoains, kay, and lucains, the butler. the sixth was tors. then saigremors, and mabonagrain, who was nephew unto king urien. eight have i now named unto ye, counting the kinsman of king urien. the ninth was lancelot du lac; the tenth ider, son of nut; the laid hardi, the eleventh; with doon l'aiglain have we twelve, all very courteous knights. galegantins the galois, and the brave carados briefbras, who was a right cheery comrade, made fourteen, and the fifteenth was the good taulas de rogemont: so many were they, nor more, nor less. all ready armed were they before the hall the while they awaited the king, ere he came forth armed from his chamber. then he mounted his steed, and i tell ye that, to my knowledge, was never king so richly armed afore, nor ever hereafter shall there be such. the queen bare him company even to the entrance of the palace, then she turned her back. then the king bade his companions march, and they began to move as swiftly as might be on the highway, but so great a folk convoyed them that hardly might they depart or go forth from the burg. and when the king had ridden three miles he drew rein in the midst of a meadow, and there he bade farewell to his folk, who, sad and sorrowful, gat them back to the burg. and the king and his fifteen comrades rode on their way; they passed even through the land of britain, so i think me, and hasted them much to ride quickly. one day the king, fasting, came forth from a very great forest, on to a heath of broom; the sun was hot, and burning, and the country over large and waste. the king was so wearied by the heat, in that he rode fasting, that he had much need of rest, could he but find a fitting spot. by chance they found a great tree, where they drew bridle; beneath was a spring, and for heat and for weariness they bared their heads and their hands, and washed their faces and their mouths. i know well that one and all had much need of food, but they had naught with them, and all were sore vexed for the king, who suffered over much from the fast. sir gawain gazed into the plain, far below, 'neath the forest, and he showed unto the seneschal a house of thatch, well fenced about; "kay," quoth he, "methinks under that roof there must be folk!" "'tis true," said kay; "i will go and see if i may find victual, and ye shall await me here." with that he departed from them, and went straightway to the house; within he found an old woman, but nothing of what he sought; food was there none. the crone spake and said, "sir, so god help me, for twenty miles round about are naught but waste lands, know that well, save only that the king of meliolant has built there below 'neath the trees a forest lodge. he cometh thither ofttimes privately with his hounds. there, sir, will ye be well lodged, an ye find him; from that tree yonder may ye see the house on the hill." the seneschal straightway went even as the crone had said, and he saw the dwelling, right well enclosed with orchards, vineyards and meadows. ponds were there, lands, and fish-tanks, all well fenced about. in the midst was a tower; ye might ask no better, no defence was lacking to it. beholding it the seneschal stayed not, but passed the roadway, and the gate, and the chief drawbridge, and thus came to the foot of the tower. there did he dismount, but he found no living soul of whom he might ask concerning the dwelling and who might be within. then he entered a hall, very high and long and wide. on a great hearth he saw a goodly fire alight, but he found no man save a dwarf, who was roasting a fat peacock ('twere hard to find a better!), well larded, on a spit of apple-wood, which the dwarf knew right well how to turn. kay came forward quickly, and the dwarf beheld him with evil countenance. "dwarf," quoth the seneschal, "tell me if there be any here within save thyself?" but the wretch would not speak a word. kay would have slain him there and then, if he had not thought to be shamed thereby, but he knew right well that twere too great villainy. "miserable hunchback," quoth he, "i see none here in this house save thee and this peacock, which i will now have for my dinner; i will share it as shall seem me good." "by the king who lieth not," quoth the dwarf, "ye shall neither eat thereof yourself nor share it with others; i counsel you to quit this hostel, or know ye well, and without doubt, that ye shall be right shamefully thrust out!" this vexed kay mightily, and he sprang forward to smite him; with his foot he thrust him against the pillar of the hearth so that the stone thereof became bloody. the dwarf bled freely for the heat, and made loud lament, for he feared lest he should be slain. then on the left the seneschal heard a door shut-to sharply, and there came forth a knight, tall and strong, and of proud countenance, and very fair and goodly to look upon; he might not be above thirty years old. he ware a vest of new samite, furred with ermine for warmth; 'twas not long, but wide, and of ample folds. thus was he well clad and cunningly shod; and i tell ye truly that he ware a fair girdle of golden links; no treasury hath a richer. all uncovered he came forth, in guise of a man greatly wroth, leading two greyhounds by a fair leash of silk which he held in his hand. when he saw that his dwarf bled, he spake, "ye who be come all armed into this hall, wherefore have ye slain this my servant?" "a curse upon such a servant," quoth kay, "from this day on, for in all the world is there not one so evil, so small, or so misshapen!" then the knight answered, "by all the saints, but ye say ill, and i challenge ye for it, fair sir." quoth the seneschal, "many a goodly knight have i seen, to the full as noble as ye may be, and ye be evil and vexatious, even if i have smitten this servant who roasted here this peacock, to speak thus concerning the matter." the knight answered frankly, "sir, ye speak not courteously, but for god's sake i would ask ye a mere nothing, even that ye vouchsafe to tell me your name." kay spake in great wrath, "i will tell ye willingly, so help me god i have told it ere this to five hundred knights better than ye be; know of a truth that my name is kay." "certes, sir, i may well believe that ye speak truly; by your speech alone may one quickly know ye. this lad refused ye the peacock; 'tis not the custom of my house that meat be refused to any who may ask for it; ye shall have your share of the peacock, and that right swiftly, so god help me!" with that he seized the spit, and raised it aloft, and with great strength and force smote sir kay therewith, so that he well nigh slew him, and know that he smote him on the neck so that he must needs fall, he had no foot so firm that it might keep him upright. and as the peacock burst asunder, the hot blood thereof ran between the links of his hauberk in such wise that sir kay bare the mark thereof all the days of his life. then the knight threw the peacock to his two hounds, and spake, "sir kay, rise, that be your share, ye shall have no more; now get out of my sight quickly, i am over wroth when i behold ye!" with that came quickly two sergeants, fully armed, and led the seneschal forth from the hall. he mounted his steed, and turned him back, passing the bridge and the plain, and came to where the king had dismounted. then his comrades asked him, "seneschal, have ye found nothing of that which ye went to seek?" "not i, my lords; 'tis a right evil land here wherein to seek for food; it behoveth us to ride far, for here may we find nor hostelry, nor victual--so hath it been told to me." quoth sir gawain, laughing, "certes, he with whom ye spake lives by meat, even as we; without meat might he not dwell in this great and well wooded land." "by my faith, no," answered kay, "but i tell ye truly, 'tis so proud a vassal that for naught that we may say will he give us shelter." the king said, "then is he right discourteous, and i counsel that we send gawain to him. fair nephew, go, and we will wait ye here." sir gawain mounted forthwith. what more shall i tell ye save that he came straight to the dwelling, and when the knight saw him he made marvellous joy of him, and asked his name, and he answered that men called him gawain, and straightway the knight knew him. then he told him his errand, saying, "the king is not far distant, and would fain lodge with ye." this was well pleasing to the knight, and he said, "fair sir, go, bring the king hither." then sir gawain rode swiftly back, and brought arthur with him to the hostel; but ere they might enter all the waters were set free and the fountains 'gan to play. for joy and in honour of the king the knight had assembled all his folk, and received him with very great honour, and led him into the tower. the hounds were yet there, devouring the flesh of the peacock. the king looked at taulas, and quoth, "body of saint thomas, these two hounds have fared better than we to-day!" the knight heard, and laughed to himself. kay saw that, but said naught. from thence they passed into the hall, and when they had disarmed the meat was made ready, the knight bade bring white napkins, and pasties. after dinner he made them wash their heads, and their necks, and their feet, which were sorely bruised. then he caused them to rest in fair beds, covered with cloth of samite, and they slept even to the morrow without stirring. but when they were awakened the host had prepared for them a right plenteous meal, this he did of his good will. they sat them down joyfully, and were richly served. i would weary ye if i told all the dishes. the knights made much mirth of the seneschal's burn, for the dwarf would not keep the tale secret from them, but began to speak thereof. never would it have been known through kay, if the dwarf had not brought it to mind, for he was over bent on hiding it, and the host even more than he; all that night his comrades mocked and made sport of him even till they betook them to rest. next morn, without delay, the king arose at daybreak, and likewise did all the others, and armed themselves. then the king thanked his host for the good lodging he had given them. why should i make long telling thereof? the king saith, "hide not from me how ye be called." "sire, my name is ydier the fair, and, sire, this castle is mine own." then ydier prayed the king that of his kindness he would take him with him, but arthur said he might not lead with him other save those whom he had brought from his own land; and he took leave of the knight since he might no longer abide in his hostelry, and went forth with his companions. the tale is here over long, but i will shorten it for ye. two days did they ride without food, for they might not sooner find place where they might win food or seek lodging. thus must they needs ride till they came to the orchard of the sepulchres, where adventures be found oft and perilous. there they ate with the hermits, of whom there were a hundred and more. here 'tis not fitting to tell of the marvels of the cemetery, so diverse they be, and so great that there is no man living on earth who could think, or believe, that the tale be true. since 'twas made and established never has the tale been told whence came those graves, nor the custom which the hermits observed; to my mind 'twould take too long did i tell it ye ere the fitting time and place be come. but this will i tell ye of a truth, when the king had sojourned two days, and beheld the orchard, on the third, after meat, he departed, and took the road once more. on the morrow he came to a wondrous fair land; small need to seek a richer in meadows, forests, or orchards planted with rare and diverse trees. in the forest ways the grass grew green and tall, reaching even to the horses' girths. towards even-tide they came to a trodden way, where the tall grass was beaten to earth, and trampled down by horses, even for the length of a bowshot. "a hundred and more have passed this way," quoth the king's men. sir gawain spake to the king, "fair sire, follow me gently with these my comrades on this wide road. i will ride on ahead, and seek out, and ask whether there be near at hand hostel where we may lodge this night, for of lodging have we great need. yet, sire, i pray that ye leave not the road for word of any." with that he set spurs to his steed, and rode swiftly on his way; nor had he ridden long ere he was free of the forest, and saw before him a hill, and a company of well-nigh a hundred horsemen, who rode in knightly guise; 'twas on their track he followed. sir gawain pressed on his steed, but when he had crossed the valley and mounted the hill there was never a man in sight. but he saw before him a castle; none so fair had he beheld afore, which stood on the bank of a broad river; 'twould take me over long to tell the fashion thereof, but this and no more will i say, 'twas the fairest ever seen. then sir gawain looked toward the river, and beheld two maidens, in very fair vesture of purple, bearing pitchers of fine gold, wherein they had drawn water, and he quoth, "maidens, god save ye, and give ye good speed!" and they answered, as was fitting, "fair sir, god bless ye!" "maidens, by the faith ye owe me answer me, and hide it not, what bear ye in those pitchers?" quoth the one, "no need have we to hide aught; 'tis but water, wherewith the good knight shall wash his hands." "of a faith," quoth sir gawain, "courteously have ye named him; great honour is there in such a name!" the second maiden answered, "sir, she hath spoken truth; ye will not lightly find a fairer, or a better, knight. see, but now doth he enter within his burg." then sir gawain hasted, and spake no more with the maidens, but rode over the bridge, and entered the castle by the gateway. since the hour of his birth never had he seen one so fair, nor, i think me, so long as he live shall he see a fairer. all the way by which he passed was hung with curtains richly wrought, whereat he marvelled strangely. 'twas closed all along with fair buildings of diverse fashions. in long rows adown the street sir gawain beheld rich booths of changers, wherein on many-coloured carpets were set forth vessels of gold and silver (no treasury ever held richer), cups, tankards, and dishes, the fairest ever seen, with money of all lands: esterlins, besants, deniers of africa, and treasure trove. every kind of money was there, and much the good knight marvelled thereat. stuffs there were too, of all colours, the cost whereof was past his telling. all the doors stood open; but one thing troubled sir gawain sore: there was never a living soul to be seen. then he said within himself, "of a sooth, for love and kindness do they bear their lord, who but now hath entered the burg, company to the little castle yonder." thus he went his way straight to that castle, and came within a goodly hall, both high and wide, and in length equal to a bowshot. on every daïs a linen cloth was spread, and sure never king nor count might eat off fairer or better wrought. all was made ready for meat, and the bread and wine set in readiness on the tables; but never a living soul was there. in a side chamber he beheld on grails of silver more than a hundred boars' heads, with pepper beside them, dressed for the serving. sir gawain beheld, and crossed himself with lifted hand, but would no longer abide, finding no man with whom he might have speech. he turned him again through the castle, thinking to find at the bridgehead the maidens of whom i told but now, whom he had left bearing the water in golden pitchers, but nowhere might he find them, and it vexed him sore that he saw them not, since he thought within himself that they would surely have told him the truth concerning their lord, whom he had seen but now enter the burg. much he mused thereon, repenting him that he had not longer spoken with them, but now would he make no more abiding, but set him speedily on his way, to meet the king. nor did he draw bridle till he came unto him. "fair nephew," quoth arthur, "shall we to-day find hostel where we may take rest, for we have sore need thereof?" "fair sire, be at rest; food shall ye have now," answered sir gawain. "'tis a good word," quoth kay; "right gladly will i serve the first course unto the king, and to my comrades after!" "kay," saith sir gawain "not for all the world might ye guess the marvels i have found!" then he told unto them the adventure, even as it had fallen out, the while he guided them to the burg. as they rode adown the street the king marvelled greatly at the riches he beheld, and kay spake a courteous word, "castle, he who hence might bear ye would do ill an he should spare ye!" thus came they all into the inner burg, and, still ahorse, into the great hall, but they found no man to whom they might speak, or to whose care they might give their steeds. then they said to each other, "'twere ill to let them fast," and the king spake, "i counsel that after supper we go forth into yonder fair meadow." this they held for good rede, and dismounted, making fast their steeds to the stag's antlers on the wall. then they washed their faces and their hands in a bowl of silver, and the king sat himself down first, and his knights after. with no delay kay set the first course before the king; 'twas a great boar's head, and he bare it joyfully, and thereafter swiftly served the rest, saying an any found cause for plaint, there was no lack, he could have at his will. "the food hath cost me naught and i give it freely; nay, of a verity we might, an we were so minded, feed our steeds on boars' heads; this is no niggard hostelry! see ye the fair couches in yonder chamber?" and he pointed to an open doorway. sir gawain looked, and saw a shield hanging on the wall, and within the shield yet stood the fragment of a mighty lance, with a silken pennon hanging from it. i tell ye of a truth, so soon as he was ware thereof the blood stirred in his veins; he spake no word, but swiftly as might be he sprang up from meat, casting aside the knife he held, and gat him to his steed, and girthed him tightly, and set his helmet on his head, and sat him down again on a bench near by the daïs, his shield beside him. the king marvelled greatly, and the knights said the one to the other, "ha, god, what aileth sir gawain?" each would fain know wherefore he had armed himself thus swiftly; they thought of a surety his head had grown light through over much fasting and the great heat of the day. they were sore dismayed thereat, for they had seen and heard naught that might give occasion for arming, and they might not guess the cause. the king spake simply, "fair nephew, say, wherefore have ye ceased to eat? and wherefore thus arm in haste? ye make us much to marvel; tell me, i pray, doth aught ail ye?" "naught, sire, save that i pray ye to eat quickly, an ye love me!" "how," quoth arthur, "without ye, who have fasted even as we? methinks that were ill done!" "by god and saint thomas, to eat here will profit me naught; ye are wrong, sire!" thus answered sir gawain, swearing that for naught in the world would he eat in this hostelry, neither might he be joyful or at ease so long as they abode therein. "but i pray ye, sire, hasten and eat." then the king in the hearing of all sware straitly by him who lieth not, that he would eat naught till that he knew wherefore his nephew had thus donned his helmet. "sire," quoth sir gawain, "ill and falsely should i have wrought if for the telling of so slight a matter i should make ye fast this day; certes i will tell ye, and lie not. ye know well how five years agone ye led an army great and strong against the city of branlant; many a king, many a baron, with twenty thousand men all told, with ye laid siege to the city. within were many of great valour to aid the lord who held the seignorie of that land. one morn, at break of day, they made a sortie on our host; the cry and clamour were so great that i took no leisure to arm me, but mounted my steed and rode forth, even as i was, to learn the cause of the tumult, bearing with me but shield and lance. thus i rode forth from the camp, and came straightway on the men of the city, who were hasting to return with their spoil. i followed them, wherein i did foolishly, since i came near to lose my life thereby, for i was wounded by a spear in the shoulder, as ye know, so that i was like to die, and must needs lie sick four months and more ere that i was whole and sound. "one morning, as i lay in my tent, i bade them raise the hangings around that i might look on the land, and i beheld one of my squires, mounted on the gringalet, making his way from the stream where he had watered the steed. i called him, and he came to me, and i bade him without delay saddle the good horse, and he did my bidding. i clad me swiftly the while, and bade them bring me my armour secretly, and when i had armed me i mounted, and rode alone out of the camp. fair sire, ye followed me, ere i came beyond the tents, praying me straitly to return, but i entreated ye gently that since i had lain overlong sick ye would grant me to go forth into the fields to disport myself, and to test if i were in very truth healed of my wound, promising to return speedily to camp. by this covenant, sire, ye granted me to ride forth. "thus i went my way till i came to a leafy grove, beset with flowers, and abounding in birds, which sang loud and clear. i stayed my steed to hearken, and for the sweetness of the song my heart grew light, and i felt nor pain nor ill. then i set spurs to my steed, and galloped adown the glade. i found myself hale and strong, and feared no longer for my wound. "thus i hearkened to the sweet song of the birds till that i forgat myself, and passed a second grove, and a third, and a fourth, ere that i bethought me of returning. thus i rode till i came to a clearing fair and wide, where i saw beside a fountain a pavilion, richly fashioned. i rode even to the doorway, and looked within, and there on a couch i beheld so wondrous fair a maiden that i was abashed for her great beauty. sire, i dismounted, and fastened my steed without the tent and entered and saluted the maiden; but, sire, first she greeted sir gawain ere that she made answer to me. "then i asked her wherefore she did thus, and she answered that she held sir gawain in honour above all knights, and therefore she first gave him greeting. and when i heard this i spake saying that i was indeed sir gawain, and her most true knight, but scarce would the maiden believe me. i must needs unhelm, and from an inner chamber she brought forth a silken ribbon, whereon a saracen maiden of the queen's household had wrought my semblance. and when she had looked thereon, and beheld me disarmed, and knew of a verity that i was he whom she desired, then she threw her arms around me, and kissed me more than a hundred times, saying that she was mine even as long as she might live. "then i took that fair gift right joyfully, and we spake together long, and had our will the one of the other. and this i tell ye that ere we parted i sware to her that other love would i never have. then when i had armed me again, and mounted my steed, i took leave of the maid right lovingly, and turned me again for the camp, joyful of this my fair adventure. "thus i rode swiftly through one grove, but had gone scarce a bowshot beyond when a knight came fast behind me, marvellous well armed, and bearing a lance with a fair pennon. he cried loudly upon me, 'traitor, ye may go no further; ye must pay dearly for my brother, whom ye slew, and for this my daughter, whom ye have now dishonoured.' then i answered him, 'sir knight, ye might speak more courteously, for i have done ye neither shame nor evil; an i had, i were ready to give ye what amends might seem good to ye and to my lady; treason have i not done.' "with that i set spurs to my steed, and he likewise, and we came fast the one against the other, and his lance was shivered on my shield, but my blade pierced him through shield and hauberk, so that he fell to the ground sore wounded. sire, i pray ye eat, for an i tell ye more it may turn to evil." and the king quoth, "nephew, say on speedily, and delay not." then spake sir gawain, "sire, i left the knight lying, and went my way, but ere i had gone far i heard one cry upon me, 'traitor, stay; ye must pay for my uncle and this my father, whom ye have wrongfully slain, and for my sister, whom ye have dishonoured!' then i stayed my steed, and prayed him to speak more courteously, for that i was ready to make amends an i had done wrong, but that i was no traitor. "then we set ourselves to joust, and i tell ye, sire, we came so hard together that we were borne both of us to the earth. then we betook us to our swords, and dealt many a blow the one to the other; but in the end, in that i was scarce healed of my wound, he dealt me more harm than i might deal him; in this i lie not, i was well-nigh worn down, and put to the worse. then i bethought me, sire, and prayed him to tell me his name since i was fain to know it; and he told me he was bran de lis. ider de lis, the good and valiant, was his father, and melians de lis his uncle, and he said did i get the better of him, then had i slain the three best knights in any land, yet he deemed well, an god would help him, that he might even avenge the twain; for he quoth, 'i know well that a combat betwixt us may not endure over long, but that one of us must needs be slain.' and i answered, 'sir, let us do otherwise, for an ye put me to the worse but few will believe the tale, for in this land it were not lightly held that any man may vanquish me. methinks 'twere better that our combat be fought in the sight of many, who shall bear true witness as to the which of us comes off the better.' thus, sire, we made covenant together by token that in what place soever he should find me, whether armed or unarmed, there we should fight. this we sware, the one to the other. by the love i bear ye, sire, never since that day have i heard aught of him in any land where i might be. thus was our combat ended, as i tell ye, and of a truth i saw him no more. "but even now, sire, as i sat at meat, from which i arose in wrath and misease (willingly would i have eaten an i might), this is what chanced: i saw in yonder chamber the selfsame shield which bran de lis bare the day we did combat together; full well i remember it, and there it hangeth on the wall. fair lord king, an god help me 'tis no lie; there in the shield standeth fast my pennon, and a great splinter of my lance; by that token, sire, bran de lis doth haunt this country, since his shield be here. therefore am i vexed and wrathful, and therefore i arose from meat, since i feared to be taken at a loss; in sooth, i somewhat fear him, for so good a knight i never saw! sire, now have i told ye the truth, and wherefore i have donned my helmet, ye need press me no further, since not for the kingdom of logres would i be found unarmed in such place as he may be. fair sire, i pray ye hasten, otherwise, an there be long abiding, i may chance to pay over dear for my meat." quoth the king, "fair nephew, sit ye down again, nor have fear of any foe. he cometh not." but sir gawain answered, "sire, for naught that ye may say will i eat in this hostel!" "so be it," quoth the king, "an ye will do naught for my prayer." with that all the others betook them to meat in good fellowship. after no long time they beheld a little brachet, which ran out from a side chamber and came into the hall. a long leash trailed behind it, and round its neck was a collar of gold, wherein were many precious stones, red, and green as ivy leaves. the brachet was white as snow, and smoother than any ermine. i tell ye of a truth 'twas not ugly, but very fair and well shapen, and the king gazed long at it. it barked loudly at the knights on the daïs, and made small joy of them, i tell ye. then kay the seneschal coveted it, and spake to the king, "sire, i will keep this brachet, and take it hence, an ye grant me this gift; 'twill be a comrade for huden." and the king said, "take it, seneschal, and bear it hence." with that the brachet turned tail, and kay with no delay sprang up and thought to seize it, but the dog would not await him, but fled on through a chamber wrought in marble, and the leash which was long fell about the feet of kay, who would fain have caught it but might not come at it. might he set foot on the leash he could have held it, but he failed to catch it. thus the chase went from chamber to chamber till five were passed, and the seneschal came into a fair garden set with olive trees and pines, wherein were more folk than in a city. they were playing at diverse games, and making such joy and festivity as 'twere overlong to recount, for that day they were keeping the feast of a saint of that land. beneath the shade of a laurel in the midst of an orchard a knight was disarming; tall he was and strong, valiant and proud, and to serve him and honour him the best and most renowned of the folk stood and knelt around waiting on his disarming. the brachet which kay was chasing stayed not till it came to the knight, and took shelter betwixt his legs, barking loudly at the pursuer. kay stayed his steps, abashed at the sight and sound of this folk, and thought to return swiftly, and with no delay; but the knight looked on his people and said, "there is a stranger among us, whoever he may be!" then beholding kay, who would turn him again whence he came, he spake, "see him there, take him, and bring him hither!" this they did swiftly, and brought kay before him, and when the knight beheld him he said joyfully, "sir kay, ye are right welcome as my friend and comrade; where is the king, your master?" "sir, he is within, on the daïs, and with him many a valiant knight; they are even now at meat!" "and is the king's nephew, gawain, there? fain would i be assured thereof." and kay answered, "the best knight in the world is in the king's company; without him would he go nowhither!" now when the knight heard this he was like to fly for joy. half armed as he was he sprang to his feet, and for very gladness stayed not to finish his disarming. a rich mantle had they hung on his shoulders, but the neck was yet unfastened, nor would he tarry to clasp it, for haste and joy. and know that one leg was still shod with iron, which hung downward, half unlaced, nor would he stay to rid himself thereof. thus he sped in all haste to the hall, and his folk after him, and without slacking speed he ran into the hall, followed by so great a crowd that the king was sore abashed when he heard the tumult. the knight went forward even to the daïs, and saluted the king courteously, and commanded the folk to bring torches, for 'twas scarce light therein, and they did at his pleasures, and he bade bring other meats, so that arthur, the valiant and courteous, was well served as befitting a king. the knight was very joyous, and quoth, "sire, now hath god done me great honour, for never before might i do ye service; now am i right glad and joyful that ye be lodged here! i have greeted ye in all fair friendship without thought of ill, ye and this goodly company, save one whom as yet i see not!" with that there entered men bearing torches and tapers, so that the hall, which before was dark and dim, became light and clear. the folk who had come thither that they might look upon the king, of whom they had oft heard tell, made such haste to see him that there was no space to sit down, and all the palace was but a sea of heads. the lord was sore vexed. he held in his hand a little round staff, short and heavy, and being chafed with anger in that he saw not sir gawain, and knew not where he might be, began laying about him to part the crowd, making them by force to mount on the daïs, and sills of the windows, and buttresses of the walls, since he might not drive them from the hall. when sir gawain saw that the folk was thus parted asunder, without delaying he mounted him on his steed. then first the lord of the castle beheld him, and was sore vexed that he had not come upon him disarmed. scowling for very anger, he threw his staff aside, and when he had somewhat bethought him he lifted his head, and gat him to sir gawain, and laid hold of his bridle, saying, "fair sir, hearken, are ye ready to keep the covenant ye made with me? it vexeth me that ye are so far quit that i have failed to find ye disarmed, as i fain had done; i had better have been slain the day i made this compact, for then, verily, ye too had died, had i not granted the respite, but now i deem our battle shall last the longer!" sir gawain straightway granted him his battle, and the knight bade bring more torches, for the stars already shone forth. then they brought them in great plenty, and he told off folk to hold them by the fist full, so that one might see far and near, as clearly as might be. then the lord of the castle seated himself in the midst of the hall, on a great carpet, which a squire spread swiftly at his bidding, and he bade them bring thither all that was needful to the rightful arming of a knight desirous of battle rather than of aught beside. he donned a greave of iron, and relaced that which hung loose; then he bade them bring armpieces, and he laced them on his arms, and when he had done this he came before the king and said, "eat joyfully, and be not dismayed; behold me, that i am strong and bold, hale and swift. your nephew on his part is even as i am; i know not if he hath told ye how the matter be come to this point that the one of us must needs die ere we be parted. 'twere hard to think this morn that the one of us was so nigh unto his end!" then the king's eyes filled with tears, and the knight, beholding, spake in his pride: "certes, sire, i prize ye less than afore; ye are but half-hearted who are thus compassionate for naught; by all the saints in the calendar, ye be like unto him who crieth out afore he be hurt! never before did i set eyes on a king who wept, and knew not wherefore! by my faith, this cometh of a cowardly heart!" he turned him again without further word, and armed him swiftly, and did on his harness, and when he was armed he mounted his steed, and bade bring a lance, stout and strong, with shining blade. then he hung his shield on his neck by a broidered band, and settled him well in his saddle, and called unto sir gawain, and quoth, "here in this house is the lordship mine by right of heritage, yet would i do no outrage nor take vantage thereof; the rather do i bid and conjure ye to take that part of the hall which seemeth best; now look well where ye will make your stand." sir gawain hearkened, but stirred not, save that he drew somewhat back, and lowered his lance, and his foe, on his part, did likewise. i testify of a truth, and tell ye, that they rode over hard a joust, for as they came together at their horses' full speed the one smote the other so fiercely on the shield that both alike were split asunder, so that the sharp blade passed right through, yet they harmed not the hauberks which clung close and tight. thus as they sped on the lances bent and brake, yet the steeds stayed not, and the knights who bestrode them were naught dismayed, but when they would have passed each other in their course they came together with such weight of body and shield, and full front of the horses, that they smote each other to the ground, and all four fell on a heap, the good steeds undermost. but the knights lightly sprang to their feet, and threw aside their lances, and drew their good swords, and dealt each the other so mighty a blow on the shining helm that it was well indented. the king and they who looked on were sore anguished and afraid, but the twain, 'twixt whom there was such enmity, ran again on each other in such fashion that, i tell ye and lie not, never was so fierce a mêlée of two knights beheld. they made sparks to spring from the helmet and smote the circlets asunder as those who make no feint to fight. when the good swords smote the shields they made the splinters to fly apace: so eager was each to put the other to the worse that they ceased not nor slackened this the first assault till that both were covered with blood. then the heat which vexed them mightily made them perforce draw asunder, to recover breath. too heavy and too sore had been their combat for those who loved them to behold; never day of his life had king arthur so feared for his nephew. now at the head of the master daïs was a door, opening into an inner chamber, and, as the tale telleth, in a little space there came forth a damosel, so fair of face and form that christendom might not show her peer. she was clad in fair and fitting fashion, in a vesture richly broidered in gold, and had seen, perchance, some twenty summers. she was so fair, so tall and gracious, that no woman born might equal her, and all marvelled at her beauty. she leant awhile on the head of the daïs, beholding the two knights, who strove hard to slay each the other. they had returned to the onslaught in such pride and wrath that verily i tell ye they might not long endure. such blows they dealt on helm and shield with their naked blades that they made the splinters fly, and the crimson blood welled from their wounds and streamed through the mail of their hauberk down on to the pavement. nor was the fight equal, for sir gawain had broken the laces of his helm, so that 'twas no longer on his head, but lay on the ground at his feet. yet he covered himself full well with his shield, as one who was no child in sword play. but his foeman pressed him sore, and oft he smote him with hard and angry blows; sir gawain defended himself right valiantly, but it went too ill with him in that he had lost his helm, therefore as much as might be he held himself on the defensive. but once, as he made attack, bran de lis smote him so fierce and heavy a blow at his head that, but that it fell first on the shield, it had then and there ended the matter, and all said that without fail he had been a dead man. bran de lis spake wrathfully, "take this blow for mine uncle; ye shall have one anon for my father; if i may, it shall be the last!" sir gawain struck back, but he was sore hindered by the blood which ran down into his eyes ('twas that which vexed him the most); he would fain have drawn him back, but bran de lis left him no space, so wrathfully did he run upon him, and sir gawain withstood him sturdily, yet so hardly was he pressed that whether he would or no he must needs yield ground. then the damosel of whom i spake but now turned her, and ran swiftly into the inner chamber, and in a short space came forth with a little child, whom she set upon the daïs. he wore a little coat of red samite, furred with ermine, cut to his measure; and of his age no fairer child might be seen. his face was oval and fair, his eyes bright and laughing; he was marvellous tall and strong for his age, which might not be more than four years; and by the richness of his clothing 'twas clear that there were those who held him dear. the knights who fought below still dealt each other such mighty blows that all who beheld them had dole and wrath. i can tell ye each was weak and weary enow, but verily sir gawain had yielded ground somewhat, and would fain have wiped away the blood which ran adown his face and into his eyes, but he might in no wise do so, since bran de lis held him so close, doing what he might to slay or wound him. then without delay the damosel took her child, there where he stood before her, and said very softly, "fair little son, go quickly to yonder tall knight, 'tis thine uncle, doubt it not, fall at his feet, little son, and kiss them, and pray for god's sake the life of thy father that he slay him not!" straightway she set him on the ground, and the child ran, and clasped his uncle by the right leg, and kissed his foot, and said, "my mother prays ye for the love of god, that ye slay not my father, fair sweet uncle; she will die of grief an ye do!" great pity fell upon the king when he heard the child speak thus, and all who hearkened and beheld were filled with wrath and anguish. all had compassion on the child, save bran de lis alone, for he quoth in wrath and anger, "get thee hence, son of a light woman!" and he withdrew his foot so swiftly from the child's clasp that, whether he would or no, he fell, and smote face and forehead hard on the stone of the pavement, so that he grazed mouth and face, and lay senseless and bleeding on the floor. then king arthur sprang from the daïs, and caught the child to him, and kissed it twenty times on face and eyes and mouth, and wept for very anger; nor for the blood on the child's face would he cease to caress it, so great love had he towards it, for he thought of a truth that he held again gawain, whom he now counted for lost. he quoth, "sir bran de lis, this little child is very fair; never in your life did ye do such villainy as to go near to slay so sweet a child, nor ought ye to have denied the request he made, for he asked naught outrageous. nor will i have him slain, for he is my joy and my solace; henceforward know well that for naught will i leave him in your care!" quoth bran de lis, "sire, ye are less courteous than i had heard tell, and ye make overmuch dole and plaint for the life of a single knight; ye should not so be dismayed, this is naught but feebleness of heart." as bran de lis thus spake to the king sir gawain wiped off the blood which ran down his face, and bound up his wounds, the while he had respite; the king, who was wise enow, held his foeman the longer in speech that his nephew might be the more refreshed, for the strength and valour of that good knight doubled as midnight passed. for this was the custom of sir gawain: when as ever midnight had struck his strength was redoubled and he waxed in force even until noon. now so soon as his strength came again, and he saw the king, and his love, and the great folk who beheld them, then a mighty shame overtook him, and he ran in wrath on his foe, and assailed him straitly, but the other yielded not, crying, "honour to ye that ye thus seek me!" then might ye see them smite blows great and fierce, with the swords they wielded, so that they were well nigh beaten down. sir bran de lis smote a mighty blow, thinking to catch sir gawain on the head, but that good knight, who knew right well how to cover himself, held his shield in such wise that the stroke fell upon it, and split it adown the midst; so hard had he smitten that the blade entered even to the hilt, and his body following the blow he bent him forwards, and ere he might recover him sir gawain smote him full on the helm, so that the laces brake, and it flew off adown the hall, leaving the head bare. and ere sir bran de lis was well aware he followed up the blow with one above the ventaille so that he bled right freely. now were they again on a par, so that one might scarce tell the which of them had the better. in great pride and wrath they ran each on the other, so that in short space of time they had lost overmuch blood. mightily each strove to put his foe to the worse, and all who looked upon them waxed strangely pitiful, and would fain have parted them asunder had they dared. now might ye have seen that gentle knight, who full oft had made offering of good deeds and alms, right well acquit himself, for so sorely he vexed his foeman that he hacked his shield all to pieces, and he might no longer hold his ground, but whether he would or no he must yield place, and wavered backward adown the hall. then he smote him again, so that he tottered upon his feet, and sir gawain hasted, and threw himself upon him with such weight of body and of shield that he well nigh bare him to earth, so he drave him staggering adown the hall till he fell against a daïs. when the damosel saw this she tare her child from the king's arms, and ran swiftly, and threw herself right valiantly betwixt the two, so that she came nigh to be cut in pieces, and cried, "son, pray thy father that he have pity on thy mother, and stay his hand ere he slay my brother, whom i love more than mine own life!" but the child spake no word, but looked up at the glancing sword blades, and laughed blithely. and all were moved to pity and wrath who saw him anon bleeding and now laughing for very joy. then sir gawain, of right good will, drew himself aback, but he whom he had thus hard pressed drave forward at him, like one reft of his senses, and came nigh to doing him a mischief in that sir gawain was off his guard. then she who held the child sprang swiftly betwixt them, and cried, "now by god i will see the which of ye twain will slay him, for he shall be cloven asunder ere that i take him hence." the swords clashed together aloft, but wrought no ill, for neither might come at the other for fear of the child whom they were loth to harm, and for fear of her who held him. and the child laughed gaily at the glancing swords, and stretched up his hands to his own shadow, which he saw on the shining blade, and showed it with his finger to his father when he saw it come anear, and had fain sprung up and caught the blades, sharp though they might be. and many a man wept, and there arose within the hall a great cry, as of one voice, "good lord king, stay the fight; we will all aid thee thereto, for no man should longer suffer this!" then arthur sprang up swiftly, and seized his sword and shield, and came unto the twain, and parted them asunder, whether they would or no, and said to the knight ye have heard me praise, "sir, take the amends offered, and i tell ye truly i will add thereto, for i myself will do ye honour, and become your man, for the sake of peace." and all cried with one voice, "sir, by god and by the true cross, ye shall not refuse this, for the king has spoken as right valiant man." then the knight held his hand, hearing that which pleased him. thus was peace made, and the battle parted asunder, and sir bran de lis did right sagely, for he spake, "sire, it were nor right nor reason that ye should become my man, hence will i do ye true homage, but for hostage will i ask the knights of the round table, who are the most valiant in the world; also shall your nephew do other amends, even as he promised me, in abbey and nuns, for the repose of my father's soul, and ye shall free one hundred serfs with your own hand." and the king answered, "know of a truth that all shall be done at my charges." then bran de lis did homage to the king, and kissed him in all good faith, and then came forward sir gawain, and he humbled himself before him, kneeling at his feet, and praying that he would pardon his ill will; and sir gawain took him by the hand, and raised him up, and quoth, "i pardon thee all, and henceforth will i be your friend in all good faith and courage, nor will i fail ye for any harm ye may aforetime have done me." both were sore faint and feeble, and void of strength by reason of the blood they had lost, so that scarce might they stand on their feet without falling to the ground. they bare them to an inner chamber; never knight nor maiden entered within a fairer, for i tell of a truth there was no good herb in christendom with which it was not strewn. 'twas richly garnished, and four great tapers, cunningly placed, gave fitting light. then leeches searched their wounds and said there was no need for dismay, for neither was wounded to the death, and within fifteen days both might well be healed, and all were joyful at the tidings. the king and his barons abode the fifteen days at the castle of lys, nor departed therefrom; in all the world was neither fish nor fowl, fruit nor venison, of which the king might not each day eat in plenty if he so willed. but he was loth to part from sir bran de lis, by reason of the good tales which he told concerning the folk of the castle orguellous, whereat the king rejoiced greatly. "sire," quoth bran de lis, "i myself will go with ye, and we will take with us squires and footmen. my pavilion is large and fair, and by faith, we will carry that too along with us; and also a pack of hounds, the best we may find, for there be thick forests all around, where we may hunt at our will, and go a-shooting too, an it please us, for we shall find great plenty of deer and other game." sir gawain took little heed of all he said, so wholly was he taken up with his lady, and she forgat him not, but was ever at his service, at any hour that might please him; 'twas all gladness, and no ill thought. nor did sir gawain mislike his fair son, whom he caressed right often. fain would he have tarried long time with them. nor marvel at that, my masters, for he was there at ease, and he who hath whatsoever he may desire doeth ill methinks to make over haste to change, nor will he make plaint, since he suffereth nor pain nor ill. but when the fifteen days came to an end, then did the king bid make ready, for he had no mind to tarry longer; well i know 'twas a tuesday morn that they set them on their way, and with them went that good knight, sir bran de lis. castle orguellous for seven full days king arthur and his men journeyed, and passed through many a forest ere they came into the open land and saw before their eyes the rich castle orguellous, the which they had greatly desired to behold. they who had gone ahead had already pitched the king's pavilion in a fair meadow nigh unto a grove of branching olive trees, very fair and full of leaf. there the king, and they who were with him, dismounted gladly; they might go no further, since 'twas well known in the land that they came to make war on the castle. they had made no long abiding when they heard a great bell toll--no man had ever heard a greater--five leagues around might the sound be heard, and all the earth trembled. then the king asked of him who knew the customs of the castle wherefore the bell tolled thus. quoth bran de lis, "of a truth, 'tis that all the country round may know that the castle is besieged, till that the bell be tolled nor shield nor spear may be set on the walls, the towers, or battlements." as he spake thus they saw to the right more than five thousand banners wave from the walls, the towers, and donjon, and as many shields hung forth from the battlements. then they saw issue forth from the forest on to the plain knights mounted on palfreys and war-horses, who made their way by many roads to the castles; right gladly did the king and his comrades behold them. i will not devise unto ye all the fashion of the castle, i must needs spend overmuch time thereon, but since the birth of christ no man ever saw one more fairly placed, nor richer, nor better garnished with tall towers and donjon. now was meat made ready in the king's tent, and all sat them down to supper in right merry mood; they said among themselves that enough knights were entered into the castle to give work to each and all. thus they spake and made sport concerning those within. so soon as the king had sat him down lucains the butler poured the wine into a golden cup, and spake unto the king, "i pray the right of the first joust that be ridden to-morrow morn, for it pertaineth unto mine office!" quoth the king, "i were loth to refuse the first gift prayed of me here in this land." "'tis well said," quoth the lord of lys. and the king said to the butler, "go, eat with my nephew," and he did so right gladly. so soon as supper was done, and they had washed, swiftly they commanded their arms to be brought, nor will i lie to ye; thereafter might ye have seen a great testing, many greaves of iron laced on, limbs outstretched, feet bent; squires were bidden don the hauberks that they might look well to them, and add straps or take away--all were fain to see that naught was lacking, but all in fair and knightly order. ye never saw a folk thus busy themselves. they made merry with the king the while, and prayed of him in sport to say the day he would allot to each, that their pain might be the sooner ended. "nay, lords," quoth arthur, "i would fain keep ye the longer in dread." thus when they had made sport enow, and it was nightfall, they drank, and betook them to rest. on the morrow, without delay, they arose at sunrise, and betook them to a chapel in a wood, nigh to a meadow where were buried all the good knights slain before the castle, whether strangers or men of the land. and so soon as the priest had said the mass of the holy ghost, and the service was ended, they turned them again, and made ready for meat in the king's pavilion, and the king and all his knights ate together right joyfully. when they had eaten they arose, and armed lucains the butler well and courteously. the vest he ware under his hauberk was of purple broidered with gold. then they brought him his horse and his shield, and he mounted right glad and joyful, and they brought unto him his pennon. thus he departed from the king and his comrades, and set spurs to his steed, and stayed not till he came unto the field of battle, whither they betook them and demanded joust of those of the castle. masters, at the four corners of the meadow were planted four olive trees, to show the bounds of the field, and he was held for vanquished who should first pass the boundary of the olives. since he had come thither armed, it befell not lucains to await long, but short space after he had entered the field he saw ride proudly forth from the castle a great knight, mounted on a roan steed, right well appointed of arms and accoutrements. he came at full speed to the meadow, and swiftly, as befitted, each lowered his lance, and set spurs to his steed, and rode the one against the other. great blows they dealt on each other's shield, and the knight smote lucains so fiercely that he brake his lance all to shivers, and the butler smote back in such wise that he bare him out of the saddle on to the ground. then he took the steed, and turned him, leaving his foeman afoot, and came gladly and blithely again to the pavilion. quoth bran de lis, "certes, butler, the siege had been raised had ye brought yon knight captive, nor would ye have had further travail, for the quest on which ye came hither had been achieved, and ere nightfall sir giflet had been delivered up, for yonder is so good a knight they had gladly made the exchange!" when the butler heard this he was ill-pleased, and he tarried no longer at the pavilion, but leaving the steed gat him back to the meadow, nor turned again for the king, who many a time called upon him. then from the gateway rode forth a great knight bearing his pennon, and came spurring into the meadow, and when the butler saw him he rode against him, and smote him so fiercely on the shield that the shaft of apple-wood brake, and the knight smote him back with so strong a lance that he bare him to the ground. lucains sprang up swiftly, and thought to take the splinters from his arm without delaying, but the knight ran upon him fiercely, and he defended himself as best he might, though wounded, but since the blade was yet in him, whether he would or no, he must needs yield himself prisoner, as one who might do no more. thus he yielded up his sword to the knight, who led him with him to the castle, but first he drew out the blade carefully, stanching the blood, and binding up the wound. very wrathful was the king when he saw his butler thus led thence; then quoth sir gawain, "certes, an lucains were whole i should rejoice in that he is captive, for now will our comrade giflet, the brave and valiant, who hath been there in durance four years, learn such tidings of us as shall make him glad and joyful. the butler is a right gallant knight, and it may chance to any that he be overthrown and wounded. i have no mind to blame him for such ill hap." sir bran de lis answered, "fair sir, an god help me, he hath overthrown one of their men, and i know no better among their ten thousand knights." so spake sir bran de lis, but for all that was he somewhat vexed concerning the butler, in that he had reproached him for not having taken the knight captive, for he thought in his heart that for these words of his, and for naught else, had lucains been taken. then he came unto the king, and besought him for the great love he bare him to grant him the morrow's joust; but though he prayed him straitly the king was loth to yield, but answered that in no wise would he grant his request save that he was fain not to anger him by reason of the true faith that he bare unto him. "so god help me, fair friend; i have it in my mind that i were but ill sped did i chance to lose ye!" "sire, think not of that; 'tis ill done to summon evil, an god will this shall not befall so long as i live; doubt ye not, sire, but grant me the fight freely, ere others ask it!" then the king quoth, "have your desire, since ye so will." with that they gat them to meat in the tent, but that day a butler was lacking to them. into that selfsame chamber where that good knight, giflet fis do, had long lain, they led lucains prisoner, and giflet when he beheld him failed not to know him, but sprang up, and embraced him, and asked straightway, "tell me, gentle friend, in what land were ye made captive?" then lucains told him the truth from beginning to end, how the king had set siege to the castle, and was lodged without, "and he hath sworn he will not depart hence, nor lift the siege, till that he hath freed ye." giflet was right joyful when he heard this, and he spake again, "sir lucains, greatly do i desire to hear from ye tidings of the best knights in the world, even the companions of the round table; 'tis over long since i saw them, or heard speak of them." and the butler made answer, "sir, by all the saints in the calendar, such an one is dead, such an one made captive, this and that knight are hale and whole, and to the places of the dead many a good knight and true hath been elect." and giflet cried, "ah, god, how minished is that goodly company; i know not the half of them who yet live!" quoth lucains, "know of a truth that all greatly desire to have ye again, nor will they know joy in their hearts till that ye be once more of their fellowship." at these words they brought them food, and they washed, and ate, and when 'twas time they gat them to rest, and passed the night in great joy of each other's company. but the night was short, since pentecost was past, and the feast of s. john, when the days are the longest in the year. on the morrow the sun rose fine and fair, for the weather was calm and clear, and the king arose betimes with his comrades. first they gat them to the chapel and heard mass, and then dinner was made ready, since to eat ere noon is healthful for the brain. the dinner was rich and plentiful, they sat them down gaily and ate with speed, they had larded venison (for of deer was there no lack), and so soon as they had dined the chamberlain armed the lord of lys right richly, on a fair flowered carpet, and the king himself laced his helmet. then sir bran de lis mounted and hung the shield about his neck, and took his lance whereon was a pennon, and spurred straight for the meadow, which he knew full well. then from the gates of the castle he beheld issue forth a knight on a gallant steed, right fittingly armed, who rode at full speed to the meadow where sir bran de lis awaited his coming. and so soon as each beheld the other they spurred swiftly forward, and i tell ye of a truth that they smote each other on the shield so that their lances brake, and they came together with such force that they hurled each other to the ground; but they lay not there for long, but sprang up anon, and laid to with their swords, dealing each other mighty blows on the gleaming helmets, for the worser of the twain was a gallant knight. but he of the castle was sore vexed, in that he was wounded while bran de lis was yet whole, and passing light on his feet, so that he pressed him sore, in so much that he might not abide in any place. by force sir bran de lis brought his foeman to his knees, and ere he might rise he must perforce yield himself captive. thus he led him to the pavilion, and made gift of him to arthur, who received him well, and thanked the lord of lis right heartily. then the king bade them make a lodge of boughs, with curtains round about, whereto they led the wounded knight to rest, for much need had he of repose. king arthur and his men disarmed sir bran de lis gaily, and he washed himself, and they made great sport all day long. and when it came to the freshness of the evening they went forth to disport themselves; many a valiant knight sat there, round about the king, in the shade of an olive tree. then they heard the sound of those who blew loudly on the horn and played upon the flageolet; there was no instrument befitting a watch the music of which was not to be heard within the castle, and much joy they made therein. the king was the more wakeful by night in that he took pleasure in the fair melody which the watchmen who sounded the horn made in answering the one the other. beside the lord of lys sat kay, who hearkened to the music, nor might he long keep silence, but must needs speak his mind. "sire," quoth he, "by saint denis, meseemeth the joust be forgotten, for this eve none hath demanded it; the king hath neither companion nor peer who hath so far prayed it, i wot none be desirous thereof!" "kay," quoth the king, "i grant thee the joust." "sire," quoth kay, "by saint martin, i were liever to handle a spit than a spear to-morrow; i thank ye for naught! nevertheless, sire, an such be your pleasure i will do it, by the faith i owe to my lord sir gawain." then all laughed at kay's words, and when they had made sport enow of him they gat them back to the tent. thus the night passed, and on the morrow at dawn, ere prime had rung, the king hearkened mass, and when they had dined they armed the seneschal, and he mounted, and took his shield, and departed from them swiftly. no sooner had he come to the meadow when a knight, right well armed, came forth from the castle, and rode on to the field. they smote each other on the shields so that they fell to the ground, and springing up lightly they fell to with their sharp swords; right dourly they pressed on each other, and smote sounding blows on the helms. he of the castle struck wrathfully at kay, and the seneschal caught the blow, and the knight smote again on the boss of the shield so that the blade brake, notwithstanding he had so pressed on the seneschal that he made him by force to pass the boundary of the four olives, which stood at the corners of the field. there the knight stayed him, and turned him back to his steed which was in the midst of the meadow, and remounted, and took kay's horse, for he saw well 'twas a good steed, and led it away, none gainsaying him. kay went his way back, and knew not that he had been deceived, but deemed he had won the day, though in sooth he was vanquished. then the knights spake unto the king, "sire, let us go to meet kay, and make merry over him; 'twill be rare sport to mislead him!" the king was right willing, so they went in company towards the seneschal. the king went ahead, as one wise and courteous, and spake gently, "kay, hast thou come from far? has mischance befallen thee?" and kay, who was ever sharp and ready of tongue, answered, "sire, let me be; ye have naught wherewith to reproach me. i have vanquished one of their knights, but he hath taken my horse; the field is mine, for i have conquered it; and he who hath ridden hence hath the worse!" all held their peace, and laughed not. "sir, are ye in need of help?" quoth tor fis ares. and then the others spake; "seneschal, are ye wounded?" "methinks ye limp somewhat," quoth sir gawain. "kay, hand me your shield," said sir ywain. "right valiantly have ye approved yourself, marvellous were the blows i saw ye deal! god be thanked that ye did thus well!" with that he took the shield, and hung it around his own neck. each joined in the sport as best he might, and kay was right well aware thereof. then he spake to sir ywain, "sir, i will grant ye to-morrow so much as i have won to-day, the joust and the field shall ye have in exchange for my shield which ye bear. ye can do well, an ye will, and i were fain to repay ye in such wise as i may." those who heard might not refrain their mirth, and in merry mood they led him to the tent, and disarmed him, and the lord of lys said, "sir kay, ye passed the boundary of the four olive trees, and he who first passes betwixt them is held for vanquished." and kay answered, "may be, sir, by the faith i owe the king of heaven an ye know the differ 'twixt entry and exit 'tis more than i may do; sure, 'tis all one, for there where one cometh in the other goeth out!" suddenly there rang forth from the castle and the minster a peal so great and glad that ye might scarce hear god thunder, and the king asked wherefore the bells rang thus. then bran de lis spake, "i will tell ye, sire: 'tis saturday to-day, and now that noon be past they within will do naught against ye, come what may. in this land is the mother of god more honoured than elsewhere in christendom; know of a truth that ye shall presently see knights and ladies, burgesses and other folk, clad in their best, betake them to the minster; they go to hear vespers, and do honour to our lady. thus it is from noon on saturday till tierce on monday, when mass is sung, and the bells chimed throughout the burg, then they get them to their tasks again; the minstrels and other folk. i tell ye without fail till then shall no joust be ridden; to-morrow, an ye will, ye may go forth to hunt in the forest." the king praised the custom much, and spent the night with a light heart until the morn, when he arose, and with his knights betook him to the woods, and all day long the forest rang to the sound of the huntsman's horn. now it chanced that sir gawain beheld a great stag, which two of his hounds had severed from the rest of the herd, and he followed hard after the chase till that the quarry was pulled down in a clearing. there he slew and quartered it, and gave their portion to the dogs, but would take with him naught save the back and sides. so he rode on fairly, and without annoy, the hounds running ahead, till, as he went his way, he heard nigh at hand a hawk cry loudly. then he turned him quickly towards the sound, and came on to a wide and dusky path, and followed it speedily to a dwelling, the fairest he had found in any land wherein he had sojourned. 'twas set in the midst of a clearing, and no wish or thought of man might devise aught that was lacking unto it. there was a fair hall and a strong tower, 'twas set round about with palisades, and there was a good drawbridge over the moat, which was wide enow, and full of running water. at the entry of the bridge was a pine-tree, and beneath, on a fair carpet, sat a knight; never had ye seen one so tall, or so proud of bearing. sir gawain rode straight and fast to him, but he stirred no whit for his coming, but sat still, frowning and thoughtful. sir gawain marvelled at his stature, and spake very courteously, "sir, god save ye!" but the stranger answered nor loud nor low, having no mind for speech. thrice sir gawain greeted him, but he answered not, and the good knight stayed his steed full before him, but he made no semblance of seeing him. quoth sir gawain, "ha, god, who hath made man with thine own hand, wherefore didst thou make this man so fair if he be deaf and dumb? so tall is he, and so well fashioned he is like unto a giant. an i had a comrade with me i would lead him hence, even unto the king; methinks he would thank me well, for he would look on him as a marvel!" and he bethought him that he would even bear the knight hence with him on his steed. thus he laid his venison beneath a tree, and bent him downwards from his saddlebow, and took the other by the shoulders, and raised him a little. then the knight clapped hand to his side, but his sword was lacking, and he cried, "who may ye be? it lacked but little and i had slain ye with my fist, since ye have snatched me from death; had i my sword here 'twere red with your blood! get ye hence, vassal, and leave me to my death." then he sat him again under the tree, and fell a-musing, even as when sir gawain found him. and that good knight, without more ado, reloaded his venison and turned him back, leaving the knight sad and sorrowful. scarce had sir gawain ridden half a league when he saw coming towards him a maiden, fair and courteous, on a great norman palfrey; nor king nor count had been better horsed. the bridle, the harness, the trappings of her steed were beyond price, nor might i tell ye how richly the maiden was clad. her vesture was of cloth of gold, the buttons of moorish work, wrought in silk with golden pendants. the lady smote her steed oft and again, and rode past sir gawain with never a word of greeting. sir gawain marvelled much at her haste, and that she had failed to speak with him, and he turned him about, and rode after, crying "stay a little, lady!" but she answered not, but made the more haste. then sir gawain overtook her, and rode alongside, saying, "lady, stay, and tell me whither ye be bound." then she made answer, "sir, for god's sake, hinder me not, for an ye do i tell ye of a truth i shall have slain the best and the fairest knight in any castle of christendom!" "what," quoth sir gawain, "have ye slain him with your own hands?" "i, sir? god forbid, but i made covenant with him yesterday that i would be with him ere noon, and now have i failed of my compact. he awaiteth me at a tower near by, mine own true love, the best knight in the world!" "certes, lady, he is yet alive, of that am i true witness; 'twas but now he well nigh dealt me a buffet with his fist! make not such haste!" "fair sir, are ye sure and certain?" "yea, lady, but he was sore bemused." "then know of a truth, sir knight, that he may no longer be alive, and i may not tarry." with that she struck her steed and rode off apace. sir gawain gazed after her, and it vexed him much that he had not asked more concerning the knight, whence he came, his land and his name, but knew neither beginning nor end of his story. thus he went on his way, and came again to the pavilion where his companions awaited him, sore perplexed at his delay, and were right joyful when they beheld him. then straightway he told them the adventure, even as it had chanced, and when the lord of lys heard it he said unto the king, "sire, the knight is the rich soudoier, he who maintaineth all this goodly following and seignorie; and so much doth he love the maiden whom he calleth his lady and his love, that all men say he will die an he win her not." as he spake they beheld a great cloud of dust arise toward the forest, and there rode past so great a company of folk there cannot have been less than twenty thousand; there was left in the city not a soul who might well stir thence who went not forth of right good will toward the forest. 'twas nigh unto nightfall ere all had entered therein. then the king asked whither all this folk were bound, and bran de lis answered, "sire, they go to meet their lord, and to do him honour, for never before this hath he led his lady hither. i tell ye of a truth that each one of his barons will dub three new knights, to honour and pleasure him, for so have they sworn, and for that doth he owe them right good will." what more may i tell ye? all night they held great feast through the city, with many lights in castle, tower, and hall. they blazed upon the walls, the trees, and round about the meadows, till that the great burg seemed all aflame, and all night long they heard the sound of song and loud rejoicing. then the king betook him to rest, and at dawn sir ywain prayed as gift the joust which kay had given unto him. the king made no gainsaying, but after meat they armed their comrade well and fittingly, and he mounted quickly, and took shield and lance; nor did he long await a foe, for there rode forth from the castle one well armed, on a strong and swift steed, and spurred upon sir ywain. he smote him so that his lance brake, and sir ywain smote him again with such force that he bare him to earth ere that his lance failed. then he rode upon him with unsheathed sword, and by weight of his steed bare him to earth when he had fain arisen, and trod him underfoot so hardly that, whether he would or no, he must needs yield. then sir ywain took his pledge, and led him without more ado to the pavilion, and delivered him to the king. such was the day's gain, but know that 'twas one of the new made knights, not of the mesnie of the rich soudoier. and when he was disarmed the king spake unto him in the hearing of all his men, and said, "fair friend, whence do ye come, and of what land may ye be?" then he answered, "sire, i am of ireland, and son to the count brangelis, and ever have i served the lady of the rich soudoier. she bade me carve before her, and my lord for love of her yestermorn made me knight, and as guerdon for my service they granted me the joust; yet, but for my lady who prayed for me this grace, they had not given it to me, since within the walls there be many a good man and true who was sore vexed thereat." "friend," quoth sir gawain, "know ye, perchance, the which of them shall joust on the morrow?" "certes, sir, i should know right well; 'tis the lord of the castle himself who shall be first on the field, and i will tell ye how i know this. 'tis the custom therein that each morn the maidens mount the walls, and she who first beholds the armed knight take the field, 'tis her knight who shall ride forth against him. yestereven my lady assembled all the maidens and prayed of them that they would let her alone mount the wall--thus shall the joust be as i tell ye." straightway sir gawain sprang to his feet, and went before the king, and demanded the joust, but arthur forbade him saying, "fair nephew, ye shall not go to-morrow, but later, ere it be my turn, 'tis for us twain to ride the last jousts; ye shall have it when all save i have proved themselves." "sire, sire, i shall be sore shamed an ye deny me this gift; never more shall i be joyful, nor will i ride joust in this land, but will get me hence alone!" quoth the king, "an it be thus ye may have it." and sir gawain answered, "i thank ye, sire." thus they passed the night, and at daybreak, when the dew lay thick upon the grass, sir gawain arose, and sir ywain with him. know that the morning was so fine, so fair and clear, as if 'twere made to be gazed on. then he who was no coward washed face and hands and feet in the dew, and gat him back to the pavilion. there they brought him a wadded vest, of purple, bordered with samite, and he donned it, and fastened on his armlets deftly. and ere he was fully armed the king his uncle had risen, and they gat them to mass, and when mass was said, to meat. when they had well dined they bade bring thither the armour, and sir gawain sat him on a rich carpet, spread on the ground in the midst of the tent, and there was never a knight but stood around uncovered, till that he had armed him at his leisure with all that pertaineth to assault and defence, so that he had naught to do save but to set forth. then they led unto him his steed, all covered with a rich trapping, and he mounted, and sat thereon, so goodly to look upon that never might ye hear speak of a fairer knight. excalibur, his good sword, did king arthur hand to him, and he girt it round him as he sat on the saddle, lightly, so that it vexed him not. then he took shield and lance, and departed from them, making great speed for the meadow. now the adventure telleth that he had been there but short space when from the master tower of the castle a horn was sounded long and clear, so that for a league around the earth quivered by reason of the echo of the blast, and sir bran de lis spake to the king, "sire, in short space shall ye see the rich soudoier come forth armed on his steed, for they sound not the horn thus save for his arming. i know well by the long blast that he laceth on his spurs." then the horn sounded a second time, and he said, "by my faith, now hath he donned and laced his greaves." for a long space there was silence, and again the horn rang forth so loudly that all the castle re-echoed, and the lord of lys said, "sire, now hath he donned his hauberk and laced his helm." with that the horn sounded once again, "now, sire, he is mounted, and the horn will be blown no more to-day." this had the good knight told them truly, for the burg was all astir: he who bare lordship therein rode proudly down from the castle, and after him so many of his folk that they of the pavilion heard the sound of their tread, though they might not behold them. even to the gate they bare him company, and as he issued forth the king's men beheld him covered with a silken robe, even to his spurs, his banner in his hand. then they saw a great crowd mount to the battlements to watch the combat of the twain; the walls were covered even to the gateways, so that 'twas a marvel to behold. thus the lord of the castle came proudly to the meadow where sir gawain awaited him, and when he saw him he gripped his shield tightly, and made ready for the onslaught. then they laid their lances in rest, and shook forth their blazons, and smote their spurs into their steeds; nor did the joust fail, for they came together with such force of steed and shield and body that, an they would or no, both came to the ground in mid meadow and the good steeds fell over them. but the twain were full of valour, and arose up lightly, and drew their swords, and ran boldly on each other. then might ye behold a dour combat, and a sight for many folk, for with great wrath they dealt each other mighty blows, so that all who beheld were astonied, and the king was in sore dread for his nephew, and they of the castle for their lord. from either side many a prayer went up to heaven that their champion might return safe and whole. and the twain spared not themselves, but each with shining blade smote the other, so that their strength waned apace. for know that that day there was so great a heat that never since hath the like been known, and that heat vexed and weakened them sore. now know ye of a certain truth that my lord sir gawain waxed ever in strength, doubling his force from midnight, and even till noon was past and the day waned did his strength endure, but then he somewhat weakened till 'twas midnight again. this i tell ye of a truth, 'twas early morn that they fought thus in the meadow, and greatly did this gift aid him, and great evil it wrought to the rich soudoier. neither had conquered aught on the other till it waxed high noon. if the one dealt mighty blows the other knew right well how to return them with wrath and vigour; 'twas hard to say the which were the better, and all marvelled much that neither was as yet or slain or put to the worse. 'twas the soudoier who first gave ground; by reason of the over great heat so sore a thirst seized him that he might no longer endure the heavy blows, and well nigh fell to the earth. when sir gawain felt his foe thus weakening he pressed him the more, till that he staggered on his feet, and sir gawain ran on him with such force that both fell to the ground. but the king's nephew sprang to his feet lightly and cried, "vassal, yield ye prisoner ere i slay ye!" but his foe was so dazed that for a space he might speak no word. when he gat breath and speech he sighed forth, "ah, god, who will slay me? since she be dead i care naught for my life." sir gawain wondered much what the words might mean, and he shook him by the vizor, and when he saw that he took no heed he spake again, "sir knight, yield to me!" and he sighed, "suddenly was she slain who was fairest in the world; i loved her with a passing great love!" when sir gawain saw that he would answer none otherwise, conjure him as he might, he cut the laces of his helmet, and saw that he lay with his eyes closed as one in a swoon; by reason of the great heat and his sore thirst he had lost all colour, and was senseless. sir gawain was vexed in that he might not win from him speech, neither by word nor by blow, yet was he loth to slay him; nor would he leave him lying; for he thought an he slew him he might lose all he would gain by his victory, and should he get him back to the pavilion to seek aid to bear his prisoner hence, on his return he would surely find him gone. thus was he much perplexed in mind. then he doffed his helm, and sat him down beside the knight, sheathing excalibur, and taking the sword of his foe. in a short space the soudoier came again to himself, and seeing him sit thus, asked of him his name. then he answered straightway, and when the other knew 'twas gawain, he said, "sir, now know i for a certainty that ye be the best knight in the world." then he held his peace, and spake no further, and sir gawain looked upon him, and said, "fair sir knight, bear me no ill will for aught ye may have heard me say, but come with me, an ye will, to yonder pavilion, and we will take your pledge." then the rich soudoier answered, "i have a lady i love more than my life, and if she die then must i needs die too, so soon as i hear tell thereof. i pray ye, sir, for god's sake, for love's sake, for gentleness, for courtesy, save me my love that she die not, by covenant that, whether for right or for wrong, no man of the castle orguellous shall henceforth be against ye. fair sir, an ye will do for me that which i now pray, i will pledge my faith to do all the king's will, nor shall there be therein man of arms whom i will not make swear the same. but an if my lady knew thereof, as god be my witness, she would die straightway, for never would she believe that ye had conquered me; 'tis truth i tell ye! now of your courtesy, sir knight, i pray of ye this great service, that ye come back with me to the castle, that ye there do me honour, and kneeling to my lady declare ye her prisoner; an ye will thus make feint and say i have vanquished ye in fair field, then shall ye save my life, and that of my most sweet lady, and if ye will not do thus, then slay me here and now!" then that gentle knight, sir gawain, remembered him of how he had found him aforetime in the forest beneath the tower, and how the maiden who rode to keep tryst feared for his life, and he knew that he loved his lady with so great a love that he would die an she knew him to be shamed, and he thought within himself 'twas over much cruelty to slay so good a knight, and he answered. "fair sir, certes will i go with ye to the castle orguellous, and there yield me captive, nor will i forbear for any doubt or misgiving. it might well turn to my shame, but even if i should die thereby, i would not, sir knight, that ye or your lady be wronged or aggrieved." then the knight spake frankly, "sir, i am your liege man all the days of my life." and he gave him his hand, and sware straitly that he would do all the king's pleasure. and when sir gawain had taken his oath, straightway the two mounted their steeds and betook them to the castle orguellous. well nigh did king arthur die of wrath when he saw his nephew ride hence, and he cried, "now am i indeed bereft if my nephew be led therein; now will they hold him prisoner! think ye, my lords, that he be of a truth captive?" "yea, sire, of a faith, so it seemeth, yet are we greatly in marvel thereat, for we know certainly that he had vanquished and overthrown his adversary. never so great an ill hap hath befallen any knight, for ere the knight of the castle rose we said surely that he was conquered!" the king had no heart to hearken longer, but betook him straightway to his bed; cause enow had he for woe, or so it seemed him! but they of the castle sped joyously to meet their lord, whom they thought to have lost, and ran to bear the tidings to the lady, who was well nigh distraught with grief, and anger, and they told her that her lord came again. "and he leadeth by the bridle, as one conquered, sir gawain!" even at these words came the knights unto the gateway, and dismounted, and sir gawain speedily yielded him prisoner to the maiden, saying, "lady, take here my sword, and know of a proven truth that this good knight, your true lover, hath vanquished me by force of arms." never since the hour ye were born did ye see such rejoicing as the maiden made, and the rich soudoier spake, saying, "ride ye to my castle of bouvies with five hundred knights, and make ready the chambers. i will be with ye to-morrow, and would fain sojourn there; we will have but few folk with us. marvel not at this, for to-day have i been over much wearied." and the maiden answered, "ye have well said; the castle is very fair and pleasant." with that she was mounted, and the knights set forth to convoy her to the castle. and know ye why he sent her hence? 'twas that he might tell his men the truth of what had passed. when the lady had departed 'twas made known throughout the castle how the matter had in very truth fallen out, and the lord bade release the son of do, and the butler, and they did his bidding. but when sir gawain saw giflet he ran towards him, and kissed him more than a hundred times, and made marvellous great joy of him. then they sat them down on a bench, side by side, and held converse together. and when the twain who had fought were disarmed they brought for the four very fair robes of rich and royal cloth; never had ye seen such. then the soudoier bade saddle four steeds, and they mounted, and rode thus adown the street. thus they four alone took their way to the pavilion, and the king's men beheld them, even as they came forth from the castle gateway, and sir ywain cried, "by my faith, and no lie, i see four men come hither, and all four be knights, so it seemeth me!" and kay answered, "i see them too!" and when they came so near to the pavilion that their faces might be seen, sir ywain ran joyfully to the king. "sire, sire, an god help me, here cometh sir gawain, and with him three others, all hand in hand: there be the son of do, and sir lucains, and for the fourth a great knight!" the king answered no word, but made semblance as if he heard not, and rose not from his couch, save that he raised himself somewhat higher thereon. in a little space he spake to his knights, "be not over dismayed, but make as fair a countenance as ye may; methinks they come thither to bid us return with them to prison, but i go not hence ere that i be vanquished, or have freed my comrades." and all answered, "well spoken, sire!" but now had the four come so nigh that they had dismounted, and come before the king; never was seen such rejoicing as his lord made of giflet, but now was he in sore distress, and, lo! his sorrow was turned to joy! why should i lie to ye? the rich soudoier told him how sir gawain had conquered him, and how, by his courtesy, he had given life to him and to his fair lady; and the king hearkened to the tale right willingly. now will i leave speaking of them, but this much will i say, that well might the lord of the castle love and cherish him who first overcame him by arms and then did him so great honour as to yield him to his lady so that his life might thereby be saved. so here will i hold my peace, no, nor speak further, save to tell ye that now was the king lord alike of the castle orguellous and the lands around; never in all his days did he make so great a conquest, as bleheris doth witness to us. notes page .--_the knights rode gaily ahead._ this episode, in practically identical form, is found as the introduction to the head-cutting challenge, of which in wauchier's compilation carados is the hero. this double use of the same incident appears to me significant in face of the fact that the 'carados' story is an inferior version of our '_syr gawayne and the grene knyghte_.' it seems to me most probable that our poem represents an elaborated version of an adventure which originally formed part of the compilation utilised by wauchier in his continuation of the '_perceval_,' and that the passage here given formed the introductory episode of the group. page .--_at carnarvon._ in some of the texts carduel is substituted for carnarvon. page .--_galvoie, a land where many a man goeth astray._ for the mysterious character attached to galvoie (galloway), and its connection with the other-world, cf. '_legend of sir perceval_,' pp. - . page .--_when sir gawain beheld this._ there are two distinct versions of arthur's rebuke to his knights; the one given in the text is found in b.n. (the source of this translation), b.n. , edinburgh, and montpellier. the other version, in which arthur refuses to explain what he means, and locks himself in his 'loge,' the door of which is broken open by his indignant knights, who insist upon knowing the reason of his accusation, is found in b.n. ; ; ; and mons. this latter version seems to me an unintelligent expansion of that in our text. arthur's desire is to incite his knights to the rescue of their comrade, not to heap unnecessary insult upon them. the fact that here ywain is specially coupled with gawain should be noted. ywain is one of the earliest of arthurian heroes, appearing in the chronicles; whenever we find him in a position of importance there is at least the possibility that we are dealing with the survival of an early and genuine arthurian tradition. page .--_now will i tell ye their names._ the list of knights taking part in the expedition varies somewhat in the different texts. it is noteworthy that lancelot is occasionally omitted, and that nowhere does he hold a prominent position. this group of stories was manifestly composed at a period when that hero was still practically unknown to arthurian tradition. page .--_one day the king came forth from a very great forest._ an english version of the adventure which follows will be found in sir frederick madden's '_syr gawayne_,' under the title of '_kay and the spit_.' page .--_the tale is here over long._ throughout the whole section devoted by wauchier to the _gawain_ in contradistinction to the _perceval_ adventures, there are constant references to the length and importance of the '_grand conte_' of which they formed a part. there are numerous 'perilous cemeteries' in arthurian romance, _e.g._ there is one in the prose _lancelot_, which hector and gawain attempt, and are worsted: another in _perlesvaus_, and a third forms the subject of a special poem, '_l'atre perilleus_.' of this last gawain is the hero. there is a cemetery connected with the adventure of the chapel of the black hand, and one in the _queste_. it is impossible to determine the tale to which the compiler here alludes. page .--_esterlins_, _besants_, &c. the original is _esterlins, porpres, e besans, deniers de muce e d'aufricains_. the correct translation is doubtful. _porpres_ is a texture, and seems to be out of place among an enumeration of coins. '_deniers de muce_' is found in no dictionary or article on coins. _muce_ may signify _a hiding place_, hence the treasure-trove of the translation; or, as m. paul meyer suggests, _muce_ may be an error for _murcie_, which would be the equivalent of spanish, at that period saracen, money. du cange, under the heading of '_africanus_,' gives '_moneta saracenorum_.' it is noteworthy that the mss. of later date omit these lines. page .--_grails of silver._ this is the only instance i know in which the word _grail_ is used in a general sense, and it is of value as indicating the meaning which the writers of that period attached to the word. page .--_ider de lis._ the father's name is more generally given as norres de lis. llys is the welsh for castle, and the spelling of the word varies in the texts. brandelis is, as a rule, written in one word, and spelt with an _i_; when the castle alone is spoken of it is written lys. i have endeavoured to indicate this peculiarity in the translation. cf. gawain's appeal to his uncle to eat, and arthur's refusal, with _arthur_ and _gorlagon_ published by prof. kittredge; cf. _folk-lore_, march , where a translation of this curious tale, with explanatory comment, is given. page .--_a comrade for huden._ huden, or hudenc, is tristan's dog. the reference is interesting, as showing a knowledge of the _tristan_ story on the part of the compiler. that hero, however, plays no part in this group of tales. page .--_there came forth a damosel._ the lady's name is not given here, but later on she is called guilorete, and in other texts gloriete. ii page .--_castle orguellous._ this adventure, under the title of '_gawain and golagros_,' will be found in madden's '_syr gawayne_,' but the version is much condensed. in the english poem espinogres plays the _rôle_ here assigned to bran de lis, and explains the customs of the castle. page .--_'tis ill done to summon evil._ the original gives '_on ne doit pas mal senechier_.' this latter word appears to be unknown. i submitted the passage to m. paul meyer, who thinks it may be a fault of the copyist; at the same time, godefroi gives the noun _senechiance_ as equivalent to _segnefiance_, and a verb may have been constructed from this. the corresponding passage in b.n. runs '_nul ne doit le mal prononcier_.' in an article in _folk-lore_ for march , miss goodrich freer quotes a gaelic proverb, 'ill will come if mentioned.' this seems to be the equivalent of our text. page .--_a horn was sounded._ in the english version a small bell is rung. much less stress is laid upon the arming of the knight, which here is a most picturesque and effective passage. page .--_when that gentle knight sir gawain._ gawain's extreme courtesy, and the consequent dismay of the king, are related in much the same terms, but more condensed, in the english poem. it seems possible that it was this adventure of the rich soudoier which suggested the figure of galehault, '_le haut prince_' in the prose lancelot. both are distinguished for their height, their beauty, and their opposition to arthur. both, alike, became the king's friends through the courtesy and feigned submission of the knights gawain and lancelot. the parallel is worth working out. page .--_as bleheris doth witness to us._ other forms of the name are bleobleheris (b.n. ) and bliobliheri (b.n. add. ). this latter ms. at a later stage of the same collection again cites bleheris as authority for the story of gawain and the magic shield; he is there said to have been born and brought up in wales. he is probably identical with the bledhericus mentioned by giraldus cambrensis as a famous story teller, '_famosus ille fabulator_.' for a full discussion of the whole question see my _legend of sir perceval_. printed by ballantyne & co. limited tavistock street, london transcriber's note archaic spelling is preserved as printed. hyphenation has been made consistent. typographic errors have been amended as follows: page --thoughout amended to throughout--... and all the barons throughout the land ... page --yder amended to ydier--... nephew was he to king ydier, ... page --lucans amended to lucains--... kay, and lucains, the butler. the frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page. repeated titles have been deleted.